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| author | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-06-22 03:47:18 -0700 |
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| committer | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-06-22 03:47:18 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f57f44 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,13 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text +*.htm text +*.html text +*.png binary +*.jpg binary +*.svg text +*.pdf binary +*.bmp binary +*.zip binary +*.midi binary +*.mp3 binary diff --git a/78913-0.txt b/78913-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cd2c875 --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10200 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78913 *** + + + + +[Illustration: RISE AND FALL OF THE MUSTACHE.] + + + + + THE + RISE AND FALL + OF + THE MUSTACHE + AND OTHER + “HAWK-EYETEMS.” + + BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE, + The Humorist of the Burlington “Hawk-Eye.” + + ILLUSTRATED BY R. W. WALLIS. + + BURLINGTON, IOWA: + BURLINGTON PUBLISHING COMPANY. + 1877. + + + + + COPYRIGHT. + BURLINGTON PUBLISHING COMPANY, + 1877. + + Bound by A. J. Cox & Co., Chicago. The Lakeside Press, Chicago. + + + + +[Illustration] + + TO + FRANK HATTON, + Editor-in-Chief, + AND + MY ASSOCIATES ON THE HAWKEYE, + IN HAPPY REMEMBRANCE + OF OUR PLEASANT FELLOWSHIP, THIS VOLUME + IS INSCRIBED. + +[Illustration] + + + + +PREFACE. + + +_The appearance of a new book is an indication that another man has +found a mission, has entered upon the performance of a lofty duty, +actuated only by the noblest impulses that can spur the soul of man to +action. It is the proudest boast of the profession of literature, that +no man ever published a book for selfish purposes or with ignoble aim. +Books have been published for the consolation of the distressed; for +the guidance of the wandering; for the relief of the destitute; for +the hope of the penitent; for uplifting the burdened soul above its +sorrows and fears; for the general amelioration of the condition of all +mankind; for the right against the wrong; for the good against the bad; +for the truth. This book is published for two dollars per volume._ + + _R. J. B._ + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + PAGE. + + A BOY’S DAY AT HOME, 273 + + A BURLINGTON ADDER, 94 + + A BURLINGTON NOVELETTE, 173 + + A CANDID CONFESSION, 171 + + A MODERN GOBLIN, 210 + + A RAINY DAY IDYL, 86 + + A REMINISCENCE OF EXHIBITION DAY, 177 + + A SAFE BET, 204 + + A SUNDAY IDYL, 262 + + A TACITURN WITNESS, 124 + + A THRILLING ENCOUNTER, 144 + + A TRYING SITUATION, 193 + + AN AUTUMNAL REVERIE, 286 + + BUYING A TIN CUP, 119 + + CORNERING THE BOYS, 128 + + DANGERS OF BATHING, 164 + + DRIVING THE COW, 64 + + FIVE WOMEN, 146 + + GETTING READY FOR THE TRAIN, 59 + + HAWK-EYETEMS, 298-328 + + INFANTILE SCINTILLATIONS, 293 + + INSPIRATIONS OF TRUTH, 156 + + LIFE IN THE “HAWKEYE” SANCTUM, 109 + + MASTER BILDERBACK RETURNS TO SCHOOL, 74 + + MASTER BILDERBACK’S POULTRY YARD, 258 + + MIDDLERIB’S DOG, 270 + + MIDDLERIB’S PICNIC, 250 + + MIND READING, 200 + + MISAPPLIED SCIENCE, 96 + + MR. BARINGER’S HOUSE-CLEANING, 282 + + MR. BILDERBACK LOSES HIS HAT, 195 + + MR. GEROLMAN LOSES HIS DOG, 82 + + MR. OLENDORF’S COMPLAINT, 180 + + ODE TO AUTUMN, 78 + + ONE OF THE LEGION, 121 + + RUPERTINO’S PANORAMA, 266 + + RURAL FELICITY, 185 + + SELLING THE HEIRLOOM, 129 + + SETTLING UNDER DIFFICULTIES, 296 + + SINGULAR TRANSFORMATION, 87 + + SODDING AS A FINE ART, 135 + + SPECIAL PROVIDENCES, 279 + + SPIRIT PHOTOGRAPHY, 158 + + SPRING DAYS IN BURLINGTON, 108 + + SPRING TIME IN AMERICA, 115 + + SUBURBAN SOLITUDE, 90 + + THE AMENITIES OF POLITICS, 139 + + THE ARTLESS PRATTLE OF CHILDHOOD, 102 + + THE AUTOMATIC CLOTHES-LINE REEL, 152 + + THE DEMAND FOR LIGHT LABOR, 70 + + THE GARDEN OF THE GODS, 189 + + THE GOBLIN GATE, 148 + + THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS, 113 + + THE LAY OF THE COW, 206 + + THE POWER OF DIGNITY, 169 + + THE RISE AND FALL OF THE MUSTACHE, 9 + + THE ROMANCE OF THE CARPET, 132 + + THE SEEDSMAN, 127 + + THE SORROWS OF THE POOR, 79 + + VOICES OF THE NIGHT, 67 + + WHY MR. BOSTWICK MOVED, 275 + + WIDE-AWAKE, 99 + + WOODLAND MUSIC AND POETRY, 116 + + WRITING FOR THE PRESS, 161 + + YOUNG MR. COFFINBERRY BUYS A DOG, 207 + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE RISE AND FALL + +OF + +THE MUSTACHE. + + +We open our eyes in this living world around us, in a wonder land, +peopled with dreams, and haunted with wonderful shapes; and every day +dawns upon us in a medley of new marvels. We are awakened from these +dreams by contact with hard, stubborn facts, not rudely and harshly, +but gradually and tenderly. So much that is bright and beautiful, and +full of romance and wonder, passes away with the earlier years of life, +that by the time we are able to earn our first salary we hold in our +hands only the crumpled, withered leaves of childhood’s simple creeds +and loving superstitions. Year after year, the iconoclastic hand of +earnest, real life, tears from the lofty pedestals upon which our +loving fancy had enshrined them, the gods of gold that crumble into +worthless clay at our feet. We live to lose faith, at last, in “Puss +in Boots;” we cease to weep over the sad tragedy of “Cock Robin;” +there comes a time when we can read “Arabian Nights,” and then go to +bed without a tremor; with one heart-breaking pang at last we give up +darling “Jack the Giant Killer,” and acknowledge him to be the fraud +he stands confessed; it is not long after that, we learn to look upon +William Tell as a national myth, and then we come to know, in spite of +all that orthodox theology has taught us to the contrary, that Adam was +not the first man--that raised a mustache. Adam was too old--when he +was born--to care very much about what our grander and more gradually +developed civilization considers the crowning facial ornament. And +after his natural human idleness got him into perfectly natural human +trouble, he was kept too busy something to put under his lip, to think +much about what grew above it. If Adam wore a mustache, he never +raised it. It raised itself. It evolved itself out of its own inner +consciousness, like a primordial germ. It grew, like the weeds on his +farm, in spite of him, and to torment him. For Adam had hardly got his +farm reduced to a kind of turbulent, weed producing, granger fighting, +regular order of things--had scarcely settled down to the quiet, happy, +care-free, independent life of a jocund farmer, with nothing under the +canopy to molest or make him afraid, with every thing on the plantation +going on smoothly and lovelily, with a little rust in the oats; army +worm in the corn; Colorado beetles swarming up and down the potato +patch; cut-worms laying waste the cucumbers; curculio in the plums and +borers in the apple trees; a new kind of bug that he didn’t know the +name of desolating the wheat fields; dry weather burning up the wheat, +wet weather blighting the corn; too cold for the melons, too dreadfully +hot for the strawberries; chickens dying with the pip; hogs being +gathered to their fathers with the cholera; sheep fading away with +a complication of things that no man could remember; horses getting +along as well as could be expected, with a little spavin, ring bone, +wolf teeth, distemper, heaves, blind staggers, collar chafes, saddle +galls, colic now and then, founder occasionally, epizootic when there +was nothing else; cattle going wild with the horn ail; moth in the bee +hives; snakes in the milk house; moles in the kitchen garden--Adam had +just about got through breaking wild land with a crooked stick, and +settled down comfortably, when the sound of the boy was heard in the +land. + +Did it ever occur to you that Adam was probably the most troubled +and worried man that ever lived? We have always pictured Adam as a +care-worn looking man; a puzzled looking granger who would sigh fifty +times a day, and sit down on a log and run his irresolute fingers +through his hair while he wondered what under the canopy he was going +to do with those boys, and whatever was going to become of them. We +have thought too, that as often as our esteemed parent asked himself +this conundrum, he gave it up. They must have been a source of constant +trouble and mystification to him. For you see they were the first boys +that humanity ever had any experience with. And there was no one else +in the neighborhood who had any boy, with whom Adam, in his moments of +perplexity, could consult. There wasn’t a boy in the country with whom +Adam’s boys were on speaking terms, and with whom they could play and +fight. Adam, you see, labored under the most distressing disadvantages +that ever opposed a married man and the father of a family. He had +never been a boy himself, and what could he know about boy nature or +boy troubles and pleasure? His perplexity began at an early date. +Imagine, if you can, the celerity with which he kicked off the leaves, +and paced up and down in the moonlight the first time little Cain made +the welkin ring when he had the colic. How did Adam know what ailed +him? He couldn’t tell Eve that she had been sticking the baby full of +pins. He didn’t even know enough to turn the vociferous infant over on +his face and jolt him into serenity. If the fence corners on his farm +had been overgrown with catnip, never an idea would Adam have had what +to do with it. It is probable that after he got down on his knees and +felt for thorns or snakes or rats in the bed, and thoroughly examined +young Cain for bites or scratches, he passed him over to Eve with the +usual remark, “There, take him and hush him up, for heaven’s sake,” and +then went off and sat down under a distant tree with his fingers in his +ears, and perplexity in his brain. And young Cain just split the night +with the most hideous howls the little world had ever listened to. It +must have stirred the animals up to a degree that no menagerie has ever +since attained. There was no sleep in the vicinity of Eden that night +for anybody, baby, beasts or Adam. And it is more than probable that +the weeds got a long start of Adam the next day, while he lay around in +shady places and slept in troubled dozes, disturbed, perhaps by awful +visions of possible twins and more colic. + +And when the other boy came along, and the boys got old enough to sleep +in a bed by themselves, they had no pillows to fight with, and it is +a moral impossibility for two brothers to go to bed without a fracas. +And what comfort could two boys get out of pelting each other with +fragments of moss or bundles of brush? What dismal views of future +humanity Adam must have received from the glimpses of original sin +which began to develop itself in his boys. How he must have wondered +what put into their heads the thousand and one questions with which +they plied their parents day after day. We wonder what he thought when +they first began to string buckeyes on the cat’s tail. And when night +came, there was no hired girl to keep the boys quiet by telling them +ghost stories, and Adam didn’t even know so much as an anecdote. + +Cain, when he made his appearance, was the first and only boy in the +fair young world. And all his education depended on his inexperienced +parents, who had never in their lives seen a boy until they saw Cain. +And there wasn’t an educational help in the market. There wasn’t +an alphabet block in the county; not even a Centennial illustrated +handkerchief. There were no other boys in the republic, to teach young +Cain to lie, and swear, and smoke, and drink, fight, and steal, and +thus develop the boy’s dormant statesmanship, and prepare him for the +sterner political duties of his maturer years. There wasn’t a pocket +knife in the universe that he could borrow--and lose, and when he +wanted to cut his finger, as all boys must do, now and then, he had +to cut it with a clam shell. There were no country relations upon +whom little Cain could be inflicted for two or three weeks at a time, +when his wearied parents wanted a little rest. There was nothing for +him to play with. Adam couldn’t show him how to make a kite. He had a +much better idea of angels’ wings than he had of a kite. And if little +Cain had even asked for such a simple bit of mechanism as a shinny +club, Adam would have gone out into the depths of the primeval forest +and wept in sheer mortification and helpless, confessed ignorance. I +don’t wonder that Cain turned out bad. I always said he would. For +his entire education depended upon a most ignorant man, a man in the +very palmiest days of his ignorance, who couldn’t have known less +if he had tried all his life on a high salary and had a man to help +him. And the boy’s education had to be conducted entirely upon the +catechetical system; only, in this instance, the boy pupil asked the +questions, and his parent teachers, heaven help them, tried to answer +them. And they had to answer at them. For they could not take refuge +from the steady stream of questions that poured in upon them day after +day, by interpolating a fairy story, as you do when your boy asks you +questions about something of which you never heard. For how could Adam +begin, “Once upon a time,” when with one quick, incisive question, Cain +could pin him right back against the dead wall of creation, and make +him either specify exactly what time, or acknowledge the fraud? How +could Eve tell him about “Jack and the bean stalk,” when Cain, fairly +crazy for some one to play with, knew perfectly well there was not, +and never had been, another boy on the plantation? And as day by day +Cain brought home things in his hands about which to ask questions that +no mortal could answer, how grateful his bewildered parents must have +been that he had no pockets in which to transport his collections. For +many generations came into the fair young world, got into no end of +trouble, and died out of it, before a boy’s pocket solved the problem +how to make the thing contained seven times greater than the container. +The only thing that saved Adam and Eve from interrogational insanity +was the paucity of language. If little Cain had possessed the verbal +abundance of the language in which men are to-day talked to death, his +father’s bald head would have gone down in shining flight to the ends +of the earth to escape him, leaving Eve to look after the stock, save +the crop, and raise her boy as best she could. Which would have been, +6,000 years ago, as to-day, just like a man. + +Because, it was no off hand, absent-minded work answering questions +about things in those spacious old days, when there was crowds of +room, and everything grew by the acre. When a placid, but exceedingly +unanimous looking animal went rolling by, producing the general effect +of an eclipse, and Cain would shout, “Oh, lookee, lookee pa! what’s +that?” the patient Adam, trying to saw enough kitchen wood to last over +Sunday, with a piece of flint, would have to pause and gather up words +enough to say: + +“That, my son? That is only a mastodon giganteus; he has a bad look, +but a Christian temper.” + +And then, presently: + +“Oh, pop! pop! What’s that over yon?” + +“Oh, bother,” Adam would reply; “it’s only a paleotherium, mammalia +pachydermata.” + +“Oh, yes; theliocomeafterus. Oh! lookee, lookee at this ’un!” + +“Where, Cainny? Oh, that in the mud? That’s only an acephala lamelli +branchiata. It won’t bite you, but you mustn’t eat it. It’s poison as +politics.” + +“Whee! See there! see, see, see! What’s him?” + +“Oh, that? Looks like a plesiosaurus; keep out of his way; he has a jaw +like your mother.” + +“Oh yes; a plenosserus. And what’s that fellow, poppy?” + +“That’s a silurus malapterus. Don’t you go near him, for he has the +disposition of a Georgia mule.” + +“Oh, yes; a slapterus. And what’s this little one?” + +“Oh, it’s nothing but an aristolochioid. Where did you get it? There +now, quit throwing stones at that acanthopterygian; do you want to be +kicked? And keep away from the nothodenatrichomanoides. My stars, Eve! +where _did_ he get that anonaceo-hydrocharideo-nymphæoid? Do you never +look after him at all? Here, you Cain, get right away down from there, +and chase that megalosaurius out of the melon patch, or I’ll set the +monopleuro branchian on you.” + +Just think of it, Christian man with a family to support, with last +year’s stock on your shelves, and a draft as long as a clothes-line +to pay to-morrow! Think of it, woman with all a woman’s love and +constancy, and a mother’s sympathetic nature, with three meals a +day 365 times a year to think of, and the flies to chase out of the +sitting-room; think, if your cherub boy was the only boy in the wide +wide world, and all his questions which now radiate in a thousand +directions among other boys, who tell him lies and help him to cut his +eye-teeth, were focused upon you! Adam had only one consolation that +has been denied his more remote descendants. His boy never belonged +to a base ball club, and never teased his father from the first of +November till the last of March for a pair of skates. + +Well, you have no time to pity Adam. You have your own boy to look +after. Or, your neighbor has a boy, whom you can look after much more +closely than his mother does, and much more to your own satisfaction +than to the boy’s comfort. Your boy is, as Adam’s boy was, an animal +that asks questions. If there were any truth in the old theory of +the transmigration of souls, when a boy died he would pass into an +interrogation point. And he’d stay there. He’d never get out of it; +for he never gets through asking questions. The older he grows the +more he asks, and the more perplexing his questions are, and the more +unreasonable he is about wanting them answered to suit himself. Why, +the oldest boy I ever knew--he was fifty-seven years old, and I went +to school to him--could and did ask the longest, hardest, crookedest +questions, that no fellow, who used to trade off all his books for a +pair of skates and a knife with a corkscrew in it, could answer. And +when his questions were not answered to suit him, it was his custom--a +custom more honored in the breeches, we used to think, than in the +observance--to take up a long, slender, but exceedingly tenacious rod, +which lay ever near the big dictionary, and smite with it the boy whose +naturally derived Adamic ignorance was made manifest. Ah me, if the +boy could only do as he is done by, and ferule the man or the woman +who fails to reply to his inquiries, as he is himself corrected for +similar shortcomings, what a valley of tears, what a literally howling +wilderness he could and would make of this world. + +Your boy, asking to-day pretty much the same questions, with heaven +knows how many additional ones, that Adam’s boy did, is told, every +time he asks one that you don’t know any thing about, just as Adam +told Cain fifty times a day, that he will know all about it when he +is a man. And so from the days of Cain down to the present wickeder +generation of boys, the boy ever looks forward to the time when he +will be a man and know everything. That happy, far away, omniscient, +unattainable manhood, which never comes to your boy; which would never +come to him if he lived a thousand years; manhood, that like boyhood, +ever looks forward from to-day to the morrow; still peering into the +future for brighter light and broader knowledge; day after day, as its +world opens before it, stumbling upon ever new and unsolved mysteries; +manhood, whose wisdom is folly and whose light is often darkness, and +whose knowledge is selfishness; manhood, that so often looks over its +shoulder and glances back toward boyhood, when its knowledge was at +least always equal to its day; manhood, that after groping for years +through tangled labyrinths of failing human theories and tottering +human wisdom, at last only rises to the sublimity of childhood, only +reaches the grandeur of boyhood, and accepts the grandest, eternal +truths of the universe, truths that it does not comprehend, truths that +it can not, by searching, find out, accepting and believing them with +the simple, unquestioning faith of childhood in Truth itself. + +And now, your boy, not entirely ceasing to ask questions, begins to +answer them, until you stand amazed at the breadth and depth of his +knowledge. He asks questions and gets answers of teachers that you and +the school board know not of. Day by day, great unprinted books, upon +the broad pages of which the hand of nature has traced characters that +only a boy can read, are spread out before him. He knows now where the +first snow-drop lifts its tiny head, a pearl on the bosom of the barren +earth, in the Spring; he knows where the last Indian pink lingers, a +flame in the brown and rustling woods, in the autumn days. His pockets +are cabinets, from which he drags curious fossils that he does not know +the names of; monstrous and hideous beetles and bugs and things that +you never saw before, and for which he has appropriate names of his +own. He knows where there are three orioles’ nests, and so far back as +you can remember, you never saw an oriole’s nest in your life. He can +tell you how to distinguish the good mushrooms from the poisonous ones, +and poison grapes from good ones, and how he ever found out, except by +eating both kinds, is a mystery to his mother. Every root, bud, leaf, +berry or bark, that will make any bitter, horrible, semi-poisonous tea, +reputed to have marvelous medicinal virtues, he knows where to find, +and in the season he does find, and brings home, and all but sends the +entire family to the cemetery by making practical tests of his teas. + +And as his knowledge broadens, his human superstition develops itself. +He has a formula, repeating which nine times a day, while pointing his +finger fixedly toward the sun, will cause warts to disappear from the +hand, or, to use his own expression, will “knock warts.” If the eight +day clock at home tells him it is two o’clock, and the flying leaves of +the dandelion declare it is half-past five, he will stand or fall with +the dandelion. He has a formula, by which any thing that has been lost +may be found. He has, above all things, a natural, infallible instinct +for the woods, and can no more be lost in them than a squirrel. If the +cow does not come home--and if she is a town cow, like a town man, +she does not come home, three nights in the week--you lose half a day +of valuable time looking for her. Then you pay a man three dollars to +look for her two days longer, or so long as the appropriation holds +out. Finally, a quarter sends a boy to the woods; he comes back at +milking time, whistling the tune that no man ever imitated, and the +cow ambles contentedly along before him. He has one particular marble +which he regards with about the same superstitious reverence that a +pagan does his idol, and his Sunday-school teacher can’t drive it out +of him, either. Carnelian, crystal, bull’s eye, china, pottery, boly, +blood alley, or commie, whatever he may call it, there is “luck in it.” +When he loses this marble, he sees panic and bankruptcy ahead of him, +and retires from business prudently, before the crash comes, failing, +in true centennial style, with both pockets and a cigar box full of +winnings, and a creditors’ meeting in the back room. A boy’s world is +open to no one but a boy. You never really revisit the glimpses of your +boyhood, much as you may dream of it. After you get into a tail-coat, +and tight boots, you never again set foot in boy world. You lose this +marvelous instinct for the woods, you can’t tell a pig-nut tree from +a pecan; you can’t make friends with strange dogs; you can’t make +the terrific noises with your mouth, you can’t invent the inimitable +signals or the characteristic catchwords of boyhood. + +He is getting on, is your boy. He reaches the dime novel age. He wants +to be a missionary. Or a pirate. So far as he expresses any preference, +he would rather be a pirate, an occupation in which there are more +chances for making money, and fewer opportunities for being devoured. +He develops a yearning love for school and study about this time, +also, and every time he dreams of being a pirate he dreams of hanging +his dear teacher at the yard arm in the presence of the delighted +scholars. His voice develops, even more rapidly and thoroughly than +his morals. In the yard, on the house top, down the street, around the +corner; wherever there is a patch of ice big enough for him to break +his neck on, or a pond of water deep enough to drown in, the voice of +your boy is heard. He whispers in a shout, and converses, in ordinary, +confidential moments, in a shriek. He exchanges bits of back-fence +gossip about his father’s domestic matters with the boy living in the +adjacent township, to which interesting revelations of home life the +intermediate neighborhood listens with intense satisfaction, and the +two home circles in helpless dismay. He has an unconquerable hatred +for company, and an aversion for walking down stairs. For a year or +two his feet never touch the stairway in his descent, and his habit +of polishing the stair rail by using it as a passenger tramway, soon +breaks the other members of the family of the careless habit of setting +the hall lamp or the water pitcher on the baluster post. He wears the +same size boot as his father; and on the dryest, dustiest days in the +year, always manages to convey some mud on the carpets. He carefully +steps over the door mat, and until he is about seventeen years old, +he actually never knew there was a scraper at the front porch. About +this time, bold but inartistic pencil sketches break out mysteriously +on the alluring back ground of the wall paper. He asks, with great +regularity, alarming frequency, and growing diffidence, for a new hat. +You might as well buy him a new disposition. He wears his hat in the +air and on the ground far more than he does on his head, and he never +hangs it up that he doesn’t pull the hook through the crown; unless the +hook breaks off or the hat-rack pulls over. He is a perfect Robinson +Crusoe in inventive genius. He can make a kite that will fly higher and +pull harder than a balloon. He can, and, on occasion, will, take out a +couple of the pantry shelves and make a sled that is amazement itself. +The mouse-trap he builds out of the water pitcher and the family bible +is a marvel of mechanical ingenuity. So is the excuse he gives for +such a selection of raw material. When suddenly, some Monday morning, +the clothes-line, without any just or apparent cause or provocation, +shrinks sixteen feet, philosophy can not make you believe that Prof. +Tice did it with his little barometer. Because, far down the dusty +street, you can see Tom in the dim distance, driving a prancing team, +six-in-hand, with the missing link. You send him on an errand. There +are three ladies in the parlor. You have waited, as long as you can, in +all courtesy, for them to go. They have developed alarming symptoms of +staying to tea. And you know there aren’t half enough strawberries to +go around. It is only a three minutes’ walk to the grocery, however, +and Tom sets off like a rocket, and you are so pleased with his +celerity and ready good nature that you want to run after him and kiss +him. He is gone a long time, however. Ten minutes become fifteen, +fifteen grow into twenty; the twenty swell into the half hour, and +your guests exchange very significant glances as the half becomes +three-quarters. Your boy returns at last. Apprehension in his downcast +eyes, humility in his laggard step, penitence in the appealing slouch +of his battered hat, and a pound and a half of shingle nails in his +hands. “Mother,” he says, “what else was it you told me to get besides +the nails?” And while you are counting your scanty store of berries to +make them go round without a fraction, you hear Tom out in the back +yard whistling and hammering away, building a dog house with the nails +you never told him to get. + +Poor Tom, he loves at this age quite as ardently as he makes mistakes +and mischief. And he is repulsed quite as ardently as he makes love. +If he hugs his sister, he musses her ruffle, and gets cuffed for it. +Two hours later, another boy, not more than twenty-two or twenty-three +years older than Tom, some neighbor’s Tom, will come in, and will just +make the most hopeless, terrible, chaotic wreck of that ruffle that +lace or footing can be distorted into. And the only reproof he gets is +the reproachful murmur, “Must he go so soon?” when he doesn’t make a +movement to go until he hears the alarm clock go off up stairs and the +old gentleman in the adjoining room banging around building the morning +fires, and loudly wondering if young Mr. Bostwick is going to stay to +breakfast? + +Tom is at this age set in deadly enmity against company, which he soon +learns to regard as his mortal foe. He regards company as a mysterious +and eminently respectable delegation that always stays to dinner, +invariably crowds him to the second table, never leaves him any of the +pie, and generally makes him late for school. Naturally, he learns to +love refined society, but in a conservative, non-committal sort of a +way, dissembling his love so effectually that even his parents never +dream of its existence until it is gone. + +Poor Tom, his life is not all comedy at this period. Go up to your +boy’s room some night, and his sleeping face will preach you a sermon +on the griefs and troubles that sometimes weigh his little heart down +almost to breaking, more eloquently than the lips of a Spurgeon could +picture them. The curtain has fallen on one day’s act in the drama +of his active little life. The restless feet that all day long have +pattered so far--down dusty streets, over scorching pavements, through +long stretches of quiet wooded lanes, along the winding cattle paths +in the deep, silent woods; that have dabbled in the cool brook where +it wrangles and scolds over the shining pebbles, that have filled your +house with noise and dust and racket, are still. The stained hand +outside the sheet is soiled and rough, and the cut finger with the +rude bandage of the boy’s own surgery, pleads with a mute, effective +pathos of its own, for the mischievous hand that is never idle. On the +brown cheek the trace of a tear marks the piteous close of the day’s +troubles, the closing scene in a troubled little drama; trouble at +school with books that were too many for him; trouble with temptations +to have unlawful fun that were too strong for him, as they are +frequently too strong for his father; trouble in the street with boys +that were too big for him; and at last, in his home, in his castle, his +refuge, trouble has pursued him until, feeling utterly friendless and +in everybody’s way, he has crawled off to the dismantled den, dignified +usually by the title of “the boy’s room,” and his over-charged heart +has welled up into his eyes, and his last waking breath has broken into +a sob, and just as he begins to think that after all, life is only +one broad sea of troubles, whose restless billows, in never-ending +succession, break and beat and double and dash upon the short shore +line of a boy’s life, he has drifted away into the wonderland of a +boy’s sleep, where fairy fingers picture his dreams. How soundly, +deeply, peacefully he sleeps. No mother, who has never dragged a sleepy +boy off the lounge at 9 o’clock, and hauled him off up stairs to bed, +can know with what a herculean grip a square sleep takes hold of a +boy’s senses, nor how fearfully and wonderfully limp and nerveless it +makes him; nor how, in direct antagonism to all established laws of +anatomy, it develops joints that work both ways, all the way up and +down that boy. And what pen can portray the wonderful enchantments of +a boy’s dreamland! No marvelous visions wrought by the weird, strange +power of hasheesh, no dreams that come to the sleep of jaded woman +or tired man, no ghastly specters that dance attendance upon cold +mince pie, but shrink into tiresome, stale, and trifling commonplaces +compared with the marvelous, the grotesque, the wonderful, the +terrible, the beautiful and the enchanting scenes and people of a boy’s +dreamland. This may be owing, in a great measure, to the fact that the +boy never relates his dream until all the other members of the family +have related theirs; and then he comes in, like a back county, with the +necessary majority; like the directory of a western city, following the +census of a rival town. + +Tom is a miniature Ishmaelite at this period of his career. His hand +is against every man, and about every man’s hand, and nearly every +woman’s hand, is against him, off and on. Often, and then the iron +enters his soul, the hand that is against him holds the slipper. He +wears his mother’s slipper on his jacket quite as often as she wears +it on her foot. And this is all wrong, unchristian and impolitic. It +spreads the slipper and discourages the boy. When he reads in his +Sunday-school lesson that the wicked stand in slippery places, he +takes it as a direct personal reference, and he is affronted, and +maybe the seeds of atheism are implanted in his breast. Moreover, this +repeated application of the slipper not only sours his temper, and +gives a bias to his moral ideas, but it sharpens his wits. How many a +Christian mother, her soft eyes swimming in tears of real pain that +plashed up from the depths of a loving heart, as she bent over her +wayward boy until his heart-rending wails and piteous shrieks drowned +her own choking, sympathetic, sobs, has been wasting her strength, and +wearing out a good slipper, and pouring out all that priceless flood +of mother-love and duty and pity and tender sympathy upon a concealed +atlas-back, or a Saginaw shingle. + +It is a historical fact that no boy is ever whipped twice for +precisely the same offense. He varies and improves a little on every +repetition of the prank, until at last he reaches a point where +detection is almost impossible. He is a big boy then, and glides almost +imperceptibly from the discipline of his father, under the surveillance +of the police. + +By easy stages he passes into the uncomfortable period of boyhood. His +jacket develops into a tail-coat. The boy of to-day, who is slipped +into a hollow, abbreviated mockery of a tail-coat, when he is taken +out of long dresses, has no idea--not the faintest conception of the +grandeur, the momentous importance of the epoch in a boy’s life that +was marked by the transition from the old-fashioned cadet roundabout +to the tail-coat. It is an experience that heaven, ever chary of its +choicest blessings, and mindful of the decadence of the race of boys, +has not vouchsafed to the untoward, forsaken boys of this wicked +generation. When the roundabout went out of fashion, the heroic race of +boys passed away from earth, and weeping nature sobbed and broke the +moulds. The fashion that started a boy of six years on his pilgrimage +of life in a miniature edition of his father’s coat, marked a period +of retrogression in the affairs of men, and stamped a decaying and +degenerate race. There are no boys now, or very few at least, such as +peopled the grand old earth when the men of our age were boys. And that +it is so, society is to be congratulated. The step from the roundabout +to the tail-coat was a leap in life. It was the boy Iulus, doffing +the _prætexta_ and flinging upon his shoulders the _toga virilis_ of +Julius; Patroclus, donning the armor of Achilles, in which to go forth +and be Hectored to death. + +Tom is slow to realize the grandeur of that tail-coat, however, on +its trial trip. How differently it feels from his good, snug-fitting, +comfortable old jacket. It fits him too much in every direction, he +knows. Every now and then he stops, with a gasp of terror, feeling +positive, from the awful sensation of nothingness about the neck, that +the entire collar has fallen off in the street. The tails are prairies, +the pockets are caverns, and the back is one vast, illimitable, +stretching waste. How Tom sidles along as close to the fence as he +can scrape, and what a wary eye he keeps in every direction for other +boys. When he forgets the school, he is half tempted to feel proud +of his toga; but when he thinks of the boys, and the reception that +awaits him, his heart sinks, and he is tempted to go back home, sneak +up stairs, and rescue his worn old jacket from the rag-bag. He glances +in terror at his distorted shadow on the fence, and, confident that it +is a faithful outline of his figure, he knows that he has worn his +father’s coat off by mistake. He tries various methods of buttoning his +coat, to make it conform more harmoniously to his figure and his ideas +of the eternal fitness of things. He buttons just the lower button, +and immediately it flies all abroad at the shoulders, and he beholds +himself an exaggerated mannikin of “Cap’n Cuttle.” Then he fastens +just the upper button, and the frantic tails flap and flutter like a +clothes-line in a cyclone. Then he buttons it all up, _a la militaire_, +and tries to look soldierly, but the effect is so theological-studently +that it frightens him until his heart stops beating. As he reaches the +last friendly corner that shields him from the pitiless gaze of the +boys he can hear howling and shrieking not fifty yards away, he pauses +to give the final adjustment to the manly and unmanageable raiment. +It is bigger and looser, flappier and wrinklier than ever. New and +startling folds, and unexpected wrinkles, and uncontemplated bulges +develop themselves, like masked batteries, just when and where their +effect will be most demoralizing. And a new horror discloses itself at +this trying and awful juncture. He wants to lie down on the sidewalk +and try to die. For the first time he notices the color of his coat. +Hideous! He has been duped, swindled, betrayed--made a monstrous idiot +by that silver-tongued salesman, who has palmed off upon him a coat +2,000 years old; a coat that the most sweetly enthusiastic and terribly +misinformed women’s missionary society would hesitate to offer a wild +Hottentot; and which the most benighted, old-fashioned Hottentot that +ever disdained clothes, would certainly blush to wear in the dark, and +would probably decline with thanks. Oh madness! The color is no color. +It is all colors. It is a brindle--a veritable, undeniable brindle. +There must have been a fabulous amount of brindle cloth made up into +boys’ first coats, sixteen or eighteen or nineteen years ago; because, +out of 894--I like to be exact in the use of figures, because nothing +else in the world lends such an air of profound truthfulness to a +discourse--out of 894 boys I knew in their first tail-coat period, 893 +came to school in brindle coats. And the other one--the 894th boy--made +his wretched debut in a bottle-green toga, with dreadful glaring brass +buttons. He left school very suddenly, and we always believed that the +angels saw him in that coat, and ran away with him. But Tom, shivering +with apprehension, and faint with mortification over the discovery of +this new horror, gives one last despairing scrooch of his shoulders, to +make the coat look shorter, and, with a final frantic tug at the tails, +to make it appear longer, steps out from the protecting ægis of the +corner, is stunned with a vocal hurricane of “Oh, what a coat!” and his +cup of misery is as full as a rag-bag in three minutes. + +Passing into the tail-coat period, Tom awakens to a knowledge of the +broad physical truth, that he has hands. He is not very positive in +his own mind how many. At times he is ready to swear to an even two; +one pair; good hand. Again, when cruel fate and the non-appearance of +some one else’s brother has compelled him to accompany his sister to +a church sociable, he can see eleven; and as he sits bolt upright in +the grimmest of straight-back chairs, plastered right up against the +wall, as the “sociable” custom is, or used to be, trying to find enough +unoccupied pockets in which to sequester all his hands, he is dimly +conscious that hands should come in pairs, and vaguely wonders, if he +has only five pair of regularly ordained hands, where this odd hand +came from. And hitherto, Tom has been content to encase his feet in +anything that would stay on them. Now, however, he has an eye for a +glove-fitting boot, and learns to wreathe his face in smiles, hollow, +heartless, deceitful smiles, while his boots are as full of agony as +a broken heart, and his tortured feet cry out for vengeance upon the +shoemaker, and make Tom feel that life is a hollow mockery and there is +nothing real but soft corns and bunions. + +And: His mother never cuts his hair again. Never. When Tom assumes +the manly gown she has looked her last upon his head, with trimming +ideas. His hair will be trimmed and clipped, barberously it may be, +but she will not be acscissory before the fact. She may sometimes +long to have her boy kneel down before her, while she gnaws around +his terrified locks with a pair of scissors that were sharpened when +they were made; and have since then cut acres of calico, and miles and +miles of paper, and great stretches of cloth, and snarls and coils of +string; and furlongs of lamp wick; and have snuffed candles; and dug +refractory corks, out of the family ink bottle; and punched holes in +skate straps; and trimmed the family nails; and have even done their +level best, at the annual struggle, to cut stove-pipe lengths in two; +and have successfully opened oyster and fruit cans; and pried up carpet +tacks; and have many a time and oft gone snarlingly and toilsomely +around Tom’s head, and made him an object of terror to the children in +the street, and made him look so much like a yearling colt with the +run of a bur pasture, that people have been afraid to approach him too +suddenly, lest he should jump through his collar and run away. + +He feels too, the dawning consciousness of another grand truth in the +human economy. It dawns upon his deepening intelligence with the +inherent strength and the unquestioned truth of a new revelation, +that man’s upper lip was designed by nature for a mustache pasture. +How tenderly reserved he is when he is brooding over this momentous +discovery. With what exquisite caution and delicacy are his primal +investigations conducted. In his microscopical researches, it appears +to him that the down on his upper lip is certainly more determined +down; more positive, more pronounced, more individual fuzz than that +which vegetates in neglected tenderness upon his cheeks. He makes +cautious explorations along the land of promise with the tip of his +tenderest finger, delicately backing up the grade the wrong way, +going always against the grain, that he may the more readily detect +the slightest symptom of an uprising by the first feeling of velvety +resistance. And day by day he is more and more firmly convinced that +there is in his lip, the primordial germs, the protoplasm of a glory +that will, in its full development, eclipse even the majesty and +grandeur of his first tail-coat. And in the first dawning consciousness +that the mustache is there, like the vote, and only needs to be brought +out, how often Tom walks down to the barber-shop, gazes longingly +in at the window, and walks past. And how often, when he musters up +sufficient courage to go in, and climbs into the chair, and is just +on the point of huskily whispering to the barber that he would like a +shave, the entrance of a man with a beard like Frederick Barbarossa, +frightens away his resolution, and he has his hair cut again. The +third time that week, and it is so short that the barber has to hold +it with his teeth while he files it off, and parts it with a straight +edge and a scratch awl. Naturally, driven from the barber chair, Tom +casts longing eyes upon the ancestral shaving machinery at home. And +who shall say by what means he at length obtains possession of the +paternal razor? No one. Nobody knows. Nobody ever did know. Even the +searching investigation that always follows the paternal demand for the +immediate extradition of whoever opened a fruit can with that razor, +which always follows Tom’s first shave, is always, and ever will be, +barren of results. All that we know about it is, that Tom holds the +razor in his hand about a minute, wondering what to do with it, before +the blade falls across his fingers and cuts every one of them. First +blood claimed and allowed, for the razor. Then he straps the razor +furiously. Or rather, he razors the strap. He slashes and cuts that +passive implement in as many directions as he can make motions with +the razor. He would cut it oftener if the strap lasted longer. Then he +nicks the razor against the side of the mug. Then he drops it on the +floor and steps on it and nicks it again. They are small nicks, not so +large by half as a saw tooth, and he flatters himself his father will +never see them. Then he soaks the razor in hot water, as he has seen +his father do. Then he takes it out, at a temperature anywhere under +980° Fahrenheit, and lays it against his cheek, and raises a blister +there the size of the razor, as he never saw his father do, but as his +father most assuredly did, many, many years before Tom met him. Then +he makes a variety of indescribable grimaces and labial contortions in +a frenzied effort to get his upper lip into approachable shape, and +at last, the first offer he makes at his embryo mustache, he slashes +his nose with a vicious upper cut. He gashes the corners of his mouth; +wherever those nicks touch his cheek they leave a scratch apiece, and +he learns what a good nick in a razor is for, and at last when he lays +the blood stained weapon down, his gory lip looks as though it had +just come out of a long, stubborn, exciting contest with a straw cutter. + +But he learns to shave, after a while--just before he cuts his lip +clear off. He has to take quite a course of instruction, however, in +that great school of experience about which the old philosopher had +a remark to make. It is a grand old school; the only school at which +men will study and learn, each for himself. One man’s experience never +does another man any good; never did and never will teach another man +anything. If the philosopher had said that it was a hard school, but +that some men would learn at no other than this grand old school of +experience, we might have inferred that all women, and most boys, and +a few men were exempt from its hard teachings. But he used the more +comprehensive term, if you remember what that is, and took us all in. +We have all been there. There is no other school, in fact. Poor little +Cain; dear, lonesome, wicked little Cain--I know it isn’t fashionable +to pet him; I know it is popular to speak harshly and savagely about +our eldest brother, when the fact is we resemble him more closely in +disposition than any other member of the family--poor little Cain never +knew the difference between his father’s sunburned nose and a glowing +coal, until he had pulled the one and picked up the other. And Abel +had to find out the difference in the same way, although he was told +five hundred times, by his brother’s experience, that the coal would +burn him and the nose wouldn’t. And Cain’s boy wouldn’t believe that +fire was any hotter than an icicle, until he made a digital experiment, +and understood why they called it fire. And so Enoch and Methusaleh, +and Moses, and Daniel, and Solomon, and Cæsar, and Napoleon, and +Washington, and the President, and the Governor, and the Mayor, and +you and I have all of us, at one time or another, in one way or +another, burned our fingers at the same old fires that have scorched +human fingers in the same monotonous old ways, at the same reliable +old stands, for the past 6,000 years; and all the verbal instruction +between here and the silent grave couldn’t teach us so much, or teach +it so thoroughly, as one well directed singe. And a million of years +from now--if this weary old world may endure so long--when human +knowledge shall fall a little short of the infinite, and all the lore +and erudition of this wonderful age will be but the primer of that day +of light--the baby that is born into that world of knowledge and wisdom +and progress, rich with all the years of human experience, will cry for +the lamp, and, the very first time that opportunity favors it, will +try to pull the flame up by the roots, and will know just as much as +ignorant, untaught, stupid little Cain knew on the same subject. Year +after year, century after unfolding century, how true it is that the +lion on the fence is always bigger, fiercer, and more given to majestic +attitudes and dramatic situations than the lion in the tent. And yet it +costs us, often as the circus comes around, fifty cents to find that +out. + +But while we have been moralizing, Tom’s mustache has taken a start. It +has attained the physical density, though not the color, by any means, +of the Egyptian darkness--it can be felt; and it is felt; very soft +felt. The world begins to take notice of the new-comer; and Tom, as +generations of Toms before him have done, patiently endures dark hints +from other members of the family about his face being dirty. He loftily +ignores his experienced father’s suggestions that he should perform his +tonsorial toilet with a spoonful of cream and the family cat. When his +sisters, in meekly dissembled ignorance and innocence, inquire, “Tom, +what _have_ you on your lip?” he is austere, as becomes a man annoyed +by the frivolous small talk of women. And when his younger brother +takes advantage of the presence of a numerous company in the house, +to shriek over the baluster up stairs, apparently to any boy anywhere +this side of China, “Tom’s a raisin’ mustashers!” Tom smiles, a wan, +neglected-orphan smile; a smile that looks as though it had come up on +his face to weep over the barrenness of the land; a perfect ghost of a +smile, as compared with the rugged 7 × 9 smiles that play like animated +crescents over the countenances of the company. But the mustache grows. +It comes on apace; very short in the middle, very no longer at the +ends, and very blonde all round. Whenever you see such a mustache, +do not laugh at it; do not point at it the slow, unmoving finger of +scorn. Encourage it; speak kindly of it; affect admiration for it; coax +it along. Pray for it--for it is a first. They always come that way. +And when, in the fullness of time, it has developed so far that it +can be pulled, there is all the agony of making it take color. It is +worse, and more obstinate, and more deliberate than a meerschaum. The +sun, that tans Tom’s cheeks and blisters his nose, only bleaches his +mustache. Nothing ever hastens its color; nothing does it any permanent +good; nothing but patience, and faith, and persistent pulling. + +With all the comedy there is about it, however, this is the grand +period of a boy’s life. You look at them, with their careless, easy, +natural manners and movements in the streets and on the base ball +ground, and their marvelous, systematic, indescribable, inimitable and +complex awkwardness in your parlors, and do you never dream, looking at +these young fellows, of the overshadowing destinies awaiting them, the +mighty struggles mapped out in the earnest future of their lives, the +thrilling conquests in the world of arms, the grander triumphs in the +realm of philosophy, the fadeless laurels in the empire of letters, and +the imperishable crowns that he who giveth them the victory binds about +their brows, that wait for the courage and ambition of these boys? Why, +the world is at a boy’s feet; and power and conquest and leadership +slumber in his rugged arms and care-free heart. A boy sets his ambition +at whatever mark he will--lofty or groveling, as he may elect--and +the boy who resolutely sets his heart on fame, on wealth, on power, +on what he will; who consecrates himself to a life of noble endeavor, +and lofty effort; who concentrates every faculty of his mind and body +on the attainment of his one darling point; who brings to support his +ambition courage and industry and patience, can trample on genius; for +these are better and grander than genius; and he will begin to rise +above his fellows as steadily and as surely as the sun climbs above +the mountains. Hannibal, standing before the Punic altar fires and in +the lisping accents of childhood swearing eternal hatred to Rome, was +the Hannibal at twenty-four years commanding the army that swept down +upon Italy like a mountain torrent, and shook the power of the mistress +of the world, bid her defiance at her own gates, while affrighted +Rome huddled and cowered under the protecting shadows of her walls. +Napoleon, building snow forts at school and planning mimic battles with +his playfellows, was the lieutenant of artillery at sixteen years, +general of artillery and the victor of Toulon at twenty-four, and at +last Emperor--not by the paltry accident of birth which might happen +to any man, however unworthy, but by the manhood and grace of his +own right arm, and his own brain, and his own courage and dauntless +ambition--Emperor, with his foot on the throat of prostrate Europe. +Alexander, daring more in his boyhood than his warlike father could +teach him, and entering upon his all conquering career at twenty-four, +was the boy whose vaulting ambition only paused in its dazzling flight +when the world lay at his feet. And the fair-faced soldiers of the +Empire, they who rode down upon the bayonets of the English squares +at Waterloo, when the earth rocked beneath their feet and the incense +smoke from the altars of the battle god shut out the sun and sky above +their heads, who, with their young lives streaming from their gaping +wounds, opened their pallid lips to cry, “Vive L’Empereur,” as they +died for honor and France, were boys--schoolboys--the boy conscripts +of France, torn from their homes and their schools to stay the failing +fortunes of the last grand army and the Empire that was tottering to +its fall. You don’t know how soon these happy-go-lucky young fellows, +making summer hideous with base ball slang, or gliding around a skating +rink on their backs, may hold the state and its destinies in their +grasp; you don’t know how soon these boys may make and write the +history of the hour; how soon they alone may shape events and guide the +current of public action; how soon one of them may run away with your +daughter or borrow money of you. + +Certain it is, there is one thing Tom will do, just about this period +of his existence. He will fall in love with somebody before his +mustache is long enough to wax. + +Perhaps one of the earliest indications of this event, for it does not +always break out in the same manner, is a sudden and alarming increase +in the number and variety of Tom’s neckties. In his boxes and on his +dressing case, his mother is constantly startled by the changing and +increasing assortment of the display. Monday he encircles his tender +throat with a lilac knot, fearfully and wonderfully tied. A lavender +tie succeeds the following day. Wednesday is graced with a sweet little +tangle of pale, pale blue, that fades at a breath; Thursday is ushered +in with a scarf of delicate pea green, of wonderful convolutions and +sufficiently expansive, by the aid of a clean collar, to conceal any +little irregularity in Tom’s wash day; Friday smiles on a sailor’s knot +of dark blue, with a tangle of dainty forget-me-nots embroidered over +it: Saturday tones itself down to a quiet, unobtrusive, neutral tint or +shade, scarlet or yellow, and Sunday is deeply, darkly, piously black. +It is difficult to tell whether Tom is trying to express the state of +his distracted feelings by his neckties, or trying to find a color that +will harmonize with his mustache, or match Laura’s dress. + +And during the variegated necktie period of man’s existence how +tenderly that mustache is coaxed and petted and caressed. How it is +brushed to make it lie down and waxed to make it stand out, and how he +notes its slow growth, and weeps and mourns and prays and swears over +it day after weary day. And now, if ever, and generally now, he buys +things to make it take color. But he never repeats this offense against +nature. He buys a wonderful dye, warranted to “produce a beautiful +glossy black or brown at one application, without stain or injury to +the skin.” Buys it at a little shabby, round the corner, obscure drug +store, because he is not known there. And he tells the assassin who +sells it him, that he is buying it for a sick sister. And the assassin +knows that he lies. And in the guilty silence and solitude of his +own room, with the curtains drawn and the door locked, Tom tries the +virtues of that magic dye. It gets on his fingers and turns them black, +to the elbow. It burns holes in his handkerchief when he tries to rub +the malignant poison off his ebony fingers. He applies it to his silky +mustache, real camel’s hair, very cautiously and very tenderly, and +with some misgivings. It turns his lip so black it makes the room dark. +And out of all the clouds and the darkness and the sable splotches +that pall every thing else in Plutonian gloom, that mustache smiles +out, grinning like some ghastly hirsute specter, gleaming like the +moon through a rifted storm cloud, unstained, untainted, unshaded; a +natural, incorruptible blonde. That is the last time anybody fools Tom +on hair dye. + +The eye he has for immaculate linen and faultless collars. How it +amazes his mother and sisters to learn that there isn’t a shirt in the +house fit for a pig to wear, and that he wouldn’t wear the best collar +in his room to be hanged in. + +And the boots he crowds his feet into! A Sunday-school room, the Sunday +before the picnic or the Christmas tree, with its sudden influx of new +scholars, with irreproachable morals and ambitious appetites, doesn’t +compare with the overcrowded condition of those boots. Too tight in +the instep; too narrow at the toes; too short at both ends; the only +things about those boots that don’t hurt him, that don’t fill his very +soul with agony, are the straps. When Tom is pulling them on, he feels +that if somebody would kindly run over him three or four times, with +a freight train, the sensation would be pleasant and reassuring and +tranquilizing. The air turns black before his starting eyes, there is +a roaring like the rush of many waters in his ears, he tugs at the +straps that are cutting his fingers in two and pulling his arms out by +the roots, and just before his blood-shot eyes shoot clear out of his +head, the boot comes on--or the straps pull off. Then when he stands +up, the earth rocks beneath his feet, and he thinks he can faintly +hear the angels calling him home. And when he walks across the floor +the first time his standing in the church and the Christian community +is ruined forever. Or would be if any one could hear what he says. He +never, never, never gets to be so old that he can not remember those +boots, and if it is seventy years afterward his feet curl up in agony +at the recollection. The first time he wears them, he is vaguely aware, +as he leaves his room that there is a kind of “fixy” look about him, +and his sisters’ tittering is not needed to confirm this impression. He +has a certain, half-defined impression that every thing he has on is +a size too small for any other man of his size. That his boots are a +trifle snug, like a house with four rooms for a family of thirty-seven. +That the hat which sits so lightly on the crown of his head is jaunty +but limited, like a junior clerk’s salary; that his gloves are a neat +fit, and can’t be buttoned with a stump machine. Tom doesn’t know all +this: he has only a general, vague impression that it may be so. And +he doesn’t know that his sisters know every line of it. For he has +lived many years longer, and got in ever so much more trouble, before +he learns that one bright, good, sensible girl--and I believe they +are all that--will see and notice more in a glance, remember it more +accurately, and talk more about it, than twenty men can see in a week. +Tom does not know, for his crying feet will not let him, how he gets +from his room to the earthly paradise where Laura lives. Nor does he +know, after he gets there, that Laura sees him trying to rest one foot +by setting it up on the heel. And she sees him sneak it back under his +chair and tilt it up on the toe for a change. She sees him ease the +other foot a little by tugging the heel of the boot at the leg of the +chair. A hazardous, reckless, presumptuous experiment. Tom tries it +so far one night, and slides his heel so far up the leg of his boot, +that his foot actually feels comfortable, and he thinks the angels must +be rubbing it. He walks out of the parlor sideways that night, trying +to hide the cause of the sudden elongation of one leg, and he hobbles +all the way home in the same disjointed condition. But Laura sees that +too. She sees all the little knobs and lumps on his foot, and sees him +fidget and fuss, she sees the look of anguish flitting across his face +under the heartless, deceitful, veneering of smiles, and she makes the +mental remark that master Tom would feel much happier, and much more +comfortable, and more like staying longer, if he had worn his father’s +boots. + +But on his way to the house, despite the distraction of his crying +feet, how many pleasant, really beautiful, romantic things Tom thinks +up and recollects and compiles and composes to say to Laura, to impress +her with his originality, and wisdom, and genius, and bright exuberant +fancy and general superiority over all the rest of Tom kind. Real +earnest things, you know; no hollow, conventional compliments, or +nonsense, but such things, Tom flatters himself, as none of the other +fellows can or will say. And he has them all in beautiful order when he +gets at the foot of the hill. The remark about the weather, to begin +with; not the stereotyped old phrase, but a quaint, droll, humorous +conceit that no one in the world but Tom could think of. Then, after +the opening overture about the weather, something about music and +Beethoven’s sonata in B flat, and Haydn’s symphonies, and of course +something about Beethoven’s grand old Fifth symphony, somebody’s else +mass, in heaven knows how many flats; and then something about art, +and a profound thought or two on science and philosophy, and so on to +poetry and from poetry to “business.” + +But alas, when Tom reaches the gate, all these well ordered ideas +display evident symptoms of breaking up; as he crosses the yard, he +is dismayed to know that they are in the convulsions of a panic, and +when he touches the bell knob, every, each, all and several of the +ideas, original and compiled, that he has had on any subject during +the past ten years, forsake him and return no more that evening. When +Laura opened the door he had intended to say something real splendid +about the imprisoned sunlight of something, beaming out a welcome upon +the what you may call it of the night or something. Instead of which +he says, or rather gasps: “Oh, yes, to be sure; to be sure; ho.” And +then, conscious that he has not said anything particularly brilliant +or original, or that most any of the other fellows could not say with +a little practice, he makes one more effort to redeem himself before +he steps into the hall, and adds, “Oh, good morning; good morning.” +Feeling that even this is only a partial success, he collects his +scattered faculties for one united effort and inquires: “How is your +mother?” And then it strikes him that he has about exhausted the +subject, and he goes into the parlor, and sits down, and just as +soon as he has placed his reproachful feet in the least agonizing +position, he proceeds to wholly, completely and successfully forget +everything he ever knew in his life. He returns to consciousness to +find himself, to his own amazement and equally to Laura’s bewilderment, +conducting a conversation about the crops, and a new method of funding +the national debt, subjects upon which he is about as well informed +as the town clock. He rallies, and makes a successful effort to turn +the conversation into literary channels by asking her if she has +read “Daniel Deronda,” and wasn’t it odd that George Washington Eliot +should name her heroine “Grenadine,” after a dress pattern? And in a +burst of confidence he assures her that he would not be amazed if it +should rain before morning, (and he hopes it will, and that it may be +a flood, and that he may get caught in it, without an ark nearer than +Cape Horn.) And so, at last, the first evening passes away, and after +mature deliberation and many unsuccessful efforts he rises to go. But +he does not go. He wants to; but he doesn’t know how. He says good +evening. Then he repeats it in a marginal reference. Then he puts it in +a foot note. Then he adds the remark in an appendix, and shakes hands. +By this time he gets as far as the parlor door, and catches hold of +the knob and holds on to it as tightly as though some one on the other +side were trying to pull it through the door and run away with it. And +he stands there a fidgetty statue of the door holder. He mentions, for +not more than the twentieth time that evening that he is passionately +fond of music but he can’t sing. Which is a lie; he can. Did she go to +the Centennial? “No.” “Such a pity”--he begins, but stops in terror, +lest she may consider his condolence a reflection upon her financial +standing. Did he go? Oh, yes; yes; he says, absently, he went. Or, that +is to say, no, not exactly. He did not exactly go to the Centennial; +he staid at home. In fact, he had not been out of town this Summer. +Then he looks at the tender little face; he looks at the brown eyes, +sparkling with suppressed merriment; he looks at the white hands, +dimpled and soft, twin daughters of the snow; and the fairy picture +grows more lovely as he looks at it, until his heart outruns his fears; +he must speak, he must say something impressive and ripe with meaning, +for how can he go away with this suspense in his breast? His heart +trembles as does his hand; his quivering lips part, and--Laura deftly +hides a vagrom yawn behind her fan. Good night, and Tom is gone. + +There is a dejected droop to the mustache that night, when in the +solitude of his own room Tom releases his hands from the despotic +gloves, and tenderly soothes two of the reddest, puffiest feet that +ever crept out of boots not half their own size, and swore in mute, +but eloquent anatomical profanity at the whole race of bootmakers. And +his heart is nearly as full of sorrow and bitterness as his boots. It +appears to him that he showed off to the worst possible advantage; +he is dimly conscious that he acted very like a donkey, and he has +the not entirely unnatural impression that she will never want to see +him again. And so he philosophically and manfully makes up his mind +never, never, never, to think of her again. And then he immediately +proceeds, in the manliest and most natural way in the world, to think +of nothing and nobody else under the sun for the next ten hours. How +the tender little face does haunt him. He pitches himself into bed with +an aimless recklessness that tumbles pillows, bolster, and sheets into +one shapeless, wild, chaotic mass, and he goes through the motions of +going to sleep, like a man who would go to sleep by steam. He stands +his pillow up on end, and pounds it into a wad, and he props his head +upon it as though it were the guillotine block. He lays it down and +smooths it out level, and pats all the wrinkles out of it, and there +is more sleeplessness in it to the square inch than there is in the +hungriest mosquito that ever sampled a martyr’s blood. He gets up and +smokes like a patent stove, although not three hours ago he told Laura +that he de-tes-ted tobacco. + +This is the only time Tom will ever go through this, in exactly this +way. It is the one rare golden experience, the one bright, rosy dream +of his life. He may live to be as old as an army overcoat, and he may +marry as many wives as Brigham Young, singly, or in a cluster, but this +will come to him but once. Let him enjoy all the delightful misery, +all the ecstatic wretchedness, all the heavenly forlornness of it as +best he can. And he does take good, solid, edifying misery out of it. +How he does torture himself and hate Smith, the empty headed donkey, +who can talk faster than poor Tom can think, and whose mustache is +black as Tom’s boots, and so long that he can pull one end of it with +both hands. And how he does detest that idiot Brown, who plays and +sings, and goes up there every time Tom does, and claws over a few +old forgotten five-finger exercises and calls it music; who comes up +there, some night when Tom thinks he has the evening and Laura all to +himself, and brings up an old, tuneless, voiceless, cracked guitar, +and goes crawling around in the wet grass under the windows and makes +night perfectly hideous with what he calls a serenade. And he speaks +French, too, the beast. Poor Tom; when Brown’s lingual accomplishments +in the language of Charlemagne are confined to--“aw--aw--er ah--vooly +voo?” and on state occasions to the additional grandeur of “avy voo +mong shapo?” But poor Tom who once covered himself with confusion by +telling Laura that his favorite in “Robert le Diable” was the beautiful +aria, “Robert toy que jam,” considers Brown a very prodigal in +linguistic attainments; another Cardinal Mezzofanti; and hates him for +it accordingly. And he hates Daubs, the artist, too, who was up there +one evening and made an off hand crayon sketch of her in an album. The +picture looked much more like Daubs’ mother, and Tom knew it, but +Laura said it was oh just delightfully, perfectly splendid, and Tom has +hated Daubs most cordially ever since. In fact, Tom hates every man who +has the temerity to speak to her, or whom she may treat with lady-like +courtesy. Until there comes one night when the boots of the inquisition +pattern sit more lightly on their suffering victims. When Providence +has been on Tom’s side and has kept Smith and Daubs and Brown away, and +has frightened Tom nearly to death by showing him no one in the little +parlor with its old-fashioned furniture but himself and Laura and the +furniture. When, almost without knowing how or why, they talk about +life and its realities instead of the last concert or the next lecture; +when they talk of their plans, and their day dreams and aspirations, +and their ideals of real men and women; when they talk about the heroes +and heroines of days long gone by, grey and dim in the ages that are +ever made young and new by the lives of noble men and noble women who +lived, and did, and never died in those grand old days, but lived and +live on, as imperishable and fadeless in their glory as the glittering +stars that sang at creation’s dawn. When the room seems strangely +silent when their voices hush; when the flush of earnestness upon her +face gives it a tinge of sadness that makes it more beautiful than +ever; when the dream and picture of a home Eden, and home life, and +home love, grows every moment more lovely, more entrancing to him until +at last poor blundering, stupid Tom, speaks without knowing what he is +going to say, speaks without preparation or rehearsal, speaks, and his +honest, natural, manly heart touches his faltering lips with eloquence +and tenderness and earnestness that all the rhetoric in the world never +did and never will inspire, and----. That is all we know about it. +Nobody knows what is said or how it is done. Nobody. Only the silent +stars or the whispering leaves, or the cat, or maybe Laura’s younger +brother, or the hired girl, who generally bulges in just as Tom reaches +the climax. All the rest of us know about it is, that Tom doesn’t come +away so early that night, and that when he reaches the door he holds +a pair of dimpled hands instead of the insensate door knob. He never +clings to that door knob again; never. Unless ma, dear ma, has been so +kind as to bring in her sewing and spend the evening with them. And Tom +doesn’t hate anybody, nor want to kill anybody in the wide, wide world, +and he feels just as good as though he had just come out of a six +months’ revival; and is happy enough to borrow money of his worst enemy. + +But, there is no rose without a thorn. Although, I suppose, on an +inside computation, there is, in this weary old world as much as, say a +peck, or a peck and a half possibly, of thorns without their attendant +roses. Just the raw, bare thorns. In the highest heaven of his newly +found bliss, Tom is suddenly recalled to earth and its miseries by a +question from Laura which falls like a plummet into the unrippled sea +of the young man’s happiness, and fathoms its depths in the shallowest +place. “Has her own Tom”--as distinguished from countless other Toms, +nobody’s Toms, unclaimed Toms, to all intents and purposes swamp lands +on the public matrimonial domain--“Has her own Tom said anything to +pa?” “Oh, yes! pa;” Tom says, “To be sure; yes.” Grim, heavy browed, +austere pa. The living embodiment of business. Wiry, shrewd, the life +and mainspring of the house of Tare and Tret. “’M. Well. N’ no,” Tom +had not exactly, as you might say, poured out his heart to pa. Somehow +or other he had a rose-colored idea that the thing was going to go +right along in this way forever. Tom had an idea that the programme +was all arranged, printed and distributed, rose-colored, gilt-edged, +and perfumed. He was going to sit and hold Laura’s hands, pa was to +stay down at the office, and ma was to make her visits to the parlor +as much like angels’, for their rarity and brevity, as possible. But +he sees, now that the matter has been referred to, that it is a grim +necessity. And Laura doesn’t like to see such a spasm of terror pass +over Tom’s face; and her coral lips quiver a little as she hides her +flushed face out of sight on Tom’s shoulder, and tells him how kind and +tender pa has always been with her, until Tom feels positively jealous +of pa. And she tells him that he must not dread going to see him, for +pa will be oh so glad to know how happy, happy, happy he can make his +little girl. And as she talks of him, the hard working, old-fashioned, +tender-hearted old man, who loves his girls as though he were yet only +a big boy, her heart grows tenderer, and she speaks so earnestly and +eloquently that Tom, at first savagely jealous of him, is persuaded +to fall in love with the old gentleman--he calls him “Pa,” too, +now,--himself. + +But by the following afternoon this feeling is very faint. And when he +enters the counting room of Tare & Tret, and stands before pa--Oh, land +of love, how could Laura ever talk so about such a man. Stubbly little +pa; with a fringe of the most obstinate and wiry gray hair standing all +around his bald, bald head; the wiriest, grizzliest mustache bristling +under his nose; a tuft of tangled beard under the sharp chin, and a +raspy undergrowth of a week’s run on the thin jaws; business, business, +business, in every line of the hard, seamed face, and profit and loss, +barter and trade, dicker and bargain, in every movement of the nervous +hands. Pa; old business! He puts down the newspaper a little way, and +looks over the top of it as Tom announces himself, glancing at the +young man with a pair of blue eyes that peer through old-fashioned +iron-bowed spectacles, that look as though they had known these eyes +and done business with them ever since they wept over their A B C’s +or peeped into the tall stone jar Sunday afternoon to look for the +doughnuts. + +Tom, who had felt all along there could be no inspiration on his +part in this scene, has come prepared. At least he had his last true +statement at his tongue’s end when he entered the counting room. But +now, it seems to him that if he had been brought up in a circus, and +cradled inside of a sawdust ring, and all his life trained to twirl +his hat, he couldn’t do it better, nor faster, nor be more utterly +incapable of doing anything else. At last he swallows a lump in his +throat as big as a ballot box, and faintly gasps, “Good morning.” Mr. +Tret hastens to recognize him. “Eh? oh; yes; yes; yes; I see; young +Bostwick, from Dope & Middlerib’s. Oh yes. Well--?” “I have come, sir,” +gasps Tom, thinking all around the world from Cook’s explorations to +“Captain Riley’s Narrative,” for the first line of that speech that +Tare & Tret have just scared out of him so completely that he doesn’t +believe he ever knew a word of it. “I have come--” and he thinks if his +lips didn’t get so dry and hot they make his teeth ache, that he could +get along with it; “I have, sir,--come, Mr. Tret; Mr. Tret, sir--I +have come--I am come--” “Yes, ye-es,” says Mr. Tret, in the wildest +bewilderment, but in no very encouraging tones, thinking the young +man probably wants to borrow money; “Ye-es; I see you’ve come. Well; +that’s all right; glad to see you. Yes, you’ve come?” Tom’s hat is +now making about nine hundred and eighty revolutions per minute, and +apparently not running up to half its full capacity. “Sir; Mr. Tret,” +he resumes, “I have come, sir; Mr. Tret--I am here to--to sue--to sue, +Mr. Tret--I am here to sue--” “Sue, eh?” the old man echoes sharply, +with a belligerent rustle of the newspaper; “sue Tare & Tret, eh? Well, +that’s right, young man; that’s right. Sue, and get damages. We’ll give +you all the law you want.” Tom’s head is so hot, and his heart is so +cold, that he thinks they must be about a thousand miles apart. “Sir,” +he explains, “that isn’t it. It isn’t that. I only want to ask--I have +long known--Sir,” he adds, as the opening lines of his speech come +to him like a message from heaven, “Sir, you have a flower, a tender +lovely blossom; chaste as the snow that crowns the mountain’s brow; +fresh as the breath of morn; lovelier than the rosy-fingered hours that +fly before Aurora’s car; pure as the lily kissed by dew. This precious +blossom, watched by your paternal eyes, the object of your tender care +and solicitude, I ask of you. I would wear it in my heart, and guard +and cherish it--and in the--” “Oh-h, ye-es, yes, yes,” the old man says +soothingly, beginning to see that Tom is only drunk, “Oh yes, yes, I +don’t know much about them myself; my wife and the girls generally keep +half the windows in the house littered up with them, Winter and Summer, +every window so full of house plants the sun can’t shine in. Come up to +the house, they’ll give you all you can carry away, give you a hat full +of ’em.” “No, no, no; you don’t understand,” says poor Tom, and old Mr. +Tret now observes that Tom is very drunk indeed. “It isn’t that, sir. +Sir, that isn’t it. I--I--I want to marry your daughter!” And there it +is at last, as bluntly as though Tom had wadded it into a gun and shot +it at the old man. Mr. Tret does not say any thing for twenty seconds. +Tom tells Laura that evening that it was two hours and a half before +her father opened his head. Then he says, “Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes; to +be sure; to--be--sure.” And then the long pause is dreadful. “Yes, yes. +Well, I don’t know. I don’t know about that, young man. Said any thing +to Jennie about it?” “It isn’t Jennie,” Tom gasps, seeing a new Rubicon +to cross; “its----” “Oh, Julie, eh? well, I don’t----” “No, sir,” +interjects the despairing Tom, “it isn’t Julie, it’s----” “Sophie, eh? +Oh, well, Sophie----” “Sir,” says Tom, “If you please, sir, it isn’t +Sophie, its----” “Not Minnie, surely? Why, Minnie is hardly--well, I +don’t know. Young folks get along faster than----” “Dear Mr. Tret,” +breaks in the distracted lover, “it’s Laura.” + +As they sit and stand there, looking at each other, the dingy old +counting room, with the heavy shadows lurking in every corner, with +its time-worn, heavy brown furnishings, with the scanty dash of +sunlight breaking in through the dusty window, looks like an old Rubens +painting; the beginning and the finishing of a race: the old man, +nearly ready to lay his armor off, glad to be so nearly and so safely +through with the race and the fight that Tom, in all his inexperience +and with all the rash enthusiasm and conceit of a young man, is just +getting ready to run and fight, or fight and run, you never can tell +which until he is through with it. And the old man, looking at Tom, and +through him, and past him, feels his old heart throb almost as quickly +as does that of the young man before him. For looking down a long +vista of happy, eventful years, bordered with roseate hopes and bright +dreams and anticipations, he sees a tender face, radiant with smiles +and kindled with blushes; he feels a soft hand drop into his own with +its timid pressure; he sees the vision open, under the glittering +summer stars, down mossy hillsides, where the restless breezes, +sighing through the rustling leaves, whispered their tender secret to +the noisy katydids; strolling along the winding paths, deep in the +bending wild grass, down in the star-lit aisles of the dim old woods; +loitering where the meadow brook sparkles over the white pebbles or +murmurs around the great flat stepping-stones; lingering on the rustic +foot-bridge, while he gazes into eyes eloquent and tender in their +silent love-light; up through the long pathway of years, flecked and +checkered with sunshine and cloud, with storm and calm, through years +of struggle, trial, sorrow, disappointment, out at last into the grand, +glorious, crowning beauty and benison of hard-won and well-deserved +success, until he sees now this second Laura, re-imaging her mother +as she was in the dear old days. And he rouses from his dream with a +start, and he tells Tom he’ll “Talk it over with Mrs. Tret, and see him +again in the morning.” + +And so they are duly and formally engaged; and the very first thing +they do, they make the very sensible, though very uncommon, resolution +to so conduct themselves that no one will ever suspect it. And they +succeed admirably. No one ever does suspect it. They come into church +in time to hear the benediction--every time they come together. They +shun all other people when church is dismissed, and are seen to go +home alone the longest way. At picnics they are missed not more than +fifty times a day, and are discovered sitting under a tree, holding +each other’s hands, gazing into each other’s eyes and saying--nothing. +When he throws her shawl over her shoulders, he never looks at what he +is doing, but looks straight into her starry eyes, throws the shawl +right over her natural curls, and drags them out by the hairpins. +If, at sociable or festival, they are left alone in a dressing-room a +second and a half, Laura emerges with her ruffle standing around like +a railroad accident; and Tom has enough complexion on his shoulder to +go around a young ladies’ seminary. When they drive out, they sit in +a buggy with a seat eighteen inches wide, and there is two feet of +unoccupied room at either end of it. Long years afterward, when they +drive, a street car isn’t too wide for them; and when they walk, you +could drive four loads of hay between them. + +And yet, as carefully as they guard their precious little secret, and +as cautious and circumspect as they are in their walk and behavior, +it gets talked around that they are engaged. People are so prying and +suspicious. + +And so the months of their engagement run on; never before, or since, +time flies so swiftly--unless, it may be, some time when Tom has an +acceptance in bank to meet in two days, that he can’t lift one end +of--and the wedding day dawns, fades, and the wedding is over. Over, +with its little circle of delighted friends, with its ripples of +pleasure and excitement, with its touches of home love and home life, +that leave their lasting impress upon Laura’s heart, although Tom, +with man-like blindness, never sees one of them. Over, with ma, with +the thousand and one anxieties attendant on the grand event in her +daughter’s life hidden away under her dear old smiling face, down, +away down under the tender, glistening eyes, deep in the loving heart; +ma, hurrying here and fluttering there, in the intense excitement of +something strangely made up of happiness and grief, of apprehension and +hope; ma, with her sudden disappearances and flushed reappearances, +indicating struggles and triumphs in the turbulent world down stairs; +ma, with the new-fangled belt, with the dinner-plate buckles, fastened +on wrong side foremost, and the flowers dangling down the wrong side +of her head, to Sophie’s intense horror and pantomimic telegraphy; ma, +flying here and there, seeing that every thing is going right, from +kitchen to dressing-rooms; looking after everything and everybody, with +her hands and heart just as full as they will hold, and more voices +calling “ma,” from every room in the house, than you would think one +hundred mas could answer. But she answers them all, and she sees after +everything, and just in the nick of time prevents Mr. Tret from going +down stairs and attending the ceremony in a loud-figured dressing-gown +and green slippers; ma, who, with the quivering lip and glistening +eyes, has to be cheerful, and lively, and smiling; because, if, as she +thinks of the dearest and best of her flock going away from her fold, +to put her life and her happiness into another’s keeping, she gives way +for one moment, a dozen reproachful voices cry out, “Oh-h ma!” How it +all comes back to Laura, like the tender shadows of a dream, long years +after the dear, dear face, furrowed with marks of patient suffering and +loving care, rests under the snow and the daisies; when the mother-love +that glistened in the tender eyes has closed in darkness on the dear +old home; and the nerveless hands, crossed in dreamless sleep upon +the pulseless breast, can never again touch the children’s heads with +caressing gesture; how the sweet vision comes to Laura, as it shone on +her wedding morn, rising in tenderer beauty through the blinding tears +her own excess of happiness calls up, as the rainbow spans the cloud +only through the mingling of the golden sunshine and the falling rain. + +And pa, dear old shabby pa, whose clothes will not fit him as they fit +other men; who always dresses just a year and a half behind the style; +pa, wandering up and down through the house, as though he were lost +in his own home, pacing through the hall like a sentinel, blundering +aimlessly and listlessly into rooms where he has no business, and being +repelled therefrom by a chorus of piercing shrieks and hysterical +giggling; pa, getting off his well worn jokes with an assumption of +merriment that seems positively real; pa, who creeps away by himself +once in a while, and leans his face against the window, and sighs, in +direct violation of all strict household regulations, right against +the glass, as he thinks of his little girl going away to-day from the +home whose love and tenderness and patience she has known so well. +Only yesterday, it seems, to him, the little baby girl, bringing the +first music of baby prattle into his home; then a little girl in short +dresses, with school-girl troubles and school-girl pleasures; then an +older little girl, out of school and into society, but a little girl to +pa still. And then----. But, somehow, this is as far as pa can get; for +he sees, in the flight of this, the first, the following flight of the +other fledglings; and he thinks how silent and desolate the old nest +will be when they have all mated and flown away. He thinks, when their +flight shall have made other homes bright and cheery and sparkling, +with music and prattle and laughter, how it will leave the old home +hushed and quiet and still. How, in the long, lonesome afternoons, +mother will sit by the empty cradle that rocked them all, murmuring the +sweet old cradle songs that brooded over all their sleep, until the +rising tears check the swaying cradle and choke the song--and back, +over river and prairie and mountain, that roll and stretch and rise +between the old home and the new ones, comes back the prattle of her +little ones, the rippling music of their laughter, the tender cadences +of their songs, until the hushed old home is haunted by memories of +its children--gray and old they may be, with other children clustering +about their knees; but to the dear old home they are “the children” +still. And dreaming thus, when pa for a moment finds his little girl +alone--his little girl who is going away out of the home whose love she +knows, into a home whose tenderness and patience are all untried--he +holds her in his arms and whispers the most fervent blessing that +ever throbbed from a father’s heart; and Laura’s wedding day would be +incomplete and unfeeling without her tears. So is the pattern of our +life made up of smiles and tears, shadow and sunshine. Tom sees none +of these background pictures of the wedding day. He sees none of its +real, heartfelt earnestness. He sees only the bright, sunny tints and +happy figures that the tearful, shaded background throws out in golden +relief; but never stops to think that, without the shadows, the clouds, +and the somber tints of the background, the picture would be flat, +pale, and lusterless. + +And then, the presents. The assortment of brackets, serviceable, +ornamental and--cheap. The French clock, that never went, that does +not go, that never will go. And the nine potato mashers. The eight +mustard spoons. The three cigar stands. Eleven match safes; assorted +patterns. A dozen tidies, charity fair styles, blue dog on a yellow +background, barking at a green boy climbing over a red fence, after +seal brown apples. The two churns, old pattern, straight handle and +dasher, and they have as much thought of keeping a cow as they have of +keeping a section of artillery. Five things they didn’t know the names +of, and never could find any body who could tell what they were for. +And a nickel plated pocket corkscrew, that Tom, in a fine burst of +indignation, throws out of the window, which Laura says is just like +her own impulsive Tom. And not long after her own impulsive Tom catches +his death of cold and ruins the knees of his best trowsers crawling +around in the wet grass hunting for that same corkscrew. Which is also +just like her own impulsive Tom. + +And then, the young people go to work and buy e-v-e-r-y thing they +need, the day they go to housekeeping. Every thing. Just as well, Tom +says, to get every thing at once and have it delivered right up at the +house, as to spend five or six or ten or twenty years in stocking up +a house, as his father did. And Laura thinks so too, and she wonders +that Tom should know so much more than his father. This worries Tom +himself, when he thinks of it, and he never rightly understands how it +is, until he is forty-five or fifty years old and has a Tom of his own +to direct and advise him. So they make out a list, and revise it, and +rewrite it, until they have every thing down, complete, and it isn’t +until supper is ready the first day, that they discover there isn’t a +knife, a fork, or a plate or a spoon in the new house. And the first +day the washerwoman comes, and the water is hot, and the clothes are +all ready, it is discovered that there isn’t a wash-tub nearer than +the grocery. And further along in the day the discovery is made that +while Tom has bought a clothes-line that will reach to the north pole +and back, and then has to be coiled up a mile or two in the back yard, +there isn’t a clothes-pin in the settlement. And in the course of a +week or two, Tom slowly awakens to the realization of the fact that he +has only begun to get. And if he should live two thousand years, which +he rarely does, and possibly may not, he would think, just before he +died, of something they had wanted the worst way for five centuries, +and had either been too poor to get, or Tom had always forgotten +to bring up. So long as he lives, Tom goes on bringing home things +that they need--absolute, simple necessities, that were never so much +as hinted at in that exhaustive list. And old Time comes along, and +knowing that the man in that new house will never get through bringing +things up to it, helps him out and comes around and brings things, too. +Brings a gray hair now and then, to stick in Tom’s mustache, which has +grown too big to be ornamental, and too wayward and unmanageable to be +comfortable. He brings little cares and little troubles, and little +trials and little butcher bills, and little grocer’s bills, and little +tailor bills, and nice large millinery bills, that pluck at Tom’s +mustache and stroke it the wrong way and make it look more and more as +pa’s did the first time Tom saw it. He brings, by and by, the prints +of baby fingers and pats them around on the dainty wall paper. Brings, +some times, a voiceless messenger that lays its icy fingers on the baby +lips, and hushes their dainty prattle, and in the baptism of its first +sorrow, the darkened little home has its dearest and tenderest tie to +the upper fold. Brings, by and by, the tracks of a boy’s muddy boots, +and scatters them all up and down the clean porch. Brings a messenger, +one day, to take the younger Tom away to college. And the quiet the boy +leaves behind him is so much harder to endure than his racket, that old +Tom is tempted to keep a brass band in the house until the boy comes +back. But old Time brings him home at last, and it does make life seem +terribly real and earnest to Tom, and how the old laugh rings out and +ripples all over Laura’s face, when they see old Tom’s first mustache +budding and struggling into second life on young Tom’s face. + +And still old Time comes round, bringing each year whiter frosts to +scatter on the whitening mustache, and brighter gleams of silver to +glint the brown of Laura’s hair. Bringing the blessings of peaceful +old age and a lovelocked home to crown these noble, earnest, real +human lives, bristling with human faults, marred with human mistakes, +scarred and seamed and rifted with human troubles, and crowned with the +compassion that only perfection can send upon imperfection. Comes, with +happy memories of the past, and quiet confidence for the future. Comes, +with the changing scenes of day and night; with winter’s storm and +summer’s calm; comes, with the sunny peace and the backward dreams of +age; comes, until one day, the eye of the relentless old reaper rests +upon old Tom, standing right in the swarth, amid the golden corn. The +sweep of the noiseless scythe that never turns its edge, Time passes +on, old Tom steps out of young Tom’s way, and the cycle of a life is +complete. + +[Illustration: GETTING READY FOR THE TRAIN.] + + + + +GETTING READY FOR THE TRAIN. + + +When they reached the depot, Mr. Man and his wife gazed in unspeakable +disappointment at the receding train, which was just pulling away from +the bridge switch at the rate of a thousand miles a minute. Their first +impulse was to run after it; but as the train was out of sight, and +whistling for Sagetown before they could act upon the impulse, they +remained in the carriage and disconsolately turned the horses’ heads +homeward. + +“It all comes of having to wait for a woman to get ready,” Mr. Man +broke the silence with, very grimly. + +“I was ready before you were,” replied his wife. + +“Great heavens!” cried Mr. Man, in irrepressible impatience, jerking +the horses’ jaws out of place, “just listen to that! And I sat out in +the buggy ten minutes, yelling at you to come along, until the whole +neighborhood heard me!” + +“Yes,” acquiesced Mrs. Man, with the provoking placidity which no one +can assume but a woman, “and every time I started down stairs you sent +me back for something you had forgotten.” + +Mr. Man groaned. “This is too much to bear,” he said, “when everybody +knows that if I was going to Europe, I would just rush into the house, +put on a clean shirt, grab up my gripsack, and fly; while you would +want at least six months for preliminary preparations, and then dawdle +around the whole day of starting until every train had left town.” + +Well, the upshot of the matter was, that the Mans put off their visit +to Peoria until the next week, and it was agreed that each one should +get ready and go down to the train and go, and the one who failed to +get ready should be left. The day of the match came around in due time. +The train was to go at 10:30, and Mr. Man, after attending to his +business, went home at 9:45. + +“Now then,” he shouted, “only three-quarters of an hour to train time. +Fly around; a fair field and no favors, you know.” + +And away they flew. Mr. Man bulged into this room and rushed through +that one, and dived into one closet after another with inconceivable +rapidity, chuckling under his breath all the time, to think how cheap +Mrs. Man would feel when he started off alone. He stopped on his way up +stairs to pull off his heavy boots, to save time. For the same reason +he pulled off his coat as he ran through the dining-room, and hung it +on the corner of the silver closet. Then he jerked off his vest as he +rushed through the hall, and tossed it on a hook in the hat-rack, and +by the time he reached his own room he was ready to plunge into his +clean clothes. He pulled out a bureau drawer and began to paw at the +things, like a Scotch terrier after a rat. + +“Eleanor!” he shrieked, “where are my shirts?” + +“In your bureau drawer,” quietly replied Mrs. Man, who was standing +placidly before a glass, calmly and deliberately coaxing a refractory +crimp into place. + +“Well, by thunder, they ain’t!” shouted Mr. Man, a little annoyed. +“I’ve emptied every last thing out of the drawer, and there isn’t a +thing in it that I ever saw before.” + +Mrs. Man stepped back a few paces, held her head on one side, and after +satisfying herself that the crimp would do, and would stay where she +had put it, replied: + +“These things scattered around on the floor are all mine. Probably you +haven’t been looking in your own drawer.” + +“I don’t see,” testily observed Mr. Man, “why you couldn’t have put my +things out for me, when you had nothing else to do all morning.” + +“Because,” said Mrs. Man, settling herself into an additional article +of raiment with awful deliberation, “nobody put mine out for me. ‘A +fair field and no favors,’ my dear.” + +Mr. Man plunged into his shirt like a bull at a red flag. + +“Foul!” he shouted, in malicious triumph. “No button on the neck!” + +“Because,” said Mrs. Man, sweetly, after a deliberate stare at the +fidgeting, impatient man, during which she buttoned her dress and put +eleven pins where they would do the most good, “because you have got +the shirt on wrong side out.” + +When Mr. Man slid out of that shirt, he began to sweat. He dropped the +shirt three times before he got it on, and while it was over his head +he heard the clock strike ten. When his head came through he saw Mrs. +Man coaxing the ends and bows of her necktie. + +“Where’s my shirt studs?” he cried. + +Mrs. Man went out into another room and presently came back with gloves +and hat, and saw Mr. Man emptying all the boxes he could find in and +about the bureau. Then she said: + +“In the shirt you just took off.” + +Mrs. Man put on her gloves while Mr. Man hunted up and down the room +for his cuff buttons. + +“Eleanor,” he snarled, at last, “I believe you must know where those +buttons are.” + +“I haven’t seen them,” said the lady, settling her hat, “didn’t you +lay them down on the window sill in the sitting-room last night?” + +Mr. Man remembered, and he went down stairs on the run. He stepped on +one of his boots, and was immediately landed in the hall at the foot +of the stairs with neatness and dispatch, attended in the transmission +with more bumps than he could count with a Webb’s adder, and landing +with a bang like the Hellgate explosion. + +“Are you nearly ready, Algernon?” asked the wife of his family, +sweetly, leaning over the balusters. + +The unhappy man groaned. “Can’t you throw me down that other boot?” he +asked. + +Mrs. Man pityingly kicked it down to him. + +“My valise?” he inquired, as he tugged away at the boot. + +“Up in your dressing-room,” she answered. + +“Packed?” + +“I do not know; unless you packed it yourself, probably not,” she +replied, with her hand on the door knob; “I had barely time to pack my +own.” + +She was passing out of the gate, when the door opened, and he shouted: + +“Where in the name of goodness did you put my vest? It has all my money +in it!” + +“You threw it on the hat-rack,” she called back, “good-bye, dear.” + +Before she got to the corner of the street she was hailed again. + +“Eleanor! Eleanor! Eleanor Man! Did you wear off my coat?” + +She paused and turned, after signaling the street car to stop, and +cried, + +“You threw it on the silver closet.” + +And the street car engulfed her graceful figure and she was seen no +more. But the neighbors say that they heard Mr. Man charging up and +down the house, rushing out at the front door every now and then, and +shrieking up the deserted streets after the unconscious Mrs. Man, to +know where his hat was, and where she put the valise key, and if she +had any clean socks and undershirts, and that there wasn’t a linen +collar in the house. And when he went away at last, he left the kitchen +door, side door and front door, all the down-stair windows and the +front gate wide open. And the loungers around the depot were somewhat +amused just as the train was pulling out of sight down in the yards, +to see a flushed, perspiring man, with his hat on sideways, his vest +buttoned two buttons too high, his cuffs unbuttoned and necktie flying +and his gripsack flapping open and shut like a demented shutter on +a March night, and a door key in his hand, dash wildly across the +platform and halt in the middle of the track, glaring in dejected, +impotent, wrathful mortification at the departing train, and shaking +his trembling fist at a pretty woman, who was throwing kisses at him +from the rear platform of the last car. + + + + +DRIVING THE COW. + + +Mr. Forbes is a nervous man, and it is not surprising that when Mrs. +Forbes told him the cow had got out at the front gate, he was so +startled and annoyed that he made some disjointed allusions to the +scene of General Newton’s dynamite explosions. When he went out the cow +was standing very quietly in the street, just in front of the gate, +chewing her cud, best navy, and looking as though she were trying to +think of something mean to say. Mr. Forbes got around in front of her, +raised both his hands above his head, and, extending his arms, waved +them slowly up and down, at the same time ejaculating, “Shoo! shoo, +there, I say! Shoo!” The cow turned her cud over to the other side, and +gazed at the apparition in some astonishment, and then began to back +away and maneuver to get around it. It is a remarkable fact, which we +have never heard Prof. Huxley explain, that a cow is perfectly willing +to go in any direction save the one in which you attempt to drive +her. When the cow began to back, Mr. Forbes slowed up with his arms +and assumed a more coaxing tone. When the cow started to make a flank +movement off to the right, Mr. Forbes kept in front of her by sidling +across in the same direction, at the same time raising his voice and +accelerating the movement of his arms. When the cow made several +cautious diversions and reconnoissances this way and that, Mr. Forbes +was compelled to keep up a kind of Chinese cotillon, dancing to and +fro across the road, keeping time with his shuffling feet and waving +hands, and the children on their way to school gathered in little +groups on the sidewalk and viewed the spectacle with great interest, +alternately cheering the cow and encouraging Mr. Forbes, as one side +or the other would gain a little advantage. When the cow would make +a short, determined rush, causing Mr. Forbes to scuttle across the +street, in a perfect whirlwind of dust and sticks and a rattling volley +of “Hi! hoo-y! shoo, there! hoo-y!” the enthusiasm of the audience was +unbounded. Once, Mr. Forbes got the cow fairly cornered and headed her +right into the gate, but just as the gray light of victory fell upon +his uplifted face, Mrs. Forbes and the hired girl came charging out in +mad pursuit of a flock of geese that had taken advantage of the open +gate to stroll in and have a nip at the house plants on the back porch. +Squacking, whooping and screaming, the flying geese and the pursuing +column came out like a runaway edition of chaos, and the cow gave a +snort of terror and turned short upon Mr. Forbes, who tossed his hands +more wildly and shouted more vociferously than ever, and got out of +the way with neatness and dispatch, just as the cow went by with the +swiftness of a golden opportunity or a vagrant thought. Mr. Forbes’ +blood was up, and he was bound to head off that cow if it was in the +power of man. Spurred to intense energy, by the derisive shouts of the +children, he bent his head and picked up his flying feet. They got a +pretty fair send off, Mr. Forbes and the cow, and as they swept up the +street, they could look into each other’s eyes and glare defiance while +they spurned the dust with flying feet. Mr. Forbes ran until his eyes +seemed bursting out of his head and his very soul seemed to be in his +legs; the perspiration started out of every pore; every time he struck +the ground with his foot he thought he felt the earth shake, and yet, +though he tugged and sweat and strained until all the landscape was +yellow before his blood-shot eyes, he couldn’t gain a hair’s breadth +on the shambling, awkward cow that went sprawling and kicking along by +his side, filling the soft September air with such a wild, tumultuous, +horrible jangling of bells that Forbes made up his mind to throw the +bell away the moment he get the cow home. The people on the streets +stopped and waved their hats and cheered enthusiastically as the +procession swept past, ladies leaned out of the windows and smiled +sweetly on the man and cow alike. Once Forbes stumbled over a crossing +and had to take strides twenty-three feet long for the next half block +to keep from falling, and he was sure he was split clear up to the +chin and would have to button his trousers around his neck forever +afterward, but he wouldn’t give in to a cow if he died for it. At the +next corner the cow turned off down a side street; Forbes shot across +the sidewalk for a short cut, and the next instant he went crashing +half-way through a latticed tree box. A street car driver stopped his +car and assisted Mr. Forbes to a sitting posture, leaned him up against +a fence and went on with his train. And as Mr. Forbes sat in a dazed +kind of way, mechanically rubbing the dust and dirt off his coat and +pinning up long gashes and grimly grinning apertures in his clothes, +there came to his ears the distant tinkle-tankle of a far away cow +bell, the mellowed sound rising and falling in tender cadences, with a +dreamy, swaying melody, as though the bell was somewhere over in the +adjoining county, and the cow that wore it was waltzing along over a +country road a thousand miles a minute. + + + + +VOICES OF THE NIGHT. + + +Mr. Joskins is not an old settler in Burlington. He came to the city +of magnificent hills from Keokuk, and after looking around, selected a +residence out on West Hill, because it was in such a quiet locality, +and Mr. Joskins loves peace and seclusion. It is a rural kind of a +neighborhood, and all of Mr. Joskins’ neighbors keep cows. And every +cow wears a bell. And with an instinct worthy of the Peak family, each +neighbor had selected a cow bell of a different key and tone from any +of the others, in order that he might know the cow of his heart from +the other kine of the district. So that Mr. Joskins’ nights are filled +with music, of a rather wild, barbaric type; and the lone starry hours +talk nothing but cow to him, and he has learned so exactly the tones of +every bell and the habits of each corresponding cow, that the voices of +the night are not an unintelligible jargon to him, but they are full +of intelligence, and he understands them. It makes it much easier for +Mr. Joskins, who is a very nervous man, than if he had to listen and +conjecture and wonder until he was fairly wild, as the rest of us would +have to do. As it is, when the first sweet moments of his slumber are +broken by a solemn, ponderous, resonant + +“Ka-lum, ka-lum, ka-lum!” + +Mr. Joskins knows that the widow Barbery’s old crumple horn is going +down the street looking for an open front gate, and his knowledge +is confirmed by a doleful “Ka-lum-pu-lum!” that occurs at regular +intervals as old crumple pauses to try each gate as she passes it, +for she knows that appearances are deceitful, and that a boy can shut +a front gate in such a way as to thoroughly deceive his father and yet +leave every catch unfastened. Then when Mr. Joskins is called up from +his second doze by a lively serenade of + +“To-link, to-lank, lank, lankle-inkle, lankle-inkle-tekinleinkletelink, +kink, kink!” + +He knows that Mr. Throop’s young brindle is in Throstlewaite’s garden +and that Throstlewaite is sailing around after her in a pair of +slippers and a few clothes. And by sitting up in bed Mr. Joskins can +hear the things that Mr. Throstlewaite is throwing strike against the +side of the house and the woodshed, thud, spat, bang, and the character +of the noises tells him whether the missile was a clod, a piece of +board, or a brick. And when the wind down the street is fair, it brings +with it faint echoes of Mr. Throstlewaite’s remarks, which bring into +Mr. Joskins’ bedroom the odor of bad grammatical construction and +wicked wishes and very ill-applied epithets. Then when the final crash +and tinkle announce that the cow has bulged through the front fence and +got away, and Mr. Joskins turns over to try and get a little sleep, he +is not surprised, although he is annoyed, to be aroused by a sepulchral + +“Klank, klank, klank!” + +Like the chains on the old-fashioned ghost of a murdered man, for he +knows it is Throstlewaite’s old duck-legged brown cow, going down to +the vacant lot on the corner to fight anything that gives milk. And he +waits and listens to the “klank, klank, klank,” until it reaches the +corner and a terrific din and medley of all the cow bells on the street +tell him all the skirmishers have been driven in and the action has +become general. And from that on till morning, Mr. Joskins hears the +“tinkle-tankle” of the little red cow going down the alley to prospect +among the garbage heaps, and the “rankle-tankle, tankle-tankle” of +the short-tailed black and white cow skirmishing down the street +ahead of an escort of badly assorted dogs, and the “tringle-de-ding, +tringle-de-ding, ding, ding,” of the muley cow that goes along on the +sidewalk, browsing on the lower limbs of the shade trees, and the +“klank, klank, klank,” of the fighting cow, whose bell is cracked in +three places, and incessant “moo-o-_oo_-ah-ha” of the big black cow +that has lost the clapper out of her bell and has ever since kept up +an unintermittent bellowing to supply its loss. And Mr. Joskins knows +all these cows by their bells, and he knows what they are doing and +where they are going. And although it has murdered his dreams of a +quiet home, yet it has given him an opportunity to cultivate habits of +intelligent observation, and it has induced him to register a vow that +if he is ever rich enough he will keep nine cows, trained to sleep all +day so as to be ready for duty at night, and he will live in the heart +of the city with them and make them wear four bells apiece just for the +pleasure of his neighbors. + + + + +THE DEMAND FOR LIGHT LABOR. + + +One morning, just as the rush of house-cleaning days was beginning to +abate, a robust tramp called at a house on Barnes Street, and besought +the inmates to give him something to eat, averring that he had not +tasted food for nine days. + +“Why don’t you go to work?” asked the lady to whom he preferred his +petition. + +“Work!” he ejaculated. “Work! And what have I been doing ever since the +middle of May but hunting work? Who will give me work? When did I ever +refuse work?” + +“Well,” said the woman, “I guess I can give you some employment. What +can you do?” + +“Anything!” he shouted, in a kind of delirious joy. “Anything that +any man can do. I’m sick for something to fly at. Why, only yesterday +I worked all day, carrying water in an old sieve from Flint River +and emptying it into the Mississippi, just because I was so tired of +having nothing to do, that I had to work at something or I would have +gone ravin’ crazy. I’ll do anything, from cleaning house to building a +steamboat. Jest give me work, ma’am, an’ you’ll never hear me ask for +bread agin.” + +The lady was pleased at the willingness and anxiety of this industrious +man to do something, and she led him to the wood-pile. + +“Here,” she said, “you can saw and split this wood, and if you are a +good, industrious worker, I will find work for you to do, nearly all +Winter.” + +“Well, now,” said the tramp, while a look of disappointment stole over +his face, “that’s just my luck. Only three days ago I was pullin’ a +blind cow out of a well for a poor widow woman who had nothin’ in the +world but that cow to support her, an’ I spraint my right wrist till +I hain’t been able to lift a pound with it sinst. You kin jest put +your hand on it now and feel it throb, it’s so painful and inflamed. I +could jest cry of disappointment, but it’s a Bible fact, ma’am, that I +couldn’t lift that ax above my head ef I died fur it, and I’d jest as +lief let you pull my arm out by the roots as to try to pull that saw +through a lath. Jest set me at something I kin do, though, if you want +to see the dust fly.” + +“Very well,” said the lady, “then you can take these flower beds, which +have been very much neglected, and weed them very carefully for me. You +can do that with your well hand, but I want you to be very particular +with them, and get them very clean, and not injure any of the plants, +for they are all very choice and I am very proud of them.” + +The look of disappointment that had been chased away from the +industrious man’s face when he saw a prospect of something else to do, +came back deeper than ever as the lady described the new job, and when +she concluded, he had to remain quiet for a moment before he could +control his emotion sufficiently to speak. + +“If I ain’t the most onfortnit man in Ameriky,” he sighed. “I’m jest +dyin’ for work; crazy to get somethin’ to do, and I’m blocked out of +work at every turn. I jest love to work among flowers and dig in the +ground, but I never dassent do it fur I’m jest blue ruin among the +posies. Nobody ever cared to teach me anythin’ about flowers and its +a Gospel truth, ma’am, I can’t tell a violet from a sunflower nor a +red rose from a dog-fennel. Last place I tried to git work at, woman +of the house set me to work weedin’ the garden, an’ I worked about a +couple of hours, monstrous glad to get work, now you bet, an’ I pulled +up every last livin’ green thing in that yard. Hope I may die ef I +didn’t. Pulled up all the grass, every blade of it. Fact. Pulled up a +vine wuth seventy-five dollars, that had roots reachin’ cl’ar under the +cellar and into the cistern, and I yanked ’em right up, every fiber +of ’em. Woman was so heart broke when she come out and see the yard +just as bare as the floor of a brick yard that they had to put her to +bed. Bible’s truth, they did, ma’am; and I had to work for that house +three months for nothin’ and find my board, to pay fur the damage I +done. Hope to die ef I didn’t. Jest gimme suthin’ I kin do, I’ll show +you what work is, but I wouldn’t dare to go foolin’ around no flowers. +You’ve got a kind heart ma’am, gimme some work; don’t send a despairin’ +man away hungry for work.” + +“Well,” the lady said, “you can beat my carpets for me. They have just +been taken up, and you can beat them thoroughly, and by the time they +are done, I will have something else ready for you.” + +The man made a gesture of despair and sat down on the ground, the +picture of abject helplessness and disappointed aspirations. + +“Look at me now,” he exclaimed. “What is goin’ to become o’ me? Did +you ever see a man so down on his luck like me? I tell you ma’am, you +must give me somethin’ I can do. I wouldn’t no more dare for to tech +them carpets than nothin’ in the world. I’d tear ’em to pieces. I’m a +awful hard hitter, an’ the last time I beat any carpets was for a woman +out at Creston, and I just welted them carpets into strings and carpet +rags. I couldn’t help it. I can’t hold in my strength. I’m too glad to +get to work, that’s the trouble with me, ma’am, it’s a Bible fact. I’ll +beat them carpets if you say so, but I won’t be responsible fur ’em; no +makin’ me work for nothin’ fur five or six weeks to pay fur tearin’ ’em +into slits yer know. I’ll go at ’em if you’ll say the word and take the +responsibility, but the fact is, I’m too hard a worker to go foolin’ +around carpets, that’s just what I am.” + +The lady excused the energetic worker from going at the carpets, but +was puzzled what to set him at. Finally she asked him what there was he +would like to do and could do, with safety to himself and the work. + +“Well, now,” he said, “that’s considerit in ye. That’s real considerit, +and I’ll take a hold and do something that’ll give ye the wuth of your +money, and won’t give me no chance to destroy nothin’ by workin’ too +hard at it. If ye’ll jest kindly fetch me out a rockin’ chair, I’ll set +down in the shade and keep the cows from liftin’ the latch of the front +gate and gettin’ into the yard. An’ I’ll do it well and only charge you +reasonable for it, fur the fact is I’m so dead crazy fur work that it +isn’t big pay I want so much as a steady job.” + +And when he was rejected and sent forth, jobless and breakfastless, to +wander up and down the cold, unfeeling world in search of work, he cast +stones at the house and said, in dejected tones, + +“There, now, that’s just the way. They call us a bad lot, and say we’re +lazy and thieves, and won’t work, when a feller is just crazy to work +and nobody won’t give him nary job that he kin do. Won’t work! Land +alive, they won’t give us work, an’ when we want to an’ try to, they +won’t let us work. There ain’t a man in Ameriky that ’ud work as hard +an’ as stiddy as I would if they’d gimme a chance.” + + + + +MASTER BILDERBACK RETURNS TO SCHOOL. + + +We remember one day last Summer, during the long vacation, when the +_Hawkeye_ published a news item stating that a boy named Bilderback +had fallen from the seat of a reaping machine, and got cut to pieces, +a patient, weary looking, and rather handsome young lady called at the +office, and appeared to be very anxious to have that item verified. +And when we gave her all possible assurance that everything appearing +in that great and good paper, the _Hawkeye_, was necessarily true, she +drew a deep sigh of relief, and said she felt actually thankful she +wouldn’t have that boy to demoralize the school the next term. And then +she smiled sweetly, and thanked us for our assuring words, and went +away. + +Imagine her dismay, then, about the third or fourth day of the fall +term, when a terrific cheering in the yard, about ten minutes before +school time, drew her to the window, whence looking down, she saw +every last solitary lingering boy in that school district dancing and +yelling about Master Bilderback, who was dancing higher and yelling +louder than any other boy in the caucus. Her heart sank within her; but +she braced up and went down stairs to quiet the bedlam, and in five +minutes learned the dreadful truth. Master Bilderback had met with a +reaping-machine accident, but the papers had reported it incorrectly. +He had climbed into the seat the moment his uncle, on whose farm he was +spending the vacation, got down. He prodded one of the horses with a +pin in the end of a stick, and made the team run away. The terrified +animals ran the machine over twenty stumps, and mashed it to pieces; +one of the horses ran against a hedge-stake and was killed, and the +other jumped off a bridge and broke a leg; Master Bilderback’s uncle, +chasing after the flying team, had dashed through a hornets’ nest, and +the sociable little insects came out and sat down on him to talk it +over, until his head was swelled as big as a nail-keg, and he couldn’t +open his eyes for a week; a farm-hand who tried to stop the horses by +rushing out in front of them, was hit by the tongue of the reaper and +knocked into the middle of an Osage orange hedge, where he stuck for +three hours, and lost his voice by screaming, and was scraped to the +bone when they finally pulled him out with grappling hooks. And Master +Bilderback, the author of all this calamity, was thrown from his seat +at the first stump, and fell on a shock of grain, and wasn’t jarred or +bruised or scratched a particle. And that night, when his aunt handed +his blinded uncle the halter-strap, and held Master Bilderback in front +of him to receive merited castigation, that graceless young wretch +seized his aunt around the neck after the first blow, and wheeling her +into his place, held her there, drowning her piercing explanations and +pleadings in his own tumultuous but deceitful howlings and roarings, +until her back looked like a war map, and the exhausted uncle laid +down the strap with the remark that he “guessed that would teach him +something.” And so the teacher, when she saw Master Bilderback at +school again, felt weary of life, and sighed to rest her deep in the +silent grave--if she could find one that was for rent, and didn’t cost +more than a quarter’s salary. + +It being the young man’s first day at school that term, he was feeling +pretty well, thank you. He had a fight and a half before the bell +rang; the half fight being an unsuccessful attempt on his part to +pull enough hair out of the back of another boy’s head to stuff a +mattress, and a highly successful effort on the part of the other +boy to claw enough hide off Master Bilderback’s nose to make a pair +of boots of, at which discouraging stage of the war Master B. drew +off his forces, and in a conciliatory spirit informed the audience +that he was only in fun. Then, before the opening exercises were half +through, three boys in his neighborhood rose up in their seats and +with bitter wails began feeling about in their persons for intrusive +pins. When the first class filed out to its place, the circling grin +told the anxious teacher that Master Bilderback had inked the end of +his nose. Then he induced the boy next to him to lean his head back +against the wall, just as Master B. did; and when that complaisant +boy was suddenly called on to rise and recite, he lifted up his voice +and wept, for he had pulled a piece of shoemaker’s wax and about two +ounces of blackboard slating and plaster out of the wall with his back +hair. Then he spread out the tail of another boy’s coat on the seat, +and piled a little pyramid of buckshot on it; and when the boy stood up +to recite, he was waltzed out on the floor--bathed in innocent tears, +and protesting his innocence--for throwing shot on the floor, and was +told he was growing worse than that Bilderback boy. He tied the ends +of a girl’s sash around the back of her chair, and when she tried to +stand up she was almost jerked out of existence. He was sent out with +a boy who was taken with the nose-bleed, and found occasion to mix +ink in the water he poured on the sufferer’s hands; so that, on his +return, the sufferer’s appearance created such howls of derision that +it started the nose-bleed afresh, and threw the teacher into hysterics. +He enticed a gaunt hound into the girls’ side of the yard, and clapping +a patent clothes-pin on one of its pendant ears, raised the alarm of +“mad dog!” and laughed till he choked to see the howling animal rushing +around trying to paw the clothes-pin off; while the shrieking girls +wrecked themselves in desperate and frequently successful attempts +to climb over an eight foot fence. He put a pinching-bug as big as a +postage-stamp down a boy’s back. He got a long slate-pencil crossways +in his mouth, and it nearly poked through his cheeks before they could +break it and get it out. He tossed a big apple, hard as a rock, out +of the third story window at random, and it struck an old lady in the +eye as she was walking along admiring the building; and she came up +and gave the poor tortured teacher a piece of her mind as long as the +dog days. He dropped into the water-bucket a lot of oxalic acid, that +had been brought to take some ink splotches out of the floor, and came +within one of poisoning the whole school before they found it out; and, +finally, he poked a bean so far up his nose that they thought it was +coming out of his eye; and the happy teacher dismissed him, thoroughly +frightened for the first time in his eventful life, and he ran like a +race-horse all the way home, crying louder at every step, and never +stopped to call a name or throw a stone. + + + + +ODE TO AUTUMN. + +AFTER TENNYSON. + + + The grasshopper creaks in the leafy gloom, + And the bumble-bee bumbleth the live long day; + But the mathering nurks in the bran new broom, + And hushed is the sound of the buzz saw’s play. + + Oh, it’s little he thinks of the cold mince pie, + And it’s little he seeks of the raw ice cream; + For the dying old year with its tremulous sigh, + Shall waken the lingering loon from his dream. + + Oh, list! For the cricket, now far, now near, + Full shrillfully singeth his roundelay; + While the negligent noodle his noisy cheer + Screeps where the doodle bug eats the hay. + + Oh, the buzz saw so buzzily buzzeth the stick + And bumbling the bumble-bee bumbleth his tune + While the cricket cricks crickingly down at the creek + And the noodle noods noodingly, “Ha! It is noon!” + + The dog-fennel sighs, “She is here! she is here!” + And the smart weed says dreamily, “Give us a rest!” + The hop vine breathes tenderly, “Give us a beer!” + While the jimson weed hollers, “Oh, pull down your vest!” + + Oh, Anna Maria, why don’t you come home? + For the clock in the steeple strikes seven or eight; + Way down in the murky mazourka the gloam + Is gloaming its gloamingest gloam on the gate. + + + + +THE SORROWS OF THE POOR. + + +It was a poor, dejected looking tramp, who came limping wearily into +town on the Fort Madison road, and, with the instinct of his class, +made his way directly toward Main Street, where stimulants and company +are most numerous. He had a very tired look, and his poorly shod feet +seemed to weigh a ton a piece. The sun had burned his face to a deeper +brown than even the knotty hands that swung listlessly at his side. +He did not even carry the inevitable stick; and the little bundle, +without which the tramp’s outfit is never complete, although heaven +only knows what is in it, was swung from his shoulders by a heavy twine +string, like a rude knapsack. No man is alive now that wore clothes +when the hat he wore was made. It was a fearful and wonderful hat, +and attracted more attention than anything he had on or about him. He +limped along Main Street from Locust, diving into private houses in +occasional forays for bread, which were generally successful, for his +poor, dejected, sorrowful looking face threw a great deal of silent +eloquence into his pleading, and the women could not bear to send the +low-voiced man away hungry. These forays were varied by occasional +dives into places of refreshment, where he vainly pleaded for a small +allowance of ardent spirits for a sick man; the general result being +that he was courteously refused and gently but firmly kicked out by +the urbane barkeeper, who saw too many of him every day to be much +moved. The poor fellow limped along till he got a little above Division +Street, when he had to pass a knot of young men, and one of them, a +smart looking young chap, in a very gamey costume, and carrying a broad +pair of shoulders and a bullet head, surmounted with a silver-gray plug +hat, hung on his right ear, sang out, + +“Oh, shoot the hat!” + +The poor tramp only looked more dejected than ever, if possible, and +shook his head meekly and sorrowfully, and limped on. But the young +sport shouted after him: + +“Come back, young fellow, and see how you’ll trade hats!” + +The outcast paused and half turned, and said in mournful tones: + +“Don’t make game of a onfortnit man, young gents. I’m poor and I’m +sick, but I’ve the feelin’s of a man, an’ I kin feel it when I’m made +game of. If you could give me a job of work, now--” + +A chorus of laughter greeted the suggestion, and the smartest young man +repeated his challenge to trade hats, and finally induced the mendicant +to limp back. + +“Take off your hat,” said the young man of Burlington, “and let’s see +whose make it is. If it isn’t Stetson’s, I won’t trade.” + +“Oh, that’s Stetson’s,” chorused the crowd. “He wouldn’t wear anything +but a first-class hat.” + +But the tramp replied, trying to limp away from the circle that was +closing around him. + +“Indeed, young gents, don’t be hard on a onfortnit man. I don’t believe +I could git that hat off’n my head; I don’t indeed. I haint had it off +fur mor’n two months, indeed I haint. I don’t believe I kin git it off +at all. Please let me go on.” + +But the unfeeling young men crowded around him more closely and +insisted that the hat should come off, and the smartest young man in +company said he’d pull it off for him. + +“Indeed, young gent,” replied the tramp, apologetically, “I don’t +believe you could git it off. It’s been on so long I don’t believe you +kin git it off; I don’t really.” + +The young man advanced and made a motion to jerk off the hat, but the +tramp limped back and threw up his hands with a clumsy frightened +gesture. + +“Come young gents,” he whined, “don’t play games on a poor fellow as +is lookin’ for the county hospital. I tell ye, young gents, I’m a sick +man, I am. I’m on the tramp when I ought to be in bed. I can’t hardly +stand, and I haint got the strength to be fooled with. Be easy on a +poor----” + +But the sporting young man cut him off with “Oh, give us a rest and +take off that hat.” And then he made a pass at the poor sick man’s hat, +but his hand met the poor, sick tramp’s elbow instead. And then the +poor man lifted one of his hands about as high as a derrick, and the +next instant the silver-gray plug hat was crowded so far down on the +young man’s shoulders that the points of the dog’s eared collar were +sticking up through the crown of it. And then the poor sick man tried +his other hand, and part of the crowd started off to help pick the +young man out of a show window where he was standing on his head, while +the rest of the congregation was trying its level best to get out of +the way of the poor sick tramp, who was feeling about him in a vague, +restless sort of way that made the street lamps rattle every time he +found anybody. Long before any one could interfere the convention had +adjourned _sine die_, and the poor tramp, limping on his way, the very +personification of wretchedness, sighed as he remarked apologetically +to the spectators: + +“I tell you, gents, I’m a sick man; I’m too sick to feel like foolin’; +I’m jest so sick that when I go gropin’ around for somethin’ to lean +up agin I can’t tell a man from a hitchin’ post; I can’t actually, and +when I rub agin anybody, nobody hadn’t ought to feel hard at me. I’m +sick, that’s wha’ I am.” + + + + +MR. GEROLMAN LOSES HIS DOG. + + +Mr. Gerolman stood on the front porch of his comfortable home on West +Hill, one morning looking out at the drizzling rain in any thing but +a comfortable frame of mind. He looked up and down the yard, and then +he raised his umbrella and went to the gate and looked up and down the +street. Then he whistled in a very shrill manner three or four times, +and listened as though he was expecting a response. If he was, he was +disappointed, for there was no response save the pattering of the rain +on his umbrella, and he frowned heavily as he returned to the porch, +from which sheltered post of observation he gloomily surveyed the +dispiriting weather. + +“Dag gone the dag gone brute,” he muttered savagely, “if ever I keep +another dog again, I hope it will eat me up.” + +And then he whistled again. And again there was no response. It was +evident that Mr. Gerolman had lost his dog, a beautiful ashes of +roses hound with seal brown spots and soft satin-finish ears. He was +a valuable dog, and this was the third time he had been lost, and Mr. +Gerolman was rapidly losing his temper as completely as he had lost +his dog. He lifted his voice and called aloud: + +“H’yuh-h-h Ponto! h’yuh Ponto! h’yuhp onto! h’yup onto, h’yup onto +h’yuponto, h’yuponto! h’yup, h’yup, h’yup!” + +As he ceased calling, and looked anxiously about for some indications +of a dog, the front door opened and a woman’s face, shaded with a tinge +of womanly anxiety and fastened to Mrs. Gerolman’s head, looked out. + +“The children call him Hector,” a low sweet voice said for the wistful, +pretty face; but the bereaved master of the absent dog was in no humor +to be charmed by a beautiful face and a flute-like voice. + +“By George,” he said, striding out into the rain and purposely leaving +his umbrella on the porch to make his wife feel bad, “it’s no wonder +the dog gets lost, when he has so dod binged many names that he don’t +know himself. By Jacks, when I give eleven dollars for a dog, I want +the privilege of naming him, and the next person about this house that +tries to fasten an old pagan, Indian, blasphemous name on a dog of +mine, will hear from me about it; now that’s all.” + +And then he inflated his lungs and yelled like a scalp hunter. + +“Here, Hector! here, Hector! here rector, hyur, rector, hyur rec, +h’yurrec, k’yurrec, k’yurrec, k’yurrec! Godfrey’s cordial, where’s +that dog gone to? H’yuponto, h’yupont! h’yuh, h’yuh, h’yuh! I hope +he’s poisoned--h’yurrector! By George, I do; h’yuh Ponto, good dog, +Ponty, Ponty, Ponty, h’yuh Pont! I’d give fifty dollars if some one had +strychnined the nasty, worthless, lop-eared cur; hyurrec, k’yurrec! By +granny, I’ll kill him when he comes home, if I don’t I hope to die; +h’yuh Ponto, h’yuh Ponto, _h’yuh_ HEC!!” + +And as he turned back to the porch the door again opened and the +tremulous voice sweetly asked: + +“Can’t you find him?” + +“NAW!!!” roared the exasperated dog hunter, and the door closed very +precipitately and was opened no more during the session. + +“Here, Ponto!” roared Mr. Gerolman, from his position on the porch, +“Here, Hector!” And then he whistled until his head swam and his +throat was so dry you could light a match in it. “Here, Ponto! Blast +the dog. I suppose he’s twenty-five miles from here. Hector! What are +you lookin’ at, you gimlet-eyed old Bedlamite?” he savagely growled, +apostrophizing a sweet-faced old lady with silky white hair, who had +just looked out of her window to see where the fire was, or who was +being murdered. “Here, Ponto! here Ponto! Good doggie, nice old Pontie, +nice old Heckie dog--Oh-h-h,” he snarled, dancing up and down on the +porch in an ecstasy of rage and impatience, “I’d like to tramp the +ribs out of the long-legged worthless old garbage-eater; _here, Ponto, +here!_” + +To his amazement he heard a canine yawn, a long-drawn, weary kind of a +whine, as of a dog who was bored to death with the dismal weather; then +there was a scraping sound, and the dog, creeping out from under the +porch, from under his very feet, looked vacantly around as though he +wasn’t quite sure but what he had heard some one calling him, and then +catching sight of his master, sat down and thumped on the ground with +his tail, smiled pleasantly, and asked as plainly as ever dog asked in +the world, + +“Were you wanting me?” + +Mr. Gerolman, for one brief instant, gasped for breath. Then he pulled +his hat down tight on his head, snatched up his umbrella with a +convulsive grasp and yelled “Come ’ere!” in such a terrific roar that +the white-haired old lady across the way fell back in a fit, and the +dog, surmising that all was not well, briefly remarked that he had an +engagement to meet somebody about fifty-eight feet under the house, +and shot under the porch like a shooting dog-star. Mr. Gerolman made +a dash to intercept him, but stumbled over a flower stand and plunged +through a honey-suckle trellis, off the porch, and down into a raging +volcano of moss-rose bush, straw, black dirt, shattered umbrella ribs, +and a ubiquitous hat, while far under the house, deep in the cavernous +darkness, came the mocking laugh of an ashes of roses dog with seal +brown spots, accompanied by the taunting remark, as nearly as Mr. +Gerolman could understand the dog, + +“Who hit him? Which way did he go?” + + + + +A RAINY DAY IDYL. + + + How many times do I love you, dear? + That is beyond my number’s skill; + Dearer your smiles than aught else here, + Unless it might be my amberill. + + Sweet is the glance of your soft brown eyes, + Veiled when the silken fringes fall; + Verse can not tell how much I prize + Thee, and my constant umbersoll. + + As the shadowy years speed on and by + Over our lives like a magic spell; + Ever to thee I’ll fondly fly, + And shelter you under my amberell. + + Time’s wings are swifter than thought, my dear, + When my heart is cheered by your sunny smile; + Never an hour is sad or drear, + When I know where to look for my old umbrile. + + Even when life its sands have run + And my leaf has fallen sere and yellow, + Little I’ll heed either storm or sun + Safe ’neath the roof of my dear umbrellow. + + Ha! But the world is wrapped in gloom-- + Storm, rain and tempest round me roll; + Show me the man! Oh, give me room! + Some wretch has stolen my umbersole. + + + + +SINGULAR TRANSFORMATION. + + +It appears that during vacation Master Bilderback, having fallen behind +in his studies last term, was compelled by his ma to read his school +books certain hours of the day, until he escaped that tyranny by going +out to his uncle Keyser’s farm. In order to make his study as light +as possible, this ingenious boy had dissected, or rather skinned his +books, and neatly inserted in their covers certain works of the most +thrilling character known in modern literature. When he came back +from the farm this transformation business had entirely escaped his +memory, and it was not even recalled when he heard his mother tell +the teacher, who called in the hopes of learning that that bean had +sprouted and grown into his brain and would probably terminate fatally, +that he was the best boy to study during vacation she ever saw, and +would pore for hours over his books, and even seem anxious to get at +them. Master Bilderback had forgotten all about it, and only thought +it was some of his mother’s foolishness, of which he believed her to +possess great store. As for the bean, the amazed teacher learned that +it never was discovered, it never came out and it never hurt him a +particle, and had just naturally ceased to be. And the teacher went +sadly away, moralizing over this case, and that of little Ezra Simpson, +the best and most obedient, and most studious, and quietest, and most +lovable boy in her school who, one day stumbled and ran the end of a +slate-pencil into his nose and died the next day. And long, long after +she had got out of sight of Bilderback’s house, she could hear the +hopeful Master Bilderback shouting, “Shoot that hat!” and “Pull down +your vest!” to gentlemen driving, with their families or sweethearts, +past the mansion. Dreadful boy, she thought, he will surely come to +some end, some day. + +Well, it was only the next day when the reading class was called, +Master Bilderback took his place for the first time. The boy next +to him had no book, and as he was called first, he just took Master +Bilderback’s, who turned to look on with the boy on the other side. The +class was reading the selection from “Old Curiosity Shop,” and a girl +had just finished reading the tender paragraphs, “She was dead. Dear, +gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird--a poor slight +thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed--was stirring nimbly +in its cage, and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and +motionless forever.” + +Imagine the feeling of the teacher when the boy who got up with Master +Bilderback’s reader went on: + +“‘Black fiend of the nethermost gloom, down to thy craven soul thou +liest,’ exclaimed Manfred, the Avenger, drawing his rapier, ‘Draw, +malignant hound, and die!’” + +“‘Down, perjured fool! Villain and double-dyed traitor, down with thy +caitiff face in the dust. Dare’st thou defy me? Beast with a pig’s +head, thy doom is sealed!’ exclaimed the Mystic Knight, throwing up his +visor. ‘Dost know me now? I am the Mad Muncher of the Bazzarooks!’” + +“Manfred, the Avenger, dropped his blade at this terrible name, and--” + +The teacher caught her breath and stopped the boy. In tones of forced +calmness she asked what he was reading, and he told her it was +Bilderback’s reader, and looked in amazement at the innocent scholastic +back and the villainous interior, which was nothing less than “The +Blood on the Ceiling; or, the Death Track of the Black Snoozer.” After +requesting Master Bilderback to remain after school and explain, she +called the next class, one in Arithmetic. + +“Fisher,” she said, “you may read and analyze the fourth problem.” + +And Fisher, who was Bilderback’s next seat mate, and had taken that +young man’s book by mistake, rose and read, + + “The purtiest little baby, oh! + That ever I did see, oh! + They gave it paregoric, oh! + And sent it up to glory, oh! + + Fillacy, follacy, my black hen, + She lays eggs for gentlemen; + Sometimes----” + +“In mercy’s name,” shrieked the poor teacher, “what have you got +there?” And investigation revealed the rather humiliating fact that +when Mrs. Bilderback thought her young son was poring over mathematical +problems, he was learning choice vocal selections out of “The Pull-Back +Songster and Ethiopian Glee Book.” + +When the grammar class was called, the teacher asked some one to bring +her a book. Master Bilderback was the nearest, and he handed her +his, innocently enough, for he had been busy with more projects than +we could tell about in a week, since the arithmetic class had gone +down. The teacher was tired and listless with that wearing worry and +torture which is only found in the school room, and she listlessly and +mechanically opened the book at the place, and said, + +“Mamie, how would you analyze and parse this sentence,” and casting her +eyes on the page, she read: + +“Ofer you dond vas got some glothes on, go on dark blaces, off you +blease. Ain’d it?” + +She laid down the book, and burst into hysterical tears, unable even to +exert her authority to restrain the mirth that burst out all over the +school room. She dismissed the school, and had not sufficient energy to +punish even Master Bilderback, and that young gentleman only carried +home a note to his father, requesting that citizen and tax payer to +reorganize his son’s school library before he sent him back to that +palladium of our country’s liberties, the public school. + + + + +SUBURBAN SOLITUDE. + + +Mr. Dresseldorf, who can’t endure any noise since he sold his +clarionet, has just moved into the sweetest little cottage out on South +Hill, and here, he told Mrs. Dresseldorf, he would rest and spend his +declining days under his own vine and fig tree, with no one to molest +or make him afraid. “We have a few neighbors,” he said, the afternoon +they got comfortably and cozily settled; “Mr. Blodgers, next door, +keeps a cow, and will supply us with an abundance of pure, fresh milk; +Mr. Whackem, not far away, is an honest teamster, I understand, and +will be convenient when we want a little hauling done from town; Mr. +Sturvesant, just down the street, has a splendid dog that he says keeps +an eye on the entire neighborhood, and I think we will live pleasantly +and happily here.” And Mr. Dresseldorf sat on the porch and solemnly +contemplated the hammer bruises and the tack holes and nail marks +and abrasions of stove legs and the pinches of obstinate stove-pipe +joints on his hands, and wondered if Providence would be merciful to +him and strike the house with lightning before next moving day rolled +round. And with this pleasant and soothing thought, Mr. Dresseldorf +fell into a trance of ecstatic content, delighted with the holy quiet +of the scene and the neighborhood, with Perkins’ meadow in the serene +distance, the sun sinking out of sight, throwing long bars of burnished +gold through a clump of forest trees off to the west, and the summer +air vibrating with the hushed hum of insect life that floated to +the Dresseldorf porch. So quiet, so full of peace, so fraught with +meditation and retrospective self-communings was the scene, that +Mr. Dresseldorf wondered if he could endure so much happiness every +evening. Just then, + +“Whoa! Who-oh-oh-oh-h!!” Whack! whack! whack! “Whoa! ye son of a thief! +Head him, Bill! Whoa!” + +[Illustration: SUBURBAN SOLITUDE.] + +“What under the canopy--” began the startled and astonished Mr. +Dresseldorf; but just then he saw a gray mule with a paint-brush tail +flying down the road, head and tail up, and its heels making vicious +offers at every animated object that came within range. It was plain +that one of Mr. Whackem’s mules had got away, as the honest teamster +and his three sons were seen skirmishing down the street in hot +pursuit. Mr. Dresseldorf groaned as the animal was cornered, and his +picture of peaceful solitude fled. + +“Whoa! Don’t throw at him! Whoa now!” “Head him off, dad!” “Git down +the road furder, Bill!” “Whoa, whoa, now!” “Hee haw! hee haw! hee haw!” +“Hold on, Tom!” “Hurry up!” “Look out for his heels!” “Now ketch him!” +Chorus, “Whoa! Whoa! whoa!” “Hee haw, hee haw, hee haw!” “Whoop!” +“Hi!” “Whoop-pee!” “Dog gone the diddledy dog gone mule to thunder!” + +Mr. Dresseldorf groaned as the cavalcade went storming and crashing and +hallooing down the street. “Thank heaven they’re gone,” he said. + +“Sook-kee! sook-kee! sook-kee!” + +It sounded like a calliope, only it was too far from the river; but it +brought the man of peace to his feet all the same. + +“Sook-kee! sook-kee! Suke! suke! seuke!” + +It was Mr. Blodgers calling his cow, and as he emphasized the summons +by pounding on the bottom of a tin pail with the leg of a milking +stool, Mr. Dresseldorf moaned and buried his nervous hands in his hair +and tried to pull the top of his head off. While Mr. Blodgers was +yelling and pounding, however, a hurricane came tearing up the road--a +whirlwind of dust and whoops and paint-brush tails and horns and +sticks--and from this awful confusion shot forth yells and brays and +bawls and the discordant clangor of a cow bell. Mr. Blodgers ran out +into the road, while Mr. Dresseldorf fell on his knees and crammed his +fingers in his ears. + +“What’n thunder’s chasin’ that keow, I’d like to know?” queried Mr. +Blodgers; then, raising his voice, “Hey! Hi! I say! Whoop!” And he +was tossed over Mr. Dresseldorf’s fence into a garden urn, and the +hurricane passed on up the street, leaving Mr. Blodgers howling like a +dervish, and beseeching the demoralized Dresseldorf to bring him some +arnica and whisky. The wretched man rose to minister to the sufferings +of his neighbor, and got the two needful medicines; but just as he came +out of the house the programme changed again. Mr. Sturvesant’s dog, +keeping an eye upon the entire neighborhood, had met the whirlwind +above mentioned up at the next corner, and had promptly turned it +back. This unexpected retrograde movement placed Mr. Whackem, the +three Masters Whackem, and a small mob of juvenile volunteers who had +been picked up at one point of the chase and another to help catch +the mule, directly in the path of the charging mule and Mr. Blodgers’ +cow. An immediate adjournment was at once moved and carried, and the +entire community lit out for the nearest place of refuge; but Mr. +Sturvesant’s dog kept up the chase with such vigor that the whole +vociferous, yelling, braying, bawling, barking mass came bulging +through Dresseldorf’s front fence, upsetting the owner of the property +and carrying him and Mr. Blodgers out into the alley, where the mass +fell apart, the animals running to their respective stables, and the +“human warious” seeking their homes as soon as they found each other. +Mr. Dresseldorf advertised his place for sale the next morning. He is +fond of the quiet life of a suburban residence, he says, but it is a +little too far from business. + + + + +A BURLINGTON ADDER. + + +Burlington rejoices in a mathematical prodigy. Indeed it is a perfect +wonder, and our educational men and teachers used to find a great deal +of instruction and some pleasure in interviewing the child, a bright +boy of nine years. His name is Alfred J. Talbot, and his parents live +at No. 1223 North Main Street. The boy’s health is rather delicate, so +that he has not been sent to school a great deal; but he can perform +arithmetical feats that remind one of the stories told about Zerah +Colburn. He was always bright, and possesses a remarkable memory. In +company with two or three members of the school board, we went to the +home of the prodigy for an interview. He was marvelously ready with +answers to every question. Our easy starters, such as, “Add 6 and +3, and 7 and 8, and 2 and 9 and 5,” were answered like a flash, and +correctly every time. Then when we got the little fellow at his ease +one of the Directors took him in hand. He said: + +“Three times 11, plus 9, minus 17, divided by 3, plus 1, multiplied by +3, less 3, add 7, is how many?” + +“Nine,” shouted the boy, almost before the last word was spoken; and +the School Inspectors and the newspaper man looked at each other in +blank amazement. Then the other Inspector tried it: + +“Multiply 5 by 13, add 19, subtract 39, divide by 2, add 7, multiply by +9, add 15, divide by 7, add 8, multiply by 3, less 13, add 9, multiply +by 7, divide by 9, add 13, divide by 11--how many?” + +[Illustration: A BURLINGTON ADDER.] + +“Ninety-six!” fairly yelled the delighted boy, clapping his hands +with merriment at the amazement which crowned the countenances of his +interviewers, and the Inspectors turned to the paper man and said, +“Take him, Mr. _Hawkeye_.” + +Then we did our best to throw the boy. As fast as we could speak, and +without punctuation, we rattled off this: + +“Add 24 to 17½ multiply by 9½ divide by ½ add 33 per cent. +multiply by 16 extract square root add 9 divide by ⅗ of ⅞ add 119 +divide by 77½ times 44¾ square the quotient and multiply by +17⅔ add 77 and divide by 33 how ma----” + +But before we could say the last syllable the boy fairly screamed, + +“127⅞! Ask me a hard one!” + +We had seen enough, and with feelings amounting almost to awe we left +this wonderful boy. We talked about his marvelous powers all the way +down. Finally it happened to occur to one of the Inspectors to ask the +other Inspector, + +“Did you follow my example through to notice whether the boy answered +it correctly?” + +The tone of amazement gradually passed away from the Inspector’s face, +as he faintly gasped, + +“N-n-no, not exactly, did you?” + +Then the first Inspector ceased to look mystified and began to look +very much like Mr. Skinner did when he got the Nebraska fruit, and they +both turned to the gentleman who represented the literary department of +the expedition and said lugubriously, + +“Did you?” + +But he only said: + +“The Burlington and Northwestern narrow-gauge railroad will be owned, +not by eastern capitalists, but by the people through whose country it +passes.” + + + + +MISAPPLIED SCIENCE. + + +It was only a few years ago the New York _Journal of Information_ +published the statement that a man in New Hampshire, who had been +unable to speak for five years, went to sleep, one night, with a quid +of tobacco in his mouth, and awoke the next morning with his voice +perfectly strong and smooth and steady. Old Mr. Jarvis, who lives +out on Vine Street, is sorely afflicted with an impediment in his +speech, and often says he would give a hundred dollars if he could +only “t-t-t-t-taw-taw-talk f-f-f-f-fast enough t-t-to t-t-tell a +gug-gug-gug-grocer what he w-w-wants bub-bub-bub-before he gug-gug-gets +it measured out.” He takes the _Journal_, and had taken it for +twenty-three years, and he firmly believed every thing he ever read in +it; Sylvanus Cobb’s stories, Mr. Parton’s Lives of Eminent Americans, +the answers to correspondents--Mr. Jarvis had taken them all in and +believed every word. He thought that probably this quid-of-tobacco +treatment might help his voice a little, and he resolved to give it +a good trial any how. The first trouble was that he didn’t chew, and +Mrs. Jarvis would never allow a bit of tobacco about the house. But +he begged a big “chaw” of navy, and when he went to bed he tucked it +snugly away in his cheek, and prepared to sleep in hope. He had his +misgivings, and they grew in number and strength as the quid began +to assert itself, and be sociable, and assimilate itself with its +surroundings. Mrs. Jarvis asked him if he fastened the front gate. + +“Um,” said Mr. Jarvis, meaning that he had. + +“And are you sure you locked the front door?” queried his restless +spouse. + +“Um,” replied Mr. Jarvis, meaning that he had not, for he was by this +time in no condition to open his mouth. + +“Hey?” she replied. + +“Um,” persisted Mr. Jarvis. + +“What?” she demanded. + +“Um-m-m!” protested Mr. Jarvis. + +“Well,” said she, “you can’t make me believe you are that near asleep +this soon.” + +“Um-m-m!” said Mr. Jarvis; meaning that he would get up and bounce her +out of that front door if she didn’t hold her clack. + +Presently she sat up in bed. Sniff, sniff! “John Jarvis,” she +exclaimed, “if I don’t smell tobacco in this house, I’m a sinful woman. +Don’t you smell it?” + +“’M,” replied Mr. Jarvis; which by interpretation is, that he didn’t +smell any thing and was going to sleep. + +“It’s in this very room,” she persisted, excitedly. + +“Um,” said Mr. Jarvis, meaning that she must be crazy. + +“It’s under the bed!” she screamed. “There’s a burglar under the bed! +Oh, help! fire! police! John Jarvis!!!” And she smote Mr. Jarvis a +furious pelt in the stomach to waken him up. + +It was a terrific thump, and its first effect was to knock all the +atmosphere out of Mr. Jarvis’s lungs so far that he could only recover +his breath by a violent gasp, which first carried the quid of tobacco +and all the nicotine preparation that it had been steadily distilling +down his throat, and was immediately succeeded by a tremendous cough, +as he struggled to rise up in bed, which shot the quid squarely into +the eye of the shrieking Mrs. Jarvis. + +“Murder! murder!” she screamed, “I’m stabbed! I’m stabbed!” + +And John Jarvis choked and coughed and spit and coughed and choked and +clutched Mrs. Jarvis by the throat and tried to choke off her noise, +but he grew so “ill” that he couldn’t hold his grip, and Mrs. Jarvis, +the moment her throat was released from his trembling pressure, rose +from the half-strangled gurgles to the sublimity of double-edged +screams, and made Rome howl with melody. And the neighbors broke into +the house and found a bedroom that looked and smelled like a jury-room +or a street car, with the sickest man they ever saw lying with his head +over the side of the bed, groaning at the rate of a mile a minute, +and the worst frightened woman since the flood sitting up beside him, +screaming faster than he groaned, while one of her eyes was plastered +up with a black quid of tobacco. And that is the way Mr. Jarvis came to +stop his _Journal_. He denounces it as the most infamous, mendacious, +pestilent sheet that ever disgraced American journalism. + + + + +WIDE AWAKE. + + +One day Mr. Bellamy, of Pond Street, read in a religious paper the +following paragraph: + + Many very good people are annoyed by sleepiness in church. The + following remedy is recommended: Lift the foot seven inches from the + floor, and hold it in suspense without support for the limb, and + repeat the remedy if the attack returns. + +Now, Mr. Bellamy is a very good man, and he is subject to that very +annoyance, which in his case amounts to a positive affliction. So he +cut that paragraph out, in accordance with the appended instruction, +and pasted it in his hat, and was rejoiced in his inmost soul to think +that he had found a relief from his annoyance. He hoped that Deacon +Ashbury, who had frowned at him so often and so dreadfully for nodding, +hadn’t seen the paragraph, for the deacon sometimes slept under the +preached word, and Mr. Bellamy wanted to get even with him. And Mr. +Driscoll, who used to sit in the choir, and cover his own sleepiness +and divert attention from his own heavy eyes by laughing in a most +irreverent and indecorous manner at Mr. Bellamy’s sleepy visage and +struggling eyes and head--how the good man did want to get it on +Driscoll. So he chuckled and hugged his treasure, so to speak, in his +mind. He was so confident that he had found the panacea for his trouble +that he went to the minister and told him what a burden his drowsiness +had been to him, but that he had made up his mind now to shake it +off, and to continue to keep it off, and he was certain that he had +sufficient strength of mind and force of will to overcome the habit. +And the minister was so pleased, and commended Mr. Bellamy so warmly, +and said so earnestly that he wished he had one hundred such men in his +congregation, that Mr. Bellamy was so elated and happy and confident +that he could hardly wait for Sunday to come to try his new method of +averting drowsiness. + +Sunday came, however, and soon enough too, for it was Saturday +afternoon plumb, chick, chock full of men with bills, over-due notes, +trifling accounts, little balances, pay-roll, rent, narrow-gauge +subscription, political assessments and one little thing and another, +almost before Mr. Bellamy knew it, although it hadn’t been there half +an hour before he had some suspicion of it, and was soon very confident +of it. Sunday morning found the good man in his accustomed place, +devout and drowsy as ever. The church was very comfortably filled with +an attentive congregation, and Mr. Bellamy was soon cornered up in +one end of the pew, and the strange young lady who sat next him was +attended by a very small white dog, that looked like a roll of cotton +batting with red eyes and a black nose. The opening exercises passed +off without incident, but the minister hadn’t got to secondly when Mr. +Bellamy suddenly roused himself with a start from a doze into which he +was dropping. His heart fairly stood still as he thought how nearly he +had forgotten his recipe. He feared to attract any attention to himself +lest his precious method should be discovered, and slowly lifted his +left foot from the foot stool and held it about seven inches in the +air. As he raised his foot the strange young lady shrunk away from him +in evident alarm. This annoyed Mr. Bellamy and disconcerted him so that +he was on the point of lowering his foot and whispering an explanation +when the dog, which had been quietly sleeping by the footstool opened +its eyes, and seeing the uplifted foot slowly descending in its +direction, hastily scrambled to its feet and backed away, barking and +yelping terrifically. The young lady, now thoroughly alarmed, jerked +her feet from off the footstool, which immediately flew up under the +weight of Mr. Bellamy’s other foot, and the dog, excited by this +additional catastrophe, fairly barked itself into convulsions. Deacon +Ashbury, awakened by the racket, came tiptoeing and frowning down the +aisle, bending his shaggy brows upon Mr. Bellamy, who actually believed +that if he got much hotter he would break out in flames, that not even +the beaded perspiration that was standing out on his scarlet face, +could extinguish. The young lady rose to leave the pew, Mr. Bellamy +rose to explain, and as he did so, she was quite convinced of what +she had before been suspicious, that he was crazy. She backed out of +the pew and sought Deacon Ashbury’s protection. Mr. Bellamy attempted +to whisper an explanation to the deacon, but that austere official +motioned him back into his seat, and as the minister paused until the +interruption should cease, said in a severe undertone that was heard +all over the church. + +“You’ve been dreaming again, Brother Bellamy.” + +Mr. Bellamy sank into his seat, quite covered with confusion as with +a couple of garments and a bed quilt, and his distress was greatly +aggravated when he looked up into the choir and saw Driscoll, convulsed +with merriment, stuffing his handkerchief into his mouth, and shaking +with suppressed laughter. + +After service Mr. Bellamy, who was, all through the service, the center +of attraction for the entire congregation, waited for his pastor, and +made one more effort to explain his unfortunate escapade. But the +minister, whose sermon had been quite spoiled by the affair, waved him +to silence and said, quite coldly: + +“Never mind, Brother Bellamy; don’t apologize; you meant very well, I +dare say, but if you make so much disturbance when you are awake, I +believe I would prefer to have you sleep quietly through every sermon I +preach.” + +Mr. Bellamy has since stopped his church paper, and transferred his +subscription to the _Hawkeye_, saying that if he could just find the +wretch who set stumbling blocks and snares in the columns of the +religious press for the feet of weak believers, he could die happy. + + + + +THE ARTLESS PRATTLE OF CHILDHOOD. + + +We always did pity a man who does not love children. There is something +morally wrong with such a man. If his tenderest sympathies are not +awakened by their innocent prattle, if his heart does not echo their +merry laughter, if his whole nature does not reach out in ardent +longings after their pure thoughts and unselfish impulses, he is a +sour, crusty, crabbed old stick, and the world full of children has no +use for him. In every age and clime, the best and noblest men loved +children. Even wicked men have a tender spot left in their hardened +hearts for little children. The great men of the earth love them. Dogs +love them. Kamehamekemokimodahroah, the King of the Cannibal islands, +loves them. Rare, and no gravy. Ah yes, we all love children. + +And what a pleasure it is to talk with them. Who can chatter with +a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, quick-witted little darling, anywhere +from three to five years, and not appreciate the pride which swells a +mother’s breast, when she sees her little ones admired. Ah, yes, to be +sure. + +One day, ah can we ever cease to remember that dreamy, idle, Summer +afternoon--a lady friend who was down in the city on a shopping +excursion, came into the sanctum with her little son, a dear little +tid-toddler of five bright Summers, and begged us to amuse him while +she pursued the duties which called her down town. Such a bright boy; +so delightful it was to talk to him. We can never forget the blissful +half hour we spent booking that prodigy up in his centennial history. + +“Now listen, Clary,” we said--his name is Clarence Fitzherbert Alencon +de Marchemont Caruthers--“and learn about George Washington.” + +“Who’s he?” inquired Clarence, etc. + +“Listen,” we said, “he was the father of his country.” + +“Whose country?” + +“Ours; yours and mine; the confederated union of the American people, +cemented with the life blood of the men of ’76, poured out upon the +altars of our country as the dearest libation to liberty that her +votaries can offer.” + +“Who did?” asked Clarence. + +There is a peculiar tact in talking to children that very few people +possess. Now most people would have grown impatient and lost their +temper when little Clarence asked so many irrelevant questions, but we +did not. We knew that, however careless he might appear at first, we +could soon interest him in the story and he would be all eyes and ears. +So we smiled sweetly,--that same sweet smile which you may have noticed +on our photographs, just the faintest ripple of a smile breaking across +the face like a ray of sunlight, and checked by lines of tender +sadness, just before the two ends of it pass each other at the back of +the neck. + +And so, smiling, we went on, + +“Well, one day George’s father----” + +“George who?” asked Clarence. + +“George Washington. He was a little boy then, just like you. One day +his father----” + +“Whose father?” demanded Clarence, with an encouraging expression of +interest. + +“George Washington’s, this great man we were telling you of. One day +George Washington’s father gave him a little hatchet for a----” + +“Gave who a little hatchet?” the dear child interrupted with a gleam +of bewitching intelligence. Most men would have betrayed signs of +impatience, but we didn’t. We know how to talk to children. So we went +on: + +“George Washington. His----” + +“Who give him the little hatchet?” + +“His father. And his father----” + +“Whose father?” + +“George Washington’s.” + +“Oh!” + +“Yes, George Washington. And his father told him----” + +“Told who?” + +“Told George.” + +“Oh, yes, George.” + +And we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as you could imagine. +We took up the story right where the boy interrupted, for we could see +that he was just crazy to hear the end of it. We said: + +“And he told him that----” + +“Who told him what?” Clarence broke in. + +“Why, George’s father told George.” + +“What did he tell him?” + +“Why, that’s just what I am going to tell you. He told him----” + +“Who told him?” + +“George’s father. He----” + +“What for?” + +“Why, so he wouldn’t do what he told him not to do. He told him----” + +“George told him?” queried Clarence. + +“No, his father told George----” + +“Oh!” + +“Yes; told him that he must be careful with the hatchet----” + +“Who must be careful?” + +“George must.” + +“Oh!” + +“Yes; must be careful with the hatchet----” + +“What hatchet?” + +“Why, George’s.” + +“Oh!” + +“Yes; with the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop it in the +cistern, or leave it out in the grass all night. So George went round +cutting every thing he could reach with his hatchet. And at last he +came to a splendid apple tree, his father’s favorite, and cut it down, +and----” + +“Who cut it down?” + +“George did.” + +“Oh!” + +“----but his father came home and saw it the first thing, and----” + +“Saw the hatchet?” + +“No; saw the apple tree. And he said, ‘Who has cut down my favorite +apple tree?’” + +“What apple tree?” + +“George’s father’s. And everybody said they didn’t know any thing about +it, and----” + +“Any thing about what?” + +“The apple tree.” + +“Oh!” + +“----and George came up and heard them talking about it----” + +“Heard who talking about it?” + +“Heard his father and the men.” + +“What was they talking about?” + +“About this apple tree.” + +“What apple tree?” + +“The favorite apple tree that George cut down.” + +“George who?” + +“George Washington.” + +“Oh!” + +“So George came up and heard them talking about it, and he----” + +“What did he cut it down for?” + +“Just to try his little hatchet.” + +“Whose little hatchet?” + +“Why, his own, the one his father gave him.” + +“Gave who?” + +“Why, George Washington.” + +“Who gave it to him?” + +“His father did.” + +“Oh!” + +“So George came up and he said, ‘Father, I can not tell a lie, I----’” + +“Who couldn’t tell a lie?” + +“Why, George Washington. He said, ‘Father, I can not tell a lie. It +was----’” + +“His father couldn’t?” + +“Why no, George couldn’t.” + +“Oh, George? oh, yes.” + +“----It was I cut down your apple tree; I did----” + +“His father did?” + +“No, no; it was George said this.” + +“Said he cut his father?” + +“No, no, no; said he cut down his apple tree.” + +“George’s apple tree?” + +“No, no; his father’s.” + +“Oh!” + +“He said----” + +“His father said?” + +“No, no, no; George said, ‘Father, I can not tell a lie. I did it with +my little hatchet.’ And his father said, ‘Noble boy, I would rather +lose a thousand trees than have you tell a lie.’” + +“George did?” + +“No, his father said that.” + +“Said he’d rather have a thousand apple trees?” + +“No, no, no; said he’d rather lose a thousand apple trees than----” + +“Said he’d rather George would?” + +“No, said he’d rather he would than have him lie.” + +“Oh! George would rather have his father lie?” + +We are patient, and we love children, but if Mrs. Caruthers, of Arch +Street, hadn’t come and got her prodigy at that critical juncture, we +don’t believe all Burlington could have pulled us out of that snarl. +And as Clarence Fitzherbert Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers pattered +down the stairs, we heard him telling his ma about a boy who had a +father named George, and he told him to cut down an apple tree, and he +said he’d rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one apple tree. + + + + +SPRING DAYS IN BURLINGTON. + + + Down where the wake-robin springs from its slumbers, + Opening its cardinal eye to the sun; + Come the dull echoes of far away thunders + Heavy and fast as the shots of a gun. + Up on the hill where the wild flowers nestle, + Like new fallen stars on the green mossy strand; + There come the dead notes of the house-cleaning pestle-- + The sound of the carpet is heard in the land. + + Up! for the song birds their matins are singing; + Up, for the morning is tinting the skies; + Up, for the good wife the clothes-prop is bringing + Out to the line where the hall carpet flies. + Up, and away! for the carpet is dusty! + Fly, for the house-cleaning days have begun! + Run! for the womanly temper is crusty; + Up and be doing, lest ye be undone! + + Late, late; too late. Just one moment of snoring. + He wakes to the sound of the tumult below. + O’er the beating of carpets he hears a voice roaring, + “Breakfast was over three hours ago!” + See, he is plunged in the front of the battle; + Where dust is the thickest they tell him to stand; + Where suds, mops and scrub-brushes spatter and rattle, + And the sound of the carpet is heard in the land. + +[Illustration: “HAWKEYE” SANCTUM.] + + + + +LIFE IN THE “HAWKEYE” SANCTUM. + + +The _Hawkeye_ has just got into its new editorial rooms, and it is +proud to say it has the finest, most comfortable, complete, and +convenient editorial rooms in America. They are finished off with a +little invention which will be of untold value to the profession of +journalism when it is generally adopted; and we know that it will +rapidly come into universal use as soon as its merits are understood +and appreciated. We believe it is fully equal, in all that the term +implies, to the famous Bogardess Kicker, less liable to get out of +order, and less easily detected by casual visitors. It is known as +“Middlerib’s Automatic Welcome.” The sanctum is on the same floor as +the news-room, being separated from it by a partition, in which is +cut a large window, easily opened by an automatic arrangement. The +editor’s table is placed in front of that window, and near the head +of the stairs; and on the side of the table next the window, directly +opposite the editor, the visitor’s chair is placed. It has an inviting +look about it, and its entire appearance is guileless and commonplace. +But the strip of floor on which that chair rests is a deception and a +fraud. It is an endless chain, like the floor of a horse-power, and is +operated at will by the editor, who has merely to touch a spring in +the floor to set it in motion. Its operation can best be understood by +personal inspection. + +One morning, soon after the “Middlerib Welcome” had been placed +in position, Mr. Bostwick came in with a funny story to tell. He +naturally flopped down into the chair that had the strongest appearance +of belonging to some one else, and began in his usual happy vein: +“I’ve got the richest thing--oh! ah, ha, ha!--the best thing--oh, by +George! I can’t--oh, ha, ha, ha! Oh! it’s too _good_! Oh, by George, +the richest thing! Oh! it’s _too_ loud! You must never tell where you +got--oh, by George, I can’t do it! It’s _too_ good! You know--oh, ha, +ha, ha, oh, he, he, he! You know the--oh, by George, I ca--” Here the +editor touched the spring, a nail-grab under the bottom of the chair +reached swiftly up and caught Mr. Bostwick by the cushion of his pants, +the window flew up, and the noiseless belt of floor gliding on its +course bore the astonished Mr. Bostwick through the window out into the +news-room, half-way down to the cases, where he was received with great +applause by the delighted compositors. The window had slammed down as +soon as he passed through; and when the editorial foot was withdrawn +from the spring and the chair stopped and the nail-grab assumed its +accustomed place, young Mr. Bostwick found himself so kind of out of +the sanctum, like it might be, that he went slowly and dejectedly down +the stairs, as it were, while amazement sat upon his brow, like. + +The next casual visitor was Mr. J. Alexis Flaxeter, the critic. He had +a copy of the _Hawkeye_ in his hand, with all the typographical errors +marked in red ink, and his face was so wreathed in smiles that it was +impossible to tell where his mouth ended and his eyes began. He took +the vacant chair, and spread the paper out before him, covering up the +editorial manuscript. “My keen vision and delicate sense of accuracy,” +he said, “are the greatest crosses of my life. Things that you never +see are mountains in my sight. Now here, you see, is a----” The spring +clicked softly, like an echo to the impatient movement of the editor’s +foot, the nail-grab took hold like a bulldog helping a Burlington +troubadour over the garden fence, the chair shot back through the +window like a meteor, and the window came down with a slam that sounded +like a wooden giant getting off the shortest bit of profanity known +to man; and all was silent again. Mr. Flaxeter sat very close to the +frosted window, staring blankly at the clouded glass, seeing nothing +that could offer any explanation of what he would have firmly believed +was a land slide, had he not heard the editor, safe in his guarded den, +softly whistling, “We shall meet but we shall miss him.” + +Then there was a brief interval of quiet in the sanctum, and a +rustling of raiment was heard on the stairs. A lovely woman entered, +and stood unawed in the editorial presence. The E. P., on its part, +was rather nervous and uncomfortable. The lovely woman seated herself +in the fatal chair. She slapped her little gripsack on the table, +and opened her little subscription book. She said: “I am soliciting +cash contributions--strictly, exclusively, and peremptorily cash +contributions--to pay off the church debt, and buy an organ for the +Mission Church of the Forlorn Strangers, and I expect----.” There are +times when occasion demands great effort. The editor bowed his head, +and, after one brief spasm of remorse, felt for the secret spring. The +window went up like a charm; the reckless nail-grab hung back for a +second, as if held by a feeling of innate delicacy, and then it shut +its eyes and smothered its pity, and reached up and took a death-like +hold on a roll of able and influential newspapers and a network of +string and tape, and the cavalcade backed out into the news-room with +colors flying. The chair stopped just before the familiar spirit who +was washing the forms; and, as the lovely woman gazed at the inky face, +she shrieked: “Merciful heavens, where, where am I?” and was borne down +the gloomy stairway unconscious; while the printers whose cases were +nearest the wicked window heard the editor singing, as it might be to +himself, “Dearest sister, thou hast left us.” + +An hour of serenity and tranquillity in the editorial room was +broken by a brisk, business-like step on the stairs; the door flew +open with a bang that shot the key half-way across the room, and a +sociable-looking, familiar kind of a stranger jammed into the chair, +slapped his hat over the ink-stand, pushed a pile of proof, twenty +pages of copy, a box of pens, the paste-cup, and a pair of scissors off +the table to make room for the old familiar flat sample case, and said, +in one brief breath: “I am agent for Gamberton’s Popular Centennial +World’s History and American Citizens’ Treasure Book of Valuable +Information sold only by subscription and issued in thirty parts each +number embellished with one handsome steel-plate engraving and numerous +beautifully executed wood-cuts no similar work has ever been published +in this country and at the exceedingly low price at which it is offered +$2 per vol----.” + +The spring clicked like a pistol-shot, the window went up half-way +through the ceiling, the nail-grab took hold like a three-barreled +harpoon, and the column moved on its backward way through the window, +down through the news-room past the foreman, standing grim and silent, +by the imposing stone, past the cases, vocal with the applause and +encouraging and consolatory remarks of the compositors, on to the alley +windows, over the sills--howling, yelling, shrieking, praying, the +unhappy agent was hurled to the cruel pavement, three stories below, +where he lit on his head and plunged through into a cellar, where he +tried to get a subscription out of a man who was shoveling coal. + + + + +THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. + + +It was a Mt. Pleasant girl. No other human divinity could play such a +heartless trick on an admiring, nay, an adoring and adorable, young +man. He always praised the flowers she wore, and talked so learnedly +about flowers in general, that this incredulous young angel “put up +a job” on him--if one may be so sacrilegious as to write slang in +connection with so much beauty and grace. She filled the bay window +with freshly potted weeds which she had laboriously gathered from the +sidewalk and in the hollow under the bridge, and when he came round +that evening she led the conversation to flowers, and her admirer to +the bay window. “Such lovely plants she had,” she told him, and he just +clasped his hands and looked around him in silly ecstasy, trying to +think of their names. + +“That is _Patagonia influenses_, Mr. Bogundus,” she said, pointing to +the miserable cheat of a young rag-weed; “did you ever see any thing so +delicate?” + +“Oh!” he ejaculated, regarding it reverentially; “beautiful, beautiful; +what delicately serrated leaves!” + +“And,” she went on, with a face as angelic as though she was only +saying “Now I lay me down to sleep,” “it breaks out in the Summer in +such curious green blossoms, clinging to long, slender stems. Only +think of that--green blossoms.” And she gazed pensively on the young +man as though she saw something green that probably never would blossom. + +“Wonderful, wonderful indeed,” he said, “one can never tire of botany. +It continually opens to us new worlds of wonders with every awakening +flower and unfolded leaf.” + +“And here,” she said, indicating with her snowy finger a villainous +sprout of that little bur the boys call “beggar’s lice,” “this +_Mendicantis parasitatis_, what----” + +“Oh!” he exclaimed, rapturously, “where did you get it? Why, do you +know how rare it is? I have not seen one in Burlington since Mrs. +O’Gheminie went to Chicago. She had such beautiful species of them; +such a charming variety. She used to wear them in her hair so often.” + +“No doubt,” the angel said dryly; and the young man feared he had done +wrong in praising Mrs. O’Gheminie’s plants so highly. But the dear one +went on, and pointing to a young jimson weed, said: + +“This is my pet, this _Jimsonata filiofensis_.” + +The young man gasped with the pleasure of a true lover of flowers, as +he bent over it in admiration and inhaled its nauseous odor. Then he +rose up and said: + +“This plant has some medicinal properties.” + +“Ah!” she said. + +“Yes,” he replied, stiffly, “it has. I have smelt that plant in my +boyhood days. Wilted on the kitchen stove, then bruised and applied to +the eruption, the leaves are excellent remedial agents for the poison +of the ivy.” He strode past the smiling company that gathered in the +parlor, and said sternly, “We meet no more!” and, seizing her father’s +best hat from the rack, he extinguished himself in it, and went banging +along the line of tree-boxes which lined his darkened way. + + + + +SPRING TIME IN AMERICA. + + + Dear, faded, flowers, they bloom again, + Like echoes of the spring time gone; + And mossy hillside, shadowy glen, + Break out in beauty like the dawn. + In regal beauty, leaf and bud + Bend ’neath the kisses of the breeze, + And “Spanish Mixture for the Blood” + Smiles from the fences, rocks and trees. + + Dear, smiling Spring, what tender hope + Breathes from the life-awakening soil; + How “Bolus’ Anti-bilious Dope,” + And “Dr. Gastric’s Castor Oil” + Bid frightened nature wake and smile; + For spring time’s blossoms fill us less + With thoughts of pansies than with vile + “Panaceas” for “Biliousness.” + + If to the wooded nook we stray, + Where every swelling germ is huge + With life; each gray-browed rock will say, + “Use Philogaster’s Vermifuge.” + If from these sylvan bowers we fly, + We fly, alas, to other ills; + And farm-yard gates and barn-doors cry, + “Take Ginsengrooter’s Liver Pills.” + + Each blue-eyed violet hides a “Pill,” + There’s scent of “Rhubarb” in the air; + “Rheumatic Plasters” line each hill, + And “Bitters” blossom everywhere. + With “Ague Cures” the eyes are seared; + The air is thick, or thin, I meant, + For Nature’s face and clothes are smeared + With “Universal Liniment.” + + + + +WOODLAND MUSIC AND POETRY. + + +But Mr. Middlerib’s greatest delight, escaping from his daily wrangle +with phlegmatic Peorians, was to seek some cool, sequestered spot, +where the air was vocal with the song of birds, there to read, and +ponder, and doze, and blend with the melody of the woodland warblers +wrathful objurgations of the gnats, and flies, and mosquitoes, and +hard-backed bugs that nobody knew the names of. But his poetical nature +rose above all these minor distractions, and he enjoyed his seclusion +and its sylvan delights. One lovely morning he sat in a vine-embowered +porch, with four cages of canaries hanging above his head, and the +trees around fairly alive with the wild birds, and as he listened to +the varied, melodious passages of the wild-wood orchestra, he grew +enraptured, and in a moment of enthusiasm gave himself up to poetry for +Mrs. M.’s benefit. He opened the book in his hand, and in a lull of the +music he began: + + “A cloud lay cradled near the set----” + +“Tweetle, tweetle, twee twee tweedle dee tweet tweet!” broke in +ear-piercing chorus from the four cages, “twee, twee, tweedle de +deedle, twee twee!” + +“What a delightful interruption,” said Mr. Middlerib, sweetly; and, +with a tender smile wrinkling his placid face, like the upper crust of +a green apple pie, he waited for the music to cease, and resumed: + + “A cloud lay cra----” + +“Twee, twee, twee-ee-ee, tweedle, tweedle, tweedle! Tweet-te-deet-deet, +tweet tweet! Tweedle-de-deedle, tweetle, tweetle tweet tweet!” + +“A poem without words,” said Mr. Middlerib, softly, glancing from his +book toward the cages wherein eight yellow throats were manufacturing +music of the shrillest key that ever developed an ear-ache or woke up a +deaf and dumb asylum. Presently he got another chance, and resumed once +more: + + “A cloud lay cradled near the set----” + +“To-whoot! To-whoot! Whootle-te-toot-toot!” came from a bird in the +nearest hickory, a solemn-looking bird with a brown back and a voice +like a wooden whistle. Mr. Middlerib paused and glanced toward the +tree, while the benign smile which made his face look like a damaged +photograph of one of the early Christian martyrs, faded away like a +summer twilight. He resumed: + + “A cloud lay cra----” + +“Too-toot too doodle toot-te-doot! Wheetle de deetle, tweet tweet +tweetle tweet, twee twee whoot de doot too too, chippity-wippity, +cheep-cheep-cheep, whoot, squack squack!” went off the whole chorus, +cages and trees, supplemented by a visiting party of cat-birds, all +aroused into indignant and jealous protest by the obtrusive solo +of the wooden-whistle bird, who appeared to be an object of general +dislike. Mr. Middlerib, thinking he would read down opposition, went +right on: + + “----dled near the setting sun, + A gleam of crim----” + +“K-r-r-r-r-r-r!” + +A woodpecker tapped his merry roundelay on the roof of the porch, +and Mrs. Middlerib sprang from her chair with, “Mercy on us! what is +that?” Mr. Middlerib made a cutting remark about people who had no +appreciation of the beautiful in nature or art, and remarked: + + “A gleam of crimson tinged its----” + +“Twee-ee, twee, deedle-eedle-odle twiddle twoddle, twoot, too too +tweedle oot! Teedle idle eedle odle, twee twee, twee! Pe weet, pe weet! +Whootle ootle tootle too, squack squack!” + +Mr. Middlerib elevated his voice to about ninety degrees in the shade, +and roared: + + “----tinged its braided snow, + Long had I wat----” + +“Caw, caw, caw! Ca-a-a-aw!” came from the pensive crow, startled from +its quiet retreat in the old dead cottonwood, and Miss Middlerib +giggled. But Mr. M. inflated his lungs and roared on: + + “----ched the glory moving on, + O’er the still radiance----” + +“Tweetle de twootle, caw, caw, tweetle doodle tweet tweet! +K-r-r-r-r-r-r, krk, krk! twee deedle eet tweet! teedle idle, whoot, +toot, twoot! who! squack, squack, k-r-r-r----” + +“Shut up, ye nasty, squawking, yallipin’, howlin’ little beasts! Shoo! +Light out o’ this or I’ll stone ye from here to Halifax! Scat with yer +noise! Oh!” exclaimed the exasperated worshiper of nature as he hurled +his book into the nearest tree and went off the porch to look for some +stones, “If there is any thing in this world I hate more than another, +it’s a lot of nasty, flittering, fidgety, yowping, howling birds! Ugh!” +And he threw his shoulder nearly out of joint, and sprained his arm, +in a herculean but futile effort to hit a black bird a mile and a half +away, with a rock as big as a straw hat. He has dropped the sulphur +baths for the present and taken to arnica. + + + + +BUYING A TIN CUP. + + +The town was dozing in the drowsy sunlight of a dull August afternoon, +when a dejected looking man, with the appearance of one who was making +desperate efforts to appear unconcerned, stepped into a prominent and +fashionable dry goods establishment up on Jefferson Street. Scorning +the proffered stool, he braced himself firmly against the counter, and +looking the polite and attentive clerk fixedly in the eye, broke the +impressive silence by abruptly demanding: + +“Gimme tinkup!” + +“We do not keep them, sir,” smilingly replied the affable clerk, and +the glare of suspicion with which that man regarded him was sufficient +to chill the blood of a snake. + +“Donkeep tinkups?” he asked, quickly and distrustfully. + +“No, sir,” replied the clerk, “we have no tin cups. This is a dry goods +store. You will find the tin store farther up the street.” + +“Few donkeep notinkups--watchkeep?” demanded the man, imperiously. + +“We have grenadines, calicos, bareges, gros grain ribbons, tarletan, +velvets, moire antique, empress cloth, pongee and Japanese silks----” + +“Shut her off!” ejaculated the man, “Puttit tup! Puttit tup!” + +He turned away with a dignified gesture, and walked away with stately, +though uncertain strides, and dived into the Plunder store, where he +startled the proprietor by the same urgent demand for the “tinkup,” +and he was finally piloted into Kaut & Kriechbaum’s, where he bought +his “tinkup,” which he fell down on before he got to the Barret House +corner, mashing it flat as a pie pan. He was helped into his wagon, and +as he drove away the last the citizens saw of him he was holding the +flattened tin cup before him, exclaiming ruefully: + +“Devlofa--lookin--tinkupthatis!” + + + + +ONE OF THE LEGION. + + + A citizen of South Hill, + His visage bathed in tears, + His raiment streaked with rust and dust, + His mind distraught with fears, + Was leaning up by the shattered gate, + And his sad eyes gazed around + Where reckless ruin here and there + With fragments strewed the ground. + But a drayman stood beside him + To hear what he might say, + As he stretched him out his good right arm + And waited for his pay. + + The weeping mover faltered + As he saw the drayman’s hand, + And he said, “I haven’t a red, red cent + In all of this broad fair land. + I haven’t a clothes to my aching back + Save only these rags you see; + And all the furniture I have left + Won’t pay you half your fee. + There’s a leg of the table in the street, + And the lamp globes strew the stair, + And the stovepipe’s flattened out like a lath, + And the clock is not nowhere. + + “Tell my wife, if you can find her, + That when the job was done, + The furniture wasn’t half so good + As it was when we begun. + That the end of the bureau she’s looking for + Is down by the alley gate, + And the parlor mirror is bent so bad + She never can pound it straight. + We broke the legs of the kitchen stove, + And we smashed the Parian vase, + And the dray ran over her rocking chair + And ruined its stately grace. + + “Tell my sister, her darling new spring hat + Was packed in a bag of corn, + And I never again can look in her face + And meet her glance of scorn. + We spilled coal oil on her summer silk, + And we tore her cashmere sacque, + For her dressing bureau fell off the dray + And the horse kicked out its back. + + “There’s another, not a sister, + In happier days gone by, + You’d know her by the savage light + That glittered in her eye. + Too business-like for foolery, + Too sharp for my excuses-- + Ah me, I fear adversity + Has naught but bitter uses; + Tell her, the last time you saw me-- + For ere the clock strikes ten, + I’ll be at work on the ‘Third Degree,’ + The happiest of men; + Tell her I said that she could go + To the bow-wow wow-wow wows; + That I’d stay down town when lodge was out, + And sleep at a boarding-house + Tell her she needn’t sit up for me, + And she needn’t leave no light----” + And a voice came out of the hall and said, + “You don’t go to no Lodge to-night.” + + His voice was gone in a minute, + He gasped and tried to speak; + He tried to swear, but the drayman says + That he couldn’t raise a squeak. + + And his mother-in-law rose slowly, + And calmly she looked down + On the green grass of the littered yard, + With household treasures strewn. + Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene + She gazed, and looked around, + And said to the weeping man by the gate, + “Pick them things up off the ground.” + + + + +A TACITURN WITNESS. + + +An ordinary case of assault and battery was called in Judge +Stutsman’s court, and the prosecuting witness was duly sworn: Phelim +O’Shaughnessy, a little, weazen-faced man, with a stubbly beard all +over his jaws and a pair of bright eyes flanking the snubbiest of noses. + +“Now, then, Mr. O’Shaughnessy,” said the court, “tell what you know +about this matter in as few words as you possibly can.” + +“Faix, thin, yer anner, an’ I will do that same,” replied the witness, +with great volubility. “Av’ there is ony thing I do be despisin’ it’s +wan ov thim same whurrimurroo gabblers that niver know when they’re +through. When ye git troo pumpin, sez I, lave the handle; that’s me. +An’ ye niver see an O’Shaughnessy in the wor-r-ld, yer anner, that +wur a cackler. I mind me mither’s own uncle that ever was, Tim the +Croaker they used to be callin’ him, though his name was Timothy Mahone +O’Dubbleriggle Balbrigganainey, for be the token he niver wur known to +say more nor wan wor-rud at a time, yer anner, an’ that wan he said +with a grunt. There was wan day, whin he wur gamekeeper fur my lord +Donald McAlpin Clanargotty Callum O’Dowd, a Scotch gintleman that owned +a bit av a shootin’ box might be, in the north uv----” + +“Well, there, there, there,” interrupted the court, “that’s enough +about your ancestry; now tell what you know about this case of yours, +and stick to the point.” + +“The p’int, is it, avick?” replied the witness; “Musha, thin, it wur +fwhat I wur comin’ to, jist. It’s what I sez to Mrs. O’Shaughnessy +twinty times a day, an’ she’s the wor-r-rst talker between here an’ +Dublin bay. ‘Norah,’ sez I; ‘Is it you,’ sez she; ‘Faix thin, an’ who +else wud it be?’ sez I; ‘An’ phwat uv it?’ sez she; ‘Div ye mind me, +now?’ sez I; ‘Sorra the wan uv me does,’ sez she; ‘Wait thin, till +I tell ye,’ sez I; ‘Whisht, thin, go on with yer blarney,’ sez she; +‘Howld yer hush a minit, thin,’ sez I, ‘an’ let’s have a second av +quiet;’ ‘What!’ sez she, ‘wid ye in the house?’ ‘Listhen,’ sez I; +‘Whisper, thin,’ sez she; ‘Well, thin,’ sez I, ‘kape to the p’int. Av +yez will do nothin’ but talk from the peep o’ mor-r-rn till the lasht +wink uv night, kape till the p’int.’ Ah, yer anner, it’s the wan fur +talkin’, she is, is Norah. It isn’t an O’Shaughnessy she is, yer anner, +her father, rest his sowl, was ould Darby Muldoon, the solid man, an’ +he wur sint to Austhralia for twenty-sivin years panal sarvitude fur +talkin’ a thraveler to death whin he wur dhrivin’ him from----” + +“That will do,” interrupted the court, sternly; “we’ve heard enough +of your reminiscences. Now you tell what you know about this case, or +I’ll fine you for contempt. You have filed information against Morris +McHogadan for assaulting you with a paving hammer, in the back yard of +your own premises in Melrose Place, Happy Hollow, and knocking three +teeth down your throat, breaking one of your ribs, and chewing your ear +off. Now what have you got to say about it?” + +“Is it me, avick?” + +“Yes, you are the prosecuting witness; that is your own case, and you +filed the information on which the warrant was issued.” + +“An’ it says that Morris McHogadan bate me?” + +“It does, and it is sworn to.” + +“Oh, the divil an’ all; who shwore to that?” + +“You did.” + +“PHWAT?” + +“You swore to all that.” + +“Oh, tower uv ivory! That Morris McHogadan bate me?” + +“Yes.” + +“Wid a pavin’ hammer?” + +“Yes, so you declared.” + +“Oh-h-h, thundher an’ turf! An’ bate me teeth down the troat ov me?” + +“So you averred.” + +“Oh, the bloody-minded villin; an’ broke me rib?” + +“That’s what you said.” + +“Oh-h-h, bones of the martyrs; and chawed off the ear o’ me?” + +“So you told us.” + +“Oh, to the divil wid the informashin that says sich a pack o’ lies. +Morris McHogadan bate me? Och, Moses an’ Aarin, its tearin’ ravin’ +disthracted mad I am! Why, yer anner, it’s a bloody-minded lie. He +can’t fip wan side o’ me; why, the pig-eyed thafe ov the wor-rold, I +clawed all the red hair out ov the ugly head of him and trowed him down +the bank ov the crick, and welted him like an ould shoe wid a splinther +ov timber I grabbed out of the crick. Him bate me? He can’t bate +nobody. I didn’t lave a whole bone in his ugly carkiss, an’ av he dares +to say I did, yer anner, I’ll ate off his other ear an’ pound the flure +wid him. Oh, the divil fly away wid sich infermashin. It’s the beggar’s +own lie, an’----” + +Here the witness was cut short by the court fining him $10.00 and costs +for assault and battery, and Phelim, astonished into a terrific flow +of volubility for such a taciturn man, went away with a policeman, +arguing that it wasn’t possible that he could be fined when he was the +prosecuting witness, and declaring that the case never would have gone +against him but for “the bloody-minded infermashin,” which he firmly +believed to be the evil work of the designing Morris McHogadan. + + + + +THE SEEDSMAN. + + + How doth the busy nurseryman + Improve each shining hour; + And peddle cions, sprouts and seeds + Of every shrub and flower. + + How busily he wags his chin, + How neat he spreads his store, + And sells us things that never grew + And won’t grow any more. + + Who showed the little man the way + To sell the women seed? + Who taught him how to blow and lie + And coax and beg and plead? + + He taught himself, the nurseryman; + And when his day is done, + We’ll plant him where the lank rag weeds + Will flutter in the sun. + + But oh, although we plant him deep + Beneath the buttercup, + He’s so much like the seed he sells, + He never will come up. + + + + +CORNERING THE BOYS. + + +Only a few days before they moved the capital, a worthy lady of Peoria +one morning detected her two sons laughing immoderately. Suspecting +that she was the cause of their disrespectful mirth, the good woman +involuntarily loosened her slipper and called up the young culprits. + +“Thomas, what made you laugh?” + +“Nobody made me laugh; I laughed on purpose.” + +“None of your impudence, sir. John, why were you laughing at the door +just now?” + +John (eagerly)--“Wasn’t laughing at the door, I was laughing at Tom.” + +Tom--“And I was laughing at John.” + +The matron assumed a dignified attitude. “Now, my boys, what were you +both laughing at?” + +Boys (in a triumphant shout)--“We were both laughing at once!” + +The good lady summoned all her energies for a final effort, and +resolved to corner the boys by a settling question. + +“Now, then, I want you to tell me, Tom, what made John laugh and you +laugh?” + +Tom--“John didn’t laugh a new laugh; it was the same old laugh!” + +Neither of the boys got whipped, the slipper slid back to its +accustomed place, and to this day nobody knows what those boys laughed +at. + +[Illustration: SELLING THE HEIRLOOM.] + + + + +SELLING THE HEIRLOOM. + + +One afternoon, about a week after the big Fourth of July, a +hungry-looking man made his appearance down near the post-office +corner, carrying in his arms an old-fashioned clock, about four feet +high, with some ghastly looking characters scrawled across the dial, +like the photograph of a fire-cracker label with the delirium tremens. +He set the clock down, and in loud tones called upon the passers-by to +pause, as he was about to make a sacrifice that would break the heart +of the oldest horologer living. He was going to sell that clock, he +said. An old family heirloom, and a genuine curiosity of antiquity, +which he would not ordinarily take thousands of dollars for, but which +he sold now because he was out of work, penniless; and when his wife +and children cried to him for bread, he could not say them nay when he +had that in his possession that would, in any intelligent community, +bring them food and plenty. + +“Gentlemen,” he said, “look at that clock. A relic of antiquity. One of +the oldest Chinese clepsydras in the world. Bamboo case and sandal-wood +running gear. Not an ounce of metal in its construction. Made in China +by the eminent horologer Tchin Pitshoo, as near as can be ascertained, +three hundred years after the flood. Worth a thousand dollars if it’s +worth a cent; but of course I don’t expect to get half its value in +these hard times. The inscription on the face is in the characters +of the purest Confucian Chinese, and the interpretation of them is, +‘Time flies and money is twelve per cent.’ Now what are you going to +give me for that clock? Who will buy this clock, and present it to the +Iowa Historical Society or the Burlington Library? How much? Start her +up; send her ahead at something, gentlemen; there’s a woman and five +children that haven’t had a bite to eat for two days, and can’t get +a crumb till the money for this clock is in my pocket. A marvelous +time-piece; never lost----” + +A man in brown overalls and a dirty face lounged up to the clock, and +after scratching the case with a pin, to assure himself that it was +really a genuine Chinese clepsydra, bid ten cents. + +“Ten cents!” roared the man, rolling his eyes--“Heaven, hold back your +lightnings! Don’t strike him dead just yet! Give him time to repent. +Ten cents to buy food for a starving woman and five children. Ten +cents for a d----” He choked with emotion, and could not go on for a +moment. “Ten cents! Why, that clock only has to be wound once a month, +and it records every minute of time; tells just how long it will take +you to get to the depot; tells when the train starts, and when the +children are late to school. This clock, gentlemen, will tell when +the oldest boy has played hookey and gone off fishing; it tells how +late the hired girl’s beau stays Sunday night, and it will register +the exact minute of our oldest daughter’s arrival and departure at +and from the front gate after ten o’clock at night. Why, after you’ve +had it six weeks, you’ll not take six hundred dollars for it. It +runs fast all day and slow all night, giving a man fourteen hours’ +sleep in the Winter and sixteen hours’ sleep in the Summer, without +disturbing the accurate average of the day a minute. Ten cents for +such a clock as that! Ten cents! Gentlemen, this is robbery; it’s +cold-blooded murder. At ten cents; at ten, at ten, atten, atten, +attenat-tennit-tennit-tennet-tenatenatenaten a-a-t ten cents only am I +offered, twenty do I hear? At ten--” + +An old rag-man, after a critical examination of the marvel, bid fifteen +cents, and was instantly regarded as a mortal enemy by the first bidder. + +“Fifteen cents!” exclaimed the seller. “Gentlemen, knock me down and +rob me of my clothes, strip me naked if you will, but don’t plunder +a gasping, starving woman and five weak, helpless babes. Don’t rob +the dying. Fifteen cents. Why, I’ve suffered more than three hundred +dollars’ worth of privation and sorrow and misery, rather than sell +this clock at all. Fifteen cents. Why, you set that clock where the +sun shines on it, and it will indicate a rain storm three days in +advance, and will tell where the lightning is going to strike. Why, +you could make millions by buying this clock to bet on. It will tell, +just three weeks before election, who is going to beat. It’s a credit +to any household, and will run the whole family on tick. Fifteen +cents! why, it won’t pay for the shelf you stand it on. Fifteen cents +for a clock that used to be owned by an emperor! Fifteen cents. Oh, +kill me dead. At fifteen cents, fifteen, fiftn, fiftn, fift, nfift, +nfift, nfiftnfiftnfift, ta-a-a-t fifteen cents for a clock that can’t +be duplicated this side of the Yang tse Kiang. At fifteen ce--thank +you sir, twenty cents I have; twenty cents to feed a starving family +of seven souls; twenty cents for a barefooted woman and five ragged +children that haven’t tasted food since Monday morning; twenty +cents, from a city of thirty thousand inhabitants, for a starving +family; there’s Christian philanthropy for you. Twenty cents from +the commercial capital of Iowa, for a clock that would be snapped up +anywhere else in the world at hundreds, merely for its antiquity; +there’s intelligent appreciation of the arts and culture for you. +Gentlemen, I can’t stand this much longer; my heart is breaking. +Twenty cents, twenty cents, twenty, twent, twen, twen, twentwentwen, +and sold--a thousand-dollar clock, starving woman, dying children, +heart-broken man, and all to the second-hand-store man for twenty +cents.” + +He took his money, a ragged shinplaster and two street car nickels, +and walked away with a dejected, heart-broken air. He stopped in at a +bakery with frosted windows and transient doors, to buy bread for his +starving wife and babes, and his voice was husky with emotion as he +said to the natty-looking baker, whose diamond pin glittered over the +walnut counter, + +“Gimme a plain sour.” + + + + +THE ROMANCE OF THE CARPET. + + + Basking in peace, in the warm Spring sun, + South Hill smiled upon Burlington. + + The breath of May! and the day was fair, + And the bright motes danced in the balmy air, + + And the sunlight gleamed where the restless breeze + Kissed the fragrant blooms on the apple trees. + + His beardless cheek with a smile was spanned + As he stood with a carriage-whip in his hand. + + And he laughed as he doffed his bob-tailed coat, + And the echoing folds of the carpet smote. + + And she smiled as she leaned on her busy mop, + And said she would tell him when to stop. + + So he pounded away till the dinner bell + Gave him a little breathing spell. + + But he sighed when the kitchen clock struck one; + And she said the carpet wasn’t done. + + But he lovingly put in his biggest licks, + And pounded like mad till the clock struck six. + + And she said, in a dubious kind of way, + That she guessed he could finish it up next day. + + Then all that day, and the next day too, + The fuzz from the dustless carpet flew. + + And she’d give it a look at eventide, + And say, “Now beat on the other side.” + + And the new days came as the old days went, + And the landlord came for his regular rent. + + And the neighbors laughed at the tireless boom, + And his face was shadowed with clouds of gloom; + + Till at last, one cheerless Winter day, + He kicked at the carpet and slid away, + + Over the fence and down the street, + Speeding away with footsteps fleet; + + And never again the morning sun + Smiled at him beating his carpet drum; + + And South Hill often said, with a yawn, + “Where has the carpet martyr gone?” + + * * * * * + + Years twice twenty had come and passed, + And the carpet swayed in the autumn blast; + + For never yet, since that bright spring time, + Had it ever been taken down from the line. + + Over the fence a gray-haired man + Cautiously clim, clome, clem, clum, clam; + + He found him a stick in the old wood-pile, + And he gathered it up with a sad, grim smile. + + A flush passed over his face forlorn + As he gazed at the carpet, tattered and torn; + + And he hit it a most resounding thwack, + Till the startled air gave its echoes back. + + And out of the window a white face leaned, + And a palsied hand the sad eyes screened. + + She knew his face--she gasped, she sighed: + “A little more on the under side.” + + Right down on the ground his stick he throwed, + And he shivered and muttered, “Well, I am blowed!” + + And he turned away, with a heart full sore, + And he never was seen, not none no more. + +[Illustration: ROMANCE OF THE CARPET.] + + + +SODDING AS A FINE ART. + + +One day, early in the Spring, Mr. Blosberg, who lives out on Ninth +Street, made up his mind that he would sod his front yard himself, +and when he had formed this public-spirited resolution, he proceeded +to put it into immediate execution. He cut his sod, in righteous +and independent and liberty-loving disregard of the ridiculous city +ordinance in relation thereto, from the patches of verdure that the +cows had permitted to obtain a temporary growth along the side of the +street, and proceeded to beautify his front yard therewith. Just as he +had laid the first sod, Mr. Thwackery, his next door neighbor, passed +by. + +“Good land, Blosberg,” he shouted, “you’ll never be able to make any +thing of such a sod as that. Why, its three inches too thick. That +sod will cake up and dry like a brick. You want to shave at least two +inches and a half off the bottom of it, so the roots of the grass will +grow into the ground and unite the sod with the earth. That sod is +thick enough for a corner stone.” + +So Mr. Blosberg took the spade and shaved the sod down until it was +thin and about as pliable as a buckwheat cake, and Mr. Thwackery +pronounced it all right and sure to grow, and passed on. Just as Mr. +Blosberg got it laid down the second time, old Mr. Templeton, who +lived on the next block, came along and leaned on the fence, intently +observing the sodder’s movements. + +“Well now, Blosberg,” he said at length, “I did think you had better +sense than that. Don’t you know a sod will never grow on that hard +ground? You must spade it all up first, and break the dirt up fine and +soft to the depth of at least four inches, or the grass can never take +root in it. Don’t waste your time and sod by putting grass on top of +such a baked brick-floor as that.” + +And Mr. Blosberg laid aside the sod and took up the spade and labored +under Mr. Templeton’s directions until the ground was all properly +prepared for the sod, and then Mr. Templeton, telling him that sod +couldn’t die on that ground now if he tried to kill it, went his way +and Mr. Blosberg picked up that precious sod a third time, and prepared +to put it in its place. Before he had fairly poised it over the spot, +however, his hands were arrested by a terrific shout, and looking up he +saw Major Bladgers shaking his cane at him over the fence. + +“Blosberg, you insufferable donkey,” roared the Major, “don’t you know +that you’ll lose every blade of grass you can carry if you put your sod +on that dry ground? There you’ve gone and cut it so thin that all the +roots of the grass are cut and bleeding, and you must soak that ground +with water until it is a perfect pulp, so that the roots will sink +right into it, and draw nutrition from the moist earth. Wet her down, +Blosberg, if you want to see your labor result in any thing.” + +So Mr. Blosberg put the sod aside again, and went and pumped water and +carried it around in buckets until his back ached like a soft corn, +and when he had finally transformed the front yard into a morass, the +Major was satisfied, and assuring Mr. Blosberg that his sod would grow +beautifully now, even if he laid it on upside down, marched away, and +Mr. Blosberg made a fourth effort to put the first sod in its place. He +got it down and was going back after another, when old Mrs. Tweedlebug +checked him in his wild career. + +“Lawk, Mr. Blosberg, ye musn’t go off an’ leave that sod lying that +way. You must take the spade and beat it down hard, till it is all flat +and level, and close to the ground everywhere. You must pound it hard, +or the weeds will all start up under it and crowd out the grass.” + +Mr. Blosberg went back, and stooping over the sod hit it a resounding +thwack with his spade that shot great gouts and splotches of mud all +over the parlor windows and half-way to the top of the house, and +some of it came flying into his face and on his clothes, while a +miscellaneous shower made it dangerous even for his adviser, who, with +a feeble shriek of disapprobation, went hastily away, digging raw mud +out of her ears. Mr. Blosberg didn’t know how long to keep on pounding, +and he didn’t see Mrs. Tweedlebug go away, so he stood with his spade +poised in the air and his eyes shut tight, waiting for instructions. +And as he waited he was surprised to hear a new voice accost him. It +was the voice of Mr. Thistlepod, the old agriculturist, of whom Mr. +Blosberg bought his apples and butter. + +“Hello, Mr. Blosberg!” he shouted, in tones which indicated that he +either believed Mr. Blosberg to be stone deaf or two thousand miles +away. + +Mr. Blosberg winked violently to get the soil out of his eyes, and +turned in the direction of the noise to say, “Good evening.” + +“Soddin’, hey?” asked Mr. Thistlepod. + +“Trying to, sir,” replied Mr. Blosberg, rather cautiously. + +“’Spect it will grow, hey?” + +Mr. Blosberg, having learned by very recent experience how liable his +plans were to be overthrown, was still non-committal, and replied that +“he hoped so.” + +“Wal, if ye hope so, ye mustn’t go to poundin’ yer sod to pieces with +that spade. Ye don’t want to ram it down so dad binged tight and +hard there can’t no air git at the roots. Ye must shake that sod up a +little, so as to loosen it, and then jest press it down with yer foot +ontwil it jest teches the ground nicely all round. Sod’s too thin, +anyhow.” + +So Mr. Blosberg thrust his hands into the nasty mud under his darling, +much abused sod, and spread his fingers wide apart to keep it from +breaking to pieces as he raised it, and finally got it loosened up and +pressed down to Mr. Thistlepod’s satisfaction, who then told him he +didn’t believe he could make that sod grow any way, and drove away. +Then Mr. Blosberg stepped back to look at that sod, feeling confident +that he had got through with it, when young Mr. Simpson came along. + +“Hello, Blos, old boy; watchu doin’?” + +Mr. Blosberg timorously answered that he was sodding a little. Then +Mr. Simpson pressed his lips very tightly together to repress a smile, +and let his cheeks swell and bulge out to the size of toy balloons +with suppressed merriment, and finally burst into a snort of derisive +laughter that made the windows rattle in the houses on the other side +of the street, and he went on, leaving Mr. Blosberg somewhat nettled +and a little discouraged. He stood, with his fingers spread wide apart, +holding his arms out like wings, and wondering whether he had better +go get another sod or go wash his hands, when a policeman came by, and +paused. “Soddin’?” he asked, sententiously. + +“Yes, sir, a little,” replied Mr. Blosberg, respectfully. + +“Where’d you get your sod?” inquired the representative of public order. + +Mr. Blosberg dolefully indicated the little bare parallelogram in the +scanty patch of verdure as his base of supplies. + +“You’re the man I’ve been lookin’ for,” replied public order. “You come +along with me.” + +And Mr. Blosberg went along, and the Police Judge fined him $11.95, and +when Mr. Blosberg got home he found that a cow had got into his yard +during his absence and stepped on that precious sod five times, and put +her foot clear through it every time, so that it looked like a patch of +moss rolled up in a wad, more than a sod. And then Mr. Blosberg fell on +his knees and raised his hands to heaven, and registered a vow that he +would never plant another sod if this whole fertile world turned into a +Sahara for want of his aid. + + + + +THE AMENITIES OF POLITICS. + + +“There is one thing,” said Mr. Leatherby, as he was walking down town +one drizzling, disagreeable morning during the last presidential +campaign, “that disgusts me with politics, and that is, the violent and +abusive tone in which our daily papers conduct the discussion of every +issue and question which they touch upon.” + +“Indeed you may well be disgusted at it,” replied old Mr. Bartholomew, +who had just joined him. “It is as much as a man can do to lift a +newspaper off his door step with a pair of tongs. Time and again +I throw the paper down half read, and I have seriously thought of +stopping it altogether, for I consider its presence in my family a +contamination.” + +“It is, in truth,” replied Mr. Leatherby; “it is worse than a +contamination. It is corrupting; it has a degrading, brutalizing +influence, that is, I am convinced, undermining the foundations of +our moral structure. The daily press of to-day is one great engine of +abuse, defamation, bad grammar, worse language and worst morals.” + +“I can not see, for my part,” said Mr. Bartholomew, “why men can not +discuss politics as freely, as earnestly, and as entirely free from +acrimonious expressions and feeling, as purely exempt from abusive +language of any kind, from any heat and anger, in fact, as they could +discuss the grade of a street or the style of a coat.” + +“And so think I,” said Mr. Leatherby. “I can not, for my part, conceive +of an intellect so warped and narrow, a mind so shallow, that it can +not carry on a discussion upon any question in politics without falling +into the asperities, vulgarity, abusive detraction, and shameful +slander that is the reproach and disgrace of the newspaper press.” + +“It is a form of idiocy, I believe,” replied old Mr. Bartholomew. “It +is an indication of a feeble mind that looks upon abuse as an argument, +and bullying as logic. I am and always have been a Republican, but I +can express my disapproval of many Democratic measures in a gentlemanly +manner; and if I had not mind enough to keep my temper, I would +consider that I had no right to talk politics.” + +“You are perfectly correct,” rejoined Mr. Leatherby, earnestly; “and +while we disagree on some points in political controversy, I being a +life-long Democrat, yet we can freely and with mutual pleasure, and, +I trust, profit, meet and discuss our differences in a friendly way, +without giving way to the insane and detestable exhibition of temper, +ignorance, and prejudice which marks the tone of the morning paper.” + +“I had not noticed it so much in the _Hawkeye_,” replied Mr. +Bartholomew, with a show of awakening interest in the conversation; +“but when that trashy Democratic sheet that pollutes the evening air is +brought to me by my neighbor, an ignorant dolt who can neither read nor +write, but takes the paper as a party duty, and asks me to read it for +him, I am amazed that the gods of truth and decency do not annihilate +the infamous, puerile sheet with their thunderbolts.” + +“You must bear in mind, however,” rejoined Mr. Leatherby, speaking a +trifle louder than was necessary in addressing a companion whose hand +was resting on his arm, “the _Gazette_ has such a tide of corruption, +such an avalanche of political bigotry and villainy to rebuke, that its +voice must be raised in order to be heard: and it must speak boldly, +defiantly, and in the thunder tones of righteous denunciation, to +startle the people into a realizing sense of the peril which threatens +the country from Republican misrule and tyranny.” + +“By George!” shouted Mr. Bartholomew, “the Republican party is the +last, the only bulwark between the republic and eternal ruin. I +tell you, sir, once let the Democratic party obtain control of this +government, once let that infamous organization of political thieves, +knucks, outlaws, and castaways take charge of our political machinery, +and we will find ourselves in the hands of a horde of the most +abandoned profligates, the most utterly unprincipled, the most vicious, +demoralized, unconscionable, diabolical set of scoundrels that ever +cheated the gallows.” + +“By the long-horned spoon!” roared Mr. Leatherby, jerking his arm away +from Mr. Bartholomew’s hand; “if the satanic and infernal plans of the +Republican party were carried out, with all their attendant knavery and +debauchery, this government would be a rule of branded malefactors +and convicts, a government of felons, a penal colony in which the most +hopelessly irreclaimable, graceless villains would administer the law. +The bad faith of the Republican party, its ignominious record, its +vicious tendencies, has shocked the Christian world, and----” + +“You’re a liar!” yelled Mr. Bartholomew, “and you are just like the +rest of your besotted, low-lived, ignorant class--a low, mean, pitiful, +beggarly, unscrupulous and treacherous set, whose impudence in asking +for the votes of honorable men is only equaled by your rapacious and +unbridled greed for office; your----” + +“You are an old fool!” howled Mr. Leatherby; “a censorious, clamorous, +scurrilous, foul-tongued old reprobate, and I disgrace my name when +I talk to you on the street. You mistake vituperation and abuse for +argument, and you reply to a simple plain statement of facts with +malignant and defamatory slander and calumny, because you can’t answer.” + +“Shut up!” shrieked Mr. Bartholomew. “Don’t you say another word to me, +or I’ll slap your ugly mouth! By George, I’ll kick your head off!” + +“You can’t do it!” roared Mr. Leatherby, pulling off his coat, and +dancing around Mr. Bartholomew. “I can lick the whole Republican party, +from the big whisky thief and ring master in the White House down to +the sneak thief that picks pockets at mass meetings! I can----” + +“You’re a fighting liar, and you daren’t take it up!” howled Mr. +Bartholomew, pulling off his coat. + +Then Mr. Leatherby ran up and kicked him twice while he was struggling +in the arms of his coat, but the old gentleman got loose in a flash and +hit Mr. Leatherby a resounding thwack on the nose with his cane, and +when Mr. Leatherby stopped to hold a handkerchief over his bleeding +proboscis, Mr. Bartholomew got in a couple more real good ones with his +cane; then Mr. Leatherby went for the rocks in the macadamized street. +He broke two windows in a grocery before he hit Mr. Bartholomew, when +he caught the old gentleman on the side of the head and dropped him. +Then Mr. Bartholomew took to the stone pile and hit a young lady on +the other side of the street, and Mr. Leatherby hurled a tremendous +big rock, which missed the old gentleman and blacked the eye of a +policeman who was coming to separate them, but was so incensed that +he arrested them, and they were each fined $10 and costs for fighting +in the street. And they both firmly believe that the unbridled hatred +and unreasonable recriminations and abuse of the daily papers are +iniquitous in their influence, and should be suppressed for the good of +society. + + * * * * * + +It was a sad scene when the authorities took a poor man from Happy +Hollow, and sent him out to the poor house. The parting between +the poor man and his eleven dogs, which he distributed among his +sympathizing relatives, was affecting in the extreme. We believe the +man had a few children, too, but not enough to make a fuss about. + + * * * * * + +A bashful young man, while out driving with the dearest girl in +the world, had to get out and buckle the crupper, and hesitatingly +exclaimed that “the animal’s bustle had come loose.” + + + + +A THRILLING ENCOUNTER. + + +It happens, once in a while, that even the ordinary routine of the +editorial sanctum is broken by incidents and scenes that are fairly +dramatic in their character. As we write, there comes back to us the +reminiscence of a quiet, sleepy Summer afternoon, only a few short +years ago. The very flies in the sanctum buzzed lazily about the room, +oppressed by the heat and the quiet loneliness of the place, when the +door opened with a quick, sudden snap, and we turned and saw a woman +stepping into the room. She was not old, and her face, haggard with +care and seamed with trouble, still bore traces of great beauty. She +came into the office with a quick, nervous tread, and there was a +hunted look in her eyes that betrayed the fugitive. She closed the door +behind her, and turned the key in almost the same motion, with the +quick instinctive manner of a person who had fallen into the habit of +isolating herself from observation and pursuit at every opportunity. +She refused to sit down, but said: + +“I can tell you all you will want to know about me in very few words--I +am a fugitive.” + +We told her we had guessed as much, and we besought her to confide +nothing to us. We could not help her, we said; our duty as a journalist +would not permit us to extend any aid to a person flying from the law. +She said: + +“I do not want you to aid me in farther flight; I am tired to death. My +own conscience, more pitiless than the minions of the law, has pursued +me for years with a whip of scorpions. I can not escape its terrible +lashings. I can not fly from my punishment if I would, and I am anxious +it should be over. Death would be a welcome relief, if it would but +come.” + +Again we told the panting, weary creature to tell none of her story to +us, and advised her to go to the police headquarters and give herself +into the hands of the law, which would deal justly, and, we had no +doubt, in view of her sufferings and remorse, mercifully with her. + +“I can not!” she exclaimed, covering her face with her hands, and +breaking into convulsive sobs; “I can not, I can not. You do not know +there are other hearts would ache if I gave myself up and told all. I +want to tell my story to some one who will pity me and advise me. There +are those whose hands are as dark with ineffaceable stains as mine are, +but who do not suffer the mental agony that oppresses me. Shall I, +in order to escape the lashings of my own conscience, consign these, +whose lives are happy and whose hearts know no remorse, to the same +punishment for which I yearn?” + +We asked her (for our curiosity conquered our caution) if it was +possible that one so young and fair was the center of a wide-spreading +circle of crime that held in its horrid entanglements so many others +beside herself? + +“Aye,” she said, bitterly. “If I went to the gallows through a court +of justice, I would lead with me, held by the same terrible links of +evidence, a guilty train of men hardened in crime, and their hands +steeped in innocent blood!” + +“Woman, woman!” we exclaimed, in horrified tones, “in the name of +heaven, who and what are you?” + +“Oh, heaven help me!” she shrieked, in a voice that chilled our +marrow--“I am old man Bender!” + +A weird, wild whoop rent the silence of the sanctum--and the woman +was alone. There was a sound as of a rising journalist scrambling +up through the narrow copy tube, and the next instant a bare head, +with a quill over one ear, burst through the hatchway in the roof, +and, followed by a complete set of editorial anatomy, emerged, and +running briskly to the rear wall of the building, disappeared down the +lightning-rod, and was seen no more until the next day at three P. M. + +We never saw the woman again, and wis not where she is, but we smile in +bitter derision whenever we read that the police have arrested an old +man answering the description of old man Bender. + + + + +FIVE WOMEN. + + +One afternoon five women went out on South Hill in a street car. One +of them was a fat woman in a black dress, with a cameo pin as large as +a stucco ornament. She breathed at a high pressure, about 103 to the +minute. A woman with a thin, long neck, and sad eyes, and a Paisley +shawl, sitting on the other side of the car, said, in a feeble voice: + +“Good afternoon, Mrs. Waughop.” + +“Oh, (puff) Mrs. Dresseldorff, (puff, puff,) how do (puff) you do?” +(Puff, puff.) + +“Oh, I ain’t feeling well at all. I’ve had so much trouble with my +lungs, and nothing seems to do them any good. I’ve tried onion gargle, +and three kinds of expectorant, and Wine of Tar, and two of Doctor +Bolus’s prescriptions, and one of Dr. Bleadem’s, and a new kind of +ointment, but nothing seems to have any effect on them. How do you feel +to-day?” + +“Oh,” groaned Mrs. Waughop, “I’m not getting on at all. My asthma is +worse every day (puff, puff), and I can’t sleep at night, and I’m +afraid I’ll have to give up entirely (puff, puff). I could hardly get +out to-day (puff, puff, puff). I went to Greenbaum and Schroder’s +and around to Guest’s and down to Carpenter’s (puff, puff), and into +Parsons’ and up to Mrs. Voorhees’ (puff, puff), and down to Wyman’s and +up to Wesley Jones’ and into Gus Dodge’s and (puff, puff, puff) down to +the express office, and then by the time I had made a couple of calls +out on North Hill and went to the doctor’s, I was as tired as though +I had walked a mile (puff, puff, puff). I don’t know what’s going to +become of me, I’m sure. How are you, this afternoon, Mrs. Dinkleman?” +she continued, turning to the next woman, a lonesome looking female +with a wart on her chin, who smiled dismally on being addressed and +paused in the midst of a search for a street car nickel in the bottom +of a black reticule as big as a hair trunk. + +“I’m about half down with the chills,” she said, with a prolonged sigh; +“I have such a fever every night, I don’t get two hours’ sleep out of +the twenty-four, and I’m afraid I’ll be down sick before I get through +with it. My eyesight is failing, too, and I have a constant headache +that worries me nearly to death. I am glad, Mrs. Mulligan,” said Mrs. +Dinkleman, turning to the fourth woman, “to see you able to be out.” + +Mrs. Mulligan bowed feebly to the rest of the ladies. “Indeed I +oughtn’t to be out,” she groaned, “I ought to be in bed this minute. I +haven’t had this flannel off my throat for three weeks, and I’m afraid +I’ll lose my voice entirely. I’ve had a misery across my back since I +don’t know when, and I had to have three teeth pulled this blessed +afternoon. I was that bad with the rheumatiz all last week I didn’t +dare stir out of the house, and I’ve got a felon coming on my finger +just as sure as I’m a living woman. What appears to be the matter with +your face, Mrs. Gallagher?” she asked the last woman in the car. + +“Neuralagy of the eyes,” the last woman, who wore black glasses and +green goggles, remarked, in such lugubrious tones that they cast a +gloom over the entire community, and the masculine occupants of the car +wondered if there was a well woman in America. + + + + +[Illustration: GOBLIN GATE. See page 148.] + +THE GOBLIN GATE. + + +We once knew a most worthy man, whose irreproachable life was at one +time threatened with mental and physical wreck, all on account of his +front gate. He lived out on North Hill, with his charming wife and +seven lovely daughters. He was a pale-faced, anxious-looking man, who +moved about and looked and spoke as though he supped with sorrow seven +times a week. He has, with all those seven lovely daughters, only one +front gate, and that’s what made him pale. In one Summer he spent $217 +repairing that front gate--putting in new ones, and experimenting with +various kinds of hinges; and after all that, the gate swung all through +the Winter on a leather strap and a piece of clothes-line--and there +was peace in the household, and the man grew fat. But when the April +days were nigh, it soon became apparent to the man that his troubles +were at hand, and anxiety soon drove the roses from his damask cheeks +and robbed his ribs of their substance. He used to climb over the back +fence, to avoid calling attention to the disreputable looking old gate; +but his self-denial was of no avail. One evening his eldest daughter, +Sophronia, said: + +“Pa, that horrid old gate is the most disgusting thing on Fifth Street. +If you can’t afford to have it fixed, I’d take it away and put up a +stile.” + +And pa only groaned. But an evening or so later, his youngest daughter, +Elfrida, came in and said, with considerable warmth: + +“Pa! I wish you had that beastly old gate tied to your neck; that’s +what I wish!” + +And she dissolved in tears, and evaporated up stairs in a misty cloud, +while her sisters followed slowly, casting reproachful glances at pa. +And the next evening, his third daughter, Azalea, came bouncing into +the room, about 9:30 P. M., with her gloves in a condition to indicate +that she had been patting gravel, and said, with some energy, that if +pa had no feeling, other people had; and she wished she was dead, she +did; and she hoped that the next time pa went out of that hateful old +gate, he’d fall clear from Fifth Street to the bridge, so she did. And +she broke down, and disappeared with a staccato accompaniment of sobs +and sniffles. And the next time pa went out of that gate, he found it +prostrate between the two posts, and saw that the fragile strands of +the clothes-line had parted, under some extraordinary pressure; and +that was what ailed Azalea’s gloves. Pa saw there was nothing for it +but a new gate, and he groaned aloud as he viewed the dreary prospect +of furnishing gates to support the manly forms of the best young +men of Burlington for another Summer. It soon became evident that +he was getting up a gate he could match against time. He pondered, +and pondered, and pondered. He became the confidant of carpenters; +he was often seen guiltily showing certain plans and drawings to +blacksmiths and cunning workers in iron and steel. And in due time he +had a new gate up; a massive gate, with great posts, ornamental and +substantial--and the seven sisters were pleased. They read the little +brass plate, that informed them that a patent was applied for, and they +saw the words, “For 130 pounds;” but they didn’t know what it meant +until the gate had swung on the uneven tenor of its way about a week. + +One evening, the weather, though sufficiently cool to be bracing; +admitted a test of the new gate. A murmur of voices arose from the +vicinity of that popular lovers’ retreat, as Sophronia swung idly to +and fro on its heavy frame. Presently, a pale-faced, anxious-looking +man, who was holding his hand upon his breast to still his beating +heart, as he crouched in a dark corner of the porch, heard Rodolphus +say: + +“But believe me, Sophronia, my own heart’s idol, between the touches +of the rude hand of time and the unkind----” As he began the word, he +leaned forward and bent his weight upon the gate, and with a sharp +click a little trap-door in the side of the post flew open, and a +gaunt, many-jointed arm of steel, with an iron knob as big as a +Virginia gourd on the end of it flew out, and, with the rapidity of +lightning, hit Rodolphus two resounding pelts between the shoulders, +that sounded like a bass drum explosion. + +“Oh-h-h! gosh!” he roared, “I’m stabbed! I’m stabbed!” and, without +waiting to pick up his hat, fled, shrieking for the doctor; while +Sophronia rushed into the house, crying, “Pa! pa! pa! Rodolphus is +shot!” and swooned. The pale-faced man said nothing, but shrank still +further back into the shadow, and thrust his handkerchief into his +mouth to stifle a smile. Pretty soon he knew the voice of his daughter +Azalea at the gate, saying “Good night.” But a rich, manly voice +detained her; and the measured swing of the gate was again heard in the +distance. Soon he heard Lorenzo say, as he made ready to climb upon the +gate: + +“But whatever of sorrow may await our future, dear one, I would it +might fall upon me----” + +And just as he lifted his last foot from the ground, the trap opened, +and the gaunt arm reached out and fell upon him, with that big knob, +four times; and every time it reached him, Lorenzo shrieked: + +“Bleeding heart! Oh, mercy, mercy, Mr. Man! Oh, murder!” + +And as he ambled away in the starlight, wailing for arnica, Azalea fled +wildly to her home, shrieking, “Oh pa, pa, pa! somebody is murdering +Lorenzo!” And on the porch a pale-faced man thrust the rim of his felt +hat into his mouth, to reinforce his handkerchief, and hugged himself +in placid content. Pretty soon the man’s fifth daughter came home from +a party, and she, too, perched on the gate; and, in a moment or two, +Alphonso said: + +“But, my own Miriam, would I could tell you what I feel for you----” + +But he didn’t; for, just as he leaned upon the gate, the gaunt arm +reached out and felt for him with about seventy-five pounds of iron, +and knocked his breath so far out of him that he couldn’t shriek until +he had run half a mile away from the house. And Miriam ran into the +house, screaming that Alphonso had a fit. + +And the pale-faced man rose up out of the shadow and emptied his mouth; +and as he stood under the quiet starlight, looking at the gate whose +powerful but delicate mechanism repelled every ounce of weight over +130 pounds, a look of ineffable peace stole over the pale face, and +the smile that rested on the quiet features told that the struggle of +a lifetime was ended in victory--and a gate had been discovered that +could set at naught the oppressions of thoughtless young people. + + + + +THE AUTOMATIC CLOTHES-LINE REEL. + + +No one who lived in Burlington that year, can ever forget the first +practical test that was made of the famous “Domestic Automatic” +clothes-line reel. It was a curious and powerful bit of mechanism, and +was the invention of a man who lived on Barnes Street. This man used to +be grievously afflicted because the Scandinavian lady who superintended +the weekly wash day ceremonies at his house always took great pains to +leave a net work of clothes-line spread all around his back yard. And +when he made complaint to her about it she addressed him in the musical +accents of Christine Nilsson’s native language, and overwhelmed him +with a torrent of eloquence that he could not understand. And when he +remonstrated with his wife and daughter about it they laughed him to +scorn, and his daughter, who was educated at Vassar, and can hustle +her terrified parent out of the house with one hand, told him if he +interfered any more in that department around that house he’d get +drowned in the wash-tub. So this man suffered. One bitter cold Winter +morning he ran out to the woodshed after some kindling, and the first +line caught him under the chin and pulled his neck out till it was a +foot long, and he ran into the house and frightened his wife into fits +by his terrible appearance, and she threatened to apply for a divorce +if he ever made faces at her that way again. It was nearly three hours +before his neck shrunk back to its natural size. And a few nights after +that, he was all dressed to go to a party with his family, and he went +bounding down the back yard to see that the alley gate was fastened, +and a slack line caught him amidships, let him run out the slack, and +then when it hauled taut, just picked him up, tossed the breath out of +him, turned him clear over, and chucked him down on his back, splitting +his coat from the tail-buttons to the neck. And he couldn’t move, and +he couldn’t speak, and he couldn’t even breathe, only about thirty +cents on the dollar, so he couldn’t answer his wife and daughter when +they screamed to him that they were ready, and they concluded that he +had run away to avoid going with them, so they went off without him, +and never came back till eleven o’clock, and the man lay out in the +back yard all that time, trying to die. And one time after that, he was +jogging across the back yard with his arms full of about three hundred +pounds of hard wood, and he was laughing like a hyena at something +he had read in _The Hawkeye_, when a clothes-prop slipped just as he +passed under the line and dropped on his head, raising a lump as big as +an egg, and as he fell forward, another line caught right in his mouth, +and sawed it clear back to his ears, so that when he smiled the top of +his head only hung on a hinge. + +Well, these things naturally weighed on his mind and depressed him, but +they set him to thinking, and he went to work and invented a patent +clothes-line reel, which was inclosed in a heavy cast-iron box, and was +worked by a powerful automatic arrangement. You only had to wind up +the box and set it for a certain hour, just like an alarm clock, and at +that hour the reel would go off, and pull on the line like a team of +mules, the spring hook at the other end of the line would let go its +hold, and that line would be rolled up at the rate of a thousand miles +a minute. He said nothing about his invention, but put up the box and +told some lie about it to his family, which is a way men have, and he +set it for 7 o’clock P. M., and wound it up strong. Then he watched +Miss Nilsson’s compatriot run out the line and adjust the hook, and he +went away. + +About 7 o’clock that evening, while he was toasting his feet at the +fire and reading the almanac, the family were disturbed by unmistakable +indications of a fight going on in the back yard between a hurricane +and an earthquake, in which the earthquake appeared to be getting a +little the best of it. The affrighted family rushed to the back door +and looked out upon a scene of devastation and anarchy. The air was +full of fragments of linen, and cotton, and red flannel, while shirt +buttons, clothes pins, and little brass buckles, were flying like hail. +The reel in the iron box was making about 60,000 revolutions a minute, +and was whirling around like a thrashing machine, and the line was +tearing around the posts like a streak of runaway lightning, and the +clothes were trying to keep along with it, and around the posts they +were ripping, tearing and snapping more than any cyclone that ever +got loose, while where the line shot into the hawse-hole in the iron +box, the striped stockings and white shirts and things, and flannels, +and yarn socks, and undershirts and more things, and aprons, and +handkerchiefs, and sheets and things, and pillow-slips, just foamed and +bulged, and tossed wildly, and ripped, and tore, and scraped, until the +yard and air were so full of lint that it looked worse than an arctic +snow storm. Oh, it was dreadful. It was terrible. Everybody shrieked in +dismay. + +“Somebody’s at the clothes-line!” screamed the man’s daughter. + +“Good heavens!” yelled the man, “hadn’t you taken the clothes in?” + +“No!” chorused the women. + +The man thought he would save what was left. He sprang at the +clothes-line. He caught the flying hook at the end with both hands, and +the next instant, before the terrified eyes of his shrieking wife and +daughter, he was jerked through the hole in the iron box, a quivering +mass of boneless flesh, while his glistening skeleton fell rattling +upon the porch. + +They gathered his frame work off the porch, and unlocked the box and +drew out his covering. He was not dead, so deftly and quickly had he +been removed from his framework. They sent for the doctors, but their +skill could not avail to get the man together again, and now he sits, +limp and boneless, in a high-backed easy chair, smiling sadly at his +grinning skeleton, which sits in a chair on the opposite side of the +fire-place, grinning sociably at its counterpart, and rattling horribly +every time it crosses its bony legs, or scratches the top of its +glistening head with its gaunt, fleshless fingers. And thus that poor +man will have to drag out a dual existence until death comes to both +of him. It is a painful, expensive life, for the skeleton eats just as +much as the flesh, and the flesh has taken to smoking ten cent cigars, +and the skeleton can’t sleep a wink unless it has a big hot whisky +every night at bed time. And all this is the result of wicked, wicked +carelessness. A terrible warning to women who leave the clothes-line up +after dark. + + + + +INSPIRATIONS OF TRUTH. + + +Every year, so oft as the 22d of February comes, the day sacred to +the memory of the father of his country is faithfully celebrated by +two good boys of Burlington, who, if their lives are only spared, +will yet be second editions of the immortal G. W. Last year, it was +noticed by every one about the house, they were unusually good. They +stayed home all the morning, and talked about Washington, and how he +broke the mule and girdled the sassafras tree, and how good he was, +and what a pity it was he had no middle name. Along in the afternoon +their mother sent them to the church, where there was to be a festival, +with a basket filled high with sweet home-made bread, and cold boiled +ham, and roast chicken, and one thing and another. They took hold of +the basket and plodded soberly and goodily toward the church. As they +started down Division Street they saw a boy coming toward them whom +they knew. He was the son of a neighbor, the blacksmith’s boy, with +whom they had a feud of long standing; for on divers occasions he had +caught these good brothers out, separately, and had rudely assaulted +them, and fairly pounded the hair off their heads. He was a little too +healthy for either of the boys alone, but the pair had sworn to make +it lively for him if ever they lighted upon him together. So soon as +they saw him they put down the basket and gave chase. He girded up his +loins and fled, but the boys got themselves up and pursued after him +and pressed him hard, and after a rattling chase of about two blocks, +they encompassed him round about in a vacant lot, and fell upon him, +and smote him insomuch that he begged for mercy and screamed for succor +until he was black in the face. Then the victors, joyous returning from +the fray, with light steps sought their long abandoned train. Imagine +their dismay when, through the gathering twilight gloom, they saw +somewhat less than one hundred and fifty thousand dogs, half buried in +the basket, dividing and devouring the sutler stores contained therein. +There was precious little left when the dogs were driven away, and the +boys went home exceeding sorrowful, but hopeful. Their mother met them +at the door, and took the empty basket from their hands. + +“Who did you give the basket to?” she asked. + +“Mrs. Featherstone, dear ma,” replied the elder George Washington. + +“And what did she say?” asked their mother, for Mrs. Featherstone is an +authority in church festivals. + +“Oh,” chorused both George Washingtons, “she said it was the nicest +basket that had come in all the afternoon.” + +“And,” added the younger George, feeling that he wasn’t doing himself +justice if he didn’t get in an independent statement, “Mrs. Lamphreys +said she would give anything in the world if she could make such white +bread as yours--she said it was wonderful how you done it.” + +“Now, did she say that?” cried the delighted woman; for at the last +sociable Mrs. Lamphreys said her bread was like bass-wood slabs. + +“And Mr. Middlerib,” cried the elder G. W., fearful lest his younger +brother should find favor and be exalted over him, “said there wasn’t +such chickens anywhere in the State of Iowa outside of that basket.” + +And then the younger held the age again, and the older chipped one, +and the younger saw him and raised him, and then the older came in, +and the younger stayed right by him, and they told all manner of +things and compliments about and from all manner of people who were +at the church, until the good woman, astonished and delighted at her +sudden popularity, determined to go to the sociable, although she +had not intended to do so. She went, and she looked in vain for her +cake and ham and chicken. She returned home at an early hour, and +roused her young George Washingtons from the sweet, innocent sleep +of childhood. Then she took a skate strap, and after a brief but +pointed cross-questioning on the evidence already brought forward, +proceeded----. The rest is too awful. + + + + +SPIRIT PHOTOGRAPHY. + + +It must have been nearly three years ago, as nearly as we can remember, +just about the time Monfort and Hill got to photographing ghosts, +that a tall, pale man, with piercing black eyes and long hair, came +to Burlington and opened a photograph gallery. He was a spirit +photographer, and when his sitters received their pictures, for which +they were expected to pay very roundly, lo, the spirit faces of dear +ones who had gone before clustered around the face of the party whose +photograph had been taken from life. There were plenty of people +in the learned city of Burlington who were as fond of believing in +supernatural things as are the outside barbarians. So, credulous men +and women thronged to the spirit artist’s studio, the spirits came up +to be photographed around their mortal friends by squads and platoons, +and worldly dross, in the shape of a fluctuating and irredeemable +currency, poured into the artist’s coffers, and he was happy. Among +others who went to his studio, was a sad-eyed young man who is a +genius. He never used to get home till two o’clock in the morning, +because he was down in his office, he told the folks, burning the +midnight oil, and committing the yearnings of a restless and ambitious +genius to paper. He was supposed to be writing a book of poems, and, +consequently, the fair ones who were privileged to enter the circle +of his dreamy acquaintance, doted on him. When he went to have his +photograph taken, the dearest girl in the world, the one who tells him +what nice hands he has, and who rubs his head when his long hours of +lonely study make it ache all the next day, accompanied him. He told +her on the way down that he expected when his counterfeit presented +itself on the albumenized card, the spirit faces of Byron, and Hood, +and Macaulay, and Shakespeare, and Tom Moore, and Shelley would rise +and cluster around him. She gasped hysterically, and, looking proudly +at him, said she believed they would too, and wouldn’t it be nice? But +he only sighed gloomily, as genius always sighs, and they entered the +studio. + +While the young man was posing himself the Professor told him that +those who were nearest and dearest to him in his lonely hours would +gather around him and kiss the clustering curls on his marble brow, +and that no earthly power could keep them out of the camera. The young +lady reiterated her opinion in regard to the “niceness” of such an +arrangement, the young man put on a look of genius and gazed into the +camera with the air of a man who is wondering where he can borrow three +dollars; the artist dived under the cloth and in due time he stepped +to the front with the picture and exhibited it to the poet and the +adoring girl. + +Spirits? + +One or two of them. Right in the center was the young poet, gazing +dreamily out into vacancy. And the spirits who cheered him in his +lonely hours of study, and assisted him in the conflagration of the +midnight oil, gathered around him, and never stirred or faded, not even +when the poet ejaculated, “Oh lying horrors!” nor yet when the young +girl shrieked and fell fainting with her hair caught in that forked +thing the artist stands behind the subject to hold his head steady. For +on the right of the poet there stood a spirit with a long slim neck +whose name appeared to be “Whisky Cocktail,” and on the left there was +a short, squatty spirit who was announced as just plain “Gin,” and +then, clustering all around the young poet’s head, like an aureola, +were “Straights,” whatever they are, “Grasshopper Punch,” “Log Cabin +Cocktail,” “Old Tamarack,” “Eye Openers,” “Appetizers,” “Night Caps,” +“Can’t Quits,” “Corpse Revivers,” “Coffin Nails,” “Indian Cocktails,” +“Mountain Dew,” “Benzine,” “The New Drink,” “Fly Poison,” “What Killed +Dad,” “The Same,” “Fast Freight,” “Bran’an Wa’r,” “Sherri’neg,” “Sudden +Death,” “Crusade Drops,” “Commissary No. 3,” “Old Crow,” “Tangleleg,” +“Forty Rod,” “Grim Death,” “Jimson Juice,” “Chain Lightning,” “Twelfth +Resolution,” “That’s on Me,” “Temperance Tract,” “Quinine,” and several +other spirits who were too far in the back ground to show their cards +very distinctly. + +The young man didn’t take another sitting, and he has since spent more +time trying to convince “her” that this spirit photography is the +greatest humbug that ever deluded a credulous people, than he ever +spent with the spirits who share his lonely hours of midnight toil. + + + + +WRITING FOR THE PRESS. + + +Prof. Matthews, in his delightful book, “Hours With Men and Books,” +devotes a chapter, and a very instructive chapter too, to advising +and directing people who are determined to write for the press what +to write and how to say it. But even in that special chapter Prof. +Matthews has overlooked quite a number of important points which we, +in our experience with occasional newspaper contributors, have come +to look upon as absolutely essential to good correspondence. We have +had, even in the usually infallible _Hawkeye_, some complaint, once +in a while, from occasional correspondents about mistakes which have +appeared in their articles when they come out in print. We are aware +that in many cases the fault was our own, but we are confident all such +trouble could be remedied if correspondents would pay a little more +attention to the preparation of their manuscript. Printers are not +always infallible, and proof readers do sometimes make mistakes, but +we have prepared a few practical hints and instructions, and if people +who write occasionally for the papers will only observe the following +simple and practical rules, which are much easier to observe than Prof. +Matthews’, they may be assured that their articles will always command +the highest market price, which is seldom less than two cents a pound: + +Never write with pen or ink. It is altogether too plain, and doesn’t +hold the mind of the editor and printers closely enough to their work. + +If you are compelled to use ink never use that vulgarity known as the +blotting pad. If you drop a blot of ink on the paper, lick it off. The +intelligent compositor loves nothing so dearly as to read through the +smear this will make across twenty or thirty words. We have seen him +hang over such a piece of copy half an hour, swearing like a pirate all +the time, he felt that good. + +Don’t punctuate. Editors and publishers prefer to punctuate all +manuscript sent to them. And don’t use capitals. Then the editor can +punctuate and capitalize to suit himself, and your article, when you +see it in print, will astonish even if it does not please you. + +Don’t try to write too plainly. It is a sign of plebeian origin and +public-school breeding. Poor writing is an indication of genius. It’s +about the only indication of genius that a great many men possess. +Scrawl your article with your eyes shut, and make every word as +illegible as you can. We get the same price for it from the rag-man as +though the paper were covered with copper-plate sentences. + +Avoid all painstaking with proper names. All editors know the full name +of every man, woman and child in the United States, and the merest +hint at the name is sufficient. For instance, if you write a character +something like a drunken figure “8,” and then draw a wavy line, and +then write the letter M and another wavy line, the editor will know at +once that you mean Samuel Morrison, even though you may think you mean +“Lemuel Messenger.” It is a great mistake to think that proper names +should be written plainly. + +Always write on both sides of the paper, and when you have filled +both sides of every page trail a line up and down every margin, and +back to the top of the first page, closing your article by writing +the signature just above the date. How editors do love to get hold of +articles written in this style. And how they would like to get hold of +the man who sends them. Just for ten minutes. Alone. In the woods, with +a gun. + +Lay your paper on the ground when you write; the rougher the ground the +better. A dry goods box or the side of the house will do if the ground +is too damp. Any thing rather than a table or desk. + +Coarse brown wrapping paper is the best for writing your articles on. +If you can tear down an old circus poster and write on the pasty side +of it with a pine stick, it will do still better. + +When your article is completed, crunch the paper in your pocket, and +carry it two or three days before sending it in. This rubs off the +superfluous pencil marks and makes it lighter to handle. + +If you can think of it, lose one page out of the middle of your +article. The editor can easily supply what is missing, and he loves to +do it. He has nothing else to do. + +If correspondents will observe these directions, editors, in most +instances, will hold themselves personally responsible for every +error that appears in their articles, and will pay full claims for +damages when complaint is made. We shall never forget the last man +who complained at the _Hawkeye_ office under this rule. We can never, +never, although we should live a thousand years, forget the appalling +look he turned upon us while we were pulling his lungs out of his +ear with the nail-grab. Our heart seemed to turn to ice, under the +influence of that dumb beseeching look, while we tore him to pieces. +We have never torn a man to pieces since without feeling the hot tears +spring to our eyes as we think of that man. We have been tempted, time +and again, to break ourselves of this habit of tearing men to pieces +for trivial causes. But we digress. We were merely saying we are always +happy to receive complaints and correct any errors for which we are +responsible. + + + + +DANGERS OF BATHING. + + +As the warm weather raises the waters of the creeks and rivers to the +temperature so inviting to the boys of the republic, a few instructive +and general suggestions relative to bathing in the streams may prove +the means of saving some juvenile lives. Boys are proverbially rash +and reckless in almost everything they do, and are so apt to overdo +whatever they undertake, except sawing wood or fastening the front +gate, that too much wholesome advice on the benefits of abstinence +can never be amiss in their cases. And especially is such advice +necessary in regard to bathing, for when a boy makes up his mind to “go +swimming,” he thinks of nothing in the world except getting into the +water. And every year so many precious lives are endangered, and so +much pain and misery caused by boyish, carelessness and thoughtlessness +in this respect, that it is a solemn and important duty of journalism +to warn the boys of the dangers that wait upon bathing parties, and +instruct them how to avoid them. We therefore give a few rules, culled +from the pages of personal experience, which, if properly observed by +the boys of America, may save them no one can tell how much misery and +suffering. + +1. Always ask your mother if you may go down to the river with the boys +to hunt carnelians. Mention the names of Sammie Johnson, and Robbie +Gregg, and Ellis Haskell and Johnnie Chalmers, and Charlie Austin, and +Wallie Colburn, and Dockie Worthington, all well-known “good boys,” +who wash their faces every morning, keep their clothes clean, wear +white-collars, and don’t say bad words, as the young gentlemen who are +to comprise the party. A judicious and strict adherence to this rule +has often obtained the necessary parental permission to visit the river +shore, which would otherwise be sternly denied, especially if it should +appear that Bill Slamup, and Tom Dobbins, and Jim Sikes, and Butch +Tinker, and Mickey McCann, were the alternates who were confidently +expected to represent the first named delegates in the convention. + +2. Avoid going into the river in the vicinity of a lumber yard. The +temptation to take pine boards from the lumber piles to swim on is too +strong for many boys to resist. It is very pleasant, we know, to swim +around on a nice broad plank, but the lumbermen do not always like +it, and we have known a rough board, abruptly drawn from beneath the +horizontal figure of a kicking, paddling, laughing boy, to fill him +with remorse and slivers to an extent that would appear incredible were +it not for the fact that the boy who loses his plank in this way has +plenty of time to count his slivers as he pulls them out. + +We knew a boy, twenty years ago, who swam off a plank in this way, +and immediately afterward sat down on the sandy shore, and amid the +unfeeling laughter and mocking sympathy of his colleagues, withdrew +from his cuticle, beginning at the chin and ending at the toes, three +hundred and seventeen well-developed average slivers, and four of a +larger variety, denominated snags. And sometimes we wake up in the +night, from happy dreams of childhood’s guileless days, and half +believe we didn’t get all those slivers out then. + +3. Avoid putting a bar of kitchen soap in your pocket before you leave +home. It frequently gives the bather away entirely, being quickly +missed from the sink, and readily detected about the person. And +even if you get it safely to the river, and the first boy who “soaps +himself” does not lose it in twenty feet of water, the “strocky” +appearance of your hair, on your return home, instantly betrays the +recent and extravagant use of resin soap, and grave consequences are +apt to follow. Besides, you do not really need the soap, as is attested +by your well-known aversion to it at home. + +4. If convenient, bathe very near a railroad bridge. Then, when a +passenger train comes thundering by, you can rush out of the water and +dance and shriek on the bank. Travelers like this; and if your uncle +Jasper, from Waterloo, or your father returning from Creston, should +happen to be on the train and recognize you, they will tell you what +the passengers said about it, and your father will be so pleased that +he will assist you in a little physical exercise, so essential to the +health after bathing. And then the next time you go in swimming you can +show the boys your back--a spectacle in which they will take fiendish +delight, which they will exhibit by imitating, in most expressive +pantomime, the contortions, gestures, and outcries in which you were +supposed to have indulged while your father was putting that back on +you. + +5. If you desire to get up a crowd to go swimming, signify your wishes +by holding up your right hand, with the first and second fingers +erect and spread apart like a letter V, and as many good boys as are +ready, willing and anxious to run away and go with you, will respond +by the same sign, and the party can easily be made up without fear of +detection, in the presence of the unsuspecting preceptor, who is a +graduate of a private school, and never had any fun. + +6. Should any boy be so lost to honor as to desire to leave the water +before the rest of the crowd wish to do so, he may be easily induced to +return to the liquid element by gently tossing a handful of dry sand +or dust upon his back, as nearly between the shoulders as may be. If +there is a really good, unsophisticated boy in the crowd whose habit +of wearing a white collar and carrying a clean handkerchief pronounces +him a haughty aristocrat, the bad boys by getting dressed first and +judiciously applying the sand to him as often as he “comes out,” can +keep him in the water until his father comes to look for him. Then, the +next afternoon he goes down with you to the river, you can look at his +back, and have your revenge. + +7. If a boy lingers in the water too long, it is sometimes advisable, +in order that he may learn to abstain from indulging himself to such an +intemperate extent in the future, to tie each sleeve of his shirt in a +most terrific hard knot, right at the elbow. When this knot is dipped +into the water, and a boy gets at each end of the sleeve, braces his +feet and pulls for life, it may be drawn so tightly that it can not +be drawn out with a stump machine. The boy who belongs to that shirt, +after many vain endeavors, is either compelled to cut off the sleeves, +or, _multis cum lachrymis_, go home with it buttoned around his neck +and hanging down his back, like a drunken apron. This gives him away, +bad, and the appearance of that weeping boy, plodding timorously and +apprehensively homeward through the gloaming, and the variegated +aspect of his back the next night, produce such a pleasant impression +upon you, that for two weeks afterward, as your dear mother looks in +at your room door, and sees you smiling in your sleep, she thinks the +angels are whispering to you. + +8. The most approved method of drying the hair is to shake it up +rapidly with a pine stick. Never comb your hair smoothly before going +home, no matter who offers to loan you a pocket-comb. A slick head of +hair excites suspicion in the family circle on sight. + +9. If, at the supper-table, the dreadful discovery is made by your +mother or sister that your shirt is wrong side out, the best way to +do is to own right up. Excuses are useless; and no mother or father +of ordinary intelligence was ever misled by the assertion, however +solemnly made, that the shirt was turned by reason of the boy too +suddenly climbing a fence instead of going through the gate. + +10. To get water out of your ears, lean your head over to one side, and +kick out violently with one leg, while you pound your head smartly with +the palm of your hand. It is an exploded fallacy that holding a warm +stone to the ear will bring out the water. + +There are some other rules which might be added to the above, but they +are comparatively unimportant, and are so generally known that you can +learn them by applying for information to the first bad boy you meet. + + + + +THE POWER OF DIGNITY. + + +The human heart, in all its expansive, limitless capacity for +enjoyment, takes greater pleasure in nothing than in witnessing +a portly, solemn-visaged man, the embodiment of natural dignity, +importance in clothes, administer a scathing rebuke to some “smart” +petty government official. One morning just such a personification +of innate dignity loomed up at the stamp window of the post-office, +and glared in gloomy and majestic displeasure at the busy clerk who +registered a letter before he sprang to the window and asked the +stately customer what he wished. The great man did not answer for +several moments. He gazed steadily and impressively over the clerk’s +head, and then asked, in ponderous tones: + +“Is there any one hear-r-r-e who attends to business?” + +The embarrassed clerk blushed, faltered for a moment, then, recovering +himself, said, with characteristic and national cheerfulness, becoming +an official of the Republic: + +“I will see, sir.” + +And he disappeared. He went into the other departments, tortured a +carrier with an original conundrum, and heard a good story in the +mailing room, and came back. + +“Yes, sir,” he said to the great one, “there are, in addition to +myself, three clerks in the letter department, one in the mailing room, +four carriers, three route agents, the mail driver and a janitor.” + +“Ah-h-h! I am glad there are so many. I may in all that number find one +who is at his post.” + +And then he looked as impressive as a special agent, and was silent +for three minutes, while the humbled clerk awaited his orders, and +impatient men behind him fidgeted and grumbled. Finally, the great man +said with deep solemnity: + +“I wish one three-cent stamp.” + +The clerk tore off the stamp and held it, waiting for the +consideration. The great man made a somewhat longer pause than usual; +he felt in his various vest pockets; he gradually lost his look of +impressive rebuke; his chest caved in, and he assumed the aspect of an +ordinary frail mortal, and he said: + +“Ah--the fact is--I’m sure--ah--in short, I find that I have carelessly +left my purse at home--can you kindly--” + +The clerk, with the faintest suggestion of triumph in his eye, +brusquely waved the great man aside with-- + +“Sorry for you, sir; but the clerk who sells stamps on credit is not +in. What does the next man want?” + +And the great man, as he backed through the smiling crowd who stood +around with money in their hands, felt somehow that his rebuke had +been thrown away, and feared that if the case went to the jury without +argument it would very probably bring in a verdict for the Government. + + + + +A CANDID CONFESSION. + + +There used to live down on Washington Street, a good man, who +endeavored to train up his children in the way they should go, and as +his flock was numerous he had anything but a sinecure in this training +business. Only last Summer the elder of these male olive branches, who +had lived about fourteen wicked years, enticed his younger brother, +who had only had ten years’ experience in boyish deviltry, to go out +on the river in a boat, a species of pastime which their father had +many a time forbidden, and had even gone so far as to enforce his veto +with a skate strap. But the boys went this time, trusting to luck to +conceal their depravity from the knowledge of their pa, and in due +time they returned, and walked around the house, the two most innocent +looking boys in Burlington. They separated for a few moments, and +at the expiration of that time the elder was suddenly confronted by +his father who requested a private interview in the usual place, and +the pair adjourned to the woodshed, where, after a brief, but highly +spirited performance, in which the boy appeared most successfully as +“heavy villain” and his father took his favorite role of “first old +man,” the curtain went down and the boy, considerably mystified, sought +his younger brother. + +“John,” he said, “who do you suppose told dad? Have you been licked?” + +John’s face will not look more peaceful and resigned when it is in his +coffin than it did as he replied, + +“No, have you?” + +“Have I? Come down to the cow yard and look at my back.” + +John declined, but said: + +“Well, Bill, I’ll tell you how father found us out. I am tired of +acting this way, and I ain’t going to run away and come home and lie +about it any more. I’m going to do better after this, and so when I saw +father I couldn’t help it, and went right to him and confessed.” + +Bill was touched at this manly action on the part of his younger +brother. It found a tender place in the bad boy’s heart, and he was +visibly affected by it. But he asked: + +“How did it happen the old man didn’t lick you?” + +“Well,” said the penitent young reformer, “you see I didn’t confess on +myself, I only confessed on you; that was the way of it.” + +A strange, cold light glittered in Bill’s eye. + +“Only confessed on me?” he said. “Well, that’s all right, but come down +behind the cow shed and look at my back.” + +And when they got there do you suppose John saw the first mite of +Bill’s back? Ah no, dear children, he saw nothing bigger than Bill’s +fists, and before he got out of that locality he was the worst pounded +John that ever confessed on anybody. Thus it is that our coming +reformers are made and trained. + +[Illustration: BURLINGTON NOVELETTE.] + + + + +A BURLINGTON NOVELETTE. + + +CHAPTER I. + +“Margueritte!” + +“Bertrande Hautville Montaigne du Biffington!” + +And the soughing of the September wind swept through the tremulous +leaves like the whisper of memories, ghosts of the far away had +been. Each star that lit the azure dome with glittering ray--er, +ah--er--er--with glittering ray. Ray. + +It looked like rain. + + +CHAPTER II. + +Margueritte Hortense Isana l’Erena del Imperatricia du Calincourt +Johnson was an orphan. + +Her father was dead. + +And, also, by the way, her mother. + +Her great grand parents were not living. Alas, no. The cold clods +rattled on the coffins of those estimable people when Margueritte was +young. She was not acquainted with the fact until the good people had +been dead some seventy-five years. + +Then kind friends, whose hearts were torn and rifted with sympathy, +broke the news gently to her. + +She sat like one stunned. Over her marble face there passed no trace of +the emotion which raged like a high fed cyclone in her soul. She said: + +“Did they leave me anything?” + +And they told her, “Not a stiver, dear, not a lone nickel; not a street +car check; not a solitary red, red cent. Only an old photograph album +with the covers torn off and the pictures lost. You are badly left.” + +And then the fountains of the deep were broken up and she wailed in the +bitterness of her agony. + +“Why, oh, why did they die? Why did they die? Why did they die and +leave me,--leave me--leave me nothing?” + +A deep manly voice, resonant as a vesper bell when it is peeling for +the fray, answered from the next room. + +“I give it up.” + +Let us draw a veil over the dreadful scene. + + +CHAPTER III. + +Bertrande Hautville Montaigne du Biffington was not an orphan. + +He was an Ancient and Excepted Odd Fellow. + +He was of a noble and numerous parentage. He had one mother, and +she was a Chicago printcess. She used to hold brevier cases on _The +Daily Tomahawk_. She had ten divorces, neatly framed, hanging up in +her parlor, and Bertrande, whose own original father had died of an +hereditary attack of arsenic in the soup while his divorce suit was +pending, was successively flogged by an illustrious line of paternal +incumbents, and acknowledged the sway of one father, full rank, and +ten fathers by brevet. He loved the lonely orphan, who had no parents +whatever, from a sense of natural duty and justice, to kind of even the +thing up and strike an equitable average. + + +CHAPTER IV. + +There is only one place where nature does not abhor a vacuum. That is +under a Congressman’s hat. + + +CHAPTER V. + +Night had come. It got in on the evening train, and was late, as +usual. The drowsy bat was on the wing; or rather, the wing was on +the drowsy bat. Both wings, in fact, were on the d. b. Down in the +mossy glade, where deepening shadows mock the starlight’s gleam, she +waits. Her Italian marble brow is clouded with a weight of sorrow. Her +finely-chiseled chin is still; the plastic chewing gum, pasted on the +trunk of a rugged oak, cools and hardens in the evening air. The firm +tread of a manly No. 9 comes crashing through the woodland. + +’Tis he. + +“Bertrande!” + +“Margueritte!” + +They said no more. They could not. They had forgotten the rest of each +other’s names. They sat in the deeping shadows of the gloaming, holding +each other’s hands, and trying to think of something nice to say. + +Suddenly his delicate nostrils quivered and trembled with a startled +light. + +“Margueritte!” he exclaimed, “we must fly! I hear the sound of native +applejack upon the evening air! M’ff! m’ff!” + +“Oh, hevings!” she cried, “it is, it is me long lost fathyer!” + +“Then,” he exclaimed, drawing a United States regulation cavalry saber +from his bosom, “I am lost!” + +“Oh, no, not lost;” she said in earnest tones, “go straight ahead till +you come to the _Hawkeye_ office, then turn up Market Street two blocks +and follow the street car track south until you smell beer. Then you +will know where you are. Fe-ly! Fe-ly! Me fathyer comes.” + +“Methought,” he said, pausing in his flight, and speaking sternly, +“Methought thou haddedest not a father.” + +“I haive, I haive,” she shrieked, “and it is he!” + +And as she spake a fatherly looking man parted the bushes and stood by +her side. He was clad in a dark blue cut-away coat, with a button-hole +bouquet, white vest, lilac kids, lavender pants, a pink necktie, waxed +mustache, and a high hat. His boots were four and a half; his snowy +handkerchief was perfumed with jockey club, and his breath with whisky +sour. He was twenty-one years of old. + +Bertrande regarded him sadly, and said to her he loved: + +“It seems to me your father is rather juvenile.” + +“Dear Bertrande,” she said, laying her head upon her father’s shoulder, +“he married awful young.” + +“Ah,” said Bertrande, bitterly, “I thought may be you had adopted him.” + +And turning on his heel he was gone. + + + + +A REMINISCENCE OF EXHIBITION DAY. + + +“Well, no,” the boy said, “the thing didn’t go off exactly as I +expected. You see, I was the sixth boy in the class, that was next to +the head when the class formed left in front, and I was pretty near the +first boy called on to declaim. I had got a mighty good ready and had a +bully piece too. Ah, it was a rip staver.” + +And the boy sighed as he paused to lift a segment out of a green apple, +and placed it where it would do the most good, for a cholera doctor. We +asked what piece it was. + +“Spartacus to the Gladiators,” he said. “Just an old he raker of a +piece. I got it all by heart, and used to go clear out to the Cascade +to rehearse and hook strawberries. Old Fitch”--Mr. Fitch was the boy’s +preceptor, one of the finest educators in the state--“he taught me all +the gestures and inflections and flub drubs, and said I was just layin’ +over the biggest toad in the puddle----” + +“Excelling all your competitors, probably Mr. Fitch said,” we suggested. + +“Yes,” the boy replied, “he’s a toney old cyclopedia on the patter, is +old Fitchy. But him and me was both dead sure I was goin’ to skin the +rag off the bush----” + +“Win all the honors,” we gently corrected. + +“Yes,” he said, “and the way it went off was bad. You see, I didn’t +feel easy in my Sunday clothes on a week day to begin with. And my +collar was too tight and my necktie was too blue, and I was in a hurry +to get off early, so I only blacked the toes of my boots, and left +the heels as red as a concert ticket. And the crowd there was in the +school-house. Jammed. Every body in their good clothes and every body +looking solemn as Monday morning. When my name was called something +came up in my throat as big as a foot-ball. I couldn’t swallow it and I +couldn’t spit it out. And when I got up on the platform--oh, Godfrey’s +cordial! did you ever see a million heads without any bodies?” + +We felt ashamed of our limited experience while we confessed that we +could not recall having witnessed such a phenomenon. + +“I never did till then,” the boy went on, “but they were there, for a +fact, and I began to remember when these heads danced round and round +the room that I had been forgetting my piece in the last five minutes +just as fast as I ever forgot to fix the kindling wood at night. +But I commenced. I got along with ‘It had been a day of triumph in +Capua’ and ‘Lentulus returning with victorious eagles’ and all that +well enough; but when I got on into the heavy business, I was left, +sure. If Spartacus had talked to the gladiators as I did, they would +have thought he was drunk and hustled him off to bed. It was awful. I +stumbled along until I came to ‘Ye stand here now like giants as ye +are. The strength of brass is in your rugged sinews, but to-morrow some +Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his curling locks, will with +his dainty fingers pat your red brawn and bet his sesterces upon your +blood.’” + +“That was excellent, capital,” we said, applauding, for the boy had +growled off the last sentence like a first heavy villain. + +“Oh yes, is it though?” he said, with some asperity. “Well, that’s the +way I was going to say it that Friday, but what I did say was, ‘The +strength of brass is in your rugged sinews, but to-morrow afternoon +(you see I got to thinking of a base ball match) some Doman Aronis +breathing sweet perfumery from his curly socks, will pat your bed rawn +and bet his sister sees your blood.’” + +“Did they laugh?” we asked. + +“Oh no!” he replied, with an inflection that type won’t take. “Oh, no; +they never smiled again; _they_ didn’t. It was when I got down a little +that they felt bad. When he says, ‘If ye are beasts, then stand here +waiting like fat oxen for the butcher’s knife.’ I told them, ‘If ye +be cat fattle, then wait here standing like a butcher for the carving +knife.’ And I got worse and worse until it came to this, ‘Oh, Rome, +Rome, thou hast been a tender mother to me. Thou hast taught the poor +timid shepherd boy, who never knew a harsher tone than a flute note, +to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as +a boy upon a laughing girl. Thou hast taught him to drive the sword +through rugged links of mail and brass and warm it in the marrow of his +foe!’” + +“Bravo!” we shouted. + +“Cheese it,” he said, sententiously; “I didn’t say it just that way. I +said, ‘Oh Rome, thou has ten a binder mother to me. Thou hast taught +the poor boy who never knew a sheep note to glare into the laughing ear +of a fierce Numidian eyeball even as a lyin’ boy at a girl. Thou hast +taught him to mail his ragged brass through swords of link, and marry +it in the warmer of his foe.’” + +“And then?” we asked. + +“I cried,” he said, “and went down. Everybody was cry’n’. They all had +their faces in their handkerchiefs or behind fans, and were shaking so +it nearly jarred the school-house.” + +“You should practice elocution during vacation,” we suggested, “and you +will not fail again.” + +He bolted the rest of the green apple, threw his bare feet up in the +air, and walked around on his hands in little circles. “Don’t have no +speakin’ in vacation,” he said. + +And we knew that, boy-like, he was going to let the days and the morrow +take care each of its own evils, and we wondered as we came away how +many fathers would recognize their own boys in the hero of this sketch, +and if dear old Fitch, the oldest boy, with the clearest head and the +tenderest heart we ever knew, would remember him. + + + + +MR. OLENDORF’S COMPLAINT. + + +Young Mr. Olendorf used to board at a nice boarding-house out on North +Hill, a little this side of the North Pole. It was a good way out; but +Mr. Olendorf always was fond of pure air and pedestrian exercise, and +as his business hours were easy, he preferred the comforts of a home +in the suburbs to the excitement and clamor of a down-town hotel. A +mild-looking, meek-faced, soft-voiced young man was Mr. Olendorf, as +ever you could wish to see. He rarely complained about anything, and +he never spoke harshly of any one. He would sit on his trunk, when the +family had carried his chair down to the parlor for the convenience of +invited guests; and he would patiently sew on his shirt buttons with +a darning-needle and carpet thread, rather than intimate to his +washer-lady that it wasn’t just the thing to run fine shirts through +a corn-sheller to wash them. Many a time he crawled into a bed that +looked like the crater of an extinct volcano, rather than report the +hired girl for neglecting to make it up. And six times a week he +cleaned his grimy lamp chimney with his fingers, as far as they would +reach, because, he said, in the fullness of his charitable soul, the +girl had so much to do she hadn’t got round to it. And the seventh +night in the week, the lamp being empty and dry as a flat bottle on a +hunting expedition, he would undress by the dim religious light of a +match. He used to wash with a piece of soap four inches long and two +inches thick, as brown as varnish, and so hard it chipped the edges +of the washstand when it was carelessly dropped; and often and often, +when his eyes were full of soap, and he reached out his imploring +hands, groping for the short, thin towel that was seldom there, he +had to feel his way to the bed, abrading his shins against things +that he couldn’t see and didn’t know the names of, and dry his face +and hair on the pillow-slips. But he never murmured. He used to find +bright streaks of red by the dozen in his pomade, and go down to the +breakfast table with his own coal-black locks as dry as good advice, +and marvel at the exceeding glossiness and slickness of the hired +girl’s bright auburn cranium. But he said never a word. And the drouth +used to strike his perfumery bottles once in a while, and leave them as +empty as a lecturer’s head; and he would wind his modest nasal horn in +a handkerchief that smelled like a wash-tub, and when his landlady’s +daughters sailed scornfully past him, perfumed for all the world like +the ghosts of his toilet bottles up stairs, he never looked suspicious, +but only smiled apologetically, as though it was wrong in him to leave +temptation in their way. And once, when he had an attack of cholera +morbus, and sent out for a quart of brandy, and took a tablespoonful +of it, and came back at night to find the bottle very empty, and the +landlady’s husband very full, and lying in Mr. Olendorf’s bed with his +boots on, young Mr. Olendorf only agreed with the landlady that it +was very singular, and that the old man must be ill. So you see Mr. +Olendorf was inclined to be rather peaceable and meek, and when he did +complain there must be some reason for it. + +[Illustration: OLENDORF’S COMPLAINT.] + +One evening Mrs. McKerrel, his landlady, approached the young man for +the purpose of securing the weekly dole which he paid for the comforts +of a home, and bracing himself up by a desperate effort, Mr. Olendorf, +for the first time in his life, complained. + +“It’s the hash, Mrs. McKerrel,” he said plaintively. “It’s too +monotonous. It’s good hash. I can’t say that it isn’t good. It is more +nutritious than chopped straw, and a prize candy package doesn’t equal +it for variety. But I want change. I like hash for breakfast. But when +you give us baked hash for dinner and put boned hash on for supper, and +give us plain hash again for breakfast, and serve stuffed hash again +for dinner, it isn’t a square deal. I believe you impose on us. I never +heard of ‘stuffed hash’ before I came here, and the only difference +between it and the common kind is that it is thinner. The last ‘stuffed +hash’ you gave us you made us eat with steel forks, and it was as thin +as soup, and how is a strong man going to make out a dinner when he has +only twenty-five minutes in which to eat soup with a three-tined fork? +And I don’t think you do the fair thing by us on what you call ‘boned +hash.’ It’s hardly right, Mrs. McKerrel, to make a hash of sardines and +herrings and then call it ‘boned.’ It’s just like eating a shoe brush. +Now there ought to be, once in a while, a change. Not too often, you +know; I don’t expect you to keep a French restaurant for seven dollars +a week, but just often enough to keep the bill of fare from growing +tiresome. Say once every seven years. For instance, you may have +‘boned hash’ to-morrow for dinner, which, it being Sunday, you will. +Well, then, you might have ‘boned hash’ every day until 1882, and then +give us a roast, or a car-spring chicken. And so with ‘stuffed hash,’ +and ‘hash a la mode,’ and ‘hash a la Mayonnais,’ ‘Lady Washington +hash,’ ‘hash on toast,’ ‘spring hash, with mint sauce,’ and ‘hash a la +mortar,’ and the other hashes on your bill of fare. By serving them +up once every seven years, you have enough kinds to run clear into a +Centennial.” + +The landlady, looking aghast, made an effort to speak, but young Mr. +Olendorf motioned her to silence. + +“And if you would speak to Mrs. Muldoon, dear Mrs. McKerrel,” he +went on, “and tell her that, while I am not proud, I do not consider +the hickory shirts which the estimable Mr. Muldoon wears while he is +developing the railroad resources of the United States exactly the +things to wear to church; and even if I had no other scruples against +attending public worship in a section hand’s shirt, torn all the way +across the shoulders and fastened at the neck and cuffs with horn +buttons, Mr. Muldoon’s are five sizes too large for me, and I would +rather she would send me my own. And if you can bribe her to put the +starch in my collars instead of my handkerchiefs, I feel that it +will improve the appearance of my neck, and spare the feelings of a +lacerated and tender nose. No man, Mrs. McKerrel, can wipe his nose on +a sheet of tin and do the matter justice.” + +Mrs. McKerrel placed her hands on her hips and stood up, but Mr. +Olendorf begged her to be patient just a moment, while he went on: + +“And do you think, if I made a chalk mark on them, that your domestic +could learn the difference between my hair brush and my shoe brush? And +if I made her a little present, might she not be induced to look up +something else to black the stoves with instead of my shoe brush? It is +dreadfully mortifying, Mrs. McKerrel, to black your shoes after night +and get clear in church the next morning before discovering that your +feet are glistening in all the glory of ‘Plumbago’s New Silver Gray +Luster,’ and everybody is laughing at you. And then, Mrs. McKerrel, I +don’t know how my things get so full of snuff. I never use snuff, and I +don’t want to complain, but----” + +Here the exasperated matron could restrain herself no longer. Hastily +thrusting her snuff-box back in her pocket, she bade Mr. Olendorf pack. +What he wanted, she said, was a Fifth Avenue hotel for seven dollars a +week, and he couldn’t have it in her house. He was too particular for +such a plain woman as her; if he didn’t like the ways of plain people, +he would have to go where they were nicer. He was too stuck up and +fussy to live in her house. Boarders she had kept, of the very best +people in the highest classes in society, and this was the first time +she had ever heard a word of complaint in her house. + +And that is the way Mr. Olendorf happened to call around at the Gorham +and ask Andrews for a nice room, a long ways up. And Andrews gave him a +key and told him to climb till he knew he was lost, and then crawl into +the first bed he saw. + + + + +RURAL FELICITY. + + +Mr. Philetus R. Throop is a well-known insurance agent of Burlington. +He is a perfect steam engine to work, and every Summer, when he feels +about worn out by his labors, he goes out to the farm of his Uncle +George and rests a couple of weeks. He went out last Summer, as usual, +but he only remained a couple of days, and on his return he was heard +to say that he would never, never, never, go into the country again +if he died for a breath of fresh air. The causes which led to this +determination were as follows: + +You see, he got a late start on his last trip out into the country, +so that when he reached his Uncle George’s farm it was about nine +o’clock in the evening, and the family, after the good old-fashioned +custom, had gone to bed; not a light was visible about the house. Mr. +Throop got out of the wagon in which a neighboring farmer had brought +him, before they reached the house, so that the noisy wheels would not +apprise any waking member of the fact that a visitor had come. Then +he climbed over the fence and skipped briskly across lots to reach +the house, and give Uncle George and the family a good surprise. Mr. +Throop was not so familiar with the farm as he ought to have been to +attempt such a nocturnal expedition. He had not gone twenty steps +before he stepped into a great ditch, and had time to say all he could +remember of the child’s prayer, “Now I lay me,” before he reached +the bottom, and then had plenty of time to compose and repeat a much +more appropriate and longer one before he crawled out again. After +that he went more slowly, picking his steps with the greatest care, +and straining his eyes as he peered into the darkness to distinguish +noxious objects. But it was very dark, and of course appearances were +unusually deceitful. He would walk around a patch of young clover or +luxuriant turf, his heart standing still the while with the terror of +having so narrowly escaped walking into a great well, and the next +minute he would, after peering ahead of him until his eyes ached and +sparks of fire danced before them, walk with the greatest confidence +and composure into a pile of last year’s peabrush seven feet high, +knocking off his hat, scratching his face and tearing his clothes. And +then such a time as he would have hunting for his hat, and all the +imaginable and unimaginable things that he would pick up in mistake +for that useful article of apparel, can be far better imagined than +described. And once he ran into a fence and nearly put his eye out +on the end of a great stake that was standing out like the point of +a _chevaux de frise_. And just before he got to the barn-yard he was +amazed to discern a creek flowing between him and the fence, and after +vainly hunting in the dark for a bridge, he pulled off his boots and +trousers, and, holding the bundle of clothes high in his arms, waded +across a stubblefield! so dry, every foot of it, that he might have +lighted a match on it anywhere. He thought every tooth he had would +chatter out of his head before he could get into his clothes again. +Then he got into the barn-yard. He knew it was the barn-yard after he +got into it, because in less than a minute after he had climbed the +fence, he fell over a slumbering cow, and before he could get up, the +frightened animal rose to her feet and bucked Mr. Throop over her head. +Then he heard a cow get up just before him, and another just behind +him, and two or three to the right and left, and when a cow with a bell +that could be heard two miles got up and began galloping around the +yard stirring up the rest of the cows, Mr. Throop would have willingly +given up the best risk he had ever taken for a lantern. It wasn’t +safe to stand still, so he took his hat in his hand and went along, +swooping it around him in great circles, shouting “Swoosh! Hi! Hooey! +Scat! Whish! Whoosh! Ste-boy!” as he went along. He only hit one cow +with his hat, however, and the animal thus rudely assailed reached out +and kicked him in the groin and doubled him up, and with a farewell +flourish hit him on the side of the face with the end of a tail so full +of cockle burs that it weighed twenty-seven pounds and knocked him so +flat he thought he never would want to get up again. Then he saw what +he supposed was the house, looming up black and quiet before him, and +he thought his troubles were over. They had just begun. + +The next minute he stepped under an open shed where the agricultural +implements had been stored during the Winter. The first intimation he +had of this was by falling over a plow. He scraped both shins, from +the instep to the knee, across the edge of the share, and one of the +handles caught him under the chin and jabbed his head up and back so +suddenly that he heard his neck crack, and the other hunched him in the +floating ribs and knocked enough breath out of him to start a tornado, +in a small way but on a safe basis. He thought he never would get away +from that plow, for he no sooner got one leg out of one entanglement +of draught-irons, coulter, share and handles, than he got the other +one snarled up in a still more hopeless maze of mould-board, clevis, +sole-plate and beam, besides several other parts that he didn’t know +the names of. And when at last he vanquished the plow he lost himself +in a cultivator, and wore himself out trying to crawl through the +gang of coulters. When he got clear of that he fell in with a reaper +and mower, and after prodding his instep into indescribable agony by +thrusting it against the sickle guards as he fell, he caught hold of +the reel, which, of course, immediately whirled with his weight. But +it chanced that quite a large colony of barn-yard fowls had used the +reel as their roosting place during the Winter, and as it whirled +round the amazed and bewildered Mr. Throop rained down upon himself +a terrific tempest of hens and roosters, Brahmas, light Cochins, +ungainly Shanghais, and a variety of other breeds in such a tumult +of squawkings and cacklings, and flappings of wings, and vague but +vigorous clawings of feet, that he didn’t care whether he got out alive +or not, and, indeed, before he got through with the reel he knocked +himself down with its vindictive slats seven times. Then he got away +from that and impaled himself on a horse rake, and fell over the handle +of a fanning mill, and nearly killed himself in the horse-power of a +thrashing machine, and finally got into the house yard, felt his way +to the house, and fell exhausted and speechless against the front +door with a diamond-shaped harrow hanging around his neck. And Uncle +George, awakened by the thump at the door, opened an up-stairs window +and demanded who was there, and receiving no answer shot twice at the +recumbent form of Mr. Throop with his revolver. And when they came down +with lights and opened the door, they were as greatly surprised as Mr. +Throop could have wished. + + + + +THE GARDEN OF THE GODS. + + +The people around Barnes Street well remember when Mr. Middlerib +planted the “garden of the gods.” He bought cartloads of rich earth for +it, and loaded it with patent fertilizers, and ground and stirred and +raked it until the soil was fine as corn meal. The seeds were received +by express, and there wasn’t a package that didn’t have a full college +course of Latin printed on the back, and Mr. Middlerib grew bald trying +to pronounce the fearful and wonderful names of the seed, that were to +make the garden of the gods the wonder of South Hill. When these germs +of magnificent flora were planted the neighbors hung over the fence in +silent admiration and listened to Mr. Middlerib’s botanical lectures, +delivered over every package that was opened. Where the _abolutus +haciedendus microbulus_ was imbedded, he erected a large trestle +immediately, for that impetuous climber to ascend and ramble over. And +where he implanted the _diocantanean psyttachineliensis psoddium_, he +reared a tall, straight stick for that towering mass of blossom and +foliage to shape itself against. He refused the most penetrating hints +for a few seeds of the _bianthus geridian psottoliensis giasticus, +floridens bilthus_, and the care and great gravity with which he +earthed the germs of the _bibulus Burlingtoniensis giganteus_ brought +tears to the eyes of the women. And when the seeds were all planted, +how zealously Mr. Middlerib watched and wrought and fought for their +protection. He would get up in the night to chase the neighbors’ cows +around the house two or three times, and across the garden of the gods +four or five times, and out of the front gate once, and return to his +virtuous couch with profanity in his heart and mud on his feet, and one +slipper down by the cistern and the other in the verbena bed. + +All the cut-worms in the State of Iowa appeared to be attending a mass +convention in the garden of the gods. When the tinner came to fix the +spout, he stuck the ladder by which he ascended to the roof in that +sacred ground, and the carpenter who patched the cornice set one of +his trestles in the same place. Every tramp who came to beg, selected +that one favored locality as the only spot in the world where he might +assume the usual humble and respectful position, and rehearse the +stereotyped application for provender. Mr. Middlerib nearly wore out +his voice shouting at people and cows, and railing at cut-worms, and +one Sunday morning he fell asleep in church, and Mrs. M. prodded him +with her parasol just as the minister said, in impressive accents, “And +here we are treading on sacred ground.” “Git off of it!” yelled Mr. +Middlerib, dreaming of the grocer’s boy standing on the g. o. g., and +using his oft-repeated phrase, “Scatter, or I’ll bury ye in it!” And it +raised such a church scandal that Mr. Middlerib was obliged to double +his subscription to keep in good fellowship. + +But after manifold troubles, the garden came along beautifully, only +the plants acted a little queer. The climber refused to climb, save +in a horizontal position, but after its own way; and in all general +directions on a horizontal plane it manifested a disposition to crowd +all over that part of South Hill. The _diocantanean psyttachineliensis +psoddium_ scorned the straight stick by which it was expected to brace +itself, and grew out in crooked branches like a garden oak. But the +tender care it received, and the rich earth in which it was planted, +showed what wonders cultivation will do, and when, at last, Mr. +Middlerib, after long and manfully holding out against the declarations +of the envious neighbors and the hints of his wife and daughter, was +obliged to sit down on the porch, one lovely Summer evening, and admit +that he had wasted enough breath to make a tornado, and filled the air +with vociferous and murderous threats and vituperations, and quarreled +with three-quarters of his acquaintances, all for the sake of raising +a jimson weed, it was nevertheless a jimson weed nine feet high, with +blossoms as big as inflated sun-flowers. So he let the jimson weed +stand, and argued with every one who came to the house that, with +sufficient care and proper cultivation, it could be developed into +a fruit-bearing tree. As for the _abolutos haciedendus microbulos_, +as soon as he was morally and botanically certain that it was just +chickweed, Mr. Middlerib one night secretly pulled it up and threw it +away, and ever afterward professed to be heart-broken because some +rascally, envious florist had come up from Keokuk and stolen the +choicest climber in the Mississippi Valley. The _bianthus geridian +psottoliensis giasticus, floridens bilthus_ never showed itself +until toward the latter part of June. Then it thrust up a delicate, +fragile little sprout, drank in a little of the glad free air and pure +sunlight, heard itself called by its full name, and drooped under the +burden and died. The _bibulus Burlingtoniensis giganteus_ came up and +did well. It did not flower very abundantly; but it developed very +marked qualities. The chickens came up and pecked at it, and then laid +them down under the currant bushes and closed their eyes upon this +world of sorrow and mysterious plants. The pigs got into the yard and +rooted a little of it up, and their sudden demise gave rise to the +rumor of the hog cholera, and the air of the hill was vocal for the +next five days with the protests of healthy porkers against the popular +modes of treating the hog cholera, such as boring holes along the spine +with a red hot iron and splitting the ears and tail and rubbing in salt +and cayenne pepper. And after Master Middlerib fooled with it and got +some of it on his face, which immediately swelled up so that nothing +was visible to his eyes, and his eyes were visible to nobody, for +nearly a week, the wonderful plant was pulled up with the kitchen tongs +and thrown into the alley, where the geese of South Hill found it, ate +it, grew fat on it; and came around and asked for more. Nothing that +grows under the heavens can kill a South Hill goose. + +There were other plants in the garden of the gods that came up and +grew to maturity and brought forth blossoms each after his kind, but +as they turned out to be various species of rag-weed and dog-fennel, +they were not considered worthy of mention by Mr. Middlerib. But he +is disheartened with scientific gardening, and he only lives now for +one object: to ascertain whether these Latin names are really the +scientific names of those plants which they set forth, or he was +swindled by the traveling seed agent. + + + + +A TRYING SITUATION. + + +There was a time when Mr. Bilderback was almost persuaded to cut +off his pew rent, renounce his religious convictions, and become an +atheist or a pagan, he wasn’t very particular which. He was for many +weeks in great distress of mind, and professed the greatest hatred +of all churches, on general principles. This state of affairs, which +fortunately was not permanent, was brought about by a very annoying, +though perfectly innocent occurrence. One beautiful but rather warm +Sunday morning he was dozing comfortably in his pew, in the church +of which he is one of the main sleepers, when he became aware of an +apparition gliding solemnly down the aisle with a collection basket +in its hand. Mr. Bilderback braced up into an erect posture, cleared +his throat in a ponderous tone of Roman firmness, as one who should +say, “Who’s been asleep?” And as the basket was extended toward him, +he felt in his trousers pocket for his wallet. It wasn’t there, and as +he withdrew his hand, and felt in the other pocket, he felt that the +eyes of the congregation were upon him, and that was all he felt, for +he certainly didn’t feel any pocket-book. He nodded the basket man to +wait a second, and leaned over to the left while he felt in the right +inside pocket of his coat, from which in his growing nervousness he +drew half a dozen chestnuts which rolled over the floor with a rattle +that sounded in his hot ears like the thunders of the Apocalypse, +and made him warmer and more nervous than ever. Then he leaned over +the end of the pew and felt in the other inside coat pocket and drew +out a bundle of letters, a lot of postal cards, a circus ticket, +a photograph of an actress, a funny story printed on a card, a +pocket-comb and a long string, and his face grew so warm his breath +felt like a hot air blast. Then he squared his elbows and went for +his vest pockets, and strewed the pew cushion with quill toothpicks, +newspaper scraps, street car checks, a shoe buttoner, some lead pencil +stubs, and crumbling indications of chewing tobacco, a bit of sealing +wax, a piece of licorice root about an inch long, and three or four +matches. Then he leaned forward and, stung to madness by the smiles +which were breaking out all around that church worse than the measles +in a primary school room, dived into his coat tail pockets, and drew +forth a red silk handkerchief, two apples, a spectacle case, a pair of +dog skin gloves, an overcoat button, and a fine assortment of bits of +dried orange peel and lint. Then he stood up, devoutly praying that an +earthquake might come along and swallow up either him or the rest of +the congregation, he didn’t much care which, and went down into his +hip pockets, from which he evolved a revolver, a corkscrew, a cigar +case, a piece of string, a memorandum book, and a pocket knife. By this +time Mr. Bilderback’s face was scarlet clear down to his waist, and +he was so nervous and worked up that he nearly shook his clothes off, +while the man with the basket couldn’t have moved away, if he had died +for staying. And when Mr. Bilderback, in forlorn despair, once more +rammed his hand into the trousers pocket where he began the search, +the congregation held its breath, and when Mr. Bilderback drew forth +the very pocket-book which he had missed in his first careless search, +and had since all but stripped to find, there was a sigh of relief +went up from every devout heart in that house. But Mr. Bilderback only +dropped into his seat with an abruptness that made the windows rattle, +and registered a mental vow that he wasn’t going to come out to church +again to be made a fool of by a man with a long handled darning basket. + + + + +MR. BILDERBACK LOSES HIS HAT. + + +“No,” Mr. Bilderback said, “it wasn’t.” He put it there last night, +the last thing before he went to bed, he remembered most distinctly. +It wasn’t there now, and he didn’t know who had any business to move +it. Somebody had done it, and he hoped to gracious that it would be the +last time. Somebody was always meddling with his things. + +Mrs. Bilderback, coming down stairs with a weary air, asked if he had +looked in the closets? + +“Closets?” Mr. Bilderback snarled, “Kingdom of Ireland! Does any sane +man put his hat in the closets when he wants it every time he goes out? +No. I hung it up right here, on this very hook of this particular rack, +and if it had been left alone, it would be there now. Some of you must +have moved it. It hasn’t got legs and couldn’t get away alone.” + +Master Bilderback suggested that it wouldn’t be very surprising if +it felt its way along fur a little ways, for which atrocities he was +rewarded with a wild glare and a vicious cuff from his unappreciative +parent. Then Mr. Bilderback said, “Well, I suppose I can walk down town +bareheaded.” + +Well, that was the usual formula. Every body knew just what it meant, +and as soon as it was said the family scattered for the regular morning +search. Mrs. Bilderback looked in all the closets with the air of John +Rogers going to the stake, and then she went into an old chest, that +had the furs and things put away in it, and was only opened twice a +year, except when Mr. Bilderback’s hat was lost, which occurred on an +average three times a day. She shook pepper or fine cut tobacco or +camphor out of everything she picked up, and varied her search by the +most extraordinary sneezes that ever issued from human throat, while +ever and anon she paused to wipe her weeping eyes and say that “well, +she never.” Mrs. Bilderback’s search for the lost hat never got beyond +that chest. She would kneel down before it and take the things out one +by one, and put them back, and take them out, and sneeze and sigh, and +wonder occasionally “where the hat could be,” but her search never went +beyond that old moth proof chest. + +Miss Bilderback confined her search to the uncut pages of the last +_Scribner_, which she carefully cut and looked into, with an eager +scrutiny that told how intensely interested she was in finding that +hat. She never varied her method of search, save when the approaching +footsteps of her father warned her that he was swinging on his erratic +eccentric in that direction, when she hid the magazine, and picking +up the corner of the piano cover looked under that article with a +sweet air of zealous interest, exclaiming in tones of pretty vexation, +“I wonder where it can be?” And it was noticeable that this action +and remark, both of which she never failed to repeat every time her +father came into the room, had the effect of throwing that estimable +but irascible old gentleman into paroxysms of the most violent +passion, each one growing worse than its predecessors, until they +would culminate in a grand burst of wrath in which he ordered her to +quit looking for his hat. Then she would retire with an injured air +and tell her mother, between that indefatigable searcher’s sneezes, +that “one might wear one’s self out slaving and looking for pa’s hat +in every conceivable place, and all the thanks one got for it was +to be scolded.” Master Bilderback, he helped hunt, too. His system +of conducting a search was to go around into the back yard and play +“toss ball” up against the end of the house, making mysterious +disappearances, with marvelous celerity, behind the wood-pile or under +a large store box, so oft as he heard the mutterings of the tempest +that invariably preceded and announced his father’s approach. + +But Mr. Bilderback. His was a regular old composite system of +investigation; it combined and took in everything. He raged through +the sitting-room like a hurricane; he looked under every chair in that +room, and then upset them all to see if he mightn’t possibly have +overlooked the hat. Then he looked on all the brackets in the parlor, +and behind the window curtains, and kicked over the ottoman to look for +a hat that he couldn’t have squeezed under a wash-tub. And he kept up +a running commentary all the time, which served no purpose except to +warn his family when he was coming and give them time to prepare. He +looked into the clock and left it stopped and standing crooked. And he +would like to know who touched that hat. He looked into his daughter’s +work-box, a sweet little shell that “George” gave her, and he emptied +it out on the table and wondered what such trumpery was for, and who +in thunder hid his hat. “It must be hid,” he said. Peering down with +a dark, suspicious look into an odor bottle somewhat larger than +a thimble, “for it couldn’t have got so completely out of sight by +accident.” If people wouldn’t meddle with his things, he howled, for +the benefit of Mrs. Bilderback, whom he heard sneezing as he went past +the closet door, he would always know just where to find them, because +(looking gloomily behind the kitchen wood-box) he always had one place +to put all his things (and he took off the lid of the spice-box), and +kept them there. He glared savagely out of the door, in hopes of seeing +his hopeful son, but that youthful strategist was out of sight behind +his intrenchments. Mr. Bilderback wrathfully resumed his search, and +roared, for his daughter’s benefit, that he would spend every cent he +had intended to lay out for winter bonnets, in new hats for himself, +and then maybe he might be able to find one when he wanted it. Then +he opened the door of the oven and looked darkly in, turned all the +clothes out of the wash-basket, and strewed them around, wondering +“_who_ had hid that hat?” And he pulled the clothes-line off its nail, +and got down on his hands and knees to look behind the refrigerator, +and wondered “who _had_ hid that hat;” and then he climbed on the back +of a chair to look on the top shelf of the cupboard, and sneezed around +among old wide-mouthed bottles and pungent paper parcels, and wondered +in muffled wrath “who had _hid_ that hat?” And he went down into the +cellar and roamed around among rows of stone jars covered with plates +and tied up with brown paper, and smelling of pickles and things in all +stages of progress; every one of which he looked into, and how he did +wonder “who had hid _that_ hat.” And he looked into dark corners and +swore when he jammed his head against the corners of swinging shelves, +and felt along those shelves and run his fingers into all sorts of +bowls, containing all sorts of greasy and sticky stuff, and thumped +his head against hams hanging from the rafters, at which he swore anew, +and he peered into and felt around in barrels which seemed to have +nothing in them but cobwebs and nails; shook boxes which were prolific +in dust and startling in rats, and he wondered “who had hid that _hat_?” + +And just then loud whoops and shouts came from up stairs, announcing +that “here it was.” And old Bilderback went up stairs growling, because +the person who hid it hadn’t brought it out before, and saw the entire +family pointing out into the back yard, where the hat surmounted Mr. +Bilderback’s cane, which was leaning against the fence, “just where +you left it, pa,” Miss Bilderback explained, “when we called you into +supper, and it has been out there all night.” And Mr. Bilderback, +evidently restraining, by a violent effort, an intense desire to bless +his daughter with the cane, remarked with a mysterious manner, that “it +was mighty singular,” and putting on the hat, he strode away with great +dignity; leaving his wife and daughter to re-arrange the house. + + + + +MIND READING. + + +One morning, about the middle of the Spring term, Master Bilderback +made his appearance at school with a subdued manner apparent in all +his actions, while a cast of sadness mingled with traces of pleasant +memories overspread his countenance. It was, in short, that general +expression of penitence which people assume after a holiday of more +than usual hilarity. His quiet manner astonished the scholars and +alarmed his teacher, who feared that it was a portent of some unusual +mischief, and kept her eye upon the lad in consequence. He did not +appear to be conscious of the surveillance under which he was placed. +He bent no pins, he chewed no gum, he fired at the adjacent scholars +no projectiles of masticated paper during the morning; no dismal +but subdued cat-calls were heard from the vicinity of his seat; no +grotesque grimaces made his neighbors laugh with uncounterfeited glee; +restful were his feet, and quiet the fingers which were wont to drum on +the desk four minutes out of every five. Master Bilderback was either +in some deep affliction or he was ill. There was something wrong about +him. + +It transpired, along toward noon, when Master Bilderback’s spirits +began to rise a little, that he had indeed passed under the rod, with +his father at the other end of it, during the evening previous. The +waters of affliction had gone over his soul, and his back had gone +under the sole of his mother’s slipper. It seems they had company at +Mr. Bilderback’s that evening, quite a large party, in fact, and +the conversation turned on mind reading. The discussion became very +spirited, Mr. Bilderback being the leader of the party which avowed its +belief in mesmeric influences. The usual arguments of learned length +and thundering sound were hurled back and forth, Mr. Bilderback winning +especial distinction by the clearness with which he proved that, in +certain esthetic conditions of the mental and physical systems, the +peculiar psychic forces which always existed in a latent state, were +roused into an active condition; and the action of the intellect upon +the cerebrum was felt in the cerebellum, and transmitted by mesmeric +condition to the candelebra, where the psychomatic transfusion of +the occipital parietis made the Ego as cognizant of the mutation and +genuflexions of the non-Ego, as though the psychic modifications really +impinged upon the same ganglion; and the nerve waves along the ganglia +of the two systems, transmuted by a touch of the hand, were, and could +only be, identical. And Mr. Bilderback’s party said, “Yes; what could +you say to that, now?” And the other party shook their heads and said, +“Yes; but that was only a theory, after all; they would like to see +the hypothesis demonstrated.” And at that critical juncture, Master +Bilderback, who had been an attentive listener, spoke up, in his rough, +horrid style, and declared that “that wasn’t nauthin’;” that they tried +it at school, an’ he could let the boys hide things and then lead them +right to the place where they were hid. The excitement ran high for a +few moments, and Master B. was closely catechised, but he never varied +from his original story; and they finally determined to try him. + +Mr. Tweesdle, a young fellow who dotes on poetry and Miss Bilderback, +was the first subject. He announced that he was thinking of a certain +object, and by the way he looked at the mind-reader’s sister, +everybody thought they knew what it was. But Master Bilderback seized +him by the hand, led him out in the hall and up to the hat-rack, +followed by the entire company, and reaching his hand into Mr. +Tweesdle’s overcoat pocket, drew forth a paper bag containing a pound +of sausages, half a dozen eggs, and a couple of rusks, remarking, +“There, that’s what you’re thinking of.” And just at that moment he +certainly was, although he shook his head in an idiotic manner and +laughed feebly, while all the rest of the people never smiled, but only +looked at each other and said, “Why, how funny!” + +This sad affair cast a gloom over the entire community for a few +moments, but the people rallied and demanded another test. There +was a general reluctance on the part of the visitors to take a hand +in it, and so Mrs. Bilderback was prevailed upon to be a subject in +the course of scientific experiments. As soon as she had assumed a +pensive expression and announced that her mind was wholly occupied with +one subject, to the exclusion of all other terrestrial things, the +boy grasped her by the hand, and away they went, sailing up stairs, +followed by the entire congregation. The mind-reader marshaled them +into a room, and leading his subject straight to the bureau, drew from +a small drawer a set of false teeth and a bottle of hair dye. Mrs. +Bilderback shrieked, the company looked grave, and some of the ladies +declared to each other that well now, they never did. + +There was another brief season of gloom, which was dissipated by +Mr. Bilderback declaring that as neither of the subjects in the two +experiments they had just witnessed had denied the accuracy of the +mind-reader’s judgment, he would submit to the test himself. Great +applause greeted this determination, and as Mr. Bilderback, with a +glance that threatened a massacre if there were any tricks played on +him, placed his hand in that of his son, the congregation rose en masse +to follow where the mind-reader might lead. Master Bilderback placed +his hand against his father’s forehead for a moment; then he placed +it against his own and remained for several seconds in a thoughtful +posture, and then led his reluctant parent, followed by the company, +out of doors, and calling for a lantern, which was provided, they went +into the woodshed, where the mind-reader, despite several stealthy +nudges from his parent, reached his arm behind a pile of hickory knots, +and drew forth a whisky bottle nearly a foot long, flat as a board, +and about half full. Then a shadow fell upon the community that not +even the cordial good nights that were exchanged at the door could +dissipate, and after the footsteps of the last reveler had died away +in the distance, Master Bilderback held two separate private seances +with his parents, the remarkable manifestations of which occasioned the +subdued state of mind and unusual depression of spirits which were so +painfully apparent in the young man the following day. + + + + +A SAFE BET. + + +One night, last Winter, old Mr. Balbriggan, who lives out on Columbia +Street, had occasion to make a journey out to the woodshed to get the +hatchet. It was very dark, and as there was no lantern about the house, +Mr. Balbriggan took a kerosene lamp, and shading it very carefully +with a big tin pan, started out to the woodshed. The wind was rather +uncertain and gusty, and Mr. Balbriggan had some misgivings about his +getting out to the shed without accident; and every time the lamp +flared, his mind misgave him. “I’ll bet a dollar that lamp’ll blow +out,” he muttered when the first gust came, but he shied the tin pan +around with great promptness, and the lamp steadied down. There came +another gust and a bigger flare, and the chances for the lamp going out +improved so decidedly that the old gentleman promptly raised his first +stake. “I’ll bet a dollar and a half,” he muttered, “that lamp blows +out.” Then the wind lulled a little, and as he hurried on toward the +shed it was so quiet that, while he didn’t quite lose all confidence, +he began to hedge a little; “I’ll bet fifty cents,” he said, “it’ll go +out before I get back.” Another gust and a flare. “I’ll bet two dollars +that lamp blows out,” muttered the old gentleman again, chipping a +little higher as the chances seemed to grow better; but again he saved +the light by the timely interposition of the tin pan. “I’ll bet three +dollars,” he cried with great earnestness, as the next gust came, +“this lamp’ll blow out;” but there were no takers and the lamp rallied +again. But a still stronger gust fairly lifted the flame out of the +top of the smoked chimney; and the old gentleman hissed in a hoarse, +suppressed whisper, “I’ll bet five dollars this lamp’ll blow out.” +But it settled down to work once more, and did very well until Mr. +Balbriggan got very close to the woodshed; when the wind rallied and +came at the lamp from two or three directions at once, and the old +gentleman fairly shouted, “I’ll bet ten dollars this lamp’ll blow----” +and just then the door of the woodshed blew violently open, hitting the +lamp and the tin pan, knocking them both out of Mr. Balbriggan’s hands, +and striking the old gentleman a terrible blow in the face that made +him see more lights dancing in the air, for about a second, than even +the lamp could send forth. And while he held his nose with one hand and +groped around with the other to find where he was, there came from the +house door the voice of the eldest juvenile Balbriggan, falling through +the darkness like a falling star: “Raise him out, pa, raise him out; +make it a hundred dollars; you’ve got a dead sure thing on it!” + + + + +THE LAY OF THE COW. + + + Switch engine Louisa, “B., C. R. & M.,” + Was slowing up Front Street about three P. M., + When the stoker looked out of the window to say, + “There’s a cow going ’cross the t-r-a-c-kay.” + + Pensively halted the cow on the track, + Burs on her pendent tail, bran on her back; + Dreaming of Summer, she seemed not to see + The approach of the switch e-n-g-i-n-e. + + Once more spake the Stoker, “There she is now,” + “Bully,” the engineer quoth, “for the cow.” + And reversing his engine he cried, “Shoo! Oh, shoo!” + Said the stoker, “Oh, shoo’t the see-oh-doubleyou.” + + Shrilly the whistle shrieked for its alarm, + And the stoker threw firewood and coals in a swarm; + But the cow never heeded, nor thought that her star + Was setting at four miles an h-o-u-r. + + The switch engine struck her about amidships, + And her Summer dreams met with a total eclipse; + It mangled her carcase, most shocking to see, + And threw her down Front s-t-r-double-e-tea. + + Sadly the engineer drew in his head, + And “pulled her wide open,” as onward he sped; + But the stoker smiled gayly, “Old fellow,” said he, + “There’s some cheap porterhouse s-t-a-k-e.”[A] + + [A] That isn’t the way to spell porterhouse steak, but the right way + wouldn’t rhyme. + + + + +YOUNG MR. COFFINBERRY BUYS A DOG. + + +People lifted their eyes above their mufflers one raw November morning +as they walked down Jefferson Street, and smiled and grinned, and +laughed even unto hysterical weeping, as they watched the toilsome and +uncertain progress of a patient young man who had bought a dog and was +leading his property home. It was a nice enough kind of a dog, one of +the kind of dogs whose mouth begins back close to the shoulders. It +had dreadfully long legs, this dog, with great knobs of knees, and +its restless tail had a dejected droop, as though the dog was just +heart-broken at the idea of leaving his old home. The young man was +leading the dog along with a very long string, one end whereof was tied +around the dog’s neck. The only trouble with the dog was that he was +young. He had not attained the years of discretion. He couldn’t trot +placidly along thinking of things. He couldn’t walk at his master’s +heels with a face as solemn as though he expected to be sausage before +Thanksgiving Day. He was a nervous, fidgety, inquisitive dog, and he +tried to read all the signs, and crawl under all the wagons, and dive +between every body’s legs as he went along. And the first thing he +knew, he had a contract on hand that was much too big for him, and he +was just about crazy over it, for he wasn’t the dog to give up, if +he was young, and he stuck to his work like a Trojan. And this was +what made people laugh. The young man who was leading him had just +lifted his hat to some lady acquaintances who were passing when the +dog, looking up, misunderstood the motion and thought his master +was going to hit him a diff with that hat. With the natural instinct +of self-preservation, the shy, timid young thing dashed between the +young man’s legs and ran to the length of his tether; then he gave a +terrified howl and darted back in the opposite direction, going outside +the young man’s right leg. Then, with a frightened yelp it sprang back +between the legs again, circled around and came down outside the left +leg. Then it ran rapidly around the young man, dived through his legs +again and ran around him once and a half in an opposite direction, +and his last maneuver closed the performance, for it wound the dog +completely up, with his frightened face laid close against the young +man’s knee. Mr. Coffinberry blushed to his ears, and replacing his hat, +began the task of extricating himself from the toils that artful dog +had cast around him. But the animal’s confidence was not yet entirely +restored, for at every movement of Mr. Coffinberry’s hands, he squirmed +and writhed and pulled back on the string until he was choked, and +coughed and gasped in a manner most terrifying to the people not +thoroughly acquainted with the symptoms of hydrophobia, and the young +man was naturally as badly frightened, when these paroxysms became very +lively, as was the dog itself. It was fifteen minutes before the snarl +was disentangled. Then before they had gone half a block further, that +dog, after having rushed into and been forcibly, and in some instances +rather petulantly, dragged out of every doorway on the line of march, +incontinently shot down a cellar grating, where he was immediately +clawed and scalped by a cat as big as a soap box, and was also nearly +garroted by his master drawing him up out of the cellar by the cord, +for all the world as though he was a well bucket. About thirty steps +further on, the dog ran between a clergyman’s legs, got frightened +and ran around him once and then dived between his master’s legs, then +rushed out toward the curb stone, but changing his mind, circled back +and scooped in a blushing school teacher, and then gazed upon the +mischief he had wrought, with hideous howls. The bystanders thought +they never could get out of that entanglement. The minister declared +alternatively that “he never did” and moreover that “well he never;” +the blushing school teacher remarked “good gracious,” and suggested +also, “dear me,” and, furthermore, “well, now;” and the young man said +something about the dog being damp, which was highly improbable as +the morning was very raw. By dint of a great deal of persuasion and +pulling and hauling, however, in which they were greatly assisted by +the dog, the unhappy trio were finally separated and went their way, +making ineffectual efforts to look unconcerned. Then the dog wrapped +himself up around a lamp-post; then he got through the hind wheel of a +grocer’s wagon five or six times, back and forth, around a different +spoke every time, while his master was talking to the grocer, and the +latter drove off before the young man noticed what arrangements his +dog had concluded with the wheel, and Jefferson Street was edified by +the spectacle of a dog wound up to a wagon wheel and revolving rapidly +with it, while a young man of pleasing address ran alongside the wheel +and added his agonized appeals to the half-stifled wails of the hanging +pup. They got the wagon stopped and got the pup loose, and the young +man, wearied with the long struggle, resolutely turned toward the +store, and walked rapidly away, the unhappy dog lying prone on his +back, gasping and pawing the air, while the boys who witnessed the +strange procession made the welkin ring with cries of “Dog’s a chokin! +mister, yer dog’s a chokin!” But young Mr. Coffinberry knew that so +long as his dog was helplessly sprawled on his back he couldn’t wrap +the inhabitants of Burlington up in perspiring, distracted groups, so +he kept on the even tenor of his way, and when he finally untied the +string from the animal’s neck and turned him loose in the store, there +wasn’t so much hair on that dog’s back as would make a tooth brush. + + + + +A MODERN GOBLIN. + + +A dreary, cheerless Christmas Eve. The dead hour of day, when the pale +twilight falls over the earth, still and colorless as a shroud. Down +the long vistas of deserted streets but here and there the feeble rays +of some struggling light gleams through the gray twilight, pale as the +glitter of a jewel on the brow of death. Across the dull waste of sky +the ghostly clouds fly before a piercing wind, which whirls and tears +their edges into fluttering fringes. The gloaming fades slowly and +almost imperceptibly into night. Away back from the town, out on the +bleak hillsides, the leafless trees toss their bare arms, gaunt shapes +against the pallor of the sky, the swaying branches answering their +mocking shadows, dancing like specters on the frozen ground; while the +withered leaves rustle like very shudders. + +The hour, neither light nor darkness, neither day nor night, that, +with its weird, indescribable magic, draws you from the cheery grate +to press your face against the cold window, and dream out into the +gray light, peopled with specters and visions--often grotesque, but +never merry--that come trooping from every shadow. Comes a rosy little +face, framed in tangled tresses--ah, long, long unfolding years must +roll back to take you to the time when the laughing eyes looked into +yours; to-night you remember--dear child--the dimpled hands were +crossed on the pulseless breast, when you were a boy; and the cheerless +winter landscape, the dreary hills of snow, and the leafless forests +stretch away, mile after weary mile, between your home and where the +Christmas winds sigh plaintive monodies over her little grave. There +comes a thoughtful, earnest face, manly and noble; a playmate of your +boyhood, a college classmate and friend; the man who stood for your +ideal of all that is brave and true, and virtuous and generous. As you +look at it, you remember, to-night, that when you saw the real face, +so little time ago, it was worn and old and haggard, and stamped with +the leprous mark of vice. You shudder at the recollection; but the +pleading look of the vision goes to your heart as it fades away; and +other faces, long forgotten, crowd before you. One, furrowed with marks +of patient suffering and care, with silver bands in the brown hair +drawn so smoothly away from the brow, mother-love glistening in the +tender eyes, mother-love in the quivering, heart-reaching eloquence of +the tremulous lips, mother-love in the caressing gesture of the gentle +hands--what wonder that it lingers long, and fades only when you crush +the burning tears that blind your eyes and veil the vision from your +sight? And comes one sweeter, dearer than all--your heart throbs more +quickly as you see a shadow rise in the deepening twilight--a face +glowing with blushes and wreathed in smiles; a face that shone into +your life like sunshine, in its bright springtime days; a face that has +remained constant while everything else has changed--your old heart +grows tender and young with dear recollections, and you thank God that +although years have set their mark upon this dear vision, it is still +yours, loving, faithful, and powerful to bless and charm in every +mood and at all times. It is gone; and looming through the deepening +shadows another form of familiar presence rises before you. The silvery +tones of memory-bells chime like a Christmas choral through the bleak +wind shaking so angrily the noisy shutters. It is the milkman, and he +jangles all your sweet dreams out of tune, sending the ghosts your +retrospect has raised back to the shadowy past. And as your visions +disappear, you dismally watch the female vassals of the neighborhood +sallying forth in answer to the tinkling summons, bearing all possible +manner of squatty tinware and corpulent yellow bowls, in which to +receive lawful but attenuated measures of that peculiar aqueous fluid +of cerulean hue with which, under the ghastly appellation of “cream,” +our best society dilutes its table beverages. And when this amusement +ceases to be longer interesting, you leave the draughty window and seek +the more congenial companionship of the black, close-shut gas-burner, +which out of respect to your conceit and the conventionalities of the +Christmas time, we have designated a “cheery fire-place,” with an +incipient cold in your otherwise empty head. + +For the shadows have beckoned and reached to each other, and joined +their giant hands, and danced until the light is frightened away. In +heavier volumes rolls the black smoke from every chimney, indicating +that the estimable and respectable business men of the city, having +left their clerks with orders to save gas and not waste the coal, and +to close the store only when the last lingering, possible chance of +securing one more belated customer has faded into hopelessness, are +now at home, enjoying the unspeakable luxury of heaping the stove with +coal their wives have carried in, and driving the other members of the +family to madness by monopolizing the privilege of poking the fire. +Gas lights twinkle in the streets, for the faithful almanac in the gas +company’s office has been mislaid, and they do not know there will be a +moon quite late in the morning. A ruddy glow of firelight and lamplight +streams out into the gathering darkness when a door is opened, men are +hurrying home, their faces averted, and their bodies bowed against the +howling wind, or else scudding briskly before it. The city was hurrying +home to enjoy its Christmas Eve in the bosom of its several families, +and to scold the children and pack them off to bed, if they romped and +made too much noise. Everybody knows what city it was, so there is no +use wasting time describing it. It was just the same old city, only +they had strengthened the little brick house down below the corner +where the blacksmith lived, with a coat of whitewash. Just the same old +city. + +And everybody knows the hill on the street, where it turns to wind up +the bluff and go to the rich folks’ houses on top of the long hill +that stretches around behind the town like a great horse shoe, and +looks down on all the business, and bustle, and noise, and hurry, and +work, and fatigue that have made the city so rich and powerful. And +just at the time we were speaking about a gentleman was making devious +headway up this hill, just as the street leaves the business of the +city and goes scrambling up to the quiet and rest on top of the hill. A +discouraged looking gentleman, who seemed to have begun his Christmas +at the wrong end, and so got nearly through with it before it had +really commenced. The gentleman’s Napoleonic head was covered, part +of the time, with a glossy silk tile, which art had shaped into the +fashionable, uncomfortable cylinder which adorns the caputs of our Best +Young Men, but accident, oft recurring, and too many vigorous slappings +on and pattings down by the officious but ill-directed zeal of many +friends, and too frequent steppings on by the owner as the last means +of checking its mad career in a race with the wind, had graced this +glossy cylinder with many alternate elevations and depressions, giving +it that corrugated effect so attractive, natural, and useful in the +washboard and concertina, but very repugnant and ungraceful in the silk +hat. The gentleman’s eccentric style of buttoning his overcoat, three +holes over the same button, lent an air of abstraction to his general +appearance, while his knitted brow told of intense mental conflict and +exertion. He made little forays from the sidewalk to the middle of +the street, returning to his pathway by devious and angular ways, as +though striving to baffle some unseen pursuer. From time to time he +made vicious, impulsive, startled clutches at the streaming ends of +his necktie, fluttering in the blast, which he regarded with a vague +uncertain terror, and, when he had seized them, he laughed in hollow, +hysterical accents. The smell of coffee was heard in the distance as +he passed, and ever and anon, as the restless earth raised itself in +precipitous terraces before him, he lifted his feet high in air and +with lofty steps essayed to scale the treacherous mirage. He paused in +his circuitous progress to shake hands with the last friendly lamp-post +on that thoroughfare, expressing his confidence in that faithful +municipal lighthouse as a “goo’role feller,” who was, under any and +every possible combination of circumstances, “all ri’.” At times he +felt for his hat with both hands, and having secured a firm grip upon +its uncertain brim, he removed it from his head with great caution, and +swinging it violently in the air, proceeded with great enthusiasm and +heartiness to “hurrah for” somebody, but invariably forgot who, when +he came to the name, and contented himself with assuring himself that +that was “al’ri’,” after which with gravity he felt for his head, found +it, and with much deliberation got the hat up on top of it, generally +sideways or upside down, and with great physical effort, crushed and +pulled it on. At length, having parted company after affectionate and +prolonged adieus, with the last friendly lamp-post, the young gentleman +loudly announced that he was a “total wr--hic!--creck” and proceeded +furthermore to declare that he would not and could not by any means be +induced to seek the shelter of his mother’s roof again until smiling +morn should hail and deck the hills with gold, and the rosy-fingered +hours should herald the coming of the god of day. And singing this +true statement in a rich baritone, a kind of a wheelbarrow tone, in +fact, possessing more volume and hoarse wheeziness than we would +admire in Nilsson’s chest tones, he made a vigorous but ineffectual +effort to fall up the hill, and angrily ejaculating, “Ju know who yer +pushin’?” he shot over the curbstone with frenzied gestures that seemed +to proceed at least from ten pairs of legs, and disappeared in the +gloom of the gutter, where he lay, and whence his stertorous breathing +startled the nervous passers-by. + +Had the fallen man kept on the uneven tenor of his way a little +farther he would have encountered a mysterious being that would have +transformed his snores into sounds of deeper intonation. The street, +where it turned and led up the hill, was not a cheerful one. On the +west side the bluff rises abruptly as a wall, and on the opposite side +it sinks away into a dark, gloomy ravine, that has an uncanny look at +the best of times, and the sidewalk is provided with a wooden railing, +to keep careless or belated passengers from plunging down the hillside. +A little stream winds along the ravine, endeavoring, in a despairing +kind of way, to find its way to the river, which it never does. It +starts, but from the time the city was first settled there has been no +record that the little stream ever got clear through; nobody knows what +becomes of it, where it goes to; but certain it is, that all trace of +it is lost before it gets half-way to any where. But we have naught to +do with this forlorn little country brook that comes purling through +pleasant meadows, and bubbling over white pebbles, and wrangling around +great bowlders, to get bewildered and lost in the entangling mazes of +the drains and gutters and sewers and culverts of the city. + +Seated on the railing of the sidewalk was an apparition of far less +cheerful mien than the gentleman who, when we left him, had just +wrapped the curbstone about him and laid down to snore the Christmas +hours away. This figure wore a snow-white mantle, much too airy and +summery for the season and very decidedly out of style, which fell from +his angular shoulders in graceful folds, a portion of its light tissue +being folded over his osseous head after the most conventional style of +his class. As he swung his legs carelessly to and fro, they struck the +lower boards of the railing with a strange rattling sound like muffled +castanets, and his manner of whistling “Down Among the Dead Men,” +under his breath in that weird, ghostly place, with the bluff rising +black and abrupt before him, and the ravine lying deep in impenetrable +shadow behind him, had that awful touch of the supernatural in it that +would make one’s blood run cold to contemplate. A ghostlier ghost never +chose a ghostlier time or place for his ghastly recreations. + +He ceased his hollow whistling and stilled his nervous legs as he heard +approaching footsteps on the sidewalk, and dropped from his easy perch +on the railing as a young man and a lovely maiden came toward him, +toiling up the slope down which the December zephyr roared and swept +into a fury that would make an Ulster overcoat feel sick. The young +man’s arm was wound tenderly about his companion’s shrinking seal-skin +cloak, while he hoarsely whispered words into her ears, which were rosy +with the exhilarating influence of twenty-eight degrees below zero. The +ghost stepped in front of them. + +“Excuse my hoarseness,” he said, with a winning smile that extended +over the entire width of his finely-chiseled face, “but I had the very +disagreeable misfortune to have my throat cut in this exceedingly +romantic spot about a half a century since, and my voice has since been +affected to such an ex----” + +The very wind paused in its noisy bluster to listen to the wild shrieks +that were piercing the darkness like acoustic arrows, and the rapid +patter of two pairs of Arctic over-shoes that were pounding the bosom +of the frosty earth far down the hill, away from the shadow of the +bluff, away from the dreadful blackness of the ravine, in the direction +of the gleaming street lamps of the city. + +The ghost leaned upon the railing and sighed as he said: + +“This was not the style of responding to an apology when I dwelt among +men. Perhaps my voice, which I have not used before for fifty years, +has that in its mouldy accents which is disagreeable, startling, and +possibly repulsive, to mortal ears. I will modulate my intonation.” + +He paused to observe the figure of a portly man, looming vaguely +through the night, as, with many asthmatic puffs, the well-fed citizen +essayed to beat up the hill against the wind. + +“He looks,” said the specter, musingly, “very much like an honest old +settler I used to know, who sold whisky to and stole furs from the +Indians, the year after I first came to what is now this city.” + +The panting citizen came alongside and was passing by, when the ghost +dropped his bony hand noiselessly in the hollow of his arm. + +“A thousand pardons, my dear sir,” he began, “but I observe a most +extraordinary resemblance in----” + +“Oh-H-H-H-h, Lord!” + +And again the ghost was alone. As the echoes of the excited and grossly +misapplied remark of the citizen died away in the mocking echoes of +the dreary solitudes, the ghost walked across the street and carefully +examined the face of the bluff, in which direction the portly mortal +had made his unceremonious and abrupt exit. + +“No,” the specter remarked, after a critical inspection, “it is very +evident that he did not plunge through the hill; he certainly ran over +its summit. The celerity with which he accomplished this undertaking +at his time of life, and in his condition of superfluous flesh too, +smacks almost as much of the marvelous to me as I did to him. I would +be willing to bet my boots, now,” he added, with a ghastly wink at his +bare feet, “that the portly old party can not come here to-morrow noon +and get over that hill inside of twenty-five minutes.” + +“Passenger travel on this street,” he continued, resuming his station +on the sidewalk, “is livelier than it was in my time. As I remember, +the two gentlemen who performed the surgical operation on my windpipe, +which has so disagreeably affected my voice, had to wait here for me +five hours in the cheerless gloom before my other business engagements +permitted me to come along and make an involuntary and unwilling third +in their interesting little surprise party. And I sat on a stump near +this very spot, and watched my lifeless remains nearly two days before +the coroner found them and gave them the customary inquest with a +fearful and wonderful verdict, followed by Christian burial. Yes, yes, +the village has been prosperous since then, and now--but soft, a young +man--a lover, too, or I’m no ghost. I will befriend him and he will +love me.” + +A goodly young man he was indeed, as ghost or girl would wish to see. +Torture racked his soul when, at every step, his dainty boots, a size +and a half too small, touched the ground. And even the snowy expanse +of linen cuffs, weighted with moss-agate sleeve buttons, failed to +conceal the fact that his flame-colored kids would not button. Though +the piercing wind chilled him to the very marrow, his overcoat was +opened and thrown back from his throat to display the blue necktie that +graced his paper collar. The elaborate and painful costume betrayed his +errand. You might wring bergamot out of the air when he passed along, +and there was jockey club on his handkerchief, and his breath smelled a +little of sozodont, some of trix, and a great deal of something else. +The ghost looked after him, as he passed by, with as much friendly +admiring interest as he could throw into his rather open countenance, +and then gathering his robe about him followed swiftly and silently +at the limping heels of the nice young man, who toiled painfully but +very patiently and exquisitely properly up the hill until he reached +the summit of the grade, and pausing before a mansion of pretentious +appearance, proceeded to investigate the ever changing mysteries of a +front gate. + +Properly constructed, the front gate is more fearfully and wonderfully +made than the architect who designs or the carpenter who builds it. +No other created or manufactured thing in the whole wide universe can +equal or rival it for original perversity and malignant obstinacy. +A patient man, whose soul is melting within him from chronic and +exaggerated meekness, will fall from grace and relieve his tortured +soul in a burst of giant powder profanity after fifteen minutes’ +struggle with a front gate, and then he will shower a tempest of abuse +upon the unknown man who contrived such a diabolical and outrageous +gate, and he will cease to struggle with it and will climb over the +fence and disintegrate his raiment on the pickets, and abrade his +cuticle all the way down his back as he slides off, and then his soul +will be tossed into a very sirocco of passion and mortification when +he sees the dog of the mansion come trotting along and open the gate +with a simple push of his nose. Or a woman, full of a woman’s love +and yearning tenderness, will take hold of a gate and tug at it, and +pull and haul and jerk until she nearly drags the solid posts up by +the roots, and when all the blood in her system is boiling in the top +of her head, and her eyes are starting from their sockets, and she +dissolves in tears of utter, abject wretchedness and rage because +she is debarred by virtue of her sex from the ecstatic privilege of +swearing at the gate and the pirate who made it, a grinning boy will +open the barrier by merely pulling it the other way. Men with real, +living ideas, and lofty aspirations, and soaring ambitions, and grand, +illimitable thoughts, swelling and groaning and throbbing in heart and +brain, have stood before an orthodox front gate and manipulated its +fastenings, moving that piece this way and this one that, and all of +them the other, until the pot-metal securities have assumed the vexed +and perplexing varieties and dimensions of a Chinese puzzle with the +delirium tremens or a Centennial election table. And then, when at +last with a despairing groan he lets go of it, and raises his hands +to heaven to call down its righteous judgment upon the unregenerate +mocker who made that gate, it slowly swings open by its own weight, and +the distressed Christian discovers to his unspeakable amazement that +he has had it open twenty times within the last fifteen minutes. And +all these troubles are magnified after night. Hook and staple connect +the swinging gate and the immovable post where hook and staple there +were none before. The most trifling and ordinary bolt has a way of +acquiring a double action after dark, so that whatever is loosed at one +end is immediately fastened up as tight as a candidate at the other. +Nails, too, appear, driven in the post immediately above the latch, +and finally, when all other ties are sundered, lo, a strap hugs the +whole structure in its binding embrace. It is a work of ten minutes to +find the buckle, and when found it is a knot, tied when the strap was +wet, and now firmer in its clinging folds and more intricate in its +appalling entanglements than the famous knot which Gordius of Phrygia +tied in his chariot harness, a knot which baffled even the sublimest +efforts of the Chicago divorce lawyers. Even the simplest form of a +gate latch known to man, composed of a round hole in a post into which +a stick is thrust athwart the gate, is a snare, a vanity, a vexation of +the spirit and a mortification of the flesh; for no living man ever +opened a strange gate of this genus that the stick did not come out +with a jerk, rasping the abraded knuckles along the rude edges of the +pickets. + +With a gate which presented, or rather concealed, and successively +developed, like masked batteries, all the modern combinations of +baffling elements and inventions, the young man has all this time +been expostulating. A good young man, for while he has been laboring +with that remorseless gate with all the intensity of purpose and +earnestness that fires the blood of youth, he has only relieved his +impatient swelling soul by saying from time to time that “he _would_ be +dad binged,” once or twice varying the tense, as the future suddenly +seemed to break upon him with all the fullness of time, to declare +that he _was_ “dad binged,” and several times, as though conscious of +some degree of uncertainty attending the whole matter, devoutly hoping +that, at some indefinite time in the vague hereafter, he _might_ be +“dad binged.” Once he passed suddenly to the imperative and passive, +appealing to some unknown quantity to “dad bing the dad binged old +gate,” a confusion of mood, tense and voice that was absurd, and +even the ghost, which stood in the porch of the mansion watching his +movements with that all-absorbed interest which visitors from another +world display in terrestrial matters, shook his head gravely, as if +doubting the advisability of a needless waste of power in dad binging +that which was already declared dad binged. But the ghastly visage +relaxed in a grim smile, as with one last tremendous effort, the +adolescent raised the barrier from its fastenings, hinges and all, and +fell forward to the gravel walk with the fiendish gate clasped in his +arms, reaching the ground in a rattling chorus which roused all the +dogs this side of the moon. + +Disengaging himself from the chaos into which the gate had fallen, +the young man reached the porch with a halting step, and as he stood +near the door, brushing gravel off his clothes with his tattered kids, +the ghost gathered his bustle and train about him, slid deftly through +the key hole, and flattened himself against the door on the inside. +The tinkle of the bell had scarcely sounded in the hall when a light +footstep was heard in echo to its clamor, and a beautiful young girl +hastened to the door. She opened it, but the ghost stepped before her +and faced the smiling, blushing, bowing young man, threw his gaunt arms +around his neck, and in a hollow whisper began, + +“Darling! I have watched so long for----” + +A terrific yell rang through the corridors like almost any other yell +would ring under similar circumstances. A rush of hasty feet along the +gravel walk, a stumble, a crash and a dismal howl at the site of the +fallen gate; then the dying echoes of fleet, pattering footsteps in the +distance, and then silence, dispossessed of her curtained throne for +one brief moment, resumed her noiseless reign, and the smiling ghost, +after a vain effort to dig himself in the ribs, chuckled with dismal +jollity and hid his shadowy form in the recesses of the porch. + +The young girl stood spell-bound, gazing out in the direction of +her vanished lover, and shaking her lovely head in mute, astonished +negations, in response to the hurried and excited inquiries of the +family, who came swarming into the hall in all possible stages and +degrees of amazement and terror, propounding with great volubility all +the conundrums which would naturally suggest themselves in consequence +of such an astounding and unheralded and unprovoked outburst of human +voice. + +“I cannot imagine what did ail him,” she said at length, when her stern +father, in mild reproof, had laid his heavy hand upon her rounded +shoulder, and oscillated her lithe form to and fro until her back hair +was in her hands, and the floor was strewn with hairpins and samples +of curls, thick as autumnal leaves and one thing and another strew the +brooks in Vallambrosa and vicinity. “I opened the door, and before I +could say ‘Good evening,’ he opened his mouth to its fullest extent, +and with a look of horror, fled from my presence, leaving no token save +an amount of noise altogether incommensurate with his size. I can’t +imagine what he could have seen to affect him so. I was afraid at first +that I hadn’t rubbed the pearl powder out of my eyebrows, but I had.” + +Every member of the convention offered a suggestion or an explanation +of the mysterious affair, but they were all overruled by paterfamilias, +who, venturing the gruff opinion that the young man was in the habit +of placing himself exterior to sundry and various decoctions dispensed +at those retail drug stores which are, by law, closed on Sundays, and +had merely incurred that peculiar form of mental distemper in which the +patient keeps a private menagerie on exhibition in his boots, drove his +wondering family back to the parlor. + +But youth is buoyant. Its sorrows are transient and its tears are April +rain, flecked with the sunshine even while they fall; its fears are +short lived as its sorrows, and die away when the thought or scene that +gave them birth is gone. So he who flew from the hideous shadow that +had veiled the fairy figure of his love from his fond gaze, blushed +in the darkness at his nervous fancy, and re-arranging his wardrobe, +retraced his steps with more of that native grace and innate dignity +peculiar to the young man of the nineteenth century, than he had +displayed while making his presence seldom. Again he passed the wreck +of the demolished gate, and once more he rang the bell, and listened +for the echoing footfall, while the attentive specter came and stood +demurely at his elbow. + +“You horrid boy,” murmured a sweet voice through the keyhole, “I +have a great mind not to let you in. What made you act so perfectly +ridiculous?” + +“Dearest,” the young man said, “it was a foolish, horrible fancy; I +will never frighten you again.” + +“It was perfectly dreadful,” she replied, “horribly, dreadfully awful. +How could you be so perfectly horridly dreadful? But you may come in +this time.” + +And with coquettish deliberation she opened the door, to see the ghost, +bending his smiling gaze upon her colorless face and staring eyes. + +“Thank you,” he said, in hollow tones, “since you insist upon it, I +will come----” + +“Oo-oo-_ee_-E-E-E-E!” + +And thump! She dropped to the floor with a velocity and abruptness +that even astonished her ghost. Dumb with amazement, her lover stood +gazing at her form, lying prone upon the new hall carpet, emitting a +series of long-drawn shrieks. He recoiled, as again the members of +the family came pouring and buzzing out of their rooms, like hornets +from their domicile on a swaying apple tree bough, jarred rudely by +the unconscious granger’s towering head. The angry father caught a +glimpse of the trembling, half-stupefied, and thoroughly mystified +youth, standing near the doorway, appealingly and timorously offering +his explanations. The parent, with a few hurried words, disappeared up +stairs. Quickly he returned, bearing in his hands a ponderous shot-gun, +at the sight of which the young man, without pausing to explain, +fled quite as precipitately, and with as little ceremony, as he had +sauntered away from the embrace of the ghost. + +“Because,” he remarked to the wind, which was vainly trying to keep +pace with his flying movements as he cleared the fallen gate with a +bound, and waltzed airily down the road, as though tight boots were a +vision and an unreal dream, “because the old man appears to be a trifle +impatient to-night, and I would not cross him in his sadder moods. He +might do that to-night for which to-morrow I might mourn.” + +And deftly passing from twelve to fifteen linear feet of solid earth +beneath each foot, oft as he raised it from the ground, with swift +evasion he transferred himself to healthier climes and more congenial +scenes. + +The indignant father, meanwhile, had stepped out on the porch, and +holding his warlike weapon a-port, peered angrily into the gloom for a +glimpse of the flying figure, whose distant, echoing footsteps he could +faintly hear. + +“Thou art so dear,” he said, “and yet so far.” + +To him the silent ghost approached. Standing by his unconscious side, +the specter leaned his bony elbow upon the mortal shoulder, resting his +hollow cheek upon his attenuated hand. Then, with a graceful motion +and an easy gesture, of which a ballet dancer might be proud, he drew +aside the lower portion of his drapery, disclosing to view a pair +of emaciated shins of which a ballet dancer would most certainly be +ashamed. Crossing one of these specimens of anatomical curiosities in +front of the other, he rested the bended limb upon the toes, and stood +thus for a moment, in that elegant and charming pose so much affected +by our best young men at the opera and theater, who place themselves on +exhibition for the untaught multitude upon every possible occasion. + +For a few brief moments he stood thus, wrapped in admiration of his +refined and elegant appearance, then dropping his face and turning it +until his breath, if he had any, would have swept the cheek of his +unconscious companion, he said: + +“Let me entreat you, dear sir, to do nothing rash. Let me implore you +to put by your murderous weap----” + +Bang! bang! Two loads of death-dealing buckshot perforated the roof of +the porch, and the howl of an elderly voice mingled with the crashing, +discordant echoes that rose clattering through the darkness. The slam +of a door, and the rush and scramble of many feet succeeded, followed +by the clanging of locks and bolts; the subdued hubbub of many voices +could be heard, detailing in many exaggerated phrases, extravagant +narratives, and with a smile of grim amusement playing across his +expressive features, like a telegraphic line from one ear to the other, +the specter learned, as he listened at the keyhole, that while the +master of the house had been standing on the porch, a pale blue light +suddenly clove the night, accompanied by a sulphurous smell, in the +midst of which appeared, rising out of the ground, a colossal body with +five heads, and with hideous gashes yawning in its throats, from which +the welling blood flowed down, and splotched and streaked the long +white robe with horrible carmine stains. Its many eyes, the patrician +said, glared like burning coals, and its hair twined and wreathed +itself in fantastic shapes, like living serpents. + +The specter assumed a thoughtful look as he listened to these terrible +revelations. + +“It is barely possible,” he said, “that I am a maligned apparition. +From his vivid powers of imagination, and a slight tendency to +exaggerated word coloring in narration, one would take this elderly +party for one of the gifted prevaricators who deal in political +prophecies in the presidential year. I may not be a very handsome +ghost, but I do most profoundly believe that this portly Ananias who, +I see, is just now leaving the room to learn how his daughter is coming +on, has most foully traduced my personal appearance. And while there +is no one in this apartment save that comfortable-looking old lady, +who has been terrified and mystified into motionless silence, I will +quietly step in and settle this vexed question by consulting the pier +glass.” + +With that graceful, easy manner which is characteristic of a well-bred +ghost, he slid through the keyhole, and a moment later, stood singeing +his bloodless shins before the blazing grate, while he made a critical +inspection of his visage in the mirror. After studying the picture for +some moments in silence, he stroked his chin with a complacent air +while a smirk of self satisfaction played over his features. + +“Any mortal,” he murmured, “who would flee in terror from such a face +as that; any man who could detect any thing like an unearthly glare +in those hollow eyes; any creature who can find it in his heart to +announce the discovery of hair on that head, or find a trace of blood +about that figure, from throat to heels, is a lunatic, and should be +looked after. Be looked after,” he added, in an absent way, “Looked +after. Looked after.” + +“And,” he continued, after a few moments’ deliberation, “I should like +to be appointed to look after him. He would then have a more faithful +conservator than was ever appointed by a county court. I would interest +and amuse him, and strive to divert his mind from the troubles which +appear to have so disordered his imagination and distorted his vision +and faculties of observation. I would keep him in a state of constant +mental activity. I would help him around, and I would make myself +useful to this family in a variety of ways. For instance, I would make +this old gentleman so distrustful of that long walk up the hill after +dark that he never would stay down town late at night, and could not be +induced to attend lodge, or ‘just step down to the post-office’ after +supper. I would imbue his very nature with such an utter abhorrence for +dark places that he would never kiss the hired girl behind the cellar +door. Never again; ne-ver, ne-ver. I would reform this man, and make +this family happy, and this house should resound with manifestations of +excitement and exclamations of astonishment, and indications of very +dubious merriment, as it were. I see much good in this virtuous and +happy project, and I will cultivate the acquaintance of this excellent +lady of the mansion, convince her of the necessity of a protector for +herself and her family, and carry my plans into operation. I have a +conviction that this would be a most comfortable house to haunt.” + +He stepped to the side of the matron, and laying his icy fingers +against her cheek to arouse her attention, and holding his throat shut +with the other hand to prevent his voice escaping prematurely at the +aperture which has been previously referred to, said, in a louder voice: + +“You will pardon the abruptness of my speech, my dear madam, but I deem +it my duty to inform you that it is my firm belief this part of town +is haunted. Yes, ma’am, haunted. I shouldn’t be surprised, indeed, if +there was a ghost somewhere in this house this very minute. In fact I +have every reason for believing----” + +Thus far his auditor had preserved such a respectful silence that +the speaker believed she was listening with rapt attention, and he +fondly hoped that he had at last found a friendly, appreciative +gossip who would not interrupt his remarks with ill-timed applause +before he was half through. Looking at her face, however, at this +moment, the expression of her countenance was such as chilled +him with disappointment. She was not splitting the night air with +blood-curdling, discordant shrieks, it is true, but it evidently wasn’t +her fault. Her eyes had left their sockets and were standing out on +her cheek-bones with nothing particular to do except to stare at each +other across the top of her nose, each with an expression of blank +amazement at seeing the other there. Her mouth was alternately closing +with sudden jerks and distending with spasmodic gasps; noiseless, but +all the more provoking on that very account. She appeared to be making +strenuous efforts to rise, but as every attempt to assume an erect +posture brought her closer to the ghost, she sank back helplessly in +her chair after every effort, and resumed her dreadful staring and +noiseless gasping. + +“You had better scream, madame,” said the disgusted ghost. “Pray, do +not restrain yourself on my account. It is really painful for me to +witness your suffering. If my presence here is distasteful to you, pray +have the goodness to intimate the fact in the abrupt and startling +manner so much affected by this family. You had better express your +emotions, if you have any. If you have through any little passing +thrill of excitement, temporarily lost the use of your voice, and find +some difficulty in recovering it, perhaps I can assist you.” + +With a horrible leer he withdrew the drapery from his neck, and leaning +back his head disclosed the gaping incision in his respiratory and +swallowing apparatus which had compelled him to go into the ghost +business. As he had shrewdly conjectured, that startling display +developed the full action of the old lady’s dormant vocal powers, and, +for the next five minutes, Bedlam was a quiet, sequestered cloister in +comparison with that house. For an instant the author of all the uproar +paused to smile at the vociferous woman screaming till the chandelier +trembled, and pounding a vigorous tattoo on the floor with her aged +heels, and then he left the house, merely stopping as he went to look +in on the kitchen, and by one genial wink at the servants establish a +first-class English opera chorus in that department of the household. + +He then passed out into the chill air, and gliding slowly along the +gravel walk, paused to contemplate the ruins of the front gate and +speculate on the whereabouts of the handsome youth who had so lately +enacted the part of a modern Samson, and had torn down the gates to +Gaza little on the loved face which parental tyranny would thereafter +conceal from his ardent gaze forever. + +“It is ever thus,” moralized the ghost; “at once the mightiest and +the weakest being in created life, God’s noblest work is the toy of +bodiless phantoms. We tear down and we build up; we purpose and we +prevent; we do and we undo; we overcome every real difficulty, and +surmount every actual obstacle, and at last, when our object is all +but accomplished--lo, a shadow terrifies us, and the courage and labor +of an hour, a year, or a lifetime, are swept into ruins. At least, +_we_ used to do thus. I have left the firm, but the surviving partners +carry on the business of life in pretty much the same old style. The +world invents a great deal, but it doesn’t improve very much. It is the +same old world, after all. It has the locomotive and the telegraph, +true; but the men who invented the locomotive and the telegraph loved, +feared, hoped and lived pretty much as Cæsar’s couriers and Dido’s +sailors used to. Men declaim against the remotest possibility of the +spirits of the dead revisiting the glimpses of the moon, and yet my +presence affects in the same unpleasant and turbulent manner alike the +most skeptical and the most credulous and superstitious. I believe, +speaking of spirits, I will go down town to a certain house I wot of, +where parties of my friends, the Spiritualists, hold frequent seances, +at which they converse familiarly, though ungrammatically, with the +spirits of their own deceased friends, and of the illustrious dead. +They will be glad to see me, I know, because I am intimately acquainted +with some of the parties whom they occasionally summon back to earth, +and they will be glad too, because I can correct some of the erroneous +ideas they entertain in regard to the present condition of some of +these spirits who are constantly writing back, in such execrable +English as would make a cultured, intelligent ghost blush, how happy +they are, and how glad they are that they died, and how much they know. +I am as contented a ghost as one can find under the republic, and I +never was glad that I died, and I never write to any of my relatives, +and never visit any of them, except,” he added thoughtfully, “my dear +haunt.” And he chuckled grimly over his ghastly little joke. + +In another moment he was seated comfortably beneath a table which +was surrounded by a party of seekers after truth, who were patiently +sitting up for the latest returns from the spirit world. The ghost was +much touched by the anxiety displayed by a young man in very long hair +and green spectacles to hear from his departed uncle. The spirit mails +were snowed in, or intercepted by guerrillas, or held for postage, or +suffering from some other cause of detention that Christmas Eve; for it +seemed as though the young man never would receive so much as a postal +card from his deceased relative. The ghost pitied him, and just as +the medium, a beautiful young girl of forty-nine summers, was passing +into another trance, he crawled out from under the table and bowed +pleasantly to the anxious inquirer. + +“I think I can allay any anxiety you may feel on account of your +departed avuncular relative,” he said; “I have met him several times, +and although the peculiar and pressing nature of his engagements +elsewhere prevents his attending in person social assemblies on this +side of the ground, he is----” + +He ceased speaking at this point, for his voice had long been drowned +in the uproar of shrieks, and breaking furniture, and crashing glass, +as the seance broke up along with the tables and chairs, and the +anxious seekers after truth emerged into the night with window sashes +hanging round their necks. Foreseeing that there would be trouble if +he did not emigrate in order to permit the wanderers to return and +resurrect the overturned stove, the messenger from the realm of shadows +departed and once more sought his station on the hill. And again he +whistled. “Down Among the Dead Men” through his teeth, while he smiled +pensively, and communed with his own pleasant thoughts. + +“It’s just as I said,” he mused; “had I been that young man’s uncle, +whom he so earnestly desired to see, his terror would have been just as +great. They rap and call for us, they implore us to come, and when we +come they go. And they go very abruptly. Some of those people to-night +got out of that room by edging through fissures that would squeeze the +very breath out of the leanest ghost I ever saw. Believer or skeptic, +it makes no difference. Saul was not more terrified at Samuel’s ghost, +which he was so anxious to see, than was the witch who accidentally +raised the apparition. But these broken, interrupted interviews with +terrified mortals are growing monotonous. I will stay out all night, +because it is Christmas Eve and my night out, but I will spend the +remaining silent hours in meditation, and let the wicked old world +sleep in peace, unless, mayhap, some belated wayfarer should stray +this way, when I will revenge myself upon him for the shabby treatment +I have received at mortal hands to-night. I will frighten him so that +he will not be through screaming when I come here again next Christmas +Eve. I have tried to be agreeable to everybody to-night, and everybody +has refused to be sociable, and has repulsed my courteous advances with +the most hideous shrieks and uproar. And to the next hapless mortal who +shall cross my haunt, I will be terrible.” + +He ceased speaking, and knotted his face with a series of horrible +contortions and hideous grimaces, which he practiced until he acquired +one which appeared to satisfy his fastidious taste. This one he +exercised several times in order to fix it firmly in his memory, and +then, folding his arms, he leaned against the railing and gloomily +waited for a customer, as ill-natured and unhappy a ghost as could be +found in all the haunts of men or specters. + +His ghostship did not have long to wait for a subject, standing there +in the gloomy street, with the cold, glittering stars occasionally +peeping timidly through the rifted clouds sailing overhead. Before long +a heavy footfall was heard ascending the lower part of the hill, and +then, as it came nearer, the dismal one could hear the frosty earth +creaking under the passenger’s feet at every step he took. A voice +which was marked by that peculiar intonation which we so frequently +notice in close proximity to a pick or a hod, uttered, in sentences +so profusely vaccinated with trilled r’s that it sounded like a high +school commencement, a wrathful objurgation upon the wind, as the +winter zephyr well nigh lifted the speaker from his feet. + +“Growl about that, will you?” muttered the ghost, with savage +gleefulness, “I’ll make you wish the wind had blown you into the moon +before you get to the top of the hill. I wish he would walk more +slowly,” the specter went on, rubbing his fleshless hands in delighted +anticipation; “I should like to have a few moments’ quiet enjoyment in +contemplating the possible and probable actions of the worst frightened +man in America. I have been accused of frightening people before now, +but those vile slanders against my considerate and pacific disposition +and my reassuring physiognomy will all be retracted and atoned for +after to-night. After this man’s experience no man, no living mortal +will dare stand up and say that any one was ever frightened prior to +this date. Why, there won’t be as much hair left on this individual’s +head, in about three minutes, as would make me a switch. All the +doctors in America won’t be able to get his eyes back into their proper +places. He will howl and yell and shriek and pray to the day of his +death. Scared? It isn’t the word. It’s too weak. Whistle, will you?” he +continued, apostrophizing the approaching figure, “I’ll make you wish +you had a French horn fifteen feet long, with all the keys open and the +mouth-piece cracked, to express your feelings through. Why,” he said, +arranging his robe and twisting his face into such a blood-curdling +awful contortion that it raised a blister on the frozen ground and the +very wind turned and blew up hill for dear life; “why, my unsuspicious +republican, you’ll be the worst demoralized community in about fifteen +seconds that ever disturbed the holy quiet of midnight.” + +Stretching out his gaunt arm in a weird, ghostly gesture, the white +drapery falling away from it in conventional folds, the specter stepped +out to the middle of the sidewalk to confront the coming man. A man +of medium size, the new-comer, with bluff square shoulders, twinkling +eyes, a nose that had been made of a remnant so that the unfinished +end retreated toward the eyes, a mouth puckered up in a melodious +whistle, the head covered with an abundance of closely-cut hair of the +shade of St. Louis pressed brick; a ragged coat was buttoned close and +the wearer carried under his arm a walking-stick of most benevolent +aspect, the bulge on the end of which reminded one of an invitation to +join the innumerable caravan. His whistle ceased as the ghost loomed +up before him, not suddenly cutting off his tune in the middle of the +note, but in a long-drawn diminuendo passage, commonly expressive of +inexpressible astonishment. + +The ghost slowly and impressively waved his extended arm in the +direction of the gloomy ravine. The mortal shuffled uneasily toward +the middle of the street in an effort to get round the unpleasant +obstruction. The specter noiselessly glided before him and still +confronted him with outstretched arm and hideous countenance, and both +figures regarded each other in silence. The mortal was the first to +open the conversation, who, after muttering under his breath, “The +saints betune us and har-rum, an’ phwat is he makin’ thim faces at me +for?” remarked in a brisk tone: + +“Cool avenin’!” + +Motionless as a statue, the ghastly figure glowered upon him in its +frozen attitude and terrifying gesture. + +“Is it Tim Moriarity, as died the year before I kim’ over, I don’ know?” + +No reply and no change of posture on the part of the specter. + +“Is it the Feenicks boys ye are thin, as kilt aich other the night ov +the ball at the creek three years ago come nixt September an’ jist two +months lackin’ six weeks after O’Flaherty’s sisther dhrove the cow off +the wagon bridge?” + +Still the specter maintained its silence and its position. + +“Ye’ve a mighty familiar countenince, onyhow,” continued the mortal, +who kept up his cautious maneuvering for the weather gauge, in which he +was steadily baffled by the ghost. “It seems to me I’ve seen the face +av yez somewhare on a tombstone. Yer not livin’ fur around here, mebbe?” + +In hollow tones the ghost replied, “I am dead.” + +“Did, is it? Oh, the saints rist yer ristless sowl. An’ phwat are ye +doin’ out here? Whaire do ye live--I mane, whaire are ye buried?” + +“At the top of this hill,” came in the same hollow tones. + +“An’ a mighty agreeable place that same is, to be sure,” replied the +mortal, in a conciliatory intonation, “shlapin’ undher the grass, wid +the cows and pigs browsin’ and rootin’ around all day long an’ kapen’ +ye company nights. Born divil that ye air,” he added, in a lower tone, +“I wisht wan or the other of us wur thayre now, fur it’s a onpleasant +company ye air, anyhow. Well,” he added, aloud and with great +cheerfulness, “good night till ye. Be good to yerself.” + +“Stay,” uttered the terrible monotone; “come thou with me.” + +“Oh-h, the dev--I beg yer par-r-don. I mane I can’t think of it. Luk at +the time it is, an’ see the murdherin’ cowld I have in me head already, +along ov being out till midnight. The wife and childher’ll be did +intirely wid sittin’ up fur me, an’----” + +“Follow me!” said the hollow tones of the ghost. + +“Oh-h, tundher an’ turf--I mane--I beg yer par-r-don, don’t shpake +of it; it’s a married man I am. I can’t sthay; besides, there’s no +use--ivery place in town is shut up, and sorra the wan ov me dhrinks av +they wasn’t. I wouldn’t taste a dhrop av I lived in lashins ov it; I’m +a whole Father Mathew society by myself.” + +“Come! Come!! Come!!!” The sepulchral tones boomed out like a bass drum +solo. + +“Aw-w-w! Millia murther! Go aisy now! Phwat du ye mane, divilin’ the +tin sinses out of me to come, whin ye see I want to go? By the mortial +gob,” he added, under his breath, “av I thought I cud find anything +in yer head to feel it, avick, I’d make ye raisonable wid a welt +ov this splinther av a sthick. Whist! ye bloody-minded villin!” he +roared, with suddenly increasing courage, as some wakeful Brahma in a +neighboring coop startled the night with a stentorian crow, which was +shrilly echoed by a bantam and a dozen or more obscure roosters of no +particular strain, like the birds that crow at election times, “Do ye +hear that? An’ that? An’ that agin? An’ the wan afther that? Scat! ye +bloody-minded Banshee, or we’ll crow the rags aff o’ yer beggarly back!” + +The ghost gave a hollow laugh, that sounded like water pouring out of a +jug. + +“You may crow,” he said, more in his easy conversational style and +tone than he had been using, “till you split your throats; this is an +anniversary night with me, and I won’t go home till morning.” + +His uneasy companion’s face fell at this announcement, and he looked +like a man who felt that he had prematurely committed himself. But he +rallied again. + +“A anniver-sary, is it? Do ye have it often?” + +“About once a year.” + +“Is that all? An’ just think ov yer makin’ so much fuss about that! +Kape on yer hat, or what iver ye call it, or ye’ll have a cowld in the +head. Good avenin’, agin.” + +The ghost mildly protested against his haste. It was Christmas Eve, he +said, a season devoted to sociability and good fellowship---- + +“An’ a foine idee ye have of bein’ sociable, too,” interrupted his +auditor; “Christmas is a nice enough saison, but a frayzin’ hillside +at midnight, wid the wind blowin’ a jimmycane an’ the thermomether +twinty-sivin degrays ferninst Cairo, isn’t the way I’m thinking to be +sociable about it, jist.” + +“I am delighted to have met you under such----” + +“Faix, thin, thayre’s only wan of us that’s feeling so delighted about +it.” + +“----Favorable and pleasant circumstances. I should never have forgiven +myself had I permitted you to pass by without speaking. I must +insist----” + +“Begorra, thin, it’s too har-r-d ye wad be on yersilf intirely. It’s +me that wad give mesilf absolution fur a week av I had gone around the +other way an’ never heard ov ye in me life.” + +“----On your further acquaintance.” + +“Thrue for you, avick, an’ the furdther it is the betther it wud shuit +me. An’ the quicker we star-r-t, don’t ye see, the furdther we can make +it before mornin’. I know I’ll think betther ov ye whin I can’t see ye. +_Good_ avenin’.” + +“Stay,” said the specter, detaining him as he sought to hurry by, “I +have that to tell you, and that to show you, to-night, which will make +you a rich man, and send me back to my narrow resting place----” + +“Oh-h-h! hear ’im talk about it!” + +“----Never to leave it again until the last dread trump shall summon +me.” + +“Don’t mintion it, don’t; don’t shpake ov it at all, at all.” + +“My tale is brief and sad.” + +“An’ have ye a tail, thin?” + +“Listen!” + +“Shpake!” + +“In early life----” + +“Phwat’s that?” + +“----I plowed the raging main.” + +“An’ was ye a Granger, thin?” + +“Nay, I was a pirate!” + +“Same thing; kape on; it’s frazin’ I am.” + +“I steeped my wicked hands in human gore for many years. When my +atrocious crimes had amassed me a princely fortune, I repented me of my +evil ways.” + +“Musha, thin, it war you for knowin’ whin to repint.” + +“I bade adieu to my evil companions, and taking my share----” + +“Ah, did ye, though? An’ it was a cautious ould reformer ye was, all +the same.” + +“----of our ill-gotten spoils, I fled west--far to the inland--pursued +by the stings of an avenging conscience and a sheriff’s posse.” + +“It was thim as stirred up yer conshince.” + +“I reached this city in safety and hid my gold, stained with human +lives, in yonder deep ravine. Oft as I needed money, I came here by +night and got what I wished.” + +“Can ye get any ov it now, do ye think?” + +“One winter night--a cold, bleak Christmas Eve--returning from such a +visit to my hoard, I was waylaid by two men, who suspected my secret, +on this very spot----” + +“GOOD avenin’!” + +“Stay yet one moment. They seized me, hurled me to the ground----” + +“Here?” + +“On this very spot where now we stand. They----” + +“Let’s walk furdther down the hill.” + +“Listen. They hurled me to the ground, and, as I struggled for my gold, +they--slew me!” + +“Phwat!” + +“They cut my throat from ear to ear!” + +“M-i-l-l-i-a m-u-r-d-t-h-e-r! An’ did it hurt?” + +“It haggled some, but----” + +“An’ did yez niver git over it?” + +“I died!” + +“Oh-h-h-h! Bones of the martyrs! GOOD avenin’!” + +“Stop a moment. I----” + +“Ah yes, shtop a minit. It’s yerself is the pleasant man to be +shtoppin’ wid, on a hillside at midnight. Go on, thin, for it’s +starvin’ wid the cold I am.” + +“I died where I fell; and a coroner’s jury, after due deliberation, +returned a verdict, on my lifeless remains, that ‘the alleged deceased +came to his probable death in a fit of temporary inanition, induced +by the administering of narcotic drug or drugs, by some visitation of +Providence to the jury unknown.’” + +“Wur that all, alanna? I thought ye said they cut the throat ov ye.” + +“They did. But the intelligent citizens who composed the coroner’s jury +could not see that that had anything to do with it. Since that time, +once a year, on every anniversary of my untimely death, I am forced to +leave my grave----” + +“Oh, mortial man! don’t shpake ov it at all, an’ us out here in the +dark an’ could, and niver a dhrop ov anything to rise the cockles ov +me heart wid nearer than town. But kape on.” + +“----and haunt this hill. My spirit can not rest in peace until the +money which I left concealed from human gaze shall be given into hands +fit to be entrusted with wealth.” + +“An’ is that all, acushla? Go back to yer den, and dhraw yer stool in +to the fire, an’ be comfortable. Show me whare to dig jist, and sorrow +light upon me av ye’ll ever have any more nade to wake up an’ worry +about another cint as long as ye live--I mane, as long as ye don’t +live. Whare’s yer bank? Divil be in me but thare’ll be such a run on it +in about ten minits they’ll think thare’s an ould-fashioned American +panic broke loose in ghostland, for a truth. Can’t shlape because ye +can’t give yer money away! Musha, thin, it’s meself can’t shlape often +enough because I haven’t ony to give away, or to kape, ayther. Show me +yer threasury, avick; I’m yer oysther.” + +“Years ago I might have given it away, had men but known my secret. But +the spell laid upon me----” + +“A spell ov what?” + +“----forbade me to reveal my hidden wealth until I should meet a man +going home sober, on Christmas Eve, who would not be afraid of me. The +condition was a hard one, for although in my annual hauntings I have +met many men plodding up this hill too drunk to be frightened, you are +the first sober man I have met on Christmas Eve since the city was an +Indian trading post.” + +“Ah well then, it’s small blame to them, for it’s gettin’ ready to +shwear off New Year’s day they are, the whole jing-bang ov thim. Troth, +they do that every year.” + +“You did not manifest any fear at my sudden appearance. You were not, +apparently, afraid of me; you----” + +“Afraid, is it?” + +“I merely remarked that you were not afraid of me.” + +“Is it me?” + +“I said, my quick-tempered friend, that----” + +“Is it you?” + +“Calm yourself, my bellicose mortal, I simply----” + +“Listen to ’im! Hear ’im talk about ony body bein ashkared ov an ould +bag o’ bones sthandin’ in the dark makin’ faces! Why, ye consaited old +skeleton, is it comin’ to Ameriky to be shkared wid you I’d be, whin we +had a ghosht ov our own in the Ould Sod for more nor twinty years? A +ghosht that wur worth bein’ shkared ov, too.” + +“You surprise me,” said the ghost. “Are you quite certain that your +own family was favored with the permanent society of a ghost? You will +pardon me for intimating that your appearance and dress do not indicate +a station in life that calls for such a condition of things. For I am +decidedly under the impression that we are permitted to haunt only +aristocratic families, who inhabit large rambling houses, with long +gloomy corridors and magnificent bay windows and lofty mansard roofs +and heavy mortgages; full of dark corners and convenient hiding places +for ghosts, and frequently so uncomfortable and dreary, especially on +the occasion of a poor relation’s visit, that no one but a ghost can +enjoy living in them. I once knew a most respectable ghost, a specter +of a most extraordinarily rugged constitution, who haunted one of these +houses, and went to sleep in the spare room one night and was so laid +up with the rheumatism that he was unable to get out of his grave----” + +“The saints betune us! Don’t mintion it!” + +“----for nearly six weeks. I took his place at the mansion during his +indisposition. A dreary, frosty place enough, fitted up elegantly with +a thousand-dollar piano, a costly mechanic’s lien, Brussels carpets, +a chattel mortgage or two, French plate windows, a tax title, and a +few similar expensive luxuries. I did not wish to be laid up with the +rheumatism, so I took preventives instead of cures. From being frosty +and chilly, I made that house the warmest place this side of----” + +“Don’t say it, alanna! Skip that!” + +“----the equator,” pursued the ghost, quietly. “It soon became the most +hospitable mansion on the street. It was full of company all the time, +and poor relations came and got square meals and slept in the best beds +and were made welcome. You can not imagine how I softened that old +fellow’s proud heart. And you must excuse me if I say that you do not +appear to belong to that favored class which is honored with hereditary +ghosts. A ghost, my unsophisticated friend, is an expensive luxury.” + +“Thrue for you, it is, thin. The wan we had was the most expinsive +thing we wur ever throubled wid. He kim till the house in me father’s +time an’ I dunno how long befoar.” + +“Did he look like me?” + +“Sorra the wan ov him. He’d ate a rigimint ov yez in a minit. +Shouldhers like a sailor an’ a head set on ’im like a bull dog’s. He +wur a ghosht now that cud talk to ye about bein’ ashkared ov him.” + +“Does he ever annoy--that is, entertain you now?” + +“Faix, thin he doesn’t. It isn’t here he cud live at all, at all. It +wur in the ould counthry he did be vexin’ us an’ teasin’ the life out +ov us from mornin’ till night.” + +“Why, did he appear in the daytime, then?” + +“It wur grace fur his bones that he did. Be the holy poker, alanna, it +wur waitin’ fur him in the dark twinty times a month we was. Catch an +Irish ghosht comin’ in the dark. He knowed whin to come.” + +“Did you ever try to lay the ghost?” + +“Wanst. The byes laid him wid a blackthorn stick, an’ sorra the wan of +him throubled us agin fur six weeks afther.” + +“I don’t understand. Why did he haunt you? What was----” + +“Why did he? For the rint, av coorse. It was the thavin’ ould landlord, +bloody end to him. Talk about ghosts! The ould _boddagh Sassenagh_ +gev us more throuble in wan day than the whole jing-bang ov such +thin-legged spooks as yerself cud make us in a week. Thare was wan +time the ould swaddler kim down to Muldoonery’s shebeen--ye knew the +Muldoonery’s?” + +“The name is familiar, but I can not say that I ever had the honor of +the family’s acquaintance.” + +“The betther for you thin, for ye died wid a whole head----” + +“But my neck was spoiled.” + +“Oh-h, by this an’ by that, listen to him! Don’t sphake ov it. The +Muldoonerys was me father’s own family. Ould Malachi Muldoonery, wan +of the Killatalicks, thim as was own cousins to the O’Slaughtery’s of +Killgobbin--ah, thim was the high-toned wans fur ye; when it come to +ould families, they lifted the pins, jist. They had a ghosht ov thare +own, a rale wan, sphooky enough to frighten a horse from his oats, that +wore a long night-shirt like yer own, an’ carried his head undher his +arm. Oh, Gog’s blakey, but he wur the boss ghosht. He wur beheaded fur +headin’ a rebellyun three hundhred years ago. Ah, tare-an-ouns, the +tussle me own uncle, who was an O’Slaughtery, had wid this same ghosht +wanst. We heard the sphook thramplin’ up an’ down the hall, fur he +always wore a shurt of armor undher his white dhress, an’ me uncle got +up an’ wint out, an’ peerin’ down the dark hall, sees him. + +“‘Arrah!’ sez me uncle. + +“‘Sorra the word’ sez the ghosht. + +“‘Are ye thaire?’ sez me uncle. + +“The ghosht stopped walkin’ and screwed on his head like the head ov a +cane. + +“‘An’ phwat av I am?’ sez he. + +“‘Come out o’ that, thin, ye bladdherhang,’ sez me uncle. + +“‘I won’t, thin,’ sez the ghosht. + +“‘Ye’d betther,’ sez me uncle. + +“‘I hadn’t thin,’ sez the ghosht. + +“‘Do ye know what this is, ye omadhawn?’ sez me uncle, balancin’ his +blackthorn. + +“‘None o’ yer chaff,’ sez the ghosht. + +“‘I wont lave a whole bone in yer carkidge,’ says he. + +“‘I hwat!’ sez the ghosht. + +“‘I wont!’ sez he. + +“‘Yer a liar!’ sez he. + +“‘Is it me?’ sez he. + +“‘Show me yer head!’ sez he. + +“‘Whoop!’ sez he. + +“‘Hurroo!’ sez he. + +“Whack! wint the blackthorn, and wid that the whole house was roused +wid a bellerin’ an’ roarin’ that wud shame the bulls ov Bashan. It was +me uncle, an’ they found him out dures tied to the gate-posht wid a +bed-cord half a mile long and knotted up that way that it tuk thim till +after daylight to ontie him, for sorra the knot cud they cut. Oh, heavy +heart go wid the ghosht that tied him out in the cowld that a-way. An’ +afther they got him untied he died.” + +“Immediately?” asked the specter. + +“Och, the divil, no; about twenty-sivin years afther. But this isn’t +tellin’ me about that famous bank ov yours?” + +“True,” said the specter “we are losing time. To you, who have kept +sober Christmas Eve, and have scorned to desecrate and profane the +sacred memories of the season----” + +“Tower ov ivory!” whispered the exile of Killatalick, “av that isn’t +purty good for an ould cut-throat ov a pirate!” + +“----and have shown the integrity of your moral being----” + +“An phwat’s thim, I wondher?” + +“----in that you feel no fear of visitants from the spirit world, to +you I commit gold won by dishonest means, but which at last reaches +honest hands that will devote it to worthy purposes. Come with me, and +do as I tell you.” + +Crossing himself with an energy and rapidity that indicated a slight +lack of confidence in the moral standing of his guide, the descendant +of the Muldoonerys of Killgobbin followed his ghostly leader down the +hillside into the hollow and along the course of the bewildered and +frozen brook, until they paused before an irregular wall of rock, long +ago cut down by the action of the water. As they stood before this rude +wall, the specter turned to his companion. + +“If,” he said solemnly, “you do not feel as though you could maintain +the strictest silence, and not utter a word or an exclamation, no +matter what wonders you may see, do not follow me farther. The charm +which opens the care of my hidden wealth to your eyes, closes it in +destruction on any violation of the spell under which I am held. Are +you ready? On your life now, do not utter a sound.” + +The ghost touched the rock with his bony hand. It yawned like a door, +and in the cavern behind the gloomy entrance they crept, crouching, +along a narrow passage until the roof arched and they stood erect. An +open chest lay at their feet; glittering jewels sparkled like stars in +the gloom; precious stones in the mysterious coffer gleamed till their +rays pierced the shadowy pall of the cavern with a pale, tremulous +light. At a silent motion from the specter, the mortal, trembling with +excitement and eagerness, bent down and seized the chest. Once, twice, +thrice, he strained every muscle, and tugged until it seemed as though +his eyes were bursting from their sockets, but the glittering fortune +seemed immovable. He set every nerve for one tremendous effort; he +braced his feet firmly and once more grasped the handles of the coffer. +It moves! The ransom of an empire is his! + +“’S’matter ’ith you fellers? Hic! Watchu doin’? Hey?” + +The blinding light, and the deafening crash that followed lasted +scarce the duration of the lightning’s flash, and all was darkness +and silence. When the gray light of morning quenched the beams of the +paling stars, the exile woke to consciousness to find himself lying +outside the spell-bound cavern, with the unbroken rock looming cold and +pitiless beside him, and his dream of wealth was gone. A faint odor of +stale whisky kissed the wintry zephyrs, and a shattered bottle in the +near distance lay like a mournful memory of his happy dreams. When the +unhappy man’s friends discovered him, they took in all the conditions +of the cheerless bivouac, and when in the cozy surroundings of his +home he told his marvelous narrative, they were skeptical enough to +declare that they believed all the story about the ghost and the cavern +and the money chest was only the inspiration of that bottle before it +was broken, and that the exile of Killgobbin saw the light and heard +the crash when he staggered over the edge of the wall and broke his +head. But he still believes that if the young fellow who went into camp +on the hillside at the opening of this story had not finished his sleep +and broke in upon them in such an untimely manner, he would never again +have done a harder day’s work than cutting off coupons from government +bonds. + +The rest of us know that this is true. And if any young man doubts the +truth of this veracious chronicle, he can easily verify its statements +by keeping sober next Christmas Eve, and patrolling the quiet streets +until he meets the ghost. And if he doesn’t see the specter, he will at +least enjoy the singular sensation of going home sober Christmas Eve, a +thing of much greater rarity and wonder to most of “the boys” than an +interview with a Moneyed Ghost. + + + + +MIDDLERIB’S PICNIC. + + +“It isn’t age that makes people grow old,” Mr. Middlerib remarked +to his family as they were gathered at the breakfast table. “It is +incessant application; it is unending, incessant work and worry. The +mind, the body, all the faculties, mental and physical, are kept on +the alert without rest or recreation, until outraged nature rises in +rebellion against the slavery to which it is subjected, and deluded +man, with all the aches and tremor of senility in his young joints, +awakes to find that he has lived his three score years and ten in half +his allotted number of days.” And with this sage remark Mr. Middlerib +leaned back in his chair and regarded his family with the air of a man +who has just imparted a volume of information that would stagger the +average comprehension. + +“That’s what ailed these spring chickens, I reckon,” suggested Master +Middlerib, struggling with a wing that was supplied with the latest +improved fish-plate joints; “wore themselves out trying to lay ten +years’ eggs in five.” + +[Illustration: MIDDLERIB’S PICNIC.] + +Mr. Middlerib gazed at the boy in a meaning manner, and the young +gentleman immediately elevated one of his elbows until it was as +high as his head, and held his guard up while he warily regarded his +parent’s disengaged hand. But the usual consequences did not follow, +and Mr. Middlerib proceeded to announce that he would shake off the +sordid cares of business, and free himself from the shackles of +commercial servitude, and enjoy a picnic with his family and a few +chosen friends. And immediately upon this, the family loosed their +tongues and talked all together, and as loud and fast as possible for +twenty-five minutes. Then, Mr. Middlerib, smiling benignly upon the +scene of pleasure which his announcement had created, went off to his +office. When he returned, Miss Middlerib had a list made out of the +people they would invite. It embraced one hundred and fifteen names, +not including alternates, and Mr. Middlerib’s jaw fell as he gazed at +the catalogue. + +“Daughter, dear,” he remarked, as soon as he could command his +feelings, “do you take me for Calvary Mission Sunday-school, that you +have included the census of this city in our picnic?” + +Then explanations were demanded, and it appeared that Mr. Middlerib’s +idea had been to take a couple of big wagons, furnished with temporary +seats, and have a decidedly rustic, old-fashioned picnic, of an +exclusively family nature. And Miss Middlerib sat down and blotted +out an even hundred names with tears, after which Mr. Middlerib gazed +upon the revised and corrected list, expunged edition, and pronounced +it good. Then they fixed upon the day, which was settled after much +wrangling and profound discussion. Mr. M. went out and looked at the +sky, and noted the direction of the wind, and watched the movements +of the chimney swallows with a critical and scientific eye, and came +in and announced that it would not rain for five days, and they would +have the picnic just two days before the rain. And from the hour of +that announcement the Middlerib family and their invited relations did +nothing but bake, and roast, and stew, and iron clothes, and declare +they were tired to death and would be glad when it was all over and +done with. It is a somewhat remarkable fact that all people who make +up their minds to go to a picnic, always do say that they will be glad +when it is over, and act as though they were going merely as an act of +self-denial and a mortification of the flesh. + +But when the day finally rolled around, as days will roll, the +excitement was at its height. The sun struggled to his place at the +usual hour, as soon as he was called, and his broad, red face had a +terribly wild and dissipated look as he glared through the bank of +clouds that curtained his getting up place, as though he had been +tearing around all night, and had never had his boots off, and had +only got up to collar the water pitcher. No wonder the whole party +lost confidence in such a sun the moment they looked at him. He looked +too much like a prodigal sun, just before he got starved into reform, +rather than a smiling, cheery picnic sun. And the Middleribs took turns +going out singly and in small groups to look at him, and revile his +unpromising appearance, and after each observation they would return +to the house and ask each other in tones somewhat tinged with a tender +melancholy, “Well, what do you think of it?” And the questioned one +would stifle a sigh and reply “I don’t know, do you?” + +There is no scene in all this wide world of pathos more pathetic than +a group of anxious mortals, on the morn of a picnic, trying to delude +each other into the belief that when the sky is covered with heavy +black clouds, 800 feet thick, and a damp scud is driving through the +air, and the sun is only half visible occasionally through a thin cloud +that is waiting to be patched up to the standard thickness and density, +it is going to be a very fine day indeed. So the Middleribs looked at +the coppery old sun, and the dismal clouds, and tried to look cheerful, +and said encouragingly that “Oh, it never rained when the clouds came +up that way;” and, “See, it is all clear over in the east;” and, “It +often rains very heavily in town when there doesn’t a drop of water +fall at Prospect Hill.” And thus, with many encouraging remarks of +similar import, they awaited the gathering of the party, and the human +beings finally climbed into one wagon, put the baskets and the boys in +the other, and drove away, giggling and howling with well dissembled +glee. + +The happy party, although they well knew that it would not rain, had +taken the precaution nevertheless to take a large assortment of shawls +and umbrellas. They were a quarter of a mile from town when it began +to thunder some, but as it didn’t thunder in the direction of Prospect +Hill, distant some three miles, they went on, confident that it wasn’t +raining, and wouldn’t, and couldn’t rain at Prospect Hill. They were +half a mile from town when the cloud that all the rest of the clouds +had been waiting for came up and remorselessly sat down on the last, +solitary lingering patch of blue that broke the monotony of the leaden +sky, but the party pressed on, confident that they would find blue +sky when they got to Prospect Hill. They were a mile from town when +old Aquarius pulled the bottom out of the rain wagon and began the +entertainment. It was a grand success. The curtain hadn’t been up ten +minutes before all the standing room in the house was taken up and +the box office was closed. The Middlerib party having gone early, +and secured front seats, were able to see everything. They expressed +their pleasure by loud shrieks, and howls, and wails. They tore +umbrellas, that had been furtively placed in the wagon, out of their +lurking places, and shot them up with such abruptness that the hats +in the wagon were knocked out into the road. Then the wagon stopped +and people crawled out and waded around after hats, and came piling +back into the wagon, with their feet loaded with mud. The umbrellas +got into each other’s way, and from the points of the ribs streams of +dirty water trickled down shuddering backs, and stained immaculate +dresses, and took the independence out of glossy shirt fronts. And the +picnic party turned homeward, but still the Middleribs did not lose +heart. They smiled through their tears, and Miss Middlerib, beautiful +in her grief, still advocated going on and having the picnic in a barn, +and wept when they refused her. It rained harder every rod of the way +back. Then when they got everybody and every thing into the house, the +heart-rending discovery was made that the boys had taken the rubber +blanket which was to have covered the baskets in case of rain, and +spread it over themselves when the moisture gathered, and consequently +the edibles were in a state of dampness. + +Then the clouds broke, and the sun came out, and smiling nature stood +around looking as pleasant as though it had never played a mean trick +on a happy picnic party in its life; and the Middleribs hung themselves +out in the sun to dry, and tried to play croquet in the wet grass, and +kept up their spirits as well as they knew how, and were not cross if +they did get wet. If smiling nature had only given them a show, or even +half a chance, they would have got along all right. They were bound to +have the picnic party anyhow, so they kept all the relations at the +house, and when dinner time came, the grass was dry and they set the +table out under the trees and made it look as picnicky as possible. +It clouded up a little when they were setting the table, but nobody +thought it looked very threatening. The soaked things had been dried +as carefully as possible, and the table looked beautiful when they +gathered around it. And just about the time they got their plates +filled and declared that they were glad they came back, and that this +was ever so much better than Prospect Hill, a forty acre cloud came and +stood right over the table, and then and there went all to pieces. + +That was what spoiled the picnic. + +The pleasure-seekers grabbed whatever they could reach and broke for +the house, uttering wild shrieks of dismay. They crowded into the hall, +which wasn’t half big enough, and there they stood on each other’s +trains, and trod on each other’s corns, and poured coffee down each +other’s backs, and jabbed forks into one another’s arms. When one +frantic looking woman would rush in and set a plate of cake down on +the floor while she dived out into the rain with a woman’s anxiety to +recover some more provisions from the dripping wreck, a forlorn looking +man would immediately step on that plate of cake, and stand there +gazing wonderingly and apprehensively at the shrieking crowd around +him, pointing their forks and fingers at him and at his feet, and +yelling, in a deafening chorus, something as utterly unintelligible as +“shouting proverbs.” And when the man, in a vain effort to do something +in compliance with the shrieking which was evidently intended for him, +stepped off the cake and stood in a huge dish of baked beans for a +change, the wail of consternation that went up from the congregation +fairly rent the bending skies. And when Uncle Steve, who had found Aunt +Carrie’s baby out under the deserted table, maintaining an unequal +struggle with half of a huckleberry pie and a whole thunder-storm, came +tearing in with the hapless infant, and, dashing through the crowd, +deposited it on top of a pile of hard-boiled eggs, Miss Middlerib +fainted, and the youngest gentleman cousin was driven into a spasm of +jealousy because he couldn’t walk over a row of cold meats and lobster +salad to get to her, and had to endure the misery of seeing the oldest +and ugliest bachelor uncle carry her drooping form to a sofa, and lay +her down tenderly, with her classic head in a nest of cream tarts and +her dainty feet on Sadie’s Jenny Lind cake. And when Mrs. Middlerib +looked out of the window, and saw the dog Heedle with his fore paws in +the lemonade bucket, growling at Cousin John, who was trying to drive +him out of it, she expressed a willingness to die right there. And when +they were startled by some unearthly sounds and muffled shrieks, that +even rose above the human babel in the hall, and found that the cat had +got its poor head jammed tighter than wax in the mouth of the jar that +contained the cream, everybody just sat on the plate of things nearest +him, and gasped, “What next?” while Cousin David lifted cat and jar +by the tail of the former, and carried them out to be broken apart. +And when old Mr. Rubelkins lost his teeth in the coffee pot, half the +people in the hall began to lose heart, and one discouraged young +cousin said he half wished that they had put the picnic off a day. And +finally, when the uproar was at its height, the door-bell rang, and the +aunt nearest the door opened it, and there stood the Hon. Mrs. J. C. P. +R. Le Von Blatheringford and her daughter, the richest and most stylish +people in the neighborhood, arrayed like fashion-plates, making their +first formal call. While they stood gazing in mute bewilderment at the +scene of ruin and devastation and chaos before them, Mrs. Middlerib +just got behind the door and pounded her head against the wall; while +Miss Middlerib, springing from her sofa, ran to her room, leaving a +trail of Jenny Lind cake and cream tarts behind her, as the fragments +dropped from her back hair and heels. And the rest of the company, +staring at the guests with their mouths full of assorted provisions, +and their hearts full of bitter disappointment, mumbled, in hospitable +chorus, “Wup pin,” which, had their mouths been empty, would have been +rendered, “Walk in.” + +This blow settled the picnic. Gloom hung over the house the rest of the +day. Mr. Middlerib decided, after the company had departed, that the +easiest and cheapest way to clean the hall would be to turn the river +through it. And that night, when they were assembled at a comfortless +tea-table--Master Middlerib having been sent to bed so sick that they +didn’t think his toe-nails would be able to hold down till morning--Mr. +Middlerib said: + +“It isn’t the steady, honest, ambitious devotion to business that +makes men old. Labor is a law of our nature. We are happiest and most +content when we are busiest. It is the healthful labor of the day +that brings the sweet, refreshing repose of the night. Pleasure flies +us when we seek her; she comes to us when we least regard her calls. +Remember what I have always said, and find your pleasure in your daily +work--in the regular routine of daily life, and its duties and useful +avocations--and age will only come upon you slowly, and youth will +linger in your hearts and on your faces long years after the allotted +days of youth are past. The next time you want to have a picnic, +remember how often I have warned you against them.” + + + + +MASTER BILDERBACK’S POULTRY YARD. + + +If there was anything she abominated more than one thing, Mrs. +Bilderback used to say with some warmth, it was another, and that was +chickens. And she resolutely protested against keeping any of them +about the place. She wanted to keep a few flowers this year, and she +wasn’t going to be mortified again as she was last Summer, by having +every woman who called at that house smile at the forest of bare +stalks and scraggy branches that stood for the collection of house +plants that she and her daughter tried to raise for ornaments to the +place, but which were really of no use except to fill the crops of +a lot of long-legged, hungry chickens. And for a long time the good +lady held out stoutly against the chicken proposition, but was at +last over-argued and over-persuaded and gave her unwilling consent +for Master Bilderback to keep three dozen chickens, the party of the +second part binding himself to keep the table supplied with fresh eggs +and spring chickens, and to keep all hens, roosters, and all young +chickens of unknown sex, but of sufficient physical development to +scratch, out of the front yard and away from the flower beds. This +contract Master Bilderback placed himself under heavy bonds to carry +out, by saying, “honest injun,” “’pon nonnor,” and “’cross my heart,” +and having solemnly repeated this awful and impressive formula, he +went sedately out of the room and immediately threw himself down on +a verbena bed, where he pounded the ground with his heels in the +ecstasy of his joy. In due time the new hen-house was completed, and +Mr. Bilderback, breathing maledictions on the wretches who pulled the +pickets off his front fence for kindling wood, had that important +boundary repaired before he noticed that the apertures in the fence +corresponded to certain neat looking improvements on the hennery. The +house was stocked rather slowly, for it was part of the contract which +Mrs. Bilderback had drawn that the party of the second part should +purchase his own stock. It was noticeable that Master Bilderback’s +taste ran greatly toward gamey looking roosters, and as the perches in +the hennery became more and more populated, the outlook for fresh eggs +and spring chickens became very discouraging indeed. The first fowl the +poulterer brought home was a gaunt Hamburg with one eye and a game leg, +but beautifully spangled, which interesting bird, Master Bilderback +informed his sister, was the worst pill in the box and had lost his eye +while fighting a cow. The next day he traded a pocketful of marbles for +a little bantam that crowed twenty-four hours a day, could slip through +a season crack in a warped board, and could dig a hole in the middle +of a flower bed that you could bury a calf in. There wasn’t a moment’s +silence about the house after the bantam’s arrival, for when he was not +fighting the Hamburg, which was only when that valiant but prudent bird +got up on top of the house and hid behind a chimney, he was wandering +through the house trying his voice in the different rooms, or standing +on the front porch issuing proclamations of defiance to all roosters +to whom these presents might come, greeting. A day or two after the +bantam’s arrival Master Bilderback traded his knife for a Black +Spanish rooster with a broken wing. The Spaniard when put in the coop +proceeded at once to clean out the disheartened Hamburg, who fought on +the tactics which had so often proved of so great value to him, and +amazed his furious antagonist by the briskness with which he got out +of the coop, up on to the barn, and perched himself on the restless +and uncertain weather-cock. The Spaniard and the bantam then had it +until neither of them could stand, when the pacific Hamburg improved +the opportunity to come down and partake of the first square meal he +had eaten since the new boarders had come to the house. Two days later, +Master Bilderback brought home a vile looking white rooster with no +tail feathers, his comb shaved off close to the head, and spurs as long +as your thumb, a vile plebeian of a rooster without a line of pedigree, +of no particular strain, except a strain that made his very eyes turn +red when he growled, which he had bought for an old base ball club. But +the nameless stranger amazed the proprietor of the hennery by waltzing +into the establishment with a terrific rooster oath, and following it +up by kicking the bantam clear out of his mind, jerking the wattles +off the Spaniard, and chasing the persecuted Hamburg half-way up the +side of the house. This was the last addition made to the happy family +for some time, Mr. Bilderback declaring that he was not going to have +his premises turned into a cock-pit, and Master Bilderback was sternly +forbidden to arrange any more meetings in the alley, with other boys +and their birds. But a few days afterward, when Master Bilderback came +home from school, it was evident that he had made a trade. He had +some other boy’s shabby old hat on his head, and there wasn’t a lead +pencil, piece of string, pistol cartridge, top, fish-hook, chalk line, +marble, dime novel, or street car ticket in his pockets, and he had a +new rooster, the crowning glory of the vast collection of fowls that +were to furnish forth his mother’s table with fresh eggs and spring +chickens. It was a Shanghai; young one, Master Bilderback said, as he +prepared to untie its legs and wings and introduce it to its new home; +hadn’t got his growth yet, but he was “a buster.” And Mrs. Bilderback +thought he was. When he was untied he stood up and flapped one of his +wings in his proprietor’s face, until that young gentleman was ready +to “cross his heart,” that somebody had hit him with a clapboard. And +before he had recovered from the effects of this blow the noble bird +kicked him under the chin and darted off toward the front yard, with +prodigious strides. He uttered a most awful croak as he neared Mrs. +Bilderback, who was trying to get out of his way, and in a vain attempt +to fly over her, he struck her on the head, just abaft her ear with his +heel, gently dropping her; “grassed the old lady,” Master Bilderback +afterward explained to his sister, “like a shot.” The wretched bird +paused as he passed the sitting-room window, which was just about +on a level with his head when he stooped, to look in and make some +unintelligible remark in a guttural tone of language, and snatching +up a new tidy that Miss Bilderback was at work upon, swallowed it and +passed on. Wherever he trod, he smashed a house plant, and whenever +he croaked, he threw somebody into a fit. He met Mr. Bilderback as he +suddenly turned the corner of the house, ran against the old gentleman +with a wild kind of a crow that sounded like a steamboat whistle with +a bad cold, and as he trampled over that good man’s prostrate form, he +plucked off his necktie and swallowed it. Then the “buster” wheeled +around and straddled into the sitting-room window, and before they +could head him out of the house he swallowed two spools of cotton, a +tack hammer, a set of false teeth belonging to Mrs. Bilderback, a cake +of toilet soap, a shoe buttoner, a ball of yarn, an arctic over-shoe, +and finally choked on a photograph album which flew open when it was +about half-way down. The bird when last heard from was still at large +roaming around South Hill, but Master Bilderback’s hennery is empty +and lonesome, because his parents are, from some unaccountable reason, +bitterly prejudiced against keeping chickens. + + + + +A SUNDAY IDYL. + + +You see, the tenor had got kind of abstracted, or restless, or +something during the long prayer, and was thinking about the European +war, or the wheat corner last week, or something, and so when the +minister gave out hymn 231, on page 67, and the chorister whispered +them to sing the music on page 117, it all came in on the tenor like +a volley, and as he had only the playing of the symphony in which to +make the necessary combination of time, hymn and page, he came to the +front just a little bit disorganized, and his fingers sticking between +every leaf in the book. And the choir hadn’t faced the footlights half +a minute before the congregation more than half suspected something was +wrong. For you see, the soprano, in attempting to answer the frenzied +whisper of the tenor in regard to the page, lost the first two or three +words of the opening line herself, and that left the alto to start +off alone, for the basso was so profoundly engaged in watching the +tenor and wondering what ailed him, that he forgot to sing. The music +wasn’t written for an alto solo, and consequently there wasn’t very +much variety to that part, and after singing nearly through the first +line alone, and receiving neither applause nor bouquets for one of +the finest contralto efforts a Burlington or any other audience ever +listened to, the alto stopped and looked reproachfully at the soprano, +who had just plunged the tenor’s soul into a gulf of dark despair by +leaving him to find his way out of the labyrinth of tunes and pages +and hymns into which his own heedlessness had led him, by giving him +a frantic shake of her head, which unsettled the new spring bonnet +(just the sweetest duck of a Normandy), to that extent that every +woman in the congregation noticed it. All this time the organist was +doing nobly, and the alto, recovering her spirits, sang another bar, +which, for sweetness and tenacious adherence to the same note, all the +way through, couldn’t be beat in America. By this time the bass had +risen to the emergency and sang two deep guttural notes, with profound +expression, but as those of the congregation sitting nearest the choir +could distinctly hear him sing “Ho, ho!” to the proper music, it was +painfully evident that the basso had the correct tune, but was running +wild on the words. At this point the soprano got her time and started +off with a couple of confident notes, high and clear as a bird song, +and the congregation, inspired with an over-ready confidence, broke +out on the last word of the verse with a discordant roar that rattled +the globes on the big chandelier, and as the verse closed with this +triumphant outbreak, an expression of calm, restful satisfaction was +observed to steal over the top of the pastor’s head, which was all that +could be seen of him, as he bowed himself behind the pulpit. + +The organist played an intricate and beautiful interlude without a +tremor or a false note; not an uncertain touch to indicate that there +was a particle of excitement in the choir, or that anything had gone +wrong. + +The choir didn’t exactly appear to catch the organist’s reassuring +steadiness, for the basso led off the second verse by himself, and his +deep-toned “Ho, ho!” was so perceptible throughout the sanctuary that +several people started, and looked down under the seats for a man, and +one irreverent sinner, near the door, thrust a felt hat into his mouth +and slid out. The soprano got orders and started out only three or four +words behind time, but she hadn’t reached the first siding before she +collided with a woman in the audience, running wild and trying to carry +a new tune to the old words. And then, to make it worse, the soprano +handed her book to the tenor, and pointed him to the tune on page 117 +and the words on page 67, and if that unhappy man didn’t get his orders +mixed, and struck out on schedule time, with the tune on page 67 and +the words on page 117, and in less than ten words ditched himself so +badly that he was laid out for the rest of the verse, and then he lost +his place, handed the book back to the soprano, took the one she had, +and held it upside down, and no living man could tell from his face +what he was thinking of or trying to say. Meanwhile the soprano, when +the books were so abruptly changed on her, did just what might have +been expected, and telescoped two tunes and sets of words into each +other with disastrous effect. The alto was running smoothly along, +passenger time, for the several wrecks gave her the track, so far as +it was clear, all to herself. The basso, who had slipped an eccentric +and was only working one side, was rumbling cautiously along, clear off +his own time, flagging himself every mile of the way, and asking for +orders every time he got a chance. The pastor’s head was observed to +tremble with emotion, and the people sitting nearest the pulpit say +they could indistinctly hear sounds from behind it that resembled the +syllables “Te, he!” As the organist pulled and crowded and encouraged +them along toward the closing line, it looked as though public +confidence might soon be restored and the panic abated, but alas, as +even the demoralized tenor rallied, and came in with the full quartette +on the last line, a misguided man in the audience suddenly thought +he recognized in the distracted tune an old, familiar acquaintance, +and broke out in a joyous howl on something entirely different that +inspired every singing man and woman in the congregation with the same +idea, and the hymn was finished in a terrific discord of sixty-nine +different tunes, and the rent and mangled melody flapped and fluttered +around the sacred edifice like a new kind of delirium tremens, and all +the wrecking cars on the line were started for the scene at once. + +The pastor deserves more praise than can be crowded into these pages +for pronouncing the benediction in clear, even tones, without even the +ghost of a smile on his placid countenance. + + + + +RUPERTINO’S PANORAMA. + + +Our first view is leaving New York harbor. This is a beautiful picture. +See the mighty vessel, spreading her snowy wings to the gale, glide +through the water like a thing of life. There is nothing to hinder her, +and nothing in that fact to make a fuss about. But if the water was to +glide through her, it would be time for reflection on the brevity of +one’s life insurance policy. The noble ship is freighted with precious +human souls, bright hopes, happy anticipations, hides, salt meat and +highwines. + +This is a view of the Bourse in Paris, a twin institution to the +Burlington Board of Trade. The man in the background, trying to hang +himself on a lamp-post, is a member of the Bourse. He has just been +Boursted. He has been operating in corn. If you will hold a bottle or +small tumbler to your mouth and look steadily at this picture, you will +see how they usually operate in corn at the Exchanges. + +This is a view in Egypt. The great city of Cairo. It is named after +Cairo, Illinois. Cairo is on the river Nile. Cairo never struck ile +that we know of, but we do know that Cairo seen Nile. We do not know, +history does not tell us, what there was so important in this event, +but we know it is commemorated by monuments erected all over America. +You can’t go into a cemetery in the United States without seeing one or +more monuments erected to the memory of Cairo C. Nile. He was probably +the inventor of a cooking-stove, as some reference is usually made to +the kitchen fire. + +This is a view of the Seine. This is the favorite place for the +Parisians to shuffle off their mortal coil. The volatile Frenchman gets +himself full of elan (you know what that is) and jumps off one of these +arched bridges, the Pont Noof or the Pont de Jena, down by the Shong +de Mar. The zhong darmay, which is French for river police, fishes the +victim out; the coroner pronounces him incurably inseine, his property +is confiscated, and his insurance policy declared void, so as to spoil +his wife’s chances of marrying again. Such is the grasp of an iron +despotism upon the wretched slaves of down-trodden Europe. (Applause) + +Here is a view in London of the old Bucking’em palace. This is an +exterior view. Inside there are several keno banks, some chuckaluck +tables and a faro bank, and the nobility are in there bucking the +tiger. King Richard came out of that palace once, cleaned out, after a +run of bad luck. He remarked to a friend, “So much for bucking ’em.” +The quotation has passed into history. + +A panoramic view of Scotland. The gentleman in the peculiar position +in the foreground is scratching his back against a mile post and +remarking, “God bless the gude Duke of Argyle.” The children in +Scotland are taught that the Duke of Argyle made the world. This is an +error. + +We stand among the antiquities of Rome--Rome that stood on her seven +hills, like James Robinson in his famous eight-horse bareback act. +This is Trajan’s Column--his spinal column. This is the Arch of Titus. +When he put up that arch he was Titus a brick. This is the place where +the Roman mobs used to collect and the police went Forum. Here is the +Coliseum. There is the bloody sand of the arena; there is the spot +where “the dying gladiator” lied. “I see before me the dying gladiator +lie.” Some calm and temperate Roman ought to have cast the scoundrel’s +lies in his teeth. The Romans were very depraved, wicked people, and +the entire civilized world yet suffers from the effects of their +malicious iniquity. They invented the Latin grammar, Nepos, Cicero +and Virgil, and hurled upon the boys of succeeding ages a language +containing ten rules to every word, and twenty exceptions to every +rule. This is a statue of a noble Roman, Julius Cæsar. He was named +after the Fourth of July and President Grant. + +We stand in Greece. “The isles of Greece! The isles of Greece!” +Probably the poet referred to goose grease. The Greeks were an ancient +people. They wrote their letters in cipher, and schoolboys of to-day +sigh for hours over their letters. Here are the ruins of the temple of +Jupiter O’Lympus, erected to him by the ancient Greeks, thus proving +that the Irish nation sprang from these ancient heroes. Here is an +ancient theater. It is closed now for repairs; has been closed for +a few thousand years, and the actors have gone off to their Summer +resort, at Hades on the Styx. + +Behold buried Pompeii. The city was entombed in an eruption that hadn’t +been equaled since Job got well. The gentleman in a military position +at the gate, dressed in a full suit of bones, is not only a charming +specimen of anatomy, but was a brave sentinel, who was covered up with +ashes before he could run. He would have been 1,795 years old to-morrow +if he had run and kept on living. It appears, however, that he is dead. +The fact is not substantiated by any direct evidence, as no witnesses +can be found who saw him die, and his will, therefore, has not been +probated. But it is generally believed that he is dead. Weep not for +him, friends. He was a heathen, and has gone to a place where he is +probably used to volcanoes by this time. + +This building, the venerable pile that rises before you, is 27,000 +years old. It originally cost $850, and took ten men nearly all Summer +to build it. It was whitewashed nearly 4,000 years ago, but received +no later repairs. The room on the right as you enter the hall on the +first floor, is the Torture Room. It is called the County Treasurer’s +office, and is where people go and mortgage their farms and homes for +taxes. The room opposite is the County Insane Asylum. The juries are +confined there while on duty, and the local debating societies also +meet there. This court-house was built many ages before Burlington was +settled. The massive walls are engraved with the names of eminent men +who have served on the juries. A grim and imposing antiquity frowns +upon us as we enter the Judgment Hall up stairs. The benches and desks +are made of wood taken from the decks of the ark. The tobacco quids in +the corners were piled there so long ago that people had not begun to +remember anything. The wood-box is a pre-Adamic creation. It is modeled +after the megatherium. The only man living who knows any thing about +the early history of the court-house is dead. + + + + +MIDDLERIB’S DOG. + + +Mr. Middlerib used to be a devoted dog fancier. About three years ago +he owned a beautiful hound pup about five months old. It was considered +an ornament to the neighborhood. A hound pup at that age is an object +of surprising beauty, under any circumstances; but when you consider +that Mr. Middlerib had raised his pup on scientific principles (boiled +beef and rice), you can readily imagine what a canine divinity it was. +Gaunt legs, longer than your grandfather’s stories, and the hind ones +so crooked that the dog sticks his foot into everything in the yard +every time he tries to scratch his ear; sides look as though he had +swallowed an old hoopskirt, and the springs showed through; more ribs +under his hide than there are spots on it; tail as long as the dog, and +two inches across the big end and tapering down like a marlinspike, so +lean you can count every joint in it, and so hard that you couldn’t +scratch it with a diamond--has every appearance of having been made +ten years before the dog was, and then hung out to bleach in the rain +and dry in the sun until the dog came along; ears soft as a kid glove, +and about the size and appearance of a blacksmith’s apron--bear every +evidence of being considered by all other dogs in the precinct as +dreadful nice things to chew. Beautiful eyes; open twenty-three hours +and fifty-nine minutes of the day; scare every woman into fits that +looks into the back yard after dark. Sweet mouth, opens on a hinge at +the back of his head, and is never shut unless there is something in +it. That’s the best picture of a growing hound, one of this kind with +liver colored spots, that we can draw, and Mr. Middlerib’s was just +like that, only more so. His principal characteristic was a tendency to +lunch. He was fond of nibbling little things around the house. Split +his face one Sunday while the folks were at church, and shut it down +over a whole ham. Liked to peek at odd bones and scraps, and one Monday +morning he ate two tablecloths, a flannel shirt, a big roller towel, +half a dozen clothes pins and thirteen linear yards of clothes-line, +before the washing had been hung out half an hour. Fond of eggs, too, +and knows every hen by sight in the neighborhood, and sets off on a +friendly call every time he hears a cackle. Mrs. M. wants to sell him, +but Middlerib says gold couldn’t buy him. So he stays, and eggs are as +scarce in that ward as ever. + +Well, one night, Mrs. M. had made something by pulverizing a lot of +very hot potatoes. We believe it was yeast. Any how, it was necessary +that it should cool very presently, and after some misgivings relative +to the dog and his weakness, which were dispelled by Middlerib’s +indignant defense of that sagacious animal, the dish containing the +fiery compound was placed on the outer edge of a window sill, to cool +in the night air. + +Then the family resumed their occupation of hearing Middlerib explain +the causes that led to the recent revolution in politics. + +Such a weird, unearthly, piercing wail hadn’t been heard since +Dresseldorf learned to play the clarionet. It seemed to come out of +the ground, out of the sky, out of the air around them, and for an +instant the frightened Middleribs gazed at each other with white, +terror-blanched faces. Then they rushed to the door and looked out. A +gaunt, ghostly form, with liver colored spots and a mouth full of red +hot potato yeast thrashed wildly up and down the yard, splitting the +darkness with terrific yells at every jump. It was Middlerib’s dog; +and it was apparently feeling uneasy. It dashed madly around in short +circles and screamed “Police,” and scraped its jaws with its paws, +and wept and rubbed its chops along the cold ground, and swore and +howled for water, and pawed the earth and sang psalms, and in several +ways expressed its disapprobation of potato yeast as a diet. Finally, +the dog wedged himself in between the fence and the ash-barrel, and +told all about it, how it happened and what it felt like, and how he +liked it as far as he’d got. He never slept a wink that night. He was +too anxious to get his narrative completed and see the proofs of it. +Neither did anybody in the neighborhood sleep, either. And every time +a water pitcher would crash down into the yard, or a boot-jack bang +against the fence or an andiron plunge madly into the ash-barrel, the +dog would laugh in mocking tones, and go on with his testimony. About +midnight a vigilance committee waited on Mr. Middlerib, but he wouldn’t +come out, and they couldn’t stand the noise long enough to break in the +door. The dog finished his statement about sunrise, when the committee +rose. The family ate baker’s bread the next day, and Middlerib so far +yielded to Mrs. M.’s entreaties as to say that if any man will make a +fair offer, he might sell an undivided third of the dog. + + + + +A BOY’S DAY AT HOME. + + +Master Bilderback had been home all day, confined to the house and +barn by the rain, and excited by the prospect of unlimited fun during +the long vacation. He was a blessing to his mother and sister, and his +affectionate parent caught her death of cold by running around after +him in one stocking foot, searching out the tender places in his nature +and anatomy with a four and a half slipper. He tied one end of his +sister’s ball of crochet cotton to the fly-wheel of the sewing-machine +and the other around the tail of the cat, and by the time his mother +had sewed half-way down one of the long seams in Mr. Bilderback’s new +shirt, all but a few yards of that cotton was a chaotic mass about +that fly-wheel and shaft, and the cat was waltzing in and out of the +kitchen, sprawling along backward, tail straight as a poker, fur up +and eyes aflame, snowling, and spitting, and swearing like mad, and +Mrs. Bilderback and her daughter climbed upon the table and shrieked +till the windows rattled, while Master Bilderback, hid behind the +clothes-horse in the kitchen, lay down on his back and laughed a wicked +gurgling kind of a laugh. Then he went out and jammed a potato into +the nose of the chain pump and the hired girl went out and pumped till +her arms ached clear down to her heels, and then told Mrs. Bilderback +the cistern had sprung a leak and was dry as a bone. And then Mrs. +Bilderback, declaring she knew better, went out and turned the wheel +till her head swam and she gave up, and Miss Bilderback went out and +turned till she cried, and then Master Bilderback, rather than go to +the neighbor’s for water, went out and fixed the pump and came in to +be praised, and was duly praised with the slipper, for he had been +watched. He put an old last year’s fire-cracker in the kitchen stove; +he insured a steady run of strange visitors for about two hours, to the +great amazement of his mother and sister, by pinning a placard on the +porch step, plainly seen from the street, but invisible from the front +door, “Man wanted to drive carriage; $35.00 a month and board.” Mrs. +Bilderback drew a sigh of relief when she heard Mr. B.’s step in the +hall, and informed her son that as soon as his father came in he should +be duly informed of all that had been going on. A most impressive +silence followed this remark, and the trio in the sitting-room listened +to Mr. Bilderback’s heavy breathing as he divested himself of his wet +boots, and prepared to assume his slippers. Master Bilderback’s face +wore an expression of the deepest concern. + +Suddenly the silence was broken by a shout of astonishment and terror, +followed by a howl of intense agony, and there was a clattering as of a +runaway crockery wagon in the hall. The affrighted family rushed to the +door, and beheld Mr. Bilderback cleaving the shadows with wild gestures +and frantic gyrations. “Take it off,” he shouted, and made a grab at +his own foot, but, missing it, went on with his war-dance. “Water!” he +shrieked, and started up stairs, three at a step, and turning, came +back in a single stride, “Oh, I’m stabbed!” he cried, and sank to the +floor and held his right leg high above his head; then he rose to his +feet with a bound and screamed for the boot-jack, and held his foot out +toward his terrified family. “Oh, bring me the arnica!” he yelled, and +with one despairing effort he reached his slipper and got it off, +and with a groan as deep as a well and hollow as a drum, sank into a +chair and clasped his foot in both hands. “Look out for the scorpion,” +he whispered hoarsely, “I’m a dead man.” + +[Illustration: A BOY’S DAY AT HOME.] + +Master Bilderback was by this time out in the woodshed, rolling in +the kindling in an ecstasy of glee, and pausing from time to time to +explain to the son of a neighbor, who had dropped in to see if there +was any innocent sport going on in which he could share, “Oh, Bill, +Bill,” he said, “you wouldn’t believe; some time to-day, some how or +Other, a big blue wasp got into the old man’s slipper, and when he come +home and put it on--oh, Bill, you don’t know!” + + + + +WHY MR. BOSTWICK MOVED. + + +Young Mr. Bostwick has moved. He liked the house he has been living in +well enough, and Mrs. Bostwick fairly cried her eyes out when they left +it, because it had a bay window and blinds with slats that you could +turn so that you could see anybody in the street and nobody could see +you. But old Mr. Glasford, the landlord, was very deaf, and it was on +account of this infirmity that his tenant left the house. Mrs. Bostwick +said she couldn’t see what Mr. Glasford’s deafness had to do with the +house, but her husband only looked worried and said it made a good +deal of difference with a man’s peace of mind, when he had something +he wanted to whisper, and had to whisper it to a man who couldn’t +hear anything if he went into a boiler factory. Mrs. Bostwick didn’t +understand what difference it made anyhow, but then she wasn’t down +town that terrible Wednesday, when old Mr. Glasford went into the store +where her husband was selling a lovely young divinity from Denmark a +dress pattern off a piece of Centennial percale. Mr. Bostwick saw the +old gentleman coming and felt very nervous. Eager to anticipate the +demand which he knew the old man was going to make, he dashed toward +him with an abruptness that astonished the fair customer who had just +lost herself in admiration of Bostwick’s diamond pin, and the fact, +just confidentially imparted to her, that he was not a clerk but the +silent partner, holding about $475,000 worth of stock in the concern, +and that he just worked from pure love of employment. Mr. Bostwick +checked the old gentleman about ten feet away from his customer, and +leaning over the counter so as to get as close range on his ear as +possible, whispered hoarsely that “it wouldn’t be convenient to pay +that rent to-day.” + +“Hey?” shouted the old man, looking at Bostwick’s agitated face in some +alarm, “why, why, wha’s the matter? ’S happened?” + +Mr. Bostwick made a futile effort to catch hold of the old man’s ear, +intending to pour his explanation into it as one pours water into a +funnel, but his landlord briskly dodged and waved Bostwick away with +an expression of considerable apprehension. Mr. Bostwick groaned and +endeavored to explain to the old gentleman in a manner that would +convey to the pretty customer and the others in the store the idea that +he was refusing to give the old party credit, and at the same time let +old Glasford know that he was bankrupt. + +“Can’t do it!” he shouted. + +“Can’t do what?” inquired the mystified old gentleman in those +stentorian tones so popular with deaf people. + +“Can’t help you!” shouted Bostwick, in tones the sternness of which +contrasted ludicrously with the sheepish expression of his countenance. +“Can’t do anything for you!” + +The old man looked at Bostwick in helpless wonder and then at the door, +with his mind half made up to run away, under the impression that the +young man was crazy. He finally stared at him in open-mouthed amazement +and speechless bewilderment. + +“Oh, Moses,” thought Bostwick, “he’s mad as a hornet, he’ll break out +in a minute; I know he will.” Then he tried him again, in a voice like +a steam whistle. + +“I can’t do anything for you!” + +The old man’s mouth opened still wider, and his eyes stood around on +his cheek-bones in their amazement. + +“Who asked ye to do anything for me?” he finally gasped. “What is it ye +can’t do?” + +Bostwick groaned, and in a fit of desperation he broke down, and gave +it up. + +“I can’t pay that rent to-day!” he shrieked, and the pretty customer +was so shocked that she dropped her parasol, fan and paper of gum drops. + +“What went to-day?” asked the old man, waving Bostwick off with his +stick. + +Here the proprietor officiously interposed to cover Bostwick’s +confusion, speaking in the highest key he could assume. + +“Rent! Rent! House rent, you know! He says he can’t pay his house rent +to-day!” + +“Rent day?” echoed old Glasford, “yes, oh yes, that’s past, two weeks +ago; first of the month.” + +“Yes,” shrieked Mr. Bostwick, while the store full of customers and +his fellow clerks stood around and smiled, “I know it, but I can’t pay +it to-day; haven’t got a cent!” + +“Oh!” exclaimed the old man, with a gleam of intelligence passing over +his face, “I don’t care about that; that isn’t what I come for. I come +to tell you if your wife wanted that front room down stairs papered, to +go ahead and have it done, and I’d allow it.” + +The pretty customer wouldn’t have a word to say to the discomfited Mr. +Bostwick when he went back, and the old man told the proprietor as he +went out of the door that he believed that young man was just about +half crazy, and the clerks were all so pleasant that Bostwick nearly +went mad every time he was reminded of his unfortunate precipitancy, +and that is the way he became convinced that it was altogether lighter +than vanity to rent of a deaf man. + + + + +SPECIAL PROVIDENCES. + + + There was wailing and woe in Burlingtown, + For every other day + The humid showers came tumbling down, + As they had come to stay. + + There was water enough in the land to spare; + And men who were wont to pray, + When they looked in the cellar each morn would swear + And wrathfully turn away. + + All out on South Hill they pumped and pumped + From morn till dewy eve, + But their every effort the storm king trumped, + And laughed him in his sleeve, + + Till the South Hill man his spirit was broke, + And he sate him down on his hill. + “Though I pump till my back cries out,” he spoke, + “My cellar still keeps its fill.” + + “Now lithe and listen, good pump of mine, + If ever I touch thee more, + May never again the bright sun shine + As it shone in the days of yore.” + + Then he took his pump and he hung it up + Where it might not taunt his sight, + And he drowned his grief in the poisonous cup + Which “moveth itself aright.” + + And he vowed him that if the immortal gods + Would hold up their rain for a while, + He’d build him a cellar and take the odds-- + On top of his domicile. + + “For what was the use,” he grimly said, + “Of a cellar in the ground, + Into the which, if you went for bread, + You were pretty sure to be drowned?” + + “I hate the cellar; oh winds of the south, + Thy rains, as hard as I can; + I wish I could strike them both with a drouth,” + Exclaimed the South Hill man. + + He lifted his eyes to the city road + A coming figure to scan, + And a wild fierce light in his optics glowed + When they fell on the hated gas man. + + He carried his book and his railway lamp, + And wore a sinister frown; + And he sought out the meter in cellars damp, + And he noted the figures down. + + And whether a man burned much or small, + Or how often the gas man came, + Or whether they turned on the gas at all, + The meter just counted the same. + + So the man of South Hill, when he saw him come, + Supposing that he had come th-- + Rough ignorance, said, in tones full glum, + “You cut off my gas last month.” + + The gas man he winked, and eke as he wunk, + He shook his head knowinglee, + And, as though he something suspiciously thunk, + “We’ll look at the meter,” said he. + + Then he opened the door of the cellar so damp, + And he stepped where the pump log had been, + And he went out of sight, with his book and his lamp, + As the water he tumbled in. + + “Oh, help!” loud he shrieked as his noddle came up, + “Hubbulubbulup!” as his noddle went down, + While the man of South Hill on the cellar door sill, + Was the happiest man in the town. + + Splash! Splash! Blubbulup! in the cellar he heard, + And he hugged himself close in his glee; + And whenever the gas man would sputter a word, + “Oh, catch hold of the meter!” cried he. + + And he shut down the doors, and he locked them up tight, + And into the well threw the key, + And, “Providence always and ever is right: + Rains and cellars are useful,” said he. + + + + +MR. BARINGER’S HOUSE-CLEANING. + + +You see, Mr. Baringer has only been keeping house about a year, +and they took the carpets up this Spring for their first general +house-cleaning. Mrs. Baringer’s mother was there, because she said +Olivia was a mere child at such things, and she didn’t believe that +Aristarchus was much better, and it was better to have some one around +who could manage. The young people, however, felt very confident that +they had, by numerous consultations and many well-laid plans, reduced +house-cleaning to a perfect science, a system that had never yet been +attained by any other housekeepers, and they were all impatient to get +at work and clean the whole house, from garret to cellar, and have all +the pictures back on the walls and carpets nailed down again before +dark. They were disgusted at the way other people cleaned house, and +Olivia thought it was perfectly wonderful how Aristarchus could have +such beautifully lucid and systematic ideas on matters of which most +men, and she would say most women as well, were so deplorably stupid +and ignorant. + +The stirring notes of the alarm clock dragged Mr. Baringer out of bed +at 3:15 A. M., and he thought he felt intolerably sleepy for five +o’clock, but he didn’t look at the clock until he was dressed, and +then he was too mad to swear. He merely woke Mrs. Baringer up to tell +her that he’d bet a thousand dollars some stupid had changed the alarm +after he set it and then he flopped down on a lounge to sleep till +daylight. He awoke at half-past seven o’clock, the hour at which, by +their prearranged system and calculations, the two up-stairs bed-room +carpets were to have been beaten and ready to put down as soon as the +floors were dry. Then the kitchen fire went out twice, and they finally +sat down to breakfast at half-past eight o’clock, Mrs. Baringer’s +mother beguiling the time during that matin meal by asking Olivia if +she minded how she used to be half through her house-cleaning by nine +o’clock in the morning. But Mr. Baringer bore up very well under it, +and immediately after breakfast, he took up the bed-room carpets. It +was slow work, jerking the tacks out one at a time. Some times they +flew up into his face; some times he pulled the head off and left the +tack in the floor; and when they got to be rather thickly scattered +around the room he put his knee down on one occasionally and talked +in a fragmentary manner about certain mill privileges in connection +with housekeeping which Mrs. Baringer couldn’t understand. At last he +noticed that by lifting up the edge of the carpet, a gentle pull would +bring up half a dozen tacks in rapid succession. Happy thought. He rose +to his feet, grasped the bound edge of the carpet in both hands, gave +a mighty lift and a tremendous pull--k-r-r-r-r-r-t! and when the dust +settled a little, Mrs. Baringer and her mother were discovered standing +in the door, looking in speechless horror at Mr. Baringer, who stood +like an image of despair, holding a carpet with a fringe in one hand, +and a long line of carpet binding in the other. + +“How _did_ you do it?” shrieked Mrs. Baringer. + +“How _ever_ did you do it?” echoed Mrs. Baringer’s mother. + +Then they both said something about the general incapacity of a man, +and Mr. Baringer endeavored to explain that in going across the room +for the tack hammer he had caught his foot in the edge of the carpet, +with the result as above. And at the conclusion of his explanation, +Mrs. Baringer’s mother gave a sniff that blew dust out of the carpet, +and there was a general expression of incredulity on the faces of the +congregation. + +It was a long time before they got the carpets down in the yard, and +on the line. Then Mr. Baringer approached and smote the first carpet +with a long stick, and the next instant he was feeling his way out of +a dense cloud of dust, coughing, sneezing and snorting, and wildly +gasping for air. He went around on the other side, and as he aimed +a terrific swipe at the carpet, he struck the clothes-prop, and his +nerveless arm stung and tingled to his neck, while his wail was heard +down to the city building. Then he got at it again, and found that his +stick was too light, and he took another one. A few strokes sufficed +to convince him that it was too heavy, and he took a lath. That broke +in two at the first blow, and he tried an apple switch, but it was too +limber. He finally gave up the idea of beating any more, and called to +Mrs. Baringer that the carpet was ready to be shaken. Mrs. Baringer, +with her head in an apron, came out. They gathered the carpet, and Mr. +Baringer got the start of her and shook a roll clear down to her hands, +exploding in a loud snap and a volcano of dust in her face. Then she +dropped the carpet and sneezed and protested. + +“You shook too quick, deary,” she said. + +“But you said you were ready, sweety,” replied Mr. Baringer. + +“But you shouldn’t be so rough, lovey,” she protested. + +“Well, I have to shake hard to get the dust out, ducky,” he insisted. + +“Well, you needn’t be so cross about it, deary,” she said. + +“Oh well,” he said, “you must expect hard work house-cleaning days, and +you mustn’t lose your temper, sweety.” + +“It isn’t me that gets cross and jerks people around, lovey,” she said, +“it’s you.” + +“I never jerked you around,” he retorted. + +“Why, Aristarchus Baringer!” exclaimed his wife, making very large eyes +at him and speaking in tones of the greatest amazement, “and maybe you +didn’t tear the carpet up stairs, either.” + +“I wish your old carpet was in Halifax,” he said, savagely. “Pick up +that end; let’s get through with it. This is sweet work for a dry goods +salesman, anyhow! Ready?” + +“No,” she snapped, “I ain’t ready. Now wait. There. Hold on now; don’t +be in such a hurry. Now!” + +And the next instant the carpet was snapped out of her hands, and it +did seem as though her fingers had gone with it, while Mr. Baringer, +pretending not to know that it had fallen from her fingers, kept on +shaking violently at his end, filling the air with dust and grit. At +this juncture Mrs. Baringer’s mother, who had been a quiet spectator of +the carpet shaking scene, approached and called him to desist. Then she +gathered up the vacant end of the carpet. + +“Aristarchus,” she said kindly but firmly, “Olivia is not strong enough +for such work.” + +Then she added: + +“Have you got a good hold, Aristarchus?” + +And Mr. Baringer said he had. + +“Don’t let go then, Aristarchus. Ready.” + +They lifted their arms high in the air and Mr. Baringer is undecided +yet which part of him started first. He walked up the whole length of +that carpet on his hands and then he fell over the edge and banged +along the walk on his hands and knees until he reached the front +fence, through which he plunged his head, and would have gone on +through but for his shoulder catching against the gate post. The +carpets did not go down that day, and a big Irishman was engaged to +come and welt the fuzz off them, Mr. Baringer having privately and with +some asperity informed his wife that he would rather live, sleep, and +eat in dirt up to his eyes, than ever again to sweep, beat, or shake +the lightest carpet ever trodden by the foot of man. + + + + +AN AUTUMNAL REVERIE. + + +“Oh dreamy haze: veiling the murmuring river that stretches away like +a silver thread under a mosquito bar, winding in wooded nooks and +creeping through low lying islands where the balmy breeze is redolent +with the odor of dead leaves and dead fish. Oh lovely haze; what dreams +of soulful tenderness its name recalls. Oh, musty hays in the street +car; oh, hays that used to be full of bumble bees; oh, hazel nuts +on another man’s farm with a big dog hid in the patch. Away; these +memories are too painful. + +“Afar, the hillsides glitter in gold and scarlet, and the sumach +bushes, climbing the slope with their nodding plumes, look like a new +express wagon coming down Division Street. The mellow air brings into +the city the rustle of fallen leaves piled deep on winding cow-paths, +threading through quiet dells and winding along the side of purling +brooks. It brings an odor of something old. Because it blows over the +cheese factory. + +“How faint and far off every sound. The ghosts of the dead Summer +flowers sigh in every breeze, and the phantom of the cow that butted +the freight train tinkles her drowsy bell afar. And in muffled +tenderness, as a falling star might drop on a feather bed, we hear the +teamster’s cheery call, ‘G’up! ye lop-eared spavin, ’r I’ll lam the +hair off ye with a dray pin.’ And the muffled creak of the wood wagon +falls plaintively on the ear. Eight dollars a cord, and only cut three +feet long at that, and piled so loosely that when you go to measure it +you can throw a felt hat through the pile any place and never touch a +stick. + +“List to the plaintive piping of the quail in the stubble. Ah, quail on +toast, and the plaintive piping of the anxious waiter for seventy-five +cents. Avaunt, dull dotard, take thy black shadow from the fairy scene. +(This remark was addressed to the waiter, and not to the quail on +toast.) + +“Why, in these dreamy dark autumnal days--we don’t know what kind of a +day a dark day is, but we wanted another word that begins with d and +could only think of dark and another one, and the other one wouldn’t +do at all; these kind of days then, bring with them a sad--a sad--sad +something, we knew what it was when we started out, but stopping to +explain about that dark knocked it clear out of our head; sad--it isn’t +saddle, nor Sadducee, nor--ah yes, now we have it. These dreamy days, +that come like a tender poem, veiled in the delicate drapery that hangs +over the distant landscape, bring with them----” + +At this critical juncture a man with a business-like look in his eye +burst into the sanctum, slapped his hat down on the paste-cup, banged +a sample case on the ink-stand, and proceeded to remark in one long +unpunctuated sentence, “Good morning not a word my dear fellow I +know the value of an editor’s time I wish you just to glance at this +prospectus of the most valuable work that has ever been issued from +the American press it is the American Centennial Portrait Gallery and +you will observe contains exquisite steel engravings full page of all +the Presidents with the autograph of each one appended and complete +biographical sketches. Observe that engraving of Washington through +this glass if you please bank note engraving not more perfect not a +single line crosses or becomes merged into another one what expression +what fidelity to nature what marvelous portraiture what minute +attention to detail. Notice the folds in the cloak and the exquisitely +penciled pattern of the ruffles at the wrists. And so with Adams and +Jefferson and Madison and Monroe and Jackson and all the rest of them +with biographical sketches compiled from the best authorities with +facts incidents and reminiscences never before published--a book that +no American of intelligence should be without a book without a rival in +its field of patriotic biographical excellence. In different styles of +binding--$3.00, $3.50 and $4.25. Now, sir, shall I have your name right +here?” + +We felt all around the room before we could catch our breath, and when +we regained it we told him we didn’t believe we could put $4.25 worth +of signature anywhere that morning, and, after a struggle of fifteen +or twenty minutes with him, we got him close enough to the stairway +to push him over the railing and heard him reach the ground floor +and disappear into the street and around the corner with the long +introductory sentence of his prospectus trailing after him like the +dribbling shower of a runaway street sprinkler. And we went on with the +dreamy, sad, sweet reverie: + +“The tender song of a day whose wordless beauties haunt the mystic +scene; the dreamy, vague, imperfect memories that bring----” + +A man with a black coat and a high hat came softly into the sanctum, +and after he laid a flat oil cloth case on the table, he lifted his +hat off with both hands and said, speaking in soft and distressingly +deliberate tones, and articulating with awful distinctness and +precision: + +“Ah--is the editor in?” + +We imparted the desired information, and the deliberate man went on, + +“I have taken the liberty to call on a matter of some importance to +yourself, as well as to the great masses of the American people. I have +here the artist’s proof of a new ker-romo entitled ‘Columbia.’ It is a +centennial allegory, and is designed by Mr. Alfred Reynolds Vincenzo +Fitzdaub, one of the most eminent artists of America, at immense outlay +of time, labor and money. The tube colors used on the original painting +alone cost seven dollars and a half, while the can-vas, when prepared +and stretched for the pict-ewer, was worth nearly doub-bel that sum. +Here you see, we have in the foreground Columbia, her sandaled feet +resting upon the broking canning to signify that war is no more. At her +right hand sits the American eagil, ger-rasping the olive ber-ranch of +peace in his talents, and lifting his wings as though pluming himself +for fe-light. Here on the left we have the artisin in working-dress, +the statesman, the teacher, the farmer, the sai-leure, repperesenting +the various callings, and here rushes a train of cars, while in the +background an old-fashioned stage coach is disappearing, illustrative +of the perrogeress of the past hundred years. The original painting +is valued at $2,500, but these ker-romos we supply for $18 a piece, +mounted ready for framing. No man of culture or artistic taste can +afford to be without this ker-romo. The eye of a connoisseur can not +distinguish it ferrom an oil painting. Observe the transparency of the +atmosphere; notice the soft natural blending of the high light and +middle tint into the hazy shadows of the backger-round, and the bold +effects of the heavy cul-louds that overshadow the past, where the dim +edges are silvered with the sunlight that ber-reaks ferrom the veil of +the few-chewer. And here, you observe, is a blank tablet at the right +of the figewer of Columbia, for a family record. Only eighteen dollars. +They will be ready for delivery about the first of Jewen, and if I may +have the pleasure of seeing your signature in this book, just here, it +will cost you but the trifling sum of eighteen dollars, and establish +more fully the reputation you have already acquired as a man of culture +and refined taste.” + +We got rid of him after a heated session of about half an hour, and +he went away, mourning over the depravity of a man who had acquired a +reputation for culture and refined taste under false pretenses. Then we +resumed: + +“Over the distant hills, hushed in the misty haze that hangs like a +veil of peace over the motionless landscape, the fleecy clouds, like +drifting air-ships on the broad expanse of melting blue, bring the +sweet----” + +A man with a mahogany box came in and sat down, and talked as he opened +it, and displayed a variety of phials and boxes. + +“The profession of literature, my dear sir,” he said, “is of all others +under the ban of the fell destroyer, dyspepsia, and it is especially +in the Spring of the year that literary workers suffer most keenly +from its dreadful effects. An ounce of prevention, etc.--you know the +old saying. Now I can see by your heavy eyes that you are at this +moment suffering from headache. This ‘Centennial Cordial and American +Indian Aboriginal Invigorator’ is one of the latest and most valuable +discoveries in the world of medical science, and has positively no +equal for the cure of jaundice and all manner of liver disorders, +headache, indigestion, want of appetite, dyspepsia, bilious, remittent +and intermittent fevers, ague, giddiness of the head, rheumatic +affections, poverty or impurity of the blood, salt rheum, teething, +cholera morbus, croup, ophthalmia, asthma, hay fever, sea-sickness, +diphtheria, catarrh, toothache, sleeplessness, gray hair, pimples, tan +and freckles, kleptomania, emotional insanity, growing pains, stone +bruise, rattlesnake bites, jimjams, katzenjammer, tight boots, bad +breath, warts, soft corns, old clothes, tailor’s bills, spring fever +and all other ills to which human flesh is heir. Compounded purely of +herbs and the finest cologne spirits, and selling at the ridiculously +low price of $1.75 per bottle. Now sir, let me----” + +And we let him out of the door and he went away, after marking us for +the tomb in a few short weeks. And then we tried to get back to our +reverie. + +“The sweet days come and go, in hallowed rhythmic cadences, like the +half forgotten chords of some tender, sobbing nocturne, while they +bring the----” + +“No, sir, this is not the tobacco factory; it’s the next building up +the street.--Thank heaven, he’s gone.” + +“----bring the sad yearning of a restless heart, that reaches out amid +the hectic flushes of the dying year, as it would clasp the----” + +“No ma’am, we don’t want to buy ‘The Centennial Gift Book for Young +Ladies;’ no, we have no young lady friends; we have no friends of any +kind; we have no sisters, or brothers, or relations, we have no money, +we have no literary taste, we have no desire to read anything; we +can’t read, and we don’t know anybody who can.” + +“----amid the hectic flushes of the dying year, as it would clasp----” + +“Have no use for a fly trap, sir; don’t keep house; ain’t married; +don’t expect to be; haven’t seen a fly in Iowa for a thousand years.” + +“----the hectic flushes of the dying year, as though----” + +“No, no, no! this is not the barber-shop. No, we don’t know where the +barber-shop is; there is none in this block; there are no barbers in +Burlington; the nearest barber-shop is at the North Pole. No, sir, you +needn’t apologize, we are _not_ annoyed. _Good_ afternoon, sir.” + +“----amid the dying flushes of the hectic year whose pulses throb so +faintly that----” + +“No, we don’t want any ‘Wonderful Saponifier and Dirt Eradicator for +the Toilet and Laundry.’ No, we have no family, and we never wash; +never heard of such a thing as a bath; don’t want to be clean; never +shave, never clean our nails, and have on the same shirt we wore the +day we were born. No, sir. Yes, sir. _Good_ afternoon.” + +“----amid the flying dushes of the pulsing year whose hectics faint so +throbly that----” + +“Yes, sir, this is _The Hawkeye_ office. No, sir, we do not buy sand; +no, we have no old clothes to exchange for tin ware; no, we don’t want +any superior stove blacking. _Good_ afternoon, sir.” + +“----amid the dusting fishes of the throbling hectics whose painted ear +is throoming in the gulch, so faintly fleam the glib and----” + +[Note by the editor. We entered the office at this point and found +the writer of the above in convulsions. From the ravings of his +delirium we gathered that he was trying to write something nice, and +was tormented by innumerable interruptions. Medical assistants were +summoned, and we were told to keep the young man’s head cool and he +would get well. So we cut it off and had it packed in ice. It weighed +two and a half ounces. The young man is doing finely, and will not need +it again this year.] + + + + +INFANTILE SCINTILLATIONS. + + +Ah yes, we do love children. We fairly dote on them, and enjoy and +admire their sweet, innocent ways, from the dear little cloudy-faced, +bare-legged cherubs that swear and throw stones at you as you go past +Happy Hollow, to the sweet-faced but pampered angel that sits in the +golden lap of luxury and breaks the mirrors and your head with pa’s +cane. It was purely our love for the little innocents that induced +us to comply with the urgent request of many parents, and open a +department in _The Hawkeye_ for the smart sayings of precocious +children. + +Mrs. H--y B--k, of North Hill, has a sweet little rosebud, of four +bright Summers, who came into the house and lisped, “Ma, Ith tho +theepy.” + +“What makes you sleepy?” asked Rosebud’s mother. + +“I don’t know,” murmured the child. + +Strange yearning after the incomprehensible in an infant heart. Could +any of the children of an older growth have made a better answer? + +Then there is little Freddy L----, out on West Hill. Although he is +but three years old, he put his father’s watch in the shaving mug, +filled the mug out of a kerosene lamp, and set the mixture in the oven +to dry, where it presently dried--soon after the hired girl made up +the breakfast fire--with such abruptness that three of the stoveplates +haven’t been found since. After the excitement had subsided, his mother +took him on her lap and said: + +“Freddy, did you put papa’s watch and the mug full of oil in the oven?” + +And the dear child, opening wide his innocent eyes, and smiling in +tender confidence in her face, said placidly: + +“No, ma’am, ’deed I didn’t.” + +Sweet, cautious instinct of an untried heart. Could any of us get out +of it any better than that? Who can tell what vague, uncertain dreams +of congressional honors float through that busy little mind? + +Johnnie K---- is a charming little cherub of four bright Springs. +One day he poured the ink into the globe where the gold-fish were, +submerging them instantaneously in total eclipse; then he put the Bible +in the fire, threw a bronze paper-weight through the looking-glass, +broke four eggs in his sister’s new hat, and wound up his artless sport +by throwing the cat down the cistern. His mother, discovering all this +mischief, suspected who was the author, and sought her son. + +“Johnnie,” she said, sadly, “Why did you act so naughty?” + +“I didn’t,” he persisted. “Deed, muzzy, it was ze cat!” + +Sweet child! Does it need the prescience of a prophet to see that he +will some day make an excellent witness in a great scandal case? + +Then there is another sweet little tid-toddler out on Seventh Street. +The other day one of his parents, the female one, put him to sleep and +laid him in his little crib, and then she ran over the street to ask +Mrs. Muldoon how she washed flannels, and got to talking about the last +funeral, and the mission circle, and the new preacher, and forgot all +about the baby, and when she went home there that dear little blessed +was, flat on his back, with his little crib lying on top of him, and he +yelling like a scalded pig. + +Ah, the wild, weird, ventures and dreams of child life. Try it, +gray-haired man; see if you can fall out of bed and flop your +bedstead, slats, springs, mattress and all, on top of you as you land +on the floor. You can not do it, but the tid-toddler of three sweet +Summers--ah, well, who shall say how their untried instinct shames the +lore and knowledge of our elder years. + + + + +SETTLING UNDER DIFFICULTIES. + + +Strangers visiting the beautiful city of Burlington have not failed to +notice that one of the handsomest young men they meet is very bald, and +they fall into the usual error of attributing this premature baldness +to dissipation. But such is not the case. This young man, one of the +most exemplary Bible-class scholars in the city, went to a Baptist +sociable out on West Hill one night about two years ago. He escorted +three charming girls, with angelic countenances and human appetites, +out to the refreshment table, let them eat all they wanted, and then +found he had left his pocket-book at home, and a deaf man that he had +never seen before at the cashier’s desk. The young man, with his face +aflame, bent down and said softly, + +“I am ashamed to say I have no change with----” + +“Hey?” shouted the cashier. + +“I regret to say,” the young man repeated on a little louder key, “that +I have unfortunately come away without any change to----” + +“Change two?” chirped the old man, “Oh, yes, I can change five if you +want it.” + +“No,” the young man explained in a terrible, penetrating whisper, for +half a dozen people were crowding up behind him, impatient to pay their +bills and get away, “I don’t want any change, because----” + +“Oh, don’t want no change?” the deaf man cried, gleefully. “’Bleeged to +ye, ’bleeged to ye. ’Taint often we get such generous donations. Pass +over your bill.” + +“No, no,” the young man explained, “I have no funds----” + +“Oh, yes, plenty of fun,” the deaf man replied, growing tired of the +conversation and noticing the long line of people waiting with money in +their hands, “but I haven’t got time to talk about it now. Settle and +move on.” + +“But,” the young man gasped out, “I have no money----” + +“Go Monday?” queried the deaf cashier. “I don’t care when you go; you +must pay and let these other people come up.” + +“I have no money!” the mortified young man shouted, ready to sink into +the earth, while the people all around him, and especially the three +girls he had treated, were giggling and chuckling audibly. + +“Owe money?” the cashier said, “of course you do; $2.75.” + +“I can’t pay!” the youth screamed, and by turning his pocket inside out +and yelling his poverty to the heavens, he finally made the deaf man +understand. And then he had to shriek his full name three times, while +his ears fairly rang with the half-stifled laughter that was breaking +out all around him; and he had to scream out where he worked, and roar +when he would pay, and he couldn’t get the deaf man to understand him +until some of the church members came up to see what the uproar was, +and recognizing their young friend, made it all right with the cashier. +And the young man went out into the night and clubbed himself, and +shred his locks away until he was bald as an egg. + + + + +HAWK-EYETEMS. + + +SOMEBODY told Billinger that stamps were not required on notes, and +Billinger, overjoyed, asked the crowd to drink, and said he pitied old +Gunnybags who had been trying for six months to get the stamps on a +note he holds against Billinger. Billinger says he knew he would get +the law on the old gouge if he held on long enough. + + * * * * * + +“PULL out, Bill!” shrieked an engineer’s son to one of his playmates, +a brakeman’s boy, who was in imminent danger of getting smashed by his +mother, who was coming after him, “Git on the main line and give her +steam! Here comes the switch engine!” But before the juvenile could get +in motion, she had him by the ear, and he was laid up with a hot box. + + * * * * * + +A NORTH HILL man refused to give his boy thirty-five cents to go to the +minstrels, because the entertainment was demoralizing and vulgar in +its nature. He then bought a quarter’s worth of chewing tobacco, went +home and read the _Weekly Moral Guide and Guardian_, and spit all over +the front of the stove, and made the parlor smell so much like a stale +bar-room that the baby had three whisky fits before ten o’clock. + + * * * * * + +A YOUNG editor out in Floyd County, gushing over his first, asks, “Did +you ever watch a dear little baby waking from its morning nap?” N-not +exactly; but we have watched a dear little baby’s fond pa gliding up +and down the fireless room, trying to induce the dear little baby to +take a morning nap, at 2:15 A. M.--pressing offers but no takers--which +was about as much fun as it can be to see the baby wake. + + * * * * * + +A MAN out on Summer Street has eight daughters, and when they cleaned +house last Spring, the woman raked 9,724 quids of chewing gum down +from the window casings, chair backs, door panels and sofa backs, the +accumulation of the past Winter. And this does not include the wads +which the man, at various times sat down on and carried away on the +tails of his coat, for which no accurate returns have been made. + + * * * * * + +OLD Middlerib came home one night and ordered a light lunch before +going to bed. “Just a mouthful of tea and a bit of bread,” he +explained. “Do you want just plain bread?” asked Mrs. M., with +reference to the presence or absence of butter. And the old reprobate +said he would take one piece plain, and the other with a looped +overskirt, shirred down the gores with the same, and held in place with +knife pleatings of grape jelly. He got the heel of the loaf. + + * * * * * + +EVERYBODY thought it was a match, and so did he, and so did she. One +evening at a croquet party she hit her pet corn a whack with the +mallet that sounded like a torpedo, and he--he laughed. “We meet as +strangers,” she wrote on her cuff and showed it to him. “Think of me as +no more,” he whispered huskily, and when the game was ended he rushed +down to the Mississippi[B] and drowned[C]. + + [B] Saloon. + [C] Sorrow. + + * * * * * + +“I WOULDN’T be such a Christian as you are, John,” said his wife, as +she stood in the doorway, dressed for church. “You could go with me +very well, if you wanted to.” “How can I?” he half sobbed. “There’s the +wood to be split, and the coal to be shoveled over to the other side +of the cellar, the baby to be dressed, and no dishes washed for dinner +yet.” “Ah, I didn’t think of that,” she murmured thoughtfully, and, +giving her new cloak a fresh hitch aft, sailed out alone. + + * * * * * + +ONE night last Summer a tired, discouraged man out on North Hill +went home and flung himself down on a lounge, and said “he wished he +were dead, dead, dead.” In two hours he was writhing in a premature +and unseasonable attack of cholera morbus, and howled, and prayed, +and sweat, and had four doctors in the house, and drank a quart of +medicine, and had mustard plasters smeared all over him, and wept, and +said he wasn’t half tended to, and he believed they would like to see +him die. + + * * * * * + +“ARE the children safe?” asks the _Christian Union_. Quite safe, we +assure you. They are up in the garret, playing hotel fire. Jimmie is +the clerk, and is trying to slide down the water pipe to the ground, +Willie is a guest, hanging to the window sill and waiting for the +flames to reach his hands before he tries to drop to the shed roof, two +stories below, and Tom is a heroic fireman, and has tied his fishing +line around the baby’s body, and is letting it down to the ground. Oh, +yes, the children are all right: just finish your call and don’t fret +about the children. + + * * * * * + +“RENTS,” said Mr. Middlerib, with a sigh of not unmixed satisfaction, +“are coming down. Yesterday morning I tore the back of my coat on the +woodshed door, last night I snagged the foundation of my trousers on +a nail in a store box, and this morning I fell down on the frozen +sidewalk and split the knee of the same trousers clear across. Rents +are certainly getting lower.” “Yes,” responded Mrs. Middlerib, looking +across toward the busy figure at the sewing-machine, “and seamstresses +are getting hired.” Mr. Middlerib looked up at his quiet spouse in +vague astonishment, as if for explanation, but she looked sublimely +unconscious, and the good man went off down town with his napkin tucked +under his chin, wondering all the way to the office if she meant it or +if it was only his interpretation. + + * * * * * + +“A MERCIFUL man,” tenderly remarked a Ninth Street man one bitter cold +January morning, “is merciful to his beast,” and he called the dog in +out of the snow, gave him his breakfast in a soup plate, and laid a +piece of carpet down behind the kitchen stove for him to snooze on. +Then the man went down town, and the neighbors watched his wife shovel +snow-paths to the woodshed, cistern, stable, and front gate, and then +do an hour’s work cleaning off the sidewalk. + + * * * * * + +WHO does not love a faithful, honest dog, man’s faithful friend? And +yet who is there, stretching out in the shade for a quiet afternoon +nap, who has had man’s faithful friend come panting up, and, in an +excess of honest affection, lay a great broad, hot tongue over one’s +cheek, from chin to eyebrow, that does not get up and seize man’s +faithful friend by the tail and one ear and try to throw him across a +prairie fifteen miles wide? + + * * * * * + +THE New York _Herald_ says: “Bake your ripe pear in a tart, and eat +it with brandy and cream.” We’ll do it. Here, Alvaretto, bake us that +ripe pear in a tart and dress it with brandy and cream. What! the pear +eaten? Well then, the tart crust and the trimmings. The tart gone! Is +it possible? Then the brandy and cream. Amazement! no cream? Ah, well +then, we must not neglect good advice. Bring what is left of the recipe. + + * * * * * + +A MONKEY that can say “papa” and “mamma” and “Brazil” is going to the +Paris exposition. America can send a donkey that can say, “Haw--yaas, +dweadful baw; somebody wing faw the pwopwietah.” + + * * * * * + +THEY have just found the skin of another Dane nailed to the oaken door +of an old, old church in England. The skin isn’t entire, only scraps of +it remaining under the broad flat heads of the nails. It was a pleasant +way the Danes had of destroying the beauty of their criminals--they +skinned them and then nailed the skin to a church door. History does +not tell us how the unfortunate victim employed himself during the +operation, but it is quite likely that, having nothing else to do, he +was into some deviltry. + + * * * * * + +OLD Mr. Troph went into the parlor the other night at the witching +hour of 11.45 and found the room unlighted and his daughter and a dear +friend, one of the dual form of garmenture variety, occupying the +tete-a-tete in the corner. “Evangeline,” the old man said sternly, +“this is scandalous.” “Yes, papa,” she answered sweetly, “it is +candleless because times are so hard and lights cost so much that +Ferdinand and I said we would try and get along with the starlight.” +And the old gentleman turned about in speechless amazement and tried to +walk out of the room through a panel in the wall paper. + + * * * * * + +A WOMAN out on North Hill, being counted out the other morning, after +a debate on the question, “Who shall arise and build the fire?” got +up and split her husband’s wooden leg into kindling wood, and broiled +his steak with it. It made him so mad that he got hold of her false +teeth and bit the dog with them. She cried until she had a fit of +hysterics, and then flipped out his glass eye and climbed upon the bed +post and waxed the glaring eye to the ceiling with a quid of chewing +gum. Then he took her wisp of false hair and tied it to a stick, and +began whitewashing the kitchen with it. Then she started off to obtain +a divorce, but Judge Newman decided that he couldn’t grant a divorce +unless there were two parties to the suit, and there was hardly enough +left of them to make one. + + * * * * * + +“YOU don’t look at all well,” a venerable gobbler out in a North Hill +poultry yard remarked to a melancholy-looking young rooster, a short +time before Thanksgiving day. “No,” was the reply, “I have reason to +look solemn: I expect to die necks tweak.” The gobbler smiled grimly +and pondered over the uncertainty of poultric life as he slowly +swallowed a two-inch bolt head. + + * * * * * + +MRS. MIDDLERIB paused to take a final survey of the table before she +called the ladies out to tea. She started as her eyes fell upon the +plate of lemon tarts. There were five where there had been nine. She +sought her only son and put him in the witness box. He objected to her +putting her own construction upon his answers, and was subjected to the +usual punishment for contumaciousness. And the next “composition day” +at school, Master Middlerib amazed his teacher by reading, as the title +of his essay, “The Lost Tarts, and why They can Never be Recovered.” + + * * * * * + +SWEET, gushing, artless girl! She came home just before the Christmas +holidays. She went away from Burlington one September; went to England +first; spent the Winter in Italy; sauntered through Germany in the +Spring, came back to America and trifled away the Summer at Saratoga, +Long Branch and the White Mountains; previous to this trip she had been +away to school five years, and when she jumped out of the palace car +into her father’s arms, she said, impulsively, “Oh, Paw, Paw, deah, +deah Paw, thay’s no place like home!” And Paw’s face was a study as he +replied, “Well, no; no; reckon not; must be quite a novelty to ye.” + + * * * * * + +THE worst thing we have seen about Oliver Wendell Holmes, and the only +stain on an otherwise irreproachable character, is that he is the +inventor of that parlor aggravation known as the hand stereoscope; a +vexatious contrivance for which the pictures are always too large to +be crammed into the springs or too small to stay in them, of which the +slide is always shoved off the end of the stick in the vain efforts of +the observer to find a focus, and of which the glasses always make you +see the picture so double that it gives you the headache and finally +compels you to peep over the top in order to gain the information +necessary to make some intelligent remark about the jumble you have +been staring at. + + * * * * * + +A YOUNG man out on North Hill bought a parrot some months ago, and in +anticipation of the fact that he was going to be married and go to the +Centennial, he secretly taught the parrot to say, “Welcome, thrice +welcome home,” every time anybody opened the front door, thinking +what a delightful surprise it would be to his young wife to be thus +cheerfully welcomed home on their return. But while they were on their +tour, the nervous woman who was left in charge of the house taught the +parrot a new remark, as a protection against burglars; and when the +young people came home on the night train and let themselves in at +the hall door with a latch key, they were shocked and appalled by a +terrific shout of “Thieves! thieves! Police! police! Here Bull! here +Bull! Scatter, ye son of a thief, or I’ll tear your heart out!” Next +day the parrot died, and the young wife now says she wouldn’t stay +alone in that house, not for a divorce. + + * * * * * + +A BURLINGTON naturalist last Sunday, while investigating the causes +and effects of the poison of a wasp sting, nobly determined to make +of himself a martyr to science, and accordingly handed his thumb to +an impatient insect he had caged in a bottle. The wasp entered into +the martyr business with a great deal of spirit, and backed up to the +thumb with an abruptness which took the scientist by surprise. He was +so deeply absorbed in the study of remedies that he forgot to make any +notes of the other points in connection with stings, but his wife wrote +a paragraph in his note-book, for the benefit of science, to the effect +that the primary effect of a wasp sting is abrupt, blasphemous and +terrific profanity, followed by an intense desire, fairly amounting to +a mania, for ammonia, camphor and raw brandy. + + * * * * * + +ONE day, just after King Solomon had written a column of solid +nonpareil wise and moral proverbs, he took his eldest son by the elbow, +led him down the back stairs of the palace, through the back yard, past +the woodshed, out into the alley, backed him up behind Ahithophel’s +wood-pile, looked warily around to see that no one was listening, +and whispered into the young man’s ear, “My son, a little office in +a spread-eagle life insurance company is better than a cart-load of +preferred stock in the Ophir mines.” And then the monarch threw his +head on one side, drew in his chin, shut one eye, and gazed at his +offspring in silence. Three years afterward, when the Great Hebraic +Consolidated Stormy Jordan Life Assurance Company, of which that +intelligent young prince was president, went into bankruptcy, the young +man was able to let his father, who was a little short at the time, +have 275,000 shekels for ninety days, on his simple note of hand. + + * * * * * + +THEY were very pretty, and there was apparently five or six years +difference in their ages. As the train pulled up at Bussey, the younger +girl blushed, flattened her nose nervously against the window, and +drew back in joyous smiles as a young man came dashing into the car, +shook hands tenderly and cordially, insisted on carrying her valise, +magazine, little paper bundle, and would probably have carried herself +had she permitted him. The passengers smiled as she left the car, and +the murmur went rippling through the coach, “They’re engaged.” The +other girl sat looking nervously out of the window, and once or twice +gathered her parcels together as though she would leave the car, yet +seemed to be expecting some one. At last he came. He bulged in at the +door like a house on fire, looked along the seats until his manly gaze +fell on her upturned, expectant face, roared, “Come on! I’ve been +waiting for you on the platform for fifteen minutes!” grabbed her +basket, and strode out of the car, while she followed with a little +valise, a band-box, a paper bag full of lunch, a bird-cage, a glass jar +of jelly, and an extra shawl. And a crusty-looking old bachelor, in the +farther end of the car, croaked out, in unison with the indignant looks +of the passengers, “They’re married!” + + * * * * * + +MR. and Mrs. Bilderback were walking slowly home from church one +Sunday, when they met a young lady of singular beauty and sweetness of +countenance, who was quite lame. And Mrs. Bilderback turning to her +husband, said, “Did you ever notice what a sweet, uncomplaining look +of resignation rests like a halo on the faces of young girls who are +so sadly afflicted as the lady who just passed us?” And old Bilderback +said that indeed he had, and he begged his wife to observe him very +closely, and notice what a sweet, uncomplaining expression of peaceful +and holy resignation spread itself over his face, like a halo, or like +a lump of butter on a hot buckwheat cake, at such times as his corns +tried him unusually bad. And she only remarked casually that when they +got home she would hang a halo around his irreverent head that would +make what little hair there was left on it think the millennium was a +million years farther away than ever. + + * * * * * + +“THEY had a rather odd race out at the old Acme ball grounds +yesterday,” Trotters remarked to Ponsonby when they met yesterday +morning. “Jones rode his little calico pony around the block, and +Brown rolled an empty flour barrel the same distance, even start, for +$10.” “Jones beat him, of course?” said Ponsonby. “Brown was a fool to +make such a match.” “Don’t be too sure,” rejoined Trotters, “when they +reached the outcome, the barrel head; blowed if it didn’t.” Ponsonby +stared, then slowly smiled, giggled, and finally guffawed. “Good +enough,” he said. “I’ll get that off to Mrs. Ponsonby.” So when he went +home he told her all about it. “Well,” said she, “that’s just about as +much sense as I supposed that precious Brown of yours has. I’m glad he +lost his money.” “Go slow,” yelled the delighted Ponsonby, who doesn’t +often have a chance to sell his wife, “go slow! By George, Samantha, +Brown beat!” And Mrs. Ponsonby stared and said he must think she was +as big a fool as Brown. “No,” said he, hastily correcting himself, +“no, that wasn’t just the way of it, the barrel beat, that’s it! The +barrel beat; Brown led, did, for a fact, by Jove.” And Mrs. Ponsonby +scornfully told him to go out to the woodshed and see if he could find +any sticks that would go into the kitchen stove--she couldn’t. And +Ponsonby confidentially told the gentleman who saws his wood an inch +and a half too long for every stove in the house that you might as +well tell a joke to a sawbuck as to his wife, for she hadn’t as much +conception of genuine humor as a cow. + + * * * * * + +ONE bright May morning, when the building season was at its busiest, a +careless mason dropped a half brick from the second story of a building +out on Jefferson Street, on which he was at work. Leaning over the +wall and glancing downward, he discovered a respectable citizen with +his silk hat scrunched over his eyes and ears, rising from a recumbent +posture. The mason, in tones of some apprehension, asked: “Did that +brick hit any one down there?” The citizen, with great difficulty +extricating himself from the glove-fitting extinguisher, replied, with +considerable wrath: “Yes, sir, it did; it hit me.” “That’s right,” +exclaimed the mason, in tones of undisguised admiration. “Noble man! I +would rather have wasted a thousand bricks than had you tell me a lie +about it.” + + * * * * * + +THE papers in this country are quite generally publishing the following +_mot_ of Talleyrand’s, which is read with the greatest enjoyment by all +classes of newspaper readers: + + It is said that the notorious M. De Manbreuil, whose name of Marquis + d’Orvault came so scandalously before the public a few years past, + proposed to have Napoleon assassinated, and that the Abbe de Prade + was in favor of the scheme, and discussed its execution with + Talleyrand, and that the following words passed: + + “Combien vous faut-il?” + + “Dix millions.” + + “Dix millions?” said Talleyrand, “mais ce n’est rein pour debarrasser + la France d’un el fileau.” + +This is pretty good, but it reminds us of a much better one, though it +may be somewhat old, which was related to us by Rev. Jasper C. Romilly, +formerly of this city, about himself. Mr. Romilly, whose distinguishing +personal characteristic was an immense black beard, was for some years +a missionary at Ugobogo, in Farther India, and on one occasion he dined +with the Bugaboo of that province. When the wine and walnuts were +brought in the Bugaboo said: + +“Marcharikai hoi-to-po ke-tee nomkidom?” + +“Jabbero pompety doodle de wonk klonk kobberee jam,” replied Mr. +Romilly. + +“Yowk?” exclaimed the potentate, “chickero boobery hong dong +choi-ke-ree yang ste’ boi.” + +This was, indeed, too good to keep. + + * * * * * + +WOMAN is a natural traveler. It is a study to see her start off on a +trip by herself. She comes down to the depot in an express wagon three +hours before train time. She insists on sitting on her trunk, out on +the platform, to keep it from being stolen. She picks up her reticule, +fan, parasol, lunch basket, small pot with a house plant in it, shawl, +paper bag of candy, bouquet (she never travels without one), small +tumbler and extra veil, and chases hysterically after every switch +engine that goes by, under the impression that it is her train. Her +voice trembles as she presents herself at the restaurant and tries to +buy a ticket, and she knocks with the handle of her parasol on the door +of the old disused tool-house in vain hopes that the baggage man will +come out and check her trunk. She asks every body in the depot and on +the platform when her train will start, and where it will stand, and, +looking straight at the great clock, asks: “What time is it now?” +She sees, with terror, the baggage man shy her trunk into a car where +two men are smoking, instead of locking it up by itself in a large +strong, brown car with “Bad order, shops,” chalked on the side, which +she has long ago determined to be the baggage car as the only safe one +in sight. Although the first at the depot, she is the last to get her +ticket; and once on the cars, she sits, to the end of her journey, in +an agony of apprehension that she has got on the wrong train and will +be landed at some strange station, put in a close carriage, drugged, +and murdered, and to every last male passenger who walks down the aisle +she stands up and presents her ticket, which she invariably carries in +her hand. She finally recognizes her waiting friends on the platform, +leaves the car in a burst of gratitude, and the train is ten miles away +before she remembers that her reticule, fan, parasol, lunch basket, +verbena, shawl, candy, tumbler, veil and bouquet, are on the car seat +where she left them, or at the depot in Peoria, for the life of her she +can’t tell which. + + * * * * * + +HOW often a little careless action, a thoughtless word, a restless +gesture, brings a flood of thoughts surging into the soul, that almost +tear away the veil of mystery that hangs between to-day and to-morrow, +and give us vague and hasty glimpses into the dark uncertain future. +When you see a man come out of a drug store, for instance, with a +“prescription carefully compounded,” in his hand, and dash away at +break-neck speed, and then see the pharmacist come to the door carrying +an uncorked bottle, and smell at it earnestly with one nostril, gaze +anxiously down the street after the man, smell at it long and intensely +with the other nostril, stare wildly up the street after the man, +and then sniff at it once or twice with both nostrils, read the +prescription over, and retire into the medicine shop with a gloomy brow +and sad shakes of the head, how many things you begin to think about +then, as it might be. + + * * * * * + +“MY son,” said a pious father out on South Hill to his hopeful son, +“you did not saw any wood for the kitchen stove yesterday, as I told +you to, you left the back gate open and let the cow get out, you cut +off eighteen feet from the clothes-line to make a lasso, you stoned Mr. +Robinson’s pet dog and lamed it, you put a hard-shell turtle in the +hired girl’s bed, you tied a strange dog to Mr. Jacobson’s door-bell, +you painted red and green stripes on the legs of old Mrs. Polaby’s +white pony, and hung your sister’s bustle out in the front window. +Now, what am I--what can I do to you for such conduct?” “Are all the +counties heard from?” asked the candidate. The father replied sternly, +“No trifling, sir; no, I have yet several reports to receive from +others of the neighbors.” “Then,” replied the boy, “you will not be +justified in proceeding to extreme measures until the official count +is in.” Shortly afterward the election was thrown into the house, and +before half the votes were canvassed, it was evident, from the peculiar +intonation of the applause, that the boy was badly beaten. + + * * * * * + +PASSING by one of the city schools one day we listened to the scholars +singing, “Oh how I love my teacher dear.” There was one boy, with a +voice like a tornado, who was so enthusiastic that he emphasized every +other word and roared, “Oh _how_ I _love_ my _teach_-er _dear_,” with a +vim that left no possible doubt of his affection. Ten minutes afterward +that boy had been stood up on the floor for putting shoemaker’s wax +on his teacher’s chair, got three demerit marks for drawing a picture +of her with red chalk on the back of an atlas, been well shaken for +putting a bent pin in another boy’s chair, scolded for whistling out +loud, sentenced to stay after school for drawing ink mustaches on his +face and blacking the end of another boy’s nose, and soundly whipped +for slapping three hundred and thirty-nine spit balls up against the +ceiling, and throwing one big one into a girl’s ear. You can’t believe +half a boy says when he sings. + + * * * * * + +“WHO dem, Cassius?” a visiting freedman from Keokuk asked a friend the +other day, as a Masonic lodge, in funeral procession, passed by. + +“Dey’s de Free and Expected Masons.” + +“’Mazin’ what?” + +“Why, mason nuffin, jest on’y Masons.” + +“Sho! How long dey bin free?” + +“Oh, gory, long time. Spects ever since de mancipation proclamation, +anyhow. Some on ’em was free before den.” + +“Dat so? Went off to Canada, mos’ likely?” + +“Spect so.” + +“Who’s done expectin’ of ’em?” + +“Nobody; jest expectin’ demselves. Dey’s on’y jest Free and Expected +Masons, dat’s all.” + +“Sho! Well, I’d jest like to know what dar is ’mazin’ about ’em an’ I’d +done be satisfied.” + + * * * * * + +OH, the artless prattle of an innocent childhood! How the sweet +music of their hearts and voices calms the wild yearnings of the +sorrow-crowned years of maturity. At a happy home in Burlington the +other evening, where the family was gathered around the tea-table +entertaining unexpected guests, the fond mother said to the youngest +darling, “Weedie, darling; be careful; you mustn’t spill the berries on +the table-cloth.” “’Taint a table-cloth,” promptly responded darling, +“it’s a sheet.” And late at night, when the company had gone away, and +that sweet child was standing with its head nearly where its feet ought +to be, catching with its tear-blinded eyes occasional glimpses of a +fleeting slipper that fluttered in the air in eccentric gyrations, one +could see how early in the stormy years of this brief life, one may +begin to suffer for the truth. + + * * * * * + +WHEN you see a young man sitting in a parlor, with the ugliest six +year old boy that ever frightened himself in the mirror clambering +over his knees, jerking his white tie out of knot, mussing his white +vest, kicking his shins, feeling in all his pockets for nickles, +bombarding him from time to time with various bits of light furniture +and _bijouterie_, calling him names at the top of his fiendish lungs +and yelling incessantly for him to come out in the yard and play, while +the unresisting victim smiles all the time like the cover of a comic +almanac, you may safely bet--although there isn’t a sign of a girl +apparent in a radius of 10,000 miles--you can bet your bottom dollar +that howling boy has a sister who is primping in a room not twenty feet +away, and that the young man doesn’t come there just for the fun of +playing with her brother. + + * * * * * + +IT was at the sociable. Young Mr. Sophthed, who reads poetry oh, +_so_ divinely, and is oh, _so_ nice, stepped on her dress as she was +hurrying across the room. K-r-r-rt! R’p! R’p! how it tore and jerked, +and how Mr. Sophthed looked as though he would die. “Oh, dear, no, Mr. +Sophthed,” she sweetly said, smiling till she looked like a seraph who +had got down here by mistake, “it’s of no consequence, I assure you, +it doesn’t make a particle of difference, at all.” Just twenty-five +minutes later, her husband, helping her into the street car, mussed +her ruffle. “Goodness gracious me!” she snapped out, “go way and let me +alone; you’ll tear me to pieces if you keep on.” And she flopped down +on the seat so hard that everything rattled, and the frightened driver, +ejaculating, “There goes that brake chain again,” crawled under the car +with his lantern to see how badly it had given way. + + * * * * * + +ART has its votaries even amid the untaught children of the wilderness. +A few days ago a savage Indian painted his own face, went into an +emigrant wagon that was sketched, by himself, out on the prairie after +dark, and drew a woman from under the canvas and sculptor. + + * * * * * + +MRS. J. C. MCWHELTER, who lives out on Ninth Street, worked three weeks +building a rookery out of cracked geodes, and threw the whole pile away +in fifteen minutes yesterday afternoon, bombarding a neighbor who said +her baby’s hair was red enough to heat its catnip tea on. + + * * * * * + +AN enraptured Burlington lover, hearing his sweetheart sigh dejectedly +the other evening, rapturously administered a quartette of kisses and +exclaimed, “You’re mine, now, in spite of fate!” “And why?” she asked. +“Because,” he said, “four of a kind beats ace high.” But she believes +to this day that he played a cold deck on her. + + * * * * * + +“ALL flesh is grass,” as the reaping machine said when it chawed up the +harvest hand. + + * * * * * + +A MAN may carry a load of guilt concealed in his tortured soul for +years, and hide it with a veneering of hollow, heartless, deceitful +smiles, but it doesn’t take five minutes for the thoughtless world to +observe and understand the one-shouldered gait of a man whose larboard +suspender button has parted. + + * * * * * + +THE other day a public reader, while entertaining an audience with a +masterly rendition of an extract from “Macbeth,” dropped his false +teeth out, but he went right on with the soliloquy, “Ig gish a daggag +ash I see befog me? Cug, leg me glug ghee!” And then the audience got +up and howled and threw all the chairs out of the window and sent out +for somebody to come in and hold them while they hollered. + + * * * * * + +A SOUTH HILL man complained to old Dibbs, the other day, that his house +was infested with chimney swallows, but old Dibbs says he is ready to +bet fifty dollars that the man swallows twice as much as the chimney +does. + + * * * * * + +A YOUNG native poet, who is writing a “song of olden Rome,” asks us to +give him a rhyme for Romulus. A dozen, if he wants them: + + “If o’er that wall you leap, oh dunce, + The lightning stroke would harm you less” + But Remus laughed and leaped; at once + His head was punched by Romulus. + + * * * * * + +A FELLOW never appreciates the tender beauty of a sister’s love half +so much as when he makes her get out of the big rocking chair, and let +him have the morning paper, while she goes off and leans up against the +end of the bureau and feeds her starving intellect on the household +receipts at the back of Jayne’s family almanac. A brother’s love is +like pure gold. It’s dreadfully hard to find, and when you find it, +it’s very apt to be pyrites. + + * * * * * + +“DID you never,” asked a transcendental young lady just three weeks +from Vassar, of the West Hill young man, “Did you never feel a vague, +unrestful yearning after the beyond? a wild, strange, impulsive longing +and reaching out after the unattainable?” And the West Hill man said +he often had, last Summer, at such times as he was trying to scratch a +square inch full of hives, right between his shoulder blades, and just +out of reach of any thing. + + * * * * * + +A BENEVOLENT clergyman recently helped a profane Burlington inebriate +out of the gutter, and gently rebuking him reminded him that the “wages +of sin is death.” “I know ’t,” replied the erring one, “but I’ve worked +so much over time, and the shop is so far in arrears to me that I’ll +never get half that’s comin’ to me any how.” And he went off to work +right along on the same old job. + + * * * * * + +THE tramp has his revenge on society after all. If they refuse his +request for a square meal at any house, he lurks around the vicinity +with threatening glances until nightfall, when he skulks rapidly away +with the cheering, comforting knowledge that while he is snoring all +the hours of that long Summer night away under a haystack, every being +in that house will sit bolt upright in bed all night, frightened by the +wind, terrified by the rustling of the leaves, scared into fits when +even the dog barks, and fairly bounced out of bed every time the clock +strikes, while a nightmare of burglarious tramps fills every drowsy +moment with awakening terrors. No wonder that tramps always look happy +and contented. + + * * * * * + +OLD Mr. Balbriggan is very much pleased with a gentleman whom he has +engaged to saw wood. “When he piles the wood,” said old Balbriggan to +his friend, “if one stick projects beyond the others, he pounds it in +with the ax.” “He’s a slouch,” replied Bifelstone, “you should see my +wood sawyer. When he gets the wood all piled he takes off the rough +projecting ends with a hand saw.” “He couldn’t pile wood for me,” broke +in old Mr. Pilkinghorn, “my sawyer piles the wood carefully, then goes +over the ends with a jack plane, sand-papers them down and puts on a +coat of varnish before he ever thinks of asking for his pay.” And then +they all went in after a big drink before Throckmorton could tell how +his wood sawyer silver-plated all the ends of the wood and nailed a +handle on every stick to pick it up by. Because, you see, Throckmorton +is such a liar, and they all know it. + + * * * * * + +A WEST HILL minister picked up a frozen wasp on the sidewalk, and with +a view to advancing the interests of science, he carried it in the +house and held it by the tail while he warmed its ears over a lamp +chimney. His object was to see if wasps froze to death, or merely lay +dormant during the Winter. He is of the opinion that they merely lie +dormant, and the dormantest kind at that, and when they revive, he +says, the tail thaws out first, for while this one’s head, right over +the lamp, was so stiff and cold it could not wink, its probe worked +with such inconceivable rapidity that the minister couldn’t gasp fast +enough to keep up with it. He threw the vicious thing down the lamp +chimney, and said he didn’t want to have any more truck with a dormant +wasp, at which his wife burst into tears and asked how he, a minister +of the gospel, could use such language, right before the children, too. + + * * * * * + +WHEN a man accustoms himself to owning a dog, and turning around at +every corner to look up and down street for him, and whistle him out +of stairways, or yell at him to stop his fooling with other dogs and +come along, or make dashes into a crowd of earnest and excited dogs who +are holding a caucus and have each other by the ear, and especially +his dog--that man is a slave to a habit that he will never break. It +will cling to him, we believe, after he gets to heaven, for most men +who love dogs are pretty sure of going to heaven. We once saw an old +settler standing at the Barrett House corner, peering up and down +street, and stooping down to look under the hacks, and “wondering where +he could be,” and whistling and growing impatient, and scolding and +calling, “Hyuh, Turk! yuh! yuh! yuh!” until every dog in Burlington was +sitting around the Barrett House corner, patiently pounding the snow +with his tail and mentally resolving to lay for Turk if he ever came. +Presently a young man came along and, greeting the anxious dog hunter +as his “Father,” asked what he was waiting there for? The old settler +said he had lost Turk somewhere right around there, and couldn’t see +hide nor hair of him, and couldn’t imagine where he had gone to. +“Turk!” roared his dutiful son, “Turk! Suffering Moses! And him dead +eight years ago!” And he hustled the old man away before he could begin +to whistle up any more ghosts. + + * * * * * + +THE balmy breath of Spring is so entwined with the fragrance of new +onions that a man has to grip his nose with a spring clothes-pin every +time he stoops to pluck a violet. + + * * * * * + +A GIFTED contributor sends us a poem beginning “Open the doors to the +children.” You’d better, if you don’t want all the paint kicked off the +panels. + + * * * * * + +THERE is nothing that tends to destroy popular sympathy for the working +classes so much as the habit a bricklayer has of dropping bits of +mortar from the top of a five-story wall into the eye of the wondering +man who stands under the lofty scaffolding and looks up. + + * * * * * + +A PORCELAIN-LINED kettle in a berry-stricken neighborhood is the +nearest approach to perpetual motion that has yet been realized. Its +incessant motion is only rivaled by the slow, steady growth of the +sugar bill. + + * * * * * + +ONE of the discoveries made by the latest arctic explorers is that the +length of the polar night is one hundred and forty-two days. What a +heavenly place that would be in which to tell a man with a bill to call +around day after to-morrow and get his money. + + * * * * * + +A FASHION journal says “white velvet dresses give a roundness to the +figure.” They give an awful lankness to the figures on a hundred dollar +bill. + + * * * * * + +_Multum in parvo_: Iowa tramp, to lady of the house: “Please, missus, +won’t you give me something to drink? I’m so hungry I don’t know where +I’ll stay to-night.” + + * * * * * + +AN eminent New York jurist, who has retired from the bench, always +shakes hands with his friends by turning around and passing his right +hand behind his back. It is supposed the peculiar habit was contracted +during his active professional life. + + * * * * * + +CARDS of invitation in Utah, issued by a young lady and her mother, +always present the compliments of “Miss Smith and the Mrs. Smiths.” + + * * * * * + +WE are told by a Russian traveler that the summit of Mt. Hood is a +single sharp peak of lava. White or Balaclava? + + * * * * * + +A SCIENTIFIC gentleman sends us an elaborate treatise on “the +healthiness of lemons.” They may be dreadfully healthy, but they are +terribly soured in their dispositions. + + * * * * * + +A RISING young tenor of Burlington has a neck eight inches long, and it +gives him an immense power over his voice; enables him to throat a long +ways. (Tra, la, la!) + + * * * * * + +THE whale is the sulkiest of all fishes. He is the worst pouter in the +business. + + * * * * * + +ABOUT the oldest little game of draw we know of was played when Joshua +razed Jericho, and the fellows of the city wished they hadn’t stayed in. + + * * * * * + +YOUR landlord is probably the finest example of filial affection and +duty you ever met. He is unremitting in his attention to and care of +his pay rents. + + * * * * * + +“WAS it her brother?” is the title of a new novel. We think not. It +is our impression that the large gentlemen in a plaid coat, who was +kicking him down stairs and calling for the dog, was her brother. + + * * * * * + +GEORGE WASHINGTON’S strongest hold upon the American people is the fact +that he never wore a box coat and a plug hat. + + * * * * * + +HISTORY says, “Cæsar had his Brutus.” But somehow or other we always +had the impression that Brutus rather had Cæsar. + + * * * * * + +BY some wicked and unpardonable error, the case of the photographs +of editors on exhibition at the Centennial got misplaced, and was +exhibited in a frame labeled “Native woods of the United States.” + + * * * * * + +NATURE’S effort to maintain equilibrium is never better set forth than +in the instinctive struggles of a man with one suspender to carry both +shoulders even. + + * * * * * + +ON account of the Turco-Russian war and the failure of the American +cabbage crop last year, nearly all the genuine imported Turkish tobacco +used in this country this Summer will have to be made out of plaintain +weed. + + * * * * * + +THE day after Christmas, father and mother no longer come sneaking in +at the back door with mysterious looking bundles. No, indeedy. Mother +is gliding around with the expression of a Christian martyr with the +toothache, because she didn’t get what she expected, and father is +sitting around, holding his breath till the bills come in. + + * * * * * + +YOU can utilize your cake of maple sugar, if you find there is too +much sand in it to make molasses of, by putting it in a neat frame of +card-board, or some kind of fancy work, in bright colors, and hanging +it up against the wall to light matches on. It never wears out. + + * * * * * + +FLIES are made for some good and useful purpose after all. If it wasn’t +for the busy flies, men with their never dying souls to save and lots +of work to do, would lie down after dinner and sleep till six o’clock +every day. + + * * * * * + +A NASHVILLE bank robber burrowed under a street for five days, and +at length came up in the coal vault of a beer saloon, three doors +away from the bank, and bit himself in eleven places with the most +uncompromising dog he ever tried to conciliate. The next time he +attempts any mining operations he will take a practical engineer along. + + * * * * * + +IT was intensely hot in Salt Lake City last Summer, and one night about +1,820 linear feet of prickly heat broke out on the infant backs in +Brigham Young’s nursery. The eruption hasn’t been equaled since Mt. +Vesuvius cooled off. + + * * * * * + +IT is in the merry month of Spring that a tree peddler comes around +and talks you to death, and sells you a plum tree that bears fruit so +bitter that it poisons every curculio that tastes it, and some cherry +trees that send up one hundred and fifty sprouts to the square inch +and will lift the house off its foundations in two years’ growth, and +some apple trees that neither sprout, blossom, nor bear fruit, and +some blackberry bushes that spread all over a ten-acre lot the first +season, and some gooseberry bushes that have thorns on a foot long, and +never have anything else, and some peach trees that break out in bloom +from the ground to the tip of the topmost branch five days after they +are put in the ground and die as dead as a flint the sixth day, and a +climbing rose tree that turns out to be wild ivy and poisons every soul +about the house before the Summer is over. + + * * * * * + +WHEN the late Governor of the Persian province of Fars retired from +office, the Government officials put him in the stocks and pounded the +soles of his feet until he disgorged $300,000 of crooked salary. If the +Government of the United States would adopt that system, five hundred +million pairs of crutches would carry the population of the republic to +and from its daily labor. And if we knew where we could get hold of a +man who would give down like the late worthy Governor of Fars, we would +gather him by the ankles, stand him on his head, and welt the soles of +his feet until his backbone went through the top of his head and stuck +nine inches in the ground. + + * * * * * + +THERE is a junior in the Burlington high school who, when his father +cuffs his scholastic ears for leaving the wheelbarrow standing athwart +the front gate, can go out to the woodshed and swear in French, grumble +in German, threaten to run away and be a pirate in good classic Greek, +and blubber in honest United States. + + * * * * * + +ONE day last Winter a young lady broke through the ice of a deep +skating pond near Toronto, and a young man rescued her at the risk of +his own life. As the half drowned girl was recovering consciousness, +her agonized father arrived on the spot. Taking one of her cold, white +hands in one of his own, he reached out the other for the hand of her +rescuer, but the young man, realizing his danger, with one frightened +glance broke for the woods, and was soon lost to view. He has not been +heard of since, and it is supposed that he is traveling in the United +States under the false and hollow name of Smith. + + * * * * * + +WE haven’t given the subject enough study to speak very confidently +upon it, but we rather believe, when the end of the world comes, and +the last trump calls all mankind together, that the man who died with +rheumatism will lie still a long time, and will feel the small of his +back, and rub his knees slowly and thoughtfully a great many times, +before he finally groans and makes up his mind to get up. And, as like +as not, by the time he gets on his feet everybody else will be gone. + + * * * * * + +MAN--What power of nature has he not subdued? What climate has he not +trodden under foot? What arctic rigor and tropical heat, what polar +snows and equatorial sunstrokes has he not laughed to scorn? He has +tamed the elements, he has made the ocean his highway, he has made +fire and water, earth and air, his servants, and bent beneath his +all-subduing yoke even the wild lightnings to be his messenger. And yet +he can not, arching himself upon the back of his head and on his heels, +scoop with his eager palm, cracker crumbs from the irritating sheet +with a sufficient degree of success to insure himself a good night’s +sleep. He can not, he can not--oh, might of the giant, it kaint be did! + + * * * * * + +A WOMAN will take the smallest drawer in a bureau for her own private +use, and will pack away in it bright bits of boxes, of all shades and +sizes, dainty fragments of ribbon, and scraps of lace, foamy ruffles, +velvet things for the neck, bundles of old love-letters, pieces of +jewelry, handkerchiefs, fans, things that no man knows the name of, all +sorts of fresh-looking, bright little traps that you couldn’t catalogue +in a column, and any hour of the day or night she can go to that drawer +and pick up any article she wants without disturbing any thing else. +Whereas a man, having the biggest, deepest and widest drawer assigned +to him, will chuck into it three socks, a collar-box, an old necktie, +two handkerchiefs, a pipe and a pair of suspenders, and to save his +soul he can’t shut that drawer without leaving more ends of things +sticking out than there are things in it, and it always looks as though +it had been packed with a hydraulic press. + + * * * * * + +ONE day a young man of respectable appearance attracted considerable +attention on Third Street, while crossing over to the Barrett House. He +stopped in the middle of the street and yelled, and danced up and down +on one leg, while he held the other out and kicked, like the can-can +lady on the bulletin boards. The bystanders thought he was crazy, and +threw stones and mud at him, and knocked him down and choked him, and +held him still, while he never ceased to shriek, “Snake up my leg! +Snake up my leg!” Then they reached up and pulled a small roll of bills +out of his trousers leg, and let him up, when he raised his hands to +heaven and swore he would never carry money in a hip pocket again, hole +or no hole. + + * * * * * + +IT was on a bright April morning that Mr. Alanson Bodley, who lives out +on Summer Street, stepped out of the house in a tender frame of mind, +singing softly to himself, “Oh had I the wings of a dove, I’d fly, +Away from----” Just then the hired girl threw the bed-room carpet out +of the window, and as its dusty folds enveloped Mr. Bodley, and threw +his struggling form down stairs, he was heard to exclaim in muffled +tones, “If I get out of this, if I don’t cut the raw heart out of the +bloody-minded assassin that slung that carpet, strike me dead!” Thus, +too often, the tenderer influences that bring into life and being our +higher and noble emotions and transcendental longings, are warped and +distorted by the stern realities of life, like a wet boot behind the +kitchen stove. + + * * * * * + +THEY had the awfulest time up at Jerome Cavendish’s house, on West +Hill, one evening, and Mrs. Cavendish went into hysterics, and Miss +Cavendish fainted, and young George Cavendish grabbed his hat and +ran out of the house, and old Cavendish raved and ramped around like +a crazy man, all just because they had waffles for tea, and Miss +Cavendish found a--“oh! _ow! ow!!_ OO-OO-OO!!! EE-E-E-E!!!” hard-baked +beetle in a waffle. Oh, it was terrible! It was awful! It was too +awful! Too awful! Two waffle! + + * * * * * + +ONE day last Spring a sweet-faced woman, with a smile like an angel and +a voice softer and sweeter than the sound of flutes upon the water, +was walking up Fifth Street. She was walking very slowly, enjoying the +cool, soft air, and the delicious shade of those maple trees just below +Division Street. Her languid motions were the perfection of grace, +and she was the admiration of every pair of eyes on the street, when +suddenly she threw her parasol over the steeple of the church, screamed +till she rattled the windows in the parsonage, jumped up as high as the +fence three times, and whooped and shrieked, and wailed, and howled, +and kicked until everybody thought she had suddenly become insane. But +when they ran up and caught hold of her and poured water on her head +and $15 bonnet, and shook her until she quit screaming and began to +talk, they found that one of those green worms, about an inch long, had +dropped from the maple leaves and slid down her back. And they didn’t +wonder that she yelled and made a fuss about it. + + * * * * * + +SOME years ago a public-spirited citizen of Burlington died, and +left, by his will, $175,000 to found an orphan asylum; and his sons +and daughters, and nieces and nephews, and cousins, and brothers and +sisters, and all his wife’s relations, contested the will, and fought +and wrangled and called each other names, and told hard stories about +each other, and proved up wonderful claims, and hired lawyers by the +acre, and kept the fight up manfully until quite lately, when it +transpired that the man only had $35 in the whole wide world when he +died, and owed that to his grocer, and was in debt about $300 beside, +and that the coffin he was buried in hadn’t been paid for yet. And +it was sad to see those claimants standing around the streets with +gripsacks in their hands trying to get out of town, with a lawyer and a +capias lurking behind every corner. + + * * * * * + +A PAIR of deaf mutes were married in Monroe, Georgia, three years ago, +and now it is more fun than a circus to see them quarrel and make faces +at each other with their fingers. + + * * * * * + +IT IS a remarkable coincidence, and shows the beneficent watchcare +which a kind Providence exercises over mankind, that the advertisements +of new and infallible cholera mixtures should appear in the city papers +just about the time watermelons come in. + + * * * * * + +WHEN a man, coming down to breakfast half awake, with his uncertain +feet shod in a pair of slip-shod slippers, steps on a spool on the +first step, he is generally wide-awake enough by the time he tries to +break the last step to have a very vivid and not entirely incorrect +idea of the power and indestructible force generated by the Keely +motor. But that isn’t what he talks about when he goes into the +breakfast room and the folks ask him what made such a noise in the hall? + + * * * * * + +AT a charity ball in New York one lady wore diamonds valued at $85,000, +and another belle wore a $23,000 dress, and so all the way down to +the poor people, whose clothes didn’t cost more than $1,800. The net +proceeds of the ball, which were to be devoted to charitable purposes, +amounted to $11.25, which the door-keeper and ticket-seller spent for +hot drinks. + + * * * * * + +TWO young ladies of Tama County have finished a quilt containing 10,696 +pieces, and the local paper proudly asks if anybody in Iowa can beat +that? We haven’t anything in Burlington like that in the quilt line, +but Caspar Cruger, up on Eighth Street, fell down the plank walk steps +leading down to Valley Street, one morning, and ran 10,697 pine slivers +into his back and legs, and a Tama man than he was when he got up you +never saw. + + * * * * * + +ANOTHER “wild boy” has made his startling and erratic appearance in +Texas, but since the fact has become generally known that the first +time a stranger takes a drink of Texas whisky he goes out on the +prairie and looks for a clean place to have a fit, public confidence in +Texas “wild boys” has been sadly shaken. + + * * * * * + +THE Massachusetts papers are discussing the question, “May Cousins +Marry?” We should hope so. We don’t see why a cousin hasn’t as good a +right to marry as a brother or an uncle or a son or sister. They all +get used to cousin’ after they marry, anyhow. + + * * * * * + +ABDEL MOULK KAHN, the eldest son of the Emir of Bokhara, has made a +pilgrimage to Mecca, in accordance with the Mohammedan custom. In this +country it is customary for the Moulk Kahns to Mecca pilgrimage to the +nearest river just before milking time. + + * * * * * + +A BURLINGTON man, who is a monomaniac on the subject of roller skates, +and who spent ninety-two days in the rink during the past season, and +got more falls than he has hairs on his head, and got himself stuck +so full of slivers that he wears through his clothes like a nutmeg +grater, calls himself a “hard rinker,” and consequently he is haunted +by traveling agents of temperance societies. + + * * * * * + +JOHN THOMPSON, of Muscatine, ran away from home with a circus three +years ago, and now he is posted on the bill boards of his native +town as “Giovanni Tiompeonatti, the Inimitable and Unapproachable +Grand Double Flying Trapeze and Philo Protean Prestiditateurean +Athleto-Acrobat.” Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? + + * * * * * + +STEEL ropes are being introduced into the British navy in place of +the clumsy hemp hawsers. They had better enlist a few good government +contractors from America. They’ll steal ropes, swabs, tar buckets, +marlin-spikes, capstan bars, or anything else that isn’t nailed down +and under guard. + + * * * * * + +THE French know how to cook an egg three hundred and sixty-five +different ways, and yet, if it is a little bilious to begin with, the +strongest combination of all these ways won’t make a very eggy egg of +it. + + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: + + + Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. + + Perceived typographical errors have been corrected. + + Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. + + Archaic or variant spelling has been retained. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78913 *** diff --git a/78913-h/78913-h.htm b/78913-h/78913-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5fb44bc --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/78913-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12695 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <title> + The rise and fall of the mustache | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3{ + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.tiny {width: 5%; margin-left: 47.5%; margin-right: 47.5%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.tdr {text-align: right;} + +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 17.5%; + margin-right: 17.5%; +} + +.x-ebookmaker .blockquot { + margin-left: 7.5%; 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+ font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {display: inline-block; text-align: left;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -2.5em; padding-left: 3em;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .indent {text-indent: 1.5em;} +.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: 0em;} +.poetry .first {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} +@media print { .poetry {display: block;} } +.x-ebookmaker .poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.x-ebookmaker .poetry .indent2 {text-indent: 1.5em;} + +.gap {padding-left: 5em;} + +p.drop-cap { + text-indent: -0.35em; + margin-bottom: 0em; +} +p.drop-cap2 { + text-indent: -0.75em; +} +p.drop-cap:first-letter, p.drop-cap2:first-letter +{ + float: left; + margin: 0em 0.15em 0em 0em; + font-size: 250%; + line-height:0.85em; + text-indent: 0em; +} +.x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap, .x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap2 { + text-indent: 0em; +} +.x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap:first-letter, .x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap2:first-letter +{ + float: none; + margin: 0; + font-size: 100%; +} + +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:smaller; + margin-left: 17.5%; + margin-right: 17.5%; + padding: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; } + +.x-ebookmaker .transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:smaller; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 5%; + padding: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; } + + </style> +</head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78913 ***</div> + + +<div class="figcenter hide"><img src="images/coversmall.jpg" width="450" alt=""></div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<figure class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> + <img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="450" height="712" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <p class="caption">RISE AND FALL OF THE MUSTACHE.</p> + </figcaption> +</figure> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/titlepage.jpg" alt="title page"></div> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="titlepage"> +<h1><span class="small">THE</span><br> + +RISE AND FALL<br> + +<span class="tiny">OF</span><br> + +<span class="large">THE MUSTACHE</span></h1> + +<p><small>AND OTHER</small><br> + +<span class="xlarge">“HAWK-EYETEMS.”</span></p> + +<hr class="tiny"> +<p><span class="large">BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE,</span><br> +The Humorist of the Burlington “Hawk-Eye.”</p> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p>ILLUSTRATED BY R. W. WALLIS.</p> + +<p>BURLINGTON, IOWA:<br> +<span class="large">BURLINGTON PUBLISHING COMPANY.</span><br> +1877.</p> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center">COPYRIGHT.<br> +<span class="smcap">Burlington Publishing Company</span>,<br> +1877.</p> + +<p class="center">Bound by A. J. Cox & Co., Chicago. <span class="gap">The Lakeside Press, Chicago.</span></p> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span> +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/dedication_page_top.jpg" width="400" alt=""></div> + +<p class="center"> +TO<br> +<br> +<span class="xlarge">FRANK HATTON,</span><br> +Editor-in-Chief,<br> +<br> +AND<br> +<br> +<span class="large">MY ASSOCIATES ON THE HAWKEYE,</span><br> +<br> +IN HAPPY REMEMBRANCE<br> +<br> +OF OUR PLEASANT FELLOWSHIP, THIS VOLUME<br> +<br> +IS INSCRIBED.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/dedication_page_bottom.jpg" width="250" alt=""></div> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span> +<h2 class="nobreak">PREFACE.</h2> +</div> +<div class="blockquot"> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p><i>The appearance of a new book is an indication that +another man has found a mission, has entered upon the +performance of a lofty duty, actuated only by the noblest +impulses that can spur the soul of man to action. It is +the proudest boast of the profession of literature, that no +man ever published a book for selfish purposes or with +ignoble aim. Books have been published for the consolation +of the distressed; for the guidance of the wandering; +for the relief of the destitute; for the hope of the penitent; +for uplifting the burdened soul above its sorrows and +fears; for the general amelioration of the condition of all +mankind; for the right against the wrong; for the good +against the bad; for the truth. This book is published +for two dollars per volume.</i></p> + +<p class="right"><i>R. J. B.</i></p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span> +<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS.</h2> +</div> + + +<table> +<tr><td class="tdr" colspan="2"><span class="allsmcap">PAGE.</span></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Boy’s Day at Home</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_273"> 273</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Burlington Adder</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_94"> 94</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Burlington Novelette</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_173"> 173</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Candid Confession</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_171"> 171</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Modern Goblin</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_210"> 210</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Rainy Day Idyl</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_86"> 86</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Reminiscence of Exhibition Day</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_177"> 177</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Safe Bet</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_204"> 204</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Sunday Idyl</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_262"> 262</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Taciturn Witness</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_124"> 124</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Thrilling Encounter</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_144"> 144</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Trying Situation</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_193"> 193</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">An Autumnal Reverie</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_286"> 286</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Buying a Tin Cup</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_119"> 119</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Cornering the Boys</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_128"> 128</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Dangers of Bathing</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_164"> 164</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Driving the Cow</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_64"> 64</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Five Women</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_146"> 146</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Getting Ready for the Train</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_59"> 59</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Hawk-Eyetems</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_298"> 298-328</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Infantile Scintillations</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_293"> 293</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Inspirations of Truth</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_156"> 156</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Life in the “Hawkeye” Sanctum</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_109"> 109</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Master Bilderback Returns to School</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_74"> 74</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Master Bilderback’s Poultry Yard</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_258"> 258</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Middlerib’s Dog</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_270"> 270</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Middlerib’s Picnic</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_250"> 250</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Mind Reading</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_200"> 200</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Misapplied Science</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_96"> 96</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Mr. Baringer’s House-Cleaning</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_282"> 282</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Mr. Bilderback Loses His Hat</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_195"> 195</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Mr. Gerolman Loses His Dog</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_82"> 82</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Mr. Olendorf’s Complaint</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_180"> 180</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Ode to Autumn</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_78"> 78</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">One of the Legion</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_121"> 121</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Rupertino’s Panorama</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_266"> 266</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Rural Felicity</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_185"> 185</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Selling the Heirloom</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_129"> 129</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Settling Under Difficulties</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_296"> 296</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Singular Transformation</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_87"> 87</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Sodding as a Fine Art</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_135"> 135</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Special Providences</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_279"> 279</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Spirit Photography</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_158"> 158</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Spring Days in Burlington</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_108"> 108</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Spring Time in America</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_115"> 115</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Suburban Solitude</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_90"> 90</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Amenities of Politics</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_139"> 139</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Artless Prattle of Childhood</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_102"> 102</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Automatic Clothes-Line Reel</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_152"> 152</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Demand for Light Labor</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_70"> 70</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Garden of the Gods</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_189"> 189</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Goblin Gate</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_148"> 148</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Language of Flowers</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_113"> 113</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Lay of the Cow</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_206"> 206</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Power of Dignity</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_169"> 169</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Rise and Fall of the Mustache</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_9"> 9</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Romance of the Carpet</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_132"> 132</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Seedsman</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_127"> 127</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Sorrows of the Poor</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_79"> 79</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Voices of the Night</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_67"> 67</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Why Mr. Bostwick Moved</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_275"> 275</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Wide-Awake</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_99"> 99</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Woodland Music and Poetry</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_116"> 116</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Writing for the Press</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_161"> 161</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Young Mr. Coffinberry Buys a Dog</span>,</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_207"> 207</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/contents.jpg" alt=""></div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span> + + +<h2 class="nobreak"><span class="smcap">The Rise and Fall<br> +<span class="allsmcap">OF</span><br> +The Mustache.</span></h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">WE open our eyes in this living world around us, in +a wonder land, peopled with dreams, and haunted +with wonderful shapes; and every day dawns upon us +in a medley of new marvels. We are awakened from +these dreams by contact with hard, stubborn facts, not +rudely and harshly, but gradually and tenderly. So +much that is bright and beautiful, and full of romance +and wonder, passes away with the earlier years of life, +that by the time we are able to earn our first salary we +hold in our hands only the crumpled, withered leaves of +childhood’s simple creeds and loving superstitions. Year +after year, the iconoclastic hand of earnest, real life, +tears from the lofty pedestals upon which our loving +fancy had enshrined them, the gods of gold that crumble +into worthless clay at our feet. We live to lose faith, at +last, in “Puss in Boots;” we cease to weep over the sad +tragedy of “Cock Robin;” there comes a time when we +can read “Arabian Nights,” and then go to bed without +a tremor; with one heart-breaking pang at last we give +up darling “Jack the Giant Killer,” and acknowledge +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span>him to be the fraud he stands confessed; it is not long +after that, we learn to look upon William Tell as a +national myth, and then we come to know, in spite of all +that orthodox theology has taught us to the contrary, +that Adam was not the first man—that raised a mustache. +Adam was too old—when he was born—to care +very much about what our grander and more gradually +developed civilization considers the crowning facial +ornament. And after his natural human idleness got +him into perfectly natural human trouble, he was kept +too busy something to put under his lip, to think +much about what grew above it. If Adam wore a mustache, +he never raised it. It raised itself. It evolved +itself out of its own inner consciousness, like a primordial +germ. It grew, like the weeds on his farm, in spite of him, +and to torment him. For Adam had hardly got his farm +reduced to a kind of turbulent, weed producing, granger +fighting, regular order of things—had scarcely settled +down to the quiet, happy, care-free, independent life of +a jocund farmer, with nothing under the canopy to molest +or make him afraid, with every thing on the plantation +going on smoothly and lovelily, with a little rust in the +oats; army worm in the corn; Colorado beetles swarming +up and down the potato patch; cut-worms laying +waste the cucumbers; curculio in the plums and borers +in the apple trees; a new kind of bug that he didn’t +know the name of desolating the wheat fields; dry +weather burning up the wheat, wet weather blighting the +corn; too cold for the melons, too dreadfully hot for the +strawberries; chickens dying with the pip; hogs being +gathered to their fathers with the cholera; sheep fading +away with a complication of things that no man could +remember; horses getting along as well as could be +expected, with a little spavin, ring bone, wolf teeth, distemper, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span>heaves, blind staggers, collar chafes, saddle galls, +colic now and then, founder occasionally, epizootic when +there was nothing else; cattle going wild with the horn +ail; moth in the bee hives; snakes in the milk house; +moles in the kitchen garden—Adam had just about got +through breaking wild land with a crooked stick, and +settled down comfortably, when the sound of the boy +was heard in the land.</p> + +<p>Did it ever occur to you that Adam was probably the +most troubled and worried man that ever lived? We +have always pictured Adam as a care-worn looking man; +a puzzled looking granger who would sigh fifty times a +day, and sit down on a log and run his irresolute +fingers through his hair while he wondered what under +the canopy he was going to do with those boys, and +whatever was going to become of them. We have +thought too, that as often as our esteemed parent asked +himself this conundrum, he gave it up. They must +have been a source of constant trouble and mystification +to him. For you see they were the first boys that +humanity ever had any experience with. And there +was no one else in the neighborhood who had any boy, +with whom Adam, in his moments of perplexity, could +consult. There wasn’t a boy in the country with whom +Adam’s boys were on speaking terms, and with whom +they could play and fight. Adam, you see, labored +under the most distressing disadvantages that ever +opposed a married man and the father of a family. He +had never been a boy himself, and what could he know +about boy nature or boy troubles and pleasure? His +perplexity began at an early date. Imagine, if you can, +the celerity with which he kicked off the leaves, and +paced up and down in the moonlight the first time little +Cain made the welkin ring when he had the colic. How +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span>did Adam know what ailed him? He couldn’t tell Eve +that she had been sticking the baby full of pins. He +didn’t even know enough to turn the vociferous infant +over on his face and jolt him into serenity. If the fence +corners on his farm had been overgrown with catnip, +never an idea would Adam have had what to do with it. +It is probable that after he got down on his knees and +felt for thorns or snakes or rats in the bed, and thoroughly +examined young Cain for bites or scratches, he +passed him over to Eve with the usual remark, “There, +take him and hush him up, for heaven’s sake,” and then +went off and sat down under a distant tree with his +fingers in his ears, and perplexity in his brain. And +young Cain just split the night with the most hideous +howls the little world had ever listened to. It must +have stirred the animals up to a degree that no menagerie +has ever since attained. There was no sleep in the +vicinity of Eden that night for anybody, baby, beasts or +Adam. And it is more than probable that the weeds +got a long start of Adam the next day, while he lay +around in shady places and slept in troubled dozes, disturbed, +perhaps by awful visions of possible twins and +more colic.</p> + +<p>And when the other boy came along, and the boys got +old enough to sleep in a bed by themselves, they had no +pillows to fight with, and it is a moral impossibility for +two brothers to go to bed without a fracas. And what +comfort could two boys get out of pelting each other with +fragments of moss or bundles of brush? What dismal +views of future humanity Adam must have received from +the glimpses of original sin which began to develop itself +in his boys. How he must have wondered what put into +their heads the thousand and one questions with which +they plied their parents day after day. We wonder what +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>he thought when they first began to string buckeyes on +the cat’s tail. And when night came, there was no hired +girl to keep the boys quiet by telling them ghost stories, +and Adam didn’t even know so much as an anecdote.</p> + +<p>Cain, when he made his appearance, was the first and +only boy in the fair young world. And all his education +depended on his inexperienced parents, who had never +in their lives seen a boy until they saw Cain. And there +wasn’t an educational help in the market. There wasn’t +an alphabet block in the county; not even a Centennial +illustrated handkerchief. There were no other boys in +the republic, to teach young Cain to lie, and swear, and +smoke, and drink, fight, and steal, and thus develop +the boy’s dormant statesmanship, and prepare him for +the sterner political duties of his maturer years. There +wasn’t a pocket knife in the universe that he could borrow—and +lose, and when he wanted to cut his finger, as +all boys must do, now and then, he had to cut it with a +clam shell. There were no country relations upon whom +little Cain could be inflicted for two or three weeks at a +time, when his wearied parents wanted a little rest. +There was nothing for him to play with. Adam couldn’t +show him how to make a kite. He had a much better +idea of angels’ wings than he had of a kite. And if +little Cain had even asked for such a simple bit of +mechanism as a shinny club, Adam would have gone out +into the depths of the primeval forest and wept in sheer +mortification and helpless, confessed ignorance. I don’t +wonder that Cain turned out bad. I always said he +would. For his entire education depended upon a most +ignorant man, a man in the very palmiest days of his +ignorance, who couldn’t have known less if he had tried +all his life on a high salary and had a man to help him. +And the boy’s education had to be conducted entirely +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>upon the catechetical system; only, in this instance, the +boy pupil asked the questions, and his parent teachers, +heaven help them, tried to answer them. And they had +to answer at them. For they could not take refuge from +the steady stream of questions that poured in upon them +day after day, by interpolating a fairy story, as you +do when your boy asks you questions about something +of which you never heard. For how could Adam +begin, “Once upon a time,” when with one quick, +incisive question, Cain could pin him right back against +the dead wall of creation, and make him either specify +exactly what time, or acknowledge the fraud? How +could Eve tell him about “Jack and the bean stalk,” +when Cain, fairly crazy for some one to play with, knew +perfectly well there was not, and never had been, another +boy on the plantation? And as day by day Cain brought +home things in his hands about which to ask questions +that no mortal could answer, how grateful his bewildered +parents must have been that he had no pockets in which +to transport his collections. For many generations came +into the fair young world, got into no end of trouble, and +died out of it, before a boy’s pocket solved the problem +how to make the thing contained seven times greater +than the container. The only thing that saved Adam +and Eve from interrogational insanity was the paucity of +language. If little Cain had possessed the verbal +abundance of the language in which men are to-day +talked to death, his father’s bald head would have gone +down in shining flight to the ends of the earth to escape +him, leaving Eve to look after the stock, save the crop, +and raise her boy as best she could. Which would have +been, 6,000 years ago, as to-day, just like a man.</p> + +<p>Because, it was no off hand, absent-minded work +answering questions about things in those spacious old +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span>days, when there was crowds of room, and everything +grew by the acre. When a placid, but exceedingly unanimous +looking animal went rolling by, producing the +general effect of an eclipse, and Cain would shout, “Oh, +lookee, lookee pa! what’s that?” the patient Adam, trying +to saw enough kitchen wood to last over Sunday, with a +piece of flint, would have to pause and gather up words +enough to say:</p> + +<p>“That, my son? That is only a mastodon giganteus; +he has a bad look, but a Christian temper.”</p> + +<p>And then, presently:</p> + +<p>“Oh, pop! pop! What’s that over yon?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, bother,” Adam would reply; “it’s only a paleotherium, +mammalia pachydermata.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes; theliocomeafterus. Oh! lookee, lookee at +this ’un!”</p> + +<p>“Where, Cainny? Oh, that in the mud? That’s only +an acephala lamelli branchiata. It won’t bite you, but +you mustn’t eat it. It’s poison as politics.”</p> + +<p>“Whee! See there! see, see, see! What’s him?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that? Looks like a plesiosaurus; keep out of his +way; he has a jaw like your mother.”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes; a plenosserus. And what’s that fellow, +poppy?”</p> + +<p>“That’s a silurus malapterus. Don’t you go near him, +for he has the disposition of a Georgia mule.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes; a slapterus. And what’s this little one?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s nothing but an aristolochioid. Where did you +get it? There now, quit throwing stones at that acanthopterygian; +do you want to be kicked? And keep away +from the nothodenatrichomanoides. My stars, Eve! +where <i>did</i> he get that anonaceo-hydrocharideo-nymphæoid? +Do you never look after him at all? Here, you +Cain, get right away down from there, and chase that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span>megalosaurius out of the melon patch, or I’ll set the +monopleuro branchian on you.”</p> + +<p>Just think of it, Christian man with a family to support, +with last year’s stock on your shelves, and a draft as long +as a clothes-line to pay to-morrow! Think of it, woman +with all a woman’s love and constancy, and a mother’s +sympathetic nature, with three meals a day 365 times a +year to think of, and the flies to chase out of the sitting-room; +think, if your cherub boy was the only boy in the +wide wide world, and all his questions which now radiate +in a thousand directions among other boys, who tell him +lies and help him to cut his eye-teeth, were focused +upon you! Adam had only one consolation that has +been denied his more remote descendants. His boy +never belonged to a base ball club, and never teased his +father from the first of November till the last of March +for a pair of skates.</p> + +<p>Well, you have no time to pity Adam. You have your +own boy to look after. Or, your neighbor has a boy, whom +you can look after much more closely than his mother +does, and much more to your own satisfaction than to the +boy’s comfort. Your boy is, as Adam’s boy was, an +animal that asks questions. If there were any truth in +the old theory of the transmigration of souls, when a boy +died he would pass into an interrogation point. And he’d +stay there. He’d never get out of it; for he never gets +through asking questions. The older he grows the more +he asks, and the more perplexing his questions are, and the +more unreasonable he is about wanting them answered +to suit himself. Why, the oldest boy I ever knew—he +was fifty-seven years old, and I went to school to him—could +and did ask the longest, hardest, crookedest +questions, that no fellow, who used to trade off all his +books for a pair of skates and a knife with a corkscrew +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>in it, could answer. And when his questions were +not answered to suit him, it was his custom—a custom +more honored in the breeches, we used to think, than +in the observance—to take up a long, slender, but +exceedingly tenacious rod, which lay ever near the big +dictionary, and smite with it the boy whose naturally +derived Adamic ignorance was made manifest. Ah me, +if the boy could only do as he is done by, and ferule the +man or the woman who fails to reply to his inquiries, as +he is himself corrected for similar shortcomings, what a +valley of tears, what a literally howling wilderness he +could and would make of this world.</p> + +<p>Your boy, asking to-day pretty much the same questions, +with heaven knows how many additional ones, that +Adam’s boy did, is told, every time he asks one that you +don’t know any thing about, just as Adam told Cain fifty +times a day, that he will know all about it when he is a +man. And so from the days of Cain down to the present +wickeder generation of boys, the boy ever looks forward +to the time when he will be a man and know everything. +That happy, far away, omniscient, unattainable manhood, +which never comes to your boy; which would never +come to him if he lived a thousand years; manhood, that +like boyhood, ever looks forward from to-day to the +morrow; still peering into the future for brighter light +and broader knowledge; day after day, as its world opens +before it, stumbling upon ever new and unsolved mysteries; +manhood, whose wisdom is folly and whose light is +often darkness, and whose knowledge is selfishness; +manhood, that so often looks over its shoulder and +glances back toward boyhood, when its knowledge was +at least always equal to its day; manhood, that after +groping for years through tangled labyrinths of failing +human theories and tottering human wisdom, at last +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span>only rises to the sublimity of childhood, only reaches the +grandeur of boyhood, and accepts the grandest, eternal +truths of the universe, truths that it does not comprehend, +truths that it can not, by searching, find out, +accepting and believing them with the simple, unquestioning +faith of childhood in Truth itself.</p> + +<p>And now, your boy, not entirely ceasing to ask questions, +begins to answer them, until you stand amazed at +the breadth and depth of his knowledge. He asks questions +and gets answers of teachers that you and the school +board know not of. Day by day, great unprinted books, +upon the broad pages of which the hand of nature has +traced characters that only a boy can read, are spread +out before him. He knows now where the first snow-drop +lifts its tiny head, a pearl on the bosom of the barren +earth, in the Spring; he knows where the last Indian +pink lingers, a flame in the brown and rustling woods, in +the autumn days. His pockets are cabinets, from which he +drags curious fossils that he does not know the names of; +monstrous and hideous beetles and bugs and things that +you never saw before, and for which he has appropriate +names of his own. He knows where there are three +orioles’ nests, and so far back as you can remember, you +never saw an oriole’s nest in your life. He can tell you +how to distinguish the good mushrooms from the poisonous +ones, and poison grapes from good ones, and how he +ever found out, except by eating both kinds, is a mystery +to his mother. Every root, bud, leaf, berry or bark, that +will make any bitter, horrible, semi-poisonous tea, +reputed to have marvelous medicinal virtues, he knows +where to find, and in the season he does find, and brings +home, and all but sends the entire family to the cemetery +by making practical tests of his teas.</p> + +<p>And as his knowledge broadens, his human superstition +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>develops itself. He has a formula, repeating which nine +times a day, while pointing his finger fixedly toward the +sun, will cause warts to disappear from the hand, or, to use +his own expression, will “knock warts.” If the eight day +clock at home tells him it is two o’clock, and the flying +leaves of the dandelion declare it is half-past five, he +will stand or fall with the dandelion. He has a formula, +by which any thing that has been lost may be found. +He has, above all things, a natural, infallible instinct for +the woods, and can no more be lost in them than a +squirrel. If the cow does not come home—and if she is +a town cow, like a town man, she does not come home, +three nights in the week—you lose half a day of valuable +time looking for her. Then you pay a man three dollars +to look for her two days longer, or so long as the appropriation +holds out. Finally, a quarter sends a boy to the +woods; he comes back at milking time, whistling the +tune that no man ever imitated, and the cow ambles +contentedly along before him. He has one particular +marble which he regards with about the same superstitious +reverence that a pagan does his idol, and his Sunday-school +teacher can’t drive it out of him, either. Carnelian, +crystal, bull’s eye, china, pottery, boly, blood alley, +or commie, whatever he may call it, there is “luck in it.” +When he loses this marble, he sees panic and bankruptcy +ahead of him, and retires from business prudently, before +the crash comes, failing, in true centennial style, with +both pockets and a cigar box full of winnings, and a +creditors’ meeting in the back room. A boy’s world is +open to no one but a boy. You never really revisit the +glimpses of your boyhood, much as you may dream of +it. After you get into a tail-coat, and tight boots, you +never again set foot in boy world. You lose this marvelous +instinct for the woods, you can’t tell a pig-nut +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span>tree from a pecan; you can’t make friends with strange +dogs; you can’t make the terrific noises with your mouth, +you can’t invent the inimitable signals or the characteristic +catchwords of boyhood.</p> + +<p>He is getting on, is your boy. He reaches the dime +novel age. He wants to be a missionary. Or a pirate. +So far as he expresses any preference, he would rather +be a pirate, an occupation in which there are more +chances for making money, and fewer opportunities for +being devoured. He develops a yearning love for school +and study about this time, also, and every time he +dreams of being a pirate he dreams of hanging his dear +teacher at the yard arm in the presence of the delighted +scholars. His voice develops, even more rapidly and +thoroughly than his morals. In the yard, on the house +top, down the street, around the corner; wherever there +is a patch of ice big enough for him to break his neck +on, or a pond of water deep enough to drown in, the +voice of your boy is heard. He whispers in a shout, and +converses, in ordinary, confidential moments, in a shriek. +He exchanges bits of back-fence gossip about his father’s +domestic matters with the boy living in the adjacent +township, to which interesting revelations of home life +the intermediate neighborhood listens with intense satisfaction, +and the two home circles in helpless dismay. +He has an unconquerable hatred for company, and an +aversion for walking down stairs. For a year or two his +feet never touch the stairway in his descent, and his +habit of polishing the stair rail by using it as a passenger +tramway, soon breaks the other members of the family +of the careless habit of setting the hall lamp or the +water pitcher on the baluster post. He wears the same +size boot as his father; and on the dryest, dustiest days +in the year, always manages to convey some mud on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>the carpets. He carefully steps over the door mat, and +until he is about seventeen years old, he actually never +knew there was a scraper at the front porch. About this +time, bold but inartistic pencil sketches break out mysteriously +on the alluring back ground of the wall paper. +He asks, with great regularity, alarming frequency, and +growing diffidence, for a new hat. You might as well +buy him a new disposition. He wears his hat in the air +and on the ground far more than he does on his head, +and he never hangs it up that he doesn’t pull the hook +through the crown; unless the hook breaks off or the hat-rack +pulls over. He is a perfect Robinson Crusoe in +inventive genius. He can make a kite that will fly +higher and pull harder than a balloon. He can, and, on +occasion, will, take out a couple of the pantry shelves +and make a sled that is amazement itself. The mouse-trap +he builds out of the water pitcher and the family +bible is a marvel of mechanical ingenuity. So is the +excuse he gives for such a selection of raw material. +When suddenly, some Monday morning, the clothes-line, +without any just or apparent cause or provocation, shrinks +sixteen feet, philosophy can not make you believe that +Prof. Tice did it with his little barometer. Because, +far down the dusty street, you can see Tom in the dim +distance, driving a prancing team, six-in-hand, with the +missing link. You send him on an errand. There are +three ladies in the parlor. You have waited, as long as +you can, in all courtesy, for them to go. They have +developed alarming symptoms of staying to tea. And +you know there aren’t half enough strawberries to go +around. It is only a three minutes’ walk to the grocery, +however, and Tom sets off like a rocket, and you are so +pleased with his celerity and ready good nature that you +want to run after him and kiss him. He is gone a long +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span>time, however. Ten minutes become fifteen, fifteen grow into +twenty; the twenty swell into the half hour, and +your guests exchange very significant glances as the half +becomes three-quarters. Your boy returns at last. +Apprehension in his downcast eyes, humility in his laggard +step, penitence in the appealing slouch of his battered +hat, and a pound and a half of shingle nails in his +hands. “Mother,” he says, “what else was it you told +me to get besides the nails?” And while you are counting +your scanty store of berries to make them go round +without a fraction, you hear Tom out in the back yard +whistling and hammering away, building a dog house +with the nails you never told him to get.</p> + +<p>Poor Tom, he loves at this age quite as ardently as he +makes mistakes and mischief. And he is repulsed quite +as ardently as he makes love. If he hugs his sister, he +musses her ruffle, and gets cuffed for it. Two hours +later, another boy, not more than twenty-two or twenty-three +years older than Tom, some neighbor’s Tom, will +come in, and will just make the most hopeless, terrible, +chaotic wreck of that ruffle that lace or footing can be +distorted into. And the only reproof he gets is the +reproachful murmur, “Must he go so soon?” when he +doesn’t make a movement to go until he hears the alarm +clock go off up stairs and the old gentleman in the +adjoining room banging around building the morning +fires, and loudly wondering if young Mr. Bostwick is +going to stay to breakfast?</p> + +<p>Tom is at this age set in deadly enmity against company, +which he soon learns to regard as his mortal foe. +He regards company as a mysterious and eminently +respectable delegation that always stays to dinner, +invariably crowds him to the second table, never leaves +him any of the pie, and generally makes him late for +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>school. Naturally, he learns to love refined society, +but in a conservative, non-committal sort of a way, dissembling +his love so effectually that even his parents +never dream of its existence until it is gone.</p> + +<p>Poor Tom, his life is not all comedy at this period. +Go up to your boy’s room some night, and his sleeping +face will preach you a sermon on the griefs and troubles +that sometimes weigh his little heart down almost to +breaking, more eloquently than the lips of a Spurgeon +could picture them. The curtain has fallen on one day’s +act in the drama of his active little life. The restless +feet that all day long have pattered so far—down dusty +streets, over scorching pavements, through long stretches +of quiet wooded lanes, along the winding cattle paths in +the deep, silent woods; that have dabbled in the cool +brook where it wrangles and scolds over the shining pebbles, +that have filled your house with noise and dust and +racket, are still. The stained hand outside the sheet is +soiled and rough, and the cut finger with the rude bandage +of the boy’s own surgery, pleads with a mute, effective +pathos of its own, for the mischievous hand that is never +idle. On the brown cheek the trace of a tear marks the +piteous close of the day’s troubles, the closing scene in a +troubled little drama; trouble at school with books that +were too many for him; trouble with temptations to +have unlawful fun that were too strong for him, as they +are frequently too strong for his father; trouble in the +street with boys that were too big for him; and at last, +in his home, in his castle, his refuge, trouble has pursued +him until, feeling utterly friendless and in everybody’s +way, he has crawled off to the dismantled den, dignified +usually by the title of “the boy’s room,” and his over-charged +heart has welled up into his eyes, and his last +waking breath has broken into a sob, and just as he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span>begins to think that after all, life is only one broad sea +of troubles, whose restless billows, in never-ending succession, +break and beat and double and dash upon the +short shore line of a boy’s life, he has drifted away +into the wonderland of a boy’s sleep, where fairy fingers +picture his dreams. How soundly, deeply, peacefully he +sleeps. No mother, who has never dragged a sleepy boy +off the lounge at 9 o’clock, and hauled him off up stairs to +bed, can know with what a herculean grip a square sleep +takes hold of a boy’s senses, nor how fearfully and wonderfully +limp and nerveless it makes him; nor how, in +direct antagonism to all established laws of anatomy, it +develops joints that work both ways, all the way up and +down that boy. And what pen can portray the wonderful +enchantments of a boy’s dreamland! No marvelous +visions wrought by the weird, strange power of hasheesh, +no dreams that come to the sleep of jaded woman or +tired man, no ghastly specters that dance attendance +upon cold mince pie, but shrink into tiresome, stale, and +trifling commonplaces compared with the marvelous, the +grotesque, the wonderful, the terrible, the beautiful and +the enchanting scenes and people of a boy’s dreamland. +This may be owing, in a great measure, to the fact that +the boy never relates his dream until all the other members +of the family have related theirs; and then he +comes in, like a back county, with the necessary majority; +like the directory of a western city, following the census +of a rival town.</p> + +<p>Tom is a miniature Ishmaelite at this period of his +career. His hand is against every man, and about every +man’s hand, and nearly every woman’s hand, is against +him, off and on. Often, and then the iron enters his +soul, the hand that is against him holds the slipper. He +wears his mother’s slipper on his jacket quite as often +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span>as she wears it on her foot. And this is all wrong, +unchristian and impolitic. It spreads the slipper and +discourages the boy. When he reads in his Sunday-school +lesson that the wicked stand in slippery places, he +takes it as a direct personal reference, and he is affronted, +and maybe the seeds of atheism are implanted in his +breast. Moreover, this repeated application of the slipper +not only sours his temper, and gives a bias to his moral +ideas, but it sharpens his wits. How many a Christian +mother, her soft eyes swimming in tears of real pain that +plashed up from the depths of a loving heart, as she bent +over her wayward boy until his heart-rending wails and +piteous shrieks drowned her own choking, sympathetic, +sobs, has been wasting her strength, and wearing out a +good slipper, and pouring out all that priceless flood of +mother-love and duty and pity and tender sympathy +upon a concealed atlas-back, or a Saginaw shingle.</p> + +<p>It is a historical fact that no boy is ever whipped twice +for precisely the same offense. He varies and improves +a little on every repetition of the prank, until at last he +reaches a point where detection is almost impossible. +He is a big boy then, and glides almost imperceptibly +from the discipline of his father, under the surveillance +of the police.</p> + +<p>By easy stages he passes into the uncomfortable period +of boyhood. His jacket develops into a tail-coat. The +boy of to-day, who is slipped into a hollow, abbreviated +mockery of a tail-coat, when he is taken out of long +dresses, has no idea—not the faintest conception of the +grandeur, the momentous importance of the epoch in a +boy’s life that was marked by the transition from the old-fashioned +cadet roundabout to the tail-coat. It is an +experience that heaven, ever chary of its choicest blessings, +and mindful of the decadence of the race of boys, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span>has not vouchsafed to the untoward, forsaken boys of this +wicked generation. When the roundabout went out +of fashion, the heroic race of boys passed away from +earth, and weeping nature sobbed and broke the moulds. +The fashion that started a boy of six years on his pilgrimage +of life in a miniature edition of his father’s coat, +marked a period of retrogression in the affairs of men, +and stamped a decaying and degenerate race. There +are no boys now, or very few at least, such as peopled +the grand old earth when the men of our age were +boys. And that it is so, society is to be congratulated. +The step from the roundabout to the tail-coat was a +leap in life. It was the boy Iulus, doffing the <i>prætexta</i> +and flinging upon his shoulders the <i>toga virilis</i> of Julius; +Patroclus, donning the armor of Achilles, in which to +go forth and be Hectored to death.</p> + +<p>Tom is slow to realize the grandeur of that tail-coat, +however, on its trial trip. How differently it feels from his +good, snug-fitting, comfortable old jacket. It fits him +too much in every direction, he knows. Every now and +then he stops, with a gasp of terror, feeling positive, from +the awful sensation of nothingness about the neck, that +the entire collar has fallen off in the street. The tails are +prairies, the pockets are caverns, and the back is one +vast, illimitable, stretching waste. How Tom sidles along +as close to the fence as he can scrape, and what a wary +eye he keeps in every direction for other boys. When he +forgets the school, he is half tempted to feel proud of his +toga; but when he thinks of the boys, and the reception +that awaits him, his heart sinks, and he is tempted to go +back home, sneak up stairs, and rescue his worn old +jacket from the rag-bag. He glances in terror at his +distorted shadow on the fence, and, confident that it is +a faithful outline of his figure, he knows that he has +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span>worn his father’s coat off by mistake. He tries various +methods of buttoning his coat, to make it conform more +harmoniously to his figure and his ideas of the eternal +fitness of things. He buttons just the lower button, and +immediately it flies all abroad at the shoulders, and he +beholds himself an exaggerated mannikin of “Cap’n +Cuttle.” Then he fastens just the upper button, and the +frantic tails flap and flutter like a clothes-line in a +cyclone. Then he buttons it all up, <i>a la militaire</i>, and +tries to look soldierly, but the effect is so theological-studently +that it frightens him until his heart stops +beating. As he reaches the last friendly corner that +shields him from the pitiless gaze of the boys he can +hear howling and shrieking not fifty yards away, he pauses +to give the final adjustment to the manly and unmanageable +raiment. It is bigger and looser, flappier and +wrinklier than ever. New and startling folds, and unexpected +wrinkles, and uncontemplated bulges develop +themselves, like masked batteries, just when and where +their effect will be most demoralizing. And a new horror +discloses itself at this trying and awful juncture. He +wants to lie down on the sidewalk and try to die. For +the first time he notices the color of his coat. Hideous! +He has been duped, swindled, betrayed—made a monstrous +idiot by that silver-tongued salesman, who has +palmed off upon him a coat 2,000 years old; a coat that +the most sweetly enthusiastic and terribly misinformed +women’s missionary society would hesitate to offer a wild +Hottentot; and which the most benighted, old-fashioned +Hottentot that ever disdained clothes, would certainly +blush to wear in the dark, and would probably decline +with thanks. Oh madness! The color is no color. +It is all colors. It is a brindle—a veritable, undeniable +brindle. There must have been a fabulous amount +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span>of brindle cloth made up into boys’ first coats, sixteen +or eighteen or nineteen years ago; because, out of 894—I +like to be exact in the use of figures, because +nothing else in the world lends such an air of profound +truthfulness to a discourse—out of 894 boys I knew in +their first tail-coat period, 893 came to school in brindle +coats. And the other one—the 894th boy—made his +wretched debut in a bottle-green toga, with dreadful +glaring brass buttons. He left school very suddenly, and +we always believed that the angels saw him in that coat, +and ran away with him. But Tom, shivering with apprehension, +and faint with mortification over the discovery +of this new horror, gives one last despairing scrooch of +his shoulders, to make the coat look shorter, and, with a +final frantic tug at the tails, to make it appear longer, +steps out from the protecting ægis of the corner, is +stunned with a vocal hurricane of “Oh, what a coat!” +and his cup of misery is as full as a rag-bag in three +minutes.</p> + +<p>Passing into the tail-coat period, Tom awakens to a +knowledge of the broad physical truth, that he has +hands. He is not very positive in his own mind how +many. At times he is ready to swear to an even two; +one pair; good hand. Again, when cruel fate and the +non-appearance of some one else’s brother has compelled +him to accompany his sister to a church sociable, he can +see eleven; and as he sits bolt upright in the grimmest +of straight-back chairs, plastered right up against the +wall, as the “sociable” custom is, or used to be, trying +to find enough unoccupied pockets in which to sequester +all his hands, he is dimly conscious that hands should +come in pairs, and vaguely wonders, if he has only five +pair of regularly ordained hands, where this odd hand +came from. And hitherto, Tom has been content to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span>encase his feet in anything that would stay on them. +Now, however, he has an eye for a glove-fitting boot, and +learns to wreathe his face in smiles, hollow, heartless, +deceitful smiles, while his boots are as full of agony as +a broken heart, and his tortured feet cry out for vengeance +upon the shoemaker, and make Tom feel that life +is a hollow mockery and there is nothing real but soft +corns and bunions.</p> + +<p>And: His mother never cuts his hair again. Never. +When Tom assumes the manly gown she has looked her +last upon his head, with trimming ideas. His hair will +be trimmed and clipped, barberously it may be, but she +will not be acscissory before the fact. She may sometimes +long to have her boy kneel down before her, while +she gnaws around his terrified locks with a pair of scissors +that were sharpened when they were made; and +have since then cut acres of calico, and miles and miles +of paper, and great stretches of cloth, and snarls and +coils of string; and furlongs of lamp wick; and have +snuffed candles; and dug refractory corks, out of the +family ink bottle; and punched holes in skate straps; +and trimmed the family nails; and have even done their +level best, at the annual struggle, to cut stove-pipe +lengths in two; and have successfully opened oyster +and fruit cans; and pried up carpet tacks; and have +many a time and oft gone snarlingly and toilsomely +around Tom’s head, and made him an object of terror +to the children in the street, and made him look so much +like a yearling colt with the run of a bur pasture, that +people have been afraid to approach him too suddenly, +lest he should jump through his collar and run +away.</p> + +<p>He feels too, the dawning consciousness of another +grand truth in the human economy. It dawns upon his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span>deepening intelligence with the inherent strength and the +unquestioned truth of a new revelation, that man’s upper +lip was designed by nature for a mustache pasture. +How tenderly reserved he is when he is brooding over +this momentous discovery. With what exquisite caution +and delicacy are his primal investigations conducted. +In his microscopical researches, it appears to him that +the down on his upper lip is certainly more determined +down; more positive, more pronounced, more individual +fuzz than that which vegetates in neglected tenderness +upon his cheeks. He makes cautious explorations along +the land of promise with the tip of his tenderest finger, +delicately backing up the grade the wrong way, going +always against the grain, that he may the more readily +detect the slightest symptom of an uprising by the first +feeling of velvety resistance. And day by day he is +more and more firmly convinced that there is in his lip, +the primordial germs, the protoplasm of a glory that will, +in its full development, eclipse even the majesty and +grandeur of his first tail-coat. And in the first dawning +consciousness that the mustache is there, like the vote, +and only needs to be brought out, how often Tom walks +down to the barber-shop, gazes longingly in at the +window, and walks past. And how often, when he +musters up sufficient courage to go in, and climbs into +the chair, and is just on the point of huskily whispering +to the barber that he would like a shave, the +entrance of a man with a beard like Frederick Barbarossa, +frightens away his resolution, and he has his hair +cut again. The third time that week, and it is so short +that the barber has to hold it with his teeth while he +files it off, and parts it with a straight edge and a scratch +awl. Naturally, driven from the barber chair, Tom casts +longing eyes upon the ancestral shaving machinery at +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span>home. And who shall say by what means he at length +obtains possession of the paternal razor? No one. Nobody +knows. Nobody ever did know. Even the searching +investigation that always follows the paternal demand +for the immediate extradition of whoever opened a fruit +can with that razor, which always follows Tom’s first +shave, is always, and ever will be, barren of results. +All that we know about it is, that Tom holds the razor +in his hand about a minute, wondering what to do with +it, before the blade falls across his fingers and cuts every +one of them. First blood claimed and allowed, for the +razor. Then he straps the razor furiously. Or rather, +he razors the strap. He slashes and cuts that passive +implement in as many directions as he can make motions +with the razor. He would cut it oftener if the strap +lasted longer. Then he nicks the razor against the side of +the mug. Then he drops it on the floor and steps on it +and nicks it again. They are small nicks, not so large +by half as a saw tooth, and he flatters himself his father +will never see them. Then he soaks the razor in hot +water, as he has seen his father do. Then he takes it +out, at a temperature anywhere under 980° Fahrenheit, +and lays it against his cheek, and raises a blister there +the size of the razor, as he never saw his father do, but +as his father most assuredly did, many, many years +before Tom met him. Then he makes a variety of +indescribable grimaces and labial contortions in a frenzied +effort to get his upper lip into approachable shape, +and at last, the first offer he makes at his embryo mustache, +he slashes his nose with a vicious upper cut. He +gashes the corners of his mouth; wherever those nicks +touch his cheek they leave a scratch apiece, and he learns +what a good nick in a razor is for, and at last when he +lays the blood stained weapon down, his gory lip looks +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>as though it had just come out of a long, stubborn, exciting +contest with a straw cutter.</p> + +<p>But he learns to shave, after a while—just before he +cuts his lip clear off. He has to take quite a course of +instruction, however, in that great school of experience +about which the old philosopher had a remark to make. +It is a grand old school; the only school at which men +will study and learn, each for himself. One man’s +experience never does another man any good; never did +and never will teach another man anything. If the +philosopher had said that it was a hard school, but that +some men would learn at no other than this grand old +school of experience, we might have inferred that all +women, and most boys, and a few men were exempt from +its hard teachings. But he used the more comprehensive +term, if you remember what that is, and took us all in. +We have all been there. There is no other school, in +fact. Poor little Cain; dear, lonesome, wicked little +Cain—I know it isn’t fashionable to pet him; I know it +is popular to speak harshly and savagely about our eldest +brother, when the fact is we resemble him more closely +in disposition than any other member of the family—poor +little Cain never knew the difference between his +father’s sunburned nose and a glowing coal, until he had +pulled the one and picked up the other. And Abel had +to find out the difference in the same way, although he +was told five hundred times, by his brother’s experience, +that the coal would burn him and the nose wouldn’t. +And Cain’s boy wouldn’t believe that fire was any hotter +than an icicle, until he made a digital experiment, and +understood why they called it fire. And so Enoch and +Methusaleh, and Moses, and Daniel, and Solomon, and +Cæsar, and Napoleon, and Washington, and the President, +and the Governor, and the Mayor, and you and I have all +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span>of us, at one time or another, in one way or another, burned +our fingers at the same old fires that have scorched human +fingers in the same monotonous old ways, at the same +reliable old stands, for the past 6,000 years; and all the +verbal instruction between here and the silent grave +couldn’t teach us so much, or teach it so thoroughly, as +one well directed singe. And a million of years from +now—if this weary old world may endure so long—when +human knowledge shall fall a little short of the infinite, +and all the lore and erudition of this wonderful age will +be but the primer of that day of light—the baby that is +born into that world of knowledge and wisdom and +progress, rich with all the years of human experience, +will cry for the lamp, and, the very first time that opportunity +favors it, will try to pull the flame up by the roots, +and will know just as much as ignorant, untaught, stupid +little Cain knew on the same subject. Year after year, +century after unfolding century, how true it is that the +lion on the fence is always bigger, fiercer, and more given +to majestic attitudes and dramatic situations than the +lion in the tent. And yet it costs us, often as the circus +comes around, fifty cents to find that out.</p> + +<p>But while we have been moralizing, Tom’s mustache +has taken a start. It has attained the physical density, +though not the color, by any means, of the Egyptian +darkness—it can be felt; and it is felt; very soft felt. +The world begins to take notice of the new-comer; and +Tom, as generations of Toms before him have done, +patiently endures dark hints from other members of the +family about his face being dirty. He loftily ignores his +experienced father’s suggestions that he should perform +his tonsorial toilet with a spoonful of cream and the +family cat. When his sisters, in meekly dissembled +ignorance and innocence, inquire, “Tom, what <i>have</i> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span>you on your lip?” he is austere, as becomes a man +annoyed by the frivolous small talk of women. And +when his younger brother takes advantage of the presence +of a numerous company in the house, to shriek +over the baluster up stairs, apparently to any boy anywhere +this side of China, “Tom’s a raisin’ mustashers!” +Tom smiles, a wan, neglected-orphan smile; a smile that +looks as though it had come up on his face to weep over +the barrenness of the land; a perfect ghost of a smile, as +compared with the rugged 7 × 9 smiles that play like +animated crescents over the countenances of the company. +But the mustache grows. It comes on apace; very short +in the middle, very no longer at the ends, and very blonde +all round. Whenever you see such a mustache, do not +laugh at it; do not point at it the slow, unmoving finger +of scorn. Encourage it; speak kindly of it; affect admiration +for it; coax it along. Pray for it—for it is a first. +They always come that way. And when, in the fullness +of time, it has developed so far that it can be pulled, +there is all the agony of making it take color. It is worse, +and more obstinate, and more deliberate than a meerschaum. +The sun, that tans Tom’s cheeks and blisters +his nose, only bleaches his mustache. Nothing ever +hastens its color; nothing does it any permanent good; +nothing but patience, and faith, and persistent pulling.</p> + +<p>With all the comedy there is about it, however, this is +the grand period of a boy’s life. You look at them, with +their careless, easy, natural manners and movements in +the streets and on the base ball ground, and their marvelous, +systematic, indescribable, inimitable and complex +awkwardness in your parlors, and do you never dream, +looking at these young fellows, of the overshadowing +destinies awaiting them, the mighty struggles mapped out in +the earnest future of their lives, the thrilling conquests +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span>in the world of arms, the grander triumphs in the realm +of philosophy, the fadeless laurels in the empire of letters, +and the imperishable crowns that he who giveth +them the victory binds about their brows, that wait for the +courage and ambition of these boys? Why, the world is +at a boy’s feet; and power and conquest and leadership +slumber in his rugged arms and care-free heart. A boy +sets his ambition at whatever mark he will—lofty or +groveling, as he may elect—and the boy who resolutely +sets his heart on fame, on wealth, on power, on what he +will; who consecrates himself to a life of noble endeavor, +and lofty effort; who concentrates every faculty of his +mind and body on the attainment of his one darling +point; who brings to support his ambition courage and +industry and patience, can trample on genius; for these +are better and grander than genius; and he will begin to +rise above his fellows as steadily and as surely as the +sun climbs above the mountains. Hannibal, standing +before the Punic altar fires and in the lisping accents of +childhood swearing eternal hatred to Rome, was the +Hannibal at twenty-four years commanding the army +that swept down upon Italy like a mountain torrent, and +shook the power of the mistress of the world, bid her +defiance at her own gates, while affrighted Rome huddled +and cowered under the protecting shadows of her walls. +Napoleon, building snow forts at school and planning +mimic battles with his playfellows, was the lieutenant of +artillery at sixteen years, general of artillery and the +victor of Toulon at twenty-four, and at last Emperor—not +by the paltry accident of birth which might happen to +any man, however unworthy, but by the manhood and +grace of his own right arm, and his own brain, and his +own courage and dauntless ambition—Emperor, with +his foot on the throat of prostrate Europe. Alexander, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span>daring more in his boyhood than his warlike father could +teach him, and entering upon his all conquering career +at twenty-four, was the boy whose vaulting ambition +only paused in its dazzling flight when the world lay at +his feet. And the fair-faced soldiers of the Empire, they +who rode down upon the bayonets of the English squares +at Waterloo, when the earth rocked beneath their feet +and the incense smoke from the altars of the battle god +shut out the sun and sky above their heads, who, with +their young lives streaming from their gaping wounds, +opened their pallid lips to cry, “Vive L’Empereur,” as +they died for honor and France, were boys—schoolboys—the +boy conscripts of France, torn from their homes and +their schools to stay the failing fortunes of the last grand +army and the Empire that was tottering to its fall. You +don’t know how soon these happy-go-lucky young +fellows, making summer hideous with base ball slang, +or gliding around a skating rink on their backs, may +hold the state and its destinies in their grasp; you +don’t know how soon these boys may make and write the +history of the hour; how soon they alone may shape +events and guide the current of public action; how soon +one of them may run away with your daughter or borrow +money of you.</p> + +<p>Certain it is, there is one thing Tom will do, just about +this period of his existence. He will fall in love with +somebody before his mustache is long enough to wax.</p> + +<p>Perhaps one of the earliest indications of this event, +for it does not always break out in the same manner, is +a sudden and alarming increase in the number and +variety of Tom’s neckties. In his boxes and on his +dressing case, his mother is constantly startled by the +changing and increasing assortment of the display. +Monday he encircles his tender throat with a lilac knot, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span>fearfully and wonderfully tied. A lavender tie succeeds +the following day. Wednesday is graced with a sweet +little tangle of pale, pale blue, that fades at a breath; +Thursday is ushered in with a scarf of delicate pea +green, of wonderful convolutions and sufficiently expansive, +by the aid of a clean collar, to conceal any little +irregularity in Tom’s wash day; Friday smiles on a +sailor’s knot of dark blue, with a tangle of dainty forget-me-nots +embroidered over it: Saturday tones itself down +to a quiet, unobtrusive, neutral tint or shade, scarlet or +yellow, and Sunday is deeply, darkly, piously black. It +is difficult to tell whether Tom is trying to express the +state of his distracted feelings by his neckties, or trying +to find a color that will harmonize with his mustache, or +match Laura’s dress.</p> + +<p>And during the variegated necktie period of man’s +existence how tenderly that mustache is coaxed and +petted and caressed. How it is brushed to make it lie +down and waxed to make it stand out, and how he notes +its slow growth, and weeps and mourns and prays and +swears over it day after weary day. And now, if ever, +and generally now, he buys things to make it take color. +But he never repeats this offense against nature. He buys +a wonderful dye, warranted to “produce a beautiful glossy +black or brown at one application, without stain or injury +to the skin.” Buys it at a little shabby, round the corner, +obscure drug store, because he is not known there. +And he tells the assassin who sells it him, that he is +buying it for a sick sister. And the assassin knows that +he lies. And in the guilty silence and solitude of his +own room, with the curtains drawn and the door locked, +Tom tries the virtues of that magic dye. It gets on his +fingers and turns them black, to the elbow. It burns +holes in his handkerchief when he tries to rub the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span>malignant poison off his ebony fingers. He applies it to +his silky mustache, real camel’s hair, very cautiously and +very tenderly, and with some misgivings. It turns his +lip so black it makes the room dark. And out of all the +clouds and the darkness and the sable splotches that +pall every thing else in Plutonian gloom, that mustache +smiles out, grinning like some ghastly hirsute specter, +gleaming like the moon through a rifted storm cloud, +unstained, untainted, unshaded; a natural, incorruptible +blonde. That is the last time anybody fools Tom on +hair dye.</p> + +<p>The eye he has for immaculate linen and faultless +collars. How it amazes his mother and sisters to learn +that there isn’t a shirt in the house fit for a pig to wear, +and that he wouldn’t wear the best collar in his room to +be hanged in.</p> + +<p>And the boots he crowds his feet into! A Sunday-school +room, the Sunday before the picnic or the +Christmas tree, with its sudden influx of new scholars, +with irreproachable morals and ambitious appetites, +doesn’t compare with the overcrowded condition of those +boots. Too tight in the instep; too narrow at the toes; +too short at both ends; the only things about those boots +that don’t hurt him, that don’t fill his very soul with +agony, are the straps. When Tom is pulling them on, +he feels that if somebody would kindly run over him +three or four times, with a freight train, the sensation +would be pleasant and reassuring and tranquilizing. +The air turns black before his starting eyes, there is a +roaring like the rush of many waters in his ears, he tugs +at the straps that are cutting his fingers in two and pulling +his arms out by the roots, and just before his blood-shot +eyes shoot clear out of his head, the boot comes on—or +the straps pull off. Then when he stands up, the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span>earth rocks beneath his feet, and he thinks he can faintly +hear the angels calling him home. And when he walks +across the floor the first time his standing in the church +and the Christian community is ruined forever. Or +would be if any one could hear what he says. He +never, never, never gets to be so old that he can not remember +those boots, and if it is seventy years afterward his +feet curl up in agony at the recollection. The first time +he wears them, he is vaguely aware, as he leaves his +room that there is a kind of “fixy” look about him, and +his sisters’ tittering is not needed to confirm this impression. +He has a certain, half-defined impression that +every thing he has on is a size too small for any other +man of his size. That his boots are a trifle snug, like a +house with four rooms for a family of thirty-seven. +That the hat which sits so lightly on the crown of his +head is jaunty but limited, like a junior clerk’s salary; +that his gloves are a neat fit, and can’t be buttoned with +a stump machine. Tom doesn’t know all this: he has +only a general, vague impression that it may be so. And +he doesn’t know that his sisters know every line of it. +For he has lived many years longer, and got in ever so +much more trouble, before he learns that one bright, +good, sensible girl—and I believe they are all that—will +see and notice more in a glance, remember it more +accurately, and talk more about it, than twenty men can +see in a week. Tom does not know, for his crying feet +will not let him, how he gets from his room to the earthly +paradise where Laura lives. Nor does he know, after he +gets there, that Laura sees him trying to rest one foot by +setting it up on the heel. And she sees him sneak it +back under his chair and tilt it up on the toe for a +change. She sees him ease the other foot a little by +tugging the heel of the boot at the leg of the chair. A +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span>hazardous, reckless, presumptuous experiment. Tom +tries it so far one night, and slides his heel so far up the +leg of his boot, that his foot actually feels comfortable, +and he thinks the angels must be rubbing it. He walks +out of the parlor sideways that night, trying to hide the +cause of the sudden elongation of one leg, and he hobbles +all the way home in the same disjointed condition. +But Laura sees that too. She sees all the little knobs +and lumps on his foot, and sees him fidget and fuss, she +sees the look of anguish flitting across his face under the +heartless, deceitful, veneering of smiles, and she makes +the mental remark that master Tom would feel much +happier, and much more comfortable, and more like +staying longer, if he had worn his father’s boots.</p> + +<p>But on his way to the house, despite the distraction of +his crying feet, how many pleasant, really beautiful, +romantic things Tom thinks up and recollects and compiles +and composes to say to Laura, to impress her with +his originality, and wisdom, and genius, and bright exuberant +fancy and general superiority over all the rest of +Tom kind. Real earnest things, you know; no hollow, +conventional compliments, or nonsense, but such things, +Tom flatters himself, as none of the other fellows can or +will say. And he has them all in beautiful order when +he gets at the foot of the hill. The remark about the +weather, to begin with; not the stereotyped old phrase, +but a quaint, droll, humorous conceit that no one in the +world but Tom could think of. Then, after the opening +overture about the weather, something about music and +Beethoven’s sonata in B flat, and Haydn’s symphonies, +and of course something about Beethoven’s grand old +Fifth symphony, somebody’s else mass, in heaven knows +how many flats; and then something about art, and a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span>profound thought or two on science and philosophy, and +so on to poetry and from poetry to “business.”</p> + +<p>But alas, when Tom reaches the gate, all these well +ordered ideas display evident symptoms of breaking up; +as he crosses the yard, he is dismayed to know that they +are in the convulsions of a panic, and when he touches +the bell knob, every, each, all and several of the ideas, +original and compiled, that he has had on any subject +during the past ten years, forsake him and return no +more that evening. When Laura opened the door he +had intended to say something real splendid about the +imprisoned sunlight of something, beaming out a welcome +upon the what you may call it of the night or something. +Instead of which he says, or rather gasps: “Oh, yes, to +be sure; to be sure; ho.” And then, conscious that he +has not said anything particularly brilliant or original, or +that most any of the other fellows could not say with a +little practice, he makes one more effort to redeem himself +before he steps into the hall, and adds, “Oh, good +morning; good morning.” Feeling that even this is only +a partial success, he collects his scattered faculties for +one united effort and inquires: “How is your mother?” +And then it strikes him that he has about exhausted the +subject, and he goes into the parlor, and sits down, and +just as soon as he has placed his reproachful feet in the +least agonizing position, he proceeds to wholly, completely +and successfully forget everything he ever knew +in his life. He returns to consciousness to find himself, +to his own amazement and equally to Laura’s bewilderment, +conducting a conversation about the crops, and a +new method of funding the national debt, subjects upon +which he is about as well informed as the town clock. +He rallies, and makes a successful effort to turn the conversation +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span>into literary channels by asking her if she has +read “Daniel Deronda,” and wasn’t it odd that George +Washington Eliot should name her heroine “Grenadine,” +after a dress pattern? And in a burst of confidence he +assures her that he would not be amazed if it should rain +before morning, (and he hopes it will, and that it may be +a flood, and that he may get caught in it, without an ark +nearer than Cape Horn.) And so, at last, the first evening +passes away, and after mature deliberation and many +unsuccessful efforts he rises to go. But he does not go. +He wants to; but he doesn’t know how. He says good +evening. Then he repeats it in a marginal reference. +Then he puts it in a foot note. Then he adds the remark +in an appendix, and shakes hands. By this time he gets +as far as the parlor door, and catches hold of the knob +and holds on to it as tightly as though some one on the +other side were trying to pull it through the door and run +away with it. And he stands there a fidgetty statue of +the door holder. He mentions, for not more than the +twentieth time that evening that he is passionately fond +of music but he can’t sing. Which is a lie; he can. +Did she go to the Centennial? “No.” “Such a pity”—he +begins, but stops in terror, lest she may consider his +condolence a reflection upon her financial standing. Did +he go? Oh, yes; yes; he says, absently, he went. Or, +that is to say, no, not exactly. He did not exactly go to +the Centennial; he staid at home. In fact, he had not +been out of town this Summer. Then he looks at the +tender little face; he looks at the brown eyes, sparkling +with suppressed merriment; he looks at the white hands, +dimpled and soft, twin daughters of the snow; and the +fairy picture grows more lovely as he looks at it, until his +heart outruns his fears; he must speak, he must say something +impressive and ripe with meaning, for how can he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span>go away with this suspense in his breast? His heart +trembles as does his hand; his quivering lips part, and—Laura +deftly hides a vagrom yawn behind her fan. +Good night, and Tom is gone.</p> + +<p>There is a dejected droop to the mustache that night, +when in the solitude of his own room Tom releases his +hands from the despotic gloves, and tenderly soothes two +of the reddest, puffiest feet that ever crept out of boots +not half their own size, and swore in mute, but eloquent +anatomical profanity at the whole race of bootmakers. +And his heart is nearly as full of sorrow and bitterness +as his boots. It appears to him that he showed off to +the worst possible advantage; he is dimly conscious that +he acted very like a donkey, and he has the not entirely +unnatural impression that she will never want to see him +again. And so he philosophically and manfully makes +up his mind never, never, never, to think of her again. +And then he immediately proceeds, in the manliest and +most natural way in the world, to think of nothing and +nobody else under the sun for the next ten hours. How +the tender little face does haunt him. He pitches himself +into bed with an aimless recklessness that tumbles +pillows, bolster, and sheets into one shapeless, wild, +chaotic mass, and he goes through the motions of going +to sleep, like a man who would go to sleep by steam. +He stands his pillow up on end, and pounds it into a +wad, and he props his head upon it as though it were the +guillotine block. He lays it down and smooths it out +level, and pats all the wrinkles out of it, and there is +more sleeplessness in it to the square inch than there is +in the hungriest mosquito that ever sampled a martyr’s +blood. He gets up and smokes like a patent stove, +although not three hours ago he told Laura that he +de-tes-ted tobacco.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>This is the only time Tom will ever go through this, in +exactly this way. It is the one rare golden experience, +the one bright, rosy dream of his life. He may live to +be as old as an army overcoat, and he may marry as +many wives as Brigham Young, singly, or in a cluster, +but this will come to him but once. Let him enjoy all +the delightful misery, all the ecstatic wretchedness, all +the heavenly forlornness of it as best he can. And he +does take good, solid, edifying misery out of it. How he +does torture himself and hate Smith, the empty headed +donkey, who can talk faster than poor Tom can think, +and whose mustache is black as Tom’s boots, and so long +that he can pull one end of it with both hands. And how +he does detest that idiot Brown, who plays and sings, and +goes up there every time Tom does, and claws over a few +old forgotten five-finger exercises and calls it music; who +comes up there, some night when Tom thinks he has the +evening and Laura all to himself, and brings up an old, +tuneless, voiceless, cracked guitar, and goes crawling +around in the wet grass under the windows and makes +night perfectly hideous with what he calls a serenade. +And he speaks French, too, the beast. Poor Tom; when +Brown’s lingual accomplishments in the language of +Charlemagne are confined to—“aw—aw—er ah—vooly +voo?” and on state occasions to the additional +grandeur of “avy voo mong shapo?” But poor Tom +who once covered himself with confusion by telling +Laura that his favorite in “Robert le Diable” was the +beautiful aria, “Robert toy que jam,” considers Brown a +very prodigal in linguistic attainments; another Cardinal +Mezzofanti; and hates him for it accordingly. And he +hates Daubs, the artist, too, who was up there one evening +and made an off hand crayon sketch of her in an +album. The picture looked much more like Daubs’ +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span>mother, and Tom knew it, but Laura said it was oh just +delightfully, perfectly splendid, and Tom has hated +Daubs most cordially ever since. In fact, Tom hates +every man who has the temerity to speak to her, or +whom she may treat with lady-like courtesy. Until +there comes one night when the boots of the inquisition +pattern sit more lightly on their suffering victims. When +Providence has been on Tom’s side and has kept Smith +and Daubs and Brown away, and has frightened Tom +nearly to death by showing him no one in the little +parlor with its old-fashioned furniture but himself and +Laura and the furniture. When, almost without knowing +how or why, they talk about life and its realities +instead of the last concert or the next lecture; when they +talk of their plans, and their day dreams and aspirations, +and their ideals of real men and women; when they talk +about the heroes and heroines of days long gone by, grey +and dim in the ages that are ever made young and new +by the lives of noble men and noble women who lived, +and did, and never died in those grand old days, but +lived and live on, as imperishable and fadeless in their +glory as the glittering stars that sang at creation’s dawn. +When the room seems strangely silent when their voices +hush; when the flush of earnestness upon her face gives +it a tinge of sadness that makes it more beautiful than +ever; when the dream and picture of a home Eden, and +home life, and home love, grows every moment more +lovely, more entrancing to him until at last poor blundering, +stupid Tom, speaks without knowing what he is +going to say, speaks without preparation or rehearsal, +speaks, and his honest, natural, manly heart touches his +faltering lips with eloquence and tenderness and earnestness +that all the rhetoric in the world never did and +never will inspire, and——. That is all we know about +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span>it. Nobody knows what is said or how it is done. +Nobody. Only the silent stars or the whispering leaves, +or the cat, or maybe Laura’s younger brother, or the +hired girl, who generally bulges in just as Tom reaches +the climax. All the rest of us know about it is, that Tom +doesn’t come away so early that night, and that when he +reaches the door he holds a pair of dimpled hands +instead of the insensate door knob. He never clings to +that door knob again; never. Unless ma, dear ma, has +been so kind as to bring in her sewing and spend the +evening with them. And Tom doesn’t hate anybody, +nor want to kill anybody in the wide, wide world, and he +feels just as good as though he had just come out of a +six months’ revival; and is happy enough to borrow +money of his worst enemy.</p> + +<p>But, there is no rose without a thorn. Although, I +suppose, on an inside computation, there is, in this weary +old world as much as, say a peck, or a peck and a half +possibly, of thorns without their attendant roses. Just +the raw, bare thorns. In the highest heaven of his +newly found bliss, Tom is suddenly recalled to earth and +its miseries by a question from Laura which falls like a +plummet into the unrippled sea of the young man’s happiness, +and fathoms its depths in the shallowest place. +“Has her own Tom”—as distinguished from countless +other Toms, nobody’s Toms, unclaimed Toms, to all +intents and purposes swamp lands on the public matrimonial +domain—“Has her own Tom said anything to +pa?” “Oh, yes! pa;” Tom says, “To be sure; yes.” +Grim, heavy browed, austere pa. The living embodiment +of business. Wiry, shrewd, the life and mainspring +of the house of Tare and Tret. “’M. Well. N’ no,” +Tom had not exactly, as you might say, poured out his +heart to pa. Somehow or other he had a rose-colored +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span>idea that the thing was going to go right along in this +way forever. Tom had an idea that the programme was +all arranged, printed and distributed, rose-colored, gilt-edged, +and perfumed. He was going to sit and hold +Laura’s hands, pa was to stay down at the office, and ma +was to make her visits to the parlor as much like angels’, +for their rarity and brevity, as possible. But he sees, +now that the matter has been referred to, that it is a +grim necessity. And Laura doesn’t like to see such a +spasm of terror pass over Tom’s face; and her coral lips +quiver a little as she hides her flushed face out of sight +on Tom’s shoulder, and tells him how kind and tender +pa has always been with her, until Tom feels positively +jealous of pa. And she tells him that he must not dread +going to see him, for pa will be oh so glad to know how +happy, happy, happy he can make his little girl. And +as she talks of him, the hard working, old-fashioned, +tender-hearted old man, who loves his girls as though he +were yet only a big boy, her heart grows tenderer, and +she speaks so earnestly and eloquently that Tom, at first +savagely jealous of him, is persuaded to fall in love with +the old gentleman—he calls him “Pa,” too, now,—himself.</p> + +<p>But by the following afternoon this feeling is very faint. +And when he enters the counting room of Tare & Tret, +and stands before pa—Oh, land of love, how could +Laura ever talk so about such a man. Stubbly little pa; +with a fringe of the most obstinate and wiry gray hair +standing all around his bald, bald head; the wiriest, +grizzliest mustache bristling under his nose; a tuft of +tangled beard under the sharp chin, and a raspy undergrowth +of a week’s run on the thin jaws; business, business, +business, in every line of the hard, seamed face, and +profit and loss, barter and trade, dicker and bargain, in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span>every movement of the nervous hands. Pa; old business! +He puts down the newspaper a little way, and looks over +the top of it as Tom announces himself, glancing at the +young man with a pair of blue eyes that peer through +old-fashioned iron-bowed spectacles, that look as though +they had known these eyes and done business with them +ever since they wept over their A B C’s or peeped into +the tall stone jar Sunday afternoon to look for the doughnuts.</p> + +<p>Tom, who had felt all along there could be no inspiration +on his part in this scene, has come prepared. At +least he had his last true statement at his tongue’s end +when he entered the counting room. But now, it seems +to him that if he had been brought up in a circus, and +cradled inside of a sawdust ring, and all his life trained +to twirl his hat, he couldn’t do it better, nor faster, nor +be more utterly incapable of doing anything else. At +last he swallows a lump in his throat as big as a ballot +box, and faintly gasps, “Good morning.” Mr. Tret +hastens to recognize him. “Eh? oh; yes; yes; yes; I +see; young Bostwick, from Dope & Middlerib’s. Oh yes. +Well—?” “I have come, sir,” gasps Tom, thinking all +around the world from Cook’s explorations to “Captain +Riley’s Narrative,” for the first line of that speech that +Tare & Tret have just scared out of him so completely +that he doesn’t believe he ever knew a word of it. “I +have come—” and he thinks if his lips didn’t get so dry +and hot they make his teeth ache, that he could get +along with it; “I have, sir,—come, Mr. Tret; Mr. Tret, +sir—I have come—I am come—” “Yes, ye-es,” says +Mr. Tret, in the wildest bewilderment, but in no very +encouraging tones, thinking the young man probably +wants to borrow money; “Ye-es; I see you’ve come. +Well; that’s all right; glad to see you. Yes, you’ve +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>come?” Tom’s hat is now making about nine hundred +and eighty revolutions per minute, and apparently not +running up to half its full capacity. “Sir; Mr. Tret,” he +resumes, “I have come, sir; Mr. Tret—I am here to—to +sue—to sue, Mr. Tret—I am here to sue—” “Sue, +eh?” the old man echoes sharply, with a belligerent +rustle of the newspaper; “sue Tare & Tret, eh? Well, +that’s right, young man; that’s right. Sue, and get damages. +We’ll give you all the law you want.” Tom’s +head is so hot, and his heart is so cold, that he thinks +they must be about a thousand miles apart. “Sir,” he +explains, “that isn’t it. It isn’t that. I only want to +ask—I have long known—Sir,” he adds, as the opening +lines of his speech come to him like a message from +heaven, “Sir, you have a flower, a tender lovely blossom; +chaste as the snow that crowns the mountain’s brow; +fresh as the breath of morn; lovelier than the rosy-fingered +hours that fly before Aurora’s car; pure as the +lily kissed by dew. This precious blossom, watched by +your paternal eyes, the object of your tender care and +solicitude, I ask of you. I would wear it in my heart, and +guard and cherish it—and in the—” “Oh-h, ye-es, yes, +yes,” the old man says soothingly, beginning to see that +Tom is only drunk, “Oh yes, yes, I don’t know much +about them myself; my wife and the girls generally keep +half the windows in the house littered up with them, +Winter and Summer, every window so full of house +plants the sun can’t shine in. Come up to the house, +they’ll give you all you can carry away, give you a hat +full of ’em.” “No, no, no; you don’t understand,” says +poor Tom, and old Mr. Tret now observes that Tom is very +drunk indeed. “It isn’t that, sir. Sir, that isn’t it. I—I—I +want to marry your daughter!” And there it is at +last, as bluntly as though Tom had wadded it into a gun +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span>and shot it at the old man. Mr. Tret does not say any +thing for twenty seconds. Tom tells Laura that evening +that it was two hours and a half before her father opened +his head. Then he says, “Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes; to be +sure; to—be—sure.” And then the long pause is +dreadful. “Yes, yes. Well, I don’t know. I don’t know +about that, young man. Said any thing to Jennie about +it?” “It isn’t Jennie,” Tom gasps, seeing a new Rubicon +to cross; “its——” “Oh, Julie, eh? well, I don’t——” +“No, sir,” interjects the despairing Tom, “it isn’t Julie, +it’s——” “Sophie, eh? Oh, well, Sophie——” “Sir,” +says Tom, “If you please, sir, it isn’t Sophie, its——” +“Not Minnie, surely? Why, Minnie is hardly—well, I +don’t know. Young folks get along faster than——” +“Dear Mr. Tret,” breaks in the distracted lover, “it’s +Laura.”</p> + +<p>As they sit and stand there, looking at each other, +the dingy old counting room, with the heavy shadows +lurking in every corner, with its time-worn, heavy brown +furnishings, with the scanty dash of sunlight breaking in +through the dusty window, looks like an old Rubens +painting; the beginning and the finishing of a race: the +old man, nearly ready to lay his armor off, glad to be so +nearly and so safely through with the race and the fight +that Tom, in all his inexperience and with all the rash +enthusiasm and conceit of a young man, is just getting +ready to run and fight, or fight and run, you never can +tell which until he is through with it. And the old man, +looking at Tom, and through him, and past him, feels +his old heart throb almost as quickly as does that of the +young man before him. For looking down a long vista +of happy, eventful years, bordered with roseate hopes and +bright dreams and anticipations, he sees a tender face, +radiant with smiles and kindled with blushes; he feels a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span>soft hand drop into his own with its timid pressure; he +sees the vision open, under the glittering summer stars, +down mossy hillsides, where the restless breezes, sighing +through the rustling leaves, whispered their tender secret +to the noisy katydids; strolling along the winding paths, +deep in the bending wild grass, down in the star-lit aisles +of the dim old woods; loitering where the meadow +brook sparkles over the white pebbles or murmurs around +the great flat stepping-stones; lingering on the rustic +foot-bridge, while he gazes into eyes eloquent and tender +in their silent love-light; up through the long pathway +of years, flecked and checkered with sunshine and cloud, +with storm and calm, through years of struggle, trial, +sorrow, disappointment, out at last into the grand, glorious, +crowning beauty and benison of hard-won and +well-deserved success, until he sees now this second +Laura, re-imaging her mother as she was in the dear old +days. And he rouses from his dream with a start, and +he tells Tom he’ll “Talk it over with Mrs. Tret, and see +him again in the morning.”</p> + +<p>And so they are duly and formally engaged; and the +very first thing they do, they make the very sensible, +though very uncommon, resolution to so conduct themselves +that no one will ever suspect it. And they succeed +admirably. No one ever does suspect it. They come +into church in time to hear the benediction—every time +they come together. They shun all other people when +church is dismissed, and are seen to go home alone the +longest way. At picnics they are missed not more than +fifty times a day, and are discovered sitting under a tree, +holding each other’s hands, gazing into each other’s eyes +and saying—nothing. When he throws her shawl over +her shoulders, he never looks at what he is doing, but +looks straight into her starry eyes, throws the shawl right +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>over her natural curls, and drags them out by the hairpins. +If, at sociable or festival, they are left alone in a +dressing-room a second and a half, Laura emerges with +her ruffle standing around like a railroad accident; and +Tom has enough complexion on his shoulder to go +around a young ladies’ seminary. When they drive out, +they sit in a buggy with a seat eighteen inches wide, and +there is two feet of unoccupied room at either end of it. +Long years afterward, when they drive, a street car isn’t +too wide for them; and when they walk, you could drive +four loads of hay between them.</p> + +<p>And yet, as carefully as they guard their precious little +secret, and as cautious and circumspect as they are in +their walk and behavior, it gets talked around that they +are engaged. People are so prying and suspicious.</p> + +<p>And so the months of their engagement run on; never +before, or since, time flies so swiftly—unless, it may be, +some time when Tom has an acceptance in bank to meet +in two days, that he can’t lift one end of—and the wedding +day dawns, fades, and the wedding is over. Over, +with its little circle of delighted friends, with its ripples +of pleasure and excitement, with its touches of home +love and home life, that leave their lasting impress upon +Laura’s heart, although Tom, with man-like blindness, +never sees one of them. Over, with ma, with the thousand +and one anxieties attendant on the grand event in +her daughter’s life hidden away under her dear old +smiling face, down, away down under the tender, glistening +eyes, deep in the loving heart; ma, hurrying here +and fluttering there, in the intense excitement of something +strangely made up of happiness and grief, of +apprehension and hope; ma, with her sudden disappearances +and flushed reappearances, indicating struggles +and triumphs in the turbulent world down stairs; ma, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span>with the new-fangled belt, with the dinner-plate buckles, +fastened on wrong side foremost, and the flowers dangling +down the wrong side of her head, to Sophie’s intense +horror and pantomimic telegraphy; ma, flying here and +there, seeing that every thing is going right, from kitchen +to dressing-rooms; looking after everything and everybody, +with her hands and heart just as full as they will +hold, and more voices calling “ma,” from every room in +the house, than you would think one hundred mas could +answer. But she answers them all, and she sees after +everything, and just in the nick of time prevents Mr. +Tret from going down stairs and attending the ceremony +in a loud-figured dressing-gown and green slippers; ma, +who, with the quivering lip and glistening eyes, has to be +cheerful, and lively, and smiling; because, if, as she +thinks of the dearest and best of her flock going away +from her fold, to put her life and her happiness into +another’s keeping, she gives way for one moment, a dozen +reproachful voices cry out, “Oh-h ma!” How it all +comes back to Laura, like the tender shadows of a dream, +long years after the dear, dear face, furrowed with marks +of patient suffering and loving care, rests under the snow +and the daisies; when the mother-love that glistened in +the tender eyes has closed in darkness on the dear old +home; and the nerveless hands, crossed in dreamless +sleep upon the pulseless breast, can never again touch +the children’s heads with caressing gesture; how the +sweet vision comes to Laura, as it shone on her wedding +morn, rising in tenderer beauty through the blinding +tears her own excess of happiness calls up, as the rainbow +spans the cloud only through the mingling of the +golden sunshine and the falling rain.</p> + +<p>And pa, dear old shabby pa, whose clothes will not fit +him as they fit other men; who always dresses just a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>year and a half behind the style; pa, wandering up and +down through the house, as though he were lost in his +own home, pacing through the hall like a sentinel, blundering +aimlessly and listlessly into rooms where he has +no business, and being repelled therefrom by a chorus of +piercing shrieks and hysterical giggling; pa, getting off +his well worn jokes with an assumption of merriment +that seems positively real; pa, who creeps away by himself +once in a while, and leans his face against the +window, and sighs, in direct violation of all strict household +regulations, right against the glass, as he thinks of +his little girl going away to-day from the home whose +love and tenderness and patience she has known so well. +Only yesterday, it seems, to him, the little baby girl, +bringing the first music of baby prattle into his home; +then a little girl in short dresses, with school-girl troubles +and school-girl pleasures; then an older little girl, out +of school and into society, but a little girl to pa still. +And then——. But, somehow, this is as far as pa can +get; for he sees, in the flight of this, the first, the following +flight of the other fledglings; and he thinks how +silent and desolate the old nest will be when they have +all mated and flown away. He thinks, when their flight +shall have made other homes bright and cheery and +sparkling, with music and prattle and laughter, how it +will leave the old home hushed and quiet and still. How, +in the long, lonesome afternoons, mother will sit by the +empty cradle that rocked them all, murmuring the sweet +old cradle songs that brooded over all their sleep, until +the rising tears check the swaying cradle and choke the +song—and back, over river and prairie and mountain, +that roll and stretch and rise between the old home and +the new ones, comes back the prattle of her little ones, +the rippling music of their laughter, the tender cadences +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>of their songs, until the hushed old home is haunted by +memories of its children—gray and old they may be, +with other children clustering about their knees; but to +the dear old home they are “the children” still. And +dreaming thus, when pa for a moment finds his little girl +alone—his little girl who is going away out of the home +whose love she knows, into a home whose tenderness +and patience are all untried—he holds her in his arms and +whispers the most fervent blessing that ever throbbed +from a father’s heart; and Laura’s wedding day would be +incomplete and unfeeling without her tears. So is the +pattern of our life made up of smiles and tears, shadow +and sunshine. Tom sees none of these background +pictures of the wedding day. He sees none of its real, +heartfelt earnestness. He sees only the bright, sunny +tints and happy figures that the tearful, shaded background +throws out in golden relief; but never stops to +think that, without the shadows, the clouds, and the +somber tints of the background, the picture would be +flat, pale, and lusterless.</p> + +<p>And then, the presents. The assortment of brackets, +serviceable, ornamental and—cheap. The French clock, +that never went, that does not go, that never will go. +And the nine potato mashers. The eight mustard spoons. +The three cigar stands. Eleven match safes; assorted +patterns. A dozen tidies, charity fair styles, blue dog on +a yellow background, barking at a green boy climbing +over a red fence, after seal brown apples. The two +churns, old pattern, straight handle and dasher, and they +have as much thought of keeping a cow as they have of +keeping a section of artillery. Five things they didn’t +know the names of, and never could find any body who +could tell what they were for. And a nickel plated +pocket corkscrew, that Tom, in a fine burst of indignation, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>throws out of the window, which Laura says is just +like her own impulsive Tom. And not long after her +own impulsive Tom catches his death of cold and ruins +the knees of his best trowsers crawling around in the +wet grass hunting for that same corkscrew. Which is +also just like her own impulsive Tom.</p> + +<p>And then, the young people go to work and buy +e-v-e-r-y thing they need, the day they go to housekeeping. +Every thing. Just as well, Tom says, to get every +thing at once and have it delivered right up at the house, +as to spend five or six or ten or twenty years in stocking +up a house, as his father did. And Laura thinks so too, +and she wonders that Tom should know so much more +than his father. This worries Tom himself, when he +thinks of it, and he never rightly understands how it is, +until he is forty-five or fifty years old and has a Tom +of his own to direct and advise him. So they make out a +list, and revise it, and rewrite it, until they have every +thing down, complete, and it isn’t until supper is ready +the first day, that they discover there isn’t a knife, a +fork, or a plate or a spoon in the new house. And the +first day the washerwoman comes, and the water is hot, +and the clothes are all ready, it is discovered that there +isn’t a wash-tub nearer than the grocery. And further +along in the day the discovery is made that while Tom +has bought a clothes-line that will reach to the north pole +and back, and then has to be coiled up a mile or two in +the back yard, there isn’t a clothes-pin in the settlement. +And in the course of a week or two, Tom slowly awakens +to the realization of the fact that he has only begun to +get. And if he should live two thousand years, which +he rarely does, and possibly may not, he would think, +just before he died, of something they had wanted the +worst way for five centuries, and had either been too poor +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>to get, or Tom had always forgotten to bring up. So +long as he lives, Tom goes on bringing home things that +they need—absolute, simple necessities, that were never +so much as hinted at in that exhaustive list. And old +Time comes along, and knowing that the man in that +new house will never get through bringing things up to it, +helps him out and comes around and brings things, too. +Brings a gray hair now and then, to stick in Tom’s mustache, +which has grown too big to be ornamental, and +too wayward and unmanageable to be comfortable. He +brings little cares and little troubles, and little trials and +little butcher bills, and little grocer’s bills, and little +tailor bills, and nice large millinery bills, that pluck at +Tom’s mustache and stroke it the wrong way and make +it look more and more as pa’s did the first time Tom +saw it. He brings, by and by, the prints of baby fingers +and pats them around on the dainty wall paper. Brings, +some times, a voiceless messenger that lays its icy fingers +on the baby lips, and hushes their dainty prattle, and in +the baptism of its first sorrow, the darkened little home +has its dearest and tenderest tie to the upper fold. +Brings, by and by, the tracks of a boy’s muddy boots, +and scatters them all up and down the clean porch. +Brings a messenger, one day, to take the younger Tom +away to college. And the quiet the boy leaves behind +him is so much harder to endure than his racket, that +old Tom is tempted to keep a brass band in the house +until the boy comes back. But old Time brings him +home at last, and it does make life seem terribly real +and earnest to Tom, and how the old laugh rings out +and ripples all over Laura’s face, when they see old +Tom’s first mustache budding and struggling into second +life on young Tom’s face.</p> + +<p>And still old Time comes round, bringing each year +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span>whiter frosts to scatter on the whitening mustache, and +brighter gleams of silver to glint the brown of Laura’s +hair. Bringing the blessings of peaceful old age and a +lovelocked home to crown these noble, earnest, real human +lives, bristling with human faults, marred with human +mistakes, scarred and seamed and rifted with human +troubles, and crowned with the compassion that only perfection +can send upon imperfection. Comes, with happy +memories of the past, and quiet confidence for the future. +Comes, with the changing scenes of day and night; with +winter’s storm and summer’s calm; comes, with the +sunny peace and the backward dreams of age; comes, +until one day, the eye of the relentless old reaper rests +upon old Tom, standing right in the swarth, amid the +golden corn. The sweep of the noiseless scythe that +never turns its edge, Time passes on, old Tom steps +out of young Tom’s way, and the cycle of a life is +complete.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<figure class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> + <img src="images/i_058a.jpg" width="450" height="703" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <p class="caption">GETTING READY FOR THE TRAIN.</p> + </figcaption> +</figure> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">GETTING READY FOR THE TRAIN.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">WHEN they reached the depot, Mr. Man and +his wife gazed in unspeakable disappointment +at the receding train, which was just pulling away from +the bridge switch at the rate of a thousand miles a +minute. Their first impulse was to run after it; but as +the train was out of sight, and whistling for Sagetown +before they could act upon the impulse, they remained +in the carriage and disconsolately turned the horses’ +heads homeward.</p> + +<p>“It all comes of having to wait for a woman to get +ready,” Mr. Man broke the silence with, very grimly.</p> + +<p>“I was ready before you were,” replied his wife.</p> + +<p>“Great heavens!” cried Mr. Man, in irrepressible +impatience, jerking the horses’ jaws out of place, “just +listen to that! And I sat out in the buggy ten minutes, +yelling at you to come along, until the whole neighborhood +heard me!”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” acquiesced Mrs. Man, with the provoking placidity +which no one can assume but a woman, “and every +time I started down stairs you sent me back for something +you had forgotten.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Man groaned. “This is too much to bear,” he +said, “when everybody knows that if I was going to +Europe, I would just rush into the house, put on a clean +shirt, grab up my gripsack, and fly; while you would +want at least six months for preliminary preparations, +and then dawdle around the whole day of starting until +every train had left town.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span>Well, the upshot of the matter was, that the Mans put +off their visit to Peoria until the next week, and it was +agreed that each one should get ready and go down to +the train and go, and the one who failed to get ready +should be left. The day of the match came around in +due time. The train was to go at 10:30, and Mr. Man, +after attending to his business, went home at 9:45.</p> + +<p>“Now then,” he shouted, “only three-quarters of an +hour to train time. Fly around; a fair field and no +favors, you know.”</p> + +<p>And away they flew. Mr. Man bulged into this room +and rushed through that one, and dived into one closet +after another with inconceivable rapidity, chuckling under +his breath all the time, to think how cheap Mrs. Man +would feel when he started off alone. He stopped on +his way up stairs to pull off his heavy boots, to save +time. For the same reason he pulled off his coat as he +ran through the dining-room, and hung it on the corner +of the silver closet. Then he jerked off his vest as he +rushed through the hall, and tossed it on a hook in the +hat-rack, and by the time he reached his own room he was +ready to plunge into his clean clothes. He pulled out a +bureau drawer and began to paw at the things, like a +Scotch terrier after a rat.</p> + +<p>“Eleanor!” he shrieked, “where are my shirts?”</p> + +<p>“In your bureau drawer,” quietly replied Mrs. Man, +who was standing placidly before a glass, calmly and +deliberately coaxing a refractory crimp into place.</p> + +<p>“Well, by thunder, they ain’t!” shouted Mr. Man, a +little annoyed. “I’ve emptied every last thing out of the +drawer, and there isn’t a thing in it that I ever saw before.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Man stepped back a few paces, held her head on +one side, and after satisfying herself that the crimp would +do, and would stay where she had put it, replied:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>“These things scattered around on the floor are all +mine. Probably you haven’t been looking in your own +drawer.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t see,” testily observed Mr. Man, “why you +couldn’t have put my things out for me, when you had +nothing else to do all morning.”</p> + +<p>“Because,” said Mrs. Man, settling herself into an +additional article of raiment with awful deliberation, +“nobody put mine out for me. ‘A fair field and no favors,’ +my dear.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Man plunged into his shirt like a bull at a red flag.</p> + +<p>“Foul!” he shouted, in malicious triumph. “No button +on the neck!”</p> + +<p>“Because,” said Mrs. Man, sweetly, after a deliberate +stare at the fidgeting, impatient man, during which she +buttoned her dress and put eleven pins where they would +do the most good, “because you have got the shirt on +wrong side out.”</p> + +<p>When Mr. Man slid out of that shirt, he began to +sweat. He dropped the shirt three times before he got +it on, and while it was over his head he heard the clock +strike ten. When his head came through he saw Mrs. +Man coaxing the ends and bows of her necktie.</p> + +<p>“Where’s my shirt studs?” he cried.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Man went out into another room and presently +came back with gloves and hat, and saw Mr. Man emptying +all the boxes he could find in and about the bureau. +Then she said:</p> + +<p>“In the shirt you just took off.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Man put on her gloves while Mr. Man hunted up +and down the room for his cuff buttons.</p> + +<p>“Eleanor,” he snarled, at last, “I believe you must +know where those buttons are.”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t seen them,” said the lady, settling her hat, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span>“didn’t you lay them down on the window sill in the +sitting-room last night?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Man remembered, and he went down stairs on the +run. He stepped on one of his boots, and was immediately +landed in the hall at the foot of the stairs with +neatness and dispatch, attended in the transmission with +more bumps than he could count with a Webb’s adder, +and landing with a bang like the Hellgate explosion.</p> + +<p>“Are you nearly ready, Algernon?” asked the wife of +his family, sweetly, leaning over the balusters.</p> + +<p>The unhappy man groaned. “Can’t you throw me +down that other boot?” he asked.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Man pityingly kicked it down to him.</p> + +<p>“My valise?” he inquired, as he tugged away at the +boot.</p> + +<p>“Up in your dressing-room,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“Packed?”</p> + +<p>“I do not know; unless you packed it yourself, probably +not,” she replied, with her hand on the door knob; +“I had barely time to pack my own.”</p> + +<p>She was passing out of the gate, when the door opened, +and he shouted:</p> + +<p>“Where in the name of goodness did you put my vest? +It has all my money in it!”</p> + +<p>“You threw it on the hat-rack,” she called back, +“good-bye, dear.”</p> + +<p>Before she got to the corner of the street she was +hailed again.</p> + +<p>“Eleanor! Eleanor! Eleanor Man! Did you wear off +my coat?”</p> + +<p>She paused and turned, after signaling the street car +to stop, and cried,</p> + +<p>“You threw it on the silver closet.”</p> + +<p>And the street car engulfed her graceful figure and she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span>was seen no more. But the neighbors say that they +heard Mr. Man charging up and down the house, rushing +out at the front door every now and then, and shrieking +up the deserted streets after the unconscious Mrs. +Man, to know where his hat was, and where she put the +valise key, and if she had any clean socks and undershirts, +and that there wasn’t a linen collar in the house. +And when he went away at last, he left the kitchen door, +side door and front door, all the down-stair windows and +the front gate wide open. And the loungers around the +depot were somewhat amused just as the train was pulling +out of sight down in the yards, to see a flushed, perspiring +man, with his hat on sideways, his vest buttoned +two buttons too high, his cuffs unbuttoned and necktie +flying and his gripsack flapping open and shut like a +demented shutter on a March night, and a door key in +his hand, dash wildly across the platform and halt in the +middle of the track, glaring in dejected, impotent, wrathful +mortification at the departing train, and shaking his +trembling fist at a pretty woman, who was throwing kisses +at him from the rear platform of the last car.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> + + +<h2 class="nobreak">DRIVING THE COW.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">MR. FORBES is a nervous man, and it is not surprising +that when Mrs. Forbes told him the cow +had got out at the front gate, he was so startled and +annoyed that he made some disjointed allusions to the +scene of General Newton’s dynamite explosions. When +he went out the cow was standing very quietly in the +street, just in front of the gate, chewing her cud, best +navy, and looking as though she were trying to think of +something mean to say. Mr. Forbes got around in front +of her, raised both his hands above his head, and, extending +his arms, waved them slowly up and down, at the +same time ejaculating, “Shoo! shoo, there, I say! Shoo!” +The cow turned her cud over to the other side, and +gazed at the apparition in some astonishment, and then +began to back away and maneuver to get around it. It +is a remarkable fact, which we have never heard Prof. +Huxley explain, that a cow is perfectly willing to go in +any direction save the one in which you attempt to drive +her. When the cow began to back, Mr. Forbes slowed +up with his arms and assumed a more coaxing tone. +When the cow started to make a flank movement off to +the right, Mr. Forbes kept in front of her by sidling +across in the same direction, at the same time raising his +voice and accelerating the movement of his arms. When +the cow made several cautious diversions and reconnoissances +this way and that, Mr. Forbes was compelled to +keep up a kind of Chinese cotillon, dancing to and fro +across the road, keeping time with his shuffling feet and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span>waving hands, and the children on their way to school +gathered in little groups on the sidewalk and viewed the +spectacle with great interest, alternately cheering the +cow and encouraging Mr. Forbes, as one side or the other +would gain a little advantage. When the cow would +make a short, determined rush, causing Mr. Forbes to +scuttle across the street, in a perfect whirlwind of dust +and sticks and a rattling volley of “Hi! hoo-y! shoo, +there! hoo-y!” the enthusiasm of the audience was +unbounded. Once, Mr. Forbes got the cow fairly cornered +and headed her right into the gate, but just as the +gray light of victory fell upon his uplifted face, Mrs. +Forbes and the hired girl came charging out in mad +pursuit of a flock of geese that had taken advantage of +the open gate to stroll in and have a nip at the house +plants on the back porch. Squacking, whooping and +screaming, the flying geese and the pursuing column +came out like a runaway edition of chaos, and the cow +gave a snort of terror and turned short upon Mr. Forbes, +who tossed his hands more wildly and shouted more +vociferously than ever, and got out of the way with neatness +and dispatch, just as the cow went by with the swiftness +of a golden opportunity or a vagrant thought. Mr. +Forbes’ blood was up, and he was bound to head off that +cow if it was in the power of man. Spurred to intense +energy, by the derisive shouts of the children, he bent +his head and picked up his flying feet. They got a pretty +fair send off, Mr. Forbes and the cow, and as they swept +up the street, they could look into each other’s eyes and +glare defiance while they spurned the dust with flying +feet. Mr. Forbes ran until his eyes seemed bursting out +of his head and his very soul seemed to be in his legs; +the perspiration started out of every pore; every time he +struck the ground with his foot he thought he felt the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>earth shake, and yet, though he tugged and sweat and +strained until all the landscape was yellow before his +blood-shot eyes, he couldn’t gain a hair’s breadth on the +shambling, awkward cow that went sprawling and kicking +along by his side, filling the soft September air with +such a wild, tumultuous, horrible jangling of bells that +Forbes made up his mind to throw the bell away the +moment he get the cow home. The people on the +streets stopped and waved their hats and cheered enthusiastically +as the procession swept past, ladies leaned out +of the windows and smiled sweetly on the man and cow +alike. Once Forbes stumbled over a crossing and had +to take strides twenty-three feet long for the next half +block to keep from falling, and he was sure he was split +clear up to the chin and would have to button his trousers +around his neck forever afterward, but he wouldn’t give +in to a cow if he died for it. At the next corner the cow +turned off down a side street; Forbes shot across the +sidewalk for a short cut, and the next instant he went +crashing half-way through a latticed tree box. A street +car driver stopped his car and assisted Mr. Forbes to a +sitting posture, leaned him up against a fence and went +on with his train. And as Mr. Forbes sat in a dazed +kind of way, mechanically rubbing the dust and dirt off +his coat and pinning up long gashes and grimly grinning +apertures in his clothes, there came to his ears the distant +tinkle-tankle of a far away cow bell, the mellowed +sound rising and falling in tender cadences, with a +dreamy, swaying melody, as though the bell was somewhere +over in the adjoining county, and the cow that +wore it was waltzing along over a country road a thousand +miles a minute.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span> + + +<h2 class="nobreak">VOICES OF THE NIGHT.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">MR. JOSKINS is not an old settler in Burlington. +He came to the city of magnificent hills from +Keokuk, and after looking around, selected a residence +out on West Hill, because it was in such a quiet locality, +and Mr. Joskins loves peace and seclusion. It is a rural +kind of a neighborhood, and all of Mr. Joskins’ neighbors +keep cows. And every cow wears a bell. And +with an instinct worthy of the Peak family, each neighbor +had selected a cow bell of a different key and tone +from any of the others, in order that he might know the +cow of his heart from the other kine of the district. So +that Mr. Joskins’ nights are filled with music, of a rather +wild, barbaric type; and the lone starry hours talk nothing +but cow to him, and he has learned so exactly the +tones of every bell and the habits of each corresponding +cow, that the voices of the night are not an unintelligible +jargon to him, but they are full of intelligence, and +he understands them. It makes it much easier for Mr. +Joskins, who is a very nervous man, than if he had to +listen and conjecture and wonder until he was fairly wild, +as the rest of us would have to do. As it is, when the +first sweet moments of his slumber are broken by a solemn, +ponderous, resonant</p> + +<p>“Ka-lum, ka-lum, ka-lum!”</p> + +<p>Mr. Joskins knows that the widow Barbery’s old crumple +horn is going down the street looking for an open +front gate, and his knowledge is confirmed by a doleful +“Ka-lum-pu-lum!” that occurs at regular intervals as +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>old crumple pauses to try each gate as she passes it, for +she knows that appearances are deceitful, and that a boy +can shut a front gate in such a way as to thoroughly +deceive his father and yet leave every catch unfastened. +Then when Mr. Joskins is called up from his second doze +by a lively serenade of</p> + +<p>“To-link, to-lank, lank, lankle-inkle, lankle-inkle-tekinleinkletelink, +kink, kink!”</p> + +<p>He knows that Mr. Throop’s young brindle is in +Throstlewaite’s garden and that Throstlewaite is sailing +around after her in a pair of slippers and a few clothes. +And by sitting up in bed Mr. Joskins can hear the things +that Mr. Throstlewaite is throwing strike against the side +of the house and the woodshed, thud, spat, bang, and the +character of the noises tells him whether the missile was +a clod, a piece of board, or a brick. And when the wind +down the street is fair, it brings with it faint echoes of +Mr. Throstlewaite’s remarks, which bring into Mr. Joskins’ +bedroom the odor of bad grammatical construction +and wicked wishes and very ill-applied epithets. Then +when the final crash and tinkle announce that the cow +has bulged through the front fence and got away, and +Mr. Joskins turns over to try and get a little sleep, he +is not surprised, although he is annoyed, to be aroused +by a sepulchral</p> + +<p>“Klank, klank, klank!”</p> + +<p>Like the chains on the old-fashioned ghost of a murdered +man, for he knows it is Throstlewaite’s old duck-legged +brown cow, going down to the vacant lot on the +corner to fight anything that gives milk. And he waits +and listens to the “klank, klank, klank,” until it reaches +the corner and a terrific din and medley of all the cow +bells on the street tell him all the skirmishers have been +driven in and the action has become general. And from +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>that on till morning, Mr. Joskins hears the “tinkle-tankle” +of the little red cow going down the alley to prospect +among the garbage heaps, and the “rankle-tankle, +tankle-tankle” of the short-tailed black and white cow +skirmishing down the street ahead of an escort of badly +assorted dogs, and the “tringle-de-ding, tringle-de-ding, +ding, ding,” of the muley cow that goes along on +the sidewalk, browsing on the lower limbs of the shade +trees, and the “klank, klank, klank,” of the fighting cow, +whose bell is cracked in three places, and incessant +“moo-o-<i>oo</i>-ah-ha” of the big black cow that has lost +the clapper out of her bell and has ever since kept up an +unintermittent bellowing to supply its loss. And Mr. +Joskins knows all these cows by their bells, and he knows +what they are doing and where they are going. And +although it has murdered his dreams of a quiet home, +yet it has given him an opportunity to cultivate habits of +intelligent observation, and it has induced him to register +a vow that if he is ever rich enough he will keep nine +cows, trained to sleep all day so as to be ready for duty +at night, and he will live in the heart of the city with +them and make them wear four bells apiece just for the +pleasure of his neighbors.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">THE DEMAND FOR LIGHT LABOR.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">ONE morning, just as the rush of house-cleaning +days was beginning to abate, a robust tramp +called at a house on Barnes Street, and besought the +inmates to give him something to eat, averring that he +had not tasted food for nine days.</p> + +<p>“Why don’t you go to work?” asked the lady to whom +he preferred his petition.</p> + +<p>“Work!” he ejaculated. “Work! And what have I +been doing ever since the middle of May but hunting +work? Who will give me work? When did I ever refuse +work?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the woman, “I guess I can give you some +employment. What can you do?”</p> + +<p>“Anything!” he shouted, in a kind of delirious joy. +“Anything that any man can do. I’m sick for something +to fly at. Why, only yesterday I worked all day, carrying +water in an old sieve from Flint River and emptying +it into the Mississippi, just because I was so tired of +having nothing to do, that I had to work at something or +I would have gone ravin’ crazy. I’ll do anything, from +cleaning house to building a steamboat. Jest give me +work, ma’am, an’ you’ll never hear me ask for bread +agin.”</p> + +<p>The lady was pleased at the willingness and anxiety +of this industrious man to do something, and she led +him to the wood-pile.</p> + +<p>“Here,” she said, “you can saw and split this wood, +and if you are a good, industrious worker, I will find work +for you to do, nearly all Winter.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>“Well, now,” said the tramp, while a look of disappointment +stole over his face, “that’s just my luck. +Only three days ago I was pullin’ a blind cow out of a +well for a poor widow woman who had nothin’ in the +world but that cow to support her, an’ I spraint my right +wrist till I hain’t been able to lift a pound with it sinst. +You kin jest put your hand on it now and feel it throb, +it’s so painful and inflamed. I could jest cry of disappointment, +but it’s a Bible fact, ma’am, that I couldn’t +lift that ax above my head ef I died fur it, and I’d jest +as lief let you pull my arm out by the roots as to try to +pull that saw through a lath. Jest set me at something +I kin do, though, if you want to see the dust fly.”</p> + +<p>“Very well,” said the lady, “then you can take these +flower beds, which have been very much neglected, and +weed them very carefully for me. You can do that with +your well hand, but I want you to be very particular +with them, and get them very clean, and not injure any +of the plants, for they are all very choice and I am very +proud of them.”</p> + +<p>The look of disappointment that had been chased +away from the industrious man’s face when he saw a +prospect of something else to do, came back deeper than +ever as the lady described the new job, and when she +concluded, he had to remain quiet for a moment before +he could control his emotion sufficiently to speak.</p> + +<p>“If I ain’t the most onfortnit man in Ameriky,” he +sighed. “I’m jest dyin’ for work; crazy to get somethin’ +to do, and I’m blocked out of work at every turn. I jest +love to work among flowers and dig in the ground, but I +never dassent do it fur I’m jest blue ruin among the +posies. Nobody ever cared to teach me anythin’ about +flowers and its a Gospel truth, ma’am, I can’t tell a +violet from a sunflower nor a red rose from a dog-fennel. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span>Last place I tried to git work at, woman of the house set +me to work weedin’ the garden, an’ I worked about a couple +of hours, monstrous glad to get work, now you bet, an’ I +pulled up every last livin’ green thing in that yard. +Hope I may die ef I didn’t. Pulled up all the grass, +every blade of it. Fact. Pulled up a vine wuth seventy-five +dollars, that had roots reachin’ cl’ar under the cellar +and into the cistern, and I yanked ’em right up, every +fiber of ’em. Woman was so heart broke when she come +out and see the yard just as bare as the floor of a brick +yard that they had to put her to bed. Bible’s truth, they +did, ma’am; and I had to work for that house three +months for nothin’ and find my board, to pay fur the +damage I done. Hope to die ef I didn’t. Jest gimme +suthin’ I kin do, I’ll show you what work is, but I +wouldn’t dare to go foolin’ around no flowers. You’ve +got a kind heart ma’am, gimme some work; don’t send a +despairin’ man away hungry for work.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” the lady said, “you can beat my carpets for +me. They have just been taken up, and you can beat +them thoroughly, and by the time they are done, I will +have something else ready for you.”</p> + +<p>The man made a gesture of despair and sat down on +the ground, the picture of abject helplessness and disappointed +aspirations.</p> + +<p>“Look at me now,” he exclaimed. “What is goin’ to +become o’ me? Did you ever see a man so down on his +luck like me? I tell you ma’am, you must give me +somethin’ I can do. I wouldn’t no more dare for to tech +them carpets than nothin’ in the world. I’d tear ’em to +pieces. I’m a awful hard hitter, an’ the last time I beat +any carpets was for a woman out at Creston, and I just +welted them carpets into strings and carpet rags. I +couldn’t help it. I can’t hold in my strength. I’m too +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span>glad to get to work, that’s the trouble with me, ma’am, +it’s a Bible fact. I’ll beat them carpets if you say so, but +I won’t be responsible fur ’em; no makin’ me work for +nothin’ fur five or six weeks to pay fur tearin’ ’em into +slits yer know. I’ll go at ’em if you’ll say the word and +take the responsibility, but the fact is, I’m too hard a +worker to go foolin’ around carpets, that’s just what I +am.”</p> + +<p>The lady excused the energetic worker from going at +the carpets, but was puzzled what to set him at. Finally +she asked him what there was he would like to do and +could do, with safety to himself and the work.</p> + +<p>“Well, now,” he said, “that’s considerit in ye. That’s +real considerit, and I’ll take a hold and do something +that’ll give ye the wuth of your money, and won’t give +me no chance to destroy nothin’ by workin’ too hard at +it. If ye’ll jest kindly fetch me out a rockin’ chair, I’ll +set down in the shade and keep the cows from liftin’ the +latch of the front gate and gettin’ into the yard. An’ +I’ll do it well and only charge you reasonable for it, fur +the fact is I’m so dead crazy fur work that it isn’t big +pay I want so much as a steady job.”</p> + +<p>And when he was rejected and sent forth, jobless and +breakfastless, to wander up and down the cold, unfeeling +world in search of work, he cast stones at the house and +said, in dejected tones,</p> + +<p>“There, now, that’s just the way. They call us a bad +lot, and say we’re lazy and thieves, and won’t work, when +a feller is just crazy to work and nobody won’t give him +nary job that he kin do. Won’t work! Land alive, they +won’t give us work, an’ when we want to an’ try to, they +won’t let us work. There ain’t a man in Ameriky that +’ud work as hard an’ as stiddy as I would if they’d +gimme a chance.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">MASTER BILDERBACK RETURNS TO SCHOOL.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">WE remember one day last Summer, during the long +vacation, when the <i>Hawkeye</i> published a news +item stating that a boy named Bilderback had fallen from +the seat of a reaping machine, and got cut to pieces, a +patient, weary looking, and rather handsome young lady +called at the office, and appeared to be very anxious to +have that item verified. And when we gave her all possible +assurance that everything appearing in that great +and good paper, the <i>Hawkeye</i>, was necessarily true, she +drew a deep sigh of relief, and said she felt actually +thankful she wouldn’t have that boy to demoralize the +school the next term. And then she smiled sweetly, and +thanked us for our assuring words, and went away.</p> + +<p>Imagine her dismay, then, about the third or fourth +day of the fall term, when a terrific cheering in the yard, +about ten minutes before school time, drew her to the +window, whence looking down, she saw every last solitary +lingering boy in that school district dancing and yelling +about Master Bilderback, who was dancing higher and +yelling louder than any other boy in the caucus. Her +heart sank within her; but she braced up and went down +stairs to quiet the bedlam, and in five minutes learned +the dreadful truth. Master Bilderback had met with a +reaping-machine accident, but the papers had reported it +incorrectly. He had climbed into the seat the moment +his uncle, on whose farm he was spending the vacation, +got down. He prodded one of the horses with a pin in +the end of a stick, and made the team run away. The +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span>terrified animals ran the machine over twenty stumps, +and mashed it to pieces; one of the horses ran against a +hedge-stake and was killed, and the other jumped off a +bridge and broke a leg; Master Bilderback’s uncle, +chasing after the flying team, had dashed through a +hornets’ nest, and the sociable little insects came out and +sat down on him to talk it over, until his head was +swelled as big as a nail-keg, and he couldn’t open his +eyes for a week; a farm-hand who tried to stop the horses +by rushing out in front of them, was hit by the tongue +of the reaper and knocked into the middle of an Osage +orange hedge, where he stuck for three hours, and lost +his voice by screaming, and was scraped to the bone +when they finally pulled him out with grappling hooks. +And Master Bilderback, the author of all this calamity, +was thrown from his seat at the first stump, and fell on a +shock of grain, and wasn’t jarred or bruised or scratched +a particle. And that night, when his aunt handed his +blinded uncle the halter-strap, and held Master Bilderback +in front of him to receive merited castigation, that +graceless young wretch seized his aunt around the neck +after the first blow, and wheeling her into his place, held +her there, drowning her piercing explanations and pleadings +in his own tumultuous but deceitful howlings and +roarings, until her back looked like a war map, and the +exhausted uncle laid down the strap with the remark +that he “guessed that would teach him something.” And +so the teacher, when she saw Master Bilderback at school +again, felt weary of life, and sighed to rest her deep in +the silent grave—if she could find one that was for rent, +and didn’t cost more than a quarter’s salary.</p> + +<p>It being the young man’s first day at school that term, +he was feeling pretty well, thank you. He had a fight +and a half before the bell rang; the half fight being an +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>unsuccessful attempt on his part to pull enough hair out +of the back of another boy’s head to stuff a mattress, +and a highly successful effort on the part of the other +boy to claw enough hide off Master Bilderback’s nose to +make a pair of boots of, at which discouraging stage of +the war Master B. drew off his forces, and in a conciliatory +spirit informed the audience that he was only in fun. +Then, before the opening exercises were half through, +three boys in his neighborhood rose up in their seats and +with bitter wails began feeling about in their persons for +intrusive pins. When the first class filed out to its place, +the circling grin told the anxious teacher that Master +Bilderback had inked the end of his nose. Then he +induced the boy next to him to lean his head back against +the wall, just as Master B. did; and when that complaisant +boy was suddenly called on to rise and recite, he +lifted up his voice and wept, for he had pulled a piece +of shoemaker’s wax and about two ounces of blackboard +slating and plaster out of the wall with his back hair. +Then he spread out the tail of another boy’s coat on the +seat, and piled a little pyramid of buckshot on it; and +when the boy stood up to recite, he was waltzed out on +the floor—bathed in innocent tears, and protesting his +innocence—for throwing shot on the floor, and was told +he was growing worse than that Bilderback boy. He +tied the ends of a girl’s sash around the back of her chair, +and when she tried to stand up she was almost jerked +out of existence. He was sent out with a boy who was +taken with the nose-bleed, and found occasion to mix ink +in the water he poured on the sufferer’s hands; so that, +on his return, the sufferer’s appearance created such +howls of derision that it started the nose-bleed afresh, +and threw the teacher into hysterics. He enticed a +gaunt hound into the girls’ side of the yard, and clapping +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span>a patent clothes-pin on one of its pendant ears, raised +the alarm of “mad dog!” and laughed till he choked to +see the howling animal rushing around trying to paw the +clothes-pin off; while the shrieking girls wrecked themselves +in desperate and frequently successful attempts to +climb over an eight foot fence. He put a pinching-bug +as big as a postage-stamp down a boy’s back. He got a +long slate-pencil crossways in his mouth, and it nearly +poked through his cheeks before they could break it and +get it out. He tossed a big apple, hard as a rock, out of +the third story window at random, and it struck an old +lady in the eye as she was walking along admiring the +building; and she came up and gave the poor tortured +teacher a piece of her mind as long as the dog days. He +dropped into the water-bucket a lot of oxalic acid, that +had been brought to take some ink splotches out of the +floor, and came within one of poisoning the whole school +before they found it out; and, finally, he poked a bean +so far up his nose that they thought it was coming out of +his eye; and the happy teacher dismissed him, thoroughly +frightened for the first time in his eventful life, and he +ran like a race-horse all the way home, crying louder at +every step, and never stopped to call a name or throw a +stone.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">ODE TO AUTUMN.</h2> + +<hr class="tiny"> +<p class="center">AFTER TENNYSON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="drop-cap">THE grasshopper creaks in the leafy gloom,</p> +<div class="indent2">And the bumble-bee bumbleth the live long day;</div> +<div class="verse">But the mathering nurks in the bran new broom,</div> +<div class="indent">And hushed is the sound of the buzz saw’s play.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Oh, it’s little he thinks of the cold mince pie,</div> +<div class="indent">And it’s little he seeks of the raw ice cream;</div> +<div class="verse">For the dying old year with its tremulous sigh,</div> +<div class="indent">Shall waken the lingering loon from his dream.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Oh, list! For the cricket, now far, now near,</div> +<div class="indent">Full shrillfully singeth his roundelay;</div> +<div class="verse">While the negligent noodle his noisy cheer</div> +<div class="indent">Screeps where the doodle bug eats the hay.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Oh, the buzz saw so buzzily buzzeth the stick</div> +<div class="indent">And bumbling the bumble-bee bumbleth his tune</div> +<div class="verse">While the cricket cricks crickingly down at the creek</div> +<div class="indent">And the noodle noods noodingly, “Ha! It is noon!”</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">The dog-fennel sighs, “She is here! she is here!”</div> +<div class="indent">And the smart weed says dreamily, “Give us a rest!”</div> +<div class="verse">The hop vine breathes tenderly, “Give us a beer!”</div> +<div class="indent">While the jimson weed hollers, “Oh, pull down your vest!”</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Oh, Anna Maria, why don’t you come home?</div> +<div class="indent">For the clock in the steeple strikes seven or eight;</div> +<div class="verse">Way down in the murky mazourka the gloam</div> +<div class="indent">Is gloaming its gloamingest gloam on the gate.</div> +</div></div></div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span> + + +<h2 class="nobreak">THE SORROWS OF THE POOR.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">IT was a poor, dejected looking tramp, who came limping +wearily into town on the Fort Madison road, +and, with the instinct of his class, made his way directly +toward Main Street, where stimulants and company are +most numerous. He had a very tired look, and his +poorly shod feet seemed to weigh a ton a piece. The +sun had burned his face to a deeper brown than even the +knotty hands that swung listlessly at his side. He did +not even carry the inevitable stick; and the little bundle, +without which the tramp’s outfit is never complete, +although heaven only knows what is in it, was swung +from his shoulders by a heavy twine string, like a rude +knapsack. No man is alive now that wore clothes when +the hat he wore was made. It was a fearful and wonderful +hat, and attracted more attention than anything +he had on or about him. He limped along Main Street +from Locust, diving into private houses in occasional +forays for bread, which were generally successful, for his +poor, dejected, sorrowful looking face threw a great deal +of silent eloquence into his pleading, and the women +could not bear to send the low-voiced man away hungry. +These forays were varied by occasional dives into places +of refreshment, where he vainly pleaded for a small allowance +of ardent spirits for a sick man; the general result +being that he was courteously refused and gently but +firmly kicked out by the urbane barkeeper, who saw too +many of him every day to be much moved. The poor +fellow limped along till he got a little above Division +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span>Street, when he had to pass a knot of young men, and +one of them, a smart looking young chap, in a very +gamey costume, and carrying a broad pair of shoulders +and a bullet head, surmounted with a silver-gray plug +hat, hung on his right ear, sang out,</p> + +<p>“Oh, shoot the hat!”</p> + +<p>The poor tramp only looked more dejected than ever, +if possible, and shook his head meekly and sorrowfully, +and limped on. But the young sport shouted after him:</p> + +<p>“Come back, young fellow, and see how you’ll trade +hats!”</p> + +<p>The outcast paused and half turned, and said in +mournful tones:</p> + +<p>“Don’t make game of a onfortnit man, young gents. +I’m poor and I’m sick, but I’ve the feelin’s of a man, an’ +I kin feel it when I’m made game of. If you could give +me a job of work, now—”</p> + +<p>A chorus of laughter greeted the suggestion, and the +smartest young man repeated his challenge to trade hats, +and finally induced the mendicant to limp back.</p> + +<p>“Take off your hat,” said the young man of Burlington, +“and let’s see whose make it is. If it isn’t Stetson’s, +I won’t trade.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that’s Stetson’s,” chorused the crowd. “He +wouldn’t wear anything but a first-class hat.”</p> + +<p>But the tramp replied, trying to limp away from the +circle that was closing around him.</p> + +<p>“Indeed, young gents, don’t be hard on a onfortnit +man. I don’t believe I could git that hat off’n my head; +I don’t indeed. I haint had it off fur mor’n two months, +indeed I haint. I don’t believe I kin git it off at all. +Please let me go on.”</p> + +<p>But the unfeeling young men crowded around him +more closely and insisted that the hat should come off, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>and the smartest young man in company said he’d pull +it off for him.</p> + +<p>“Indeed, young gent,” replied the tramp, apologetically, +“I don’t believe you could git it off. It’s been on +so long I don’t believe you kin git it off; I don’t really.”</p> + +<p>The young man advanced and made a motion to jerk +off the hat, but the tramp limped back and threw up his +hands with a clumsy frightened gesture.</p> + +<p>“Come young gents,” he whined, “don’t play games +on a poor fellow as is lookin’ for the county hospital. I +tell ye, young gents, I’m a sick man, I am. I’m on the +tramp when I ought to be in bed. I can’t hardly stand, +and I haint got the strength to be fooled with. Be easy +on a poor——”</p> + +<p>But the sporting young man cut him off with “Oh, give +us a rest and take off that hat.” And then he made a +pass at the poor sick man’s hat, but his hand met the +poor, sick tramp’s elbow instead. And then the poor +man lifted one of his hands about as high as a derrick, +and the next instant the silver-gray plug hat was +crowded so far down on the young man’s shoulders that +the points of the dog’s eared collar were sticking up +through the crown of it. And then the poor sick man +tried his other hand, and part of the crowd started off +to help pick the young man out of a show window where +he was standing on his head, while the rest of the congregation +was trying its level best to get out of the way +of the poor sick tramp, who was feeling about him in a +vague, restless sort of way that made the street lamps +rattle every time he found anybody. Long before any +one could interfere the convention had adjourned <i>sine die</i>, +and the poor tramp, limping on his way, the very personification +of wretchedness, sighed as he remarked +apologetically to the spectators:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span>“I tell you, gents, I’m a sick man; I’m too sick to feel +like foolin’; I’m jest so sick that when I go gropin’ +around for somethin’ to lean up agin I can’t tell a man +from a hitchin’ post; I can’t actually, and when I rub +agin anybody, nobody hadn’t ought to feel hard at me. +I’m sick, that’s wha’ I am.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">MR. GEROLMAN LOSES HIS DOG.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">MR. GEROLMAN stood on the front porch of his +comfortable home on West Hill, one morning +looking out at the drizzling rain in any thing but a comfortable +frame of mind. He looked up and down the +yard, and then he raised his umbrella and went to the +gate and looked up and down the street. Then he +whistled in a very shrill manner three or four times, and +listened as though he was expecting a response. If he +was, he was disappointed, for there was no response save +the pattering of the rain on his umbrella, and he frowned +heavily as he returned to the porch, from which sheltered +post of observation he gloomily surveyed the dispiriting +weather.</p> + +<p>“Dag gone the dag gone brute,” he muttered savagely, +“if ever I keep another dog again, I hope it will eat me +up.”</p> + +<p>And then he whistled again. And again there was no +response. It was evident that Mr. Gerolman had lost +his dog, a beautiful ashes of roses hound with seal brown +spots and soft satin-finish ears. He was a valuable dog, +and this was the third time he had been lost, and Mr. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span>Gerolman was rapidly losing his temper as completely as +he had lost his dog. He lifted his voice and called aloud:</p> + +<p>“H’yuh-h-h Ponto! h’yuh Ponto! h’yuhp onto! +h’yup onto, h’yup onto h’yuponto, h’yuponto! h’yup, +h’yup, h’yup!”</p> + +<p>As he ceased calling, and looked anxiously about for +some indications of a dog, the front door opened and a +woman’s face, shaded with a tinge of womanly anxiety +and fastened to Mrs. Gerolman’s head, looked out.</p> + +<p>“The children call him Hector,” a low sweet voice +said for the wistful, pretty face; but the bereaved master +of the absent dog was in no humor to be charmed by a +beautiful face and a flute-like voice.</p> + +<p>“By George,” he said, striding out into the rain and +purposely leaving his umbrella on the porch to make +his wife feel bad, “it’s no wonder the dog gets lost, when +he has so dod binged many names that he don’t know +himself. By Jacks, when I give eleven dollars for a dog, +I want the privilege of naming him, and the next person +about this house that tries to fasten an old pagan, Indian, +blasphemous name on a dog of mine, will hear from me +about it; now that’s all.”</p> + +<p>And then he inflated his lungs and yelled like a scalp +hunter.</p> + +<p>“Here, Hector! here, Hector! here rector, hyur, rector, +hyur rec, h’yurrec, k’yurrec, k’yurrec, k’yurrec! Godfrey’s +cordial, where’s that dog gone to? H’yuponto, +h’yupont! h’yuh, h’yuh, h’yuh! I hope he’s poisoned—h’yurrector! +By George, I do; h’yuh Ponto, good dog, +Ponty, Ponty, Ponty, h’yuh Pont! I’d give fifty dollars +if some one had strychnined the nasty, worthless, lop-eared +cur; hyurrec, k’yurrec! By granny, I’ll kill him +when he comes home, if I don’t I hope to die; h’yuh +Ponto, h’yuh Ponto, <i>h’yuh</i> <span class="smcap">Hec</span>!!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span>And as he turned back to the porch the door again +opened and the tremulous voice sweetly asked:</p> + +<p>“Can’t you find him?”</p> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">Naw!!!</span>” roared the exasperated dog hunter, and +the door closed very precipitately and was opened no +more during the session.</p> + +<p>“Here, Ponto!” roared Mr. Gerolman, from his +position on the porch, “Here, Hector!” And then he +whistled until his head swam and his throat was so dry +you could light a match in it. “Here, Ponto! Blast the +dog. I suppose he’s twenty-five miles from here. Hector! +What are you lookin’ at, you gimlet-eyed old +Bedlamite?” he savagely growled, apostrophizing a +sweet-faced old lady with silky white hair, who had just +looked out of her window to see where the fire was, or +who was being murdered. “Here, Ponto! here Ponto! +Good doggie, nice old Pontie, nice old Heckie dog—Oh-h-h,” +he snarled, dancing up and down on the porch +in an ecstasy of rage and impatience, “I’d like to tramp +the ribs out of the long-legged worthless old garbage-eater; +<i>here, Ponto, here!</i>”</p> + +<p>To his amazement he heard a canine yawn, a long-drawn, +weary kind of a whine, as of a dog who was +bored to death with the dismal weather; then there was +a scraping sound, and the dog, creeping out from under +the porch, from under his very feet, looked vacantly +around as though he wasn’t quite sure but what he had +heard some one calling him, and then catching sight of +his master, sat down and thumped on the ground with +his tail, smiled pleasantly, and asked as plainly as ever +dog asked in the world,</p> + +<p>“Were you wanting me?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Gerolman, for one brief instant, gasped for breath. +Then he pulled his hat down tight on his head, snatched +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span>up his umbrella with a convulsive grasp and yelled +“Come ’ere!” in such a terrific roar that the white-haired +old lady across the way fell back in a fit, and the dog, +surmising that all was not well, briefly remarked that he +had an engagement to meet somebody about fifty-eight +feet under the house, and shot under the porch like a +shooting dog-star. Mr. Gerolman made a dash to intercept +him, but stumbled over a flower stand and plunged +through a honey-suckle trellis, off the porch, and down +into a raging volcano of moss-rose bush, straw, black +dirt, shattered umbrella ribs, and a ubiquitous hat, while +far under the house, deep in the cavernous darkness, +came the mocking laugh of an ashes of roses dog with +seal brown spots, accompanied by the taunting remark, +as nearly as Mr. Gerolman could understand the dog,</p> + +<p>“Who hit him? Which way did he go?”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span> + + +<h2 class="nobreak">A RAINY DAY IDYL.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="drop-cap">HOW many times do I love you, dear?</p> +<div class="indent2">That is beyond my number’s skill;</div> +<div class="verse">Dearer your smiles than aught else here,</div> +<div class="indent">Unless it might be my amberill.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Sweet is the glance of your soft brown eyes,</div> +<div class="indent">Veiled when the silken fringes fall;</div> +<div class="verse">Verse can not tell how much I prize</div> +<div class="indent">Thee, and my constant umbersoll.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">As the shadowy years speed on and by</div> +<div class="indent">Over our lives like a magic spell;</div> +<div class="verse">Ever to thee I’ll fondly fly,</div> +<div class="indent">And shelter you under my amberell.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Time’s wings are swifter than thought, my dear,</div> +<div class="indent">When my heart is cheered by your sunny smile;</div> +<div class="verse">Never an hour is sad or drear,</div> +<div class="indent">When I know where to look for my old umbrile.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Even when life its sands have run</div> +<div class="indent">And my leaf has fallen sere and yellow,</div> +<div class="verse">Little I’ll heed either storm or sun</div> +<div class="indent">Safe ’neath the roof of my dear umbrellow.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Ha! But the world is wrapped in gloom—</div> +<div class="indent">Storm, rain and tempest round me roll;</div> +<div class="verse">Show me the man! Oh, give me room!</div> +<div class="indent">Some wretch has stolen my umbersole.</div> +</div></div></div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">SINGULAR TRANSFORMATION.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">IT appears that during vacation Master Bilderback, +having fallen behind in his studies last term, was +compelled by his ma to read his school books certain hours +of the day, until he escaped that tyranny by going out to +his uncle Keyser’s farm. In order to make his study as +light as possible, this ingenious boy had dissected, or +rather skinned his books, and neatly inserted in their +covers certain works of the most thrilling character known +in modern literature. When he came back from the farm +this transformation business had entirely escaped his +memory, and it was not even recalled when he heard his +mother tell the teacher, who called in the hopes of learning +that that bean had sprouted and grown into his brain +and would probably terminate fatally, that he was the best +boy to study during vacation she ever saw, and would +pore for hours over his books, and even seem anxious to +get at them. Master Bilderback had forgotten all about +it, and only thought it was some of his mother’s foolishness, +of which he believed her to possess great store. +As for the bean, the amazed teacher learned that it never +was discovered, it never came out and it never hurt him +a particle, and had just naturally ceased to be. And the +teacher went sadly away, moralizing over this case, and +that of little Ezra Simpson, the best and most obedient, +and most studious, and quietest, and most lovable boy in +her school who, one day stumbled and ran the end of a +slate-pencil into his nose and died the next day. And +long, long after she had got out of sight of Bilderback’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>house, she could hear the hopeful Master Bilderback +shouting, “Shoot that hat!” and “Pull down your vest!” +to gentlemen driving, with their families or sweethearts, +past the mansion. Dreadful boy, she thought, he will +surely come to some end, some day.</p> + +<p>Well, it was only the next day when the reading class +was called, Master Bilderback took his place for the first +time. The boy next to him had no book, and as he was +called first, he just took Master Bilderback’s, who turned +to look on with the boy on the other side. The class +was reading the selection from “Old Curiosity Shop,” +and a girl had just finished reading the tender paragraphs, +“She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble +Nell was dead. Her little bird—a poor slight thing the +pressure of a finger would have crushed—was stirring +nimbly in its cage, and the strong heart of its child-mistress +was mute and motionless forever.”</p> + +<p>Imagine the feeling of the teacher when the boy who +got up with Master Bilderback’s reader went on:</p> + +<p>“‘Black fiend of the nethermost gloom, down to thy +craven soul thou liest,’ exclaimed Manfred, the Avenger, +drawing his rapier, ‘Draw, malignant hound, and die!’”</p> + +<p>“‘Down, perjured fool! Villain and double-dyed traitor, +down with thy caitiff face in the dust. Dare’st thou +defy me? Beast with a pig’s head, thy doom is sealed!’ +exclaimed the Mystic Knight, throwing up his visor. +‘Dost know me now? I am the Mad Muncher of the +Bazzarooks!’”</p> + +<p>“Manfred, the Avenger, dropped his blade at this terrible +name, and—”</p> + +<p>The teacher caught her breath and stopped the boy. +In tones of forced calmness she asked what he was reading, +and he told her it was Bilderback’s reader, and +looked in amazement at the innocent scholastic back +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span>and the villainous interior, which was nothing less than +“The Blood on the Ceiling; or, the Death Track of the +Black Snoozer.” After requesting Master Bilderback to +remain after school and explain, she called the next +class, one in Arithmetic.</p> + +<p>“Fisher,” she said, “you may read and analyze the +fourth problem.”</p> + +<p>And Fisher, who was Bilderback’s next seat mate, and +had taken that young man’s book by mistake, rose and +read,</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="first">“The purtiest little baby, oh!</div> +<div class="indent">That ever I did see, oh!</div> +<div class="verse">They gave it paregoric, oh!</div> +<div class="indent">And sent it up to glory, oh!</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Fillacy, follacy, my black hen,</div> +<div class="verse">She lays eggs for gentlemen;</div> +<div class="verse">Sometimes——”</div> +</div></div></div> + +<p>“In mercy’s name,” shrieked the poor teacher, “what +have you got there?” And investigation revealed the +rather humiliating fact that when Mrs. Bilderback thought +her young son was poring over mathematical problems, +he was learning choice vocal selections out of “The Pull-Back +Songster and Ethiopian Glee Book.”</p> + +<p>When the grammar class was called, the teacher asked +some one to bring her a book. Master Bilderback was +the nearest, and he handed her his, innocently enough, +for he had been busy with more projects than we could +tell about in a week, since the arithmetic class had gone +down. The teacher was tired and listless with that +wearing worry and torture which is only found in the +school room, and she listlessly and mechanically opened +the book at the place, and said,</p> + +<p>“Mamie, how would you analyze and parse this sentence,” +and casting her eyes on the page, she read:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>“Ofer you dond vas got some glothes on, go on dark +blaces, off you blease. Ain’d it?”</p> + +<p>She laid down the book, and burst into hysterical tears, +unable even to exert her authority to restrain the mirth +that burst out all over the school room. She dismissed +the school, and had not sufficient energy to punish even +Master Bilderback, and that young gentleman only carried +home a note to his father, requesting that citizen +and tax payer to reorganize his son’s school library before +he sent him back to that palladium of our country’s +liberties, the public school.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">SUBURBAN SOLITUDE.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">MR. DRESSELDORF, who can’t endure any noise +since he sold his clarionet, has just moved into +the sweetest little cottage out on South Hill, and here, he +told Mrs. Dresseldorf, he would rest and spend his +declining days under his own vine and fig tree, with no +one to molest or make him afraid. “We have a few +neighbors,” he said, the afternoon they got comfortably +and cozily settled; “Mr. Blodgers, next door, keeps a +cow, and will supply us with an abundance of pure, fresh +milk; Mr. Whackem, not far away, is an honest teamster, +I understand, and will be convenient when we want +a little hauling done from town; Mr. Sturvesant, just +down the street, has a splendid dog that he says keeps +an eye on the entire neighborhood, and I think we will +live pleasantly and happily here.” And Mr. Dresseldorf +sat on the porch and solemnly contemplated the hammer +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span>bruises and the tack holes and nail marks and abrasions +of stove legs and the pinches of obstinate stove-pipe +joints on his hands, and wondered if Providence would +be merciful to him and strike the house with lightning +before next moving day rolled round. And with this +pleasant and soothing thought, Mr. Dresseldorf fell into +a trance of ecstatic content, delighted with the holy quiet +of the scene and the neighborhood, with Perkins’ meadow +in the serene distance, the sun sinking out of sight, +throwing long bars of burnished gold through a clump of +forest trees off to the west, and the summer air vibrating +with the hushed hum of insect life that floated to the +Dresseldorf porch. So quiet, so full of peace, so fraught +with meditation and retrospective self-communings was +the scene, that Mr. Dresseldorf wondered if he could +endure so much happiness every evening. Just then,</p> + +<p>“Whoa! Who-oh-oh-oh-h!!” Whack! whack! +whack! “Whoa! ye son of a thief! Head him, Bill! +Whoa!”</p> + +<figure class="figcenter" style="width: 677px;"> + <img src="images/i_090a.jpg" width="677" height="450" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <p class="caption">SUBURBAN SOLITUDE.</p> + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>“What under the canopy—” began the startled and +astonished Mr. Dresseldorf; but just then he saw a gray +mule with a paint-brush tail flying down the road, head +and tail up, and its heels making vicious offers at every +animated object that came within range. It was plain +that one of Mr. Whackem’s mules had got away, as the +honest teamster and his three sons were seen skirmishing +down the street in hot pursuit. Mr. Dresseldorf groaned +as the animal was cornered, and his picture of peaceful +solitude fled.</p> + +<p>“Whoa! Don’t throw at him! Whoa now!” “Head +him off, dad!” “Git down the road furder, Bill!” +“Whoa, whoa, now!” “Hee haw! hee haw! hee haw!” +“Hold on, Tom!” “Hurry up!” “Look out for his +heels!” “Now ketch him!” Chorus, “Whoa! Whoa! +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span>whoa!” “Hee haw, hee haw, hee haw!” “Whoop!” +“Hi!” “Whoop-pee!” “Dog gone the diddledy dog +gone mule to thunder!”</p> + +<p>Mr. Dresseldorf groaned as the cavalcade went storming +and crashing and hallooing down the street. “Thank +heaven they’re gone,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Sook-kee! sook-kee! sook-kee!”</p> + +<p>It sounded like a calliope, only it was too far from the +river; but it brought the man of peace to his feet all the +same.</p> + +<p>“Sook-kee! sook-kee! Suke! suke! seuke!”</p> + +<p>It was Mr. Blodgers calling his cow, and as he emphasized +the summons by pounding on the bottom of a tin +pail with the leg of a milking stool, Mr. Dresseldorf +moaned and buried his nervous hands in his hair and +tried to pull the top of his head off. While Mr. Blodgers +was yelling and pounding, however, a hurricane came +tearing up the road—a whirlwind of dust and whoops +and paint-brush tails and horns and sticks—and from +this awful confusion shot forth yells and brays and bawls +and the discordant clangor of a cow bell. Mr. Blodgers +ran out into the road, while Mr. Dresseldorf fell on his +knees and crammed his fingers in his ears.</p> + +<p>“What’n thunder’s chasin’ that keow, I’d like to +know?” queried Mr. Blodgers; then, raising his voice, +“Hey! Hi! I say! Whoop!” And he was tossed over +Mr. Dresseldorf’s fence into a garden urn, and the hurricane +passed on up the street, leaving Mr. Blodgers +howling like a dervish, and beseeching the demoralized +Dresseldorf to bring him some arnica and whisky. The +wretched man rose to minister to the sufferings of his +neighbor, and got the two needful medicines; but just as +he came out of the house the programme changed again. +Mr. Sturvesant’s dog, keeping an eye upon the entire +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span>neighborhood, had met the whirlwind above mentioned up +at the next corner, and had promptly turned it +back. This unexpected retrograde movement placed Mr. +Whackem, the three Masters Whackem, and a small mob +of juvenile volunteers who had been picked up at one +point of the chase and another to help catch the mule, +directly in the path of the charging mule and Mr. +Blodgers’ cow. An immediate adjournment was at once +moved and carried, and the entire community lit out for +the nearest place of refuge; but Mr. Sturvesant’s dog +kept up the chase with such vigor that the whole vociferous, +yelling, braying, bawling, barking mass came bulging +through Dresseldorf’s front fence, upsetting the owner of +the property and carrying him and Mr. Blodgers out into +the alley, where the mass fell apart, the animals running +to their respective stables, and the “human warious” +seeking their homes as soon as they found each other. +Mr. Dresseldorf advertised his place for sale the next +morning. He is fond of the quiet life of a suburban +residence, he says, but it is a little too far from business.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">A BURLINGTON ADDER.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">BURLINGTON rejoices in a mathematical prodigy. +Indeed it is a perfect wonder, and our educational +men and teachers used to find a great deal of instruction +and some pleasure in interviewing the child, a bright boy +of nine years. His name is Alfred J. Talbot, and his +parents live at No. 1223 North Main Street. The boy’s +health is rather delicate, so that he has not been sent to +school a great deal; but he can perform arithmetical feats +that remind one of the stories told about Zerah Colburn. +He was always bright, and possesses a remarkable memory. +In company with two or three members of the +school board, we went to the home of the prodigy for an +interview. He was marvelously ready with answers to +every question. Our easy starters, such as, “Add 6 and +3, and 7 and 8, and 2 and 9 and 5,” were answered like +a flash, and correctly every time. Then when we got +the little fellow at his ease one of the Directors took +him in hand. He said:</p> + +<p>“Three times 11, plus 9, minus 17, divided by 3, plus +1, multiplied by 3, less 3, add 7, is how many?”</p> + +<p>“Nine,” shouted the boy, almost before the last word +was spoken; and the School Inspectors and the newspaper +man looked at each other in blank amazement. +Then the other Inspector tried it:</p> + +<p>“Multiply 5 by 13, add 19, subtract 39, divide by 2, +add 7, multiply by 9, add 15, divide by 7, add 8, multiply +by 3, less 13, add 9, multiply by 7, divide by 9, add 13, +divide by 11—how many?”</p> + +<figure class="figcenter" style="width: 683px;"> + <img src="images/i_094a.jpg" width="683" height="450" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <p class="caption">A BURLINGTON ADDER.</p> + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>“Ninety-six!” fairly yelled the delighted boy, clapping<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span> +his hands with merriment at the amazement which +crowned the countenances of his interviewers, and the +Inspectors turned to the paper man and said, “Take +him, Mr. <i>Hawkeye</i>.”</p> + +<p>Then we did our best to throw the boy. As fast as we +could speak, and without punctuation, we rattled off this:</p> + +<p>“Add 24 to 17½ multiply by 9½ divide by ½ add 33 +per cent. multiply by 16 extract square root add 9 divide +by ⅗ of ⅞ add 119 divide by 77½ times 44¾ square +the quotient and multiply by 17⅔ add 77 and divide by +33 how ma——”</p> + +<p>But before we could say the last syllable the boy fairly +screamed,</p> + +<p>“127⅞! Ask me a hard one!”</p> + +<p>We had seen enough, and with feelings amounting +almost to awe we left this wonderful boy. We talked +about his marvelous powers all the way down. Finally +it happened to occur to one of the Inspectors to ask the +other Inspector,</p> + +<p>“Did you follow my example through to notice +whether the boy answered it correctly?”</p> + +<p>The tone of amazement gradually passed away from +the Inspector’s face, as he faintly gasped,</p> + +<p>“N-n-no, not exactly, did you?”</p> + +<p>Then the first Inspector ceased to look mystified and +began to look very much like Mr. Skinner did when he +got the Nebraska fruit, and they both turned to the gentleman +who represented the literary department of the +expedition and said lugubriously,</p> + +<p>“Did you?”</p> + +<p>But he only said:</p> + +<p>“The Burlington and Northwestern narrow-gauge +railroad will be owned, not by eastern capitalists, but by +the people through whose country it passes.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">MISAPPLIED SCIENCE.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">IT was only a few years ago the New York <i>Journal +of Information</i> published the statement that a man +in New Hampshire, who had been unable to speak for +five years, went to sleep, one night, with a quid of tobacco +in his mouth, and awoke the next morning with +his voice perfectly strong and smooth and steady. Old +Mr. Jarvis, who lives out on Vine Street, is sorely afflicted +with an impediment in his speech, and often says he +would give a hundred dollars if he could only “t-t-t-t-taw-taw-talk +f-f-f-f-fast enough t-t-to t-t-tell a gug-gug-gug-grocer +what he w-w-wants bub-bub-bub-before +he gug-gug-gets it measured out.” He takes the +<i>Journal</i>, and had taken it for twenty-three years, and +he firmly believed every thing he ever read in it; Sylvanus +Cobb’s stories, Mr. Parton’s Lives of Eminent +Americans, the answers to correspondents—Mr. Jarvis +had taken them all in and believed every word. He +thought that probably this quid-of-tobacco treatment +might help his voice a little, and he resolved to give it a +good trial any how. The first trouble was that he didn’t +chew, and Mrs. Jarvis would never allow a bit of tobacco +about the house. But he begged a big “chaw” of navy, +and when he went to bed he tucked it snugly away in his +cheek, and prepared to sleep in hope. He had his misgivings, +and they grew in number and strength as the +quid began to assert itself, and be sociable, and assimilate +itself with its surroundings. Mrs. Jarvis asked him if he +fastened the front gate.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>“Um,” said Mr. Jarvis, meaning that he had.</p> + +<p>“And are you sure you locked the front door?” queried +his restless spouse.</p> + +<p>“Um,” replied Mr. Jarvis, meaning that he had not, +for he was by this time in no condition to open his +mouth.</p> + +<p>“Hey?” she replied.</p> + +<p>“Um,” persisted Mr. Jarvis.</p> + +<p>“What?” she demanded.</p> + +<p>“Um-m-m!” protested Mr. Jarvis.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said she, “you can’t make me believe you are +that near asleep this soon.”</p> + +<p>“Um-m-m!” said Mr. Jarvis; meaning that he +would get up and bounce her out of that front door if she +didn’t hold her clack.</p> + +<p>Presently she sat up in bed. Sniff, sniff! “John Jarvis,” +she exclaimed, “if I don’t smell tobacco in this +house, I’m a sinful woman. Don’t you smell it?”</p> + +<p>“’M,” replied Mr. Jarvis; which by interpretation is, +that he didn’t smell any thing and was going to sleep.</p> + +<p>“It’s in this very room,” she persisted, excitedly.</p> + +<p>“Um,” said Mr. Jarvis, meaning that she must be +crazy.</p> + +<p>“It’s under the bed!” she screamed. “There’s a burglar +under the bed! Oh, help! fire! police! John Jarvis!!!” +And she smote Mr. Jarvis a furious pelt in the +stomach to waken him up.</p> + +<p>It was a terrific thump, and its first effect was to knock +all the atmosphere out of Mr. Jarvis’s lungs so far that +he could only recover his breath by a violent gasp, which +first carried the quid of tobacco and all the nicotine +preparation that it had been steadily distilling down his +throat, and was immediately succeeded by a tremendous +cough, as he struggled to rise up in bed, which shot +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span>the quid squarely into the eye of the shrieking Mrs. +Jarvis.</p> + +<p>“Murder! murder!” she screamed, “I’m stabbed! I’m +stabbed!”</p> + +<p>And John Jarvis choked and coughed and spit and +coughed and choked and clutched Mrs. Jarvis by the +throat and tried to choke off her noise, but he grew so +“ill” that he couldn’t hold his grip, and Mrs. Jarvis, the +moment her throat was released from his trembling +pressure, rose from the half-strangled gurgles to the +sublimity of double-edged screams, and made Rome +howl with melody. And the neighbors broke into the +house and found a bedroom that looked and smelled +like a jury-room or a street car, with the sickest man +they ever saw lying with his head over the side of the +bed, groaning at the rate of a mile a minute, and the +worst frightened woman since the flood sitting up beside +him, screaming faster than he groaned, while one of her +eyes was plastered up with a black quid of tobacco. +And that is the way Mr. Jarvis came to stop his <i>Journal</i>. +He denounces it as the most infamous, mendacious, +pestilent sheet that ever disgraced American journalism.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">WIDE AWAKE.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">ONE day Mr. Bellamy, of Pond Street, read in a +religious paper the following paragraph:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>Many very good people are annoyed by sleepiness in church. The +following remedy is recommended: Lift the foot seven inches from +the floor, and hold it in suspense without support for the limb, and +repeat the remedy if the attack returns.</p> +</div> + +<p>Now, Mr. Bellamy is a very good man, and he is subject +to that very annoyance, which in his case amounts +to a positive affliction. So he cut that paragraph out, in +accordance with the appended instruction, and pasted it +in his hat, and was rejoiced in his inmost soul to think +that he had found a relief from his annoyance. He +hoped that Deacon Ashbury, who had frowned at him so +often and so dreadfully for nodding, hadn’t seen the +paragraph, for the deacon sometimes slept under the +preached word, and Mr. Bellamy wanted to get even +with him. And Mr. Driscoll, who used to sit in the +choir, and cover his own sleepiness and divert attention +from his own heavy eyes by laughing in a most irreverent +and indecorous manner at Mr. Bellamy’s sleepy visage +and struggling eyes and head—how the good man did +want to get it on Driscoll. So he chuckled and hugged +his treasure, so to speak, in his mind. He was so confident +that he had found the panacea for his trouble that +he went to the minister and told him what a burden his +drowsiness had been to him, but that he had made up +his mind now to shake it off, and to continue to keep it +off, and he was certain that he had sufficient strength of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span>mind and force of will to overcome the habit. And the +minister was so pleased, and commended Mr. Bellamy +so warmly, and said so earnestly that he wished he had +one hundred such men in his congregation, that Mr. +Bellamy was so elated and happy and confident that he +could hardly wait for Sunday to come to try his new +method of averting drowsiness.</p> + +<p>Sunday came, however, and soon enough too, for it +was Saturday afternoon plumb, chick, chock full of men +with bills, over-due notes, trifling accounts, little balances, +pay-roll, rent, narrow-gauge subscription, political assessments +and one little thing and another, almost before +Mr. Bellamy knew it, although it hadn’t been there half +an hour before he had some suspicion of it, and was soon +very confident of it. Sunday morning found the good +man in his accustomed place, devout and drowsy as ever. +The church was very comfortably filled with an attentive +congregation, and Mr. Bellamy was soon cornered up in +one end of the pew, and the strange young lady who sat +next him was attended by a very small white dog, that +looked like a roll of cotton batting with red eyes and a +black nose. The opening exercises passed off without +incident, but the minister hadn’t got to secondly when +Mr. Bellamy suddenly roused himself with a start from +a doze into which he was dropping. His heart fairly +stood still as he thought how nearly he had forgotten his +recipe. He feared to attract any attention to himself +lest his precious method should be discovered, and +slowly lifted his left foot from the foot stool and held it +about seven inches in the air. As he raised his foot the +strange young lady shrunk away from him in evident +alarm. This annoyed Mr. Bellamy and disconcerted +him so that he was on the point of lowering his foot and +whispering an explanation when the dog, which had been +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span>quietly sleeping by the footstool opened its eyes, and +seeing the uplifted foot slowly descending in its direction, +hastily scrambled to its feet and backed away, +barking and yelping terrifically. The young lady, now +thoroughly alarmed, jerked her feet from off the footstool, +which immediately flew up under the weight of Mr. Bellamy’s +other foot, and the dog, excited by this additional +catastrophe, fairly barked itself into convulsions. Deacon +Ashbury, awakened by the racket, came tiptoeing and +frowning down the aisle, bending his shaggy brows upon +Mr. Bellamy, who actually believed that if he got much +hotter he would break out in flames, that not even the +beaded perspiration that was standing out on his scarlet +face, could extinguish. The young lady rose to leave +the pew, Mr. Bellamy rose to explain, and as he did so, +she was quite convinced of what she had before been +suspicious, that he was crazy. She backed out of the +pew and sought Deacon Ashbury’s protection. Mr. +Bellamy attempted to whisper an explanation to the +deacon, but that austere official motioned him back into +his seat, and as the minister paused until the interruption +should cease, said in a severe undertone that was +heard all over the church.</p> + +<p>“You’ve been dreaming again, Brother Bellamy.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Bellamy sank into his seat, quite covered with +confusion as with a couple of garments and a bed +quilt, and his distress was greatly aggravated when he +looked up into the choir and saw Driscoll, convulsed +with merriment, stuffing his handkerchief into his mouth, +and shaking with suppressed laughter.</p> + +<p>After service Mr. Bellamy, who was, all through the +service, the center of attraction for the entire congregation, +waited for his pastor, and made one more effort to +explain his unfortunate escapade. But the minister, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span>whose sermon had been quite spoiled by the affair, +waved him to silence and said, quite coldly:</p> + +<p>“Never mind, Brother Bellamy; don’t apologize; you +meant very well, I dare say, but if you make so much +disturbance when you are awake, I believe I would +prefer to have you sleep quietly through every sermon I +preach.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Bellamy has since stopped his church paper, and +transferred his subscription to the <i>Hawkeye</i>, saying +that if he could just find the wretch who set stumbling +blocks and snares in the columns of the religious press +for the feet of weak believers, he could die happy.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">THE ARTLESS PRATTLE OF CHILDHOOD.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">WE always did pity a man who does not love children. +There is something morally wrong with +such a man. If his tenderest sympathies are not +awakened by their innocent prattle, if his heart does not +echo their merry laughter, if his whole nature does not +reach out in ardent longings after their pure thoughts +and unselfish impulses, he is a sour, crusty, crabbed old +stick, and the world full of children has no use for him. +In every age and clime, the best and noblest men loved +children. Even wicked men have a tender spot left in +their hardened hearts for little children. The great men +of the earth love them. Dogs love them. Kamehamekemokimodahroah, +the King of the Cannibal islands, +loves them. Rare, and no gravy. Ah yes, we all love +children.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span>And what a pleasure it is to talk with them. Who can +chatter with a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, quick-witted +little darling, anywhere from three to five years, and not +appreciate the pride which swells a mother’s breast, when +she sees her little ones admired. Ah, yes, to be sure.</p> + +<p>One day, ah can we ever cease to remember that +dreamy, idle, Summer afternoon—a lady friend who was +down in the city on a shopping excursion, came into the +sanctum with her little son, a dear little tid-toddler of +five bright Summers, and begged us to amuse him while +she pursued the duties which called her down town. +Such a bright boy; so delightful it was to talk to him. +We can never forget the blissful half hour we spent booking +that prodigy up in his centennial history.</p> + +<p>“Now listen, Clary,” we said—his name is Clarence +Fitzherbert Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers—“and +learn about George Washington.”</p> + +<p>“Who’s he?” inquired Clarence, etc.</p> + +<p>“Listen,” we said, “he was the father of his country.”</p> + +<p>“Whose country?”</p> + +<p>“Ours; yours and mine; the confederated union of +the American people, cemented with the life blood of the +men of ’76, poured out upon the altars of our country as +the dearest libation to liberty that her votaries can offer.”</p> + +<p>“Who did?” asked Clarence.</p> + +<p>There is a peculiar tact in talking to children that very +few people possess. Now most people would have grown +impatient and lost their temper when little Clarence +asked so many irrelevant questions, but we did not. We +knew that, however careless he might appear at first, +we could soon interest him in the story and he would be +all eyes and ears. So we smiled sweetly,—that same +sweet smile which you may have noticed on our photographs, +just the faintest ripple of a smile breaking across +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span>the face like a ray of sunlight, and checked by lines of +tender sadness, just before the two ends of it pass each +other at the back of the neck.</p> + +<p>And so, smiling, we went on,</p> + +<p>“Well, one day George’s father——”</p> + +<p>“George who?” asked Clarence.</p> + +<p>“George Washington. He was a little boy then, just +like you. One day his father——”</p> + +<p>“Whose father?” demanded Clarence, with an encouraging +expression of interest.</p> + +<p>“George Washington’s, this great man we were telling +you of. One day George Washington’s father gave him +a little hatchet for a——”</p> + +<p>“Gave who a little hatchet?” the dear child interrupted +with a gleam of bewitching intelligence. Most men +would have betrayed signs of impatience, but we didn’t. +We know how to talk to children. So we went on:</p> + +<p>“George Washington. His——”</p> + +<p>“Who give him the little hatchet?”</p> + +<p>“His father. And his father——”</p> + +<p>“Whose father?”</p> + +<p>“George Washington’s.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, George Washington. And his father told +him——”</p> + +<p>“Told who?”</p> + +<p>“Told George.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, George.”</p> + +<p>And we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as +you could imagine. We took up the story right where +the boy interrupted, for we could see that he was just +crazy to hear the end of it. We said:</p> + +<p>“And he told him that——”</p> + +<p>“Who told him what?” Clarence broke in.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span>“Why, George’s father told George.”</p> + +<p>“What did he tell him?”</p> + +<p>“Why, that’s just what I am going to tell you. He +told him——”</p> + +<p>“Who told him?”</p> + +<p>“George’s father. He——”</p> + +<p>“What for?”</p> + +<p>“Why, so he wouldn’t do what he told him not to do. +He told him——”</p> + +<p>“George told him?” queried Clarence.</p> + +<p>“No, his father told George——”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>“Yes; told him that he must be careful with the +hatchet——”</p> + +<p>“Who must be careful?”</p> + +<p>“George must.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>“Yes; must be careful with the hatchet——”</p> + +<p>“What hatchet?”</p> + +<p>“Why, George’s.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>“Yes; with the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, +or drop it in the cistern, or leave it out in the grass all +night. So George went round cutting every thing he +could reach with his hatchet. And at last he came to a +splendid apple tree, his father’s favorite, and cut it down, +and——”</p> + +<p>“Who cut it down?”</p> + +<p>“George did.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>“——but his father came home and saw it the first +thing, and——”</p> + +<p>“Saw the hatchet?”</p> + +<p>“No; saw the apple tree. And he said, ‘Who has cut +down my favorite apple tree?’”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span>“What apple tree?”</p> + +<p>“George’s father’s. And everybody said they didn’t +know any thing about it, and——”</p> + +<p>“Any thing about what?”</p> + +<p>“The apple tree.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>“——and George came up and heard them talking +about it——”</p> + +<p>“Heard who talking about it?”</p> + +<p>“Heard his father and the men.”</p> + +<p>“What was they talking about?”</p> + +<p>“About this apple tree.”</p> + +<p>“What apple tree?”</p> + +<p>“The favorite apple tree that George cut down.”</p> + +<p>“George who?”</p> + +<p>“George Washington.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>“So George came up and heard them talking about it, +and he——”</p> + +<p>“What did he cut it down for?”</p> + +<p>“Just to try his little hatchet.”</p> + +<p>“Whose little hatchet?”</p> + +<p>“Why, his own, the one his father gave him.”</p> + +<p>“Gave who?”</p> + +<p>“Why, George Washington.”</p> + +<p>“Who gave it to him?”</p> + +<p>“His father did.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>“So George came up and he said, ‘Father, I can not +tell a lie, I——’”</p> + +<p>“Who couldn’t tell a lie?”</p> + +<p>“Why, George Washington. He said, ‘Father, I can +not tell a lie. It was——’”</p> + +<p>“His father couldn’t?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span>“Why no, George couldn’t.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, George? oh, yes.”</p> + +<p>“——It was I cut down your apple tree; I did——”</p> + +<p>“His father did?”</p> + +<p>“No, no; it was George said this.”</p> + +<p>“Said he cut his father?”</p> + +<p>“No, no, no; said he cut down his apple tree.”</p> + +<p>“George’s apple tree?”</p> + +<p>“No, no; his father’s.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>“He said——”</p> + +<p>“His father said?”</p> + +<p>“No, no, no; George said, ‘Father, I can not tell a lie. +I did it with my little hatchet.’ And his father said, +‘Noble boy, I would rather lose a thousand trees than +have you tell a lie.’”</p> + +<p>“George did?”</p> + +<p>“No, his father said that.”</p> + +<p>“Said he’d rather have a thousand apple trees?”</p> + +<p>“No, no, no; said he’d rather lose a thousand apple +trees than——”</p> + +<p>“Said he’d rather George would?”</p> + +<p>“No, said he’d rather he would than have him lie.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! George would rather have his father lie?”</p> + +<p>We are patient, and we love children, but if Mrs. +Caruthers, of Arch Street, hadn’t come and got her +prodigy at that critical juncture, we don’t believe all +Burlington could have pulled us out of that snarl. And +as Clarence Fitzherbert Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers +pattered down the stairs, we heard him telling his +ma about a boy who had a father named George, and he +told him to cut down an apple tree, and he said he’d +rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one apple tree.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span> + + +<h2 class="nobreak">SPRING DAYS IN BURLINGTON.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"> + +<p class="drop-cap">DOWN where the wake-robin springs from its slumbers,</p> +<div class="indent2">Opening its cardinal eye to the sun;</div> +<div class="verse">Come the dull echoes of far away thunders</div> +<div class="indent">Heavy and fast as the shots of a gun.</div> +<div class="verse">Up on the hill where the wild flowers nestle,</div> +<div class="indent">Like new fallen stars on the green mossy strand;</div> +<div class="verse">There come the dead notes of the house-cleaning pestle—</div> +<div class="indent">The sound of the carpet is heard in the land.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Up! for the song birds their matins are singing;</div> +<div class="indent">Up, for the morning is tinting the skies;</div> +<div class="verse">Up, for the good wife the clothes-prop is bringing</div> +<div class="indent">Out to the line where the hall carpet flies.</div> +<div class="verse">Up, and away! for the carpet is dusty!</div> +<div class="indent">Fly, for the house-cleaning days have begun!</div> +<div class="verse">Run! for the womanly temper is crusty;</div> +<div class="indent">Up and be doing, lest ye be undone!</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Late, late; too late. Just one moment of snoring.</div> +<div class="indent">He wakes to the sound of the tumult below.</div> +<div class="verse">O’er the beating of carpets he hears a voice roaring,</div> +<div class="indent">“Breakfast was over three hours ago!”</div> +<div class="verse">See, he is plunged in the front of the battle;</div> +<div class="indent">Where dust is the thickest they tell him to stand;</div> +<div class="verse">Where suds, mops and scrub-brushes spatter and rattle,</div> +<div class="indent">And the sound of the carpet is heard in the land.</div> +</div></div></div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<figure class="figcenter" style="width: 723px;"> + <img src="images/i_108a.jpg" width="723" height="450" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <p class="caption">“HAWKEYE” SANCTUM.</p> + </figcaption> +</figure> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span> +<h2 class="nobreak">LIFE IN THE “HAWKEYE” SANCTUM.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">THE <i>Hawkeye</i> has just got into its new editorial +rooms, and it is proud to say it has the finest, most +comfortable, complete, and convenient editorial rooms in +America. They are finished off with a little invention +which will be of untold value to the profession of journalism +when it is generally adopted; and we know that +it will rapidly come into universal use as soon as its +merits are understood and appreciated. We believe it +is fully equal, in all that the term implies, to the famous +Bogardess Kicker, less liable to get out of order, and +less easily detected by casual visitors. It is known as +“Middlerib’s Automatic Welcome.” The sanctum is +on the same floor as the news-room, being separated +from it by a partition, in which is cut a large window, +easily opened by an automatic arrangement. The +editor’s table is placed in front of that window, and near +the head of the stairs; and on the side of the table next +the window, directly opposite the editor, the visitor’s +chair is placed. It has an inviting look about it, and its +entire appearance is guileless and commonplace. But +the strip of floor on which that chair rests is a deception +and a fraud. It is an endless chain, like the floor of a +horse-power, and is operated at will by the editor, who +has merely to touch a spring in the floor to set it in +motion. Its operation can best be understood by personal +inspection.</p> + +<p>One morning, soon after the “Middlerib Welcome” had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span>been placed in position, Mr. Bostwick came in with a +funny story to tell. He naturally flopped down into the +chair that had the strongest appearance of belonging to +some one else, and began in his usual happy vein: “I’ve +got the richest thing—oh! ah, ha, ha!—the best thing—oh, +by George! I can’t—oh, ha, ha, ha! Oh! it’s too +<i>good</i>! Oh, by George, the richest thing! Oh! it’s <i>too</i> +loud! You must never tell where you got—oh, by George, +I can’t do it! It’s <i>too</i> good! You know—oh, ha, ha, ha, +oh, he, he, he! You know the—oh, by George, I ca—” +Here the editor touched the spring, a nail-grab under the +bottom of the chair reached swiftly up and caught Mr. +Bostwick by the cushion of his pants, the window flew +up, and the noiseless belt of floor gliding on its course +bore the astonished Mr. Bostwick through the window +out into the news-room, half-way down to the cases, +where he was received with great applause by the delighted +compositors. The window had slammed down +as soon as he passed through; and when the editorial +foot was withdrawn from the spring and the chair stopped +and the nail-grab assumed its accustomed place, young +Mr. Bostwick found himself so kind of out of the sanctum, +like it might be, that he went slowly and dejectedly +down the stairs, as it were, while amazement sat upon his +brow, like.</p> + +<p>The next casual visitor was Mr. J. Alexis Flaxeter, the +critic. He had a copy of the <i>Hawkeye</i> in his hand, with +all the typographical errors marked in red ink, and his +face was so wreathed in smiles that it was impossible to +tell where his mouth ended and his eyes began. He took +the vacant chair, and spread the paper out before him, +covering up the editorial manuscript. “My keen vision +and delicate sense of accuracy,” he said, “are the greatest +crosses of my life. Things that you never see are +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span>mountains in my sight. Now here, you see, is a——” +The spring clicked softly, like an echo to the impatient +movement of the editor’s foot, the nail-grab took hold +like a bulldog helping a Burlington troubadour over the +garden fence, the chair shot back through the window +like a meteor, and the window came down with a slam +that sounded like a wooden giant getting off the shortest +bit of profanity known to man; and all was silent again. +Mr. Flaxeter sat very close to the frosted window, staring +blankly at the clouded glass, seeing nothing that could +offer any explanation of what he would have firmly +believed was a land slide, had he not heard the editor, +safe in his guarded den, softly whistling, “We shall meet +but we shall miss him.”</p> + +<p>Then there was a brief interval of quiet in the sanctum, +and a rustling of raiment was heard on the stairs. +A lovely woman entered, and stood unawed in the editorial +presence. The E. P., on its part, was rather nervous +and uncomfortable. The lovely woman seated herself in +the fatal chair. She slapped her little gripsack on the +table, and opened her little subscription book. She said: +“I am soliciting cash contributions—strictly, exclusively, +and peremptorily cash contributions—to pay off the +church debt, and buy an organ for the Mission Church +of the Forlorn Strangers, and I expect——.” There are +times when occasion demands great effort. The editor +bowed his head, and, after one brief spasm of remorse, +felt for the secret spring. The window went up like a +charm; the reckless nail-grab hung back for a second, as +if held by a feeling of innate delicacy, and then it shut +its eyes and smothered its pity, and reached up and took +a death-like hold on a roll of able and influential newspapers +and a network of string and tape, and the cavalcade +backed out into the news-room with colors flying. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span>The chair stopped just before the familiar spirit who was +washing the forms; and, as the lovely woman gazed at +the inky face, she shrieked: “Merciful heavens, where, +where am I?” and was borne down the gloomy stairway +unconscious; while the printers whose cases were nearest +the wicked window heard the editor singing, as it +might be to himself, “Dearest sister, thou hast left us.”</p> + +<p>An hour of serenity and tranquillity in the editorial +room was broken by a brisk, business-like step on the +stairs; the door flew open with a bang that shot the key +half-way across the room, and a sociable-looking, familiar +kind of a stranger jammed into the chair, slapped his hat +over the ink-stand, pushed a pile of proof, twenty pages +of copy, a box of pens, the paste-cup, and a pair of scissors +off the table to make room for the old familiar flat +sample case, and said, in one brief breath: “I am agent +for Gamberton’s Popular Centennial World’s History and +American Citizens’ Treasure Book of Valuable Information +sold only by subscription and issued in thirty parts +each number embellished with one handsome steel-plate +engraving and numerous beautifully executed wood-cuts +no similar work has ever been published in this country +and at the exceedingly low price at which it is offered $2 +per vol——.”</p> + +<p>The spring clicked like a pistol-shot, the window went +up half-way through the ceiling, the nail-grab took hold +like a three-barreled harpoon, and the column moved on +its backward way through the window, down through the +news-room past the foreman, standing grim and silent, +by the imposing stone, past the cases, vocal with the +applause and encouraging and consolatory remarks of the +compositors, on to the alley windows, over the sills—howling, +yelling, shrieking, praying, the unhappy agent +was hurled to the cruel pavement, three stories below, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span>where he lit on his head and plunged through into a cellar, +where he tried to get a subscription out of a man who +was shoveling coal.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">IT was a Mt. Pleasant girl. No other human divinity +could play such a heartless trick on an admiring, nay, +an adoring and adorable, young man. He always praised +the flowers she wore, and talked so learnedly about +flowers in general, that this incredulous young angel +“put up a job” on him—if one may be so sacrilegious +as to write slang in connection with so much beauty and +grace. She filled the bay window with freshly potted +weeds which she had laboriously gathered from the sidewalk +and in the hollow under the bridge, and when he +came round that evening she led the conversation to +flowers, and her admirer to the bay window. “Such +lovely plants she had,” she told him, and he just clasped +his hands and looked around him in silly ecstasy, trying +to think of their names.</p> + +<p>“That is <i>Patagonia influenses</i>, Mr. Bogundus,” she +said, pointing to the miserable cheat of a young rag-weed; +“did you ever see any thing so delicate?”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” he ejaculated, regarding it reverentially; +“beautiful, beautiful; what delicately serrated leaves!”</p> + +<p>“And,” she went on, with a face as angelic as though +she was only saying “Now I lay me down to sleep,” +“it breaks out in the Summer in such curious green +blossoms, clinging to long, slender stems. Only think of +that—green blossoms.” And she gazed pensively on the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span>young man as though she saw something green that +probably never would blossom.</p> + +<p>“Wonderful, wonderful indeed,” he said, “one can +never tire of botany. It continually opens to us new +worlds of wonders with every awakening flower and +unfolded leaf.”</p> + +<p>“And here,” she said, indicating with her snowy finger +a villainous sprout of that little bur the boys call “beggar’s +lice,” “this <i>Mendicantis parasitatis</i>, what——”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” he exclaimed, rapturously, “where did you +get it? Why, do you know how rare it is? I have not +seen one in Burlington since Mrs. O’Gheminie went to +Chicago. She had such beautiful species of them; such +a charming variety. She used to wear them in her hair +so often.”</p> + +<p>“No doubt,” the angel said dryly; and the young man +feared he had done wrong in praising Mrs. O’Gheminie’s +plants so highly. But the dear one went on, and pointing +to a young jimson weed, said:</p> + +<p>“This is my pet, this <i>Jimsonata filiofensis</i>.”</p> + +<p>The young man gasped with the pleasure of a true +lover of flowers, as he bent over it in admiration and +inhaled its nauseous odor. Then he rose up and said:</p> + +<p>“This plant has some medicinal properties.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” she said.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he replied, stiffly, “it has. I have smelt that +plant in my boyhood days. Wilted on the kitchen stove, +then bruised and applied to the eruption, the leaves are +excellent remedial agents for the poison of the ivy.” He +strode past the smiling company that gathered in the +parlor, and said sternly, “We meet no more!” and, +seizing her father’s best hat from the rack, he extinguished +himself in it, and went banging along the line of tree-boxes +which lined his darkened way.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span> + + +<h2 class="nobreak">SPRING TIME IN AMERICA.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"> + +<p class="drop-cap">DEAR, faded, flowers, they bloom again,</p> +<div class="indent2">Like echoes of the spring time gone;</div> +<div class="verse">And mossy hillside, shadowy glen,</div> +<div class="indent">Break out in beauty like the dawn.</div> +<div class="verse">In regal beauty, leaf and bud</div> +<div class="indent">Bend ’neath the kisses of the breeze,</div> +<div class="verse">And “Spanish Mixture for the Blood”</div> +<div class="indent">Smiles from the fences, rocks and trees.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Dear, smiling Spring, what tender hope</div> +<div class="indent">Breathes from the life-awakening soil;</div> +<div class="verse">How “Bolus’ Anti-bilious Dope,”</div> +<div class="indent">And “Dr. Gastric’s Castor Oil”</div> +<div class="verse">Bid frightened nature wake and smile;</div> +<div class="indent">For spring time’s blossoms fill us less</div> +<div class="verse">With thoughts of pansies than with vile</div> +<div class="indent">“Panaceas” for “Biliousness.”</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">If to the wooded nook we stray,</div> +<div class="indent">Where every swelling germ is huge</div> +<div class="verse">With life; each gray-browed rock will say,</div> +<div class="indent">“Use Philogaster’s Vermifuge.”</div> +<div class="verse">If from these sylvan bowers we fly,</div> +<div class="indent">We fly, alas, to other ills;</div> +<div class="verse">And farm-yard gates and barn-doors cry,</div> +<div class="indent">“Take Ginsengrooter’s Liver Pills.”</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Each blue-eyed violet hides a “Pill,”</div> +<div class="indent">There’s scent of “Rhubarb” in the air;</div> +<div class="verse">“Rheumatic Plasters” line each hill,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span></div> +<div class="indent">And “Bitters” blossom everywhere.</div> +<div class="verse">With “Ague Cures” the eyes are seared;</div> +<div class="indent">The air is thick, or thin, I meant,</div> +<div class="verse">For Nature’s face and clothes are smeared</div> +<div class="indent">With “Universal Liniment.”</div> +</div></div></div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">WOODLAND MUSIC AND POETRY.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">BUT Mr. Middlerib’s greatest delight, escaping +from his daily wrangle with phlegmatic Peorians, +was to seek some cool, sequestered spot, where the +air was vocal with the song of birds, there to read, and +ponder, and doze, and blend with the melody of the +woodland warblers wrathful objurgations of the gnats, +and flies, and mosquitoes, and hard-backed bugs that +nobody knew the names of. But his poetical nature +rose above all these minor distractions, and he enjoyed +his seclusion and its sylvan delights. One lovely +morning he sat in a vine-embowered porch, with four +cages of canaries hanging above his head, and the trees +around fairly alive with the wild birds, and as he listened +to the varied, melodious passages of the wild-wood +orchestra, he grew enraptured, and in a moment of +enthusiasm gave himself up to poetry for Mrs. M.’s +benefit. He opened the book in his hand, and in a +lull of the music he began:</p> + +<p class="center">“A cloud lay cradled near the set——”</p> + +<p>“Tweetle, tweetle, twee twee tweedle dee tweet tweet!” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span>broke in ear-piercing chorus from the four cages, “twee, +twee, tweedle de deedle, twee twee!”</p> + +<p>“What a delightful interruption,” said Mr. Middlerib, +sweetly; and, with a tender smile wrinkling his placid +face, like the upper crust of a green apple pie, he waited +for the music to cease, and resumed:</p> + +<p class="center">“A cloud lay cra——”</p> + +<p>“Twee, twee, twee-ee-ee, tweedle, tweedle, tweedle! +Tweet-te-deet-deet, tweet tweet! Tweedle-de-deedle, +tweetle, tweetle tweet tweet!”</p> + +<p>“A poem without words,” said Mr. Middlerib, softly, +glancing from his book toward the cages wherein eight +yellow throats were manufacturing music of the shrillest +key that ever developed an ear-ache or woke up a deaf +and dumb asylum. Presently he got another chance, and +resumed once more:</p> + +<p class="center">“A cloud lay cradled near the set——”</p> + +<p>“To-whoot! To-whoot! Whootle-te-toot-toot!” came +from a bird in the nearest hickory, a solemn-looking bird +with a brown back and a voice like a wooden whistle. +Mr. Middlerib paused and glanced toward the tree, while +the benign smile which made his face look like a damaged +photograph of one of the early Christian martyrs, +faded away like a summer twilight. He resumed:</p> + +<p class="center">“A cloud lay cra——”</p> + +<p>“Too-toot too doodle toot-te-doot! Wheetle de deetle, +tweet tweet tweetle tweet, twee twee whoot de doot too +too, chippity-wippity, cheep-cheep-cheep, whoot, squack +squack!” went off the whole chorus, cages and trees, +supplemented by a visiting party of cat-birds, all aroused +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span>into indignant and jealous protest by the obtrusive solo +of the wooden-whistle bird, who appeared to be an object +of general dislike. Mr. Middlerib, thinking he would +read down opposition, went right on:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="verse">“——dled near the setting sun,</div> +<div class="verse">A gleam of crim——”</div> +</div></div> + +<p>“K-r-r-r-r-r-r!”</p> + +<p>A woodpecker tapped his merry roundelay on the roof +of the porch, and Mrs. Middlerib sprang from her chair +with, “Mercy on us! what is that?” Mr. Middlerib +made a cutting remark about people who had no appreciation +of the beautiful in nature or art, and remarked:</p> + +<p class="center">“A gleam of crimson tinged its——”</p> + +<p>“Twee-ee, twee, deedle-eedle-odle twiddle twoddle, +twoot, too too tweedle oot! Teedle idle eedle odle, twee +twee, twee! Pe weet, pe weet! Whootle ootle tootle +too, squack squack!”</p> + +<p>Mr. Middlerib elevated his voice to about ninety +degrees in the shade, and roared:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="verse">“——tinged its braided snow,</div> +<div class="verse">Long had I wat——”</div> +</div></div> + +<p>“Caw, caw, caw! Ca-a-a-aw!” came from the pensive +crow, startled from its quiet retreat in the old dead +cottonwood, and Miss Middlerib giggled. But Mr. M. +inflated his lungs and roared on:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="verse">“——ched the glory moving on,</div> +<div class="verse">O’er the still radiance——”</div> +</div></div> + +<p>“Tweetle de twootle, caw, caw, tweetle doodle tweet +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span>tweet! K-r-r-r-r-r-r, krk, krk! twee deedle eet tweet! +teedle idle, whoot, toot, twoot! who! squack, squack, +k-r-r-r——”</p> + +<p>“Shut up, ye nasty, squawking, yallipin’, howlin’ little +beasts! Shoo! Light out o’ this or I’ll stone ye from +here to Halifax! Scat with yer noise! Oh!” exclaimed +the exasperated worshiper of nature as he hurled his +book into the nearest tree and went off the porch to look +for some stones, “If there is any thing in this world I +hate more than another, it’s a lot of nasty, flittering, +fidgety, yowping, howling birds! Ugh!” And he threw +his shoulder nearly out of joint, and sprained his arm, in +a herculean but futile effort to hit a black bird a mile +and a half away, with a rock as big as a straw hat. He +has dropped the sulphur baths for the present and taken +to arnica.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">BUYING A TIN CUP.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">THE town was dozing in the drowsy sunlight of a +dull August afternoon, when a dejected looking +man, with the appearance of one who was making desperate +efforts to appear unconcerned, stepped into a +prominent and fashionable dry goods establishment up +on Jefferson Street. Scorning the proffered stool, he +braced himself firmly against the counter, and looking +the polite and attentive clerk fixedly in the eye, broke +the impressive silence by abruptly demanding:</p> + +<p>“Gimme tinkup!”</p> + +<p>“We do not keep them, sir,” smilingly replied the +affable clerk, and the glare of suspicion with which that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>man regarded him was sufficient to chill the blood of a +snake.</p> + +<p>“Donkeep tinkups?” he asked, quickly and distrustfully.</p> + +<p>“No, sir,” replied the clerk, “we have no tin cups. +This is a dry goods store. You will find the tin store +farther up the street.”</p> + +<p>“Few donkeep notinkups—watchkeep?” demanded +the man, imperiously.</p> + +<p>“We have grenadines, calicos, bareges, gros grain ribbons, +tarletan, velvets, moire antique, empress cloth, +pongee and Japanese silks——”</p> + +<p>“Shut her off!” ejaculated the man, “Puttit tup! +Puttit tup!”</p> + +<p>He turned away with a dignified gesture, and walked +away with stately, though uncertain strides, and dived +into the Plunder store, where he startled the proprietor +by the same urgent demand for the “tinkup,” and he +was finally piloted into Kaut & Kriechbaum’s, where he +bought his “tinkup,” which he fell down on before he +got to the Barret House corner, mashing it flat as a pie +pan. He was helped into his wagon, and as he drove +away the last the citizens saw of him he was holding the +flattened tin cup before him, exclaiming ruefully:</p> + +<p>“Devlofa—lookin—tinkupthatis!”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span> + + +<h2 class="nobreak">ONE OF THE LEGION.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"> + +<p class="drop-cap">A CITIZEN of South Hill,</p> +<div class="indent2">His visage bathed in tears,</div> +<div class="verse">His raiment streaked with rust and dust,</div> +<div class="indent">His mind distraught with fears,</div> +<div class="verse">Was leaning up by the shattered gate,</div> +<div class="indent">And his sad eyes gazed around</div> +<div class="verse">Where reckless ruin here and there</div> +<div class="indent">With fragments strewed the ground.</div> +<div class="verse">But a drayman stood beside him</div> +<div class="indent">To hear what he might say,</div> +<div class="verse">As he stretched him out his good right arm</div> +<div class="indent">And waited for his pay.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">The weeping mover faltered</div> +<div class="indent">As he saw the drayman’s hand,</div> +<div class="verse">And he said, “I haven’t a red, red cent</div> +<div class="indent">In all of this broad fair land.</div> +<div class="verse">I haven’t a clothes to my aching back</div> +<div class="indent">Save only these rags you see;</div> +<div class="verse">And all the furniture I have left</div> +<div class="indent">Won’t pay you half your fee.</div> +<div class="verse">There’s a leg of the table in the street,</div> +<div class="indent">And the lamp globes strew the stair,</div> +<div class="verse">And the stovepipe’s flattened out like a lath,</div> +<div class="indent">And the clock is not nowhere.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="first">“Tell my wife, if you can find her,</div> +<div class="indent">That when the job was done,</div> +<div class="verse">The furniture wasn’t half so good<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span></div> +<div class="indent">As it was when we begun.</div> +<div class="verse">That the end of the bureau she’s looking for</div> +<div class="indent">Is down by the alley gate,</div> +<div class="verse">And the parlor mirror is bent so bad</div> +<div class="indent">She never can pound it straight.</div> +<div class="verse">We broke the legs of the kitchen stove,</div> +<div class="indent">And we smashed the Parian vase,</div> +<div class="verse">And the dray ran over her rocking chair</div> +<div class="indent">And ruined its stately grace.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="first">“Tell my sister, her darling new spring hat</div> +<div class="indent">Was packed in a bag of corn,</div> +<div class="verse">And I never again can look in her face</div> +<div class="indent">And meet her glance of scorn.</div> +<div class="verse">We spilled coal oil on her summer silk,</div> +<div class="indent">And we tore her cashmere sacque,</div> +<div class="verse">For her dressing bureau fell off the dray</div> +<div class="indent">And the horse kicked out its back.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="first">“There’s another, not a sister,</div> +<div class="indent">In happier days gone by,</div> +<div class="verse">You’d know her by the savage light</div> +<div class="indent">That glittered in her eye.</div> +<div class="verse">Too business-like for foolery,</div> +<div class="indent">Too sharp for my excuses—</div> +<div class="verse">Ah me, I fear adversity</div> +<div class="indent">Has naught but bitter uses;</div> +<div class="verse">Tell her, the last time you saw me—</div> +<div class="indent">For ere the clock strikes ten,</div> +<div class="verse">I’ll be at work on the ‘Third Degree,’</div> +<div class="indent">The happiest of men;</div> +<div class="verse">Tell her I said that she could go</div> +<div class="indent">To the bow-wow wow-wow wows;</div> +<div class="verse">That I’d stay down town when lodge was out,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span></div> +<div class="indent">And sleep at a boarding-house</div> +<div class="verse">Tell her she needn’t sit up for me,</div> +<div class="indent">And she needn’t leave no light——”</div> +<div class="verse">And a voice came out of the hall and said,</div> +<div class="indent">“You don’t go to no Lodge to-night.”</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">His voice was gone in a minute,</div> +<div class="indent">He gasped and tried to speak;</div> +<div class="verse">He tried to swear, but the drayman says</div> +<div class="indent">That he couldn’t raise a squeak.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">And his mother-in-law rose slowly,</div> +<div class="indent">And calmly she looked down</div> +<div class="verse">On the green grass of the littered yard,</div> +<div class="indent">With household treasures strewn.</div> +<div class="verse">Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene</div> +<div class="indent">She gazed, and looked around,</div> +<div class="verse">And said to the weeping man by the gate,</div> +<div class="indent">“Pick them things up off the ground.”</div> +</div></div></div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">A TACITURN WITNESS.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap2">AN ordinary case of assault and battery was called in +Judge Stutsman’s court, and the prosecuting witness +was duly sworn: Phelim O’Shaughnessy, a little, +weazen-faced man, with a stubbly beard all over his jaws +and a pair of bright eyes flanking the snubbiest of noses.</p> + +<p>“Now, then, Mr. O’Shaughnessy,” said the court, +“tell what you know about this matter in as few words +as you possibly can.”</p> + +<p>“Faix, thin, yer anner, an’ I will do that same,” +replied the witness, with great volubility. “Av’ there is +ony thing I do be despisin’ it’s wan ov thim same whurrimurroo +gabblers that niver know when they’re through. +When ye git troo pumpin, sez I, lave the handle; that’s +me. An’ ye niver see an O’Shaughnessy in the wor-r-ld, +yer anner, that wur a cackler. I mind me mither’s own +uncle that ever was, Tim the Croaker they used to be +callin’ him, though his name was Timothy Mahone +O’Dubbleriggle Balbrigganainey, for be the token he +niver wur known to say more nor wan wor-rud at a time, +yer anner, an’ that wan he said with a grunt. There +was wan day, whin he wur gamekeeper fur my lord Donald +McAlpin Clanargotty Callum O’Dowd, a Scotch gintleman +that owned a bit av a shootin’ box might be, in +the north uv——”</p> + +<p>“Well, there, there, there,” interrupted the court, +“that’s enough about your ancestry; now tell what you +know about this case of yours, and stick to the point.”</p> + +<p>“The p’int, is it, avick?” replied the witness; “Musha, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>thin, it wur fwhat I wur comin’ to, jist. It’s what I sez +to Mrs. O’Shaughnessy twinty times a day, an’ she’s the +wor-r-rst talker between here an’ Dublin bay. ‘Norah,’ +sez I; ‘Is it you,’ sez she; ‘Faix thin, an’ who else +wud it be?’ sez I; ‘An’ phwat uv it?’ sez she; ‘Div +ye mind me, now?’ sez I; ‘Sorra the wan uv me does,’ +sez she; ‘Wait thin, till I tell ye,’ sez I; ‘Whisht, thin, +go on with yer blarney,’ sez she; ‘Howld yer hush a +minit, thin,’ sez I, ‘an’ let’s have a second av quiet;’ +‘What!’ sez she, ‘wid ye in the house?’ ‘Listhen,’ +sez I; ‘Whisper, thin,’ sez she; ‘Well, thin,’ sez I, ‘kape +to the p’int. Av yez will do nothin’ but talk from the +peep o’ mor-r-rn till the lasht wink uv night, kape till the +p’int.’ Ah, yer anner, it’s the wan fur talkin’, she is, is +Norah. It isn’t an O’Shaughnessy she is, yer anner, +her father, rest his sowl, was ould Darby Muldoon, the +solid man, an’ he wur sint to Austhralia for twenty-sivin +years panal sarvitude fur talkin’ a thraveler to death +whin he wur dhrivin’ him from——”</p> + +<p>“That will do,” interrupted the court, sternly; “we’ve +heard enough of your reminiscences. Now you tell what +you know about this case, or I’ll fine you for contempt. +You have filed information against Morris McHogadan +for assaulting you with a paving hammer, in the back +yard of your own premises in Melrose Place, Happy +Hollow, and knocking three teeth down your throat, +breaking one of your ribs, and chewing your ear off. +Now what have you got to say about it?”</p> + +<p>“Is it me, avick?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, you are the prosecuting witness; that is your +own case, and you filed the information on which the +warrant was issued.”</p> + +<p>“An’ it says that Morris McHogadan bate me?”</p> + +<p>“It does, and it is sworn to.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>“Oh, the divil an’ all; who shwore to that?”</p> + +<p>“You did.”</p> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">Phwat?</span>”</p> + +<p>“You swore to all that.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, tower uv ivory! That Morris McHogadan bate +me?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Wid a pavin’ hammer?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, so you declared.”</p> + +<p>“Oh-h-h, thundher an’ turf! An’ bate me teeth down +the troat ov me?”</p> + +<p>“So you averred.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, the bloody-minded villin; an’ broke me rib?”</p> + +<p>“That’s what you said.”</p> + +<p>“Oh-h-h, bones of the martyrs; and chawed off the +ear o’ me?”</p> + +<p>“So you told us.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, to the divil wid the informashin that says sich a +pack o’ lies. Morris McHogadan bate me? Och, Moses +an’ Aarin, its tearin’ ravin’ disthracted mad I am! Why, +yer anner, it’s a bloody-minded lie. He can’t fip wan +side o’ me; why, the pig-eyed thafe ov the wor-rold, I +clawed all the red hair out ov the ugly head of him and +trowed him down the bank ov the crick, and welted him +like an ould shoe wid a splinther ov timber I grabbed +out of the crick. Him bate me? He can’t bate nobody. +I didn’t lave a whole bone in his ugly carkiss, an’ av he +dares to say I did, yer anner, I’ll ate off his other ear an’ +pound the flure wid him. Oh, the divil fly away wid +sich infermashin. It’s the beggar’s own lie, an’——”</p> + +<p>Here the witness was cut short by the court fining him +$10.00 and costs for assault and battery, and Phelim, +astonished into a terrific flow of volubility for such a +taciturn man, went away with a policeman, arguing that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span>it wasn’t possible that he could be fined when he was +the prosecuting witness, and declaring that the case never +would have gone against him but for “the bloody-minded +infermashin,” which he firmly believed to be the evil +work of the designing Morris McHogadan.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">THE SEEDSMAN.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"> + +<p class="drop-cap">HOW doth the busy nurseryman</p> +<div class="indent2">Improve each shining hour;</div> +<div class="verse">And peddle cions, sprouts and seeds</div> +<div class="indent">Of every shrub and flower.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">How busily he wags his chin,</div> +<div class="indent">How neat he spreads his store,</div> +<div class="verse">And sells us things that never grew</div> +<div class="indent">And won’t grow any more.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Who showed the little man the way</div> +<div class="indent">To sell the women seed?</div> +<div class="verse">Who taught him how to blow and lie</div> +<div class="indent">And coax and beg and plead?</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">He taught himself, the nurseryman;</div> +<div class="indent">And when his day is done,</div> +<div class="verse">We’ll plant him where the lank rag weeds</div> +<div class="indent">Will flutter in the sun.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">But oh, although we plant him deep</div> +<div class="indent">Beneath the buttercup,</div> +<div class="verse">He’s so much like the seed he sells,</div> +<div class="indent">He never will come up.</div> +</div></div></div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">CORNERING THE BOYS.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">ONLY a few days before they moved the capital, a +worthy lady of Peoria one morning detected her +two sons laughing immoderately. Suspecting that she +was the cause of their disrespectful mirth, the good +woman involuntarily loosened her slipper and called up +the young culprits.</p> + +<p>“Thomas, what made you laugh?”</p> + +<p>“Nobody made me laugh; I laughed on purpose.”</p> + +<p>“None of your impudence, sir. John, why were you +laughing at the door just now?”</p> + +<p>John (eagerly)—“Wasn’t laughing at the door, I was +laughing at Tom.”</p> + +<p>Tom—“And I was laughing at John.”</p> + +<p>The matron assumed a dignified attitude. “Now, my +boys, what were you both laughing at?”</p> + +<p>Boys (in a triumphant shout)—“We were both laughing +at once!”</p> + +<p>The good lady summoned all her energies for a final +effort, and resolved to corner the boys by a settling question.</p> + +<p>“Now, then, I want you to tell me, Tom, what made +John laugh and you laugh?”</p> + +<p>Tom—“John didn’t laugh a new laugh; it was the same +old laugh!”</p> + +<p>Neither of the boys got whipped, the slipper slid back +to its accustomed place, and to this day nobody knows +what those boys laughed at.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<figure class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> + <img src="images/i_128a.jpg" width="450" height="644" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <p class="caption">SELLING THE HEIRLOOM.</p> + </figcaption> +</figure> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">SELLING THE HEIRLOOM.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">ONE afternoon, about a week after the big Fourth +of July, a hungry-looking man made his appearance +down near the post-office corner, carrying in his +arms an old-fashioned clock, about four feet high, +with some ghastly looking characters scrawled across +the dial, like the photograph of a fire-cracker label with +the delirium tremens. He set the clock down, and in +loud tones called upon the passers-by to pause, as he +was about to make a sacrifice that would break the +heart of the oldest horologer living. He was going to +sell that clock, he said. An old family heirloom, and +a genuine curiosity of antiquity, which he would not +ordinarily take thousands of dollars for, but which he +sold now because he was out of work, penniless; and +when his wife and children cried to him for bread, he +could not say them nay when he had that in his +possession that would, in any intelligent community, +bring them food and plenty.</p> + +<p>“Gentlemen,” he said, “look at that clock. A relic +of antiquity. One of the oldest Chinese clepsydras in +the world. Bamboo case and sandal-wood running gear. +Not an ounce of metal in its construction. Made in +China by the eminent horologer Tchin Pitshoo, as near +as can be ascertained, three hundred years after the +flood. Worth a thousand dollars if it’s worth a cent; +but of course I don’t expect to get half its value in these +hard times. The inscription on the face is in the characters +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span>of the purest Confucian Chinese, and the interpretation +of them is, ‘Time flies and money is twelve per +cent.’ Now what are you going to give me for that +clock? Who will buy this clock, and present it to the +Iowa Historical Society or the Burlington Library? How +much? Start her up; send her ahead at something, +gentlemen; there’s a woman and five children that haven’t +had a bite to eat for two days, and can’t get a crumb till +the money for this clock is in my pocket. A marvelous +time-piece; never lost——”</p> + +<p>A man in brown overalls and a dirty face lounged up +to the clock, and after scratching the case with a pin, to +assure himself that it was really a genuine Chinese clepsydra, +bid ten cents.</p> + +<p>“Ten cents!” roared the man, rolling his eyes—“Heaven, +hold back your lightnings! Don’t strike him +dead just yet! Give him time to repent. Ten cents to +buy food for a starving woman and five children. Ten +cents for a d——” He choked with emotion, and could +not go on for a moment. “Ten cents! Why, that clock +only has to be wound once a month, and it records every +minute of time; tells just how long it will take you to +get to the depot; tells when the train starts, and when +the children are late to school. This clock, gentlemen, +will tell when the oldest boy has played hookey and gone +off fishing; it tells how late the hired girl’s beau stays +Sunday night, and it will register the exact minute of our +oldest daughter’s arrival and departure at and from the +front gate after ten o’clock at night. Why, after you’ve +had it six weeks, you’ll not take six hundred dollars for +it. It runs fast all day and slow all night, giving a man +fourteen hours’ sleep in the Winter and sixteen hours’ +sleep in the Summer, without disturbing the accurate +average of the day a minute. Ten cents for such a clock +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span>as that! Ten cents! Gentlemen, this is robbery; it’s +cold-blooded murder. At ten cents; at ten, at ten, atten, +atten, attenat-tennit-tennit-tennet-tenatenatenaten a-a-t +ten cents only am I offered, twenty do I hear? At ten—”</p> + +<p>An old rag-man, after a critical examination of the +marvel, bid fifteen cents, and was instantly regarded as a +mortal enemy by the first bidder.</p> + +<p>“Fifteen cents!” exclaimed the seller. “Gentlemen, +knock me down and rob me of my clothes, strip me naked +if you will, but don’t plunder a gasping, starving woman +and five weak, helpless babes. Don’t rob the dying. +Fifteen cents. Why, I’ve suffered more than three hundred +dollars’ worth of privation and sorrow and misery, +rather than sell this clock at all. Fifteen cents. Why, +you set that clock where the sun shines on it, and it will +indicate a rain storm three days in advance, and will tell +where the lightning is going to strike. Why, you could +make millions by buying this clock to bet on. It will tell, +just three weeks before election, who is going to beat. +It’s a credit to any household, and will run the whole +family on tick. Fifteen cents! why, it won’t pay for the +shelf you stand it on. Fifteen cents for a clock that +used to be owned by an emperor! Fifteen cents. Oh, +kill me dead. At fifteen cents, fifteen, fiftn, fiftn, fift, +nfift, nfift, nfiftnfiftnfift, ta-a-a-t fifteen cents for a clock +that can’t be duplicated this side of the Yang tse Kiang. +At fifteen ce—thank you sir, twenty cents I have; twenty +cents to feed a starving family of seven souls; twenty +cents for a barefooted woman and five ragged children +that haven’t tasted food since Monday morning; twenty +cents, from a city of thirty thousand inhabitants, for a +starving family; there’s Christian philanthropy for you. +Twenty cents from the commercial capital of Iowa, for a +clock that would be snapped up anywhere else in the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>world at hundreds, merely for its antiquity; there’s intelligent +appreciation of the arts and culture for you. +Gentlemen, I can’t stand this much longer; my heart is +breaking. Twenty cents, twenty cents, twenty, twent, +twen, twen, twentwentwen, and sold—a thousand-dollar +clock, starving woman, dying children, heart-broken man, +and all to the second-hand-store man for twenty cents.”</p> + +<p>He took his money, a ragged shinplaster and two street +car nickels, and walked away with a dejected, heart-broken +air. He stopped in at a bakery with frosted windows +and transient doors, to buy bread for his starving +wife and babes, and his voice was husky with emotion as +he said to the natty-looking baker, whose diamond pin +glittered over the walnut counter,</p> + +<p>“Gimme a plain sour.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">THE ROMANCE OF THE CARPET.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="drop-cap">BASKING in peace, in the warm Spring sun,</p> +<div class="indent2">South Hill smiled upon Burlington.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">The breath of May! and the day was fair,</div> +<div class="verse">And the bright motes danced in the balmy air,</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">And the sunlight gleamed where the restless breeze</div> +<div class="verse">Kissed the fragrant blooms on the apple trees.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">His beardless cheek with a smile was spanned</div> +<div class="verse">As he stood with a carriage-whip in his hand.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">And he laughed as he doffed his bob-tailed coat,</div> +<div class="verse">And the echoing folds of the carpet smote.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">And she smiled as she leaned on her busy mop,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span></div> +<div class="verse">And said she would tell him when to stop.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">So he pounded away till the dinner bell</div> +<div class="verse">Gave him a little breathing spell.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">But he sighed when the kitchen clock struck one;</div> +<div class="verse">And she said the carpet wasn’t done.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">But he lovingly put in his biggest licks,</div> +<div class="verse">And pounded like mad till the clock struck six.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">And she said, in a dubious kind of way,</div> +<div class="verse">That she guessed he could finish it up next day.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Then all that day, and the next day too,</div> +<div class="verse">The fuzz from the dustless carpet flew.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">And she’d give it a look at eventide,</div> +<div class="verse">And say, “Now beat on the other side.”</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">And the new days came as the old days went,</div> +<div class="verse">And the landlord came for his regular rent.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">And the neighbors laughed at the tireless boom,</div> +<div class="verse">And his face was shadowed with clouds of gloom;</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Till at last, one cheerless Winter day,</div> +<div class="verse">He kicked at the carpet and slid away,</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Over the fence and down the street,</div> +<div class="verse">Speeding away with footsteps fleet;</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">And never again the morning sun</div> +<div class="verse">Smiled at him beating his carpet drum;</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">And South Hill often said, with a yawn,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span></div> +<div class="first">“Where has the carpet martyr gone?”</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<hr class="tb"> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Years twice twenty had come and passed,</div> +<div class="verse">And the carpet swayed in the autumn blast;</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">For never yet, since that bright spring time,</div> +<div class="verse">Had it ever been taken down from the line.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Over the fence a gray-haired man</div> +<div class="verse">Cautiously clim, clome, clem, clum, clam;</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">He found him a stick in the old wood-pile,</div> +<div class="verse">And he gathered it up with a sad, grim smile.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">A flush passed over his face forlorn</div> +<div class="verse">As he gazed at the carpet, tattered and torn;</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">And he hit it a most resounding thwack,</div> +<div class="verse">Till the startled air gave its echoes back.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">And out of the window a white face leaned,</div> +<div class="verse">And a palsied hand the sad eyes screened.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">She knew his face—she gasped, she sighed:</div> +<div class="first">“A little more on the under side.”</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Right down on the ground his stick he throwed,</div> +<div class="verse">And he shivered and muttered, “Well, I am blowed!”</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">And he turned away, with a heart full sore,</div> +<div class="verse">And he never was seen, not none no more.</div> +</div></div></div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<figure class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> + <img src="images/i_132a.jpg" width="450" height="681" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <p class="caption">ROMANCE OF THE CARPET.</p> + </figcaption> +</figure> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">SODDING AS A FINE ART.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">ONE day, early in the Spring, Mr. Blosberg, who +lives out on Ninth Street, made up his mind that +he would sod his front yard himself, and when he had +formed this public-spirited resolution, he proceeded to +put it into immediate execution. He cut his sod, in +righteous and independent and liberty-loving disregard +of the ridiculous city ordinance in relation thereto, from +the patches of verdure that the cows had permitted +to obtain a temporary growth along the side of the +street, and proceeded to beautify his front yard therewith. +Just as he had laid the first sod, Mr. Thwackery, +his next door neighbor, passed by.</p> + +<p>“Good land, Blosberg,” he shouted, “you’ll never be +able to make any thing of such a sod as that. Why, its +three inches too thick. That sod will cake up and dry +like a brick. You want to shave at least two inches and +a half off the bottom of it, so the roots of the grass will +grow into the ground and unite the sod with the earth. +That sod is thick enough for a corner stone.”</p> + +<p>So Mr. Blosberg took the spade and shaved the sod +down until it was thin and about as pliable as a buckwheat +cake, and Mr. Thwackery pronounced it all right +and sure to grow, and passed on. Just as Mr. Blosberg +got it laid down the second time, old Mr. Templeton, who +lived on the next block, came along and leaned on the +fence, intently observing the sodder’s movements.</p> + +<p>“Well now, Blosberg,” he said at length, “I did think +you had better sense than that. Don’t you know a sod +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span>will never grow on that hard ground? You must spade +it all up first, and break the dirt up fine and soft to the +depth of at least four inches, or the grass can never take +root in it. Don’t waste your time and sod by putting +grass on top of such a baked brick-floor as that.”</p> + +<p>And Mr. Blosberg laid aside the sod and took up the +spade and labored under Mr. Templeton’s directions +until the ground was all properly prepared for the sod, +and then Mr. Templeton, telling him that sod couldn’t +die on that ground now if he tried to kill it, went his way +and Mr. Blosberg picked up that precious sod a third +time, and prepared to put it in its place. Before he had +fairly poised it over the spot, however, his hands were +arrested by a terrific shout, and looking up he saw Major +Bladgers shaking his cane at him over the fence.</p> + +<p>“Blosberg, you insufferable donkey,” roared the Major, +“don’t you know that you’ll lose every blade of grass +you can carry if you put your sod on that dry ground? +There you’ve gone and cut it so thin that all the roots +of the grass are cut and bleeding, and you must soak +that ground with water until it is a perfect pulp, so that +the roots will sink right into it, and draw nutrition from +the moist earth. Wet her down, Blosberg, if you want +to see your labor result in any thing.”</p> + +<p>So Mr. Blosberg put the sod aside again, and went and +pumped water and carried it around in buckets until his +back ached like a soft corn, and when he had finally +transformed the front yard into a morass, the Major was +satisfied, and assuring Mr. Blosberg that his sod would +grow beautifully now, even if he laid it on upside down, +marched away, and Mr. Blosberg made a fourth effort to +put the first sod in its place. He got it down and was +going back after another, when old Mrs. Tweedlebug +checked him in his wild career.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>“Lawk, Mr. Blosberg, ye musn’t go off an’ leave that +sod lying that way. You must take the spade and beat +it down hard, till it is all flat and level, and close to the +ground everywhere. You must pound it hard, or the +weeds will all start up under it and crowd out the grass.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Blosberg went back, and stooping over the sod hit +it a resounding thwack with his spade that shot great +gouts and splotches of mud all over the parlor windows +and half-way to the top of the house, and some of it +came flying into his face and on his clothes, while a miscellaneous +shower made it dangerous even for his adviser, +who, with a feeble shriek of disapprobation, went hastily +away, digging raw mud out of her ears. Mr. Blosberg +didn’t know how long to keep on pounding, and he didn’t +see Mrs. Tweedlebug go away, so he stood with his spade +poised in the air and his eyes shut tight, waiting for +instructions. And as he waited he was surprised to hear +a new voice accost him. It was the voice of Mr. Thistlepod, +the old agriculturist, of whom Mr. Blosberg bought +his apples and butter.</p> + +<p>“Hello, Mr. Blosberg!” he shouted, in tones which +indicated that he either believed Mr. Blosberg to be +stone deaf or two thousand miles away.</p> + +<p>Mr. Blosberg winked violently to get the soil out of +his eyes, and turned in the direction of the noise to say, +“Good evening.”</p> + +<p>“Soddin’, hey?” asked Mr. Thistlepod.</p> + +<p>“Trying to, sir,” replied Mr. Blosberg, rather cautiously.</p> + +<p>“’Spect it will grow, hey?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Blosberg, having learned by very recent experience +how liable his plans were to be overthrown, was still non-committal, +and replied that “he hoped so.”</p> + +<p>“Wal, if ye hope so, ye mustn’t go to poundin’ yer sod +to pieces with that spade. Ye don’t want to ram it down +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span>so dad binged tight and hard there can’t no air git at the +roots. Ye must shake that sod up a little, so as to +loosen it, and then jest press it down with yer foot ontwil +it jest teches the ground nicely all round. Sod’s too +thin, anyhow.”</p> + +<p>So Mr. Blosberg thrust his hands into the nasty mud +under his darling, much abused sod, and spread his +fingers wide apart to keep it from breaking to pieces as +he raised it, and finally got it loosened up and pressed +down to Mr. Thistlepod’s satisfaction, who then told him +he didn’t believe he could make that sod grow any way, +and drove away. Then Mr. Blosberg stepped back to +look at that sod, feeling confident that he had got +through with it, when young Mr. Simpson came along.</p> + +<p>“Hello, Blos, old boy; watchu doin’?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Blosberg timorously answered that he was sodding +a little. Then Mr. Simpson pressed his lips very tightly +together to repress a smile, and let his cheeks swell and +bulge out to the size of toy balloons with suppressed +merriment, and finally burst into a snort of derisive +laughter that made the windows rattle in the houses on +the other side of the street, and he went on, leaving Mr. +Blosberg somewhat nettled and a little discouraged. He +stood, with his fingers spread wide apart, holding his +arms out like wings, and wondering whether he had +better go get another sod or go wash his hands, when a +policeman came by, and paused. “Soddin’?” he asked, +sententiously.</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir, a little,” replied Mr. Blosberg, respectfully.</p> + +<p>“Where’d you get your sod?” inquired the representative +of public order.</p> + +<p>Mr. Blosberg dolefully indicated the little bare parallelogram +in the scanty patch of verdure as his base of +supplies.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span>“You’re the man I’ve been lookin’ for,” replied public +order. “You come along with me.”</p> + +<p>And Mr. Blosberg went along, and the Police Judge +fined him $11.95, and when Mr. Blosberg got home he +found that a cow had got into his yard during his absence +and stepped on that precious sod five times, and put her +foot clear through it every time, so that it looked like a +patch of moss rolled up in a wad, more than a sod. And +then Mr. Blosberg fell on his knees and raised his hands +to heaven, and registered a vow that he would never +plant another sod if this whole fertile world turned into +a Sahara for want of his aid.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">THE AMENITIES OF POLITICS.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">“THERE is one thing,” said Mr. Leatherby, as he +was walking down town one drizzling, disagreeable +morning during the last presidential campaign, +“that disgusts me with politics, and that is, the violent +and abusive tone in which our daily papers conduct the +discussion of every issue and question which they touch +upon.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed you may well be disgusted at it,” replied old +Mr. Bartholomew, who had just joined him. “It is as +much as a man can do to lift a newspaper off his door +step with a pair of tongs. Time and again I throw the +paper down half read, and I have seriously thought of +stopping it altogether, for I consider its presence in my +family a contamination.”</p> + +<p>“It is, in truth,” replied Mr. Leatherby; “it is worse +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span>than a contamination. It is corrupting; it has a degrading, +brutalizing influence, that is, I am convinced, undermining +the foundations of our moral structure. The daily +press of to-day is one great engine of abuse, defamation, +bad grammar, worse language and worst morals.”</p> + +<p>“I can not see, for my part,” said Mr. Bartholomew, +“why men can not discuss politics as freely, as earnestly, +and as entirely free from acrimonious expressions and +feeling, as purely exempt from abusive language of any +kind, from any heat and anger, in fact, as they could +discuss the grade of a street or the style of a coat.”</p> + +<p>“And so think I,” said Mr. Leatherby. “I can not, +for my part, conceive of an intellect so warped and narrow, +a mind so shallow, that it can not carry on a discussion +upon any question in politics without falling into the +asperities, vulgarity, abusive detraction, and shameful +slander that is the reproach and disgrace of the newspaper +press.”</p> + +<p>“It is a form of idiocy, I believe,” replied old Mr. +Bartholomew. “It is an indication of a feeble mind that +looks upon abuse as an argument, and bullying as logic. +I am and always have been a Republican, but I can +express my disapproval of many Democratic measures in +a gentlemanly manner; and if I had not mind enough to +keep my temper, I would consider that I had no right to +talk politics.”</p> + +<p>“You are perfectly correct,” rejoined Mr. Leatherby, +earnestly; “and while we disagree on some points in +political controversy, I being a life-long Democrat, yet we +can freely and with mutual pleasure, and, I trust, profit, +meet and discuss our differences in a friendly way, without +giving way to the insane and detestable exhibition +of temper, ignorance, and prejudice which marks the tone +of the morning paper.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span>“I had not noticed it so much in the <i>Hawkeye</i>,” replied +Mr. Bartholomew, with a show of awakening interest in +the conversation; “but when that trashy Democratic sheet +that pollutes the evening air is brought to me by my +neighbor, an ignorant dolt who can neither read nor write, +but takes the paper as a party duty, and asks me to read +it for him, I am amazed that the gods of truth and +decency do not annihilate the infamous, puerile sheet +with their thunderbolts.”</p> + +<p>“You must bear in mind, however,” rejoined Mr. +Leatherby, speaking a trifle louder than was necessary in +addressing a companion whose hand was resting on his +arm, “the <i>Gazette</i> has such a tide of corruption, such an +avalanche of political bigotry and villainy to rebuke, that +its voice must be raised in order to be heard: and it must +speak boldly, defiantly, and in the thunder tones of +righteous denunciation, to startle the people into a realizing +sense of the peril which threatens the country from +Republican misrule and tyranny.”</p> + +<p>“By George!” shouted Mr. Bartholomew, “the Republican +party is the last, the only bulwark between the +republic and eternal ruin. I tell you, sir, once let the +Democratic party obtain control of this government, once +let that infamous organization of political thieves, knucks, +outlaws, and castaways take charge of our political +machinery, and we will find ourselves in the hands of a +horde of the most abandoned profligates, the most utterly +unprincipled, the most vicious, demoralized, unconscionable, +diabolical set of scoundrels that ever cheated the +gallows.”</p> + +<p>“By the long-horned spoon!” roared Mr. Leatherby, +jerking his arm away from Mr. Bartholomew’s hand; “if +the satanic and infernal plans of the Republican party +were carried out, with all their attendant knavery and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span>debauchery, this government would be a rule of branded +malefactors and convicts, a government of felons, a penal +colony in which the most hopelessly irreclaimable, graceless +villains would administer the law. The bad faith +of the Republican party, its ignominious record, its vicious +tendencies, has shocked the Christian world, and——”</p> + +<p>“You’re a liar!” yelled Mr. Bartholomew, “and you +are just like the rest of your besotted, low-lived, ignorant +class—a low, mean, pitiful, beggarly, unscrupulous and +treacherous set, whose impudence in asking for the votes +of honorable men is only equaled by your rapacious and +unbridled greed for office; your——”</p> + +<p>“You are an old fool!” howled Mr. Leatherby; “a +censorious, clamorous, scurrilous, foul-tongued old reprobate, +and I disgrace my name when I talk to you on the +street. You mistake vituperation and abuse for argument, +and you reply to a simple plain statement of facts with +malignant and defamatory slander and calumny, because +you can’t answer.”</p> + +<p>“Shut up!” shrieked Mr. Bartholomew. “Don’t you +say another word to me, or I’ll slap your ugly mouth! +By George, I’ll kick your head off!”</p> + +<p>“You can’t do it!” roared Mr. Leatherby, pulling off +his coat, and dancing around Mr. Bartholomew. “I can +lick the whole Republican party, from the big whisky thief +and ring master in the White House down to the sneak +thief that picks pockets at mass meetings! I can——”</p> + +<p>“You’re a fighting liar, and you daren’t take it up!” +howled Mr. Bartholomew, pulling off his coat.</p> + +<p>Then Mr. Leatherby ran up and kicked him twice +while he was struggling in the arms of his coat, but the +old gentleman got loose in a flash and hit Mr. Leatherby +a resounding thwack on the nose with his cane, and when +Mr. Leatherby stopped to hold a handkerchief over his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span>bleeding proboscis, Mr. Bartholomew got in a couple more +real good ones with his cane; then Mr. Leatherby went +for the rocks in the macadamized street. He broke two +windows in a grocery before he hit Mr. Bartholomew, +when he caught the old gentleman on the side of the +head and dropped him. Then Mr. Bartholomew took to +the stone pile and hit a young lady on the other side of +the street, and Mr. Leatherby hurled a tremendous big +rock, which missed the old gentleman and blacked the +eye of a policeman who was coming to separate them, +but was so incensed that he arrested them, and they were +each fined $10 and costs for fighting in the street. And +they both firmly believe that the unbridled hatred and +unreasonable recriminations and abuse of the daily +papers are iniquitous in their influence, and should be +suppressed for the good of society.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was a sad scene when the authorities took a poor +man from Happy Hollow, and sent him out to the poor +house. The parting between the poor man and his +eleven dogs, which he distributed among his sympathizing +relatives, was affecting in the extreme. We believe +the man had a few children, too, but not enough to make +a fuss about.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A bashful</span> young man, while out driving with the +dearest girl in the world, had to get out and buckle the +crupper, and hesitatingly exclaimed that “the animal’s +bustle had come loose.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">A THRILLING ENCOUNTER.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">IT happens, once in a while, that even the ordinary +routine of the editorial sanctum is broken by incidents +and scenes that are fairly dramatic in their character. +As we write, there comes back to us the reminiscence of +a quiet, sleepy Summer afternoon, only a few short years +ago. The very flies in the sanctum buzzed lazily about +the room, oppressed by the heat and the quiet loneliness +of the place, when the door opened with a quick, sudden +snap, and we turned and saw a woman stepping into the +room. She was not old, and her face, haggard with care +and seamed with trouble, still bore traces of great beauty. +She came into the office with a quick, nervous tread, and +there was a hunted look in her eyes that betrayed the +fugitive. She closed the door behind her, and turned the +key in almost the same motion, with the quick instinctive +manner of a person who had fallen into the habit of +isolating herself from observation and pursuit at every +opportunity. She refused to sit down, but said:</p> + +<p>“I can tell you all you will want to know about me in +very few words—I am a fugitive.”</p> + +<p>We told her we had guessed as much, and we besought +her to confide nothing to us. We could not help her, we +said; our duty as a journalist would not permit us to +extend any aid to a person flying from the law. She +said:</p> + +<p>“I do not want you to aid me in farther flight; I am +tired to death. My own conscience, more pitiless than +the minions of the law, has pursued me for years with a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span>whip of scorpions. I can not escape its terrible lashings. +I can not fly from my punishment if I would, and I am +anxious it should be over. Death would be a welcome +relief, if it would but come.”</p> + +<p>Again we told the panting, weary creature to tell none +of her story to us, and advised her to go to the police +headquarters and give herself into the hands of the law, +which would deal justly, and, we had no doubt, in view +of her sufferings and remorse, mercifully with her.</p> + +<p>“I can not!” she exclaimed, covering her face with +her hands, and breaking into convulsive sobs; “I +can not, I can not. You do not know there are other +hearts would ache if I gave myself up and told all. I +want to tell my story to some one who will pity me and +advise me. There are those whose hands are as dark +with ineffaceable stains as mine are, but who do not suffer +the mental agony that oppresses me. Shall I, in order +to escape the lashings of my own conscience, consign +these, whose lives are happy and whose hearts know no +remorse, to the same punishment for which I yearn?”</p> + +<p>We asked her (for our curiosity conquered our caution) +if it was possible that one so young and fair was the +center of a wide-spreading circle of crime that held in +its horrid entanglements so many others beside herself?</p> + +<p>“Aye,” she said, bitterly. “If I went to the gallows +through a court of justice, I would lead with me, held by +the same terrible links of evidence, a guilty train of men +hardened in crime, and their hands steeped in innocent +blood!”</p> + +<p>“Woman, woman!” we exclaimed, in horrified tones, +“in the name of heaven, who and what are you?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, heaven help me!” she shrieked, in a voice that +chilled our marrow—“I am old man Bender!”</p> + +<p>A weird, wild whoop rent the silence of the sanctum—and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>the woman was alone. There was a sound as of a +rising journalist scrambling up through the narrow copy +tube, and the next instant a bare head, with a quill over +one ear, burst through the hatchway in the roof, and, +followed by a complete set of editorial anatomy, emerged, +and running briskly to the rear wall of the building, +disappeared down the lightning-rod, and was seen no +more until the next day at three P. M.</p> + +<p>We never saw the woman again, and wis not where +she is, but we smile in bitter derision whenever we read +that the police have arrested an old man answering the +description of old man Bender.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">FIVE WOMEN.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">ONE afternoon five women went out on South Hill in +a street car. One of them was a fat woman in a +black dress, with a cameo pin as large as a stucco ornament. +She breathed at a high pressure, about 103 to the +minute. A woman with a thin, long neck, and sad eyes, +and a Paisley shawl, sitting on the other side of the car, +said, in a feeble voice:</p> + +<p>“Good afternoon, Mrs. Waughop.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, (puff) Mrs. Dresseldorff, (puff, puff,) how do +(puff) you do?” (Puff, puff.)</p> + +<p>“Oh, I ain’t feeling well at all. I’ve had so much +trouble with my lungs, and nothing seems to do them +any good. I’ve tried onion gargle, and three kinds of +expectorant, and Wine of Tar, and two of Doctor +Bolus’s prescriptions, and one of Dr. Bleadem’s, and a +new kind of ointment, but nothing seems to have any +effect on them. How do you feel to-day?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span>“Oh,” groaned Mrs. Waughop, “I’m not getting on at +all. My asthma is worse every day (puff, puff), and I +can’t sleep at night, and I’m afraid I’ll have to give up +entirely (puff, puff). I could hardly get out to-day +(puff, puff, puff). I went to Greenbaum and Schroder’s +and around to Guest’s and down to Carpenter’s (puff, +puff), and into Parsons’ and up to Mrs. Voorhees’ (puff, +puff), and down to Wyman’s and up to Wesley Jones’ +and into Gus Dodge’s and (puff, puff, puff) down to the +express office, and then by the time I had made a couple +of calls out on North Hill and went to the doctor’s, I +was as tired as though I had walked a mile (puff, puff, +puff). I don’t know what’s going to become of me, I’m +sure. How are you, this afternoon, Mrs. Dinkleman?” +she continued, turning to the next woman, a lonesome +looking female with a wart on her chin, who smiled dismally +on being addressed and paused in the midst of a +search for a street car nickel in the bottom of a black +reticule as big as a hair trunk.</p> + +<p>“I’m about half down with the chills,” she said, with +a prolonged sigh; “I have such a fever every night, I +don’t get two hours’ sleep out of the twenty-four, and +I’m afraid I’ll be down sick before I get through with it. +My eyesight is failing, too, and I have a constant headache +that worries me nearly to death. I am glad, Mrs. +Mulligan,” said Mrs. Dinkleman, turning to the fourth +woman, “to see you able to be out.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Mulligan bowed feebly to the rest of the ladies. +“Indeed I oughtn’t to be out,” she groaned, “I ought to +be in bed this minute. I haven’t had this flannel off my +throat for three weeks, and I’m afraid I’ll lose my voice +entirely. I’ve had a misery across my back since I don’t +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span>know when, and I had to have three teeth pulled this +blessed afternoon. I was that bad with the rheumatiz +all last week I didn’t dare stir out of the house, and I’ve +got a felon coming on my finger just as sure as I’m a living +woman. What appears to be the matter with your +face, Mrs. Gallagher?” she asked the last woman in the +car.</p> + +<p>“Neuralagy of the eyes,” the last woman, who wore +black glasses and green goggles, remarked, in such +lugubrious tones that they cast a gloom over the entire +community, and the masculine occupants of the car +wondered if there was a well woman in America.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<figure class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> + <img src="images/i_146a.jpg" width="450" height="679" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <p class="caption">GOBLIN GATE.</p> + <p class="right">See page <a href="#THE_GOBLIN_GATE">148</a>.</p> + </figcaption> +</figure> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_GOBLIN_GATE">THE GOBLIN GATE.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">WE once knew a most worthy man, whose irreproachable +life was at one time threatened with mental +and physical wreck, all on account of his front gate. He +lived out on North Hill, with his charming wife and seven +lovely daughters. He was a pale-faced, anxious-looking +man, who moved about and looked and spoke as though +he supped with sorrow seven times a week. He has, +with all those seven lovely daughters, only one front gate, +and that’s what made him pale. In one Summer he +spent $217 repairing that front gate—putting in new ones, +and experimenting with various kinds of hinges; and +after all that, the gate swung all through the Winter on +a leather strap and a piece of clothes-line—and there +was peace in the household, and the man grew fat. But +when the April days were nigh, it soon became apparent +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span>to the man that his troubles were at hand, and anxiety +soon drove the roses from his damask cheeks and robbed +his ribs of their substance. He used to climb over the +back fence, to avoid calling attention to the disreputable +looking old gate; but his self-denial was of no avail. +One evening his eldest daughter, Sophronia, said:</p> + +<p>“Pa, that horrid old gate is the most disgusting thing +on Fifth Street. If you can’t afford to have it fixed, I’d +take it away and put up a stile.”</p> + +<p>And pa only groaned. But an evening or so later, his +youngest daughter, Elfrida, came in and said, with considerable +warmth:</p> + +<p>“Pa! I wish you had that beastly old gate tied to your +neck; that’s what I wish!”</p> + +<p>And she dissolved in tears, and evaporated up stairs +in a misty cloud, while her sisters followed slowly, casting +reproachful glances at pa. And the next evening, his +third daughter, Azalea, came bouncing into the room, +about 9:30 P. M., with her gloves in a condition to indicate +that she had been patting gravel, and said, with +some energy, that if pa had no feeling, other people had; +and she wished she was dead, she did; and she hoped +that the next time pa went out of that hateful old gate, +he’d fall clear from Fifth Street to the bridge, so she did. +And she broke down, and disappeared with a staccato +accompaniment of sobs and sniffles. And the next time pa +went out of that gate, he found it prostrate between the +two posts, and saw that the fragile strands of the clothes-line +had parted, under some extraordinary pressure; and +that was what ailed Azalea’s gloves. Pa saw there was +nothing for it but a new gate, and he groaned aloud as he +viewed the dreary prospect of furnishing gates to support +the manly forms of the best young men of Burlington for +another Summer. It soon became evident that he was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span>getting up a gate he could match against time. He +pondered, and pondered, and pondered. He became the +confidant of carpenters; he was often seen guiltily +showing certain plans and drawings to blacksmiths and +cunning workers in iron and steel. And in due time he +had a new gate up; a massive gate, with great posts, +ornamental and substantial—and the seven sisters were +pleased. They read the little brass plate, that informed +them that a patent was applied for, and they saw the +words, “For 130 pounds;” but they didn’t know what +it meant until the gate had swung on the uneven tenor +of its way about a week.</p> + +<p>One evening, the weather, though sufficiently cool to +be bracing; admitted a test of the new gate. A murmur +of voices arose from the vicinity of that popular lovers’ +retreat, as Sophronia swung idly to and fro on its heavy +frame. Presently, a pale-faced, anxious-looking man, +who was holding his hand upon his breast to still his +beating heart, as he crouched in a dark corner of the +porch, heard Rodolphus say:</p> + +<p>“But believe me, Sophronia, my own heart’s idol, +between the touches of the rude hand of time and the +unkind——” As he began the word, he leaned forward +and bent his weight upon the gate, and with a sharp click +a little trap-door in the side of the post flew open, and a +gaunt, many-jointed arm of steel, with an iron knob as +big as a Virginia gourd on the end of it flew out, +and, with the rapidity of lightning, hit Rodolphus two +resounding pelts between the shoulders, that sounded +like a bass drum explosion.</p> + +<p>“Oh-h-h! gosh!” he roared, “I’m stabbed! I’m +stabbed!” and, without waiting to pick up his hat, fled, +shrieking for the doctor; while Sophronia rushed into the +house, crying, “Pa! pa! pa! Rodolphus is shot!” and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span>swooned. The pale-faced man said nothing, but shrank +still further back into the shadow, and thrust his handkerchief +into his mouth to stifle a smile. Pretty soon he +knew the voice of his daughter Azalea at the gate, saying +“Good night.” But a rich, manly voice detained her; +and the measured swing of the gate was again heard in +the distance. Soon he heard Lorenzo say, as he made +ready to climb upon the gate:</p> + +<p>“But whatever of sorrow may await our future, dear +one, I would it might fall upon me——”</p> + +<p>And just as he lifted his last foot from the ground, the +trap opened, and the gaunt arm reached out and fell +upon him, with that big knob, four times; and every time +it reached him, Lorenzo shrieked:</p> + +<p>“Bleeding heart! Oh, mercy, mercy, Mr. Man! Oh, +murder!”</p> + +<p>And as he ambled away in the starlight, wailing for +arnica, Azalea fled wildly to her home, shrieking, “Oh +pa, pa, pa! somebody is murdering Lorenzo!” And on +the porch a pale-faced man thrust the rim of his felt hat +into his mouth, to reinforce his handkerchief, and hugged +himself in placid content. Pretty soon the man’s fifth +daughter came home from a party, and she, too, perched +on the gate; and, in a moment or two, Alphonso said:</p> + +<p>“But, my own Miriam, would I could tell you what I +feel for you——”</p> + +<p>But he didn’t; for, just as he leaned upon the gate, +the gaunt arm reached out and felt for him with about +seventy-five pounds of iron, and knocked his breath so +far out of him that he couldn’t shriek until he had run +half a mile away from the house. And Miriam ran into +the house, screaming that Alphonso had a fit.</p> + +<p>And the pale-faced man rose up out of the shadow and +emptied his mouth; and as he stood under the quiet +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span>starlight, looking at the gate whose powerful but delicate +mechanism repelled every ounce of weight over 130 +pounds, a look of ineffable peace stole over the pale face, +and the smile that rested on the quiet features told that +the struggle of a lifetime was ended in victory—and a +gate had been discovered that could set at naught the +oppressions of thoughtless young people.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">THE AUTOMATIC CLOTHES-LINE REEL.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">NO one who lived in Burlington that year, can ever +forget the first practical test that was made of +the famous “Domestic Automatic” clothes-line reel. +It was a curious and powerful bit of mechanism, and was +the invention of a man who lived on Barnes Street. This +man used to be grievously afflicted because the Scandinavian +lady who superintended the weekly wash day +ceremonies at his house always took great pains to leave +a net work of clothes-line spread all around his back +yard. And when he made complaint to her about it she +addressed him in the musical accents of Christine Nilsson’s +native language, and overwhelmed him with a +torrent of eloquence that he could not understand. And +when he remonstrated with his wife and daughter about +it they laughed him to scorn, and his daughter, who was +educated at Vassar, and can hustle her terrified parent +out of the house with one hand, told him if he interfered +any more in that department around that house he’d get +drowned in the wash-tub. So this man suffered. One +bitter cold Winter morning he ran out to the woodshed +after some kindling, and the first line caught him under +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span>the chin and pulled his neck out till it was a foot long, +and he ran into the house and frightened his wife into +fits by his terrible appearance, and she threatened to +apply for a divorce if he ever made faces at her that way +again. It was nearly three hours before his neck shrunk +back to its natural size. And a few nights after that, he +was all dressed to go to a party with his family, and he +went bounding down the back yard to see that the alley +gate was fastened, and a slack line caught him amidships, +let him run out the slack, and then when it hauled taut, +just picked him up, tossed the breath out of him, turned +him clear over, and chucked him down on his back, splitting +his coat from the tail-buttons to the neck. And he +couldn’t move, and he couldn’t speak, and he couldn’t +even breathe, only about thirty cents on the dollar, so he +couldn’t answer his wife and daughter when they screamed +to him that they were ready, and they concluded that he +had run away to avoid going with them, so they went off +without him, and never came back till eleven o’clock, and +the man lay out in the back yard all that time, trying to +die. And one time after that, he was jogging across the +back yard with his arms full of about three hundred +pounds of hard wood, and he was laughing like a hyena +at something he had read in <i>The Hawkeye</i>, when a +clothes-prop slipped just as he passed under the line and +dropped on his head, raising a lump as big as an egg, +and as he fell forward, another line caught right in his +mouth, and sawed it clear back to his ears, so that when +he smiled the top of his head only hung on a hinge.</p> + +<p>Well, these things naturally weighed on his mind and +depressed him, but they set him to thinking, and he went +to work and invented a patent clothes-line reel, which was +inclosed in a heavy cast-iron box, and was worked +by a powerful automatic arrangement. You only had to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span>wind up the box and set it for a certain hour, just like +an alarm clock, and at that hour the reel would go off, +and pull on the line like a team of mules, the spring +hook at the other end of the line would let go its +hold, and that line would be rolled up at the rate +of a thousand miles a minute. He said nothing +about his invention, but put up the box and told some +lie about it to his family, which is a way men have, and +he set it for 7 o’clock P. M., and wound it up strong. +Then he watched Miss Nilsson’s compatriot run out the +line and adjust the hook, and he went away.</p> + +<p>About 7 o’clock that evening, while he was toasting +his feet at the fire and reading the almanac, the family +were disturbed by unmistakable indications of a fight +going on in the back yard between a hurricane and an +earthquake, in which the earthquake appeared to be getting +a little the best of it. The affrighted family rushed +to the back door and looked out upon a scene of devastation +and anarchy. The air was full of fragments of +linen, and cotton, and red flannel, while shirt buttons, +clothes pins, and little brass buckles, were flying like +hail. The reel in the iron box was making about 60,000 +revolutions a minute, and was whirling around like a +thrashing machine, and the line was tearing around the +posts like a streak of runaway lightning, and the clothes +were trying to keep along with it, and around the posts +they were ripping, tearing and snapping more than any +cyclone that ever got loose, while where the line shot into +the hawse-hole in the iron box, the striped stockings and +white shirts and things, and flannels, and yarn socks, and +undershirts and more things, and aprons, and handkerchiefs, +and sheets and things, and pillow-slips, just foamed +and bulged, and tossed wildly, and ripped, and tore, and +scraped, until the yard and air were so full of lint that it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span>looked worse than an arctic snow storm. Oh, it was +dreadful. It was terrible. Everybody shrieked in +dismay.</p> + +<p>“Somebody’s at the clothes-line!” screamed the man’s +daughter.</p> + +<p>“Good heavens!” yelled the man, “hadn’t you taken +the clothes in?”</p> + +<p>“No!” chorused the women.</p> + +<p>The man thought he would save what was left. He +sprang at the clothes-line. He caught the flying hook +at the end with both hands, and the next instant, before +the terrified eyes of his shrieking wife and daughter, he +was jerked through the hole in the iron box, a quivering +mass of boneless flesh, while his glistening skeleton fell +rattling upon the porch.</p> + +<p>They gathered his frame work off the porch, and +unlocked the box and drew out his covering. He was +not dead, so deftly and quickly had he been removed +from his framework. They sent for the doctors, but their +skill could not avail to get the man together again, and +now he sits, limp and boneless, in a high-backed easy +chair, smiling sadly at his grinning skeleton, which sits +in a chair on the opposite side of the fire-place, grinning +sociably at its counterpart, and rattling horribly every +time it crosses its bony legs, or scratches the top of its +glistening head with its gaunt, fleshless fingers. And +thus that poor man will have to drag out a dual existence +until death comes to both of him. It is a painful, +expensive life, for the skeleton eats just as much as the +flesh, and the flesh has taken to smoking ten cent cigars, +and the skeleton can’t sleep a wink unless it has a big +hot whisky every night at bed time. And all this is the +result of wicked, wicked carelessness. A terrible warning +to women who leave the clothes-line up after dark.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">INSPIRATIONS OF TRUTH.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">EVERY year, so oft as the 22d of February comes, +the day sacred to the memory of the father of his +country is faithfully celebrated by two good boys of +Burlington, who, if their lives are only spared, will yet +be second editions of the immortal G. W. Last year, it +was noticed by every one about the house, they were +unusually good. They stayed home all the morning, and +talked about Washington, and how he broke the mule +and girdled the sassafras tree, and how good he was, and +what a pity it was he had no middle name. Along in +the afternoon their mother sent them to the church, +where there was to be a festival, with a basket filled +high with sweet home-made bread, and cold boiled ham, +and roast chicken, and one thing and another. They +took hold of the basket and plodded soberly and goodily +toward the church. As they started down Division +Street they saw a boy coming toward them whom they +knew. He was the son of a neighbor, the blacksmith’s +boy, with whom they had a feud of long standing; for on +divers occasions he had caught these good brothers out, +separately, and had rudely assaulted them, and fairly +pounded the hair off their heads. He was a little too +healthy for either of the boys alone, but the pair had +sworn to make it lively for him if ever they lighted upon +him together. So soon as they saw him they put down +the basket and gave chase. He girded up his loins and +fled, but the boys got themselves up and pursued after +him and pressed him hard, and after a rattling chase of +about two blocks, they encompassed him round about in a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span>vacant lot, and fell upon him, and smote him insomuch +that he begged for mercy and screamed for succor until +he was black in the face. Then the victors, joyous +returning from the fray, with light steps sought their long +abandoned train. Imagine their dismay when, through +the gathering twilight gloom, they saw somewhat less +than one hundred and fifty thousand dogs, half buried in +the basket, dividing and devouring the sutler stores contained +therein. There was precious little left when the +dogs were driven away, and the boys went home exceeding +sorrowful, but hopeful. Their mother met them at +the door, and took the empty basket from their hands.</p> + +<p>“Who did you give the basket to?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Featherstone, dear ma,” replied the elder George +Washington.</p> + +<p>“And what did she say?” asked their mother, for Mrs. +Featherstone is an authority in church festivals.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” chorused both George Washingtons, “she said +it was the nicest basket that had come in all the afternoon.”</p> + +<p>“And,” added the younger George, feeling that he +wasn’t doing himself justice if he didn’t get in an independent +statement, “Mrs. Lamphreys said she would +give anything in the world if she could make such white +bread as yours—she said it was wonderful how you +done it.”</p> + +<p>“Now, did she say that?” cried the delighted woman; +for at the last sociable Mrs. Lamphreys said her bread +was like bass-wood slabs.</p> + +<p>“And Mr. Middlerib,” cried the elder G. W., fearful +lest his younger brother should find favor and be exalted +over him, “said there wasn’t such chickens anywhere in +the State of Iowa outside of that basket.”</p> + +<p>And then the younger held the age again, and the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>older chipped one, and the younger saw him and raised +him, and then the older came in, and the younger stayed +right by him, and they told all manner of things and +compliments about and from all manner of people who +were at the church, until the good woman, astonished +and delighted at her sudden popularity, determined to +go to the sociable, although she had not intended to do +so. She went, and she looked in vain for her cake and +ham and chicken. She returned home at an early hour, +and roused her young George Washingtons from the +sweet, innocent sleep of childhood. Then she took a +skate strap, and after a brief but pointed cross-questioning +on the evidence already brought forward, proceeded——. +The rest is too awful.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">SPIRIT PHOTOGRAPHY.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">IT must have been nearly three years ago, as nearly as +we can remember, just about the time Monfort and +Hill got to photographing ghosts, that a tall, pale man, +with piercing black eyes and long hair, came to Burlington +and opened a photograph gallery. He was a spirit +photographer, and when his sitters received their pictures, +for which they were expected to pay very roundly, lo, the +spirit faces of dear ones who had gone before clustered +around the face of the party whose photograph had been +taken from life. There were plenty of people in the +learned city of Burlington who were as fond of believing +in supernatural things as are the outside barbarians. So, +credulous men and women thronged to the spirit artist’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span>studio, the spirits came up to be photographed around +their mortal friends by squads and platoons, and worldly +dross, in the shape of a fluctuating and irredeemable +currency, poured into the artist’s coffers, and he was +happy. Among others who went to his studio, was a +sad-eyed young man who is a genius. He never used to +get home till two o’clock in the morning, because he was +down in his office, he told the folks, burning the midnight +oil, and committing the yearnings of a restless and +ambitious genius to paper. He was supposed to be +writing a book of poems, and, consequently, the fair ones +who were privileged to enter the circle of his dreamy +acquaintance, doted on him. When he went to have his +photograph taken, the dearest girl in the world, the one +who tells him what nice hands he has, and who rubs his +head when his long hours of lonely study make it ache +all the next day, accompanied him. He told her on the +way down that he expected when his counterfeit presented +itself on the albumenized card, the spirit faces of +Byron, and Hood, and Macaulay, and Shakespeare, and +Tom Moore, and Shelley would rise and cluster around +him. She gasped hysterically, and, looking proudly at +him, said she believed they would too, and wouldn’t it +be nice? But he only sighed gloomily, as genius always +sighs, and they entered the studio.</p> + +<p>While the young man was posing himself the Professor +told him that those who were nearest and dearest +to him in his lonely hours would gather around him and +kiss the clustering curls on his marble brow, and that no +earthly power could keep them out of the camera. The +young lady reiterated her opinion in regard to the “niceness” +of such an arrangement, the young man put on a +look of genius and gazed into the camera with the air of +a man who is wondering where he can borrow three dollars; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span>the artist dived under the cloth and in due time he +stepped to the front with the picture and exhibited it to +the poet and the adoring girl.</p> + +<p>Spirits?</p> + +<p>One or two of them. Right in the center was the +young poet, gazing dreamily out into vacancy. And the +spirits who cheered him in his lonely hours of study, and +assisted him in the conflagration of the midnight oil, +gathered around him, and never stirred or faded, not +even when the poet ejaculated, “Oh lying horrors!” nor +yet when the young girl shrieked and fell fainting with +her hair caught in that forked thing the artist stands +behind the subject to hold his head steady. For on the +right of the poet there stood a spirit with a long slim +neck whose name appeared to be “Whisky Cocktail,” +and on the left there was a short, squatty spirit who was +announced as just plain “Gin,” and then, clustering all +around the young poet’s head, like an aureola, were +“Straights,” whatever they are, “Grasshopper Punch,” +“Log Cabin Cocktail,” “Old Tamarack,” “Eye Openers,” +“Appetizers,” “Night Caps,” “Can’t Quits,” “Corpse +Revivers,” “Coffin Nails,” “Indian Cocktails,” “Mountain +Dew,” “Benzine,” “The New Drink,” “Fly Poison,” +“What Killed Dad,” “The Same,” “Fast Freight,” +“Bran’an Wa’r,” “Sherri’neg,” “Sudden Death,” “Crusade +Drops,” “Commissary No. 3,” “Old Crow,” +“Tangleleg,” “Forty Rod,” “Grim Death,” “Jimson +Juice,” “Chain Lightning,” “Twelfth Resolution,” +“That’s on Me,” “Temperance Tract,” “Quinine,” and +several other spirits who were too far in the back ground +to show their cards very distinctly.</p> + +<p>The young man didn’t take another sitting, and he has +since spent more time trying to convince “her” that +this spirit photography is the greatest humbug that ever +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span>deluded a credulous people, than he ever spent with the +spirits who share his lonely hours of midnight toil.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">WRITING FOR THE PRESS.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">PROF. MATTHEWS, in his delightful book, “Hours +With Men and Books,” devotes a chapter, and a +very instructive chapter too, to advising and directing +people who are determined to write for the press what +to write and how to say it. But even in that special +chapter Prof. Matthews has overlooked quite a number +of important points which we, in our experience +with occasional newspaper contributors, have come to +look upon as absolutely essential to good correspondence. +We have had, even in the usually infallible <i>Hawkeye</i>, +some complaint, once in a while, from occasional +correspondents about mistakes which have appeared in +their articles when they come out in print. We are +aware that in many cases the fault was our own, but we +are confident all such trouble could be remedied if correspondents +would pay a little more attention to the +preparation of their manuscript. Printers are not always +infallible, and proof readers do sometimes make mistakes, +but we have prepared a few practical hints and +instructions, and if people who write occasionally for the +papers will only observe the following simple and practical +rules, which are much easier to observe than Prof. +Matthews’, they may be assured that their articles will +always command the highest market price, which is seldom +less than two cents a pound:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span>Never write with pen or ink. It is altogether too plain, +and doesn’t hold the mind of the editor and printers +closely enough to their work.</p> + +<p>If you are compelled to use ink never use that vulgarity +known as the blotting pad. If you drop a blot of +ink on the paper, lick it off. The intelligent compositor +loves nothing so dearly as to read through the smear this +will make across twenty or thirty words. We have seen +him hang over such a piece of copy half an hour, swearing +like a pirate all the time, he felt that good.</p> + +<p>Don’t punctuate. Editors and publishers prefer to +punctuate all manuscript sent to them. And don’t use +capitals. Then the editor can punctuate and capitalize +to suit himself, and your article, when you see it in print, +will astonish even if it does not please you.</p> + +<p>Don’t try to write too plainly. It is a sign of plebeian +origin and public-school breeding. Poor writing is an +indication of genius. It’s about the only indication of +genius that a great many men possess. Scrawl your +article with your eyes shut, and make every word as +illegible as you can. We get the same price for it from +the rag-man as though the paper were covered with +copper-plate sentences.</p> + +<p>Avoid all painstaking with proper names. All editors +know the full name of every man, woman and child in +the United States, and the merest hint at the name is +sufficient. For instance, if you write a character something +like a drunken figure “8,” and then draw a wavy +line, and then write the letter M and another wavy +line, the editor will know at once that you mean Samuel +Morrison, even though you may think you mean “Lemuel +Messenger.” It is a great mistake to think that +proper names should be written plainly.</p> + +<p>Always write on both sides of the paper, and when you +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span>have filled both sides of every page trail a line up and +down every margin, and back to the top of the first page, +closing your article by writing the signature just above +the date. How editors do love to get hold of articles +written in this style. And how they would like to get +hold of the man who sends them. Just for ten minutes. +Alone. In the woods, with a gun.</p> + +<p>Lay your paper on the ground when you write; the +rougher the ground the better. A dry goods box or the +side of the house will do if the ground is too damp. +Any thing rather than a table or desk.</p> + +<p>Coarse brown wrapping paper is the best for writing +your articles on. If you can tear down an old circus +poster and write on the pasty side of it with a pine stick, +it will do still better.</p> + +<p>When your article is completed, crunch the paper in +your pocket, and carry it two or three days before sending +it in. This rubs off the superfluous pencil marks +and makes it lighter to handle.</p> + +<p>If you can think of it, lose one page out of the middle +of your article. The editor can easily supply what is +missing, and he loves to do it. He has nothing else +to do.</p> + +<p>If correspondents will observe these directions, editors, +in most instances, will hold themselves personally +responsible for every error that appears in their articles, +and will pay full claims for damages when complaint is +made. We shall never forget the last man who complained +at the <i>Hawkeye</i> office under this rule. We can +never, never, although we should live a thousand years, +forget the appalling look he turned upon us while we +were pulling his lungs out of his ear with the nail-grab. +Our heart seemed to turn to ice, under the influence of +that dumb beseeching look, while we tore him to pieces. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span>We have never torn a man to pieces since without feeling +the hot tears spring to our eyes as we think of that +man. We have been tempted, time and again, to break +ourselves of this habit of tearing men to pieces for trivial +causes. But we digress. We were merely saying we +are always happy to receive complaints and correct any +errors for which we are responsible.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">DANGERS OF BATHING.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap2">AS the warm weather raises the waters of the creeks +and rivers to the temperature so inviting to the +boys of the republic, a few instructive and general suggestions +relative to bathing in the streams may prove the +means of saving some juvenile lives. Boys are proverbially +rash and reckless in almost everything they do, +and are so apt to overdo whatever they undertake, except +sawing wood or fastening the front gate, that too much +wholesome advice on the benefits of abstinence can never +be amiss in their cases. And especially is such advice +necessary in regard to bathing, for when a boy makes +up his mind to “go swimming,” he thinks of nothing +in the world except getting into the water. And every +year so many precious lives are endangered, and so much +pain and misery caused by boyish, carelessness and +thoughtlessness in this respect, that it is a solemn and +important duty of journalism to warn the boys of the +dangers that wait upon bathing parties, and instruct them +how to avoid them. We therefore give a few rules, culled +from the pages of personal experience, which, if properly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span>observed by the boys of America, may save them no one +can tell how much misery and suffering.</p> + +<p>1. Always ask your mother if you may go down to +the river with the boys to hunt carnelians. Mention the +names of Sammie Johnson, and Robbie Gregg, and Ellis +Haskell and Johnnie Chalmers, and Charlie Austin, and +Wallie Colburn, and Dockie Worthington, all well-known +“good boys,” who wash their faces every morning, keep +their clothes clean, wear white-collars, and don’t say bad +words, as the young gentlemen who are to comprise the +party. A judicious and strict adherence to this rule has +often obtained the necessary parental permission to visit +the river shore, which would otherwise be sternly denied, +especially if it should appear that Bill Slamup, and Tom +Dobbins, and Jim Sikes, and Butch Tinker, and Mickey +McCann, were the alternates who were confidently expected +to represent the first named delegates in the convention.</p> + +<p>2. Avoid going into the river in the vicinity of a lumber +yard. The temptation to take pine boards from the +lumber piles to swim on is too strong for many boys to +resist. It is very pleasant, we know, to swim around on +a nice broad plank, but the lumbermen do not always +like it, and we have known a rough board, abruptly drawn +from beneath the horizontal figure of a kicking, paddling, +laughing boy, to fill him with remorse and slivers to an +extent that would appear incredible were it not for the +fact that the boy who loses his plank in this way has +plenty of time to count his slivers as he pulls them out.</p> + +<p>We knew a boy, twenty years ago, who swam off a +plank in this way, and immediately afterward sat down +on the sandy shore, and amid the unfeeling laughter and +mocking sympathy of his colleagues, withdrew from his +cuticle, beginning at the chin and ending at the toes, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span>three hundred and seventeen well-developed average +slivers, and four of a larger variety, denominated snags. +And sometimes we wake up in the night, from happy +dreams of childhood’s guileless days, and half believe we +didn’t get all those slivers out then.</p> + +<p>3. Avoid putting a bar of kitchen soap in your pocket +before you leave home. It frequently gives the bather +away entirely, being quickly missed from the sink, and +readily detected about the person. And even if you get +it safely to the river, and the first boy who “soaps himself” +does not lose it in twenty feet of water, the “strocky” +appearance of your hair, on your return home, instantly +betrays the recent and extravagant use of resin soap, +and grave consequences are apt to follow. Besides, you +do not really need the soap, as is attested by your well-known +aversion to it at home.</p> + +<p>4. If convenient, bathe very near a railroad bridge. +Then, when a passenger train comes thundering by, you +can rush out of the water and dance and shriek on the +bank. Travelers like this; and if your uncle Jasper, +from Waterloo, or your father returning from Creston, +should happen to be on the train and recognize you, they +will tell you what the passengers said about it, and your +father will be so pleased that he will assist you in a little +physical exercise, so essential to the health after bathing. +And then the next time you go in swimming you can +show the boys your back—a spectacle in which they will +take fiendish delight, which they will exhibit by imitating, +in most expressive pantomime, the contortions, gestures, +and outcries in which you were supposed to have indulged +while your father was putting that back on you.</p> + +<p>5. If you desire to get up a crowd to go swimming, +signify your wishes by holding up your right hand, with +the first and second fingers erect and spread apart like a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span>letter V, and as many good boys as are ready, willing +and anxious to run away and go with you, will respond by +the same sign, and the party can easily be made up without +fear of detection, in the presence of the unsuspecting +preceptor, who is a graduate of a private school, and +never had any fun.</p> + +<p>6. Should any boy be so lost to honor as to desire to +leave the water before the rest of the crowd wish to do +so, he may be easily induced to return to the liquid element +by gently tossing a handful of dry sand or dust +upon his back, as nearly between the shoulders as may +be. If there is a really good, unsophisticated boy in the +crowd whose habit of wearing a white collar and carrying +a clean handkerchief pronounces him a haughty aristocrat, +the bad boys by getting dressed first and judiciously +applying the sand to him as often as he “comes out,” +can keep him in the water until his father comes to look +for him. Then, the next afternoon he goes down with +you to the river, you can look at his back, and have your +revenge.</p> + +<p>7. If a boy lingers in the water too long, it is sometimes +advisable, in order that he may learn to abstain +from indulging himself to such an intemperate extent in +the future, to tie each sleeve of his shirt in a most terrific +hard knot, right at the elbow. When this knot is dipped +into the water, and a boy gets at each end of the sleeve, +braces his feet and pulls for life, it may be drawn so +tightly that it can not be drawn out with a stump +machine. The boy who belongs to that shirt, after many +vain endeavors, is either compelled to cut off the sleeves, +or, <i>multis cum lachrymis</i>, go home with it buttoned around +his neck and hanging down his back, like a drunken +apron. This gives him away, bad, and the appearance +of that weeping boy, plodding timorously and apprehensively +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span>homeward through the gloaming, and the variegated +aspect of his back the next night, produce such a pleasant +impression upon you, that for two weeks afterward, +as your dear mother looks in at your room door, and sees +you smiling in your sleep, she thinks the angels are +whispering to you.</p> + +<p>8. The most approved method of drying the hair is +to shake it up rapidly with a pine stick. Never comb +your hair smoothly before going home, no matter who +offers to loan you a pocket-comb. A slick head of hair +excites suspicion in the family circle on sight.</p> + +<p>9. If, at the supper-table, the dreadful discovery is +made by your mother or sister that your shirt is wrong +side out, the best way to do is to own right up. Excuses +are useless; and no mother or father of ordinary intelligence +was ever misled by the assertion, however +solemnly made, that the shirt was turned by reason of +the boy too suddenly climbing a fence instead of going +through the gate.</p> + +<p>10. To get water out of your ears, lean your head +over to one side, and kick out violently with one leg, +while you pound your head smartly with the palm of +your hand. It is an exploded fallacy that holding a +warm stone to the ear will bring out the water.</p> + +<p>There are some other rules which might be added to +the above, but they are comparatively unimportant, and +are so generally known that you can learn them by applying +for information to the first bad boy you meet.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">THE POWER OF DIGNITY.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">THE human heart, in all its expansive, limitless +capacity for enjoyment, takes greater pleasure in +nothing than in witnessing a portly, solemn-visaged +man, the embodiment of natural dignity, importance +in clothes, administer a scathing rebuke to some +“smart” petty government official. One morning just +such a personification of innate dignity loomed up at the +stamp window of the post-office, and glared in gloomy +and majestic displeasure at the busy clerk who registered +a letter before he sprang to the window and asked the +stately customer what he wished. The great man did +not answer for several moments. He gazed steadily and +impressively over the clerk’s head, and then asked, in +ponderous tones:</p> + +<p>“Is there any one hear-r-r-e who attends to business?”</p> + +<p>The embarrassed clerk blushed, faltered for a moment, +then, recovering himself, said, with characteristic and +national cheerfulness, becoming an official of the Republic:</p> + +<p>“I will see, sir.”</p> + +<p>And he disappeared. He went into the other departments, +tortured a carrier with an original conundrum, +and heard a good story in the mailing room, and came +back.</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir,” he said to the great one, “there are, in +addition to myself, three clerks in the letter department, +one in the mailing room, four carriers, three route agents, +the mail driver and a janitor.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span>“Ah-h-h! I am glad there are so many. I may in +all that number find one who is at his post.”</p> + +<p>And then he looked as impressive as a special agent, +and was silent for three minutes, while the humbled +clerk awaited his orders, and impatient men behind him +fidgeted and grumbled. Finally, the great man said +with deep solemnity:</p> + +<p>“I wish one three-cent stamp.”</p> + +<p>The clerk tore off the stamp and held it, waiting for +the consideration. The great man made a somewhat +longer pause than usual; he felt in his various vest +pockets; he gradually lost his look of impressive rebuke; +his chest caved in, and he assumed the aspect of an +ordinary frail mortal, and he said:</p> + +<p>“Ah—the fact is—I’m sure—ah—in short, I find +that I have carelessly left my purse at home—can you +kindly—”</p> + +<p>The clerk, with the faintest suggestion of triumph in +his eye, brusquely waved the great man aside with—</p> + +<p>“Sorry for you, sir; but the clerk who sells stamps on +credit is not in. What does the next man want?”</p> + +<p>And the great man, as he backed through the smiling +crowd who stood around with money in their hands, felt +somehow that his rebuke had been thrown away, and +feared that if the case went to the jury without argument +it would very probably bring in a verdict for the Government.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">A CANDID CONFESSION.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">THERE used to live down on Washington Street, a +good man, who endeavored to train up his children +in the way they should go, and as his flock was numerous +he had anything but a sinecure in this training business. +Only last Summer the elder of these male olive branches, +who had lived about fourteen wicked years, enticed his +younger brother, who had only had ten years’ experience +in boyish deviltry, to go out on the river in a boat, a +species of pastime which their father had many a time +forbidden, and had even gone so far as to enforce his veto +with a skate strap. But the boys went this time, trusting +to luck to conceal their depravity from the knowledge +of their pa, and in due time they returned, and walked +around the house, the two most innocent looking boys in +Burlington. They separated for a few moments, and at +the expiration of that time the elder was suddenly confronted +by his father who requested a private interview +in the usual place, and the pair adjourned to the woodshed, +where, after a brief, but highly spirited performance, +in which the boy appeared most successfully as “heavy +villain” and his father took his favorite role of “first old +man,” the curtain went down and the boy, considerably +mystified, sought his younger brother.</p> + +<p>“John,” he said, “who do you suppose told dad? +Have you been licked?”</p> + +<p>John’s face will not look more peaceful and resigned +when it is in his coffin than it did as he replied,</p> + +<p>“No, have you?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span>“Have I? Come down to the cow yard and look at my +back.”</p> + +<p>John declined, but said:</p> + +<p>“Well, Bill, I’ll tell you how father found us out. I +am tired of acting this way, and I ain’t going to run +away and come home and lie about it any more. I’m +going to do better after this, and so when I saw father I +couldn’t help it, and went right to him and confessed.”</p> + +<p>Bill was touched at this manly action on the part of +his younger brother. It found a tender place in the bad +boy’s heart, and he was visibly affected by it. But he +asked:</p> + +<p>“How did it happen the old man didn’t lick you?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the penitent young reformer, “you see I +didn’t confess on myself, I only confessed on you; that +was the way of it.”</p> + +<p>A strange, cold light glittered in Bill’s eye.</p> + +<p>“Only confessed on me?” he said. “Well, that’s all +right, but come down behind the cow shed and look at +my back.”</p> + +<p>And when they got there do you suppose John saw the +first mite of Bill’s back? Ah no, dear children, he saw +nothing bigger than Bill’s fists, and before he got out of +that locality he was the worst pounded John that ever +confessed on anybody. Thus it is that our coming +reformers are made and trained.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<figure class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> + <img src="images/i_172a.jpg" width="450" height="686" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <p class="caption">BURLINGTON NOVELETTE.</p> + </figcaption> +</figure> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span> + + +<h2 class="nobreak">A BURLINGTON NOVELETTE.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3> + +<p class="drop-cap">“MARGUERITTE!”</p> + +<p>“Bertrande Hautville Montaigne du Biffington!”</p> + +<p>And the soughing of the September wind swept +through the tremulous leaves like the whisper of memories, +ghosts of the far away had been. Each star that +lit the azure dome with glittering ray—er, ah—er—er—with +glittering ray. Ray.</p> + +<p>It looked like rain.</p> + + +<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3> + +<p>Margueritte Hortense Isana l’Erena del Imperatricia +du Calincourt Johnson was an orphan.</p> + +<p>Her father was dead.</p> + +<p>And, also, by the way, her mother.</p> + +<p>Her great grand parents were not living. Alas, no. +The cold clods rattled on the coffins of those estimable +people when Margueritte was young. She was not +acquainted with the fact until the good people had been +dead some seventy-five years.</p> + +<p>Then kind friends, whose hearts were torn and rifted +with sympathy, broke the news gently to her.</p> + +<p>She sat like one stunned. Over her marble face there +passed no trace of the emotion which raged like a high +fed cyclone in her soul. She said:</p> + +<p>“Did they leave me anything?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span>And they told her, “Not a stiver, dear, not a lone +nickel; not a street car check; not a solitary red, red +cent. Only an old photograph album with the covers +torn off and the pictures lost. You are badly left.”</p> + +<p>And then the fountains of the deep were broken up +and she wailed in the bitterness of her agony.</p> + +<p>“Why, oh, why did they die? Why did they die? +Why did they die and leave me,—leave me—leave me +nothing?”</p> + +<p>A deep manly voice, resonant as a vesper bell when it +is peeling for the fray, answered from the next room.</p> + +<p>“I give it up.”</p> + +<p>Let us draw a veil over the dreadful scene.</p> + + +<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3> + +<p>Bertrande Hautville Montaigne du Biffington was not +an orphan.</p> + +<p>He was an Ancient and Excepted Odd Fellow.</p> + +<p>He was of a noble and numerous parentage. He had +one mother, and she was a Chicago printcess. She used +to hold brevier cases on <i>The Daily Tomahawk</i>. She had +ten divorces, neatly framed, hanging up in her parlor, +and Bertrande, whose own original father had died of an +hereditary attack of arsenic in the soup while his divorce +suit was pending, was successively flogged by an illustrious +line of paternal incumbents, and acknowledged the +sway of one father, full rank, and ten fathers by brevet. +He loved the lonely orphan, who had no parents whatever, +from a sense of natural duty and justice, to kind of +even the thing up and strike an equitable average.</p> + + +<h3>CHAPTER IV.</h3> + +<p>There is only one place where nature does not abhor +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span>a vacuum. That is under a Congressman’s hat.</p> + + +<h3>CHAPTER V.</h3> + +<p>Night had come. It got in on the evening train, and +was late, as usual. The drowsy bat was on the wing; or +rather, the wing was on the drowsy bat. Both wings, in +fact, were on the d. b. Down in the mossy glade, where +deepening shadows mock the starlight’s gleam, she +waits. Her Italian marble brow is clouded with a +weight of sorrow. Her finely-chiseled chin is still; the +plastic chewing gum, pasted on the trunk of a rugged +oak, cools and hardens in the evening air. The firm +tread of a manly No. 9 comes crashing through the woodland.</p> + +<p>’Tis he.</p> + +<p>“Bertrande!”</p> + +<p>“Margueritte!”</p> + +<p>They said no more. They could not. They had forgotten +the rest of each other’s names. They sat in the +deeping shadows of the gloaming, holding each other’s +hands, and trying to think of something nice to say.</p> + +<p>Suddenly his delicate nostrils quivered and trembled +with a startled light.</p> + +<p>“Margueritte!” he exclaimed, “we must fly! I hear +the sound of native applejack upon the evening air! +M’ff! m’ff!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, hevings!” she cried, “it is, it is me long lost +fathyer!”</p> + +<p>“Then,” he exclaimed, drawing a United States regulation +cavalry saber from his bosom, “I am lost!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, not lost;” she said in earnest tones, “go +straight ahead till you come to the <i>Hawkeye</i> office, then +turn up Market Street two blocks and follow the street +car track south until you smell beer. Then you will +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span>know where you are. Fe-ly! Fe-ly! Me fathyer +comes.”</p> + +<p>“Methought,” he said, pausing in his flight, and +speaking sternly, “Methought thou haddedest not a +father.”</p> + +<p>“I haive, I haive,” she shrieked, “and it is he!”</p> + +<p>And as she spake a fatherly looking man parted the +bushes and stood by her side. He was clad in a dark +blue cut-away coat, with a button-hole bouquet, white +vest, lilac kids, lavender pants, a pink necktie, waxed +mustache, and a high hat. His boots were four and a +half; his snowy handkerchief was perfumed with jockey +club, and his breath with whisky sour. He was twenty-one +years of old.</p> + +<p>Bertrande regarded him sadly, and said to her he +loved:</p> + +<p>“It seems to me your father is rather juvenile.”</p> + +<p>“Dear Bertrande,” she said, laying her head upon her +father’s shoulder, “he married awful young.”</p> + +<p>“Ah,” said Bertrande, bitterly, “I thought may be you +had adopted him.”</p> + +<p>And turning on his heel he was gone.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">A REMINISCENCE OF EXHIBITION DAY.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">“WELL, no,” the boy said, “the thing didn’t go +off exactly as I expected. You see, I was the +sixth boy in the class, that was next to the head when +the class formed left in front, and I was pretty near the +first boy called on to declaim. I had got a mighty good +ready and had a bully piece too. Ah, it was a rip staver.”</p> + +<p>And the boy sighed as he paused to lift a segment out +of a green apple, and placed it where it would do the +most good, for a cholera doctor. We asked what piece +it was.</p> + +<p>“Spartacus to the Gladiators,” he said. “Just an old +he raker of a piece. I got it all by heart, and used to +go clear out to the Cascade to rehearse and hook strawberries. +Old Fitch”—Mr. Fitch was the boy’s preceptor, +one of the finest educators in the state—“he taught me +all the gestures and inflections and flub drubs, and said +I was just layin’ over the biggest toad in the puddle——”</p> + +<p>“Excelling all your competitors, probably Mr. Fitch +said,” we suggested.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” the boy replied, “he’s a toney old cyclopedia +on the patter, is old Fitchy. But him and me was both +dead sure I was goin’ to skin the rag off the bush——”</p> + +<p>“Win all the honors,” we gently corrected.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said, “and the way it went off was bad. +You see, I didn’t feel easy in my Sunday clothes on a +week day to begin with. And my collar was too tight +and my necktie was too blue, and I was in a hurry to get +off early, so I only blacked the toes of my boots, and left +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span>the heels as red as a concert ticket. And the crowd +there was in the school-house. Jammed. Every body +in their good clothes and every body looking solemn as +Monday morning. When my name was called something +came up in my throat as big as a foot-ball. I couldn’t +swallow it and I couldn’t spit it out. And when I got +up on the platform—oh, Godfrey’s cordial! did you +ever see a million heads without any bodies?”</p> + +<p>We felt ashamed of our limited experience while we +confessed that we could not recall having witnessed such +a phenomenon.</p> + +<p>“I never did till then,” the boy went on, “but they +were there, for a fact, and I began to remember when +these heads danced round and round the room that I had +been forgetting my piece in the last five minutes just as +fast as I ever forgot to fix the kindling wood at night. +But I commenced. I got along with ‘It had been a +day of triumph in Capua’ and ‘Lentulus returning +with victorious eagles’ and all that well enough; but +when I got on into the heavy business, I was left, sure. +If Spartacus had talked to the gladiators as I did, they +would have thought he was drunk and hustled him off to +bed. It was awful. I stumbled along until I came to +‘Ye stand here now like giants as ye are. The strength +of brass is in your rugged sinews, but to-morrow some +Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his curling +locks, will with his dainty fingers pat your red brawn +and bet his sesterces upon your blood.’”</p> + +<p>“That was excellent, capital,” we said, applauding, for +the boy had growled off the last sentence like a first +heavy villain.</p> + +<p>“Oh yes, is it though?” he said, with some asperity. +“Well, that’s the way I was going to say it that Friday, +but what I did say was, ‘The strength of brass is in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span>your rugged sinews, but to-morrow afternoon (you see I +got to thinking of a base ball match) some Doman Aronis +breathing sweet perfumery from his curly socks, will pat +your bed rawn and bet his sister sees your blood.’”</p> + +<p>“Did they laugh?” we asked.</p> + +<p>“Oh no!” he replied, with an inflection that type +won’t take. “Oh, no; they never smiled again; <i>they</i> +didn’t. It was when I got down a little that they felt +bad. When he says, ‘If ye are beasts, then stand here +waiting like fat oxen for the butcher’s knife.’ I told +them, ‘If ye be cat fattle, then wait here standing like a +butcher for the carving knife.’ And I got worse and +worse until it came to this, ‘Oh, Rome, Rome, thou hast +been a tender mother to me. Thou hast taught the +poor timid shepherd boy, who never knew a harsher tone +than a flute note, to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the +fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing +girl. Thou hast taught him to drive the sword through +rugged links of mail and brass and warm it in the marrow +of his foe!’”</p> + +<p>“Bravo!” we shouted.</p> + +<p>“Cheese it,” he said, sententiously; “I didn’t say it +just that way. I said, ‘Oh Rome, thou has ten a binder +mother to me. Thou hast taught the poor boy who +never knew a sheep note to glare into the laughing ear +of a fierce Numidian eyeball even as a lyin’ boy at a +girl. Thou hast taught him to mail his ragged brass +through swords of link, and marry it in the warmer of +his foe.’”</p> + +<p>“And then?” we asked.</p> + +<p>“I cried,” he said, “and went down. Everybody was +cry’n’. They all had their faces in their handkerchiefs +or behind fans, and were shaking so it nearly jarred the +school-house.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span>“You should practice elocution during vacation,” we +suggested, “and you will not fail again.”</p> + +<p>He bolted the rest of the green apple, threw his bare +feet up in the air, and walked around on his hands in +little circles. “Don’t have no speakin’ in vacation,” he +said.</p> + +<p>And we knew that, boy-like, he was going to let the +days and the morrow take care each of its own evils, +and we wondered as we came away how many fathers +would recognize their own boys in the hero of this +sketch, and if dear old Fitch, the oldest boy, with the +clearest head and the tenderest heart we ever knew, +would remember him.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">MR. OLENDORF’S COMPLAINT.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">YOUNG Mr. Olendorf used to board at a nice boarding-house +out on North Hill, a little this side of the +North Pole. It was a good way out; but Mr. Olendorf +always was fond of pure air and pedestrian exercise, and +as his business hours were easy, he preferred the comforts +of a home in the suburbs to the excitement and +clamor of a down-town hotel. A mild-looking, meek-faced, +soft-voiced young man was Mr. Olendorf, as ever +you could wish to see. He rarely complained about +anything, and he never spoke harshly of any one. He +would sit on his trunk, when the family had carried his +chair down to the parlor for the convenience of invited +guests; and he would patiently sew on his shirt buttons +with a darning-needle and carpet thread, rather than +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span>intimate to his washer-lady that it wasn’t just the thing +to run fine shirts through a corn-sheller to wash them. +Many a time he crawled into a bed that looked like the +crater of an extinct volcano, rather than report the hired +girl for neglecting to make it up. And six times a week +he cleaned his grimy lamp chimney with his fingers, as +far as they would reach, because, he said, in the fullness +of his charitable soul, the girl had so much to do she +hadn’t got round to it. And the seventh night in the +week, the lamp being empty and dry as a flat bottle +on a hunting expedition, he would undress by the dim +religious light of a match. He used to wash with a piece +of soap four inches long and two inches thick, as brown +as varnish, and so hard it chipped the edges of the washstand +when it was carelessly dropped; and often and +often, when his eyes were full of soap, and he reached +out his imploring hands, groping for the short, thin towel +that was seldom there, he had to feel his way to the bed, +abrading his shins against things that he couldn’t see and +didn’t know the names of, and dry his face and hair on the +pillow-slips. But he never murmured. He used to find +bright streaks of red by the dozen in his pomade, and go +down to the breakfast table with his own coal-black +locks as dry as good advice, and marvel at the exceeding +glossiness and slickness of the hired girl’s bright auburn +cranium. But he said never a word. And the drouth +used to strike his perfumery bottles once in a while, and +leave them as empty as a lecturer’s head; and he would +wind his modest nasal horn in a handkerchief that +smelled like a wash-tub, and when his landlady’s daughters +sailed scornfully past him, perfumed for all the world +like the ghosts of his toilet bottles up stairs, he never +looked suspicious, but only smiled apologetically, as +though it was wrong in him to leave temptation in their +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span>way. And once, when he had an attack of cholera +morbus, and sent out for a quart of brandy, and took a +tablespoonful of it, and came back at night to find the +bottle very empty, and the landlady’s husband very full, +and lying in Mr. Olendorf’s bed with his boots on, young +Mr. Olendorf only agreed with the landlady that it was +very singular, and that the old man must be ill. So you +see Mr. Olendorf was inclined to be rather peaceable and +meek, and when he did complain there must be some +reason for it.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> + <img src="images/i_180a.jpg" width="450" height="669" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <p class="caption">OLENDORF’S COMPLAINT.</p> + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>One evening Mrs. McKerrel, his landlady, approached +the young man for the purpose of securing the weekly +dole which he paid for the comforts of a home, and +bracing himself up by a desperate effort, Mr. Olendorf, +for the first time in his life, complained.</p> + +<p>“It’s the hash, Mrs. McKerrel,” he said plaintively. +“It’s too monotonous. It’s good hash. I can’t say that +it isn’t good. It is more nutritious than chopped straw, +and a prize candy package doesn’t equal it for variety. +But I want change. I like hash for breakfast. But +when you give us baked hash for dinner and put boned +hash on for supper, and give us plain hash again for +breakfast, and serve stuffed hash again for dinner, it isn’t +a square deal. I believe you impose on us. I never +heard of ‘stuffed hash’ before I came here, and the +only difference between it and the common kind is that +it is thinner. The last ‘stuffed hash’ you gave us you +made us eat with steel forks, and it was as thin as soup, +and how is a strong man going to make out a dinner +when he has only twenty-five minutes in which to eat +soup with a three-tined fork? And I don’t think you do +the fair thing by us on what you call ‘boned hash.’ It’s +hardly right, Mrs. McKerrel, to make a hash of sardines +and herrings and then call it ‘boned.’ It’s just like +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span>eating a shoe brush. Now there ought to be, once in a +while, a change. Not too often, you know; I don’t +expect you to keep a French restaurant for seven dollars +a week, but just often enough to keep the bill of fare +from growing tiresome. Say once every seven years. +For instance, you may have ‘boned hash’ to-morrow +for dinner, which, it being Sunday, you will. Well, then, +you might have ‘boned hash’ every day until 1882, and +then give us a roast, or a car-spring chicken. And so +with ‘stuffed hash,’ and ‘hash a la mode,’ and ‘hash a +la Mayonnais,’ ‘Lady Washington hash,’ ‘hash on toast,’ +‘spring hash, with mint sauce,’ and ‘hash a la mortar,’ +and the other hashes on your bill of fare. By serving +them up once every seven years, you have enough kinds +to run clear into a Centennial.”</p> + +<p>The landlady, looking aghast, made an effort to speak, +but young Mr. Olendorf motioned her to silence.</p> + +<p>“And if you would speak to Mrs. Muldoon, dear Mrs. +McKerrel,” he went on, “and tell her that, while I am +not proud, I do not consider the hickory shirts which the +estimable Mr. Muldoon wears while he is developing the +railroad resources of the United States exactly the +things to wear to church; and even if I had no other +scruples against attending public worship in a section +hand’s shirt, torn all the way across the shoulders and +fastened at the neck and cuffs with horn buttons, Mr. +Muldoon’s are five sizes too large for me, and I would +rather she would send me my own. And if you can +bribe her to put the starch in my collars instead of my +handkerchiefs, I feel that it will improve the appearance +of my neck, and spare the feelings of a lacerated and +tender nose. No man, Mrs. McKerrel, can wipe his +nose on a sheet of tin and do the matter justice.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. McKerrel placed her hands on her hips and stood +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span>up, but Mr. Olendorf begged her to be patient just a +moment, while he went on:</p> + +<p>“And do you think, if I made a chalk mark on them, +that your domestic could learn the difference between +my hair brush and my shoe brush? And if I made her +a little present, might she not be induced to look up +something else to black the stoves with instead of my +shoe brush? It is dreadfully mortifying, Mrs. McKerrel, +to black your shoes after night and get clear in church +the next morning before discovering that your feet are +glistening in all the glory of ‘Plumbago’s New Silver +Gray Luster,’ and everybody is laughing at you. And +then, Mrs. McKerrel, I don’t know how my things get so +full of snuff. I never use snuff, and I don’t want to +complain, but——”</p> + +<p>Here the exasperated matron could restrain herself no +longer. Hastily thrusting her snuff-box back in her pocket, +she bade Mr. Olendorf pack. What he wanted, she said, +was a Fifth Avenue hotel for seven dollars a week, and +he couldn’t have it in her house. He was too particular +for such a plain woman as her; if he didn’t like the ways +of plain people, he would have to go where they were +nicer. He was too stuck up and fussy to live in her +house. Boarders she had kept, of the very best people +in the highest classes in society, and this was the first +time she had ever heard a word of complaint in her house.</p> + +<p>And that is the way Mr. Olendorf happened to call +around at the Gorham and ask Andrews for a nice room, +a long ways up. And Andrews gave him a key and told +him to climb till he knew he was lost, and then crawl +into the first bed he saw.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">RURAL FELICITY.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">MR. PHILETUS R. THROOP is a well-known insurance +agent of Burlington. He is a perfect +steam engine to work, and every Summer, when he feels +about worn out by his labors, he goes out to the farm of +his Uncle George and rests a couple of weeks. He +went out last Summer, as usual, but he only remained a +couple of days, and on his return he was heard to say +that he would never, never, never, go into the country +again if he died for a breath of fresh air. The causes +which led to this determination were as follows:</p> + +<p>You see, he got a late start on his last trip out into the +country, so that when he reached his Uncle George’s +farm it was about nine o’clock in the evening, and the +family, after the good old-fashioned custom, had gone to +bed; not a light was visible about the house. Mr. +Throop got out of the wagon in which a neighboring +farmer had brought him, before they reached the house, +so that the noisy wheels would not apprise any waking +member of the fact that a visitor had come. Then he +climbed over the fence and skipped briskly across lots to +reach the house, and give Uncle George and the family +a good surprise. Mr. Throop was not so familiar with +the farm as he ought to have been to attempt such a +nocturnal expedition. He had not gone twenty steps +before he stepped into a great ditch, and had time to say +all he could remember of the child’s prayer, “Now I lay +me,” before he reached the bottom, and then had plenty +of time to compose and repeat a much more appropriate +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span>and longer one before he crawled out again. After that +he went more slowly, picking his steps with the greatest +care, and straining his eyes as he peered into the darkness +to distinguish noxious objects. But it was very +dark, and of course appearances were unusually deceitful. +He would walk around a patch of young clover or +luxuriant turf, his heart standing still the while with the +terror of having so narrowly escaped walking into a +great well, and the next minute he would, after peering +ahead of him until his eyes ached and sparks of fire +danced before them, walk with the greatest confidence +and composure into a pile of last year’s peabrush seven +feet high, knocking off his hat, scratching his face and +tearing his clothes. And then such a time as he would +have hunting for his hat, and all the imaginable and unimaginable +things that he would pick up in mistake for +that useful article of apparel, can be far better imagined +than described. And once he ran into a fence and +nearly put his eye out on the end of a great stake that +was standing out like the point of a <i>chevaux de frise</i>. +And just before he got to the barn-yard he was amazed +to discern a creek flowing between him and the fence, +and after vainly hunting in the dark for a bridge, he +pulled off his boots and trousers, and, holding the bundle +of clothes high in his arms, waded across a stubblefield! +so dry, every foot of it, that he might have lighted a +match on it anywhere. He thought every tooth he had +would chatter out of his head before he could get into +his clothes again. Then he got into the barn-yard. He +knew it was the barn-yard after he got into it, because +in less than a minute after he had climbed the fence, he +fell over a slumbering cow, and before he could get up, +the frightened animal rose to her feet and bucked Mr. +Throop over her head. Then he heard a cow get up +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span>just before him, and another just behind him, and +two or three to the right and left, and when a cow +with a bell that could be heard two miles got up +and began galloping around the yard stirring up the +rest of the cows, Mr. Throop would have willingly +given up the best risk he had ever taken for a lantern. +It wasn’t safe to stand still, so he took his hat in his +hand and went along, swooping it around him in great +circles, shouting “Swoosh! Hi! Hooey! Scat! Whish! +Whoosh! Ste-boy!” as he went along. He only hit one +cow with his hat, however, and the animal thus rudely +assailed reached out and kicked him in the groin and +doubled him up, and with a farewell flourish hit him on +the side of the face with the end of a tail so full of +cockle burs that it weighed twenty-seven pounds and +knocked him so flat he thought he never would want to +get up again. Then he saw what he supposed was the +house, looming up black and quiet before him, and he +thought his troubles were over. They had just begun.</p> + +<p>The next minute he stepped under an open shed where +the agricultural implements had been stored during the +Winter. The first intimation he had of this was by +falling over a plow. He scraped both shins, from the +instep to the knee, across the edge of the share, and one +of the handles caught him under the chin and jabbed his +head up and back so suddenly that he heard his neck +crack, and the other hunched him in the floating ribs and +knocked enough breath out of him to start a tornado, in +a small way but on a safe basis. He thought he never +would get away from that plow, for he no sooner got one +leg out of one entanglement of draught-irons, coulter, +share and handles, than he got the other one snarled up +in a still more hopeless maze of mould-board, clevis, +sole-plate and beam, besides several other parts that he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span>didn’t know the names of. And when at last he vanquished +the plow he lost himself in a cultivator, and +wore himself out trying to crawl through the gang of +coulters. When he got clear of that he fell in with a +reaper and mower, and after prodding his instep into +indescribable agony by thrusting it against the sickle +guards as he fell, he caught hold of the reel, which, +of course, immediately whirled with his weight. But it +chanced that quite a large colony of barn-yard fowls had +used the reel as their roosting place during the Winter, +and as it whirled round the amazed and bewildered Mr. +Throop rained down upon himself a terrific tempest of +hens and roosters, Brahmas, light Cochins, ungainly +Shanghais, and a variety of other breeds in such a tumult +of squawkings and cacklings, and flappings of wings, and +vague but vigorous clawings of feet, that he didn’t care +whether he got out alive or not, and, indeed, before he +got through with the reel he knocked himself down with +its vindictive slats seven times. Then he got away from +that and impaled himself on a horse rake, and fell over +the handle of a fanning mill, and nearly killed himself in +the horse-power of a thrashing machine, and finally got +into the house yard, felt his way to the house, and fell +exhausted and speechless against the front door with a +diamond-shaped harrow hanging around his neck. And +Uncle George, awakened by the thump at the door, +opened an up-stairs window and demanded who was +there, and receiving no answer shot twice at the recumbent +form of Mr. Throop with his revolver. And when +they came down with lights and opened the door, they +were as greatly surprised as Mr. Throop could have +wished.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">THE GARDEN OF THE GODS.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">THE people around Barnes Street well remember +when Mr. Middlerib planted the “garden of the +gods.” He bought cartloads of rich earth for it, and +loaded it with patent fertilizers, and ground and stirred +and raked it until the soil was fine as corn meal. The +seeds were received by express, and there wasn’t a +package that didn’t have a full college course of Latin +printed on the back, and Mr. Middlerib grew bald trying +to pronounce the fearful and wonderful names of the +seed, that were to make the garden of the gods the wonder +of South Hill. When these germs of magnificent +flora were planted the neighbors hung over the fence in +silent admiration and listened to Mr. Middlerib’s botanical +lectures, delivered over every package that was opened. +Where the <i>abolutus haciedendus microbulus</i> was imbedded, +he erected a large trestle immediately, for that impetuous +climber to ascend and ramble over. And where he implanted +the <i>diocantanean psyttachineliensis psoddium</i>, he +reared a tall, straight stick for that towering mass of +blossom and foliage to shape itself against. He refused +the most penetrating hints for a few seeds of the <i>bianthus +geridian psottoliensis giasticus, floridens bilthus</i>, and the care +and great gravity with which he earthed the germs of the +<i>bibulus Burlingtoniensis giganteus</i> brought tears to the eyes +of the women. And when the seeds were all planted, +how zealously Mr. Middlerib watched and wrought and +fought for their protection. He would get up in the +night to chase the neighbors’ cows around the house two +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span>or three times, and across the garden of the gods four or +five times, and out of the front gate once, and return to +his virtuous couch with profanity in his heart and mud +on his feet, and one slipper down by the cistern and the +other in the verbena bed.</p> + +<p>All the cut-worms in the State of Iowa appeared to be +attending a mass convention in the garden of the gods. +When the tinner came to fix the spout, he stuck the ladder +by which he ascended to the roof in that sacred +ground, and the carpenter who patched the cornice set +one of his trestles in the same place. Every tramp who +came to beg, selected that one favored locality as the +only spot in the world where he might assume the usual +humble and respectful position, and rehearse the stereotyped +application for provender. Mr. Middlerib nearly +wore out his voice shouting at people and cows, and +railing at cut-worms, and one Sunday morning he fell +asleep in church, and Mrs. M. prodded him with her +parasol just as the minister said, in impressive accents, +“And here we are treading on sacred ground.” “Git off +of it!” yelled Mr. Middlerib, dreaming of the grocer’s +boy standing on the g. o. g., and using his oft-repeated +phrase, “Scatter, or I’ll bury ye in it!” And it raised +such a church scandal that Mr. Middlerib was obliged +to double his subscription to keep in good fellowship.</p> + +<p>But after manifold troubles, the garden came along +beautifully, only the plants acted a little queer. The +climber refused to climb, save in a horizontal position, +but after its own way; and in all general directions on a +horizontal plane it manifested a disposition to crowd all +over that part of South Hill. The <i>diocantanean psyttachineliensis +psoddium</i> scorned the straight stick by which it +was expected to brace itself, and grew out in crooked +branches like a garden oak. But the tender care it received, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span>and the rich earth in which it was planted, showed +what wonders cultivation will do, and when, at last, Mr. +Middlerib, after long and manfully holding out against +the declarations of the envious neighbors and the hints +of his wife and daughter, was obliged to sit down on the +porch, one lovely Summer evening, and admit that he +had wasted enough breath to make a tornado, and filled +the air with vociferous and murderous threats and +vituperations, and quarreled with three-quarters of his +acquaintances, all for the sake of raising a jimson weed, +it was nevertheless a jimson weed nine feet high, with +blossoms as big as inflated sun-flowers. So he let the +jimson weed stand, and argued with every one who came +to the house that, with sufficient care and proper cultivation, +it could be developed into a fruit-bearing tree. As +for the <i>abolutos haciedendus microbulos</i>, as soon as he was +morally and botanically certain that it was just chickweed, +Mr. Middlerib one night secretly pulled it up and +threw it away, and ever afterward professed to be heart-broken +because some rascally, envious florist had come +up from Keokuk and stolen the choicest climber in the +Mississippi Valley. The <i>bianthus geridian psottoliensis +giasticus, floridens bilthus</i> never showed itself until toward +the latter part of June. Then it thrust up a delicate, +fragile little sprout, drank in a little of the glad free air +and pure sunlight, heard itself called by its full name, +and drooped under the burden and died. The <i>bibulus +Burlingtoniensis giganteus</i> came up and did well. It did +not flower very abundantly; but it developed very marked +qualities. The chickens came up and pecked at it, and +then laid them down under the currant bushes and closed +their eyes upon this world of sorrow and mysterious +plants. The pigs got into the yard and rooted a little +of it up, and their sudden demise gave rise to the rumor +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span>of the hog cholera, and the air of the hill was vocal for +the next five days with the protests of healthy porkers +against the popular modes of treating the hog cholera, +such as boring holes along the spine with a red hot iron +and splitting the ears and tail and rubbing in salt and +cayenne pepper. And after Master Middlerib fooled +with it and got some of it on his face, which immediately +swelled up so that nothing was visible to his eyes, and +his eyes were visible to nobody, for nearly a week, the +wonderful plant was pulled up with the kitchen tongs and +thrown into the alley, where the geese of South Hill +found it, ate it, grew fat on it; and came around and asked +for more. Nothing that grows under the heavens can +kill a South Hill goose.</p> + +<p>There were other plants in the garden of the gods that +came up and grew to maturity and brought forth blossoms +each after his kind, but as they turned out to be various +species of rag-weed and dog-fennel, they were not considered +worthy of mention by Mr. Middlerib. But he is +disheartened with scientific gardening, and he only lives +now for one object: to ascertain whether these Latin +names are really the scientific names of those plants +which they set forth, or he was swindled by the traveling +seed agent.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">A TRYING SITUATION.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">THERE was a time when Mr. Bilderback was almost +persuaded to cut off his pew rent, renounce his +religious convictions, and become an atheist or a pagan, +he wasn’t very particular which. He was for many +weeks in great distress of mind, and professed the +greatest hatred of all churches, on general principles. +This state of affairs, which fortunately was not permanent, +was brought about by a very annoying, though perfectly +innocent occurrence. One beautiful but rather +warm Sunday morning he was dozing comfortably in his +pew, in the church of which he is one of the main +sleepers, when he became aware of an apparition gliding +solemnly down the aisle with a collection basket in its +hand. Mr. Bilderback braced up into an erect posture, +cleared his throat in a ponderous tone of Roman firmness, +as one who should say, “Who’s been asleep?” +And as the basket was extended toward him, he felt in +his trousers pocket for his wallet. It wasn’t there, and +as he withdrew his hand, and felt in the other pocket, he +felt that the eyes of the congregation were upon him, +and that was all he felt, for he certainly didn’t feel any +pocket-book. He nodded the basket man to wait a second, +and leaned over to the left while he felt in the right +inside pocket of his coat, from which in his growing +nervousness he drew half a dozen chestnuts which rolled +over the floor with a rattle that sounded in his hot ears +like the thunders of the Apocalypse, and made him +warmer and more nervous than ever. Then he leaned +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span>over the end of the pew and felt in the other inside +coat pocket and drew out a bundle of letters, a lot +of postal cards, a circus ticket, a photograph of an +actress, a funny story printed on a card, a pocket-comb +and a long string, and his face grew so warm his +breath felt like a hot air blast. Then he squared his +elbows and went for his vest pockets, and strewed the +pew cushion with quill toothpicks, newspaper scraps, +street car checks, a shoe buttoner, some lead pencil stubs, +and crumbling indications of chewing tobacco, a bit of +sealing wax, a piece of licorice root about an inch long, +and three or four matches. Then he leaned forward and, +stung to madness by the smiles which were breaking out +all around that church worse than the measles in a +primary school room, dived into his coat tail pockets, and +drew forth a red silk handkerchief, two apples, a spectacle +case, a pair of dog skin gloves, an overcoat button, +and a fine assortment of bits of dried orange peel and +lint. Then he stood up, devoutly praying that an earthquake +might come along and swallow up either him or +the rest of the congregation, he didn’t much care which, +and went down into his hip pockets, from which he +evolved a revolver, a corkscrew, a cigar case, a piece of +string, a memorandum book, and a pocket knife. By +this time Mr. Bilderback’s face was scarlet clear down to +his waist, and he was so nervous and worked up that he +nearly shook his clothes off, while the man with the basket +couldn’t have moved away, if he had died for staying. +And when Mr. Bilderback, in forlorn despair, once more +rammed his hand into the trousers pocket where he +began the search, the congregation held its breath, and +when Mr. Bilderback drew forth the very pocket-book +which he had missed in his first careless search, and had +since all but stripped to find, there was a sigh of relief +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span>went up from every devout heart in that house. But +Mr. Bilderback only dropped into his seat with an abruptness +that made the windows rattle, and registered a mental +vow that he wasn’t going to come out to church again +to be made a fool of by a man with a long handled darning +basket.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">MR. BILDERBACK LOSES HIS HAT.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">“NO,” Mr. Bilderback said, “it wasn’t.” He put it +there last night, the last thing before he went +to bed, he remembered most distinctly. It wasn’t there +now, and he didn’t know who had any business to move +it. Somebody had done it, and he hoped to gracious +that it would be the last time. Somebody was always +meddling with his things.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bilderback, coming down stairs with a weary air, +asked if he had looked in the closets?</p> + +<p>“Closets?” Mr. Bilderback snarled, “Kingdom of Ireland! +Does any sane man put his hat in the closets +when he wants it every time he goes out? No. I hung +it up right here, on this very hook of this particular rack, +and if it had been left alone, it would be there now. +Some of you must have moved it. It hasn’t got legs and +couldn’t get away alone.”</p> + +<p>Master Bilderback suggested that it wouldn’t be very +surprising if it felt its way along fur a little ways, for +which atrocities he was rewarded with a wild glare and a +vicious cuff from his unappreciative parent. Then Mr. +Bilderback said, “Well, I suppose I can walk down town +bareheaded.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span>Well, that was the usual formula. Every body knew +just what it meant, and as soon as it was said the family +scattered for the regular morning search. Mrs. Bilderback +looked in all the closets with the air of John +Rogers going to the stake, and then she went into an old +chest, that had the furs and things put away in it, and +was only opened twice a year, except when Mr. Bilderback’s +hat was lost, which occurred on an average three +times a day. She shook pepper or fine cut tobacco or +camphor out of everything she picked up, and varied her +search by the most extraordinary sneezes that ever issued +from human throat, while ever and anon she paused to +wipe her weeping eyes and say that “well, she never.” +Mrs. Bilderback’s search for the lost hat never got +beyond that chest. She would kneel down before it and +take the things out one by one, and put them back, and +take them out, and sneeze and sigh, and wonder occasionally +“where the hat could be,” but her search never +went beyond that old moth proof chest.</p> + +<p>Miss Bilderback confined her search to the uncut +pages of the last <i>Scribner</i>, which she carefully cut and +looked into, with an eager scrutiny that told how +intensely interested she was in finding that hat. She +never varied her method of search, save when the +approaching footsteps of her father warned her that he +was swinging on his erratic eccentric in that direction, +when she hid the magazine, and picking up the corner of +the piano cover looked under that article with a sweet +air of zealous interest, exclaiming in tones of pretty +vexation, “I wonder where it can be?” And it was +noticeable that this action and remark, both of which she +never failed to repeat every time her father came into +the room, had the effect of throwing that estimable but +irascible old gentleman into paroxysms of the most violent +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span>passion, each one growing worse than its predecessors, +until they would culminate in a grand burst of +wrath in which he ordered her to quit looking for his hat. +Then she would retire with an injured air and tell her +mother, between that indefatigable searcher’s sneezes, +that “one might wear one’s self out slaving and looking +for pa’s hat in every conceivable place, and all the +thanks one got for it was to be scolded.” Master Bilderback, +he helped hunt, too. His system of conducting a +search was to go around into the back yard and play +“toss ball” up against the end of the house, making +mysterious disappearances, with marvelous celerity, behind +the wood-pile or under a large store box, so oft as +he heard the mutterings of the tempest that invariably +preceded and announced his father’s approach.</p> + +<p>But Mr. Bilderback. His was a regular old composite +system of investigation; it combined and took in everything. +He raged through the sitting-room like a hurricane; +he looked under every chair in that room, and +then upset them all to see if he mightn’t possibly have +overlooked the hat. Then he looked on all the brackets +in the parlor, and behind the window curtains, and kicked +over the ottoman to look for a hat that he couldn’t have +squeezed under a wash-tub. And he kept up a running +commentary all the time, which served no purpose except +to warn his family when he was coming and give them +time to prepare. He looked into the clock and left it +stopped and standing crooked. And he would like to +know who touched that hat. He looked into his daughter’s +work-box, a sweet little shell that “George” gave +her, and he emptied it out on the table and wondered +what such trumpery was for, and who in thunder hid his +hat. “It must be hid,” he said. Peering down with a +dark, suspicious look into an odor bottle somewhat larger +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span>than a thimble, “for it couldn’t have got so completely +out of sight by accident.” If people wouldn’t meddle +with his things, he howled, for the benefit of Mrs. Bilderback, +whom he heard sneezing as he went past the closet +door, he would always know just where to find them, +because (looking gloomily behind the kitchen wood-box) +he always had one place to put all his things (and he +took off the lid of the spice-box), and kept them there. +He glared savagely out of the door, in hopes of seeing +his hopeful son, but that youthful strategist was out of +sight behind his intrenchments. Mr. Bilderback wrathfully +resumed his search, and roared, for his daughter’s +benefit, that he would spend every cent he had intended +to lay out for winter bonnets, in new hats for himself, and +then maybe he might be able to find one when he wanted +it. Then he opened the door of the oven and looked +darkly in, turned all the clothes out of the wash-basket, and +strewed them around, wondering “<i>who</i> had hid that +hat?” And he pulled the clothes-line off its nail, and +got down on his hands and knees to look behind the +refrigerator, and wondered “who <i>had</i> hid that hat;” and +then he climbed on the back of a chair to look on the top +shelf of the cupboard, and sneezed around among old +wide-mouthed bottles and pungent paper parcels, and +wondered in muffled wrath “who had <i>hid</i> that hat?” +And he went down into the cellar and roamed around +among rows of stone jars covered with plates and tied +up with brown paper, and smelling of pickles and things +in all stages of progress; every one of which he looked +into, and how he did wonder “who had hid <i>that</i> hat.” +And he looked into dark corners and swore when he +jammed his head against the corners of swinging shelves, +and felt along those shelves and run his fingers into all +sorts of bowls, containing all sorts of greasy and sticky +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span>stuff, and thumped his head against hams hanging from +the rafters, at which he swore anew, and he peered into +and felt around in barrels which seemed to have nothing +in them but cobwebs and nails; shook boxes which were +prolific in dust and startling in rats, and he wondered +“who had hid that <i>hat</i>?”</p> + +<p>And just then loud whoops and shouts came from up +stairs, announcing that “here it was.” And old Bilderback +went up stairs growling, because the person who +hid it hadn’t brought it out before, and saw the entire +family pointing out into the back yard, where the hat +surmounted Mr. Bilderback’s cane, which was leaning +against the fence, “just where you left it, pa,” Miss Bilderback +explained, “when we called you into supper, +and it has been out there all night.” And Mr. Bilderback, +evidently restraining, by a violent effort, an intense +desire to bless his daughter with the cane, remarked with +a mysterious manner, that “it was mighty singular,” and +putting on the hat, he strode away with great dignity; +leaving his wife and daughter to re-arrange the house.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">MIND READING.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">ONE morning, about the middle of the Spring term, +Master Bilderback made his appearance at school +with a subdued manner apparent in all his actions, while +a cast of sadness mingled with traces of pleasant memories +overspread his countenance. It was, in short, that +general expression of penitence which people assume +after a holiday of more than usual hilarity. His quiet +manner astonished the scholars and alarmed his teacher, +who feared that it was a portent of some unusual mischief, +and kept her eye upon the lad in consequence. He +did not appear to be conscious of the surveillance under +which he was placed. He bent no pins, he chewed no +gum, he fired at the adjacent scholars no projectiles of +masticated paper during the morning; no dismal but +subdued cat-calls were heard from the vicinity of his +seat; no grotesque grimaces made his neighbors laugh +with uncounterfeited glee; restful were his feet, and quiet +the fingers which were wont to drum on the desk four +minutes out of every five. Master Bilderback was either +in some deep affliction or he was ill. There was something +wrong about him.</p> + +<p>It transpired, along toward noon, when Master Bilderback’s +spirits began to rise a little, that he had indeed +passed under the rod, with his father at the other end of +it, during the evening previous. The waters of affliction +had gone over his soul, and his back had gone under the +sole of his mother’s slipper. It seems they had company +at Mr. Bilderback’s that evening, quite a large party, in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span>fact, and the conversation turned on mind reading. The +discussion became very spirited, Mr. Bilderback being +the leader of the party which avowed its belief in mesmeric +influences. The usual arguments of learned length +and thundering sound were hurled back and forth, Mr. +Bilderback winning especial distinction by the clearness +with which he proved that, in certain esthetic conditions +of the mental and physical systems, the peculiar psychic +forces which always existed in a latent state, were roused +into an active condition; and the action of the intellect +upon the cerebrum was felt in the cerebellum, and transmitted +by mesmeric condition to the candelebra, where +the psychomatic transfusion of the occipital parietis +made the Ego as cognizant of the mutation and genuflexions +of the non-Ego, as though the psychic modifications +really impinged upon the same ganglion; and the +nerve waves along the ganglia of the two systems, transmuted +by a touch of the hand, were, and could only be, +identical. And Mr. Bilderback’s party said, “Yes; what +could you say to that, now?” And the other party shook +their heads and said, “Yes; but that was only a theory, +after all; they would like to see the hypothesis demonstrated.” +And at that critical juncture, Master Bilderback, +who had been an attentive listener, spoke up, in +his rough, horrid style, and declared that “that wasn’t +nauthin’;” that they tried it at school, an’ he could let +the boys hide things and then lead them right to the +place where they were hid. The excitement ran high +for a few moments, and Master B. was closely catechised, +but he never varied from his original story; and they +finally determined to try him.</p> + +<p>Mr. Tweesdle, a young fellow who dotes on poetry and +Miss Bilderback, was the first subject. He announced +that he was thinking of a certain object, and by the way +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span>he looked at the mind-reader’s sister, everybody thought +they knew what it was. But Master Bilderback seized +him by the hand, led him out in the hall and up to the +hat-rack, followed by the entire company, and reaching +his hand into Mr. Tweesdle’s overcoat pocket, drew forth +a paper bag containing a pound of sausages, half a dozen +eggs, and a couple of rusks, remarking, “There, that’s +what you’re thinking of.” And just at that moment he +certainly was, although he shook his head in an idiotic +manner and laughed feebly, while all the rest of the +people never smiled, but only looked at each other and +said, “Why, how funny!”</p> + +<p>This sad affair cast a gloom over the entire community +for a few moments, but the people rallied and demanded +another test. There was a general reluctance on the +part of the visitors to take a hand in it, and so Mrs. Bilderback +was prevailed upon to be a subject in the course +of scientific experiments. As soon as she had assumed +a pensive expression and announced that her mind was +wholly occupied with one subject, to the exclusion of all +other terrestrial things, the boy grasped her by the hand, +and away they went, sailing up stairs, followed by the +entire congregation. The mind-reader marshaled them +into a room, and leading his subject straight to the bureau, +drew from a small drawer a set of false teeth and a bottle +of hair dye. Mrs. Bilderback shrieked, the company +looked grave, and some of the ladies declared to each +other that well now, they never did.</p> + +<p>There was another brief season of gloom, which was +dissipated by Mr. Bilderback declaring that as neither of +the subjects in the two experiments they had just witnessed +had denied the accuracy of the mind-reader’s +judgment, he would submit to the test himself. Great +applause greeted this determination, and as Mr. Bilderback, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span>with a glance that threatened a massacre if there +were any tricks played on him, placed his hand in that +of his son, the congregation rose en masse to follow +where the mind-reader might lead. Master Bilderback +placed his hand against his father’s forehead for a moment; +then he placed it against his own and remained +for several seconds in a thoughtful posture, and then led +his reluctant parent, followed by the company, out of +doors, and calling for a lantern, which was provided, they +went into the woodshed, where the mind-reader, despite +several stealthy nudges from his parent, reached his arm +behind a pile of hickory knots, and drew forth a whisky +bottle nearly a foot long, flat as a board, and about half +full. Then a shadow fell upon the community that not +even the cordial good nights that were exchanged at the +door could dissipate, and after the footsteps of the last +reveler had died away in the distance, Master Bilderback +held two separate private seances with his parents, the +remarkable manifestations of which occasioned the subdued +state of mind and unusual depression of spirits +which were so painfully apparent in the young man the +following day.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">A SAFE BET.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">ONE night, last Winter, old Mr. Balbriggan, who lives +out on Columbia Street, had occasion to make a +journey out to the woodshed to get the hatchet. It was +very dark, and as there was no lantern about the house, +Mr. Balbriggan took a kerosene lamp, and shading it +very carefully with a big tin pan, started out to the woodshed. +The wind was rather uncertain and gusty, and +Mr. Balbriggan had some misgivings about his getting +out to the shed without accident; and every time the +lamp flared, his mind misgave him. “I’ll bet a dollar +that lamp’ll blow out,” he muttered when the first gust +came, but he shied the tin pan around with great promptness, +and the lamp steadied down. There came another +gust and a bigger flare, and the chances for the lamp +going out improved so decidedly that the old gentleman +promptly raised his first stake. “I’ll bet a dollar and a +half,” he muttered, “that lamp blows out.” Then the +wind lulled a little, and as he hurried on toward the +shed it was so quiet that, while he didn’t quite lose all +confidence, he began to hedge a little; “I’ll bet fifty +cents,” he said, “it’ll go out before I get back.” Another +gust and a flare. “I’ll bet two dollars that lamp blows +out,” muttered the old gentleman again, chipping a little +higher as the chances seemed to grow better; but again +he saved the light by the timely interposition of the tin +pan. “I’ll bet three dollars,” he cried with great earnestness, +as the next gust came, “this lamp’ll blow out;” but +there were no takers and the lamp rallied again. But a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span>still stronger gust fairly lifted the flame out of the top of +the smoked chimney; and the old gentleman hissed in a +hoarse, suppressed whisper, “I’ll bet five dollars this +lamp’ll blow out.” But it settled down to work once +more, and did very well until Mr. Balbriggan got very +close to the woodshed; when the wind rallied and came +at the lamp from two or three directions at once, and the +old gentleman fairly shouted, “I’ll bet ten dollars this +lamp’ll blow——” and just then the door of the woodshed +blew violently open, hitting the lamp and the tin +pan, knocking them both out of Mr. Balbriggan’s hands, +and striking the old gentleman a terrible blow in the face +that made him see more lights dancing in the air, for +about a second, than even the lamp could send forth. +And while he held his nose with one hand and groped +around with the other to find where he was, there came +from the house door the voice of the eldest juvenile Balbriggan, +falling through the darkness like a falling star: +“Raise him out, pa, raise him out; make it a hundred +dollars; you’ve got a dead sure thing on it!”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span> + + +<h2 class="nobreak">THE LAY OF THE COW.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"> + +<p class="drop-cap">SWITCH engine Louisa, “B., C. R. & M.,”</p> +<div class="indent2">Was slowing up Front Street about three P. M.,</div> +<div class="verse">When the stoker looked out of the window to say,</div> +<div class="verse">“There’s a cow going ’cross the t-r-a-c-kay.”</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Pensively halted the cow on the track,</div> +<div class="verse">Burs on her pendent tail, bran on her back;</div> +<div class="verse">Dreaming of Summer, she seemed not to see</div> +<div class="verse">The approach of the switch e-n-g-i-n-e.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Once more spake the Stoker, “There she is now,”</div> +<div class="verse">“Bully,” the engineer quoth, “for the cow.”</div> +<div class="verse">And reversing his engine he cried, “Shoo! Oh, shoo!”</div> +<div class="verse">Said the stoker, “Oh, shoo’t the see-oh-doubleyou.”</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Shrilly the whistle shrieked for its alarm,</div> +<div class="verse">And the stoker threw firewood and coals in a swarm;</div> +<div class="verse">But the cow never heeded, nor thought that her star</div> +<div class="verse">Was setting at four miles an h-o-u-r.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">The switch engine struck her about amidships,</div> +<div class="verse">And her Summer dreams met with a total eclipse;</div> +<div class="verse">It mangled her carcase, most shocking to see,</div> +<div class="verse">And threw her down Front s-t-r-double-e-tea.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Sadly the engineer drew in his head,</div> +<div class="verse">And “pulled her wide open,” as onward he sped;</div> +<div class="verse">But the stoker smiled gayly, “Old fellow,” said he,</div> +<div class="verse">“There’s some cheap porterhouse s-t-a-k-e.”⁠<a id="FNanchor_A_1" href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a></div> +</div></div></div> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_A_1" href="#FNanchor_A_1" class="label">[A]</a> That isn’t the way to spell porterhouse steak, but the right way wouldn’t +rhyme.</p></div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">YOUNG MR. COFFINBERRY BUYS A DOG.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">PEOPLE lifted their eyes above their mufflers one +raw November morning as they walked down Jefferson +Street, and smiled and grinned, and laughed even +unto hysterical weeping, as they watched the toilsome +and uncertain progress of a patient young man who had +bought a dog and was leading his property home. It +was a nice enough kind of a dog, one of the kind of dogs +whose mouth begins back close to the shoulders. It had +dreadfully long legs, this dog, with great knobs of knees, +and its restless tail had a dejected droop, as though the +dog was just heart-broken at the idea of leaving his old +home. The young man was leading the dog along with +a very long string, one end whereof was tied around the +dog’s neck. The only trouble with the dog was that he +was young. He had not attained the years of discretion. +He couldn’t trot placidly along thinking of things. He +couldn’t walk at his master’s heels with a face as solemn +as though he expected to be sausage before Thanksgiving +Day. He was a nervous, fidgety, inquisitive dog, and he +tried to read all the signs, and crawl under all the wagons, +and dive between every body’s legs as he went along. +And the first thing he knew, he had a contract on hand +that was much too big for him, and he was just about +crazy over it, for he wasn’t the dog to give up, if he was +young, and he stuck to his work like a Trojan. And this +was what made people laugh. The young man who was +leading him had just lifted his hat to some lady acquaintances +who were passing when the dog, looking up, misunderstood +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span>the motion and thought his master was going +to hit him a diff with that hat. With the natural instinct +of self-preservation, the shy, timid young thing dashed +between the young man’s legs and ran to the length of +his tether; then he gave a terrified howl and darted back +in the opposite direction, going outside the young man’s +right leg. Then, with a frightened yelp it sprang back +between the legs again, circled around and came down +outside the left leg. Then it ran rapidly around the +young man, dived through his legs again and ran around +him once and a half in an opposite direction, and his +last maneuver closed the performance, for it wound the +dog completely up, with his frightened face laid close +against the young man’s knee. Mr. Coffinberry blushed +to his ears, and replacing his hat, began the task of extricating +himself from the toils that artful dog had cast +around him. But the animal’s confidence was not yet +entirely restored, for at every movement of Mr. Coffinberry’s +hands, he squirmed and writhed and pulled back +on the string until he was choked, and coughed and +gasped in a manner most terrifying to the people not +thoroughly acquainted with the symptoms of hydrophobia, +and the young man was naturally as badly frightened, +when these paroxysms became very lively, as was the dog +itself. It was fifteen minutes before the snarl was disentangled. +Then before they had gone half a block +further, that dog, after having rushed into and been +forcibly, and in some instances rather petulantly, dragged +out of every doorway on the line of march, incontinently +shot down a cellar grating, where he was immediately +clawed and scalped by a cat as big as a soap box, and +was also nearly garroted by his master drawing him up +out of the cellar by the cord, for all the world as though +he was a well bucket. About thirty steps further on, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span>the dog ran between a clergyman’s legs, got frightened +and ran around him once and then dived between his +master’s legs, then rushed out toward the curb stone, but +changing his mind, circled back and scooped in a blushing +school teacher, and then gazed upon the mischief he +had wrought, with hideous howls. The bystanders +thought they never could get out of that entanglement. +The minister declared alternatively that “he never did” +and moreover that “well he never;” the blushing school +teacher remarked “good gracious,” and suggested also, +“dear me,” and, furthermore, “well, now;” and the +young man said something about the dog being damp, +which was highly improbable as the morning was very +raw. By dint of a great deal of persuasion and pulling +and hauling, however, in which they were greatly assisted +by the dog, the unhappy trio were finally separated and +went their way, making ineffectual efforts to look unconcerned. +Then the dog wrapped himself up around a +lamp-post; then he got through the hind wheel of a grocer’s +wagon five or six times, back and forth, around a +different spoke every time, while his master was talking +to the grocer, and the latter drove off before the young +man noticed what arrangements his dog had concluded +with the wheel, and Jefferson Street was edified +by the spectacle of a dog wound up to a wagon wheel +and revolving rapidly with it, while a young man of +pleasing address ran alongside the wheel and added his +agonized appeals to the half-stifled wails of the hanging +pup. They got the wagon stopped and got the pup +loose, and the young man, wearied with the long struggle, +resolutely turned toward the store, and walked rapidly +away, the unhappy dog lying prone on his back, gasping +and pawing the air, while the boys who witnessed the +strange procession made the welkin ring with cries of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span>“Dog’s a chokin! mister, yer dog’s a chokin!” But +young Mr. Coffinberry knew that so long as his dog was +helplessly sprawled on his back he couldn’t wrap the +inhabitants of Burlington up in perspiring, distracted +groups, so he kept on the even tenor of his way, and +when he finally untied the string from the animal’s +neck and turned him loose in the store, there wasn’t so +much hair on that dog’s back as would make a tooth +brush.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">A MODERN GOBLIN.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">A DREARY, cheerless Christmas Eve. The dead +hour of day, when the pale twilight falls over the +earth, still and colorless as a shroud. Down the long +vistas of deserted streets but here and there the feeble +rays of some struggling light gleams through the gray +twilight, pale as the glitter of a jewel on the brow of +death. Across the dull waste of sky the ghostly clouds +fly before a piercing wind, which whirls and tears their +edges into fluttering fringes. The gloaming fades slowly +and almost imperceptibly into night. Away back from +the town, out on the bleak hillsides, the leafless trees +toss their bare arms, gaunt shapes against the pallor of +the sky, the swaying branches answering their mocking +shadows, dancing like specters on the frozen ground; +while the withered leaves rustle like very shudders.</p> + +<p>The hour, neither light nor darkness, neither day nor +night, that, with its weird, indescribable magic, draws +you from the cheery grate to press your face against the +cold window, and dream out into the gray light, peopled +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span>with specters and visions—often grotesque, but never +merry—that come trooping from every shadow. Comes +a rosy little face, framed in tangled tresses—ah, long, +long unfolding years must roll back to take you to the +time when the laughing eyes looked into yours; to-night +you remember—dear child—the dimpled hands were +crossed on the pulseless breast, when you were a boy; +and the cheerless winter landscape, the dreary hills +of snow, and the leafless forests stretch away, mile after +weary mile, between your home and where the Christmas +winds sigh plaintive monodies over her little grave. +There comes a thoughtful, earnest face, manly and +noble; a playmate of your boyhood, a college classmate +and friend; the man who stood for your ideal of all that +is brave and true, and virtuous and generous. As you +look at it, you remember, to-night, that when you saw +the real face, so little time ago, it was worn and old and +haggard, and stamped with the leprous mark of vice. +You shudder at the recollection; but the pleading look +of the vision goes to your heart as it fades away; and +other faces, long forgotten, crowd before you. One, +furrowed with marks of patient suffering and care, +with silver bands in the brown hair drawn so smoothly +away from the brow, mother-love glistening in the tender +eyes, mother-love in the quivering, heart-reaching eloquence +of the tremulous lips, mother-love in the caressing +gesture of the gentle hands—what wonder that it +lingers long, and fades only when you crush the burning +tears that blind your eyes and veil the vision from your +sight? And comes one sweeter, dearer than all—your +heart throbs more quickly as you see a shadow rise in +the deepening twilight—a face glowing with blushes and +wreathed in smiles; a face that shone into your life like +sunshine, in its bright springtime days; a face that has +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span>remained constant while everything else has changed—your +old heart grows tender and young with dear recollections, +and you thank God that although years have set +their mark upon this dear vision, it is still yours, loving, +faithful, and powerful to bless and charm in every mood +and at all times. It is gone; and looming through the +deepening shadows another form of familiar presence +rises before you. The silvery tones of memory-bells chime +like a Christmas choral through the bleak wind shaking +so angrily the noisy shutters. It is the milkman, and he +jangles all your sweet dreams out of tune, sending the +ghosts your retrospect has raised back to the shadowy +past. And as your visions disappear, you dismally watch +the female vassals of the neighborhood sallying forth in +answer to the tinkling summons, bearing all possible +manner of squatty tinware and corpulent yellow bowls, +in which to receive lawful but attenuated measures of +that peculiar aqueous fluid of cerulean hue with which, +under the ghastly appellation of “cream,” our best +society dilutes its table beverages. And when this +amusement ceases to be longer interesting, you leave the +draughty window and seek the more congenial companionship +of the black, close-shut gas-burner, which +out of respect to your conceit and the conventionalities +of the Christmas time, we have designated a “cheery +fire-place,” with an incipient cold in your otherwise +empty head.</p> + +<p>For the shadows have beckoned and reached to each +other, and joined their giant hands, and danced until +the light is frightened away. In heavier volumes rolls +the black smoke from every chimney, indicating that the +estimable and respectable business men of the city, having +left their clerks with orders to save gas and not waste +the coal, and to close the store only when the last lingering, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span>possible chance of securing one more belated customer +has faded into hopelessness, are now at home, +enjoying the unspeakable luxury of heaping the stove +with coal their wives have carried in, and driving the +other members of the family to madness by monopolizing +the privilege of poking the fire. Gas lights twinkle +in the streets, for the faithful almanac in the gas company’s +office has been mislaid, and they do not know +there will be a moon quite late in the morning. A ruddy +glow of firelight and lamplight streams out into the gathering +darkness when a door is opened, men are hurrying +home, their faces averted, and their bodies bowed against +the howling wind, or else scudding briskly before it. +The city was hurrying home to enjoy its Christmas Eve +in the bosom of its several families, and to scold the +children and pack them off to bed, if they romped and +made too much noise. Everybody knows what city it +was, so there is no use wasting time describing it. It +was just the same old city, only they had strengthened +the little brick house down below the corner where the +blacksmith lived, with a coat of whitewash. Just the +same old city.</p> + +<p>And everybody knows the hill on the street, where it +turns to wind up the bluff and go to the rich folks’ houses +on top of the long hill that stretches around behind the +town like a great horse shoe, and looks down on all the +business, and bustle, and noise, and hurry, and work, +and fatigue that have made the city so rich and powerful. +And just at the time we were speaking about a gentleman +was making devious headway up this hill, just +as the street leaves the business of the city and +goes scrambling up to the quiet and rest on top of +the hill. A discouraged looking gentleman, who seemed +to have begun his Christmas at the wrong end, and so +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span>got nearly through with it before it had really commenced. +The gentleman’s Napoleonic head was covered, +part of the time, with a glossy silk tile, which art had +shaped into the fashionable, uncomfortable cylinder +which adorns the caputs of our Best Young Men, but +accident, oft recurring, and too many vigorous slappings +on and pattings down by the officious but ill-directed +zeal of many friends, and too frequent steppings on by +the owner as the last means of checking its mad career +in a race with the wind, had graced this glossy cylinder +with many alternate elevations and depressions, giving it +that corrugated effect so attractive, natural, and useful +in the washboard and concertina, but very repugnant +and ungraceful in the silk hat. The gentleman’s eccentric +style of buttoning his overcoat, three holes over the +same button, lent an air of abstraction to his general +appearance, while his knitted brow told of intense mental +conflict and exertion. He made little forays from the +sidewalk to the middle of the street, returning to his +pathway by devious and angular ways, as though striving +to baffle some unseen pursuer. From time to time +he made vicious, impulsive, startled clutches at the +streaming ends of his necktie, fluttering in the blast, +which he regarded with a vague uncertain terror, and, +when he had seized them, he laughed in hollow, hysterical +accents. The smell of coffee was heard in the +distance as he passed, and ever and anon, as the restless +earth raised itself in precipitous terraces before him, he +lifted his feet high in air and with lofty steps essayed to +scale the treacherous mirage. He paused in his circuitous +progress to shake hands with the last friendly lamp-post +on that thoroughfare, expressing his confidence in +that faithful municipal lighthouse as a “goo’role feller,” +who was, under any and every possible combination of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span>circumstances, “all ri’.” At times he felt for his hat +with both hands, and having secured a firm grip upon +its uncertain brim, he removed it from his head with +great caution, and swinging it violently in the air, proceeded +with great enthusiasm and heartiness to “hurrah +for” somebody, but invariably forgot who, when he came +to the name, and contented himself with assuring himself +that that was “al’ri’,” after which with gravity he +felt for his head, found it, and with much deliberation +got the hat up on top of it, generally sideways or upside +down, and with great physical effort, crushed and pulled +it on. At length, having parted company after affectionate +and prolonged adieus, with the last friendly lamp-post, +the young gentleman loudly announced that he was +a “total wr—hic!—creck” and proceeded furthermore +to declare that he would not and could not by any +means be induced to seek the shelter of his mother’s +roof again until smiling morn should hail and deck the +hills with gold, and the rosy-fingered hours should herald +the coming of the god of day. And singing this true +statement in a rich baritone, a kind of a wheelbarrow +tone, in fact, possessing more volume and hoarse wheeziness +than we would admire in Nilsson’s chest tones, he +made a vigorous but ineffectual effort to fall up the hill, +and angrily ejaculating, “Ju know who yer pushin’?” he +shot over the curbstone with frenzied gestures that +seemed to proceed at least from ten pairs of legs, and +disappeared in the gloom of the gutter, where he lay, and +whence his stertorous breathing startled the nervous +passers-by.</p> + +<p>Had the fallen man kept on the uneven tenor of his +way a little farther he would have encountered a mysterious +being that would have transformed his snores into +sounds of deeper intonation. The street, where it turned +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span>and led up the hill, was not a cheerful one. On the west +side the bluff rises abruptly as a wall, and on the opposite +side it sinks away into a dark, gloomy ravine, that has +an uncanny look at the best of times, and the sidewalk +is provided with a wooden railing, to keep careless or +belated passengers from plunging down the hillside. +A little stream winds along the ravine, endeavoring, in a +despairing kind of way, to find its way to the river, +which it never does. It starts, but from the time the +city was first settled there has been no record that the +little stream ever got clear through; nobody knows what +becomes of it, where it goes to; but certain it is, that all +trace of it is lost before it gets half-way to any where. +But we have naught to do with this forlorn little country +brook that comes purling through pleasant meadows, and +bubbling over white pebbles, and wrangling around great +bowlders, to get bewildered and lost in the entangling +mazes of the drains and gutters and sewers and culverts +of the city.</p> + +<p>Seated on the railing of the sidewalk was an apparition +of far less cheerful mien than the gentleman who, when +we left him, had just wrapped the curbstone about him +and laid down to snore the Christmas hours away. This +figure wore a snow-white mantle, much too airy and +summery for the season and very decidedly out of style, +which fell from his angular shoulders in graceful folds, a +portion of its light tissue being folded over his osseous +head after the most conventional style of his class. As +he swung his legs carelessly to and fro, they struck the +lower boards of the railing with a strange rattling sound +like muffled castanets, and his manner of whistling +“Down Among the Dead Men,” under his breath in that +weird, ghostly place, with the bluff rising black and +abrupt before him, and the ravine lying deep in impenetrable +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span>shadow behind him, had that awful touch of the +supernatural in it that would make one’s blood run cold +to contemplate. A ghostlier ghost never chose a ghostlier +time or place for his ghastly recreations.</p> + +<p>He ceased his hollow whistling and stilled his nervous +legs as he heard approaching footsteps on the sidewalk, +and dropped from his easy perch on the railing as a +young man and a lovely maiden came toward him, toiling +up the slope down which the December zephyr roared +and swept into a fury that would make an Ulster overcoat +feel sick. The young man’s arm was wound tenderly +about his companion’s shrinking seal-skin cloak, +while he hoarsely whispered words into her ears, which +were rosy with the exhilarating influence of twenty-eight +degrees below zero. The ghost stepped in front of +them.</p> + +<p>“Excuse my hoarseness,” he said, with a winning +smile that extended over the entire width of his finely-chiseled +face, “but I had the very disagreeable misfortune +to have my throat cut in this exceedingly romantic +spot about a half a century since, and my voice has since +been affected to such an ex——”</p> + +<p>The very wind paused in its noisy bluster to listen to +the wild shrieks that were piercing the darkness like +acoustic arrows, and the rapid patter of two pairs of +Arctic over-shoes that were pounding the bosom of the +frosty earth far down the hill, away from the shadow of +the bluff, away from the dreadful blackness of the ravine, +in the direction of the gleaming street lamps of the city.</p> + +<p>The ghost leaned upon the railing and sighed as he +said:</p> + +<p>“This was not the style of responding to an apology +when I dwelt among men. Perhaps my voice, which I +have not used before for fifty years, has that in its +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span>mouldy accents which is disagreeable, startling, and +possibly repulsive, to mortal ears. I will modulate my +intonation.”</p> + +<p>He paused to observe the figure of a portly man, looming +vaguely through the night, as, with many asthmatic +puffs, the well-fed citizen essayed to beat up the hill +against the wind.</p> + +<p>“He looks,” said the specter, musingly, “very much +like an honest old settler I used to know, who sold whisky +to and stole furs from the Indians, the year after I first +came to what is now this city.”</p> + +<p>The panting citizen came alongside and was passing +by, when the ghost dropped his bony hand noiselessly in +the hollow of his arm.</p> + +<p>“A thousand pardons, my dear sir,” he began, “but I +observe a most extraordinary resemblance in——”</p> + +<p>“Oh-<span class="allsmcap">H-H-H</span>-h, Lord!”</p> + +<p>And again the ghost was alone. As the echoes of the +excited and grossly misapplied remark of the citizen died +away in the mocking echoes of the dreary solitudes, the +ghost walked across the street and carefully examined +the face of the bluff, in which direction the portly mortal +had made his unceremonious and abrupt exit.</p> + +<p>“No,” the specter remarked, after a critical inspection, +“it is very evident that he did not plunge through the +hill; he certainly ran over its summit. The celerity +with which he accomplished this undertaking at his time +of life, and in his condition of superfluous flesh too, +smacks almost as much of the marvelous to me as I did +to him. I would be willing to bet my boots, now,” he +added, with a ghastly wink at his bare feet, “that the +portly old party can not come here to-morrow noon and +get over that hill inside of twenty-five minutes.”</p> + +<p>“Passenger travel on this street,” he continued, resuming +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span>his station on the sidewalk, “is livelier than it was in +my time. As I remember, the two gentlemen who performed +the surgical operation on my windpipe, which has +so disagreeably affected my voice, had to wait here for +me five hours in the cheerless gloom before my other +business engagements permitted me to come along and +make an involuntary and unwilling third in their interesting +little surprise party. And I sat on a stump near +this very spot, and watched my lifeless remains nearly +two days before the coroner found them and gave them +the customary inquest with a fearful and wonderful verdict, +followed by Christian burial. Yes, yes, the village +has been prosperous since then, and now—but soft, a +young man—a lover, too, or I’m no ghost. I will befriend +him and he will love me.”</p> + +<p>A goodly young man he was indeed, as ghost or girl +would wish to see. Torture racked his soul when, at +every step, his dainty boots, a size and a half too small, +touched the ground. And even the snowy expanse of +linen cuffs, weighted with moss-agate sleeve buttons, +failed to conceal the fact that his flame-colored kids +would not button. Though the piercing wind chilled him +to the very marrow, his overcoat was opened and thrown +back from his throat to display the blue necktie that +graced his paper collar. The elaborate and painful costume +betrayed his errand. You might wring bergamot +out of the air when he passed along, and there was +jockey club on his handkerchief, and his breath smelled +a little of sozodont, some of trix, and a great deal of +something else. The ghost looked after him, as he +passed by, with as much friendly admiring interest as he +could throw into his rather open countenance, and then +gathering his robe about him followed swiftly and silently +at the limping heels of the nice young man, who toiled +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span>painfully but very patiently and exquisitely properly up +the hill until he reached the summit of the grade, and +pausing before a mansion of pretentious appearance, +proceeded to investigate the ever changing mysteries of +a front gate.</p> + +<p>Properly constructed, the front gate is more fearfully +and wonderfully made than the architect who designs or +the carpenter who builds it. No other created or manufactured +thing in the whole wide universe can equal or +rival it for original perversity and malignant obstinacy. +A patient man, whose soul is melting within him from +chronic and exaggerated meekness, will fall from grace +and relieve his tortured soul in a burst of giant powder +profanity after fifteen minutes’ struggle with a front gate, +and then he will shower a tempest of abuse upon the +unknown man who contrived such a diabolical and outrageous +gate, and he will cease to struggle with it and +will climb over the fence and disintegrate his raiment on +the pickets, and abrade his cuticle all the way down his +back as he slides off, and then his soul will be tossed into +a very sirocco of passion and mortification when he sees +the dog of the mansion come trotting along and open the +gate with a simple push of his nose. Or a woman, full +of a woman’s love and yearning tenderness, will take +hold of a gate and tug at it, and pull and haul and jerk +until she nearly drags the solid posts up by the roots, and +when all the blood in her system is boiling in the top of +her head, and her eyes are starting from their sockets, +and she dissolves in tears of utter, abject wretchedness +and rage because she is debarred by virtue of her sex +from the ecstatic privilege of swearing at the gate and +the pirate who made it, a grinning boy will open the barrier +by merely pulling it the other way. Men with real, +living ideas, and lofty aspirations, and soaring ambitions, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span>and grand, illimitable thoughts, swelling and groaning +and throbbing in heart and brain, have stood before an +orthodox front gate and manipulated its fastenings, moving +that piece this way and this one that, and all of them +the other, until the pot-metal securities have assumed +the vexed and perplexing varieties and dimensions of a +Chinese puzzle with the delirium tremens or a Centennial +election table. And then, when at last with a +despairing groan he lets go of it, and raises his +hands to heaven to call down its righteous judgment +upon the unregenerate mocker who made that gate, it +slowly swings open by its own weight, and the distressed +Christian discovers to his unspeakable amazement that +he has had it open twenty times within the last fifteen +minutes. And all these troubles are magnified after +night. Hook and staple connect the swinging gate and +the immovable post where hook and staple there were +none before. The most trifling and ordinary bolt has a +way of acquiring a double action after dark, so that whatever +is loosed at one end is immediately fastened up as +tight as a candidate at the other. Nails, too, appear, +driven in the post immediately above the latch, and +finally, when all other ties are sundered, lo, a strap hugs +the whole structure in its binding embrace. It is a work +of ten minutes to find the buckle, and when found it is a +knot, tied when the strap was wet, and now firmer in its +clinging folds and more intricate in its appalling entanglements +than the famous knot which Gordius of Phrygia +tied in his chariot harness, a knot which baffled even the +sublimest efforts of the Chicago divorce lawyers. Even +the simplest form of a gate latch known to man, composed +of a round hole in a post into which a stick is +thrust athwart the gate, is a snare, a vanity, a vexation +of the spirit and a mortification of the flesh; for no living +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span>man ever opened a strange gate of this genus that +the stick did not come out with a jerk, rasping the +abraded knuckles along the rude edges of the pickets.</p> + +<p>With a gate which presented, or rather concealed, and +successively developed, like masked batteries, all the +modern combinations of baffling elements and inventions, +the young man has all this time been expostulating. A +good young man, for while he has been laboring with +that remorseless gate with all the intensity of purpose +and earnestness that fires the blood of youth, he has only +relieved his impatient swelling soul by saying from time +to time that “he <i>would</i> be dad binged,” once or twice +varying the tense, as the future suddenly seemed to break +upon him with all the fullness of time, to declare that he +<i>was</i> “dad binged,” and several times, as though conscious +of some degree of uncertainty attending the whole matter, +devoutly hoping that, at some indefinite time in the vague +hereafter, he <i>might</i> be “dad binged.” Once he passed suddenly +to the imperative and passive, appealing to some +unknown quantity to “dad bing the dad binged old gate,” +a confusion of mood, tense and voice that was absurd, +and even the ghost, which stood in the porch of the mansion +watching his movements with that all-absorbed +interest which visitors from another world display in +terrestrial matters, shook his head gravely, as if doubting +the advisability of a needless waste of power in dad +binging that which was already declared dad binged. +But the ghastly visage relaxed in a grim smile, as with +one last tremendous effort, the adolescent raised the +barrier from its fastenings, hinges and all, and fell forward +to the gravel walk with the fiendish gate clasped in +his arms, reaching the ground in a rattling chorus which +roused all the dogs this side of the moon.</p> + +<p>Disengaging himself from the chaos into which the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span>gate had fallen, the young man reached the porch with a +halting step, and as he stood near the door, brushing +gravel off his clothes with his tattered kids, the ghost +gathered his bustle and train about him, slid deftly +through the key hole, and flattened himself against the +door on the inside. The tinkle of the bell had scarcely +sounded in the hall when a light footstep was heard in +echo to its clamor, and a beautiful young girl hastened +to the door. She opened it, but the ghost stepped before +her and faced the smiling, blushing, bowing young man, +threw his gaunt arms around his neck, and in a hollow +whisper began,</p> + +<p>“Darling! I have watched so long for——”</p> + +<p>A terrific yell rang through the corridors like almost +any other yell would ring under similar circumstances. +A rush of hasty feet along the gravel walk, a stumble, a +crash and a dismal howl at the site of the fallen gate; +then the dying echoes of fleet, pattering footsteps in the +distance, and then silence, dispossessed of her curtained +throne for one brief moment, resumed her noiseless reign, +and the smiling ghost, after a vain effort to dig himself +in the ribs, chuckled with dismal jollity and hid his +shadowy form in the recesses of the porch.</p> + +<p>The young girl stood spell-bound, gazing out in the +direction of her vanished lover, and shaking her lovely +head in mute, astonished negations, in response to the +hurried and excited inquiries of the family, who came +swarming into the hall in all possible stages and degrees +of amazement and terror, propounding with great volubility +all the conundrums which would naturally suggest +themselves in consequence of such an astounding and +unheralded and unprovoked outburst of human voice.</p> + +<p>“I cannot imagine what did ail him,” she said at +length, when her stern father, in mild reproof, had laid +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span>his heavy hand upon her rounded shoulder, and oscillated +her lithe form to and fro until her back hair was in +her hands, and the floor was strewn with hairpins and +samples of curls, thick as autumnal leaves and one thing +and another strew the brooks in Vallambrosa and vicinity. +“I opened the door, and before I could say ‘Good +evening,’ he opened his mouth to its fullest extent, and +with a look of horror, fled from my presence, leaving no +token save an amount of noise altogether incommensurate +with his size. I can’t imagine what he could have seen +to affect him so. I was afraid at first that I hadn’t +rubbed the pearl powder out of my eyebrows, but I had.”</p> + +<p>Every member of the convention offered a suggestion +or an explanation of the mysterious affair, but they were +all overruled by paterfamilias, who, venturing the gruff +opinion that the young man was in the habit of placing +himself exterior to sundry and various decoctions dispensed +at those retail drug stores which are, by law, +closed on Sundays, and had merely incurred that peculiar +form of mental distemper in which the patient keeps +a private menagerie on exhibition in his boots, drove his +wondering family back to the parlor.</p> + +<p>But youth is buoyant. Its sorrows are transient and +its tears are April rain, flecked with the sunshine even +while they fall; its fears are short lived as its sorrows, +and die away when the thought or scene that gave them +birth is gone. So he who flew from the hideous shadow +that had veiled the fairy figure of his love from his fond +gaze, blushed in the darkness at his nervous fancy, and +re-arranging his wardrobe, retraced his steps with more +of that native grace and innate dignity peculiar to the +young man of the nineteenth century, than he had displayed +while making his presence seldom. Again he +passed the wreck of the demolished gate, and once more +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span>he rang the bell, and listened for the echoing footfall, +while the attentive specter came and stood demurely at +his elbow.</p> + +<p>“You horrid boy,” murmured a sweet voice through +the keyhole, “I have a great mind not to let you in. +What made you act so perfectly ridiculous?”</p> + +<p>“Dearest,” the young man said, “it was a foolish, horrible +fancy; I will never frighten you again.”</p> + +<p>“It was perfectly dreadful,” she replied, “horribly, +dreadfully awful. How could you be so perfectly horridly +dreadful? But you may come in this time.”</p> + +<p>And with coquettish deliberation she opened the door, +to see the ghost, bending his smiling gaze upon her colorless +face and staring eyes.</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” he said, in hollow tones, “since you +insist upon it, I will come——”</p> + +<p>“Oo-oo-<i>ee</i>-<span class="allsmcap">E-E</span>-E-E!”</p> + +<p>And thump! She dropped to the floor with a velocity +and abruptness that even astonished her ghost. Dumb +with amazement, her lover stood gazing at her form, lying +prone upon the new hall carpet, emitting a series of long-drawn +shrieks. He recoiled, as again the members of +the family came pouring and buzzing out of their rooms, +like hornets from their domicile on a swaying apple tree +bough, jarred rudely by the unconscious granger’s towering +head. The angry father caught a glimpse of the +trembling, half-stupefied, and thoroughly mystified youth, +standing near the doorway, appealingly and timorously +offering his explanations. The parent, with a few hurried +words, disappeared up stairs. Quickly he returned, +bearing in his hands a ponderous shot-gun, at the sight +of which the young man, without pausing to explain, +fled quite as precipitately, and with as little ceremony, +as he had sauntered away from the embrace of the ghost.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span>“Because,” he remarked to the wind, which was vainly +trying to keep pace with his flying movements as he +cleared the fallen gate with a bound, and waltzed airily +down the road, as though tight boots were a vision and +an unreal dream, “because the old man appears to be a +trifle impatient to-night, and I would not cross him in +his sadder moods. He might do that to-night for which +to-morrow I might mourn.”</p> + +<p>And deftly passing from twelve to fifteen linear feet +of solid earth beneath each foot, oft as he raised it +from the ground, with swift evasion he transferred himself +to healthier climes and more congenial scenes.</p> + +<p>The indignant father, meanwhile, had stepped out on +the porch, and holding his warlike weapon a-port, peered +angrily into the gloom for a glimpse of the flying figure, +whose distant, echoing footsteps he could faintly hear.</p> + +<p>“Thou art so dear,” he said, “and yet so far.”</p> + +<p>To him the silent ghost approached. Standing by his +unconscious side, the specter leaned his bony elbow +upon the mortal shoulder, resting his hollow cheek upon +his attenuated hand. Then, with a graceful motion and +an easy gesture, of which a ballet dancer might be proud, +he drew aside the lower portion of his drapery, disclosing +to view a pair of emaciated shins of which a ballet +dancer would most certainly be ashamed. Crossing one +of these specimens of anatomical curiosities in front of +the other, he rested the bended limb upon the toes, and +stood thus for a moment, in that elegant and charming +pose so much affected by our best young men at the +opera and theater, who place themselves on exhibition +for the untaught multitude upon every possible occasion.</p> + +<p>For a few brief moments he stood thus, wrapped in +admiration of his refined and elegant appearance, then +dropping his face and turning it until his breath, if he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span>had any, would have swept the cheek of his unconscious +companion, he said:</p> + +<p>“Let me entreat you, dear sir, to do nothing rash. Let +me implore you to put by your murderous weap——”</p> + +<p>Bang! bang! Two loads of death-dealing buckshot +perforated the roof of the porch, and the howl of an +elderly voice mingled with the crashing, discordant echoes +that rose clattering through the darkness. The slam of +a door, and the rush and scramble of many feet succeeded, +followed by the clanging of locks and bolts; the +subdued hubbub of many voices could be heard, detailing +in many exaggerated phrases, extravagant narratives, +and with a smile of grim amusement playing across his +expressive features, like a telegraphic line from one ear to +the other, the specter learned, as he listened at the keyhole, +that while the master of the house had been standing +on the porch, a pale blue light suddenly clove the +night, accompanied by a sulphurous smell, in the midst +of which appeared, rising out of the ground, a colossal +body with five heads, and with hideous gashes yawning +in its throats, from which the welling blood flowed down, +and splotched and streaked the long white robe with +horrible carmine stains. Its many eyes, the patrician +said, glared like burning coals, and its hair twined and +wreathed itself in fantastic shapes, like living serpents.</p> + +<p>The specter assumed a thoughtful look as he listened +to these terrible revelations.</p> + +<p>“It is barely possible,” he said, “that I am a maligned +apparition. From his vivid powers of imagination, and +a slight tendency to exaggerated word coloring in narration, +one would take this elderly party for one of the +gifted prevaricators who deal in political prophecies in +the presidential year. I may not be a very handsome +ghost, but I do most profoundly believe that this portly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span>Ananias who, I see, is just now leaving the room to learn +how his daughter is coming on, has most foully traduced +my personal appearance. And while there is no one in +this apartment save that comfortable-looking old lady, +who has been terrified and mystified into motionless +silence, I will quietly step in and settle this vexed question +by consulting the pier glass.”</p> + +<p>With that graceful, easy manner which is characteristic +of a well-bred ghost, he slid through the keyhole, and a +moment later, stood singeing his bloodless shins before +the blazing grate, while he made a critical inspection of +his visage in the mirror. After studying the picture for +some moments in silence, he stroked his chin with a +complacent air while a smirk of self satisfaction played +over his features.</p> + +<p>“Any mortal,” he murmured, “who would flee in terror +from such a face as that; any man who could detect any +thing like an unearthly glare in those hollow eyes; any +creature who can find it in his heart to announce the discovery +of hair on that head, or find a trace of blood +about that figure, from throat to heels, is a lunatic, and +should be looked after. Be looked after,” he added, in +an absent way, “Looked after. Looked after.”</p> + +<p>“And,” he continued, after a few moments’ deliberation, +“I should like to be appointed to look after him. +He would then have a more faithful conservator than +was ever appointed by a county court. I would interest +and amuse him, and strive to divert his mind from the +troubles which appear to have so disordered his imagination +and distorted his vision and faculties of observation. +I would keep him in a state of constant mental activity. +I would help him around, and I would make myself useful +to this family in a variety of ways. For instance, I +would make this old gentleman so distrustful of that long +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span>walk up the hill after dark that he never would stay +down town late at night, and could not be induced to +attend lodge, or ‘just step down to the post-office’ +after supper. I would imbue his very nature with such +an utter abhorrence for dark places that he would never +kiss the hired girl behind the cellar door. Never again; +ne-ver, ne-ver. I would reform this man, and make this +family happy, and this house should resound with manifestations +of excitement and exclamations of astonishment, +and indications of very dubious merriment, as it +were. I see much good in this virtuous and happy project, +and I will cultivate the acquaintance of this excellent +lady of the mansion, convince her of the necessity +of a protector for herself and her family, and carry my +plans into operation. I have a conviction that this would +be a most comfortable house to haunt.”</p> + +<p>He stepped to the side of the matron, and laying his +icy fingers against her cheek to arouse her attention, and +holding his throat shut with the other hand to prevent +his voice escaping prematurely at the aperture which +has been previously referred to, said, in a louder voice:</p> + +<p>“You will pardon the abruptness of my speech, my +dear madam, but I deem it my duty to inform you that +it is my firm belief this part of town is haunted. Yes, +ma’am, haunted. I shouldn’t be surprised, indeed, if +there was a ghost somewhere in this house this very +minute. In fact I have every reason for believing——”</p> + +<p>Thus far his auditor had preserved such a respectful +silence that the speaker believed she was listening with +rapt attention, and he fondly hoped that he had at last +found a friendly, appreciative gossip who would not +interrupt his remarks with ill-timed applause before he +was half through. Looking at her face, however, at this +moment, the expression of her countenance was such as +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span>chilled him with disappointment. She was not splitting +the night air with blood-curdling, discordant shrieks, it +is true, but it evidently wasn’t her fault. Her eyes had +left their sockets and were standing out on her cheek-bones +with nothing particular to do except to stare at +each other across the top of her nose, each with an +expression of blank amazement at seeing the other there. +Her mouth was alternately closing with sudden jerks and +distending with spasmodic gasps; noiseless, but all the +more provoking on that very account. She appeared to +be making strenuous efforts to rise, but as every attempt +to assume an erect posture brought her closer to the +ghost, she sank back helplessly in her chair after every +effort, and resumed her dreadful staring and noiseless +gasping.</p> + +<p>“You had better scream, madame,” said the disgusted +ghost. “Pray, do not restrain yourself on my account. It +is really painful for me to witness your suffering. If my +presence here is distasteful to you, pray have the goodness +to intimate the fact in the abrupt and startling +manner so much affected by this family. You had better +express your emotions, if you have any. If you have +through any little passing thrill of excitement, temporarily +lost the use of your voice, and find some difficulty +in recovering it, perhaps I can assist you.”</p> + +<p>With a horrible leer he withdrew the drapery from his +neck, and leaning back his head disclosed the gaping +incision in his respiratory and swallowing apparatus +which had compelled him to go into the ghost business. +As he had shrewdly conjectured, that startling display +developed the full action of the old lady’s dormant vocal +powers, and, for the next five minutes, Bedlam was a +quiet, sequestered cloister in comparison with that house. +For an instant the author of all the uproar paused to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span>smile at the vociferous woman screaming till the chandelier +trembled, and pounding a vigorous tattoo on the +floor with her aged heels, and then he left the house, +merely stopping as he went to look in on the kitchen, +and by one genial wink at the servants establish a first-class +English opera chorus in that department of the +household.</p> + +<p>He then passed out into the chill air, and gliding +slowly along the gravel walk, paused to contemplate the +ruins of the front gate and speculate on the whereabouts +of the handsome youth who had so lately enacted the +part of a modern Samson, and had torn down the gates +to Gaza little on the loved face which parental tyranny +would thereafter conceal from his ardent gaze forever.</p> + +<p>“It is ever thus,” moralized the ghost; “at once the +mightiest and the weakest being in created life, God’s +noblest work is the toy of bodiless phantoms. We tear +down and we build up; we purpose and we prevent; we +do and we undo; we overcome every real difficulty, and +surmount every actual obstacle, and at last, when our +object is all but accomplished—lo, a shadow terrifies us, +and the courage and labor of an hour, a year, or a lifetime, +are swept into ruins. At least, <i>we</i> used to do thus. +I have left the firm, but the surviving partners carry on +the business of life in pretty much the same old style. +The world invents a great deal, but it doesn’t improve +very much. It is the same old world, after all. It has +the locomotive and the telegraph, true; but the men who +invented the locomotive and the telegraph loved, feared, +hoped and lived pretty much as Cæsar’s couriers and +Dido’s sailors used to. Men declaim against the +remotest possibility of the spirits of the dead revisiting +the glimpses of the moon, and yet my presence affects in +the same unpleasant and turbulent manner alike the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span>most skeptical and the most credulous and superstitious. +I believe, speaking of spirits, I will go down town to a +certain house I wot of, where parties of my friends, the +Spiritualists, hold frequent seances, at which they converse +familiarly, though ungrammatically, with the spirits +of their own deceased friends, and of the illustrious +dead. They will be glad to see me, I know, because I +am intimately acquainted with some of the parties whom +they occasionally summon back to earth, and they +will be glad too, because I can correct some of the +erroneous ideas they entertain in regard to the present +condition of some of these spirits who are constantly +writing back, in such execrable English as would make +a cultured, intelligent ghost blush, how happy they are, +and how glad they are that they died, and how much +they know. I am as contented a ghost as one can find +under the republic, and I never was glad that I died, and +I never write to any of my relatives, and never visit any +of them, except,” he added thoughtfully, “my dear +haunt.” And he chuckled grimly over his ghastly little +joke.</p> + +<p>In another moment he was seated comfortably beneath +a table which was surrounded by a party of seekers after +truth, who were patiently sitting up for the latest returns +from the spirit world. The ghost was much touched by +the anxiety displayed by a young man in very long hair +and green spectacles to hear from his departed uncle. +The spirit mails were snowed in, or intercepted by +guerrillas, or held for postage, or suffering from some +other cause of detention that Christmas Eve; for it +seemed as though the young man never would receive so +much as a postal card from his deceased relative. The +ghost pitied him, and just as the medium, a beautiful +young girl of forty-nine summers, was passing into another +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span>trance, he crawled out from under the table and bowed +pleasantly to the anxious inquirer.</p> + +<p>“I think I can allay any anxiety you may feel on +account of your departed avuncular relative,” he said; +“I have met him several times, and although the peculiar +and pressing nature of his engagements elsewhere prevents +his attending in person social assemblies on this +side of the ground, he is——”</p> + +<p>He ceased speaking at this point, for his voice had +long been drowned in the uproar of shrieks, and breaking +furniture, and crashing glass, as the seance broke up +along with the tables and chairs, and the anxious seekers +after truth emerged into the night with window sashes +hanging round their necks. Foreseeing that there would +be trouble if he did not emigrate in order to permit the +wanderers to return and resurrect the overturned stove, +the messenger from the realm of shadows departed and +once more sought his station on the hill. And again he +whistled. “Down Among the Dead Men” through his +teeth, while he smiled pensively, and communed with his +own pleasant thoughts.</p> + +<p>“It’s just as I said,” he mused; “had I been that +young man’s uncle, whom he so earnestly desired to see, +his terror would have been just as great. They rap and +call for us, they implore us to come, and when we come +they go. And they go very abruptly. Some of those +people to-night got out of that room by edging through +fissures that would squeeze the very breath out of the +leanest ghost I ever saw. Believer or skeptic, it makes +no difference. Saul was not more terrified at Samuel’s +ghost, which he was so anxious to see, than was the +witch who accidentally raised the apparition. But these +broken, interrupted interviews with terrified mortals are +growing monotonous. I will stay out all night, because +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span>it is Christmas Eve and my night out, but I will spend +the remaining silent hours in meditation, and let the +wicked old world sleep in peace, unless, mayhap, some +belated wayfarer should stray this way, when I will revenge +myself upon him for the shabby treatment I have +received at mortal hands to-night. I will frighten him +so that he will not be through screaming when I come +here again next Christmas Eve. I have tried to be +agreeable to everybody to-night, and everybody has +refused to be sociable, and has repulsed my courteous +advances with the most hideous shrieks and uproar. +And to the next hapless mortal who shall cross my +haunt, I will be terrible.”</p> + +<p>He ceased speaking, and knotted his face with a series +of horrible contortions and hideous grimaces, which he +practiced until he acquired one which appeared to satisfy +his fastidious taste. This one he exercised several times +in order to fix it firmly in his memory, and then, folding +his arms, he leaned against the railing and gloomily +waited for a customer, as ill-natured and unhappy a +ghost as could be found in all the haunts of men or +specters.</p> + +<p>His ghostship did not have long to wait for a subject, +standing there in the gloomy street, with the cold, glittering +stars occasionally peeping timidly through the +rifted clouds sailing overhead. Before long a heavy footfall +was heard ascending the lower part of the hill, and +then, as it came nearer, the dismal one could hear the +frosty earth creaking under the passenger’s feet at every +step he took. A voice which was marked by that peculiar +intonation which we so frequently notice in close +proximity to a pick or a hod, uttered, in sentences so +profusely vaccinated with trilled r’s that it sounded like +a high school commencement, a wrathful objurgation +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span>upon the wind, as the winter zephyr well nigh lifted the +speaker from his feet.</p> + +<p>“Growl about that, will you?” muttered the ghost, +with savage gleefulness, “I’ll make you wish the wind +had blown you into the moon before you get to the top +of the hill. I wish he would walk more slowly,” the +specter went on, rubbing his fleshless hands in delighted +anticipation; “I should like to have a few moments’ +quiet enjoyment in contemplating the possible and probable +actions of the worst frightened man in America. I +have been accused of frightening people before now, but +those vile slanders against my considerate and pacific +disposition and my reassuring physiognomy will all be +retracted and atoned for after to-night. After this man’s +experience no man, no living mortal will dare stand up +and say that any one was ever frightened prior to this +date. Why, there won’t be as much hair left on this individual’s +head, in about three minutes, as would make +me a switch. All the doctors in America won’t be able +to get his eyes back into their proper places. He +will howl and yell and shriek and pray to the day of his +death. Scared? It isn’t the word. It’s too weak. +Whistle, will you?” he continued, apostrophizing the +approaching figure, “I’ll make you wish you had a French +horn fifteen feet long, with all the keys open and the +mouth-piece cracked, to express your feelings through. +Why,” he said, arranging his robe and twisting his face +into such a blood-curdling awful contortion that it raised +a blister on the frozen ground and the very wind turned +and blew up hill for dear life; “why, my unsuspicious +republican, you’ll be the worst demoralized community +in about fifteen seconds that ever disturbed the holy quiet +of midnight.”</p> + +<p>Stretching out his gaunt arm in a weird, ghostly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span>gesture, the white drapery falling away from it in conventional +folds, the specter stepped out to the middle of the +sidewalk to confront the coming man. A man of +medium size, the new-comer, with bluff square shoulders, +twinkling eyes, a nose that had been made of a remnant +so that the unfinished end retreated toward the eyes, a +mouth puckered up in a melodious whistle, the head +covered with an abundance of closely-cut hair of the +shade of St. Louis pressed brick; a ragged coat was +buttoned close and the wearer carried under his arm a +walking-stick of most benevolent aspect, the bulge on +the end of which reminded one of an invitation to join +the innumerable caravan. His whistle ceased as the +ghost loomed up before him, not suddenly cutting off his +tune in the middle of the note, but in a long-drawn +diminuendo passage, commonly expressive of inexpressible +astonishment.</p> + +<p>The ghost slowly and impressively waved his extended +arm in the direction of the gloomy ravine. The mortal +shuffled uneasily toward the middle of the street in an +effort to get round the unpleasant obstruction. The +specter noiselessly glided before him and still confronted +him with outstretched arm and hideous countenance, +and both figures regarded each other in silence. The +mortal was the first to open the conversation, who, after +muttering under his breath, “The saints betune us and +har-rum, an’ phwat is he makin’ thim faces at me for?” +remarked in a brisk tone:</p> + +<p>“Cool avenin’!”</p> + +<p>Motionless as a statue, the ghastly figure glowered +upon him in its frozen attitude and terrifying gesture.</p> + +<p>“Is it Tim Moriarity, as died the year before I kim’ +over, I don’ know?”</p> + +<p>No reply and no change of posture on the part of the +specter.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span>“Is it the Feenicks boys ye are thin, as kilt aich other +the night ov the ball at the creek three years ago come +nixt September an’ jist two months lackin’ six weeks after +O’Flaherty’s sisther dhrove the cow off the wagon bridge?”</p> + +<p>Still the specter maintained its silence and its position.</p> + +<p>“Ye’ve a mighty familiar countenince, onyhow,” continued +the mortal, who kept up his cautious maneuvering +for the weather gauge, in which he was steadily baffled +by the ghost. “It seems to me I’ve seen the face av yez +somewhare on a tombstone. Yer not livin’ fur around +here, mebbe?”</p> + +<p>In hollow tones the ghost replied, “I am dead.”</p> + +<p>“Did, is it? Oh, the saints rist yer ristless sowl. An’ +phwat are ye doin’ out here? Whaire do ye live—I +mane, whaire are ye buried?”</p> + +<p>“At the top of this hill,” came in the same hollow +tones.</p> + +<p>“An’ a mighty agreeable place that same is, to be +sure,” replied the mortal, in a conciliatory intonation, +“shlapin’ undher the grass, wid the cows and pigs +browsin’ and rootin’ around all day long an’ kapen’ ye +company nights. Born divil that ye air,” he added, in +a lower tone, “I wisht wan or the other of us wur thayre +now, fur it’s a onpleasant company ye air, anyhow. +Well,” he added, aloud and with great cheerfulness, +“good night till ye. Be good to yerself.”</p> + +<p>“Stay,” uttered the terrible monotone; “come thou +with me.”</p> + +<p>“Oh-h, the dev—I beg yer par-r-don. I mane I can’t +think of it. Luk at the time it is, an’ see the murdherin’ +cowld I have in me head already, along ov being out till +midnight. The wife and childher’ll be did intirely wid +sittin’ up fur me, an’——”</p> + +<p>“Follow me!” said the hollow tones of the ghost.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span>“Oh-h, tundher an’ turf—I mane—I beg yer par-r-don, +don’t shpake of it; it’s a married man I am. I can’t +sthay; besides, there’s no use—ivery place in town is +shut up, and sorra the wan ov me dhrinks av they wasn’t. +I wouldn’t taste a dhrop av I lived in lashins ov it; I’m +a whole Father Mathew society by myself.”</p> + +<p>“Come! Come!! Come!!!” The sepulchral tones +boomed out like a bass drum solo.</p> + +<p>“Aw-w-w! Millia murther! Go aisy now! Phwat +du ye mane, divilin’ the tin sinses out of me to come, +whin ye see I want to go? By the mortial gob,” he +added, under his breath, “av I thought I cud find anything +in yer head to feel it, avick, I’d make ye raisonable +wid a welt ov this splinther av a sthick. Whist! ye +bloody-minded villin!” he roared, with suddenly increasing +courage, as some wakeful Brahma in a neighboring +coop startled the night with a stentorian crow, which was +shrilly echoed by a bantam and a dozen or more obscure +roosters of no particular strain, like the birds that crow +at election times, “Do ye hear that? An’ that? An’ +that agin? An’ the wan afther that? Scat! ye bloody-minded +Banshee, or we’ll crow the rags aff o’ yer beggarly +back!”</p> + +<p>The ghost gave a hollow laugh, that sounded like water +pouring out of a jug.</p> + +<p>“You may crow,” he said, more in his easy conversational +style and tone than he had been using, “till you +split your throats; this is an anniversary night with me, +and I won’t go home till morning.”</p> + +<p>His uneasy companion’s face fell at this announcement, +and he looked like a man who felt that he had +prematurely committed himself. But he rallied again.</p> + +<p>“A anniver-sary, is it? Do ye have it often?”</p> + +<p>“About once a year.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span>“Is that all? An’ just think ov yer makin’ so much +fuss about that! Kape on yer hat, or what iver ye call +it, or ye’ll have a cowld in the head. Good avenin’, +agin.”</p> + +<p>The ghost mildly protested against his haste. It was +Christmas Eve, he said, a season devoted to sociability +and good fellowship——</p> + +<p>“An’ a foine idee ye have of bein’ sociable, too,” +interrupted his auditor; “Christmas is a nice enough +saison, but a frayzin’ hillside at midnight, wid the wind +blowin’ a jimmycane an’ the thermomether twinty-sivin +degrays ferninst Cairo, isn’t the way I’m thinking to be +sociable about it, jist.”</p> + +<p>“I am delighted to have met you under such——”</p> + +<p>“Faix, thin, thayre’s only wan of us that’s feeling so +delighted about it.”</p> + +<p>“——Favorable and pleasant circumstances. I should +never have forgiven myself had I permitted you to pass +by without speaking. I must insist——”</p> + +<p>“Begorra, thin, it’s too har-r-d ye wad be on yersilf +intirely. It’s me that wad give mesilf absolution fur a +week av I had gone around the other way an’ never heard +ov ye in me life.”</p> + +<p>“——On your further acquaintance.”</p> + +<p>“Thrue for you, avick, an’ the furdther it is the betther +it wud shuit me. An’ the quicker we star-r-t, don’t ye +see, the furdther we can make it before mornin’. I know +I’ll think betther ov ye whin I can’t see ye. <i>Good</i> +avenin’.”</p> + +<p>“Stay,” said the specter, detaining him as he sought +to hurry by, “I have that to tell you, and that to show +you, to-night, which will make you a rich man, and send +me back to my narrow resting place——”</p> + +<p>“Oh-h-h! hear ’im talk about it!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span>“——Never to leave it again until the last dread trump +shall summon me.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t mintion it, don’t; don’t shpake ov it at all, at +all.”</p> + +<p>“My tale is brief and sad.”</p> + +<p>“An’ have ye a tail, thin?”</p> + +<p>“Listen!”</p> + +<p>“Shpake!”</p> + +<p>“In early life——”</p> + +<p>“Phwat’s that?”</p> + +<p>“——I plowed the raging main.”</p> + +<p>“An’ was ye a Granger, thin?”</p> + +<p>“Nay, I was a pirate!”</p> + +<p>“Same thing; kape on; it’s frazin’ I am.”</p> + +<p>“I steeped my wicked hands in human gore for many +years. When my atrocious crimes had amassed me a +princely fortune, I repented me of my evil ways.”</p> + +<p>“Musha, thin, it war you for knowin’ whin to repint.”</p> + +<p>“I bade adieu to my evil companions, and taking my +share——”</p> + +<p>“Ah, did ye, though? An’ it was a cautious ould +reformer ye was, all the same.”</p> + +<p>“——of our ill-gotten spoils, I fled west—far to the +inland—pursued by the stings of an avenging conscience +and a sheriff’s posse.”</p> + +<p>“It was thim as stirred up yer conshince.”</p> + +<p>“I reached this city in safety and hid my gold, stained +with human lives, in yonder deep ravine. Oft as I needed +money, I came here by night and got what I wished.”</p> + +<p>“Can ye get any ov it now, do ye think?”</p> + +<p>“One winter night—a cold, bleak Christmas Eve—returning +from such a visit to my hoard, I was waylaid +by two men, who suspected my secret, on this very +spot——”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span>“<span class="smcap">Good</span> avenin’!”</p> + +<p>“Stay yet one moment. They seized me, hurled me to +the ground——”</p> + +<p>“Here?”</p> + +<p>“On this very spot where now we stand. They——”</p> + +<p>“Let’s walk furdther down the hill.”</p> + +<p>“Listen. They hurled me to the ground, and, as I +struggled for my gold, they—slew me!”</p> + +<p>“Phwat!”</p> + +<p>“They cut my throat from ear to ear!”</p> + +<p>“M-i-l-l-i-a m-u-r-d-t-h-e-r! An’ did it hurt?”</p> + +<p>“It haggled some, but——”</p> + +<p>“An’ did yez niver git over it?”</p> + +<p>“I died!”</p> + +<p>“Oh-h-h-h! Bones of the martyrs! GOOD avenin’!”</p> + +<p>“Stop a moment. I——”</p> + +<p>“Ah yes, shtop a minit. It’s yerself is the pleasant +man to be shtoppin’ wid, on a hillside at midnight. Go +on, thin, for it’s starvin’ wid the cold I am.”</p> + +<p>“I died where I fell; and a coroner’s jury, after due +deliberation, returned a verdict, on my lifeless remains, +that ‘the alleged deceased came to his probable death in +a fit of temporary inanition, induced by the administering +of narcotic drug or drugs, by some visitation of +Providence to the jury unknown.’”</p> + +<p>“Wur that all, alanna? I thought ye said they cut the +throat ov ye.”</p> + +<p>“They did. But the intelligent citizens who composed +the coroner’s jury could not see that that had anything +to do with it. Since that time, once a year, on every +anniversary of my untimely death, I am forced to leave +my grave——”</p> + +<p>“Oh, mortial man! don’t shpake ov it at all, an’ us out +here in the dark an’ could, and niver a dhrop ov anything +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span>to rise the cockles ov me heart wid nearer than +town. But kape on.”</p> + +<p>“——and haunt this hill. My spirit can not rest in +peace until the money which I left concealed from human +gaze shall be given into hands fit to be entrusted with +wealth.”</p> + +<p>“An’ is that all, acushla? Go back to yer den, and +dhraw yer stool in to the fire, an’ be comfortable. Show +me whare to dig jist, and sorrow light upon me av ye’ll +ever have any more nade to wake up an’ worry about +another cint as long as ye live—I mane, as long as ye +don’t live. Whare’s yer bank? Divil be in me but +thare’ll be such a run on it in about ten minits they’ll +think thare’s an ould-fashioned American panic broke +loose in ghostland, for a truth. Can’t shlape because ye +can’t give yer money away! Musha, thin, it’s meself +can’t shlape often enough because I haven’t ony to give +away, or to kape, ayther. Show me yer threasury, avick; +I’m yer oysther.”</p> + +<p>“Years ago I might have given it away, had men but +known my secret. But the spell laid upon me——”</p> + +<p>“A spell ov what?”</p> + +<p>“——forbade me to reveal my hidden wealth until I +should meet a man going home sober, on Christmas Eve, +who would not be afraid of me. The condition was a +hard one, for although in my annual hauntings I have +met many men plodding up this hill too drunk to be +frightened, you are the first sober man I have met on +Christmas Eve since the city was an Indian trading +post.”</p> + +<p>“Ah well then, it’s small blame to them, for it’s gettin’ +ready to shwear off New Year’s day they are, the whole +jing-bang ov thim. Troth, they do that every year.”</p> + +<p>“You did not manifest any fear at my sudden appearance. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span>You were not, apparently, afraid of me; +you——”</p> + +<p>“Afraid, is it?”</p> + +<p>“I merely remarked that you were not afraid of me.”</p> + +<p>“Is it me?”</p> + +<p>“I said, my quick-tempered friend, that——”</p> + +<p>“Is it you?”</p> + +<p>“Calm yourself, my bellicose mortal, I simply——”</p> + +<p>“Listen to ’im! Hear ’im talk about ony body bein +ashkared ov an ould bag o’ bones sthandin’ in the dark +makin’ faces! Why, ye consaited old skeleton, is it +comin’ to Ameriky to be shkared wid you I’d be, whin +we had a ghosht ov our own in the Ould Sod for more +nor twinty years? A ghosht that wur worth bein’ +shkared ov, too.”</p> + +<p>“You surprise me,” said the ghost. “Are you quite +certain that your own family was favored with the permanent +society of a ghost? You will pardon me for intimating +that your appearance and dress do not indicate +a station in life that calls for such a condition of +things. For I am decidedly under the impression that +we are permitted to haunt only aristocratic families, who +inhabit large rambling houses, with long gloomy corridors +and magnificent bay windows and lofty mansard roofs +and heavy mortgages; full of dark corners and convenient +hiding places for ghosts, and frequently so uncomfortable +and dreary, especially on the occasion of a poor +relation’s visit, that no one but a ghost can enjoy living +in them. I once knew a most respectable ghost, a specter +of a most extraordinarily rugged constitution, who +haunted one of these houses, and went to sleep in the +spare room one night and was so laid up with the rheumatism +that he was unable to get out of his grave——”</p> + +<p>“The saints betune us! Don’t mintion it!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span>“——for nearly six weeks. I took his place at the +mansion during his indisposition. A dreary, frosty place +enough, fitted up elegantly with a thousand-dollar piano, +a costly mechanic’s lien, Brussels carpets, a chattel mortgage +or two, French plate windows, a tax title, and a few +similar expensive luxuries. I did not wish to be laid up +with the rheumatism, so I took preventives instead of +cures. From being frosty and chilly, I made that house +the warmest place this side of——”</p> + +<p>“Don’t say it, alanna! Skip that!”</p> + +<p>“——the equator,” pursued the ghost, quietly. “It +soon became the most hospitable mansion on the street. +It was full of company all the time, and poor relations +came and got square meals and slept in the best beds +and were made welcome. You can not imagine how I +softened that old fellow’s proud heart. And you must +excuse me if I say that you do not appear to belong to +that favored class which is honored with hereditary +ghosts. A ghost, my unsophisticated friend, is an expensive +luxury.”</p> + +<p>“Thrue for you, it is, thin. The wan we had was the +most expinsive thing we wur ever throubled wid. He +kim till the house in me father’s time an’ I dunno how +long befoar.”</p> + +<p>“Did he look like me?”</p> + +<p>“Sorra the wan ov him. He’d ate a rigimint ov yez in +a minit. Shouldhers like a sailor an’ a head set on ’im +like a bull dog’s. He wur a ghosht now that cud talk to +ye about bein’ ashkared ov him.”</p> + +<p>“Does he ever annoy—that is, entertain you now?”</p> + +<p>“Faix, thin he doesn’t. It isn’t here he cud live at +all, at all. It wur in the ould counthry he did be vexin’ +us an’ teasin’ the life out ov us from mornin’ till night.”</p> + +<p>“Why, did he appear in the daytime, then?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span>“It wur grace fur his bones that he did. Be the holy +poker, alanna, it wur waitin’ fur him in the dark twinty +times a month we was. Catch an Irish ghosht comin’ in +the dark. He knowed whin to come.”</p> + +<p>“Did you ever try to lay the ghost?”</p> + +<p>“Wanst. The byes laid him wid a blackthorn stick, +an’ sorra the wan of him throubled us agin fur six weeks +afther.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t understand. Why did he haunt you? What +was——”</p> + +<p>“Why did he? For the rint, av coorse. It was the +thavin’ ould landlord, bloody end to him. Talk about +ghosts! The ould <i>boddagh Sassenagh</i> gev us more throuble +in wan day than the whole jing-bang ov such thin-legged +spooks as yerself cud make us in a week. Thare +was wan time the ould swaddler kim down to Muldoonery’s +shebeen—ye knew the Muldoonery’s?”</p> + +<p>“The name is familiar, but I can not say that I ever +had the honor of the family’s acquaintance.”</p> + +<p>“The betther for you thin, for ye died wid a whole +head——”</p> + +<p>“But my neck was spoiled.”</p> + +<p>“Oh-h, by this an’ by that, listen to him! Don’t sphake +ov it. The Muldoonerys was me father’s own family. +Ould Malachi Muldoonery, wan of the Killatalicks, thim +as was own cousins to the O’Slaughtery’s of Killgobbin—ah, +thim was the high-toned wans fur ye; when it come +to ould families, they lifted the pins, jist. They had a +ghosht ov thare own, a rale wan, sphooky enough to +frighten a horse from his oats, that wore a long night-shirt +like yer own, an’ carried his head undher his arm. +Oh, Gog’s blakey, but he wur the boss ghosht. He wur +beheaded fur headin’ a rebellyun three hundhred years +ago. Ah, tare-an-ouns, the tussle me own uncle, who +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span>was an O’Slaughtery, had wid this same ghosht wanst. +We heard the sphook thramplin’ up an’ down the hall, +fur he always wore a shurt of armor undher his white +dhress, an’ me uncle got up an’ wint out, an’ peerin’ +down the dark hall, sees him.</p> + +<p>“‘Arrah!’ sez me uncle.</p> + +<p>“‘Sorra the word’ sez the ghosht.</p> + +<p>“‘Are ye thaire?’ sez me uncle.</p> + +<p>“The ghosht stopped walkin’ and screwed on his head +like the head ov a cane.</p> + +<p>“‘An’ phwat av I am?’ sez he.</p> + +<p>“‘Come out o’ that, thin, ye bladdherhang,’ sez me +uncle.</p> + +<p>“‘I won’t, thin,’ sez the ghosht.</p> + +<p>“‘Ye’d betther,’ sez me uncle.</p> + +<p>“‘I hadn’t thin,’ sez the ghosht.</p> + +<p>“‘Do ye know what this is, ye omadhawn?’ sez me +uncle, balancin’ his blackthorn.</p> + +<p>“‘None o’ yer chaff,’ sez the ghosht.</p> + +<p>“‘I wont lave a whole bone in yer carkidge,’ says he.</p> + +<p>“‘I hwat!’ sez the ghosht.</p> + +<p>“‘I wont!’ sez he.</p> + +<p>“‘Yer a liar!’ sez he.</p> + +<p>“‘Is it me?’ sez he.</p> + +<p>“‘Show me yer head!’ sez he.</p> + +<p>“‘Whoop!’ sez he.</p> + +<p>“‘Hurroo!’ sez he.</p> + +<p>“Whack! wint the blackthorn, and wid that the +whole house was roused wid a bellerin’ an’ roarin’ that +wud shame the bulls ov Bashan. It was me uncle, an’ +they found him out dures tied to the gate-posht wid a +bed-cord half a mile long and knotted up that way that +it tuk thim till after daylight to ontie him, for sorra the +knot cud they cut. Oh, heavy heart go wid the ghosht +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span>that tied him out in the cowld that a-way. An’ afther +they got him untied he died.”</p> + +<p>“Immediately?” asked the specter.</p> + +<p>“Och, the divil, no; about twenty-sivin years afther. +But this isn’t tellin’ me about that famous bank ov yours?”</p> + +<p>“True,” said the specter “we are losing time. To +you, who have kept sober Christmas Eve, and have +scorned to desecrate and profane the sacred memories of +the season——”</p> + +<p>“Tower ov ivory!” whispered the exile of Killatalick, +“av that isn’t purty good for an ould cut-throat ov a +pirate!”</p> + +<p>“——and have shown the integrity of your moral +being——”</p> + +<p>“An phwat’s thim, I wondher?”</p> + +<p>“——in that you feel no fear of visitants from the +spirit world, to you I commit gold won by dishonest +means, but which at last reaches honest hands that will +devote it to worthy purposes. Come with me, and do as +I tell you.”</p> + +<p>Crossing himself with an energy and rapidity that +indicated a slight lack of confidence in the moral standing +of his guide, the descendant of the Muldoonerys of +Killgobbin followed his ghostly leader down the hillside +into the hollow and along the course of the bewildered +and frozen brook, until they paused before an irregular +wall of rock, long ago cut down by the action of the +water. As they stood before this rude wall, the specter +turned to his companion.</p> + +<p>“If,” he said solemnly, “you do not feel as though +you could maintain the strictest silence, and not utter a +word or an exclamation, no matter what wonders you +may see, do not follow me farther. The charm which +opens the care of my hidden wealth to your eyes, closes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span>it in destruction on any violation of the spell under +which I am held. Are you ready? On your life now, +do not utter a sound.”</p> + +<p>The ghost touched the rock with his bony hand. It +yawned like a door, and in the cavern behind the gloomy +entrance they crept, crouching, along a narrow passage +until the roof arched and they stood erect. An open +chest lay at their feet; glittering jewels sparkled like +stars in the gloom; precious stones in the mysterious +coffer gleamed till their rays pierced the shadowy pall of +the cavern with a pale, tremulous light. At a silent +motion from the specter, the mortal, trembling with +excitement and eagerness, bent down and seized the chest. +Once, twice, thrice, he strained every muscle, and tugged +until it seemed as though his eyes were bursting from +their sockets, but the glittering fortune seemed immovable. +He set every nerve for one tremendous effort; he +braced his feet firmly and once more grasped the handles +of the coffer. It moves! The ransom of an empire is +his!</p> + +<p>“’S’matter ’ith you fellers? Hic! Watchu doin’? +Hey?”</p> + +<p>The blinding light, and the deafening crash that followed +lasted scarce the duration of the lightning’s flash, +and all was darkness and silence. When the gray light of +morning quenched the beams of the paling stars, the exile +woke to consciousness to find himself lying outside the +spell-bound cavern, with the unbroken rock looming cold +and pitiless beside him, and his dream of wealth was gone. +A faint odor of stale whisky kissed the wintry zephyrs, +and a shattered bottle in the near distance lay like a +mournful memory of his happy dreams. When the +unhappy man’s friends discovered him, they took in all +the conditions of the cheerless bivouac, and when in the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span>cozy surroundings of his home he told his marvelous +narrative, they were skeptical enough to declare that +they believed all the story about the ghost and the +cavern and the money chest was only the inspiration of +that bottle before it was broken, and that the exile of +Killgobbin saw the light and heard the crash when he +staggered over the edge of the wall and broke his head. +But he still believes that if the young fellow who went +into camp on the hillside at the opening of this story had +not finished his sleep and broke in upon them in such an +untimely manner, he would never again have done a +harder day’s work than cutting off coupons from government +bonds.</p> + +<p>The rest of us know that this is true. And if any +young man doubts the truth of this veracious chronicle, +he can easily verify its statements by keeping sober next +Christmas Eve, and patrolling the quiet streets until he +meets the ghost. And if he doesn’t see the specter, he +will at least enjoy the singular sensation of going home +sober Christmas Eve, a thing of much greater rarity and +wonder to most of “the boys” than an interview with a +Moneyed Ghost.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">MIDDLERIB’S PICNIC.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">“IT isn’t age that makes people grow old,” Mr. Middlerib +remarked to his family as they were gathered at +the breakfast table. “It is incessant application; it is +unending, incessant work and worry. The mind, the +body, all the faculties, mental and physical, are kept on +the alert without rest or recreation, until outraged nature +rises in rebellion against the slavery to which it is subjected, +and deluded man, with all the aches and tremor +of senility in his young joints, awakes to find that he +has lived his three score years and ten in half his allotted +number of days.” And with this sage remark Mr. Middlerib +leaned back in his chair and regarded his family +with the air of a man who has just imparted a volume of +information that would stagger the average comprehension.</p> + +<p>“That’s what ailed these spring chickens, I reckon,” +suggested Master Middlerib, struggling with a wing that +was supplied with the latest improved fish-plate joints; +“wore themselves out trying to lay ten years’ eggs in +five.”</p> + +<figure class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> + <img src="images/i_250a.jpg" width="450" height="711" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <p class="caption">MIDDLERIB’S PICNIC.</p> + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Mr. Middlerib gazed at the boy in a meaning manner, +and the young gentleman immediately elevated one of +his elbows until it was as high as his head, and held his +guard up while he warily regarded his parent’s disengaged +hand. But the usual consequences did not follow, +and Mr. Middlerib proceeded to announce that he +would shake off the sordid cares of business, and free +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span>himself from the shackles of commercial servitude, and +enjoy a picnic with his family and a few chosen friends. +And immediately upon this, the family loosed their +tongues and talked all together, and as loud and fast as +possible for twenty-five minutes. Then, Mr. Middlerib, +smiling benignly upon the scene of pleasure which his +announcement had created, went off to his office. When +he returned, Miss Middlerib had a list made out of the +people they would invite. It embraced one hundred and +fifteen names, not including alternates, and Mr. Middlerib’s +jaw fell as he gazed at the catalogue.</p> + +<p>“Daughter, dear,” he remarked, as soon as he could +command his feelings, “do you take me for Calvary Mission +Sunday-school, that you have included the census +of this city in our picnic?”</p> + +<p>Then explanations were demanded, and it appeared +that Mr. Middlerib’s idea had been to take a couple of +big wagons, furnished with temporary seats, and have a +decidedly rustic, old-fashioned picnic, of an exclusively +family nature. And Miss Middlerib sat down and blotted +out an even hundred names with tears, after which Mr. +Middlerib gazed upon the revised and corrected list, expunged +edition, and pronounced it good. Then they +fixed upon the day, which was settled after much wrangling +and profound discussion. Mr. M. went out and +looked at the sky, and noted the direction of the wind, +and watched the movements of the chimney swallows +with a critical and scientific eye, and came in and +announced that it would not rain for five days, and they +would have the picnic just two days before the rain. +And from the hour of that announcement the Middlerib +family and their invited relations did nothing but bake, +and roast, and stew, and iron clothes, and declare they +were tired to death and would be glad when it was all +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span>over and done with. It is a somewhat remarkable fact +that all people who make up their minds to go to a picnic, +always do say that they will be glad when it is over, +and act as though they were going merely as an act of +self-denial and a mortification of the flesh.</p> + +<p>But when the day finally rolled around, as days +will roll, the excitement was at its height. The sun +struggled to his place at the usual hour, as soon as he +was called, and his broad, red face had a terribly wild +and dissipated look as he glared through the bank of +clouds that curtained his getting up place, as though he +had been tearing around all night, and had never had his +boots off, and had only got up to collar the water pitcher. +No wonder the whole party lost confidence in such a sun +the moment they looked at him. He looked too much +like a prodigal sun, just before he got starved into reform, +rather than a smiling, cheery picnic sun. And the +Middleribs took turns going out singly and in small +groups to look at him, and revile his unpromising appearance, +and after each observation they would return to the +house and ask each other in tones somewhat tinged with +a tender melancholy, “Well, what do you think of it?” +And the questioned one would stifle a sigh and reply “I +don’t know, do you?”</p> + +<p>There is no scene in all this wide world of pathos more +pathetic than a group of anxious mortals, on the morn of +a picnic, trying to delude each other into the belief that +when the sky is covered with heavy black clouds, 800 +feet thick, and a damp scud is driving through the air, +and the sun is only half visible occasionally through a +thin cloud that is waiting to be patched up to the standard +thickness and density, it is going to be a very fine +day indeed. So the Middleribs looked at the coppery +old sun, and the dismal clouds, and tried to look cheerful, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span>and said encouragingly that “Oh, it never rained +when the clouds came up that way;” and, “See, it is all +clear over in the east;” and, “It often rains very heavily +in town when there doesn’t a drop of water fall at Prospect +Hill.” And thus, with many encouraging remarks +of similar import, they awaited the gathering of the party, +and the human beings finally climbed into one wagon, +put the baskets and the boys in the other, and drove +away, giggling and howling with well dissembled glee.</p> + +<p>The happy party, although they well knew that it +would not rain, had taken the precaution nevertheless to +take a large assortment of shawls and umbrellas. They +were a quarter of a mile from town when it began to +thunder some, but as it didn’t thunder in the direction +of Prospect Hill, distant some three miles, they went on, +confident that it wasn’t raining, and wouldn’t, and couldn’t +rain at Prospect Hill. They were half a mile from town +when the cloud that all the rest of the clouds had been +waiting for came up and remorselessly sat down on the last, +solitary lingering patch of blue that broke the monotony of +the leaden sky, but the party pressed on, confident that +they would find blue sky when they got to Prospect Hill. +They were a mile from town when old Aquarius pulled +the bottom out of the rain wagon and began the entertainment. +It was a grand success. The curtain hadn’t +been up ten minutes before all the standing room in the +house was taken up and the box office was closed. The +Middlerib party having gone early, and secured front +seats, were able to see everything. They expressed their +pleasure by loud shrieks, and howls, and wails. They +tore umbrellas, that had been furtively placed in the +wagon, out of their lurking places, and shot them up +with such abruptness that the hats in the wagon were +knocked out into the road. Then the wagon stopped and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span>people crawled out and waded around after hats, and +came piling back into the wagon, with their feet loaded +with mud. The umbrellas got into each other’s way, and +from the points of the ribs streams of dirty water trickled +down shuddering backs, and stained immaculate dresses, +and took the independence out of glossy shirt fronts. +And the picnic party turned homeward, but still the +Middleribs did not lose heart. They smiled through +their tears, and Miss Middlerib, beautiful in her grief, +still advocated going on and having the picnic in a +barn, and wept when they refused her. It rained harder +every rod of the way back. Then when they got everybody +and every thing into the house, the heart-rending +discovery was made that the boys had taken the rubber +blanket which was to have covered the baskets in case +of rain, and spread it over themselves when the moisture +gathered, and consequently the edibles were in a state of +dampness.</p> + +<p>Then the clouds broke, and the sun came out, and +smiling nature stood around looking as pleasant as +though it had never played a mean trick on a happy +picnic party in its life; and the Middleribs hung +themselves out in the sun to dry, and tried to play croquet +in the wet grass, and kept up their spirits as well as they +knew how, and were not cross if they did get wet. If +smiling nature had only given them a show, or even half +a chance, they would have got along all right. They +were bound to have the picnic party anyhow, so they +kept all the relations at the house, and when dinner time +came, the grass was dry and they set the table out under +the trees and made it look as picnicky as possible. It +clouded up a little when they were setting the table, +but nobody thought it looked very threatening. The +soaked things had been dried as carefully as possible, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span>and the table looked beautiful when they gathered around +it. And just about the time they got their plates filled +and declared that they were glad they came back, and +that this was ever so much better than Prospect Hill, a +forty acre cloud came and stood right over the table, and +then and there went all to pieces.</p> + +<p>That was what spoiled the picnic.</p> + +<p>The pleasure-seekers grabbed whatever they could +reach and broke for the house, uttering wild shrieks of +dismay. They crowded into the hall, which wasn’t half +big enough, and there they stood on each other’s trains, +and trod on each other’s corns, and poured coffee down +each other’s backs, and jabbed forks into one another’s +arms. When one frantic looking woman would rush in +and set a plate of cake down on the floor while she dived +out into the rain with a woman’s anxiety to recover some +more provisions from the dripping wreck, a forlorn looking +man would immediately step on that plate of cake, and +stand there gazing wonderingly and apprehensively at the +shrieking crowd around him, pointing their forks and +fingers at him and at his feet, and yelling, in a deafening +chorus, something as utterly unintelligible as “shouting +proverbs.” And when the man, in a vain effort to do +something in compliance with the shrieking which was +evidently intended for him, stepped off the cake and stood +in a huge dish of baked beans for a change, the wail of +consternation that went up from the congregation fairly +rent the bending skies. And when Uncle Steve, who had +found Aunt Carrie’s baby out under the deserted table, +maintaining an unequal struggle with half of a huckleberry +pie and a whole thunder-storm, came tearing in +with the hapless infant, and, dashing through the crowd, +deposited it on top of a pile of hard-boiled eggs, Miss +Middlerib fainted, and the youngest gentleman cousin +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span>was driven into a spasm of jealousy because he couldn’t +walk over a row of cold meats and lobster salad to get +to her, and had to endure the misery of seeing the oldest +and ugliest bachelor uncle carry her drooping form to a +sofa, and lay her down tenderly, with her classic head in +a nest of cream tarts and her dainty feet on Sadie’s +Jenny Lind cake. And when Mrs. Middlerib looked out +of the window, and saw the dog Heedle with his fore +paws in the lemonade bucket, growling at Cousin John, +who was trying to drive him out of it, she expressed a +willingness to die right there. And when they were +startled by some unearthly sounds and muffled shrieks, +that even rose above the human babel in the hall, and +found that the cat had got its poor head jammed tighter +than wax in the mouth of the jar that contained the +cream, everybody just sat on the plate of things nearest +him, and gasped, “What next?” while Cousin David +lifted cat and jar by the tail of the former, and carried +them out to be broken apart. And when old Mr. Rubelkins +lost his teeth in the coffee pot, half the people in +the hall began to lose heart, and one discouraged young +cousin said he half wished that they had put the picnic +off a day. And finally, when the uproar was at its +height, the door-bell rang, and the aunt nearest the door +opened it, and there stood the Hon. Mrs. J. C. P. R. Le +Von Blatheringford and her daughter, the richest and +most stylish people in the neighborhood, arrayed like +fashion-plates, making their first formal call. While they +stood gazing in mute bewilderment at the scene of ruin +and devastation and chaos before them, Mrs. Middlerib +just got behind the door and pounded her head against +the wall; while Miss Middlerib, springing from her sofa, +ran to her room, leaving a trail of Jenny Lind cake and +cream tarts behind her, as the fragments dropped from +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span>her back hair and heels. And the rest of the company, +staring at the guests with their mouths full of assorted +provisions, and their hearts full of bitter disappointment, +mumbled, in hospitable chorus, “Wup pin,” which, had +their mouths been empty, would have been rendered, +“Walk in.”</p> + +<p>This blow settled the picnic. Gloom hung over the +house the rest of the day. Mr. Middlerib decided, after +the company had departed, that the easiest and cheapest +way to clean the hall would be to turn the river through +it. And that night, when they were assembled at a comfortless +tea-table—Master Middlerib having been sent to +bed so sick that they didn’t think his toe-nails would be +able to hold down till morning—Mr. Middlerib said:</p> + +<p>“It isn’t the steady, honest, ambitious devotion to +business that makes men old. Labor is a law of our +nature. We are happiest and most content when we are +busiest. It is the healthful labor of the day that brings +the sweet, refreshing repose of the night. Pleasure flies +us when we seek her; she comes to us when we least +regard her calls. Remember what I have always said, +and find your pleasure in your daily work—in the regular +routine of daily life, and its duties and useful avocations—and +age will only come upon you slowly, and youth +will linger in your hearts and on your faces long years +after the allotted days of youth are past. The next time +you want to have a picnic, remember how often I have +warned you against them.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span> + + +<h2 class="nobreak">MASTER BILDERBACK’S POULTRY YARD.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">IF there was anything she abominated more than one +thing, Mrs. Bilderback used to say with some warmth, +it was another, and that was chickens. And she resolutely +protested against keeping any of them about the +place. She wanted to keep a few flowers this year, and she +wasn’t going to be mortified again as she was last Summer, +by having every woman who called at that house smile +at the forest of bare stalks and scraggy branches that +stood for the collection of house plants that she and her +daughter tried to raise for ornaments to the place, but +which were really of no use except to fill the crops of a +lot of long-legged, hungry chickens. And for a long +time the good lady held out stoutly against the chicken +proposition, but was at last over-argued and over-persuaded +and gave her unwilling consent for Master Bilderback +to keep three dozen chickens, the party of the +second part binding himself to keep the table supplied +with fresh eggs and spring chickens, and to keep all hens, +roosters, and all young chickens of unknown sex, but of +sufficient physical development to scratch, out of the +front yard and away from the flower beds. This contract +Master Bilderback placed himself under heavy +bonds to carry out, by saying, “honest injun,” “’pon +nonnor,” and “’cross my heart,” and having solemnly +repeated this awful and impressive formula, he went +sedately out of the room and immediately threw himself +down on a verbena bed, where he pounded the ground +with his heels in the ecstasy of his joy. In due time the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span>new hen-house was completed, and Mr. Bilderback, +breathing maledictions on the wretches who pulled the +pickets off his front fence for kindling wood, had that +important boundary repaired before he noticed that the +apertures in the fence corresponded to certain neat looking +improvements on the hennery. The house was +stocked rather slowly, for it was part of the contract +which Mrs. Bilderback had drawn that the party of the +second part should purchase his own stock. It was +noticeable that Master Bilderback’s taste ran greatly +toward gamey looking roosters, and as the perches in +the hennery became more and more populated, the outlook +for fresh eggs and spring chickens became very discouraging +indeed. The first fowl the poulterer brought +home was a gaunt Hamburg with one eye and a game +leg, but beautifully spangled, which interesting bird, Master +Bilderback informed his sister, was the worst pill in +the box and had lost his eye while fighting a cow. The +next day he traded a pocketful of marbles for a little +bantam that crowed twenty-four hours a day, could slip +through a season crack in a warped board, and could dig +a hole in the middle of a flower bed that you could bury +a calf in. There wasn’t a moment’s silence about the +house after the bantam’s arrival, for when he was not +fighting the Hamburg, which was only when that valiant +but prudent bird got up on top of the house and hid +behind a chimney, he was wandering through the house +trying his voice in the different rooms, or standing on the +front porch issuing proclamations of defiance to all roosters +to whom these presents might come, greeting. A +day or two after the bantam’s arrival Master Bilderback +traded his knife for a Black Spanish rooster with a broken +wing. The Spaniard when put in the coop proceeded at +once to clean out the disheartened Hamburg, who fought +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span>on the tactics which had so often proved of so great +value to him, and amazed his furious antagonist by the +briskness with which he got out of the coop, up on to the +barn, and perched himself on the restless and uncertain +weather-cock. The Spaniard and the bantam then had +it until neither of them could stand, when the pacific +Hamburg improved the opportunity to come down and +partake of the first square meal he had eaten since the +new boarders had come to the house. Two days later, +Master Bilderback brought home a vile looking white +rooster with no tail feathers, his comb shaved off close +to the head, and spurs as long as your thumb, a vile plebeian +of a rooster without a line of pedigree, of no particular +strain, except a strain that made his very eyes turn +red when he growled, which he had bought for an +old base ball club. But the nameless stranger amazed +the proprietor of the hennery by waltzing into the establishment +with a terrific rooster oath, and following it up +by kicking the bantam clear out of his mind, jerking the +wattles off the Spaniard, and chasing the persecuted +Hamburg half-way up the side of the house. This was +the last addition made to the happy family for some time, +Mr. Bilderback declaring that he was not going to have +his premises turned into a cock-pit, and Master Bilderback +was sternly forbidden to arrange any more meetings +in the alley, with other boys and their birds. But a few +days afterward, when Master Bilderback came home from +school, it was evident that he had made a trade. He +had some other boy’s shabby old hat on his head, and +there wasn’t a lead pencil, piece of string, pistol cartridge, +top, fish-hook, chalk line, marble, dime novel, or street +car ticket in his pockets, and he had a new rooster, the +crowning glory of the vast collection of fowls that were +to furnish forth his mother’s table with fresh eggs and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span>spring chickens. It was a Shanghai; young one, Master +Bilderback said, as he prepared to untie its legs and +wings and introduce it to its new home; hadn’t got his +growth yet, but he was “a buster.” And Mrs. Bilderback +thought he was. When he was untied he stood up +and flapped one of his wings in his proprietor’s face, +until that young gentleman was ready to “cross his +heart,” that somebody had hit him with a clapboard. +And before he had recovered from the effects of this +blow the noble bird kicked him under the chin and darted +off toward the front yard, with prodigious strides. He +uttered a most awful croak as he neared Mrs. Bilderback, +who was trying to get out of his way, and in a vain +attempt to fly over her, he struck her on the head, just +abaft her ear with his heel, gently dropping her; “grassed +the old lady,” Master Bilderback afterward explained to +his sister, “like a shot.” The wretched bird paused as +he passed the sitting-room window, which was just about +on a level with his head when he stooped, to look in and +make some unintelligible remark in a guttural tone of +language, and snatching up a new tidy that Miss Bilderback +was at work upon, swallowed it and passed on. +Wherever he trod, he smashed a house plant, and whenever +he croaked, he threw somebody into a fit. He met +Mr. Bilderback as he suddenly turned the corner of the +house, ran against the old gentleman with a wild kind of +a crow that sounded like a steamboat whistle with a bad +cold, and as he trampled over that good man’s prostrate +form, he plucked off his necktie and swallowed it. +Then the “buster” wheeled around and straddled into +the sitting-room window, and before they could head +him out of the house he swallowed two spools of cotton, +a tack hammer, a set of false teeth belonging to Mrs. +Bilderback, a cake of toilet soap, a shoe buttoner, a ball +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span>of yarn, an arctic over-shoe, and finally choked on a photograph +album which flew open when it was about half-way +down. The bird when last heard from was still at +large roaming around South Hill, but Master Bilderback’s +hennery is empty and lonesome, because his parents are, +from some unaccountable reason, bitterly prejudiced +against keeping chickens.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">A SUNDAY IDYL.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">YOU see, the tenor had got kind of abstracted, or +restless, or something during the long prayer, and +was thinking about the European war, or the wheat +corner last week, or something, and so when the minister +gave out hymn 231, on page 67, and the chorister whispered +them to sing the music on page 117, it all came in +on the tenor like a volley, and as he had only the playing +of the symphony in which to make the necessary +combination of time, hymn and page, he came to the +front just a little bit disorganized, and his fingers sticking +between every leaf in the book. And the choir +hadn’t faced the footlights half a minute before the congregation +more than half suspected something was wrong. +For you see, the soprano, in attempting to answer the +frenzied whisper of the tenor in regard to the page, lost +the first two or three words of the opening line herself, +and that left the alto to start off alone, for the basso was +so profoundly engaged in watching the tenor and wondering +what ailed him, that he forgot to sing. The music +wasn’t written for an alto solo, and consequently there +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span>wasn’t very much variety to that part, and after singing +nearly through the first line alone, and receiving neither +applause nor bouquets for one of the finest contralto +efforts a Burlington or any other audience ever listened +to, the alto stopped and looked reproachfully at the +soprano, who had just plunged the tenor’s soul into a +gulf of dark despair by leaving him to find his way out +of the labyrinth of tunes and pages and hymns into +which his own heedlessness had led him, by giving him +a frantic shake of her head, which unsettled the new +spring bonnet (just the sweetest duck of a Normandy), +to that extent that every woman in the congregation +noticed it. All this time the organist was doing nobly, +and the alto, recovering her spirits, sang another bar, +which, for sweetness and tenacious adherence to the +same note, all the way through, couldn’t be beat in +America. By this time the bass had risen to the emergency +and sang two deep guttural notes, with profound +expression, but as those of the congregation sitting nearest +the choir could distinctly hear him sing “Ho, ho!” to +the proper music, it was painfully evident that the basso +had the correct tune, but was running wild on the words. +At this point the soprano got her time and started off +with a couple of confident notes, high and clear as a +bird song, and the congregation, inspired with an over-ready +confidence, broke out on the last word of the +verse with a discordant roar that rattled the globes on +the big chandelier, and as the verse closed with this +triumphant outbreak, an expression of calm, restful satisfaction +was observed to steal over the top of the pastor’s +head, which was all that could be seen of him, as +he bowed himself behind the pulpit.</p> + +<p>The organist played an intricate and beautiful interlude +without a tremor or a false note; not an uncertain +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span>touch to indicate that there was a particle of excitement +in the choir, or that anything had gone wrong.</p> + +<p>The choir didn’t exactly appear to catch the organist’s +reassuring steadiness, for the basso led off the second +verse by himself, and his deep-toned “Ho, ho!” was so +perceptible throughout the sanctuary that several people +started, and looked down under the seats for a man, and +one irreverent sinner, near the door, thrust a felt hat +into his mouth and slid out. The soprano got orders +and started out only three or four words behind time, +but she hadn’t reached the first siding before she collided +with a woman in the audience, running wild and +trying to carry a new tune to the old words. And then, +to make it worse, the soprano handed her book to the +tenor, and pointed him to the tune on page 117 and the +words on page 67, and if that unhappy man didn’t get +his orders mixed, and struck out on schedule time, with +the tune on page 67 and the words on page 117, and in +less than ten words ditched himself so badly that he was +laid out for the rest of the verse, and then he lost his +place, handed the book back to the soprano, took the one +she had, and held it upside down, and no living man +could tell from his face what he was thinking of or trying +to say. Meanwhile the soprano, when the books +were so abruptly changed on her, did just what might +have been expected, and telescoped two tunes and sets +of words into each other with disastrous effect. The +alto was running smoothly along, passenger time, for the +several wrecks gave her the track, so far as it was clear, +all to herself. The basso, who had slipped an eccentric +and was only working one side, was rumbling cautiously +along, clear off his own time, flagging himself every mile +of the way, and asking for orders every time he got a +chance. The pastor’s head was observed to tremble +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span>with emotion, and the people sitting nearest the pulpit +say they could indistinctly hear sounds from behind it +that resembled the syllables “Te, he!” As the organist +pulled and crowded and encouraged them along toward +the closing line, it looked as though public confidence +might soon be restored and the panic abated, but alas, +as even the demoralized tenor rallied, and came in with +the full quartette on the last line, a misguided man in +the audience suddenly thought he recognized in the distracted +tune an old, familiar acquaintance, and broke +out in a joyous howl on something entirely different that +inspired every singing man and woman in the congregation +with the same idea, and the hymn was finished in a +terrific discord of sixty-nine different tunes, and the rent +and mangled melody flapped and fluttered around the +sacred edifice like a new kind of delirium tremens, and +all the wrecking cars on the line were started for the +scene at once.</p> + +<p>The pastor deserves more praise than can be crowded +into these pages for pronouncing the benediction in +clear, even tones, without even the ghost of a smile on +his placid countenance.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">RUPERTINO’S PANORAMA.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">OUR first view is leaving New York harbor. This is +a beautiful picture. See the mighty vessel, +spreading her snowy wings to the gale, glide through the +water like a thing of life. There is nothing to hinder +her, and nothing in that fact to make a fuss about. But +if the water was to glide through her, it would be time +for reflection on the brevity of one’s life insurance policy. +The noble ship is freighted with precious human souls, +bright hopes, happy anticipations, hides, salt meat and +highwines.</p> + +<p>This is a view of the Bourse in Paris, a twin institution +to the Burlington Board of Trade. The man in the +background, trying to hang himself on a lamp-post, is a +member of the Bourse. He has just been Boursted. He +has been operating in corn. If you will hold a bottle or +small tumbler to your mouth and look steadily at this +picture, you will see how they usually operate in corn at +the Exchanges.</p> + +<p>This is a view in Egypt. The great city of Cairo. It +is named after Cairo, Illinois. Cairo is on the river +Nile. Cairo never struck ile that we know of, but we do +know that Cairo seen Nile. We do not know, history +does not tell us, what there was so important in this +event, but we know it is commemorated by monuments +erected all over America. You can’t go into a cemetery +in the United States without seeing one or more monuments +erected to the memory of Cairo C. Nile. He was +probably the inventor of a cooking-stove, as some reference is +usually made to the kitchen fire.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span>This is a view of the Seine. This is the favorite place +for the Parisians to shuffle off their mortal coil. The +volatile Frenchman gets himself full of elan (you know +what that is) and jumps off one of these arched bridges, +the Pont Noof or the Pont de Jena, down by the Shong +de Mar. The zhong darmay, which is French for river +police, fishes the victim out; the coroner pronounces +him incurably inseine, his property is confiscated, and +his insurance policy declared void, so as to spoil his wife’s +chances of marrying again. Such is the grasp of an iron +despotism upon the wretched slaves of down-trodden +Europe. (Applause)</p> + +<p>Here is a view in London of the old Bucking’em palace. +This is an exterior view. Inside there are several +keno banks, some chuckaluck tables and a faro bank, +and the nobility are in there bucking the tiger. King +Richard came out of that palace once, cleaned out, after +a run of bad luck. He remarked to a friend, “So much +for bucking ’em.” The quotation has passed into history.</p> + +<p>A panoramic view of Scotland. The gentleman in the +peculiar position in the foreground is scratching his back +against a mile post and remarking, “God bless the gude +Duke of Argyle.” The children in Scotland are taught +that the Duke of Argyle made the world. This is an +error.</p> + +<p>We stand among the antiquities of Rome—Rome that +stood on her seven hills, like James Robinson in his +famous eight-horse bareback act. This is Trajan’s Column—his +spinal column. This is the Arch of Titus. +When he put up that arch he was Titus a brick. This is +the place where the Roman mobs used to collect and the +police went Forum. Here is the Coliseum. There is +the bloody sand of the arena; there is the spot where +“the dying gladiator” lied. “I see before me the dying +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span>gladiator lie.” Some calm and temperate Roman ought +to have cast the scoundrel’s lies in his teeth. The Romans +were very depraved, wicked people, and the entire +civilized world yet suffers from the effects of their malicious +iniquity. They invented the Latin grammar, +Nepos, Cicero and Virgil, and hurled upon the boys of +succeeding ages a language containing ten rules to every +word, and twenty exceptions to every rule. This is a +statue of a noble Roman, Julius Cæsar. He was named +after the Fourth of July and President Grant.</p> + +<p>We stand in Greece. “The isles of Greece! The +isles of Greece!” Probably the poet referred to goose +grease. The Greeks were an ancient people. They +wrote their letters in cipher, and schoolboys of to-day +sigh for hours over their letters. Here are the ruins of +the temple of Jupiter O’Lympus, erected to him by the +ancient Greeks, thus proving that the Irish nation sprang +from these ancient heroes. Here is an ancient theater. +It is closed now for repairs; has been closed for a few +thousand years, and the actors have gone off to their +Summer resort, at Hades on the Styx.</p> + +<p>Behold buried Pompeii. The city was entombed in +an eruption that hadn’t been equaled since Job got well. +The gentleman in a military position at the gate, dressed +in a full suit of bones, is not only a charming specimen +of anatomy, but was a brave sentinel, who was covered +up with ashes before he could run. He would have been +1,795 years old to-morrow if he had run and kept on +living. It appears, however, that he is dead. The fact +is not substantiated by any direct evidence, as no witnesses +can be found who saw him die, and his will, +therefore, has not been probated. But it is generally +believed that he is dead. Weep not for him, friends. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span>He was a heathen, and has gone to a place where he is +probably used to volcanoes by this time.</p> + +<p>This building, the venerable pile that rises before you, +is 27,000 years old. It originally cost $850, and took ten +men nearly all Summer to build it. It was whitewashed +nearly 4,000 years ago, but received no later repairs. +The room on the right as you enter the hall on the first +floor, is the Torture Room. It is called the County +Treasurer’s office, and is where people go and mortgage +their farms and homes for taxes. The room opposite is +the County Insane Asylum. The juries are confined +there while on duty, and the local debating societies also +meet there. This court-house was built many ages before +Burlington was settled. The massive walls are engraved +with the names of eminent men who have served on the +juries. A grim and imposing antiquity frowns upon us +as we enter the Judgment Hall up stairs. The benches +and desks are made of wood taken from the decks of the +ark. The tobacco quids in the corners were piled there +so long ago that people had not begun to remember anything. +The wood-box is a pre-Adamic creation. It is +modeled after the megatherium. The only man living +who knows any thing about the early history of the court-house +is dead.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">MIDDLERIB’S DOG.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">MR. MIDDLERIB used to be a devoted dog fancier. +About three years ago he owned a beautiful hound +pup about five months old. It was considered an ornament +to the neighborhood. A hound pup at that age is +an object of surprising beauty, under any circumstances; +but when you consider that Mr. Middlerib had raised his +pup on scientific principles (boiled beef and rice), you +can readily imagine what a canine divinity it was. Gaunt +legs, longer than your grandfather’s stories, and the hind +ones so crooked that the dog sticks his foot into everything +in the yard every time he tries to scratch his ear; +sides look as though he had swallowed an old hoopskirt, +and the springs showed through; more ribs under his +hide than there are spots on it; tail as long as the dog, +and two inches across the big end and tapering down +like a marlinspike, so lean you can count every joint in +it, and so hard that you couldn’t scratch it with a diamond—has +every appearance of having been made ten +years before the dog was, and then hung out to bleach in +the rain and dry in the sun until the dog came along; +ears soft as a kid glove, and about the size and appearance +of a blacksmith’s apron—bear every evidence of +being considered by all other dogs in the precinct as +dreadful nice things to chew. Beautiful eyes; open +twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes of the day; +scare every woman into fits that looks into the back yard +after dark. Sweet mouth, opens on a hinge at the back +of his head, and is never shut unless there is something +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span>in it. That’s the best picture of a growing hound, one +of this kind with liver colored spots, that we can draw, +and Mr. Middlerib’s was just like that, only more so. +His principal characteristic was a tendency to lunch. +He was fond of nibbling little things around the house. +Split his face one Sunday while the folks were at church, +and shut it down over a whole ham. Liked to peek at +odd bones and scraps, and one Monday morning he ate +two tablecloths, a flannel shirt, a big roller towel, half a +dozen clothes pins and thirteen linear yards of clothes-line, +before the washing had been hung out half an hour. +Fond of eggs, too, and knows every hen by sight in the +neighborhood, and sets off on a friendly call every time +he hears a cackle. Mrs. M. wants to sell him, but +Middlerib says gold couldn’t buy him. So he stays, and +eggs are as scarce in that ward as ever.</p> + +<p>Well, one night, Mrs. M. had made something by +pulverizing a lot of very hot potatoes. We believe it was +yeast. Any how, it was necessary that it should cool +very presently, and after some misgivings relative to the +dog and his weakness, which were dispelled by Middlerib’s +indignant defense of that sagacious animal, the dish +containing the fiery compound was placed on the outer +edge of a window sill, to cool in the night air.</p> + +<p>Then the family resumed their occupation of hearing +Middlerib explain the causes that led to the recent +revolution in politics.</p> + +<p>Such a weird, unearthly, piercing wail hadn’t been +heard since Dresseldorf learned to play the clarionet. +It seemed to come out of the ground, out of the sky, out +of the air around them, and for an instant the frightened +Middleribs gazed at each other with white, terror-blanched +faces. Then they rushed to the door and looked out. A +gaunt, ghostly form, with liver colored spots and a mouth +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span>full of red hot potato yeast thrashed wildly up and down +the yard, splitting the darkness with terrific yells at every +jump. It was Middlerib’s dog; and it was apparently +feeling uneasy. It dashed madly around in short circles +and screamed “Police,” and scraped its jaws with its +paws, and wept and rubbed its chops along the cold +ground, and swore and howled for water, and pawed the +earth and sang psalms, and in several ways expressed +its disapprobation of potato yeast as a diet. Finally, the +dog wedged himself in between the fence and the ash-barrel, +and told all about it, how it happened and what +it felt like, and how he liked it as far as he’d got. He +never slept a wink that night. He was too anxious to +get his narrative completed and see the proofs of it. +Neither did anybody in the neighborhood sleep, either. +And every time a water pitcher would crash down into +the yard, or a boot-jack bang against the fence or an +andiron plunge madly into the ash-barrel, the dog would +laugh in mocking tones, and go on with his testimony. +About midnight a vigilance committee waited on Mr. +Middlerib, but he wouldn’t come out, and they couldn’t +stand the noise long enough to break in the door. The +dog finished his statement about sunrise, when the committee +rose. The family ate baker’s bread the next day, +and Middlerib so far yielded to Mrs. M.’s entreaties as +to say that if any man will make a fair offer, he might sell +an undivided third of the dog.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">A BOY’S DAY AT HOME.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">MASTER BILDERBACK had been home all day, +confined to the house and barn by the rain, and +excited by the prospect of unlimited fun during the long +vacation. He was a blessing to his mother and sister, +and his affectionate parent caught her death of cold by +running around after him in one stocking foot, searching +out the tender places in his nature and anatomy with a +four and a half slipper. He tied one end of his sister’s +ball of crochet cotton to the fly-wheel of the sewing-machine +and the other around the tail of the cat, and by +the time his mother had sewed half-way down one of the +long seams in Mr. Bilderback’s new shirt, all but a few +yards of that cotton was a chaotic mass about that fly-wheel +and shaft, and the cat was waltzing in and out of +the kitchen, sprawling along backward, tail straight as a +poker, fur up and eyes aflame, snowling, and spitting, and +swearing like mad, and Mrs. Bilderback and her daughter +climbed upon the table and shrieked till the windows +rattled, while Master Bilderback, hid behind the clothes-horse +in the kitchen, lay down on his back and laughed a +wicked gurgling kind of a laugh. Then he went out and +jammed a potato into the nose of the chain pump and the +hired girl went out and pumped till her arms ached clear +down to her heels, and then told Mrs. Bilderback the +cistern had sprung a leak and was dry as a bone. And +then Mrs. Bilderback, declaring she knew better, went +out and turned the wheel till her head swam and she +gave up, and Miss Bilderback went out and turned till +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span>she cried, and then Master Bilderback, rather than go to +the neighbor’s for water, went out and fixed the pump and +came in to be praised, and was duly praised with the +slipper, for he had been watched. He put an old last +year’s fire-cracker in the kitchen stove; he insured a +steady run of strange visitors for about two hours, to the +great amazement of his mother and sister, by pinning a +placard on the porch step, plainly seen from the street, +but invisible from the front door, “Man wanted to drive +carriage; $35.00 a month and board.” Mrs. Bilderback +drew a sigh of relief when she heard Mr. B.’s step in the +hall, and informed her son that as soon as his father +came in he should be duly informed of all that had been +going on. A most impressive silence followed this +remark, and the trio in the sitting-room listened to +Mr. Bilderback’s heavy breathing as he divested himself +of his wet boots, and prepared to assume his slippers. +Master Bilderback’s face wore an expression of the deepest +concern.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the silence was broken by a shout of astonishment +and terror, followed by a howl of intense agony, +and there was a clattering as of a runaway crockery +wagon in the hall. The affrighted family rushed to the +door, and beheld Mr. Bilderback cleaving the shadows +with wild gestures and frantic gyrations. “Take it off,” +he shouted, and made a grab at his own foot, but, missing +it, went on with his war-dance. “Water!” he +shrieked, and started up stairs, three at a step, and turning, +came back in a single stride, “Oh, I’m stabbed!” +he cried, and sank to the floor and held his right leg high +above his head; then he rose to his feet with a bound +and screamed for the boot-jack, and held his foot out +toward his terrified family. “Oh, bring me the arnica!” +he yelled, and with one despairing effort he reached his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span>slipper and got it off, and with a groan as deep as a well +and hollow as a drum, sank into a chair and clasped his +foot in both hands. “Look out for the scorpion,” he +whispered hoarsely, “I’m a dead man.”</p> + +<figure class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> + <img src="images/i_274a.jpg" width="450" height="677" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <p class="caption">A BOY’S DAY AT HOME.</p> + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Master Bilderback was by this time out in the woodshed, +rolling in the kindling in an ecstasy of glee, and +pausing from time to time to explain to the son of a +neighbor, who had dropped in to see if there was any +innocent sport going on in which he could share, “Oh, +Bill, Bill,” he said, “you wouldn’t believe; some time +to-day, some how or Other, a big blue wasp got into the +old man’s slipper, and when he come home and put it on—oh, +Bill, you don’t know!”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">WHY MR. BOSTWICK MOVED.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">YOUNG Mr. Bostwick has moved. He liked the +house he has been living in well enough, and Mrs. +Bostwick fairly cried her eyes out when they left it, because +it had a bay window and blinds with slats that you +could turn so that you could see anybody in the street +and nobody could see you. But old Mr. Glasford, the +landlord, was very deaf, and it was on account of this +infirmity that his tenant left the house. Mrs. Bostwick +said she couldn’t see what Mr. Glasford’s deafness had +to do with the house, but her husband only looked worried +and said it made a good deal of difference with a +man’s peace of mind, when he had something he wanted +to whisper, and had to whisper it to a man who couldn’t +hear anything if he went into a boiler factory. Mrs. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span>Bostwick didn’t understand what difference it made anyhow, +but then she wasn’t down town that terrible +Wednesday, when old Mr. Glasford went into the store +where her husband was selling a lovely young divinity +from Denmark a dress pattern off a piece of Centennial +percale. Mr. Bostwick saw the old gentleman coming +and felt very nervous. Eager to anticipate the demand +which he knew the old man was going to make, he +dashed toward him with an abruptness that astonished +the fair customer who had just lost herself in admiration +of Bostwick’s diamond pin, and the fact, just confidentially +imparted to her, that he was not a clerk but the silent +partner, holding about $475,000 worth of stock in the +concern, and that he just worked from pure love of employment. +Mr. Bostwick checked the old gentleman +about ten feet away from his customer, and leaning over +the counter so as to get as close range on his ear as possible, +whispered hoarsely that “it wouldn’t be convenient +to pay that rent to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Hey?” shouted the old man, looking at Bostwick’s +agitated face in some alarm, “why, why, wha’s the matter? +’S happened?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Bostwick made a futile effort to catch hold of the +old man’s ear, intending to pour his explanation into it +as one pours water into a funnel, but his landlord briskly +dodged and waved Bostwick away with an expression of +considerable apprehension. Mr. Bostwick groaned and +endeavored to explain to the old gentleman in a manner +that would convey to the pretty customer and the others +in the store the idea that he was refusing to give the old +party credit, and at the same time let old Glasford know +that he was bankrupt.</p> + +<p>“Can’t do it!” he shouted.</p> + +<p>“Can’t do what?” inquired the mystified old gentleman +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span>in those stentorian tones so popular with deaf +people.</p> + +<p>“Can’t help you!” shouted Bostwick, in tones the +sternness of which contrasted ludicrously with the +sheepish expression of his countenance. “Can’t do +anything for you!”</p> + +<p>The old man looked at Bostwick in helpless wonder +and then at the door, with his mind half made up to run +away, under the impression that the young man was +crazy. He finally stared at him in open-mouthed amazement +and speechless bewilderment.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Moses,” thought Bostwick, “he’s mad as a +hornet, he’ll break out in a minute; I know he will.” +Then he tried him again, in a voice like a steam whistle.</p> + +<p>“I can’t do anything for you!”</p> + +<p>The old man’s mouth opened still wider, and his eyes +stood around on his cheek-bones in their amazement.</p> + +<p>“Who asked ye to do anything for me?” he finally +gasped. “What is it ye can’t do?”</p> + +<p>Bostwick groaned, and in a fit of desperation he broke +down, and gave it up.</p> + +<p>“I can’t pay that rent to-day!” he shrieked, and the +pretty customer was so shocked that she dropped her +parasol, fan and paper of gum drops.</p> + +<p>“What went to-day?” asked the old man, waving +Bostwick off with his stick.</p> + +<p>Here the proprietor officiously interposed to cover +Bostwick’s confusion, speaking in the highest key he +could assume.</p> + +<p>“Rent! Rent! House rent, you know! He says he +can’t pay his house rent to-day!”</p> + +<p>“Rent day?” echoed old Glasford, “yes, oh yes, that’s +past, two weeks ago; first of the month.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” shrieked Mr. Bostwick, while the store full of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span>customers and his fellow clerks stood around and smiled, +“I know it, but I can’t pay it to-day; haven’t got a +cent!”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” exclaimed the old man, with a gleam of intelligence +passing over his face, “I don’t care about that; +that isn’t what I come for. I come to tell you if your +wife wanted that front room down stairs papered, to go +ahead and have it done, and I’d allow it.”</p> + +<p>The pretty customer wouldn’t have a word to say to +the discomfited Mr. Bostwick when he went back, and +the old man told the proprietor as he went out of the +door that he believed that young man was just about +half crazy, and the clerks were all so pleasant that Bostwick +nearly went mad every time he was reminded of +his unfortunate precipitancy, and that is the way he +became convinced that it was altogether lighter than +vanity to rent of a deaf man.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">SPECIAL PROVIDENCES.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"> + +<p class="drop-cap">THERE was wailing and woe in Burlingtown,</p> +<div class="indent2">For every other day</div> +<div class="verse">The humid showers came tumbling down,</div> +<div class="indent">As they had come to stay.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">There was water enough in the land to spare;</div> +<div class="indent">And men who were wont to pray,</div> +<div class="verse">When they looked in the cellar each morn would swear</div> +<div class="indent">And wrathfully turn away.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">All out on South Hill they pumped and pumped</div> +<div class="indent">From morn till dewy eve,</div> +<div class="verse">But their every effort the storm king trumped,</div> +<div class="indent">And laughed him in his sleeve,</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Till the South Hill man his spirit was broke,</div> +<div class="indent">And he sate him down on his hill.</div> +<div class="first">“Though I pump till my back cries out,” he spoke,</div> +<div class="indent">“My cellar still keeps its fill.”</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="first">“Now lithe and listen, good pump of mine,</div> +<div class="indent">If ever I touch thee more,</div> +<div class="verse">May never again the bright sun shine</div> +<div class="indent">As it shone in the days of yore.”</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Then he took his pump and he hung it up</div> +<div class="indent">Where it might not taunt his sight,</div> +<div class="verse">And he drowned his grief in the poisonous cup</div> +<div class="indent">Which “moveth itself aright.”</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">And he vowed him that if the immortal gods<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span></div> +<div class="indent">Would hold up their rain for a while,</div> +<div class="verse">He’d build him a cellar and take the odds—</div> +<div class="indent">On top of his domicile.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="first">“For what was the use,” he grimly said,</div> +<div class="indent">“Of a cellar in the ground,</div> +<div class="verse">Into the which, if you went for bread,</div> +<div class="indent">You were pretty sure to be drowned?”</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="first">“I hate the cellar; oh winds of the south,</div> +<div class="indent">Thy rains, as hard as I can;</div> +<div class="verse">I wish I could strike them both with a drouth,”</div> +<div class="indent">Exclaimed the South Hill man.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">He lifted his eyes to the city road</div> +<div class="indent">A coming figure to scan,</div> +<div class="verse">And a wild fierce light in his optics glowed</div> +<div class="indent">When they fell on the hated gas man.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">He carried his book and his railway lamp,</div> +<div class="indent">And wore a sinister frown;</div> +<div class="verse">And he sought out the meter in cellars damp,</div> +<div class="indent">And he noted the figures down.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">And whether a man burned much or small,</div> +<div class="indent">Or how often the gas man came,</div> +<div class="verse">Or whether they turned on the gas at all,</div> +<div class="indent">The meter just counted the same.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">So the man of South Hill, when he saw him come,</div> +<div class="indent">Supposing that he had come th—</div> +<div class="verse">Rough ignorance, said, in tones full glum,</div> +<div class="indent">“You cut off my gas last month.”</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">The gas man he winked, and eke as he wunk,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span></div> +<div class="indent">He shook his head knowinglee,</div> +<div class="verse">And, as though he something suspiciously thunk,</div> +<div class="indent">“We’ll look at the meter,” said he.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Then he opened the door of the cellar so damp,</div> +<div class="indent">And he stepped where the pump log had been,</div> +<div class="verse">And he went out of sight, with his book and his lamp,</div> +<div class="indent">As the water he tumbled in.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="first">“Oh, help!” loud he shrieked as his noddle came up,</div> +<div class="indent">“Hubbulubbulup!” as his noddle went down,</div> +<div class="verse">While the man of South Hill on the cellar door sill,</div> +<div class="indent">Was the happiest man in the town.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">Splash! Splash! Blubbulup! in the cellar he heard,</div> +<div class="indent">And he hugged himself close in his glee;</div> +<div class="verse">And whenever the gas man would sputter a word,</div> +<div class="indent">“Oh, catch hold of the meter!” cried he.</div> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<div class="verse">And he shut down the doors, and he locked them up tight,</div> +<div class="indent">And into the well threw the key,</div> +<div class="verse">And, “Providence always and ever is right:</div> +<div class="indent">Rains and cellars are useful,” said he.</div> +</div></div></div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">MR. BARINGER’S HOUSE-CLEANING.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">YOU see, Mr. Baringer has only been keeping house +about a year, and they took the carpets up this +Spring for their first general house-cleaning. Mrs. +Baringer’s mother was there, because she said Olivia was +a mere child at such things, and she didn’t believe that +Aristarchus was much better, and it was better to have +some one around who could manage. The young people, +however, felt very confident that they had, by numerous +consultations and many well-laid plans, reduced house-cleaning +to a perfect science, a system that had never yet +been attained by any other housekeepers, and they were +all impatient to get at work and clean the whole house, +from garret to cellar, and have all the pictures back on +the walls and carpets nailed down again before dark. +They were disgusted at the way other people cleaned +house, and Olivia thought it was perfectly wonderful +how Aristarchus could have such beautifully lucid and +systematic ideas on matters of which most men, and she +would say most women as well, were so deplorably +stupid and ignorant.</p> + +<p>The stirring notes of the alarm clock dragged Mr. +Baringer out of bed at 3:15 A. M., and he thought he +felt intolerably sleepy for five o’clock, but he didn’t +look at the clock until he was dressed, and then he was +too mad to swear. He merely woke Mrs. Baringer up to +tell her that he’d bet a thousand dollars some stupid had +changed the alarm after he set it and then he flopped +down on a lounge to sleep till daylight. He awoke at +half-past seven o’clock, the hour at which, by their prearranged +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span>system and calculations, the two up-stairs bed-room +carpets were to have been beaten and ready to put +down as soon as the floors were dry. Then the kitchen +fire went out twice, and they finally sat down to breakfast +at half-past eight o’clock, Mrs. Baringer’s mother +beguiling the time during that matin meal by asking +Olivia if she minded how she used to be half through +her house-cleaning by nine o’clock in the morning. But +Mr. Baringer bore up very well under it, and immediately +after breakfast, he took up the bed-room carpets. It +was slow work, jerking the tacks out one at a time. Some +times they flew up into his face; some times he pulled +the head off and left the tack in the floor; and when they +got to be rather thickly scattered around the room he +put his knee down on one occasionally and talked in a +fragmentary manner about certain mill privileges in connection +with housekeeping which Mrs. Baringer couldn’t +understand. At last he noticed that by lifting up the +edge of the carpet, a gentle pull would bring up half a +dozen tacks in rapid succession. Happy thought. He +rose to his feet, grasped the bound edge of the carpet in +both hands, gave a mighty lift and a tremendous pull—k-r-r-r-r-r-t! +and when the dust settled a little, Mrs. +Baringer and her mother were discovered standing in the +door, looking in speechless horror at Mr. Baringer, who +stood like an image of despair, holding a carpet with a +fringe in one hand, and a long line of carpet binding in +the other.</p> + +<p>“How <i>did</i> you do it?” shrieked Mrs. Baringer.</p> + +<p>“How <i>ever</i> did you do it?” echoed Mrs. Baringer’s +mother.</p> + +<p>Then they both said something about the general incapacity +of a man, and Mr. Baringer endeavored to explain +that in going across the room for the tack hammer he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[284]</span>had caught his foot in the edge of the carpet, with the +result as above. And at the conclusion of his explanation, +Mrs. Baringer’s mother gave a sniff that blew dust +out of the carpet, and there was a general expression of +incredulity on the faces of the congregation.</p> + +<p>It was a long time before they got the carpets down in +the yard, and on the line. Then Mr. Baringer approached +and smote the first carpet with a long stick, and the next +instant he was feeling his way out of a dense cloud of +dust, coughing, sneezing and snorting, and wildly gasping +for air. He went around on the other side, and as +he aimed a terrific swipe at the carpet, he struck the +clothes-prop, and his nerveless arm stung and tingled to +his neck, while his wail was heard down to the city +building. Then he got at it again, and found that his +stick was too light, and he took another one. A few +strokes sufficed to convince him that it was too heavy, +and he took a lath. That broke in two at the first blow, +and he tried an apple switch, but it was too limber. He +finally gave up the idea of beating any more, and called +to Mrs. Baringer that the carpet was ready to be shaken. +Mrs. Baringer, with her head in an apron, came out. +They gathered the carpet, and Mr. Baringer got the start +of her and shook a roll clear down to her hands, exploding +in a loud snap and a volcano of dust in her face. +Then she dropped the carpet and sneezed and protested.</p> + +<p>“You shook too quick, deary,” she said.</p> + +<p>“But you said you were ready, sweety,” replied Mr. +Baringer.</p> + +<p>“But you shouldn’t be so rough, lovey,” she protested.</p> + +<p>“Well, I have to shake hard to get the dust out, ducky,” +he insisted.</p> + +<p>“Well, you needn’t be so cross about it, deary,” she +said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span>“Oh well,” he said, “you must expect hard work house-cleaning +days, and you mustn’t lose your temper, sweety.”</p> + +<p>“It isn’t me that gets cross and jerks people around, +lovey,” she said, “it’s you.”</p> + +<p>“I never jerked you around,” he retorted.</p> + +<p>“Why, Aristarchus Baringer!” exclaimed his wife, +making very large eyes at him and speaking in tones of +the greatest amazement, “and maybe you didn’t tear the +carpet up stairs, either.”</p> + +<p>“I wish your old carpet was in Halifax,” he said, savagely. +“Pick up that end; let’s get through with it. +This is sweet work for a dry goods salesman, anyhow! +Ready?”</p> + +<p>“No,” she snapped, “I ain’t ready. Now wait. There. +Hold on now; don’t be in such a hurry. Now!”</p> + +<p>And the next instant the carpet was snapped out of +her hands, and it did seem as though her fingers had +gone with it, while Mr. Baringer, pretending not to know +that it had fallen from her fingers, kept on shaking violently +at his end, filling the air with dust and grit. At +this juncture Mrs. Baringer’s mother, who had been a +quiet spectator of the carpet shaking scene, approached +and called him to desist. Then she gathered up the +vacant end of the carpet.</p> + +<p>“Aristarchus,” she said kindly but firmly, “Olivia is +not strong enough for such work.”</p> + +<p>Then she added:</p> + +<p>“Have you got a good hold, Aristarchus?”</p> + +<p>And Mr. Baringer said he had.</p> + +<p>“Don’t let go then, Aristarchus. Ready.”</p> + +<p>They lifted their arms high in the air and Mr. Baringer +is undecided yet which part of him started first. He +walked up the whole length of that carpet on his hands +and then he fell over the edge and banged along the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span>walk on his hands and knees until he reached the front +fence, through which he plunged his head, and would have +gone on through but for his shoulder catching against +the gate post. The carpets did not go down that day, +and a big Irishman was engaged to come and welt the +fuzz off them, Mr. Baringer having privately and with +some asperity informed his wife that he would rather +live, sleep, and eat in dirt up to his eyes, than ever again +to sweep, beat, or shake the lightest carpet ever trodden +by the foot of man.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">AN AUTUMNAL REVERIE.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">“OH dreamy haze: veiling the murmuring river that +stretches away like a silver thread under a mosquito +bar, winding in wooded nooks and creeping through +low lying islands where the balmy breeze is redolent with +the odor of dead leaves and dead fish. Oh lovely haze; +what dreams of soulful tenderness its name recalls. Oh, +musty hays in the street car; oh, hays that used to be +full of bumble bees; oh, hazel nuts on another man’s +farm with a big dog hid in the patch. Away; these +memories are too painful.</p> + +<p>“Afar, the hillsides glitter in gold and scarlet, and the +sumach bushes, climbing the slope with their nodding +plumes, look like a new express wagon coming down +Division Street. The mellow air brings into the city the +rustle of fallen leaves piled deep on winding cow-paths, +threading through quiet dells and winding along the side +of purling brooks. It brings an odor of something old. +Because it blows over the cheese factory.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span>“How faint and far off every sound. The ghosts of the +dead Summer flowers sigh in every breeze, and the phantom +of the cow that butted the freight train tinkles her +drowsy bell afar. And in muffled tenderness, as a falling +star might drop on a feather bed, we hear the teamster’s +cheery call, ‘G’up! ye lop-eared spavin, ’r I’ll lam +the hair off ye with a dray pin.’ And the muffled creak +of the wood wagon falls plaintively on the ear. Eight +dollars a cord, and only cut three feet long at that, and +piled so loosely that when you go to measure it you can +throw a felt hat through the pile any place and never +touch a stick.</p> + +<p>“List to the plaintive piping of the quail in the stubble. +Ah, quail on toast, and the plaintive piping of the anxious +waiter for seventy-five cents. Avaunt, dull dotard, +take thy black shadow from the fairy scene. (This +remark was addressed to the waiter, and not to the quail +on toast.)</p> + +<p>“Why, in these dreamy dark autumnal days—we don’t +know what kind of a day a dark day is, but we wanted +another word that begins with d and could only think of +dark and another one, and the other one wouldn’t do at +all; these kind of days then, bring with them a sad—a +sad—sad something, we knew what it was when we +started out, but stopping to explain about that dark +knocked it clear out of our head; sad—it isn’t saddle, +nor Sadducee, nor—ah yes, now we have it. These +dreamy days, that come like a tender poem, veiled in the +delicate drapery that hangs over the distant landscape, +bring with them——”</p> + +<p>At this critical juncture a man with a business-like +look in his eye burst into the sanctum, slapped his hat +down on the paste-cup, banged a sample case on the ink-stand, +and proceeded to remark in one long unpunctuated +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span>sentence, “Good morning not a word my dear fellow I +know the value of an editor’s time I wish you just to +glance at this prospectus of the most valuable work that +has ever been issued from the American press it is the +American Centennial Portrait Gallery and you will observe +contains exquisite steel engravings full page of all +the Presidents with the autograph of each one appended +and complete biographical sketches. Observe that engraving +of Washington through this glass if you please +bank note engraving not more perfect not a single line +crosses or becomes merged into another one what expression +what fidelity to nature what marvelous portraiture +what minute attention to detail. Notice the folds in +the cloak and the exquisitely penciled pattern of the +ruffles at the wrists. And so with Adams and Jefferson +and Madison and Monroe and Jackson and all the +rest of them with biographical sketches compiled from +the best authorities with facts incidents and reminiscences +never before published—a book that no American +of intelligence should be without a book without a +rival in its field of patriotic biographical excellence. In +different styles of binding—$3.00, $3.50 and $4.25. +Now, sir, shall I have your name right here?”</p> + +<p>We felt all around the room before we could catch our +breath, and when we regained it we told him we didn’t +believe we could put $4.25 worth of signature anywhere +that morning, and, after a struggle of fifteen or twenty +minutes with him, we got him close enough to the stairway +to push him over the railing and heard him reach +the ground floor and disappear into the street and +around the corner with the long introductory sentence of +his prospectus trailing after him like the dribbling shower +of a runaway street sprinkler. And we went on with the +dreamy, sad, sweet reverie:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span>“The tender song of a day whose wordless beauties +haunt the mystic scene; the dreamy, vague, imperfect +memories that bring——”</p> + +<p>A man with a black coat and a high hat came softly +into the sanctum, and after he laid a flat oil cloth case +on the table, he lifted his hat off with both hands and +said, speaking in soft and distressingly deliberate tones, +and articulating with awful distinctness and precision:</p> + +<p>“Ah—is the editor in?”</p> + +<p>We imparted the desired information, and the deliberate +man went on,</p> + +<p>“I have taken the liberty to call on a matter of some +importance to yourself, as well as to the great masses of +the American people. I have here the artist’s proof of +a new ker-romo entitled ‘Columbia.’ It is a centennial +allegory, and is designed by Mr. Alfred Reynolds Vincenzo +Fitzdaub, one of the most eminent artists of +America, at immense outlay of time, labor and money. The +tube colors used on the original painting alone cost seven +dollars and a half, while the can-vas, when prepared +and stretched for the pict-ewer, was worth nearly doub-bel +that sum. Here you see, we have in the foreground +Columbia, her sandaled feet resting upon the broking +canning to signify that war is no more. At her right +hand sits the American eagil, ger-rasping the olive ber-ranch +of peace in his talents, and lifting his wings as +though pluming himself for fe-light. Here on the left +we have the artisin in working-dress, the statesman, the +teacher, the farmer, the sai-leure, repperesenting the +various callings, and here rushes a train of cars, while +in the background an old-fashioned stage coach is disappearing, +illustrative of the perrogeress of the past hundred +years. The original painting is valued at $2,500, but +these ker-romos we supply for $18 a piece, mounted ready +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span>for framing. No man of culture or artistic taste can +afford to be without this ker-romo. The eye of a connoisseur +can not distinguish it ferrom an oil painting. +Observe the transparency of the atmosphere; notice the +soft natural blending of the high light and middle tint +into the hazy shadows of the backger-round, and the +bold effects of the heavy cul-louds that overshadow the +past, where the dim edges are silvered with the sunlight +that ber-reaks ferrom the veil of the few-chewer. And +here, you observe, is a blank tablet at the right of the +figewer of Columbia, for a family record. Only eighteen +dollars. They will be ready for delivery about the first +of Jewen, and if I may have the pleasure of seeing your +signature in this book, just here, it will cost you but the +trifling sum of eighteen dollars, and establish more fully +the reputation you have already acquired as a man of +culture and refined taste.”</p> + +<p>We got rid of him after a heated session of about half +an hour, and he went away, mourning over the depravity +of a man who had acquired a reputation for culture and +refined taste under false pretenses. Then we resumed:</p> + +<p>“Over the distant hills, hushed in the misty haze that +hangs like a veil of peace over the motionless landscape, +the fleecy clouds, like drifting air-ships on the broad +expanse of melting blue, bring the sweet——”</p> + +<p>A man with a mahogany box came in and sat down, +and talked as he opened it, and displayed a variety of +phials and boxes.</p> + +<p>“The profession of literature, my dear sir,” he said, +“is of all others under the ban of the fell destroyer, +dyspepsia, and it is especially in the Spring of the year +that literary workers suffer most keenly from its dreadful +effects. An ounce of prevention, etc.—you know the old +saying. Now I can see by your heavy eyes that you are +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span>at this moment suffering from headache. This ‘Centennial +Cordial and American Indian Aboriginal Invigorator’ +is one of the latest and most valuable discoveries +in the world of medical science, and has positively no +equal for the cure of jaundice and all manner of liver +disorders, headache, indigestion, want of appetite, dyspepsia, +bilious, remittent and intermittent fevers, ague, +giddiness of the head, rheumatic affections, poverty or +impurity of the blood, salt rheum, teething, cholera morbus, +croup, ophthalmia, asthma, hay fever, sea-sickness, +diphtheria, catarrh, toothache, sleeplessness, gray hair, +pimples, tan and freckles, kleptomania, emotional insanity, +growing pains, stone bruise, rattlesnake bites, jimjams, +katzenjammer, tight boots, bad breath, warts, soft +corns, old clothes, tailor’s bills, spring fever and all other +ills to which human flesh is heir. Compounded purely +of herbs and the finest cologne spirits, and selling at the +ridiculously low price of $1.75 per bottle. Now sir, let +me——”</p> + +<p>And we let him out of the door and he went away, +after marking us for the tomb in a few short weeks. And +then we tried to get back to our reverie.</p> + +<p>“The sweet days come and go, in hallowed rhythmic +cadences, like the half forgotten chords of some tender, +sobbing nocturne, while they bring the——”</p> + +<p>“No, sir, this is not the tobacco factory; it’s the next +building up the street.—Thank heaven, he’s gone.”</p> + +<p>“——bring the sad yearning of a restless heart, that +reaches out amid the hectic flushes of the dying year, as +it would clasp the——”</p> + +<p>“No ma’am, we don’t want to buy ‘The Centennial Gift +Book for Young Ladies;’ no, we have no young lady +friends; we have no friends of any kind; we have no +sisters, or brothers, or relations, we have no money, we +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[292]</span>have no literary taste, we have no desire to read anything; +we can’t read, and we don’t know anybody who +can.”</p> + +<p>“——amid the hectic flushes of the dying year, as it +would clasp——”</p> + +<p>“Have no use for a fly trap, sir; don’t keep house; ain’t +married; don’t expect to be; haven’t seen a fly in Iowa +for a thousand years.”</p> + +<p>“——the hectic flushes of the dying year, as though——”</p> + +<p>“No, no, no! this is not the barber-shop. No, we don’t +know where the barber-shop is; there is none in this +block; there are no barbers in Burlington; the nearest +barber-shop is at the North Pole. No, sir, you needn’t +apologize, we are <i>not</i> annoyed. <i>Good</i> afternoon, sir.”</p> + +<p>“——amid the dying flushes of the hectic year whose +pulses throb so faintly that——”</p> + +<p>“No, we don’t want any ‘Wonderful Saponifier and +Dirt Eradicator for the Toilet and Laundry.’ No, we +have no family, and we never wash; never heard of such +a thing as a bath; don’t want to be clean; never shave, +never clean our nails, and have on the same shirt we +wore the day we were born. No, sir. Yes, sir. <i>Good</i> +afternoon.”</p> + +<p>“——amid the flying dushes of the pulsing year whose +hectics faint so throbly that——”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir, this is <i>The Hawkeye</i> office. No, sir, we do +not buy sand; no, we have no old clothes to exchange +for tin ware; no, we don’t want any superior stove blacking. +<i>Good</i> afternoon, sir.”</p> + +<p>“——amid the dusting fishes of the throbling hectics +whose painted ear is throoming in the gulch, so faintly +fleam the glib and——”</p> + +<p>[Note by the editor. We entered the office at this +point and found the writer of the above in convulsions. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span>From the ravings of his delirium we gathered that he +was trying to write something nice, and was tormented +by innumerable interruptions. Medical assistants were +summoned, and we were told to keep the young man’s +head cool and he would get well. So we cut it off and +had it packed in ice. It weighed two and a half ounces. +The young man is doing finely, and will not need it again +this year.]</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak">INFANTILE SCINTILLATIONS.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap2">AH yes, we do love children. We fairly dote on them, +and enjoy and admire their sweet, innocent ways, +from the dear little cloudy-faced, bare-legged cherubs +that swear and throw stones at you as you go past Happy +Hollow, to the sweet-faced but pampered angel that sits +in the golden lap of luxury and breaks the mirrors and +your head with pa’s cane. It was purely our love +for the little innocents that induced us to comply with +the urgent request of many parents, and open a department +in <i>The Hawkeye</i> for the smart sayings of precocious +children.</p> + +<p>Mrs. H—y B—k, of North Hill, has a sweet little rosebud, +of four bright Summers, who came into the house +and lisped, “Ma, Ith tho theepy.”</p> + +<p>“What makes you sleepy?” asked Rosebud’s mother.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” murmured the child.</p> + +<p>Strange yearning after the incomprehensible in an +infant heart. Could any of the children of an older +growth have made a better answer?</p> + +<p>Then there is little Freddy L——, out on West Hill. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span>Although he is but three years old, he put his father’s +watch in the shaving mug, filled the mug out of a kerosene +lamp, and set the mixture in the oven to dry, where +it presently dried—soon after the hired girl made up the +breakfast fire—with such abruptness that three of the +stoveplates haven’t been found since. After the excitement +had subsided, his mother took him on her lap and +said:</p> + +<p>“Freddy, did you put papa’s watch and the mug full +of oil in the oven?”</p> + +<p>And the dear child, opening wide his innocent eyes, +and smiling in tender confidence in her face, said placidly:</p> + +<p>“No, ma’am, ’deed I didn’t.”</p> + +<p>Sweet, cautious instinct of an untried heart. Could +any of us get out of it any better than that? Who can +tell what vague, uncertain dreams of congressional +honors float through that busy little mind?</p> + +<p>Johnnie K—— is a charming little cherub of four +bright Springs. One day he poured the ink into the +globe where the gold-fish were, submerging them instantaneously +in total eclipse; then he put the Bible in the +fire, threw a bronze paper-weight through the looking-glass, +broke four eggs in his sister’s new hat, and wound +up his artless sport by throwing the cat down the cistern. +His mother, discovering all this mischief, suspected who +was the author, and sought her son.</p> + +<p>“Johnnie,” she said, sadly, “Why did you act so +naughty?”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t,” he persisted. “Deed, muzzy, it was ze +cat!”</p> + +<p>Sweet child! Does it need the prescience of a prophet +to see that he will some day make an excellent witness +in a great scandal case?</p> + +<p>Then there is another sweet little tid-toddler out on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span>Seventh Street. The other day one of his parents, the +female one, put him to sleep and laid him in his little +crib, and then she ran over the street to ask Mrs. Muldoon +how she washed flannels, and got to talking about +the last funeral, and the mission circle, and the new +preacher, and forgot all about the baby, and when she +went home there that dear little blessed was, flat on his +back, with his little crib lying on top of him, and he +yelling like a scalded pig.</p> + +<p>Ah, the wild, weird, ventures and dreams of child life. +Try it, gray-haired man; see if you can fall out of bed +and flop your bedstead, slats, springs, mattress and all, +on top of you as you land on the floor. You can not do +it, but the tid-toddler of three sweet Summers—ah, well, +who shall say how their untried instinct shames the lore +and knowledge of our elder years.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">SETTLING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">STRANGERS visiting the beautiful city of Burlington +have not failed to notice that one of the handsomest +young men they meet is very bald, and they fall into the +usual error of attributing this premature baldness to +dissipation. But such is not the case. This young man, +one of the most exemplary Bible-class scholars in the +city, went to a Baptist sociable out on West Hill one +night about two years ago. He escorted three charming +girls, with angelic countenances and human appetites, +out to the refreshment table, let them eat all they wanted, +and then found he had left his pocket-book at home, +and a deaf man that he had never seen before at the +cashier’s desk. The young man, with his face aflame, +bent down and said softly,</p> + +<p>“I am ashamed to say I have no change with——”</p> + +<p>“Hey?” shouted the cashier.</p> + +<p>“I regret to say,” the young man repeated on a little +louder key, “that I have unfortunately come away without +any change to——”</p> + +<p>“Change two?” chirped the old man, “Oh, yes, I can +change five if you want it.”</p> + +<p>“No,” the young man explained in a terrible, penetrating +whisper, for half a dozen people were crowding +up behind him, impatient to pay their bills and get away, +“I don’t want any change, because——”</p> + +<p>“Oh, don’t want no change?” the deaf man cried, +gleefully. “’Bleeged to ye, ’bleeged to ye. ’Taint often +we get such generous donations. Pass over your bill.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span>“No, no,” the young man explained, “I have no +funds——”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, plenty of fun,” the deaf man replied, growing +tired of the conversation and noticing the long line +of people waiting with money in their hands, “but I +haven’t got time to talk about it now. Settle and move +on.”</p> + +<p>“But,” the young man gasped out, “I have no +money——”</p> + +<p>“Go Monday?” queried the deaf cashier. “I don’t +care when you go; you must pay and let these other +people come up.”</p> + +<p>“I have no money!” the mortified young man shouted, +ready to sink into the earth, while the people all around +him, and especially the three girls he had treated, were +giggling and chuckling audibly.</p> + +<p>“Owe money?” the cashier said, “of course you do; +$2.75.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t pay!” the youth screamed, and by turning his +pocket inside out and yelling his poverty to the heavens, +he finally made the deaf man understand. And then he +had to shriek his full name three times, while his ears +fairly rang with the half-stifled laughter that was breaking +out all around him; and he had to scream out where +he worked, and roar when he would pay, and he couldn’t +get the deaf man to understand him until some of the +church members came up to see what the uproar was, +and recognizing their young friend, made it all right with +the cashier. And the young man went out into the night +and clubbed himself, and shred his locks away until he +was bald as an egg.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[298]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">HAWK-EYETEMS.</h2> +</div> +<hr class="tiny"> + +<p class="drop-cap">SOMEBODY told Billinger that stamps were not required +on notes, and Billinger, overjoyed, asked the +crowd to drink, and said he pitied old Gunnybags who had +been trying for six months to get the stamps on a note he +holds against Billinger. Billinger says he knew he would +get the law on the old gouge if he held on long enough.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">Pull</span> out, Bill!” shrieked an engineer’s son to one +of his playmates, a brakeman’s boy, who was in imminent +danger of getting smashed by his mother, who was +coming after him, “Git on the main line and give her +steam! Here comes the switch engine!” But before +the juvenile could get in motion, she had him by the ear, +and he was laid up with a hot box.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A North Hill</span> man refused to give his boy thirty-five +cents to go to the minstrels, because the entertainment +was demoralizing and vulgar in its nature. He then +bought a quarter’s worth of chewing tobacco, went home +and read the <i>Weekly Moral Guide and Guardian</i>, and +spit all over the front of the stove, and made the parlor +smell so much like a stale bar-room that the baby had +three whisky fits before ten o’clock.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A young</span> editor out in Floyd County, gushing over his +first, asks, “Did you ever watch a dear little baby waking +from its morning nap?” N-not exactly; but we have +watched a dear little baby’s fond pa gliding up and down +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[299]</span>the fireless room, trying to induce the dear little baby to +take a morning nap, at 2:15 A. M.—pressing offers but no +takers—which was about as much fun as it can be to see +the baby wake.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A man</span> out on Summer Street has eight daughters, and +when they cleaned house last Spring, the woman raked +9,724 quids of chewing gum down from the window casings, +chair backs, door panels and sofa backs, the accumulation +of the past Winter. And this does not include +the wads which the man, at various times sat down on +and carried away on the tails of his coat, for which no +accurate returns have been made.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Old</span> Middlerib came home one night and ordered a +light lunch before going to bed. “Just a mouthful of +tea and a bit of bread,” he explained. “Do you want +just plain bread?” asked Mrs. M., with reference to the +presence or absence of butter. And the old reprobate +said he would take one piece plain, and the other with a +looped overskirt, shirred down the gores with the same, +and held in place with knife pleatings of grape jelly. He +got the heel of the loaf.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Everybody</span> thought it was a match, and so did he, +and so did she. One evening at a croquet party she hit +her pet corn a whack with the mallet that sounded like +a torpedo, and he—he laughed. “We meet as strangers,” +she wrote on her cuff and showed it to him. “Think of +me as no more,” he whispered huskily, and when the +game was ended he rushed down to the Mississippi⁠<a id="FNanchor_B_2" href="#Footnote_B_2" class="fnanchor">[B]</a> and +drowned⁠<a id="FNanchor_C_3" href="#Footnote_C_3" class="fnanchor">[C]</a>.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_B_2" href="#FNanchor_B_2" class="label">[B]</a> Saloon.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_C_3" href="#FNanchor_C_3" class="label">[C]</a> Sorrow.</p></div> +</div> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">I wouldn’t</span> be such a Christian as you are, John,” +said his wife, as she stood in the doorway, dressed for +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[300]</span>church. “You could go with me very well, if you +wanted to.” “How can I?” he half sobbed. “There’s +the wood to be split, and the coal to be shoveled over to +the other side of the cellar, the baby to be dressed, and +no dishes washed for dinner yet.” “Ah, I didn’t think +of that,” she murmured thoughtfully, and, giving her +new cloak a fresh hitch aft, sailed out alone.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">One</span> night last Summer a tired, discouraged man out +on North Hill went home and flung himself down on a +lounge, and said “he wished he were dead, dead, dead.” +In two hours he was writhing in a premature and unseasonable +attack of cholera morbus, and howled, and +prayed, and sweat, and had four doctors in the house, +and drank a quart of medicine, and had mustard plasters +smeared all over him, and wept, and said he wasn’t half +tended to, and he believed they would like to see him +die.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">Are</span> the children safe?” asks the <i>Christian Union</i>. +Quite safe, we assure you. They are up in the garret, +playing hotel fire. Jimmie is the clerk, and is trying to +slide down the water pipe to the ground, Willie is a +guest, hanging to the window sill and waiting for the +flames to reach his hands before he tries to drop to the +shed roof, two stories below, and Tom is a heroic fireman, +and has tied his fishing line around the baby’s +body, and is letting it down to the ground. Oh, yes, the +children are all right: just finish your call and don’t fret +about the children.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">Rents</span>,” said Mr. Middlerib, with a sigh of not +unmixed satisfaction, “are coming down. Yesterday +morning I tore the back of my coat on the woodshed +door, last night I snagged the foundation of my trousers +on a nail in a store box, and this morning I fell down on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[301]</span>the frozen sidewalk and split the knee of the same trousers +clear across. Rents are certainly getting lower.” +“Yes,” responded Mrs. Middlerib, looking across toward +the busy figure at the sewing-machine, “and seamstresses +are getting hired.” Mr. Middlerib looked up at +his quiet spouse in vague astonishment, as if for explanation, +but she looked sublimely unconscious, and the good +man went off down town with his napkin tucked under +his chin, wondering all the way to the office if she meant +it or if it was only his interpretation.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">A merciful</span> man,” tenderly remarked a Ninth Street +man one bitter cold January morning, “is merciful to his +beast,” and he called the dog in out of the snow, gave +him his breakfast in a soup plate, and laid a piece of +carpet down behind the kitchen stove for him to snooze +on. Then the man went down town, and the neighbors +watched his wife shovel snow-paths to the woodshed, +cistern, stable, and front gate, and then do an hour’s +work cleaning off the sidewalk.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Who</span> does not love a faithful, honest dog, man’s faithful +friend? And yet who is there, stretching out in the +shade for a quiet afternoon nap, who has had man’s +faithful friend come panting up, and, in an excess of honest +affection, lay a great broad, hot tongue over one’s +cheek, from chin to eyebrow, that does not get up and +seize man’s faithful friend by the tail and one ear and +try to throw him across a prairie fifteen miles wide?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> New York <i>Herald</i> says: “Bake your ripe pear in +a tart, and eat it with brandy and cream.” We’ll do it. +Here, Alvaretto, bake us that ripe pear in a tart and +dress it with brandy and cream. What! the pear eaten? +Well then, the tart crust and the trimmings. The tart +gone! Is it possible? Then the brandy and cream. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[302]</span>Amazement! no cream? Ah, well then, we must not +neglect good advice. Bring what is left of the recipe.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A monkey</span> that can say “papa” and “mamma” and +“Brazil” is going to the Paris exposition. America can +send a donkey that can say, “Haw—yaas, dweadful baw; +somebody wing faw the pwopwietah.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">They</span> have just found the skin of another Dane nailed +to the oaken door of an old, old church in England. +The skin isn’t entire, only scraps of it remaining under +the broad flat heads of the nails. It was a pleasant way +the Danes had of destroying the beauty of their criminals—they +skinned them and then nailed the skin to a +church door. History does not tell us how the unfortunate +victim employed himself during the operation, but +it is quite likely that, having nothing else to do, he was +into some deviltry.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Old</span> Mr. Troph went into the parlor the other night at +the witching hour of 11.45 and found the room unlighted +and his daughter and a dear friend, one of the dual form +of garmenture variety, occupying the tete-a-tete in the +corner. “Evangeline,” the old man said sternly, “this +is scandalous.” “Yes, papa,” she answered sweetly, “it +is candleless because times are so hard and lights cost +so much that Ferdinand and I said we would try and +get along with the starlight.” And the old gentleman +turned about in speechless amazement and tried to walk +out of the room through a panel in the wall paper.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A woman</span> out on North Hill, being counted out the +other morning, after a debate on the question, “Who +shall arise and build the fire?” got up and split her husband’s +wooden leg into kindling wood, and broiled his +steak with it. It made him so mad that he got hold of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[303]</span>her false teeth and bit the dog with them. She cried +until she had a fit of hysterics, and then flipped out his +glass eye and climbed upon the bed post and waxed the +glaring eye to the ceiling with a quid of chewing gum. +Then he took her wisp of false hair and tied it to a stick, +and began whitewashing the kitchen with it. Then she +started off to obtain a divorce, but Judge Newman decided +that he couldn’t grant a divorce unless there were +two parties to the suit, and there was hardly enough left +of them to make one.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">You</span> don’t look at all well,” a venerable gobbler out +in a North Hill poultry yard remarked to a melancholy-looking +young rooster, a short time before Thanksgiving +day. “No,” was the reply, “I have reason to look +solemn: I expect to die necks tweak.” The gobbler +smiled grimly and pondered over the uncertainty of +poultric life as he slowly swallowed a two-inch bolt +head.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Middlerib</span> paused to take a final survey of the +table before she called the ladies out to tea. She started +as her eyes fell upon the plate of lemon tarts. There +were five where there had been nine. She sought her +only son and put him in the witness box. He objected +to her putting her own construction upon his answers, +and was subjected to the usual punishment for contumaciousness. +And the next “composition day” at school, +Master Middlerib amazed his teacher by reading, as the +title of his essay, “The Lost Tarts, and why They can +Never be Recovered.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Sweet</span>, gushing, artless girl! She came home just +before the Christmas holidays. She went away from +Burlington one September; went to England first; spent +the Winter in Italy; sauntered through Germany in the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[304]</span>Spring, came back to America and trifled away the Summer +at Saratoga, Long Branch and the White Mountains; +previous to this trip she had been away to school five +years, and when she jumped out of the palace car into +her father’s arms, she said, impulsively, “Oh, Paw, Paw, +deah, deah Paw, thay’s no place like home!” And Paw’s +face was a study as he replied, “Well, no; no; reckon +not; must be quite a novelty to ye.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> worst thing we have seen about Oliver Wendell +Holmes, and the only stain on an otherwise irreproachable +character, is that he is the inventor of that parlor +aggravation known as the hand stereoscope; a vexatious +contrivance for which the pictures are always too large +to be crammed into the springs or too small to stay in +them, of which the slide is always shoved off the end of +the stick in the vain efforts of the observer to find a +focus, and of which the glasses always make you see the +picture so double that it gives you the headache and +finally compels you to peep over the top in order to gain +the information necessary to make some intelligent remark +about the jumble you have been staring at.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A young</span> man out on North Hill bought a parrot some +months ago, and in anticipation of the fact that he was +going to be married and go to the Centennial, he secretly +taught the parrot to say, “Welcome, thrice welcome +home,” every time anybody opened the front door, thinking +what a delightful surprise it would be to his young +wife to be thus cheerfully welcomed home on their return. +But while they were on their tour, the nervous woman +who was left in charge of the house taught the parrot a +new remark, as a protection against burglars; and when +the young people came home on the night train and let +themselves in at the hall door with a latch key, they were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[305]</span>shocked and appalled by a terrific shout of “Thieves! +thieves! Police! police! Here Bull! here Bull! Scatter, +ye son of a thief, or I’ll tear your heart out!” Next +day the parrot died, and the young wife now says she +wouldn’t stay alone in that house, not for a divorce.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A Burlington</span> naturalist last Sunday, while investigating +the causes and effects of the poison of a wasp +sting, nobly determined to make of himself a martyr to +science, and accordingly handed his thumb to an impatient +insect he had caged in a bottle. The wasp entered +into the martyr business with a great deal of spirit, and +backed up to the thumb with an abruptness which took +the scientist by surprise. He was so deeply absorbed in +the study of remedies that he forgot to make any notes +of the other points in connection with stings, but his wife +wrote a paragraph in his note-book, for the benefit of +science, to the effect that the primary effect of a wasp +sting is abrupt, blasphemous and terrific profanity, followed +by an intense desire, fairly amounting to a mania, +for ammonia, camphor and raw brandy.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">One</span> day, just after King Solomon had written a column +of solid nonpareil wise and moral proverbs, he took +his eldest son by the elbow, led him down the back stairs +of the palace, through the back yard, past the woodshed, +out into the alley, backed him up behind Ahithophel’s +wood-pile, looked warily around to see that no one was +listening, and whispered into the young man’s ear, “My +son, a little office in a spread-eagle life insurance company +is better than a cart-load of preferred stock in the +Ophir mines.” And then the monarch threw his head +on one side, drew in his chin, shut one eye, and gazed at +his offspring in silence. Three years afterward, when +the Great Hebraic Consolidated Stormy Jordan Life +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[306]</span>Assurance Company, of which that intelligent young +prince was president, went into bankruptcy, the young +man was able to let his father, who was a little short at +the time, have 275,000 shekels for ninety days, on his +simple note of hand.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">They</span> were very pretty, and there was apparently five +or six years difference in their ages. As the train pulled +up at Bussey, the younger girl blushed, flattened her +nose nervously against the window, and drew back in +joyous smiles as a young man came dashing into the car, +shook hands tenderly and cordially, insisted on carrying +her valise, magazine, little paper bundle, and would +probably have carried herself had she permitted him. +The passengers smiled as she left the car, and the murmur +went rippling through the coach, “They’re engaged.” +The other girl sat looking nervously out of the window, +and once or twice gathered her parcels together as though +she would leave the car, yet seemed to be expecting some +one. At last he came. He bulged in at the door like a +house on fire, looked along the seats until his manly gaze +fell on her upturned, expectant face, roared, “Come on! +I’ve been waiting for you on the platform for fifteen +minutes!” grabbed her basket, and strode out of the +car, while she followed with a little valise, a band-box, a +paper bag full of lunch, a bird-cage, a glass jar of jelly, +and an extra shawl. And a crusty-looking old bachelor, +in the farther end of the car, croaked out, in unison with +the indignant looks of the passengers, “They’re married!”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mr.</span> and Mrs. Bilderback were walking slowly home +from church one Sunday, when they met a young lady of +singular beauty and sweetness of countenance, who was +quite lame. And Mrs. Bilderback turning to her husband, +said, “Did you ever notice what a sweet, uncomplaining +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[307]</span>look of resignation rests like a halo on the faces +of young girls who are so sadly afflicted as the lady who +just passed us?” And old Bilderback said that indeed +he had, and he begged his wife to observe him very +closely, and notice what a sweet, uncomplaining expression +of peaceful and holy resignation spread itself over +his face, like a halo, or like a lump of butter on a hot +buckwheat cake, at such times as his corns tried him +unusually bad. And she only remarked casually that +when they got home she would hang a halo around his +irreverent head that would make what little hair there +was left on it think the millennium was a million years +farther away than ever.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">They</span> had a rather odd race out at the old Acme ball +grounds yesterday,” Trotters remarked to Ponsonby when +they met yesterday morning. “Jones rode his little +calico pony around the block, and Brown rolled an +empty flour barrel the same distance, even start, for $10.” +“Jones beat him, of course?” said Ponsonby. “Brown +was a fool to make such a match.” “Don’t be too +sure,” rejoined Trotters, “when they reached the outcome, +the barrel head; blowed if it didn’t.” Ponsonby +stared, then slowly smiled, giggled, and finally +guffawed. “Good enough,” he said. “I’ll get that off +to Mrs. Ponsonby.” So when he went home he told her +all about it. “Well,” said she, “that’s just about as +much sense as I supposed that precious Brown of yours +has. I’m glad he lost his money.” “Go slow,” yelled +the delighted Ponsonby, who doesn’t often have a chance +to sell his wife, “go slow! By George, Samantha, Brown +beat!” And Mrs. Ponsonby stared and said he must +think she was as big a fool as Brown. “No,” said he, +hastily correcting himself, “no, that wasn’t just the way +of it, the barrel beat, that’s it! The barrel beat; Brown +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[308]</span>led, did, for a fact, by Jove.” And Mrs. Ponsonby +scornfully told him to go out to the woodshed and see if +he could find any sticks that would go into the kitchen +stove—she couldn’t. And Ponsonby confidentially told +the gentleman who saws his wood an inch and a half too +long for every stove in the house that you might as well +tell a joke to a sawbuck as to his wife, for she hadn’t as +much conception of genuine humor as a cow.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">One</span> bright May morning, when the building season +was at its busiest, a careless mason dropped a half brick +from the second story of a building out on Jefferson +Street, on which he was at work. Leaning over the wall +and glancing downward, he discovered a respectable citizen +with his silk hat scrunched over his eyes and ears, +rising from a recumbent posture. The mason, in tones +of some apprehension, asked: “Did that brick hit any +one down there?” The citizen, with great difficulty extricating +himself from the glove-fitting extinguisher, +replied, with considerable wrath: “Yes, sir, it did; it hit +me.” “That’s right,” exclaimed the mason, in tones of +undisguised admiration. “Noble man! I would rather +have wasted a thousand bricks than had you tell me a +lie about it.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> papers in this country are quite generally publishing +the following <i>mot</i> of Talleyrand’s, which is read with +the greatest enjoyment by all classes of newspaper +readers:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>It is said that the notorious M. De Manbreuil, whose name of Marquis +d’Orvault came so scandalously before the public a few years +past, proposed to have Napoleon assassinated, and that the Abbe de +Prade was in favor of the scheme, and discussed its execution with +Talleyrand, and that the following words passed:</p> + +<p>“Combien vous faut-il?”</p> + +<p>“Dix millions.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[309]</span>“Dix millions?” said Talleyrand, “mais ce n’est rein pour debarrasser +la France d’un el fileau.”</p> +</div> + +<p>This is pretty good, but it reminds us of a much better +one, though it may be somewhat old, which was +related to us by Rev. Jasper C. Romilly, formerly of this +city, about himself. Mr. Romilly, whose distinguishing +personal characteristic was an immense black beard, was +for some years a missionary at Ugobogo, in Farther India, +and on one occasion he dined with the Bugaboo of that +province. When the wine and walnuts were brought in +the Bugaboo said:</p> + +<p>“Marcharikai hoi-to-po ke-tee nomkidom?”</p> + +<p>“Jabbero pompety doodle de wonk klonk kobberee +jam,” replied Mr. Romilly.</p> + +<p>“Yowk?” exclaimed the potentate, “chickero boobery +hong dong choi-ke-ree yang ste’ boi.”</p> + +<p>This was, indeed, too good to keep.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Woman</span> is a natural traveler. It is a study to see her +start off on a trip by herself. She comes down to the +depot in an express wagon three hours before train time. +She insists on sitting on her trunk, out on the platform, +to keep it from being stolen. She picks up her reticule, +fan, parasol, lunch basket, small pot with a house plant +in it, shawl, paper bag of candy, bouquet (she never +travels without one), small tumbler and extra veil, and +chases hysterically after every switch engine that goes +by, under the impression that it is her train. Her voice +trembles as she presents herself at the restaurant and +tries to buy a ticket, and she knocks with the handle of +her parasol on the door of the old disused tool-house in +vain hopes that the baggage man will come out and +check her trunk. She asks every body in the depot and +on the platform when her train will start, and where it +will stand, and, looking straight at the great clock, asks: +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[310]</span>“What time is it now?” She sees, with terror, the +baggage man shy her trunk into a car where two men are +smoking, instead of locking it up by itself in a large +strong, brown car with “Bad order, shops,” chalked on +the side, which she has long ago determined to be the +baggage car as the only safe one in sight. Although the +first at the depot, she is the last to get her ticket; and +once on the cars, she sits, to the end of her journey, in +an agony of apprehension that she has got on the wrong +train and will be landed at some strange station, put in a +close carriage, drugged, and murdered, and to every last +male passenger who walks down the aisle she stands up +and presents her ticket, which she invariably carries in +her hand. She finally recognizes her waiting friends on +the platform, leaves the car in a burst of gratitude, and +the train is ten miles away before she remembers that +her reticule, fan, parasol, lunch basket, verbena, shawl, +candy, tumbler, veil and bouquet, are on the car seat where +she left them, or at the depot in Peoria, for the life of her +she can’t tell which.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">How</span> often a little careless action, a thoughtless word, +a restless gesture, brings a flood of thoughts surging into +the soul, that almost tear away the veil of mystery that +hangs between to-day and to-morrow, and give us +vague and hasty glimpses into the dark uncertain future. +When you see a man come out of a drug store, for instance, +with a “prescription carefully compounded,” in +his hand, and dash away at break-neck speed, and then +see the pharmacist come to the door carrying an uncorked +bottle, and smell at it earnestly with one nostril, gaze +anxiously down the street after the man, smell at it long +and intensely with the other nostril, stare wildly up the +street after the man, and then sniff at it once or twice +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[311]</span>with both nostrils, read the prescription over, and retire +into the medicine shop with a gloomy brow and sad +shakes of the head, how many things you begin to think +about then, as it might be.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">My</span> son,” said a pious father out on South Hill to his +hopeful son, “you did not saw any wood for the kitchen +stove yesterday, as I told you to, you left the back gate +open and let the cow get out, you cut off eighteen feet +from the clothes-line to make a lasso, you stoned Mr. +Robinson’s pet dog and lamed it, you put a hard-shell +turtle in the hired girl’s bed, you tied a strange dog to +Mr. Jacobson’s door-bell, you painted red and green +stripes on the legs of old Mrs. Polaby’s white pony, and +hung your sister’s bustle out in the front window. Now, +what am I—what can I do to you for such conduct?” +“Are all the counties heard from?” asked the candidate. +The father replied sternly, “No trifling, sir; no, I have +yet several reports to receive from others of the neighbors.” +“Then,” replied the boy, “you will not be justified +in proceeding to extreme measures until the official +count is in.” Shortly afterward the election was thrown +into the house, and before half the votes were canvassed, +it was evident, from the peculiar intonation of the +applause, that the boy was badly beaten.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Passing</span> by one of the city schools one day we listened +to the scholars singing, “Oh how I love my teacher +dear.” There was one boy, with a voice like a tornado, +who was so enthusiastic that he emphasized every other +word and roared, “Oh <i>how</i> I <i>love</i> my <i>teach</i>-er <i>dear</i>,” with +a vim that left no possible doubt of his affection. Ten +minutes afterward that boy had been stood up on the +floor for putting shoemaker’s wax on his teacher’s chair, +got three demerit marks for drawing a picture of her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[312]</span>with red chalk on the back of an atlas, been well shaken +for putting a bent pin in another boy’s chair, scolded for +whistling out loud, sentenced to stay after school for +drawing ink mustaches on his face and blacking the end +of another boy’s nose, and soundly whipped for slapping +three hundred and thirty-nine spit balls up against the +ceiling, and throwing one big one into a girl’s ear. You +can’t believe half a boy says when he sings.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">Who</span> dem, Cassius?” a visiting freedman from Keokuk +asked a friend the other day, as a Masonic lodge, in +funeral procession, passed by.</p> + +<p>“Dey’s de Free and Expected Masons.”</p> + +<p>“’Mazin’ what?”</p> + +<p>“Why, mason nuffin, jest on’y Masons.”</p> + +<p>“Sho! How long dey bin free?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, gory, long time. Spects ever since de mancipation +proclamation, anyhow. Some on ’em was free before +den.”</p> + +<p>“Dat so? Went off to Canada, mos’ likely?”</p> + +<p>“Spect so.”</p> + +<p>“Who’s done expectin’ of ’em?”</p> + +<p>“Nobody; jest expectin’ demselves. Dey’s on’y jest +Free and Expected Masons, dat’s all.”</p> + +<p>“Sho! Well, I’d jest like to know what dar is ’mazin’ +about ’em an’ I’d done be satisfied.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Oh</span>, the artless prattle of an innocent childhood! How +the sweet music of their hearts and voices calms the wild +yearnings of the sorrow-crowned years of maturity. At +a happy home in Burlington the other evening, where the +family was gathered around the tea-table entertaining +unexpected guests, the fond mother said to the youngest +darling, “Weedie, darling; be careful; you mustn’t spill +the berries on the table-cloth.” “’Taint a table-cloth,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[313]</span>promptly responded darling, “it’s a sheet.” And late at +night, when the company had gone away, and that sweet +child was standing with its head nearly where its feet +ought to be, catching with its tear-blinded eyes occasional +glimpses of a fleeting slipper that fluttered in the +air in eccentric gyrations, one could see how early in the +stormy years of this brief life, one may begin to suffer +for the truth.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> you see a young man sitting in a parlor, with +the ugliest six year old boy that ever frightened himself +in the mirror clambering over his knees, jerking his +white tie out of knot, mussing his white vest, kicking his +shins, feeling in all his pockets for nickles, bombarding +him from time to time with various bits of light furniture +and <i>bijouterie</i>, calling him names at the top of his fiendish +lungs and yelling incessantly for him to come out in the +yard and play, while the unresisting victim smiles all the +time like the cover of a comic almanac, you may safely +bet—although there isn’t a sign of a girl apparent in a +radius of 10,000 miles—you can bet your bottom dollar +that howling boy has a sister who is primping in a room +not twenty feet away, and that the young man doesn’t +come there just for the fun of playing with her brother.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was at the sociable. Young Mr. Sophthed, who +reads poetry oh, <i>so</i> divinely, and is oh, <i>so</i> nice, stepped +on her dress as she was hurrying across the room. +K-r-r-rt! R’p! R’p! how it tore and jerked, and how +Mr. Sophthed looked as though he would die. “Oh, +dear, no, Mr. Sophthed,” she sweetly said, smiling till +she looked like a seraph who had got down here by mistake, +“it’s of no consequence, I assure you, it doesn’t +make a particle of difference, at all.” Just twenty-five +minutes later, her husband, helping her into the street +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[314]</span>car, mussed her ruffle. “Goodness gracious me!” she +snapped out, “go way and let me alone; you’ll tear me +to pieces if you keep on.” And she flopped down on +the seat so hard that everything rattled, and the frightened +driver, ejaculating, “There goes that brake chain +again,” crawled under the car with his lantern to see +how badly it had given way.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Art</span> has its votaries even amid the untaught children +of the wilderness. A few days ago a savage Indian +painted his own face, went into an emigrant wagon that +was sketched, by himself, out on the prairie after dark, +and drew a woman from under the canvas and sculptor.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. J. C. McWhelter</span>, who lives out on Ninth Street, +worked three weeks building a rookery out of cracked +geodes, and threw the whole pile away in fifteen minutes +yesterday afternoon, bombarding a neighbor who said her +baby’s hair was red enough to heat its catnip tea on.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">An</span> enraptured Burlington lover, hearing his sweetheart +sigh dejectedly the other evening, rapturously administered +a quartette of kisses and exclaimed, “You’re +mine, now, in spite of fate!” “And why?” she asked. +“Because,” he said, “four of a kind beats ace high.” +But she believes to this day that he played a cold deck +on her.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">All</span> flesh is grass,” as the reaping machine said +when it chawed up the harvest hand.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A man</span> may carry a load of guilt concealed in his tortured +soul for years, and hide it with a veneering of hollow, +heartless, deceitful smiles, but it doesn’t take five +minutes for the thoughtless world to observe and understand +the one-shouldered gait of a man whose larboard +suspender button has parted.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[315]</span><span class="smcap">The</span> other day a public reader, while entertaining an +audience with a masterly rendition of an extract from +“Macbeth,” dropped his false teeth out, but he went +right on with the soliloquy, “Ig gish a daggag ash I see +befog me? Cug, leg me glug ghee!” And then the +audience got up and howled and threw all the chairs out +of the window and sent out for somebody to come in and +hold them while they hollered.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A South Hill</span> man complained to old Dibbs, the +other day, that his house was infested with chimney +swallows, but old Dibbs says he is ready to bet fifty dollars +that the man swallows twice as much as the chimney +does.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A young</span> native poet, who is writing a “song of olden +Rome,” asks us to give him a rhyme for Romulus. A +dozen, if he wants them:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="first"> “If o’er that wall you leap, oh dunce,</div> +<div class="indent">The lightning stroke would harm you less”</div> +<div class="verse">But Remus laughed and leaped; at once</div> +<div class="indent">His head was punched by Romulus.</div> +</div></div> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A fellow</span> never appreciates the tender beauty of a +sister’s love half so much as when he makes her get out +of the big rocking chair, and let him have the morning +paper, while she goes off and leans up against the end +of the bureau and feeds her starving intellect on the +household receipts at the back of Jayne’s family almanac. +A brother’s love is like pure gold. It’s dreadfully hard +to find, and when you find it, it’s very apt to be pyrites.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">Did</span> you never,” asked a transcendental young lady +just three weeks from Vassar, of the West Hill young +man, “Did you never feel a vague, unrestful yearning +after the beyond? a wild, strange, impulsive longing and +reaching out after the unattainable?” And the West +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[316]</span>Hill man said he often had, last Summer, at such times +as he was trying to scratch a square inch full of hives, +right between his shoulder blades, and just out of reach +of any thing.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A benevolent</span> clergyman recently helped a profane +Burlington inebriate out of the gutter, and gently rebuking +him reminded him that the “wages of sin is death.” +“I know ’t,” replied the erring one, “but I’ve worked so +much over time, and the shop is so far in arrears to me +that I’ll never get half that’s comin’ to me any how.” +And he went off to work right along on the same old job.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> tramp has his revenge on society after all. If +they refuse his request for a square meal at any house, +he lurks around the vicinity with threatening glances +until nightfall, when he skulks rapidly away with the +cheering, comforting knowledge that while he is snoring +all the hours of that long Summer night away under a +haystack, every being in that house will sit bolt upright +in bed all night, frightened by the wind, terrified by the +rustling of the leaves, scared into fits when even the dog +barks, and fairly bounced out of bed every time the clock +strikes, while a nightmare of burglarious tramps fills +every drowsy moment with awakening terrors. No wonder +that tramps always look happy and contented.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Old</span> Mr. Balbriggan is very much pleased with a gentleman +whom he has engaged to saw wood. “When he +piles the wood,” said old Balbriggan to his friend, “if one +stick projects beyond the others, he pounds it in with the +ax.” “He’s a slouch,” replied Bifelstone, “you should +see my wood sawyer. When he gets the wood all piled +he takes off the rough projecting ends with a hand saw.” +“He couldn’t pile wood for me,” broke in old Mr. Pilkinghorn, +“my sawyer piles the wood carefully, then goes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[317]</span>over the ends with a jack plane, sand-papers them down +and puts on a coat of varnish before he ever thinks of +asking for his pay.” And then they all went in after a +big drink before Throckmorton could tell how his wood +sawyer silver-plated all the ends of the wood and nailed +a handle on every stick to pick it up by. Because, you +see, Throckmorton is such a liar, and they all know it.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A West Hill</span> minister picked up a frozen wasp on +the sidewalk, and with a view to advancing the interests +of science, he carried it in the house and held it by the +tail while he warmed its ears over a lamp chimney. His +object was to see if wasps froze to death, or merely lay +dormant during the Winter. He is of the opinion that +they merely lie dormant, and the dormantest kind at +that, and when they revive, he says, the tail thaws out +first, for while this one’s head, right over the lamp, was +so stiff and cold it could not wink, its probe worked with +such inconceivable rapidity that the minister couldn’t +gasp fast enough to keep up with it. He threw the +vicious thing down the lamp chimney, and said he didn’t +want to have any more truck with a dormant wasp, at +which his wife burst into tears and asked how he, a minister +of the gospel, could use such language, right before +the children, too.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> a man accustoms himself to owning a dog, and +turning around at every corner to look up and down +street for him, and whistle him out of stairways, or yell +at him to stop his fooling with other dogs and come along, +or make dashes into a crowd of earnest and excited dogs +who are holding a caucus and have each other by the +ear, and especially his dog—that man is a slave to a +habit that he will never break. It will cling to him, we +believe, after he gets to heaven, for most men who love +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[318]</span>dogs are pretty sure of going to heaven. We once saw +an old settler standing at the Barrett House corner, peering +up and down street, and stooping down to look under +the hacks, and “wondering where he could be,” and +whistling and growing impatient, and scolding and calling, +“Hyuh, Turk! yuh! yuh! yuh!” until every dog in +Burlington was sitting around the Barrett House corner, +patiently pounding the snow with his tail and mentally +resolving to lay for Turk if he ever came. Presently a +young man came along and, greeting the anxious dog +hunter as his “Father,” asked what he was waiting there +for? The old settler said he had lost Turk somewhere +right around there, and couldn’t see hide nor hair of him, +and couldn’t imagine where he had gone to. “Turk!” +roared his dutiful son, “Turk! Suffering Moses! And +him dead eight years ago!” And he hustled the old +man away before he could begin to whistle up any more +ghosts.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> balmy breath of Spring is so entwined with the +fragrance of new onions that a man has to grip his nose +with a spring clothes-pin every time he stoops to pluck +a violet.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A gifted</span> contributor sends us a poem beginning +“Open the doors to the children.” You’d better, if you +don’t want all the paint kicked off the panels.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">There</span> is nothing that tends to destroy popular sympathy +for the working classes so much as the habit a +bricklayer has of dropping bits of mortar from the top of +a five-story wall into the eye of the wondering man who +stands under the lofty scaffolding and looks up.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A porcelain-lined</span> kettle in a berry-stricken neighborhood +is the nearest approach to perpetual motion that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[319]</span>has yet been realized. Its incessant motion is only +rivaled by the slow, steady growth of the sugar bill.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">One</span> of the discoveries made by the latest arctic +explorers is that the length of the polar night is one +hundred and forty-two days. What a heavenly place +that would be in which to tell a man with a bill to call +around day after to-morrow and get his money.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A fashion</span> journal says “white velvet dresses give a +roundness to the figure.” They give an awful lankness +to the figures on a hundred dollar bill.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>Multum in parvo</i>: Iowa tramp, to lady of the house: +“Please, missus, won’t you give me something to drink? +I’m so hungry I don’t know where I’ll stay to-night.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">An</span> eminent New York jurist, who has retired from the +bench, always shakes hands with his friends by turning +around and passing his right hand behind his back. It +is supposed the peculiar habit was contracted during his +active professional life.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Cards</span> of invitation in Utah, issued by a young lady +and her mother, always present the compliments of +“Miss Smith and the Mrs. Smiths.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">We</span> are told by a Russian traveler that the summit of +Mt. Hood is a single sharp peak of lava. White or +Balaclava?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A scientific</span> gentleman sends us an elaborate treatise +on “the healthiness of lemons.” They may be dreadfully +healthy, but they are terribly soured in their dispositions.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A rising</span> young tenor of Burlington has a neck eight +inches long, and it gives him an immense power over his +voice; enables him to throat a long ways. (Tra, la, la!)</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[320]</span><span class="smcap">The</span> whale is the sulkiest of all fishes. He is the +worst pouter in the business.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">About</span> the oldest little game of draw we know of was +played when Joshua razed Jericho, and the fellows of the +city wished they hadn’t stayed in.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Your</span> landlord is probably the finest example of filial +affection and duty you ever met. He is unremitting in +his attention to and care of his pay rents.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“<span class="smcap">Was</span> it her brother?” is the title of a new novel. We +think not. It is our impression that the large gentlemen +in a plaid coat, who was kicking him down stairs and +calling for the dog, was her brother.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">George Washington’s</span> strongest hold upon the American +people is the fact that he never wore a box coat and +a plug hat.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">History</span> says, “Cæsar had his Brutus.” But somehow +or other we always had the impression that Brutus +rather had Cæsar.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">By</span> some wicked and unpardonable error, the case of +the photographs of editors on exhibition at the Centennial +got misplaced, and was exhibited in a frame labeled +“Native woods of the United States.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Nature’s</span> effort to maintain equilibrium is never +better set forth than in the instinctive struggles of a man +with one suspender to carry both shoulders even.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">On</span> account of the Turco-Russian war and the failure +of the American cabbage crop last year, nearly all the +genuine imported Turkish tobacco used in this country +this Summer will have to be made out of plaintain weed.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> day after Christmas, father and mother no longer +come sneaking in at the back door with mysterious looking +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[321]</span>bundles. No, indeedy. Mother is gliding around +with the expression of a Christian martyr with the toothache, +because she didn’t get what she expected, and +father is sitting around, holding his breath till the bills +come in.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">You</span> can utilize your cake of maple sugar, if you find +there is too much sand in it to make molasses of, by putting +it in a neat frame of card-board, or some kind of +fancy work, in bright colors, and hanging it up against +the wall to light matches on. It never wears out.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Flies</span> are made for some good and useful purpose after +all. If it wasn’t for the busy flies, men with their never +dying souls to save and lots of work to do, would lie +down after dinner and sleep till six o’clock every day.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A Nashville</span> bank robber burrowed under a street for +five days, and at length came up in the coal vault of a +beer saloon, three doors away from the bank, and bit +himself in eleven places with the most uncompromising +dog he ever tried to conciliate. The next time he +attempts any mining operations he will take a practical +engineer along.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was intensely hot in Salt Lake City last Summer, +and one night about 1,820 linear feet of prickly heat +broke out on the infant backs in Brigham Young’s nursery. +The eruption hasn’t been equaled since Mt. Vesuvius +cooled off.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> is in the merry month of Spring that a tree peddler +comes around and talks you to death, and sells you a +plum tree that bears fruit so bitter that it poisons every +curculio that tastes it, and some cherry trees that send +up one hundred and fifty sprouts to the square inch and +will lift the house off its foundations in two years’ +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[322]</span>growth, and some apple trees that neither sprout, blossom, +nor bear fruit, and some blackberry bushes that +spread all over a ten-acre lot the first season, and some +gooseberry bushes that have thorns on a foot long, and +never have anything else, and some peach trees that +break out in bloom from the ground to the tip of the topmost +branch five days after they are put in the ground +and die as dead as a flint the sixth day, and a climbing +rose tree that turns out to be wild ivy and poisons every +soul about the house before the Summer is over.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> the late Governor of the Persian province of +Fars retired from office, the Government officials put him +in the stocks and pounded the soles of his feet until he +disgorged $300,000 of crooked salary. If the Government +of the United States would adopt that system, five +hundred million pairs of crutches would carry the population +of the republic to and from its daily labor. And +if we knew where we could get hold of a man who would +give down like the late worthy Governor of Fars, we +would gather him by the ankles, stand him on his head, +and welt the soles of his feet until his backbone went +through the top of his head and stuck nine inches in the +ground.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">There</span> is a junior in the Burlington high school who, +when his father cuffs his scholastic ears for leaving the +wheelbarrow standing athwart the front gate, can go out +to the woodshed and swear in French, grumble in German, +threaten to run away and be a pirate in good classic +Greek, and blubber in honest United States.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">One</span> day last Winter a young lady broke through the +ice of a deep skating pond near Toronto, and a young +man rescued her at the risk of his own life. As the half +drowned girl was recovering consciousness, her agonized +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[323]</span>father arrived on the spot. Taking one of her cold, white +hands in one of his own, he reached out the other for the +hand of her rescuer, but the young man, realizing his +danger, with one frightened glance broke for the woods, +and was soon lost to view. He has not been heard of +since, and it is supposed that he is traveling in the +United States under the false and hollow name of Smith.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">We</span> haven’t given the subject enough study to speak +very confidently upon it, but we rather believe, when +the end of the world comes, and the last trump calls all +mankind together, that the man who died with rheumatism +will lie still a long time, and will feel the small of +his back, and rub his knees slowly and thoughtfully a +great many times, before he finally groans and makes up +his mind to get up. And, as like as not, by the time he +gets on his feet everybody else will be gone.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Man</span>—What power of nature has he not subdued? +What climate has he not trodden under foot? What +arctic rigor and tropical heat, what polar snows and +equatorial sunstrokes has he not laughed to scorn? He +has tamed the elements, he has made the ocean his highway, +he has made fire and water, earth and air, his servants, +and bent beneath his all-subduing yoke even the +wild lightnings to be his messenger. And yet he can not, +arching himself upon the back of his head and on his heels, +scoop with his eager palm, cracker crumbs from the irritating +sheet with a sufficient degree of success to insure +himself a good night’s sleep. He can not, he can not—oh, +might of the giant, it kaint be did!</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A woman</span> will take the smallest drawer in a bureau +for her own private use, and will pack away in it bright +bits of boxes, of all shades and sizes, dainty fragments +of ribbon, and scraps of lace, foamy ruffles, velvet things +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[324]</span>for the neck, bundles of old love-letters, pieces of jewelry, +handkerchiefs, fans, things that no man knows the +name of, all sorts of fresh-looking, bright little traps that +you couldn’t catalogue in a column, and any hour of the +day or night she can go to that drawer and pick up any +article she wants without disturbing any thing else. +Whereas a man, having the biggest, deepest and widest +drawer assigned to him, will chuck into it three socks, a +collar-box, an old necktie, two handkerchiefs, a pipe and +a pair of suspenders, and to save his soul he can’t shut +that drawer without leaving more ends of things sticking +out than there are things in it, and it always looks as +though it had been packed with a hydraulic press.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">One</span> day a young man of respectable appearance +attracted considerable attention on Third Street, while +crossing over to the Barrett House. He stopped in the +middle of the street and yelled, and danced up and down +on one leg, while he held the other out and kicked, like +the can-can lady on the bulletin boards. The bystanders +thought he was crazy, and threw stones and mud at him, +and knocked him down and choked him, and held him +still, while he never ceased to shriek, “Snake up my +leg! Snake up my leg!” Then they reached up and +pulled a small roll of bills out of his trousers leg, and +let him up, when he raised his hands to heaven and +swore he would never carry money in a hip pocket again, +hole or no hole.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was on a bright April morning that Mr. Alanson +Bodley, who lives out on Summer Street, stepped out of +the house in a tender frame of mind, singing softly to +himself, “Oh had I the wings of a dove, I’d fly, Away +from——” Just then the hired girl threw the bed-room +carpet out of the window, and as its dusty folds enveloped +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[325]</span>Mr. Bodley, and threw his struggling form down +stairs, he was heard to exclaim in muffled tones, “If I +get out of this, if I don’t cut the raw heart out of the +bloody-minded assassin that slung that carpet, strike me +dead!” Thus, too often, the tenderer influences that +bring into life and being our higher and noble emotions +and transcendental longings, are warped and distorted +by the stern realities of life, like a wet boot behind the +kitchen stove.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">They</span> had the awfulest time up at Jerome Cavendish’s +house, on West Hill, one evening, and Mrs. Cavendish +went into hysterics, and Miss Cavendish fainted, and +young George Cavendish grabbed his hat and ran out +of the house, and old Cavendish raved and ramped +around like a crazy man, all just because they had +waffles for tea, and Miss Cavendish found a—“oh! <i>ow! +ow!!</i> <span class="allsmcap">OO-OO-OO!!! EE-E-E-E!!!</span>” hard-baked beetle in a +waffle. Oh, it was terrible! It was awful! It was too +awful! Too awful! Two waffle!</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">One</span> day last Spring a sweet-faced woman, with a +smile like an angel and a voice softer and sweeter than +the sound of flutes upon the water, was walking up Fifth +Street. She was walking very slowly, enjoying the cool, +soft air, and the delicious shade of those maple trees +just below Division Street. Her languid motions were +the perfection of grace, and she was the admiration of +every pair of eyes on the street, when suddenly she +threw her parasol over the steeple of the church, +screamed till she rattled the windows in the parsonage, +jumped up as high as the fence three times, and whooped +and shrieked, and wailed, and howled, and kicked until +everybody thought she had suddenly become insane. +But when they ran up and caught hold of her and poured +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[326]</span>water on her head and $15 bonnet, and shook her until +she quit screaming and began to talk, they found that +one of those green worms, about an inch long, had +dropped from the maple leaves and slid down her back. +And they didn’t wonder that she yelled and made a fuss +about it.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Some</span> years ago a public-spirited citizen of Burlington +died, and left, by his will, $175,000 to found an orphan +asylum; and his sons and daughters, and nieces and +nephews, and cousins, and brothers and sisters, and all +his wife’s relations, contested the will, and fought and +wrangled and called each other names, and told hard +stories about each other, and proved up wonderful +claims, and hired lawyers by the acre, and kept the fight +up manfully until quite lately, when it transpired that the +man only had $35 in the whole wide world when he died, +and owed that to his grocer, and was in debt about $300 +beside, and that the coffin he was buried in hadn’t been +paid for yet. And it was sad to see those claimants +standing around the streets with gripsacks in their +hands trying to get out of town, with a lawyer and a +capias lurking behind every corner.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A pair</span> of deaf mutes were married in Monroe, Georgia, +three years ago, and now it is more fun than a circus +to see them quarrel and make faces at each other with +their fingers.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">It is</span> a remarkable coincidence, and shows the beneficent +watchcare which a kind Providence exercises over +mankind, that the advertisements of new and infallible +cholera mixtures should appear in the city papers just +about the time watermelons come in.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> a man, coming down to breakfast half awake, +with his uncertain feet shod in a pair of slip-shod slippers, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">[327]</span>steps on a spool on the first step, he is generally +wide-awake enough by the time he tries to break the +last step to have a very vivid and not entirely incorrect +idea of the power and indestructible force generated by +the Keely motor. But that isn’t what he talks about +when he goes into the breakfast room and the folks ask +him what made such a noise in the hall?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">At</span> a charity ball in New York one lady wore diamonds +valued at $85,000, and another belle wore a $23,000 +dress, and so all the way down to the poor people, whose +clothes didn’t cost more than $1,800. The net proceeds +of the ball, which were to be devoted to charitable purposes, +amounted to $11.25, which the door-keeper and +ticket-seller spent for hot drinks.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Two</span> young ladies of Tama County have finished a +quilt containing 10,696 pieces, and the local paper +proudly asks if anybody in Iowa can beat that? We +haven’t anything in Burlington like that in the quilt line, +but Caspar Cruger, up on Eighth Street, fell down the +plank walk steps leading down to Valley Street, one +morning, and ran 10,697 pine slivers into his back and +legs, and a Tama man than he was when he got up +you never saw.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Another</span> “wild boy” has made his startling and +erratic appearance in Texas, but since the fact has become +generally known that the first time a stranger takes +a drink of Texas whisky he goes out on the prairie and +looks for a clean place to have a fit, public confidence in +Texas “wild boys” has been sadly shaken.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Massachusetts papers are discussing the question, +“May Cousins Marry?” We should hope so. We +don’t see why a cousin hasn’t as good a right to marry +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_328">[328]</span>as a brother or an uncle or a son or sister. They all get +used to cousin’ after they marry, anyhow.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Abdel Moulk Kahn</span>, the eldest son of the Emir of +Bokhara, has made a pilgrimage to Mecca, in accordance +with the Mohammedan custom. In this country it is +customary for the Moulk Kahns to Mecca pilgrimage to +the nearest river just before milking time.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">A Burlington</span> man, who is a monomaniac on the +subject of roller skates, and who spent ninety-two days in +the rink during the past season, and got more falls than +he has hairs on his head, and got himself stuck so full +of slivers that he wears through his clothes like a nutmeg +grater, calls himself a “hard rinker,” and consequently +he is haunted by traveling agents of temperance +societies.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">John Thompson</span>, of Muscatine, ran away from home +with a circus three years ago, and now he is posted on +the bill boards of his native town as “Giovanni Tiompeonatti, +the Inimitable and Unapproachable Grand +Double Flying Trapeze and Philo Protean Prestiditateurean +Athleto-Acrobat.” Oh, why should the spirit of +mortal be proud?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">Steel</span> ropes are being introduced into the British navy +in place of the clumsy hemp hawsers. They had better +enlist a few good government contractors from America. +They’ll steal ropes, swabs, tar buckets, marlin-spikes, +capstan bars, or anything else that isn’t nailed down and +under guard.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> French know how to cook an egg three hundred +and sixty-five different ways, and yet, if it is a little +bilious to begin with, the strongest combination of all +these ways won’t make a very eggy egg of it.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="transnote"> +<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> + +<p>Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.</p> + +<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p> + +<p>Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.</p> +</div></div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78913 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78913-h/images/contents.jpg b/78913-h/images/contents.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ae5a815 --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/contents.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/cover.jpg b/78913-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9c918d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/coversmall.jpg b/78913-h/images/coversmall.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c27129 --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/coversmall.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/dedication_page_bottom.jpg b/78913-h/images/dedication_page_bottom.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ffc0eb7 --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/dedication_page_bottom.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/dedication_page_top.jpg b/78913-h/images/dedication_page_top.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2ca475e --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/dedication_page_top.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/frontispiece.jpg b/78913-h/images/frontispiece.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..475d29b --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/frontispiece.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/i_058a.jpg b/78913-h/images/i_058a.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b5dba8c --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/i_058a.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/i_090a.jpg b/78913-h/images/i_090a.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ff21a6e --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/i_090a.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/i_094a.jpg b/78913-h/images/i_094a.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a4f3f52 --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/i_094a.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/i_108a.jpg b/78913-h/images/i_108a.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7d6a864 --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/i_108a.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/i_128a.jpg b/78913-h/images/i_128a.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3e2be7f --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/i_128a.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/i_132a.jpg b/78913-h/images/i_132a.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f9a45f4 --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/i_132a.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/i_146a.jpg b/78913-h/images/i_146a.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c696cbb --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/i_146a.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/i_172a.jpg b/78913-h/images/i_172a.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5afd081 --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/i_172a.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/i_180a.jpg b/78913-h/images/i_180a.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..471e076 --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/i_180a.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/i_250a.jpg b/78913-h/images/i_250a.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ac0adc2 --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/i_250a.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/i_274a.jpg b/78913-h/images/i_274a.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ef00582 --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/i_274a.jpg diff --git a/78913-h/images/titlepage.jpg b/78913-h/images/titlepage.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0225db5 --- /dev/null +++ b/78913-h/images/titlepage.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d3a4d57 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1 @@ +[Project Gutenberg](https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for eBook [#78913](https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78913) |
