| By Author | [ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z | Other Symbols ] |
| By Title | [ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z | Other Symbols ] |
| By Language |
|
Download this book: [ ASCII ] Look for this book on Amazon Tweet |
Title: Frontier Humor in Verse, Prose and Picture
Author: Cox, Palmer
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Frontier Humor in Verse, Prose and Picture" ***
This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.
PICTURE ***
FRONTIER HUMOR
IN
VERSE, PROSE AND PICTURE.
BY
PALMER COX,
AUTHOR OF “QUEER PEOPLE,” “THE BROWNIES,” ETC., ETC.
ILLUSTRATED.
EDGEWOOD PUBLISHING COMPANY.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1889, by
HUBBARD BROS.,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C.
[Illustration: COMIC YARNS IN VERSE, PROSE AND PICTURE By PALMER COX
AUTHOR OF QUEER PEOPLE, THE BROWNIES, ETC., ETC.]
PUBLISHERS’ PREFACE.
Not only is truth stranger than fiction, but it is funnier also. Just as
some men have no eye for colors, but are color blind; so some men have
no eye for fun, but are fun blind. Happy is the man who can see the
humor which bubbles up in daily life; doubly happy he who, having seen,
can tell the fun to others and so spread the glad contagion of a laugh;
but thrice happy is the man who, having seen, can tell the fun; and
having told, can picture it for others’ eyes and so roll on the
rollicking humor, for the brightening of a world already far too sad.
Palmer Cox is one who sees, and tells, and pictures all the fun within
his reach, as this volume of Frontier Humor will certainly attest.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
PAGE
AH TIE—THAT DEADLY PIE, 17
NEW YEAR’S CALLERS, 21
SCENES ON THE SIDEWALK, 26
SAM PATTERSON’S BALLOON, 31
MY CANINE, 53
JIM DUDLEY’S FLIGHT, 56
TRIALS OF THE FARMER, 67
A CUNNING DODGE 69
A TERRIBLE TAKE IN, 73
A FAMILY JAR, 78
THE ROD OF CORRECTION, 85
GONE FROM HIS GAZE, 89
ST. PATRICK’S DAY, 91
THE CONTENTED FROG, 97
ALL FOOLS’ DAY, 103
FINDING A HORSE-SHOE, 107
AN EVENING WITH SCIENTISTS, 117
OUR TABLE GIRL, 120
AN OLD WOMAN IN PERIL, 122
FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE, 128
ODE ON A BUMBLE-BEE, 131
DUDLEY AND THE GREASED PIG, 135
CORA LEE, 156
A BRILLIANT FORENSIC EFFORT, 162
VISITING A SCHOOL, 169
THE REJECTED SUITOR, 171
A NIGHT OF TERROR, 175
MY DRIVE TO THE CLIFF, 178
SECOND SIGHT, 184
THE THIEF, 187
A STARTLING CAT-ASTROPHE, 194
A TRIP TO THE MOUNTAINS, 196
AN IMPATIENT UNDERTAKER, 209
SERMON ON A PIN, 218
DUDLEY’S FIGHT WITH THE TEXAN, 221
ROLLER SKATING, 242
A TERRIBLE NOSE, 243
A MASKED BATTERY, 249
THE PRIZE I DIDN’T WIN, 257
THE COUNTRYMAN’S TOOTH, 260
MINING STOCKS, 262
ODE ON A FLEA, 265
FIGHTING IT OUT ON THAT LINE, 268
DUDLEY’S FIGHT WITH DR. TWEEZER, 271
MY NEIGHBOR WORSTED, 285
THE BREATHING SPELL, 289
A VISIT TO BENICIA, 290
TOO MUCH OF INDIAN, 297
GOING UP THE SPOUT, 299
THE GLORIOUS FOURTH, 309
JIM DUDLEY’S SERMON, 313
THE POISONED PET, 337
SEEKING FOR A WIFE, 340
DAVID GOYLE, THE MILLER MAN, 349
HEELS UP AND HEADS DOWN, 360
THE BITTER END, 362
A TRIP TO THE INTERIOR, 367
HUNTING WITH A VENGEANCE, 385
THE ART GALLERY, 391
A ROLLING STONE, 396
RIDING IN THE STREET CARS, 399
SIMON RAND, 408
THE VALUE OF A COLLAR, 420
QUAINT EPITAPHS, 425
MISTAKEN IDENTITY, 430
FLIRTING, AND WHAT CAME OF IT, 435
THE CHAMPION MEAN MAN, 436
IN A THOUSAND YEARS, 452
THE COBBLER’S END, 454
THE LAST OF HIS RACE, 460
JIM DUDLEY’S RACE, 462
OLEOMARGARINE, 481
DINING UNDER DIFFICULTIES, 483
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS, 486
COURT-ROOM SCENES, 489
THE MASON’S RIDE, 493
JUNE, 497
THE ANNIVERSARY, 500
A COUNTRY TOWN, 503
A TRIP ACROSS THE BAY, 507
CHRISTMAS EVE, 513
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Pictorial Title, iii
A Tight Place, 19
Starting Out, 23
A Little Mixed, 24
The Ex-veteran of Waterloo, 27
A Miner who will soon be Minus, 28
May and December, 30
Sam Patterson, 32
Premature Ascent, 37
Attempted Abduction of Sam’s Wife, 39
“Let Me Git Out,” 41
“Go in, Cripple,” 49
A Right Angled Try-ankle, 51
A Prey to Disease, 54
Bob Browser, 57
Old Hurley Welcomes Jim, 61
Old Hurley on the War Path, 65
A Happy Thought, 68
Advance of the Cripple Brigade, 71
“Pay in Advance, Sir,” 75
Emperor Nelson, of San Francisco, 77
Stranger Who Went Not In, 79
The Stranger Who Went In, 83
A Rear Attack, 87
Little Dog’s Leather Collar, 90
In the Morning, 93
In the Evening, 94
In Meditation, 98
Bob’s Attack, 101
Alas! Poor Frog, 102
April, 103
Sold, 104
The Horse-shoe Charm, 109
Repairs Needed, 113
The President of the Academy, 119
The Old Lady’s Ascent, 124
The Trying Moment, 129
Judge Perkins, 140
Bad for the Fruit Business, 143
Bow-legged Spinny, 146
Nip and Tuck, 151
More Light on the Subject, 154
The Chief, 158
Behind the Bars, 161
The Advocate, 163
Bill of Divorce, 167
Head of his Class, 169
Foot of her Class, 170
A Suitor Nonsuited, 172
A Rousing Event, 176
Slightly Embarrassing, 181
Badly Mixed, 182
The Economist Seeing Double, 186
Richard Roe, the Sardine Thief, 189
The Judge, 191
Neck to Neck, 199
Steam let On, 203
Blow me Up! 207
Business is Business, 213
Bill After his Glass Eye, 223
The Ministerial Looking Man, 227
Startling Disclosures, 234
Busting his Bugle, 244
The One-eyed Swede, 250
Needed Air, 254
The Best Shot, 258
The Ascent, 263
The Descent, 264
Going for the Doctor, 274
Hands Up and Heads Down, 279
Alas! Poor Doctor, 281
One of Heenan’s Mementoes, 292
A Scientific Opening, 294
An Object of Suspicion, 300
On a Raid, 304
The Glorious Fourth, 309
Arousing the Dog, 311
The Final Explosion, 312
Something New, 314
The Doctor’s Scourge, 318
Joe Grimsby, 322
Truth is Powerful, 328
Mr. Spudd, 331
The Old Interrogator, 332
Having a Quiet Time, 339
The Crone, 341
Attending to Business, 345
Partner Wanted, 347
The New Acquaintance, 353
A One-sided Operation, 357
Lively Work, 364
A Mosquito on the Scent, 368
To the Hilt in Blood, 371
The Orchestra, 374
Macbeth, 378
Othello, 379
A Startling Apparition, 383
Advance of the Expedition, 386
Boggs Retrieving his Game, 390
From a Painting by an Old Master, 392
Love’s Young Dream, 394
A Through Passenger, 397
The Signal Station, 400
Rather “Sloroppy,” 403
Sniffing the Battle from Afar, 404
Alighting Gracefully, 407
Revenge is Sweet, 411
The Exploring Party, 413
“Up he Comes,” 416
Unpromising Outlook, 418
No Collar, No Crumbs, 422
The Sexton, 429
The Clergyman in Limbo, 432
Sleepy Doby, 440
Opening his Heart, 444
Swearing to Get Even, 449
A Moving Scene, 457
Slipping Off the Mortal Coil, 458
The Last of his Race, 460
Abe Drake, 464
Kate Rykert, 466
Mrs. O’Laughlan, 472
Just as it Was, 473
Curing People’s Corns, 478
Bummers on the Raid, 484
A Drowsy Jury, 490
The Rocky Road to Masonry, 495
June, 497
The Fire Department, 506
Peering into the Depths, 508
Good-Bye, 509
Sketching from Nature, 510
So Sick! 511
At the Rail, 512
AH TIE.
THAT DEADLY PIE.
[Illustration]
I Sing the woe and overthrow
Of one debased and sly,
Who entered soft a baker’s shop,
And stole a currant pie.
And not a soul about the place,
And no one passing by,
Chanced to detect him in the act,
Or dreamed that he was nigh.
The moon alone with lustre shone,
And viewed him from the sky,
And broadly smiled, as musing on
The sequel by and by.
Ah Tie began, while fast he ran,
To gobble down the pie,
Determined that, if caught at last,
No proof should meet the eye.
For not the fox, for cunning famed,
The crow, or weasel, sly,
Could with that erring man compare—
The heathen thief, Ah Tie.
But, blessings on the pastry man!
Oh! blessings, rich and high,
Upon the cook who cooked a rag
Within that currant pie!
Dim was the light, and large the bite
The thief to bolt did try,
And in his haste, along with paste,
He gulped the wiper dry.
So thus it proves that slight affairs
Do oft, as none deny,
For good or evil, unawares,
Be waiting with reply.
The influence of every plot,
Or action bold or sly,
Or good or bad, mistake or not,
Will speak, we may rely.
He strove in vain, with cough and strain.
And finger swallowed nigh,
Or in, or out, to force the clout,
Or turn the thing awry.
But tight as wadding in a gun,
Or cork in jug of rye,
The choking gag, but half-way down,
Fast in his throat did lie.
[Illustration: A TIGHT PLACE.]
Not finger point, or second joint,
Or heaving cough, or pry,
Did seem to change its posture strange,
Or work a passage by.
The Lord was there, as everywhere—
His ways who can descry?
He turned to use the rag that missed
The cook’s incautious eye.
The race was short, as it must be
When lungs get no supply
Of ever needful oxygen,
The blood to purify.
It matters not how large or small
The man, or beast, or fly,
A little air must be their share,
Or else to life “good bye.”
Slow grew his pace, and black his face,
And blood-shot rolled his eye;
And from his nerveless fingers fell
The fragments of the pie.
The broken crust rolled in the dust,
While scattered currants fly;
But ah, the fatal part had gone
Upon its mission high.
Then down he dropped, a strangled man,
Without a witness nigh—
And Death, the grim old boatman, ran
His noiseless shallop by.
NEW YEAR’S CALLERS.
Heigh ho, the New Year is again upon us with its open houses, its “hope
you’re wells,” and its “bye bye’s.”
Let what will grow dull or rusty, the sweeping scythe of old Time is
ever sharp and busy. How tempered must be that blade which nothing can
dull or turn aside.
Now as I sit by my window and look pensively out upon the streets I see
them crowded with callers, all anxious to increase the number of their
acquaintances. They ring, scrape, and wait. The door opens and they
disappear from my view, but fancy pictures them out as they doubtless
appear inside, embarrassed because of a painful dearth of words. The
weather, fortunately, is a standing theme of conversation. It will
always bear comment, and but for this how many callers—who perhaps can
hardly come under the head of acquaintances—would wish themselves well
out upon the street again, even before sampling the customary wine and
cake.
But Fashion is King, and when he nods, his satellites and minions must
obey or perish. But I, who come not under the awe of his scepter, have
few calls to make. With a leaking roof and no bolt to my door I can keep
“open house” without going to the expense of procuring cake or wine, and
for this left-handed blessing may the Lord make me truly thankful.
[Illustration: STARTING OUT.]
I have been sitting by my window most of the day, watching gentlemen—who
were not so fortunate as myself. And I notice with considerable pain—for
as reader and writer cannot understand each other too soon, I may as
well inform you at once that I am a philanthropist—that some of these
callers present an aspect in the evening quite different from their
festive morning appearance. Here, for instance, is a sketch of an
exquisite as he appears when starting to make his numerous calls. Mark
what grace is in every movement as he struts the pavement with military
precision, adjusting his lavender-colored kids as he goes. There is
something in the airy set of his stylish new stove-pipe, in the very
easy elegance of manner with which he holds the crystal orb over his
left optic, that bespeaks the born gentleman. Not to a rise in stocks,
he would tell you, or a lucky lottery ticket, does he owe his carriage,
but to a line of ancestors which he can trace back, perhaps, to the very
loins of William the Conqueror.
[Illustration: A LITTLE MIXED.]
Look now upon _this_ picture. The unpracticed eye could hardly recognize
the gentleman, and yet this is the same sociable but absent-minded
individual, as he appeared in the evening frogging up the steps of the
dwelling opposite, to make his third call upon the same family. He is
evidently “turned around,” poor fellow. Ah, this mixing of coffee, tea,
and wine, not to mention stronger potations, will play the mischief with
a man, and no mistake about it. The young ladies, with mouths ajar and
dilated eyes, look out upon him through partially closed blinds. But he
recks not of it as he leans backward, pulling and jerking at the bell
knob as though he was drawing on a tight boot. The bell-hanger will
doubtless have a job in that house to-morrow. The question naturally
arises, will they chalk the gentleman down as a caller each time he
favors them with his presence? Now that I think of it, they might do so
with an easy conscience, for he is certainly not the man he was when he
first offered the compliments of the day.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
SCENES ON THE SIDEWALK.
I sit at my window to view the odd sights,
And whatever to study or action invites
Upon the white paper before me I spread,
By aid of my constant companion, the Lead.
A lady of Fashion sails by like a queen,
With ruffles and lace, and her _satin de chine_;
Her shimmering train as it now sweeps the street,
Is sadly ensnaring a gentleman’s feet.
It is painfully plain an apology’s due;
But which should apologize first of the two?
[Illustration: THE EX-VETERAN OF WATERLOO.]
And next, an old man full of years shuffles by,
His nose to the dust, and his back to the sky;
The few snowy hairs that still cling to his head
Far down o’er his collar untidily spread.
And who now would think that the feeble, dry hand
That hardly can free the rude cane from the sand,
Once swung a long saber, that cut its way through
The cuirassiers’ helmets at famed Waterloo?
Old Time warps the figure firm-knitted and square,
He sharpens the feature, he blanches the hair,
And bows the proud head, be it ever so high;
This much hath he done for the man passing by.
[Illustration: A MINER WHO WILL SOON BE MINUS.]
Away, to the fields of the diamond and ruby,
The miner sets out, like a consummate booby;
What loads the poor fellow proposes to pack:
His rifle, his shovel, his grub, and his sack;
His rifle to guard against numerous ills,
His shovel to shovel his way to the hills,
The long leather sack he bears in his hand,
To hold the bright gems he may pick from the sand;
In fancy I see him ascend the steep hill,
Or traverse the plain with his sack empty still;
While down on his head ever scorching-hot rays
Descend from th’ unclouded sun like a blaze,—
Too far from his friends, and too nigh to his foes,
Who welcome the stranger with arrows and bows,
And rifles, and war-clubs, and hatchets of stone,
And weapons for scalping, and lances of bone.
Trudge on to your treasure (?), poor dupe of the knave
And prey of the savage—pass on to your grave.
Now stepping as one, see the new-married pair
Emerge from the church. What a contrast is there!
Come haste to the window and gaze out with me—
Ere they enter their carriage the pair you may see.
Oh, May and December! extremes of the year,
When linked thus together, how odd they appear;
The bride in her teens, with a mind as unstable
As ladders of fame, or a medium’s table;
With a riotous pulse, and her blood all aglow
With the fervor of passion, of pleasure, and show.
The bridegroom is pussy, rheumatic and old,
His teeth are in rubber, his blood thin and cold;
His nose tells a tale of inordinate drams,
The gout has laid hold of his corn-laden yams;
The hairs on his cranium scattering stand,
Like ill-nourished blades on a desert of sand.
I muse as I gaze on their arms softly twined;
How soon some young maidens can alter their mind!
’Tis scarcely three weeks since I heard her declare,
When speaking of him who now walks by her there,
In marriage she never would give him her hand
Though rolling in gems, like a horse in the sand.
But she clings to him now, as a green, sappy vine
[Illustration: MAY AND DECEMBER.]
Embraces the trunk of a time-honored pine;
While her looks and her manner would seem to imply
That she never before on a man cast an eye;
But I, delving back through the layers of Time,
Exhume the pale ghost of a youth in his prime,
Whose feelings were tortured, whose reason was muddied,
Whose pistol was emptied, whose temple was ruddied;
Because of coquetry so heartless and strange,
Her passion for diamonds, her longing for change.
Pass on, happy bride, with your beaming young face;
May happiness still with your moments keep pace,
And never mistrust pierce the groom at your side
That wealth, and not virtues, have won him his bride.
SAM PATTERSON’S BALLOON.
Last night while a party of us were sitting around the table in the
cabin of the _New World_, talking about the “Avitor” and aerial sailing
generally, our conversation was interrupted by a dark, raw-boned Hoosier
who had entered the cabin shortly after the steamer left her wharf. He
kept squirming on his chair for some time, and was evidently anxious to
take part in the conversation. “I say, boys, I’m Sam Patterson,” he
commenced at last, “and if this yer dish is free and no one han’t no
objections, I’d like mi’ty well to dip _my_ spoon in.”
[Illustration: SAM PATTERSON.]
All turned to look at the speaker. Even the fat old gentleman who during
our conversation had not taken his eyes from the _Christian Guardian_ he
was reading, stretched up and peered over the top of the paper at Sam.
Before any one could reply the Hoosier gave his chair a hitch nigher the
table and went on:
“I say, boss,” he continued, addressing his conversation to me, perhaps
because I had just been expressing my opinion, “I don’t go a picayune on
navigatin’ the air. They ain’t no need of talkin’ and gassin’ about
crossin’ the ’tlantic or any of them foolish ventur’s. I happen to know
somethin’ about balloonin’, and understand pooty near what you _can_ do
and what you _can’t_ do with one of them fellers. I’d a plag’y sight
ruther undertake to cross the ocean in a dug-out, than ventur’ in one of
them tricky cobwebs; you can’t depend on ’em. Thar like a flea—when a
man thinks he’s got ’em he hain’t.”
“Perhaps you are misled by prejudice?” I ventured to remark.
“No, I ain’t nuther,” answered the Hoosier, “I speak from experience.
I’ve bin thar.”
“Oh! you have given the aeronautic science some attention then?” I said.
“An inventor, I presume?”
“Wal, no. I don’t exactly claim to be an inventor,” he replied; “I
reckon I foller’d on the old plan, exceptin’ in the material used in
constructin’.”
“Did you ever make an ascension?” I asked.
“Wal, yes, I’ve bin up _some_,” he answered dryly.
“Have you ever been very high?” inquired the fat old gentleman, who
seemed to grow interested.
“Perhaps not so high as eagles or turkey-buzzards fly, but a mi’ty sight
higher than barn-yard fowls ventur’,” answered the Hoosier. “You see,”
he continued, “I was stayin’ down to Orleans once for about a week, and
thar was a professor had a balloon in the park hitched to a stake, and
he was histin’ people up the length of the rope for two bits a head. I
stepped into the cradle that was a hangin’ to it, and went up the length
of the rope, and liked it pooty well. I went up three or four times and
made considerable inquiries about the manner of constructin’ and
inflatin’, as I was cal’latin to rig up one when I got hum to
Tuckersville.
“When I got back I telled Sal what I was bent on doin’. She tried pooty
hard to git the notion out of my head, but t’was stuck thar, like a bur
to a cow’s tail. I telled her it mout be the makin’ of us, so arter a
while she gin in, and as silk was too alfired expensive Sal gin me a lot
of bed sheets and helped me sew ’em together down in the cellar. We put
it together down thar ’cause I didn’t want any of the neighbors to know
what was up, until I could astonish ’em some fine mornin’ by risin’
above the hull caboodle, and for wunst lookin’ down on some on ’em that
was snuffin’ around and tryin’ to look down on me mi’ty bad.
“I used a rousin’ great corn basket for the cradle, and arter she was
all ready for inflatin’ I had my life insured, ’cause I didn’t want Sal
to suffer by any of my ventur’s. Then I went to Sol Spence, the lawyer,
and had him draw up the writin’s of a will, and while he was doin’ it he
worked the balloon secret out of me, and wanted me to take him along. I
telled him ’twas pooty risky business, and that he’d hev to run some
chances, as I was cal’latin’ on seein’ what clouds war made of before I
came down. He said them war his sentiments exactly; that he allers had a
great hankerin’ to git up thar and see what sort of a spongy thing they
war, anyhow.
“I didn’t object much; I reckoned the sheets war good for it, though he
went over two hundred, but I cal’lated he’d do instead of ballast, and
be company besides. So I took some bed cord and slung another corn
basket below the one I was gwine in, and after dark we hauled the great
floppy thing out into the back yard, and arter we got it histed up on
stakes we commenced buildin’ fires under her to git the gas up and
gittin’ things ready ginnerally. About sun-up we had her all ready to
step into. Spence had his sketch book along, cal’latin’ on taking some
bird’s-eye views, and I had a bottle of tea, cal’latin’ to empty it
gwine up, and fill it with rain water while up thar. The thing was
a-wallopin’ and rollin’ around the yard mi’ty impatient to git off. I
hitched her first to the grindstone frame, but she was snakin’ that
around the yard, and the dogs commenced sech an all-fired yelpin’ and
scuddin’ round and watchin’ of it through the fence, that we were
obliged to put ’em in the cellar, ’cause we didn’t want the hull
neighborhood attractid by ther barkin’. Then we fastened the balloon to
the shed post, and left Sal to watch her while we war eatin’ a snack of
breakfast. Pooty soon arter we heard Sal a-shoutin’ that she was a-gwine
off with the wood-shed. So we ran out mi’ty lively, and had no time to
spare, nuther. I jumped up and caught one rope, and Spence got hold of
another. We couldn’t fetch it down till Sal caught hold of my leg, and
between us three we pulled it back agin.
[Illustration]
“She gin a sort of puff and come down pooty sudden when near the ground,
and one of the posts of the shed came fair onto the back of a leetle pet
hog that was rootin’ round the yard, and knuckled his back down into the
chips, leavin’ his head and hinder parts stickin’ up. He commenced sich
an uproarious squealin’ you could hear him more’n two miles. While
Spence and I were fussin’ at the ropes to unloose her from the shed, she
took another sudden start up agin and shot away from us quicker than
scat. Sal happened to have hold of a rope at the time, and up she went
into the air, scootin’ like a rocket. Sal was a plucky critter. Shoot
me, if she wasn’t as full of grit as a sandstone. She could have let go
that rope, but she wouldn’t; she wanted to fetch the consarn down agin,
and was bound to cling to her until she did. Blow me, if I didn’t think
for a while I was goin’ to lose the old woman. Thar she was a-hangin’ on
to the end of the rope, hollerin’ like a hull regiment chargin’ a
battery, and trailin’ and swingin’ about without any notion of lettin’
go.
[Illustration: ATTEMPTED ABDUCTION OF SAM’S WIFE.]
“We had a lively time of it gettin’ her down agin too, now I can tell
you. I jumped over a fence into the garden, and snatchin’ up a rake
commenced to scrape at her, and finally the teeth caught in her dress,
and then I had a pooty good hold so long as Sal was good for it. Spence
got hold of another rope that was danglin’ around, so between us we got
her down the second time. Then I sung out to Spence, ‘Spence,’ ses I,
‘climb into yer basket and let’s be off, or the hull town will be here
and stop us gwine.’ So we clim’ into our baskets and flung out Sal’s
flatirons, that we had for ballast, and up we shot like a spark up a
chimney. I hollered back to Sal to put the hog out of pain and stop the
squeakin’, and the last I seed of her as we went round the gable, she
was a whackin’ him over the head with the back of an ax, and he was a
hollerin’ wuss and wuss.
“The wind took the balloon over a swamp back of the village, where no
person seemed to see us, and then the world began to drop away pooty
nicely. ’Twant long till I heered Spence callin’ out, mi’ty skeered
like:—
[Illustration: “LET ME GIT OUT!”]
“‘I guess, Sam, you mout as well land her and let me git out.’
“‘Are you afeered, Spence?’ ses I, jest that way.
“‘No,’ he answered. ‘I arn’t afeered, but I reckon my fam’ly would be
mi’ty uneasy about this time if they knowed whar I was, and I begin to
feel pooty sowlicitous about ’em.’
“‘This yer thing is somethin’ like law,’ I ses, ‘when yer’ into her
you’ve got to keep goin’ till somethin’ gins out. She hasn’t got a rope
a holdin’ of her down now, Spence, and as for yer’ fam’ly, I reckon
the’re a mi’ty sight safer than you be, so if you have any spare
sowlicitude, you had better be a tuckin’ it onto yourself. ‘Sides,’ I
contin’ed, ‘I hain’t studied into the lettin’ down part of it half so
much as into the rizin’.’
“‘Jerusalem!’ he shouted. ‘I thought you war famil’ar with the hull
thing or I’d have as soon thought of gwine up in a whirlwind.’
“‘I fancy I do know considerable about it,’ I ses.
“‘Then why can’t you stop her right here?’ he hollered, lookin’ up,
pooty pale.
“‘I cal’late we’ve got to keep ascendin’ while the gas holds out,’ I
answered.
“‘Thunder and lightnin’!’ he hollered, jest that way, ‘and what are you
agwine to do arter the gas gins out?’
“‘I reckon,’ ses I, ‘we’ll come down agin.’
“‘A flukin’?’ he asked.
“‘Perhaps so,’ ses I. ‘I cal’late we’ll come down faster than we’re
gwine up, but I’m hopin’ to catch an undercurrent of a’r that will sweep
us along, and let us down sort of gently.’
“Just as we war talkin’ somethin’ gin a whoppin’ crack overhead, and she
began to drop down by the run pooty lively.
“‘What’s that?’ shouted Spence. ‘I think I hear a sort of tearin’ noise
up thar; ain’t somethin’ ginnin’ out?’
“‘I reckon the old woman’s sheets have commenced to gin out,’ I said,
kind of careless like, though beginnin’ to feel mi’ty narvous all to
wunst. On lookin’ down, I seed Spence was a cranin’ out of the basket
and lookin’ down, jest as pale as could be.
“‘Sufferin’ pilgrims!’ he shouted. ‘Can’t you throw out somethin’, Sam,
and lighten her a leetle? She’s droppin’ straight down, like an
aerolite.’
“‘I hain’t got anythin’ to throw out exceptin’ the tea bottle, and that
ar’ is e’enmost empty,’ I ses. ‘I cal’late we’ve got to take our
chances; if you hain’t forgot yer childhood prayers, you mout as well be
a runnin’ of ’em over, for things are beginnin’ to look mi’ty skeery
jest now, I can tell ye.’
“Pooty soon I heer’d him a mumblin’ to himself, and I allers allowed he
was prayin.’
“We war now about steeple high, and as I had expected, the wind caught
us and began to sweep us around pooty loose. As we went wallopin’ over
St. Patrick’s church, Spence’s basket struck the spire and was a
spillin’ of him out like a lobster out of a market basket. I peered over
and seed he was e’enmost gone, so I hollered, ‘Go for the spire, Spence,
it’s your only chance.’ He seemed to be of the same mind, for as I spoke
he was a grabbin’ for it and managed to git hold of one end of the
weather-vane. I reckon if he had got hold on both ends he’d ha’ bin all
right; but things war gettin’ desperate and he had to take what come.
The balloon riz some when he fell out, and as it was a movin’ off I
looked back to see how he was a makin’ it. He was a hangin’ thar like a
gymnast, a kickin’ and a wormin’ and the steeple a rockin’. But he was
too awful heavy; he couldn’t draw himself up nohow. Pooty soon the tail
of the fish gin out, and down he slid along the steeple like a shot coon
down a ’simmon tree.
“Fortunately he struck the roof and over it he rolled, clawin’ and a
scratchin’ the shingles as he went. But it was ‘all go and no whoa,’ as
the boy said when he was a slidin’ the greased banister. Old Father
McGillop was just comin’ out of the vestry door after matins as Spence
come a scootin’ over the eaves and down kerflumix right on top of him.
This, ye see, sort of broke the fall for Spence, but it spread the
distress. He was so heavy and come with such force he disjinted the neck
of his Riverence, and shoved it so far down into the body that his ears
were restin’ on the shoulders. They had to git a shovel to dig him out
of the ground, and Doc Willoughby was a fussin’ over him more than five
hours, a yankin’ his neck out of his body, and pressin’ his ears into
shape, and”——
“Stop now,” said the fat old chap, who was worked up to the top notch of
attention, “do you mean to say he lived after his neck was dislocated?”
“Wal, I reckon, boss,” said the narrator, as he took a fresh quid of
tobacco, “I hain’t made no sech unreasonable assertion. I was sayin’
they hauled his neck back, and put his ears in place agin (or ruther one
of ’em, for the butcher’s dog eat t’other one before the old sexton
could git to it), so that he mout make somethin’ like a decent
appearance in the coffin.
“Soon as Spence went over the eave I lost sight of him, for I was
drivin’ pooty briskly over Kent’s corn patch, and as I came sweepin’
down by the widder O’Donnell’s she was in the yard gittin’ an apron full
of chips. I reckon she heer’d a burrin’ sound overhead, ’cause she
looked up, and when she seed the balloon she gin a squall and cried out
somethin’ about protection. I reckoned she was callin’ on the saints,
but had no time just then to listen. Before she had gone many steps she
dropped, and I allowed she had gone down in a faintin’ fit.
“I was a drivin’ and a driftin’ over the village like a thistle-down,
for more than two hours, and the dogs war a barkin’ and the men and
wimmin a hollerin’ and a runnin’ arter it wherever it drifted. The
barn-yard fowls war a cacklin’ and a screamin’. Jewillikens! didn’t I
make a rumption among them though! You’d think thar war forty thousand
hawks and turkey-buzzards a hoverin’ over the village, by the way they
scattered, aginst the winders, ahind stun walls, into the wells, under
lumber piles and currint bushes; such a scrougin’ and squattin’ and
scootin’ I never did see. Parson Jones had thirteen lights of glass
smashed by fowls batterin’ aginst the winders tryin’ to git in, and Dud
Davis, the blacksmith, fished seven dead hens, two turkeys, a guinea
fowl, and two small pigs out of his well next day, whar they sought
refuge and war drown’d. Dad Kent gin me six traces of good seed corn
next fall. He said barrin’ the killin’ of Priest McGillop, it was the
best thing that ever happened in Tuckersville. He said I did more for
his crop than if he had a scarecrow standin’ astride every hill. Thar
wasn’t a crow flew within two miles of the village for mor’n a
fortnight, and by that time the corn was grown so they couldn’t pull it
up.
“Pooty soon the balloon come down about house high and druv over toward
the dee-pot. I was a hopin’ she’d catch on the telegraph wire, but she
skimm’d over, like a swallow over a fence, and immediately riz up tree
high agin, where scrape, slap, slash, she went into an ole pine that
stood out alone in the field. I was scratched pooty bad, but hung on to
the limbs, and arter a while slid down the tree leavin’ the balloon
hangin’ in the tree-top. Great turnips! if all Tuckersville wasn’t down
thar in five minutes. Thar war young ‘uns runnin’ around half-dressed,
with corn-dodgers in their hands, and wimmin with babies in their arms.
It was like a dog fight, only, as the feller said when describin’ the
nigger by the mulatter, it was more so.
[Illustration: “GO IN, CRIPPLE.”]
“The train was delayed half an hour that mornin’, ’cause the engineer,
conductor and all hands jumped off the cars and ran down to the balloon.
Peg-leg Dibbly, the Mexican war veteran, was thar, hobblin’ around among
the rest. He was in such a hurry to git down to the tree he wouldn’t go
around by the road, but started in to take a short cut across the marsh
with the crowd. And he had a sweet, sweatin’ time of it too, now I can
assure you. First his cane would stick, and just about the time he would
git that out, down would slide his iron-shod leg fully a foot into the
mud, and stake him thar like a scarecrow. Then he would look down to
where the people were standin’, and jerk and swear until the want of
breath only would make him let up. He got down thar after a while
though, but he had to crawl considerable before he could do it; and
arter he got thar he was bobbin’ here and bobbin’ thar, tryin’ to git a
better look up into the tree, until at last he stumbled and fell across
one of Dud Davis’ young ‘uns, and gin her left leg a compound fractur’.
She set up a screamin’, and he was so weak and frightened he couldn’t
git up agin no how, but lay thar gruntin’, and sprawlin’, and kickin’
his one leg around. The blacksmith was thar himself, and when he seed
his young ’un down in the mud with her leg broke, you never seed a man
so mad in all your born days. He jest ran and grabbed the old pensioner
by the coat collar, and slung him mor’n fifteen feet, landin’ him
slidin’ on his back in the mud, like a crawfish.
[Illustration: A RIGHT ANGLED TRY-ANKLE.]
“About the same time Tubbs, the cooper, was a lookin’ up, and he seed a
bough springin’ up, and he allowed the balloon was comin’ down; so he
started to run, and stepped on the foot of Kent’s snappin’ bull-dog,
that was a settin’ thar lookin’ up the tree, thinkin’ thar must be a
coon up it. The cur whirled round mad, and set his teeth into the
nighest thing to him, which happened to be old Polly Alien’s ankle. But
he got more than he bargained for, though, for she was so tuff that his
teeth stuck thar, and she was a screamin’ and a runnin’ hum, draggin’
him arter her mor’n half the way. I never did see sich an excitin’ time.
School was dismissed, and there wasn’t a lick of work done in
Tuckersville the hul day. The hul talk was ‘Sam Patterson’s balloon, Sam
Patterson’s balloon.’ I didn’t have to pay a picayune for anything for
mor’n three weeks. Parson Jones preached a tellin’ sermon about the
balloon, and thar wasn’t standin’ room in the church; they had to keep
the windows open and let people standin’ on the outside stick their
heads in and listen. He likened it first to youth, when it was a rollin’
around in the back yard, whar nobody seed it, impatient and ambitious to
rise. Then like unto manhood, when it was up, a bustin’ and droppin’
down agin. Next he said it resembled old age, when it was in rags a
floppin’ around in the tree, more for observation than use. Thar wasn’t
hardly a dry eye in the hul meetin’ house. Hard-hearted old sinners
cried like teethin’ babies.
“The balloon hung in the tree all summer, and every day thar’d be a
crowd of people starin’ at it, like cats at a bird cage. A photographer
came the hul way from town, and took lots of views of the remains; and
one of Frank Leslie’s special artists come rattlin’ down thar, and sot
on a stun wall for two days drawin’ sketches of it. He said it was the
most spirited subject he had sot eyes on since he sketched the
hoop-skirt Jeff Davis was captured in. But I’m gettin’ ruther dry. Ain’t
some of you fellers agwine to call on the stimilints?”
MY CANINE.
“If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.”
_Shakespeare._
Some fond poets sing of their lady-love’s eyes,
Or lovers who sail the seas over;
But poet-like I shall gaze up at the skies,
And muse of my little dog Rover.
The canine I sing, to disease is a prey;
The mange, the distemper, and flea,
Have all had their turn, and have worn him away;
His shadow you scarcely can see.
From earliest light, until late in the night,
He’s dodging hot water and sticks;
I’m shamed to confess it, but truth I must write,
He’s a foot-ball that every one kicks.
I hear his thin cry, and his frightened “ki-yi,”
Almost any hour of the day;
And Bridget’s “Bad ’cess to the likes of your Skye,
Sure he’s here, and he’s there like a flay.”
[Illustration]
Upon his poor body the hair has all died,
’Tis smooth and as bare as your hand;
I vow I believe there’s no life in his hide,
It looks just as if it were tanned.
His blood is so thin that he never is warm,
And keenly he feels the cold weather;
He shivering stands with tail end to the storm,
And his four feet all huddled together.
He suffers sad woe, as his body doth show,
His face bears a hopeless expression;
He seems to be wondering why he’s a foe,
Who never commits a transgression.
He’s only a dog in the dark to be sure,
But I who am mourning his plight,
Know accident often exalts the low boor,
And crowds merit down out of sight.
How oft do we see the chief dunce of the town,
With head like a turnip or melon,
Advanced to the Bench, or clergyman’s gown,
Though thought to be born for a felon.
Dost laugh at my song? Well I care not a pin,
My notion I never shall lose;
I know that my dog hath a spirit within,
That cannot be crushed by abuse.
[Illustration]
JIM DUDLEY’S FLIGHT.
That blabbing Hoosier, Bob Browser, has found me out, and paid me a
call, boring me with his confounded stories. Even as a hungry parrot
when crackers are in view, or as a miller’s hopper when water is high
and the farmer’s meal bags low, he rattles right along with copious
discourse.
“What’s that you say! Did you know Jim Dudley? What! him as the boys in
Gosport used to call Carrot Top Jim? Wal, I’ll be rattled if that ain’t
queer. Wasn’t he the allfiredest shirk you ever did see? Perhaps you
remember how sudden he left Gosport jest before the war? Oh, that’s so,
sure enough, you went north sometime afore that.
[Illustration: BOB BROWSER.]
“Wal, that chap was etarnally gettin’ in some scrape or another; I do
jest think I’ve helped that Jim out of more close corners than there are
buildin’s in this yer town. Yer see him and me was great chums, and
roomed at the same house on York Street. Jim was a courtin’ a butcher’s
darter that lived out near the cem’t’ry for ‘bout a year afore he left,
leastwise he was a totin’ of her around considerable, takin’ her to
picnics, circuses, hoss races, and the like. I kind of had my doubts
about him gettin’ married, ’cause he was a pooty sot ole batch’, and
sometimes I’d ask him when the nuptils were a comin’ off; but he’d
allers shuffle out of it by sayin’ when they did come I’d git an invite,
and kind of larf it off jest that way.
“One night pooty soon arter I had got into bed I heered some one
thumpin’ at my door, and afore I had time to say anythin’ Jim Dudley was
plum across the room and standin’ by the bedside.
“‘Bob,’ ses he, jest that way, ‘we’ve got to part agin’ and I’ve come to
gin your paw a shake afore I leave.’
“‘What’s up now, Jim?’ ses I, pooty surprised and settin’ up amazin’
fast in bed to strike a light, ’cause I allers liked Jim. Drat my
pictur, if I didn’t. He stuck to me like a hoss-leech when I was down
with the yaller fever. I was peeled down so mi’ty thin that I didn’t
make a shadder only arter I’d been eatin’ corn-dodgers or somethin’ that
wasn’t transparent. Soon as I got a light I seed his face was tombstun
white exceptin’ some long red scratches onto it, that made me think thar
had been cats a-clawin’ of him.
“‘I haint time to gin perticulars now, but water’s gettin’ too plaguey
shaller for me in Gosport,’ ses he, jest that way. ‘And I’m gwine to
pull out for deeper soundin’s. I want to head off the night express, and
as I’ve got only fifteen minutes to do it in, must be a movin’,’ and
givin’ my hand a rattlin’ shake he turned, and before I could say
‘scat,’ he was goin’ down the stairs like a bucket fallin’ down a well,
and I thought he hadn’t more than got to the middle of the flight when I
heer’d the door slam behind him.
“I lay awake thar for hours thinkin’ and wonderin’ what on airth could
have turned up to make Jim dust out of town so all-fired sudden, bein’
as how he was doin’ pooty well pecun’ar’ly—that is, for _him_.
“I kind of mistrusted somethin’ had gone wrong with him out to old
Hurley’s—the butcher’s. So the next day, bein’ kind of curious, I took a
stroll out that way, to look around a leetle and see what was goin’ on.
I seed a glaz’er a fussin’ round a winder, and old Hurley sittin’ on the
steps lookin’ mi’ty solemn at a hat—which I knowed was Jim’s—that was
a-hangin’ on a bush in the garden.
“Some months arter this the war was a bilin’ and I jined a company and
went down to Cairo to go into camp. By jingo! would you believe it?
almost the first man I ran ag’in’ was Jim Dudley! He’d enlisted in a
hoss regiment up to St. Louis, and come down to camp a few days afore
me. We were both mi’ty tickled to meet one another right thar, so we
p’inted for a place where we could have a straight-out chat, and while
we were sittin’ thar, talkin’ about old times, ses I to him:—
“‘Jim, now we’re a gwine down into this blamed muss, and the chances are
pooty good for us to git chawed up down thar, and nothin’ more to be
heer’d about us—now s’posin’ you tell a feller what made you pull up
stakes and dust from Gosport so amazin’ fast, last Fall.’
“‘Wal, Bob,’ ses he, ‘seein’ we’ve met agin, I don’t mind if I do
‘lighten you a leetle in regard to my leavin’ so sudden. You remember
I’d bin over to Franklin some time afore I left, and jest got back to
Gosport that day, and in the evenin’ I started out to see Mag. I was a
hopin’ the old man wouldn’t be to hum—he ginerally was away Saturday
nights.
[Illustration: OLD HURLEY WELCOMES JIM.]
“‘’Twas dark afore I got there, leastwise the bats were a flitterin’
aroun’ the gables and apple trees, a-lookin’ for thar suppers. I gin the
bell-knob a jerk anyhow, and pooty soon old Hurley hisself came to the
door, with a candle in his hand. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and I
reckon he had jest come hum from work. He kind of gin a start, as though
he was surprised to see me; and I gin a start, too, and jumped back from
the door pooty quick, for I thought I heer’d him grit his teeth a
leetle—somethin’ like a sheep arter she’s bin eatin’ beans—but I wasn’t
sartain.
“‘Come in, M-i-s-t-e-r Dudley,’ ses he, kind of low and coaxin’ like. ‘I
hope you’ve bin enjoyin’ good health. I hope you’ve come prepared to
stop with us awhile.’
“Thankin’ him for his kind wishes, I follered him along, wonderin’ what
in time made him so amazin’ solicitous for my health all to wunst,
’cause I knowed the old man hated me worse than a rat does pizen.
“He didn’t stop in the parlor where some folks were sittin’, but kept on
into a small room, beck’nin’ me to foller, which I did, though I was
beginnin’ to feel pooty suspicious about the old feller’s movements.
“‘Stay here a minute, Mr. Dudley,’ ses he, arter I had sot down. ‘Make
yourself comfortable until I come back agin,’ he continued, jest that
way, and then he stepped out.
“I tell you, I begun to feel wonderful fidgity and kind of prickly down
along the spine; and when I heer’d the old man comin’ back, and heer’d
his feet slappin’ down heavier and faster than when he went out, then I
knowed thar’ was trouble ahead. I could feel a distressin’ presentiment
jest a-bubblin’ through my veins, and limberin’ up all my jints.
“Pooty soon the old man came in, a-holdin’ his left hand in front of him
doubled up tight as though for boxin’, and keepin’ his right hand ahind
him, kind of careless like, as though ’twas there by accident. I knowed
’twas no nat’ral position, and kept peerin’ round, for I ’spected he had
a cow-hide, and was calculatin’ to gin me a sound tannin’; but when he
went to shet the door ahind him, I got a glimpse of the alfiredest great
butcher’s cleaver you ever yet sot eyes on, a-shinin’ jest as bright as
could be. Jerusalem! if that bone-splitter didn’t make me begin to feel
tarnation uneasy, then thar’s no use sayin’ it. My heart flopped up so
far into my throat it actewelly seemed as though I could taste it.
“‘I’ve got very pressin’ business down town, and guess I’d better be
a-movin,’ ses I, rizin’ up.
“‘S-i-t d-o-w-n,’ ses he, easy, that way, as though he wasn’t disturbed
any, though I seed he was awful pale. ‘Don’t be in a hurry,’ he went on,
keepin’ his back flat against the door the whole time. ‘You’ve been
pokin’ around here ‘bout long enuff,’ said he, ‘and I think it time you
’tended to bisness.
“‘I’ve sent for Father Quinn,’ he contin’ed, ‘cal’latin’ to hev you
jined to the family rite off, afore you leave the house,’ and he gin the
cleaver a sweepin’ flourish; but while he was a-doin’ it he sort of took
his eyes away from me, and before he could say ‘scat,’ I jest shet my
eyes tight, and made one detarmined lunge for the winder, head fust,
like a sheep through a clump of briars, and went a-crashin’ plum out on
all fours into the gardin, takin’ the hull lower sash along with me.
[Illustration: OLD HURLEY ON THE WAR PATH.]
“The old man gin one rattlin’ shout like a wounded gorrillar, when he
seed me go. I knowed he’d be arter me mi’ty quick, so I broke through
the gardin for the toll-road, the blarsted ole sash a-hangin’ around my
neck like a hog-yoke, catchin’ on everythin’ as I ran. I hadn’t more’n
struck the road and begun to dust along it, when I heered the old man
comin’, a-snortin’ an’ a spatterin’, down the turnpike ahind me. I
‘lowed he’d overhaul me if I kept right on, ’cause I hadn’t got the sash
off yet, and the blamed thing was jest ginnin’ my neck jess; so
flouncin’ aside pooty sudden, I flopped down ahind a sassafras bush, and
I hadn’t more’n got thar nuther when old Hurley went a-rackin’ and a
rearin’ past, the bloodthirsty great meat-ax a-gleamin’ in his hand. He
reckoned I was still ahead, so he went a-flukin’ down the road, clearin’
the toll-bar at one bounce, without so much as dustin’ it, and keepin’
right on for Gosport. Thunder! didn’t I tear off the ruins of that
winder mity fast, though? Then I clim’ the fence, and took across lots
through Hiram Nye’s corn patch, and down by Blake’s orchard, comin’ into
town by the lower road. I think more’n likely old Hurley kept a-goin’ it
plum to Gosport before he mistrusted that I dodged him; and I do jest
think if he had got hold on me—a-bilin’ as he was—he wouldn’t have left
a piece of me together large enough to bait a mink trap. Wasn’t that an
all-fired close dodge, though? I reckon you’ll not see me in Gosport
agin, leastways not while old Hurley’s a-livin’. I’ve no notion o’
gettin’ married in no such haste as that. Thar’s the bugle callin’ to
muster—let’s hurry up and go.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
TRIALS OF THE FARMER.
I want to be a farmer
And with the farmers stand—
A whetstone in my pocket,
A blister on my hand.
I sing to be a farmer,
Without the right of way
Across my neighbor’s lot to drive
My ox-cart or my sleigh.
I long to be a farmer
And own a breachy mare,
That oft will leap the bound’ry line,
And make my neighbors swear.
I pine to be a farmer
And own a kicking steer,
That I may feel his horny heel
Whenever I draw near.
I sigh to be a farmer
And plant my field of corn,
That crows may flock and pull it up
Before the streak of morn.
I shout to be a farmer:
How much I would adore
To drive a big and stubborn pig
Some five miles or more.
[Illustration]
A CUNNING DODGE.
There was a certain citizen of this place, a butcher by occupation, who,
deeming the remuneration he received small in comparison to the amount
of service done, resolved to discontinue butchering cattle and become a
butcher of men, or in other words to assume the responsibilities of a
practicing physician and surgeon. It seems in his travels he had
collected quite a number of receipts and prescriptions from old almanacs
and doctors’ books.
With this limited stock of medical knowledge, and an unusually large
amount of “cheek,” he thought to work himself into a lucrative business.
As an invoice of smallpox was expected by every steamer, he imagined he
might pass among other professionals as though his scientific
acquirements were excelled by none, and his vocabulary of Latin names
surpassed “Doctor Hornbook’s.”
Hiring an office in a central locality, he hoisted a board reaching
nearly across the building, on which his name and calling were made
known in large characters. Then sitting down amidst a “beggarly account
of empty bottles,” he patiently awaited the result. Whether the city had
suddenly become remarkably healthy through the sanitary exertions of the
health commissioners, or he had not his proportionate share of the
medical practice in requisition, he knew not, but certain it was, that
from morn to noon, from noon to dewy eve he sat in his room—
“As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.”
One day, however, while straying along North Beach, musing on the
strange vicissitudes in human affairs, and thinking how “weary, stale,
flat and unprofitable” were all the uses of this world, a happy idea
presented itself. In the vicinity of the County Hospital he had noticed
the invalids coming out to sun themselves, like seals, along the Beach.
What a glorious attraction to custom they would be, congregated around
his door! Entering into conversation with some of them, he soon struck a
bargain with thirty or more. They were to visit his office once a day,
those who could walk there without much trouble or pain receiving fifty
cents per day, while those who traveled under greater difficulties were
to be paid accordingly. So, every morning, after breakfast, they took up
their line of march in twos and threes along the street toward the
charlatan’s place of business. They were indeed a motley crowd—that
cripple brigade—as they hobbled through the thoroughfare.
[Illustration: ADVANCE OF THE CRIPPLE BRIGADE.]
There came the maimed, the halt, the withered, and the blind, shuffling
into his office thicker than diseased Jews to the troubled pool of
Bethesda. If any stranger chanced to drop in for medical treatment, the
crowd of hired specimens began at once to converse among themselves of
the wonderful skill of the physician. One remarked how his sight had
improved under treatment, how he could see two objects now where he used
to see but one. Another related in glowing terms the ravenous appetite
the doctor’s bitters had awakened in his system; through all the hours
of the day he was now as hungry as a whirlpool. A third would eulogize
his method of treating contagious diseases in general.
In this way the real patient, though receiving no actual benefit from
the watery potions administered, was retained in hopes of an ultimate
cure. At length the curiosity of the resident physician of the Hospital
was aroused. He couldn’t imagine where his patients filed away to every
morning, as regularly as liberated geese to some well-known pond.
Following up the bandaged crew and investigating the matter, he soon
learned the state of affairs, and forbade their leaving the Hospital
yard without a permit. This sudden falling off in the would-be-doctor’s
patients made a material change in the appearance of his office. In
short, it leveled his business and his hopes, and again the quack sank
into that obscurity from which he so energetically struggled to emerge.
A TERRIBLE TAKE IN.
To-day, while taking dinner in an eating-house in a Western town, I
witnessed an amusing incident. It appears the proprietor had often been
imposed upon by bummers who would walk boldly into the dining-room, and
after stowing away a supply of victuals that would fill an ordinary
carpet sack, would shuffle up to the counter, and in an undertone of
voice inform the person there officiating that they were unfortunately
“dead broke.” Of course the law doesn’t allow any ripping to be done on
such occasions, other than swearing. Then the well-filled rascals would
walk off picking their teeth with the utmost composure; except in
extreme cases when the out-going party would be assisted over the
threshold by an uprising boot. But even kicks would not bring the coin
into the till, or bring back upon the table the vanished edibles, so
this treatment was seldom resorted to. Finally, the proprietor bought a
large syringe, and placing it in a drawer in the dining-room, bided his
time.
It happened while I was sitting at the table an individual, whose cheek
the proprietor had reason to believe far exceeded his checks, entered
the room and sat down directly in front of me. A plate of hot bean soup
sat invitingly before him, from which the savory steam rose up in
clouds, and not only filled the nostrils of the hungry man with
delicious and enticing odors, but served to whet the hungry edge of
appetite.
[Illustration: “PAY IN ADVANCE, SIR.”]
Lifting a large pewter spoon that lay beside the plate, he was about to
introduce it to the hot decoction before him. Already the limber hinges
of his jaw began to relax, preparatory to admitting the well-filled
spoon. His attention was suddenly arrested by the proprietor, who, with
one hand behind him and the other laid upon the spoon-arm of the
would-be eater, demanded the price of the dinner before he went any
further. The man, it seems, was not a member of that class of
individuals which the hotel keeper thought him. He was justly indignant,
therefore, at the demand, and sharply informed mine host that “he
guessed after he had eaten his dinner would be time enough to pay for
it.” But the oft-swindled proprietor thought differently. The man had
scarcely got the words out of his mouth before “mine host” produced a
syringe, large as the trunk of a small-sized elephant, and slapping the
nozzle of it into the soup, ran it circling around the plate, and with
one long, slobbering draught, like that of a horse drinking through his
bits, the soup plate was left lying before the hungry man, as empty as
his own stomach.
The astonished individual looked first at his plate, on which not even a
bean was left, then at the dripping, steaming muzzle of the syringe, and
lastly at the landlord, who stood with a look of triumph spreading over
his face, silently waiting for the man to either come down with the coin
or leave the table.
Though not liking that summary way of treating a person, the man was
either too hungry or too limited in time to go further for a meal, so he
fished out of his pocket the change and handed it to the proprietor. The
latter thereupon discharged the contents of the syringe into the soup
plate again, and walked away, leaving the customer to proceed with his
dinner.
[Illustration]
A FAMILY JAR.
One night, while passing through the street,
A stranger paused to hear
The tumult from a cottage nigh,
That stunned the listening ear.
And as he stood without the door
The sound of war arose,
As when Boroo the Irish king
Engaged his stubborn foes.
So drawing nigh the window-sill
He studied matters fair,
And lo, the husband and the wife
Engaged in battle there:
The former with his doubled fists
The battle sought to win;
While to his head the wife applied
The heavy rolling-pin.
And as the stranger stood without
He thus communed with care,—
For he was shrewd and thought it best
To weigh the danger there,—
“This is some family affair:
Some question I opine
That I should not discuss with them,
Nor make the quarrel mine;
For I am newly risen up
From off the bed of pain,
And they perchance will turn on me,
And send me there again.”
[Illustration: STRANGER WHO WENT NOT IN.]
So turning from the window-sill
He journeyed on his way,
And went not in, but left the pair
Engaged in doubtful fray;
And when he was a great way off
The stranger paused once more,
And lo! the noise of battle fell
Still louder than before.
Then he remarked, “This is indeed
A battle fierce and great;
I now repent me that I went
Not in, to remonstrate.”
Then taking to his road again,
He moved, repenting still,
And turned not back to enter in,
But slowly climbed the hill.
Not many minutes later on,
Behold, another man
Was passing by, and heard the war
That through the building ran;
And lo! the tumult that arose
Was like the clamor high
When Michael’s host and Satan’s horde
Did mingle in the sky.
And while he paused, he heard the stroke
The active husband sped;
And heard the fall of rolling-pin
Upon the husband’s head.
And he communed thus with himself,—
For he loved ways of peace,
Delighting not in heavy strokes,
But thinking war should cease:
Said he, “A family jar, no doubt,
Now falls upon mine ear;
And I should promptly enter in
The house, to interfere;
Or soon, perchance, a murder will
Be done beneath this roof;
And I appear like one to blame,
Because I stood aloof,
Or passed along upon my way
And took no noble stand,
Nor raised my voice the war to stay,
Nor caught a lifted hand.”
So then the traveler left the street
And bravely entered in,
Through porch and hall, and gained the room
Where rose the fearful din;
And on the husband laying hold,
He cried, “Why do ye go
Beyond the brute that roots the sod
In this contention low,
And neither spare the sex, nor kin,
Which you are bound to do?
Now use no more your ready hand
Or you the act may rue!”
Then said the husband, turning round,
“Why, is she not mine own?
My flesh of flesh, as we are told,
And also bone of bone?
And who are you that here comes in
At me to rail and scout,
When I, by neither word nor line,
Sent invitation out?
Do I not answer for the rent?
And all the taxes pay?
And say to whom I will, ‘Come in,’
Or, ‘Stand without,’ I pray?”
Then also did that warring wife
Now rest her rolling-pin,
And thus addressed the stranger too,
“Aye! wherefore came ye in?
Come, let us beat him soundly here,
And throw him down the stairs,
And teach him not to interfere
With other folks’ affairs.”
So hands they laid upon the wretch
While edging for the door,
And beat him freely out of shape,
And dragged him round the floor.
The wife would hold him down awhile
The husband’s blows to bide;
And then the husband held him till
The wife her weapon plied.
They rent the garments from his back,
And from his scalp the hair;
And from his face in handfuls plucked
The whiskers long and fair;
And there, contrary to the laws,
And to his wish to boot,
He swallowed teeth that in his jaws
In youth had taken root.
At last, uniting at the task,
They hauled him to the door
And sent him howling home in pain;
A man both lame and sore.
[Illustration: THE STRANGER WHO WENT IN.]
Who showed the greatest wisdom here,—
The one who heard the fray
And went not in, but later stood
Repenting in the way?
Or he, who turning from his path
Went in to stay the rout,
And after wished, with all his heart,
That he had stayed without?
The observations of a life
Prove, eight times out of nine,
They best can meddle with a strife
Who bear official sign.
But notwithstanding all the facts
This lesson has laid bare;
Of reaping good for noble acts
We never should despair.
Not here below reward we’ll know,
But virtue still prevails;
And valor, love, and rightful deeds,
Will count upon the scales.
[Illustration]
THE ROD OF CORRECTION.
It is not often that a poor fellow like myself can have a good laugh at
the expense of a high dignitary. To-day, however, an opportunity
presented itself, and happily I was in the right humor to appreciate it.
Passing along a narrow street, I saw an old Irish woman unmercifully
beating her boy with a rod, which, if it had not been divested of twigs
and leaves, would have served as a Christmas tree for a good-sized
family. This of itself was nothing to make one smile, and perhaps no
person would more readily endorse such a sentiment than the boy himself.
But the end was not yet.
It appears that while on his way from the grocery, with a pitcher of
beer for his mother, the little fellow tripped-up and spilled nearly the
whole contents in the street. This was something that Temperance folk
might well rejoice over, but it was a serious matter for the boy. The
old woman, with parched lips was standing at the gate, impatiently
awaiting her youngster’s return. She saw him emerge from the store,
pitcher in hand. Her quick eye caught sight of the light foam rising in
airy bubbles above the brim, and she knew the grocer had sent her no
stinted measure. In fancy she was already quenching her thirst with
copious draughts of the cooling drink—when she saw the boy measuring his
length upon the planks. Worst, and most lamentable of all, she saw the
delectable beverage coursing down the sidewalk in a dozen foaming
streams. Her rage knew no bounds. The moment the boy put his foot inside
the gate, she seized him with the grip of a virago, and belabored him
with the cudgel till he roared. So great was the outcry that every
window in the vicinity was immediately crammed with heads. Taught by the
lessons of my youth that he who meddles in other people’s affairs often
treads upon his own corns, I maintained a wise silence; but I mentally
prayed that the wrath of the old fury would be appeased, for the cries
and wild antics of the little wretch began to grow monotonous.
[Illustration: A REAR ATTACK.]
There chanced at that moment to be passing an eminent minister who
weekly fills his fashionable, spacious church with a glittering
congregation. He saw the woman was in a towering passion, and he
ventured to remark: “My good woman, the rod of correction should never
become the weapon of passion.” The remark, which seemed good and to the
point, caused her temporarily to suspend hostilities; but she still
retained her hold on the collar, as she turned around sharply to
ascertain who dared criticise her method of training up a child in the
way he should go.
For a minute she glared upon the clergyman with flashing eyes, as if
astonished at his interference. Surveying him from the soles of his
boots to the very crown swirl of his silk hat, she drew herself up to
her full height, and, in the most indignant voice, shouted: “Away wid
yer cotations, you ould sermon thief! It’s not from the likes of yees I
learn me juty!”
The clergyman was nonplussed; he quailed before the fiery eyes and
sarcastic tongue of the old vixen; and I fancied his face lit up with
joy when he discovered that he was nigh a corner, around which he
quickly disappeared.
[Illustration]
GONE FROM HIS GAZE.
There was a little man,
And he had a little dog;
And he said: “Little dog, you must stay, stay, stay,
Playing here by the house,
As peaceful as a mouse,
And never hoist your tail and away, ’way, ’way—
And never hoist your tail and away.”
Then said this little pup,
At its master looking up:
“I know, little master, you are cute, cute, cute;
But if you will allow
Such a question, tell me, now,
What the dickens do you want with a brute, brute, brute?
What the dickens do _you_ want with a brute?”
Then the little man did stare,
And up rose his little hair;
And his cheeks with fear grew pale, pale, pale,
As he said: “I do propose,
Soon as you have found your nose,
To kill by the dozen little quail, quail, quail—
To kill by the dozen little quail.”
At this the puppy grinned,
Like a mischief-making fiend,
As he whined: “You cannot come it upon me, me, me.
You would have me lie around
In a back-yard, like a hound,
And become a paradise for the flea, flea, flea—
And become a paradise for the flea.”
When the toil of day had flown,
Little man, with little bone,
Went out where the little dog ought to be, be, be;
He whistled, and he called,
He patted, and he bawled,
But nary little dog could he see, see, see—
But nary little dog could he see.
Next day he chanced to stop
By a sausage maker’s shop,
And something that he saw made him holler, holler, holler;
For there in the street,
All bloody, at his feet,
Lay his poor little dog’s leather collar, collar, collar—
Lay his poor little dog’s leather collar.
[Illustration]
ST. PATRICK’S DAY.
Erin go bragh! St. Patrick’s day is upon us, and the city seems wrapped
in a “mantle of green,” so numerous are the Irish flags flying in the
breeze.
From hovel roof, and church of size
Alike, the harp and sun-burst flies!
The ear of morn is stunned with the bray of at least a dozen blatant
bands, as they discourse Old Erin’s soul-stirring airs. It is an easy
matter for a person to imagine himself sitting by some sheeling door in
“County Kerry” instead of this great American city by the sea. The
Ancient Order of Hibernians and the Fenians are out in full force, with
clean-boiled shirts and soap-washed faces. Marshals charge around upon
their caparisoned steeds like real heroes, and sitting gracefully as a
sack of potatoes upon the back of a spavined mule trotting over a
corduroy road. Evidently some of them have never before bent over
anything that came nigher to an equine than a saw-horse. It is plain
Those who always rode, now ride the more,
And those now ride who never rode before.
Well, they love the country that gave them birth, and that is a virtue
that is certainly commendable,—a natural excellence often wanting in
other nationalities. Besides, celebrating the old gentleman’s birthday
makes business lively with the stable men and the shoemakers, and that
of itself is a good reason why the demonstration should be encouraged.
It is hardly probable that any of the great powers will be materially
weakened by these loyal manifestations.
Here is a sketch of a spirited member of the “Ancient Order of
Hibernians,” as he appeared passing my window in the morning, full of
life and loyalty, tripping the asphaltum pavement lightly as though
traversing the springy surface of his native bogs. And following is
another sketch of the same individual in the evening, when full of oaths
and whiskey, lying in the gutter with all that ease and abandon which
characterizes the Celtic race, wherever dispersed, in every land and in
every age.
[Illustration: IN THE MORNING.]
The different races of men have their different weaknesses. It may seem
an extravagant statement, but I venture to say if there had been no rice
plant in the world, the Chinese would not have cared to live. I will
even go further and say perhaps there would have been no Mongolian race.
And now the thought occurs to me, this deficiency in the human family
would not have been such a terrible thing after all. True, we should
have been obliged to get along with catnip tea instead of Souchong,
which would have been pretty heavy on old women. We also would have been
obliged to worry through without old Confucius, which might have made
some confusion in metaphysics or political morality. But as the latter
could hardly be worse than it is at present with all his teachings, we
possibly might have managed to exist very well without the moon-eyed
philosopher.
[Illustration: IN THE EVENING.]
The Teuton dotes on his well-seasoned bologna. The grizzly Emperor
William I, standing upon an eminence near Rezonville, overlooking the
battle-field, with a spy-glass in one hand and a large bologna sausage
in the other, furnished indeed a striking sketch for the special artist
of the occasion. The humor of the situation came in when the Emperor,
forgetting himself in the excitement of the moment, raised the sausage
to his eye instead of the spy-glass, and because he failed to see the
squadron of Uhlans—that a moment before were charging upon a
battery—concluded they were blown to smithereens, and losing his usual
equanimity, commenced to swear fearfully, and order up another division
to take their place. There was a broad and sarcastic humor couched in
the remark of the officer at his side, who observed the mistake, and
ventured the suggestion, “If your Majesty will take another bite from
the sausage, perhaps you will be able to see through it.”
And then, there is the jovial, careless, free-hearted, yet quarrelsome
Irishman, who thinks a new Jerusalem without a little whiskey still in
one corner of it,—“over beyant the throne, and forninst the back dure,”
for instance—would be just no Paradise at all. I believe there is not a
race of men on the face of the earth—from Behring Straits to Terra del
Fuego, round and about, over and under, or down either quarter—that can
extract the same genuine soul-satisfying bliss from a flattened nose or
swelled lip, that a real, irrepressible, County Kerry Irishman can. Let
him have that, and a good stiff horn of whiskey to keep the blood
running freely, and my advice to you is, keep upon the other side of the
street, if you intend to sit for your picture that afternoon, or visit
your sweetheart that evening, or expect to take up the collection during
divine worship the next Sunday. At such a time he is no respecter of
persons, this set-up Irishman.
You may be the Rector of the finest cathedral in the place, the mayor of
the city, the judge of the supreme court, or even the governor of the
state, and should your hat chance to blow off and roll in front of
him,—though it should cost him a fall upon the pavement,—that man will
kick it. I tell you he will kick it, and soundly too. He will make no
mincing about it, but go for it, as he would for his neighbor’s pig,
should he find it in his garden of cabbages. At such he is full of words
also, and can bestow upon the stone that trips him up the same flow of
abuse that he can shower upon the man who assists him to his feet.
THE CONTENTED FROG.
The frog that once in Selby’s dam
Its weird music shed,
Now lies as mute as stranded clam—
Because that frog is dead.
So sleeps the plague of former days,
So noisy nights are o’er,
And he now on the pond decays
Who long cried, “Sleep no more!”
A frog upon a log one day
In meditation sat,
And gazed upon his pond, that lay
Still as a tanner’s vat.
No fish swam in his fetid lake,
No current seaward run;
But hemmed by grasses, weed, and brake,
It mantled in the sun.
[Illustration: IN MEDITATION.]
At length from revery he woke,
And thus to free his mind,
He in the gutt’ral jargon spoke
Peculiar to his kind:—
“Give me my slimy pool,” quoth he,
“Before a river wide,
Where cranes are found, still wading round,
And hungry fishes glide.
“Here light first dawn’d, here was I spawn’d,
And here I make my home—
Those longest live who’re not inclined
In foreign parts to roam.
“Upon this log, or stone, I sit,
The water-fly to view,
Or watch the glossy whirligig
Describe his circles true.
“How foolish are some pollywogs;
Before they’ve lost their tails
They often class themselves with frogs,
And leave their native swales;
“And while exploring down some ditch,
Beneath a scorching ray,
Upon a sandy bar they hitch,
And bake as dry as hay.
“Had they but waited till the tail
Had from their body dropp’d—
And in its stead four legs shot forth—
Away they might have hopp’d.”
Thus while he sat above the pool,
Commenting on his lot,
He heard a truant boy from school
Come whistling to the spot.
“Ah ha!” quoth he, “I hear, I see
An ancient foe of mine;
He stones will throw, that well I know,
And straight ones I divine.
“The sparrow on the picket fence,
The squirrel on the limb,
The swallow flying overhead,
Alike look out for him.
“There are some hands I scarcely fear,
So ill a stone they guide;
But when Bob Stevenson is near
’Tis meet that I should hide.”
So, prompted by the fearful thought,
He leaped in with a thud,
And diving to the bottom, sought
Concealment in the mud.
Now burrow, burrow, little frog,
As you will trouble find;
Think not because your eyes are shut
That every one is blind.
Then burrow deeper, deeper far,
Leave not one claw in view;
Or, swifter than a falling star,
A stone will cleave you through.
“While here,” said he, “I’m safe enough,
And here I’ll peaceful lie
Until that little whistling rough
Has passed the water by.”
[Illustration: BOB’S ATTACK.]
But, ah! while he did reckon that
The host was not around,—
The youngster saw him quit the log,
And soon a stone was found.
He stood beside the circling pond,
And gazed a while below—
The tell-tale mud the frog disturbed
Rose from the bottom slow.
But, ah! for childhood’s searching eyes!
What can escape their darts?
Projecting from the mud he spies
The croaker’s hinder parts.
“Ho! ho!” then laughed this cruel boy,
As downward he did stare,
“If you from trouble would be free
Of every part take care.”
Then down he sent the ready stone,
Nor went it down in vain—
Dead as the missile that was thrown,
The frog came up again.
Along the river’s ferny banks
The frogs still chant their lays
While floating on his native pool
That stone-killed frog decays.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ALL FOOLS’ DAY.
This is “all fools’ day,” and judging by the number of people who are
passing along the sidewalk with strings and rags dangling from their
coat tails, the custom of making people appear ridiculous is not
obsolete. What delight the youngsters take in covering a few bricks with
an old hat, and leaving it temptingly upon the sidewalk, while they
withdraw into some nook to watch the bait and halloo at the person who
is thoughtless enough to kick it.
[Illustration: SOLD.]
Though the custom has age to sanction it, I am decidedly opposed to
making people—either on the first of April or upon any other day—appear
ridiculous in their own eyes as well as in the eyes of every person with
whom they come in contact. People will make fools of themselves often
enough, without the assistance of others. I wonder why men are not more
upon their guard upon this day. Just now I saw a newspaper reporter, who
certainly should have known better, kick an old hat from his way, and go
limping to the office, denouncing everybody in general, but children in
particular. Speaking of reporters calls to mind something that I have
often thought. I believe if I had been endowed with more cheek and less
scruples about over-stepping the line of veracity, I long before this
would have made my mark in the world as a newspaper scribbler.
My unconquerable modesty always rose up like a barrier between me and
reportorial fame. It would never allow me to dip into trivial, baseless
rumors, and magnify them into scandalous reports. My pride, too, was a
clog that blocked the wheel of progress. I could never throw it aside
long enough to intrude myself uninvited at select gatherings, or creep
and crouch under a window-sill or behind a door, like a base
eavesdropper, to hear words that were not intended for the public ear,
in order to work up a stirring article. But for these drawbacks, I
cannot help thinking I would have done well at the business, because, by
a singular decree of fate, I am generally present whenever any strange
or amusing incident transpires, or even when scenes of a serious nature
furnish work for the pen, and many a time, too, when I could well wish
myself suddenly removed far enough from the distressing scene before me.
This afternoon, for example, a terrible assault was perpetrated in the
back yard of the house adjoining the one in which I reside.
There is no use talking, I will have to get up and bundle out of this
locality, before long. It is becoming too rough a quarter for me. Its
poisonous air would tarnish the brightest reputation that ever shone
upon a forehead.
With my usual luck, I happened to witness the affair. Thus far I have
kept it to myself, as I have no desire to figure in a court of justice
in any such scrape. Some people, perhaps, would rush forward and
volunteer their testimony, but I am not of that turn of mind, and
calculate to keep my mouth shut until it is pried open by a legal bar. I
have been looking over the evening papers, but they make no mention of
the case, so perhaps the authorities are keeping the matter quiet,
fearing that by giving it publicity they would defeat the ends of
justice. With this thought in mind, and to help them along in their
efforts, it being “all fools’ day,” also, I will say no more about it.
FINDING A HORSE-SHOE.
Upon this day, and at this time, while the fire burneth in the grate and
the warm drink steameth in the bowl, I speak as with the tongue of a
scribe of the olden time, and this is the burden of my speech:—
A certain man, a citizen of this place, as he journeyed to his home,
that looketh toward the mountain which is called Lone—and at the base of
which the dead are entombed—found an horse-shoe in the way. And he was
exceeding pleased because of his luck, insomuch that he rubbed his hands
together joyfully, and said within himself: “How blessed am I in finding
this shoe in the way. This bodeth good to me and mine household, because
it pointeth in the way that I am going, and it would show a lack of
understanding in me should I not pick it up.” So he placed it carefully
in the pouch that was sewed in the hind part of his garment, which is
called the tail, and hastened on towards his home; and as he went his
countenance was bright to look upon. And it came to pass when he had
arrived at his house, and was entered in at the door, he said unto
himself—for he was an eccentric man, and his ways were not as the ways
of sensible people—“Now will I make all haste and fasten this shoe above
my parlor door, that it may continually bring good towards my house, for
my grandmother hath often said there lieth a charm for good in the
horse-shoe that is picked up by the way.” So reaching forth his hand, he
took a hammer and a nail—such a nail as builders use when they would
have their work outlast themselves—and stepping upon a chair, essayed to
transfix the shoe to the casing above the door.
[Illustration: THE HORSE-SHOE CHARM.]
Now it chanced that this man had a wife, a woman who was not eccentric,
neither had she patience to spare on those people who had eccentric
ways; and as she was at work in the kitchen—for upon the whole sea-coast
there was not found a more industrious or tidy woman—she heard the sound
of the hammer proceeding from the room which was her pride; and she made
haste and dropped the dough that she was kneading for the oven, and
looking out into the apartment, she beheld her husband standing upon the
chair attempting to transfix the horse-shoe above the door. And she was
exceeding displeased because of his action, and of his provoking
eccentricity, and she remonstrated with him mildly, saying:
“Souls of the Innocents! is this a barn? or a blacksmith’s shop? or are
ye gone stark, staring mad? or has old age benumbed your senses beyond
all hope? that thus you would establish the unsightly object above the
door, to be a jest for visitors and a shame unto us?”
But the good man of the house, looking down reprovingly from the
eminence upon which he was now set up—being nettled because she had
likened him to a man stark, staring mad—answered the woman sharply,
after this manner, saying:—
“Go delve into thy dough, _old_ woman! Did ye never have a grandmother?
or is thy memory as short as thy wind? Know ye not I fix it here that it
may bring good unto our house, as hath been said of it in the olden
time?” So he left off speaking with his wife, but turned him about and
once more essayed to establish the shoe above the door. For his mind was
firm on that point, that he would nail it there, that it might bring
good unto his house.
Then waxed the woman exceedingly wroth—for she was of the house of
O’Donohue, whose temper caused him to be cast into prison, because he
smote the anointed priest within the chapel—and bending her body, she
laid hold of the rounds of the chair upon which her husband was builded
up, and pulled it suddenly from beneath him while he did reach to drive
the spike, and behold, he came down quickly, and lay along the floor
like a cedar felled.
And it so happened, as the woman attempted to pass out by the door which
led out into the kitchen, lo! a hammer followed after, and overtook the
woman, and lodged upon her back, even between the two shoulder blades,
and caused her to cry out with a marvelous loud cry; but turning herself
around while yet the cry was proceeding from her mouth, she lifted the
hammer from the floor and cast it from her, even at the countenance of
her rising husband. Now it came to pass when the good man of the house
looked upon the weapon as it left the hand of his wife, and saw that it
was drawing nigh unto his head, swift as a javelin hurled from a
Trojan’s arm, he said within himself, “As my name is Bartholomew, my
hour is come.” And as he spoke he dived to the floor, that it might pass
over and work him no harm. But even while he stooped, the weapon caught
upon his scalp and peeled it backward to the very nape.
Then went the woman out into the kitchen, and when her husband was risen
from the floor, he ran out into the streets seeking where he might find
a surgeon; and as he ran the people stood and looked after, and communed
one with another, saying: “Surely this man hath escaped from the
Modocs!” But he was sorely troubled because of his scalp, so he heeded
not the people, neither loitered he by the way to enlighten them
concerning the wound; but when he had entered in at a surgeon’s door he
entreated him to make all haste and bind up his wounds, that he might
become whole again.
[Illustration: REPAIRS NEEDED.]
And when the surgeon drew nigh and looked upon the wound he was
exceedingly astonished, and he cried, “Of what tribe was the savage that
hath done this?”
But the injured man answered him sorrowfully, saying, “Nay, but my wife
hath done this thing!” and bowing his head between his knees he wept
bitterly, even as David wept when he learned that Absalom had perished
in the boughs of the great oak. And when the surgeon had poured oil upon
the wound, and sewed it together—even as a housewife seweth the rent in
a garment—and spread plasters upon his head in divers ways, he arose and
journeyed to the Hall of Justice, which is by the Plaza, and entered a
complaint against the woman.
And it came to pass when the magistrates and the wise men of the place
heard his complaint, they looked upon him as a person altogether given
over to falsehoods, and they questioned him, saying: “How may we know if
ye indeed speak the truth in our ears.” And removing the bandage from
his head, with which the surgeon had wrapped it round, he answered and
spake unto them, saying: “Ye ask for proof, and behold! I give it you!”
And when they drew nigh and looked upon his head they saw that it was
covered over with plasters, insomuch that it resembled a bolt of linen
fresh from the loom, and they were sore displeased because of the
assault. So they called together four men, the chosen officers of the
force, and commanded them to arrest the woman, saying: “Take ye the
woman into custody, and lodge her in prison, that on the morrow we may
sit in judgment over her.”
So these four officers, named Murry, the brave; and Flynn, styled the
“blinker,” and Curran, and Flaherty,—surnamed the “beat”—armed
themselves with pistols, and clubs, and knives, and went forth to arrest
the woman. And a great crowd followed after, for they said among
themselves, “Surely some murder hath been done.” So when they had come
nigh to the house they laid plans how they might surround it; and this
was the manner of their approach toward the house. Murry on the east
side; and Flynn, styled the “blinker,” on the west side; and Curran on
the north side; and Flaherty, surnamed the “beat” on the south side. So
they did compass the house about and enter it; and this was the manner
of their entrance. One by the front door, and one by the back door, and
one by the window that looked out at the west side of the house, and one
by the window that looked out at the east side of the house; and they
did converge and meet in the centre. And they found the hammer and the
blood thereon; and the horse-shoe and the nail sticking therein; but
they found not the woman. And they searched the house, beginning at the
cellar, and ascending even up to the loft, but be it known unto you, the
woman had fled, and her whereabouts remaineth a secret to this day.
[Illustration]
AN EVENING WITH SCIENTISTS.
This evening I accepted an invitation from a member of the Academy of
Science to attend a regular meeting. I started out almost under protest,
thinking it would prove a very dry entertainment. It had been said that
at their meetings they conversed only about fossils or strata, or grew
warm while arguing some point about the Azoic or Silurian age, that
period before the Dinotherium or even the Mastodon ran bellowing across
the flinty earth. I was agreeably disappointed, however. For I found it
not only instructive, but amusing to others than scientists. The
President announced to the Academy that a feathered mouse had been sent
by an unknown friend from a distant town. A vote of thanks was then
tendered the donor. The feathered mouse, however, proved to be a cruel
fraud, for a subsequent examination revealed the painful fact that the
feathers were stuck to the skin by some adhesive substance. The vote of
thanks was then rescinded, and the feathered mouse was informally
introduced to the office cat.
A communication was then read from a man in the interior. He informed
the Academy that he had in his possession a large sow, which, when quite
a small pig, had been severely bitten by a black dog, which made a
lasting impression upon her. In after years if any of her litter were
black she singled them out, and devoured them with as little remorse as
an old woman would a dish of stir-about. The sow had that day died from
the effects of eating a tarantula, and he offered to donate her to the
Academy, providing they would bear the cost of transporting her to the
city. By a unanimous vote the communication was laid _under_ the table.
Quite a discussion then took place as to whether pigs really do see the
wind, and if so, why?
[Illustration: THE PRESIDENT OF THE ACADEMY.]
A member then presented the Academy with a new species of snail, or
slug, which he found in the mountains, and which had but one horn. He
proposed having it called a “unicorn snail.” Quite a controversy
followed. Several members maintained that the snail imprudently left its
horns out over night, and one, getting nipped by the frost, dropped off.
This proposition angered the generous donor, and reaching forth a hand
trembling with emotion, he lifted the snail from the palm of the
admiring President, and laid it down gently upon the floor—as a mother
might deposit an infant in the cradle—and while the Academy stood
spell-bound, before a tongue could be loosened from the roof of a mouth,
or a hand stretched to save, he planted the sole of a number eleven boot
upon the crowning back of the little gasteropod, and when he lifted his
foot again, all that was visible of the one-horned snail was a little
grease spot upon the floor, the size of an average rain drop. This
inhuman act seemed to throw a gloom over the Academy.
No further business appearing, the meeting adjourned.
OUR TABLE GIRL.
“O, those girls!
Naughty, laughing, beautiful girls.”—_Old Song._
I commenced boarding in a new place to-day, and am completely smitten by
the charming table girl—
Oh, she is young and bright and fair,
With midnight eyes and inky hair,
Which unconfined, without a check,
Falls round a plump and snowy neck.
Oh, sweet she bends above my chair
Like Juno, when old Jove’s her care,
And as she stoops to hear me speak,
Soft falls her breath upon my cheek,
And I forget (true as I live)
The order that I fain would give.
Before her dark and earnest eyes
My appetite distracted flies,
And though I hungry sit me down,
I rise full as a country clown
Who by a picnic table stands,
And shovels in with both his hands.
’Tis true, at times the humble board
Does but a scant repast afford;
At times we grumble at the bread,
Or at the butter shake the head;
And oft the whisper circles round
About the mystery profound,
That may within the hash repose,
And any fateful stir disclose.
But still we linger, still we stay,
And hope for better things each day;
Thus proving that one winning face
Can keep from bankruptcy the place.
[Illustration]
AN OLD WOMAN IN PERIL.
Yesterday, while in the back country, I saw an old woman in what would
have been a very laughable predicament, had it not been a very pitiable
one.
An unusually large vulture had for some time been soaring in the
neighborhood, occasionally scraping acquaintance with one of the fat
ewes grazing in the valley. Several of the farmers had felt the vexation
of seeing him perched upon a lofty eminence and making the wool fly from
some favorite Cotswold. They were justly enraged, and resolved to put a
stop to his depredations.
They accordingly posted themselves nigh their flocks, and with guns
heavily charged, awaited the advent of the rapacious bird. But he was no
booby, and though his gizzard could digest a good-sized rib or hoof with
all the ease of a Ballyshannon woman making away with a mealy potato,
yet he hadn’t the least inclination to test its grinding power upon a
charge of slugs or buckshot.
For several days thereafter he was known in the neighborhood as a “high
flier.” With a pining maw he would sit upon some heaven-kissing crag,
and with drooping head watch the fleecy flocks grazing in the green
valley below. He found it difficult, however, to cloy the hungry edge of
appetite by bare imagination of a feast, and, emboldened by want, began
to drop to a lower level when flying across the fields.
Yesterday, as mutton was out of the question, he resolved to try his
beak upon some tougher viand, and while in the vicinity of the village,
he swooped down upon a little old woman who was gathering chips in front
of her cottage.
The poor old body had not the least warning of the vulture’s approach.
As she stooped in the act of picking fuel enough to cook her evening
meal he dropped upon her like an arrow.
[Illustration: THE OLD LADY’S ASCENT.]
Fastening his powerful talons in the strong material of her
loose-fitting garments, he spread abroad his mighty wings and began to
haul her heavenward. The astonishment, anxiety and indescribable antics
of the poor old lady when she found herself slowly but surely leaving
_terra firma_ by an unknown agency were indeed terrible to witness.
She knew not whether it was a gold-tinseled angel, or an iron-rusted
demon, that was thus, in open day, and while she was yet in the flesh,
unceremoniously translating her to some remote planet; she had no means
of discovering; she was only certain she was going—that her direction
was onward and upward. Her favorite hollyhock tickled her nose as she
swept over her little garden, and the clothes-line, that for a moment
seemed to baffle the vulture’s flight, was now stretching beneath.
She deployed her feet, regardless of appearances, first to the right,
then to the left, above and below, vainly endeavoring to come in contact
with something that would give her an inkling of what was responsible
for this mysterious movement. There was a vague uncertainty about the
whole proceeding well calculated to alarm her. Even though she succeeded
in shaking herself loose, her fall would now be fearful, and each moment
was adding to the danger. What could I do? I was powerless to save. I
had no gun, and even if I had there would have been some grave doubts in
my mind as to the propriety of firing, as I generally shoot low, and
such an error in my aim could hardly have proved otherwise than
disastrous.
There was no use striving to make the bird loosen his hold by hooting.
If there had been any virtue in that sort of demonstration the old woman
would hardly have been raised above the eaves of her shanty, for she was
screaming in a manner that would have made a Modoc blush. The only thing
that suggested itself, and that rather hurriedly, was to get out my
pencil and paper and take a sketch as she appeared passing over her
cottage in the vulture’s talons.
The blood, which at first forsook her cheeks through fear, was almost
instantly forced back into her visage again by the pendant position of
her head.
She beat the empty tin pan which she still retained in her hand, but the
voracious and hunger-pinched vulture had no notion of relinquishing his
hold on account of noise. On the contrary, he seemed to enjoy it, and
with many a sturdy twitch and flap, and many an airy wheel, he still
held his way toward a rugged promontory situated at the head of the
valley. Fortunately, when he was twenty feet from the ground and about
eighty rods from the cottage, the calico dress and undergarments in
which mainly his talons were fastened, gave out, and the liberated woman
dropped on hands and knees in the muddy bed of the creek, over which the
bird was passing at the time.
While hovering over her, about to pounce down upon her and try the
elevating business again, a sheep-herder who had seen the bird
approaching the cottage, gave him a dose of buckshot, which broke one
wing and left him at the mercy of his captor.
[Illustration]
FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE.
_Jonathan_.—“I hain’t got no tongue for soapin’ of ye, Susan Jane. I
mean _business_, I do. Will ye hev me?”
_Susan Jane_.—“I don’t know much about ye, Jonathan Junkit, but I’m
willin’ to risk it, anyhow. Yer’s my hand. I’m yourn.”
_Old Volume._
This afternoon I attended a private wedding on Howard Street. I may
safely term it “marriage in high life,” as the combined height of the
couple was something over twelve feet.
The groom was a bachelor, who for many a year had stood around the fire
like the half of a tongs, very good as a poker, but not worth standing
room as a picker up.
He looked as though it wouldn’t require much advice to make him—even at
the eleventh hour—prove recreant to his vows, and back out from under
the yoke the reverend gentleman was about to place upon his neck.
His companion, however, was no novice in the business in which she was
engaged. She was fearlessly putting forth upon that sea on which she had
twice been wrecked, but she was nothing loth to try it again. Were she
only skilled in navigation as well as in embarkation, she would have
been the one to send on expeditions to either the North or South Pole,
as the case might be.
[Illustration: THE TRYING MOMENT.]
It was truly encouraging to the timorous and uninitiated, to see with
what a broad smile she regarded her husband that was to be; and with
what a readiness she responded to the momentous question propounded by
the minister. And when they stood as husband and wife, her Milesian face
lighted up with irrepressible joy, until it beamed like a Chinese
lantern.
Her emotions went far to convince me that there is in those matrimonial
fields a balm for every ill; a perfect bliss worthy the seeking, even at
the risk of receiving the bruised spirit, if not the bruised head.
[Illustration]
ODE ON A BUMBLE-BEE.
[Illustration]
Oh, busy, breezy bumble-bee,
A fitting theme in you I see!
At once you backward turn my gaze
To orchard, mead, and pasture days,
To watch your movements to and fro
With wondering eyes, as years ago.
Come, let me set my mark on thee,
As thou hast oft remembered me,
When with a seeming special zeal
You hastened to affix your seal.
I’ve heard your gruff good-morrow ring
When meeting kinsfolk on the wing;
Now coming zig-zag, light and airy,
Now going laden, straight and wary;
Still mindful of the spider’s snare
And kingbird, pirate of the air.
[Illustration]
I’ve seen you upward turn your eye,
When clouds began to fleck the sky,
The winds to chafe the village pond,
And thunder rumble far beyond
And threaten storm, ere you could fill
Your honey sack, so empty still.
I’ve heard you whining forth your grief
When rain commenced to pelt the leaf,
And made you take the shortest road
That brought you to your dark abode.
I’ve marked your grumbling when you found
The working bee had been around;
Had left his bed and waxen door
And reached the field an hour before;
For still, with early bird, or bee,
Or man, the maxim does agree
They all must be content to find
What early risers leave behind.
Against the bell I’ve heard you storm,
Because it kept your burly form
From passing in the honeyed way,
That open to the emmet lay.
Thus human folk are oft denied
What, in their judgment, or their pride,
They should enjoy, though kept instead
For meaner things that creep ahead.
I know how apt you are to cling
To locks of hair, to hide and sing,
And keep the victim still in doubt
Just where the mischief will break out;
I know full well your angry tone,
And how you stab to find the bone;
With what a brave, heroic breast
Ye strike for queen and treasure chest,
Like Sparta’s sons, at duty’s call,
Compelled to win, or fighting fall;
Not fearing odds, nor counting twice,
Ye fix your bayonet in a trice,
And charge upon the nearest foe,
And break the ranks where’er you go.
For not the stroke of halberdier
Nor thrust of Macedonian spear
Can check your onset when you fly
With full intent to do or die!
Beneath your straight and rapid dart
The foe will tumble, turn, depart,
And leave you victor, to report
Your doings at the Queen Bee’s court.
And proudly may you bare your brow,
In presence of your sovereign bow,
And tell her why you came so late,
Thus panting, to the palace gate;
And show your limbs of wax bereft,
Your right arm crushed, and sprained the left,
Your twisted horn, exhausted sting,
Your wounded scalp and tattered wing,
But how, in spite of every ill,
You struck for independence still,
Until the acre lot was free
Of all that would molest the bee.
’Tis said that youngsters have a knack
To take you prisoner by the back;
To catch you by the wings, in haste,
A piece above the belted waist,
And hold you thus, to struggle there,
And use your sting on empty air.
But once I tried, and once I missed,
For you’re a great contortionist,
And somehow turn, and manage still
To plant your poison where you will.
Ah, they are wise, who meddling cease,
And let you go your way in peace!
Though many things may slip my mind
Before the narrow bed I find,
In fancy’s field I’d often see
The busy, burly bumble-bee.
[Illustration]
DUDLEY AND THE GREASED PIG.
Boil-stricken Job had his comforters, who, despite his timely
injunction, “Oh, lay your hands upon your mouths, and thereby show your
wisdom,” would still drum in his ear, “Hear us, for we will speak.” Poor
old Falstaff had his evil genius in Bardolph, his impecunious follower,
with his “Lend me a shilling.” And I have my burdensome “Jim Dudley,”
with his “Let me tell you a story.” I was kept awake last night
listening to his crazy yarn about the “greased pig,” as if I cared
anything about his villainous adventures.
“Oh, yes, that scrape with the greased pig? I never told you about it,
eh? It’s worth heerin’, for that was a tearin’ old race, and I came
mi’ty nigh gettin’ shoved out of the village on account of it, too, now,
I can tell ye. Down on me? Wall, I reckon you’d think so if you heered
the hollerin’ that was gwine on for awhile arter that race, some cryin’
one thin’ and some another. ‘Tar and feather the cheat,’ one would
holler.
“‘Lynch the blamed humbug!’ another would shout.
“‘Put him in a sack and h’ist him over the bridge!’ would come from
another quarter.
“A doctor was never so down on a patent medicine as they were on me
arter that race, especially Parson Coolridge, who was one of the
principal sufferers, yer see.
“It was May Day amongst ’em, and the hull village seemed to be out thar
enjoyin’ ’emselves. They had sack races and wheelbarrow races. That was
the day blindfold Tom Moody ran the wheelbarrow through the grocer’s
window, and Old Shulkin knocked him down with a ham, and a dog ran away
with it. He charged Tom with the ham in the bill, along with the broken
winder.
“They had a greased pole standin’ thar with a ten-dollar greenback
tacked on top of it, but no person could get within ten feet of the
bill. The hungry crowds were standin’ around all day gazin’ longin’ly up
at the flutterin’ greenback, like dogs at a coon in a tree-top.
“I didn’t try the pole, but when they brought out the greased pig—a
great, slab-sided critter, jest in good condition for racin’,—I got sort
o’ interested in the performance. His tail was more’n a foot long, and
it was greased until it would slip through a feller’s fingers like a
newly caught eel.
“Several of the boys started arter him, but they’d jest make one catch,
and before they were certain whether they had hold of it, they would go
one way and the hog would go another. And then the crowd would holler.
“I was standin’ thar a leanin’ over the fence watchin’ of ’em for some
time, and I see the pig was in the habit of formin’ a sort of ring with
his tail; leastwise he’d lap it over so that it e’enmost formed a
knot—all it lacked was the end wanted drawin’ through. I cal’lated that
a feller with pooty nimble fingers could make a tie by jest slippin’ his
fingers through the ring and haulin’ the end of the tail through. That
would make a plaguey good knot, and prevent his hand from slippin’ off.
Arter thinkin’ over it for some time I concluded if I could git up a bet
that would pay for the hardships that a feller would be likely to
experience, I would try a catch anyhow.
“So I ses to Jake Swasey, who stood alongside of me, ‘Jake, I believe
that I kin hold that pig until he gins out.’
“‘Hold?’ he ses, surprised like and raisin’ his eyebrows just that way;
‘what’s the matter of ye? hain’t ye slept well? Ye mout as well try to
hold old Nick by the tail as that big, slab-sided critter.’
“‘Wal, now, jest wait a bit,’ ses I; so I went on and told him what I
cal’lated to do, and arter he looked awhile, he ses, ‘Wal, go ahead,
Jim, I’ll back ye. I reckon we can git any amount of odds so long as we
keep the knot bus’ness to ourselves.’
“So pullin’ off my coat I gin it to Jake to hold, and jumpin’ on the
fence, I hollered, ‘I’ll bet ten to twenty that I kin freeze to the
pig’s tail till he gins out!’
“Great fish-hooks! you ought to have seen ’em a-rustlin’ towards me. I
couldn’t see anythin’ but hands for five minutes, as they were holdin’
of ’em up, and signalin’, an’ a-hollerin’, ‘I’ll take that bet, Dudley,
I’ll take that bet!’ I got rid of what money I had about me pooty soon,
and Jake Swasey was jest a-spreadin’ out his greenbacks like a
paymaster, and arter he exhausted his treasury he started arter his
sister to git what money she had. I hollered to him to come back—I was
fearin’ he’d tell her about the knot bus’ness; but he wasn’t no fool and
knowed too well what gals are to trust her with any payin’ secret.
“Old Judge Perkins was thar, jolly as a boy on the last day of school.
Wal, he was holdin’ of the stakes, and his pockets were crammed
chockfull of greenbacks. He was a pooty good friend of mine, and
couldn’t conceive how in thunder I was a-gwine to get my money back.
[Illustration: JUDGE PERKINS.]
“Beckonin’ of me one side—‘Dudley,’ ses he, kind of low that way, and
confidentially like, ‘I know you’re as hard to catch as an old trout
with three broken hooks in its gill; but I can’t help thinkin’ a greased
pig’s tail is a mi’ty slippery foundation to build hopes on.’
“‘Never mind, Judge,’ ses I, winkin’, ‘I can see my way through.’
“‘Yes, Dudley,’ he ses, a-shakin’ of his head dubious like, ‘that’s what
the fly ses when he’s a-buttin’ his head against the winder.’
“‘Wal,’ ses I, ‘without the tail pulls out, I cal’late to travel mi’ty
close in the wake of that swine for the next half hour;’ and with that I
moved off to where the pig was standin’ and listenin’ to all that was
gwine on.
“I fooled round him a little until I got betwixt him and the crowd, and
when he flopped his tail over as I was tellin’ ye, I made one desperate
lunge, and made a go of it the fust time. I jest hauled the end through
while he was turnin’ round, and grabbin’ hold above my hand, rolled it
down into the tightest knot you ever sot eyes on. It was about two
inches from the end of the tail, and he scolloped around so amazin’
lively nobody could see it. The crowd allowed I was hangin’ on the
straight tail, and they didn’t know what to make of the performance
anyhow.
“‘Go it, piggy,’ I ses to myself, just that way, ‘I guess it’s only a
question of endurance now, as the gal said when she had the flea under
the hot flat-iron.’
“The gate was open, and arter a few circles around the lot, the hog
p’inted for it, and away he went, pig fust and I arter. He ran
helter-skelter under old Mother Sheehan, the fruit woman, jest as she
was comin’ through the gateway with a big basket of apples on each arm.
I did hate like snakes to hoist the old lady, bounce me if I didn’t! I
would ruther have run around a mountain than do it, ’cause you see she
had jest been gittin’ off a bed of sickness that came nigh shroudin’
her, and she wasn’t prepared for a panic, by any means. I did my best to
swing the critter around and git him off the notion of goin’ through,
but his mind was made up. Thar was plenty of room outside for him to
pass along without disturbin’ the old lady, but a hog is a hog, you
know—contrary the world over. Besides, he allowed he could brush me off
by the operation, but I wasn’t so easily got rid of. The money was up,
you see, and I had no choice but to follow where he led and stick to the
rooter till he gin out. ‘Where thou goest, I will go,’ I ses to myself,
rememberin’ the passage in the Scriptures, and duckin’ my head to follow
him. I scrouched down as low as I could and keep on my feet; for I
cal’lated, do my best, the old woman would git elevated pooty lively.
[Illustration: BAD FOR THE FRUIT BUSINESS.]
“She hollered as though a whole menagerie—elephants, kangaroos, snakes
and all—had broke loose. Her sight wasn’t any too clear, and the whole
proceedin’s had come upon her so sudden that she didn’t exactly know
what sort of an animal was thar. She would have been satisfied it was a
hog if it hadn’t taken so long to git through. I followed so close to
his hams that she reckoned we both made one animal. The hog gin a snort
when he started in to run the blockade, and she ses to herself, ‘Thar
goes a big hog,’ but about the time she reckoned he had got out on the
other side, I come a humpin’ and a boomin’ along in my shirt-sleeves,
and gin her a second boost, throwin’ the old woman completely off her
pins and out of her calculations at once.
“She did holler good, thar’s no mistake about that.
“The crowd hoorayed and applauded. The older ones of course sympathized
with the poor old woman; but they could do nothin’ more, ’cause the
whole catastrophe come as sudden as an earthquake and nobody seemed to
be to blame. I wasn’t, and they all could see that plain enough. The
young uns went for the scattered apples, but the pig and I kept right on
attendin’ to business. Now and agin he’d double back towards the crowd,
and they’d commence scatterin’ every which way, trampin’ on each other’s
feet. Si Grope, the cashiered man-of-wars-man, stepped on Pat Cronin’s
bunion, and he responded by fetchin’ the old salt a welt in the burr of
the ear, and at it they went, tooth and nail, right thar. A few stopped
to see fair play, but the heft of the crowd, about three hundred, kept
right on arter me and the hog.
“Jake Swasey managed to git up pooty nigh to us once and hollered, ‘How
are you makin’ it, Jim?’
“‘Fustrate,’ I answered; ‘I cal’late to stick to this swine through bush
and bramble till I tire him out.’
“‘That’s the feelin’,’ he shouted, and with that we left him behind. The
old judge was a puffin’ and a blowin’, strivin’ his best to keep up, and
for some time he actewally led the crowd, but he didn’t hold out very
long, but gradewelly sank to the rear.
[Illustration: BOW-LEGGED SPINNY.]
“Rod Munnion, the tanner, stumbled and fell while crossin’ the street.
His false teeth dropped out into the dirt, and while he was scramblin’
on all fours to git ’em ag’in, a feller named Welsh, who was clatterin’
past, slapped his foot down and bent the plate out of all shape. Munnion
snatched ’em up ag’in as quick as the foot riz, and wipin’ ’em on his
overalls as he ran, chucked ’em back into his mouth ag’in, all twisted
as they were. They did look awful though, stickin’ straight out from his
mouth, and pressin’ his lip chock up ag’inst his nose. You couldn’t
understand what he was sayin’ any more than if he was Chinnook.
“Bow-legged Spinny, the cabbagin’ tailor, was thar. He met the crowd
while carryin’ home Squire Lockwood’s new suit, and catchin’ the
excitement of the moment, tossed the package into Slawson’s yard, and it
bounded into the well quicker than ‘scat.’ He didn’t know it though, but
hollered to the old woman, as he ran past the window, to look arter the
package until he got back. Not seein’ any package she allowed he was
crazy as a cow with her head stuck in a barrel, and flew to boltin’ of
her doors pooty lively. He had been once to the Lunatic Asylum, you see,
and they were still suspicious of him.
“The crowd thought to head us off by takin’ down a narrow lane, and it
was while they were in that, that they began to surge ahead of Judge
Perkins. He was awful quick tempered, and pooty conceited, and when
bow-legged Spinny was elbowin’ past him he got mad. Catching the poor
stitcher by the coat tail, he hollered: ‘What! a miserable thread-needle
machine claimin’ precedence?’ and with that he slung him more’n ten
feet, landin’ him on his back in a nook of the fence.
“That was the day they buried old Mrs. Redpath, that the doctors
disagreed over. Dr. Looty had been doctorin’ her for some time for bone
disease. He said her back-bone war decayin’. He didn’t make much out of
it though, and they got another doctor. The new feller said he
understood the case thoroughly; he ridiculed the idea of bone disease,
and went to work doctorin’ for the liver complaint. He said it had
stopped workin’ and he was agwine to git it started ag’in. I reckon he’d
have accomplished somethin’ if she had lived long enough, but she died
in the meantime. When they held a post-mortem, they found out the old
woman, some time in her life, had swallered a fish-bone which never
passed her stomach, and eventually it killed her.
“‘Thar,’ ses Dr. Looty, ‘what did I tell ye? You’ll admit, I reckon, my
diagnosis of the disease was right arter all, only I made a slight error
in locatin’ the bone!’
“‘Bone be splintered!’ ses the other feller, ‘hain’t I bin workin’
nigher the ailin’ part than you?’ So they went on quackin’ thar and
disagreein’ over her until old Redpath got mad and hollered, ‘You old
melonheads, isn’t it enough that I’m a widderer by your fumblin’
malpractice, without havin’ ye wranglin’ over the old woman!’ So he put
’em both out, and chucked their knives and saws arter ’em.
“But as I was sayin’, that was the day of the funeral, and while it was
proceedin’ from the church to the buryin’ ground with Parson Coolridge
at the head, with his long white gown on, we hove in sight comin’
tearin’ down to’ards the parsonage. The minister was a feller that
actewelly doted on flowers. When he wasn’t copyin’ his sermons’ he was
fussin’ around among the posies. He had his gardin chock full of all
kinds of plants and shrubs. Thar you could see the snapdragon from
Ireland, the fu-chu from China, the snow-ball from Canada, the
bachelor’s button from Californy, and every kind you could mention.
“He had noticed the gardin gate was open when the funeral passed, and it
worried him considerable. So when he heered the hootin’ and hollerin’,
and got sight of the crowd surgin’ down the street, and see the pig and
I pointin’ in the direction of the house, he couldn’t go ahead nohow.
“Turnin’ around to the pall bearers who were puffing along behind him,
he ses, ‘Ease your hands a minit, boys, and let the old woman rest ’till
I run back and see if that Dudley is agwine to drive that hog into my
gardin. Confound him!’ he contin’ed, ‘he’s wuss to have around the
neighborhood than the measles.’ With that he started back on the run,
his long, white gown a-flyin’ away out behind, the most comical lookin’
thing you ever see. And he could run, that Parson Coolridge, in a way
that was astonishin’. I reckon he hadn’t stirred out of a walk before
for thirty years, and yit he streaked it over the ground as though it
was an every-day occurrence.
“His j’ints cracked and snapped with the unusual motion, like an old
stairs in frosty weather, but he didn’t mind that so long as he could
git over the ground. He was thinkin’ of his favorite plants and the
prospect of their gittin’ stirred up and transplanted in a manner he
wasn’t prepared to approve. He did jerk back his elbows pooty spiteful,
now I can tell you. He tried to make the gateway fust, and put in his
best strides. But when he saw he couldn’t, he hollered, ‘Keep that hog
out of my gardin, Dudley, or I’ll take the law of ye.’
[Illustration: NIP AND TUCK.]
“‘Don’t git wrathy, Parson Coolridge,’ I shouted. ‘I can’t prevent the
pig from gwine in. I have hold of the rudder, but I’ll be boosted if I
can steer the ship.’ With that, through the openin’ we went, pig fust
and me arter, and the hul crowd a clatterin’ behind us. The judge was
amongst ’em, but got left in the hind end of it, where the women were
a-trottin’. The Parson’s flowers went down with broken necks quicker
than lightnin’. It wasn’t more’n ten seconds until they were six inches
under ground, for the hog kept a circlin’ around and the hoorayin’ crowd
follerin’ arter, payin’ no more attention to the Parson than if he had
been a young ’un a-runnin’ around. When they saw the crowd, the pall
bearers and most of the people who were jest follerin’ the remains
through sympathy, turned back on the run and left the mourners standin’
thar by the coffin.
“Oh! it was the most excitin’ time the village ever seed. The ground was
too soft in the gardin for the pig to git around well, and pooty soon he
gin out. I was awful tired, too, and was hangin’ a dead weight on him
for the last ten minutes.
“When the boys see the knot on the tail you ought to hear ’em
a-hollerin’, ‘Bets off! bets off!’ They were set on claimin’ a foul, and
surrounded the old judge demandin’ thar money.
“But, as the crowd was increasin’ and the Parson was e’enmost crazy, the
judge told ’em to come with him to the Court-house—he wouldn’t decide
nothin’ in the gardin. As the hog couldn’t walk, the judge took his
tobacco knife and cut the tail off and took it along with him to
introduce as proof. He decided in my favor. He said that I had held on
to the tail and touched nothin’ else, and if I managed to tie a knot
while runnin’ I had performed a feat never before heard of in the
country, so he paid over the money.
“But Parson Coolridge was the most worked up of any of ’em. He had legal
advice on the matter, but the lawyer told him to gin it up, for the
judge was on my side. Besides, he shouldn’t have left the gate open, if
he didn’t want the pig to go in thar. Arter a while he gin up the notion
of suin’ me, but while he stopped in the village he never got over it.
[Illustration: MORE LIGHT ON THE SUBJECT.]
“The boys had pictures chalked up on the fences and shop doors, so that
wherever you’d look you’d see sketches of the Parson runnin’ back from
the funeral, and me a holdin’ on to the pig’s tail. He paid out more’n
ten dollars in small sums to one boy, hirin’ him to go round and rub out
the pictures wherever he’d happen to see ’em. But every time the Parson
would start out through the village, thar on some fence or door, or side
of a buildin’, would be the same strikin’ picture of him, a streakin’ it
to head off the hog, so he would start the rubbin’-out boy arter that
one.
“One evenin’ he happened to ketch that selfsame little rascal hard at
work chalkin’ out the identical sketch on the cooper’s shop door, and
the Parson was so bilin’ mad he chased him all over the village. The
young speculator had bin carryin’ on a lively business, but arter that
discovery thar was a sudden fallin’ away in his income. I tell ye it
made a plag’y stir thar for awhile, and I reckon if Judge Perkins hadn’t
been on my side I’d have been obliged to git out of the place.”
[Illustration]
CORA LEE.
Would you hear the story told
Of the controversy bold,
That this day I did behold,
In a court of low degree,
Where his Honor sat like fate,
To decide betwixt the state
And a wanton villain’s mate,
Named Cora Lee?
The bold chief of stars was near,
As a witness to appear.
(By his order, Cora dear
Was languishing below.)
And for counsel she had got
A descendant of old Wat—
Noted for his daring plot,
Some years ago.
It was he commenced the fuss,
“For,” said he, “by this and thus,
Here I smell an _animus_[1]
As strong as musk of yore;
And it’s my condensed belief,
That in language terse and brief,
I can trace it to the chief,
E’en to his door.”
Then to all it did appear
That the chief was seized with fear;
To the lawyer he drew near,
And to him muttered low:
“I could never think that ye
Would be quite so hard with me;
You had better let me be,
And travel slow.”
Then the lawyer quit his chair
As if wasps were buzzing there,
And with quite a tragic air,
Addressed his Honor thus—
“At your hands I claim protection.
Keep your eyes in this direction,
Take cognizance of his action,
This _animus_!”
Then arose the chief of stars,
And his visage shone like Mars,
When he recks not battle scars,
But charges to the fray.
And his hand began to glide
To his pocket deep and wide,
Where a weapon well supplied
In waiting lay.
[Illustration: THE CHIEF.]
“Ho!” he cried, “you shyster hound,
If you go on nosing round
Till an _animus_ you’ve found,
My dear sir, hearken you:
I will open, by my soul!
In your carcass such a hole,
You will think a wagon pole
Has run you through.
“_You_ would prate about the law?
_You_ would magnify a flaw?
_You_ would touch me on the raw?
So now, sir, say no more!
Keep a padlock on your jaw,
Not a sentence, or I’ll draw,
And I’ll scatter you like straw
Around the floor!”
Now the Judge’s face grew red
As a turkey gobbler’s head
When a scarlet robe is spread
On the lawn or fence.
“I adjourn the court,” he cried,
“’Till that _animus_ has died,
And is buried head and hide
Far from hence.”
Then the rush was for the door;
From the corridors they pour,—
Three old women were run o’er
Within the justice hall;
And above the tramp and patter,
And the cursing and the chatter,
And the awful din and clatter,
Rose their squall.
When the open air was gained,
Then the epithets were rained,
And the passer’s ear was pained
With profanity flung loose,
Back and forth the wordy pair,
Shameless swapped opinions there;
’Till all parties got their share
Of vile abuse.
When the man of “briefs” would flee,
Chieftain followed like a bee,
Or a shark a ship at sea
When hunger presses sore;
’Till, enraged, the lawyer, he
Cried, “If fight you want of me,
Wait with patience minutes three,
Not any more;
“’Till I hasten up the stair
To my office, and prepare,
Like yourself for rip and tear,
And piling bodies dead.
Then, if you can blaze it faster,
Carve designs for probe or plaster,
Quicker work a soul’s disaster,
Just waltz ahead.”
But alas! his hasty tongue,
Vulgar name or sentence flung,
And the chieftain’s pride was stung
Down to the marrow bone.
Now upon him, head and tail,
Pitched policemen, tooth and nail,
Hot as bees when they assail
A lazy drone.
And upon the evening breeze
Rose the “begorras” and the “yees”
Of a dozen Mulroonees,
As they roughly hale
The poor lawyer through the street,
Sometimes lifted from his feet,
Sometimes o’er the noddle beat,
Toward the jail.
Now upon a truss of straw,
Lies the counsellor-at-law,
Wishing Satan had his paw
On wily Cora Lee.
For himself to grief is brought,
While the _animus_ he sought
Running is, as free as thought,
Or like his fee.
Footnote 1:
Private enmity towards the prisoner.
[Illustration]
A BRILLIANT FORENSIC EFFORT.
Having learned that a highly-educated and respectable lady of this city
had instituted a suit in one of our courts for the purpose of obtaining
a divorce from her husband, I stepped into the hall of justice to learn
how the case progressed. The fact of a young wife demanding a separation
in a country like this, which is proverbial for its separations, is
nothing to be wondered at, and I was considerably surprised, on reaching
the court room, to find it so full of people that I could hardly gain
admittance. I was not so much astonished at the great rush, however,
when informed by the bailiff that the ground on which the lady rested
her case was that her husband snored. As I entered, the plaintiff’s
lawyer commenced addressing the court. He entered into the case with the
spirit and fire of a Clay or a Webster. After reviewing and commenting
largely upon the testimony given in the case, he ended his argument in
the following words:—
[Illustration: THE ADVOCATE.]
“Now, sir, whatever other people may think of this application, I take a
bold stand, regardless whose corns or bunions I tread upon, so long as I
put my foot down where it belongs. We have too many snorers among us.
They are in our places of amusement, introducing groans and thunder
where none were intended in the play. We find them in our places of
worship, breaking forth in the midst of the pastor’s prayer, or while he
is picturing to the congregation the wreck of ages and the crash of
worlds. I maintain that this application is a righteous one; that it is
a shot in the right direction, which will in all likelihood eventually
bring down the game; and were I a judge invested with power to decide a
peculiar case of this kind, I would show no hesitation, but grant the
plaintiff her natural and very reasonable request more readily than if
the grounds on which she sued for a separation were drunkenness or
desertion.
“The absurdity of an irascible wife seeking a divorce from a husband
because he indulges too freely in the flowing bowl must be apparent to
all. She rushes into the crowded court room, and, figuratively speaking,
catches the astonished justice by the ear, as Joab in the extremity of
his distress laid hold upon the horns of the altar, and requests him to
sever the chafing bonds with his legal shears. Again: what a pitiable
lack of discretion that woman exhibits who appeals to the court merely
because her husband deserts her, leaving her to pursue the even tenor of
her way. Why, in nine cases out of ten this is a ‘consummation devoutly
to be wished;’ she is left untrammeled, and has no husband to support.
“I will not allude to the many other failings which wreck the home and
put out the cheerful light of many a hearthstone.
“But, sir, it is with no ordinary thrill of pride that I espouse the
cause of the woman who seeks a divorce from a snoring husband. I say,
and I may remark that I say it boldly, that I rejoice it was reserved
for me to raise my voice in her defence. I hold that a man who with
malice aforethought takes from her peaceful home a tender and confiding
maiden without first informing her of his trouble, commits a grave and
unpardonable crime. The dogs of justice should be loosened at his heels
to hound him from Puget’s Sound to Passamaquoddy Bay. He should be made
to repent his villainous act. Think how the tender nerves of a sensitive
creature must be shocked on being awakened by such an outburst. Picture
to yourself her husband, not breathing her name in words of love, but
lying flat on his back, and snoring with the vehemence of a stranded
porpoise.
“Now, sir, I ask what mercy should be shown the monster who has himself
shown none? He has doomed a fair representative of that sex whose
presence civilizes ours, to an ever new affliction and a life of
perpetual wakefulness. What course can she pursue? There are but two
roads. Which shall she take? One leads to the court room and the other
leads to the cemetery. She must either be freed from her husband or go
down to an untimely grave, perhaps to have her place quickly filled by
another unsuspecting victim. No, your Honor; this man, and I regret to
say it, this husband and father, should not be permitted to destroy the
peace and bright prospects of more than one female. Let it be known to
the world that he has ruined the hopes of a loving wife, let it be
blazoned upon the housetops and upon the fences that he _snores_; then
let him get another mate, if he can.
[Illustration]
“The wife should not only have a divorce from the deceptive monster, but
she should have the custody of the children. She deserves them by virtue
of her long suffering and patience, while he who has so heartlessly
deceived her cannot be competent to guide their little feet aright in
the dangerous walks of life. On behalf of this sorrowing wife, all other
wives, and of the wives yet to be, who are ripening into womanhood
around our hearths, I cry separation! In the name of confidence
betrayed, of hopes blasted, and of a life aged before its time, I
repeat, separation! separation!”
He sank into his seat, and despite the order of the bailiff for “silence
in court,” generous applause swept throughout the room. The judge took
occasion to compliment the lawyer for his able argument, and said it was
the greatest forensic effort he had listened to since he assumed the
responsibilities of his office. The prayer was granted and the children
awarded to the plaintiff.
[Illustration]
VISITING A SCHOOL.
Accepting an invitation extended by the principal of an uptown school, I
visited that institution to-day. The masses of young humanity a person
finds in these temples of instruction is something amazingly impressive.
Eight or nine hundred scholars are attending the one school on which I
bestowed my attentions to-day.
[Illustration: HEAD OF HIS CLASS.]
[Illustration: FOOT OF HER CLASS.]
This article must be embellished with a faithful sketch of the boy who
stood at the head of his class. How he felt at that moment, I couldn’t
say, never having any experience in the position myself. He looked happy
and confident, however, and snapped eagerly at the words as they fell
from the teacher’s lips, much as a hungry dog does at the crumbs falling
from a table. But my sympathies were decidedly with the little
contortionist who stood mournfully at the foot of her class. I knew how
that was myself. I had been “yar,” and I regretted I wasn’t a
ventriloquist, that I might from afar whisper in her ear, and assist her
over some clogging syllables. If she could have gone into the yard,
where I noticed a scholar of the senior class throwing herself in a
delirium of joy, brought about by a skipping-rope, she would probably
have acquitted herself in a creditable manner, and won the praise of
all, for however inferior a person may be to another in some matters,
when they can choose their game they often reverse the order, and
peradventure the poor stammering scholar could have skipped the skirts
off those jogging ahead of her in the common speller.
THE REJECTED SUITOR.
Not often does a sadder sight
Wake sympathetic strain,
Than glimpse of some rejected wight
Whose suit has proved in vain;
Who often pinched necessities
For bouquets, sweet and rare,
For tickets to the carnival,
The opera, or fair;
[Illustration: A SUITOR NON-SUITED.]
Whose pocket oft was visited
The candy box to fill;
The dollar spent that should have gone
To pay his laundry bill.
Especially the case is sad,
If he who seeks a wife
Has, step by step, encroached upon
The shady side of life.
The fly no darker prospect views
That in the inkstand peers,
Than he, whose unrequited love
Must leak away in tears.
At such a time how ill the smile
Becomes the rival face;
The “ha, ha, ha’s!” the winks and nods,
Seem sadly out of place.
And then comparisons are drawn
At the expense, no doubt,
Of him whose overflowing cup
Seems full enough without.
While he who moves away, alas!
Of every grace so free,
To criticism opens wide
The door, as all may see.
His mind is not reflecting now
On fashions, style, or art,
On proper pace, or rules of grace;
But on his slighted heart.
He now but sees his promised joys
All foundering in his view,
His castles tumbling down, that high
In brighter moments grew.
To know that now those ruby lips
Another’s mouth will press,
And now that soft and soothing hand
Another’s brow caress,—
Oh, dark before, and dark behind,
And full of woe and pain
Is life to him, whose heavy loss
Makes up a rival’s gain.
The gravel-walk beneath his feet
Cannot too sudden ope’,
To gather in the wretch, who mourns
The death of every hope.
The swallows, whispering in a row,
Seem mocking at his tear,
And in the cawing of the crow
He seems to catch a sneer;
The cattle grazing in the field
Awhile their lunch delay,
To gaze at him, who moves along
In such a listless way.
Perhaps he’ll know a thousand griefs
Ere death has laid him low.
Perhaps, beside an open grave,
He’ll shed the tear of woe;
Perhaps he’ll turn him from the sods
That hide a mother’s face,
A father’s smile, a brother’s hand,
Or sister’s buried grace;
But there can hardly come a time
When life will look so drear,
Or can so little reason show
Why he should linger here.
A NIGHT OF TERROR.
I am not the oldest inhabitant, and don’t know what sort of storms they
used to have here before the flood; but I’ll wager a corner lot against
a plug of tobacco, that this section, for the last twenty years, has not
snoozed through a rougher night than the one just past.
It would have been a glorious night for a revivalist to stir up the
masses. Converts would have crowded in like grists to a mill after
harvest. Since the last great earthquake I have not felt so much concern
about my future state as I did about twelve o’clock last night. I arose
from bed, and went to rummaging books, trying to find the description of
a storm that would equal ours. I found the tempest that Tam O’Shanter
faced the night he discovered the witches, and the one in which King
Lear was cavorting around, bare-headed, and that which made Cæsar take
an account of stock and turn to interpreting dreams, and jumbled them
all together; but the product was unequal to the fury that was raging
without. There was no more similarity than a baby’s rattle bears to a
Chinese gong.
[Illustration: A ROUSING EVENT.]
Then I fished out the storm that howled while Macbeth was murdering
Duncan, and tumbled it in with the others. This addition made things
about even. The “lamentations heard i’ the air” of Macbeth’s tempest
were a fair precedent of the clamorous uproar from the fire bell in the
City Hall tower. Only an earthquake was lacking to enable us to say,
“The earth was feverous, and did shake,” or boast a night outvieing four
of the roughest on record, all woven into one.
It had one good effect, however—one for which poison and boot-jacks have
been tried in vain: it did silence the dogs and cats. Their midnight
carousals were as rare as they were in Paris just before the
capitulation. Quarrelsome curs postponed the settlement of their little
differences and defiant barks until such times as they would be able to
discover themselves whether they barked or yawned, and cats sought other
places besides a fellow’s window-sill to express opinions about each
other or chant their tales of love.
I know the rain is refreshing, the wind purifying, the lightning grand,
and the thunder awe-inspiring; but as the poor land-lubber advised, when
he was clinging to the spar of the wrecked vessel, “Praise the sea, but
keep on land,” so I say to those people who want to prick up their
willing ears, like a war-horse, to catch the sublime rumble of heaven’s
artillery, or sit by their window and blink at the blazing sky, like a
bedazzled owl at a calcium light; but I know _one_ individual who could
have got along quite as well if there had raged no war of the elements.
He would have slept soundly and never mourned for what he had lost.
MY DRIVE TO THE CLIFF.
I am wofully out of humor, and what is worse, out of pocket, and have
just been settling a bill for repairs to a buggy which was knocked out
of kilter on the Cliff House road the other day. At the present writing
I feel that it will be some time before I take the chances of injuring
another. The moon may fill her horn and wane again, the seals howl, and
the ocean roar, but I will hardly indulge in the luxury of a drive to
the beach for many a day to come. I had a couple of ladies with me.
Splendid company ladies are—so long as they have unlimited confidence in
your skill as a driver. But they try one’s patience after they lose
faith, and want to get the lines in their own hands every time you
chance to run a wheel into the ditch, or accidentally climb over a pig
or calf. Those who were with me on that occasion are not particularly
loud in their praise of my driving. The fact is, I didn’t acquit myself
in a manner calculated to draw down encomiums in showers upon my head. I
drove a span that day. They were called high-strung animals. But I don’t
like high-strung horses any more. If they would only run along the track
like a locomotive, I could hold the ribbons as gracefully as anybody;
but I am very much opposed to all of their little by-plays. This getting
scared at a floating thistle-down, or grasshopper swinging on a straw,
is something I don’t approve of in a horse. There is no reason in it; no
profit accrues from it.
But my trotters were frightened at different objects at the same
moment—one at a snail peacefully pursuing his way across the road, and
the other at a butterfly winging his wabbling flight along the ditch. At
once they became unmanageable, and vied with each other in extravagant
antics. From the first the ladies had no very exalted opinion of my
manner of handling the lines. Even before we were well under way I had
the misfortune to run down a calf. Then a Newfoundland dog thought to
stop the buggy by taking hold of one of the hubs, but he made a
mis-dive, and shoving his head between the spokes, kept us company for
twenty rods without any effort on his part whatever. I also ran over a
wheelbarrow loaded with bricks (the Irishman escaped with a crushed
hat), and overthrew an apple woman’s stand while turning a corner. I can
yet hear ringing in my ear the shouts and execrations of the old vender,
when she saw the wheels mounting her baskets and squeezing the cider out
of her choicest bellflowers. Until I passed the next street I could look
back and see the old lady in her embarrassing situation. There she sat,
caught under the broken table, and kicking about wildly in frantic
efforts to free herself, while her bonnet was knocked askew by the fall
and stuck on one side of her head in the most jaunty position
imaginable.
[Illustration: SLIGHTLY EMBARRASSING.]
At this point the horses became more frightened, and commenced cutting
up strange didos. Things were getting badly mixed, so much so that one
horse turned his head to the dasher. The ladies took a hurried view of
the situation, and voting me an incompetent driver, began to desert me
by back-action movements over the rear end of the buggy.
[Illustration: BADLY MIXED.]
I shall always think that I could have managed the animals without any
difficulty if they had not both been frightened at the same time. But
with one bucking like a Mexican plug, evidently bent on crawling under
the buggy, and the other seemingly striving to reach the stars by an
invisible ladder, they were indeed difficult to control.
My companions concluded they had sufficient buggy riding for one day,
and took the cars into town, while I patched up the harness as best I
could, and returned to the livery stable, fully concurring with the
women folks that as a driver I was not a success, and that hereafter
promenades would suit me better.
[Illustration]
SECOND SIGHT.
A singular case of second sight occurred in the western part of the city
last evening while I was there. An old Irishman named McSweegan, who
lives in that locality, is the possessor of a multiplying pair of eyes.
That is, they have the strange faculty of making two objects of one.
This natural endowment is particularly distinguishable after he has been
indulging freely in strong decoctions of old rye.
Yesterday he was attending a primary election, at which he expected to
be brought before the public as a candidate for a fat local office. An
influential friend had been intrusted with the highly important and
vital mission of bringing his name before the delegates, for which
service he was to receive some petty office if the election was
effected. McSweegan stood back in a recess of the hall, hat in hand,
impatiently waiting to hear the familiar name pronounced. In fancy, he
already listened to the shout of applause that would follow his
nomination. But he stood with a quiet smile and an attentive ear in
vain. Candidate after candidate was announced, but the ancient and
honorable name of McSweegan thrilled not his auricular nerves. The
ticket was at last declared full, and he was not one of the happy
number. His friend had played him false—to use a common expression, “had
gone back on him,” and he was justly indignant.
On his way home he took Lethean draughts in which to drown his trouble
and keen disappointment, and by the time he reached his clap-board front
was in capital condition for seeing double. The hour was late as he
entered his house, but he found his industrious better half sitting at a
table sewing by the flicker of a tallow candle. His red and multiplying
optics were riveted by the wannish flame, which to him had the semblance
of two well-defined and separate lights. This was an extravagance that
he could not countenance. To have found his wife up at such a late hour
would have been severe enough strain upon his already ruffled temper,
for he had no wish to discuss the result of the “Primary.” But to find
her needlessly consuming _two_ candles showed a wastefulness on her
part, evincing an utter disregard for the low condition of his
exchequer. He was exceedingly provoked, and with a view of curtailing
home expenses, attempted to puff out one of the flames.
[Illustration: THE ECONOMIST SEEING DOUBLE.]
After several ineffectual attempts, in which he scorched his whiskers
and eyebrows, he succeeded, but found himself enveloped in Egyptian
darkness. His rage increased. He at once accused his wife of blowing out
the “other candle” through spite. Her contradictions only fanned his
fury, and the performance ended by putting her out of the house and
keeping her out all night—for which unhusbandly treatment she had him
arrested, and he now languishes in the lock-up.
THE THIEF.
Richard Roe was a thief, whose temptation to steal
Always grew more resistless when wanting a meal;
Once he entered a store, when no person was by,
Took a box of sardines, and attempted to fly;
But, although he could slope when occasion required,
Like a stag to a stream when the forest is fired,
The scoundrel was spotted and nabbed at the door,
By officers Murphy, McMannus and Moore;
And away to the jail, midst a crowd you should see,
Went the thief, the sardines, and the officers three.
The next day came his hearing, and people were there
From all stations in life, on the prisoner to stare:
There were gamblers, street-pavers, stevedores, undertakers,
Ship-chandlers, brick-masons, and umbrella makers,
Corn-doctors, reporters, clerks, tailors, and teachers,
Fruit-peddlers, horse-trainers, clairvoyants, and preachers;
A few women also jammed in with the rest,
With their bonnets awry, and their clothing sore pressed,
And their uplifted faces, perspiring and red,
Full ear-deep in the back of some person ahead;
And like peas in a kettle, or bees in a hive—
Ever shifting position—so they were alive;
All impatiently wedging around in a stew,
In the hope they could better their chance for a view;
This one grumbling because some one crowded so near
That he shot his hot breath in the depths of his ear;
That one cursing because some one’s elbow so rude
On his ribs was inclined to encroach and intrude;
And another one howling and looking forlorn,
Just because some one trod on his favorite corn;
Over all the hoarse voice of the bailiff did wheeze:
“Order! order in the court, gentlemen, if you please!”
Six feet two, if an inch, and proportioned in size,
Stood the thief in the dock, when the clerk bid him rise;
And amongst all that crowd not a man could be found
With his shoulders so square and a physique so sound.
[Illustration: RICHARD ROE, THE SARDINE THIEF.]
First, around on the lawyers and officers there
He defiantly gazed with a bold, brazen air;
And then, turning around, stared the Judge in the face,
As though _he_ was the thief and the rogue in the case.
The stern Judge ran his eyes the unmoved villain o’er,
From the crown of his head to his feet on the floor—
While the rogue seemed to study with critical care
The time-honored “Court,” with his thin crop of hair.
For five minutes or more, it’s my candid belief
That the thief eyed the Judge, and the Judge eyed the thief;
As two rivals, long parted, in some foreign land
By mischance blown together, each other they scanned;
While there rose from the concourse no perceptible sound,
Not a whisper or yawn, even, circled around.
But a charnel-house calm o’er the room seemed to fall,
Till the flies could be heard on the plastering crawl—
Till beneath the rogue’s stare the Court’s visage grew red.
But down-choking his rising resentment, he said:—
“Richard Roe”—and he spoke quite emphatic and slow,
As though weighing each word before letting it go—
And inclined his head downward, as men often do
When they look over spectacles rather than through—
“Richard Roe, you have come to the surface once more,
Like the ghost to the feast of the monarch of yore;
I have lectured, imprisoned and fined you in vain—
You will still depredate, and confront me again.
From the door of the jail to the till of a store
There is simply one pace unto you, and no more;
As the dog to his vomit, the sow to her mire,
You will glide, the born slave of your fiendish desire;
By my oath, it’s a sin, a disgrace, and a shame;
With your shoulders so broad, and so robust your frame,
With your arms like a Hercules, muscled and strong,
With your wind like a stag-hound’s, so perfect and long,
To earn a support you’re possessed of all means—
And yet you’ve been stealing a box of sardines.
[Illustration: THE JUDGE.]
“I have worked my way onward, year out and year in,
Among characters blackened and blistered with sin;
Amongst men I’d have quaked to have met in a lane,
As I would the arch demon, relieved of his chain;
But I’m frank to confess, and I’d state it as free
On a Bible as large as a bed, if need be,
In my thirty years’ practice, on Bench or at Bar,
A thief more consummate and bold than you are
I have never encountered, in county or town,
Among whites, copper-colored, or greasers done brown;
You’re as prone to purloin as an eagle to fly,
Or a salmon to swim, or a lover to sigh;
Not an esculent known, or utensil of use,
From a cantaloupe down to the quill of a goose,
From a tripe in the stall to a fowl in the coop,
But at some time or other in your life you did scoop.”
And as if in assent, Richard Roe bowed his head,
While the Judge wiped his face, and continuing, said:
“Here so often, of late, you have taken the stand,
To give answer for larcenies, petty or grand,
That your face has become as familiar to all
The practitioners here as the clock on the wall;”
Here he pointed it out, and a glance at it threw;
And bold Richard turned round and regarded it too,
While full back to his ears a grim smile slowly broke,
For, despite his position, he relished the joke.
“I regret that our law draws the limiting line,
For it seems but a farce to impose a small fine,
Or to send you below for a week or ten days,
To recline on a mat and hatch future forays.
“But since neither the gloom of the prison, nor fine,
Seems to work a reform in that bosom of thine,
I will try a new method—throw justice one side,
And appeal to your manhood, your honor, and pride;
It is said kindness conquers where knuckles will fail,
And a pardon may faster reform than the jail;
Since the stock-raiser advocates crossing the breed,
And the farmer finds profit by changing the seed,
Who can tell but a change may regenerate you—
So we offer you mercy where none is your due.
“Mr. Sheriff! release that purloiner! as free
As the wind that awakes the dull ocean, is he.
But, sir, hark! Richard Roe, ere you mix with the throng,
Take this friendly advice from one knowing you long:
And in future, whenever your stomach does feel
Like digesting a fish, take a rod, and a reel,
A few hooks, a fine line, and of gentles a few,
And go catch your own fry, as all good people do;
For you’ll find it more wholesome to follow a creek,
And there angle for trout seven days of the week,
Than to strive to obtain by unwarranted means
E’en a box of diminutive, oily sardines.”
Subdued was bold Richard, he gazed in surprise,
And trembled, while tears welled fast from his eyes,
As he vowed that henceforth the right course he’d pursue;
And Roe is now honest, trustworthy, and true.
[Illustration]
A STARTLING CAT-ASTROPHE.
“Methought I heard a voice cry, ‘Sleep no more.’”
—_Shakespeare._
Last night, soon after retiring, I was made aware of the exceedingly
annoying fact that a pair of cats had selected the yard under my window
for their trysting-place, and were behaving in a most demonstrative
manner.
I have no objection to cats having their courtships as well as men; but
I see no reason in their having such a hoodooing time over it, making
night hideous with rascally yowls. There is, perhaps, nothing more
aggravating in life than to have a little saucy spit-fire of a puss keep
a whole community awake for hours together, because an admirer of hers
happens to take a moonlight stroll on a neighboring fence.
The night wore on. Their inharmonious chants increased in volume and
spirit. Considering the matter, I came to the conclusion that I would
rather pay the fine imposed for shooting in the city limits than lose so
many hours from needed rest.
I hastened to procure my shot-gun, determined to make a scattering
amongst them, if nothing more. As I reached the casement, a bright flash
from the window of an adjoining house, and a simultaneous patter of shot
in the yard, informed me that some co-sufferer had taken the initiative
in the good work of demolition; for though wrought to the highest pitch
of ferocity, his nerves were steady and his aim was sure.
He evidently hit them where their nine lives were centered, and they
dropped as they stood when the fatal tube was leveled. In short—
They died as erring cats should die—
Without a kick, without a cry;
The faintest rustle in the chips,
A slight contraction of the lips,
Which brought the pointed teeth in sight,
And they had passed to endless night.
Even as I write (ten o’clock A. M.) they are lying in the yard as they
fell, a terrible illustration of sudden transition from noisy debate to
silent repose. There they lie, to compare small things with great, like
a pair of shipwrecked lovers, who have clung to each other through fire
and water, and at last have reached the wreck-strewed beach in body, but
not in spirit.
The gentleman who owns the yard has just been out looking at them. After
silently surveying the dead for a long time in silence, he walked away
without disturbing them, pathetically murmuring the Latin motto,
“_Requies-cat in pace._”
A TRIP TO THE MOUNTAINS.
I have been taking a flying trip over the Sierras about which the poet
so mellifluously sings. There were many beautiful scenes presented
during that trip, but abler pens than mine have described them fully,
and have done them justice, so I will not attempt to set forth their
various charms. It is not my _forte_, anyway, and I am free to confess
the fact. Enough for me to describe the excellent lunch which I had the
good fortune to have along with me, and to speak plainly, I enjoyed it
the most of anything I saw during my trip. It was no ordinary lunch,
however. The back-bone of it was a nicely-roasted chicken, which
reflected great credit upon both the poulterer and the kind-hearted
young lady who volunteered to see it through the oven. Ah, that brisk
little lady can prepare a dish fit to set before the gods. If that is
not doing her justice, tell me what more can be said, and I will pile it
higher. She is worthy of it.
The virtues of that fowl live in my memory yet. It was good. If you
could meet an old lady that was a passenger in that car—not the one with
the bunion on her left foot and the crockery teeth, who mistook me for a
minister, but the mild old lady with glasses that sat opposite me—she
would tell you the same. _She_ knows. Bless her gentle heart! If she
doesn’t, I would like to know who does. She partook of the fowl. I saw
her looking wistfully upon it as I dismembered it, and, though I say it
myself, I am not greedy, by any means, so I offered her the juicy neck.
Did she take it? Ask, rather, if a cat that had fasted a week would take
a mouse if she got between him and his hole? As old Shylock said, “Are
you answered?” She was no novice at picking the neck of a fowl, either.
She manipulated it in a manner that proved to me clearly she had a
perfect knowledge of its construction. It was not long—perhaps ten
seconds—before she had it picked as bare as a corkscrew. She did it with
such ease, too; and that’s what got me. She kept it revolving as rapidly
as a squirrel does the cylinder in his cage. She had but one front tooth
left in her upper jaw. The intelligent mind will no doubt immediately
picture forth a _long_ tooth; and the intelligent mind, in so doing,
portrays the incisor correctly. It was, indeed, a long tooth, but it was
just the thing she needed for the business before her. It seemed to be
specially made for it, as it fitted into every depression or notch in
the neck as nicely as a key into a lock. It ran around between the
vertebræ like a turner’s chisel, throwing the small particles of
nutriment far back against the roof of her mouth. It did me good to see
her play around that fowl’s neck. I grew young again while beholding the
busy scene, and actually regretted that a chicken did not have two
necks, as well as two legs, that I might repeat the generous donation,
and see the pleasing scene enacted again. As it was, I won golden
opinions from the old lady.
[Illustration: NECK TO NECK.]
A stout German woman who sat near by also seemed to be looking upon the
chicken as though she would like to help me make away with it. With that
magnanimity which was ever my peculiar characteristic, I severed the
pope’s nose from the trunk and proffered her the delicious morsel, when,
to my utter astonishment and confusion, she whipped out of her pocket a
big bologna sausage the size of a stuffed club, and shook it
triumphantly in my face, so close that it might have greased the end of
my nose. She actually scouted the idea. Independent, proud and
self-sustaining, these Germans, and no mistake. She evidently felt
insulted, and delivered herself of a long essay in the German tongue.
She was undoubtedly giving me to understand that she was able to furnish
grists for her own mill. Of course that is what she meant. I could tell
that by the way she flourished the bologna, and pointed to her mouth and
stomach. I expected she was about to whack me over the jaw with the
singular looking weapon, and prepared to dodge on the shortest possible
notice. But she didn’t. As if to madden me, she commenced eating the
sausage in a hasty, excited manner, taking about two inches at a bite.
What could I do? What did I do? Why, let her eat it, of course; it was
none of my business. I had no objection, so long as she didn’t choke,
and render it necessary for me to pat her upon the back, which I
certainly thought I would have to do before she finished her meal.
You may be sure I offered no more chicken to any person after that, but
picked the bones as bare as pen-holders. If she liked bologna better
than a choice piece of fowl, it was her fault, not mine. I washed my
hands of the whole affair.
I stopped a few hours at a mill in the mountains, and while there
witnessed an amusing incident. There was a small pipe leading from the
engine, and projecting through the side of the building close to the
ground. Through this pipe the waste water was conveyed from the engine,
and at the end of it quite a puddle or drain had been formed, about a
foot in width and eight or ten feet in length. The constant dripping
from the pipe kept the water warm, and from it a steam was continually
rising. There were several Indian camps in the vicinity of the mill, and
as wood was rather scarce, the squaws belonging to the camps were in the
habit of congregating around this warm drain when the cold weather
numbed their poorly protected limbs. It was not an unusual thing to see
half a dozen coming down the hill to squat beside the drain, and there
sit for hours discussing the current topics of the day, enjoying at the
same time the luxury of a cheap steam bath.
There were a couple sitting at the drain in this innocent manner while I
was at the mill. I called the engineer’s attention to the capital
opportunity that lay before him to give them a surprise that would be
fun to behold. This he could do by simply turning a gauge cock and
allowing the steam to go out with a rush upon the squatting pair. The
engineer was a sober sort of man, not at all given to humor, and not
inclined to take advantage of the opportunity. But when I informed him
that I represented an illustrated paper and wanted to make a stirring
sketch of the scene, he consented for my benefit. As he went to comply
with my suggestion, I moved to the window to see how the squaws would
enjoy it. I had hardly reached my position when the steam shot along the
surface of the water like smoke from the muzzle of a rifle. At the same
instant the gentle savages shot at least four feet into the air, in the
most extravagant positions imaginable. Until that moment I would not
have believed the human form could assume such strange attitudes on such
short notice. If I had not been intently gazing upon the pair as they
sat chatting sociably over the drain, and had my eyes riveted upon them
as they shot aloft, I could hardly have thought the two dark figures
performing such grotesque evolutions in mid air were indeed human
beings.
[Illustration: STEAM LET ON.]
The steam was harmless, as it had to go quite a distance before
escaping, but the squaws didn’t understand anything about that, you
know. No person had enlightened their untutored minds upon that point,
and they didn’t sit there very long in order to ascertain; for the sake
of the squaws, however, let us hope that it was. One thing they
evidently _did_ feel certain about, and that was that something had
broken loose, and that, too, at a very inopportune moment. The thought
that followed close upon the heels of the other was to change their
position in the shortest possible time. If they both had been shot into
the air out of one mortar they could hardly have shown greater concert
of action. If there was any difference in their sensitiveness or
agility, the one farthest from the pipe seemed to claim the superiority,
for, as near as I could judge, she was first to spring aloft. The back
of one was towards me, and the face of the other. Though quite a
distance from them, I could distinguish the white eyes of the latter
standing out as prominently as a pair of silver-headed nails in the end
of a mahogany coffin.
It may be argued that this was a mean trick. It may even be said that it
was a sinful act. I admit all this; nay, more, it may be that I will
have to answer for it hereafter, when you, and they, and all of us, have
ceased to be interested in things pertaining to the flesh; but in the
face of this supposition, I must still adhere to the original assertion
that it was indeed an amusing incident, and will go further and say that
as yet I have not been brought down to that perfect state of repentance
where I could sincerely say that I regretted having been the instigator
of the deed.
I never learned whether the squaws returned to the drain again, but,
judging from the way they hustled over the hill in the direction of
their camp, I am inclined to think not.
While coming down the river there was quite an excitement on board, on
account of the steamer grounding suddenly upon the “Hog’s Back.” She was
running pretty fast at the time, and the sudden stop threw several
passengers off their feet, and for a few moments all was confusion. I
was partly disrobed at the time, and the first thought that entered my
mind was that we had collided with some schooner on its way up the
river. Before leaving, a gentleman placed a lady and two small children
in my charge, and my first act was to run to the state-room in which
they were. I found the lady preparing for rest, but the children were
already in bed. Without much ceremony, I seized a child in each hand,
and bidding the lady to follow, started to deposit them near the davits,
that they might be handy to throw into the boats in case we were
compelled to take to them.
[Illustration: “BLOW ME UP!”]
While hastening through the cabin I was confronted by a terrified woman
in her nightclothes, who jumped out of her state-room as I was passing
the door. In her hands she grasped the nozzle of a large life preserver,
which she had buckled around her, and which only needed to be inflated
with wind to make her comparatively safe. No sooner did she see me than
she commenced dancing frantically around me in the most insane manner,
at the same time shouting with all the strength of her voice: “Blow me
up! blow me up! for the love of heaven, Mister, blow me up!” But I had
enough to do at that moment without stopping to “blow her up.” Besides,
I didn’t know but I might have to swim to the shore, and would,
consequently, need what little wind I could muster to bear me through
the task. Before proceeding far, however, I met the mate, who told me to
put the children back in bed and go soak my head, or do anything that
would keep me from making an unmitigated fool of myself, with which
kindly suggestion I meekly complied.
[Illustration]
AN IMPATIENT UNDERTAKER.
Now and then we come across a scoundrel, an inhuman wretch, of such
magnitude that we are inclined, like Bassanio, to waver in our faith,
and hold opinion with Pythagoras, that being the only hypothesis by
which we are enabled to account for their being possessed of such
brutish natures. For example: An undertaker was pointed out to me to-day
who follows so close in the wake of death that he quite often appears in
advance of the grim leveler, and secures, if possible, the job of
burying the body while yet the person is alive, much as he would bespeak
a quarter of beef of his neighbor before the animal was butchered. This
individual heard that a man was about to die in the County Hospital, and
learning that the only friend of the sick man was about to leave the
city, he hunted him up and solicited the job of performing the last sad
rites for his friend when death should have gathered him in.
The request was unthinkingly granted, and sufficient money to cover the
expenses of the burial was placed in the hands of a third party, who was
to pay it to the undertaker when the obsequies were performed. The man
of coffins departed, smiling over his success. The only thing that
remained now between him and a fat profit was the man’s life; but this
was only a slim barrier and likely to fall at every breath of air. He
paid semi-daily visits to the hospital to learn how the disease was
developing.
Each morning as he arose and looked out upon the cold fog hanging over
the city, he rubbed his hands with delight, and chuckled as he thought
how impossible it would be for the sick man to live through such a
disagreeable day. “It’s not in the nature of the disease to allow it,”
he argued. “If he is not gone already, he will be as stiff as a
piston-rod before ten o’clock, or I am no judge of cause and effect.”
But somehow the last thread of life was indeed a tough one, and held out
wonderfully. One, two and three days dragged by, and still the invalid’s
cough waked the echoes of the corridors and halls of the hospital. This
annoyed the anxious undertaker terribly.
“What if he should recover, and cheat me out of the money, after all?”
thought he, as he sat in his gloomy office and gazed about upon the
coffins standing on their ends around the room.
Then his small gray eyes lingered longer upon the cheap burial case in
the corner—which he thought would about fit the man in the hospital.
“There’s no use of this delay,” he muttered to himself. “There must be
some outside influence brought to bear upon him, and that immediately,
or the fellow may linger along through the whole winter, and keep the
money lying idle that is now almost within my reach.” Taking a tape
measure in his pocket, he repaired at once to the hospital, and gained
admittance to the sick man’s room.
The poor fellow was lying apparently in the last stages of that
deceptive disease, consumption. But instead of thinking he was so far
gone that his obsequies had actually commenced, he was promising himself
long, happy years of life and usefulness. The unfeeling scoundrel
approached the bed and deliberately proceeded to measure the poor fellow
for his last outfit, in the meantime keeping up a sort of rattling
conversation, like the following: “Hello! old boy; so you’re going to
peg out, eh? Well, it’s a road that sooner or later we’ve all got to
travel; so there’s no use of a feller making any bones over it. Rather
young, though, to have to stiffen out; without even having the pleasure
of being married—there won’t be no such enjoyment where you’re going,
the Scripture tells us. There—that’s a good fellow; stretch out full
length, so that I can get a correct measure. If there is anything I do
dislike it is to see a corpse stuck into a coffin that’s too short by a
few inches. I would rather pinch a fellow a little in width than in
length, ’cause it doesn’t cripple a corpse up so bad. There—that’s it to
a dot; five feet nine and a quarter, with half an inch allowed for the
stretching out of the joints just as you are going off. You know a
fellow elongates a little about that time, so I always make some
allowance when I measure a live man for his coffin. Now for the depth,
my hearty! Jerusalem! a general caving in all along the line, eh? Why,
you’re as flat as a griddle-cake. Ah! that consumption is the thing that
plays hob with a fellow! it _is_, my boy, there’s no use denying it. It
scoops a person out mighty quick, I can tell you. Four and
three-quarters—four and a-half—pinch measurement. Why, blow me, if it
doesn’t seem like a waste of material to give you the standard depth. If
it wasn’t for your long feet I would be inclined to shallow a little on
you, old boy! Let me think now,—why, what a numbskull I am, to be sure:
I can twist your feet crosswise a little, and make a go of it like a
charm; but hold on,—no, I can’t do it after all, for there’s your nose
sticking up at t’other end, and it wouldn’t hardly be doing the fair
thing by you to twist your head around ear up, for the sake of saving a
few inches of material, no sir e-e. I wouldn’t do that sort of thing to
the deadest corpse I ever screwed a lid over; I’ll do the fair thing by
a man, be he dead or living, though it should keep me poor. I can give
you the juvenile handles, though, for you don’t weigh any more than a
Cape Ann codfish.
[Illustration: BUSINESS IS BUSINESS.]
“You’re going off the reel at a favorable time, too, for I’ve been
wishing for a chance to give my light team an airing, for some time. Old
Skidamadink over on Market street, I hear, is going to take out a stiff
one to-morrow afternoon also, and no doubt he will be trying to forge
ahead of me the way he did yesterday when I had the spavined grays
along; but he’ll find out that he has got to limber up a little
differently when Moll and Kate are stuck in his flank. He wouldn’t have
shook me off yesterday, if I hadn’t that soggy old sea captain aboard.
He seemed to grow heavier the longer I kept him. If there is any one
thing I dislike more than another it is a pussy corpse. It is bad enough
to have a fat person about you while living, but when they come to peter
out it’s worse,—you can’t chuck them under the ground too quick. I had
the old emblem of mortality packed away in an ice chest for three weeks,
waiting for his wife to come down from the Mountains to attend the
funeral, but she finally sent down word that she had got married again,
and if she knew the duties of a wife—and she thought she did—her place
was alongside of a living husband rather than traipsing after a dead
one. Oh! these women are terribly slippery sweetmeats the world over.
How fast they get over anything, crying one minute and singing the next.
Well, well, I often wonder whether they have the genuine feeling that we
men have.
“Well, business is business. There—now let me fold your arms across
until I get the width; so we go, so we go, steady, there you are, that’s
it, that’s the posish; natural and easy as death itself. Whew! there it
is again, never knew it to fail, follows as naturally as the fruit does
the blossom; broad across the shoulders, sure sign of consumption; show
me a person broader at the shoulders than at the hips and I will show
you an individual that is not long for this world; never knew a person
of that build that didn’t die of consumption; never, sir; bound to cave,
no getting around or climbing over it; might as well be knocked in the
head at birth, for they are sure to go some time.
“Well, time is crowding, I must be off, as I’ve got to rustle around in
order to have things ready for you. I’ll expect to find you over your
troubles in the morning, so I’ll say good-bye now, while you can
appreciate it.”
Thus did the inhuman scoundrel rattle along while his poor victim lay
paralyzed with fear; hope, at every word uttered by the monster,
deserting his breast, and despair usurping the vacant seat. With gaping
mouth and wide open eyes he watched each movement of the undertaker. His
face seemed to be all eyes as he stared at the bustling trader in death.
The hope of the visitor was, that a speedy death would follow this
disconsolate harangue; but happy to relate, patients sometimes recover
after doctors have devoted them to the yew-tree shade; and strange as it
may seem, the patient in question suddenly improved, as though
frightened by the undertaker into health instead of into his coffin.
The next day he sat up in bed. On the second he sat by the window. The
third day he took an airing on the veranda, and passed the time of day
with the undertaker who happened to be going by. In ten days he took his
carpetbag in his hand and bade good-bye to both doctors and undertaker,
and started to join his friend in the country.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
SERMON ON A PIN.
Give me that simple shining pin,
So worthless in your hand,
Here on my desk a place to win
And as a lesson stand.
Think you no moral may be found
In such a common thing?
That Fancy will not hover ‘round
And apt allusions bring?
The Poet, with observing eyes,
Saw sermons in a stone;
So in this pin a sermon lies,
Of philosophic tone.
We see it first, where placed in rows,
The pins lie side and side;
So children, wrapped in sweet repose,
In peaceful homes reside.
Soon from the rest it travels west,
Or east, by land or sea;
So loving households part in quest
Of pleasure, fame or fee.
Observe it well, with sober mind;
The head, you see, is flat;
Thus many heads in life you’ll find,
Beneath a stylish hat.
When new, how perfect, straight and neat,
How finished, and how sound;
So stands the upright man complete,
With virtues circled ‘round.
It has a point, and mission, too,
’Tis seldom made in vain;
So men should have a point in view
If they would glory gain.
If wrongly placed ‘twill mar your thought,
When one would fain be still;
So man, if badly bred or taught,
Will treat his neighbor ill.
Its life of constant service tends
To keep it clean and bright;
Thus men are kept, my loving friends,
By application, right.
’Tis polished, like a sword or spear,
And in the light will shine;
Thus men of learning do appear,
Where wit and sense combine.
It moves around from coat to dress,
As trouble one befalls;
Thus men should hearken to distress,
And go where duty calls.
It oft assists to hide one’s shame
Till needles can repair;
Thus should it be the Christian’s aim
To cover faults with care.
If once ’tis sprung, ‘twill bend each day,
And is no longer true;
So thus in life, one step astray
Will often lead to two.
When bent, and blunt, and black at last,
Who stoops to lift the pin?
So thus the crowds do hurry past
The crooked slave of sin.
[Illustration]
DUDLEY’S FIGHT WITH THE TEXAN.
The poor cur, kicked and scalded during the day, at night can lie and
lick his sores in peace. The scudding hare that can hold out ahead of
the baying beagles, until black Hecate waves her wand between the
hunters and the hunted, may hope to shake them off. The aeronaut, tiring
of the clamor here below, can rise above the busy haunts of men and hold
sweet communion with the gods in quiet. But I, alas, find no escape from
the inexorable plague, “Jim Dudley.”
He comes upon me like a thief in the night and mars my rest. Within the
holy sanctuary even, he whispers in mine ear. Through the busy marts and
thoroughfares he haunts me still; and tells of fights and hair-breadth
escapes, with all the glibness of an old battle-scarred veteran who has
primed his firelock in three campaigns. He talks of drawing deadly
weapons as a dentist would of drawing teeth. In all likelihood the
fellow never drew a weapon in his life, except, perhaps, at a raffle. I
had long noticed a scar on “Jim’s” forehead, but never ventured to ask
him how he got it, fearing a story would follow. Last night he detected
me looking inquiringly, and without any query on my part the following
infliction fell upon me:—
“You see that scar that looks somethin’ like a wrinkle, over my left
eyebrow, don’t ye? Wal, you can’t guess how I come by that. Cow kicked
me? No, not by a long chalk, nor a hoss nuther. I got that scar the
summer I was gwine through Texas. I’ll not forget how I got it nuther in
a hurry, for I never did have sech a narrow dodge since the night dad’s
old house burned down and I got out through the cellar drain.
“I was travelin’ towards the border of Texas, gwine away back of Waco,
and arter I got as far as cars would take me I set out on hossback. One
evenin,’ jest as I was gettin’ into a small village, my hoss got one of
his legs into a hole in the road, and fallin’ over, broke it snap off
below the knee. I felt mi’ty bad over it, because I didn’t have any too
much money about me; but I had to leave him thar and go into the village
on foot, carryin’ the saddle along, for I cal’lated to git another
animal the next day and continue my journey. I put up for the night at a
small hotel, and thar was quite a number of fellers a settin’ around the
bar-room talkin’; but amongst ’em was one big, ugly-looking villain,
with a glass eye that was continewally droppin’ out and rollin’ across
the floor like a marble. Pupil up and pupil down, it would move along
under chairs and tables, the most comical lookin’ thing you ever sot
eyes on. He would walk after the truant, glarin’ around with the other
eye as though watchin’ to see if anybody was laughin’ at him. Then he
would pick it up and chuck it back into his head ag’in, as if it was a
pipe that had dropped out of his mouth.
“He seemed to be a bully amongst ’em, for when any of the other fellows
went to pass they circled around him, somethin’ like a woman around a
hoss standin’ on the sidewalk. I judged by that they were skeered of
him, and didn’t want to git anywhere near his corns lest they might
accidentally touch ’em.
[Illustration: BILL AFTER HIS GLASS EYE.]
“I sat thar watchin’ of him for some time, and at last, while he was
leanin’ on the counter beatin’ time with his fingers on top of it, a
feller come in and called for somethin’ to drink.
“The bar-tender gin him the bottle and he poured out a drink and left
the glass settin’ on the counter, while he turned around to drop his
quid of terbacker. As he was doin’ it the big, bully-lookin’ customer
h’isted the glass, drained it right thar, and smacked and licked his
lips arter it as though wishin’ thar was more of it,—somethin’ like a
young widder arter ye give her a kiss.
“The feller that ordered the drink turned back, wipin’ his mouth,
gettin’ ready to swaller. When he see the empty glass he riz up sort of
indignantly, and was agwine to say or do somethin’, but when he see who
it was, he changed his mind pooty sudden, and settlin’ down about six
inches, turned around and jest slid away easy like out of the room. As
he was gwine out I could see his ears looked as though they were
freezin’, for they were gettin’ whiter and whiter as he moved along down
the steps. As I was thinkin’ about it, a ministerial-lookin’ man come
edgin’ up to me and ses:—
“‘You’re a stranger in this quarter, I believe, and let me gin you a
little advice; it may prove valuable to ye before you git away from
yer.’
“‘Why, what’s the matter?’ I asked, wonderin’ what he was comin’ at,
‘have you got the smallpox in the house?’ I contin’ed.
“‘Smallpox!’ he answered. ‘Wuss nor that, stranger; for the love of
peace,’ he contin’ed, ‘keep clear of that feller at the counter. Let him
hev his way. You mout as well undertake to cross a crater as him in any
of his bullyin’ tantrums. Now mind I’m tellin’ ye. If his eye falls out,
don’t laugh at it, don’t betray yer emotions.
“‘If he steps on yer corns, take it as if old Jupiter hisself had
reached down his foot and trod on ye, and you’ll come out of it better
than if you _did_ object, a mi’ty sight.’
“‘Who is he?’ I inquired.
“‘Why, that’s Bill Cranebow,—Glass-eyed Bill, they call him. He’s had
more fights over that glass eye of his’n than ever a dog had over a
sheep’s shank.
“‘Everybody’s afeared of him. They hate him wuss than a lawyer does a
peacemaker. No one who knows him wants to undertake the job of gettin’
away with him; they’d ruther let it out to strangers. Oh! he’s lightnin’
at a fight, for all he looks so clumsy. What the butcher is with the
cleaver, that Glass-eyed Bill is with the bowie-knife. He knows jest
where to strike to open a jint or git betwixt two ribs. You’d think to
see him at it, he had practiced for twenty years with some old doctor,
by the way he can disarrange the “house we live in,” as the poet ses.’
[Illustration: THE MINISTERIAL LOOKING MAN.]
“‘Wal, that’s sort of curious,’ I ses; ‘ain’t thar no person around this
section that has had any experience at the cuttin’ business? He’s only
human, I reckon. If he gits a poke between wind and water he’s as likely
to wilt as anybody else, isn’t he?’ I ses, jokin’ly, jest that way.
“‘Thunder and mud!’ exclaimed the ministerial-lookin’ man. ‘You’ve bin
used to fightin’ with women, I reckon. Lose his strength? You mout as
well try to kill the strength of a red pepper cuttin’ it up, as that
feller. Why, I’ve seen that Glass-eyed Bill in some of his fights yer,
when he was so cut and slashed apart that you could see his in’ards
workin’ like a watch. And I’ll be called a down east noodle, if he
didn’t stand up to his work like a barber until he got through with his
man. He likes to fight in a dark room best, though, ’cause thar’s no
chance of gittin’ on the blind side of him thar; and the landlord not
long ago fixed up one on purpose to accommodate him, he had so much
fightin’ to do. He’ll work a quarrel out of the least thing. Laughin’ at
his eye rollin’ off is as certain a way of gettin’ into trouble as
runnin’ ag’inst a wasp’s nest.
“‘Though he smokes like a coalpit himself, I knowed him to pick a
quarrel with a young Georgian and kill him, because he happened to send
a whiff of smoke in the direction whar he was settin’. Ever since that,
whenever he comes into the room, you’ll see the fellers a-pluckin’ and
a-snappin’ thar pipes out of thar mouths and crammin’ ’em into thar
pockets or under thar coat-tails—anywhere to git ’em out of sight, like
boys who are jest learnin’ the habit when they sight thar dad a-comin’
along.
“‘Take my advice and keep away from him, for he’s dead certain to pick a
muss with strangers, as they ginnerally resent his insults. Plague on
him!’ he contin’ed, ‘I wish he’d go away from the door, I want to git
out; but it’s not good policy to go a-scrougin’ past him while he’s
lookin’ so alfired glum.’ With that the old man went quietly over to a
cheer in the corner and sat down—somethin’ the same as a monkey does
when a larger one is dropped into the cage.
“I went to bed pooty early that night, as I was plaguey tired. In the
mornin’ I learned thar had been a fight in the dark room betwixt
Glass-eyed Bill and a Tuscaloosan. Bill, as usual, had killed his man. I
began to wonder whether I’d git into some scrape or another before I’d
leave, and as there was to be an auction sale of horses and mules that
mornin’ right thar at the hotel, I concluded to make a purchase and git
away as soon as possible.
“I bid two or three times on horses, but they run ’em up too high. At
last they fetched out a big mule, and thinkin’ that would be jest the
thing, I went for him pooty strong, and succeeded in gettin’ him.
Glass-eyed Bill had bin settin’ on the door-step thar, and didn’t seem
to be takin’ any part in the biddin’; but when I went to lead the mule
off, he hollered:—
“‘Whar are ye a-gwine with that critter? Leave him standin’ thar,
please; I kin attend to him myself, I reckon.’
“‘Wal,’ ses I, jest slow and easy, that way, for I wanted to keep down
my rizin’ temper, knowin’ what I was when I got mad, ‘if I’m any judge
of auctioneerin’, the mule is mine, and I cal’late to lead him away when
and whar I please.’
“Just then the same old ministerial-lookin’ man come chuckin’ and
pullin’ at my coat, and ses he, ‘I’m takin’ ruinous risks in speakin’ to
ye now,’ he ses; ‘but I tell ye again, don’t cross him; let him have the
mule, or you’ll expire quicker than a spark when it drops into a b’ilin’
pot. He doesn’t want the mule no more than a husband wants two
mothers-in-law; but he’s jest pinin’ to git ye into a muss, and he
doesn’t see any way of doin’ it without he disputes the mule with ye.
Let him have it, or it’ll be wuss for ye; now mind what I’m tellin’ ye.’
“‘No, I’ll be shot if I will!’ I answered. ‘He ain’t a-gwine to wipe his
hoofs on me until—arter I’m dead, anyhow.’ And with that I began to move
away with the critter, when Glass-eyed Bill jumped up from whar he was
settin’ and shouted pooty snappishly like, ‘Hold on thar! drop that
rope, unless you want to collapse so quick that one-half of ye will be
in etarnity before the other half knows thar’s anythin’ amiss.’
“‘On what groun’s do ye claim the critter?’ I asked, jest a-b’ilin’
inside, but keepin’ sort of cool outwardly.
“‘Words doesn’t amount to a woman’s sneeze in settlin’ a matter of this
kind,’ answered old Glass-eye.
“‘What does, then?’ I inquired, quite innocent like, as though I didn’t
know what he meant; though I did know sure enuff what he was drivin’ at.
“‘This does!’ he answered, rizin’ up and puttin’ his hand behind him, as
I do now, and jerkin’ out a rippin’ great knife about as big as the
colter of a plow. ‘That’s the sort of a thing to settle disputes with.
No gentleman will argue a case while he’s got an arbiter like that to
leave it to,’ he contin’ed, a-slappin’ it down flatways into the palm of
his left hand as he spoke, and bringin’ an echo from an old barn that
stood near.
“I see the bystanders began to turn pale as whitewashed chimneys, and
commenced lookin’ at the ground as though huntin’ for straws or
splinters to pick thar teeth with, but they only wanted some excuse to
git away.
“‘Supposin’ I should pull out a knife about seventeen inches and a half
long,’ I ses, jest that way, ‘what then?’
“‘It’s jest exactly the thing I want to see,’ he answered quickly. ‘A
young mother was never more tickled when she discovered the fust tooth
a-peepin’ out of her young un’s gums, than I am when I see a knife
comin’ out of its sheath in a feller’s hand.’
“‘Wal, I reckon you must have been brought up in a fightin’ settlement,’
I ses, jest like that, for I couldn’t hardly keep from jokin’, he seemed
so amazin’ eager.
“‘Come, which’ll ye do? gin up the mule or fight? You’ve got to do one
or t’other,’ he ses, impatiently, as he stooped to pick up his glass
eye, which jest then dropped out and was a-rollin’ under the hoss
trough.
“‘Wal,’ I ses, ‘I ain’t perticularly stuck arter fightin’, but it’s bad
enough for a feller to squirt his terbacker juice onto you, without
wantin’ to rub it in; and if it’ll be any accommodation to ye, I’ll
fight fust and then take the mule arterwards.’
“‘Enough sed,’ he answered, just short that way; and then turnin’ to the
landlord who was standin’ in the door, he asked, ‘Is the dark room ready
for use?’
“‘No, not quite, he answered; ‘thar’s some pieces of that long
Tuscaloosan lyin’ around in thar yet, I believe, but I’ll attend to
removin’ them right away,’ and he started off with a bucket and
dust-pan.
[Illustration: STARTLING DISCLOSURES.]
“So we all went into the bar-room, and staid round thar waitin’ until
the place would be prepared. While we were thar, Glass-eyed Bill pulled
out his knife, and commenced to draw it backwards and forwards over his
boot-leg, as though to git a fine edge on it.
“‘Wal, you can whet your great scythe blade,’ I ses to myself, kind of
low that way, for I allowed he was doin’ it to skeer me. ‘It ain’t
allers the longest horned cow that does the most hookin’. my old
terbacker shaver has got p’int enough on it to inaugurate a new passage
to the interior if it _won’t_ cut a har.’
“Arter a while he leaned over to a feller that sat by the table, and
while runnin’ his thumb sort of feelin’ly along the edge of the knife,
he ses: ‘The man I bought this from in Galveston assured me it was the
best of steel; but he lied, I reckon, for I turned the edge of it last
night on that long Tuscaloosan’s ribs. Yet that’s not to be much
wondered at, arter all, for I do believe he had as many ribs as a snake.
I thought I never would succeed in gettin’ the blade betwixt ’em. Arter
I got him down in the corner and his knife away from him, I commenced
jabbin’ at his armpit, and I prospected the hull way down to his kidney,
before I could git in far enough to let his dinner loose.’
“Gewillikins! When I heered him talkin’ like that, didn’t I begin to
squirm and fidget around on my cheer! I wished then I had never seen the
place, more especially the long-eared mule. But I see I was in for it,
as the boy said when he got his head stuck in the cream jar. Thar was no
way of gittin’ out without comin’ right down to beggin’ off, and I was
too consumin’ proud to do that, you know, if I was sartain of bein’ cut
up into as many pieces as a boardin’-house pie.
“Jest then the landlord came back and sed the room was ready, but
remarked that it was a leetle slippery yet. He sed, for a lean man he
never did see a feller that had so much blood into him as that
Tuscaloosan had. Beckonin’ me to the counter he ses:—
“‘You mout as well settle your bill now before you go in thar; it may be
more satisfactory to you to have the settlin’ of your own affairs, and
it’ll save me the trouble of huntin’ over your effects arter you’re
dead.’
“‘All right,’ I ses, ‘now, if you say so; but it’s ginnerally admitted
that sure things sometimes git mi’ty slippery all to wunst, and perhaps
somebody’s goggles may prove blue in the mornin’ that were bought for
green uns at night.’
“I didn’t want to let any of ’em think I was skeered, though, by jingo!
I felt sartin of bein’ minced up, and the cold chills were jest
streakin’ all over me.
“So we started for the room, which was about twelve feet square and dark
as pitch.
“The landlord held the door open until we were in opposite corners with
our knives out. Then he shut and locked it and left us to work out our
own salvation, as the missionary did the South Sea Islanders when he
overheerd ’em talkin’ about the best way of cookin’ him the next
mornin’.
“Wasn’t it dark in thar though? and still? you could have heered a
lizard a-breathin’ in thar, it was so quiet.
“I allowed Glass-eyed Bill was expectin’ that I would go a-shufflin’ and
a-huntin’ around for him, but I had no sich foolish notion. I cal’lated
if thar was any findin’ to be done he’d have to do it, for I was
detarmined to stand right thar till I’d drop in my tracks before I’d go
a-s’archin’ around for him.
“I commenced breathin’ about twice a minute, and not makin’ any more
noise at it than a wall-bug, nuther. But for all that I heered him
a-movin’ over towards me. I’ll allers think that Cranebow had a nose
onto him like a setter dog, for he somehow or another got right over
thar whar I was standin’. Pooty soon I felt somethin’ a-stingin’ along
my forehead thar, and I suspected at once that it was the knife that was
feelin’ around for me; so I reckoned it wouldn’t be long until he was
a-proddin’ of it somewhere else, and like the boy with the candy bag, I
cal’lated the fust poke was everythin’; so I made one sudden and
detarmined plunge and a sort of upward rip, at the same time, cal’latin’
to do all the damage I could right at once while I was about it.
“He heered me start, and thought to squat down before I got the knife
into him I reckon. Though his intentions were good he only spread the
disaster, like the gal who tried to put the fire out with the corn
broom, for as he was gwine down the knife was rizin’, and the result was
truly astonishin’. I’ll be smashed if he didn’t fly open from eend to
eend like a ripe pea pod. It was done so alfired quick too, that he
didn’t realize how bad he was hurt I think. Ses he, ‘We’ll try that over
ag’in, stranger.’ As he spoke, he started to git up, but fell away
seemin’ly in two different directions.
“‘Not on this side, we won’t,’ I ses, as I went huntin’ around for the
door.
“I was surprised as much as him at the way things had turned out, for
when I stepped into that room I looked on it as steppin’ into another
world. When the door was found I commenced knockin’, and pooty soon the
landlord came and opened it. He couldn’t see me at fust, but allowed it
was the bully that was thar, of course, and ses he:—
“‘You made pooty quick work of it this time; that feller won’t want to
buy any more mules arter this, I take it.’
“‘No,’ ses I, steppin’ out, ‘nor claim a critter that doesn’t belong to
him nuther.’
“‘What!’ he cried, jumpin’ back with a look upon his face that told me
at once he was mi’ty displeased at the way things war developin’, ‘is it
you? whar’s Glass-eyed Bill?’ he contin’ed, shadin’ his eyes with his
hand and peerin’ into the darkness.
“‘He’s lyin’ around in thar somewhar,’ I answered careless like, jest
that way. ‘The head-half of him is nigh the door here, paralyzed, I
reckon, but the leg part is somewhere over in the corner thar whar ye
hear the kickin’; you mout as well be gettin’ yer bucket and dust-pan
ready, for you’ll have quite a job gettin’ all the pieces together
ag’in, I’m thinkin’,’ I contin’ed, just that indifferent way, and
walkin’ out towards the bar-room as I spoke.
“You never did see a feller so set back in your life. He looked at me as
though I had as many heads onto me as the beast we read about in the
Scripters. I’ll allers believe that he was in cahoot with old Glass-eye,
and jist kept him thar to pick quarrels with strangers so they could
have the pickin’ over of thar effects.
“Arter washin’ my hands and plasterin’ up the cut on my forehead a
little, I went out and saddled the mule, and the crowd all came out to
see me gwine off. I reckon if I had stopped in the village I could have
had things about my own way for some time. Before I rode off I turned
round to ’em and ses:—
“‘When you git so frightened of a bully ag’in that you daren’t sneeze
within forty feet of him, jest send for me, and I’ll open him up ready
for saltin’ while you’d be wipin’ your mouth.’
“With that I rode off, and left ’em all starin’ at each other, and then
arter me, as though wonderin’ who or what I was, anyhow.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ROLLER SKATING.
Oh! skating, roller skating now, of pastimes takes the lead;
No more we take the moonlight sail, or mount the prancing steed,
No more to fair, or carnival, no more to masquerade,
No more along the lengthy bridge, the thousands promenade,
No more we see Othello rave, and roll his jealous eyes,
Or Hamlet leaping in the grave, where loved Ophelia lies,
Or see the boasting Falstaff sheath his blade in Percy’s corse,
Or hear the baffled Richard shout, “My kingdom for a horse!”
In vain the minstrels shake the bones, and tell the funny tale,
Their blazoned bill, or blatant band, to draw the public fail;
For those, who still their millions hide, and those at ruin’s brink,
Alike throw business cares aside, and hasten to the Rink.
Talk of your bounding horseback rides, or of the grace indeed.
A maiden shows when she bestrides the frail velocipede;
I charge ye, if you’d see a maid when graceful she appears,
Go see her on the roller skates, as round the Rink she steers.
A TERRIBLE NOSE.
I was to-day brought in contact with an old gentleman named Bickerstaff,
who keeps a crockery store in the village where I am visiting. This
Bickerstaff is the unfortunate possessor of the queerest-looking nose I
have yet encountered.
It was not the original intention of Providence that he should follow
such a proboscis through life, for there was a time when he, like other
men, had a forerunner ornamental as well as useful. But through an
accident, the nose he now bears in all its deformity was shoved upon
him.
[Illustration: BUSTING HIS BUGLE.]
It seems one day, while furiously pursuing a little urchin who had
mischievously put a stone through a glass jar by the door, he ran his
face against the end of a scantling a boy was carrying past on his
shoulder, and set his nose well up on his forehead in a triangular lump.
Strange to say, no inducements that the surgeon could hold out served to
coax it back to its former position. His wife, who was young, and rather
prepossessing in appearance, worried terribly about it. She finally left
him, and went to live with her mother, and immediately set about
obtaining a divorce from him.
She would, in all probability, have obtained it, if she had not died
before the case was properly laid before the commissioners; because she
was capable of doing better, and when you come to see the nose with
which she wished to sever her connections, you could hardly blame her.
Old Bickerstaff, to tell the honest truth, did look like the very old
Nick in masquerade costume.
His nose, as it reposed between his eyebrows, displayed an enormous pair
of nostrils large as front-door keyholes. At a short distance a person
would think he had four eyes in his head. He was the living terror of
the school children who daily passed his place of business. They either
scurried past on the run, or with their hands over their eyes.
Even among creeping infants—who had often shrunk back from the threshold
as old Bickerstaff passed the door—he was known as the Boo; and there
was no danger of them crawling into the street while he remained in the
vicinity.
Nervously-inclined women also avoided him. They would cut across the
road when they saw him coming toward them, or turn back, feeling their
pockets as though they had forgotten something, and hurry back to go
round some other way.
Dogs never barked at him. If they happened to be engaged in that pastime
when he hove in sight, they would slope off the demonstration into a
yelp. And as if they had suddenly recollected that they were wanted at
home about that time, they tucked their tails between their legs and
dusted away at a lively rate. Hitched horses even snorted lustily and
pulled hard upon their halters when old Bickerstaff shuffled by.
The old gentleman had a pew in the church directly in front of the
pulpit, and the first time he attended divine worship after his nose had
been set up, he threw the minister out of his discourse altogether. He
couldn’t keep run of what he wanted to say, no way he could fix it. He
had Jonah swallowing the whale, instead of the whale doing the job for
Jonah.
No matter how much he endeavored to keep his eyes in some other
direction, they would invariably wander back to rest upon that terrible
sight, and then he would be off the track again in a twinkling. The next
day the trustees of the church waited on Bickerstaff, and in the most
polite manner possible requested him to exchange his pew for one farther
removed from the pulpit.
The old fellow—who, by the way, had considerable temper—flew off the
handle at once, and in the most unchristian-like language denounced the
church and the doctrine that would draw the line of demarkation between
fair faces and plain.
He informed the trustees if the parson didn’t like the looks of his
congregation, he could turn his pulpit around facing the other way. Yet,
though he was rough in his speech, and given to storming considerably
when his pride was touched, he was not altogether lacking in those
qualities which go far to make up your real man; and when the trustees
offered to give him the side pew _rent free_, his voice at once grew
low, and in a becoming manner he accepted the situation. After that,
things were not quite as bad. The minister occasionally got a quartering
view of him, but the odd-looking disfigurement didn’t strike him with
full force. Still, I was informed, the Reverend gentleman’s discourse
was principally addressed to the hearers on the other side of the
church, thereafter.
But—to his credit be it mentioned—he always turned in the direction of
old Bickerstaff when he closed his eyes in prayer.
[Illustration]
A MASKED BATTERY.
I learn by an evening paper that an old lady in the lower part of the
city to-day, while burning some cast-off garments, threw an old vest
belonging to her son-in-law into the fireplace. A Remington rifle
cartridge happened to be slumbering in one of the pockets. It awakened,
and therefrom hangs a piece of crape.
This draws me on to fasten upon paper an incident that happened in the
mountains some years ago. I was spending a few days in the mines at the
time, with a friend named Colyer, who was working a claim back of
Sonora.
He had three partners in the concern. One was an old fellow named
Twitchell, who at some time in his life had been a judge in a supreme
court in one of the Southwestern States—I forget which. At all events,
they called him “Judge,” and he bore the title with becoming dignity.
[Illustration: THE ONE-EYED SWEDE.]
Another was a dark-looking, one-eyed Swede, who wore a large green patch
over the empty socket. This seemed to add a double brilliancy and fire
to the other optic, and gave to him rather a ferocious appearance. He
would have passed anywhere for a buccaneer of at least fifteen years’
cruising. Yet he was quite a mild and peaceable man, for all his
demoniacal aspect. The third was a Vermonter, named Theodore Arthur
Willoughby Spooner, called Spoon, for short. They occupied a small log
cabin near their claim, and were like miners generally, hopeful, if not
happy.
One evening Theodore Arthur Willoughby Spooner was rummaging over some
old articles left in the cabin by a former occupant. Among them he found
an odd-looking pistol which the rust of years had rendered worthless.
The weapon was an uncommon one. I never saw anything like it before or
since, and it is my daily prayer that I never may. It was a ten-shooter;
with nine chambers for bullets, and a tenth and larger barrel for
throwing buckshot, slugs, walnuts, small onions, or potatoes. In fact it
was capable of receiving almost anything not exceeding a billiard ball
in size. Such an awe-inspiring shooting iron would be invaluable to a
footpad or road agent. It was particularly suited for men of this
stripe; for the man who would not blanch, settle down on his knees and
surrender up his valuables when that battery was leveled at his head,
must be brave indeed.
After we had examined it for some time and vainly endeavored to raise
the hammer, the one-eyed Swede took it. In trying to revolve the
chambers he dropped it unswervingly upon Judge Twitchell’s favorite
corn. It weighed about as much as a good-sized anvil, and no person who
had experienced the peculiar sensation that shoots along the nerves from
an injured corn, could blame the Judge for indulging in a little
profanity about that time.
Smarting under the contusion he grabbed the instrument and in an erring
moment flung it into the fire.
Not a man of that little assemblage but would have given his day’s
pan-out to have the pistol out of the flames again; but neither wished
to assume the responsibility of poking for it. The confounded thing
hadn’t been fully canvassed, and we didn’t know whether or not it was
loaded or which way it was aiming. It might be pointing out at the door,
or up the chimney, or it might be leveled at a fellow’s very vitals;
there was a sort of creeping uncertainty about the whole thing that was
calculated to inspire solemn and serious reflection, and make us sit
uneasily upon our stools.
We were not long in doubt, however, for in ten seconds after the
villainous-looking mitrailleuse settled into the glowing embers, there
was no foot of space, no nook or corner within the wooden walls of that
humble dwelling, that was a good place for a man to be who was not fully
prepared to exchange worlds.
File firing commenced on the right of the fireplace, under cover of
burning brands. There was a sharp report, a cloud of ashes and a shower
of coals, and amid the general din the stem and bowl of the meerschaum
in the teeth of Theodore Arthur Willoughby Spooner dissolved partnership
at once and forever.
At the same instant the old water pitcher jumped from the table mortally
wounded in the abdomen.
During the next few moments there was extraordinary ground and lofty
tumbling inside the cabin.
Not because I was possessed of greater fear, or less courage, than any
of the party, but because I felt that I had more to live for, I was the
first to reach the open air. The “Judge” was following close at my
heels, but in his blind haste he tripped in the doorway and blocked the
passage. It was at this critical moment that the leap-frog performance
commenced.
[Illustration: NEEDED AIR.]
The antics of Chirini’s circus troupe, during their most brilliant
achievements, dwindled into mere schoolboy exercise when compared with
the gymnastic efforts of the excited miners. Out came my friend Colyer
over the prostrate form of the Judge, and the one-eyed Swede over
Colyer, his hair erect and his one dilated eye standing in bold relief
from his dark face, like the ornamental stud on a horse’s blinker. Last
though not least interested or frightened, came Theodore Arthur
Willoughby Spooner, sailing like a flying squirrel over the one-eyed
Swede. In the meantime the pistol was jumping about in the fire like a
fish in a scoop-net, showering bullets in every direction.
The clock hung silent upon the wall, having received a charge of
buckshot full in the face, and the dog lay dead upon the hearthstone.
“Chickens come home to roost,” saith the old proverb, and indeed it
would seem so, for poor Judge Twitchell, whose rashness brought about
the whole calamity, received a parting salute, a farewell shot, just as
he had gathered himself on all fours to make a final lunge from the
fusillade within. Fortunately the wound was not a fatal one, though
severe enough to keep his memory green for weeks.
Some time elapsed before any person would venture back into the cabin
after the firing ceased. No one had kept count of the shots or knew at
what moment the battery might open again. We probably would have
remained out all night rather than take any chances, but the coals which
had been thrown over the cabin, started a brisk fire in half a dozen
different places, and we were obliged to run some risks to extinguish
the flames and save the place.
[Illustration]
THE PRIZE I DIDN’T WIN.
Who hath contended for a prize? Who hath stood in front of an armed host
with a noble emulation warming his breast? Who, with one eye glancing
along the barrel to the target in the distance, and the other closed
upon the world, hath pressed carefully upon the decisive trigger? And
who hath seen the glittering bone of contention passing away into other
hands than his at the close of the contest? If such a person there be,
then can he sympathize with me in this, my dark hour of despondency.
[Illustration: THE BEST SHOT.]
To-day I entered the lists with eighty men to compete for a gold watch
and chain of two hundred and fifty dollars in value. It was to be
presented to the winner by the Governor of the State, at a grand ball in
the evening. I, who prided myself that I was no woman with a gun, made a
very fair impression upon the target; and fell back. For six long,
dragging hours I watched the marksmen striving to beat my score. One by
one the good shots whom I had reason to fear stepped forward, discharged
their pieces, and fell back cursing their ill luck. At last nearly all
had fired, and I in fancy could hear the elegant time-piece ticking in
my pocket, and was already preparing the usual impromptu speech with
which to thank the generous donor. At this point an individual stepped
forward whom I had not included among my dangerous competitors, because
on former occasions he failed to hit the broad side of a mountain. Yet
to my astonishment he bore off the glittering prize!
I shall always think the devil rode astride of that individual’s bullets
and guided them into the target; for while taking aim, the muzzle of his
gun was tossing around like the tip of a cow’s horn when she’s grazing
in a clover field.
What a picture was I, as I stood that evening at the ball, watching his
Excellency presenting the magnificent watch I had for hours together
looked upon as mine. Had I not received the premature congratulations of
my friends, and been lavish of change at the bar in consequence? And the
watch—where was it? I feel that I shall never have the face to look my
musket in the muzzle again.
[Illustration]
THE COUNTRYMAN’S TOOTH.
Last evening, while sitting in a physician’s office, I was amused by a
countryman who entered the office to have a tooth extracted. The doctor
took one of the old-fashioned “cant hooks” and went for the molar, but
whether it was owing to lack of skill or the patient’s ducking while the
instrument was being adjusted, it became fixed directly between two
teeth, and after a painful struggle, out they both were drawn. The
operator saw he had taken out two masticators instead of one, and before
the patient noticed the fact, one was chucked under some papers lying
upon the table by his side.
“Jerusalem!” cried the countryman, as soon as he could speak. “I thought
by the yankin’ and the torturin’ pain you had hitched the blamed
thingamagig onto my back-bone and was a snakin’ it out. Why, bless my
soul!” he continued, as he ran his tongue into the awful chasm. “Hain’t
you made a mistake, doctor, and pulled out the jaw instead of the tooth?
Thar appears to be a ginneral cavin’ in all around thar.”
“Oh, no,” said the doctor; “there is the tormentor, sir,” and he held up
the one tooth before the contorted face of the victim in triumph. “Your
teeth pull out easy, sir, for their size,” he continued, as he wiped his
instruments and put them away.
“They do, eh?” he exclaimed. “Wal, dear help them that have teeth that
come out hard. ‘Taint all in the pullin’ nuther, but the incredulous
hole they leave ahind ’em when they do come. Why, my teeth seem as far
apart as two Sundays to a laborin’ man.”
“The other teeth will crowd over after a while,” said the doctor,
encouragingly.
“It may be I’ll git sort of used to it after a while,” he replied, “but
I’ll be blowed to the moon, if it doesn’t feel as though my tongue was
wabblin’ around in some other person’s mouth about this time;” and he
arose from the inquisitorial chair, paid the damages, and left the
office.
MINING STOCKS.
The city to-day has been in a state of feverish excitement over
dispatches received from the mining regions. The telegrams were fraught
with startling intelligence. There has been a rich strike in the Savage
mine, and stock is going up accordingly.
When stocks are running high,
How natural to sigh,
Ah, that I a thousand shares did command,
That I might drink champagne,
And hold a double rein,
And be counted a power in the land.
The streets are crowded with men, women and children. It is certainly—as
an old woman remarked at my elbow—easier for a needle to go through a
camel’s eye, than for a person to pass through the throng at some of the
corners. At present the person who does not own Savage stock is not
considered of much account. I, who am always on the alert for new
developments, and act upon the moment, make haste to give a sketch of
the Savage stock going up.
[Illustration: THE ASCENT.]
It is ascending at a lively rate, there is no mistake about that. There
is always two sides to a hill, however, and though the lucky stockholder
to-day may reach the summit of his expectations, to-morrow may bring a
descent that will be something to stand from under. And being possessed
of quite a prophetic soul, I anticipate the event, and as a companion
piece for the foregoing, give another sketch of the Savage stock coming
down, which it will undoubtedly be before many days.
[Illustration: THE DESCENT.]
Well, I can exclaim with Banquo’s facetious murderer, “Let it comedown,”
the decline cannot destroy my peace, nor deplete my purse.
[Illustration]
ODE ON A FLEA.
“A lofty theme,
Fit subject for the noblest bard
That ever strung a lyre.”
—_Coleridge._
Insufferable pest! that with wondrous force
Sinks in my quivering flesh thy noxious tooth,
To tap life’s current in its healthful course,
And break my needful rest, and bring me ruth.
Oh! virulent marauder, thou art a bore in truth,
And who, that smarts beneath thy awful bite,
And poisonous delving, but will, forsooth,
Think that sage poet may have erred a mite,
Who ably sang in ages past, “Whatever is, is right.”
I’ll place thee foremost in the swarm of those
Tormenting insects that plague mankind;
Yet greater craven from the earth ne’er rose,
Than thou, mute robber of my peace of mind.
In the musical mosquito noble traits we find;
When he at night upon his mission goes,
And quits the ceiling where he long has pined,
On his shrill bugle a lusty blast he blows,
To warn his drowsy prey that a raid he doth propose.
The vampire bat of Southern latitudes,
That preys at night upon the throat of man,
Quite conscious of the pain his tooth intrudes,
Doth with membraneous wings the victim fan,
To hold him still unconscious if he can,
Of the dark demon hovering o’er his head,
Drawing the blood from visage cold and wan,
Till fully gorged it leaves the sleeper’s bed,
And he, awaking, scarce believes he has been freely bled.
But thou, black delver, what virtue canst thou claim?
Save great activity, which makes me hate thee more.
Through night and day thy laboring is the same,
Insatiate ever, thou never wilt give o’er,
But glutton-like, still sap and bite, and bore.
Yet truly thou art cursed in having such a jaw,
The champ of which doth try my patience sore.
And soon thou hast to scud from angry scratch and claw,
And often thou must bite afresh ere surfeited thy maw!
Hadst thou instead of escharotic teeth
Been furnished with a blood-extracting bill,
Which once insinuated skin beneath,
The worst were past; I’d feel no thrill
To make me shiver as though an ague chill
Did all my joints and nerves undo,
Till I sit chattering like a fanning mill,
Perhaps when sitting in the still church pew,
Where I should think of heaven instead of things like you.
I grant there’s naught on earth, nor in the sea,
Nor in the windy waste around our rolling sphere,
That can at all compare with thy agility
When thou art taken with a sense of fear.
And what was ever formed that can come near
Thy well-knit bones? Thy strange infrangibility
Is too well known to need long mention here,
For who but oft has seen thee spring away quite free,
Although between the fingers rolled most spitefully.
[Illustration]
FIGHTING IT OUT ON THAT LINE.
While crossing Telegraph Hill this evening in the vicinity of the beach,
I witnessed an incident which has kept me smiling to myself for the last
two hours.
A couple of carters met in a street at a place which needed repairing.
One cart was heavily loaded with brick. The other contained a small lot
of coal.
The driver of No. 1 was in favor of suspending that time-honored clause
in common law, which says, “turn to the right.” Having the heavier load
he wished to adopt the English system:—
“The law of the road is a paradox quite;
For as you are driving along,
If you go to the left you are sure to go right,
If you go to the right you go wrong.”
But driver No. 2 was immovable as Cæsar when the conspirators with ready
weapons knelt around him. He was determined to enforce his prerogative,
even to the anchoring of his opponent’s cart.
No. 1 said he would “stand there until his corns sprouted.” No. 2
replied that he “wouldn’t budge until his corns not only sprouted, but
until they went to seed, or he would have his rights.”
After considerable loud talk in which they freely expressed unqualified
opinions of each other, they commenced unhitching their horses from the
carts, as night was setting in, and quietly started off to their
respective stables.
It happened they had met directly before the residence of a stout Teuton
who owns a large brewery at the Beach. They had scarcely left the
disputed point when the brewer arrived. His flushed face showed he had
been freely testing the quality of his malt liquor. He demanded of some
bystanders how the carts came there. Being informed of the whys and
wherefores to his satisfaction, he called out his two stout sons to
assist in removing the unsightly ornaments.
The united efforts of the three soon started the carts down the hill, in
the direction of the bay, like a battery of flying artillery. It was
only a few rods to the water, and in they plunged, one after the other,
and shot out from the shore like things of life. The old man and his
sons stood upon the crest of the hill viewing the descent in silence.
After they had been successfully launched, the trio retired into the
house with that self-satisfied and confident air that Emperor William
and his two warlike aids might exhibit when retiring to their tent after
a battle in which the enemy was routed. To some of the bystanders this
seemed rather a precipitate proceeding; but to my untutored mind it was
an act worthy to be ranked with the judicial hangings by the San
Francisco Vigilance Committee.
As I left the hill, I took a last look back at the carts, fast growing
indistinct in the gloom and mist closing over the bay. One craft was
hugging the shore off Black Point, with a close reefed tail-board, and
her wheel well under water. The other was sinking by the stern, but
still scudding under bare poles in the direction of Raccoon Straits.
DUDLEY’S FIGHT WITH DR. TWEEZER.
Jim Dudley called again last night, and, as usual, bored me with one of
his yarns. I overshot myself by mentioning to him how low he stood in
the estimation of Doctor Tweezer, for that brought down the following
upon my head:—
“Dr. Tweezer didn’t speak very highly of me, eh! Wal, ’tain’t to be
wondered at when you know how I wrought upon his feelin’s once. When a
feller has to go around among his patients for more’n two weeks with a
beefsteak the size of a hearth rug tied to his face, as _he_ did, he
ain’t agwine to hurt himself eulogizin’ the person who set him off,—not
much.
“Ever fight? wal, I reckon you’d think so if you had seen the Doctor’s
yard arter we got through turnin’ the chips over thar. _He_ can fight,
and squirm like a cat with her tail in a tongs, that Dr. Tweezer can.
“You see the Doctor’s place was alongside the widder Gezot’s, and she
had a numerous assortment of hens, specimens from cold countries, with
feathers clear down to thar toe nails; and others from bilin’ hot
districts, with no feathers at all onto ’em, ‘ceptin’ a few downy
substitutes frillin’ around the neck. They were continually a-gettin’
into his garden and a sprawlin’ round in the soft beds thar.
“He was pooty mad over it too, for he prided himself on razin’ early
vegetables, and two or three times he cautioned her to look arter her
p’ultry, or he’d gin ’em a dose that would warm thar little gizzards for
em’ if he was any judge of drugs.
“The widder Gezot was a plaguey stirrin’ little woman, one that was
allers willin’ to flounder ahead the best way she could. Being myself
somewhat interested in the lady, I used to ginnerally chime in when she
got into any difficulty.
“She soon told me what Dr. Tweezer said about the hens; so we set in,
and poked ’em, and stuck feathers through their bills, and did all we
could, except wringing their necks, to keep ’em out of his garden.
“But hens are hens, you know, and the warm sand makes ’em feel mi’ty
nice, I reckon. They still managed to git through the fence, or over it,
and hold caucuses in the Doctor’s onion beds. One day arter I had bin
down town talkin’ politics with the boys thar, I was settin’ on the
widder’s door-step smokin’ and musin’ like, when I see her hens come
a-rustlin’ hum as though forty hawks were a-stirrin’ ’em up. They
p’inted straight for the water trough, and after takin’ about two dips
into it, commenced the wildest gymnastic feats you ever see,
flip-flopin’ around, stannin’ on thar heads, and then on thar tails.
Finally they quieted down, and turnin’ feet up, lay thar dead as the
chips around ’em.
“I more than suspected Dr. Tweezer had gin ’em a dose of arsenic or some
other mi’ty tellin’ drug. So I jest riz up quietly and took a look over
into his yard, and sure enough thar he was, a-staggerin’ and squirmin’
around, a-holdin’ of his sides, and e’enmost a-bustin’ with in’ard
laughter. Now this sort of upsot me. Not that I cared so much about the
widder’s chickens, but I didn’t like to see a feller so mi’ty tickled
over a mean trick. So I went prancin’ around to the Doctor’s yard pooty
durned lively, a-pullin’ off my coat as I ran. I cal’lated I couldn’t
devote much time to strippin’ arter I got in thar.
[Illustration: GOING FOR THE DOCTOR.]
“His back was towards me, and he never suspicioned I was comin’, but
stooped over warpin’ around and sort of unwittin’ly invitin’ a kick.
“‘It’s mi’ty funny business, a-pizenin’ chickens, isn’t it?’ I ses, jest
that way, and at the same time I gin him such a hoist, that I sent him
playin’ leap-frog mor’n fifteen feet, and for a few moments I reckon he
thought he had backed up ag’inst a batterin’ ram.
“He was mi’ty cranky though, and turned round quicker than a dog when
his tail is trod on.
“‘Dudley,’ he hollered, ‘you meddlin’ ruffian, you’ve invoked the pest,
so now look out for scabs,’ and with that he came at me like a cluckin’
hen at a strange dog. I see I was in for a lively time, as the boy said
when he upset the bee hive. At it we went, ring and twist, duck and
dodge, hop and catch it, round and round the yard like fightin’ turkeys.
I could play around him at boxin’ like a cooper round a barrel, but he
was grizzly on a hug, and could kick and gouge like a Mississippian.
“He went for my right eye like an Irishman for a ballot box. I’ll be
blowed if I didn’t think I’d have to go one eye on it ever arterwards.
Several times he had it stickin’ out like a door knob. Finally while he
was a-fumblin’ around he accident’ly slipped his finger into my mouth,
and I shut down on it mi’ty fast now I can tell you.
“‘Fair play! fair play!’ he hollered, ‘no bitin’.’
“‘Rats!’ ses I, jest that way, ’twixt my teeth, ‘all’s grist that comes
to my mill, I reckon,’ and with that I snapped it off at the second jint
like a radish. Jest then his wife, hearin’ an unusual rustlin’ and
scrapin’ around the yard, come a-runnin’ to the door to see what was up.
Woman like, without inquirin’ into the particulars, she took sides to
wunst, and started with a dish of hot water cal’latin’ to gin me an
alfired scaldin’. Luckily she stumbled over the dog that was a-skelpin’
into the house to git out of harm’s way, and her own young ’un that was
crawlin’ around the floor munchin’ dirt got the hottest bath it ever
experienced. That gave her somethin’ else to look arter, so that the
Doctor and I had it out alone.
“Arter we had bin at it about fifteen minutes we held a sort of informal
truce, just arter a simultaneous exchange of compliments, which left the
Doctor layin’ across the grindstone and me astride the pump. It was the
first chance I had of gittin’ a fair look at him, since we started in. I
see he was punished mi’ty bad. One eye was retirin’ from active service
pooty fast, while his face ginnerally looked as if he had bin bobbin’
for pennies in a dish of tomato sauce. I reckon he wasn’t aware he
presented such an appearance, for ses he:—
“‘You’re lookin’ mi’ty bad, Dudley, and you mout as well gin up now as
any time, for you’ll eventually have to holler.’
“‘If I looked one-half as bad as you do, Doctor, I would holler,’ I
answered.
“‘I ginnerally have to look about this bad before my blood gits up to a
fightin’ heat,’ he ses detarminedly.
“‘Wal,’ ses I, ‘I’ve fit at every election for the last five years, and
last Fourth, put the bully mate of Terre Haute into a coal bunker, blind
as a bat, and I cal’late no derned pill-mixer is agwine to git away with
me very bad.’
“‘You’ll have to be born ag’in before you can whale me, Dudley,’ he
shouted, ‘for I’ll fight while there’s enough blood left in me to lunch
a stall-fed musketeer.’
“‘We both suck through the same straw then, Doctor,’ ses I, ‘for I
cal’late to stick to you like a poor man’s plaster to a beggar’s ribs or
I’ll have the worth of the widder’s chickens out on ye,’ and with that I
spit out his finger that I had forgot all about, and the hul time had
bin chawin’ like a piece of flag-root, I was so burnin’ mad. I allers
will think he would have gin up the fight then, if he hadn’t seen me
spit out the finger. He looked down at his maimed hand and then at me,
and the awful sight seemed to spur him on ag’in.
“‘You cannibal varmint!’ he hollered, as he edged up to me. ‘I’ll make
head-cheese of ye!’ and with that he made a pass at me; so at it we went
ag’in, hotter than ever, hands up and heads down like fightin’ wasps,
round and about, over the goose-house and wheelbarrow spat-a-te-kick,
and down into the sink pool roll-et-e-roll, and the hair was a-flyin’
and the teeth war a-spinnin’. I got in a left-handed wipe on his chin
while his mouth was open, swarin’, and I made his jaws snap like a wolf
trap, and sent one of his molars a-buzzin’ through the kitchen winder
like a bullet from a Springfield muskit.
[Illustration: HANDS UP AND HEADS DOWN.]
“I never knowed a man could lose so much blood and stand up arter it,
until I had that fight with Dr. Tweezer. The blood was a-flyin’ from him
every which way, like the water from a sprinklin’ cart, and yet he
wouldn’t holler.
“Arter a while he clinched and throwed me, but I managed to turn him,
and commenced to shut off his supply of wind by twistin’ his necktie;
but jest as his tongue began to crop out promisin’ly, a couple of
fellers drivin’ by in a wagon seen us, and they allowed that I was one
of the Doctor’s crazy patients that had got the better of him; so they
come runnin’ in with a long rope, and set in to tie me up right thar.
“The plaguey Doctor turned in to help ’em do it, too. I cussed, and
hollered, and kicked off both boots, and broke two of my teeth
a-grittin’ of ’em, I was so consumin’ mad. But it was no go; I was
a-playin’ a lone hand, with both bowers and the ace ag’inst me.
“The fust thing I knew they had me tied hand and foot, and h’isted into
thar greasy old meat wagon with some dead hogs.
“‘To the lock-up with him,’ shouted the Doctor, jest bilin’ with rage;
‘he’s crazy as a cow with her horns knocked off.’ They took me thar,
sure enough, and I staid thar till midnight before the mistake was
known. I was pooty well scratched up, but that Dr. Tweezer was the most
horrid sight you ever did see.
[Illustration: ALAS! POOR DOCTOR.]
“Arter that fight he looked as though he had been the subject in a
dissectin’ room, with at least a dozen medical students peelin’ and
hackin’ of him in the interests of science. The Doctor allowed that the
erysipelas would set in, seein’ thar were so many small veins busted in
his face, so he painted it all over with scarlet iodine as a
precautionary measure.
“He did look like the very old Nick, and no mistake. His face was
fearfully puffed up, you see, and his nose was knocked clear away round
to one side. His mouth in particular was a study that a feller couldn’t
git familiar with. It was a problem that the more you looked into the
more your ideas got confused. It was swelled and twisted and run around,
out of all shape and proportion.
“He had the terriblest time you ever heard of gittin’ his victuals into
it and fairly started down his throat. Thar he would sit at the table
explorin’ about for fully five minutes strivin’ to make the harbor, and
when he couldn’t fetch it, he would draw the spoon back and look at it a
while, plannin’ another expedition. He knew where his mouth _ought_ to
be, you see, and where it _had_ been a few hours before, and to be
obliged to canvass the whole of his head to find it, was somethin’ he
wasn’t accustomed to.
“It seemed as if he never would git through jabbin’ the spoon about his
face, and when he would finally strike the openin’, it would be away
round on one side of his head, so much so in fact, that a person would
think he was pourin’ the soup into his ear. He would be all hunkadory
then durin’ the remainder of that meal, but the next time he would come
to the table, the same performance would have to be gone through with.
“He couldn’t keep run of the thing, nohow. It was here to-day and
somewhere else to-morrow, like a wrinkle in a shirt.
“The swellin’ kept shiftin’ and undulatin’ about continually, down in
one place and up in another, all within an hour, and that would shove
the mouth away down along the neck somewhere, or clear across to the
other side of the head, perhaps.
“The family would be sittin’ thar eatin’ no more than he was, they would
be so busily engaged watchin’ his singular manœuverin’, and it would
make him so roarin’ mad that he would send ’em all away from the table.
“He tried to eat by the aid of a small lookin’ glass, but that didn’t
work any better than goin’ it blind. When he saw how disfigured every
feature was, his appetite would begin to git away from him pooty lively,
and he would sling the glass into the corner, and fall to denouncin’ me
like a crazy bush-whacker.
“The yard, too, was a sight; everythin’ in it was painted and scratched
and painted ag’in.
“Old Mrs. Sharron—who was allers a-smellin’ around about butcherin’
time, on the lookout for a fresh morsel—was gwine by the Doctor’s the
next mornin’, and she noticed the blood and ha’r a-stickin’ to the chips
and pump handle, and she allowed he had killed his spring pig, so she
dropped in to ask him for the ears and a piece of the liver.
“The Doctor thought she was runnin’ him on his late skirmish, and you
never see a man fly into such a passion in all your born days.
“He jumped up and pulled his pizen pump out of a drawer, and ses he:
‘You old faded remnant! you scollop! you creasy old cinder of an
incendi’ry fire!’ he contin’ed, jest that way, ‘I’ll gin ye jest seven
seconds to git out of my house in, or I’ll hoist the gizzard out of ye
mi’ty quick!’
“Jehominy! wasn’t she skeered, though? You never see a cat git from
under a stove quicker when a pot biles over, than she got out of that
house.
“So Dr. Tweezer didn’t speak very highly of me, eh? Wal, now you kind o’
know the reason, don’t ye?”
MY NEIGHBOR WORSTED.
As I look from my window I am surprised at the change the last half hour
has wrought upon my neighbor and his immediate surroundings. At that
time he emerged from the shed in which he keeps his extra household
furniture, with a length of stove-pipe and an elbow under his arms. They
were apparently just the things he needed to tone down the draught of
his new stove, and shoot the sparks clear of the banker’s eaves.
I think I never saw him look better-natured than at that moment. His
face was clear and unruffled as a woodland pool. His children played
around him with unsuspecting minds and unlimited speech. The household
cat, with all confidence in his noble nature, familiarly rubbed her ribs
against his leg, as he for a moment stood deciding which end of the
length to introduce to the elbow. Even the old hen roosting on the
enclosure seemed to settle her head into her body with more than
ordinary satisfaction as she regarded the complacent scene beneath her.
But half an hour ago all was peace, confidence and love, and now what a
change is here! I hear the children, but see them not. Their plaintive
wail reminds me how often laughter is the harbinger of tears. The hen
with ruffled feathers and outstretched neck stands aloof upon the ridge
of a distant dwelling. The household cat that had grown old in the
family, and had good reason to believe herself privileged, purrs no
more. She has painful reasons to think otherwise now, as she crouches in
the most retired corner of the premises, assiduously applying whatever
balm her tongue affords to injured parts. She doubtless muses how
heavier than an infant’s spoon it is to feel an adult’s boot.
Yet my neighbor was neither rash nor hasty.
He seemed the embodiment of perseverance, as he repeatedly offered that
length of stove-pipe an elbow which it, like a prudish maiden,
provokingly refused. Soon the drops of perspiration began to stand upon
his face and neck in large globes, and I knew that patience was oozing
from every pore. I knew by the scattering children, the cackling hen,
and the flying household cat, that the “rose-lipped cherubim” of which
the poet sings, were abiding with him no longer.
Presently his wife came to his assistance with a case-knife, and for a
time it seemed as though victory would crown their united efforts.
Reinforcements turned the tide at Waterloo, and laid proud France at the
mercy of Europe, and how often the assistance from the mind or arm of a
noble wife rolls back the enemy from the door. But reinforcements could
not mend the matter here. The poor woman soon retired from the scene
with wounded fingers and damaged pride.
My neighbor himself has ceased to strive. Flattened, kicked, and
abandoned, the pipes lie masters of the situation.
Ah! I am fully persuaded that neither depth of affliction, nor height of
impudence, nor length of trial, nor breadth of argument, nor
extravagance, nor parsimony, nor things in particular, nor things in
general, can begin to compare, as triers of patience, with a couple of
old frill-edged stove-pipes, that emphatically set their edge against a
union.
[Illustration]
THE BREATHING SPELL.
As some lone reaper, tanned and sore,
Doth pause to glance his acres o’er,
Comparing what hath passed his hands
With what before him bristling stands—
Behind him lie the shocks and sheaves,
While like a sea before him heaves,
Far over valley, hill and plain,
The waving heads of waiting grain—
So pause I now, when half way through
This growing book, my task to view;
Behind lie many a sketch and line;
Before me, countless pages shine;
Behind, the thoughts are shaped and bound;
Before, they float in freedom round.
And as that reaper stoops again
To throw his hook around the grain,
And sinks amid the sea of gold,
To rise when hands no longer hold;
So bend I to my task anew,
And undismayed my course pursue,
’Till clip on clip, and sheaf on sheaf,
Shall bear me to the farthest leaf.
A VISIT TO BENICIA.
To-day I had occasion to visit Benicia. The place is situated on the
Straits of Carquinez. Not far from the town the Government Arsenal and
Barracks are situated. And as a striking proof of the loyal and
law-abiding spirit of the citizens, I may mention the fact, that all the
government property above alluded to is defended by two soldiers, a
corporal—who, by the way, has a wooden leg—and a high private.
While stopping there, I noticed they were engaged in the pleasurable
task of firing a salute of twenty-one guns, in commemoration of Bunker
Hill. They were having a busy time of it, for while the wooden-legged
corporal was loading and discharging the cannon, the private was
forwarding the ammunition from the magazine—about a quarter of a mile
distant—in a wheelbarrow. “If soldiers will do this in time of peace,” I
said to myself, “what would they not accomplish in time of war?” and I
walked away from the spot, congratulating myself for having invested in
Government bonds.
The town, in all likelihood, would never have been heard of outside of
the State of California, had it not been for the brave “Benicia Boy.”
Here it was that he swung the blacksmith’s heavy sledge, and practiced
the first rudiments of the pugilistic profession, which subsequently
gained him his world-wide notoriety.
Many of the citizens are yet pointed out to the visitor as parties who
at some period of their life served as a sand bag on which the muscular
“Boy” hardened his knuckles.
As I gazed upon the scattered village,—for it is no more,—I mused, how a
man should come forth from such a paltry place to “awe” the world. For
as Goliath challenged the hosts of Israel, so came the brave “Benicia
Boy” and dared creation’s millions.
And as the youthful shepherd, afterwards king, rose up and smote the
overweening giant with a stone, till all his brain oozed forth, so from
Albion’s Isle a youthful “King,” smote the western champion in the
midriff with his mawley, and all his wind gushed out!
[Illustration: ONE OF HEENAN’S MEMENTOES.]
After searching some time to discover the blacksmith shop where the
pugilist used to work, I learned that it was long since torn down and a
church now occupied the site. But an old gentleman who kept a small
boarding house, conducted me to an ancient pump, at which he said the
“Boy” on several occasions bathed his nose after having a bout with some
person who didn’t let him have things all his own way, and there I wept
my tears of tribute.
A large iron-bound boot-jack, set in a glass case, was shown to me by a
saloon-keeper. He assured me, with this weapon the “Boy” had killed
several cats belonging to the neighbors which had disturbed his
slumbers. This boot-jack had also caused the death of a mule, for on one
occasion the pugilist hurled it with such violence at a cat that was
scampering across the roof of a shed that the heavy missile went through
the boards. A farmer’s mule that was standing inside received the weapon
behind the ear, and immediately went to gravel as though he had been
felled with a sledge-hammer. The farmer instituted a suit against the
“Boy” to recover damages, but the friends of the pugilist made up a
purse to satisfy the demand of the farmer, and the matter was hushed.
I was also shown a jagged hole in a high board fence, which, it is said,
the “Boy” made one night while going home from a neighboring saloon.
It seems he had some trouble with a companion before leaving the saloon,
and seeing his shadow dogging his steps, mistook it for the substance of
his late antagonist; very naturally presuming that his intentions were
anything but friendly, he turned hastily around and dissipated the
obnoxious shadow by knocking it about fifteen feet into the garden.
[Illustration: A SCIENTIFIC OPENING.]
The fence rattled and shook around the whole lot under the terrible
blow. He made a hole in the boards through which a large goat could
readily jump without sacrificing any of its hair by the performance, and
permanently injured a good-sized pear tree that stood inside the
enclosure, about three feet distant. The concussion was terrible. A
couple of turkeys that happened to be roosting in the tree at the time
dropped from their limb as though shot through the head with a
needle-gun. Never afterwards could they be induced to roost upon
anything further from the ground than the cross-bar of a saw-horse or
the handles of a wheelbarrow.
No doubt the town at one time had great expectations, as it formerly was
the capital of the State. It is now a capital joke to see a person
undertaking to walk through the town in the winter season, without faith
strong enough or feet broad enough to support him upon the surface of
the oceans of mud he will find himself gazing wistfully across.
On my way down a man was pointed out to me on the boat who is said to be
the meanest man in his county. My informant assured me that when the
mean individual’s wife died last year, he borrowed a pair of forceps
from the dentist at Benicia, and extracted all her gold-filled teeth.
And on the morning prior to her funeral he sat upon the door-step,
hammer in hand, with a flat-iron upon his knees, cracking the teeth like
English walnuts, and with a sewing awl extracting the filling from the
cavities.
During my journey I didn’t cultivate that man’s acquaintance. He is a
person to stand away from, especially when clouds are charged with
electricity.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
TOO MUCH OF INDIAN.
Take away the dish; I have had my fill of Modoc; have had buck for
breakfast, squaw for dinner, and papoose for supper, until at the very
name of Indian my appetite forsakes me.
The appellations that for a season fell upon my ears, like a new poem
from the lips of some sweet bard, have poetry for me no longer. The
names, “Captain Jack,” “Scarfaced Charlie,” “Shacknasty Jim,”
“Rain-in-the-face,” “Old-man-afraid-of-his-horse,” “Sitting Bull,” or
“Ellen’s Man,” have lost their charm. They have become dull and
uninteresting, and I would hear them no more forever. I have been duped,
deceived, defrauded, on account of these rascally Indians.
I have gazed in silent awe upon what I supposed to be the scalp of no
less a personage than “Old Sconchin,” and it now transpires that the
redoubtable old chief turns up among the Indians recently captured.
Oh! Oh! how this world is given to lying!
I have journeyed long and far, by water and by rail, on horseback and on
foot, and purchased at an extravagant price an Indian’s scalp which the
seller under oath, with lifted hand, assured me was the veritable crown
lock of that same “Old Sconchin.”
With tears coursing down his sunburned cheeks he informed me, that with
his own eyes, in the full light of day, he saw it plucked smoking from
the sconce of the expiring brave.
I have consequently braided watch chains of the hair, fashioned a money
purse of the skin, and then withdrawn into a private apartment to shed
bitter tears of sorrow, because the material didn’t quite hold out to
make a tobacco pouch. And now the distressing intelligence reaches me
that the renowned “Old Sconchin” stands manacled in the camp of his
foemen, with an unscarified top and as luxuriant hair as ever drew
nourishment from an Indian head.
Oh! where shall we turn, or where shall we look for honesty, since it is
not found in the breast of the Indian scalp peddler?
GOING UP THE SPOUT.
Rats and mice, like ourselves, often labor at a great disadvantage while
endeavoring to make a livelihood. They often make a miss of it
altogether by not knowing the proper time to set out upon an expedition.
Their life is a perpetual skirmish. They have to take chances and be
upon their guard continually. Their mortal enemy and dread, the cat, may
be asleep in the fourth story, and the poor mouse knows not of it as he
looks wistfully across the intervening space between the ash barrel and
the basement stairs; but after weighing the chances of escape or
capture, he scurries across the opening with as much haste as though the
sharp claws of pussy were raking the stunted fur from his wiry tail.
The sun may pour down its genial rays and the planks which his way lies
over be warm and inviting, but he cannot loiter to enjoy its warmth or
survey the beauties of nature. Oh! who would be a mouse? sigh I, as I
sit and ponder over his life of inherent fear and uncertainty.
He seems to have no confidence in himself. His actions are like those of
an inferior checker player. Shove about as he may, the chances are he
will soon regret the manœuvre, and wish himself safely back again at the
starting point.
[Illustration: AN OBJECT OF SUSPICION.]
Everything about the premises seems to be after him. He regards the old
blacking-brush that lies under the bench with looks of suspicion for
hours together, and dare not risk a scamper past. He takes it for a
horrid cat, quietly and patiently biding her time. He retires into his
hole and waits fully an hour before peeping out again; but there it sits
to blast his sight and cause a cold thrill to run along his little
spine. The fact that it does not change its position does not in the
least weaken his mistrust; on the contrary, it rather strengthens it.
“It is so cat-like,” he says to himself, “for it to be sitting there
motionless.” In the handle projecting from one end he very naturally
thinks he recognizes the tail, and at this new discovery he backs into
his hole again in great trepidation.
He feels certain now that he was right in his suspicions. Another wait
follows. On again emerging, there it lies as before; and if that mouse
was profane, and had a soul to hazard, it would undoubtedly hazard it,
and roundly berate that brush through compressed teeth.
It takes but little to set a poor mouse into a perfect fluster. Down
rolls a stick of wood from the pile, and Mr. Mouse, nibbling at the
other corner of the shed, jumps at least eight feet in the direction of
his hole. The wind blows down the clothes-line stick, and simultaneous
with its fall upon the planks the heart, liver and lights of the poor
mouse seem to be running a steeple-chase to see which can jump from his
mouth first. Away he scurries across the yard, so fast, that though your
eyes were endeavoring to keep up with him all the way, you merely know
_something_ has been moving, but can only surmise what.
We sometimes think the trials and disappointments of humanity are great,
but dear me! what are they compared to the miseries of these poor
creatures. From their hardships deliver me! For all their care and
caution, they do so often miscalculate. This is evidenced by the number
of times our old cat enters the house with her mouth full, and her eyes
sparkling with pride.
There is nothing so very degrading or humiliating in a cat’s life, and
the thought of becoming a cat does not make one shudder as does the
thought of becoming a mouse. A good household cat does not occupy such a
very bad position in life after all; by _good_ I mean an excellent
mouser, one never guilty of letting a mouse escape after having the
second wipe at him; no scraggy creature with stove-singed back and
scolloped ears, but a well-behaved, home-loving animal. The lot of such
a creature is preferable to that of some men whom I have met in life,
that is, if there were no rude children in the house. There is always
some drawback; a cat is peculiarly blessed that lives in a house where
there are no children; it seems to be counted as one of the family
almost, and its life, though short, is certainly a happy one. But ah!
these reckless children, that snatch up Tommy by the tail as they would
a sauce-pan, and as though the tail was actually intended for a handle.
On second thought, the life of a cat is not so very pleasant after all.
For the last half hour I have been deeply interested in the manœuvres of
a large rat in the yard of an adjacent house. He has made three
unsuccessful attempts to go up the sink-spout. Thrice has he glided up
the slippery incline until the tip of his long tail disappeared from
view, but as often has he beat a hasty retreat, assisted on his downward
way by a rushing torrent of hot dish-water.
[Illustration: ON A RAID.]
He is a determined fellow, however, and sticks to an enterprise with the
spirit and pertinacity of a world-seeking Columbus, or a prison-breaking
Monte Christo. No doubt the hungry edge of appetite is whetted by the
strong effluvium arising from Limburger cheese (the people are Germans)
that fills the whole atmosphere with an odor truly agreeable to the
rodent nose, every time the pantry door is opened. The cheese has been
lately stirred up, I presume, by the trenchant knife of Pater-familias,
and consequently the poor hunger-pinched rat is allured up the spout at
this inopportune hour, while the servant girl is washing the dishes.
Every living creature has its weakness. The horse whinnies when the oats
draw nigh, and forgets the galling collar. Sheep, that at other times
will not come within gunshot, grow tame and unsuspicious when the salt
is shaken in the pan.
The hog has a penchant for clover-roots, or wherefore does the rusted
wire ring ornament his nose? Is it there because it is the fashion? Ask
the farmer.
And undoubtedly cheese is the weakness of the rat family. It is their
aim, and often their end, too. It is the shrine to bow down before which
the rat will jeopardize his life every hour of the twenty-four.
He dreams of it. In his fitful slumbers he beholds it ranged around him
tier on tier, as in a great store room, and not a cat within forty
leagues. He is in the rat’s Paradise, and happy. No deceptive poisons
that consume the stomach, no insidious, subtle traps, yawning ready to
clutch the unsuspecting victim, surround him. He is safe and at peace,
and would dwell there forever and forever in one unbroken endless night.
But the heavy rumbling of a dray startles him, for all sweet dreams have
their wakings, alas! that it is so! He wakes, and where is he? Under the
wet sidewalk, drenched and tousled with the drippings of the day’s rain,
with nothing for breakfast but a dry onion peel, the prog of the
previous night, which nothing but a forty-eight hours’ fast could induce
him to seize. Ah, me! what chances the fellow has to take in order to
secure sufficient sustenance to keep life and body together.
“Honor pricks me on,” soliloquized old Sir John, on the field of
Shrewsbury, when he withdrew from the general clash and rendering up of
souls, to breathe a spell, and moralize upon the insignificance of Fame,
or Honor, as against the value of life. But nothing pricks on the poor
rat but his craving little digestive organs. The mill is crying out for
grists, the hopper is empty, the stone still turning, and something must
be done, and that quickly.
No honor is attached to the expedition, and even though he should
succeed in making the “inning,” which is doubtful, all that can be said
is that he has “gone up the spout,” and in the common acceptation of the
saying, that is certainly nothing to be very highly elated over.
I actually feel ashamed when I think of the many projects I have
abandoned through life, because I met with slight reverses. Here before
me is this poor water-soaked rat, his hair still smoking from his recent
scald, emerging once more from behind the wood box, determined to solve
the problem of the sink-spout or perish in the attempt. A grim smile of
resolution seems to part his pointed features, as he moves quietly up to
the dripping conduit from which he lately scampered with steaming ribs.
They may talk of deeds of noble daring, of vaulting the breach, or
traversing the wild; but for sterling courage, for indomitable
perseverance and pluck, commend me to this little adventurer in my
neighbor’s yard. In the face of three scalding inundations, he ventures
again upon the expedition, unshaken, unsubdued, unterrified. He takes
more chances and subjects himself to more risks in ascending that spout
than old Samuel de Champlain in exploring up the St. Lawrence among the
Iroquois.
What if the large flea-pasturing dog lying indolently in the yard would
rouse from the lethargic sleep that holds him, and for once make himself
useful by thrusting his bristling muzzle up the orifice after the little
explorer, thereby cutting off retreat in the event of another disastrous
deluge? The terrible result of such an action on the part of the dog is
too painful and improbable to contemplate.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE GLORIOUS FOURTH.
You need not wake to call me, to call me, mother dear,
For to-morrow’ll be the noisest day of all the passing year;
Of all the passing year, mother, the most uproarious day,
And I, you bet, will stirring be before the morning gray.
A flag-staff will be hoisted, mother, two hundred feet in air,
And cannon will be ranged around the whole of Union Square,
And on the instant Phœbus shoots his arrows o’er the hill,
There’ll be a roar will shake the shore as far as Watsonville.
You know the tailor’s nephew, mother, they call him Squinty Ware;
Last year he powdered Perry’s jaw, and blinded Dobson’s mare,
And while his poor old grandmamma was peeping through the blind,
She got a “whiz” in her old phiz, that she’ll forever mind.
And Henrietta Loring, mother, tied crackers to the tail
Of Deacon Reed’s big, lazy hound, while eating from a pail;
And goodness! gracious! how he jumped, and dusted for the shed;
And in a moment every straw was blazing in his bed.
And you’d have died of laughter, mother, I’m certain, if you saw
Old Deacon Reed run out to tramp upon the burning straw;
And when he ran to get the hose—for tramping would not do—
His wig blew off, and down the street for half a block it flew.
[Illustration: CELEBRATING THE FOURTH.]
I _know_ it was not proper, mother, and I ashamed should be
To stand and gag, just like a wag, another’s loss to see;
But ’twas a sight that got me quite, and I’ll be old indeed
When I forget the comic look of that old Deacon Reed.
I’ve got a rousing pistol, mother, the loudest in the block;
And I have filed the little catch that holds the thing at cock,
And hardly do I get the charge of powder in the bore,
When off it goes just with a shake, and thunder! what a roar!
So sleep on if you can, dear mother, and have no thought of me,
For I’ll be up and charging round before there’s light to see;
And when you hear a bang that makes the ring dance in your ear,
Then you can bet your scissors, mother, that I am somewhere near.
[Illustration]
JIM DUDLEY’S SERMON.
Hereafter I shall have no faith in reports. Last week I heard that Jim
Dudley had left the city, and was congratulating myself on at last
escaping him. But my congratulations were premature. Last night he
called upon me, and kept me in torture for fully two hours; at a time,
too, when I should have been asleep. But what cared he for that? The
scoundrel! there was no shaking him off. He sticks to a person like
mortar to a brick. I had to sit and listen, though I do honestly believe
every word the fellow uttered was an unqualified lie; but he swears to
its truth, and how can I prove it otherwise. It is better to take it as
it comes and ask no questions for conscience’ sake.
“I never told you about the sermon I preached over in Misertown one
Sunday. I had a time of it thar and no mistake. Hold on a minute and
I’ll tell you how it was.
“You see, Gil Bizby—that plaguey shirk, I never mention his name but
what I feel like trouncin’ of him—but he was a genius though and no
foolin’ about it, a natural born inventor, chock full of notions as a
toy shop.
[Illustration: SOMETHING NEW.]
“But somehow or another he never could bring anythin’ to a payin’ focus.
Allers whittlin’ and borin’ and plannin’ around though. Wherever you’d
meet him he’d be haulin’ out of his pocket some old drawin’, with more
wheels and contrivances pictured out on it than you could think of in a
twelve hours’ dream. He never could git the cap sheaf onto his endeavor
though. Allers somethin’ amiss; a wheel too many, or another one
wantin’, or too many cogs to have the thing work just right.
“He invented a contrivance for pluckin’ chickens.
“That was a rustler. He shoved the fowls through a machine somethin’
like a corn sheller, an gin ’em an electric shock while passin’ along,
and shot ’em out of a spout at t’other end of the machine as bare as
weavers’ shuttles. He didn’t make anythin’ out of it though. He had to
chuck ’em through while alive, you see, and that clashed with the law.
When he took the machine down to the city to introduce it to the pultry
dealers, the society fellers who look out for the interests of dumb
critters got arter him and sewed him up. They put a reef in his jib
pooty quick now, I tell you.
“They were passin’ along through the market one day, and they saw Gil
just a humpin’ himself showin’ off the apparatus to the market men. He
was crankin’ and pumpin’ away, like a sailor when there’s fifteen feet
of water in the hold and still rizin, and the chickens were a screamin’
and a scootin’ through the contrivance, close as if they were run on a
string head ag’inst tail, and just a cloud of feathers hoverin’ around
over it. Didn’t they fasten on to that Gil Bizby though? They snatched
him up quicker than if he had been hoss-stealin’, and confiscated his
plucker, and tucked an alfired heavy fine onto him besides.
“Meetin’ with such poor encouragement in that direction he went back to
Sculleyville, and set out to invent a thunderin’ great machine for
layin’ cobble-stones. That was just him all over; allers startin’ in to
git up some outlandish lookin’ thing. This machine was a crusher and no
gettin’ ‘round it. It was fearful enough to make a cow slip her cud,
I’ll be shot if it wasn’t. It looked somethin’ like Noah’s ark set on
wheels and filled with all kinds of machinery.
“He started in to experiment one moonlight night in front of the court
house, but got the main belt crossed or somethin’, I disremember just
what, and Jerusalem! in less than ten minutes he ran the whole
population out to the foot-hills in thar night clothes. There wasn’t no
stoppin’ the consarned thing. Poor Gil was knocked senseless at the
first revolution, and nobody else knowed how to control it. It rolled
the whole length of the square, tearin’ up the stones it had pounded
down the day before and sendin’ of ’em buzzin’ over the village in all
directions.
“No home was sacred, and no head was safe, as the poet has it. Poor old
Mrs. Scooley lived just long enough to learn this, and no longer. She
was goin’ once too often to git her pitcher filled at the corner grocery
that night, and a stone took her in the small of the back as she was
enterin’ the door, and it h’isted her clear over the counter on top of a
barrel; it’s true as I’m tellin’ it to you. Poor old body; she was the
pioneer female of the village too. The first woman to wash a shirt in
Sculleyville. But arter all, the town wasn’t much loser by her passin’
away.
“She was a sort of panicky old critter anyhow, always scary about
catchin’ the smallpox or any other prevailin’ disease that come around.
The old village physician said he would ruther see the very old scratch
makin’ towards him on the street than old Mrs. Scooley.
[Illustration: THE DOCTOR’S SCOURGE.]
“Comin’ from church or market, as the case might be, she would fasten on
to him like a wood-tick to a leaf, and he couldn’t git rid of her nohow.
She would have him time her pulse right thar on the sidewalk; and be a
shovin’ of her tongue out for his inspection. And she did have such an
unlimited, wallopin’ great tongue too; it seemed when she was shovin’
all of it out, as though she was actewelly disgorgin’ her liver. It’s
so, by Jingo! People would be a stoppin’ and standin’ thar, wonderin’
what was the matter with the old gal—that is, people that didn’t know
her peculiarities; though most everybody in the village had seen her
standin’ in that position so often, that they would be more surprised to
see her with her tongue in her mouth than projectin’ out in the rain.
“The old Doctor used to be terribly annoyed. He would say, kind of
hurriedly like, because he would be itchin’ to git away from her:
“‘Oh! you’re all right I reckon, Mrs. Scooley; but you had better be a
gittin’ along home, and not stand too long in the cold air, with so much
of your vital organs exposed to the weather; the result may be fearful
if not fatal!’
“That would ginnerally start her off pooty lively towards her shanty.
They say the first time the Doctor saw her tongue he was surprised so
much that he looked actewelly skeered. Says he: ‘I’ve been nigh unto
eight and thirty years a practicin’ physician, and until this moment I
flattered myself that I was familiar with all the ins and outs of the
profession. But I begin to think I gin over the dissectin’ knife too
soon, for here’s somethin’ that I was not prepared for.’
“But that’s not tellin’ you about the sermon, is it? but when I
mentioned that Gil Bizby, I sort of wandered off arter him and his
contrivances. Wal, as I was about to tell you, Gil and I were saunterin’
around Misertown one Sunday, and we saw any number of gals goin’ into
the school-house where the preachin’ was carried on. So we concluded to
step in and git a better look at some of ’em. I didn’t know many of the
people round thar, but from what I heard I judged they were the meanest,
close-fistedest set of sinners that ever had the gospel dispensed with
amongst ’em.
“I understood they had treated their minister plaguey mean when he fust
come thar to look arter them. Thar was no regular place for him to stop,
you see, and they agreed amongst themselves to take turns a keepin’ him
until they could get a house up for him. He was one of those young,
easy, green kind of fellers that had seemin’ly never been so far away
from home before but what he could see the smoke of his father’s
chimney, or smell his mother’s corn-dodgers burnin’. And they soon took
advantage of it, and sort of played button with him, shovin’ him around
from one to another as though he was too hot to hold.
“He fust went to a feller by the name of Wigglewort. Ses Wig, ‘I’m
really very sorry, Mr. Sermonslice, but we unfortunately have no
accommodations for you at present. We have no place for you to sleep
’thout we put you in the barn, and the nights are ruther cold for that,
besides the rats might annoy you. Sorry you happened to come just at
this time, of all others the most embarrassin’. It’s not but what I
would like to have you stop with us; I would indeed, Mr. Sermonslice,
consider it an honor to have you.’
“The minister, takin’ his books under his arm, started out into the
night as though his life depended upon the most prompt kind of action.
He wasn’t within hailin’ inside of two minutes. He went over and
succeeded in gettin’ lodgin’s with a feller named Joe Grimsby, who lived
over by Frog Marsh.
[Illustration: JOE GRIMSBY.]
“Joe was too derned lazy to do his own prayin’, and while the parson
stopped with him he got rid of it. They do say he was the laziest old
curmudgeon that ever turned up his eyes. He used to say a praar at the
beginnin’ of the month, and on the followin’ nights he would always
allude to it in a sort of matter-offact way. ‘You know my feelin’s
towards ye. Nothin’ hid from ye I reckon. I haven’t changed my
sentiments yet. If I do I’ll let ye know of it. I’ll keep nothin’ back
from you, though it should take the har off.’ He would go on in that
business-like way, and the hul time be a crawlin’ into bed.
“Wal, as I was goin’ to tell you, Gil and I poked into the buildin’, and
sat down thar amongst the congregation.
“The minister hadn’t come yet, and pooty soon an old feller got up, and
ses he, ‘It may be the minister has had a late breakfast and will not
git here for some time yet. In the meantime, as it’s a dry season and
our crops need a shower of rain, we mout as well have a little prayin’
goin’ on. We can’t do much harm anyhow, and we may be the means of
bringin’ down a good smart shower that will be money in our pockets in
the long run.’
“He asked several to take hold and do somethin’ in that way, but one had
a cold, and another one was just gettin’ over the mumps. And so on they
went makin’ excuses. Finally the old feller turned to me, and ses he:
‘Perhaps _you_ would lead us, you look like one who has had some
experience that way.’
“I thanked him for the compliment, but told him I was somethin’ like the
officers in the army—I would ruther foller than lead. But he stuck to me
like a Jew to a customer. Arter a while I consented, and jest as I was
about startin’ in, a feller come in and said the minister had got a
terrible ticklin’ in his throat caused by partly swallowin’ a har in the
butter over to old Joe Grimsby’s, and couldn’t attend to his duties that
day. So the old chap got up ag’in, and ses:—
“‘We won’t have any preachin’ then, without some person present will
volunteer to act in our pastor’s place this mornin’.’ But no one spoke
up. ‘Perhaps,’ he ses, turnin’ to me, ‘you would favor us by conductin’
the service, young man. You doubtless are competent to perform that
duty.’
“This sort of got me. Then the thought struck me perhaps I’d make
somethin’ out of ’em by it. Besides didn’t want to plead ignorance right
thar amongst ’em, so gettin’ up, I ses: ‘This is somewhat unexpected.
Honors foller one another pooty fast.’ With that I got into the pulpit
and began to look down at ’em pooty seriously. Thar was no Bible on the
desk, so I asked if thar was any person that would loan me one for the
occasion.
“Some of ’em spoke up and said they had books, but were in the habit of
keepin’ em to foller along arter the minister, and correct him when he
made a mistake. Besides they liked to see how he worked out the text. I
looked at ’em some time pooty hard. I thought they beat anythin’ I had
come across for some time, and I had a good mind to git down ag’in, only
I allowed they’d laugh at me. So I ses, ‘all right. You can keep your
books. I reckon I know enough by heart to git along with.’ I then gin
out somethin’ for them to sing.
“‘Short or long meter?’ inquired the leader of the singers, who were
settin’ over in the corner. I didn’t exactly understand him. As I knowed
he was in the habit of meetin’ Sal Clippercut over to Mrs. Curry’s every
Sunday afternoon, I allowed he was askin’ for somethin’ shorter, as he
was longin’ to meet her. I spoke up pooty sharp, and ses, ‘You will
please sing what I gin you to sing. I reckon you aren’t longin’ to meet
her so bad but what you can wait until arter the service is over. She’ll
keep that long, I reckon, without spilin’. I know her. She isn’t none of
your Spring chickens nuther,’ I contin’ed, just like that, and you ought
to have seen the way he looked; and the gals commenced to snicker and
crowd thar handkerchiefs into thar mouths.
“One little red-faced critter that sat alongside of him tittered right
out. Her mother who was sittin’ near by jumped up and ses: ‘Becky Jane,
you go right straight hum this minute, and go to peelin’ the ‘taters for
dinner.’ But a feller who looked as though his mother had been a
mullator, or even somethin’ of a darker shade, got up and ses:
“‘The gal isn’t to blame in the least. It’s that feller in the pulpit
thar. I for one don’t want to hear any more of his lingo.’
“‘Wal, then, you can stuff wool in your ears,’ I ses, ‘and you won’t
have far to go to get it nuther,’ I contin’ed, just that way, alludin’
to his own har, which seemed pooty woolly.
“You ought to see how they looked, fust at him, then at me. He colored
up, I reckon, but he was too black to show it. I heard him grit his
teeth from whar I was standin’. He didn’t say any more, but an old woman
who was settin’ near jumped up, and ses she:
“‘The meetin’-house is turned into a thayeter! When a muntybank gets
into the pulpit it is high time for respectable people to be movin’.
I’ll leave!’ she exclaimed, pullin’ her shawl around her shoulders and
beginnin’ to bustle out of her seat.
“‘Wal, ye kin go!’ I hollered, jest that way, for I was beginnin’ to git
sort of riled at the way things war a goin’. When I’m talkin’ politics
or arguin’ over the merits of whisky, I can bear crossin’ and any amount
of contradiction. But right thar, where a feller had to be choice of his
language, it was different business. ‘Ye kin go,’ I ses. ‘We kin git
along without you, I reckon. We’re willin’ to chance it, anyhow. Take
your knittin’ along; don’t leave that behind,’ I contin’ed, pointin’ to
the seat as though I saw it lyin’ thar. I didn’t though, but I wanted to
give her a mi’ty hard rub, for I suspected her piety was put on, and
that she was displeased because nobody was noticin’ her new bonnet.
“The hul congregation took it for granted that the knittin’ _was_ thar,
and you ought to have seen ’em stretchin’ and cranin’ out thar necks as
far as they could to get a look into the pew.
[Illustration: TRUTH IS POWERFUL.]
One old feller that was settin’ back pooty far, craned out kind of
quarterin’ ruther suddenly and his neck gin a crack like a bon bon. He
commenced oh! ohin’ and tryin’ to git it back to its old position ag’in,
but he couldn’t make any headway until his wife went to rubbin’ and
chafin’ of it, right thar.
“But that old woman, whew! She was as mad as a wet hen. She couldn’t
hardly find the door, she was so mixed up. When she finally got thar she
turned round and straightenin’ of herself up she ses, ‘Young
man!’—Before she got any further I broke in on her, for I judged she had
a tongue that was hung in the middle. So I ses, ‘That’ll do, that’ll do,
Mrs. You kin move along. You’re disturbin’ the peace of the
congregation, and besides all that you’re showin’ your false teeth mi’ty
bad in the bargain.’
“She got out arter that pooty lively, now I can tell you. I could see
her as she went up the road towards her home, and two or three times she
stopped and turnin’ around acted as though she had half a mind to come
back and try the hul thing over ag’in. But arter standin’ thar a while
thinkin’ like a pig when it’s listenin’ to the grass takin’ root, she
would shake her head and move along up the turnpike as though she
concluded she had enough of that kind of pie.
“This piece of performance sort of throwed me off the track. While I was
standin’ thar thinkin’ where to start in with the discourse, Gil Bizby
come a crawfishin’ up the steps to one side of me and whisperin’ ses, ‘I
say, Jim, you haven’t got to chock blocks already, have ye?’
“‘No,’ I answered, ‘I ain’t got to chock blocks, but I’ve got the ropes
twisted around and things look ginnerally mixed jist now, I can tell
ye.’
“‘Wall, start in on the sermon at once then,’ he urged, ‘for they are
gettin’ mi’ty impatient now I can tell you. You’ve got to be doin’
_somethin’_ pooty quick. But whatever you do,’ he contin’ed, ‘don’t git
up very high without havin’ some idea how you are goin’ to git down
ag’in. Keep steerin’ around waters that you’ve piloted over before.
Remember a blind mouse shouldn’t venture very far from its hole,
especially if thar’s a whole generation of cats watchin’ of it.’
“With that he backed down to his seat ag’in, and took out his pencil and
began to design a machine for pickin’ the bones out of fish, on the
fly-leaf of a book that was lyin’ thar. So I started in on the sermon.
It wasn’t much of a sermon, to be sure. It was more like a lectur’. I
couldn’t think of any passages of scriptur’ just then, so I gin ’em the
line from the philosopher, ‘Why does the frightened dog depress his tail
when he runneth?’
[Illustration: MR. SPUDD.]
“You ought to have seen ’em rustlin’ and turnin’ the leaves, huntin’ to
find the passage. One old feller by the name of Spudd commenced to paw
over the pages, and his wife ses, ‘Don’t go that way; turn back to the
Book of Job.’ He looked round at her with his under lip stickin’ out
jest that way, arter wettin’ of his thumb to start turnin’ over ag’in,
and ses, ‘Job be biled and buttered! I kin pick old Solomon from amongst
a thousand of ’em. He was sound on the goose, he was.’
[Illustration: THE OLD INTERROGATOR.]
“Two or three of ’em started in to ask me where the text was located,
but I kept on talkin’ right straight along, lookin’ around to all of ’em
at once and no one in particular. I didn’t gin ’em a chance to stop me
ag’in, or git a word in edgeways. One singular-lookin’ old coon with a
weed on his hat got up and stood signalin’ of me, and waitin’ and
watchin’ for a chance to ask me somethin’. But I never let on to see
him. I reckon he stood thar five minutes with his finger up pointin’ to
attract my attention, and his mouth open so wide, that from my elevated
position I could tell what he had swallowed for breakfast.
“I gin ’em a sort of ramblin’ discourse, alludin’ to the prevailin’
passions, and errors of the age. Amongst other things I touched on
jealousy a little,—I wanted to stir ’em up a trifle on that subject,
because there was a great deal of jealousy in that neighborhood. The
green-eyed monster was a-rantin’ and a-ravin’ round in a good many
households, and as it ginnerally turns out, there was least cause for it
where it was most prevailin’. One old feller was moved by the first
remark. When I said—quotin’ from the poet—‘Jealousy in the wife is wuss
than trichina in the pork,’ he leaned over to the man settin’ in the
next pew and ses, ‘I can’t tell you for the life of me whar he gits the
passage, but it’s the solid truth, anyhow.’
“So I went on and finished the sermon, or lectur’ ruther, and then I
ses, ‘The choir will please sing the hymn beginnin’ “Give, give, give to
the needy,” arter which I will pass around amongst the congregation and
take up a collection for the benefit of the heathen in furrin parts.’
“Je-whitteker! You ought to have seen ’em turn around and look at each
other when I said that. I can’t describe it to you. I can’t do the scene
justiss. If I had told ’em I was goin’ to stay with them through the
season, I could hardly have started ’em to thinkin’ any more than I did
by tellin’ ’em about that collection for the heathen in furrin parts.
“Arter two or three attempts the singin’ began. I closed my eyes, and
leanin’ back in my chair minister-like, commenced to estimate the
probable yield of each pew. While I was thinkin’ thar, and cal’latin’
how much I would make by the preachin’ business, I noticed the singin’
dyin’ out, and a dyin’ out slowly like, as the prisoner said his hopes
were when the sheriff was a-fumblin’ around his neck adjustin’ the rope.
So I opened my eyes easy like, as though comin’ back to earthly scenes
reluctantly, and you can water my whiskey if I wasn’t just in time to
see ole Ned Scullet’s coat-tails whiskin’ around the door jamb, the
hindmost rag of the congregation. Women and children and all were gone
sure enough. On lookin’ out of the winder I see ’em a-scatterin’ and
a-hustlin’ and elbowin’ themselves ahead of each other along the
turnpike, as though thar was great danger in bein’ left behind.
“Would you believe it, thar was that plaguey shirk Gil Bizby a-cranin’
up the hill a-leadin’ the crowd. I sat thar a while lookin’ after ’em
and then, comin’ down I began to look around a little, and pooty soon I
noticed that several of ’em left thar hats, they were in such a hurry to
git out. So I selected a good one, only ’twas a little out of fashion,
and puttin’ it on I ses to myself, ‘If you think I’m interested enough
in your welfare here or hereafter to preach to you for nothin’, you’re
mistaken, I reckon.’ With that I walked out, but not until I had kicked
the remainin’ hats around the room pooty lively.
“The next day I noticed an old feller with a dilapidated beaver on, that
looked as if it had done duty on a scarecrow for several seasons,
sidlin’ up to me, and circlin’ around two or three times lookin’ mi’ty
close at my tile. I’ll allers think it was his stove-pipe, but he was
too much ashamed to come right out and lay claim to it.
“But that Gil Bizby! I didn’t wonder so much at the congregation
dustin’, arter all, cause they didn’t know me, but _he_!—well, no
matter, I’ll git even on him yet.”
[Illustration]
THE POISONED PET.
It was my good fortune the other day to attend a picnic in the country.
A lady friend insisted on tacking her pet boy to me on that occasion. As
she couldn’t go herself she wanted me to have an eye to “sonney,” and
see that he didn’t come in contact with poison-oak. She assured me he
was a good boy and would mind me as if I was his father! I didn’t pine
for the pet’s company, but could not very well refuse her request. So he
went with me.
I very soon found out he was one of those smart children, who, by a
strange freak of nature, are placed in possession of an impudence that
prompts them to believe they know more at the age of eight than your
average adult.
My will and his wishes soon clashed.
Then the thought entered my head that his mother misrepresented
“sonney’s” obedient nature. “If this is the obedience that an offspring
manifests to a father,” I mentally murmured, “it were better to be
destitute of the offspring.” The boy sauced me. He even went so far as
to call me names anything but flattering, while I was sitting in the
presence of a young lady I most ardently adored. “Go on, sonney!” I said
to myself savagely, “go on, precocious youth, there are no raging bears
in this suburban park to tear the flesh from the bones of mouthy
children who ‘sauce’ their betters, as did the animals in the days of
prophets; but nature in other ways has made provision for such as you,
and has sprinkled a few shrubs around here that can pile the flesh on to
a person’s bones to an alarming degree, if they get a fair chance.”
After that I paid no attention to him. He ran at will, browsed through
the vines like a hungry deer, and burrowed into the very heart of the
poison-oak and ivy, with as little fear as a quail retiring to roost. He
enjoyed himself immensely; so he informed me in the evening. I am glad
he did, for he is having a quiet time of it now. I saw him this morning,
and his face was as full of expression as a Christmas pudding new rolled
from the cloth. I think my lady friend will not be over-anxious to
appoint me guardian over her dutiful son at another picnic. In the
interests of art I have made a sketch of “sonney” as he appeared this
morning, striving to recognize me by my voice, which he failed to do,
however, being deaf as he was blind.
[Illustration: HAVING A QUIET TIME.]
SEEKING FOR A WIFE.
And it came to pass about the year one thousand eight hundred and
seventy-three, being in the autumn, when the new wine was oozing from
the press, and the corn was hardening in the crib, a bachelor, a farmer
of great possessions, dwelling in the valley of Berryessa, bent above
his resting plow, and thus communed with himself:—
“My stacks are builded, my wine is dripping from the press, the ripe
ears are garnered in my cribs, my flocks and herds feed fat upon the
hills; and yet, because of my loneliness, am I unhappy.
“I will arise at eve and repair to my neighbor’s cottage. Peradventure
the aged widow of the murdered gypsy can counsel me.”
So when the evening hour was come, the farmer arose and sought the aged
widow’s abode.
And as he drew nigh to the cottage, he lifted up his eyes and, behold!
the crone sat upon her door-step.
[Illustration: THE CRONE.]
And when the dame looked upon the farmer she knew his heart was
troubled; but she knew not the cause.
So, lifting up her voice she cried, inquiringly: “What aileth my
neighbor? Has aught befel thy goods? Has bruin descended from the
mountains to worry thy flocks? Or, are thy stacks consumed? that thus
you droop your eyelids to the path, and move as by a hearse.”
And the farmer, drawing nigh, replied: “My flocks unharmed graze sleek
upon the hills; my stacks stand unconsumed; yet is my spirit heavy,
because my walks are lonely and my heart is sad, and I come as one
seeking counsel.”
Then answered the dame reprovingly: “Out upon thee, for a fusty, dreamy
bachelor! Go take to thyself a wife; then will thy walks be no more
lonely, neither will thy heart be sad.”
But he, answering her sorrowfully, said: “Mock me not, good madam, but
look with pitying eyes upon me, and hearken to my voice.
“Behold I am now well stricken in years, my body is stooping to the
grave, my manners, like my hands, are rough; my blood, like my hair, is
thin; and my teeth but shine in memories of the past.
“How, then, can I win maidens’ hearts? Alas! on the contrary, they would
giggling flee from before me; no hope for me remains; if I would wed, I
needs must wed a squaw!” And his countenance fell.
Then was the crone exceedingly displeased, because he said, “I needs
must wed a squaw,” and she answered him derisively, saying:—
“Go to! Ye speak as with the beak of a parrot, and with the
understanding of a babe! Are ye studied in books and know not the
proverb, ‘A golden snare will catch the wildest hare?’
“Do not your stacks dot the vale below like an Egyptian camp? Are not
your tanks brimming with wine and your cribs grinning with corn?
“Do not your cattle graze upon an hundred hills? and your industrious
laborers follow in the furrow? And are ye still afeared? Oh, ye of
doubting mind!
“Go, get thee to thy chest and take to thyself suitable coin, and hasten
to that great city by the sea—whose churches point to heaven, but whose
people bow to gold.
“There sojourn for a season, and make no delay in adorning thyself with
precious stones.
“Put diamonds upon thy bosom and rings upon thy fingers, and be zealous
to stand in the hall-ways and in the market-places, and in the houses of
exchange.
“Seek to be observed of the people, and take heed that ye look upon all
men as being thy servants.
“And let thy wealth be noised abroad.
“Then shall rise up in the house of mourning the widow of a month, and
dry her weeping eyes.
“Then shall the maid of many summers lay aside her pets, to readjust her
charms, and disinter her smiles.
“Then shall the doting damsel, when her parent maketh fast the door,
creep out some other way.
“And they all shall come trooping as with the voice of birds to court
thy smiles and thy manners, and thy years shall be as the silk of the
spider in thy way.”
Then was he exceedingly glad because of the crone’s advice, and he went
away to his own home rejoicing.
[Illustration: ATTENDING TO BUSINESS.]
And on the morrow he arose before it was yet day, and saddled his mule,
and journeyed to the great city by the sea, and lodged at the house of a
friend.
And he made haste to purchase diamonds, and rubies, and emeralds, and
onyx-stones, and sapphires, and put massive rings upon his fingers, and
seals upon his chain.
And even as the crone had directed, he scrupled not to stand in the
hall-ways, and in the market-places, and in the houses of exchange, and
sought to be observed of the people, and lived as a man having great
possessions.
And not many days after, a fair lady of that place looking from her
window, saw that the stranger shone like the mid-day sun, even so much
that her heart was warmed.
So she called the keeper of the house aside and questioned him
concerning the stranger, saying:—
“Who is this stranger that lodgeth in thy house, who beameth with jewels
like the noonday sun? Make him known to me, for he is a choice and
goodly man, and my heart warmeth for the stranger.”
[Illustration: PARTNER WANTED.]
Then answered the good man of the house, “He is a sojourner from the
valley of Berryessa, and lo, he is a man of great possessions; and
moreover, take heed if he cometh in your way, that ye smile graciously
upon him, for be it known unto you he is a bachelor, who cometh amongst
us seeking a wife.”
Then was the damsel exceedingly moved.
And when it came to pass that the stranger was introduced to her, she
smiled graciously upon him, and she opened her mouth and spake knowingly
of barley, and of rye, and of corn in the ear, and of tares.
And she also spake of four-footed beasts, of calves, of pigs, and of
goats, and cattle after their kind; and of fowls; of doves, and of
ducks, and of geese, and poultry after their kind.
And she spoke also of cabbages, and of squashes, and of turnips, and of
new laid eggs, and of honey, and of buckwheat cakes, and of cheese, and
of sausages!
And lo! the farmer’s heart was touched, for she was comely to look upon,
and wise withal.
And he communed within himself, saying: “Surely this maid would indeed
be a great catch, she would make her husband’s home cheerful, and in
divers ways pluck from the palm of life the festering thorns. Beshrew
me, but I will lay strong siege to the damsel’s heart.”
So he made haste to pull wide open the mouth of his purse and loaded her
with presents, for the damsel had found favor in his eyes, and he sought
to win her.
And not many days after he espoused the maiden, and there was great
feasting and merry making at that house, and the same was heard of the
neighbors.
And on the following day, the farmer took her to his own home, in the
valley of Berryessa, and they lived happily together for the space of
many years.
DAVID GOYLE, THE MILLER MAN.
“’Tis a strange cap: ’Twill give and take, and fit many heads.”—_Old
Volume._
Oh, will you hear with patient ear,
The story I’ll relate
About man’s infidelity,
And learn his losses great?
There lived a little miller once,
Who owned a tiny mill;
While there was water in his pond
The stones were never still.
For not a man the country round,
From Inyo to the Bay,
Was closer to his business found,
Than David Goyle, they say.
Let people pass at eve, or noon,
Or at the break of day,
They’d see the dusty miller there
And hear the hoppers play;
But when the narrow stream run dry,
The miller was at fault;
The rack-a-tacket mill reposed
As silent as a vault.
The little vicious artisan
Had spun his silken snare
Across the dusty flour-chute,
And silent gearing there;
While in the elevator’s cup
Was heard the mouse’s squeak,
And village children in the flume
Dry-shod, played hide-and-seek.
Said David to his wife one day,
“I think, while water’s low,
I’ll take a business trip to town,
Just for a week or so;
I have not ground a peck of grain,
’Tis now eight days or more;
But sat and picked, and picked the stones,
And dressed their surface o’er.”
Then turned his little loving wife—
With much concern, said she,
“I hope while you are stopping there,
That you will careful be;
And shun those dark and narrow streets
Where rogues do congregate,
And look from out their low retreats
As spiders watch and wait.
“Have not the city papers teemed
With incidents, wherein
Some people proved not what they seemed,
And took the stranger in?
Then trust not smiles, or cunning wiles;
Be careful where you tread;
The very ground beneath your feet
With pitfalls may be spread;
There’s not a trick, a trap, or plot,
Or scheme of any sort—
From playing fine to drugging wine—
To which they’ll not resort.”
Then leaned this little miller man
Away back in his chair,
And laughed until his anxious wife
Thought he would strangle there.
Said he, “You much amuse me, wife;
Have you forgot, my dear,
That I have traveled in my life,
And came from Jersey here?
“Or can you for a moment think
Your husband’s mind is crude?
Or deem that I the cup would drink,
By Temperance men tabooed?
Those who can get the start of me,
In country or in town,
By Jove, must early risers be,
And you can put that down.”
For he was vain, this miller man,
Who thought his mind so vast;
But look with me, and we will see
How he comes out at last.
In course of time he reached the town,
To stop a week or more;
And in a large hotel was lodged,
Upon the second floor;
If you should doubt my word in this,
Step over to the “Grand;”
You’ll find his name recorded there,
And in a scrawling hand.
It chanced—but hold! ere more I say,
Or sentence more you read,
Are you prepared with me to stray
Wherever he may lead?
You are! all right, then “on’s” the word,
Again my pen I hold,
And blame me not, if I should jot
Down facts he’d wish untold.
It chanced while Dave was strolling down
A certain crowded street,—
(Its name at present slips my mind,
Or you’d have all complete)—
He met a stranger in the way,
Who brought him to a stand;
He smiled upon him as in joy
And reached a friendly hand.
[Illustration: THE NEW ACQUAINTANCE.]
He hailed the stranger, no, I think,
The stranger him addressed;
I would not do the fellow wrong,
He’s bad enough at best.
The stranger spoke him very free;
He came from Jersey, too;
For he was sharp as one can be;
He thought his folks he knew.
“There was a Goyle;—yes, yes, I’m sure;
How strange that we should meet!
I’ve passed his house a thousand times,
And met him on the street.”
The miller scarce could credit this;
But frank he seemed and fair,
So he resolved to step inside,
And talk the matter there.
There is a drug that bunco men
Do mingle with the wine
They give to country friends like Dave,
For what, I can’t divine.
Perhaps those thoughtful rascals deem
The noisiness of town
Might not allow refreshing sleep
To weigh their eyelids down.
But whether this the cause, or not,
Enough for you and me
To know, the wine that David got
Was not from mixtures free!
Oh! for a club to brain the knave
Who could not see the snare;
Oh! for a spade to dig his grave,
And dump him headlong there.
The night has passed away at last;
Now hand in hand we’ll scout,
Now here, now there, with greatest care,
To search that miller out.
Thus, side and side, we first will glide
O’er letter, word, and line;
Until we stand that house beside,
Where Dave was drinking wine.
Oh, sight! so painful to the eyes,
It dims them like a fog!
Within the house the miller lies,
As still as any log!
And not until the sun was high,
And bells in towers spoke,
From out that deep lethargic sleep
He wonderingly awoke.
He gazed upon the papered wall;
The ceiling overhead;
But strange was paper, pictures all,
The foot-board of the bed.
Swift as the lightning’s flash destroys
The spider’s flimsy toil,
Suspicion traveled through the head
Of the awakening Goyle.
As starts the lodger from repose,
When flames burst in the door,
So suddenly that miller rose,
And bounced upon the floor;
One stride sufficed to reach the chair;
On which his robes were cast;
But seemed it to that man an age,
Until he grasped them fast.
No nimbler does the maiden’s hand
Play o’er the keys of sound,
Than did that miller’s fingers glide
In searching pockets round.
In vain he felt from tail to top;
The thief had gone before,
And harvested a golden crop,
While he did dream and snore.
Gone was his purse, and all within;
A ring he valued more;
Gone watch and chain, the diamond pin
That on his scarf he wore.
His little wife with miser care,
(And warning words, no doubt,)
With her own hands affixed it there
The morning he set out.
Enraged, that miller waltzed around,
And like his hopper shook:
And swore by all the grists he ground,
And all the tolls he took,
That since the days when he was schooled
In games of pitch and toss,
He never was so deeply fooled,
Or so betrayed to loss!
Ten times at least, that pallid man
Strove to insinuate
His nervous limbs into his pants,
But failed to guide them straight.
First hop, hop, hop, to left he went,
Now, hop, hop, hop, to right!
Then hop, hop, backwards, till he rent
The pants asunder quite!
[Illustration: A ONE-SIDED OPERATION.]
Now partly in and partly out,
He polka’d here and there,
Now _chasse_ up, now _chasse_ back,
Then balanced o’er the chair.
At last his toilet was complete,
The yawning rent was pinned,
And out into the narrow street
He bolted like the wind.
He traveled towards the City Hall,
And vowed at every bound
That justice would he seek and have,
If justice could be found.
The milkmen stopped their reckless drive,
Or dropped the cup and can,
And leaned to catch a glimpse of Dave
As down the street he ran.
Old women early out to mass
When Dave went racking by,
Would jump aside to let him pass,
Then to each other cry:
“The saints protect us! see him go
Upon his wild career;
A crazy creature well I know,
From some asylum near.”
Suffice it here to be explained
Before I close the tale,
The justice David Goyle obtained,
Was not of much avail.
Go net the sea to catch the whale
That did on Jonah dine;
Go rake the land to find the stone
That slew the Philistine;
But seek not her whose hoodwink’d eyes,
Proclaim her dealings just;
Well hangs her balance in the skies,
For here on earth they’d rust.
The rumbling stones are grinding now,
The water’s rushing down;
But do not bet that miller yet
Forgets his trip to town.
For every waking hour he knows
Throughout the twenty-four,
His scowling face and muttering shows
He counts his losses o’er.
There’s not a time he laves his hands,
But what that ring is missed!
(Its gold he gathered from the sands,
A gift the amethyst).
And oh, the query gives him pain,
“What is the time of day?”
For to the missing watch and chain
The miller’s mind will stray.
And now no more upon his breast
The brilliant diamond shines,
Its lustre falls in other halls
Where flow the noxious wines.
[Illustration]
HEELS UP AND HEAD DOWN.
A stout old gentleman was enjoying the luxury of a salt-water bath in
the bay, a short distance from where I was fishing. As he was a poor
swimmer—notwithstanding he had a good supply of blubber—he attached a
couple of inflated air-bags to his shoulders, by means of a string under
his arm-pits. During his splashing about, and his repeated endeavors to
strike out like Cassius bearing Cæsar from the troubled waters of the
Tiber, the floats changed their position from his shoulders to his hips.
This change he was not prepared for, and the result was distressing in
the extreme. He immediately commenced sinking—as sailors say—by the
head. In vain would he make long and desperate reaches toward the
bottom, striving to anchor his feet in the soft sand. Just as his toes
would touch the bed below, the buoyancy of the supports and undercurrent
combined would prevail against him.
Up would come his pedal extremities to the surface, and consequently
down he would go, head first, like a pearl diver, grasping at the
pebbles beneath. After making a commotion in the water like the screw of
a tug boat, which brought small crabs and crawfish to the top with
dismembered limbs, he would manage to get his head above water long
enough to get a mouthful of fresh air, but retire immediately below to
digest it. Some Italian fishermen, running in from the offing with their
day’s catch, sighted the old gentleman beating off the Point. They
mistook him for a “devil fish,” or some other odd-looking inhabitant of
the briny deep, disporting itself in the sheltered waters of the bay.
Getting out their hooks and harpoons ready for action, and changing
course, they bore down with all possible speed in the direction of the
singular monster.
The wind was blowing quite fresh, and it wasn’t long until the Italians
came nigh enough to ascertain the real state of affairs, and rescue the
unfortunate swimmer from his perilous situation. The fishermen rolled
the old gentleman over a keg they had in the boat for half an hour,
before his stomach could be emptied of its washy load and breathing
rendered easy. When sufficiently relieved to admit of speech, the bather
gave his rescuers to understand that in future the tide might ebb and
flow, be warm as milk new drawn from the cow, and tranquil as a frozen
pond, but a common bath-tub would be rivers, lakes—yea, oceans—to him
during the remainder of his natural life.
THE BITTER END.
While in one of the interior counties to-day I stood beside the graves
of six members of one household. The father and his five sons all fell
in one sanguinary family feud.
It seems an ill feeling had long existed between two families named
respectively Frost and Coates. Though they frequently indulged in small
skirmishes—from which black eyes, bloody noses, or slit ears were the
principal trophies borne away—they had never met when their full forces
were under arms. And for the happy hour that would bring about such a
meeting, each party looked forward with interest, if not impatience.
A day arrived at last, full of promise. It was an election day. Each
party expected the other out in strength, with furbished arms, and
prepared themselves accordingly. They took the street, resolved, that—
“Ere the bat had flown
His cloistered flight: ere to black Hecate’s summons
The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums,
Had rung night’s yawning peal, there would be done
A deed of dreadful note.”
Two planets keep not their motion in one sphere, nor could two
quarrelsome families move long in a small village, or freely patronize
the same groggeries without a collision. Towards evening they met, some
mounted and more on foot, and from low jests amongst themselves
respecting each other’s lack of prowess upon former occasions, the
controversy soon reached the point of positive contradictions. As the
“lie direct” is equivalent to a well-developed kick to your average
fighting man, hostilities soon commenced.
[Illustration: LIVELY WORK.]
The Coates family opened the engagement with a brisk fusilade, and at
the first fire the gray-bearded patriarch of the Frost faction went down
with all his imperfections on his head.
The firing now became general. “From rank to rank, the volleyed thunder
flew.”
Neutral parties fled from the street, and for a time transacted business
with “closed doors.” The report of the firearms frightened the horse of
a disinterested gentleman, who was riding through the village, and
despite his efforts to control the animal, it dashed directly between
the belligerent parties. The fighting men, however, did not slacken fire
on his account, but blazed away without seeming to notice or care
whether the agitated stranger went down in the general _melee_ or not.
Fortunately, the gentleman escaped injury, but it was certainly more by
chance than good guidance. It is said so rapid was the fire that a
steady blaze seemed issuing from the muzzle of their weapons. When the
smoke of battle raised, five of the Coates family were lying dead.
On the other side, Frost and one of his sons were killed, and a
son-in-law mortally wounded. People say the funeral was a saddening
spectacle. Amongst the mourners were mothers, daughters, sisters and
wives.
But the end was not yet.
Before the grass had taken root upon the graves, the ground was again
broken, and another victim of the malignant feud was hidden from the
sight of friends and foes.
The fires of hate still smouldered, and within a year another of the
Coates family was put _hors du combat_, while going one night from the
village to his ranch.
He was seen leaving for home on horseback at nine o’clock, but about ten
his horse ran masterless into the farm-yard. The man was found lying by
the roadside dead, a bullet having passed through his head. Suspicion
reverted to the Frost family, but no proof could be brought to establish
their guilt. The public finger still points toward them, however, and
doubtless will continue so to do for many a day, or until the mystery is
cleared up.
[Illustration]
A TRIP TO THE INTERIOR.
A flying trip into the interior has not favorably impressed me. There
were too many mosquitoes—too many graybacks. It is too far from
civilization, and too nigh the sun. I stopped over night in a small
city, and the first thing that attracted my attention on entering the
place was the pale and sickly look of the inhabitants. This I attributed
to the fever and ague, the hot weather, and impure river water which
they drink. I was credibly informed by several parties that their pallor
was owing to the quantity of blood that is nightly extracted from their
veins by the mosquitoes. From the number of these pests infesting the
place, it has taken the name of “The Mosquito City.”
Those people who cannot indulge in such a luxury as mosquito bars, have
to sleep during the day. They sit up nights and wage war against their
ferocious enemies with tobacco smoke, burning leather, wet towels, or
any other weapon to which they can conveniently resort.
[Illustration: A MOSQUITO ON THE SCENT.]
To be stung by a black hornet or a scorpion is bad; to be bitten by a
tarantula or rattlesnake is worse; but to be punctured to the bone by
the bugle of one of these mosquitoes is terrible. They are enormous
insects. When flying through the air they are as discernible as
thistle-down, or even humming birds. The sharp tube through which they
sap their victim’s blood is fully three-quarters of an inch long, and
resembles a cambric needle; this they steadily and unhesitatingly press
into the flesh until they either strike a bone, or their forehead
prevents them from doing deeper injury.
Towards evening they rise with pining maws from the low, damp land
around the city—
“Innumerable as the blades of green,
That carpet the vale of the San Joaquin;”
and as they close in upon the devoted inhabitants, their blended cries
swell in pitch and compass until the sound resembles the impassioned
tone of a fish-peddler’s horn. I stopped at a hotel in the lower part of
the city, and before retiring for the night looked carefully about the
room. As few mosquitoes were in sight, I concluded to sleep without
using the bar. Congratulating myself on being assigned a room where so
few of the common enemy of man were lying in wait, I extinguished the
light and turned in.
Scarce was I stretched upon the couch when
“At once there rose such hungry yells,
From every point the compass tells,”
that I lost no time in striking a light and adjusting the netting. I now
saw them emerging from every conceivable hiding place. Trooping they
came, from behind picture-frames, from under the bureau; out of vases
and old empty bottles. They were climbing and clambering and pitching
towards me with energy. I noticed a steady stream of them shooting out
of the closet through the key-hole, with such velocity that they went
warping half-way across the apartment before they could check themselves
sufficiently to tack around and dive for the bed.
They had all they bargained for, to get safely through that key-hole,
too. There was not much spare room, I can tell you. But for the great
pressure from behind kept up by others anxious to get through, many a
large fellow would have been sticking in that opening yet. But once they
got started in, there was no backing out; no, indeed! On! on’, was the
cry, and they pressed forward with a rush, often sacrificing a leg or
wing by the maneuver. But they didn’t seem to care for the loss of one
of those members so long as their bill remained intact. Deprive a
mosquito of one wing, and he will seem to laugh at you while he makes
the other do double duty. Brush off one leg, and he will shake the
remaining ones triumphantly in your face.
[Illustration: TO THE HILT IN BLOOD.]
But damage his bill and you demoralize him at once. He becomes
immediately disheartened. He loses caste among his companions and
confidence in himself. He wabbles about here and there to no purpose,
like an old bachelor. You deprive him at once of his song and his
supper. You can hardly picture to yourself a more dejected insect, one
more hopelessly down in the mouth. He withdraws to the ceiling, or
curtain, and looks with envious eyes upon his associates gorging
themselves while his poor digestive organs are drying through
inactivity.
We would be inclined to pity him in his sad condition, were it not that
we hold the whole insect race as coming under our ban. The whine of
disappointment, long, loud and quavering, that went up when they
ascertained I was protected, will always remain a fixture in my memory.
As they closed around the bed, so numerous were they, their flight was
actually impeded. Down they settled with locked wings on the bar above
me, thick as snow-flakes around some old uprooted pine by the Madawaska.
I had long heard of the mosquitoes of this locality, and was prepared
for an introduction to formidable insects, but found them even worse
than I expected.
Discouraged by the mosquitoes, I fled to a neighboring city, only to
find that it is the stronghold of fever and ague. In other parts it may
be more active for a few months of the year, but here it stays by the
people like their consciences. The winds may rise and comb the valley
until the very grass is lifted by the roots and borne to the mountains.
The sun may grow weary of well doing, enter Capricorn, and for a season
be hid; or the rains may descend until the narrow slough—by which the
city is situated—becomes a wide-spreading lake, through which ships of
the line might plow with safety; but the chills and fever stays by them
still. There is no “shaking” it off. It holds its grip like a mortgage.
The tender limbs of the new-born babe, and the pithless bones of ripe
old age, shiver alike in its awful grasp.
The citizens of this sad place are a serious, matter-of-fact people, who
seem to think it was not the original intention that men should spend
any time in laughter, for they indulge very little in witticisms or
humor. A good joke is often lost upon them, and the perpetrator of a bad
one places himself in jeopardy. A person who attempts a pun that does
not carry its point before it, like a sword-fish, is in danger of being
immediately seized from behind and hurried in the direction of the
Insane Asylum.
While stopping in this delightful place I visited the small theatre of
which the inhabitants are justly proud, and shall never forgive myself
if I fail to mention the orchestra, that discoursed most eloquent music
on that occasion.
[Illustration: THE ORCHESTRA.]
Whether the regular musicians of the theatre were on a strike for higher
wages, and the manager was obliged to bring in outside talent, I did not
learn; but certain it was, the sole instrument that kept the audience
awake between the acts, the night in question, was a large piece—a
bassoon, I think—filled and manipulated by a stout, spectacled
representative from the Faderland.
In addition to the musician’s frog-shaped body—which of itself would
doubtless have attracted my attention—he had a head that was truly a
study. To say he was bald, is to make a remark that would be applicable
to about two-thirds of the gentlemen in the theatre, but to say that his
head was as smooth, as shiny, and devoid of hair, from the eyebrows to
the very nape of the neck, as a billiard ball, is hardly doing the head
justice. It seemed actually peeled.
Besides, it was of a conical form, and as I looked upon it I thought
what an advantage it would have been to me in my younger days if I had
had some such thing in the barn-yard, over which to break pumpkins for
the cattle. I am certain a pumpkin or squash brought down upon such an
object with well-centred precision, would fly into as many fragments as
the Turkish Empire.
I was not the only person whose attention was arrested by that marvelous
development. If a diamond the size of a rutabaga had suddenly flashed,
the audience would scarcely have turned with greater haste to
contemplate its beauties than they did to regard that head the instant
the hat was removed.
It had such a smooth and polished surface that the actors, as they
passed back and forth upon the stage, were mirrored out upon it in
Liliputian proportions. The large globe light was reflected so perfectly
upon that glossy scalp that it shed a positive light to remote corners
of the auditorium; and a person would look first at the head, then up at
the globe, and then down at the head again, and _then_ hardly be
prepared to decide from which object the original rays of light
proceeded.
The musician had one original “turn” which afforded me much amusement.
At the commencement of a tune he would sit facing the stage, which was
proper enough; but as he proceeded he would turn by degrees until he was
sitting full face to the audience.
The gods in the gallery seemed to consider it their especial privilege
to pelt his head with peanuts; and when one would happen to hit—which
was quite often—it would bound and skip from the polished object in a
manner that would invariably bring down the house.
Standing as it did in bold relief from the dark panel-work and drapery
behind, it was a most excellent and inviting mark. Man though I am, with
the sobering cares of life closing gloomily around me, I actually
regretted I couldn’t try a shot at the old codger’s head myself.
It has been said “The king of Shadows loves a shining mark.” If this is
so, how that musician managed to escape the arrows so long is more than
I can understand. For many a year he certainly has presented a target
worthy the whole archery of the realm of Death.
The evening’s entertainment was made up of selections from Shakespeare’s
tragedies, “Macbeth,” and “Othello.”
[Illustration: MACBETH.]
The principal actor, whose name I forget, was the oddest and hungriest
looking player I ever saw stalk across a stage, or foam and fret in
histrionic effort. He looked as though he had been dangling from the
lowest spoke of Fortune’s wheel for the last twenty years. His make-up
was terrible also, and after I learned the performance was not an
intentional burlesque, I could hardly keep from hooting whenever he
appeared. As the evening advanced, however, he warmed up considerably.
When he appeared as the murderous Thane moving toward the apartments of
his slumbering victim, huskily repeating the thrilling lines, “The bell
invites me! I go, and it is done!” he looked every inch a villain, and
the little theatre rung again with the clapping and clattering of the
enthusiastic audience. In “Othello” his dress was even worse than in
“Macbeth.” In the scene where he smothers Desdemona, he was barefooted,
and looked supremely ridiculous. I would have given double the amount I
paid for admission for the glorious privilege of kicking him across the
stage.
[Illustration: OTHELLO.]
The customary pitcher-shaped lamp which the “Moor” usually bears in his
hand upon this occasion, and to which he alludes when he says:—
“If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me,”
was not procurable. The tragedian therefore carried a candle stuck in
the neck of a large wine-bottle, and under his left arm he carried a
pillow about the size of a single-bed mattress, with which to put out
the light of the fair Desdemona, who was lying upon a lounge at the left
of the stage. I was too great a lover of Shakespeare to sit longer by
and witness the terrible butchery. I arose and left the house, and as I
passed out, the pitying glances of the audience informed me that they
didn’t understand the real state of affairs, but thought I was taken
suddenly ill. I was ill at ease, and had been, during the entire
evening.
On the way down the next morning an over land passenger made my
acquaintance on the cars, and while conversing about the long snow sheds
and tunnels he had passed, I informed him of the long tunnel through
which we would pass on leaving the valley.
“Are we near that tunnel now?” he asked. “Yes,” I answered, “we will
enter it in about fifteen minutes.” “Is the tunnel dark?” he inquired.
“Yes, very dark,” I replied, “ten shades darker than a cloudy midnight.”
“By jingo!” he cried, “that’s just the thing for me. I forgot to put on
a clean shirt last night, and I hate like the deuce to arrive at my
destination looking as I do now. Do you think a fellow would have time
to put a shirt on while passing through it?” he continued, earnestly.
“He might,” I answered, “if he had it ready before reaching the tunnel.”
“Well, I’ll try a pull, anyway,” he said, as he took down the valise
from a rack overhead to select the garment. “I’ll have it all ready for
a hoist,” he continued, “and if I don’t climb into it faster than a
spark into a chimney, I’m not what I think I am, that’s all;” and with a
look of determination he went to a seat in the rear of the car, and for
a time seemed busily engaged preparing for the great change.
I had made an error in regard to the time that would elapse before we
reached the tunnel, and the result was we reached it before he was fully
prepared for it. Into it the locomotive plunged with a wild scream.
Gloom closed around the passengers, hiding the nearest objects from
their view. On we sped. The rattling of the trucks told us rail after
rail was passed, but still a darkness that might be felt enveloped the
rushing train.
Those who were conversing as the car entered the tunnel, stopped as
though the icy hand of death had been laid upon their throat. The
half-uttered word rested upon the tongue, and the tunnel, like a long
dash, stretched between the parts of a sentence.
I thought of the passenger, doubtless by this time struggling into his
linen, and turned around in my seat facing him. With considerable
interest I waited the return of light. At last it came glimmering far
ahead. Plainer and plainer the objects grew around, and first and most
noticeable of all, was the tall form of the passenger from over the
mountains, leaning over the seat in front of him, enveloped in his snowy
linen, his hands stuck in the sleeves at the elbows, and his head vainly
endeavoring to shoot through the opening at the neck, which in his haste
he had neglected to unbutton.
[Illustration: A STARTLING APPARITION.]
Notwithstanding his head was enveloped, he was conscious that light had
dawned upon the scene, and his struggles and frantic thrusts became
painful to look upon.
Finally the fastening at the neck gave way, and his face came through
the opening, red as a pickled beet. Fortunately most of the passengers
were sitting with backs toward him and but few witnessed the terrible
struggle. One old lady, however, got nearly frightened out of her wits.
When objects began to grow visible around her, she became suddenly
apprised of the startling fact that a white figure was bent over her,
with outstretched wings fanning the air, and she very naturally came to
the conclusion that an angel was about to gather her to her fathers.
The ashen look of the poor old body, as she stole a glance over her
shoulder at the white object behind, showed that however fitted she
was—in respect of years—for the final taking off, she was anything but
willing to start upon such an uncertain journey.
[Illustration]
HUNTING WITH A VENGEANCE.
“That man received his charge from me.”
—_Shakespeare._
My friend butcher Gale has been quail hunting under difficulties. His
case is a sad one, and as I feel in somewhat of a rhyming mood at
present, I will invoke the gods, and with eyes in “fine frenzy rolling,”
proceed to state his case in verse.
“Come leave your hogs,” said lawyer Boggs
To red-faced butcher Gale,
“We’ll take a day across the bay,
And slather lots of quail.”
Soon guns were got, and bags of shot,
With powder, wads, and caps,
And up the canyons dry and hot,
Tramped these two city chaps.
Old lawyer Boggs had borrowed dogs
Well worth their weight in gold;
The setter had a “double nose,”
And it of her was told,
That she could scent two different ways
As easy as you please;
While one nose smelled along the ground,
The other sniffed the trees.
[Illustration: ADVANCE OF THE EXPEDITION.]
The pointer had peculiar traits;
His power of scent was small;
But if he saw three birds at once,
He pointed at them all.
For while his nose would indicate
Where one poor piper sat,
His tail, straight as a marline-spike,
Would point another at;
Then if a third one raised its head,
Preparing for the air,
That dog would balance on three legs,
And aim the other there.
With such a pair the quick to scare,
And then retrieve the dead,
The hunters’ sole remaining care
Was how to scatter lead.
They traversed gorge and gully low,
And many a slippery height,
And though their feet did heavier grow,
Their game bags still were light.
While roving o’er the mountain side,
It seemed that every quail
Within the county limits wide
Was piping in the vale;
But when they would forsake the hills,
And in the valleys dive,
It seemed as if the heights around
With bevies were alive.
Boggs had one fault, from childhood brought,
More marked with age it grew;
He never failed to shut both eyes
Whilst he the trigger drew.
This plan might do, if lead he threw
At barns or target rings;
But frightened quail, when turning tail,
Are visionary things.
And let him sight, quick as he might,
Space still would grow between,
And bang! would go the shower of woe
Just where the bird—had been.
’Tis said those knowing canines knew
While men were taking aim,
Whether or not ’twould be their lot
To gather in some game.
So when they saw Boggs shut both eyes
Whene’er the piece he fired,
They dropped upon their hams and howled,
And from the hunt retired.
And he as soon could cause a stump
To walk upon its roots,
As from a sitting posture coax
The two disgusted brutes.
Wide was their aim, and wild the game,
And when such facts do yoke,
There’s many a shot goes off, I wot,
Brings nothing to the “poke.”
The grains were sown, the fields were mown,
The crops proved rather thin;
Oft was the raking summons thrown,
But slow the heads came in.
At last while Gale, just in advance,
Was clambering o’er some logs,
He got a charge of shot by chance,
From the excited Boggs.
Then was there rustling there a spell,
And as you may suppose,
From out the shaking chaparral
Linked oaths profusely rose.
Boggs dropped his gun and forward run,
With apprehension bleached,
And this poor lame excuse begun
When he the butcher reached:
“A splendid shot! I quite forgot
Precisely where you stood;
The birds flew fast, were nearly passed
Behind a screen of wood;
“I must let go, or lose a show
Of bagging three or four,
And in my mind you were behind,
Until I heard you roar.”
[Illustration: BOGGS RETRIEVING HIS GAME.]
He cursed the logs and kicked the dogs,
And wished the quail on toast,
But that did not take out the shot,
Which then was needed most.
The doctors who have dressed his wounds
Have to his friends declared,
That though he is a sorry sight,
His sight is not impaired.
There is a moral this within,
And shaped the times to suit,
But lest it should appear too thin,
Here’s this advice to boot:—
Ne’er venture on a hunting cruise
With any green galoot,
Who shuts both eyes whene’er he tries
The flitting game to shoot.
THE ART GALLERY.
Hearing that a large collection of paintings were on exhibition at the
Art Gallery, I visited the rooms this afternoon, and was agreeably
surprised to discover that quite a number were by eminent artists.
It is pleasant to gaze upon an old picture that has come down through
the dust of ages, so I made it a point to employ the hour at my disposal
in sketching several subjects most admired by the visitors. I did not
learn the author of the large picture from which the first of my
sketches was taken, but was assured that it came from the hand of an old
master.
[Illustration: FROM A PAINTING BY AN OLD MASTER.]
I would have thought it a representation of “Cleopatra before Cæsar,” if
the female had been running toward the man instead of away from him.
A gentleman present who examined the painting closely, gave it as his
opinion, that the couple represented “Tarquin and Lucrece.”
He informed me he had visited many art galleries of the Old World, and
found several paintings which had been copied from this masterpiece by
artists, who paid homage to such creative genius.
As he claimed to be something of a connoisseur, his supposition was
probably a correct one, though he was not able to thoroughly account for
the singular looking bonnet that shadowed the head of the prancing
“Lucrece.”
It is certainly anything but a Roman head-dress, and why it should be
dangling from her royal top, is something for critics to comment on, and
antiquarians to inquire into.
Another little sketch attracted great attention, especially from the
ladies, whose love for the beautiful is only excelled by their love for
the good. It was entitled “Love’s Young Dream.” I regret I am not able
to give the artist’s name. I could not get near enough to decipher the
signature, owing to the crowd of ladies admiring the beautiful gem.
The members of the Graphic Club were sketching. Accepting an invitation
from one I stepped into their room to see them draw. Quite a number of
artists were present. The famous marine painter was there, who loves to
paint the vessel going before the wind, when in its might it takes “the
ruffian billows by the top.” It was pleasant to watch his pencil pile up
the “yeasty waves” at will.
[Illustration: “LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM.”]
It was also interesting to lean over the landscape painter’s shoulder
and see the branches sprout from his grand old oaks, against whose
trunks it would seem the storms of centuries had spent their force.
It was no less pleasant or interesting to perceive the horns shoot from
the animal painter’s cows. As the creature grows under his active
pencil, we may be inclined to think she will be of the Mooley species,
and never shake a gory horn above a prostrate victim; but alas! a few
hasty but well directed strokes, and she stands forth more formidable
than the armed rhinoceros or rampant unicorn. Then we hold our breath,
as we see the pencil slide away to some other locality before a tail is
attached to the body, and inwardly wonder whether the artist has
forgotten to bestow upon her that graceful adjunct, or is intentionally
giving us a new species of cattle. We heave a sigh of relief when the
pencil returns, after a brief skirmish along the ribs, to bestow upon
the cow that terminal appendage, at once a scourge for milk-maids and a
swing for dogs.
A ROLLING STONE.
This afternoon, while climbing a steep hill that overlooks the bay, in
company with a gentleman named Stone, I saw an illustration of the old
maxim, “A rolling stone gathers no moss.” We had almost completed the
ascent, when Stone’s feet slipped from under him, and striking upon his
side he commenced a rapid descent.
About four hundred feet of steep grade stretched before him without let
or hindrance. I saw at a glance he was bound to pass over every inch of
the space before he stopped. Onward he went, gathering speed as he
proceeded, and catching wildly around him at every revolution; but, as
there was nothing growing upon the barren slope but stunted grass or
brittle moss, his efforts to “slow speed” were in vain. After he had
made about ten revolutions his hat came off, and for a short time the
race between him and his tile was truly interesting. It would have been
an even bet, which would first reach the fence at the bottom of the
hill. After making about half the distance, however, the hat swung in
ahead of him.
[Illustration: A THROUGH PASSENGER.]
Whether it was the wind acted upon it I couldn’t tell, but Stone
overhauled it, and passing over it, materially injured its form as a
roller, by giving it an oblong shape, and soon left the crushed hat
wabbling far behind. He turned neither to the right nor to the left, but
rolled as straight down the hill as a saw-log down the bank of a river
into a mill-pond. Goats nibbling in the vicinity paused in their repast
and looked pitifully at the gentleman as he went tumbling by them, and
evidently congratulated themselves on being goats, that feel at home on
the steepest hillside that nature can present to their hoofs. When, in
his mad career, my friend Stone would reach some intercepting shelf he
would bounce about three feet into the air, and continue down the
incline with increased velocity. Nor did he stop his brilliant course
until he brought up whack against the fence.
Fortunately he was unhurt, but was so dizzy that everything was turning
around him for an hour afterwards. He declares that though he should
live until he becomes so old as to forget the way to his mouth, he has
taken his last look at the city and the surrounding bay from the summit
of that hill. And when we think of his last descent from that high
altitude, we can hardly wonder at the declaration.
RIDING IN THE STREET CARS.
A chiel’s amang ye takin’ notes,
And faith he’ll prent it.
—_Burns._
The greater portion of this day I have spent riding in the street cars.
I find it is quite a pleasant way of passing a few leisure hours.
Neither is it an extravagant way of entertaining one’s self.
On figuring up I find, by choosing the longest routes, it cost just
seven and one-quarter cents per hour. This is certainly reasonable.
[Illustration: THE SIGNAL STATION.]
There is always something amusing to look at as you pass along. There
stands the nervous old lady upon the street corner. She wishes to ride,
and endeavors to signal the driver and prepare for embarking at one and
the same time. She proves the truth of the old saying that a person may
get too many irons in the fire. In her eagerness to attract the
attention of the driver or conductor, she is not aware that in lifting
her skirts she has elevated one or two thicknesses more than she
intended, or than is at all necessary. Poor old lady! She does indeed
present a picture that might well attract the artistic eye. We in more
becoming order turn our eyes from the singular spectacle and study the
advertisements ranged around for our special benefit. She emits a short,
quick cry, half whoop and half squeal, and signals repeatedly, to do
which the inevitable umbrella is brought into requisition, and
flourished around her head as though she was warding off a detachment of
aggressive wasps. She gives the conductor a look of surprise, if not
anger, because he completes the curve before stopping to take her up.
The old lady means business, and has never got it through her head that
conductors have rights which she is bound to respect. She no doubt
believes that on all occasions and at all times he ought to seize the
strap and stop the car as suddenly as he would a clock by grasping the
pendulum.
Then there are the fashions which we can study without having to pay
exorbitant prices for seats in the theatres. It is even better than to
go to a fashionable church.
Besides the advantages which a ride in the street car offers us in the
way of studying the fashions, we often see strange sights, well
calculated to awaken humor. There, for instance, we encounter the sleepy
passenger, who, in charity let us hope, is drowsy through loss of rest,
rather than loss of reason! Let us hope he is some physician who has
been attending to his patients; or a minister of the gospel who has
spent the night by the bedside of some sinking penitent; or a
supervisor, who—while his constituents have been snugly dreaming away
their troubles—has been legislating, and growing hoarse declaiming for
the public good. Doctor or supervisor, as the case may be, it is evident
he is sleepy, and cares not who knows it. Otherwise he would pick up his
hat, which has fallen off, before it has twice been stepped on by
passengers staggering through the car while it is in motion.
With a persistency truly amusing he tips in the direction of some old
lady, who apparently hates men, especially when excessive drowsiness
makes them familiar. He, however, is oblivious of her likes or dislikes,
even of her presence, it would seem.
[Illustration: RATHER “SLOROPPY.”]
He bobs towards her until his dishevelled forelock actually tickles her
under the ear, which sensation causes her to start suddenly, and look
around so quickly, that a person must think the movement gave her a
crick in the neck, and her subsequent rubbing of the cords below the ear
would seem to bear out the supposition as correct.
[Illustration: SNIFFING THE BATTLE FROM AFAR.]
Then, as we ride along we can see the bold policeman! standing by the
corner of a building. He is earnestly looking down a narrow lane, taking
notes perhaps; but more likely watching the progress of a fight, and
wisely waiting until all the pistols are discharged before venturing to
arrest any of the belligerent parties. He looks as though it would not
take much longer reflection or many more shots, to make him forego that
duty _in toto_, and turn around to arrest the poor Chinese vegetable
peddler, who, with his basket pole upon his shoulder, is trotting along
upon the sidewalk, and thereby violating one of the city ordinances.
While hustling the prisoner to the station house he would escape
performing more unpleasant and risky business.
He is in the right of it, too, when a person comes right down to reason
the case. The policeman may have a family depending on him for support.
Or it may be upon the very stroke of the hour when his duty for the day
will cease, and he can saunter to his home, leaving his successor to
rush in and stay the slaughter.
It may be argued that the policeman is paid to take prisoners, and
consequently to take chances. This is true, but he is not paid to commit
suicide. For a broad man like him to move down a narrow lane up which
the bullets are whistling, can hardly be considered anything short of
it. Oh! he is a cunning fellow I tell you, and revolves the matter
carefully in his mind before taking action.
He has been too long a resident of the city, and too long a member of
the “star brigade,” not to know that the city can better afford to lose
two or three indifferent citizens than it can one able and efficient
policeman.
We turn from the policeman to contemplate the blooming blonde, who comes
bouncing in with her poodle dog in her arms.
After she is seated she amuses some of the passengers and displeases
more, by the affectionate names she lavishes upon the little watery-eyed
pet in her lap. Some of the passengers would doubtless like to be the
dog and others would like to be a distemper that they might legally kill
the cur. She temporarily ends her caresses by repeatedly kissing its
cold peaked nose, to the infinite disgust of the majority of the
passengers, who, rather than witness a repetition of the silly act, look
out of the windows and become suddenly interested in the construction of
the buildings or fences along the route.
[Illustration: ALIGHTING GRACEFULLY.]
And then there is the impatient passenger, who is either limited in time
or sense, probably in both.
He foolishly attempts to leave the car while it is in motion, in order
to save a few moments. Immediately afterwards he wishes he hadn’t, and
sits down with considerable feeling to think over his rashness. There
was a time, no doubt, when he could jump on and off a car like a
newsboy; but that time has evidently gone by.
When we consider the roughness of his seat, and the unexpected manner in
which he settled on it, we have to acknowledge that he sits with
considerable grace. However, as he has lost time instead of gaining it,
by the action, he will perhaps try to catch a better hold of the old
rascal’s forelock the next time he is running past him.
SIMON RAND.
No poet, however gifted, can get along without his muse, any better than
a navigator can without his compass. If the goddess is not at his elbow,
the lyre hangs mute upon the wall, and the pen corrodes in the ink. Then
what can the poor limited rhymer do without a muse to inspire him? As
mine is at present leaning over the back of my chair in a very
encouraging manner, I will strike my harp and lay the following
heart-rending tale before the world in verse.
_First Gossip_—“Was she false?”
_Second Gossip_—“Ay, false as her teeth.”
—_Old Volume._
In Siskiyou, a tanner lived,
Whose name was Simon Rand;
He loved the miller’s daughter, fair
Annetta Hildebrand.
The maiden loved the tanner, too,
(At least the maid so said,)
And she the happy day had named
The parson would them wed.
The golden day-dreams lengthened as
The season shorter grew,
And Cupid slung his bow across
His shoulder, and withdrew.
A golden pointed arrow lay
Imbedded in each heart;
The little god conjectured they
Could never live apart.
But fire will test the iron safe,
And powder prove the mine,
And tempests try the ship at sea,
The woodman’s axe the pine;
And gold will sound the human heart,
The maiden’s love it tries;
It is the plummet weight that proves
How deep affection lies.
One Jacob Towle, a rival, came
To darken Simon’s days;
His clothes were fine, his purse a mine,
He drove a span of bays!
The fair Annetta was his mark;
He deftly played his hand;
He turned her giddy head around,
And love, from Simon Rand.
The tanner saw his dove prove daw,
And scarce believed his eyes;
But change was there, in look and air,
And in her curt replies.
He called one night, in hopes he might
Back his affianced win;
Word came by “sis” (an old game this),
“Annetta was not in.”
But ah! how keen are lovers’ eyes
When rivals are around;
A glossy hat hung in the hall;
He reached it with a bound.
“See, my child, a pleasing sight!”
Said he with a ghastly smile;
“For into fraction, into mite,
I’ll smash the villain’s tile.”
He seized it, and he squeezed it, too,
He bowled it on the floor,
He thumped it, and he jumped it, and
He kicked it through the door.
So through the gate he then escaped,
And he was heard to say,
“By all the hides that I have scraped
With life I’ll make away.”
[Illustration: REVENGE IS SWEET.]
Next morning he was missing, and
The neighbors thought it queer:
For he at work was ever found
Throughout the busy year.
Noon came, but brought not Simon back;
And then their wonder grew
Into a fear, that he had done
What he had sworn to do.
A search was instituted, and
All work was at a stand,
For weak and stout alike turned out
To search for Simon Rand.
Across the mill-pond and the flume,
The grappling drag they drew,
They scanned the trees and probed the wells
The little village through.
But tale or tidings none they found;
So all the search gave o’er,
And sat them down to talk and smoke,
Around the tavern door.
When teamster Joe picked up a hoe
That by his side was laid,
And turning round to farmer Pound,
He slapped his thigh and said,
“I’ll stake my strongest pair of mules
Against Moll Benson’s cat,
That Simon Rand, the missing man,
Lies dead in his own vat!”
No face was there, beard-hid or bare,
Light, tawny-hue, or dark,
But on the instant plainly showed
The weight of that remark.
To feet they sprung, both old and young,
And down the shortest road,
By Silly’s still and Burrill’s mill,
To Simon’s shop they strode.
[Illustration: THE EXPLORING PARTY.]
One pace in front leaned Parson Lunt,
Who let his dinner stand,
And joined the throng that surged along
In search of Simon Rand.
Across his shoulder, stooped with age,
He poised his garden rake,
And those had need to urge their speed
Who followed in his wake.
Then side and side, with equal stride,
Pressed Joe and Jasper Lane;
Next Elder Chase kept even pace
With stout old Sidney Vane.
Then two and two, and three and three,
And sometimes four abreast,
With hoes and hooks, and thoughtful looks,
Come clattering on the rest.
The place was gained, all eyes were strained
Upon the brimming vat;
But not an eye its depths could spy,
Or pierce its scum of fat.
“A fearful place,” sighed Elder Chase,
As down he dipped his pole;
“No love or woe could make him throw
Himself in such a hole.
A man would choose a hempen noose,
A pistol, drug, or knife,
If he designed through troubled mind
To make away with life.”
A silent group they kneel and stoop,
And shove their poles around,
Now left, now right, till all affright
One cried, “I’ve something found!
It’s him I know, I must let go!
I dare not see his face
When coming from the depths below;
Will some one take my place?”
Then Parson Lunt stepped to the front,
And clasped his hands in prayer;
And cried, “We thank thee for his dust,
His soul in mercy spare.”
Then took the pole from Selby’s hand,
Who quickly sought the rear,
Yet dodged and peeped his best to see
If Rand indeed was there.
Up rose the heavy burdened hook;
“That’s him!” a dozen cried;
But when they took a second look
It proved a brindled hide!
Then impious Brown, the village clown,
Turned from that vat aside,
And laughed until the tears ran down
His cheeks as though he cried.
Still round he went, with body bent,
His face one endless grin,
Because the Parson praised the Lord,
Then raised—the heifer’s skin!
The tools once more sink as before,
To scrape the bottom slow:
Another mass—they strike—and pass,
It rolls along below!
“I have him now!” cried Dennis Howe,
The blacksmith’s helping man;
While down his face, in rapid race,
The perspiration ran.
With mighty grip, and backward tip,
Stout Dennis manned the pole,
Which bent as though ’twould snap and go,
And Howe would backwards roll.
[Illustration: UP HE COMES.]
And woe is me, that tanner man,
And woe is me, that maid!
And woe is me, that staring group
Around that vat, afraid.
The hold was good, the pole has stood,
And up the hook has drawn
The poor discarded Simon Rand,
Dead as a pickled prawn!
And lo! a great cast-iron weight
Fast to one leg was tied;
Which, as he rose did oscillate,
And swing from side to side.
Upon a door his form they bore
Back slowly through the town,
And still behind them left a trail
Where dripped the water down.
For every step fresh showers drew
Down from that litter bare,
From garments soaked quite through and through,
From mouth and nose and hair.
’Twere sad to tell of funeral show
That in that town was seen;
Enough to know that Simon low
Lies where the grass is green.
Annetta, now, is Mrs. Towle,
And servants on her wait;
And dogs with uninviting growl
Drive beggars from her gate.
And Simon’s shop has gone to wreck,
No bark is needed now,
No more before the greasy door
Lie horns of ox or cow!
[Illustration: UNPROMISING OUTLOOK.]
But on the anniversary
Of that distressful night,
The superstitious people say—
Within it burns a light.
And there the tanner may be seen
His thin arms shining bare,
Bent o’er the bench, as though at work
Fast scraping off the hair!
Anon, slow rising from his toil
A woeful sigh he gives,
And gazes long towards the hill,
Where false Annetta lives.
Then turning round he gives a bound,
As when he crushed the hat,
And fastening to his leg a weight
He leaps into the vat!
And with him goes the wondrous light
That shed its ghostly ray;
And dismal darkness wraps the place
Until the dawn of day.
[Illustration]
THE VALUE OF A COLLAR.
Dear me! what a terrible dodging life the poor city cur leads, to be
sure, whose owner does not consider him of sufficient importance to
warrant taking out a license. His excursions must necessarily be
limited.
He never dares to bark in the daytime, and now I think of it, that may
account for his howling all night. To bark between the hours of seven in
the morning and six in the evening would be equivalent to running his
head into the pound-keeper’s lariat. He knows it, too, the rascal, and
hardly indulges in a yelp, even if his tail is trod upon. I have always
noticed that the eyes of the cur that wears no collar—(which would
entitle him to the freedom of the city)—protrude from the sockets much
farther than the optics in the head of the licensed animal. I have
noticed this fact and pondered over it, striving not a little to arrive
at some satisfactory conclusion in regard to the matter. It may be that
this strange protrusion is brought about by the continual strain while
on the lookout for the pound-keeper or his sneaking aids.
Another peculiarity about the unlicensed cur,—his eyes are invariably
the color of tobacco juice. “Why are they so?” you probably inquire. Be
patient, and I will tell you? It is the result of the burning envy
continually agitating his breast and adding a bloodier lustre to his
orbs.
How must envy consume his very vitals when he beholds his younger
brother, perhaps, trotting forth into the street, his neck encircled
with the leather zone that insures him respect and immunity from
assault; while he must cower behind the ash barrel, and wait for night
to temporarily shield him from insult and injury.
The old adage is hardly applicable to his case. He has no _day_, but he
has his night, however, and he would be a fool not to make the most of
it.
How trifling a thing will draw the line between him and his licensed
brother. One white foot, perhaps, a spot too many on the head, or want
of one above the tail may have cursed him through the length and breadth
of his existence. If he lives it must be by his wits. Every man’s hand
or boot seems to be against him. The licensed dog can stretch lazily
upon the sidewalk and oblige the pedestrians to go around him rather
than take the chances of stepping over, or stirring him up with a kick.
[Illustration: NO COLLAR, NO CRUMBS.]
It is dangerous business, this waking up a dog with your boot. You may
take him in a time when not in the mood for permitting such familiar
demonstrations.
Perhaps he may be hungry, and since the dogs devoured poor painted
Jezebel, their weakness for human flesh will occasionally make itself
manifest. I, who have been thrice vaccinated by a canine tooth (and it
took each time, too), speak knowingly on this subject.
Now, as I gaze out upon the street, I mark the slow approach of the
pound-keeper’s dingy cart. Ever and anon it comes to a sudden halt, and
skirmishers are deployed on each side to search the alley-ways and lanes
along the route. Hark! what cry is this that comes quavering forth from
that shaky prison? A bark? No, never a bark, but a quavering bleat from
the pale lips of a poor old goat. Alas! poor goat.
It, too, was evidently straying about unlawfully, in some one’s garden,
perhaps, or stripping the posters off the fence before the paste was
dry, or the bill-sticker a block away, and in consequence he is now
occupying a position that, however exalted it may be in one sense, makes
him feel very ill at ease all the same.
His fellow prisoners are dogs of every breed under the sun.
There is no discrimination in that moving prison, no separate cells. The
full blood setter pup fares no better than the worthless poodle that
couldn’t smell a quail a yard distant unless it was roasting. The big,
sour, surly mastiff, with blood-shot eyes and pendent jowl, who long has
been the acknowledged champion of a block, and in his day lacerated many
a paw, hasn’t even a growl to offer, but crouches side by side with the
poor maimed and mongrel cur that for years has been racking through life
on three legs.
Still the dismal looking cart jolts along attracting the attention of
the passing crowds. Still the villainous-looking aids, who flank the
vehicle, trail their ready lariats, and dart exploring glances into
every nook and corner. And as I gaze, I marvel to see how quickly the
outlaws get a knowledge of its approach, and stand not upon the order of
their going, but precipitately leave for back yards and kitchens.
QUAINT EPITAPHS.
While strolling through an old cemetery this afternoon I was surprised
at the number of quaint epitaphs there to be found.
For a while I almost imagined myself rummaging among the old time-worn
tombstones in some English or Welsh burying-ground. Many are written in
verse, especially on the stones erected during a certain period,
extending over about ten years, which proves that during these years the
city had a tombstone poet among her citizens.
He was an odd genius, whoever he was, this graveyard rhymer.
One peculiarity seems to have been his coupling with the epitaph a brief
account of the manner in which the deceased party was taken off. The
first inscription which attracted my notice as odd, was chiseled upon a
large marble slab which leaned over the spot where a party who had borne
the ancient and honorable name of “Smith,” rested from his labors. The
obituary ran thus:—
“Smith ran to catch his fatted hog,
And carried the knife around;
He slipped and fell;
The hog is well,
But Smith is under ground.”
This stanza should be introduced into public schools, and adopted as a
morning chant, to impress upon the mind of the pupils the importance of
a person’s having his wits about him. Death brought about by such gross
carelessness as Smith showed, is—to say the least—first cousin to
suicide, and doubtless there will come a time when Smith’s case will be
inquired into.
Under a large oak tree on the south side I came upon a tombstone which
bore no date, but had evidently been erected many years. The fence which
once enclosed the grave had nearly disappeared, nothing remaining except
a few rotten stakes protruding through the grass. What once had been a
mound was now a hollow, which told the mute gazer, decay had done its
worst.
Through a rank growth of weeds and briers, a few pale neglected flowers
raised their delicate faces, like virtue struggling heavenward through
the retarding throng inhabiting this naughty world.
The headstone was evidently erected before the poet’s day, and he who
erected it had composed the epitaph. It is more than likely he chiseled
it also, as the letters were ill-shaped and irregular, and looked as
though carved out with a pick.
Here is a _fac-simile_ of the inscription:—
“Cynthy Ann is berried here.
Be easy with her,
Lord,
And, you won’t lose nothin’,
She was a plaguey good wife to me
But
She wouldn’t be druv.”
That “Cynthia Ann” had faults is evident from the tone. But I thought as
I turned from the spot, if her greatest fault lay in not allowing
herself to be “druv,” her prospects were better than the average.
What a contrast was the line inscribed upon a tombstone directly
opposite:—
“He sleeps in Heaven.”
Mere speculation only, and wild at that. The extravagant notion that a
person sleeps in Paradise must have emanated from the brain of some
sluggard, who thought that heaven without sleep would be a wearisome
place. The “sleeper’s” name was Gregg, and from a representation of a
pair of scissors cut upon the slab I presumed he was a tailor. On making
inquiry of the sexton, busily engaged closing a grave at the time, I
found my supposition was right. Gregg was a tailor, but met death at the
heels of a horse. To use the sexton’s own words, which were spoken in
pure Greek—
“Begorra he _was_ a tailor, and it was meself that planted him there. He
was killed in the barn beyant, while sthrivin’ to pull the makin’s of a
fish-line out of the tail of owld Gleason’s stallion.”
When a person learns what his occupation had been, and how he died, the
assertion that he had gone to heaven, strikes one as too ridiculous for
anything.
[Illustration: THE SEXTON.]
Not less amusing or quaint was the verse inscribed upon the plain marble
slab which marked the resting-place of Mr. and Mrs. Barradier. The stone
was probably put up by some acquaintance of the deceased couple who knew
that their marriage had been anything but a happy one; the verse upon it
also informs the passer-by that they left no descendants to perform that
pious duty. It said—
“Released from worldly care and strife,
Here side and side lie man and wife;
And with the couple buried here
Expired the name of Barradier.”
MISTAKEN IDENTITY.
An amusing scene occurred this afternoon as I was coming up from the
post-office. It was a case of mistaken identity. It seems a somewhat
dissipated old Irish woman was deserted some weeks ago by her husband.
Through her domestic troubles and excessive drinking she at times
becomes quite crazy,—so much so that her friends have to keep a constant
watch over her to prevent her from doing mischief. She is very large and
powerful, and when in one of her tantrums is no easy person to manage.
It appears that when she has one of these crazy spells, she imagines she
recognizes her husband’s Milesian features in almost every face she
looks upon.
This afternoon, while the crazy fit was upon her, she escaped from her
keepers, and rushed into the street with dilated eyes and dishevelled
hair. With sleeves rolled above the elbows and clenched hands, she
charged up the street, looking right and left for some person on whom to
fasten.
She was indeed ripe for an encounter, and nearly the first person she
met was a prominent clergyman returning to his residence from the
Mercantile Library, with his newly selected book under his arm. She
stood for a moment directly in front of the minister, and riveted her
red optics upon his face in an inquiring stare, which soon kindled into
one of recognition.
Anticipating trouble, he attempted to pass around her and proceed
quietly on his way.
But she was too quick for him.
Reaching out her long bare arm, she brought it around like the boom of a
sloop, and with one wide sweep knocked his hat spinning to the sidewalk
at her feet.
[Illustration: THE CLERGYMAN IN LIMBO.]
He stooped to pick it up again, and while bent in the act, she seized
him by the hair with both hands, and giving a guttural laugh, not unlike
the self-satisfied croak of a down east bullfrog, exclaimed:—
“Ah! Barney, ye galavantin’ spalpeen! ye can’t desave me wid yer
stove-pipe! So ye’d dezart the wife o’ yer boosome, would ye? ah, ha!
come home wid me now, or I’ll be afther takin’ your durty ould scalp
along wid me!”
A soft rabbit under the wide paw of a California lion, or a sparrow in
the talons of a hawk, is not more utterly helpless than was the poor
dominie in her terrible clutch. His position was anything but an
enviable one. It actually seemed as if every hair upon his head was
gathered and drawn into one mass, over which her muscular fingers held
complete control.
He dropped his book and shouted loudly, partly through pain, and partly
anger at seeing the fate of his fashionable hat, now lying under her
great broad foot, flat as a German pancake.
His cries of fear only made the crazy woman more confident of her
abilities. She commenced backing along the street, in the direction of
home, and at every step, with an irresistible yank, she dragged the
expostulating minister along with her over the uneven sidewalk.
She had snaked him along fully two rods in this manner, and was making,
to use a nautical phrase, such good stern-way that she was on the point
of breaking into a trot, when her heel caught on the edge of a plank.
The result was terrible in the extreme.
She fell backwards, pulling the unfortunate captive to the sidewalk
after her, where they gyrated in the most ludicrous positions
imaginable.
A couple of gentlemen, emerging from a store at that instant, looked on
the pair in blank astonishment for a moment. Recognizing their own
gifted pastor, they ran to his assistance, and lost no time in raising
him to his feet, and turning over the old crazy woman to an officer who
happened at that moment to step out of a saloon.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
FLIRTING, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
At an open window wide, just across the way,
Sits a roguish little blonde nearly all the day,
Playing with a tabby cat, and gazing down below,
Flirting with conductors that are passing to and fro.
Some receive a passing nod, and some receive a smile;
But she watches Number 6 whilst going half a mile.
And the gay conductor while he’s throwing kisses there,
Doesn’t hear the signals given by an aged pair,
Though the man, as best he can, whistles loud and shrill,
And the wife, as though for life, charges down the hill.
And the blameful driver, while he gazes wistful back,
Doesn’t see the little child a creeping on the track.
Soon the jury summoned there to question how it died,
Will as their opinion give, “a case of suicide;”
And the driver and his mate acquitted from all blame,
Kisses at the blonde will throw, and she’ll return the same.
THE CHAMPION MEAN MAN.
Yesterday I came across a singular looking individual dressed in a
greasy, dingy suit. He was sitting on a log before his door engaged in
repairing a shovel-handle.
“Say, stranger,” I said, addressing him, “can you inform me where Deacon
Shellbark lives?”
The farmer looked up, pushed his slouched hat back on his head, and
after surveying me some time in silence, drawled out:—
“Be you any relation of his’n?”
“No,” I replied, a little surprised at his manner of answering; “I
haven’t a relative in the State.”
“By thunder! I congratulate you upon your good fortune,” he ejaculated,
“particularly because there’s no tie of consanguinity existin’ atwixt
you and old Deacon Shellbark. He’s expectin’ a son home, and I thought
you mout be him.
“Wal,” he continued, pointing with a huge jack-knife that he held in his
hand, “you see that house to the left of them scrub oaks, don’t you?
that ar buildin’ with the leetle coopalow on’t? Wal, thar’s whar old
Deacon Shellbark lives; _the meanest man in this yer county_, and that’s
sayin’ considerable, too! cause we’ve got some vicey-fisted customers
round these yer parts, men who scrape the puddin’ pot mighty clean
before the dog gits a chance to canvass it, now I can tell ye. But I
feel safe in stickin’ in old Shellbark at the head, and I ain’t agwine
to haul him down nuther. I don’t believe in talkin’ much about one’s
neighbors, but I ginnerally tell strangers what sort of a man he is,
cause if they go to tradin’ with him and aren’t on thar guard, he’ll
skin ’em quicker than a whirlpool sucks in a dead fish.”
“You know the Deacon, then?” I remarked, while the hope I had
entertained of getting his name on my subscription list began to take to
itself wings.
“Yes, I reckon I do know him,” he replied, “pooty well, too; a great
sight better than is profitable to him, and he knows it. Oh, you bet he
knows it, and hates me as he does the dry murrain that gin the crows
fifteen of his best cows last summer. I knowed him back in Scrabble
Town.
“They wouldn’t allow him to come within pistol shot of a church back
thar, because they mor’n suspected he stole the wine and bread from the
communion table one day. They were down on him flatter than a stone on a
cricket allers arterwards. He’s a deacon out here though, but that ain’t
nothin’. He can’t fool me with his prayin’. I want no sech crooked old
disciple as he is intercedin’ for me, you know.”
“I was hoping he would subscribe for this book,” I remarked, “but I am
afraid there is not much use of my going there if he is so very mean.”
“Look’e here, stranger,” he remarked earnestly, “you mout just as well
stop thar whar you’re standin’. Subscribe! He’ll gig back from a
subscription list jest as he would from a six-shooter.”
“Ah, but this is a religious work, and perhaps he would lend that his
support,” I answered quickly.
“Religious work be shelved!” exclaimed the farmer. “That doesn’t help ye
any; you can’t do anythin’ with him, ’cause he hain’t got no more soul
than an empty gin bottle. You mout as well bait a rat trap with a cat’s
head and expect the varmin to go a-nibblin’ at it, as to expect him to
put his name down to anything that’s agwine to take coin from his
pockets.
[Illustration: SLEEPY DOBY.]
“You’re a stranger in these yer parts I see, and tharfore haven’t the
slightest idea what a towerin’ mean man he is; why he’d run a mile to
git on the sunny side of a feller to cheat him out of his shadow! I
knowed him back in old Indiany. He’s from the same place that I am, but
you can kick me clear over to them foot-hills and back ag’in if I don’t
feel like takin’ pizin every time I have to own up to it. He used to be
in cahoot with a tanner back thar named Doby; sleepy Doby, the boys
called him, for he was the sleepiest feller you ever did see. Go asleep
while workin’ at anythin’. He would drop asleep sometimes while scrapin’
a hide, and cut the consarned thing all into parin’s; at other times he
would fall back into the tan vat, then wake up and holler for the boys
to come and fish him out.
“They say he dropped asleep once while ringin’ a hog to prevent him from
rootin’ up the clover patch. The minister of the village had to pause in
the middle of a sermon he was preachin’ half a block away, until the
squealin’ subsided.
“But as I was gwine to tell ye, before the rheumatism got into his
j’ints, and made him shun water as he would a tax-collector, old
Shellbark used to be pooty fond of fishin’. One day Parson Bodfish was
gwine off to have a day’s sport, and took me along to carry the fish. I
was only a boy then, and mighty tickled because I could go. Jest about
the time we got to the river we overtook old Shellbark a-pointin’ thar
too. When we got to the bank they both set in gettin’ out thar hooks and
lines, and then for the first time old Shellbark found out he had left
his bait to hum. So he commenced to sputter and fret, takin’ on terribly
about it, until Parson Bodfish ses to him, ‘That’s all right; I reckon
I’ve got enough bait in this box for both of us, and I’ll give you half
of mine, and let us start in and make the most of it.’ So the Parson—who
had a heart the size of a sheep’s head—took out his bait-box and gin him
more than half. It’s so; I seed ’em when he took ’em out. Pooty soon
arter, while the parson was a-standin’ on a log that horned out over the
water, a-baitin’ of his hooks, a big-mouthed fish-hawk gin a-chatterin’
screech overhead, and startled him a leetle, and while lookin’ up he let
his bait-box fall into the river.
“The box was open, so the worms war scattered every which way, and away
went box and bait a-flukin’ down the rapids, and the parson’s cusses
follerin’ arter. He _did_ swar, by hunky! I heer’d him. He had a mi’ty
hot temper, and it was more than he could do sometimes to keep it down.
A feller couldn’t blame him much for swa’rin’ jest then, ’cause ’twas a
pooty tryin’ time. He turned around sort of quick when he thought of me
bein’ thar. I seed him turnin’, though, and let on to be talkin’ to a
fish that I was stringin’ on, so he reckoned I hadn’t noticed him. We
hurried on down the river, and arter a while overtook old Shellbark, who
was snakin ’em out as fast as he could fix bait and throw in.
“‘I lost all my worms back thar, while standin’ on a log,’ ses the
parson, ‘and will have to fall back on you for some.’ The old snipe
grumbled out somethin’ about bein’ out of all patience with people who
war so fool careless. Arter a while he took out the rag he kept the
worms in, and although he had quite a large knot of ’em, he gin the
parson jest one, and dead at that! It’s so! You may laugh, but I seed
it. When he was a-pickin’ it out and handin’ it to him, and when Parson
Bodfish was a-stickin’ the hook into him, he lay thar and took it as
e-a-s-y, and never squirmed or objected the least. You’d hev thought it
was a link of vermicelli the parson had picked out of a soup plate.
“When Parson Bodfish took it from him, he held it between his finger and
thumb a while, jest that way, and I swow I felt solid sure he was agwine
to slap it back into old Shellbark’s face.
[Illustration: OPENING HIS HEART.]
“He didn’t, though. But he did look as if he’d like to, mi’ty well. He
stood thar and stared him in the face as if actewally in doubt about his
being the person he divided with in the mornin’. Arter a while he baited
his hook and started in right thar. He had amazin’ good luck, too, with
one bait. He hauled out four floppin’ great chubs, one right arter the
other, and durin’ the same time old Shellbark didn’t get a bite from
anythin’ but musquiters. He seemed just tearin’ mad over it, too, I can
tell you.
“He stood thar a-floppin’ and a-scratchin’ and a-slingin’ of his line
out the full length, tryin’ on all sides continewally, but to no
purpose.
“At last, thinkin’ he had a fish when he didn’t, he switched up his line
so spiteful it caught in a tree-top more than fifteen feet above his
head; and while he was a-gawpin’ up thar, jerkin’ the line, and stampin’
round, he sot his foot flat onto his string of fish that war layin’ thar
on the bank, and squashed the in’ards out of nigh every one of ’em.
Between thar slipperiness and his confusion, hurryin’ to git off ’em
before they were sp’iled, he fell and slid away down the bank, head
fust, a-clawin’ and a-kickin’ jest like a skeer’d alligator. Only he
chanced to strike ag’inst an old root that was stickin’ up at the margin
of the river, he’d have gone plum to the bottom for sartain.
“Unfortunately the last fish Parson Bodfish caught had swallered the
bait, so he ses to me kind of low, ‘Dolphus, let’s see if we can’t skeer
up a lizard, or somethin’ that’ll do for bait when a man’s in a pinch.’
“So we set in to huntin’ and s’archin’ under old logs and stones, and
dead wild grass, but couldn’t git hold of anythin’. The parson fell
three times on all fours in the dirt, and gin his wrist a mi’ty bad
sprain while pursuin’ a queer, long-legg’d horned critter somethin’ like
a cricket, only pizenous, I guess. I could have caught it once, as it
went dronin’ past, but didn’t feel like touchin’ it. Finally it got
stuck into a clump of ferns, and he gin it up. So arter a while he ses,
‘I’ll have to go back and try that old Shellbark ag’in, though I’d
ruther take a dose o’ ipecac than do it.’
“So we come back to whar he was fishin’. He looked mi’ty solemn, and was
muddy as an old stone boat. Ses the parson to him, ‘I’ll have to call on
you ag’in for another _dead_ worm; the one you gin me is all gobbled
up.’
“‘Seems to me you’re mi’ty extravagint with the bait,’ he ses gruffly,
and switchin’ his line around and slingin’ it out far as the pole would
let it go, but not makin’ the least motion to comply with the parson’s
request.
“‘Waal, I don’t know how that is,’ ses Parson Bodfish, kind of easy
like, and tryin’ to keep down his anger, that I seed was rizin’ jest
like bilin’ sugar, ‘I nabbed four rousin’ good fish with that one bait.
I reckon that’s doin’ pooty well; fact I know it is. They seem to bite
fust rate at dead worms jest now.’
“‘Waal, I don’t know anythin’ about that,’ ses the old narrow gauge,
‘s’posin’ you cut up some of your fish and see if you can’t catch
somethin’ with that sort of bait; fish bite pooty well at that sort of
an offerin’ jest before rain, they say.’
“‘Then you ain’t a gwine to give me any worms?’ ses the parson, in a
husky voice, and shakin’ like a rag in the wind, he was so chock full of
passion.
“‘Waal, this is a sort of curious world, Mr. Bodfish,’ ses old
Shellbark, slow and niggardly like, jest that way, ‘and without a feller
looks out for himself he ain’t considered nothin’. ‘Sides you know,’ he
contin’ed, ‘fish bait is a good deal like an oyster or a bean—somethin’
that’s mi’ty hard to divide with a feller,’ and he commenced to troll
along down stream.
“Apple sass and spinage! I never did see a man so riled as that Parson
Bodfish was sence I could distinguish the moon from a lightnin’ bug. He
changed to all the colors of the rainbow by turns in less time than I’m
tellin’ ye. You never seed sech a struggle between sin and piety as
raged inside that parson for about five minutes.
“Fust piety seemed to be gettin’ on top, then sin would choke her down
and hold her thar. At last he turned around and run full chisel ahind
the turned up roots of a big windfall as though a gallon and a half of
black hornets war arter him. I reckoned he was gwine arter stuns to gin
the old feller a good peltin’, and that kind of work bein’ right into my
hand I ran thar too, cal’latin’ to help him do it. But I was mistaken’d.
[Illustration: SWEARING TO GET EVEN.]
“He wasn’t gwine arter stuns, for I seed so soon as he thought he was
out of sight he flopped down on his knees right thar in the mud,
a-holdin’ his hands jined together above his head jest that way. I
allowed he was a gwine to pray then for sartin, but he didn’t pray; no
siree, not much pra’ar jest then! he sw’ar’d though. He did! I heered
him, jest as plain as could be, ses he:—
“‘I sw’ar I’ll git even yet with that old Shellbark, if I have to yank
him out of his grave like a body-snatcher, to accomplish it!’
“I felt like runnin’ thar and sayin,’ ‘Don’t rise yet, let me kneel and
sw’ar too,’ the same as that tricky feller does in the play whar he’s
a-foolin’ the jealous nigger so bad; but I knowed it wouldn’t do, ’cause
he didn’t want me to see him kneel thar in the mud. So when he came back
he found me peltin’ a frog as if nothin’ had happened.
“‘Come, Dolphus,’ ses he, ‘its gettin’ pooty late; I guess we mout as
well be a-movin’ back home.’ So we turned back toward the village,
though ’twa’n’t more than noon, and left old Shellbark fishin’ thar. He
did git even with him though.
“One Sunday soon arter Parson Bodfish was”—here the farmer was
interrupted by a wild looking female who stuck her frowzy head out of an
open window, like a turtle out of its shell, and shouted, in anything
but a sweet voice:—
“‘Dolphus! you natural born talkin’ machine you! what are ye a-settin’
a-pratin’ and a-pratin’ about out thar? that old hog is in the gardin’
ag’in, a-h’istin’ the parsnips, and crunchin’ ’em like an old b’ar.’
“Consarn her spotted hide!” he vociferated, jumping up and grabbing a
huge cudgel that lay near by. “Jest you stop yer, stranger, for about
ten seconds, until I make that old swine think thar’s a trip-hammer got
a foul of her, then I’ll tell ye how the parson got even.”
“I couldn’t stop to hear the story any way,” I replied, “for I must be
travelling. However, I’ll take your advice and give the Deacon a wide
berth.”
As I descended the hill, the swine’s wail was ringing in my ears, and I
judged the trip-hammer was at work.
[Illustration]
IN A THOUSAND YEARS.
(A WOMAN’S DREAM OF THE FUTURE.)
’Twill be all the same in a thousand years!
What a terrible line this, to draw out the tears.
Oh, how oft do I weep at the dance, or the play,
O’er the sorrows we women are doomed to convey;
And can it be so, must we stand at the gate,
Denied all the honors of the country or State?
Our part but to please and obey lordly man;
Be kind when he’s surly, and be sweet as we can;
As students to shiver, like leaves in the breeze,
If we chance to infringe on his rules or decrees?
Then have pity, ye gods, who look down on our case,
Shut from Bar, Bench and School Board, and every fat place,
To pick up the pennies that oppressors fling down,
For cutting and stitching, and clothing the town.
Oh, the tyrant’s sharp lash, his “pooh pooh’s,” and his sneers,
Will be all the same in a thousand years.
Ah! ’tis not the same in a thousand years;
How sweet and how pleasant our life now appears,
For women no longer bow down at the nod
Of creatures, who ruled with a chain and a rod;
But as lawyers they plead, and as doctors dissect,
And in temples of learning control and direct.
The weak-footed student at mile-posts may rest
Without springing a mine in the President’s breast;
There’s no splitting of hairs to deny her the prize,
She receives her diploma and a blessing likewise;
Now women no more stitch and stew for their lives,
Or suffer injustice, because daughters or wives;
Lo, they sit down as jurors, they judge and they vote,
And in steering through life ply an oar in the boat.
The mother departed looks down here with pride
On her merciful child dealing charity wide;
While man, that once governed so harsh and severe,
Applies for positions in meekness and fear;
Now the cane of the dude is no more on the street,
The eyeglass is missing, and sharp-pointed feet,
The poor “chappy” himself is beyond the bright spheres,
For ’tis not the same in a thousand years.
[Illustration]
THE COBBLER’S END.
A large crowd of people was standing in and around a small shoemaker’s
shop on Third Street. Elbowing my way to the inner circle, I found the
excitement was over a man who had committed suicide. He was lying upon
the floor, his hands still grasping a shot gun, with which he had blown
off the top of his head.
I learned it was the shoemaker, and that he had committed the rash act
because the lady on whom his affections were set had seen fit to choose
another for her partner. Worst of all, it was a tailor who, to use a
common expression and one to the point, had cut him out. They were both
charmed with the comeliness of the young woman, and whenever an
opportunity offered, were in the habit of throwing sheep’s eyes in the
direction of her apartment. The lady seemed to grow more interested in
the situation, and even went so far as to smile archly upon him.
The tailor, who had never received such a compliment from so pretty a
woman before, was quite carried away with joy. He felt that his love was
returned, and from that moment the world presented a different aspect.
It was not even a new picture in an old frame, or _vice versâ_, but was
new throughout.
Even the old breeches on his lap seemed to suddenly undergo a strange
metamorphosis. The stout, rough material, over which he had lately been
bending with crippled fingers and sprung needle, in the twinkling of an
eye seemed transformed into a golden fleece, through which the waxed
thread flew like chain-lightning through a cotton umbrella. To have an
interview was now his only study, and where there’s a will there’s a
way.
One day a small boy was pressed into service and intrusted with a letter
to the woman in whom his whole heart seemed wrapped. She received it
safely, and duly by return of post broke the delightful intelligence to
the tailor that his love was returned, and ended the epistle by
requesting him to call.
Hardly had “seeling night scarfed up the tender eye of pitiful day,”
when the tailor with palpitating heart ascended the rickety stairs that
led to the apartment. How he was received there is no knowing, but it is
apparent to all he soon ingratiated himself with the handsome damsel, as
the sequel shows.
The knight of the thimble and needle had saved considerable money and
was comely to look upon, while she was both free and willing to wed, so
the courtship was a short one.
As it happened, the tailor had received an offer from a business firm in
the country that day, and as delays were considered dangerous, they
decided to be married at once and start for their new home. It chanced
that neither the lover nor his fair inamorata were troubled with enough
luggage to require the services of an express wagon, and it wasn’t long
before their traps were stuffed into sacks and bundles ready for
removal.
Talk about striking while the iron is hot: they went ahead of the
time-honored injunction, and hammered the iron while it was yet in the
furnace. The bat had hardly found his evening meal before they were
united and received the congratulations of the officiating clergyman,
and before Hesperus led her starry host down to the western main the
happy pair might have been seen bending under their respective burdens,
and moving rapidly down the thoroughfare to catch the first train for
the country.
[Illustration: A MOVING SCENE.]
Crispin soon discovered his handsome bird had flown. This was too much
for the poor cobbler. He couldn’t bear up under the weight, and having
procured a shot-gun, soon ceased to exist.
[Illustration: SHUFFLING OFF THE MORTAL COIL.]
These facts I gleaned from a grocer who lived near by, and who was
acquainted with all the parties. My mind was so disturbed by the
distressing event, I found it impossible to sleep for hours after I
reached my room. I started in to recite a book of Paradise Lost, but it
was no go. I had Michael assaulting Satan with a shoemaker’s awl instead
of with his sword of celestial temper. I then endeavored to run over an
act in Shakespeare, but met with no better success. I had Othello
blowing his head off with a shot-gun, instead of stabbing himself with a
knife. Still, the terrible combination of circumstances culminating in
the death of the poor cobbler crowded upon me in a saddening train, and
much-needed rest came not to my relief until the following lines were
composed and set to music:—
“Oh, the sunshine of his life
Had become a tailor’s wife,
Which was more than selfish heart could bear;
So he got his gun in haste,
In his mouth the muzzle placed,
Turned his eyes aloft as if in prayer;
On the trigger set his toes—
As the illustration shows—
Then up to the ceiling went his hair!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE LAST OF HIS RACE.
While passing through the market this morning, I saw the old turkey that
had escaped the ravages of Christmas. He is said to be the sole remnant
of the turkey tribe—living or dead—at present to be found. Though the
door of his coop was open he seemed to have no desire to escape.
Evidently, like Byron’s “Prisoner of Chillon,” he has been so long an
inmate he has become attached to it, and would rather remain there than
take his chances in the busy world outside.
He stood most of the time in the centre of the coop in a brown study.
Once, while I was looking at him, he attempted to expand the dilapidated
substitute for a tail and assume the dignity and strut of other days.
The effort was too much for him, and he settled down again into a
dreamy, somnolent state, from which the crowing of a large Brahma even
failed to arouse him. The poor fellow will doubtless fall a victim to
man’s rapacity on New Year, for I noticed a fleshy old epicure regarding
him with hungry sinister looks; nay, more, setting a price upon his
head.
Passing again through the market this afternoon, I noticed the coop was
empty, the “Prisoner of Chillon” was missing. Who had purchased him? or
what had become of him? were questions which, however pertinent they
might be, I felt I had no right to ask, and I didn’t. But the finger of
suspicion points directly at the mouth of that venerable justice who was
setting a price upon its head.
JIM DUDLEY’S RACE.
Now that I am rid of my wild-cat mining stock, my aching teeth and
inverted toenails, “Jim Dudley” turns up again with his stories and
slang.
Last night he told about the fast team he once sported in Indiana, and I
wager considerable that he never drove a horse in his life, except it
was to the pound that the might get half the fine. But this is the way
he spun his yarn:—
“Did the boys tell you about the span I used to drive down at Grab
Corners? No? wal, that’s queer. I owned a mi’ty fast pair while I was
stoppin’ thar.
“You see I fust had a four-year old hoss, and used to go buzzin’ through
the village like a streak o’ lightnin’; and when I had jest enough
whiskey aboard to make me feel a leetle reckless, I used to turn the
corners on the two inner wheels and never make a miss of it.
“My ambition was to own a span, though. Arter a while I bought a young
mare from Deacon Shovelridge. She was the homeliest lookin’ critter,
though, you ever sot eyes on. Her tail was as hairless as a garter
snake. She was a basin-raised colt, and one mornin’ she was standin’
round whar the boys were makin’ soap, and while backin’ up to the blaze
to git warm, her tail caught fire, and every spear of hair was burned
off. It never came out agin, nuther.
“It made her look pooty bad, but I see the go was in her, and that was
what I was arter. Durin’ fly time I used to help her out of her troubles
a leetle by fastenin’ a heavy tassel to the end of her tail, and arter
some practice she could fetch a fly off her ribs or fore shoulder
e’enmost every pop.
“I got her pooty reasonable. The Deacon said he was actewally ashamed to
go out with her, for the boys were allers a-hootin’ arter him. Besides,
the old codger seemed to have a likin’ for me, and allers took my part
when others were runnin’ me down. The mare matched the young hoss fust
rate. Both had hides like rhinoceroses, which sweat could never get
through. They might be bilin’ hot inside, but they never showed any
signs of it outwardly.
[Illustration: ABE DRAKE.]
“Arter a little trainin’ they pulled together, and spatted it out as
even as the wheels of a ferry-boat. I used to make a commotion among the
villagers when I turned out, for I could pass everythin’ around the
Corners; and you ought to have seen the fellers a-runnin’ out to hold
their hosses by the head when they see me comin’, and the wimmin
a-hollerin’ and tuckin’ up their skirts and scuddin’ arter their young
‘uns as though a drove of Mexican cattle were a-comin’ across the
bridge.
“One day an old sport named Abe Drake, a sort of spreein’ old bachelor,
come over thar from Illinois. He afterwards married a brokin’ winded old
concert singer that used to be squeakin’ around there, and went to live
in Hulltown. Wal, as I was sayin’, he came over there and brought a
spankin’ fine team along.
“They were amazin’ nice-lookin’ critters now, I can tell you; skins
smooth and shiny as seals, and tails on ’em that actewally trailed in
the dust behind. He allers had plenty of money, and was continewally
takin’ the gals around to one place or another. He was ginerally
considered the biggest cat on the wood pile. We never came in contact
when we had our teams out until one day at a picnic in Gawley’s Wood.
“That straw-headed Kate Rykert was thar. She was the rollickin’,
don’t-care gal of the village, one of these tree-climbin’,
astride-ridin’ critters, but a mi’ty good gal for all that, and handsome
as a new fiddle. She was well up in the fine arts, but she could realize
more genuine enjoyment chargin’ through the pastur’ astride the old
mooly cow than she could by trummin’ a pianer.
[Illustration: KATE RYKERT.]
“Wal, there wasn’t hardly a gal in the village that Abe Drake hadn’t bin
a-spurrin’ round, and he had sort o’ commenced a-trampin’ on his wing
like around Kate Rykert about this time.
“It happened I had a sort of weakness that way myself, and I didn’t like
his maneuverin’ any too well now, I kin assure you. He couldn’t make
much out of Kate, though. She liked fast horses and a splurge, but she
wasn’t one of those gals that would marry an old pair of breeches jest
because there was greenbacks in the pockets.
“But, as I was remarkin’, that day while the picnic was breakin’ up, we
all got talkin’ about a ball that was comin’ off the followin’ week down
at Crow Bend. Abe wanted Kate to go down thar with him, but she had
partly agreed afore that to go long er me; so to git herself out of it
and me in, she said she would go with the one who could take her the
fastest.
“‘That’s me,’ said Abe, straightenin’ up kind of proudly, and givin’ his
pantaloons a hitch up at the waistband. ‘I can let you count the panels
along the turnpike a leetle the quickest of any person around these
quarters,’ and he looked sideways at me to see how I took the assertion.
“‘It’s not allers the hen that does the most extensive advertizin’ that
makes the largest deposits,’ said Tom Ruggles, laughin’, as he sat thar
packin’ away his dishes.
“‘No, Tom,’ said Gus Parks, the millinery man, who didn’t like Abe any
too well, because he sort o’ smashed an engagement between him and the
schoolmarm; ‘and it’s not allers your longest-tailed quadrupeds that git
over the ground the fastest, nuther.’
“‘Wal, never mind, boys,’ ses I, jest easy, that way, ‘the proof of the
whiskey is in the headache arterwards. I reckon I kin kill as many
grasshoppers between here and Grab Corners as any person that cracks a
whip in these parts.’
“‘What! with them thick-skinned critters of yourn?’ said Abe, p’intin’
his fingers at my hosses, and laughin’ as though it was mi’ty funny. It
made me feel pooty riley, but I kept my temper.
“‘Supposin’ they hev thick skins,’ I ses, ‘they’re somethin’ like the
cheese that goggle-eyed Peter bought from the peddler, their peculiarity
doesn’t lie in the thickness of their hide so much as in the mysterious
way they have of movin’ themselves around.’
“‘S’pose you try a race back to the Corner, then,’ ses one of the boys.
“‘Yes,’ ses Kate Rykert, clappin’ her hands and jumpin’ up. ‘I’ll ride
back to the Corner with one of you, and let Tilley Evans go with the
other, and I’ll go to the ball with the one who gets to the village
first.’
“‘Agreed,’ ses Abe, ‘and you’ll ride back with me?’
“‘No, I’m heavier than Tilley,’ ses Kate, ‘let everythin’ be even; toss
up for partners back to the Corner.’
“This seemed fair, so we flipped, and I won Kate. She weighed ten pounds
more than Tilley, but I didn’t care for that, for I knowed if the worst
come to the worst, she was none of your jumpin’ out kind; she would
stick to the buggy while there was one wheel and the seat left, and
that’s the sort of a gal to have along with a feller when he’s tryin’
hoss flesh.
“The whole picnic gathered around us when we were gettin’ our teams
ready and war speculatin’ on the result. Money was gwine up on all
sides. Parson Briarly had no change about him, but he bet his gold-bowed
spectacles against old Silverthorn’s meerschaum pipe that I would git to
the Corner fust.
“‘Beat him, Jim,’ ses Gus Parks, ‘and I’ll give Kate the best bonnet in
the store.’
“‘And I’ll give her the highest-heeled pair of boots that I’ve got in my
shop,’ said Tom Ruggles, the boot and shoe dealer.
“‘Then Kate is a bonnet and a pair of boots ahead, for sartain,’ says I,
jumpin’ into the buggy and squarin’ round my horses for the road; and
with that we started, lick-a-te-split! down the turnpike, Abe a leetle
ahead, but not enough to make much difference with five miles of good
turnpike ahead of us, without let or hindrance.
“Pooty soon Kate leaned over to me, and ses she, ‘You must beat him,
Jim, for between you and me, I would ruther go to the ball with you than
with Abe.’
“This made me feel mi’ty good, and ses I, ‘You mustn’t get skeered,
then, for I reckon we’ll hev to take some desperate chances to git thar
fust.’
“‘Let me alone for that,’ ses she; ‘when I can’t ride as fast as a hoss
can run, then I’ll stay to hum, and let dad tote me around in the
wheelbarrow.’
“Just then we came up with him. He tried to shake us off, and would
spurt ahead, but I’d crawl up on him agin, and stick thar, lappin’ him
and goin’ with him stretch for stretch, like a dog when he’s a-freezin’
to a pig’s ear. Away went Kate’s hat a-flutterin’ over butter-cup swale,
like a Bird of Paradise over the gardin’ of Eden.
“‘That’s mi’ty bad, Kate,’ ses I, lookin’ over my shoulder at it sailin’
off.
“‘Let it go hatchin’,’ ses Kate, laughin’. ‘It’s only gettin’ out of the
way of the new bonnet.’
“I thought ’twas a good omen myself, but didn’t say anythin’, for jist
then Abe shot a leetle ahead, and as he was gwine off, he hollered, ‘You
can’t do it, Jim.’
“‘I kin,’ ses I, determinedly.
“‘Your hosses are ginnin’ out; they hain’t got the bottom into ’em,’ he
shouted, jest that way.
“‘It must hev dropped out last night, then,’ ses I, and with that I
overhauled him agin. Past Brian O’Laughlan’s door yard we went like a
whirlwind through a flour ‘mill, over a hen and three suckin’ pigs. The
old woman was standin’ thar in the yard with her apron full of chickens,
shakin’ her fist at us and swearin’ like a drunken gypsy. Her long
tongue was a-slushin’ and dashin’ against her one front tooth like a mop
ag’inst a table leg.
[Illustration: MRS. O’LAUGHLAN.]
“I could have laughed myself to tears only I had to keep my eyes clear,
for the road was so narrow in some places that when we were abreast
there wasn’t any ground to spare.
[Illustration: JUST AS IT WAS.]
“We were now passin’ the half-way spring and the race was fully as
undecided as when we broke away from the hootin’ crowd on the picnic
grounds.
“Down past old Deacon Shovelridge’s ten-acre hop yard we went
rack-a-te-bang! hub end against hub end, and the outer wheels a-spokin’
it within six inches of a four-foot ditch.
“The ride to the Corners began to look like the ride to etarnity, and
Tilley was as pale as a gray nun’s ghost, and continewally making
narvous reaches for the lines.
“But Kate was equal to the surroundin’s. Thar she sot, with one arm
around me and ’tother graspin’ the seat rail, and above the clatter of
hoofs and steel axles, I could hear her repeatin’:—
“‘Stick to him, Jim, and start my stitches, if he doesn’t git his crop
full of dust yet!’
“Old Shovelridge was in the field on a load of hay as we were passin’.
He was inclined to piety, and if the world had no hosses in it I reckon
he’d have been as pious as a church organ.
“And when he saw us a-raspin’ down the turnpike as though we were ridin’
in a four-hoss chariot, and saw Kate Rykert’s great swad of blonde har
a-streamin’ out behind, like the tail of a comet, he couldn’t contain
his feelin’s no how.
“He gin a rousin’ whoop like a Chilchat Indian, when he sights a fur
hunter. Throwin’ away the pitchfork—which accidentl’y harpooned the old
lady in the back who was rakin’ behind—and jumpin’ from the load, he
took across the field to’ards the turnpike, swingin’ his old straw hat
and hollerin’:—
“‘Go it, Dudley; go it! Keep the hoss up with the rat-tail mare, and
I’ll bet my farm you’ll make Grab Corner fust!’
“This made me feel pooty good, for the mare was the one I had some fears
about.
“But you ought to see how it affected Abe; he commenced to slash his
hosses and swar like an ox teamster when his cart is stuck hub deep in
the mud.
“Finally the off-horse broke, and there was a sort of irregular upheaval
among ’em for a while, as though they war steppin’ on broken cakes of
ice; one would be gwine down while ’tother was a-comin’ up.
“Abe tried to bring ’em down to their work agin, and in the meantime I
kind of corkscrewed ahead and swung into the centre of the road in
advance of him. Then I began to feel somethin’ like a feller what holds
the winnin’ cards, and sees the other chaps a-pilin’ up the coin on
their inferior pasteboards. But I see some young half-breeds a-squattin’
around on the road about a quarter of a mile ahead, and knowed at the
rate we war travellin’ we’d be on top of ’em before they’d see us if I
didn’t haul up.
“So I ses to Kate, ‘See them plag’y brats ahead of us thar! what bed we
better do about it?’
“‘Run over the centipedes,’ ses she. ‘Abe ain’t a gwine to slack up for
’em,’ and she cuddled closer to me so the jolt wouldn’t hist her out.
“I shouted two or three times, but they were too busy with their mud
pies, I reckon, to take any notice, and Abe was makin’ no signs of
haulin’ up. I did my best to sheer round ’em, and kept right on for the
Corner.
“I heered ’em scream as we went a-whirlin’ on, but reckon it was more
through fright than injury.
“Abe had lost his grippin’s. He couldn’t overhaul me ag’in, no how, and
I gradually crawled away from him, if he did his pootiest.
“The whole village seemed to be out to the bridge to see what was
comin.’
“They see the dust risin’ when we were more’n a mile away, and they
allowed the greatest run-away was a-comin’ down the turnpike that had
happened since Bull Run, and were out thar speculatin’ as to whose
family was in danger.
“But when they see it was a race, and recognized me, you ought to see
the scatterin’ amongst ’em. You’d think a hull menagery had broken loose
and was comin’ for ’em.
“Ole Pelvy, the shoemaker, was a-settin’ on the railin’ of the bridge;
but jest as I crossed it, the crowd hoorayed, and jostled him off. He
hung over the railin’ by one leg, with his body swayin’ below, and him
a-hollerin’ like a good feller, and signalin’ for help, but the crowd
were so taken up with the race, and were cheerin’ and swingin’ of their
hats continewally, that they never knowed anythin’ about his position.
[Illustration: CURING PEOPLE’S CORNS.]
“Pooty soon his leg slipped over, and then he went, end over end more’n
twenty-five feet, into the river, and was carried over the falls before
anybody missed him. Arter that people weren’t troubled so much with
corns around Grab Corner, for though he’s dead now, I’ll say it of him,
he was the wust shoemaker that ever shoved an awl into a hide.
“I druv up to the hotel, and had jest got through helpin’ Kate out, when
up come Abe, with his hosses hobblin’ as if they had picked up a
twenty-penny nail in every hoof.
“They looked somewhat as if they had bin swimmin’ in a soap vat.
“Abe was very much of a man, though, arter all. His hosses I reckon had
never bin passed before, but he didn’t bluster or git mad about it
neither, though it must have bin pooty tryin’ to him.
“‘By the Witch of Endor’s long eye tooth,’ he cried, as he jumped from
the buggy, ‘you did it, Jim; and you did it fair. Only I kinder think
you swung in ahead of me a leetle too quick, back thar where that crazy
old whipperin hollered so.’
“‘No, Abe,’ ses I, ‘I didn’t take an inch o’ turnpike till I was
entitled to it.’
“‘Wal,’ ses he, as he came round to look at my animals, that were
standin’ thar seemingly as cool as a brace of toads in a celler, ‘I’ll
be shot if them hosses of yourn ain’t somethin’ like the widder Tappan’s
boarders. The speed they show in gettin’ away with anythin’ was most
surprisin’.’
“So Kate Rykert got the bonnet and boots, and I gin her a new dress to
go with them, and if we didn’t shine out some the next week down to Crow
Bend then thar ain’t no use talkin’ about it, that’s all.”
[Illustration]
OLEOMARGARINE.
Through the busy bustling street,
Rolls a cart I often meet,
The driver shouting from the seat:
“Oleomargarine!”
On the tail-board long and wide,
Reaching fair from side to side,
Shines the word in painted pride:
“Oleomargarine!”
What it is doth not appear,
Where it comes from all may fear,
Still I shudder when I hear:
“Oleomargarine!”
Here and there he slowly crawls,
Pausing by the butcher stalls,
In the kitchen door he bawls:
“Oleomargarine!”
Bring your tallow, bring your fat,
Candle ends and all like that,
They will issue from the vat
Oleomargarine.
Any scraps you have about,
Kidney, liver, tripe, or snout,
All will make, when they’re tried out,
Oleomargarine.
Comes the cry across the way,
From a dame with rent to pay:
“Do you purchase puppies? say,
Oleomargarine!”
“Is he fat?” the driver cries;
“I should say so,” she replies;
“Then pitch him in where pussy lies.”
Oleomargarine!
In the church, or at the play,
In the parlor, night or day,
Still the voices seem to say:
“Oleomargarine!”
From the birds that round me fly,
In the brook that babbles by,
Still I seem to catch the cry:
“Oleomargarine!”
With suspicion now I spread
The cow’s rich offering on my bread
That weird butter still I dread,—
Oleomargarine!
Dainties now I must forego,
Pies and cakes and puddings, Oh!
Can I trust them? no! no!! no!!!
Oleomargarine!
DINING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.
Taking dinner to-day in a restaurant, I was in danger of being carried
off by cockroaches. If I was inclined to draw comparisons, I would say
that in size the cockroaches I encountered in this place would compare
favorably with cupboard door buttons. I had seen these troublesome
insects on former occasions when I thought they were numerous—when they
were as thick around the bread-plate as bees around their hive in June.
But I had never been present when they turned out in sufficient numbers
to take and hold possession of everything upon the table, even to the
mustard-pot. To-day I witnessed such a spectacle. I counted until I
tired; their skelping to and fro made the task painfully difficult, and
the effort was abandoned. They had evidently been lying in ambush in the
cruet stand from the moment I sat down and gave my order, for the ring
of the plate as it struck the board seemed to be the signal for a
general advance. They appeared in military ranks, moving towards the
dish in a semicircle, like a line of Fenian skirmishers advancing
heroically upon a turnip patch. There were no frost-nipped fellows, with
drooping horns and dragging limbs, among those legions either. All were
active, square-shouldered customers, real thoroughbreds, wide across the
hips, and boasting a depth of chest capable of enduring any amount of
running; while their long, formidable-looking feelers stood out at right
angles from their heads, like the horns on a Mexican steer.
[Illustration: BUMMERS ON THE RAID.]
“During your natural life,” I commenced, addressing a waiter who stood
near by, evidently enjoying my surprise, “whether while officiating as
head steward on board of a floating palace on the Mississippi, or
serving as second cook on a grain scow on the San Joaquin, did you ever
run across a place where the cockroaches were one-ninetieth part as
numerous as they are in this restaurant?”
“Numerous?” he answered; “you should be here a warm, sunshiny day, if
you want to see cockroaches, for then all the invalids are out—those
fellows who have had their movements across the table accelerated by a
snapping finger, or such as have only tasted the poison scattered around
for their benefit, or those who have taken an overdose and throwed it up
again. These lie in cracks and cupboards, with stiffened joints and weak
stomachs, when the weather is cold and cloudy; but when a warm day
comes, they are all abroad and busy.”
“Well, I will bear that in mind,” I said, rising from the table, “and
when the next total eclipse of the sun occurs, which, as I am informed,
will take place in about four hundred and thirty-seven years, I may come
into this restaurant for another meal, and not until then,” and with
that I left.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
The editor of a city paper having occasion to take a trip into the
country, prevailed upon me to assume the responsibility of answering
letters from correspondents. The task is an onerous one—the more so as
the editor, with that cunning ever noticeable in a person who takes the
cream of a job, left me to reply only to the knottiest epistles. But I
will some time get even with him, however. I will assume the editorial
“we,” and should I waken the wrath of any person, _he_ will be the
sufferer. Here is a copy of my answer to “Katie:”—
“The minister was perfectly right in refusing to marry the couple, if,
as you say, the bride insisted upon holding her poodle in her arms
during the ceremony. The more so as the clergyman was near-sighted. He
might possibly mistake the puppy for the bridegroom.”
Another person accuses a correspondent of a mis-statement. He says it
was the editor of the _Farmer_, and not the editor of the _Examiner_,
who planted the package of No. 16 homœopathic pills sent him from the
country by a wag, as the seeds of a Sandwich Island cabbage.
The old editor for weeks regularly watered the plot where he sowed them;
but as nothing appeared, wrote to the country gentleman, informing him
that his seeds hadn’t sprouted, and he thought it likely they might have
been taken from a dead head.
“Amy” is all in a fluster about spirits. I will talk to her after this
manner:—
“We have always considered spiritualism the bluest carbuncle that ever
festered upon the neck of society. We care not if the spirits were
rapping around our table like a forty-stamp mill, we would eat our
regular allowance with all the coolness that a Celestial manifests when
absorbing his birds’-nest soup. If your bed dances a _pas-seul_ after
you get into it at night, there must be more than spirits around; and
you would do well to throw a boot-jack or flat-iron under it before
retiring. Such a proceeding might give you the satisfaction of hearing
the spirits yell blue murder.
“There is not much danger of your going crazy, because, in plain terms,
we consider you to be luny already. The poor fellow in the lunatic
asylum who imagines Queen Victoria has made a private residence of his
nose, and who has nearly blown both eyes out striving to eject her, is
hardly more so.”
I trust the editor will lose some hair over that answer.
On second thought, I remember the editor has none.
COURT-ROOM SCENES.
I am as full of law this evening as a sea-shell of sound, having been
wedged in the District Court room from 10 o’clock A. M. to 9 P. M.,
listening to testimony in the re-trial of the case of the People vs. a
fiery lady, if we may use the expression, who brought down her game the
first shot.
Though the room was crowded almost to suffocation, I fancy there is not
that deep interest that was manifested during the former trial. On that
occasion there were so many letters introduced in evidence, such a mass
of private correspondence dragged from musty trunks, and laid open to
the public, that thousands flocked daily to the court room, in hopes of
hearing something rich, if not instructive. I shall never forget the
excitement during the reading of letter No. 947. It was from the
defendant.
The counsel for the defence argued a good round two hours and a half by
the court-room clock, against the letter being admitted in evidence. He
maintained it was irrelevant, as it had never been opened, the receiver
forgetting to read it, or neglecting to do so, for some reason of his
own.
[Illustration: A DROWSY JURY.]
The counsel for the people followed with even a longer appeal to the
judge to admit the letter, strengthening his argument by lengthy
quotations from Blackstone, Kent, Wharton, and other authorities,
endeavoring to prove it should be put in evidence, as its contents might
assist materially in furthering the ends of justice.
The judge began to show unmistakable signs of impatience. He remarked
that already a package of letters had been read that would go far
towards shingling the Mechanics’ Pavilion, and had no more bearing upon
the point at issue than “Darwin’s Descent of Man” had upon the culture
of white beans. He finally gave way before the preponderance of the
prosecuting attorney’s argument, and directed an officer to wake the
jury, as a letter was to be read that all should hear. After
considerable shaking and poking, this difficult duty was performed. Even
the deaf juror was aroused, though the good-natured judge had permitted
him to sleep during the introduction of several preceding epistles.
After order was restored, and an inventive juror had improvised an ear
trumpet with a piece of legal cap for his unfortunate companion, the
_billet doux_ was opened. As the seal was broken, judge and jury rose to
their feet with one accord, and leaned as far forward as their desks
would allow, the more readily to catch every word of the important
document. The silence in the room was death-like. It was supposed that
on the contents of this letter hung either a scaffold or an acquittal.
The weak ticking of the dusty clock upon the wall was the only sound
that disturbed the awful stillness. As the calm settled, the muffled
beat of the time-piece increased in force and volume until it seemed to
attain the tones of a fire bell. Presently the attorney in a high and
tremulous voice began to read. The contents ran thus:—
“MY DEAR, DELIGHTFUL DARLING:—How are my stocks selling now?
Your Loving, Adoring L——.”
The effect was thrilling. The lawyer dropped the letter upon the table
before him, ran his white fingers through his hair, and looked around
with the air of a tired traveler when he ascertains he has walked five
miles upon the wrong road. The gentlemen of the jury, with looks more of
anger than of sorrow, dropped into their seats as suddenly as though an
invisible hand had caught them from behind and jerked them to their
benches.
The Judge, with an ill-concealed look of disgust, settled back into his
chair, and the deep crease in his vest, immediately over where his
dinner should have been hours before, grew more painfully perceptible.
I elbowed my way from the suffocating room before further correspondence
was selected from the package for perusal.
THE MASON’S RIDE.
The goat, the goat, the bearded goat!
The horned, the hoofed, the hairy goat!
As I’m a sinner of some note,
Last night I rode the Mason’s goat!
He was a beast of wondrous size,
With lengthy limbs and glassy eyes,
And beard that swept the carpet clear,
And horns that shook the chandelier!
Ye gods! if there’s a time we feel
Misgivings through our noddle steal,
It is when we through mystery float
Upon the dark Freemason’s goat.
Now some will say there’s no such thing,
And at the goat derision fling;
And say that all is Fancy wrought,
Through fear and dread suspicion brought.
But those who such remarks outpour
Have never knocked at Mason’s door,
Have nothing known about that beast
That was imported from the East,
Where kings of wisdom, wealth, and pomp
Bestrode him through his midnight romp.
Three times was I compelled to ride
The creature ‘round the Temple wide,
But while I tried the fearful mount,
My heart’s pulsations all might count,
For thump on thump with treble knell
Within my breast it rose and fell.
Twice did I make the circuit fair,
My hold his horns, his tail, or hair,
Though never shot a kangaroo,
So fast Australian jungle through.
From garret roof to basement floor,
Through ante-room and closet door,
O’er winding steps and columns tall,
He held his way through house and hall,
Till on the third attempt, and last,
When I presumed all danger past,
He pitched me clear of horns and head,
And left me far below for dead.
[Illustration: THE ROCKY ROAD TO MASONRY.]
I felt as though a worthless clod
Unfit to keep above the sod;
But when I rose with terror pale
The goat had vanished, head and tail,
And I was styled by one and all
The greenest mason in the hall.
Let those who deem they are possessed
Of fadeless cheeks and valiant breast,
Of hair that never will aspire
To bristle like a brush of wire,
No matter through what risk they run,
Go ride that goat, as I have done.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: JUNE]
JUNE
Oh June! thou comest once again
With bales of hay and sheaves of grain,
That make the farmer’s heart rejoice,
And anxious herds lift up their voice.
I hear thy promise, sunny maid,
Sound in the reapers’ ringing blade,
And in the laden harvest wain,
That rumbles through the stubble plain.
Ye tell a tale of bearded stacks,
Of busy mills and floury sacks;
Of cars oppressed with cumbrous loads,
Hard curving down their iron roads;
Of barges grounding on their way
Down winding streams to reach the bay;
Of vessels spreading to the breeze
Their snowy sails in stormy seas,
While bearing to some foreign strand
The products of this golden land.
Ye come again with cereal brows,
And crescent blade, to fill the mows;
And never fall thy feet too soon,
Oh, ever welcome, sunny June.
Once more I see your banner spread
Across the evening sky,
I see your trace in shallow brooks
That feebly ripple by.
I see your face in mirror-lakes,
In fields and forests old,
And in the gardens all arrayed
In crimson, blue and gold.
I hear your voice in twittering birds,
That round the gables wheel,
And in the humming monologues
Which from the meadows steal.
Oh, month of Love and plighted faith,
And airy castles high!
I hear you in the lover’s song
And in the maiden’s sigh.
And in the breeze that gently wakes
The leaves upon the bough,
I feel your soothing mother-touch
Caressing cheek and brow.
Oh, sweet as sunrise to the lark,
As noonday to the bee,
Or evening to the nightingale,
Is June’s return to me.
[Illustration]
THE ANNIVERSARY.
This is the anniversary of my departure from my native fields. As I sit
gazing by the fire, pondering over the event, thoughts of friends far
away and foes who are near, come crowding upon me numerous as spirits
around some favored medium.
Many years ago I turned my back upon all I loved and setting my face
against the sinking sun, cried:—
“Ho, sailors! spread your widest sails,
And court the strong impellent gales,
Until the stout and stubborn mast
Bends like a sapling to the blast;
And westward let your bearing be;
My fortune lies beyond the sea.”
What a ruinous rent fifteen or twenty years make in a person’s lease of
life. Why, bless my benighted understanding! the seal, the signature and
the better portion of the parchment are gone. There’s hardly enough
document remaining upon which to hinge a hope. Now, that I think of it,
what have the departed years neglected to bring me? No flaxen heads
cluster around my board; no nose is flattened against the window pane;
no eye strained to mark my coming, when the granite pave is chafed by
the homeward hastening feet.
No jute or mohair chignons lie around my room in rich profusion, adding
charms to the apartment that pictures cannot give.
When I muse upon the many blessings that the past years have failed to
furnish, I am inclined to sadness. But when I turn to contemplate what
they _have_ brought, my heart sinks down into its lowest recess and for
a time lies still. Aye! that’s the rub that makes me wince.
There is but little satisfaction in the thought that I am not alone in
this. I look around and I see others drifting down the stream as rapidly
as I. Time is cutting furrows in fairer brows than mine. He has brought
many a person during the last ten years—
A scattered sight, a limping gait,
Toothless gums and a shining pate.
Why should I squeal because I feel his hands? But where are those full
cheeks, those hopeful smiles, those luxuriant locks, and firm-set
grinders that once were mine?
Gone, like the life from a busted balloon,
Gone, like the soul from a ruptured bassoon,
Gone, like the sheen from a pock-pitted cheek,
Gone, like our change at the close of the week,
Gone!
But what has that to do with my sore heel, peeled to-day by the hoof of
a clergyman’s horse before I could get out of the way? The event called
forth the following lines, written while laboring under great mental
excitement:
How blest is he above the many
Who turns to-day a handsome penny,
By stating to the drowsy throng
The line dividing right and wrong!
Far richer pickings he commands
Than ears of corn rubbed in the hands.
How different now from days of yore,
When sandal-shod and spirit sore,
With stiffened joints and limber thews,
And garments damp with midnight dews,
The poor Apostles, staff in hand,
Went limping through a stranger’s land.
Now charge they up and down the way,
Like jockeys on the “Derby day;”
And we poor wights must waltz aside,
And let the pulpit princes glide;
Or have a phaeton o’er us wheeled,
Or have our heels adroitly peeled.
Oh, money! money! root and start
Of every sin, ’tis claimed thou art;
But let them doubt the fact who will,
’Tis money spreads the gospel still.
A COUNTRY TOUR.
Yesterday I took a trip to a quiet country resort. On entering the town
I was surprised at the scarcity of men in the place. There were plenty
of women—fashionably dressed and otherwise—to be seen in the houses or
gardens, but I rarely encountered one of the male sex in my travels
through the streets. This, I at first supposed, was owing to the number
of gentlemen residing there who carry on business in the city by the
sea, and are consequently in the latter place during the day. I was
informed, however, by the proprietor of the hotel at which I stopped,
that such was not the case. He assured me it was mainly owing to the
fact that the County Court commenced that morning, and most of the male
inhabitants, as was their custom on such occasions, had taken to the
surrounding woods and mountains to escape jury duty.
The place is beautifully situated between high green hills, and said to
possess the healthiest climate of any town in the State. During the
summer months people flock there from all parts of the country. Healthy
people pay high prices at the hotels for the privilege of living there,
and sickly people do likewise, for the privilege of dying there.
The peculiarities of the town, and the distinctive manners and customs
of the inhabitants, have been ably described by a poet whose effusions
have not yet been translated into the foreign languages. Following is a
part of the poem which bears directly on the town in question:—
“Here rest we now by sulphur well,
Where invalids and nurses dwell;
Where yelping dogs run through the street
Like wolves across a prairie wide,
And cattle wild as bison meet
You face to face, on every side;
With tails in air, and frothy nose,
And leveled horns, they round you close.
“Where people sit around the door,
In lazy groups of three or four,
And still their chronic thirst abate
With copious draughts of ‘sulphur straight.’”
There was quite an excitement in the town before I left. A fire broke
out in an ash barrel situated in the rear yard of the house at which I
was stopping, and for a time threatened to destroy the ashes. There is
no estimating the amount of damage the citizens might have suffered if
the fire had spread to a wash-tub that stood close by, and which at the
time contained a portion of the town’s washing. Business was generally
suspended, and stock in the insurance companies went down immediately.
The citizens breathed more freely, however, when the efficient and
energetic Fire Department turned out promptly as one man, and hastened
to the city water-works, situated on a slight eminence in the centre of
the town, and, turning on the water, succeeded in extinguishing the
flames. The only damage done was the partial burning of the barrel and
the scorching of the wash-tub and five dog-houses. The dogs were lying
under the kitchen stove at the time, and escaped injury.
[Illustration: THE FIRE DEPARTMENT.]
A TRIP ACROSS THE BAY.
I took a trip across the water this afternoon. The bay was so rough the
ferry-boat could scarcely make her trips. The passengers were nearly all
sea-sick, and, elbow to elbow, leaned over the side of the vessel. One
gentleman, while gazing into the sea, lost his hat overboard, but he was
so taken up with internal affairs that he cared little for outward
appearances, as one could readily observe.
I reached my destination, and was convinced that all the sorrows are not
on the sea. I saw a poor old woman thrown into terrible disorder by a
kick from the cow she was milking in her own yard. Judging by the
quantity of milk lying around loose, she must have been nearly through
her task, and was probably in the very act of complimenting the cow for
her generosity, when the spiteful animal gave the pail a hoist
completely over the woman’s head, like a huge helmet, while the lacteal
fluid ran down her body. The pail seemed to stick, despite her efforts
to remove it.
[Illustration: PEERING INTO THE DEPTHS.]
As I looked back, I could see her groping toward the house, her visage
still concealed in the blue bucket. She did look odd enough, as she felt
her way up the steps, decorated with that novel head-dress.
[Illustration: GOOD-BYE.]
There is a youth in this suburban town who bids fair to be a second
Landseer. As I passed his father’s residence, I saw the young aspirant
at work sketching from nature.
He had the foot of a little cur fast in the jaws of a steel-trap staked
in the orchard. The artist sat at a short distance sketching the poor
beast, as it stood on three legs gazing at the heavens and crying
piteously. He was eagerly striving to get the expression of pain upon
the dog’s face, and by the grin upon his own countenance I judged he was
succeeding.
[Illustration: SKETCHING FROM NATURE.]
There was something in the pair that reminded me of Parrhasius and the
Captive; and being in somewhat of a sketching mood myself at the time, I
produced my book and pencil, and leaning over the fence, sketched the
painter and his howling model.
[Illustration: SO SICK!]
On my way back to the city the bay seemed even rougher than in the
morning. There was hardly a passenger on board the ferry-boat but showed
symptoms of trouble. Although most of them would have been excellent
subjects for the artist of a comic pictorial, my attention was specially
directed towards an elderly lady who sat with folded arms, the elbows
resting upon her knees, and a most woe-begone expression upon her
wrinkled visage. Some passengers who were sick were able partly to
conceal their emotions; _she_ was not; every muscle of her face betrayed
her. She was sick and couldn’t help but show it.
[Illustration: AT THE RAIL.]
If any individual amongst that crowd of disquieted passengers knocked
louder at the door of human sympathy than did the old lady referred to,
it was unmistakably that woman who was sick and had to show it at the
vessel’s rail.
CHRISTMAS EVE.
Christmas Eve! I sit idly by my window, listening to the rapid patter of
the rain upon the shingles and the wild whistle of the wind as it plays
around the gables, or draws weird music from the telegraph wires
stretched between the house tops, and upon which dangles the ghost of
many a schoolboy’s kite. Christmas Eve! and I am not yet invited out to
dinner! what can this mean? Am I then left to wither for want of
attention, like some poor shrub plucked from a garden and planted in a
graveyard? Well, let it be so. Alone though I am, I nevertheless enjoy
myself hugely, and it requires considerable to enliven me now. There was
a time when I could be moved to mirth by very little. The desperate
efforts of a one-legged grasshopper describing circles while endeavoring
to leap straight ahead, would amuse me for hours together. But it is not
so now; I turn from such scenes to bury my eyes in the pages of profound
works, and it is meet and proper I should.
For the last half hour I have been watching an old washerwoman stealing,
as I think, a neighbor’s wood. It is barely possible that she is taking
this method of paying herself for services rendered at the tub. Be this
as it may, the wood is going. There is no mistake about that.
It is interesting to me, as it furnishes food for comment, and keeps the
mind from lagging too long around the saddening fact that Time is
writing lines upon my brow “with his antique pen.” Besides it is holiday
season, and though I am not able to be charitable to a great degree, I
can at least afford to be indifferent in this case.
The washerwoman is doubtless a hard-working and deserving old body, who
perhaps has sunk her whole week’s earnings in a Christmas turkey, that
her children’s hearts may be made glad and their stomachs full; and it
would be a great pity if it should be spoiled i’ the cooking for the
want of fuel.
I waive the crime, and speak of the facts from a disinterested
stand-point. I have been such a diligent scholar in the severe school of
experience, that I have learned to look upon my own misfortunes lightly,
and certainly can behold—with an unmoistened eye—my neighbor’s choicest
sticks noiselessly slipping into an adjoining yard. Besides, my neighbor
can afford to lose a few. To make my position good, I entrench myself
behind the following fact: To be in the fashion, he pays the price of a
good-sized farm for seats at the opera, where the language is as foreign
to his understanding as South Sea Island gibberish. While he
indifferently beholds such a wasteful running at the bung, why should I
assume the busybody’s _rôle_ and clap my finger on the dripping spigot?
Besides, I saw his wife last evening with fully four yards of expensive
satin trailing in the dust. It was my misfortune to be walking directly
behind her. As the crowd was pressing me onward, I was obliged to dance
a sailor’s hornpipe around the hall, in order to keep from treading upon
her skirts. It needed not the grins of lookers-on to assure me that I
was cutting a ridiculous figure.
I am now enjoying my revenge! Indirectly though it comes, it is none the
less sweet or acceptable. On the contrary, it is rather more gratifying,
as it calls for no action on my part, but simply to keep my mouth
hermetically sealed. The poet truly sings:—
“Time at last sets all things even.”
It has been in this case much quicker than I expected. As the skinny
white arm stretches up out of the gloom of the washerwoman’s yard, and
another billet shoots from the pile and disappears like a star from the
firmament of heaven, I feel that a load is lifted from my heart, and I
am reaping revenge.
Stay! what is this? a note, that all the evening escaped my notice. Lo!
an aroma issues from it, sweet as Cytherea’s breath! It is an
invitation, as I live, to help dissect a Christmas turkey! Sound the
timbrel, beat the tom-tom. I am not forgotten yet!
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. P. 319, changed “shovin’ of it” to “shovin’ all of it”.
2. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
3. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
4. Footnotes were re-indexed using numbers and collected together at
the end of the chapter.
5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Frontier Humor in Verse, Prose and Picture" ***
Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.