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On A Donkey's Hurricane Deck

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<h3>CHAPTER XIII. A peculiar, cold day</h3> TOC <div class="poembox"> As Bud bestrode the donkey the cheers of the throng rose, but above the tumult he could hear the North End jeering at him. <cite class="citeleft">—Much Pomp and Several Circumstances.</cite></div> From Willoughby we went to Cleveland. My route through the beautiful city lay along one of the finest residence streets in America—the famous Euclid avenue. From there we marched to Superior street, where cheers greeted us on every hand. The papers had heralded my advent, and as in the other towns and cities, the newspaper artists had taxed their imaginations to picture Pod and Mac. We two were engaged to appear at the Star Theatre Wednesday evening, and when I rode out on to the stage the house shook with laughter and cheers. I made a short address and announced that I would sell photos of Mac A'Rony and his master at the door. That theatre put me way ahead financially. Thursday morning I called on the Mayor, Mark Hanna and Senator Garfield, and added the autographs of all three to my album. Mr. Garfield invited me to attend the weekly dinner and reception of the "Beer and Skittles Club," that evening. I went and enjoyed myself. Next day I reached the village of Bedford by 7:00 P. M., only making thirteen miles; and the following night I put up at a cozy inn at Cuyahoga Falls. We three had covered eighteen miles that day; it seemed twice the distance. I was almost frozen. All day I held my once frost-bitten nose in my woolen mittens, and my ears were wrapped in a silk muffler. In the morning a man hailed me: "Cold day!" "Yes, pretty chilly," I returned, politely. A half mile on a farmer opened the door and yelled: "Pretty cold, hain't it, Professor?" "You bet," said Pod, icily. Some distance further a fat German drove by in a gig and said: "It vash cold—don't it?" "'Course it's cold!" I answered, acridly. A mile beyond two men reminded me it was a very wintry day. Then a woman drove past and tossed me the comforting reminder: "Don't you find it awfully cold?" I did not reply to the last two. Twenty minutes later a boy, from a cozy home, yelled to me. I had passed to some distance, and did not understand. It sounded like, "Won't you come in and warm, and have lunch," I hesitated a moment in the biting wind, then retraced my steps and called to the lad: "What's that you said?" "It's a cold day!" yelled the scamp. I was mad enough to unload my Winchester. But I didn't; I only tucked my half-frozen nose in my mits, rubbed my ears, and continued my journey, like an ice-covered volcano. A mile beyond a wagon with a family in it passed me, and the man said, "Cold, my friend." At dusk a farmer inquired, "Hasn't it been a pretty frigid day?" The human volcano was now ready to burst. So when a man and woman warmly clad drove by in a buggy, with top up, I resolved to get even. I shouted several times before the rig stopped. A fur-clad head stuck out to one side, and a male voice called: "Can't hear ye; come nearer." I ambled up, put a foot on the hub of a wheel, and said, "I simply want to say, it's a cold day." "You—!——!!———!!!————!!!!" As soon as he had finished, I said, by way of civil explanation: "My dear sir, do you know, a hundred people have stopped me to-day and told me it is cold. I have tramped nearly twenty miles without stopping to warm or eat; and I resolved to let the next fellow have the same dose I have been taking half-hourly all day. Now, if you are satisfied that it is a cold day, I will bid you good night." With this I returned to my companions, somewhat warmer physically, but cooler in spirit. The hotel in Cuyahoga Falls received us most hospitably; I never shall forget the kindnesses of its landlady. The village dates back to pioneer days. It is built on the hunting grounds of the old Cuyahoga Indians. Monday, March 1st, at 12:30 P. M., we arrived in Canton. The citizens expected my arrival, and Market street teemed with excitement. In front of two hotels, a block apart, stood their proprietors waving hats and arms, and calling to me to be their guest. I was puzzled to know which invitation to accept. While deliberating, one of the landlords approached, and taking my arm, led me to his comfortable hostelry, where he royally entertained me and my animals. The pageant that celebrated the departure of William McKinley to the seat of Government was a fair estimate of the regard in which his fellow-citizens held him. Canton did him honor. I witnessed the leave-taking at his house, his ride to the train in the coach drawn by four greys under escort of a band, and heard him deliver his farewell address from the rear platform of his private car. I spent Wednesday night in Massillon, and next morning returned to Canton, to take some interior photographs of McKinley's home. I was successful, beyond my hopes and expectations, securing fine pictures of his study and parlor. The President's inauguration at Washington called forth a deafening demonstration. Cannon boomed, steam whistles shrieked, and the citizens shouted and hurrahed, and I was glad Mac was not with me to add his salute. I returned to Massillon, and at 4:00 P. M., set out for Dalton over the muddiest, stickiest red-clay roads I ever encountered. I saw a meadow-lark on the first of March; this day I heard blue-birds and robins singing gaily. It looked as though spring had come to stay. I expected that day to reach Dalton, only eight miles distant, but the mud prevented me. I put my foot in it—the genuine red and yellow mixture of real Ohio clay. It was so deep, and sticky, and liberally diluted with thawed frost that once I was compelled to crawl along the top of a rail fence two hundred feet and more, and drag my jackass. At dusk I had covered only three miles. Then I sought lodgings. A store loomed into view shortly; I was elated. According to the sign over the entrance, the younger generation was the ruling power. It read: "Hezekiah Brimley and Father." I made for Hez. He said the town hadn't reached the hotel stage of development yet, but that he would gladly take me in, provided I'd sleep with his clerk in the garret. I found the store full of loungers, who patronized the chairs, soap and starch boxes, mackerel kits and counter, forming a silent circle round a towering stove in the center. The village treasurer wore a "boiled shirt" and brass collar-buttons, but no collar or coat. His companions were generally attired in flannel shirts of different hues and patterns, plush caps, which might be formed into several shapes and styles, and felt boots encased in heavy overshoes. These rural men eyed me with suspicion until I mentioned Mac A'Rony. Then there was a rush to the door. As it swung open, in leaped my great dog; at once the crowd surged back to the stove. "Does yer dorg bite?" came several queries in a bunch. "No," I said. "He has killed a bull, chewed up a ram, made Thanks-giving mince-meat of several dogs, chased a pig up a tree, and only this morning ate two chickens and a duck and chased a farmer into his hay loft. But he doesn't bite." My statement had a sensational effect on the assembly, who, one by one, sneaked out of the door, leaving Hez and his odd guest alone. As soon as the junior member, Hez's father, came in, Hez took my animals to the shed and fed them, and told me to help myself to the best in the store. "Ye know what ye want; I don't." Hez said he was sorry he was just out of butter and bread. I was sorry, too. Wishing a light supper, I selected one yeast cake (warranted 104 per cent. pure), a pint of corned oysters (light weight), some crackers, and leaf lard, to take the place of butter, and a cake of bitter chocolate. I left a few things unmolested; such as soap, cornstarch, cloves, baking-powder and stove-polish. My assorted supper went down all right until I tackled the chocolate. Chocolate is a favorite beverage of mine; besides, I wanted a hot drink. To be good, chocolate must be well dissolved. No pot was to be had, save a flower-pot with a hole in the bottom. A great idea popped into my head. I would drink chocolate on the instalment plan. Did you ever try it? If not, don't let your curiosity get the better of you. Chocolate belongs to the bean family, and the bean is a very treacherous thing—chocolate bean, castor-oil bean, pork-bean, and all kinds. I first ate the cake of chocolate, then some sugar, and drank two dippersful of hot water,—then shook myself. That mixture might suit my stomach, I thought, but it doesn't delight my palate. I felt I had eaten a heavy meal unwittingly, and sat down to digest it. I hadn't sat long before I felt myself swelling. Something within was sizzling and brewing and steaming; gas and steam choked me. I was sure there was going to be a demonstration in my honor that I had not bargained for. The yeast cake came to mind; then I knew the cause. My body grew warm, and finally I was so hot that I had to go to the garret and take a cold bath; after which I excused myself to the clerk, and went to bed, and dreamed I was being cremated alive. Next morning, on invitation of the superintendent, I visited the Pocock Coal Mine, situated close by, and had an enjoyable trip through its subterranean passages. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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