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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 |
| commit | c449921141a58cf140b7693494eac511479ef4bd (patch) | |
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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%; + margin-right: 7.5%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} + +.ph1 {text-align: center; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;} + +div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; page-break-after: always;} +div.titlepage p {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;} + +.xlarge {font-size: 150%;} +.large {font-size: 125%;} +.small {font-size: 60%;} +.tiny {font-size: 40%;} + +.caption {font-weight: bold; text-align: center;} + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} + +.x-ebookmaker .hide {display: none; visibility: hidden;} + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +.footnote {margin-left: 4%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 75%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + 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 |
