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Tous les autres exemplaires originaux sont fllmAs en commenpant par la premlAre page qui comporte une empreinte d'Impreasion ou d'lllustratlon et en termlnant par la dernlAre page qui comporte une telle empreinte. Un dee symboles sulvants apparattra sur la dernlAre image de cheque microfiche, selon Ie cas: Ie symbole — ► signlfie "A 8UIVRE", Ie symbole ▼ signlfie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent Atre fllmAs A des taux de rAduction diff Arents. Lorsque Ie document est trop grand pour Atre reproduit en un seul cllchA, 11 est filmA A partir de Tangle supArleur gauche, de gauche A droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant Ie nombre d'Images nAcessaire. Les diagrammes sulvants illustrent la mAthode. 1 2 3 4 5 6 'mrnrn [^li IS. I W ■JS ;.■: U 1 i" ; i I *j > GROANS AND GRINS OF ONE WHO SURVIVED. BY / BRUCE WESTON MUNRO. II PUBMSHKO BY H. L. McQueen, Washinotoi*, D. C. A- I I Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1893, BY BRUCE W. MUNRO, In the Office of the I-- ; viii Contents. Groans of the First Frenzy Period 88 My First Proposal 89 Oone ! , 100 Some Village Characters loi Her Majesty's C^istoms 109 A- Disillusioned Innocent 115 A Modern Columbus 118 To Baby Frederica 121 To Margarita 123 How I Loved and Lost my Nelly 124 How I Loved and Lost my Janet 130 Sing Me the Old Songs 136 To My Old Dog, Nero 138 The Little Lone House 140 The Scholars' vSecret 150 A Nice Lot of Pets 152 The Washington Climate 153 When It Is May 156 The Engineer's Song 158 The Railwayman's Trials 161 An Experienced Traveller 168 The Folder Fiend 172 A Severe Test * 179 The Long-Suffering Tramp 182 So Let Death Haste 185 How the Hatchet Came to be Buried i86 Groans that Found Utterance After the Fall of the Second Babylon. I., II., III., IV., V 198 Two Incidents in a Brave Man's Life 202 Alway Alone ' 216 What Augustus Wrote in Lucy's Album ...... 216 Another Album Verse . . . 217 When Roses Blush My Love Will Sail 218 ill of the 88 89 ICX) lOI 109 115 118 121 124 130 136 138 140 153 156 161 168 172 179 183 185 186 198 202 216 216 217 218 tm3t^ Contents. IX My Ifive Hath Come When Roses Blush ..... 219 ^ard Luck 220 The ToU-Gate . . ..'.......;...... 224 How a Coolness Arose Between Bill and Nero . . . 227 To Mignonne 236 Hiram's Oath 238 So Shall I Sleep ....... 276 Vain Triumph '277 The Archer and the Eagle ......... ... 281 Mammon . .291 Time, the Healer 291 Things Begin to get Interesting 292 Signs of Spring 300 Our New Girl 302 A Smoker to his Pipe 310 A Night with Ghosts 311 The Letter that Came Not — And the Letter that Came 312 An Interview with the Prophets 313 'Tis May 316 Judith's Dilemma 317 The Wayside Chapel 331 A Terrible Mistake 333 Sing Me a Song of Olden Days 334 Alone with Grief 335 City Life vs. Country Life . 337 The Freshet 349 Lucy and the Fortune-Teller 351 A Woman's Hand 360 My Girlhood Days 361 How He Quit Smoking ' .' . 364 " C 'est pour Toujours, Nelly" 368 Her Story and His Story . . . 369 Nancy Ann's Elopement 376 X Contents. An Early Snow-Storm . 3*8 Little Maud's Wedding Day 389 Not According to the Guide-Boofcs ... . ; . . . ..390 To Death 393 The Old Hand-Sled 394 So Have I Loved You ! . . . 39^ A Little Rosebud Mouth 397 The Gipsy Supper 39* The Abandoned Graveyard 4«> A Trip to Washington ... 402 • 388 • 389 ..390 • 393 394 396 . 397 . 398 . 4«> . 402 GROANS AND GRINS or ONE WHO SURVIVED. 'tl ' JiiiiiifliMiiTiiiiiafiii'i'^ n i n PROEM. As in dreams the old delusions. The old faces, the fond mem'ries. Are revived, and the old- heart-break. That in sleep is oft rebellious. With o'ermasfring domination. Bursts the mighty PasPs locked portals- THE ^^THETIC CHROMO ARTIST. Why does the chrotno ailist show No river scene without a boat, In which two lovers are afloat, Who on the landscape seem to dote. The while the moon is rising slow; While just above, two antlered deer Are drinking freely, with no fear, And a belated fisher-boy Is trudging home, with fev'rish joy? Real lovers heed no landscape fair, Though most would track deer to their lair, And scare rude fisher-boys away. How is it no such painter gives A view of some quaint, winding stream. Whereon the gods oC old might seem To float, as in ecstatic dream, Without insisting that there lives A pair of stupid, homely swains, Who have no use for railway trains. But yet must saunter in this spot. To spoil the choice forget-me-not. And stare, just i^ke a pair of fools. At an obtrusive ''train of cars"? Why can he never show "still life"? Why must he have his railway-track With long " mixed " trains forever black ? While on most lines there is no lack Of quiet times, when tracks are rife With foot-sore tramps, who sometimes are, I doubt, more picturesque by far Than his eternal, ill-drawn trains. Why must his mills show weather stains, And hint of romance ? when we know In these days 'tis but seldom so, For we have steam mills, built of stone. ^mmumB S^^i&Mgi'-'f^'y':ii'^i'-'' im^smrv^' The /Esthetic Cbromo Artist. How la it that he never shows An orchard, but it must be crowned With sweet May-blossoms, or be browned With sun-lit fruit, while on the ground The mellow harvest overflows? Yet I have seen fair apple trees O'erhung with worms' nests as with bees ; And now and then there comes a time When fruit is nipped right in its prime By keen June frosts, and we are fain To be content if we can gain A barrelful of knurly pears. Why does he make his hunter sUnd With both hands crossed upon his gun, And look as though he'd had no fun, And positively could not run ; Though all the game within the land ' He evidently has just shot? Why should he roads with toll-gates dot, < Which scarce are welcome? Wherefore show In Christmas scenes such wealth of snow ? Such things are very well, I ween, And yet, as in a dream, I've seen A winter where the snow was mud. How is it that we never see A rural landscape minus cows, That on fair lilies seem to browse. Or in pure, purling brooks carouse. With urchins up a beech-nut tree? And yet, I wot, there is no doubt We 'd rather have the cows left out When we go camping in the woods — Especially if there are red hoods Among us; and beech trees I've known Where squirrels got ahead of boys. i ll A Missing Testimonial. A MISSING TESTIMONIAL. AM ATRONLY cat that has successfully reared seventeen families that have all turned out well, sends in the following grateful recommend of Dr. Humbugger's unequalled ' ' Proprietary Medicines. ' ' As the learned doctor can not con- sistently publish it in almanac form at this inopportune time of year (the only mistake Mrs. Pussy Cat makes is in forward- ing her testimonials in February instead of September), no time is lost in placing her letter, herewith before "suffering humanity." It is manifest that these high encomiums are genuine and unsolicited. "Dear Sirs : — I beg to enclose you a photograph of my seventeenth family of triplets. From too much fondling by my genial host's impulsive son, they became reduced to a mere skeleton at the early age of seven weeks, and I despaired of saving their precious lives. But fortunately I got hold of a phial of your marvelous Lung- Waster Cordial, which I began using according to your printed directions. The first dose brought them relief, and eight dozen bottles effected a perma- nent cure. "This amazing result induced me to try your celebrated Angel-Maker Bitters for Tommy, an elder son of mine. Tommy was gifted by nature with a magnificent solo voice, and for months past has been the leader of our Harmony Club, and has organized many brilliant serenading tours. His mid- night glees are everywhere greeted with tumultuous applause T\ 6 /* Missing Testimonial, and peremptory encores of ' Scat ! Scat ! ' from impulsive hu- man-tribe beings, who can not restrain their enthusiasm. In fact, their rapturous emotions often become so uncontrollable that they prodigally heave valuable kitchen and toilet articles out of the windows, and address congratulatory speeches to him, largely composed of those complimentary phrases begin- ning ' By .' On more than one occasion Tommy has narrowly escaped being hit by elegant bouquets of boot-jacks, thrown by some ardent admirer belonging to the impetuous human tribe. But one bitterly cold night Tommy came home at 3 A. M., complaining of a hoarseness in his throat. I nat- urally became alarmed, fearing it might result in pneumonia. The next day Tommy was worse, and imagine my anguish on realizing that his glorious voice was likely to be impaired! There were plenty of rivals who would have rejoiced to see my noble boy's star wane, and peter out. From this you will understand my intense satisfaction and overflowing gratitude to you ; for twenty-two bottles of Angel-Maker Bitters and one two-pound tin of Don't-keep-it-in-the-house Salve re- stored his voice to its pristine vigor. He has since taken twice his weight of your Rough-on-Health Pills, with the very best results. "But I must pnxxed to inform you of other incredible cures. Miss Minnie, a petted daughter of mine, was once out charivariing a white race tyrant who had annoyed several callers by turning an infernal-machine called a hose upon them, when she contracted a severe cold and was badly frost- bitten about the ears. I liberally applied your Out-of-the- frying-pan-into-the-fire Liniment to my dariing's ears, and dosed her with your Stomach-Paralyzer Tonic. This is the triumphant result: She lost the tips of her ears, but her in- tellect thawed out, and her white brooch and whiskers were saved! Far from suffering any ill effects from the loss of her ve hu- ll. In oUable irticles ;hes to begin- ay has :-jacks, letuous e home Inat- monia. uish on paired! I see my 'ou will "atitude ers and ' alve re- e taken rith the credible as once , several je upon ly £rost- t-of-the- urs, and s is the ; her in- ers were iS of her A Missing Testimonial. 7 ear- tips, Minnie thinks it gives her rather a dis/iug-u^ appear- ance, and I predict she has set a fashion that other feline belles and beaux will hasten to copy. "Now we come to the most wonderful cures of all, the crowning work of your invaluable specifics. One awful day a playmate of my kind host's son committed the diabolical crime of assassination on a most dutiful and amiable son of mine, a little younger than my beloved Tommy, by drowning him in a bucket of abominable drinking water 1 I shudder to this hour when I think of it. Oh, he was such a promising youth ! He is yet ; for your Heart-Stiller Compound brought him back to life and health ! In retaliation for this dastardly outrage on an innocent life, my heroic son Tom last week waylaid the canary-bird of the man-tribe assassin, and made a bird's-nest pudding of it, and the next day captured his tame white mouse and brought it. home, when we prepared a rich ragout and invited in two or three family connections. Afy restored darling, Pete, was able to digest a little fricasseed mouse, and is now able to go out into society again. ' ' We all thought this would crush the murderous white- tribe child, and bring his short black hair to a premature maturity. Alas, uo ! It is wonderful how quickly that race can throw off their griefs. Yesterday his papa brought him a monkey, and to-day the foul creature, as I was going up- stairs for a nap in the work-basket, caught me by my termi- nal facilities (as my host, a railway man, enviously calls my graceful tail), and actually dropped me into a tub of filthy 'bathing- water,' which the deluded man- tribe animals pre- pare for a ' bath ' every Saturday — or oftener ! Of course they considered it clean, because it hadn't been used yet. I was never subjected to so shameful an indignity in my life. It makes my blood boil ! You naturally ask in alarm, did I really get wet? Sirs, I sank beneath that hideous water, and A Missing Testimonial. with difficulty rescued myself. What to do I did not know till I remembered your Out-of-the-frying-p»n-into-the-fire Liniment. Without doubt, this has saved my life. I have tince started on a bottle of your Silencer Elixir, and after dinner shall try some of your Slow- Decay Preparation, and next week hope to feel myself again. To-night wt purpose to charivari the monkey-monster, and may feel ourselves called upon to compass his ignominious execution. In case of any set-to with him, or in the event of any intestine strife, we must again resort to your remedies, when I will promptly write you full particulars. " N. B.— If you can make any use of this testimonial you are perfectly at liberty to use my name. May it do for other suffering mortals what it has done for me and mine. " Sincerely yours, "Mrs. Pussy Cat." ' If a tramp evangelist from Kentucky, with a push-cartful of circus-poster letters of recommend, can wheedle a rising barrister of tender years out of his own good opinion of him- self, what else need we expect from the discovery of these un- forged testimonials but a renaissance of Scottish chivalry and a decadence of legal previousness ? -^-.5. :_^ « { » ' — )t know the-fire I have id after on, and purpose iiraelves In case e strife, romptly lial you ar other :at. i-cartful a rising of him- hese un- chivalry Another yalueJ ItitimouiaL ANOTHER VALUED TESTIMONIAL. SURELY enough, within two weeks Mrs. Pussy Cat sent in another testimonial, which is herewith given to the reader in its entirety : — " Dbar Srns: — I again feel it my dut\' to inform you of the astonishing cures your remedies are performing. But for them, several old families would have been completely wiped out. "We had a terrible time on the occasion of our last chari- vari. At my urgent request, Tommy did not start out with his famous crescendo, but contented himself with trilling a sonorous bass, which at intervals became an ecstatic tremulo. Tommy's versatility is past all belief. "It was soon evident that our recital was awakening un- usual interest in the man-tribe hou.seholds, and that an un- expected demonstration from them would soon come. It did come; and it was both unexpected and undesired. Suddenly the monkey-monster himself shot sailing through the air, as though discharged from a giddy schoolboy's catapult. Did it mean that the motive of our clamorous protest was under- stood, and that the hideous creature was to be sacrificed to ot^.r outraged sensibilities ? That is a disputed question to this day, since we can not determine that any of the conflict- ing rumors are correct. "The concert broke up in confusion, and many of our bravest veterans fled the field. In fact, the grandest here / lO Another Valued Testimonial. of our community, who has carried off more scars and bears more medals than any warrior of our contemporary an- nals — even he, our haughty generalissimo, precipitately attempted to scale an utterly unscalable chimney. He fell, with his habitual gracefulness, fairly upon the monkey- monster, afterwards claiming his intention was to gain vant- age ground for a reconnaissance. But Tom insists it was cowardice, unworthy of even the human tribe. My Tom is a musician, not a combatant, while Pete is a society pet; yet these gallant boys, seeing that the old general was on his mettle again and engaged in a victorious hand-to-hand con- flict with the enemy, sounded a reveille, and bore down on the scene with intrepid valor. Tom encouraged the cowardly old veteran to fight it out to the bitter end; while Pete, with foolhardy but unheard-of daring, attacked the monster's un- sightly tail. He said afterwards that he was never calmer in his life, knowing that even though he should be grazed by a parried blow, we had access to your System-Shatterer Specific. "Tom and Pete had thus all but conquered the monster when a human-tribe woman appeared, armed with a broom, and prepared to do battle on our side. The monkey, in des- pair, at once gave up the struggle and surrendered to this person, who carried the crushed and abject creature away, to some frightfiil punishment, we doubt not. Our humiliated veteran slank painfully away (he has since died of grief and shame for his cowardice), and several of the musicians, supes, and prompt'.frs returning, heartily congratulated n?y brave boys on their splendid victory. They have even gone so far as since to confer a new Order of Merit upon them — that of the Unterrified Bystanders. That very evening Tom and Pete began to take your Muscle-Attacker Compound, your Insomnia-Inducer Mixture, and your Mortal-Coil-Shufller Prescription, and are now fast getting over the effects of the M d bears iry an- [>itately He fell, lonkey- n vant- it was Tom is )et; ytt on his id con- )wn on )wardly te, with er's un- ilmer in :ed by a specific, monster broom, in des- to this e away, miliated rief and ), supes, y brave le so far -that of om and id, your Shuffler s of the Another Valued Testimonial. II terrible scene with the monkey. I think if the cowardly old veteran had tried a little of your General-Debility-Bringer Ointment, or your Brain-Softener-Resolvent, or even your Sight-Dimmer Wash, he might be spinning his yams among us yet, as in the palmy days of his fighting and vainglorious youth. "I must now acquaint you with the details of Tom's wonderful recovery from hereditary insanity— or incipient mumps. I don't clearly make out which from your diag- nosis. The other day Tom scented a savory smell of fish, and found a rich treat of pure California salmon in a fish-can, which had been considerately opened and carefully carried out into the garden by one of our host's attentive children, Tom inserted his noble Egyptian head into the opening, and was enjoying a delicious repast, when suddenly a ferocious Dog bounded upon him ! To his horror, Tom found he could not withdraw his head from the fish-can, nor shake it ofiF ! But with his characteristic courage, he ran as only a feline hero can run. A terrific shock apprised him that he had brought up against the garden-wall (poor Tom could not see, you will understand, but he looked majestically picturesque, as he dashed gallantly hither and thither), and he abruptly changed his course and eventually found him- self in his luxurious nook in the woodshed; while the stupid Dog kept right on, and burnt his tail on the kitchen range. I promptly got out a bottle of your Apoplexy - Producer Preparation and placed it in plain sight, which enabled our host's daughter to remove the fish-can easily. We have been doctoring Tom ever since with your Cancer-Fetcher Gargle, your Nerve-Shaker Draft, and yoiu: various other specifics, to such good eflfect that Tom was able yesterday to attend a reheafsal. " I had thought to write you of further unparalleled cures. -^'{i? r la tAnotber t^alued Testimonial. but think I have done my share. It is sufHcient to add that no feline nursery should be without your remedies. " Respectfully yours, " Mrs. Pussy Cat." If an unworthy disciple of Esculapius can successfully juggle two large-limbed executors, untrammelled by anything but their own Unpurified Conscience, out of twenty-two dollars in excess of his lawful hire, what else need the blindfold Goddess of Justice expect fh>m all this but a frenzied entreaty to take her " darned old gun " and go in peace? -^^^^^^^^ Our Visit to the Country. »3 idd that :at. OUR VISIT TO THE COUNTRY. cessfuUy inything inty-two leed the s but a id go in ONE joyous day in May I decided that it would be very pleasant to go down to the old home in the country and pass the summer there. What could be so de- lightful as a picket hen-house, a vagabond sheep-dog, an honest cordwood stove, and a roomy frame house, built by an architect who had never studied architecture or trigo- nometry? Three miles from the post-office, five miles from the Brie Railway, and one hundred and fifty miles from the neatest large city — what more could a mortal ask, who simply wished to forget, for a few months, that the world moves, and that Ireland longs to join in the procession. Such were the arguments I used to persuade my wife, Panuy, much against her will, to pack up and go down into the country. I had my way, and we went. The old house had been vacant nearly a year, and con- sequently needed airing. The doors would all open easily enough, but, as Fanny said, they wouldn't shut again without putting forth great effort. I tried hard to persuade her that by leaving them all wide open, such a state of affairs would result in a net gain to us of seven full golden hours in the course of every five years, A spavined horse and a mild-mannered cow were procured and installed in the cow-stable, and a most substantial buggy was borrowed from a man who had owed ray father ten dollars. I felt that nothing more could be desired to make V.:., vm r H Our Visit to tbe Country. home happy, but my wife insisted on having a cat. Scarcely a day passed but an adult cat, touring the country incognito, would wander into our premises, partake of liquid refresh- ment from the milk pans, and then good-humoicdly resume its Knight-errantry. I tried to persuade Fanny to take up with some one of these Bohemian cats, but the adventurous spirit was too strongly developed in them, and besides, she preferred a feline of domestic, and not of cosmopolitan tastes. At the end of two brief weeks, our cow, infused with the spirit of the age, boycotted us, refusing absolutely to give any more milk ; and I engaged a warty-fingered boy (not neces- sarily because he was afflicted with warty fingers, but because it was difficult to find a well-developed boy not so afflicted) to bring us milk daily. He always came before we were up, and generally hung about till dinner-time— not because he sympathised with our loneliness, but because such was his idea of etiquette. From him Fanny got a kitten, and our household was now complete. We were three miles from the post-office, as was men- tioned above, and the mail-carrier, on his route past our place once a day to an inlying village, left our letters, etc. It was odd how eagerly I would watch for him, considering that I had come to this place to get away from the world. The carrier had an easy, graceful way, acquired from dex- terous practice, of tossing mail matter into the ditch and of cracking our sheep-dog's ears with his whip. But as he drew a salary of Two hundred dollars a year fiwm the Government for carrying Uncle Sam's mails, he was the autocrat of the road, and every one meekly yielded to his imperious ways. Our house stood almost on the road — or rather, on a cross- road, and we were hailed night and day by stalwart tramps. Our Visit to the Country. 15 At night I bade then?, follow the telegraph poles, and during the day mechanically directed them to Chicago, New York, Vermont, Ireland, and the Black Hills. Right over the way fix>m our house stood a large open shed, appertaining to a disused chapel close by, thus making our comer quite con- spicuous. I always had my suspicions that a tramp occa- sionally put up over night in this shed, but never hinted it to Fanny, knowing it would dispel all the charm of country life for her. One evening, as I sat in the open doorway, a gaunt and shadowy figure emerged fix>m this shed, sidled over to me, and humbly asked permission to stay there all night. I told him t^at the shed didn't come under my "jurisdiction," but belonged absolutely to the public, and was free to the public. " As you," I continued, " are a public man — presumably a publican and a sinner — you are perfectly at liberty to occupy the shed." All this sounded magnanimous on my part, and the stranger gravely thanked me, and as gravely informed me that he was a Division Superintendent of the mines along the J. M. & I. railroad, on his way East to arrange for a shipment of new plant. I said I was very happy to make his acquaint- ance, and I loaded him up with cold victuals enough to win over the farmers' dogs for the next thirty-six hours, and fifty cents to help pay the freightage on his shipment of plant. Then he cordially invited me to visit him some time at his beautiful home in Louisville, or to come and pass a fortnight with him on his ranch in Texas. I always eoutd make friends; I pre- sume I have twenty- five standing invitations to put in a week or a month at gentlemen's ranches in Texas, Colorado, Cal- ifornia, British Columbia, La Plata, New South Wales, and Cape Colony. Coming in from a swing in the hammock, Fanny over- heard the latter part of our conversation, and at once took i6 Our Visit to the Country. alarm — in fact, was frightened almost to death. In vaiti I assured her that the Division Superintendent was a patri- archal- appearing man ; that his right hand hung in a shng ; that he could see well out of only one eye ; and that the only visible weapon he carried was a heavy brass ring, worn on the index finger of his left hand. But my wife was morally certain that the Division Super- intendent proposed to draw his supply of plant from our premises and she insisted that everything out of doors should be brought in and locked up. Accordingly I brought into the kitchen ten croquet hoops, fifteen yards of clothes line, a willow bird-cage, a buck-basket full of oyster and peach cans, a fragment of a horse-shoe, our dog's dinner plate, and hke- wise some of his best beef bones, a saw-horse, and a basswood bench I furbished and reloaded my seven-shooter, and slept with it under my pillow; but Fanny, with the sheep-dog, sat up all night Jong, with the lamp on a low chair and blankets hung over the windows, reading the History of Alonzo and Melissa. The next morning the Division Super- intendent was gone ; and so were a pair of pullets and the pad- lock of the hen-house door. Fanny was right, but I would never acknowledge it. .,,_.. About this time we were alarmed one night by the most demoniacal -or rather supernatural - cries from the chapel near us I pretended to be simply mystified as to the cause of the "phenomenon." but Fanny showed more nerve than I did The next day it was discovered that her kitten had made a mysterious disappearance. A strange dog had chased it under the chapel, and the poor creature had got into so tight a place that it could not get out again. At the risk of my neck I rescued it, of course ; and the ghost was laid. We had often noticed bees flying in and out of cracks in the outside of the house, but paid no attention to it till, too Our yisit to the Country. X7 vain I patri- sling ; be only oni on Super- >m our I should ht into s line, a :h cans, id like- isswood nd slept %p-dog, lair and story of n Super- the pad- I would he most le chapel he cause ;rve than tten had d chased tt into so the risk IS laid, cracks in t till, too late, we found that the whole frame-work of the house was literally infested with bees, wasps, and hornets. We were al- most besieged by them ; there was not a square yard of ' ' clap- board " but had its stronghold of the buzzing peats. They soon had such a footing established at the back door that it was no longer safe to come in that way; so we bolted the door on the inside, and notified such of our neighbors as were back- door callers. I believe it afforded Fanny no little cold-blooded amusement to see a tramp march boldly up to this door, and knock, ostensibly to inquire the way. The first knock not being answered, he would pound vigorously on the door, and a detachment of hornets, fully a hundred strong, would sally out of their ambush and haughtily demand the pass-word. Not being acquainted with the pass-word, the tramp would answer back in forcible and even treasonable language. (It was in this way that I picked up the expressive phrase "get out," in every modem tongue.) The hornets would invar- iably resent any impolite insinuations or undignified gestures, being constitutionally averse to impulsive human kind. If the tramp happened to be of a naturally shiftless character, and had left the gate open behind him, he could generally make a break for the highway, when he would keep straight on till he began to feel thirsty; but if he had carefully shut the gate on coming in — ! But why recall these harrowing scenes ? Sufiice it to say that none of these unfortunates ever dropped me an invitation to go to Texas, but always a hearty invitation to try a climate still more genial. Taking pity on suffering humanity, we hung a placard over the door, solemnly warning all and sundry to keep away from it.. This scarcely mended the matter. Unfortunately, this rear door could be distinctly seen from the road, and passers-by who could not plainly decipher my chirography, imagined that the place was to let, or else that a wayside tavern had been .■ ■ «»t l8 Our yisit to the Country. opened, and we were pestered almost to death from 6 A. M. till II P. M. Without giV'ing official notice, a colony of hectoring and barbarian wasps one day jumped a claim over the front door, — our only remaining out-let, except by way of the cellar, — and this brought matters to a crisis. They were very jealous of their rights, and when Fanny proposed that we should va- cate in their favor and return to the city, I promptly replied that my sole object in life was to please her, and that I was calmly waiting till she should have had enough of country life. • •"^^ Jk^V"* * ^y. Discouraging 'ournalist. 19 >m 6 A. M. oring and nt door, — I cellar, — :ry jealous should va- tly replied that I was of country DISCOURAGING A JOURNALIST : I. — AS A MUTE, INGLORIOUS MILTON. ii(^0 you would like to become a journalist, eh?" sur- O prisedly asked an editor of a youth who had come to the office as devil a few years previously, and had been steadily advancing himself ever since. " That's my destiny, sir," replied the young man grimly. " Indeed ? I've seen people attempt to drive their destiny before, and fetch up in the asylum, or turn out a horse-jockey. Destiny, my boy, is a cruel despot, that can not be driven, nor led, nor wheedled, nor intimidated, nor hoodwinked. Destiny leads a man on as the current carries one in a boat without oars down an unknown stream, where you do not know from one bend to another what is before you. You may glide into a peaceful lake, or ground on a sunken snag, or be dashed over a frightful cataract. Destiny toys with a man as a mousing cat naively toys with a captive mouse. There is this great difference, however, that I must point out, even at the risk of spoiling my metaphors : Gliding along in a boat, as suggested, would have a charm and an excitement about it, and it could not be indefinitely prolonged ; while Destiny drags along from day to day, like a contented, leisure-loving snail, sometimes for seventy, eighty, or, in extreme cases, one hundred year* with pro- voking monotony, so that the only pleasurable emotion there is, is in retrospect. You wouldn't like to glide in a boat at ao Discouraging a Journalist. the pace of one inch per day, would you ? Then as to the cat and the mouse : I have sometimes seen the mouse escape, but I never saw a man escape from Destiny. Yet a man may as sensibly yield blindly to Destiny, and idly be its sport, as to think of compelling it. I am a Fatalist myself, but I should not advise any one else to worship so cruel a god. Depend upon it, my boy, the only inanimate gods to serve are Industry and Perseverance. They have been known to check-mate Destiny." The young man did not know whether the editor was moralizing for his benefit or for his own amusement. ' ' Sir, ' ' he said timidly, "may I show you some of my immature eflfusions?" " Certainly. Li.t never call them ' effusions '— though I dare say 'diffusiuus' would do — 'premature diffusions.' Wind-falls would come nearer the mark, because I doubt whether they are either immature or over-ripe. Let me see now what you have hammered out. — So ! I will read it aloud, as it may scare away stray intruders. '"WHEN I WAS YOUNG. ' When I was young, as I used to be, Full many a year ago, I used to think it was howling fun To "holler," and sing, and swim. ' I went to school when 1 was a boy. And learned how to skate and fish ; I taught the boys how to rig a ship, The girls how to throw a ball. ' I sharpened pencils for all the school ; I learned how to shipwreck books ; I studied fireworks and other things ; I learned how to build a dam. l.—tAs a Mute, Inglorious Milton " ' I made bon-fireB anil I found birds' nettt . I inked deaka and booka with glee ; I made acare-crowa and I act them up, To peg at with atonea and bonea. '"I had a dog, and hia name waa Grim ;— A dog very fond of war ; — He uaed to bark like a tongue-tied cub At teama, and at crowa, and boya. " ' I uaed to aing like a homesick jay, And whistle all out of tune ; I used to laugh, like a milk-maid belle, At ev'rything that I said. *' 'I used to aport, sprawling o'er my vest, A chain that I hoped waa gold ; I used to wear a great humbug watch. That never waa buiU to go. " ' I used to ride on a grizzled nag. In those happy daya of yore; Hia matie pulled out and hia eara ahot off, His frame very gaunt and gone. " ' I usetl to sail in a crazy akiff, A craft very crank it was; Too warped too sell and too good to bum— The boat for a boy like me. " ' I used to hunt with a rum old gun, A primitive weapon, aure ; Too game to burst and too worn to kill— At least it killed me— all but.' •I ■ 3 " I don't see that Destiny had anything to do with this, my boy — it was indigestion, or a 'premature' attack of cerebral jim-jams. Now, I turned out surer-' footed' verse 93 Disiouraf(ing a Journalist. at your age,— verse that would rhyme at chance intervals, too,— and Destiny only allows uie, on sufferance, to preside over a piratical Democratic newspaper, that is unknown in Europe, has no paying subscriliers in Canada or Mexti -, and that will be forgotten within a year after Destiny winds up my career and shoves another man into my editorial chair, who will certainly run foul of the sheriflf within one hundred issues of the paper.— Come, now, is this your first effort at verse-making ? " "Yes, sir ; it is. I wrote that two years and three months ago, when I should have been still a schoolboy." "Quite true," said the editor. " 'Two years and three months ago! ' Well, well! When you were still in the dark ages of your intellect, as it were. I suppose you are firmly persuaded that your intellect is now a nineteenth century one — whereas the truth is, it hasn't yet advanced to the Reformation period. To return to your lines, which are not half bad, after all. I would advise you to send this away, to almost any editor in the land, not keeping another copy, draft, or memo, yourself. Said editor will fire it into the WB-5te-basket, with unparliamentary language, and that will be the last of it. You see, my boy, you can not be a poet all at once, any more than you can be a mesmeri.st or a banjoist. I am going to criticise you freely; but if I put the screws on too tight, cry out, and I will let up. Now, if you were a Wordsworth, you know, you wouldn't be so secretive about the nationality and breed of your childhood pets. To be sure, you do give away the gender of both dog and horse; but you don't explain whether the dog was a pup or in his dotage. If you were a Byron, your dog would have more horse sense and better morals than a white man, and the ' noble animal ' would be no slouch of a steed. A Mark Twain would take us into his confidence just far enough to tell us that the dog l.—%/ls a Mute, hinloriom Milton, 23 iiU'rvaU, » preside :nowu in Mexti 1, tiy winds editorial thin one 'oiir first i months nd three the dark re firmly century d to the h are not away, to ler copy, into the that will a poet all banjoist. screws on u were a ive about . To be lorse; but is dotage, orse sense e animal ' ould take It the dog was lousy and mangy, and the horse originally the proi)erty of a Nebraska half-breed. Almost any one would up and tell which one of the school-girls he married, and what Destiny has done for him now that he is older and wiser. — What else have you ? ' ' " Here is an unfinished poem, sir, that — ." "There you go again! You must say, 'an incomplete poem.' ' The Admiral's La-st Cruise; or, How the Battle was Fought and Won,' eh? Your title's too long; some compos- itors wouldn't know how to work the second half all in on one line. — Let's see how it reads, anyway: — '"THE ADMIRAL'S LAST CRULSK ; How THK nATTLK WAS FoUOHT AND WON. "'The battered old Lord Admiral, With fleet of fifty sail, Had long time cruised n'er heaving seas, And made his foemeii quail. "'One day, as thus he ranged about, A man ujkmi the mast — Who chewed tobacco, and did spit The juice down thick and fast " ' Upon the heads of those on deck — Thus bellowed, " I do spy A craft ^hat is so far away She looks just like a fly." " ' With that, the old Lord Admiral Did catch up his spy-glass, And ran and swarmed up the tall mast As nimbly as an ass 24 Discouraging a Journalist. " ' Which makes a sudden move to kick The boy who bothers him. "A hard fought battle there will be, With loss of life and limb ; " '"And many ships will swift go down, And many men will die." Thus spoke the Lord High Admiral, When he the speck did spy.' " Is that as far as you could get? Why, you don't even tell us whether the enemy was really in sight, or not. ' Fifty sail,' eh? and all up-set about a fly-speck on the vast ocean! What yoii want to do, my boy, is to heave some of your top- heavy conceit and ignorance overboard, and strike Destiny for a cargo of plain common sense, with a glimmering of reason and a little dangerous knowledge of inductive logic thrown in by way of ballast. Here we are all at sea as to whether the Admiral's foe was a white man or a Chinaman ; or as to whether the Admiral ever found his foe at all ; or even as to whether the stupid old fellow would know his foe if he should meet him on the street. Why, any one would naturally in- fer that the Admiral must have had to turn to and lick him- self out of his boots, for want of a better foe to tackle, while the 'fifty sail' stood around in easy attitudes, and languidly bet on how long it would take the old fool to get through pom- melling himself. While your strong holt seems to be a grace- ful facility in spreading your titles all over the page, there is a certain deceptiveness about those titles that would make a subscriber think he wasn't getting his money's worth of tangible facts. A little more regard for perspicuity and a little less straining after outside show would about even up your poetry, though it runs too much to bear-garden slang." "Yes. sir ; but the poem is incomplete." ^^mbmBBI ' / ' - 1 r ■ ] ! /. — i/ls a Mute, Inglorious Milton. 25 >n't even t. ' Fifty .St ocean ! your top- estiny for of reason c thrown i whether ; or as to ;ven as to he should urally in- lick him- while the juidly bet ugh pom- teagrace- e, there is d make a worth of ity and a : even up. bn slang." " To be sure ; I had forgotten that important fact. Why didn't you remind me of it when I wassailing into your wall- eyed old admiral? What's the reason, though, you didn't wind the thing up ship-shape, and wipe up the blood, and holy-stone the decks, and clean the big guns, and look after the wounded, and shut sable Night over the scene, and ring up the pale, round moon, and 1' Envoi the reader yawning to a nightmare sleep?" " It is too vulgar to be spun out further, sir ; and besides, I didn't want to make it as long as a nursery ballad." "Certninlv: you're level-headed there. Better to cut it short and chaotic and leave the reader in the doldrums, than trail an index and a sequel astern and subjoin a preface. Now, you leave this with me, and I'll trim the sails a little differ- ently, and we'll smuggle it into Saturday's issue and note how many subscribers give us the shake." "I am very much obliged," said the young man feebly. "Don't mention it. I've seen older people than you put up with more abuse for the sake of shoving themselves into print. — But haven't you any love song^? You're no poet of Destiny if you can't write that sort of stuff. Why, your true poeta nascilur would rather scribble lovelorn poems than go courting." "Well, here's a four-liner, for an autograph album^though I haven't had a chance to put it there yet." "That's a bad practice. Flee the insidious little dog's- eared album as you would the Latin humorists. — But still, there's no occasion for you to be so distressingly frank about it. You were too reserved about your idiotic dogs and ponies, and now you fly to the opposite extreme. Why, if you hadn't told me, I shouldn't have known but you had written it in the album of your own sweetheart, and also in the albums of every other fellow' s sweetheart. Let' s see it. — 26 Discouraging a Journalist. Hum ; just ' Verse for an Album,' when you might have given it a heading longer than the ' pome ' itself. Atten- tion ! — " ' Why should you ask me for my name, When I would give you heart and hand. And all I have at my command. You so have set my soul aflame.' " Now, as you haven't written it, you say, in any importu- nate—or rather unfortunate — person's album, here is your golden opportunity — don't ! Next year about this time you might find out that by some terrible mistake you had inad- vertentfy vinXXxxi it in the wrong young lady's album.— Is this the best you have? Have you no pastorals or madri- gals?" " I will show you one more poem, sir; but it is incomplete, too, and I don't know what classification it would come under." " You seem to have a penchant for leaving your poems at sixes and sevens. Vulgarly speaking, you bite off more than you can chew. Well, let me ' review ' it for you ; and if we can 't call it a sonnet, we'll call it a lyric— So; I will read it:— •• ' A SHOUT OF TRIUMPH. " ' Sing, oh my heart, in joyous strain, Sittggreat — sing wild, delirious joy! Thou art released from all thy pain, Delight has come, with no alloy. " ' Brave heart! thou manfully didst hope, Through five long, weary, bitter years; With giant difficulties cope. Though racked by ceaseless, madd'ning fears. ght have . Atten- /. — e/fs a Mute, Inglorious Milton. '"Sad days did but succeed sad days, But now, true heart, all such are past; The glad sun darts resplendent rays, Thy day of triumph dawns at last. 27 ' ' I'll spread thy fame from Bast to West, This big round earth thereof shall sing; Not through one century's brief quest, But through all time thy name shall ring! ' ' importu- re is your s time you had inad- bum. — Is or madri- icomplete, tttld come r poems at more than and if we I read it: — in. "My boy, there does seem to be an hiatus somewhere in this. Is it unfinished in the middle, or at both ends ? The last stanza might be made impressive; but you have made it simply amusing. I suppose it doesn' t refer to yotu* heart-disr ease, but to some candy-loving sweetheart, eh ? . But you must muzzle that heart of yours, or put it under lock and key, for it is dangerous to let it go wandering about at large. Like your admiral, it doesn't seem to have any clear idea where to go or what to do with itself. Seriously, you will have to shout yourself black in the face before ' this big, round earth ' will pay any attention to you, or your heart, or your sweetheart; or care a snap whether her name is Harriet Jane or Alice Maude Ethel, You see, ' this big, round earth ' is so occupied in her leisure moments with the fame of her Shakespeares, Scotts, and Longfellows, that she will only grudgingly countenance a new-comer. She is notoriously cold aud tmjust to green poets ; but this either puts them on their mettle, or kills them off. However, it isn't mauy men that can't and won't get even with their enemies, when their ' day of triumph ' does really come. " Well, my boy, I have kept you long enough for one sitting ; to-morrow we will examine into your merits as a writer of modem prose. I will wind up by hazarding the opinion that you and Destiny may get there as poets — if you a8 Discouraging a Journalist. live— along in the early childhood of the next century— perhaps while the centuiy is still in its swaddling clothes. During the exciting Election of 191 2 you may be in a posi- tion to realize a dollar apiece for Campaign songs, or to wholesale them at six for five dollars. On the other hand, you may die of chicken-pox, or croup, or some other infontile disease. Thes^ things often prove fatal to embryo poets. •' Come, don't look sad ; you may develop into an eerie poet, like Coleridge or Poe, or a sentimental one, like Tenny- son. Meanwhile, you will have to go through a love-affair that will shake you all up before you can turn out anything marketable. Sorrow is about the best poetry-tonic, and the years of early manhood are fuller of it than an out-house is of spiders.— tSo long." H *— J>^ Grandmother's Apple Pies. 29 intury — clothes. 1 a posi- i;s, or to er hand, infantile poets, an eerie e Tenny- }ve-affair anything , and the •house is GRANDMOTHER'S APPLE PIES. Drmvbr us from apple pies Made in the careless, slipshod way Of foreign "help," who melodize The atmosphere with roundelay The while they slice up skin and core. With apple stems and other stuff. With fungous growth and seeds galore Thrown in, and crust supremely tough. These have degraded apple pies, Which, though they may seem good, will straight Rebellious stomachs agonize. Full of this thought, man mourns his fate, And TOWS from modem pies to fast ; I sometimes yet am fain to cry For opportunities now past. When I might have refused such pie. My grandmother made apple pies That every one was sure to call A gastronomical surprise ; For they were never known to, pall Upon the appetite. You knew, Beyond all doubt, if you but saw Her modus operandi through. Her pics would be without a flaw. In early June she used green fruit Till harvest apples had a chance To ripen ; and should robins loot Her cherries, her long gun would glance ■^mmfmik^ wfmsmm^im^ssm Grandmother's Apple Pies. That way, and some fine birds would die. Her cherry pie» deserved all praise, But her best "holt" was apple pie— Her specialty, in modem phrase. Bach season had its apple pie ; The mellow bell-flower held its own For six long weeks, but she would try Bach apple in the temp'rate zone. When her good pies were served with cream, A choice was hard ; but Northern Spies She favored most. Strauge though it seem, Grandmother seldom ate her pies. At Christmas-time she made mince pies That were delicious, though she took Less art with them, and did not prize Our compliments — if we forsook Too long her apple pies for mince, For turkey or for good roast beef, Plum pudding, pumpkin pie, or quince ; For such neglect moved her to grief. The New Year's leaf was always turned With apple pie at mom and noon. And when the springtime months retqraed, Dried apples filled the gap tilt June. Those apple pies went all too fast ; I sometimes yet am fain to cry For opportunities now past, When I might have devoured more pie. ■■Mmia^ Discouraging a Journalist. 31 DISCOURAGING A JOURNALIST: II. — AS AN UNFLBDGBD HUMORIST. (( "fir ELL," said the editor cheerfully next day to the V V youth who aspired to be a journalist, " I 'm in the humor to give you another sitting-on. The old proverb says, • Never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day,' and I suppose it refers to the bitter as well as the sweet ; to the boy with a bag of candy to eat, and to the boy with a garden to hoe." "I have nothing in the shape of prose, sir, but the draft of a letter I wrote the other night to an old chum." " I am very glad of that. Besides, what you write for one individual reader is likely to be a pure specimen of your style. To be sure, letter-writing is an art, but it is as different from story or editorial-writing as playing marbles is different from snowballing a school-teacher. You see, I adapt my illustrations to your years and understanding. — Now, then, hand me your rough draft, please, and I will read it and com- ment on it at the same time. Is this really the first writing of it, or did you go over it again, with pencil and eraser? " ' ' I touched it up a little, sir. " "Good. You would be foolish not to do that. Here goes:— " ' Mv Dbar Tom : — I have intended to write to you for ever so long, but every time I have fixed a day for the fatal I. • 3a Discouraging a Journalist. deed some person has inopportunely dropped in and juggled the afternoon or evening away from me. These Philistines have been b^Us noires to »i grand- with an of new of his Dstrung :et; and . Vitus' cus per- !ss; and L "dead through nee.' ; impor- warmed ouple of ill with- me, I 'm m't dis- pve you children :lis ago. a spring tlycame ^ i off his 1 had all i we got immy is ;r day I rty were laying in ambush for a mixed. Jimmy was determined to find out whether the rails are fastened together with hair- pins or carpet-tacks; so he smuggled himself up the platform to the freight-shed, and then jumped down to the track. Before he was found the mixed came grinding along, and rasped a whole pocketful of ornamental buttons off his richly embroidered little coat. I am sure everybody was anxious to find out what system of punishment the boy's father favors, but he was mean enough not to give it away. The poor child was hustled into the car with reckless haste and quite unnecessary assistance, and that is all I know about it." " I don't like the chipper way you talk about little chil- dren and big men having their necks all but broken. It makes a writer out a heathen, or exposes him as a green- horn. Another thing you want to do is to weed out some of your adjectives. I don't suppose you have more than eight hundred in stock, and at this rate your supply would soon be exhausted. Now to conclude : — •" I can now calmly proceed to fire my empty inkbottles out of the window, and distribute some toil-worn pens among my unobtrusive relations. I might have said importunate, but my relations are not importunate. " 'Yours sincerely, Heinrich.' ' ' • Hen — Hannibal — Hannah ! ' What have you signed yourself, young man ? " "^ Heinrich, sir— German for Henry." " I dare say it is, my boy. I am glad you are so com- pletely master of the German language ; but il your letter should hang fire and not reach its destination, you will some day get it back in an official envelope fix>m the dead-letter office, addressed to ' Mrs. or Miss Hannah ! ' Then perhaps you will be sorry that you hadn't signed your full name in English, like a white man." 36 Discouraging a Journalist. "Well, may I ask what your verdict i», sir?" " Can you shoot a gun ? " Visions of a turkey hunt with the astonished and delighted editor flashed through the young man's mind. His genius had been recognized at last I ' ' You are too kind ! " he cried, grasping the editor's hand. "I can shoot, and should be delighted to go." "Well, then," calmly continued the editor, "I would advise you to tear off the first part of your draft and take it along for wadding, next time you feel impelled to shoot. As for the rest of it, make a nice little sketch of it, and almost any editor will accept it ; but he won't pay you for it, because Rhadamanthus isn't built that way. "But what's the matter with your relations, that you ahould insist on working off your damaged pens on them ? Didn't they buy you jack-knives or take you to the circus when you were young — that is, younger than you are now ? Or did they vaccinate you too often? You needn't let on but that your ancestors came over with Lief Ericson, and that your nearest relatives to-day are living a luxurious life in the most exclusive penitentiaries in the West." " Then you really think my prose better than my verse ? " "Decidedly. Writing a letter, with your heart in it, is head-work ; writing a pretty little story, loaded up to the muzzle with good precepts and pointing a solemn moral, €ven if read crosswise, like a riddle, is brain-work ; writing a rattling good humorous item is mind-work ; but writing clear-cut verse, that the matter-of-fact man and the cultured man alike will read with keen relish, and then file away in a disused cigar-box for future enjoyment — that is soul- work. "Yes, my boy; you must quit flirting with the Muses, for every one of them, including Thalia, will give you the n tl tl j< a f( > t //.— //s an Unfledfiied Htmorist. 37 mitten. vStrike up a friendship with the old man, Ap all supreir e , 'Twas his prerogative to dream Of vict'ries past, of future feasts, And pique himself tlie king of beasts. Though he would oft get into scrapes. And of mince pies make ducks and drakes ; Would gormandize rich cream galore. And paw good butter o'er the floor ; Would suck fresh eggs in ev'ry nest ; Would cuff small pups and break their rest ; Allow no cats or dogs a home, But force them all as tramps to roam Wide his dominions, or wage war Till they acknowledged him as Thor ; And e'en when strangers graced the board, If so disposed would come my lord, And 'mid rich viands run amuck — Still would the host say, " JustW luck 1 " No matter what the mischief was, Old Peter never had a cause Of grievance, for he broke no laws, How Peter Shuffled Off. And ne'er was flung upon hi» paws, As most bad pussies are, you know, When with a twirl they are let go, And thus are giv'n a chance to light Upon their feet, from dizxy height. Ah, Peter was a priv'leged cat. Who never heard bad words, like " scat ! " Who never lost one of the nine Cat-lives the vulgar say enshrine All mortal felines' fate,— or most,— Ere one poor cat gives up the ghost. But Peter one day went too far In acting out the role of Tsar, And brought about a family jar That apogecd his guiding-sUr. Bold Peter undertook to make Off baby Joe's baptismal cake A light ddjeAner- and was caught By baby's pa, who straightway bronght. By his fierce and avenging cdes. And Peter's yowls of pained sm-prise, The household flocking to the room. Straight " Margit" Ann snatched up a broom And overturned a marble clock. Which gave poor Peter's nfr«;TS a shock. For it fell plump upon his tail. And he set up the injured wail Of those that sudden feel the bnjnt Of punishment for sore afiront. While Sarah Jane joined with his foes. Stout bow-legged Tim ran for the hose ; And George Erastus cried out "Scat!" When Peter humped his back and spat E'en baby's ma expressed no fear To cut short poor old Pete's career ; Though he, perhaps, lunched off the cake Just like themselves, for baby's sake. But baby's pa said H was time. When Peter's gore wiped out his crime, 41 4» How Peter Shuffled Off. To speculate if they did right His sudden death to expedite. In wrathful gloom Pete turned to flee. And got scared up an apple-tree. Then 'Rastus took a fish-pole new, And Bill's fire-crackers tied thereto, And, lighted, thrust this up to where Indignant Peter swung in air. Still bow-legged Tim hard plyed the hose, Which, while it drenched Pete's furry clothes. Damped Bill's fireworks, and marred that fun. Till baby's pa came with his gun. At the first bang Pete fetched a bound. That brought him to unsafer ground ; For he lit near a hornet's nest. And thence there sallied forth, with zest, The hornet band, armed to the teeth, And anxious, each one, to bequeath On cat or men a stinging blow, So that they all should wailing go ; And pa and 'Rastus, Tim and Bill, And wounded Pete, all got their fill. The hornets these bad men did rout, . But Peter stayed to fight it out; For he was hufiied and wounded sore. And scandalized at those who bore Such malice to a feline king In his hoar age. What was the sting Of bees, to human love denied ? So, like a stoic, Peter died ; With eyes glazed on the setting sun, He painful lest nine lives in one. It might have been his shocking fnght, (So ran the verdict) or the bright Flash of the fireworks, or the gun, The hornets' sting, the frenzied run To shelter, or some old-time ache. They did not hint it was the cake ! Nor yet heart-break at Fortune's blast. How Peter Shuffled Off. So Peter shuffled off at last, And papa said, " Now will come Peace ! " But, to make sure of bis decease, He buried Pete clean out of sight. Where felines o'er his grave may fight. Then, as he bathed his smarting skin. His thoughts in this wise seemed to spin '"Man's inhumanity to man' I clearly see is Nature's plan : These vicious hornets came with scoff To help poor Peter shuffle off ! " He could not think himself at fault. Because man's conscience here is halt ! 43 44 Hart Gilbert Palmer. ha fai HART GILBERT PALMER Revisits His Nativb Place in the R6le of a Great Man. THE STORY AS PRANKI,Y TOLD TO HIS PRIBNDS. a "V/E-S, it was five years since I had shaken the dust of 1 Center Hill off my feet, and in those five years I had become generally known from Bangor to Seattle ; for, besides my strike in the San Juan country, I had contrived, in various ways, to lug myself into notoriety. In the first place, I had named and built two mining towns ; I had built a railroad ; I had written two or three wild, frontier, two-volume books, which people read for the same unfathomable reason that they take patent medicine for old age. As with all authors, monopolists, and western millionaires, I was universally known by the name of ' Palmer.' ' ' It was an historical fact that I was notorious — in a .word, a marked man. I one day imagined that the simple folk I re lai m th m w e: w e! n n f< a e r a a c y I Hart Gilbert Palmer. 45 A Great DS. the dust of yrears I had for, besides , hi various tlace, I had a railroad ; ime books, eason that ill authors, universally - in a .word, nple folk I had been brought up amongst would mistake notoriety for fame and I determined to visit my old home to enjoy it. " it was early in beautiful June, therefore, that I set out to revisit my native place, the obscure little Pennsylvania vil- lage known as Center Hill. I was perfectly well awate that my fame had penetrated to this remote hamlet — in fact, at the outset of my career I had taken care to apprise them of my triumphs: • ^ curiosity or envy, and above all, their weekly pape. '.ad kept them cognizant of all my brilliant exploits. But for four long years I had had no intercourse with the Center Hillites, which, I well knew, was the bitter- est way I could take to revenge myself on them for the studied neglect they had shown *me when I lived among them. (I may here remark parenthetically that the news of the goodly fortune my father had unexpectedly bequeathed me, shortly after the appearance of my first book, was common gossip everywhere, and contributed, more than anything else, to raise my estimation in the minds of the money-loving people at C There were many wild rumors afloat about me then, and those credulous villagers believed my fortune a princely one.) , , "I repeat that I visited my native village; and the ad- vent of a man known to fame, a reputed millionaire, and a returned native, all in one pompous individual, created a great furore. The newspapers had warned them of my com- ing, and a dark crowd of people (for it was at night) swarmed about the depot platform, crowding one another, and whis- pering, 'Yes, that's him ; that's him ; I wonder if he will know »«^.' .!.• » "So ' him • wasn't welcomed by a brass band, as him had half expected to be. I didn't stop to know many of them, except a few important personages, who thrust them- ,-» 46 Hart Gilbert Palmer. selves directly in my way, and a few modest fHends, who kept in the background, but rode up to the hotel and went to bed. The next day was Saturday, which I spent indoors, writing letters and giving my apartments a ship-shape ap- pearance. "Sunday evening I went to church, bright and early ; to the Episcopal church, as had been my wont aforetime. The church was better filled than of old, I noticed ; and also that a goodly number of Methodists ond Presbyterians seemed to have been converted from their old-time belief. When I came to leave that church after the services were over, I found the doorway absolutely blocked with young ladies. (At least, some of them were young, and some of them had passed for young five years before.) I struggled past them and slunk off, feeling, somehow, that I had grossly insulted a great many very respectable people. What were my feel- ings when I reasoned it out that that goodly congregation had assembled to see which young lady I should pilot safe home from church ! Such is fame — and fortune ! It seemed to be taken for granted that as I was still a bachelor, I had returned for the express purpose of marrying some one of the incomparable spinsters of Center Hill. This should have occurred to me, being a man of the world. Who would have thought me such an innocent ? "That week the campaign was opened, and a reign of terror was inaugurated. I was invited here and there and everywhere ; to socials, fishing-parties (and there were no fish to be caught), garden-parties, picnics (and it was early for picnics, too, in that primitive place), and I know not what. I was hounded to death to contribute to undeserv- ing charities ; when, in my own heart, I saw plainly that they should appeal to the shop-keepers, the baker, and the liv ha bn m) oil an ht th cl ui m u ic n n P V b t c IL __!.,JU.. " '• -t Hart Gilbert Palmer. 47 lends, who and went at indoors, ■shape ap- . early; to ime. The d also that seemed to When I re over, I ng ladies, them had past them ly insulted re my feel- ngregation 1 pilot safe tune ! It X bachelor, g some one bis should rid. Who a reign of there and ■e were no t was early know not undeserv- lainly that er, and the livery-stable man ; for all these did such a business as they had never done before : in fish-hooks : canned picnic-meats ; bread and buns and confectionery ; livery outfits ; brand-new market-baskets ; paint and putty and wall-paper ; and coal- oil • and strawberries ; and aesthetic note-paper and envelopes ; and bewitching summer garments ; and brass ornaments for hats ; and boots and gloves and parasols and lace collars, that were all painful in their newness. "I happened to mention that I wished to select a few characters for a novel I contemplated writing. I always was unlucky, anyhow; but in saying that I deliberately laid myself open to all sorts of unpleasantnesses. After I had unwittingly given offence to one young lady, she took occas- ion to remark that, for her part, she never did see anything really good in my writings ; and that my book, 'The Com- mandery Lode,' was perfectly ridiculous, and not to be wra- pared with a New York Trash romance of that name. This was said 'behind my back.' it is tiue; but so very close behind my back that it required no mental effort, no prac- ticed ear. to overhear it. However, I had survived other criticisms, and I bore up under that. "One week after my arrival I was at a social gathering, at a house whose doors were forbidden me in my obscure and lonely youth. I went under protest, but with the gnm resolve of bagging some valuable notes, that might be filed away for futme use. During the course of the evemng, a youth whom I had always liked as a boy gravely asked me if I knew what the Pnnceburg Review had to say about me. 'Yes • chimed in a score of eager young voices, 'and the Center Hill ReporUr, and the Princeburg Age, and the Dragonsburg Defender. Oh. but of course you do know, they added confidently. Center Hill had so improved in '^■p I 48 Hart Gilbert Palmer. 1 five years that it now had an exponent of its own. The Princeburg papers were old sheets, of some pretentiousness and very much complacency, that were always fighting each other like quarrelsome dogs. No, I was not aware, I said, that any of these papers had anything special to say about me. Straightway the heir of that house darted out of the room, to come back with an armful of newspapers, when he began looking for the numbers that contained those blood-curdling remarks about myself. I instantly per- ceived that by taking prompt and vigorous measures I could throw cold water, so to speak, on his design, and impress my greatness upon every member of that assemblage. So I begged him not to put himself to so much trouble on my account, for I never could spare either time or patience to get at the pith and marrow of what local papers have to say. The poor boy's countenance fell ; but the water wasn't cold enough, it seems, for he fumbled among those Reviews, Reporters, Ages, and what not, more excitedly than ever. Then the young lady who never could see any good points in my books, for her part, observed, sotto voce, ' There are some things anything but complimentary in them.' But any further remarks from her were drowned by a chorus of voices, saying, — well, saying what amounted to this : The papers gave an account of my early struggles ; of how I was respected and beloved by my old and true friends in all that section ; of how I always made friends, right and left ; of how greatly I was regarded in my youth, when compara- tively obscure ; of my colossal wealth to-day ; and so on, ad nauseam. (I notice my present auditors smile ; I wish they could have seen me smile then.) Now, why should I want to wade through such stufiF and nonsense as that ? I had soared to such a pinnacle of glory that the maunderings " "" , ■■- L^' '^^*!BlWW'y*^ Hart Gilbert Palmer. 49 iwn. The ntiousness s fighting t aware, I cial to say darted out :wspapers, contained tantly per- aeasures I :sign, and isemblage. trouble on >r patience :rs have to iter wasn't e Reviews, than ever, ood points There are em.' But I chorus of ;his : The how I was in all that id left; of COMPARA- md so on, le ; I wish f should I is that ? I aunderings ofcountry — or rather village — newspapers had neither an inspiriting, nor yet a depressing, ellect upon me. I was per- fectly well aware that little local journals have a trick of lauding well-known people, with a view to furthering their own ends. I was aware that all this cheap flattery would, if I suffered myself to be influenced by it, lead up to a demand for an article from my pen — or an interview. I was aware, also, that if I turned a deaf ea^ to these noisy nui- sances, or that if I pleaded that I didn't bring any pen with me, their praises would give place to defamations, and they would spill venom on me, without mercy. "But I hadn't traveled fifteen hundred miles to wade through the columns of their local weeklies. So I said, 'My dear boy, be it for good or for evil, my reputation is established— for this season, anyway. Please do not bore us to-night with any cuUings from those oracular weekhes. There are people who try to make life a burden by mailing me influential newspapers, with marked items in them about myself; but I generally burn them at once, without even preserving the valuable receipts they contain.on domestic and other affairs. I am proud to be able to say, however, that it is ten years since any person has troubled me with either a penny valentine or a local weekly paper. It is not often I make a speech, but I 'm afraid this is one, and I hope you will forgive me for it.* .. , ,, " Now, that boy was well brought up ; exceedingly well. He needed no further remonstrances from me, but hied him away with his budget of weeklies. I am sorry he didn't appear again that evening ; very sorry. His mamma should have vented her anger on me, and not on him ; for I must say that I had been grossly impolite — abusive, even. I reasoned at the time that all officious attention to me would 50 Hart Gilbert Palmer. at once cease ; that I should be regarded a» no better than a bear ; and so left severely alone. I was wrong. Wearied as I had become of their attentions, this did not shake them oflF. They seemed determined, rather, to force me into read- ing their weeklies. I found them in my room ; thrust on me wherever I went ; foisted on me through the post-office. But I steadily refused to read them, and so obstinate an indifference to the voice of their oracles must have puzzled them. "On the 24th of June a circus was first advertized as coming to Dragonsburg and Princeburg ; and the weeklies, having another lion to tackle, in a great measure dropped me. Likewise, the villagers didn't persecute me to read iheir papers any more, but went on with their picnics. By George ! they almost picnicked me to death ! V have been troubled with indigestion ever since. "I may here mention that the first day I went out into the street, I was surprised to find that every family had either a boy, a horse, a dog, or a cat. that was afflicted with the name of Gilbert Some of the boys, and very many of the cats and dogs, were called Hart — because it is shorter, I suppose. Palmer, I found, was a favorite name for their trotters. Not a few baby girls, it seems, were christened Gilbertina. All this rather pleased me, I must admit — till I found there were two foundlings baptized, or rather named. Hart Gilbert Palmer ! To an honest man with a clear con- science, this was simply annoying ; but when I reflected that it was the only opportunity the citizens had to bestow my name in full on one individual, and that they had improved it on two occasions, I was mollified. Still, it sometimes vexed me, and even startled me, till I became accusttfmed to it, to hear my various harsh names harshly bandied about th< bei •P nr tir ch ha sic a CO of m th in ci te s< d a 11 Hart Gilbert Palmr. 5« Iter than a Vearied as lake them I into read- thrust on post-office. >stinate an ve puzzled ^crtized as e weeklies, re dropped 3 read iheir By George ! :n troubled ;nt out into f had either d with the lany of the s shorter, I le for their i christened admit — till ther named, a clear con- eflected that bestow my ,d improved t sometimes customed to ndieU about the street — particularly when the gamins would yell. 'Gil- bert '11 wallop your dog'; or 'Hart's got the mange'; or ' Palmer ain't the nag he used to be.' "All this time the match-making mammas were making my life a burden. I must confess my sympathies were en- tirely with those lonely spinsters who, having no one to chaperon them, entered the lists and gamely fought single- handed against those well-equipped mammas for the posses- sion of my coveted gold. " The Fourth of July drew near, and I determined to play a trick on the villagers that should amuse me for years to come. There wert to be great local doings' on this day, of course ; and th. villagers plannea to make a spectacle of me as an orator, etc. But I told them, six days beforehand, that I purposed to do m , ceU ^rating in private, away out in the country. Tivis annc . icement ^lone vhetted their curiosity. Then I visitad the villi -^ tailoi and outfit- ter The incessant picnics and ling-parties had told severely on my wearing aT>t)arel ; and why Hould I not 'patronize home industry a. the tailor's s.,j read? I directed him to make me ; suu, of his very best material, and to have it finished and delivered to me, without fr K V ' July 3d With great care I selected a silk hat, and, aiter cautioning him for the fifth or sixth time to have my suit finished by the 3d, left his shop. Several idlers had dropped in while I was giving my iiisiructions, and had taken care- ful notes. I was not surprised at this. In fact. I had bar- gained on it ; for a great many curious and gossipy people made it a business to dog me about and watch my every movement. They took a special pride in supplying all the latest and raciest gossip about other people's affairs ; and they knew ^^" * • ' they lagged behind in this particular, their reputation as newsmongers would be endangered. 52 Hart Gilbert Palmer. " Next I went into various other shops, and ordered gim- crackery with a iavishness that was phenomenal : a riding- whip, a pair of lady's gauntlets, a gorgeous parasol, a box of Malaga grapes, a few pounds of confectionery, and I know not what. All these were to be sent to me, without fail, before the Fourth. I perceived that the on-lookers noted all my purchases, and that the shopkeepers marvelled ; and I chuckled. " I suflFered twenty-four hours to pass before I again ap- peared on the street ; and, as I had anticipated, a good many able-bodied people were waiting and watching for me. Af- ter taking a few steps I turned squarely about, and seeing that I was followed, I paused, as if irresolute. I feigned anxiety to avoid them by turning up one by-street and down another ; and by doubling on them repeatedly I contrived to bring up at my destination, the village livery-stables, apparently unobserved. I say, apparently unobserved, for they perceived my eflForts to escape observation, and consid- erately pretended to let me elude them ; but I knew I was watched, all the time. The village now believed that I wished to keep my plans and movements a secret, and I felicitated myself on my amazing shrewdness in hoodwink- ing everybody so completely. I told the proprietor of the livery that I wanted a good horse — in fact, the best one he had— for the Fourth. He showed me such an animal, and I examined it critically, remarked that it seemed good for a twenty -mile run, and tendered him an eagle. He protested that was too much ; but I told him it was my affair how much I paid, and that I would have given a handful of them but I would have secured the horse. Then he, in his turn, became curious, but he was crafty and disguised it. I re- marked, incidentally, that I hoped the roads wouldn't be Hart Gilbert Palmer. 53 sred gim- a riding- >1, a box d I know- low/ fail, noted all d ; and I again ap- Qod many me. Af- ad seeing I feigned and down contrived y-stables, erved, for id consid- ew I was ed that I ret, and I loodwink- tor of the est one he nal, and I rood for a : protested affair how rulofthem a his turn, it. I re- )uldn*t be dusty; then added carelessly that I supposed the old private short-cut to the Ochiltrees' was still open, and that it was the pleasantest and quietest road I knew. I had now suflS- ciently piqued the man's curiosity, and after charging him to send me the horse at eight o'clock sharp on the morning of the 4th, I went back to the hotel, noticing that I had been tracked to the livery-stable. " Let me here explain that the name of Ochiltree was an unknown name in all that county and in all that region. I had taken particular pains to consult documentary evidence and assure myself of this fact. ' 'All this was four or five days before the Fourth. I wanted the thing generally known, and I also wanted to give the villagers plenty of time to make any changes in their pro- gramme for the day that they might think expedient. " On the ist of July I formally told most of my friends that I should leave for the Pacific coast on the great and glorious Fourth, by the night train ; but that I should take my de- parture from a neighboring town, and that probably they would see the last of me on the 3d inst. Several of them begged me to stay over for the circus, on which auspicious day, it would appear, they hoped to work me up to a pra posal. The greatest uncertainty prevailed as to whom I should propose ; but a proposal, to any person, would relieve the general anxiety. "The news of my openly -announced departure on the Fourth threw the village into a ferment. There was more ex- citement than a local election would have caused. But who was this Ochiltree? Where did he live ? Was it Am daughter that I was to elope with, or whose ? When had I made the unknown's acquaintance, anyway ? In my neglected youth, probably, when no one had bothered to watch me. On the 54 Hart Gilbert Palmer. 3d I formally bade my honest friends good-by. A few asked me pointed questions about my proposed jaunt on the mor- row, but the great majority maintained a dignified silence on that subject. "The eve of July the Fourth came punctually on time. At the eleventh hour I sent a note to the liyery-stable, saying I must have the horse at half-past seven, instead of eight — which was a wise move on my part. Then I packed my trunk, carefully putting away in it all the feminine finery I had bought, and which had been delivered to me promptly that day at noon. " At 7:30 A. M., July the Fourth, I sprang on my horse and rode away to ihe west. This highway led to no important point, as I very well knew, unless one followed it for some fifty miles. I rode out of the village at a smart pace, and at once perceived that my utmost anticipations were to be real- ized. But as I noticed what was going on about me, my heart smote me at the thought of spoiling the holiday of so many guileless people. "The village was rising as one man to pursue me ! I verily believe there was not a Hart, a Gilbert, or a Palmer, in all that region, sound, or blind, or spavined, or foundered, that was not pressed into service. It was indeed lucky for me that I was off half an hour before they expected me. '"A stem chase is a long chase," ' I said to myself, ' but this time it will be a woeful way longer for them than for me ! ' " On they came, amid clouds of dust. It was well that I had provided myself with a riding- whip, for I needed it sorely. I had not ridden far when I saw a horseman stationed by the roadside, waiting calmly. Soon another, and another.. I wheeled down a dirt road and galloped on. Lo, there, also, were horsemen ! Hart Gilbert Palmer. 55 " This was beginning to get interesting ! These sentinel horsemen would be able to put the pursuers on my track at every turn. The pursuers, however, kept so far in the back- ground that I could hardly suspect, as yet, that they were actually following me. Evidently, these meddlesome villa- gers knew what they were about, and meant business. '"I will show them, however,' I muttered, ' that they are no match for a man who knows the world as I do.' So I in- quired of each horseman, as I encountered him, the lay of the land and of the diflFerent roads, and left each one with a wrong impression as to the road I should take. I made sharp turas, and took my course over half-a-dozen roads, giving sentinels and wayfarers, each and all, a false notion of my route. All this, I argued, would confuse my pursuers and scatter them over the country in every direction, thus giving me an opportunity to escape. " Three miles from the town I found there were no more sentinels posted. Apparently it was thought that once fairly started on my track, it would be an easy matter to keep me in view. But, had these scouts been placed to the east, the north, and the south, is closely as I found them along my route ? I flattered myself that it must be so, but never made bold to probe the matter. "'Now,' I mused, 'these searchers after knowledge will study the geography of this tract of country more thoroughly to-day than they have ever studied it before since their four- teenth year ; it will give them an outing, and their holiday won't be entirely lost.' "After passing the last sentry I fetched a detour, and threw the pursuers completely -off the scent. I glimpsfed a party of them once, as I rode along, and that one fleeting view puffed me up with pride, and amply recouped me for 56 Hart Gilbert Palmer. the gold I had squandered for that day's sport. It always does a man good to find that he is not without regard in his native place, and that his schemes are successful. And surely I had found this, to my satisfaction ! " Now I was firee to journey whither I pleased ; and after a good half-hour's ride I brought up at a substantial farm- house, barely seven miles from Center Will, as the crow flies. Here lived an oldtime schoolfellow of mine, whom I had not seen for years. He was overjoyed at the meeting, and we spent the rest of the day happily together, recalling scenes of our boyhood days. If I did talk to his sister as much as I did to him, I don't suppose it is anybody's affair but hers and mine ; and if I did make over my box of grapes (which I had found great trouble in bringing along) to a still smaller sister,— one whom I had never seen,— I was only treating her as well as (or rather better than) I had been treated myself, in days gone by, when I was blessed with a charming elder sister of my own. But it is an irrelevancy to make any mention of such things at all, in this narration. I had noti- fied Will that he might look for me on the forenoon of the Fourth ; but they ought not to have expected me to do justice to the extraordinary dinner they had prepared for me. As I have said several times, the picnickers ruined my appetite. • ' During the course of the afternoon three diflferent squads of searches passed the old farm-house, and I quaked in- wardly, fearing that I had been run to earth, after all. But they all passed on. Then the entire force of village hood- lums and gamins, who served as a rear-guard, filed past, fully half a hundred strong. Their holiday was not utterly a blank, I am glad to say, for they were freely popping off the joyous fire-cracker as they scattered along. Hart Gilbert Palmer. 57 [always in his And id after Jl farni- w flies. lad not and we :enesof ch as I ersand which I smaller treating treated larming ake any ad noti- a of the e to do ared for inedmy t squads ked in- 1. But e hood- 8t, fully tterly a : off the " The enemy were on the right trail, certainly ; but they did not find me out. However, I confided in Will and his sister, and obtained their promise to keep the matter a secret. " About six o'clock, seeing no enemies in sight, I mounted my horse and rode into town, thinking to deepen the mystery and astonish the villagers afresh. I did not find quite so deserted a place as I had fondly imagined I should. There were still enough able-bodied people left behind to have defended Center Hill against any evil-disposed tramps that might have come in by freight train. But the villagers were paralyzed to see me back, at that hour. The time th v had arbitrarily fixed, it seems, for my earliest possible re', im — in case I should return — was ten o'clock. "I was mean enough to tantalize them all still further. I ate my supper and left on the eight o'clock train for Dragonsburg, a town twelve miles t6 the northwest. I had my trunk checked for this point, too. I don't know whether I was followed, or not ; but I left my native town — perhaps forever— a prey to the most appalling speculations and doubts about myself. I changed cars at Dragonsburg, and left on the midnight train for Chicago. " It is a question if any one individual ever brought about so many blasted hopes, and demoralized air-castles, and ruin- ous baker's bills, as I did by my outrageous behayior at Center Hill. Perhaps they try to console themselves with the thought that my unknown sweetheart must have given me the mitten. " I never had the temerity to make inquiries and find out whether those poor, misguided people still go on inflicting my various names on the rising generation of men and brutes. But I presume they don't ; I presume they heartily wish they had never known me or heard of me. 58 Hart Gilbert Palmer. "Good George ! I have talked myself hoarse, and my listeners fast asleep ! " " Not all. But what about the gloves, parasol, and other feminine luxuries ?" "That is entirely an irrelevant question. Still, as you must have inferred the significance of my visit to Will, and as I am feeling pretty good-natured, I will tell you : I have succeeded in working oflF most of those knick-knacks on my feminine relatives. Some of them, however, will keep ! — Goodnight!" '^^"^^^^^ l¥J, ' «LiUil~3J«- ' ^" id my other Such is Life. 59 IS you 11, and I have on my ep ! — SUCH IS UFE. I M)VED a lass of sweet sixteen As mortal mad ne'er loved before ; Of my fond heart she was the queen, And should be so for evermore. Her eyes were of the softest blue. Her hair was of the richest brown ; Her heart to me I felt was true, And on my suit she did not frown. From March till June I wooed my love, And gloried in her gentler rule ; "My love," I cried, "for this fair dove,^ Can nothing sap, can uothmg cof .. I raved about her silken hair ; I feasted on her eyes so blue ; I said, " No other is so fair. No other is so sweet and true." I swore that she should be -my own ; I swore to take a rival's life ; I swore -but when twelve months had flown Another sweetheart was my wife. 6o Could I But Know. COULD I BUT KNOW To One Miss Frost. Could I but know that any years That swift will come, as ten have gone, Would one day bring The cruel sting From my sad heart, which nothing cheers. Could I but know Whether or no In future time bright days will dawn. And fierce Despair yield up his fears. Could I but know, oh, silent one ! That you would care were I cut ofif;, Would waste one tear Over my bier, Sadly reflect my race was run. Could I but know If you would go Still wreathed with smiles, still quick to scoflF At the poor wretch whose work was done. ssmgmim nr Could I But Ktww. Could I but know, long-loved iweetheart. That you would heed well-earned renown Coming to me, On piniona free ! Would you then feel or joy or amart? Could I but know Whether or no Fame would bring me your amile or frown, Or one kind word, wrung from youi heart. Could I but know that, after all, The old-Ume love might burat aflame. Surge in your heart. Wake with a atart— Wake to new life, come at my call ! Could I but know It might be ao! For past miaUkea mine be the blame, Since, to all time, I am your thrall. 6l «— ^ «a The Creek by the School-House. THE CREEK BY THE SCHOOL-HOUSE. ThbRB are •treain* that in wildnett or beauty Can outvie the loved atreatnlet that flowed Paat the school-houae that stood on the hill-top, On the sunniest side of the road. But I question if any broad river Ever proved a more bountiful giver Of delight, to the scholars that thronged it. When recess gave them all an hour's freedom. In the spring it was surely a river, And the flood-time would last many days. When our teacher would give object lessons. Showing islands, and channels, and bays. How we waded, and splashed, and made merry In the building of staunch rafts, to ferry All our schoolmates across the wide waters, While we caught frightful colds, or took quinsy. When the floods had receded and stranded Our old raft, we at once built a dam. Which afforded a pond, that was spacious. And a cascade — that was but a sham. There were trout in the creek, though some doubted, Till it came to my uncle, who shouted, "They would scarce know a trout from a dolphin!" And the next day he hooked all our beauties. ^a. The Creek by the School-House. 1 have fi.hed In «ome .treanii that are fa.nou.. Both in blatory, legend, and »ong ; Had the luck that the fiahermau boaata of, Told the talea that to our craft belong. But my heart itill goes out to the funny Little fiahea I caught, in the aunny Afternoon, that 1 atayed after «:hool hour. And went fi.hing. with no thought of lying. It wa. there I outakated a rival. And cha..ged boyhood', warm friend.hip to .trife ; Till next Mason he .aved me from drowning, At the imminent riak of hi. life. To that atream and it. memorie. w treaaured My heart turna, with a fondne.. unmea.ured ; And whenever I meet an old »choolmate How our Ulk drift, to dam., raft., and ducking.! 63 1!' lit. Privateer and the Pirate. THE PRIVATEER AND THE PIRATE. •TWA8 ■ bllthetoine day lh«t we tailed away, In a gallant ahip, on a twelvemonth trip, With a fav'rlng breeie, to Pacific aea*. All intent to aeiie — or at leatt to teaae — An old pirate chief, who'd long played the thief, And blurred Hitfry'a leaf, ere he came to grief. He waa aaid to nip and to rutbleaa rtrip All that came hia way in the shape of prey. We had guna abaft on our warlike craft ; We had rifled guna ; we had ahot by tona ; For the rigging placed ; in the good aliip's waitt ; Ev'rywhere you traced what waa nice to baate The old pirate's hull, or to crack the skull Of his miniona dull and Iheir reign annul. We were freemen's sons, and the flag that runa Peace and trade to waft floated fore and aft. We'd a crew as bold as those men of old Whom Decatur led, or as those who bled On the Chesapeake, time that "Greek joined Greek." Should our sabers speak, foul the decks must reek With the pirates' gore. We had swords in store. With small-arms galore ; and to fight all swore Till the rascals fled, or our crew lay dead, With their lives dear aold, and their tale untold. Yet we had no care, but were debonair ; Just enjoyed a fray; — we were rigged that way. We were full of fun, and the yams we spun On a moonlit run, or 'neath murky sun. Of In Ot Ol •T A O V \ y The Privates and the Pirate. Of fierce cor«irH' gol;" '"*^' From her jib and prow, we might well allow •Twa. the pirate ship that we longed to ^»»»P- Should we tackle slip and their speed outstrip, And let cannon roar ere the day was oer? Should we not instead make as if we flertf Our swart captain's word prompt and clear was heard We must let her chase till she won the race, And then slow her pace, with an easy grace, With a broadside blaze that would ""C** •"»«• That would splinters raise Id our laughing gaze , While her crew, dismayed, and by terror "wayed^ Found they'd sadly erred, and a hornet stirred. So we tacked about, as in sudden rout, Once we clearly knew that the ilrange ships crew Had our «iil espied. The look-out. '"O" «="«^ . Our attempt to hide was a dodge well tried For the stranger tacked, with a haste that smacked Of a pirate's act and a quarry tracked. Brisk the east wind blew; fast she did pursue; And we had no. doubt of a lively bout. To reUrd our speed to the pirate's need We let anchors slip and the fore-sail rip. Which made progress slow, yet for "^e o^ .how We wemed fain to go and ewape the blow. Our good .hip did lag and the fleet hours wag. Till they rai«5d the rag called a pirate flag; When we thought a tip f~«the cannon . lip Would proclaim our creed and give u. the lead. 65 7he Privateer and the Pirate. I' So we drew a bead on their flag of greed, Which was shot away. Quick we then display The old Stars and Stripes, while a gunner gripes The hot iron and wipes from their bows all types Of life-boat or launch. But our cheeks soon blanch, For their hot balls craunch through our good ship's paunch. With sounds that convey, beyond all gainsay, We must drown indeed, or to pirates cede. We would all die game, so we took quick aim At the pirate's stern, with intent to burn His infamous craft (for the wind was aft), While the wretches laughed and our good health quaffed. But the shot flew wide, and we were denied What had raised our pride in the hour we died. It was now their turn our requests to spurn. Though we all felt shame any ruth to claim. We looked for the noose, but a flag of truce To our gaze was flung, and to ev'ry tongue There came words of praise, while our captain pays His respects and says, "I don't like such ways; We shall hang, I fear, but we all drown here ; And fond hope will cheer till escape draw near — Or till we are swung." To our boats we sprung, And in time cut loose from the Hissing Goose. We were well received, but of arms relieved ; While our good ship sank as we heard the clank Of the irons they brought, to bind all, we thought. But we learned they sought those who steel work wrought. Our machinists three, whom they quick set free. Would they but agree, upon bended knee. To adjust some crank which had played a prank, That had all deceived, and their captain grieved. With sail power alone they could hold their own. But they engines had, which a callow lad As their engineer, in his dullness queer, Or when seized with fear, had thrown out of gear. W( Bu Tl O Ir s: s I ranch. uaffed. The Privateer atid the Pirate. We all seemed to know we were doomed to woe As they marched us slow to the guards below ; But our captors glad in their mirth were mad, While we would not moan o'er our fate unknown. That hot night seemed long as we heard the song Of the pirates drunk, till a stupor sunk Over one and all. — Hist ! Our workmen's call ! Then a sudden brawl, and the pirates sprawl In a maudlin rage, but short combat wage. Ere our guards engage they are in our cage, Spite of all their spunk ; and the pirate junk Does to us belong, as her decks we throng! All the thieves there shipped much of anguish sipped. But we all were fain to avoid blood stain ; So a port we made and our charges laid. Never more they strayed on a thieving raid ! From their horrid boasts we have freed all coasts; And now but as ghosts will those robber hosts Sail upon the main, or their fights maintain. — We in this way whipped their last bark equipped. 67 rought. 68 Take Courage! TAKE COURAGE! My boy, has failure oft been thiue? Dost think good fortune always sweet? Had Washington, at Brandywine, Or after any sore defeat, Thought all was lost, should we to-day Claim him our hero, now and aye? Take courage ! Time will bring redress ; A few defeats oft bring success. Had Franklin many books, my boy ? Were Garfield's younger days not sad ? Knew Lincoln's childhood no alloy? No case is hopeless for the lad Who wills to win, and can but wait, As hist'ry proves, from earliest date. Wait, then, my boy — but waiting, work ! Nor leisure waste, nor duty shirk ! My boy, art thou oppressed by wrong? Weighed down by sickness? short of means? With friends but as an idle throng Of strangers? Know, if sufTring weans Thy heart from folly, pride, and vice, It costs thee but an honest price. And harbor not revenge, my boy ; Deliv'rance, used so, brings no joy. Take courage ! Time will right all wrong ; But hoi« not all things in thy youth. Though long years pass, be thou but strong. With faith in manhood, justice, truth. 'Twere better to be all unknown. Than known for wealth or power alone. Take courage ' God means all things well — How well, some future day will tell. mss^: Uncle Dick at Church. 69 UNCLE DICK AT CHURCH.- "This morning I will go to church," Quoth Uncle Dick one sunny day, As slowly he took from its perch A clothes-brush and began to play It o'er his broadcloth coat ; which done, He raked his ragged whiskers through And then the frightful task begun Of smoothing down the locks that grew Upon his head, untouched for years By either hair-brush, comb, c- shears. Tbeji, last of all, his rusty boots • He brushed most tenderly, and said, "Now, if uiy daughter ever hoots At these again, I'll take blacklead And let her brush them her own self; For never shall she be ashamed Of her old dad, now that his pelf Has made him TrustbB, and proclaimed His worth." The clothes-brush down he laid. And then his long, gaunt form surveyed. To church went Uncle Dick that day. And solemn looked for ev'ry text, Though frowns across his brow would stray, To show he was at times perplexed In doing this and keeping pace With the discourse the pastor gave. When hymns were sung his rugged face Lit up, and low he hummed a stave Or two, to let the pastor hear He had a true musician's ear. 70 Uncle Dick at Church. But unawares to Uncle Dick The contribution-box drew near ; And as he never could be quick, His daughter nudged him, in sharp fear. Then Uncle Dick drew slowly out Of some vast pocket an old pipe And purse, that was all wound about With longish band, of fiery stripe. Which slowly, calmly, he unwound. While all looked on and made no SH)und. The band unwound, it proved the ta:! That some spry chipmunk once had worn ; The purse itself, the chipmunk's pale Gray skin, in which had long been borne The silver coin that Uncle Dick Kept always handy, to relieve The outcast, U; he strong or sick— For suffering ever made him grieve. With mirth or shame all eyes grew dim ; The choir could sing no further hymn. IMH'JHKHW" To the First Organ Grinder of the Season. 71 TO THE FIRST ORGAN-GRINDER OF THE SEASON. I PRAY you, grind no more to-day, Or youV small eyes may cease to gleam ; I'd rather hear a jackass bray. Or even a mad poet scream. Or, let me hear a raven sing ! It surely would less torture bring. Yonr very monkey seems half crazed, And jabbers in a troubled way ; The gamins stare at you amazed, And hearken not to what you play. When friendly critics of this stamp Find fault, I think you should decamp. Can you not grind some other airs Thftn " Put Me in My Little Bed " And " Climbing Up the Golden vStairs ? " Play any other strains instead ; Grind chestnuts old from " Pinafore," Or newer ones from "Ruddigore." P»rhaps your intellect has fled, Perhaps, swan-like, you hymn your dirge To put you in a narrow bewe save, While marbles still the boys entrance ; The spring-time bards now long to rave, And Jack Frost gives them now a chance. Come, get thee to a peanut stand, And cater to the rhymster band. Forbear, rash man, to longer play ; Prepare your spirit for its flight ; I can my wrath no longer stay ; Your death you premature invite.— Cease, or you'll hear a maniac shout, And vou will think the stars are out ! mid "Bill at Triche; . ' Corners, 73 WILD BILL AT TRICKEYS' CORNERS. A BUCOLIC BALLAP. SoMB months ago a tenderfoot Met with a bad Wild Bill, Who "confideuced" him with a tale That mode the big tews spill. Evangelist, Bill called himself, And seemed a pious man. (Truth was, he'd worked at Hamlet town The Temp'rancc-racket plan Of lecturing to such af gave Their dimes to keep the hog. Till now he seemed to be reduced To one wife and a dog.) Bill tearful said, it was like this. He now must beg or preach, Unless some good Samaritan Came soon within his r^ach. The tenderfoot straight huaiped himself, Atul gave Bill a ten spot. And sent hira to a country place To take a house and lot, Which ',vas the only property The tenderroot had left ; Since througt his misplaced confidence He oft had been bereft. k.ti£Gif4'iilil:ik'>!(^\ 74 mid 'Bill at Trickeys' Corners. It was a wild and quiet spot, And hardly worth Bill's while To pose as an Evangelist, Or more conceal his guile. His pocketful of recommends From people who would fain Have got them back, Bill laid away, And said, "Now I'll raise Cain!'» With dynamite he raised fruit-trees For fuel, and laid waste, With huge bon-fires, the orchard, till A dull, red hue was placed Upon Bill's pallid face again. And things got painted red. Meanwhile, his wife worked like a Turk (But barefoot, it was said,) To cook meals for their white dog. Watch — Which must not starve, because In him lay schemes by which Bill might Again evade the laws. Besides, Bill thought a dog gave tone To his establishment ; And neighbors to affright, he'd pound Watch to hia heart's content. Wild Bill would sometimes pledge his watch, And sometimes his gold chain. For a small loan -and then would come A racket he was fain To spring upon these hapless ones : He'd say, with a sad whine, A broker's Act exposed them to A hundred dollar fine! «■ : ; wf TSg^Wi'ip^^^f'"^ -" " '.Villi 'Bill at Trickeys' Corners. The neighbors thought Bill filled the bill As outlaw, born aud bred, And said for fear of nightly raids They scarce dare go to bed. Bill, when his little rent was due, Lit out at four o'clock. And said he would a-camping go. Where bailiffs could not flock. The tenderfoot. Bill's landlord, then Fast locked up the front door : Bill came at midnight's quiet hour, With wife and dog —and swor*!. Soon, with an axe, he banged away, (While neighbors felt the shock. And knew Wild Bill was at his tricks) Then burst in, with a rock. A war of fiendish deeds ensued, With pistol-pointing scenes, And trailings after constables, Aud loss of hoarded means. Then Wild Bill and the tenderfoot Each to the Law repaired ; Bill got by far the smartest "limb," And so much better fared. Bill's lawyer thought his client was A real, live, English lord, And was content to take his chance Of getting big reward. This lawyer was full chivalrous. As most Scotch lawyers are ; He wore a neat panama hat, Aud looked brimful of war. 75 I 76 IViU 'Bill at Trkheys' Corners. When Bill's misdeeds were all exposed Unto the light of day, He stood revealed a criminal, And had no word to say. At this Bill's lawyer showed surprise, And mad and madder grew. Then swung his supple arms about, /Ind read Bill's letters through ! Which, having done, he glared full on The tenderfoot, in glee, With great attempt to emphasize His code of chivalry. 'Twas then the cunning tenderfoot Showed letters, not a few. In which Bill's sponsors called the man A fraud, and rascal, too. Whereat Wild Bill would fain have tried To bolt out of the door. But, facing that way, lo ! one who With warrant held the floor, To march Bill off to lockups vile, If judgment went that way. But no V Bill's lawyer mopped his face. And bri-'k renewed the fray. The sequel can be surely guessed: The tenderfoot got left, He got, besides, the neighbors' blame. And his front door was cleft. A few aged eggs were thrown at Bill, And he skipped out by night.— The moral is, smart lawyers get, If you'd come out all right ! The Old IVood Stave. 77 THE OlM WOOD STOVE. How many glad ThanlcBgiving Daya, old friv .d, Have aeeti a roaring fire cauM thee to dance And chant a monody that did enhance Thy worth with all the merry crowd that apend That day, in all the year, at home, and blend Their laughing carols with the loud refrain (^ first fire that heralds winter's reign, Wh. .oaring and exultant, these portend. Thy reign and winter's reign these days indeed Portend ; and as each autumn a feast day Thy advent marks, so the first robin's lay Suggests thy banishment, and we make speed To claim again we have no further need Of thy fierce heat, and thou art housed away In the fresh spring-time, ere yet it is May, To summer's exile, where no one will heed. Alas ! in these days thou art exiled quite— These modem days, which scorn thee as old scrap, Which scarcely think it worth the while, mayhap. To cart thee to a junk shop, but delight In furnaces and natural gas, despite That plumbers are more haughty than the chap Who, with his basswood maple, did entrap Those who well loved thy honest heat and light Yet some of us still heave a sigh to know The wood-stove of the forties had to go I diHiiiaiAmd^ i ' iminH I"'"' 78 A Sad Face on the Street. A SAD FACE ON THE STREET. IT chanced a sad-faced invalid— Who lacked the Kreat renown That money gives in this mad age. Which, with a lofty frown, Man measures by his bank-account, A lady by her gown- Was seen full often on the street, lu one far Northern town. Some hdped for him he might reach Heaven, Where he would need no feet, But could provide no means below For him, as man, to eat. With heathen still in Africa, Could ladies pause to greet, Day after day, one who was but A stranger on the street? It was beneath their dignity To care for such as he. Perhaps some ladies feared his tongue Was trained to swear with glee ; For aught they knew, he might be mad, A fool, or a "Chinee"; He might be some young reprobate From whom they straight should flee. , ^^^^^^^^H^^ . ^ \ , \ \ i ' . i IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) V // .>^^ ,.;* c^ u ^ u. 1.0 I.I 1.25 141 I- lU IIM m 1.4 IM 1= 1.6 Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 % ,y CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. *;■ I CIHM/ICMH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques ^ \r "1 A Sad Face on the Street. But many in the good old town Had Christian purpose high. A Tennysonian maxim runs, (It may have met their eye) ^'Kind hearts are more than coronets." — How could this here apply? What mattered it, so long as they Could silent pass him by? No creed, as clearly was made out, Such hardship could embrace. Besides, it was much easier The Darwin view of race To take, "The fittest must survive," And fit it to his case ; And if, heart-broken, he soon died — Farewell to his sad face. It was not that he wished for aid, Or with wild tales ctgoled The citizens. He had no vice ; He envied none their gold ; A means to help himself was all He asked, with frankness bold ; But while some a keen interest took. This means they would withhold. He found indeed some sterling friends ; (True men are ever good) To them he was a brother man, Who did here what he could. — At last he disappeared from town, To gentler neighborhood ; Some wondered if he'd e'er come back ; Some hoped he never would. Had he but been an Indian, From some side-show estrayed; A murderer, a mountebank In some nefarious trade ; 79 8o A Sad Face on the Street. If he had e'er been in the toils Of Law ; had he arrayed Himself like fop or clown, 'twould have A wondrous diff 'rence made ! Perhaps some day he'll reach the Heaven He surely had in view, And there may be as well received As either I or you. In that event, shall we feel shame We had not proved as true To him, on earth, as unto those Who were quite well-to-do? A l{ainy April Day. 8i A RAINY APRIL DAY. Ali« day long a steady rain, Though the sun tries hard to shine, And to-morrow it is plain That the weather will be fine. So indoors I will remain, Watching rain-drops crystalline. And for pastime will arraign. Not the weather saturnine, — Which were but a task' of pain, And might prove a stupid whine, — But those rbymsters who complain Of their Muse, in leonine Anapests that were germane To the genus asinine. Surely it requires no brain To turn verses metalline, And work in, as a refrain, Sc nething of a vespertine Converse, in which Lady Jane Is assured by Constantine That he loves her, might and main. All these poets wait a sign From Apollo's sacred fane, Waiting, as a drove of kine Moo and wait the tardy swain, Who must come with Scotch canine, Bre they can get home again. Should the old god prove supine. 8a A %ainy April Day. From some cause hard to explain, As that he should now incline To bring physics to the plane Of Euterpe's art divine, Or Urania's domain ; Or should he be drunk with wine, And with loud remarks profane Doom the songsters fit to twine Roundelays that appertain To the fulsome valentine; Bidding Pegasus curb rein In his soarings, and confine The old steed with clanking chain. Lest in rashness he should pine, With spread wings and tossing mane. In a frolicsome design To bear rhymsters, young and vain, Like a whirlwind on his spine To the height that they would fain, Not by mountings serpentine, But in one brief day attain, — Whence, secure, they might combine 'Gainst the critic, boor or thane, Or shoot, like the porcupine, Till all enemies were slain ; When, as to a far-famed shrine, Would repair a servile train Of admirers, to recline At tlieir feet, like the insane Devotees who now resign All the wit they yet retain To old fetiches malign, Inspiration to obtain. Just to meet, without repine, Polyhymnia's disdain, Or a punishment condign From some critic, who will gain Meed and meat whereon to dine; Should old Pegasus abstain A %ain)> April Day. For his own sake, and decline To leiid aid, lest he should strain His arched wings, so anserine, Overmuch, and cause a blain On his sides, to undermine His sound health, that it should wane — Then these rhymsters would opine That Caliope should reign, And not seek a countersign From Apollo, or detain His old nag, perverse as swine ; But Caliope, as sane As the Muses are benign. Might be minded to ordain That they barrel paraffine, Or go digging in a drain ; Should Thalia fall in line, And refuse to entertain Sonneteers who would enshrine Fighting cat or squaking crane; Should Erato, with stern eyne. Bid them drive a baggage wain And cart trunks for pavonine Bride and groom, but lately twain ; Should fair Clio countermine Their weak efforts, and constrain Them to ink drawn from the brine. If they'd try historic vein ; Should Melpomene assign . Them to sketch a hurricane. With a fury levautine That would rend a weather-vane; SI ould Terpsichore consign Them a hornpipe to sustain. In old Pluto's dreadful mine, On a burning counterpane; — Then these poets vulturine Might some little sense regain. And their skinny hands entwine 83 84 A 1{ainy April Day. Round a bludgeon-heavy cane, To stampede the Muses nine With fierce blows, laid on amain, Bringing groans and tears saline ; When perhaps, without a grain Of " fine frenzy " to refine, They'd turn verses that contain Nonsense good as mine or thine. — So has passed this day of rain, With a sun that would not shine.* * N. n.— A wet January day— later. If the reader can make head or tail out of all this twaddle, wilt he please communicate with the writer, and oblige ?— B. W. M. rtailout of all — B. W.M. mas The Small Boy in the Choir. 85 THE SMALL BOY IN THE CHOIR. Who is it that sings so sweetly Ev'ry Sunday in the choir, With his mobile face discreetly Calm, and bulged eyes, that aspire To impress you with the notion That he owns the church entire. That his voice swings all in motion. From the basement to the spire? Coming ambling into matins, With his hymn-book in his hand. Plump he treads on silks or satins. Which, he can not understand, Should not straight a highway offer. When his squeaking shoes command The respect of e'en the scoffer — While who dares give reprimand ? For he is the loudest singer In the little village choir. And his voice has been the bringer Of a consternation dire Unto ev'ry stranger hearing That shrill voice, which naught can tire. Which but mocks the hymns endearing, And sets all one's nerves on fire. I -"■¥' m 86 The Small Boy in the Choir. He is strongest in tlie chorus And where'er the orKati's strong, When it seems lie would throw o'er us All the spell of the glad song ; Yet I've often paused to wonder, Would his voice, had I a thong And could dip hiui squarely under Stern Niagara, hold out long? Icy sports for scales he'll barter, That bis voice may be enjoyed, And when chilled, drinks like a martyr Onion syrup unalloyed. Yet who'd think that such perfection Soils his cuflTs of celluloid. Or at dinner needs inspection, Lest with cabbage he be cloyed ? Who'd suspect that teeth so shining Could chew borrowed gum at school ? Can this calm mind, so refining. Gnaw slate-pencils, 'gainst all rule? Yet his breath smacks of infections, For it wafts the perfume cool Of the peppermint confections Found on Christmas-trees at Yule. Can it be this ursine-howler Hides a fish-hook in that vest? Can he be the self-same prowler That has robbed our blue-jay's nest? Who could see in him the leader Of the hoodlums that infest Laden orchards — and the beeder Of the shot-gun's sharp behest ! Spite of lordly air and ringlets, Are his pockets stuflfed with string ? Can he condescend to fling threats. At the picnic, for a swing? (iiB.«j;.. The Small Boy in the Choir. Could we guess that, wc.iriiiK .Sunday Ou one finger a gold ring, When off duty on a Monday, He goes gunning with a sling? But, alas ! he seems a fixture, That no protest can molest, A nightmare, without admixture. That leaves church and choir oppressed. "Be a choir-boy," grandma Morgan Had as her last wish expressed; And the wheezy old church organ Was that lady's last bequest. 87 88 Groiui'i. GROANS KVOKKI) DURING THK I'KKIOD OF THK I'IKST FRENZY. LK8 Soupihs d'un Jouvknckau. MARGukRiTK, niiKiiotine, tna liotine, nia chin, m'atnie, Si je pouvait te chercher aujourd 'hui, Si je pouvais baiiier tea jouen si douces, Si je savais que tu peiiBasMs & Bruce. Et je soiige ejue tu es proche raoi, A ma tnignonne, Songe que tea petites niaina gout niises dans lea tniennes ; Songe tea baisers brAlent sur iiies jouea et l^vres, Pendaut que ta voix dit, "I in'auiour, j'y auia." Whkn I'd told fifteen years, or more, I loved a dainty little miss. Who charmed nie much, although so young. Her years were twelve, and to her clung The airs of childhood, yet the grace Of womanhood shone in her face. Our courtship brief, yet much of bliss We knew in those sweet days of yore. My tongue spake not the love I felt, My eyes, though, told it ev'ry day; And her eyes, answ'ring mine, full well, Revealed the love we could not tell. So were we happy, for we knew No jealous doubts," no vows untrue. Maturer passion's tyrant sway Had scorned the calm wherein we dwelt. A severed way, while children yet, Wrecked childhood's love. Both could forget I n it n t< t< n t( d n t\ tl h Ci SI ai g si mie, e, lines ; My First Proposal. MY FIRST PROPOSAL. A MOST UNSATISFACTORY LOVE-STORY, I FELL desperately in love with Mary Blakely. I was young, only nineteen, and she was younger, only six- teen. She was beautiful,— at least, my passion for her told me she was,— amiable, sprightly, and altogether bewitch- ing. Further, she was poor, and so was L Oh, how I loved that girl ! I could set my mind on nothing, accomplish nothing, for thinking of her. I seemed to know intuitively when she was coming, and on going to the window, would see her pass ; but she seemed to be near me always. I resolved that she should be my wife ; I resolved, further, to become a great man. To that end, I would write a won- derful love-story, which should be the admiration of the rest of the nineteenth and the whole of the twentieth, twenty-first, twenty-second, and twenty-third centuries. By that time my wonderful love-story would have become a hoary antiquity, like Shakespeare's dramas ; and, as in the case of Shakespeare, there would then be grave, fussy, and spectacled litterateurs to comment on my Mary, my book, and me. I wrote slowly, laboriously, and solemnly; and as my story grew and grew, I loved Mary more and more. Of course she was the heroine, and of course I took care to make this -« 'H ^^Hl 90 My First Proposal. so plain that she could not fail to recognize herself. How pleased she would be, how honored she would feel, to find herself some day. the heroine of the most popular novel of the decade ; and when the world-renowned writer of this novel should ask her to be his wife, how quickly would a brilliant wedding ensue ! Did she love me ? As I loved her, she must love me. On such an argument I laid the foundations of my air-castle. I seldom saw her, except to say "good-day," and could not determine to a certainty whether I had won her love or not. But I trusted I had ; I tried hard to persuade myself I had. At all events, as soon as my book should be published, the way to her heart '^i^ould be open. And with this I must be content till the hour of my triumph should come. One day I could not forbear telling her about my book, add- ing that I meant to send it to Boston for publication. I hadn' t the courage to tell her she was the heroine of the book, but hinted at it darkly by saying I thought she would like to read it, because there were certain persons in it that she would know. I often had cause to be furiously jealous — at least, I fan- cied I had cause. Didn't she go to school, and didn't every boy in school fall in love with her ? Of course they did — how could they help it ? Most of the boys were a year or so younger than she, it is true ; but what of that ? Didn't women marry men younger than themselves 365 days out of the year? And besides, was not the head master — though as ugly as a schoolboy's caricature of the rascal who " tells on" him — an unmarried man? Again, did she not get a letter every week or so ? The address on these letters was written in a hand decidedly feminine ; but what of that ? That was a mere ruse between Mary and some mustached lover. (I, alas ! had met with nothing but disappointment self. How ^1, to find ir novel of ter of this y would a 'e me. On r-castle. I could not ove or not. myself I published, :his I must ne. book, add- . I hadn't I book, but lid like to t that she last, I fan- idn't every tiey did — B a year or t? Didn't lays out of :r — though who "tells not get a etters was t of that ? tnustached ipointment My First Proposal. 91 in my endeavors to cultivate a mustache.) In fact, it seemed to me that everybody was in love with her, and that she was in love with everybody. And yet, she was to be my wife ! One day, the brightest day in my calendar, she said to me, " Haven't you been well lately, Robert ? I haven't seen you for nearly a week." From that time I began to rebuild my air-castles on a better foundation. It is to be remarked, also, that although she received a letter that very day in the feminine hand- writing, I refused to believe in the existence of a mustached lover. But I am wandering from my starting-point. I did not often see my Mary, but when I did she always said " good- day" very courteously, and always accepted the apples I gave her. I have said that I was poor. I had no money to buy little trinkets and knick-knacks for her — I had not money even to buy her caramels. -But my brain was pretty active at that period, and writing my wonderful book kept my ingenuity always in play. (What with writing, fancy- ing a lover in every shadow about her path, plotting to cir- cumvent visionary rivals, and trying to guess her thoughts, I all but ruined my imaginative powers.) One day I gave her a Union Pacific railway map ; another day, some home- made popped com ; still another day, a little treasure of a pop-gun — not for herself but for her little brother. I had painstakingly fashioned this pop-gun myself, and covered it with kisses. She would not be able to detect any trace of these fond kisses, to be sure — in fact, I doubted whether she would ever know anything about them ; but the gun would, 1 icessarily pass through her hands, and if she should happen to kiss it — ! At all this the reader may smile contemptuously. Very good ; I expect him to smile ; a year before I myself should have smiled .iloud. "'imss 93 My First Proposal. Toward the end of May she seemed to grow weary of me. The "good-day, Robert," was very distant sometimes ; and when I yanked the forty-fifth apple out of my coat pocket, and began, " Here is," she cut me short with an " oh, never mind," and passed on. My imagination was very active as, sleepless and feverish, I wore out the night following that dreadful day. I distinctly read a dozen letters addressed to her, each one being an offer of marriage. I vividly saw her married over and over again, but I was not once the bridegroom. My powerful imagination pointed out that the " mustached " lover was my most formidable rival ; that he was twenty- one ; that he was an accomplished gentleman ; that he was heir to a noble estate ; that he would eventually marry Mary. My imagination went further; it told me that Hubert (that was his name, for Mary often said she liked the name of Hubert) was utterly unworthy of her ; that her married life with him would be thorny ; that in the end he would desert her ; that I should then find and snatch her from her misery ; that she would simply say to me, with such a piteous look, " Oh, Robert, forgive me ! " and then shudderingly die. At this culmination of horrois I fell sound asleep. But worse than this was in store for me. I saw two or three of the youths of the village escort her home from church, in a timid and rustic manner that should have made me laugh. But if they had more courage than I, how could I laugh? It was iAetr privilege to do all the laughing. Worse and worse! I saw her go for a boat-ride with a young curate and two young ladies of her own age. Of course the dashing clerical was desperately in love, and planned the boat-ride for her ,- the other two were but figure- heads, nonentities, who had probably shoved themselves in, uninvited and undesired. a d o e e S' My First Proposal. 93 ry of me. mes ; and It pocket, oh, never active as, vring that dressed to / saw her idegroom. istached" s twenty- It he was ly marry me that i liked the that her he end he natch her me, with and then ois I fell iw two or ome from lave made bow could laughing, le with a age. Of love, and tut figure- iselves in, Now, I had no boat ; I wouldn't borrow one — for I was a blunderhead at rowing, anyway. I will not harrow up my feelings by attempting to describe the agonies I endured. In my desperation I resolved to lay my heart, and hand, and unfinished love-story at her feet, the first opportunity. I had intended to wait till I could lay my story printed, and through it the world, before her ; but now I could endure suspense no longer ; I must know ray fate at once. I did not encounter Mary again for nearly a week. She seemed rather pleased to see me, and I said huskily, "I have not seen you for some time, Mary. I — I — ." " No," she said slowly, and was slowly moving on. I meant to propose then ; but we were on the street ; she seemed to be in a hurry. Of course I could not propose, on the street, under these circumstances ; no one, surely, could expect it of me. So that opportunity slipped past. But, making a superhuman effort, I said, "Shall you be at home this evening ? I should like to have an interview with you. ' ' Her face showed a little surprise and, it may be, pleasure. Did she suspect ? I think she did. *• Yes, I expect to be in," she replied. And so we went our different ways. The battle had now begun. Had I the courage and, above all, the self-command, to go on to victory — or defeat? I devoutly hoped so, but was so dazed that I had no clear idea of anything. Very early that evening I put in my appearance. But early as it was, Mary was ready to receive me. Further, even to my unpractised eyes, she seemed to have taken special pains with her toilet. Surely, she expected an offer of marriage ! This so un- nerved me that I could hardly frame what the grammarians 94 My First Proposal. call a simple sentence. Then Mrs. Blakely came into the room for a moment, and greeted me with marked politeness. .My boyish verdancy prompted me to infer that she had been told something, and expected me to propose. Now, all this should have encouraged me, for if it meant anything, it meant that they regarded me with favor. But my head was dizzy, and I felt deathly sick. Mary's mother discreetly withdrew, and we were alone. " How are you getting on at school, Mary ? " I faltered. "Oh, ver>' well," she said gaily; "but I'm rather tired of school." " How are your plants thriving? " was my next question. " I see they are gracing the windows." "Oh, they're coming on finely," she replied, stepping to the window and re-arranging some of the flower-pots. I had never been in her house before, and it was some- what embarrassing for both of us. But she was busying herself with the flowers, while I had nothing — not even my hat. How I wished that a gentle kitten or. a pet dog would stray into the room, that I might pick it up and fondle it ! I believed I could pluck up courage to propose, if only my hands were occupied. What big and clumsy hands they were, to be sure ; and, yes, there was an ugly ink-stain on the index finger of my right hand. Apparently I thought I had not yet exhausted school top* ics, and I said, " How are you getting on with your French, Mary?" "I'm translating Souvestre now," she answered. " Did you ever take up Latin again ?" I asked. These idiotic questions must have been highly entertain- ing to her. But she answered pleasantly, "No, not since we came to this place. It is only the boys that study Latin here now, and of course I didn't wish to take it up with them," shooting me an arch look. -^ My First Proposal. 95 into the tliteness. lad been it meant >r. But ilone. faltered, ler tired [uestion. >ping to s. as some- busying even my g would mdle it ! only my ids they stain on lool top- French, dtertain- ot since ly Latin up with " No, of course not ! " I replied hastily . Now, if ever, I should have had the courage to ask the vital question. But I had not. Then ensued a solemn and oppressive silence. " Mary," I said at length, " I — I thought you had taken a dislike to me lately." This was so close an approach to a proposal that I trem- bled as I spoke. "Why, no, Robert!" she said, coming back from the window. "What made you think that? I always liked you, Robert." At this my nineteen-year-old heart beat furiously ; a dim- ness impaired my vision ; everything in the room went spin- ning around in the craziest manner imaginable. It was hap- piness enough to be able to call her Mary and to be called Robert in return ; but it was thrilling and delirious joy to hear her say that she always liked me. With an eflfort I recovered myself. But instead of pop- ping the question, as I should have done if I wished her to be my wife, I — answered the question she had asked ! •" Oh, I suppose I was grum," I said. Another painful pause. In sheer desperation I blurted out, "I'll speak to you about it again in about six months, — six or seven months, — good night, Mary' ' ; caught up my hat, and tore out of the house. Notwithstanding my agitation I perceived that Maty looked annoyed, and her "good night" was cold and for- mal. Only those who have passed through the ordeal can have a just conception of my feelings. As I strode away I heaped the most scurrilous epithets upon myself — and yet I was happy ; for had she not said, emphatically, " I always liked ' t| L 96 My First Proposal. you, Robert ? " If I coitld but have had the moral courage, she might now be my promised wife. But she loved me ; of course she did ; why else had she spoken in that way, so unhesitatingly ? Did I believe in "Hubert " ? Certainly not ; " Hubert " was but a myth. As for the youths who dared to escort — or rather shadow — ^her home from church — . Pshaw ! The good-for-nothing fellows loved her, perhaps, (how could they help it ?) and she, perhaps, liked them, in a sisterly way, (what of that ?) but she Ipved me. As for the young curate—. Well, he might be her uncle, for all I knew, or her cousin- no, cousins often marry. Granted even that he was a rival, had I not stolen a march on him ? Mary loved me, even as I loved her ; and the clerical candidate was playing a losing game. So I could afford to pity the young clergyman, for he seemed a man who would take a disappointment very hard. Yes ; I could pity him with all my heart. Why had I said, "I'll speak about it again in about six months" ? Such a thought had never occurred to me before— in fact, it must have been the spell of some presenti- ment that had constrained me to speak in that way. Yes, it was clearly destined that in six months' time there wotUd be a great change wrought in my life. There would then be a period ; an epoch. Certainly ; I could sum up the mat- ter in a few words : Six months later, my book would be be- ^ fore the world ; I should be hailed as a second Dickens — perhaps it would even be said that I eclipsed Dickens ; and, best of all, Mary would be my promised wife, for I should then have no hesitation in boldly asking the dreadful ques- tion. And it might be that my young friend in holy qrders would perform the marriage ceremony for us, just six months from that date ! , .HitMidw 'ntttiil iHM'KMi .lOj^ 'j» My First Proposal. 97 courage, :d me ; of way, so Hubert" cort — or v! The >uld they irly way, curate — . cousin — IS a rival, !, even as ; a losing n, for he ery hard. in about ed to me presenti- ly. Yes, ere would }uld then ) the mat- aid be be- 4 (ickens — ins ; and, I should Iful ques- oly qrders ix months But, awful thought ! why had I subjoined, " six or seven months?" What was the significance of that addendum ? Was there to be some hitch in the presentiment ? Was some unforeseen calamity to threaten me at the expiration of six months, or of seven months ? " Good evening," smote upon my ear. With a start I awakened out of my reverie, and, behold ! my clerical rival ! He was going the way I had come, and I had come from Mary's ! Where was he going but to Mary's ? My diseased imagination, like a mighty engine too forcibly set in motion, began to play with a destructive velocity that could not be restrained. I lost track of the young man, but retraced my steps to Mary's. I came in sight of the place just in time to see some one going backwards down the slat walk leading to the gate, talking to — Mary ! My elaborate and beautiful air-castle came '.oppling about my ears with a crash that was startling. They were laughing and talking merrily. Who was it ? the curate, or " Hubert," once more resuscitated ? I never knew; for the figure on the walk abruptly took leave of Mary, and glided away at a rapid pace. The door slam- med to ; Hooked up ; Mary had disappeared in the house. Then I remembered her cold " good night " and her look of scorn as I took leave of her, and I again heaped abuse on my head. "She will think," I reflected, "that I en- trapped her into saying what she did. What does it all signify ? In reality, nothing. What a downright fool I am ! I will have a definite answer ! I jvill know my fate ! I will ask her, now, to be my wife !" Without waiting for my resolution to waver, I dashed up the walk and the door-steps, and sounded a peal that made mmm£ 98 My First Proposal. my ears tingle. Mrs. Blakely came running to the door in the liveliest alarm. " Is it fire ? " she gasped. "Is Mary in?" I asked, and brushed past her into the. hall. Then Mrs. Blakely recovered her composure, and ushered me into the parlor, where Mary was. As the door opened, Mary, who knew my voice, sat down at the piano and began playing softly. " An air that Hubert loves," I groaned. But my resolu- tion was still firm. Seeing a rug in disorder, I leaned over it and spread it out smooth and straight. "Mary," I said, in so sharp a tone that she started, turned, and faced me, "if I — should become — a famous fellow, will you marry me?" A rosy hue overspread her face, she nervously turned to her piano, played idly on three notes, and said tremulously, "Oh, Robert ! You mustn't talk that way ! " "Oh, I'm in earnest," I declared. A long and painful silence. Mary, with her face turned from me, pretended to be deeply interested in monotonously thumping away on those three notes. What had possessed me to say "fellow"? How com- monplace it sounded, and how it must have grated on Mary's sensitive ear. If only I could have written it, how polished and precise it would have been ! I broke the silence, saying, " I don't want any promise, Mary ; I only want to know what you think about it." But the poor girl still harped away at nothing. " I -wish you hadn't said anything about it," she at length said peev- ishly. I waited a moment longer, expecting her to stop that hateful tum-tumming and say something. But she did not. :he door in T into the. id ushered or opened, and began my resolu- read it out irp a tone t — should ■ turned to imulously, ace turned lotonously How com- on Mary's w polished y promise, It it." "I wish said peev- stop that le did not. Ml' First Proposal. 99 Perhaps she was waiting for me to exclaim passionately, as the orthodox lover would have done, " I love you ! " But I did not. I should have urged my suit and received a definite answer. Instead of this I mournfully said, "Very well, Mary," and went hopeless away, leaving her to her sonata of three notes and her own meditations. And so ended my first proposal. Who among us is a hero on that momentous occasion ? For my further extenuation, let me urge it upon the indulgent reader to bear in mind the fact that I was only nineteen. I can not wind up by saying that Mary looks over my shoulder as I write these last words, and gives me a wife's kiss. Alas, no ! Both Mary and I are still unmarried ; but the "great gulf" problem is here, and .such a consum- mation of my idyllic dream will hardly be realized. H "^^T^ip^^^ [ni i r-- i rr iuM' Hj Wft ' lOO i:'. Gone ! GONE! GoNB, as a sutiMt in Eden, Goue — and I'll see her no more; From ttaia sad hour must I ever Hopelesiily her loss deplore. Gone, as a mad poet's vision, Gone from my life as a druani ; Even she doubted I loved her — Ivoved her, with passion supreme I Gone, in her glorious beauty. Gone, in the magic of youth ; Better I never had spoken, Winning nor love, scorn, nor ruth. Somewhat 'twould lessen my sorrow Could I know would she forget; Somewhat, to know she once loved me. Cared that I worship her yet ! Gone, as a sweet dream of childhood, Gone, and I sit here alone ; Nor will some pitying angel Tell me if years will atone. Could I but know an atonement Of patient waiting must win. Through the long years would I suffer. As demons suffering for sin. Some Village Characters. 101 SOME VILLAGE CHARACTERS. OUR village does not He under the shadow of an historic mountain, nor is it laved by the waters of a spark- ling river. Alas, no ! It is bounded by millponds, pasture- grounds, and cross-roads. But its streets are named ; its site is shown on all the more ambitious railway maps ; it gets the daily papers before they are two days old ; and it can boast (but does not) of having given to the world a champion dog-catcher, a combination corn-doctor and horse-trainer, an unsuccessful mind-reader, a Mormon missionary, and a re- tired highwayman. Our village is inhabited — inhabited by human beings; boys and dogs; cows and porkers; sheep and mosquitoes; and certain insects that troubled Egypt during the fourth plague. It has many buildings — churches, "commercial houses" (in truth, some of them were houses once, and may be again), hotels, dwelling-houses, ramshackle sheds, a big school, and more hotels. On sauntering out into the streets of our village, we im- mediately see a figure ahead of us. We do not pass this figure, because no one was ever known to pass it. It is the 103 Some Village Characters. old woman in black, who is always lugging about a market- basket, and always just ahead of you. Next, we discern the town-clerk's time-worn dog, trudging leisurely along in the imperfect shade afforded by the "splendid" new stores on Waddell's block, on his way to the shambles, to wrangle with other hungry dogs for a paltry bone, of which, ten to one, he will be despoiled by the postmaster's over-fed bull- dog, which we shall meet presently. It is a proud day for our villagers when a son of the soil hauls a load of hemlock in from the back-woods, and gazes, with rapturous admiration, at our beautiful new stores. There is, in fact, but one prouder day in the whole year for them. That is every Fair-day, when the village photog- rapher and watch-maker draws his camero (as he calls it) and his other apparatus conspicuously down opposite that pile ; presses a dozen little orphan-boys into his service, causes them to lift, and strain, and groan, and whisper slang (?), and finally gets his apparatus into what was the right position only to find that old Sol, like time, waits for no man, and that it will have to be shifted. But at last everything is ar- ranged to suit the magnate ; and, after sending one little boy to get him a drink of water (?), and another all the way back to his ' ' gallery, ' ' on some mysterious errand, and two or three to every shop within sight, to announce that operations are about to begin, he deliberately takes off his coat, which he consigns to some adult bystander for safe-keeping, gives his "camero" a final hitch, and takes a picture of those stores. Although his name and dual employment are era- blazoned on his belongings in ornamental gilt letters, the villagers do not seem to think that he is advertizing himself, but patriotically buy his pictures, and have them framed by the cabinet-maker and sign-painter. «f— - Sowe Village Characters. 103 a market- liHcern the 3ng in tke stores on wrangle ch, ten to r-fed buH- of the soil and gazes, sw stores, le year for ',e photog- ills it) and that pile ; luses them ig (?), and It position man, and hing is ar- e little boy ; way back wo or three rations are oat, which ping, gives re of those nt are em- letters, the Ig himself, framed by But we have wanderrd. Pretty soon we confrotit the man who appears to be always stepping out of the corner hotel. He is not a handsome felW.v, not the ort of personage the editor's heiress woulH select to m^--- Some Village Characters. 105 of Thomas " I never s so like the man who is ig along the tmenon with et in a burst , a tragedy, jury, but we insult. Per- t, we reason, d away they i the corner. :ient village — in fact, he , pair of star- ch, .strangely ild debauch, akes consid- favorite with se, that each tie other, cious tastes, )ve of gaudy sure, he can langs a tale. ;bt of several r's own part. This debt the blind man promised to pay on a given date, but sickness prevented him from doing so. Thereupon the legal luminary of the village stepped, upon the scene, and undertook to collect the money, "with costs." It was an easy matter to get a judgment against the blind man, but an exceedingly difficult one to collect money from him, since he had none. How did the pettifogger proceed to recoup him- self? He simply appropriated a silver watch, which had been in the blind man's family for three generations. "A blind man has no manner of use for a watch," the petti- fogger argued ; "and as for his father and his grandfather, that people harp about so much — why, they are dead men, and dead men can pass the time cheerfully enough without the aid of watches." This line of argument shows us that the seedy and disre- garded pettifogger was not only an apt disciple of Locke, but an ideal humorist, as well. This expedient of his bears a striking analogy to the case of the shyster lawyer who wrong- fully tried to seize the hay crop of a man who had no horses of his own to feed, and again to the case of the Pharisee who got "r'iled" when found out in fraudulently juggling a gun away from a youth who had no leisure to shoot it off, except on holidays. It is hardly necessary to say that the village pettifogger kept the watch, and that his client appealed in vain for the amount due him. This incident is circumstantially related, because it goes to prove that the position of an unworthy lawyer in a dead country village is one of privation and ignominy, while that of a talented tonsorial artist is one of ease, affluence, dignity, and immense importance. In a word, a little cheap hair-dye, in such a place, is better than a brief. io6 Some Village Characters. Pretty soon we encounter the^ postmaster's dog. It is a powerful brute, with a deceptive smile on its mouth, a de- ceptive wag about its tail. It will bite a shoemaker, an errand-boy, an errandless boy, a boy with ragged clothes on, a boy without any clothes on at all, an organ-grinder, a doctor, a man with a cane, a man without a cane, an invalid with three or four canes, or a brass jewelry peddler. It will bite one and all of these, without remorse ; but it will not bite man, or boy, or scarecrow, carrying a gun, or anything in the shape of a gun. And wherefore ? Because in puppy- hood it was shot twice. But the canine is doomed ; sooner or later it will die by violence. So say the schoolmaster, the consumptive wood-sawyer, the butcher's boy, and all the hoodlums of the village. So, it is doomed. But perhaps "sooner or later," like to-morrow, will never come. It is not the dog, but the dog's master, that is respected and feared. Perhaps the votes cast at the last election may in- fluence the destiny of this canine autocrat. A little farther on we come up with a meek-eyed urchin, of the negativest of negative temperaments, who tremblingly gasps out "yes, ma'am," "no, ma'am," to everybody, of whatsoever sex or dignity. No matter what you ask him, he doesn't know, or he doesn't remember, or he isn't sure, or he forgets. Once he clean forgot himself, and said he didn't think he was sick. The people of our village are so cultured that nothing could induce them to say anything they think vulgar. On the hottest day in July, when the mercury is boiling and respiration almost suspended, they meet one another and say, gaspingly, "Isn't it awfully warm? " The more gen- teel among them — that is, those who have plodded through the first sixty -seven pages of some one's grammar, and ham- b Some yuiage Characters. 107 g. It is a outh, a de- :maker, an clothes on, i-grinder, a :, an invalid er. It will it will not \T anything le in puppy- led ; sooner [master, the and all the Jut perhaps ome. It is spected and ion may in- lyed urchin, tremblingly 'erybody, of )u ask him, e isn't sure, find said he [lat nothing irulgar. On boiling and mother and ,e more gen- ded through ir, and ham- mered the idea into their head that the suffix "ful" is an adjective, but that "fully" is an adverb, and that adverbs and warm (whatever th^t may be in grammar) are in some mysterious manner connected — say "awfully warm ;" but those whose education has been neglected, shock the refined ears of the genteelly educated ones by saying ' ' awful warm. ' ' Marry, after hearing this "isn't it awful (or awfully) warm?" asked by perspiring mortals on every side, for days together, how refreshing it is to hear the gamins sing out to one another, "It's hot, ain't it, Bill !" According to our villagers, though "hot" is a word fit only for cooks, vagabonds, and scientists, "cold" is ortho- dox, and expressive merely of chilliness. About the middle of September, when the equinoctial is brewing, and small boys begin, reluctantly, to leave oflF "swimming" in the creek, the genteel ones say, " It's cold to-day, isn't it?" If the villagers would drop- their scandalous gossiping, leave off reading their idle village weekly newspapers, and devote a little of their wearisome leisure to the acquisition of just a modicum of Bostonian — or even Leadvillian — cul- ture, it would be well for them and for their posterity. As for awful and awfully, why, existence would be a burden if the use of these two words were forbidden them. Why, they would not be able to manifest their ideas at all. "The good die young," and the kindly-disposed inhabi- tants of this hypothetical village are so unobtrusive that the stranger is not likely to notice them —although they largely outnumber the others. The moral of this fragmentary sketch seems to be that while some inoffensive people are so thin-skinned that they are sensitive to the least prick from any spluttering little old Gitlott pen, that may have long since spluttered out all io8 Some tillage Characters. its venom, others again are so much like a pachyderm in their nature that they will bob up sulkily smiling, even when sandbagged by a crack from a muleteer's rude blud- geon. ^ K yderm in ing, even ade blud- Her (Majesty's Customs. 109 HER MAJESTY'S CUSTOMS. I HAD been notified of the arrival at the custom-house of a box of books for me from England. I was densely ignorant of the constitution and by-laws of that great autoc- racy of Canada, and imagined that all I had to do was to dress with care, betake myself to the custom-house, present my paper, and pay the duties. Then, of course, I should be able to collect my goods, and go on my way rejoicing. This shows how deplorably ignorant I was. I was graciously received at the custom-house by a benig- nant, elderly gentleman, and given some papers to fill out. This looked simple enough ; and as I proceeded to fill them out (a not difficult task) I mentally laughed at the cock-and- bull stories that had been told me about the red-tapeism of custom-houses. The benignant, elderly gentleman moved away from me in the discharge of his duties, and my work of filling out the papers was all but completed when a spruce, mustacheless young man sidled up to me, and politely, but authoritatively, asked to see my papers. I weakly surrendered them. The young man smiled a smile of profound pity for my dense ignorance as his eagle eye glanced over those papers. He was evidently a youth who, in moments of confidence, told his friends and his infe- riors that he could always tell by instinct when aj^reeuhorn was at large in the custom-house. ' ' You are all wrong, my dear sir, ' ' he said cheerfully. ' ' It would be impossible for you to manage this sort of thing, no Her (Majesty s Customs. anyway. The ways of the custom-house are peculiar, you know, my dear sir." I replied that I really knew no such thing. "They are, sir," he said, deliberately tearing up the papers he had taken from me. ' ' The proper way will be to go to Mr. ■ , a custom-house broker, who will assume all responsibil- ity, and save you all trouble. If you will mention my name," tendering me his card, "he will push the matter through without delay. And it will cost you only fifty cents." Then he figuratively, if not literally, put me out of doors, and very carefully pointed out the ofiice of Mr. . Of course it would never do if I should stumble into the office of some rival custom-house broker ! But, begrudging my enterprising young friend the small commission he thought he had made sure of in my case, I threw away his card, and did turn into the office of a rival broker. This goes to show how churlish I was. I had considerable curiosity to find out what manner of man the custom-house broker might be. I was prepared to face a portly, severe individual, who would try to extort some very damaging confession from me, but who would generously spare my life. I was therefore somewhat surprised to find myself confronted by a dapper little fellow, ballasted by a huge and extravagant eye-glass, but whom, for all that, even the slim senator from Virginia could easily have pitched out of the window. He looked as if he had been tenderly brought up on fish-balls and tapioca, and carefully protected from the sun and from draughty doors. I have since made an important discovery, to wit : that all custom-hou.% brokers are not cast in the same mould. This young man soon made me aware that however frail and spiritual he might look, he yet rejoiced in a monumental I L Her (Majesty's Customs. Ill :uliar, you the papers go t6 Mr. esponsibil- ention my the matter only fifty t of doors, . Of ) the office dging my le thought s card, and es to show manner of repared to to extort irho would it surprised ', ballasted or all that, ve pitched n tenderly J protected since made ise brokers wever frail onumental intellect, and had ways and means of scaring timid people al- most to death. The first thing he did was to prove to me that my books had been wrongly invoiced, and that, in the name of his Queen and his country, he was authorized to increase the invoice price by twelve dollars. As the duty on the books was fifteen cents on the dollar, this did not seem so very terri- ble, and I agreed to submit to the overcharge, after a mild protest. I thought I would give him a fair start, just to see how far he would presume to go before I should suddenly check him. That was where I made an egregious mistake, for he seemed content to have raised and put into the pocket of his Queen and his country the sum of one dollar and eighty cents. He now proceeded to lay before me such a pile of papers that I marvelled where they all came from. " You will sign your name and address, please; your name and address in full," he said, at last, taking up the under- most paper. I did so, remarking that I had no objection to give him the range of my shot-gun and the name of my dog, if he so desired. He regarded me with withering scorn, and placed another paper before me to be signed. I perceived that these papers were precisely the same as those I had been given to fill out at the custom-house, only that here there were more of them. This was not calculated to soothe my ruffled spirits. " Don't you wish me to fill out these papers in full?" I blandly inquired. "No; it is my clerk's business to do that," he replied haughtily. His clerk ! I was astonished ! But on looking about me I espied an office-boy, of tender years and in all the glory of 1 112 Her tMajesty's Customs. curly hair, pensively ;hewing gum in a comer. So he had a clerk, surely enough ! A third paper was spread before me, which I was requested to sign in two places. Things were beginning to get inter- esting. I had the curiosity to read a few lines, first humbly asking permission to do so. I had thought Blackstone dry and dreary reading — but this ! "Where do you get all your census papers, if I may ask ? " I suddenly blurted out. A contemptuous curl of the lip was an unsatisfactory reply, and I made bold to tell him so. " I see," I pursued, "that you have not inquired into my politics, idiosyncrasies, or superstitions. You will doubt- less earnestly wish to know whether ray father's stepfather drank tea or coflFee ; whether my grandmother said . Besides this, he wears such shabby clothes that his own daughter hates to recog- nize him on the street." "Again I say exactly, my boy ; but instead of worrying about these things, he was probably figuring on how much longer the company could stave off the expense of putting up a new freight shed at some little station along the4ine." "And I went to a spiritualist's seance, uncle," pursued the youth, becoming more subdued, "and found that the medium's breath savored of onions that must have sprouted under the bountiful rains of 1882, and that he had less sense and less education than a scamp evangelist, and that he couldn't materialize well enough to humbug even a crack- brained believer in spooks." "Quite so, my dear boy ; and if the hobgoblins evoked had been sober enough to perceive what a noodle was in the audience, they would assuredly have told you that the shade of Simple Simon wanted to consult with you at your lodg- ings on hydra-headed asininity." "Then," continued the young man, "I had pointed out to me the son of a great philanthropist, now dead ; and the youth had just mustache enough to make him feel uncom- fortable and look ridiculous, and his only ambition in life is •aj«s» t/f Disillusioned Innocent. 117 that case dangerous 1 leisure of ft given a 1;, who has as dogs on ;nish head squints so at he can't I, he wears B to recog- F worrying how much of putting the4ine." ," pursued d that the e sprouted 1 less sense id that he 'Xi a crack- ins evoked was in the t the shade your lodg- lointed out i ; and the eel uncom- >n in life is to criticize Presidential appointments and be invited out to dinner by some old friend set up in business by his own de- ceased father ; while a gaunt-looking man, with an old gold mustaclu , big enough and heavy enough to make him look handsomer than a peacock under full sail, is a dog-catcher in the sui.imer season, a snow-shoveller in the winter, and a quack doctor in the spring and fall, when hoarse colds and influenza get in their best work." " My boy," said the uncle, " you are working your intel- lect too hard. Two years ago, you were throwing stones at the birds, and now you are itching to give points to old Rhad- amanthus himself. You must learn that while a man who is not blind can see through a pane of glass, it needs an ob- server of fifty years' experience to determine whether an unassuming and quietly dressed stranger, entirely off his guard, is a reformed freebooter or a heartless railroad section boss. I^arn, also, that fresh young men who go away from home and think they can pick up everything there is to be known about mankind in six years — not six days — are far from being wise. But, for your encouragement, I may say that you have made commendable progress." But after the young man had gone, the uncle sorrowfully shook his head, muttering: "That boy is a trifle too smart for this reasoning world ; he will soon be wanted elsewhere. — Elsewhere, where the spirits and the mediums can call him up from the ' vasty deep,' to tell flippant ghost stories about lunatics who never lived, and who consequently haven't had a good chance to die. I think I must encourage the boy to ease himself of his Cyclopean omniscience and interest him- self in municipal politics." vmm r Il8 nce missed The young ty and dis- the duty of 3d augury, IS Western its were in- about from ' found out, md sinister 'as he must 1 default of ige-carving limself with thoroughly- the moon- ittic cot, to iparatory to To Baby Frederica. 121 TO BABY FREDERICA. Oh, so full of cunning capers Is this little baby girl, With her golden head and blue eyes. And her face as white as pearl. All day long she is so busy, Hardly can she go to bed ; And her ways are all so boyish That we call her baby Fred. Scarcely spares the time for breakfast. Does this busy little girl ; If she'll not eat, nor shall others. And the table's in a whirl. But we love her all so dearly, From grandma to Uncle " Boo," For her winning smile and goodness — TUough she has a temper, too! First of all to finish dinner. She will run for grandma's hand. And will lead her from the table. For she can not understand That her grandma can not always Speud the livelong day in play. .Do we ask her, what says ducky, " Cack, cack, cack," is what she'll say. 122 To Baby Frederica. When we ask her who's a good girl, '*Boop" is what she'll sometimes say, For her books are her chief pleasure, And she plays with them all day. Did she go to see her auntie? She will straightway answer "c'oak," While she pats her dress to show us That she did, and wore her cloak. If you ask of her a favor Quickly run her little feet ; She is very kind to dolly, And tries hard to make her eat. Much she loves the shadow baby That she sees upon the wall ; But she loves great-grandma's album, We are sure, the best of all. To Margarita. taj »ay, k," TO MARGARITA, Sweetheart, i love your winsome face, Your soft, dark eyes, yonr witching grace, Your artless ways, your heart sincere. Your many charms, which all endear. My jealous heart can have no fear. If in your love it have a place. . You have bewitched me with your smiles, Your laughing voice, that swift beguiles, Your pouting lips, that coy invite A bold attempt from frenzied wight Castilian sonnets to indite — Though I would draw my sword the whiles. Carissima, I love yon well, I love you more than verse can tell. Wed with me ; do not say me nay ; Turn not my joy into dismay; Wed with me on this happy day, And glad will ring our marriage-bell. BelovM, say you'll be my own, My wife, ere yet this day has flown. Your sparkling eyes shall know no tears. Your sun-lit locks will mock the years. E'en Time can bring naught but which cheers; Your fame I'll spread from zone to zone. Not for a span of time, soon fled. Not for this life alone we'll wed ; When this world's sunshiue disappears, Together in the brighter spheres. Throughout eternal, tranquil yep.rs. Our spirit life may still be led. jg^jglpar- "4 How I Loved and Lost my Nelly. HOW I LOVED AND LOST MY NELLY. He had no breath, no being, but in hers ; She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, But trembled on her words. -BVKON. To Boyhood's Swbbt Dream, Thesb Ruggbd Lines Are REUGioustv Dkdicateu. 10 15 20 In niy youth I loved a maiden, Ix>ved a laughing, blue-eyed maiden. Who was very fair to look on ; Of a quiet disposi'Jon ; Even temper; candid; loving. As I loved her, so she loved me ; And though we were both but children. She but fourteen, I but sixteen. Yet our hearts were knit together In a firmer bond of union Than is oft rehearsed in story. All my thoughts were of my sweetheart ; All my plans to her confided ; All her pleasures were my pleasures. And at school I sat and watched her, With my open books before me ; But my thoughts were of the future, Of the day when I should proudly Lead her up before the altar ; And my pref 'rence was so open That the master and my schoolmates Came to see it, came to know it ; LLY. -BVRON. IT Drdicatbu. t; Haw I Loved and Lost my Nelly. Called me bridegroom, called me husband, Jeered me, watched me, and alarmed me, as Lest they should estrange my Nelly. But my faithful little sweetheart Only laughed at all their sallies. Only bade them to our marriage. How I loved my little sweetheart 30 In those happy days of boyhood ! But there came a rude awak'ning When her father, Nelly's father. Heard the rumor of our courtship. He was sad, and stem, and haughty, 36 And it grieved bint and incensed him That his child, his darling Nelly, At her age should choose a lover. Should receive one as a lover, Who lacked fortune, fame, and honor,— 40 For my father once in anger Had shot down a fellow-mortal ; And he harshly did enjoin her, Under pain of close immlirenient. To forget that I existed ; 45 And made ev'ry preparation For a sojouni in the Old World. On the eve of their departure I received a tear-dimmed letter From my darling little sweetheart. 50 "Faithful unto death," was written ; " We must wait my father's pleasure, We must wait in hope and patience.— Just one glimpse as we are leaving." As their train drew ofiF that evening 55 I was standing close beside it ; And she whom I loved so madly Leaned her head out of the carriage. Waved a kiss, and dropped a packet. Her farewell salute returning, 60 I took up the precious packet ; 125 1 3b How I Loved and Lost my Nelly. And my idol, my beloved, In a moment was borne from me. "Just one glimpse," it was, too surely! In the packet were her picture, 65 Her gold ring, her opal locket. With her name, and date, the legend, " As a souvenir of the old days." Thus I parted from my Nelly, In the golden days of August, 70 When the world was rare with beauty, And all Nature bright with sunshine ; Hardest parting, strangest courtship. Ever blighting two fond lovers. All my dreams were of my loved one, 75 All my life was very lonely. All my days passed, ah ! so sadly. As the days passed, so the years passed. Slowly, wearily, and sadly. And I chafed at our long parting. 80 But at last there came a message From my absent, loving Nelly, , Breathing still her fond devotion, Biddiiig me to hope on ever. As true love must be rewarded. 85 "Send no answer," she concluded, "For it would be intercepted." If with me the time passed slowly, If for me the days were lonely, If for me the burden heavy, 90 How much more so for my Nelly ! The mementoes she had left me, The assurance she still loved me, €beered me, iu my deepest sorrow. Fired my heart with hope and courage; 95 And the merry laugh of schoolboys. And the joyous song of wild birds. And the shrieking of express trains As they dashed through midnight blackness. m 100 li »o5 no "5 I20 125 * 130 «35 How I Loved and Lost my Nelly. And the crash along the Ma-shore, And the vivid flash of lightning. And the moon through mountain passes, Seemed to whisper, seemed to tell me : "Days of happiness and sunshine Will come to you in the future." But sometimes there came a murmur, Came a Voice from unknown darkness. Mocking ever came it to me: •"Tis a false hope that you cherish, •Tis a phantom you are chasing." Oft I sought relief in travel, Oft I followed Nelly's footsteps, But. alas! not once I saw her. Still my restless, troubled spirit Urged me aimlessly to wander, Urged me on, a worse than outcast. Changing scenery, Old World splendors, Could not cure my rooted sorrow, Brought my anguished heart no solace. To wipe out the .old' dishonor, To remove her father's hatred. And secure Lis full approval Of a marriage with his daughter, I sought fame, and wealth, and honors, Worked with dauntless resolution. Waited, pondered, brooded, trusted. Built air-castles, nursed my sorrows. When I next heard of my Nelly News came to mw she was married, Forced, unwilling, by her father Into marriage with a marquis. As a thunderbolt all-blasting. As a whirlpool all-engulfing. So these tidings fell upon me. What to me were fame and fortune? What to me were empty honors? What to me that light was breaking? 197 ia$ How I Loved and Lost my Nelly. I had lo»t my darling Nelly. This last sorrow overtook me In the days of drear November, 140 When the chilling rains of heaven Blurred the landscape, marred all Nature ; When the birds, with drooping feathers, Tripped about in groups of twenties, Bager to begin their journey 145 To the sunshine of the Southland. On that fatal day the storm-gods Seemed to rise in pain and fury; All the skies were black and angry. All the air was full of threat'nings, 130 All dumb creatures were uneasy, All things showed a coming tempest. All my passions glowed within me Like a mutinous volcano ; And unable to control them, 155 I rushed forth to brave the tempest. And the bleak and naked meadows, And the leafless trees of woodlands. And the boiling mountain torrents. Seemed attuned to my own sorrows, 160 Seemed in sympathy to greet me. I could hear the awful tempest Roaring in the distant forest L,ike a monster in his torment ; While the trees moaned and the brutes moaned, 165 As I hurried headlong onward. I had but one thought to guide me. That I must reach some endeared place. Reach a sacred haunt of old days, Where I first had seen my Nelly, 170 There to wait the tempest's fury. With this single thought to guide me, I betook me to the streamlet Which we two had crossed together Daily as we loitered schoolward. How I Loved and Lost my Nelly. ia9 ined. 175 And the alders by the streamlet, Fanned by zephyrs of the summer, Lashed by whirlwinds of November, Seemed to beckon, seemed to call me, Cried in tones severe, yet pleading, 180 Tones impetuous, yet plaintive. As a caged bird's moumfnl singing : " ' Twas a vain chase after triumph ; ' Twas too much you sought in this world ; It was Heaven on earth you asked for." 185 Ghostly figures shape before me ; Ghostly eyes look on me sadly; Ghostly fingem mutely beckon ; And the spirit Voice hoarse whispers: " Life for you is but a mock'ry, 190 Death the sole release to wish for." "Oh, my God !" I cry in anguish, " I have borne my heavy burdens, I have wrestled with my sorrow, Till my strength is all gone from me ; 195 Hear my prayer, oh, let me perish ! " And the merciful Creator, With Divine commiseration For my mis'ry and my weakness. Loosens and dissolves the tenure . x> Of this earthly life he gave me. I am dying — all is over. «3« How I Loved and Lost my Jantt. HOW I LOVED AND LOST MY JANET. A BUKL,KSUUK VBRSION OV HOW THINGS WOULD UAV8 TuKNBO OUT. * * * * My life hnlh been a combat, And every thought a wiMiiid, till I am icarr'd In the Immortal part of mr. -BvaoN. ID «5 ao To My Evil Gsnius, Thksh Rustic Lines Ark Sardonically Dedicated. In my youth I loved a maiden, Loved a giggling, crou-eyed maideu. Who was homely as a wild cat ; Of a giddy disposition ; Gusty temper; gushing; spooney. As I loved her, so she loved me ; And though we were both but goslings. She but fourteen, I but sixteen. Yet our hearts were knit together In a firmer bond of union Than a three-ply homemade carpet. All our plums I gave my sweetheart ; All my gum with her divided ; All her melons were my melons. And at school I sat and watched her, With my idle knife before me; But my thoughts were of the future, Of the day when I should fiercely Dicker with Niagara hackmen. And my spooning was so open That the master and my schoolmates Came to see it, came to know it ; ET. 'uRNSo Out. — BVHON. DICATED. How I Loved ami Lost my JantL Called nie Mpgo^. called iiic Janet, "Chari varied" iiie, and alarmed me, >g I38 To My Old Dog. Nero. 'Mi. TO MY OLD DOG, NERO. Not dog and master we, but friends, (Nor were ever sweethearts more fond) And naught our fellowship oflFends, Nor can jealousy break the bond. My dog and I are lovers twain. Without the lover's madd'uing paiu. His joyous bark delights my heart As we wander adown the stream; My dog and I are ne'er apart. And our life is a long day-dream. We little reck how this world wags, Nor ever find one hour that drags. And when sometimes with gun we rove, Nor bold eagles that live in air, Nor beast nor bird found in the grove, Than ourselves are more free from care ; Though well we know, my dog and I, That this old world oft gets awry. The grand old sun, in his day's race. May be hidden by sullen clouds, And never show his honest face To the hurried and restless crowds. Such haps fret not my dog and me, We view the world so scornfully. O To My Old Dog. Nero. The crackling fire within burns bright, And my heart is quite free from care ; Though fondest hopes were put to flight By a sweetheart as false as fair, I know my good old dog is true. And Nero knows I love him, too. I have no mind to be content With a pipe or a demijohn ; Nor have I reason to lament The old love, who has come at» ' > . Yet in my dog I have a friend, Whose steadfast love but death can end. le — The wind may roar, the black rain fall, And the night may be dull and sad, Nor friend nor foe may chance to call. To complain, or to make us glad ; But what care we, my dog and I, How this old world may laugh or sigh ! Wit '¥- HO The Little Lone House. THE LITTLE LONE HOUSE. A TRUK STORY. AWAY out in the country, far from any other habitation, a little brown house stood on a hill by the way-side. Its occupants were a widow and her two little children, a dog and a cat, also members of the family. A small garden sur- rounded the house, yielding a scanty supply of vegetables. Mrs. Carlyle eked out a living by teaching a small school. It was hard work to teach this school and take care of her children, while the remuneration was pitiful ; but Mrs. Car- lyle had a brave heart, and bore her privations patiently, hoping for brighter days. This little lone house seemed to be strangely attractive to beggars and vagrants, and they haunted it by night and day. It was annoying to Mrs. Carlyle, and sometimes terri- fying to the children, especially when, as often happened, a drunken man would stagger up to the house, pound on the doors, and even try the windows. They had a dog, to be sure; a big, loafing, yelping creature, which had been a plaything for the children so long that its usefulness as a dog was a thing of the past. When an objectionable caller came to the house, this dog would make a tremendous uproar, and scare the intruder away, if Ill The Little Lone House. 141 abitatioii, way-side, reu, a dog arden sur- itables. all school, are of her Mrs. Car- patiently, tractive to night and imes terri- ippened, a md on the g, yelping -en so long 5t. When dog would er away, if he were a stranger and unacquainted with the dog's peculiar habits. But once let the doughty dog out doors, instead of flying at the intruder neck and heels, he would either profess the greatest friendship for him, or else chase hurry-scurry after a stray cat or a bird. Carlo delighted in running pro- miscuoasly after flying things. Again and again poor Mrs. Carlyle resolved that she would never pass another twenty-four hours in the house ; but the place was her own, and she could support herself there. Further, it was her children's birthplace. So they lived on in the little brown house ; often harassed by beggars, tramps, and drunken men ; often having a hard struggle to keep the wolf from the door. It was a hard life, and a wearisome one. One day in winter the daughter of a neighbor, having been at school all day, was going to stay over-night with Mrs. Car- lyle and her two little girls. 'The children were amusing themselves greatly while Mrs. Carlyle busied herself prepar- ing supper, when suddenly a tall and gaunt figure opened the door of the kitchen and deliberately walked in. This alone was sufiicient to alarm Mrs. Carlyle and the three frolicking girls ; but — the man was an Indian ! There was really no cause for alarm, as a peaceably -dis- posed Indian was less to be feared than a strolling white man. But Mrs. Carlyle did not consider this, and she was more frightened than she cared to admit. As for the two little girls and their visitor, they had read that 'ery day in their reader about the barbarities practiced by the Indians in the early days of the country, and they sickened with horror, feeling certain that they should be massacred in cold blood. First the dog was appealed to. The three motioned silently but beseechingly for it to attack the Indian. Carlo, noble dog, understood ; he obeyed their entreaties without hesita- iii The Little Lone House. tion ; and squatting before the Indian, he stretched out his paw to shake hands, opened his mouth, and panted con- tentedly. "Poor dog," said the Indian. "Good dog, missis, this un." "The Indian has charmed him," whispered the little vis- itor shrilly. " Indians always do charm people's dogs." " Oh, I hope he won't poison him !" gasped little Edith Carlyle. The three posted themselves in a position from which they could watch proceedings, but from which they could beat a retreat at a moment's warning. " Boss in, missis?" asked the Indian. " No, he is not," said Mrs. Carlyle. " I don't care," whispered Gertrude, the elder of the two sisters, " I don't care, I do so wish it would have been right for mamma to say we are expecting our uncle from Califor- nia. "Can't you give me a bit of food?" asked the Indian. "I'm hungry. Victuals smell good." Mrs. Carlyle, not so much frightened as confused, took up a generous slice of meat and hurriedly gave it to the Indian. He did not ask for a plate, but said politely, " Needs knife to cut it with, missis. My own all "baccy." Mrs. Carlyle was so confused that she gave him the first knife that caught her eye. To her own and the little girls' consternation, it proved to be what is familiarly known as a butcher's knife ! The poor Indian gave a grunt of disap- proval, but did not ask for a better one. It was high time for the little girls to retreat. There was a patter of little feet over the floor— they had fled. The sanctuary they sought has probably been sought by every little girl (and boy, too) that the sun ever shone on. They The Little Lone House. 143 ed out his mted con- nissis, this e little vis- dogs." ittle Edith vhich they >uld beat a of the two been right >m Califor- he Indian. id, took up the Indian. !ds knife to tn the first little girls' known as a it of disap- There was fled. The it by every on. They hid in their bedroom ! Here they felt quite safe, for the time being; but Uzzie, i heir visitor, quavered, "I'll never come to visit you again, Gertie." "Oh, don't be afraid, Lizzie;" said Gertrude, her voice trembling ; " we'll get him to let you go, as you're a guest." "Oh, he'll kill us all with that big knife! I know he will ! " sobbed Edith. " Listen ! " hearing a rasping sound from the kitchen. "Oh, Gertie! He is sharpening the knife to kill us ! Oh, dear ! " There was a .^tcrambling noise — Edith had disappeared. A moment later and Gertrude and Lizzie had also disappeared. They had not fallen through a trap-door, nor been spirited away ; they had only gone where they believed they would be safest ; they had crawled under the bed. Finding herself deserted by the three frightened children, Mrs.Carlyle felt her native courage return, and although still so excited that she made little progress, she went on with her preparations for supper. She recollected that the knife she had given the hungry Indian was the dullest one in the house ; and perhaps this comforted her. The door of the little girls' room opened quickly, and a figure appeared in the doorway. Three stifled screams and three gasps of terror came from the trio, betraying their hid- ing-place, and they huddled more closely together. " Gertrude," said Mrs. Carlyle's voice calmly, " come out ; I want to speak to you." Three little golden heads peered warily and fearfully out from under the bed. Seeing no one but Mrs. Cariyle, and that she did not appear so very much frightened, three little figures emerged from their ambush. " Gertrude, dear," said Mrs. Cariyle in a hushed voice, " I want you to put on your thicker shoes and your wraps, and ^11 I 144 The Little Lone House. run up to Mr. Colfax'H for some of them to come and take the Indian away." "Oh, it'.s so cold, and the snow is so deep," sighed Ger- trude. " Yes, dear ; but there is no other way to get rid of him." ' All right, mamma ; I'll .start, anyway." Mrs. Carlyle's presence began to inspire them with cour- age. " What's he doing now?" Edith whispered. "He is still eating his meat, Edith. You mustn't be frightened, girls." "Can I go with Gertie, Mrs. Carlyle?" asked the little visitor. "Oh, do come, Lizzie ! You'll be such company." But when they had put on their wraps and started out, they found the snow so deep and soft that Gertie's poor little shoes sank through it, chilling and wetting her feet.- " Oh, dear ! " she said. " My feet are going to get soak- ing wet ; and then I'll catch cold ; and then mamma will have to make me onion syrup." " I wish you had nice long-legged shoes like mine, Gertie ; they are just like boys' boots. Papa got them lor ine on purpose to go to school when it's wet and the snow's deep." " I wish I had, too," assented Gertie. " I'll tell you what to do, Gertie ! Let us turn back, and I'll takeoff these shoes and let you wear them." "Oh, 7vi/l you, Lizzie ? How good you are ! I shouldn't l)e a bit afraid. But what will you do, Lizzie ? ' ' " I'll stay and talk with Edith till you come back." "And won't you be frightened ? " " No, I'll try not to be ; and perhaps if the Indian should go to kill your mamma and Edith, I could help. Only hurry, Gertie." The Little Lone Home. 145 e and take ighed Ger- dof him.'* with cour- mustn't be d the little ny." tarted out, s poor little !et.- get soak- lanitna will ine, Gertie ; for me on >w's deep." 1 back, and. I shouldn't ick." lian should. Only hurry, Lizzie meant, if the Indian .nhould attempt to kill them, she might help to resist him. She was a bright little girl, but she could not always say exactly what she meant. So they returned to the house. Gertie drew on Liz/ie's top boots, and then bravely went out into the cold alone. The snow was just as deep, but with the magic boots on her feet she did not mind it, though .she sank into it the same as before, and progress was slow. But the.se shoes kept her feet dry and warm, and she trudged on bravely and hopefully. At last she reached Mr. Colfax's house. Her story was a startling one — so startling that it frightened the little Col- fax girls so much that they declared they would never go to school again. But Mr. Colfax did not look frightened, though he immediately put on his cap and overcoat. "Won't you please take your gun, Mr. Colfax ? ' Ger trude ventured. "I'm sure the Indian is all ready ; ■ figli» any person." " No, Gertie ; he wouldn't be afraid of a gun." Gertrude stayed a few minutes to rest, and then set out for home, half expecting to see her mother's house burst out into flames before she reached it. But no; there .stoo'' i':*. house all right. Mr. Colfax easily prevailed on the Indian to go home with him, where he was given a good supper and a night's lodg- ing, and sent on his way rejoicing. Once rid of their unwelcome visitor, the three little girls became exceedingly brave, and gravely told what they \ oi'ld have done to circumvent him in case he had attempted to kill them. But Grertie had proved herself a little heroine, and she knew it. Some weeks after this occurrence, another schoolmate was spending the night with Gertrude and Edith. This time it was oi.e of those same little Colfax girls iL ^^ had declared ~ -'= r-'=="^'^'"'^^'TH7rr •""^'^'•"•'f 146 The Little Lone House. she would never go to school again. Far from doing this, however, she had gone to school regularly, and never rested till she was invited to "stay all night " at the Carlyles'. "How romantic it must have been for you," she said, speaking of the Indian's visit. " It was just like a story, wasn't it, Gertie? So romantic." Lfittle PhcEbe Colfax was a most "romantic" young miss, who, instead of writing compositions about sugar, water, lead, sleigh-rides, strawberries, etc., wrote painfully moral fables about sportive little dogs, big watch dogs, blind Negroes, good little girls, and bad little boys. "Yes, it did seem romantic after it was all over, and we'd had our supper," said practical Gertrude. " Do you suppose anybody will come to-night ? " Phcebe queried. "Oh, I hope not!" devoutly said Gertie and Edith in chorus. "So do I," assented Phoebe, "unless it should be some- thing romantic — that is, that would not be too terrible, and would seem romantic afterwards." Romantic Phcebe' s wish was partially gratified. After supper, while the three girls were getting up their lessons for the next day, Mrs. Carlyle heard the sound of a drum in the distance. "Girls," she said, " I hear a drum beating. I think it must be someone getting up his enthusiasm for St, Patrick's day ; don't you want to go to the door and listen ?" " Oh, yes!" said the three, laying down their books and running eagerly to the door. Gertie turned the key very cautiously, and then, with her hand still on it, listened in- tently. Hearing no one outside, she carefully opened the door a little way, and tlien shut it with a bang. "Oh, dear!" said Edith. I doing this, never rested Jarlyles'. 1," she said, like a story, young miss, :, water, lead, moral fables ind Negroes, 'er, and we'd t?" Phoebe nd Edith in iild be some- 1 terrible, and ified. After eir lessons for I drum in the . I think it St, Patrick's jn?" eir books and the key very :, listened in- y opened the The Little Lone House. 147 " What is it? " whispered Phoebe. "Oh, it's nothing," answered Gertrude; "I was only careful." Then she opened *he door again. All was still, except for the sound of the far-away drum. Growing bolder, she opened the door to the extent of about two inches, and with her hand firm on the knob, held it so. " Isn't it nice ? " said Edith. "Yes ; but then it's only some common drum, you know, Edith, so it can't be much ; " said Miss Phoebe, who did not seem to have a very exalted opinion of the music. Of course if she could have imagfined it was a gallant drummer-boy drumming to his regiment, she would have been enchanted. " I don't care ; I like it," declared Edith. "Well, if Phoebe doesn't care for it, we'll come in," said Gertrude. "I don't like to have the door unlocked, any- way ; and it's pretty cold." As she finished speaking she perceived that something was pressing gently -against the door, trying to shove it open. This was so terrifying that she screamed aloud, though she did not quit her hold on the door. " What's the matter ! " cried two voices. "Some one is trying to get in ! " Gertrude screamed. " Oh, hang on ! Shove it shut ! Quick ! " cried Phoebe. Then, at the top of her voice, " Mrs. Carlyle !" " Oh, it won't shut ! " panted Gertie. " Help me, Phoebe ! My strength is all gone! I can't shut it! — Mamma I Quick!" Poor little Phoebe ! Poor little girl ! She did what she knew she would never do ; what she despised. - She fol- lowed the example of Lizzie ; she ran and hid with Edith in Gertrude's bedroom ! W^^ M ■4, 148 The Little Lone House. Mrs. Garlyle came into the room in alarm. "What is the matter ? ' ' she demanded. "Oh, mamma ! Some one is trying to get in, and I can't shut the door any farther ! " " Stop, Gertrude ! It's Stripy, our cat ! " Yes, it was Stripy. Finding a crack of the door open, he had pushed gently with his head to shove his way in. Having got his head inside,. he could neither draw it out, nor force his body through, nor squall ; for the door, with Gertrude pushing on it, held his neck as in a vice. Poor Stripy ! With horrified eyes protruding from his head, he turned tail, when released, and sped away like a mad thing. It was a full week before he came back, and then h6 seemed unfriendly. Miss Phoebe was very quiet for the rest of the evening. It is doubtful whether she could ever look on that incident in a romantic light. But Gertrude had again behaved like a heroine. A few days after this most trying experience with pussy, Mr. Colfax presented Gertrude with a lively and efifective little gun, and taught her how to shoot it. At the same time another kind-hearted neighbor gave them a powerful •and intelligent mastiff — a really valuable dog. This new dog, Nestor, did not seem to have much respect for Carlo, and they did not agree very well ; but they ate every day enough to sustain them for three days. Although they persisted in this reckless indulgence of appetite, strange to say it did not hurt them. But two dogs were a nuisance ; and if the new-comer had not been endowed with much dig- nity and self-esteem he might have picked up some of Carlo's foolish habits. How was Mrs. Carlyle to get rid of poor Carlo ? One day a deliverer appeared in the person of a lazy, good-natured Vhat is the md I can't door open, lis way in. Iraw it out, door, with I from his vay like a t back, and le evening, at incident shaved like with pussy, nd effective t the same a powerful uch respect lUt they ate Although tite, strange a nuisance ; 1 much dig- e of Carlo's The Little Lone House. 149 boy (the here ».* ^hoebe Colfax's stories about bad boys), who inveigled C't.uo oflf into the woods on a squirrel-hunt- ing excursion. Carlo enjoyed himself hilariously that day ; but, for all that, he made a " mysterious disappearance." His fate is still unknown to the little Carlyles. Miss Phoebe insists that he must have met his death while "defending himself" bravely against some ferocious outlaw ; but the boys look wise, and say darkly that he didn't go farther south than Patagonia, the ultima thule of their geographies. ? One day 3od-natured ■ mi » ii i f.r . i«M) l 1 | - I50 The Scholars' Secret. 1 THE SCHOLARS' SECRET. Thb short December afteruooii Was waning, when the teacher cried, "Now, Sarah! Whisp'riug, when so soon School closes, and you've not applied One hour this day to honest work ! And Allie, too ! Why will you mock At my commands, and idly shirk Your duties for incessant talk ? " The scholars knew a strange unrest That day, for very soon again Low-whispered counsels passed, with zest, From Sarah, till a look of pain In teacher's face most plainly showed. The murmurs ceased ; who could forget That teacher her great influence owed To kindliness — not whip or threat. Each Friday afternoon was spent In teaching girls fine fancy-work ; While boys, disdaining this, were bent On solving problems hard that lurk In fractions or the rule of three. The scholars liked the plan, and then Each one to speak a piece was free On gallant deeds by famous men. This day the maids were all intent On making each some Christmas gift ; While teacher kindly, as she went From seat to seat, with stitches swift Gave beauty to the simplest thing. These gifts would all be cherished long JtiiiliWiMIMi^ :t In scholars' homes, as they wouIg To-night the teacher, after hours, (No work was taken home till done) Worked patiently, with flagging powers. Till half the weary night was run. On something that a dainty touch Must finish. Why her best-loved girls Had whispered so, she wondered much! What mischief lodged beneath their curls ! The Pond Lodge school a custom had Of planning every Christmas-tide A Christmas-tree, 'round which the glad School-children clustered, side by side. Here would the teacher place for each A prize — were it deserved, or not ; And ask some one, who far could reach With wand, to call to each his lot. This season Hugh and John went forth Into the wood with dog and sled. And felled a cedar that the north Wind buffeted. As back they sped. The harnessed dog scarce felt their weight. Then Hugh and John fast braced the tree. Which surely" had a worthy fate — The next day's Christmas revelry. Next day was cold, but very fair, And half the scholars <:ame in sleighs ; A merry crowd, so free from care. That spoke of teacher with fond praise. The gifts are told off, till at last The wand strikes something — and a shout Of "Teacher!" all around is passed. She knows all now — the secret's out! The parcel opened, there is found A quaint old Bible, richly bound. 152 ^ O^ice Lot of Pets. A NICE LOT OF PETS. I HAD once a btK dog, tlia* was famous For his bark and the murderous way That he greeted the callers and suitors Of my sisters — who crossly one day Turned him loose, with a "MAD" ticket streaming From his neck — and the whole street was screaming. When I came he bad just chased the mayor Up the street, and was biting the marshal. Next I got me a goat >tiat was clever, In his frisky id underhand way ; But he butted my uncle one morning, In the boist'rous excitement of play, Off the porch, where be helplessly wallowed In March slush. Ere his anger was swallowed The goat chewed up his will — and my uncle Disinherited all of our family. Then I tamed a white owl, till it hooted At the moon, or stray cats, or rude boys ; But it scared one dear girl till she fainted — When I prompt put an end to its noise. While my dog killed but rabbit and kitten. This had owl was the means of the mitten Being given to me by the sweetheart I, a boy of sixteen, loved so dearly. With a fox I consoled myself later (Though some said 'twas a polecat I had); In a wild spree he burnt up the court-house — And my town oik got thoroughly mad. Need I say that I now am in prison. With a chance there to stay till I wizen ; For all crimes that the lawyers ere heard of Have been traced to nie through my pets' frolics. ffliininiiiiiwiiliwii Illg ntiig- olics. The H^asbingion Climate. 153 THE WASHINGTON CLIMATE. IF the attempt had been made in the city of Washington to establish our present system of seasons, and the allot- ment of 365)^ days to the year, the work would have proved a superhuman one, and would have resulted in the complete demoralization of every mathematician and astronomer under- taking it. Instead of the orderly system now prevailing, it would have been left a disputed question whether winter should begin on Thanksgiving Day or after Christmas; whether winter, once inaugurated, should cover a period of one hundred and twenty-seven- days and nights, or discount eleven and a half days to the credit of spring. There would have arisen a far-reaching schism as to whether dog- days begin on the 8th of June, or on the 41st of July ; and the more ardent supporters of one faction would have written abstruse text-books to prove by the hypothetical history of all exhumed mastodons that dog-days begin on the first- mentioned date, while the equally enthusiastic supporters of the other faction would have proved by the fashions regulat- ing bathing costumes that it is high treason to maintain that dog-days ever did or ever could begin on any other date than the 41st of July, at 2 o'clock p. M. The faction of the " great unwashed" would have split off from these latter, holding that, in the fitness of things, dog-days come in with the ad- vent of the dog-catcher, feeze off and on indefinitely, co-ex- istent with his career, and finally leave us abruptly, just ten days after the sea-serpent appears off Newport and the first • 'C^ 154 The IVasbington Climate. tramp-loaded freight train starts for Texas. The heated dis- putes occasioned by all this iiticertainty would have led to the rise and fall of empires, the dynamiting of Caesars, the con- version and extermination of the cow-boy of Arizona, the pre- mature discovery of revolvers, of Ignatius Donnelly's Key, of messenger-boys, of divorce lawyers, of bogus testimonials, and of mind-reading. Then again, the greatest discrepancy would have prevailed among scientists and coal-dealers in trying to strike an aver- age temperature for January and March ; and the British tourist would have debated 30 long the important question whether a shilling thermometer would be likely to stand the wear and tear of a Washington winter, or whether it would be advisable for him to arm himself with an instrument war- ranted to wrestle with April days in January and all-congeal- ing cold in April, that finally he would have taken ship for South Africa, to share the fate of the tender antelope and the juicy missionary. If a Rip Van Winkle should awaken in our midst he could only approximately fix the season and the month. But there are in Washington four special and immortal days on which Rip Van could always and infallibly fix not only the month, but the exact day of the month. The first in order is the 20th of February, on which date the grimy gamin cele- brates the initial game of marbles of the season. (The peaceable, respectable, and less warm-blooded public-school boy plays his first game from four to seven days later, and so is less to be depended on in fixing a date.) The second date is that of the 3d of April, on which auspicious day the first patriotic District of Columbia tramp and the first impetuous humming-bird revisit the place of their birth. Both are a trifle previous in their calculations ; both suffer considerably from cold feet ; but they are too proud to acknowledge their *4«. sated dia- led to the , the con- i, the pre- s Key, of :itnonials, prevailed ; an aver- e British question stand the it would nent war- l-congeal- a ship for oe and the midst he ath. But il days on t only the t in order amin cele- n. (The )lic-school Ler, and so !Cond date ly the first impetuous Both are a asiderably edge their The Washington Climate. »55 mistake by any retrograde movement. Our next epochal date is the 29th of May, when the small boy — irrespective of the condition of the weather, the impurity of the Eastern Branch, his susceptibility to the quinsy, or the social position of his forefathers — takes his first " swim " in the river. On appointed holidays the small boy may or he may not point the vivacious fire-cracker at the hired man ; he may or he may not gorge himself with stuffed turkey on Thanksgiving Day, and so cease to be tormented with Dr. Bugbear's pills and other worthy remedies that he has so often dutifully choked down — but he will go in swimming on the 29th of May, or the heavens will fall. And now we come to the red- letter day of the calendar : the glorious loth of June, in the afternoon of which day the summer excursion poster makes its annual appearance on the board fences and dead walls of all inhabitable places in the District. On anyone of these dates an almanac need not be referred to in Washington by any one who has eyes to see and ears to hear ; at any other time an almanac is as vital a necessity as a chart at sea. The promiscuous distribution of gaudy pat- ent medicine almanacs is all that has saved the country and the climate from the established fate of the chestnut-bell and the prospective fate of the traveling hypnotist. h H \ ! ! ■a ' 156 H^hen It h fMiiv. WHEN IT IS MAY. WHEN May comes, the small boy first begins to think seriously of trading oflF his marbles for fish-hooks, and from fish-hooks his thoughts revert tu long-tailed kites. Before May is half over he yearns to build a dam and launch a raft. The small boy is not content to go fishing where it is dry and wholesome, but seeks out the dampest marsh he can find. Every night he comes home a good deal too late for his supper, with his trousers tucked in his long-legged hoots, to hide the alluvial deposits streaked on them ; his hands in his pockets, to hide the mud-stains and the lacerations of his patent fish-hooks ; and his hat, his new straw hat — what of that ? Alas ! the evil-smelling marsh water has played sad havoc with the small boy's new hat, and he has followed the dictates of prudence and left it in the woodshed. He sits down to the supper table with a light heart, and clears it of everything save the dishes and the mustard. He had caught an amazing number of fish, of course; so many, in fact, that he couldn't count them all — couldn't begin to do it. But some of them were too small to bring home ; some of them he lost; some of them got away; and some of them were bull-frogs, every time. , Anyway, — and he lays marked and exultant emphasis on this — anyway he had a " splendid time." Those who stroll about the city find the drug-store win- dows full of patent cough medicines, and spring anti-febriles. U'hen It Is {May. '57 jius to think r fish-hooks, -tailed kites. 1 and launch here it is dry larsh he can too late for legged l)oots, his hands in acerations of straw hat — b water has :, and he has le woodshed. >t heart, and lustard. He se; so many, in't begin to bring home ; and some of and he lays ay he had a ug-store win- anti-febriles, and awful satires on the man who died a wretched death because he would not invest a paltry dollar in a bottle of spring medicine. Remembering how they have expo.«ed them.selves to the May sunshine, they hurry into the drug- store and glance at this medicine and at that, feeling, all the time, that they will share the suicidal miser's fate if they do not do.se with spring medicine at once ; and they invest a paltry dollar — perhaps three or four paltry dollars — in Eau de Cologne and other perfumes, and saunter out into the street with a light heart. There is a beauty in the fields, and the woods, and the apple-orchards, that tempts human nature to while away the time out in the meadows and the woodlands, to study botany, and to envy tinkers and tramps. The sun may be like a fiery furnace, but under the trees it is cool and delightful. The woc/Js are always cool; but in the pent-up city the stone pavement is so intensely hot that it frizzles, and scorches, and burns everything that pa.sses over it — except the naked foot of the friendless hoodlum. " In the spring the young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love," and in May he decorates himself with a new watch-chain atiu a new cane, and finds out where cream caramels retail at the most reasonable price. And on Sunday afternoons the highways and the by-ways are full of top bug- gies, and the top buggies have all a pair of lovers, and the parlors of the farmhouses are suggestive of protracted Sunday evening courtships. And the country maiden, as well as the city maiden, discards last year's fashions, and parasols, and earrings, and appears in raiment and oflF-settings of the most enchanting and dazzling newness ; and the Niagara hack- man, reflecting on all these things, chuckles a sordid chuckle ; for he knows that twenty-four hours after the marriage of these lovers they will be at the Falls, and at his mercy. 158 The Engineer's Sai^] THE ENGINEER'vS vSONO. Mv old engine long I've cherished, And with her have well-nigh perished ; I can hardly be entreated To exchange, and not be greeted By the music of her liell, For I'm sure she knows me well, And has always been well treated. Though our life knows much of care, What is there that can compare With the feeling, oft so thrilling, That the engine, strong and willing, Is as much at our command As the fingers of the haud, In our lightest wish fulfilling? With my fireman by my side And the throttle opened wide, O'er vast prairies we go bowling, Or adown broad rivers rolling ; Climbing, now and then, a grade That might make us feel dismayed, Had ray mate not prompt been coaling. But it needs' a steady nerve As we swing round some sharp curve. Winding, by scarce felt gyration, To the highest elevation That is known along the line — Whence time-tables, rain or shine, Leave scant time for inspiration. The Engineer's Song, Sense of daiit^er acRrce we feel On thi» iiioiiiiter, built of itcel, TIioukIi we're far from dniiKer scorning, A« our train, with icarce a warnint;, May Ko crasliiuK down the liill— While the Company foots the hill, SumnioninK ut all next inorniiiK. Thanks to our unceasing care, Grievous accidents are rare; liut in slaughter most appalling. When the mangled loud are calling To the dead, there comes no cry From the driver, first to die, Buried in the wreck down-falling. Though it may be well coiifest That we love the spring-time best, Our good engine is a sprinter, Whether it be June or "winter ; And as long as tracks arc clear Of rough weather she's no fear, Crashing on as through a splinter '59 On the rails. The midnight flash Of her headlight can abash B'eti the blinding glare of lightning ; The loud thunder's echo height'ning, Comes our crash of coupling-links. While our dragon-throated sphinx Opes her throat with blast more fright'ning. Save the foggy nights each year, Nothing dauuts the engineer ; Though each run is filled with pleasure Noue but engineers can measure, Most they love the homeward way, On a track as light as day. Where there waits the household treasure. i6o The Etigineer's Song. Past incoming trains that wait, Past the flagraen by their gate ; Then the station lights espying Just as the long day is dying; Past long freight trains, pulling out, Past the groups of boys that shout. When the "Limited" comes flying. Oh, there's nothing could cajole Us away from the control Of the fiery-hearted giant, liiat to you seems so defiant, But to us, who know^ our forte, 'Tis a puppet for our sport, And to us perhaps as pliant. '^^f^l^r The Railwayman's Trials. i6i THE RAILWAYMAN'S TRIALS. ABOUT the 20th of March there appeared before a railway ticket-agent at Green Bay, Wisconsin, a determined- looking woman from the wilds of upper Brown County. She was accompanied by a red-eyed boy, just recovering from chicken-pox, who evidently was her son and heir. He took after his mother, in that he was rustic, fidgety, warlike, and wholly uncultured in all his ways. "Is this where they tell you about the railroads?" the woman asked. "Yes, madam," said the ticket-agent promptly. " Do the cars run from here to Milwaukee ? " "Yes, madam, direct." ' ' Do they run every day ? " "Certainly; three through trains each way every day."^ "And do they stop long enough for a body to get on and off?" "Certainly they do; and you will be assisted on and off." " Well, where do I get on ? I don't see no tracks anywhere ; you don't keep them covered up, I suppose, do you ? " " You board the train at the station, madam." ' ' Well, we want to go to Milwaukee. This here's Johnnie^ and his paw's coming in to talk with you bimeby ; so it won't be no use to try to cheat me! His paw driiv us into town, and he told me to go to the railroads first, and then he'd tackle 'em. He's traveled conriderable, ind he ain't easy took in." 1 62 The Railwayman's Trials. "It isn't my place to take people in ; it doesn't pay," said the ticket-agent sagely. " His paw reckoned a ticket shouldn't cost more 'n three dollars, and that the boy ought to be took along free, seeing he's been 'most dead with chicken-pox, and is going away for his health." " Oh ! Well, we'll see. When do you think of going ? " ' ' We calculate to go to-morrow, and stop over-night here to his sister's. It's my cousin's we're going to stop at to Milwaukee. Am I likely to lose anything if I go and buy my railroad ticket to-day, instead of to-morrow ? " ' ' Certainly not ; it will save you the trouble of attending to it to-morrow. The morning train will be the best one for you to take, and then you will get there in good time for your dinner." "Well, that's lucky, ain't it! But s'pose I buy it now, and the railroad should bust up before I want to use it — who's going to be liable for that there ticket ? That's what /want to know. I don't mean to go too fur trusting any railroad." "I — I don' t — exactly — understand, ' ' said the agent. ' ' Don' t, eh ? Well, I guess I'm a grain too cunning to go and buy my ticket to-day, and perhaps wake up to-morrow and find your railroad is dead broke, or sold out — 'specially when you stammer so about it. We'll look around some, and maybe get a ticket here to-morrow." The ticket-handler smiled sweetly, as was his \7ont. " Am I sure to get into the right cars? " she asked pres- ently. "I don't want to get took off to Chicago, or New York, or any of them awful places." " I'll go down to the train myself, and see you off." "Off where ? You needn't hatch no plot to abduct me ! The Railwayman's Trials. 163 t pay," said ore 'n three ; free, seeing going away >f going?" r-night here to stop at to go and buy of attending : best one for ood time for buy it now, t to use it — That's what trusting any the agent, unning to go p to-morrow — 'specially iround some, 7ont. e asked pres- ago, or New >uofiF." abduct me ! I'll have his paw there, and he will see that you don't play no tricks on a woman traveling alone with her sick boy." The ticket-agent explained, as well as she would let him, that he would see her safe on the right train. ' ' Dees cars ever get struck with lightning ? ' ' she suddenly asked. " No, not that I ever heard of, madam." "Are they liable to run oflF the track at this time of year?" "Not at all." " I don't know much about railroads and such ; but my cousin told me to take your railroad. You don't own it, though, I s'pose?" "No, I do not." "Are the bridges pretty good? Is there any extry safe cars you can put us in ? Is any English lord likely to be going our way this week, so'st I can travel in his car, and be safe ? I reckon you don't dare pitch them fellows into the ditch." " The train that leaves to-morrow morning by our line will be extra safe, for a Jubilee company will be aboard, and they never get killed — or hurt." " Is i/iai so ? Well, if they do smash up, anyhow, I want to know how I can work it to sue the railroad." " Take out an accident ticket, if you are afraid." " What's "hat ? " When this was explained to her, she said, feelingly: "I shan't take out no accident ticket, for if I was killed his paw'd get the money, and the hired girl would get him. He told me I 'd better get one if I was afraid, and I see now what he drove at." Here the sick boy who was not sick nudged his mother, and whispered something to her. Turning to the ticket-agent 164 7he Railwayman's Trials. she said, " I hain't no goods to speak of, but I calculate to have when we come back. This boy here's got a handsled, that he's going to take down to his cousin to Milwaukee. You see, the handsleighing '11 soon be done, and he reckons if he makes a present of his old sled to his cousin that he'll get something handsome in return. Sal always was that way; she'd make her boy give away everything." "All right," said the ticket-jobber wearily. "They'll fix that for him at tLe baggage office." "Oh, you needn't worry about that; his paw says he'll work it through for him. What I wanted to say was," as the boy nudged her again, ' ' that Johnnie liere wants to know if he can't hitch it fast behind the cars. He reckons there'll be some snow yit, and he thinks it would be fun to set and watch that sled slidin' along behind." Again the boy whispered some more, and his mother said further: " He wants to know if he mightn't climb out, oc- casional like, and ride a ways on that sled, when there seems to be plenty of snow. He's used tc hitching on behind. Be- sides, the railroad couldn't conscientiously charge the poor boy when he traveled that way." Ticket-agents do not express astonishment. This one, however, said : ' ' Unless the boy is as tough as a wrought iron door-knob, you wouid be sorry anybody ever built a railroad. And as for the sled — ." " Well, the doctor's always saying he's got an ircm consti- tution, anyway; and we wouldn't look to you to find no cord to hitch his sled fast, for Johnnie's pockets is always stuffed with cord." ' ' Do you really want to make our train ridiculous by tying an old home-made handsled to the rear coach ? The very suggestion of such a thing is preposterous. And besides, your sled would be wrecked or lost in a twinkling " n calculate to a handsled, Milwaukee. i he reckons in that he'll i^s was that "They'll iv says he'll ly was," as re wants to He reckons Id be fun to mother said imb out, oc- there seems aehind. Be- ge the poor This one, s a wrought ever built a iron consti- to find no ts is always nus by tying ? The verv \nd besides, The Railwayman's Trials. i6t This outburst seemed to impress the woman from Brown County, and saying she would be likely to come in again, she went out, followed by the boy who was used to hitching on behind. In about an hour's time they came back, surely enough, and accompanied by ' ' his paw. ' ' "Well," she panted, "I've found out something sence I was here before. But first I want to tell you what this boy wants to know. We seen the cars down to the station, and the enjine ; and he wants to know how soon he could learn to run them. He wants to know if he couldn't ride with the enjine-driver, and find out how they do run them cars. Couldn't he work his way down to Milwaukee that way like ? Or could he learn how to do the hull business com- plete?" ' ' He could not be allowed to bother the engineer, madam. ' ' "That's what his paw jus'" now told him; but I said I reckoned I had a way I could work it so'st he could." " You are mistaken ; I have no authority over any engi- neer. When do you think of going down to Milwaukee? " " Don't be so sure of that ; nor don't be in such a hurry to sell me a ticket. I've found out that there's another rail- road that'll take us from Green Bay to Milwaukee, just as his paw always said ; and I guess it's our place to be inde- pendent now, and yours to be pretty meek. I 'told you jus' now we had a way to work it so'st you'd have to favor us a little." The ticket-ageut at last showed faint traces of anger. It was not often that he was so badgered - even by the stupidest of i^upid old women. i'he old lady remorselessly continued, " The other fellow said this boy here is as smart's a 'coon, and that he'd make mf •mi^ 1 66 The Railwayman's Trials. an enjineer before the President gets his cabinet broke in ; hnt ^011 never even spoke to him ! " " I ? Well, I believe, madam, you didn' t give me a chance. How do you do, my little man ? You certainly pulled through the small-pox better than the Gov — ." " Who said anything about small-pox ? " snarled the old lady. " My boy had chicken-pox. We ain't easy flattered, neither." "So you want to run an engine, do you, Johnnie ? Well, when you get to Milwaukee I hope you may," sardonically. " Here's a map of our road. You can see how straight it runs to Milwaukee. Well, that's the way — ." " The other fellow showed us liis map, too," said the old lady, "and it appeared to run 'most as straight as yourn, and was a sight bigger. It was 'most rice enough for Jinny to hang up in her room. But they do both look powerful straight." " That's ^he way with them dum maps," said " his paw," speaking for tlia first time. ' ' They all run terrible straight ; but when you get aboard the cars you go 'most as crooked as a boy with a game leg a-chasin' up a Thanksgivin' rooster." " Well, I want to ask you something partic'ler," said the old lady. " S'pose this boy here gets to clamberin' around on the top of them cars, what am I to do about it? " " Is he so fond of climbing as that? " " Land, yes ! He's an awful boy to climb. T'other day he dumb up a ladder twenty-four foot high." ' ' And doesn' t he ever fall ? " " He fell all the way down plumb that time, and tore his coat fearful. That's just what I want to find out. S'pose he climbs them cars, and falls off, and gets killed ; -ain't that there company liable ? I warn you that / can't hold that boy," let broke in ; me a chance. lUed through arled the old !asy flattered, nnie? Well, sardonically. )w straight it ' said the old jht as yourn, ugh for Jinny ook powerful i "his paw," ible straight ; as crooked as ivin* rooster." ler," said the ,berin' around tit?" T'other day The Railwayman's Trials. 167 " How much is the boy worth ? " "Well, his paw and me reckoned he ought to be worth about ten thousand dollars, considerin* how much it costs to raise him, and how terrible sorry we'd be to lose him." "Well, then, madam, the company can claim twice that amount from you, if the boy kills himself in that way ; while j'OH can't recover a ragged dollar from them. So I would advise you not to let him monkey about the train, unless you share my sentiments, and would like to see him martyred." "Great Scott ! " ejaculated the boy's " paw." "You great wretch ! " screamed the boy's " maw." Burning with righteous indignation, the party hustled out into the street. The next morning the ticket-vender had the satisfaction of seeing mother and son leave Green Bay for Milwaukee — but not by his line. "So the other road gobbled them, after all;" he mut- tered. " But we are well rid of them ; well rid of them." '''*^ i -^^ E^<^ i, and tore his 1 out. S'pose ed ; -ain't that m't hold that ""sr 1 68 t/Jn Experienced Traveler ) THE OLD LADY POSING AS AN , EXPERIENCED TRAVELER. ALONG in April, the old lady who had journeyed from Green Bay to Milwaukee, on a visit to her cousin, went to a ticket agency to negotiate for a ticket for herself and her son Johnnie to Green Bay. She now considered herself an experienced traveler, who knew all the wiles of ticket-agents, and who was not going to take advice from any person. She and Johnnie had visited the St. Paul and the Northwestern depots frequently, and they now knew all about "the cars." " Well, young man," she said patronizingly to a spectacled young ticket-clerk, who happened to be in charge, "I'm out prospecting for a ticket to the city of Green Bay. Let me know the best you can do for us, and if it doesn't chime in with my expectations, we'll just step around to some rival in your line." The young man quoted the rates for first and second-class tickets. "It kinder appears to me," said the old lady, "that considerin' it's spring now, you might do better 'n that. Me and Johnnie here is always favored when we travel, and treated well." "So you will be on our line," said the young man. "There are porters to assist you on and ofif all trains, and to take all charge of your baggage." "Well, that's lucky. But be they honest men ? Won't «yf« Experienced Traveler. 169 > AN R. rneyed from her cousin, t for herself w considered the wiles of advice from St. Paul and low knew all 3 a spectacled ;e, "I'm out ay. Let me sn't chime in :o some rival second-class ady, "that ;tter 'n that, re travel, and young man. trains, and to len ? Won't they run away with any of tny goods ? I've got consider- able stuff with me." "They wouldn't dare. This is a civilized community, anyway. ' ' "Well, I've traveled before. I ain't no greenhorn; you can't play no humbugging tricks on me." " What have you in the shape of baggage, madam ? " "Well, if it's your place to know, I have %oi considerable. There's a big umbrella for his paw ; and there's a leather bag, with some of mine and Johnnie's clothes in it ; and there's a box Johnnie's got, with one of them things you call an organette packed into it ; and there's a toy locomo- tive his cousin bought for him ; and there's a greyhound pup I reckon we'll carry in his cousin's fish-basket ; and there's my shawl, if it turns cold on the way ; and there's a pair of long-legged boots I got for Johnnie here to Milwau- kee to a bankrupt sale, to slo.4h around in this spring, so'st he won't get the quinsy." " I would like to suggest to you the propriety of packing your stuff in a trunk, and not attempting to handle it all yourself," ventured the ticket-clerk. " Mercy on us ! Do you take me for a lunatic ? Young man, I ain't so simple. Pack them things in a trunk, and have it bumped around, and not know where it was, and mebby lose it ; and have it dumped out to Green. Bay, and busted open on the platform ! His paw's often telling about the time him and his other wife moved on the railroad, and packed five hundred pounds of household goods in an old sideboard he bought at a sale, — 'most all the things they had in the world, — and the men shoved the old thing off onto the ground, to change it onto a steamboat, and it busted open, and the contents were landed around there like as if a freight car had exploded ; and they hadn't no more place to 170 e/f« Experieticeii Traveler. stow them in than a kitchen table, and an eight-day clock, and a cook-stove, and a tool-chest, and a powder-keg ; and his paw says the way them men swore was worse than if a pirate had sprained hisankle. No, yoiing man, I ain't green ; and you can rely on it that I don't pad- aiy goods in trunks, for them railroads to bust." "I was only thinking, madam, what a bother all your parcels would be to you," said the ticket-agent m.eekly. "Well, young man, it ain't necessary for you to worry about other people. Be you a married man ? " " Eh ! Well — yes — I am, madam. ' ' " Well, sir, it ain't none of my business if you go home to-night, and forgit to take your wife the starch she may have asked you to git. It ain't none of my business if she jaws you about it all night ; and I ain't going to worry about it." " It's our duty, madam, to look after the interests of travel- ers," ventured the ticket-agent. "It might better be your duty not to interfere where you ain't wanted. I tell you, I have traveled before, and I'm considerable sharp. You can't take me in, no more'n you could his paw. You ought to take us cheaper now, because it's spring ; and you hain't got no snow to shovel oflFyour railroad, nor no water to thaw out for your b'ilers ; and the men that runs the railroad don't need to wear their winter clothes, nor keep the cars so hot." " I should like to inquire in what country you have trav- eled, and what manner of railroads carried you." "You needn't do it, then!" screamed the woman from Brown County. "I have traveled. — There's my cousin, now," she said suddenly ; "she's traveled all over creation ; and she wouldn't think much more of going from here to .^i£h -■ ' jwiytn*""" it-day clock, er-keg ; and •rse than if a : ain't green; ds in trunks, her all your meekly. on to worry you go home irch she may usiness if she )ing to worry rests of travel- re where you fore, and I'm |o more'n you now, because lovel off your ilers ; and the ,r their winter ^ou have trav- woman from my cousin, )ver creation ; from here to t/1n Experienced Travetei 171 Ohio, where she come from, than she does of going around in them street cars." "So your cousin has traveled a good deal, has she ? " said the ticket-agent, wishing to conciliate the irate old woman. ' ' Has she ever been to London ? to Europe ? ' ' " What ! You don't mean the London where them British live, do you ? I thought you meant the London near Madison, or that there place in Canada. I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself, a young man like you, to talk about a woman going skiting around in that way — and away over the ocean to Europe ! And her ray cousin, too ! You needn't try to insult me about my relations, if you please ! — I should think them railroad fellows would h< 'aid to trust you here alone, with all these maps, and pic , and picture-books." " I meant no insult, madam," said the young man, look- ing scared and bewildered. ' ' In what places has your cousin been, if I may ask ? " " Of course you may ask, as long as you ask civil ques- tions. She's been to Chicago, and to my place, and to Madison, and to Niagara Falls ! and to St. Louis ! And I think she CHANGED CARS IN Chicago on her way there! Mebby you'd know ; mebby not. We ain't going to Green Bay till Thursday, so 'st the hired girl and Jinny '11 have most of the week's work done ; so you see I ain't in no hurry to git my ticket yit. Good day, young man ; you can think it over about them fares." , And the old lady went out, leaving Johnnie to clo^ the door behind them — which he failed to do. She had had a little further experience with ticket-agents ; and the persecuted clerk — who had a yearning to learn the ri^febad business — had had a little further experience with traveling humanity. 172 The Folder Fieiui. THE FOLDER FIEND. ^ ^ I ET me have any fol tiers of the railroads here to-day ? ' ' L queried a lank youth with sore eyes, as he walked into a ticket-office at La Salle, Illinois. " Do you wish to distribute them ? " asked the ticket-agent, handing over half a packet of folders of his own road. " ' Distribute them ? '" echoed the youth. "Oh, no ; I'm collecting for myself. I like railroads, and I'm crazy about folders." "Then you won't wr.iit more than one, I suppose," said the ticket-agent, handius? hiui a solittr;' folder and shoving the rest back into the stand. ' ' No, not more than one of each road, ' ' said the lank you Lb slowly, looking wistfully at the gaudy folders, of all sizes and colors. " H< re, you talk to him, and tell him what he doesn't knov iilrefi- y- about folders," said the ticket-agent, with a sly 'V r, t« grinning office-boy. " v;»t many of 'em? " asked the boy, coming forward, all l;e