Once he's sleepin' in a loft, an' all of a sudden about
daybreak the old gent hears a squall that mighty near locoes him,
it's so clost an' turrible. He boils out on the floor an' begins to
claw on his duds, allowin', bein' he's only half awake that a-way,
that it's a passel of them murderin' Clay Whigs who's come to crawl
his hump for shore. But she's a false alarm. It's only a Dom'nick
rooster who's been perched all night on my grandfather's wrist where
his arm sticks outen bed, an' who's done crowed a whole lot, as is
his habit when he glints the comin' day. It's them sort o' things
that sends a shudder through you, an' shows what that old patriot
suffers for his faith.
"'But my grandfather keeps on prevailin' along in them views ontil
he jest conquers his county an' carries her for Jackson. Shore! he
has trouble at the polls, an' trouble in the conventions. But he
persists; an' he's that domineerin' an' dogmatic they at last not
only gives him his way, but comes rackin' along with him. In the
last convention, he nacherally herds things into a corner, an'
thar's only forty votes ag'in him at the finish. My grandfather
allers says when relatin' of it to me long afterwards:
"'"An' grandson Willyum, five gallons more of rum would have made
that convention yoonanimous.
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