<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<h1>Little Masterpieces of American Wit and Humor <br/><br/>VOLUME II</h1>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/frontis.jpg" alt="Bret Harte; Copyright by Elliot & Fry" width-obs="369" height-obs="600" /></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="bbox" style="width: 400px;">
<p class="center noindent larger">Little Masterpieces of<br/>
<span style="color: red;">American Wit and Humor</span></p>
<p class="center noindent">Edited by Thomas L. Masson</p>
</div>
<div class="bbox1" style="width: 400px;">
<p class="center noindent larger"><span style="color: red;">VOLUME II</span></p>
<p class="center noindent smaller"><i>By</i></p>
<div style="float: left; margin-left: 25px;">
<p>Bret Harte</p>
<p>Sol Smith</p>
<p>John Godfrey Saxe</p>
</div>
<div style="float: right; margin-right: 25px;">
<p class="noindent right">James Russell Lowell</p>
<p class="noindent right">Mary Mapes Dodge</p>
<p class="noindent right">Robert J. Burdette</p>
</div>
<div style="clear:both; margin:auto;">
<p class="center noindent">and others</p>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/coverdecoration.jpg" alt="decorative image" /></div>
</div>
<div class="bbox1" style="width: 400px;">
<p class="noindent center smaller">NEW YORK<br/>
<span style="color: red;">DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY</span><br/>
1903</p>
</div>
<p class="noindent center smaller">Copyright, 1903, by<br/>
<span class="smcap">Doubleday, Page & Company</span><br/>
Published, October, 1903</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
<p class="center larger noindent"><i>VOLUME II</i></p>
<div style="width: 600px; margin: auto;">
<table summary="Contents">
<tr>
<td></td><td class="right"><span class="smaller">PAGE</span></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">SOL SMITH</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>A Bully Boat and a Brag Captain</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#BULLYBOAT">1</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">AMBROSE BIERCE</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>The Dog and the Bees</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#DOGANDBEES">8</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Dislikes</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#DISLIKES">9</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">G. H. DERBY (“Phœnix,” “Squibob”)</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Illustrated Newspapers</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#ILLUSTRATEDNEWSPAPERS">13</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Tushmaker’s Toothpuller</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#TUSHMAKER">67</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">MARY MAPES DODGE</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Miss Malony on the Chinese Question</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#MALONY">22</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>The Courtin’</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#COURTIN">27</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>A Letter from Mr. Ezekiel Bigelow</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#BIGELOW">59</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">JOHN GODFREY SAXE</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>The Coquette—A Portrait</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#COQUETTE">31</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">SAMUEL L. CLEMENS (“Mark Twain”)</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Colonel Mulberry Sellers</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#SELLERS">33</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">FREDERICK WILLIAM SHELTON</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Incidents in a Retired Life</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#RETIRED">43</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">BRET HARTE</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Melons</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#MELONS">49</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>The Society upon the Stanislaus</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#STANISLAUS">71</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">CHARLES GODFREY LELAND</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Ballad</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#BALLAD">65</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>The V-a-s-e</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#VASE">74</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">FRANK R. STOCKTON</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Pomona’s Novel</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#POMONA">76</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Fred Trover’s Little Iron-clad</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#IRONCLAD">96</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">ROBERT JONES BURDETTE</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>The Artless Prattle of Childhood</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#CHILDHOOD">120</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">ANONYMOUS</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>St. Peter at the Gate</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#STPETER">130</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">HENRY GUY CARLETON</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>The Thompson Street Poker Club</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#POKER">134</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">GEORGE T. LANIGAN</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>The Fox and the Crow</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#FOXANDCROW">140</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">HENRY CUYLER BUNNER</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Behold the Deeds!</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#BEHOLD">141</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>A Rhyme for Priscilla</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#PRISCILLA">146</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>A Rivermouth Romance</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#RIVERMOUTH">149</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">GELETT BURGESS</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>The Bohemians of Boston</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#BOHEMIANS">161</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">MARION COUTHOUY SMITH</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>The Composite Ghost</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#COMPOSITE">164</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">BILL NYE</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>A Fatal Thirst</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#THIRST">175</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">GEORGE W. PECK</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Peck’s Bad Boy</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#BADBOY">178</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="center">MISCELLANEOUS</td><td class="right"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Susan Simpson</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#SUSANSIMPSON">21</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>A Boston Lullaby</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#LULLABY">119</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>The House That Jack Built</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#JACK">127</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>An Insurance Agent’s Story</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#INSURANCE">144</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>An Epitaph</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#EPITAPH">148</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Some Messages Received by Teachers in Brooklyn Public Schools</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#TEACHERS">171</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>The Trout’s Appeal</td><td class="right"><SPAN href="#TROUT">174</SPAN></td>
</tr>
</table></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2><SPAN name="BULLYBOAT" id="BULLYBOAT"></SPAN>SOL SMITH</h2>
<h3>A BULLY BOAT AND A BRAG CAPTAIN</h3>
<h4><span class="smcap">A Story of Steamboat Life on the Mississippi</span></h4>
<p>Does any one remember the <i>Caravan</i>?
She was what would now be considered
a slow boat—<em>then</em> (1827) she was
regularly advertised as the “fast running,”
etc. Her regular trips from New Orleans to
Natchez were usually made in from six to eight
days; a trip made by her in five days was considered
remarkable. A voyage from New
Orleans to Vicksburg and back, including stoppages,
generally entitled the officers and crew
to a month’s wages. Whether the <i>Caravan</i> ever
achieved the feat of a voyage to the Falls (Louisville)
I have never learned; if she did, she must
have “had a <em>time</em> of it!”</p>
<p>It was my fate to take passage in this boat.
The Captain was a good-natured, easy-going man,
careful of the comfort of his passengers, and
exceedingly fond of the <em>game of brag</em>. We had
been out a little more than five days, and we were
in hopes of seeing the bluffs of Natchez on the
next day. Our wood was getting low, and night
coming on. The pilot on duty <em>above</em> (the other
pilot held three aces at the time, and was just
calling out the Captain, who “went it strong”
on three kings) sent down word that the mate<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</SPAN></span>
had reported the stock of wood reduced to half a
cord. The worthy Captain excused himself to
the pilot whose watch was <em>below</em> and the two
passengers who made up the party, and hurried
to the deck, where he soon discovered by the
landmarks that we were about half a mile from
a woodyard, which he said was situated “right
round yonder point.” “But,” muttered the
Captain, “I don’t much like to take wood of the
yellow-faced old scoundrel who owns it—he
always charges a quarter of a dollar more than
any one else; however, there’s no other chance.”
The boat was pushed to her utmost, and in a
little less than an hour, when our fuel was about
giving out, we made the point, and our cables
were out and fastened to trees alongside of a
good-sized woodpile.</p>
<p>“Hallo, Colonel! How d’ye sell your wood
<em>this</em> time?”</p>
<p>A yellow-faced old gentleman, with a two-weeks’
beard, strings over his shoulders holding
up to his armpits a pair of copperas-colored
linsey-woolsey pants, the legs of which reached
a very little below the knee; shoes without stockings;
a faded, broad-brimmed hat, which had
once been black, and a pipe in his mouth—casting
a glance at the empty guards of our boat
and uttering a grunt as he rose from fastening
our “spring line,” answered:</p>
<p>“Why, Capting, we must charge you <em>three and
a quarter</em> <span class="smcap">this</span> <em>time</em>.”</p>
<p>“The d——l!” replied the Captain—(captains<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</SPAN></span>
did swear a little in those days); “what’s the odd
<em>quarter</em> for, I should like to know? You only
charged me <em>three</em> as I went down.”</p>
<p>“Why, Capting,” drawled out the wood
merchant, with a sort of leer on his yellow countenance,
which clearly indicated that his wood
was as good as sold, “wood’s riz since you went
down two weeks ago; besides, you are awar that
you very seldom stop going <em>down</em>—when you’re
going <em>up</em> you’re sometimes obleeged to give me
a call, becaze the current’s aginst you, and there’s
no other woodyard for nine miles ahead: and if
you happen to be nearly out of fooel, why——”</p>
<p>“Well, well,” interrupted the Captain, “we’ll
take a few cords, under the circumstances,” and
he returned to his game of brag.</p>
<p>In about half an hour we felt the <i>Caravan</i>
commence paddling again. Supper was over,
and I retired to my upper berth, situated alongside
and overlooking the brag-table, where the
Captain was deeply engaged, having now the
<em>other</em> pilot as his principal opponent. We jogged
on quietly—and seemed to be going at a good
rate.</p>
<p>“How does that wood burn?” inquired the
Captain of the mate, who was looking on at the
game.</p>
<p>“’Tisn’t of much account, I reckon,” answered
the mate; “it’s cotton-wood, and most of it green
at that.”</p>
<p>“Well, Thompson—(Three aces, again, stranger—I’ll
take that X and the small change, if you<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</SPAN></span>
please. It’s your deal)—Thompson, I say, we’d
better take three or four cords at the next woodyard—it
can’t be more than six miles from here—(Two
aces and a bragger, with the age! Hand
over those V’s).”</p>
<p>The game went on, and the paddles kept
moving. At eleven o’clock it was reported to
the Captain that we were nearing the woodyard,
the light being distinctly seen by the pilot on
duty.</p>
<p>“Head her in shore, then, and take in six
cords if it’s good—see to it, Thompson; I
can’t very well leave the game now—it’s getting
right warm! This pilot’s beating us all to
smash.”</p>
<p>The wooding completed, we paddled on again.
The Captain seemed somewhat vexed when the
mate informed him that the price was the same
as at the last woodyard—<em>three and a quarter;</em> but
soon again became interested in the game.</p>
<p>From my upper berth (there were no state-rooms
<em>then</em>) I could observe the movements of
the players. All the contention appeared to be
between the Captain and the pilots (the latter
personages took it turn and turn about, steering
and playing brag), <em>one</em> of them almost invariably
winning, while the two passengers merely went
through the ceremony of dealing, cutting, and
paying up their “anties.” They were anxious
to <em>learn the game</em>—and they <em>did</em> learn it! Once
in awhile, indeed, seeing they had two aces and a
bragger, they would venture a bet of five or ten<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</SPAN></span>
dollars, but they were always compelled to back
out before the tremendous bragging of the
Captain or pilot—or if they did venture to “call
out” on “two bullits and a bragger,” they had
the mortification to find one of the officers had
the same kind of a hand, and were <em>more venerable</em>!
Still, with all these disadvantages, they continued
playing—they wanted to learn the game.</p>
<p>At two o’clock the Captain asked the mate
how we were getting on.</p>
<p>“Oh, pretty glibly, sir,” replied the mate;
“we can scarcely tell what headway we <em>are</em>
making, for we are obliged to keep the middle of
the river, and there is the shadow of a fog
rising. This wood seems rather better than that
we took in at Yellow-Face’s, but we’re nearly
out again, and must be looking out for more.
I saw a light just ahead on the right—shall
we hail?”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes,” replied the Captain; “ring the bell
and ask ’em what’s the price of wood up here.
(I’ve got you again; here’s double kings.)”</p>
<p>I heard the bell and the pilot’s hail, “What’s
<em>your</em> price for wood?”</p>
<p>A youthful voice on the shore answered,
“Three <em>and</em> a quarter!”</p>
<p>“D——nèt!” ejaculated the Captain, who had
just lost the price of two cords to the pilot—the
strangers suffering <em>some</em> at the same time—“three
and a quarter again! Are we <em>never</em> to get to a
cheaper country? (Deal, sir, if you please; better
luck next time.)”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>The other pilot’s voice was again heard on
deck—</p>
<p>“How much <em>have</em> you?”</p>
<p>“Only about ten cords, sir,” was the reply of
the youthful salesman.</p>
<p>The Captain here told Thompson to take six
cords, which would last till daylight—and again
turned his attention to the game.</p>
<p>The pilots here changed places. <em>When did
they sleep?</em></p>
<p>Wood taken in, the <i>Caravan</i> again took her
place in the middle of the stream, paddling on as
usual.</p>
<p>Day at length dawned. The brag-party broke
up and settlements were being made, during
which operations the Captain’s bragging propensities
were exercised in cracking up the speed
of his boat, which, by his reckoning, must have
made at least sixty miles, and <em>would</em> have made
many more if he could have procured good wood.
It appears the two passengers, in their first
lesson, had incidentally lost one hundred and
twenty dollars. The Captain, as he rose to see
about taking in some <em>good</em> wood, which he felt
sure of obtaining now that he had got above the
level country, winked at his opponent, the pilot,
with whom he had been on very bad terms
during the progress of the game, and said, in an
undertone, “Forty apiece for you and I and
James” [the other pilot] “is not bad for one
night.”</p>
<p>I had risen and went out with the Captain, to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</SPAN></span>
enjoy a view of the bluffs. There was just fog
enough to prevent the vision taking in more than
sixty yards—so I was disappointed in <em>my</em> expectation.
We were nearing the shore for the
purpose of looking for wood, the banks being
invisible from the middle of the river.</p>
<p>“There it is!” exclaimed the Captain; “stop
her!” Ding—ding—ding! went the big bell,
and the Captain hailed:</p>
<p>“Hallo! the woodyard!”</p>
<p>“Hallo yourself!” answered a squeaking
female voice, which came from a woman, with a
petticoat over her shoulders in place of a shawl.</p>
<p>“What’s the price of wood?”</p>
<p>“I think you ought to know the price by this
time,” answered the old lady in the petticoat;
“it’s three and a qua-a-rter! and now you know
it.”</p>
<p>“Three and the d——l!” broke in the Captain.
“What, have you raised on <em>your</em> wood, too? I’ll
give you <em>three</em>, and not a cent more.”</p>
<p>“Well,” replied the petticoat, “here comes
the old man—<em>he’ll</em> talk to you.”</p>
<p>And, sure enough, out crept from the cottage
the veritable faded hat, copperas-colored pants,
yellow countenance and two-weeks’ beard we had
seen the night before, and the same voice we
had heard regulating the price of cotton-wood
squeaked out the following sentence, accompanied
by the same leer of the same yellow
countenance:</p>
<p>“Why, darn it all, Capting, there is but three<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</SPAN></span>
or four cords left, and <em>since it’s you</em>, I don’t care
if I <em>do</em> let you have it for <em>three</em>—<em>as you’re a good
customer</em>!”</p>
<p>After a quick glance at the landmarks around,
the Captain bolted, and turned in to take some
rest.</p>
<p>The fact became apparent—the reader will
probably have discovered it some time since—that
<em>we had been wooding all night at the same
woodyard</em>!</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="DOGANDBEES" id="DOGANDBEES"></SPAN>THE DOG AND THE BEES</h2>
<p>A dog being very much annoyed by bees, ran
quite accidently into an empty barrel lying on
the ground, and looking out at the bung-hole,
addressed his tormentors thus:</p>
<p>“Had you been temperate, stinging me only
one at a time, you might have got a good deal of
fun out of me. As it is, you have driven me into
a secure retreat; for I can snap you up as fast
as you come in through the bung-hole. Learn
from this the folly of intemperate zeal.”</p>
<p>When he had concluded, he awaited a reply.
There wasn’t any reply; for the bees had
never gone near the bung-hole; they went
in the same way as he did, and made it very
warm for him.</p>
<p>The lesson of this fable is that one cannot stick
to his pure reason while quarreling with bees.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Ambrose Bierce.</span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2><SPAN name="DISLIKES" id="DISLIKES"></SPAN>OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES</h2>
<h3>DISLIKES</h3>
<p>I want it to be understood that I consider that
a certain number of persons are at liberty to
dislike me peremptorily, without showing cause,
and that they give no offense whatever in so
doing.</p>
<p>If I did not cheerfully acquiesce in this sentiment
toward myself on the part of others, I
should not feel at liberty to indulge my own
aversions. I try to cultivate a Christian feeling
to all my fellow-creatures, but inasmuch as I
must also respect truth and honesty, I confess to
myself a certain number of inalienable dislikes
and prejudices, some of which may possibly be
shared by others. Some of these are purely
instinctive; for others I can assign a reason.
Our likes and dislikes play so important a part
in the order of things that it is well to see on what
they are founded.</p>
<p>There are persons I meet occasionally who
are too intelligent by half for my liking. They
know my thoughts beforehand, and tell me what
I was going to say. Of course they are masters
of all my knowledge, and a good deal besides;
have read all the books I have read, and in later
editions; have had all the experiences I have<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</SPAN></span>
been through,—and more, too. In my private
opinion, every mother’s son of them will lie at
any time rather than confess ignorance.</p>
<p>I have a kind of dread, rather than hatred,
of persons with a large excess of vitality—great
feeders, great laughers, great story-tellers, who
come sweeping over their company with a huge
tidal wave of animal spirits and boisterous merriment.
I have pretty good spirits myself, and
enjoy a little mild pleasantry, but I am oppressed
and extinguished by these great lusty, noisy
creatures, and feel as if I were a mute at a funeral
when they get into full blast.</p>
<p>I cannot get along much better with those
drooping, languid people, whose vitality falls
short as much as that of the others is in excess.
I have not life enough for two; I wish I had. It
is not very enlivening to meet a fellow-creature
whose expression and accents say, “You are the
hair that breaks the camel’s back of my endurance;
you are the last drop that makes my cup
of woe run over”; persons whose heads drop on
one side like those of toothless infants; whose
voices recall the tones in which our old snuffling
choir used to wail out the verse of</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Life is the time to serve the Lord.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>There is another style which does not captivate
me. I recognize an attempt at the <em>grand
manner</em> now and then, in persons who are well
enough in their way, but of no particular importance,
socially or otherwise. Some family tradition
of wealth or distinction is apt to be at the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</SPAN></span>
bottom of it, and it survives all the advantages
that used to set it off: I like family pride as
well as my neighbors, and respect the high-born
fellow-citizen whose progenitors have not worked
in their shirt-sleeves for the last two generations
full as much as I ought to. But <i>grandpère
oblige</i>; a person with a known grandfather is too
distinguished to find it necessary to put on airs.
The few Royal Princes I have happened to know
were very easy people to get along with, and had
not half the social knee-action I have often seen
in the collapsed dowagers who lifted their eyebrows
at me in my earlier years.</p>
<p>My heart does not warm as it should do
toward the persons, not intimates, who are
always <em>too</em> glad to see me when we meet by accident,
and discover all at once that they have a
vast deal to unbosom themselves to me.</p>
<p>There is one blameless person whom I cannot
love and have no excuse for hating. It is
the innocent fellow-creature, otherwise inoffensive
to me, whom I find I have involuntarily
joined on turning a corner. I suppose the Mississippi,
which was flowing quietly along, minding
its own business, hates the Missouri for coming
into it all at once with its muddy stream. I
suppose the Missouri in like manner hates the
Mississippi for diluting with its limpid but
insipid current the rich reminiscences of the
varied soils through which its own stream has
wandered. I will not compare myself to the
clear or the turbid current, but I will own that<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</SPAN></span>
my heart sinks when I find all of a sudden I am
in for a corner confluence, and I cease loving my
neighbor as myself until I can get away from
him.—<i>The Poet at the Breakfast Table.</i></p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>An Illinois boy was asked to write an essay
on Masonry, and here is what he wrote: “King
Solomon was a man who lived so many years
in the country that he was the whole push.
He was an awfully wise man, and one day two
women came to him, each holding to the leg of
a baby and nearly pulling it in two and each
claiming it. And King Solomon wasn’t feeling
right good and he said: “Why couldn’t the
brat have been twins and stopped this bother?”
And then he called for his machete and was
going to Weylerize the poor innocent little baby,
and give each woman a piece of it, when the real
mother of the baby said: ‘Stop, Solomon;
stay thy hand. Let the old hag have it. If I
can’t have a whole baby I won’t have any.’
Then Solomon told her to take the baby and go
home and wash its face, for he knew it was hers.
He told the other woman to go chase herself.
King Solomon built Solomon’s Temple and was
the father of Masons. He had seven hundred
wives and three hundred lady friends, and that’s
why there are so many Masons in the world.
My papa says King Solomon was a warm
member and I think he was hot stuff myself.
That is all I know about King Solomon.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2><SPAN name="ILLUSTRATEDNEWSPAPERS" id="ILLUSTRATEDNEWSPAPERS"></SPAN>G. H. DERBY (“Phœnix,” “Squibob”)</h2>
<h3>ILLUSTRATED NEWSPAPERS</h3>
<p>A year or two since, a weekly paper was
started in London called the <i>Illustrated News</i>.
It was filled with tolerably executed wood-cuts,
representing scenes of popular interest; and
though perhaps better calculated for the nursery
than the reading-room, it took very well in
England, where few can read but all can understand
pictures, and soon attained immense circulation.
As when the inimitable London <i>Punch</i>
attained its world-wide celebrity, supported by
such writers as Thackeray, Jerrold and Hood,
would-be funny men on this side of the Atlantic
attempted absurd imitations—the <i>Yankee Doodle</i>,
the <i>John Donkey</i>, etc.—which as a matter
of course proved miserable failures; so did the
success of this illustrated affair inspire our
money-loving publishers with hopes of dollars,
and soon appeared from Boston, New York and
other places pictorial and illustrated newspapers,
teeming with execrable and silly effusions, and
filled with the most fearful wood engravings,
“got up regardless of expense” or anything else;
the contemplation of which was enough to make
an artist tear his hair and rend his garments.
A Yankee named Gleason, of Boston, published<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</SPAN></span>
the first, we believe, calling it <i>Gleason’s Pictorial</i>
(it should have been <i>Gleason’s Pickpocket</i>) <i>and
Drawing-Room Companion</i>. In this he presented
to his unhappy subscribers views of his house in
the country, and his garden, and, for aught we
know, of “his ox and his ass, and the stranger
within his gates.” A detestable invention for
transferring daguerreotypes to plates for engraving,
having come into notice about this time,
was eagerly seized upon by Gleason for further
embellishing his catchpenny publication—duplicates
and uncalled-for pictures were easily
obtained, and many a man has gazed in horror-stricken
astonishment on the likeness of a
respected friend as a “Portrait of Monroe
Edwards,” or that of his deceased grandmother
in the character of “One of the
Signers of the Declaration of Independence.”
They love pictures in Yankeedom; every tin-peddler
has one on his wagon, and an itinerant
lecturer can always obtain an audience by
sticking up a likeness of some unhappy female,
with her ribs laid open in an impossible
manner, for public inspection, or a hairless
gentleman, with the surface of his head
laid out in eligible lots duly marked and numbered.
The factory girls of Lowell, the professors
of Harvard, all bought the new <i>Pictorial</i>.
(Professor Webster was reading one when
Doctor Parkman called on him on the morning of
the murder.) Gleason’s speculation was crowned
with success, and he bought himself a new cooking<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</SPAN></span>
stove, and erected an outbuilding on his
estate, with both of which he favored the public
in a new wood-cut immediately.</p>
<p>Inspired by his success, old Feejec-Mermaid-Tom-Thumb-Woolly-Horse-Joyce-Heth-Barnum
forthwith got out another illustrated weekly,
with pictures far more extensive, letter-press
still sillier, and engravings more miserable, if
possible, than Yankee Gleason’s. And then we
were bored and buffeted by having incredible
likenesses of Santa Anna, Queen Victoria and
poor old Webster thrust beneath our nose, to
that degree that we wished the respected originals
had never existed, or that the art of wood engraving
had perished with that of painting on glass.</p>
<p>It was, therefore, with the most intense
delight that we saw a notice the other day of the
failure and stoppage of <i>Barnum’s Illustrated
News</i>; we rejoiced thereat greatly, and we hope
that it will never be revived, and that Gleason
will also fail as soon as he conveniently can, and
that his trashy <i>Pictorial</i> will perish with it.</p>
<p>It must not be supposed from the tenor of
these remarks that we are opposed to the publication
of a properly conducted and creditably
executed illustrated paper. “On the contrary,
quite the reverse.” We are passionately fond
of art ourselves, and we believe that nothing can
have a stronger tendency to refinement in
society than presenting to the public chaste and
elaborate engravings, copies of works of high
artistic merit, accompanied by graphic and well<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</SPAN></span>
written essays. It was for the purpose of introducing
a paper containing these features to our
appreciative community that we have made
these introductory remarks, and for the purpose
of challenging comparison, and defying competition,
that we have criticized so severely the
imbecile and ephemeral productions mentioned
above. At a vast expenditure of money, time
and labor, and after the most incredible and
unheard of exertion on our part, individually,
we are at length able to present to the public an
illustrated publication of unprecedented merit,
containing engravings of exceeding costliness
and rare beauty of design, got up on an expensive
scale which never has been attempted before
in this or any other country.</p>
<p>We furnish our readers this week with the first
number, merely premising that the immense
expense attending its issue will require a corresponding
liberality of patronage on the part of
the Public, to cause it to be continued.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="blockquote" style="width: 600px; margin: auto;">
<p class="larger center"><i>PHŒNIX’S PICTORIAL</i></p>
<p class="larger center"><i>And Second Story Front Room Companion</i></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/phoenix.jpg" alt="Phoenix" /></div>
<div class="borders">
<div style="float: left;"><p>Vol. 1.]</p>
</div>
<div style="float: right;"><p>[No. 1.</p>
</div>
<div><p class="center">San Diego, Oct. 1, 1853.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p style="clear: both;"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/bull.jpg" alt="Bull" width-obs="120" height-obs="61" /></div>
<p>Portrait of His Royal Highness Prince Albert.—Prince
Albert, the son of a gentleman named
Coburg, is the husband of Queen Victoria of
England, and the father of many of her children.
He is the inventor of the celebrated “Albert hat,”
which has been lately introduced with great
effect in the U. S. Army. The Prince is of
German extraction, his father being a Dutchman
and his mother a Duchess.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/house.jpg" alt="A nondescript house" width-obs="120" height-obs="91" /></div>
<p>Mansion of John Phœnix, Esq., San Diego,
California.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/house.jpg" alt="Same house as the previous" width-obs="120" height-obs="91" /></div>
<p>House in which Shakespeare was born, in
Stratford-on-Avon.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/house.jpg" alt="Same house as the previous" width-obs="120" height-obs="91" /></div>
<p>Abbottsford, the residence of Sir Walter Scott,
author of Byron’s “Pilgrim’s Progress,” etc.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/house.jpg" alt="Same house as the previous" width-obs="120" height-obs="91" /></div>
<p>The Capitol at Washington.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/house.jpg" alt="Same house as the previous" width-obs="120" height-obs="91" /></div>
<p>Residence of Governor Bigler, at Benicia,
California.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/battle-lake-erie.jpg" alt="Battle of Lake Erie" width-obs="450" height-obs="150" /></div>
<p>Battle of Lake Erie (<i>see remarks</i>, p. 96).</p>
<p class="center">[Page 96.]</p>
<p>The Battle of Lake Erie, of which our Artist
presents a spirited engraving, copied from the
original painting, by Hannibal Carracci, in the
possession of J. P. Haven, Esq., was fought in
1836, on Chesapeake Bay, between the U. S.
frigates <i>Constitution</i> and <i>Guerriere</i> and the
British troops, under General Putnam. Our
glorious flag, there as everywhere, was victorious,
and “Long may it wave, o’er the land of the free,
and the home of <em>the slave</em>.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/railroad-accident.jpg" alt="Pictures of trains, at least one of which is upside down" width-obs="450" height-obs="101" /></div>
<p>Fearful accident on the Camden and Amboy
Railroad!! Terrible loss of life!!!</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/sandiego.jpg" alt="A ship, a bird, a house, a pestle and mortar, and that house we saw above, again" width-obs="450" height-obs="76" /></div>
<p>View of the City of San Diego, by Sir Benjamin
West.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/harrietbeecherstowe.jpg" alt="Two unidentifiable women" width-obs="200" height-obs="129" /></div>
<p>Interview between Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe
and the Duchess of Sutherland, from a group of
Statuary, by Clarke Mills.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/bankaccount.jpg" alt="$" width-obs="300" height-obs="82" /></div>
<p>Bank Account of J. Phœnix, Esq., at Adams
and Company, Bankers, San Francisco, California.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/gasworks.jpg" alt="A wine jar" width-obs="174" height-obs="180" /></div>
<p>Gas Works, San Diego <i>Herald</i> office.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/goliah.jpg" alt="A turtle" width-obs="120" height-obs="73" /></div>
<p>Steamer Goliah.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ranch.jpg" alt="Three cows" width-obs="300" height-obs="62" /></div>
<p>View of a California Ranch.—Landseer.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/oyster.jpg" alt="Cracking an oyster open with a hammer" width-obs="200" height-obs="87" /></div>
<p>Shell of an oyster once eaten by General
Washington; showing the General’s manner of
opening oysters.</p>
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>There! This is but a specimen of what we can
do if liberally sustained. We wait with anxiety
to hear the verdict of the public before proceeding
to any further and greater outlays.</p>
<p>Subscription, $5 per annum, payable invariably
in advance.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</SPAN></span></p>
<p class="center">INDUCEMENTS FOR CLUBBING</p>
<p>Twenty copies furnished for one year for fifty
cents. Address John Phœnix, Office of the San
Diego <i>Herald</i>.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="SUSANSIMPSON" id="SUSANSIMPSON"></SPAN>SUSAN SIMPSON</h2>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Sudden swallows swiftly skimming,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Sunset’s slowly spreading shade,</div>
<div class="verse">Silvery songsters sweetly singing,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Summer’s soothing serenade.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Susan Simpson strolled sedately,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Stifling sobs, suppressing sighs.</div>
<div class="verse">Seeing Stephen Slocum, stately</div>
<div class="verse indent1">She stopped, showing some surprise.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“Say,” said Stephen, “sweetest sigher;</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Say, shall Stephen spouseless stay?”</div>
<div class="verse">Susan, seeming somewhat shier,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Showed submissiveness straightway.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Summer’s season slowly stretches,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Susan Simpson Slocum she—</div>
<div class="verse">So she signed some simple sketches—</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Soul sought soul successfully.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Six Septembers Susan swelters;</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Six sharp seasons snow supplies;</div>
<div class="verse">Susan’s satin sofa shelters</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Six small Slocums side by side.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</SPAN></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="MALONY" id="MALONY"></SPAN>MARY MAPES DODGE</h2>
<h3>MISS MALONY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION</h3>
<p>Och! don’t be talkin’. Is it howld on, ye say?
An’ didn’t I howld on till the heart of me was
clane broke entirely, and me wastin’ that thin
you could clutch me wid yer two hands! To
think o’ me toilin’ like a nager for the six year
I’ve been in Ameriky—bad luck to the day I
iver left the owld counthry, to be bate by the
likes o’ them! (faix, an’ I’ll sit down when I’m
ready, so I will, Ann Ryan, an’ ye’d better be
list’nin’ than drawin’ your remarks), an’ it’s
mysel’, with five good characters from respectable
places, would be herdin’ wid the haythens. The
saints forgive me, but I’d be buried alive soon
’n put up wid a day longer. Sure, an’ I was a
granehorn not to be lavin’ at onct when the
missus kim into me kitchen wid her perlaver
about the new waiter-man which was brought
out from Californy.</p>
<p>“He’ll be here the night,” says she, “and
Kitty, it’s meself looks to you to be kind and
patient wid him, for he’s a furriner,” says she,
a kind o’ looking off. “Sure an’ it’s little I’ll
hinder nor interfare wid him nor any other,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</SPAN></span>
mum,” says I, a kind o’ stiff, for I minded me
how these French waiters, wid their paper collars
and brass rings on their fingers, isn’t company
for no gurril brought up dacint and honest.
Och! sorra a bit I knew what was comin’ till the
missus walked into me kitchen smilin’, and says,
kind o’ schared, “Here’s Fing Wing, Kitty, an’
you’ll have too much sinse to mind his bein’ a
little strange.” Wid that she shoots the doore;
and I, misthrusting if I was tidied up sufficient
for me fine buy wid his paper collar, looks up
and——Holy fathers! may I never brathe
another breath, but there stud a rale haythen
Chineser a-grinnin’ like he’d just come off
a tay-box. If you’ll belave me, the crayture
was that yeller it ’ud sicken you to see
him; and sorra stich was on him but a
black night-gown over his trousers, and
the front of ’is head shaved claner nor a
copper biler, and a black tail a-hanging down
from behind, wid his two feet stook into the
heathenesest shoes you ever set eyes on. Och!
but I was upstairs afore you could turn about,
a-givin’ the missus-warnin’; an’ only stopt wid
her by her raisin’ me wages two dollars and
playdin’ wid me how it was a Christian’s duty to
bear wid haythins and taitch ’em all in our power—the
saints save us! Well, the ways and trials
I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, I couldn’t
be tellin’. Not a blissed thing cud I do but he’d
be lookin’ on wid his eyes cocked up’ard like two
poomp-handles, an’ he widdout a speck or a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</SPAN></span>
smitch o’ whiskers on him, and his finger-nails
full a yard long. But it’s dying you’d be to see
the missus a-larnin’ him, and he grinnin’ an’
waggin’ his pig-tail (which was pieced out long
wid some black stoof, the haythen chate!), and
gettin’ into her ways wonderful quick, I don’t
deny, imitatin’ that sharp, you’d be shurprised,
and ketchin’ and copyin’ things the best of us
will do a-hurried wid work yet don’t want
comin’ to the knowledge of the family—bad
luck to him!</p>
<p>Is it ate wid him? Arrah, an’ would I be
sittin’ wid a haythen, and he a-atin’ wid drum-sticks—yes,
an’ atin’ dogs an’ cats unknownst
to me, I warrant you, which is the custom of
them Chinesers, till the thought made me that
sick I could die. An’ didn’t the crayture proffer
to help me a wake ago come Toosday, an’ me a
foldin’ down me clane clothes for the ironin’, an’
fill his haythen mouth wid wather, an’ afore I
could hinder squrrit it through his teeth stret
over the best linen table-cloth and fold it up
tight, as innercent now as a baby, the dirty baste!
But the worrest of all was the copyin’ he’d be
doin’, till ye’d be distracted. It’s yerself knows
the tinder feet that’s on me since ever I’ve bin
in this country. Well, owin’ to that, I fell into
the way o’ slippin’ me shoes off when I’d be
settin’ down to pale the praties or the likes o’
that, and, do ye mind, that haythin would do the
same thing after me whiniver the missus set him
parin’ apples or tomaterses. The saints in<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</SPAN></span>
heaven couldn’t have made him belave he cud
kape the shoes on him when he’d be payling
anything.</p>
<p>Did I lave fur that? Faix an’ didn’t he get
me into trouble wid my missus, the haythin?
You’re aware yerself how the boondles comin’
from the grocery often contains more’n’ll go into
anything dacently. So, for that matter, I’d
now and then take out a sup o’ sugar, or flour, or
tay, an’ wrap it in paper and put it in me bit of a
box tucked under the ironin’ blankit the how it
cuddent be bodderin’ any one. Well, what
should it be, but this blessed Sathurday morn the
missus was a-spakin’ pleasant and respec’ful wid
me in me kitchen, when the grocer boy comes in
an’ stands fornenst her wid his boondles, an’ she
motions like to Fing Wing (which I never would
call him by that name nor any other but just
haythin); she motions to him, she does, for to
take the boondles an’ empty out the sugar an’
what not where they belongs. If you’ll belave
me, Ann Ryan, what did that blatherin’ Chineser
do but take out a sup o’ sugar, an’ a handful o’
tay, an’ a bit o’ chaze, right afore the missus,
wrap them into bits o’ paper, an’ I spacheless
wid shurprise, an’ he the next minute up wid the
ironin’ blankit and pullin’ out me box wid a
show o’ bein’ sly to put them in. Och, the Lord
forgive me, but I clutched it, and the missus
sayin’, “O Kitty!” in a way that ’ud curdle your
blood. “He’s a haythin nager,” says I. “I’ve
found you out,” says she. “I’ll arrist him,”<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</SPAN></span>
says I. “It’s you ought to be arristed,” says
she. “You won’t,” says I. “I will,” says she;
and so it went, till she give me such sass as I
cuddent take from no lady, an’ I give her warnin’
an’ left that instant, an’ she a-pointin’ to the
doore.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>It is now the proper time for the cross-eyed
woman to fool with the garden hose. I have
faced death in almost every form, and I do not
know what fear is, but when a woman with one
eye gazing into the zodiac and the other peering
into the middle of next week, and wearing one
of those floppy sun-bonnets, picks up the nozzle
of the garden hose and turns on the full force of
the institution, I fly wildly to the Mountains of
Hepsidam.</p>
<p>Water won’t hurt any one, of course, if care is
used not to forget and drink any of it, but it is
this horrible suspense and uncertainty about
facing the nozzle of a garden hose in the hands of
a cross-eyed woman that unnerves and paralyzes
me.</p>
<p>Instantaneous death is nothing to me. I am
as cool and collected where leaden rain and iron
hail are thickest as I would be in my own office
writing the obituary of the man who steals my
jokes. But I hate to be drowned slowly in my
good clothes and on dry land, and have my
dying gaze rest on a woman whose ravishing
beauty would drive a narrow-gage mule into
convulsions and make him hate himself t’death.</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</SPAN></span><span class="smcap">Bill Nye.</span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="COURTIN" id="COURTIN"></SPAN>JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL</h2>
<h3>THE COURTIN’</h3>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">God makes sech nights, all white an’ still</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Fur’z you can look or listen,</div>
<div class="verse">Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">All silence an’ all glisten.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown</div>
<div class="verse indent1">An’ peeked in thru’ the winder,</div>
<div class="verse">An’ there sot Huldy all alone,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">’Ith no one nigh to hender.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">A fireplace filled the room’s one side</div>
<div class="verse indent1">With half a cord o’ wood in—</div>
<div class="verse">There warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died)</div>
<div class="verse indent1">To bake ye to a puddin’.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Toward the pootiest, bless her,</div>
<div class="verse">An’ leetle flames danced about</div>
<div class="verse indent1">The chiny on the dresser.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">An’ in amongst ’em rusted</div>
<div class="verse">The ole queen’s-arm thet Gran’ther Young</div>
<div class="verse indent1"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</SPAN></span>Fetched back from Concord busted.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">The very room, coz she was in,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’,</div>
<div class="verse">An’ she looked full ez rosy agin</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Ez the apples she was peelin’.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">’Twas kin’ o’ kingdom-come to look</div>
<div class="verse indent1">On sech a blessed cretur,</div>
<div class="verse">A dogrose blushin’ to a brook</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Ain’t modester nor sweeter.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">He was six foot o’ man, A 1,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Clear grit an’ human natur’;</div>
<div class="verse">None couldn’t quicker pitch a ton</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Nor dror a furrer straighter.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">He’d sparked it with full twenty gals,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">He’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em,</div>
<div class="verse">Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells—</div>
<div class="verse indent1">All is, he couldn’t love ’em.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">But long o’ her his veins ’ould run</div>
<div class="verse indent1">All crinkly like curled maple,</div>
<div class="verse">The side she breshed felt full o’ sun</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Ez a south slope in Ap’il.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">She thought no v’ice hed sech a swing</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Ez hisn in the choir;</div>
<div class="verse">My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">She <em>knowed</em> the Lord was nigher.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">An’ she’d blush scarlit, right in prayer,</div>
<div class="verse indent1"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</SPAN></span>When her new meetin’-bunnet</div>
<div class="verse">Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair</div>
<div class="verse indent1">O’ blue eyes sot upon it.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Thet night, I tell ye, she looked <em>some</em>!</div>
<div class="verse indent1">She seemed to’ve gut a new soul,</div>
<div class="verse">For she felt sartin-sure he’d come,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Down to her very shoe-sole.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">She heered a foot, an’ knowed it, tu,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">A-raspin’ on the scraper—</div>
<div class="verse">All ways to once her feelin’s flew</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Like sparks in burnt-up paper.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Some doubtfle o’ the sekle,</div>
<div class="verse">His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">But hern went pity Zekle.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerk</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Ez though she wished him furder</div>
<div class="verse">An’ on her apples kep’ to work,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Parin’ away like murder.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?”</div>
<div class="verse indent1">“Wal—no—I come dasignin’——”</div>
<div class="verse">“To see my Ma? She’s sprinklin’ clo’es</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">To say why gals act so or so,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Or don’t ’ould be presumin’;</div>
<div class="verse">Mebby to mean <em>yes</em> an’ say <em>no</em></div>
<div class="verse indent1"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</SPAN></span>Comes nateral to women.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">He stood a spell on one foot fust,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Then stood a spell on t’other.</div>
<div class="verse">An’ on which one he felt the wust</div>
<div class="verse indent1">He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Says he, “I’d better call agin;”</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Says she, “Think likely, Mister:”</div>
<div class="verse">Thet last word pricked him like a pin,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">An’——Wal, he up an’ kist her.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Huldy sot pale ez ashes,</div>
<div class="verse">All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips</div>
<div class="verse indent1">An’ teary roun’ the lashes.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">For she was jes’ the quiet kind</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Whose naturs never vary,</div>
<div class="verse">Like streams that keep a summer mind</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Snowhid in Jenooary.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">The blood clost roun’ her heart felt glued</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Too tight for all expressin’,</div>
<div class="verse">Tell mother see how metters stood,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">An’ gin ’em both her blessin’.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Then her red come back like the tide</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Down to the Bay o’ Fundy,</div>
<div class="verse">An’ all I know is they was cried</div>
<div class="verse indent1"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</SPAN></span>In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="COQUETTE" id="COQUETTE"></SPAN>JOHN GODFREY SAXE</h2>
<h3>THE COQUETTE—A PORTRAIT</h3>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“You’re clever at drawing, I own,”</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Said my beautiful cousin Lisette,</div>
<div class="verse">As we sat by the window alone,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">“But say, can you paint a Coquette?”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“She’s painted already,” quoth I;</div>
<div class="verse indent1">“Nay, nay!” said the laughing Lisette,</div>
<div class="verse">“Now none of your joking—but try</div>
<div class="verse indent1">And paint me a thorough Coquette.”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“Well, Cousin,” at once I began</div>
<div class="verse indent1">In the ear of the eager Lisette,</div>
<div class="verse">“I’ll paint you as well as I can,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">That wonderful thing, a Coquette.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“She wears a most beautiful face”</div>
<div class="verse indent1">(“Of course,” said the pretty Lisette),</div>
<div class="verse">“And isn’t deficient in grace,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Or else she were not a Coquette.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“And then she is daintily made”</div>
<div class="verse indent1">(A smile from the dainty Lisette)</div>
<div class="verse">“By people expert in the trade</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Of forming a proper Coquette.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“She’s the winningest ways with the beaux”</div>
<div class="verse indent1"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</SPAN></span>(“Go on!” said the winning Lisette),</div>
<div class="verse">“But there isn’t a man of them knows</div>
<div class="verse indent1">The mind of the fickle Coquette!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“She knows how to weep and to sigh”</div>
<div class="verse indent1">(A sigh from the tender Lisette),</div>
<div class="verse">“But her weeping is all in my eye—</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Not that of the cunning Coquette!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“In short, she’s a creature of art”</div>
<div class="verse indent1">(“O hush!” said the frowning Lisette),</div>
<div class="verse">“With merely the ghost of a heart—</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Enough for a thorough Coquette.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“And yet I could easily prove”</div>
<div class="verse indent1">(“Now don’t!” said the angry Lisette),</div>
<div class="verse">“The lady is always in love—</div>
<div class="verse indent1">In love with herself—the Coquette!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“There—do not be angry—you know,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">My dear little cousin Lisette,</div>
<div class="verse">You told me a moment ago,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">To paint <em>you</em>—a thorough Coquette!”</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>Henry Ward Beecher, in his famous speech
at Manchester, England, in which he talked for
an hour against a howling mob of Rebel sympathizers
before he gained their attention, was
interrupted by a man in the audience who
shouted: “Why didn’t you whip the Confederates
in sixty days, as you said you would?”
“Because,” replied Beecher, “we found we h<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</SPAN></span>ad
Americans to fight instead of Englishmen.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="SELLERS" id="SELLERS"></SPAN>SAMUEL L. CLEMENS (“Mark Twain”)</h2>
<h3>COLONEL MULBERRY SELLERS</h3>
<p>Colonel Mulberry Sellers was in his
“library,” which was his “drawing-room,” and
was also his “picture gallery,” and likewise his
“workshop.” Sometimes he called it by one of
these names, sometimes by another, according
to occasion and circumstance. He was constructing
what seemed to be some kind of a frail
mechanical toy, and was apparently very much
interested in his work. He was a white-headed
man now, but otherwise he was as young, alert,
buoyant, visionary and enterprising as ever.
His loving old wife sat near by, contentedly
knitting and thinking, with a cat asleep in her
lap. The room was large, light and had a comfortable
look—in fact, a homelike look—though
the furniture was of a humble sort and not over-abundant,
and the knick-knacks and things that
go to adorn a living-room not plenty and not
costly. But there were natural flowers, and
there was an abstract and unclassifiable something
about the place which betrayed the presence
in the house of somebody with a happy
taste and an effective touch.</p>
<p>Even the deadly chromos on the walls were<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</SPAN></span>
somehow without offense; in fact, they seemed
to belong there and to add an attraction to the
room—a fascination, anyway; for whoever got
his eye on one of them was like to gaze and suffer
till he died—you have seen that kind of pictures.
Some of these terrors were landscapes, some
libeled the sea, some were ostensible portraits,
all were crimes. All the portraits were recognizable
as dead Americans of distinction, and
yet, through labeling, added by a daring hand,
they were all doing duty here as “Earls of Rossmore.”
The newest one had left the works as
Andrew Jackson, but was doing its best now as
“Simon Lathers Lord Rossmore, Present Earl.”
On one wall was a cheap old railroad map of
Warwickshire. This had been newly labeled,
“The Rossmore Estates.” On the opposite wall
was another map, and this was the most imposing
decoration of the establishment, and the first to
catch a stranger’s attention, because of its great
size. It had once borne simply the title SIBERIA,
but now the word “FUTURE” had been written
in front of that word. There were other additions,
in red ink—many cities, with great populations
set down, scattered over the vast country
at points where neither cities nor populations
exist to-day. One of these cities, with population
placed at 1,500,000, bore the name “Libertyorloffskoizalinski,”
and there was a still more
populous one, centrally located and marked
“Capitol,” which bore the name “Freedomslovnaivenovich.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>The mansion—the Colonel’s usual name for
the house—was a rickety old two-story frame
of considerable size, which had been painted,
some time or other, but had nearly forgotten it.
It was away out in the ragged edge of Washington,
and had once been somebody’s country
place. It had a neglected yard around it, with a
paling fence that needed straightening up in
places, and a gate that would stay shut. By the
door-post were several modest tin signs. “Col.
Mulberry Sellers, Attorney-at-Law and Claim
Agent,” was the principal one. One learned
from the others that the Colonel was a
Materializer, a Hypnotizer, a Mind-cure dabbler,
and so on. For he was a man who could always
find things to do.</p>
<p>A white-headed Negro man, with spectacles
and damaged white cotton gloves, appeared in
the presence, made a stately obeisance, and
announced:</p>
<p>“Marse Washington Hawkins, suh.”</p>
<p>“Great Scott! Show him in, Dan’l; show
him in.”</p>
<p>The Colonel and his wife were on their feet in a
moment, and the next moment were joyfully
wringing the hands of a stoutish, discouraged-looking
man, whose general aspect suggested
that he was fifty years old, but whose hair swore
to a hundred.</p>
<p>“Well, well, well, Washington, my boy, it <em>is</em>
good to look at you again. Sit down, sit down,
and make yourself at home. There now—why,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</SPAN></span>
you look perfectly natural; ageing a little, just a
little, but you’d have known him anywhere,
wouldn’t you, Polly?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, Berry; he’s <em>just</em> like his pa would
have looked if he’d lived. Dear, dear, where
have you dropped from? Let me see, how long
is it since——”</p>
<p>“I should say it’s all of fifteen years, Mrs.
Sellers.”</p>
<p>“Well, well, how time does get away with us.
Yes, and oh, the changes that——”</p>
<p>There was a sudden catch of her voice and a
trembling of the lip, the men waiting reverently
for her to get command of herself and go on; but,
after a little struggle, she turned away with her
apron to her eyes, and softly disappeared.</p>
<p>“Seeing you made her think of the children,
poor thing—dear, dear, they’re all dead but the
youngest. But banish care; it’s no time for it
now—on with the dance, let joy be unconfided,
is my motto—whether there’s any dance to dance
or any joy to unconfide, you’ll be the healthier
for it every time—every time, Washington—it’s
my experience, and I’ve seen a good deal of this
world. Come, where have you disappeared to
all these years, and are you from there now, or
where are you from?”</p>
<p>“I don’t quite think you would ever guess,
Colonel. Cherokee Strip.”</p>
<p>“My land!”</p>
<p>“Sure as you live.”</p>
<p>“You ca<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</SPAN></span>n’t mean it: Actually <em>living</em> out
there?”</p>
<p>“Well, yes, if a body may call it that;
though it’s a pretty strong term for ’dobies
and jackass rabbits, boiled beans and slapjack,
depression, withered hopes, poverty in all its
varieties——”</p>
<p>“Louise out there?”</p>
<p>“Yes, and the children.”</p>
<p>“Out there now?”</p>
<p>“Yes; I couldn’t afford to bring them with
me.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I see—you had to come—claim against
the Government. Make yourself perfectly easy—I’ll
take care of that.”</p>
<p>“But it isn’t a claim against the Government.”</p>
<p>“No? Want to be a postmaster? <em>That’s</em> all
right. Leave it to me. I’ll fix it.”</p>
<p>“But it isn’t postmaster—you’re all astray
yet.”</p>
<p>“Well, good gracious, Washington, why don’t
you come out and tell me what it is? What do
you want to be so reserved and distrustful with
an old friend like me for? Don’t you reckon I
can keep a se——”</p>
<p>“There’s no secret about it—you merely don’t
give me a chance to——”</p>
<p>“Now, look here, old friend, I know the human
race; and I know that when a man comes to
Washington, I don’t care if it’s from Heaven, let
alone Cherokee Strip, it’s because he <em>wants</em> something.
And I know that as a rule he’s not going
to get it; that he’ll stay and try for another <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</SPAN></span>thing
and won’t get that; the same luck with the next
and the next and the next; and keeps on till he
strikes bottom, and is too poor and ashamed to
go back, even to Cherokee Strip; and at last his
heart breaks and they take up a collection and
bury him. There—don’t interrupt me, I know
what I’m talking about. Happy and prosperous
in the Far West, wasn’t I? <em>You</em> know that.
Principal citizen of Hawkeye, looked up to by
everybody, kind of an autocrat, actually a kind
of an autocrat, Washington. Well, nothing
would do but I must go as Minister to St. James’s,
the Governor and everybody insisting, you know,
and so at last I consented—no getting out of it,
<em>had</em> to do it, so here I came. <em>A day too late</em>,
Washington. Think of that—what little things
change the world’s history—yes, sir, the place
had been filled. Well, there I was, you see. I
offered to compromise and go to Paris. The
President was very sorry and all that, but that
place, you see, didn’t belong to the West, so
there I was again. There was no help for it, so I
had to stoop a little—we all reach the day some
time or other when we’ve got to do that, Washington,
and it’s not a bad thing for us, either, take
it by and large all round—I had to stoop a little
and offer to take Constantinople. Washington,
consider this—for it’s perfectly true—within
a month I <em>asked</em> for China; within another month
I <em>begged</em> for Japan; one year later I was away
down, down, down, supplicating with tears and
anguish for the bottom office in the gift of <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</SPAN></span>the
Government of the United States—Flint-picker
in the cellars of the War Department. And by
George, I didn’t get it.”</p>
<p>“Flint-picker?”</p>
<p>“Yes. Office established in the time of the
Revolution—last century. The musket-flints for
the military posts were supplied from the Capitol.
They do it yet; for although the flint-arm has
gone out and the forts have tumbled down, the
decree hasn’t been repealed—been overlooked
and forgotten, you see—and so the vacancies
where old Ticonderoga and others used to stand
still get their six quarts of gun-flints a year just
the same.”</p>
<p>Washington said musingly after a pause:</p>
<p>“How strange it seems—to start for Minister
to England at twenty thousand a year and fail
for flint-picker at——”</p>
<p>“Three dollars a week. It’s human life,
Washington—just an epitome of human ambition
and struggle, and the outcome; you aim for the
palace and get drowned in the sewer.”</p>
<p>There was another meditative silence. Then
Washington said, with earnest compassion in his
voice:</p>
<p>“And so, after coming here, against your
inclination, to satisfy your sense of patriotic duty
and appease a selfish public clamor, you get
absolutely nothing for it.”</p>
<p>“Nothing?” The Colonel had to get up and
stand, to get room for his amazement to expand.
“<em>Nothing</em>, Washington? I ask you this: to <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</SPAN></span>be
a Perpetual Member and the <em>only</em> Perpetual
Member of a Diplomatic Body accredited to the
greatest country on earth—do you call that
nothing?”</p>
<p>It was Washington’s turn to be amazed. He
was stricken dumb; but the wide-eyed wonder,
the reverent admiration expressed in his face,
were more eloquent than any words could have
been. The Colonel’s wounded spirit was healed,
and he resumed his seat, pleased and content.
He leaned forward and said impressively:</p>
<p>“What was due to a man who had become forever
conspicuous by an experience without precedence
in the history of the world—a man made
permanently and diplomatically sacred, so to
speak, by having been connected, temporarily,
through solicitation, with every single diplomatic
post in the roster of this Government, from Envoy
Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to
the Court of St. James’s all the way down to
Consul to a guano rock in the Straits of Sunda—salary
payable in guano—which disappeared by
volcanic convulsion the day before they got
down to my name in the list of applicants?
Certainly something august enough to be answerable
to the size of this unique and memorable
experience was my due, and I got it. By the
common voice of this community, by acclamation
of the people, that mighty utterance which
brushes aside laws and legislation, and from
whose decrees there is no appeal, I was named
Perpetual Member of the Diplomatic Body<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</SPAN></span>
representing the multifarious sovereignties and
civilizations of the globe near the republican
court of the United States of America. And
they brought me home with a torchlight
procession.”</p>
<p>“It is wonderful, Colonel——simply wonderful.”</p>
<p>“It’s the loftiest official position in the whole
earth.”</p>
<p>“I should think so—and the most commanding.”</p>
<p>“You have named the word. Think of it! I
frown, and there is war; I smile, and contending
nations lay down their arms.”</p>
<p>“It is awful. The responsibility, I mean.”</p>
<p>“It is nothing. Responsibility is no burden
to me; I am used to it; have always been used to
it.”</p>
<p>“And the work—the work! Do you have to
attend all the sittings?”</p>
<p>“Who, I? Does the Emperor of Russia
attend the conclaves of the Governors of the
provinces? He sits at home and indicates his
pleasure.”</p>
<p>Washington was silent a moment, then a deep
sigh escaped him.</p>
<p>“How proud I was an hour ago; how paltry
seems my little promotion now! Colonel, the
reason I came to Washington is—I am Congressional
Delegate from Cherokee Strip!”</p>
<p>The Colonel sprang to his feet and broke out
with prodigious enthusiasm:</p>
<p>“Give me your hand, my boy—this is immense<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</SPAN></span>
news! I congratulate you with all my heart.
My prophecies stand firm. I always said it was
in you. I always said you were born for high
distinction and would achieve it. You ask
Polly if I didn’t.”</p>
<p>Washington was dazed by this most unexpected
demonstration.</p>
<p>“Why, Colonel, there’s nothing <em>to</em> it. That
little, narrow, desolate, unpeopled, oblong streak
of grass and gravel, lost in the remote wastes of
the vast continent—why, it’s like representing
a billiard table—a discarded one.”</p>
<p>“Tut-tut, it’s a great, it’s a staving preferment,
and just opulent with influence here.”</p>
<p>“Shucks, Colonel, I haven’t even a vote.”</p>
<p>“That’s nothing; you can make speeches.”</p>
<p>“No, I can’t. The population only two
hundred——”</p>
<p>“That’s all right, that’s all right——”</p>
<p>“And they hadn’t any right to elect me; we’re
not even a territory; there’s no Organic Act; the
Government hasn’t any official knowledge of us
whatever.”</p>
<p>“Never mind about that; I’ll fix that. I’ll
rush the thing through; I’ll get you organized in
no time.”</p>
<p>“<em>Will</em> you, Colonel—it’s <em>too</em> good of you; but
it’s just your old sterling self, the same old, ever-faithful
friend,” and the grateful tears welled up
in Washington’s eyes.</p>
<p>“It’s just as good as done, my boy, just as
good as done. Shake hands. We’ll hitch teams<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</SPAN></span>
together, you and I, and we’ll make things hum!”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="RETIRED" id="RETIRED"></SPAN>FREDERICK WILLIAM SHELTON</h2>
<h3>INCIDENTS IN A RETIRED LIFE</h3>
<p>Last year I had a solitary peach upon a
solitary tree, for the early frost frustrated the
delicious crop. This only one, which, from its
golden color, might be entitled El Dorado, I
watched with fear and trembling from day to
day, patiently waiting for the identical time
when I should buoy it up carefully in my hand,
that its pulp should not be bruised, tear off its
thin peel, admonished that the time had come
by a gradual releasing of the fruit from its
adhesion to the stem, and I appointed the next
day for the ceremonial of plucking. The morrow
dawned, as bright a day as ever dawned upon
the earth, and on a near approach I found it still
there, and said, with chuckling gratification,
“There is some delicacy in thieves.” Alas! on
reaching it, somebody had taken a large bite out
of the ripest cheek, but with a sacrilegious witticism
had left it sticking to the stem. The
detestable prints of the teeth which bit it were
still in it, and a wasp was gloating at its core.
Had he taken the whole peach I should have
vented my feelings in a violence of indignation
unsuited to a balmy garden. But as he was<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</SPAN></span>
joker enough to bite only its sunny side, I must
forgive him, as one who has some element of
salvation in his character, because he is disposed
to look at the bright side of things. What is a
peach? A mere globe of succulent and delicious
pulp, which I would rather be deprived of than
cultivate bad feelings, even toward thieves.
Wherever you find rogues whose deeds involve a
saline element of wit, make up your mind that
they are no rogues.—<i>Up the River.</i></p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>This morning the Shanghai hen laid another
egg, of a rich brunette complexion, which we
took away, and replaced by a common vulgar
egg, intending to reserve the Shanghai’s in a cool
place until the time of incubation. Very much
amused was I with the sequel. The proud and
haughty superiority of the breed manifested
itself by detecting the cheat and resenting the
insult. Shang and Eng flew at the suppositious
egg with the utmost indignation and picked it to
pieces, scratching the remnants of the shell from
the nest.... There is one peculiarity of
these fowls which deserves to be mentioned.
When I removed mine from the basket I thought
that the worthy donor had clipped their wings
to prevent them from flying away or scaling the
hennery. On further knowledge I have learned
that their style and fashion is that of the jacket-sleeve
and bobtail coat. Their eminent domesticity
is clearly signified by this, because they
cannot get over an ordinary fence, and would not<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</SPAN></span>
if they could. It is because they have no disposition
to do this, that Nature has cropped
them of their superfluous wings and given them
a plumage suitable to their desires. “Their
sober wishes never learn to stray.” They often
come into the kitchen, but never go abroad
to associate with common fowls, but remain
at home in dignified retirement. Another
thing remarkable and quite renowned about this
is the Oriental courtesy and politeness of the
cock. If you throw a piece of bread, he waits till
the hen helps herself first, and often carries it to
her in his own beak. The feathered people in
the East, and those <em>not</em> feathered, are far superior
to ours in those elaborate and delightful forms
of manner which add a charm and zest to life.
This has been from the days of Abraham until
now. There are no common people in these
realms. All are polite, and the very roosters
illustrate the best principles laid down in any
book of etiquette. <em>Book of Etiquette!</em> What
is conventionalism without the inborn sense?
Can any man or beast be taught to be mechanically
polite? Not at all—not at all!...</p>
<p>I have received a present of a pair of Cochin
Chinas, a superb cock and a dun-colored hen.
I put them with my other fowls in the cellar, to
protect them for a short time from the severity
of the weather. My Shanghai rooster had for
several nights been housed up; for on one occasion,
when the cold was snapping, he was discovered
under the lee of a stone wall, standing<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</SPAN></span>
on one leg, taking no notice of the approach of
any one, and nearly gone. When brought in,
he backed up against the red-hot kitchen stove,
and burned his tail off. Before this he had no
feathers in the rear to speak of, and now he is
bobtailed indeed. Anne sewed upon him a
jacket of carpet, and put him in a tea-box for
the night; and it was ludicrous on the next morning
to see him lifting up his head above the
square prison-box and crowing lustily to greet
the day. But before breakfast time he had a
dreadful fit. He retreated against the wall, he
fell upon his side, he kicked, and he “carried on”;
but when the carpet was taken off he came to
himself, and ate corn with a voracious appetite.
His indisposition was, no doubt, occasioned by a
rush of blood to the head from the tightness of
the bandages. When Shanghai and Cochin met
together in the cellar, they enacted in that dusky
hole all the barbarities of a profane cockpit. I
heard a sound as if from the tumbling of barrels,
followed by a dull, thumping noise, like spirit-rappings,
and went below, where the first object
which met my eye was a mouse creeping along
the beam out of an excavation in my pineapple
cheese. As for the fowls, instead of salutation
after the respectful manner of their country—which
is expressed thus: Shang knocks knees to
Cochin, bows three times, touches the ground,
and makes obeisance—they were engaged in a
bloody fight, unworthy of celestial poultry.
With their heads down, eyes flashing, and red as<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</SPAN></span>
vipers, and with a feathery frill or ruffle about
their necks, they were leaping at each other,
to see who should hold dominion over the ash-heap.
It put me exactly in mind of two Scythians
or two Greeks in America, where each
wished to be considered the only Scythian or
only Greek in the country. A contest or emulation
is at all times highly animating and full of
zest, whether two scholars write, two athletes
strive, two boilers strain, or two cocks fight.
Every lazy dog in the vicinity is immediately at
hand. I looked on until I saw the Shanghai’s
peepers darkened, and his comb streaming with
blood. These birds contended for some days
after for preëminence on the lawn, and no
flinching could be observed on either part,
although the Shanghai was by one-third the
smaller of the two. At last the latter was
thoroughly mortified; his eyes wavered and
wandered vaguely, as he stood opposite the foe;
he turned tail and ran. From that moment he
became the veriest coward, and submitted to
every indignity without attempting to resist.
He suffered himself to be chased about the lawn,
fled from the Indian meal, and was almost
starved. Such submission on his part at last
resulted in peace, and the two rivals walked side
by side without fighting, and ate together, with
a mutual concession, of the corn. This, in turn,
engendered a degree of presumption on the part
of the Shanghai cock; and one day, when the dew
sparkled and the sun shone peculiarly bright,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</SPAN></span>
he so far forgot himself as to ascend a hillock
and venture on a tolerably triumphant crow.
It showed a lack of judgment; his cock-a-doodle-doo
proved fatal. Scarcely had he done so,
when Cochin China rushed upon him, tore out
his feathers, and flogged him so severely that it
was doubtful whether he would remain with us.
Now, alas! he presents a sad spectacle: his comb
frozen off, his tail burned off, and his head knocked
to a jelly. While the corn jingles in the throats
of his compeers when they eagerly snap it, as if
they were eating from a pile of shilling pieces or
fi’-penny bits, he stands aloof and grubs in the
ground. How changed!—<i>Up the River.</i></p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>A clergyman was very anxious to introduce
some hymn-books into the church, and arranged
with his clerk that the latter was to give out the
notice immediately after the sermon. The clerk,
however, had a notice of his own to give out with
reference to the baptism of infants. Accordingly,
at the close of the sermon he arose and
announced that “All those who have children
whom they wish to have baptized please send in
their names at once to the clerk.” The clergyman,
who was stone deaf, assumed that the clerk
was giving out the hymn-book notice, and
immediately rose and said: “And I should say,
for the benefit of those who haven’t any, that
they may be obtained at the vestry any day from
three to four o’clock; the ordinary little ones at
one shilling each, and special <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</SPAN></span>ones with red backs
at one shilling and fourpence.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="MELONS" id="MELONS"></SPAN>BRET HARTE</h2>
<h3>MELONS</h3>
<p>As I do not suppose the most gentle of readers
will believe that anybody’s sponsors in baptism
ever wilfully assumed the responsibility of such a
name, I may as well state that I have reason to
infer that Melons was simply the nickname of a
small boy I once knew. If he had any other,
I never knew it.</p>
<p>Various theories were often projected by me
to account for this strange cognomen. His head,
which was covered with a transparent down,
like that which clothes very small chickens,
plainly permitting the scalp to show through, to
an imaginative mind might have suggested that
succulent vegetable. That his parents, recognizing
some poetical significance in the fruits
of the season, might have given this name to an
August child, was an Oriental explanation.
That from his infancy he was fond of indulging
in melons seemed on the whole the most likely,
particularly as Fancy was not bred in McGinnis’s
Court. He dawned upon me as Melons. His
proximity was indicated by shrill, youthful voices
as “Ah, Melons!” or playfully, “Hi, Melons!”
or authoritatively, “You, Melons!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>McGinnis’s Court was a democratic expression
of some obstinate and radical property-holder.
Occupying a limited space between two fashionable
thoroughfares, it refused to conform to
circumstances, but sturdily paraded its unkempt
glories, and frequently asserted itself in ungrammatical
language. My window—a rear room on
the ground floor—in this way derived blended
light and shadow from the court. So low was
the window-sill, that had I been the least disposed
to somnambulism it would have broken out
under such favorable auspices, and I should have
haunted McGinnis’s Court. My speculations as
to the origin of the court were not altogether
gratuitous, for by means of this window I once
saw the Past, as through a glass darkly. It was a
Celtic shadow that early one morning obstructed
my ancient lights. It seemed to belong to an
individual with a pea-coat, a stubby pipe, and
bristling beard. He was gazing intently at the
court, resting on a heavy cane, somewhat in the
way that heroes dramatically visit the scenes of
their boyhood. As there was little of architectural
beauty in the court, I came to the conclusion
that it was McGinnis looking after his
property. The fact that he carefully kicked a
broken bottle out of the road somewhat strengthened
me in the opinion. But he presently
walked away, and the court knew him no more.
He probably collected his rents by proxy—if
he collected them at all.</p>
<p>Beyond Melons, of whom all this is purely<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</SPAN></span>
introductory, there was little to interest the
most sanguine and hopeful nature. In common
with all such localities, a great deal of washing
was done, in comparison with the visible results.
There was always something whisking on the
line, and always something whisking through
the court that looked as if it ought to be there.
A fish-geranium—of all plants kept for the
recreation of mankind, certainly the greatest
illusion—straggled under the window. Through
its dusty leaves I caught the first glance of
Melons.</p>
<p>His age was about seven. He looked older,
from the venerable whiteness of his head, and it
was impossible to conjecture his size, as he
always wore clothes apparently belonging to
some shapely youth of nineteen. A pair of
pantaloons that, when sustained by a single
suspender, completely equipped him, formed
his every-day suit. How, with this lavish superfluity
of clothing, he managed to perform the
surprising gymnastic feats it had been my
privilege to witness, I have never been able to
tell. His “turning the crab,” and other minor
dislocations, were always attended with success.
It was not an unusual sight at any hour of the
day to find Melons suspended on a line, or to see
his venerable head appearing above the roofs of
the outhouses. Melons knew the exact height of
every fence in the vicinity, its facilities for
scaling, and the possibility of seizure on the
other side. His more peaceful and quieter<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</SPAN></span>
amusements consisted in dragging a disused
boiler by a large string, with hideous outcries,
to imaginary fires.</p>
<p>Melons was not gregarious in his habits. A
few youth of his own age sometimes called upon
him, but they eventually became abusive, and
their visits were more strictly predatory incursions
for old bottles and junk which formed
the staple of McGinnis’s Court. Overcome by
loneliness one day, Melons inveigled a blind
harper into the court. For two hours did that
wretched man prosecute his unhallowed calling,
unrecompensed, and going round and round the
court, apparently under the impression that it
was some other place, while Melons surveyed
him from an adjoining fence with calm satisfaction.
It was this absence of conscientious
motive that brought Melons into disrepute with
his aristocratic neighbors. Orders were issued
that no child of wealthy and pious parentage
should play with him. This mandate, as a
matter of course, invested Melons with a fascinating
interest to them. Admiring glances were
cast at Melons from nursery windows. Baby
fingers beckoned to him. Invitations to tea
(on wood and pewter) were lisped to him from
aristocratic back-yards. It was evident he was
looked upon as a pure and noble being, untrammeled
by the conventionalities of parentage,
and physically as well as mentally exalted above
them. One afternoon an unusual commotion
prevailed in the vicinity of McGinnis’s Cou<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</SPAN></span>rt.
Looking from my window I saw Melons perched
on the roof of a stable, pulling up a rope by
which one “Tommy,” an infant scion of an
adjacent and wealthy house, was suspended in
midair. In vain the female relatives of Tommy
congregated in the back-yard expostulated
with Melons; in vain the unhappy father
shook his fist at him. Secure in his position,
Melons redoubled his exertions and at last
landed Tommy on the roof. Then it was that
the humiliating fact was disclosed that Tommy
had been acting in collusion with Melons. He
grinned delightedly back at his parents, as if
“by merit raised to that bad eminence.” Long
before the ladder arrived that was to succor
him, he became the sworn ally of Melons, and,
I regret to say, incited by the same audacious
boy, “chaffed” his own flesh and blood below
him. He was eventually taken, though, of
course, Melons escaped. But Tommy was
restricted to the window after that, and the
companionship was limited to “Hi, Melons!”
and “You, Tommy!” and Melons to all practical
purposes lost him forever. I looked afterward
to see some signs of sorrow on Melons’ part, but
in vain; he buried his grief, if he had any, somewhere
in his one voluminous garment.</p>
<p>At about this time my opportunities of knowing
Melons became more extended. I was
engaged in filling a void in the Literature of the
Pacific Coast. As this void was a pretty large
one, and as I was informed that the Pacific Coa<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</SPAN></span>st
languished under it, I set apart two hours each
day to this work of filling in. It was necessary
that I should adopt a methodical system, so I
retired from the world and locked myself in my
room at a certain hour each day, after coming
from my office. I then carefully drew out my
portfolio and read what I had written the day
before. This would suggest some alterations,
and I would carefully rewrite it. During this
operation I would turn to consult a book of
reference, which invariably proved extremely
interesting and attractive. It would generally
suggest another and better method of “filling
in.” Turning this method over reflectively in
my mind, I would finally commence the new
method which I eventually abandoned for the
original plan. At this time I would become
convinced that my exhausted faculties demanded
a cigar. The operation of lighting a cigar
usually suggested that a little quiet reflection
and meditation would be of service to me, and I
always allowed myself to be guided by prudential
instincts. Eventually, seated by my window,
as before stated, Melons asserted himself.
Though our conversation rarely went further
than “Hello, Mister!” and “Ah, Melons!” a
vagabond instinct we felt in common implied a
communion deeper than words. Thus time
passed, often beguiled by gymnastics on the
fence or line (always with an eye to my window)
until dinner was announced and I found a more
practical void required my attention<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</SPAN></span>. An unlooked-for
incident drew us in closer relation.</p>
<p>A seafaring friend just from a tropical voyage
had presented me with a bunch of bananas.
They were not quite ripe, and I hung them before
my window to mature in the sun of McGinnis’s
Court, whose forcing qualities were remarkable.
In the mysteriously mingled odors of ship and
shore which they diffused throughout my room,
there was lingering reminiscence of low latitudes.
But even that joy was fleeting and evanescent:
they never reached maturity.</p>
<p>Coming home one day, as I turned the corner
of that fashionable thoroughfare before alluded
to, I met a small boy eating a banana. There
was nothing remarkable in that, but as I neared
McGinnis’s Court I presently met another small
boy, also eating a banana. A third small boy
engaged in a like occupation obtruded a painful
coincidence upon my mind. I leave the psychological
reader to determine the exact correlation
between the circumstance and the sickening
sense of loss that overcame me on witnessing it.
I reached my room—and found the bunch of
bananas was gone.</p>
<p>There was but one that knew of their existence,
but one who frequented my window, but one
capable of gymnastic effort to procure them, and
that was—I blush to say it—Melons. Melons
the depredator—Melons, despoiled by larger
boys of his ill-gotten booty, or reckless and
indiscreetly liberal; Melons—now a fugitive
on some neighborhood housetop. I lit a ciga<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</SPAN></span>r,
and, drawing my chair to the window, sought
surcease of sorrow in the contemplation of the
fish-geranium. In a few moments something
white passed my window at about the level of
the edge. There was no mistaking that hoary
head, which now represented to me only aged
iniquity. It was Melons, that venerable, juvenile
hypocrite.</p>
<p>He affected not to observe me, and would
have withdrawn quietly, but that horrible
fascination which causes the murderer to
revisit the scene of his crime impelled him
toward my window.</p>
<p>I smoked calmly and gazed at him without
speaking.</p>
<p>He walked several times up and down the
court with a half-rigid, half-belligerent expression
of eye and shoulder, intended to represent
the carelessness of innocence.</p>
<p>Once or twice he stopped, and putting his arms
their whole length into his capacious trousers,
gazed with some interest at the additional width
they thus acquired. Then he whistled. The
singular conflicting conditions of John Brown’s
body and soul were at that time beginning to
attract the attention of youth, and Melons’s performance
of that melody was always remarkable.
But to-day he whistled falsely and shrilly between
his teeth.</p>
<p>At last he met my eye. He winced slightly,
but recovered himself, and going to the fence,
stood for a few moments on his hands, with<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</SPAN></span>
his bare feet quivering in the air. Then he
turned toward me and threw out a conversational
preliminary:</p>
<p>“They is a cirkis”—said Melons gravely,
hanging with his back to the fence and his arms
twisted around the palings—“a cirkis over
yonder!”—indicating the locality with his foot—“with
hosses and hossback riders. They is
a man wot rides six hosses to onct—six hosses
to onct—and nary saddle”—and he paused in
expectation.</p>
<p>Even this equestrian novelty did not affect
me. I still kept a fixed gaze on Melons’s eye,
and he began to tremble and visibly shrink in
his capacious garment. Some other desperate
means—conversation with Melons was always a
desperate means—must be resorted to. He
recommenced more artfully:</p>
<p>“Do you know Carrots?”</p>
<p>I had a faint remembrance of a boy of that
euphonious name, with scarlet hair, who was a
playmate and persecutor of Melons. But I said
nothing.</p>
<p>“Carrots is a bad boy. Killed a policeman
onct. Wears a dirk knife in his boots. Saw
him to-day looking in your windy.”</p>
<p>I felt that this must end here. I rose sternly
and addressed Melons.</p>
<p>“Melons, this is all irrelevant and impertinent
to the case. <em>You</em> took those bananas. Your
proposition regarding Carrots, even if I were
inclined to accept it as credible informatio<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</SPAN></span>n, does
not alter the material issue. You took those
bananas. The offense under the statutes of
California is felony. How far Carrots may
have been accessory to the fact either before
or after it is not my intention at present to
discuss. The act is complete. Your present
conduct shows the <i>animo furandi</i> to have
been equally clear.”</p>
<p>By the time I had finished this exordium
Melons had disappeared, as I fully expected.</p>
<p>He never reappeared. The remorse that I
have experienced for the part I had taken in
what I fear may have resulted in his utter and
complete extermination, alas! he may not know,
except through these pages. For I have never
seen him since. Whether he ran away and went
to sea to reappear at some future day as the most
ancient of mariners, or whether he buried himself
completely in his trousers, I never shall know.
I have read the papers anxiously for accounts
of him. I have gone to the police office in the
vain attempt of identifying him as a lost child.
But I never saw him or heard of him since.
Strange fears have sometimes crossed my mind
that his venerable appearance may have been
actually the result of senility, and that he may
have been gathered peacefully to his fathers in a
green old age. I have even had doubts of his
existence, and have sometimes thought that he
was providentially and mysteriously offered to
fill the void I have before alluded to. In that
hope I have written these pages.—<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</SPAN></span><i>Mrs. Skaggs’s
Husbands, and other Sketches.</i></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="BIGELOW" id="BIGELOW"></SPAN>JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL</h2>
<h3>A LETTER FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGELOW</h3>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Thrash away, you’ll <em>hev</em> to rattle</div>
<div class="verse indent1">On them kittle-drums o’ yourn,</div>
<div class="verse">’Tain’t a knowin’ kind o’ cattle</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Thet is ketched with moldy corn;</div>
<div class="verse">Put in stiff, you fifer feller,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Let folks see how spry you be—</div>
<div class="verse">Guess you’ll toot till you are yeller</div>
<div class="verse indent1">’Fore you git a-hold o’ me!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">Thet air flag’s a leetle rotten,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Hope it ain’t your Sunday’s best—</div>
<div class="verse">Fact! it takes a sight o’ cotton</div>
<div class="verse indent1">To stuff out a soger’s chest;</div>
<div class="verse">Sence we farmers hev to pay fer’t,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Ef you must wear humps like these</div>
<div class="verse">S’posin’ you should try salt hay fer’t,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">It would du ez slick ez grease.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">’Twouldn’t suit them Southun fellers,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">They’re a dreffle graspin’ set,</div>
<div class="verse">We must ollers blow the bellers</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Wen they want their irons het;</div>
<div class="verse">Maybe it’s all right ez preachin’,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">But <em>my</em> narves it kind o’ grates,</div>
<div class="verse">Wen I see the overreachin’</div>
<div class="verse indent1"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</SPAN></span>O’ them nigger-drivin’ States.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Hain’t they cut a thunderin’ swath</div>
<div class="verse">(Helped by Yankee renegaders),</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Thru the vartu o’ the North!</div>
<div class="verse">We begin to think it’s natur</div>
<div class="verse indent1">To take sarse an’ not be riled—</div>
<div class="verse">Who’d expect to see a tater</div>
<div class="verse indent1">All on eend at bein’ biled?</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">Ez fer war, I call it murder—</div>
<div class="verse indent1">There you hev it plain an’ flat;</div>
<div class="verse">I don’t want to go no furder</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Than my Testament fer that;</div>
<div class="verse">God hez sed so plump an’ fairly,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">It’s ez long ez it is broad,</div>
<div class="verse">An’ you’ve gut to git up airly</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Ef you want to take in God.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">’Tain’t your eppyletts an’ feathers</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Make the thing a grain more right;</div>
<div class="verse">’Tain’t a-follerin’ your bell-wethers</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Will excuse ye in His sight;</div>
<div class="verse">Ef you take a sword an’ dror it,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">An’ go stick a feller thru,</div>
<div class="verse">Guv’ment ain’t to answer for it,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">God’ll send the bill to you.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">Wut’s the use o’ meetin’-goin’</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Every Sabbath, wet or dry,</div>
<div class="verse">Ef it’s right to go a-mowin’</div>
<div class="verse indent1"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</SPAN></span>Feller-men like oats an’ rye?</div>
<div class="verse">I dunno but wut it’s pooty</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Trainin’ round in bobtail coats—</div>
<div class="verse">But it’s curus Christian dooty</div>
<div class="verse indent1">This ’ere cuttin’ folks’s throats.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">They may talk o’ Freedom’s airy</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Tell they’re pupple in the face—</div>
<div class="verse">It’s a grand gret cemetary</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Fer the barthrights of our race;</div>
<div class="verse">They jest want this Californy</div>
<div class="verse indent1">So’s to lug new slave States in</div>
<div class="verse">To abuse ye, an’ to scorn ye,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">An’ to plunder ye like sin.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">Ain’t it cute to see a Yankee</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Take sech everlastin’ pains,</div>
<div class="verse">All to git the Devil’s thankee</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Helpin’ on ’em weld their chains?</div>
<div class="verse">Wy, it’s jest ez clear ez figgers,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Clear ez one an’ one make two,</div>
<div class="verse">Chaps thet make black slaves o’ niggers</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Want to make wite slaves o’ you.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">Tell ye jest the eend I’ve come to</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Arter cipherin’ plaguy smart,</div>
<div class="verse">An’ it makes a handy sum, tu,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Any gump could larn by heart;</div>
<div class="verse">Laborin’ man an’ laborin’ woman</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Hev one glory an’ one shame.</div>
<div class="verse">Ev’ythin’ thet’s done inhuman</div>
<div class="verse indent1"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</SPAN></span>Injers all on ’em the same.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">’Tain’t by turnin’ out to hack folks</div>
<div class="verse indent1">You’re agoin’ to git your rights</div>
<div class="verse">Nor by lookin’ down on black folks</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Coz you’re put upon by wite;</div>
<div class="verse">Slavery ain’t o’ nary color,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">’Tain’t the hide thet makes it wus,</div>
<div class="verse">All it keers fer is a feller</div>
<div class="verse indent1">’S jest to make him fill his pus.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">Want to tackle <em>me</em> in, du ye?</div>
<div class="verse indent1">I expect you’ll hev to wait;</div>
<div class="verse">Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye</div>
<div class="verse indent1">You’ll begin to kal’late;</div>
<div class="verse">S’pose the crows wun’t fall to pickin’</div>
<div class="verse indent1">All the carkiss from your bones,</div>
<div class="verse">Coz you helped to give a lickin’</div>
<div class="verse indent1">To them poor half-Spanish drones?</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">Jest go home an’ ask our Nancy</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Wether I’d be sech a goose</div>
<div class="verse">Ez to jine ye—guess you’d fancy</div>
<div class="verse indent1">The etarnal bung wuz loose!</div>
<div class="verse">She wants me fer home consumption,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Let alone the hay’s to mow—</div>
<div class="verse">Ef you’re arter folks o’ gumption,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">You’ve a darned long row to hoe.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">Take them editors thet’s crowin’</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Like a cockerel three months old—</div>
<div class="verse">Don’t ketch any on ’em goin’,</div>
<div class="verse indent1"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</SPAN></span>Though they <em>be</em> so blasted bold;</div>
<div class="verse"><em>Ain’t</em> they a prime lot o’ fellers?</div>
<div class="verse indent1">’Fore they think on’t they will sprout</div>
<div class="verse">(Like a peach thet’s got the yellers),</div>
<div class="verse indent1">With the meanness bustin’ out.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">Wal, go ’long to help ’em stealin’</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Bigger pens to cram with slaves,</div>
<div class="verse">Help the men thet’s ollers dealin’</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Insults on your fathers’ graves;</div>
<div class="verse">Help the strong to grind the feeble,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Help the many agin the few,</div>
<div class="verse">Help the men that call your people</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Witewashed slaves an’ peddlin’ crew?</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">Massachusetts, God forgive her,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">She’s a-kneelin’ with the rest,</div>
<div class="verse">She, thet ough’ to ha’ clung ferever</div>
<div class="verse indent1">In her grand old eagle-nest;</div>
<div class="verse">She thet ough’ to stand so fearless</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Wile the wracks are round her hurled,</div>
<div class="verse">Holdin’ up a beacon peerless</div>
<div class="verse indent1">To the oppressed of all the world!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">Hain’t they sold your colored seamen?</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Hain’t they made your env’ys wiz?</div>
<div class="verse"><em>Wut’ll</em> make ye act like freemen?</div>
<div class="verse indent1"><em>Wut’ll</em> git your dander riz?</div>
<div class="verse">Come, I’ll tell ye wut I’m thinkin’</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Is our dooty in this fix,</div>
<div class="verse">They’d ha’ done ’t ez quick ez winkin’</div>
<div class="verse indent1"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</SPAN></span>In the days o’ seventy-six.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">Clang the bells in every steeple,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Call all true men to disown</div>
<div class="verse">The tradoocers of our people,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">The enslavers o’ their own;</div>
<div class="verse">Let our dear old Bay State proudly</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Put the trumpet to her mouth,</div>
<div class="verse">Let her ring this messidge loudly</div>
<div class="verse indent1">In the ears of all the South—</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">“I’ll return ye good fer evil</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Much ez we frail mortils can,</div>
<div class="verse">But I wun’t go help the Devil</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Makin’ man the cuss o’ man;</div>
<div class="verse">Call me coward, call me traiter,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Jest ez suits your mean idees—</div>
<div class="verse">Here I stand a tyrant-hater,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">An’ the friend o’ God an’ Peace!”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent1">Ef I’d <em>my</em> way I hed ruther</div>
<div class="verse indent1">We should go to work an’ part—</div>
<div class="verse">They take one way, we take t’other—</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Guess it wouldn’t break my heart;</div>
<div class="verse">Man hed ought to put asunder</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Them thet God has noways jined;</div>
<div class="verse">An’ I shouldn’t gretly wonder</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Ef there’s thousands o’ my mind.</div>
</div>
<p class="right">—<i>Bigelow Papers.</i></p>
</div>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="BALLAD" id="BALLAD"></SPAN>CHARLES GODFREY LELAND</h2>
<h3>BALLAD</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Der noble Ritter Hugo</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Von Schwillensaufenstein,</div>
<div class="verse">Rode out mit shpeer and helmet</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Und oop dere rose a meer maid,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Vot hadn’t got nodings on,</div>
<div class="verse">Und she say, “Oh, Ritter Hugo,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Vhere you goes mit yourself alone?”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Und he says, “I rides in de creenwood</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Mit helmet und mit shpeer,</div>
<div class="verse">Till I cooms into em Gasthuas,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Und dere I trinks some beer.”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Und den outshpoke de maiden</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Vot hadn’t got nodings on:</div>
<div class="verse">“I ton’t dink mooch of beoplesh</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Dat goes mit demselfs alone.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“You’d petter coom down in de wasser,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Vere dere’s heaps of dings to see,</div>
<div class="verse">Und have a shplendid tinner</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Und drafel along mit me.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“Dere you sees de fisch a-schwimmin,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Und you catches dem efery one”—</div>
<div class="verse">So sang dis wasser maiden</div>
<div class="verse indent1"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</SPAN></span>Vot hadn’t got nodings on.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“Dere ish drunks all full mit money</div>
<div class="verse indent1">In ships dat vent down of old;</div>
<div class="verse">Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder!</div>
<div class="verse indent1">To shimmerin crowns of gold.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“Shoost look at dese shpoons und vatches!</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Shoost see dese diamant rings!</div>
<div class="verse">Coom down und full your bockets,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Und I’ll giss you like averydings.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“Vot you vantsh mit your schnapps und lager?</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Coom down into der Rhine!</div>
<div class="verse">Der ish pottles der Kaiser Charlemagne</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Vonce filled mit gold-red wine!”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse"><em>Dat</em> fetched him—he shtood all shpellpound;</div>
<div class="verse indent1">She pooled his coat-tails down,</div>
<div class="verse">She drawed him oonder der wasser,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">De maiden mit nodings on.</div>
</div>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Charles G. Leland.</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>A neighbor whose place adjoined Bronson
Alcott’s had a vegetable garden in which he took
a great interest. Mr. Alcott had one also, and
both men were especially interested in their
potato patches. One morning, meeting by the
fence, the neighbor said, “How is it, Mr. Alcott,
you are never troubled with bugs, while my vines
are crowded with them?”</p>
<p>“My friend,” replied Mr. Alcott, “I rise very
early in the morning, gather all the bug<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</SPAN></span>s from
my vines and throw them into your yard.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="TUSHMAKER" id="TUSHMAKER"></SPAN>G. H. DERBY (“Phœnix,” “Squibob”)</h2>
<h3>TUSHMAKER’S TOOTHPULLER</h3>
<p>Doctor Tushmaker was never regularly bred
as a physician or surgeon, but he possessed
naturally a strong mechanical genius and a fine
appetite; and finding his teeth of great service
in gratifying the latter propensity, he concluded
that he could do more good in the world, and
create more real happiness therein, by putting
the teeth of its inhabitants in good order than
in any other way; so Tushmaker became a
dentist. He was the man who first invented
the method of placing small cog-wheels in the
back teeth for the more perfect mastication of
food, and he claimed to be the original discoverer
of that method of filling cavities with a kind of
putty which, becoming hard directly, causes
the tooth to ache so grievously that it has to be
pulled, thereby giving the dentist two successive
fees for the same job.</p>
<p>Tushmaker was one day seated in his office, in
the city of Boston, Massachusetts, when a stout
old fellow named Byles presented himself to
have a back tooth drawn. The dentist seated
his patient in the chair of torture, an<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</SPAN></span>d, opening
his mouth, discovered there an enormous
tooth, on the right-hand side, about as large, as
he afterward expressed it, “as a small Polyglot
Bible.”</p>
<p>“I shall have trouble with this tooth,” thought
Tushmaker, but he clapped on his heaviest
forceps and pulled. It didn’t come. Then he
tried the turn-screw, exerting his utmost
strength, but the tooth wouldn’t stir. “Go
away from here,” said Tushmaker to Byles,
“and return in a week, and I’ll draw that tooth
for you or know the reason why.” Byles
got up, clapped a handkerchief to his jaw,
and put forth. Then the dentist went to work,
and in three days he invented an instrument
which he was confident would pull anything.
It was a combination of the lever, pulley,
wheel and axle, inclined plane, wedge and screw.
The castings were made, and the machine put up
in the office, over an iron chair rendered perfectly
stationary by iron rods going down into the
foundations of the granite building. In a week
old Byles returned; he was clamped into the iron
chair, the forceps connected with the machine
attached firmly to the tooth, and Tushmaker,
stationing himself in the rear, took hold of a lever
four feet in length. He turned it slightly. Old
Byles gave a groan and lifted his right leg.
Another turn, another groan, and up went the
leg again.</p>
<p>“What do you raise your leg for?” asked
the Doctor.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“I can’t help it,” said the patient.</p>
<p>“Well,” rejoined Tushmaker, “that tooth is
bound to come out now.”</p>
<p>He turned the lever clear round with a sudden
jerk, and snapped old Byles’s head clean and
clear from his shoulders, leaving a space of four
inches between the severed parts!</p>
<p>They had a <i>post-mortem</i> examination—the
roots of the tooth were found extending down
the right side, through the right leg, and
turning up in two prongs under the sole of
the right foot!</p>
<p>“No wonder,” said Tushmaker, “he raised
his right leg.”</p>
<p>The jury thought so, too, but they found
the roots much decayed; and five surgeons
swearing that mortification would have ensued
in a few months, Tushmaker was cleared on a
verdict of “justifiable homicide.”</p>
<p>He was a little shy of that instrument for
some time afterward; but one day an old
lady, feeble and flaccid, came in to have a
tooth drawn, and thinking it would come out
very easy, Tushmaker concluded, just by way
of variety, to try the machine. He did so,
and at the first turn drew the old lady’s skeleton
completely and entirely from her body,
leaving her a mass of quivering jelly in her chair!
Tushmaker took her home in a pillow-case.</p>
<p>The woman lived seven years after that, and
they called her the “India-Rubber Woman.”
She had suffered terribly with the rh<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</SPAN></span>eumatism,
but after this occurrence never had a
pain in her bones. The dentist kept them in a
glass case. After this, the machine was sold
to the contractor of the Boston Custom-House,
and it was found that a child of three years
of age could, by a single turn of the screw,
raise a stone weighing twenty-three tons.
Smaller ones were made on the same principle
and sold to the keepers of hotels and restaurants.
They were used for boning turkeys.
There is no moral to this story whatever, and
it is possible that the circumstances may have
become slightly exaggerated. Of course, there
can be no doubt of the truth of the main
incidents.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>Bob Ingersoll relates an anecdote of a Hebrew
who went into a restaurant to get his dinner.
The devil of temptation whispered in his ear,
“Bacon.” He knew if there was anything that
made Jehovah real white mad, it was to see
anybody eating bacon; but he thought, “Maybe
He is too busy watching sparrows and counting
hairs to notice me,” and so he took a slice.
The weather was delightful when he went into
the restaurant, but when he came out the sky
was overcast, the lightning leaped from cloud
to cloud, the earth trembled, and it was dark.
He went back into the restaurant, trembling
with fear, and, leaning over the counter, said to
the clerk, “My God, did you ever hear <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</SPAN></span>such
a fuss about a little piece of bacon!”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="STANISLAUS" id="STANISLAUS"></SPAN>BRET HARTE</h2>
<h3>THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS</h3>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;</div>
<div class="verse">I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games;</div>
<div class="verse">And I’ll tell in simple language what I know about the row</div>
<div class="verse">That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan</div>
<div class="verse">For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man,</div>
<div class="verse">And, if a member don’t agree with his peculiar whim,</div>
<div class="verse">To lay for that same member for to “put a head” on him.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see</div>
<div class="verse">Than the first six months’ proceedings of that same society,</div>
<div class="verse">Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones</div>
<div class="verse">That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</SPAN></span>Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there,</div>
<div class="verse">From those same bones an animal that was extremely rare,</div>
<div class="verse">And Jones then asked the chair for a suspension of the rules,</div>
<div class="verse">Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault;</div>
<div class="verse">It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones’s family vault:</div>
<div class="verse">He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown,</div>
<div class="verse">And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent</div>
<div class="verse">To say another is an ass—at least, to all intent;</div>
<div class="verse">Nor should the individual who happens to be meant</div>
<div class="verse">Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Then Abner Dean of Angel’s raised a point of order—when</div>
<div class="verse">A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen,</div>
<div class="verse">And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</SPAN></span>And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage</div>
<div class="verse">In a warfare with the remnants of a palæozoic age;</div>
<div class="verse">And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin,</div>
<div class="verse">Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">And this is all I have to say of these improper games,</div>
<div class="verse">For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;</div>
<div class="verse">And I’ve told in simple language what I know about the row</div>
<div class="verse">That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>A beginner in newspaper work in a Southern
town, who occasionally sent “stuff” to one of the
New York dailies, picked up last summer what
seemed to him a “big story.” Hurrying to the
telegraph office he “queried” the telegraph
editor: “Column story on so and so. Shall I
send it?”</p>
<p>The reply was brief and prompt, but, to the
enthusiast, unsatisfactory. “Send six hundred
words,” was all it said.</p>
<p>“Can’t be told in less than twelve hundred,”
he wired back.</p>
<p>Before long the reply came: “Story of<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</SPAN></span>
creation of world told in six hundred. Try it.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="VASE" id="VASE"></SPAN>THE V-A-S-E</h2>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">From the madding crowd they stand apart,</div>
<div class="verse">The maidens four and the Work of Art;</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">And none might tell from sight alone</div>
<div class="verse">In which had Culture ripest grown—</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">The Gotham Million fair to see,</div>
<div class="verse">The Philadelphia Pedigree,</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">The Boston Mind of azure hue,</div>
<div class="verse">Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo—</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">For all loved Art in a seemly way,</div>
<div class="verse">With an earnest soul and a capital A.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse"><hr class="tb" /></div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Long they worshiped; but no one broke</div>
<div class="verse">The sacred stillness, until up spoke</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">The Western one from the nameless place,</div>
<div class="verse">Who, blushing, said, “What a lovely vase!”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Over three faces a sad smile flew,</div>
<div class="verse">And they edged away from Kalamazoo.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">But Gotham’s haughty soul was stirred</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</SPAN></span>To crush the stranger with one small word.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Deftly hiding reproof in praise,</div>
<div class="verse">She cries, “’Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">But brief her unworthy triumph when</div>
<div class="verse">The lofty one from the house of Penn,</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">With the consciousness of two grandpapas,</div>
<div class="verse">Exclaims, “It is quite a lovely vahs!”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">And glances round with an anxious thrill,</div>
<div class="verse">Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee</div>
<div class="verse">And gently murmurs, “Oh, pardon me!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“I did not catch your remark, because</div>
<div class="verse">I was so entranced with that charming vaws!”</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent blockquote">
<i>Dies erit prægelida<br/>
Sinistra quum Bostonia.</i></p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">James Jeffrey Roche.</span></p>
<p class="smaller noindent">By permission of <i>Life</i> Publishing Company</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>A Negro preacher addressed his flock with
great earnestness on the subject of “Miracles”
as follows: “My beloved friends, de greatest
of all miracles was ’bout the loaves and fishes.
Dey was five thousand loaves and two thousand
fishes, and de twelve ’postles h<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</SPAN></span>ad to eat ’em all.
De miracle is, dey didn’t bust.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="POMONA" id="POMONA"></SPAN>FRANK R. STOCKTON</h2>
<h3>POMONA’S NOVEL</h3>
<p>It was in the latter part of August of that year
that it became necessary for some one in the
office in which I was engaged to go to St. Louis
to attend to important business. Everything
seemed to point to me as the fit person, for I
understood the particular business better than
any one else. I felt that I ought to go, but I did
not altogether like to do it. I went home, and
Euphemia and I talked over the matter far into
the regulation sleeping hours.</p>
<p>There were very good reasons why we should
go (for of course I would not think of taking such
a journey without Euphemia). In the first place,
it would be of advantage to me, in my business
connection, to take the trip, and then it would be
such a charming journey for us. We had never
been west of the Alleghanies, and nearly all the
country we would see would be new to us. We
would come home by the Great Lakes and
Niagara, and the prospect was delightful to
both of us. But then we would have to
leave Rudder Grange for at least three weeks,
and how could we do that?</p>
<p>This was indeed a difficult question to answer.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</SPAN></span>
Who could take care of our garden, our poultry,
our horse, and cow, and all their complicated
belongings? The garden was in admirable condition.
Our vegetables were coming in every
day in just that fresh and satisfactory condition—altogether
unknown to people who buy vegetables—for
which I had labored so faithfully,
and about which I had had so many cheerful
anticipations. As to Euphemia’s chicken-yard—with
Euphemia away—the subject was too
great for us. We did not even discuss it. But
we would give up all the pleasures of our home
for the chance of this most desirable excursion, if
we could but think of some one who would come
and take care of the place while we were gone.
Rudder Grange could not run itself for three
weeks.</p>
<p>We thought of every available person. Old
John would not do. We did not feel that we
could trust him. We thought of several of
our friends; but there was, in both our minds, a
certain shrinking from the idea of handing over
the place to any of them for such a length of time.
For my part, I said, I would rather leave Pomona
in charge than any one else; but then Pomona
was young and a girl. Euphemia agreed with
me that she would rather trust her than any one
else, but she also agreed in regard to the
disqualifications. So when I went to the
office the next morning we had fully determined
to go on the trip, if we could find
some one to take charge of our place while we<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</SPAN></span>
were gone. When I returned from the office in
the afternoon I had agreed to go to St. Louis.
By this time I had no choice in the matter
unless I wished to interfere very much with my
own interests. We were to start in two days.
If in that time we could get any one to stay at the
place, very well; if not, Pomona must assume the
charge. We were not able to get any one, and
Pomona did assume the charge. It is surprising
how greatly relieved we felt when we were obliged
to come to this conclusion. The arrangement
was exactly what we wanted, and now that there
was no help for it our consciences were easy.</p>
<p>We felt sure that there would be no danger to
Pomona. Lord Edward would be with her, and
she was a young person who was extraordinary
well able to take care of herself. Old John would
be within call in case she needed him, and I
borrowed a bulldog to be kept in the house at
night. Pomona herself was more than satisfied
with the plan.</p>
<p>We made out, the night before we left, a long
and minute series of directions for her guidance
in household, garden and farm matters, and
directed her to keep a careful record of everything
noteworthy that might occur. She was
fully supplied with all the necessaries of life, and
it has seldom happened that a young girl has been
left in such a responsible and independent
position as that in which we left Pomona. She
was very proud of it. Our journey was ten times
more delightful than we had expected it would<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</SPAN></span>
be, and successful in every way; and yet, although
we enjoyed every hour of the trip, we were no
sooner fairly on our way home than we became
so wildly anxious to get there that we reached
Rudder Grange on Wednesday, whereas we had
written that we would be home on Thursday.
We arrived early in the afternoon and walked
up from the station, leaving our baggage to be
sent in the express wagon. As we approached
our dear home we wanted to run, we were so
eager to see it.</p>
<p>There it was, the same as ever. I lifted the
gate-latch; the gate was locked. We ran to the
carriage gate; that was locked, too. Just then I
noticed a placard on the fence; it was not printed,
but the lettering was large, apparently made
with ink and a brush. It read—</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p class="center noindent"><span class="smcap">To Be Sold<br/>
For Taxes.</span></p>
</div>
<p>We stood and looked at each other. Euphemia
turned pale.</p>
<p>“What does this mean?” said I. “Has our
landlord——?”</p>
<p>I could say no more. The dreadful thought
arose that the place might pass away from us.
We were not yet ready to buy it. But I did not
put the thought in words. There was a field
next to our lot, and I got over the fence and
helped Euphemia over. Then we climbed our
side fence. This was more difficult, but we
accomplished it without thinking much about its
difficulties; our hearts were too full of pain<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</SPAN></span>ful
apprehensions. I hurried to the front door; it
was locked. All the lower windows were shut.
We went around to the kitchen. What surprised
us more than anything else was the absence of
Lord Edward. Had <em>he</em> been sold?</p>
<p>Before we reached the back part of the house
Euphemia said she felt faint and must sit down.
I led her to a tree nearby, under which I had
made a rustic chair. The chair was gone. She
sat on the grass, and I ran to the pump for some
water. I looked for the bright tin dipper which
always hung by the pump. It was not there.
But I had a traveling cup in my pocket, and as I
was taking it out I looked around me. There
was an air of bareness over everything. I did
not know what it all meant, but I know that my
hand trembled as I took hold of the pump-handle
and began to pump.</p>
<p>At the first sound of the pump-handle I heard
a deep bark in the direction of the barn, and then
furiously around the corner came Lord Edward.</p>
<p>Before I had filled the cup he was bounding
about me. I believe the glad welcome of the
dog did more to revive Euphemia than the water.
He was delighted to see us, and in a moment up
came Pomona, running from the barn. Her face
was radiant, too. We felt relieved. Here were
two friends who looked as if they were neither
sold nor ruined.</p>
<p>Pomona quickly saw that we were ill at ease,
and before I could put a question to her she
divined the cause. Her countenance fell.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“You know,” said she, “you said you wasn’t
coming till to-morrow. If you only <em>had</em> come
then—I was going to have everything just
exactly right—an’ now you had to climb in——”</p>
<p>And the poor girl looked as if she might cry,
which would have been a wonderful thing for
Pomona to do.</p>
<p>“Tell me one thing,” said I. “What about—those
taxes?”</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s all right,” she cried. “Don’t
think another minute about that. I’ll tell you
all about it soon. But come in first, and I’ll get
you some lunch in a minute.”</p>
<p>We were somewhat relieved by Pomona’s
statement that it was “all right” in regard to the
tax-poster, but we were very anxious to know
all about the matter. Pomona, however, gave
us little chance to ask her any questions.</p>
<p>As soon as she had made ready our lunch she
asked us as a particular favor to give her three-quarters
of an hour to herself, and then, said she,
“I’ll have everything looking just as if it was
to-morrow.”</p>
<p>We respected her feelings, for, of course, it was
a great disappointment to her to be taken thus
unawares, and we remained in the dining-room
until she appeared and announced that she was
ready for us to go about. We availed ourselves
quickly of the privilege, and Euphemia hurried
to the chicken-yard, while I bent my steps
toward the garden and barn. As I went out I
noticed that the rustic chair was in its pla<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</SPAN></span>ce, and
passing the pump I looked for the dipper. It
was there. I asked Pomona about the chair, but
she did not answer as quickly as was her habit.</p>
<p>“Would you rather,” said she, “hear it
altogether, when you come in, or have it in little
bits, head and tail, all of a jumble?”</p>
<p>I called to Euphemia and asked her what she
thought, and she was so anxious to get to her
chickens that she said she would much rather wait
and hear it all together. We found everything
in perfect order—the garden was even free from
weeds, a thing I had not expected. If it had not
been for that cloud on the front fence, I should
have been happy enough. Pomona had said it
was all right, but she could not have paid the
taxes—however, I would wait; and I went to the
barn.</p>
<p>When Euphemia came in from the poultry-yard,
she called me and said she was in a hurry
to hear Pomona’s account of things. So I went
in, and we sat on the side porch, where it was
shady, while Pomona, producing some sheets
of foolscap paper, took her seat on the upper step.</p>
<p>“I wrote down the things of any account what
happened,” said she, “as you told me to, and
while I was about it I thought I’d make it like a
novel. It would be jus’ as true, and p’r’aps more
amusin’. I suppose you don’t mind?”</p>
<p>No, we didn’t mind. So she went on.</p>
<p>“I haven’t got no name for my novel. I
intended to think one out to-night. I wrote this
all of nights. And I don’t read the first chap<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</SPAN></span>ters,
for they tell about my birth and my parentage,
and my early adventures. I’ll just come down
to what happened to me while you was away,
because you’ll be more anxious to hear about
that. All that’s written here is true, jus’ the
same as if I told it to you, but I’ve put it into
novel language because it comes easier to me.”</p>
<p>And then, in a voice somewhat different from
her ordinary tones, as if the “novel language”
demanded it, she began to read:</p>
<p>“’Chapter Five. The Lonely House and the
Faithful Friend. Thus was I left alone. None
but two dogs to keep me com-pa-ny. I milk-ed
the lowing kine and water-ed and fed the steed,
and then, after my fru-gal repast, I clos-ed the
man-si-on, shutting out all re-collections of the
past and also foresights into the future. That
night was a me-mor-able one. I slept soundly
until the break of morn, but had the events transpired
which afterward occur-red, what would
have hap-pen-ed to me no tongue can tell. Early
the next day nothing happen-ed. Soon after
breakfast the vener-able John came to bor-row
some ker-o-sene oil and a half a pound of sugar,
but his attempt was foil-ed. I knew too well the
in-sid-i-ous foe. In the very out-set of his
vil-la-in-y I sent him home with a empty can.
For two long days I wan-der-ed amid the ver-dant
pathways of the garden and to the barn, when-ever
and anon my du-ty call-ed me, nor did I ere
neg-lect the fowlery. No cloud o’erspread this
happy peri-od of my life. But the cloud was<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</SPAN></span>
ri-sing in the horizon, although I saw it not.</p>
<p>“‘It was about twenty-five minutes after
eleven, on the morning of a Thursday, that
I sat pondering in my mind the ques-ti-on
what to do with the butter and the veg-et-ables.
Here was butter, and here was green corn
and lima beans and trophy tomats, far
more than I ere could use. And here was
a horse, idly cropping the fol-i-age in the
field, for as my employer had advis-ed and
order-ed, I had put the steed to grass. And here
was a wagon, none too new, which had it the
top taken off, or even the curtains roll-ed up,
would do for a li-cen-sed vender. With the truck
and butter, and mayhap some milk, I could load
the wagon——’”</p>
<p>“Oh, Pomona,” interrupted Euphemia, “you
don’t mean to say that you were thinking of
doing anything like that?”</p>
<p>“Well, I was just beginning to think of it,”
said Pomona. “But I couldn’t have gone away
and left the house. And you’ll see I didn’t do
it.” And then she continued her novel. “‘But
while my thoughts were thus employ-ed, I heard
Lord Edward burst into bark-ter——’”</p>
<p>At this Euphemia and I could not help bursting
into laughter. Pomona did not seem at all
confused, but went on with her reading.</p>
<p>“‘I hurried to the door, and, look-ing out, I
saw a wagon at the gate. Re-pair-ing there,
I saw a man. Said he “Wilt open the gate?” I
had fasten-ed up the gates and remo<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</SPAN></span>v-ed every
stealable ar-ticle from the yard.’”</p>
<p>Euphemia and I looked at each other. This
explained the absence of the rustic seat and the
dipper.</p>
<p>“‘Thus, with my mind at ease, I could let my
faith-ful fri-end, the dog, for he it was, roam with
me through the grounds, while the fi-erce bulldog
guard-ed the man-si-on within. Then said I,
quite bold unto him, “No. I let in no man here.
My em-ploy-er and employ-er-ess are now from
home. What do you want?” Then says he, as
bold as brass, “I’ve come to put the light-en-ing
rods upon the house. Open the gate.” “What
rods?” says I. “The rods as was order-ed,” says
he. “Open the gate.” I stood and gazed at him.
Full well I saw through his pinch-beck mask.
I knew his tricks. In the ab-sence of my employer,
he would put up rods and ever so many
more than was wanted, and likely, too, some
miserable trash that would attract the light-en-ing,
instead of keep-ing it off. Then, as it would
spoil the house to take them down, they would
be kept, and pay demand-ed. “No, sir,” says I.
“No light-en-ing rods upon this house whilst I
stand here,” and with that I walk-ed away, and
let Lord Edward loose. The man he storm-ed
with pas-si-on. His eyes flash-ed fire. He
would e’en have scal-ed the gate, but when he
saw the dog he did forbear. As it was then near
noon, I strode away to feed the fowls; but when
I did return I saw a sight which froze the blood
with-in my veins——’”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“The dog didn’t kill him?” cried Euphemia.</p>
<p>“Oh, no, ma’am!” said Pomona. “You’ll see
that that wasn’t it. ‘At one cor-ner of the lot,
in front, a base boy, who had accompa-ni-ed this
man, was banging on the fence with a long stick,
and thus attrack-ing to hisself the rage of Lord
Edward, while the vile intrig-er of a light-en-ing
rodder had brought a lad-der to the other side of
the house, up which he had now as-cend-ed, and
was on the roof. What horrors fill-ed my soul!
How my form trembl-ed!’ This,” continued
Pomona, “is the end of the novel,” and she laid
her foolscap pages on the porch.</p>
<p>Euphemia and I exclaimed, with one voice,
against this. We had just reached the most
exciting part, and I added we had heard nothing
yet about that affair of the taxes.</p>
<p>“You see, sir,” said Pomona, “it took me so
long to write out the chapters about my birth,
my parentage, and my early adventures, that I
hadn’t time to finish up the rest. But I can tell
you what happened after that jus’ as well as if I
had writ it out.” And so she went on, much
more glibly than before, with the account of the
doings of the lightning-rod man.</p>
<p>“There was that wretch on top of the house,
a-fixin’ his old rods and hammerin’ away for dear
life. He’d brought his ladder over the side
fence, where the dog, a-barkin’ and plungin’
at the boy outside, couldn’t see him. I stood
dumb for a minute, and then I know’d I had him.
I rushed into the house, got a piece of well-rop<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</SPAN></span>e,
tied it to the bulldog’s collar, an’ dragged him
out and fastened him to the bottom rung of the
ladder. Then I walks over to the front fence
with Lord Edward’s chain, for I knew that if he
got at that bulldog there’d be times, for they’d
never been allowed to see each other yet. So
says I to the boy, ‘I’m goin’ to tie up the dog, so
you needn’t be afraid of his jumpin’ over the
fence’—which he couldn’t do, or the boy would
have been a corpse for twenty minutes, or maybe
half an hour. The boy kinder laughed, and said
I needn’t mind, which I didn’t. Then I went to
the gate, and I clicked to the horse which was
standin’ there, an’ off he starts, as good as gold,
an’ trots down the road. The boy, he said somethin’
or other pretty bad an’ away he goes after
him; but the horse was a-trottin’ real fast, an’
had a good start.”</p>
<p>“How on earth could you ever think of doing
such things?” said Euphemia. “That horse
might have upset the wagon and broken all the
lightning-rods, besides running over I don’t
know how many people.”</p>
<p>“But you see, ma’am, that wasn’t my lookout,”
said Pomona. “I was a-defendin’ the house,
and the enemy must expect to have things happen
to him. So then I hears an awful row on the
roof, and there was the man just coming down
the ladder. He’d heard the horse go off, and
when he got about half-way down an’ caught a
sight of the bulldog, he was madder than ever
you seed a lightnin-rodder in all your born da<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</SPAN></span>ys.
‘Take that dog off of there!’ he yelled at me.
‘No, I won’t,’ says I. ‘I never see a girl like you
since I was born,’ he screams at me. ‘I guess it
would ’a’ been better fur you if you had,’ says I;
an’ then he was so mad he couldn’t stand it any
longer, and he comes down as low as he could,
and when he saw just how long the rope was—which
was pretty short—he made a jump and
landed clear of the dog. Then he went on
dreadful because he couldn’t get at his ladder to
take it away; and I wouldn’t untie the dog,
because if I had he’d ’a’ torn the tendons out of
that fellow’s legs in no time. I never see a dog
in such a boiling passion, and yet never making
no sound at all but bloodcurdlin’ grunts. An’
I don’t see how the rodder would ’a’ got his ladder
at all if the dog hadn’t made an awful jump at
him, and jerked the ladder down. It just missed
your geranium-bed, and the rodder, he ran to
the other end of it, and began pulling it away,
dog and all. ‘Look a-here,’ says I, ‘we can fix
him now;’ and so he cooled down enough to help
me, and I unlocked the front door, and we pushed
the bottom end of the ladder in, dog and all; an’
then I shut the door as tight as it would go an’
untied the end of the rope, an’ the rodder pulled
the ladder out while I held the door to keep the
dog from follerin’, which he came pretty near
doin’, anyway. But I locked him in, and then
the man began stormin’ again about his wagon;
but when he looked out an’ see the boy comin’
back with it—for somebody must ’a’ stopped t<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</SPAN></span>he
horse—he stopped stormin’ and went to put up
his ladder ag’in. ‘No, you don’t,’ says I; ‘I’ll let
the big dog loose next time, and if I put him at
the foot of your ladder you’ll never come down.’
‘But I want to go and take down what I put up,’
he says; ‘I ain’t a-goin’ on with this job.’ ‘No,’
says I, ‘you ain’t; and you can’t go up there to
wrench off them rods and make rain-holes in the
roof, neither.’ He couldn’t get no madder than
he was then, an’ fur a minute or two he couldn’t
speak, an’ then he says, ‘I’ll have satisfaction for
this.’ An’ says I, ‘How?’ An’ says he, ‘You’ll
see what it is to interfere with a ordered job.’
An’ says I, ‘There wasn’t no order about it;’ an’
says he, ‘I’ll show you better than that;’ an’ he
goes to his wagon an’ gits a book, ‘There,’ says
he, ‘read that.’ ‘What of it?’ says I; ‘there’s
nobody of the name of Ball lives here.’ That
took the man kinder back, and he said he was
told it was the only house on the lane, which I
said was right, only it was the next lane he
oughter ’a’ gone to. He said no more after that,
but just put his ladder in his wagon and went off.
But I was not altogether rid of him. He left a
trail of his baleful presence behind him.</p>
<p>“That horrid bulldog wouldn’t let me come
into the house! No matter what door I tried,
there he was, just foamin’ mad. I let him stay
till nearly night, and then went and spoke kind
to him; but it was no good. He’d got an awful
spite ag’in me. I found something to eat down
cellar, and I made a fire outside an’ roaste<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</SPAN></span>d some
corn and potatoes. That night I slep’ in the
barn. I wasn’t afraid to be away from the house
for I knew it was safe enough, with that dog in it,
and Lord Edward outside. For three days,
Sunday an all, I was kep’ out of this here house.
I got along pretty well with the sleepin’ and the
eatin’, but the drinkin’ was the worst. I couldn’
get no coffee or tea; but there was plenty
of milk.”</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you get some man to come and
attend to the dog?” I asked. “It was dreadful
to live in that way.”</p>
<p>“Well, I didn’t know no man that could do it,”
said Pomona. “The dog would ’a’ been too
much for old John, and besides, he was mad
about the kerosene. Sunday afternoon, Captain
Atkinson and Mrs. Atkinson and their little girl
in a push-wagon come here, and I told ’em you
was gone away; but they says they would stop a
minute, and could I give them a drink; an’ I had
nothin’ to give it them but an old chicken-bowl
that I had washed out, for even the dipper was
in the house, an’ I told ’em everything was
locked up, which was true enough, though they
must ’a’ thought you was a queer kind of people;
but I wasn’t a-goin’ to say nothin’ about the dog,
fur, to tell the truth, I was ashamed to do it. So
as soon as they’d gone, I went down into the
cellar—and it’s lucky that I had the key for the
outside cellar door—and I got a piece of fat corn-beef
and the meat ax. I unlocked the kitchen
door and went in, with the ax in one hand and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</SPAN></span>
the meat in the other. The dog might take his
choice. I know’d he must be pretty nigh
famished, for there was nothin’ that he could get
at to eat. As soon as I went in, he came runnin’
to me; but I could see he was shaky on his legs.
He looked a sort of wicked at me, and then he
grabbed the meat. He was all right then.”</p>
<p>“Oh, my!” said Euphemia, “I am so glad to
hear that. I was afraid you never got in. But
we saw the dog—is he as savage yet?”</p>
<p>“Oh, no!” said Pomona; “nothin’ like it.”</p>
<p>“Look here, Pomona,” said I, “I want to
know about those taxes. When do they come
into your story?”</p>
<p>“Pretty soon, sir,” said she, and she went on:</p>
<p>“After that, I know’d it wouldn’t do to have
them two dogs so that they’d have to be tied up
if they see each other. Just as like as not I’d
want them both at once, and then they’d go to
fighting, and leave me to settle with some bloodthirsty
lightnin’-rodder. So, as I know’d if
they once had a fair fight and found out which
was master, they’d be good friends afterward,
I thought the best thing to do would be to let ’em
fight it out, when there was nothin’ else for ’em
to do. So I fixed up things for the combat.”</p>
<p>“Why, Pomona!” cried Euphemia, “I didn’t
think you were capable of such a cruel thing.”</p>
<p>“It looks that way, ma’am, but really it
ain’t,” replied the girl. “It seemed to me as if
it would be a mercy to both of ’em to have the
thing settled. So I cleared away a place i<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</SPAN></span>n front
of the woodshed and unchained Lord Edward,
and then I opened the kitchen door and called
the bull. Out he came, with his teeth a-showin’,
and his bloodshot eyes, and his crooked front
legs. Like lightnin’ from the mount’in blast, he
made one bounce for the big dog, and oh! what
a fight there was! They rolled, they gnashed,
they knocked over the wood-horse and sent
chips a-flyin’ all ways at onst. I thought Lord
Edward would whip in a minute or two; but he
didn’t, for the bull stuck to him like a burr, and
they was havin’ it, ground and lofty, when I hears
some one run up behind me, an’ turnin’ quick,
there was the ’piscopalian minister. ‘My! my!
my!’ he hollers, ‘what an awful spectacle!
Ain’t there no way of stoppin’ it?’ ‘No, sir,’
says I, and I told him how I didn’t want to stop
it and the reason why. ‘Then,’ says he, ‘where’s
your master?’ and I told him how you was away.
‘Isn’t there any man at all about?’ says he.
‘No,’ says I. ‘Then,’ says he, ‘if there’s nobody
else to stop it, I must do it myself.’
An’ he took off his coat. ‘No,’ says I, ‘you
keep back, sir. If there’s anybody to plunge
into that erena, the blood be mine;’ an’ I
put my hand, without thinkin’, ag’in his black
shirt-bosom, to hold him back; but he didn’t
notice, bein’ so excited. ‘Now,’ says I, jist
wait one minute, and you’ll see that bull’s
tail go between his legs. He’s weakenin’.’ An’
sure enough, Lord Edward got a good grab at
him, and was a-shakin’ the very life out <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</SPAN></span>of him,
when I run up and took Lord Edward by the
collar. ‘Drop it!’ says I; an’ he dropped it, for
he know’d he’d whipped, and he was pretty tired
hisself. Then the bulldog, he trotted off with
his tail a-hangin’ down. ‘Now, then,’ says I,
‘them dogs will be bosom friends forever after
this.’ ‘Ah, me!’ says he, ‘I’m sorry indeed that
your employer, for whom I’ve always had a great
respect, should allow you to get into such bad
habits.’</p>
<p>“That made me feel real bad, and I told him,
mighty quick, that you was the last man in the
world to let me do anything like that, and that if
you’d a-been here you’d a-separated them dogs
if they’d a-chawed your arms off; that you was
very particular about such things, and that it
would be a pity if he was to think you was a dog-fightin’
gentleman, when I’d often heard you say
that, now you was fixed and settled, the one
thing you would like most would be to be made a
vestry-man.”</p>
<p>I sat up straight in my chair.</p>
<p>“Pomona!” I exclaimed. “You didn’t tell
him that?”</p>
<p>“That’s what I said, sir, for I wanted him to
know what you really was; an’ he says, ‘Well,
well, I never knew that. It might be a very
good thing. I’ll speak to some of the members
about it. There’s two vacancies now in our
vestry.’”</p>
<p>I was crushed; but Euphemia tried to put the
matter into the brightest light.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“Perhaps it may all turn out for the best,” she
said, “and you may be elected, and that would
be splendid. But it would be an awfully funny
thing for a dog-fight to make you a vestry-man.”</p>
<p>I could not talk on this subject. “Go on,
Pomona,” I said, trying to feel resigned to my
shame, “and tell us about that poster on the
fence.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be to that almost right away,” she said.</p>
<p>“It was two or three days after the dog-fight
that I was down at the barn, and happenin’ to
look over to old John’s, I saw that tree-man
there. He was a-showin’ his book to John, and
him and his wife and all the young ones was
a-standin’ there, drinkin’ down them big peaches
and pears as if they was all real. I know’d he’d
come here ag’in, for them fellers never gives you
up; and I didn’t know how to keep him away,
for I didn’t want to let the dogs loose on a man
what, after all, didn’t want to do no more harm
than to talk the life out of you. So I just
happened to notice, as I came to the house, how
kind of desolate everything looked, and I thought
perhaps I might make it look worse, and he
wouldn’t care to deal here. So I thought of
putting up a poster like that, for nobody whose
place was a-goin’ to be sold for taxes would be
likely to want trees. So I run in the house, and
wrote it quick and put it up. And sure enough,
the man he come along soon, and when he looked
at that paper an’ tried the gate, an’ looked over
the fence an’ saw the house all shut up an’ not<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</SPAN></span>
a livin’ soul about—for I had both the dogs in
the house with me—he shook his head an’
walked off, as much as to say, ‘If that man
had fixed his place up proper with my trees
he wouldn’t a-come to this!’ An’ then, as
I found the poster worked so good, I thought
it might keep other people from comin’
a-botherin’ around, and so I left it up; but I
was a-goin’ to be sure and take it down before
you came.”</p>
<p>As it was now pretty late in the afternoon, I
proposed that Pomona should postpone the rest
of her narrative until evening. She said that there
was nothing else to tell that was very particular;
and I did not feel as if I could stand anything
more just now, even if it was very particular.</p>
<p>When we were alone, I said to Euphemia:</p>
<p>“If we ever have to go away from this place
again——”</p>
<p>“But we won’t go away,” she interrupted,
looking up to me with as bright a face as she ever
had; “at least, not for a long, long, long time
to come.</p>
<p>“And I’m so glad you’re to be a vestry-man.”</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p class="smaller">By permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons</p>
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>“What was it the aeronaut said when he fell
out of his balloon and struck the earth with his
usual dull thud?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“He remarked that it was a hard world.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="IRONCLAD" id="IRONCLAD"></SPAN>JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE</h2>
<h3>FRED TROVER’S LITTLE IRON-CLAD</h3>
<p>Did I never tell you the story? Is it possible?
Draw up your chair. Stick of wood,
Harry. Smoke?</p>
<p>You’ve heard of my Uncle Popworth, though.
Why, yes! You’ve seen him—the eminently
respectable elderly gentleman who came one
day last summer just as you were going; book
under his arm, you remember; weed on his hat;
dry smile on bland countenance; tall, lank
individual in very seedy black. With him my
tale begins; for if I had never indulged in an
Uncle Popworth I should never have sported
an Iron-clad.</p>
<p>Quite right, sir; his arrival <em>was</em> a surprise to
me. To know how great a surprise, you must
understand why I left city, friends, business,
and settled down in this quiet village. It was
chiefly, sir, to escape the fascinations of that
worthy old gentleman that I bought this place,
and took refuge here with my wife and
little ones. Here we had respite, nepenthe
from our memories of Uncle Popworth; here
we used to sit down in the evening and talk of
the past with grateful and tranquil emotions,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</SPAN></span>
as people speak of awful things endured in days
that are no more. To us the height of human
happiness was raising green corn and strawberries
in a retired neighborhood where uncles were
unknown. But, sir, when that Phantom, that
Vampire, that Fate, loomed before my vision
that day, if you had said, “Trover, I’ll give ye
sixpence for this neat little box of yours,” I
should have said, “Done!” with the trifling
proviso that you should take my uncle in the
bargain.</p>
<p>The matter with him? What, indeed, could
invest human flesh with such terrors—what but
this? he was—he is—let me shriek it in your
ear—a bore—a BORE! of the most malignant
type; an intolerable, terrible, unmitigated
BORE!</p>
<p>That book under his arm was a volume of
his own sermons—nine hundred and ninety-nine
octavo pages, O Heaven! It wasn’t enough
for him to preach and repreach those appalling
discourses, but then the ruthless man must go
and print ’em! When I consider what book-sellers—worthy
men, no doubt, many of them,
deserving well of their kind—he must have
talked nearly into a state of syncope before ever
he found one to give way, in a moment of weakness,
of utter exhaustion and despair, and consent
to publish him; and when I reflect what numbers
of inoffensive persons, in the quiet walks of
life, have been made to suffer the infliction of
that Bore’s Own Book, I pause, I stand agha<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</SPAN></span>st
at the inscrutability of Divine Providence.</p>
<p>Don’t think me profane, and don’t for a
moment imagine I underrate the function of
the preacher. There’s nothing better than a
good sermon—one that puts new life into you.
But what of a sermon that takes life out of you,
instead of a spiritual fountain, a spiritual
sponge that absorbs your powers of body and
soul, so that the longer you listen the more you
are impoverished? A merely poor sermon isn’t
so bad; you will find, if you are the right
kind of a hearer, that it will suggest something
better than itself; a good hen will lay to a bit of
earthen. But the discourse of your ministerial
vampire, fastening by some mystical process
upon the hearer who has life of his own—though
not every one has that—sucks and sucks and
sucks; and he is exhausted while the preacher
is refreshed. So it happens that your born
bore is never weary of his own boring; he thrives
upon it; while he seems to be giving, he is mysteriously
taking in—he is drinking your blood.</p>
<p>But you say nobody is obliged to <em>read</em> a
sermon. O my unsophisticated friend! if a
man will put his thoughts—or his words, if
thoughts are lacking—between covers—spread
his banquet, and respectfully invite Public Taste
to partake of it, Public Taste being free to
decline, then your observation is sound. If an
author quietly buries himself in his book—very
good! <i>hic jacet</i>: peace to his ashes!</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse indent13">“The times have been,</div>
<div class="verse">That, when the brains were out, the man would die,</div>
<div class="verse">And there an end; but now they rise again,”</div>
</div></div>
<p>as Macbeth observes, with some confusion of
syntax, excusable in a person of his circumstances.
Now, suppose they—or he—the man
whose brains are out—goes about with his
coffin under his arm, like my worthy uncle? and
suppose he blandly, politely, relentlessly insists
upon reading to you, out of that octavo sarcophagus,
passages which in his opinion prove
that he is not only not dead, but immortal?
If such a man be a stranger, snub him; if a
casual acquaintance, met in an evil hour, there
is still hope—doors have locks, and there are
two sides to a street, and nearsightedness is a
blessing, and (as a last resort) buttons may be
sacrificed (you remember Lamb’s story of
Coleridge) and left in the clutch of the fatal
fingers. But one of your own kindred, and very
respectable, adding the claim of misfortune to
his other claims upon you—pachydermatous to
slights, smilingly persuasive, gently persistent—as
imperturbable as a ship’s wooden figurehead
through all the ups and downs of the
voyage of life, and as insensible to cold water—in
short, an uncle like my uncle, whom there
was no getting rid of—what the deuce would
you do?</p>
<p>Exactly; run away as I did. There was
nothing else to be done, unless, indeed, I had
throttled the old gentleman; in which case I
am confident that one of our modern model
juries would have brought in the popular verdic<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</SPAN></span>t
of justifiable insanity. But, being a peaceable
man, I was averse to extreme measures. So I
did the next best thing—consulted my wife,
and retired to this village.</p>
<p>Then consider the shock to my feelings when
I looked up that day and saw the enemy of our
peace stalking into our little Paradise with his
book under his arm and his carpet-bag in his
hand!—coming with his sermons and his shirts,
prepared to stay a week—that is to say a year—that
is to say forever, if we would suffer him—and
how was he to be hindered by any desperate
measures short of burning the house
down?</p>
<p>“My dear nephew!” says he, striding toward
me with eager steps, as you perhaps remember,
smiling his eternally dry, leathery smile—“Nephew
Frederick!”—and he held out both
hands to me, book in one and bag in t’other—“I
am rejoiced! One would almost think you
had tried to hide away from your old uncle,
for I’ve been three days hunting you up. And
how is Dolly? She ought to be glad to see me,
after all the trouble I’ve had in finding you!
And, Nephew Frederick—h’m!—can you lend
me three dollars for the hackman? For I don’t
happen to have——Thank you! I should have
been saved this if you had only known I was
stopping last night at a public house in the
next village, for I know how delighted you
would have been to drive over and fetch me!”</p>
<p>If you were not already out of hearing, you<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</SPAN></span>
may have noticed that I made no reply to this
affecting speech. The old gentleman has grown
quite deaf of late years—an infirmity which
was once a source of untold misery to his friends,
to whom he was constantly appealing for their
opinions, which they were obliged to shout in
his ear. But now, happily, the world has about
ceased responding to him, and he has almost
ceased to expect responses from the world.
He just catches your eye, and when he says,
“Don’t you think so, sir?” or “What is your
opinion, sir?” an approving nod does your
business.</p>
<p>The hackman paid, my dear uncle accompanied
me to the house, unfolding the catalogue
of his woes by the way. For he is one of those
worthy, unoffending persons whom an ungrateful
world jostles and tramples upon—whom
unmerciful disaster follows fast and follows
faster. In his younger days he was settled over
I don’t know how many different parishes; but
secret enmity pursued him everywhere, poisoning
the parochial mind against him, and driving
him relentlessly from place to place. Then he
relapsed into agencies, and went through a long
list of them, each terminating in flat failure, to
his ever-recurring surprise—the simple old soul
never suspecting, to this day, who his one great
tireless, terrible enemy is!</p>
<p>I got him into the library, and went to talk
over this unexpected visit—or visitation—with
Dolly. She bore up under it more cheerfully<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</SPAN></span>
than could have been expected—suppressed a
sigh—and said she would go down and meet
him. She received him with a hospitable smile
(I verily believe that more of the world’s hypocrisy
proceeds from too much good-nature than
from too little) and listened patiently to his
explanations.</p>
<p>“You will observe that I have brought my
bag,” says he, “for I knew you wouldn’t let
me off for a day or two—though I must positively
leave in a week—in two weeks, at the latest.
I have brought my volume, too, for I am contemplating
a new edition” (he is always contemplating
a new edition, making that a pretext
for lugging the book about with him), “and I
wish to enjoy the advantages of your and
Frederick’s criticism. I anticipate some good,
comfortable, old-time talks over the old book,
Frederick!”</p>
<p>We had invited some village friends to come
in and eat strawberries and cream with us that
afternoon; and the question arose, what should
be done with the old gentleman? Harry, who
is a lad of a rather lively fancy, coming in while
we were taking advantage of his great-uncle’s
deafness to discuss the subject in his presence,
proposed a pleasant expedient. “Trot him out
into the cornfield, introduce him to the scarecrow,
and let him talk to that,” says he, grinning
up into the visitor’s face, who grinned down
at him, no doubt thinking what a wonderfully
charming boy he was! If he were as blind as <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</SPAN></span>he
is deaf, he might have been disposed of very
comfortably in some such ingenious way—the
scarecrow, or any other lay figure, might have
served to engage him in one of his immortal
monologues. As it was, the suggestion bore
fruit later, as you will see.</p>
<p>While we were consulting—keeping up our
scattering fire of small-arms under the old
talker’s heavy guns—our parish minister called,—old
Doctor Wortleby, for whom we have a
great liking and respect. Of course we had to
introduce him to Uncle Popworth—for they
met face to face; and of course Uncle Popworth
fastened at once upon the brother clergyman.
Being my guest, Wortleby could do no less
than listen to Popworth, who is my uncle.
He listened with interest and sympathy for the
first half hour; and then continued listening
for another half hour, after his interest and
sympathy were exhausted. Then, attempting
to go, he got his hat, and sat with it in his
hand half an hour longer. Then he stood half
an hour on his poor old gouty feet, desperately
edging toward the door.</p>
<p>“Ah, certainly,” says he, with a weary smile,
repeatedly endeavoring to break the spell that
bound him. “I shall be most happy to hear
the conclusion of your remarks at some future
time” (even ministers can lie out of politeness);
“but just now—”</p>
<p>“One word more, and I am done,” cries my
Uncle Popworth, for the fiftieth time<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</SPAN></span>; and
Wortleby, in despair, sat down again.</p>
<p>Then our friends arrived.</p>
<p>Dolly and I, who had all the while been
benevolently wishing Wortleby would go, and
trying to help him off, now selfishly hoped he
would remain and share our entertainment—and
our Uncle Popworth.</p>
<p>“I ought to have gone two hours ago,” he
said, with a plaintive smile, in reply to our
invitation; “but, really, I am feeling the need of
a cup of tea” (and no wonder!) “and I think I
will stay.”</p>
<p>We cruelly wished that he might continue to
engage my uncle in conversation; but that
would have been too much to hope from the
sublime endurance of a martyr—if ever there
was one more patient than he. Seeing the
Lintons and the Greggs arrive, he craftily
awaited his opportunity, and slipped off, to
give them a turn on the gridiron. First Linton
was secured; and you should have seen him roll
his mute, appealing orbs, as he settled helplessly
down under the infliction. Suddenly he made
a dash. “I am ignorant of these matters,”
said he; “but Gregg understands them—Gregg
will talk with you.” But Gregg took refuge
behind the ladies. The ladies, receiving a hint
from poor distressed Dolly, scattered. But no
artifice availed against the dreadful man.
Piazza, parlor, garden—he ranged everywhere,
and was sure to seize a victim.</p>
<p>At last tea was ready, and we all went in<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</SPAN></span>.
The Lintons and Greggs were people of the
world, who would hardly have cared to wait for
a blessing on such lovely heaps of strawberries,
in mugs of cream they saw before them;
but, there being two clergymen at the table,
the ceremony was evidently expected. We
were placidly seated; there was a hush, agreeably
filled with the fragrance of the delicious
fruit; even my Uncle Popworth, from long
habit, turned off his talk at that suggestive
moment; when I did what I thought a shrewd
thing. I knew too well my relative’s long-windedness
at his devotions, as at everything
else. (I wonder if Heaven itself isn’t bored by
such fellows!) I had suffered, I had seen my
guests suffer, too much from him already—to
think of deliberately yielding him a fearful
advantage over us; so I coolly passed him by,
and gave an expressive nod to the old Doctor.</p>
<p>Wortleby began; and I was congratulating
myself on my adroit management of a delicate
matter, when—conceive my consternation!—Popworth—not
to speak it profanely—followed
suit! The reverend egotist couldn’t take in
the possibility of anybody but himself being
invited to say grace at our table, he being
present—he hadn’t noticed my nod to the
Doctor, and the Doctor’s low, earnest voice didn’t
reach him—and there, with one blessing going
on one side of the table, he, as I said, pitched
in on the other! His eyes shut, his hands
spread over his plate, his elbows on the board<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</SPAN></span>,
his head bowed, he took care that grace should
abound with us for once! His mill started,
I knew there was no stopping it, and I hoped
Wortleby would desist. But he didn’t know
his man. He seemed to feel that he had the
stroke-car, and he pulled away manfully. As
Popworth lifted up his loud, nasal voice, the
old Doctor raised his voice, in the vain hope, I
suppose, of making himself heard by his lusty
competitor. If you have never had two blessings
running opposition at your table, in the
presence of invited guests, you can never imagine
how astounding, how killingly ludicrous it was!
I felt that both Linton and Gregg were ready
to tumble over, each in an apoplexy of suppressed
emotions; while I had recourse to my handkerchief
to hide my tears. At length, poor
Wortleby yielded to fate—withdrew from the
unequal contest—hauled off—for repairs, and the
old seventy-two gun-ship thundered away in
triumph.</p>
<p>At last (as there must be an end to everything
under the sun) my uncle came to a close; and
a moment of awful silence ensued, during which
no man durst look at another. But in my
weak and jelly-like condition I ventured a
glance at him, and noticed that he looked up
and around with an air of satisfaction at having
performed a solemn duty in a becoming manner,
blissfully unconscious of having run a poor
brother off the track. Seeing us all with moist
eyes and much affected—two or thr<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</SPAN></span>ee handkerchiefs
still going—he no doubt flattered
himself that the pathetic touches in his prayer
had told.</p>
<p>This will give you some idea of the kind of
man we had on our hands; and I won’t risk
making myself as great a bore as he is, by
attempting a history of his stay with us; for I
remember I set out to tell you about my little
Iron-clad. I’m coming to that.</p>
<p>Suffice it to say, he stayed—he <em>stayed</em>—he
<span class="smcap">stayed</span>!—five mortal weeks; refusing to take
hints when they almost became kicks; driving
our friends from us, and ourselves almost to
distraction; his misfortunes alone protecting
him from a prompt and vigorous elimination;
when a happy chance helped me to a solution
of this awful problem of destiny.</p>
<p>More than once I had recalled Harry’s vivacious
suggestion of the scarecrow—if one could
only have been invented that would sit composedly
in a chair and nod when spoken to!
I was wishing for some such automaton, to
bear the brunt of the boring with which we
were afflicted, when one day there came a little
man into the garden, where I had taken refuge.</p>
<p>He was a short, swarthy, foreign looking,
diminutive, stiff, rather comical fellow—little
figure mostly head, little head mostly face, little
face mostly nose, which was by no means little—a
sort of human vegetable (to my horticultural
eye) running marvelously to seed in that organ.
The first thing I saw, on looking up at the s<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</SPAN></span>ound
of footsteps, was the said nose coming toward
me, among the sweet-corn tassels. Nose of a
decidedly Hebraic cast—the bearer respectably
dressed, though his linen had an unwholesome
sallowness, and his cloth a shiny, much-brushed,
second-hand appearance.</p>
<p>Without a word he walks up to me, bows
solemnly, and pulls from his pocket (I thought
he was laying his hand on his heart) the familiar,
much-worn weapon of his class—the folded,
torn yellow paper, ready to fall to pieces as you
open it—in short, the respectable beggar’s
certificate of character. With another bow
(which gave his nose the aspect of the beak of
a bird of prey making a pick at me) he handed
me the document. I found that it was dated in
Milwaukee, and signed by the mayor of that
city, two physicians, three clergymen, and an
editor, who bore united testimony to the fact
that Jacob Menzel—I think that was his name—the
bearer, anyway—was a deaf mute, and,
considering that fact, a prodigy of learning,
being master of no less than five different
languages (a pathetic circumstance, considering
that he was unable to speak one); moreover,
that he was a converted Jew; and, furthermore,
a native of Germany, who had come to this
country in company with two brothers, both of
whom had died of cholera in St. Louis in one
day; in consequence of which affliction, and his
recent conversion, he was now anxious to return
to the Fatherland, where he proposed to devote<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</SPAN></span>
his life to the conversion of his brethren—the
upshot of all which was that good Christians
and charitable souls everywhere were earnestly
recommended to aid the said Jacob Menzel in
his pious undertaking.</p>
<p>I was fumbling in my pocket for a little
change wherewith to dismiss him—for that is
usually the easiest way of getting off your
premises and your conscience the applicant for
“aid,” who is probably an impostor, yet possibly
not—when my eye caught the words
(for I still held the document), “would be glad
of any employment which may help to pay his
way.” The idea of finding employment for a
man of such a large nose and little body, such
extensive knowledge and diminutive legs—who
had mastered five languages yet could not
speak or understand a word of any one of them,
struck me as rather pleasant, to say the least;
yet, after a moment’s reflection—wasn’t he the
very thing I wanted, the manikin, the target
for my uncle?</p>
<p>Meanwhile he was scribbling rapidly on a
small slate he had taken from his pocket. With
another bow (as if he had written something
wrong and was going to wipe it out with his
nose), he handed me the slate, on which I
found written in a neat hand half a dozen lines
in as many different languages—English, Latin,
Hebrew, German, French, Greek—each, as far
as I could make out, conveying the cheerful
information that he could communicate with me<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</SPAN></span>
in that particular tongue. I tried him in English,
French and Latin, and I must acknowledge
that he stood the test; he then tried me in
Greek and Hebrew, and I as freely confess that
I didn’t stand the test. He smiled intelligently,
nodded, and condescendingly returned to the
English tongue, writing quickly, “I am a poor
exile from Fatherland, and I much need friends.”</p>
<p>I wrote: “You wish employment?”</p>
<p>He replied: “I shall be much obliged for
any service I shall be capable to do,” and
passed me the slate with a hopeful smile.</p>
<p>“What can you do?” I asked.</p>
<p>He answered: “I copy the manuscripts, I
translate from the one language to others with
some perfect exactitude, I arrange the libraries,
I make the catalogues, I am capable to be
any secretary.” And he looked up as if he
saw in my eyes a vast vista of catalogues,
manuscripts, libraries, and Fatherland at the
end of it.</p>
<p>“How would you like to be companion to a
literary man?” I inquired.</p>
<p>He nodded expressively, and wrote: “I
should that like over all. But I speak and hear
not.”</p>
<p>“No matter,” I replied. “You will only
have to sit and appear to listen, and nod occasionally.”</p>
<p>“You shall be the gentleman?” he asked,
with a bright, pleased look.</p>
<p>I explained to him that the gentleman was an<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</SPAN></span>
unfortunate connection of my family, whom we
could not regard as being quite in his right
mind.</p>
<p>Jacob Menzel smiled, and touched his forehead
interrogatively.</p>
<p>I nodded, adding on the slate, “He is perfectly
harmless, but he can only be kept quiet by
having some person to talk and read to. He
will talk and read to you. He must not know
you are deaf. He is very deaf himself, and will
not expect you to reply.” And, for a person
wishing a light and easy employment, I recommended
the situation.</p>
<p>He wrote at once, “How much you pay?”</p>
<p>“One dollar a day, and board you,” I replied.</p>
<p>He of the nose nodded eagerly at that, and
wrote, “Also you make to be washed my shirt?”</p>
<p>I agreed; and the bargain was closed. I got
him into the house, and gave him a bath, a
clean shirt, and complete instructions how to
act.</p>
<p>The gravity with which he entered upon the
situation was astonishing. He didn’t seem to
taste the slightest flavor of a joke in it at all.
It was a simple matter of business; he saw in it
only money and Fatherland.</p>
<p>Meanwhile I explained my intentions to
Dolly, saying in great glee: “His deafness is
his defense: the old three-decker may bang
away at him; he is <span class="smcap">iron-clad</span>!” And that
suggested the name we have called him by ever
since.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>When he was ready for action, I took him in
tow, and ran him in to draw the Popworth’s
fire—in other words, introduced him to my
uncle in the library. The meeting of my tall,
lank relative and the big-nosed little Jew was a
spectacle to cure a hypochondriac! “Mr. Jacob
Menzel—gentleman from Germany—traveling
in this country,” I yelled in the old fellow’s
ear. He of the diminutive legs and stupendous
nose bowed with perfect decorum, and seated
himself, stiff and erect, in the big chair I placed
for him. The avuncular countenance lighted
up; here were fresh woods and pastures new to
that ancient shepherd. As for myself, I was
well nigh strangled by a cough which just then
seized me, and obliged to retreat—for I never
was much of an actor, and the comedy of that
first interview was overpowering.</p>
<p>As I passed the dining-room door, Dolly, who
was behind it, gave my arm a fearful pinch that
answered, I suppose, in the place of a scream,
as a safety-valve for her hysterical emotions.
“Oh, you cruel man—you miserable humbug!”
says she; and went off into convulsions of
laughter. The door was open, and we could
see and hear everything.</p>
<p>“You are traveling, h’m?” says my uncle.
The nose nodded duly. “H’m! I have traveled,
myself,” the old gentleman proceeded; “my
life has been one of vicissitudes, h’m! I have
journeyed, I have preached, I have published—perhaps
you have heard of my literary venture”<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</SPAN></span>—and
over went the big volume to the little
man, who took it, turned the leaves, and nodded
and smiled, according to instructions.</p>
<p>“You are very kind to say so; thank you!”
says my uncle, rubbing his husky hands with
satisfaction. “Rejoiced to meet with you!
It is always a gratification to have an intelligent
and sympathizing brother to open one’s
mind to; it is especially refreshing to me, for,
as I may say without egotism, my life and
labors have <em>not</em> been appreciated.”</p>
<p>From that the old interminable story took its
start and flowed on, the faithful nose nodding
assent at every turn in that winding stream.</p>
<p>The children came in for their share of the
fun; and for the first time in our lives we took
pleasure in the old gentleman’s narration of his
varied experiences.</p>
<p>“Oh, hear him! See him go it!” said Robbie.
“What a nose!”</p>
<p>“Long may it wave!” said Harry.</p>
<p>With other remarks of a like genial nature;
while there they sat, the two—my uncle on
one side, long, lathy, self-satisfied, gesticulating,
earnestly laying his case before a grave jury
of one, whom he was bound to convince, if
time would allow; my little Jew facing him,
upright in his chair, stiff, imperturbable, devoted
to business, honorably earning his money, the
nose in the air, immovable, except when it
played duly up and down at fitting intervals;
in which edifying employment I left the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</SPAN></span>m and
went about my business, a cheerier man.</p>
<p>Ah, what a relief it was to feel myself free
for a season from the attacks of the enemy—to
know that my plucky little Iron-clad was
engaging him! In an hour I passed through the
hall again, heard the loud, blatant voice still
discoursing (it had got as far as the difficulties
with the second parish), and saw the unflinching
nasal organ perform its graceful seesaw of
assent. An hour later it was the same—except
that the speaker had arrived at the persecutions
which drove him from parish number three.
When I went to call them to dinner, the scene
had changed a little, for now the old gentleman,
pounding the table for a pulpit, was reading
aloud passages from a powerful farewell sermon
preached to his ungrateful parishioners. I was
sorry I couldn’t give my man a hint to use his
handkerchief at the affecting periods, for the
nose can hardly be called a sympathetic feature
(unless, indeed, you blow it), and these nods
were becoming rather too mechanical, except
when the old gentleman switched off on the
argumentative track, as he frequently did.
“What think you of that?” he would pause in
his reading to inquire. “Isn’t that logic?
Isn’t that unanswerable?” In responding to
which appeals nobody could have done better
than my serious, my devoted, my lovely little
Jew.</p>
<p>“Dinner!” I shouted over my uncle’s dickey.
It was almost the only word that had the magic<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</SPAN></span>
in it to rouse him from the feast of reason which
his own conversation was to him. It was
always easy to head him toward the dining-room—to
steer him into port for necessary
supplies. The little Iron-clad followed in his
wake. At table the old gentleman resumed
the account of his dealings with parish number
three, and got on as far as negotiations with
number four; occasionally stopping to eat his
soup or roast beef very fast; at which time
Jacob Menzel, who was very much absorbed
in his dinner, but never permitted himself to
neglect business for pleasure, paused at the
proper intervals, with his spoon or fork half-way
to his mouth, and nodded—just as if my
uncle had been speaking—yielding assent to
his last remarks after mature consideration, no
doubt the old gentleman thought.</p>
<p>The fun of the thing wore off after awhile,
and then we experienced the solid advantages
of having an Iron-clad in the house. Afternoon—evening—the
next day—my little man
of business performed his function promptly
and assiduously. But in the afternoon of the
second day he began to change perceptibly.
He wore an aspect of languor and melancholy
that alarmed me. The next morning he was
pale, and went to his work with an air of sorrowful
resignation.</p>
<p>“He is thinking of Fatherland,” said the
sympathizing Dolly; while Harry’s less-refined
but more sprightly co<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</SPAN></span>mment was, that the nose
had about played out.</p>
<p>Indeed, it had almost ceased to wave; and I
feared that I was about to lose a most valuable
servant, whose place it would be impossible to
fill. Accordingly, I wrote on a slip of paper,
which I sent in to him:</p>
<p>“You have done well, and I raise your salary
to a dollar and a quarter a day. Your influence
over our unfortunate relative is soothing and
beneficial. Go on as you have begun and merit
the lasting gratitude of an afflicted family.”</p>
<p>That seemed to cheer him a little—to wind
him up, as Harry said, and set the pendulum
swinging again. But it was not long before
the listlessness and low spirits returned; Menzel
showed a sad tendency to shirk his duty; and
before noon there came a crash.</p>
<p>I was in the garden, when I heard a shriek of
rage and despair, and saw the little Jew coming
toward me with frantic gestures.</p>
<p>“I yielt! I abandone! I take my moneys
and my shirt, and I go!” says he.</p>
<p>I stood in perfect astonishment at hearing
the dumb speak; while he threw his arms wildly
above his head, exclaiming:</p>
<p>“I am not teaf! I am not teaf! I am not
teaf! He is one terreeble mon! He vill haf
my life! So I go—I fly—I take my moneys
and my shirt—I leafe him, I leafe your house!
I vould earn honest living, but—<i>Gott im himmel!
Dieu des dieux!</i> All de devils!” he shrieked,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</SPAN></span>
mixing up several of his languages at once, in
his violent mental agitation.</p>
<p>“Jacob Menzel!” said I solemnly, “I little
thought I was having to do with an impostor!”</p>
<p>“If I haf you deceive, I haf myself more
dan punish!” was his reply. “Now I resign
de position. I ask for de moneys and de shirt,
and I part!”</p>
<p>Just then my uncle came up, amazed at his
new friend’s sudden revolt and flight, and
anxious to finish up with his seventh parish.</p>
<p>“I vill hear no more of your six, of your
seven—I know not how many parish!” screamed
the furious little Jew, turning on him.</p>
<p>“What means all this?” said my bewildered
uncle.</p>
<p>“I tell you vat means it all!” the vindictive
little impostor, tiptoeing up to him, yelled at
his cheek. “I make not vell my affairs in your
country; I vould return to Faderlant; for conwenience
I carry dis pappeer. I come here; I
am suppose teaf; I accept de position to be
your companion, for if a man hear, you kill
him tead soon vid your book and your ten,
twenty parish! I hear! You kill me! and I
go!”</p>
<p>And, having obtained his “moneys” and his
shirt, he went. That is the last I ever saw of
my little Iron-clad. I remember him with
gratitude, for he did me good service, and he had
but one fault, namely, that he was <em>not</em> iron-clad!</p>
<p>As for my uncle, for the first time in his life,
I think, he said never a word, but stalke<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</SPAN></span>d into
the house. Dolly soon came running out to
ask what was the matter; Popworth was actually
packing his carpet-bag! I called Andrew, and
ordered him to be in readiness with the buggy
to take the old gentleman over to the railroad.</p>
<p>“What! going?” I cried, as my uncle presently
appeared, bearing his book and his baggage.</p>
<p>“Nephew Frederick,” said he, “after this
treatment, can you ask me if I am going?”</p>
<p>“Really,” I shouted, “it is not my fault that
the fellow proved an impostor. I employed him
with the best of intentions, for your—and our—good!”</p>
<p>“Nephew Frederick,” said he, “this is insufferable;
you will regret it! I shall never—<span class="smcap">never</span>“
(as if he had been pronouncing my doom)
“accept of your hospitalities again!”</p>
<p>He did, however, accept some money which
I offered him, and likewise a seat in the buggy.
I watched his departure with joy and terror—for
at any moment he might relent and stay;
nor was I at ease in my mind until I saw Andrew
come riding back alone.</p>
<p>We have never seen the old gentleman since.
But last winter I received a letter from him;
he wrote in a forgiving tone, to inform me that
he had been appointed chaplain in a prison, and
to ask for a loan of money to buy a suit of
clothes. I sent him fifty dollars and my congratulations.
I consider him eminently qualified
to fill the new situation. As a hardship, he
can’t be beat; and what are the rogu<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</SPAN></span>es sent to
prison for but to suffer punishment?</p>
<p>Yes, it would be a joke if my little Iron-clad
should end his career of imposture in that public
institution, and sit once more under my excellent
uncle! But I can’t wish him any such misfortune.
His mission to us was one of mercy.
The place has been Paradise again, ever since
his visit.—<i>Scribner’s Magazine</i>, August, 1873.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="LULLABY" id="LULLABY"></SPAN>A BOSTON LULLABY</h2>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Doff thy new spectacles,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Peregrine, darling one;</div>
<div class="verse">Minds are but obstacles</div>
<div class="verse indent1">When work is overdone.</div>
<div class="verse">Lullaby, hushaby, slumber thou festinate,</div>
<div class="verse">Hushaby, lullaby, never procrastinate.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Lay down thy Ibsen, dear,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Browning and Emerson;</div>
<div class="verse">Sealed be thy cultured ear</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Save to my benison.</div>
<div class="verse">Lullaby, hushaby, cherish obedience.</div>
<div class="verse">Hushaby, lullaby, captivate somnolence.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Dream thou of Lohengrin,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Siegfried, Brünnhilde fair;</div>
<div class="verse">Banish, my Peregrine,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Thoughts of the Pilgrims spare.</div>
<div class="verse">Lullaby, hushaby, sleep, dear, till night is done.</div>
<div class="verse">Hushaby, lullaby, mother’s phenomenon.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</SPAN></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="CHILDHOOD" id="CHILDHOOD"></SPAN>ROBERT JONES BURDETTE</h2>
<h3>THE ARTLESS PRATTLE OF CHILDHOOD</h3>
<p>We always did pity a man who does not love
childhood. There is something morally wrong
with such a man. If his tenderest sympathies
are not awakened by their innocent prattle, if
his heart does not echo their merry laughter,
if his whole nature does not reach out in ardent
longing after their pure thoughts and unselfish
impulses, he is a sour, crusty, crabbed old stick,
and the world full of children has no use for
him. In every age and clime the best and noblest
men loved children. Even wicked men have
a tender spot left in their hardened hearts for
little children. The great men of the earth love
them. Dogs love them. Kamehame Kemokimodahroah,
the King of the Cannibal Islands,
loves them. Rare and no gravy. Ah, yes, we
all love children.</p>
<p>And what a pleasure it is to talk with them!
Who can chatter with a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked,
quick-witted little darling, anywhere
from three to five years, and not appreciate the
pride which swells a mother’s breast when she
sees her little ones admired? Ah, yes, to be
sure.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>One day—ah, can we ever cease to remember
that dreamy, idle, summer afternoon—a lady
friend, who was down in the city on a shopping
excursion, came into the sanctum with her little
son, a dear little tid-toddler of five bright
summers, and begged us to amuse him while
she pursued the duties which called her down-town.
Such a bright boy; so delightful it was
to talk to him. We can never forget the blissful
half-hour we spent booking that prodigy up in
his centennial history.</p>
<p>“Now, listen, Clary,” we said—his name was
Clarence Fitzherbert Alencon de Marchemont
Caruthers—“and learn about George Washington.”</p>
<p>“Who’s he?” inquired Clarence, etc.</p>
<p>“Listen,” we said; “he was the father of his
country.”</p>
<p>“Whose country?”</p>
<p>“Ours—yours and mine; the confederated
union of the American people, cemented with
the life-blood of the men of ’76 poured out upon
the altars of our country as the dearest libation
to liberty that her votaries can offer.”</p>
<p>“Who did?” asked Clarence.</p>
<p>There is a peculiar tact in talking to children
that very few people possess. Now, most people
would have grown impatient and lost their
temper, when little Clarence asked so many
irrelevant questions, but we did not. We knew
that, however careless he might appear at first,
we could soon interest him in the story, an<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</SPAN></span>d
he would be all eyes and ears. So we smiled
sweetly—that same sweet smile which you may
have noticed on our photographs. Just the
faintest ripple of a smile breaking across the
face like a ray of sunlight, and checked by lines
of tender sadness just before the two ends of it
pass each other at the back of the neck.</p>
<p>And so, smiling, we went on.</p>
<p>“Well, one day George’s father——”</p>
<p>“George who?” asked Clarence.</p>
<p>“George Washington. He was a little boy
then, just like you. One day his father——”</p>
<p>“Whose father?” demanded Clarence, with
an encouraging expression of interest.</p>
<p>“George Washington’s—this great man we
were telling you of. One day George Washington’s
father gave him a little hatchet for a——”</p>
<p>“Gave who a little hatchet?” the dear child
interrupted with a gleam of bewitching intelligence.
Most men would have betrayed signs
of impatience, but we didn’t. We know how to
talk to children, so we went on.</p>
<p>“George Washington. His——”</p>
<p>“Who gave him the little hatchet?”</p>
<p>“His father. And his father——”</p>
<p>“Whose father?”</p>
<p>“George Washington’s.”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>“Yes, George Washington. And his father
told him——”</p>
<p>“Told who?”</p>
<p>“Told George.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“Oh, yes, George.”</p>
<p>And we went on, just as patient and as
pleasant as you could imagine. We took up
the story right where the boy interrupted; for
we could see that he was just crazy to hear the
end of it. We said:</p>
<p>“And he told him that——”</p>
<p>“Who told him what?” Clarence broke in.</p>
<p>“Why, George’s father told George.”</p>
<p>“What did he tell him?”</p>
<p>“Why, that’s just what I’m going to tell you.
He told him——”</p>
<p>“Who told him?”</p>
<p>“George’s father. He——”</p>
<p>“What for?”</p>
<p>“Why, so he wouldn’t do what he told him
not to do. He told him——”</p>
<p>“George told him?” queried Clarence.</p>
<p>“No, his father told George——”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>“Yes; told him that he must be careful with
the hatchet——”</p>
<p>“Who must be careful?”</p>
<p>“George must.”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>“Yes; must be careful with the hatchet——”</p>
<p>“What hatchet?”</p>
<p>“Why, George’s.”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>“Yes; with the hatchet, and not cut himself
with it, or drop it in the cistern, or leave it out
in the grass all night. So George went rou<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</SPAN></span>nd
cutting everything he could reach with his
hatchet. At last he came to a splendid apple
tree, his father’s favorite, and cut it down
and——”</p>
<p>“Who cut it down?”</p>
<p>“George did.”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>“—but his father came home and saw it the
first thing, and——”</p>
<p>“Saw the hatchet?”</p>
<p>“No; saw the apple tree. And he said,
‘Who has cut down my favorite apple tree?’”</p>
<p>“What apple tree?”</p>
<p>“George’s father’s. And everybody said they
didn’t know anything about it, and——”</p>
<p>“Anything about what?”</p>
<p>“The apple tree.”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>“—and George came up and heard them
talking about it——”</p>
<p>“Heard who talking about it?”</p>
<p>“Heard his father and the men.”</p>
<p>“What was they talking about?”</p>
<p>“About this apple tree.”</p>
<p>“What apple tree?”</p>
<p>“The favorite apple tree that George cut
down.”</p>
<p>“George who?”</p>
<p>“George Washington.”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>“So George came up and heard them talking
about it, and he——”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“What did he cut it down for?”</p>
<p>“Just to try his little hatchet.”</p>
<p>“Whose little hatchet?”</p>
<p>“Why, his own; the one his father gave him.”</p>
<p>“Gave who?”</p>
<p>“Why, George Washington.”</p>
<p>“Who gave it to him?”</p>
<p>“His father did.”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>“So George came up and he said, ‘Father, I
cannot tell a lie. I——’”</p>
<p>“Who couldn’t tell a lie?”</p>
<p>“Why, George Washington. He said, ‘Father,
I cannot tell a lie. It was——’”</p>
<p>“His father couldn’t?”</p>
<p>“Why, no; George couldn’t.”</p>
<p>“Oh, George? Oh, yes.”</p>
<p>“‘—it was I cut down your apple tree. I
did——’”</p>
<p>“His father did?”</p>
<p>“No, no. It was George said this.”</p>
<p>“Said he cut his father?”</p>
<p>“No, no, no; said he cut down his apple tree.”</p>
<p>“George’s apple tree?”</p>
<p>“No, no; his father’s.”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>“He said——”</p>
<p>“His father said?”</p>
<p>“No, no, no; George said, ‘Father, I cannot
tell a lie. I did it with my little hatchet.’ And
his father said, ‘Noble boy, I would rather lose
a thousand trees than have you tell a lie.’”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“George did?”</p>
<p>“No; his father said that.”</p>
<p>“Said he’d rather have a thousand apple
trees?”</p>
<p>“No, no, no; said he’d rather lose a thousand
apple trees than——”</p>
<p>“Said he’d rather George would?”</p>
<p>“No; said he’d rather he would than have
him lie.”</p>
<p>“Oh, George would rather have his father
lie?”</p>
<p>We are patient, and we love children, but if
Mrs. Caruthers, of Arch Street, hadn’t come and
got her prodigy at this critical juncture, we
don’t believe all Burlington could have pulled
us out of that snarl. And as Clarence Fitzherbert
Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers patted down
the stairs, we heard him telling his ma about a
boy who had a father named George, and he
told him to cut down an apple tree, and he said
he’d rather tell a thousand lies than cut down
one apple tree.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>In the House of Representatives one day Mr.
Springer was finishing an argument and ended
by saying, “I am right, I know I am; and I
would rather be right than be President.” He
stood near the late S. S. Cox, who looked mischievously
across at him and said as he
ended, “Don’t worry abou<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</SPAN></span>t that, Springer;
you’ll never be either.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="JACK" id="JACK"></SPAN>THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT</h2>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Behold the mansion reared by dedal Jack.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">See the malt stored in many a plethoric sack,</div>
<div class="verse">In the proud cirque of Ivan’s bivouac.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Mark how the rat’s felonious fangs invade</div>
<div class="verse">The golden stores in John’s pavilion laid.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Anon with velvet foot and Tarquin strides</div>
<div class="verse">Subtle grimalkin to his quarry glides—</div>
<div class="verse">Grimalkin grim that slew the fierce rodent</div>
<div class="verse">Whose tooth insidious Johann’s sackcloth rent.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Lo! now the deep-mouthed canine foe’s assault,</div>
<div class="verse">That vexed the avenger of the stolen malt,</div>
<div class="verse">Stored in the hallowed precincts of that hall</div>
<div class="verse">That rose complete at Jack’s creative call.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Here stalks the impetuous cow with crumpled horn</div>
<div class="verse">Whereon the exacerbating hound was torn.</div>
<div class="verse">Who bayed the feline slaughter-beast that slew</div>
<div class="verse">The rat predacious, whose keen fangs ran through</div>
<div class="verse">The textile fibers that involved the grain</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</SPAN></span>Which lay in Hans’s inviolate domain.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Here walks forlorn the damsel crowned with rue,</div>
<div class="verse">Lactiferous spoils from vaccine drugs who drew</div>
<div class="verse">Of that corniculate beast whose tortuous horn</div>
<div class="verse">Tossed to the clouds in fierce vindictive scorn</div>
<div class="verse">The harrowing hound whose braggart bark and stir</div>
<div class="verse">Arched the lithe spine and reared the indignant fur</div>
<div class="verse">Of puss, that with verminicidal claw</div>
<div class="verse">Struck the weird rat in whose insatiate maw</div>
<div class="verse">Lay reeking malt that erst in Juan’s courts we saw.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Robed in senescent garb that seems in sooth</div>
<div class="verse">Too long a prey to Chronos’s iron tooth,</div>
<div class="verse">Behold the man whose amorous lips incline,</div>
<div class="verse">Full with Eros’s osculative sign,</div>
<div class="verse">To the lorn maiden whose lactalbic hands</div>
<div class="verse">Drew albulactic bovine wealth from lacteal glands</div>
<div class="verse">Of that immortal bovine, by whose horn</div>
<div class="verse">Distort to realm ethereal was borne</div>
<div class="verse">The beast catulean, vexed of the sly</div>
<div class="verse">Ulysses quadrupedal, who made die</div>
<div class="verse">The old mordacious rat that dared devour</div>
<div class="verse">Antecedaneous ale in John’s domestic bower.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Lo! here, with hirsute honors doffed, succinct</div>
<div class="verse">Of saponaceous locks, the priest who linked</div>
<div class="verse">In Hymen’s golden bands the torn unthrift,</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</SPAN></span>Whose means exiguous stared through many a rift,</div>
<div class="verse">Even as he kissed the virgin all forlorn,</div>
<div class="verse">Who milked the cow with implicated horn,</div>
<div class="verse">Who in fine wrath the canine torturer skied,</div>
<div class="verse">That dared to vex the insidious muricide,</div>
<div class="verse">Who let auroral effluence through the pelt</div>
<div class="verse">Of the sly rat that robbed the palace Jack had built.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">The loud cantankerous Shanghai comes at last,</div>
<div class="verse">Whose shouts aroused the shorn ecclesiast,</div>
<div class="verse">Who sealed the vows of Hymen’s sacrament,</div>
<div class="verse">To him, who, robed in garments indigent,</div>
<div class="verse">Exosculates the damsel lachrymose,</div>
<div class="verse">The emulgator of that horned brute morose,</div>
<div class="verse">That tossed the dog, that worried the cat, that kilt</div>
<div class="verse">The rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>The late Mr. William R. Travers liked Bermuda
enormously, but it would seem that he found its
comforts not altogether unalloyed. A friend
who once visited him there was congratulating
him on his improved appearance.</p>
<p>“This is a grand place for change and rest,”
said his friend. “Just what you needed.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” replied Mr. Travers, sadly. “Th-th-this
is a magn-ni-ni-nif-ficent place f-f-f-for
b-b-both. The ni-ni-niggers look out f-f-f-for
the ch-ch-ch-<em>change</em>, <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</SPAN></span>and the hotel ke-ke-keepers
take th-th-the <em>rest</em>.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="STPETER" id="STPETER"></SPAN>[ANONYMOUS]</h2>
<h3>ST. PETER AT THE GATE</h3>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">St. Peter stood guard at the golden gate</div>
<div class="verse">With a solemn mien and an air sedate,</div>
<div class="verse">When up to the top of the golden stair</div>
<div class="verse">A man and a woman ascending there,</div>
<div class="verse">Applied for admission. They came and stood</div>
<div class="verse">Before St. Peter, so great and good.</div>
<div class="verse">In hopes the City of Peace to win—</div>
<div class="verse">And asked St. Peter to let them in.</div>
<div class="verse">The woman was tall, and lank, and thin,</div>
<div class="verse">With a scraggy beardlet upon her chin,</div>
<div class="verse">The man was short, and thick and stout,</div>
<div class="verse">His stomach was built so it rounded out,</div>
<div class="verse">His face was pleasant, and all the while</div>
<div class="verse">He wore a kindly and genial smile.</div>
<div class="verse">The choirs in the distance the echoes woke</div>
<div class="verse">And the man kept still while the woman spoke:</div>
<div class="verse">“Oh, thou who guardest the gate,” said she,</div>
<div class="verse">“We two come hither beseeching thee</div>
<div class="verse">To let us enter the heavenly land,</div>
<div class="verse">And play our harps with the angel band.</div>
<div class="verse">Of me, St. Peter, there is no doubt—</div>
<div class="verse">There is nothing from heaven to bar me out;</div>
<div class="verse">I have been to meetings three times a week,</div>
<div class="verse">And almost always I’d rise and speak.</div>
<div class="verse">I’ve told the sinners about the day</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</SPAN></span>When they’d repent their evil way;</div>
<div class="verse">I have told my neighbors, I have told them all</div>
<div class="verse">’Bout Adam and Eve, and the primal fall;</div>
<div class="verse">I’ve shown them what they’d have to do</div>
<div class="verse">If they’d pass in with the chosen few;</div>
<div class="verse">I’ve marked their path of duty clear—</div>
<div class="verse">Laid out the plan for their whole career;</div>
<div class="verse">I’ve talked and talked to ’em, loud and long,</div>
<div class="verse">For my lungs are good and my voice is strong.</div>
<div class="verse">So good St. Peter, you’ll clearly see</div>
<div class="verse">The gate of heaven is open to me;</div>
<div class="verse">But my old man, I regret to say,</div>
<div class="verse">Hasn’t walked exactly the narrow way—</div>
<div class="verse">He smokes and he swears, and grave faults he’s got,</div>
<div class="verse">And I don’t know whether he will pass or not.</div>
<div class="verse">He never would pray with an earnest vim,</div>
<div class="verse">Or go to revival, or join in a hymn,</div>
<div class="verse">So I had to leave him in sorrow there</div>
<div class="verse">While I, with the chosen, united in prayer.</div>
<div class="verse">He ate what the pantry chanced to afford,</div>
<div class="verse">While I, in my purity, sang to the Lord;</div>
<div class="verse">And if cucumbers were all he got</div>
<div class="verse">It’s a chance if he merited them or not.</div>
<div class="verse">But oh, St. Peter, I love him so!</div>
<div class="verse">To the pleasures of heaven please let him go!</div>
<div class="verse">I’ve done enough—a saint I’ve been—</div>
<div class="verse">Won’t that atone? Can’t you let him in?</div>
<div class="verse">By my grim gospel I know ’tis so</div>
<div class="verse">That the unrepentant must fry below;</div>
<div class="verse">But isn’t there some way that you can see,</div>
<div class="verse">That he may enter who’s dear to me?</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</SPAN></span>It’s a narrow gospel by which I pray,</div>
<div class="verse">But the chosen expect to find some way</div>
<div class="verse">Of coaxing, or fooling, or bribing you</div>
<div class="verse">So that their relation can amble through.</div>
<div class="verse">And say, St. Peter, it seems to me</div>
<div class="verse">This gate isn’t kept as it ought to be;</div>
<div class="verse">You ought to stand by that opening there,</div>
<div class="verse">And never sit down in that easy chair.</div>
<div class="verse">And say, St. Peter, my sight is dimmed,</div>
<div class="verse">But I don’t like the way your whiskers are trimmed,</div>
<div class="verse">They’re cut too wide and outward toss:</div>
<div class="verse">They’d look better narrower, cut straight across.</div>
<div class="verse">Well, we must be going our crowns to win,</div>
<div class="verse">So open, St. Peter, and we’ll pass in.”</div>
<div class="verse">St. Peter sat quiet and stroked his staff;</div>
<div class="verse">But spite of his office he had to laugh;</div>
<div class="verse">Then said with a fiery gleam in his eye,</div>
<div class="verse">“Who’s tending this gateway—you or I?”</div>
<div class="verse">And then he arose in his stature tall,</div>
<div class="verse">And pressed a button upon the wall,</div>
<div class="verse">And said to the imp who answered the bell,</div>
<div class="verse">“Escort this lady around to hell!”</div>
<div class="verse">The man stood still as a piece of stone—</div>
<div class="verse">Stood sadly, gloomily there alone,</div>
<div class="verse">A life-long, settled idea he had</div>
<div class="verse">That his wife was good and he was bad.</div>
<div class="verse">He thought if the woman went down below</div>
<div class="verse">That he would certainly have to go—</div>
<div class="verse">That if she went to the regions dim</div>
<div class="verse">There wasn’t a ghost of a show for him.</div>
<div class="verse">Slowly he turned, by habit bent,</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</SPAN></span>To follow wherever the woman went.</div>
<div class="verse">St. Peter, standing on duty there,</div>
<div class="verse">Observed that the top of his head was bare.</div>
<div class="verse">He called the gentleman back and said,</div>
<div class="verse">“Friend, how long have you been wed?”</div>
<div class="verse">“Thirty years” (with a weary sigh),</div>
<div class="verse">And then he thoughtfully added, “Why?”</div>
<div class="verse">St. Peter was silent. With head bent down</div>
<div class="verse">He raised his hand and scratched his crown;</div>
<div class="verse">Then, seeming a different thought to take,</div>
<div class="verse">Slowly, half to himself, he spake:</div>
<div class="verse">“Thirty years with that woman there?</div>
<div class="verse">No wonder the man hasn’t any hair!</div>
<div class="verse">Swearing is wicked, smoke’s not good.</div>
<div class="verse">He smoked and swore—I should think he would,</div>
<div class="verse">Thirty years with that tongue so sharp!</div>
<div class="verse">Ho, Angel Gabriel! Give him a harp!</div>
<div class="verse">A jeweled harp with a golden string,</div>
<div class="verse">Good sir, pass in where the angels sing!</div>
<div class="verse">Gabriel, give him a seat alone—</div>
<div class="verse">One with a cushion, up near the throne;</div>
<div class="verse">Call up some angels to play their best,</div>
<div class="verse">Let him enjoy the music in rest,</div>
<div class="verse">See that on finest ambrosia he feeds,</div>
<div class="verse">He’s had about all the hell he needs;</div>
<div class="verse">It isn’t just hardly the thing to do</div>
<div class="verse">To roast him on earth and the future, too.”</div>
<div class="verse">They gave him a harp with golden strings,</div>
<div class="verse">A glittering robe with a pair of wings,</div>
<div class="verse">And he said, as he entered the Realm of Day,</div>
<div class="verse">“Well, this beats cucumber, any way!”</div>
<div class="verse">And so the Scriptures had come to pass</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</SPAN></span>“The last shall be first and the first shall be last.”</div>
</div></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="POKER" id="POKER"></SPAN>HENRY GUY CARLETON</h2>
<h3>THE THOMPSON STREET POKER CLUB</h3>
<h4>SOME CURIOUS POINTS IN THE NOBLE GAME UNFOLDED</h4>
<p>When Mr. Tooter Williams entered the gilded
halls of the Thompson Street Poker Club Saturday
evening it was evident that fortune had
smeared him with prosperity. He wore a straw
hat with a blue ribbon, an expression of serene
content, and a glass amethyst on his third
finger whose effulgence irradiated the whole
room and made the envious eyes of Mr. Cyanide
Whiffles stand out like a crab’s. Besides these
extraordinary furbishments, Mr. Williams had
his mustache waxed to fine points and his
back hair was precious with the luster and
richness which accompany the use of the attar
of Third Avenue roses combined with the bear’s
grease dispensed by basement barbers on that
fashionable thoroughfare.</p>
<p>In sharp contrast to this scintillating entrance
was the coming of the Reverend Mr. Thankful
Smith, who had been disheveled by the heat,
discolored by a dusty evangelical trip to Coney
Island, and oppressed by an attack of mala<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</SPAN></span>ria
which made his eyes bloodshot and enriched
his respiration with occasional hiccoughs and
that steady aroma which is said to dwell in
Weehawken breweries.</p>
<p>The game began at eight o’clock, and by nine
and a series of two-pair hands and bull luck Mr.
Gus Johnson was seven dollars and a nickel ahead
of the game, and the Reverend Mr. Thankful
Smith, who was banking, was nine stacks of
chips and a dollar bill on the wrong side of the
ledger. Mr. Cyanide Whiffles was cheerful as
a cricket over four winnings amounting to
sixty-nine cents; Professor Brick was calm, and
Mr. Tooter Williams was gorgeous and hopeful,
and laying low for the first jackpot, which now
came. It was Mr. Whiffles’s deal, and feeling
that the eyes of the world were upon him, he
passed around the cards with a precision and
rapidity which were more to his credit than the
I. O. U. from Mr. Williams which was left over
from the previous meeting.</p>
<p>Professor Brick had nine high and declared
his inability to make an opening.</p>
<p>Mr. Williams noticed a dangerous light come
into the Reverend Mr. Smith’s eye and hesitated
a moment, but having two black jacks and a pair
of trays, opened with the limit.</p>
<p>“I liffs yo’ jess tree dollahs, Toot,” said the
Reverend Mr. Smith, getting out the wallet and
shaking out a wad.</p>
<p>Mr. Gus Johnson, who had a four flush and
very little prud<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</SPAN></span>ence, came in. Mr. Whiffles
sighed and fled.</p>
<p>Mr. Williams polished the amethyst, thoroughly
examining a scratch on one of its facets, adjusted
his collar, skinned his cards, stealthily glanced
again at the expression of the Reverend Mr.
Smith’s eye, and said he would “Jess—jess call.”</p>
<p>Mr. Whiffles supplied the wants of the gentlemen
from the pack with the mechanical air
of a man who had lost all hope in a hereafter.
Mr. Williams wanted one card, the Reverend Mr.
Smith said he’d take about three, and Mr. Gus
Johnson expressed a desire for a club, if it was
not too much trouble.</p>
<p>Mr. Williams caught another tray, and, being
secretly pleased, led out by betting a chip.
The Reverend Mr. Smith uproariously slammed
down a stack of blue chips and raised him seven
dollars.</p>
<p>Mr. Gus Johnson had captured the nine of
hearts and so retired.</p>
<p>Mr. Williams had four chips and a dollar left.</p>
<p>“I sees dat seven,” he said impressively, “an’
I humps it ten mo’.”</p>
<p>“Whar’s de c’lateral?” queried the Reverend
Mr. Smith calmly, but with aggressiveness in his
eye.</p>
<p>Mr. Williams sniffed contemptuously, drew
off the ring, and deposited it in the pot with such
an air as to impress Mr. Whiffles with the idea
that the jewel must have been worth at least
four million dollars. Then Mr. Williams leaned
back in his chair and smiled.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“Whad yer goin’ ter do?” asked the Reverend
Mr. Smith, deliberately ignoring Mr. Williams’s
action.</p>
<p>Mr. Williams pointed to the ring and smiled.</p>
<p>“Liff yo’ ten dollahs.”</p>
<p>“On whad?”</p>
<p>“Dat ring.”</p>
<p>“<em>Dat</em> ring?”</p>
<p>“Yezzah.” Mr. Williams was still cool.</p>
<p>“Huh!” The Reverend Mr. Smith picked the
ring up, examined it scientifically with one eye
closed, dropped it several times as if to test its
soundness, and then walked across and rasped
it several times heavily on the window pane.</p>
<p>“Whad yo’ doin’ dat for?” excitedly asked
Mr. Williams.</p>
<p>A double rasp with the ring was the Reverend
Mr. Smith’s only reply.</p>
<p>“Gimme dat jule back!” demanded Mr.
Williams.</p>
<p>The Reverend Mr. Smith was now vigorously
rubbing the setting of the stone on the floor.</p>
<p>“Leggo dat sparkler,” said Mr. Williams
again.</p>
<p>The Reverend Mr. Smith carefully polished off
the scratches by rubbing the ring awhile on the
sole of his foot. Then he resumed his seat and
put the precious thing back into the pot. Then
he looked calmly at Mr. Williams, and leaned
back in his chair as if waiting for something.</p>
<p>“Is yo’ satisfied?” said Mr. Williams, in the
tone us<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</SPAN></span>ed by men who have sustained a deep
injury.</p>
<p>“Dis is pokah,” said the Reverend Mr.
Thankful Smith.</p>
<p>“I rised yo’ ten dollahs,” said Mr. Williams,
pointing to the ring.</p>
<p>“Did yer ever saw three balls hangin’ over
my do’?” asked the Reverend Mr. Smith.
“Doesn’t yo’ know my name hain’t Oppenheimer?”</p>
<p>“Whad yo’ mean?” asked Mr. Williams
excitedly.</p>
<p>“Pokah am pokah, and dar’s no ’casion fer
triflin’ wif blue glass ’n junk in dis yar club,”
said the Reverend Mr. Smith.</p>
<p>“I liffs yo’ ten dollahs,” said Mr. Williams,
ignoring the insult.</p>
<p>“Pud up de c’lateral,” said the Reverend Mr.
Smith. “Fo’ chips is fohty, ’n a dollah’s a
dollah fohty, ’n dat’s a dollah fohty-fo’ cents.”</p>
<p>“Whar’s de fo’ cents?” smiled Mr. Williams,
desperately.</p>
<p>The Reverend Mr. Smith pointed to the ring.
Mr. Williams rose indignantly, shucked off his
coat, hat, vest, suspenders and scarfpin, heaped
them on the table, and then sat down and glared
at the Reverend Mr. Smith.</p>
<p>Mr. Smith rolled up the coat, put on the hat,
threw his own out of the window, gave the ring
to Mr. Whiffles, jammed the suspenders into his
pocket, and took in the vest, chips and money.</p>
<p>“Dis yar’s buglry!” yelled Mr. Williams.</p>
<p>The Reverend Mr. Smith spread<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</SPAN></span> out four
eights and rose impressively.</p>
<p>“Toot,” he said, “doan trifle wif Prov’dence.
Because a man wars ten cent grease ’n’ gits his
july on de Bowery, hit’s no sign dat he kin buck
agin cash in a jacker ’n’ git a boodle from fo’
eights. Yo’s now in yo’ shirt sleeves ’n’ low
sperrets, bud de speeyunce am wallyble. I’se
willin’ ter stan’ a beer an’ sassenger, ’n’ shake
’n’ call it squar’. De club ’ll now ’journ.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>Mr. Blaine used to tell this story:</p>
<p>Once in Dublin, toward the end of the opera,
Satan was conducting Faust through a trap-door
which represented the gates of Hades. His
Majesty got through all right—he was used to
going below—but Faust, who was quite stout,
got only about half-way in, and no squeezing
would get him any farther. Suddenly an Irishman
in the gallery exclaimed, devoutly, “Thank
God, hell is full.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>While Mark Twain was ill in London a report
that he had died was circulated. It spread to
America and reached Charles Dudley Warner in
Hartford, Connecticut. Mr. Warner immediately
cabled to London to find out if it was really so.
The cablegram in some way came directly into
the humorist’s hands, and he forthwith cabled
the following reply: <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</SPAN></span>“Reports of my death
greatly exaggerated.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="FOXANDCROW" id="FOXANDCROW"></SPAN>GEORGE T. LANIGAN</h2>
<h3>THE FOX AND THE CROW</h3>
<p>A crow, having secured a Piece of Cheese,
flew with its Prize to a lofty Tree, and was preparing
to devour the Luscious Morsel, when a
crafty Fox, halting at the foot of the Tree, began
to cast about how he might obtain it.</p>
<p>“How tasteful is your Dress,” he cried, in
well-feigned Ecstacy; “it cannot surely be that
your Musical Education has been neglected?
Will you not oblige——?”</p>
<p>“I have a horrid Cold,” replied the Crow,
“and never sing without my Music; but since
you press me—at the same time, I should add
that I have read Æsop, and been there before.”</p>
<p>So saying, she deposited the Cheese in a safe
Place on the Limb of the Tree, and favored him
with a Song.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” exclaimed the Fox, and
trotted away, with the Remark that Welsh
Rabbits never agreed with him, and were far
inferior in Quality to the animate Variety.</p>
<p><i>Moral</i>—The foregoing fable is supported by
a whole Gatling Battery of Morals. We are
taught (1) that it Pays to take the Papers; (2)
that Invitation is not Always the Sincerest
Flattery; (3) that a Stalled Rabbit with Contentment
is better than No Bread; and (4) that the
Aim of Art is to Conceal Disappointment.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Geo. T. Lanigan.</span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p class="smaller">By permission of <i>Life</i> Publishing Company</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="BEHOLD" id="BEHOLD"></SPAN>HENRY CUYLER BUNNER</h2>
<h3>BEHOLD THE DEEDS!</h3>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p class="center">(<i>Chant Royal</i>)</p>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">I would that all men my hard case might know;</div>
<div class="verse indent1">How grievously I suffer for no sin:</div>
<div class="verse">I, Adolphe Culpepper Furguson, for lo!</div>
<div class="verse indent1">I, of my landlady, am locked in,</div>
<div class="verse">For being short on this sad Saturday,</div>
<div class="verse">Nor having shekels of silver wherewith to pay;</div>
<div class="verse indent1">She has turned and is departed with my key;</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Wherefore, not even as other boarders free,</div>
<div class="verse">I sing (as prisoners to their dungeon stones</div>
<div class="verse indent1">When for ten days they expiate a spree):</div>
<div class="verse">Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">One night and one day have I wept my woe;</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Nor wot I when the morrow doth begin,</div>
<div class="verse">If I shall have to write to Briggs & Co.,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">To pray them to advance the requisite tin</div>
<div class="verse">For ransom of their salesman, that he may</div>
<div class="verse">Go forth as other boarders go alway—</div>
<div class="verse indent1">As those I hear now flocking from their tea,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Led by the daughter of my landlady</div>
<div class="verse">Pianoward. This day for all my moans,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Dry bread and water have been servèd me.</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</SPAN></span>Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Miss Amabel Jones is musical, and so</div>
<div class="verse indent1">The heart of the young he-boardèr doth win,</div>
<div class="verse">Playing “The Maiden’s Prayer,” <i>adagio</i>—</div>
<div class="verse indent1">That fetcheth him, as fetcheth the banco skin</div>
<div class="verse">The innocent rustic. For my part, I pray:</div>
<div class="verse">That Badarjewska maid may wait for aye</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Ere sits she with a lover, as did we</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Once sit together, Amabel! Can it be</div>
<div class="verse">That all that arduous wooing not atones</div>
<div class="verse indent1">For Saturday shortness of trade dollars three?</div>
<div class="verse"><em>Behold</em> the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Yea! she forgets the arm was wont to go</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Around her waist. She wears a buckle whose pin</div>
<div class="verse">Galleth the crook of the young man’s elbòw;</div>
<div class="verse indent1"><em>I</em> forget not, for I that youth have been.</div>
<div class="verse">Smith was aforetime the Lothario gay.</div>
<div class="verse">Yet once, I mind me, Smith was forced to stay</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Close in his room. Not calm, as I, was he;</div>
<div class="verse indent1">But his noise brought no pleasaunce, verily.</div>
<div class="verse">Small ease he gat of playing on the bones,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Or hammering on his stovepipe, that I see.</div>
<div class="verse">Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Thou, for whose fear the figurative crow</div>
<div class="verse indent1">I eat, accursed be thou and all thy kin!</div>
<div class="verse">Thee will I show up—yea, up will I show</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Thy too thick buckwheats, and thy tea too thin.</div>
<div class="verse">Ay! here I dare thee, ready for the fray!</div>
<div class="verse">Thou dost <em>not</em> “keep a first-class house,” I say!</div>
<div class="verse indent1"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</SPAN></span>It does not with the advertisements agree.</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Thou lodgest a Briton with a puggaree,</div>
<div class="verse">And thou hast harbored Jacobses and Cohns,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Also a Mulligan. Thus denounce I thee!</div>
<div class="verse">Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!</div>
</div>
<p class="center"><i>Envoy</i></p>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Boarders! the worst I have not told to ye:</div>
<div class="verse">She hath stolen my trousers, that I may not flee</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Privily by the window. Hence these groans,</div>
<div class="verse">There is no fleeing in a <i>robe de nuit</i>.</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!</div>
</div>
<p class="smaller noindent">By permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>Secretary Chase was not originally a profane
man. He learned how to swear after he went
into Lincoln’s Cabinet. One day, after he had
delivered himself vigorously, Lincoln said to him:</p>
<p>“Mr. Chase, are you an Episcopalian?”</p>
<p>“Why do you ask?” was the somewhat surprised
counter-question.</p>
<p>“Oh, just out of curiosity,” replied Lincoln.
“Seward is an Episcopalian, and I had noticed
that you and he swore in much the same manner.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p><i>Family Physician</i>: “Well, I congratulate
you.”</p>
<p><i>Patient</i> (excitedly): “I will recover?”</p>
<p><i>Family Physician</i>: “Not exactly, but—well,
after consultation, we find that your disease is
entirely novel, and if the autopsy should demonstrate
that fact w<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</SPAN></span>e have decided to name it
after you.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="INSURANCE" id="INSURANCE"></SPAN>AN INSURANCE AGENT’S STORY</h2>
<p>“Oh, I guess we have our experiences,”
laughed the fire insurance agent. “We are just
like others who have to deal with all kinds of
people.</p>
<p>“Take the smart Alecs, for instance. They
give us a whirl once in awhile, but we generally
manage to get as good as a draw with them.
It was only last fall that one of them came in
and wanted me to insure his coal pile. Of
course I caught on at once, but I made out his
policy and took his money. In the spring he
came around with a broad grin on his face and
told me that the coal had been burned—in
the furnace, of course. I solemnly informed
him that we must decline to settle the loss.
He said he would sue. I told him to blaze
away, and I would have him arrested as an
incendiary. That straightened his face out,
and it cost him a tidy little supper for a dozen
of us just to insure our silence.</p>
<p>“One shrewd old chap had grown rich out of
our company, and when he had built an elegant
new store and stocked it with goods he came
to us again for insurance. I refused him, but
he was persistent, and I finally assented on
condition that he hang a gross of hand-grenades
in the place. After I had seen them properly<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</SPAN></span>
distributed, I sent an old chum of his up to get
the real lay of the land, for I was still suspicious.
This is what the cronies said to each other:</p>
<p>“‘What is them things, Ike?’</p>
<p>“‘Hand-grenades.’</p>
<p>“‘What’s hand-grenades?’</p>
<p>“‘I don’t know what was in ’em at first, but
they’re full of kerosene oil now.’</p>
<p>“We canceled the policy.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>A girl from town is staying with some country
cousins who live at a farm. On the night of her
arrival she finds, to her mortification, that she is
ignorant of all sorts of things connected with
farm life which to her country cousins are matters
of every-day knowledge. She fancies they seem
amused at her ignorance.</p>
<p>At breakfast the following morning she sees on
the table a dish of fine honey, whereupon she
thinks she has found an opportunity of retrieving
her humiliating experience of the night before,
and of showing her country cousins that she
knows something of country life after all. So,
looking at the dish of honey, she says carelessly:</p>
<p>“Ah, I see you keep a bee.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p><i>Minister</i> (at baptismal font): “Name, please?”</p>
<p><i>Mother</i> (baby born abroad): “Philip Ferdinand
Chesterfield Randolph y Livingstone.”</p>
<p><i>Minister</i> (aside to a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</SPAN></span>ssistant): “Mr. Kneeler, a
little more water, please.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="PRISCILLA" id="PRISCILLA"></SPAN>FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN</h2>
<h3>A RHYME FOR PRISCILLA</h3>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Dear Priscilla, quaint and very</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Like a modern Puritan,</div>
<div class="verse">Is a modest, literary,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Merry young American:</div>
<div class="verse">Horace she has read, and Bion</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Is her favorite in Greek;</div>
<div class="verse">Shakspeare is a mighty lion</div>
<div class="verse indent1">In whose den she dares but peek;</div>
<div class="verse">Him she leaves to some sage Daniel,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Since of lions she’s afraid—</div>
<div class="verse">She prefers a playful spaniel,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Such as Herrick or as Praed;</div>
<div class="verse">And it’s not a bit satiric</div>
<div class="verse indent1">To confess her fancy goes</div>
<div class="verse">From the epic to a lyric</div>
<div class="verse indent1">On a rose.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Wise Priscilla, dilettante,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">With a sentimental mind,</div>
<div class="verse">Doesn’t deign to dip in Dante,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">And to Milton isn’t kind;</div>
<div class="verse">L’Allegro, Il Penseroso</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Have some merits she will grant,</div>
<div class="verse">All the rest is only so-so—</div>
<div class="verse indent1"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</SPAN></span>Enter Paradise she can’t!</div>
<div class="verse">She might make a charming angel</div>
<div class="verse indent1">(And she will if she is good),</div>
<div class="verse">But it’s doubtful if the change’ll</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Make the Epic understood:</div>
<div class="verse">Honeysuckling, like a bee she</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Goes and pillages his sweets,</div>
<div class="verse">And it’s plain enough to see she</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Worships Keats.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Gay Priscilla—just the person</div>
<div class="verse indent1">For the Locker whom she loves;</div>
<div class="verse">What a captivating verse on</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Her neat-fitting gowns or gloves</div>
<div class="verse">He could write in catching measure,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Setting all the heart astir!</div>
<div class="verse">And to Aldrich what a pleasure</div>
<div class="verse indent1">It would be to sing of her—</div>
<div class="verse">He, whose perfect songs have won her</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Lips to quote them day by day.</div>
<div class="verse">She repeats the rhymes of Bunner</div>
<div class="verse indent1">In a fascinating way,</div>
<div class="verse">And you’ll often find her lost in—</div>
<div class="verse indent1">She has reveries at times—</div>
<div class="verse">Some delightful one of Austin</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Dobson’s rhymes.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">O Priscilla, sweet Priscilla,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Writing of you makes me think,</div>
<div class="verse">As I burn my brown Manila</div>
<div class="verse indent1">And immortalize my ink,</div>
<div class="verse">How well satisfied these poets</div>
<div class="verse indent1"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</SPAN></span>Ought to be with what they do</div>
<div class="verse">When, especially, they know it’s</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Read by such a girl as you:</div>
<div class="verse">I who sing of you would marry</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Just the kind of girl you are—</div>
<div class="verse">One who doesn’t care to carry</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Her poetic taste too far—</div>
<div class="verse">One whose fancy is a bright one,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Who is fond of poems fine,</div>
<div class="verse">And appreciates a light one</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Such as mine.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>As the car reached Westville, an old man with
a long white beard rose feebly from a corner
seat and tottered toward the door. He was,
however, stopped by the conductor, who said:</p>
<p>“Your fare, please.”</p>
<p>“I paid my fare.”</p>
<p>“When? I don’t remember it.”</p>
<p>“Why, I paid you when I got on the car.”</p>
<p>“Where did you get on?”</p>
<p>“At Fair Haven.”</p>
<p>“That won’t do! When I left Fair Haven
there was only a little boy on the car.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” answered the old man, “I know it. I
was that little boy.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<h2><SPAN name="EPITAPH" id="EPITAPH"></SPAN>AN EPITAPH</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">Here lies the body of Susan Lowder</div>
<div class="verse">Who burst while drinking Seidlitz powder.</div>
<div class="verse">Called from this world to her heavenly rest,</div>
<div class="verse">She should have waited till it effervesced.</div>
</div></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="RIVERMOUTH" id="RIVERMOUTH"></SPAN>THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH</h2>
<h3>A RIVERMOUTH ROMANCE</h3>
<p>At five o’clock of the morning of the tenth of
July, 1860, the front door of a certain house on
Anchor Street, in the ancient seaport town of
Rivermouth, might have been observed to open
with great caution. This door, as the least
imaginative reader may easily conjecture, did
not open itself. It was opened by Miss Margaret
Callaghan, who immediately closed it softly
behind her, paused for a few seconds with an
embarrassed air on the stone step, and then,
throwing a furtive glance up at the second-story
windows, passed hastily down the street toward
the river, keeping close to the fences and garden
walls on her left.</p>
<p>There was a ghostlike stealthiness to Miss
Margaret’s movements, though there was nothing
whatever of the ghost about Miss Margaret herself.
She was a plump, short person, no longer
young, with coal-black hair growing low on the
forehead, and a round face that would have been
nearly meaningless if the features had not been
emphasized—italicized, so to speak—by the
smallpox. Moreover, the brilliancy of he<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</SPAN></span>r toilet
would have rendered any ghostly hypothesis
untenable. Mrs. Solomon (we refer to the
dressiest Mrs. Solomon, whichever one that was)
in all her glory was not arrayed like Miss Margaret
on that eventful summer morning. She wore
a light-green, shot-silk frock, a blazing red shawl,
and a yellow crape bonnet profusely decorated
with azure, orange and magenta artificial flowers.
In her hand she carried a white parasol. The
newly risen sun, ricochetting from the bosom of
the river and striking point-blank on the top-knot
of Miss Margaret’s gorgeousness, made her
an imposing spectacle in the quiet street of that
Puritan village. But, in spite of the bravery of
her apparel, she stole guiltily along by garden
walls and fences until she reached a small, dingy
frame house near the wharves, in the darkened
doorway of which she quenched her burning
splendor, if so bold a figure is permissible.</p>
<p>Three-quarters of an hour passed. The sunshine
moved slowly up Anchor Street, fingered
noiselessly the well-kept brass knockers on either
side, and drained the heeltaps of dew which had
been left from the revels of the fairies overnight
in the cups of the morning-glories. Not a soul
was stirring yet in this part of the town, though
the Rivermouthians are such early birds that not
a worm may be said to escape them. By and by
one of the brown Holland shades at one of the
upper windows of the Bilkins Mansion—the house
from which Miss Margaret had emerged—was
drawn up, and old Mr. Bilkins in spiral nig<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</SPAN></span>htcap
looked out on the sunny street. Not a living
creature was to be seen save the dissipated
family cat—a very Lovelace of a cat that was
not allowed a night-key—who was sitting on the
curbstone opposite, waiting for the hall door to
open. Three-quarters of an hour, we repeat,
had passed, when Mrs. Margaret O’Rourke, <i>née</i>
Callaghan, issued from the small, dingy house
by the river and regained the doorstep of the
Bilkins Mansion in the same stealthy fashion in
which she had left it.</p>
<p>Not to prolong a mystery that must already
oppress the reader, Mr. Bilkins’s cook had, after
the manner of her kind, stolen out of the premises
before the family were up and got herself
married—surreptitiously and artfully married—as
if matrimony were an indictable offense.</p>
<p>And something of an offense it was in this
instance. In the first place, Margaret Callaghan
had lived nearly twenty years with the Bilkins
family, and the old people—there were no children
now—had rewarded this long service by
taking Margaret into their affections. It was a
piece of subtle ingratitude for her to marry
without admitting the worthy couple to her
confidence.</p>
<p>In the next place, Margaret had married a
man some eighteen years younger than herself.
That was the young man’s lookout, you say.
We hold it was Margaret that was to blame.
What does a young blade of twenty-two know?
Not half so much as he thinks he does. His<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</SPAN></span>
exhaustless ignorance at that age is a discovery
which is left for him to make in his prime.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Billing and cooing is all your cheer;</div>
<div class="verse">Sighing and singing of midnight strains,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Under Bonnybell’s window panes—</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Wait till you come to Forty Year!”</div>
</div></div>
<p>In one sense Margaret’s husband <em>had</em> come to
forty year—she was forty to a day.</p>
<p>Mrs. Margaret O’Rourke, with the baddish
cat following closely at her heels, entered the
Bilkins mansion, reached her chamber in the
attic without being intercepted, and there
laid aside her finery. Two or three times,
while arranging her more humble attire, she
paused to take a look at the marriage certificate,
which she had deposited between the
leaves of her prayer-book, and on each
occasion held that potent document upside
down; for Margaret’s literary culture was of
the severest order, and excluded the art of
reading.</p>
<p>The breakfast was late that morning. As
Mrs. O’Rourke set the coffee-urn in front of Mrs.
Bilkins and flanked Mr. Bilkins with the broiled
mackerel and buttered toast, Mrs. O’Rourke’s
conscience smote her. She afterward declared
that when she saw the two sitting there so
innocent-like, not dreaming of the <em>comether</em> she
had put upon them, she secretly and unbeknownst
let a few tears fall into the cream pitcher.
Whether or not it was this material expression of
Margaret’s penitence that spoiled the coffee does<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</SPAN></span>
not admit of inquiry; but the coffee was bad. In
fact, the whole breakfast was a comedy of errors.</p>
<p>It was a blessed relief to Margaret when the
meal was ended. She retired in a cold perspiration
to the penetralia of the kitchen, and it was
remarked by both Mr. and Mrs. Bilkins that
those short flights of vocalism—apropos of the
personal charms of one Kate Kearney, who lived
on the banks of Killarney—which ordinarily
issued from the direction of the scullery, were
unheard that forenoon.</p>
<p>The town clock was striking eleven, and the
antiquated timepiece on the staircase (which
never spoke but it dropped pearls and crystals,
like the fairy in the story) was lisping the hour,
when there came three tremendous knocks at
the street door. Mrs. Bilkins, who was dusting
the brass-mounted chronometer in the hall,
stood transfixed, with arm uplifted. The
admirable old lady had for years been carrying
on a guerrilla warfare with itinerant venders of
furniture polish, and pain-killer, and crockery
cement, and the like. The effrontery of the
triple knock convinced her the enemy was at
her gates—possibly that dissolute creature
with twenty-four sheets of note-paper and
twenty-four envelopes for fifteen cents.</p>
<p>Mrs. Bilkins swept across the hall and opened
the door with a jerk. The suddenness of the
movement was apparently not anticipated by
the person outside, who, with one arm stretched
feebly toward the receding knocker, tilted gently
forward and rested both hands on the threshold
in an attitude which was probably common
enough with our ancestors of the Simian period,
but could never have been considered graceful.
By an effort that testified to the excellent condition
of his muscles, the person instantly rig<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</SPAN></span>hted
himself, and stood swaying unsteadily on his
toes and heels, and smiling rather vaguely on
Mrs. Bilkins.</p>
<p>It was a slightly built but well-knitted young
fellow, in the not unpicturesque garb of our
marine service. His woolen cap, pitched forward
at an acute angle with his nose, showed the
back part of a head thatched with short yellow
hair, which had broken into innumerable curls
of painful tightness. On his ruddy cheeks a
sparse, sandy beard was making a timid début.
Add to this a weak, good-natured mouth, a
pair of devil-may-care blue eyes, and the fact
that the man was very drunk, and you have a
pre-Raphaelite portrait—we may as well say at
once—of Mr. Larry O’Rourke of Mullingar,
County Westmeath, and late of the United States
sloop-of-war <i>Santee</i>.</p>
<p>The man was a total stranger to Mrs. Bilkins;
but the instant she caught sight of the double
white anchors embroidered on the lapels of his
jacket, she unhesitatingly threw back the door,
which with great presence of mind she had partly
closed.</p>
<p>A drunken sailor standing on the step of the
Bilkins mansion was no novelty. The street,
as we have stated, led down to the wharves,
and sailors were constantly passing. The house
abutted directly on the street; the granite doorstep
was almost flush with the sidewalk, and the
huge old-fashioned brass knocker—seemingly a
brazen hand that had been cut off at the wrist<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</SPAN></span>,
and nailed against the oak as a warning to malefactors—extended
itself in a kind of grim appeal
to everybody. It seemed to possess strange
fascinations for all seafaring folk; and when there
was a man-of-war in port the rat-tat-tat of that
knocker would frequently startle the quiet
neighborhood long after midnight. There appeared
to be an occult understanding between it
and the blue-jackets. Years ago there was a
young Bilkins, one Pendexter Bilkins—a sad
losel, we fear—who ran away to try his fortunes
before the mast, and fell overboard in a gale off
Hatteras. “Lost at sea,” says the chubby
marble slab in the Old South Burying Ground,
“<i>ætat.</i> 18.” Perhaps that is why no blue-jacket,
sober or drunk, was ever repulsed from the door
of the Bilkins mansion.</p>
<p>Of course Mrs. Bilkins had her taste in the
matter, and preferred them sober. But as this
could not always be, she tempered her wind, so
to speak, to the shorn lamb. The flushed, prematurely
old face that now looked up at her
moved the good lady’s pity.</p>
<p>“What do you want?” she asked kindly.</p>
<p>“Me wife.”</p>
<p>“There’s no wife for you here,” said Mrs.
Bilkins, somewhat taken aback. “His wife!”
she thought; “it’s a mother the poor boy needs.”</p>
<p>“Me wife,” repeated Mr. O’Rourke, “for
betther or for worse.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“You had better go away,” said Mrs. Bilkins,
bridling up, “or it will be the worse for you.”</p>
<p>“To have and to howld,” continued Mr.
O’Rourke, wandering retrospectively in the
mazes of the marriage service, “to have and to
howld till death—bad luck to him!—takes one
or the ither of us.”</p>
<p>“You’re a blasphemous creature,” said Mrs.
Bilkins severely.</p>
<p>“Thim’s the words his riverince spake this
mornin’, standin’ foreninst us,” explained Mr.
O’Rourke. “I stood here, see, and me jew’l
stood there, and the howly chaplain beyont.”</p>
<p>And Mr. O’Rourke with a wavering forefinger
drew a diagram of the interesting situation on
the doorstep.</p>
<p>“Well,” returned Mrs. Bilkins, “if you’re a
married man, all I have to say is, there’s a pair
of fools instead of one. You had better be off;
the person you want doesn’t live here.”</p>
<p>“Bedad, thin, but she does.”</p>
<p>“Lives here?”</p>
<p>“Sorra a place else.”</p>
<p>“The man’s crazy,” said Mrs. Bilkins to herself.</p>
<p>While she thought him simply drunk, she was
not in the least afraid; but the idea that she was
conversing with a madman sent a chill over her.
She reached back her hand preparatory to
shutting the door, when Mr. O’Rourke, with an
agility that might have been expected from his
previous gymnastics, set one foot on the threshold
and frustrated the design.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“I want me wife,” he said sternly.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, Mr. Bilkins had gone uptown,
and there was no one in the house except Margaret,
whose pluck was not to be depended on.
The case was urgent. With the energy of despair
Mrs. Bilkins suddenly placed the toe of her
boot against Mr. O’Rourke’s invading foot and
pushed it away. The effect of this attack was to
cause Mr. O’Rourke to describe a complete circle
on one leg, and then sit down heavily on the
threshold. The lady retreated to the hat-stand,
and rested her hand mechanically on the handle
of a blue cotton umbrella. Mr. O’Rourke partly
turned his head and smiled upon her with conscious
superiority. At this juncture a third
actor appeared on the scene, evidently a friend
of Mr. O’Rourke, for he addressed that gentleman
as a “spalpeen,” and told him to go home.</p>
<p>“Divil an inch,” replied the spalpeen; but he
got himself off the threshold and resumed his
position on the step.</p>
<p>“It’s only Larry, mum,” said the man, touching
his forelock politely; “as dacent a lad as ever
lived, when he’s not in liquor; an’ I’ve known
him to be sober for days togither,” he added,
reflectively. “He don’t mane a ha’p’orth o’
harum, but jist now he’s not quite in his right
moind.”</p>
<p>“I should think not,” said Mrs. Bilkins, turning
from the speaker to Mr. O’Rourke, who had
seated himself gravely on the scraper and was
weeping. “Hasn’t the man any friends?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“Too many of ’em, mum, an’ it’s along wid
dhrinkin’ toasts wid ’em that Larry got throwed.
The punch that spalpeen has dhrunk this day
would amaze ye. He give us the slip awhiles
ago, bad cess to him, an’ come up here. Didn’t
I tell ye, Larry, not to be afther ringin’ at the
owle gintleman’s knocker? Ain’t ye got no
sinse at all?”</p>
<p>“Misther Donnehugh,” responded Mr.
O’Rourke with great dignity, “ye’re dhrunk
again.”</p>
<p>Mr. Donnehugh, who had not taken more than
thirteen ladles of rum punch, disdained to reply
directly.</p>
<p>“He’s a dacent lad enough”—this to Mrs.
Bilkins—“but his head is wake. Whin he’s
had two sups o’ whisky he belaves he’s dhrunk
a bar’lful. A gill o’ wather out of a jimmy-john’d
fuddle him, mum.”</p>
<p>“Isn’t there anybody to look after him?”</p>
<p>“No, mum; he’s an orphan. His father and
mother live in the owld counthry, an’ a fine, hale
owld couple they are.”</p>
<p>“Hasn’t he any family in the town?”</p>
<p>“Sure, mum, he has a family; wasn’t he
married this blessed mornin’?”</p>
<p>“He said so.”</p>
<p>“Indade, thin, he was—the pore divil!”</p>
<p>“And the—the person?” inquired Mrs. Bilkins.</p>
<p>“Is it the wife, ye mane?”</p>
<p>“Yes, the wife; where is she?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“Well, thin, mum,” said Mr. Donnehugh, “it’s
yerself can answer that.”</p>
<p>“I?” exclaimed Mrs. Bilkins. “Good heavens!
this man’s as crazy as the other!”</p>
<p>“Begorra, if anybody’s crazy, it’s Larry, for
it’s Larry has married Margaret.”</p>
<p>“What Margaret?” cried Mrs. Bilkins.</p>
<p>“Margaret Callaghan, sure.”</p>
<p>“<em>Our</em> Margaret? Do you mean to say that
OUR Margaret has married that—that good-for-nothing,
inebriated wretch?”</p>
<p>“It’s a civil tongue the owld lady has, anyway,”
remarked Mr. O’Rourke critically, from
the scraper.</p>
<p>Mrs. Bilkin’s voice during the latter part of
the colloquy had been pitched in a high key; it
rung through the hall and penetrated to the
kitchen, where Margaret was wiping the breakfast
things. She paused with a half-dried
saucer in her hand, and listened. In a moment
more she stood, with bloodless face and limp
figure, leaning against the banister behind Mrs.
Bilkins.</p>
<p>“Is it there ye are, me jew’l!” cried Mr.
O’Rourke, discovering her.</p>
<p>Mrs. Bilkins wheeled upon Margaret.</p>
<p>“Margaret Callaghan, <em>is</em> that thing your
husband?”</p>
<p>“Ye—yes, mum,” faltered Mrs. O’Rourke,
with a woful lack of spirit.</p>
<p>“Then take it away!” cried Mrs. Bilkins.</p>
<p>Margaret, with a slight flus<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</SPAN></span>h on either cheek,
glided past Mrs. Bilkins, and the heavy oak door
closed with a bang, as the gates of Paradise must
have closed of old upon Adam and Eve.</p>
<p>“Come!” said Margaret, taking Mr. O’Rourke
by the hand; and the two wandered forth upon
their wedding journey down Anchor Street, with
all the world before them where to choose. They
chose to halt at the small, shabby tenement-house
by the river, through the doorway of which
the bridal pair disappeared with a reeling,
eccentric gait; for Mr. O’Rourke’s intoxication
seemed to have run down his elbow, and communicated
itself to Margaret.</p>
<p>O Hymen! who burnest precious gums and
scented woods in thy torch at the melting of
aristocratic hearts, with what a pitiful penny-dip
thou hast lighted up our little back-street
romance.—<i>Majorie Daw, and Other Stories.</i></p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>The story is told of a famous Boston lawyer,
that one day, after having a slight discussion
with the Judge, he deliberately turned his
back upon that personage and started to
walk off.</p>
<p>“Are you trying, sir, to show your contempt
for the Court?” asked the judge, sternly.</p>
<p>“No, sir,” was the reply; “I am trying to
conceal it.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2><SPAN name="BOHEMIANS" id="BOHEMIANS"></SPAN>GELETT BURGESS</h2>
<h3>THE BOHEMIANS OF BOSTON</h3>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">The “Orchids” were as tough a crowd</div>
<div class="verse">As Boston anywhere allowed;</div>
<div class="verse">It was a club of wicked men—</div>
<div class="verse">The oldest, twelve, the youngest, ten;</div>
<div class="verse">They drank their soda colored green,</div>
<div class="verse">They talked of “Art,” and “Philistine,”</div>
<div class="verse">They wore buff “wescoats,” and their hair</div>
<div class="verse">It used to make the waiters stare!</div>
<div class="verse">They were so shockingly behaved</div>
<div class="verse">And Boston thought them <em>so</em> depraved,</div>
<div class="verse">Policemen, stationed at the door,</div>
<div class="verse">Would raid them every hour or more!</div>
<div class="verse">They used to smoke (!) and laugh out loud (!)</div>
<div class="verse">They were a very devilish crowd!</div>
<div class="verse">They formed a Cult, far subtler, brainier,</div>
<div class="verse">Than ordinary Anglomania,</div>
<div class="verse">For all as Jacobites were reckoned,</div>
<div class="verse">And gaily toasted Charles the Second!</div>
<div class="verse">(What would the Bonnie Charlie say,</div>
<div class="verse">If he could see that crowd to-day?)</div>
<div class="verse">Fitz-Willieboy McFlubadub</div>
<div class="verse">Was Regent of the Orchids’ Club;</div>
<div class="verse">A wild Bohemian was he,</div>
<div class="verse">And spent his money fast and free.</div>
<div class="verse">He thought no more of spending dimes</div>
<div class="verse">On some debauch of pickled limes,</div>
<div class="verse">Than you would think of spending nickels</div>
<div class="verse">To buy a pint of German pickles!</div>
<div class="verse">The Boston maiden passed him by</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</SPAN></span>With sidelong glances of her eye,</div>
<div class="verse">She dared not speak (he <em>was</em> so wild),</div>
<div class="verse">Yet worshiped this Lotharian child.</div>
<div class="verse">Fitz-Willieboy was so <i>blasé</i>,</div>
<div class="verse">He burned a <i>Transcript</i> up one day!</div>
<div class="verse">The Orchids fashioned all their style</div>
<div class="verse">On Flubadub’s infernal guile.</div>
<div class="verse">That awful Boston oath was his—</div>
<div class="verse"><em>He</em> used to ’jaculate, “Gee Whiz!”</div>
<div class="verse">He showed them that immoral haunt.</div>
<div class="verse">The dirty Chinese Restaurant,</div>
<div class="verse">And there they’d find him, even when</div>
<div class="verse">It got to be as late as ten!</div>
<div class="verse">He ate chopped <em>suey</em> (with a fork),</div>
<div class="verse">You should have heard the villain talk</div>
<div class="verse">Of one <em>reporter</em> that he knew (!)</div>
<div class="verse">An artist, and an actor, too!!!</div>
<div class="verse">The Orchids went from bad to worse,</div>
<div class="verse">Made epigrams—attempted verse!</div>
<div class="verse">Boston was horrified and shocked</div>
<div class="verse">To hear the way those Orchids mocked;</div>
<div class="verse">For they made fun of Boston ways,</div>
<div class="verse">And called good men Provincial Jays!</div>
<div class="verse">The end must come to such a story,</div>
<div class="verse">Gone is the wicked Orchids’ glory,</div>
<div class="verse">The room was raided by police,</div>
<div class="verse">One night, for breaches of the Peace</div>
<div class="verse">(There had been laughter, long and loud,</div>
<div class="verse">In Boston this is not allowed),</div>
<div class="verse">And there, the sergeant of the squad</div>
<div class="verse">Found awful evidence—my God!—</div>
<div class="verse">Fitz-Willieboy McFlubadub,</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</SPAN></span>The Regent of the Orchids’ Club,</div>
<div class="verse">Had written on the window-sill,</div>
<div class="verse">This shocking outrage—“Beacon H—ll!”</div>
<p class="smaller">In “The Burgess Nonsense Book”</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>Of the countless good stories attributed to
Artemus Ward, the best one, perhaps, is one
which tells of the advice which he gave to a
Southern railroad conductor soon after the war.
The road was in a wretched condition, and the
trains were consequently run at a phenomenally
low rate of speed. When the conductor was
punching his ticket, Artemus remarked:</p>
<p>“Does this railroad company allow passengers
to give it advice, if they do so in a respectful
manner?”</p>
<p>The conductor replied in gruff tones that he
guessed so.</p>
<p>“Well,” Artemus went on, “it occurred to me
that it would be well to detach the cowcatcher
from the front of the engine and hitch it to the
rear of the train, for you see we are not liable to
overtake a cow, but what’s to prevent a cow
from strolling into this car and biting a
passenger?”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2><SPAN name="COMPOSITE" id="COMPOSITE"></SPAN>MARION COUTHOUY SMITH</h2>
<h3>THE COMPOSITE GHOST</h3>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">They were placed on exhibition, in a long, imposing row,</div>
<div class="verse">All who’d borne the name of Spriggins for three centuries or so;</div>
<div class="verse">From old Amram, who came over in the Pilgrim Fathers’ track,</div>
<div class="verse">To the late lamented Jane, for whom the family still wore black.</div>
<div class="verse">They stood upon a hardwood shelf, in rich and proud array,</div>
<div class="verse">Not disposed, I beg to state, in any grim, offensive way.</div>
<div class="verse">They were not a row of mummies, standing terrible and tall,</div>
<div class="verse">Nor a grisly stack of coffins, piled up high along the wall;</div>
<div class="verse">You never came across a skull, nor stumbled on a bone,</div>
<div class="verse">Nor a human frame in lattice-work, left rattling there alone;</div>
<div class="verse">Your nerves would never suffer there from sudden shocks or “turns”—</div>
<div class="verse">There was nothing but a score or two of classic little urns,</div>
<div class="verse">Which held their sacred contents, sealed in elegant reserve,</div>
<div class="verse">Like a ghastly kind of jam, or supernatural preserve.</div>
<div class="verse">You never, never would suspect that in those graceful rows,</div>
<div class="verse">The entire Spriggins ancestry could peacefully repose.</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</SPAN></span>’Tis a plan that’s most convenient, thus within a little space,</div>
<div class="verse">To have your relatives condensed, and keep them in a vase;</div>
<div class="verse">For if you care to travel, why, wherever you may go,</div>
<div class="verse">You can simply take your family vault along with you, you know.</div>
<div class="verse">You can have the whole collection sent by Peterson’s express,</div>
<div class="verse">To be a genteel solace in bereavement and distress.</div>
<div class="verse">Besides, it is the prettiest end a man could wish himself—</div>
<div class="verse">To be gathered to his fathers in an urn upon a shelf.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">There rested all the Spriggins tribe, each in his little urn,</div>
<div class="verse">On which the names and dates were carved, as each had died in turn;</div>
<div class="verse">And Spriggins, <i>père</i>, was proud of them, and often went to weep,</div>
<div class="verse">Beside the sacred shelf on which he one day hoped to sleep.</div>
<div class="verse">One fatal afternoon it chanced that Spriggins’s youngest son,</div>
<div class="verse">Whose un-Christian age was seven, and whose Christian name was John,</div>
<div class="verse">Obtained the key to that small room, and found that sacred store</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</SPAN></span>Of the ashes of his fathers, which he ne’er had seen before.</div>
<div class="verse">This Johnny was a clever boy, much given to research,</div>
<div class="verse">His very nose turned up, with interrogatory perch;</div>
<div class="verse">His head—excuse the slang—was very level, you’ll surmise,</div>
<div class="verse">But ’twas level where his bump of veneration ought to rise.</div>
<div class="verse">He knew they were his relatives, within those vases packed,</div>
<div class="verse">But he didn’t care a button for that interesting fact;</div>
<div class="verse">All he wanted was to reach those curious urns and take them down.</div>
<div class="verse">(Alas! the shelf was several feet above his little crown.)</div>
<div class="verse">There came a sudden avalanche, and flat upon the floor</div>
<div class="verse">He lay, sprinkled with the ashes of a century or more!</div>
<div class="verse">A portion of his grandpa ran in torrents down his neck,</div>
<div class="verse">And ’round him all his great-great aunts were lying by the peck.</div>
<div class="verse">He had Pilgrim Fathers in his shoes, all trickling ’round his toes;</div>
<div class="verse">He had grandmas in his hair, and he had cousins in his nose,</div>
<div class="verse">And, worst of all, a fragment of the late lamented Jane</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</SPAN></span>Had lodged beneath his eyelid, and was causing dreadful pain!</div>
<div class="verse">But John had lots of courage, and he didn’t stop to cry,</div>
<div class="verse">Not even with the ashes of his sister in his eye;</div>
<div class="verse">He only gasped, and quickly rose, and ruefully surveyed</div>
<div class="verse">The ruin and confusion that his luckless fall had made.</div>
<div class="verse">He could sweep up all the ashes, but things never could be fixed,</div>
<div class="verse">For the worthy house of Spriggins was inextricably mixed!</div>
<div class="verse">Such stirring up would stagger e’en the very stoutest brain;</div>
<div class="verse">Why, you couldn’t tell old Amram from the late lamented Jane.</div>
<div class="verse">The scions of this honored line, all by that little loon,</div>
<div class="verse">Might just as well have been stirred up, like pudding, with a spoon.</div>
<div class="verse">’Twas very sad; but Johnny, yielding not to thoughts of gloom,</div>
<div class="verse">Brought up a chair to stand on, and a dustpan and a broom,</div>
<div class="verse">And soon that little room was very, very cleanly swept,</div>
<div class="verse">And urns and ashes all put back, just where they had been kept.</div>
<div class="verse">You never, never would suspect what that one day had cost,</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</SPAN></span>And that in that act each Spriggins’s identity was lost!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">That night, alas! Pa Spriggins, in a solemn frame of mind,</div>
<div class="verse">Betook himself to that small room, as oft he felt inclined,</div>
<div class="verse">And he shut the door, and sat him down, those urns to contemplate,</div>
<div class="verse">While appropriate reflections chased each other through his pate,</div>
<div class="verse">For he loved to pensively recount the treasures of the past,</div>
<div class="verse">And wondered constantly how long the family would last.</div>
<div class="verse">The place was dark and gloomy—he was shut up there alone,</div>
<div class="verse">When suddenly—his hair stood up!—he heard a hollow groan!</div>
<div class="verse">The cover of the largest urn rose up a little way,</div>
<div class="verse">A mist came forth, which altered to a figure dim and gray.</div>
<div class="verse">It rose up from the ashes, like the Phenix known of old,</div>
<div class="verse">But of such an awful bird as this the ancients never told.</div>
<div class="verse">It bore a distant likeness to the figure of a man,</div>
<div class="verse">But picture such a nondescript I know I never can.</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</SPAN></span>It had a gray old head upon the shoulders of a child;</div>
<div class="verse">One eye was small and wicked, and the other large and wild.</div>
<div class="verse">Its hands, its feet, its teeth, its ears, I solemnly declare,</div>
<div class="verse">You couldn’t pick out two of them that matched to make a pair!</div>
<div class="verse">One foot was slim and dainty, and the other huge and flat,</div>
<div class="verse">And it had a woman’s wig on underneath a man’s cocked hat;</div>
<div class="verse">A waistcoat like George Washington’s, a blazer and a train,</div>
<div class="verse">That Spriggins knew had once belonged to his departed Jane!</div>
<div class="verse">He sank upon his bonded knees, with terror quite unmanned;</div>
<div class="verse">It stood upon its one large foot, and waved its biggest hand,</div>
<div class="verse">And spake: “Unhappy man,” it said, “for this have we been burned?</div>
<div class="verse">For this have we been kept here long, so carefully inurned?</div>
<div class="verse">Oh, see, upon this sacred shelf what dire confusion reigns!</div>
<div class="verse">Wretch! What have you been doing with your ancestors’ remains?</div>
<div class="verse">You listen to your father’s voice, but thanks, I fear, to you,</div>
<div class="verse">It is your uncle Solomon whose mouth it’s speaking through!</div>
<div class="verse"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</SPAN></span>Oh, tell me who or what I am, and how long I’ve been dead;</div>
<div class="verse">And tell me if I’ve got my own or some one else’s head;</div>
<div class="verse">I don’t belong to any special period at all.</div>
<div class="verse">Am I my Aunt Kiziah, or am I your brother Paul?</div>
<div class="verse">Oh, Spriggins—Ebenezer J!—Oh, wretch! Oh, fool! Oh, rash!</div>
<div class="verse">How could you mix our ashes in one vast, ancestral hash?”</div>
<div class="verse">Thus ending, with a mingled wail of misery and rage,</div>
<div class="verse">That awful vision ceased to speak, and vanished from the stage,</div>
<div class="verse">While ghostly groanings issued from the various urns around,</div>
<div class="verse">But poor old Spriggins heard no more—he swooned upon the ground.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">And now these mingled embers ’neath memorial marbles lie,</div>
<div class="verse">And Spriggins and his family will be buried when they die.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2><SPAN name="TEACHERS" id="TEACHERS"></SPAN>SOME MESSAGES RECEIVED BY TEACHERS IN BROOKLYN PUBLIC SCHOOLS</h2>
<p>The fact that the “Slab City” parents object
to clay-modeling in the schools is illustrated in
the following note sent to a teacher in one of
the Tenth Ward schools:</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p><i>Miss ——</i>: John kem home yesterday wid
his clothes covered wid mud. He said you put
him to work mixing clay when he ought to be
learning to read an’ write. Me man carries
th’ hod, an’ God knows I hev enuf trouble wid
his clothes in th’ wash widout scraping John’s
coat. If he comes home like this agin I’ll send
him back ter yez to wash his clothes.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Mrs. O’R——</span></p>
</div>
<p>Here is one from a Brownsville mother who
objects to physical culture:</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p><i>Miss Brown</i>: You must stop teach my
Lizzie fisical torture she needs yet readin’ an’
figors mit sums more as that, if I want her to
do jumpin’ I kin make her jump.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Canavowsky.</span></p>
</div>
<p>The number of parents who object to the
temperance plank in the educational platform
is greater than the number of objectors to any
other class of study in Williamsburg. Here is a
copy of a note sent to a teacher in the Stagg
Street school:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p><i>Miss ——</i>: My boy tells me that when I
trink beer der overcoat vrom my stummack
gets to thick. Please be so kind and don’t
intervere in my family afairs.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Mr. Chris ——</span></p>
</div>
<p>Here is a sample on the same subject sent to a
teacher in the Maujer Street school:</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p><i>Dear Teacher</i>: You should mine your own
bizniss an’ not tell Jake he should not trink
bier, so long he lif he trinks the bier an’ he trinks
it yen wen bill rains is ded, if you interfer some
more I go on the bored of edcation.</p>
<p class="right">W. S.</p>
</div>
<p>In this school the teachers are often compelled
to listen to long arguments on the excise
question, and the parents who call around to
argue become greatly excited when told that
the children are taught not to taste alcoholic
liquors. One little boy told his teacher that his
mother had given him orders to get up and
leave the classroom during the hour for discussing
the alcohol question. The teacher told
the boy to ask his mother to call around at the
schoolhouse. She wrote this note instead:</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p><i>Teacher</i>: John says you want to see me.
I have a bier saloon and nine children. Bizness
is good in morning an’ aft’noon. How can I
come?</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</SPAN></span>
The Pickleville parents as a rule never omit
the “obliging” end of a note, as will be seen
in the following, sent to a teacher of the Wall
Street school:</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p><i>Dear Teacher</i>: Pleas excus Fritz for staying
home he had der meesells to oblige his
father.</p>
<p class="right">J. B.</p>
</div>
<p>And here is another of the obliging kind:</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p><i>Teacher</i>: Please excuse Henny for not
comeing in school as he died from the car run-over
on Tuesday. By doing so you will greatly
oblige his loving mother.</p>
</div>
<p>Here is one sent to the Brownsville school:</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p><i>Dear Miss Baker</i>: Please excuse Rachael
for being away those two days her grandmother
died to oblige her mother.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Renski.</span></p>
</div>
<p>The child mentioned in the following note
was neither German nor Irish. But he is back
in school after a battle with the doctors:</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p><i>Miss ——</i>: Frank could not come these
three weeks because he had the amonia and
information of the vowels.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Smith.</span></p>
</div>
<p>The notes sent are sometimes written on
scented paper, and as a rule these are misspelled.
He<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</SPAN></span>re is a scented-paper sample:</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p><i>Teacher</i>: You must excuse my girl for not
coming to school, she was sick and lade in a
common dose state for tree days.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Mrs. W.</span></p>
</div>
<p>In this same school a teacher received the
following:</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p><i>Miss ——</i>: Please let Willie home at 2 o’clock.
I take him out for a little pleasure to see his
grandfather’s grave.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Mrs. R.</span></p>
</div>
<p>Still another mother wrote the following:</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p><i>Miss ——</i>: Please be so kind an’ knock hell
out of Sol when he gives too much lip to oblige
his mother.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2><SPAN name="TROUT" id="TROUT"></SPAN>THE TROUT’S APPEAL</h2>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">Don’t visit the commonplace Winnepesauke,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Or the rivulet Onoquinapaskeasanognog,</div>
<div class="verse">Nor climb to the summit of bare Moosilauke,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">And look eastward toward the clear Umbagog;</div>
<div class="verse">But come into Maine to the Welokennebacock,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Or to the saucy little river Essiqualsagook,</div>
<div class="verse">Or still smaller stream of Chinquassabunticook,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Then visit me last on the great Anasagunticook.</div>
</div></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2><SPAN name="THIRST" id="THIRST"></SPAN>BILL NYE</h2>
<h3>A FATAL THIRST</h3>
<p>From the London <i>Lancet</i> we learn that
“many years ago a case was recorded by Doctor
Otto, of Copenhagen, in which 495 needles
passed through the skin of a hysterical girl,
who had probably swallowed them during a
hysterical paroxysm, but these all emerged
from the regions below the diaphragm, and
were collected in groups, which gave rise to
inflammatory swellings of some size. One of these
contained 100 needles. Quite recently Doctor
Bigger described before the Society of Surgery
of Dublin a case in which more than 300 needles
were removed from the body of a woman. It
is very remarkable in how few cases the needles
were the cause of death, and how slight an
interference with function their presence and
movement cause.”</p>
<p>It would seem, from the cases on record,
that needles in the system rather assist in the
digestion and promote longevity.</p>
<p>For instance, we will suppose that the hysterical
girl above alluded to, with 495 needles
in her stomach, should absorb the midsummer
cucumber. Think how interesting those needles
would make it for the great colic promoter!</p>
<p>We can imagine the cheerful smile of the
cucumber as it enters the stomach, and, bowing
cheerfully to the follicles standing around<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</SPAN></span>,
hangs its hat upon the walls of the stomach,
stands its umbrella in a corner, and proceeds
to get in its work.</p>
<p>All at once the cucumber looks surprised
and grieved about something. It stops in its
heaven-born colic generation, and pulls a rusty
needle out of its person. Maddened by the
pain, it once more attacks the digestive apparatus,
and once more accumulates a choice
job lot of needles.</p>
<p>Again and again it enters into the unequal
contest, each time losing ground and gaining
ground, till the poor cucumber, with assorted
hardware sticking out in all directions, like the
hair on a cat’s tail, at last curls up like a caterpillar
and yields up the victory.</p>
<p>Still, this needle business will be expensive
to husbands, if wives once acquire the habit
and allow it to obtain the mastery over them.</p>
<p>If a wife once permits this demon appetite
for cambric needles to get control of the house,
it will soon secure a majority in the senate,
and then there will be trouble.</p>
<p>The woman who once begins to tamper
with cambric needles is not safe. She may
think that she has power to control her appetite,
but it is only a step to the maddening
thirst for the darning-needle, and perhaps to the
button-hook and carpet-stretcher.</p>
<p>It is safer and better to crush the first desire
for needles than to undertake when it is too
late reformation from the abject <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</SPAN></span>slavery to
this hellish thirst.</p>
<p>We once knew a sweet young creature, with
dewy eye and breath like timothy hay. Her
merry laugh rippled out upon the summer
air like the joyful music of baldheaded bobolinks.</p>
<p>Everybody loved her, and she loved everybody
too. But in a thoughtless moment she swallowed
a cambric needle. This did not satisfy
her. The cruel thraldom had begun. Whenever
she felt depressed and gloomy, there was
nothing that would kill her ennui and melancholy
but the fatal needle-cushion.</p>
<p>From this she rapidly became more reckless,
till there was hardly an hour that she was not
under the influence of needles.</p>
<p>If she couldn’t get needles to assuage her mad
thirst, she would take hairpins or door-keys.
She gradually pined away to a mere skeleton.
She could no longer sit on one foot and be
happy.</p>
<p>Life for her was filled with opaque gloom
and sadness. At last she took an overdose of
sheep-shears and monkey-wrenches one day,
and on the following morning her soul had lit
out for the land of eternal summer.</p>
<p>We should learn from this to shun the maddening
needle-cushion as we would a viper,
and never tell a lie.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2><SPAN name="BADBOY" id="BADBOY"></SPAN>GEORGE W. PECK</h2>
<h3>PECK’S BAD BOY</h3>
<p>“Say, are you a Mason, or a Nodfellow, or
anything?” asked the bad boy of the grocery
man, as he went to the cinnamon bag on the
shelf and took out a long stick of cinnamon
bark to chew.</p>
<p>“Why, yes, of course I am; but what set you
to thinking of that?” asked the grocery man,
as he went to the desk and charged the boy’s
father with a half-pound of cinnamon.</p>
<p>“Well, do the goats bunt when you nishiate
a fresh candidate?”</p>
<p>“No, of course not. The goats are cheap
ones, that have no life, and we muzzle them,
and put pillows over their heads so they can’t
hurt anybody,” said the grocery man, as he
winked at a brother Oddfellow who was seated
on a sugar barrel, looking mysterious. “But
why do you ask?”</p>
<p>“Oh, nothin’, only I wish me and my chum
had muzzled our goat with a pillow. Pa would
have enjoyed his becoming a member of our
lodge better. You see, Pa had been telling us
how much good the Masons and Oddfellers
did, and said we ought to try and grow up good
so we could jine the lodges when we got big;
and I asked Pa if it would do any hurt for us
to have a play lodge in my room, and purtend
to nishiate, and Pa said it wouldn’t do any
hurt. He said it would improve our minds<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</SPAN></span>
and learn us to be men. So my chum and me
borried a goat that lives in a livery stable. Say,
did you know they keep a goat in a livery
stable so the horses won’t get sick? They get
used to the smell of the goat, and after that
nothing can make them sick but a glue factory.
You see, my chum and me had to carry the goat
up to my room when Ma and Pa was out riding,
and he blatted so we had to tie a handkerchief
around his nose, and his feet made such a noise
on the floor that we put some baby’s socks on
his hoofs.</p>
<p>“Well, my chum and me practised with that
goat until he could bunt the picture of a goat
every time. We borried a bock-beer sign from
a saloon man and hung it on the back of a chair,
and the goat would hit it every time. That
night Pa wanted to know what we were doing
up in my room, and I told him we were playing
lodge, and improving our minds; and Pa said
that was right, there was nothing that did boys
of our age half so much good as to imitate men,
and store by useful nollidge. Then my chum
asked Pa if he didn’t want to come up and take
the grand bumper degree, and Pa laffed and
said he didn’t care if he did, just to encourage
us boys in innocent pastime that was so improving
to our intellex. We had shut the goat
up in a closet in my room, and he had got over
blatting; so we took off the handkerchief and he
was eating some of my paper collars and skate
straps. We went upstairs and told Pa <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</SPAN></span>to come
up pretty soon and give three distinct raps, and
when we asked him who comes there he must
say, ‘A pilgrim, who wants to join your ancient
order and ride the goat.’ Ma wanted to come
up, too, but we told her if she come in it would
break up the lodge, ’cause a woman couldn’t
keep a secret, and we didn’t have any side-saddle
for the goat. Say, if you never tried it,
the next time you nishiate a man in your
Mason’s lodge you sprinkle a little kyan pepper
on the goat’s beard just before you turn him
loose. You can get three times as much fun
to the square inch of goat. You wouldn’t
think it was the same goat. Well, we got all
fixed, and Pa rapped, and we let him in and
told him he must be blindfolded, and he got on
his knees a-laffing, and I tied a towel around his
eyes, and then I turned him around and made
him get down on his hands also, and then his
back was right toward the closet sign, and I
put the bock-beer sign right against Pa’s clothes.
He was a-laffing all the time, and said we boys
were as full of fun as they made ’em, and we
told him it was a solemn occasion, and we
wouldn’t permit no levity, and if he didn’t stop
laffing we couldn’t give him the grand bumper
degree. Then everything was ready, and my
chum had his hand on the closet door, and
some kyan pepper in his other hand, and I
asked Pa in low bass tones if he felt as though
he wanted to turn back, or if he had nerve
enough to go ahead and take the degree. I<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</SPAN></span>
warned him that it was full of dangers, as the
goat was loaded for bear, and told him he yet
had time to retrace his steps if he wanted to.
He said he wanted the whole bizness, and we
could go ahead with the menagerie. Then I
said to Pa that if he had decided to go ahead,
and not blame us for the consequences, to
repeat after me the following, ‘Bring forth
the Royal Bumper and let him Bump.’</p>
<p>“Pa repeated the words, and my chum
sprinkled the kyan pepper on the goat’s mustache,
and he sneezed once and looked sassy,
and then he see the lager-beer goat rearing up,
and he started for it just like a crow-catcher,
and blatted. Pa is real fat, but he knew he got
hit, and he grunted and said, ‘What you boys
doin’?’ and then the goat gave him another
degree, and Pa pulled off the towel and got up
and started for the stairs, and so did the goat;
and Ma was at the bottom of the stairs listening,
and when I looked over the banisters Pa and
Ma and the goat were all in a heap, and Pa
was yelling murder, and Ma was screaming fire,
and the goat was blatting, and sneezing, and
bunting, and the hired girl came into the hall
and the goat took after her, and she crossed
herself just as the goat struck her and said,
‘Howly mother, protect me!’ and went downstairs
the way we boys slide down hill, with
both hands on herself, and the goat reared up and
blatted, and Pa and Ma went into their room
and shut the door, and then my chum and me<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</SPAN></span>
opened the front door and drove the goat out.
The minister, who comes to see Ma every three
times a week, was just ringing the bell, and the
goat thought he wanted to be nishiated, too,
and gave him one for luck, and then went down
the sidewalk, blatting, and sneezing, and the
minister came in the parlor and said he was
stabbed, and then Pa came out of his room with
his suspenders hanging down, and he didn’t know
the minister was there, and he said cuss words,
and Ma cried and told Pa he would go to the
bad place sure, and Pa said he didn’t care, he
would kill that kussid goat afore he went, and
I told Pa the minister was in the parlor, and
he and Ma went down and said the weather
was propitious for a revival, and it seemed as
though an outpouring of the spirit was about to
be vouchsafed, and none of them sot down but
Ma, cause the goat didn’t hit her, and while they
were talking relidgin with their mouths, and
kussin’ the goat inwardly, my chum and me
adjourned the lodge, and I went and stayed
with him all night, and I haven’t been home
since. But I don’t believe Pa will lick me,
’cause he said he would not hold us responsible
for the consequences. He ordered the goat
hisself, and we filled the order, don’t you see?
Well, I guess I will go and sneak in the back
way, and find out from the hired girl how the
land lays. She won’t go back on me, ’cause
the goat was not loaded for hired girls. She
just happened to get in at the wrong time.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</SPAN></span>
Good-by, sir. Remember and give your goat
kyan pepper in your lodge.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>The average American at home or abroad does
not take kindly to anything that would seem to
cast the shadow of a shade upon his native land.
A story told one evening at the Richmond
Avenue Methodist Episcopal Church by the Rev.
George W. Peck might be cited in illustration.
An Englishman was traveling through Italy with
an American friend, and in the course of their
sojournings each maintained the superiority of
his own country. Finally, the grand spectacle of
Mount Vesuvius in eruption, throwing its brilliant
rays across the Bay of Naples, burst upon
their astonished gaze. “Now, look at that,”
chuckled the Englishman; “you haven’t got
anything in America that can come anywhere
near that.” “No,” moodily replied the Yankee.
“It is true we have not got a Vesuvius, but we
have got a waterfall that could put that thing
out in less than five minutes.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>An Illinois paper has the following: “The
funeral services of the late William P. Lewis were
somewhat hurried to enable his estimable and
grief-stricken widow to catch the two o’clock
train for Chicago, where she goes to visit friends.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>“Fellow-citizens,” said the candidate, “I have<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</SPAN></span>
fought against the Indians. I have often had
no bed but the battle-field, and no canopy but
the sky. I have marched over the frozen ground
till every step has been marked with blood.”</p>
<p>His story told well, till a dried-up looking
voter came to the front.</p>
<p>“Did yer say yer’d fought for the Union?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” replied the candidate.</p>
<p>“And agin the Indians?”</p>
<p>“Yes, many a time.”</p>
<p>“And that you had slept on the ground with
only the sky for a kiver?”</p>
<p>“Certainly.”</p>
<p>“And that your feet bled in marching over the
frozen ground?”</p>
<p>“That they did,” cried the exultant candidate.</p>
<p>“Then I’ll be darned if you hain’t done enough
for your country. Go home and rest. I’ll vote
for the other fellow.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>Mrs. L—— had often told Mamie, her four-year-old
daughter, that she was never alone,
because God was always with her. One day
Mrs. L—— was called from the room and left
Mamie for a longer time than she expected.
When she came back she said pityingly: “Why,
Mamie, have you been here alone all the time?
I thought some one would come in.” “Oh, I
haven’t been alone, mamma,” Mamie answered,
“because God has been with me; but,” she
added, gravely, “he’s <em>dretful</em> poor company.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr class="full" />
<SPAN name="endofbook"></SPAN>
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