humorous hits and how to hold an audience humorous hits and how to hold an audience a collection of short selections, stories and sketches for all occasions by grenville kleiser _author of "how to speak in public"_ _thirteenth edition_ [illustration] funk & wagnalls company new york and london copyright by funk & wagnalls company _printed in the united states of america_ published march, introductory in preparing this volume the author has been guided by his own platform experience extending over twelve years. during that time he has given hundreds of public recitals before audiences of almost every description, and in all parts of the country. it may not be considered presumptuous, therefore, for him to offer some practical suggestions on the art of entertaining and holding an audience, and to indicate certain selections which he has found have in themselves the elements of success. the "encore fiend," as he is sometimes called, is so ubiquitous and insistent that no speaker or reader can afford to ignore him, and, indeed, must prepare for him in advance. to find material that will satisfy him in one or in a dozen of the ordinary books of selections is an almost impossible task. it is only too obvious that many compilations of the kind are put together by persons who have had little or no practical platform experience. in an attempt to remedy this defect this volume has been prepared. it is believed that the book will be valuable not only to the amateur and the professional reader, speaker, elocutionist, and entertainer, but also to the after-dinner and impromptu speaker, the politician who wants to make a "hit," the business man who wishes to tell a good story and tell it effectively, the school-teacher in arranging her "friday afternoon" programs, as well as for reading aloud in the family circle, and for many other occasions. providing, as this work does, helpful hints on how to hold an audience, it is hoped that the additional suggestions offered regarding the use of the voice and its modulation, the art of pausing, the development of feeling and energy, the use of gesture and action, the cultivation of the imagination, the committing of selections to memory, and the standing before an audience, while not as elaborate and detailed as found in a regular manual of elocution, will be of practical benefit to those who can not conveniently command the services of a personal instructor. the author has been greatly assisted in this undertaking not only by the kind permission of publishers and authors to use their copyrighted work, but also by the hearty cooperation of many distinguished platform speakers and readers who have generously contributed successful selections not hitherto published. the author gratefully acknowledges the special permission granted him by the publishers to print the following copyright selections: "keep a-goin'!" the bobbs-merrill company, "a modern romance," the publishers of _the smart set_; "the fool's prayer," houghton, mifflin & company; "mammy's li'l boy," and "'späcially jim," the century company; "counting one hundred," the lothrop, lee & shepard company; "at five o'clock tea," the publishers of _lippincott's magazine_. grenville kleiser. _new york city, february, ._ contents page introductory v part i--how to hold an audience the voice the breath modulation pausing feeling and energy gesture and action impersonation articulation and pronunciation imagination how to memorize a selection before the audience part ii--humorous hits the train-misser _james whitcomb riley_ the elocutionist's curfew _w. d. nesbit_ melpomenus jones _stephen leacock_ her fifteen minutes _tom masson_ the foxes' tails _anonymous_ the dead kitten " the weather fiend " the race question _paul laurence dunbar_ when the woodbine turns red _anonymous_ cupid's casuistry _w. j. lampton_ when mah lady yawns _charles t. grilley_ watchin' the sparkin' _fred emerson brooks_ the way of a woman _byron w. king_ the yacht club speech _anonymous_ mammy's li'l' boy _h. s. edwards_ corydon _thomas bailey aldrich_ gib him one ub mine _daniel webster davis_ a lesson with the fan _anonymous_ the undertow _carrie blake morgan_ marketing _anonymous_ a spring idyl on "grass" _nixon waterman_ introducin' the speecher _edwin l. barker_ counting one hundred _james m. bailey_ they never quarreled _anonymous_ song of the "l" _grenville kleiser_ the village oracle _j. l. harbour_ if i can be by her _benjamin franklin king_ mccarthy and mcmanus _anonymous_ and she cried _minna irving_ dot leedle boy _james whitcomb riley_ mr. dooley on the grip _finlay peter dunne_ a rainy day episode _anonymous_ i knew he would come if i waited _h. g. williamson_ love's moods and senses _anonymous_ a nocturnal sketch _thomas hood_ katie's answer _anonymous_ "'spÄcially jim" " agnes, i love thee! " the gorilla " banging a sensational novelist " hopkins' last moments " the fairies' tea " counting eggs _anonymous_ the oatmobile " almost beyond endurance _james whitcomb riley_ proof positive _anonymous_ the irish philosopher " belagcholly " a pantomime speech " the original lamb " when pa was a boy _s. e. kiser_ the freckled-faced girl _anonymous_ willie _max ehrmann_ amateur night _anonymous_ bounding the united states _john fiske_ der dog und der lobster _anonymous_ he laughed last " norah murphy and the spirits _henry hatton_ opie read _wallace bruce amsbary_ the village choir _anonymous_ billy of nebraska _j. w. bengough_ dot lambs vot mary haf got _anonymous_ georga washingdone " da 'mericana girl _t. a. daly_ becky miller _anonymous_ pat and the mayor " the wind and the moon _george macdonald_ total annihilation _anonymous_ ups and downs of married life " the crooked mouth family " "imph-m" " the usual way " nothing suited him " a litte feller " robin tamson's smiddy _alexander rodger_ a big mistake _anonymous_ lord dundreary's letter " slang phrases " the merchant and the book agent " the coon's lullaby " parody on barbara frietchie " before and after _charles t. grilley_ when greek meets greek _anonymous_ mr. potts' story _max adeler_ at five o'clock tea _morris wade_ keep a-goin'! _frank l. stanton_ a lover's quarrel _cynthia coles_ casey at the bat _phineas thayer_ familiar lines _anonymous_ a friendly game of checkers " modern romance _henry m. blossom, jr._ lullaby _paul laurence dunbar_ the reason why _mary e. bradley_ how a bachelor sews on a button _anonymous_ christopher columbus " the fly " the yarn of the "nancy bell" _w. s. gilbert_ i tol' yer so _john l. heaton_ "you git up!" _joe kerr_ presentation of the trumpet _anonymous_ don't use big words " der mule shtood on der steamboad deck " the new school reader " the poor was mad _charles battell loomis_ lides to bary jade _anonymous_ "charlie must not ring to-night" _anonymous_ a short encore " my double, and how he undid me _edward everett hale_ romance of a hammock _anonymous_ finnigin to flannigan _s. w. gillinan_ an introduction _mark twain_ the harp of a thousand strings _joshua s. morris_ the difficulty of riming _anonymous_ so was i _joseph bert smiley_ the enchanted shirt _john hay_ deb oak und der vine _charles follen adams_ the ship of faith _anonymous_ he wanted to know " an opportunity " gape-seed " lariat bill " the candidate _bill nye_ one afternoon _anonymous_ not in it " a twilight idyl _robert j. burdette_ lavery's hens _anonymous_ lisp " they met by chance " the bridegroom's toast " rehearsing for private theatricals _stanley huntley_ the v-a-s-e _james jeffrey roche_ papa and the boy _j. l. harbour_ the obstructive hat in the pit _f. anstey_ hullo _s. w. foss_ the dutchman's telephone _anonymous_ doctor marigold _charles dickens_ the ruling passion _william h. siviter_ the dutchman's serenade _anonymous_ widow malone _charles lever_ his leg shot off _anonymous_ the stuttering umpire _the khan_ the man who will make a speech _anonymous_ carlotta mia _t. a. daly_ the vassar girl _wallace irwin_ a short sermon _anonymous_ a lancashire dialectic sketch " his blackstonian circumlocution " katrina likes me poody vell " at the restaurant " a-feared of a gal " leaving out the joke " the cyclopeedy _eugene field_ echo _john g. saxe_ our railroads _anonymous_ wakin' the young 'uns _john c. boss_ pat's reason _anonymous_ quit your foolin' " she would be a mason _james l. laughton_ henry the fifth's wooing _shakespeare_ scene from "the rivals" _richard brinsley sheridan_ scenes from "rip van winkle" _as recited by burbank_ part iii--serious hits if we had the time _richard burton_ the fool's prayer _edward rowland sill_ the eve of waterloo _byron_ the wreck of the julie plante _w. h. drummond_ father's way _eugene field_ i am content _carmen sylva translation_ the eagle's song _richard mansfield_ break, break, break _alfred, lord tennyson_ virginius _macaulay_ the women of mumbles head _clement scott_ william tell and his boy _william baine_ lasca _f. desprez_ the volunteer organist _s. w. foss_ life compared to a game of cards _anonymous_ old daddy turner " the tramp " the dandy fifth _f. h. gassaway_ on lincoln _walt whitman_ the little stowaway _anonymous_ saint crispian's day _shakespeare_ the c'rrect card _george r. sims_ the engineer's story _rosa h. thorpe_ the face upon the floor _h. antoine d'arcy_ the funeral of the flowers _t. de witt talmage_ cato's soliloquy on immortality _joseph addison_ opportunity _john j. ingalls_ opportunity's reply _walter malone_ the earl-king _johann wolfgang von goethe_ carcassonne _m. e. w. sherwood_ the musicians _anonymous_ on the rappahannock " como _joaquin miller_ aux italiens _owen meredith_ part i how to hold an audience how to hold an audience to hold the interest of an audience and to successfully entertain it--whether from public platform, in fraternal organization, by after-dinner speech, or in the home circle--is a worthy accomplishment. moreover, the memorizing of selections and rendering them before an audience is one of the best preparations for the larger and more important work of public speaking. many of our most successful after-dinner speakers depend almost entirely upon their ability to tell a good story. the art of reciting and story-telling has become so popular in recent years that a wide-spread demand has arisen for books of selections and suggestions for rendering them. material suitable for encores has been particularly difficult to find. it is thought, therefore, that the present volume, containing as it does a great variety of short numbers, will meet with approval. there is, perhaps, no talent that is more entertaining and more instructive than that of reciting aloud specimens of prose and poetry, both humorous and serious, from our best writers. channing says: "is there not an amusement, having an affinity with the drama, which might be usefully introduced among us? i mean, recitation. "a work of genius, recited by a man of fine taste, enthusiasm, and powers of elocution, is a very pure and high gratification. "were this art cultivated and encouraged, great numbers, now insensible to the most beautiful compositions, might be waked up to their excellence and power. "it is not easy to conceive of a more effectual way of spreading a refined taste through a community. the drama undoubtedly appeals more strongly to the passions than recitation; but the latter brings out the meaning of the author more. shakespeare, worthily recited, would be better understood than on the stage. "recitation, sufficiently varied, so as to include pieces of chaste wit, as well as of pathos, beauty, and sublimity, is adapted to our present intellectual progress." to recite well, and to be able to hold an audience, one should be trained in the proper use of the voice and body in expression. this requires painstaking study and preparation. it is a mistake to suppose that much can be safely left to impulse and the inspiration of the occasion. with all great artists everything is premeditated, studied, and rehearsed beforehand. salvini, the great italian tragedian, said to the pupils in his art: "above all, study,--_study_,--study. all the genius in the world will not help you along with any art, unless you become a hard student. it has taken me years to master a single part." the voice the voice can be rapidly and even wonderfully developed by practising for a few minutes daily exercises prescribed in any good manual of elocution.[ ] learn to speak in the natural voice. if it is high-pitched, nasal, thin, or unmusical, these defects can be overcome by patient and judicious practise. do not assume an artificial voice, except in impersonation. remember that intelligent audiences demand intelligent expression, and will not tolerate the ranting, bombast, and unnatural style of declamation of former days. many people speak with half-shut teeth and mouth. open the mouth and throat freely; liberate all the muscles around the vocal apparatus. aim to speak with ease, and endeavor to improve the voice in depth, purity, roundness, and flexibility. daily conversation offers the best opportunity for this practise. a writer recently said: "only a very, very few of us americans speak english as the english do. we have our own 'accent,' as it is called. we are a nervous, eager, strident people. we know it, tho we do not relish having foreigners tell us about it. we speak not mellowly, not with lax tongues and palates, but sharply, shrilly, with hardened mouth and with tones forced back upon the palate. we strangulate two-thirds of our vowels and swallow half the other third. pure, round, sonorous tones are almost never heard in our daily speech." speak from the abdomen. all the effort, all the motive power, should come from the waist and abdominal muscles. these are made to stand the strain that is so often incorrectly put upon the muscles of the throat. aim at a forward tone; that is, send your voice out to some distant object, imaginary or otherwise, without unduly elevating the pitch. the voice should strike against the hard palate, the hard bony arch just above the upper teeth. most of the practising should be done on the low pitches. if there is any serious physical defect of the throat or nose, consult a reliable physician. do not overtax the voice. three periods of ten minutes each are better than an hour's practise at one time. stop at the first sign of weariness. do not practise within an hour after eating. avoid the habitual use of lozenges. there is nothing better for the throat than a gargle of salt and water, used night and morning. dash cold water on the outside of the throat and rub it vigorously with a coarse towel. [footnote : see "how to speak in public." a complete manual of elocution, by grenville kleiser. published by funk & wagnalls company. price, $ . net.] the breath the proper management of the breath is an important part of good speaking. some teachers say the air should be inhaled on all occasions exclusively through the nose. this is practically impossible while in the act of speaking. the aim should be to speak on full lungs as much as possible; therefore a breath must be taken at every opportunity. this is done during the pauses, but often the time is so short that the speaker will find it necessary to use both mouth and nose to get a full supply of air. the breathing should be inaudible. practise deep breathing until it becomes an unconscious habit. _in taking in the breath the abdomen and chest both expand, and in giving out the breath the abdomen and chest both contract._ by this method of respiration the abdomen is used as a kind of "bellows," and the strain is taken entirely off the throat. the breathing should be done without noticeable effort and without raising the shoulders. whenever possible the breathing should be long and deep. while speaking, endeavor to hold back in the lungs, or reservoir, the supply of air, "feeding" it very gradually to the vocal cords in just the quantity required for a given tone. reciting aloud, when properly done, is a healthful exercise, and the voice should grow and improve through use; but to speak on half-filled lungs, or from the throat, is distressing and often injurious. keep your shoulders well thrown back, head erect, chin level, arms loosely at the sides, and in walking throw the leg out from the hip with easy, confident movement. the weight of the body should be on the ball of the foot, altho the whole foot touches the floor. the breathing should be deep, smooth, and deliberate. when the breath is not being used in speech, breathe exclusively through the nose. this is particularly desirable during the hours of sleep. as someone has said, if you awake at night and find your mouth open, get up and shut it. a well-known english authority on elocution says that as a golden rule for the preservation of the health, he considers the habit of breathing through the nose invaluable if not imperative. air, which is the breath of life, has always floating in it also the seeds of death. the nose is a filter and deodorizer, in passing through which the air is cleansed and sent pure into the lungs. the nose warms the air as well as purifies it, and thus prevents it from being breathed in that raw, damp state which is so injurious to those whose lungs are delicate. speak immediately upon opening your mouth. try to turn into pure-toned voice every particle of breath you give out. replenish the lungs every time you pause. light gymnastics, brisk walking, running, horseback riding, and other exercise will improve your breathing capacity. modulation modulation simply means change of voice. these changes, however, must be intelligent and appropriate to the thought. monotony--speaking in one tone--must be avoided. the speaker should have the ability to raise or lower the pitch of his voice at will, as well as to vary it in force, intensity, inflection, etc. do not confuse "pitch" with "force." pitch refers to the _key_ of the speaking voice, while force relates to the _loudness_ of the voice. the movement or rate of speaking should be varied to suit the particular thought. it would be ridiculous to describe a horse-race in the slow, measured tones of a funeral procession. most of your speaking should be done in the middle and lower registers; but the higher pitches, altho not so often required, must be trained so as to be ready for use. these higher tones are frequently thin and unmusical, but they can be made full and firm through practise. it is not necessary to study many rules for inflection. the speaker should know in a general way that when the sense is suspended the voice follows this tendency and runs up, and when the sense is completed the voice runs down. in other words, the voice should simply be in agreement with the tendency of the thought, whether it opens up or closes down. the lengths of inflection vary according to the thought and the required emphasis. for most occasions the speaking should be clear-cut and deliberate. the larger the room or hall, the slower should be the speech, to give the vocal vibrations time to travel. dwelling on words too long, drawling, or over precision in articulation, is tedious to an audience. the other extreme, undue haste, suggests lack of self-control, and is fatal to successful effort. of course this does not apply to special selections demanding rapid speech. there are numerous words in english that represent or at least suggest their meaning in their sound. one who aims to read or recite well should study these effects so as to use them skilfully and with judgment. the most complete and concise treatment on the subject of expression is perhaps that given in _hamlet's_ advice to the players when he says: "speak the speech, i pray you, as i pronounced it to you--_trippingly_ on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, i had as lief the town crier spoke my lines. nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus; but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and as i may say whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. o! it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings; who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-shows, and noise. i would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing termagant; it out-herods herod: pray you, avoid it.... "be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as 't were, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. now, this overdone, or come tardy off, tho it make the unskilful laugh, can not but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theater of others. o! there be players, that i have seen play--and heard others praise, and that highly--not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of christians, nor the gait of christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed, that i have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably." pausing words naturally divide themselves into groups according to their meaning. grammatical pauses indicate the construction of language, while rhetorical pauses mark more particularly the natural divisions in the sense. to jumble words together, or to rattle them off in "rapid-fire" style, is not an entertaining performance. proper pausing secures economy of the listener's attention, and is as desirable in spoken as in written language. pauses should vary in frequency and duration. it should be remembered that words are only symbols, and that the speaker should concern himself seriously about the thought which these symbols represent. the concept behind the sign is the important thing. the fine art of pausing can be acquired only after long and faithful study. then it may become an unconscious habit. an old rime on this subject is worth repeating: "in pausing, ever let this rule take place, never to separate words in any case that are less separable than those you join; and, which imports the same, not to combine such words together, as do not relate so closely as the words you separate." feeling and energy before you can properly _feel_ what you say you must _understand_ it. artificial and imitative methods do not produce enduring results. in studying a passage or selection for recitation, the imagination must be kindled, the feelings stimulated, and the mind trained to concentrate upon the thought until it is _experienced_. this subjective work should always precede the attempt at objective expression. everything must first be conceived, pictured, and experienced in the mind. when this is done with intelligence, sincerity, and earnestness, there should be little difficulty in giving true and adequate expression to thought. in all speaking that is worth the while there must be energy, force, and life. the speaker should be wide-awake, alert, palpitating. a speaker--and this applies to the reciter and elocutionist--should be, as someone has said, "an animal galvanic battery on two legs."[ ] he must know what he is about. he must _be in east_. make a distinction between loudness and intensity. often the best effects are produced by suggesting power in reserve rather than giving the fullest outward expression. intensity in reading or reciting is secured chiefly through concentration and a thorough grasp of the thought. endeavor to put yourself into your voice. do not forget that deep, concentrated feeling is never loud. avoid shouting, ranting, and "tearing a passion to tatters." go to nature for models. ask what one would do in real life in uttering the thoughts under consideration. the emotions must be brought under control by frequent practise. joy, sorrow, anger, fear, surprize, terror, and other feelings are as colors to the artist and must be made ready for instant use. to quote richard mansfield: "when you are enacting a part, think of your voice as a color, and, as you paint your picture (the character you are painting, the scene you are portraying), mix your colors. you have on your palate a white voice, _la voix blanche_; a heavenly, ethereal or blue voice, the voice of prayer; a disagreeable, jealous, or yellow voice; a steel-gray voice, for quiet sarcasm; a brown voice of hopelessness; a lurid, red voice of hot rage; a deep, thunderous voice of black; a cheery voice, the color of the green sea that a brisk breeze is crisping; and then there is a pretty little pink voice, and shades of violet--but the subject is endless." [footnote : see "before an audience," by nathan sheppard. published by funk & wagnalls company. price, cents.] gesture and action no better advice can be given upon this subject than to "suit the action to the word; the word to the action." unless a gesture in some way helps in the expression and understanding of a thought, it should be omitted. gesture is not a mere ornament, but a natural and necessary part of true expression. the arms and hands should be trained to perform their work gracefully, promptly, and effectively. if too many gestures are used they lose their force and meaning. furthermore, too many gestures confuse and annoy the auditor. gesture should be practised, preferably before a looking-glass, so thoroughly _beforehand_ as to make it an unconscious act when the speaker comes before his audience. the correct standing position is to have one foot slightly in advance of the other. the taller the person, the broader should be the base or width between the feet. the body should be erect but not rigid. in repose the arms should drop naturally at the sides. except in the act of gesticulating do not try to put the hands anywhere, and above all, if a man, not in the pockets. impersonation the aim here should be to lose one's self in the part. to subordinate one's tones, gestures, and manners, and to live the character for the time being, requires no mean ability. impersonation calls for imagination, insight, concentration, and adaptability. the impersonator must be all at it, and at it all, during the whole time he is impersonating the character. "to fathom the depths of character," said macready, the distinguished english actor, "to trace its latent motives, to feel its finest quiverings of emotion, to comprehend the thoughts that are hidden under words, and thus possess one's self of the actual mind of the individual man, is the highest reach of the player's art, and is an achievement that i have discerned but in few. kean--when under the impulse of his genius he seemed to _clutch_ the whole idea of the man--was an extraordinary instance among those possessing the faculty of impersonation." where dialect is used it should be closely studied from life. stage representations of foreign character are not always trustworthy models. articulation and pronunciation articulate and pronounce correctly and distinctly without being pedantic. the organs of articulation--teeth, tongue, lips, and palate--should be trained to rapidly and accurately repeat various sets of elements, until any combination of sounds, no matter how difficult, can be uttered with facility, accuracy, and precision. a standard dictionary should be consulted whenever there is a doubt either about the meaning or the pronunciation of a word. as to the standard of pronunciation, the speaker should consider at least these three things: ( ) authority, ( ) custom, and ( ) personal taste. there are many words commonly mispronounced, but only a few can be referred to here: do not say _toos_-day or _chews_-day for t_u_esday; _ur_-ride for ride; i-_ron_ for i-_urn_; w_u_s for w_a_s; th_u_n for th_a_n; subj_i_ct for subj_e_ct; _awf_-fiss for _off_-fiss; fig-_ger_ for fig_u_re; to-_wards_ for tords; _dook_ for d_u_ke; k_e_tch for c_a_tch; _day_-po for _de_-po; ab'domen for abdo'men; advertise'ment for adver'tisement; ly'ceum for lyce'um; oc'cult for occult'; of_t_en for of'n; s_e_nce for s_i_nce; su_j_gest for su_g_gest; _wow_nd for _woo_nd; _weth_er for w_h_ether; sen'ile for s_e_'nile; _ad_'dress for ad_dress_'; il'lustrate for illus'trate; _ker_-own for crown; wind_er_ for wind_ow_; s_or_ for s_aw_; wick_ud_ for wick_ed_; _i_ngine for _e_ngine; _o_ntil for _u_ntil. words should drop from the mouth like newly-made coins from the mint. practising on words of several syllables is helpful. some such as these will serve as examples: "particularly," "unconstitutional," "incompatibility," "unnecessarily," "voluminous," "overwhelmingly," "sesquipedalian," etc. imagination the ability to make vivid mental pictures of what one recites is of great value to both reader and hearer. everyone has this faculty to some degree, but few develop it as it should be developed for use in speaking. the clearer the mental picture the speaker has in mind the more vivid will it be to the hearer. practise making mental images with pictures that appeal strongly to you. try to see everything in detail. if at first the impressions are obscure, persevere in your practise and substantial results will surely come. dr. silas neff gives a splendid illustration of this kind that can be effectively used for practise: "a woodman once lived with his family near a shallow stream which flowed between high banks and in the middle of which, opposite his house, was an island. half a mile up the stream was a dam which supplied water for a saw-mill a hundred yards below. one morning after the father had gone to the mill to work, leaving his wife in the back yard washing some little garments, their two little boys clambered down the bank and waded through the water to the island where they had spent many happy hours in play. about the middle of the forenoon, from some unknown cause, the wall of the dam suddenly gave way, the water plunging through and nearly filling the banks of the stream. the father in the mill heard the noise and looking out saw what had happened. immediately thinking of his boys he dashed out, hat and coat off, on an awful race down the creek to save their lives. the water after leaving the dam flowed rather slowly for some time and he was soon quite a distance ahead, but he knew that unless he gained very rapidly here, the descent being much greater farther down, the water would overtake his boys before he could reach them. his wife suddenly looked up as the agonizing cries of her husband fell upon her ear. she rushed to the front yard. in quick succession she distinguished the words, 'get the boys!' the father was a few hundred yards from his home. the water had reached the rapid part of the stream but some distance behind the man. the wife on hearing the words, tho not knowing what was wrong, jumped down the bank and ran through the water, shrieking to the boys. just as she reached the island they ran to her and, without uttering a word, she took one under each arm and started back as wildly as she came. when half way over she saw her husband dashing out from the edge of the woods and the water not twenty feet behind him. they met at the top of the bank, the father grasped wife and children in his arms and the water passed harmlessly by."[ ] [footnote : "talks on education and oratory," by silas s. neff, neff college of oratory, philadelphia, pa.] how to memorize a selection do not learn a selection simply by rote--that is, by repeating it parrot-like over and over again--but fix it in the mind by a careful and detailed analysis of the thought. as you practise aloud, train your eye to take in as many words as possible, then look away from the book as you recite them aloud. this will give the memory immediate practise and will tend to make it self-reliant. having chosen a selection, read it over first in a general way to secure an impression of it in its entirety. then read it a second time, giving particular attention to each part. consult a dictionary for the correct meaning and pronunciation of every word about which you are in doubt. next underline the emphatic words--those which you think best express the most important thoughts. underscoring one line for emphatic words and two lines for the most emphatic will do for this purpose. now indicate the various pauses, both grammatical and rhetorical, by drawing short perpendicular lines between the words where they occur. in a general way use one line for a short pause, two lines for a medium pause, and three lines for a long pause. on the margin of the selection you may make other notes, such as the dominant feeling, transitions, changes of rate, force and pitch, special effects, gestures, facial expression, etc. there is, of course, nothing arbitrary about this work of analysis. its purpose is to make the student _think_, to analyze, to be painstaking. the following annotated selection should be carefully considered. words on which chief emphasis is to be placed are printed in small capitals; those on which less emphasis is to be placed, in italics. it is not intended to be mechanical, but suggestive. after a few selections have been analyzed in this way, pausing and emphasis, and many other elements of expression, will largely take care of themselves. "to be || or not | to be, || _that_ | is the question:--||| whether | 't is _nobler_ | in the mind, || to _suffer_ the _slings_ | and _arrows_ || of _outrageous_ fortune; || or | to take _arms_ | against a _sea_ | of troubles, || and by _opposing_ || _end_ them? ||| --to die,-- || to sleep, ||| no _more_;--||| and, by a _sleep_, || to say we end the _heart-ache_, | and the _thousand_ natural shocks || that flesh is _heir_ to,--||| 't is a consummation || _devoutly_ | to be _wish'd_. ||| to die,--||| to sleep:--||| to sleep ||| perchance to dream: || ay, | _there's_ the _rub_; || for in that sleep | of _death_ || what _dreams_ | may | come, || when we have shuffled off | this mortal coil, || must give us _pause_. ||| _there's_ the _respect_, | that makes _calamity_ | of _so long life_: ||| for who would bear | the _whips_ and _scorns_ | of _time_, || the oppressor's _wrong_, || the proud man's _contumely_, || the pangs | of _despis'd_ love, || the law's _delay_, || the _insolence_ | of office, || and the _spurns_ | that patient _merit_ | of the _unworthy_ takes, || when he _himself_ | might his _quietus_ make || with a bare _bodkin_? || who'd these _fardels_ bear, || to _grunt_ and _sweat_ | under a weary life, || but that the _dread_ | of something | _after_ death--|| the _undiscover'd_ country, || from whose bourn | _no_ traveler returns,--|| puzzles the _will_, || and makes us rather bear | those ills we _have_, || than fly | to _others_ || that we know not of? ||| thus conscience || does make cowards | of us all; || and thus | the native hue | of _resolution_ || is sicklied o'er | with the _pale cast_ | of _thought_; || and enterprises | of great _pith_ and _moment_ || with _this_ regard | their currents turn awry, || and _lose_ | the _name_ || of action." before the audience as you present yourself to your audience, bow slightly and graciously from the waist. be courteous, but not servile. avoid haste and familiarity. be punctilious in dress and deportment, and be prompt in keeping your appointments. be sure you have everything ready in advance. if you have to use any properties, such as a table, chair, eye-glass, books, reading-stand, coat, hat, gloves, letters, etc., see that everything is provided and in its place before the time set for your appearance. success often depends upon the judicious choice of selections for the occasion. what will be acceptable to one audience may not please another. the sentiment and the length of selections depend upon the time and place where they are to be given. when an audience expects to be entertained with humorous recitations, to announce in a sepulchral voice that you will give them a poem of your own composition, entitled "the three corpses," of melancholy character, is likely to send a chill of disappointment through them. never keep your audience waiting. if an encore is demanded, return and bow, or if the demand is insistent, give another number, preferably a short one. do not be too eager to give encores; if the applause is not insistent, a bow will suffice. part ii humorous hits the train-misser by james whitcomb riley 'll where in the world my eyes has bin-- ef i haint missed that train agin! chuff! and whistle! and toot! and ring! but blast and blister the dasted train!-- how it does it i can't explain! git here thirty-five minutes before the dern thing's due!--and, drat the thing! it'll manage to git past--shore! the more i travel around, the more i got no sense!-- to stand right here and let it beat me! 'll ding my melts! i got no gumption, ner nothin' else! ticket-agent's a dad-burned bore!-- sell you a ticket's all they keer!-- ticket-agents ort to all be prosecuted--and that's jes' what!-- how'd i know which train's fer me? and how'd i know which train was not?-- goern and comin' and gone astray, and backin' and switchin' ever'-which-way! ef i could jes' sneak round behind myse'f, where i could git full swing, i'd lift my coat, and kick, by jing! till i jes' got jerked up and fined!-- fer here i stood, as a dern fool's apt to, and let that train jes' chuff and choo right apast me--and mouth jes' gapped like a blamed old sandwitch warped in two! "afterwhiles," copyright , the bobbs-merrill company. used by special permission of the publishers. the elocutionist's curfew by w. d. nesbit england's sun was slowly setting--(raise your right hand to your brow), filling all the land with beauty--(wear a gaze of rapture now); and the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair (with a movement slow and graceful you may now push back your hair); he with sad, bowed head--(a drooping of your head will be all right, till you hoarsely, sadly whisper)--"curfew must not ring to-night." "sexton," bessie's white lips faltered--(try here to resemble bess, tho of course you know she'd never worn quite such a charming dress), "i've a lover in that prison"--(don't forget to roll your r's and to shiver as tho gazing through the iron prison bars), "cromwell will not come till sunset"--(speak each word as tho you'd bite every syllable to pieces)--"curfew must not ring to-night." "bessie," calmly spoke the sexton--(here extend your velvet palm, let it tremble like the sexton's as tho striving to be calm), "long, long y'ars i've rung the curfew"--(don't forget to make it y'ars with a pitiful inflection that a world of sorrow bears), "i have done my duty ever"--(draw yourself up to your height, for you're speaking as the sexton)--"gyurl, the curfew rings to-night!" out she swung, far out--(now here is where you've got to do your best; let your head be twisted backward, let great sobs heave up your chest, swing your right foot through an arc of ninety lineal degrees, then come down and swing your left foot, and be sure don't bend your knees; keep this up for fifteen minutes till your face is worn and white, then gaze at your mangled fingers)--"curfew shall not ring to-night!" o'er the distant hills came cromwell--(right hand to the brow once more; let your eyes look down the distance, say above the entrance door)-- at his foot she told her story--(lift your hands as tho they hurt)-- and her sweet young face so haggard--(now your pathos you assert, then you straighten up as cromwell, and be sure you get it right; don't say "go, your liver loves!")--well: "curfew shall not ring to-night!" reprinted from _harper's magazine_, by permission of harper and brothers. melpomenus jones by stephen leacock some people find great difficulty in saying good-by when making a call or spending the evening. as the moment draws near when the visitor feels that he is fairly entitled to go away, he rises and says abruptly, "well, i think----" then the people say, "oh, must you go now? surely it's early yet!" and a pitiful struggle ensues. i think the saddest case of this kind of thing that i ever knew was that of my poor friend melpomenus jones, a curate--such a dear young man and only twenty-three! he simply couldn't get away from people. he was too modest to tell a lie, and too religious to wish to appear rude. now it happened that he went to call on some friends of his on the very first afternoon of his summer vacation. the next six weeks were entirely his own--absolutely nothing to do. he chatted a while, drank two cups of tea, then braced himself for the effort and said suddenly: "well, i think i----" but the lady of the house said, "oh, no, mr. jones, can't you really stay a little longer?" jones was always truthful--"oh, yes, of course, i--er--can." "then please don't go." he stayed. he drank eleven cups of tea. night was falling. he rose again. "well, now, i think i really----" "you must go? i thought perhaps you could have stayed to dinner----" "oh, well, so i could, you know, if----" "then please stay; i'm sure my husband will be delighted." "all right, i'll stay"; and he sank back into his chair, just full of tea, and miserable. father came home. they had dinner. all through the meal jones sat planning to leave at eight-thirty. all the family wondered whether mr. jones was stupid and sulky, or only stupid. after dinner mother undertook to "draw him out" and showed him photographs. she showed him all the family museum, several gross of them--photos of father's uncle and his wife, and mother's brother and his little boy, and awfully interesting photos of father's uncle's friend in his bengal uniform, an awfully well-taken photo of father's grandfather's partner's dog, and an awfully wicked one of father as the devil for a fancy-dress ball. at eight-thirty jones had examined seventy-one photographs. there were about sixty-nine more that he hadn't. jones rose. "i must say good-night now," he pleaded. "say good-night! why it's only half-past eight! have you anything to do?" "nothing," he admitted, and muttered something about staying six weeks, and then laughed miserably. just then it turned out that the favorite child of the family, such a dear little romp, had hidden mr. jones' hat; so father said that he _must_ stay, and invited him to a pipe and a chat. father had the pipe and gave jones the chat, and still he stayed. every moment he meant to take the plunge, but couldn't. then father began to get very tired of jones, and fidgeted and finally said, with jocular irony, that jones had better stay all night--they could give him a shake-down. jones mistook his meaning and thanked him with tears in his eyes, and father put jones to bed in the spare-room and curst him heartily. after breakfast next day, father went off to his work in the city and left jones playing with the baby, broken-hearted. his nerve was utterly gone. he was meaning to leave all day, but the thing had got on his mind and he simply couldn't. when father came home in the evening he was surprized and chagrined to find jones still there. he thought to jockey him out with a jest, and said he thought he'd have to charge him for his board, he! he! the unhappy young man stared wildly for a moment, then wrung father's hand, paid him a month's board in advance, and broke down and sobbed like a child. in the days that followed he was moody and unapproachable. he lived, of course, entirely in the drawing-room, and the lack of air and exercise began to tell sadly on his health. he passed his time in drinking tea and looking at photographs. he would stand for hours together gazing at the photograph of father's uncle's friend in his bengal uniform--talking to it, sometimes swearing bitterly at it. his mind was visibly failing. at length the crash came. they carried him up-stairs in a raging delirium of fever. the illness that followed was terrible. he recognized no one, not even father's uncle's friend in his bengal uniform. at times he would start up from his bed and shriek: "well, i think i----" and then fall back upon the pillow with a horrible laugh. then, again, he would leap up and cry: "another cup of tea and more photographs! more photographs! hear! hear!" at length, after a month of agony, on the last day of his vacation he passed away. they say that when the last moment came, he sat up in bed with a beautiful smile of confidence playing upon his face, and said: "well--the angels are calling me; i'm afraid i really must go now. good afternoon." her fifteen minutes by tom masson at exactly fifteen minutes to eight his step was heard at the garden gate. and then, with heart that was light and gay, he laughed to himself in a jubilant way, and rang the bell for the maiden trim who'd promised to go to the play with him; and told the servant, with joyous air, to say there were fifteen minutes to spare. and then for fifteen minutes he sat in the parlor dim, and he held his hat, and waited and sighed for the maiden trim who'd promised to go to the play with him, until, as the clock overhead struck eight, he muttered: "great scott! it is getting late"; and took a turn on the parlor floor, and waited for fifteen minutes more; and thought of those seats in the front parquet. and midnight came, and the break of day; that day and the next, and the next one, too, he sat and waited the long hours through. then time flew on and the years sped by, and still he sat, with expectant eye and lengthening beard, for the maiden trim who'd promised to go to the play with him; until one night, as with palsied hand he sat in the chair, for he couldn't stand, and drummed in an aimless way, she came and opened the door with her withered frame. the moon's bright rays touched the silvered hair of her who had fifteen minutes to spare. and then in tones that he strained to hear, she spoke, and she said: "are you ready, dear?" reprinted by permission of _life_ publishing company. the foxes' tails anonymous _minister_--weel, sandy, man; and how did ye like the sermon the day? _precentor_--eh? _minister_--what did you think o' the discourse as a whole? _precentor_--all i was gaun to say was jeest this, that every noo and then in your discoorse the day--i dinna say oftener than noo and then--jeest occasionally--it struck me that there was maybe--frae time to time--jeest a wee bit o' _exaggeration_. _minister_--exagger--what, sir? _precentor_--weel, maybe that's ower strong a word, i dinna want to offend ye. i mean jeest--_amplification_, like. _minister_--exaggeration! amplification! what the deil mischief d'ye mean, sir? _precentor_--there, there, there! i'll no say anither word. i dinna mean to rouse ye like that. all i meant to say was that you jeest _streetched the pint_ a wee bit. _minister_--_streetched the pint!_ d'ye mean to say, sir, that i tell _lees_? _precentor_--oh! no, no, no--but i didna gang sae far as a' that. _minister_--ye went quite far enough, sir. sandy, i call upon you, if ever ye should hear me say another word out o' joint, to pull me up there and then. _precentor_--losh! sir; but how could i pull ye up i' the kirk? _minister_--ye can give me sort o' a signal. _precentor_--how could i gie ye a signal i' the kirk? _minister_--ye could make some kind o' a noise. _precentor_--a noise i' the kirk? _minister_--ay. ye're sittin' just down aneath me, ye ken; so ye might just put up your held, and give a bit whustle (whistles), like that. _precentor_--a whustle! _minister_--ay, a whustle! _precentor_--but would it no be an awfu' sin? _minister_--hoots, man; doesna the wind whustle on the sawbbath? _precentor_--ay; i never thought o' that afore. yes, the wind whustles. _minister_--well, just a wee bit soughing whustle like the wind (whistles softly). _precentor_--well, if there's nae harm in 't, i'll do my best. so, ultimately, it was agreed between the minister and precentor, that the first word of exaggeration from the pulpit was to elicit the signal from the desk below. next sunday came. had the minister only stuck to his sermon that day, he would have done very well. but it was his habit, before the sermon, to read a chapter from the bible, adding such remarks and explanations of his own as he thought necessary. on the present occasion he had chosen one that bristled with difficulties. it was that chapter which describes samson as catching three hundred foxes, tying them tail to tail, setting firebrands in their midst, starting them among the standing corn of the philistines, and burning it down. as he closed the description, he shut the book, and commenced the _eloocidation_ as follows: "my dear freends, i daresay you have been wondering in your minds how it was possible that samson could catch three hundred foxes. "well, then, we are told in the scriptures that samson was the strongest man that ever lived. but, we are not told that he was a great runner. but if he catched these three hundred foxes he must have been a great runner, and therefore i contend that we have a perfect right to assume, by all the laws of logic and scientific history, that he was the fastest runner that ever was born; and that was how he catched his three hundred foxes! "but after we get rid of this difficulty, my freends, another crops up--after he has catched his three hundred foxes, how does he manage to keep them all together? "now you will please bear in mind, in the _first place_, that it was _foxes_ that samson catched. now we don't catch foxes, as a general rule, in the streets of a _toon_; therefore it is more than probable that samson catched them in the _country_, and if he catched them in the country it is natural to suppose that he 'bided in the country; and if he 'bided in the country it is not unlikely that he lived at a farm-house. now at farm-houses we have stables and barns, and _therefore_ we may now consider it a settled pint, that as he catched his foxes, one by one, he stapped them into a good-sized barn, and steeked the door and locked it,--_here we overcome the second stumbling-block_. but no sooner have we done this, than a third rock of offense loups up to fickle us. after he has catched his foxes; after he has got them all snug in the barn under lock and key--_how in the world did he tie their tails together?_ there is a fickler. but it is a great thing for poor, ignorant folk like you, that there has been great and learned men who have been to colleges, and universities, and seats o' learning--the same as mysel', ye ken--and instead o' going into the kirk, like me, they have gone traveling into foreign parts; and they have written books o' their travels; and we can read their books. now, among other places, some of these learned men have traveled into _canaan_, and some into _palestine_, and some few into the _holy land_; and these last mentioned travelers tell us, that in these eastern or oriental climes, the foxes there are _a total different breed o' cattle a'thegither frae our foxes_; that they are _great, big beasts_--and, what's the most astonishing thing about them, and what helps to explain this wonderful feat of samson's, is, that they've all got _most extraordinary long tails_; in fact, these eastern travelers tell us that these foxes' tails are actually _forty feet long_. _precentor_ (whistles). _minister_ (somewhat disturbed)--"oh! i ought to say that there are _other travelers_, and _later travelers_ than the travelers i've been talking to you about, and they say this statement is rather an _exaggeration_ on the whole, and that these foxes' tails are never more than _twenty feet long_. _precentor_ (whistles). _minister_ (disturbed and confused)--"be--be--before i leave this subject a'thegither, my freends, i may just add that there has been a considerable diversity o' opinion about the length o' these animals' tails. ye see one man says one thing, and anither, anither; and i've spent a good lot o' learned research in the matter mysel'; and after examining one authority, and anither authority, and putting one authority again the ither, i've come to the conclusion that these foxes' tails, on an average, are seldom more than _fifteen and a half feet long_. _precentor_ (whistles). _minister_ (angrily)--"sandy mcdonald, i'll no tak anither inch off o' the beasts' tails, even gin ye should whustle every tooth oot o' your head. do ye think the foxes o' the scriptures had na tails at a'?" the dead kitten anonymous you's as stiff an' cold as a stone, little cat; dey's done frowed out an' left you all alone, little cat; i's a-strokin' you's fur but you don't never purr, nor hump up anywhere-- little cat, why is dat? is you's purrin' an' humpin' up done? an' why is you's little foot tied, little cat? did dey pisen you's tummick inside, little cat? did dey pound you wif bricks or wif big nasty sticks or abuse you wif kicks? little cat, tell me dat. did dey laff whenever you cried? did it hurt werry bad when you died, little cat? oh, why didn't you wun off and hide, little cat? dey is tears in my eyes, 'cause i most always cries when a pussy-cat dies, little cat, tink of dat, an' i am awfully solly, besides. des lay still, down in de sof' groun', little cat, while i tucks the green grass awound, little cat, dey can't hurt you no more, w'en you's tired and so sore; des' sleep quiet, you pore little cat, wif a pat, and forget all the kicks of the town. the weather fiend anonymous one hot day last summer, a young man dressed in thin clothes, entered a broadway car, and seating himself opposite a stout old gentleman, said, pleasantly: "pretty warm, isn't it?" "what's pretty warm?" "why, the weather." "what weather?" "why, this weather." "well, how's this different from any other weather?" "well, it is warmer." "how do you know it is?" "i suppose it is." "isn't the weather the same everywhere?" "why, no,--no; it's warmer in some places and it's colder in others." "what makes it warmer in some places than it's colder in others?" "why, the sun,--the effect of the sun's heat." "makes it colder in some places than it's warmer in others? never heard of such a thing." "no, no, no. i didn't mean that. the sun makes it warmer." "then what makes it colder?" "i believe it's the ice." "what ice?" "why, the ice,--the ice,--the ice that was frozen by--by--by the frost." "have you ever seen any ice that wasn't frozen?" "no,--that is, i believe i haven't." "then what are you talking about?" "i was just trying to talk about the weather." "and what do you know about it,--what do you know about the weather?" "well, i thought i knew something, but i see i don't and that's a fact." "no, sir, i should say you didn't! yet you come into this car and force yourself upon the attention of a stranger and begin to talk about the weather as tho you owned it, and i find you don't know a solitary thing about the matter you yourself selected for a topic of conversation. you don't know one thing about meteorological conditions, principles, or phenomena; you can't tell me why it is warm in august and cold in december; you don't know why icicles form faster in the sunlight than they do in the shade; you don't know why the earth grows colder as it comes nearer the sun; you can't tell why a man can be sun-struck in the shade; you can't tell me how a cyclone is formed nor how the trade-winds blow; you couldn't find the calm-center of a storm if your life depended on it; you don't know what a sirocco is nor where the southwest monsoon blows; you don't know the average rainfall in the united states for the past and current year; you don't know why the wind dries up the ground more quickly than a hot sun; you don't know why the dew falls at night and dries up in the day; you can't explain the formation of fog; you don't know one solitary thing about the weather and you are just like a thousand and one other people who always begin talking about the weather because they don't know anything else, when, by the aurora borealis, they know less about the weather than they do about anything else in the world, sir!" the race question by paul laurence dunbar scene: _race-track. enter old colored man, seating himself._ "oomph, oomph. de work of de devil sho' do p'ospah. how 'do, suh? des tol'able, thankee, suh. how you come on? oh, i was des asayin' how de wo'k of de ol' boy do p'ospah. doesn't i frequent the race-track? no, suh; no, suh. i's baptis' myse'f an' i 'low hit's all devil's doin's. wouldn't 'a' be'n hyeah to-day, but i got a boy named jim dat's long gone in sin an' he gwine ride one dem hosses. oomph, dat boy! i sut'ny has talked to him and labohed wid him night an' day, but it was allers in vain, an' i's feahed dat de day of his reckonin' is at han'. "ain't i nevah been intrusted in racin'? humph, you don't s'pose i been dead all my life, does you? what you laffin at? oh, scuse me, scuse me, you unnerstan' what i means. you don' give a ol' man time to splain hisse'f. what i means is dat dey has been days when i walked in de counsels of de ongawdly and set in de seats of sinnahs; and long erbout dem times i did tek most ovahly strong to racin'. "how long dat been? oh, dat's way long back, 'fo i got religion, mo'n thuty years ago, dough i got to own i has fell from grace several times sense. "yes, suh, i ust to ride. ki-yi! i nevah furgit de day dat my ol' mas' jack put me on 'june boy,' his black geldin', an' say to me, 'si,' says he, 'if you don' ride de tail offen cunnel scott's mare, "no quit," i's gwine to larrup you twell you cain't set in de saddle no mo'.' hyah, hyah. my ol' mas' was a mighty han' fu' a joke. i knowed he wan't gwine to do nuffin' to me. "did i win? why, whut you spec' i's doin' hyeah ef i hadn' winned? w'y, ef i'd 'a' let dat scott maih beat my 'june boy' i'd 'a' drowned myse'f in bull skin crick. "yes, suh, i winned; w'y, at de finish i come down dat track lak hit was de jedgment day an' i was de las' one up! 'f i didn't race dat maih's tail clean off. i 'low i made hit do a lot o' switchin'. an' aftah dat my wife mandy she ma'ed me. hyah, hyah, i ain't bin much on hol'in' de reins sence. "sh! dey comin' in to wa'm up. dat jim, dat jim, dat my boy; you nasty, putrid little raskil. des a hundred an' eight, suh, des a hundred an' eight. yas, suh, dat's my jim; i don' know whaih he gits his dev'ment at. "what's de mattah wid dat boy? whyn't he hunch hisse'f up on dat saddle right? jim, jim, whyn't you limber up, boy; hunch yo'sef up on dat hose lak you belonged to him and knowed you was dah. what i done showed you? de black raskil, goin' out dah tryin' to disgrace his own daddy. hyeah he come back. dat's bettah, you scoun'ril. "dat's a right smaht-lookin' hoss he's a-ridin', but i ain't a-trustin' dat bay wid de white feet--dat is, not altogethah. she's a favourwright, too; but dey's sumpin' else in dis worl' sides playin' favourwrights. jim battah had win dis race. his hoss ain't a five to one shot, but i spec's to go way fum hyeah wid money ernuff to mek a donation on de pa'sonage. "does i bet? well, i don' des call hit bettin'; but i resks a little w'en i t'inks i kin he'p de cause. 'tain't gamblin', o' co'se; i wouldn't gamble fu nothin', dough my ol' mastah did ust to say dat a hones' gamblah was ez good ez a hones' preachah an' mos' nigh ez skace. "look out dah, man, dey's off, dat nasty bay maih wid de white feet leadin' right f'um de pos'. i knowed it! i knowed it! i had my eye on huh all de time. o jim, jim, why didn't you git in bettah, way back dah fouf? dah go de gong! i knowed dat wasn't no staht. troop back dah, you raskils, hyah, hyah. "i wush day boy wouldn't do so much jummyin erroun' wid day hoss. fust t'ing he know he ain't gwine to know whaih he's at. "dah, dah dey go ag'in. hit's a sho' t'ing dis time. bettah, jim, bettah. dey didn't leave you dis time. hug dat bay maih, hug her close, boy. don't press dat hoss yit. he holdin' back a lot o' t'ings. "he's gainin'! doggone my cats, he's gainin'! an' dat hoss o' his'n gwine des ez stiddy ez a rockin'-chair. jim allus was a good boy. "counfound these spec's, i cain't see 'em skacely; huh, you say dey's neck an' neck; now i see 'em! and jimmy's a-ridin' like---- huh, huh, i laik to said sumpin'. "de bay maih's done huh bes', she's done huh bes'! dey's turned into the stretch an' still see-sawin'. let him out, jimmy, let him out! dat boy done th'owed de reins away. come on, jimmy, come on! he's leadin' by a nose. come on, i tell you, you black rapscallion, come on! give 'em hell, jimmy! give 'em hell! under de wire an'a len'th ahead. doggone my cats! wake me up wen dat othah hoss comes in. "no, suh, i ain't gwine stay no longah--i don't app'ove o' racin'; i's gwine 'roun' an' see dis hyeah bookmakah an' den i's gwine dreckly home, suh, dreckly home. i's baptis' myse'f, an' i don't app'ove o' no sich doin's!" reprinted by permission from "the heart of happy hollow," dodd, mead & company, new york. when the woodbine turns red anonymous they sat in a garden of springing flowers, in a tangle of woodland ways; and theirs was the sweetest of summer bowers, where they passed long summer days. but, alas, when the sunbeams faded away, and those brightest of days had fled 'neath the old trysting trees they parted for aye, when the woodbine leaves turned red. when the woodbine leaves turned red, and their last farewell was said, they swore to be true, as all lovers do, when the woodbine leaves turn red. she gave him a flower sweet; they vowed they would surely meet in a year and a day; tho they parted for aye when the woodbine leaves turned red. they met in the garden again next year, and their ways had been far apart. he grasped both hands with a sigh and a tear, and murmured, "my old sweetheart, i have to confess it, i can't marry you, for already have i been wed." and she answered, blushing, "so have i, too." _and the woodbine turned red._ cupid's casuistry by w. j. lampton we were sitting in the moonlight of a radiant, rosy june night, when i whispered: "kitty, don't you wish i'd kiss you? let me, won't you?" kitty was a rustic maiden, and i thought not heavy laden with the wisdom of the ages writ on cultured cupid's pages. kitty answered: "no, i mustn't let you kiss me: my ma doesn't think it proper that her kitty be like maidens in the city." "oh!" i stammered. then did kitty whisper in a tone of pity: "i might kiss _you_ and be true, sir, to my mother; would that do, sir?" when mah lady yawns by charles t. grilley when mah cah'line yawns, ah'm 'spicious dat she tinks de time po'pitious fo' me to tu'n mah 'tention to de clock upon de wall. dat's de cue to quit mah talkin', an' a gentle hint dat walkin' would flicitate de briefness of mah call. th' fus' gal that ah coh'ted ouah ma'idge it was thwa'ted because ah was so green ah didn' know. when she yawns it was behoovin' dat dis dahkey should be movin', twell at las' she says, "fo lawd's sake, niggah, go!" den ah took mah hat an' stah'ted, an f'om dat hour we pah'ted, an ah nevah seen dat cullud gal no mo'. but it taught me dis yer lesson dat a yawn am de expression dat invites yo' to be movin' to'ards de do'. so take dis friendly wah'nin',-- should yo' lady love stah't yawnin' altho de sudden pah'ting cost yo' pain, if she's one you'd like t' marry, aftah one good yawn don' tarry, den yo sho'ly will be welcome da again. watchin' the sparkin' by fred emerson brooks say, jim, ye wanter see the fun? jemimy's sparkin's jess begun! git deown--this box won't hold but one fer peekin' through the winder! yeou stay down thar jess whar ye be; i'll tell ye all thar is to see; then you'll enjoy it well as me; an' deon't yeou try to hinder! that teacher is the dumbdest goose that cupid ever turned eout loose; his learnin' hain't no sort o' use in sparkin' our jemimy! tho peekin's 'ginst the golden reule, he told us t'other day in scheool to watch him close; so git a steool an' stand up here close by me. neow he's got suthin' in his head that somehow ruther's gotter be said; keeps hitchin' up, an' blushin' red, with one leg over t'other. he wants to do the thing up breown. wall, he's the biggest gawk in teown: showin' her pictur's upside deown; an' she don't know it nuther! he's got his arm areound her chair, and wonders if she'll leave it there. but she looks like she didn't care! i'll bet he's goin' to kiss 'er; he's gittin' closer to her face, an' pickin' out the softest place, an' sort o' measurin' off the space, jess so as not to miss 'er. if she'd git mad, an' box his ear, 'twould knock his plans clean out o' gear, an' set him back another year; but she ain't goin' to do it: she thinks the teacher's jess tip-top, an' she won't let no chances drop; if ever he sets in to pop, she's goin' to pull him through it! i gum! an' if he ain't the wust! waitin' fer her to kiss him fust! he's goin' to do it neow er bu'st: he's makin' preparation! neow watch him steppin' on her toes-- that's jess to keep her down, i s'pose. wall, thar, he's kissed her on the nose! so much fer edecation! by permission of messrs. forbes & co., chicago. the way of a woman by byron w. king it was the last night before leap-year; it was the last hour before leap-year; in fact, the minute-hand had moved round the dial face of the clock until it registered fifteen minutes of twelve,--fifteen minutes of leap-year. john and mary were seated in mary's father's parlor. there was plenty of furniture there but they were using only a limited portion of it. john watched the minute-hand move round the dial face of the clock until, like the finger of destiny, it registered fifteen minutes of twelve,--fifteen minutes of leap-year, when he gasped hard, clutched his coat collar, and said,-- "mary, in just fifteen minutes, mary,--fifteen minutes by that clock, mary,--another year, mary,--like the six thousand years that have gone before it, mary,--will have gone into the great past and be forgotten in oblivion, mary,--and i want to ask you, mary,--to-night, mary,--on this sofa, mary,--if for the next six thousand years,--mary!!!----" "john," she said with a winning smile, "you seem very much excited, john,--can i do anything to help you, john?" "just sit still, mary,--just sit still. in just twelve minutes, mary,--twelve minutes by this clock, mary,--like the six thousand clocks that have gone before it, mary,--will be forgotten, mary,--and i want to ask this clock, mary,--to-night, on this sofa, mary,--if when we've been forgotten six thousand times, mary,--in oblivion, mary,--and six thousand sofas, mary!!----" "john," she said, more smilingly than ever, "you seem quite nervous; would you like to see father?" "not for the world, mary, not for the world! in just eight minutes, mary,--eight minutes by that awful clock, we'll be forgotten, mary,--and i want to ask six thousand fathers, mary,--if when this sofa, mary,--has been forgotten six thousand times, mary,--in six thousand oblivions,--i want to ask six thousand marys six thousand times, mary!!!!----" "john," she said, "you don't seem very well. would you like a glass of water?" "mary,--in just three minutes, mary,--three minutes by that dreadful clock, mary,--we'll be forgotten, mary,--six thousand times,--and i want to ask six thousand sofas, mary,--if when six thousand oblivions have forgotten six thousand fathers in six thousand years, i want to ask six thousand marys, six thousand times, mary!!!!----" bang! the clock struck. it was leap-year. the clock struck twelve and mary turning to john, sweetly said: "john, it's leap-year; will you marry me?" "yes!!!" gentlemen, there is no use talking, the way of a woman beats you all. the yacht club speech anonymous mr. chairman--a--a--a--mr. commodore--beg pardon--i assure you that until this moment i had not the remotest expectation that i should be called upon to reply to this toast. (_pauses, turns round, pulls ms. out of pocket and looks at it._) therefore i must beg of you, mr. captain--a--a--mr. commatain--a--a--mr.--mr. cappadore--that you will pardon the confused nature of these remarks, being as they must necessarily be altogether impromptu and extempore. (_pauses, turns round and looks at ms._) but mr. bos'an--a--a--mr. bosadore--i feel--i feel even in these few confused expromptu and intempore--intomptu and exprempore--extemptu and imprempore--exprompore remarks--i feel that i can say in the words of the poet, words of the poet--poet--i feel that i can say in the words of the poet--of the poet--poet, and in these few confused remarks--in the words of the poet--(_turns round, looks at ms._)--i feel that i can say in the words of the poet that i feel my heart swell within me. now mr. capasun, mr. commasun, why does my heart swell within me--in the few confused--why does my heart swell within me--swell within me--swell within me--what makes my heart swell within me--why does it swell--swell within me? (_turns round and looks at ms._) why, mr. cappadore--look at george washington--what did he do?--in the few confused----(_strikes dramatic attitude with swelled chest and outstretched arm, preparing for burst of eloquence which will not come._) he--huh--he--huh--he--huh--(_turns round and looks at ms._)--he took his stand upon the ship of state--he stood upon the maintopgallant-jib-boomsail and reefed the quivering sail--and when the storms were waging rildly round to wreck his fragile bark, through all the howling tempest he guided her in safety into the harbor of perdition--a--a--a--into the haven of safety. and what did he do then? what did he do then? what did he do then? he--he--he--(_looks at ms._)--there he stood. and then his grateful country-men gathered round him--they gathered round george washington--they placed him on the summit of the cipadel--their capadol--they held him up before the eyes of the assembled world--around his brow they placed a never-dying wreath--and then in thunder tones which all the world might hear----(_flourishes ms. before his face, notices it and sits down in great confusion._) mammy's li'l' boy by h. s. edwards who all time dodgin' en de cott'n en de corn? mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy! who all time stealin' ole massa's dinner-horn? mammy's li'l' baby boy. byo baby boy, oh bye, by-o li'l' boy! oh, run ter es mammy en she tek 'im in 'er arms, mammy's li'l' baby boy. who all time runnin' ole gobble roun' de yard? mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy! who tek 'e stick 'n hit ole possum dog so hard? mammy's li'l' baby boy. byo baby boy, oh bye, by-o li'l' boy! oh, run ter es mammy en climb up en 'er lap, mammy's li'l' baby boy. who all time stumpin' es toe ergin er rock? mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy! who all time er-rippin' big hole en es frock? mammy's li'l' baby boy. byo baby boy, oh bye, by-o li'l' boy! oh, run ter es mammy en she wipe es li'l' eyes, mammy's li'l' baby boy. who all time er-losin' de shovel en de rake? mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy! who all time tryin' ter ride 'e lazy drake? mammy's li'l' baby boy. byo baby boy, oh bye, by-o li'l' boy! oh, scoot fer yer mammy en she hide yer f'om yer ma, mammy's li'l' baby boy. who all time er-trottin' ter de kitchen fer er bite? mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy! who mess 'esef wi' taters twell his clothes dey look er sight? mammy's li'l' baby boy. byo baby boy, oh bye, by-o, li'l boy! en 'e run ter es mammy fer ter git 'im out er trouble, mammy's li'l' baby boy. who all time er-frettin' en de middle er de day? mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy! who all time er-gettin' so sleepy 'e can't play? mammy's li'l' baby boy. byo baby boy, oh bye, by-o li'l' boy! en 'e come ter es mammy ter rock 'im en 'er arms, mammy's li'l' baby boy. shoo, shoo, shoo-shoo-shoo, shoo, shoo, shoo! shoo, shoo, shoo-shoo-shoo, shoo, li'l' baby, shoo! shoo, shoo, shoo-shoo-shoo, shoo, shoo, shoo, shoo.... deir now, lay right down on mammy's bed en go 'long back ter sleep,--shoo-shoo! reprinted by permission corydon by thomas bailey aldrich _shepherd_ good sir, have you seen pass this way a mischief straight from market-day? you'd know her at a glance, i think; her eyes are blue, her lips are pink; she has a way of looking back over her shoulder, and, alack! who gets that look one time, good sir, has naught to do but follow her. _pilgrim_ i have not seen this maid, methinks, tho she that passed had lips like pinks. _shepherd_ or like two strawberries made one by some sly trick of dew and sun. _pilgrim_ a poet! _shepherd_ nay, a simple swain that tends his flock on yonder plain, naught else, i swear by book and bell. but she that passed--you marked her well. was she not smooth as any be that dwell herein in arcady? _pilgrim_ her skin was as the satin bark of birches. _shepherd_ light or dark? _pilgrim_ quite dark. _shepherd_ then 't was not she. _pilgrim_ the peach's side that gets the sun is not so dyed as was her cheek. her hair hung down like summer twilight falling brown; and when the breeze swept by, i wist her face was in a somber mist. _shepherd_ no, that is not the maid i seek,-- _her_ hair lies gold against the cheek; her yellow tresses take the morn like silken tassels of the corn. and yet--brown locks are far from bad. _pilgrim_ now i bethink me, this one had a figure like the willow tree which, slight and supple, wondrously inclines to droop with pensive grace, and still retains its proper place; a foot so arched and very small the marvel was she walked at all; her hand--in sooth i lack the words-- her hand, five slender snow-white birds; her voice--tho she but said "godspeed"-- was melody blown through a reed; the girl pan changed into a pipe had not a note so full and ripe. and her eye--my lad, her eye! discreet, inviting, candid, shy, an outward ice, an inward fire, and lashes to the heart's desire-- soft fringes blacker than the sloe. _shepherd--thoughtfully_ good sir, which way did _this_ one go? * * * * * _pilgrim--solus_ so, he is off! the silly youth knoweth not love in sober sooth. he loves--thus lads at first are blind-- no woman, only womankind. from the poems of thomas bailey aldrich, household edition, by permission of messrs. houghton, mifflin & co. gib him one ub mine by daniel webster davis a little urchin, ragged, black, an old cigar "stump" found, and visions of a jolly smoke, began to hover 'round. but finding that he had no match, a big store he espied, and straightway for it made a dash to have his wants supplied. "i have no match!" the owner said, "and, even if i do, i have no match, you understand, for such a thing as you!" down in the ragged pantaloons, the little black hand went, and forth it came, now holding fast a big old-fashioned cent. "gib me a box," the urchin said, his bosom filled with joy; and calmly lighted his "cigar," a radiant happy boy. then handing back the box, he said, as his face with pride did shine: "nex' time a gent'mun wants a match, jes' gib him one ub mine!" a lesson with the fan anonymous if you want to learn a lesson with the fan, i'm quite prepared to teach you all i can. so ladies, everyone, pray observe how it is done, this simple little lesson with the fan! if you chance to be invited to a ball, to meet someone you don't expect at all, and you want him close beside you, while a dozen friends divide you, well, of course--it's most unladylike to call. so you look at him a minute, nothing more, and you cast your eyes demurely on the floor, then you wave your fan, just so, well--toward you, don't you know,-- it's a delicate suggestion,--nothing more! when you see him coming to you (simple you), oh! be very, very careful what you do; with your fan just idly play, and look down, as if to say it's a matter of indifference to you! then you flutter and you fidget with it, so! and you hide your little nose behind it low, till, when he begins to speak, you just lay it on your cheek, in that fascinating manner that you know! and when he tells the old tale o'er and o'er, and vows that he will love you evermore,-- gather up your little fan, and secure him while you can,-- it's a delicate suggestion,--nothing more! the undertow by carrie blake morgan you hadn't ought to blame a man fer things he hasn't done fer books he hasn't written or fer fights he hasn't won; the waters may look placid on the surface all aroun', yet there may be an undertow a-keepin' of him down. since the days of eve and adam, when the fight of life began, it aint been safe, my brethren, fer to lightly judge a man; he may be tryin' faithful fer to make his life a go, and yet his feet git tangled in the treacherous undertow. he may not lack in learnin' and he may not want fer brains; he may be always workin' with the patientest of pains, and yet go unrewarded, an', my friends, how can we know what heights he might have climbed to but fer the undertow? you've heard the yankee story of the hen's nest with a hole, an' how the hen kept layin' eggs with all her might an' soul, yet never got a settin', not a single egg, i trow; that hen was simply kickin' 'gainst a hidden undertow. there's holes in lots of hen's nests, an' you've got to peep below to see the eggs a-rollin' where they hadn't ought to go. don't blame a man fer failin' to achieve a laurel crown until you're sure the undertow aint draggin' of him down. marketing anonymous a little girl goes to market for her mother. _butcher._--"well, little girl, what can i do for you?" _little girl._--"how much is chops this morning, mister?" _b._--"chops, cents a pound, little girl." _l. g._--"oh! cents a pound for chops; that's awful expensive. how much is steak?" _b._--"steak is cents a pound." _l. g._--"that's too much! how much is chicken?" _b._--"chicken is cents a pound" (_impatiently_). _l. g._--"oh! cents for chicken. well my ma don't want any of them!" _b._--"well, little girl, what _do_ you want?" _l. g._--"oh, i want an automobile, but my ma wants cents' worth of liver!" a spring idyl on "grass" by nixon waterman oh, the gentle grass is growing in the vale and on the hill; we can not hear it growing, still 'tis growing very still: and in the spring it springs to life, with gladness and delight; i see it growing day by day,-- it also grows by night. and, now, once more as mowers whisk the whiskers from the lawn, they'll rouse us from our slumbers,-- at the dawning of the dawn: it saddens my poor heart to think what we should do for hay, if grass instead of growing up would grow the other way. its present rate of growing, makes it safe to say that soon, 'twill cover all the hills at morn and in the afternoon. and i have often noticed as i watched it o'er and o'er, it grows, and grows, and grows, awhile, and then it grows some more,-- if it keeps growing right along it shortly will be tall; it humps itself thro' strikes, and legal holidays and all; it's growing up down all the streets; and clean around the square; one end is growing in the ground, the other in the air: if the earth possest no grass methinks its beauty would be dead; we'd have to make the best of it, and use baled hay instead. from "a book of verses," by permission of forbes & co., chicago. introducin' the speecher by edwin l. barker introductory remarks. this selection is a little caricature, introducing two characters. "the speecher" is one of those young men who has passed through college in one year,--passed _through_,--and has increasing difficulty in finding a hat large enough to fit his head. his oratorical powers have been praised by his friends, and he never misses an opportunity to exhibit his "great natural talent." "the chairman" is frequently met in the smaller towns. he has lived there a long time, is acquainted with everybody, makes it a point to form the acquaintance of all newcomers, takes an interest in public affairs, and is often called upon to introduce the speakers who visit the town. his principal weakness is that in the course of his introductory remarks he usually says more than the speaker himself. the chairman. (_comes forward to table at center, stands at right, looks nervously at audience, goes to left of table, does not know what to do with hands, returns to right of table, begins in high, nervous voice._) "gentlemen an' ladies--an' the rest on ye--(_goes left of table_) i s'pose ye all knowed afore, as per'aps ye do now, that i did not come out to make a speech; but to--to 'nounce the speecher. now, the speecher has jes come, an' is right in there. (_points with thumb over shoulder to l. and goes r. of table._) i don't know why 'twas they called on me to 'nounce the speecher, unless it is that i've lived here in your midst fer a long while, an' am 'quainted with very nigh every one fer four or five miles about, an' i s'pose that's why they called on me to--to 'nounce the speecher. now, the speecher is--right in there. (points l. and goes l.) i s'pose i'm as well calc'lated to 'nounce the speecher as any on ye, an' i s'pose that's why i'm here to--to 'nounce the speecher. now, the speecher is--right in there. (_points l. and goes r._) you know i've lived here in your midst a long time, an' have allus tuk an active part in all public affairs, an' i s'pose that's why they called on me to--to 'nounce the speecher. now, the speecher is right in there. (_points l. and goes l._) as i said once afore, i've lived here in your midst fer a long time, an' have allus tuk active part in all public affairs, an' public doin's ginerally. ye know i was 'pinted tax collector once, an' was road-overseer fer a little while, an' run fer constable of this here township--but i--i didn't git it. (_quickly._) now, the speecher is--right there. (_points l. and goes r. wipes forehead with handkerchief._) i jes want to say a word to the young men this evenin'--as i see quite a sprinklin' of 'em here--an' that is that i'd like fer all the young men to grow up an' hold high and honorable offices like i've done. but there, i can't stop any longer, 'cause the speecher is--right in there. (_starts to go, but returns._) now, i don't want you to think i don't want to talk to ye, fer i do. i do so like to talk to the young men, an' the old men, an' them that are not men. (_smiles._) i love to talk to ye. but, of course, i can't talk to you now, 'cause the speecher is--right in there. (_points l._) but some other time when the speecher's not here--i think there'll be a time afore long--why, i'll talk to you. (_grows confused._) of course, you know, i'd talk to you now; but--uh--that is--i think there'll be a time afore long--at some other--you know--i--you--the--(_desperately_) the speecher is right in there. (_rushes to l., stops, and with back to audience, concludes._) i will now interdoose to ye charles william albright, of snigger's crossroads, a very promisin' young attorney of that place, who will talk to ye. as i said afore, the speecher is right in here. now, the speecher is right out there." (_while standing with back to audience, run fingers through hair to give it a long, scholarly appearance, put on glasses, and take from chair roll of paper and place under arm. to be effective, this paper should be about one foot wide and ten feet long, folded in about five or six-inch folds. at conclusion of chairman's speech, turn and walk to table as the speecher._) the speecher. (_walks to table with a strut. face should have a wise, solemn, self-satisfied expression. stops at table, surveys the audience with solemn dignity, clears the throat, lays roll of paper on table, takes out handkerchief, clears throat, wipes mouth, smacks lips, lays handkerchief on table, surveys audience again, slowly unrolls paper and lays on table, surveys audience again, clears throat, wipes mouth, smacks lips, poses with one hand on table._) "ladies--and--gentlemen--and fellow citizens. (_rises on toes and comes back on heels, as practised by some public speakers._) i have fully realized the magnitude of this auspicious occasion, and have brought from out the archives of wisdom one of those bright, extemporaneous subjects, to which, you know, i always do (_rising inflection_) ample justice. (_rises on toes, clears throat, applies handkerchief to forehead._) the subject for this evening's discussion (_very solemn_) is coal oil. (_clears throat and looks wise._) now, the first question that arises is: how do they get it? (_in measured tone, on toes, tapping words off on fingers of left hand with forefinger of right hand._) how--do--they--get--it? (_soaringly._) my dear friends, some get it by the pint, and some by the quart. (_clears throat, wipes perspiration from forehead._) but, you say, how do they get it in the first place? (_tragically._) ah, my dear friends, as horace greeley has so fittingly exprest it--that is the question. (_quickly._) but i will explain. when they want to get it they take a great, mammoth auger (_imitates_) and they bore, and they bore, and they bore, and--(_looks at paper quickly_)--and they bore! and when they strike the oil it just squirts up. that's how they get it! (_rises on toes, smacks lips and looks wise._) now, you all know, coal oil is used for a great many things. it is used for medicine, to burn in the lamp, to blow up servant girls when they make a fire with it, and--many other useful things. (_wipes mouth and puts handkerchief in pocket._) the gentlemen in charge will now pass the hat, being careful to lock the door back there so that none of those boys from squeedunk can get out before they chip in. (_takes paper and rolls it up._) i will say that i expect to deliver another lecture here two weeks from to-night--two weeks from to-night--upon which occasion i would like to see all the children present, as the subject will be of special interest to (_rises on toes, closes eyes_) the little ones. the subject on that occasion will be 'will we bust the trusts, or will the trusts bust us?'" (_puts roll of paper under arm and stalks off as if having captured the world._) as recited by edwin l. barker and used by permission. counting one hundred by james m. bailey a danbury man named reubens, recently saw a statement that counting one hundred when tempted to speak an angry word would save a man a great deal of trouble. this statement sounded a little singular at first, but the more he read it over the more favorably he became imprest with it, and finally concluded to adopt it. next door to reubens lives a man who made five distinct attempts in a fortnight to secure a dinner of green peas by the first of july, but has been retarded by reubens' hens. the next morning after reubens made his resolution, this man found his fifth attempt had been destroyed. then he called on reubens. he said: "what in thunder do you mean by letting your hens tear up my garden?" reubens was prompted to call him various names, but he remembered his resolution, put down his rage, and meekly said: "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight----" the mad neighbor, who had been eyeing this answer with suspicion, broke in again: "why don't you answer my question, you rascal?" but still reubens maintained his equanimity, and went on with the test. "nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen----" the mad neighbor stared harder than ever. "seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one----" "you're a mean thief!" said the mad neighbor, backing toward the fence. reubens' face flushed at this charge, but he only said: "twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six----" at this figure the neighbor got up on the fence in some haste, but suddenly thinking of his peas, he said: "you mean, contemptible, old rascal! i could knock your head against my barn and i'll----" "twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three----" here the neighbor ran for the house, and entering it, violently slammed the door behind him. reubens did not let up on the enumeration, but stood out there alone in his own yard, and kept on counting, while his burning cheeks and flashing eyes eloquently affirmed his judgment. when he got up into the eighties his wife came out to him in some alarm. "why, reubens, man, what is the matter with you? do come into the house." but he didn't stop. "eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two----" then she came to him, and clung tremblingly to him, but he only turned, looked into her eyes, and said: "ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred! go into the house, old woman, or i'll bust you!" they never quarreled anonymous they had been married about three weeks, and had just gone to housekeeping. he was starting down town one morning, and she followed him to the door. they had their arms wrapt around each other, and she was saying: "o clarence, do you think it possible that the day can ever come when we will part in anger?" "why, no, little girl, of course not. what put that foolish idea into my little birdie's head, eh?" "oh, nothing, dearest. i was only thinking how perfectly dreadful it would be if one of us should speak harshly to the other." "well, don't think of such wicked, utterly impossible things any more. we can never, never, never quarrel." "i know it, darling. good-by, you dear old precious, good-by, and--oh, wait a second, clarence; i've written a note to mamma; can't you run around to the house and leave it for her some time to-day?" "why, yes, dearie; if i have time." "if you have time? o clarence!" "what is it, little girlie?" "oh, to say 'if you have time' to do almost the very first errand your little wife asks you to do." "well, well, i expect to be very busy to-day." "too busy to please me? o clarence, you hurt my feelings so." "why, child, i----" "i'm not a child, i'm a married woman, and i----" "there, there, my pet. i----" "no, no, clarence, if i were your p--p--pet you'd----" "but, mabel, do be reasonable." "o clarence! don't speak to me so." "mable, be sensible, and----" "go on, clarence, go on; break my heart." "stuff and nonsense." "oh! o--o--o--o--oh!" "what have i said or done?" "as if you need ask! but go--hate me if you will, clarence, i----" "this is rank nonsense!" "i'll go back to mamma if you want me to. she loves me, if you don't." "you must have a brain-storm!" "oh! yes, sneer at me, ridicule me, break my poor heart. perhaps you had better strike me!" he bangs the door, goes down the steps on the jump, and races off, muttering something about women being the "queerest creatures." of course, they'll make it up when he comes home, and they'll have many a little tiff in the years to come, and when they grow old they'll say: "we've lived together forty-five years, and in all that time have never spoken a cross word to each other!" song of the "l" by grenville kleiser note--_the new york elevated cars were so overcrowded at the rush hours of the day that passengers were obliged to ride on engines._ jam them in, ram them in, people still a-coming, slam them in, cram them in, keep the thing a-humming! millionaires and carpenters, office boys, stenographers, workingmen and fakirs, doctors, undertakers, brokers and musicians, writers, politicians, clergymen and plumbers, entry clerks and drummers, pack them in, whack them in, people still a-coming! mash them in, crash them in, still there's more to follow, shoot them in, boot them in, don't take time to swallow! pretty maid and tailor-made, stylish maid and home-made, jersey maid and ready-made house maid and old maid! billionaire and haughty air, bald head and golden hair, always there, never there, ah there and get there! squeeze them in, tease them in, still there's more to follow. bump them in, thump them in, why do people worry? throw them in, blow them in, everyone must hurry. take a place behind the gate, get your clothes prest while you wait. grab a seat, don't give a rap for the lady at the strap. if your life is spared till night you can tell your wife all right: how the gateman shoved them in, slammed them in, jammed them in, crammed them in, damned them in, blew them in, cuffed them in, fired them in, kicked them in, bumped them in, thumped them in, beat them in, knocked them in, rapped them in, squashed them in, rammed them in, whipped them in, pushed them in, banged them in, crusht them in, rushed them in, dashed them in, slashed them in, flung them in, jerked them in, tossed them in, shied them in, hauled them in, forced them in, whacked them in, crowded them in, prodded them in, pulled them in, dumped them in, drove them in, hammered them in, battered them in, pitched them in, urged them in, hustled them in, bustled them in, hurried them in, worried them in, as if their heads were hollow! the village oracle by j. l. harbour "why, mis' farley, is it really you? it's been so long sence i saw you that i hardly knowed you. come in an' set down. i was jest a-wishin' some one would come in. i've felt so kind of downsy all mornin'. i reckon like enough it is my stummick. i thought some of goin' to see old doctor ball about it, but, la, i know jest what he'd say. he'd look at my tongue an' say, 'coffee,' an' look cross. he lays half the mis'ry o' the world to coffee. says it is a rank pizen to most folks, an' that lots o' the folks now wearin' glasses wouldn't need 'em if they'd let coffee alone. says it works on the ocular nerves an' all that, but i reckon folks here in granby will go on drinkin' coffee jest the same. "you won't mind if i keep right on with my work, will you, seein' that it ain't nothin' but sewin' carpet-rags? i've got to send my rags to the weaver this week, or she can't weave my carpet until after she comes home from a visit she 'lows on makin' to her sister over in zoar. it's just a hit-er-miss strip o' carpet i'm makin' for my small south chamber. i set out to make somethin' kind o' fancy with a twisted strip an' the chain in five colors, but i found i hadn't the right kind of rags to carry it through as i wanted to; so i jest decided on a plain hit-er-miss. i don't use the south chamber no great nohow. it's the room my first husband and his first wife and sev'ral of his kin all died in; so the 'sociations ain't none too cheerin', an' i--i--s'pose you know about lyddy baxter losin' her husband last week? no? well, he's went the way o' the airth, an' lyddy wore my mournin'-veil an' gloves to the funeral. they're as good as they were the day i follered my two husbands to the grave in 'em. when a body pays two dollars an' sixty-eight cents for a mournin'-veil, it behooves 'em to take keer of it, an' not switch it out wearin' it common as sally dodd did hern. if a body happens to marry a second time, as i did, a mournin'-veil may come in handy, jest as mine did. "yes, lyddy's husband did go off real sudden. it was this new-fashioned trouble, the appendysheetus, that tuk him off. they was jest gittin' ready to op'rate on him when he went off jest as easy as a glove. there's three thousand life-insurance; so lyddy ain't as bereft as some would be. now, if she'll only have good jedgement when she gits the money, an' not fool it away as mis' mack did her husband's life-insurance. he had only a thousand dollars, an' she put half of it on her back before three months, an' put three hundred into a pianny she couldn't play. she said a pianny give a house sech an air. i up an' told her that money would soon be all 'air' if she didn't stop foolin' it away. "i wouldn't want it told as comin' from me, but i've heerd that it was her that put that advertisement in the paper about a widder with some means wishin' to correspond with a gentleman similarly situated with a view to matrimony. i reckon she had about fifty dollars left at that time. i tried to worm something about it out of the postmaster; for of course he'd know about her mail, but he was as close as a clam-shell. i reckon one has to be kind of discreet if one is postmaster, but he might of known that anything he told me wouldn't go no farther if he didn't want it to. i know when to speak an' when to hold my tongue if anybody in this town does. "did you know that myra dart was goin' to marry that rylan chap? it's so. i got it from the best authority. an' she's nine years an' three months an' five days older than him. i looked it up in the town hist'ry. it's a good deal of a reesk for a man to marry a woman that's much older than he is. "but, my land, it's a good deal of a reesk to git married at all nowadays. you never know what you're gittin' ontil it's too late to undo the matter. seems to me there must be a screw loose somewhere, or matrimony wouldn't be the fizzle it is in so many instances. an' it's about six o' one an' half a dozen o' the other when it comes to dividin' the blame. you know my first husband was jestice o' the peace five years, an' he had considdable marryin' to do, an' i saw a good deal o' what loose idees some people had about matrimony. "i recollect of one couple comin' in to git married one evenin'. they was both in middle life, an' them kind usually acts the silliest with the exception of a real old pair. they are the beaterees for silly actin'. well, my husband never married any couple without makin' sure that there was no onlawful hindrances in the way o' past husbands and wives, an' so he says to the woman, 'have you ever been married before?' an' she says jest as flippant, 'yes, but he didn't live but three weeks; so it ain't wuth speakin' of.' now wa'n't that scand'lous? it jest showed how lightly some folks look on the solemn ord'nance o' matrimony. "i reckon you know that the porters have a boy at their house? no? well, they have. he was born at twenty minutes to one las' night, or this mornin' ruther, an' old susan puffer is to do the nussin'. i heard a wagon drive by here lickety-split at most midnight las' night an' i sez to myself, sez i, 'i'll bet that's hi porter tearin' off for old susan puffer', an' i got up, an' wrapped a blanket around me, an' waited for the wagon to come back; an' when it did, i called out, 'that you, hi an' susan?' it gives 'em a good deal of a start, but susan called out that it was her, an' i went back to bed. some folks would of been curious-minded enough to of went right over to the porters', but i ain't that pryin' an' i didn't go over till after breakfast this mornin'. "it's a real nice baby, an' it's goin' to be the livin' spit o' hi exceptin' for its nose, which is its mother's all over; an' its mouth is the livin' counterpart o' its grandfather porter's an' it's got the davis ears. you know its mother was a davis. i hope it won't have to be a bottle-riz baby. i don't care how good these infant foods may be; i don't think that a bottle-riz baby is ever the equal of one that ain't bottle-riz. the lord must of intended mothers to nuss their babies, or he wouldn't of made 'em so they could. so i--must you be goin'? what's your hurry? i'd love to have you set all afternoon. it's so long sense you have been here, an' i do so enjoy havin' the neighbors drop in an' tell me all that's goin' on. i never go no place to hear the news. i wish you'd come in real often an' talk to me. "looks some like rain. i hope it'll be fair to-morrow, for i 'low on goin' over to lucindy baxter's to spend the day. me an' her went over to ware monday, an' had a real nice all-day visit with lucindy's married daughter. she's real nicely fixt, an' she had three kinds of cake besides cookies for tea. seems to me one kind an' the cookies would o' been plenty. mebbe she wanted to let us see that her husband was a good pervider. "i went over to zion tuesday, an' wednesday me an' nancy dodd went over to becky means's, and helped her quilt her album quilt; an' she had a chicken-pie for dinner that went a little ahead of anything i ever et in the way of chicken-pie. nancy's a good cook anyhow. she gives a kind of a taste to things that only a born cook can give. i'm goin' over to the fair in greenfield friday; so i--do come over again soon. i git real lonesome stayin' to home close as i do, an' it's nice to have some one come in an' talk to me as you have. good-by. "yes, i'll come over soon. but don't you wait for me. come when you kin. i'm allus to home. good-by. see my little chicks? i put a hen on thirteen eggs, an' she hatched out every blessed one of 'em. wa'n't she smart? an she laid all the eggs herself, too. i got another hen comin' off on the tenth. didn't the minister preach beautifully sunday? i dunno as i ever heard a more upliftin' sermon. i see that his wife has her black silk made up that the ladies' society gave her on her birthday. didn't seem to me it fit real well under the arms. well, good-by, good-by." by permission of the author and the _christian endeavor world_. if i can be by her by benjamin franklin king i d-d-don't c-c-c-are how the r-r-r-obin sings, er how the r-r-r-ooster f-f-flaps his wings, er whether't sh-sh-shines, er whether't pours, er how high up the eagle s-s-soars, if i can b-b-b-be by her. i don't care if the p-p-p-people s-say 'at i'm weak-minded every w-way, an' n-n-never had no cuh-common sense, i'd c-c-c-cuh-climb the highest p-picket fence. if i could b-b-b-be by her. if i can be by h-h-her, i'll s-s-swim the r-r-r-est of life thro' th-th-thick an' thin; i'll throw my overcoat away, an' s-s-s-stand out on the c-c-c-oldest day, if i can b-b-b-be by her. you s-s-see sh-sh-she weighs an awful pile, b-b-b-but i d-d-d-don't care--sh-she's just my style, an' any f-f-fool could p-p-p-lainly see she'd look well b-b-b-by the side of me, if i could b-b-b-be by her. i b-b-b-braced right up, and had the s-s-s-and to ask 'er f-f-f-father f-f-fer 'er hand; he said: "wh-wh-what p-p-prospects have you got?" i said: "i gu-gu-guess i've got a lot, if i can b-b-b-be by her." it's all arranged f-f-fer christmas day, fer then we're goin' to r-r-r-run away, an' then s-s-some th-th-thing that cu-cu-couldn't be at all b-b-efore will then, you s-s-see, b-b-b-because i'll b-b-b-be by her. from "ben king's verse," by permission of forbes & co., chicago. mccarthy and mcmanus anonymous an irishman named patrick mccarthy, having received an invitation to visit some friends who were stopping at one of the prominent hotels, suddenly realized that his best suit needed pressing. he sent the suit to his friend michael mcmanus, the tailor, with instructions to put it in proper shape and to return it with all haste. after waiting an hour or more, he became very impatient, and asked his wife to go for the clothes, telling her to be sure to bring them back with her. when she returned he was surprized to find she had not brought back his suit, and he said: "well, where are my clothes?" "don't ask me, don't ask me. i'm thot mad i'm almost afther killin' thot mcmanus!" "pfhot's thot? pfhot's mcmanus done with thim?" "he's done nothin' with thim, and he barely took notice of me." "shure woman, dear, pfhot's that you be tellin' me? did mac insult you,--for the love of hivins tell me quick?" "well, i will tell you. whin i wint into the shop, there was mcmanus; instid of sittin' on the table as usual, he was sittin' forninst it, with a long shate of paper spread out, and he was a-writin' and a-writin' and a-writin'. says i, 'mr. mcmanus.' no answer. again i says, 'mr. mcmanus.' still no answer. says i, 'look here, mr. mcmanus, pfhot do you mean by kapin' my husband waitin' for his clothes?--have you got thim done?' without raisin' his head he says, 'no, i haven't,' and wint on writin' and writin'. says i, 'he's waitin' for thim.' says he, 'let him wait.' says i, 'he won't.' says he, 'he'll have to.' says i, 'pfhot do you mean by writin' thot long document, knowin' well thot my husband is waitin' for his clothes?' says he, 'well, if you must know, it's important business. do you see thot list?' pointin' to a long list of names. 'well,' says he, 'thot's a list of all the min _thot i can lick_ in this neighborhood.' says i, 'is thot so?' says he, 'yes, thot is so.' says i, 'mr. mcmanus, have you got my husband's name on thot list?' says he, takin' up the list and holdin' it near my face, 'look at thot,--the _very first_ name on the list!' and i was thot mad i couldn't talk." "do you mean to tell me thot he had _my name_ on thot list?" "i do, and the _very first one_,--on the _very top_." "well, wait till i go over and see mcmanus." a few minutes later mr. mccarthy entered the shop of mr. mcmanus, and said, "is mcmanus here?" mcmanus replied, "he is and he's _very busy_." "is thot so?" "yes, thot is so." "look here, mcmanus, pfhot makes you so busy?" "oh, i'm just doin' a little writin'." "well, what is it you're writin'?" "well, i'll tell you. i'm makin' out a list of all the min thot i can lick in this neighborhood, and a moighty big list it is. just look at thot." "say mac, is _my name_ on thot list?" "is pat mccarthy's name on this list? well, you can just bet your life it is, and it's the _very first one_!" "is thot so, mcmanus?" "yes, thot's so." mccarthy, taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves, said: "look here, mcmanus, _i can lick you_." "did you say you _thought_ you could lick me?" "i said i _can_ lick you." "you say you _can_ lick me?" "yes, thot's what i said." "all right. _off goes your name from the list._" and she cried by minna irving miss muriel million was sitting alone, with a very disconsolate air; her fluffy blue tea-gown was fastened awry, and frowsy and rumpled her hair. "oh, what is the matter?" i said in alarm, "i beg you in me to confide." but she buried her face in her 'kerchief of lace, and she cried, and she cried, and she cried. "come out for a spin in the automobile, the motor-boat waits at the pier; or let's take a drive in the sunshiny park, or a canter on horseback, my dear." t'was thus that i coaxed her in lover-like tones, as i tenderly knelt at her side, but refusing all comfort she pushed me aside, while she cried, and she cried, and she cried. "pray whisper, my darling, this terrible wo, you know i would love you the same, if the millions of papa vanish in smoke and you hadn't a cent to your name, if you came to the church in a garment of rags i would wed you with rapturous pride." she nestled her cheek to my shoulder at this, tho she cried, and she cried, and she cried. "you know," she exclaimed in a piteous wail, "that love of a hat that i wore?-- the one with pink roses and chiffon behind, and a fluffy pink feather before?-- i paid madame modeste a hundred for that, and our parlor-maid, flora mcbride, has got one just like it for three twenty-five!" and she cried, and she cried, and she cried. by permission of the author and of the _new york herald_. dot leedle boy by james whitcomb riley ot's a leedle gristmas story dot i told der leedle folks-- und i vant you stop dot laughin' und grackin' funny jokes!-- so help me peter-moses! ot's no time for monkeyshine, ober i vas told you somedings of dot leedle boy of mine! ot vas von cold vinter vedder, ven the snow was all about-- dot you have to chop der hatchet eef you got der sauerkraut! und der cheekens on der hind leg vas standin' in der shine, der sun shmile out dot morning on dot leedle boy of mine. he vas yoost a leedle baby, not bigger as a doll dot time i got acquaintet-- ach! you ought to heard 'im squall!-- i grackys! dot's der moosie ot make me feel so fine ven first i vas been marriet-- oh, dot leedle boy of mine! he look' yoost like his fader!-- so, ven der vimmen said, "vot a purty leedle baby!" katrina shake her head-- i dink she must 'a' notice dot der baby vas a-gryin', und she cover up der blankets of dot leedle boy of mine. vell, ven he vas got bigger, dot he grawl und bump his nose, und make der table over, und molasses on his glothes-- dot make 'im all der sweeter,-- so i say to my katrina: "better you vas quit a-sphankin' dot leedle boy of mine!" i vish you could 'a' seen id-- ven he glimb up on der chair und scmash der lookin'-glasses ven he try to comb his hair mit a hammer!--und katrina say, "dot's an ugly sign!" but i laugh und vink my fingers at dot leedle boy of mine. but vonce, dot vinter morning, he shlip out in der snow mitout no stockin's on 'im-- he say he "vant to go und fly some mit der birdies!" und ve give 'im medi-cine ven he catch der "parrygoric"-- dot leedle boy of mine! und so i set und nurse 'im, vile der gristmas vas come roun', und i told 'im 'bout "kriss kringle," how he come der chimbly down; und i ask 'im if he love 'im eef he bring 'im someding fine? "_nicht besser as mein fader_," say dot leedle boy of mine. und he put his arms aroun' me und hug so close und tight, i hear der glock a-tickin' all der balance of der night!-- someding make me feel so funny ven i say to my katrina, "let us go und fill der stockin's, of dot leedle boy of mine." vell--ve buyed a leedle horses dot you pull 'im mit a shtring, und a little fancy jay-bird-- eef you vant to hear 'im sing you took 'im by der topknot und yoost blow in behine-- und dot make much _spectahkle_ for dot leedle boy of mine. und gandies, nuts und raisins-- und i buy a leedle drum dot i vant to hear 'im rattle ven der gristmas morning come! und a leedle shmall tin rooster dot vould crow so loud und fine ven he squeeze 'im in der morning, dot leedle boy of mine. und--vile ve vas a-fixin'-- dot leedle boy vake out! i t'ought he been a-dreamin' "kriss kringle" vas about,-- for he say--"_dot's him!--i see 'im mit der shtars dot make der shine!_" und he yoost keep on a-cryin'-- dot leedle boy of mine,-- und gettin' vorse und vorser-- und tumble on der bed! so--ven der doctor seen id, he kindo shake his head, und veel his pulse--und visper: "der boy is a-dyin'." you dink i could _believe_ id? _dot leedle boy of mine?_ i told you, friends--dot's someding, der last time dot he spheak und say, "_goot-by, kriss kringle!_" --dot make me feel so veak i yoost kneel down und drimble, und bur-sed out a-cryin', "_mein gott, mein gott in himmel!-- dot leedle boy of mine!_" der sun don't shine _dot_ gristmas! ... eef dot leedle boy vould liff'd-- no deefer-en'! for _heaven_ vas his leedle gristmas gift!... und der _rooster_, und der _gandy_, und me--und my katrina-- und der jay-bird--is a-vatin' for dot leedle boy of mine. from "green fields and running brooks," copyright . used by special permission of the publishers, the bobbs-merrill company. mr. dooley on the grip by finlay peter dunne mr. dooley was discovered making a seasonable beverage, consisting of one part syrup, two parts quinine, and fifteen parts strong waters. "what's the matter?" asked mr. mckenna. "i have th' lah gr-rip," said mr. dooley, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. "bad cess to it! oh, me poor back! i feels as if a dhray had run over it. did ye iver have it? ye did not? well, ye're lucky. ye're a lucky man. "i wint to mcguire's wake las' week. they gave him a dacint sind-off. no porther. an' himself looked natural, as fine a corpse as iver gavin layed out. gavin tould me so himsilf. he was as proud iv mcguire as if he owned him. fetched half th' town in to look at him, an' give ivry wan iv thim cards. he near frightened ol' man dugan into a faint. 'misther dugan, how old a-are ye?' 'sivinity-five, thanks be,' says dugan. 'thin,' says gavin, 'take wan iv me cards,' he says. 'i hope ye'll not forget me,' he says. "'twas there i got th' lah grip. lastewise, it is me own opinion iv it, tho th' docthor said i swallowed a bug. it don't seem right, jawn, f'r th' mcguires is a clane fam'ly; but th' docthor said a bug got into me system. 'what sort if bug?' says i. 'a lah grip bug,' he says. 'ye have mickrobes in ye're lungs,' he says. 'what's thim?' says i. 'thim's th' lah grip bugs,' says he. 'ye took wan in, an' warmed it,' he says, 'an' it has growed an' multiplied till ye're system does be full if thim,' he says, 'millions iv thim,' he says, 'marchin' an' counter-marchin' through ye.' 'glory be to the saints!' says i. 'had i better swallow some insect powdher?' i says. 'some iv thim in me head has a fallin' out, an' is throwin' bricks.' 'foolish man,' says he. 'go to bed,' he says, 'an' lave thim alone,' he says; 'whin they find who they're in,' he says, 'they'll quit ye.' "so i wint to bed, an' waited while th' mickrobes had fun with me. mondah all iv thim was quiet but thim in me stummick. they stayed up late dhrinkin' an' carousin' an' dancin' jigs till wurruds come up between th' kerry mickrobes an' thim fr'm wexford; an' th' whole party wint over to me left lung, where they cud get th' air, an' had it out. th' nex' day th' little mickrobes made a tobaggan slide iv me spine; an' manetime some mickrobes that was wurkin' f' th' tilliphone comp'ny got it in their heads that me legs was poles, an' put on their spikes an' climbed all night long. "they was tired out th' nex' day till about five o'clock, whin thim that was in me head begin flushin' out th' rooms; an' i knew there was goin' to be doin's in th' top flat. what did thim mickrobes do but invite all th' other mickrobes in f'r th' ev'nin'. they all come. oh, by gar, they was not wan iv thim stayed away. at six o'clock they begin to move fr'm me shins to me throat. they come in platoons an' squads an' dhroves. some iv thim brought along brass bands, an' more thin wan hundred thousand iv thim dhruv through me pipes on dhrays. a trolley line was started up me back, an iv'ry car run into a wagon-load if scrap iron at th' base if me skull. "th' mickrobes in me head must 've done thimselves proud. they tipped over th' chairs an' tables; an' in less time thin it takes to tell, th' whole party was at it. they'd been a hurlin' game in th' back iv me skull, an' th' young folks was dancin' breakdowns an' havin' leppin matches in me forehead; but they all stopt, to mix in. oh, 'twas a grand shindig--tin millions iv men, women, an childher rowlin' on th' flure, hands an' feet goin', ice-picks an' hurlin' sticks, clubs, brick-bats, flyin' in th' air! how many iv thim was kilt i niver knew; f'r i wint as daft as a hen, an' dhreamt iv organizin' a mickrobe campaign club that'd sweep th' prim'ries, an' maybe go acrost an' free ireland. whin i woke up, me legs was as weak as a day-old baby's, an' me poor head impty as a cobbler's purse. i want no more iv thim. give me anny bug fr'm a cockroach to an aygle, save an' excipt thim west if ireland fenians, th' mickrobes." by permission of small, maynard & company. a rainy day episode anonymous one morning recently as i was about to start from my home, i noticed that it was raining very hard outside, and as i turned to the rack to get an umbrella i was surprized to find that out of five umbrellas there was not one in the lot i could use. on the impulse of the moment i decided to take the whole five down town to the umbrella hospital and have them all repaired at once. just as i started from the door my wife asked me to be sure and bring her umbrella back as she wanted to use it that evening. this imprest the subject of umbrellas very vividly on my mind, so i did not fail to leave the five umbrellas to be repaired, stating i would call for them on my way home in the evening. when i went to lunch at noon it was still raining very hard, but as i had no umbrella this simply imprest the subject on my mind. i went to a nearby restaurant, sat down at a table, and had been there only a few minutes when a young lady came in and sat down at the same table with me. i was first to finish, however, and getting up i absent-mindedly picked up her umbrella and started for the door. she called out to me and reminded me that i had her umbrella, whereupon i returned it to her with much embarrassment and many apologies. this incident served to impress the subject more deeply on my mind, so on my way home in the evening i called for my umbrellas, bought a newspaper, and boarded a street-car. i was deeply engrossed in my newspaper, having placed the five umbrellas alongside of me in the car, but all at once i had a peculiar feeling of someone staring at me. suddenly i looked up from my paper, and was surprized to see sitting directly opposite me the same young woman i had met in the restaurant! she had a broad smile on her face, and looking straight into my eyes she said knowingly: "you've had a successful day, to-day, haven't you?" i knew he would come if i waited by horace g. williamson i knew he would come if i waited, tho waiting, it caused me despair; and i sat by the window and listened to hear his first step on the stair: for i knew he would come if i waited, but anxiously i paced 'round the floor; oh, to see his own form on the threshold as i hastened to open the door. would he come? but how dare i question his faithfulness to his own word; would he dare not come at my calling? or was that his dear step that i heard? oh, i rush to the door for to meet him, for to welcome him here after all, for i knew he would come if i waited, he would come to answer my call. yes, yes, it is he on the pavement, he's coming, he's ringing the bell, and my heart beats wild with rapture of a joy which i never can tell, for i knew he would come if i waited, yes, he'd come at my call; joy, o joy, what happiness it is to welcome just to welcome: "the messenger boy." love's moods and senses anonymous sally salter, she was a young lady who taught, and her friend charley church was a preacher who praught! tho his enemies called him a screecher who scraught. his heart when he saw her kept sinking, and sunk, and his eye, meeting hers, began winking, and wunk; while she in her turn fell to thinking, and thunk. he hastened to woo her, and sweetly he wooed, for his love grew until to a mountain it grewed, and what he was longing to do then he doed. in secret he wanted to speak, and he spoke, to seek with his lips what his heart long had soke; so he managed to let the truth leak, and it loke. he asked her to ride to the church, and they rode, they so sweetly did glide, that they both thought they glode, and they came to the place to be tied, and were tode. then, "homeward," he said, "let us drive," and they drove, and soon as they wished to arrive, they arrove; for whatever he couldn't contrive she controve. the kiss he was dying to steal, then he stole: at the feet where he wanted to kneel, then he knole, and said, "i feel better than ever i fole." so they to each other kept clinging and clung; while time his swift circuit was winging, and wung; and this was the thing he was bringing, and brung: the man sally wanted to catch, and had caught-- that she wanted from others to snatch, and had snaught-- was the one that she now liked to scratch, and she scraught. and charley's warm love began freezing, and froze, while he took to teasing, and cruelly toze the girl he had wished to be squeezing, and squoze. "wretch!" he cried, when she threatened to leave him, and left, "how could you deceive me, as you have deceft?" and she answered, "i promised to cleave, and i've cleft!" a nocturnal sketch by thomas hood even is come; and from the dark park, hark, the signal of the setting sun--one gun! and six is sounding from the chime, prime time to go and see the drury-lane dane slain,-- or hear othello's jealous doubt spout out,-- or macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, denying to his frantic clutch much touch; or else to see ducrow with wide stride ride four horses as no other man can span; or in the small olympic pit, sit split laughing at liston, while you quiz his phiz. anon night comes, and with her wings brings things such as, with his poetic tongue, young sung; the gas up-blazes with its bright, white light, and paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl, about the streets and take up pall-mall sal, who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs. now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash, past drowsy charley, in a deep sleep, creep, but frightened by policeman b , flee, and while they're going, whisper low, "no go!" now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads. and sleepers waking, grumble: "drat that cat!" who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill will. now bulls of bashan, of a prize size, rise in childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor georgy, or charley, or billy, willy-nilly;-- but nursemaid, in a nightmare rest, chest-prest, dreameth of one of her old flames, james games, and that she hears--what faith is man's!--ann's banns and his, from rev. mr. rice, twice, thrice: white ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, that upward goes, shows rose knows those bows' woes! katie's answer anonymous och, katie's a rogue, it is thrue, but her eyes, like the sky, are so blue, an' her dimples so swate, an' her ankles so nate, she dazed, an' she bothered me, too-- till one mornin' we wint for a ride, whin, demure as a bride, by my side, the darlint, she sat, with the wickedest hat, 'neath a purty girl's chin iver tied. an' my heart, arrah, thin how it bate for my kate looked so temptin' an' swate, wid cheeks like the roses, an' all the red posies, that grow in her garden so nate. but i sat just as mute as the dead, till she said, wid a toss of the head, "if i'd known that to-day you'd have nothing to say, i'd have gone wid my cousin instead." thin i felt myself grow very bowld, for i knew she'd not scold if i towld uv the love in my heart, that would never depart, tho i lived to be wrinkled an' owld. an' i said, "if i dared to do so, i'd lit go uv the baste, an' i'd throw both arms 'round yer waist, an' be stalin' a taste uv them lips that are coaxin' me so." then she blushed a more illegent red, as she said, widout raisin' her head, an' her eyes lookin' down 'neath her lashes so brown, "would ye like me to drive, misther ted?" "'spÄcially jim" anonymous i wus mighty good-lookin' when i was young, peert an' black-eyed an' slim, with fellers a-courtin' me sunday nights, 'späcially jim! the likeliest one of 'em all was he, chipper an' han'som' an' trim, but i tossed up my head an' made fun o' the crowd, 'späcially jim! i said i hadn't no 'pinion o' men, an' i wouldn't take stock in him! but they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk, 'späcially jim! i got so tired o' havin' 'em roun' 'späcially jim! i made up my mind i'd settle down an' take up with him. so we was married one sunday in church, 'twas crowded full to the brim; 'twas the only way to get rid of 'em all, 'späcially jim. agnes, i love thee! anonymous i stood upon the ocean's briny shore; and, with a fragile reed, i wrote upon the sand--"agnes, i love thee!" the mad waves rolled by, and blotted out the fair impression. frail reed! cruel wave! treacherous sand! i'll trust ye no more; but, with giant hand, i'll pluck from norway's frozen shore her tallest pine, and dip its top into the crater of vesuvius, and upon the high and burnished heavens i'll write,--"agnes, i love thee!"-- and i would like to see any dog-goned wave wash that out! the gorilla anonymous "o mighty ape! half beast, half man, thy uncouth shape betrays a plan the gulf of being at a bound to span. thou art the link between ourselves and brutes, lifting the lower to a higher plane; thy human face all cavilers refutes, who sneer at darwin as a dreamer vain. how camest thou beneath this canvas tent? within this cage? behind these iron bars? thou, whose young days in tropic lands were spent, with strange companions, under foreign stars? art thou not lonely? what is life to thee thus mewed in prison, innocent of crime, become a spectacle for crowds to see, and reckless boys to jeer at all the time? hast thou no feelings such as we possess? art thou devoid of any sense of shame? rise up, o brother, and thy wrongs redress; rise in thy might, and be no longer tame!" i paused in my apostrophe. the animal arose; he seized the bars that penned him in: my blood in terror froze. he shook the cage from side to side; the frightened people fled; then, in a tone of savage wrath, the horrid monster said: "i'm hired by the wake to wear the dhirty craythur's shkin; i came from tipperary, and me name is micky flynn!" banging a sensational novelist anonymous the other day a stout woman, armed with an umbrella, and leading a small urchin, called at the office of a new york boys' story paper. "is this the place where they fight indians?" she inquired of the young man in charge. "is this the locality where the brave boy charges up the canyon and speeds a bullet to the heart of the dusky redskin?" and she jerked the urchin around by the ear and brought her umbrella down on the desk. "we publish stories for boys, and----" "i want to know if these are the premises on which the daring lad springs upon his fiery mustang, and, darting through the circle of thunderstruck savages, cuts the captive's cords and bears him away before the wondering indians have recovered from their astonishment? that's the information i'm after. i want to know if that sort of thing is perpetrated here!" and she swung the umbrella around her head. "i don't remember those specific facts, but----" "i want to know if this is the precinct where the adventurous boy jumps on the back of a buffalo and with unerring aim picks off one by one the bloodthirsty pursuers who bite the dust at every crack of the faithful rifle! i'm looking for the place where that sort of thing happens!" and this time she brought the unlucky man a tremendous whack across the back. "i think----" "i'm in search of the shop in which the boy road-agent holds the quivering stage-driver powerless with his glittering eye, while he robs the male passengers with an adroitness born of long and tried experience, and kisses the hands of the lady passengers with a gallantry of bearing that bespeaks noble birth and a chivalrous nature! i'm looking for the apartment in which that business is transacted!" "upon my word, madam, i----" "i want to be introduced to the jars in which you keep the boy scouts of the sierras! show me the bins full of the boy detectives of the prairie! point out to me the barrels full of boy pirates of the spanish main!" and with each demand she brought her umbrella down on the young man's head until he jumped over the desk and sought safety in a neighboring canyon. "i'll teach 'em!" she panted, grasping the urchin by the ear and leading him off. "i'll teach 'em to make it good or dance. want to go fight indians any more (_twisting the boy's ear_)? want to stand proudly upon the pinnacle of the mountain and scatter the plain beneath with the bleeding bodies of uncounted slain? propose to spring upon the taffrail and with a ringing word of command send a broadside into the richly-laden galley, and then mercifully spare the beautiful maiden in the cabin, that she may become your bride? eh? going to do it any more?" the boy exprest his permanent abandonment of all the glories enumerated. "then come along," said she, taking him by the collar. "let me catch you around with any more ramrods and carving knives, and you'll think the leaping, curling, resistless prairie fire has swept with a ferocious roar of triumph across the trembling plains and lodged under your jacket to stay!" hopkins' last moments anonymous nurses in hospitals are inclined to lay too much stress on the advantages received by the patients and their duty of thankfulness, but it is the poor soldier who suffers most from always having his cause to be grateful flung in his teeth. the following true story took place between the chaplain and the hospital orderly: _chaplain_--"so poor hopkins is dead. i should like to have spoken to him once more and soothed his last moments. why didn't you call me?" _hospital orderly_--"i didn't think you ought to be disturbed for 'opkins, sir; so i just soothed him as best i could myself." _chaplain_--"why, what did you say to him?" _orderly_--"i sez, ''opkins, you're mortal bad.'" "'i am,' sez 'e." "''opkins,' sez i, 'i don't think you'll get better.'" "'no,' sez 'e." "''opkins,' sez i, 'you're going fast.'" "'yes,' sez 'e." "''opkins,' sez i, 'i don't think you can 'ope to go to 'eaven.'" "'i don't think i can,' sez 'e." "'well, then, 'opkins,' sez i, 'you'll go to 'ell.'" "'i suppose so,' sez 'e," "''opkins,' sez i, 'you ought to be wery grateful as there's a place perwided for you, and that you've got somewhere to go.' and i think 'e 'eard, sir, for 'e just gave a little groan, turned over, and then 'e died." the fairies' tea anonymous five little fairies went out to take tea, under the shade of a juniper tree. each had a cup from an acorn cut, and a plate from the rind of a hickory nut. the table was spread with a cloth all of lace, woven by spiders the banquet to grace. oh, what good things they all had to eat!-- slices of strawberry,--my what a treat! honey the sweetest the wild bee could hive, and a humming-bird's egg for each of the five. then they drank their host's health in their favorite drink, which was,--now what was it? can anyone think? why the dew-drop that comes from the heart of the rose is the drink of the fairies, as everyone knows. counting eggs anonymous old moses, who sells eggs and chickens on the streets of austin for a living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived; but he has the habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. he carries his wares around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. he stopt in front of the residence of mrs. samuel burton. the old lady herself came out to the gate to make the purchase. "have you any eggs this morning, uncle moses?" she asked. "yes, indeed i has. jess got in ten dozen from de kentry." "are they fresh?" "fresh? yes, indeed! i guantees 'em, an'--an'--de hen guantees 'em." "i'll take nine dozen. you can just count them into this basket." "all right, mum; (_he counts_) one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten. you can rely on dem bein' fresh. how's your son comin' on de school? he must be mos' grown." "yes, uncle moses; he is a clerk in a bank in galveston." "why, how ole am de boy?" "he is eighteen." "you don't tole me so! eighteen, and getting a salary already! eighteen (_counting_), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-free, twenty-foah, twenty-five. and how's your gal comin' on? she was most growed up de last time i seed her." "she is married and living in dallas." "wall, i declar'; how time scoots away! and you say she has childruns? why, how ole am de gal? she must be just about----" "thirty-three." "am dat so? (_counting._) firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six, firty-seben, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-free. hit am singular dat you has sich ole childruns. you don't look more den forty years old yerseff." "nonsense, old man; i see you want to flatter me. when a person gets to be fifty-three years old----" "fifty-free! i jess dun gwinter bleeve hit; fifty-free, fifty-foah, fifty-five, fifty-six--i want you to pay 'tenshun when i count de eggs, so dar'll be no mistake--fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-free, sixty-foah. whew! dis am a warm day. dis am de time ob year when i feels i'se gettin' ole myself; i ain't long fur dis world. you comes from an ole family. when your fadder died he was sebenty years ole." "seventy-two." "dat's old, suah. sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seben, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine. and your mudder? she was one ob de noblest-lookin' ladies i eber see. you remind me ob her so much! she libed to mos' a hundred. i bleeves she was done past a centurion when she died." "no, uncle moses; she was only ninety-six when she died." "den she wan't no chicken when she died, i know dat. ninety-six, ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight--dar, one hundred and eight nice fresh eggs--jess nine dozen; and here am one moah egg in case i have discounted myself." old mose went on his way rejoicing. a few days afterward mrs. burton said to her husband: "i am afraid that we will have to discharge matilda. i am satisfied that she steals the milk and eggs. i am positive about the eggs, for i bought them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. i stood right there, and heard moses count them myself, and there were nine dozen." the oatmobile anonymous ay yust bane oop by minnesote to sa my onkle yohn. ay stop me by st. paul awhile yust for a little fun; an' dere ay saw one oatmobile-- dat bane de name you call; und yo could tak a ride on heem mit out some horse at all. dat bane a purty nice machine wit rubber tires an tings; yust sit heem lik a vagon on an' he run yust lik mit vings. ay ask dot man vot make heem go? he say, "my hade got vheels." he say, "he feed heem plenty oat an' call heem oat-mo-bile." ay say, "ay know ay bane grane sweede yust come from nord dakote, but ay dou belave he make heem go by feedin' vagin oat." ay say to heem, "look here! ay bane some time in missoure, ay know ay'm grane, but yust de same you bet me life, 'show me!'" dat feller lafe an' shake his head an' say, "ay bane good show myself," ay say, "ay tink ay punch your head an' lay you on de shelf." ay pick me oop a little stick bane layin' on de seat an bet me life, dot oat-mo-bile yust started oop de street. ay holler, "wo-o-o!" but he don' stop an' den you bet my life ay wish ay bane by nord dakote, at home mit ann, my vife, dat oat-mo-bile yust boomped me oop de side valk on an' stopt; an' bucked me thro' de window of one dem butcher-shop. he split me nose bay my face oop he smash me almost dead; he punch de inside of me mouth all outside of me hade. he hurt me eye so bad in one ay'm blin' yust like a beetle. in oder one, ay can see some but only just a little. de las ay see of dat machine he bane a buckin' still. ay tink he feed too many oat tod at old oat-mo-bile. ay tell my wife, if i get vell you bet i vill not monkey some anoder time with any oat-mo-bile. almost beyond endurance by james whitcomb riley i ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more! i'm got earache, an' ma can't make it quit a-tall; an' carlo bite my rubber-ball an' puncture it; an' sis she take an' poke my knife down through the stable-floor an' loozed it,--blame it all! but i ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more! an' aunt mame _wrote_ she's comin' an' she _can't_, folks is come _there_!--an' i don't care if she _is_ my aunt! an' my eyes stings; an' i'm ist coughin' all the time, an' hurts me so, an' where my side's so sore, grampa felt where, an' he says, "maybe it's _pleurasy_!" but i ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more! an' i clumbed up an' felled off the fence, an' herbert he ist laugh at me! an' my fi' cents, it sticked in my tin bank, an' i ist tore purt night my fum-nail off a-tryin' to git it out--nen _smash_ it! an' it's in there yet! but i ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more! oo! i'm so wicked! an' my breath's so _hot_, ist like i run an' don't rest none but ist run on when i ought to not; yes, an' my chin an' lips all warpy, an' teeth's so fast, an's a place in my throat i can't swaller past,-- an' they all hurt so! an' oh, my oh! i'm a-startin' ag'in,-- i'm a-startin' ag'in, but i _won't_ fer shore! i ist ain't a-goin to cry no more, no more! by permission from "his pa's romance," copyright, , the bobbs-merrill company, indianapolis, ind. proof positive anonymous i stept into my room one day and saw some children there at play. i sought my little girl and found her with half a dozen youngsters round her; and from the way she slapped her rule, i knew that they were "playing school." i gave my little girl a kiss-- a pleasure that i never miss. a murmur through the schoolroom ran, a smile pervaded every feature, "he must be a committeeman!" they loud exclaimed. "he kissed the teacher!" the irish philosopher anonymous ladies and gintlemen:--i see so many foine-lookin' people sittin' before me, that if you'll excuse me i'll be after takin' a seat myself. you don't know me, i'm thinkin,' or some of yees 'ud be noddin' to me afore this. i'm a walkin' pedestrian, a traveling philosopher; terry o'mulligan's me name. i'm from dublin, where many philosophers before me was raised and bred. oh, philosophy is a foine study. i don't know anything about it, but it's a foine study. before i kim over i attinded an important meetin' of philosophers in dublin, and the discussin' and talkin' you'd hear there about the world 'ud warm the very heart of socrates or aristotle himself. well, there was a great many _imminent_ and learned min there at the meetin,' and i was there, too; and while we was in the very thickest of a heated argument a man comes up to me, and says he, "do you know what we're talkin' about?" "i do," says i, "but i don't understand yees." "could you explain the sun's motion round the earth?" says he. "i could," says i; "but i'd not know could you understand me or not." "well," says he, "we'll see," says he. sure'n i didn't know anything how to get out of it then; so i piled in, for, says i to meself, never let on to anyone that you don't know anything, but make them believe that you do know all about it. so, says i to him, takin' up me shillalah this way (_holding up a very crooked stick horizontally_): "we will take that for the straight line of the earth's equator." how's that for gehoggraphy? (_to the audience._) oh, that was straight till the other day i bent it in an argument. "very good" says he. "well," says i, "now the sun rises in the east." (_placing the disengaged hand at the eastern end of the stick._) well, he couldn't deny that; "and," says i, "he-he-he-rises in the mornin'." no more could he deny that. "very early," says i; "and when he gets up he "'darts his rosy beams through the mornin' gleams.'" do you moine the poetry there? (_to the audience, with a smile._) "and he keeps on risin' an' risin' till he reaches his meridan." "what's that?" says he. "his dinner-toime," says i. "sure'n that's my latin for dinner-time. and when he gets his dinner "'he sinks to rest behind the glorious hills of the west.'" oh, begorra, there's more poetry. i feel it croppin' out all over me. "there," says i, well satisfied with mesilf, "will that do for ye?" "you haven't got done with him," says he. "done with him?" says i, kinder mad-like. "what more do you want me to do with him? didn't i bring him from the east to the west? what more do you want?" "oh," says he, "you have to have him back agin in the east the next mornin'!" by saint patrick, and wasn't i near betrayin' me ignorance. sure'n i thought there was a large family of suns, and they riz one after the other; but i gathered meself quick, and says i to him, "well," says i, "i'm surprized you ax me that simple question. i thought any man 'ud know" says i, "when the sun sinks to rest in the west that er--when the sun----" says i. "you said that before" says he. "well, i want to impress it strongly upon you," says i. "when the sun sinks to rest behind the glorious hills of the east--no, west--why, he--why, he waits till it grows very dark and then he _goes back in the noight-toime_!" belagcholly days anonymous chilly dovebber with his boadigg blast dow cubs add strips the beddow add the lawd, eved october's suddy days are past-- add subber's gawd! i kdow dot what it is to which i cligg that stirs to sogg add sorrow, yet i trust that still i sigg, but as the liddets sigg-- because i bust. add dow, farewell to roses add to birds, to larded fields and tigkligg streablets eke; farewell to all articulated words i faid would speak. farewell, by cherished strolliggs od the sward, greed glades add forest shades, farewell to you; with sorrowing heart i, wretched add forlord, bid you--achew!!! a pantomime speech anonymous have you ever realized what a funny thing it is to see a lot of people talking and gesticulating and not hear a single sound from them? the next time you are in a crowded dining-room, close your ears with your hands, and you will be quickly converted to the darwinian theory. this was forcibly imprest upon my mind at a political gathering. the hall was very large, but was crowded to the doors, so that when i reached there i was obliged to stand outside and on my toes to see the speakers. please remember that altho i could in this way distinctly see the speakers, i was too far away to hear the slightest sound. it was simply a pantomime performance to me, and i shall try to give you a faithful representation of just what i saw. simply say: "the chairman." the rest is pantomime. seat yourself as an old man, put your right hand behind your ear as if listening to a side remark. repeat to the left. evidently someone has told you it is time to begin. take out your watch and compare it with the clock on the wall behind you. bring out an imaginary pair of spectacles, clean them with your handkerchief, and as you put them on your nose draw down your face as old men do. get up with seeming difficulty. the business here is _ad lib_. point to the speaker of the evening, who is supposed to be sitting at your right. by silent movements of the lips seem to introduce him to the audience. then suddenly remember that you have something else to say just as you are about to sit down. repeat this two or three times. then sit down at last with much difficulty. then say aloud: "the speaker." impersonate him as assuming a grandiloquent air. while he speaks in pantomime he rises on his toes and makes numerous gestures. he pounds fist on table. someone evidently interrupts him from the audience. he looks in that direction and then replies. he seems to say to the man to come up on the platform or else get out of the hall. he talks for some time as if in argument, then dodges as if something has been thrown at him. two or three times he has to dodge in this way and then something seems to have struck him in the face. he takes out his handkerchief and wipes off face and coat. then things are thrown at him from right and left, while he continues to dodge. at last they come so thick that he rushes off the platform in great alarm. the original lamb anonymous oh, mary had a little lamb, regarding whose cuticular the fluff exterior was white and kinked in each particular. on each occasion when the lass was seen perambulating, the little quadruped likewise was there a gallivating. one day it did accompany her to the knowledge dispensary, which to every rule and precedent was recklessly contrary. immediately whereupon the pedagog superior, exasperated, did eject the lamb from the interior. then mary, on beholding such performance arbitrary, suffused her eyes with saline drops from glands called lachrymary, and all the pupils grew thereat tumultuously hilarious, and speculated on the case with wild conjectures various. "what makes the lamb love mary so?" the scholars asked the teacher. he paused a moment, then he tried to diagnose the creature. "oh, _pecus amorem mary habit omnia temporum_." "thanks, teacher dear," the scholars cried, and awe crept darkly o'er 'em. when pa was a boy by s. e. kiser i wish 'at i'd of been here when my paw he was a boy; they must of been excitement then-- when my paw was a boy. in school he always took the prize, he used to lick boys twice his size-- i bet folks all had bulgin' eyes when my paw was a boy! there was a lot of wonders done when my paw was a boy; how grandpa must have loved his son, when my paw was a boy! he'd git the coal and chop the wood, and think up every way he could to always just be sweet and good-- when my paw was a boy! then everything was in its place, when my paw was a boy; how he could rassle, jump and race, when my paw was a boy! he never, never disobeyed; he beat in every game he played-- gee! what a record there was made! when my paw was a boy! i wish 'at of been here when my paw was a boy; they'll never be his like agen-- paw was the moddle boy. but still last night i heard my maw raise up her voice and call my paw the biggest goose she ever saw-- he ought have stayed a boy. by permission of messrs. forbes & company, chicago. the freckled-faced girl (she entertains a visitor while her mother is dressing) anonymous "ma's up-stairs changing her dress," said the freckled-faced little girl, tying her doll's bonnet-strings and casting her eye about for a tidy large enough to serve as a shawl for that double-jointed young person. "oh! your mother needn't dress up for me," replied the female agent of the missionary society, taking a self-satisfied view of herself in the mirror. "run up and tell her to come down just as she is in her every-day clothes, and not stand on ceremony." "oh! but she hasn't got on her every-day clothes. ma was all drest up in her new brown silk, 'cause she expected miss diamond to-day. miss diamond always comes over here to show off her nice things, and ma don't mean to get left. when ma saw you coming, she said, 'the dickens!' and i guess she was mad about something. ma said if you saw her new dress she'd have to hear all about the poor heathen, who don't have silk, and you'd ask her for more money to buy hymn-books to send to 'em. say, do the nigger ladies use hymn-book leaves to do their hair up and make it frizzy? ma says she guesses that's all the good the books do 'em, if they ever get any books. i wish my doll was a heathen!" "why, you wicked little girl, why do you want a heathen doll?" inquired the missionary lady, taking a mental inventory of the new things in the parlor to get material for a homily on worldly extravagance. "so folks would send her lots of nice things to wear, and feel sorry to have her going about naked. i ain't a wicked girl, either, 'cause uncle dick--you know uncle dick, he's been out west, and he says i'm a holy terror, and he hopes i'll be an angel pretty soon. ma'll be down in a minute, so you needn't take your cloak off. she said she'd box my ears if i asked you to. ma's putting on that old dress she had last year, 'cause she said she didn't want you to think she was able to give much this time, and she needed a new muff worse than the queen of the cannon-ball islands needed religion. uncle dick says you ought to go to the islands, 'cause you'd be safe there, and the natifs'd be sorry they was such sinners if anybody would send you to 'em. he says he never seen a heathen hungry enough to eat you 'less 'twas a blind one, and you'd set a blind pagan's teeth on edge so he'd never hanker after any more missionary. uncle dick's awful funny, and makes pa and ma die laughing sometimes." "your uncle richard is a bad, depraved man, and ought to have remained out west, where his style is appreciated. he sets a bad example for little girls like you." "oh! i think he's nice. he showed me how to slide down the banisters, and he's teaching me to whistle when ma ain't 'round. that's a pretty cloak you've got, ain't it? do you buy all your good clothes with missionary money? ma says you do." just then the freckled-faced little girl's ma came into the parlor and kissed the missionary lady on the cheek, and said she was delighted to see her, and they proceeded to have a real sociable chat. the little girl's ma can't understand why a person who professes to be so charitable as the missionary agent does should go right over to miss diamond's and say such ill-natured things as she did, and she thinks the missionary is a double-faced gossip. willie by max ehrmann a little boy went forth to school one day without his chum. the teacher said, "why, you're alone! why doesn't willie come?" "o willie!" sobbed the little boy,-- "there ain't no willie now." "what do you mean?" the teacher asked, with puzzled, knitted brow. "please, sir," the little boy replied, "we made a bet fur fun,-- which one could lean the farthest out our attic,--willie won." amateur night anonymous it was one of those little evening entertainments where everyone talks at once, where everyone asks questions and does not wait for an answer. mrs. fitzgibbon, the hostess, finally broke into the babble: "sh! i want you all to be very quiet. mr. chooker--mr. chooker,--please don't talk,--don't talk, please,--mr. chooker is very excitable. chooker,--yes, he is one of the chookers. young people come off the stairs. sh! i have very great pleasure in introducing to you mr. chooker." mr. chooker came forward with a malicious look, which seemed to say, "you all seem to be very happy,--very jolly,--and enjoying yourselves. just wait a bit. i am about to recite a little poem of my own entitled, 'the triple suicide!'" then came the boy of the family, a kind of child prodigy, who, after giving a low and jerky bow, recited as follows: (_here impersonate a boy in awkward style._) "a soldier of the legion lay dying in algiers, there was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;--there was dearth of woman's tears." (_stops._) "the women were crying, you know. some were crying and others were weeping. those that weren't weeping were crying!" (_pauses, then bows low, and begins again._) "a soldier of the legion lay dying in algiers, there was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; but a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away-- while his life-blood ebbed away,--while his life-blood ebbed away ----" "his blood was flowing along, you know. there was blood here and there. there was blood spattered over everything, and----" (_pauses long, bows low, and begins again with great determination and in loud voice._) "a soldier of the legion lay dying in algiers, there was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; but a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,-- ebbed away,--ebbed away (_gradually begins to cry_),--ebbed away (_as if speaking to someone at the side_)--eh?" (_exits slowly with hands at eyes silently weeping._) the young miss of the family, recently graduated, next gave an original poem entitled "the hen," as follows: "tell me not in mournful numbers, life is but an empty dream!-- for the hen is dead that slumbers, and things are not what they seem. "life is real, life is earnest, and the shell is not its pen, egg thou wert and egg remainest, was not spoken of the hen. "in the world's broad field of battle, in the great barnyard of life, be not like those lazy cattle, be a rooster in the strife. "lives of roosters all remind us we can make our lives sublime, and when roasted leave behind us hen-tracks on the sands of time. "hen-tracks that perhaps another chicken drooping idly in the rain, some forlorn and henpecked brother, when he sees shall crow again." the gem of the evening, however, was a recitation given in fine style by mr. chillingworth chubb. he had rather a husky voice and a wooden arm. his memory, moreover, was defective. the effect of his wooden arm, which was made to perform the various actions of a real one, was highly amusing. (_here the reciter may use "excelsior," "the speech of mark antony," or some similar selection. the left arm represents the wooden one. the hand should wear a right-hand, white kid glove, put on wrong way round with the finger-tips screwed into points. the arm should be assisted in all its movements by the right one. it should be made to move in a jerky and unnatural manner at all its joints. a violent push at the elbow raises it suddenly aloft, and it is brought again to the side by a tremendous slap from the right hand. finally, the arm appears to get out of order, and moves violently in all directions, until at last the right hand, after vainly trying to reach it, pins it down to a table or to some other object. this imitation requires considerable practise, but when properly done never fails to send an audience into fits of laughter._) bounding the united states by john fiske among the legends of our late civil war there is a story of a dinner-party, given by the americans residing in paris, at which were propounded sundry toasts concerning not so much the past and present as the expected glories of the american nation. in the general character of these toasts, geographical considerations were very prominent, and the principal fact which seemed to occupy the minds of the speakers was the unprecedented bigness of our country. "here's to the united states!" said the first speaker,--"bounded on the north by british america, on the south by the gulf of mexico, on the east by the atlantic ocean, and on the west by the pacific ocean!" "but," said the second speaker, "this is far too limited a view of the subject, and, in assigning our boundaries, we must look to the great and glorious future, which is prescribed for us by the manifest destiny of the anglo-saxon race. here's to the united states!--bounded on the north by the north pole, on the east by the rising, and on the west by the setting, sun!" emphatic applause greeted the aspiring prophecy. but here arose the third speaker, a very serious gentleman, from the far west. "if we are going," said this truly patriotic gentleman, "to lessen the historic past and present, and take our manifest destiny into account, why restrict ourselves within the narrow limits assigned by our fellow countryman who has just sat down? i give you the united states!--bounded on the north by the aurora borealis, on the south by the precession of the equinoxes, on the east by the primeval chaos, and on the west by the day of judgment!" der dog und der lobster anonymous dot dog, he vas dot kind of dog vot ketch dot ret so sly, und squeeze him mit his leedle teeth, und den dot ret vas die. dot dog, he vas onquisitive vereffer he vas go, und like dot voman, all der time, someding he vants to know. von day, all by dot market stand, vere fish und clams dey sell, dot dog vas poke his nose aboud und find out vot he smell. dot lobster, he vas dook to snooze mit vone eye open vide, und ven dot dog vas come along, dot lobster he vas spied. dot dog, he smell him mit his noze und scratch him mit his paws, und push dot lobster all aboud, und vonder vat he vas. und den dot lobster, he voke up, und crawl yoost like dot snail, und make vide open ov his claws, und grab dot doggie's tail. und den so quick as neffer vas, dot cry vent to der sky, und like dot swallows vot dey sing, dot dog vas homevard fly. yoost like dot thunderbolt he vent-- der sight vas awful grand, und every street dot dog vas turn, down vent dot apple-stand. der children cry, der vimmin scream, der mens fell on der ground, und dot boliceman mit his club vas novare to pe found. i make dot run, und call dot dog, und vistle awful kind; dot makes no different vot i say, dot dog don't look pehind. und pooty soon dot race vas end, dot dog vas lost his tail-- dot lobster, i vas took him home, und cook him in dot pail. dot moral vas, i tole you 'boud, pefore vas neffer known-- don't vant to find out too much tings dot vasn't ov your own. he laughed last anonymous a young man was sitting in the grand central depot the other day, holding a baby in his arms, when the child began to cry so lustily as to attract the attention of everyone around him. by and by a waiting passenger walked over to him with a smile of pity on his face and said: "a woman gave you that baby to hold while she went to see about her baggage, didn't she?" "yes." "ha! ha! ha! i tumbled to the fact as soon as i saw you. you expect her back, i suppose?" "of course." "ha! ha! ha! this is rich! looking for her every minute, aren't you?" "yes, and i think she'll come back." "well this makes me laugh,--ha! ha! ha! i had a woman play that same trick on me in a chicago depot once, but no one ever will again. young man, you've been played on for a hayseed. i would advise you to turn that baby over to a policeman and get out of here before some newspaper reporter gets hold of you." "oh, she'll come back, she'll come back." "she will, eh? ha! ha! ha! the joke grows richer and richer. now what makes you think she'll come back?" "because she's my wife and this is our baby." "oh--um--i see," muttered the fat man, who got over feeling tickled all at once, and seeing a dog that a farmer had tied to one of the seats with a piece of clothes-line, he went over and gave it three swift kicks. norah murphy and the spirits by henry hatton miss honora murphy, a young female engaged in the honorable and praiseworthy occupation of general housework, merely to dispel _ennui_, not hearing in some time from the "boy at home," to whom she was engaged to be married, was advised by the girl next door to consult the spirits. the result i shall give as detailed by her to her friend: "how kem i by the black eye? well, dear, i'll tell ye. afther what yer wur tellin' me, i niver closed me eyes. the nixt marnin' i ast maggie, the up-stairs gerrl, where was herself. 'in her boodoore,' sez maggie, an' up i goes to her. "'what's wantin', nora?' sez she. "'i've heerd as how me cousin's very sick,' sez i, 'an' i'm that frettin'. i must go an' see her.' "'fitter fur ye to go ter yer worruk,' sez she, lookin' mighty cross, an' she the lazy hulks as niver does a turn from mornin' till night. "well, dear, i niver takes sass from anny av 'em; so i ups an' tould her, 'sorra taste av worruk i'll do the day, an' av yer don't like it, yer can find some one else,' an' i flounced mesel' out av the boodoore. "well, i wint to me room ter dress mesel', an' whin i got on me sale-shkin sack, i thought av me poor ould mother--may the hivins be her bed!--could only see me, how kilt she'd be intoirely. whin i was drest i wint down-stairs an' out the front-doore, an' i tell yer _i slammed it well after me_. "well, me dear, whin i got ter the majum's, a big chap wid long hair and a baird like a billy-goat kem inter the room. sez he: "'do yer want ter see the majum?' "'i do,' sez i. "'two dollars,' sez he. "'for what?' sez i. "'for the sayants,' sez he. "'faix, it's no aunts i want ter see,' sez i, 'but luke corrigan's own self.' well, me dear, wid that he giv a laugh ye'd think would riz the roof. "'is he yer husband?' sez he. "'it's mighty 'quisitive ye are,' sez i, 'but he's not me husband, av yer want ter know, but i want ter larn av it's alive or dead he is, which the lord forbid!' "'yer jist in the nick o' time,' sez he. "'faix, ould nick's here all the time, i'm thinkin', from what i hear,' sez i. "well, ter make a long story short, i paid me two dollars, an' wint into another room, an' if ye'd guess from now till aisther, ye'd never think what the majum was. as i'm standin' here, 'twas _nothin' but a woman_! i was that bet, i was almost spacheless. "'be sated, madam,' sez she, p'intin' to a chair, 'yer must jine the circle.' "'faix, i'll ate a triangle, av yer wish,' sez i. "'yer must be very quiet,' sez she. an' so i set down along a lot av other folks at a table. "'first i'll sing a hymn,' sez the majum, 'an' thin do all yees jine in the chorus.' "yer must excuse me, mum,' sez i. 'i niver could sing, but rather than spile the divarshun of the company, av any wan'll whistle, i'll dance as purty a jig as ye'll see from here to bal'nasloe, tho it's meself as sez it.' "two young whipper-snappers begun ter laugh, but the look i gev them shut them up. "jist then, the big chap as had me two dollars kem into the room an' turned down the lights. in a minit the majum, shtickin' her face close to me own, whispers: "'the sperrits is about--i kin feel them!' "'thrue for you, mum,' sez i, 'fur i kin shmell them!' "'hush, the influence is an me,' sez the majum. 'i kin see the lion an' the lamb lying down together.' "'bedad! it's like a wild beastess show,' sez i. "'will yer be quiet?' sez an ould chap next ter me. 'i hev a question to ax.' "'ax yer question,' sez i, 'an' i'll ax mine. i paid me two dollars, an' i'll not be put down.' "'plaze be quiet,' sez the majum, 'or the sperrits 'll lave.' "jist then came a rap on the table. "'is that the sperrit of luke corrigan?' sez the majum. "'it is not,' sez i, 'for he could bate any boy in killballyowen, an' if his fisht hit that table 'twould knock it to smithereens.' "'whist!' sez the majum, 'it's john bunion.' "'ax him 'bout his progress,' sez a woman wid a face like a bowl of stirabout. "'ah, batherashin!' sez i. 'let john's bunion alone, an' bring luke corrigan to the fore.' "'hish!' whispers the majum, 'i feel a sperrit near me.' "'feel av it has a lump on his nose,' sez i, 'for be that token ye'll know it's luke.' "'the moment is suspicious,' sez the majum. "'i hope yer don't want to asperge me character,' sez i. "'whist!' sez she, 'the sperrits is droopin'.' "'it's droppin' yer mane,' sez i, pickin' up a shmall bottle she let fall from her pocket. "'put that woman out,' sez an ould chap. "'who do you call a woman?' sez i. 'lay a fing-er on me, an' i'll scratch a map of the county clare on yer ugly phiz.' "'put her out!' 'put her out!' sez two or three others, an' they made a lep for me. but, holy rocket! i was up in a minute. "'bring on yer fightin' sperrits,' i cried, 'from julis sazar to tim macould, an' i'll bate them all, for the glory of ireland!' "the big chap as had me money kem behind me, and put his elbow in me eye; but, me jewel, i tossed him over as ef he'd bin a feather, an' the money rolled out his pocket. wid a cry of 'faugh-a-ballah!' i grabbed six dollars, runned out av the doore, an' i'll niver put fut in the house again. an' that's how i kem be the black eye." opie read by wallace bruce amsbary dis language anglaise dat dey spe'k, on state of illinois, is hard for frenchmen heem to learn, it give me moch annoy. las' w'ek ma frien', mcgover_ane_ he com' to me an' say: "you mak' a toas' on opie read w'en dey geeve gran' banqay." "i mak' a toas'? not on your life! dat man's wan frien' of me. w'at for i warm heem op lak' toas'? de reason i can't see." an' den john laugh out on hees eye w'en he is to me say: "to mak' a toas' is not a roas', it's jus' de odder way." dat's how i learn dat toas' an' roas' is call by different name, dough bot' are warm in dere own way, dere far from mean de same. an' so, ma frien', in lof' i clasp your gr'ad, beeg, brawny han', an' share vit you in fellowship, an' pay you on deman'. you're built upon a ver' large plan, overe seex feet you rise: you need it all to shelter in your heart dat's double size. you are too broad for narrow t'ings, you gr'ad for any creed; i'll eat de roas', but drink de toas', to ma frien', opie read. the village choir after the charge of the light brigade anonymous half a bar, half a bar, half a bar onward! into an awful ditch choir and precentor hitch, into a mess of pitch, they led the old hundred. trebles to right of them, tenors to left of them, basses in front of them, bellowed and thundered. oh, that precentor's look, when the sopranos took their own time and hook from the old hundred! screeched all the trebles here, boggled the tenors there, raising the parson's hair, while his mind wandered; theirs not to reason why this psalm was pitched too high: theirs but to gasp and cry out the old hundred. trebles to right of them, tenors to left of them, basses in front of them, bellowed and thundered. stormed they with shout and yell, not wise they sang nor well, drowning the sexton's bell, while all the church wondered. dire the precentor's glare, flashed his pitchfork in air, sounding fresh keys to bear out the old hundred. swiftly he turned his back, reached he his hat from rack, then from the screaming pack, himself he sundered. tenors to right of him, tenors to left of him, discords behind him, bellowed and thundered. oh, the wild howls they wrought: right to the end they fought! some tune they sang, but not, not the old hundred. billy of nebraska by j. w. bengough 'twas out in nebraska--a town they call lincoln, (i but mention the place, and everyone's thinkin' of w. j. b., the favorite son, who twice for the washington sweepstakes has run), but this is not a political story, and has nothing to do with the silver question, or rate-bills, or trusts, or even old glory,-- tho bryan's name may start the suggestion; and he, as a matter of fact, is the source of the tale, which makes it much better, of course; for it goes to show what some may be slow to believe,--that this democrat, earnest and stern, on whose lips the eloquent sentences burn, and who never is known to drink or to smoke, has a fondness for fun and enjoys a good joke. it appears that billy--if i may make free, (like the g. o. p. press) with the commoner's name-- kept a goat, with a cognomen just the same, (at least i suppose such was likely to be, for billy's the name of each goat that is _he_); and i likewise suppose, (tho nobody knows) that william's idea in keeping a goat was to make himself sound with the shantytown vote; but be that as it may, it happened one day that he went to the court-house, did w. j.,-- to lodge in due form a complaint--to protest 'gainst the manner in which his estate was assessed; and especially to kick (for even a peace-arbitrationist hollers when you cut to the quick)-- to kick 'gainst the taxing at twenty-five dollars of billy the goat. "i say it's too much," cries bryan, "and savors of kingcraft and such! tax-dodging's a thing i abhor, but i swear this tax is unrighteous, unjust, and unfair; 'tis a tax more odious than taxes on tea, and illegal, moreover, for i fail to see where the law gives you power to impose such a rate, for the statutes don't say that a goat's _real estate_. i stand on my rights!"--here he threw back his coat, and like hampton of old stood up brave and bold, "i refuse," he declared, "to be taxed for my goat!" the assessor, a gentle and mild-faced old chap, most anxious to do only that which was right, grew pale with affright when he saw the great orators angry eyes snap; but he ventured to speak in a mild little squeak, "if you will excuse me, i think you're astray; the rules 'nd riglations is printed that way; and i haint did nothin' but what i am bid; i done it this year as i always have did; here's the book; take a look, and read for yerself how the law sets it out, and i guess you will see i know what i'm about. "your goat he runs on the highway, i guess?" "well, yes, i suppose," says bryan, "he does." "and he butts, i presume, don't he, now, more or less?" "yes," says bryan, "no doubt he butts when he's out, but what has that got to do with----" "see here!" says the old man, as one who had made his point clear: "i calk'late, mister, you hain't read the laws, if you'll just take a look at this here little clause; where the duties of 'sessors it specially notes; it says, as you see, _tax all property runnin' and a-buttin' on the highway!_ and that has jest exactly bin _my_ way; and the 'pinion's sound as oats that it taxes on billy-goats so you can't git out o' payin' in such a sly way!" dot lambs vot mary haf got anonymous mary haf got a leetle lambs already; dose vool vas vite like shnow; und efery times dot mary dit vent oued, dot lambs vent also oued mit mary. dot lambs did follow mary von day of der schoolhouse, vich vas obbosition to der rules of der schoolmaster, also, vich it dit caused dose schillen to schmile out loud, ven dey dit saw dose lambs on der inside of der schoolhouse. und zo dot schoolmaster dit kick dot lambs quick oued, likevize, dot lambs dit loaf around on der outsides, und did shoo der flies mit his tail off patiently bound, until mary dit come also from dot schoolhouse oued. und den dot lambs dit run right away quick to mary, und dit make his het on mary's arms, like he would say, "i doand vas schkared, mary would keep from drouble ena how." "vot vas der reason aboud it, of dot lambs und mary?" dose schillen dit ask it dot schoolmaster; veil, doand you know it, dot mary lov dose lambs already, dot schoolmaster dit zaid. _moral_ und zo, alzo, dot moral vaz, boued mary's lamb's relations; of you lofe dese like she lofe dose, dot lambs vas obligations. georga washingdone anonymous georga washingdone vos a vera gooda man. hees fadda he keepa bigga place in washingdone street. he hada a greata bigga lot planta wees cherra, peacha, pluma, chesnutta, peanutta, an' banan trees. he sella to mena keepa de standa. gooda mana to italia mana was georga washingdone. he hata de irish. kicka dem vay lika dees. one tay wen litta georga, hees son, vos dessa high, like de hoppa-grass, he take hees litta hatchet an' he beginna to fool round de place. he vos vera fresh, vos litta georga. poota soon he cutta downa de cherra tree lika dees. dat spoila de cherra cropa for de season. den he goa round trea killa de banan an' de peanutta. poota soon georga's fadda coma rounda quicka lika dees. den he lifta uppa hees fista looka lika big bunch a banan, an' he vos just goin' to giva litta georga de smaka de snoota if he tola lie. hees eyes blaze lika dees. litta georga he say in hees minda, "i gitta puncha anyhow, so i tella de square ting." so he holda up hees litta hands lika dees, an' he calla "tima!" den he says, "fadda, i cutta de cherra tree weesa mia own litta hatchet!" hees fadda he say, "coma to de barn weesa me! litta georga, i wanta speeka weesa you!" den hees fadda cutta big club, an' he spitta hees handa, lika dees! litta georga say, "fadda, i could notta tella de lie, because i knowa you caughta me deada to rights!" den de olda man he smila lika dees, an' he tooka litta georga righta down to wall street, an' made him a present of de united states! da 'mericana girl by t. a. daly i gatta mash weeth mag mccue, an' she ees 'mericana, too! ha! w'at you theenk? now mebbe so, you weell no calla me so slow eef som' time you can looka see how she ees com' an' flirt weeth me. most evra two, t'ree day, my frand, she stop by dees peanutta-stand an' smile an' mak' do googla-eye an' justa look at me an' sigh. an' alla time she so excite' she peeck som' fruit an' taka bite. o! my, she eesa look so sweet i no care how much fruit she eat. me? i am cool an' mak' pretand i want no more dan be her frand; but een my heart, you bat my life, i theenk of her for be my wife. to-day i theenk: "now i weell see how moocha she ees mash weeth me," an' so i speak of dees an' dat, how moocha playnta mon' i gat, how mooch i makin' evra day an' w'at i spend an' put away. an' den i ask, so queeck, so sly: "you theenk som' pretta girl weell try for lovin' me a leetla beet?"-- o! my! she eesa blush so sweet!-- "an' eef i ask her lika dees for geevin' me a leetla keess, you s'pose she geeve me wan or two?" she tal me: "twanty-t'ree for you!" an' den she laugh so sweet, an' say: "skeeddoo! skeeddoo!" an' run away. she like so mooch for keessa me she gona geev me twanty-t'ree! i s'pose dat w'at she say--"skeeddoo"-- ees alla same "i lova you." ha! w'at you theenk! now, mebbe so you weell no calla me so slow! becky miller anonymous i don'd lofe you now von schmall little bit, my dream vas blayed oudt, so blease git up and git, your false-heardted vays i can't got along mit-- go vay, becky miller, go vay! vas all der young vomans so false-heardted like you, mit a face so bright, but a heart black and plue, und all der vhile schworing you lofed me so drue-- go vay, becky miller, go vay! vy, vonce i t'ought you vas a shtar vay up high; i like you so better as gogonut bie; but oh, becky miller, you hafe profed von big lie-- go vay, becky miller, go vay! you dook all de bresents vat i did bresent, yes, gobbled up efery virst thing vot i sent; all der vhile mit anoder rooster you vent-- go vay, becky miller, go vay! vhen first i found oudt you vas such a big lie, i didn't know vedder to schmudder or die; bud now, by der chingo, i don't efen cry-- go vay, becky miller, go vay! don'd dry make belief you vas sorry aboudt, i don'd belief a dings vot comes oudt by your moudt; und besides i don'd care, for you vas blayed oudt-- go vay, becky miller, go vay! p. s. (pooty short)--vell, he dold becky to go avay enough dimes, enner how. i dinks he vas an uckly vellow. vell, berhaps dot serfs becky choost right for daking bresents from von vellow, vhile she vas vinking her nose by anoder vellow. pat and the mayor anonymous an irishman named patrick maloney, recently landed, called upon the mayor to see if he could give him a position on the police force. the mayor, thinking he would have some fun with him, said: "before i can do anything for you, you will have to pass a civil service examination." "ah, dthin," said pat, "and pfhat is the civil sarvice?" "it means that you must answer three questions i put to you, and if you answer them correctly i may be able to place you." "well," said pat, "i think i can answer dthim if they're not too hard." "the first question is, 'what is the weight of the moon?'" "ah, now, how can i tell you that? shure and i don't know." "well, try the second one, 'how many stars are in the sky?'" "now you're pokin' fun at me. how do i know how many stars there are in the shky?" "then try the third question, and if you answer it correctly i'll forgive you the others, 'what am i thinking of?'" "pfhat are you thinkin' of? shure, how can any man tell what you politicians are thinkin' about. bedad i don't belave you know pfhat you're thinkin' about yourself. i guess i'll be lookin' for work ilsewhere, so good-day to you!" the mayor called pat back and told him not to be discouraged, but to go home and think about it, and if on the morrow he thought he could answer the questions to come down again and he would give him another chance. so pat went home and told his brother mike about it, whereupon mike said: "now you give me dthim clothes of yours and i'll go down and answer his questions for him." so next morning mike went down bright and early, and the mayor recognizing patrick as he thought, said: "ah, good morning, patrick. have you really come back to answer those three questions i put to you yesterday?" "yis, i have." "well the first question is, 'what is the weight of the moon?'" "the weight of the moon is one hundred pounds, twenty-five pounds to each quarther, four quarthers make one hundred." "capital, patrick, capital! now the second question is, 'how many stars are in the sky?'" "how many shtars are in the shky? there are four billion, sivin million, noine hundred and thirty-two tousand and one." "splendid, patrick, splendid. now look out for the last question which is, 'what am i thinking of?'" "pfhat are you thinkin' of? well i know pfhat you're thinkin' of. you're thinkin' i'm pat, but you're tirribly mistakin'; _i'm his brother mike!_" the wind and the moon by george macdonald said the wind to the moon, "i will blow you out. you stare in the air like a ghost in a chair, always looking what i am about; i hate to be watched; i will blow you out." the wind blew hard and out went the moon. so, deep on a heap of clouds, to sleep, down lay the wind, and slumbered soon-- muttering low, "i've done for that moon." he turned in his bed; she was there again! on high in the sky, with her one ghost eye, the moon shone white and alive and plain. said the wind--"i will blow you out again." the wind blew hard, and the moon grew dim. "with my sledge and my wedge i have knocked off her edge! if only i blow right fierce and grim, the creature will soon be dimmer than dim." he blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. "one puff more's enough to blow her to snuff! one good puff more where the last was bred, and glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread!" he blew a great blast, and the thread was gone; in the air nowhere was a moonbeam bare; far off and harmless the shy stars shone; sure and certain the moon was gone! the wind, he took to his revels once more; on down, in town, like a merry mad clown, he leaped and halloed with whistle and roar, "what's that?" the glimmering thread once more! he flew in a rage--he danced and blew; but in vain was the pain of his bursting brain; for still the broader the moon-scrap grew, the broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew. slowly she grew--till she filled the night, and shone on her throne in the sky alone, a matchless, wonderful, silvery light, radiant and lovely, the queen of the night. said the wind--"what a marvel of power am i! with my breath good faith! i blew her to death-- first blew her away right out of the sky-- then blew her in; what a strength am i!" but the moon she knew nothing about the affair, for, high in the sky, with her one white eye, motionless, miles above the air, she had never heard the great wind blare. total annihilation anonymous oh, he was a bowery boot-black bold, and his years they numbered nine. rough and unpolished was he, albeit he constantly aimed to "shine." proud as a king on his box he sat munching an apple red, while the boys of his set looked wistfully on. and "give us a bite," they said. that boot-black smiled a lordly smile-- "no free bites here," he cried. then his comrades sadly walked away, save one, who stood at his side. "bill, give us the core," he whispered low. that boot-black smiled once more, and a mischievous dimple grew in his cheek-- "there ain't going to be no core." ups and downs of married life anonymous a well-drest woman walked into a prominent new york office building the other day and took one of the elevators. her husband saw her from across the street, and hurrying over took the next elevator. he went to the office where he knew she had business, and found she had stept in only for a moment and had gone down again. the elevator despatcher said to her: "your husband just went up, and i think he's looking for you." she took the next elevator up. just then her husband came down. he looked all around and then inquired: "have you seen my wife here?" "yes, she went up this minute." he took the next elevator and was just out of sight when she came down. "your husband has just gone up." "then i'll go right up, as he'll wait for me this time." down came her husband a second afterward. "did my wife come down again?" "yes, and just went up. she thought you'd wait for her." after waiting a few moments he became impatient and went up again. she had been waiting for him, and came down. "husband just gone up." "then i'll wait here, as he will surely come down." she waited a few moments and then hurried up again just as he came down. "wife here?" "just gone up!" "well i'm going home and you tell her----" he paused, turned around and went up again. down she came. "did he come down?" "yes, and he's gone up again as mad as a hornet." "then i had better go right up." up she went and down he came. "just gone up." "well, i'll be hanged if i'm going up again. no, sir! i've seen many ups and downs in my time, but this is the limit. i'm going to sit right here and wait if she never comes down!" when they closed the building for the night, he was still sitting down-stairs, and she, equally determined, was waiting up-stairs, while the elevator man remarked: "well, i hope dey'll meet in heav'n!" the crooked mouth family anonymous in a locality not far removed from the city's busy hum, there lived a family noted for certain remarkable peculiarities of facial distortion. in the father the lower jaw protruded; in the mother it receded so that the upper jaw overhung it like a canopy; the daughter had her face drawn to the left side, while the son had his drawn to the right, and in addition to this deformity stammered most dreadfully. while he attempted to talk his face assumed an expression equally grotesque as the caricatures in a yellow journal. the father kept a store and one day a man entered whose face, strangely enough, was drawn strongly to the right side. addressing the daughter, who was standing back of the counter, he said, "i want a pound of tea," his words coming from the corner of his mouth. "what are you making fun of me for?" replied the girl, her face drawn in the opposite direction. "i ain't making fun of you. can't help it. i was born this way." the young lady, however, was not satisfied that the stranger was telling the truth, so, stepping to the door she called to her father, "pa, there's a man down here making fun of me." the father put in an appearance and demanded of the customer why he had made fun of his daughter. "i didn't make fun of her." "yes you did," said the girl. "i s-s-saw y-y-you," stammered the brother, from out the corner of his twisted face. "i tell you i didn't. i was born this way. can't talk any other." "well," said the old man, "you would make a good match and you ought to marry each other." this proposition meeting with a favorable consideration, the two were made one. the entire family went on the wedding tour, and one night they spent at a country inn where candles were used for purposes of illumination. picking up a candle the groom attempted to blow it out, but he nearly exhausted himself in the effort without accomplishing his purpose. the bride came to his rescue and blew, and blew, and blew, but with no better result. papa appearing upon the scene, said, "let me have it. i'll show you how to do it," and he went to work with a noise that sounded like the exhaust of a high-pressure engine, but the candle stubbornly refused to go out. the mother, hearing the racket, then came upon the scene, and learning of their quandary, put the candle on her head and blew upward but the flame merely flickered as tho fanned by a gentle zephyr. just then they saw the watchman passing by, so, in their extremity, they called him to their aid and he promptly blew out the candle because he had a straight mouth. "imph-m" anonymous when i was a laddie lang syne at the schule, the maister aye ca'd me a dunce an' a fule; for somehoo his words i could ne'er un'erstan', unless when he bawled, "jamie, hand oot yer han'!" then i gloom'd, and said, "imph-m," i glunch'd, and said, "imph-m"-- i wasna owre proud, but owre dour to say--a-y-e! ae day a queer word, as lang-nebbits' himsel', he vow'd he would thrash me if i wadna spell, quo i, "maister quill," wi' a kin' o' a swither, "i'll spell ye the word if ye'll spell me anither: let's hear ye spell 'imph-m,' that common word 'imph-m,' that auld scotch word 'imph-m,' ye ken it means a-y-e!" had ye seen hoo he glour'd, hoo he scratched his big pate, an' shouted, "ye villain, get oot o' my gate! get aff to your seat! yer the plague o' the schule! the de'il, o' me kens if yer maist rogue or fule!" but i only said, "imph-m," that pawkie word "imph-m," he couldna spell "imph-m," that stands for an a-y-e! an' when a brisk wooer, i courted my jean-- o' avon's braw lasses the pride an' the queen-- when 'neath my gray pladie, wi' heart beatin' fain, i speired in a whisper if she'd be my ain, she blushed, an' said, "imph-m," that charming word "imph-m," a thousan' times better an' sweeter than a-y-e! just ae thing i wanted my bliss to complete-- ae kiss frae her rosy mou', couthie an' sweet-- but a shake o' her head was her only reply-- of course, that said no, but i kent she meant a-y-e, for her twa een said "imph-m," her red lips said, "imph-m," her hale face said "imph-m," an' "imph-m" means a-y-e! the usual way anonymous there was once a little man, and his rod and line he took, for he said, "i'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook." and it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, and they met--in the usual way. then he sat down beside her, and an hour or two went by, but still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie; "i thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day." and he was--in the usual way. so he gravely took his rod in hand and threw the line about, but the fish perceived distinctly, he was not looking out; and he said, "sweetheart, i love you," but she said she could not stay, but she did--in the usual way. then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh, as they watched the silver ripples, like the moments, running by; "we must say good-by," she whispered, by the alders old and gray, and they did--in the usual way. and day by day beside the stream, they wandered to and fro, and day by day the fishes swam securely down below, till this little story ended, as such little stories may very much--in the usual way. and now that they are married, do they always bill and coo? do they never fret or quarrel, like other couples do? does he cherish her and love her? does she honor and obey? well, they do--in the usual way. nothing suited him anonymous he sat at the dinner-table there, with discontented frown. the potatoes and steak were underdone and the bread was baked too brown. the pie too sour, the pudding too sweet, and the mince-meat much too fat, the soup was greasy, too, and salt-- 'twas hardly fit for a cat. "i wish you could taste the bread and pies i have seen my mother make; they were something like, and 'twould do you good just to look at a slice of her cake." said the smiling wife: "i'll improve with age. just now, i'm a beginner. but your mother called to see me to-day and i got _her_ to cook the dinner." a little feller anonymous say, sunday's lonesome fur a little feller, with pop and mom a-readin' all the while, an' never sayin' anything to cheer ye, an' lookin' 's if they didn't know how to smile; with hook an' line a-hangin' in the wood-shed, an' lots o' 'orms down by the outside cellar, an' brown's creek just over by the mill-dam-- say, sunday's lonesome fur a little feller. why, sunday's lonesome fur a little feller right on from sun-up when the day commences fur little fellers don't have much to think of, 'cept chasin' gophers 'long the corn-field fences, or diggin' after moles down in the wood-lot, or climbin' after apples what's got meller, or fishin' down in brown's creek an' mill-pond-- say, sunday's lonesome fur a little feller. but sunday's never lonesome fur a little feller when he's a-stayin down to uncle ora's; he took his book onct right out in the orchard, an' told us little chaps just lots of stories, all truly true, that happened onct fur honest, an' one 'bout lions in a sort o' cellar, an' how some angels came an' shut their mouths up, an' how they never teched that dan'l feller. an' sunday's pleasant down to aunt marilda's; she lets us take some books that some one gin her, an' takes us down to sunday-school 't the schoolhouse; an' sometimes she has a nice shortcake fur dinner. an' onct she had a puddin' full o' raisins, an' onct a frosted cake all white an' yeller. i think, when i stay down to aunt marilda's, that sunday's pleasant fur a little feller. robin tamson's smiddy by alexander rodger my mither men't my auld breeks, an' wow! but they were duddy, and sent me to get mally shod at robin tamson's smiddy. the smiddy stands beside the burn that wimples through the clachan, i never yet gae by the door, but aye i fa' a-laughin'. for robin was a walthy carle, an' had ae bonnie dochter, yet ne'er wad let her tak' a man, tho mony lads had sought her. and what think ye o' my exploit?-- the time our mare was shoeing, i slippit up beside the lass, an' briskly fell a-wooing. an' aye she e'ed my auld breeks, the time that we sat crackin', quo' i, "my lass, ne'er mind the _clouts_, i've new anes for the makin'; but gin ye'll just come hame wi' me, an' lea' the carle, your father, ye'se get my breeks to keep in trim, mysel', an' a' thegither." "'deed, lad," quo' she, "your offer's fair, i really think i'll tak' it, sae, gang awa', get out the mare, we'll baith slip on the back o't; for gin i wait my father's time, i'll wait till i be fifty; but na;--i'll marry in my prime, an' mak' a wife most thrifty." wow! robin was an angry man, at tyning o' his dochter; through a' the kintra-side he ran, an' far an' near he sought her; but when he cam' to our fire-end, an' fand us baith thegither, quo' i, "gudeman, i've ta'en your bairn, an' ye may tak' my mither." auld robin girn'd an' sheuk his pow, "guid sooth!" quo' he, "you're merry, but i'll just tak' ye at your word, an' end this hurry-burry." so robin an' our auld wife agreed to creep thegither; now, i ha'e robin tamson's pet, an' robin has my mither. a big mistake anonymous recently our church has had a new minister. he is a nice, good, sociable man; but having come from a distant state, of course he was totally unacquainted with our people. therefore, it happened that during his pastoral calls he made several ludicrous blunders. the other evening he called upon mrs. hadden. she had just lost her husband, and naturally supposed that his visit was relative to the sad occurrence. so, after a few commonplaces had been exchanged, she was not at all surprized to hear him remark: "it was a sad bereavement, was it not?" "yes," faltered the widow. "totally unexpected?" "oh, yes; i never dreamed of it." "he died in the barn, i suppose?" "oh, no; in the house." "ah--well, i suppose you must have thought a great deal of him." "of course, sir,"--this with a vim. the minister looked rather surprized, but continued: "blind staggers was the disease, i believe?" "no, sir," snapped the widow, "apoplexy." "indeed; you must have fed him too much." "he was always capable of feeding himself, sir." "very intelligent he must have been. died hard, didn't he?" "he did." "you had to hit him on the head with an ax to put him out of misery, i was told." "whoever told you so did not speak the truth. james died naturally." "yes," repeated the minister, in a slightly perplexed tone, "he kicked the side of the barn down in his last agonies, did he not?" "no, sir, he didn't." "well, i have been misinformed, i suppose. how old was he?" "thirty-five." "then he did not do much active work. perhaps you are better without him, for you can easily supply his place with another." "never, sir--never will i see one as good as he." "oh, yes, you will. he had the heaves bad, you know." "nothing of the kind!" "why, i recollect i saw him, one day, passing along the road, and i distinctly recollect that he had the heaves, and walked as if he had the string-halt." "he could never have had the string-halt, for he had a cork leg!" "a cork leg!--remarkable. but really, now, didn't he have a dangerous trick of suddenly stopping and kicking a wagon all to pieces?" "never; he was not a madman, sir!" "probably not. but there were some good points about him." "i should think so!" "the way in which he carried his ears, for example." "nobody else ever noticed that particular merit; he was warm-hearted, generous and frank!" "good qualities. how long did it take him to go a mile?" "about fifteen minutes." "not much of a goer. wasn't his hair apt to fly?" "he didn't have any hair. he was bald-headed." "quite a curiosity?" "no, sir; no more of a curiosity than you are." "did you use the whip much on him?" "never, sir." "went right along without it, eh?" "yes!" "he must have been a very good sort of a brute!" "the idea of you coming here and insulting me!" she sobbed. "if my husband had lived you wouldn't have done it. your remarks in reference to that poor, dead man have been a series of insults. i won't stand it." he colored and looked dumbfounded. "are you not mrs. blinkers, and has not your old gray horse died?" "i never owned a h-horse, but my husband died a week ago!" ten minutes later the minister came out of that house with the reddest face ever seen on mortal man. "and to think," he groaned, as he strode home, "that i was talking horse to that woman all the time, and she was talking husband." lord dundreary's letter anonymous (_he enters holding a letter in his hand and a monocle in his eye._) i wonder who w-w-wote me this letter? i thuppose the b-b-best way to f-f-find out ith to open it and thee. (_opens letter._) thome lun-lunatic hath w-w-witten me this letter. he hath w-w-witten it upthide down. i w-w-wonder if he th-thought i wath going to w-w-wead it thanding on my head. oh, yeth, i thee; i had it t-t-turned upthide down. "amewica." who do i know in amewica? i am glad he hath g-g-given me hith addwess anyhow. oh, yeth, i thee, it ith from tham. i alwaths know tham's handwiting when i thee hith name at the b-b-bottom of it. "my dear bwother." tham alwaths called me bwother, becauthe we never had any thisters. when we were boyths, we were ladths together--both of us. they used to g-g-get off a pwoverb when they thaw uth com-com-coming down the stweet. it iths awfully good, if i could only think of it. iths--it iths the early bir-bir-bird--iths the early bir-bir-bird that knowths iths own f-f-father. what nonthense that iths! how co-co-could a b-b-bird know iths own father? iths a withe child--iths a withe child--iths a wise child that geths the worm. t-t-that's not wite. wat nonthense that iths! no pa-pa-pawent would allow hiths child to ga-ga-gather worms. iths a wyme. fish of-of-of a feather,--fish of a f-f-feather,--now what nonthense that iths! fish don't have feathers. iths a b-b-bird--iths b-b-birds of a feather,--b-b-birds of a feather--flock together. b-b-birds of a f-f-feather! just as if a who-who-whole flock of b-b-birds had only one f-f-feather. they'd all catch cold. only one b-b-bird could have that f-f-feather, and he'd fly sidewithse. what con-confounded nonthense that iths! flock to-to-together! of courthse th-th-they'd flock together. who ever heard of a b-b-bird being such a f-f-fool as to g-g-go into a corner and flock by himself? that's one of those things no fellow can find out. "i wote you a letter thome time ago----" thath's a lie; he d-d-didn't w-w-wite me a letter. if he had witten me a letter he would have posted it, and i would have g-g-got it; so, of courthse, he didn't post it, and then he didn't wite it. thath's easy. oh, yeths, i thee: "but i dwopped it into the poth-potht-office without putting any name on it." i wonder who the d-d-dickens got that letter. i w-w-wonder if the poth-pothman iths gwoin' awound asking for a fellow without any name. i wonder if there iths such a fellow, a fellow without any name? if there iths any fellow without any name, how doeths he know who he iths himself? i-i-i wonder if thuch a fellow could get mawaid. how could he ask a girl to take hiths name if he h-h-had no name? that's one of those things no fellow can find out. "i have just made a startling dithcovery." tham's alwaths d-d-doing thomthing. "i have dithcovered that my mother iths--that m-m-my mother iths not my m-m-mother; that a--the old nurthe iths my m-m-mother, and that you are not my b-b-bwother, and a--that-that-that i was changthed at my birth." how ca-ca-can a fellow be changthed at hith b-b-birth? if he hiths not himthelf, who iths he? if tham's m-m-mother iths not hiths m-m-mother, and the old nurthe iths hith m-m-mother, and tham iths not my b-b-bwother, then who the dickens am i? stope a minute. (_points to forefinger of left hand._) that's tham's m-m-mother, and that's tham's nurthe (_pointing to thumb of left hand_). tham's nurthe ith only half the size of hith m-m-mother. well, that's my m-m-mother (_pointing to second finger of left hand_). i can't get my m-m-mother to stand up! (_all the fingers spring up_.) hello, there's a lot of other fellows' m-m-mothers. well, as far as i can make out, tham hath left me no m-m-mother at all! that's one of those things no fellow can find out. "i have just purchathed an ethstate som-som-somewhere----" dothn't the idiot know wh-wh-where he hath bought it? oh, yeth: "on the banks of the m-m-m-mith-ith-ippi." who iths mit-this thippi? i g-g-gueth iths tham's m-m-mother-in-law. tham's got mawaid. he thayths he felt awfully ner-ner-nervouths. s-s-speaking of m-m-mother-in-lawths, i had a fwiend who had a m-m-mother-in-law, and he didn't like her very well; and she felt the thame way toward him; and they went away on a steamer acwoths the ocean, and they got shipwecked, catht away on a waft, and they floated awound in the water, living on thuch things ath they could pick up--such ath thardines, ice-cweam, owanges, and other canned goods that were floating awound. when that was all gone, everybody ate everybody else. f-f-finally only himthelf and hiths m-m-mother-in-law waths left, and they played a game of c-c-checkers to thee who thould be eaten up--himthelf or hith m-m-mother-in-law. he w-w-won! he thays that wath the only time that he weally cared for his mother-in-law! oh, herthe a pothscript. "by the way, what do you think of the f-f-following widdle?" one of tham's widdles. "if fourteen dogs with three legs each catch forty-eight rabbits with seventy-six legs in twenty-five minutes, how many legs must twenty-four rabbits have to get away from ninety-three dogs with two legs each in half an hour!" that's one of those things no fellow can find out. slang phrases anonymous it is not strange that children misunderstand our slang phrases. not long ago a gentleman about to go abroad, made the round of the steamship. when he came back he walked up to the captain and said: "captain, what has become of the old steward? i do not see anything of him this trip." "the old steward,--hm,--the old steward, well, he got too big for his breeches, and we fired him." now it happened that a little girl stood by and overheard the conversation, and not long after a second gentleman made the round of the ship, and coming up to a fellow traveler said: "john, we do not see anything of the old steward this trip; what do you suppose has become of him?" "i do not know, i am sure." "i do," said a small voice. they looked around and saw a little girl peeping out from a cabin door. "well, well, my little friend, could you tell us what has become of the old steward?" "i don't like to say." "oh, that's a nice little girl, i am sure; was he discharged?" "yes, sir." "what was the matter? what was the matter?" "his pants were too short." the merchant and the book agent anonymous a book agent importuned james watson, a rich merchant, living a few miles out of the city, until he bought a book entitled "the early christian martyrs." mr. watson didn't want the book, but he bought it to get rid of the agent; then taking it under his arm he started for the train which takes him to his office in the city. mr. watson had not been gone long before mrs. watson came home from a neighbor's. the book agent saw her, and went in and persuaded the wife to buy a copy of the book. she was ignorant of the fact that her husband had bought the same book in the morning. when mr. watson came back in the evening, he met his wife with a cheery smile as he said: "well, my dear, how have you enjoyed yourself to-day? well, i hope." "oh, yes! had an early caller this morning." "ah, and who was she?" "it wasn't a 'she' at all; it was a gentleman--a book agent." "a what?" "a book agent, and, to get rid of his importuning, i bought his book, the 'early christian martyrs.' see, here it is." "i don't want to see it." "why, husband?" "because that rascally book agent sold me the same book this morning. now we've got two copies of the same book--two copies of the 'early christian martyrs,' and----" "but, husband, we can----" "no, we can't, either! the man is off on the train before this. confound it! i could kill the fellow----" "why, there he goes to the depot now!" said mrs. watson, pointing out of the window at the retreating form of the book agent making for the train. "but it's too late to catch him, and i'm not drest. i've taken off my boots, and----" just then mr. stevens, a neighbor of mr. watson, drove by, when mr. watson pounded on the window-pane in a frantic manner, almost frightening the horse. "here, stevens! you're hitched up! won't you run your horse down to the train and hold that book agent till i come? run! catch 'im now!" "all right," said mr. stevens, whipping up his horse and tearing down the road. mr. stevens reached the train as the conductor shouted, "all aboard!" "book agent!" he yelled, as the book agent stept on the train. "book agent! hold on! mr. watson wants to see you." "watson? watson wants to see me?" repeated the seemingly puzzled book agent. "oh, i know what he wants; he wants to buy one of my books; but i can't miss the train to sell it to him." "if that is all he wants, i can pay for it and take it to him. how much is it?" "two dollars for the 'early christian martyrs,'" said the book agent as he reached for the money and passed the book out the car-window. just then mr. watson arrived, puffing and blowing, in his shirt sleeves. as he saw the train pull out he was too full for utterance. "well, i got it for you," said stevens; "just got it and that's all." "got what?" "got the book--'early christian martyrs,' and paid----" "by-the-great-guns!" moaned watson, as he placed his hand to his brow and swooned right in the middle of the street. the coon's lullaby anonymous heah, yo' rastus, shet yo' sleepy head, mammy's gwine tuh rock huh lamb tuh res'-- ebry little possom coon am sleepin' in its bed, yo's my precious honey--yes yo' am. swing oh; swing oh;--lucy whar yo' bin so late? lemme catch a niggah courtin' you, yes you! hurry up yo' rascals fo' dah's corn bread on de plate, fo' mammy loves huh honey, yes she do! (_sings_) swing oh; swing oh; fo' mammy loves huh honey, yes she do. swing oh; swing oh; fo' mammy loves huh honey, yes she do. laws now, rastus, i done gwine to swat yo' one ha'd, slap yo' tuh a peak an' break it off-- monst'us drefful bogie man am waitin' in de ya'd-- mammy's only jokin', yes she am. swing oh; swing oh;--petah, yes i see yo' git! washin'ton, i'll cu'l yo' wool fo' you, neber in dis whole, roun' wo'ld i seen sich chilluns yit, but mammy loves huh honey, yes she do! (_sings_) swing oh; swing oh; fo' mammy loves huh honey, yes she do. swing oh; swing oh; fo' mammy loves huh honey, yes she do. (after the last chorus the speaker should softly hum the tune again, with an occasional "sh!" to the audience, and with pantomime of putting the baby in the cradle, putting it to sleep, and softly tiptoeing out.) [music: swing oh; swing oh; fo' mam-my loves huh hon-ey, yes she do.... swing oh; swing oh; fo' mam-my loves huh hon-ey, yes she do. ] parody on barbara frietchie anonymous drough der streeds of friedrichtown, mit der red-hot sun a-shinin' down, past dose saloons all filled mit beer, dose repel fellers valked on der ear. all day drough friedrichtown so fasd, hosses foot und sojers past, und der repel flag skimmerin' oud so pright, you vould dink, py jiminy, id had a ridght. off all der flags dot flopped in der morning vind, nary a vone could enypody find. ub shumbed old miss frietchie den, who vas pent down py nine score years und den. she took der flag the men hauled down, und stuck it fasd on her nighd-gown, und pud id in der vinder vere all could see dot dear old flag so free. yust den ub came stonewall jack, ridin' on his hosses' pack, under his prows he squinted his eyes, by gracious, dot old flag make him much surprize. "halt!" vell, efery man stood sdill, "fire!" vas echoed from hill to hill; id broke der strings of dot nighd-gown, put olt miss frietchie, she vas round. she freezed on dot olt flag right quick, und oud of der vindow her head did stick: "scoot, if you must, dis olt cray head, put spare dot country's flag!" she said. a look of shameness soon came o'er der face of jack, und der tears did pour; "who pulls oud a hair of dot pauld head dies like a donkey!--skip along," he said. all dot day and all dot night, undil der repels vas knocked oud of sight, und vay pehind from friedrichtown, dot flag stuck fasd to dot olt nighd-gown. barbara frietchie's vork vas done, she don'd eny more kin hafe some fun; pully for her! und drop a tear for dot olt gal midoud some fear. before and after by charles t. grilley _before_ we had been engaged for just a week and now that we must part the thought of it was maddening, and it nearly broke my heart. as i waved her adieux from the steamer she answered back from the pier, and i murmured softly to myself, "my, but isn't she dear!" _after_ a year has passed of married life, i received a note to-day written in wifey's well-known hand: "send me fifty right away!" i thought of all she had cost me during that one brief year, and then i murmured softly, "my, but isn't she dear!" when greek meets greek anonymous _stranger here?_ yes, come from varmount rutland county. you've hern tell mebbe of the town of granville? you born there? no! sho! well, well! you was born at granville was you? then you know elisha brown, him as runs the old meat market at the lower end of town! well! well! well! born down in granville! and out here, so far away! stranger, i'm homesick already, tho it's but a week to-day since i left my good wife standin' out there at the kitchen door, sayin' she'd ask god to keep me; and her eyes were runnin' o'er! you must know ole albert withers, henry bell and ambrose cole? _know them all?_ and born in granville! well! well! well! why, bless my soul! sho! you're not old isaac's nephew! isaac green, down on the flat! isaac's eldest nephew,--henry? well, i'd never thought of that! _have i got a hundred dollars i could loan you for a minute, till you buy a horse at marcy's?_ there's my wallet! just that in it! hold on tho! you have ten, mebbe, you could let me keep; you see i might chance to need a little betwixt now and half past three! ten. that's it; you'll owe me ninety; bring it round to the hotel. so you're old friend isaac's nephew? born in granville! sho! well, well! what! policeman, did you call me? _that a rascal going there?_ well, sir, do you know i thought so, and i played him pretty fair; hundred-dollar bill i gave him-- counterfeit--and got this ten! ten ahead. no! you don't tell me! _this bad, too?_ sho! sold again! mr. potts' story by max adeler while i was over at jersey city, the other day, i called on the potts. mr. potts is liable to indulge in extravagance in his conversation, and as mrs. potts is an extremely conscientious woman where matters of fact are concerned, she's obliged to keep her eye on him. potts was telling me about an incident that occurred in the town a few days before, and this is the way he related it: _potts._--"you see old bradley over here is perfectly crazy on the subject of gases, and the atmosphere, and such things--absolutely wild; and one day he was disputing with green about how high up in the air life could be sustained, and bradley said an animal could live about forty million miles above the earth, if----" _mrs. potts._--"not forty millions, my dear; only forty miles, he said." _p._--"forty, was it? thank you. well sir, old green, you know, said that was ridiculous; and he said he'd bet bradley a couple of hundred thousand dollars that life couldn't be sustained half that way up, and so----" _mrs. p._--"william, you are wrong; he offered to bet only fifty dollars." _p._--"well, anyhow, bradley took him up quicker'n a wink, and they agreed to send up a cat in a balloon to decide the bet. so what does bradley do but buy a balloon about twice as big as our barn, and begin to----" _mrs p._--"it was only about ten feet in diameter, mr. adeler; william forgets." _p._--"begin to inflate her. when she was filled, it took eighty men to hold her, and----" _mrs. p._--"eighty men, mr. potts? why, you know mr. bradley held the balloon himself." _p._--"he did, did he? oh, very well; what's the odds? and when everything was ready, they brought out bradley's tom-cat, and put it in the basket, and tied it in so that it couldn't jump, you know. there were about one hundred thousand people looking on, and, when they let go, you never heard such a----" _mrs. p._--"there were not more than two hundred people there. i counted them myself." _p._--"oh, don't bother me! i say you never heard such a yell, as the balloon went scooting up into the sky, pretty near out of sight. bradley said she went up about one thousand miles, and--now don't interrupt me, henrietta; i know what the man said--and that cat, mind you, a-howling like a hundred fog-horns, so's you could a' heard her from here to peru. well, sir, when she was up so's she looked as small as a pin-head, something or other burst. i dunno how it was, but pretty soon down came that balloon a-flickering toward the earth at the rate of fifty miles a minute, and old----" _mrs. p._--"mr. potts, you know that the balloon came down as gently as----" _p._--"oh, do hush up! women don't know anything about such things. and old bradley, he had a kind of a registering thermometer fixt in the balloon along with that cat. some sort of a patent machine; cost thousands of dollars, and he was expecting to examine it; and green had an idea he'd lift out a dead cat and scoop in the stakes. when all of a sudden, as she came pelting down, a tornado struck her--now, henrietta, what in the thunder are you staring at me in that way for? it was a tornado--a regular cyclone--and it struck her and jammed her against the lightning-rod on the baptist church steeple, and there she stuck--stuck on that spire, about eight hundred feet up in the air." _mrs. p._--"you may get just as mad as you like, but i am positively certain that steeple's not an inch over ninety-five feet." _p._--"henrietta, i wish to gracious you'd go up-stairs and look after the children. well, about half a minute after she struck out stept that tom-cat on to the weathercock. it made green sick. and just then the hurricane reached the weathercock, and it began to revolve six hundred or seven hundred times a minute, the cat howling until you couldn't hear yourself speak--now, henrietta, you've had your put; you keep quiet. that cat stood on that weathercock about two months----" _mrs. p._--"mr. potts, that's an awful story; it only happened last tuesday." _p._ (_confidentially_)--"never mind her. and on sunday the way that cat carried on and yowled, with its tail pointing due east, was so awful that they couldn't have church. and sunday afternoon the preacher told bradley if he didn't get that cat down he'd sue him for a million dollars damages. so bradley got a gun, and shot at the cat fourteen hundred times--now, you didn't count 'em, henrietta, and i did--and he banged the top of the steeple all to splinters, and at last fetched down the cat, shot to rags, and in her stomach he found the thermometer. she'd ate it on her way up, and it stood at eleven hundred degrees, so old----" _mrs. p._--"no thermometer ever stood at such a figure as that." _p._ (_indignantly_)--"oh, well, if you think you can tell the story better than i can, why don't you tell it? you're enough to worry the life out of a man." then potts slammed the door and went out, and i left. i don't know whether bradley got the stakes or not. at five o'clock tea by morris wade "so good of you to come!" "ah, thanks." "so good of you to come!" "as if i could get along without you! the obligation is all on my side." "how sweet of you to say so!" "now i want you to meet mrs. slambang. mrs. slambang, let me present to you my deah friend, mrs. twiddle-twaddle." "so glad to know you, mrs. slambang! i have so often heard deah mrs. sweet speak of you that i feel quite as if i knew you. beautiful day, isn't it?" "chawming!" "what a lovely wintah we are having." "chawming! so very, very gay, isn't it?" "oh, very, very gay! haven't i met you at mrs. titters' teas?" "i daresay you have. isn't she a deah?" "oh, i am extravagantly fond of her!" "i am, too. so clevah!" "of course you go to the opera?" "oh, i couldn't exist without it. oh, melba! melba!" "and nordica! i rave over them all!" "i fairly cry over them. and, do you know, i have a friend who does not care in the least for them. she isn't a bit musical." "oh, how sad! i would die if i did not----who is the tall lady in black over by the piano?" "i'm sure i do not know. what exquisite lace on her gown! do you know that i just simply rave over beautiful lace!" "really?" "yes, indeed! i care more for it than for jewels, because it----do you know the tall, fine-looking man who has just come in?" "i'm sure i have seen him somewhere, and yet i can not----yes, thank you, i think i _will_ have a cup of tea. how lovely the dining-room looks!" "lovely!" "mrs. sweet has such exquisite taste!" "exquisite! i often say----how _do_ you do, my deah? so glad to see you!" "thanks! so glad to meet you!" "so good of you to say so! quite well, deah?" "oh, vulgarly so. i really must say good-by to dear mrs. sweet and go. i must look in at mrs. shoddy's for a few minutes." "so must i. we'll go together." "how lovely! good-by, deah mrs. sweet. have had _such_ a chawming time!" "must you go so soon?" "yes, really! such a lovely time!" "so glad! but it is quite naughty of you to go so soon. so glad you came!" "by-by, deah." "by-by. you will come to see me soon?" "yes, indeed." "you must. by-by!" "by-by!" and as she gathers up her trailing skirts to walk down the steps, she says: "thank goodness, that's over!" reprinted from _lippincott's magazine_. keep a-goin'! by frank l. stanton if you strike a thorn or rose, keep a-goin'! if it hails or if it snows, keep a-goin'! 'taint no use to sit an' whine when the fish ain't on your line; bait your hook an' keep on tryin'-- keep a-goin'! when the weather kills your crop, keep a-goin'! when you tumble from the top, keep a-goin'! s'pose you're out of every dime? gittin' broke ain't any crime; tell the world you're feelin' prime,-- keep a-goin'! when it looks like all is up, keep a-goin'! drain the sweetness from the cup, keep a-goin'! see the wild birds on the wing! hear the bells that sweetly ring-- when you feel like sighin'--sing! keep a-goin'! a lover's quarrel by cynthia coles "o kitty, you _are_ so sweet, and i _do_ love you so. tell me you love me, dearie." "i do love you, dick; why, i never supposed i _could_ love anybody so much." "o little girl, i only wished you loved me half as much as i love you." "half as much! why, dear, i love you more than you love me--a great deal more----" "now, don't be silly, pet. it would be impossible for you to love me as much as i love you. of course, i love you best." "of course you don't! you love me, i know, but not as much as i love you." "now, kitty, be reasonable." "i will if you'll admit that i do love you best." "how can i admit what isn't true?" "well, you might say it was so just to please me." "oh, no, dear, i can't do that." "because you don't love me enough!" "oh, the idea!" "if you _did_ love me the best, you'd say anything i asked you to, whether it was true or not." "would _you_ do that?" "of course i would." "all right, then you admit that i love you best, because i ask you to do so!" "o dick, how horrid you are! how can you be so cruel to me?" "there, there, don't cry. i'll admit that you love me best, but i only admit it _because_ you ask me to." "then that's all right." "but, don't you see, kitty, when i say that because you ask me to, and you _won't_ say it when i ask you to, that _proves_ i love you best after all." "there you go on again! i do think you're too mean for anything!" "well, never mind, sweetheart, let's kiss and be friends. you do love me best i'm sure." "oh, no, i don't, dick. oh, you are so sweet. you love me best, darling." "oh, no, i don't, love. you love me best!" "no, my dick, _you_ love _me_ best----" casey at the bat by phineas thayer it looked extremely rocky for the mudville nine that day; the score stood two to four, with but an inning left to play. so, when cooney died at second, and burrows did the same, a pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game. a straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, with that hope which springs eternal within the human breast, for they thought: "if only casey could get a whack at that," they'd put up even money now, with casey at the bat. but flynn preceded casey, and likewise so did blake, and the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake, so on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat, for there seemed but little chance of casey's getting to the bat. but flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all, and the much-despised blakey "tore the cover off the ball." and when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred, there was blakey safe at second, and flynn a-huggin' third. then, from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, it rumbled in the mountain-tops, it rattled in the dell; it struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat; for casey, mighty casey, was advancing to the bat. there was ease in casey's manner as he stept into his place; there was pride in casey's bearing, and a smile on casey's face. and when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, no stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas casey at the bat. ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; then while the new york pitcher ground the ball into his hip, defiance gleamed in casey's eye, a sneer curled casey's lip. and now the leather-covered sphere came hurling through the air, and casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-- "that ain't my style," said casey. "strike one," the umpire said. from the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant shore. "kill him! kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand. and it's likely they'd have killed him had not casey raised a hand. with a smile of christian charity great casey's visage shone; he stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on: he signaled to sir timothy, once more the spheroid flew; but casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "strike two." "fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "fraud!" but one scornful look from casey and the audience was awed. they saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, and they knew that casey wouldn't let that ball go by again. the sneer is gone from casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate; he pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate. and now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, and now the air is shattered by the force of casey's blow. ah, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; the band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light. and somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout: but there is no joy in mudville--mighty casey has struck out. familiar lines anonymous (_arranged so that the little ones can always remember them_) the boy stood on the burning deck, his fleece was white as snow; he stuck a feather in his hat, john anderson, my jo! "come back, come back!" he cried in grief, from india's coral strands, the frost is on the pumpkin and the village smithy stands. am i a soldier of the cross from many a boundless plain? should auld acquaintance be forgot where saints immortal reign? ye banks and braes o' bonny doon across the sands o' dee, can you forget that night in june-- my country, 'tis of thee! of all sad words of tongue or pen, we're saddest when we sing, to beard the lion in his den-- to set before the king. hark! from the tombs a doleful sound, and phoebus gins arise; all mimsy were the borogroves to mansions in the skies. a friendly game of checkers anonymous "now, my dear," said mr. italics, as he drew on his slippers and settled himself for the evening, "if you will get the checker-board, i'll play you a game--you're learning so rapidly that it's really a pleasure to try quits with you." mrs. italics giggled with delight, kissed her husband on the top of the head and fluttered away to find the board and checkers. after she had found them, she plumped herself down in a rocking-chair about a foot and a half lower than his easy-chair and arranged the apparatus at an angle of fifty degrees, whereupon mr. italics said: "i think you misapprehend my suggestion. i didn't propose to go sliding down hill at this season of the year, neither do i intend to shoot the chutes. my idea was a game of checkers and if you think those men are going to stand around on a board tipped up on one end and wait to be moved, you are not familiar with their habits." "perhaps i had better put a book under it; or if you could lower your knees a little it would come even." "oh, that's your idea, is it? my knees weren't constructed with special regard to playing checkers. they were put where they are and fastened and they won't run up and down like a flag. do you think i'm the india-rubber man from the circus, or the cork-legged man from oskoloosa? if you can't hold up your side of the board, we won't play." "now, dear, it's all right. let me see, is it your move, or mine?" "what are you trying to play? do you think this is a game of baseball? don't you know you've got to move cattecornered? 'taint your move anyway. put that back. there. now i'll move there." "oh, i know you're going to jump me and take my man," said mrs. italics, picking up the checker she had moved before and putting it in her mouth. "if i put it here, you'll----" "swallow it, why don't you? if you don't want it taken, why don't you masticate it? can't you leave the thing alone until you get ready to move? put it down before it chokes you." "there, dear (_swallowing it_), i've put it down, but it hurt my throat." "what in thunder do you mean by eating up my set of checkers. when i said 'put it down' i meant put it back on the board. will you please play this game instead of masticating it." "if i put this man there, you'll jump it." "just watch and see." "now, i'll put this man there,--no,--perhaps i had better move here,--or i think i'll----" "going to move in six places at once? think this is the first of may and that you're looking for a new flat? 'taint your move anyway. now will you please hold the board straight? d'ye think this is a washboard? well it isn't and it isn't a teeter-board either. now, i'll move into your king row. ha! ha!" "then do i jump these two men and get a king? of course, i do. crown me! i've got the first king!" "no, you haven't. i didn't mean that move. if you can't play checkers without cackling like a hen you'd better stop. i'll take back that move. now, so. now you can move." "over here." "certainly. that's splendid. now i'll take these two men." "i didn't see that, i'd rather put it here." "too late now. you can't take back a move in this game. you should study your moves first." "well, if i jump here i get another king." "what do you want to tumble them all over for? haven't you got any sense scarcely? you make more fuss over a measly king than most women over a mouse. don't you know it's my move? give me back those men. can't you hold the board straight? what's that? oh, of course, you know. you know it all. all you want is a pair of hinges and painted sides to be a checker-box. if ever i want to play with some good player i'll put the coal-scuttle on your head and move you around for a king. there goes the whole business! now, are you satisfied? do you wonder a man won't play checkers with a woman? i'll throw the measly things out of the window so that i won't waste any time playing with you again." and mr. italics suited the action to the word. but then mr. italics was such an _odd type_. modern romance by henry m. blossom, jr. information, speculation; fluctuation; ruination. dissipation, degradation; reformation or starvation. application, situation; occupation, restoration. concentration, enervation, nerve prostration. a vacation. destination, country station. nice location, recreation. exploration, observation; fascination--a flirtation. trepidation, hesitation, conversation, simulation; invitation, acclamation, sequestration, cold libation. stimulation, animation; inspiration, new potation. demonstration, agitation, circulation, exclamation! declaration, acceptation, osculation, sweet sensation. exultation, preparation, combination, new relation. from _the smart set_, new york. lullaby by paul laurence dunbar kiver up yo' haid, my little lady, hyeah de win' a-blowin' out o' do's. don' you kick, ner projick wid de comfo't, less'n fros'll bite yo' little toes. shut yo' eyes an' snuggle up to mammy, gi' me bofe yo' han's, i hol' 'em tight; don' you be afeard an' 'mence to trimble des ez soon ez i blows out de light. angels is a-mindin' you, my baby, keepin' off de bad man in de night. what de use o' bein skeered o' nuffin'? you don' fink de dakness gwine to bite? what de crackin' soun' you heah erroun' you? lawsey, chile, you tickles me to def:-- dats de man what brings de fros', a paintin' picters on de winder wid his bref. mammy ain' afeard, you hyeah huh laffin'? go' away, mistah fros', you can't come in; baby ain' receivin' folks this evenin', reckon dat you'll have to call agin. curl yo' little toes up so, my possum-- umph, but you's a cunnin' one fu' true! go to sleep, de angels is a-watchin', an' yo' mammy's mindin' of you, too. reprinted by permission. the reason why by mary e. bradley "when i was at the party," said betty (aged just four), "a little girl fell off her chair, right down upon the floor; and all the other little girls began to laugh but me-- i didn't laugh a single bit," said betty, seriously. "why not?" her mother asked her, full of delight to find that betty--bless her little heart--had been so sweetly kind. "why didn't you laugh, darling, or don't you like to tell?" "i didn't laugh," said betty, "'cause it was me that fell!" how a bachelor sews on a button anonymous this is a very laughable piece of pantomime. it is well to have a small table and a chair, but everything else is left to the imagination of the audience. the success of the selection depends upon the varied facial expression and other business. it is advisable to first practise with a needle and thread so as to get a correct imitation. first say to the audience: "ladies and gentlemen, i shall endeavor to give you an imitation of how a bachelor sews on a button." then seat yourself and take from the table an imaginary spool of thread. hold it in your left hand and pull out several lengths with your right hand. then bite the thread off and put the spool back on the table. hold the end of the thread in your left hand, then wet the first finger and thumb of your right hand and make the thread into a point. now start to thread your needle. the thread refuses to find the eye of the needle and there is a lot of laughable business here. change your position frequently, and at every turn vary the facial expression. then blow through the eye of the needle. just as you think you have at last put the thread through, the needle is lost and you look all over for it. after some difficulty you find it on the floor. then as you seat yourself again you find the thread in a snarl, so you take the spool again and pull off several fresh lengths. try again to thread the needle and as you get it through the needle's eye, turn it very carefully around and take hold of the thread with your teeth, drawing it through slowly with appropriate facial expression. now tie a knot in your thread and to make it secure bite it with your teeth. reach to the table for your imaginary button and place it on the _inside_ of your coat. begin to sew, with difficulty at first, pulling the thread through at arm's length. at the third stitch prick your finger and jump as if in great pain. the thread gradually gets shorter. as you seem to gain facility you begin to smile. then wind the thread around the button, make several short stitches, and bite it off with your teeth. now stand and try to button your coat. you first feel for the button but can not find it. then you look down at your coat, but there is no button there. you turn the coat over and discover that you have sewed the button on the inside. with a look of anger you pull the button off the coat, throw it violently on the floor, and exit hastily. christopher columbus anonymous deesa man liva in italia a gooda longa time ago. he hada a greata heada ever since he was a kidda. not a bigga heada likea de politicians nowaday--not a swella heada. his fadda keepa de standa in italia. sella de peanutta and de banan. maka plente de mon. christopher colum he say, "fadda, gimma de stamp, i go finda de new world." his fadda he laugh, "ha! ha!" just so. den christopher he say, "whata you maka fun? i betta you i finda new world." after a long time his fadda say, "you go finda new world, and bringa it over here." den de olda man he buy him a grip-sack, an' giva him boodle, an' maka him a present of three ships to come over to deesa contra. well, christopher colum he saila an' saila for gooda many day. he don't see any landa. an' he say, "i giva fiva-dollar-bill if i was back in italia!" well, he saila, an' he saila, an' vera soon he strika coney island. den dat maka him glad! very soon he coma to castle garden, an' den he walka up broadway an' he feel very bada. he finda outa dat de irish gang has gotta possession of new yorka! he don't lika de irish, an' de shamrocka donta lika him. he donta go vera far before a pleasanter mana speaks to him. he say, "how-a-you do, mista jones? how a-de folks in pittaburg?" christopher colum he say, "i notta mista jones; i reada the papers; i tinka you sella de green goods, ha? you go away, or i broka your jaw!" den he shaka hees fista deesa way, an' de man he skedaddle. den he tries to crossa de broad-a-way, but it fulla de mud an' he canta swim. very soon he sees a policeman cluba de mana, one, two, three times, an' he feel secka de stom'! next he meeta de politicians uppa tammany hall an' dees wanta him to runna for alderman. he getta plenty friend. he learna to "settom up" at de bar many times. next day he hava heada lika deesa! his fadda writa: "why you notta bringa back de new world? i like to hava de earth!" christopher colum he writa back dat new yorka is already in de hands of de shamrocka. den he goes to ohio and buys a place an' calla it after himself--colum. soon he goa broka an' taka de nexta train home in disgusta, because he reada in de paper dat de fair in ' will be holda in chicago! the fly anonymous the following is told in child dialect. she finds a fly and speaks to it affectionately: "poor little fly! ain't you got anyone to love you? ain't you got any brothers or any sisters, little fly? ain't you got any aunts, little fly? ain't you got anyone to love you? your mother loves you, little fly. (_she slaps her hand and kills the fly._) go home to your mother!" the yarn of the "nancy bell" by w. s. gilbert 'twas on the shores that round our coast from deal to ramsgate span, that i found alone on a piece of stone an elderly naval man. his hair was weedy, his beard was long, and weedy and long was he, and i heard this wight on the shore recite in a singular minor key: "oh, i am a cook, and a captain bold, and the mate of the _nancy_ brig, and a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, and the crew of the captain's gig!" and he shook his fists, and he tore his hair, till i really felt afraid, for i couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, and so i simply said: "o elderly man, it's little i know of the duties of men of the sea, and i'll eat my hand if i understand how you can possibly be "at once a cook and a captain bold, and the mate of the _nancy_ brig, and a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, and the crew of the captain's gig." then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which is a trick all seamen larn, and having got rid of a thumpin' quid, he spun this painful yarn: "'twas in the good ship _nancy bell_ that we sailed to the indian sea, and there on a reef we come to grief, which has often occurred to me. "and pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned, (there was seventy-seven o' soul), and only ten of the _nancy's_ men said 'here!' to the muster roll. "there was me, and the cook, and the captain bold, and the mate of the _nancy_ brig, and the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, and the crew of the captain's gig. "for a month we'd neither wittles nor drink, till a-hungry we did feel, so we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot the captain for our meal. "the next lot fell to the _nancy's_ mate, and a delicate dish he made; then our appetite with the midshipmite we seven survivors stayed. "and then we murdered the bo'sun tight, and he much resembled pig; then we wittled free, did the cook and me, on the crew of the captain's gig. "then only the cook and me was left, and the delicate question, 'which of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, and we argued it out as sich. "for i loved that cook as a brother, i did, and the cook he worshiped me; but we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed in the other chap's hold, you see. "'i'll be eat if you dines of me,' says tom 'yes, that,' says i, 'you'll be.' 'i'm boiled if i die, my friend,' quoth i; and 'exactly so,' quoth he. "says he, 'dear james, to murder me were a foolish thing to do, for don't you see that you can't cook _me_, while i can--and will--cook _you_?' "so he boils the water, and takes the salt, and the pepper in portions true (which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot and some sage and parsley, too. "'come here,' says he, with a proper pride, which his smiling features tell, ''twill soothing be if i let you see how extremely nice you'll smell.' "and he stirred it round and round and round, and he sniffed at the foaming froth-- when i ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals in the scum of the boiling broth. "and i eat that cook in a week or less, and--as i eating be the last of his chops, why, i almost drops, for a wessel in sight i see. * * * * * "and i never grieve, and i never smile, and i never larf nor play, but i sit and croak, and a single joke i have--which is to say: "oh, i am a cook, and a captain bold, and the mate of the _nancy_ brig, and a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, and the crew of the captain's gig!" i tol' yer so by john l. heaton john jones he was the beatenus cuss. allus a-pickin' 'n' sayin' to us: "i tol' yer so, i tol' yer so!" no matter what happened, he'd up an' say: "yer sorry ye done it, haint ye, hey? well, well, i tol' yer so!" when kerin-happuck wuz tuk down sick from the pizen ivy she'd gin a lick, he'd tol' us so, he'd tol' us so. 'n' shadrack's fuss with his mother-in-law, before the weddin' john jones foresaw; well, well, he tol' us so. if a fellow wuz hit by a fallin' tree, or kicked by a horse, says jones, says he: "i tol' yer so, i tol' yer so!" if a barn tuck fire, or a well-sweep broke, we might a-knowed it before jones spoke, the time he tol' us so. it got so tejus, says bill one day: "ye're a dern ol' idjit, 'ith nothin' ter say but 'tol' yer so,' 'n 'tol' yer so,'-- a mean, contemptible, sneakin' cuss!" 'n' jes from habit, jones sez to us: "well, well, i tol' yer so!" "you git up!" by joe kerr there's lots of folks that has good times, there's lots that never does; but the ones that don't like morning naps is the meanest ever wuz. it's very nice to eat a meal with pie for its wind-up; 'taint half so sweet's th' nap pa spoils when he yells, "you git up!" i'd rather lay in bed and snooze, jest one small minit more in the morning, when the sunshine comes a-creeping o'er the floor, then to go to barnum's circus or to own a bulldog pup. the meanest thing pa ever said wuz, "come now--you git up!" i like to go in swimming, and i like to play baseball; i like to fight and fly a kite, 'n' i sometimes like to bawl; but them thare forty winks of sleep pa tries to interrup', is better 'n' all. it breaks my heart when pa yells, "you git up!" i'd stand the hurt and ache and pain and all the smart and itch of having him turn the bedclothes down to wake me with a switch, ef he 'ud on'y jest go 'way and let me finish up the nap i started jest before he yelled out, "you git up!" you bet, when i git growed up big, es rich 'n' old as pa, 'n' never haf to go to school, nor work nor stand no jaw-- i'll sleep all day and all night, too, and only jest git up when i git 'nough sleep to suit me ef all the world yells, "you git up!" by permission of g. w. dillingham company. presentation of the trumpet anonymous in the days of the old volunteer fire department there existed in this city a certain hose company noted for the bravery of its foreman, whose reckless daring in time of danger, coupled with his pugilistic attainments, had made him a local celebrity. the members of his company decided to present him with a handsome silver trumpet, as an expression of their regard and appreciation of his pluck, courage and fighting qualities. one of the members was chosen to prepare a fitting speech for the occasion, and after some weeks of labor announced himself as being thoroughly prepared for the task. in the meantime, the foreman, who was supposed to be in blissful ignorance of all the preparations being made to surprize him, was let into the "secret" through the kindness of one of the boys. he recognized this as his supreme opportunity to display his literary qualifications in the shape of a speech of acceptance. he secured the services of a literary friend to write a glowing oration, replete with metaphors, similes, and sweet-sounding poetry, expressing his "unworthiness of the honor," the "deep gratitude which words failed him to adequately express," etc. the night in question at last arrived. the building was filled to overflowing. the band played "see the conquering hero comes," and the boys gave three hearty cheers and a "tiger" for the proud foreman. the chairman advanced to the front, holding the massive trumpet in one hand, while his other hand grasped convulsively at the collar of his shirt. after staring around the room and giving a few preparatory coughs, he said: "mr. foreman, and members of hose company number : i--a--a--i--a--i----(_looks hard at the floor. begins again with great determination._) mr. foreman, and members of hose company number : i--a--a--i--a--feel--i feel a----(_puts one hand in his pocket and looks very foolish. begins again, shouting, and looking very angry._) mr. foreman, and members of hose company number : i--i--i--i feel a--much a pleas----(_word sticks in his throat. very angrily, and striding toward the foreman._) ah! take your trumpet!" a look of consternation spread over the faces of the boys at the failure of their spokesman, and there were many whisperings of "i told you so!" it was now the foreman's turn. he drew his hand across his mouth and began as follows: "mr. chairman, and members of hose company number : it is--it is--it is--it is with a--with a----(_looks at ceiling, and shifts his position uneasily. begins over again, with a very confident air._) mr. chairman, and members of hose company number : it is with--with a--with a--with a--a--a--a--a heart----(_stops, stares wildly at the ceiling, floor and company. begins over again, very angrily, and with his body in fighting attitude._) mr. chairman, and members of hose company number : i--i--i--it is--it is with a heart--with a heart full---full----(_stops. very loud and violently._) ah! give us yer trumpet!" don't use big words anonymous in promulgating your esoteric cogitations, or articulating your superficial sentimentalities and amicable, philosophical or psychological observations, beware of platitudinous ponderosity. let your conversational communications possess a clarified conciseness, a compact comprehensibleness, coalescent consistency, and a concatenated cogency. eschew all conglomerations of flatulent garrulity, jejune babblement and asinine affectations. let your extemporaneous descantings and unpremeditated expatiations have intelligibility and veracious vivacity, without rhodomontade or thrasonical bombast. sedulously avoid all polysyllabic profundity, pompous prolixity, psittaceous vacuity, ventriloquial verbosity, and vaniloquent vapidity. shun double-entendres, prurient jocosity, and pestiferous profanity, obscurant or apparent. in other words, talk plainly, briefly, naturally, sensibly, truthfully, purely. keep from "slang"; don't put on airs; say what you mean; mean what you say. and don't use big words! der mule shtood on der steamboad deck anonymous der mule shtood on der steamboad deck, for der land he wouldn't dread, dhey tied a halder rount his neck, und vacked him over der headt. but obstinate und braced he shtood, as born der scene to rule, a creature of der holt-back brood-- a shtubborn, shtedfast mule. dhey curst und shwore, but he vould not go undill he felt inclined, und dhough dhey dundered blow on blow, he aldered nod his mind. der boats-boy to der shore complained, "der varmint's bound do shtay," shtill ubon dot olt mule's hide der sounding lash made blay. his masder from der shore reblied, "der boats aboud do sail; as oder means in vain you've dried. subbose you dwist his dail. "i dhink dot dat will magke him land," der boats-boy brave, dhough bale, den near drew mit oudstretched hand, do magke der dwist avail. dhen game a kick of thunder sound! dot boy--oh, vhere vas he? ask of der vaves dot far around beheld him in der sea. for a moment nod a voice vas heard, bud dot mule he vinked his eye, as dhough to ask, to him occurred, "how vas dot for high?" the new school reader anonymous i will now give you a selection from my new school reader. it is built upon the lines of the school-books in use in the years preceding our early childhood. it is one of the selections that unfortunate boys would render in an heroic attitude, and in stilted, unnatural tones: "the october sun was shining down upon an avenue of trees, and gilding with its golden splendor the chromatic nose of a solitary horseman, who reigned up his steed at the sight of a small boy with a school-book on his shoulder. 'where do you live, my fine fellow?' said the stranger, in low, pleasing tones. 'in yonder cottage, near the glen; my widowed mother and her thirteen children dwell with me,' replied the boy, in a rich, mellow voice. 'and is your father dead?' asked the stranger with a rising inflection. 'extremely so,' murmured the lad, 'and that is why my mother is a widow.' 'and how does your mother gain a livelihood?' asked the horseman, his voice dropping to a gentle whisper. 'i support the family,' proudly replied george. 'you support the family? why, what can such a little fellow as you do?' 'i dig wells during the day, and help my mother at night. i have a good education and am able to dig wells almost as well as a man.' 'but you must have to work very hard,' said the stranger, wiping a tear from his eyebrow. 'indeed i do, sir, and since my little sister ann got married, and brought her husband home to live with us, i have to work with more assiduity than ever. i am enabled to barely maintain our family in a precarious manner; but, oh, sir, should my other sisters marry, i fear that some of my brothers-in-law would have to suffer.' 'my boy,' asked the solitary horseman, looking at the youth proudly, 'what would you say if i told you your father was not dead?' 'sir,' replied the boy respectfully, 'i am too polite to tell you what i would say,--besides you are much larger than i am.' 'but, my brave lad,' said the man in low, musical tones, 'do you not recognize your parent on your father's side?--do you not know me, georgie? o george!' 'i must say,' replied george, 'that you have the advantage of me. while i may have met you before, i can not at this moment place you, sir!' at this the stranger opened his valise and took therefrom a large-sized strawberry mark, which he placed on his right arm. immediately the boy recognized him as his long-lost parent, and he, drawing the lad to his bosom, ejaculated, 'o my son, my son!' 'but how did you escape, father?' said the boy through his tears, in a voice broken by emotion. 'we were far away at sea,' said the heartbroken man. 'the winds howled and the waves threatened to engulf our frail bark. when everybody was lost, the rest of the crew turned and sprang into the foaming billows and swam several miles. at last i felt my feet touch something _hard_,--it was jersey city!'" the poor was mad a fairy shtory for little childher by charles battell loomis wance upon a toime the poor was virry poor indade, an' so they wint to a rich leddy that was that rich she had goold finger-nails, an' was that beautiful that it'u'd mek you dopey to luke at her. an' the poor asht her would she give thim the parin's of her goold finger-nails fer to sell. an' she said she would that, an' that ivery chuesdeh she did be afther a-parin' her nails. so of a chuesdeh the poor kem an' they tuke the gold parin's to a jewel-ery man, an' he gev thim good money fer thim. wasn't she the koind leddy, childher? well, wan day she forgot to pare her nails, an' so they had nothin' to sell. an' the poor was mad, an' they wint an' kilt the leddy intoirely. an' when she was kilt, sorra bit would the nails grow upon her, an' they saw they was silly to kill her. so they wint out to sairch fer a leddy wid silver finger-nails. an' they found her, an' she was that beautiful that her face was all the colors of the rainbow an' two more besides. an' the poor asht her would she give thim the parin's of her finger-nails fer to sell. an' she said that she would that, an' that every chuesdeh she did be afther a-parin' her nails. so of a chuesdeh the poor kem an' they tuk the silver parin's to the jewel-ery man, an' he giv thim pretty good money fer thim, but not nair as good as fer the goold. but he was the cute jewel-ery man, wasn't he, childher? well, wan day she forgot to pare her nails an' so they had nothin' to sell. an' the poor was mad, an' they wint an' kilt the leddy intoirely. an' when she was kilt, sorra bit would the nails grow upon her, an' they saw they was silly to kill her. so they wint out to sairch for a leddy with tin finger-nails. an' they found her, and she was that beautiful that she would mek you ristless. an' the poor asht her would she give thim the parin's of her tin finger-nails fer to sell. an' she said she would that, an' that ivery chuesdeh she did be afther a-parin' her nails. so of a chuesdeh the poor kem. an' did they get the tin nails, childher? sure, that's where y are out. they did not, fer the leddy had lost a finger in a mowin'-machine, an' she didn't have tin finger-nails at arl, at arl--only noine. lides to bary jade anonymous the bood is beabig brighdly love, the sdars are shidig, too; while i ab gazing dreabily add thigkig, love, of you; you caddot, oh, you caddot kdow, by darlig, how i biss you,-- (oh, whadt a fearful cold i've got-- ck-_tish_-u! ck-ck-_tish_-u!) i'b sittig id the arbor, love where you sat by by side, whed od that calb, autubdal dight you said you'd be by bride. oh, for wud bobedt to caress add tederly to kiss you; budt do! we're beddy biles apart-- (ho-_rash_-o! ck-ck-_tish_-u!) this charbig evedig brigs to bide the tibe whed first we bet; it seebs budt odly yesterday, i thigk i see you yet. oh, tell be, ab i sdill your owd? by hopes, oh, do dot dash theb! (codfoud by cold, 'tis gettig worse-- ck-_tish_-u! ck-ck-_thrash_-eb!) good-by, by darlig bary jade the bid-dight hour is dear, add it is hardly wise by love for be to ligger here! the heavy dews are fallig fast; a fod good-dight i wish you; (ho-_rash_-o!--there it is agaid-- ck-_tish_-u! ck-ck-_thrash_-eb!) "charlie must not ring to-night" parody on "curfew must not ring to-night" anonymous slowly england's sun was setting o'er a mansion old and grey; filling all the land with glory, in the usual kind of way. and its bright rays tinged the foreheads of a man and maiden fair: he with powdered head and whiskers, she with locks of--someone's hair. she was clutching at it wildly, as, with lips all cold and white, she was saying, "listen, thomas,--charlie must not ring to-night!" "thomas," bessie's white lips murmur'd, as she feverishly laid hold of the buttons of his liv'ry--lobster-red with spots of gold-- "freddie smith will call this evening; he'll be ringing by and by; charlie does not know about him; if they met here i should die! tell him i am out, dear thomas; gone to call on mrs. blight; tell him any lie you like but--charlie must not ring to-night." "bessie," calmly said the flunkey-ev'ry word was like a dart barbed with poison, entering in that damsel's heart-- "for the last three weeks that pusson--w'ich 'is name are charlie power-- hev'ry hevenink's called to see you, jest about the dinner-hour. 'e' as never failed to tip me--w'ich is only just and right-- so i still must do my duty, should that pusson ring to-night!" she with quick steps bounded upward, till she reached the chamber- door, seized her purse, and quick returning, threw it wildly on the floor. "take it, thomas," cried the maiden, with her eyes and cheeks aglow, "take it all and welcome--what there is i do not know-- but 'tis yours, ay, ev'ry farthing; gold and precious silver bright, only, take good care, dear thomas, charlie must not ring to-night!" she had fled to dress for freddie; thomas seeks the front door-bell. he will muffle up the clapper, in a way he knows full well. see! the bell is being shaken; 'tis the fateful moment now! thomas hastes to "do his dooty," with a firm, determined brow. shall he let it ring? no, never; he has touched the guerdon bright, so he grasps the clapper, whisp'ring, "charlie _shall_ not ring to-night!" it was o'er; the youth ceased pulling, and the maiden breathed once more. but, alas! that fickle maiden wept as maid ne'er wept before when she learn'd that he who'd called there, promptly at the dinner-hour, was the long-expected freddie, _not_ the hated charlie power. while the tried and trusted thomas, knowing not her evil plight, open'd wide the door for charlie when that "pusson" called that night! a short encore man wants but little here below, he's not so hard to please; but woman (bless her little heart) wants everything she sees! my double, and how he undid me by edward everett hale i am, or rather, was a minister, and was settled in an active, wide-awake town with a bright parish and a charming young wife. at first it was all delightful, but as my duties increased i found myself leading a double life--one for my parish, whom i loved, and the other for a vague public, for whom i did not care two straws. it was then that on my wife's suggestion i looked for a double--some one who would pass for me and fill the many engagements i wanted to shirk. i found him. when he was discovered his name was dennis shea, and he was not shaved, had no spectacles, and his style of dress was not at all like mine; but these difficulties were soon surmounted, for, by application to the judge of probate, his name was soon changed to frederick ingham--my name. as for appearance, he was so much like me that by the united efforts of polly and myself and a tailor he was made to look the exact image of me. then in four successive afternoons i taught him four speeches, which were to be his stock in trade: no. --"very well, thank you; and you?" (this for an answer to casual salutations.) no. --"i am very glad you liked it." (this in response to a compliment on a sermon.) no. --"there has been so much said, and on the whole so well said, that i will not occupy the time." (this for public meetings when called to speak.) no. --"i agree in general with my friend on the other side of the room." (this when asked for an opinion of his own.) thus equipped, my double attended a number of conventions and meetings which i was too busy to notice and was very successful. he gained a good reputation for me, and people began to say i was less exclusive than i used to be, and that i was more punctual, less talkative, etc. his success was so great that one evening i risked him at a reception. i could ill afford the time to go, and so i sent him with polly, who kept her eye on him, and afterward told me about it. he had to take a very talkative lady--mrs. jeffries--down to supper, and at sight of the eatables he became a little excited, and attempted one of his speeches to the lady. he tried the shortest one in his most gallant manner: "very well, thank you; and you?" polly, who stood near his chair, was much frightened, as this speech had no connection with anything that had been said, but mrs. jeffries was so much engrossed with her own talking that she noticed nothing. she rattled on so busily that dennis was not obliged to say anything more until the eating was over, when he said, to fill up a pause: "there has been so much said, and on the whole so well said, that i will not occupy the time." this again frightened polly, but she managed to get him away before he had done anything serious. after this my double relieved me in so many ways that i grew quite light-hearted. that happy year i began to know my wife by sight. we saw each other sometimes, and how delightful it was! but all this could not last; and at length poor dennis, my double, undid me! there was some ridiculous new movement on foot to organize some kind of a society, and there was to be a public meeting. of course i was asked to attend and to speak. after much urging i consented to go and sit on the platform, upon condition that i would not be called upon to make a speech. this was agreed upon, and i went--that is, dennis went, having been told to say nothing on any subject. he sat resplendent on the platform, and kept his peace during the preliminary exercises, which were rather dry. governor blake called the meeting to order, but as he really did not know what the object of the gathering was, he said that there were other gentlemen present who could entertain them better than he. then there followed an awkward scene, for nobody wanted to speak, and every one that was called upon was either absent or unprepared; and finally a wretched boy in the gallery called out, "ingham! ingham!" the governor thought i would respond, and as nothing had been said so far, he ventured to ask me, saying: "our friend, mr. ingham, is always prepared, and tho we had not relied upon him, he will say a word perhaps." applause followed, which turned dennis' head. he rose and tried speech no. : "there has been so much said, and on the whole so well said, that i will not longer occupy the time!" then he sat down, looking for his hat--for things seemed squally. but the people cried, "go on! go on!" and some applauded. dennis still confused, but flattered by the applause, rose again, and this time tried no. : "i am very glad you like it." which, alas! should only be said when complimented on a sermon. my best friends stared, and people who didn't know me yelled with delight. a boy in the gallery cried out: "it's all a humbug!" just as dennis, waving his hand, commanded silence, and tried no. : "i agree in general with my friend on the other side of the room." the poor governor, doubting his senses, crossed to stop him, but too late. the same gallery boy shouted: "how's your mother?" and dennis, completely lost, tried as his last shot no. : "very well, thank you; and you?" the audience rose in a whirl of excitement. some other impertinence from the gallery was aimed at dennis; he broke all restraint and to finish undoing me, he called out: "any wan o' ye blatherin' rascals that wants to fight, can come down an' i'll take any five o' yez, single-handed; ye're all dogs and cowards! sure an' i've said all his riverance an' the mistress bade me say!" that was all; my double had undone me. reprinted by permission of little, brown & co., boston, mass. romance of a hammock anonymous shady tree--babbling brook, girl in hammock--reading book. golden curls--tiny feet, girl in hammock--looks so sweet. man rides past--big mustache, girl in hammock--makes a "mash." "mash" is mutual--day is set, man and maiden--married get. married now a year and a day, keeping house in avenue a. red-hot stove--beefsteak frying, girl got married--cooking trying. cheeks all burning--eyes look red, girl got married--almost dead. biscuit burnt up--beefsteak charry, girl got married--awful sorry. man comes home--tears mustache, mad as blazes--got no cash. thinks of hammock--in the lane; wishes maiden--back again. maiden also--thinks of swing, and wants to go back, too, poor thing! hour of midnight--baby squawking; man in bare feet--bravely walking; the baby yells--now the other twin, he strikes up--like his brother. paregoric--by the bottle poured into--the baby's throttle. naughty tack--points in air, waiting some one's--foot to tear. man in bare feet--see him there! o my gracious!--hear him swear! raving crazy--gets his gun blows his head off--dead and gone. pretty widow--with a book in the hammock--by the brook. man rides past--big mustache; keeps on riding--nary "mash." finnigin to flannigan by s. w. gillinan superintindent wuz flannigan; boss av the siction wuz finnigin; whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack, an' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back, finnigin writ it to flannigan, afther the wrick wuz all on ag'in; that is, this finnigin repoorted to flannigan. whin finnigin furst writ to flannigan, he writed tin pages--did finnigin, an' he tould jist how the smash occurred; full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd did finnigin write to flannigan afther the cars had gone on ag'in. that wuz how finnigin repoorted to flannigan. now flannigan knowed more than finnigin-- he'd more idjucation, had flannigan; an' it wore'm clane an' complately out to tell what finnigin writ about in his writin' to muster flannigan. so he writed back to finnigin: "don't do sich a sin ag'in; make 'em brief, finnigin!" whin finnigin got this from flannigan, he blushed rosy rid, did finnigin; an' he said: "i'll gamble, a whole month's pa-ay that it will be minny an' minny a da-ay befoore sup'rintindint--that's flannigan-- gits a whack at this very same sin ag'in. from finnigin to flannigan repoorts won't be long ag'in." * * * * * wan da-ay, on the siction av finnigin, on the road sup'rintinded by flannigan, a rail gave way on a bit av a curve, an' some kyars went off as they made the swerve. "there's nobody hurted," sez finnigin, "but repoorts must be made to flannigan." an' he winked at mccorrigan, as married a finnigin. he wuz shantyin' thin, wuz finnigin, as minny a railroader's been ag'in, an' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin' bright in finnigin's shanty all that night-- bilin' down his repoort, was finnigin! an' he writed this here: "muster flannigan: off ag'in, on ag'in, gone ag'in--finnigin." from _life_, by courtesy of the publishers. an introduction by mark twain "ladies--and--gentlemen:--by--the request of the--chairman of the--com-mit-tee--i beg leave to--introduce--to you--the reader of the evening--a gentleman whose great learning--whose historical ac-curacy--whose devotion--to science--and--and--whose veneration for the truth--are only equaled by his high moral character--and--his--majestic presence. i allude--in these vague general terms--to my-self. i--am a little opposed to the custom of ceremoniously introducing a reader to the audience, because it seems--unnecessary--where the man has been properly advertised! but as--it is--the custom--i prefer to make it myself--in my own case--and then i can rely on getting in--all the facts! i never had but one introduction--that seemed to me just the thing--and the gentleman was not acquainted with me, and there was no nonsense. ladies and gentlemen, i shall waste no time in this introduction. i know of only two facts about this man: first, he--has never been in the state prison; and second, i can't--imagine why." the harp of a thousand strings a hard-shell baptist sermon by joshua s. morris (this characteristic effusion first appeared in a new orleans paper. the sermon is supposed to have been preached at a village on the bank of the mississippi river, whither the volunteer parson had brought his flatboat for the purpose of trade.) i may say to you, my brethring, that i am not an edicated man, an' i am not one of them as beleeves that edication is necessary for a gospel minister, for i beleeve the lord edicates his preachers jest as he wants 'em to be edicated; an' altho i say it that oughtn't to say it, yet in the state of indianny, whar i live, thar's no man as gits bigger congregations nor what i gits. thar may be some here to-day, my brethring, as don't know what persuasion i am uv. well, i must say to yu, my brethring, that i'm a hard-shell baptist. thar's some folks as don't like the hard-shell baptists, but i'd rather have a hard shell as no shell at all. you see me here to-day, my brethring, drest up in fine clothes; you mout think i was proud, but i am not proud, my brethring; and altho i've been a preacher of the gospel for twenty years, an' altho i'm capting of the flatboat that lies at your landing, i'm not proud, my brethring. i am not gwine to tell edzactly whar my tex may be found; suffice to say, it's in the leds of the bible, and you'll find it somewhar between the fust chapter of the book of generations and the last chapter of the book of revolutions; and ef you'll go and sarch the scriptures, you'll not only find my tex thar, but a great many other texes as will do you good to read; and my tex, when you shall find it, you shall find it to read thus: "and he played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck." my tex, my brethring, leads me to speak of sperits. now, thar's a great many kinds of sperits in the world. in the fust place, thar's the sperits as some folks call ghosts; and thar's the sperits of turpentine; and thar's the sperits as some folks call liquor, an' i've got as good an artikel of them kind of sperits on my flatboat as ever was fotch down the mississippi river. but thar's a great many other kinds of sperits, for the tex says, "he played on a harp uv a t-h-o-u-s-and strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck." but i tell you the kind uv sperits as is meant in the tex is fire. that's the kind uv sperits as is meant in the tex, my brethring. now, thar's a great many kinds uv fire in the world. in the fust place, there's the common sort of fire you light your cigars or pipe with; and then thar's foxfire and camphire, fire before you're ready, and fire and fall back, and many other kinds of fire--for the tex say, "he played on a harp uv a _thous_and strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck." but i'll tell you the kind of fire as is meant in the tex, my brethring: its hell-fire! an' that's the kind uv fire as a great many uv you'll come to, ef you don't do better nor what you have been doin'--for "he played on a harp uv a _thous_and strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck." now, the different sorts of fire in the world may be likened onto the different persuasions of christians in the world. in the fust place, we have the piscapalions, an' they are a high-sailin' and highfalutin' set; and they may be likened unto a turkey buzzard that flies up in the air, and he goes up, and up, and up, till he looks no bigger than your finger-nail, and the fust thing you know, he cums down, and down, and down, and is a-fillin' himself on the carkiss of a dead hoss by the side of the road--and "he played on a harp uv a _thous_and strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck." and then thar's the methodis, and they may be likened unto the squirril runnin' up into a tree, for the methodis beleeves in gwine on from one degree of grace to another, and finally on to perfection; and the squirril goes up and up, and up and up, and he jumps from limb to limb, and branch to branch, and the fust thing you know he falls, and down he cums kerflumix; and that's like the methodis, for they is allers fallin' from grace, ah!--and "he played on a harp uv a _thous_and strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck." and then, my brethring, thar's the baptists, ah! and they have been likened unto a 'possum on a 'simmon tree, and thunders may roll and the earth may quake, but that 'possum clings thar still, sh! and you may shake one foot loose, and the other's thar, and you make shake all feet loose, and he laps his tail around the limb, and clings, and he clings furever--for "he played on a harp uv a _thous_and strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck." reprinted from the "four-masted catboat," by permission of the author and the century company. copyright, . the difficulty of riming anonymous we parted by the gate in june, that soft and balmy month, beneath the sweetly beaming moon, and (wonth-hunth-sunth-bunth--i can't find a rime to month). years were to pass ere we should meet. a wide and yawning gulf divides me from my love so sweet, while (ulf-sulf-dulf-mulf--stuck again; i can't get any rime to gulf. i'm in a gulf myself). oh, how i dreaded in my soul to part from my sweet nymph, while years should their long seasons roll before (hymph-dymph-symph--i guess i'll have to let it go at that). beneath my fortune's stern decree my lonely spirits sunk, for i a weary soul should be, and a (hunk-dunk-runk-sk--that will never do in the world). she buried her dear lovely face within her azure scarf, she knew i'd take the wretchedness, as well as (parf-darf-harf-and-harf-- that won't answer either). oh, i had loved her many years. i loved her for herself; i loved her for her tender tears, and also for her (welf-nelf-self-pelf--no, no; not for her pelf). i took between my hands her head, how sweet her lips did pouch! i kissed her lovingly and said-- (bouch-mouch-louch-ouch--not a bit of it did i say _ouch!_). i sorrowfully wrung her hand, my tears they did escape, my sorrow i could not command, and i was but a (sape-dape-fape-ape; well, perhaps i did feel like an ape). i gave to her a fond adieu, sweet pupil of love's school, i told her i would e'er be true, and always be a (dool-sool-mool-fool; since i come to think of it, i was a fool, for she fell in love with another fellow before i was gone a month). so was i by joseph bert smiley my name is tommy an' i hates that feller of my sister kate's. he's bigger'n i am an' you see he's sorter lookin' down on me, an' i resents it with a vim; i think i'm just as good as him. he's older, an' he's mighty fly but he's a kid,--an' so am i. one time he came,--down by the gate, i guess it must been awful late,-- an' katie, she was there, an' they was feelin' very nice and gay, an' he was talkin' all the while, about her sweet an' lovin' smile, an' everythin' was nice as pie, an' they was there,--an' so was i. they didn't see me, 'cause i slid down underneath a bush, an' hid, an' he was sayin' that his love was greater'n all the stars above up in the glorious heavens placed; an' then his arm got round her waist, an' clouds were floatin' in the sky, an' they was there,--an' so was i. i didn't hear just all they said, but by an' by my sister's head was droopin' on his shoulder, an' i seen him holdin' katie's hand, an' then he hugged her closer, some, an' then i heered a kiss--_yum, yum!_ an' katie blushed an' drew a sigh, an' sorter coughed,--an' so did i. an' then that feller looked around an' seed me there, down on the ground, an'--_was_ he mad?--well, betcher boots i gets right outer there an' _scoots_. an' he just left my sister kate a-standin' right there by the gate; an' i seen blood was in his eye, an' he runned fast,--an' so did i. i runned the very best i could but he cotched up,--i's 'fraid he would, an' then he said he'd teach me how to know my manners, he'd allow; an' than he shaked me _awful_. gee! he jest--he frashed the ground with me. an' then he stopt it by and by, 'cause he was tired,--an' so was i. an' then he went back to the gate an' couldn't find my sister kate, 'cause she went to bed, while he was runnin' round an' thumpin' me. i got round in a shadder dim, an' made a face, an' guffed at him; an' then the moon larfed, in the sky, 'cause he was there,--an' so was i. the enchanted shirt by john hay the king was sick. his cheek was red, and his eye was clear and bright; he ate and drank with a kingly zest, and peacefully snored at night. but he said he was sick--and a king should know; and doctors came by the score; they did not cure him. he cut off their heads, and sent to the schools for more. at last two famous doctors came, and one was as poor as a rat; he had passed his life in studious toil and never found time to grow fat. the other had never looked in a book; his patients gave him no trouble; if they recovered, they paid him well, if they died, their heirs paid double. together they looked at the royal tongue, as the king on his couch reclined; in succession they thumped his august chest, but no trace of disease could find. the old sage said, "you're as sound as a nut." "hang him up!" roared the king, in a gale,-- in a ten-knot gale of royal rage; the other leach grew a shade pale; but he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, and thus his prescription ran: "the king will be well if he sleeps one night in the shirt of a happy man." wide o'er the realm the couriers rode, and fast their horses ran, and many they saw, and to many they spake, but they found no happy man. they saw two men by the roadside sit, and both bemoaned their lot; for one had buried his wife, he said. and the other one had not. at last they came to a village gate; a beggar lay whistling there; he whistled and sang and laughed, and rolled on the grass in the soft june air. the weary couriers paused and looked at the scamp so blithe and gay, and one of them said, "heaven save you, friend, you seem to be happy to-day?" "oh, yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed, and his voice rang free and glad; "an idle man has so much to do that he never has time to be sad." "this is our man." the courier said, "our luck has led us aright. i will give you a hundred ducats, friend, for the loan of your shirt to-night." the merry rascal lay back on the grass and laughed till his face was black; "i would do it," said he, and roared with the fun, "but i haven't a shirt to my back!" each day to the king the reports came in of the unsuccessful spies; and the sad panorama of human woes, passed daily under his eyes. and he grew ashamed of his useless life, and his maladies hatched in gloom; he opened his windows and let the free air of the heavens into his room. and out he went into the world and toiled in his own appointed way, and the people blest him, the land was glad, and the king was well and gay. der oak und der vine by charles follen adams i don'd vas preaching voman's righdts, or anyding like dot, und i likes to see all beoples shust gontended mit dheir lot; but i vants to gontradict dot shap dot made dis leedle shoke: "a voman vas der glinging vine, und man, der shturdy oak." berhaps, somedimes, dot may be drue; budt, den dimes oudt off nine, i find me oudt dot man himself vas peen der glinging vine; und ven hees friendts dhey all vas gone und he vas shust "tead proke," dot's vhen der voman shteps righdt in, und peen der shturdy oak. shust go oup to der paseball groundts und see dhose "shturdy oaks" all planted roundt ubon der seats-- shust hear dheir laughs und shokes! dhen see dhose vomens at der tubs, mit glothes oudt on der lines: vhich vas der shturdy oaks, mine frendts, und vhich der glinging vines? ven sickness in der householdt comes, und veeks und veeks he shtays, who vas id fighdts him mitout resdt, dhose veary nighdts und days? who beace und gomfort alvays prings, und cools dot fefered prow? more like id vas der tender vine dot oak he glings to, now. "man vants budt leedle here pelow," der boet von time said; dhere's leedle dot man he _don'd_ vant, i dink id means, inshted; und vhen der years keep rolling on, dheir cares und droubles pringing, he vants to pe der shturdy oak, und, also, do der glinging. maype, vhen oaks dhey gling some more, und don'd so shturdy peen, der glinging vines dhey haf some shance to helb run life's masheen. in belt und sickness, shoy und pain, in calm or shtormy veddher, 'tvas beddher dot dhose oaks und vines should alvays gling togedder. from "dialect ballads," copyright, , by harper & brothers. the ship of faith anonymous a certain colored brother had been holding forth to his little flock upon the ever-fruitful topic of _faith_, and he closed his exhortation about as follows: "my bruddren, ef yous gwine to git saved, you got to git on board de ship ob faith. i tell you, my bruddren, dere ain't no odder way. dere ain't no gitten up de back stairs, nor goin' 'cross lots; you can't do dat away, my bruddren, you got to git on board de ship ob faith. once 'pon a time dere was a lot ob colored people, an' dey was all gwine to de promised land. well, dey knowed dere w'an't no odder way for 'em to do but to git on board de ship ob faith. so dey all went down an' got on board, de ole granfaders, an' de ole granmudders, an' de pickaninnies, an' all de res' of 'em. dey all got on board 'ceptin' one mons'us big feller, he said he's gwine to swim, he was. 'w'y!' dey said, 'you can't swim so fur like dat. it am a powerful long way to de promised land!' he said: 'i kin swim anywhur, i kin. i git board no boat, no, 'deed!' well, my bruddren, all dey could say to dat poor disluded man dey couldn't git him on board de ship of faith, so dey started off. de day was fair, de win' right; de sun shinin' and ev'ryt'ing b'utiful, an' dis big feller he pull off his close and plunge in de water. well, he war a powerful swimmer, dat man, 'deed he war; he war dat powerful he kep' right 'long side de boat all de time; he kep' a hollerin' out to de people on de boat, sayin': 'what you doin' dere, you folks, brilin' away in de sun; you better come down heah in de water, nice an' cool down here.' but dey said: 'man alive, you better come up here in dis boat while you got a chance.' but he said: 'no, indeedy! i git aboard no boat; i'm havin' plenty fun in de water.' well, bimeby, my bruddren, what you tink dat pore man seen? a _horrible, awful shark_, my bruddren; mouf wide opne, teef more'n a foot long, ready to chaw dat pore man all up de minute he catch him. well, when he seen dat shark he begun to git awful scared, an' he holler out to de folks on board de ship: 'take me on board, take me on board, quick!' but dey said: 'no, indeed; you wouldn't come up here before, you swim now!' "he look over his shoulder an' he seen dat shark a-comin' an' he let hisself out. fust it was de man an' den it was de shark, an' den it was de man again, dat away, my bruddren, _plum to de promised land_. dat am de blessed troof i'm a-tellin' you dis minute. but what do you t'ink was a-waitin' for him on de odder shore when he got dere? a _horrible, awful lion_, my bruddren, was a-stan'in' dere on de shore, a-lashin' his sides wid his tail, an' a-roarin' away fit to devour dat poor nigger de minit he git on de shore. "well, he _war_ powerful scared den, he don't know what he gwine to do. if he stay in de water de shark eat him up; if he go on shore de lion eat him up; he dunno what to do. but he put his trust in de lord, an' went for de shore. dat lion he give a fearful roar an' bound for him; but, my bruddren, as sure as you live an' breeve, dat horrible, awful lion he jump clean ober dat pore feller's head into de water; an' _de shark eat de lion_. but, my bruddren, don't you put your trust in no such circumstance; dat pore man he done git saved, but i tell you _de lord ain't a-gwine to furnish a lion fo' every nigger_!" he wanted to know anonymous early one moonlight morning, in the city of london, a man was vainly trying to find his home, but being unable to locate it he called upon the services of a passer-by. "hey! m-m-mister (hic), will you take me to twenty-two?" "number twenty--why you are standing right in front of it!" "oh, no you d-d-don't,--that's two-two, two-two!" "why, no, it's twenty-two." "say, you can't fool me. 'nuther fellow tried to d-d-do that. he-he-he told me the other side of the street was (hic) on this side,--an' 'tisn't,--s-sit's over there. please t-t-take me (hic) to twenty-two, will you?" the man walked him around the block and back again. "now, then, get out your key. i must be going." "say, it was m-m-mighty (hic) jolly of you to bring me all this l-l-long way ho-ho-home, old chap!" "that's all right. now get your key,--hurry up." "i'm ever so much obliged to you for bringing me all this long way ho-ho-home." "that's all right. i must go now. good-night." the man had walked but a little distance when he heard his friend trying to whistle to him. "hey! (_tries to whistle_). c-co-come here, i want ter speak to you. now d-d-don't get mad (hic), old chap, it's important." "well, what do you want?" "i just want to (hic) tell you how much obliged i'm to you for bringing me all this long way home." "you had better go to bed now, so good-night." "hold up, old chap, you're a-a-a--would you mind telling me what your name is?" here the clock in st. paul's struck two. "my name--is st. paul." "good enough, miss saint 'all. much obliged to you for bring--me----" "never mind, good-night." "hey! hi! (_tries to whistle_). mister saint 'all--miss saint p-all, co-co-come here, i want to ask (hic) you something." "what!" "old f-f-friend, i d-d-d-d-didn't mean that, misser saint faull,--i just want to ask you a persh-pershonal question, mis-mis----" "well, what is it?" "misser saint paul, would you mind telling me whether you ever got answers to those letters you wrote to the ephesians?" an opportunity anonymous i dropt into the post-office this morning for my mail, and just inside the door i found a little boy crying very bitterly. naturally i asked him the cause of his trouble, and lifting his tear-stained face to mine he said: "i had two quarters, and a feller come along just now and took one away from me." "what!" said i, "right here in the post-office?" "yes, sir." "well, why didn't you tell some one?" "i did; i hollered, 'help! help!'" (_said very weakly._) "well," i said, "is that as loud as you can holler?" "yes, sir." so _i_ took the other quarter. gape-seed anonymous a farmer, walking the streets of one of our big cities, looked through a window at a lot of men writing very rapidly on typewriters; and as he stood at the door with his mouth open, one of the men called out to him, "do you wish to buy some gape-seed?" passing on a short distance, he asked a man what the business was of the men he had just seen in the office he had passed. he was told that they wrote letters dictated by others, and transcribed all sorts of documents. the farmer returned to the office, and inquired if one of the men would write a letter for him, and was answered in the affirmative. he asked the price, and was told one dollar. after considerable talk, the bargain was made; one of the conditions being that the scribe should write just what the farmer told him to, or he should receive no pay. the man said he was ready, and the farmer dictated as follows: "dear wife," and then asked, "have you got that down?" "yes; _go on_." "i went for a ride the other day--have you got that down?" "yes; _go on, go on_." "and i harnessed up the old mare into the wagon--have you got that down?" "yes, yes, long ago; _go on_." "why, how fast you write!--and i got into the wagon, and sat down, and drew up the reins, and took the whip in my right hand--have you got that down?" "yes, long ago; _go on_." "dear me, how fast you write! i never saw your equal.--and i said to the old mare, '_go 'long_,' and i jerked the reins pretty hard--have you got that down?" "yes; and i am impatiently waiting for more. i wish you wouldn't bother me with so many foolish questions. go on with your letter." "well, the old mare wouldn't stir out of her tracks, and i hollered, '_go 'long, you old jade! go 'long_'--have you got that down?" "yes, indeed, _you pestiferous fellow; go on_." "and i licked her, and licked her, and licked her----" (_continuing to repeat these words as rapidly as possible_). "hold on there! i have written two pages of 'licked her,' and i want the rest of the letter." "well, and she kicked, and she kicked, and she kicked----" (_continuing to repeat these words with great rapidity_). "do go on with your letter; i have several pages of 'she kicked.'" (_the farmer clucks as in urging horses to move, and continues the clucking noise with rapid repetition for some time._) the scribe jumps up from the typewriter. "_write it down! write it down!_" "i can't!" "well, then, i won't pay you." (_the scribe, gathering up his papers._) "what shall i do with all these sheets upon which i have written your nonsense?" "you might use them in doing up your _gape-seed_! good-day!" lariat bill anonymous "well, stranger, 'twas somewhere in 'sixty-nine i wore runnin' the 'frisco fast express; an' from murder creek to blasted pine, were nigh onto eighteen mile, i guess. the road were a down-grade all the way, an' we pulled out of murder a little late, so i opened the throttle wide that day, and a mile a minute was 'bout our gait. "my fireman's name was lariat bill, a quiet man with an easy way, who could rope a steer with a cowboy's skill, which he had learned in texas, i've heard him say: the coil were strong as tempered steel, an' it went like a bolt from a crossbow flung. an' arter bill changed from saddle to wheel, just over his head in the cab it hung. "well, as i were saying, we fairly flew as we struck the curve at buffalo spring, an' i give her full steam an' put her through, an' the engine rocked like a living thing; when all of a sudden i got a scare-- for thar on the track were a little child! an' right in the path of the engine there she held out her little hands and smiled! "i jerked the lever and whistled for brakes, the wheels threw sparks like a shower of gold; but i knew the trouble a down-grade makes, an' i set my teeth an' my flesh grew cold. then lariat bill yanked his long lasso, an' out on the front of the engine crept-- he balanced a moment before he threw, then out in the air his lariat swept!" he paused. there were tears in his honest eyes; the stranger listened with bated breath. "i know the rest of the tale," he cries; "he snatched the child from the jaws of death! 'twas the deed of a hero, from heroes bred, whose praises the very angels sing!" the engineer shook his grizzled head, and growled: "he didn't do no sich thing. "he aimed at the stump of a big pine tree, an' the lariat caught with a double hitch, an' in less than a second the train an' we were yanked off the track an' inter the ditch! 'twere an awful smash, an' it laid me out, i ain't forgot it, and never shall; were the passengers hurt? lemme see--about-- yes, it killed about forty--but saved the gal!" the candidate by bill nye the heat and the venom of each political campaign bring back to my mind with wonderful clearness the bitter and acrimonious war, and the savage factional fight, which characterized my own legislative candidacy in what was called the prairie dog district of wyoming, about ten years ago. i hesitated about accepting the nomination because i knew that vituperation would get up on its hind feet and annoy me greatly, and, indeed, this turned out to be the case. in due time i was nominated, and one evening my heart swelled when i heard a campaign band coming up the street, trying to see how little it could play and still draw its salary. the band was followed by men with torches, and speakers in carriages. a messenger was sent into the house to tell me that i was about to be waited upon by my old friends and neighbors, who desired to deliver to me their hearty endorsement, and a large willow-covered two-gallon godspeed as a mark of esteem. the spokesman, as soon as i had stept out on my veranda, mounted the improvised platform previously erected, and after a short and debilitated solo and chorus by the band, said as follows, as near as i can now recall his words: "_mr. nye_-- "sir:--we have read with pain the open and venomous attacks of the foul and putrid press of our town, and come here to-night to vindicate by our presence your utter innocence _as_ a man, _as_ a fellow citizen, _as_ a neighbor, _as_ a father, mother, brother or sister. "no one could look down into your open face, and deep, earnest lungs, and then doubt you _as_ a man, _as_ a fellow citizen, _as_ a neighbor, _as_ a father, mother, brother, or sister. you came to us a poor man, and staked your all on the growth of this town. we like you because you are still poor. you can not be too poor to suit us. it shows that you are not corrupt. "mr. nye, on behalf of this vast assemblage (_tremulo_), i am glad that you are poor!!!" mr. limberquid then said: "sir:--what do we care for the vilifications of the press--a press hired, venial, corrupt, reeking in filth and oozy with the slime of its own impaired circulation, snapping at the heels of its superiors, and steeped in the reeking poison and pollution of its own shop-worn and unmarketable opinions? "what do we care that homely men grudge our candidate his symmetry of form and graceful, upholstered carriage? what do we care that calumny crawls out of its hole, calumniates him a couple of times and then goes back? "we like him for the poverty he has made. our idea in running him for the legislature is to give him a chance to accumulate poverty, and have some saved up for a rainy day." several people wept here, and wiped their eyes on their alabaster hands. the band then played, "see the conquering hero comes," and yielding to the pressing demands of the populi, i made a few irrelevant, but low, passionate remarks, as follows: "fellow citizens and members of the band:--we are not here, as i understand it, solely to tickle our palates with the twisted doughnuts of our pampered and sin-curst civilization, but to unite and give our pledges once more to the support of the best men. in this teacup of foaming and impervious cider from the valley of the jordan i drink to the success of the best men. fellow citizens and members of the band, we owe our fealty to the old party. let us cling to the old party as long as there is any juice in it and vote for its candidates. let us give our suffrages to men of advanced thought who are loyal to their party but poor. gentlemen, i am what would be called a poor but brainy man. when i am not otherwise engaged you will always find me engaged in thought. i love the excitement of following an idea and chasing it up a tree. it is a great pleasure for me to pursue the red-hot trail of a thought or the intellectual spoor of an idea. but i do not allow this habit to interfere with politics. politics and thought are radically different. why should man think himself weak on these political matters when there are men who have made it their business and life study to do the thinking for the masses? "this is my platform. i believe that a candidate should be poor; that he should be a thinker on other matters, but leave political matters and nominations to professional political ganglia and molders of primaries who have given their lives and the inner coating of their stomachs to the advancement of political methods by which the old, cumbersome and dangerous custom of defending our institutions with drawn swords may be superseded by the modern and more attractive method of doing so with overdrawn salaries. "fellow citizens and members of the band:--in closing let me say that you have seen me placed in the trying position of postmaster for the past year. for that length of time i have stood between you and the government at washington. i have assisted in upholding the strong arm of the government, and yet i have not allowed it to crush you. no man here to-night can say that i have ever, by word or deed, revealed outside the office the contents of a postal card addrest to a member of my own party or held back or obstructed the progress of new and startling seeds sent by our representative from the agricultural department. i am in favor of a full and free interchange of interstate red-eyed and pale beans, and i favor the early advancement and earnest recognition of the merits of the highly offensive partizan. i thank you, neighbors and band (_husky and pianissimo_), for this gratifying little demonstration. words seem empty and unavailing at this time. will you not accept the hospitality of my home? neighbors, you are welcome to these halls. come in and look at the family album." one afternoon anonymous the events narrated in the following story take place about the middle of the twentieth century. at that date the institution known as the department store had reached its full development. there was not a single article of any kind that could not be purchased at one of these mammoth emporiums. it is well to bear this fact in mind, for the whole action of this story takes place under the roof of sniggle scooper's department store. scene the first. when charlie hussel entered sniggle scooper's refreshment department on that beautiful summer afternoon, he had no more idea of getting married than most millionaires have of paying full taxes on all their property. charlie sat down at the counter and ordered a plain soda. he had been at the club the night before and his nerves were somewhat unstrung. while waiting for his soda he noticed a young lady by his side toying with an ice cream soda marked down from seven cents to four and a half. she was as fair as a poet's dream and the young man's heart beat tumultuously within him as he gazed at her. he longed for an opportunity of speaking to her and at last it came. she dropt her purse,--whether by accident i leave you to conjecture. picking up the pocketbook our hero handed it to the young lady with a bow. she took the pocketbook, but returned the bow. "thank you," she murmured; "you are very kind." "no," said he, "i am not kind. i'm a selfish brute!" "then why did you trouble yourself to pick up my purse?" "because, to tell the truth, i wanted to hear your voice." "and now that you have heard it?" "i wish i could hear it always. consent to be my wife. you love me, do you not?" "yes! what is your name?" "charlie hussel,--and yours, dear?" "mildred uptodate. now, charlie, you must ask father's consent." "all right, mabel. there is a telephone on the next floor. come along and i'll ask him." they ascended by the escalator. scene the second. mr. uptodate readily gave his consent, for he knew of charlie hussel in a business way. "now, mildred, let us set the time for the wedding. it is now five minutes after one. suppose we say four o'clock?" "oh, dear, no, i can't possibly get ready before to-morrow afternoon." "of course you can. why, you can get everything you need right here in this store." "well, charlie, if you insist, i suppose i must yield. but it seems a terribly short engagement." "yes, sweetheart, but then our married life will be so much longer. run along, now, darling, and get your wedding-gown, while i get a suit of clothes and attend to the license. meet me in the chapel on the top floor at half past four sharp." at the appointed hour the happy couple were made one by the department store clergyman. a few minutes later they were seated in the café enjoying their wedding dinner. how happy they were as they planned for the future! scene the third. dinner was over and the happy pair went hand-in-hand toward the transportation department to arrange for their wedding tour. as they passed a bargain counter, the bride exclaimed rapturously: "o charlie, i see some lovely bargains over there. do let me have two dollars." a moment later the proud husband was watching his wife as with the ease born of long practise she fought her way through the crowd and reached the counter. after a little while she returned waving triumphantly a folded paper, exclaiming: "wasn't i lucky? i got the last one they had." "what is it?" "why, don't you know? it's a divorce!" the young man grew pale. "i thought," he said, "you loved me." "why, of course i love you, but i simply couldn't resist such a bargain as that." she pointed to a sign. charlie looked at it and read: this day only! our regular divorces marked down from $ . to $ . not in it anonymous they built a church at his very door-- "he wasn't in it." they brought him a scheme for relieving the poor-- "he wasn't in it." let them work for themselves, as he had done, they wouldn't ask help from any one if they hadn't wasted each golden minute-- "he wasn't in it." so he passed the poor with haughty tread-- when men in the halls of virtue met he saw their goodness without regret; too high the mark for him to win it-- "he wasn't in it." a carriage crept down the street one day-- "he was in it." the funeral trappings made a display-- "he was in it." st. peter received him with book and bell; "my friend, you have purchased a ticket to--well, your elevator goes down in a minute." "he was in it!" a twilight idyl by robert j. burdette one summer evening, mr. ellis henderson, a popular young man, went out walking with two of the sweetest girls in town. mr. henderson wore a little straw hat with a navy blue band, a cutaway coat, a pair of white trousers, a white vest, a buttonhole bouquet, and fifteen cents. the evening was very hot, and as they walked, they talked about the baseball match, the weather, and sunstrokes. by and by one of the young ladies gave a delicate little shriek. "oo-oo! what a funny sign!" "ha--yes," said mr. henderson, in troubled tones, looking gently but resolutely at the wrong side of the street. "how funny it is spelled; see, ethel." "why," said ethel, "it is spelled correctly. isn't it, mr. henderson?" "hy--why--aw--why, yes, to be sure," said mr. henderson, staring at a window full of house-plants. "why, mr. henderson," said elfrida, "how can you say so? just see, 'i--c--e, ice, c--r double e--m, creem'; that's not the way to spell cream." and mr. henderson, who was praying harder than he ever prayed before that an earthquake might come along and swallow up either himself or all the ice-cream parlors in the united states, looked up at the chimney of the house and said: "that? oh, yes, yes; of course, why certainly. how very much cooler it has grown within the past few minutes. that cool wave from manitoba is nearing us once more." he took out his handkerchief and swabbed a face that would scorch an iceberg brown in ten minutes. "is it true, mr. henderson," asked ethel, "that soda fountains sometimes explode?" "oh, frequently," said he, "and they scatter death and destruction everywhere. in some of our eastern cities they have been abolished by law,--and they ought to do the same thing here! why, in new york, all the soda fountains have been removed far outside the city limits and are now located side by side with powder houses." "i am not afraid of them," said ethel, "and i don't believe they are a bit dangerous." "nor i," echoed elfrida, "i would not be afraid to walk up to one and stand by it all day. why are you so afraid of them, mr. henderson?" "because once i had a fair, sweet young sister blown to pieces by one of those terrible engines of destruction while she was drinking at it, and i can not look at one without growing faint." "how do they make soda water, mr. henderson?" he was about to reply that it was composed chiefly of dirt and poison, when ethel read aloud four ice-cream signs, and said, "how comfortable and happy all those people look in there." then young mr. henderson, who had been clawing at his hair, and tearing off his necktie and collar, and pawing the air, shouted in tones of wild frenzy: "oh, yes, yes, yes! come in; come in and gorge yourselves. everybody come in and eat up a whole week's salary in fifteen minutes. set 'em up! strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, pineapple, raspberry, lemon, peach, apricot, tutti frutti, nesselrode pudding, water-ice, cake and sherbet. set 'em up! the treat's on me. oh, yes, i can stand it. ha, ha! i'm astorbilt in disguise. oh, yes; it doesn't cost anything to take an evening walk! put out your frozen pudding! ha, ha, ha!" they carried him home to his boarding house, and put him to bed, and sent for his physician. he is not yet out of danger, but will recover. the exact trouble is a mystery to the doctor, but he thinks it must be hydrosodia, as the sight of a piece of ice throws the patient into the wildest and most furious paroxysms. lavery's hens anonymous michael lavery, a thrifty irishman, lived in a small cottage, on devarsey street, south side, chicago. it had no yard in front, and the rear was ditto. it had a cellar, however, and it occurred to lavery that he might make something out of it by using it as a hen-house; but one cold night, during the following winter, the water-pipes burst, flooded the cellar, and drowned the chickens. friends of lavery told him the city would make good his loss if he made proper application. so mr. lavery went down to the city hall, and entering the room of the clerk, said: "good marnin'. me name is michael lavery, and i live in devarsey street, on the south side, and i kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and drowned thim; what'll i do?" "what's that?" "me name is michael lavery, and i live in devarsey street, on the south side, and i kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and drowned thim; what'll i do?" "what's that?" "me name is michael lavery, and i live in devarsey street, on the south side, and i kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and drowned thim; what'll i do?" "the water came in and drowned your chickens; what will you do?" "yis, sir." "well, you step into the next room and see the mayor. you will find him at his desk; tell him what you want." "all right, sir, i will." (_exit lavery to next room._) "good marnin'. me name is michael lavery, and i live in devarsey street, on the south side, and i kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and drowned thim; what'll i do?" (_gruffly._) "what, sir?" "me name is michael lavery, and i live in devarsey street, on the south side, and i kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and drowned thim; what'll i do?" "what's that?" (_very loud._) "me name is michael lavery, and i live in devarsey street, on the south side, and i kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came and drowned thim; what'll i do?" "i don't understand one word you say, sir!" (_very softly and sarcastically, and working up into loud voice._) "me name is michael lavery, and i live in devarsey street, on the south side, and i kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and drowned thim; what'll i do?" "the water came in and drowned your chickens; what will you do?" "yis, sir." "well i can do nothing for you, so good-morning, sir!" (_clerk whispers to lavery as he is passing out._) "well, mr. lavery, what did he say to you?" "_kape ducks!_" lisp anonymous thome folks thay i listhp, but then i don't perthieve it. juth listhen while i call the cat: "here pusthy! pusthy! pusthy!" now thee i don't listhp. they met by chance anonymous they met by chance, they had never met before. they met by chance, and she was stricken sore. they never met again, don't want to, i'll allow! they met but once: _'twas a freight-train and a cow!_ the bridegroom's toast anonymous (_speaks while seated._) "i know a story,--what? (_laughs._) i know another story,--eh? oh, don't ask me. i never made a speech in my life. i am willing to do anything to make you fully enjoy--(_this is broken by applause, which the reader may imitate by rapping on a chair, or on a table._) i will only make a fool of myself--(_attempting to get up. more applause. sits down again._) i would rather not. (_after much difficulty and persuasion he rises to his feet and begins._) ladies and gentlemen, i have been suddenly called upon to propose a toast, which i think you will admit,--i am suddenly called upon,--very suddenly,--to propose and--(_sits down. more applause. rises again._) ladies and gentlemen, you are very kind (_clears throat_) and i will do my best, and i only hope that unaccustomed as i am to public houses,--speaking,--i sometimes find i have some difficulty in the,--of course i don't mean to say,--i don't mean to say what i mean when i mean what i say! at all events, ladies and gentlemen, i am very, very much obliged for the kind remarks in which you have drunk my health. (_sits down. rises again._) i am called upon to propose a toast (_makes a motion as if someone has thrown something at him from behind striking him on the head_) upon--to propose a toast, but have forgotten it. considering it is the most important toast of the evening you will understand--(_aside: 'what is the toast?'_)--the toast of the ladies. of course we all know (_runs his hand up and down the back of the chair_) whatever may be said against them,--whatever people may say about the ladies, there is no doubt the ladies are really a very excellent--institution! i don't agree with those people who--i think, i say, that far from being a uniform success they are the reverse. i am bold enough to say, i don't agree that they are very nearly as good as we are. i know (_again he is hit in the back_) there are few drink the health of the army and navy,--i mean ladies. shakespeare says that 'when a woman' (_hit again_)--i had it just now. shakespeare says, 'when a woman,'--oh, yes, the immortal bard says, 'we won't go home till morning!'" (_sits down in great confusion._) rehearsing for private theatricals by stanley huntley "now, my dear," said mr. spoopendyke, opening the book and assuming the correct dramatic scowl--"now my dear, we'll rehearse our parts for specklewottle's theatricals. i'm to be hamlet and you're to be the queen, and we want this thing to go off about right. the hardest part we have to play together is where i accuse you of poisoning my father, and we'd better try that until we get it perfect. i'll commence: "now, mother, what's the matter?" "well, i was thinking whether i had better wear my black silk or my maroon suit. do queens wear----" "will you be kind enough to tell me what pack of cards you got that idea of a queen from? do you suppose the queen sent for hamlet to get his opinion about bargains in dry-goods? when i say that you must say, 'hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended!'" "oh, i understand, i thought you asked me what i was thinking about. i didn't know you had commenced to play. try it again." "well you be careful this time, this is a play, this is. think you know the difference between a play and a bankrupt sale? know the distinction between a play and a millinery-shop opening? now, i'll begin again and you try to do it decently." "now, mother, what's the matter!" "there's nothing the matter now; go on, dear. i understand it now." "say it, can't ye! haven't ye studied this business? don't ye know your part?" "what shall i say, dear?" "say! sing a hymn! if you don't know your part, get off a psalm! didn't i tell you what to say? look here. have you ever read this play? have you conceived any kind of a notion of what it's all about?" "why, yes, you come in and stab mr. specklewottle behind the ears and i scream. isn't that right, dear?" "hear her! stab specklewottle behind the ears! that is all right; now you scream! scream, why don't you? you know so much about your measly part, why don't you play it?" "we-e-e-e-e! i knew i could do it right as soon as you showed me how. will that do?" "oh, that was queenly! just do that again! four of those dramatic efforts will make this play the greatest of modern entertainments! do it once more!" "it hurts my throat. can't we make it do with one scream, dear?" "mrs. spoopendyke, there's been some mistake made in this thing. you should have been cast for ophelia. that was the part intended for you." "i would just as soon play it. what does he do?" "he was an idiot from his birth and afterward went crazy. that was the part for you." "then i'd rather be queen. now, dear, let's commence all over and i'll do it right this time." "you can't do it worse. i'll try it once more, just to see what kind of foolishness you can work off." "now, mother, what's the matter?" "we-e-e-e, hamlet, oh, hamlet! we-e-e-e-e!" "turn it off! be quick and break off the end! what's the matter?" "we-e-e-e-e!" "what's the matter with you, anyway?" "we-e-e-e-e-e! my dear, you are just splendid as hamlet. you should have been an actor." "will ye ever shut up? who ever told ye to yell like that? don't ye know anything at all scarcely? think hamlet's a lunatic asylum? got some kind of a notion that the queen's a fog-horn? where'd ye get your idea of this thing, anyway?" "i did just as you told me, dear. you said i was to scream when you asked me what the matter was. didn't i do it right?" "oh, that was right! you struck the keynote of high art both times! with that yell and your knowledge of the text all you want now is a fire and a free list to be a theater with a restaurant attachment! such talent as that can't be wasted on any cheap shakespeare plays while i've got the money and influence to get you a job in the legitimate circus!" and mr. spoopendyke bolted from the house, thoroughly disgusted with private theatricals. by permission of _the brooklyn eagle_. the v-a-s-e by james jeffrey roche far from the crowd they stood apart, the maidens four and the work of art; and none might tell from sight alone in which had culture ripest grown,-- the gotham millions fair to see, the philadelphia pedigree, the boston mind of azure hue, or the soulful soul from kalamazoo,-- for all loved art in a seemly way, with an earnest soul and a capital a. * * * * * long they worshiped, but no one broke the sacred stillness, until up spoke the western one from the nameless place, who blushing said, "what a lovely vace!" over three faces a sad smile flew, and they edged away from kalamazoo. but gotham's haughty soul was stirred to crush the stranger with one small word. deftly hiding reproof in praise, she cries, "'tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!" but brief her unworthy triumph when the lofty one from the home of penn, with the consciousness of two grandpapas, exclaims, "it is quite a lovely vahs!" and glances round with an anxious thrill, awaiting the word of beacon hill. but the boston maid smiles courteouslee, and gently murmurs, "oh, pardon me! "i did not catch your remark, because i was so entranced with that charming vaws!" and then each nose was a sight to see turned up in contempt at the other three. papa and the boy by j. l. harbour charming as is the merry prattle of innocent childhood, it is not particularly agreeable at about one o'clock in the morning. there are young and talkative children who have no more regard for your feelings or for the proprieties of life than to open their eyes with a snap at one or two in the morning, and to seek to engage you in enlivening dialog of this sort. "papa." you think you will pay no heed to the imperative little voice, hoping that silence on your part will keep the youngster quiet; but again that boy of three pipes out sharply: "papa!" "well?" you say. "you 'wake, papa?" "yes." "so's me." "yes, i hear that you are," you say with cold sarcasm. "what do you want?" "oh! nuffin." "well, lie still and go to sleep then." "i isn't s'eepy, papa." "well, i am, young man." "is you? i isn't--not a bit. say, papa, papa! if you was wich what would you buy me?" "i don't know--go to sleep." "wouldn't you buy me nuffin?" "i guess so; now you----" "what, papa?" "well, a steam engine, may be; now you go right to sleep." "with a bell that would ring, papa?" "yes, yes; now you----" "and would the wheels go wound, papa?" "oh! yes (_yawning_). shut your eyes now, and----" "and would it go choo, choo, choo, papa?" "yes, yes; now go to sleep." "say, papa." no answer. "papa!" "well, what now?" "is you 'fraid of the dark?" "no" (_drowsily_). "i isn't either. papa!" "well?" "if i was wich i'd buy you somefin." "would you?" "yes; i'd buy you some ice-cweam and some chocolum drops and a toof brush and panties wiv bwaid on like mine, and a candy wooster, and----" "that will do. you must go to sleep now." silence for half a second, then-- "papa! papa!" "well, what now?" "i want a jink." "no, you don't." "i do, papa." experience has taught you that there will be no peace until you have brought the "jink," and you scurry out to the bathroom in the dark for it, knocking your shins against everything in the room as you go. "now i don't want to hear another word from you to-night," you say, as he gulps down a mouthful of the water he didn't want. two minutes later he says: "papa!" "see here, laddie, papa will have to punish you if----" "i can spell 'dog,' papa." "well, nobody wants to hear you spell at two o'clock in the morning." "b-o-g--dog; is that right?" "no, it isn't. but nobody cares if----" "then it's d-o-g, isn't it?" "yes, yes; now you lie right down and go to sleep instantly." "then i'll be a good boy, won't i, papa?" "yes; you'll be the best boy on earth. good-night, dearie." "papa!" "well, well! what now?" "is i your little boy?" "yes, yes; of course." "some mans haven't got any little boys; but you have, haven't you?" "yes." "don't you wish you had two, free, nine, 'leben, twenty-six, ninety-ten, free hundred little boys?" the mere possibility of such a remote and contingent calamity so paralyzes you that you lie speechless for ten minutes during which you hear a yawn or two in the little bed by your side, a little figure rolls over three or four times, a pair of heels fly into the air once or twice, a warm, moist little hand reaches out and touches your face to make sure that you are there, and the boy is asleep with his heels where his head ought to be. the obstructive hat in the pit by f. anstey scene: _the pit of a london theatre during pantomime time._ _an overheated matron_ (_to her husband_)--"well, they don't give you much room in 'ere, i must say. still, we done better than i expected, after all that crushing. i thought my ribs was gone once--but it was on'y the umbrella's. you pretty comfortable where you are, eh, father?" _father_--"oh, i'm right enough, i am." _jimmy_ (_their small boy with a piping voice_)--"if father is it's more nor what i am. i can't see, mother, i can't!" _mother_--"lor' bles' the boy! there ain't nothen to see yet; you'll see well enough when the curting goes up. (_curtain rises on opening scene._) look, jimmy, ain't that nice, now? all them himps, dancin' round and real fire comin' out of the pot--which i 'ope it's quite safe--and there's a beautiful fairy just come on drest so grand, too!" _jimmy_ (_whimpering_)--"i can't see no fairy--nor yet no himps--no nothen!" _mother_ (_annoyed_)--"was there ever such an aggravating boy? set quiet, do, and don't fidget, and look at the hactin'!" _jimmy_--"i tell yer i can't see no hactin', mother. it ain't my fault--it's this lady in front of me, with the 'at." _mother_--"father, the pore boy says he can't see where he is, 'cause of a lady's 'at in front." _father_--"well, i can't 'elp the 'at, can i? he must put up with it, that's all!" _mother_--"no--but i thought, if you wouldn't mind changing places with him; you're taller than him." _father_--it's always the way with you--never satisfied, you ain't! well, pass the boy across! i'm for a quiet life, i am (_changing seats_). will this do for you?" (_he settles down immediately behind a very large, furry hat which he dodges for some time._) _father_ (_suddenly_)--"blow the 'at." _mother_--"you can't wonder at the boy not seeing! p'r'aps the lady wouldn't mind taking it off, if you asked her?" _father_--"ah! (_touching the owner of the hat on the shoulder_). excuse me, mum, but might i take the liberty of asking you to kindly remove your 'at?" (_the owner of the hat deigns no reply._) _father_ (_more insistently_)--"would you 'ave any objection to oblige me by taking off your 'at, mum? (_same result._) i don't know if you 'eard me, mum, but i've asked you twice, civil enough, to take that 'at of yours off. i'm playin' 'ide-and-seek be'ind it 'ere!" (_no answer._) _mother_--"people didn't ought to be allowed in the pit with sech 'ats! callin' 'erself a lady, and settin' there in a great 'at and feathers like a 'ighlander's, and never answering no more nor a stuffed himage!" _father_ (_to the husband of the owner of the hat_)--"will you tell your good lady to take her 'at off, sir, please?" _the owner of the hat_ (_to her husband_)--"don't you do nothing of the sort, sam, or you'll 'ear of it!" _mother_--"some people are perlite, i must say. parties might be'ave as ladies when they come in the pit! it's a pity her 'usband can't teach her better manners!" _father_--"'im teach her! 'e knows better. 'e's got a tartar there, 'e 'as!" _the owner of the hat_--"sam, are you going to set by and hear me insulted like this?" _her husband_ (_turning round tremulously_)--"i--i'll trouble you to drop making these personal allusions to my wife's 'at, sir. it's puffickly impossible to listen to what's going on on the stage, with all these remarks be'ind!" _father_--"not more nor it is to see what's going on on the stage with that 'at in front! i paid 'arf-a-crown to see the pantermime, i did; not to 'ave a view of your wife's 'at!.... 'ere, maria, blowed if i can stand this 'ere game any longer. jimmy must change places again, and if he can't see, he must stand up on the seat, that's all!" (_jimmy goes back and mounts upon the seat._) _a pit-ite behind jimmy_ (_touching jimmy's father with an umbrella_)--"will you tell your little boy to set down, please, and not to block the view like this?" _father_--"if you can indooce that lady to take off her 'at, i will, but not before. stay where you are, jimmy." _the pit-ite behind_--"well, i must stand myself then, that's all. i mean to see somehow!" (_he rises._) _people behind_ (_sternly_)--"set down there, will yer?" (_he resumes his seat expostulating._) _jimmy_--"father, the man behind is a-pinching of my legs!" _father_--"will you stop pinching my little boy's legs. he ain't doing you no 'arm, is he?" _the pinching pit-ite_--"let him sit down, then!" _father_--"let the lady take her 'at off!" _murmurs behind_--"order there! set down! put that boy down! take off that 'at! silence in front there! turn 'em out! shame!..." _the husband of the owner of the hat_ (_in a whisper to his wife_)--"take off the blessed 'at, and 'ave done with it, do!" _the owner of the hat_--"what, now? i'd sooner die in the 'at!" (_an attendant is called._) _attendant_--"order, there, gentlemen, please, unless you want to get turned out! no standing allowed on the seats; you're disturbing the performance 'ere, you know!" (_jimmy is made to sit down, and weeps silently; the hubbub subsides, and the owner of the hat triumphs._) _mother_--"never mind, my boy, you shall have mother's seat in a minute. i dessay, if all was known, the lady 'as reasons for keeping her 'at on, pore thing!" _father_--"ah, i never thought o' that. so she may. very likely her 'at won't come off--not without her 'air!" _mother_--"ah, well, then we mus'n't be 'ard on her." _the owner of the hat_ (_removing the obstruction_)--"i 'ope you're satisfied now, i'm sure?" _father_ (_handsomely_)--"better late nor never, mum, and we take it kind of you. tho why you shouldn't ha' done it at fust, i dunno; for you look a deal 'ansomer without the 'at than what you did in it--don't she maria?" _the owner of the hat_ (_mollified_)--"sam, ask the gentleman behind if his boy would like a ginger-nut." (_this olive-branch is accepted; compliments pass; cordiality is restored, and the pantomime then proceeds without any further disturbance in the audience._) hullo by s. w. foss w'en you see a man in wo, walk right up an' say "hullo!" say "hullo" an' "how d'ye do? how's the world a-usin' you?" slap the fellow on the back; bring your hand down with a whack; walk right up, an' don't go slow; grin an' shake, an' say "hullo!" is he clothed in rags? oh! sho; walk right up an' say "hullo!" rags is but a cotton roll jest for wrappin' up a soul; an' a soul is worth a true hale and hearty "how d'ye do?" don't wait for the crowd to go walk right up an' say "hullo!" when big vessels meet, they say they saloot an' sail away. jest the same are you an' me lonesome ships upon a sea; each one sailin' his own log, for a port behind the fog. let your speakin' trumpet blow; lift your horn an' cry "hullo!" say "hullo!" an' "how d'ye do?" other folks are good as you. w'en you leave your house of clay wanderin' in the far away, w'en you travel through the strange country t'other side the range, then the souls you've cheered will know who ye be, an' say "hullo." the dutchman's telephone anonymous "i guess i haf to gif up my delephone already," said an old citizen, as he entered the office of the company with a very long face. "why, what's the matter now?" "oh! eferytings. i got dot delephone in mine house so i could shpeak mit der poys in der saloon down town, und mit my relations in springwells, but i haf to gif it up. i never haf so much droubles." "how?" "vhell, my poy shon, in der saloon, he rings der pell and calls me oop und says an old frent of mine vhants to see how she vorks. dot ish all right. i say, 'hello!' und he says, 'come closer.' i goes closer und helloes again. den he says, 'shtand a little off.' i shtands a little off und yells vunce more, und he says, 'shpeak louder.' i yells louder. i goes dot vhay for ten minutes, und den he says, 'go to texas, you old dutchman!' you see?" "yes." "und den mein brudder in springwells he rings der pell und calls me oop und says, 'how you vhas dis eafnings?' i says i vhas feeling like some colts, und he says, 'who vhants to puy some goats?' i says, 'colts--colts--colts!' und he answers, 'oh! coats. i thought you said goats!' vhen i goes to ask him ef he feels petter i hear a voice crying out, 'vhat dutchman is dot on dis line?' den somepody answers, 'i doan' know, but i likes to punch his headt!' you see?" "yes." "vhell, somedimes my vhife vhants to shpeak mit me vhen i am down in der saloon. she rings mein pell und i says, 'hello!' nopody shpeaks to me. she rings again, und i says, 'hello,' like dunder! den der central office tells me to go aheadt, und den tells me holdt on, und den tells mein vhife dot i am gone avhay. i yells oudt, 'dot ish not so,' und somepody says, 'how can i talk if dot old dutchmans doan' keep shtill?' you see?" "yes." "und vhen i gets in bedt at night, somepody rings der pell like dear house vas on fire, and vhen i shumps oud und says, 'hello,' i hear somepody saying, 'kaiser, doan' you vhant to puy a dog?' i vhants no dog, und vhen i tells 'em so, i hear some peoples laughing, 'haw! haw! haw!' you see?" "yes." "und so you dake it oudt, und vhen somepody likes to shpeak mit me dey shall come right avay to mein saloon. oof my brudder ish sick he shall get better, und if somepody vhants to puy me a dog, he shall come vhere i can punch him mit a glub." doctor marigold by charles dickens i am a cheap jack, and my own father's name was willum marigold. it was in his lifetime supposed by some that his name was william, but my own father always consistently said, no it was willum. on which point i content myself with looking at the argument this way: if a man is not allowed to know his own name in a free country, how much is he allowed to know in a land of slavery? i was born on the queen's highway, but it was the king's at that time. a doctor was fetched to my own mother by my own father, when it took place on a common; and in consequence of his being a very kind gentleman, and accepting no fee but a tea-tray, i was named doctor, out of gratitude and compliment to him. there you have me. doctor marigold. the doctor having accepted a tea-tray, you'll guess that my father was a cheap jack before me. you are right. he was. and my father was a lovely one in his time at the cheap jack work. now i'll tell you what. i mean to go down into my grave declaring that, of all the callings ill-used in great britain, the cheap jack calling is the worst used. why ain't we a profession? why ain't we endowed with privileges? why are we forced to take out a hawker's license, when no such thing is expected of the political hawkers? where's the difference betwixt us? except that we are cheap jacks and they are dear jacks, i don't see any difference but what's in our favor. for look here! say it's election-time. i am on the footboard of my cart in the market-place on a saturday night. i put up a general miscellaneous lot. i say: "now here, my free and independent voters, i'm going to give you such a chance as you never had in all your born days, nor yet the days preceding. now i'll show you what i am a-going to do with you. here's a pair of razors that'll shave you closer than the board of guardians; here's a flat-iron worth its weight in gold; here's a frying-pan artificially flavored with essence of beefsteaks to that degree that you've only got for the rest of your lives to fry bread and dripping in it, and there you are complete with animal food; here's a genuine chronometer watch in such a solid silver case that you may knock at the door with it when you come home late from a social meeting, and rouse your wife and family and save up your knocker for the post-man; and here's half a dozen dinner-plates that you may play the cymbals with to charm the baby when it's fractious. stop. i'll throw you in another article, and i'll give you that, and its a rolling-pin, and if the baby can only get it well into its mouth when its teeth are coming, and rub the gums once with it, they'll come through double, in a fit of laughter equal to be tickled. stop again! i'll throw you in another article, because i don't like the looks of you, for you haven't the appearance of buyers unless i lose by you, and because i'd rather lose than not take money to-night, and that article's a looking-glass in which you may see how ugly you look when you don't bid. what do you say now? come! do you say a pound? not you, for you haven't got it. do you say ten shillings? not you, for you owe more to the tallyman. well, then, i'll tell you what i'll do with you. i'll heap 'em all on the footboard of the cart--there they are! razors, flat-iron, frying-pan, chronometer watch, dinner-plates, rolling-pin, and looking-glass--take 'em all away for four shillings, and i'll give you sixpence for your trouble!" this is me, the cheap jack. but on monday morning, in the same market-place, comes the dear jack on the hustings--_his_ cart--and what does _he_ say? "now, you free and independent voters, i am going to give you such a chance" (he begins just like me) "as you never had in all your born days, and that's the chance of sending myself to parliament. now i'll tell you what i am a-going to do for you. here's the interests of this magnificent town promoted above all the rest of the civilized and uncivilized earth. here's your railways carried, and your neighbors' railways jockeyed. here's all your sons in the post office. here's britannia smiling on you. here's the eyes of europe on you. here's uniwersal prosperity for you, repletion of animal food, golden corn-fields, gladsome homesteads, and rounds of applause from your own hearts, all in one lot, and that's myself. will you take me as i stand? you won't! well, then, i'll tell you what i'll do with you. come now! i'll throw you in anything you ask for. there! church-rates, abolition of church-rates, more malt tax, no malt tax, uniwersal education to the highest mark, or uniwersal ignorance to the lowest, total abolition of flogging in the army, or a dozen for every private once a month all round, wrongs of men or right of women--only say which it shall be, take 'em or leave 'em, and i'm of your opinion altogether, and the lot's your own on your own terms. there! you won't take it? well, then, i'll tell you what i'll do with you. come! you _are_ such free and independent woters, and i _am_ so proud of you--you _are_ such a noble and enlightened constituency, and i _am_ so ambitious of the honor and dignity of being your member, which is by far the highest level to which the wings of the human mind can soar--that i'll tell you what i'll do with you. i'll throw you in all public-houses in your magnificent town for nothing. will that content you? it won't? you won't take the lot yet? well, then, before i put the horse in and drive away, and make the offer to the next most magnificent town that can be discovered, i'll tell you what i'll do. take the lot, and i'll drop two thousand pound in the streets of your magnificent town for them to pick up that can. not enough? now look here. this is the very farthest that i'm a-going to. i'll make it two thousand five hundred. and still you won't? here, missis! put the horse--no, stop half a moment, i shouldn't like to turn my back upon you, neither, for a trifle, i'll make it two thousand seven hundred and fifty pound. there! take the lot on your own terms, and i'll count out two thousand seven hundred and fifty pound on the footboard of the cart, to be dropt in the streets of your magnificent town for them to pick up that can. what do you say? come now! you won't do better, and you may do worse. you take it? hooray! sold again, and got the seat!" the ruling passion by william h. siviter she had never mailed a letter before, and so she approached the stamp clerk's window with the same air that she would enter a dry-goods store. "i would like to look at some stamps, please." "what denomination do you want?" "denomination?" "yes. is it for a letter or a newspaper?" "oh, i want to send a letter to my uncle john; he's just moved to----" "then you need a two-cent stamp," said the clerk offering her one of that value. "i hardly like that color!" "that is a two-cent stamp, madam. please stand aside, and let the gentleman behind you come up." "but haven't you got them in any other color? i never did like that shade of red." "there is only one color." "that is strange. i'd think you'd keep them in different shades, so that there'd be some choice. you are sure you have none in a brighter red, or even in a different color--nile green, or seal brown, or jubilee blue, for instance?" "you can put two one-cent stamps on your letter if you like." "let me see them, please. ah, that will do. i like that shade so much better. i'll take only one, if you please." "if it's for a letter you'll need two. these are one-cent stamps and letter postage is two cents per ounce." "oh, i don't want to put two stamps on my letter; i don't think they will look well." "it requires two cents to carry a letter, madam, and you must either put a two-cent stamp on or two ones. it won't go without. i must ask you to please hurry, for you are keeping a great many people away from the window." "that's singular. i don't like the looks of two together. you are sure the other doesn't come in seal-brown, or----" "no, madam; no!" "then i'll have to see if i can suit myself elsewhere." and she departed. the dutchman's serenade anonymous vake up, my schveet! vake up, my lofe! der moon dot can't be seen abofe. vake oud your eyes, and dough it's late, i'll make you oud a serenate. der shtreet dot's kinder dampy vet, und dhere vas no goot blace to set; my fiddle's getting oud of dune, so blease get vakey wery soon. o my lofe! my lofely lofe! am you avake up dere abofe, feeling sad and nice to hear schneider's fiddle shcrabin' near? vell, anyvay, obe loose your ear, und try to saw of you kin hear from dem bedclose vat you'm among, der little song i'm going to sung. oh, lady, vake! get vake! und hear der tale i'll tell; oh, you vot's schleebin' sound ub dhere, i like you pooty vell! your plack eyes dhem don't shine ven you'm ashleep--so vake! (yes, hurry ub und voke up quick, for goodness cracious sake!) my schveet inbatience, lofe! i hobe you vill oxcuse; i'm singing schveetly (dere, py jinks! dhere goes a shtring proke loose!) oh, putiful, schveet maid! oh, vill she ever voke? der moon is mooning--(jimminy! dhere anoder shtring vent proke!) oh, say, old schleeby head! (now i vas gitting mad-- i'll holler now und i don't care uf i vake up her dad!) i say, you schleeby, vake! vake out! vake loose! vake ub! fire! murder! police! vatch! oh, cracious! do vake ub! dot girl she schleebed--dot rain it rained und i looked shtoopid like a geese, vhen mit my fiddle i sneaked off dodging der rain und dot bolice! widow malone by charles lever did you hear of the widow malone, ohone! who lived in the town of athlone, alone! oh, she melted the hearts of the swains in those parts: so lovely the widow malone, ohone! so lovely the widow malone. of lovers she had a full score, or more, and fortunes they all had galore; in store; from the minister down to the clerk of the crown all were courting the widow malone, ohone! all were courting the widow malone. but so modest was mistress malone, 'twas known that no one could see her alone, ohone! let them ogle and sigh, they could ne'er catch her eye, so bashful the widow malone, ohone! so bashful the widow malone. till one misther o'brien, from clare, (how quare! it's little for blushing they care down there.) put his arm round her waist, gave ten kisses at laste, "oh," says he, "you're my molly malone, my own!" "oh," says he, "you're my molly malone!" and the widow they all thought so shy, my eye! ne'er thought of a simper or sigh,-- for why? but, "lucius," says she, "since you've now made so free, you may marry your mary malone, ohone! you may marry your mary malone." there's a moral contained in my song, not wrong; and one comfort, it's not very long, but strong,-- if for widows you die, learn to kiss, not to sigh; for they're all like sweet mistress malone, ohone! oh, they're all like sweet mistress malone! his leg shot off anonymous you have all met him. he is the man with the funny story. as a listener he would be popular. if he would only keep quiet and listen to other people tell stories without attempting to emulate their ability he would be liked where he is now cordially disliked. but that doesn't suit his temperament. he will buttonhole you with his forefinger, and with an idiotic smile on his face say. "ha! ha! ha! ha! if i didn't just hear the funniest thing! oh, but it was funny! ha! ha! ha! you don't begin to know how funny it was! you see it was this way: a long time ago there was a war,--fighting,--fighting, you know,--between the north and south. ha! ha! ha! there was a war, as i was saying, and they got fighting, and this man,--ha! ha! ha!--the funniest thing!--this man, jim jones,--you see it was this way,--it was in the war, you know,--between the north and south,--ha! ha!--and this man jim jones,--ha! ha! ha!--it is too funny for any thing,--it was too funny! well, jim jones was fighting. he went into the battle one day, and that is the funny part of it. along came a cannon-ball and took off his head! ha! ha! ha! (_laugh here for two minutes; then the face gradually assumes an air of gravity._) no, it wasn't his head, it was his leg. it was funny just the same. down he went to the ground. it stands to reason a man with one leg can't walk and go on fighting. so he just laid down in his tracks. couldn't do anything else. just then along came a battery,--you know that is cannons,--they have horses to drag them,--men can't pull those big, heavy cannons into battle. well, you know, this man jim jones that had his leg shot off, he knew this man with the cannons,--ha! ha!--oh, but it was funny! and he says to him, 'if you don't carry me to where a doctor is, my wife's a widow, that's all about it!' he knew his wife was a widow if he didn't get to where the doctor was. you know the doctors don't stay up where the soldiers are fighting in a battle,--they're back, away back, the doctors are. so this man with his leg shot off, he says, 'you've got to take me where a doctor is, or my wife's a widow, that's all about it!' well, this neighbor of his didn't like to go back on an old friend,--ha! ha!--with his leg shot off,--this man that had his leg shot off early in the battle and couldn't go on fighting,--but he says to him: 'how am i to get you back there?' and he 'lowed he'd have to carry him. well, with that he shouldered jim jones,--ha! ha!--threw him over his shoulder just like that, and away they went! (_laugh heartily here._) and that is where the joke came in,--along came a cannon-ball and took of his head! not the man's head, but jimmy jones' head! but pshaw, the man didn't know anything about it. along he went with jimmy over his shoulder. just then an officer came up. he says: 'where are you going with that thing?' well, the man didn't like to give a short answer. soldiers are not allowed to give short answers to officers. he simply saluted and says: 'well, it's this way: this man's an old neighbor of mine. he was coming into battle,--ha! ha!--and he 'lowed that a cannon-ball came along and took off his leg. he says if we don't take him to where a doctor is his wife's a widow and that's all about it,--and so,--ha! ha!--and so i'm just taking him back to where the doctor is, captain.' the captain looked at him a moment, and he says: 'why you idiot, it isn't his leg, it's his head!' then the man says,--not jimmy jones,--he had his head off and couldn't say anything,--'oh, the confounded rascal, he told me it was his leg!'" the stuttering umpire by the khan oh, we had our share of trouble, i'll tell you now the source, the umpire that we sent for, well, he didn't come, of course. have you noticed, at the line-up when everything's for fair, the referee, the umpire, that should be there, isn't there? the crowd it grew impatient; we heard their angry mutters. we picked on johnny jimson, tho johnny jimson stutters; but, still, he knows the game all right-- indeed, he knows it all-- so in his place he hollered: "pup-pup-pup-play bub-ball!" jake mingus was first batter, our county's favorite son; he hit an' missed. johnny yelled: "stuh-stuh-stuh-strike wu-one!" another ball went o'er the plate, and jakey's bat went whoo! then all the crowd heard johnny shout: "tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-two!" the next one was a daisy, it made the audience howl; jakey tapped it, johnny yelled: "fow-ow-ow-ow-oul!" and so the game went gaily, a game a body likes, till jack had called three balls on jake and also called two strikes. the breathless crowd was anxious, for this will tell the tale; the pitcher tied himself in knots, the catcher did not quail. whizz! went the ball--the rabble waits the umpire's verdict, but all that johnny jimson said was "tut-tut-tut----" did he mean to say, "tut-tut-take your base," or else, "tut-tut-three strikes?" just fix it up to suit yourself as anybody likes, it busted up our little game, it was too utterly utter. don't try to be an umpire if you stut-tut-tut-tutter. the man who will make a speech anonymous a man wearing passably good clothes and a look of mental anxiety entered a fashionable drug-store, and said to the clerk: "are you pretty well posted on big words?" "yes," said the clerk, "i know quite a large number of big words." "well, then," said the stranger, "here's the situation: out where i live i am a pretty big gun, and when anything is going on they call on me for a speech. i made one on election day, another the same evening, and another the next morning, and now i'm laying the sleepers for a speech to eclipse them all." "what sort of a speech?" asked the clerk. "political, of course. my other speeches were political, but were very plain. this time i want to get in some regular old twisters. for one thing i would declare this country in a state of--what do you call it?" "peace!" "no, sir; i mean confusion, excitement, and so on. there's a word to signify it, but i can't speak it." "abject terrorism?" "no--no. its archany, or something of the kind." "i guess you mean anarchy, don't you?" "i do--i do! bless me if i haven't been trying for a whole hour to get that word! that's the very thing. when called out i want to lead off with: 'fellow citizens, the peace has flown, and arnica reigns supreme!' i guess that will knock them." "you don't mean arnica--you mean anarchy." "that's what i mean, of course, but every time i think anarchy i get it arnica, and i don't know but i will have to give up the speech." "why don't you write it down?" the man took up a pen and wrote: "a-r-k-a-n-y." then he said: "peace has fled and arkany reigns in the land." "i told you it was anarchy." "that's so--that's so. this suspense is telling on my memory like a fit of illness. now, then, a-n-a-r-k-y, anarky, and don't you forget it. you needn't say anything about my calling in here." "oh, that's all right. over seven-eighths of the best speakers in town come to me for big words." "many thanks; and now, 'fellow citizens, peace has fled far, far away, and arkany reigns----' hold on, is that the right word?" he halted at the door to examine the slip of paper, and after repeating the right word over several times he went on: "a state of anchovy is upon us, and where will it end?" as he walked up the street he was overheard to say: "arnica! arnica! where will it end?" carlotta mia by t. a. daly giuseppe, da barber, ees great for "mash," he gotta da bigga, da blacka mustache, good clo'es an' good styla an' playnta good cash. w'enever giuseppe ees walk on da street, da people dey talka "how nobby! how neat! how softa da handa, haw smalla da feet." he raisa hees hat, an' he shaka hees curls, an' smila weeth teetha so shiny like pearls; oh, many da heart of da silly young girls he gotta, yes playnta he gotta-- but notta-- carlotta! giuseppe, da barber, he maka da eye, an' lika da steam-engine puffa an' sigh for catcha carlotta w'en she ees go by. carlotta she walka weeth her nose in da air, an' look through giuseppe weeth far-away stare, as eef she no see dere ees som'body dere. giuseppe, da barber, he gotta da cash, he gotta da clo'es an' da bigga mustache, he gotta da silly young girls for da "mash." but notta-- you bat my life, notta-- carlotta; i gotta! the vassar girl by wallace irwin "oh, martha's back from vassar," said farmer james mccassar: "o martha, come into the house and mix a batch of bread." but martha's accents fluttered as she murmured, as she stuttered, "i have studied the satanic ways of bacilli organic, and it throws me in a panic, pa, to mix a batch of bread." _chorus_ at vassar-oh, at vassar-oh, that's what we learn at vassar! we love our alma mater so we do not like to sass 'er. we have a superstition there's nothing like the damsel with the dear old vassar v. "oh, martha's back from vassar," said farmer james mccassar: "o martha, go out to the barn and milk the brindle cow." but martha cried: "oh, bother!" as she faced her poor old father, "with golf i love to tussle and with basket-ball to hustle-- but i haven't got the muscle to subdue the brindle cow." _chorus_ at vassar-oh, at vassar-oh, that's what we learn at vassar! we love our alma mater so we do not like to sass 'er. we have a superstition there's nothing like the damsel with the dear old vassar v. "oh, martha's home from vassar!" cried the angry james mccassar: "o martha, take yer study-books and don't come home no more!" so the maiden in contrition got a typist-girl's position, wed a millionaire named harris who, lest poverty embarrass, made his wife a millionairess. and she's ne'er been heard of more. _chorus_ at vassar-oh, at vassar-oh, that's what we learn at vassar! we love our alma mater so we do not like to sass 'er. learning's road is rough and stony; but for golden matrimony there's nothing like the maiden with the dear old vassar v. from "shame of the colleges," outing publishing co., by permission. a short sermon anonymous (_delivered in usual singsong style of the conventional curate._) i am going to preach to you this morning, my friends, upon the young man who was sick of the palsy. now, this young man was sick of the palsy. the palsy, as you are all aware, is a very terrible disease, a wasting scourge. and this young man was sick of the palsy. and the palsy, as you know, is strongly hereditary. it had been in his family. his father had been sick of the palsy, and his mother had been sick of the palsy, and they had _all_ of them, in fact, been sick of the palsy. and this young man had been sick of the palsy. yes, my dear friends, he had had it for years and years, and--_he was sick of it_. a lancashire dialectic sketch (tummy and meary) anonymous tummy and meary wor barn to be wed, tha knaws. and th' neet afoor they were to be wed, tummy he goes to meary, and he says, "meary, lass," he says, "i'se noonan barn to wed tha." "oo isn't?" hoo says. "nooa," says tummy, "i isn't. i'se chaanged my mind." "why, tha greeat thiek-heead," hoo says, "tha's allus a-chaangin' thy mind." "ah, weel," say tummy, "i _ha'_ chaanged my mind, and that's enough for _thee_." weel, tha knaws meary didn't want for to loose tummy, for she didn't knaw where she'd pick up another as good. soa she tried all sooarts of waays for keepin' him on. first hood tried carneyin' an' cooaxin' of him, and when she found as cooaxin' weren't o' noa use hoo tried bully-raggin' him, and when she found as bully-raggin' weren't o' noa use, she tried _stratagem_--and that's a woman's last resource! "tummy," hoo says, "tho tha's a' love for me, i still ha' a gradely liking for thee, lad. and, tha sees, if tha gies me up, folks'll lay a' blame upo' thee. noo, i'll tell tha what tha mun do. tha mun gooa to th' church wi' me i' th' mornin', and when the parson says to thee, 'wilt tha ha' meary for to be thy wedded wife?' tha mun say, 'yes, i will.' and when th' parson says to me, 'meary, lass, will tha ha' tummy for to be thy wedded husband?' i'll say, 'noa, i weean't.' and then tha'll get off scot-free, tha seeas, and th' folk'll lay a' th' blame upo' me." weel, tummy, he were a coward at heart, and he didn't want meary for to gooa aboot sayin' nasty things aboot him, and so he went--_poor lad!_ and when they'd getten to' th' church i' th' mornin', parson he says to tummy, "tummy," he says, "wilt thou have meary for to be thy wedded wife?" and tummy, he speaks oot bold-like, "aw! ah will!" and soona then th' parson he turns to meary, and he says, "meary, lass, wilt thou have tummy for to be thy wedded husband?" and meary shoo up and shoo says, "aw! ah will!" tummy says, "nay, nay; that winnot dew. tha was to say as tha wouldn't." "aye, but," says meary, "there's others can chaange their minds, tummy, as weel as thee!" sooa hoo gat him! his blackstonian circumlocution anonymous "i received, this afternoon," said the bright-eyed, common-sense girl, the while a slight blush of maidenly coyness tinted her peach-hued cheeks, "a written proposal of marriage from horace j. pokelong, the rising young attorney, and----" "huh! that petrified dub!" jealously ejaculated the young dry-goods dealer, who had been hanging back because of his timidity and excessive adoration. "he says," proceeded the maiden, gently ignoring the interruption, and reading aloud from the interesting document, "'i have carefully and comprehensively analyzed my feelings toward you, and the result is substantially as follows, to wit: i respect, admire, adore and love you, and hereby give, grant and convey to you my heart and all my interest, right and title in and to the same, together with all my possessions and emoluments, either won, inherited or in any other manner acquired, gained, anticipated or expected, with full and complete power to use, expend, utilize, give away, bestow or otherwise make use of the same, anything heretofore stated, exprest, implied or understood, in or by my previous condition, standing, walk, attitude or actions, to the contrary notwithstanding; and i furthermore----'" "i--i----!" fairly shouted the listener, springing to his feet, and extending his arms. "miss brisk--maud--i love you! will you marry me?" "yes, i will!" promptly answered the lass, as she contentedly snuggled up in his encircling embrace. "and i'll reply to the ponderous appeal of that pedantic procrastinator with the one expressive slangism, 'twenty-three!' i am yours, clarence!" katrina likes me poody vell anonymous somedimes ven i'm a-feeling bad, cause dings dey don'd go righd, i gid so kinder awful sick, und lose my abbedide. und ven i go me to der house, und by dot daple sit, dot widdles makes me feel gwide bale, und i don'd kin ead a bit. my head dot shbind arount unt rount, und my eyes dem look so vild, dot of my mudder she was dere, she voodn't know her shild. dot is der dime katrina comes, und nice vords she does dell, mit her heart a-busding oud mit loaf, for she likes me poody vell. she gifes me efery kind of dings dot she dinks will done me goot; she cooks me shblendid sassage mead, und oder kinds of foot; she ties vet rags arount my head when dot begins to shvell, und soaks my feet mit brandred's bills, for she likes me poody vell. she sings me nice und poody songs, mit a woice dot's shweed und glear, und says, "dot of i vas to die she voodn't leef a year." of dot aind so, or if id is, i don'd vas going to dell; but dis much i am villing to shwore-- she likes me poody vell. at the restaurant anonymous _waiter_--"well, ladies, what will it be?" _mrs. etamine_--"i don't know what you girls are going to take, but i can't eat a thing--unless it's ice-cream." _miss de beige_--"i'm sure i don't want anything except cream. i never _can_ eat in this hot weather." _miss satine_--"i'd like some ice-cream, if they've got any _real_ pistache." _miss foulard_--"oh, i wouldn't trust them to give me pistache _here_! i don't believe they know what pistache is. i'm going to take chocolate." _mrs. e._--"i'd take chocolate, too, only it's so heavy all by itself." _miss de b._--"why don't you take it with strawberry?" _mrs. e._--"oh, i don't think strawberry and chocolate go well together! the contrast is too striking, don't you think?" _miss de b._--"well, perhaps it _is_ a little--loud." _miss f._--"lemon and chocolate are awfully nice." _miss s._--"but there's something about pistache, don't you know, so delicate." _miss f._--"i'm sure lemon is delicate. you can't taste any flavor at all, the way they make it at most places." _miss s._--"but pistache is so _refined_, don't you know." _mrs. e._--"dear me, here's this man standing by waiting--it's perfectly horrid to have him looming over us like a ghost or something. do let's give our orders and get him away!" _miss de b._--"well, what are you going to order?" _mrs. e._--"why, i told you--chocolate and lemon." _miss f._--"no; that was what i ordered, wasn't it?" _mrs. e._--"why, so it was! chocolate and strawberry i meant. some people think that's too heavy--too cloying, you know--but i think it's about as good as anything." _miss de b._--"well, i think i'll take that, too. i don't know, tho. lemon is awfully good. i know a lady up in the catskills--she had the loveliest little boy, just six years old, with curly hair that hung ever so far down his back, and he used to come to me every morning and ask for candy in the prettiest way--just like a little dog, and he learned it all himself--his mother told me nobody taught him--tho i've always believed that that child never _could_ have originated the idea all by himself----" _mrs. e._--"excuse me, clara, but the man is waiting." _miss de b._--"as i was _saying_, she was poisoned by eating lemon ice-cream; but i believe they found out afterward that some one put the rat-poison in the freezer by mistake--i beg your pardon, mrs. etamine; i didn't know you were speaking--oh, yes--strawberry ice-cream, waiter, and a fork, if you please--don't bring me a spoon--i don't want it." _miss s._--"well, if i can't have pistache----" _miss f._--"you can't--i'm sure they haven't got it here. i'll take--let me see--some chocolate, i guess. is your chocolate good, waiter?" _miss s._--"oh, it's sure to be good--they never give you bad chocolate. well, i _did_ want pistache; but i think i'll take lemon. some lemon ice-cream, waiter--lemon flavor--and don't bring it in half melted." _mrs. e._ (_impressively_)--"some chocolate and strawberry ice-cream, waiter, mixed. and a spoon. do you understand me, waiter? a spoon. _not_ a fork." _miss f._--"chocolate ice-cream--don't forget!" _miss s._--"lemon ice-cream!" _miss de b._--"strawberry--and a fork!" _mrs. e._--"chocolate and strawberry--spoon, of course, waiter. i suppose you know _that_." _waiter_--"ice-cream? yes, ma'am. we ain't got nothin' only verniller, ma'am. yaas'm--all out of everythin' only verniller. what'll it be, ladies?" by permission of _puck_. new york a-feared of a gal anonymous oh, darn it all! a-feared of her, and such a mite of a gal; why, two of her size rolled into one won't ditto sister sal! her voice is sweet as the whippoorwill's, and the sunshine's in her hair; but i'd rather face a redskin's knife, or the grip of a grizzly bear. yet sal says: "why, she's such a dear, she's just the one for you." oh, darn it all! a-feared of a gal, and me just six feet two! tho she ain't any size, while i'm considerable tall, i'm nowhere when she speaks to me, she makes me feel so small. my face grows red, my tongue gets hitched, the plagued thing won't go; it riles me, 'cause it makes her think i'm most tarnation slow. and tho folks say she's sweet on me, i guess it can't be true. oh, darn it all! a-feared of a gal, and me just six feet two! my sakes! just s'pose if what the folks is saying should be so! go, cousin jane, and speak to her, find out and let me know; tell her the gals should court the men, for isn't this leap-year? that's why i'm kind of bashful like, a-waiting for her here. and should she hear i'm scared of her, you'll swear it can't be true. oh, darn it all, a-feared of a gal, and me just six feet two! leaving out the joke anonymous some people are bright enough to enjoy a good joke, but do not have retentive memories, so as to be able to repeat it to others. failures of this kind are sometimes very ludicrous. we give some good specimens. the most famous of this class was the college professor, who, on parting with a student that had called on him, noticed that he had a new coat, and remarked that it was too short. the student, with an air of resignation, replied: "it will be long enough before i get another." the professor enjoyed the joke heartily, and going to a meeting of the college faculty just afterward, he entered the room in great glee and said: "young sharp got off such a joke just now. he called on me a little while ago, and as he was leaving, i noticed his new coat, and told him it was too short, and he said: "it will be a long time before i get another." no one laughed, and the professor sobering down, remarked: "it doesn't seem so funny as when he said it." a red-haired woman who was ambitious of literary distinction found but poor sale for her book. a gentleman, in speaking of her disappointment, said: "her hair is red (read) if her book is not." an auditor, in attempting to relate the joke elsewhere, said: "she has red hair if her book hasn't." the most unfortunate attempt at reproducing another's wit was made by an englishman who didn't understand the pun, but judged from the applause with which it was greeted that it must be excellent. during a dinner at which he was a guest a waiter let a boiled tongue slip off the plate on which he was bearing it, and it fell on the table. the host at once apologized for the mishap as a _lapsus linguæ_ (slip of the tongue). the joke was the best thing at the dinner, and our friend concluded to bring it up at his own table. he accordingly invited his company and instructed his servant to let fall a roast of beef as he was bringing it to the table. when the "accident" occurred, he exclaimed: "that's a _lapsus linguæ_." nobody laughed, and he said again, "i say that's a _lapsus linguæ_," and still no one laughed. a screw was loose somewhere; so he told about the tongue falling, and they did laugh. "why is this," said a waiter, holding up a common kitchen utensil, "more remarkable than napoleon bonaparte? because napoleon was a great man, but this is a grater." when the funny man reproduced it in his circle, he asked the question right, but answered it, "because napoleon was a great man, but this is a nutmeg-grater." the cyclopeedy by eugene field havin' lived next door to the hobart place f'r goin' on thirty years, i calc'late that i know jest about ez much about the case ez anybody else now on airth, exceptin' perhaps it's ol' jedge baker, and he's so plaguey old 'nd so powerful feeble that _he_ don't know nothin'. it seems that in the spring uv ' --the year that cy watson's oldest boy wuz drownded in west river--there come along a book agent sellin' volyumes 'nd tracks f'r the diffusion uv knowledge, 'nd havin' got the recommend of the minister 'nd uv the select-men, he done an all-fired big business in our part uv the county. his name wuz lemuel higgins, 'nd he wuz ez likely a talker ez i ever heerd, barrin' lawyer conkey, 'nd everybody allowed that when conkey wuz round he talked so fast that the town pump ud have to be greased every twenty minutes. one of the first uv our folks that this lemuel higgins struck wuz leander hobart. leander had jest marr'd one uv the peasley girls, 'nd had moved into the old homestead on the plainville road,--old deacon hobart havin' give up the place to him, the other boys havin' moved out west (like a lot o' darned fools that they wuz!). leander wuz feelin' his oats jest about this time, 'nd nuthin' wuz too good f'r him. "hattie," sez he, "i guess i'll have to lay in a few books f'r readin' in the winter time, 'nd i've half a notion to subscribe f'r a cyclopeedy. mr. higgins here says they're invalerable in a family, and that we orter have 'em, bein' as how we're likely to have the fam'ly bime by." "lor's sakes, leander, how you talk!" sez hattie, blushin' all over, ez brides allers does to heern tell uv sich things. waal, to make a long story short, leander bargained with mr. higgins for a set uv them cyclopeedies, 'nd he signed his name to a long printed paper that showed how he agreed to take a cyclopeedy oncet in so often, which wuz to be ez often ez a new one uv the volyumes wuz printed. a cyclopeedy isn't printed all at oncet, because that would make it cost too much; consekently the man that gets it up has it strung along fur apart, so as to hit folks once every year or two, and gin'rally about harvest time. so leander kind uv liked the idee, and he signed the printed paper 'nd made his affidavit to it afore jedge warner. the fust volyume of the cyclopeedy stood on a shelf in the old seckertary in the settin'-room about four months before they had any use f'r it. one night 'squire tuner's son come over to visit leander 'nd hattie, and they got to talkin' about apples, 'nd the sort uv apples that wuz the best. leander allowed that the rhode island greenin' wuz the best, but hattie and the turner boy stuck up f'r the roxbury russet, until at last a happy idee struck leander, and sez he: "we'll leave it to the cyclopeedy, b'gosh! whichever one the cyclopeedy sez is the best will settle it." "but you can't find out nothin' 'bout roxbury russets nor rhode island greenin's in _our_ cyclopeedy," sez hattie. "why not, i'd like to know?" sez leander, kind uv indignant like. "'cause ours hain't got down to the r yet," sez hattie. "all ours tells about is things beginnin' with a." "well, ain't we talkin' about apples!" sez leander. "you aggervate me terrible, hattie, by insistin' on knowin' what you don't know nothin' 'bout." leander went to the seckertary 'nd took down the cyclopeedy 'nd hunted all through it f'r apples, but all he could find wuz "apple--see pomology." "how in the thunder kin i see pomology," sez leander, "when there ain't no pomology to see? gol durn a cyclopeedy, anyhow!" and he put the volyume back onto the shelf 'nd never sot eyes into it agin. that's the way the thing run f'r years 'nd years. leander would've gin up the plaguey bargain, but he couldn't; he had signed a printed paper 'nd had swore to it before a justice of the peace. higgins would have had the law on him if he had throwed up the trade. the most aggervatin' feature uv it all wuz that a new one uv them cussid cyclopeedies wuz allus sure to show up at the wrong time,--when leander wuz hard up or had jest been afflicted some way or other. his barn burnt down two nights afore the volyume containin' the letter b arrived, and leander needed all his chink to pay f'r lumber, but higgins sot back on that affidavit and defied the life out uv him. "never mind, leander," sez his wife, soothin' like, "it's a good book to have in the house, anyhow, now that we've got a baby." "that's so," sez leander, "babies does begin with b, don't it?" you see their fust baby had been born; they named him peasley,--peasley hobart,--after hattie's folks. so, seein' as how he wuz payin' f'r a book that told about babies, leander didn't begredge that five dollars so very much after all. "leander," sez hattie, "that b cyclopeedy ain't no account. there ain't nothin' in it about babies except 'see maternity'!" "waal, i'll be gosh durned!" sez leander. that wuz all he said, and he couldn't do nothin' at all, f'r that book agent, lemuel higgins, had the dead-wood on him,--the mean, sneakin' critter! so the years passed on, one of the cyclopeedies showin' up now 'nd then,--sometimes every two years 'nd sometimes every four, but allus at a time when leander found it pesky hard to give up a fiver. it warn't no use cussin' higgins; higgins jest laffed when leander allowed that the cyclopeedy wuz no good 'nd that he wuz bein' robbed. meantime leander's family wuz increasin' and growin'. little sarey had the hoopin'-cough dreadful one winter, but the cyclopeedy didn't help out at all, 'cause all it said wuz: "hoopin' cough--see whoopin' cough"--and uv course, there warn't no whoopin' cough to see, bein' as how the w hadn't come yet. oncet when hiram wanted to dreen the home pasture, he went to the cyclopeedy to find out about it, but all he diskivered wuz: "drain--see tile." this wuz in , and the cyclopeedy had only got down to g. the cow wuz sick with lung fever one spell, and leander laid her dyin' to that cussid cyclopeedy, 'cause when he went to readin' 'bout cows it told him to "see zoology." but what's the use uv harrowin' up one's feelin's talkin' 'nd thinkin' about these things? leander got so after a while that the cyclopeedy didn't worry him at all: he grew to look at it ez one uv the crosses that human critters has to bear without complainin' through this vale uv tears. the only thing that bothered him wuz the fear that mebbe he wouldn't live to see the last volyume,--to tell the truth, this kind uv got to be his hobby, and i've heern him talk 'bout it many a time settin' round the stove at the tavern 'nd squirtin' tobacco juice at the sawdust box. his wife, hattie, passed away with the yaller janders the winter w come, and all that seemed to reconcile leander to survivin' her wuz the prospect uv seein' the last volyume uv that cyclopeedy. lemuel higgins, the book agent, had gone to his everlastin' punishment; but his son, hiram, had succeeded to his father's business 'nd continued to visit the folks his old man had roped in. by this time leander's children had growed up; all on 'em wuz marr'd, and there wuz numeris grandchildren to amuse the ol' gentleman. but leander wuzn't to be satisfied with the common things uv airth; he didn't seem to take no pleasure in his grandchildren like most men do; his mind wuz allers sot on somethin' else,--for hours 'nd hours, yes, all day long, he'd set out on the front stoop lookin' wistfully up the road for that book agent to come along with a cyclopeedy. he didn't want to die till he'd got all the cyclopeedies his contract called for; he wanted to have everything straightened out before he passed away. when--oh, how well i recollect it--when y come along he wuz so overcome that he fell over in a fit uv paralysis, 'nd the old gentleman never got over it. for the next three years he drooped 'nd pined and seemed like he couldn't hold out much longer. finally he had to take to his bed,--he was so old 'nd feeble,--but he made 'em move the bed up ag'inst the window so he could watch for that last volyume of the cyclopeedy. the end come one balmy day in the spring uv ' . his life wuz a-ebbin' powerful fast; the minister wuz there, 'nd me, 'nd dock wilson, 'nd jedge baker, 'nd most uv the fam'ly. lovin' hands smoothed the wrinkled forehead 'nd breshed back the long, scant, white hair, but the eyes of the dyin' man wuz sot upon that piece uv road over which the cyclopeedy man allus come. all to oncet a bright 'nd joyful look come into them eyes, 'nd ol' leander riz up in bed 'nd sez: "it's come!" "what is it, father?" asked his daughter sarey, sobbin' like. "hush," sez the minister, solemnly; "he sees the shinin' gates uv the noo jerusalem." "no, no," cried the aged man; "it is the cyclopeedy--the letter z--it's comin'!" and, sure enough! the door opened, and in walked higgins. he tottered rather than walked, f'r he had growed old 'nd feeble in his wicked perfession. "here's the z cyclopeedy, mr. hobart," says higgins. leander clutched it; he hugged it to his pantin' bosom; then stealin' one pale hand under the pillar he drew out a faded banknote 'nd gave it to higgins. "i thank thee for this boon," sez leander, rollin' his eyes up devoutly; then he gave a deep sigh. "hold on," cried higgins, excitedly, "you've made a mistake--it isn't the last----" but leander didn't hear him--his soul hed fled from its mortal tenement 'nd hed soared rejoicin' to realms uv everlastin' bliss. "he is no more," sez dock wilson, metaphorically. "then who are his heirs?" asked that mean critter higgins. "we be," sez the fam'ly. "do you conjointly and severally acknowledge and assume the obligation of deceased to me?" he asked 'em. "what obligation?" asked peasley hobart, stern like. "deceased died owin' me f'r a cyclopeedy!" sez higgins. "that's a lie!" sez peasley. "we seen him pay you for the z!" "but there's another one to come," sez higgins. "another?" they all asked. "yes, the index," sez he. so there wuz. reprinted by permission of the author. echo by john g. saxe i asked of echo, t'other day (whose words are often few and funny), what to a novice she could say of courtship, love, and matrimony. quoth echo plainly,--"matter-o'-money!" whom should i marry? should it be a dashing damsel, gay and pert, a pattern of inconstancy; or selfish, mercenary flirt? quoth echo, sharply,--"nary flirt!" what if, aweary of the strife that long has lured the dear deceiver, she promise to amend her life, and sin no more; can i believe her? quoth echo, very promptly,--"leave her!" but if some maiden with a heart on me should venture to bestow it, pray, should i act the wiser part to take the treasure or forego it? quoth echo, with decision,--"go it!" but what if, seemingly afraid to bind her fate in hymen's fetter, she vow she means to die a maid, in answer to my loving letter? quoth echo, rather coolly,--"let her!" what if, in spite of her disdain i find my heart entwined about with cupid's dear delicious chain so closely that i can't get out? quoth echo, laughingly,--"get out!" but if some maid with beauty blest, as pure and fair as heaven can make her, will share my labor and my rest till envious death shall overtake her? quoth echo (sotto voce),--"take her!" reprinted by permission of houghton, mifflin & company. our railroads anonymous he stood in the station, she at his side-- she is a fair, young, blushing bride. on their honeymoon they're starting now; it always follows the marriage vow. he looks at the flaring railroad maps, at the train of cars and his baggage traps, and whispered: "pettie, how shall we go,-- by the kankakee or the kokomo? "these railroad maps confuse the eye, there's the c. b. q. and the r. n. y. and this one says your life's at stake on any road but the sky blue lake. the n. e. r. l. p. q. j. have sleepers on the entire way; but i've heard these trains are much more slow than the kankakee or the kokomo." she murmured: "sweetie, i've heard pa say what a fine old road is the p. g. k.; but mamma seemed to disagree, and prefers the x. s. h. o. p. this chart says, dearie, the views are fine on the texas-cowboy-mustang line; but still, perhaps, we'd better go on the kankakee or the kokomo." a conductor chanced to pass them by and the bridegroom caught his gentle eye; he said: "o man, with the cap of blue, inform me quick, inform me true, which road is best for a blushing, pure, young, timid bride on her wedding tour? and tell us quickly what you know of the kankakee or the kokomo?" the conductor's eyes gave a savage gleam; these words rolled out in a limpid stream: "there's the a. b. j. d. v. r. z. connects with the flip-flap-biff-bang-b, you can change on the leg-off-sueville-grand, and go through on the pan-cake-ace-full-hand. that road you named is blocked by snow, the kankakee and the kokomo. "the pennsylvania, pittsburg through, connects with the oshkosh kalamazoo, with a smoking car all the afternoon; just the thing for a honeymoon; and the central-scalp-tooth-bungville-switch goes through a vine-land country rich. of the road you named i nothing know, the kankakee and the kokomo." the bride said: "honey, 'tis best, by far, like the dollar, we return to pa (that's a pun i heard while on a train on the u. r. n. g. jersey main)." the conductor smiled; his eye-teeth showed; he had spoiled the trade of a rival road. he knew in his heart there was no snow on the kankakee or the kokomo. and the bride and groom returned to pa, who heard it all and then said: "pshaw! if you found you couldn't go that way, why didn't you go on the cross-eyed bay?" the bridegroom gave a howl of pain; the railroad names had turned his brain. he raves, insane, forevermore; in a madhouse, chained unto the floor, he gibbers: "tootsie, shall we go by the kankakee or the kokomo?" wakin' the young 'uns (the old man from the foot of the stairs-- a. m.) by john c. boss bee-ull! bee-ull! o bee-ull! my gracious, air you still sleepin'? th' hour-hand's creepin' nearder five. (wal, durned ef this 'ere ain't vexatious!) don't ye hyar them cattle callin'? an' th' ole red steer a-bawlin'? come, look alive! git up! git up! mar'ann! mar'ann! (jist hyar her snorin'!), mar'ann! it's behoovin' thet you be a-moovin'! brisk, i say! hyar the kitchen stove a-roarin'? the kittle's a-spilin' ter git hisse'f bilin'. it's comin' day. git up! git up! jule! o jule! now whut is ailin'? you want ter rest? wal' i'll be blest! s'pose them cows 'll give down milk 'ithout you pailin'? you mus' be goin crazy; er' more like, gittin' lazy. come, now, rouse. git up! git up! jake, you lazy varmint! jake! hey jake! whut you layin' theer fur? you know the stock's ter keer fur; so, hop out! (thet boy is wusser'n a rock ter wake!) don't stop to shiver, but jist unkiver, an' pop out! git up! git up! young 'uns! bee-ull! jake! mar'ann! jule! (wal' durn my orn'ry skin! they've gone ter sleep agin, fur all my tellin'!) see hyar, i hain't no time ter fool! it's the las' warnin' i'll give this mornin'. i'm done yellin'! git up! git up! _solus_ wal, whut's th' odds--an hour, more or less? b'lieve it makes 'em stronger ter sleep a leetle longer thar in bed. the time is comin' fas' enough, i guess, when i'll wish, an' wish 'ith weepin' they was back up yender sleepin', overhead, ter git up. pat's reason anonymous one day i observed in a crowded horse-car, a lady was standing. she had ridden quite far, and seemed much disposed to indulge in a frown, as nobody offered to let her sit down. and many there sat who, to judge by their dress, might a gentleman's natural instincts possess, but who, judged by their acts, make us firmly believe that appearances often will sadly deceive. there were some most intently devouring the news, and some thro' the windows enjoying the views; and others indulged in a make-believe nap, while the lady still stood holding on by the strap. at last a young irishman, fresh from the "sod," arose with a smile and most comical nod, which said quite as plain as in words could be stated that the lady should sit in the place he'd vacated. "excuse me," said pat, "that i caused you to wait so long before offerin' to give you a sate, but in troth i was only just waitin' to see if there wasn't more gintlemin here beside me." quit your foolin' anonymous girls is queer! i used to think emmy didn't care for me, for, whenever i would try any lovin' arts, to see how she'd take 'em--sweet or sour-- always saucy-like says she: "quit your foolin'!" once a-goin' home from church, jest to find if it would work, round her waist i slipt my arm-- my! you'd ought 'o seen her jerk, spunky? well, she acted so-- and she snapt me up as perk-- "quit your foolin'!" every time 'twas just the same, till one night i says, says i-- chokin' some i must admit, tremblin' some i don't deny-- "emmy, seein' as i don't suit, guess i'd better say good-by an' quit foolin'." girls is queer! she only laughed-- cheeks all dimplin'; "john," says she, "foolin' men that never gits real in earnest, ain't for me." "wan't that cute? i took the hint, an' a chair, an' staid, an' we quit our foolin'. she would be a mason by james l. laughton the funniest thing i ever heard, the funniest thing that ever occurred, is the story of mrs. mehitable byrde, who wanted to be a mason. her husband, tom byrde, a mason true-- as good a mason as any of you; he is tyler of lodge cerulean blue, and tyles and delivers the summons due-- and she wanted to be a mason, too, this ridiculous mrs. byrde. she followed round, this inquisitive wife, and nagged him and teased him half out of his life; so to terminate this unhallowed strife, he consented at last to admit her. and first, to disguise her from bonnet and shoon, this ridiculous lady agreed to put on his breech--ah! forgive me--i meant pantaloons; and miraculously did they fit her. the lodge was at work on the master's degree, the light was ablaze on the letter c; high soared the pillars j and b. the officers sat like solomon, wise; the brimstone burned amid horrible cries; the goat roamed wildly through the room; the candidate begged to let him go home; and the devil himself stood up at the east, as broad as an alderman at a feast, when in came mrs. byrde. o horrible sounds! o horrible sight! can it be that masons take delight in spending thus the hours of night? ah! could their wives and daughters know the unutterable things they say and do, their feminine hearts would burst with wo! but this is not all my story. those masons joined in a hideous ring, the candidate howling like everything, and thus in tones of death they sing (the candidate's name was morey): "double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble; blood to drink and bones to crack, skulls to smash and lives to take, hearts to crush and souls to burn; give old morey another turn!" the brimstone gleamed in lurid flame, just like a place we will not name; good angels, that inquiring came from blissful courts, looked on with shame and tearful melancholy. again they dance, but twice as bad, they jump and sing like demons mad; the tune is far from jolly: "double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble; blood to drink and bones to crack, skulls to smash and lives to take, hearts to crush and souls to burn; give old morey another turn!" trembling with horror stood mrs. byrde, unable to speak a single word. she staggered and fell in the nearest chair, on the left of the junior warden there, and scarcely noticed, so loud the groans, that the chair was made of human bones. of human bones! on grinning skulls that ghastly throne of horror rolls; those skulls, the skulls that morgan bore; those bones, the bones that morgan wore. his scalp across the top was flung, his teeth around the arms were strung. never in all romance was known such uses made of human bone. there came a pause--a pair of paws reached through the floor, up sliding-doors, and grabbed the unhappy candidate! how can i, without tears, relate the lost and ruined morey's fate? she saw him sink in a fiery hole, she heard him scream, "my soul! my soul!" while roars of fiendish laughter roll, and drown the yells for mercy: "double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble; blood to drink and bones to crack, skulls to smash and lives to take, hearts to crush and souls to burn; give old morey another turn!" the ridiculous woman could stand no more, she fainted and fell on the checkered floor, 'midst all the diabolical roar. what then, you ask me, did befall mehitable byrde? why, nothing at all-- she dreamed she had been in a mason's hall. henry the fifth's wooing by shakespeare _k. henry._ fair katharine, and most fair, will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms such as will enter at a lady's ear and plead his love-suit to her gentle heart? _katharine._ your majesty shall mock at me; i can not speak your england. _k. hen._ o fair katharine, if you will love me soundly with your french heart, i will be glad to hear you confess it brokenly with your english tongue. do you like me, kate? _kath._ pardonnez-moi, i can not tell vat is "like me." _k. hen._ an angel is like you, kate, and you are like an angel. _kath._ que dit-il? que je suis semblable à les anges? _alice._ oui, vraiment, sauf votre grace, ainsi dit-il. _k. hen._ i said so, dear katharine; and i must not blush to affirm it. _kath._ o les langues des hommes sont pleines des tromperies. _k. hen._ what says she, fair one? that the tongues of men are full of deceits? _alice._ oui, dat de tongues of de mans is be full of deceits: dat is de princess. _k. hen._ the princess is the better englishwoman. i' faith, kate, my wooing is fit for thy understanding; i am glad thou canst speak no better english; for, if thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain king that thou wouldst think i had sold my farm to buy my crown. i know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say, "i love you": then if you urge me further than to say, "do you in faith?" i wear out my suit. give me your answer; i' faith, do: and so clap hands and a bargain: how say you, lady? _kath._ sauf votre honneur, me understand vell. _k. hen._ marry, if you would put me to verses or to dance for your sake, kate, why you undid me: for the one i have neither words nor measures, and for the other, i have no strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure in strength. if i could win a lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with my armor on my back, under the correction of bragging be it spoken, i should quickly leap into a wife. or if i buffet for my love, or bound my horse for her favors, i could lay on like a butcher and sit like a jackanapes, never off. but, kate, i can not look greenly nor gasp out my eloquence, nor i have no cunning in protestation: only downright oaths, which i never use till urged, nor never break for urging. if thou canst love a fellow of this temper, kate, whose face is not worth sun-burning, that never looks in his glass for love of anything he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook. i speak to thee plain soldier: if thou canst love me for this, take me: if not, to say to thee that i shall die, is true; but for thy love, no; yet i love thee, too. and while thou livest, dear kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places: for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies' favors, they do always reason themselves out again. what! a speaker is but a prater; a rhyme is but a ballad. a good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a black beard will turn white; a curled pate will grow bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow: but a good heart, kate, is the sun and the moon; or rather the sun and not the moon, for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly. if thou would have such a one, take me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king. and what sayest thou then to my love? speak, my fair, and fairly, i pray thee. _kath._ is it possible dat i should love de enemy of france? _k. hen._ no; it is not possible you should love the enemy of france, kate: but, in loving me, you should love the friend of france; for i love france so well that i will not part with a village of it; i will have it all mine; and, kate, when france is mine and i am yours, then yours is france and you are mine. _kath._ i can not tell vat is dat. _k. hen._ no, kate? i will tell thee in french; which i am sure will hang upon my tongue like a new-married wife about her husband's neck, hardly to be shook off. quand j'ay la possession de france, et quand vous avez la possession de moi,--let me see, what then? saint denis be my speed!--donc votre est france et vous êtes mienne. it is as easy for me, kate, to conquer the kingdom as to speak so much more french; i shall never move thee in french, unless it be to laugh at me. _kath._ sauf votre honneur, le françois que vous parlez, est meilleur que l'anglois lequel je parle. _k. hen._ no, faith, is't not, kate; but thy speaking of my tongue, and i thine, most truly-falsely, must needs be granted to be much at one. but, kate, dost thou understand thus much english, canst thou love me? _kath._ i can not tell. _k. hen._ can any of your neighbors tell kate. i'll ask them. come, i know thou lovest me; and at night, when you come into your closet, you'll question this gentlewoman about me; and i know, kate, you will to her dispraise those parts in me that you love with your heart; but, good kate, mock me mercifully; the rather, gentle princess, because i love thee cruelly. how answer you, la plus belle katharine du monde, mon très chère et divine déesse? _kath._ your majestee ave faussee french enough to deceive de most sage demoiselle dat is en france. _k. hen._ now, fie upon my false french! by mine honor, in true english, i love thee, kate; by which honor i dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor and untempering effect of my visage. i was created with a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that, when i come to woo ladies, i fright them. but, in faith kate, the elder i wax, the better i shall appear; my comfort is, that old age, that ill layer up of beauty, can do no more spoil upon my face: thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better: and therefore, tell me, most fair katharine, will you have me? put off your maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts of your heart with the looks of an empress; take me by the hand, and say, "harry of england, i am thine"; which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear withal, but i will tell thee aloud, "england is thine, ireland is thine, france is thine, and henry plantagenet is thine"; who, tho i speak it before his face, if he be not fellow with the best king, thou shalt find the best king of good fellows. come, your answer in broken music; for thy voice is music and thy english broken; therefore, queen of all, katharine, break thy mind to me in broken english; wilt thou have me? _kath._ dat is as it sall please de roi mon père. _k. hen._ nay, it will please him well, kate; it shall please him, kate. _kath._ den it sall also content me. _k. hen._ upon that i kiss your hand, and i call you my queen. _kath._ laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez. _k. hen._ then i will kiss your lips, kate. _kath._ il n'est pas la coutume de france. _k. hen._ madam my interpreter, what says she? _alice._ dat it is not be de fashion pour les ladies of france--i can not tell vat is _baiser_ en anglish. _k. hen._ to kiss. _alice._ your majesty entendre bettre que moi. _k. hen._ it is not the fashion for the maids in france to kiss before they are married, would you say? _alice._ oui, vraiment. _k. hen._ o kate, nice customs curtsy to great kings. dear kate, you and i can not be confined within the weak list of a country's fashion: we are the makers of manners, kate; and the liberty that follows our places stops the mouth of all find-faults; as i will do yours, for upholding the nice fashion of your country in denying me a kiss; therefore, patiently and yielding. (_kisses her._) you have witchcraft in your lips, kate; there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the french council; and they should sooner persuade harry of england than a general petition of monarchs. scene from "the rivals" by richard brinsley sheridan _mrs. m._ there, sir anthony, there stands the deliberate simpleton who wants to disgrace her family and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a shilling. _lyd._ madam, i thought you once---- _mrs. m._ you thought, miss! i don't know any business you have to think at all. thought does not become a young woman. but the point we would request of you is, that you will promise to forget this fellow--to illiterate him, i say, from your memory. _lyd._ ah, madam! our memories are independent of our wills. it is not so easy to forget. _mrs. m._ but i say it is, miss! there is nothing on earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. i'm sure i have as much forgot your poor, dear uncle as if he had never existed, and i thought it my duty to do so; and let me tell you, lydia, these violent memories don't become a young woman. _sir a._ surely, the young woman does not pretend to remember what she is ordered to forget! ah, this comes of her reading. _lyd._ what crime, madam, have i committed, to be treated thus? _mrs. m._ now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the matter; you know i have proof controvertible of it. but tell me, will you promise me to do as you are bid? will you take a husband of your friends' choosing? _lyd._ madam, i must tell you plainly that, had i no preference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion. _mrs. m._ what business have you, miss, with preference and aversion? they don't become a young woman; and you ought to know that, as both always wear off, 'tis safest, in matrimony, to begin with a little aversion. i am sure i hated your poor dear uncle before marriage as if he'd been a blackamoor, and yet, miss, you are sensible what a wife i made; and, when it pleased heaven to release me from him, 'tis unknown what tears i shed! _sir a._ he-e-m! _mrs. m._ but, suppose we were going to give you another choice, will you promise us to give up this beverley? _lyd._ could i belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words. _mrs. m._ take yourself to your room! you are fit company for nothing but your own ill humors. _lyd._ willingly, ma'am; i can not change for the worse. [_exit._ _mrs. m._ there's a little intricate hussy for you! _sir. a._ it is not to be wondered at, ma'am; all that is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. in my way hither, mrs. malaprop, i observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library; she had a book in each hand--they were half-bound volumes, with marble covers. from that moment, i guessed how full of duty i should see her mistress! _mrs. m._ those are vile places, indeed! _sir a._ madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge! it blossoms through the year! and, depend upon it, mrs. malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at last. _mrs. m._ fie, fie, sir anthony; you surely speak laconically. (_sir anthony places a chair for her and another for himself, bows to her respectfully and waits till she is seated._) _sir a._ why, mrs. malaprop, in moderation, now, what would you have a woman know? _mrs. m._ observe me, sir anthony--i would by no means wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning. i don't think so much learning becomes a young woman. for instance--i would never let her meddle with greek, or hebrew, or algebra, or simony, or fluxions, or paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of learning; nor will it be necessary for her to handle any of your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments; but, sir anthony, i would send her, at nine years old, to a boarding-school, in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice. then, sir, she should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts; and, as she grew up, i would have her instructed in geometry, that she might know something of the contagious countries; above all, she should be a perfect mistress of orthodoxy--that is, she should not mispronounce and misspell words as our young women of the present day constantly do. this, sir anthony, is what i would have a woman know; and i don't think there is a superstitious article in it. _sir a._ well, well, mrs. malaprop, i will dispute the point no further with you, tho i must confess that you are a truly moderate and polite arguer, for almost every third word you say is on my side of the question. but to the more important point in debate--you say you have no objection to my proposal? _mrs. m._ none, i assure you. i am under no positive engagement with mr. acres; and as lydia is so obstinate against him, perhaps your son may have better success. _sir a._ well, madam, i will write for the boy directly. he knows not a syllable of this yet, tho i have for some time had the proposal in my head. he is at present with his regiment. _mrs. m._ we have never seen your son, sir anthony; but i hope no objection on his side. _sir a._ objection! let him object, if he dare! no, no, mrs. malaprop; jack knows that the least demur puts me in a frenzy directly. my process was always very simple. in his younger days 'twas--"jack, do this." if he demurred, i knocked him down; and if he grumbled at that, i always sent him out of the room. _mrs. m._ ay, and the properest way, o' my conscience! nothing is so conciliating to young people as severity. (_both rise._) well, sir anthony, i shall give mr. acres his discharge, and prepare lydia to receive your son's invocations; and i hope you will represent her to the captain as an object not altogether illegible. _sir a._ madam, i will handle the subject prudently. i must leave you. good morning, mrs. malaprop. (_both bow profoundly; sir anthony steps back as if to go out, then returns to say_:) and let me beg you, mrs. malaprop, to enforce this matter roundly to the girl--take my advice, keep a tight hand. good-morning, mrs. malaprop. if she rejects this proposal, clap her under lock and key. good-morning, mrs. malaprop. and if you were just to let the servants forget to bring her dinner for three or four days, you can't conceive how she'd come about. good-morning, mrs. malaprop. scenes from "rip van winkle" as recited by the late a. p. burbank characters: _rip van winkle; derrick von beekman, the villain of the play, who endeavors to get rip drunk in order to have him sign away his property to von beekman; nick vedder, the village innkeeper._ scene i: _the village inn. von beekman, alone. enter rip, laughing like a child himself, and shaking off the children._ _rip_ (_to the children outside_). hey! you let my dog schneider alone dere; you hear dat, sock der jacob, der bist eine fordonner spitspoo--yah----why, hullo, derrick! how you was? did you hear dem liddle fellers just now? dey most plague me crazy. ha, ha, ha! i like to laugh my outsides in every time i tink about it. just now, as we was comin' through the willage--schneider und me--schneider's my dog; i don't know whether you know him? well, dem liddle fellers, dey took schneider und--ha, ha, ha!--dey--ha, ha!--_dey tied a tin-kettle mit schneider's tail!_ ha, ha, ha! my, how he did run den, mit the kettle banging about! my, how scared he was! well, i didn't hi him comin'. he run betwixt me und my legs und spilt me und all dem children in the mud,--yah, dat's a fact. ha, ha, ha! _derrick._ ah, yes, that's all right, rip, very funny, very funny; but what do you say to a glass of liquor, rip? _rip._ what do i generally say to a glass? i generally say it's a fine thing--when dere's plenty in it--und i say more to what is _in_ it than to the glass. _derrick._ certainly, certainly. say, hello there! nick vedder, bring out a bottle of your best. _rip._ dat's right--fill 'em up. you wouldn't believe it, derrick, dat's the first one i've had to-day. i guess, maybe, the reason is, i couldn't got it before. ah, derrick, my score is too big! well, here is your good health und your family's, und may dey all live long und prosper! ah, you may well go "ah" und smack your chops over dat. you don't give me such schnapps when i come. where you got dat? _nick._ that's high dutch, rip,--high dutch, and ten years in bottle. _rip._ well, come on, fill 'em up again. git out mit dat vater, nick vedder; i don't want no vater in my liquor. good liquor und vater, derrick, is just like man und wife--_dey don't agree well togedder!_ dat's me und _my_ wife, anyway. well, come on again. here is your good health und your family's, und may dey all live long und prosper! _nick._ that's right, rip; drink away, and "drown your sorrows in the flowing bowl." _rip._ drown my sorrows? yah, but _she_ won't drown. my wife is my sorrow und you cannick drown her. she tried it once, but she couldn't do it. didn't you know dat gretchen like to get drown? no? dat's the funniest thing of the whole of it. it's the same day i got married; she was comin' across dat hudson river dere in the ferry-boat to get married mit me. _derrick._ yes. _rip._ well, the boat she was comin' in got upsetted. _derrick._ ah! _rip._ well, but she wasn't in it. _nick._ oh! _rip._ no, dat's what i say; if she had been in the boat what got upsetted, maybe she might have got drowned. she got left behind somehow or odder. women is always behind dat way--always. _derrick._ but surely, rip, you would have risked your life to save her. _rip_ (_incredulously_). you mean i would yump in und pull gretchen out? oh, would i? oh, you mean den--yes, i believe i would den. but it would be a good deal more my duty now as it was den. when a feller gets married a good many years mit his wife, he gets very much attached to her. but if mrs. van winkle was a-drownin' in the water now, und should say to me, "rip, come und save your wife!" i would say, "mrs. van winkle, i will yust go home und tink about it!" oh, no, derrick, if ever gretchen tumbles in the water now, she's got to swim; i told you dat--ha, ha, ha, ha! hullo! dat's her a-comin' now; i guess it's better i go oud! [_exit rip._ scene ii: _rip's home. shortly after his conversation with von beekman, rip's wife found him carousing and dancing upon the village green with the pretty girls. she drove him away in no very gentle fashion. returning home after nightfall in a decidedly muddled condition, he puts his head through the open window at the rear, not observing his irate wife, who stands in ambush behind the clothes-press, with her ever-ready broomstick, to give him a warm reception; but seeing only his little daughter meenie, of whom he is very fond, rip says_: _rip._ meenie! meenie, my darlin'! _meenie._ hush-sh-h. (_shakes finger to indicate the presence of her mother._) _rip._ eh! what's the matter? i don't see nothing, my darlin'. meenie, is the old wildcat home? oh, say, is dot you, gretchen? my darlin', my angel, don't do dat,--let go my head, won't you? well, den, hold on to it so long what you like. for what you do dat, eh? you must want a bald-headed husband, i reckon. _gretchen._ who was that you called a wildcat? _rip._ who was dat i call a wildcat? well, now, let me see, who was dat i called a wildcat? dat must have been the time i came in the window dere, wasn't it? yes, i know, it was the same time. well, now, let me see. (_suddenly._) it was de dog schneider dat i call it. _gretchen._ the dog schneider? that's a likely story. _rip._ of course it is likely,--he's my dog. i'll call him a wildcat much as i please. (_gretchen begins to weep._) oh, well; dere, now, don't you cry, don't you cry, gretchen; you hear what i said? listen now. if you don't cry, i nefer drink anoder drop of liquor in my life. _gretchen._ o rip, you have said so so many, many times, and you never kept your word yet. _rip._ well, i say it dis time, und i mean it. _gretchen._ o rip! if i could only trust you. _rip._ you mustn't _suspect_ me. can't you see repentance in my eye? _gretchen._ rip, if you will only keep your word, i shall be the happiest woman in the world. _rip._ you can believe it. i nefer drink anoder drop so long what i live, if you don't cry. _gretchen._ o rip, how happy we shall be! and you'll get back all the village, rip, just as you used to have it; and you'll fix up our little house so nicely; and you and i, and our darling little meenie here--how happy we shall be! _rip._ dere, dere, now! you can be just so happy what you like. go in de odder room, go along mit you; i come in dere pooty quick. (_exit gretchen and meenie._) my! i swore off from drinking so many, many times, und i never kept my word yet. (_taking out bottle._) i don't believe dere is more as one good drink in dat bottle, anyway. it's a pity to waste it! you goin' to drink dat? well, now, if you do, it is de last one, remember dat, old feller. well, here is your good health, und---- (_enter gretchen, suddenly, who snatches the bottle from him._) _gretchen._ oh, you paltry thief! _rip._ what you doin'? you'll spill the liquor. _gretchen._ yes, i _will_ spill it. _that's the last drop you drink under my roof!_ _rip._ eh! what? _gretchen._ out, i say! you drink no more here. _rip._ why, gretchen, are you goin' to turn me oud like a dog? well, maybe you are right. i have got no home. i will go. but mind, gretchen, after what you say to me to-night, i can nefer darken your door again--nefer; i will go. _meenie._ not into the storm, father. hark, how it thunders! _rip._ yah, my child; but not as bad to me as the storm in my home. i will go. god bless you, my child! don't you nefer forget your father. _gretchen_ (_relenting_). no, rip,--i---- _rip._ no; you have driven me from your house. you have opened the door for me to go. you may nefer open it for me to come back. i wipe the disgrace from your door. good-by, gretchen, good-by! [_rip exits into the storm._ part iii serious hits if we had the time by richard burton if i had the time to find a place and sit me down full face to face with my better self, that can not show in my daily life that rushes so: it might be then i would see my soul was stumbling toward the shining goal, i might be nerved by the thought sublime,-- if i had the time! if i had the time to let my heart speak out and take in my life apart, to look about and to stretch a hand to a comrade quartered in no-luck land; ah, god! if i might but just sit still and hear the note of the whippoorwill, i think that my wish with god's would rhyme,-- if i had the time! if i had the time to learn from you how much comfort my word could do; and i told you then of my sudden will to kiss your feet when i did you ill; if the tears aback of the coldness feigned could flow, and the wrong be quite explained,-- brothers, the souls of us all would chime, if we had the time! by permission of the author and of the publishers, lothrop, lee & shepard company, boston. the fool's prayer by edward rowland sill the royal feast was done; the king sought some new sport to banish care, and to his jester cried: "sir fool, kneel now, and make for us a prayer!" the jester doffed his cap and bells, and stood the mocking court before: they could not see the bitter smile behind the patient grin he wore. he bowed his head, and bent his knee upon the monarch's silken stool; his pleading voice arose, "o lord, be merciful to me, a fool! "no pity, lord, could change the heart from red with wrong to white as wool; the rod must heal the sin; but, lord, be merciful to me, a fool! "'tis not by guilt the onward sweep of truth and right, o lord, we stay; 'tis by our follies that so long we hold the earth from heaven away. "these clumsy feet still in the mire, go crushing blossoms without end; these hard, well-meaning hands we thrust among the heartstrings of a friend. "the ill-timed truth we might have kept,-- who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? the word we had not sense to say,-- who knows how grandly it had rung? "our faults no tenderness should ask, the chastening stripe must cleanse them all; but for our blunders,--oh, in shame before the eyes of heaven we fall. "earth bears no balsam for mistakes; men crown the knave, and scourge the tool that did his will; but thou, o lord, be merciful to me, a fool!" the room was hushed; in silence rose the king, and sought his garden cool, and walked apart, and murmured low: "be merciful to me, a fool!" the eve of waterloo by lord byron there was a sound of revelry by night, and belgium's capital had gathered then her beauty and her chivalry, and bright the lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; a thousand hearts beat happily; and when music arose with its voluptuous swell, soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, and all went merry as a marriage-bell;-- but hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! did ye not hear it?--no; 'twas but the wind, or a car rattling o'er the stony street; on with the dance! let joy be unconfined; no sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet to chase the glowing hours with flying feet-- but hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, as if the clouds its echo would repeat; and nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! arm! arm! it is--it is the cannon's opening roar! * * * * * ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, and gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, and cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; and there were sudden partings, such as press the life from out young hearts, and choking sighs which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess if ever more should meet those mutual eyes, since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? and there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, the mustering squadron, and the clattering car, went pouring forward with impetuous speed, and swiftly forming in the ranks of war; and the deep thunder peal on peal afar, and near, the beat of the alarming drum roused up the soldier ere the morning star; while thronged the citizens with terror dumb, or whispering, with white lips, "the foe! they come! they come!" and ardennes waves above them her green leaves, dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, over the unreturning brave,--alas! ere evening to be trodden like the grass, which now beneath them, but above shall grow in its next verdure, when this fiery mass of living valor, rolling on the foe and burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low. last noon beheld them full of lusty life, last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, the midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, the morn, the marshaling in arms,--the day, battle's magnificently stern array! the thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, the earth is covered thick with other clay, which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent. the wreck of the julie plante by william henry drummond on wan dark night on lac st. pierre, de win' she blow, blow, blow, an' de crew of de wood scow julie plante got scar't an' run below-- for de win' she blow lak hurricane; bimeby she blow some more, an' de scow bus' up on lac st. pierre wan arpent from de shore. de captinne walk on de fronte deck, an' walk de hin' deck, too-- he call de crew from up de hole; he call de cook also. de cook she's name was rosie, she come from montreal, was chambre maid on lumber barge, on de grande lachine canal. de win' she blow from nor'--eas'--wes', de sout' win' she blow, too, w'en rosie cry, "mon cher captinne, mon cher, w'at shall i do?" den de captinne t'row de big ankerre, but still the scow she dreef, de crew he can't pass on de shore, becos' he los' hees skeef. de night was dark lak wan black cat, de wave run high an' fas', w'en de captinne tak de rosie girl an' tie her to de mas'. den he also tak de life preserve an' jump off on de lak' an' say, "good-by, ma rosie, dear, i go drown for your sak." nex' morning very early 'bout ha'f-pas' two--t'ree--four-- de captinne--scow--an' de poor rosie was corpses on de shore. for de win' she blow lak hurricane; bimeby she blow some more, an' de scow bus' up on lac st. pierre wan arpent from de shore. now, all good wood scow sailor man tak' warning by dat storm an' go an' marry some nice french girl an' leev on wan beeg farm. de win' can blow lak' hurricane an s'pose she blow some more, you can't get drown on lac st. pierre so long you stay on shore. from "the habitant," by permission of the publishers, g. p. putnam's sons, new york and london. father's way by eugene field my father was no pessimist; he loved the things of earth,-- its cheerfulness and sunshine, its music and its mirth. he never sighed or moped around whenever things went wrong,-- i warrant me he'd mocked at fate with some defiant song; but, being he warn't much on tune, when times looked sort o' blue, he'd whistle softly to himself this only tune he knew,-- [music] now mother, when she heard that tune which father whistled so, would say, "there's something wrong to-day with ephraim, i know; he never tries to make believe he's happy that 'ere way but that i'm certain as can be there's somethin' wrong to pay." and so betimes, quite natural-like, to us observant youth there seemed suggestion in that tune of deep, pathetic truth. when brother william joined the war, a lot of us went down to see the gallant soldier boys right gayly out of town. a-comin' home, poor mother cried as if her heart would break, and all us children, too,--for _hers_, and _not_ for _william's_ sake! but father, trudgin' on ahead, his hands behind him so, kept whistlin' to himself, so sort of solemn-like and low. and when my oldest sister, sue, was married and went west, seemed like it took the tuck right out of mother and the rest. she was the sunlight in our home,--why, father used to say it wouldn't seem like home at all if sue should go away; but when she went, a-leavin' us all sorrer and all tears, poor father whistled lonesome-like--and went to feed the steers. when crops were bad, and other ills befell our homely lot, he'd set of nights and try to act as if he minded not; and when came death and bore away the one he worshiped so, how vainly did his lips belie the heart benumbed with wo! you see the telltale whistle told a mood he'd not admit,-- he'd always stopt his whistlin' when he thought we noticed it. i'd like to see that stooping form and hoary head again,-- to see the honest, hearty smile that cheered his fellow men. oh, could i kiss the kindly lips that spake no creature wrong, and share the rapture of the heart that overflowed with song! oh, could i hear the little tune he whistled long ago, when he did battle with the griefs he would not have _us_ know! i am content translated by carmen sylva _a spindle of hazelwood had i; into the mill-stream it fell one day-- the water has brought it me back no more._ as he lay a-dying, the soldier spake: "i am content! let my mother be told in the village there, and my bride in the hut be told, that they must pray with folded hands, with folded hands for me." the soldier is dead--and with folded hands, his bride and his mother pray. on the field of battle they dug his grave, and red with his life-blood the earth was dyed, the earth they laid him in. the sun looked down on him there and spake: "i am content." and flowers bloomed thickly upon his grave, and were glad they blossomed there. and when the wind in the tree-tops roared, the soldier asked from the deep, dark grave: "did the banner flutter then?" "not so, my hero," the wind replied, "the fight is done, but the banner won, thy comrades of old have borne it hence, have borne it in triumph hence." then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave: "i am content." and again he hears the shepherds pass, and the flocks go wand'ring by, and the soldier asked: "is the sound i hear, the sound of the battle's roar?" and they replied: "my hero, nay! thou art dead and the fight is o'er, our country joyful and free." then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave: "i am content." then he heareth the lovers, laughing, pass, and the soldier asks once more: "are these not the voices of them that love, that love--and remember me?" "not so, my hero," the lovers say, "we are those that remember not; for the spring has come and the earth has smiled, and the dead must be forgot." then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave: "i am content." _a spindle of hazelwood had i; into the mill-stream it fell one day-- the water has brought it me back no more._ the eagle's song by richard mansfield the lioness whelped, and the sturdy cub was seized by an eagle and carried up and homed for a while in an eagle's nest, and slept for a while on an eagle's breast, and the eagle taught it the eagle's song: "to be staunch and valiant and free and strong!" the lion whelp sprang from the eerie nest, from the lofty crag where the queen birds rest; he fought the king on the spreading plain, and drove him back o'er the foaming main. he held the land as a thrifty chief, and reared his cattle and reaped his sheaf, nor sought the help of a foreign hand, yet welcomed all to his own free land! two were the sons that the country bore to the northern lakes and the southern shore, and chivalry dwelt with the southern son, and industry lived with the northern one. tears for the time when they broke and fought! tears was the price of the union wrought! and the land was red in a sea of blood, where brother for brother had swelled the flood! and now that the two are one again, behold on their shield the word "refrain!" and the lion cubs twain sing the eagle's song, "to be staunch and valiant and free and strong!" for the eagle's beak and the lion's paw, and the lion's fangs and the eagle's claw, and the eagle's swoop and the lion's might, and the lion's leap and the eagle's sight, shall guard the flag with the word "refrain!" now that the two are one again! here's to a cheer for the yankee ships! and "well done, sam," from the mother's lips! break, break, break by alfred, lord tennyson break, break, break, on thy cold gray stones, o sea! and i would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me. o well for the fisherman's boy, that he shouts with his sister at play! o well for the sailor lad, that he sings in his boat on the bay! and the stately ships go on to their haven under the hill; but o for the touch of a vanish'd hand, and the sound of a voice that is still! break, break, break, at the foot of thy crags, o sea! but the tender grace of a day that is dead will never come back to me. virginius by macaulay straightway virginius led the maid a little space aside, to where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide. hard by, a butcher on a block had laid his whittle down,-- "virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown. and then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell, and in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "farewell, sweet child, farewell! the house that was the happiest within the roman walls,-- the house that envied not the wealth of capua's marble halls, now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom, and for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb. "the time is come. the tyrant points his eager hand this way; see how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey; with all his wit he little deems that spurned, betrayed, bereft, thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refuge left: he little deems that, in my hand, i clutch what still can save thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave; yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow,-- foul outrage, which thou knowest not,--which thou shalt never know. then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss; and now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this!" with that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side, and in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died. then, for a little moment, all the people held their breath; and through the crowded forum was stillness as of death; and in another moment broke forth from one and all a cry as if the volscians were coming o'er the wall; till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, virginius tottered nigh, and stood before the judgment seat, and held the knife on high: "o dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain, by this dear blood i cry to you, do right between us twain; and e'en as appius claudius has dealt by me and mine, deal you by appius claudius and all the claudian line!" so spake the slayer of his child; then where the body lay, pausing, he cast one haggard glance, and turned and went his way. then up sprang appius claudius: "stop him, alive or dead! ten pounds of copper to the man who brings his head!" he looked upon his clients, but none would work his will; he looked upon his lictors, but they trembled and stood still. and as virginius through the press his way in silence cleft, ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left; and he hath passed in safety unto his woful home, and there ta'en horse, to tell the camp what deeds are done in rome. the women of mumbles head by clement scott bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen! and i'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men. it's only a tale of a life-boat, of the dying and the dead, of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off mumbles head! maybe you have traveled in wales, sir, and know it north and south; maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at oyster-mouth; it happens, no doubt, that from bristol you've crossed in a casual way, and have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of swansea bay. well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone, in the teeth of atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone; it wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled, or when there was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry for men. when in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he! proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea, welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said, had saved some hundred lives apiece--at a shilling or so a head! so the father launched the life-boat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar, and he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar. out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons! leaving the weeping women, and booming of signal guns; leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love; going to death for duty, and trusting to god above! do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed, for men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off mumbles head? it didn't go well with the life-boat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew! and it snapped the rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew; and then the anchor parted--'twas a tussle to keep afloat! but the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat. then at last on the poor doomed life-boat a wave broke mountains high! "god help us now!" said the father. "it's over, my lads! good-by!" half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves, but the father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves. up at the lighthouse window two women beheld the storm, and saw in the boiling breakers a figure,--a fighting form; it might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath; it might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death; it might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships. they had seen the launch of the life-boat, they had seen the worst, and more, then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore. there by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand, beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land. 'twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave, but what are a couple of women with only a man to save? what are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir-- and then off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent, then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went! "come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper. "for god's sake, girls, come back!" as they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack. "come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea, "if the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!" "come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale, "you will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the gale!" "_come back?_" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town. we'll lose our lives, god willing, before that man shall drown!" "give one more knot to the shawls, bess! give one strong clutch of your hand! just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land! wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more, and i'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore." up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast, they caught and saved a brother alive. god bless them! you know the rest-- well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed, and many a glass was tossed right off to "the women of mumbles head!" william tell and his boy by william baine "place there the boy," the tyrant said; "fix me the apple on his head. ha! rebel, now! there's a fair mark for your shaft; to yonder shining apple waft an arrow." and the tyrant laughed. with quivering brow. bold tell looked there; his cheek turned pale; his proud lips throbbed as if would fail their quivering breath. "ha! doth he blanch?" fierce gesler cried, "i've conquered, slave, thy soul of pride." no voice to that stern taunt replied, all mute as death. "and what the meed?" at length tell asked. "bold fool, when slaves like thee are tasked, it is my will. but that thine eye may keener be, and nerved to such nice archery, if thou cleav'st yon, thou goest free. what! pause you still? give him a bow and arrow there one shaft--but one." gleams of despair rush for a moment o'er the switzer's face: then passed away each stormy trace, and high resolve came in their place, unmoved, yet flushed, "i take thy terms," he muttered low, grasped eagerly the proffered bow-- the quiver searched, sought out an arrow keen and long, fit for a sinewy arm, and strong, and placed it on the sounding thong the tough yew arched. he drew the bow, whilst all around that thronging crowd there was no sound, no step, no word, no breath. all gazed with an unerring eye, to see the fearful arrow fly; the light wind dies into a sigh, and scarcely stirred. afar the boy stood, firm and mute; he saw the strong bow curved to shoot, but never moved. he knew the daring coolness of that hand he knew it was a father scanned the boy he loved. the switzer gazed--the arrow hung "my only boy!" sobbed on his tongue; he could not shoot. "ha!" cried the tyrant, "doth he quail? mark how his haughty brow grows pale!" but a deep voice rung on the gale-- "shoot in god's name!" again the drooping shaft he took, and turned to heaven one burning look, of all doubts reft. "be firm, my boy!" was all he said. the apple's left the stripling's head. ha! ha! 'tis cleft! and so it was, and tell was free. quick the brave boy was at his knee with rosy cheek. his loving arms his boy embrace; but again that tyrant cried in haste, "an arrow in thy belt is placed; what means it? speak"; the switzer raised his clenched hand high, whilst lightning flashed across his eye incessantly. "to smite thee, tyrant, to the heart, had heaven willed it that my dart had touched my boy." "rebellion! treason! chain the slave!" a hundred swords around him wave, whilst hate to gesler's features gave infuriate joy. but that one arrow found its goal hid with revenge in gesler's soul; and lucerne's lake heard his dastard soul outmoan when freedom's call abroad was blown, and switzerland, a giant grown, her fetters brake. from hill to hill the mandate flew, from lake to lake the tempest grew, with wakening swell, till proud oppression crouched for shame, and austria's haughtiness grew tame and freedom's watchword was the name of william tell. lasca by f. desprez i want free life and i want fresh air; and i sigh for the canter after the cattle, the crack of the whips like shots in battle, the mellay of horns, and hoofs, and heads that wars, and wrangles, and scatters, and spreads; the green beneath and the blue above, and dash and danger and life and love. and lasca! lasca used to ride on a mouse-gray mustang, close to my side, with blue _serape_ and bright-belled spur; i laughed with joy as i looked at her! little knew she of books or creeds; an _ave maria_ sufficed her needs; little she cared, save to be by my side, to ride with me, and ever to ride, from san saba's shore to lavaca's tide. she was as bold as the billows that beat, she was as wild as the breezes that blow; from her little head to her little feet she was swayed, in her suppleness, to and fro by each gust of passion; a sapling pine, that grows on the edge of a kansas bluff, and wars with the wind when the weather is rough, is like this lasca, this love of mine. she would hunger that i might eat, would take the bitter and leave me the sweet; but once, when i made her jealous for fun, at something i'd whispered, or looked, or done, one sunday, in san antonio, to a glorious girl on the alamo, she drew from her garter a dear little dagger, and--sting of a wasp!--it made me stagger! an inch to the left or an inch to the right, and i shouldn't be maundering here to-night; but she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound her torn _reboso_ about the wound that i quite forgave her. scratches don't count in texas, down by the rio grande. her eye was brown,--a deep, deep brown; her hair was darker than her eye; and something in her smile and frown, curled crimson lip, and instep high, showed that there ran in each blue vein, mixed with the milder aztec strain, the vigorous vintage of old spain. the air was heavy, the night was hot, i sat by her side, and forgot--forgot; forgot the herd that were taking their rest; forgot that the air was close opprest, that the texas norther comes sudden and soon, in the dead of night or the blaze of noon; that once let the herd at its breath take fright, that nothing on earth can stop the flight; and wo to the rider, and wo to the steed, who falls in front of their mad stampede! was that thunder? no, by the lord! i spring to my saddle without a word. one foot on mine, and she clung behind. away! on a hot chase down the wind! but never was fox-hunt half so hard, and never was steed so little spared. for we rode for our lives. you shall hear how we fared in texas, down by the rio grande. the mustang flew, and we urged him on; there was one chance left, and you have but one-- halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse; crouch under his carcass, and take your chance; and if the steers, in their frantic course, don't batter you both to pieces at once, you may thank your star; if not, good-by to the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh, and the open air and the open sky, in texas, down by the rio grande. the cattle gained on just as i felt for my old six-shooter, behind in my belt, down came the mustang, and down came we, clinging together, and--what was the rest? a body that spread itself on my breast, two arms that shielded my dizzy head, two lips that hard on my lips were prest; then came thunder in my ears as over us surged the sea of steers, blows that beat blood into my eyes, and when i could rise lasca was dead! i gouged out a grave a few feet deep, and there in earth's arms i laid her to sleep; and there she is lying, and no one knows, and the summer shines and the winter snows; for many a day the flowers have spread a pall of petals over her head; and the little gray hawk that hangs aloft in the air; and the sly coyote trots here and there, and the black snake glides, and glitters, and slides into the rift in a cotton-wood tree; and the buzzard sails on, and comes and is gone, stately and still like a ship at sea; and i wonder why i do not care for the things that are like the things that were. does half my heart lie buried there in texas, down by the rio grande? the volunteer organist by s. w. foss the gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' uv silk, an' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk; shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys an' stovepipe hats were there, an' doods 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer. the elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz: "our organist is kep' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz, an' as we hev no substitoot, as brother moore aint here, will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?" an' then a red-nosed, drunken tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style, give an interductory hiccup, an' then staggered up the aisle. then through thet holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin, an' through thet air of sanctity the odor uv old gin. then deacon purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge: "this man profanes the house of god! w'y this is sacrilege!" the tramp didn't hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin' feet, an' sprawled an' staggered up the steps, an' gained the organ seat. he then went pawin' through the keys, an' soon there rose a strain thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart an' 'lectrify the brain; an' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an' knees, he slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys. the organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry; it swelled into the rafters an' bulged out into the sky, the ol' church shook an' staggered an' seemed to reel an' sway, an' the elder shouted "glory!" an' i yelled out "hooray!" an then he tried a tender strain thet melted in our ears, thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith tears; an' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens 'ith tabby on the mat, uv home an' luv an' baby-days an' mother an' all that! an' then he struck a streak uv hope--a song from souls forgiven-- thet burst from prison-bars uv sin an' stormed the gates uv heaven; the morning stars they sung together--no soul wuz left alone-- we felt the universe wuz safe an' god wuz on his throne! an' then a wail uv deep despair an' darkness come again, an' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men; no luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight, an' then--the tramp, he staggered down an' reeled into the night! but we knew he'd tol' his story, tho he never spoke a word, an' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard; he hed tol' his own life history an' no eye was dry the day, w'en the elder rose an' simply said: "my brethren, let us pray." by permission of _the blade_, toledo, ohio. life compared to a game of cards anonymous life is like a game of cards which each one has to learn. each shuffles, cuts and deals a pack, and each a trump does turn. some turn a high card at the top, while others turn a low. some hold a hand quite flushed with trumps, while others none can show. when hearts are trumps we play for love and pleasure decks the hour. no thought of danger ever comes in roses' lovely bower. when diamonds chance to turn the pack 'tis then men play for gold, and heavy sums are won and lost by gamblers young and old. when clubs are trumps beware of war on ocean and on land, for fearful things have come to pass when clubs were in the hand. but last of all is when the spade is turned by the hand of time, and finishes up the game in every land and clime; no matter how much a man may make or how much a man may save, you'll find the spade turns up at last to dig each player's grave. old daddy turner anonymous this was the picture in front of "old daddy turner's" cabin in the kaintuck quarter the other afternoon: two colored men sitting on a wash-bench, silent and sorrowful; an old dog, sleeping in the sun at their feet, and a colored woman calling to a boy who was on the fence: "now, jeems henry, you git right down from dat! doan you know day daddy turner am jist on de p'int of dyin' and gwine up to hebben?" here was the picture inside: the poor old, white-headed man lying on his dying bed, flesh wasted away and strength departed. near him sat his faithful old wife, rocking to and fro and moaning and grieving. farther away was a colored man and woman, solemn-faced and sad-hearted, shaking their heads as they cast glances toward the bed. for a long time the old man lay quiet and speechless, but at length he signed to be propped up. a sun as warm as springtime poured into the room. he took notice of it, and a change came to his face as his eyes rested upon his grieving wife. "ize bin gwine back in my mind!" he whispered, as he reached out his thin hand for her to clasp. "fur ober fo'ty y'ars we's trabbled 'long the same path. we sung de same songs--we prayed de same prayers--we had hold of han's when we 'listed in de gospel ranks an' sot our faces to'rds de golden gates of hebben. ole woman, ize gwine to part wid you! yes, ize gwine ter leave yer all alone!" "o daddy! daddy!" she wailed as she leaned over him. "doan't take on so, chile! it's de lawd's doin's, not mine. to-morrow de sun may be as bright an' warm, but de ole man won't be heah. all de arternoon ize had glimpses of a shady path leadin' down to de shor' of a big broad ribber. ize seen people gwine down dar to cross ober, an' in a leetle time i'll be wid 'em." she put her wrinkled face on the pillow beside his and sobbed, and he placed his hand on her head and said: "it's de lawd, chile--de bressed lawd! chile, ize tried to be good to yer. you has been good to me. we am nuffin but ole cull'd folk, po' in eberyting, but tryin' to do right by eberybody. "when dey tole me i'd got to die, i wasn't sartin if de lawd wanted a po' ole black man like me up dar. yes, chile, he will! dis mawnin' i heard de harps playin', de rustle of wings, an' a cloud sorter lifted up an' i got a cl'ar view right frew de pearly gates. i saw ole slaves an' nayburs dar, an' dey was jist as white as anybody, an' a hundred han's beckoned me to come right up dar 'mong 'em." "o daddy! i'll be all alone--all alone!" she wailed. "hush, chile! ize gwine to be lookin' down on ye! ize gwine to put my han' on yer head an' kiss ye when yer heart am big wid sorrow; an' when night shuts down an' you pray to de lawd, i'll be kneelin' long side of ye. ye won't see me, but i'll be wid ye. you's old an' gray. it won't be long before ye'll git de summons. in a little time de cloud will lif' fur ye, an' i'll be right dar by de pearly gates to take ye in my arms." "but i can't let you go--i will hold you down heah wid me!" "chile! ize sorry for ye, but ize drawin' nigh dat shady path! hark! i kin h'ah de footsteps of de mighty parade of speerits marchin' down to de 'broad ribber! dey will dig a grave an' lay my ole bones dar, an' in a week all de world but you will forgit me. but doan' grieve, chile. de lawd isn't gwine to shet de gates on me 'cause i'm ole an' po' an' black. i kin see dem shinin' way up dar--see our boy at the gate--h'ah de sweetest music dat angels kin play!--light de lamp, chile, 'cause de night has come!" "oh! he's gwine--he's gwine!" she wailed, as her tears fell upon his face. "chile! hold my han'! ober heah am de path! i kin see men an' women an' chil'en marchin' 'long! furder down am de sunlight. it shines on de great ribber! ober de ribber am--de--gates--of----" of heaven! on earth, old and poor and low--beyond the gates, an angel with the rest. the tramp anonymous now, is that any way for to treat a poor man? i just asked for a penny or two; don't get your back up, and call me a "bum," because i have nothing to do. once i was strong and handsome, had plenty of money and clothes: that was afore i tippled, and whisky had painted my nose. down in the lehigh valley me and my people grew. gentlemen, i was a farmer, and a very good farmer, too. me and my wife, and nellie,-- nellie was just sixteen; and she was the prettiest creature that ever that valley had seen. beaux? why, she had a dozen; they come from near and fur: but they was mostly farmers, and that didn't quite suit her. but one of 'em was a new yorker, stylish and handsome and tall. hang him! if i had him i'd-- well, just let me catch him, that's all. well, he was the fellow for nellie,-- she didn't know no ill. her mother tried to prevent it; but you know a young girl's will. well, it's the same old story, common enough, you'll say: he was a smooth-tongued villain, and he got her to run away. about a month or so after, we heard from the poor young thing: he had gone away, and left her without any wedding-ring. back to our home we brought her,-- back to her mother's side, filled with a raging fever; and she fell at our feet, and died. frantic with grief and sorrow, her mother began to sink: dead! in less than a fortnight. that's when i took to drink. and all i want is a penny or two, just to help me on my way; and i'll tramp till i find that hell-hound, if it takes till the judgment-day. the dandy fifth by f. h. gassaway 'twas the time of the workingmen's great strike, when all the land stood still at the sudden roar from the hungry mouths that labor could not fill; when the thunder of the railroad ceased, and startled towns could spy a hundred blazing factories painting each midnight sky; through philadelphia's surging streets marched the brown ranks of toil, the grimy legions of the shops, the tillers of the soil. white-faced militiamen looked on, while women shrank with dread; 'twas muscle against money then, 'twas riches against bread. once, as the mighty mob tramped on, a carriage stopt the way, upon the silken seat of which a young patrician lay; and as, with haughty glance, he swept along the jeering crowd, a white-haired blacksmith in the ranks took off his cap and bowed. that night the labor league was met, and soon the chairman said, "there hides a judas in our midst, one man who bows the head, who bends the coward's servile knee when capital rolls by." "down with him!" "kill the traitor cur!" rang out the savage cry. up rose the blacksmith, then, and held erect his head of gray: "i am no traitor, tho i bowed to a rich man's son to-day; and, tho you kill me as i stand, as like you mean to do,-- i want to tell you a story short, and i ask you'll hear me through. i was one of those who enlisted first, the old flag to defend; with pope and halleck, with 'mac' and grant, i followed to the end. 'twas somewhere down on the rapidan, when the union cause looked drear, that a regiment of rich young bloods came down to us from here. their uniforms were by tailors cut; they brought hampers of good wine; and every squad had a servant, too, to keep their boots in shine; they'd naught to say to us dusty 'vets,' and, through the whole brigade we called them the kid-gloved dandy fifth, when we passed them on parade. well, they were sent to hold a fort that rebs tried hard to take, 'twas the key of all our line, which naught while it held out could break. but a fearful fight we lost just then, the reserve came up too late, and on that fort, and the dandy fifth, hung the whole division's fate. three times we tried to take them aid, and each time back we fell, tho once we could hear the fort's far guns boom like a funeral knell; till at length joe hooker's corps came up, and then straight through we broke; how we cheered as we saw those dandy coats still back of the drifting smoke! with bands all front and our colors spread we swarmed up the parapet, but the sight that silenced our welcome shout i shall never in life forget. four days before had their water gone,--they had dreaded that the most,-- the next, their last scant ration went, and each man looked a ghost as he stood gaunt-eyed, behind his gun, like a crippled stag at bay, and watched starvation, not defeat, draw nearer every day. of all the fifth, not fourscore men could in their places stand, and their white lips told a fearful tale, as we grasped each bloodless hand. the rest in the stupor of famine lay, save here and there a few in death sat rigid against the guns, grim sentinels in blue; and their colonel could not speak or stir, but we saw his proud eye thrill as he simply glanced to the shot-scarred staff where the old flag floated still! now, i hate the tyrants who grind us down, while the wolf snarls at our door, and the men who've risen from us, to laugh at the misery of the poor; but i tell you, mates, while this weak old hand i have left the strength to lift, i will touch my cap to the proudest swell who fought in the dandy fifth!" on lincoln by walt whitman o captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done; the ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; the port is near, the bells i hear, the people all exulting, while follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; but, o heart! heart! heart! o the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my captain lies, fallen, cold and dead. o captain! my captain! rise up and hear the bells; rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, for you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding; for you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; here captain! dear father! this arm beneath your head! it is some dream, that on the deck you've fallen cold and dead. my captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; my captain does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; the ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage is closed and done; from fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; exult, o shores, and ring, o bells! but i with mournful tread walk the deck my captain lies, fallen, cold and dead. the little stowaway anonymous "'bout three years ago, afore i got this berth as i'm in now, i was second engineer aboard a liverpool steamer bound for new york. there'd been a lot of extra cargo sent down just at the last minute, and we'd no end of a job stowin' it away, and that ran us late o' startin'; so that, altogether, you may think, the cap'n warn't in the sweetest temper in the world, nor the mate neither. on the mornin' of the third day out from liverpool, the chief engineer cum down to me in a precious hurry, and says he: 'tom, what d'ye think? blest if we ain't found a stowaway!' "i didn't wait to hear no more, but up on deck like a sky-rocket; and there i did see a sight, and no mistake. every man-jack o' the crew, and what few passengers we had aboard, was all in a ring on the fo'c'stle, and in the middle was the fust mate, lookin' as black as thunder. right in front of him, lookin' a reg'lar mite among them big fellers, was a little bit o' a lad not ten year old--ragged as a scarecrow, but with bright, curly hair, and a bonnie little face o' his own, if it hadn't been so woful and pale. the mate was a great, hulkin', black-bearded feller with a look that 'ud ha' frightened a horse, and a voice fit to make one jump through a keyhole; but the young un warn't a bit afeard--he stood straight up, and looked him full in the face with them bright, clear eyes o' his'n, for all the world as if he was prince halferd himself. you might ha' heerd a pin drop, as the mate spoke. "'well, you young whelp,' says he, 'what's brought you here?' "'it was my stepfather as done it,' says the boy, in a weak little voice, but as steady as he could be. 'father's dead, and mother's married again, and my new father says as how he won't have no brats about eatin' up his wages; and he stowed me away when nobody warn't lookin', and guv me some grub to keep me going' for a day or two till i got to sea. he says i'm to go to aunt jane, at halifax; and here's her address.' "we all believed every word on't, even without the paper he held out. but the mate says: 'look here, my lad; that's all very fine, but it won't do here--some o' these men o' mine are in the secret, and i mean to have it out of 'em. now, you just point out the man as stowed you away and fed you, this very minute; if you don't, it'll be worse for you!' "the boy looked up in his bright, fearless way (it did my heart good to look at him, the brave little chap!) and says, quietly, 'i've told you the truth; i ain't got no more to say.' "the mate says nothin', but looks at him for a minute as if he'd see clean through him; and then he sings out to the crew loud enough to raise the dead: 'reeve a rope to the yard; smart now!' "'now, my lad, you see that 'ere rope? well, i'll give you ten minutes to confess; and if you don't tell the truth afore the time's up, i'll hang you like a dog!' "the crew all stared at one another as if they couldn't believe their ears (i didn't believe mine, i can tell ye), and then a low growl went among 'em, like a wild beast awakin' out of a nap. "'silence there!' shouts the mate, in a voice like the roar of a nor'easter. 'stan' by to run for'ard!' as he held the noose ready to put it round the boy's neck. the little fellow never flinched a bit; but there was some among the sailors (big strong chaps as could ha' felled an ox) as shook like leaves in the wind. i clutched hold o' a handspike, and held it behind my back, all ready. "'tom,' whispers the chief engineer to me, 'd'ye think he really means to do it?' "'i don't know,' says i, through my teeth; 'but if he does, he shall go first, if i swings for it!' "i've been in many an ugly scrape in my time, but i never felt 'arf as bad as i did then. every minute seemed as long as a dozen; and the tick o' the mate's watch, reg'lar, pricked my ears like a pin. "'eight minutes,' says the mate, his great, deep voice breakin' in upon the silence like the toll o' a funeral bell. 'if you've got anything to confess, my lad, you'd best out with it, for ye're time's nearly up.' "'i've told you the truth,' answers the boy, very pale, but as firm as ever. 'may i say my prayers, please?' "the mate nodded; and down goes the poor little chap on his knees and put up his poor little hands to pray. i couldn't make out what he said, but i'll be bound god heard every word. then he ups on his feet again, and puts his hands behind him, and says to the mate quite quietly: 'i'm ready.' "and then, sir, the mate's hard, grim face broke up all to once, like i've seed the ice in the baltic. he snatched up the boy in his arms, kissed him, and burst out a-cryin' like a child; and i think there warn't one of us as didn't do the same. i know i did for one. "'god bless you, my boy!' says he, smoothin' the child's hair with his great hard hand. 'you're a true englishman, every inch of you; you wouldn't tell a lie to save yer life! well, if so be as yer father's cast yer off, i'll be yer father from this day forth; and if i ever forget you, then may god forget me!' "and he kep' his word, too. when we got to halifax, he found out the little un's aunt, and gev' her a lump o' money to make him comfortable; and now he goes to see the youngster every voyage, as reg'lar as can be; and to see the pair on 'em together--the little chap so fond of him, and not bearin' him a bit o' grudge--it's 'bout as pretty a sight as ever i seed. and now, sir, yer parding, it's time for me to be goin' below; so i'll just wish yer good-night." saint crispian's day by shakespeare _king henry._ what's he that wishes so? my cousin westmoreland?--no, my fair cousin: if we are marked to die, we are enough to do our country loss; and if to live, the fewer men the greater share of honor. god's will! i pray thee, wish not one man more. by jove, i am not covetous for gold; nor care i who doth feed upon my cost; it years me not if men my garments wear; such outward things dwell not in my desires; but if it be a sin to covet honor i am the most offending soul alive. no, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man from england: god's peace! i would not lose so great an honor, as one man more, methinks, would share from me, for the best hope i have. o, do not wish one more. rather proclaim it, westmoreland, through my host, that he which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart; his passport shall be made, and crowns for convoy put into his purse: we would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us. this day is called--the feast of crispian: he that outlives this day, and comes safe home, will stand a tiptoe when this day is nam'd, and rouse him at the name of crispian. he that shall live this day, and see old age, will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors, and say,--"_to-morrow is saint crispian_": then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars, and say, "_these wounds i had on crispian's day_." old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, but he'll remember, with advantages, what feats he did that day: then shall our names, familiar in their mouths as household words,-- harry the king, bedford and exeter, warwick and talbot, salisbury and gloster,-- be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd: this story shall the good man teach his son; and _crispin crispian_ shall ne'er go by, from this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remember'd: we few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition: and gentlemen in england now a-bed, shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here; and hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks that fought with us upon saint crispian's day. the c'rrect card by george r. sims "c'rrect card, sir? c'rrect card, sir? what! you've seen my face before? well i dare say as how you have, sir, and so have many more; but they passes me by without a word--but perhaps it's just as well; a poor crippled chap like me, sir, ain't fit company for a swell. but i've seen the time when they all was proud with me to be talking seen--when i rode for lord arthur forester, and wore the black and green. how did it happen ? i'll tell you, sir. you knew little fanny flight--old farmer flight's one daughter--always so pretty and bright? you used to joke with her sometimes, sir, and say as, if you she'd marry, you'd set up a 'pub' together, an' pitch your folks to old harry. you was just down for the holidays, sir, from oxford, where you were at school; but _you_ only played at being in love, while i ... was a cursed fool! well, there were lots of 'm after her, sir, what with her ways and face; but i was in earnest, you see, sir, and rode a waiting race. 'twas one fine april morning, when she came out to see us train, and just as she stood with her little hand holding on by my horse's mane, i felt as how i could do it, and came with a rush, you see, an' i said to her--all of a tremble, sir,--'fan, will you marry me?' and she blushed an' smiled, an' whinnied, and after a bit she agreed that as soon as i found the money to pay for our keep and feed, why we'd run in harness together. we'd ha' made a tidyish pair; for i weren't a bad looking colt at the time, and _she_--such a nice little mare! such a mouth! such a forehead! such action! ah, well, let 'em say what they may, that's the sort to make running with us, sir,--tho, hang it! they never can _stay_. "well, the time went on, and i rode my best, an' they called me a 'cuteish' chap, and lord arthur put me up to ride for the leicestershire handicap. lord arthur, he was a _gentleman_--never was stingy or mean--an' he said, 'i'll give you five hundred, my man, if you win with the black and green.' well, the horse i rode was rasper; perhaps you remember him?--black all but one white foot, sir; _and_ a temper!--he'd pull like sin. but jump like a bird if he had a mind--plenty of power and pace--and i knew he had it in him, and i swore i'd win the race. the night before the race came off i went down to farmer flight's--they'd got to expect me regular now on tuesday and friday nights--and i told her what lord arthur said, and how, if i chanced to win, we'd go into double harness on the strength of his lordship's tin. an' she put my colors in her hair, and her arms around my neck, and i felt ... but, hang it! a chap's a fool as can't keep his feelings in check. but then, you sees, sir, i _was_ a fool--a big one as ever was seen--but then i was only twenty when i rode in the black and green. i got up early next morning, an' felt as light as a feather, and i went to start for the stables; and mother she asked me whether i'd not take my flask in my pocket, in case it might come in handy; but 'mother,' i says, 'when a chap's in love, he don't feel to want any brandy.' and i thought, as i put on a new pair o' spurs, and a jacket bran new and clean, that i'd give long odds that i'd pull it off--ten to one on the black and green. well, lord arthur gave me my orders, and a leg up on to my horse, and i just had taken my canter an' was coming back up the course, when who should i spy but fanny, in a stylish sort of a trap, talking away like blazes to a dark, long-whiskered chap; but i hadn't time to think of more, for we got the word to start, and rasper gave a thundering tear that nearly pulled out my heart; an' then i pulled him together, for mine was a waiting race, and i knew that what was to win it was rasper's pluck not pace. well, i got round all right the first time; the fences were easy enough--at least to a couple like _we_ were; the only one that was tough was a biggish hedge, with a post and rails; but the taking-off was fair, and i shouldn't call it a dangerous jump, as long as you took it with care. and rasper! that very morning i said to lord arthur, i said, 'i think as that horse there could jump a _church_, if he took the thing into his head'; an' that morning he went like a lady and looked as bright as a bean, and i knew, if it only lasted, i'd win with the black and green. i was riding rasper easy, when, just as we passed the stand, it struck me the carriage that fanny was in was somewhere upon my right hand; and i took a pull at rasper, and a glance toward that side, and i saw what made me forget the race and forget the way to ride--only a kiss! an' what's a kiss to the like of him and her? but i could not help letting rasper feel that i wore a long-necked spur; an' tho i set my teeth to be cool and steadied him with the rein, i knew that the devil in rasper was up, and couldn't be laid again; an' the very next fence, tho i kept him straight, and he went at it after the rest, i could feel that he meant to do his worst, and i couldn't ride my best. for, you know, when a man feels desperate-like, he's no more head than a child, and it's all _up_ with a jock, you see, if he goes at his fences wild. over the next fence--over the next--till i thought, as my teeth i set, if i only could keep my head to my work, i might pull through with it yet; and i took a pull at rasper, an' fell back a bit to the tail, for i'd never forget the one difficult spot--the hedge with the post and rail. how it all comes back! we're in the field--now for a rattling burst; for the race is half won by the horse and man that crosses that fence first. i run up to my horses and pass them--i've given rasper his head; i can hear, some lengths behind me, the trampling and the tread; and now i send him at it firmly but not too fast--he stops--lays his ears back--refuses! _the devil's come out at last!_ and i dig in the steel and let him feel the sting of stout whalebone, and i say, 'you shall do it, you devil! if i break your neck and my own.' and the brute gives a squeal, and rushes at the post and rail like mad--no time to rise him at it--not much use if i had; and then ... well, i feel a crash and a blow, and hear a woman scream, and i seem to be dying by inches in a horrid sort of a dream. "no, thank ye--i'd rather not, sir. you see they ain't all like you; these gents as has plenty of money don't care who they gives it to; but as for stopping an' saying a word, an' hearing a fellow's tale, they'd rather give him a crown, sir, or stand him a quart of ale. but it brings back old times to be talking to you. ah! the jolly old times as i've seen, when i rode for lord arthur (c'rrect card, sir?) and wore the black and green!" the engineer's story by rosa h. thorpe no, children, my trips are over, the engineer needs rest; my hand is shaky; i'm feeling a tugging pain i' my breast; but here, as the twilight gathers, i'll tell you a tale of the road, that'll ring in my head forever, till it rests beneath the sod. we were lumbering along in the twilight, the night was drooping her shade, and the "gladiator" labored,-- climbing the top of the grade; the train was heavily laden, so i let my engine rest, climbing the grading slowly, till we reached the upland's crest. i held my watch to the lamplight,-- ten minutes behind the time! lost in the slackened motion of the up-grade's heavy climb; but i knew the miles of the prairie that stretched a level track, so i touched the gauge of the boiler, and pulled the lever back. over the rails a-gleaming, thirty an hour, or so, the engine leaped like a demon, breathing a fiery glow; but to me--a-hold of the lever-- it seemed a child alway, trustful and always ready my lightest touch to obey. i was proud, you know, of my engine, holding it steady that night, and my eye on the track before us, ablaze with the drummond light. we neared a well-known cabin, where a child of three or four, as the up train passed, oft called me, a-playing around the door. my hand was firm on the throttle as we swept around the curve, when something afar in the shadow struck fire through every nerve. i sounded the brakes, and crashing the reverse-lever down in dismay, groaning to heaven,--eighty paces ahead was the child at its play! one instant,--one, awful and only, the world flew round in my brain, and i smote my hand hard on my forehead to keep back the terrible pain; the train i thought flying forever, with mad, irresistible roll, while the cries of the dying, the night-wind swept into my shuddering soul. then i stood on the front of the engine-- how i got there i never could tell-- my feet planted down on the crossbar, where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail, one hand firmly locked on the coupler, and one held out in the night, while my eye gauged the distance, and measured the speed of our slackening flight. my mind, thank the lord! it was steady; i saw the curls of her hair, and the face that, turning in wonder, was lit by the deadly glare. i know little more--but i heard it-- the groan of the anguished wheels, and remember thinking--the engine in agony trembles and reels. one rod! to the day of my dying i shall think the old engine reared back, and as it recoiled, with a shudder i swept my hand over the track; then darkness fell over my eyelids, but i heard the surge of the train, and the poor old engine creaking, as racked by a deadly pain. they found us, they said, on the gravel, my fingers enmeshed in her hair, and she on my bosom a-climbing, to nestle securely there. we are not much given to crying-- we men that run on the road-- but that night, they said, there were faces with tears on them, lifted to god. for years in the eve and the morning, as i neared the cabin again, my hand on the lever prest downward and slackened the speed of the train. when my engine had blown her a greeting, she always would come to the door; and her look with a fulness of heaven blesses me evermore. the face upon the floor by h. antoine d'arcy 'twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there, which well-nigh filled joe's barroom on the corner of the square; and as songs and witty stories came through the open door, a vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor. "where did it come from?" some one said. "the wind has blown it in." "what does it want?" another cried. "some whisky, rum or gin?" "here, toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the work-- i wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's as filthy as a turk." this badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace; in fact, he smiled as tho he thought he'd struck the proper place. "come, boys, i know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd-- to be in such good company would make a deacon proud. "give me a drink--that's what i want--i'm out of funds, you know, when i had the cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow. what? you laugh as tho you thought this pocket never held a sou, i once was fixt as well, my boys, as any one of you. "there, thanks; that's braced me nicely; god bless you one and all; next time i pass this good saloon, i'll make another call. _give you a song?_ no, i can't do that, my singing days are past; my voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast. "say! give me another whisky, and i'll tell you what i'll do-- i'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, i promise, too. that i was ever a decent man, not one of you would think; but i was, some four or five years back. say, give me another drink. "fill her up, joe, i want to put some life into my frame-- such little drinks, to a bum like me, are miserably tame; five fingers--there, that's the scheme--and corking whisky, too. well, here's luck, boys; and landlord, my best regards to you. "you've treated me pretty kindly, and i'd like to tell you how i came to be the dirty sot you see before you now. as i told you, once i was a man, with muscle, frame and health, and but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth. "i was a painter--not one that daubed on bricks and wood, but an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good. i worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise, for gradually i saw the star of fame before my eyes. "i made a picture perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the 'chase of fame,' it brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name. and then i met a woman--now comes the funny part-- with eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart. "why don't you laugh? 'tis funny that the vagabond you see could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me; but 'twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given, and when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven. "did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you'd give, with a form like the milo venus, too beautiful to live; with eyes that would beat the koh-i-nor, and a wealth of chestnut hair? if so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair. "i was working on a portrait, one afternoon in may, of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way; and madeline admired it, and, much to my surprize, said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes. "it didn't take long to know him, and before a month had flown, my friend had stolen my darling, and i was left alone; and ere a year of misery had passed above my head, the jewel i had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead. "that's why i took to drink, boys. why i never saw you smile, i thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while. why, what's the matter, friend? there's a tear-drop in your eye, come, laugh like me; 'tis only babes and women that cry. "say, boys, if you give me just another whisky, i'll be glad, and i'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad. give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score-- you shall see the lovely madeline upon the barroom floor." another drink, and, with chalk in hand, the vagabond began to sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man. then as he placed another look upon the shapely head, with a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture dead. the funeral of the flowers by t. de witt talmage the summer is ended, and we have all been invited to attend the funeral of the flowers. it occurred on a long slope which at one side dipt into the warm valleys, and on the other side arose very high into the frosty air, so that on one boundary line lived cactus and orange-blossom and camellia, and on the other resided balsam-pine and alpine strawberry, and all kinds of growths between. living midway that steep slope of land there was a rose, that in common parlance we called "giant of battle." it was red and fiery, looking as if it had stood on fields of carnage where the blood dashed to the lip. it was a hero among flowers. many of the grasses of the field worshiped it as a god, the mignonette burning incense beneath it, the marigold throwing glittering rays of beauty before it, the mistletoe crawling at its feet. the fame of this giant of battle was world-wide, and some said that its ancestors on the father's side had stood on the plains of waterloo, and on its mother's side at magneta, and drank themselves drunk on human gore. but children are not to blame for what their ancestors do, and this rose, called giant of battle, was universally adored. but the giant got sick. whether it was from the poisonous breath of the nightshade that had insolently kissed him, or from grief at the loss of a damask-rose that had first won his heart by her blushes, and then died, we know not; but the giant of battle was passing rapidly away. there was great excitement up and down the slopes. a consultation of botanical physicians was called, and doctor eglantine came and thrust a thorn for a lancet into the giant's veins, on the principle that he had too much blood and was apoplectic, and doctor balm of gilead attempted to heal the pain by poultices; but still the giant grew worse and worse. the primrose called in the evening to see how the dying hero was, and the morning-glory stopt before breakfast to see if it could do any good. every flower or grass that called had a prescription for him that would surely cure. neighbor horse-sorrel suggested acids, and honeysuckle proposed sugars, and myrrh suggested bitters, and ladies'-slipper, having taken off her shoes, said all the patient wanted was more quiet about the room. but too much changing of medicine only made the giant more and more sick, and one afternoon, while sitting up in bed with a cup of honeysuckle to his lips, and with the fan of the south wind fluttering in his face, his head dropt and he died. as the breath went out of him a clematis that had been overlooking the sad scene, said: "what time is it?" and a cluster of four-o'clocks answered, "a little past the middle of the afternoon." the next morning the funeral bells all rang: the blue-bells and the canterbury-bells and the fox-glove-bells and hare-bells and all the flowerdom came to the obsequies of the giant of battle. he was laid out on a trellis, and on a catafalque, such as dead monarchs never had, of dahlia and phlox and magnolia and geranium and gladiola. there was a great audience of flowers. solemnity came down upon them. even the cock's-comb stopt strutting, and larkspur ceased her fickleness, and snapdragon looked gentle, and snowdrop seemed to melt, and bachelor's-button wished it had some one to express its grief to. the passion-flower came in and threw herself on the pale cheek of the giant with most ardent demonstration of affection. amaranth and hydrangea and daffodil and spiderwort and spiræa having come far from the night and dew, stood around with their eyes full of tears. the funeral services began. rose of sharon and lily of the valley took part in them. the star of bethlehem sang a hymn to the tune of bonny doon. forget-me-not said a few words of commemoration. then heartsease arose for the work of comfort, and read the lesson of the day: "as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. for the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more." and all the bells, fox-glove-bells and blue-bells and canterbury-bells and hare-bells, prolonged the strain through all that day, tolling, tolling out, "no more! no more!" cato's soliloquy on immortality by joseph addison it must be so: plato, thou reasonest well! else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, this longing after immortality? or, whence this secret dread and inward horror of falling into naught? why shrinks the soul back on herself and startles at destruction? 'tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'tis heaven itself, that points out an hereafter and intimates eternity to man. eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! through what variety of untried being, through what new scenes and changes must we pass! the wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me; but shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. opportunity by john j. ingalls master of human destinies am i fame, love and fortune, on my footsteps wait. cities and fields i walk, i penetrate deserts and seas remote--and passing by hovel and mart and palace, soon or late, i knock unbidden once at every gate-- if sleeping, wake, if feasting, rise, before i turn away. it is the hour of fate and they who follow me, reach every state mortals desire, and conquer every foe save death: but those who doubt or hesitate condemned to failure, penury and wo, seek me in vain and uselessly implore; i answer not and i return no more. opportunity's reply by walter malone they do me wrong who say i come no more, when once i knock and fail to find you in: for every day i stand outside your door, and bid you wake and rise to fight and win. wail not for precious changes passed away; weep not for golden ages on the wane; each night i burn the records of the day; at sunrise every soul is born again. laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped; to vanished joys be blind, and deaf and dumb; my judgments seat the dead past with its dead, but never bind a moment yet to come. the erl-king by johann wolfgang von goethe (_translated by sir walter scott_) oh, who rides by night thro' the woodland so wild? it is the fond father embracing his child, and close the boy nestles within his loved arm, to hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm. "o father, see yonder! see yonder!" he says; "my boy, upon what dost thou fearfully gaze?" "oh, 'tis the erl-king with his crown and his shroud." "no, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud." "oh, come and go with me, thou loveliest child; by many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled; my mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy, and many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy." "o father, my father, and did you not hear the erl-king whisper so low in my ear?" "be still, my heart's darling--my child, be at ease; it was but the wild blast as it sung thro' the trees." "oh, wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy? my daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy; she shall bear thee so lightly thro' wet and thro' wild, and press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to my child." "o father, my father, and saw you not plain, the erl-king's pale daughter glide past thro' the rain?" "oh, yes, my loved treasure, i knew it full soon; it was the gray willow that danced to the moon." "oh, come and go with me, no longer delay, or else, silly child, i will drag thee away." "o father! o father! now, now keep your hold, the erl-king has seized me--his grasp is so cold!" sore trembled the father; he spurr'd thro' the wild, clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child. he reaches his dwelling in doubt and in dread, but, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant was dead! carcassonne by m. e. w. sherwood how old i am! i'm eighty years. i've worked both hard and long, yet patient as my life has been, one dearest sight i have not seen, it almost seems a wrong. a dream i had when life was young. alas! our dreams, they come not true. i thought to see fair carcassonne, that lovely city, carcassonne. one sees it dimly from the height beyond the mountain blue. fain would i walk five weary leagues, i do not mind the road's fatigues, thro' morn and evening's dew. but bitter frosts would fall at night, and on the grapes that withered blight, i could not go to carcassonne, i never went to carcassonne. they say it is as gay all times as holidays at home. the gentles ride in gay attire, and in the sun each gilded spire shoots up like those at rome. the bishop the procession leads, the generals curb their prancing steeds. alas! i saw not carcassonne. alas! i know not carcassonne. our vicar's right. he preaches loud and bids us to beware. he says, "oh, guard the weakest part and most the traitor in the heart against ambition's snare." perhaps in autumn i can find two sunny days with gentle wind, i then could go to carcassonne, i still could go to carcassonne. my god and father, pardon me, if this my wish offends. one sees some hope more high than he in age, as in his infancy to which his heart ascends. my wife, my son have seen narbonne, my grandson went to perpignan, but i have not seen carcassonne, but i have not seen carcassonne. thus sighed a peasant bent with age, half dreaming in his chair. i said, "my friend, come, go with me to-morrow; thine eyes shall see those streets that seem so fair." that night there came for passing soul the church-bell's low and solemn toll. he never saw gay carcassonne. who has not known a carcassonne? the musicians anonymous the strings of my heart were strung by pleasure, and i laughed when the music fell on my ear, for he and mirth played a joyful measure, and they played so loud that i could not hear the wailing and mourning of souls a-weary, the strains of sorrow that sighed around; the notes of my heart sang blithe and cheery, and i heard no other sound. mirth and pleasure, the music brothers, but sometimes a discord was heard by others tho only the rhythm was heard by me. louder and louder and faster and faster, the hands of those brothers played strain on strain, till, all of a sudden a mighty master swept them aside, and pain, pain, the musician, the soul refiner, resting the strings of my quivering heart; and the air that he played was a plaintive minor, so sad that the tear-drops were forced to start. each note was an echo of awful anguish, as shrill, as solemn, as sad as slow, and my soul for a season seemed to languish and faint with its weight of wo. with skilful hands that were never weary, this master of music played strain on strain; and between the bars of the miserere he drew up the strings of my heart again. and i was filled with a vague, strange wonder to see that they did not break in two; they are drawn so tight they will snap asunder i thought, but instead they grew in the hands of the master, firmer and stronger, and i could hear on the stilly air; now my ears were deafened by mirth no longer, the sounds of sorrow, and grief and despair. and my soul grew tender and kind to others; my nature grew sweeter and my mind grew broad and i held all men to be my brothers, linked by the chastening rod, my soul was lifted to god and heaven, and when on my heart-strings fell again the hands of mirth and pleasure, even, there was no _discord_ to mar the strain, for pain, the musician, the soul refiner, attuned the strings with a master hand, and whether the music be major or minor, it is always _sweet_ and grand. on the rappahannock anonymous the sun had set, and in the distant west the last red streaks had faded; night and rest fell on the earth; stilled was the cannon's roar; and many a soldier slept to wake no more. 'twas early spring--a calm and lovely night-- the moon had flooded all the earth with light. on either side the rappahannock lay the armies; resting till the break of day should call them to renew the fight. so near together were the camps that each could hear the other's sentry call. and now appear the blazing bivouac fires on every hill, and save the tramp of pickets all is still. between those silent hills in beauty flows the rappahannock. how its bosom glows! how all its sparkling waves reflect the light and add new glories to the starlit night! but hark! from northern hill there steal along the strains of martial music mixed with song: "star spangled banner, may'st thou ever wave, over the land we shed our blood to save!" and still they sing those words: "our cause is just. we'll triumph in the end; in god we trust; star spangled banner, wave, forever wave, over a land united, free and brave!" scarce had this died away when along the river rose another glorious song: a thousand lusty throats the chorus sing: with "rally round the flag," the hilltops ring. and well they sang. each heart was filled with joy. from first in rank to little drummer-boy. the loud huzzas and wildest cheers were given, that seemed to cleave the air and reach to heaven. the union songs, the loud and heartfelt cheers fall in the southern camp on listening ears. while talking at their scanty evening meal they pause and grasp their trusty blades of steel. fearless they stand and ready for the fray; such sounds can startle them, but not dismay. alas! those strains of music which of yore could rouse their hearts are felt by them no more. when the last echo of the song had died and all was silent on the northern side, there came from southern hill, with gentle swell, the air of "dixe," which was loved so well by every man that wore the coat of gray, and is revered and cherished to this day. "in dixie's land" they swore to live and die, that was their watchword, that their battle-cry. then rose on high the wild confederate yell, resounding over every hill and dell. cheer after cheer went up that starry night from men as brave as ever saw the light. now all is still. each side has played its part. how simple songs will fire a soldier's heart! but hark! o'er rappahannock's stream there floats another tune; but ah! how sweet the notes. not such as lash men's passions into foam, but--richest gem of song--'tis "home, sweet home!" played by the band, it reached the very soul, and down the veteran's cheeks the tear-drops stole. on either side the stream, from north and south, men who would march up to the cannon's mouth wept now like children. tender hearts and true were beating 'neath those coats of gray and blue. the sentry stopt and rested on his gun, while back to home his thoughts unhindered run. he thought of loving wife and children there deprived of husband's and of father's care. and stripling lads, scarce strong enough to bear the weight of saber or of knapsack, tried to stop their tears with foolish, boyish pride. they might as well have sought to stop the tide! through both those hostile camps the music stole and stirred each soldier to his inmost soul. from north and south, in sympathy, there rose a shout tremendous; forgetting they were foes, both armies joined and shouted with one voice that seemed to make the very heavens rejoice. sweet music's power! one chord doth make us wild. but change the strain, we weep as little child. touch yet another, men charge the battery-gun, and by those martial strains a victory's won! but there's one strain that friends and foes will win, one magic touch that makes the whole world kin: no heart so cold, but will, tho far it roam, respond with tender thrill to "home, sweet home!" como by joaquin miller the red-clad fishers row and creep below the craigs, as half asleep, nor even make a single sound. the walls are steep, the waves are deep; and if the dead man should be found by these same fishers in their round, why, who shall say but he was drowned? the lake lay bright, as bits of broken moon just newly set within the cloven earth; the ripened fields drew round a golden girth far up the steppes, and glittered in the noon. and when the sun fell down, from leafy shore fond lovers stole in pairs to ply the oar. the stars, as large as lilies, flecked the blue; from out the alps the moon came wheeling through the rocky pass the great napoleon knew. a gala night it was--the season's prime; we rode from castled lake to festal town, to fair milan--my friend and i; rode down by night, where grasses waved in rippled rhyme; and so what theme but love in such a time? his proud lip curved the while in silent scorn at thought of love; and then, as one forlorn, he sighed, then bared his temples, dashed with gray, then mocked, as one outworn and well blasé. a gorgeous tiger-lily, flaming red, so full of battle, of the trumpets blare, of old-time passion, upreared its head. i galloped past, i leaned, i clutched it there. from out the long, strong grass i held it high, and cried, "lo! this to-night shall deck her hair through all the dance. and mark! the man shall die who dares assault, for good or ill design, the citadel where i shall set this sign." he spoke no spare word all the after while. that scornful, cold, contemptuous smile of his! why, better men have died for less than this. then in the hall the same old hateful smile! then marvel not that when she graced the floor, with all the beauties gathered from the four far quarters of the world, and she, my fair, the fairest, wore within her midnight hair my tiger-lily--marvel not, i say, that he glared like some wild beast well at bay! oh, she shone fairer than the summer star, or curled sweet moon in middle destiny. more fair than sunrise climbing up the sea, where all the loves of ariadne are. who loves, who truly loves, will stand aloof, the noisy tongue makes most unholy proof of shallow waters--all the while afar from out the dance i stood, and watched my star, my tiger-lily, borne an oriflamme of war. a thousand beauties flashed at love's advance, like bright white mice at moonlight in their play, or sunfish shooting in the shining bay, the swift feet shot and glittered in the dance. oh, have you loved, and truly loved, and seen aught else the while than your own stately queen? her presence, it was majesty--so tall; her proud development encompassed--all. she filled all space. i sought, i saw but her. i followed as some fervid worshiper. adown the dance she moved with matchless pace. the world--my world--moved with her. suddenly i questioned whom her cavalier might be. 'twas he! his face was leaning to her face! i clutched my blade; i sprang; i caught my breath, and so stood leaning still as death. and they stood still. she blushed, then reached and tore the lily as she passed, and down the floor she strewed its _heart_ like bits of gushing gore. 'twas he said heads, not hearts, were made to break. he taught me this that night in splendid scorn. i learned too well. the dance was done. ere morn we mounted--he and i--but no more spake. and this for woman's love! my lily worn in her dark hair in pride to be thus torn and trampled on for this bold stranger's sake! _two_ men rode silent back toward the lake. _two_ men rode silent down, but only _one_ rode _up_ at _morn_ to greet the _rising sun_. the walls are steep, the waves are deep; and if the dead man should be found by red-clad fishers in their round, why, who shall say but he was--drowned? aux italiens by owen meredith at paris it was, at the opera there; and she looked like a queen in a book, that night, with the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, and the brooch on her breast, so bright. of all the operas that verdi wrote, the best, to my taste, is the trovatore; and mario can soothe with a tenor note the souls in purgatory. the moon on the tower slept soft as snow; and who was not thrilled in the strangest way, as we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, "_non ti scordar di me?_" the emperor there, in his box of state, looked grave, as if he had just then seen the red flag wave from the city-gate, where his eagles in bronze had been. the empress, too, had a tear in her eye. you'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, for one moment, under the old blue sky, to the old glad life in spain. well! there in our front-row box we sat together, my bride-betrothed and i; my gaze was fixt on my opera-hat, and hers on the stage hard by. and both were silent, and both were sad. like a queen, she leaned on her full white arm, with that regal, indolent air she had; so confident of her charm! i have not a doubt she was thinking then of her former lord, good soul that he was! who died the richest and roundest of men, the marquis of carabas. i hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, through a needle's eye he had not yet to pass; i wish him well for the jointure given to my lady of carabas. meanwhile i was thinking of my first love, as i had not been thinking of aught for years, till over my eyes there began to move something that felt like tears. i thought of the dress that she wore last time, when we stood, 'neath the cypress-trees, together, in that lost land, in that soft clime, in the crimson evening weather; of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), and her warm, white neck in its golden chain. and her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, and falling loose again; and the jasmine-flower in her fair, young breast; oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine-flower, and the one bird singing alone to his nest, and the one star over the tower. i thought of our little quarrels and strife, and the letter that brought me back my ring, and it all seemed then, in the waste of life, such a very little thing! for i thought of her grave below the hill, which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over. and i thought ... "were she only living still, how i could forgive her and love her." and i swear, as i thought thus, in that hour, and of how, after all, old things were best, that i smelt the smell of that jasmine-flower, which she used to wear in her breast. it smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, it made me creep, and it made me cold! like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet when a mummy is half unrolled. and i turned and looked. she was sitting there in a dim box, over the stage; and drest in that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, and that jasmine in her breast! i was here, and she was there, and the glittering horseshoe curved between-- from my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair, and her sumptuous, scornful mien. to my early love, with her eyes downcast, and over her primrose face the shade (in short, from the future back to the past), there was but one step to be made. to my early love from my future bride one moment i looked. then i stole to the door, i traversed the passage; and down at her side i was sitting, a moment more. my thinking of her, or the music's strain, or something which never will be exprest, had brought her back from the grave again, with the jasmine in her breast. she is not dead, and she is not wed! but she loves me now, and she loved me then! and the very first word that her sweet lips said, my heart grew youthful again. the marchioness there, of carabas, she is wealthy, and young, and handsome still, and but for her ... well, we'll let that pass-- she may marry whomever she will. but i will marry my own first love, with her primrose face; for old things are best, and the flower in her bosom, i prize it above the brooch in my lady's breast. the world is filled with folly and sin, and love must cling where it can, i say; for beauty is easy enough to win, but one isn't loved every day. and i think, in the lives of most women and men, there's a moment when all would go smooth and even, if only the dead could find out when to come back and be forgiven. but oh, the smell of that jasmine-flower! and oh, that music! and oh, the way that voice rang out from the donjon tower, _non ti scordar di me, non ti scordar di me!_ index a adams, charles fallen, adeler, max, a-feared of a gal, afternoon, one, agnes, i lore thee!, aldrich, thomas bailey, almost beyond endurance, amateur night, amsbary, wallace bruce, and she cried, anstey, f., at five-o'clock tea, at the restaurant, aux italiens, b bachelor sews on a button, how a, bailey, james m., baine, william, banging a sensational novelist, barbara frietchie, parody on, bary jade, lides to, becky miller, before and after, belagcholly days, bengaugh, j. w., beyond endurance, almost, big mistake, a, big words, don't use, billy of nebraska, blackstonian circumlocution, his, blossom, henry m., jr., book agent, the merchant and the, boss, john c., bounding the united states, boy, dot leetle, boy, papa and the, bradley, mary e., break, break, break, bridegroom's toast, the, brooks, fred emerson, burbank, burdette, robert j., burton, richard, byron, c candidate, the, carcassonne, card, the c'rrect, cards, life compared to a game of, carlotta mia, casey at the bat, casuistry, cupid's, cato's soliloquy on immortality, chance, they met by, "charlie must not ring to-night", checkers, a friendly game of, christopher columbus, circumlocution, his blackstonian, coles, cynthia, como, content, i am, coon's lullaby, the, corydon, counting eggs, counting one hundred, crooked mouth family, the, c'rrect card, the, cupid's casuistry, curfew, the elocutionist's, cyclopeedy, the, d daly, t. a., , dandy fifth, the, da 'mericana girl, d'arcy, h. antoine, davis, daniel webster, dead kitten, the, desprez, f., dialectic sketch, a lancashire, dickens, charles, difficulty of riming, the, doctor marigold, dog und der lobster, der, don't use big words, dot lambs vot mary haf got, dot leedle boy, double, and how he undid me, my, drummond, w. h., dunbar, paul laurence, , dundreary's letter, lord, dunne, finlay peter, dutchman's serenade, the, e eagle's song, the, earl king, the, echo, edwards, h. s., ehrmann, max, eggs, counting, elocutionist's curfew, the, enchanted shirt, the, endurance, almost beyond, engineer's story, the, eve of waterloo, the, f face upon the floor, the, faith, the ship of, fairies' tea, the, familiar lines, fan, a lesson with the, feller, a little, father's way, field, eugene, , fiend, the weather, fifteen minutes, her, finnigan to flannigan, fiske, john, five-o'clock tea, at, flannigan, finnigan to, flowers, the funeral of the, foss, s. w., , fly, the, foolin', quit your, fool's prayer, the, foxes' tails, the, freckled-face girl, the, funeral of the flowers, the, g gal, a-feared of a, gassaway, f. h., georga washingdone, gib him one ub mine, gilbert, w. s., gillinan, s. w., girl, the freckled-face, goethe, johann wolfgang von, gorilla, the, grape-seed, grilley, charles t., , greek meets greek, when, h hale, edward everett, hammock, romance of a, harbour, j. l., harp of a thousand strings, the, hat in the pit, the obstructive, hatton, henry, hay, john, he laughed last, heaton, john l., henry the fifth's wooing, hens, lavery's, he wanted to know, her fifteen minutes, his blackstonian circumlocution, his leg shot off, hood, thomas, hopkins' last moments, how a bachelor sews on a button, hullo, huntley, stanley, i i am content, idyl on "grass," a spring, idyl, a twilight, if i can be by her, if we had the time, i knew he would come if i waited, "imph-m", ingalls, john j., introducin' the speecher, introduction, an, irish philosopher, the, irving, minna, irwin, wallace, italiens, aux, i tol' yer so, j joke, leaving out the, julie plante, the wreck of the, k khan, the, katie's answer, katrina likes me poody vell, keep a'goin'!, kerr, joe, king, byron w., king, benjamin franklin, kiser, s. e., kitten, the dead, kleiser, grenville, l lamb, the original, lambs vot mary haf got, dot, lampton, w. j., lancashire dialectic sketch, a, lariat bill, lasca, last moments, hopkins', laughed last, he, laughton, james l., lavery's hens, leacock, stephen, leaving out the joke, leg shot off, his, lesson with the fan, a, letter, lord dundreary's, lever, charles, life compared to a game of cards, lides to bary jade, lincoln, on, lisp, little stowaway, the, loomis, charles battell, lord dundreary's letter, lover's quarrel, a, love's moods and senses, "l," song of the, lullaby, lullaby, the coon's, m macaulay, macdonald, george, malone, walter, malone, widow, mammy's li'l boy, man who will make a speech, the, mansfield, richard, marketing, married life, ups and downs of, mason, she would be a, masson, tom, mayor, pat and the, mccarthy and mcmanus, melpomenus jones, merchant and the book agent, the, meredith, owen, 'mericana girl, da, miller, joaquin, mistake, a big, mr. dooley on the grip, mr. potts' story, modern romance, morgan, carrie blake, morris, joshua s., mule stood on der steamboat deck, der, mumbles head, the women of, musicians, the, my double, and how he undid me, n "nancy bell," the yarn of the, nesbit, w. d., new school reader, the, nocturnal sketch, a, norah murphy and the spirits, nothing suited him, not in it, nye, bill, o oak und der vine, der, oatmobile, the, obstructive hat in the pit, the, old daddy turner, one afternoon, on lincoln, on the rappahannock, opie read, opportunity, opportunity, an, opportunity's reply, oracle, the village, organist, the volunteer, original lamb, the, our railroads, p papa and the boy, parody on barbara frietchie, passion, the ruling, pat and the mayor, pat's reason, philosopher, the irish, phrases, slang, poor was mad, the, prayer, the fool's, presentation of the trumpet, proof positive, q quarrel, a lover's, quarreled, they never, quit your foolin', r race question, the, railroads, our, rainy day episode, a, rappahannock, on the, reader, the new school, reason, pat's, reason why, the, rehearsing for private theatricals, reply, opportunity's, restaurant, at the, riley, james whitcomb, , , riming, the difficulty of, ring to-night, charlie must not, "rip van winkle," scenes from, rivals, scenes from the, robin tamson's smiddy, roche, james jeffrey, rodger, alexander, romance, modern, romance of a hammock, ruling passion, the, s saint crispian's day, saxe, john g., scott, clement, sensational novelist, banging a, serenade, the dutchman's, sermon, a short, shakespeare, , she would be a mason, sheridan, richard brinsley, sherwood, m. e. w., ship of faith, the, shirt, the enchanted, short encore, a, short sermon, a, sill, edward rowland, sims, george r., siviter, william h., slang phrases, smiddy, robin tamson's, smiley, joseph bert, song, the eagle's, song of the "l.", so was i, "'späcially jim", speecher, introducin' the, speech, the man who will make a, spirits, norah murphy and the, spring idyl on "grass," a, stanton, frank l., story, the engineer's, stowaway, the little, stuttering umpire, the, sylva, carmen, t talmadge, t. de witt, telephone, the dutchman's, tell and his boy, william, tennyson, alfred, thayer, phineas, theatricals, rehearsing for private, they never quarreled, thorpe, rosa h., time, if we had the, toast, the bridegroom's, total annihilation, train, misses the, tramp, the, trumpet, presentation of the, turner, old daddy, twain, mark, twilight idyl, a, u undertow, the, united states, bounding the, umpire, the stuttering, ups and downs of married life, the, usual way, the, v v-a-s-e, the, vassar girl, the, village choir, the, village oracle, the, virginius, volunteer organist, the, w wade, morris, wakin' the young 'uns, watchin' the sparkin', waterloo, the eve of, waterman, nixon, way, father's, way, the usual, way of a woman, the, weather fiend, the, when greek meets greek, when ma lady yawns, when pa was a boy, when the woodbine turns red, whitman, walt, widow malone, william tell and his boy, williamson, h. g., willie, wind and the moon, the, woman, the ways of a, women of mumbles head, the, woodbine turns red, when the, wreck of the julie plante, the, y yacht club speech, the, yarn of the "nancy bell," the, yawns, when ma lady, "you git up!", how to develop power _and_ personality in speaking by grenville kleiser author of "how to speak in public." introduction by lewis o. brastow, d.d., _professor emeritus, yale divinity school_ this new book gives practical suggestions and exercises for developing power and personality in speaking. it has many selections for practise. $power.$--power of voice--power of gesture--power of vocabulary-power of imagination--power of english style--power of illustration--power of memory--power of extempore speech--power of conversation--power of silence--power of a whisper--power of the eye. $personality.$--more personality for the lawyer--the salesman--the preacher--the politician--the physician--the congressman--the alert citizen. "i give it my hearty commendation. it should take its place upon the library shelves of every public speaker; be read carefully, consulted frequently, and held as worthy of faithful obedience. for lack of the useful hints that here abound, many men murder the truth by their method of presenting it."--s. parkes cadman, d.d., brooklyn, n. y. _ mo, cloth, pages. $ . , net; by mail, $ . _ funk & wagnalls company, publishers new york and london * * * * * how to speak in public _a most suggestive and practical self-instructor_ by grenville kleiser author of "power and personality in speaking," etc. this new book is a complete elocutionary manual comprizing numerous exercises for developing the speaking voice, deep breathing, pronunciation, vocal expression, and gesture; also selections for practise from masterpieces of ancient and modern eloquence. it is intended for students, teachers, business men, lawyers, clergymen, politicians, clubs, debating societies, and, in fact, every one interested in the art of public speaking. _outline of contents_ mechanics of elocution mental aspects public speaking selections for practise previous preparation physical preparation mental preparation moral preparation preparation of speech "it is admirable and practical instruction in the technic of speaking, and i congratulate you upon your thorough work."--_hon. albert j. beveridge._ "the work has been very carefully and well compiled from a large number of our best works on the subject of elocution. it contains many admirable suggestions for those who are interested in becoming better speakers. as a general text for use in teaching public speaking, it may be used with great success."--_john w. wetzel_, formerly instructor in public speaking, yale university, new haven, conn. _ mo, cloth. $ . , net; post-paid, $ . _ funk & wagnalls company, publishers new york and london * * * * * _here's a merry book by a merry man_ the sunny side of the street by marshall p. wilder _author of "smiling 'round the world"_ "his book--like american conversation--is made up of anecdotes. he talks intimately of richard croker, president mckinley, president harrison, joseph jefferson, senator depew, henry watterson, gen. horace porter, augustin daly, henry irving, buffalo bill, king edward vii., mrs. langtry, and a host of other personages, large and small, and medium-sized. he tells many good stories. we can recommend his book as cheerful reading."--_new york times._ "what the editor thinks of it may be summed up in the statement that he uses it instead of calling the doctor."--_burlington hawk-eye._ "reading the book is like listening to a humorous lecture by marshall p. wilder, full of wit and brightness, and it will cheer and comfort the most morose man or woman just to read it."--_baltimore american._ _ mo, cloth. humorous pen-and-ink sketches by bart haley. frontispiece portrait of mr. wilder._ _price $ . , net; post-paid, $ . _ funk & wagnalls company, publishers new york and london * * * * * _another roaring fun book!_ smiling 'round the world by marshall p. wilder _author of "the sunny side of the street"_ "_laugh and the world laughs with you_" can be truly said of marshall p. wilder, the captivating entertainer of presidents, kings, princes, and the great public. as the hon. chauncey m. depew says, "his mirth is contagious," and as the right hon. henry labouchere remarked, "he makes melancholy fly apace." you'll find laughs bubbling all through this new book. _some opinions from the newspapers_ "there are many cheerful, amusing incidents of travel. it is a very readable and entertaining book."--_democrat and chronicle_, rochester, n. y. "a marvelous lot of 'sunny stuff' is to be found in mr. wilder's latest book. he merrily prattles of a thousand different things and of as many different people."--_record_, philadelphia, pa. "written in that bright, breezy manner, with its mingled touches of humor and pathos and keen scrutiny of human nature so characteristic of mr. wilder."--_post_, boston, mass. _ mo, cloth, profusely illustrated. price, $ . , net; post-paid, $ . _ funk & wagnalls company, publishers new york and london humorous readings and recitations. humorous readings and recitations _in prose and verse_. selected and edited by leopold wagner, editor of "modern readings and recitations," "new readings from american authors," etc. london and new york: frederick warne and co. . london: bradbury, agnew, & co., printers, whitefriars. preface. in introducing to the public a third series of "popular readings," i consider it merely necessary to state that the courtesy of authors and publishers has enabled me to bring together a choice selection of humorous pieces which have acquired a large share of popularity, in addition to a number of others that may justly be regarded as novelties. concerning the former, i have so often had occasion to answer inquiries respecting particular pieces for recitation, that it occurred to me the handy collection of those most generally sought after, but hitherto scattered through various publications, would be welcomed by many; and i took steps accordingly. how far i have succeeded in my purpose a glance at the contents-list will show. for the fresh matter admitted to these pages, i sincerely trust that from among so many new candidates for popularity, at least one or two of them may be elected to represent the penny reading constituents of each respective borough for some time to come. once more i beg to express my indebtedness and thanks to those authors and publishers who have so generously placed their copyright pieces at my disposal. l. w. brompton. contents. page accompanied on the flute _f. anstey_ the troubles of a triplet _w. beatty-kingston_ slightly deaf _bracebridge hemming_ the lady freemason _h. t. craven_ what happened last night! _f. b. harrison_ the fatal legs _walter browne_ the caliph's jester _from the arabic_ a journey in search of nothing _wilkie collins_ gemini and virgo _c. s. calverley_ king bibbs _james albery_ molly muldoon _anonymous_ the harmonious lobsters _robert reece_ the provincial landlady _h. chance newton_ my matrimonial predicament _leopold wagner_ etiquette _w. s. gilbert_ a lost shepherd _frank barrett_ a mathematic madness _f. p. dempster_ waiting at tottlepot _j. ashby-sterry_ married to a giantess _walter parke_ the vision of the alderman _henry s. leigh_ the demon snuffers _geo. manville fenn_ the walrus and the carpenter _lewis carroll_ my brother henry _j. m. barrie_ a night with a stork _w. e. wilcox_ the faithful lovers _f. c. burnand_ the wail of a banner-bearer _arthur matthison_ the dream of the bilious beadle _arthur shirley_ my friend treacle _watkin-elliott_ the voice of the sluggard _anonymous_ artemus ward's visit to the tower of london _chas. farrar browne_ mr. caudle has lent an acquaintance the family umbrella _douglas jerrold_ domestic asides _tom hood_ the charity dinner _litchfield moseley_ acting with a vengeance _w. sapte, jun._ my fortnight at wretchedville _george augustus sala_ the sorrows of werther _w. m. thackeray_ moral music _anonymous_ billy dumps, the tailor _charles clark_ on punning _theodore hook_ seaside lodgings _percy reeve_ humorous readings and recitations. accompanied on the flute. f. anstey. the consul duilius was entertaining rome in triumph after his celebrated defeat of the carthaginian fleet at mylæ. he had won a great naval victory for his country with the first fleet that it had ever possessed--which was naturally a gratifying reflection, and he would have been perfectly happy now if he had only been a little more comfortable. but he was standing in an extremely rickety chariot, which was crammed with his nearer relations, and a few old friends, to whom he had been obliged to send tickets. at his back stood a slave, who held a heavy etruscan crown on the consul's head, and whenever he thought his master was growing conceited, threw in the reminder that he was only a man after all--a liberty which at any other time he might have had good reason to regret. then the large delphic wreath, which duilius wore as well as the crown, had slipped down over one eye, and was tickling his nose, while (as both his hands were occupied, one with a sceptre the other with a laurel bough, and he had to hold on tightly to the rail of the chariot whenever it jolted) there was nothing to do but suffer in silence. they had insisted, too, upon painting him a beautiful bright red all over, and though it made him look quite new, and very shining and splendid, he had his doubts at times whether it was altogether becoming, and particularly whether he would ever be able to get it off again. but these were but trifles after all, and nothing compared with the honour and glory of it! was not everybody straining to get a glimpse of him? did not even the spotted and skittish horses which drew the chariot repeatedly turn round to gaze upon his vermilioned features? as duilius remarked this he felt that he was, indeed, the central personage in all this magnificence, and that, on the whole, he liked it. he could see the beaks of the ships he had captured bobbing up and down in the middle distance; he could see the white bulls destined for sacrifice entering completely into the spirit of the thing, and redeeming the procession from any monotony by occasionally bolting down a back street, or tossing on their gilded horns some of the flamens who were walking solemnly in front of them. he could hear, too, above five distinct brass bands, the remarks of his friends as they predicted rain, or expressed a pained surprise at the smallness of the crowd and the absence of any genuine enthusiasm; and he caught the general purport of the very offensive ribaldry circulated at his own expense among the brave legions that brought up the rear. this was merely the usual course of things on such occasions, and a great compliment when properly understood, and duilius felt it to be so. in spite of his friends, the red paint, and the familiar slave, in spite of the extreme heat of the weather and his itching nose, he told himself that this, and this alone, was worth living for. and it was a painful reflection to him that, after all, it would only last a day; he could not go on triumphing like this for the remainder of his natural life--he would not be able to afford it on his moderate income; and yet--and yet--existence would fall woefully flat after so much excitement. it may be supposed that duilius was naturally fond of ostentation and notoriety, but this was far from being the case; on the contrary, at ordinary times his disposition was retiring and almost shy, but his sudden success had worked a temporary change in him, and in the very flush of triumph he found himself sighing to think, that in all human probability, he would never go about with trumpeters and trophies, with flute-players and white oxen, any more in his whole life. and then he reached the porta triumphalis, where the chief magistrates and the senate awaited them, all seated upon spirited roman-nosed chargers, which showed a lively emotion at the approach of the procession, and caused most of their riders to dismount with as much affectation of method and design as their dignity enjoined and the nature of the occasion permitted. there duilius was presented with the freedom of the city and an address, which last he put in his pocket, as he explained, to read at home. and then an Ædile informed him in a speech, during which he twice lost his notes, and had to be prompted by a lictor, that the grateful republic, taking into consideration the consul's distinguished services, had resolved to disregard expense, and on that auspicious day to give him whatever reward he might choose to demand--"in reason," the Ædile added cautiously, as he quitted his saddle with an unexpectedness which scarcely seemed intentional. duilius was naturally a little overwhelmed by such liberality, and, like every one else favoured suddenly with such an opportunity, was quite incapable of taking complete advantage of it. for a time he really could not remember in his confusion anything he would care for at all, and he thought it might look mean to ask for money. at last he recalled his yearning for a perpetual triumph, but his natural modesty made him moderate, and he could not find courage to ask for more than a fraction of the glory that now attended him. so, not without some hesitation, he replied that they were exceedingly kind, and since they left it entirely to his discretion, he would like--if they had no objection--he would like a flute-player to attend him whenever he went out. duilius very nearly asked for a white bull as well; but, on second thoughts, he felt it might lead to inconvenience, and there were many difficulties connected with the proper management of such an animal. the consul, from what he had seen that day, felt that it would be imprudent to trust himself in front of the bull, while, if he walked behind, he might be mistaken for a cattle-driver, which would be odious. and so he gave up that idea, and contented himself with a simple flute-player. the senate, visibly relieved by so unassuming a request, granted it with positive effusion; duilius was invited to select his musician, and chose the biggest, after which the procession moved on through the arch and up the capitoline hill, while the consul had time to remember things he would have liked even better than a flute-player, and to suspect dimly that he might have made rather an ass of himself. * * * * * that night duilius was entertained at a supper given at the public expense; he went out with the proud resolve to show his sense of the compliment paid him by scaling the giddiest heights of intoxication. the romans of that day only drank wine and water at their festivals, but it is astonishing how inebriated a person of powerful will can become, even on wine and water, if he only gives his mind to it. and duilius, being a man of remarkable determination, returned from that hospitable board particularly drunk; the flute-player saw him home, however, helped him to bed, though he could not induce him to take off his sandals, and lulled him to a heavy slumber by a selection from the popular airs of the time. so that the consul, although he awoke late next day with a bad headache and a perception of the vanity of most things, still found reason to congratulate himself upon his forethought in securing so invaluable an attendant, and planned, rather hopefully, sundry little ways of making him useful about the house. as the subsequent history of this great naval commander is examined with the impartiality that becomes the historian, it is impossible to be blind to the melancholy fact that in the first flush of his elation duilius behaved with an utter want of tact and taste that must have gone far to undermine his popularity, and proved a source of much gratification to his friends. he would use that flute-player everywhere--he overdid the thing altogether: for example, he used to go out to pay formal calls, and leave the flute-player in the hall tootling to such an extent that at last his acquaintances were forced in self-defence to deny themselves to him. when he attended worship at the temples, too, he would bring the flute-player with him, on the flimsy pretext that he could assist the choir during service; and it was the same at the theatres, where duilius--such was his arrogance--actually would not take a box unless the manager admitted the flute-player to the orchestra and guaranteed him at least one solo between the acts. and it was the consul's constant habit to strut about the forum with his musician executing marches behind him, until the spectacle became so utterly ridiculous that even the romans of that age, who were as free from the slightest taint of humour as a self-respecting nation can possibly be, began to notice something peculiar. but the day of retribution dawned at last. duilius worked the flute so incessantly that the musician's stock of airs was very soon exhausted, and then he was naturally obliged to blow them through once more. the excellent consul had not a fine ear, but even he began to hail the fiftieth repetition of "pugnare nolumus," for instance--the great national peace anthem of the period--with the feeling that he had heard the same tune at least twice before, and preferred something slightly fresher, while others had taken a much shorter time in arriving at the same conclusion. the elder duilius, the consul's father, was perhaps the most annoyed by it; he was a nice old man in his way--the glass and china way--but he was a typical old roman, with a manly contempt for pomp, vanity, music, and the fine arts generally, so that his son's flute-player, performing all day in the courtyard, drove the old gentleman nearly mad, until he would rush to the windows and hurl the lighter articles of furniture at the head of the persistent musician, who, however, after dodging them with dexterity, affected to treat them as a recognition of his efforts and carried them away gratefully to sell. duilius senior would have smashed the flute, only it was never laid aside for a single instant, even at meals; he would have made the player drunk and incapable, but he was a member of the _manus spei_, and he would with cheerfulness have given him a heavy bribe to go away, if the honest fellow had not proved absolutely incorruptible. so he would only sit down and swear, and then relieve his feelings by giving his son a severe thrashing, with threats to sell him for whatever he might fetch; for, in the curious conditions of ancient roman society, a father possessed both these rights, however his offspring might have distinguished himself in public life. naturally, duilius did not like the idea of being put up to auction, and he began to feel that it was slightly undignified for a roman general who had won a naval victory and been awarded a first-class triumph to be undergoing corporeal punishment daily at the hands of an unflinching parent, and accordingly he determined to go and expostulate with his flute-player. he was beginning to find him a nuisance himself, for all his old shy reserve and unwillingness to attract attention had returned to him; he was fond of solitude, and yet he could never be alone; he was weary of doing everything to slow music, like the bold, bad man in a melodrama. he could not even go across the street to purchase a postage-stamp without the flute-player coming stalking out after him, playing away like a public fountain; while, owing to the well-known susceptibility of a rabble to the charm of music, the disgusted consul had to take his walks abroad at the head of rome's choicest scum. duilius, with a lively recollection of these inconveniences, would have spoken very seriously indeed to his musician, but he shrank from hurting his feelings by plain truth. he simply explained that he had not intended the other to accompany him _always_, but only on special occasions; and, while professing the sincerest admiration for his musical proficiency, he felt, as he said, unwilling to monopolise it, and unable to enjoy it at the expense of a fellow-creature's rest and comfort. perhaps he put the thing a little too delicately to secure the object he had in view, for the musician, although he was deeply touched by such unwonted consideration, waved it aside with a graceful fervour which was quite irresistible. he assured the consul that he was only too happy to have been selected to render his humble tribute to the naval genius of so great a commander; he would not admit that his own rest and comfort were in the least affected by his exertions, for, being naturally fond of the flute, he could, he protested, perform upon it continuously for whole days without fatigue. and he concluded by pointing out very respectfully that for the consul to dispense, even to a small extent, with an honour decreed (at his own particular request) by the republic, would have the appearance of ingratitude, and expose him to the gravest suspicions. after which he rendered the ancient love-chant, "ludus idem, ludus vetus," with singular sweetness and expression. duilius felt the force of his arguments. republics are proverbially forgetful, and he was aware that it might not be safe even for him, to risk offending the senate. so he had nothing to do but just go on, and be followed about by the flute-player, and castigated by his parent in the old familiar way, until he had very little self-respect left. at last he found a distraction in his care-laden existence--he fell deeply in love. but even here a musical nemesis attended him, to his infinite embarrassment, in the person of his devoted follower. sometimes duilius would manage to elude him, and slip out unseen to some sylvan retreat, where he had reason to hope for a meeting with the object of his adoration. he generally found that in this expectation he had not deceived himself; but, always, just as he had found courage to speak of the passion that consumed him, a faint tune would strike his ear from afar, and, turning his head in a fury, he would see his faithful flute-player striding over the fields in pursuit of him with unquenchable ardour. he gave in at last, and submitted to the necessity of speaking all his tender speeches "through music." claudia did not seem to mind it, perhaps finding an additional romance in being wooed thus; and duilius himself, who was not eloquent, found that the flute came in very well at awkward pauses in the conversation. then they were married, and, as claudia played very nicely herself upon the _tibiæ_, she got up musical evenings, when she played duets with the flute-player, which duilius, if he had only had a little more taste for music, might have enjoyed immensely. as it was, beginning to observe for the first time that the musician was far from uncomely, he forbade the duets. claudia wept and sulked, and claudia's mother said that duilius was behaving like a brute, and she was not to mind him; but the harmony of their domestic life was broken, until the poor consul was driven to take long country walks in sheer despair, not because he was fond of walking, for he hated it, but simply to keep the flute-player out of mischief. he was now debarred from all other society, for his old friends had long since cut him dead whenever he chanced to meet them. "how could he expect people to stop and talk," they asked indignantly, "when there was that confounded fellow blowing tunes down the backs of their necks all the time?" duilius had had enough of it himself, and felt this so strongly that one day he took his flute-player a long walk through a lonely wood, and, choosing a moment when his companion had played "id omnes faciunt" till he was somewhat out of breath, he turned on him suddenly. when he left the lonely wood he was alone, and near it something which looked as if it might once have been a musician. the consul went home, and sat there waiting for the deed to become generally known. he waited with a certain uneasiness, because it was impossible to tell how the senate might take the thing, or the means by which their vengeance would declare itself. and yet his uneasiness was counterbalanced by a delicious relief: the state might disgrace, banish, put him to death even, but he had got rid of slow music for ever; and as he thought of this, the stately duilius would snap his fingers and dance with secret delight. all disposition to dance, however, was forgotten upon the arrival of lictors bearing an official missive. he looked at it for a long time before he dared to break the big seal, and cut the cord which bound the tablets which might contain his doom. he did it at last; and smiled with relief as he began to read: for the decree was courteously, if not affectionately, worded. the senate, considering (or affecting to consider) the disappearance of the flute-player a mere accident, expressed their formal regret at the failure of the provision made in his honour. then, as he read on, duilius dashed the tablets into small fragments, and rolled on the ground, and tore his hair, and howled; for the senatorial decree concluded by a declaration that, in consideration of his brilliant exploits, the state hereby placed at his disposal two more flute-players, who, it was confidently hoped, would survive the wear and tear of their ministrations longer than the first. duilius retired to his room and made his will, taking care to have it properly signed and attested. then he fastened himself in; and when they broke down the door next day they found a lifeless corpse, with a strange sickly smile upon its pale lips. no one in rome quite made out the reason of this smile, but it was generally thought to denote the gratification of the deceased at the idea of leaving his beloved ones in comfort, if not in luxury; for, though the bulk of his fortune was left to carthaginian charities, he had had the forethought to bequeath a flute-player apiece to his wife and mother-in-law. (_from_ "the black poodle," _by permission of messrs. longmans, green, & co._) the troubles of a triplet. w. beatty-kingston. i am, i really think, the most unlucky man on earth; a triple sorrow haunts me, and has done so from my birth. my lot in life's a gloomy one, i think you will agree; 'tis bad enough to be a twin--but i am one of three! no sooner were we born than pa and ma the bounty claimed; i scarce can bear to think they did--it makes me feel ashamed, they got it, too, within a week, and spent it, i'll be bound, upon themselves--at least, i know i never had _my_ pound. our childhood's days in ignorance were lamentably spent, although i think we more than paid the taxes, and the rent; for we were shown as marvels, and--unless i'm much deceived-- the smallest contributions were most thankfully received. we grew up hale and hearty--would we never had been born!-- as like to one another as three peas, or ears of corn. between my brothers _ichabod_, _abimelech_ and me no difference existed which the human eye could see. this likeness was the cause of dreadful suffering and pain to me in early life--it nearly broke my heart in twain; for while my conduct as a youth was fervently admired, that of my fellow-triplets left a deal to be desired. i was amiable, and pious, too--good deeds were my delight, i practised all the virtues--some by day and some by night; whilst _ichabod_ imbrued himself in crime, and, sad to say, _abimelech_, when quite a lad, would rather swear than pray. think of my horror and dismay when, in the park at noon, an obvious burglar greeted me with, "hullo, ike, old coon!" he vanished. suddenly my wrists were gripped by policeman x----, "young man, you are my prisoner on a charge of forgin' cheques." he ran me in, and locked me up, to moulder in a cell, the reason why he used me thus, alas! i know too well. he took me for _abimelech_, my erring brother dear, who was "wanted" by the bank of which he'd been the chief cashier. next morn the magistrate remarked, "this is a sad mistake, though natural enough, i much regret it for your sake; but if you will permit me to advise you, i should say leave england for some other country, very far away. "for if you go on living in this happy sea-girt isle, although your conduct (like my own) be pure and free from guile, your likeness to those sinful men, your brothers twain, will lead, i fear, to very serious inconveniences indeed." i took the hint, and sailed next day for distant owhyhee,-- as might have been expected, i was cast away at sea. a pirate lugger picked me up, and--dreadful to relate-- _abimelech_ her captain was, and _ichabod_ her mate. i loved them and they tempted me. to join them i agreed, forsook the path of virtue, and did many a ghastly deed. for seven years i wallowed in my fellow-creatures' gore, and then gave up the business, to settle down on shore. my brothers on retiring from the buccaneering trade, in which, i'm bound to say, colossal fortunes they had made, renounced their wicked courses, married young and lovely wives, went to church three times on sundays, and led sanctimonious lives. as for me,--i somehow drifted into vileness past belief, earned unsavoury distinction as a drunkard and a thief; e'en in crime, ill-luck pursued me: i became extremely poor, and was finally compelled to beg my bread from door to door. i'm deep down in the social scale, no lower can i sink; upon the whole, experience induces me to think that virtue is not lucrative, and honesty's all fudge,-- for _ichabod's_ a bishop--and _abimelech's_ a judge! (_from_ "punch," _by permission of the proprietors_.) slightly deaf. bracebridge hemming. mr. loyd was a retired shopkeeper residing at the lodge, norwood. he had amassed a fortune of thirty thousand pounds in the grocery business, principally by sanding his sugar and flouring his mustard, and other little tricks of the trade. yet he went to church every sunday with a clear conscience. at the time i introduce him to you he was a widower with one son, joseph, aged eighteen. joseph was a shy, putty-faced youth, who had the misfortune to be deaf. "slightly deaf," his father called him, but he grew worse instead of better, and threatened to become as deaf as a post or a beetle in time. of course his infirmity stood in the way of his getting employment, for he was always making mistakes of a ludicrous and sometimes aggravating nature. add to this that joseph was very lean and his father very fat, and you will understand why people called them "feast and famine," or "substance and shadow." one morning after breakfast, mr. loyd, who had been looking over some paid bills, exclaimed, "joe." joseph was reading the paper, and made no answer. "joe," thundered his father. this time the glasses on the sideboard rang, and joseph got up, walked to the window and looked out. "what are you doing?" shouted mr. loyd. "i thought i heard the wind blow," replied joseph. "well! i like that; it was i calling." "you!" "yes, sir." joseph invariably grew very angry if he did not hear anybody, for he was ashamed of his deafness; but he often fell into a brown study and was as deaf as an adder. besides this he was more deaf on one side than on the other, as is often the case, and he happened to have his very bad ear turned to his father. "why don't you speak out?" said he. "i did," replied mr. loyd. "you always mumble." "i halloaed loud enough to wake the dead." "you know i'm slightly deaf." "slightly! you'll have to buy an ear-trumpet." "trumpet be blowed," answered joseph. "here, put these bills on the file," exclaimed mr. loyd, pointing to the bundle. joseph advanced to the table, took up the bills, and deliberately threw them into the fire, where they were soon blazing merrily. mr. loyd uttered a cry of dismay, sprang up and ran to the grate, but he was too late to save them. "you double-barrelled idiot!" he cried. "what's the fuss now?" asked joseph calmly. he always was as cool as a cucumber, no matter what he did. "you'll never be worth your salt." "what's my fault?" "i said salt." "keep quiet and i'll get you some." "no!" roared mr. loyd. "what did you say so for then? it seems to me you don't know your own mind two minutes together." mr. loyd stamped his foot with impatience on the carpet. "oh dear! what a trial you are," he exclaimed. "they are receipted bills, and i told you to put them on the file. f. i. l. e. do you hear that?" "i hear it now," responded joe. "it's a pity you won't speak up." "so i do." "they'll never call you leather-lungs." "oh joe, joe! you'll be the death of me. you're a duffer, and it is no use saying you're not. i was going to tell you i'd got a berth for you, but i'm afraid you could not keep it." "what is it?" "clerk in the office of my old friend, mr. maybrick, the stockbroker." "eh!" said joseph. "what's a mockstoker?" "a stockbroker," shouted mr. loyd. "why didn't you say so at first. do you think i don't know what that is? i'm not quite such a fool as that comes to." "you'd aggravate a saint, joe." "paint your toe! have you gone mad?" "great heavens! i shall hit you; get out," shrieked his father. "got the gout. oh! that's another thing. i thought you'd have it. you drink too much port after dinner." "i say, joe," cried mr. loyd, "are you doing this on purpose? you don't understand a word i say; in fact, you misconstrue everything." "if that is so i can't help it." "you're getting worse." "don't do that," replied joe gravely. "eh?" "don't curse me. if i am deaf, that is to say slightly deaf, it is my misfortune, not my fault; you ought to make allowance for me, and speak louder." "do you want me to be a foghorn, or a river steam tug?" "certainly not." "or a cavalry man's trumpet, or a bellowing bull?" "no, father." "or," continued mr. loyd with rising temper, "a spouting whale, an old bailey barrister, a town-crier, a grampus, a locomotive blowing off steam, an australian bell-bird, or a laughing jackass?" "i'm sure i never laugh, so you needn't fling that at me." "i wish you were dumb as well as deaf," groaned mr. loyd. "why?" "because i might then get you into the asylum." "file 'em," muttered joseph. "he's still thinking of the bills." "confound him," muttered his father. "he's worse than a county court judgment. i don't know what to do with him." to soothe his nerves he lighted a cigar, and looking in the fire puffed away at the weed, while joe again took up the paper and went on reading. half-an-hour passed. then mr. loyd said, "you know you're getting worse, but you're so obstinate you won't admit it, and it's six to four you'll not yield." joseph looked up with irritating calmness. "no, thanks," he exclaimed. "what do you mean?" "i never bet." "who talked about betting?" yelled his father. "you offered six to four on the field, and----" "i didn't. yah!" "never mind; i sha'n't take you," replied joseph. mr. loyd got up and did a war dance. "who asked you to?" "you did. it only wants six weeks to the derby, and----" mr. loyd lost all control over himself for the moment. he took up the coal-scuttle and threw it at his son, which was a very reprehensible thing to do; but it did not hurt joseph, for that intelligent youth saw it coming, and ducking his head, it went with a crash through the window into the street. "that's a clever thing to do," said joseph, without so much as winking. "you need not get mad because i won't bet." his father shook his fist at him. "you'll be my death," he replied, sinking into a chair with a gasp. "i can't help it if i am deaf," rejoined the imperturbable joseph. "you're sharper than a serpent's tooth." "it wasn't very sharp of you to break the window." "go to putney!" "where am i to get putty?" said joseph. "send for a glazier." "bless us and save us!" groaned mr. loyd. "there isn't much saving in having a broken window to catch cold by." mr. loyd rushed into the hall, and taking down his hat and coat from the rack, put them on. "come up to town at once," he exclaimed; "we'll go and see mr. maybrick." "what's the good of a hayrick?" asked joseph simply. "eh?" "you can't stop a hole in a window with a hayrick." "i said maybrick, the broker," roared mr. loyd, putting his hands to his mouth. "i do wish you'd speak out." "get a trumpet. yah!" "trump it! we're not playing whist." "oh dear!" sighed mr. loyd. "he must be apprenticed to maybrick. i'll pay a premium if it's a hundred pounds. i'm not a hog, and don't want to enjoy this all by myself. i'll share it with another. it's too much for one to struggle with. i can't undertake the worry single-handed, it's too much." he had to go close up to joseph and bawl in his ear to make him understand what he wanted, for he had never found his son's deafness so bad as it was that day. joseph was quite willing to go, and quitting the house, they took the train and went to town together. it was yet early in the day, and they reached the broker's office about twelve, finding him in and at leisure. during the journey, mr. loyd had impressed upon joseph the necessity of keeping his ears open as well as he could, for if he made any mistakes he would soon get "chucked," as they say in the city, and joe promised to be as wideawake as his infirmity would permit him. how wideawake this was, we shall see. mr. maybrick had done business with mr. loyd for many years, and received him in his private office with all the cordiality of an old friend. "brought my boy to introduce to you," exclaimed the retired grocer. "very glad to know the young gentleman," replied mr. maybrick; "take a chair. have a cigar. quite a chip of the old block, i see; what's his name?" "joseph. joe for short." "very good; now what can i do for you, are you going to open stock?" "not to-day." "markets are very firm." "i didn't come for that purpose, maybrick; i want to get the youngster into your office." "oh! yes," answered the broker, "i forgot; you spoke about it a little while ago." "last time i was up, when i bought those 'russians'!" "against my advice, and burnt your fingers over them." "true." "well, i'll take him. one hundred pounds premium, no salary first year, then seventy pounds and an annual rise according to ability." "that will do." "i hope he's smart." "smart as a steel trap, though sometimes he's a little absent-minded; and you've got to speak loudly, maybe more than once, but that's only now and again. i'll write you a cheque and leave him here, so that he will know the ropes." "very well, i daresay we shall get on. i've ten clerks, and i've only changed once in ten years." "that speaks well for you." "i read character, and i'm kind," said mr. maybrick. "sit at my table, you'll find pen and ink." while mr. loyd was getting out his cheque-book and writing the draft, mr. maybrick turned his attention to his new clerk. "have you ever been out before?" he queried. "go out of the door?" replied joe. "yes sir, if you want to say anything of a private nature, i'll go with pleasure." "no! no! do you understand work?" "i beg your pardon, i sha'n't shirk anything." "bless me!" cried the broker, "i mean do you know business?" "no business," answered joseph, with a solemn shake of the head; "i am sorry for that; times are dull though, all round." "i've got plenty, you mistake me, don't run away with that idea, you won't find this an easy place." "got a greasy face, have i?" responded joseph. "it's not very polite of you to tell me that." "what the----" began mr. maybrick, when joe's father handed him the cheque. "there's the needful," exclaimed mr. loyd. "thanks," replied the broker, adding, "i say, old friend isn't master joseph a little hard of hearing?" "oh! ah! not that exactly." "what then?" "he's got a cold in his head." "is that all?" "yes, he got his feet wet," said mr. loyd confidentially, "and i had to bawl at him this morning." "i thought he was, ahem! a little deaf." "bless you no, raise your voice, that's all you've got to do." "ah! i see. it's bad to be like that," answered mr. maybrick, whose doubts were removed. "the weather's been so bad, everyone has had cold more or less." telling the intelligent joseph that he should expect him home to dinner at seven, mr. loyd took leave of the broker, who gave his new clerk some accounts to enter in a book, saying that he might sit in his office for the remainder of that day and he would find him desk-room on the morrow, after which he hurried away to see what was going on in the general room. joseph hung up his hat and coat, and set to work. he certainly meant to do his best. they say a certain place, which the hebrews call sheol, is paved with good intentions; anyhow the fates were against him. never before had his deafness been so bad. it seemed to have swooped down upon and swamped him all at once. scarcely had he begun his work than he was startled by the ringing of a bell. it was just over his head and proceeded from the telephone. now joseph knew just as much about a telephone as he did about the phonograph or the dot-and-dash system of telegraphy. he sprang from his chair, turned ghastly pale, and fancied it was an alarm of fire. what should he do? for fully a minute he stood gazing vacantly at the box and the bell. then it rang again. joseph jumped half-a-foot in the air. then he rushed into the general room, where he found mr. maybrick talking to a client. "please sir, can i disturb you for a moment?" he said. "i'm very particularly engaged, loyd," replied the broker. "excuse me, but----" "what is it?" "there's a bell ringing." "oh! the telephone. i forgot to tell you to attend to it." "it's rung twice." "then somebody is in a hurry. answer and come and tell me what it is." "how do you do it, sir?" "speak through the instrument, ask who it is, and what he wants, and put the tube to your ear." the fright had somewhat stimulated joseph's powers of hearing, for he caught these instructions and hastened back to the inner office. after a little experimenting he put himself in communication, and the following colloquy ensued. "who is it?" asked joe. "oliphant," was the reply. "elephant," mused joe. "that's funny." but he went at it again. "what do you want?" "by one o'clock, sell , mex. rails." joe heard this order imperfectly. "buy , ox-tails," he said to himself. "this is a queer business." yet he was not discouraged. joe had not come into the city for nothing. he meant to do his duty or perish in the attempt. "right," he answered. "is that all?" "yes. i'll call after lunch for the contract note." "very well, sir." having received his instructions, joe, very proud of his success in manipulating such a peculiar instrument as the telephone, sought his employer. "well, loyd," exclaimed that gentleman. "it's all right, sir," replied joe. "what is?" "the elephant wants you to buy him , ox-tails." mr. maybrick elevated his eyebrows. "who did you say?" he demanded in a loud voice. "the elephant." "mr. oliphant, i suppose you mean." "ah! it might have been oliphant, or boliphant, it was something like that." "ox-tails. why not mex. rails.? mexican railways, you know." "humph," said joe, "very likely." "are you sure he said 'buy?'" "oh! yes, sir, that was distinct enough, and he said he'd come after lunch for the distracting note." "contract note." "it may be that. the gentleman did not speak very distinctly." "oliphant has a low voice," said mr. maybrick, thoughtfully, "but he's one of my best customers. perhaps he's heard something; he must have got some information. i'll have a bit in this myself. oliphant is a very shrewd and careful speculator. that will do, loyd." joseph departed, highly delighted. "ha! ha! ha!" laughed mr. maybrick when joe had gone, "my new clerk is an odd one; 'buy , ox-tails for the elephant,' that's good. i must tell that story in the house." he beckoned to his manager, who was a man named mappin, and told him to buy the required quantity of mexican railway stock. "market's very weak, sir. it's fallen to-day one half already in anticipation of a bad dividend," replied mappin. "can't help that." mappin went away to execute the order. an hour elapsed, and a special edition of an evening paper was brought into the office. it contained a telegram from mexico, stating that there had not been one revolution, and two earthquakes in that country before breakfast, as usual, that morning. the railway dividend was remarkably good, and mexican preference stock went up five per cent., at which price the broker took upon himself to close the account, thinking his client would be well satisfied with his profits. "clever fellow, oliphant," muttered mr. maybrick; "up to every move on the board. deuced clever!" at that moment mr. oliphant, who was a stout, red-faced man, inclined to apoplexy, rushed into the office. he was agitated, and looked as if he was going to have a fit. "close the account," he gasped. "i have done so," was the reply. "what at?" "a rise of five per cent." "it will ruin me," groaned oliphant. "how? you telephoned me to buy." "i said 'sell.'" "then my clerk made a mistake," exclaimed maybrick; "but it's a lucky mistake for both you and i, for i followed your lead." "you're joking!" "never was more serious in my life. i'll give you a cheque at once." mr. oliphant's face brightened. "and i'll give your wooden-headed clerk a ten pound note," he said. "that may console him for his dismissal," said maybrick, dryly. "are you going to get rid of him?" "most decidedly. i cannot afford to keep a clerk who makes errors of that kind. this time it has come out all right; next time it may be all wrong." "just so," replied mr. oliphant. he handed maybrick the ten pounds, which the broker gave to mappin, telling him to present it to joseph, and inform him that his services would not be any longer required, and the premium his father had paid should be returned by post. then the broker gave mr. oliphant his unexpected profits, and they went out to have a bottle of champagne together. mappin sought joseph. "what are you doing?" he asked. "doing sums," replied joe, which was his idea of book-keeping. "well, you need not do any more." "no, i don't think it a bore," said joe. "it's all in the day's work, don't you know?" "you're not wanted here." "can't i hear? what do you know about it?" "the fool's deaf," cried mappin, raising his voice. "take this tenner and go." joe heard this plain enough. "sacked!" he said, laconically. "yes," replied mappin, nodding his head vigorously. "what for?" "playing the fool with the telephone. we've no use for you." "oh! very well. i thought i shouldn't answer." "you see, we don't run our business on the silent system." joe put on his hat and coat, with that perfect unconcern which always distinguished him. "good morning," he said, pocketing the note. "i say, i don't think much of telephones, do you?" "yes, it's a very clever invention." "ah! there's no accounting for taste." with these words joseph quitted the office, and took a walk in the city. (_from_ "awful stories," _by permission of_ messrs. diprose & bateman.) the lady freemason. h. t. craven. vainly we seek it, sanscrit or greek writ in hist'ry, the myst'ry of solomon's secret:-- the dark queen of sheba p'raps tried to get hold of it, but didn't; at least if she _did_, we're not told of it. if mcabel of lodge number one lets it slip, his brother o'cain of lodge two, gives the grip _À la garotte_ they say. be that as it may, the cowan is somehow put out of the way. so now if you've fear for my prudence, dispel it; first place, i don't know--next, i don't mean to tell it but praise a shrewd guess, if you think i deserve it, the cream of the secret is--_how to preserve it_! a sworn brother mason who'd ever disseminate his knowledge, or blab, would be worse than effeminate! on feminine weakness, though, let me be reticent, rememb'ring the tale of the famous miss betty st. ledger, whose name sheds a permanent grace on one fifty--the lodge of the lady freemason. my lord doneraile, ne'er known to fail in duties masonic, held land in entail with a mansion near dublin, of such wide dimension, that a freemason's lodge of no little pretension was warranted, charter'd, and duly appointed, and worshipful ruler my lord was anointed. no master, 'twas said, ever laid down the law so; no masons kept secrets so sacred--or swore so! none drill'd and so skill'd were, in sep'rate degree, by the p. m. presiding (of course my lord d.) it beggars description--you'd fail to appreciate the hubbub within when they met to '_initiate_.' such tyling and tapping, such knocking and rapping, such shrieks and such squeaks--such clapping and slapping such mauling and hauling and tearing and swearing, such whisp'ring of secrets and 'tell-if-you-dare'-ing-- such groans and such yells, and such roast-goosey smells, when the poker was used--like the scene in 'the bells' you doubtless have thought so appalling--enerving-- you'd think 'twas some madman, who thought himself irving; the cauterization, on good information, amounted, i say, to a partial cremation; and sore on the subject were all erin's gay sons next day, when the boys gave 'em sauce for 'fried masons.' be it known that miss betty was doneraile's daughter, and one richard aldworth aspired to court her, yet made his advances with progress so scanty, he really remain'd much _in statu quo ante_; his motto was '_spero_,' but hope was at zero; in the lady's eye dick didn't pose as a hero when her father, lord doneraile, ask'd of him, whether he'd join the f.m.'s; he had shown the white feather! whereat the proud beauty declared that no other should e'er be _her_ slave than 'a man and a _brother_': so dick, having dined, and not quite _compos mentis_, agreed to go in for an 'entered apprentice.' the eve had arrived, and the hall so baronial, was deck'd in due form for the night's ceremonial; miss betty, in passing downstairs, chanced to see tho' the chubb had been lock'd, they had left in the key of a small ante-room of some minor utility, but prized by the lodge for its accessibility: miss said to herself, 'tho' i fear the attempt, i should like just to see what a lodge is like--empty!' oh! daughters of eve, there are some who believe your tongues are your weakness--your failing, verbosity; while others contend, you'll never amend of that fault mrs. bluebeard possess'd--curiosity! now i--though i'd fain dub such slanders as petty-- own they do say as much of dear, charming miss betty: tho' found to be equal, to hold tongue or speak well with other good masons--but wait for the sequel! in through this outer door--closing it warily; out through an inner door--softly and fairyly-- _she's there!_ in the lodge, where wax tapers are blazing, all deftly arranged with precision amazing:-- in the east for the worshipful boss is a throne. in the west, senior warden--the places all shown (no doubt to prevent any squabbles or wrangles) initiall'd on chair-backs, in gilded triangles; on a table deep myst'ries we must not unravel-- the mallet, the plumb, and the gauge, and the gavel! other engines whose uses we fear to unriddle-- the thumb-screw--the pincers--a poker--a griddle! with tapers and papers and paraphernalia, blue ribbons and jewels and things call'd 'regalia!' the silence and solitude there were delicious; and any one caring to feel superstitious, might fancy the ghosts of freemasons, translated to lodges above--or below--reinstated, array'd in their mouldy old aprons; each brother past master, who'd passed from this world to another. but horror of horrors! whilst here she was musing, came footsteps without, and--oh! sound most confusing! she heard the key turned. (that same key that beguiled in the first-mention'd door.) _now_ 'twas lock'd and fast tyled! she rush'd to the ante-room, wild to get back, but this cooled her courage, 'twas now _cul de sac_; and hark! in the lodge--to augment her disaster-- the masons assembling, escorting the master! to hide while she thought how to 'scape from mishap, she closed t'other door of this snug little trap; that door has a crevice, and thereby new woes arise, to secrets forbidden in vain 'tis to close her eyes; how can she but note the masonic particulars, with no cotton-wool to cram in her auriculars? she heard her dad ask, most distinctly--and trembled at dogberry's words--"are we here all dissembled?" then commenced ceremonials misty and mystical, questions and answers in form catechistical. my lord, in a tone both emphatic and sonorous, impressing on each that his duties were onerous; (one duty, to betty, seem'd highly improper-- 'twas 'kill, without questioning, any eavesdropper!') when the master, with sudden and well-feigned dismay, for he very well knew that he'd got it to say, cried 'hark, there is danger, i feel that a stranger who's seeking for knowledge is coming this way!' each took up a napkin--the end dipt in water, and cried '_porkitotius!_ give him no quarter!' while outside the door sundry knocks loud and clamorous (as vulcan might deal when in humour sledge-hammerous) were echoed within by three knocks--just the same, with the pertinent query--'how now! what's your game?' and a chap (_déshabillé_) in great perturbation is 'run in,' very much like a prig to a station. disguised as he was, through the _à-propos_ hole the lady identified aldworth's red poll, and thought, 'well, i wish you, poor fellow, good luck, or--more to the purpose--i wish you, good pluck!' for her father was urging in solemn oration, 'you need, my young friend, for your fearful probation endurance--true courage--and strong veneration! we commence with (don't grin, sir!) a pleasant frivolity:-- just give of endurance a taste of your quality; 'tis nothing--a towelling. brothers, prepare!' then each had a flick at dick's legs--which were bare: he danced and he pranced at each cut of the towel and prod from the rear with a sharp-pointed trowel, and look'd--as he caper'd in lily-white kilt-- the ghost of a highlander dancing a lilt. to scotch eyes, however, the steps might seem clever, dick show'd less a hero in betty's than ever, and shock'd, when he cried--cutting up rather rough-- 'd longstroke your optics--hold hard! that's enough!' 'enough?' said the worshipful, 'yes, of this fun! stern proof of your courage has not yet begun; d'ye hear, sir, those knocks? brothers, let in the stoker, and form a procession to bring in the poker! see the surgeon is ready to make all secure with lancet and tourniquet, bandage and ligature!' but why freeze your marrow--your feelings why harrow? your hearts are too soft and our space is too narrow to tell all the horrors! 'twould fill you with awe to listen to half that elizabeth saw:-- let us come to dick's howl--such a howl!--which as soon as she heard it, miss betty fell down in a swoon all in a lump, with a bump and a thump that made all the brothers to gape and to jump. and turn pale and cry, 'bedad there's a spy shut up in that closet, and there he shall die! to rush to the chamber--to find what was in it and seize the eavesdropper--was the work of a minute; to lift up and shake her, to rouse up and wake her to consciousness--then in the lodge-room to take her, was work for six brothers, who cried as they brought her, 'we've sought her and caught her!' my lord cried, 'my daughter!' and sunk down as needing, himself, a supporter:-- in rush'd the tylers, crusty old file-ers! with anger 'a busting their blessed old bilers;' looking so grim at her, one raised his cimeter, and to very short shift was advancing to limit her, as 'hold!' cried my lord, 'hear your master--or rather, i'd speak to you all, as her judge--not her father! perchance she knows nothing, and, if she will swear it, her life shall be spared--_i_, your _master_, will spare it! oh, tell me, my child, what you've seen--what you've heard?' the truthful girl sobb'd, 'ev'ry act! ev'ry word!' 'alas,' faltered he, 'you have seal'd your own doom!' and 'down with the spy!' cried each one in the room; one raised a dagger, some shouted 'scrag her!' some raised a trap-door, and rush'd forward to drag her, when a voice like a thunder-clap topp'd all the rest, and dick semi-dress'd presented his breast before her, 'strike _here_!' was his manly request: 'strike me if you dare, by jingo, i swear of her you shall touch not so much as a hair! i mean, my good sirs, whatever occurs to your lives or mine, you shall not take _hers_! her white arm how dare you place finger or fist on?' and dick, shooting out his own arm like a piston, knock'd over a senior warden who held her; sent spinning a middle-aged junior--his elder, hit out at a tyler, a blatant reviler, mash'd the mug of a masher call'd 'tim' the beguiler; 'look out!' cried another, 'the saxon's a bruiser!' and straightway got one on his 'conk'--a confuser! a dozen unitedly shouted excitedly 'fell him, or else this young fellow will wallop us!' down went two deacons, not very weak ones, and a blow on the nose of the third burst a polypus, when the hero (dick now at the title arrives, denied him before he had handled his fives, so many bawling, reeling and sprawling, for each brother knocked down another in falling), had 'flutter'd the voices' from east to the west, he paused like a warrior taking his rest, or spartan who'd caused lots of persians to topple, he took breath--as _he_ did at a place call'd thermopylæ. now outspoke my lord in a masterful way, 'a truce and a parley! i've something to say! 'tis writ in our laws "if an eavesdropper pries and filches our secrets, he (mark the he!) dies!" now this is a _she_--therefore _not_ an eavesdropper; to kill her, i say, would be highly improper unless she objects. to do as directs the master (c'est moi!). now mark what i say next! let's make her a mason, and put a good face on the matter, believing she'll prove not a base one; i'll take on myself--ending doubt and confusion-- to write to great queen street and get absolution!' then upspake the stoker--a regular croaker, 'i'd like to know how you'll get over the poker!' 'long ago,' said my lord---the precise _annus mundi_ 'i can't call to mind--_regno coli jucundi_, (a monarch whose province was pipo-cum-fiddlum-- a part of the region of great tarrididdlom) sundry by-laws were pass'd for emergencies various whereby the submission to brand is vicarious: will some volunteer (_her_ substitute here) submit to the crucial test? 'tis severe!' dick on now spake, 'e'en to the stake 'i'll go, like a martyr, as proxy to take all over again for the dear lady's sake;-- that is (here he tenderly glanced), she approving?' 'i do!' said the maiden, in accent quite loving. 'agreed!' shouted all who'd been punch'd, 'be it so!' glad, no doubt, of the chance to give dick _quid pro quo_. the lady withdrew, in well-guarded condition; the deck's quickly clear'd for the second edition of flicks and of kicks, pinching and licks, twingeing and singeing--but murmur of dick's none heard e'en a word; he was truly heroic, and went through it all with a smile, like a stoic; and when he--so rumpled from processes recent-- retired to make himself decently decent, miss st. ledger return'd--resolution her face on-- took the oaths, and was enter'd a 'prenticed freemason! moral. when you meet with a mason, just mention this lass; i warrant she'll prove an excuse for a glass! if he's a true brother, the toast is a favourite, he's good for a bottle, but mind _you_ don't pay for it! you've but to edge her name in, and pledge her, the lady freemason--miss betty st. ledger! (_by permission of the author._) what happened last night! _from the french of m. charles monselet, by_ f. b. harrison. i cannot deceive myself--i was horribly tipsy last night. let him who has never been in the like case throw the first empty bottle at me! how did it happen? in this way. i, a civilian, reading law, was invited to dine at the garrison mess. i had never been at a similar entertainment, and i cannot but think, now that i look back on it, that the officers played some trick on me. i only knew that they were prodigiously polite, which always looks suspicious. from a certain point, from the third course, i remember very little; a sort of cloudy curtain intercepts the view like the curtains that come down in a pantomime, and i don't know whether i was clown, or pantaloon, or columbine. yet something must have happened to me, a great many things. i've been sleeping in my white tie; and then my face! what a shockingly yellow, dissipated face! upon my word, it is a pretty affair! at my time, one-and-twenty, to be overcome by wine like a schoolboy out for a holiday! i cannot express what i think of it. how am i to know what happened last night? ask my landlady? no; i cannot let her see how ashamed i am. besides, she would only know the condition in which i came home; and that i can guess. they say that from a single bone professor owen can reconstruct an entire antediluvian animal; i must try and do something similar to reconstruct my existence during the last twelve or fourteen hours. i must get hold of two or three clues. where can i find them? in my pockets, perhaps. since i was a small boy i have always had the habit of stuffing them with all manner of things. now, this is the time for me to search them. i tremble. what shall i find? [_searches his waistcoat pocket._ i have gently insinuated two fingers into my waistcoat-pocket, and have brought out my purse. empty! hang it! [_lifts his overcoat from the floor._ on picking up my overcoat i have found my pocket-book, half open, and the papers fallen from it on the carpet. the first of these papers which catches my eye is the _carte_ of last night's dinner. well, who was there? how many of us? several of the fellows i knew, of course; but which of them? happy thought! the _menu_ will remind me of their various tastes and reveal their names to me. 'oysters.' well, i know that the colonel is a tremendous hand at oysters, so i am sure he was there. 'mulligatawny.' that is captain simpkin's soup, or rather liquid fire, so simpkins was there. two of them. 'roast beef.' makes me think of little dumerque, the jersey man, who wants to be a thorough englishman. he was there. 'saddle of mutton.' tom horsley, the inveterate steeple-chaser. 'charlotte russe.' that is ned walker, who published his travels from "peterborough to petersburg." now i know pretty well who some of my fellow-guests were. as for the others---- [_picks up some photographs._ hallo! were there women at the mess? no, certainly not. then we must have talked of women, and the men must have given me photographs of their female relatives. strange thing to do! especially as i don't know the ladies. here's an ancient and fish-like personage in a blue jersey. dumerque's grandmother, i'll be bound. here a stout, middle-aged dame, widow probably. i know simpkins wants to marry a widow, but why give me her portrait? and this--this is charming! quite in the modern style--low forehead, small nose, tiny mouth, all eyes, and what splendid eyes! and such lashes! she is fair, as well as one can judge from a photograph. and the little curls on her forehead are like rings of gold. and so young, a mere child. a lovely figure; our forefathers would have compared her to a rose-tree, but then our forefathers were not strong in similes. she has neither ear-rings nor necklace; perhaps that gives her that look of disdain. disdain! she knows nothing yet of life, but tries to seem tired of it. they are all like that. who is she? she must be the colonel's daughter; i've heard that his daughter is a pretty girl. i must have expressed my warm admiration of the photograph, and he must have responded by giving it to me. did i ask him for her hand? did he refuse it? or did he put off his reply? perhaps that was why i drank too much. now let me proceed. what further happened? let me continue my researches. [_tries the pockets of his overcoat._ by jingo! two visiting cards! the first says: "captain wellington spearman, first royal lancer dragoons." the other: "major garnet babelock cannon, rifle artillery." now, what does it all mean? i do not know those military gentlemen. they must have been guests like myself. how do i come to have their cards? there must have been some dispute, some quarrel, some row. these two cards must have been given in exchange for two of mine. it all comes back to me! a duel--perhaps two duels! but duels about what? whom did i affront? i know i'm an awful fire-eater when i've drank too much. but was i the challenger or the challenged? i think my left cheek is rather swollen as if from a blow; but that is mere fancy. what dreadful follies have i got myself into? i can make out some pencil marks on the first card, that of the captain in the lancer dragoons. yes. "ten o'clock, behind st. martin's church." ah, a hostile meeting, that is clear. i must run, perhaps i shall be in time. no, too late; it is half-past eleven. i am dishonoured, branded as a coward! no one will believe me when i say that i had a headache, and overslept myself on the morning of a duel. i have no energy to look further in my pocket. still, one never knows---- [_brings out a handkerchief._ a handkerchief--a very fine one--thin cambric. but it is not one of mine. there is a coronet in the corner. how did i come by this handkerchief? could i have stolen it? i seem to be on the road to the county gaol. oh, how my head aches! a flower is in my button-hole. how did it come there? forget-me-nots; their blue eyes closed, all withered and drooping. i could not have bought so humble a bouquet at the flower-shop; it must have been given me. it was given me, it came to me from the fair one with golden curls. her father gave it to me from her, knowing that i was about to risk my life--to risk my life for her sake, no doubt. yes, that is it. my fears increase. i dread to know more. i am afraid to prosecute my researches in my pockets. i may find my hands full of forget-me-nots--or of blood! oh! ah! by jove! what now? this overcoat is not mine. no, mine is dark grey, this is light grey. i have not travelled through my pockets, but through the pockets of somebody else. but then--if the coat is not mine, neither is the duel. not mine the _carte_. not mine the photographs. not mine the forget-me-nots. not mine the cards. i have not stolen the handkerchief. i am all right; thank goodness i am all right! and my romance about the colonel's lovely daughter--i am sorry about it, upon my word. at least, i am sorry for her, for i fear now she will never make my acquaintance. (_by permission of_ messrs. r. bentley & son.) the fatal legs. walter browne. i am an actor, or rather, i call myself one. i am, however, "disengaged;" the more so since widow walker has----. but let me not anticipate; which, by-the-bye, i never could have done--no matter. i took apartments, comfortably furnished, with a widow lady named walker. i was "first floor back"; and "first floor front" was mr. simon simpkin, of the ---- theatre. the widow always called us "first floors," either "back" or "front," and never by our names, although we never called her out of hers. if we had, she would not have come. she was an obstinate woman, but at times she got confused. she always called me in the morning, and once she called me "front," and then went to simpkin with my shaving water. when i called her back, she called me something else, and threw the pitcher at me. i was in hot water for a while. the widow walker was fair, fat, and forty--that is, rather fair, extremely fat, and very forty. she might be more; at any rate her voice was forte too. the actor, simpkin, was fragile and long. he played heavy parts, which possibly was the cause of his constant complaint that he had not got his share of "fat." although lengthy, he was even less in his various diameters than i was, still i longed for his length. and why? the widow walker wallowed in wealth untold, and i could see she smiled upon the suit of simon simpkin. well she might. it was second-hand. he, too, was a widower, or rather, he would have been if his wife had lived. i mean, if she had lived to be his wife. but she didn't. she died before the fatal knot was tied; in fact, it was not tied at all. no matter, he had loved before, while my suit was brand new. i determined to try it on. i longed to win the widow for my wife--i should say for myself. one day i saw the actor kiss her through the keyhole. we were rivals from that moment--at least i was. he didn't see me, or he would have been one too; i mean one also. that is to say there would have been two of us, whereas there was only one of me--no matter. the widow went a good deal to the theatre. she ordered him, and he gave her orders--that is, "passes for two." he knew her size. she always took "twos" in seats. he did the villains at the theatre, while i did the hero at home. he bellowed in blank verse, while i blew the kitchen fire with the bellows. he mashed her, while i mashed the potatoes for supper. but i determined to beard the clean-shaved lion in his lair. in short, or rather, at length, i obtained an engagement, and became an actor. my rival and myself now stood on the same footing. i mean we should have done, only, in a word, we didn't. simon simpkin, as before observed, indeed observed anyhow, was slender as a willow wand, and appropriately pliable, especially about the legs. still, on the stage, his nether limbs looked round and well proportioned. his calves might pass for cows, and his knees were second elbows, or rather, "elba's"--they held a bony part in exile. on the other hand--i should say legs--my tights were always loose, and while the widow smiled on his understanding, she smiled _at_ mine. i thirsted for my hated rival's blood, or rather for his flesh, more correctly speaking, for the shape of his legs--technically, for his "leg-shapes." having failed in an attempt to have his blood by means of a darning-needle, i determined to go for his shapes. i went for them one night before the performance. i went to his dressing-room and got them. that night the widow walker was in front. i was desperate. i was determined that she should see her simpkin in all his naked--i should say his unpadded--deformity, and that mine--that is, my limbs--should be resplendent in his borrowed plumes. but alas, all my plans--and myself--were violently overthrown--by simpkin. i had merely insinuated one leg in the woolly pads, when he insinuated another somewhere else. we argued the matter all over my dressing-room. meanwhile, time jogged merrily along. the curtain was raised, and so were we eventually; but unfortunately i had only retained one half of those precious pads. the right was left on my leg, but simpkin had carried off the left leg all right! what was i to do? my left leg would not look right, or if it did, my right would be wrong. there was no time, however, for consideration, as my face required sponging before applying the sticking-plaster, and eventually i had to hobble on to the stage with two odd understandings--that is, one odd one and one even one. even that was odd, which appears odd--no matter. fortunately i went on from the o.p. side, which enabled me to put my best leg foremost. in the centre of the stage i met simpkin, who had entered from the prompt side. the widow gazed with rapture on us both, until, oh, horror! after a short scene it was necessary that each of us should retire to the place from whence we came. we advanced towards it, backwards, and mutually stumbling, our other legs became exposed to view. a yell from the audience, the sack from the management, and a week's notice from the widow, subsequently greeted us. besides which, simpkin and myself are not on the best of terms. we get into argument when we meet in the streets. i stay at home a good deal now. (_by permission of the author._) the caliph's jester. (from the arabic.) on a _musnud_ of state was reclining the caliph, the mighty haroun; his brow like the sun it was shining, his face it was like the full moon, and his courtiers around him were standing, like stars in an indigo sky, and the _saki_ the wine-cup was handing--for the monarch, though pious, was dry. and the poets their works were reciting in arabic numbers divine, the hearts of all hearers delighting with verses like afdhal's or mine. then the caliph glared round the assembly, as a lion glares round on the herd, and the knees of the courtiers grew trembly, and their hearts fluttered e'en as a bird; and cold drops were distilled from each forehead, and each tongue to its palate did cling, for their fear of their caliph was horrid--he was such a passionate king! at length in a voice that with passion was shaking, it pleased him to speak:-- "does he know whom he treats in this fashion? did you e'er behold aught like his cheek? "this poet, this jester, this chaffer, this pig's son, this bullock, this ass, this black-hearted, black-visaged kaffir, this infidel, abu nuwas!" "i bade him come hither to meet us, in this serious council of state; and this is the way he dares treat us. ye dogs, he is five minutes late!" then the heart of his highness relented; rashid was of changeable mood; "maybe he's been somehow prevented; to get in a rage does no good. "his jests, too, are always so pleasant, one somehow his impudence stands; besides, poor mesrour just at present has plenty of work on his hands. "but although i can't perfectly tame him till he goes to the nita to school, at least i can thoroughly shame him, and make him appear like a fool. "slaves, fetch me some eggs--not new laid--you can find some stale ones that will do. now execute quick what i bade you, or else i will execute _you_." they brought him the eggs in a charger, all studded with many a pearl, the same pattern--though just a bit larger--as that of herodias' girl; and the caliph took one egg, and hid it away in his cushion, which done, he bade them all do so. they did it; and sat down awaiting the fun. with an air that was saucy and braggish, with a step that was jaunty and spruce, with a smile that was merry and waggish, with a mien that was reckless and loose, with a "how is your high disposition to-morrow, if god should so will?" with a "here in our ancient position, your majesty seeth us still!" with a face all be-chalked and be-painted, with a bound through the portal doth pass one with whom we're already acquainted, the world-renowned abu nuwas! "right welcome! right welcome! my brother!" his majesty smilingly spake, "we were just now in want of another, a nice game at forfeits to make. "whatever i do you must watch it, and each do precisely the same-- if i catch you chaps laughing you'll catch it! sit still and attend to the game. "if you do just as i do, precisely, a _dînâr_ apiece shall ye gain, if you don't, won't i give it you nicely--mesrour you stand by with the cane!" he spake: and the smile on his features was mischievous, cunning and grim, and the courtiers, poor awe-stricken creatures, smiled feebly and gazed upon him. "cluck, cluck, cluck aroo!" representing the note of a jubilant hen, the caliph arises, presenting an egg, to the sight of all men. "cluck, cluck, cluck aroo!" and the rabble are all at once up on their legs, and with ornithological gabble display their mysterious eggs. then without in the least hesitating steps abu nuwas before all. "cock-a-doodle doo doo!" imitating a rooster's hilarious call. "now i know why it is that you cackle," said he, "when you're trying to talk! and you find me a hard one to tackle, because i am cock of the walk!" (_from_ "temple bar," _by permission of the editor_.) a journey in search of nothing. wilkie collins. "yes," said the doctor, pressing the tips of his fingers with a tremulous firmness on my pulse, and looking straight forward into the pupils of my eyes, "yes, i see: the symptoms all point unmistakeably towards one conclusion--brain. my dear sir, you have been working too hard; you have been following the dangerous example of the rest of the world in this age of business and bustle. your brain is over-taxed--that is your complaint. you must let it rest--there is your remedy." "you mean," i said, "that i must keep quiet, and do nothing?" "precisely so," replied the doctor. "you must not read or write; you must abstain from allowing yourself to be excited by society; you must have no annoyances; you must feel no anxieties; you must not think; you must be neither elated nor depressed; you must keep early hours and take an occasional tonic, with moderate exercise, and a nourishing but not too full a diet--above all, a perfect repose is essential to your restoration, you must go away into the country, taking any direction you please, and living just as you like, as long as you are quiet and as long as you do nothing." "i presume he is not to go away into the country without me," said my wife, who was present at the interview. "certainly not," rejoined the doctor, with an acquiescent bow. "i look to your influence, my dear madam, to encourage our patient in following my directions. it is unnecessary to repeat them, they are so extremely simple and easy to carry out. i will answer for your husband's recovery if he will but remember that he has now only two objects in life--to keep quiet, and to do nothing." my wife is a woman of business habits. as soon as the doctor had taken his leave, she produced her pocket-book, and made a brief abstract of his directions for our future guidance. i looked over her shoulder and observed that the entry ran thus:-- "rules for dear william's restoration to health.--no reading; no writing; no excitement; no annoyance; no anxiety; no thinking. tonic. no elation of spirits. nice dinners. no depression of spirits. dear william to take little walks (with me). to go to bed early. to get up early. _n.b._--keep him quiet. _mem._ mind he does nothing." mind i do nothing? no need to mind that. i have not had a holiday since i was a boy. oh, blessed idleness, after the years of merciless industry that have separated us, are you and i to be brought together again at last? oh, my weary right hand, are you really to ache no longer with driving the ceaseless pen? may i, indeed, put you in my pocket and let you rest there, indolently, for hours together? yes! for i am now, at last, to begin--doing nothing. delightful task that performs itself! welcome responsibility that carries its weight away smoothly on its own shoulders! these thoughts shine in pleasantly on my mind after the doctor has taken his departure, and diffuse an easy gaiety over my spirits when my wife and i set forth, the next day, for the journey. we are not going the round of the noisy watering-places, nor is it our intention to accept any invitations to join the circles assembled by festive country friends. my wife, guided solely by the abstract of the doctor's directions in her pocket-book, has decided that the only way to keep me absolutely quiet, and to make sure of my doing nothing, is to take me to some pretty, retired village, and to put me up at a little primitive, unsophisticated country inn. i offer no objection to this project--not because i have no will of my own, and am not master of all my movements--but only because i happen to agree with my wife. considering what a very independent man i am naturally, it has sometimes struck me, as a rather remarkable circumstance, that i always do agree with her. we find the pretty, retired village. a charming place, full of thatched cottages, with creepers at the doors, like the first easy lessons in drawing-masters' copy-books. we find the unsophisticated inn--just the sort of house that the novelists are so fond of writing about, with the snowy curtains, and the sheets perfumed by lavender, and the matronly landlady, and the amusing signpost. this elysium is called the nag's head. can the nag's head accommodate us? yes, with a delightful bedroom, and a sweet parlour. my wife takes off her bonnet, and makes herself at home directly. she nods her head at me with a look of triumph. "yes, dear, on this occasion also i quite agree with you. here we have found perfect quiet; here we may make sure of obeying the doctor's orders; here we have at last discovered--nothing." nothing! did i say nothing? we arrive at the nag's head late in the evening, have our tea, go to bed tired with our journey, sleep delightfully till about three o'clock in the morning, and, at that hour, begin to discover that there are actually noises, even in this remote country seclusion. they keep fowls at the nag's head; and at three o'clock, the cock begins to crow, and the hen to cluck, under our window. pastoral, my dear, and suggestive of eggs for breakfast whose reputation is above suspicion; but i wish these cheerful fowls did not wake quite so early. are there, likewise, dogs, love, at the nag's head, and are they trying to bark down the crowing and clucking of the cheerful fowls? i should wish to guard myself against the possibility of making a mistake, but i think i hear three dogs. a shrill dog, who barks rapidly; a melancholy dog, who howls monotonously; and a hoarse dog, who emits barks at intervals, like minute guns. is this going on long? apparently it is. my dear, if you will refer to your pocket-book, i think you will find that the doctor recommended early hours. we will not be fretful and complain of having our morning sleep disturbed; we will be contented, and will only say that it is time to get up. breakfast. delicious meal, let us linger over it as long as we can,--let us linger, if possible, till the drowsy mid-day tranquillity begins to sink over this secluded village. strange! but now i think of it again, do i, or do i not, hear an incessant hammering over the way? no manufacture is being carried on in this peaceful place, no new houses are being built; and yet, there is such a hammering, that, if i shut my eyes, i can almost fancy myself in the neighbourhood of a dock-yard. waggons, too. why does a waggon which makes so little noise in london, make so much noise here? is the dust on the road detonating powder, that goes off with a report at every turn of the heavy wheels? does the waggoner crack his whip or fire a pistol to encourage his horses? children, next. only five of them, and they have not been able to settle for the last half-hour what game they shall play at. on two points alone do they appear to be unanimous--they are all agreed on making a noise, and on stopping to make it under our window. i think i am in some danger of forgetting one of the doctor's directions; i rather fancy i am actually allowing myself to be annoyed. let us take a turn in the garden, at the back of the house. dogs again. the yard is on one side of the garden. every time our walk takes us near it, the shrill dog barks, and the hoarse dog growls. the doctor tells me to have no anxieties. i am suffering devouring anxieties. these dogs may break loose and fly at us, for anything i know to the contrary, at a moment's notice. what shall i do? give myself a drop of tonic? or escape for a few hours from the perpetual noises of this retired spot, by taking a drive? my wife says, take a drive. i think i have already mentioned that i invariably agree with my wife. the drive is successful in procuring us a little quiet. my directions to the coachman are to take us where he pleases, so long as he keeps away from secluded villages. we suffer much jolting in by-lanes, and encounter a great variety of bad smells. but a bad smell is a noiseless nuisance, and i am ready to put up with it patiently. towards dinner time we return to our inn. meat, vegetables, pudding, all excellent, clean and perfectly cooked. as good a dinner as ever i wish to eat;--shall i get a little nap after it? the fowls, the dogs, the hammer, the children, the waggons, are quiet at last. is there anything else left to make a noise? yes: there is the working population of the place. it is getting on towards evening, and the sons of labour are assembling on the benches placed outside the inn, to drink. what a delightful scene they would make of this homely everyday event on the stage! how the simple creatures would clink their tin mugs, and drink each other's healths, and laugh joyously in chorus! how the peasant maidens would come tripping on the scene and lure the men tenderly to the dance! where are the pipe and tabour that i have seen in so many pictures; where the simple songs that i have read about in so many poems? what do i hear as i listen, prone on the sofa, to the evening gathering of the rustic throng? oaths,--nothing, on my word of honour, but oaths! i look out, and see gangs of cadaverous savages drinking gloomily from brown mugs, and swearing at each other every time they open their lips. never in any large town, at home or abroad, have i been exposed to such an incessant fire of unprintable words, as now assail my ears in this primitive village. no man can drink to another without swearing at him first. no man can ask a question without adding a mark of interrogation at the end in the shape of an oath. whether they quarrel (which they do for the most part), or whether they agree; whether they talk of their troubles in this place, or their good luck in that; whether they are telling a story, or proposing a toast, or giving an order, or finding fault with the beer, these men seem to be positively incapable of speaking without an allowance of at least five foul words for every one fair word that issues from their lips. english is reduced in their mouths to a brief vocabulary of all the vilest expressions in the language. this is an age of civilisation; this is a christian country; opposite me i see a building with a spire, which is called, i believe, a church; past my window, not an hour since, there rattled a neat pony chaise with a gentleman inside clad in glossy black broad cloth, and popularly known by the style and title of clergyman. and yet, under all these good influences, here sit twenty or thirty men whose ordinary table-talk is so outrageously beastly and blasphemous, that not a single sentence of it, though it lasted the whole evening, could be printed as a specimen for public inspection, in these pages. when the intelligent foreigner comes to england, and when i tell him (as i am sure to do) that we are the most moral people in the universe, i will take good care that he does not set his foot in a secluded british village when the rural population is reposing over its mug of small beer after the labours of the day. i am not a squeamish person, neither is my wife, but the social intercourse of the villagers drives us out of our room, and sends us to take refuge at the back of the house. do we gain anything by the change? none whatever. the back parlour to which we have now retreated, looks out on a bowling-green; and there are more benches, more mugs of beer, more foul-mouthed villagers on the bowling-green. immediately under our window is a bench and table for two, and on it are seated a drunken old man and a drunken old woman. the aged sot in trousers is offering marriage to the aged sot in petticoats with frightful oaths of endearment. never before did i imagine that swearing could be twisted to the purposes of courtship. never before did i suppose that a man could make an offer of his hand by bellowing imprecations on his eyes, or that all the powers of the infernal regions could be appropriately summoned to bear witness to the beating of a lover's heart under the influence of the tender passion. i know it now, and i derive little satisfaction from gaining the knowledge of it. the ostler is lounging about the bowling-green, scratching his bare brawny arms and yawning grimly in the mellow evening sunlight. i beckon to him, and ask him at what time the tap closes? he tells me at eleven o'clock. it is hardly necessary to say that we put off going to bed until that time, when we retire for the night, drenched from head to foot, if i may so speak, in floods of bad language. i cautiously put my head out of window, and see that the lights of the tap-room are really extinguished at the appointed time. i hear the drinkers oozing out grossly into the pure freshness of the summer night. they all growl together; they all go together. all? sinner and sufferer that i am, i have been premature in arriving at that happy conclusion! six choice spirits, with a social horror in their souls of going home to bed, prop themselves against the wall of the inn, and continue the evening's conversazione in the darkness. i hear them cursing at each other by name. we have tom, dick, and sam, jem, bill, and bob, to enliven us under our window after we are in bed. they begin improving each other's minds, as a matter of course, by quarrelling. music follows, and soothes the strife, in the shape of a local duet, sung by voices of vast compass, which soar in one note from howling bass to cracked treble. yawning follows the duet; long, loud, weary yawning of all the company in chorus. this amusement over, tom asks dick for "backer," and dick denies that he has got any, and tom tells him he lies, and sam strikes in and says, "no, he doan't," and jem tells sam he lies, and bill tells him that if he was sam he would punch jem's head, and bob, apparently snuffing the battle afar off, and not liking the scent of it, shouts suddenly a pacific "good night" in the distance. the farewell salutation seems to quiet the gathering storm. they all roar responsive to the good night of bob. next, a song in chorus from bob's five friends. outraged by this time beyond all endurance, i spring out of bed and seize the water-jug. i pause before i empty the water on the heads of the assembly beneath; i pause, and hear--o! most melodious, most welcome of sounds!--the sudden fall of rain. the merciful sky has anticipated me; the "clerk of the weather" has been struck by my idea of dispersing the nag's head night club by water. by the time i have put down the jug and got back to bed, silence--primeval silence, the first, the foremost of all earthly influences--falls sweetly over our tavern at last. that night, before sinking wearily to rest, i have once more the satisfaction of agreeing with my wife. dear and admirable woman! she proposes to leave this secluded village the first thing to-morrow morning. never did i share her opinion more cordially than i share it now. instead of keeping myself composed, i have been living in a region of perpetual disturbance; and, as for doing nothing, my mind has been so agitated and perturbed that i have not even had time to think about it. we will go, love--as you so sensibly suggest--we will go the first thing in the morning to any place you like, so long as it is large enough to swallow up small sounds. where, over all the surface of this noisy earth, the blessing of tranquility may be found, i know not; but this i do know: a secluded english village is the very last place towards which any man should think of turning his steps, if the main object of his walk through life is to discover quiet. (_by permission of the author._) gemini and virgo. c. s. calverley. some vast amount of years ago, ere all my youth had vanish'd from me, a boy it was my lot to know, whom his familiar friends called tommy. i love to gaze upon a child; a young bud bursting into blossom; artless, as eve yet unbeguiled, and agile as a young opossum: and such was he. a calm-brow'd lad, yet mad, at moments, as a hatter: why hatters as a race are mad i never knew, nor does it matter. he was what nurses call a "limb;" one of those small misguided creatures who, tho' their intellects are dim, are one too many for their teachers: and, if you asked of him to say what twice was, or times , he'd glance (in quite a placid way) from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; and smile, and look politely round, to catch a casual suggestion; but make no effort to propound any solution of the question. and not so much esteemed was he of the authorities: and therefore he fraternized by chance with me, needing a somebody to care for: and three fair summers did we twain live (as they say) and love together; and bore by turns the wholesome cane till our young skins became as leather: and carved our names on every desk, and tore our clothes, and inked our collars; and looked unique and picturesque, but not, it may be, model scholars. we did much as we chose to do; we'd never heard of mrs. grundy; all the theology we knew was that we mighn't play on sunday; and all the general truths, that cakes were to be bought at half a penny, and that excruciating aches resulted if we ate too many: and seeing ignorance is bliss, and wisdom consequently folly, the obvious result is this-- that our two lives were very jolly. at last the separation came, real love, at that time, was the fashion; and by a horrid chance, the same young thing was, to us both, a passion. old poser snorted like a horse: his feet were large, his hands were pimply, his manner, when excited, coarse:-- but miss p. was an angel simply. she was a blushing, gushing thing; all--more than all--my fancy painted; once--when she helped me to a wing of goose--i thought i should have fainted. the people said that she was blue: but i was green, and loved her dearly. she was approaching thirty-two; and i was then eleven, nearly. i did not love as others do; (none ever did that i've heard tell of); my passion was a byword through the town she was, of course, the belle of: oh sweet--as to the toilworn man the far-off sound of rippling river; as to cadets in hindostan the fleeting remnant of their liver-- to me was anna; dear as gold that fills the miser's sunless coffers; as to the spinster, growing old, the thought--the dream--that she had offers. i'd sent her little gifts of fruit; i'd written lines to her as venus; i'd sworn unflinchingly to shoot the man who dared to come between us: and it was you, my thomas you, the friend in whom my soul confided, who dared to gaze on--to do, i may say, much the same as i did. one night i saw him squeeze her hand; there was no doubt about the matter; i said he must resign, or stand my vengeance--and he chose the latter. we met, we "planted" blows on blows: we fought as long as we were able: my rival had a bottle-nose, and both my speaking eyes were sable. when the school-bell cut short our strife, miss p. gave both of us a plaister; and in a week became the wife of horace nibbs, the writing-master. * * * * * i loved her then--i'd love her still, only one must not love another's: but thou and i, my tommy, will, when we again meet, meet as brothers. it may be that in age one seeks peace only: that the blood is brisker in boys' veins, than in theirs whose cheeks are partially obscured by whisker; or that the growing ages steal the memories of past wrongs from us. but this is certain--that i feel most friendly unto thee, oh thomas! and whereso'er we meet again, on this or that side the equator, if i've not turned teetotaller then, and have wherewith to pay the waiter, to thee i'll drain the modest cup, ignite with thee the mild havannah; and we will waft, while liquoring up, forgiveness to the heartless anna. (_by permission of_ mrs. calverley.) king bibbs. james albery. "it's all through that liberal government." these were the words uttered by king bibbs as he stood in the rain without an umbrella; and it was not the first time he had uttered them. think of it! there stood king bibbs in the rain without an umbrella. once upon a time king bibbs had a beautiful palace; but there came a liberal government, and they promised the nation economy. their policy was to save and censure, to cut down everything they did pay for, and to cut up everything they did not. they contracted that every soldier in the army should have one nail less in his boots, and they blamed the last government for not having soldiers who required no boots at all. they arranged that the royal charwomen should clean the floors of the government offices with soap without sand or with sand without soap; and they censured the late government for having floors that wanted any cleaning. they cut down the amount and the quality of the cheese required for the royal mousetraps, and they pointed out to a plundered people that the last government were entirely to blame for there being any mice. they voted that the royal weather-cock on the national stable should be re-gilt only once in six years, instead of once in five, and they made it clear, at least to their own party, that it was entirely owing to the tactics of the late government that weather-cocks were required at all; and it must be admitted that upon this point the late government were a little bit with them. it was a _fine time_, and the nation that king bibbs reigned over might well feel proud. they did. but you know that if you keep the stove going by what you can spare from your household furniture, the time will come when you will be a little at a loss for firewood. what would you do? you cannot part with the comfortable chair you sit in, and your friends must have their little places; so very likely, if you had no respect for time-honoured things, you would break up some grand old cabinet that your forefathers loved, but that to you appeared useless, and so you'd keep the stove going. and as long as the fire lasted, you and your friends would be warm and snug in your places. that's just what our government did--not ours, of course--but the one i am talking of. they turned their eyes on the king's palace, and they said the nation cannot be saddled with this expense. they had already saved the nation about a farthing per head per annum, and this new sacrifice would save about an eighth as much more. but you must understand that every man looked at the amount saved in the lump; he never thought of the farthing that was put in his pocket in return for the time he wasted in attending public meetings, but had a vague idea that the golden thousands talked of were in some remote way his rescued property. what a splendid show of justice, wasn't it now, when bills were plastered all over king bibbs's palace, to say those desirable premises would be sold by public auction on such a date? it touched the people to the core; they gave up half a day to flock round the palace, and read the bills; they lost another half-day's work to see the palace sold; they spent a day's wages to get drunk to celebrate this crowning stroke of economy, and in their wild delight at the justice done them, they quite forgot to bank the one-eighth of a farthing which the generous government had put into their pockets. how common it is to say, we go from bad to worse, and on that principle i suppose it was that this liberal government went from good to better. if it was good that the poor king should give up his palace and live like a private gentleman, would it not be better that he should go a grade lower, and live like a retired tradesman? the odd fact was, that the more they stripped poor king bibbs of the sacred paraphernalia that once adorned his life, the more useless he appeared in the eyes of his subjects; and he was cut down from a palace to a mansion, and from a mansion to a villa; from having one hundred horses to ten; and from ten to none. and so it was that king bibbs came to be walking in the rain without an umbrella; and so it was, as he reflected on the past he exclaimed,-- "it's all through that liberal government." his most gracious majesty had been to the reading-rooms to look at the morning papers, and see what his government were doing. it may seem wrong that he should thus waste a penny; but remember, it was his duty to see how his people were getting on. as he left the rooms there was a quiet, sad smile on the king's face. "ah," he muttered, "my prime minister is very clever, but he is all ambition and vanity; he tries to sail the ship with nothing but flags. i do wish he would take in the bunting and put out some canvas, so that we might have a little real progress instead of so much show." at this time he was just turning the corner of daisy road on his way home, when suddenly it began to rain. "bless me," said his majesty, "it's going to pour, and i've forgotten my umbrella, i shall have my crown quite spoilt. dear! dear! dear!" the rain fell faster, and the poor king had yet two miles to go. his ermine was getting quite damp. "what am i to do?" he exclaimed. "i shall be wet through. dear! dear! i shall be obliged to take a cab." the king looked along the road, and saw one coming. "hi! hi!" shouted his most gracious majesty, and he waved his sceptre till it almost flew out of his hand. "going home to change," said the cabman, with a careless air. "don't you know i'm the king?" said poor bibbs. "oh, yes, you're know'd well enough," sneered the cabman; "give my love to the old woman." "there, there!" said the poor monarch, appealing plaintively to the empty street; "there, that comes of having a liberal government; as soon as i get a change i'll be a despot." you see the true royal spirit in him was not quite crushed. the rain fell faster, and king bibbs took off his crown and was looking at the great wet spots on the red cotton velvet when a loud voice exclaimed:--"does your most gracious majesty want a cab?" the king was about to enter the cab without a word, when a ragged boy officiously stood by the wheel. "what do you want?" said the boy's sovereign. "to keep your most gracious majesty's royal robe from touching the wheel," said the boy. "i can do it myself," said the king, in quite an angry tone. now in the ordinary way a monarch would look upon such an attention as simply his due, but he knew this ragged young subject was looking for patronage; he wanted a copper, and the king felt he could not afford it. all who have studied the workings of the human heart know how we conceal our motives even from ourselves. to look at king bibbs you would have thought he simply resented the boy's officiousness. he tried to persuade himself so, but the underlying feeling was his annoyance at not having a copper to spare. how he would have blushed if any of the great powers of europe could have seen him at that moment! "go to the devil," said the king to his subject. "go away! go away!" "blow'd if i pay my income tax next week!" said the young traitor as he made a very wicked face at the back of the cab. "that's a bad boy," muttered bibbs, as the cab drove off. now bibbs, like many another proud spirit, had enjoyed the noble pleasure of refusing, which is only felt when you have full power to comply. when you are forced to refuse through weakness, it is very galling to a monarch, or even to one of us. "a d--d bad boy!" he exclaimed, and as if the truth would out in spite of him he muttered: "it's all thro' that liberal government." the house to which king bibbs had directed the cabman to drive him, was what is now called a villa. it was one of a row, and was certainly not at all suggestive of a palace. still it had a nice breakfast-parlour underground, and a handsome little drawing-room, with folding doors, upstairs. the rent was low, and the neighbourhood was considered, by those who lived there, fashionable. at first poor bibbs was treated with some respect, but after a time he fell into contempt, for kings, like other people, must keep their places. on arriving at his house the king stepped from the cab and took out his purse. it would have done any liberal government good to see a constitutional monarch like bibbs rubbing the edges of certain light coins to see if they were threepennies or fourpennies. but it would not have done any one good to see the look on the cabman's face as he received his fare. the king turned to go indoors. "here, hi!" shouted the cabman. "what's the matter?" asked the king. "what's the matter? as if your most gracious majesty did not know! i want another sixpence." "you've got your fare," said the king. "got my fare!" retorted the cabman; "you're a pretty gracious majesty, you are. you go about rolling in luxury and wealth out of the hard earnings of sich as me, and that's the way you use the money. bah! the sooner you're done away with altogether the better. what good are you? why you ain't worth the crown on your head." the cabman drove away to swear, and the king paused to reflect. it took the king some time to calculate, but he found he cost that cabman, at his present rate of expenditure--he cost that cabman about an eighth of a farthing every ten years. the king's lips moved, though he breathed no word; but any one who had watched the kind mouth would have seen that he was muttering something about that liberal government. he took out his latch-key and let himself in; he paused in the passage, gently wiped his crown on the sleeve of his robe, and hung it on a hat-peg, and, placing his sceptre in the stand beside his forgotten umbrella--forgetfulness that had cost him a shilling--walked slowly into the parlour. he sat down to meditate. you have only to read your shakespeare to know this is the way of kings. he soliloquised somewhat in this fashion: "it's quite clear the cheaper i get the more useless i appear. while i was surrounded with pomp, the people ran after and applauded me; now i get abused by a low cabman. i was like a grand ruin: while the columns stand, and the broken entablatures lie about in picturesque profusion, it is visited, made pictures of, and admired. but take away the old adornments, clear away the ground, and leave only a little pile of useless earth to mark the spot, and admiration and wonder, as they turn their backs on it, will soon find respect at their heels--i see my fate." the king grew reckless, and ordered an egg for his tea. you have only to read your poets, and you will see that these sudden desperate acts foreshadow impending doom. at the moment that bibbs was wiping a small spot of egg from his beard, his ministers were holding a cabinet council to determine what should be their next move to keep up their popularity. there was nothing to cut down but the places of themselves and their friends and relations. that was out of the question. the labourer is worthy of his hire, and they had laboured hard to get into their present position. how would it be if they determined that the king should no longer receive any help from the state, but earn his own living? a little hard work would be good for the king's constitution. the idea was a popular one. it was carried out. but poor king bibbs was too old to work, so it occurred to one of the ministers, who knew a city gentleman who had an ugly daughter that he wanted to marry to a person of rank, that by his influence the poor king might be got into an almshouse. after some difficulty it was done, and his most gracious majesty found himself in possession of two small rooms and ten shillings a week. any reasonable old monarch, you would think, might have been very comfortable under these circumstances, but wherever he turned he met unfriendly glances. people said almshouses were meant for industrious but unfortunate tradesmen and their wives, and not for bloated old emperors and kings. here was a monarch not only grinding them down with taxation, but actually taking from them the just reward of virtuous old age. at last it happened that a shopkeeper died insolvent, and his aged widow was destitute. there was nothing for it but to put her on the parish, which would be an expense, or get her into an almshouse. the matter touched the pockets of the parishioners, and you may be pretty sure that soon a fine clamour was raised. what had the king done to deserve charity? nothing. meetings were held, bundles of letters were sent to the newspapers, and at last the influential city gentleman, who meant to stand for the borough at the next election, was forced to turn out king bibbs or lose his popularity. the influential gentleman assured his most gracious majesty that he turned him out with great reluctance. what was to be done now? it was pretty clear that the king must go on the parish. but what parish? it mattered not where he had lived, he had never paid his rates, and not a parish would have him. vestries met and discussed the matter. it was referred to committees, minutes were brought up and referred back again; meantime poor bibbs, who would not go in as a casual, was left, like old lear, to perish. it is true that on the first night an old chartist, who was once imprisoned for treason, took pity on him, and gave him a bed, but when the king found out who his benefactor was, his old pride arose within him, and he turned away. his most gracious majesty might have been seen feeling with his thumb-nail the edge of his last coin. it was smooth; king bibbs had but threepence in the world. at this moment he saw some men with advertising boards on their backs. he looked at them; they were old and feeble. ah! thought the king, i think i am strong enough to carry boards. he went up to one of the men, and asked him most respectfully where he got his employment. the man turned round and sneered out,-- "oh, you want to rob _us_ now, do you? you want to take the crust out of our mouths. you ain't content with grinding _us_ poor working men down with taxes--you ain't content with having every luxury down to almhouses, but you must interfere with _us_. if i catch your most gracious majesty with _half_ a board on your back, i'll just smash you. there!" it will be observed that the people had lost nothing of the outward show of respect, and always addressed the king in the proper way. poor bibbs bought a penny biscuit, and with the remaining twopence a piece of card and a bit of string. he wrote on the card, "pray pity a poor constitutional monarch." and with his crown in his hand to get whatever charity would give, he went into the bitter world to beg his way down to the grave. * * * * * things went on merrily with the ministry for years. they filled all the old places and invented new. they put the king's head on the coin, and put the coin in their pockets. but one fine day a certain eastern despot with whom they had been intriguing, thought it a politic thing to pay king bibbs a visit in state. here was a pretty kettle of fish! what were they to do for a king? it would never do to tell the eastern despot they didn't know where their king was, and they did not care; he would have broken with them at once. they sent in all directions to inquire for the king, but he was not to be found. they then tried an advertisement:-- if this should meet the eye of king bibbs, he is requested to return to his disconsolate ministers, and all shall be forgiven. but poor bibbs had not seen a newspaper for years, and his ministers were left disconsolate. then appeared another advertisement:-- lost, a king answering to the name of bibbs. if any one will take him to the treasury he will be _liberally_ rewarded. now it so happened that a quiet man of business, as he was passing along a country highway, saw a poor old half crazy man eating a few dry crusts. by his side was a bent sceptre, and on his head an old and battered crown, while his robe of royal purple was torn and soiled, and the ermine on it worn nearly bare and black. as the stranger approached him, the old man took off his crown, and in a feeble voice said, "pray pity a poor constitutional monarch." the stranger looked in his face and exclaimed, "good heaven, poor soul, what has brought you to this?" the old man brushed a tear away from his sunken eye, and muttered-- "it was all through that liberal government!" * * * * * a week after a great city was all aglare with flags, and ablare with trumpets. the streets were lined with people, and a procession passed, at the head of which was a grand carriage drawn by eight horses. in the carriage sat a feeble old man in a splendid robe, and with a new crown that he kept taking off as he bowed to the multitude. at his side was the splendid eastern despot, who bowed too, for the people not only said "long live king bibbs!" but they wished the splendid eastern despot long life as well. near the palace gates as they returned, the king left off bowing, and some were shocked at his pride and some at his pallor. a few days after there was a grand and solemn procession. and again, a few days after that, a grand and glorious procession. * * * * * the government were true to their policy, and the wording of their advertisement. the stranger who had found king bibbs, after wasting years in applications, received a note to say his affair was under consideration. (_by permission of the author._) molly muldoon. anonymous. molly muldoon was an irish girl, and as fine a one as you'd look upon in the cot of a peasant or hall of an earl. her teeth were white, though not of pearl,-- and dark was her hair, but it did not curl; yet few who gazed on her teeth and her hair, but owned that a power of beauty was there. now many a hearty and rattling gorsoon whose fancy had charmed his heart into tune, would dare to approach fair molly muldoon, but for _that_ in her eye which made most of them shy and look quite ashamed, though they couldn't tell why-- her eyes were large, dark blue, and clear, and _heart_ and _mind_ seemed in them blended. if _intellect_ sent you one look severe _love_ instantly leapt in the next to mend it-- hers was the eye to check the rude, and hers the eye to stir emotion, to keep the sense and soul subdued and calm desire into devotion. there was jemmy o'hare, as fine a boy as you'd see in a fair, and wherever molly was he was there. his face was round and his build was square, and he sported as rare and tight a pair of legs, to be sure, as are found anywhere. and jemmy would wear his _caubeen_ and hair with such a peculiar and rollicking air, that i'd venture to swear not a girl in kildare nor victoria's self, if she chanced to be there, could resist his wild way--called "devil-may-care." not a boy in the parish could match him for fun, nor wrestle, nor leap, nor hurl, nor run with jemmy--no gorsoon could equal him--none, at wake, or at wedding, at feast or at fight, at throwing the sledge with such dext'rous sleight,-- he was the envy of men, and the women's delight. now molly muldoon liked jemmy o'hare, and in troth jemmy loved in his heart miss muldoon. i believe in my conscience a purtier pair never danced in a tent at a pattern in june,-- to a bagpipe or fiddle on the rough cabin door that is placed in the middle-- ye may talk as ye will there's a grace in the limbs of the peasantry there with which people of quality couldn't compare; and molly and jemmy were counted the two that would keep up the longest and go the best through all the jigs and the reels that have occupied heels since the days of the murtaghs and brian boru. it was on a long bright sunny day they sat on a green knoll side by side, but neither just then had much to say; their hearts were so full that they only tried to do anything foolish, just to hide what both of them felt, but what molly denied. they plucked the speckled daisies that grew close by their arms,--then tore them too; and the bright little leaves that they broke from the stalk they threw at each other for want of talk; while the heart-lit look and the sunny smile reflected pure souls without art or guile, and every time molly sighed or smiled, jem felt himself grow as soft as a child; and he fancied the sky never looked so bright, the grass so green, the daisies so white; everything looked so gay in his sight that gladly he'd linger to watch them till night,-- and molly herself thought each little bird whose warbling notes her calm soul stirred,-- sang only his lay but by her to be heard. an irish courtship's short and sweet, it's sometimes foolish and indiscreet; but who is wise when his young heart's heat whips the pulse to a galloping beat-- ties up his judgment neck and feet and makes him the slave of a blind conceit? sneer not, therefore, at the loves of the poor, though their manners be rude their affections are pure; they look not by art, and they love not by rule, for their souls are not tempered in fashion's cold school. oh! give me the love that endures no control but the delicate instinct that springs from the soul, as the mountain stream gushes its freshness and force, yet obedient, wherever it flows to its source. yes, give me that but nature has taught, by rank unallured and by riches unbought; whose very simplicity keeps it secure-- the love that illumines the heart of the poor. all blushful was molly, or shy at least as one week before lent jem procured her consent to go the next sunday and spake to the priest, shrove-tuesday was named for the wedding to be, and it dawned as bright as they'd wish to see. and jemmy was up at the day's first peep for the live-long night, no wink could he sleep; a bran-new coat, with a bright big button, he took from a chest, and carefully put on-- and brogues as well _lampblacked_ as ever went foot on were greased with the fat of _a quare sort of mutton_! then a tidier _gorsoon_ couldn't be seen treading the emerald sod so green-- light was his step and bright was his eye as he walked through the _slobbery_ streets of athy. and each girl he passed, bid "god bless him," and sighed, while she wished in her heart that herself was the bride. hush! here's the priest--let not the least whisper be heard till the father has ceased. "come, bridegroom and bride, that the knot may be tied which no power upon earth can hereafter divide." up rose the bride, and the bridegroom too, and a passage was made for them both to walk through! and his rev'rence stood with a sanctified face, which spread its infection around the place. the bridesmaid bustled and whispered the bride, who felt so confused that she almost cried, but at last bore up and walked forward, where the father was standing with solemn air; the bridegroom was following after with pride, _when his piercing eye something awful espied_! he stooped and sighed, looked round and tried to tell what he saw, but his tongue denied: with a spring and a roar, he jumped to the door, and the bride laid her eyes on the bridegroom no more! some years sped on yet heard no one of jemmy o'hare, or where he had gone. but since the night of that widowed feast, the strength of poor molly had ever decreased; till, at length, from earth's sorrow her soul released, fled up to be ranked with the saints at least. and the morning poor molly to live had ceased, just five years after the widowed feast, an american letter was brought to the priest, telling of jemmy o'hare deceased! who ere his death, with his latest breath, to a spiritual father unburdened his breast and the cause of his sudden departure confest,-- "oh! father," says he, "i've not long to live, so i'll freely confess, and hope you'll forgive-- that same molly muldoon, sure i loved her indeed; ay, as well, as the creed that was never forsaken by one of my breed; but i couldn't have married her after i saw"-- "saw what?" cried the father desirous to hear-- and the chair that he sat in unconsciously rocking-- "not in her 'karàcter,' yer rev'rince, a flaw"-- the sick man here dropped a significant tear and died as he whispered in the clergyman's ear-- "but i saw, god forgive her, a hole in her stocking!" the harmonious lobsters. robert reece. it has always appeared to me as a remarkable fact that the practice of music does not promote amongst its devotees the harmony which is its own very gist and soul. the "concord of sweet sounds" is not reflected in the good fellowship and friendly cohesion of musicians; and the spiritualising power of the divine art seems too often to evaporate with the notes produced, and leave with its professors the hard _residuum_ of an exact science and a mechanical art. the rivalry and jealousy so noticeable amongst musical people is peculiar to them; and, though you may with impunity neglect to demand from the actors, poets, painters, sculptors, preachers, physicians, surgeons, or lawyers an exhibition of their skill in their respective arts, you will make a foe for life if you omit to ask the musician to perform. we all know the "musical people" at parties; how cordially we welcome the production of that fatal waterproof roll, with its diabolical contents of "pieces" and "ballads;" how enthusiastically we press jones to "give us another song," and how cheerfully and promptly (i might almost say "hastily") jones obliges us. it is of no use suggesting to miss robinson that you "are afraid you are taxing her too far." miss robinson has another ballad, or another "piece"--"tricklings at eve," or "wobblings at noon," ready for you. i have belonged to several musical clubs in my time, and know something of my subject, especially the amateur section of it. i once officiated at a professional gathering to the great hurt of a very kind man. i was invited by a genial music publisher to join a "professional dinner" which he gave yearly to the principal musicians, his very good friends. the profession mustered very strongly, and did ample justice to excellent fare; on our repairing to the drawing-room, i expected, of course, to be entertained with some really good music, but i found that no one would "start the ball." in the full glare of professional eyes i opened the piano and the proceedings myself. before i had played forty bars every "professional" was making for the instrument. i concluded. i had "started the ball," or rather a musical "boomerang," which was to return viciously upon me and my host. every man present held the pianoforte in turn, and at half-past two in the morning (_i_ had commenced at ten in the evening), there were still some unwearied musicians insisting on playing their own compositions to unappreciative audiences of rival professors. perhaps they are still playing. i never did any business with that music publisher again. years ago i belonged to an amateur musical society which had its being in a fashionable suburb, and was known by the felicitous title, "the harmonious lobsters." to account for this name i may state that the society owed its origin to certain jovial meetings held at a friend's chambers, where these succulent _crustacea_ were discussed (to soft music) at supper, twice a month. as the club grew, the suppers deceased; and, as the society became important and pretentious, so the original joviality evaporated. "the harmonious lobsters" were as pleasant amongst themselves as the genuine uncooked articles are in a fishmonger's basket. every member struggled to be "top-sawyer;" every artist, down to the little doctor who played the triangle regarded himself as the mainstay, sole prop, and presiding genius of the society. we mustered a small orchestra, consisting of two flutes, two cornets, two violins, one viola, one violoncello, a drum, a clarionet, and the triangle above mentioned. the performances of this "limited band" were more remarkable for their force than their precision; and a want of "tone" and completeness was the result of an endeavour on the part of each performer to make the instrument he played specially conspicuous. it didn't matter so much with the flutes, violins, and clarionet; but the two cornets were a serious nuisance. gasper and puffin (both "first" cornets, of course!) were deadly rivals, implacable foes. each aspired to be the ruler of the club, each regarded himself as _the_ performer _par excellence_. the flutes were not friendly, and the violoncello was crabbed and unpleasant, but those cornets were insufferable. we all felt that a crisis was at hand, and we all devoutly wished it; for while puffin and gasper asserted themselves, we others were, to a defined extent, hiding our light under a bushel. the catastrophe was foreshadowed by a stormy meeting convened to arrange the programme of our fourth and last annual concert. "of course," premised the first violin, who was also secretary and librarian, "we have all a solo!" there was no doubt of _that_, except as regarded the "doubles," viz., the two flutes and the two cornets. the first couple had so far coalesced as to submit to the prowess being displayed in a duet, which was destined to be less flute than elaborate flatulence. "let's begin at the beginning," said gasper. "no. : that's an overture for _tutti_; say, 'the caliph of bagdad.'" "_i_ don't mind," responded the secretary. "it's easy enough, and there's lots of show for the violins." "the question now arises," jerked in puffin, "who is to be the _first_ soloist? _i_ won't." "nor likely to be," sneered gasper. "i understand your narrow-mindedness, gasper," retorted puffin; "but i shall choose my own place and my own solo." "so shall _i_," announced gasper; "go on." the secretary proceeded. "shall we say: solo (_clarionet_)--mr. r. lipsey." "anything for a quiet life," said lipsey. "_i_'m not afraid." so it went on for four more items, when it became obvious that the "best place," in the first part of the programme was open to competition. "_my_ solo," said gasper, "comes in here." "thank you," replied puffin; "i claim it myself." "_do_ you?" grinned gasper; "i stick to this point." "so do _i_," said the undaunted puffin. "no, but really, you know," argued the secretary, "it must be settled: let _me_ cut the knot. _i_'ll play _my_ solo here." a howl of opposition now arose. every performer, exclusive of the drum and the triangle, had decided to "go in" for the "show place" in the programme. "i leave the society if i do not play my solo here," said gasper. "i have no more to say!" and he sat down. "so do _i_," echoed puffin, "and get on with 'the caliph' if you can without a second cornet." this was clinching matters with a vengeance. "look here," interposed the doctor. "_i_ don't play a solo, so i speak impartially, i hope. let gasper play his solo in _this_ part, and puffin _his_ solo in the best place of the _second_ part of the programme. that'll settle it." there was a tumult immediately; everybody seemed to be multiplied by ten. "don't be a fool," whispered the doctor to gasper. "stick to your right place in the first part; all the swells look for _that_. they'll be gone before puffin gets _his_ turn." gasper was quiet in a moment. the doctor, winking at me, got hold of the stony but still excited puffin. "let him have his blessed solo _early_, my boy," said the triangle. "the big people won't have taken their seats by then. you'll have it all your own way." to this day i believe the doctor had a professional impulse in this advice. during a lull puffin spoke. "_let_ mr. gasper have his solo in the first part. i flatter myself i can face the inferior position without any fear." "you are _so_ modest," retorted the delighted gasper. "put it down, basscleff. solo (_cornet_) 'the wind from the sea,' _vulvini_--george gasper, esq." "that's _my_ solo," shouted puffin; "and i'll play it!" * * * * * spare me the recital of the ensuing scene. "listen to _me_," said the triangle, maliciously. "we must come to hard facts, i plainly see. the truth is, the difference between mr. gasper and mr. puffin (both admirable performers) has assumed the aspect of direct rivalry; i may go so far as to say, antagonism. laudable, so far as art is concerned; lamentable for the ill-feeling promoted. i suggest that, for the setting at rest of the unfortunate dispute, and the better spirit of the society, it be arranged that the two gentlemen _do_ play the same solo at the same concert." loud shouts, of varied sentiment, followed this daring speech. "a moment, please," cried the doctor; "as treasurer of this musical society i may state that our financial condition is not so satisfactory as it might be: if this competition gets wind--i mean, of course, if people get to know of it, we shall have an enormous house." after some disputing, it was agreed that there was cogency in the doctor's suggestion. other members were appeased with situations in the programme more or less prominent, but when the twenty-four items had been satisfactorily arranged, and the club separated, the general feeling was that the interest of the concert, and the stake at issue, were the competitive performances of messrs. puffin and gasper. the evening of the concert arrived: so did doctor martel at my rooms: the little man was suffused with delight. "my dear fellow!" he chuckled, "it'll be the funniest thing you ever saw. i've been running to and fro all the week. now to gasper, now to puffin. 'you should hear puffin phrase that passage about the 'wind moaning,' said i to gasper, 'it's tiptop,' and gasper grinds his teeth. then i go to puffin and say, 'gasper's devoting himself to making a hit, old man; the way he imitates the surge of the wave in the passage 'the wild wave answers the winds,' will 'fetch' them, and no mistake!' and puffin turns pale." "what does it all portend?" asked i. "wait and see, my lad," said the sly doctor. "wait and see." * * * * * eight o'clock! and i meet puffin as i enter the "artists' room." i play the _violino secondo_. i am nobody. "well," say i, "how do you feel?" "never mind," says the astute puffin; "i bide my time! _only_ (mark my words), gasper won't score as heavily as he expects." with these dark words he vanishes. the next moment i am face to face with gasper. "how do you feel?" i ask of _him_. "don't worry about _me_," replies gasper. "i'm not afraid that puffin will cover himself with glory, after all." and gasper retires. we had a wonderful "house" that night. the "competition" _had_ been noised abroad, and the wily doctor's surmises were fulfilled. there was a puffin and a gasper faction ready to do battle for its respective champion when the clarion of defiance rang out from the platform. i pass the overture, a solo on the clarionet, which reduced the pug-nose of lipsey to a severe aquiline during its performance; a flute and violin _duo_, and etc. the time had come for "the wind from the sea" (_george gasper esq._). the favourite performer was hailed with shouts of delight. the puffin faction smiled silently. the opening bars of the symphony were played by the pianist. gasper advanced with a half-restrained smile of self-satisfaction, and after some singular contortions of his lips began to play the _scena_ for the cornet. but no sound followed his laboured effort! again, and again, red in the face, and furious, he essayed to produce a note from his silver instrument. it was dumb! not so the puffin section of the audience; the titter soon became a laugh, the laugh a shout, and finally with a stamp, and a diabolical expression, mr gasper gave up the game, and retreated amidst a howl of displeasure. meanwhile where was puffin? never mind. slowly went on the programme, till the item for which mr. puffin was "set down" arrived in its place. more sensation in the audience. puffin section cock-a-hoop. similar symphony on the part of the pianist, and the placid puffin, a foregone victory shaping his lips into a half-concealed smile, put his cornet to his mouth, and---- well! while the audience was fighting its way out, half hysterical with laughter (for the performance of mr. puffin had only reproduced mr. gasper's failure), i was the unwilling witness of a "set-to" between the rival cornet-players, who, having discovered that each had, respectively, placed a cork up the principal tube of his opponent's instrument, so far agreed, as to differ as to the justice of the process. from the appearance of their upper lips, i am sure no solos were to be apprehended for weeks to come. but, before our next club meeting, messrs. gasper and puffin had retired. i don't belong to any musical clubs now. (_by permission of the author._) the provincial landlady. h. chance newton. oh, dear mister editor, sir, if you please, they say you're a kind and humanious gent, sir, which listens attentive to troubles and woes sech as worry an 'ard-working woman like me; i'm worrited dreadful from morning to night with working and toilin' and sech,--which the rent, sir, is not always quite so forthcoming as i, with my fam'ly, would wish it to be! which i keeps a big house in the square, sir, not five minits' walk from the r'yal theaytre, jest oppersit muggins's music-hall, sir, which its "public" is known as the "linnet and lamb"-- but i am a lamb, sir, to stand it as i do, a-working away up till midnight, or later, for a lot of purfessional folks, which the best of the bunch, sir, is nothing but sham! from them music-hall people as lodges with me is a set which i'm sure, sir, is simply outragious, a-rushin' all over the house when i've scrubbed it and cleaned it jest like a new pin;-- and as for them second-floor folks (which is niggers) believe me their conduct is something rampagious, a-larkin' all over the landing, a-spoilin' the paper,--it's really a sin! and the party wot sings comic songs, sir, goes in and out shouting whenever he pleases, and the next floor (the serio-comic)--well, there, she's a stuck-up, impertinent miss, which the last ones as had them apartments wos folks as performed on the "flyin' trapeeses," and went away two pun' thirteen in my debt, and i've never beheld 'em from that day to this. than there's that ventrillikist party, as imitates different voices, and that, sir,-- he frightens me out of my wits, which i'm sure as i haven't too many to spare; and as for that muggins's chairman, i frequently finds him asleep on the mat, sir, which i characterises behaviour like that as werry disgraceful and shocking--so there! then the sisters mac-jones (them duettists) comes bouncin' all over the place, quite disdainful, a fault-findin' day after day, sir, dressed up in their fal-de-rals, looking like guys; and the party that sings sentimental goes on in a way as to me, sir, is painful, he smokes a long pipe in the garding, which dreadful proceedings i can't but despise. then a troop which i think is called ackribacks, knocks my best parlour to rack and to ruin, a-chucking of summersets over my splendid meeogany tables and chairs; why to-day they all stood on their heads in the passage: "good gracious," i shouted, "why what are you doin'?" when they twisted their legs round their necks, sir, made faces, and told me to toddle downstairs! which i don't wish to make a remark, sir, that might be unpleasant, but while i was at it i thought as i'd mention the matters that cause me continual worry and din, for if you excuse the expression, i ses, as for lettin' of lodgins',--oh, drat it! "_if it wasn't for makin' it out of their board_," sir,--by jingers, i'd never let lodgins' agin! (_from_ "the penny showman," _by permission of the author and_ mr. samuel french.) my matrimonial predicament. leopold wagner. i dare say a great many men in my situation would think themselves highly honoured; but, however this may strike others, i fell bound to confess that i am far from happy. the truth is, i have become so entangled in the meshes of a really romantic love affair, that i can see no possible hope of freeing myself. let me hasten to explain. about twelve months ago i engaged myself to a pretty young girl, who, out of sheer fickleness--it could have been nothing else--jilted me. i was much cut up at the time, since i had learnt to grow very fond of her. a little while after, i began to take an interest in another pretty girl whom i came in contact with almost daily; but, as i had no means of getting properly introduced to her, i never spoke. by-and-by she disappeared, and i soon forgot her. things went on with me in the usual way until, suddenly growing tired of my lonely existence, i advertised for "a nice young girl, thoroughly domesticated, able and willing to make a good-looking young bachelor happy;" adding, "previous experience not necessary." in this way i actually found one who answered my expectations to the letter. we met, took the usual walks; and in the course of a week or two, i could see she loved me with her whole heart. the arrangments for our wedding were soon made. i procured the ring and keeper; then put up the banns. now the house i live in is peculiarly situated. when i lie in bed, my head is in blankshire, while my feet extend over the boundary-line into chumpshire. this may appear a slight matter enough; and yet, i fancy, that if hard times should ever overtake me, i would have two different parishes to fall back upon. however, i found it necessary to publish the banns in both parishes; added to which my _fiancée_, who is, or rather was, a lady's maid, a mile or two away in another direction, must needs put them up in her own parish also. so that i ought to reckon myself very much married, when it's all over. but here comes my predicament. i forgot to mention that the girl who jilted me is godmother to my landlady's new baby. this slight relationship enables my landlady to take the liberty of corresponding with her; and the other day, as it transpires, she let slip the news of my approaching marriage. about the same time, i not only met, but had the pleasure of being introduced to, the second pretty girl at a concert. she, too, had heard of my marriage; and presently confessed that she loved me herself; that, in fact, she would never have left the neighbourhood if i had only once spoken to her. this put me about considerably; and i heartily wished my wedding was not so far advanced. arrived home, i found a letter from the first girl imploring me to pause before it was too late, and begging my forgiveness for her past conduct. i took no notice of it; but the next day brought her over, to stay, invited by my landlady. it was impossible for me to offer any objection, as i was only a lodger myself. still, the girl's manner was convincing. she threw herself into my arms, and begged i would postpone the ceremony, until she could really prove her devotion to me. this was rather awkward; for, almost on the instant, all my old love came back to me again, and i could not let her go. the following day i took her about a bit, when i fell in love with her more than ever. in the afternoon i even went so far as to write to her mother, asking her to drop over to tea on sunday afternoon. that night i also introduced her to the second pretty girl--whom i must now speak of as miss no. . to my great surprise, the two became fast friends. on the sunday morning, when the little godmother heard my banns called out in church, she fainted right away, and had to be carried outside. for myself, i felt like listening to my own death-warrant. at tea-time the mother came over; so she and my landlady soon settled it between themselves, that the little godmother had the greatest right to me. in the middle of all this, my _fiancée_ turned up, when a lively scene ensued. eventually i left the house with her, to explain matters. but nothing would satisfy her short of my marrying her, as she had the right to demand. she swore that if i did not go through with the ceremony, she would make away with herself. no; she had no intention of bringing up a breach of promise case, for she loved me too much. poor girl; i pitied her from the bottom of my heart, and went straight back to my place to give the little godmother her _congé_. but when we reached the house, i found the latter stretched upon the floor in a dead faint; and my courage completely gave way. i could not make up my mind which of the two girls i liked the best, so begged for a little time to decide. my _fiancée_ went into the back parlour to cry, while i, in a frenzy of distraction, rushed first to one girl, then to the other; and at last into the open air, full butt against the third girl, who, brokenhearted, was coming to see me. i thought the best thing i could do would be to go for a walk and try to console her. i did; but this little walk turned out so delightful, that i forgot all about the other two girls, and fell madly in love with _her_! on our way back to my place, we met my _fiancée_ just leaving. i introduced and saw them both home. when i reached home myself, miss. no. had been put to bed; her mother had gone, while i was left to reflect upon my singular position. in the morning at breakfast, the girl came to me crying; hanging round my neck, and telling me how much she loved me. "don't marry her, marry me!" she pleaded, as i left the house on business. during the day i redeemed a promise exacted from me by no. to visit her, when she told me the same tale. i also received a letter from my _fiancée_, demanding whether or not i intended to go through the ceremony; failing which she would end her life by poison. this was very dreadful; i went to see her, and begged time for consideration. the fact is, i could not--nor can i yet--make up my mind which i like best. i love them all, and am convinced they each love me. position has nothing whatever to do with it, for i am only a poor man. had i money, i might perhaps square the difficulty with the mothers; but the girls themselves are above mercenary ideas. i am sure, nay, _positive_ that they love me for myself alone. they are not even unfriendly disposed towards each other, which is the most awkward part of the business. if they would only consent to be locked up in a room together and fight it out amongst themselves, i might be able to marry whichever one was left alive. but no such thing. each swears she will not stand in the others' way, yet vows suicide if i do not individually marry _her_. the other morning, because i would not give her a decided "yes," no. ran out of the house to drown herself, and i arrived on the scene just in the nick of time to pull her back at the water's edge, by the bustle. a day or so afterwards, no. put the same question to me, and noticing my hesitation, had well-nigh leapt upon the railway metals before i could prevent her. i didn't see my _fiancée_ that night: but at six o'clock the next morning, my landlady knocked me up to say that according to a message left with her late at night miss no. had poisoned herself. for an hour or so i was completely stunned; but after that time i dressed and ran to the house, to find that the whole affair was a hoax. i intend to be even with the fellow who played it on me, yet. this kind of thing has been going on for more than a week, and i feel worried to death. the latest is that, in addition to no. , both the other girls have taken up their residence with my landlady. i would fly if i could, but my business compels me to remain on the spot. the three girls follow me about everywhere. i never have a minute's peace. though the greatest of friends, they are at the same time jealous of trusting each other alone with me, lest i should commit myself to any rash promise. i suppose i am one of those susceptible fellows who falls in love with any girl who may encourage him. it must be so. yet these girls are every bit as nice as they are loving and _different_. no. is very young and pretty; my _fiancée_ has a splendid figure, and is thoroughly domesticated; no. is my counterpart in everything. i love them all, and can't for the life of me tell which i like the best. whatever i do, it will be a case of suicide for two of them, or a couple of breach of promise actions for me. i ought to have stated before that the mothers have taken lodgings in the house as well, so that i am in for a nice thing! i would marry all three if the law allowed me; but though the girls themselves might not object, yet the prospect of _three_ mothers-in-law is too much for one man to contemplate. the most sensible arrangement would be, i think, not to marry anybody, but to go on loving all three in a perfectly platonic manner until something happened to make two of them throw the game up. i dare say the girls would be willing enough--one of them even suggested it herself yesterday; but the mothers won't hear of such a thing, their purpose being to bring me to the point at once. i am a great favourite with the mothers too; and their solicitations that i should marry their respective daughters are almost as pressing as are those of the girls themselves. really i am in a most uncomfortable position. out of doors, as i walk along followed by these three young creatures, i am regarded as a noted character, and the people everywhere whisper, "there goes the young man with his three wives!" i shouldn't mind this in the least if only the mothers would pack up their traps and go about their business. but they won't; here they stick at my very elbow, calmly waiting for me to say whose daughter i really mean to marry. so long as i refuse to give an answer to all three, i am safe; but the business is getting just a little bit tiresome, and i should heartily like to see my way out of it. was there ever anybody in such a predicament before! what shall i do? what can i do? is there any charitably-disposed person here who can advise me? no? then i am a doomed man, and must meet my fate resignedly. however, i vow and declare that if by any chance i _should_ get over this, i'll not repeat the experiment as long as i live. (_copyright of the author._) etiquette. w. s. gilbert. the _ballyshannon_ foundered off the coast of cariboo, and down in fathoms many went the captain and the crew; down went the owners--greedy men whom hope of gain allured: oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured. besides the captain and the mate, the owners and the crew, the passengers were also drowned excepting only two: young peter gray, who tasted teas for barber, croop, and co., and somers, who from eastern shores imported indigo. these passengers, by reason of their clinging to a mast, upon a desert island were eventually cast. they hunted for their meals, as alexander selkirk used, but they couldn't chat together--they had not been introduced. for peter gray, and somers too, though certainly in trade, were properly particular about the friends they made; and somehow thus they settled it without a word of mouth-- that gray should take the northern half, while somers took the south. on peter's portion oysters grew--a delicacy rare, but oysters were a delicacy peter couldn't bear. on somers' side was turtle, on the shingle lying thick, which somers couldn't eat, because it always made him sick. gray gnashed his teeth with envy as he saw a mighty store of turtle unmolested on his fellow-creature's shore. the oysters at his feet aside impatiently he shoved, for turtle and his mother were the only things he loved. and somers sighed in sorrow as he settled in the south, for the thought of peter's oysters brought the water to his mouth. he longed to lay him down upon the shelly bed, and stuff; he had often eaten oysters, but had never had enough. how they wished an introduction to each other they had had when on board the _ballyshannon_! and it drove them nearly mad, to think how very friendly with each other they might get, if it wasn't for the arbitrary rule of etiquette! one day when out hunting for the _mus ridiculus_, gray overheard his fellow-man soliloquising thus: "i wonder how the playmates of my youth are getting on, mcconnell, s. b. walters, paddy byles, and robinson?" these simple words made peter as delighted as could be, old chummies at the charterhouse were robinson and he! he walked straight up to somers, then he turned extremely red, hesitated, hummed and hawed a bit, then cleared his throat, and said: "i beg your pardon--pray forgive me if i seem too bold, but you have breathed a name i knew familiarly of old. you spoke aloud of robinson--i happened to be by. you know him?" "yes, extremely well." "allow me, so do i." it was enough: they felt they could more pleasantly get on, for (ah, the magic of the fact!) they each knew robinson! and mr. somers' turtle was at peter's service quite, and mr. somers punished peter's oyster-beds all night. they soon became like brothers from community of wrongs: they wrote each other little odes and sang each other songs; they told each other anecdotes disparaging their wives; on several occasions, too, they saved each other's lives. they felt quite melancholy when they parted for the night, and got up in the morning soon as ever it was light; each other's pleasant company they reckoned so upon, and all because it happened that they both knew robinson! they lived for many years on that inhospitable shore, and day by day they learned to love each other more and more. at last, to their astonishment, on getting up one day, they saw a frigate anchored in the offing of the bay. to peter an idea occurred, "suppose we cross the main? so good an opportunity may not be found again." and somers thought a minute, then ejaculated, "done! i wonder how my business in the city's getting on?" "but stay," said mr. peter: "when in england, as you know, i earned a living tasting teas for barber, croop, and co., i may be superseded--my employers think me dead!" "then come with me," said somers, "and taste indigo instead." but all their plans were scattered in a moment when they found, the vessel was a convict ship from portland outward bound; when a boat came off to fetch them, though they felt it very kind, to go on board they firmly but respectfully declined. as both the happy settlers roared with laughter at the joke, they recognised a gentlemanly fellow pulling stroke: 'twas robinson--a convict, in an unbecoming frock! condemned to seven years for misappropriating stock!!! they laughed no more, for somers thought he had been rather rash in knowing one whose friend had misappropriated cash; and peter thought a foolish tack he must have gone upon in making the acquaintance of a friend of robinson. at first they didn't quarrel very openly, i've heard; they nodded when they met, and now and then exchanged a word: the word grew rare, and rarer still the nodding of the head, and when they meet each other now, they cut each other dead. to allocate the island they agreed by word of mouth, and peter takes the north again, and somers takes the south; and peter has the oysters, which he hates in layers thick, and somers has the turtle--turtle always makes him sick. (_by permission of the author._) a lost shepherd. frank barrett. winklehaven was once a very bad place. roads, trade, drainage--everything was as bad as it could be. the fishermen were bad, and beat their wives, and their wives were bad and deserved all the beating they got, and more. the fish caught there was bad before it went to market. the very parson was bad, and preached the excisemen to sleep whilst red robert and black bill ran their cargo of smuggled bad brandy. families who should have been respectable were not. parents whipped their children into rebellion and then cut them off with shillings--bad ones, of course. wards defied their guardians, and invariably fell in love contrary to the arrangements of their seniors. all the young men ran away with all the eligible young women. the natural result was that after a dozen years from the time when winklehaven stood at its worst, the population of the town consisted of infirm old people suffering from remorse, gout, and other afflictions proceeding from the excesses of youth, and such spinsters as were rejected by the young rakes of the preceding era. the moral aspect of the place changed in those years; it was no longer unholy, but, indeed, the most virtuous of human settlements. the fishermen were too old and weak to beat their wives, and their failing memories could supply them with no oaths suitable to express their feelings. the wicked parson and the smugglers were no more; there wasn't a young man in the place, and the ladies who called themselves young were irreproachable. it might strike the unthinking as an extraordinary peculiarity that a place so very, very good should require a curate in addition to a deaf rector. nevertheless such was the case--a curate was wanted, and wanted very much by the congregation of st. tickleimpit's--the unblemished spinsters, who called themselves young. they would have a curate, and mr. lillywhite lambe, b.a., they had. now as the snow falls like a veil of purity over the face of the earth, only to melt and besmirch it before the lasting season of blossoming sweetness, so mr. lillywhite lambe, b.a., came to winklehaven and passed away before it attained to its present buttercup-and-daisy condition of virtue; and the manner of his going this pen shall tell. mr. lillywhite lambe, b.a., was a curate of the deepest dye. he had not so much principle as a bankrupt, and he came to winklehaven with the settled purpose of marrying the richest and least objectionable of his congregation. the difficulties in his way were few. in personal appearance and demeanour he was so simple and sweet that even the rector was mistaken and thought him a fool, and what more could a girl of five-and-forty desire? it was not a question which he _could_ marry from amongst the eighteen or twenty tempting creatures around him, but rather which he should reject. they surrounded him like a glory wherever he went, waiting for him at his coming out and never leaving him until his going in. seldom less than half-a-dozen spinsters accompanied him; they liked him too much and each other too little to trust him with one alone. and they wrote letters to him marked "private," containing the burning thoughts they dared not express in the presence of their sisters. each was tantamount to an offer of marriage; but he was yet undecided in his selection, and replied to all with touching yet ambiguous texts. at this time he suffered somewhat from bile, for his most active exercise was wool-winding, and the ladies buttered his toast on both sides and the edges. but anon there came a man with a black beard and a devil-may-care aspect to winklehaven, and took for six months the cottage on the deserted west cliff, which had belonged to black bill in the bad old times. the stranger snubbed the inquisitive tradesman of whom he bought his groceries; he ordered his bacon by the side, his beer by the barrel, and his whisky by the largest of stone bottles. he laughed aloud when he passed in the high street mr. lambe with the three misses cockle on one side of him, and the three misses crabbe on the other. the ladies had not any doubt that he was a bold bad man, and declared one and all that nothing would tempt them to venture upon that dreadful west cliff. but, sinners being so few, they could not but feel interested in this man with the black beard and dark eyes, and when he came not to church on sunday they implored the rector to visit him. the rector said he would not go (and privately swore it, in episcopal terms, for he hated walking and sinners equally), but he offered the services of his curate; and the congregation, though it fain would have spared its pet curate so dangerous a mission, could not refuse to accept. mr. lillywhite lambe, b.a., found it difficult to conceal his delight at the prospect before him, for an excess of ladies and butter was killing him. he had not enjoyed half an hour's freedom in the open air since his arrival at winklehaven; it seemed to him years since he smoked a morning pipe. his bowels yearned towards beer from the barrel and whiskey from stone jars. that last evening he was ever to spend in his lodgings at winklehaven he occupied in preparations for the morrow. he looked up the pipe he had brought with him but never smoked, and tobacco--dry and dusty, yet fragrant as hay new mown, and pipe-lights, and a french novel; these he stuffed into the pockets of his alpaca coat, ingeniously overlaying them with his pamphlet confuting the doctrines of the primitive bedlamites. in the morning he rose gaily; and when he had parted with his anxious flock at the foot of the west hill, he ascended the steep path, like a cherub climbing a cloud, without sense of exertion, and as one who is resolved to make a day of it. a walk of two miles was before him, but he did not hurry himself after he had lost sight of the spinsters and the church weathercock. he stopped, took off his collar and band, bared his shirt front to the breeze, and took a deep inspiration. then he threw himself on the thymy grass and tasted liberty. he smoked three pipes; he read two chapters and a half of the novel, skipping the moral parts; he dropped the book, turned over on his chest, and with his clerical hat tilted sideways over his eyes, he watched the distant ships for half an hour; after that he lay on his back, drew a handkerchief over his eyes and went to sleep. he slumbered for two blessed hours, and then waking athirst, thought kindly of the sinner who kept his beer in barrels and whisky in cool stoneware. so he pulled himself into evangelical shape again and stepped out briskly for the smuggler's cottage, smacking his lips. but, alas, the cottage door was barred, and there was no trace of the black-bearded sinner, save a flitch of bacon and the beer barrel which stood in the most inaccessible of pantries. he must wait. once more he sat upon the short grass, and to beguile the time, drew out the budget of letters sent by his admiring congregation. he read them through, one after another, with the view of forming a comparative estimate of the writer's value, but the difficulty of selecting one seemed greater than ever. the temporal and spiritual worth of each was represented by _x_. with the chance of facilitating his choice he had recourse to his pencil, with which he was tolerably skilful, and on the back of each letter he drew a portrait of its sender. these spinsters were beyond flattery, so he caricatured them to find which must certainly be rejected as the worst looking. in this amusing occupation the time would have passed unheeded but for mr. lambe's increasing dryness. there was no water to be had, no, nor wine, and the interior of the young curate's mouth felt like brown paper to his tongue. it suddenly came to his mind that a dip in the cool sea would refresh his body, now suffering from external in addition to internal dryness. for the hour was two, the month july, and the sun unclouded, and he determined at once to bathe, wondering why he had not availed himself of this blessing of freedom. except in a footbath he had not bathed during the term of his curacy at winklehaven. how could he, where there was neither seclusion nor bathing machine? the tide was at ebb, and a long stretch of sand lay between the cliff and the sea; but near the water's edge stood a rock, and thither mr. lambe betook himself. on the cliff side was a little shelf dried by the sun, and on this he laid his clothes neatly; then with a smile irradiating his countenance, he slapped his thin legs and ran down into the bursting waves. quickly he lost all thought of thirst--of everything, save the enjoyment of the moment. he swam in every conceivable position, bent in girlish fashion to meet the coming waves, and floundered about like a porpoise. it was whilst turning over head and heels that he caught sight of that which, in a moment, sobered him--a petticoat upon the cliff--another, another! yet others, each with a wearer! they were not a thousand yards from the cottage on the cliff--those ladies whose outlines he recognised, even at their remote distance from him. full well he knew they had come to look for him. what was he to do? how could he face them, how avoid? he had thought to dry himself like a raisin in the sun; that now was impossible. equally impracticable was it to clothe himself wet; before he had a sock on he would be observed, for there was no ledge upon the sea-ward side of the rock, and the flowing waves already touched its base. the only place of concealment was behind the rock, and there he must stay until the ladies retired. he lay in the water, and through a chink in the rock watched his pursuers; their voices, in high-pitched consultation, reached his ear. they examined the cottage on the cliff, and then descended to the rocks at its base. it was only natural that the ladies should think their beloved curate murdered. they had not seen him for six hours; and his destruction at the hands of the black-bearded man was the worst explanation of his protracted absence that entered their imagination. this fear had led them to follow in his footsteps; and now, as they poked their sun-shades in the fissures of the rocks, it was with the expectation of finding his corpse. mr. lambe was fervently thankful that the rising tide kept them from his place of concealment, and watched their movements fixedly, until the cramp seized his leg; and then, in the limited space of his seclusion, he exercised his ingenuity to keep the vital heat within him. occasionally he glanced at the shore. when the ladies were fatigued, they systematically divided their number--one going to search, whilst the other rested. hour after hour passed, and every minute brought fresh cramps and racking pains to the limbs of the sodden curate. he had to put his lips between his teeth, lest their violent chattering should proclaim his whereabouts; and he cried like a child when he found his body assuming the blue tints of an unboiled lobster. but still those doting spinsters poked amongst the sea-weed with unceasing zeal. the sun was wearing the horizon, when he heard a scream, and beheld the second miss cockle pointing in the direction of his rock. mr. lambe was perplexed: it was impossible that his eye, peeping through the small chink, had been discovered; but a moment later his perplexity gave place to horror, as he perceived his hat bobbing gaily on the waves between him and the shore. it was followed by his stockings, and behind them in procession his waistcoat, coat--everything! all washed away from the nice little ledge by the rising tide. he had never given his clothes a thought from the moment he neatly packed them. but had that consideration entered his mind, it could only have added to his anxiety: for it would have been impossible to get them from the place where they lay on the coast-side of the rock without displaying himself. heedless of their boots, the ladies hooked at the oncoming vestments with their sunshades; and, now, one has his collar, another his dear hat, and a third his blessed braces, whilst their cries of woe echo along the coast. when his coat was fished out, what could be expected, but that the ladies all should dash at his pockets with a view to gratifying their curiosity, and rescuing the letters which betrayed their most private feelings. with groans, mr. lambe beheld his pipe and tobacco brought forth, amidst cries of astonishment, then the french novel; and, finally, the bundle of letters. he could not bear to see the result, when each, seizing the letter in her own handwriting, should find her caricature thereon; and dropping his head, he beat it with his fist--partly in frenzy, partly to promote the circulation of his stagnating blood. * * * * * the black-bearded man returned to the cottage as the ladies, carrying the only remains they could find of their curate, were leaving his vicinity. he was not displeased that he was later than usual in returning; for although he loved the beautiful, he did not like the ladies of winklehaven. he lived by painting pictures, this pariah of the west cliff; nevertheless, he had some good qualities, and when half an hour later a nude study, shivering and wet, presented itself in his doorway craving to be taken in out of the night wind, he asked no question until he had wrapped him in warm blankets, and filled him with strong liquors. mr. lillywhite lambe never returned to his curacy, never married a rich spinster. his disappearance was not inquired into deeply. some people preferred to think of him as dead and sainted. he was supposed to be drowned, and his ghost was said to be visible at times upon the west cliff--generally with a pipe in his mouth. and as his costume was that of the black man, who was habitually at his side, it was further supposed that he had, in that first visit to the cottage on the cliff, sold himself to the d----. (_by permission of the author._) a mathematic madness. f. p. dempster. for months i had been "grinding" mathematics day and night when miss mcgirton cast on my affections such a blight; my mind unhinged now only creaks, and when i tell my woes i'm forced to lisp in _numbers_ what i'd rather say in prose. sweet maiden _perpendicular_! she gave a _slanting_ sigh as o'er my kneeling form she cast a calculating eye. "ah! well" said i, "you _cipher_ me, for if you'll not be mine from out this pocket next my heart i'll _straight produce a line_; so ere you are, dear _polly_, _gone_, pray heed your lover's vow, or he dangles _at right angles_ to some _horizontal_ bough." the maid flew in no _frustrum_--like your giddy gushing girls-- but standing calm and frigid, shook her strictly _spiral_ curls, and said, "you see we're equal as to station: very well! _our paths in life could never meet, because they're parallel._" her voice was so serrated that i fled this maid antique; then, approaching her _obliquely_, _at a tangent_ took her cheek! the kiss was too _elliptical_! she vanished into space! and a circulating obelisk now marks the fatal place. weeks fled. my doctor shook his head and said, "you must embark for an utter change." i did: and went aboard a leaky _arc_ bound for the hot _quadratics_, where i landed for a week, and joined the aborigines in every savage freak. i felled primeval forests with the _axes of a cube_, at the feathery _parabolas_ i aimed the loaded tube; (for while aboard the arc, you see, i found on _deck a gun_, and, cunning as a crusoe, put it by for future fun.) while safe within some _brackets_ i have watched those bulky brutes, the snorting _parallelograms_ that feed upon _square roots_; their noise would rouse the forest till each denizen therein woke up and did its "level best" to swell the horrid din. oh! the shrieking of the _cylinder_! the _pyramid's base_ moan, the clucking of the _sector_ and the cooing of the _cone_! then a lull perhaps, while distant ululations would reveal the natives chanting grace before their missionary meal. in truth it was an evil place, for a _vinculum_ might rise at any moment in your path and wobble its wild eyes; and oft, when looking for a _log_ i'd shake in ev'ry joint for fear some deadly _decimal_ might sting me with its _point_. at last i plucked up courage, though, and even gained renown in getting gallant trophies for my home in camden town: i killed the cruel _quatrefoil_ to take her snarling cub, or doubled up a cannibal to get his graven club; i trapped the roaring _rhombuses_, those beasts of fearful strength, and the _parallelopipedon_, a snake of awful length; oft i bestrode the _algebra_ and charged in wild career the proud opaque _hypotenuse_ and jabbed him with my spear. 'tis past! i'm now in london: yet my reason's all awry. i'm yearning for a vanished maid who gave a slanting sigh. nor may we meet in dreamland: e'en there i'm robbed of rest, for a wizened old _trapezium_ sits sulking on my chest; or two _triangles_ she jangles with a semilunar leer, till i wake--with hair erect--in one _diagonal_ of fear! and mark to the clang of _symbols_, phantom figures march all day in _co-efficient_ cohorts--_major axis_ leads the way. in short, from early morn until i shuffle off to bed, but one equation's clear to me,--_o_=_ayz_. (_by permission of the author._) waiting at tottlepot. j. ashby-sterry. an hour to wait! well that's a nuisance, but i suppose there is no help for it. i cannot possibly go on without my portmanteau. and they may send the wrong one after all. i believe my friend the dismal porter--the faded misanthrope in corduroys, only telegraphed for a brown portmanteau. there are probably twenty brown portmanteaux at this present moment waiting at jigby junction, and if i know anything of railway officials, they will be sure to send the wrong one. so here i must wait. i suppose i must have made a mistake in the train. no trap, dog-cart, or conveyance of any kind to meet me from clewmere. wonder whether they had my telegram. the faded misanthrope says he is quite certain nothing has been over from clewmere since the day before yesterday. and then he says sir charles and some of the young ladies came in the waggonette. they waited to see two trains in, he told me, and then drove away saying there must be some mistake. hope i did not say tuesday instead of thursday, or what is far more likely, write thursday to look like tuesday. i ask my friend the porter if there is any other way of getting to clewmere. "no," he says, "it is a longish walk, a matter of twelve or thirteen miles, and a pretty rough road too." "now," he says "if it had only been saturday instead of thursday, there is smaggleton's 'bus, as 'ud put you down within five minutes' walk of the lodge. smaggleton don't run every day, he don't; he only runs o' saturdays, bein' market day at stamborough, and a pooty full load he gets there and back, which pays smaggleton very well. and smaggleton wants it," he continues, "what with the branch line to stamborough, smaggleton's business ain't what it was; he can't afford to turn up his nose at a few farmers and their missusses now-a-days. smaggleton must take things as they come--the good and the bad, the rough and the smooth--as well as the rest of us. lor, bless you, sir, i recollect when smaggleton used to drive about in his dog-cart, in a light top coat, a white hat and a rose in his button-hole, he always was quite the----" as i do not feel particularly interested in the rise, progress or downfall of smaggleton, i am obliged to interrupt my garrulous friend, and ask if they did not let out flys at the crackleton arms, hard by. he informs me, they certainly do "in a usual way." but he adds, they have only two flys. one is having something done to the wheels, and the other went away early this morning to take some friends of squire bullamore's to a pic-nic. he furthermore tells me that cudgerry, the carrier, would perhaps be able to give me a lift, but he would not be here till seven o'clock this evening. as they dine at clewmere at eight, of course cudgerry is quite out of the question. my friend shakes his head, he retires into a dark, greasy room, which seems to be devoted to lamps, and i continue my walk up and down the platform. cannot imagine why they ever built a station at tottlepot. nobody ever wants to stop at tottlepot, there is no trade at tottlepot--indeed, nobody ought to be allowed to stop at tottlepot; and tottlepot as a station ought to be forthwith disestablished and erased from the railway map of great britain. if i had left the train at jigby junction, i should not have lost my portmanteau, i could have hired a fly, and should by this time have been quietly lunching at clewmere court instead of pacing up and down the tottlepot platform like a wild beast in his den. i have often waited at stations before. every kind of station, little and big, all over the continent and england, and have generally found that waiting productive of considerable amusement. but tottlepot is quite a different thing. i think it was albert smith who once spoke of the depth of dulness being achieved by "spending a wet sunday, all by yourself, in a hack cab in the middle of salisbury plain." had he been compelled to wait on a fine thursday at tottlepot he would have discovered a depth yet lower. the only thing in my favour is, it is fine. if it were wet i cannot imagine what i should do. there is a small room i see labelled "waiting-room." it is about the size of a bathing-machine and half filled with parcels and bandboxes. if you had to wait there you would be compelled to sit with your legs right across the down platform; the only use of that waiting-room would be to keep your hat dry. there is not a refreshment room, there is not even a book-stall. i cannot even cheer myself with an ancient bath bun, a glass of cloudy beer, or two penny-worth of acidulated drops. (if there happened to be a refreshment room at tottlepot that is exactly the kind of refreshment they would give you). neither can i pass away the time by purchasing a penny paper, and taking a free read of all the novels and publications awaiting purchasers. there are no advertisements, no lovely oil paintings of sea-side resorts, which are all the more charming from being not the least like the place they are supposed to represent; there are no bills of entertainments; no auctioneers' and house-agents' notices; no posters concerning hotels, nor glass-cases containing photographic specimens. it is just the place for mark tapley to come to as station-master. and he, with all his power of being jolly under the most disadvantageous circumstances, would probably be found under the wheels of a passing express within a fortnight. and talking about the station-master reminds me i have not yet seen him. possibly my friend, the faded misanthrope in corduroys, is station-master. if so, he has to clean the lamps, send telegrams, take and issue tickets, look after the baggage, attend to the signals, cultivate his garden, pay visits to the crackleton arms, and superintend the traffic of the station generally. i do not wonder at his appearing to be somewhat depressed. the only thing of a lively nature i see about the place is a fine black cat, with enormous green eyes, which might be utilised as "caution" signals when the porter, in consequence of his multifarious duties, was unable to reach the signal-box. this cat was evidently very much pleased to see me indeed. it followed me up and down the platform like a dog, and it purred like a saw-pit in full work. a very tiny pale governess, with two big bouncing rosy girls, in the highest of spirits, the shortest of petticoats and the longest of hair, cross the line. i fancy those young ladies are daughters of the vicar, and i may meet their excellent mamma at dinner to-night. the governess passes demurely through the side wicket. one of her charges tries to do a sort of blondin feat by walking along the glistening iron rail and falls down; the eldest boldly clambers over the five-barred gate and shows a shapely pair of legs, clad in sable hose and snow-white frilled pantalettes. "what did i tell you, lil?" says the governess in the mildest voice to the first. "very well, gil, wait till we get home!" she remarks in yet sweeter tones to the second. the two children rejoin her at once and take her hand, and disappear down the lane. i am left to wonder how she acquires this influence over them, for they are as tall as she is and infinitely stronger--they could eat her, were they so minded. i wonder too what will happen to gil when they get home? will mamma be told? no, i fancy this mild little governess is quite equal to controlling, unaided, these big bouncing girls. my friend the porter has by this time got through a quantity of business of a varied nature, and is enjoying a little light relaxation by digging violently in his garden. he has taken off his jacket, and a good deal of his depression seems to have been removed at the same time--it _must_ be depressing to be compelled to reside in a somewhat tight corduroy jacket all your life--and as he digs he hums to himself a sort of merry dirge. i endeavour to enter into the spirit of the thing, and sympathise with him in his relaxation. i say cheerfully, as if i knew all about it, "ah! nice fine weather for the----!" i cannot for the life of me think what it is nice fine weather for. my friend says, "eh?" i observe he is not so respectful in his private as in his porterial capacity. i reply, "quite so!" whereupon he rejoins, "ha! but we could do wi' a bit o' rain for the----." cannot catch remainder of his sentence; but i never yet met a gardener who couldn't "do wi' a bit o' rain" for something or other. we begin to be quite voluble on the subject of plants and crops. i find he knows so much more on the subject than i do, but i merely nod my head and smile weakly and presently move quietly away. when i reach the other end of the platform i hear the sharp jingle of the telegraph bell and the jerk of the signal levers. presently a very prim and neat station-master appears, who looks as if he had just been turned out of one of the band-boxes in the waiting room. there is also a very active boy porter, who is apparently trying to run over the station-master with a truck. my old friend is walking slowly along the platform. he has left the gay horticulturist in the garden, and has assumed the faded misanthrope with his corduroy jacket. he tells me that the train is now coming--the one that will bring my portmanteau. the train presently stops; a few dazed agriculturists, and a very stout fussy old lady, half-a-dozen milk cans, and my portmanteau are put out. i am gazing at the latter to be quite sure it is my own, when i hear myself addressed by name. i turn round and see a smart groom whose face i know well. "anything else beside the portmanteau, sir?" he says, touching his hat. "sir charles is outside with the waggonette; the new pair is a little bit fresh, and he don't like to leave 'em." that is all right. i think to myself i shall dine at clewmere after all. (_by permission of the author._) married to a giantess. walter parke. i loved her with all my heart, and, indeed, it took all my heart to accomplish the feat; for, in sooth, there was a great deal--a very great deal--of her to love. although only "sweet seventeen," she had reached the commanding stature of nine feet nine inches, and, to use the words of a familiar advertisement, she was "still growing." from my childhood i had doated on the gigantic, loved the lofty, admired the massive, and had a weakness for strength. the tales i best loved were those of giants. can you wonder, then, that when i heard that the celebrated samothracian giantess, goliathina immensikoff, from the wilds of wallachia, the largest woman in the world, was approaching london, my soul was stirred by the news as by a trumpet-call? i read with the deepest interest the accounts of her antecedents. i learnt how she was discovered in the wilds of wallachia by whiteley, the world's provider, who had "taken her from the bosom of her family"--and here i could not help exclaiming, "what a stupendous 'bosom' that 'family' must have had!" as i reclined on my sofa, smoking the largest possible meerschaum, and reading with absorbing interest these accounts of one who was certainly "born to greatness," i suddenly came to a terrific and almost appalling resolve. involuntarily i exclaimed, aloud, "she shall be mine!" yet how could i hope for success? to win so great a being one must be not only a lady-killer, but a giant-killer also; and though i bear a "big" name myself--hector gogmagog--nature has denied me either extraordinary personal attractions or lofty stature. how hopeless, then, for me to aspire to the affection of the monumental maiden of samothracia! five feet five pitted against nine feet nine is to be pitted indeed! but love laughs at obstacles. that evening i went to the royal escurial theatre, where mademoiselle goliathina was performing, and sat enthralled to witness her impersonation of the queen of brobdingnag. the pictures had not exaggerated. she was "every inch a queen"--a phrase of some significance when the number of inches mounts up to one hundred and seventeen. the next step was to get an introduction. this i accomplished to my satisfaction, and though at first naturally overawed by her leviathan aspect, thenceforward my wooing proceeded rapidly. i had several interviews with the colossal charmer, at which i had the satisfaction of discovering that i was more in her eyes than some other men who were nearer to herself in point of stature. words of encouragement coming from those lips, so near and yet so far away, words spoken in soft wallachian, yet in tones that stentor might have envied--elevated me to the seventh heaven of pride and delight. i already felt taller by inches--but what was _that_ to her nine feet nine? i sent her the very biggest bouquets, such as occupied a whole hansom cab each; love letters, their weight barely covered by eight stamps; and valentines that would only go by parcels delivery. all this had its effect. she would have been less than woman, instead of a very great deal _more_--had she been insensible to my devotion. can i ever forget what the poet ecstatically calls "the first kiss of love"--how, at considerable inconvenience to herself, she bent that statuesque form to accommodate herself to my limited stature? that _was_, indeed, "stooping to conquer." yet with all this encouragement, it was in fear and trembling that i approached the momentous question. fancy a refusal from those lips. it would be crushing indeed! "dearest goliathina," i said, standing upon the head of the sofa, in order to place myself upon something like her own exalted level, "say, oh, say you will be mine. you may be sure of my lifelong devotion. you will be all in all to me, and, in fact, much more than all; for you are far too large to be merely my better half. i shall always make much of you, and look up to you as one infinitely above me. fortunately, i have a large heart; but as you occupy it entirely, it would be perfectly impossible for me to find room for any other object. were you to reject me, there would be an immeasurable void in my life, and who else is capable of filling it?" she was evidently affected; for what the poet calls a "big round tear"--and goodness knows _how_ big round tear it was in this case--could be perceived starting from each of her moonlike eyes. i clasped her hand--which in point of length was a _foot_--and she did not withdraw it. "fondest hector," she responded, "i am thine!" and she leant her head upon my shoulder. i staggered; but by the exertion of all my strength i was able for some moments to sustain that delicious burden. our wedding took place before the registrar, who, being of a nervous temperament, was so overwhelmed at the towering dimensions of the bride, that he could scarcely get through the ceremony. it was all as private as so abnormal an affair could possibly be kept, and for a time the famous female colossus figured no longer at the royal escurial as queen brobdingnag, a substitute only six feet two inches having been provided. marrying a giantess has its inconveniences. i had to have a house built with exceptionally lofty rooms and doors ten feet high, with furniture on a corresponding scale. an ordinary carriage was of no use to my wife, whose size also frightened the horses; so we had a sort of triumphal car built, drawn by a circus elephant. it was expensive, but an excellent advertisement in a theatrical sense. she could never walk out without being mobbed, and terrifying babies. she dared not visit a friend's house for fear of frightening the children and destroying the furniture. and fancy her at a dance! moreover, our housekeeping expenses were something frightful. anon, darker shadows hovered around our domestic sphere. her temper proved to be at times uncertain. at the least attempt to thwart any of her strange caprices, she grew infuriated; and when annoyed, she had a way of putting me on the top of a high bookcase, or locking me up in a cupboard, box, or trunk--for i have said all our belongings were on a gigantic scale--which was peculiarly humiliating. about this time we became acquainted with morlock mastodon, drum-major to his highness the grand duke of samothracia. the major, though of small stature compared with my wife, was considered a giant by ordinary men, being seven feet ten in height. my fondness for giants rendered him an eligible acquaintance to me. mrs. gogmagog naturally took to one of her own gigantic species; and the major was pleased to say that ours was the only comfortable and commodious house in england--he meant the only one in which the doors were ten feet high, and the chair-seats four feet from the ground. anyhow, he soon made himself at home with us--too _much_ at home, as i couldn't help thinking. i didn't mind him and my wife being good friends; but when, in their gigantic loftiness, they seemed to overlook me altogether, i began to entertain natural feelings of jealousy. besides, the major owed me money--large sums in proportion to his size, which he had borrowed under the obviously false pretence that he was "_very short_ just now;" and he seemed in no hurry to pay it back. what could i do? it was rather a risky thing to expostulate with a man of seven feet ten; and to turn him out of the house would have been a task altogether beyond my physical strength. at all events i could resolve that he should never enter it again; and i gave strict injunctions that always in future when major mastodon called there was to be "nobody at home." moreover, i actually summoned up courage to tell my wife of my resolution, and even to remonstrate with her upon her own demeanour towards the gallant and gigantic major. then she got into a rage. and _such_ a rage! heavens! what had i done? what would become of me? i was as one who had called down upon his devoted head the wrath of the gods or of the titans. she drew herself up to her full height of nearly ten feet, her eyes glared like those of a demoniac, and grasping my arm in her herculean clutch, she lifted me bodily from the ground. "hands off!" i exclaimed, struggling. "hit one your own size!" "_my_ own size!" she thundered, in a _contralto profundo_ voice that shook the very roof. "where am i to find 'em? the only person approximating to my own size you have forbidden the house. you--_you_ dare try and control my actions--you, whom i could crush like a blue-bottle--attempt to dictate to _me_! i will stand this no longer. you have offended me once too often. you die!" "beware, fearful female!" i gasped. "colossal as you are, the arm of the law is still longer and even stronger than yours. kill me, and you will assuredly die for it!" she gave a laugh of scorn. "me?" she cried. "do you believe they would hang _me_? no; i am above all laws, and i have sworn that you shall die!" and in spite of my struggles she flung me, as easily as if i had been a doll, right out of the third storey window. down i fell, down, down, till i-- ---- found myself on the floor. i had tumbled off the sofa, and so awakened from my terrific dream. heavens! what a relief to find that after all i was _not_ married to a giantess, that it was all a vision due to my falling asleep over the advertisement, and that mdlle. goliathina was but a gigantic nightmare. (_by permission of the author._) the vision of the alderman. henry s. leigh. an alderman sat at a festive board, quaffing the blood-red wine, and many a bacchanal stave outpour'd in praise of the fruitful vine. turtle and salmon and strasbourg pie pippins and cheese were there; and the bibulous alderman wink'd his eye, for the sherris was old and rare. but a cloud came o'er his gaze eftsoons, and his wicked old orbs grew dim; then drink turn'd each of the silver spoons to a couple of spoons for _him_. he bow'd his head at the festive board, by the gaslight's dazzling gleam: he bow'd his head and he slept and snor'd, and he dream'd a fearful dream. far, carried away on the wings of sleep, his spirit was onward borne, till he saw vast holiday crowds in chepe on a ninth november morn. guns were booming and bells ding-dong'd, ethiop minstrels play'd; and still, wherever the burghers throng'd, brisk jongleurs drove their trade. scarlet sheriffs, the city's pride, with a portly presence fill'd the whole of the courtyard just outside the hall of their ancient guild. and in front of the central gateway there, a marvellous chariot roll'd, (like gingerbread at a country fair 'twas cover'd with blazing gold). and a being, array'd in pomp and pride was brought to the big stone gate; and they begg'd that being to mount and ride in that elegant coach of state. but, oh! he was fat, so ghastly fat, was that being of pomp and pride, that, in spite of many attempts thereat, he _couldn't_ be pushed inside. that being was press'd, but press'd in vain, till the drops bedew'd his cheek; the gilded vehicle rock'd again, and the springs began to creak. the slumbering alderman groan'd a groan, for a vision he seem'd to trace, some horrible semblance to _his own_ in that being's purple face. and, "oh!" he cried, as he started up; "sooner than come to _that_, farewell for ever the baneful cup and the noxious turtle fat!"-- they carried him up the winding-stair; they laid him upon the bed; and they left him, sleeping the sleep of care, with an ache in his nightcapp'd head. (_by permission of_ messrs. chatto & windus.) the demon snuffers. geo. manville fenn. i'm not at all given to parading my troubles--nothing of the kind. i may be getting old, in fact, i am; and i may have had disappointments such as have left me slightly irritable and peevish; but i ask, as a man, who wouldn't be troubled in his nerves if he had suffered from snuffers? snuffers? yes--snuffers--a pair of cheap, black, iron snuffers, that screech when they are opened, and creak when they are shut; a pair that will not stay open, nor yet keep shut; a pair that gape at you incessantly, and point at you a horrid sharp iron beak, as a couple of leering eyes turn the finger and thumb holes into a pair of spectacles, and squint and wink at you maliciously. a word in your ear--this in a whisper--those snuffers are haunted! their insignificant iron frame is the habitation of a demon--an imp of darkness; and i've been troubled till i've got snuffers on the brain, and i shall have them till i'm snuffed out. it has been going on now for a couple of years, ever since my landlady sent the snuffers up to me first in my shiney crockery-ware candlestick, where those snuffers glide about like a snake in a tin pail. i remember the first night as well as can be. it was in november--a weird, wet, foggy night, when the river-side streets were wrapped in a yellow blanket of fog--and i was going to bed, when, at my first touch of the candlestick, those snuffers glided off with an angry snap, and lay, open-mouthed, glaring at me from the floor. i was somewhat startled, certainly, but far from alarmed; and i seized the fugitives and replaced them in the candlestick, opened the door, and ascended the stairs. mind, i am only recording facts untinged by the pen of romance! before i had ascended four steps, those hideous snuffers darted off, and plunged, point downwards, on to my left slippered foot, causing me an agonising pang, and the next moment a bead of starting blood stained my stocking. i will not declare this, but i believe it to be a fact: as i said something oathish, i am nearly certain that i heard a low, fiendish chuckle; and when i stooped to lift the snuffers, there was a bright spark in the open mouth, and a pungent blue smoke breathed out to annoy my nostrils! i was too bold in those days to take much notice of the incident, and i hurried upstairs--not, however, without seeing that there was a foul, black patch left upon my holland stair-cloth; and then i hurried into bed, and tried to sleep. but i could not, try as i would. in the darkness i could just make out the candlestick against the blind: and from that point incessantly the demon snuffers gradually approached me, till they sat spectacle-wise astride my nose, and a pair of burning eyes gazed through them right into mine. need i say that i arose next morning feverish and unrefreshed to go about my daily duties? "i'll have no more of it to-night," i said to myself, as i rose early to go to bed and make up for the past bad night; and i smiled sardonically as i took up the highly-glazed candlestick and tried to shake the black, straddling reptile out upon the sideboard. i say _tried_; for, to my horror, the great eyeholes leered at me as they hugged round the upright portion of the stick and refused to be dislodged. i shook them again, and one part went round the extinguisher support, which the reptile dislodged, so that the extinguisher rattled upon the sideboard top. but the snuffers were there still. i tried again, and they, or it, dodged round and thrust a head through the handle, where they stuck fast, grinning at me till i set the candlestick down and stared. "pooh!--stuff!--ridiculous!" i exclaimed, quite angry at my weak, imaginative folly; and, determined to act like a man, i seized the candlestick with one hand, the snuffers with the other, and, after a hard fight, succeeded in wriggling them out of their stronghold, banged them down upon the table cloth, seized them again, snuffed my candle viciously before replacing them on the table, and then marched out of the room, proud of my moral triumph, and rejoicing in having freed myself of the demon. but, as i stood upon the stairs, i could see that my hand was blackened; and the icy, galvanic feeling that assailed my nerves when i first touched the snuffers still tingled right to my elbow. but i was free of my enemy; and marching with freely playing lungs into my bedroom, i closed and locked the door, set down my empty candlestick, changed my coat and vest for a dressing-gown and began to brush my hair. it is my custom to brush my hair with a pair of brushes for ten minutes every night before retiring to rest. i find it strengthening to the brain. upon this occasion i had brushed hard for five minutes, when there was a loud knock at my bed-room door. "can i speak to you a moment, sir?" said the voice of my landlady. i rose and opened the door, and then started back in disgust, as i was greeted with-- "please, sir, you forgot your snuffers!" my snuffers! it was too horrible; but there was more to bear. "and please, sir, i do hope you'll be more careful. it's a mussy we warn't all burnt to death in our beds, for the snuffers have made a great hole as big as your hand in the tablecloth, and scorched the mahogany table; and it was a mussy i went into your room before i went up to bed." i couldn't speak, for i was drawn irresistibly on to obey, as my landlady held the snuffers-handle towards me, and pointed to the fungus snuff upon the common candle. i thrust in a finger and thumb, closed the door in desperation--for i could not refuse the snuffers--once more locked myself in, and stalked to the dressing-table; and, as i heard my landlady's retreating steps, i snuffed the candle, which started up instantly with a brighter flame, as the snuffers' mouth closed upon the incandescent wick. "i'm slightly nervous," i said to myself, as i essayed to put down my enemies. "i want tone--iron--iodine--tonic bitters--and--curse the thing!" i ejaculated, shaking my hand and trying to dislodge the snuffers. my efforts were but vain, for the rings clung tightly to my finger and thumb, cut into my flesh, and it was not until i had given them a frantic wrench, which broke the rivet and separated the halves, that i was able to tear out my bruised digits, and stand, panting, at the broken instrument. there was relief, though, here. i felt as if i had crushed out the reptile's life; and the two pieces--their living identity gone--lay nerveless, and devoid of terrors, in the candle tray. i slept excellently that night, and smiled as i dressed beside the broken fragments. i had achieved a victory over self, as well as over an enemy. i enjoyed my breakfast, after raising the white cloth to look at the damage, which i knew would appear as twenty shillings in the weekly bill; but i did not care, though i shuddered slightly as i thought of the snuffers' horrible designs. i dined that day with friends, played a few games afterwards at pool, and then we had oysters. i was in the best of spirits as i opened the door with my latchkey, and i laughed heartily at what i called my folly of the previous nights; but, as i entered my room, there was the great black hole in the green cloth table cover, and the charred wood beneath, while, upon the sideboard---- i groaned as i stood, half transfixed. i could have imagined that i had on divers leaden-soled boots; for there, maliciously grinning at me with half-opened mouth, were the demon snuffers, joined together by a new, glistening rivet, which only added to their weird appearance, as the beak cocked itself at me, and the great eyes glared, as the black mouth seemed to say-- "you'll never get rid of me!" something seemed to draw me, and i went and took the candlestick, my eyes being fixed the while upon the snuffers; and i came in contact with several pieces of furniture as i went into the passage, where i held the candlestick very much on one side as i lit the candle at the little lamp. i hoped that the snuffers would fall out; but they grinned maliciously, and did not stir. the next moment i was obliged to use them, for the candle began to gutter; when, as nothing followed, i grew bolder, and began to ascend the stairs. in a minute, though before i was half way up the second flight, and though the candlestick was carried perfectly straight--crash! the demon snuffers darted out, and dashed themselves upon the floor. i did not stay to look, but hurried to my bed-room, closing and locking the door. "safe this time!" i thought; for it was late, and i knew that my landlady must have been long in bed. then i began to think of how they had hopped out of the candlestick, and i remembered what they had done on the previous night--how they had tried to set fire to the house. suppose they should do so now? the cold perspiration trickled down my nose at the very thought. i dared not leave the demon, or twin demons--the horrid siamese pair. i would, though--i was safe here. but, fire! suppose they set the house on fire? down i went in the dark--very softly, too, lest i should alarm the landlady and the other lodgers; but, though the odour was strong, i went right to the bottom, and stood upon the door-mat without finding my enemies. i stood and thought for a few minutes, and then began slowly to ascend, feeling carefully all over every step as i went up to my bed-room, where i arrived, without ever my hand coming in contact with that which i sought. "i'll go to bed and leave them!" i ejaculated, and i turned upon my heel; but, at that moment, the pungent burning odour came up stronger than ever, and i was compelled to descend, to find that the demon twins had been lying in ambush half-way down, so that i trod upon them, tripped, in my terror my foot glided, over them, and i fell with a crash into the umbrella stand, which i upset with a hideous noise upon the oilcloth--not so loud, though, but that i could hear the little black imps take three or four grasshopper leaps along the passage, ending by sticking the pointed beak into the street door. before i could gather myself up, i heard doors opening upstairs, and screaming from the girls below who slept in the kitchen; and the next minute old major o'brien's voice came roaring down-- "an' if ye shtir a shtep i'll blow out yer brains!" of course i had to explain; and i had the horrible knowledge that they gave me the credit of being intoxicated--the major saying he would not stop in a house where people went prowling about at all hours, ending by himself, at the landlady's request, examining the door to see if it was latched securely, and then seeing me safely to my room. "an' if i did me duty, sor, i should lock you in," he said by way of good night. "and now get into bed, sor, and at once; and--here are your snuffers!" i could fill volumes with the tortures inflicted upon me by those haunted snuffers, for they clung to me, and in spite of every effort never left me free. it was in vain that i came home early and shifted them into the major's candlestick: they only came back. i threw them out of the bedroom window once, and they were found by the maid in the area. i threw them out again, and they were picked up by the policeman, and they made him bring them back. then i tried it at midday; but an old woman brought them in, and made a row because they went through her parasol, so that i had to pay ten shillings, besides being looked upon by my landlady as a lunatic. i thrust them into the fire one night, and held them there with the tongs, lest they should leap out; but they would not burn, and my landlady, finding them in the ashes, had them japanned, and they were in their old place next day. i had no better luck when i thrust them--buried them--deep in a scuttle of ashes; they only turned up out of the dusthole when mary sifted the cinders. they always came off black on to my hands when they did not anoint my fingers with soft tallow. if they fell out of the candlestick, it was always on to oilcloth or paint, where they could make a noise jumping about like a grasshopper, till they ended by standing upon the sharp beak, with the spectacle-like holes in the air. if i went up to dress, they would shoot into my collar-box, or amongst my clean shirts, smutting them all over. if i tried to kill a wasp with them upon an autumn evening, when the insect crept out of a plum at dessert, the wretches only snipped him in two, as if rejoicing at the inflicted torture. in short, they have worn me out--those snuffers; and, if it was not from fear, i should take and drop them from the parapet of a bridge. but, there! it would be in vain; they would be certain to turn up; and they are not mortal, so what can you expect? let this communication be a secret, for it is written wholly by day, when the snuffers lie in the lower regions. a bright thought has occurred to me--the major leaves this morning for berlin. * * * * * i have done it--his carpet bag stood in the hall, waiting for the cab. the major was in the drawing-room paying his bill. the maids were upstairs making the beds. i stole down, like a thief, into the kitchen. the snuffers were in my dirty candlestick upon the dresser. i seized the grinning, tallow-anointed demons, flew up the stairs, and, as i heard the drawing-room door open, tore the bag a little apart, and thrust them in. the next minute they were on the roof of a cab, and on their way to berlin, where they will haunt the major. * * * * * a month of uninterrupted joy has passed. on the day of the major's departure i seemed to wed pleasure; and this has been the honeymoon. this morning, when i paid my bill, the landlady announced the coming back of the major to his old apartments. i have been in dread ever since. but this is folly. i will be hopeful: my worst fears may not be confirmed. * * * * * it's all over--he has brought them back! they grin at me as i write. (_by permission of the author._) the walrus and the carpenter. lewis carroll. the sun was shining on the sea, shining with all his might; he did his very best to make the billows smooth and bright-- and this was odd, because it was the middle of the night. the moon was shining sulkily, because she thought the sun had got no business to be there after the day was done. "it's very rude of him," she said, "to come and spoil the fun." the sea was wet as wet could be, the sands were dry as dry. you could not see a cloud, because no cloud was in the sky: no birds were flying over-head-- there were no birds to fly. the walrus and the carpenter were walking close at hand; they wept like anything to see such quantities of sand: "if this were only cleared away," they said, "it _would_ be grand!" "if seven maids, with seven mops, swept it for half a year, do you suppose," the walrus said, "that they could get it clear?" "i doubt it," said the carpenter, and shed a bitter tear. "o, oysters, come and walk with us!" the walrus did beseech. "a pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, along the briny beach: we cannot do with more than four, to give a hand to each." the eldest oyster looked at him, but never a word he said: the eldest oyster winked his eye, and shook his heavy head-- meaning to say he did not choose to leave the oyster-bed. but four young oysters hurried up, all eager for the treat: their coats were brushed, their faces washed, their shoes were clean and neat-- and this was odd, because, you know, they hadn't any feet. four other oysters followed them, and yet another four; and thick and fast they came at last, and more, and more, and more-- all hopping through the frothy waves, and scrambling to the shore. the walrus and the carpenter walked on a mile or so, and then they rested on a rock conveniently low: and all the little oysters stood and waited in a row. "the time has come," the walrus said, "to talk of many things: of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- of cabbages--and kings-- and why the sea is boiling hot-- and whether pigs have wings." "but wait a bit," the oysters cried, "before we have our chat; for some of us are out of breath, and all of us are fat!" "no hurry," said the carpenter: they thanked him much for that. "a loaf of bread," the walrus said, "is what we chiefly need: pepper and vinegar besides are very good indeed-- now, if you're ready, oysters dear, we can begin to feed." "but not on us," the oysters cried, turning a little blue. "after such kindness, that would be a dismal thing to do!" "the night is fine," the walrus said. "do you admire the view? "it was so kind of you to come, and you are very nice!" the carpenter said nothing but "cut us another slice: i wish you were not quite so deaf-- i've had to ask you twice!" "it seems a shame," the walrus said, "to play them such a trick, after we've brought them out so far, and made them trot so quick!" the carpenter said nothing but "the butter's spread too thick!" "i weep for you," the walrus said: "i deeply sympathize." with sobs and tears he sorted out those of the largest size, holding his pocket-handkerchief before his streaming eyes. "o, oysters," said the carpenter, "you've had a pleasant run! shall we be trotting home again?" but answer came there none-- and this was scarcely odd, because they'd eaten every one. (_by permission of the author._) my brother henry. j. m. barrie. at first sight it may not, perhaps, seem quite the thing that i should be hilarious because i have at last had the courage to kill my brother henry. for some time, however, henry had been annoying me. strictly speaking, i never had a brother henry. it is just fifteen months since i began to acknowledge that there was such a person. it came about in this way:--i have a friend of the name of fenton, who, like myself, lives in london. his house is so conveniently situated that i can go there and back in one day. about a year and a half ago i was at fenton's, and he remarked that he had met a man the day before who knew my brother henry. not having a brother henry, i felt that there must be a mistake somewhere; so i suggested that fenton's friend had gone wrong in the name. my only brother, i pointed out with the suavity of manner that makes me a general favourite, was called alexander. "yes," said fenton, "but he spoke of alexander also." even this did not convince me that i had a brother henry, and i asked fenton the name of his friend. scudamour was the name, and the gentleman had met my brothers alexander and henry some six years previously in paris. when i heard this i probably frowned; for then i knew who my brother henry was. strange though it may seem, i was my own brother henry. i distinctly remembered meeting this man scudamour at paris during the time that alexander and i were there for a week's pleasure, and quarrelled every day. i explained this to fenton; and there, for the time being, the matter rested. i had, however, by no means heard the last of henry. several times afterwards i heard from various persons that scudamour wanted to meet me because he knew my brother henry. at last we did meet, at a bohemian supper-party in furnival's inn; and, almost as soon as he saw me, scudamour asked where henry was now. this was precisely what i feared. i am a man who always looks like a boy. there are few persons of my age in london who retain their boyish appearance as long as i have done; indeed, this is the curse of my life. though i am approaching the age of thirty, i pass for twenty; and i have observed old gentlemen frown at my precocity when i said a good thing or helped myself to a second glass of wine. there was, therefore, nothing surprising in scudamour's remark that, when he had the pleasure of meeting henry, henry must have been about the age that i had now reached. all would have been well had i explained the real state of affairs to this annoying man; but, unfortunately for myself, i loathe entering upon explanations to anybody about anything. when i ring for my boots and my servant thinks i want a glass of water, i drink the water and remain indoors. much, then, did i dread a discussion with scudamour, his surprise when he heard that i was henry (my christian name is thomas), and his comments on my youthful appearance. besides, i was at that moment carving a tough fowl; and, as i learned to carve from a handbook, i can make no progress unless i keep muttering to myself, "cut from a to b, taking care to pass along the line c d, and sever the wing k from the body at the point f." there was no likelihood of my meeting scudamour again, so the easiest way to get rid of him seemed to be to humour him. i therefore told him that henry was in india, married, and doing well. "remember me to henry when you write to him," was scudamour's last remark to me that evening. a few weeks later someone tapped me on the shoulder in oxford street. it was scudamour. "heard from henry?" he asked. i said i had heard by the last mail. "anything particular in the letter?" i felt it would not do to say there was nothing particular in a letter which had come all the way from india, so i hinted that henry had had trouble with his wife. by this i meant that her health was bad; but he took it up in another way, and i did not set him right. "ah, ah!" he said, shaking his head sagaciously, "i'm sorry to hear that. poor henry!" "poor old boy!" was all i could think of replying. "how about the children?" scudamour asked. "oh, the children," i said, with what i thought presence of mind, "are coming to england." "to stay with alexander?" he asked; for alexander is a married man. my answer was that alexander was expecting them by the middle of next month; and eventually scudamour went away muttering "poor henry!" in a month or so we met again. "no word of henry's getting leave of absence?" asked scudamour. i replied shortly that henry had gone to live in bombay, and would not be home for years. he saw that i was brusque, so what does he do but draw me aside for a quiet explanation. "i suppose," he said, "you are annoyed because i told fenton that henry's wife had run away from him. the fact is i did it for your good. you see i happened to make a remark to fenton about your brother henry, and he said that there was no such person. of course i laughed at that, and pointed out not only that i had the pleasure of henry's acquaintance, but that you and i had a talk about the old fellow every time we met. 'well,' fenton said, 'this is a most remarkable thing; for tom,' meaning you, 'said to me in this very room, sitting in that very chair, that alexander was his only brother.' i saw that fenton resented your concealing the existence of your brother henry from him, so i thought the most friendly thing i could do was to tell him that your reticence was doubtless due to the fact that henry's private affairs were troubling you. naturally, in the circumstances, you did not want to talk about henry." i shook scudamour by the hand, telling him that he had acted judiciously; but if i could have stabbed him quietly at that moment i dare say i should have done it. i did not see scudamour again for a long time, for i took care to keep out of his way; but i heard first from him and then of him. one day he wrote to me saying that his nephew was going to bombay, and would i be so good as to give the youth an introduction to my brother henry? he also asked me to dine with him and his nephew. i declined the dinner, but i sent the nephew the required note of introduction to henry. the next i heard of scudamour was from fenton. "by the way," said fenton, "scudamour is in edinburgh at present." i trembled, for edinburgh is where alexander lives. "what has taken him there?" i asked, with assumed carelessness. fenton believed it was business; "but," he added, "scudamour asked me to tell you that he meant to call on alexander, as he was anxious to see henry's children." a few days afterwards i had a telegram from alexander, who generally uses this means of communication when he corresponds with me. "do you know a man scudamour? reply," was what alexander said. i thought of answering that we had met a man of that name when we were in paris; but, on the whole, replied boldly: "know no one of the name of scudamour." about two months ago i passed scudamour in regent street, and he did not recognise me. this i could have borne if there had been no more of henry; but i knew that scudamour was now telling everybody about henry's wife. by-and-by i got a letter from an old friend of alexander's, asking me if there was any truth in a report that alexander was going to bombay. soon afterwards alexander wrote to me to say that he had been told by several persons that i was going to bombay. in short, i saw that the time had come for killing henry. so i told fenton that henry had died of fever, deeply regretted; and asked him to be sure to tell scudamour, who had always been interested in the deceased's welfare. the other day fenton told me that he had communicated the sad intelligence to scudamour. "how did he take it?" i asked. "well," fenton said, reluctantly, "he told me that when he was up in edinburgh he did not get on well with alexander; but he expressed great curiosity as to henry's children." "ah," i said, "the children were both drowned in the forth; a sad affair--we can't bear to talk of it." i am not likely to see much of scudamour again, nor is alexander. scudamour now goes about saying that henry was the only one of us he really liked. (_by permission of the author._) a night with a stork. w. e. wilcox. four individuals--namely, my wife, my infant son, my maid-of-all work, and myself--occupy one of a row of very small houses in the suburbs of london. i am a thoroughly domestic man, and notwithstanding that my occupation necessitates absence from my mansion between the hours of a.m. and p.m., my heart is generally at home, with my diminutive household. my wife, and i, love regularity and quiet above all things; and although, since the arrival of my son, and heir, we had not enjoyed that peace which we did during the first year of our married life, yet his juvenile, though somewhat powerful, little lungs, had as yet failed in making ours a noisy house. our regularity had, moreover, remained undisturbed, and we got up, went to bed, dined, breakfasted, and took tea at the same time, day after day. we had been going on in this clockwork fashion for a year and a half, when one morning the postman brought to our door a letter of ominous appearance, and on looking at the direction, i found that it came from an old, rich, and very eccentric uncle of mine, with whom, for certain reasons, we wished to remain on the best of terms. "what can uncle martin have to write about?" was our simultaneous exclamation, and i opened it with considerable curiosity. "martin house, herts, _oct._ , --. "dear nephew,-- "you may perhaps have heard that i am forming an aviary here. a friend in rotterdam has written to me to say that he has sent by the boat, which will arrive in london to-morrow afternoon, a very intelligent parrot and a fine stork. as the vessel arrives too late for them to be sent on the same night, i shall be obliged by your taking the birds home, and forwarding them to me the next morning.--with my respects to your good lady, "i remain your affectionate uncle, "ralph martin." i said nothing, but got a book on natural history, and turned to "stork." with trembling fingers i passed over the fact of "his hind toe being short, the middle too long, and joined to the outer one by a large membrane, and by a smaller one to the inner toe," because that would not matter much for one night; but i groaned out to my wife the pleasant intelligence that "his height is four feet, his appetite extremely voracious," and "his food--frogs, mice, worms, snails, and eels." where were we to provide a supper and breakfast of this description for him? i went to my office, and passed anything but a pleasant day, my thoughts constantly reverting to our expected visitors. at four o'clock i took a cab to the docks, and on arriving there, inquired for the ship, which was pointed out to me as "the one with the crowd upon the quay." on driving up, i discovered why there was a crowd, and the discovery did not bring comfort with it. on the deck, on one leg, stood the stork. whether it was the sea-voyage, or the leaving his home, or, being a stork of high moral principle, he was grieving at the continual, and rather joyous and exulting swearing of the parrot, i do not know, but i never saw a more melancholy looking object in my life. i went down on the deck, and did not like the expression of relief that came over the captain's face when he found what i had come for. the transmission of the parrot from the ship to the cab was an easy matter, as he was in a cage, but the stork was merely tethered by one leg; and although he did his best, when brought to the foot of the ladder, in trying to get up, he failed utterly, and had to be half-shoved, half-hauled, all the way--which, as he got astride, after the manner of equestrians, on every other bar, was a work of some difficulty. i hurried him into the cab, and ordering the man to drive as quickly as possible, got in with my guests. at first, i had to keep dodging my head about, to keep my face away from his bill as he turned round; but all of a sudden he broke the little window at the back of the cab, thrust his head through, and would keep it there, notwithstanding i kept pulling him back. consequently, when we drew up at my door, there was a mob of about a thousand strong around us. i got him in as well as i could, and shut the door. how can i describe the spending of that evening? how can i get sufficient power out of the english language to let you know what a nuisance that bird was to us? how can i tell you the cool manner in which he inspected our domestic arrangements?--walking slowly into rooms, and standing on one leg until his curiosity was satisfied; the expression of wretchedness that he threw over his entire person when he was tethered to the banisters, and had found out that, owing to our limited accommodation, he was to remain in the hall all night; the way in which he ate the snails specially provided for him, verifying to the letter the naturalist's description of his appetite. how can you, who have not had a stork staying with you, have any idea of the change which came over his temper after his supper--how he pecked at everybody who came near him; how he stood sentinel at the foot of the stairs; how my wife and i made fruitless attempts to get past, followed by ignominious retreats how; at last we outmanoeuvred him by throwing a table-cloth over his head, and then rushing by him, gaining the top of the stairs before he could disentangle himself. added to all this, we had to endure language from that parrot which would have disgraced a pothouse; indeed, so scurrilous did he become, that we had to take him and lock him up in the coal-hole, where, from fatigue, or the darkness of his bedroom, he soon swore himself to sleep. we were quite ready for rest, and the forgetfulness which, we hoped, sleep, that "balm of hurt minds," would bring with it; but our peace was not to last long. about a.m., i was awakened by my wife, and told to listen; i did so, and heard a sort of scrambling noise outside the door. "what can that be?" thought i. "he has broken his string, and is coming up stairs," said my wife; and then, remembering that the nursery door was generally left open, she urged my immediately stopping his further progress. "but, my dear," said i, "what am i to do in my present defenceless state of clothing, if he should take to pecking?" my wife's expression of the idea of my considering myself before the baby, determined me at once, come what might, to go and do him battle. out i went, and sure enough there he was on the landing, resting himself, after his unusual exertion, by tucking one leg up. he looked so subdued, that i was about to take him by the string and lead him downstairs, when he drew back his head, and in less time than it takes to relate, i was back in my room, bleeding profusely from a very severe wound in my leg. i shouted out to the nurse to shut the door, and determined to let the infamous bird go where he liked. i bound up my leg and went to bed again; but the thought that there was a stork wandering about the house, prevented me from getting any more sleep. from certain sounds that we heard, we had little doubt but that he was passing some of his time in the cupboard where we kept our spare crockery, and an inspection the next day confirmed this. in the morning i ventured cautiously out, and finding he was in our spare bedroom, i shut the door upon him. i then went for a large sack, and with the help of the table-cloth, and the boy who cleans our shoes, we got him into it without any personal damage. i took him off in this way to the station, and sent him and the parrot off to my uncle by the first train. we have determined that, taking our chance about a place in my uncle's will or not, we will never again have anything to do with any foreign animals, however much he may ask and desire it. (_by permission of_ messrs. w. & r. chambers.) the faithful lovers. f. c. burnand. i'd been away from her three years--about that-- and i returned to find my mary true, and though i'd question her, i did not doubt that it was unnecessary so to do. 'twas by the chimney corner we were sitting, "mary," said i, "have you been always true?" "frankly," says she, just pausing in her knitting, "i _don't_ think i've unfaithful been to you; but for the three years past i'll tell you what i've done; then say if i've been true or not. "when first you left, my grief was uncontrollable, alone i mourned my miserable lot, and all who saw me thought me inconsolable, till captain clifford came from aldershot; to flirt with him amused me while 'twas new, i don't count _that_ unfaithfulness. do you? "the next--oh! let me see--was frankie phipps, i met him at my uncle's christmas-tide; and 'neath the mistletoe, where lips met lips, he gave me his first kiss"--and here she sighed; "we stayed six weeks at uncle's--how time flew! i don't count _that_ unfaithfulness. do you? "lord cecil fossmote, only twenty-one, lent me his horse. oh, how we rode and raced! we scoured the downs--we rode to hounds--such fun! and often was his arm around my waist-- that was to lift me up or down. but who would count _that_ as unfaithfulness? do you? "do you know reggy vere? ah, how he sings! we met--'twas at a picnic. ah, such weather! he gave me, look, the first of these two rings, when we were lost in cliefden woods together. ah, what a happy time we spent, we two! i don't count _that_ unfaithfulness to you. "i've yet another ring from him. d'you see the plain gold circlet that is shining here?" i took her hand: "oh, mary! can it be that you"--quoth she, "that i am mrs. vere. i don't count _that_ unfaithfulness. do you?" "_no," i replied, "for i am married, too._" (_by permission of the author._) the wail of a banner-bearer. arthur matthison. well, what if i am only a banner-bearer? there's bigger blokes than me what begun as "supes," an' see where they've got to? _why don't i get there?_ cause i ain't never had the chance. you just let me get a "speaking part" as suits me, that's all! oh--it "_would be all_," eh? why--but there! you're a baby in the purfession! you are! when you've been capting of the guard, and third noble, and a bandit keerousin, and first hancient bard, and fourth in the council of ten what listens to otheller, and the mob in the capitol, and a harcher of merry england, and a peer of france, what doesn't speak, but has to look as if he could say a lot; when you've been all this you may talk! _i needn't be offended?_ all right, old pal; i ain't. though i was 'urt when that utilerty cove said as i was only a banner-bearer. "only!" why i should like to know where they'd be without us--all them old spoutin' tragedy merchants! they'd have no armies, consequently they couldn't rave at 'em, and lead 'em on to victory and things. they wouldn't 'ave no sennits, so they'd 'ave to cut out their potent, grave, and reverent seniors--an' that 'ud worry em. they wouldn't 'ave no hexited citizens, and so they couldn't bury old ceser nor praise him neither. they couldn't strew no fields with no dead soldiers. they'd 'ave nobody to chivy 'em when they come to the throne, or returned from the wars. they couldn't 'ave no percessions; as for balls, and parties, and torneymongs, why, they couldn't give 'em. and where 'ud they often be without the "distant ollerings" behind the scenes, allus a-comin' nerer and louder. why, i remember a 'eavy lead one night, as had insulted his army fearful, at rehearsal; he stops sudden, and thumps his breastplate, and says, "'ark, that toomult!" when there warn't no more toomult than two flies 'ud make in a milk-jug. we jest cut off his toomult, and quered his pitch, in a minnit, for the laugh come in 'ot. we're just as much wanted as they are, make no error. only a banner-bearer! "only," be blow'd! oh, don't you bother, i ain't getting waxy. i'm only a standin' up for my purfession. what do you say? _they could do without me in the modden drarmer?_ the modden drarmer, my boy, ain't actin'! it's nothing but "cuff-shootin'." you just has to stand against a mankel-shelf, with your hands in poole's pockets, and say nothing elegantly. you don't want no chest-notes; you don't want no action; you don't want no exsitement; you don't want no lungs, no heart, and no brain; only lungs an' soda, heart an' potash, brain an' selzer. everything's dilooted, my boy, for the modden drarmer; and the old school, an' the old kostumes 'ud bust the sides and roof too of the swell band-boxes, where they does the new school and the new kostumes. _p'r'aps i'm right?_ of course i'm right; and i'm in earnest, too! why, my boy, if they was to offer me an engagement as a "guest" in one of them cuff-shootin' plays, and ask me to go on in evening-dress, i'm blest if i wouldn't throw up the part. trousers and white ties cramps me. i wants a suit o' mail an' a 'alberd; a toonic, and my legs free; a dagger in my teeth--not a tooth-pick; a battle-axe in my 'and--not a crutch. i likes to be led to victory, i does. i likes to storm castles, and trampel on the foe! i does. i likes to hang our banners on the outward walls, i does. i'm a born banner-bearer, i am, and i glories in it. no, my boy! none of your milk-and-water "guests," and such, for the likes of me! an' if i was the lord chamberlain, i'd perhibit the modden drarmer altogether. them's my sentiments. if he don't perhibit it, actin' 'ull soon be modden'd out of existence; an' we shall 'ave macbeth in a two guinea tourist suit, and looy the eleventh in nickerbockers, on a bisykel. it's the old banner-bearing school as got us all our big actors, an' it stands to reason, my boy; for a cove can't spred hisself in a frock coat and droring-room langwidge. they're both on 'em too tame for what i calls real actin'. what! you _have heard say as us banner-bearers don't act--was only machines_? well, some on us don't, p'r'aps, but some on us does, and no mistake. you can't, as a rule, expect much feeling, much dignerty, much patriertism, or much simperthy for a shillin' a night. if they was all the real articles, they'd fetch a lot more than that; but there is gentlemen in my line as goes in for all four--reg'lar comes nateral to 'em. why, i've been that work'd on when i've seen joan o'hark goin' in a perisher at the stake, an' makin' that last dyin' speech and confession of hers, that i've felt a real 'art beat against my property breast-plate, and felt real tears a tricklin' down to my false beard. i've been so struck with admirashun for some othellos, that when they've been a addressin' of me as the sennit, i've felt as dignerfied as if i'd been the doag of venice hisself, and i bet he looked it. as for patriertism, there isn't a man living as has died for his country--willing, mind you--as often as i have; and i've strewed many a bloody field of batel with a ernest corpse, i have. an' as far as regards simperthy, it's stood in my way, for i've been that upset by queen katherines and prince arthurs, and even old shylock (for grashyano does giv' 'im a doin'), and ophelias, and other sufferin' parties, as i've often forgot my hexits and been fined a tanner; and if that ain't actin', i should like to know what is. it's all very well for them noospaper crickets to harry us, and say as we're a set o' this and a set o' the other, and that we ain't got no hideas. they wouldn't 'ave many hideas if they wasn't paid more than a shilling a night (with often twopence off to the hagent) for the use of 'em; the article's as good as the price, an' no mistake. some on us gets a bit more, and accordin' some on us gives a bit more; for there's first heavy lead, and setterer, among the supes, just as there is among the principles, don't make no error! _have to do as the "stars" tell us?_ well, of course, we does, only if the stars don't treat us like gents, we knows how to queer their pitches: rather! why, it ain't so very long since as i was a-playing a roman licktor in "virginius," and when we was a rehearsin' of it, 'im as played happyus clordyus called me a "pig." "all right," says i, "aside" like, "i'll pig yer." accordin', when night comes, and he makes an exit in the third act, and says--didn't he enjoy hisself with it--"and i shall surely see that they reseve it!" he chucks his toger over his right shoulder, and turns round as magestick as a beedle to walk off--well, some'ow, just then i drops my bundle of sticks ("fusses," they call 'em), all accidentle like, and happyus clordyus, with his heyes in the hair, comes to grief, slap over 'em. he was the un-happyest clordyus all through that play as ever you see. what did he call me a "pig" for, the idiot? "_seem to be important, after all?_" important! i should think we was! there couldn't be no big drarmers without us, no gallant warryers, no 'owling mobs, no "down with the tirants!" no briggands reposin', no 'appy pezzants, and no stage picturs of any account, if it warn't for the supes and banner-bearers, as ought to be made more on and seen to a bit better than they is; for what says the old shyley, in the play, 'im what old phellups us'd to warm 'em up in? "what?" says he, "what! hath not a supe eyes, 'ands, horgans, somethin' else, and passions? fed with the same food?--(no! shakey, old man, he ain't!) well, if you prick us, don't us bleed? if we larf, don't you tickle us? and if you wrong us, ain't we goin' to take it out of you, like i took it out o' happyus clordyus?" _how i do wag?_ well, ain't it enough to make me? don't let that 'ere utilerty cuff-shooter allood to me as "only a banner-bearer," then! let 'im, and all the others, treat us more respectful, and he and them too 'ull find a feeling 'art and good manners too, at even a shilling a night, though we could throw 'em in a lot; more of both for an extra bob.--good night, old man. (_by permission of_ messrs. routledge & sons.) the dream of the bilious beadle. arthur shirley. 'twas in the grimy winter time, an evening cold and damp, and four and twenty work'us boys, all of one ill-fed stamp, were blowing on blue finger tips, bent double with the cramp; and when the skilly poured out fell into each urchin's pan they swallowed it at such a pace as only boyhood can. but the beadle sat remote from all, a bilious-looking man-- his hat was off, red vest apart, to catch the evening breeze: he thought that that might cool his brow; it only made him sneeze, so pressed his side with his hand, and tried to seem as if at ease. heave after heave his waistcoat gave, to him was peace denied, it tortured him to see them eat, he couldn't though he tried! good fare had made him much too fat, and rather goggle-eyed; at length he started to his feet, some hurried steps he took, now up the ward, now down the ward, with wild dyspeptic look, and lo! he saw a work'us boy, who read a penny book-- "you beastly brat! what is't you're at? i warrant 'tis no good! what's this? 'the life of turpin bold!' or 'death of robin hood'?" "it's '_hessays on the crumpet_,' sir, as a harticle of food!" he started from that boy as tho' in's ear he'd blown a trumpet, his hand he pressed upon his chest, then with his fist did thump it, and down he sat beside the brat and talked about the crumpet. how now and then that muffin men of whom tradition tells, by pastry trade, fortunes had made, and come out awful swells, while their old patrons suffered worse than irving in "the bells!" "and well, i know," said he, "forsooth, for plenty have i bought, the sufferings of foolish folk who eat more than they ought. "with pepsine pills and liver pads is their consumption fraught, oh! oh! my boy, my pauper boy! take my advice, 'tis best shun all such tempting tasty things, tho' nice beyond all question, unless you wish like me to feel the pangs of indigestion! one, who had ever made me long--a muffin man and old-- i watched into a public-house, he called for whisky cold, and for one moment left his stock within green baize enrolled. i crept up to them, thinking what an appetite i'd got, i gloated o'er them lying there elastic and all hot; i thought of butter laid on thick, and then i prigged the lot! "i took them home, i toasted them, p'raps upwards of a score, and never had so fine a feast on luscious fare before, 'and now,' i said, 'i'll go to bed, and dream of eating more.' all night i lay uneasily, and rolled from side to side, at first without one wink of sleep, no matter how i tried; and then i dreamt i was a 'bus, and gurgled 'full inside!' i was a 'bus by nightmares drawn on to some giddy crest, now launched like lightning through the air, now stop'd and now compressed; i felt a million muffin men were seated on my chest! "i heard their bells--their horrid bells--in sound as loud as trumpets, oh, curses on ye, spongy tribe! ye cruffins and ye mumpets! i must be mad! i mean to say ye muffins and ye crumpets! then came a chill like wenham ice; then hot as hottest steam; i could not move a single limb! i could not even scream! you pauper brat, remember that all this was but a dream!" the boy gazed on his troubled brow, from which big drops were oozing, and for the moment all respect for his dread function losing, made this remark, "well, blow me tight, our beadle's been a-boozing!" that very week, before the beak, they brought that beadle burly; he pleaded guilty in a tone dyspeptically surly, and he lives still at pentonville with hair not long or curly! (_by permission of the author._) my friend treacle. watkin-elliott. "so charley is going to marry 'the most charming girl in the world'!" i ejaculated, after a hearty laugh over the following epistle from my old friend:-- "dear bob,-- "i am going to do for myself in earnest; no humbug this time. 'for better or for worse,' and if it turns out the latter it will be a scrape no one can get me out of. of course, you understand i am about to marry, and i need not add _she_ is the most charming girl in the world: fair, sky-blue eyes, silk-worm--i mean spun silk hair, lovely in fact! come and be my best man: do, old fellow! you have backed me up lots of times before, and although we have lost sight of one another since 'we were boys together,' that goes for nothing between us--does it? write by return, and say you will support me: i have a dread that i shall marry the wrong girl, or allow some one else to marry lucy--that's _her_ name!--or do something unlucky, unless you look after me. "yours, as ever, "charley boston. "p.s.--it comes off in a fortnight." "'it,'--well that is vague enough, but i suppose he means the happy event. ye gods and little fishes!--to call a marriage 'it'! but that is like boston. and 'sure to do something unlucky,' are you? well, i guess you are not the 'treacle' of old unless you get into some quandary over it," i muttered; and then i threw myself back in my chair and laughed again as some of our adventures, when we were at dr. omega's school--i mean college--presented themselves to my mind. glorious times those! looking back upon them now, although we did not value them, in our careless youth, at their full worth. treacle's--_i.e._, boston's--daring always led him to some adventure, and i always backed him up--in a feeble way, perhaps,--and we always got found out somehow, and got our deserts in a manner more satisfactory to lovers of justice than to ourselves. stunning times! the very fact of our being punished for the same crime, and at the same time, was a bond of union between treacle and myself. "one touch of sympathy," or one touch of the rod, made us kin in a manner very peculiar;--a fellow feeling made us wondrous kind and sympathetic. you talk of little dinners and little suppers in these days, and think them epicurean feasts!--but, be really hungry--hungry as a school-boy, and enjoy a little supper off kippered herring _on the sly_--that _is_ a feast, if you like. such feasts as these we enjoyed at mother kemp's, down the village, when the doctor, tutors, and monitors imagined us safely tucked in our little beds. looking upon mother kemp, in those days, i thought her a good fairy disguised as a witch. looking back upon her, with manhood's enlightened judgment, i think she was an unprincipled old woman, who traded on our weaknesses. i confess myself to have been a hungry boy,--boston, with a penitence which did him credit, used to confess the same: we both had a propensity to come through our trouser-legs and sleeve-jackets, and, what was worse, could not help ourselves doing so. boston was of an ingenious turn of mind, and it was he who suggested that those boys, who could afford to be hungry with any satisfaction to themselves, should club together for a supper at mother kemp's once a-week; and it was through one of these suppers, or the search for one, that he got his sweet sobriquet of "treacle." he having made the suggestion, we elected him chief of our expeditions, and thus to a certain extent he held the fate of our appetites in his hands. one night we had escaped, as usual, by means of a rope-ladder made by boston, from the window of the room of which i was senior boy, to mother kemp's in the village. mother kemp kept a general shop--that is to say, she retailed tallow, treacle, rope, bacon, herrings, soap, cottons, tops, balls, butter, sweets, and so forth; and she not only, as a rule, sold us a supper out of her heterogeneous store, but cooked it, if needs were, and served it for us in her back parlour--that is, _if we could_ pay ready cash down. this night of which i speak we could not. we had appealed to madame kemp's motherly heart for "trust," in vain, and we were returning home in a state of double the hunger to that in which we had started, on account of our hopes being unfulfilled, when charlie boston made a remark in a melancholy tone: it was-- "i wonder if the pantry window is open." we eyed him askance and in silence. "and if," with a frown of determination on his brow, "there is _anything_ inside!" then we knew we were "in" for something, be it to eat or feel, and followed him half in hope, half in fear. the window was open. looking upon that casement from my point of view now, i decide it was an architectural folly, being no more than seven feet from the ground, and innocent of bars or protection of any kind, and moreover large enough for any one of moderate size to creep through. from our point of view, then, we thought it a very jolly contrivance. "hurrah!" shouted boston, _sotto voce_--in fact, very much _sotto voce_--"we will indeed sup at the doctor's expense to-night, bless him!--eh, boys?" either to the supper or blessing we assented, joyfully; but when our chief asked who was for reconnoitring, the question was received in silence. "suppose it is missed in the morning--i mean, _what we eat_," suggested some one, timidly. "cats!" settled boston with laconic contempt. "but cats don't eat cheese, and--" "bah! cats eat _anything_, from mice to stewed-eels' feet. who will follow if i lead?" "couldn't you get in and hand something out?" asked another, coolly. "wish you may get it. travers, _you_ will follow, will you not?" "yes," i replied, with a little inward shudder. "'lead on, macduff, and'--and, what you may call it, be him that first cries 'hold, enough!'" "old enough for what?" queried the wit of the party. "look here, jenkins, don't you be a fool; this is not the time for vile puns, or shakspeare either," with a frown at me. "it will take a jolly long time for us all to get in one after the other," i ruminated upon this snub. "and a jollier long time to get out, if we want to, in a hurry," suggested the timid one. "that is true," agreed the chief. "we will toss up, and 'odd man' goes in and hands out--eh?" faint applause. but the idea was not carried out, because, upon reflection, we remembered mother kemp had our last coin. "never mind," cried boston, in his happy dare-all way. "i'll do it! lend me a back, somebody, and keep a sharp look out, mind!" we lent him a back with alacrity, it being a cheap and easy loan, and he drew himself up. "i see a pie!" he cried, and the words revived us. "supposing it is steak!" we supposed, and felt more hungry than ever. then we watched him with increased interest, as he squeezed his body through the casement, paused a moment to recover breath, descended gradually and carefully, and--heavens, what was that? there was a scuffle and a gasp. was it the doctor? i think at this juncture my knees began to tremble; so i cannot describe what the other sounds in the pantry were--at least, not with any accuracy. "i say," began some one of our party--he was always doing that, saying "i say," and stopping short; a nasty habit, you know, for when one's nerves are unstrung it makes you anxious, not to say alarmed. "old omega!" whispered another in an awed tone. "can't be; there's no talking." "no, because he's such an artful old fox; he thinks he'll catch us all!--eh?" the "eh" was to one who thought he had "_better go and see if the ladder was there all right_." it ended in their all going for the same commendable purpose, and leaving me behind to look after boston. i was very much inclined to follow them, i confess, but i liked my friend too much to leave him, so, having a regard for my own personal safety, i got behind a laurel and waited. "silence there, and nothing more." _could_ it be the doctor! could the doctor keep his anger so long bottled up--even to catch the rest of us--without bursting? i thought not: he would have had a fit by this time. in those days i remember revolving in my mind the advantage i would gain if dr. omega did have a fit and died. it was very horrible of me, of course, but then i was a boy, and as i looked at the doctor's purple visage--_was_ it coloured by the liquid et cetera?--i decided that if he were removed, no matter how, i might have a jolly holiday until another authority was placed over me, or i placed under another authority. o, it was wicked of me, i know, _terribly_ wicked!--but true. mais revenons à boston. if it is not the doctor in there with him, it may be the cook, i revolved behind the bushes. the cook ought to be in bed, by this time--so ought i: i was not, that was a certainty, perhaps the cook was not; if not--why it was very wrong of her not to be, i concluded virtuously. the moments passed, and still no sound from the pantry of voices. _had_ charley fallen down in a fit instead of the doctor? i crept from my hiding place and essayed a faint whistle, recognised by us all as a call. no answer. "boston!" i ejaculated, feeling sure now that the doctor could not possibly be there. then, as i watched the casement, as anxiously as any lover could that of his mistress, i saw something appear at it: by the light of the moon it looked _black_ and _shiny_. if the shock had not deprived me of motion i should have fled. i could not flee, so i stood bravely to my post and shook like a jelly. what was it? i felt like hamlet when he saw the ghost of his father; but i did not apostrophize it--i knew better,--at least i had not sufficient choice shakespearian language at my tongue's end to do so becomingly. "travers?" "angels and ministers"--my name in boston's voice. in a moment the roaring in my ears ceased, and my muscles gained strength. "is that _you_, charley?" i asked, sensibly enough. "phew!" "why--why, hang it, boston, what's up--eh?" "'up!'--all over me--choking me--treacle!" gasped my friend, creeping through the window, with difficulty, as he spoke, and losing his balance, as he reached the ground, he fell against me, stuck to me, disengaged himself, and finally stood upright. "treacle!" i ejaculated with a roar, which even though the doctor might have heard i could not suppress, as charley began clearing out his eyes and mouth with his already sticky fists. "yes, _treacle_," crossly. "you needn't laugh like that, bob, and make such a confounded fool of yourself," he growled. "i stumbled, somehow, and fell face forward into a pan of it. don't make such a row, travers!" as i continued my cachination and held my aching sides, "i might have been smothered for all _you_ would have cared. by jove! smothered in treacle! why a butt of malmsey would be a natural death in comparison." "the treacle we have for our puddings and with our brimstone?" i gasped at last. "yes." here the ludicrous aspect of affairs struck the martyr, and he joined me in my merriment. "i didn't know where i was going until i was in it," he continued. "ugh! i shall hate treacle like poison for the rest of my life! where are the other fellows?" "sneaked away; thought omega had caught you." "cowards!" at this moment a low whistle, a danger signal, from the boys just denounced, caused us to hurry from the spot, and reaching the rope ladder, we were up it like cats, gaining our room just in time to find that, by the light shining under the door, some one was on the alert. "get under my bed!" i whispered to charley, as his escape to his own room was cut off. in his hurry and confusion, he got _into_ it. i had no time to demur, and jumped in after him, just as the doctor, suspicious and austere, entered, candlestick in hand. "noise in number three: senior boy, report." i, senior boy, reported, and replied by a nasal demonstration which i flattered myself was a very good imitation of a sound snore. "robert travers!" in a voice which might, almost, have awakened the dead. "sir," replied i--robert--as sleepily as i could. "somebody walking about this room, and talking." if brevity is the soul of wit, then old omega was the wittiest fellow i ever came across,--although he never _looked_ it. he always spoke sharply and to the point, and gave us our due in the same manner. now, as he jerked his sentence out, he approached nearer. charley, like a certain big bird, seemed to fancy that, because his own face was hidden and he could see no one, it followed that no one could see him; whereas, half his head was exposed to view. i sat up in bed, hurriedly giving my companion a vicious kick of caution, as i explained to the doctor that "little simpson walked and talked in his sleep;" at which "little simpson," in a corner of the room, groaned audibly. "simpson, junior, what do you mean by walking in your sleep, sir?" simpson groaned again, and the doctor, thinking he was snoring, continued,-- "he eats too much; must diet him. a dose of brimstone and treacle (i felt boston jump) in the morning will do him good--cooling. remind me, travers. by the way, sir, how comes it you are awake?" "please, sir, you woke me--awakened me, sir," i stammered. "hem," doubtfully. "whom have you in bed with you--eh?" as boston, rendered uncomfortable by his sticky face, had moved. "with _me_, sir?" i murmured, vaguely. "yes, sir, with you. come out, whoever it is!" roared omega, without further parley. but boston remained still as a mouse. struck dumb with anger and astonishment, that a boy should have the impudence to stop in when _he_ ordered him to come out, the doctor strode round to charley's side, and laid hands on the miscreant to have him out by force; but, no sooner had he felt the viscous state of our hero, than he withdrew them precipitately, with the pious ejaculation,-- "good heavens! what is the matter with him!" "necessitas non habet legem." i, being senior boy, had to report. i did so, tremblingly, and imitated the doctor in my brevity. "matter, sir--treacle, sir." "treacle!" in a voice of concentrated thunder, if you know what that is like. "his mother sent him a pot of treacle, sir, and he--and he thought it was pomatum, sir, and--and----" my imaginative powers fell before the lightning of the doctor's glance. "_whose_ mother?" "boston's, sir." "boston, come out!" and boston, after some little delay caused in having to detach himself from surroundings, came forth like a lamb--i mean, like a black sheep. "what the dev----!" but i draw a curtain over the rest; the doctor was profane, and he hurt my feelings _very much_. poor old treacle! the name stuck to him ever after. well, i went to his wedding, and with the exception that at the critical part of the ceremony he dropped the ring, which, after we had all scrambled on our knees for, was found in the bride's veil, he went through the "happiest day of his life" without a mistake. as for myself, in searching for that ring, i knocked my head against treacle's sister's, and it upset me. a thrill went through me, which was most painfully pleasant. at the breakfast-table i became sentimental; in making my speech for the ladies, i caught her--treacle's sister's--eye, she smiled, and i lost the thread of my discourse. it was a very slender thread, and i never found it again until, one day, i was wandering round somebody's garden with my arm round treacle's sister's waist, and,--but that doesn't matter! she is a jolly little thing, though--treacle's sister is. (_by permission of the author._) the voice of the sluggard. anonymous. have you brought my boots, jemima? leave them at my chamber door. does the water boil, jemima? place it also on the floor. eight o'clock already, is it? how's the weather--pretty fine? eight is tolerably early; i can get away by nine. still i feel a little sleepy, though i came to bed at one. put the bacon on, jemima; see the eggs are nicely done! i'll be down in twenty minutes--or, if possible, in less; i shall not be long, jemima, when i once begin to dress. she is gone, the brisk jemima; she is gone, and little thinks how the sluggard yearns to capture yet another forty winks, since the bard is human only--not an early village cock-- why should he salute the morning at the hour of eight o'clock? stifled be the voice of duty; prudence, prythee, cease to chide, while i turn me softly, gently, round upon my other side. sleep, resume thy downy empire; reassert thy sable reign! morpheus, why desert a fellow? bring those poppies here again! what's the matter, now, jemima? nine o'clock? it cannot be! hast prepared the eggs, the bacon, and the matutinal tea? take away the jug, jemima, go, replenish it anon; since the charm of its caloric must be very nearly gone. she has left me. let me linger till she reappears again, let my lazy thoughts meander in a free and easy vein. after sleep's profoundest solace, nought refreshes like the doze. should i tumble off, no matter; she will wake me, i suppose. bless me, is it you, jemima? mercy on us, what a knock? can it be--i can't believe it--actually ten o'clock? i will out of bed and shave me. fetch me warmer water up! let the tea be strong, jemima, i shall only want a cup! stop a minute! i remember some appointment by the way, 'twould have brought me mints of money; 'twas for ten o'clock to-day. let me drown my disappointment, slumber, in thy seventh heaven! you may go away, jemima. come and call me at eleven! (_from the "leeds mercury."_) artemus ward's visit to the tower of london. ch. farrar browne. i skurcely need inform you that the tower is very pop'lar with pe'ple from the agricultooral districks, and it was chiefly them class which i found waitin' at the gates the other mornin'. i saw at once that the tower was established on a firm basis. in the entire history of firm basises, i don't find a basis more firmer than this one. "you have no tower in america?" said a man in the crowd, who had somehow detected my denomination. "alars! no," i ansered; "we boste of our enterprise and improovements, and yit we are devoid of a tower. america, oh my onhappy country! thou hast not got no tower! it's a sweet boon." the gates were opened after a while, and we all purchist tickets, and went into a waitin' room. "my frens," said a pale-faced little man, in black close, "that is a sad day." "inasmuch as to how?" i said. "i mean it is sad to think that so many peple have been killed within these gloomy walls. my frens, let us drop a tear." "no!" i said, "you must excuse me. others may drop one if they feel like it; but as for me, i decline. the early managers of this institootion were a bad lot, and their crimes were trooly orful; but i can't sob for those who died four or five hundred years ago. if they was my own relations i couldn't. it's absurd to shed sobs over things which occurd during the rain of henry the three. let us be cheerful," i continnered. "look at the festiv warders, in their red flannel jackets. they are cheerful, and why should it not be thusly with us?" a warder now took us in charge, and showed us the trater's gate, the armers, and things. the trater's gate is wide enuff to admit about twenty traters abrest, i should jedge; but beyond this, i couldn't see that it was superior to gates in gen'ral. traters, i will here remark, are an onforchunit class of pe'ple. if they wasn't, they wouldn't be traters. they conspire to bust up a country--they fail, and they're traters. they bust her, and they become statesmen and heroes. take the case of gloster, afterwards old dick the three, who may be seen at the tower on horseback, in a heavy tin overcoat--take mr. gloster's case. mr. g. was a conspirator of the basist dye, and if he'd failed, he would have been hung on a sour apple tree. but mr. g. succeeded and became great. he was slewed by col. richmond, but he lives in history, and his equestrian figger may be seen daily for a sixpence, in conjunction with other em'nent persons, and no extra charge for the warder's able and bootiful lectur. there's one king in this room who is mounted onto a foaming steed, his right hand graspin a barber's pole. i didn't learn his name. the room where the daggers and pistils and other weppins is kept is interestin. among this collection of choice cutlery i notist the bow and arrer which those hot-heded old chaps used to conduct battles with. it is quite like the bow and arrer used at this date by certain tribes of american injuns, and they shoot 'em off with such an excellent precision that i almost sigh'd to be an injun when i was in the rocky mountain regin. they are a pleasant lot, them injuns. mr. cooper and dr. catlin have told us of the red man's wonderful eloquence, and i found it so. our party was stopt on the plains of utah by a band of shoshones, whose chief said:-- "brothers! the pale-face is welcome. brothers! the sun is sinking in the west, and wa-na-bucky-she will soon cease speakin. brothers! the poor red man belongs to a race which is fast becomin extink." he then whooped in a shrill manner, stole our blankets, and whisky, and fled to the primeval forest to conceal his emotions. i will remark here, while on the subjeck of injuns, that they are in the main a very shaky set, with even less sense than the fenians; and when i hear philanthropists bewailin the fack that every year "carries the noble red man nearer the settin sun," i simply have to say i'm glad of it, tho' it is rough on the settin sun. they call you by the sweet name of brother one minit, and the next they scalp you with their thomas-hawks. but i wander. let us return to the tower. at one end of the room where the weppins is kept, is a wax figger of queen elizabeth, mounted on a fiery stuffed hoss, whose glass eye flashes with pride, and whose red morocker nostril dilates hawtily, as if, conscious of the royal burden he bears. i have associated elizabeth with the spanish armady. she's mixed up with it at the surrey theatre, where _troo to the core_ is bein acted, and in which a full bally core is introjooced on board the spanish admiral's ship, givin' the audiens the idea that he intends openin a moosic-hall in plymouth the moment he conkers that town. but a very interestin drammer is _troo to the core_, notwithstandin the eccentric conduct of the spanish admiral; and very nice it is in queen elizabeth to make martin truegold a baronet. the warder shows us some instrooments of tortur, such as thumbscrews, throat collars, etc., statin' that these was conkered from the spanish armady, and addin what a crooil peple the spaniards was in them days--which elissited from a bright-eyed little girl of about twelve summers the remark that she tho't it was rich to talk about the crooilty of the spaniards usin thumbscrews, when he was in a tower where so many poor peple's heads had been cut off. this made the warder stammer and turn red. i was so pleased with the little girl's brightness that i could have kissed the dear child, and i would if she'd been six years older. i think my companions intended makin a day of it, for they all had sandwiches, sassiges, etc. the sad-lookin man, who had wanted us to drop a tear afore we started to go round, fling'd such quantities of sassige into his mouth that i expected to see him choke hisself to death; he said to me, in the beauchamp tower, where the poor prisoners writ their onhappy names on the cold walls, "this is a sad sight." "it is indeed," i ansered. "you're black in the face. you shouldn't eat sassige in public without some rehearsals beforehand. you manage it orkwardly." "no," he said, "i mean this sad room." indeed, he was quite right. tho' so long ago all these drefful things happened, i was very glad to git away from this gloomy room, and go where the rich and sparklin crown jewils is kept. i was so pleased with the queen's crown, that it occurd to me what a agree'ble surprise it would be to send a sim'lar one home to my wife; and i asked the warder what was the vally of a good well-constructed crown like that. he told me, but on cypherin up with a pencil the amount of funs i have in the jint stock bank, i conclooded i'd send her a genteel silver watch instid. and so i left the tower. it is a solid and commandin edifis, but i deny that it is cheerful. i bid it adoo without a pang. (_from_ "punch," _by permission of the proprietors_.) mr. caudle has lent an acquaintance the family umbrella. douglas jerrold. "that's the third umbrella gone since christmas. _what were you to do?_ why let him go home in the rain, to be sure. i'm very certain there was nothing about _him_ that could spoil. take cold, indeed! he doesn't look like one of the sort to take cold. besides, he'd have better taken cold than take our only umbrella. do you hear the rain, mr. caudle? i say, do you hear the rain? and as i'm alive, if it isn't st. swithin's day! do you hear it, against the windows? nonsense; you don't impose upon me. you can't be asleep with such a shower as that! do you hear it, i say? oh, you _do_ hear it! well, that's a pretty flood, i think, to last for six weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house. pooh! don't think me a fool, mr. caudle. don't insult _me_. _he_ return the umbrella! anybody would think you were born yesterday. as if anybody ever _did_ return an umbrella! there--do you hear it? worse and worse? cats and dogs, and for six weeks--always six weeks. and no umbrella! "i should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow? they shan't go through such weather, i'm determined. no: they shall stop at home and never learn anything--the blessed creatures!--sooner than go and get wet. and when they grow up, i wonder who they'll have to thank for knowing nothing--who, indeed, but their father? people who can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers. "but i know why you lent the umbrella. oh, yes; i know very well. i was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow--you knew that; and you did it on purpose. don't tell me; you hate me to go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. but don't you think it, mr. caudle. no, sir; if it comes down in buckets-full, i'll go all the more. no: and i won't have a cab, where do you think the money's to come from? you've got nice high notions at that club of yours. a cab, indeed! cost me sixteen-pence at least--sixteen pence! two and sixpence, for there's back again. cabs, indeed! i should like to know who's to pay for 'em; i can't pay for 'em; and i'm sure you can't, if you go on as you do; throwing away your property, and beggaring your children--buying umbrellas! "do you hear the rain, mr. caudle? i say, do you hear it? but i don't care--i'll go to mother's to-morrow, i will; and what's more, i'll walk every step of the way--and you know that will give me my death. don't call me a foolish woman, it's you that's the foolish man. you know i can't wear clogs; and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold--it always does. but what do you care for that? nothing at all. i may be laid up for what you care, as i dare say i shall--and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. i hope there will! it will teach you to lend your umbrellas again. i shouldn't wonder if i caught my death; yes; and that's what you lent the umbrella for. of course! "nice clothes i shall get too, trapesing through weather like this. my gown and bonnet will be spoilt quite. _needn't i wear 'em, then?_ indeed, mr. caudle, i _shall_ wear 'em. no, sir, i'm not going out a dowdy to please you or anybody else. gracious knows! it isn't often that i step over the threshold; indeed, i might as well be a slave at once,--better, i should say. but when i do go out, mr. caudle, i choose to go like a lady. oh! that rain--if it isn't enough to break in the windows. "ugh! i do look forward with dread for to-morrow! how i am to go to mother's i'm sure i can't tell. but if i die, i'll do it. no, sir; i won't borrow an umbrella. no; and you shan't buy one. now, mr. caudle, only listen to this; if you bring home another umbrella, i'll throw it in the street. i'll have my own umbrella, or none at all. "ha! and it was only last week i had a new nozzle put to that umbrella. i'm sure, if i'd have known as much as i do now, it might have gone without one for me. paying for new nozzles, for other people to laugh at you. oh, it's all very well for you--you can go to sleep. you've no thought of your poor patient wife, and your own dear children. you think of nothing but lending umbrellas. "men, indeed!--call themselves lords of the creation!--pretty lords, when they can't even take care of an umbrella. "i know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. but that's what you want--then you may go to your club, and do as you like--and then, nicely my poor dear children will be used--but then, sir, then you'll be happy. oh, don't tell me! i know you will. else you'd never have lent the umbrella! "you have to go on thursday about that summons; and, of course, you can't go. no, indeed, you _don't_ go without the umbrella. you may lose the debt for what i care--it won't be so much as spoiling your clothes--better lose it: people deserve to lose debts who lend umbrellas! "and i should like to know how i'm to go to mother's without the umbrella? oh, don't tell me that i said i would go--that's nothing to do with it; nothing at all. she'll think i'm neglecting her, and the little money we were to have, we shan't have at all--because we've no umbrella. "the children, too! dear things! they'll be sopping wet: for they shan't stop at home--they shan't lose their learning; it's all their father will leave 'em, i'm sure. but they _shall_ go to school. don't tell me i said they shouldn't: you are so aggravating, caudle; you'd spoil the temper of an angel. they _shall_ go to school; mark that. and if they get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault--i didn't lend the umbrella!" * * * * * "at length," writes caudle, "i fell asleep; and dreamt that the sky was turned into green calico, with whalebone ribs; that, in fact, the whole world turned round under a tremendous umbrella!" (_by permission of_ messrs. bradbury, agnew, & co.) domestic asides. tom hood. "i really take it very kind, this visit, mrs. skinner, i have not seen you such an age-- (the wretch has come to dinner!) "your daughters, too, what loves of girls-- what heads for painters' easels! come here, and kiss the infant, dears-- (and give it, p'raps, the measles!) "your charming boys i see are home from reverend mr. russell's; 'twas very kind to bring them both-- (what boots for my new brussels!) "what! little clara left at home? well now, i call that shabby: i should have loved to kiss her so-- (a flabby, dabby, babby!) "and mr. s., i hope he's well, ah! though he lives so handy, he never drops in now to sup-- (the better for our brandy!) "come, take a seat--i long to hear about matilda's marriage; you've come, of course, to spend the day! (thank heaven, i hear the carriage!) "what! must you go? next time i hope you'll give me longer measure; nay--i shall see you down the stairs-- (with most uncommon pleasure!) "good-bye! good-bye! remember all, next time you'll take your dinners! (now, david, mind i'm not at home in future to the skinners!") (_by permission of_ messrs. ward, lock, & co.) the charity dinner. litchfield moseley. time: half-past six o'clock. place: the london tavern. occasion: fifteenth annual festival of the society for the distribution of blankets and top-boots among the natives of the cannibal islands. on entering the room, we find more than two hundred noblemen, and gentlemen already assembled; and the number is increasing every minute. there are many well-known city diners here this evening. that very ordinary looking personage, with the rubicund complexion and pimply features, is old moneypenny, senior partner of the great firm of moneypenny, blodgers, and wobbles, corn factors of mark lane. he began the world as a fellowship porter, and always makes a rule of attending the principal dinners at the london tavern, "because," as he says confidentially, to wobbles, "don't you see, my boy, it's a very cheap way of getting into society." he is talking now to sir sandy mchaggis, a scotch baronet, with a slender purse and a large appetite, with whom he has scraped an acquaintance, and presented with a spare ticket for the festival; knowing that the scotchman is "varra fond o' a gude dinner, specially when it costs a mon nothing at all." the preparations are now complete, and we are in readiness to receive the chairman. after a short pause, a little door at the end of the room opens, and the great man appears, attended by an admiring circle of stewards and toadies, carrying white wands, like a parcel of charity-school boys bent on beating the bounds. he advances smilingly to his post at the principal table, amid deafening and long-continued cheers. he is a very popular man, this chairman; for is he not the earl of mount-stuart, late one of her majesty's cabinet ministers? and his wealth and party influence are known to be enormous. the dinner now makes its appearance, and we yield up ourselves to the enjoyments of eating and drinking. these important duties finished, and grace having been beautifully sung by the vocalists, the real business of the evening commences. the usual loyal toasts having been given, the noble chairman rises, and, after passing his fingers through his hair, he places his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, gives a short preparatory cough, accompanied by a vacant stare round the room, and commences as follows:-- "my lords and gentlemen--it is with mingled pleasure and regret that i appear before you this evening: of pleasure, to find that this excellent and world-wide-known society is in so promising a condition; and, of regret, that you have not chosen a worthier chairman; in fact, one who is more capable than myself of dealing with a subject of such vital importance as this. (loud cheers). but, although i may be unworthy of the honour, i am proud to state that i have been a subscriber to this society from its commencement; feeling sure that nothing can tend more to the advancement of civilization, social reform, fireside comfort, and domestic economy among the cannibals, than the diffusion of blankets and top-boots. (tremendous cheering, which lasts for several minutes.) here, in this england of ours, which is an island surrounded by water, as i suppose you all know--or, as our great poet so truthfully and beautifully expresses the same fact, 'england bound in by the triumphant sea'--what, down the long vista of years, have conduced more to our successes in arms, and arts and song, than blankets? indeed, i never gaze upon a blanket without my thoughts reverting fondly to the days of my early childhood. where should we all have been now but for those warm and fleecy coverings? my lords and gentlemen! our first and tender memories are all associated with blankets: blankets when in our nurses' arms, blankets in our cradles, blankets in our cribs, blankets to our french bedsteads in our schooldays, and blankets to our marital four-posters now. therefore, i say, it becomes our bounden duty as men,--and, with feelings of pride, i add, as englishmen--to initiate the untutored savage, the wild and somewhat uncultivated denizen of the prairie, into the comfort and warmth of blankets; and to supply him, as far as practicable, with those reasonable, seasonable, luxurious, and useful appendages. at such a moment as this, the lines of another poet strike familiarly upon the ears. let me see, they are something like this-- "blankets have charms to soothe the savage breast, and to--to, do--a----" i forget the rest. (loud cheers.) do we grudge our money for such a purpose? i answer, fearlessly, no! could we spend it better at home? i reply most emphatically, no! true, it may be said that there are thousands of our own people who at this moment are wandering about the streets of this great metropolis without food to eat or rags to cover them. but what have we to do with them? our thoughts, our feelings, and our sympathies, are all wafted on the wings of charity to the dear and interesting cannibals in the far-off islands of the green pacific ocean. (hear, hear.) besides, have not our own poor the workhouses to go to; the luxurious straw of the casual wards to repose upon, if they please; the mutton broth to bathe in; and the ever toothsome, although somewhat scanty, allowance of 'toke' provided for them? and let it ever be remembered that our own people are not savages, and man-eaters; and, therefore, our philanthropy would be wasted upon them. (overwhelming applause.) to return to our subject. perhaps some person or persons here may wonder why we should not send out side-springs and bluchers, as well as top-boots. to those i will say, that top-boots alone answer the object desired--namely, not only to keep the feet dry, but the legs warm, and thus to combine the double use of shoes and stockings. is it not an instance of the remarkable foresight of this society, that it purposely abstains from sending out any other than top-boots? to show the gratitude of the cannibals for the benefits conferred upon them, i will just mention that, within the last few weeks, his illustrious majesty, hokee pokey wankey fum the first, surnamed by his loving subjects, 'the magnificent,' from the fact of his wearing, on sundays, a shirt-collar and an eye-glass as full court costume--has forwarded the president of this society a very handsome present, consisting of two live alligators, a boa constrictor, and three pots of preserved indian, to be eaten with toast; and i am told, by competent judges, that it is quite equal to russian caviare. "my lords and gentlemen--i will not trespass on your patience by making any further remarks; knowing how incompetent i am--no, no! i don't mean that--how incompetent you all are--no! i don't mean either--but you all know what i mean. like the ancient roman lawgiver, i am in a peculiar position; for the fact is, i cannot sit down--i mean to say, that i cannot sit down without saying that, if there ever _was_ an institution, it is _this_ institution; and therefore, i beg to propose, 'prosperity to the society for the distribution of blankets and top-boots among the natives of the cannibal islands.'" the toast having been cordially responded to, his lordship calls upon mr. duffer, the secretary, to read the report. whereupon that gentlemen, who is of a bland and oily temperament, and whose eyes are concealed by a pair of green spectacles, produces the necessary document, and reads, in the orthodox manner,-- "thirtieth half-yearly report of the society for the distribution of blankets and top-boots to the natives of the cannibal islands. "the society having now reached its fifteenth anniversary, the committee of management beg to congratulate their friends and subscribers on the success that has been attained. "when the society first commenced its labours, the generous and noble-minded natives of the islands, together with their king--a chief whose name is well known in connexion with one of the most stirring and heroic ballads of this country--attired themselves in the light but somewhat insufficient costume of their tribe--viz., little before, nothing behind, and no sleeves, with the occasional addition of a pair of spectacles; but now, thanks to this useful association, the upper classes of the cannibals seldom appear in public without their bodies being enveloped in blankets and their feet encased in top-boots. "when the latter useful articles were first introduced into the islands, the society's agents had a vast amount of trouble to prevail upon the natives to apply them to their proper purposes; and, in their work of civilization, no less than twenty of its representatives were massacred, roasted, and eaten. but we persevered; we overcame the natural antipathy of the cannibals to wear any covering to their feet; until after a time, the natives discovered the warmth and utility of boots; and now they can scarcely be induced to remove them until they fall off through old age. "during the past half year, the society has distributed no less than blankets and pairs of top-boots; and your committee, therefore, feel convinced that they will not be accused of inaction. but a great work is still before them; and they earnestly invite co-operation, in order that they may be enabled to supply the whole of the cannibals with these comfortable, nutritious, and savoury articles. "as the balance-sheet is rather a lengthy document, i will merely quote a few of the figures for your satisfaction. we have received, during the half-year, in subscriptions, donations, and legacies, the sum of £ , _s._ ¾_d._ rent, rates, and taxes, £ _s._ ¼_d._ seventy-one pairs of blankets, at _s._ per pair, have taken £ exactly; and pairs of tops-boots, at _s._ per pair, cost us £ some odd shillings. the salaries and expenses of management amount to £ , _s._ ½_d._; and sundries, which include committee meetings and travelling expenses, have absorbed the remainder of the sum, and amount to £ , _s._ ¾_d._ so that we have expended on the dear and interesting cannibals the sum of £ , and the remainder of the sum--amounting to £ , --has been devoted to the working expenses of the society." the reading concluded, the secretary resumes his seat amid heavy applause, which continues until mr. alderman gobbleton rises, and, in a somewhat lengthy and discursive speech--in which the phrases, "the corporation of the city of london," "suit and service," "ancient guild," "liberties and privileges," and "court of common council," figure frequently, states that he agrees with everything the noble chairman has said; and has, moreover, never listened to a more comprehensive and exhaustive document than the one just read; which is calculated to satisfy even the most obtuse and hard-headed of individuals. gobbleton is a great man in the city. he has either been lord mayor, or sheriff, or something of the sort; and, as a few words of his go a long way with his friends and admirers, his remarks are very favourably received. "clever man, gobbleton!" says a common councilman, sitting near us, to his neighbour, a languid swell of the period. "ya-as, vewy! wemarkable style of owatowy--and gweat fluency," replies the other. but attention, if you please!--for m. hector de longuebeau, the great french writer, is on his legs. he is staying in england for a short time, to become acquainted with our manners and customs. "milors and gentlemans!" commences the frenchman, elevating his eyebrows, and shrugging his shoulders. "milors and gentlemans--you excellent chairman, m. le baron de mount-stuart, he have say to me, 'make de toast.' den i say to him dat i have no toast to us; but he nudge my elbow ver soft, and say dat dere is von toast dat nobody but von frenchman can make proper; and, derefore, wid you kind permission, i will make de toast. 'de breveté is de sole of de feet,' as you great philosopher, dr. johnson, do say, in dat amusing little work of his, de pronouncing dictionnaire; and derefore, i vill not say ver moch to de point. ven i vas a boy, about so moch tall, and used for to promenade de streets of marseilles et of rouen, vid no feet to put onto my shoe, i nevare to have exposé dat dis day vould to have arrivé. i vas to begin de vorld as von garçon--or, vat you call in dis countrie, von vaitaire in a café--vere i vork ver hard, vid no habillemens at all to put onto myself, and ver little food to eat, excep' von old bleu blouse vat vas give to me by de proprietaire, just for to keep myself fit to be showed at, but, tank goodness, tings dey have changé ver moch for me since dat time, and i have rose myself, seulement par mon industrie et perseverance. (loud cheers.) ah! mes amis! ven i hear to myself de flowing speech, de oration magnifique of you lor' maire, monsieur gobbledown, i feel dat it is von great privilige for von étranger to sit at de same table, and to eat de same food, as that grand, dat majestique man, who are de terreur of de voleurs and de brigands of de metropolis; and who is also, i for to supposé, a halterman and de chef of you common scoundrel. milors and gentlemans, i feel dat i can perspire to no greatare honneur dan to be von common scoundrelman myself; but hélas! dat plaisir are not for me, as i are not freeman of your great cité, not von liveryman servant of von of you compagnies joint-stock. but i must not forget de toast. milors and gentlemans! de immortal shakespeare he have write, 'de ting of beauty are de joy for nevermore.' it is de ladies who are de toast. vat is more entrancing dan de charmante smile, de soft voice, de vinking eye of de beautiful lady? it is de ladies who do sweeten de cares of life. it is de ladies who are de guiding stars of our existence. it is de ladies who do cheer but not inebriate; and, derefore, vid all homage to dere sex, de toast dat i have to propose is, 'de ladies! god bless dem all!'" and the little frenchman sits down amid a perfect tempest of cheers. a few more toasts are given, the list of subscriptions is read, a vote of thanks is passed to the noble chairman; and the fifteenth annual festival of the society for the distribution of blankets and top-boots among the natives of the cannibal islands is at an end. (_copyright of_ messrs. f. warne & co.) acting with a vengeance. w. sapte, jun. methinks 'tis a very remarkable "sign of the times"--i must own this expression's not mine-- how in these latter days the theatrical craze has obtained such a hold on all grades of society; and this love of the stage is a mark of the age which is not in accord with _my_ views of propriety. 'twas only last week a young lady i know invited the world in a body to go (on a wretched wet day) to a dull _matinée_, when she made her _débût_ in the "hunchback," as julia; a part which to act is a thing of long practice, surely ne'er was conceit more absurd or unrulier. how can amateur actors commence at the top of the thespian tree, and avoid coming flop? it would seem very queer if a young volunteer should begin by commanding the royal horse artillery, or if babies should bilk their allowance of milk and insist upon sucking from bottles of sillery. so it mostly occurs that an amateur errs, and gets chaffed for possessing less skill than audacity, when he tackles a part without learning the art, and exposes his natural want of capacity-- and what is more painful, his lack of sagacity. i'm bound to admit i was rather once bit by the mania myself in a mild sort of way; paid a half-guinea fee to the zeus a.d.c., and found myself cast for a part in a play. i think 'twas the bandit brothers of brighton-- or eastbourne, or yarmouth-- or hastings, or barmouth-- i forget for the moment which place was the right 'un-- but i know there's a chief, who at last comes to grief, after numerous blood-curdling adventures and rescues, such as frequently writers in modern burlesque use. now the part of the chief who comes to grief was secured by a hot-tempered youth, named o'keefe; in spite of the jealousy of two other fellows, he cast himself as the leader, without hesitation, and resented remarks with extreme indignation. so the others were fain their rage to contain, and one e'en accepted the part which was reckoned to be, on the whole, the one that ranked second. the local town hall was engaged, which would hold some three hundred people--the tickets were sold-- the purchasers wishing to help the good charity we played for; some adding donations, and gladding the treasurer's heart to a state of hilarity. rehearsals galore were to take place before the _débût_ on the boards of the zeus a.d.c.-- for the members were earnest as earnest could be. well, the opening one was rather good fun, for we found that the practice of vigorous fighting 'twixt bandits and coastguards was rather exciting; but later, you know it got rather slow for those who were "supers" to constantly go and lay the same victims perpetually low, with time after time the identical blow. but mr. o'keefe, who played the chief, had a time less monotonous, greatly, than ours, and always kept up the rehearsals for hours. still he wasn't quite happy, and often got snappy, for richard mcewen, who'd wanted to play the part of the chief, and used often to say he'd have done it himself in a much better way, was by no means contented, thus feeling superior to play "seconds" to keefe, his decided inferior. so he did what he could to annoy the great k., and misunderstood, in a scandalous way, all the stage-manager's proper directions, and refused to accept either hints or corrections. now in the third act, the time being night, the scene on the beach, there's a hand-to-hand fight 'twixt the bandit chief (that's mr. o'keefe) and the coastguard captain, mr. mcewen, in which 'tis agreed that the first shall succeed, while the latter comes in for no end of a hewing. but richard mcewen was strong and quick, and a very good hand with the single-stick, and he didn't see why he should quietly die by the sword of a man, much less clever at fencing. so he _would_ give a twist of his muscular wrist, which disarmed the brave bandit soon after commencing. the rage of o'keefe exceeded belief, for mcewen _would_ do it at ev'ry rehearsal; the manager vowed it could not be allowed, and the company's protests became universal. mcewen explained that he thought the piece gained by his showing his skill--how could anyone doubt it? "there's more credit," said he, "to the chief than there'd be if he killed a weak chap who knew nothing about it." and he went on to say that o'keefe wasn't fit for the part of the chief, and could not fence a bit. o'keefe in reply, gave mcewen the lie, and vowed he would kick him or otherwise "lick" him, while his eyes flashed like those of a tiger or leopard. he induced us to think that his rival must shrink from placing himself in such obvious jeopardy. he did so--and afterwards things all went smoothly, while o'keefe played his part in a manner quite booth-ly, or, as somebody said, without meaning to gush, he'd have put henry irving himself to the blush. * * * * * as soon as the public performance drew nigh the local excitement ran awfully high, for reports had been spread (by the club, be it said) that something uncommonly good was expected, and so on the day we turned people away from the doors, where quite early a crowd had collected. * * * * * well, the overture over, the drama began, but, thanks to our casual property man, the rise of the curtain was somewhat uncertain. in fact, for five minutes or so the thing _stuck_-- which was terrible luck! and affected the play, at least, so i should say, for the opening act went decidedly tamely, though o'keefe and his bandits stuck to it most gamely. there was not much applause, which perhaps was because our audience was certainly very genteel, and thought it was rude folks should show what they feel; still, we should have preferred some "bravos!" to have heard. and two or three gentlemen seemingly napping, we thought might have better employed themselves clapping. if first act went badly the second quite dragged; the actors worked sadly, all interest flagged. and though very often we caught people laughing, the occasions they chose made us think they were chaffing. next came act the third, in which the o'keefe was to be very great as the terrible chief, for in it he killed his rival, and spilled the gore of the coastguards all over the coast, and eloped with a bride, who beheld him with pride though she could herself of a coronet boast. as a matter of fact we hoped that this act would redeem in a measure the ones that preceded, and it opened so well, and o'keefe looked so swell, that at last we obtained the encouragement needed. and then came the fight. no one thought, on that night, that mcewen would dare try his vile _tour de force_; and the battle began on the well-rehearsed plan, while the supers made ready to bear off his corse. * * * * * whatever induced him to do it? who knows? he says 'twas an accident. well, i suppose, when a man tells you that, a denial too flat might perhaps lead to arguments, even to blows. but, be that as it may, the o'keefe _couldn't_ slay his opponent, whose wrist all at once gave a twist, and the brave bandit's weapon went flying away! the supers stood spellbound, as over the stage strode the maddened o'keefe; in a frenzy of rage he picked up his sword, and then went for his foe in terrible earnest. oh, that was the sternest, most truculent fight ever fought in the sight of innocent people, who shouted "bravo!" little knowing how soon the real blood was to flow. thank heaven, the swords were as blunt as two boards! otherwise the result would have been simply frightful. as it was, every whack make the deuce of a crack, while the audience considered it clearly delightful. with th' applause at its height, this most bloodthirsty fight, by a blow from the skilful mcewen was ended. o'keefe fell as if dead, with a gash on his head; the supers rushed forward, the curtain descended. talk about clapping! and walking-stick rapping! while even the gentlemen formerly napping, "bravoed" themselves hoarse with the whole of their force, and made their fat palms quite tender with slapping. "o'keefe! and mcewen!" was shouted by all, why the deuce don't they come and acknowledge the call? then some people said "that blow on the head-- was it part of the play?--or"--ah, see, in the hall a youth--he's a member, as that ribbon shows-- see! to doctor pomander he stealthily goes-- to the doctor, who sat with his coat and his hat just under his seat, that he need not delay if a patient should send to fetch him away; but who never expected to find _in_ the hall a patient--and much less a bandit--at all! anxiety now takes the place of the row, and people talk low and ask "shall they go?" when before the dropped curtain there comes with a bow the stage-manager suave, with a countenance grave, to announce that although there's nought serious the matter, (here applause and some chatter) still, in the late fight the _wrong_ man beat the _right_, and that therefore the show was at end for the night. thus the bandit chief came duly to grief, though not in the way that the author intended, and as for his head ere he went home to bed, the doctor had seen that 'twas properly mended. this, friends, was the end of the drama for me, and for most, i believe, of the zeus a.d.c., whose need of success may indeed have been less than that usually obtained by such clubs and societies; but be that as it may, i have e'er from that day placed amateur acting among th' improprieties. (_by permission of the author._) my fortnight at wretchedville. george augustus sala. how i came to be acquainted with wretchedville was in this wise. i was in quest last autumn of a nice quiet place within a convenient distance of town, where i could finish an epic poem--or stay, was it a five-act drama?--on which i had been long engaged, and where i could be secure from the annoyance of organ-grinders, and of reverend gentlemen leaving little subscription books one day and calling for them the next. i pined for a place where one could be very snug, and where one's friends didn't drop in "just to look you up, old fellow," and where the post didn't come in too often. so i picked up a bag of needments, and availing myself of a mid-day train on the great domdaniel railway, alighted haphazard at a station. it turned out to be sobbington. i saw at a glance that sobbington was too fashionable, not to say stuck-up for me. the waltz from "faust" was pianofortetically audible from at least half-a-dozen semi-detached windows; and this, combined with some painful variations on "take, then, the sabre," and a cursory glance into a stationer's shop and fancy warehouse, where two stern mammas of low-church aspect were purchasing the back numbers of "the new pugwell square pulpit," and three young ladies were telegraphically inquiring, behind their parents' backs, of the young person at the counter whether any letters had been left for them, sufficed to accelerate my departure from sobbington. the next station on the road, i was told, was doleful hill, and then came deadwood junction. i thought i would take a little walk, and see what the open and what the covert yielded. i left my bag with a moody porter at the sobbington station, and trudged along the road which had been indicated to me as leading to doleful hill. it is true that i had not the remotest idea of where i was going to live. i walked onwards and onwards, admiring the field cows in the far-off pastures--cows the white specks on whose hides recurred so artistically that one might have thought the scenic arrangement of the landscape had been entrusted to mr. birket foster. anon i saw coming towards me, a butcher-boy in his cart, drawn by a fast trotting pony. i asked him when he neared me, how far it might be to doleful hill. "good two mile," quoth the butcher-boy, pulling up. "but you'll have to pass wretchedville first. lays in a 'ole a little to the left, 'arf a mile on." "wretchedville," thought i; what an odd name! "what sort of a place is it?" i inquired. "well," replied the butcher-boy; "it's a lively place, a werry lively place. i should say it was lively enough to make a cricket burst himself for spite: it's so uncommon lively." and with this enigmatical deliverance the butcher-boy relapsed into a whistle of the utmost shrillness, and rattled away towards sobbington. i wish that it had not been quite so golden an afternoon. a little dulness, a few clouds in the sky, might have acted as a caveat against wretchedville. but i plodded on and on, finding all things looking beautiful in that autumn glow, until at last i found myself descending the declivitous road into wretchedville and to destruction. "were there any apartments to let?" of course there were. the very first house i came to was, as regards the parlour-window, nearly blocked up by a placard treating of "apartments furnished." am i right in describing it as the parlour-window? i scarcely know; for the front door, with which it was on a level, was approached by such a very steep flight of steps, that when you stood on the topmost grade, it seemed as though, with a very slight effort, you could have peeped in at the bed-room window, or touched one of the chimney-pots; while as concerns the basement, the front kitchen--i beg pardon, the breakfast parlour--appeared to be a good way above the level of the street. the space in the first-floor window not occupied by the placard, was filled by a monstrous group of wax fruit, the lemons as big as pumpkins, and the leaves of an unnaturally vivid green. the window below--it was a single-windowed front--served merely as a frame for the half-length portrait of a lady in a cap, ringlets, and a colossal cameo brooch. the eyes of this portrait were fixed upon me; and before almost i had lifted a very small light knocker, decorated, so far as i could make out, with the cast-iron effigy of a desponding ape, and had struck this against a door, which to judge from the amount of percussion produced, was composed of bristol board highly varnished, the portal itself flew open and the portrait of the basement appeared in the flesh; indeed, it was the same portrait. downstairs it had been mrs. primpris looking out into the wretchedville road for lodgers. upstairs it was mrs. primpris letting her lodgings and glorying in the act. she didn't ask for any references. she didn't hasten to inform me that there were no children or any other lodgers. she didn't look doubtful when i told her that the whole of my luggage consisted of a black bag which i had left at the sobbington station. she seemed rather pleased with the idea of the bag, and said that her alfred should step round for it. she didn't object to smoking; and she at once invested me with the order of the latchkey--a latchkey at wretchedville, ha! ha! she further held me with her glittering eye, and i listened like a two-years' child while she let me the lodgings for a fortnight certain. she had converted me into a single gentleman lodger of quiet and retired habits--or was i a widower of independent means seeking a home in a cheerful family?--so suddenly that i beheld all things as in a dream. thinking, perchance, that the first stone of that monumental edifice, the bill, could not be laid too quickly, she immediately provided me with tea. there was a little cottage-loaf, so hard, round, shiny, and compact, that i experienced a well-nigh uncontrollable desire to fling it up to the ceiling to ascertain whether it would chip off any portion of a preposterous rosette in stucco in the centre, representing a sunflower surrounded by cabbage-leaves. this terrible ornament was, by the way, one of the chief sources of my misery at wretchedville: i was continually apprehensive that it would tumble down bodily on the table. in addition to the cottage-loaf there was a pretentious tea-pot, which, had it been of sterling silver, would have been worth fifty guineas, but which in its ghastly gleaming, said plainly, "sheffield" and "imposture." there was a piece of butter in a "shape" like a diminutive haystack, and with a cow sprawling on the top in unctuous plasticity. it was a pallid kind of butter, from which with difficulty you shaved off adipocerous scales, which would not be persuaded to adhere to the bread, but flew off at tangents and went rolling about an intolerably large tea-tray on whose papier-mâché surface was depicted the death of captain hedley vicars. the crimean sky was inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and the gallant captain's face was highly enriched with blue and crimson foil-paper. as for the tea, i don't think i ever tasted such a peculiar mixture. did you ever sip warm catsup sweetened with borax? _that_ might have been something like it. and what was that sediment, strongly resembling the sand at great yarmouth, at the bottom of the cup? i sat down to my meal, however, and made as much play with the cottage-loaf as i could. had the loaf been varnished? it smelt and looked as though it had undergone that process. everything in the house smelt of varnish. i was uncomfortably conscious, too, during my repast--one side of the room being all window--that i was performing the part of a "portrait of the gentleman on the first floor," and that, as such, i was "sitting" to mrs. lucknow at number twelve opposite--i knew her name was lucknow, for a brass plate on the door said so--whose own half-length effigy was visible in her own breakfast-parlour window glowering at me reproachfully because i had not taken her first floor, in the window of which was, not a group of wax fruit, but a sham alabaster vase full of artificial flowers. every window in wretchedville exhibited one or other of these ornaments, and it was from their contemplation that i began to understand how it was that the "fancy goods" trade in the minories and houndsditch throve so well. they made things there to be purchased by the housekeepers of wretchedville. the shades of evening fell, and mrs. primpris brought me in a monstrous paraffin-lamp, the flame of which wouldn't do anything but lick the chimney-glass till it smoked it to the proper hue to observe eclipses by, and then splutter into extinction and charnel-like odour. after that we tried a couple of composites (six to the pound) in green glass candlesticks. i asked mrs. primpris if she could send me up a book to read, and she favoured me, _per_ alfred and selina, with her whole library, consisting of the asylum press almanack for ; two odd volumes of the calcutta directory; the brewer and distiller's assistant; julia de crespigny, or a winter in london; dunoyer's french idioms; and the reverend mr. huntingdon's bank of faith. i took out my cigar-case after this and began to smoke; and then i heard mrs. primpris coughing and a number of doors being thrown wide open. upon this i concluded that i would go to bed. my sleeping apartment--the first-floor back--was a perfect cube. one side was a window overlooking a strip of clay-soil hemmed in between brick walls. there were no tombstones yet, but if it wasn't a cemetery, why, when i opened the window to get rid of the odour of the varnish, did it smell like one? the opposite side of the cube was composed of a chest of drawers. i am not impertinently curious by nature, but as i was the first-floor lodger, bethought myself entitled to open the top long drawer with a view to the bestowal of the contents of my black bag. the drawer was not empty; but that which it held made me feel very nervous. i suppose the weird figure i saw stretched out there with pink arms and legs sprouting from a shroud of silver paper, a quantity of ghastly auburn curls, and two blue glass eyes unnaturally gleaming in the midst of a mask of salmon-coloured wax, was selina's best doll; the present perhaps of her uncle, who was, haply, a calcutta director, or an asylum press almanack maker, or a brewer and distiller, or a cashier in the bank of faith. i shut the drawer again hurriedly, and that doll in its silver paper cerecloth haunted me all night. the third side of my bedroom consisted of chimney--the coldest, hardest, brightest-looking fire-place i ever saw out of hampton court palace guardroom. the fourth side was door. i forget into which corner was hitched a wash-hand stand. the ceiling was mainly stucco rosette, of the pattern of the one in my sitting-room. among the crazes which came over me at this time, was one to the effect that this bedroom was a cabin on board ship, and that if the ship should happen to lurch or roll in the trough of the sea, i must infallibly tumble out of the door or the window, or into the drawer where the doll was--unless the drawer and the doll came out to me--or up the chimney. i think that i murmured "steady!" as i clomb into bed. my couch--an "arabian" one, mrs. primpris said proudly--seemingly consisted of the logan, or celebrated rocking-stone of cornwall, loosely covered with bleached canvas, under which was certain loose foreign matter, but whether composed of flocculi of wool or of the halves of kidney potatoes i am not in a position to state. at all events i awoke in the morning veined all over like a scagliola column. i never knew, too, before, that any blankets were manufactured in yorkshire, or elsewhere, so remarkably small and thin as the two seeming flannel pocket-handkerchiefs with blue-and-crimson edging, which formed part of mrs. primpris's arabian bed-furniture. nor had i hitherto been aware, as i was when i lay with that window at my feet, that the moon was so very large. the orb of night seemed to tumble on me flat, until i felt as though i were lying in a cold frying-pan. it was a "watery moon," i have reason to think; for when i awoke the next morning, much battered with visionary conflicts with the doll, i found that it was raining cats and dogs. "the rain," the poet tells us, "it raineth every day." it rained most prosaically all that day at wretchedville, and the next, and from monday morning till saturday night, and then until the middle of the next week! dear me! dear me! how wretched i was! i hasten to declare that i have no kind of complaint to make against mrs. primpris. not a flea was felt in her house. the cleanliness of the villa was so scrupulous as to be distressing. it smelt of soap and scrubbing-brush like a refuge. mrs. primpris was strictly honest, even to the extent of inquiring what i would like to have done with the fat of cold mutton-chops, and sending me up antediluvian crusts, the remnants of last week's cottage-loaves, with which i would play moodily at knock-'em-downs, using the pepper-caster as a pin. i have nothing to say against alfred's fondness for art. india-rubber to be sure, is apter to smear than to obliterate drawings in chalk; but a three-penny piece is not much; and you cannot too early encourage the imitative faculties. and again, if selina did require correction, i am not prepared to deny that a shoe may be the best implement and the blade bones the most fitting portion of the human anatomy for such an exercitation. i merely say that i was wretched at wretchedville, and that mrs. primpris's apartments very much aggravated my misery. the usual objections taken to a lodging-house are to the effect that the furniture is dingy, the cooking execrable, the servant a slattern, and the landlady either a crocodile or a tigress. now my indictment against my wretchedville apartments simply amounts to this: that everything was too new. never were there such staring paper-hangings, such gaudily printed druggets for carpets, such blazing hearthrugs--one representing the dog of montargis seizing the murderer of the forest of bondy--such gleaming fire-irons, and such remarkably shiny looking-glasses with gilt halters for frames. the crockery was new, and the glue on the chairs and tables was scarcely dry. the new veneer peeled off the new chiffonier. the roller-blinds to the windows were so new that they wouldn't work. the new stair-carpeting used to dazzle my eyes so, that i was always tripping myself up; the new oil-cloth in the hall smelt like the trinity house repository for new buoys; and mrs. primpris was always full dressed by nine o'clock in the morning. she confessed once or twice during my stay that her house was not quite "seasoned." it was not even seasoned to sound. every time the kitchen-fire was poked you heard the sound in the sitting-room. as to perfumes, whenever the lid of the copper in the wash-house was raised, the first-floor lodger was aware of the fact. i knew by the simple evidence of my olfactory organs what mrs. primpris had for dinner every day. pork, accompanied by some green esculent, boiled, predominated. when my fortnight's tenancy had expired--i never went outside the house until i left it for good--and my epic poem, or whatever it was, had more or less been completed, i returned to london, and had a rare bilious attack. the doctor said it was painter's colic; i said at the time it was disappointed ambition, for the booksellers had looked very coldly on my poetical proposals, and the managers to a man had refused to read my play; but at this present writing i believe the sole cause of my malady to have been wretchedville. i hope they will pull down the villas and build the jail there soon, and that the rascal convicts will be as wretched as i was. (_from_ "under the sun," _by permission of_ messrs. vizetelly & co.) the sorrows of werther. w. m. thackeray. werther had a love for charlotte such as words could never utter; would you know how first he met her she was cutting bread and butter. charlotte was a married lady, and a moral man was werther, and for all the wealth of indies would do nothing for to hurt her. so he sighed, and pined, and ogled, and his passion boiled, and bubbled, till he blew his silly brains out, and no more was by it troubled. charlotte having seen his body borne before her on a shutter, like a well-conducted person, went on cutting bread and butter. moral music. (by an experimenter.) i am in a humble sphere of life--a hairdresser's assistant, in fact; but i have a thirst for improving my mind, and regularly attend the evening classes at our institute. it was there i read in a magazine about morals and music. the writer discussed the question whether music by itself, unpolluted by words, had any "mental significance or moral power." i left off reading, rather puzzled, but i am of a practical turn of mind. i joined our bricklaying class at the institute last term, and, although i nip my fingers a good deal, still it has made me inclined to put all new truths to the test of experiment. so i determined to experiment on myself, and see what mental significance and moral power music possessed, if any. i regulated my life very carefully during the trial, so that no outside influence should spoil the result. i weighed and measured out my food and drink, abstained from pickles and sensation literature, denied myself the exciting pleasure of jemima's company on thursday and sunday, and, to counterbalance the language of some of our ruder customers, and to give morals an even chance, i slept with a tract under my pillow. i started with a quite unprejudiced mind, for the attention i had paid to music before was mostly measured by the loudness of it. i took a seat at st. james's hall in good time, and opened my mind and morals for impressions. first of all, a man came on the platform and began, as far as i could see, to tune the piano. i thought he ought to have done this before the advertised time of opening, but when he got off the stool, the people all began to applaud him, and on inquiring, i found that the man i had taken for the tuner was really the giver of the concert, and that he had been playing one of his own compositions. so i lost this experiment altogether. however, soon after the player returned with a violinist, and they started a duet. i set my teeth. if there was any significance or moral in a violin and piano mixed, i determined to have it. i had first fleeting visions before my mind of all the creatures i had ever seen in pain. there was the squeak of a rat caught in a trap; there was the same sort of shriek jemima gave when i took her to have a tooth out; and there was the loud wail which accompanies the conversion of pig into pork. but this was only the first chapter. the players stopped, and began again; and the next chapter plunged me among the industrial arts. under the influence of the magic instruments i saw the foundation of england's greatness. there was an athletic carpenter industriously sawing wood. there was a grindstone putting an edge on an axe. there were a number of whirrs, which brought back vividly a loom i had seen at work at an exhibition, and there was a rather asthmatic smith striking his anvil and coughing between every blow. but this was not all. they began a third chapter, and i was immediately among lolly-pops. all the nicest things i had ever tasted stood before me in a row. there was a pot full of apricot jam; there was some roast beef gravy, than which, taken on the knife, i know nothing more toothsome; there was a sixpenny strawberry ice, and a nice cut of lamb and mint sauce to finish up with. i was sorry when they left off, but glad to find i was on the trace of a moral. the piece was evidently a musical embodiment of a clean shave: the first part was the misery of laying your head back and having your nose tweaked; the second was the being scraped; and the last was the happy moment when you stretch your limbs, pass your satisfied hand over your smooth chin, and nod to yourself complacently in the glass. the moral was obvious; that it is a duty to get shaved, and not to shave yourself, but to go to the professional man. my next experiment was to hear a young lady sing. she came on the platform, looking lovely, and she had on a sash and a dress improver that i never saw equalled for elegance. my hopes rose at the sight of her. i felt sure that so much beauty could not be otherwise than moral. "oh, do be moral! do be moral!" i kept saying to myself, as the accompanist opened fire on her song. a dreadful thought then arose: the words of her song would taint the experiment, which was to be on music alone. but, to my delight, i could not catch a word of what she sang. it was all pure music. her sweet song suggested to me as follows: i first saw her running up stairs and down again as fast as ever she could, and then she sat down on the mat to rest, while the piano panted. then she drew out from somewhere one long, straight note, thick in the middle and tapering off at each end, so seductive that i fancied myself a storm-tossed mariner listening to a mermaid. i could almost feel the waves of the margate boat gurgle around me. then she drew a jug of hot water out of the boiler--at least, that was its intellectual significance to me, because the note went steadily rising upwards, with little splashes in between, just like the sound of the water when i draw a jug to shave a customer. then she ran upstairs again like lightning, and disappeared through the tiles, while the pianist banged the front door to. i am sure there was a splendid moral to all this, for she looked so beautiful and smiled so sweetly; but i am undecided whether the moral was that i was to sign the pledge, or that i was not to go to concerts without jemima as a safeguard. i next gave myself up bodily to what they called a "concerto." when i saw several gentlemen come on to the platform, with a variety of instruments, i thought it would be a more serious experiment than the others, and so it proved. i kept my eyes on them when they first began, but they looked so comical--one with his cheeks blown out, another with his hair as if it had just been machined, another trying to get his arm round his fiddle's waist, and another jerking his eyes out of his head--that i felt it was not giving the music a fair chance, so i shut my own eyes tight. as soon as i had done so there was no end of intellectual significance. i was in a pleasure van just starting for hampton court, with jemima. there was the jog trot of the horses, and every now and then the skid put on; there was laughter and the puffing of pipes, and occasionally a loud roar, as we crossed a big thoroughfare. we soon got into the country and heard the birds chirping, and there was a sweet gurgling sound, which intimated to me that the men on the box had broached the four-gallon cask. i was just getting ready for a glass, when all at once the whole scene vanished. the music had stopped, and when it began again things were much altered for the worse. with the first note i felt a shudder go down my vitals. something was coming, i did not know what. i felt just like being woke up in bed by a strange noise, and no matches handy, and my razors open to everybody on the table. then i heard the bass fiddle say distinctly, "prepare to meet your doom" several times over, while the violins tried to sneer at me, and the piano rattled chains in the corner. this was very trying, but worse was to follow. there were faint cries and sobs from the next room, as though murder was going on; there were long silences which were worse to bear than any sound; then someone began to work softly at the door with a centre bit, and there were rumblings as though someone else was letting himself down the chimney. i fancied i could almost see his leg. then there was another hush, and thank heaven, i could tell by the hand-clapping that that part was over. it was about time, for the mental significance had got quite over-powering. there was then a total change. the music took me back in a second to the last ball i had been to--the eighteen-penny one, refreshments extra. i was dancing all the dances at once, and all the girls were making up to me, and it only made jemima smile. that was a really delightful mental significance, and i could have done with more of it. but i doubt whether the concerto on the whole was moral. i am sure that ice down the back cannot be good for anyone, nor can i see, in cool moments, that raising the animal spirits so many degrees above proof is proper. i have not yet concluded my experiments. i have still to try the effects of a cornet solo; and the flute, as well as the concertina, the bones, and the banjo. but i have no doubt that if more people would try my plan, and honestly state the results, we should in time get at the truth of this matter of moral music. (_from the_ "evening standard.") billy dumps, the tailor. charles clark. billy dumps was very fond of spending his evenings with his two cronies, natty dyer, a shoemaker, and neddy tueson, an umbrella mender, at the "cunning cat," just round the corner. this worthy trio seldom left their favourite haunt before closing time, much to the disgust of their respective helpmates, mrs. dumps in particular. billy dumps was a tailor, working as _he_ termed it on his own hook. as his prices were moderate, and his work durable, he earned a pretty good living, making and mending for his neighbours, chiefly of the dock labouring class; but his nightly orgies at the "cunning cat" made sad inroads into his hard earnings, which tended much to sour betsy's otherwise naturally good temper. the climax was reached one eventful evening, on the occasion of a free-and-easy being held at the old quarters, after which, billy, for prudential reasons, was escorted home at midnight by his two associates, all fully bent on informing the sleeping neighbourhood at the top of their voices that they were "jolly good fellows," supplemented by a further assertion of, "and so say all of us!" finishing up by depositing the confiding tailor at full length in his own front passage, through the door being inadvertently left ajar, where he laid and snored in blissful ignorance of the trials and troubles of this life until rather rudely awakened, and then somewhat briskly assisted upstairs, by betsy and a broom handle. "now, mister billy dumps, i am tired of sitting up for you night after night, and mean to do so no longer. so if you are not in when our clock strikes ten, i locks the door and you finds other lodgings," exclaimed betsy his wife, on the morning after the free-and-easy. tailor dumps felt small after the previous night's dissipation, and determined to get home earlier and sober that evening. but under the influence of the soothing pipe, the nut-brown ale, and the merry laugh and jest of his boon companions, he was induced to forget his late resolution, and to prolong his stay at the "cunning cat" until aroused to the fact that it was ten o'clock and closing-time. on reaching home, all was still and dark. strange! he went round to the back door and thumped loudly. the bed-room casement flew open with a bang, from which instantly protruded the night-capped head of the wife of his bosom. billy at once tried the high hand, shouting, "now then, sleepy, what's yer game? be spry and open sharp!" no. she wasn't going to be spry, neither was she sleepy; and as to her little game--she had locked him out according to promise, so didn't intend unlocking again that night. not if she knew it. oh no! "now, betsy, don't be a fool, you'll repent it," he urged. _she_ wasn't a fool, she answered. in her opinion, he was the biggest fool to be hammering and shivering outside at that time of night, when he might have been comfortably lying in a warm bed hours ago. as for repentance--she thought that would be more on his side of the door, for she felt comfortable--very. billy fumed and stormed, and fully felt the ridiculousness of his position, especially as he heard sounds of the neighbouring casements stealthily unclose, and suppressed indications of merriment issuing therefrom. but billy stormed to no purpose. betsy coolly recommended him to go back where he had spent such a pleasant evening. she was sure mrs. mudge, the landlady, would be only too pleased to accommodate him with a lodging. if she wasn't, she ought to be, considering the time and money he spent in her house. but billy had his own ideas of that arrangement, so still lingered, determined to try another tack. he promised amendment, but betsy was sceptical. he appealed to her feelings. "let me in, betsy, for i am cold!" that she could not help; as he had made his bed so he must lie. he then became affectionate. "oh betsy, you are unkind: remember old times, remember our wedding-day!" he pleaded, thinking to touch her that way. but betsy was not going to be had by soft sawder, for she promptly rejoined, "remember our wedding-day, you drunken sot? _i do_ to my sorrow, no fear of my forgetting that great mistake. but, as i told you before, into this house this blessed night you do not step. no, not if you were to go on your knees and beg for it!" "ah, betsy. you'll be sorry for this when too late. i'm determined to end my misery. i'll jump down the well and drown myself. and you'll be the cause of it!" whined billy. the night was dark. betsy felt a little relenting as she heard her husband groping about in the wood shed. then she could dimly discern him making for the well; plainly hear the creaking of the hinges and the lid thrown back with a thud. then came the cry of "good bye, betsy, i'm gone!" the dull sound of a heavy body plunging into the water--a gasping moan, and all was still. betsy's old affection for her erring husband at once returned with tenfold force, for she raced downstairs, rushing into the darkness, shrieking for help. the neighbours were aroused. men and women tumbled out of their back doors in such scanty dishabille that would have charmed a sculptor. betsy, still screeching like a bagpipe, had to be forcibly restrained from jumping to the rescue by the bystanders. dick ward, the blacksmith, thrust the bucket-pole into the well, singing out, "lay hold, billy, if ye ain't too fur gone!" "i can feel un," shouted dick, as the pole struck some hard substance with a sounding smack. "my eye, dick! he'll feel you too, if that's billy's head you tapped," said nat; "it 'ud be one for his nob and no mistake." they caught a glimpse, by the uncertain light of a flaming candle, of a something floating low on the surface of the water. "his head feels as hard as a koker nut," said dick, as the pole rattled on the dark object. "why it seems off his shoulders, for it goes bobbing up and down like a dumplin in a soup-kettle!" just then, to the astonishment of all, the well known voice of billy dumps was heard from the identical bed-room window that his wife had so lately vacated, shouting, "hullo, you people. what the deuce are ye making such a rumpas for?" "a ghost! a ghost!" was the cry. "no fear," laughed the tailor. "but, dick, as you have the pole in hand, i should feel obliged if you'd fish up my chopping-block which i dropped in there awhile ago!" betsy dumps at the sound of her husband's voice, made for the door, but found it fastened. "let me in! let me in! i am so glad you are safe!" she joyously exclaimed. "not if i know it, betsy. it's my turn now. _into this house this blessed night you do not step. no, not if you were to go on your knees and beg for it!_" a loud laugh broke from the crowd, as the joke dawned on them. betsy was being paid back in her own coin. the neighbourhood had been sold. the crafty tailor had secured the chopping-block from the wood shed, and popped it down the well as his substitute, then, in the darkness and confusion slipped back into the house unseen. betsy, having been accommodated for the night by a friendly neighbour, the crowd dispersed, highly amused at the adventure. early the next morning, mrs. dumps on returning home was surprised to find her husband up, a cheerful fire burning, and the breakfast ready. taking her hand he gave her a hearty kiss, with this greeting, "dear old woman, let bygones be bygones!" and they were, too; for from that time the "cunning cat" knew him no more. it struck him strongly that his wife's true affection shown in the hour of his supposed great danger was too precious to trifle with; as a proof that he kept his word, let it be added that anyone visiting that large thriving tailoring establishment in the high street, would hardly recognise in the respectable dapper proprietor, mr. william dumps, the once drunken tailor so long a nightly nuisance to the neighbourhood. (_by permission of the author._) on punning. theodore hook. my little dears who learn to read, pray early learn to shun that very silly thing indeed, which people call a pun. read entick's rules, and 'twill be found, how simple an offence it is to make the self-same sound afford a double sense. for instance, _ale_ may make you _ail_, your _aunt_ an _ant_ may kill, you in a _vale_ may buy a _veil_ and _bill_ may pay the _bill_. or, if to france your bark may steer, at dover it may be, a _peer_ appears upon the _pier_, who, blind, still goes to _sea_. thus, one might say, when to a treat good friends accept our greeting, 'tis _meet_ that men who _meet_ to eat should eat their _meat_ when _meeting_. brawn on the _board's_ no bore indeed although from _boar_ prepared; nor can the _fowl_, on which we feed, _foul_ feeding he declared. thus, one ripe fruit may be a _pear_, and yet be _pared_ again, and still no _one_, which seemeth rare until we do explain. it therefore should be all your aim to spell with ample care; for who, however fond of _game_, would choose to swallow _hair_? a fat man's _gait_ may make us smile, who has no _gate_ to close; the farmer, sitting on his _stile_ no _sty_lish person knows. perfumers, men of _scents_ must be, some _scilly_ men are bright; a _brown_ man oft _deep read_ we see, a _black_ a wicked _wight_. most wealthy men good _manors_ have, however vulgar they; and actors still the harder slave the oftener they _play_. so poets can't the _baize_ obtain, unless their tailors choose; while grooms and coachmen not in vain each evening seek the _mews_. the _dyer_, who by _dying_ lives, a _dire_ life maintains; the glazier, it is known, receives his profits for his _panes_. by gardeners _thyme_ is tied, 'tis true, when spring is in its prime; but _time_ and _tide_ won't wait for you if you are _tied_ for _time_. thus now you see, my little dears, the way to make a pun; a trick which you, through coming years, should sedulously shun. the fault admits of no defence, for wheresoe'er 'tis found, you sacrifice the _sound_ for _sense_; the _sense_ is never _sound_. so let your words and actions, too, one single meaning prove, and just in all you say or do, you'll gain esteem and love. in mirth and play no harm you'll know when duty's task is done; but parents ne'er should let ye go un_pun_ished for a pun. seaside lodgings. percy reeve. "oh!" said georgina honeybee one afternoon, just before good friday, "_wouldn't_ it be nice to go away for easter?" now it so happened, that the notion was by no means displeasing to mr. honeybee. he longed for a change; the thought of sea-breezes enchanted him. he felt worried with work, and yearned to hie him away somewhere without leaving his address behind him. so it fell out that, almost for the first time in his married existence, he agreed to his wife's proposition without demur--and long before a week was over, he never regretted anything so much in all his life. with husband and wife of one mind (for a wonder), the preliminaries were speedily arranged. swineleigh-on-sea was selected as their destination. in less time than it takes to tell, georgina was bustling about the house, giving parting instructions to the servants as to what they were to do during her absence (one would have thought she was going away for a year at least). fanny (mrs. honeybee's maid, if you please) was packing-up her mistress's luggage, while john was being abused by his master for having no more idea than a child of how to fill a portmanteau. everybody was hot and flurried, and the hall-door bell rang four times before it received the attention to which it was accustomed. honeybee stood in his shirt-sleeves, and in his dressing-room, while his perspiring and nervous man endeavoured to put boots on the top of clean shirts. georgina flitted about her bedroom, saying--"yes; thank you; if you'll put in my tea-gown. yes; thank you--now the linen. yes; thank you--no, i shouldn't lay the sponge-bag on the top of my handkerchief case. yes; thank you--now the braided dress;" and sundry pretty babble of that kind. at length everything was ready. a four-wheeled cab was called, and mr. honeybee, georgina, and fanny the maid, were soon driving across london to the railway-station. their tickets got, the trio proceeded without adventure to swineleigh, where, when she emerged from the slightly inferior class in which she had travelled, fanny remarked to her mistress: "this don't seem half a bad sort of place, mum." honeybee was beaming. his face seemed to say: "ah! i tell you, when i _do_ take it into my head to go out for a holiday with my wife and her maid, i go to the right place, and i have things done properly." poor man--he little knew. swineleigh is, fortunately, not a large place, or its death rate would have more influence on the mortality statistics; but it is quite large enough to be unpleasant, and to make those who have once visited it swear they will never do so again. honeybee had heard it was cheap from a gentleman friend, and georgina had gathered from a lady acquaintance that it was quiet and respectable--hence the praiseworthy unanimity which had characterised their selection of this spot for the enjoyment of an easter holiday. they had meant to put up at the marine hotel, but when they reached that modest edifice they found that all the rooms were engaged, excepting a couple of dog-holes somewhere near the roof, which, from their description, our party did not care to inspect. honeybee was, however, directed to some lodgings which sounded as if they might suit, and with a crack of the whip, and a curse from the flyman, who had conveyed them thus far, the party started off on a fresh tack. when they reached cronstadt villa--for it was hither they were referred--mr. honeybee opened fire as follows upon the landlady who opened the door: "we come from the marine hotel. can we have a large bed-room, a small bed-room, a dressing-room and a sitting-room?" "yes," replied the landlady, somewhat reflectively, as if she felt inclined to add, "but what you mean by such impertinence i am at a loss to inquire." "good!" rejoined honeybee. "will you have our luggage sent up as soon as may be? and we should like dinner pretty soon, as we have not had much lunch." "come inside, please," said the landlady, grandly, to the trio in general. then elbowing fanny out of the way, she said to mrs. honeybee particularly: "would you like to see your room?" "thank you very much," returned georgina, "i should." then the newly-made friends walked upstairs together, leaving honeybee and fanny to get the luggage up, and to fight the flyman. mercifully, a loafer turned up and volunteered to carry the boxes. mr. honeybee only paid the flyman three times his fare, but escaped without loss of blood. it is true the driver thought proper to curse him to the nethermost depths of hell, but what are you to do in a place like swineleigh, where you might as well look for the pope as for a policeman? at last the baggage was stowed in the different rooms indicated by the landlady. fanny could not help smiling when the loafer set down honeybee's portmanteau with a plump on her bed; and georgina could not help saying "oh!" when fanny's box was hauled into _her_ room; but these little mistakes were soon rectified, and the loafer being evidently one of nature's noblemen, withdrew without further parley when he had received all the loose silver there was in the house. the landlady had not any change. "now then," said honeybee, when the door was fairly shut, "when can we have dinner, and of what will it consist?" "dinner!" repeated the landlady, as if recalling by an effort the meaning of a word once familiar. "have you not dined?" "not to-day," replied honeybee, jocosely; "but we do not want much--anything will do. how about a fried sole and a roast chicken?" it was now seven o'clock, and the landlady verified the fact by reference to a silver watch, which she plucked with a jerk from her waistband. "shops are all closed now," she said, as it seemed, with some relief. "i might get you a steak, or a couple of chops." "if you will add bread and butter, the use of the cruets, and perchance some cheese or jam," suggested honeybee in his most caressing tones, while his wife endeavoured vainly to prevent him treading upon what she knew was volcanic ground, "i'm sure we could manage for to-night." "well, you'll have to," replied the landlady, in a surly voice, and then she rang the bell in the room, which was to be the honeybee's dining, drawing, and smoking room for a week. to this summons a most horrible "maid" responded, and to her were consigned georgina and her spouse. the landlady never was seen again until she came eventually to present the bill; but her voice was frequently heard. honeybee's good-nature by this time was giving out; but he controlled himself. "will you," said he, "get us some food ready as soon as you can? we would like a beef-steak. will half-past seven be too early?" "no, sir," replied the maid, in a far-off voice; and she left the room. "now," said honeybee, "georgina, my dearest, you must be tired. come upstairs and change your dress; fanny will get you hot water and see to you. i will just wash my hands and then take a short stroll. come along." when they reached the bedroom they found fanny in a great undertaking. having unpacked georgina's trunk, and littered the floor with dresses and parcels, she was about to arrange the different articles in the chest of drawers, when she found them all locked up. "this is absurd," said honeybee; and he rang the bell. after a very long time the horrible maid appeared, and when asked why all the drawers were looked, replied, with a wild-eyed expression of face, that she supposed "missus's things was there." desired to ask missus to remove them, or to provide other accommodation for her tenants, the wild-eyed one remarked that she "dursen't do it." georgina, always trying to soothe troubled waters, observed, "never mind; we shall get straight to-morrow somehow. i'm so tired; it does not matter for to-night. only unpack what i absolutely want, fanny; and you, dear," to her husband, "go and have a nice stroll, but be back by half-past seven, as i'm famishing." so enjoined, honeybee kissed his wife, and withdrew. a cursory inspection of the contents of his portmanteau soon convinced him that john had omitted to put in a good many useful articles; and as mr. honeybee made a hasty toilette, he was pained to observe that he had brought with him an odd coat and waistcoat. even this might have been borne, if the bottle containing his boot-varnish had not broken over his shirts; and with a heavy heart he sallied forth into the town to buy a tooth-brush. having made his purchase, and also ordered some wine, he returned to the lodgings, where he found his wife waiting in the sitting-room warming her feet, while the maid laid the table. about five minutes to eight "dinner" was served. it consisted of a beef-steak that was raw, except in those parts which had been burnt to a cinder; some potatoes which were very black under the eyes, and extremely hard, were also served; and some of last week's bread, together with some pale butterine, completed the repast. the honeybees endeavoured to eat a few mouthfuls, washed down with cold and not particularly pure water. although the wine merchant had assured honeybee that the rare vintage he had ordered would be "there before he was," the young man did not arrive with the bottles until the next morning. "perhaps the night is too inclement for him to venture out," said honeybee; "or perhaps he reflects that we shall drink coffee with our dinner, and only require wine at breakfast time." after dinner the honeybees had a game of cribbage, but they did not enjoy it, and soon georgina went up to bed. honeybee left her with fanny, and then came downstairs again to smoke. he rang the bell and asked the maid if he could have a bottle of soda-water. "the public 'ouses is all closed now," said she, as if repeating a lesson. "then some plain water please," returned honeybee dolefully. "you'll find some in your bedroom," was the reply. with a heavy heart honeybee went upstairs and took a long and strong drink of brandy from his flask, diluted from the bottle on his wash-stand. a fearful night it was--the miserable couple passed it in fear and trembling. outside the wind howled and made the ill-fitting windows rattle continuously. within the blinds refused to draw down, and the feather bed was so meagrely filled with feathers that when sleep began to steal upon honeybee, he awoke to find himself with his hip-bone grating against the iron frame of the bedstead. the draught came in under the door with some force. this was not surprising when one came to examine the distance between it and the floor. the interval seemed contrived so as to admit of the carpet being drawn out of the room without opening the door. bruised and weary, the honeybees rose next morning. it was raining very hard, as it had been all night. for breakfast they had some fried eggs and bacon. the eggs would have been all right if they had been warmed through; but honeybee said raw egg was good for the voice. the bacon would have brought its own punishment to the jew wicked enough to indulge in it. they read novels most of the morning. georgina and fanny were occasionally in consultation as to some proposed alterations to a dress. honeybee looked out of the window like a caged lion. ah, heavens! but why should i follow further the agonies of these wretched people. indeed, i shrink from recording the sickening details of their week's stay. the disgusting round of impertinence, uncleanliness, stupidity, and brutality to which they were subjected is too odious to recount. suffice it to say that never had waterloo villa looked so fair as when the honeybees returned to it after their "holiday," and georgina literally danced round the bright clean dining-room table laid ready for dinner, while honeybee threw himself groaning on to his bed, where he lay till aroused by the rattle of plates and dishes. my goodness, how he did eat! and how georgina beamed! (_by permission of the author._) the end. bradbury, agnew, & co., printers, whitefriars. * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious misprints and punctuation errors have been silently corrected.