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diff --git a/old/63863-0.txt b/old/63863-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 00b0cf0..0000000 --- a/old/63863-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4717 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Four-Masted Cat-Boat, by Charles Battell Loomis - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Four-Masted Cat-Boat - -Author: Charles Battell Loomis - -Release Date: November 23, 2020 [EBook #63863] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOUR-MASTED CAT-BOAT *** - - - - -Produced by D A Alexander, John Campbell and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE - - Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. - - The name Dvořák uses the letter r with a caron; this letter may - display incorrectly on some devices. - - Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book. - - - - - The Four-Masted - Cat-Boat - - [Illustration] - - - - - The - Four-Masted Cat-Boat - And Other Truthful Tales - - By - Charles Battell Loomis - - With illustrations by - Florence Scovel Shinn - - [Illustration] - - New York - The Century Co. - 1899 - - - - - Copyright, 1899, by - THE CENTURY CO. - - - THE DE VINNE PRESS. - - - - - TO MY BROTHER - - HARVEY WORTHINGTON LOOMIS - - I DEDICATE THIS COLLECTION - - OF SKETCHES - - C. B. L. - - - - -Preface - - -To send a book into the world without a preface is like thrusting -a bashful man into a room full of company without introducing him; -and there could be only one thing worse than that,--to a bashful -man,--and that would be to introduce him. - -In introducing my book to the reader (how like a book-agent that -sounds!) I wish to say that the only bond of union between the -various sketches is that they were all done by the same hand--or -hands, as they were written on a typewriter. - -Whether it would have added to their interest to have placed the same -characters in each sketch is not for me to say, but it would have -been a great bother to do it, and in getting up a book the thing -to avoid is bother. It hasn’t bothered me to write it. I hope it -won’t bother you to read it, for I’d hate to have you bothered on my -account. - - C. B. L. - - - - -Contents - - - A FEW IDIOTISMS - - PAGE - - I. THE FOUR-MASTED CAT-BOAT 1 - - II. THE POOR WAS MAD 7 - - III. A PECULIAR INDUSTRY 10 - - IV. GRIGGS’S MIND 14 - - V. THE SIGNALS OF GRIGGS 21 - - VI. À LA SHERLOCK HOLMES 25 - - VII. MY SPANISH PARROT 30 - - VIII. “TO MEET MR. CAVENDISH” 35 - - IX. INSTINCT SUPPLIED TO HENS 41 - - X. A SPRING IDYL 46 - - XI. AN INVERTED SPRING IDYL 49 - - XII. AT THE CHESTNUTS’ DINNER 52 - - XIII. THE ROUGH WORDS SOCIETY 57 - - XIV. A NEW USE FOR HORSES 63 - - XV. A CALCULATING BORE 67 - - XVI. AN URBAN GAME 71 - - XVII. “DE GUSTIBUS” 75 - - XVIII. “BUFFUM’S BUSTLESS BUFFERS” 79 - - - AT THE LITERARY COUNTER - - XIX. “THE FATHER OF SANTA CLAUS” 85 - - XX. THE DIALECT STORE 92 - - XXI. “FROM THE FRENCH” 100 - - XXII. ON THE VALUE OF DOGMATIC UTTERANCE 107 - - XXIII. THE SAD CASE OF DEACON PERKINS 112 - - XXIV. THE MISSING-WORD BORE 118 - - XXV. THE CONFESSIONS OF A CRITIC 122 - - XXVI. HOW ’RASMUS PAID THE MORTGAGE 128 - - XXVII. ’MIDST ARMED FOES 137 - - XXVIII. AT THE SIGN OF THE CYGNET 141 - - XXIX. A SCOTCH SKETCH 146 - - - UNRELATED STORIES--RELATED - - XXX. EPHRATA SYMONDS’S DOUBLE LIFE 153 - - XXXI. A STRANGER TO LUCK 161 - - XXXII. CUPID ON RUNNERS 173 - - XXXIII. MY TRUTHFUL BURGLAR 183 - - XXXIV. THE MAN WITHOUT A WATCH 189 - - XXXV. THE WRECK OF THE “CATAPULT” 201 - - - ESSAYS AT ESSAYS - - XXXVI. THE BULL, THE GIRL, AND THE RED SHAWL 211 - - XXXVII. CONCERNING DISH-WASHING 219 - - XXXVIII. A PERENNIAL FEVER 225 - - XXXIX. “AMICUS REDIVIVUS” 231 - - XL. THE PROPER CARE OF FLIES 236 - - -NOTE - - I am indebted to the editors of the “Century”, the “Saturday - Evening Post,” “Harper’s Bazaar,” “Puck,” the “Critic,” the - “Criterion,” and the S. S. McClure Syndicate for permission to - use the articles which first met printers’ ink in their columns. - - C. B. L. - - - - -A FEW IDIOTISMS - -[Illustration] - - - - -I - -THE FOUR-MASTED CAT-BOAT - -AN ETCHING OF THE SEA, BY A LANDLUBBER - - -The sea lay low in the offing, and as far as the eye could reach, -immense white-caps rode upon it as quietly as pond-lilies on the -bosom of a lake. - -Fleecy clouds dotted the sky, and far off toward the horizon a -full-rigged four-masted cat-boat lugged and luffed in the calm -evening breezes. Her sails were piped to larboard, starboard, -and port; and as she rolled steadily along in the heavy wash and -undertow, her companion-light, already kindled, shed a delicate ray -across the bay to where the dull red disk of the sun was dipping its -colors. - -Her cordage lay astern, in the neat coils that seamen know so well -how to make. The anchor had been weighed this half-hour, and the -figures put down in the log; for Captain Bliffton was not a man to -put off doing anything that lay in the day’s watch. - -Away to eastward, two tiny black clouds stole along as if they were -diffident strangers in the sky, and were anxious to be gone. Now and -again came the report of some sunset gun from the forts that lined -the coast, and sea-robins flew with harsh cries athwart the sloop of -fishing-boats that were beating to windward with gaffed topsails. - -“Davy Jones’ll have a busy day to-morrow,” growled Tom Bowsline, the -first boatswain’s mate. - -“Meaning them clouds is windy?” answered the steward, with a glance -to leeward. - -“The same,” answered the other, shaking out a reef, and preparing to -batten the tarpaulins. “What dinged fools them fellers on the sloop -of fishin’-ships is! They’ve got their studdin’sails gaffed and the -mizzentops aft of the gangway; an’ if I know a marlinspike from a -martingale, we’re goin’ to have as pretty a blow as ever came out of -the south.” - -And, indeed, it did look to be flying in the face of Providence, for -the mackerel-ships, to the last one, were tugging and straining to -catch the slightest zephyr, with their yard-arms close-hauled and -their poop-decks flush with the fo’c’sle. - -The form of the captain of the cat-boat was now visible on the -stairs leading to the upper deck. It needed but one keen glance in -the direction of the black clouds--no longer strangers, but now -perfectly at home and getting ugly--to determine his course. “Unship -the spinnaker-boom, you dogs, and be quick about it! Luff, you idiot, -luff!” The boatswain’s first mate loved nothing better than to luff, -and he luffed; and the good ship, true to her keel, bore away to -northward, her back scuppers oozing at every joint. - -“That was ez neat a bit of seamanship ez I ever see,” said Tom -Bowsline, taking a huge bite of oakum. “Shiver my timbers! if my -rivets don’t tremble with joy when I see good work.” - -“Douse your gab, and man the taff-rail!” yelled the captain; and Tom -flew to obey him. “Light the top-lights!” - -[Illustration] - -A couple of sailors to whom the trick is a mere bagatelle run nimbly -out on the stern-sprit and execute his order; and none too soon, for -darkness is closing in over the face of the waters, and the clouds -come on apace. - -A rumble of thunder, followed by a blinding flash, betokens that -the squall is at hand. The captain springs adown the poop, and in a -hoarse voice yells out: “Lower the maintop; loosen the shrouds; luff -a little--steady! Cut the main-brace, and clear away the halyards. If -we don’t look alive, we’ll look pretty durn dead in two shakes of a -capstan-bar. All hands abaft for a glass of grog.” - -The wild rush of sailors’ feet, the creaking of ropes, the curses of -those in the rear, together with the hoarse cries of the gulls and -the booming of the thunder, made up a scene that beggars description. -Every trough of the sea was followed by a crest as formidable, and -the salt spray had an indescribable brackish taste like bilge-water -and ginger-ale. - -After the crew had finished their grog they had time to look to -starboard of the port watch, and there they beheld what filled them -with pity. The entire sloop of mackerel-ships lay with their keels up. - -“I knowed they’d catch it if they gaffed their studdin’sails,” said -Tom, as he shifted the quid of oakum. - -The full moon rose suddenly at the exact spot where the sun had set. -The thunder made off, muttering. The cat-boat, close-rigged from -hand-rail to taff-rail, scudded under bare poles, with the churning -motion peculiar to pinnaces, and the crew involuntarily broke into -the chorus of that good old sea-song: - - The wind blows fresh, and our scuppers are astern. - - - - -II - -THE POOR WAS MAD - -A FAIRY SHTORY FOR LITTLE CHILDHER - - -Wance upon a toime the poor was virry poor indade, an’ so they wint -to a rich leddy that was that rich that she had goold finger-nails, -an’ was that beautifil that it ’u’d mek you dopey to luke at her. -An’ the poor asht her would she give thim the parin’s of her goold -finger-nails fer to sell. An’ she said she would that, an’ that ivery -Chuesdeh she did be afther a-parin’ her nails. So of a Chuesdeh the -poor kem an’ they tuke the goold parin’s to a jewel-ery man, an’ he -gev thim good money fer thim. Wasn’t she the koind leddy, childher? -Well, wan day she forgot to pare her nails, an’ so they had nothin’ -to sell. An’ the poor was mad, an’ they wint an’ kilt the leddy -intoirely. An’ whin she was kilt, sorra bit would the nails grow -upon her, an’ they saw they was silly to kill her. So they wint out -to sairch fer a leddy wid silver finger-nails. An’ they found her, -an’ she was that beautifil that her face was all the colors of the -rainbow an’ two more besides. An’ the poor asht her would she give -thim the parin’s of her silver finger-nails fer to sell. An’ she -said that she would that, an’ that ivery Chuesdeh she did be afther -a-parin’ her nails. So of a Chuesdeh the poor kem an’ they tuke the -silver parin’s to the jewel-ery man, an’ he gev thim pretty good -money fer thim, but not nair as good as fer the goold. But he was the -cute jewel-ery man, wasn’t he, childher? Well, wan day she forgot to -pare her nails, an’ so they had nothin’ to sell. An’ the poor was -mad, an’ they wint an’ kilt the leddy intoirely. An’ whin she was -kilt, sorra bit would the nails grow upon her, an’ they saw they was -silly to kill her. So they wint out to sairch for a leddy wid tin -finger-nails. An’ they found her, an’ she was that beautifil that -she would mek you ristless. An’ the poor asht her would she give -thim the parin’s of her tin finger-nails fer to sell. An’ she said -she would that, an’ that ivery Chuesdeh she did be afther a-parin’ -her nails. So of a Chuesdeh the poor kem. An’ did they git the tin -nails, childher? Sure, that’s where y’ are out. They did not, fer the -leddy had lost a finger in a mowin’-machine, an’ she didn’t have tin -finger-nails at arl, at arl--only noine. - -[Illustration] - - - - -III - -A PECULIAR INDUSTRY - - -The sign in front of the dingy little office on a side-street, -through which I was walking, read: - - JO COSE AND JOCK EWLAH - FUNSMITHS - -Being of an inquisitive turn of mind, I went in. A little dried-up -man, who introduced himself as Mr. Cose, greeted me cheerily. He said -that Mr. Ewlah was out at lunch, but he’d be pleased to do what he -could for me. - -“What is the nature of your calling?” asked I. - -“It is you who are calling,” said he, averting his eyes. Then he -assumed the voice and manner of a “lecturer” in a dime museum, and -rattled along as follows: - -“We are in the joke business. Original and second-hand jokes bought -and sold. Old jokes made over as good as new. Good old stand-bys -altered to suit the times. Jokes cleaned and made ready for the -press. We do not press them ourselves. Joke expanders for sale cheap. -Also patent padders for stories--” - -I interrupted the flow of his talk to ask him if there was much -demand for the padders. - -“Young man,” said he, “do you keep up with current literature?” - -Then he went over to a shelf on which stood a long line of bottles -of the size of cod-liver-oil bottles, and taking one down, he said: -“Now, here is Jokoleine, of which we are the sole agents. This will -make a poor joke salable, and is in pretty general use in the city, -although some editors will not buy a joke that smells of it.” - -I noticed a tall, black-haired, Svengalic-looking person in an inner -room, and I asked Mr. Cose who he was. - -“That is our hypnotizer. The most callous editors succumb to his -gaze. Take him with you when you have anything to sell. We rent him -at a low figure, considering how useful he is. He has had a busy -season, and is tired out, but that is what we pay him for. If he -were to die you’d notice a difference in many of the periodicals. -The poorer the material, the better pleased he is to place it. It -flatters his vanity.” - -[Illustration] - -I assured him that I was something of a hypnotist myself, and, -thanking him for his courtesy, was about to come away, when he picked -up what looked like a box of tacks and said: - -“Here are points for pointless jokes. We don’t have much sale for -them. Most persons prefer an application of Jokoleine. A recent -issue of a comic weekly had sixty jokes and but one point, showing -conclusively that points are out of fashion in some editorial rooms. - -“A man came in yesterday,” rattled on the senior member, “and asked -if we bought hand-made jokes, and before we could stop him he said -that by hand-made jokes he meant jokes about servant-girls. We gave -him the address of ‘Punch.’” - -At this point I shook hands with Mr. Cose, and as I left he was -saying: “For a suitable consideration we will guarantee to call -anything a joke that you may bring in, and we will place it without -hypnotic aid or the use of Jokoleine. It has been done before.” - -And as I came away from the sound of his voice, I reflected that it -had. - - - - -IV - -GRIGGS’S MIND - - -The other day I met Griggs on the cars. Griggs is the man with the -mind. Other people have minds, but they’re not like Griggs’s. He -lives in Rutherford, New Jersey, and is, like me, a commuter, and as -neither of us plays cards nor is interested in politics, and as we -have tabooed the weather as a topic, it almost always happens that -when we meet, we, or rather he, falls back on his mind as subject for -conversation. For my part, my daily newspaper would be all-sufficient -for my needs on the way to town; but it pleases Griggs to talk, and -it’s bad for my eyes to read on the cars, so I shut them up and -cultivate the air of listening, the while Griggs discourses. - -I had recently read in the Contributors’ Club of the “Atlantic,” an -article by a woman, who said that the letters of the alphabet seemed -to be variously colored in her mind; that is, her mental picture gave -to one letter a green hue, to another red, and so on. I spoke of -this to Griggs, and he was much interested. He said that the sound -of a cornet was always red to him. I asked him whether it made any -difference who blew it, but Griggs scorns to notice puns, and he -answered: “Not a particle. I don’t pretend to explain it, but it is -so. Likewise, to me the color of scarlet tastes salt, while crimson -is sweet.” - -I opened my eyes and looked at him in amazement. It sounded like -a bit out of “Alice in Wonderland.” Then I remembered that it -was Griggs who was talking, and that he has a mind. When I don’t -understand something about Griggs, I lay it to his mind and think no -more about it. So I shut my eyes again and listened. - -“By the way,” said he, “how does time run in your mind?” - -“Why, I never thought of its running at all, although it passes -quickly enough, for the most part!” - -“But hasn’t it some general direction? Up or down, north or south, -east or west?” - -“Griggs,” said I, “is this your mind?” - -“Yes,” said he. - -“Well, go ahead; fire it off; unfold your kinks!” said I, leaning -back in my seat; “but kindly remember that I have no mind, and if -you can’t put it in words of one syllable, talk slowly so that I can -follow you.” - -He promised to put it as plainly as though he were talking to his -youngest, aged three; and, with this assurance, my cerebrum braced -itself, so to speak, and awaited the onslaught. - -“My idea of the direction of time in all its divisions and -subdivisions is as follows--” - -“Say, Griggs,” said I, “let’s go into the smoker. A little oil of -nicotine always makes my brain work easier.” - -When we were seated in the smoker, and had each lighted a cigar, he -went on: - -“Assuming that I am facing the north, far in the southwest is the -Garden of Eden and the early years of recorded time. Moving eastward -run the centuries, and the years to come and the end of the world are -in the far east.” - -I felt slightly bewizzled, but I gripped the seat in front of me and -said nothing. - -“My mental picture of the months of the year is that January is far -to the north. The months follow in a more or less zigzag, easterly -movement, until we find that July and August have strayed far south. -But the autumn months zigzag back, so that by the time December -sweeps coldly by she is twelve months east of January, and then the -new January starts on a road of similar direction. You still observe -that the current of time sets toward me instead of away from me.” - -What could I do but observe that it did? I had the inside seat, and -Griggs has an insistent way about him, so I generally observe just -when he asks me to, and thus avoid friction. Then, too, I always -feel flattered when Griggs condescends to talk at me and reveal the -wonders of his mind. So I observed heartily, and puffed away at my -cigar, while he continued: - -“The direction of the week-days is rather hazy in my mind--” - -[Illustration] - -I begged him not to feel low-spirited about it--that it would -probably seem clear to him before long; but I don’t think he heard -me, for he went right on: “But it is a somewhat undulatory movement -from west to east, Sundays being on the crest of each wave. Coming -to the hours, I picture them as running, like the famous mouse, -‘down the clock,’ the early day-light being highest. The minutes -and seconds refuse to be marshaled into line, but go ticking on to -eternity helter-skelter, yet none the less inevitably.” - -I rather admired the independence of the minutes and seconds in -refusing to be ordered about even by his mind; but, of course, I -didn’t tell him so. On the contrary, I congratulated him on the -highly poetic way in which he was voicing his sentiments. - -Just then we came into the station, and an acquaintance of his -buttonholed him and lugged him off, for Griggs is quite a favorite, -in spite of his mind. I was sorry, for I had wanted to ask him where -the moments and instants seem bound for in his brain. I did manage, -just as we were leaving the boat at Chambers Street, to tell him that -I was going to be in the Augustan part of the city at noon, and -would be pleased to take him out to lunch, if he ran across me; but -he must have mistaken the month, as I ate my luncheon alone. I dare -say he understood me to say January, and wandered all over Harlem -looking for me. How unpleasant it must be to have a mind! - - - - -V - -THE SIGNALS OF GRIGGS - - -You may remember Griggs as the man who had a mind. At the time that -I wrote about that useful member of his make-up he was living out in -New Jersey; but he was finally brought to see the error of his ways, -and took the top flat in a nine-story house without an elevator, ’way -up-town. - -The other evening I went to call on the Griggses. He had not yet -come home, but his wife let me in and helped me to a sofa to recover -from the effects of my climb. I have been up the Matterhorn, Mont -Blanc, and Popocatepetl, but I never felt so exhausted as I did after -walking up those nine frightful flights. And Mrs. Griggs told me that -she thought nothing of running up- and down-stairs a dozen times a -day, which was a sad commentary on her truthfulness. - -After I was there a few minutes, trying to get used to the notes -of two lusty and country-bred children (offspring of Mr. and Mrs. -Griggs), there came a feeble and dejected ring at the front-door -bell. Mrs. Griggs hastened to the kitchen,--they do not keep a -servant (that was their trouble in New Jersey, but now they don’t -want to),--and after pressing the electric button that opened the -front door, she said: “That’s poor Mr. Griggs. He must be feeling bad -to-night, and I must put the children to bed before he gets up, as he -is too nervous to stand their noise.” - -I was somewhat astonished, but she ripped the clothes off of her buds -of promise and popped them into bed with a skill and rapidity that -would have secured her a position on the vaudeville stage. After they -were covered up she returned to me. Of course Mr. Griggs had not yet -arrived, and I asked her how she knew he was tired. - -[Illustration] - -“Why, we have a code of signals. Mr. Griggs invented them. When he -has done well down-town, he taps out a merry peal on the bell, and -then I tell the children to greet him at the hall door and prepare -for a romp. When the bell rings sharply I know that he is in no humor -for fun, but will tolerate the children if they are quiet. But when -he rings slowly and faintly, as he did to-night, I always put the -dears to bed, as I know he has had bad luck and is worn out.” - -As she spoke, Griggs opened the hall door and staggered in, weak -from his superhuman climb and worn out from his day’s work. I said: -“Good-by, old man; I’ll call some day when you’re going to give the -bell the glad hand. You seem cozily situated.” And then I came down -in the dumb-waiter, although I suppose it was risky. - -What a great thing is an electric bell! But how much greater is an -inventive mind like that of Griggs. - - - - -VI - -À LA SHERLOCK HOLMES - - -Jones and I recently had occasion to take a drive of four or five -miles in upper Connecticut. We were met at the station by Farmer -Phelps, who soon had us snugly wrapped in robes and speeding over -the frozen highway in a sleigh. It was bitter cold weather--the -thermometer reading 3° above zero. We had come up from Philadelphia, -and to us such extreme cold was a novelty, which is all we could say -for it. - -As we rode along, Jones fell to talking about Conan Doyle’s detective -stories, of which we were both great admirers--the more so as Doyle -has declared Philadelphia to be the greatest American city. It turned -out that Mr. Phelps was familiar with the “‘Meemoirs’ of Sherlock -Holmes,” and he thought there was some “pretty slick reasonin’” in -it. “My girl,” said he, “got the book out er the library an’ read it -aout laoud to my woman an’ me. But of course this Doyle had it all -cut an’ dried afore he writ it. He worked backwards an’ kivered up -his tracks, an’ then started afresh, an’ it seems more wonderful to -the reader than it reely is.” - -“I don’t know,” said Jones; “I’ve done a little in the observation -line since I began to read him, and it’s astonishing how much a man -can learn from inanimate objects, if he uses his eyes and his brain -to good purpose. I rarely make a mistake.” - -Just then we drove past an outbuilding. The door of it was shut. In -front of it, in a straight row and equidistant from each other, lay -seven cakes of ice, thawed out of a water-pan. - -“There,” said Jones; “what do we gather from those seven cakes of ice -and that closed door?” - -I gave it up. - -Mr. Phelps said nothing. - -Jones waited impressively a moment, and then said quite glibly: “The -man who lives there keeps a flock of twelve hens--not Leghorns, but -probably Plymouth Rocks or some Asiatic variety. He attends to them -himself, and has good success with them, although this is the seventh -day of extremely cold weather.” - -I gazed at him in admiration. - -Mr. Phelps said nothing. - -“How do you make it all out, Jones?” said I. - -“Well, those cakes of ice were evidently formed in a hens’ -drinking-pan. They are solid. The water froze a little all day long, -and froze solid in the night. It was thawed out in the morning and -left lying there, and the pan was refilled. There are seven cakes of -ice; therefore there has been a week of very cold weather. They are -side by side: from this we gather that it was a methodical man who -attended to them; evidently no hireling, but the goodman himself. -Methodical in little things, methodical in greater ones; and method -spells success with hens. The thickness of the ice also proves that -comparatively little water was drunk; consequently he keeps a small -flock. Twelve is the model number among advanced poultrymen, and -he is evidently one. Then, the clearness of the ice shows that the -hens are not excitable Leghorns, but fowl of a more sluggish kind, -although whether Plymouth Rocks or Brahmas or Langshans, I can’t say. -Leghorns are so wild that they are apt to stampede through the water -and roil it. The closed door shows he has the good sense to keep them -shut up in cold weather. - -[Illustration] - -“To sum up, then, this wide-awake poultryman has had wonderful -success, in spite of a week of exceptionally cold weather, from his -flock of a dozen hens of some large breed. How’s that, Mr. Phelps? -Isn’t it almost equal to Doyle?” - -“Yes; but not accordin’ to Hoyle, ez ye might say,” said he. “Your -reasonin’ is good, but it ain’t quite borne aout by the fac’s. -In the fust place, this is the fust reel cold day we’ve hed this -winter. Secon’ly, they ain’t no boss to the place, fer she’s a woman. -Thirdly, my haouse is the nex’ one to this, an’ my boy an’ hers hez -be’n makin’ those ice-cakes fer fun in some old cream-pans. Don’t -take long to freeze solid in this weather. An’, las’ly, it ain’t a -hen-haouse, but an ice-haouse.” - -The sun rode with unusual quietness through the heavens. We heard no -song of bird. The winds were whist. All nature was silent. - -So was Jones. - - - - -VII - -MY SPANISH PARROT - - -I have two maiden aunts living down in Maine, on the edge of the -woods. Their father was a deaf-and-dumb woodsman, and their mother -died when they were small, and they hardly see a soul from one year’s -end to the other. The consequence is, they’re the simplest, dearest -old creatures one ever saw. They don’t know what evil means. They -pass their days knitting and working in their garden. The quarterly -visits of the itinerant preacher who deals out the gospel in that -region, and my occasional trips up there, constitute the only chances -they have of mingling with the outside world, and they’re as happy -and unsophisticated as birds. - -A year ago I took up a parrot that I’d bought of a sailor. The bird -had a cold when I got it, and wasn’t saying a word; but the sailor -vouched for its character, and I thought it would be a novelty and -company for the old ladies, so I took it along. They’d never seen a -parrot before, and they couldn’t thank me enough. I told them that -when it got over its cold it would talk; and then it occurred to me -that as the sailor of which I bought it was a Spaniard, the bird -would be likely to speak that tongue. “So you’ll be able to learn -Spanish,” said I; and they were mightily pleased at the notion. - -In about two months I received a letter from Aunt Linda, saying that -the bird was the greatest company in the world, and they didn’t know -what they’d do without him. “And,” wrote my aunt, “the bird is a -great talker of Spanish, and we have learned much of that strange -tongue.” - -I was amused at the idea of those maiden aunts of mine talking -Spanish, and the next week, being in the vicinity, I took the stage -over to where they live, about fifteen miles from any railroad. - -They saw me alight, and came out to meet me--two pretty, sweet, -prim-looking old ladies. I kissed them both heartily, and then Aunt -Linda said, in her gentle voice: “I’m so glad you’ve come, you dear -old blankety-blank blank blank boy. That’s Spanish.” - -I nearly fell off my perch, but I managed to keep a straight -face, and then dear Aunt Jane said softly and proudly: “Why -the blankety-blank blank don’t you come to see us oftener, you -blankety-blank blank boy?” - -It made my blood run cold to hear the oaths those innocent creatures -poured out on me all day. The parrot followed me around, and perked -his head on one side, as much as to say, “Aren’t they apt pupils?” -but he never opened his mouth to talk--and there really wasn’t any -need. They kept me supplied with conversation on their quiet doings, -all interlarded with their new-found “Spanish,” until it was time to -go to bed. - -I hadn’t the heart to tell them that the tongue in which they were so -fluent was not Spanish; and as their hearts were as pure as a baby’s, -and they saw no one, I said nothing; but when I left, early next -morning, I was careful to bid them good-by out of ear-shot of the -stage-coach, and it’s lucky I did, for the torrent of billingsgate -that they poured fondly over me would have caused the occupants of -the coach to think entirely unwarranted things of the old ladies. - -[Illustration] - -As I climbed up to the seat by the driver, a man got out of the -stage and walked up to the house. - -“Good heavens! who’s that?” I asked of the driver. - -“Thet,” said he, “is the Methody preacher makin’ his quarterly visit -to th’ old ladies.” - - - - -VIII - -“TO MEET MR. CAVENDISH” - - -The card read, “To meet Mr. Cavendish.” I had not been in Boston -long, and I must confess to a poor head for names, so I had no idea -who Mr. Cavendish was or what he had done, but as he was to be at -Mrs. Emerson’s, I knew he had done something. - -There were only five guests there, besides Mr. Cavendish, when I -arrived, and after we were introduced it so happened that Cavendish -and I found ourselves talking together. - -He looked tired, so I said as a starter: “Don’t you find your work -exhausting?” I thought I’d play “twenty questions” with him, and -determine what he had done. - -“Sometimes it is, very. The expenditure of force fairly makes my -throat ache.” - -It was easy. He was probably a Wagnerian singer. - -“I suppose you have to be very careful about your throat.” - -“Why, no,” he said; “I never think about my throat.” - -He wasn’t a singer. - -“Well, you’re in love with your art.” - -He smiled. “Yes, I’m in love with it.” - -I was in despair. What was he? - -But now I would nail him. “What are your methods of work, Mr. -Cavendish?” - -“Oh, I don’t spend much time in over-elaboration. My brush-strokes -are very broad.” - -Ah, a painter! “Exactly,” I said. “You like a free hand.” - -He said: “After all, the words are everything.” - -Ah, a writer! “Yes,” said I; “your words are everything to the -public.” - -“I hope so. I try to make them so,” he said modestly. - -Now I felt easier, and proceeded to praise him specifically. - -“Which do you like best--to make your public laugh or cry? or do you -aim to instruct it?” - -“It is easy to make persons laugh, so I suppose I like rather to -bring them to tears. As for instruction, there are those who say it -is not our province to instruct.” - -“But you do all three, Mr. Cavendish.” - -He bowed as if he thought I had hit it. - -I said: “To those who are familiar with your work there is something -that makes you just the man to pick up for a quarter of an hour.” - -His blank expression showed that I had made some mistake. He is a -tall, portly man, and he seemed alarmed at the prospect of being -picked up. A fall would be serious. - -“I don’t quite get your meaning, but I suppose you refer to the men -about town who stray in for a few minutes.” - -It seemed a queer way to express it, but I replied: “Oh, yes; just -to browse. You repay browsing, Mr. Cavendish.” - -He smiled reminiscently. “Speaking of browsing, when I was told to -go ahead on Richelieu, I browsed a long time in the British Museum -getting up data.” - -[Illustration] - -What, a painter, after all? I forgot all else he had said, and told -him I thought he was as happy as Sargent or Whistler. - -“Yes; I don’t let little things worry me much. Sometimes the paint -gives out at a critical time in a small town.” - -Good heaven! Why should the paint give out in a small town at a -critical time? _Was_ he a painter, after all? Could he be a traveling -sign-painter? - -“Does it bother you to work up in the air?” - -“That’s an original way of putting it,” said he, with a genial laugh. -“To play to the grand stand, as it were. Oh, no; a man must do more -or less of that to succeed.” - -I was shocked. “You surely don’t believe in desecrating nature! -Sermons in stones, if you will, but not sermons _on_ stones. You -wouldn’t letter the Palisades if you had a chance, would you?” - -He edged away from me, and said: - -“Oh, no, I wouldn’t letter the Palisades, although I dare say my man -of affairs would be glad to.” - -Then I gave up. His man of affairs! He must be a gentleman of leisure -to have a man of affairs. - -And then up came Ticknor Fields, the dramatic critic, and said: “How -do you do, Mr. Cavendish? Let me congratulate you upon your success -as Richelieu. At last a successor to Booth has been found.” - -I went and drank a glass of iced water. My throat was dry. - - - - -IX - -INSTINCT SUPPLIED TO HENS - - -A company has just been formed in New Jersey for the purpose of -supplying instinct to hens. Such well-known farmers as Frank R. -Stockton, Russell Sage, and Bishop Potter are stockholders in it, and -if filling a long-felt want is all that is needed, the success of the -company is already assured. - -No one who has ever dabbled in hens needs to be told that the -gallinaceous birds have no instinct whatever. Some have blind luck, -but a hen with instincts in good working order would be an anomaly. - -I visited Mr. Stockton at his extensive farm in New Jersey in -order to find out what I could about the project. I found him in -a frock-coat and overalls, training a squash-vine up a maple-tree. -He greeted me cordially, and asked me to come and see his -tomato-trenches. He also showed me quite an extensive area covered -with birch poles for his radishes to climb on. He was very urbane, -and willingly told me all about the company. - -“No man,” said he, sitting down on one of his largest cucumbers and -motioning me to a seat on another, “who has ever kept hens but has -wondered why they were not provided with a good commonsense brand of -instinct. No animal needs instinct more than a hen. It was to supply -this need that our company was formed. You know that if you put a -hen on cobblestones, she will brood over them with all the devotion -possible, and if at the end of three weeks you put a baby chicken -under her, her--what you might term false instinct--will cause her to -cluck and call to the cobble to come forth and follow her.” - -I admitted the force of his remark, because when a boy I had once -set a hen on some green apples, and she had covered them without a -murmur for a week, when I took pity on her and replaced them with -real eggs. The following day, not liking the feeling of the eggs, -she left them, and gathering together the apples that I had left -scattered upon the barn floor, she sat on them again. - -[Illustration] - -I told this experience to Mr. Stockton, and he said: “If she’d had a -few of our instinct-powders before sitting she would have repudiated -the fraud at once. Is it instinct, or the lack of it,” he continued, -“that makes a heavy Light Brahma plant a ponderous and feathered foot -upon her offspring and listen calmly to their expiring peeps? It’s -lack of it; she needs one of our powders.” - -I made a mental calculation of the number of chickens that I had seen -sacrificed in that way by motherly and good-natured hens who would -have felt hurt if you had told them that they did not know how to -bring up their young. - -We had risen, and were now walking as we talked, and we soon came to -Mr. Stockton’s corn-trellises. He is a great believer in climbing, -and it was a pretty sight to see his corn waving in the breeze that -blew through the trellis netting. - -“Poultry-raising would be an unmixed joy,” said he, as he picked a -turnip and offered it to me, “if a fellow wasn’t constantly running -up against this lack of instinct on the part of the fowls. If a hen -had instinct she’d know enough to keep her mouth shut when she laid -an egg; but as it is, she cackles away like a woman with a secret, -and before she knows it her egg is on the way to the table. But the -aim of our company will be to furnish each hen with a sufficient -amount of instinct to render her profitable to her master. When she -has that instinct she will not sit on her nest long after her eggs -have been removed; she will not walk off through the long grass, -calling to her brood to follow her, when the chicks have all been -swallowed by the treacherous domestic cat; and she will not do the -thousand and one things that any hen, no matter what her breed or -breeding, will do, as it is.” - -I told Mr. Stockton, as I shook hands with him in parting, that there -was not a farmer, either amateur or professional, in the whole Union, -who would not be glad to purchase a package of his instinct-powders; -and as I left the genial granger, he was putting cushions under his -watermelons so that they would not get bruised by contact with the -earth. - - - - -X - -A SPRING IDYL - - -It was a bright morning in early spring--one of the delightful, -languorous days that take the sap out of one and make the life of -the tramp seem blissful. The maples were just putting forth their -delicate crimson leaves, and a warm south wind bore into the city the -smell of fresh earth. Ah, what longings were stirred up in the breast -of Key, Pattit & Company’s office-boy, country-bred, but pent up in -the city for a twelvemonth past! Oh, for one day in the country! He -would follow the winding trout-stream from its source in Perkins’s -meadow until it emptied into the Naugatuck, and with angleworms dug -from the famous spot north of the barn he would lure the coy trout -from their shaded lurking-places. - -[Illustration] - -Hark! what was that? The “drowsy tinkling” of a cow-bell--of -cow-bells. What sweet music! It drove him wild with longing, as -louder and ever louder, and nearer and yet nearer, came the sound of -bells. Ah, he could see Jerry, the hired man, driving the cows up the -grassy lane. As usual, Betty, the Jersey, was in the lead. And there -was greedy Daisy, lingering to crop the rich grass that grew along -the lane until Jerry’s “Whe-e-y, whe-e-y!” should bid her hurry on. -And there were the twin heifers, Nanny and Fanny, perfectly matched -Holsteins. And in the rear, plodding on with dignity and fatness, was -Diana, the great Devon. - -How the bells jangled! Surely it was not seeming, but actuality. They -were right outside on the street. - -Impulsively he ran to the office window and looked down with boyish -anticipation. - -“Jingle-jangle!” went the bells. “Rha-ags, rha-ags, any ol’ rha-ags!” -shouted the ragman. - - - - -XI - -AN INVERTED SPRING IDYL - - -It was a bright morning in the early spring, a time to call forth -poetic fancies in the mind of the most prosaic; and Jack was more -imaginative than many boys. He had been spending the winter at his -uncle’s in the country, and these warm, languorous days had made him -long for New York once more. He sat astride of a maple-branch, on -which the crimson leaves were just peeping out. Ah me, what would -he not give to be back in the city! He leaned back against the -tree-trunk and gave himself over to day-dreams. - -The boys on his block were spinning tops. Oh, for a good hard city -pavement for just five minutes, that he might do the same. Through -the hazy air came the anything but drowsy tinklings of the grip-men’s -gongs; a scissors-grinder blew his horn; and the exciting clang -of an ambulance-gong split the air as the ambulance rattled over -the Belgian blocks. Oh, for an hour of the dear city in the happy -springtime! To hear once more the piano-organ and the harp, and the -thousand delightful sounds that were so lamentably absent from the -country! - -[Illustration] - -What was that? Did he hear bells? Yes, surely it was the ragman. He -had never realized how he loved him. He could see the fellow, lean -and ragged and bent, pushing his cart, while from his lips came the -cry of “Rha-ags! rha-ags!” and from the sagging cord the sweet bells -jingled. Yes, surely it was the bells. All thought of the lonely -country faded away, and he was once more home; the boys were just -around the corner, and the bells were coming nearer. - -Their tintinnabulations grew so loud that he waked from his day-dream -and saw--not a familiar and beloved city sight, but a tiresome herd -of cows coming home to be milked, their harsh bells jangling out of -tune. - - - - -XII - -AT THE CHESTNUTS’ DINNER - - -The Hoary Chestnuts were assembling for their annual Christmas -dinner. Sweet music was discoursed by the chestnut bell, and, -despite their age and many infirmities, the members wore a look of -gaiety suitable to so festive an occasion. There was not a young -joke among them, excepting a very few special jokes like the Trolley -variety and the Cuban War joke, and these, from overwork, were as -superannuated-looking as the oldest there. Not a well-known joke but -would come. Of course they would all live until the next dinner, for -an old joke is immortal; but this yearly gathering was their only -chance to meet and shake hands generally, as during the rest of the -year they would be scattered through the columns of the dailies and -the comic weeklies, and their meetings would be chance ones. - -The hearty old Mother-in-law joke chatted gaily with that -venerable old lady, I-will-be-a-sister-to-you. The adorable twins, -Ballet-girl’s-age and Ballet-girl’s-scant-raiment, were the center of -a group made up of the haughty Rich-plumber, the Rejected-manuscript, -the Slow-messenger-boy, the Sleeping-watchman, and a good score of -Boarding-house jokes. The one called Boarding-house-coffee felt a -little stirred up at the false report that he was losing ground, -and he had an unsettled look upon his swarthy and senile features. -The idea was absurd on the face of it, for undoubtedly he would -be printed in every section of the country before the month was -out, as he had been any month for decades past. The Summer jokes, -including, of course, the star jest, the Summer-girl, looked -comparatively fresh, as they were not in use the year round, like -Her-father’s-foot, for instance, or that other member of the same -family, the Chicago-girl’s-foot, that year in and year out is used as -a laugh-producer. - -[Illustration] - -The Boston jokes, icy and reserved, sat apart from the rest, and -glared at each other in a near-sighted way. The Freak jokes, on the -contrary, were hail-fellow-well-met with every one, and their vulgar -laughter could be heard everywhere. - -A good deal of sympathy was expressed for Actor-walking-home, for -he was so feeble that he had to be helped across the room by Weary -Wraggles. The Tramps were out in force. Tickets to the dinner were -five dollars, and it was rumored that Dusty Rhodes had worked his way -in, but upon reflection the idea will be seen to be preposterous. - -There was a strong smell of cloves in the air when the door opened -for the entrance of old Between-the-acts. He came arm in arm with -that other favorite, Detained-at-the-lodge. - -The Farmer jokes came in a little late. Their chores had detained -them. But their entrance was hailed with delight by a body of -paragraphers who sat in the gallery as representatives of the press, -and who had paid many a bill, thanks to the Farmers. - -A joke, rather square-cut and with wheels in his head, came in with a -“Where is she?” look on his dial, and as soon as he said, “I expected -to meter here,” he was recognized as Big-gas-bill. The Wheel jokes -were conspicuous by their absence. This was explained on the ground -that they were not yet old enough to become Hoary Chestnuts, and, as -a relentless paragrapher remarked, “They were tired, anyhow.” - -The last ones to arrive were the Cannibal and Tough-missionary; and -the chairman of the reception committee having assigned them seats at -opposite ends of the table, all sat down, and the annual balloting to -determine what had been the most popular joke of the year was begun. - -Many voted for themselves, notably the Boston-bean joke and the -Rich-plumber; but when the votes were counted, the successful person -proved to be neither of these, but a hideously homely woman with a -perpetual smirk upon her face. - -“Who’s she?” asked one paragrapher of another. - -“You don’t know her? Why, that’s -My-face-is-my-fortune-then-you-must-be-dead-broke.” - -And they crowned her with laurel as unquestionably the most -perennially popular joke. - - - - -XIII - -THE ROUGH WORDS SOCIETY - - -The other day I passed a house on which there was a sign that read, -“The Rough Words Society.” Curious to know what it could mean, I -retraced my steps, and met a millionaire whom I had long admired -from a distance--he was so rich--just leaving the door. It was a -presumptuous thing to do, but I said, “How do you do, sir?” in my -best manner. He bowed with some urbanity, and I ventured to ask him -whether he could tell me anything about the society whose rooms he -had just left. “I thought maybe you were president, sir, or one of -the directors.” - -“No; I am a subscriber. If you care to hear about it, come down-town -with me, as I am in a hurry,” he replied. - -A minute later I was actually in a cab with a millionaire! My heart -beat hard, but I kept my ears open, and he said: - -“You see, a multi-millionaire like myself seldom meets the frank -side of people. They are afraid of offending me,” he observed, as we -went on our way. “My pastor hangs on my words, my clerks speak in -subdued tones, my servants hardly dare address me; and yet, I was -once a barefoot boy, and was considered a scapegrace by the village -people who to-day bow ceremoniously when I chance to go back to my -native place. Well, such sycophancy becomes wearing, and I often used -to wish that some one would tell me I lied, or some other wholesome -truth.” - -I shook my head deprecatingly, whereat he seemed annoyed, but went -on: “One day I was passing through the street where you met me, and I -saw the sign, and, like yours, my curiosity was excited, and I went -in. I found a room somewhat like a telegraph-office in appearance. A -very downright, uncompromising-looking man sat at a roll-top desk, -while ranged against the wall were several men of exceedingly bluff -appearance. ‘Can you tell me what the aims of your society are?’ I -asked the man. ‘Certainly I can,’ said he. ‘I wouldn’t be here if -I couldn’t.’ Not a cringe, you see. It was refreshing. ‘Well, will -you?’ ‘It depends,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know for? Are you a -reporter, or do you want to subscribe?’ - -[Illustration] - -“I suddenly divined the purpose of the society, and I said: ‘I -want to subscribe. What are your terms?’ ‘A hundred dollars for -a fifteen-minute séance, one hundred and fifty dollars for a -half-hour, and two hundred dollars for a full hour.’ I handed him a -hundred-dollar bill and said: ‘Explain.’ ‘Jack,’ said he, addressing -a bullet-headed man who was sitting with his feet up on the railing -that divided the room into two parts, ‘give this man a piece of -your mind.’ Jack ran through a directory of millionaires containing -photographs and short biographical sketches, and when he had found -mine he sailed in and talked as plainly as any one could. Didn’t say -a word that wasn’t true; but he didn’t mince his language, and he -was no more abashed by my position in the world than if I’d still -been a barefoot boy. It did me good. He overhauled many of my acts -during the last twenty years, and talked to me like a Dutch uncle. -Refreshed? Why, a Turkish bath is not in it for comfort! After he’d -finished, the manager said I could have an extra in the way of a -little billingsgate if I cared to; but, if I was born poor, I have -always had gentlemanly instincts, and so I told him I guessed not. - -“As I came away, he said: ‘Glad to have you call any time that you -feel the need of a few plain truths. We have a minister who says what -he thinks in a very trenchant way, and I’m sure you’d be glad to let -him give you a raking over. Here’s one of our cards. Drop in any -time you’re passing. If, for any reason, you are not able to come, -we can send a man to take up his abode in your house, or to give you -half-hour talks from the shoulder, and you can have a monthly account -with us. Say a good word for us to any of your plutocratic friends -who are tired of sycophancy. Good day, old man.’” - -I was aghast at what he had told me, and I said: “I wonder at his -temerity!” - -“Why,” said the millionaire, “I love him for it! After a directors’ -meeting, when I have been kotowed to until my gorge rises, I just -drop in there, and they tell me unpleasant truths about myself with -the utmost freedom,--you see, they keep posted about me,--and I come -out feeling a hundred per cent. better. Well, here’s my office. Good -day, young man.” - -“Good day, sir, and thank you for letting me ride with you.” - -He slammed the door as if vexed, and as he approached the door of his -office a negro ran to open it, and two office-boys took his coat and -hat, and I envied the great man from the bottom of my heart. - - - - -XIV - -A NEW USE FOR HORSES - - -I met Scott Bindley the other day. Scott is a great schemer. I think -he must be related on his mother’s side to Colonel Sellers. At any -rate, there isn’t a day in the year that he doesn’t think of some -idea that should interest capital, although capital, somehow, fails -to become interested. As soon as he saw me he said: - -“Got a great scheme. Small fortune in it for the right parties.” - -“What is it?” I asked. - -“Come into some cheap lunch-place, and I’ll blow myself off to a meal -and give you the particulars.” - -So it came to pass that we were soon seated in a restaurant which, -if cheap, is clean--a combination rarer than need be. - -“You’ve probably noticed that the more automobiles there are in use, -the more breakdowns there are.” - -I could but admit that it was so. - -“Well, what is more useless than a broken-down motor-wagon?” - -I would have suggested “Two,” but Bindley hates warmed-up jokes, so I -refrained and told him that I gave it up. - -“It isn’t a conundrum,” said he, irritably. “Nothing in the world -is more useless than a broken-down motor. There are some vehicles -of a box-like pattern that can be used as hen-houses when they have -outlived their initial usefulness, but who wants a hen-house on Fifth -Avenue, corner of Twenty-fifth Street, or any other place where a -motor vehicle gives out? The more I thought this over, the more I -felt that something was needed to make a disabled automobile of some -use, and I saw that the man who would supply that something could -make money hand over fist. So I devoted a great deal of time to the -subject, and at last I hit it. Horses.” - -“Horses what?” said I. - -[Illustration] - -“Why, horses to supply the motive power. Horses are getting to be -a drug in the market, and can be bought dirt-cheap. That being the -case, I am going to interest capitalists in the scheme, and then we -will buy up a lot of horses and distribute them at different points -in the city. Then, when a man is out in his automobile and breaks -down, he will telephone to the nearest station and get a horse. This -can easily be hitched to the motor by a contrivance that I intend -to patent, and then the horse can drag the wagon to the nearest -power-house, where it can be restocked with electricity, or gas, -or naphtha, or whatever is wanted. Isn’t it a great scheme? Why, -sir, I can see in the future the plan enlarged so that people will -always take a horse along with them when they go a-motoring, and, if -anything happens, there they are with the good old horse handy. Talk -about the horseless age! Why, horses are just entering upon a new -sphere of usefulness.” - -I opened my mouth to speak, but he went on: “I tell you that if I can -get the holders of automobile stock to coöperate with me I’ll stop -eating at places like this.” - -A look of such sweet content overspread his features that I told him -to put me down for ten shares as soon as his company was organized. -That was a month ago, and I haven’t gotten my stock yet. But motors -are becoming stalled every day. - - - - -XV - -A CALCULATING BORE - - -My friend Bings is one of those habitual calculators--one of the -kind that says if all the teeth that have been extracted since the -first dentist began business were to be used for paving purposes in -Hades, the good-resolutions contractor would be out of a job for ten -thousand years. He thinks in numbers, and if he were a minister he -would get all his texts from the same source. - -The other day he saw me first on a ferry-boat, and immediately -buttonholed me. Said he: “How sad it is to think that so much labor -goes for naught!” - -I knew that I was in for one of his calculations; but I also knew -that it would be useless to try to head him off. - -He stroked his beard, and said, with an imitation of thoughtfulness: - -“Every day in this Empire State one million human beings go to bed -tired because you and I and the rest leave butter on our plates and -don’t eat our crusts.” - -[Illustration] - -I told him that I was astonished, but that he would have to elucidate. - -“The farmers sow 8,000,000 bushels of useless grain,--grain that -eventually goes out to sea on the refuse-scows,--they milk 50,000 -cows to no other purpose than to produce sour or spilled milk, -they allow their valuable hens to lay 1,654,800,001 eggs that will -serve no better purpose than to spatter some would-be Booth or lie -neglected in some out-of-the-way corner, while their wives are making -1,008,983 pounds of butter that will be left on the edges of plates -and thrown into the refuse-pail. If they didn’t sow the useless -grain, or fuss over the hens that lay the unused eggs, or draw the -milk that is destined to sour, or make the butter that is to ornament -the edges of the china disks, they would be able to go to bed merely -healthily tired instead of overworked, and fewer farmers would commit -suicide, and fewer farmers’ wives would go insane.” - -His eyes gleamed, and I knew that, as he would put it, his pulse was -going so fast that if it were revolutions of a locomotive-wheel it -would take only so long to go somewhere. - -“And what is your remedy for all this?” asked I, with becoming, if -mock, interest. - -“Let us help ourselves to no more than we want at table, buy our eggs -a week earlier, drink our milk the day before, eat our bread before -it is too dry, and in six months’ time there will be a reduced State -death-rate, more vacancies in the insane asylums, 1,456,608 rosy -cheeks where to-day there are that many pale ones--” - -Just then the ferry-boat’s gates were lifted, and as we went our -several ways, in the hurry that is characteristic of 7,098,111 -Americans out of eight millions, I thought that, if all the brains of -all the arithmetical cranks were used in place of wood-pulp to make -into paper, we writers would get our pads for nothing. - - - - -XVI - -AN URBAN GAME - - -A game that is much played in hot weather by persons who are addicted -to the department-store habit is called “Where can I find it?” It -is played by means of counters, and its duration is often a whole -morning in length. To the looker-on it is much like golf, it seems so -aimless; and it is aimless, but it has the advantages over golf that -it can be played in the city and does not necessitate the services of -a caddy. Over a score take a hand in it from first to last, but only -one is “it,” and she or he displays the only activity necessary to -the game. Only those who are of tough build should undertake to play -it on a hot day, as it is extremely debilitating. - -To make the game long and interesting, you should enter the store and -ask for something a little unusual that you may have seen advertised -somewhere. For instance, you go to the glove counter and ask for a -preparation for making soup, called “Soupina.” I am not advertising -anything, as the name is fictitious, but it will serve to illustrate -my meaning. The particular embodiment of haughtiness at the glove -counter will think that you mean some kind of soap, and will frigidly -direct you to the perfumery department, “pillar No. 8.” You go there -simply because it is your move, and you repeat your inquiry, adding -that you think it’s put up in bottles. - -“Bottled goods,” is the quick rejoinder, “fourth floor.” - -The elevator bears you to the grocery department, and you ask for -“bottled goods.” - -“Pillar 20.” - -[Illustration] - -At pillar No. 20 you are made to realize what a poor worm you are, -and you turn to pillar 10, as requested, that being the canned-goods -department. That clerk will undoubtedly misunderstand your order -and will direct you to the basement, “pillar 15.” You hurry down in -the elevator, and come face to face with the mouse-trap counter. -How you go from ladies’ underwear to carpets, to furniture, to the -telegraph-office, to the dental parlors, to the menagerie, to the -restaurant, to the lace goods, to every department known to a modern -city under one roof, you can best find out for yourself, but of one -thing you may be sure--you will never find “Soupina.” - -At last, dazed and heated and leg-weary, you find yourself in the -oath-registering room. This is a little room that is in every -well-equipped department-store, and fills a long-felt want, for all -shoppers, at one time or another, wish to register an oath. Whether -you register or not, the game is now over, and you have lost; there -is no possibility of winning. And yet, so fascinating is the sport -that as soon as you have recovered the use of your muscles you will -be eager to play again. - - - - -XVII - -“DE GUSTIBUS” - - -It was on one of the cannibal islands, and a family of cannibals -were discussing the pleasures of the table on their front piazza -while they waited for dinner to be announced. Their eldest daughter, -a slim, acidulous-looking girl, just home from boarding-school, and -full of fads and “isms,” had said that, for her part, she did not -care for human flesh at all, and was of the opinion that pigs or -lambs, or even cows, would make just as good eating as the tenderest -enemy ever captured or the juiciest missionary ever broiled. - -“How disgusting!” said her brother, a lusty young cannibal who had -once eaten two Salvation Army lassies at a sitting. “Really, if you -get such unpleasant notions at school, it would be better for you to -stay at home. My gorge rises at the idea. Ugh!” - -“Papa,” said dear little kinky-haired E. Taman, the peacemaker of the -family, changing the subject, “why are missionaries better eating -than our neighbors and enemies?” - -“Probably because they are apt to be cereal-eaters,” said her father, -the cannibal chief; “although one of the most delicious missionaries -I ever tasted was a Boston lady who had been raised on beans. She was -a Unitarian. Your Unitarians generally make good eating. There’s a -good deal of the milk of human kindness in them, and that makes them -excellent roasters. Now, you take a hard-shell Baptist, and you might -as well eat a ‘shore dinner’ at once. They need a heap of steaming, -and they’re apt to be watery when all’s said and done. But it must be -confessed they have more taste than a wishy-washy agnostic.” - -[Illustration] - -“I think the most unsatisfactory of the lot,” said his wife, “is -your Presbyterian. He’s pretty sure to be dry and gnarly, and good -for nothing but fricasseeing. But I think that for all-round use, -although they haven’t the delicacy of the Unitarian, the Methodist is -what you might call the Plymouth Rock of missionaries. He’s generally -fat, and he hasn’t danced himself dry, and he’s good for a pot-roast -or any old thing. By the way, we’re going to have one to-day. I must -go and tell the cook to baste him well.” - -The old grandfather, who had hitherto taken no part in the -conversation, said at this point: “Well, as you know, in my day I -have been something of an epicure, and I have tasted every variety -of dish known to cannibals. I don’t care for fresh-killed meat, no -matter of what denomination it is, and while I don’t wish to be -considered a sectarian, yet I do think that if you want a dish that -is capable of a good deal of trimming and fancy fixings’ get hold -of an Episcopal missionary; and, to me, the chief beauty of the -Episcopalian is that he’s apt to be a little high.” - - - - -XVIII - -“BUFFUM’S BUSTLESS BUFFERS” - - -I was looking at a rather startling picture in the morning paper -of a man who had fallen from a seventh-story window and had been -instantly killed. The man in the seat next to me--we were on the -elevated--said: “I’ll do away with all those accidents soon.” - -I turned and looked at him. He was a lean-faced, hollow-eyed man, -full of nervous starts, and quick of speech. - -“What do you mean?” asked I, somewhat puzzled. - -“Oh, nothing; oh, nothing at all,” he replied, as if sorry he had -spoken. “I do not wish to be laughed at. I am no Keely motor man to -be laughed at. I spoke without thought.” - -I fancied there was a story in him, and so I drew him out, and he -said in short, quick sentences, but in so low a tone that I had to -strain my ears to hear him: - -“I am Burgess Buffum, the inventor of Buffum’s Bustless Buffers.” - -He paused with rhetorical effect, and nodded and blinked his eyes; -and I, duly impressed, asked him what the buffers were supposed to -buff. - -[Illustration] - -“Children at open windows. Painters on scaffolds. Panic-stricken -flyers from fires. Mountain-climbers. In fact, all persons whose -business or duty or pleasure carries them to unsafe heights. My -buffers are filled with air, and you can’t bust ’em. Child can fill -’em. Foot-pump, puff, puff, puff, and there you are. They are made of -rubber and weigh next to nothing. Painter at work on scaffold; hears -rope breaking; seizes one of my patent buffers; holds it carelessly -in his right hand until within five feet of the pavement; then -catches it with both hands, holds it in front of him as a shield, -and falls with it under him. Merely pleasant titillation. Up at once; -mends rope; resumes painting; undertaker foiled; no funeral; money -saved; put in bank, or invested in stock in my company--” - -“But,” said I, interrupting him, “suppose the buffer isn’t handy?” - -“Ah, that’s his lookout. It must be handy. No business to take -chances when safeguard is on scaffolding with him. Or child playing -on fire-escape; careful mother puts two of my buffers out there; -warns child not to fall without one; goes about her work care-free; -child feels that it is about to fall; clutches buffer; goes down like -painter; pleasant ride; child enjoys it; perfect confidence in my -buffer; holds it under him; arrives seated; no deleterious effect; -continues play in street. Object-lesson in favor of my invention. -Child takes orders for my buffers; gets commission from me. Sells -dozens--” - -Just then the guard called out, “Forty-second Street!” and a man whom -I had not noticed before, but who wore an air of authority, and who -sat next to Buffum, rose and, touching him on the arm, said, “Come.” - -And before I could get the inventor’s address he had left the train. - -But I fancy that - - BURGESS BUFFUM, ESQ., - Bloomingdale, - -will reach him. - - - - -AT THE LITERARY COUNTER - -[Illustration] - - - - -XIX - -“THE FATHER OF SANTA CLAUS” - - -The Successful Author dropped in at the club and looked around for -some one to whom he might talk shop. He spied the Timid Aspirant in -the corner, and asked him to sit down. The Timid Aspirant blushed all -over, and felt that better days were dawning for him, because the -Successful Author’s name was in every one’s mouth. - -“Have much trouble to sell your stuff, my boy?” - -“Oh, I suppose I oughtn’t to complain.” - -“Never destroy a manuscript, my boy. You don’t, do you?” - -“Sometimes, sir.” - -“Ah, don’t. You never know when it will become valuable. Anything -written has its niche somewhere.” - -Then the Successful Author sank back in his arm-chair and continued -reminiscently: “I’ll never forget how one of my articles fared. It -was the fourth or fifth thing that I had written, and it was called -‘The Father of Santa Claus.’ I liked it better than any editor has -ever liked anything of mine.” - -The Timid Aspirant nodded sympathetically, and the Successful Author -continued: “I sent it to the ‘Prospect,’ and it came back promptly. -Did I destroy it? Not at all. I pigeonholed it, and next year I sent -it to them again. Again it came back, and once more I laid it to rest -for a twelvemonth, and then bombarded the ‘Prospect’ with it. This -sort of thing went on for several years, until at last, to save time, -the editor had a special form of rejection printed for it that ran -about as follows: - - “DEAR SIR: The time of year has come once more when we reject your - story, ‘The Father of Santa Claus.’ It would not seem like the - sweet Christmas season if we did not have a chance to turn it down. - - “Yours respectfully, - “EDITOR THE PROSPECT.” - -“Let you down easy each year, didn’t he?” - -“Yes. Well, in course of time my price went up. At the start I’d have -been tickled to death to get five dollars for the thing, but now I -knew that if the editor ever did change his mind I’d get at least -fifty, so I kept at it. Well, it was last year that my collection of -stories made such a hit, and since then I’ve been so busy filling -orders for short stories that I forgot to send my dear old mossback -out this year. But day before yesterday I received a note from the -editor of the ‘Prospect’ asking for a Christmas sketch. Now was my -opportunity. I wrote back: - - - “Sorry I haven’t anything new, but it struck me that you might - like to look at an old thing of mine called ‘The Father of Santa - Claus,’ and if you care to consider its publication I’ll let it go - for a couple of hundred, just for the sake of old times. - -I inclosed the story, and just before coming here I received a check -for two hundred dollars.” - -[Illustration] - -“What moral do you deduce from this, sir?” - -“Don’t ever sell anything until you’ve gotten a big reputation.” - -“Do you mind talking a little more shop?” asked the Timid Aspirant. -Somehow he lost his timidity when talking to his renowned friend. - -“Of course not. No one really does, though some affect to. Most talk -is shop talk. It may relate to plumbing, or to dry-goods, or to -painting, or to babies, but it is of the shop shoppy, as a rule, only -‘literary shop talk,’ as Ford calls it, is more interesting to an -outsider than the other kinds. What particular department of our shop -did you want me to handle?” - -“I wanted to ask you if you believed in cutting a man’s work--in -other words, do you believe in blue-penciling?” - -“Ah, my boy, I see that they have been coloring your manuscript with -the hateful crayon. No, I don’t believe in it. I dislike it now -because it mars my work, and I used to hate it because it took money -from my purse. Let me tell you a little incident. - -“One time, years ago, I wrote an article, and after it was done I -figured on what I would get for it and with it. If I sold it to a -certain monthly I had in mind I should receive enough to buy a new -hat, a new suit, a pair of shoes, ditto of socks, and a necktie, -for all of which I stood in sore need. I hied me forth in all the -exuberance of youth and bore my manuscript to the editor. As he was -feeling pretty good, he said he’d read it while I waited. At last he -laid it down and said: ‘That’s a pretty good story.’ My heart leaped -like an athlete. ‘But’--my heart stopped leaping and listened--‘it -will need a little cutting, and I’ll do it now, if you wish.’” - -“Poor fellow!” said the Timid Aspirant, sympathetically. - -“Well, the first thing that editor did was to cut the socks off of -it; then he made a deep incision in the hat; then he slashed away -at the trousers and did some scattered cutting, and at last handed -the manuscript to me that I might see the havoc he had wrought in -my prospective wardrobe. Dear man, I had a vest and a necktie left, -and that was all. And it would have been the same if it had been a -dinner.” - -The Timid Aspirant shuddered. - -“Many a young author has seen the soup and the vegetables, and at -last the steak, fade away under the terrible obliterating power of -the indigo crayon, and lucky is he if a sandwich and a glass of water -remain after the editor’s fell work. Blessed is that editor who does -not care to work in pastel,--to whom the blue pencil is taboo,--for -he shall be held in honored remembrance of all writers, and his end -shall be peace.” - -“Amen!” said the Timid Aspirant. - - - - -XX - -THE DIALECT STORE - - -“I suppose I dreamed it; but if there isn’t such a store, there might -be, and it would help quill-drivers a lot,” said the newspaper man, -as he and his friend were waiting to give their order in a down-town -restaurant yesterday noon. - -“What store are you talking about, and what dream? Don’t be so vague, -old man,” said his friend the magazine-writer. - -“Why, a dialect store. Just the thing for you. I was walking down -Fifth Avenue, near Twenty-first Street, and I saw the sign, ‘Dialect -shop. All kinds of dialects sold by the yard, the piece, or in -quantities to suit.’ I thought that maybe I might be able to get some -Swedish dialect to help me out on a little story I want to write -about Wisconsin, so I walked in. The place looked a good deal like a -dry-goods store, with counters down each side, presided over by some -twenty or thirty clerks, men and women. - -“The floor-walker stepped up to me and said, ‘What can I do for you?’ -‘I want to buy some dialect,’ said I. ‘Oh, yes; what kind do you want -to look at? We have a very large assortment of all kinds. There’s -quite a run on Scotch just now; perhaps you’d like to look at some -of that.’ ‘No; Swedish is what I’m after,’ I replied. ‘Oh, yes; Miss -Jonson, show this gentleman some Swedish dialect.’ - -“I walked over to Miss Jonson’s department, and she turned and opened -a drawer that proved to be empty. ‘Are you all out of it?’ I asked. -‘Ja; but I skall have some to-morrer. A faller from St. Paul he baen -haer an’ bought seventy jards.’ - -“I was disappointed, but as long as I was there I thought I’d look -around; so I stepped to the next counter, behind which stood a man -who looked as if he had just stepped out of one of Barrie’s novels. -‘Have you Scotch?’ said I. ‘I hae joost that. What’ll ye hae? Hielan’ -or lowlan’, reeleegious or profane? I’ve a lairge stock o’ gude auld -Scotch wi’ the smell o’ the heather on it; or if ye’re wantin’ some -a wee bit shop-worn, I’ll let ye hae that at a lower price. There’s -a quantity that Ian Maclaren left oot o’ his last buke.’ I expressed -surprise that he had let any escape him, and he said: ‘Hech, mon, -dinna ye ken there’s no end to the Scots?’ I felt like telling him -that I was sorry there had been a beginning, but I refrained, and he -went on: ‘We’re gettin’ airders fra the whole English-sp’akin’ warld -for the gude auld tongue. Our manager has airdered a fu’ line of a’ -soorts in anticipation of a brisk business, now that McKinley--gude -Scotch name, that--is President.’ - -“I should have liked to stay and see a lot of the Scotch, as it -seemed to please the man to talk about his goods; but I wanted to -have a look at all the dialects, so I bade him good morning, and -stepped to the next department--the negro. - -“Here an unctuous voice called out: ‘Fo’ de Lawd! Ah don’ b’lieve -you’ll pass me widout buyin’. Got ’em all hyah, boss--Sou’ Ca’lina -an’ Ten’see an’ Virginny. Tawmas Nelson Page buys a heap er stuff -right yer. Dat man sut’n’y got a great haid. He was de fustes’ one -ter see how much folks was dyin’ ter git a leetle di’lect er de ra’ht -sawt, an’ Ah reckon Ah sol’ him de fus’ yard he evah bo’t.’ - -“‘Do you sell it by the yard?’ I asked, just to bring him out. -‘Shuah!’ and pulling down a roll of black goods, he unrolled enough -dialect to color ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ But I said, ‘I don’t want to -buy, uncle; but I’m obliged to you for showing it to me.’ ‘Oh, dat’s -all right, boss. No trouble to show goods. Ah reckon yo’ nev’ saw -sech a heap er local col’in’ as dat. Hyah! hyah! hyah! We got de -goods, an’ any tahm you want to fix up a tale, an’ put in de Queen’s -English in black, come yer an’ as’ fer me. Good day, sah.’ And I -passed on to the next--Western dialect. - -“Here I found that James Whitcomb Riley had just engaged the whole -output of the plant. The clerk had an assistant in his little son,--a -Hoosier boy,--and he piped up: ‘We got ’ist a littul bit er chile’s -di’lec’, an’ my popper says ’at ef Mist’ Riley don’t come an’ git it -soon ’at I can sell it all my own se’f. ’At ’d be the mostest fun!’ -and his childish treble caused all the other clerks in the store to -look around and smile kindly at him. - -“In the German department the clerk told me he was not taking orders -for dialect in bulk. ‘Zome off dose tayatree-kalers dey buy it, -aber I zell not de best to dem. I zell imitation kints “made in -Chairmany.” Aber I haf der best eef you vant it.’ - -“I told him I did not care to buy, and passed on to the -French-Canadian department. The clerk was just going out to lunch; -but although I told him I merely wished to look, and not to buy, -he said politely: ‘I try hall I can for get di’lect, but hup in -Mon’réal dat McLennan he use hall dere is; but bymby I speak for some -dat a frien’ have, an’ he sen’ me some. An’ ’e tell me I’ll get hit -las’ summer.’ - -“I expressed a polite wish that he might get his goods even sooner -than ‘las’ summer,’ and walked to the Jew-dialect counter, over which -I was nearly pulled by the Hebrew clerk. ‘You’re chust in time,’ he -said. ‘Say, veepin’ Rachel! but I sell you a parkain. Some goots on’y -been ust vun veek on der staich; unt so hellep me cracious! you look -so like mein prudder Imre dat I let dem go’--here he lowered his -voice to a whisper--‘I let dem go fer a qvarter uf a darler.’ - -[Illustration] - -“I resisted him, and hurried to the Yankee department. There was tall -hustling going on there, and a perfect mob of buyers of all sorts -and conditions of writers; and it took half a dozen men, women, and -children, including three typical farmers, to wait on them; and they -were selling it by the inch and by the carload. ‘Wall, I’m plumb -tired. Wisht they’d let up so ’st I could git a snack er somep’n’ -inside me,’ said one; and he looked so worn out that I passed on to -the Irish counter. A twinkling-eyed young Irishman, not long over, in -answer to my question, said: ‘Sure, there’s not much carl fer larrge -quantities av ut. Jane Barlow do be havin’ a good dale, an’ the funny -papers do be usin’ ut in smarl lots, but ’t is an aisy toime I have, -an’ that’s a good thing, fer toimes is harrd.’ - -“I paused a moment at the English-dialect counter, and the -rosy-cheeked clerk said: ‘Cawn’t I show you the very litest thing in -Coster?’ I told him no, and he offered me Lancashire and Yorkshire at -‘gritely reduced rites’; but I was proof against his pleading, and -having now visited all the departments but one, went to that.” - -“What was it?” asked the writer for the magazines. - -“The tough-dialect counter.” - -“Tough is not a dialect,” said he. - -“Maybe not, but it sounds all right, all right. Well, whatever it -is, the fellow in charge was a regular Ninth-Warder, and when I got -abreast of him he hailed me with, ‘Soy, cully, wot sort d’ yer want? -I got a chim-dandy Sunny-school line er samples fer use in dose -joints, or I c’n gi’ yer hot stuff up ter de limit an’ beyon’. See? -Here’s a lot of damaged “wot t’ ’ells” dat I’ll trun down fer a -fiver, an’ no questions ast. Soy, burn me fer a dead farmer if I ever -sol’ dem at dat figger before; but dey’s some dat Townsen’ did n’ -use, an’ yet dey’s dead-sure winners wit’ de right gang. See?’ - -“And then I woke up, if I was asleep; and if I wasn’t, I wish I could -find the store again, for I’d be the greatest dialect-writer of the -age if I could get goods on credit there. Say, waiter, we came for -lunch, not supper.” - - - - -XXI - -“FROM THE FRENCH” - - -When a Frenchman sets out to write a tale that shall be wholly -innocuous, he succeeds--and thereby drives his readers to seek in De -Maupassant and Zola the antidote for his poisoning puerility. - -He generally lays the scene in London, that he may air his ignorance -of things foreign; and when the tale is done it contains absolutely -nothing that would bring the blush of shame to any cheek in -Christendom, seek said cheek where you might. - -The following is a fair sample of the unharmful French story. I -trust that if it had been printed without preamble or credit, the -discerning reader would have exclaimed, upon reading it, “From the -French!” I have called it-- - - -IT IS GOOD TO BE GOOD - -In the great city of London, which, as you may know, is in England, -there is a bridge, famous throughout the whole town as London Bridge. -One dark night, many years ago, two men started to cross it in -opposite directions, and running into each other, their heads crashed -together in the fog which day and night envelops the city. - -“_Parbleu!_” cried one, a fellow of infinite wealth; “but have you, -then, no better use for your head than to make of it a battering-ram?” - -“_Sapristi!_” replied the other, speaking in the coarse tones of -an English mechanic out of work. “What matters it what I do with -it? A moment more and I shall be in the Thames” (a large river -corresponding to our Seine, and in equal demand by suicides). -“To-night, for the first time in my life, I commit suicide!” - -“Why, then,” said the other, “we will jump together, for it is for -that purpose that I have come to this great bridge.” - -“But,” said the mechanic, “why should you commit suicide? I can -tell by the feeling of your garments that you are rich, and by the -softness of your head that you are noble.” - -“True, I am both of those things, but, also, I have exhausted every -pleasure in life but the pleasure of suicide, and would now try -that. But you, you are a mechanic out of work, as I can tell by your -speech. Why should you seek pleasure instead of employment?” - -“Alas, sir! I have at home one wife and seventeen children, all -flaxen-haired, and all as poor as I. I cannot bear to go home to them -without even the price of a _biftek_ or a _rosbif_.” - -“Come,” said the nobleman; “I will defer my sport for the night. I -have never seen a starving family. It will furnish me with a new -sensation.” - -“Ah! but you have a kind heart, and I will not refuse you. The river -will keep. Follow me.” - -[Illustration] - -They followed each other through the region of the Seven Clocks, and -through Blanc Chapel, afterward the scene of the murders of “Jean -the RApper,” until they came to the wretched apartment of the poor -artisan. There, huddled in the corner of the room, were sixteen of -the starving but still flaxen-haired children. The mother sat near -the fireplace, so that she might be near the warmth when it came. In -the other corner of the room--for they were so poor, these people, -that they could not afford four corners--sat a vision of beauty, aged -seventeen and a girl, _ma foi_! At sight of her the count’s eyes -filled with tears of compassion, and he handed his purse to the -wretched father and said: “My good man, do not stir from here. I will -return in an hour with furniture!” - -Tears of gratitude coursed down the thirty-eight cheeks of the poor -family, and they no longer felt hungry, for they knew that in a short -time they would be sitting upon real sofas and rocking in chairs -like those they had seen through the windows of the rich on Holy -Innocents’ Day. - -The count, whose full title was Sir Lord _E_rnold CIcil Judas GeorgeS -HErold WAllington, grandson of the great Lord of WAllington, was -as good as his word, and in an hour he returned with six of his -servants, bearing sofas and cushions and tables and tête-à-têtes, and -what not. - -The family seated themselves on the furniture, and, clasping his -knees, overwhelmed him with thanks. - -“_Dame! Sacré!_” cried he. “It is nothing, this thing I have done. -What is it that it is? Know, then, that for the first time in my life -I have the happiness.” Then, turning to the father: “Give me the -purse. I left it as a collateral. Now that you have the furniture, -you will not need it. But that angelic being there, she shall never -weep again. I will take her with me.” - -“Ah!” said the mother; “but that is like you, Count WAllington. -You mean that she is to be a maid in your father’s house? Ah! what -prosperity!” - -“Ah! do not insult the most beautiful being who ever went about in a -London fog. She a servant? Never! I will make her my wife. She shall -be Miledi Comptesse _E_rnold CIcil Judas GeorgeS HErold WAllington!” - -In Southwark-on-Trent, a suburb of London, is the hospital for those -about to commit suicide. Ring the bell at the gate, and you will be -admitted by sixteen flaxen-haired ones who will conduct you to the -governor and matron. Need I say who they are, or whose money built -the institution? - -And when you read in London _POnch_, among the court news, that a -great beauty has been presented to the Queen of England, London, and -Ireland, you will know that it is the Comptesse WAllington. She is -presented at all the levees, and, with her husband, the handsome and -philanthropic Lord WAllington, is the cynosure of all English eyes. - -It is good to be good. - - - - -XXII - -ON THE VALUE OF DOGMATIC UTTERANCE - -FROM MY “GUIDE TO YOUNG AUTHORS” - - -My dear young reader, if you are thinking of launching a little craft -upon the troublous sea of literature, see that it is well ballasted -with dogmatic assertions. (I should like to continue this nautical -metaphor further, but I am such a landlubber that I doubt if I should -be able to mix it properly, and what interest has a metaphor if it -be not well mixed?) But to continue in plain English: A dogmatic -assertion carries conviction to the minds of most unthinking -people--in other words, to most people. (You and I don’t think, dear -reader, and is it likely that we are worse than the rest of mankind?) - -If you purpose becoming a novelist of character, follow my -directions, and your first book will nail your reputation to the mast -of public opinion. Fill your story full of such utterances as these: -“Chaplain Dole always nodded his head a great many times to express -affirmation. This is a common practice with persons who are a little -hard of hearing.” (It isn’t, and yet it may be, for all I know to the -contrary; but it will carry weight. Nine persons out of ten will say, -“Why, that’s so, isn’t it? Haven’t you noticed it?”) - -[Illustration] - -It doesn’t matter what you say; if you say it dogmatically it -will go. Thus: “She walked with the slow, timid step that is so -characteristic of English spinsters.” That’s a fine one, for it may -excite contradiction, and contradiction is advertisement. Here are -half a dozen examples: “He tapped his forehead with his left little -finger, a gesture peculiar to people who have great concentration of -mind.” “His half-closed eyes proclaimed him a shrewd business man. -Why is it that your keen man of affairs should always look out at -the world through a slit?” “The child spoke in that raucous tone of -voice that always presages cerebral trouble.” “Miss de Mure waved -her fan languidly, with a scarcely perceptible wrist motion, a sure -indication that she was about to capitulate, but Mr. Wroxhaemme, -not being a keen observer, took no note of it.” And, “He spoke but -three words, yet you sensed that he was an advocate. Why is it that a -lawyer cannot conceal his profession? A doctor may talk all day, and -if he bar shop his vocation will not be detected; but a lawyer tunes -up his vocal chords, as it were, and the secret is out.” - -If all the above specimens of “observation” were introduced into -your story the critics would unite in praising your keenness of -vision. - -Perhaps you would like to figure as a musical author. Few authors -know anything about music, and you don’t have to; dogmatism and -alliteration in equal parts will take the trick. Please step this way -(as they say in the stores) and I will show you. - -“She played Chopin divinely--but she did not care to clean dishes. -Chopin and care of a house do not coalesce. A girl may love Beethoven -and yet busy herself with baking; Bach and the Beatitudes are not -antagonistic; Haydn, Handel, and housekeeping hunt together; Schumann -and Schubert are not incompatible with sweetness and serenity of -demeanor and a love for sewing; Mozart and Mendelssohn may be admired -and the girl will also love to mend stockings; Weber and work may -be twins: but Chopin and cooking, Wagner and washing, Berlioz or -Brahms and basting, Dvořák and vulgar employment--or Dvořák and -darning (according as you pronounce Dvořák)--are eternally at war. -So, when I have said that Carlotta was a devotee of Chopin, I have -implied that her poor old mother did most of the housework, while the -sentimental maiden coquetted with the keys continually.” - -Fill your stories with such bits of false observation, and -ninety-nine persons out of a hundred will accept them at their -face-value; which remark, being in itself a dogmatic assertion, will -doubtless carry weight and conviction with it. - - - - -XXIII - -THE SAD CASE OF DEACON PERKINS - - -It is now some fifteen years since the dialect story assumed undue -prominence in the literary output of the time, and about eight -since it became a “craze.” There is no craze without its attendant -disease or ailment: thus roller-skating developed “roller’s heel”; -gum-chewing, “chewer’s jaw”; bicycling, the “bicycle face,” and later -the “leg”; housekeeping, “housemaid’s knee”; golf-playing, “idiocy”; -and so on, every craze having a damaging effect upon some portion of -the anatomy. It is only within the last year, however, that it has -been discovered that an over-indulgence in dialect stories is liable -to bring on an affection of the tongue. - -A peculiarly sad case and the most notable that has thus far been -brought to the attention of the public is that of Deacon Azariah -Perkins of West Hartford, Connecticut. - -Far from deploring the spread of the dialect story, he reveled in -it, reading all the tales that he could get hold of in magazines -or circulating library. But his was not a healthy, catholic taste; -he had ears and eyes for one dialect alone--the negro. For him Ian -Maclaren and Barrie spread their most tempting Scotch jaw-breakers in -vain; he had no desire for them. After fifteen years of negro dialect -in every form in which Southern and Northern writers can serve it, -any specialist in nervous disorders could have told the deacon that -he was liable to have “negromania”; but West Hartford does not -employ specialists, and so the stroke came unheralded, with all the -suddenness of apoplexy. - -Deacon Perkins has always been able to think standing; indeed, he -has been called the Chauncey Depew of West Hartford, and no revival -meeting or strawberry festival or canned clam-bake was considered a -success unless the deacon’s ready tongue took part in the exercises. - -[Illustration] - -Last Sunday they had a children’s festival in the Congregational -Church, and after the children had made an end of reciting and -singing, the deacon was called upon for a few remarks. He is a -favorite with young and old, and a man of great purity and simplicity -of character. He arose with alacrity and walked down the isle with -the lumbering gait peculiar to New-Englanders who have struggled with -rocky farms the best part of their lives. He ascended the platform -steps, inclined his head to the audience, and spoke as follows: - -“Mah deah li’l’ chillun! Yo’ kahnd sup’inten’ent has ast me to mek a -few remahks.” (Subdued titters on the part of the scholars.) “Ah don’ -s’pose you-all’ll b’lieve me w’en Ah say dat Ah too was once a li’l’ -piccaninny same as yo’, but Ah was, an’ Ah ’membeh how mah ol’ mammy -use teh tek me to Sunny-school.” (Consternation on the part of the -superintendent and teachers.) - -“Now, ef you-all wan’ to go to heb’n w’en yo’ die, be ci’cumspectious -’bout de obsarvence ob de eighth c’man’ment. Hit ain’t so awful -wicked ter steal--dat ain’t hit, but hit’s jes nach’ly tryin’ to a -man’s self-respec’ ter git cotched. Don’ steal jes fer deviltry, but -ef yo’ is ’bleeged ter steal, study de wedder repohts, ac’ accordin’, -an’--don’ git foun’ out--or in, eiver.” - -During the delivery of this remarkable speech the deacon’s face wore -his habitual expression; a kindly light shone in his eye, a smile of -ineffable sweetness played about his lips, and he evidently imagined -that he was begging them to turn from their evil ways and seek the -narrow path. - -But at this juncture Dr. Pulcifer of New York, the eminent -neurologist, who happened to be spending Sunday in West Hartford, -whispered to the superintendent, and on receiving an affirmative -nod to his interrogation, went up to the platform. He held out his -hand to Deacon Perkins, who was making a rhetorical pause, and said -kindly, “Good morning, uncle.” - -“Mornin’, sah,” said the deacon, bowing awkwardly and scratching his -head. - -“Can you direct me to a good melon-patch?” - -Deacon Perkins gave vent to an unctuous negro chuckle. Then, holding -up his forefinger to enjoin caution, he tiptoed off the platform, -closely followed by the doctor; and before nightfall he was on his -way to a private hospital for nervous diseases, where rest and a -total abstention from negro-dialect stories is expected to restore -him to his usual sane condition of mind in a short time. - - - - -XXIV - -THE MISSING-WORD BORE - - -Then, there’s that bore whose thoughts come by freight, and the -freight is always late. You know what’s coming, that is, you can -imagine the way-bill, but he won’t let you help him to make better -time, and runs his train of thought as if it were on a heavy grade. - -He starts to tell a story, blinking his red eyes, meanwhile, as if he -thought that they supplied the motive power for his tongue. To make -listening to him the harder, he generally tells a very old story. - -“One day, William Makepeace--er-er--” - -“Thackeray,” you say, intending to help him. Of course it is -Thackeray, and he was going to tell about the novelist and the -Bowery boy; but he is so pig-headed that he shifts on to another -track. - -“No; Dickens, Charles Dickens. One day, when Charles Dickens was at -work on ‘Bleak’--er--er--” - -“‘Bleak House’?” you say. - -“No!” he snaps; “‘Dombey and Son.’ One day, when Charles Dickens was -at work on ‘Dombey and Son,’ he was approached by his biographer, -John--er--er--” - -“Forster?” - -“No; it wasn’t his biographer, either; it was Edmund Yates.” - -[Illustration] - -You now take a gleeful pleasure in seeing how hopelessly you can make -him tangle himself up by the refusal of your help, but he doesn’t -care. He’ll tell it in his own words, though the heavens fall and -though he starts a hundred stories. - -“Charles Dickens had a very loud way of--er--er--” - -“Dressing?” - -“No, no! He had a loud way of talking, and he and Edmund--er--er--” - -“Yates?” - -“No, sir; Edmund Spenser.” - -Of course this is arrant nonsense on the face of it, but he won’t -admit that he’s made pi of his story, and he goes on: - -“Edmund said that Charles--” - -“Dickens?” - -“No, sir; Charles Reade. Edmund said that Charles Reade thought -George--er--” - -“Meredith?” - -“No; hang it all! George Eliot. He thought that George Eliot never -wrote a better book than ‘Silas’--er--” - -“‘Marner’?” - -“Not at all! ‘Silas Lapham.’” - -Now, if you are merciful, or if you are refinedly cruel, either one, -you will allow him to finish his story in peace, and, like as not, -he will start all over again by saying: “I guess I inadvertently got -hold of the wrong name at the beginning. It was not Dickens, as you -said, but Thackeray. Thackeray was one day walking along the Bowery -when he met a typical--” And so on to the bitter end. - -For the sake of speed, do not ever interrupt his kind! - - - - -XXV - -THE CONFESSIONS OF A CRITIC - - -I met a prominent literary critic the other evening. A review signed -with his name or even with his initials is apt to make or mar the -work treated therein. - -Now, I have not a little hypnotic power, and the mischievous idea -came into my head to hypnotize him and make him “confess.” - -We were sitting in the reading-room of an up-town club. I led the -conversation to the subject of hypnotism, and soon gained the -critic’s consent to be put into a trance. - -I did not influence him any more than to put his mind in the attitude -of truthfully answering what questions I might ask him. - -_Q._ Which do you prefer to criticize, a book that has already been -reviewed or one that is perfectly fresh? - -_A._ Oh, one that has been reviewed, and the oftener the better. I -thus gain some idea of the trend of critical opinion and shape my -review accordingly. - -_Q._ Do you ever run counter to the general sentiment? - -_A._ Yes; if I find that a book has been damned with faint praise, -I sometimes laud it to the skies and thus gain a reputation for -independence that is very useful to me. Or if a book has been -heralded by the best critics of both countries as “the book of the -year,” I sometimes pick it to pieces, taking its grammar as a basis, -or some other point that I think I can attack without injury to -my reputation for discernment, and again I score a victory for my -independence. - -_Q._ Why don’t you like to be the first to review a new book? - -_A._ For the same reason that most critics hate to--unless, indeed, -they are just out of college and are cock-sure of everything. I -fear that its author may be one of the numerous coming men. I may be -entirely at sea about the book. I prefer to get some idea of what the -consensus of the best opinion is. - -[Illustration] - -_Q._ Then you do not consider your own the best opinion? - -_A._ No; no one critic’s opinion is worth much. - -_Q._ Can you tell an author by his style? - -_A._ Always, if I know who he is before I begin to read. But it is -hazardous work to say such-and-such a work is by such-and-such a man -unless there are internal evidences aside from the style. Once a -book was sent to me for criticism. Before I opened it I lent it to a -waggish friend of mine, and he returned it next day. I looked at the -title-page, saw that it was by an absolutely unknown man and that -the scene was laid in India, and, of course, I felt safe in giving -it fits on the principle that Rudyard Kipling is not likely to be -equaled in this generation as a depicter of Indian life. Well, I said -that it was painfully crude and amateurish; that it might do for the -“Servants’ Own,” but was not a book for ladies and gentlemen; that -it had absolutely no style or local coloring; that the scene might -as well have been laid in Kamchatka; and that it was marked by but -one thing, audacity, for the author had borrowed some of Kipling’s -characters--to the extent of the names only. In short, I had fun with -that book, for I knew that my fellow-critics would with one accord -turn and rend it. By mere chance I didn’t sign it. - -_Q._ And who had written the book? - -_A._ Why, Kipling. My friend had cut another name out of a book and -had pasted it so neatly over Kipling’s wherever his occurred that I -was, of course, taken unawares. You can’t bank on style. Look how -positive people were Mark Twain had not written “Jeanne d’Arc.” - -I here interrupted the flow of his conversation to say: “Your -experience is not unlike that of the reviewer who criticized ‘Silas -Lapham,’ and who had a sort of hazy notion from the similarity of -titles that it was by the author of ‘Silas Marner.’ You may remember, -it created a good deal of amusement at the time. He said that it -was a mistake for George Eliot to try to write a novel of American -life; that the vital essence--American humor--was lacking; that Silas -Lapham was a dull Englishman transplanted bodily into a very British -Boston; that his daughters were mere puppets, and the attempts at -Americanisms doleful in the extreme. He concluded by saying that her -‘Romola’ had shown that she was best on British soil, and that she -would better keep to the snug little isle in the future.” - -“Yes,” said he, with a grin; “I remember that. It was my first -criticism. Most people supposed it was a humorous skit, even the -editors who accepted it, but I never was more in earnest. I was young -then.” - -_Q._ If you received a book to review with the name of Hardy on the -title-page, would you give it a good send-off? - -_A._ I certainly should, for I am a great admirer of Hardy; but I -should prefer to wait until some one else had done so, for fear it -might be another put-up job and turn out to be the work of some -fifth-rate English author. - -I then brought him out of his trance. He sat silent for a moment. I -picked up the “Saturday Review” from the table and said, “Criticism -is a very noble calling.” - -“It is indeed,” he responded earnestly. “It is one that requires -great insight into human nature, absolute independence, and not a -little charity.” - -With which beautiful sentiments he rose and, bowing, left the room. - - - - -XXVI - -HOW ’RASMUS PAID THE MORTGAGE - -A DIALECT STORY - - -I - - Oh, de wolf an’ de har’ dey had a great fight. - (Down on de ribber de wil’ geese is callin’.) - De har’ pulled de wolf’s teeth so’s he couldn’ bite. - (A-callin’ me to my long home!) - Said de wolf to de har’, “Don’ hit so hard.” - (De dew on de hollyhock’s all a-dryin’!) - An’ he killed de har’ w’en he co’t him oaf his guard. - (Ah’ll dry up an’ go home!) - -Up the vista formed by a narrow, tortuous Virginia lane, came Uncle -’Rasmus, an aged darky, singing one of the songs of his race that -never grow old--because they die young, it may be. - -As he hobbled along the path, he talked to himself, as was his wont: - -“Golly! Ah mus’ hurry up, o’ de fo’kses won’ hab no dinnah; for, be -jabers, ’tis mesilf that has got to git riddy dthat same. Och, worra! -worra! but ’tis no synekewer Oi’m havin’, an’ dthat’s dther trut’.” - -Just then his watch struck five minutes to six, and he ran off toward -the homestead of Squire Lamar, saying, as he did so, in his quaint -way: “Veepin’ Rachel! der boss will kick der live out mit me.” - -Before the war Squire Lamar had been the richest man in Oconee -County; but the conflict had ruined him, and he now had little except -his plantation, horses, and stables. He lived in his ancestral house, -which was heavily mortgaged, with his wife and children. - -’Rasmus, his only servant, an ex-slave, supported the family by -collecting dollars--at night. - -As he ran toward the house, he saw Squire Lamar on the veranda. Just -then a horseman dashed up. He was the sheriff of Oconee County. -’Rasmus took advantage of the commotion, and ran into the kitchen to -cook the dinner. On seeing the squire, the sheriff called out to him: -“The mortgage on this place will be foreclosed if the $3600 due is -not forthcoming by to-morrow noon.” - -“Alas!” said the squire; “you see how we are situated. I haven’t a -dollar, and wouldn’t know how to earn one if I had.” - -At this juncture, ’Rasmus, who had cooked the dinner during the -conversation, came up and said: “Massa, Ah’s a free man, Ah know Ah -is; but avick, ’t is a mighty shmall wan Oi’d be if I wouldn’t help -out a poor omadhaun like yerself. ‘Caed mille fail the Bryn Mawr -dolce far niente.’ Zat ees mon motto, an’ so, deah massah, I will -guarantee to git de money by to-morrow noon.” Then turning to the -sheriff, he said in a manly tone that contrasted ill with his ragged -garments: “Ye maun fash awee, laddie, doon the skim.” - -After a few more words, the sheriff, who was really a kind man at -heart, rode off, saying he would be on hand the next day, and if the -money were not forthcoming, he would march them all off to the county -jail, ten miles distant. After blowing the dinner-horn, ’Rasmus -hobbled off to his humble cottage. - - -II - -On arriving at his cabin, ’Rasmus took a bolster-case full of dollars -from under the bed, and proceeded to count them. There were just -$3000. “Now, Ah mus’ git $600 more before to-morrow, or else me poor -masther’ll be wor-r-rkin’ in the chain-gang. Ach, Himmel!” said the -good old darky, his eyes suffused with tears, “if dot took blace, it -zeems as if mein herz would break.” - -He calmly decided on a plan of action, however. Waiting until night -had flung over the earth a pall, through which the silvery moon cast -shimmering beams aslant the quivering aspens of the forest, and the -snoring of the birds told him that nature slept, he left his house -and walked briskly off to the highway. - -[Illustration] - -About that time a lawyer was riding along the road on horseback, with -a wallet containing a share of an estate worth $600, which he had -secured for an old woman. - -’Rasmus saw the traveler, saw the horse, saw the wallet. - -The traveler saw no one. He was blind--drunk. - -’Rasmus cut a stout bludgeon. - -The traveler ambled on. - -’Rasmus clasped the bludgeon. - -The traveler continued to amble. - -’Rasmus stole up beside him.... - -The traveler lay in the ditch. - -’Rasmus jumped on the horse, the wallet in his hand, and galloped -home, stabling the beautiful animal in his cabin to avoid being -suspected of the murder. - -Placing his shoe in front of the one window of the cabin, that none -might see him, he counted the money, and found it amounted to just -$600, which, together with the $3000, formed the sum required by -the sheriff. This made him so happy that he picked up a banjo and -played Wagner’s “Götterdämmerung” through once or twice, accompanying -himself on his throat in a rich tenor. He then turned out the gas and -retired, to sleep as only a good, unselfish soul can. - - -III - -It is 11:45 A. M. The squire and his family, who have heard nothing -from ’Rasmus, are on the veranda, anxiously awaiting the arrival of -the sheriff. - -11:50 A. M.! Is ’Rasmus dead? Has the sheriff relented? - -11:55. Good lack! The sheriff is seen galloping toward the house, and -yet there is no sign of ’Rasmus. - -That individual, who is nothing if not dramatic, is sitting behind -the house on horseback, awaiting the stroke of twelve. - -The door of the ormolu cuckoo-clock in the kitchen opens, the cuckoo -advances. At her first note the sheriff jumps from his horse; at the -second he walks sternly upon the veranda; at the third he asks for -the money; at the fourth and fifth they tell him that ’Rasmus has -disappeared; at the sixth, seventh, and eighth he handcuffs them all -together; at the ninth, tenth, and eleventh he jumps on his horse -and rides off, dragging them behind him; and at the twelfth ’Rasmus -trots leisurely out from behind the house, and, opening a carpet-bag, -counts out $3600 in silver! - -The astonished sheriff puts the money into his pocket, gives Squire -Lamar a receipt in full for it, unlocks the handcuffs, and the family -resume their wonted places on the veranda. - -But all was not yet done. ’Rasmus still had his bludgeon with him, -and a few deft strokes on the sheriff’s head were all-sufficient. -’Rasmus then took back the money and gave it to Squire Lamar. Then he -told them all to remain perfectly still, and whistling three times, -an amateur photographer made his appearance, adjusted his apparatus, -and took their pictures. - -Sarony could have wished for no better subjects. On the broad veranda -lay the old lady prone on the floor, reading the “Tallahassee Inland -Mariner”; at her side sat her daughter, Turk-fashion, shelling a -pea; while the son and heir reclined near by, reading an account by -a Prussian officer of the third battle of Bull Run. The father, -weighted down with dollars, snored in the background. - -And beaming on them all with the consciousness of having done his -best and done it well, old ’Rasmus stood, singing ventriloquially, so -as not to injure the picture, this negro plantation song: - - De ribber Jordan I can see, - Toujour jamais, toujour jamais; - Mein liebe frau, ach, she lofes me, - Fair Jeannie het awa! - Then I wen’ daown the caows to milk, - Toujour jamais, toujour jamais; - Me lika banan’ as softa as silk, - Helas, cordon, by gar! - - - - -XXVII - -’MIDST ARMED FOES - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “DUNN TO DEATH; OR, THE WEATHER PROPHET’S FATE,” - “SARAH THE SALES-WOM-LADY; OR, FROM COUNTER TO COUNTESS,” ETC. - - -Raoul Chevreuilly stood within a rude hut in the dark recesses of -the forest of Fontainebleau. By his side stood his lady-love, the -beautiful Perichole Perihelion. Without, the night was black and the -wind roared as it is wont to do in stories of this type. - -“Dost fear aught, my precious?” asked Raoul, gazing at the French -face of the lovely Parisian. - -“Why should I fear when I am protected by my Raoul--how do you -pronounce Raoul, anyway?” replied she. - -“I long ago gave up trying. But, Perichole, while I would not have -you fear, yet it is no light task that I have undertaken--your -defense against as fierce a pack of roistering thieves as ever beset -the forest and who now surround this hut. Let but the wind die down -so that they may be heard, and they will hurl execrations at me and -beat down the door. Réné Charpentier seeks my life because I have -promised to be yours, or rather because you have promised to be mine. -But he shall kill me only at the expense of my life. Yea, though he -had twice a hundred myrmidons at his back and beck.” - -For answer the entrancing girl took a mother-of-pearl jews’ harp off -the wall and played “Mlle. Rosie O’Grady,” “There’ll be a chaud temps -in the vieux ville ce soir,” and other simple French ditties. - -[Illustration] - -Instead of admiring her pluck, Raoul was moved to fury, and he cried -in French,--this whole business is supposed to be in French, except -the descriptions,--“Is it impossible to move you to a realization -of my bravery? Know, then, that, save for ourselves, there is not a -human being within three miles of this hut. I had thought that you -would be moved to added love by such an exhibition of bravery on my -part as your defense against a hundred bravos; but, _viol di gamba!_ -you have no imagination.” - -“And Réné Charpentier?” - -“There is no such fellow. He is but a pigment--I mean figment of my -brain.” - -Flinging a pair of arms around his French neck, the adorable -Perichole kissed Raoul again and once more. Then she said, “My adored -one, that you were brave I suspected--are you not the hero of a -French novel? But I never knew that you were such a lovely liar. -Raoul, my own forevermore!” - -And her beautiful face beamed with a love-light whose wick had been -newly trimmed. - - - - -XXVIII - -AT THE SIGN OF THE CYGNET - -A COSMOPOLITAN ROMANCE - - -I - -It was late spring in New England. Buttercups bespangled the grass -and nodded and smiled at the apple-blossoms in the trees. And the -apple-blossoms nodded in return, and in a few days fluttered down to -the buttercups. - -On the front stoop of an old baronial castle in the south of France -stood Armand Maria Sylvestre de Faience Pomade Pommedeterre. He had -been standing there all the morning, he knew not why. True, he looked -well, but he would have looked as well anywhere else, and he might -have been doing something. Still, there is time. It is but the first -chapter. - -[Illustration] - -Godiva Churchill Churchill, of Churchill Wolde, Biddecumb on -Baddecumb, the only daughter of her widowed mother and widowered -father, cantered slowly down the roadway that led to Churchill Hall, -the home of the Churchills for seven centuries. Her right cheek was -overflushed, and ever and anon she bit her chin. England could boast -of no prettier girl than Godiva, nor did England boast of it as much -as Godiva did. - - -II - -It is summer in New England. The as yet colorless spears of goldenrod -give warning that the year is speeding speedily. The buttercups fled -long ago with the apple-blossoms, and from the verdant limbs of the -apple-trees hang bullet-like apples. - -Armand Maria Sylvestre de Faience Pomade Pommedeterre is still in -the south of France. My French map is mislaid, and I cannot spell -the name of the place he is at, but it is on bottles, I think. He -has left the front stoop, and passes his time gazing at the goldfish -in the fountain and waiting to be drawn into the plot of my story. -Patient man! - -Godiva Churchill Churchill, of Churchill Wolde, Biddecumb on -Baddecumb, is still in the saddle, filled with vague longings. - - -III - -Purple asters fringe the highways of New England, and rosy apples -depend from the boughs in countless orchards. (I think that scenery -is my strong point.) - -Armand Maria Sylvestre de Faience Pomade Pommedeterre is chafing at -my delay, but continues to reside in the south of France from sheer -inertia. - -Godiva Churchill Churchill, of Churchill Wolde, Biddecumb on -Baddecumb, has worn out the left fore foot of her horse by her -incessant cantering upon the graveled paths of Churchill Hall. She is -beginning to feel resentment at me for the enforced monotony of her -existence, but heavens! how can I help it? I’m trying my level best -to evolve a plot. - - -IV - -The flowers that gladdened the meads and highways and shady lanes of -New England are gone. Winter’s robes of office are thrown carelessly -over the landscape, and apples in innumerable barrels stand in the -cellars, waiting for better prices. - -The reason why I have so faithfully described New England scenery is -because that’s the only kind of scenery I know anything about. - -I am ashamed to confess it, but this is the last chapter, and blamed -if I can think of any good reason for the departure of Armand Maria -Sylvestre de Faience Pomade Pommedeterre from the south of France. He -can’t speak a word of English, and if you’re thinking of Godiva, she -can’t speak a syllable of French. - -Poor Godiva Churchill Churchill, of Churchill Wolde, Biddecumb on -Baddecumb! She is quite lame from her long-continued exercise in -the saddle, but still canters aimlessly about. She has become the -laughing-stock of all the tenants of Churchill Wolde, and it’s all my -fault. - -If she saw Armand she’d fall in love with him, but I can’t think of a -way to bring about their meeting. That’s what it is to lack invention. - -Just imagine me trying to write a novel! - -Anyhow, I’ve got a good title for the story. - - -THE END - - - - -XXIX - -A SCOTCH SKETCH - - -The shadows lengthened on old Ben Nevis. Surely none of my readers -imagines that Ben Nevis is the hero of my simple Scotch sketch. If -so, he is awa off. Ben Nevis is a mountain, and I have flung it in as -a suitable background for the following conversation: - -“Mither, mither, ye’ll mek nae doot o’ haein’ roast beef fer supper,” -said Hillocks Kilspindie, as he sat on the old bench in front of -their cottage door. - -With a troubled look, his mother, old Margaret Kilspindie, replied: -“Man, Hillocks, div ye no see me buyin’ the haggis?” - -“Yes, mither; but I’m sair sick o’ haggis. Syne Scotch literatoor kem -in it’s hard put we are to live at all. I say may the plague take -Maclaren and Barrie and Crockett. Before they began to write”--and -in his excitement Hillocks was using as good English as any other -Scotchman in real life--“roast beef and wheat bread and chops and -tomato-sauce and other Christian dishes were good enough for us all. -Then came the influx of Americans who wanted to see the scenes made -immortal by the ‘Bonnie Brier Bush’ (I wish Ian might have scratched -his writing-hand upon it) and the ‘Window in Thrums’ (which I wish -some one had broken before Barrie saw it), and now it is haggis in -the morning, and haggis at noon, and haggis at night, and Scotch -dialect that tears my tongue to pieces all the time.” - -“Hech, my bairnie; but thae are wrang words, an’ fu’ o’ unchristian -bitterness.” - -“Oh, mother! drop your ‘hechs’ and your ‘fu’s.’ There are no -Americans about this evening. It’s hard enough to talk the abominable -gibberish when we have to, without keeping it up all the time. -But, tell me, mother, couldn’t you smuggle in a little roast beef -to-night, and let me eat in the cellar?” And a pleading look came -into the young man’s eyes that was hard to resist. - -“My bairn--I mean my boy, I’d like to, but I dare not. Maclaren’s -inspectors are due here any minute, and I could ill afford to pay the -heavy fine that would be levied if we were found with as English a -thing as roast beef in the house. No, lad, we maun stick to parritch -and haggis--I mean we must stick to oatmeal and haggis.” - -Just then the sentry that was stationed at the outskirts of the -village to warn the villagers of the approach of Americans gave the -laugh of warning: “H-O! H-O! H-O!” And, with a bitter look on his -face, and a shake of his fist in the direction of Loch Lomond, Ben -Nevis, Ben Bolt, and various other bits of Scotch scenery that were -scattered about, Hillocks Kilspindie said to his mother: “Weel, as -surees deith a’ c’u’dna help it; tae be sittin’ on peens for mair -than twa oors, tryin’ tae get a grup o’ a man’s heads. (I learned -that this morning, mother. Isn’t it a looloo?)” - -“(Indeed it is, my son. Look out! The Americans are almost within -ear-shot.) Noo we’ve tae begin an’ keep it up till they gang awa, for -there mauna be a cheep aboot the hoose, for Annie’s sake! Here they -are.” - -[Illustration] - -“Mither! Mither! if ye lo’e me bring me mair haggis.” - -CHORUS OF AMERICANS. Oh, how adorably Scotch! - -“Losh keep us a’, but the childie’ll eat his mither oot o’ hoose an’ -hame wi’ his haggis. Ye’ll find some o’ it i’ the cupboard.” - -AMERICAN (_politely to_ HILLOCKS). Have some haggis on me. - -HILLOCKS (_with a canny Scotch leer_). Thanks; but I prefer a plate. - - - - -UNRELATED STORIES--RELATED - -[Illustration] - - - - -XXX - -EPHRATA SYMONDS’S DOUBLE LIFE - - -I - -Ephrata Symonds was a knave. Of that there was no doubt. It stuck out -all over him. His face was a chart of wickedness, and it was his open -boast that he had never done any good in his life, and, please the -devil, he never intended doing any. He had married early in life (in -a fit of absent-mindedness), but he had long since forsaken his wife -and children. - -“Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do”; but, to speak -in a paradox, Satan never gave him any employment, for he was ever -busy--at evil. It was when he was just turned fifty that he was -elected a member of the Evil-doers’ Club. He soon became popular, -and upon the incarceration of the president of the club, the trusted -cashier of the Tyninth National Bank, Symonds was unanimously elected -president in his place. - -[Illustration] - -That he was the right man for the position he immediately proved by -presenting the club with a fine new club-house, which he assured -them was not his to give, or he would not have presented it. In the -first six months of his presidency he eloped with two married women -at once, and so managed the trip that neither suspected that she was -not quite alone in his company. He deserted them both in the West, -and returned to pose before his fellow club-members. He diverted -to his use the little property of a friendless woman, and in many -characteristic ways showed himself to be thoroughly bad. - -It was at this period of his life that his death came, and his last -words were: “I am thankful that no man is the better for my having -lived.” - -His fellow Evil-doers mourned his departure with sincerity. They felt -that in losing such a thoroughly bad man they had suffered a loss -which it would be impossible to repair. As the secretary feelingly -put it, “Hell is the worse for having him.” “Yes,” said another; -“he was admirably bad. And it is the more to his credit that he was -bad in spite of adverse influences. His parents were pious people, -and Ephrata had every temptation to lead a life of virtue; but in -the face of all the obstacles that his father put in the way of his -becoming vicious, he persevered, and yesterday I had the honor of -telling his old mother that her son was undoubtedly the most wicked -man in New York. It made quite an impression on her. We shall ne’er -see his like again.” - -The parlors of the Evil-doers’ Club were draped in black, and mock -resolutions of sympathy were sent to his deserted wife. - - -II - -Great was the chagrin of the members of the club when it began to -be bruited among them that Symonds had been leading a double life; -that his wickedness was but a cloak to hide his goodness. The rumors -were at first pooh-poohed, but when it was remembered that every -third week he had always absented himself from town, the story that -he was really a good man began to wear an air of truth. Detectives -were set to work, and the damning proofs of his deceitful goodness -multiplied rapidly, and at last the facts came out, but only to the -club-members. They felt that it would not be creditable to allow such -scandalous stories to be repeated to the world at large, which would -only too willingly point the finger of scorn at them on learning that -their chief officer had, in spite of every lure, gone right. Some -might even go so far as to insinuate that maybe other members were -better than they seemed to be. No; Symonds’s disreputable goodness -should continue to be as well cloaked as he had cloaked it while -alive. - -The story of his goodness is as follows: It seems that every third -week of his life had been spent in Boston, and while there he had -earned a large income as a life-insurance agent. It was his wont -to spend this money in doing good. Nothing was known in the Hub of -his private life. He lived at the Adams House, and cultivated an -austerity of manner that repelled people; but by underhand means he -contrived to ameliorate a deal of misery. - -Having become convinced in his early youth that unostentatious -benevolence was preferable to a life of good works blazoned forth -to an admiring world, he had habituated himself to every form of -vice, in order, under cover of it, to pursue unobserved the efforts -he was to put forth for the good of his fellow-men. And he had well -succeeded. When Elias Hapgood, who had for thirty years subsisted on -the bounty of an unknown benefactor, read in the Boston “Herald” an -account of the death of Ephrata Symonds, “the wickedest man in New -York,” he breathed a prayer of thankfulness that the world was rid of -such a man, little knowing that he was misjudging his best friend. -And Elias was but one of scores that had been similarly benefited. -Symonds’s charities had been literally endless and invariably -anonymous. And now, after having, as it were, lived down his good -works, it was a little hard that death should have torn from him the -lifelong mask of deceit, and set him before his fellow-members for -what he was--a thoroughly good man. - - -III - -It was a special business meeting of the Evil-doers’ Club. The -chairman rapped for order, and the secretary read the following -resolutions: - -“WHEREAS, It has pleased Nature to take from among us Ephrata -Symonds, for some time our honored president; - -“WHEREAS, We had always supposed him to be a man of the most -exemplary wickedness, a man before whom all Evil-doers might well -hide their diminished heads in despair of ever approaching his level -of degradation; - -“WHEREAS, His life had always seemed to us a perfectly unbroken and -singularly consistent chain of crimes and enormities to be emulated -by us all; and - -“WHEREAS, It has lately come to be known that his wickedness was but -a mask to hide a life of well-doing, occupied in its every third week -with deeds of kindness and generosity; - -“Therefore be it _Resolved_, That we, as members of this club, have -been most shamefully imposed upon; - -“_Resolved_, That we hereby express our contempt for a man who, -with every incentive to be always bad, should have so far forgotten -himself as to lead a third of a worthy life.” - -The secretary had not finished reading the resolutions when a -messenger brought in a letter which he handed to the chairman as the -clock pointed to eight fifty-eight. - -It ran in this fashion: - - FELLOW-MEMBERS: It is, by the time of reading this, probably plain - to you that you have been taken in by me, and that, so far from my - really having been a wicked person, I was a credit to my race and - time. - - True to my desire that to the rest of the world I should be - accounted a bad man, I have caused to be delivered with this letter - a box. It works its purpose at nine o’clock. Sit where you are and - do not attempt to escape. The secret of my goodness rests, and - shall rest, with you. - - Yours insincerely, EPHRATA SYMONDS. - -As the chairman finished reading he glanced at the clock. It was on -the stroke of nine! He seized the box, and with a wild cry attempted -to throw it through the window, but it was too late. A whirring noise -was heard, followed by a terrific explosion, that left of club-house -and -members naught save a hole in the ground. - -Symonds’s culpable goodness remained unknown to the world. - - - - -XXXI - -A STRANGER TO LUCK - - -When I got off the train at Darbyville, which, as all will remember, -is the junction of the L. M. & N. and O. P. & Q. railroads, and found -that, owing to an accident, it would be an hour before the train -came in on the latter road, I was vexed. Although ordinarily my own -thoughts are agreeable companions, yet events of the past week, in -which my good judgment had not borne a conspicuous part, made it -likely that for the nonce these thoughts of mine would be more or -less unpleasant, and so I cast about for some human nature to study. - -At one end of the platform three or four farmers were seated -upon trunks. They were alert-looking men, and, like me, were -waiting for the train. As I neared them, one of their number, a -tall, lanky, sharp-boned, knife-featured fellow, imperturbably -good-natured-looking, and with an expression of more than ordinary -intelligence in his eyes, left them and sauntered off down the road -with long, irregular strides. - -It was one of those calm, clear, dry days when sounds carry well, -and although I did not join them, yet I heard every word of the -conversation. Indeed, as their glances from time to time showed, they -were not averse to having an auditor. - -“It’s cur’us,” said one of them, a ruddy-faced man with a white -beard, “how unlucky a man c’n be an’ yit manage to live.” His eyes -followed the shambling figure that had just left them. “I’ll help -myself to some of thet terbacker, Jed. Left mine to hum, an’ I have -the teethache--awful.” This to a short, stout man with a smooth face, -who had just taken a liberal mouthful of tobacco from a paper that he -drew from his hip-pocket. - -“He’p ’se’f!” said the one addressed. Then he added, “Meanin’ Seth, I -s’pose?” - -“Yes,” replied the other. “I b’lieve thet ef Seth was to hev anythin’ -really fort’nit happen to him, it would throw him off his balance.” - -“’N’ yit ther’ never was a feller thet better deserved good luck than -Seth. Most obligin’ man I ever saw. Ain’t no fool, nuther,” remarked -the third and last member of the group, a typical Uncle Sam in -appearance, with prominent front teeth, and a habit of laughing dryly -at everything that he or any one else said. - -“He don’t suffer fer the actooal needs of life, doos he?” asked the -stout man whom the others called Jed. - -“No--oh, no,” answered Sam (for it turned out that so the typical -Yankee was called). “No; he gits enough to eat and wear, but he never -hez a cent to lay by, and never will.” - -“Don’t drink, doos he?” asked Jed, who seemed to belong to a -different town from the one wherein the others and Seth abode. His -acquaintance with the one under discussion was evidently by no means -intimate. - -“No; he ain’t got no vices ’t I know of. Jes’ onlucky.” - -“It’s s’prisin’ haow tantalizin’ly clus good fortin hez come to -him--different times,” said the one who had asked for the tobacco, -and whom the others called Silas. - -“You’re _right_, Silas,” assented Sam. “He c’n come nearer to good -luck ’thout techin’ it ’an any man I ever see.” - -“Don’t seem to worrit him much,” said Jed. “He seems cheerful.” - -“Don’t nothin’ worrit _him_,” Sam continued. “Most easy-goin’ man on -the face of the airth. _He_ don’t ask fer sympathy. He takes great -doses of bad luck ’s ef ’twas good fer his health.” - -“Never fergit,” said Silas, “the time when he bought a fine new milch -Jarsey at auction fer five dollars. Why, he hed two offers fer her -nex’ day, an’ I _know_ one of ’em was forty dollars--” - -“Well, naow I call that purty lucky,” interrupted Jed. - -“Wait!” continued Silas, seating himself more comfortably on a -trunk. “Seth he wouldn’t sell. Said he never did hev his fill of -milk, an’ he was goin’ to keep her. Very nex’ day, b’ George! -she choked on a turnip, an’ when he faound her she was cold. Man -sympathized with him. ‘Too bad, Seth,’ says he; ‘ye ’r’ aout forty -dollars.’ ‘Five’s all I figger it at,’ says Seth. ‘Didn’t _keer_ to -sell.’ - -[Illustration] - -“Closest call ’at fortune ever made him was time his uncle Ralzemon -aout West died and left him $5000. Everybody was glad, fer every one -likes Seth. I was with him when he got the letter f’om the lawyer -sayin’ it was all in gold, an’ hed be’n expressed to him, thet bein’ -one of the terms of the will. Mos’ shif’less way of sendin’ it, I -thought,” declared Silas, compressing his lips. “‘What ye goin’ to do -with it, Seth?’ says I. ‘Put it in the bank?’ ‘Ain’t got it yit,’ -says he; ‘an’, what’s more, I never will.’ ‘Why d’ ye think so?’ -says I. ‘On gin’al principles,’ says he, a-laafin’. - -“Sure ’nough, a few days later it was printed in the paper thet a -train aout in Wisconsin hed be’n held up by robbers. I was in the -post-office when I saw it in the paper, an’ Seth was there too. ‘Bet -ye a cooky thet my $5000 was on thet train,’ says he. ‘Won’t take -ye,’ says I; ‘fer I’ll bet ye five dollars ’twas, myse’f.’ ‘I’ll take -ye,’ says he. B’ George! he lost the five and the $5000 too, fer -_’twas_ on the train, an’ they never could git a trace of it. The -robbers hed took to the woods, an’ they never found ’em.” - -“Well, I swan!” ejaculated Jed, chewing hard, and regarding with -ominous look a knot-hole in the platform. - -Silas continued: “I says, ‘I’m sorry fer ye, Seth.’ Says he: ‘I ain’t -no poorer ’an I was before I heard he’d left it to me.’” - -“He was aout the five dollars he bet, though,” said Jed. - -“Wa’n’t, nuther,” said Silas, rather shamefacedly. “I told him thet -the bet was off.” - -“Why didn’t he sue the comp’ny?” asked Jed. - -“’At’s what I advised him doin’, but he said ’twa’n’t no use.” - -“I think I heard ’baout his havin’ a fortin left him at the time, but -I thought it was f’om a cousin down in South America,” Jed went on, -looking inquiringly at Sam. - -“Heh, heh! thet was another time,” said Sam, with his dry little -laugh. “Good nation! ef all the luck thet’s threatened to hit him hed -_done_ it, he’d be the richest man in this caounty. I tell ye, good -luck’s allers a-sniffin’ at his heels, but he don’t never git bit. -This time he got a letter f’om his cousin, tellin’ him he’d allers -felt sorry he hed sech poor luck, an’ he’d made him sole heir of -his estate, prob’ly wuth a couple o’ thousand dollars. He hed some -oncurable disease, he wrote, an’ the doctors didn’t give him over -three months to live--” - -“S’pose he lived forever,” put in Jed, chuckling. - -“No, sir; he died in good shape, an’ in fac’ he bettered his word, -for he didn’t live two months f’om the time he wrote to Seth; but I’m -blessed ef they didn’t find there was some claim against the estate -thet et it all up. Well, sir, I never saw any one laugh so hard ez -Seth when he heard the news. It struck him ez a dretful good joke.” - -“He must hev a purty paowerful sense of the ridikerlus,” said Jed, -dryly. - -“Well, he hez,” assented Sam, rubbing his knees with his horny hands. -“Ain’t no better comp’ny ’an Seth. Ain’t never daownhearted.” - -After a moment’s silence Silas smiled, and, closing his eyes, pinched -them between thumb and forefinger as if calling up some pleasing -recollection. At last he said: “Ye know, Seth allers works by the -day. He gin’ally has enough to do to keep him busy, an’ allers doos -his work up slick, but he never hed stiddy employment, on’y once, an’ -then it lasted on’y one day. ’Member that, Sam? Time he went to work -at the Nutmeg State clock-shop?” - -“_Yes_, yes,” laughed Sam, driving a loose nail into the platform -with his heel. - -“Stiddy employment fer a day, eh?” said Jed, grinning. “Thet’s ’baout -ez stiddy ez my hired man, an’ he ain’t stiddy at all.” - -“It was this way,” Silas went on. “Seth allers was purty slick at -han’lin’ tools, an’ Zenas Jordan was foreman of the shop, an’ he -offered Seth a place there at twelve dollars a week, which was -purty good pay an’ more ’n Seth could make outside, ’thout it was -hayin’-time. I met him on his way to work fust mornin’. ‘Well, luck’s -with you this time, Seth,’ says I. ‘Sh!’ says he. ‘Don’t say thet, -or I’ll lose my job sure. It’s jes better ’n nothin’, thet’s all. -_Don’t_ call it good luck’; an’ he laafed an’ went along a-whistlin’. -B’ Gosht! ef the blamed ol’ shop didn’t burn daown thet very night, -an’, ez ye know, they never rebuilt. Seth he come to me nex’ day, an’ -he says, kinder reproachful: ‘You’d orter held yer tongue, Silas. -I’d be’n hopin’ thet was a stroke er luck thet hed hit me by mistake, -an’ I wasn’t goin’ to whisper its name for fear it’d reckernize me -an’ leave me, and you hed to go an’ yell it aout when ye met me.’” -And Silas laughed heartily at recollection of the whimsicality. - -“Cur’us, ain’t it, what a grudge luck doos hev against some men?” -remarked Jed, rubbing his smooth chin meditatively. - -Far down the valley I heard the faint whistle of a locomotive. - -“Las’ story they tell ’baout Seth ’s this,” Silas said, rising and -stretching himself, and then leaning against the wall of the station. -“He’s a very good judge o’ poultry, an’, in fac’, he gin’ally judges -at the caounty fair every fall. Well, a man daown in Ansony told him -he’d pay him ten dollars apiece for a couple of fine thoroughbred -Plymouth Rock roosters. Seth knowed a man daown Smithfield way named -Jones thet owned some full-blooded stock, but ez he on’y kep’ ’em -fer home use he didn’t set a fancy price on ’em, an’ Seth knowed -he could git ’em fer seventy-five cents or a dollar apiece. Well, -it happened a day or two later he was engaged to do a day’s work -fer this man Jones, an’ he went daown there. He see two all-fired -fine roosters a-struttin’ raound the place, an’ he cal’lated to buy -them; but fer some reason he didn’t say nothin’ ’baout it jes then to -Jones, but went to work at choppin’ or sawin’ or whatever it was he -was doin’.” - -“Said nothin’, did he? _Must_ ha’ sawed wood, then,” interrupted Jed, -looking over at me and winking. - -“Sure! Well, when it kem time fer dinner he hed got up a good -appetite, an’ he was glad to set daown to table, fer Jones is a purty -good feeder an’ likes to see people hev enough. Hed stewed chicken -fer dinner, an’ Seth says he never enjoyed any so much in his life. -After dinner he says, ‘By the way, Jones, what’ll ye take fer those -two Plymouth Rock roosters ’t I saw this mornin’?’ Jones bust aout -a-laafin’, an’ he says, ‘Ye kin take what’s left on ’em home in a -basket an’ welcome!’ Blamed ef Seth hedn’t be’n eatin’ a dinner that -cost him nigh on to twenty dollars.” - -“Thet _must_ hev riled him some,” remarked Jed. - -“No, sir; he never seemed to realize the sitooation.” - - - - -XXXII - -CUPID ON RUNNERS - - -Littlewood Phillips had been in love with Mildred Farrington for two -years, ever since he first met her at the Hollowells’ card-party. -He had no good reason to doubt that his love was returned, yet so -fearful was he that he had misread her feelings that he had never -hinted that she was more to him than any of the girls he met at the -church sociables and card-parties in Newington. - -So matters stood when a snowfall that brought sleighing in its wake -visited Newington, and Littlewood became conscious of the fact that -he had actually asked Miss Farrington to take a ride with him. Of -course he must perforce bring matters to a crisis now. - -The evening was soon at hand. A crescent moon shone in the west, and -the stars were cold and scintillating. He walked to the livery-stable -and asked for the cutter, and a few moments later he was driving a -handsome chestnut to the house where his thought spent most of the -time. - -Miss Farrington kept him waiting a good half-hour, but he reflected -that it was the privilege of her glorious sex, and it only made him -love her the more. If she had come out and placed her dainty foot -upon his neck he would have been overcome with rapture. - -It was cold waiting, so he got out and hitched his horse and paced in -front of her house, her faithful sentinel until death--if need be. -Not that there was any reason to think that his services would be -required, but it pleased his self-love to imagine himself dying for -this lovely being of whom his tongue stood in such awe that it could -scarce loose itself in her presence. - -At last she appears. The restive horse slants his ears at her and -paws the ground in admiration of her beauty, for Mildred was as -pretty as regular features, a fair skin, and melting eyes could make -her. - -Littlewood handed her into the sleigh, stepped in himself, tucked in -the robes, and chirruped to the horse. - -That intelligent animal did not move. A flush of mortification -overspread the face of the would-be amorous swain. A balky horse, -and at the start! What chance would he have to deliver his precious -message that was to make two hearts happy? He clicked again to the -horse, but again the horse continued to stand still. - -“You might unhitch him, Mr. Phillips. That would help,” said Mildred, -in her sweet voice. - -“Oh, yes--t-to be sure! I must have tied him. I mean I--er--I di--I -think I did hitch--er--” - -“There seems to have been a hitch somewhere,” she answered. - -He stepped out of the sleigh and looked over his shoulder at her in -a startled way. Could she mean anything? Was this encouragement? Oh, -no! It was too soon. (Too soon, and he had been in love two years!) -He unhitched the horse and once more placed himself beside his loved -one. - -The frosty night seemed to have set a seal upon her lips, for as they -sped over the crunching snow and left the town behind them she was -silent. - -“I must have offended her. I’ve probably made a break of some kind,” -said Littlewood to himself. “How unfortunate! But I must tell her -to-night. It is now or never. She knows I never took anybody but my -mother sleigh-riding before.” - -Then began a process of nerving himself to the avowal. He ground his -knees together until the bones ached. His breathing was feverish. - -Finally he made bold to say: “Mildewed.” And then he stopped. He had -never called her Mildred before. He had never called her Mildewed -either, but that was accidental, and he hoped that she had not -noticed the slip. - -[Illustration] - -“I have something of the greatest importance to say to you.” - -Did he imagine it, or did she nestle closer to him? He must have been -mistaken, and to show that he was quite sure he edged away from her -as much as the somewhat narrow confines of the sleigh would allow. - -“What do you wish to say, Mr. Phillips?” - -“Mr.” Phillips! Ah, then she was offended. To be sure, she had always -called him that, but after his last remark it must have an added -significance. - -“I--er--do you like sleigh-riding?” - -“Why, of course, or else I shouldn’t have come.” - -Did she mean that as a slap at him? Was it only for the ride, and not -for his company, that she had come? Oh, he could never make an avowal -of love after that! He knew his place. This beautiful girl was not -for a faint-hearted caitiff like himself. - -“Nun--nun--no, to be sure not. I--er--thought that was why you came.” - -Mildred turned her gazelle-like eyes upon him. “I’m afraid I don’t -understand you.” - -That settled it. If she didn’t understand him when he talked of -nothing in particular, he must be very blind in his utterance, and -he could never trust his tongue to carry such a heavy freight as a -declaration of love. No, there was nothing to do but postpone it. - -Mildred drank in the beauty of the scenes, and wished that it were -decorous for women to propose. - -Under the influence of sweet surroundings, Mildred at last said -pointedly: “Is it so that more people get engaged in winter than in -summer?” - -She blushed as she spoke. It was unmaidenly, but he was such a -dear gump. Now he would declare himself. But she did not know the -capabilities for self-repression of her two-year admirer. - -He said to himself: “What a slip! What a delightful slip! If I were -unprincipled I would take advantage of it and propose, but I would -bitterly reproach myself forever, whatever her answer was.” - -So he said in as matter-of-fact tone as he could master when his -heart was beating his ribs like a frightened cageling: “I really -can’t answer offhand, but I’ll look it up for you.” - -“Do. Write a letter to the newspaper.” - -Her tones were as musical as ever, but Littlewood thought he detected -a sarcastic ring in them, and he thanked his stars that he had not -yielded to his natural desire to propose at such an inauspicious time. - -“What was that important thing you wanted to say?” asked Miss -Farrington, after several minutes of silence, save for the hoofs and -the runners and the bells. - -“Oh, it wasn’t of any importance! I mean it will keep. I--er--I was -thinking of something else.” - -“I think you have gone far enough,” said she, innocently, looking -over her shoulder in the direction of home. Maybe the return would -loosen his obdurate tongue. - -His heart stopped beating and lay a leaden thing in his breast. Had -he, then, gone too far? What had he said? Oh, why had he come out -with this lovely being, the mere sight of whom was enough to make one -cast all restraint to the winds and declare in thunderous tones that -he loved her? - -“I think that we’d better go back,” he said, and turned so quickly -that he nearly upset the sleigh. “Your mother will be anxious.” - -“Yes; when one is accountable to one’s mother one has to remember -time. I suppose it is different when one is accountable to a--” - -“Father?” said Littlewood, asininely. - -“No; that wasn’t the word I wanted.” - -“A-a-aunt?” - -Could Mildred love him if he gave many more such proofs of being an -abject idiot? - -“No; husband is what I want.” - -Littlewood’s brain swam. He had been tempted once too often. This -naïve girl had innocently played into his hands, and now the Rubicon -must be crossed, even if its angry waters engulfed him. - -“Pardon me, Miss--er--Mildred,”--he did not say Mildewed this -time,--“if I twist your words into another meaning, but if -you--er--want a husband--do you think I would do?” - -A head nestled on his shoulder, a little hand was in his, and when he -passed the Farrington mansion neither he nor she knew it. - - - - -XXXIII - -MY TRUTHFUL BURGLAR - - -I had an experience with a burglar night before last. My family are -all away, and I have been living alone in the house, a detached -villa in New Jersey, for upward of a month. Several burglaries have -occurred in the vicinity. - -Night before last I was awakened about four o’clock by a noise made -by a clicking door, and opening my eyes, I saw a smooth-faced, -determined-looking man at my bedside. I did not cry out, nor hide -under the bedclothes, nor do any of the conventional things that one -does when a burglar comes to him. - -I looked at him calmly for a moment, and then I said, “How d’ do?” - -An expression of surprise passed over his intelligent features, but -he said mechanically, “Pretty well, thank you. And you?” - -“Oh, I’m as well as could be expected under the circumstances. Are -you the burglar who has been doing this village?” - -“I am,” said he, drawing up a chair and sitting down. - -“Why don’t you deny it?” I asked. I wasn’t afraid. He amused me, this -nonchalant burglar. - -“Well, because I’m not ashamed of my profession, for one reason, and -mainly because I was brought up by my father to tell the truth.” - -“You tell the truth, and yet you are a burglar. How can you reconcile -those facts?” - -“They are not irreconcilable,” said he, taking a corn-cob pipe out -of his pocket and filling it. “I am a burglar, and my father was one -before me, but he was a perfectly honorable man. He never lied, and -I never lie. I steal because that is my profession, but I make it a -rule to tell the truth upon all occasions. Why, if the success of my -venture to-night depended upon my lying to you, I’d immediately leave -this place, as innocent of plunder as when I came in. Where’s the -silver?” - -“Top drawer of the sideboard.” There was a magnetism, a bonhomie, -about the man that captivated me. - -“Are you armed?” asked he, as he puffed at his pipe. - -“If I had been I’d have winged you before this,” said I, laughing. - -“I believe you, and I honor you for being perfectly frank with me.” - -“Why, as to that, I’m not to be outdone in frankness by a thief.” - -“That will make my task so much the easier. After I’ve finished this -pipe I want you to give me your word that you’ll lie still until I’ve -taken all I want.” - -I admired the man’s nerve, and I said: “For the time being I consider -you my guest, and, Spanish fashion, my house is at your disposal.” - -“Don’t put it on that basis, or I will leave at once. This is no time -for aping the Spanish.” - -“You are right. But I tell you candidly that I would far rather have -found out that you were a liar than a burglar. Your lies would not be -likely to injure me, but I’ll be out just so much by what you take. -I’d much rather you were a liar.” - -“And I would not. If I steal, I do but take something that, to -paraphrase Shakspere, was yours, is mine, and has been slave to -thousands; but to lie would be to ‘lay perjury to my soul,’ and that -I would not do, ‘no, not for Venice’!” - -[Illustration] - -“I see you know Shakspere,” said I, punching my pillow so that I -could be more comfortable. I was reading this odd fellow, and I -believed that I could dissuade him from his purpose. - -“Know Shakspere? I was an actor once.” - -I felt that I had him, for I know actors better than he knew -Shakspere. - -“Did you ever play Hamlet?” I asked, sitting up in bed. - -“I did; and I made such a hit that if it hadn’t been for the venality -of the press and my sense of honor, I would have been adjudged one of -the greatest Hamlets of the day.” - -“Give me the soliloquy. I give you my word that ordinarily I’d rather -be robbed than hear it, but I like your voice and I believe that you -can do it justice.” - -A self-satisfied smile illuminated his face. He laid down the pipe -and gave me the soliloquy, and it wasn’t bad. - -“Bully!” I said, when he had finished. “Why, man, you make an -indifferent thief, else you would have decamped long ago; but the -stage has lost an actor that would have in time compelled the -unwilling admiration of the press.” - -And so I jollied him, and he gave me the trial scene from “The -Merchant of Venice,” and other selections, until dawn began to show -in the east, when he picked up his bag and said, “It would be a shame -to rob a white man like you.” Then he bade me good-by and left. - -And I congratulated myself upon my knowledge of human nature, until -I began to dress, when I found that the fellow had finished his -burgling before I woke, and he has all my silver. - - - - -XXXIV - -THE MAN WITHOUT A WATCH - - -Thomas Morley knew the value of promptitude. He was a young man on -whom ninety-two seasons had poured benefits and adversities, although -many of the latter he took to be the former, his temperament shedding -sorrow as a duck does water, to use a castanean simile. - -He was a born and bred New-Yorker, but at the time of which we write -he had been living for the last ten or twelve months in Uxton, up -among the hills of northwestern Connecticut, studying the natives; -for he was a writer. - -Having filled a portfolio with material for enough dialect stories to -run one of the great magazines for a year, he determined to seek his -matter in the metropolis, and to that end applied for a reportership -on the New York “Courier-Journal,” in which paper many of his -brightest things had appeared at remunerative rates. - -As has been said, he knew the value of promptitude, so when, at eight -o’clock one night, Farmer Phelps’s hired man handed him a letter -from James Fitzgerald, managing editor of the “Courier-Journal,” -asking him to come and see him in regard to a reportership as soon as -possible, he made up his mind to take the train which left Winsonia, -four miles distant, at six o’clock next morning. This would enable -him to reach the office by half-past ten, and probably catch Mr. -Fitzgerald on his arrival at his desk. - -Next morning he arose at four, and when he left the house he had -sixty minutes in which to walk four miles downhill--ample time, -surely. - -It was so ample that he would have had fifteen minutes to spare if -the home clock had been right. As it was, he arrived at the station -in time to see the train rapidly disappearing around a curve, on its -way to New York. He laughed good-naturedly with the baggageman, and -asked him when the next down train was due. - -“Seven-thirty, sharp. You’ll not have to wait long.” - -Seven-thirty. That would bring him into the presence of Mr. -Fitzgerald at just about the time he arrived at his sanctum. “Better -than to have to wait in a presumably stuffy room,” said he to -himself, philosophically. He lit a cigar, and, as the air was bracing -and he was fond of walking, he struck out into a five-mile-an-hour -gait down the main street of Winsonia. - -His footsteps led him farther than he had intended going, and when -he reached the Baptist church at East Winsonia, he saw by its clock -that it lacked but forty minutes of train-time, and he had four miles -to make. He threw away the stump of his cigar, which had been out -for some time, broke into a jog-trot, and, after covering a mile, he -caught his second wind and mended his pace. - -His fleetness would have served its turn had not a malicious breeze -blown his hat over a high iron fence that surrounded a churchyard. -By the time he had climbed the fence and recovered his hat he had -consumed so many precious minutes that, although he sprinted the -last mile, he arrived at the station only in time to see train No. 2 -disappearing around that hateful curve. - -The baggageman was standing on the platform, and he said: - -“Ain’t once enough?” - -“More than enough for most people,” said Thomas, whose rare good -nature was proof against even such a remark at such a time. - -The next train for New York was due at nine fifty-six. Being somewhat -blown, he walked around the corner to a billiard-room, meaning to sit -down and watch whatever game might be in progress. - -“It may be,” soliloquized Thomas, “that Fitzgerald won’t reach the -office until after lunch, and I’ll get there at half-past two, in -time to see him when he’s feeling good.” - -He met Ned Halloway at the billiard-room, and when Ned asked him to -take a cue he consented. Billiards was a game in which he was apt to -lose--himself, at any rate; yet to-day his mind was enough on the -alert to enable him, after a time, to glance at the clock over the -bar in the next room. It was forty-five minutes past eight. - -They began another game. Later he looked again at the clock. A -quarter of nine. After another game he looked up once more. “Fifteen -minutes to ni--. Say, Ned, what’s the matter with that clock?” Ned -looked at it, then at his watch. “Why, it’s stopped!” - -“You settle--see you later.” And Thomas was gone like a shot. - -This time he had the rare pleasure of noting how the rear car of a -train grows rapidly smaller as it recedes. In a moment the train -disappeared around the curve before mentioned. - -“Say, Mr. Morley, you’ve time to miss the next, easy,” said the -baggageman, dryly. - -Thomas was vexed, but he said pleasantly: “When is it due?” - -“Half-past two. Better wait here and make sure of it.” - -[Illustration] - -“Oh, dry up! No; do the other thing; it’s on me.” - -After this little duty had been performed, Thomas, with an -irrelevancy of action that might have struck an observer as amusing, -made his way to the Y.M.C.A. rooms to read the magazines. - -“Let’s see,” said he; “I’ll get to his desk at seven. He’ll be hard -at work, and, if he engages me, he may send me out on an assignment -at once. Glad I missed the other trains.” - -Thus was Thomas wont to soliloquize. At one o’clock he went to -Conley’s Inn, and sat down to one of those dinners that attract -drummers to a hotel. Necessarily, then, it was a good dinner, and one -over which he lingered until nearly two. Then he went into the office -and sat down. - -The room was warm, and his dinner had made him drowsy. He decided to -take a little nap. He had the faculty of waking when he pleased, and -he willed to do so at fifteen minutes past two. It would be weakness -for him to get to the station with too much time to spare, but this -would give him a quarter-hour in which to go a half-mile. - -His awakening faculty would seem to have been slightly out of order -that day, however, and he did not arouse until twenty-nine minutes -past two by the hotel clock. - -Of course he did not make a fool of himself by trying to do a -half-mile in sixty seconds; but he walked leisurely toward the -station, intending to get his ticket and have that off his mind. - -He laughed heartily at a corpulent fellow who darted by him, carrying -a grip. - -His laughter ceased, however, when, on turning the corner, he -discerned the aforesaid fat man in the act of being assisted on -to the platform of the last car by the brakeman, the train having -acquired considerable momentum. Then he saw it disappear around a -curve which was part of the road at that point. There were three -explanations possible: either the train was behind time, or else his -awakening faculty was in good repair, or the hotel clock was fourteen -minutes fast. The latter proved to be the correct explanation of the -somewhat vexing occurrence. - -“Say, that’s a bad habit you have of missing trains,” said his friend -the baggageman. “Goin’ to miss another--or do anything else?” - -“No,” said Thomas, shortly. - -He knew that the next train at five was the last. This would make it -possible to reach Fitzgerald at half-past nine. “Right in the heat -of the work. He’ll engage me to get rid of me,” laughed Thomas to -himself. Then he continued: “I never heard of a man missing every -train in a day, so I’ll risk calling on Laura before the next one -starts.” - -Miss Sedgwick, the one he called Laura, lived out of town near the -railroad track, and two miles nearer New York than Winsonia station. - -She was a captivating girl, and when Thomas was in her presence he -never took heed of time. He was lucky enough to find her at home. She -seemed glad to see him, and was much interested in his account of how -near he had come to catching some trains that day; and as nothing -is so engaging as a good listener, the minutes passed on pneumatic -tires. When at last he took note of the hour, it was five o’clock. - -“That clock isn’t right, is it?” - -“Yes, sir. Father keeps it at railroad time. Mercy! you’ve lost your -train again, haven’t you?” - -“Laura, this time it’s bad. I won’t see him to-day, now, and -to-morrow may not do. Let me go and kick myself.” - -“I’m awfully sorry, Tom. I hope to-morrow won’t be too late.” - -Thomas squeezed her hand and left her, feeling rather blue. - -The railroad track was but a block away, and he walked over to it, -not with suicidal intent, but just that he might tantalize himself -with a view of the train as it sped by, which it should do in about a -minute. - -“At any rate,” said he, “it won’t be going around that dreadful -curve.” - -It was the last of December, and the sun had set. When he reached -the track he saw, far away, a glimmer of the headlight of the -five-o’clock express. - -Nearer and nearer it came. A moment more and it would rush by like a -meteor. But it didn’t. It slackened up at the very corner on which -Thomas stood, to allow an official of the road to jump off. - -Thomas was not slow, if he did miss trains now and then. He swung -himself on to the smoker. - -“Go’n’ far?” asked the brakeman. - -“To New York,” was his reply. - -“You’re in luck.” - -“Well, I’ve not missed more than three or four trains in my life!” -said Thomas; and it was strictly true. - -Half-past nine to the minute found him outside of the editorial rooms -of the “Courier-Journal.” - -“Can I see Mr. Fitzgerald?” he asked of a boy who came in response to -a knock. - -“No, sir; he went out of town yesterday. Be back to-morrow at twelve.” - - * * * * * - -“Did you get my letter already?” asked Mr. Fitzgerald of Thomas -Morley, when he came to his desk next morning and found that young -man waiting for him. - -“Yes, sir; and here I am.” - -“Well, sir, I like your promptness, and I’ll give you the place of a -man whom we had to discharge for being too slow. You seem to have -what a reporter needs most of all--the ‘get there’ quality.” - -“I didn’t allow any trains to pass me,” said Thomas, modestly. - - - - -XXXV - -THE WRECK OF THE “CATAPULT” - -BY CL-RK R-SS-LL - - The sea, the sea, the open sea, - The blue, the fresh, the ever free. - BARRY CORNWALL. - - -If there be those who love not the sea, with its storms, its seaweed, -its sharks and shrimps and ships, this is not the story for them, -and they would best weigh anchor and steer for some tale written by -a landlubber and full of green meadows and trees and such tommy-rot, -for this is to be chock-a-block with nautical phrases. - -And who am I, you ask? I am Joseph Inland, the tenth of that name. -We have always lived and died here in Birmingham, and followed the -trade of cutlers; but when I was a babe of one year father told -mother ’twas time one member of the family followed the sea, wherever -it went, and that he intended to make a sailor of me. - -So before I was six I had heard of sloops and ferry-boats and -belaying-pins and admirals and salt-junk, and longed to hear the wind -whistling through the maintopgallantmast, and could say “boat-swain” -as glibly as any sailor afloat. But father was in moderate -circumstances; and so, much as he would have liked to, he could -not afford to send me to sea when I was a boy, and that is why my -one-and-twentieth birthday came and went and I had never been farther -from Birmingham than my legs could carry me in a day; but you may be -sure that I subscribed to the “Seaman’s Daily,” and through a friend -who knew a sailor I had picked up such terms as “amidships,” “deck,” -“boom,” “bilge-water,” “forecastle,” and the like, so that I was a -seaman in everything save actual experience. - -And in the amateur dramatic society of which I was a member I always -played sailors’ parts, and did them so well that when we played -“Hamlet” they changed the part of the grave-digger to that of a -sailor for me, and I made a great hit in it. The one who played -Hamlet didn’t like the change, as it interfered with his lines and -his business with a skull, and he refused to come on at all in that -act; but I sang a sea-song instead, and the newspaper came out and -said that my singing was no worse than his acting would have been, -which I thought pretty neat. - -But enough of that. I was always fond of joking, and had nigh unto -a score of comical sayings that I used to repeat to my friends when -they would come to our house of an evening; but they didn’t often -come. My father said I was as comical a lad as he ever knew, and -would slap me on the back and roar that it was the funniest thing -he had heard in a twelvemonth when I made one particular joke, the -tenor of which I forget now. But all the jokes dealt with the sea. - -Well, so much for my life up to my one-and-twentieth birthday. You -have learned that if ever a body was fitted for a sea life, that body -was mine. - -By the time I was six-and-twenty I don’t believe there was a sea term -that I did not have at my tongue’s end, and I always wore my trousers -wide at the lower end, and kept a chew of tobacco in my mouth day and -night, although after a time I failed to notice any taste in it. - -It was a gladsome sight to see me go rolling to my work in the -cutler’s shop (for I still followed the old trade), with a hearty -“Ho, landsman! good mornin’ to ye!” to all I met, in true sailor -fashion. - -Our fare at home consisted of loblolly, ship’s-biscuit, salt-junk, -and plum-duff, with water drawn from casks. My dear old mother used -sometimes to wish for home-made bread and fresh meat and vegetables -and pump water; and I remember, one winter, brother died of the -scurvy; but I was better content than if he had died of some -landsman’s complaint, and mother was glad to put up with anything, -she was so proud that I was to be a seaman. - -[Illustration] - -I had a carpenter construct my parents’ bedroom so that the whole -floor could be rocked; and on stormy nights I would stay up and by -a simple mechanism keep it a-rocking until poor old mother would be -as sick as if she were in the Channel. But I never heard her murmur. -_She_ was fit for a sailor’s wife. - -On such nights father never went to bed, but stayed down-stairs. -There was little of the seaman’s spirit in the old man. - -When I was one-and-thirty I had a rare chance to ship before the mast -on a whaler sailing from Liverpool; but as business was pretty brisk -at the shop, I decided to wait, and the offer was not renewed when -she returned, three years later. - -When I was forty dear mother entered her last port. The doctor, a -blundering landlubber, fond of landsmen’s phrases, said she died -of insufficient nutriment. Be that as it may or what it may, in -her I lost one whose heart was always on my going to sea. Douse my -top-lights if ever there was a craft that carried a stancher heart -from barnacle to binnacle than did the old lady, and I had her -buried in shrouds, with a cannon-ball at the foot of the coffin, as -befitted the mother of one who was going to be a seaman. - -After she died I became even more impatient to be off to sea, for -there’s no air so pure as the sea air, no hearts so true as seamen’s -hearts, no weed like seaweed, and no water that’s fit to drink save -sea water; but business was pretty good, so, for the present, I -decided to stay ashore; but I always read the shipping news with as -much keenness as any sailor afloat. - - * * * * * - -And now I’ve come to the end of my yarn. I named it “The Wreck of -the ‘Catapult’” because it had a salty savor. It was the name of one -of my favorite Sunday-school books when I was a lad. Now I am an old -man, threescore and ten, and have been alone in the world a score -of years. Heaven denied me the blessing of children, but I have a -grandson who is as hot for the sea as I was. - -Ah, me! Next week I am going to apply for admission to the Sailors’ -Home; for although circumstances have prevented my ever seeing the -ocean or scenting its salty breezes, I have always been, and always -shall be, at heart a British seaman. - -Shiver my timbers! - - - - -ESSAYS AT ESSAYS - -[Illustration] - - - - -XXXVI - -THE BULL, THE GIRL, AND THE RED SHAWL - - -There is no incident in all the realms of literature, from the “penny -dreadful” up to the three-volume novel, that has afforded so much -material for the pen of the writer of fiction as the delightful -episode of the bull, the young girl with the red shawl, and the young -girl’s lover. Sometimes the cast includes the lover’s hated rival, -but the story may be told without using him. - -It is thirty-odd years since I first came across this thrilling -adventure in the pages of a child’s book, very popular at the -time. How well I remember how my young blood--to be exact, my -seven-year-old blood--thrilled as I mentally watched this frail -girl, with a start of just three feet, lead the tremendous and -horribly savage bull in a three-hundred-yard sprint, only to trip -at last on the only obstruction in the ten-acre field; how, just -as the bull reached her, she flung her red shawl a few rods to the -right; how the bull, leaving her, plunged after it; how she, weak -and trembling, ran to the stone wall and managed to vault it just -as her lover, a brawny blacksmith, who had seen the whole affair at -too great a distance to be of immediate service, reached the wall -and received her in his arms. “Oh, Kenston,” she murmured, “you have -saved my life!” And then she fainted, and I believe the bull ate up -the shawl; at any rate, its part in that particular story was ended. - -I have always felt that, thrilling as this scene was, it had not been -worked for all it was worth; but an extensive reading since then has -brought me to the conclusion that, first and last, it has been worked -for its full value. - -The next time that I read the enthralling narrative I was some years -older, but the memory of the other telling was still fresh within -me; and so, when, in the second chapter, I read about a savage old -bull, one Hector, the property of Squire Flint, the meanest man in -the county,--not that his meanness had anything to do with the story, -but it is one of the conventions that a savage bull shall be owned by -a cross, crabbed, and thoroughly stingy man,--I say, when I had read -thus far my pulse quickened. Inexperienced as I was, I somehow sensed -the coming situation. I seemed to know as by clairvoyance that, -however limited the heroine’s wardrobe might be in some respects, -there was one article of apparel that she surely possessed, or would -possess in time to meet the exigencies. True enough, in the very -next chapter her maiden aunt, a saintly old lady of ninety, died -and bequeathed to her sorrowing niece a red pongee shawl of great -value--as a bull-enrager. The book had seemed prosy at the start, but -now that I knew what was coming, and that it was _that_ that was -coming, I read on breathlessly. - -[Illustration] - -Needless to say that in the next chapter the young girl fell in love -with a strapping young fellow, who immediately proposed that they -take a walk. How well I knew, though they did not, where that walk -would lead them! The mad bull--in this case it was mad, although any -old bull will do, mad or not--was rampant in a lot a mile south of -the young girl’s house, and they started to walk due north; but I -knew full well that they would need to cross that particular pasture -before they got home, and a few pages later found them climbing over -a stone wall into the bull’s domain, and then they walked along, -intent only on their new-found happiness. The day was chilly,--in -the middle of a particularly hot July,--so that the girl could have -an excuse to wear her red shawl. Now, having brought two of the -actors upon the stage, the cue was soon given to the bull; and in a -moment the happy lovers, feeling the ground tremble beneath their -feet, turned and saw Hector, his horns gyrating with rage, his eyes -bulging out, and his head lowered as he thundered along straight for -the pongee bequest. To take her under his strong arm and to rush -forward were the only things for the young man to do, and he did -them; and then the rest ran as per schedule. I believe that in this -case the young man threw the girl into a tree and then plunged down -a woodchuck’s hole. At any rate, the girl was unharmed. That is the -one unalterable formula in constructing these bull stories: save the -girl unharmed. You may break the young man’s leg or arm, and you may -do what you will with the bull, but the young girl must come through -unscathed. - -It was years before this moving incident ceased to hold me, and -in that time how many changes were rung on it! Once only was the -red shawl absent, and I wondered how in the world the bull was to -be infuriated, as he was a singularly mild beast in the earlier -chapters, and on Maydays had been festooned with garlands. Then, too, -the girl was in deep mourning--for her lover! But the ten-acre lot -was all right, and as the author was a clever man, I felt that he -would find a way to run the act with a small cast and no properties. -So I read on, and after wondering, together with the girl herself, -what could have caused the peaceful old bovine to chase her, tail up -and head down, the full length of a particularly long pasture, she -and I found out when she realized that, the day being sunny, she had -picked up her cousin’s parasol, which was necessarily of a brilliant -scarlet. She had no lover, for, as I say, he had died--two chapters -before the book was begun; but she did have presence of mind, and so -she inserted the point of the parasol in the bull’s mouth, and then -opened it, and while he was extracting it with his fore paws, she -reached the fence and vaulted it in the usual way. - -The possibilities of the incident are by no means exhausted, and so -far from “Amos Judd” being the last story in which it was used, I -saw it in a tale published this month, and this time with the full -paraphernalia of hated rival, lover, red shawl, and all; but for me -it had lost its zest. To be sure, if they would make the hero an -athlete, and have him bravely stand his ground while the girl climbed -to the top of an enormous elm, and then, just as the bull lowered -his head to toss him, have the hero jump high in the air and make -the bull pass beneath him, and as he reached ground again seize the -bull, not by the horns, but by the tail, and, swinging it three times -around his head, dash it against a tree and stun it,--that is, if its -tail were securely welded to its body,--there would be an original -treatment of the subject. And if its tail were but loosely fixed to -it, the hero could pull it out, and the bull, filled with chagrin, -would walk off, dismayed and humiliated. - -But, pending that form of the story, I am studiously avoiding all -novels that contain heroines with red shawls, or that make early -reference to fierce bulls, or that speak of a certain ten-acre -lot peculiarly adapted for lovers’ peregrinations; for, like the -successful burglar, I know the combination. - - - - -XXXVII - -CONCERNING DISH-WASHING - - -Has the reader ever considered how much time is wasted every day by -busy women in the work of washing dishes? Of course, if a man has -plenty of money and, from philanthropic motives, engages a girl to -perform this unpleasant--I had almost said “duty”--this unpleasant -task, I suppose we cannot, strictly speaking, regard her time as -wasted, for she might else be loafing in an intelligence-office -without gaining a scrap of that article. I refer to the lives led -by weary housewives who, having no aid from a hired housemaid, day -out and day in will make themselves thin by the never-ceasing and -perfectly useless grind of dish-washing; for the dishes don’t stay -clean for more than a few hours. - -For years I ate my meals in selfish content, little recking at what -cost the clean service was gained, until I discovered that my sister, -who is also my housekeeper, had sold her piano, not having time to -play upon it. I was shocked to think what a power this custom of -dish-washing had over the minds of the feminine portion of our public. - -But this dreadful waste of time that is going on in thousands of -homes in this country every day was brought home to me in a still -more striking manner not long after. My sister went away to visit a -friend, and left me to keep bachelor’s hall. I had always had a good -taste for cooking, although hitherto my practice had been confined -to boiling eggs and buttering hot toast on a plate at the back of -the stove. The first meal that I prepared, a breakfast, consisted of -oatmeal, steak, fried potatoes, bread, butter, milk, and water. We -will pass over the meal itself, as its discussion is foreign to our -purpose. Indeed, the less said about it the better. It was nine when -I had finished eating, and dumped my dishes and knives and forks into -tepid water. I am a fast worker, but the clock in the neighboring -church had ceased striking twelve when my last dish was wiped and put -away. - -I had hoped to do a little writing that morning, but it was now -time to get luncheon. Luckily, that meal called into play very few -dishes, and by two, or half-past, I had made an end of my second -stint. Feeling elated that I had a whole afternoon on my hands, I -prepared a course dinner. I found some cold soup in the refrigerator, -and I bought a bluefish, five or six pounds of beef for roasting, -some Parker House rolls, and a lemon-pie for dessert. There were -lettuce and eggs in the house, and plenty of canned vegetables. I -also made some good coffee, with the aid of a French coffee-pot, that -indispensable adjunct of a well-ordered household. I found that the -courses were very hard to manage so that they would follow in their -proper order. They weren’t even satisfied to finish together like -evenly matched racers, but the roast was burned five minutes before I -thought of warming up the soup, and ten minutes before I had scaled -the fish. Then the latter wouldn’t broil readily until most of it -was in the fire. The vegetables I forgot entirely, and I decided at -the last moment to deny myself the salad, as dinner was waiting and -I was hungry. I might add that I inadvertently cut the pie with the -fish-knife, and that cast a damper on the dessert. However, as I -said, the coffee was good--and, anyhow, I am digressing. - -[Illustration] - -It was seven when I emptied my dishes into the water, and I worked -with a will, as I had a very exciting novel that I was desirous -of finishing. It was a few minutes past eleven when I emptied my -dish-pan for the last time, and then I was ripe for bed. - -As time wore on I became more dexterous in the use of the dish-cloth -and -towel, and the day before sister returned I devoted but six -hours to dish-washing. To be sure, I had given up course dinners, -because they took too many plates, and for other reasons that need -not to be quoted here. - -As I say, I am a fast worker, and yet it took me over six hours a -day to clean the crockery. Assuming that a woman can do it in eight -hours, she wastes half of her waking moments in drudgery beside which -the making of bricks without straw would be a pastime. - -There is absolutely nothing in the dish-washing habit to recommend -it. It is ruinous to hands and temper, and, indeed, I do not see -but that it is immoral. Anything that puts us in the proper mood for -swearing is immoral, and there is nothing in the whole housekeeping -routine so conducive to highly spiced language as dish-washing. - -And to what purpose is this waste of time? I won’t go so far as to -advocate a return to the fingers that were used before forks for the -purpose of conveying food to the mouth, for that would but relieve -us from the washing of cutlery; but I will say that the man who will -invent a cheap yet very ornate dinner service that may be destroyed -after once using will have earned the undying gratitude of the women -of this country and a princely fortune besides. - -And when he has invented it, sister may go on another visit. - - - - -XXXVIII - -A PERENNIAL FEVER - - -The world hears much of the dangers of typhoid and yellow and scarlet -fever, and the skill of physicians is ever employed to reduce those -dangers to a minimum; but in every country, at all seasons of the -year, there is a fever that numbers its victims by the thousand, and -yet no doctor has ever prescribed for it, nor is there any drug in -the pharmacopœia that will alleviate it. - -The malady to which I refer is hen fever. - -If a city woman intends marrying a city man, and then moving out a -little way into the country, as she values her peace of mind, let her -make sure that he is immune. Unless, indeed, both are prepared to -come down with it at once. For it is unlike all other fevers in that -a man and his wife may have it together and be happy; but if he or -she have it alone, then woe be to that house. - -The germs of hen fever are carried in a chance conversation, in a -picture of gallinaceous activity, in the perusal of a poultry-book. -A man hears or looks or reads, and the mischief is done. The subtle -poison is in his blood, although he knows it not. - -Hen fever takes various forms. With some it is manifested in a desire -to keep a few blooded fowls and breed for points; with another, to -keep a few birds for the sake of fresh eggs and broilers: but in -whatsoever form it come, it will cause the upheaval of its victim’s -most cherished plans and habits. - -He may have been an ardent admirer of Shakspere, and in the evenings -it has been his wont to read aloud to his wife while she knitted; but -now, little recking what she does, he reads to himself “Farm Poultry” -or “The Care of Hens,” or--and this is the second stage of the -disease--he reads aloud to her that hens cannot thrive without plenty -of gravel, that cracked wheat is better than whole corn for growing -pullets, that the best way to cure a hen of eating her own eggs is to -fill one with mustard, etc. - -[Illustration] - -Time was when he had an opinion on politics, on finance, on -literature, on the thousand and one things that make for -conversation, and his neighbors dropped in to hear him talk -engagingly of what he had read or seen; but now, when they come, he -tells them that his brown Leghorn hen laid twenty eggs in twenty-five -days, while his buff Cochin laid only eight in the same time; that -his white Plymouth Rock is crop-bound, and his Wyandotte rooster has -the pip. - -Lucky indeed is his wife if he stick to the good old way of hatching -chickens by hens instead of kerosene-oil; for if he get an incubator -she had better get a divorce. How many homes have been wrecked by -patent incubators will never be known. - -But even if the fevered one stick to the natural method of hatching, -there will be many times when his wife will wonder why she left a -comfortable and sociable home to spend her evenings alone; for he -will be in the hen-house, setting hens, or washing soiled eggs, or -divesting nestlings of the reluctant shell, or dusting his whole -flock with the snuff-like insecticide, or kerosening their roosts. - -With some the fever never abates; with some it is intermittent; some -have it hardest in the spring of the year, when hens are laying their -prettiest, and profits may be figured in money as well as on paper. -But whether it be light or heavy, hen fever will run its course -without let or hindrance; and, as I have hinted, happy is the wife -who comes down with it simultaneously with her husband; for, though -their neighbors will shun them as they would a deadly pestilence, -yet they will be company for each other, and will prate ceaselessly, -yet cheerily, upon the best foods for laying hens, the best exposure -for coops, how many hens can live in one house with best results, -when a chicken should be weaned of bread, what breed of hens is least -idiotic, and kindred topics. - -As for me, I am free to come and go among hens; to look on their -markings with unmoved eye; to view their output with normal pulse; -to hear “the cock’s shrill clarion” without pricking up my ears; to -read of the latest thing in incubators without turning a hair: for I -have survived the fever; I am an immune. - - - - -XXXIX - -“AMICUS REDIVIVUS” - - -Josephus says, “Post hoc ergo propter hoc,” and it might well be -applied to the concerns of this day, for what one of us has not at -some time or other felt a “pactum illicitum,” a “qualis ab incepto,” -as it were, permeating his whole being, and bringing vividly before -the retina the transitory state of all things worldly? As Chaucer -said: - - For who so wolde senge the cattes skin, - Than wol the cat wel dwellen in here in. - -For it cannot be gainsaid that, despite the tendency toward -materialism, the cosmic rush and the spiritual captivity that lead so -many brave souls into the martyrdom of Achiacharus, there is in all -of us a certain quality that must and will assert itself. - -It seems but yesterday that Shelley, in his poem on “Mutability,” -said: - - We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon; - -but how pat is the application to-day! We _are_ as clouds. You who -boast yourself of your ancestry, you whose dignity is as a cloak of -ermine, ye are but clouds. How well Goethe knew this! We all remember -those lambent lines of his--I cannot translate adequately, so I will -quote from the original German: - - Fräulein Anna, das Papier in Deutschland ist wie das Papier in - Amerika. - -Ages ago Sophocles had worded it in almost the same phrase: - - Oh, race of mortal men oppressed with care! - What nothings are we, like to shadows vain, - Cumb’ring the ground and wandering to and fro. - -The greatest poets, from Le Gallienne down to Shakspere, have been -aware of this evanescent property in the cumbrous and exsufflicate -prowlers amid these “glimpses of the moon.” Well may we say with -Cæsar, “Quamdiu se bene gesserit.” - -[Illustration] - -There is always a touch of ozone in the words of Horace, and we -find him saying of this very thing, “Precieuse ridicules pretiosa -supellex.” Could it have been said better? How airily he pricks the -bubble of man’s self-esteem! “Dressed in a little brief authority,” -man plays his part amid mundane happenings tremelloid and sejant, -and with a sort of innate connascence, a primitive conglutinate -efflorescence, he approaches nearer and nearer, day by day, to that -time when, as Shakspere hath it, “the beachy girdle of the ocean” -will resolve itself into its component parts, and man as man will -cease to exist. - -But, to pass to a more inchoate view of these things,--to the “opum -furiata cupido” of the ancient Latins,--what is there in all this -that tends to lessen a man’s self-glorification, his auto-apotheosis? -Victor Hugo can tell us: - - Petit bourgeois père La Chaise - Pour prendre congé tour de force - Connaisseur tout Thérèse - Façon de parler Edmund Gosse. - -The author of “Les Misérables” was himself a man, and he knew. And -no less a man was Coplas de Manrique, and in his beautiful lyric, -“Caballeros,” he says: - - Tiene Vd.-Usted mi sombrero - Tiene Vd.-Usted mi chaleco - No lo tengo, no lo tengo - Tiene Vd.-Usted mi. - -“Noblesse oblige,” and it behooves all of us, however mighty our -positions in life, to unbend a little and try to mollify these -manducable and irresoluble phases of molecular existence, to the end -that we may accomplish a “vis medicatrix naturae” and a “vade mecum” -that shall be valuable to us in our journey to the tomb and through -nether space. - -So, then, may we “with an unfaltering trust approach our grave,” and, -as Schiller says so musically: - - Ich kann nicht mit der linken Hand schreiben. - - - - -XL - -THE PROPER CARE OF FLIES - - -It is a fact beyond cavil that ninety-nine flies out of a hundred -perish every year for lack of proper care on the part of housewives; -that the attention that is lavished upon the house-cat, if expended -upon the house-fly, would cause him to stay with us throughout the -twelvemonth. - -I have devoted years of patient study to the busy buzzers, and I -speak as one having authority. Flies need warmth as much as humans -do--nay, more than their biped brethren, for we can stand the early -autumn frosts without a fire, but it is those few days that kill -off the little fellows that have been our winged companions through -the summer season, singing in the new day, sampling our butter and -meats, and tickling us half to death with their erratic pilgrimages -and divagations. A little forethought on our part, a speedier -lighting of the furnace fires, and flies in midwinter would no longer -be a rarity. - -This well-nigh universal carelessness is due to a woeful ignorance -as to the habits of the fly, and not to intentional cruelty. Why, -we know more about the ways of the wapiti than of the most common -occupant of our houses. To give an instance, most people refer to the -fly as a scavenger, a lover of tainted meats and vegetables. This is -only because he is so often forced to eat tainted meat or go without -altogether. There are fresh milk and fish for the cat, dainty tidbits -for the dog, millet and rape for the canary; yet how many Christian -people think to provide something tempting for the flies? But too -often we begrudge them the crumbs that fall from the table. - -So far from flies loving “high” meat, it is an acquired taste with -them. This had long been a theory with me, but it is only a year -since I proved it by an interesting experiment. I secured a setting -of flies’ eggs,--not thoroughbred eggs, but just the ordinary -barn-yard variety,--and I set them under a motherly bluebottle -fly, after I had made her a comfortable nest in a pill-box. I saw -to it that she had the proper food for a setting fly--not mush and -milk, but flakes of hominy and grains of sugar once a day. I also -dusted her nest thoroughly with insecticide and covered her with -a tea-strainer so that she would be secure from molestation from -other flies. For three weeks she was faithful to her duties, and -then, one morning, I saw that she had experienced the sweet joys of -motherhood, for there, on the edge of her nest, sat thirteen--mark -the number--cunning little flies, pluming and preening themselves -with innate skill. I could scarce keep back the tears. - -[Illustration] - -For a few days I let the little flock follow their mother, and then -I shut them up away from her in my guest-chamber and began their -education. The sweetest milk was theirs from the start, and after -a week of bread diet, that their feathers might be strengthened, I -began to give them small scraps of porter-house steak and Southdown -mutton. It was wonderful to see how the little beggars throve. One -night I slept in the guest-chamber, and they awoke me before the -robin’s matin song, although they were not three weeks old. Their -tread had a firmness, a titillating power, that never comes to a -tramp fly or to one improperly nurtured. Then, their buzzing was so -sonorous that sleep was impossible once they tuned up, so I was in -no danger of becoming a drowse-abed. - -When they were two months old I determined to test my theory. I -procured some meat from the larder of a gormand friend of mine, and -brought it into my guest-chamber in an air-tight box. Then I opened -the box and awaited developments. If flies are natural-born birds of -carrion, then they would rush upon this stuff with avidity. I hid -behind the arras--if I am quite sure what arrases are--and watched my -little pets with some concern. They flew over to the meat, sniffed -it disdainfully, buzzed with ire for a few seconds, and then flew to -the ceiling with every appearance of disgust. Then the largest one -signaled to his fellows, and they flew down once more, lifted the -“condemned beef” in their talons as firemen seize a life-preserving -net, and sailed to the open window, where they dropped it. In five -minutes’ time it was black with flies that had not received proper -nurture. Was I pleased? I was delighted. I set forth a feast of sugar -on top of my bald head, and sat in the guest-chamber until my pets -had made an end of eating. - -The nineteenth century is nearing its close, and the house-fly is not -a perfect insect; but, housekeeper, it lies with you to improve the -breed. Exercise a little care in the choice of their food, and when -the biting days of early fall come upon the land, make provision for -warming your little guests of the summer days, and if the winds of -winter whistle sharp they will be answered by the hot little buzz of -myriads of flies. - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE - - Contractions such as “he ’s” and “she ’d” (with a space) have - been changed to “he’s” and “she’d” (without a space). - - Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been - corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within - the text and consultation of external sources. - - Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, - and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained. - - Pg xii: ‘Harper’s Bazar’ replaced by ‘Harper’s Bazaar’. - Pg 124: ‘what the concensus’ replaced by ‘what the consensus’. - Pg 237: ‘dainty titbits’ replaced by ‘dainty tidbits’. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Four-Masted Cat-Boat, by Charles Battell Loomis - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOUR-MASTED CAT-BOAT *** - -***** This file should be named 63863-0.txt or 63863-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/8/6/63863/ - -Produced by D A Alexander, John Campbell and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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