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i I

GROANS AND GRINS

ONE WHO SURVIVED.

BRUCE WESTON MUNRO.

PUBMSHKO BY

H. L. McQueen,

Washinotoi*, D. C.

A-

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1893,

BY BRUCE W. MUNRO,

In the Office of the I<ibrarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.

Prem or H. L. McQueen,

WASHINOTON, D. C

l^-JC*.

THIS VOLUME IS NOT
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO

ANY POTENTATE, DOMESTIC OR FOREIGN;

NOR TO ANY

COLD, CYNICAL, AND UNSYMPATHETIC

AUTHOR, DICTATOR, OR REVIEWER;

NOR YET

TO THE SHADE OF ANY IMMORTAL.

BRIEFLY,

IT IS NOT DEDICATED AT ALL.

.*3

•■^■1

I i

»■ ,l.

"rf,^y.

PREFACE

^ '^

« I

I MIGHT begin with a hackneyed phrase, or with a highly original
one. I shall do neither, but shall simply try to be brief an i point-
ed. Prerace-writing is a fine art, anyway, in which one n.Uurally
wishes to show off his talents to the best advantage and startle the reader
into the belief that he has picked up the work of a genius; while the
aim of the desultory sketches, etc., of this volume is rather to catch
the reader en deshabille, figuratively speaking, when he is in a humor
to lay aside the stereotyped conventionalities of the pains-taking author,
and enjoy a frolic with some whimsical characters who oflen break all
rules of etiquette and throw grammar to the bow-wows. Not that these
sketches were all written at odd times, in an easy, indifferent, off-hand
way, when laid up with the quinsy or thawing out froxen anatomy on
a cold day, and not minded to lose any golden minutes. By no means ;
they were written deliberately and soberly, when I should often have
been reading the newspapers ; and as the printer will bear witness (if
he isn't already a victim to softening of the brain), the MS. is scarred
with frequent and annoying erasures.

A little more regard for future reputation and a little less queasy
compunction about destroying the wishy-washy effusions of boyhood
would no doubt have prompted the cutting out of the bulk of the book
— including this so-called preface. Out of the century of sketches,
stories, etc., comprising the volume there are at least ten that are
utterly foolish. These need not be mentioned — lest the reader should,
for onre in a way, agree with me, to the extent even of swelling the
list. But while the great majority of us lay claim to having common
sense, few of us can judiciously exercise it ; and it is a question, after
all, whether any one but a weather-prophet could determine just how
much of the book was originally written before my wisdom teeth were
cut, and how much after the dentist pried them out as superfluous. I
shall be quite satisfied if the results be these : First, if the verdict of the
general reader be that the stories are amusing in spots, and that the
writer must certaiuly have iiis lucid intervals. Second, if any boy, on
the perusal of this compilation (it is worthy of no better name), be led

Prefact.

iiUo the way of wriUiiK •UeKw! funny thingn, nnd Ihui developing the
Intent humor there i* in every mainline organiMU.

Hut it i« »o eaay to aak inipoMibililies. For instance, it would be
pleaMant to have this volume jmlged by some of itn cat and dog ttorie* ;
whereas the unkind reader may be just peevisb enough to judge it by
some of its dreariest tales in verse.

An inquisitive young lady of sixty well-preserved years (I generally
respect age, and do so even in this case, tiecause it is hypothetical)
asked what had been survived, or whether the title of the book were a
misnomer. I gravely suggested shipwreck, the Inquisition, and worse
evils, but seeing her incredulous smile, truthfully said that I had once
entertained the idea of calling it "A Maiden's Inheritance ; or, A Hero
to the Rescue; or. The Witch's Curse; or. Buried 'Neath the Blasted
Pine." This would have lH;en a goo<l all-round title, that would ad-
mirably ail the bill and serve in lieu of a frontispiece ; but consider-
ation for the reader caused me to forbear. Besides, it would not l)e fair
to delude any guileless youth into the belief that he had gotten hold of
an interesting dime novel. The question, however, is so easily answered
that it is not expedient to argue it further ; and the truth is, it has not
been survived ; it is liable at any time to checkmate me.

While in a former volume I was continually prodding the reader
under the fi(\h rib with an alpenstock to keep him from falling asleep,
in this the reader is left severely alone, or but guardedly taken into
my confidence.

It is regretable that some of the best things buried in these Groans
AND Grins are apparently meaningless passages and obscure allusions
to individuals and incidents. These, of course, I do not condescend to
clear up ; in fact, the ethics of novel-writing would forbid it, even were I
so disposed.

It may be well to draw the reader's attention to the fact that the
short stories, verses, and so on, written in the first person, are not per-
sonal to me, except in a few instances. Four or five of them are, to
be sure, but only one, the last of all, confessedly so.

It maylK! added that this preface is really an impromptu effort,
written without premeditation or malice aforethought. Let it go at
that. The chances are that the indifferent reader will never look at the

preface, anyway. '

*^ BRUCE WESTOl^ MUNRO.

... .jti^mjC^.

)»

CONTENTS.

I'AUR.

Proem i

The i^sthetic Chromo Artist 3

A Missing Testimonial 5

Another Valued Testimonial 9

Our Visit to the Country 13

I'lacouraging a Journalist:

I. — As a Mute, Inglorious Milton 19

Grandmother's Apple Pies . . ; 29

Discouraging a Journalist :

II. — As an Unfledged Humorist 31

The Musical Boarding-House 38

How Peter Shuflled Off 40

Hart Gilbert Palmer 44

Such is Life 59

Could I But Know! . 60

The Creek by the School-House 62

The Privateer and the Pirate •64

Take Courage ! 68

Uncle Dick at Church 69

To the First Organ Grii'der of the Season 71

Wild Bill at Trickeys' Corners 73

The Old Wood Stove 77

A Sad Face on the Street 78

A Rainy April Day 81

The Small Boy in the Choir . 85

vii

I^f

H>--

;

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.

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'^

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.

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

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

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

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.

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?

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.:.,

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.

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

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.

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

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.

>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

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

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,

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

' / '

■ ]

/. — i/ls a Mute, Inglorious Milton.

>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. —

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.

' ' 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

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."

*— J>^

Grandmother's Apple Pies.

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.

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<?— but then, on the other hand,
they have proved a mascot to you. Not that my long-de-
layed letter is charged, either Uterally or figuratively, with
dynamite. Neither can i t unpardonably aflBict its reader with
grief, nor yet inspirit him ; but that it will bore you is a fore-
gone conclusion, for I am going to write entirely about my-
self. To equalize things, if my letter is tiresome, it shall be

short.'

" Short, eh ?" sneered the editor. "I never saw a letter
start out that way yet that wasn't as long as an alderman's
address. Short? Why, it's one, three, five, seven — ten
pages long ! Short ? It must have cost double postage to
send it ; and if the mucilage on your stamps wasn't good, it
will go wandering about the country Uke a Campaign liar.
To resume : —

" ' I was fully p«irsuaded to write you last Wednesday, be-
cause it was my birthday— but again one of your mascots
interfered in the person of a neighbor's son. Guileless young
man ! If I should address the term mascot to him he would
certainly think I was swearing at him. You kindly asked
about my birthday, Tom. It comes this year on the ad
September.'

'"Comes this year,' eh? That seems to work in very

neatly.

" ' I was delighted with your racy and gossipy letter. The
bold unconventionality of your style is decidedly a charm
rather than a drawback, and I quite agree with you that in
writing a friendly letter to an old crony one should not guard
so much against being off-hand as against being too precise
and particular. At any rate, I enjoy your vivacious letter
every time I read it over.'

II.— /Is an Unfledged Humorist.

' ' ' Vivacious — gossipy — racy — bold unconventionality ! '
Really, now, when your friend comes to answer your letter,
the only qualifying terms the poor fellow can hit on will be
'droll,' and breezy,' and 'quaint.' And I have yet to
decide that your letter is any one of all these,

"'Truly, as you say, I spent a month this summer in a
quiet spot, and events — or rather, the want of events — made
a great impression on me. My uncle's farm-house is old,
and my uncle's family have their peculiarities. The vener-
able chimney was full of swallows ; the garden-walks were
burrowed with mice ; the cellar was running over with rats ;
the door-steps were crawling with ants ; the fences were
loaded with gorgeous slugs ; the stable was full of un-
heard-of noises ; the driving-shed was full of foreign and
domestic tramps ; the air was full of noise from my uncle's
unoiled machinery, and foggy with dust ; and their patrimony
was alive by day with "swarming " bees and melodious by
night with feline professors of music. The dogs slept all
over the house, and scratched off their fleas all night long ;
and sometimes I myself slept next day till the sun was half
seas over. If anybody had been annoyed by this state of
affairs, my uncle would have stirred up strife between the
bees and the rats, and have starved the cats into an ancestral
relish for a mouse-diet ; he would occasionally have let a flea-
tormented dog loose upon the feline choir ; he would have
given me fifty cents to chop down the giant willow that
rasped against the stable shingles and to liberate the bumble-
bees that flopped inside against its panes of glass ; and he
would have placarded the driving-shed to the effect that a
beggar died there the previous forenoon of yellow fev«ir.'

"Now you are humping yourself, my boy! The great
mistake you make is to open fire in a slip-shod way. Start
with a laugh and wind up with a joke ; but work in your

Discouraging a Journalist.

twaddle, if you must have it, when you are ' half seas over.'
'"A neighbor of my uncle's isn't feeling first-rate this
summer. He fell out wilh a home-made ladder in his grand-
son's leaky bam, and had a rough-and-tumble set-to with an
insulted rooster in mid-air and with half a pound of new
shingle nails on the floor; and he swallowed four of his
sharpest teeth; and ruptured his left thumb; and hamstrung
the muscles hitching his left arm to his shoulder-socket; and
scared four out of the five children looking on into St. Vitus'
dances; and startled a seven-year-old mare into a circus per-
formance that destroyed eighty cents' worth of harness; and
finally the injured man hobbled himself home in a "dead
dream," not knowing afterwards whether became through
the carriage gate, or crawled through a gap in the fence.'

" My dear boy, you are like all the rest of us in one impor-
tant respect: you can' t do good execution till you get warmed
up to your work. You must have sweated out a couple of
neck-ties in evolving this. — Or did you catch onto it all with-
out an effort?"

" Without an effort, sir."

"Good! I begin to feel encouraged. All the same, I 'm
glad there isn't much more. — ' The newsmongers don't dis-
gorge here oftener than once a fortnight, so I can't give you
much news. Mrs. Hildreth and all the pretty little children
came scattering around one day, about three months ago.
Master Jimmy went over to HoUoways', to see what a spring
fire of HoUowayian rubbish smelt like, and presently came
blubbering back, with the downy hide all singed off his
manly face. He looked like a spring chicken that had had all
its pinfeathers scorched off with a vengeance. And we got
off without hearing much of what "they say." Jimmy is
of a most inquisitive turn of mind. Just the other day I
happened to be at the depot, when the family party were

la
fii

pi
tc

d
l

e
s

c
t

■yr-^.

II.— As an Unfledged Humorist.

s over,
tte this
> 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."

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

j<
a

//.— //s an Unfledfiied Htmorist.

mitten. vStrike up a friendship with the old man, Ap<iHo ;
thfn, if you will curry-comb that spavined old nag of yours
that we read about yesterday, and expose him where some
journalistic cow-boy can stampede him away for good and
all, Apollo may some day take you up behind him on Pegasus
for a little turn, when the atmosphere seems fairly clear.
You mustn'^t expect the careful old fellow to trust you alone
with his steed yet awhile. I shouldn't like to see vou break
your neck, you know. Meanwhile, there's lots of hard work

before you.

'* Now, if any unshaven poet comes around this afternoon,
tell him it's a cold day for bards and a good one for barbers,
and persuade him to bring his little manuscript around next
week."

"And Destiny, sir?"

" Won't bother you, if you stick.to prose."

•• Heinrich" did not commit suicide in despair ; he wrote
more picturesque letters to his chums, telling them that hi
had " captured " the editor.

m^)^'

l'*T^

i^iffS'if^ra'^"'"*" ■"'

The Musical 'Boarding-House.

■*?'■

THE MUSICAL BOARDING-HOUSE.

Comb and list the sad tale of a youth bowed in grief,

Who had sought in a "smart" boarding-house a retreat;
Where the larder was " short" on dessert and fresh meat,

But was " long " on cold pie, barley soup, and corned beef;
While the Uble was set with a lavish array
Of old glassware, that erst must have met with foul play.

It oft chanced the dessert was served first at this house.
If ' twas thought it might blunt a keen appetite's edge,
As at times it had done, till the boarders made pledge

To fight shy of all pie that might savor of mouse.

But one good thing accompanied this rare bill of fare —
' Twas the piquant remarks of a blonde pensionnaire.

As still ev'ning came on the new boarder retired
To his lone attic room, when a tap at his door.
And from regions below a loud-echoing roar,

Made him ope, to be told that his hostess desired
His attendance below, at a musical treat.
And they hoped he would kindly applaud with his feet,

If he could do no more ; but perhaps he could sing.
Down he went to the parlor, to find the mixed crowd
Of the resident beauty and youth, who were loud

In their honest belief they could make rafters ring—
And a tortured piano plain evidence gave
If its strings but held out, it would be a close shave.

Over this did preside a long-armed dibutanU,

Who could "claw the cold ivory" quite on a par
With a musical chump, with a basswood guitar.

T i|!;»n||,»i l .'<M .i ! l ]l | »j

eat;
leat,

•lay.

ieet,

The Musical 'Boarding-House. 39

(Who'd the paws of a bear and the face of an ant)

Which had been tinkered at with some rich-colored glue,
And then varnished up spruce in a deep crimson hue.

He declined them his voice, and he listened with pain
To the shrill alto trill of the blonde pensionnaire
And the cannon-like boom of the bass-voiced young heir.

In the intervals came a soft, bird-like refrain

From a patent cat-call, which the small boy would blow ;
While a strong man upsUirs loudly mouthed "Ostler Joe."

From this chic charivari he incontinent strayed

To the kitchen's repose, where faint sounds could pursue.
Here he said to his host, "Are you musical, too? "

And "the boss" straight whiw)ed out a mouth-organ and played.
But a choice ripertoire was all given more deft
Than the strains of hand-organ laments he had left.

There seemed one quiet room, at whose door he soft Upped.
Here there lodged a young minstrel, who made haste to say,
" I just throw in a handful of chords when I play :

I teach music at times, when I 'm laid off or strapped ;
And you'd find (here he keyed up an old violin)
That my terms are dirt cheap, with voice 'culchur' thrown in."

Then a weird, demoniacal, harsh-blended shout

Floated in from the rear, and he saw old dog Tray,
Where he bayed at the moon in his querulous way.

While old Pete and Melissa were yowling it out ;

And the sufierer straightway skipped up to his room,
To run foul of a wretch who do^e-tA in the gloom.

Inspiration from Music he life-long had drunk.

And it seemed here Euterpe, his goddess, was dead.—
Soon the hall door banged loud — the new boarder had fted ;

And the landlady smiled, as she locked up his trunk,
" He will get ' Hail Columbia ' when this thing goes.
And his bill — when he'll warble what few notes he knows ! "

How Peter Shuffled Off.

HOW PETER SHUFFLED OFF.

Old Pbtbr was a lazy cat,
That with old age had grown so fat
He never would bestir himself
To fight stray rats upon the shelf,
But dozed before the fire all day,
Or calmly watched the mice at play.
His motto was, " My work is done ;
I've killed bad dogs, and had great fun ;
Now, while this world keeps on its feet.
These folks must care for good old Pete."

And Peter's rights wen> 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,

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 !

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

lai

y
I

Hart Gilbert Palmer.

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-

,-»

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

b
t
c

__!.,JU.. " '• -t

Hart Gilbert Palmer.

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

Hart Gilbert Palmer.

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.

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

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

of
m
th
in
ci
te
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d
a

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.

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.

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

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.

" 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

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.

[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.

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.

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.

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.

ssmg<mmmm>mim

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.

«—

«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.!

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

V
\

The Privates and the Pirate.

Of fierce cor«irH' gol<I. of the dewl men coUl
In a ve«»eV« hoU. that the l.illow. rolled

In the dawning gray of a squally day-

J«.t to raise the hair, and mld.hipmen ware!

On the good ship sped, when 'twaa sn.hlet. said

""" Thaf a .trangeTraft bore to Van ^^T^^''

Off our larboard bow; and Hwa. ?""«'\ >;" '"*^'

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.

7he Privateer and the Pirate.

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
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.

rought.

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.

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.

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 be<l

My aggravated passions urge ;
And though I fain would do no crime.
With you, I fear, 'tis scoot or climb.

To the First Organ Grinder of the Season.

Our dime3 for Kaster-cards >we 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,

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'>!(^\

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.

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.

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"'"'

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^^

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Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

CIHM/ICMH

Microfiche

Series.

*;■

CIHM/ICMH
Collection de
microfiches.

Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques

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 ;

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

-"■¥' 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.

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<
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n

t(
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tl
h

Ci
SI

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

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.

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

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

My First Proposal.

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

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.

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|

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.

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-

(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£

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.

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.

"^^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 <lope with ; but he is the
undisputed owner of i, most unamiable rat terrier within
the town limits. This rat terrier is an ancient —a venerable
— canine, but it has none of the milk of human kindtiess in
its gaunt frame. Poor Hero ! He has caused more boys'
pants to be prefaced with big patches, and stopped short the
course of more sizable stones, than any of his congeners.

Soon we catch sight of a middle-aged man and woman
passing the compliments of the day as they meet each other.
Judging by appearances, one would fancy they must be
lovers, though they are rather elderly to indulge in the ten-
der passion. On making inquiries it is learned that presuma-
bly they are lovers — for they have been engaged these eight-
een years.

Here is Sam Weller's Hotel. Lounging under the shade
of a horse-chestnut tree is a remarkable individual, of a
youthful and jaunty appearance. His coat is off, but it is
hanging close by, spread out so that all its gorgeousness may
be seen to the best advantage. A pair of seven-dollar shoes
protects his feet ; a seven-dollar hat is carefully balanced on
his artistically cropped head ; a seven-dollar meerschaum is
dangling between the second and the third finger of his left
hand ; a seven-dollar gold watch-chain, freighted with not
a few seven-dollar trinkets of ample dimensions, fetches a
tortuous course across his natty vest, and disappears in his
vest pocket ; a seven-dollar diamond ring causes the fourth
member of his right hand to stick out and point jeeringly at
a boy shying stones at a stray feline. Who is this great
man ? is asked, with bated breath. It may be the proprie-

, ^4 Some Village Characters.

tor of the hotel ; but no, it — it must be one of Thomas
Nast's political comiptionists from the Capital. " I never
before," says a stranger, " saw a man who looks so like the
English lord of the Bow Bells. ' '

Curiosity is great, but it is soon gratified. A man who is
evidently no respecter of persons comes swinging along the
street, and seeks to insult the seven-dollar phenomenon with
these opprobrious words :

" Hello, Jim ! I want to get my hair cut."

We expect to see the noble lord start to his ttet in a burst
of awful anger. We expect to see, perhaps, a tragedy.
We do not wish to be impanelled on a coroner's jury, but we
resolve to see how this grandee will resent an insult. Per-
haps he will think the clown beneath contempt, we reason,
and go on peacefully pointing his finger — .

" All right, Tom," he says, with alacrity, and away they
go, and turn into a hair-cutting "parlor" round the corner.

In contrast to the village barber is the ancient village
pettifogger. In him we find nothing of the fop— in fact, he
is ratV "x shabbily dressed. Large goggles and a pair of star-
ing eyes give him an owl-like air of wisdom, which, .strangely
enough, is only intensified when he goes on a wild debauch.
Socially the superior of the barber, this latter makes consid-
erably more money, and is a greater all-around favorite with
the villagers. It follows, as a matter of course, that each
one mutually, and not unreasonably, disdains the other.

Though quite unable to gratify his me^tricious tastes,
the old pettifogger has the same inordinate love of gaudy
jewelry that distinguishes the barber. To be sure, he can
sport a venerable silver watch — and thereby hangs a tale.
A certain blind man of the village incurred a debt of several
dollars, through a gross oversight on the lawyer's own part.

!:1
lit

'H-ii^tt,>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-

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. ^

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,

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

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

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 <?ither or
e/ther ; and whether I myself smoke a twenty-five cent cigar,
or chew plug tobacco. I haven't the slightest doubt that it
will be necessary for you to know whether I brush my teeth
with 'Sozodont,' or with some obscure tooth-paste ; whether
I advocate cuffs made of celluloid or of eel-skin ; whether I
prefer as a beverage hard cider, sassafras tea, water-works
water, or buttermilk; whether I use hair-oil, or trust to
nature and the barbers to take care of my hair ; whether I
prefer the music of the hand-organ to that of the mouth-
organ, or the music of the tom-cat organ to that of the organ-
ette ; whether I carefully measure patent medicine out in a
spoon, or swig it down by guess work ; whether I wind my
watch when I get up in the morning, or when I retire at
night, or whether I wind it at fitful intervals ; whether I
write my letters with a cheap lead-pencil, or with a fountain
pen, and whether I strike my relatives for postage stamps,
or buy them singly at drug-stores. As I am somewhat
pressed for time to-day, I hope I shall not hurt your feelings

"^^

Her tMajesty's Customs.

3o he had

requested
get inter-
)t humbly
:stone dry

if I may

itisfactory

d into my
ill doubt-
stepfather
1 <?ither or
:ent cigar,
ibt that it
I my teeth
; whether
whether I
iter-works
: trust to
whether I
le mouth-
the organ-
le out in a
[ wind my
I retire at
whether I
a fountain
ge stamps,
somewhat
ur feelings

if I urge that you should get through with your inquisitic-
as soon as may be. In case, however, it is necessary for m
to undergo a medical examination, or be placed before an
insanity expert, I hope you will allow me first to telegraph
my friends and prepare a brief obituary for my tombstone."

This prompt manner of forestalling his programme seemed
to jar on the nerves of the dapper broker, while it completely
demoralized his "clerk." I presume it was not every day
that they encountered a man who could thus easily take
Time by the forelock and get ahead of their knotty ques-
tions. The young man upset one of his three ink-bottles,
and the "clerk" lost his grip on his gum.

"Where do you deposit all these valuable document^any-
way ? " I jeeringly inquired. ^

The eye-glass deigned me no reply, but the "clerk," on
whom I seemed to have made an impression, gasped out
that the papers were sent to .Ottawa. For this breach of
discipline I am sorely afraid that the "clerk's" magnificent
salary was afterwards docked five cents, or maybe ten.

" Are they scarce of waste paper down there ? " I asked,
trying to be sarcastic.

' ' I meet with a great many fools in my experience as a
broker," the young man replied severely.

I did not retort by saying that I also met with a great
many fools ; I kindly and respectfully told him that I was
very sorry for him.

Then he brightened up, and told me confidentially that
the Government had of necessity to use some formality in
collecting Her Majesty's customs. This proves that it is
better to be kind than sarcastic in dealing with the custom-
house broker. If I had retorted gruffly, he would not have
vouchsafed me that piece of invaluable information.

I thanked him gravely, and said that if I had known my

. i

114

Her tMaJest/s Customs.

handwriting was to be inspected by the Queen of Great
Britain and Ireland, I should have called for one of his very
best pens.

However, it was necessary for me to sign my name two or
three times more, and I will venture to affirm that I never
took so much pains to write it well. What did this avail
me, when I could not prevail upon either the broker or his
"clerk" to tell me which one of all the papers I had signed
would be reserved for Her Majesty's perusal?

All formalities were at last concluded, and I asked, in an
easy, off-hand way, if I could get my books that afternoon.

The ethereal young broker became indignant at once.
That afternoon ! I might consider myself lucky if I got
them inside of five days.

I paid him, in lawful coin of the realm, $8.30 (which in-
cluded his own fee and the over-charge), and w.'. ked out of
his office with a heavy heart.

I am happy to say that he over-estimated the time, as I
received my books in good condition three days later.

"^^^^^^^^

of Great
f his very

«/f Disillusioned Innocent.

me two or
t I never
this avail
vix or his
lad signed

:ed, in an
afternoon.

at once.

if I got

which in-
:ed out of

time, as I
ter.

A DISILLUSIONED INNOCENT.

A RECHBRCHfe ALLEGORY.

AN observing young man, from a tranquil and guileless
country place, once made his way into a great city,
and there made certain di.scoveries that shocked him. His
secluded country life had fostered romantic ideas that he had
always entertained about the habits and modes of life of dis-
tinguished men and well-known people generally. His
disillusionment was so complete and startling that he sought
out a shrewd old uncle of his, "who knew something of the
ways of the world, and unbosomed himself to this effect : —

"Why, uncle," he said, "I had the curiosity to call on
the greatest newspaper-poet of the day ; and instead of find-
ing a patriarchal-looking man, with the beard of a Moses
and the eyes of a pirate, I found a man who looked hardly
better or worse than the average New Jersey tramp. He
was sitting by a grate, groaning and whining over a vulgar,
insignificant com ; and there was an unpoetical look about
his finger nails, and a shipwrecked appearance about his
socks."

" Exactly, my boy ; and if you had asked him what he
had been doing all winter, he would have told you (if he
had been honest enough to tell the truth) that he- had been
trying to find out how many of the newspapers had copied
his poems. But perhaps he tore- himself away from the
grate after you went out, and wrote a neat little ballad about

Il6

t/1 Disillusioned Inmcent.

yourself, called 'Our Susan's Latest Beau.' In that case
the poet would forget all about his corns. It is dangerous
to go about the world intruding upon the sacred leisure of
those petulant individuals to whom the gods have given a
a pen.'*

"And I found, uncle, that a great railroad king, who has
more chimneys on his house than our postmaster has dogs on
his farm, has a pimple on his nose, a more heathenish head
of hair than a side show Indian, and an eye that squints so
savagely that he wears glasses colored so deep that he can't
see to read the weather bulletini>. 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

Il8

<tA Modern Columbus.

HOW A MODERN COLUMBUS
DiscovBRBD Chicago in 1893.

CRISTOFORO COLOMBO took naturally to the water.
Christy, as he was familiarly known to his chums,
when not damming up creeks wherein to give his neigh-
bors' cats elementary lessons in swimming, might usually
be found on the shady side of the wood-pile of his ances-
tral home, which nestled cozily under the segis of that por-
tion of South Chicago lying on the Kankakee River, only a
short journey from the heart of the World's Fair City. (At
least, the time-tables of the Chicago, Moon Crater, and Solid
Sun Air Line represented it as only a short ride ; but to
Christy's childish mind it seemed so far that he yielded when
his mother whipped him out of the notion of ever attempt-
ing to walk there.)

Christy did not loiter under the shadow of the wood-pile
for the purpose of rasping the family buck-saw through
hemlock slabs, because Italian-American genius does not
manifest itself in that way. When Chri.sty was not carving
out hopelessly unsalable puppets, he was either "discover-
ing " fish- worms in the moist soil by the wood-pile, or indus-
triously combing his head with his slender and delicate
nails.

EVEN HERB HB MADE DISCOVERIES,

and nerved himself for a future life of peril and vicissitude.
But Christy did not take kindly to fishing, exce )t that it

e/f Modern Columbus.

the water.
tiis chums,

his neigh-
;ht usually
' his ances-
if that por-
iver, only a
■City. (At
r, and Solid
de ; but to
elded when
er attempt-

; wood-pile
w through
IS does not
not carving
"discover-
le, or indus-
ad delicate

vicissitude.
:e)t that it

lured him to the water ; and he would dream away the long
summer afternoons in wondering how old he would need to
be before he could work the legislature of Illinois for a sub-
sidy to sail out into space on an expedition of discovery and
glory.

One Friday afternoon it struck Christy that he would send
out a messenger into the g^at unknown world, and patiently
live on bananas till its return. For the messenger he chose
was a fish, and his scheme was to insert in the tail of said
fish his father's sole remaining ear-ring. The return or
non-return of this fish must irrevocably fix Christy's destiny,
for he had resolved to stake his future on the issue, and
would abide by it. In this way: If the fish returned without
the token, it would prove that the world is a dishonest one,
find that Christy would need to exercise caution and judg-
ment in his wanderings ; if the fish returned with it, it
might prove either that the world is an honest one, or that
it does not properly value Renaissance jewelry, and that
Christy would be justified in sallying forth to teach mankind
the exalted delights of Bohemianism ; and lastly, if the fish
never returned at all, it would be Christy's bounden duty to
go iu quest of it and his father's lost ear-ring.

Of course the elder Colombo could not be persuaded to
part with so valued a jewel, as Christy well knew. But the
child of sunny Italy, though foreign-bom, was sharp enough
to be aware of the fact that his parent fiiequently took his
siesta with his jeweled ear unprotected, and seized such an
opportunity to despoil him of the ring. On what trifles,
and from what ears, does our destiny depend !

Cristoforo Colombo well knew this to be an unfilial and
machiavelian act ; but if the fish returned with the jewel all
would be well, and he could set out under a good augury.
On the other hand, if the jewel never showed up, a wicked

wmmtam^mim

ssaa

I20

e/f Modern Columbus.

world, not Cristoforo, would be at fault. But in order to
tranquilize his tender, South Chicago conscience, he resolved
to make a good catch offish that very afternoon for the fam-
ily table.

The fish was ear- ringed — or rather, fin-ringed — and suf-
fered to swim away. But the elder Colombo at once missed
the^<ya, and taxed Christy with petty larceny. The young
hero acknowledged his guilt, but pleaded his lofty and dis-
interested motives. He also pleaded patriotism, the duty of
parental sacrifice, the necessity of having a good augury,
and everything else that genius and a precocious Western
intellect could suggest. All in vain ; both parents were in-
consolable.

The greatest achievements and discoveries come about from
trifles ; and this boyish misdemeanor, so promptly found out,
was to result in one of the most unexpected and sinister
events of modem times —

THE DISCOVERY OF CHICAGO

and its whereabouts ! For the young Cristoforo (as he must
now be called) at once packed his pockets, in default of
having any trunks, took his jack-knife used in image-carving
and in beheading Kankakee River fish, rubbed himself with
three or four bottles of honest. Eastern-made, thoroughly-
advertised liniments, bade a tearful farewell to the moon-
kissed wood-pile, and left his lovely home and attic cot, to
sleep all night in a neighbor's wheelbarrow, preparatory to
a triumphant start on the morrow.

in order to
he resolved
or the fam-

— and suf-
>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-

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.

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.

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.

100

»o5
no

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.

«5

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 I<c»t Uiey •tiould cut off my meloHS.

But my grinning little awectlieart
Only tittered at their aalliea.
Only bade them mind their busineas.
How I loved my little sweetheart

30 In those oatmeal days of dad's clothes I *

But there came a birchen whaling
When her father, Janet's father,
Heard the rumor of our mooning.

He was glum, and bald, and big-eared,

35 And it rattled him and " r'iled " him

That hia child, hia squint-eyed Janet,
At her age should choose her own beau,
Should receive one as her lover
Who lacked gumption and hia liking, —

40 For my father once in anger

Had upset the old man's scarecrows;
And he harshly did enjoin her,
Under pain of no more 'earrings.
To forget that I existed ;

45 And mnde ev'ry preparation

For a sponge on his relations.

On the eve of their departure
I received a pie-stained letter
Prom my hungry little sweetheart.

50 "Now, old slouch, good-bye," was scribbled;

"We must wait till paw's relations
Tire of keeping two such eaters. —
Just one stare as we are leaving."

As their train jerked off that evening

53 I was standing close beside it ;

And she whom I loved so daflly
Craned her head out of the carriage,
Made wry faces, shied a packet.
Her farewell salute returning,

60 I secured the well-aimed packet;

'3«

*Thi« leems somewhat obKur.'. The meaninK is:
principally on oatmeal porridge, and strutted about in
raiment.— B. W. M.

when the hero lived
his father's rejected

132

How I Loved ami Lost my Janet.

84^
85

And the old " accommodiiUoii "

Slowly rumbled off my idol.

"Just one start," it was, too surely !

In the packet were her thimble,
Her bead ring, her pet dog's collar,
With her name and date, the legend,
"You can swap these for some fish-hooks."

Thus I parted from my Janet,
In the torrid heat of dog-days.
When the roads were rank with tired tramps,
And all Nature with mosquitoes ;
Quickest parting, crudest courtship.
Ever teasing two green lovers.

All my dreams were how to manage
To secure another sweetheart ;
All my days passed hoeing turnips.
As the days passed, so the hours passed.
Torrid, leisurely, and dusty.
And I chafed at so much hoeing.

But at last there came a message
From my absent, squint-eyed Janet,
Breathing still her breath of spruce gum.
Bidding me look out for two things:
She had found some one to spark her,
And her paw was getting homesick.
" Send no answer," she concluded,
"For you can not pay the postage."

If with me time would spin onward.
If in spite of all men's eflforts
Headstrong Time tvould reel off days' lengths,
Why not also with my Janet ?

The mementoes she had left me,
The assurance she still liked me,
Cheered me when my chores were hardest,
Fired my heart to fight the red-skins ;
And the merry laugh of jackdaws,
And the joyous song of ravens,
And the chuckling of Vermont tramps
As they roamed about on freight trains.

)8,

ths,

How I Loved and Lost my Janet.

And the crash or breaking soup-plates,

ICO And the vivid flash of lanterns,

And the moonbeams on the wood-pile.
Seemed to whisper, seemed to tell me :
"Days of house-cleaning and cold ham
Will come to you in the future."

105 But sometimes there came a war-whoop.

Came a sneer from gaunt mosquitoes.
Mocking ever came it to me :
" 'Tis dyspepsy that you cherish,
'Tis a mince pie you are chasing."

1 10 Oft I sought relief in fishing.

Oft I ran away a-shooting.
When, alas! my father trounced me.
Still my shiflless, flighty spirit
Urged me all day long to shirk work,

115 Urged me off, a sorry Nimrod.

Scrawny mud-hens, big fish-stories,
Could not soothe my parent's anger.
Brought my blistered palms no respite.
To cut out my unknown rival,

t30 To bring 'round her huffish father.

And secure his full approval
Of a courtship with his daughter,
I learnt fiddling, grew side whiskers.
Wore an actot's gaudy necktie,

las Wore big slouch hats for head-pieces.

And assumed a cowboy's hauteur.

When I next beard of my Janet
News came she had caught the measles.
Forced, unwilling, by her father

130 To go dunning where it rampaged.

As a school-bell which all fun spoils,
As a wasp's sting on a dog's nose,
So these tidings fell upon me.
What to me were fiddling parties,

t3S What to me were stolen apples.

What were sombreros and "siders,"

'33

134

How I Loved and Lost my Janet.

If my Janet had the measles ?
This last sorrow overtook me

III the days of damp November,
140 When the chilling rains of autumn

Made lagoons along the way -side ;

When the birds, with empty paunches,

Tripped about in search of fish-worms,

Eager to begin their journey
14s To the pickings of the Southland.

On that fatal day the storm-gods

Seemed to rise with aching stomachs;

All the skies looked blue and sulky.

All the air was full of Jack-frost,
150 All fat turkeys were uneasy.

All things showed Thanksgiving coming.
All my passions glowed within me

Like a smouldering firecracker;

And unable to control them,
155 I rushed forth to try the weather.

And the damp and soggy meadows,

And the dripping trees of woodlands,

And the marrow-chilling north-wind,

Seemed disposed to bring on tooth-aches,
160 Seemed the weather to give hoarse colds.

I could hear the village youngsters

Yelling in the neighb'ring valleys,

Where they bnilded dams and bridges ;

While their dogs barked, and their coughs barked,
165 As they builded, shouted, waded.

I had but one thought to guide me,

That I must reach some retired place.

Reach a likely haunt of squirrels,—

For the winter nights were coming,—
170 There to bag a few more beech-uuts.

With this prudent thought to guide me,

I betook me towards the streamlet

Which we two had crossed together

Noontime on a rail-and-board raft.

irked,

How I Loved and Lost my Janet.

175 And the scrub trees by the streamlet,

Climbed by urchins in the summer.
Climbed by scart cats at all seasons.
Seemed to beckon, seemed to call me,
Cried in tones untuned, yet jeering,

180 ' Tones lugubrious, yet noisy.

As a small boy's ten-cent trumpet :
'"Twas a vain chase to pay house rent."

Then the hail began to patter,
And I wandered towards the youngsters,

185 And I shied a stone among them

— And I hied me headlong homeward !

135

i-"

136

Sing Me the Old Songs.

SING ME THE OLD SONGS.

All the day long have I listened your singing,
Dear little niece, whose least note is an anthem.
Listened, methought, to the singing of angels ;
For such sweet harmony rings in the cadence
Of your grand voice, that in compass is godlike.
That we are carried away in the spirit
To that fair land that is promised the blessdd.

Trained as your voice is, 'tis Nature is singing.
Nature, not art, which can charm where art faileth.
As is full proved when you sing homely topics.
Yet there's a rapture in hearing glad music
As it rolls free in the Tuscan of Dante,
Or when you ding in the softest Castilian,
Changing anon to a sad song of Heine's.

Oh, may your gift be a blessing from Heaven,
Cheering mankind in their joumeyings thither !
Sing not for fame, not for gain, but as duty
Prompts your kind nature to comfort the wretched ;
Be it your mission to sing for the masses;
And, since your songs are a promise of Heaven,
Chaut the grand psalms of inspired old hymnists.

Sing Me the Old Songs.

Many a time in the days that are buried,
Though still by me they are sadly lived over,
There was another who sang me sweet home-songs
III a loved voice, that is silent forever.
Dear little niece, you know well my sad story ;
Somewhat sing now as they sang in your childhood.
Sing me the old songs, as she used to sing them.

For my own part, English accents are dearest,
And the old melodies, hallowed by mem'ry ;
Old recollections are stirring this evening,
And the old heart-break, that nothing can conquer.
Asks for the songs that were sung by that other.
Sing my loved songs, though it pain me to hear them ;
Sing me the old songs, as she used to sing them.

137

ng.

ng,
Ah,

ed;

• '^' B

>38

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.

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

'¥-

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

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^^

■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.

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^

In scholars' homes, as they wouI<l bring
Pledge of a child's affection strong-

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 "

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

•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."

'''*^

-^^

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<i''-ared with red ink and stamped on the left hand,
"Secure through tickets via the Great Line."

" Many ? " cried the youth who was crazy about folders.
"I've got more of 'em than you ever saw ! "

" Glad to hear it," said the office-boy. " But if you nevei:
had one of ours before, I'm mighty sorry for you."

" I have. Besides, I live here, and that makes a differ-
ence."

*^'ff?"f*

hereto-day?"
as he walked

le ticket-agent,
vn road.
"Oh, no; I'm
m crazy about

suppose," said
T and shoving

the lank you Lb
of all sizes and

hat he doesn't
t-agent, with a

ng forward, all
the left hand,

about folders.

Jut if you nevei:

you."

makes a differ-

■ ' ij4itfjj ! it4v ! aiWWA ' ^A-i«" ' WJaH^^ja3wa-j!W4.^^

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0

I.I

Hiobgraphic

Sciences

Corporalion

23 WIST MAIN STRUT

WnSTiR,N.Y. 145M

(716) •72-4503

CIHM/ICMH
Collection de
microfiches.

Cnadian Inttitut. for Historic.! Mlcroroproduction. / Irrttitut eanodlon do microroproductlon. hIMoriqun

[

-■V

■*•

The Folder Fiend.

173

"Shouldn't wonder. D' you ever hear of the Goose-bone
road ? or the Squint-eyed road ? or the Sad Farewell road ? ' '

"Do do . You don't mean the ' Nickel' Plate,'

or the ' Scenic Route ? ' " stammered the folder fiend.

" No, I don't. We always mean what we say here, for
if we didn't, we'd be fined eighty per cent, on pro rates."

The youth who wanted folders looked dazed. He began
to comprehend that there might be some things about rail-
roads that he didn't know; some things that the folders kept
secret, as it were.

" I am always on the look-out for new folders," he said,
"and I wish you'd give me those you mention. I always
try to keep a weather eye on the railroads and the folders,
and I'll bet you there isn't one I don't know, if you call it
by its proper name. ' '

" Shouldn't wonder," replied the office-boy. " But if you
wouldn't try to keep your eyes on the weather so much,
perhaps they wouldn't look so red. And as for the railroads
and the folders, I'll bet you don't know three out of thirty-
.seven by nickname ; and if you don't know the nickname
you oughtn't to go nosing around for folders."

" Name one properly that I don't know," cried the youth
who wanted more folders.

"Sho! what's the M. C? "

" Michigan Central ! You see, I've got you this time."

"No, you hain't!" roared the office-boy. "There are
three M. C.'s."

"Three? You — you must mean the Dining Car Line,
then, or the Scenic Route."

" No, I don't. But, see here — which is the Scenic Route,
or the Dining Car L,ine, anyway ? Which is it, or where
does it run, when there are nineteen of one and eighty of
the other?"

174

7he Folder Fiemi.

" Nineteen ! Eighty ! Why, isn't the Denver and Re6-o
Grand'-ay the scenic line of America ? "

" Is it ? I thought it was that, and the Erie, and the B.
& O., and one of the P. roads, and the Hollow Bell, and the
Orphan's Luck, and the Warrior Note, and the Shock-haired
Crank, and the Bandits' Prey, and the Lonely Run, and the
Goblin Eye, and the C. P."

" Central Pacific ! " caught up the lank youth hopefully.

" Who said anything about the Central Pacific ? " sneered
the office-boy. " Don't you know there are seven C. P.'s,
and three more building ? ' '

" You don't say so ! " cried the folder fiend.

" I don't, eh ? I thought I spoke it right out."

" Give me some folders of them, then," with an eager look
in his watery eyes.

" You wouldn't know them if you got them. Why don't
you learn railroading, as I have done, and then you wouldn't
have to go about asking questions and making a fool of

yourself. ' '

"There must be an awful lot to learn," sighed the sore-
eyed youth, looking dejected and humble.

" Creation, yes ! But you appear to know something,
already."

" Well, I hope I do — and I really think I do. Trj' me,
now ; give me a hard question."

" I'll give you an easy one — a beginner's. What's the
route from New Glasgow, Nova Scotia, to Chihuahua, Mex-
■ ico, via Long Island Railway ? Also distance, connections,
and fare. Not in money, but in the way of grub."

"Xhe— the—. I—. That's not an easy question! I
know better ! "

"So do I know better; it's the easiest one in the book.
Come, now ; you wouldn't give it up, would you ? "

T and Re^-o

and the B.
Jell, and the
ihock-haired
Lun, and the

li hopefully.
: ? " sneered
:ven C. P.'s,

t."

m eager look

Why don't
^ou wouldn't
ng a fool of

bed the sore-

j something,

lo. Trj' me.

What's the
uahua, Mex-

connections,
lb."
question ! I

in the book.

3U?"

The Folder Fiend.

175

"The book? What book?"

" Worse and worse ! ' What book ! ' — Why, I mean the
Railroad Catechism for Freshmen, put out by the Hanging
Beam Railway Co."

' ' Will you let me have a copy, please ? ' '

" Let you have one ? I'd be hot-pickled by the company
if I gave one away ! Why, they pay sixty cents apiece for
them, and they're secretly distributed by incognito book-
agents."

" I never knew you have so much fuss and nonsense about
railroading," sighed the lank youth, looking wearily about
him. "But say, tell me what you mean by 'hot-pickled.'
Do you mean bounced ?"

" Bounced ? I guess not. I mean ear-whiffled, that's all.
But that's bad enough, you know."

"No, I don't ! You're a humbug, you are ! There are
no such cranky railroads as you talk about."

"There ain't, eh ? I wish you'd prove that ! "

" Well, tell me now, do tell me, the inside name for your
own road."

"The Rock Island, or the Rock Island Route."

"Is that all?"

' ' That all ! Ain' t that enough ? "

" Hasn't it any nickname, outside of your own selves? "

"Not worth a cent."

"Honest Injun?"

"Certain sure."

"Well, I'm glad to know that, anyhow. I suppose I've
got that solid. Say, what's ear-whiffled ? "

"Shut up in a box car with the rats, where they're bunt-
ing and banging into you all day long, shunting. 'Sh ! don't
tell!" . ^

" I won't. But does it scare you any ? "

176

The Folder Fietui.

"Awful. Gives you nightmare and makes your nose
bleed."

" I don't believe you ! "

"Then I wish you'd go away and not bother me. I've
got to mail some matter to Denver."

"Have they many folders in Denver ? "

" I expect they have."

" Denver, Colo. ? "

"That's the Denver I mean."

"Many railroads?"

"U. P.; Burlington; Rock Island; Rio Grande; Texas
and Gulf; Santa F6 ; and some local Colorado roads."

" If you had tried to fool me there, you'd have been sold,
for I know Denver by heart. Got an uncle there, and I 'm
going, too, some day."

" Glad to hear it. I hope we ain't detaining you.— But
say, who talks of fooling anybody ? You're too fresh, or
you'd know better."

"Tell me the nickname of the I. C. road," pleaded the

folder fiend.

" Which I. C. ? Don't you know there are three ? "
"What three ? " defiantly answered the folder fiend.
"The Illinois Central, the Intercolonial of Canada, and
the old Isinglass Co. ' s road in North Carolina. ' '

" Is there such a road ? Give me a folder of it, then."
"We're out. Go so fast we can't keep them."
" Well, tell me what you call the Illinois Central."
' ' The Dixie Hammer, or the Laughing Stepchild.
"Boy," here interposed the ticket-agent, "if you string
ofiF any more heroic legends I shall not be able to believe you
myself.— Here, young man,",to the folder fiend, " take this
packet of folders I've carefully made up for you. The in-
stant a company shall build an all-rail line to the Sandwich

your nose

me. I've

ide ; Texas
jads."
e been sold,
re, and I 'ra

you. — But
oo fresh, or

pleaded the

iree?"
:r fiend,
[panada, and

t, then."

tral."

hild."

f you string

believe you

I, "take this

)u. The in-

he Sandwich

The Folder Fiend.

177

Islands, we will remember you, and send you a folder.
Meanwhile, perhaps you'd better not call around again til!
next leap-year, for you have picked up information enough
to last you till then."

"If we find we can't get along without you, we will cer-
tainly send for you, ' ' cheerfully said the office-boy.

The folder fiend snatched up the packet of folders and
walked away, happy, yet feeling grievously discouraged.
When he opened the packet he felt still more discouraged ;
for it contained time-tables only, with never a map.

' ' This is mean ! " he exclaimed. ' ' This is a mean joke ! —
Upon my word, it's All-Fool's-day ! "

But genius is not easily dismayed. That night he wrote a
peculiarly affectionate letter to his uncle in Denver, asking (ap-
parently incidentally) if his uncle, the next time he went
down to the Union Pacific, Burlington, or Rio Grande ticket-
offices, would kindly procure for him the following-named
folders: The Goose-bone, the Dixie Hammer, the Goblin
Eye, the Warrior Note, two or three of the different C. P.'s,
the several Scenic Routes, the Intercolonial of Canada, the
Hanging Beam, and the Mexican Central. Any others that
might chance in his (the uncle's) way would prove equally
acceptable. "You see, uncle," he wrote, "I'm determined
to learn railroading, for I want to become a practical rail-
roader. I have found out that the great roads have even a
literature of their own. But I have no intention of losing
heart, even though I should be ear-whifHed when I do get
on a road."

In five days he heard from his uncle, to this effect :

''My Dear Henry : — Somebody has evidently been mak-
ing a fool of you. I do not accuse you, you will perceive, of
wishing to play an April-fool joke on me. As for railway

178

The Folder Fieiui.

maps (and this seems to be the burden of your letter), get
the names of roads from the daily stock reports, or, better
still, from the Official Guide. Go down to the office in your
own town, where they are very courteous, and politely ask for
what you want. They have an unlimited supply of folders ;
but you must be polite. Of course if you dropped in to buy
a through ticket to Yokohama, you might be as boorish as a
Boston tramp on his travels, and they would forgive you. Go
ahead and learn railroading, by all means, but don't suffer
yourself to be guyed by anybody ; and some day I will strike
you for a pass to South America.

" Your aflfectionate uncle,

"William Shipyard."

The folder fiend now felt utterly discouraged. And there
was one thing that bothered him sorely : what on earth was
the Official Guide ?

How could he again ask for folders at the ticket-office ?
"I guess," he muttered sadly, "I guess I'd better give up
railroading, and study law. It will be just a little easier, and
it can't be such a humbugging thing."

ft*-,,fe*

letter), get
5, or, better
ice in your
tely ask for
of folders ;
d in to buy
)oorish as a
e you. Go
ion't suffer
[ will strike

ncle,

[PYARD."

And there
n earth was

icket-office ?
ter give up
e easier, and

A Severe Test.

'79

A SEVERE TEST.

WKLL, old pard, how are you, and how are. you get-
ting along now-a-days ? " demanded a rough old
barbarian, returned to his native district after an absence of
many years, of a good-natured granger, who was trying to
lead a better life. " Manage to live any better'n you used
to ? Manage to live without pinching and starving your-
self?"

"Eh? Well, I guess I hain't starved to death yet, nor
sponged my board off 'n the neighbors.— But, I say, you're
looking first-rate. How — . " '

' ' Just so. But I hear your family is very much reduced
in size, compared with what it used to be fifteen years ago.
How well I remember, now, that when my missus give one of
your boys and any of the neighbors' boys a hunk of bread
and molasses, your boy'd gobble his'n down so almighty
suddent that it would fill a tramp, 'most, with pity for him ;
but t'other boy'd nibble a mouthful off and on, and tell us
the news about the folks to home and his sisters' beaux, and
feeze off and on, and bimeby, if you didn't watch him pretty
sharp, he'd up and give more'ii half his piece to our old
dog."

" Oh, that's how you kep' your dog, I ippose? That's
why he always had the mange, and poorheaUfi, and a sickly
constitution, ain't it, 'cause he got too mnch of your own
bread and molasses ? "

" I dunno about that ; your boys always seemed to bear up

l8o

A Severe Test.

under the diet my missus doled out to 'cm — atul thrived on
it, too. But, I say, what's the cause of your family's being
weeded out so? Hain't starved any of 'em scnce our folks
left these diggings, I reckon ? "

"(ireai Orsar's _^/tosi /—Well my girls are mostly
married off,— and you bet they're well married, too, — and
my l)oys are mostly settled down in Colorado and the

Dakotas."

"I'm mortal glad to hear you say so, Hiram. Yes, I
don't doubt it ; wouldn't doubt it for a minute. The boys
stood it just as long as they could, and then they cleared out.
But it's a mortal shame for them new countries to be settled
by under-fed men. Likely as not they didn't grow their
growth out, now, eh ? I shouldn't wonder."

" See here ! Do you take me for a meek man? Do you
take me for a Quaker, now ? Do you take me for a weak,
helpless, worn-out old pop-corn man? Do you calculate on
my muscles' being paralyzed, or on your tender spots' being
bomb-proof? I see you ain't drunk, and you needn't expect
I hain't no feelings to outrage. Do you expect I am going
to let this sort of thing continue ? See here ! I hain't joined
no peace-at-any-price society ; I hain't leagued myself with
no anti-Nihilist gang. See here ! If you don't look out, I
shall be sent to jail for six months, for assault and battery; —
and jott won't be a mighty sight better off ! "

" Come, now ; don't get r'iled, Hiram.— But really, now,
don't you sometimes think that pri.son fare would have been
a good change for your boys, when—."
" I warned you ! "

"Golly, Hiram! 'Pon my word, you can light out as
reckless a blow with that fist of your'n as an old Revolu-
tionary musket ! You can rely on it this bruise 'U smell of
Thomas's oil to-night. A little more practice, Hiram, and

thrived on
lily's lieiiiK
L' our folks

are mostly

too, — and

lo and the

ini. Yes, I

The boys

cleared out.

be settled
t grow their

n ? Do you
for a weak,
calculate on
spots' being
:edn't expect

1 am going
hain't joined

myself with
: look out, I
id battery; —

: really, now,
Id have been

light out as

old Revolu-

se '11 smell of

!, Hiram, and

A Severe Test.

I8l

you'd 'a' bunged my eye into my brain. I didn't mean to
wound your family feelings right up to a pommelling p'int ;
but I heard you'd swore off on all cuss words, and I told the
boys I wouldn't believe it till ! tested you. So I struck out
on this here starvation racket, becau.se I knowed it was a
good one. I didn't make you swear worth a cent, though
you came powerful nigh it once or twice ; but I'd feel some
better off if things had turned out as I expected. All the
same, I beg your pardon, Hiram, for you was provoked.
I'll forgive you, too, for this here bruise ; for I deserved it,
and you always tried to be a pretty good neighbor. Let's call
it square."

" Durnedif Idon't!"

T'#«<r^ .=^.*asi*

■^irngmmmmmmmmsmm

iHi

7he Loiig-Siifft'riiij( 'Tramp.

THE LONG-SUFFERING TRAMP.

OT any employment here for an able-bodied man,
that wants something to do? " inquired a jaunty-
looking tramp, as he stepped into the printing-office of a lo-
cal weekly newspaper that terrorized over a quiet Hoosier
town.

" Want to make your fortune, I suppose ? " said a blonde
young man, who had begun parting his luxuriant hair in the
middle the next day after his mother left off combing it for
him.

" Yes," put in another fawn-colored youth, who sported a
home-made watch-chain, sagged down in the middle by a
shining brass watch-key. " Yes, indeed ; he looks as if he
needed to make a fortune pretty badly."

" A fortune — or even a hunk of a one ! " supplemented
the office-boy, coming out of his corner. " »Say, mister,
what kind of employment have you mostly been used to
lately?"

"Oh, any soft snap like you fellows have, that pays a
man's board for sitting around and keeping his hair combed,"
said the tramp cheerfully. Then fiendishly : "1 guess I
know better' n to think there's any fortune to be made here."

" I don't suppose the man ever had more than two bits in
his life," said the blonde with the luxuriant crop of hair,
ruminating on his own princely revenues, which could afford
him a treat of cigarettes and peanuts every other day.

I MP.

odied man,
1 a jaunty-
fice of a lo-
iet Hoosier

id a blonde
t hair in the
nbing it for

ID sported a
liddle by a
oks as if he

pplemented
ay, mister,
;en used to

Lhat pays a
Ir combed,"
' ' 1 gness I
nadehere."
two bits in
rop of hair,
could afford
r day.

7be Lonn-Snffering Tramp.

•«3

"Hadn't, ch?" snorted the tramp. "I once owned a
hull town, out in Arizona."

" But now ? To-day?" insisted the blonde with the watch-
key.
• " Well, sotniy, I ain't busted plumb to shucks to-day."

"No," said the carefully combed blonde, "I suppose
you've got a brass watch, and an old satchel hidden away
behind the freight-shed, and some cold goo.se somewhere in
your frouzy overcoat, and a horn of apple-jack in your pistol-
pocket. ' '

"And 'most a dozen cigar-stumps tucked away in yer
grea.sy vest," chimed in the office-boy.

"You be hanged!" snarled the tramp. "How many
times a week does your parents have to clean the cigar-stumps
out of ^yt^K^ pockets ? Or," sardonically, "do you manage
to find time to smoke 'em all ? "

" What's the matter?" roar6d the "editor atid proprietor,"
opening the door leading into his "sanctum," and cmniug
his bald head into view.

" I'm poking fun at these chicken-pocked noodles here,
stranger," explained the tramp.

" What you want ?" .shouted the " editor and proprietor,"
jumping to his feet, while all the ink which, in the course of
years, had been absorbed by his fingers, oozed out again into
his face, making it black.

" Well, I was thinking I'd like a little employment ; but
I ain't very particular about it to-aay, I guess, anyway."

"I'll give you a little employment, though, all the same.
You just step down and out into the street, and turn towards
the setting sun, and keep straight on till you begin to per-
spire freely."

"Well, old chump, I guess I'll accept your kind offer,"

r/5

1 84

7be Long-Sttffering Tramp.

said the tramp. " Good day, gamins ; I'm sure you'll give
me a good ' send off' in your snide paper."

" Good day," sang out the office-boy. "I guess 'keep-
ing straight on' is the kind of employment you've mostly
been used to lately."

Then the " editor and proprietor " locked himself up in his
sanctum and wrote a double-leaded editorial on Rampant
Vagabondism, proving conclusively that the Administration
will lose the next Election, if it can not protect honest, hard-
working citizens from the insults of the unshorn, ravening,
audacious tramp.

So Let T>eath Haste.

185

you'll give

iess 'keep-
ve mostly

;lf up in his
1 Rampant
ministration
onest, hard-
I, ravening,

SO LET DEATH HASTE.

The iiiooii that you have loved, I've loved her, too ;
Not that I've basked in her mild light so oft,
Or drunk her radiance with eyes so soft,
Or that sweet, dreamy pleasure ever knew.

That has been yours, as in the evening dew

You wandered joyous through the little croft

To your loved stream. The days of childhood doft.

How often have you bade a fond adieu

To one who proved the hero who should keep

Your heart, 'gainst suitors all, 'neath Luna's light.
I loved you with a madness that could weep

Your coldness, though it won but your despite. —
Mayhap your inmost thoughts in my death-sleep
I'll know, so quit this life, and yield the fight.

'Tis winter now, but ere come summer's heat

O'er my lone grave your dear-loved silver moon
Will fitful shine, through glorious nights in June,
While forth you wander, to hold converse sweet

With one you love so well, and low repeat

Fond vows to him alone, or love-songs croon.
So let spring come ; it brings a lasting boon ;
I've loved my last, and known my last defeat.

You will not laugh at me, I can not think.

When I am still in death, nor one tear waste ;
I would not have it so. To rest I sink

That you have peace. It may be I shall taste
The red lips you denied me, and shall drink
Their sweetness in my sleep. So let death haste.

1 86

How the Hatchet Came to be Buried.

HOW THE HATCHET CAME TO BE
BURIED.

An Allkgory.

TO THE MEMORY
OF THE LATE LAMENTED CAPTAIN KID,
WHO NEVER STOLE ANYTHING FROM ME, OR DID ME ANY

HARM,
AND FOR WHOM I CHEERFULLY SPEAK A GOOD WORD.

^^ A LL things come to him who waits." including the

r\ opportunity for vindication.

Thus it fell out with a young man, who, apparently, was as
powerless to avenge himself of cruel injustice done him as the
mouse caught in a trap is powerless to retaliate on its human
captors.

But what is impossible to that man who is resolved to
accomplish his purpose? In fact, in this case the ways and
means came about so easily and naturally that it seemed a
manifest destiny he should make use of them. In a word, he
would write up the history of his wrongs, and give it to the

How the Hatchet Came to be Buried.

187

O BE

(ID ME ANY
>D WORD.

:luding the

mtly, was as
e him as the
n its human

resolved to
be ways and

it seemed a
n a word, he
ive it to the

world in the form-of an amusing novel. To the limited num-
ber of people who were indifferently well acquainted with the
facts, it would be a revelation ; to the great outside world, it
would simply be another of those readable books that are at
once vaguely characterized as having been written " with a
purpose. ' ' As for the interested persons themselves, it would
probably always remain a sealed book to them, for they were
to be so mercilessly exposed that no sane individual could
expect them to get beyond the fifth or sixth chapter.

It was a pretty scheme, and ever>'thing seemed to favor it.
In the first place, he had .several damning letters, which
had been written to him, to quote from, so that he could con-
demn the enemy " out of his own mouth ; " and in the next
place, by revisiting his old home he got possession of a great
ma.ss of evidence, that would materially strengthen his case.

It was a complicated history, and the young man, who may
be called Despierto Aniquilando Nemesis (which is a more
poetical and sonorous name than his baptismal one), soon
found that it would not be necessary to deviate a jot from the
truth to make it interesting. Indeed, every trifling incident
seemed to fit into the frame-work of his plot so naturally that
he could not help felicitating himself on his unique scheme
of retribution.

It was not long, however, before events happened that in-
duced him to call a halt, and he found that it would be expe-
dient to drop out one or two supernumerary characters and
quite necessary to introduce some others. Some whom he had
fondly thought guiltless he found to be as culpable as the
principals ; and, singularly enough, they possessed character-
istics that would show admirably in his story, and relieve its
occasional monotony — a monotony that could not be avoided
so long as the truth was rigidly adhered to. For what is

-w- -^

l88

How the Hatchet Came to be Buried.

more monotonous than a life of hardship ? This being the
case, he determined to introduce some new features, and blend
the pathetic with the ridiculous.

Everything favored the growth of the story. Despierto
was not altogether a novice with the pen ; otherwise he would
not have undertaken a work of such magnitude. But he was
staking his reputation on the book, and he worked with ex-
treme care and deliberation. He considered his cause a just
and holy one, and wished to prove equal to the task he had
set himself, and to make his book a faithful exponent of his
wrongs.

It was highly important to him to know how a petty ca.se at
law would be conducted — and strangely enough, a case arose
in which he was first plaintiflf and afterwards defendant. He
thought this a hardship at first, as it consumed a great deal
of his time and was an insufferable annoyance ; but what of
this, when he had obtained, from personal experience, the very
information he so much needed ? This was not all : the one
thing that troubled him was how to wind up, exactly
how to color the catastrophe ; and here was his opportunity.
He saw in a flash that this last event could be skillfully
worked in, so artlessly that it would seem to have been pre-
determined upon from the outset.

All incidejits in the book were now harmoniously bal-
anced, and in its completed state he found that it fully
justified his expectations. An impartial critic would not
hesitate to pronounce it worthy of Despierto' s vengeance, and
an intelligent public would not fail cautiously to admit that
the new author had got there with both feet. At least,
so reasoned Despierto. He went further ; he even fancied
that if his enemies (as he persisted in regarding them, though
he never spoke of them, either for good or for evil, outside

being the
and blend

Despierto
2 he would
3ut he was
1 with ex-
luse a just
sk he had
lent of his

;tty case at
, case arose
dant. He
great deal
lut what of
:e, the very
1 : the one
p, exactly
>portunity.
; skillfully
; been pre-

ously bal-
it it fully
would not
;eance, and
idmit that
At least,
en fancied
;m, though
I'il, outside

How the Hatchet Came to be Buried.

189

the family circle) could be brought to read it dispassionately,
they would be obliged to acknowledge its merits. He forgot,
foolish fellow, that however just criticism may be, it is never
tolerated by the criticized. And what i:i the truth but a
species of criticism ?

Yes, the book was written ; all that was now necessary was
to find a publisher worthy of it. And here is wherein lies the
raison d'iire of our tale. Despierto received a conditional
offer from a publishing house. It was not specially tempting,
but the house was an honorable one, and had prestige enough
to assure the success of any book of real merit that it might
issue, however obscure the author. One would naturally
think Despierto would consider himself a made man, and ac-
cept the offer by telegram, instead of waiting for a letter to
reach the publishers.

Instead of doing this, he at once began to show symptoms
of that strange contrariety that we sometimes see in human
nature, but never in the lower animals, and which proves
that Solomon was in the right when he advised the sluggard
to go to the ANT, consider her ways, and be wise. Briefly,
Despierto repented himself of his scheme of vindication. He
put the case to himself in a blunt, repellent way that fairly
staggered him. "Because an Indian does his best to scalp
me," he said to himself, "is that any reason why I should turn
to, and scalp him, when chance throws him upon my mercy ?
For instead of Providence delivering my enemies into my
hand to destroy them, perhaps it was to spare them. Sol
will do as David did to old man Saul, I will content myself
with chopping off their coat-tails, figuratively speaking.
They never had any notion of magnanimity, and till now, I
have had none. Perhips they are too old in heart to learn ;

190

How the Hatchet Came to be Buried.

but /am not, and I will think twice before I fire my bomb-
shell into their camp. ' '

The next day Despierto thought better of his good resolu-
tions, and was on the point of writing the publishers, when
he again hesitated. At length he decided on taking three
days to think the matter over. He began to wish that he
had not put his case quite so strongly —or rather, that he
had not told the bitter truth with so much engaging frank-
ness.

But it was not without a terrible struggle that Despierto's
better nature finally triumphed and he was master of himself.
Virtue, in this instance, was not its own reward. The young
man's resources ran low, as he had anticipated them while
engaged in writing his book, in the certainty of being able
to effect its immediate sale. He was forced to get into debt,
in a small way — debts that would not have troubled a care-
less man, but which Despierto felt keenly, as he had no
instant prospect of paying them oflF. The precious time he
had devoted to his new book was irredeemable. Despierto
neither asked for nor expected sympathy, and told no one
his troubles ; but sometimes in his desperation he felt like
cursing all mankind, and almost wished he had introduced
a great many others into his book in the garb of villains,
and painted all his bad characters blacker than he had

done.

This period in Despierto's life is so dark that it were best
to pass it over. He had waited before, and the opportunity
to vindicate himself had come, and now another weary time
of waiting brought its changes.

He showed his manuscript, after the darkness had in a
measure passed away, to but one friend — a friend who could

How the Hatchet Came to be Buried.

191

e my bomb-

jood resolu-
shers, when
aking three
nsh that he
aer, that he
ging frank-

Despierto's
r of himself.
The young
them while
" being able
et into debt,
ibled a care-
he had no
ous time he
Despierto
told no one
he felt like
i introduced
) of villains,
iian he had

it were best

opportunity

r weary time

ess had in a
id who could

be implicitly trusted. The conversation that was held
when his friend returned it is given herewith : —

" If you have told the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth," said his friend, who, since he could not easily be
called a wor.se name, may be called Orgulloso Apesadum-
brado De.sagrdvio, " I don't see why you should hesitate one
moment to give this to the world, which always sympathizes
with the down-trodden."

" It is absolutely tnie," replied Despierto, "even to min-
utiae. Of course there are anachronisms, — lots of them, —
but they don't count. You will have noticed that I show
myself as having been in the wrong on one occasion. But I
wish to forget my enemies, and so forgive them. You know
the Divine command is, 'Judge not, that ye be not judged.'
The chances are that at the last day we shall all need all the
mercy we can get. Mind you, I dcn't lay claim to any great
virtue in taking this course"; it is as much a question of
indignation that has burnt itself out, as of forbearance."

' ' Yes, but as I take it, it never was a question of venge-
ance with you, but simply of vindication. I will confess to
you, Despierto, that at first I was a little bit jealous of your
work, and I was prepared to agree with you that it should
be withheld. But I overcame my unworthy feeling of jeal-
ousy, and now I strongly advise you to publish it, and let
your enemies take the consequences. Send it to the same
publishers, if they are still prepared to accept it, and let your
thunderbolt fall. According to your showing, they had no
mercy on you, when common humanity should have
prompted them to mercy."

"No, perhaps not. But why should I adopt their
tactics ? ^Nemo me impuiie lacessit ' may be a good enough
watch- word, but there are better ones."

. ;.-:;v_..:i=>f^''

193

How the Hatchet Came to be Buried.

"Do they know about this scheme of yours? And are
you sure it would have the effect you anticipated ? "

"Yes, they knew all about it from the first, and were
ashamed enough. Their shame ought to satisfy me."

"No, Despierto ; it is one thing to be ashamed, and an-
other to be repentant. They will laugh at you for being so
Quixotic."

' ' They don't know the meaning of your Quixotism. As
for their bad opinion, I have always had it, and always ex-
pect to have it. It has neither hurt me nor annoyed me. If
I can enjoy a tranquillized conscience and a feeling of being
more civilized than I was before, what is the odds what their
opinion may be ? "

"I will speak bluntly with you, Despierto, and tell you
WxdXyou don't know the meaning of the term 'civilization.'
If you were out on the plains, in danger of being eaten alive
by wolves, would your superior civilization forbid your shoot-
ing the.se wolves ? ' '

"What would be the use of shooting them, if I could
intimidate them in some other way ? If all the world went
about avenging private wrongs, this planet would soon be
given over to the wolves. Come, I don't wish to pose as an
Indian brave, who must have the scalp of everybody who
insults him. Besides, in this instance, some innocent peo-
ple would .suffer with the guilty, and that would be outra-
geous."

"That is your one rational argument. Is there noway
to get around it, though ? How many of these innocents

are there ? ' '

" Enough to form a picnic party all by themselves."
"Well, how do you know your book would affect any-
body, in any way whatsoever? "

How the Hatchet Came to be Buried.

•93

j ? And are
I?"

t, and were
' me."

ned, and an-
for being so

:oTiSM. As
\ always ex-
oyed me. If
ling of being
Is what their

ind tell you
civilization.'
g eaten alive
i your shoot-

i, if I could
; world went
ould soon be
to pose as an
erybody who
nnocent peo-
ild be outra-

here no way
:se innocents

selves."

i affect any-

" Because I tried the experiment, in a small way, some
years ago, and twice since ; but I never learned its effect but
once."

" Well, did it have the effect you anticipated for it?"

"Even greater; I was utterly astonished at the result.
But I afterwards fraternized with my antagonist, and we
called it 'square.' "

" And do you expect to ' fraternize ' again, in this case,
Despierto ? ' '

"Oh, dear, no ; as I told you, I wish to forget, and so
forgive. I never could bear to punish anything — not even
my dog."

" And I dare say your dog was the most notorious one in
the neighborhood. Your enemies will misinterpret your
motives, and persecute you as of old, if occasion should
arise. 'Even the worm wijl turn,' but you won't, eh?
Then you may expect to be insulted and ill-treated ; though
I dare say you could once have quoted Scripture to prove
you were all right in your scheme of retaliation."

' ' Certainly I could have. But I am not doing anything
out of the common way ; don't you remember that in Shake-
speare's play of ' Measure for Measure,' even the scoun-
drel Angelo is pardoned ? "

" Yes ; but he doesn't deserve it, and is first exposed."

" Consider Lynch Law, Orgulloso. It is better than no
justice at all ; but the vigilantes are not the most civilized
men in the world. And I have found that others might
have treated me almost as cruelly, had they had the
opportunity. I thought I had a wide experience of human
nature, but this spring I learned something new. Did you
ever find yourself hard up, Orgulloso ? "

" Once ; and man's inhumanity broke my heart."

194

How the Hatchet Came to be Buried.

" Well, that was ray predicament. If I had let the book
go— ."

"Exactly; you spared your enemies at the expense of
ruining your fortunes."

"Yes; but, Orgulloso, it gave me the opportunity of a
life-time to prove my friends. At one time I told every-
body that I was going away next week — always next week
— and they fell away from me daily. If they chose to
think I meant mischief, I let them think so ; till at last — ."

" Proving your friends, eh ? And how did you come out?
Not much better than ' Timon of Athens, ' I warrant you. ' '

' ' Not a great deal better, perhaps. There were some old
friends, that stuck to me like a bur; and one, whom our peo-
ple had befriended, away back in the 'fifties, took half an hour
to explain why — ."

" I understand it all. 'Away back in the 'Fifties ' is the
name of your initial chapter. Say, what are you going to
do with your book ? Going to lay it in the grate, and put a
match to it, and so sacrifice it to your absurd whims ? "

" No ; for that would certainly fire the soot, and so the roof.
No ; I will keep it ; and if I ever feel the old bitteme.ss again,
in all its intensity, I will dust it off and read it over — bitter-
ness, book, and all."

" So you are content to have a year cut out of your life,
to all eternity ! "

" Not altogether lost time, however. I am stronger than
I was a year ago — I hope, more generous. ' '

" Don't you recall what the old philosopher used to say,
Despierto, that it is better to be just than to be generous ?
Are you wiser than he ? "

" You put a wrong construction on that, Orgulloso. Be-
sides, I mean to ' remodel ' the book, and bring it out yet."

d let the book

le expense of

wrtunity of a
I told every-
ays next week
they chose to
till at last— ."
^ou come out ?
varrant you."
were some old
vhom our peo-
k half an hour

Fifties • is the
; you going to
-ate, and put a
ivhims?"
md so the roof
ttemess again,
; over — bitter-
it of your life,
stronger than

:r used to say,
be generous?

rgulloso. Be-
git out yet."

How the Hatchet Came to he Buried.

195

" You can't do that. A man-of-war might as well be
cut down into a merchantman. It wouldn't prove .sea-
worthy."

" You don't understand me. I shall re- write the entire
book, using such timbers, to follow your nautical phrase, as
can be made to fit into the new craft."

"Well, Despierto, if you leave out the twenty -eighth
chapter, you will sink your ship. If the first one never
leaves port, the second will never make it."

" I hope the contrary, and will risk it."

' ' Your new book will be like a man without any nerves in
his organization, or like a ship without any crew to man and
sail her."

' ' Perhaps so ; perhaps you underrate my resources. In
any case, it would be more like the captain of a peaceable
and respectable ocean liner than like a swaggering old pirate
chief, with a blood-stained cutlass in one hand and a horse-
pistol in the other, minus both his thumbs and short a knee-
cap."

"Just so, Despierto; you will be taken for a boasting,
blustering fellow yourself, whose words are mere bluff.
And see here, is not your pirate chief a greater favorite
with the general run of readers than your ocean captain, who
couldn't properly load a horse-pistol, if his life depended on
it ? But seriously, you do wrong to instance the pirate in
your comparisons ; to suggest the commander of a man-of
war, commissioned to make reprisals on the enemy, would
be a neater way of putting it."

' ' Yes, but you see in my book they are pretty much all
rascals, and quasi pirates, and id genus fitnne."

" To be sure ; I counted them, and you have managed to
pick up SEVEN DEVILS. Any one would naturally infer that

196

How the Hatchet Came to be Buried.

you had l)een down to Jericho, ami had fallen atnonR thieves,
surely enough."

"Just so ; my ink ran a little too black. To return to our
tomahawking Indian again, I may say of them as Mark
Twain once said, the fact that an Indian likes to scalp people
is no evidence that he likes to de scalped."

" What is the application, Despierto ? "

" Because they enjoyed fixing up a gallows-tree for me, as
high as Haman's, you surely don't suppose they would see
any fun in being dragged round the walls of their own Troy,
do you ? ' '

' ' But suppose they should open fire on you again ;
wouldn't you slip the cable, and let the good ship stand out
into the open, with ' NO surrender ' flying slily from the
mast-head ? ' '

" I don't know ; I think I have washed the war-paint from
my face for good."

" Well, will you let me read your book again ? "

" Why so ? It must be such an undertaking to read five
hundred pages of manuscript that I thought you would con-
sider it a doubtful compliment to be asked to read it at all."

"It takes practice, that's all. I want to find out the
reason why you weakened at the last minute. Why, Des-
pierto, you are throwing away the opportunity of a life-time.
Your enemies could never pay you back in your own coin —
that is, lAey could never write either a readable or a market-
able book ; and if they should attempt it, no reputable
publishing house would take it up, for either love or money.
So you had them in a tight place."

"I know it; but you know 'it is excellent to have a
giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous to use it like agiant.' "

"True; but when the parties of the first part were the

iton({ thieves,

return to our
lem as Mark
3 scalp people

ree for nie, as
;y would see
lir own Troy,

you again ;
lip stand out
lily from the

ar-paint from

I?"

: to read five
)u would con-
;adit at all."
find out the
Why, Des-
of a life-time.
ir own coin —
or a market-
no reputable
>ve or money.

nt to have a
ike agiant.' "
part were the

Hbw the Hatchet Came to be Buried.

'97

giants, it was lawm-'L. These would not have given you
leisure to mood over Shak^ i)eare, nor to inciuire into the
hnhits <.S the genus |)irate. However, argument is wasted
on you, Des; 't^rto. — Well, in any case, you niu.st have had
lots of fun while writing that book ? "

"I^tsof it!"

"Come, now, what is your motive in throwing up the
sponge ? ' '

" I have hinted at it several times; now I will tell you :
/ don't 7vant to go into the While Cap business ! "

198

/4n cMeitie yerhrene Liebste.

GROANS THAT FOUND UTTERANCE
After the Vkvx, of the Second Babylon.

An Mbinb VERI.ORENE Liebstb.

I. — To Destiny at Last I Bow.

With cruel drag eight weary years

Have come and gone, I know not how.
My boyish dreams were wide of truth,
My heart is not the heart of youth ;
Yet the old love still glows within.
Yours the one smile that I would win.

To Destiny at last I bow,

And yield vain hopes to saddest fears.

II.— Thb Scarce and Bitter Fruit of the Summer of 1884.

Would to God, oh ! would to Heaven,
That these days and nights of torment
Might give place to just one moment
Of that happiness of old days.
Which I knew ere yet I ventured
To write books and dream of * * * * *;
Which I knew ere either sweetheart —
Either ****** of my boyhood.
Or yet ***** of my manhood —
Had wrung my fond heart with anguish,
And veiled all my life with darkness.
That will haunt me to my death-bed.

VNCE

LON.

1th,

vin.

IIMEK OP 1884.

/In iMeine yerlorene Liebste.

III.— A November Moan.

I FIND this but a weary world,

That holds in bondage many a slave,
And I the chiefest ; for I feol

Such crushing blows upon me hurled,

By friends, by foes, and by that knave
Called Fortune, deaf to all appeal.

My visions the same shadows cast.
When into unborn years I peer.
With anxious, yet with hopeless gaze,

As those reflected by the past ;

Which way I turn, this world's no cheer,
Grief-laden nights succeed drear days.

E'en dreams bring to me haunting fears.
The sick'ning failures of a dead
Yet living past are lived again ;

And I, since naught this life endears.
Despairing wish for death ; hope-fed
No more, my only meat is pain.

The disappointments of the years,
The dear illusions I have held.
The giant wrongs that I have borne —

These come again, as day appears.

And I, awak'ning, have not quelled
The sorrows that by night 1 mourn.

If but the past were really dead,
If I might know to-morrow's >un
Would rise to show a brighter day,

Would rise to show a nightmare fled!

Could I but know the worst were done,
But know my pain were gone for aye!

199

i !•

20O An tMeim Verlorene Ltebste.

IV.— IvOVB Me Just a Litti^e, Swebtheaht.

LovB me just a little, sweetheart,
In repayment of the many
Sad and weary years I've worshipped
Prom afar, with rare intrusions.
Craving now and then a letter.
Once entreating for your picture.
Yet ne'er forcing my attentions;
Maddened by your calm indifF'rence,
Stung to anguish by the cruel
Way in which you viewed my passion.
Which you termed infatuation.
Yet through all so fondly loving.
Spite of all, so blindly loyal ;
And if ever bitter feelings
Rose in angry condemnation
Of your treatment, on the morrow
It repented me full sorely.

Love me just a little, sweetheart,
Is the last of my petitions.
Surely, now the end is coming
Of a life that you deem worthless,
You will feel a woman's pity,
And may know a moment's sorrow.

Not that I e'er wished to pain you.
Or now think that any lasting
Grief will trouble one I cherish,
As through years of patient suffering
I have cherished you, unmindful.
Yet I fancy you may heed me
When I ask, with ebbing pulses.
For the love I've craved so fiercely.

Nature can no longer struggle
With the burdens laid upon her.
And the end of all is coming.

/4« IMeitie l^erlorene Liebste.

20 1

lEART.

No reproaches now I utter;

Nor think you the lire self-taken,

Which is worn with years of watching.

Yet a last time I would ask you,
Ere the end come, swift and painless,
Love me just a little, sweetheart.

v.— Adios, N8I.1.Y, Adios.

Though I had thought to love you for all time,
My best beloved, and with this hope had borne
With fortune's adverse blows; though I had sworn
To keep my love for you pure through the grime

Of years, and trusted that, as in its prime,

So it would e'er remain, till death had worn
Out life, and at one fatal stroke had torn
Away all hope, and life, and love, and crime,

And buried all forever in -the dark.

Untroubled grave ; yet now, alas ! I find
This love may die, and I yet live. The spark

Of life as well dies now, bereft of blind,

Unconquering love for you, who ne'er would hark.
So, then, farewell to all this world unkind.

But a visit to the dentist played havoc with the pretty idea of "Adios.'

202

Two Incidents in a "Brave Man's Life.

TWO INCIDENTS IN A BRAVE MAN'S

LIFE.

ABOUT the year 1787 Joseph Trickey, a young mechanic
living in Cornwall, England, set sail for Canada, with
the intention of taking up land along the St. Lawrence River.
He left behind him kind parents, a devoted brother, Henry,
and a happy home ; but being naturally of a roving and ad-
venturous disposition he prepared to embark with a light
heart and with no fears for the future. Before leaving home his
friends, from far and near, came to bid him a tearful farewell
and wish him every success in his hazardous undertaking.
Emigration in those early days was quite diflFerent from what
it is to-day; it was then only daring and resolute spirits that
had the hardihood to seek their fortune in the wilds of the
New World.

Joseph was to write home immediately on his arrival in
America. But weeks lengthening into months brought no
tidings whatever from him. At that period, the close of the
last century, strange ideas were entertained in England re-
specting the newly-established government of the United

H.J

fe.

Two Incidents in a 'Brave Man's Life.

203

MAN'S

iing mechanic
Canada, with
wrence River,
other, Henry,
oving and ad-

with a light
iring home his
earful farewell
undertaking,
mt from what
ite spirits that

wilds of the

his arrival in
iS brought no
le close of the
I England re-
>f the United

States. There was still, of course, no little hostility felt to-
wards the enterprising Americans, who had dared to dispute
the supremacy of King George, assert their independence,
and maintain it, too. Not a few of Joseph's prejudiced
friends in Cornwall boldly asserted that the young man had
been enslaved, imprisoned, or even murdered by the triumph-
ant Americans for presuming to settle in Canada. Joseph's
mother mourned long and sorely for him, and after eighteen
months of weary waiting, sickened and died ; while Henry
Trickey, senior, the father of the family, made strenuous but
unavailing efforts to trace him, or to find out what his fate
had been.

After the lapse of two years the younger Henry deter-
mined to go in search of his lost brother. He embarked in
a merchantman from Plymouth to Quebec direct, " working
his passage," as his brother had done before him.

In those early days every well-equipped merchantman
carried at least one heavy cannon, and the good ship Trans-
port manned a couple of redoubtable forty-pounders. Henry
was a resolute young fellow, of dauntless courage ; but the
grim-looking caimons made him feel the more at ease. It
chanced that these g^uns were needed. One morning, in mid
ocean, as the sun rose a strange ship was descried, bearing
down upon them under full sail — a piratical-looking craft,
beyond all question. She had stolen upon them during the
night, and could probably easily overhaul the heavily-laden
Transport. The captain, however, determined to crowd on
all sail, and do his utmost to keep clear of the stranger till
night, when, under cover of darkness, he might hope to es-
cape by changing his course. Captain Lucas, like all British
seamen, was brave, even to recklessness ; but his policy, as

204

Two Incidents in a 'Brave Man's Life.

commander of a merchantman, was always to avoid a con-
flict with sea-rovers.

On sweeping the horizon with his glass, the captain made
out a brig to the southward, far in advance of him. He fan-
cied he was making better headway than this ship, and if he
could press on and receive assistance from her, the pirate (if
such his pursuer should prove to be) would perhaps give up
the chase. The sailors piomptly manned the yards, and soon
every available sail was set to the breeze, which was fair and
steady. Next the captain had the ship's small-arms care-
fully inspected and cleaned, special attention also being paid
to the big guns. The port-holes of these guns were then
covered with canvas ; the object being to deceive the pirate,
and lure him on, so that in case a juncture could be eflfected
with the brig to the southward, he might find that he had
caught a Tartar.

The Transport, of course, was conspicuous both to the
ship in advance and in the rear, although these had mani-
festly been unable as yet to sight each other. The piratical-
looking stranger was perceived to be steadily gaining on
them, and towards noon Captain Lucas, seeing that escape
was impossible, calmly made every preparation for a struggle.
But he did not slacken sail, wishing to put oS the rencounter
as long as might be.

The ship to the southward was now made out to be an
American merchantman. Captain Lucas apprised her by
signals of his danger, and she at once hove to. A further
interchange of signals showed him that he could not look
for any but moral support from his new-found friend, as she
carried no guns ; but she made preparations to intimidate
the pursuer.

fe.

avoid a con-
captain made
im. He fan-
hip, and if he
the pirate (if
rhaps give up
irds, and soon
I was fair and
lU-arms care-
so being paid
ns were then
ve the pirate,
lid be eflfected
that he had

both to the
se had mani-
The piratical-
y gaining on
ig that escape
for a struggle,
he rencounter

out to be an
)rised her by
o. A further
>uld not look
friend, as she
to intimidate

Two hicidents in a 'Brave Man's Life.

205

Meantime, the pirate, for such she undoubtedly was,
gained rapidly on the Transport. At two o'clock any linger-
ing doubt as to her real character was dispelled by the run-
ning up of a black flag. The pirate ship evidently perceived
that there was no time to be lost in attacking and disabling
her prey. By taking the ships singly, two prizes would
probably be secured, instead of one. No doubt the piratical
commander thought himself in great luck.

The Transport, under full sail, bore down towards her
new-found friend, whilst the pirate steadily pursued, gaining
on her uninterruptedly. Shortly after four o'clock a puff of
smoke was seen to curl from the deck of the pirate ship, and
a shot came crashing through the rigging of the Transport^
carrying away her top-gallant sail and colors.

This angered Captain Lucas beyond all endurance, and he
resolved on a spirited resistance. The canvas was removed
from the port -holes, and the first mate, who was an expert
gunner, he having served in the navy, levelled one of the
Transport' s guns squarely against the enemy. The aim was
well taken, for the ball cut down the pirate's mizzen-mast.
This feat called forth the liveliest applause from all on deck,
and the American brig saluted them in triumph. To Henry
Trickey, coming from a seaport town, such scenes were
highly inspiriting.

So unexpected and vigorous a reply from the Transport
seemed to impress the pirates strongly, and before they could
recover from their consternation the mate of the Transport
followed up his advantage by firing a second shot. This
was a masterly effort. The ball struck the pirate hull fairly
on the water-line, directly under the foremast, and staved in
her bow. No ordinary ship in those days could withstand

2o6

Two Incidents in a 'Brave Man's Life.

such an accident ; and it was apparent at once that the pirate
must go to the bottom. There was evidently a panic on
board, but no demonstration came from the piratical crew.
The black flag still waved — and, yes ! another puff of smoke !
The grim old pirate chief, who had probably never given
quarter, expected none, and would strike a last blow before
his ship went down. But the aim was hurried and faulty,
and the ball flew harmless over the bowsprit of the Trans-
port.

Captain Lucas at once ordered two yawl-boats to be
launched and put off to the rescue. This was an act of com-
mon humanity on his part ; but the pirates, thinking he
wished only to take them prisoners, chose rather to put to sea
in open boats, and cried sullenly to the rescuing party to be-
gone. Two persons only remained behind on the sinking
ship, who cast themselves adrift in a frail craft just before
she went down, and were taken up by the Transport's boats.

The Transport waited to take on board her own crew and
boats, when she at once made sail in pursuit of the escaping
pirates, joined in the chase by the American merchantman,
which had hitherto been a passive spectator of affairs. The
two pirate shallops spread each their sails, and pulled away
in different, but converging, directions, thinking to escape
capture. The pirates knew that capture now, by either of
the merchantmen, meant trial and execution as soon as the
nearest port was touched at.

The captain kindly inquired after the rescued men, and it
transpired that they were not of the pirate crew, biit prisoners
among them. While refusing to take part in any of the out-
rages perpetrated by the pirates, or to submit to their domina-
tion, these two young men yet consented, on condition of

lat the pirate
y a panic on
ratical crew,
uff of smoke !
never given
blow before
[ and faulty,
»f the Trans-

-boats to be
n act of corn-
thinking he
to put to sea
J party to be-
1 the sinking
ft just before
'orVs boats.
)wn crew and
the escaping
lerchantman,
affairs. The
pulled away
ng to escape
, by either of
ts soon as the

1 men, and it
biit prisoners
tiy of the out-
their domina-
condition of

Tvio hiciiieiits in a 'Brave Man's Life.

207

their lives being spared, to perform the ordinary duvi^-s of sea-
men, and both were frequently called upon to practise their
trade, the one as a carpenter, the other as a worker in iron,
for the benefit of the Freebooter— whxch, they said, was the
name of the scuttled ship. They were always confined in the
hold when the pirates were in active pursuit of prey, and
their life was at best a wretched one, but they were sustained
by the hope of eventually making their escape. When the
Freebooter received that terrible shot from the Transport and
the pirates saw that she was doomed, one of their number
came to the hold and set the two captives free, with a caution
to keep well out of the way till they could make sure of es-
cape and rescue.

Of the two rescued men, one was from Cornwall, and his
name was Trickey— Joseph Trickey. He had recognized
Henry at once ; but it was with the utmost difficulty that
Henry could recognize, in this careworn and prematurely aged
man, his lost brother, whom he was crossing the ocean ex-
pressly to find. The ship's entire company shared in the joy
of the two brothers in their strange re-union. Joseph's story
was a marvelous one, but it can be given only in outline :
The ship in which he sailed for Canada had been attacked and
scuttled by these same pirates, and he had been virtually a pris-
oner in their hands ever since, except for two days, he having
once escaped, only to be re-captured. His fellow-sufferer,
Frank Miller, was an American who had fought gallantly
throughout the Revolutionary war, and had been captured by
the pirates at a later period. Joseph and he naturally be-
came firm friends, and formed many plans to escape from their
slavery on board the pirate ship, but were always too prudent
to jeopardize their lives till the opportune moment should
come again.

208

Two Inciiients in a Urave Man's Life.

Captain Lucas hotly kept up the pursuit of the pirate crew
in their open boats, ably seconded by the American brig.
But for the providential destruction of the Freebooter, it
would have fared hardly with this American vessel, as she
would surely not have escaped, even though the Transport
should have.

The two pursuing ship.s came within easy hailing distance
towards evening, when the American brig proved to be the
Commonwealt':, of Philadelphia, homeward bound, under
command of Captain Henderson. Not long thereafter both
the escaping shallops were overhauled - - one by the Trans-
port, the other by the Commonwealth. The former ship was
especially fortunate in capturing the piratical chief himself.
The pirates, to the very last, doggedly refused to surrender,
but, overawed by the Transport's gui.s, — for which they had
the greatest respect, — were constraiijcd to do so. They had
to be ironed at the point of the sword, and were then incar-
cerated, twenty-five in the hold of the Transport, and twenty
in that of the Commonwealth. It has not often happened in
marine chronicles that a merchantman has so easily been a:ble
to overpower a corsair, and take all her crew prisoners.

The two vessels now lay to alongside each other, and the
two jubilant captains tosolved to spend the night together^ on
board the British meTchautman. The ships' crews also
mingled freely together, and the greatest goodfellowship pre-
vailed. Their triumphant shouts and songs rose high above
the execrations of the wretched pirates.

Piracy being a capital crime, it need scarcely be said that
the pirates, when delivered up to justice, met their deserts.

It has been said that Joseph Trickey's companion in serf-
dom was an American. Joseph and he had mutually agreed,

i. '"<•■<

le pirate crew
iierican brig.
Freebooter, it
vessel, as she
;he Transport

iling distance
)ved to be the
aound, under
lereafter both
»y the Trans-
•mer ship was
chief himself,
to surrender,
hich they had
0. They had
re then incar-
■/, and twenty
1 happened in
sily been a:ble
risoners.
ither, and the
t together^ on
s' crews also
jllowship pre-
se high above

y be said that
jeir deserts.
>anion in serf-
tually agreed,

Two IncUents in a Urave Man's Life.

ao9

if they should recover their freedom, to take up land on the
Hudson River and settle down as farmers. Jo.seph, on leav-
ing home, could not have been persuaded to settle in United
States territory ; but his friend had convinced him that his
prejudices against the Americans were absurd.

Henry Trickey's mission might now be said to be accom-
plished. But he was easily persuaded by his brother to go
with him and establish himself on New York's famous river.
The entire crew of the Commomvealth took a generous inter-
est in the young man, on account of his brother's and their
countryman's singular history, so that he could not but have
the most kindly feelings towards Americans.

It was this spirit of good-will on the part of his new friends
that induced Henry to cast in his lot with Joseph. Accord-
ingly, when the two ships parted company in the morning,
Henry had his simple trunk transferred to the Commonwealth,
and sailed away in her with his brother and Frank Miller.

Joseph and Henry Trickey and Frank Miller took ship
from Philadelphia to New York, and thence up the Hud-
son River. They did not halt till in the neighborhood
of the old Dutch town of Schenectady, whither Miller's
relatives had betaken themselves during his absence. Here,
in the course of time, first Henry and then Joseph married
each a sister of Frank Miller, and settled down tranquilly to
farming in the beautiful Mohawk Valley. As the years
passed, the brothers prospered in their vocations, and sent
for their father to come over and live with them. Henry
Trickey, senior, came at their urgent request, but did not
live long thereafter, dying about the beginning of the pres-
ent century.

Henry Trickey, the younger, removed to Whitehall, near

I*.

ato Two liuUents in a Tirave Man's Life.

the foot of Lake Champlain, about this time, and it is with
Joseph's fortune that this history has now principally to deal.
The years came and went, till in the eventful one of 1812
war with Great Britain broke out. At that period Jo.seph
Trickey was a middle-aged man, owning and cultivating a
magnificent projierty, well stocked and equipped, but hav-
ing little or no capital besides. He was not naturally a
money-making man, and the large family growing up under
his roof was always provided for liberally. The war had
scarcely been proclaimed when his eldest son, John, a young
man of twenty, enlisted under General Van Rensselaer, and
afterwards took part in s^'veral engaKcments.

The spring of 1813 finds our old hero, Joseph Trickey,
entering into a contract to supply the United States Govern-
ment with fifty tons of hay, to be delivered at Plattsburg, in
July. This was a considerable quantity for him to under-
take to supply, yet he felt no uneasiness about being able to
fulfill his contract, though the Government had of necessity
to be exact, and eveti severe, in having their contracts car-
ried out to the letter.

Misfortune, however, seemed to follow poor Trickey all
that spring. He lost two horses in the Mohawk ; three or
four men that he had employed forsook him to engage in
General Dearborn's attack on Fort George, and it was diflS-
cult to fill their place ; and, last of all, a June freshet spread
over his meadows, soaking and spoiling a large quantity of
his hay. He made good this loss by buying of his neigh-
bors ; but hay was scarce and dear, and all his profits were
swallowed up by this outlay.

At last he was prepared to deliver the stipulated quantity
of hay to the commissariat at Plattsburg. As it was all but

SS£

'■anr^

d it is with
lally to deal,
one of i8i3
sriod Joseph
ultivating a
:d, but hav-
naturally a
iig up under
'he war had
hn, a young
isselaer, and

;ph Trickey,
ates Govern-
lattsburg, in
m to under-
jeing able to
of necessity
ontracts car-

Trickey all
(vk ; three or
to engage in
i it was diffi-
reshet spread
e quantity of
of his neigh-
i profits were

ited quantity

it was all but

Two htcUents in a Brave Man's Life.

311

impossible to procure teams to haul the hay, he conceived
the idea of floating it up on a raft. With the assi.stancc only
uf his younger sons he constructed n large and buoyant raft,
and transferred to it twelve tons of hay, which was as much
as he thought advisable to carry on a trial trip. Taking
with them a small supply of provisions and an old flint mus-
ket, he and one of his sons pushed off" the same day. To
the boy it promised to be a glorious pleasure-trip, and even
the man experienced a keen sense of enjoyment as they
floated slowly away from their moorings. But again disas-
ter only awaited him. The raft proved unwieldy, and a
severe thunder-storm coming uj), he ran foul of a sand-bar,
and his entire load of hay was washed off" into the river ;
whilst the bulk of what had been left at home was seriously
damaged.

Trickey felt this loss keenly. He would not only be
unable to fulfill his contract, but was losing time that should
be devoted to his farm. But he gave way to no vain repiu-
ings. Again his brave and patient spirit as.serted itself ; he
resolved to return home at once and make one more strenuous
effort to redeem his pledge.

On reaching home he scoured the country far and near to
make up the fifty tons of hay. He wrote to the commissariat
at Plattsburg that he could not deliver the hay on the
appointed date, but that he would certainly do so by the
middle of the month, making no mention whatever of his
many losses. This was his old English pride, that caused
him to look on misfortune as a disgrace.

Trickey had made a rash promise, and one which he was
unable to fulfill. Undue exertion and excitement brought
on a fit of sickness, and when he got about again, on the

212

Two Incidents in a Brave Man's Life.

20th of July, all the marketable hay he could muster was
thirty tons.

Two days later he was placed under arrest, by order from
Plattsburg, for breach of contract. The hay was seized and
taken away, while he, after an informal trial, was lodged in
the Schenectady County jail.

This was a severe measure ; but as viewed by the military
authorities, who did not enquire into the circumstances, it
was justifiable. It was known that Trickey was a native
Englishman, and unkind doubts were entertained of his
loyalty to the United States Government, now that they were
at war with Great Britain. The irascible officials did not
know that he had had to contend with grievous and unlooked-
for difficulties, nor consider that his son was bravely fighting
the country's battles.

The jail in which the unfortunate man was confined was
a primitive structure, rudely built of unhewn logs, and dating
back to the seventeenth century. Trickey saw at once that
he could easily make his escape from it, and he resolved to
do so, trusting to Executive clemency for a full and free
pardon. He bore his persecutors no malice, knowing that
his case was misunderstood ; but he wished to get back
to his farming interests, and not remain a prisoner till
his incarcerators should see fit to liberate him. Perhaps
this was not logical reasoning, nor yet good policy ; Trickey
was rather a man of action than of reflection. It is certain
that he accounted it no crime to effect his escape, in this
instance, from jail. Brought up a carpenter, he had practiced
his trade in his own interests ever since settling down to
farm life, and was seldom without a few simple tools about
his person. The tools required for his purpose were an auger

I muster was

)y order from
'as seized and
vas lodged in

y the military
lumstances, it
was a native
tained of his
hat they were
cials did not
md unlooKed-
ively fighting

confined was
gs, and dating
1^ at once that
lie resolved to
, full and free
knowing that
I to get back
prisoner till
lim. Perhaps
licy ; Trickey
It is certain
:scape, in this
: had practiced
ttling down to
le tools about
were' an auger

Two Incidents in a Brave Man's Life.

215

and a strong knife, and these and some others he now hap-
pened to have in his pockets. He had not been subjected
to the indignity of being searched.

There was a barred window, none too secure, but it was
above his reach, and he contemplated no attack on it.
The walls were but wooden walls, — of logs a foot thick,
certainly, —and beyond them was liberty ! His jailer visited
him but three times a day, to bring a scanty meal, and the
time of his rounds was carefully noted. On sounding the
wall of bare logs, Trickey found a spot that would suit his
purpose admirably. His first move was to wrench a spike
out of the floor, and thrust it into the wall, just adove the
spot thus chosen. On this spike he wished to hang his coat.

When the jailer came in the next time, Trickey took his
coat off this spike and sat down on it to partake of his frugal
meal. At the time of the next visit the coat was hanging
on the spike, and this time was not removed. At the third
rcund, Trickey had his coat on, the air being rather chilly.
The spike and the coat looked innocent enough, and the
jailer paid no attention to them. But every time thereafter
that he made his rounds the coat hung on its spike, and was
never again taken off.

The captive had a stout inch auger with him, as before
mentioned, but no handle for it. But with his clasp-knife
he ingeniously fashioned a handle from a splinter cut out of
the wall, in the spot indicated as covered by his coat. He
then proceeded laboriously to bore holes in this spot, with the
object of removing a square block of wood, large enough for
him to crawl through. This was a very slow and. wearisome
piece of work, but Trickey persevered in it manfully. How
to dispose of the borings was a difficult problem, and at first

214 Two Incidents in a Brave Man's Life.

he stowed them away in his pockets. Careful search, how-
ever, disclose! a cavity in the floor, where not only the bor-
ings but other fragments from the hole being made in the wall
could safely be secreted.

After three days' labor with auger and knife the task was
completed. Trickey had carefully measured his size at the
shoulders, and a square of wood could now be taken out of
the wall, leaving an opening large enough to admit the passage
of his body. Hanging his coat on its spike again, and care-
fully spreading it out as usual, so as entirely to cover the
auger holes, he waited, with the same calm patience that he
had exercised all his life, for the night to come. Then he
removed the block of wood, squeezed through the opening,
and quietly made his way home. Once safe at home, he did
not fear re-arrest, though apprehensive of harsh treatment if
detected in jail-breaking.

He was right in his conviction that no further attempt
would be made to molest him. Several influential men in
his district took up his case at once, and sent a memorial of
the affair to General Dearborn and to President Madison.
The result was that Trickey was pardoned for his successful
attempt at jail-breaking, and released from his contract.
Further, he received a check paying him in full for the fifty
tons of hay.

Joseph Trickey prospered greatly after the war, and when
he died, in 1835, he was universally regarded as a hero and a
patriot. The patience and fortitude he had shown under
suffering, oppression, and disaster were virtues which he was
often called upon to exercise, and which distinguished him
all his life. His descendants to-day are respected and pros-
perous men, settled in almost every State in the Union. His

search, how-
Mily the hor-
de in the wall

the task was
iS size at the
taken out of
it the passage
tin, and care-
to cover the
ience that he
e. Then he
the opening,
home, he did
1 treatment if

•ther attempt
ential men in
t memorial of
ent Madison,
his successful
his contract.
[1 for the fifty

ar, and when
\ a. hero and a
shown under
which he was
iguished him
ted and pros-
Union. His

Two Incidents in a Brave Man's Life.

215

son John proved himself a hero in the War of 18 12-15, ^^^
serx'ed again in the Mexican War.

Such is the true history of a sturdy pioneer, who quietly
lived an eventful life of hardship in the long ago. *

* The style of this " history " seems ponderous in the extreme. It was
written as a prize story for a very worthy publication — which accounts
for it all.— B. w. M.

2l6

t/liwity iAloiie, Etc.

ALWAY ALONE.

Alone, ))e>ieath the iiiurniuring pines,
Alone, upon tlie troubled sea ;
When midnight storuis sweep o'er the len.
Or when the sun refulgent shines;

With gayest friends, or sullen foe,

Alone, alone ; alway alone !

In banquet halls, where wine and song

Hold carnival, and all the earth

Seems but to minister to mirth.

The hours are weary, sad, and long.

Through life as some ill dream I go,
Alone, alone, since she is gone !

WHAT AUGUSTUS WROTE IN LUCY'S ALBUM.

You ask me for a paltry rhyme

In the same free and cheerful way

As asks a beggar for a rlime —

But surely I'll not say you nay.

I on my part will be more l)old.

Will ask for more transcendent bliss,

Will for my rhymes ask more than gold,
For in return I ask a kiss!

Quick as a flash Lucy wrote beneath it : —

Not having asked you for a rhyme

I hope you'll think it not amiss
If I give you a beggar's dime

Instead of giving you a kiss !

But Augustus goX \\i* ki<i<<, all the raine; and Lucy got more than ten cent*'
worth of caramels.

■..>i„ .

Another Album yerse.

217

lea.

ANOTHER ALBUM VERSE.

KO.

What though I may praise other luaids

Than her whom I love above all,
What though my pen almost persuades

That I'm at the beck and the call
Of ev'ry bright eye that may chance

'i'o greet me with smile ot with frown,
Made captive by each beauty's glance,

And slave to each belle in the town —
My heart is to one true as steel,
No passion besides can I feel.

S ALBUM.

What though other songs' I may sing

Than those that my sweetheart has sung,
Give proof that I e'er gave a ring,

Or proof that I gave e'en a tongue
To words of a love never felt,

Or courted another than you.
To whom many suitors have knelt.

While I, of them all, you make blue.
Deft verse they can airly spin,
Your heart, dearest one, / wo«ild win.

But after Augustus had written this in the young lady's album, she sealed up
the leaf with a choice and warranted mucilage

ore than ten cents'

2I8

IVben Roses Blush OAv Love Will Sail.

WHEN ROSES BLUSH MY LOVE WILL SAIL.

When roses bllish my love will sail

O'er waters wide unto iny side ;
And some fair morn, in snowy veil,

Her tears all dried, she'll be my bride.

My love will come when roses bloom ;

O'er billows ride, through calm seas glide ;
Through star-lit nights, through days of gloom,

By dangers tried, will onward stride.

Oh, may her sails have kindly gales,
May tempests hide, may all be dyed

In gold at eve, when sunshine fails;
Be ocean's pride for her untried.

vShe sails in June, when skies are fair;

I must confide all will betide
To waft her s:ifc unto my care.

Her ship espied, all storms defied,

I'll signal as she passeth near.

Here I abide, where rolls the tide
Each day and night, where 1 may hear,

Or terrified, or lullabyed.

I fear the sea, I love the sea ;

Loud hath it cried, sweet chants supplied ;
Its majesty, its mystery,

I've deified, and ne'er denied.

'Tis far from June, and like a snail

The slow hours slide, my haste deride ;

When will a missive bring the tale

My love hath hied to be my bride?

The sea's now wroth, but fair days loom ; •
Storms will subside, winds will have died.

And white will be old ocean's spume
When on its tide my love shall ride.

HL---_

*)IPV

O^y Love Hath Come When Roses Blush. 219
MY LOVE HATH COME WHEN ROSES BLUSH.

Ah, June ! sweet June, I welcome thee.

Whose roses fair perfume the air;
For one hath sailed across the sea

My name to bear, my home to share.

My love hath come when roses blush,

When all is fair beyond compare ;
And ere this eve the song-birds hush

A bridal pair their vows will swear.

'Tis morning yet, I scarce can wait

The noon-day glare, the church bells' blare ;

I scarce can wait the hour when fate
Gives to my care a bride so rare.

The old church bells will sweet peal out,
From cobwebbeA lair high up the stair,

A welcome loud, a nuptial shout.
Until the air my joy shall share.

God bless the bride who sailed the main.
Should be ray prayer this morn so fair ;

But soon the dial's face again

I note with care. An hour to spare !

A rose I '11 pluck for my fair bride ;

Her sunny hair, that did ensnare
My boyish heart, by love untried.

If I place there, she fond will wear.

My love shall wear a pure white rose,
(Herself more fair, though unaware)

For now 'tis June my garden shows
Buds everywhere, no bushes bare.

I tiow may go, the hours have flown ;

But ask if ere so debonair
A wife were wed, a bride were known ?

Oh, may she ue'er one harsh word bear !

320

Hiini Luck.

HARD LUCK.

SHE and her cousin Molly were up-stairs, setting forward
the buttons on a pair of new shoes, when she heard a
smart, imperative knock on the hall door. She thought it
might be Joe, although he didn't usually knock exactly in
that way, and she ran down-stairs to open the door herself.

No, it wasn't Joe, at all ; but a stalwart individual with
yellow hair and yellow teeth, clinging for dear life to a battered
gripsack. He was an itinerant peddler, and she knew it be-
fore he had time to ask if she wanted to look at some good
jewelry.

She surmised that he hadn't wrestled with the wojrld long
enough to have had much experience of its ways, so she de-
termined not to shut the door haughtily in his face, but to
give him a little bit of experience to ruminate on and profit
by.

In answer to his half-formed inquiry she said, " Oh, yes ;
certainly I shall ; please walk right in." Then she called
up to her cousin Molly, who was the most outrageously mis-
chievous girl in her native town, and always ready for a
spree:

" Molly, can you come down a minute, please ? Here's a
gentleman with a beautiful assortment of jewelry."

Molly rushed down-stairs, without even stopping to look
in the glass, and smiled radiantly on the smirking peddler,
who hud struck an awkward and unresttul attitude.

Hard Luch.

ii\

setting forward
m she heard a
She thought it
lock exactly in
J door herself.
Individual with
jfe to a battered
she knew it be-
k at some good

the wojrld long
vays, so she de-
his face, but to
te on and profit

lid, " Oh, yes ;
*hen she called
itrageously mis-
lys ready for a

sase ? Here's a

elry."

topping to look

lirking peddler,

ttitude.

With a gracious bow he plumped his treasure-case down
on a newly-varnished stand in the hallway, flung it open and
began to haul out gorgeous-looking jewelry.

" Oh ! Oh ! How much is that ? " as he lingeringly drew
a heavy yellow chain out of his gripsack.

" This is a superline article," he began, " and exceedingly

val— ."

" Oh, yes ; we know all about that;" said the young lady
of the house, who had admitted him; "but what is the
price?"

"Well, it's worth twenty-five dollars, every day in the
week, but seeing it's you, young lady, I'd let it go at a
sacrifice."

"You would ! Well, how much ? "

"Say twen — eighteen dollars. "

"Oh, but I'm just awfully sorry we can't take it," Molly
.said, and sighed.

"vSay fifteen."

"Too much."

"See here ! Seeing it's you, say twelve."

" I'm afraid not ; not to-day."

"Say ten-fifty."

The youHK ladies seemed to be making up their mind to
accept this liberal offer, but still hesitated.

' ' Say eight dollars ; — six - twenty - five ; — four - seventy -
five ; — three - fifty ; — two - seventy - five. " '

This was too much for the young lady who had opened the
door, and she expressed hearty laughter.

"See here, madam," he said, yanking out a whopping big
locket, "see here, how much do you suppose that's worth ?
One hundred dollars ! One hmidred dollars, every day in the
week ! ' '

"You don't mean to say so ! " cried Molly. " But I sup-

■;>(

222

Hani Luck.

pose you'd sell it for ten cents, any day in the week, and
throw in a stick of gum."

The peddler was beginning to get uneasy. But he recovered
himself and drew out another locket, that was unparalleled
in its gorgeousness, and whispered hoarsely : ' ' There, madam,
how much do you take that to be worth ? I gave fifty dollars
for that, in hard cash — fitly dollars ! "

" And I dare say you would sell it for fifty cents in cash,
and a piece of apple pie ' in kind,' " said Molly.

"Some folks don't know diamonds from button rings,"
the peddler remarked, with fiendish sarcasm ; and he crowded
his valuables promiscuously into his valise, and started to go.

" Oh, don't be in such a hurry. We haven't seen your
diamonds yet," said Molly. "Are they invaluable, too?"

" No, nor your button rings," said the young lady of the
house. " I presume you carry a large and varied stock."

" My diamonds are worth a hanged sight more money
than jfottr circumstances would represent — represent —
represent — . ' '

On this innocent word he got muddled ; and he bolted out
of the door w.chout stopping to explain himself definitely.

As he passed through the gate, a few feet in front of the
house, something happened to him. The gate was a miracu-
lously ingenious one, and it required careful study to be able
to manipulate it successfully. The unfortunate who did not
understand it could scarcely open it or shut it without jam-
ming his fingers. It played no tricks upon the members of the
household, but it would nip the sad-eyed Rhode Island tramp
with remorseless and unfailing regularity.

Now, our hero, the peddler, had worked himself up into
such a state of mental excitement, on account of losing five
minutes of his valuable time, and not making even a cent,
that a scene of violence ensued on his essaying that gate.

lie week, and

t he recovered

unparalleled

here, madam,

/e fifty dollars

ents in cash,

utton rings,"
id he crowded
started to go.
I't seen your
luable, too?"
g lady of the
led stock."
more money
- represent —

Hard Luck.

aa3

In fact, he jammed three of his fingers, as they had never
been jammed before since his eleventh year.

His thoughts drifted back to a black day in his childhood,
when his father caned those self-same fingers because he had
tried hard to make a canal-boat out of a new forty -cent sti«w
hat. His eyes shot fire, then filled with scalding tears ; and
he articulated, loud enough to be heard around the corner :

"Jam ad lunas ! " he said. "Jam cachinnatio interfec-
torum rabiosarum gutturibus damnetur ! "

Or it sounded like that, anyway.

The peddler was arrested for using profane language on the
street. On the Sunday following the young ladies put each a
bill on the contribution-plate, and so performed all the duties
that could reasonably be expected of them.

"So runs the merry world away."

he bolted out
elf definitely,
front of the
was a miracu-
idy to be able
e who did not
without jam-
lembers of the
\ Island tramp

^^^-m^^^^

uself up into
af losing five
even a cent,
ig that gate.

rff?

324

7/v Ton-Giife.

THE TOIJ.-OATlv

An old toll-gate stooil Ioiik on a highway

That was rrequented much, day and night ;

From afar it was seen in the day-time,
After dusk a low, Boft-colore<1 light

Made it known, and alas for the jester

If he thought, day or night, he could pester
The alert, honest keeper by trying
To blip through without paying the charges !

'Twas a place where the teamsters long halted
With their thirsty and slow-moving teams,

For a well of the purest spring water

Was at hand, and they talked over schemes

(While their horses were resting and drinking)

Of the tariff and what they were thinking
Of the local election, and whether
Mr. Pow-wow could carry the voters.

For the gate-keeper had strong opinions

On political matters, and spoke
Out his aiind, iu bis wide-open doorway,

In the teeth of the worst wind that broke
From the north and came cruelly sweeping
Through the gate ; and while others were sleeping

He was reading the one daily paper

That was taken within three miles 'round him.

The Toll-Gafe.

»»$

He woiilil treat you, with hearty goo<l-iiature,

To a k1"** °^ hi* <>^" KiiiKer-t)eer,
While he wondered why Wartrick, the hunter,

Witli hia doK Hill killed never a deer !
Then he'd tell yon what Sol Moon waa HowiuK,
Or aly poat you which yoinig man waa going

With each ueiKhhor's Tair daughter, and whether

Murdy Hones conlil anbnl to get married.

He could tell just what harley wan bringing,
And what Thad Hambly got for hia beans;

Knew the wheat Knd I)o<1dB raised to the acre.
And which man wan outliving his means.

He was weather-wise, too, and told whether

The school picnic would have pleasant weather ;
And he had practised skill in compounding
Remedies that for coughs were unequalled.

Then he knew, at a quarter-mile distance.

Every farmer that passed through the gate,

All the horses in Newcastle County,

While his gossip ran on, at this rate :

"Here comes Billy Jerome, but he's driving

Wesley Werry's bay mare, who was hiving
Bunny Cornish's bees in the wood-shed
All day Sunday, until he got sun-struck."

Or on seeing a full-atomached neighbor

Round the corner on foot, he would say,

"Johnny Bellows would drive were he going
To the village, so likely to-day

Mr. Hickey, the blacksmith, he'll worry.

And I know he is now in a hurry ;

But that hurry will not trouble Johnny
Till he finds how to temper his augurs."

On the weather, the roads, womei's fashions,
He waxed earnest and long would enlarge

»%»■■- i,

226 7he Toll-Gate.

In a jocular confabulation.

With the man who disputed a charge

He would argue and gibing words bandy ;

But would bring out a long stick of candy
For a lame boy, who every fine Sunday
With his grandfather passed through the toll-gate.

As a landmark the old country toll-gate
Is no more, but as neighbors pass by

They commune on its kindly old keeper

And his well, that no hot spell could dry.

Then his teamster friends miss him most sadly ;

While the robins he often ted gladly
In his trim little garden, securely
Out of reach of his cat, have all vanished.

toll-gate.

How a Coolness Arose Between Bill and Nero. 227

I-,
iiy;

HOW A COOLNESS AROSE BETWEEN
BILL AND NERO *

THE dog Nero was destined to figure somewhat conspic-
uously in the family history, and it may be well to
turn aside from these monotonous scenes and narrate a re-
freshing incident in his career. • Nero had now reached the
indiscreet and aggressive age of fifteen months, and one
bright June day he went down to the "Corners" to pay his
respects to the old people and to bark, in his genial but
authoritative manner, at such teams as did not habitually
pass his own domains. In this way he soon established a
reputation for himself at both comers.

Nero vaulted over the east gate in his usual breezy style,
and stalked straight into the kitchen. It was getting well
on to dinner-time, and he expected, no doubt, to find both
his kind old friends in the house. But the old clock wanted
three minutes of striking twelve, so it was a little too early
for that, though most of the dinner was indeed smoking on
the table.

* Taken from the MS. of my book,
Lawsuit." — b. w. m.

'Thb Great Ten-Dou.ar

238

Hyw a Coolness Arose

Great Caesar's ghost! What was this? There, on the
"settee," lay a hulking yellow dog, as big as himself, fast
asleep, but with that air of easy content that a dog soon
manifests where it is made one of the family. This was
Bill, of course, whose tragic history was briefly outlined in a
preceding chapter.

Neither human nature nor canine nature can tolerate an
interloper, and Nero was always an outrageously jealous
dog. This was the first he had seen of Bill, and he deter-
mined it should be the last. With a snoit of rage he made
a lunge at the sleeping hound and dragged him sprawling
off the "settee."

Bill was now thoroughly awake, and looking upon Nero
as an intruder, a desperado, and a maniac, the struggle be-
gan in earnest. It was not simply a fight for supremacy ; it
was a fight to the death. The space between the "settee"
and the stove was too cramped, so, backing out ii to the
arena between table and stove, the battle was begun all over
again. Oh, how stubbornly they fought !

The pantry door promptly slammed to, and terrified cries
of "Joseph! Joseph!" smote upon the air. These cries
could not penetrate to the shop, but both dogs recognized
what they meant, and redoubled their exertions. Bill, of
course, being an older dog, had the science of fighting per-
fectly mastered ; but Nero had carried some hard- won fields,
and always fought with the impetuosity of vigorous youth.
It was hard to say which one would annihilate the other.
Suddenly a leg of the table was snapped off, and the steam-
ing dinner was scattered promiscuously over the floor. With
frightful yells (for Bill was scalded and Nero was burnt) the
combat slackened a moment, only to be renewed the more
determinedly. There were many dainties under their feet

lere, on the

liimself, fast

a dog soon

This was

outlined in a

n tolerate an
lusly jealous
md he deter-
ige he made
m sprawling

g upon Nero
struggle be-
ipreniacy ; it
he "settee"
out itto the
!gun all over

terrified cries
These cries
s recognized
>ns. Bill, of
fighting per-
rd-won fields,
orous youth,
te the other,
id the steam-
: floor. With
IS burnt) the
:ed the more
der their feet

Between Bill and Nero.

239

that at another time would have been swallowed, scalding
hot ; but this wrs no time to think of dainties. Bill was
after Nero's scalp, and Nero was after Bill's whole hide.

Not even the dinner-bell could be found in the pantry, so
making a detour through the cellar, a scared, trembling figure
appeared in the shop, almost speechless.

" Why, Jane, what's the matter? "

'* Oh. Joseph ! Those dog.s ! " was the only answer.

Dropping his hammer and calling upon Jim Paget, who was
balancing himself, as usual, on the rickety stool, a run was
made to the house.

At this juncture Bill had his mouth full of Nero's neck,
and Nero was growling hideously ; while Bill's feet, cut by
the broken glass, were streaming with his patrician blood.
Bill seemed to be getting the best of it, and Nero was ready
to welcome outside interference. Not naturally a fighter.
Bill was easily persuaded by hiS kind protector to loose his
hold.

'This here sport." drawled Paget," would be perhibited
in the city ; but they hain't hurt each other any, an' it's the
natur' of the animile fur to fight,"

" But look at our dinner ! "

Seeing his second opportunity, Nero made a sudden and
vigorous assault upon Bill, took him again at a disadvantage,
and seemed prepared to fight it out, if it took all the after-
noon.

"Now, look at that!" said Paget. "The little black
feller's got fight enough into him fur a hull rig>ment, as the

sayin' is. Ef I was a-goin' ."

"Just like you men!" called out an exasperated female
voice from the "west room." "Why couldn't you have
locked up the dogs, when you got them separated?"

230

How a Coolness Arose

Nero had the advantage this time, and was not so easily
induced to let it slip. Paget, thinking it was now his turn
to interfere, undertook to separate them ; but his visible nerv-
ousness only encouraged the combatants.

' ' Bill is afraid of cold water, and Nero of a gun ! ' *

It was a w^oman's suggestion, but both men hastened to act
on it. Paget dashed off to the shop for the firearm, while
his host quietly took up a pail of water and deliberately
poured it over the dogs, thoroughly drenching both. But
neither the drenching nor the formidable-looking blunder-
buss brought in by Jim Paget had any effect on the enraged
creatures.

"Joseph, shall I shoot into them?" asked Paget excit-
edly.

"It isn't a shooting gun that you brought," was the calm
answer. " No, it isn't necessary to hurt the poor dogs."

Then, with his deliberate habitual coolness, he stepped
between the two brutes, grasped either firmly by the neck,
and forcibly drew them apart.

"Now, then," he said to the astonished Paget, "take
Bill (he is the quietest), and shut him up under the shop,
and I'll put Nero in the shop. After dinner we' 11 tuni Nero
loose, and he'll go home."

So the two dogs. Bill snarling and Nero growling, and
each one, no doubt, claiming the championship, were led
away to their respective places of confinement.

"They hain't hurt each other, but you'll never make
them friendly together as long as they live," said Paget,
coming back into the house and crashing into a dish of cur-
rant jam, that had escaped unhurt, though it was, of course,
no longer eatable. " Well, I never did see," he continued,
half-apologetically, " sech a ruin of a dinner. Joseph, ef it

Between Bill ami Nero.

231

lot so easily
low his turn
irisible nerv-

1!"

tened to act
earm, while
deliberately
both. But
ig blunder-
the enraged

Paget excit-

ras the calm
or dogs. ' '
he stepped
y the neck,

iget, "take
er the shop,
1 turn Nero

owling, and
p, were led

lever make
said Paget,
dish of cur-
5, of course,
: continued,
foseph, ef it

hadn't been fur me, them dogs would 'a' upset the stove an'
burnt your house up."

" If they had been of heavier build they might have,"
without the suspicion of a smile. " But what a terrible
shame to put Jane to so. much trouble."

" Yes ; an' what a terryble shame to spile sech a napertiz-
in' dinner, as the sayin' is," said Paget, in his practical
way.

" Well, it will do to feed to the chickens. James, I was
just going to ask you what ever became of the young
fellow, who, you were telling me, lived with your son.
He seemed to have been a clever young chap, from your
talk."

" 'Clever' ? Well, that ain't exac'ly the word xur to
''<?5cribe him. I ain't so hungry that I can't give you the
pertic'lers while the dinner gits cooked over agin. We'll set
right out door, by the shady old well, ef our conversation
wun't intyrupt Mrs. ."

" No ; " came a voice from the cellarway ; " it won' t inter-
rupt me. But dinner will soon be ready."

" You are the curi'stist folks not to git excited that I ever
did hear tell of," said Paget. " Well, this here young man
took to intyferin' into everybody's business. There's my
little gran'children : they're the 'cutest fellers fur to study
you ever see. Well, Joseph, that young man told 'em they'd
got their jography all mixed up, an' discouraged 'em so they
quit a-leamin' it fur a spell ; an' then he tells 'em their gram-
mars is writ wrong ; an' their r-^aders was shaky in their his-
t'ry ; an' he found terryble fault with the portry into them ;
said the meetter was a-skippin' a cog — no, went a-skippin'
afoot now an' agin ; an' talked so high falutin' that the

33a

How a Coolness Arose

school-master threatened fur to report to the Eddication
Trustees.

" Our folks let all that pass ; but when he come fur to talk
about things we could all understand, an' said we orter have
an even six hours atween every meal ; an' not have no pies
an' things fur supper ; an' that it was a-gittin' fashionable
now-a-days fur to have nap kins onto the table ; an' that I
was dead wrong to help myself to onct, when I was hungry,
we begun to see he was a-goin' a leetle to fur.

" Bimeby he told the hired girl she was puttin' too much
shortenin' into the pastry, an' that she needn't cook no more
onions, 'cause they didn't agree with him, an' we see a storm
was a-comin'. The nex' day he told her that his faverrite
preserve was huckleberry jam an' quince marmerlade ; an'
that her milk-pails wan't properly washed ; an' that she
didn't change her aprons often enough, an' we knowed the
air was jest chuck-full of steamboat explosions.

" The hired girl hadn't got more'n half cooled down afore
my youngest daughter comes in, an' he serlutes her with the
infermation that tain't nice fur real stylish schoolgirls to
take an' plaster their chewin' gum onto the winder-sill an'
under the table, an' we see it was time fur to take in sail, as
the sayin' is.

' ' The same evenin' , or the day before, I ' most forgit which ,
be ups an' tells ray son's wife that it wan't considered gen-
teel any more fur ladies to wear all their jool'ry at the
breakfast table, an' I mistrusted there was a dog-fight on
the ticket, so to speak.

"'Twan't long afore he insisted that the healthiest way
fur to sleep was to have your windows open to both ends, an'
that beds orter be aired 'most all day; an' that it was p'isen

Eddication

ne fur to talk
fe orter have
have no pies
fashionable
; an' that I
was hungry,

n' too much
ook no more
; see a storm
his faverrite
lerlade ; an'
n' that she
knowed the

1 down afore
her with the
:hoolgirls to
nder-sill an'
Ice in sail, as

brgit which,
sidered gen-
lol'ry at the
iog-fight on

althiest way
)th ends, an'
it was p'isen

Between Bill aiui Nero.

233

to bake pies onto a dish we'd had in the family fur thirty
year, 'cause he said the cracks into it was full of germs, an*
I could 'a' swore a earthquake was all but upon us.

"The nex' day he quorrl'd with the butcher, 'cause he
didn't make his sausages accordin' to his stric' notions of
proprierty, as the sayin' is, an' we felt it into our bones that
something was dead sure fur to happen.

"The nex' thing he done he toF y son it wan 't etiquette
to .set down to the table into his ~.\ rt sleeves, an' that dogs
an' cats orter be shet out door at meal time, an' not be fed
permisc'us like by the hull family, an' that it wan't consid-
ered perlite in these here enlightened days to bring in tramps
ofTn the street to set down an' eat along with the household.
I see my son didn't like fur to have a teetotal stranger do the
thinkin' fur the hull family, .so I wan't surprised when he
reached . ' '

"Now, then, dinner is ready; and I'm sure we are all
hungry enough."

"Well ! Ef your wife don't beat all creation, Joseph, fur
to hustle a meal of victuals onto the table !" said Paget,
striding into the house and taking the guest's seat of honor,
directly under the old clock.

No traces of the late disaster could be seen. The floor was
perfectly clean, — dry, almost, — the broken table was re-
moved and another stood in its exact place, and a counterpart
of the " ruined " dinner was served.

The host followed more leisurely, and still more leisurely
began to wait on the table.

This was too much for the impatient Paget, who broke in :
"You're so slow, Joseph, an' I'm so hungry, I'll jest help
myself ; an' when you all come to see us you can pitch in an*

334

How a Coolness Arose

do the same. The all-fired smart young man is non campus
menttts, as the sayin' is, as I was jest perceedin' for to tell
you. I hope you'll both excuse me ; but I know the size of
tny appertite better' n other people."

And he did help himself — to all the viands on the table at
once, his most dextrous feat being the apparently accidental
tumbling on his plate of two large pieces of apple pie. But
it was not accidental ; it was the result of adroit manipula-
tion of the knife, and the deprecatory glance ca.st at his
hostess was one of the little arts that invariably accompanied
it.

His plate was now heaped so full of food that it looked as
if nothing but the most expert jugglery could keep it all from
sliding oflF into his lap. No doubt the fault-finding young
man he told about so often had been paving the way for
much- needed reforms in a benighted household.

The host smiled good-humoredly ; but, woman-like, the
hostess seemed hurt.

"How far had we got with that there story, Joseph ? "
Paget suddenly demanded, with his mouth full of the various
dishes heaped on his plate. " I think I must be goin' home
now in a few days. You see, they'll be gittin' kinder lone-
some about now, without the old man, though I hain't hardly
got started to make you a visit yit, an' we want to examine
into them there patents. ' '

"Oh, don't be in a hurry yet, Mr. Paget," said his hostess
kindly. "Still, if you must go — . There comes the stage
now, back from Newcastle. I'll just ask him to call to-mor-
row for your trunk."

And she suited the action to the word, somewhat to the
consternation of Mr. Paget, who went the next day, surely

-.uav ^

Hon campus
i' for to tell
ir the size of

the table at
yr accidental
le pie. But
t manipula-
cast at bis
v-companied

it looked as
p it all from
ding young
the way for

lan-like, the

1, Joseph?"
the various
goin' home
kinder lone-
lain't hardly
: to examine

1 his hostess
les the stage
I call to-mor-

ewhat to the
; day, surely

Between Bill and Nero.

335

enough, leaving his interesting little story unfinished for ten
long years.

His kind host said to him at parting : "I have enjoyed
your visit, James ; but I didn't expect you would be going
so soon."

" No more did I, Joseph," was the lugubrious answer.

336

7o tMi^nonne.

TO MIGNONNE.

A UOATINC. SoNf,

On the bosom of the ureal sen,
I<ike n wild rose of the ocean,
Rests a lovely, perfumed island,
Coral-bastioiied, ruby sky-spainieil,
Trauquil 'mid the waves' commotion
As a flower on a lone prairie ;
Peaceful as a child when sleeping
With his playthings round him scattered ;
Where no harsh gales, ocean-sweeping,
Cast up brave ships, torn and shattered.

In that free, yet sinless region.

Wild, unfettered birds, victorious,

Pipe their rhapsodies sonorous,

In a wayward, untaught chorus,

With exuberance uproarious,

Voicing Nature's pure religion.

More in sadness than in pleasure

Winds and waves chant solemn anthems ;

But in soft, harmonious measure,

Soothing as majestic requiems.

7o tMigtiotuie.

Here the wiii<1<« moan Biilleii i\h^e» ;
Tli«* poor cfl' live soiij{-t>iril, lonely,
Hymni his weary supplicalionH,
Tinged with bitter liitiieiitationi ;
I'*rom the colil, nad sea rise only
Threnodies of boisi'rous surges,
Here the native songster's wary,
And his niadriKals in full joy
Carols but from strongholds airy,
Where he flies the tricky schoolboy.

Un this calm and glorious even,

With the stars our only pilot,

Let us sail away together,

Willi this fav'riiig breeze antl weather,

To this lone and lovely islet.

Which shall be our earth and heaven,

In the vast I'.icific waters,

Where the warm waves bathe the shingle,

Where the moonlight longest loiters.

And where seasons soft commingle.

237

;

»-«►

i^^

338

Hiniin'a Oath.

HIRAM'S OATH.

Chaptkr I.

THE Wolfe estate was a noble one, stretching along the
Shenandoah River, in Virginia, near the old town of
Winchester. The family traced their ancestry back to the
Plantagenets, and boasted of having been Cavaliers under
Charles the First, in England, and patriots under Washing-
ton, in America.

But a cur.se rested on the family — the curse of hereditary
insanity. Sooner or later almost every male member of the
family became hopelessly demented. Those who escaped
lived to a patriarchal old age, with intellect unimpaired ; but
they were exceptional cases. Still the family existed, for
most of the young men, on attaining majority, believed they
would be exempt from the general curse, and so married.
But there had been some who had forsworn marriage, rather
than rear up children to inherit the fatal malady.

In ante-bellum days Reginald Wolfe was the representa-
tive of the family, and his heir and only son was Hiram —
one of those noble ones who had vowed to live and die alone.
He was a resolute young fellow, with a grim fixedness of
purpose, and he seemed capable of keeping his vow, without

Hiram's Oatb.

939

ig along the
old town of
back to the
aliers under
sr Washing-

>f hereditary
miber of the
vho escaped
ipaired ; but

existed, for
(clieved they

so married,
■riage, rather

; representa-
as Hiram —
nd die alone,
fixedness of
ow, without

unhappy rcpinings on the one hatul, or considering himself
a martyr worthy of canonization on the other hand. Yet he
made the not unnatural mistake of keeping his resolution too
prominently before him, so that it influenced him in every
act of his life.

" I do not reproach you," he said to his father, "but no
son shall ever turn to me and say, ' You have expo.sed me to
the curse.' The race dies with me ; but it shall die nobly."
" It is a resolution worthy of you, Hiram," .said his father,
" but remember that the physicians think your chances of
escape are exceptionally good."

"True. Ihit that would not p. ;vent the curse from
descending to posterity. I havemadt i vow, and I will iceep
it ; and my life shall be a cheerful one, too."

" God help him if he ever fulls in love ! " Mr. ■^\ olfe .said
.sorrowfully. "God help him, for his resolution will be
.sorely tried."

But Hiram, while assisting his father in the .superinte u -
ence of the plantation, devoted all his leisure to books, ring
into society but little. He went about his da' ' ities with
a brave heart, and never wavered in his re.sol itior
' "I shall never be a madman," he said gaily, " nor shall
I ever have cause to repent of my vow."

Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe insisted on the gratification of their
son's every wish, but grieved about him almost as much as
if he had shown symptoms of insanity. ' ' Poc • fellow ! ' ' the
former often sighed. " His life will be the life of a hermit !
But would that others could have done as he will do.

"If five generations could escape the curse, it would
become extinct, ' ' .said Mrs. Wolfe. ' ' Could not this be,
Reginald?"

" It has been the dream of o: family, but I am afraid it
is only a dream. Five generatic ' ' More than one hundred

240

Hiram's Oath.

and sixty years ! In five generations there has always been
at least one in the direct line who has succumbed, and the
probabilities are that there always will be. Hiram knows
that he could not live to see the curse removed, and he
knows the cruel risk there is that a son or grandson might
become insane. So perhaps it is best that Hiram should
never marry, since he wills it so. But God help him, poor
fellow!"

Hiram lived to see the twenty-fifth anniversary of his
birthday without having cause to repent of his oath. On
that eventful day he was to take a trip to New York, on
business for his father.

" I think I am invulnerable, mother," he said at the break-
fast table, in answer to a solicitous inquiry from his mother.
" I am twenty-five to-day, and as happy as any man can hope
to be. So keep a good heart, mother, and don't look so sad.
I shall come back all right, never fear."

" I think perhaps I had better go, after all, Hiram," Mr.
Wolfe said slowly. " It — it — . "

" No, father; it will do me good to see New York; I have
not been there since I was a boy. Don't be afraid for me.
I am a monomaniac on the subject of our family affliction ;
but, for that very reason, I shall see the curse removed, be-
cause it shall die with me. So I have reason to be happy —
and proud, too."

Mrs. Wolfe bade Hiram good-bye with tears in her eyes.

" Have you a presentiment of evil, mother ? " he asked.

" Yes, Hiram ; I have ; " she answered sadly. " Couldn't
you give it up, even now, and not go at all ? "

Hiram hesitated. He loved his mother devotedly, and
would gladly sacrifice his own pleasure to humor her ; but
this seemed only a whim of the moment, which they would
laugh at together when he came back .safe and well. Besides,

Hiram's Oath.

241

always been
ed, and the
iram knows
ved, and he
idson might
irani should
Ip him, poor

rsary of his
s oath. On
sw York, on

it the break-
his mother.

lan can hope
look so sad.

[iram," Mr.

""ork; I have
raid for me.
y affliction ;
emoved, be-
be happy —

1 her eyes.
" he asked.
"Couldn't

TOtedly, and
lor her ; but
L they would
ill. Besides,

he must occasionally go out into the great world ; .so why
should he hesitate about going now ?

" No, mother," he said, at length, " I will go. But don't
be alarmed about me. Depend upon it, no one shall spirit
me away. I have made a vow ; I am safe. Good-bye. ' '

He was gone ; and Mrs. Wolfe kept repeating to herself,
" ' I have made a vow ; I am safe.' "

Hiram transacted his father's business in the great city,
and said to himself, as his train drew out of the Jersey City
depot: "Just three days since I bade my mother good-bye,
and now I am ready to go home and see her again. Poor
mother ! how fond she is ! How we shall laugh at her
presentiment ! But I am glad that I have got along all
right and have made a beginning in seeing the world. The
world ! What do I care for it and its mockeries ? "

The return journey was without incident till, shortly after
leaving Baltimore, a pleasant voice nearly opposite asked, in
a subdued undertone, " Who is that grave young gentleman,
Herbert ? Did you know him at Yale ? ' '

" Don't know; don't want to know. Some lucky dog with
lots of funds, from his appearance," said a gruff voice.

Hiram glanced amusedly towards the speakers, and saw a
fair young girl, with an exquisite physiognomy, spiritualized
by sad, yet bewitching eyes. Beside her sat a spare and
morose-looking young fellow, with a dare-devil air— evidently
the person addressed as Herbert.

Their eyes met. The young lady blushed, for she knew
her question had been overheard, and turned her eyes away
quickly. Hiram felt a thrill of pain or pleasure, he knew not
which, and as quickly turned away.

But that fair face haunted him, and soon he turned to steal
another glance at it. Again their eyes met; again both
looked away.

-;-Wf3sJi

242

Hiram's Oath.

"This won't do ! " Hiram said to himself. " I must re-
member my oath, and avoid temptation. A child must not
play with fire ; and in many things I am but a child."

He took a newspaper out of his pocket and was soon en-
grossed in reading it. He thought of the young couple
opposite, and reflected that they would probably leave him
at Harper's Ferry ; but he did not again even glance in their
direction.

The conductor came hurrying through the train, with so
troubled a look that every one thought, instinctively, "There
is danger ! " Every face grew pale, and many a stout heart
quailed. But what should they do ? Was the danger immi-
nent ? What was it ?

Hiram was not afraid, but he thought of the loved ones at
home. ' ' Poor, dear mother ! Is this her presentiment ? ' '

Then his thoughts reverted to the fair young girl, and he
wondered whether she was still in the car. He stole a
glance — yes, there she sat, looking pale, yet resolute.

"She is brave," commented Hiram ; "braver than many
a man in this carriage. "

A loud and long shriek from the engine. Then the door
opened and the conductor shouted, "Save yourselves! A
train is coming ! Jump to the right ! "

There was a panic. The passengers rose to their feet and
strove desperately to reach the door, but becoming pressed
together, blocked the passage.

' ' Which is the right ? Which is the right ? ' ' gasped terri-
fied men and women helplessly.

Seeing the forward end of the coach free, Hiram forced his
way through to it.

" This way ! " he said to a portly old lady, and .she came
forward and jumped courageously off the train.

By ones and twos, Hiram assisted nearly twenty persons

r|«i

Hiram's Oath.

243

" I must re-
hild must not
I child."
was soon en-
young couple
ibly leave hira
jlance in their

train, with so
ively, "There
r a. stout heart
: danger immi-

: loved ones at
entiment?"
ig girl, and he
He stole a
resolute,
^er than many

Then the door
)urselves ! A

their feet and
)ming pressed

' gasped terri-

rani forced his

and .she came

venty persons

to jump off— among them, the fair young lady. Then the
rest, having more room to move about, scrambled out of the
coach and reached the ground.

The train was now almost at a standstill, and there were
but few in this or any car, when there came a terrible shock,
and Hiram and the other unfortunates with him were buried
in the ruins of a wrecked railway train.

Those who had escaped did everything in their power to
save the victims buried under the broken carriages. But
they could not effect much till a wrecking party came to the
relief, when, after a few hours' imprisonment, the poor suf-
ferers were liberated and taken to Baltimore or elsewhere for
treatment, some of them succumbing to their injuries.

Chapter H.

WixEN Hiram Wolfe recovered consciousness, he found
himself lying on a sofa in a darkened room. He wondered
what it all meant, when a shooting pain in his knee brought
back to memory that awful scene on the train. He groaned,
and moved restlessly.

A figure in white softly drew near him ; a sweet young
face bent pityingly but gladly over him. It was a face that
he knew — the face of her whom he had seen and saved on
the train.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked, in so musical a
voice that Hiram started, and looked long and intently into
her eyes.

"You are right, Alice," said a gruCF voice ; and the young
.man who answered to the name of Herbert strode into the
room. " He is the same fellow, and his name is Wolfe, poor
devil."

244

Hiram's Oath.

" Oh, hush, Herbert ! " said the young lady reproachfully.
Then she whispered, "He is conscious now."

"Is he?" and Herbert walked softly to the sofa and
looked compassionately at the poor sufferer. "Poor fel-
low !" he murmured. "He is indeed a hero, and," under
his breath and glancing towards Alice, "he has met a hero's
fate!"

But Herbert had a warm heart, and he said warmly, " Mr.
Wolfe, we owe you a debt of gratitude that can never be
cancelled. You nobly saved my sister's life, and the life of
many on our car. You must be our guest till you are en-
tirely restored to health ; and everything that medical skill
and good nursing can do, shall be done. I myself will be
your nurse, and I will administer your medicines and see
that you obey orders."

" Thank you," Hiram said faintly. " But am I so badly
hurt that I can not be taken home ? "

" Doctors' orders are positive that you must not be moved ;
so make the best of it, my dear fellow, and be contented.
You shall be well taken care of; and I will telegraph for any
of your people that you may wish to have come. ' '

"My father would have detained you here, Mr. Wolfe,
even though you had escaped unhurt, to express his grati-
tude to you," said Alice.

"Yes," said her brother ruefully, "you robbed me of the
honor of saving my sister's life."

Not another word of explanation from the young man,
but, as Alice afterwards explained, he had thought her safe
and had gone into the next car, where they had noticed a
helpless blind man, whom he found and assisted off the train.

" All this excitement and trouble has caused us to take
an extraordinary interest in you, Mr. Wolfe," continued
Herbert, with an arch look at his sister. " If you hesitate

Hiram's Oath.

:proachfulIy.

he sofa and

"Poor fel-

and," under

met a hero's

armly, "Mr.
:an never be
id the life of
you are en-
tnedical skill
yself will be
ines and see

tn I so badly

3t be moved ;
e contented.
;raph for any

Mr. Wolfe,
!ss his grati-

;d me of the

young man,
ight her safe
ad noticed a
off the train,
d us to take
' continued
you hesitate

345

to remain as our guest, you must remember you are our
prisoner. So say the physicians, my respected parents, and
every one concerned."

" You are bent on acting the good Samaritan, in spite of
me," Hiram said laughingly, "and I can only assure you of
my deep obligation to you all. What is the name of my
kind benefactors, and where am I ? "

"Sinclair is our patronymic; and I am Herbert J. Sin-
clair, the most graceless good-for-naught of my day and
generation. But this," with an involuntary softening of his
voice, ' ' is Miss Alice, my sister, who atones for all ray short-
comings. As for the scene of this interview, it is the home
of our ancestors, — that is, of my deceased great-grand-
parents, who were emigrant vagabonds, — in Frederick, State
of Maryland. Excuse me, Mr. Wolfe, while I call my
mother in."

"Don't think my brother has lost his wits," srailed Alice.
" He talks in that absurd way for his own amuse^. ent."

" Come, Alice ; don't talk about my own 'amusement,' "
said Herbert, in a hard and bitter tone, as he left the room.
In a moment he returned with Mrs. Sinclair, whom be form-
ally introduced to the sufferer.

Mrs. Sinclair was a refined, elderly lady, of a deeply sym-
pathetic nature ; and as the mother of this singular brother
and sister, Hiram became interested in her at once.

' ' What is the extent of my injuries ? ' ' Hiram asked, after
Mrs. Sinclair's kindly inquiries were satisfied.

" Broken bones ; contusions ; a shock to the nervous sys-
tem ; divers wounds that will leave scars as mementoes of
this event," Herbert made answer.

"No, Herbert; it's not so bad as that!" Alice said
quickly.

-«H

346

Hiram's Oath.

" A business-like inventory of my hurts," laughed Hiram.
" And now, how long before I shall be convalescent ? "

" Depends on the doctors," Herbert said grimly. Then
carelessly, "Oh, two months, or thereabouts, and you will
have so completely recovered that you will be ready to pack
up, and off, and forget us. Meanwhile, you will not suflFer
much pain, Mr. Wolfe, and I will give you a recipe for dull-
ing pain — that is, mental pain."

Herbert Sinclair left the patient's couch and strode towards
an outer door, softly whistling ''Die Wacht ant Rhem."

But he h d v/histled only a few bars when he checked
himself abruptly, flung open the door, and clapped it to
behind him with a bang. In a moment he opened the door
softly, thrust his head in at the opening, and said shortly,
" Excuse me." Then the door closed .softly, and they heard
him crunching rapidly away along the graveled walk.

Hiram said nothing, but he noticed that tears stood in
Alice's eyes and that Mrs. Sinclair looked sorely troubled.
' ' A clear case of an undutiful son and brother, ' ' he reflected,
in his naive inexperience.

Mrs. Wolfe came immediately on receipt of a telegram, and
saw at once that it was out of the question for Hiram to be
taken home till he should be convalescent. A warm friend-
ship sprang up between her and Alice ; and Hiram, cared for
by these two and by Herbert, soon began to mend.

Hiram was thrown much upon Miss Sinclair's society.
When he was able she read to him and sang for him, and
seemed to ti ;e the greatest pleasure in ministering to his
comfort. One day she revealed the story of her brother's
unhappiness, which was becoming a sad puzzle to Hiram.

" Mr. Wolfe, to remove any harsh opinion you may have
formed of my brother, I will explain to you the cause of his
strange conduct," she began. " It is not mere eccentricity.

Hiram's Oath.

247

;hed Hiram.
;ent?"
mly. Then
nd you will
:ady to pack
11 not suffer
:ipe for dull-

rode towards

/?A«M."

he checked
•lapped it to
led the door
said shortly,
d they heard

walk.

lars stood in
:ly troubled.

he reflected,

elegrani, and
Hiram to be
warm friend-
am, cared for
nd.

air's society,
for him, and
tering to his
lier brother's
to Hiram,
lu may have
cause of his
eccentricity.

as he would have you think, but a settled grief, that I am
afraid will be life-long. Four years ago, my brother was to
have been married to a beautiful young lady, an actress. No
one can know how he loved her, and she seemed to love him.
The day of their marriage was set, and everything seemed
to be going on smoothly. My brother's happine.ss was so
great that he was almost beside himself. On the day before
the wedding he went to Washington, where they were to be
married. He reached Washington late in the evening, but
late as it was, he wrote us a long letter. Poor Herbert ! We
have that letter yet, and it almost makes me cry to think of
it. He said he did not know what good he had ever done
(and he was always doing good, in a quiet way, Mr. Wolfe)
that God should permit him to enjoy such happiness, and he
hoped he should prove worthy of his treasure. The next
morning Herbert went to the church where they were to
have been married ; but oh, Mr. Wolfe ! she had deserted
him ! "

' ' Deserted him ? ' ' queried Hiram, aghast. ' ' How ? ' '
"Yes! The evening before, she married an old Jew, a
millionaire, and stole away, leaving only a cruel note for
Herbert."

' ' Poor fellow ! ' ' sighed Hiram. ' ' I had misj udged him. ' '

" Herbert as a boy used to delight in the air you heard

him start to whistle the other day, — 'Die Wacht am Rhein,'

— and the woman he loved used to play it for him. He

forgets himself sometimes, poor fellow ! "

" This is a sad story. Miss Sinclair, and I feel for your
brother as if he were my own. He would have been a noble
man ; but now his life is blasted."

" Yes, his experience has been bitter enough. But pray
don't let him suspect that you know this. I have told you
it in confidence, so that you should not judge him hardly."

2^8

Hiram's Oath.

It was fated that these two should love each other, and
under all the circumstances it was inevitable. Hiram
struggled against it resolutely, knowing that it must end in
a bitter parting. But his love grew stronger every day, and
his resolution weaker. His health ceased to mend, and
there was danger of a serious relapse. Still he fought against
the inevitable, though his struggles became feebler from
day to day.

" If I could only get away ! " he murmured. " How can
I help loving her, when I see her every day ? And then she
is so good to me. A man may think himself in love with a
woman, not knowing her inner life, because he can not see it.
But here am I in Alice's house, with every opportunity to
know every phase of her character. And what is she ? All
that is unselfish, and artless, and pure, and noble. God help
me ! it is hard ! What makes it harder still, I feel that
Alice loves me ! ' '

In this way Hiram battled with his love. He wanted to
subdue this passion ; to prove himself a hero. But what
should he gain by it, after all ? he asked himself. Was it
the part of a hero to conquer his love for so noble a woman,
because of his oath ? Why should two hearts be rent ? —
But then, the curse !

" Is that my fault ? Did I bring the curse upon myself?
Why did I bind myself by such an oath ? But no ; I was
right. I have not broken my oath yet, and God helping me,
I will keep it, and so do right. ' '

Hiram was right ; Alice loved him.

Mrs. Wolfe and Herbert Sinclair discovered that these two
souls loved each other, and that one, Hiram, was fighting
against it.

One day Herbert seated himself beside the sufferer and

Hiram's Oath.

349

:h other, and
i)le. Hiram
: must end in
ery day, and
> mend, and
mght against
feebler from

" How can
\nd then she
I love with a
an not see it.
jportunity to
is she ? All
e. God help
I, I feel that

[e wanted to
But what
self. Was it
3le a woman,
5 be rent ? —

ipon myself?
t no ; I was
i helping me,

lat these two
was fighting

sufferer and

said bluntly, " Mr. Wolfe, did it ever occur to you that you
have won my sister's love ? "

Hiram quivered from head to foot, and said faintly, "Have
I, Mr. Sinclair ? I — I — can only say that it is a most unfor-
tunate mistake. I — ."

" ' Mistake ?' What sort of mistake do you call it, pray ?
I don't understand you at all. I am blunt myself; and 1
want you to be blunt — or, at least, frank."

"I can never marry," Hiram said sadly.

"Never marry, eh? Come, now; whose husband are
you, or have you been ? ' '

"There is a curse in our family — the curse of insanity.
I have sworn never to transmit that curse ; I never will. ' '

"So, is that your reason? What sort of insanity? sui-
cidal mania? hydrophobia? delirium tremens? fanaticism?
or," scowling at Hiram, "family pride?"

Then followed a long talk, which resulted in a good under-
standing between the two young men.

" And you do love my sister? " Herbert queried.

" Love her? Oh, Herbert ! if you could know what I
have suffered ! ' '

' ' ' Suffered ' ? That is good ! You have suffered ! ' ' with
a hard smile. "Well, a lesson in suffering will do you
good. Pshaw! what cause have you to suffer? Hiram, do
you remember Alice's question, on the train?"

" Whether you had known me at Yale ? I am not a Yale
man, but I attended our own University of Virginia."

"Don't!" cried Herbert, with an impatient gesture.
"You demonstrated the fact that you could read when you
took up your newspaper. Hiram, it was a case of love at
sight with my sister."

" How do you know this ? " Hiram asked eagerly.

aso

Hi rum's Oath.

"Because my sister is so artles-s that I read her every
thought."

Iliram groaned, and said desperately, " Don't you think I
am strong enough to go home, Herbert ? ' '

" Are you engaged to my sister yet ? " was the surprising
question.

"Engaged? Herbert! How can you ask that, after
what I have told you ? ' '

"Because after your engagement to my sister you will
rally so fast that you will astonish yourself."

"But the family curse?"

" What do you know about the ' family curse ? ' It is all
moonshine — in your case. ' '

' ' What do you mean by that ? ' ' Hiram demanded peev-
ishly.

"This: whatever fools or lunatics your ancestors may
have been, your mind is sound. You will never be insane
— unless you are now ! ' ' grimly,

' ' What does all this mean ? "

" I once made demonology the study of my life."

" What ? " asked Hiram, in sad perplexity.

" Dementia — psychology — anthropology — phrenitis —
to use a generic and explicit term, insanity. You see, I
once contemplated lunacy myself. ' '

" You are an unconscionable joker," laughed Hiram.

" No ; I am a pathologist. I have arrived at my own con-
clusions about your case, Hiram, and you will be exempt
from the curse. Twenty years from to-day, unless you ex-
perience some maddening grief, or reverse, you will be safe,
and the curse will be extinct ; for, I venture to predict, the
last of your race to suffer from it is in his grave."

" Are you sure of this ? " Hiram asked doubtfully.

"I pledge you my word of honor for it," Herbert said

Hiram's OiUh.

»S»

id her every
you think I

le surprising
that, after

iter you will

? ' It is all

anded peev-

icestors may
er be insane

fe."

■ pbrenitis —
You see, I

i Hiram,
my own con-
1 be exempt
aless you ex-
will be safe,
predict, the

» »

tfully.
Herbert said

solemnly. " Hiram, I had heard of the Wolfes of Virginia,
and I made your case a study the moment you came to us."

Hiram looked up .surprised. "I —I can hardly believe
that the curse is removed." he said, with tears glistening in
his eyes. " But I did not know that you are a physician.
Have you lieen treating me ? or is your practice so exten — ."

" Practice ? " broke in Herbert, with a bitter laugh. "Oh,
I don't 'practise' anything."

After a pause Hiram said hesitatingly : " This is so sud-
den, so unexpected, so incredible, that it seems altogether
visionary. I — I must have time to consider this ; I — ."

" I expected you to doubt me," Herbert said dryly. " But
do you really think I could trifle with you ? Do you suppose
I would see my sister married to a madman ? ' '

"You honestly think, then, that I can shake off the
curse ? "

" 'The curse ! ' Hiram, I have heard enough of this ; it is
indeed a curse to you. Come, now ; what about this horrible
resolution, or oath, of yours ? Have you it in writing ? "

"I — I — . When I first formed the resolve, Herbert, I
did not know what it is to love ; .so I relied on my own
strength of will, and simply bound myself by swearing an
oath."

" But since you came here? " Herbert questioned.

Hiram started, and moved uneasily on his couch.

"I see," Herbert pursued. "Since you came here you
have drawn up a fresh resolution, and signed it with your
blood, perhaps. Let me take a look at it, Hiram."

" Promise me not to destroy it, Herbert ! " pleadingly.

" Hiram ! have you so little faith ! L/et me see it."

Reluctantly Hiram drew a paper from his bosom and
silently handed it to Herbert. The writing on it was almost
illegil)Ie, as Hiram, to strengthen his resolution, had written

asa

Hiram'

fly

i'.m^,

it while sufTeiing mutitnl and pljysical pain It was of the
nature of an oath, caUin({ down nn imprecation upon himsi:lf
if he ever deviated in the slijjlUest degree from liis vow.

As Herl)ert ran over tliis pajH-r a suspicioijs moisture dim-
med his eyes. He grasped the .sick man's hand and said
brokenly: " Forgive me, Hiram; I have treated you inlui-
manly, when you were mo.st in need of gentleness and sym-
pathy. You mean well, Hiram, and you are fighting your
battle stubbornly, but against dreadful and hopeless odds. I
.see that you have suffered, — are suffering, — and I ask your
pardon. But will you let me keep this for you, for ju.st one
week ? You can trust me with it ? "

"Yes."

" Hiram, did you ever hear of Dr. , the great special-
ist ? "

"Yes, I have," said Hiram eagerly.

"Well, I have sent for him to come down to Fret'erick
to-morrow, to see you. Can you rely on /it's opinion?"
reproachfully.

" Oh, Herbert ! what a strange man you are ! "

" But if he confirms what I insist upon ? "

" If he confirms it, I accept my freedom, thank Gotl ! "

" Hiram," gaily, "you look better already ! You will be
down town, buying your own cigars, in ten days." Then in
his old, cynical way : "Don't take it too much to heart ; but
doesn't it seem to you that, sickly novels aside, a man is a
downright noodle to try to play the hero in love-affairs?
Why should a sensible man aflPect to be a great moral hero,
when he might far better be the husband of the woman he
loves ? It's all bosh ; the modem high-flown novel is stulti-
fying us all. Some men are born to suffer for a life-time, eh?
Poor devils ! let them suffer, then ! That does not concern

Hiram's Chith.

»5$

was of the
ipoii hiin.sclf
iiis vow.
oisture dini-
lul and said
A you iiihu-
■ss and sym-
ghtitiK your
■less odds. I
:1 I ask your

for just one

reat special-

to Fre('erick
f opinion ? ' '

ikGotl !••

You will be
i." Then in
to heart ; but
e, a tnan is a

love-affairs ?

moral hero,
lie woman he
ovel is stulti-
life-time, eh ?

not concern

yon. — P.shnw ! Miram, I am worse than Job's comforters, ch ?
Or does tlie word 'n<x)dlc' grate painfully on your car ? "

With a hard smile on his lips Herbert strode out of the
room. Hiram had come to know what that hard smile and
rough language meant, — that Herliert's old wound was
bleeding again, — and he was not angry with the restless,
unhappy mortal, who could nr>t apply his philosophy to his
own case.

" In any other than he, I should suspect lunacy," Hiram
mused.

Chapter HI.

Thb next day the venerable old doctor arrived from New
York, and carefully examined into Hiram's ca.se. After
hearing the family historj' from Hiram and Mrs. Wolfe he
reported most favorably, advancing the same hope that
Herbert had done, that the curse would be removed.

"By taking the greatest care of yourself, by having no
anxiety to prey on your mind, and no business or family
cares, in twenty years or so all traces of insanity will have
disappeared," said the great doctor.

Herliert looked triumphant — pleased, no doubt, that the
learned mind-doctor was merely echoing his own words,
Mrs. Wolfe stood by with tears in her eyes. No others were
present at the interview, or guessed its purport.

"What do you advise me to do meanwhile?" Hiram
asked.

" During these twenty years ? As your mind must be free
from care, I should advise that you go and establish a home
for yourself on the plains — a ranch in Texas, say. Avoid
undue excitement, but keep yourself employed all the time,
even though you have to do all the work yoitnself. Keep a

254

Hiram's Oath.

spirited horse always in your stables, and whenever you feel
low-spirited, mount it on the instant, and gallop away as if
you were pursued by Comanches or hobomokkos. What
you want is, to keep your spirits up, — not too high, not to
excitement, — and always to be cheerful. Whenever you
begin to feel depressed in spirits, have something to do that
will engross your attention wholly. ' Secure Dickens' novels,
Shakespeare's and Molifere's comedies, anything diverting ;
and, above all, don't forget that wild horse. A horseback
journey through the new State of Texas, or even through
the Union, would be a good idea, if you didn't attempt it all
at once. Don't permit any cares, great or small, to prey on
your mind, and — that is all. ' '

' ' And so in twenty years the curse is extinct ! A long
time ! "

"Now, don't chafe about that, Mr. Wolfe. In twenty
years you will have removed the ban of the house of Wolfe.
Let that — "

" The wolf's-bane, so to speak ! " Herbert broke in.

" Let that," continued the doctor, " be your watch-word.
It is a long time, it is true ; I shall not live to see it ; but
twenty years hence you will look back upon to-day as not so
very long ago. ' '

" And if I pass through this period I am safe, unless — ."

" Unless some great trouble should come upon you. But
hope for the best, and trust in Heaven."

"One word more, doctor: Could you have removed the
curse from our family earlier, by the same method of treat-
ment?"

"That is a question that I can not answer, Mr. Wolfe,
without data respecting the temperament of the victims."

"Is he not a fine subject for the experiment ? " Herbert
inquired, with an admiring glance at Hiram.

Hiram's Oath.

255

ver you feel
away as if
kos. What
high, not to
lenever you
g to do that
tens' novels,
g diverting ;
\. horseback
ven through
ittempt it all
1, to prey on

:t ! A long

In twenty
se of Wolfe.

-okc in.
watch- word,
see it ; but
iay as not so

, unless — ."
n you. But

removed the
hod of treat-

■, Mr. Wolfe,
victims."
t?" Herbert

"Yes, indcd ; this is the hour and the man," laughed the
doctor.

Mrs. Wolfe had a long talk that evening with Hiram. She
earnestly advised him to tell Alice everything, and give no
further thought to the family aiBiction. "Your oath is not
binding now, Hiram," she said ; " your vow is the same as
accomplished."

"No, mother ; not for twenty years ; " Hiram said sadly.

" But you will speak with Alice?"

" Yes, mother; in the morning."

Then Mrs. Wolfe left him, and soon afterward Herbert
strode into the room.

"Well, Hiram ? " was his greeting.

"Well, Herbert," returned Hiram; "you may give me
back the paper you are keeping for me, if you please."

"To be sacrificed?"

"Yes."

"That is good;" said Herbert, surrendering the paper.
"You don't know why I wanted it, so I will tell you : A
scrap of paper, anything in the shape of a document, will
fortify a man's courage, either for good or for evil. Yours
is a sort of mental thumb-screw, and I wished to deprive
you of its moral support. See how cruel and crafty I am I
But isn't it so ? I don't know how it would apply to woman-
kind," petulantly ; " I don't know anything about them, nor
do I wish to know."

" But your sister ? " prompted Hiram reproachfully.

" My sister is an exception ; she is an angel."

Hiram asked for a taper and was about to destroy the paper,
when he checked himself, and said abniytly, " I can't do it,
Herbert ; keep it for me ; keep it for my sake, when I am
gone."

"I will do so, my dear friend, for its work is done. So

256

Hiram's Oath.

you are tired of playing the hero, eh ? You will make a
clean breast of it to my sister ? ' '

" Yes ; and here and now I ask you to our wedding, twenty
years hence. ' '

"That is right; I will come. Hum, yes; a wedding!
And so, in twenty years, the days of your heroship will be
fulfilled."

" Don't add to my burden, Herbert ! "

"Forgive me, Hiram; I am wrong. Now for my idea.
Will you tolerate my company on your ranch, for twenty
years ? ' '

" Herbert ! Will you come with me ?" cried Hiram, with
feverish delight. " Do you mean it ? "

' ' Unless you expressly forbid it, I am determined to share
your adventures, your privations, your solitude, and — your
warhorse ! "

"Oh, Herbert ! How good you are ! "

"Fudge! I'm a wretch! a stony-hearted wretch! Hi-
ram, do you know, .sometimes I envy the world its happiness ;
sometimes when I see misery I rejoice in it. I — I wish
Uncle Sam would go to war ; I should revel in the carnage
and havoc. But I'll take it out in spilling the life-blood of
the buffalo. — And so your love-affair will turn out happily,
after all ; and you will marry the woman of your heart ; and
you and she will grow old, and bald, ind wrinkled, and
childish, together. Hiram, sometimes I like to see things go
to pieces ; I wish somebody would write a novel and murder
every soul in it ! Come, when you and I live together on the
ranch, I'll write one myself; and I'll be m> own hero-in-
chief!"

" Don't talk that way, Herbert ; it isn't Chrisrian-'like. "
" God help me ; I know it isn't," Herbert replied sadly.
" Herbert, can nothing console you ? Wouldn't it do you

pill make a

lirig, twenty

a wedding !
ship will be

or my idea.
, for twenty

Hiram, with

ned to share
and — your

retch ! Hi-
s happiness ;
I — I wish
the carnage
life-blood of
}ut happily,
r heart ; and
inkled, and
ee things go
and murder
ether on the
iwn hero-in-

tian-iike."
plied sadly.
I't it do you

Hiram's Oath.

257

good to follow the prescription the doctor made out for me
for low spirits ? We will, on the ran — ."

" ' Console ? ' " broke in Herbert, in the old, bitter tone.
" Why do you say that to me ? Has any one been babbling
my affairs ? ' Console ! ' If you should see a man being
tortured to death by Indian braves, would you step up to
him and say, 'Can nothing console you, sir? Wouldn't a

prescription from Dr. be a good thing for your low

spirits ? ' '

Whistling a lively Negro melody, as if he were as light of
heart as a schoolboy, Herbert sauntered out of the room.

The next morning Hiram gave Alice the history of the
family curse, and then told her what the great physician had
said.

' 'Alice, ' ' he said, ' ' would it be asking too much if i should
ask j'ou to wait for me ? Could you wait twenty years ?
But do you love me, Alice ? Will you be my wife ? "

" Yes, Hiram ; I love you; " Alice said falteringly, her face
hidden.

' 'And will you be my wife ? Will you wait for me twenty
years?"

" Yes," faintly, but firmly,

"Oh, Alice ! Alice ! You will indeed be my guardian
angel ! "

" It is a long time, Hiram ; but I will wait."

"Ob, Alice ! my darling ! Come to me, that I may give
you a kiss — just one ! " Then passionately: "Alice ! would
you marry me as soon as I get well ? to-day ? now ? ' '

" Yes, Hiram," said Alice slowly.

" Heaven forgive me, Alice. If you can wait, I can. You
will be here all alone ; while I shall be hard at work, or
scouring the plains on my charger. It will be harder, much
harder, and longer, for you than for me. ' '

258

Hiram's Oath.

" But you will be lonely, too, Hiram."

"No, Alice; Herbert is going with me. Isn't that
good ? ' '

" Oh, I'mso glad — for yoursake.and for his, too. But,"
sadly, ' ' I shall miss him so much. ' '

" I did not think of that, Alice ; I will persuade him not
to go."

' ' No, no ! I did not mean that ! Besides, we shall see
one another occasionally; the doctor did not forbid thai —
did he, Hiram ? ' '

" No, Alice ; that pleasure is not denied us."

" Herbert will be good company, Hiram, when you get ac-
customed to his ways. You won't fret about me, Hiram ; I
shall be all right. And don't think the time long, either.
We shall each of us have employment for our minds and
hands, and we will correspond regularly. You will try to
wait patiently, won't you, Hiram ?"

' ' Yes, dear Alice ; and to prove worthier of your love. ' '

"A life on the plains may do you both a great deal of
good. I will try not to be uneasy about you, but you must
promise me not to run into danger, of any kind. Herbert is
so adventurous that he would storm an Indian camp, alone. ' '

" I promise you, Alice. Do you think Herbert will ever
get over his disappointment ? — his grief?

"I am afraid not. But he is not so bitter as he was three
years ago. ' '

' ' How was he the first year ? ' '

' ' We did not see him for a full year after that fatal day.
Some of his friends persuaded him to go off to Russia with
them, and from that country he roamed over half Europe.
When he came back, Hiram, I did not know him."

' ' He was so altered ? "

Isn't that

oo. But,"

ide him not

■e shall see
bid that —

you get ac-
, Hiram ; I
ong, either,
minds and
will try to

itr love. ' '
reat deal of
t you must
Herbert is
np, alone."
rt will ever

e was three

t fatal day.
R.ussia with
alf Europe.

Hiram's Oath.

259

" Ves. 'Am I so woebegone a ghost,' he said, ' that no
one knows me ? ' "

" But sometimes he seems quite cheetlnl I heard him
whistling lively air yesterday, as jauntily as a young sailor.

" Yes, Hiram ; but I often think he does that to keep from
breaking down entirely. ' '

" He must have been a noble fellow once."

" He was, Hiram ; he was the best of brothers ; so clever,
good-humored, witty, and good. Now he is cynical, and —
and at times a little inclined to be ill-natured, I am afraid
you must think."

" No, Alice ; he is the only man I could ever think of as
a brother. In truth, he seems as near to me as if he were
already mj' brother."

Hiram improved rapidly from that day. He schooled him-
.self to wait patiently — even to look forward tranquilly till
the years of his probation should be fulfilled.

One day Herbert came to him, and said : " Old fellow, did
it never occur to you that Alice ought to have an engage-
ment rin;.,^ ? You used to bind yourself with grim resolu-
tions, and oaths, and such things, and yet you expect Alice
to keep on being engaged to you for twenty ye?rs or so, with-
out even a betrothal ring ! You don't know much about
womankind, Hiram."

" You ^.re right, Herbf it ; I'll try and get out to get one
to-day. '

" No, you won't ! Do you see this? " displaying a ring-
box. " Or are you so unsophisticated that you take it for
a Roman relic? "

' ' Herbert ! Hcjw good you are ! " was all Hiram could
say.

" Enough of that ; it is growing monotonous."

26o

Hiram's Oath.

Hiram opened the box and found a beautiful ring, set with
two brilliants that dazzled his eyes.

The time came when Hiram and Alice must part. It was
a sad moment, but each looked forward hopefully to the day
when they .should meet to part no more till Death should
part them for a season in old age.

" I shall be an old woman to be a bride, Hiram," said
Alice, smiling through her tears. "An old woman —forty
years old ! Think of that ! Wrinkled, perhaps, and
gray ! "

" But the noblest of all noblewomen, Alice, and the best."

" Good-bye, Alice," said Herbert. " Keep a brav? heart,
my sister, and we sLali weather the storms of twenty years.
I am interested in his case ; he is a noble fellow. I am going
to oversee everything, and shall negotiate for all our supplies,
and manage affairs generally, so that he shall have nothing
to worry him. I mean to secure a medicine chest, and be
medjaae-man to the camp. So, don't borrow trouble, Alice,
for I shall care for him as I would for a baby — I mean, for
a puppy."

" Dear Herbert," said Alice, " it is so good of you ! You
are going on purpose to take care of him."

" I am going for my health," said Herbert shortly.

" He is so good a man — . ' '

" He is worthy of you, Alice ; that is all. Yes, he is a
good fellow. Good-bye, dear sister ; I will be my brother's
keeper. Yes, poor soul, he needs some one to look after him,
or he would be binding himself with some of his horrible
' resolutions ' not to neglect his work, or not to read any
books, or not to write — hum ! Good-bye !"

ring, set with

part. It was
lly to the day
Death should

Hiram," said
Oman — forty
jerhaps, and

,nd the best."
I brav^ heart,
wenty years.
I am going
our supplies,
have nothing
:hest, and be
rouble, Alice,
— I mean, for

jf you ! You

hortly.

Yes, he is a
my brother's
)ok after him,
" his horrible

to read any

Hiram's Oath.

Chapter IV.

261

It was in ante-Pacific railway days, and the journey to
far-off Texas was a great undertaking. Hiram suggested that
they should travel the entire distance on horseback, but Her-
bert promptly vetoed that, as too fatiguing. Finally it was
decided to go by rail to the Ohio, thence down that river
and the Mississippi to Memphis, and thence across the plains
by caravan train, or on horseback by easy stages, to Austin.
All necessary supplies, of course, would be procured at
Memphis.

At that period the old B. and O. was completed beyond
Cumberland almost to Wheeling. This route they took,
staging it over the " gap " to the Ohio. Their journey was
delightful, but uneventful, till Memphis was reached, whence,
after a week's halt, they leisurely continued on their way on
horseback, with a retinue of pack-horses and slaves — or
rather, as Hiram afterwards discovered, manumitted blacks,
liberally paid by Herbert. The long ride across the plains,
though wearisome, was bracing and exciting, and they en-
joyed it so much that Hiram began to feel very hopeful.

" The years will glide away peacefully and happily for us,'*
he .said ; " but poor Alice ! "

" He mustn't fret, poor fellow, even about Alice," thought
Herbert. "Hiram," he said, "what do you .suppcse is in
those packs in front of me ? ' '

"Powder?"

" You guess as wildly as a parrot, Hiram, and that is the
worst guesser at all. The right one i,« full of comedies, for
you ; and the other is full of tragedies, for me."

" There you are again, Herbert ! "

" Well, I am going to refbrni ; I am going to take your

if'ii

a63

Hiram's Oath.

medicine with you. When we feel low-spirited we'll both
go coursing over the country full chase, eh, Hiram ? Marry !
as Shakespeare sometimes says, marry ! we'll dose ourselves
to death. Our mounts now are only gauls, as the Germans
put it."

" Herbert, why should you not confide in me? You are
helping me to bear my burdens ; why should I not help you ?
Some cruel grief is preying on your mind, Herbert ; why
should we not sympathize together ? "

" Enough of that ! " said Herbert severely. " I always
suspected somebody had meddled in my affairs. Hiram, did
you ever see me in a rage ? ' '

" No, Herbert ; you have too much self-command."

After a long interval Herbert said slowly : " Hiram, I will
unbosom myself to you ; I will unfold the story of my woes ;
I will lay bare the tragedy of my life."

Hiram listened intently while Herbert told the story of his
love. He did not spare himself in the rehearsal, but .seemed
rather to take a savage delight in giving every torturing
detail of the tragedy, as he aptly termed it.

" Now," he said when he had finished, "do you wonder
that I am a wreck ? Do you wonder that I hate myself and
•everybody else ? Do you wonder that I am an outcast,
hating the very word ' happiness, ' which to me is so bitter a
mockery ? ' '

"You have suffered, Herbert, as few men have suffered.
I do not wonder that you laughed at my suffering, as after
twenty years it would be over, while yours would never be
over. * '

"Just so ; you have something to live for, to look forward

to; I haven't."

" But has nothing blunted the edge of your grief ? "
"Don't be so metaphorical. No, nothing; the edge of

we'll both
n ? Marry !
se ourselves
be Germans

? You are
jt help you ?
rbert ; why

" I always
Hiram, did

land."

liram, I will
of my woes ;

; story of his
, but seemed
ry torturing

you wonder

; myself and

an outcast,

is so bitter a

ive suffered,
■ing, as after
uld never be

look forward

;rief?" ■
the edge of

Hiram's Oath.

263

m>- grief is still so keen that it cuts to my heart's core, as it
did at first. Constancy, Hiram, is in our family. My parents
were engaged for ten years before their marriage, and Alice's
loyalty to you will never waver. Can you guarantee your-
self to be as constant ? ' '

"Herbert! How can you question it?" asked Hiram
angrily.

" I don't. I have seen greater constancy in mankind than
in womankind, and I know your heart, Hiram. But unfaith-
fulness on your part would kill my sister, and if I thought
you capable of it I would shoot you, as mercilessly as I would
any other traitor. Aren't you afraid ? " laughingly.

"You are a modern Horatius. No, I am not afraid that
you will ever shoot me, Herbert. If it came to that, I would
.shoot my,self But wasn't your grief harder to bear at
first?"

"I don't know; I was away, in Europe, somewhere, or
everywhere, ranging about like a madman. I suflFered least
then, Hiram, for I was not conscious of my sufferings.
Would you believe it ? I know scarcely anything of what I
did. But I was awakened one day, in Paris. It was a rude
awakening. I saw her and the Jew, looking as happy and
innocent as twin statues of Charity."

" That nut.st have been hard."

"Yes, rather ; it made me what I am."

" Was she so beautiful ? "

"Don't think me a fool, Hiram— at least, if you think so,
don't say it. I trust to your honor. Here, see for your-
self," handing Hiram a worn picture-case. "But, yes; I
a^'jafool; an ass; a noodle."

Hiram opened the picture-case. ' ' And this was the woman
you loved ? "

"Put your sentence into the present tense throughout,"

264

Hirtvn's Oath.

bitterly. "Well," roughly, taking the picture, "what do
you say ? "

"She is a master-piece of i.atine, Herl>ert."

" Her treachery so unmanned me that I have never been
fit for anything since, and jiever expect to Iv Now, accord-
ing to romance, she and the Jew should have come to beggary
in six monti:". Then she should have written an appeal to
me, and I should have — hum ! Marry, I abominate romance !
Then there is another way for the romancers to figure it out,
and happify me, in spite of myself. They should have a
daughter, the imagt of her mother, and I should marry her,
fortune and all ! Til organize a crusade against romancers,
I swear I will, and kill them off with their own absurd the-
ories."

" Have you ever heard from them ? Have they a daugh-
ter ? "

"Don't, Hiram! Don't! I've said too much; I must
cool down. ' Then calmly, " What did you ask ? No, I've
never heard anything about them. But they are all right,
never fear ! Pshaw ! Perhaps I wouldn't marry her, were
she a widow and had I the chance ! ' '

" Herbert, it is strange that it did not embitter you against
all lovers. Yet you have worked hard for your sister and
me, and you have removed the shadow of the curse from
me.

' ' Those are the most sensible remarks you have made,
Hiram. And you are right ; it did embitter me ; it incensed
me, almost beyond endurance, to hear anything about love
or lovers. But in my sister's case it was different. When I
returned from Europe, the most wretched mortal on earth,
my sister was everything to me. She was so kind,- so com-
passionate, so unobtrusive. She put up with all my vagaries
and perversities, and never vexed me. In short, if it had

b
w
ii
tl
a

s]
b

Hiram's Oath.

265

, " what do

never been
[ow, accord -
; to beggary
ti appeal to
,te romance !
igure it out,
3uld have a
marry her,
romancers,
absurd the-

ey a daugh-

,ch ; I must

? No, I've

ire all right,

ry her, were

you against

ir sister and

curse from

have made,
; it incensed
I about love
It. When I
tal on earth,
;ind,so com-
niy vagaries
)rt, if it had

not been for my sister, I should now be a grinning lunatic
in some private asylum. I did not notice for some time
how good she was to me; but when I did Jiotice it I swore
that I would work for her happiness, if the occasion should
ever come. I saw that a love-affair with her must be a life-
affair, as with me. The occasion did come, Hiram, and you
know the rest. I did my duty, and — I feel better for it."

' ' You have done enough to secure your happiness hereafter,
my more than brother."

" And yet I am unkind to her, my sister."

' ' In what way ? "

"I am so rough. God kn< I regret my harshness
towards her. My mother ami ^r find traces of my tears,
poor souls, and they think I cry myself to sleep for the woman
I love, when it is often because of my brutality at home.
Never mind ; now that I am away from home, I shall rival
you in writing kind and encouraging letters to Alice. I can
write a kind letter, Hiram, though perhaps you can not be-
lieve it.

" I can believe you might be the kindest of men."

" Pshaw ! I am used to my misery now. In facfc, in a mild
way, I enjoy my misery and my chronic peevishness."

Hiram and Herbert established themselves on a fine ranch
on the Colorado River in Texas, north of the State capital,
at that time a town of less than 4,000 inhabitants. Deer,
buffaloes, and wild horses were all about them, and Indians
were near enough to lend a spice of danger to their surround-
ings. They expected to occupy their new quarters for nearly
the entire period of twenty years, and they made themselves
as comfortable and their home as pleasant as if they would
spend a life-time there. Austin was their post-office and
base, and Herbert undertook the management of everything,
so that Hiram had absolutely no cares whatever.

a66

Hiram' $ Oatb.

Each one procured a spirited horse, to which Herl)ert gave
fantastic and sonorous names, and whenever Hiram seemed
at all depressed the horses were promptly called up and
saddled. Then together they galloped over the country,
sometimes taking a run of fifty miles. The old doctor was
right; a wild ;.;'\llop on his mettlesome .steed never failed to
exhilarate Hiram's spirits.

They prospered as ranchers, but did not devote all their
energies to money-making. They had come for no such
purpose, and were not disposed to neglect health or recreo-
tion for it. Herbert read his tragedies, and wrote long letters
to Alice ; Hiram read comedies, tragedies, magazines, any-
thing readable, and also wrote long letters to Alice. I [<;rbert
was right ; they vied with each other in writing IovIujl; and
cheering letlcrs. Besides this, Herbert frequently wrote to
the old doctor and to Mrs. Wolfe about the "patient," as h ;
styled Hiram. But they were almost i,8oo miles from home,
and it took time for letters to reach their destination.

So they lived, a sort of Robinson Crusoe life, which was
good for both. Each one enjoyed himself, and took kindly
to his pursuits. Hiram did not complain, or get low-spirited ;
j!;ti I even Herbert seemed to grow rational.

This life had continued about a year, when one day Her-
bert said resolutely : " Hiram, the books I read when I was
a boy harped incessantly about a man's having a purpose in
life. That was good, though it never did me any good. But
now I am going to have one ; I am going to coin money ; I
am going to be a miser."

"What for?"

"Oh, you'll see. Perhaps I am going to pension the man
who will be blood-thirsty enough to write a novel to my

taste."

' ' But how are you going to make the money ? ' '

"j*

'h Herliert gave
Hiram seemed
called up and

er the country,
old doctor was

d never failed to

devote all their
nie for no such
health or recrea-
ivrote long letters

magazines, any-
5 Alice. Herbert
riling loving; and
quently wrote to

"patient," as ir.^
1 miles from home,
istiiiiition.
e life, which was

and took kindly
r get low-spirited ;

hen one day Her-
read when I was
•ving a purpose in
vte any good. But
to coin money ; I

;o pension the man
te a novel to my

iioney ? ' '

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Hiram's Oath,

"On this ranch. I am going to work in earnest and not
watch the overseer smoke, and look on, and talk m his
ingenuous way. any longer. Or I can speculate m real estate
in Austin; or dabble in medicine - patent medicine, for
instance.-or write poetry that would brand me as a mad-
man. Hiram, you have something to live for and work for,

and I mean to have, too."

Long afterwards, when Hiram found that Alice, witha party
of friends, was about to travel in Europe he leamt ^hat
Herbert had supplied her with the means to do sa She
needs change and amusement as much as we do. Hiram, he
said deprecatingly. "You must hoard for an heir; 1

mustn't."

" Herbert, you are a noble fellow !

"No- I wanted to learn practical farming, and I was too
lazy to learn it without an incentive to work. Poor Ahce
She would never have thought of going off to see the sights
of Europe, if some one hadn't proposed the idea to her.

Years r;iled by, and still Hiram and Herbert lived their
lonely life on the ranch, took their long rides, and wrote lov-
ing letters to Alice. Christmas they ^'^^^^fy/^'''^
Maryland, and twice Alice came to spend a few days with
them on their plantation.

The air was filled with rumors of war; the nation was
trembling on the verge of rebellion.

" Hiram, I was bom to be a soldier, even though I fall in
the first battle. The spirit of fighting was strong in me.
when I was only a hobbledehoy. We will not part Hiram
(and you shall not go to war, do you hear?) but I can aid
the cause of right out of my private means, and now and
then see and smell the smoke of War."
"AsaSouthemer—" began Hiram.
" As a Southerner, I have no sympathy with the North ;

268 Hiram's Oath.

but," resolutely, -ashman, I r^iH sland by i/. blacks tkrous^h

""^A^d yt'your father is a slave-holder, and we have blacks

^^'Yofknow my contempt for quack politics ; you know
my hatred oLlave'ry ; you know my dogged resolution wben
lit about doing a thing. We have blacks on our ranch it
is^ue • but they are not slaves, if laborers' wages make free
ir 'Hiram. Thave long groped, as aj>lind man, for^a
purpose in life, and I have found it now. thank God ! Come,
let lis write to Alice about it." , , t. ^

''. Yes Herbert ; for I am with you. heart and sou I have
suspected this about our blacks; but." laughmgly, Idont
know what other secrets you are keepmg from m^

The years rolled on; the war was past. Hiram ana
nJrSrt were forced to give up their property m Texas, and
^r^^rflle for life- whin their horsemanship stood them in
J^A stead. But they were still alive and well and Herbert
S their misfortunes easily, though ^or.a time he f^^^^^^^
Zt if anything might unsettle Hiram's mind, their reverses
Ind troubles would. Groundless fear. So long as Hiram
h"d rce'rio'e. he could smile at fickle fortune, equally

" Thf war'ffected a great change for the better in Herbert^
Though still outwardly the same restless, cynical bemg, he
had lost much of his heartache in the smoke of war. He
had oughUn many battles, with the indomitable courage of
a hero He had risen, too, to the rank of major-a distinc-
tion which he ignored, t,.. ^^coid "We

" I advanced the cause ; that is enough ; he said We
have nothing more to fight about, and I never want to see
♦lie rountrv plunged in another war.

The twenty years were all told but one. Hiram's eager-

"^Ts

Hiram's Oath.

369

:ks through

lave blacks

you know
ution when
ur ranch, it
s make free
man, for a
^od! Come,

soul. I have
ly, "I don't

ae."

Hiram and
I Texas, and
tood them in
and Herbert
me he feared
:heir reverses
ng as Hiram
Lune, equally

;r in Herbert,
ical being, he
; of war. He
ble courage of
ar — a distinc-

lesaid. "We
er want to see

iiram's eager-

„.ss to return to Maryland and claim hi, brif; «» l"""^ ■

have Jn'e verything to me : you and Alice ; wife, cbddren
e«rything. I can never leave you, tor .t w™'* "=«'*'
aSg my life-blood. You will reserve a nook under your
^!.L for me - won't you. Hiram ? • pleadmgly.

' ' Herbert ' vou shall never leave us !
Itw:^renLthofDecember,andthetwomen.no^^^^^^^^^^

young, but middle-aged, were loungmg about the streets o
Clrancisco In just six months' time the engagement
^Tadeneady twenty years before was to be consummated by

' H^in and Hiram were in good spirits, for everything
was well with them. They were talking, as they had been
Talking for the last twenty years, about the re-umo« that
was to take place in the June of 1872.

.. Time goes fast, after all, Hiram ; s»x months wi whtz
past before we know it. It has been about the b^t love
test I ever heard of. I have had no occasion to «boot you^
Ih You and Alice can stand fire after this ; tb-e w.U be
no danger that I shall ever pick up a paper and find your
names figuring in a list of divorce cases

As Herbert spoke he lazily turned mto a "e^^f *"'' .^"^
bought a newspaper for theday. His eyes caught a headmg

^'"AlnoC^ut't^L ! Wreckofthesteamer/'...^.
andtsl of half her passengers. Details of the catastrophe.

^ Aiitwas again in Europe, and this was the steamer in
whicrsh'wassailingon the Mediterranean, before she should

come home for the last time. u„„,^

A gUmmer of hope that Alice might not have been on board.

270

Hiram's Oath.

or that she mig-- have escaped . penetrated to Herbert' sbra^^
But, no ! There was her name among the names of those

who had perished.

All sense forsook him ; he sank down helpless. The paper
slipped from his nerveless hand, and Hiram cried aloud for
help Then, with a quick prescience that it was something
Herbert had seen in the paper, he took it up.

" Poor fellow ! Perhaps it was something about the woman

who has made his life ." „^ oil

Hiram said no more, for he had taken in at a glance all

that Herbert had seen.

Chapter V.
IT was two days later. Hiram was delirious in the hospital
off Market-street ; Herbert had so far recovered as to be able
to watch by him, but his thoughts were too chaotic to be

chronicled. . tt^^u^^

A messenger-boy brought in a telegram for one Herbert
J. Sinclair. It was only because the newspapers had pub-
lished among the city items that two robust men, Smclaxr
and Wolfe, had swooned away on reading an account of the
disaster in the Mediterranean, and been taken to one of the
hospitals, that the operator, from the purport of the telegram,
had known where to find him.

" Read it, my boy." said Herbert weanly. when the tele-
gram was tendered him. " Read it ; /can't.

."HERBERT Sinclair -.-Fearing you may have heard
of the wreck of the Phcebus and think me lost, I telegraph
to let ylu know I am safe in Genoa, having left the .Pk.l>us
two days before she went down. ^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^ , „

Hiram's Oath.

271

•t's brain.
i of those

rhe paper
aloud for
iomething

he woman

glance all

he hospital
5 to be able
lotic to be

ne Herbert
s had pub-
en, Sinclair
ount of the
one of the
le telegram,

len the tele-

' have heard
I telegraph
the .Phoebus

ECLAIR.' "

Herbert broke down and wept as he had not for thirty
.ears ^or-ars no great ^oy had co^

rc:bCm:AX%eg^g"e7tosail for home immedi-

'%hen he went to Hiram's bedside, hoping ^o -ke the
poor fellow conscious of the life-givmg news. But that was
r of tbe question ; Hiram was raving p.teously about the
oath he had made when twenty-one.

• ' Poor Hiram ! His reverse has come ! Oh that ne may
recover Has this been my doing ? Have I been wrong m
hrXg him live in Texas, and here, and there, and every^
wheTe > Was I wrong in having Alice travel abroad, and
where.' ^^^ ^ ^t • . .„ , , Am I directly responsible
so incur danger of bemg killed ? Am i ^"recuy ^
for all that has happened? God help me ! lam! Iam_
l" as a midman m'y^elf. crazed by my lovV^^ttk^dl
brought the old doctor to see Hiram, and I must have d s
orougui lui^ madman !

torted the facts to him. God help me . ^ ^ . ^

An hour later Herbert was in a coup^ and on hi? way 10
the telegraph-office. He feebly made his way into the build-
ing, and asked to see the messenger-boys.

When he returned to the hospital -g^ Jf "^'^^^^J^ '^^ ^,
troop of poor little messenger-boys will «"« ^ !^"^^7 ^^ "_
to-night, -one of them, in particular, and he a little Jew.

but that will not make me ^«y ^"^^'^ ^^^ ^„d Mrs.

The new year came, and with it came aw'l
WoJe. S Jm »as hovering betw«. life and *«*■ ^»' '^
TL held ou. hope that he »ould m»«n A^m AU^
and Mrs. Wolfe were his nurses, while Herbert looked saa y

""slowly life and reason came back to Hiram His|-^
Jre lei violent. Instead of fancying •"""«", *"*.f"r"
"Th* rTh in Texas, his thoughts went back to the days

lli

2^2 Hiram's Oath.

when he had first known Alice. Then ^^^ v.°"^«V«P*f^ °[
The day when he had first seen her. on the tram. From that
Li thoughts would drift to the terrible scene when ^h^ train
went to pieces and he was buried under Us rums. Thi.s had

made a lasting impression on his mmd. ^„„ ■u^a

So passed January, February, and March ; and spnng had

come again. Still Alice watched over Hiram, though he had

"ng sfnce been removed from the hospital to a pnvate

house which Herbert had rented.
^aZT" said Herbert one day, " do take a little exercse^

Why. you look like a vine that has grown in the cellar, and

never seen the sun ! You will be ill yourself, Ahce ; and
never seen mc ^ ^ ^^^^

then what should we do ? See Here . oe rea >
at 6 P. M., for if you are not ready we shall l^^ve to Uke^
close carriage, and I have ordered an open one. Poor g«^ J
When you came back from Europe this time you didn t look
more than thirty, but now you look fully forty."

Herbert was right ; she was so wearied, and worn, and sad.
that she seemed no longer the bright Alice of old.

As they turned into Golden Gate Park, they almost col-
lided with a gay equipage, in which sat a loveyjvoman
robed in sombre black, but looking supremely happy and

'"'At^rr -sobbed Herbert. •' Alice." brokenly, "that
is the woman I loved ; that is my wife ! And we might

^^h^Hefbert! Drive after her ! She is a widow now !

'^No," said Herbert sadly, "I must not. I am a child
again, and I wish to have it so. My heart is ashes, but I
have you and Hiram to love me ; that is enough.

"But, Herbert, she is in black! She is a widow! And

Hiram's Oath.

373

You nutst see

i speak of

From that

^ the train

This had

spring had

igh he had

a private

le exercise.

cellar, and
Alice; and

for a drive

^e to take a

Poor girl !

didn't look

rn, and sad,
d.

' almost col-

ely woman,

happy and

:enly, "that
id we might

widow now !

; am a child
ashes, but I
h." .
/idow ! And

We have the
Let me be a

she looks as beautiful and as young as ever.

Vipr ' "

"Don't, Alice; the awful past is dead^
happy future before us. and that is enough.

'Teasofcame back to Hiram Wolfe. The twenty yea«
Je allbut told, and he was himself again. After a touc^-
Tng interview with Alice and his mother, he asked to .see

"" yIs dear Hiram," said Alice, " I will call him. It is
hard to realize that all is well, at last. The -ffermg . all
passed now, but it has been bitter enough^ ,^°fV getweU
yet, Hiram ; but you have a month and a half to get well

in "

"«' Till June," said Hiram, faintly and sadly.
• ..Yes.Hiram; till June. But don't look so sorrowful; the
tide has turned ; our days of happiness have come.

She w" him tenderly, and he passionately returned the

^* Herbert came into the room, to find Hiram wasted to a
«i,«rlow but with the old, resolute look in his eyes.

"Now.tWs te something to live for, .snt ,t! And yon
ta«"; lost a day, either ; for the date we Sxed on hasn t

^HeSrt, listen !" said Hiram, in so strained a tone that
^'X:TL^. Hiran,," he said; "- -\-Jf il

.-rsie^'r;::::e~^":--^'tS^^

274

Hiram's Oath.

waiting have not been in vain ! Think of yourself ! Think
of Alice!"

"It is of Alice I think, Herbert. The oath made long
years ago must be renewed. An.swer me truly, Herbert ; is
there not danger? The curse of insanity would follow — ."

" Oh, I don't know ; I don't know ; I had not thought of
this. Oh, Alice! Hiram! Would to Heaven —."

" Be calm, Herbert. My constitution is undermined ; my
mind is shattered ; I shall die. The great doctor is no more,
but I know what he would say. We did not tell him that I
wished to marry, at the fulfilment of the twenty years, but
he knew it. It was tacitly understood, Herbert, that if the
malady should return, the curse would likewise return."

' ' He said nothing about that ; he simply said, in twenty
years you would have left it behind you. So, it is bosh ; I
don't believe it."

" You do, Herbert ; and /do. He did not say it, because — "

' ' Because he never dreamed of such a thing ! ' ' broke in
Herbert.

— "because he did not wish to trouble us. But it was
understood. Herbert, in a few days I shall die, because I,
too, have nothing to live for. What I said years ago was
sadly prophetic : 'I have made a vow; I will keep it.' —
Herbert, my brother, don't grieve ; devote your life to Alice,
as you have devoted it to me. ' '

But Herbert could no longer control his grief.

"Herbert, I did not destroy the foolish oath I drew up ;
you kept it for me. Give it to me, please, if you have it still ;
I wish to destroy it now, before I die."

Shaking from head to foot, Herbert slowly drew a heavy
metal case from an inner pocket, and took therefrom a paper.
Faithful Herbert ! He had carried it about him all these
years, the metallic case preserving it intact.

Hiram's Oath.

! Think

nade long
erbert ; is
allow—."
bought of

lined ; my
is no more,
him that I
years, but
that if the
:turn."
in twenty
is bosh ; I

because — "
" broke in

But it was
, because I,
rs ago was
I keep it.'—
life to Alice,

..It once saved my life from a Confederate bullet.

"'.'Thank Ood for that ! But Alice must not see that
wicked oath ; burn it in the grate, l^efore me.-That is good.
Ttl my will long ago, and you will find U w.th our
lawyer. It leaves everything, without reserve, to Alice. We
shall all meet again, Herbert."

These were Hiram Wolfe's last conscious words Hts
suffer^gs were not prolonged ; at midnight he called dehr-

iously :

"Herbert! Herbert!"

" Yes. my brother ; I am here."

.. Herbert, it is pressing me hard. Call up the horses and
we wiUnake a long run together. Then - we will write -

to Alice."

A labored breath, and all was still.

" He is gone ! " sobbed Herbert.

Hiram had kept his oath ; he had removed the curse.

Alice. Herbert, and Mrs. Wolfe went back to Virginia,
taldng heir dead with them, and thence to Maryland.

Spring had come, but it had no charms for them The
ye^rdled on. and they mechanically went through with
their duties. But Hiram could never be forgotten.

I drew up ;
have it still ;

Irew a heavy
Tom a paper,
lim all these

^"^^7^[^^^

*-r^

•76

So Shall / Sleep.

SO SHALL I SLEKP.

As sleeps a chUd, eaw.l from hi. pain,
Ah sleep the dRiiien, bathed in dew,
A« sleep the song birds, when the day

It o'er, and niKht has come with rain ;—
So shall I sleep. I've heard from you.
And that has charmed my pain away.

Suspense is past, I now may sleep,

And rest will bring me long-lost peace.

Will give me strength, may bring sweet dreams

Of you, that 1 would alway keep.

Sleep and good news will bring surcease
From old regrets, from sadd'ning theuies.

As romps a child. i«i his mad play.

As breathe the woods, when Spring has com..,

As carol song-birds, after rain,—
So sings my soul, this gladsonie day.

And ev'ry sense, that seemed so numb.

Is quiv'ring MOW with joy, not pain.

As wakes a child, in rosy health.

As wake the flowers, 'neath May-bright sun,
As wake the birds, when they forsake

A Northern clime, as 'twere by stealth ;-
So, knowing you are well, loved one.
When breaks the morn, so shall I wake.

i^iun 7riut»pb.

VAIN TRIUMPH.

(A PRAOMKNT).

In the days of my younK manhotxl.
At the fcolclen age of twenty,
I looked out upon a bright world
Full of beauty and of gladneM ;
Saw in Nature only aunahine,
Saw in mankind only goothieas,
For I lived at peace with all men,
Though by no man was befriended.

From that time came premonition*,
•Dim forebodinga, tranaient glimpaea,
Of a phantom, weird and sombre.
That in future days should haunt me.

For this waa no boyish passion.
But a love to last a life-time.
To survive all evil fortune.
E'en the grave, and live triumphant
lu the glorious Hereafter.

Soon 1 won my darling's promise
To be mitie, now, aud forever.

And thenceforth how bright was Nature,

Filled again with joyous sunshine !

Strong and pure my faith in Heaven.

And in the Almighty's goodness.

278

yain Triumph.

Then began the phantoni visits
That had long been full expected.
'Twas no monster that came to me,
No forbidding, cruel spectre,
But a slow, dim-outlined figure.
Partly spirit, partly vision,
With grave gestures and sad accents.
Oft all'-.iing, oft consoling,
Vaguely whispering of Nelly,
Then again of disappointment;
Friendly towards me, and yet mocking,
A pursuer, no inspirer.
Still I, awe-struck, clung unto it,
Nightly waited for its coming.
Though too oft it came to torture.

# * » * *

"Never more," she said in anger,
"Can I speak to you or see you.
I am promised to another;
My old love for you is conquered,
And the past is past forever."

Thus she heartless broke her promise,
Heartless left me to my mis'ry,
Left me, with this grave suspicion,
And would hear no explication.

How I longed for night to bring me
Counsel from my sage familiar;
But, alas ! it came not nigh me.
Could it be it was cmniected.
As had oft been borne upon me,
With the sweetheart who had loved me ?
*****
As one who has been a captive
Half a life-time in a dungeon
Sees a day fixed for his freedom.
Then is thrust into a dungeon
Deeper, blacker, and more awful.
With no hope of future egress —

* *

yain Triumph.

As iu dreams the old delusions,
The old faces, the fond meni'ries,
Are revived, and the old heart-break,
That in sleep is oft rebellious.
With o'ermast'ring domination,
Bursts the mighty Past's locked portals,
Brings the dead again before us.
Shows dim glimpses of the Future,
Then soothes all our fierce repmings,
Till we wake to dull reaction
And the sharp regret of living —
So now gliding like a phantom
Nelly's spirit came beside me.
With a calm, bright smile of greeting. ^
"Though on earth we parted strangers,
Came a voice, a breath, an echo,
"Though I seemed but brief to love you.
And once goaded you to madness.
Yet my heart was with you alway ;
And now from the sleepless Death-land
I am come to prove repentance
And ^deem my giriisb promise
That our love should be immortal.
•Tis for me to ask forgiveness,
And for you again to pardon."

With a quick, wild cry of triumph
I reached forth, with frenzied gladness.
To seize fast my death-won Nelly,
That she ne'er again should leave me.

But once more I grasped at shadows,
'Twas the old hallucination,
The old sombre, mocking phantom,
With his protean disguises ;
Armed with means of keener torture,
Since he wore my loved one's features,
Had her air, her grace, her accents -
For now joyous first, then sadd'ning.
With life's vigor and life's clearness,
Nellv's footsteps, Nelly's laughter.

' 28o

yain Triumph.

On my ears like music falling,
Roused me from my trance-like stupor.
She was jesting with another,
Not for me her mirth or converse.

So the smile was as the phantom,
And the words were but a mock'ry.

♦ * • * *

This strange thought stirred all my life-blood,

Fired again my drooping spirits,

Brought new soul into my being ;

And once more I sought my Nelly,

Still unwedded, still my goddess.

The Archer and the Eagle.

28 X

ood,

THE ARCHER AND THE EAGLE.

r^ARL ADLER was a romantic, indolent young man
C with no capital in life except a genius for music He
v^;;:^ an expert performer on the violin, his favonte mstru^

%trtar^ Hl"^dtu^^^^^^^ either-

J.tlinorhis voice, but worked hard day after day ma

tobacco-factory, of which he was «T""*^f :"^k f„' fyt
ambitious dreams of some day leaving his work in this
L^Cand appearing before the world as a great violin stp
but fo the p^eint there was nothing for him to do but to
p^c^ on steadily and accept whatever fortune might bring

"^ Mter working all day he would go home to his lodging^
house, take his violin-case, and wander out of tl>e city to a
quiet spot beside the river, where he would play sometimes
?ill welUiitb the night. This he would ^o evenr P^^a-nt
evenine playing softly in his own room when the weather
rnot'suitlbl'forhimtogoou. He preferred to b^^^^^
when playing solely for his love of music ; but his ^^^idim
ZlTlnll not appreciate music, did not encourage him ta

play in the house. ^ f«, «,«. '»^

'■ There is no one for me to love ; no one to care for me.
Carl would often sigh. "I have no mother, no sister no
ttfe ;T1 but a stronger in a strange land. I seem to have
reticular friends; there is no one that coud become well
enough acquainted with me even to take an interest m my

282 The Archer and the Eagle.

welfare. 1 must never dream of a »ife and "ome ■ I ".»»t

L for myself ^^^^^^^^^^^ l^^t:^

case under his arm he was slowly making ^>^;y*y ' ^
^eLat up the river. As usual he was thmkmg of ,,^^^^^^

his beloved violin. Suddenly ^ J^^'^f^^X^^Xc^ He
turned the comer of a street, and met ^^^^^^ f ^^^;,1,,,„
stepped aside nnd was movmg on. when the genti

exclaimed : . a -pv-er " Then,

" Here's the very person you want, Miss Archer.
■sottovoce, "An adept at the art, I assure you.

Carl paused, and tl- ^^-^^ -^"^Adt Tr ^dler.
introduce you, Miss Archer, to Mr. Adler.

Miss Archer." . introduction.

Cari bowed in acknowledgment of the ^"^^°*;"

.aid Mto Archer, m a slow, m™-'j^~^ „, Jtolrrow
convenient for you tocome "^wtTirc^^ient-."

«.e ^o":;tdy for a moment -'ied Je .aao^^rSl^
the honor of the invitation. But a secona gia

convinced her that such was not the c^^_ ^^^ed.

..you play Strauss'scompositionslsupp^^^
.'Yes,Ihavemostofhiscompositions Cartsam^^^^

.. Sind Sie nicht einer seiner I^*°f ^f 5,f " ^f'^e ein
.. Ich bin es ; ich kam aber vor f"^f «^" J*^^;.^^^^ ^Is

Kind, nach Amerika. und ich spreche lieber enghsch

deutsch. Ich habe Musik bier studirt.

V ! '

The Archer and the Eagle.

283

I must
violin."
ife ; but
is violin-
ly to his
s art and
jntleman
ice. He
entleman

" Then,

nit me to
[r. Adler,

roduction.
;d himself,
e in what

[r. Adler,"
^ould it be
; to-morrow
enient — ."
mptly that
powered by
e at his face

' she asked,
id modestly.
Adler?"
ren, wie ein
englisch als

"Very well; bring a" the best of Strauss's music you

have, please, Mr. Adler."

" I will ; but, excuse me. Miss Archer, you have not given
me the address," Cart said, with a smile

Miss Archer, taken by surprise, looked at Carl blankly
for she supposed that everybody knew where Justice Archer
lived. Immediately she recovered herself and gave he
address, adding : " Have you your violin with you, in the

case?"

"Yes, madam."

' ' I suppose you value it very highly ? "
"Yes, Miss Archer," Cari replied, with a fond glance at
the case. " I — I worship it. "

" It's a Stradivarius, is it not?" asked the gentleman.
" No," replied Cari, " it's an Amati."
"Ah well ; both were the great Cremonese makers.
Then Miss Archer and her escort pursued their way, while
Cari went on to his retreat.

"Of course it is my violin, not me, they want Carl
mused. "But all the same, I will go, and do my best to
amuse the company." !,:„„,„«

The next evening he dressed with care, and bent his way
to Justice Archer's big marble house. He was at oncej^own
into a handsomely funiished salon, where he found a knot of
fashionable people already assembled.

Miss Archer advanced and received him cordially. Then
she introduced him to two or three of those present as Mr.
Adler, a young violinist of this city."

Cari saw in what light he was regarded, and was careful
not to obtrude. However, he had not come as a paid musi-
cian, and this thought comforted him.

p;esently he was called upon to play. Feehng that some
of the fashionable people about him were covertly laughing

28^ The Archer and the Eagle.

at him, and wUhing, perhaps, to exhibit hi, skill befo« «»

rr«ne^irtir?rt:t=::n4eaL
tSf ::^«ro":h^ ;^.^srwi.h\is ..o.. .. ^

the music. ^f .'Wein Weib, und Gesang "

When the last strains of Wein, weiu, unwed

aiIa«a..he.wasa.u^bu-o^^^^^^^^^

^" -r ".s: :»ro. A.e- „; --

not heard such music since I came from the land

"•"•The instrument is a '^^■^^^^^tlZ.
of the old classic makers,' '"""'"'y"""*.*^" „„;„, ..i,„t
introduced Carl to Miss Archer the Fe™» J"^,^ as "o
as much is due to the performer's talent and skm

"""Yes Mr Adler," said Justice Archer, coming up to the
noXsMngtlinist, " V"" - "^rsl dTnt™^ his

head. i ney raic ^y. o common

is the instrument. B'^\Pff,%^^;^ *^^Jd aloud : ''Do
scraper on a namele^viohn.T^-^^^ sa ^^^ ^^^

not give me praise that I do not deserve
dled^he bow long enough yet to be maste^^^^^^^^

" How long is it since you first took up tlie vioun

one of the guests. _ ^ j^^atingly . for

" Barely six years, Carl repiiea u t- crff in

it is the Jork almost of a life-time to perfect one s self

'"ZJ rull^v^i^-lled for, and Carl delighted the company

The Archer and the Eagle.

285

fore Miss
is suscep-
played as

ience was
him. But
)le soul in

Gesang"
arl bowed
ument.

"I have
,nd of vio-

ork of one
an who had
ning, "but
skill as to

ig up to the

Amati."
not turn his
imself; "it
)r a common
iloud : "Do
ve not han-

»>

)lin?" asked

»catingly, for
one's self in

throughout the entire evening, sometimes playing alone,
":: accompanied on thepiano by Miss Archer or other
of the young ladies. The uninitiated jon^ed m ^^^^^-^^
every one declared the performance exquisite. Some of the
gUemen were envious of Carl's marvelous dextenty a^d
sympathy in wielding the bow ; and some of the fair sex
we^des^rately in love with him, and manoeuvred adroitly

to obtain an introduction. A^r^^rxAt^A

The evening passed pleasantly until some one demanded

why Mr. Adler had never appeared in public before. Then

I0L one unluckily asked what Mr. Adler' s occupation might

^This was put as a direct question, and Carl did not hesitate
toln wlr t"^ Feeling a little bitter, perhaps, that it was his
muTnot himself, that excited admiration, and being some-
what of a Socialist at heart, he answered bluntly, almost
defiantlv " I am a workman in a tobacco factory.

There was dead silence for a full minute. Carl stealthily
glanced about him. and saw the look of horror that transfixed
?he faces of several of those present. But he only smiled
grtnSy and said to himself. " This will be a severe test for
tToi them, it seems. Now we shall see who are truly

'''Z::\':T^-^ ^^ f- when he saw that Miss
Archer herself looked inexpressibly annoyed, and he wished
het^ld recall his hasty words. "Butno." he reflected ;
<• let me see whether she is like the rest.'

•'Mr Adler." said Justice Archer. " I am glad to see you
are notabove your calling. As an American citizen you are
on a level with us all; as a musician, you are infini e^
superior to any of us. The young man with a genius like
yoCneed not be ashamed to stand before a workman s

the company

286 The Archer and the Eagle.

bench, because he is conscious that some day he will immor-

'Irm'^yTJ the justice said this as a well-merited rebuke to
such as sneered at Carl. The latter himself took it as a mild
rebuke, and felt equally abashed with those at whom it was

more directly leveled. « , r *t,« «,««

Soon afterward the party broke up. Several of the more
influential people gathered about Carl, among them the
uSce Mi^ Archer, and Mr. Melbourne -the gentleman
who had given Carl the introduction to Miss Archer, and
who had, in a quiet way. proved himself Carl's champion.

.' I hope we shall hear you again," said the justice kindly
- Can not you drop in some day next week ? What day shall
we appoint, MoUie?" to his daughter. . ^ ^ .,

" Could you come next Wednesday ? - Miss Archer said.
"Yes, Miss Archer."

"Very well, then; we shall expect you next Wednes-
day" , . ,.
" I will come. Good evening.

Carl reflected, on his way home . "She does not despise
me at all events. In fact, she seemed to ^^^^^^.^^^^
something more tangible than mere courtesy. Was it admira-
tion ? Oh ! that the day of my triumph would come ! But
itseemsasfar away as ever."

Carl kept his appointment on the following Wednesday
and played as exquisitely as he had done before. How it
thrilled him with delight to stand beside Miss Archer ! As
they both read oflf the same sheet of music he was obliged
to manoeuvre dexterously to avoid hitting her with the bow.
It was a novel experience for him to have a young lady

^'orrh^'^casion it was discovered that Carl could sing,

The Archer and the Eagle.

i%^

1 immor-

ebuke to
as a mild
)m it was

the more
them the
rentleman
rcher, and
impion.
ce kindly.
t day shall

rcher said.

t Wednes-

lot despise
d me with
sitadmira-
ome ! But

Wednesday,
B. How it
rcher ! As
was obliged
th the bow.
young lady

could sing,

and he fairly electrified Miss Archer with his fine voice.
How it rejoiced him to call forth approbation from her !

Before the evening was over a maid brought in substantial
refreshments of cake and coffee ; and when Carl arose to take
leave he was pressed to come again.

Poor Carl ! As he walked to his lonely rooms he swore
that, God helping him, Miss Archer should be his wife.

«' They treat me as hospitably as if I were the most stylish
gentleman in all Charleston. I will hope for the best, and
do my utmost to prove worthy of her and to win her. ' '

The next time Carl Adler went to Justice Archer s he
found Mr. Melbourne there. " I want to enjoy the music,
too, if you will permit me," this gentleman said, smiling
Eood-humoredly.

Carl felt a pang of jealousy ; but he and Miss Archer were
soon so much engrossed in playing that he almost forgot

another's presence. , j ,,

"Sing me 'The Archer and the Eagle,' suggested Mr.

Melbourne, with a provoking laugh. ^ . ,.

The ioke elicited an appreciative smile from the justice,

but Carl started as if he already felt the "bolt." This

whimsical allusion had never occurred to him before.

Again refreshments were served ; again he was pressed to

come and play. . . ^. ,

So the summer passed. Carl had played at the justice s
six times since the night of the social gathering, and was now
madly in love with Miss Archer. She filled the void in his
heart ; she was his all in all. He cared to live but to see
her and counted on the evenings he was to spend in her
company as a schoolboy counts on his holidays. Not satis-
fied with seeing her occasionally at her own home, he
neglected his beloved violin, and haunted the park and other
. places where he thought there was any pos.sibility of seeing

a88 7"*^ /<rri!>«!r ami the Eagle.

her. Then he regularly attended the church which she at-
tended. Still he never intruded, never spoke unless she
recognised him. and never presumed while in her father s

^°"1he must be my wife, or I .shall go mad," he said

At length he determined to propose marnage boldly, but
before doing so he would make a supreme effort to have the
worid recognize his genius. To that end he made apphca-
Uon to JusLe Archer and some others for letters of recom-
mendatiin. and armed with these he went to Boston The^
his wonderful genius excited the liveliest admiration from
musTcal critics The New England Conservatory of Music
received him most favorably, and prophesied a brilliant career

° AtTast it seemed as if fortune had smiled on him.

.' The factory will have to look out for another superin-
tendent " he said gleefully. "But I must go back to
Charlesto" and see my darling. A few hours there, and

then hurrah for Boston again ! " ^„^.u^r re-

Carl found that he was expected to give still another re
cital in Boston in the course of a few days, and that prob-
ably he should not get away for a full week^ Too impat en
to wait so long, he determined to write to Miss Archer that
verTday teUingherof his good fortune and of hisambitious
dreams and asking her to be his wife.

FuT'of his great love for her. Carl wrote a pathetic, yet
eloquent, letter. Then there was nothing for it but impa-
tiently to await an answer. 1. „♦!,:„<,>• he
.. It seems almost madness for me to do such a ^ "g. he
said to himself. " What has she ever said that I should
suppose she cares for me? She has treated me with the
Trea^st kindness and respect, but that is all. What cause
hive I tol so infatuated? But she loves me ! she loves

The Archer and the Eagle,

389

h she at-
iiless she
• father's

aid.
)ldly, but

have the
e applica-
of recom-
1. There
tion from

of Music
ant career

tn.

;r superin-
back to
there, and

mother re-
that prob-
) impatient
Archer that
s ambitious

athetic, yet
but impa-

, thing," he
at I should
le with the
What cause
;! she loves

me ! she loves me ! I know it ! Didn't she lend me some
of her best music to bring here, and didn't she give me a
bouquet when I bade her good-by ? Oh. my love ! my love !
God has been merciful ; He has helped me ; and you will yet

be mine!" « u j

The last day of Carl's stay in Boston had come. He had
given one more exhibition of his genius, and his success was
now assured. There was nothing more for him to do but to
become famous, he was told.

To-day he might confidently look for a letter. What would
the answer be ? Kis letlei was to be sent to the " general de-
livery," and as he walked to the post-office his heart was
light and again heavy. ^^

His thoughts reverted to the evening he had sung The
Archer and the Eagle," and these lines rang in his memory : —

"With fatal nini the bolt she laiiched,
AikI with a scream the eagle rose.
His gaping womul can not be stanched —

His plutnes are hers, the proud Montrose ! "

His voice trembled as he asked the clerk to look for his
name. A letter was carelessly handed him, and at a glance
he saw that the handwriting was feminine and the post-mark

Charleston.

He almost staggered as he walked out of the post-office.
"She is the only one," he thought, "who would write to
me ; so it is from her. Heaven help me ! It must be hope,
for the tide has tunied. " , .

Turning up a quieter street, he tore open the envelope and
took out the letter, which ran : —

"Mr. Adler, Dear 5/r.— Though pleased to hear of
your merited good fortune, I was pained and surprised by
your proposal of marriage. If I have ever unwittingly given

jPHi

^^ The Archer ami the Eagle.

vou cause to think I might Ixr your wife. I sincerely regret
r I am truly sorry if you feel as deeply in this matter as
your letter represents ; but can only say. .n rep y that I am
soon to n.arry Mr. Melbourne. Try not to th.nk of me at
all : devote yourself wholly to the glory of your art.

•' With sincerest wishes for your prosi«nty and happiness.
I am, as ever, your true friend. M. Archer.

Carl read his letter to the end. and then mechanically put
it i.. his pocket. Then he went on. hopelessly, aimlessly.
" I — I ought to have waited," he said aloud.

Presently he fell. . ,

Two or three curious ones ran up to him. and a crowd soon

collected.

' ' Sunstroke. ' ' cried one.

' ' Heart disease.

"Apoplexy."

"Take him to the hospital." .

Three days later this brief paragraph appeared in the

Boston Globe:

..g._t 7th -At the hospital died yesterday Mr. Carl
Adler a young violinist from the South. It is said that he
had ust received an appointment from our New England
Conivatory of Music. Doctors differ as to the cause of his
death but ft is generally attributed to the intense heat.
S has caused cases of sunstroke all over the country. In
The young man's pocket was a letter from a fnend in his
Southern home. Contents not divulged. ' '

The Boston doctors didn't believe in sentiment, but they
could respect a dead man's secret. Otherwise the reporters
might have worked up a grim sensation.

iLlHUIUIVim* '»"?"■.■

(gammon, etc.

891

merely regret

lis matter as

y, that I am

Ilk of me at

r art.

id happinefts,

\kchbk."

nanically put
y, aimlessly.

a crowd soon

MAMMON.

A STRONG man, Ifue, with noble mien,
Defunt, in his oft-proved might;
Hi* Bteadfast dog erect besirle,
Reflecting all hi* niaster'a pride ;
With firniert trust in maiden's plight,
And little reck for Fortune's apleen.

A maiden fair, with love of pelf,

And scoriiful of a brave heart viron ;

Fierce, taunting words ere she forsook
A last embrace, a last sad look.

A lean dog, dozing in the sun ;

A madman, mutfring to himself.

peared in the

day Mr. Carl
s said that he
New England
he cause of his
intense heat,
le country. In
a friend in his

ment, but they
e the reporters

TIME, THE HEALER.
Stony-eyed grief— Christmas, 1885.

AS looms against the midnight skies
A lonely, spectral, blasted tree.

So shapes the past before my eyes

Whene'er my thoughts revert to thee.

Chastened grief- Christmas, 189'.

As souie loved picture in a book

Recalls a cherished by-gone thought,

So thou, when on the past 1 look.

Recall's! the happiness once sought.

Things Begin to get Interesting.

THINGS BEGIN TO GET INTERESTING.*

AFTER a weary march due east, they came to a small,
cleared space, in which stood a miserable hut. A
faint line of smoke was curling from the roof, but no person

^*-Now this isn't another powder magazine," said Steve;
" therefore it must be a 'wayside hut.' My wounds have
made me thirsty, of course, and we can probably get a dnnk
here whether any one is in or not, so I am gomg in.

The others, also, felt thirsty ; and Charles was advancmg
to knock at the door, when Steve softly called him back.

"Now Charley," he said, " I haven't read romances for
nothing, and if there's villainy any where in this forest, it s
here. Of course you've all read that villains have what is
called a ' peculiar knock ? " '

"Yes " whispered four out of the seven.
"Weil, I am going to give a 'peculiar knock' on that
door with my sound hand, and you must mark the effect it
has. ' You needn't grasp your weapons ; but just keep your
eyes and ears open. Then will you do whatever I ask?
"We will," they said, smiling at Steve's whim.
Then the man who had not read romances for nothing stole
softly to the door, and knocked in a " peculiar ma nner."

''T^r^^^^^^my book, "A Biundkring Boy." /"'"^ed here
without a word of permissiot, from the author or any of the mythical
characters portrayed.— B. w. M.

Things Begin to get Interesting.

293

ESTING.*

e to a small,
ible hut. A
jut no person

' said Steve ;
wounds have
ly get a drink
ng in."
/as advancing
him back.
I romances for
his forest, it's
have what is

nock ' on that

rk the effect it

just keep your

verl ask?"

him.

)r nothing stole

ir manner."

.» Iiiserted here
y of the mythical

Without a moment's hesitation, a voice within said, "Well

""Xve faced the others and winked furiously, while he
reasoned rapidly to thiseffect : " Evidently, here js a nest o^"
knaves The fellow on the inside thmks his mate is in
daTer! and knocks to know whether it is safe for him to come

Then ti.e voice within asked uneasily, Jim

•• Will " said Marmaduke, leaning over the htter, we

are certainly on the track of the man who ^^^^^y^^^J^^^^^

" Oh. I had forgotten all about the deer. Will groaned^

Steve started, but collected himself in ^ ";°"»^"\^"^

whil;red to Jim, "Come along, Jim ; this feUow -nt^^^^^

see yVu. Now, be as bold as a lion ; blow V^"^ "^^^^^^^^

trumpet ; and observe : ' By the great dog-star, it s Jim .

'T-anaged to do this ; but he basely muttered that he
wasn't broueht up for a circus clown.

Then come in'; the door isn't locked ; " the voice withm

said harshly, but unhesitatingly.

Stephen flung open the door and strode Proudly mto the

hut closely followed by the others. One scantily furriished

room, in a corner of which a man lay on a bed, was dis-

c3. This man's look of alarm at this sudden entrance

filled Steve with exultation.

.« What does all this mean ? What do you want ? the
occupant of the bed demanded.
"A glass of water," said Steve.

" Well, you can get a dish here, and there is a spring out-
side," with an air of great relief.

" Is this the man ? " Steve asked of Marmaduke.

Marmaduke sadly r.hook his head.

" I am very low with the small-pox," said the unknown,

294 ^*'"«^^ ^^^'" *° ^^' Interesting.

" and those of you who have not had it, nor have not been

exposed to it, had better hurry out into the open air."

This was said quietly - apparently, sincerely.

The hunters were struck with horror. It seemed as though
a chain of misfortunes, that would eventually drag them to
destruction, was slowly closing around them. Small-pox^
Exposed to that loathsome disease ! They grew sick with

" Was it for this we went hunting ? " Charles groaned. .

For a few moments the hunters lost all presence of mind ;
they neglected to rush out of doors ; they forgot that the
sick man seemed wrapped in suspicion ; they forgot that they
had gained admittance by stratagem ; Steve forgot that he
was playing the hero.

A cry of horror from Jim roused them from their

*°^'^ What a fool I am ! " cried Henry. " I had the small-
pox when I was a little boy ; and now. to prove or disprove
this fellow's statement, I will run the risk of taking it again.
The rest of you may leave the room or not ; just as fear, or
curiosity, or thirst, or anything else, moves you. I beheve.
however, that there is not the least danger of contagion.

" No, no ; come out ! " Mr. Lawrence entreated, not wish-
ing to be responsible for any more calamities. " Come out,

Henry, and leave the man alone."

" Believe me, Mr.I.awrence,Irun no risk," Henry declared.

"I shall—." , '..

" Ha ! " shrieked the sick man. " Lawrence ? Did you

say Law — ." , ^ , . „ ,

He stopped abruptly. But it was too late; he had

betrayed himself. . , •!. ji

"Yes, my man; I said Lawrence ! " Henry said fexcitedly.

Things Begin to get Interesting.

395

ire not been
i air.

ed as though

rag them to

Small-pox !

ew sick with

! groaned. .
ice of mind ;
got that the
■got that they
irgot that he

a from their

id the small-
ire or disprove
king it again,
ist as fear, or
u. I believe,
if contagion."
ited, not wish-
" Come out,

[enry declared.

ice? Did you

late; he had

said fexcitedly.

'« Come, now ; explain yourself. Say no more about small-
i,ox-yfe are not to be deceived by any such pretence.

The sick man looked Uncle Dick full in the face ; groaned ;
shuddered ; covered his face with the bed-clothes ; and then,
villain-like, fell to muttering.

After these actions, Jim himself was not afraid.
"Mr. Lawrence, Will, all of you," Henry said hoar^ly,
" I think your mystery is about to be unriddled at last. This
man can evidently furnish the missing link in your history.
He is either the secret enemy, or an accomplice of his.

Uncle Dick trembled. After all these years was the
mystery to be solved at last?

Stephen's hurt and Will's knee were forgotten in the eager-
ness to hear what this man had to say. AH were famihar
with Uncle Dick's story, so far as he knew it hun.self, and
consequently all were eager to have the "jy^tenous part
explained. The entire eight assembled round the bed-side.
After much inane muttering the sick man uncoverea his
head, and asked faintly, "Are you Richard Lawrence?

"lam." v^

"Were you insane at one time, and do you remember

Patriarch Monk ? " u»f i,a«

" Yes, I was insane ; but I know nothmg of what hap-
pened then." ^ , ^ .^^^
" Well I will confess all to you. Mr. Lawrence, I have
suffered in all these weary years -suffered from the agony

of remorse." .

" Yes? " said Uncle Dick, with a rising inflection.

" I will keep my secret no longer. But who are all these
young men?" glancing at the hunters. , ^. ^

" They are fnends, who may hear your story,' Uncle Dick

^*^"'to begin with, I am indeed sick, but I have not the

296 Things Begin to get Interesting.

small-pox. That was a mere ruse to get rid of disagreeable

callers,"

At this Steve looked complacent, and Henry looked
triumphant ; the one pleased with his strategy, the other
pleased with his sagacity.

At that very instant quick steps were heard outside, and
then a "peculiar knock" was given on the door, which,
prudently or imprudently, Steve had shut.

" It is a man who lives with me," Patriarch Monk said to
the hunters. "We shall be interrupted for a few minutes,
but then I will go on." Then aloud : " You may as well

come in, Jim." ^ . j j

If this was intended as a warning to flee, it was not heeded,
for the door opened, and a man whom Will and Marmaduke
recognized as the rogue who on the previous day had feigned
a mortal wound in order to steal their deer, strode into the

On seeing the hut full of armed men, he sank down hope-
lesslv delivered a few choice ecphoneses, and then exclaimed :
"Caught at last! Well, I might 'a' known it would come
sooner or later. They have set the law on my track, and all
these fellows will help 'em. Law behind, and what on earth
in front ! — I say, fellows, who are you ? "

' ' Hunters, ' ' Henry said laconically .

Then the new-comer recognized Will and Marmaduke. and
ejaculated, " Oh, I see ; yesterday my ring was rumed, end
now I'm ruined ! "

The officer of the law, whose nonchalance had provoked
the hunters in the forenoon, was indeed behind, and soon he,
also, entered the hut, which was now filled.

"Just like a romance," Steve muttered. "All the charac-
ters, good and bad. most unaccountably meet, and then a
general smash-up takes place, after which the good dnfl off

Things Begin to get Interesting.

297

lisagreeable

iry looked
r, the other

jutside, and
loor, which,

lonk said to
ew minutes,
may as well

s not heeded,

Marmaduke

r had feigned

ode into the

: down hope-
;n exclaimed:
would come
track, and all
nrhat on earth

rmaduke, and
IS ruined, end

had provoked
, and soon he,

Ml the charac-

:t, and then a

good drift ofif

in one direction, to felicity, and the bad in another, to infeli-
city— unless they shoot themselves. Now, I hope Patriarch
and Jim won't shoot themselves ! "

"Jim Hornet," said the officer, " I am empowered to

arrest you."

"I surrender," the captured one said sullenly. "You
ought to have arrested me before. I'd give back the deer,
if I could ; but I sold it last night, and that's the last of

it."

" That will do," the officer said severely.

*******

The hunters now held a short conversation, and it was
decided that Mr. Lawrence and Henry should stay to hear
what Patriarch Monk had to say for himself, but that the
others should go on with Will and Steve to the surgeon's.

The officer of the law thought it might be necessary for
him to stay in his official capacity,' and so he took a seat and
listened, while he fixed his eyes on Jim Hornet.
And the confession he heard was worth listening to.
The hut was soon cleared of all save the five ; and the
six first introduced to the reader were again together, and on
their way to the surgeon's.

" Well," said Will, " it seems I have lost my deer ; but I
have the comforting thought of knowing that the rascal will
receive the punishment he deserves."

"How strange it all is," said Marmaduke, "that your
uncle should stumble on the solution of his mystery when
he least expected it ; and that you could not find the thief
when you looked for him, but as soon as you quit, we made
straight for his house."

"No," Steve corrected good-humoredly, "that isn't it;
but as soon as I took to playing the part of a hero of

298 Things Begin to get Interesting.

romance, 'events came on us with the rush of a whirl-

^'t^ng the wounded and the unwounded hunters to pur-
su^thlr wly through the forest, we shall -turn to the hut
and overhear Patriarch Monk's long-delayed confession^

L sTn as the door was shut on the six hunter, he began^
His fa^was turned towards Mr. Lawrence, but hts eyes were
fixed on rpillow. which was hidden by the coverlet ; and
hU punciuatL was so precise, his style so eloquen and
^S and his story so methodical, -mpl -ted^^^^^^^^^^^
cal that once or twice a hornble suspicion tha^Jie was
reading the entire confession out of a novel concealed m the
bed flashed across Mr. Lawrence's mind,
""if tWs dreadful thought should occur to the leader he
can mentally insert the confession in double quotation
marks.

..I now surrender myself to o^^'^^g^.J^^^^'^^'T.^f "^
. -1 «„»« alftdlv — for I can endure this way. of life no
r^.'7oS« me, ffyou can, Mr. Uw^nce, for . have
been tortured with remorse in all these years.

The villain's story was ended; and Uncle Dkk. Henry
Jofficer of the law. and Jim Hornet, fetched a sigh of

''They felt extremely sorry for the sick man who had con-
fessed L eloquently and prolixly; but Mr. Lawrence was not
'XnuVS" witl pity as to plead for his rele^^m pun-
ishment. In fact, he had nothing to say -g-"*;^ t^« ^^^
taking its course with him. However, he spoke kindly.

Mr. Monk." he said. " I forgive you freely, for t was
my own foolishness that led me into your power. As for the

■WiMB

Things Begin to get Interesting.

899

if a whirl-

ers to pvir-
to the hut
ission.
s he began.
s eyes were
Aerlet ; and
jquent and
, and tragi-
bat he was
Baled in the

monev, it seemed fated that it should melt away, and to-day
not one cent of it remains. I am glad to see you in a better
frame of mind, sir ; but I must leave you now, to see how it
fares with my nephew. Come, Henry."

"And jF*?"^ story ? " asked the confessor, with a curious

and eager air.

" Excuse me, Mr. Monk," said Uncle Dick; "but »iy story
would seem prosaic, exceedingly prosaic, after yours. Good

day." , .

And he and Henry brutally strode out of the hut, leaving
the ex-villain " tortured " with curiosity.

i reader, he
e quotation

ice, — volun-
ly.of life no
!. ifor I have

Dick, Henry,
ed a sigh of

rho had con-
rence was not
;ase from pun-
ast the law's
te kindly.
:ly, for it was
r. As for the

300

Signs of Spring.

SIGNS OF SPRING.

Signs of spring couie thick and fast ;

The toboggan is neglected,
Snowshoes, too, aside are cast,
And lawn-tennis resurrected.

The snow shoveler's work is o'er —
Let us thirst not for his gore,
He will trouble us no more,
Careless lives he on his fortune.

Soon >we'll read of baseball nine ;

Jokes on blanket-suits will languish ;
Excursion jokes fall into line ;
■ Ice-cream horrors swell the anguish.
Soon will gas-bills take a drop (?)
Roaring furnace fires will stop,
And the smart house-cleaner's mop
Will despotic make its circuit.

Small boys hie them to the brook,
With intent to get a wetting ;
Scaly fish they joyous hook ;

Hard at rafts they labor, sweating.
Soon the frog will serenade
From the friendly barricade
Of the dank pond's gruesome shade
Those who do not wish to hear him.

lop

Signs of Spring.

Loud, in tranquil safety placed,

Fiends will practice on the co* ;
Brisk the small boy will be chased
By the wild, bellig'rent hornet.

Soon the bumble-bee will come,
With the wasp, his huffish chum ;
Soon will blithe mosquitoes hum.
Ere our blood they cheerful sample.

The dog-catchers with their lures,

Scooping dogs with gay abandon,
Will try hard — the blackamoors —
Our pet dog to lay their hand on.
Ere the sad-eyed Jersey tramp.
With his lies of field and camp,
Cau his chestnuts quite revamp.
Watch-dogs fierce renew acquaintance.

Sentimental servant girls

Now will have a little leisure
To trick out in monstroiis curls —

Trick'ry in which they take pleasure.
Then these giddy women fops
Will buy finery in the shops.
Thus to bring to time the cops
Who have courted them all winter.

Some spring poet soon will die,

Martyr to his rhymes atrocious,
Slain, ere he can raise a cry,
By an editor ferocious.

Soon the peddler on bis round
At the door will gaily pound.
And the old, familiar sound
Will remind us spring is coming.

301

liade
I.

Mmg^m ^^;

302

Our O^ew <iirl.

OUR NEW GIRL.

SHE looked as if she would be equal to any emergency,
in so far as mere physical strength was concerned ; so
we decided to give her a trial. We were a quiet family of
four, and not very exacting.

Our expectations were grandly realized. The most
determined tramp would meekly apologize for ringmg the
bell when her Amazonian figure appeared at the door in
answer to the summons. Even a bailiff, who came around
with fire in his cock eye to collect an account of seventy-
five cents, only stayed to parley with her for the brief space
of two minutes, when he, nlso, beat an inglorious retreat.
For once, he had met his match.

Going to the door was her supreme accomplishment.
She took a ring as a personal insult ; but would drop what-
ever she might Vje at, and striding to the door, would throw
it wide open, stand squarely blocking the way. and glare Pt
the unfortunit person outside with a gorgon look of
haughty defiance. If running water from the hot water
tap in the kitchen, she would inarch to the door if a ring
came, leaving the tap wide open. But we knew she would
never be detained long at the door.

It was not a week, however, before she began to receive
calls herself from her numerous friends ; and in these cases the
interview never lasted less than fifteen minutes. A period
in our history hinges upon such a call, one day when I had
gone upstairs to take a hot bath. Just as I stepped into

Oiir (TyVw Girl.

30S

mergency,
lerned ; so
c family of

rhe most
nging the
le 'door in
tne around
)f seventy-
brief space
lus retreat.

iplishment.
drop what-
ould throw
nd glare pt
tn look of
hot water
)r if a ring
f she would

1 to receive
ese cases the
A period
when I had
stepped into

the bath, our new girl opened the hot water tap in the
sink below. "Caesar!" I groaned, " if that bell should
ring ! " Ring ! ting ! ting ! went the bell, surely enough ;
and our new girl hurried to the door, leaving the tap
below wide open. The ringer was a bosom friend of hers,
and as no one came to my rescue, by the time they had
exchanged their mutual confidences about their mistresses'
affairs, my hot bath was gone up. This brought on such
a cold that I was constrained to remain in my room for
nearly a week.

The first morning I felt well enough to get about the
house, the new girl, in opening the shutters, clumsily knocked
one of them down into the street. It so happened that an
old African rag-and-bottle fiend was trundling his push-cart
along the sidewalk at this inopportune moment. The shut-
ter rattled down so close behind him that he ran headlong
into a hydrant — his cargo littered the walk and the boule-
vard — and he keeled over his cart all in a heap.

I saw this from a window, and hastened to the door —
which was very rash and unfortunate on my part. The old
fellow picked himself up slowly, and looked behind him in
a very scared and deprecating way. On seeing me at the
door and the grinning girl at the upper window, he heaved
a sigh of relief, and exclaimed : " By gosh, boss ! I thought
it was a p'liceman a-goin' ter pull me fer runnin' this heah
outfit er mine on the sidewalk."
•'Are you hurt ? " I asked.

" Well, between you and me, I was pretty badly scart. I
do feel shook up, now I comes to raise myself, worse' n if a
gris'-mill had kersploded ; and jes" look at them goods ! "

"Too bad." I said soothingly, and turned to step back
into the house.

" Hoi' on, boss ! " the old fellow cried out. " Let us es-

.m^

304 Our CyVw Girl.

termate the damiclKe on the spot, so'st there wun't be no
hahd feelin's arisin' about this misfortune, and no unfair ad-
vantage took by either one er us ; and so'st you, bein' a
hones' man, can recoup me ter once."

" Will forty cents ' recoup' you, old man, if I throw in
five more for your loss of time?" I asked haughtily.

"No, boss, it wun't; but seein" you're consposed to ack
like a gennerman about it, and bein' as I'm handy with
tools, and not above doin' a little repairin' myself in a case
like this heah, we will estermate that my outfit is damidged
to the tune er two dollahs. That's the way I figger it out,
boss • but I'm willin«5 ter make a preduction of twenty-five
per cent, in your case, as its sorter agin the grain fer me ter
be downright hahd on a gennerman, anyhow, bein' as I was
brung up a gennerman, myself:' '

I told him that he had found his vocation at last, and
that I had no doubt he could outjew the ablest Russian
Israelite in his trade. Then I weakly compromised on a
dollar and ten cents, and hurriedly retreated into the house,
as a crowd of gamins was beginning to collect, eager at the
prospect of a free circus. ^

I found that the shatter was " damaged to the tune ot
fifteen cents, and I felt all broken up. But what was my
consternation, next day, to find that a mischievous reporter,
who lived across the way, put a startling paragraph in his
paper to the effect that an inoffensive and much-esteemed
old colored citizen, trundling a homely but respectable cart
peacefully along the public highway, had been assaulted by
an arrogant householder, and most shamefully handled
•< But " pleasantly concluded the paragraph. " this man of
violence was mulcted to the tune of $200, which will prob-
ably cause him in future to keep at a respectful distance
from guileless old men of the push-cart fraternity."

Our O^'irui Girl,

:.o5

n't be no
unfair ad-
u, bein' a

throw in
htily.
led to ack
andy with
in a case
daniidged
jger it out,
;wenty-five
I fer me ter
n' as I was

kt last, and
ist Russian
mised on a
> the house,
Eiger at the

le tune" of
lat was my
lus reporter,
raph in his
ch-esteemed
>ectable cart
fissaulted by
ly handled,
this man of
:h will prob-
tful distance

Of course this mean joke was understnocl and apprecialed,
not alone by my intimate friends, but by those who had wit-
nessed the mishaps of the old tramp ana my parley with him.
And by all these it nuis appreciated- for many long and
weary days. The great army of frierds — of all ages, and
sexes, and colors, and creeds, and conditions — that our new
girl would seem to have accumulated in the course of her
life, likewi.se appeared to understand and appreciate the
affair.

The day after this unfriendly encounter of mine with the
swindling son of Africa, my mother directed the new girl
to drive a strong nail into the wall in the dining-room, for
the purpose of securing a bracket. In half an hour's time
we heard a noise in that dining-room that shook the founda-
tions of the house, and suggested the building of a World's
Fair. We dashed into the room, and lo ! there stood the
new girl on the sewing-machine, wielding a neighbor's ten-
pound hammer, and trying hard to pound into the wall a
Virginia Midland railroad spike, which she had fished up in
the alley. Truly, she was energetic, but too impttuons.

Two days after this incident I was called to the door at
the hour of noon by the new girl, who said, with a look of
genuine alarm and horror, that "some man was asking for
me, all tied up together and crunched-up-looking, like as if
he had fell offen a house afire."

Full of curiosity to see what manner of man it could be
that had daunted even our new girl, I inconsiderately went
to the door without stopping to make any inquiries, and had
hard work to recognize my friend of the damaged push-cart.
His right hand was painted livid with iodine. His left
arm hung in a sling, and was bound with cloth — mostly ven-
erable pantaloons, with an outside veneer of dismal, greasy
cotton— till it was decidedly larger than a stove-pipe. Hi»

3o6

Our tJ^ew Girl.

stomach (which he evidently considered the seat of hfe)
stood out into empty space like the smock of an emigrant
boy loaded with stolen apples ; and was braced guyed,
stayed, and kept from falling off him, by the voluminous
folds of four different comforters, in various stages of un-
wholesomeness. Besides these, his stomach was belayed by
two encircling pairs of suspenders. Verily, he must have
harnessed on the entire stock of a rag warehouse, and would
have afforded no inconsiderable load for an easy-gomg horse
to pull He took up as much room as a drunken man with
a wheel-barrow, and would have crowded an alderman com-
pletely off the sidewalk.

" Well, boss," he began, in a voice that sounded as if he
must have swallowed a piece of ragged ore, " that night after
I seen you I was took aw-iul sick. The doctah says I m ter-
rible bad, and that I mus' go ter the infermery as soon s I
seen you agin. The doctahs ecks-zamined me, and foun
that I'm damidged m-/.r-«a/-/y ter the tune er eight hun-
dred doUahs. Now, that's pretty tough, am't it, boss?
and he hitched his supports and looked very sad.

" Bein' ez me and you air both jus' men," he continued
"I'm willing ter settle this heah affair without any legul
perceedings, 'coz I doan' want ter put you ter any trouble ;
(here he affected to be caught by a terrible spasm) and so I
come erround heah, all weak and a-totterin' ez I am, ter say
that I'll compermise with you in er quiet way fer five hun-
dred doUahs, spot cash. And that's erbout the liberalist
offah I ever heerd tell of, boss."

I listened calmly, with an inscrutable look that beguiled
the old hypocrite to continue his argument. He went on to
say, further, that if I would heed a friendly warning, I would
gladly compromise ; as if he didn't collect that money to buy
patent medicine and doctors' medicine, he would surely die.

*«"*

Our V^ew Girl.

307

at of life)
I emigrant
:d, guyed,
oluminous
ges of un-
belayed by
must have
and would
joing horse
1 man with
;rman com-

ied as if he

t night after

ays I'm ter-

as scon's I

, and foun'

eight hun-

it, boss?"

e continued,
It any legul
my trouble ;
sm) and so I
[ am, ter say
er five hun-
;he liberalist

hat beguiled
[e went on to
ling, I would
money to buy
Id surely die.

But the money would be collected, all the same ; for he had
seventeen able-bodied heirs, who would never give me a
moment's peace till they had collected the full amount of
eight hundred dollars.

He next proceeded to say that if I could stand the expense
of a great public trial, he would willingly unbosom all his
frightful wounds and "damages" to a sympathetic court.
But he believed I would spare myself this frightful loss of
time and money.

It so happened that the Water-works Department had
that very forenoon set about replacing the hydrant against
which he had collided with a new one entire. Old age and
last year's frosts had rendered this hydrant cranky and un-
reliable. The rigors of another winter might destroy it.

Perceiving my opportunity, I slowly and with much dig-
nity pointed with three fingers to the dismantled hydrant,
and said harshly: "Rash criminal! the relentless arm of
outraged city by-law is waiting to snatch you up, and make
a fearful example of you ! If you had but dimly compre-
hended the auful pains and penalties inflicted ujwn those
who demolish, impinge on, or tamper with the city hydrants,
— thus endangering property and hampering the work of the
city watering-carts, — you would at once have set out by rail
for Canada. As it is now, once you recover sufficiently to be
able to work hard for a living, the city will provide you with
no light employment in the city jail; and the prosperous
business which you are building up will go to the dogs. I
am confident that a repudiator of your ubiquitary oneirom-
ancy will at once solecize the invulnerability of the plati-
tude. I wish further to impress upon you the indiffisrentiated
vitiosity and rhinoplastic incompatibility which have prede-
termiuedly crystallized the unctuousness of your ambiguous
and rodomont persiflage. ' '

308

Our tJ^ew Girl

This bloodthirsty and pompous bluster was not without
its eflect. The old African quailed under it, and I continued :
"Th'nknot to work upon my sympathies; for since this
superannuation of a city hydrant has occurred, before my
very door, I am steeled to pity and sworn to vengeance !
Again the old man quailed, and I wound up by say»"g ^^^^
as a former Indian hunter and fighter under Wi d Bill, I
could perceive that his "damages" would not reahze three

cents on the dollar.

The old ruin, now thoroughly alarmed, gladly compro-
mised by accepting an order on our druggist for a bottle ot
stomach bitters and a bottle of hair-oil. . «, j

The wicked old chap looked so woebegone as he shuffled
off that I relented so far as to hold out a promise that he and
his family should have all our soap-grease, rags, bones, and
bottles, free to the fifth generation. But I stipulated that he
should never levy on my pocket-book again, and that, so
long as he remained out of jail, he should give our new girl
as wide a berth as a Gattling gun.

He tried to look grateful, but said I wasn't acting right
through like a ' ' gennerman. ' ' I warned him not to bother
me about it if a street car should run over him on his way
home; and so we parted. The two workmen now came back
to the hydrant, and he slouched away with amazmg agility.
The very next day our new girl set the kitchen ou fire, so
carelessly as to have invalidated my insurance policy. I saw
clearly that she was likely to run some one into an untimely
grave, and myself into the State's prison or the poor-house.
So we made her up a purse of ten dollars, bought her a scalp-
er's ticket over the St. Paul, and persuaded her to go and
take up land in North Dakota. We have since heard that
she is doing well, "but that no one has had the rashness to

, marry her.

it without
ontinued :
since this
before my
geance ! "
ayitig that
^ild Bill, I
alize three

y compro-
a bottle of

lie shuffled
that he and
bones, and
ited that he
nd that, so
ur new girl

icting right
)t to bother
on his way
19 came back
dng agility,
n ou fire, so
jlicy. I saw
an untimely
; poor-house,
t her a scalp-
r to go and
e heard that
; rashness to

Our U^ew Girl.

309

I thought I had shaken off the enterprising accumulator
of rags and bottles. But about two mouths after his last
appeal to me, we were suddenly besieged one day by no fewer
than seven tramps, for free soap-grease, etc., etc. — evidently
some of the old fellow's able-bodied heirs. That idle promise
to him was a fatal mistake on my part, for he took it seriously.
It wasn't so much a question of loss of revenue from so.ip-
grease, but now that our new girl's sphere of action had been
enlarged, who would scare away these fiends from the door?
I plotted to secure the services of a couple of bowelless bull-
dogs — .

But if the old man himself should come around again !

One happy day we decided that the climate of Washington
wasn't cold enough to suit us, and we removed to Georgia.

«/? Smoker to his Pipe.

SMOKER TO HIS PIPE.*
(by a non-smoker.)

GoNK, as a rain-maker's snow-storm,

Cracked, and I'll smoke you no more ;

From this sad hour must. I learn to
Pull at clay pipes, with lips sore.

Gone, as a slain poet's hunger.

Spoilt, as Election-killed scheme ;

While scoffers doubted I smoked you —
Smoked you, as engines pufif steam !

Gone, with your nicotine riches.

Smashed, on a day when I'm broke ;

Better I'd never attempted

In verdant boyhood to smoke.

Somewhat 'twould lessen my troubles
Could I get credit for tripe ;

Somewhat, could I always borrow
Matches, tobacco, and pipe.

Gone, as a wreath of cigar-smoke.
Gone— but not long I'm alone;

Soon will my quarrelsome dunners
Drop in to chant me their moan.

Could I but know they'd come loaded
With pipes, tobacco, and yarns,

Gladly their comp'ny I'd sigh for.
As Scotchmen sigh for their tarns.

* See p?ge loo.

^ U^igbt with Ghosts.

A NIGHT WITH GHOSTS.

Onk iiigbt, in a haunted chamber,
I woke, past the midnight hour,

And saw, with a nunibiug horror,

Weird forms by the hearth-stone cower,

Scarce human, yet strangely life-like
In actions and gestures, while

They spoke in a voiceless nnirniur,
That better concealed their guile.

They noted, with sullen faces.

The spot where I shook with fear ;

Then sudden, as on a signal,

First one and then all drew near.

As palsied I waited, helpless.

The while they so slowly came,

And wished I might die or ever
I felt their foul breath of flame.

They came, oh, so slowly, slowly;

They scowled in my visage pale.
Until I could bear the torture

No more, and a sharp, fierce wail

Burst loud from my lips, and startled
The imps in their evil scheme,

Who quick and completely vanished,
As though but a gruesome dream.

No more near the witching midnight
I'll junket on cheese and ham,

Or feed to a haughty stomach

Burnt beans and a fossil clam.

312

7be Letter that Came O^'ot, etc.

THE LETTER THAT CAME NOT-

AH ' 'tis a weary thing to sit and wait,

Day after day, t.be postman on h« round.
To start each time the sharp, fam.har sound.
The tell-tale of this messenger of fate,

Is heard, awak'ning hope, each day less great,
But which, in eVry loyal heart, IS wound

About with life and faith, till we have found,
As most poor, trusting mortals find, too late.
That owr ideal of loyalty, of love,

Of faith, of virtues all. is but encased
In human mould. Ah ! goddess from above,
Whom iTave worshipped, could'st thou but have traced
A line for me, who mourn thee as a dove.
Thou hadst redeemed my life from utter waste!

-AND THE LETTER THAT CAME.

AT last there comes a message from the one

Who should have written in the long ago, ^
When life and hope were buoyant when no snow
Of years had chilled my heart, and when the sun-
That shines so warm and brilliant as we run,
^'^tth even pace and quick, tj-f ^j.^^^ IIw
As nascent manhood's bronght by old Time s flow
Into the golden age of twenty-one -
Theseus !u«, seemed formed --'^^"^^itT'
Since when he shines he's ma.i's and Natures spur
To better things. The years teach us to fear
He rises but to put mail trains astir -

For by this mail a missive doth appear
From my old tailor's sharp executor.

pa*

tAn Interview with the Prophets.

^13

AN INTERVIEW WITH THE PROPHETS.

traced

^E.

now
sun —

low,
i flow

's spur

THE probabilities are that nobody will get left in pre-
dicting the kind of weather we may expect this
month of March, as witness these conflicting forecasts : The
settler from South Dakota, who pre-empted his claim away
back in the 'sixties, and who knows more about the idiosyn-
crasies of this particular month than the office-boy of the
Meteorological Department, announces, with all the vague-
ness of an oracle, that there will be "some right smart
flurries of snow, with considerable call for cough syrup,
and no end of bluster about March winds and dust" — and
in this non-committal dictum he will come nearer the truth
than any other of the prophets. Then the oldest inhabitant
of Rensselaer County will proclaim, in the emphatic manner
of his tribe, that "there ain't goin' to be no sech airly
spring sence 1871, when Benjamin Fligg sowed peas or. the
eighth of March;" while his old maid sister, who has
resolved on matrimony this spring, although it is not leap-
year, and who knows that proposals in the rural districts
need the bracing stimulant of a drive on runners under the
keen and frosty moon, declares that the sleighing will last
till the middle of April.

About the fourth of the month an editor out at Shanty
Bay, who encourages precocious literary effort in the same

,14 *^" Interview with the Prophets.

masterly way that the Harrison Cabinet encouraged the
Ch Han pretensions, -namely, by determinedly sUt.ng on U
-will officially make this announcement, m h.s classical
and vigorous style, unto all peoples conversant with the
English language: "We speak i" ^^^ --""f, ^^ 'f"^,
with no uncertain sound respecting the sort of weather tha
S prosperous and intellectual subscnbers may expect
during the current month. We are always logical. We
are ever observant. We are at all times brief. The spring
poetry sent us up to date is wanting both tn respect to
'wV and ,«i/r. It falls far behind that inflicted upon
u during any previous year of our editorial experience. It
Ts p^Tstuff It is mawkish. It is peevishly puerile and
unS^erestingly unintelligible. Ergo, we argue a prolonged
^"„ter- a backward spring -an inclement season -an
Abound March ! Reader, it is not always May. Now is

THK TIME TO SUBSCRIBE ! "

The recluse professor of Toronto. Canada, and millions of
other awe-struck people will read and ponder the wise words
orthe Shanty Bay editor. But the learned professor alone
will reply to him. He will come out with a carefully
written article on Commercial Union, m which he wil
laUsfactorily prove that if complete Reciprocity were at
oncf etabll^^^^ between the United States and Canada^
thefr "rough, raw. and democratic" March might be
interchanged for a soft, southern, attempered month, of
almost Florida-like geniality. , „ . ,

While the stray Indian agriculturists along the Mohawk
Valley say they will continue to farm for muskrats for two
fttU moons yet, a Central-Hudson freight conductor is morally

ertalThat we needn't look for any more March weather at
all this year, except in the almanacs and timetables, because

■*HI

e/fw Interview with the Prophets.

315

uraged the
ilting on it,
ais classical
it with the
ling's issue
veather that
may expect
ogical. We

The spring
1 respect to
iflicted upon
perience. It
r puerile and
; a prolonged

season — an
ay. Now IS

April is within twenty-four hours' run of the Thirtieth-street

freight depot.

In spite of these varying speculations, the sagacious small
boy, with the instinct of his species, will see to it that his
skates are kept fearfully and wonderfully ground, and that
his broken hand-sled is promptly repaired.

From all this, what can we expect but an average March?

id millions of
be wise words
rofessor alone
li a carefully
rhich he will
Dcity were at
and Canada,
ch might be
ed month, of

the Mohawk
skrats for two
ictor is morally
rch weather at
tables, because

'Tis (May.

TIS MAY.

Who is it tpeakB to me with •mile,
That leaps into my very soul
And reads it, as an open roll ?
Whose voice, sweet as one hears the toll
Of cloister-bell from wooded knoll.
And piquant mouth, and dainty face.
That would a sylvan goddess grace,
Charm eye and ear, and straight beguile?

Whose is this darling, brownie maid.
That 'cross my pathway late hath strayed?
•Tis she, 'tis May.

Whose roguish eyes and close-cropt curls
Play havoc with her vassal, man.
That young or old in no way can
Escape those eyes, or 'scape the ban
Of those dark locks the soft winds fan?
Who can but love, and suppliant press
This glorious sprite for one caress.
As to his hecrt the sharp shaft hurts?

Whose is this darting little maid,
That with my heart so sore hath played?
•Tis May — whose May?

■Tis May-whose May? Ah, but to know!
Give me to know, and I will fear
No more her frenzied suitors near ;
No more gaunt winter, bleak and sere,
Since where May is, is Christmas cheer.-
Why should I ask it, though, of one
Who gracious queens it, as the sun
Beams grandly down on friend and foe?

Yet could this heav'nly, dazzling girt
Vouchsafe a mortal one pure curt !
Sweet May! Loved May!

Judith's Dilemma.

317

JUDITH'S DILEMMA.

lUDlTH MARCHEMONT had a score of love" _ She
J was a beautiful girl, but somewhat fickle - heartless,

"Tutors were resolved to win her: one, a medical
studLt. a'o-ntic, handsome young fellow, with a meagre
income- the other, a practical young man, the har ana
onTv s^; of a buri; old Illinois farmer, whose ambition was
rLTmfadvU Engineer. Judith ^-ied hers~ >«
love with the romantic young man, who -"j^ quotepoetry
go into raptures over Shakespeat^-ddn^J^n^^^^

rr:^h^::::=--i;-r"S
-^tsr=err^t}^^

himself on being the great-grandson of f^ f ^^^^^"^J^^
hero, and was disposed to look down on Robert Richter.
son of a German emigrant.

At length matters came to such a crisis that both young
tn.^n felt the time for a direct proposal had come.

"RoSrt Richter bought a box of delicious ^n^b^^^^^^^^
laboriously penned a little note on P-^-^-f ^^^^^^^^^^
offering his hand, his heart, and his fortune. At least,
thought he did. His proposal ran in this wise :-

3i8

Judith's Dilmma.

"Miss Marciirmont :-I)ear girl, you know how madly
I love you. I think I have sufficiently proved my devotion
to you. I can not offer you my heart in person, but to-day
I have plucked up courage to do .so by letter. Sometimes
I have a moment of exquisite huppiiiess, thinking that you
must love me; th( u again I am goaded to madness, fearing
that you are only amused with me. You have so many
lovers who are worthier, in every respect, than I, that my
heart misgives mc, even now. But if you can love me,
ever so little, make me supremely happy by giving me just
one word of hope, and I will strive to prove worthy of
your entire love. I do not ask you to write to me ; I will
not intrude upon your time. All I ask is, if you can accept
me, let a little ribbon band of blue (your favorite color)
stream from your window to-morrow morning, and I will
post myself where I can catch an immediate glimpse of it,
"Your own Robert Richtkr."

Judith received this note and the box of bon-bons early in
the evening. A boy delivered them, but amorous Robert
was outside in the darknes-s, hoping to catch even a glimpse
of the girl he loved — which he did not.

Judith tore open the box and hungrily pounced upon the
bon-bons. Then she leisurely opened the dainty note and
perused it. Her eyes sparkled as she read, and a smile
parted her rosy lips. But this was not her first offer of
marriage; if she accepted it, it would not be her first
engagement.

"Dear Robert," she murmured softly, "how good he is !
Who would have thought so grave a gentleman would
indulge in such romatice pbout a ribbon— a blue ribbon!
Why, I should sooner expect Charley to be guilty of such
an act ! I wonder what I had better do about it. Well, I

Judith's Dilemma.

319

liow madly

y devotion

but to-day

Sonietinies

Ig that you

|e»s, fearing

so many

I, that my

love me,

iig me just

! worthy of

me ; I will

I can accept

'orite color)

and I will

inipsc of it.

ICHTKK."

)ons early in
rous Robert
:n a glimpse

;d upon the
ity note and
and a smile
irst offer of
t)e her first

Bfood he is !
man would
lue. ribbon !
ilty of such
it. Well, I

won't decide till I consult mamma. How fooli.sh of Robert
to say he would not intrude on my time by asking me to
write, when he comes here an'l takes up my time evening
after evening! But what good taste he has in selecting
caramels. I wonder what Charley would have sent?"

Mamma, on being consulted, congratulated her daughter
on her good fortune. By all means Judith must accept this
offer ; Robert would be so good to her. The mistress of a
happy home, with every luxury at her command, and with
opportunities for foreign travel, would she not be happy ?

So Judith Marchemont decided to accept the old farmer's
son. She had plenty of time to make up her mind, if it
were a question of doing so ; but having once come to a
decision in the matter, she troubled herself no more about
it, but spent the evening munching her bon-bons and
reading a fashionable novel, wondering, once or twice, where
Charley could lie that he did not come in.

Morning dawned, serene and balmy. Judith ate the last
of her bou-bons, then opened a drawer full of delicate
ribbons, and composedly selected one of blue.

"What a strange whim," she mused. "Let me see, what
did he say? The window, I believe. Now, I've just
thought of a lovely idea ! I'll tie it to the bird-cage, the
very cage he gave me, and hang that out of the window !
That will please Robert; for he is always referring to the bird
and its cage."

No sooner said than done. Judith thought the ribbon
had a remarkably pretty effect, as it fluttered in the morning
breeze, and while she was admiring it, she caught .sight of
Robert in the distance.

He bowed profoundly, and then pretended to go away.
But she noticed that he did not go out of sight of the
ribbon.

320 Judith's Dilemma.

Judith now discovered that Charles Montgomery- was
loitering on the comer, a block up the street, steadfastly
regarding the fluttering blue ribbon — or herself.

"How provoking that he should see me !" she murmured ;
and instantly she took in the cage and detached the ribbon.
" How is it Charley never proposed? " she asked herself.
"Such a scheme as this, now, would take his fancy.
Does he lack the courage, or what is it? I wonder if he
suspected anything juSt now? "

Judith tripped lightly down stairs, and told her maternal
counselor what she had seen.

"Miss Judith," said the housemaid, "a boy brought a
parcel to the back door last night, and asked me to give it
to you. I'm sorry. Miss Judith, but," here she blushed,
"Harry was in, and — "

" Give it to me ! " said Judith eagerly.
And she ran away to her own room, with a rectangular
parcel, securely tied with a long and strong cord.

When opened, she found Dante's immortal poem, illus-
trated by Gustave Dor6, in three richly-bound volumes. Her
own name was emblazoned on a fly-leaf in each volume, in
bold characters that she knew at once as Charles Montgom-
ery's.

Beside her name in the " Paradiso" lay a note addressed
to herself. It would have been a sardonic lover indeed that
would have ventured to place a note in any other volume

than this.

Judith's face blanched when she ran over the note. Almost
in tears, she murmured angrily :

" That stupid giri ! She is always making some blunder.
Oh, Charley ! Charley ! I'll have mamma send her 9ff' this

very day ! "
Charles Montgomery's letter ran thus :—

jjflggjgSJSsimllm

aery was
teadfastly

urmured ;
le ribbon.
:d herself,
lis fancy,
der if he

maternal

brought a

to give it

i blushed,

ectangular

aem, illus-
imes. Her
volume, in
Montgom-

j addressed
ndeed that
her volume

te. Almost

ne blunder,
her ofif this

Judith's Dilemma.

321

' ' DEAR Judith : — I can endure suspense no longer. I love
you, Judith, with my whole heart— passionately, eternally.
Will you be my wife ? You know ray dreams of ambition ;
you sympathize with me in them ; with you to inspire me, I
should become illustrious. I can not pour out my heart
as I could were I with you, but I will call on you tomorrow
evening, to plead my cause and to receive my fate at your

hands. , .

" My dearest, I can not wait so long. If you would be
my guiding star, appear a moment at your boudoir window
when you see me at the intersection of the Avenue to-morrow
morning. " Your devoted slave,

"CHARI.KS L. Montgomery.

' • Am I engaged to both ? ' ' Judith asked herself. " I cer-
tainly am engaged to Robert, and Charles as certainly be-
lieves me engaged to him ! Haw unfortunate this is ! My
head is going to ache ; I know it is. And Charles is coming
in this evening ! What was he thinking of just now, and is
it possible they saw each other ? "

Then she took up one of the volumes, and reverently

turned the leaves.

"What exquisite taste Charles has," she soliloquized.
" He knows exactly what will please me, and yet it is only
a short time that I have known him. What is a box of
confectionery, even of the choicest kind, compared with
books worthy of Dora's art? And he knows I like sugar-
plums, too, and buys only the best. What do I care for
Robert's money ? " .

Judith ran down stairs, with a poor appetite for breakfast.
The meal over, she held another consultation with her
mother.

Judith's Dilemma.

Mrs. Marchemont was troubled. Clearly, Robert was the
better catch ; clearly, Judith favored Charles.

"I don't see what I am going to do," Judith said fret-
fully. "Charles is so handsome and gifted, and Robert
appears so common-place beside him."

"Yes, Judith," said her mother gently, "but Robert has
a strong mind, rooted good principles, and— and a fine prop-
erty to recommend him."

" Minor considerations, to me," said Judith. Then, with
a smile: "Here I am, accidentally engaged to two gentle-
men, at liberty to choose between them, and more undecided
than ever ! What a ridiculous situation ! I do wish young
men wouldn't try to be so romantic ! What could I have
done, if I had received both proposals last night ? I simply
could not have accepted either. ' '

"Well, you can decide better, perhaps, after you see both.
I think it is all for the best," said Mrs. Marchemont deci-
sively.

At eight o'clock that evening the door-bell rang gf ntv>
Judith, her face flushed and her manner excited, herself ^n
swered the summons.

Robert Richter, his face radiant, stepped into the hall.
" Come into this room," Judith said tremulously, opening
the door of the parlor.

"Are you alone ? " Robert whispered.
"Yes," said Judith.

" Is your father in ? I — I must speak to him, you know."
" No, he is out this evening, on business."
"My own dear little girl," said Robert, once the parlor
door was closed on them, "how good you are ! "

Then he felt nervously in his pocket for a little box, that,
as Judith instinctively guessed, enshrined a dazzling engage-
ment ring.

..Mm

Judith's Dilemma.

323

t was the

said fret-
i Robert

)bert has
5ne prop-
ben, with
'o gentle-
mdecided
ish young
lid I have
I simply

see both,
lont deci-

ig gf ntl>
lerselt ''

le hall.
y, opening

ouknow."

the parlor

box, that,
ng engage-

In the midst of this she was startled by a peremptory
jangle of the door-bell. Charley's ring ! She knew it was !

A look of vexation passed over Robert's face. He meekly
dropped the ring-box, with the ring still in it, back itito his
pocket, and sank into a chair.

The housemaid answered the door, and Charles Montgom-
ery was triumphantly ushered into the parlor.

On seeing Mr. Richter so comfortably seated tete-h-lete
with Judith, Charles was visibly annoyed, but he shook
hands with Judith as warmly as if he had just returned from
a consular exile, and then ceremoniously greeted Robert.

Judith now began to realize keenly the embarras.sment of
the situation. Each of these young men believed himself
engaged to her, and each one had come to ratify the en-
gagement.

Feeling that she must make an effort to talk, she queried,
turning to Charies, "Is the sleighing good to-day, Mr.

Montgomery ? "

"I believe we have had no sleighing for the past two
weeks," Charles answered drily.

" Why, yes ! How stupid of me ! " said Judith, with a

forced laugh.

•' Have you seen these new books of Miss Mvchemont's?"
asked Robert, taking up one of the Dor^ volumes, open upon

a table.

"What do you think of them. Miss Marchemont? " in-
quired Charles, without deigning Robert even a look.

" I've been in raptures over them," said Judith, beginning
to recover herself. ' ' I have studied the illustrations so care-
fully that I have not yet got out of the ' Inferno.' "

The young men did not perceive anything ridiculous in
this, but Judith immediately did, and was amused, in spite
of herself.

324

Judith's Dilemma.

" It was so good -" she continued, and then broke off.

But Charles knew what she would have said.

So did Robert; and he drew himself up in his chair and

looked very gluin. , .

"Is your father in, Miss Marchemont ? " Charles asked, m

a low tone. „ ,

"No he is out," Judith returned, in a tone equally low.
If they fancied Robert had not overheard, they were mis-
taken. He glared at Charles, and then darted Judith a re-
proachful look. -
"This soft weather will be bad for consumptives, but good
for you and your brother professionals, Mr. Montgomery
said Robert, with a palpable sneer that surprised Judith. In
all her wide experience, she did not yet know what discredit-
able things jealousy may prompt a lover to say.

Charles started as if he had been struck. Why should
this humdrum fellow be suffered to come and pay his aa-
dresses to Judith? Why did Judith tolerate him at all?
Should he not be crushed so effectually that she would never

speak to the man again ? , ^ «,« ^„a

But it would be best to begin with musketry fire, and
reserve his bomb-shells for a final eflFort. So he said :

" To be sure it will. But are you not afraid, Mr. Richter,
that you will have to give up your intention of surveying
railroads, and content yourself in laying out grave-yards?

Robert started, in his turn, but replied sharply :

" I did not wish to insinuate that nli doctors will kill their
patients. It is the new men, you know, that always do the
greatest 'execution.' " - , , , _^j

Charles Montgomery winced, and a dazed look appeared
on Judith's face. If they were bent on quaneling. as seemed
probable, it would be better to get rid of both.

But how ?

-^MWiiPP^lWii^^

Judith's Dilemma.

325

)ke off.

:hair and

asked, in

lally low.
were mis-
idith a re-

, but good
tgomery,"
jdith. In
t discredit-

hy should
ly his ad-
im at all?
rould never

ry fire, and

aid:

Ir. Richter,

■ surveying

sre-yards?"

ill kill their
pays do the

(k appeared
5, as seemed

" Oh, never mind such things," she said lightly. " Are
you going — to the next Inauguration ? "

This was a random inquiry, and Judith quaked inwardly,
realizing that it would be almost certain to bring up the
question of politics, in which, perhaps, they differed.

"Yes, I should like to go," said Charles. " What an at-
traction Washington proves to the country people ; they come
even from the western prairies," with a sly glance at Robert.

" But then we thrust ourselves on them, and make our-
selves a nuisance," interpolated Judith, by way of saying some-
thing.

"Are your people given to ' patronizing ' such things, Mr.
Richter ? " Charles asked carelessly.

" My father sometimes had to do such things, in his offi-
cial capacity as Senator," Robert said, with secret satisfac-
tion at Charles's discomfiture. " But that is not the place I
should care to take a wife to, unless I could avoid the jam.
I would not have my wife fagged out for all the sight-seeing

in creation."

"I was not aware that you have a wife," Charles said
tauntingly. ' 'I thought you still enamored of school-girls.

" I shall be happy to introduce you to my wife at no dis-
tant day!" retorted Robert, exultantly.

Judith trembled. It looked as if Robert or Charles, in the
heat of the moment, would declare his engagement to her.
Why had she not taken measures to acquaint each of them,
ere it came to this, with the exact state of affairs, as honor
had prompted ?

Charles thought that matters began to look serious, but
he merely suggested :

" Unless some rival should come ?n your way ! " "^

" Let that rival beware ! ' ' cried Jiobert, with flashing eyes.

^26 Judith's Dilemma.

.•Let a rival cross my path." said Charles impetuously.
" and I would shoot him like a dog ! ' '

Robert looked up sharply. " Yes ? " he said. But un-
leryou are as good a marksman with the shot-gun as you
ar:rh,say.tL lancet, you wouldprobabVym.^^^^^^^^^^
and so cause yourself much annoyance, and the other par y
Ich amusement. Of course, if the shooting were pu«ly
accidental, why. then, according to t^« "^f P^^?^! J^/^^;^!:
your victim would be pretty effectually put out of the way^
•■ Spoken like a Solon," commented Charles, with a look

that showed Robert's "shot" effective.

"Doestiotyourprofessionalexperiencebearitout? askea

^"^Uy professional experience has not yet begun." Charles
"'Itg'your pardon, then, with all my heart!" Robert

"lion;- and painful silence ensued. Judith felt kindly
towards Robert, but devoutly wished he '^^"Idp. Still
it was a great relief that the young men were disposed to
monopolize the conversation. „;„„?..

°'mat did you think of the play the other evening?
askeYcharles.'takingup a new subject ''Was not that
tragedy sublime? Or do you prefer comedy ?

'■Well. I believe I was he- was-was engaged - other-
wise " Robert stammered, appearing very much confused.
Charles looked angry, and Judith, uneasy.
Then Robert added, recklessly, defiantly :
- " I don't like such a comedy as this ! "

Judith was angry enough now. Robert's c^««^Jf« ^^^^
less if he could have known it - and perhaps ^e didknow jt.
Another painful silence. Judith feeling that she could not
endure this kind of torture muc.i longer.

petuously,

"But un-
jn as you
your man,
ther party
ere purely
r tragedies,
■the way."
rith a look

ut?" asked

n," Charles

;!" Robert

L felt kindly
I go. Still,
disposed to

r evening?"
iTas not that

ged — other-
ch confused.

use was hope-
e did, know it.
she could not

Judith's Dilemma.

Nor did she. A side door opened, and Mrs. Marchemont
glided in, bearing a tray with cake and coffee. Depositing
her tray on a table, she courteously accosted the rivals.

Charles and Robert drank their coffee so incautiously and
feverishly that they scalded their throats ; but Judith knew
that a little moderation was advisable in sipping the family

beverage.

" Can't you play something, Judith ? " Mrs. Marchemont

asked.

Charles and Robert p \. .d this proposal cheerfully, the
latter observing that it v AA be better than so much monoto-
nous talk.

Judith played one of her most soothing sonatas ; then,
thinking her mother would remain in the room till one or
both of the rival suitors had taken leave, she came back to

the table.

Such was not Mrs. Marchemont's purpose. She had de-
termined that, as Judith could not decide on any course of
action, she would herself bring matters to a crisis.

" Mr. Montgomery," she said, " Harold would like to set-
you a few minutes in the library."

It certainly cost her an effort to say this, as her manner
and voice betrayed ; but she knew her duty, and could per-
form it bravely.

Charles looked first stupefied and then indignant, but
grandly rose to his feet, bowed mockingly to Robert and
profoundly to Judith, and marched out in the wake of Mrs.
Marchemont.

Judith looked indignant, too, but said nothing; while
Robert made no attempt to conceal his relieved feelings.

Charles was ushered into a bright and cheerful room, where
Master Harold, a thirteen-year-old schoolboy, rose from his

J28 Juditb'a Dilemma.

seat at a table and grinningly stretched out his paw to shake

"^Charles frigidly extended his hand, saying nothing.

«' It's too bad the skating's all gone," Harold sighed.

" I think so," Charles said absently.

As Harold ventured on no further legrets, Mrs Marche-
n.ont explained that he wished to ask Charles a few ques-
tions on some mooted points in history, m which the dear
bov was deeply interested.

Charles muttered something about being happy to explain
away any " misunderstanding," and Harold dived among a
pUe of school-books on the table, caught up a volume of
history with a jerk, and hurriedly began tumbling over the
leats Buthi seemed to be floundering about from Preface
to Snis quite at random, and the " mooted points" eluded
his iarcS. Perhaps he had gotten hold of the wrong his-

*°'' I heard you asking about a dawg the other day." he
said suddenly, looking up from his history " f^^^harW
if you want one. a chum of mine has got a splendid pup for
sale — awful cheap, too." _

-Yes?" said Charles. " Is - is it a good bargain ?- 1
mean, a good dog -a pup likely to make a good dog ?
" Guess 'tis ! " cried Harold enthusiastically.
But Mrs. Marchemont saw that Charles was not in the
humor to accept this desirable pup. even as a gitt.

The same housemaid that had delivered Charles's parcel
to Judith that morning now came into the room with a scuttle
of coal, and set about replenishing the fire in the ^ate.

" Oh Susan." said Mrs. Marchemont. with sudden anima-
tion " did you give Miss Judith the parcel you spoke of?
You said a parcel came last evening, but that you forgot to
deliver it. You are so terribly careless."

Judith's Dilemma.

3*9

I to shake

ng-
ighed.

s. Marche-
i few qiies-
1 the dear

to explain
•d among a
volume of
g over the
■om Preface
ts" eluded
wrong his-

:r day," he
>w, Charley,
idid pup for

argain ? — I
idog?"

( not in the
gift.

irles's parcel
vith a scuttle
grate.

idden anima-
>u spoke of?
Fon forgot to

"Yes, ma'am," said Susan meekly, "I gave it to her
about ten o'clock this morning. Some other boy brought
another little parcel last night, but Jane says she got it, and
delivered it right away. I'm awfully sorry about it."

Then Susan, her duty done, slipped out of the room.

" Can't you find it ? " Charles asked sharply.

" No," said Harold. " Oh, well," tossing the book upon
the sofa, with a look of relief, "it isn't much odds, any-
way."

" Why, Harold ! " reproved his mother, with a look that
threatened mischief to the indifferent student.

" Good evening, then," said Charles. " Is this the way
out?" opening a door which communicated with the hall.
" I see it is ; good evening."

A minute later, Judith came into the room.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Marchemont, "that was
strategy."

' Well, mamma, Robert has gone, too ; mortally offend-
ed."

' ' Robert ? ' ' aghast. ' ' How was that ? ' '

Then, noticing the open-eyed and open-eared Harold, she
said to him, "See which way they've gone, Harold. But
don't let them see you, mind."

The boy jumped up and trotted oflF briskly.

" Now, Judith."

" Well, he proposed again, and I told him that Charles
had proposed in very muc' the same way. He got angry,
and asked if I meant the ribbon for him or for Charles. I
told him frankly that I believed I liked Charles best, but
that the signal was for him only. But I was cross, and angry
about the way you had treated Charles, and I suppose I
showed it plainly. Then we had a long talk, and he went
away in a towering rage at everything and everybody."

^jo JUiiith's Dilemma.

'■Well one or both will come back to-morrow." Mrs.
Marchemont said soothingly. " Poor girl ! what an ordeal

'' loon'afteTwards Harold bounded into the house, saying

'"^T^:;tet not far off. and had a big talk ; and then they
both laughed a little, and hoisted up the.r «^-lder^^^^^^^^^^
their ciears and shook hands real hard, and said Judith was
a eood gi but she hadn't much m" d. and that wasn't her
:wrbiit h;r mother's ; and then they looked up at the elec-
tric light, and Charley said, 'Thence we came forth to re-

behold the stars.' and Robert -' ' ,

"Yes ".said Judith, •' that is the last line of the Inferno,

when their pilgrimage down below is completed
wnen incir F s \„^,\" observed Mrs. Marchemont.
" Quite complimentary ! oDserveu

" Well, eo on, Harold." ,

^Thef. they both sighed and looked pretty solemn and
said nobody seemed to be able to get into the Paradiso
Trth a ce'nt this evening; and they went away smokmg
like a steamboat when the fireman '«J°-l;"g ^" T. r know
" Never mind, Judith," said Mrs. Marchemont. I know
what young men are ; they will be back to-morrow. ^

She was mistaken. Neither Charles nor Robert ever came
back or ever again showed any attention to Judith.

Jukith grieve'd a few days for Charles, whom she sincet^ly
liked But a new lover appealed on the scene ; she fell m
love with him; and said "yes" when he proposed in the
orthodox, matter-of-fact way.

It will be some years before either Charles or Robert at
tains his ' ' Paradiso ' ' here below.

)W," Mrs.
t an ordeal

ise, saying

I then they
ers, and lit
Judith was
wasn't her
at the elec-
forth to re-

e ' Inferno,'

[archemont.

solemn, and
' Paradiso '
'ay smoking
rup."
t. "I know

row.' '

jrt ever came

iith.

she sincerely

e ; she fell in

(posed in the

or Robert at-

Tbe H^aysiiie Chapel.

THE WAYSIDE CHAPEL.

A PLAIN little wayside chapel

Stood long by the turn-pike road,
Which lead through a peaceful country.

Where want never lia<l aljode.
No ivy to cluster about it,

No legends to give it fame ;
No eloquent, forceful preacher

To send far abroad its name.

No resident pastor ever

Had dwelt within easy call.
Because the whole congregation

Was poor, and at best but small.
But always f^n Sunday mornings

A neighboring church would send
Some one who could preach the gospel

And fervently bid all amend.

Hia texts were most often taken

From books of the Holy Writ
That all of his homely hearers

Best loved, while an hour they'd sit
And drink in his labored sermon

With earnest, yet troubled mind,
Well-pleased — but afraid his dinner

Would spoil by the time he dined.

For never could any preacher

Complain that the Bethel folk

Were known to walk off and let him
Drive home, with his fast unbroke.

332

The H^.?v$/i/«f Chapel-
mi oft, of a rainy Sun.lay

In fall, when the roa«l« were ba«t.
He came to fit><\ Juit one member

On hand, in hi» dripping plaid.

And once, when the preacher failed them.

A member aroM and aaid,
"Now, rather than dlaappoint you,

I'll preach to the quick and the dead.
He did -and while aome were aobbing

Still othera were aore diamayed,
For harahly he told the failinga

Of all, while none dare dissuade.

Each Sunday a fair, aweet maiden

The old hymn tunea soft played
On a quavering old reed organ,

Whoae aounda a hoarae rhythm m«de
To the earnent and hearty ainging.

That voiced all the hymna exprea»ed-
For membera of Bethel alwaya

Their faith by their aonga confeaaed.

But now, like the kindly people

Who worshipped there long ago.
The chapel will be forRotten,

Since little remains to show
The site of the plain frame building —

Should any return to search.
The children of old-time membera

Go all to the village church.

-'^^^^^^^^

t/l Jerri CMista'he.

335

A TERRIBLE MISTAKE.

Hkr voice, that he must hear no more ;

Her footfall, light as autntui-'r rain ;
Her trustful glance, that ever tjore

Fond love, that aeenied could never wane ;
Her gentle hand, that long hcd wore

His ring, and oft n Uia had lain ;
Her wealth of locks Man m.ist adore;

Her smile — he u ay not know av.ain.

Her scorn he evermore nmst I'^ce ;

Her footfall greets ano^her•9 ear ;
No more her laughing voice, in h' ce,

Would welcome him, should he appear.
Another's vowed, on bended knee.

And 'tis his ring she now holds deai,
His grief, beyoiul all remedy ;

His New Year's, wretched, blanl and drear.

That voice he nevermore must know;

Those locks he ne'er again may stroke.
From this hour forth his cake is dough —

Her callers' cake he now may joke !
For Christmas his regard to show

(The "Season" found him almost broke)
He sent old cards, stamped years ago —

And all his gifts went up in smoke !

*'i:
^

Sing OAe a Song of Olden 'Days.

SING ME A SONG OF OLDEN DAYS.

In olden days, at my request,

You sang me fiery songs of love ;

Sing now a song with sad refrain,
Despairing as a mourning dove.

In this last meeting of our life

I do not wish to cause you pain ;

To-day you are another's bride,

And my old wounds must bleed agam.

My love for you has not grown cold,

Though low the flame has sometimes burned ;

My faithful heart has never changed,

But thoughts of other sweethearts spurned.

For ten long years I've cherished hope
That your regard I might redeem;

Man's faith sometimes bums on alway,
While woman's love is but a dream.

The spring-time love of steadfast hearts
Is love that can not pass away;

Time will bring care, and pain, and death,
But the first love knows no decay.

When you and I were sweethearts still,
You promised to be mine for aye ;

I ask not now for more than this,
An old-time song of yesterday.

Sing me a song of ^Iden days.

When you and I were sweethearts true ;
Those happy days I would recall,

Ere for all time we say adieu.

mi UK i um 's-tiKt V'l^Vt ' lfVS fS

tAlone with Grief.

335

ALONE WITH GRIEF.

id;

This wretched day could not be brief,
But it has run its course at last,
The storm-clouds ghostly shadows cast,

And I am left alone with grief.

The cruel truth to-day I learn,

That she cares nothing for my pain.
A life's devotion was in vain,

The old, loved days may not return.

My bird sits drowsy on his stand ;

The fire upon the hearth bums low ;

The little clock ticks faint and slow ;
My old dog, trembling, licks my hand.

I shiv'ring sit, with head bowed low ;

The night-wind moans adown the lane ;

Sad 'gainst my casement beats the rain,
As if in def 'rence to my woe.

Then restlessly I move about.
Reflecting o'er and o'er again
How I have loved so long in vain ;

While still the dull rain falls without.

Aione With Grief.

The still, small voice reproves: "Weak ma...

Have faith i.i God ; lose ..ot your soul ;

What though you did ..ot reach your goal,
Perhaps 'tviras not i.i vai.i you ra..."

But still the rain falls sad a..d drear,

Still moans the wind, as though in pa... ;
Both bear to me the same refra.u, ^

"She loves you not, and naught can cheer.

Oft times her voice I'll seem, to hear,
Oft times in sleep her face I'll see,
Her sweet, fair face, so dear to me —

But only in my sleep, I fear.

Although I ne'er can break the spell,
I can forgive her cold d.sda.n ; —
•Tis nothing that I loved in vain ; —

But it is hard to say farewell.

Whate'er betide in this world's strife,
Of this my heart doth full assure.
The love I bear her will e.idure

As lo..g as God shall give me life.

City Life vs. Country Life.

337

CITY LIFE vs. COUNTRY LIFE.

ii\liY dear fellow, you don' t know anything about it. I
iVl have ' been there,' and know whereof I speak."
" Pshaw ! Man knows but little here below, and knows
that little mighty slow, to paraphrase the poet who lived be-
fore railway accidents were introduced or the telephone clerk
was patented. Your own experience must convince you that
all a man can learn in this world, from suffering, from obser-
vation, from dead books, or even from communicative Nature,
amounts to but a handful of cobwebs, a bucket of cmders,
with here and there a live coal of knowledge — so called.

But is it knowledge?" . . , ,, n

" So you are in for an argument again,White ? Very well,
then ; we will fight it out, if it takes us till midnight.
Please wait till I get out of my boots and fire this necktie
into a drawer. Make yourself comfortable in my long-suf-
fering chair, for I am going to lock the door and put the key
in my pocket. When I have convinced you that city life is
as different from country life as a nightmare is different
from a cheering visit from an old friend, then wiU I sheathe
my jack-knife, and unlock the door, and bid you good morn-
ing or Happy New Year, as the case may be. Remember,
this is August the 6th, and the hour is nine p. m." ^^
" Am I the old friend, or the nightmare, old fellow ?
' ' My dear White, you are the old friend. I can^ count on
my fingers all the friends I have-in the wide world who are
worthy of that sacred name. You are one of them ; but

338 City Life vs. Country Lip.

some of the wannest and noblest live in the country. In
fact, my only boast is that I am a countryman myself."

' ' Your only boast ! Oh ! "

"Well, onf of my only boasts. One of these friends, as
!• ve told you, took holy orders, and is to-day in Buffalo. We
seldom correspond, but the old friendship is eternal. One of

them is dead tome forever; another . But what we

want to do is to argue, not talk. Come, open fire. "

"What is your line of argument ? Do you hold that city
life is the summum donum, and that country life is simply

existence ? "

" By no means. Each has its charms, and you and I love
both What I hold is this: A hermit like myself does far
better to shut himself up in a house in the city, for genuine
peace and solitude, than in the country. Here one can have
perfect freedom, and immunity from care. There is no occa-
sion to go out of doors for anything, because all a man can
ask for is brought io him." .

' ' Peace and solitude ! Why, the street cars roar and jingle
along in your hearing eighteen hours a day, and circus pa-
rades pass the door ! As for not going out, you simply musl

go out." , , ^1 • *

" Not a bit of it ! When a child comes here and thirsts
for a drink of fresh water, what do we have to do ? Simply
turn a tap, and load the poor innocent up with a water-works
mixture of animalcules, diluted sewerage and so on. In the
country it is different. There you must gd from ten feet to
ten rods right out doors, frighten the chickens out of their
wits if it is day-time, or mayhap run foul of an erratic pole-
cat if it is midnight. The colder the day or the blacker the
night, the more thirsty and persistent that child becomes.
My aunt once got an idyllic black eye by running the pump-
handle, that was pointing like the needle of a compass at the

iMiiiwIilaNv '

City Life vs. Country Life.

339

mntry.
yself."

i friends, as

ufFalo. We

lal. One of

ut what we

re."

)ld that city

fe is simply

lU and I love
self does far
, for genuine
ane can have
re is no occa-
11 a man can

)ar and jingle
tid circus pa-
i simply musi

e and thirsts
do ? Simply
i water-works
o on. In the
)m ten feet to
IS out of their
a erratic pole-
lie blacker the
hild becomes,
ing the pump-
:onipass at the

North Pole, plumb into her optic, one n,ght when I was
thirsty. It was months after that before I durst get thirsty
again over night, or demur if they teased me with lukewarm

''^'' Nonsense, old fellow ! They have buckets and pails in
the country, and in them they accumulate water, even as
they accumulate hens' eggs in a market-basket.

'•True- but the thirsty child will have fresh water, be-
cause he 'is built that way. Experience and observation
both teach this. Fresh water and fresh youth are akin.

' ' Granted. But the city water, you acknowledge, is more
or less impure. Observe that / don't say so, or .''

"No- I took that watery argument out of your bucket,
or you would have made the most of it. though now you dis-

""^^^uUe so, my great logician. But when your hyportteti-
cal thirsty child drinks country water, he imbibes the Simon-

^"''iTdubt'it. Did you never see a well. White, with a
bull-frog Mascaic Lodge in posses.^on? Did you never
hear of a white-haired boy that unloaded the contents of a
rat-trap into the ancestral well? Did you never hear my
gruesome story of the Gernan, who innocently quaffed a
Lblet of the Simon-pure anicle, which was nchly flavored
by a luxuriant willow hard-by. and asked. J" '"^"f ^^ ;«;
tonishment and disgust. ' Have any of your pets died lately ?
Did you never see a red-headed hired boy, with a far-away-
California look in his big blue eyes and a railway pamphlet
in his pocket, dreamily empty the dish-water where it could
most e^ly meander into the well? Lest you should steal
a march on me and sing the praises of the spring m the hol-
Lw -which spring, by the way. is as far from the house as
hlwater-works offices are from us here,-let me jog your

m Ili

340 City Life vs. CouHtry Life.

memory and ask if you never saw the muley cow roil the
waters of that crystal spring, or the unwashed hog lave his
fevered snout therein ? "

"But you claim that in the city you can den up like a
hermit, and never have occasion to go out at all. Will you
be good enough to give me particulars? "

•' I can and will. In the country, if you wish to buy a
newspaper or post a letter, you must journey an English
mile — perhaps a German mile — to do it, over roads that
may be moderately dusty or outrageously muddy. In the
city, the postman drops your letters and regular papers m the
lette-b^-., and the smiling newsboy comes and gives you
y, u. ( h tee of fifteen papers— half of which you never heard
of, and never want to hear of again."

" But the jaunt in the country will be medicine to you."

"Good. But suppose you are unable to go so far, or

haven't time? Three miles, to post a letter and get a box

of cigars?"

"Nonsense! You can send for your mail."
" Good, again. I knew you would think of these things.
My dear White, I once sent for my mail by a boy who
wouldn't rob a crow's nest, or throw stones at the glassware
on the telegraph poles, or eat onions, or drink sweet cider,
or pick up a whet-stone if he found it in the road. What do
you suppose became of my mail ? "
"I give it up."

"Well, as it turned out, there was a letter and two papers.
That boy' s sister got it into her head that these were fashion
r-pers (just as if a blasd i^an like myself would care for
fashion papers), and she slipped off the wrappers. I don't
think she got much information out of the papers, but on
one there was a scrap of news, written in English, and on
the other there was ditto in Spanish. She could read the

"Wi"^

City Life vs. Country Life.

34 «

>w roil the
og lave his

1 up like a
Will you

h to buy a
an English
roads that
ly. In the
apers in the
I gives you
never heard

le to you.'*
so far, or
d get a box

hese things.

a boy who
be glassware

sweet cider,
i. What do

I two papers,
were fashion
3uld care for
ers. I don't
apers, but on
flish, and on
uld read the

English first-rate; but the other bo hered her. Howevc^^^
she copied it off. and her sister-in-law. ^^o^^^/*^/ ^"'^f^
French at the joyous age of fourteen, insisted that it was
OUendorffian French, and lost her reason trying to make it

out. As for the letter ."

'• But how did you find out these things t
.. Such things are sure to come out. White ; especially in
the country. Two days afterwards the good boy brought
me my mail. The wrappers on the papers were <^PP'''''»f
Z^TL7^.^, but the envelope of the letter -- worn ^d
crumpled that the post-marks were indecipherable. That
might have proved unfortunate, for it was the th^r^ -d^^
of a series of anonymous letters that I had received. But I
had long since found out the identity of my fair correspond-
ent hofigh she was not yet aware of it. But you will agree
;"^me.Uaps. that it may prove a -^ -P-^^ b^
send for your mail. Some thmgs are not well done by

'''■^"Yof certainly gleaned a little knowledge -or rather

wisdom — that time."

"True No cobwebs mixed with It. either.

.. Well, go on. How can you get the necessaries of life,
even in the city, without bestirring yourself to get out^

"how? My dear White, you must keep your eyes locked
up in ylr reVolver-case. and your ears in your trouse«
"pLiets. lest you should hear and see and so 1--^^^/;
let us outline the programme of one day,-say Wednesday,
-for both city and country. In the city. then, at 8 a. M^a
gigtn^ miUan rings you to the door and gives you a good
Icriptural measure of milk. Winter and s««^»«/. ^^
shine you can rely on getting it. He will never fail you -
exc" pt for ten days, when he is away on his bridal tnp and

he?ie Lnds a deputy, who has learned the 'route' and

342

City Life vs. Country Life.

makes punctual time within three days. But if he should
miss you, you can hail any one of a dozen others passing
the door. In the country you will get better milk, and gen-
erous, neighborly measure, I grant you. But— those stupid
cows have to be hunted down, day after day, which is no
joke for the tired farmers. Again, they are likely to 'go
dry ' just when the doctor orders you to drink a quart of milk
as a morning recreation. If he orders you to take egg and
milk for pastime, why, then will the hens lay off, too. The
practical dairyman suffers no such contingencies to bother

him."

" Oh, go on ; you make me tired."

"Please remember that the key of the door is in my
pocket. At 9 A. M. the grocer sends around, in his inquisi-
tive way, to know what your orders are. At 9. 15 the coal-
oil peddler turns up with his stone-blind horse and oil-soaked
conveyance. He has only fifty cents' worth of clothes on
his back, to be sure ; but he has thirty dollars in his various
pockets, and three thousand more in the savings bank. He
will sell you good, marketable oil, at two cents a gallon
cheaper than you can get it in the country— where, many a
time, I have seen 'most potent, grave, and reverend seign-
iors' sauntering along the sidewalk of the township metrop-
olis, with a large, rusty, conspicuous, aggressive coal-oil
can in their right hand, which they will shift to their left to
shake hands, in a hearty, honesw way, that wins the admira-
tion even of the ungracious city snob. You will admit that
in the country it is coal-oil or candles, while in the city home
you have gas or the electric light. At 9.30 you will hear a
crash outside that may suggest the idea of an alderman cap-
sizing in a fit ; but it is only the iceman slinging a lump of
ice upon your door-step. It is beneath his dignity to ring
door-bells. If it is glad-eyed June, at 10. 10 a. m. the straw-

City Life vs. Country Life.

343

he should
!rs passing
c, and gen-
aose stupid
vhich is no
tely to 'go
lart of milk
ce egg and
, too. The
s to bother

r is in my
his inquisi-
5 the coal-
d oil-soaked
;■ clothes on
his various
bank. He
its a gallon
ere, many a
•rend seign-
>hip metrop-
>ive coal-oil
their left to
the admira-
[1 admit that
be city home
a will hear a
iderman cap-
iig a lump of
gnity to ring
M, the straw-

berry huckster will sell you berries that V^"/ " ^^^'^^^^^
you will only shut your eyes ; and at 3 v. m. anda 6 p. M^h^
rivals will come along and sell you just as good lorries a
half the price. At lo.ii A. M. your baker will drive up be-
S htr:;ith your bread, and while you - U^XYdT-
supplies from them the baker's horse w. 1 ^i^^K^^f^^f^^^
la^' worth of strawberries, and the affair will come out in

the newspapers. At 12 p. m. ."

" That a;tf«/rf be pleasant, now, wouldn t It ?

.■ It would be. for the neighbors, certainly. But how lonK
would you have to live in the country to see «"^l\^l,""K«^
It high noon the butcher will call, if you are a sensible man
knd leave orde« for him to do so, and he and the vegetable
Len will supply you with enough to keep the cook-stove busy
for a week. In the midst of your midday meal a good-na-
Id Polish Jew. who speaks five ^iffereiit languages wn
pay you a friendly call and offer you eighty cents for the
accumulated old clothing of as many years-or in rounder
ruXrs of one hundred years. In the country you might
W converted these into a scare-crow ; but the crows wou^d
have laughed at it, and the neighbors would have crmci^d
it At 2 P M. the city chimney-sweep will come and threat-
eningly show you a mandamus from the City Hall setting
forth thIuT your chimneys are not swept on next Monday,
yt w^i be se'nt to the penitentiary for ten years for arson
Ld as many more for high treason, the sentences not to run
concun^ntly; whereas in the country you -^^ ^ hav^^f d
to let your chimneys bum out of themselves, at the risk ot
wouS the fine sensibilities of the English msurauce

companies." . , , , j t, ..

- This is not argument ; it is balderdash.

"Come, now ; if the discourse were yours, /should politely
call it baiinag;. But even balderdash may be argument.

344

City Life vs. Country Life.

At 3 V. M. a venerable old man, who may have seen better
days, or may see them yet, will come around and naively sell
you three packages of envelopes and of note-paper, at ten cents
a package. To be sure, there may !» better and cheaper
down town, but neither better nor cheaper in the country.

At ."

"Hold on! I've got you this time! The Post-Office
Department arranges to deliver stamps, but not at unseason-
able hours — the very time when you would most want them.
Here is a dilemma for you ! "

" You will not break in on my narrative again in that
way. White. Lo ! at lo p. m. a neighbor across the street
will come in without hat or cane. He will plead that he
must write seven letters for the morning mail, and that he is
' long ' on stamps and ' short ' on envelopes ; can you make
a deal ? Lo ! here is the opportunity to unload some of the
dearly-bought envelopes. He leaves you stamps enough to
mail five letters, and materially reduces your stock of envel-
opes. See?"

" But such a thing might happen in the country."
" Eh ? Well, yes ; I stand rebuked. In fact, it would be
much more likely to happen in the country. —At 5 p. m. a
sunburnt book-agent will visit you, with forty-seven dollars'
worth of literature in his grip. Here you have your choice
of all the best works issued by the leading subscription -book
publishers in America. What luck ! "

" Are you afraid of him, or does he ' unload ' on you ? "
" My dear White, I used to be much more afraid of a
dashing young gossip I knew in the country. Peace be to
her ashes ! She talked herself to death at the early age of
twenty-two. Now, I take the initiative with this young man,
and talk him black in the face, and then write him out a
charm against hungry dogs, and advise him how I would

City Life vs. Cowitrv Life.

345

en better
lively sell

ten cents
[ cheaper

country.

o9t-Office
unseason-
mt them.

n in that
the street
1 that he
that he is
you make
me of the
enough to
; of envel-

; would be
t 5 P. M. a
en dollars*
our choice
ption-book

1 you?"
ifraid of a
'eace be to
arly age of
oung man,
him out a
w I would

tackle a man who has just five mi.uites to catch •'^^'■^i"- «'"J
how I would lay for the man who l^-^d just got out of ja, o
subscribing in an order-book with his shot-gun. Then I
cheerfully subscribe for a book that he says is to be published
five years hence, but which I know is already out.

' ' Well , ha ve y ou done ? "

" No • but I will stop to wind my watch.

<• Oh, say ! You wouldn't know an argument from a horse-

shoe ' " f

"That reminds me of more arguments. Three or four
times a year there is an election going on in the "tj. and the
opposing parties will send around a carnage and ms.st on
Sg you a free ride to the polls. Suppose the rate W"
e !• fre called upon to vote $700,000 to help a new railway
hnild into the citV You ride with the Antis. because they
Lndl'e luxurious carriage, and vote for the railway
Tople on principle. If you are sick in bed with sciatica o
rneumonir. it Lsn't make a bit of ^iff-nc. = th^^ -;^^
have your vote, and Death may claim your life, or not. The
onWtirg they draw the line at is this : They hate to go
crrLg abound patients who are suffering from diphtheria or

yellow fever."

" But what has all this to do with the country ?

" I am coming to that. The city horse will not shy at the
circus parade you spoke of, neither will he be led from the
narrow line of the street car rails by the seductive music of
a thr^-hundred-dollar hand-organ, which can be beard fou
blocks away, and which truly causes its owner to earn his
br^ad by tL sweat of his brow. But with the country
horse it is different, you know. This summer an oM fnend of
mine undertook to drive me along the beautiful roads of our
natTve district. He will not ask me to go again, neither
will he pride himself on his Jehuship again. All went merry

346

O/y Lit '». Coiinfrv life.

for the first two milest, unJ then we suddenly cai.ie upon
a city dude, touritiB the country .i» \un ' hike ' — his shy-
cycle, as my friend jocosely and not inaptly called it.
The only mistake the youth made was in setting out before
he had mastered his wheel ; and the only mistake our horse
made was in turning wildly into the same ditch into which
the youth had upset himself. Forty beautiful spokes sud-
denly became worthless wire ; while my friend was thrown
headlong upon the unfortunate bicyclist. But it didn't
interrupt our journey half so much as it did the latter's.
This seemed to infatuate our horse, however, and he bowled
us along most enjoyably. Anon we heard a noise like a
freight train coming right along the highway. My friend
jumped out at once, and led poor Sam, the horse, now trem-
bling like a leaf, to a telegraph pole, and tied him fast with
a rope and six or seven pieces of strap. I asked him if his
fall had made h'm crazy, and he said, ' No ; I wish I had a
logging-chain besides these.' He explained nothing and I
asked nothing, for if it was a question of ignorance on my
part, I wasn't going to give it away. Presently a steam
thresher outfit, drawing three contented- looking men and
two wagons, came crunching along, and I began to wish we
had had a city horse. The men laughed at us till the tears
came, and I'm sure I didn't blame them. But it was no joke
to Sam. That telegraph pole is fifteen degrees out of plumb
to this day. When the steam thresher monster was a
quarter of a mile past us on its journey, my friend led Sam
out into the road, climbed into the buggy, and we were off
again like a flash. But we were just five minutes too late
for our letters to catch the English mail, and we began to
feel discouraged. But on our way home we got along
famously, and were beginning to congratulate ourselves.
We were almost at the top of a big hill. On below in the

City Life vs. Country Lije.

347

tt.ie upon
-his shy-
called it.
jut before
our horse
uto which
Kikes sud-
is thrown

it didn't
e latter's.
he bowled
ise like a
My friend
now treni-
\ fast with
him if his
sh I had a
ling and I
ice on my
Y a steam

men and
;o wish we
1 the tears
as no joke
: of plumb
ter was a
1 led Sam
ve were off
:es too late
e began to
got .along

ourselves,
low in the

hollow was my friend's home and our journey's end. vSud-
denly a piercing scream came from this hollow, and our
horse began to plunge violently.

" ' What can it mean ?' gasped my friend, ' If it comes
again, Sam will kill something : '

" It did come, again and again. Sam did not ' kill some-
thing • ' but he ran away, and threw us both into a bed of
nettlei on the brow of the hill. I give you my word that
neither my friend nor I got a broken neck ; but we saw Sam
dash on and knock the buggy to pieces, and fetch up at
last with considerable harness still on him, at the stables.
The shrieking ceased ; but what do you suppose it was? "

' ' Oh your ridiculous imagination. ' '

"You are away off. It was my friend's city cousin, a
lively girl of fifteen. She was fishing her first fish in the
stream in the hollow, and had captured an astonished crab
on her fish-hook. Both were frightened to death ; but the
crab couldn' t scream ! "

" So you prefer city life to country life ? "

•' I never said so. White. I am like the boy in the stupid
fable ; I like both, off and on."

"I agree with you, in part. But wLat have we been

arguing about ? " , ,, • t

" I don't know ; I have talked for the sake of talking. I

am not through yet, but if I get through in time I am

going to get my life insured and go back to the country

to-morrow." . t •

"Not through yet! Say, give me that key! I g»ve 'n I
I am more than convinced; I am overwhelmed. - That s
good ; thank you. Say, old fellow, you didn't touch on two

things, after all ; pure country air, and ." ^^

" True. Now it is my turn to give in to you. White.

" And how you contrive to post your love-letters, whether

348 City Life vs. Coutitry Life.

in city or country. You don't trust them to ordinary
mortals, nor would you confide all your secrets to your
letter-carrier. But perhaps yon have some jugglery, which

" Give me back the key, White, and we will fight it out
all over again."

"You go to the mischief ! Good night ! "
And the door shut with a bang.

[

ordinary

to your

ry, which

The Freshet.

349

:ht it out

THE SPRING FRESHET.

In the days wben most cities were hamlets,

Aud our fathers rejoiced in their wild
Country life and their old-fashioned school-house,

How the glad face of boyhood droll smiled
When in March the bright sunshine came glinting
Through the cramped little windows, strong hinting
That to-morrow, or very soon after,
The spring freshet would roar, like a river,
All around the old building, and frighten
The trustees till their gaunt locks should whiten.

If our parents had known how we gloried

In the floods, at recess tind when slow
After school hours our home way we sauntered

By the stream, with our hearts all aglow.
They perhaps would have been somewhat fearful.
Would have charged us, with eyes still more tearful,

To beware of the freshet's dread dangers ;

They perhaps would have asked of the master
If the boys any progress were showing.
When their minds with wild waters were flowing.

Though it mocked at the path-master's science.
Washed out culverts and flooded the road.
Swept off bridges and threatened the toll-gate.

Till the farmers could scarce take a load
Of their produce to market, yet scholars
Were sent daily to school, lest the dollars

That were grudged to the teacher be wasted.
And his board-bill allowed — and he idle!
Yet the boys all enjoyed "freshet weather,"
Though they longed to play truant together.

*■*

V l tt^igir;

350

The Freshet.

With the flood at its worst a vast lakelet

Half encircled the school-house, and raged
With a fury that scarce knew abatement

For a week ; while each season was gauged
On a tree, where high water showed highest.
It was easily known who kept driest.

But not easy to know who got wettest ;

Though 'twas commonly one of our raftsmen
Who adventured too much in safe guiding
Our big raft, where grim shipwreck seemed hiding.

But one spring there came shipwreck, and almost

The sad drowning of our second mate ;
We'd slow drifted a mile from the school-house, ^^

And reluctant slunk back to our fate.
The old clock just struck three as we straggled
Through the door, and our clothing bedraggled
Caught the eye of the master, who calmly
Laid aside the romance he was reading
And then whipped us, with strength undiminished.
Till the clock chimed out four — when he finished.

WfcJI

MiiiiHil

tmtk,

Lucy and the Fortune-Teller.

351

LUCY AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

U AjlY dear Hart, I am delighted to see you again."

1 Vl ' ' I might say the same ; but it isn't necessary ; you
know my nature. What I wish to do is to congratulate
you. I am told you are engaged to a handsome young lady.
Now perhaps you will be good enough to invite me to the

wedding." ,, m

"Your congratulations are a trifle premature, old fellow.
I haven't yet persuaded the young lady to make up her
mind. Can you suggest a way by which I can prevail on
hertoquitcoqueningwithme? .1 am most anxious for a
wedding to come about."

"Well, I could ruggest twenty things to you, if ."

" Suggest (?«^ .' "

"Jack, is your lady-love superstitious— however little? "
" She is inclined that way. But what of it ? "
' ' Everything. Take her out for a walk — say, to-morrow
afternoon — along the river, and just before you come to the
Great Western bridge you will encounter an old gipsy-woman
fortune-teller. Keep mum, and your sweetheart herself will
suggest the idea of having her fortune told. The rest fol-
lows naturally."

"You are to personate the fortune-teller ? "

"It is most wonderful that you should have guessed it,

Jack ! Your penetration passes all belief! For the fun of

the thing, you might come along with quite a party of the

young people. It will be just as easy to make half a dozen

352

Lucy and the For tune-Teller.

matches as one. But you must post me thoroughly as to
your sweetheart's idiosyncrasies and history, because I don't
want to make any mistakes. I think you may quietly begin
preparations this very day for a brilliant and speedj' wed-
ding."

" My dear Hart, how can I thank you enough ? "

"Don't mention it. I shall charge the young lady five
shillings for telling her fortune, and you will have to pay it,
•on the spot. Fortune-tellers don't give credit, you know.
But I mean to send her a handsome wedding present."

Then the two young men held a long conversation, and
■when they separated, Hart Montague was indeed ' ' thor-
oughly posted." The lover. Jack Herrick, once ventured
on a mild protest that it was taking an unfair and ungentle-
manly advantage of his sweetheart, but his friend appeased
him by quoting the old saying that ' ' all is fair in love and
war."

Lucy Pendleton was indeed somewhat superstitious ; but
that, in the eyes of her admirers, was only another oi her
many channs. She was a lovely girl, but capricious. This
■was not likely to frighten away any suitors, though Jack
Herrick realized that his chances of winning her were alto-
gether dependent on her caprice, not his solicitations.

Behold the pair, then, strolling along the classic Avon, on
the next afternoon. With them were three or four young
ladies, each with an escort. They had some vague idea of
joining a picnic party up the river, but had no suspicion that
Jack was directing their movements. For once in a way Jack
was master of himself and of the situation.

" Oh, look ! " cried Lucy, as they turned a bend in the
river. " There is a ridiculous old gipsy ! Let us go jp ..;d
speak to her."

The word ridiculous admirably described the creature

lUghly as to
luse I don't
uietly begin
speedj' wed-

i?"

ig lady five
^e to pay it,
, you know.
:sent."
Tsation, and
deed "thor-
ice ventured
nd ungentle-
:nd appeased
r in love and

stitious ; but
lother oi her
cious. This
though Jack
ler were alto-
itions.

ssic Avon, on
r four young
ague idea of
luspicion that
in a way Jack

bend in t'\^
us go up u.id

the creature

Lucy and the Forttiue-Teller.

353

before them. In fact, Jack himself had difficulty in recog-
nizing his friend Hart, so faithfully did that scamp represent
the typical gipsy fortUTie-teller.

The party drew near, and saluted the gipsy with mock

politeness.

" Can you tell fortunes, mistress ? " inquired Lucy.
"I have told the fortunes, sweet lady, of the greatest
people in England. The stars are to me an open book. I
look into the future as into a looking-glass, and the past is
mirrored before me as the full moon upon the broad river.'

"Tell me something first of the past. The future does
not trouble me so much as you may think."

" Give me your left hand, sweet lady, and let the young
man give me as a fee the silver in his left-hand vest pocket. ^
Lucy ungloved a fair hand, and for one brief moment it
was attentively examined by the gipsy. Then with a start
it was dropped. " The future w.M trouble you, sweet lady
ere many moons. Fate is already knocking at the door of
your heart."

' ' Well, ' ' said Lucy curiously, ' ' what do you read ?
" Time enough to tell you that, sweet lady. First I will
tell you something of your past, as you wished me."
' ' Never mind the past at all. Tell me of the future.
" Not so. On the day you were thirteen years old you
were saved from drowning in this very river."

" Yes ! " acknowledged Lucy, starting in her turn.
" On the t'iirteenth of the seventh month, July, 1887, you
narrowlv nursed bein- hit by a rifle-ball. You thought a
little brother had accidentally fired the shot. It was not so.
His ball found another billet."

Lucy, as well as the other young ladies, now became thor-
oughly interested.

354

Lucy and the For tune-Teller.

¥M :

" You have noticed how often the numbers thirteen and
seven have occurred in your history, sweet lady ? ' '

" Certainly I have, and wondered at it," assented Lucy.

"These numbers will follow you all your life. One is
lucky, the other unlucky. There are thirteen letters in your
name ; you have had six offers of marriage. If you do not
accept the seventh, you must wait for the thirteenth. This
man will be an outlaw, but this line in your palm shows
that the seventh man will propose this evening. If you re-
fuse him, he will kill himself, and you will fall to the out-
law, who will poison you in 191 3."

Lucy was now becoming alarmed. ' ' How shall I make
sure who is ttte seventh ? " she asked.

' ' There ure but four letters in his Christian came, sweet
lady, as in yours, thr>ngh there are seven in his family name.
His destiny is illustriou?: He will be titled by your Queen
ere you are three years married ; will fight three battles
against the Italians, and fix his name upon the stars forever.
He will be so rich that ten horses can not draw his gold.
But if you refuse him, all this glory ends in brimstone ; he
will shoot himself."

" Is he handsome, too ? ' ' asked Lucy, with great interest.

Hart and Jack exchanged amused glances. Hart did not
think the prospective bridegroom handsome, so he replied :
"See for yourself, sweet lady; his picture is the thirteenth
in a book that was given you on your seventeenth birthday."

Lucy remembered perfectly well that Jack's photograph
was the thirteenth in her album, and that she had always
looked upon this accidental placing of it as ill-omened.

Still, if this old witch said he was the man .

' Is there no ill luck in that ? " she asked, at length.

"Sweet lady, it is destiny. The lucky and the unlucky
numbers chase each other all through your life. Link your

f«>' t>fcMs

Ithirteen and
?"

ted Lucy.
ife. One is
tters in your
f you do not
eenth. This
palm shows
If you fe-
ll to the out-

ihall I make

name, sweet
family name.

' your Queen
three battles
stars forever.

raw his gold.

»rimstone ; he

jreat interest.
Hart did not
he replied :
he thirteenth
th birthday."
5 photograph
; had always
s ill-omened.

t length,
the unlucky
Link your

Lucy and the Fortuue-Teller.

355

fate with the great man's, and you wili live long and be
happy. His star will never wane — unless you refuse him
this evening. ' '

Jack now began to look triumphant. He even began to
fancy that his friend's wild talk was prophetic.

"What of the person who fired the rifle-ball?" Lucy
suddenly asked. "Who was he, and when shall I see him
again ? ' '

"Sweet lady, these are dark things. It is not good for
you to know everything, but I may tell you that you will be
in Rome in July, seven years distant, and that on the
thirteenth of the month, at seven minutes to noon, you will
meet him face to face. If the seventh man who proposes is
then your husband, his glittering sword will disable your
secret enemy ; if the bearded outlaw is then your husband,
the secret enemy will again attempt your life. ' '

" And kill me ?" gasped Lucy.

"No, sweet lady; you escape sorely wounded, and live
for your outlaw husband to poison you in 1913-"

"Oh, certainly ; I forgot about that ! " said Lucy.

The look of implicit faith on her innocent face was almost
too much for Hart Montague. In fact, his triumphant
success caused him to feel remorseful rather than jubilant.

But now other members of the party pressed forward to
have their fortunes told. This was a critical test for Hart,
as he was not familiar with their history, and he feared that
perhaps he had over-estimated himself, after all, in bidding
Jack to bring along chance comers.

However, he still had his fancy and the future to draw on,
and so predicted for one an alliance with a North American
Indian ; for another, the equivocal dignity of an elevation to
the restored throne of Republican France ; for another, the
cheerful revelation that she would be wrongfully sentenced to

356

Lucy and the Forttme-Teller .

death for murder, and pardoned at last on the scaffold ; and
for another, the equally cheerful alternative of being the
wife of three drunkards, each one a worse sot than the first,
or of being " cycloned " into a volcano, and there entombed
alive.

The next morning the two young men met again by

appointment.

"Jack, my dear boy," said Hart, " I beg to congratulate
you once more. Yesterday I read Miss Lucy's hand ; to-
day I read your face. She accepted you on the spot, eh ? "

"Yes ; and I herewith ask you to our wedding, on the sev-
enth day of the seventh month — that is, next July."

"You are a rascally lucky fellow. Jack ; but you don't
deserve your good fortune. Do you know, I've been dream-
ing about that girl all night. If I had known she was half
so pretty, I would not have told her fortune ; I would have
cut you out. Aren't you afraid of me, even as it is ? "

Jack laughed— an easy, good-natured laugh. "I will
introduce you, ' ' he said, ' ' and she will take you for the ' out-
law, ' and be afraid of you. But what's the reason you never
married, old fellow? You would be more than a match for
the cleverest girl in England ; you could win whom you

pleased."

" I have helped my friends in their love-affairs time and
again, Jack, but where I am concerned myself, I have scru-
ples about these things. However, I never had any heart
troubles. — I say. Jack, I want you to drop a hint some day
to those stupid gallants. One might woo his sweetheart in
the guise of an Indian, and another as a 'mountain-climber,'
and so on ; and the young ladies would take it all as a good
joke, and accept it as a marvelous fulfillment of the gipsy's
prophecies. ' '

Hart was introduced to Miss Lucy, and the warmest afifec-

Lucy ami the Fortuue-Jeller.

357

affold ; and
■ being the
an the first,
e entombed

t again by

longratulate
s hand ; to-
spot, eh?"
, on the sev-
ily."

it you don't
been dream-
she was half
would have
.tis?"
h. " I will
for the ' out-
on you never
a match for
i whom you

lirs time and
I have scru-
d any heart
int some day
sweetheart in
:ain-climber,'
all as a good
f the gipsy's

irarmest affec-

tion sprang up between them. But, even as Jack saul, she
looked upon him with a vague, unrestful feeling that m the
dim future he would, by some process of evolution, metamor-
phose himself into the gipsy's outlaw. Hart would never
betray any confidences reposed in him, even to expose decep-
tion, so that the secret was safe, so far as he was concerned.
Preparations for the wedding went on gaily. A few days
before the date fixed for the great event. Lucy said to Jack :
.. Do you know, my dear Jack, I am going to try and find
our gipsy prophetess again. There are a great many thmgs
that I wish to consult with her about."

' • You will hardly find her, Lucy. She is probably off on
her broomstick among the stars she talked of so glibly.

"Jack ' How can you speak in that way of that giltea
woman ! wShe may be able to overhear you, for all you know,
even from the stars. Do be careful ! " ^ , ,.

"Yes- but you know, Lucy, my destiny was fixed the
moment 'you accepted me ; so V can say what I please. But
if you really want to see the old gipsy, I can present you to
that personage in fifteen minutes." , ,,,

" You can ! Pray, are you in league with her ?
This was said without any suspicion whatever - perhaps
without any meaning whatever. But Jack Ij-^ long felt it
his duty to tell Lucy the whole truth, and he thought this
an opportune time to do so. ^ . ^ •. x*.

" Lucy," he said, " I will make no more ado about it. It
was all a scheme between Montague and me ; your old witch

was that rascally dog."

A pale little face quivered for a moment, and then poor
Lucy swooned away. Jack ran terrified from her presence
and on returning in the evening was pohtely informed that
Miss Lucy was unable to see him.

It was several days before Lucy was able to leave her

358

Lucy and the Fortune-Teller.

room. Her first act on being able to sit up was to write
Jack a frank little note, that proved at once she was in full
possession of her reasoning faculties, if not very well.

This note gave Ivim to understand that he need never
show his cruel, w^.y ':<ce in her father's house again ; that
she despised him as being worse than a criminal ; that she
had never loved him ; that he miyht have brought his con-
fession around in a way to win her sympathy ; that she al-
ways hated him ; that his friend was quite free from blame ;
that she might have married him a year ago, if he had had
any energy or decision ; again that she despised him ; that
his plot was not clever, it was childish ; that he was a cred-
ulous, infatuated fool ; that he might have won her without
resort to any wicked stratagem ; and finally, again that she
despised him and would not see him.
Poor little Lucy !

It was Jack's turn to be ill when he received this letter.
It drove the faint-hearted fellow to despair, and effectually
4isf. bused his mind of any further belief in his friend's daz-
zling prophecies about battle-fields and martial renown.

Lucy t ^covered finally on the 13th of July. On that fate-
ful day, at 7 P. M., her mind was clear and decided on many
points— perhaps on most points.

It can easily be guessed how things shaped themselves.
Lucy, as many another young lady would have done, mar-
ried Hart Montague ; and in her that young rascal found a
wife whom he does not deserve, but whom he loves dearly.

Lucy still believes that seven and thirteen are her lucky
and unlucky numbers, and takes a solemn interest in tracing
out how they are alternately chasing each other in the most
trivial affairs of her everyday life. She has even persuaded
Hart to promise to take her to Rome when the seventh year
period shall come.

was to write
e was in full
well.

need never
again ; that
al ; that she
gilt his con-
that she al-
from blame ;
t he had had
d him ; that
2 was a cred-
i her without
fain that she

d this letter,
id effectually
friend's daz-
renown.
On that fate-
ided on many

Lucy and the Fortune-Teller.

359

As for poor Jack, he thought seriously of studyuig law, but
finally decided on entering the army by buyii.g a commis-
sion. It is somewhat remarkable how curiously events will
come about in this uncertain world.

The moral of this story may or may not be that the swain
who can not manage his own love-affairs without calling in
the interference of outsiders, richly deserves to be punished
for it.

i themselves,
/e done, mar-
ascal found a
)ves dearly,
are her lucky
rest in tracing
er in the most
ven persuaded
i seventh year

36o

^ H^onuui's Hand.

A WOMAN'S HAND.

Only a linml, a woman'it hand,

Ungloved anil fair and liglit of touch ;
And yet no fairy's golden wand

Could ere acconipli«U half »o much.
Great inrtuence hath an earnest word,

Much meaning 'a in a kindly glance ;
U.it ah ! how is the life-blood stirred,

From finger tips to heart's expanse,
By lightest touch of woman's hand !

•Twas hut a hand, a woman's hand.

And yet it saved a soul from death.
A felon, bearing murder's »)rand.

Soft felt it, and quick held his breath ;
The first time he had felt so thrilled

Since, brooding o'er his life misspent,
He clasped his mother's hand, death-stilled,

He sobbed %nd prayed, and died content —
Saved by a nun's pure, pale, cold hand.

■Twas but a hand, a woman's hand

And yet it stopped a deadly blow ;
Shamed men no strong words of command,

Or threat*, or stripes, or life-blootVs flow
Could have s bdued— yet light its touch.

A ronipiiife maiden left her play
To fetch a lame man his lost crutch ;

She soon forgot, but all the day
His thoughts dwelt on her willing hand.

•Twas but a hand, a sweetheart's hand.

Held tightly in a long farewell ;
Months- years -might pass ere he should land

And sweet should ring their marriage bell.
Yet through the years he would owe much

Of happiness, uncursed by fears.
Unto the mem'ry of that toucb

(Dear as her kisses or her tears)
Of her confiding, loving hand.

t ~

* ■ " ■ ' ! ' iL':JW r i- «f W""»^'^

^s^

''^>

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WIST MAIN STMIT

WnSTIM,N.Y. MSN

(716)S72-4S03

' ■.i>K tWrai''' «■-».■ "1 »JB I "J« NB^I.Wf

»'

CIHM/ICMH

Microfiche

Series.

CIHM/ICJVIH
Collection de
microfiches.

Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques

(Mv Girlhood TDays^

361

MY GIRLHOOD DAYS.*

I FEAR I was a saucy child,

A joyous little madcap thing,
III my abandon wholly wild,

As some glad bird upon the wing.
My home, a quaint and lonely spot,

Almost upon a river,
Where wood-capt hills the landscape dot ;

While tall pines, that would shivei
And murmur in the eddying wind.

Stood near, and seeiiied so grand and kind.

The river leapt, scarce a bow-shot

Beyond us, in a double fall ;
Though busy mills its beauty blot,

Yet man's work could not blot it all.
For Nature will assert herself.

Despite the havoc man may work ;
Despite his cunning plans for pelf,

There must a wayward beauty lurk
In God's creations ; and so here

A calm, weird charm drew artists near.

The drowsy cadence of the falls.
Faint echoes of the city's noise.

The plaintive whip-poor-will's far calls.
The hearty shouts of gleeful boys —

. Written for ayoung lady, who was loo indolent- or too sensible - to make her
own verses. — b . w . m .

362

gvfy Girlhood 'Bays.

These came with ev'ning; while the lights

Of our great city, all about,
Flasht brightly, save on misty nights

They glimmered faintly, as ui doubt.
But ah ! how grand the river-scene.

Illumined by the full moon keen !

I watched the quick trains come and go.
Along the bridge, 'cross busy streets.
Just past our door, when they would slow,

The while the engineer kind greets
This fearless maid, as home from school
I laughing came, with bag of books,
Anmsed, perhaps, I broke some rule.

At home from school, my rustic nooks
I sought, to con my lessons o'er.

Or o'er some wild romance to pore.

A dual life was mine ; I knelt

At Nature's sl.rine. and then I strayed
The busy streets along ; I felt

Both country lass and city maid.
While in the high-backt pew I sat

Demurely with my mother,
Or up and down the river-flat

Rompt madly with my brother,
I knew the country's freedom wild,

Yet felt a city-cultured child.

As many a golden afternoon

I rowed adown my mystic stream
I thought the hours went by too soon.

In my fantastic, girlhood dream
Of greater cities, other lands,

Where I should some day wander far.
The fall of night brought reprimands

From parents, who would fain debar
The rapture that I felt to float

On long excursions in my boat.

hts

ts,

ow,

18,

(My Girlhood 'Days.

Through woods in autumn and in spring

I wandered 'raptured, for a sense
Of grandeur fired me, and did bring

Their beauty to me, strong, intense. -
Alas ! all's changed, and changed am I,

But still that buoyant feeling
I caught from river, hills, and sky.

Quick over me comes stealing,
When with closed eyes I clearly see

My moou-loved river, flowing free.

363

ooks

rayed

er far.

[s
debar

364

How He Qiiit Smoking.

HOW HE QUIT SMOKING.*

(( J rr^AlN'T no manner of use to say you can't keep from
T ffettin about these things," said the old man
1 ireiun «T^mme tell you how I quit

in his slow, dogged way. Lemme leu y

„e, a. ever I «s ; a"; ^^ -^.^^ ^^ f^tur say. .0 n,e

" '.' "" nt^ si he '^m y°"'- a-goin' .0 kill your-
one day, J'"' /'yl"'' ■'.j.^ifuu of nikkerteen,' says
r:'"*e ptltTnd of ^ufflhey is. Vou can'. ,uit
riki? anTur age/ says he. .but you-dorterp^n^e^^^

^'-^ rpt - rnXutr tnlteTLTs r:n. then,

'Kl ^X^ n^^J-irSidlhout ZJ .he
ZL re^tonM Tdassn't try it. But rd give my word,
yrs^e ttri d do it, an-that ■twouldn't kill me, nerther ;

^ I yXsir: I done it ; I quit sm^in^tha^Zery^ay^^!^'

■ '■, Z^TZTZT^aok "ThB GfBAT TEN-DOI.I.AR

»Takeu from the MS. of my booK, ibb, vr

I,AW-SUIT."-B. W.M.

IG.*

an' t keep from
the old man,
,u how I quit
hain't tetched
au.and I wan't
ystem nor you
ears without it,
le notiont takes

ictur says to me
in' to kill your-
ikkerteen,' says
You can't quit
ter git nice, clean
ur,' says I, 'I'U
ays I, 'an' then,
I that, Jim,' says
e. _ ' Not yit ! '
about it, an' the
give my word,
kill me, neither ;

very day. I went

tRBAT TEN-DOI.I.AR

How He Qiiit Smoking.

365

out an' bought a bran' new pipe, with a long handle onto it
that 'd set into my mouth jest as comfurtable, an' then I got
some splendid terbakker, better' n I'd been used ter allowin'
myself, an' I took 'em along home, an' I shaved that terbak-
ker up jest as fine, an' put it into that there pipe, an' prodded
it down with my little finger, an' lighted a sliver into the
stove, an' hilt it about six inches above that pipe, an' pur-
tended I was a-goin' to have a good smoke. But I never
done it. I put that pipe up onto thechimbley-piece, where
my old one used ter set, an' rested the bowl agin the fur
aidge of the wall, an' h'isted the stem acrosst my gran'-
father's old spectickle case, where it could p'int at me, jest
as coaxin' an' as natcheral, an' then put some nice, long
lighters alongside of it. You know in them days matches
was scarce an' poor. They was high, too. Then I takes
away my old pipe, an' I says to it, kinder solemn, like, 'The
time's come fur us to part, old feller,' .says I ; 'but 'tam't me
that's got ter go ; it's j<7«.' I 'most cried, though, to throw
the old pipe into the stove, an' know that was the 'final
end' of it, as the sayin' is.

"Jest 's I got the stove-led on agin the old woman come
in, an' I ups an' says to her, ' Hanner,' says I, ' I've quit
smokin' ; so you wun't have no more cause,' says I, ' fur to
go jawin' around about me settin' onto the table, smokin ,
an' a-spittin' onto the floor.'— 'Jim,' says she, 'Jim, what
fool tricks are you up to now ? You know you can't keep
from smokin' no more 'n you can from talkin' ! ' says she.
— But I took an' showed her the bran' new pipe, an' she
allowed I'd got some queer notiont into my head, anyhow ;
but she let on that she reckoned I couldn't never hold out.
This r'iled my grit, an' I was determined not ter tetch terbak-
ker. The old woman used to watch me pretty sharp, along

How He Qiiit Smoking.

]

366

at first, to see ef I didn't go an' smoke on the sly; but bimeby

-"'^^^^on a .osty .omin', you U.^. wbe^r^
be a-walkin' behind two fellers smoktn'. an' the smoke d
l^e a waftin- back ter me. like. I'd feel jest '- I ^-^^^
to take ' two whiffs an' a spit.' as the sayin' is. AH the time
rk„o:ed there wasapipeathomea-waitin^ fur nie^^^^^^^^^^
fur a good smoke ; an' sometimes when I d go home feelin
kinder hungry. I'd go an' take a-holt of it an' exarnine^^at
it was all right, an' I'd say to it. sorter boastin', hke. Well
nWbov I'd say ' don't you feel terryble lonesome, a-laym
here :U aloneT' ' Then I^ put it back agin, where the stem
roiild keeo a-p'intin' at me. . , • i.u

•At first I used to have the awfullist time a-puttin in the
long evenin's ; but when I got wore down to it I found I
coiUd L an' talk to Hanner an' folks that 'd come in jes
as clever 'sever I could. They used to joke me some abou
it but they got over that when they see how fearful deter
mined I wL The new pipe used to be smoked now an
Tn by t^e boys that come in. jest to keep up its spints
Uke an' they used to say it 'd draw beautiful. But I neve
doL' no more'n purtend to take a few whiffs at it when I
filled it agin. I always kep' it filled an' kemspicuous righ
there onihe chimbley. an' when the terbakker runned out

I got some more. . ..

' ' Bimeby somebody let it fall plumb onto the coals, an it
got cracked an' sp'ilt. I felt terryble bad ter see it go.
Sough I hadn't never tried it fair, with the te5bakkerre^^>'
afire Hows'ever, I went an' got another Ff^.-J^f^^";
abler 'n the old one; my, it wasadaisy '— " Ifi"f^^*".
put it in the old spot, where it could lay a-p'intm at mean
a temptin' me. Hanner. she scolded some abou me go in
an' buyin- more pipes, jest fur to look at. when I might a

r;butbimeby

ow, when I'd
he smoke 'd
s ef I wanted

All the time
r me, all ready
> home feelin'

examine that
/.like, 'Well,
:some, a-layin'
vhere the stem

i-puttin' in the
) it I found I
i come in jest
me some about
w fearful deter-
aokcd now an'
up its spirits,
il. But I never
I at it when I
nspicuous right
Iter runned out

the coals, an' it
i ter see it go,
terbakker really
pipe, — fashion-
an' I filled it an'
'intin' at mean'
about me goin'
hen I might 'a'

How He Quit Smoking.

367

got her some liver med'cine ; but I told her I couldn t git
along nohow without a pipe about the house. It's a terryble
comfurt to think that it's there, ready fur me ' at a mo-
ment's notice,' as the sayin' is. It's a-waitin' fur me now ;
all I got to do when I git home is to take an' light a match,
an' eive a good pull, an' there's my pipe a-smokin away,
jest as sosherable. But I ain't a-goin' tertetch it, except jest
ter sorter shake hands an' joke it about feelin' so onesome.
" There's the old doctur, now ! I'll jest go an ask him
what's the reason some folks can't quit smokin' a pipe with-
out gittin' theirselves buried fur it ! I've joked him about
it more'n a hundred times."

But the spry old doctor dodged around the corner and was

gone.

■^•^s:^^4^

368

" C Vs/ pour Toujours, Owelty.

"C'EST POUR TOUJOURS, NELLY."

To-day I lifted dry-eyed from their grave

Such sad mementoes of the wretched past

As in my bitterness I once had cast

Away from me, as being gifts you gave,
Though which, for mem'ry's sake, awhile I 'd save.

Safe in a limbo, whence I hoped at last

To give them up unto destruction's blast.

When my poor heart had ceased for you to crave.
I gave no thought to long and wasted years,

Which are forever lost, but had no will

To handle but with awe these souvenirs —
For through my heart there shot the old-time thnll,

E'en though these mute things seemed instinct with jeers,

To find, though all is lost, I love you still.

Her Story and His Story.

3^9

LY."

:rave.

rill,

ict with jeers,

HER STORY AND HIS STORY.

AN acquaintance, recently married, after long years of
patient waiting, to an old widower,— sincere, unpre-
tentious, and rough-and-ready, a typical Canadian,— gave
her admiring relatives and friends this startling account of
her newly-acquired husband's ancestry and former great-
ness : —

"Yes, girls ; Mordecai comes of a very old family. They
were the wealthiest and most aristocratic people in Central
Ontario, and held vast estates right in the heart of what is
to-day the city of Belleville. Mordecai often tells of his
wild adventures as a boy in that mountainous region, where
he killed the most ferocious bears— just for sport, you know.
Once he killed a noble stag, after a terrible struggle. He
was so venturesome that he often wandered away alone, with-
out any of his father's retainers, or even a guide. Yes,
giris ; he killed this stag, when his own life was in deadly
peril,' and afterwards presented it to the Smithsonian Insti-
tute at Washington. If we ever go to the American capital,
we must certainly make it a point to see it. Mordecai is
acquainted with two members of the President's cabinet and
with a number of senators, besides knowing the Premier of
Canada and all his cabinet ! "

" Oh, how nice that must be ! " sighed a fair listener.

"Yes, giris ; I will tell you presently about our visit to the

Her Story and His Story.
370

,„„rk, Mordecai say» *= ™" °' 7,','' 't'L, ,ucl, a mag-
.he S»u...«.ni.n •■7'»« -,*'^ '^t, h" ha, on. very
niBcent specmen of the antlemi '» „,,,h„^ by

can rarely be persnaded .0 'TTZtr^^m-^om
kind to his^vidowcd mother One day ^ ^^^^^^

^^r^^^nrr^fEisr^n..

TheykepfopenhouK .ndttorsp.c.o ^_^^ ^^^ ^^__^

rrr^"- ry^Melnain, *e better p..a.d

"%r»n;'tnr^l!-rconra.eo.aUd^M^^^^^
= Hop ilav it was necessary for a messenger lu u^
mother was. One day ii waj. distant The family

sent to Toronto, one hundred m les d^^^^"^- ^ ^

servants kept up, sathat, °" '7^*'"^^^, ^^ be despatched
.as no trustworthy person -J>-^^^^^^^^^^ Ictually

on this important mi^ion. /I^^^^J^""""";^ she did ^^ Mor-
undertook to drive there alone, girls , and sne am

about to re-
;d endowing
such a mag-
las one very
ce chased by
man that he
;t9. But if he
ould — would
-house, where

was extremely
be was unwell
e little fellow
urb his mother
as as innocent
ng prince.
;h and for some
ned Provincial
i his name from
ek with them,
nsion contained
id, for all that,
; better pleased

lady Mordecai's
messenger to be
It. The family
s, and after the
large a retinue of
• occasion, there
to be despatched
old lady actually
;he did i\ Mor-

Her Storv and His Story.

37 1

decai tells how when night came on she put up at a lonely
wayside inn. near the town of Newcastle, and was so nervous
that she remained awake half the night. -Not that she was
afraid, you know, for .she was very courageous ; but the
novelty of the situation, as Mordecai says, was so startling.
The next day the heroic old lady sighted a bear, and she
said if she had had her late hu.sbands rifle with her-it
descended to him from the first Duke of Marlborough, girls
— she would have felled him.

" But all this was years ago. Now I must tell you of our
visit to the Dominion capital. A mere description of the
sights of Ottawa would not be very entertaining, so I will
pass on to tell you of our picnic at Rideau Hall. His Excel-
lency's private secretary recognized Mordecai at once as an
old friend, and escorted us all over the Hall and the grounds.
"A sharp shower coming up unexpectedly, we took refuge
in a lovely little .summer-house, or pagoda, where no one
ever thinks of venturing. But I could see that Mordecai felt
perfectly at home there.

"While we were in Ottawa he got some lovely slatted
lioney— such a quantity of it, too — and brought it to our
new home. Of course we couldn't eat it all ; but Mordecai
and I gave most of it away— he is so generous, you know.
Well, he can afford to be ; he is next thing to being a mil-
lionaire."

"Oh, my !" said her listeners, in unfeigned surprise.
"Yes, girls. Mordecai wa s brought up with all the choicest
wines and liquors on his father's table, as gentlemen's sons
were, of course ; but he grew up a thoroughly temperate
man, and is a Prohibitionist to-day. I don't suppose he
would know a drunken man if he should meet: one. From
all this you will see what his principles are,"
"Yes, indeed."

.-2 Her Story and His Story.

A. .Uis Juncture Mordeca. ^ ^1^:^^^

„„ j^w4 '■; - »::-t,rrs"of°H:s.u.

"My parents kep » ''"'^'f", 4 i„as raised there and
county near '^' ' ^^^^^ 2-";^^^ I^^ ^ ^_^^^^ ___^_^ ^^^

spent halt my l.fe there. My ^^ ^

then, days, but aw.ul c.<«e -d '"^ -^ ^^„„„ „,„bers
his guests was soiuething f="™^ , ^uh him -

of Parliament and 0°'='^"'"' °'"''f ' ° w though I'm
„hy, I »as name., for aM»s»chusetts b,g bug, tho g
„o hand to brag '^out such thmgs^ As^™- go g J^
IWe known weahbyEngbshm^^^^^^^^^ ^^P ^^ „^^

,0 go away fron-. dad s teUmg « ^_^^^ . ^^^

the heartlessest old skm-fl.nt they eve ^„etimes

ordinary travelers used to I"-"! ^J"*,^ ^eace. traveling
iteametoblow. a„do.K^a jus..« of * ^^^ ^^__^^^^^„„,

rrrte wtS^aylrcareful afterthat, wasfather ;
behavior. llewasaiwdy= uv .««n*.v because, you see,

but that was the way he ^^^^XT^llionT^^'^ ^^y^
taverns were scarce and poor m that reg ^^^^^ ^^^

Buttheykep a ^ery respe^ab e pja^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^

?^ef:rri:s^^^^i^ri^^^^^^^^

rrSr^ouir^rfu^Th^^Ice, and feed, the
•"5; Bu'Ser'meTwben I was ver>. young, and mother Uep'

1, and when
;'s charming
way, to give
liis early tri-
s wandering
,n them that
e two stories.
11 some pretty
ng ones.
B of Hastings
ised there and
mart man, for
ised to charge
lown members
p with him —
g, though I'm
s going to say,
paid preachers
:e that he was
lie across ; and
that sometimes
Peace, traveling
is cantankerous
;hat, was father ;
ecause, you see,
I in them days.
lO one could find
ageous charges.
I was oftentimes
seen father then!
ce, and feed, the

, and mother kep'

Her Story and His Story.

373

things going for a few years. She couldn't carry it on as he
had done, and us boys were too small to run things, so when
she saw she was losing money, she sold out. One tune she
ran out of liquor. (I'm a teetotaler myself, and vote for no-
whi.skey candidates, as long as they are good party men
though I was brought up right in the midst of the poisonest
kinds of liquors, though father wouldn't allow us to dnnk,
he was so close. But I have seen so many drunken men
that I never ^"ant to touch any spirits.)

"As I was saying, mother ran out of liquor one time, just
as an election was coming on, and there wasn't a living soul
she could send away fur supplies. She was never any hand
to do business by correspondence, as father was,—

At this point the new wife made a frenzied attempt to head
him off. But Mordecai was a little deaf, and he kept on in
the same dogged, ingenuous way.

.. and she thought she'd have a nice httle excursion,

any way So she left me and the hostler in charge of the
tavern, and went away to Toronto on foot. She had to go
on foot, though it was a good hundred miles, because father s
two horses and his rigs were in Kingston, sold to a hvery-
stable man. My mother was a plucky woman, though, even
for them days. When night came on she wasn't going to
spend any money at taverns, so she just roosted m a tree
along the wayside, near the little village of Newcastle But
she was almost sorry for it, because she couldn't sleep, hardly.
—Not that she was afraid, you know, but it was a sort of a
novel situation, even for a pioneer's daughter. The "ex* ^^
she fell in with an old bear, and she said if she had had dad s
old gun along-it used to belong to a York County horse-
thief and dad kep' it in payment of his bill. Well, if she had
had this old gun along, she could have got a crack at that
bear for sure. But the old lady got kind of discouraged, and

_. Her Story and His Story.

came back in the stage-coach, with a driver that had an old

"TplaLTof 'l^ars. I used oftentimes to run away from
homf where they always kep' us working too W a.d
went after bears. The country thereabouts is f»ll f ^^s
and hollows, and used to be full of game. ^ -^ «^ ^^^^
these hunters now-a-days, that must have their guides
along • I always went alone, and had more sport too. The
oW folks never allowed me no spending money, but one day
I ki kd a splendid buck, after a terrible fight with him, and
Jd it to I professor that came along -not a music pro-
fessor, you understand, but one from a college. Well, that
st^ wL put into a museum at Washington ! It's there
now. Ind Hester and me mean to try and look it up i^ we
ever go to Washington. I know two members of the Pres-
Ment^^cabinet down there, and lots of Senator, and the
P^mier of Canada, and dozens of members of Pariiament ;

lot acquainted with ^^^Y^;^^--^^^^^^^^^^

the old St. Lawrence and Ottawa Railway.

•iuooose they would remember me now.

'"^.'y", that was a magnificent old buck ; but he nearly

killed me. and I was always sorry I didn't ask 7''". ^^^"^

sure the professor would have given me as much as twenty-

five dollars for him. j u^a

•But I didn't always have such luck. One day I had
a falling-out with mother, and cooked my own d'««^;--«f
U was f good one. too ! for I was brought up to wash dishes
anlmake myself handy about the kitchen. Ve. .^ had a
few words about something; and as I wasn t feehng rea
well and wanted to brace up for a party there was to be^^
evening I went out into the swamp with my gun. First
thing I inew. I had beat up a skunk, and if the story wasn t
s^To'ng I would give you all the particulars, for it's a funny

Her Story and His Story.

375

it had an old

n away from
x> hard, and
i full of hills
[ wasn't like

their guides
»rt, too. The
, but one day
with him, and

a music pro-
;. Well, that
i! It's there
jk it up if we
rs of the Pres-
ators, and the
af Parliament ;
tion-master on
, But I don't

but he nearly
k more, for I'm
luch as twenty-
One day I had
rn dinner — and
) to wash dishes

Yes, we had a
sn't feeling real
e was to be that

my gun. First
the story wasn't
, for it's a funny

story enough. Well, if I hadn't been a first-rate shot, I
shouldn't have got to that party that night.

"But this was in my childhood. The railways came
along and boomed things, and towns grew up all over
Why, if my father had only known it, he could have got all
the land where the little city of Belleville now lies ! And if
dad had once got it, and held onto it after his fashion of
holding on. Hester here might be a millionairess to-day,
with her diamonds and French cooks, instid of being the
one jooel of an old man of fifty-nine, with a poor fifteen

* ^^H^ster and me went down to Ottawa here this summer,
on our wedding trip. She wanted to see the Governor-
General's place, and as I knew one of the gardeners there, I
was sure we should be able to see what there was to be seen ;
so we went. He showed us all around, and pomted out the
Governor's private secretary, and we enjoyed a very pleasant
afternoon. But a nasty rain came on, and we had to take
shelter in a root-house. As I told the gardener. Ifeltathome
there, because I was brought up right out m the country.
But the man seemed mad because I didn't give him fifty
cents or a quarter-and there he was an old friend of minef
" Before we came away from Ottawa, I bought fifty pounds
of strained honey, thinking it would sell first-rate when we
got home. But honey was cheap, and it was no go. When
we saw it was getting candied, we gave most of it away.
But I often laugh at my little speculation in honey !

And Mordecai leaned back in his chair and laughed heart-
ily—but his wife had fainted away.

376

tN^ancy tAnn's Elopement.

NANCY ANN'S ELOPEMENT.

NANCY ANN BRIGGS was a rustic maiden who lived
in the north of Johnson County, Arkansas She had
been baptised Nancy Ann, and was religiously called Nancy
k1 b/her K-ts and all the neighbors P- yotujg
woman ! her education had been sadly neglected ; but she
could feed hens and turkeys, ride a pony, rattle off simple
airs on the rickety melodeon, and fashion Robinson Crusoe-
looking garments for her father and her two brothers, with
any girl in the county. She was not handsome, but even her
brothers admitted that, in spite of her reddish hair, she was
tolerably good-looking, especially when ngged out m gor-

^'X^rntlbt' father, who bore the high-sounding title of
Patriarch Briggs, had an account of some thousands in the
baX^sides'a'large and well-stocked fann. The farm wa.
to go to the boys, of course ; but Nancy Ann's dowry would
be a modest fortune for a person of her social position, and
the stalwart young gallants of the neighborhood wei^ not
slow to find this out. The most favored smtor was a spare
chuckle-headed rustic, with yellow hair and green eyes who
sported a time-worn pipe, and doted on his shaggy mustache
and on his huge. la^y. good-natured, good-for-nothing dog
Rollo. About the only inheritance this yo»"g ™;" f*^
Lived from his parents was his name -Manfred Wallace
Pilkev But this romantic name was sufficient inheritance
and it won Nancy Ann's susceptible heart. When she found

U^ancy ^Anil's Elopement.

377

siT.

ien who lived
as. She had
called Nancy

Poor young
:ted ; but she
[tie off simple
inson Crusoe-
brothers, with
, but even her

hair, she was
;d out in gor-

unding title of
msands in the
The farm was
s dowry would
1 position, and
hood were not
or was a spare,
freen eyes, who
aggy mustache
or-nothing dog,
oung man had
anfred Wallace
snt inheritance,
iA^hen she found

that Manfred was poor, she resolved to marry him, or no one ;
and Manfred seemed to be quite as much in love with her.

But Peter Briggs, Nancy Ann's elder brother, conceived a
deadly hatred for Manfred, and persuaded himself that the
fellow was a rascal, bent only on securing her money. He
tried to poison his father against the swain ; but the old man
stolidly refused to be so poisoned. Patriarch shifted his quid
from one side of his cavernous mouth to the other, a trick of
his when about to lay down the law to his boys, and made

answer :

" Peter, you jest let 'em alone. I tell you, Manfurd's a
bitlly fellow to work — ask anybody 't ever hired him. He
can haul more wood, and split more rails, and break more
colts, and haul in more hay, 'n any man I 'most ever seen.
Manfurd can always work for me, and Nancy Ann 's goin' to
marry who she likes, same 's her mother did afore her.

D' you hear?"

Then good brother Peter appealed to his mother, who
sarcastically told him that he would do better to look out
a wife for himself. But the good soul promised to remon-
strate with Nancy Ann— which she did, to no purpose. The
simple result was that Nancy Ann and Manfred Wallace
continued their courtship without molestation, while brother
Peter was not taken into their counsels.

But Peter was the more firmly persuaded of Manfred's-
unworthiness ; and he and Tom Sprague, a hand.some young
farmer, resolved to depose him. The god of love had tam-
pered with Tom's heart ; he was dreadfully enamored of

Nancy Ann.

The persecutions of this pair of schemers soon became so
intolerable that Nancy Ann and Manfred determined to
elope. Tom got wind of this, and hurried to report to
Peter, who declared that by taking prompt and vigorous

378 l^ancy ^nn's Elopement.

measures they might disconcert this ^'^^^'^;^J^^^X'^
begoneness excited his liveliest compassion, and presently a
brilliant idea flashed through his mmd

" Tell you what it is, Tom, he sam, wc
'em ! You'll help me, a course ?"

• < • Course I will ! ' ' returned Tom, rolling his eyes wildly.
' ' What's the game, Pete ? " , . ^

^You know I s'pose, that that there Pilkey 's a big torn-

fool of a coward ? " • ^ , ^m

" Well Pete, I reckon I know he is," Tom said heartily.
" Well' you and me's kindy funny fellows ; s'pose we play
a trick on the rascal. We must do something to git even
w th him, anyhow. D' you ever hear tell of ^f-^^^^
Tom that swoop down onto lonely travellers, and make em
fork over all their money and vallybles? S'pose ;t we fix
up for highwaymen, and stop 'em as they re gom off? It
would sefve 'em right, I reckon, for puttin on style, and
tryin' to run off in paw's old coach, eh, Tom ?

Tom darted Peter a look of rapturous delight. Just the
thine old boy ; but how'll you work it ? "

Umme a'bne for that ! I'll fix up ^r the highwayma^
and swoop down onto 'em, and scare that great noodle into
spasms Jest's he's so scart he's 'most dead, you come run-
r"Lg to the rescue, like, and frighten me off. and rescue
Nancy Ann. I'll have my own clothes on under the high-
wayman^s. and I wun't run far 'fore I'll throw the highway-
man's toggery off and come back to help you. atid so s to
make thfngs^ook all right. Then we'll take Nancy Ann
r^L back to the house ; then, if Manfurd ever dares show
h7s Le again, after makin' such a n'idjut of himself, I reckon
te-ll bundle him out s'm' other way. Then Nancy Ann U
marry you. sure ; women always do marry the fellow t res-
cues 'em."

U^ancy Pirn's Elopement.

379

)m's woe-
iresently a

hoodwink

yes wildly.

a big tom-

l heartily,
ose we play
:o git even
gh way men,
1 make 'em
e 't we fix
in' off? It
1 style, and

"Just the

ighwayman,
noodle into
»u come run-
Bf, and rescue
er the high-
;he highway-
, and so 's to
Nancy Ann
;r dares show
iself, I reckon
^aocy Ann' 11
fellow 't res-

" Jest so ; but what 'bout the driver, Pete? They'll have
a driver, of course ; what if he turns to, and fights ? "

" My stars, Tom ! that wun't do ! They'll have our Bill
to drive 'em sure, might recognize me 'f t'others didn't.
Tom I'll tell you ! We'll git my brother Jim to step into
Bill's place. Jim's jest the chap for it ; Jim's a mighty
lively boy ; always up to some game."

"Well, will Jim pitch in and fight the highwayman, or
what'Uhedo?"

"I'll have Jim git fearful scart, and unhitch the horses,
and beg for mercy, and gallop off for home, leavin' the
spooneys in the coach at the mercy of the highwayman.
Then I'll scare Manfurd 'most to death. Wun't he just
howl ! Then you'll come rushin' along, and I'll make oflf

in ajiffy." „

"And so everybody '11 git scart, all around ! " said Tom

jocosely.

" Jes' so. Now, let's be off."

Manfred Wallace Pilkey and Nancy Ann Briggs made
every preparation to elope that very evening. They planned
to slip away secretly, drive to the village of ClarksviUe, and
be married. Once legally joined together, they could defy
the petty persecutions of brother Peter and Tom Sprague.

Bill, the darkey, the family Jack-of-all-trades, was to be
their Jehu. But when the eventful hour came, he "took
mighty sick" (the effect of a nauseous dose slipped into his
drink by Peter) ; and Jim, who thrust himself in the way
of the disconsolate lovers, was asked, in sheer desperation,
if he should like a drive. Jim, a mercurial and monkeyish
hobbledehoy, had been instructed beforehand, and he guessed
he was always ready for a drive.

So the three stole out of the house, the dog Rollo at their
heels. It was a beautiful stariight night ; just such a night

U\^ancy tAiin's Elopement.

.380

as a young couple might choose for an elopement. Manfred

and C speed'ly harnessed a shuffling old nag to the

coach ' ^ family heir-loom, which had been rudely

fa honed by Patriarch Briggs' father, half a centur>. ^fore.

"Got everythink you want. Nancy Ann, my dear?
Manfred asked tenderly. , ...

.' Yaas. Manfred. What a long and lonesome road tt 1
be to the parson's. But then I' mall right with youtopurtect

"''• Yaas, Nancy Ann ; I'd fight for you through fire and
water," said Manfred earnestly, blinking his be^vy eyes^
" "Bet you wun't, you blatherin' ^J'' f^'^f ^^^
.. Bet you'll howl like a tom-cat with his tail froze off ! And
rSgallop off a piece on paw's ol' bob-tail, and then sneak
back and see the show ! Ge dup. there, you o ool !
G' -long I tell you !" and Jim. perched on the roof of the
Ly vehLl:. smacked his father's home-made whip, and

Tw rtd from the Briggs homestead to the main
road which ran to the village. From the lane, near this
rfn road, a by-road, thatwentno whither in partjcul^^^^^^^^^^^

was of no apparent use to the Bnggses or to the county.
TookUs start Jim did not drive on to the mam road lead-
Tg to Clarksville, but. according to instructions received
from his brother Peter, turned down this by-road. He went
Z^ along, keeping up his spmts by whisthng. buUymg
the nag, and calling out cheerily to Manfred s dog.

The lovers in the ''coach" supposed, of course, that they

were traveling along the di«ct road to the village, and phi-

landered. as lovers will. , , , ,. ,»

'Halt ' " yelled a sepulchral voice. " Stand and deliver !

A figure clothed in typical bandit attire sprang from be-

U^aiicy tAiin's Elopement.

381

Manfred
lag to the
«en rudely
tur>' before,
my dear? "

le road it'll
)u to purtect

igh fire and
ivy eyes,
uckled Jim.
ze off ! And
I then sneak
'ou ol' fool !
e roof of the
le whip, and

I to the main
ne, near this
articular, and
} the county,
tin road lead-
tions received
)ad. He went
tling. bullying
dog.

irse, that they
lage, and phi-
land deliver ! "
jrang from be-

hind a rail fence that skirted the road, strode towards them,
and seized the horse by the bridle.

Jim bellowed a shriek that he had reserved for tins occa-
sion ; but it savored strongly of a war-whoop of delight.
"What's the matter?" he thundered, as though he were
the highwayman.

" Oh, Manfred ! what is that ? " gasped Nancy Ann.

"I dunno— o— o," faltered Manfred, his pallor unper-
ceived in the obscurity pervading the "coach," but his
mortal fright betraying itself in his voice.

Peter and Tom had not misjudged Manfred ; he was an

arrant coward.

Then the hideous figure in bandit costume presented a
pistol and threatened to shoot the driver. But it whispered :
" 'Member what I told you, you jack ."

" It's robbers ! " screamed Jim. " We've took the wrong
road, and robbers is all around us ! Manfurd ! Help me ! "

Then Manfred plucked up a grain of courage, thrust his
head out at the window, and shrieked, " Drive on ! We'll
be killed 'f you don't ! "

" I can' t ! " Jim shouted back. " He' s caught the horse,

and he's going to shoot ! "

" Manfred, set on RoUo ! " said Nancy Ann.

Manfred hastened to act on the suggestion. "Sic 'em,
RoUo ! Sic 'em, the villains ! " he called huskily.

RoUo, thinking there must be a squirrel somewhere about
that he was called upon to chase, ran snufiling and yelping
up and down the road.

" Sic 'em, RoUo ! " pleadingly.

But RoUo could not be induced to attack masquerading
Peter whose disguise he had at once penetrated, and he
frisked about that worthy as though he had found a fnend
indeed.

382

V^ancy tAnn's Elopement.

•stand and deliver!" thundered the highwayman.

.. Oh ManW, th' dogs fascinated !" Nancy Ann ejacu-
lated faintly. "Robber's bewitched him!

" Drive on ! " gasped Manfred.

" Want yer dog shot?" yelled the highwayman.

But Jim now scrambled down off the ■•coach," unh. -

\ Z, nae and galloped away, making a tremendous

^l^r * that M."«d and Nancy Ann should know, beyond

:« lubtrt he had deserted them, and that they were at

*T:eTough^roS^,'wrfine effect, hallooed an exe..-
tiol^fter the fteeing driver, then Bung open the d«,r o the

"?to s«^^!:S' form of words was all, he believed, that
the highwaymirever addresses to the unfortunates whom he

"'^Oh!" groaned Manfred, "let us go! We ain't got

~*Sar !" screamed theoutlaw. "Stand and deliver, or

•'1 hain't a cent," protested Manfred.

The loyal brother cocked his pistol threa emngly.

^/LLv. But," brightening. ".A.has." indicating Nancy

""""Highwaymen don't take nothin' from ladies.'- saW
the- roLr, with lofty scorn. "But who is she? your

'^'''sle's goin' to be my wife ; we was goin' to git mar-

"^'^ Coward'" was the answer. "Coward! Ask your
Cowara . w* ooward do you know what

sweetheart to ransom you! Coward, ao you
highwaymen do with such fellows as you be ?

Ann ejacu-

an.

ch," unhar-

tremendous

now, beyond

;hey were at

id an execra-
; door of the
ly disguised :

aelieved, that
ates whom he

We ain't got

nd deliver, or

ingly.
iicating Nancy

ladies," said
is she? your

n' to git mar-

1 ! Ask your
ou know what
3e?"

U^ancy t/ltm's Elopement.

383

Then Nancy Ann swooned away. An ordinary young
lady would have swooned away at the outset ; but Nancy
Ann was not an ordinary young lady.

" You've got a watch ; I know you have ; STAN DAN
DELIVER ! " bellowed the highwayman, at 9 loss to know
how "chivalrous" brigands would deal with that sort of

coward. . ,, •»» e a

" 'Tain't paid for yit, or you c'd have t, Manfred

"Pretty fellow, f sport a watch 't ain't paid for!"
snorted the highwayman. ^, e a a-a

At that moment Nancy Ann revived, but Manfid did
not perceive it, and goaded to desperation, he blurted
out that the watch would be paid for as soon as he got

married. .

At this candid statement the highwayman expressed m-
tense scorn. " Stand an' deliver, or I fire ! " he roared.

Unobserved, Jim now stole up in front of the "coach,
nnd listened with all his ears. He had dropped off the
horse when well out of sight, and turned it loose, knowing it
would immediately pick its way back to the stables at

home. • J t>

" I— I'll give you a hundred dollars soon 's I git married,

said Manfred. ., , ^t.

Springing lightly into the "coach," Peter despoiled the
trembling coward of his watch, and tucked it away in his
own pocket. Poor Manfred fetched a groan of anguish, but
offered no resistance.

A war-whoop was heard in the rear, and a sohtary figure
was descried, hurrying towards them at a round pace. It
was Tom Sprague, on his way to the "rescue."

The highwayman started, clutched his pistol, and then

8^ ff^amy trim's F-hpeitwit .

«ai.l faintly (ana «npro«.naUy) : •' My stars ! 'taint

'"^L instantly becan.e as bold as a /^^ro c^ -»--

L M^;.. I " lip i«t«reamecl. I am l airaiu
" ait out vou Kreat vulam ! ne hcre.iuicu.

of yl - ncverta, ! Her., ,ic •em. Rollo ! -Whoop, ...ere !
Onnip 'lone ! " to the rescuer.
Tl^ p^fended highwayman flung Manfred hi, m.pa.d-for

„aS:.'.ving,-Tain.,.nn^^^

rhrwa» brav" -n Manfurd , only fainted; but vomen a ■
Z^io Ln,. Wha. bnUy fnn, anyhow ! G»-' -';-
™,,,v brothers 'd do 's much for their sisters ; and I guess
p::C maw •" ^ive in . was right. Guess . know who •,
fit for Nancy Ann to marry.' . ,. • a

H^h.g behind a tree, Peter stripped off his d.sgms-. and
making a detour, came up in his proper person, almost on

the heels of Tom Sprague. ., , „ ^nm asked with

. ' Why . Nancy Ann, what's the matter ? Tom asked, witn

""^OneTr!-' cried Nancy Ann. •• Robbers was all around

"'■''Why. Nancy Ann," piped up Brother Peter, inhisnatural

voice- "why are j^« here? What has happened?

' . Robbrrs attackted us, and on'y just left us." explained

^'"StTom ! you drove 'em off! How good you are !"

"^'urcaure"we scart 'em off. I guess." Maufred said

'"l^And so Tom rescued you!" said Peter. "Well. I

(f^amy tAmi's Elopment.

385

irs ! 'taint

of romance.

ain't afraid

lioop, there !

9 unpalcl-for
this brave
3 his heels,
! Coward's
ite him like
ate cowards,
t wonien al-
ss there ain't
and I guess
know who 's

lisguises, and
in, almost on

m asked, with

was all around

, in his natural

ned?"

IS," explained

lod you are !"

Manfred said

er. "Well, I

always knowt'd Tom waRnt afraid of nothing; bout the
bravest fellow I mu^t ever seei. ; no wonder the robber d
slink away wli n he seeti Tom comin' runnin'.— Well, Man-
furd, what 'd you do to scare ell) ?" „ », , ^

" I — I got 'em off just afore Tom come along, Manfred

* '^Well Nancy Ann, folks at home '11 be fearful .scart, you
•way off here at this time of night. You better go right
home, or you'll ketch cold.- Come on, Manfurd ; you and
me'U haul home paw's old hen-house; 'twouldn't do to
leave it behind for th' robber.- Nancy Ann, come, dear ; you
and Tom can walk home jest in front; ' tain' t .so very far.
Manfurd and me 's goin' to haul th' old wheehckull.

And Nancy Ann and Tom walked on in advance, Tom
feeling that he had won the way to her heart at last.

"Nancy Ann," hesajd, "soon 's lean I'moff f th' Black
Hills, to -to make my fortune. Then I'm comin' back,
rich as the Goulds. Then, Nan-n-cy — Ann-n . ' '

But here the heroic Tom, the gallant rescuer, broke down,
and could not articulate further.

Peter full of jubilance, and Manfred, his bosom glowing
with rage and bitterness, tugged away at the venerable

"coach." . ,

Apparently, Rollo did not like to see his master thus de-
graded, and he barked peevishly.

"Git out, sir-r," said Manfred snappishly, making a boot-
less attempt to kick the devoted creature.

As the party neared the home of Patriarch Briggs, agaunt
and shadowy figure, trussed up in the identical gaments in
which Peter had arrayed himself when he played the high-
wayman, darted across the roadway ahead of them, appar-
ently dodging to keep out of sight.

gg ^ancy ^nn's Elopement.

It was Jim, of course, masquerading for his own amuse-
ment in the costume which his big brother had discarded.

Rescued and rescuers saw him. and with an mvoluntary
imprecation Peter betrayed himself. ^ , ,• if

^Good-for-nothin- noodle!" he muttered to himself.
" Might -a- knowed better 'n to let him help us ! "

« Stop ' " shouted Manfred, quitting his hold on the shafts
of the "coach" and bounding after the boy. "Stop, will

you, or I'll heave a stone ! " . „ . ,, r ^

Tim did not stop, but redoubled his speed. But Manfred

soon overhauled him, wound his arms around him, and bore

him struggling back to the others.

" Same rig 's th' robber had ! " Manfred panted. What-

''^nL-though fast in the clutches of Manfred, though fear-
ing terrible retribution from his brother and Tom Sprague-

burst into a derisive laugh. r , ^ , t^v,"

" Nancy Ann." said Manfred, " we've been fooled Th
robber was some of these fellers, sure 's guns '.-What d
you mean ? ' ' shaking Jim. ' ' What' ve you t ' say for your-

self? "

' ' S'pose I wanted them clothes to git lost ? " Jim demanded
indignantly. "S'pose I wanted to lose that there tnask? "

"So; jes' 's I thought!" groaned Manfred. " Pack o

knaves ! " . ,,, ^a

" Yes ; and a nice coward j^ou was, wasn t you ! sneered

Peter

"So, you're a thief, are you, Pele Briggs?-Or was it

you, Tom Sprague ? "

"I never stole nothin' ! " protested Peter. "I give back

your watch."

" Oh, Nancy Ann ! "

"Oh, Manfred! Manfred!"

lis own amuse-
d discarded,
in involuntary

d to himself.

us!"

lid on the shafts

. "Stop, will

But Manfred
i him, and bore

ited. "What—

ed, though fear-
Tom Sprague—

:n fooled ! Th'

uns! — Whatd'

t ' say for your-

" Jim demanded
It there mask?"
ifred. "Packo'

t you ! ' ' sneered

gs? — Or was it

■. "I give back

O^aticy tAnn's Elopement.

387

" Sister," said Peter earnestly, " don't go and fall in love
with such a coward again. Oh, Nancy Ann, here's Tom,

that loves—"

"Tom? I hate him — and you, too!" flashed back

Nancy Ann.

Tom Sprague sold his farm, and took to braking on the
Missouri Pacific — for Nancy Ann married Manfred Wallace.
The good brother Peter did not grace the wedding with his
presence, perhaps because he was not invited ; but Jim got a
goodly hunk of wedding cake— which he did not deserve.

388

/In Early Snow-Storm.

AN EARLY SNOW-STORM.

IT is good to hear robins in spring-time,

E'en we long for the hoarse frogs to croak ;

How we love to go seek the first flowerets,
Once we know that the earth has awoke !

But of all the delights that I cherish.

One comes just as the autumn must perish,
One for which I have always a welcome —
The first mad little snow-storm of winter.

How we love to behold the May-blossoms,
As they scatter adown on the lawn ;

Could we rise, what a tonic supernal

To be out in the faint light of dawn ?

It is sweet to pluck roses in summer,

But I hail with delight the first comer
Of the early snow-falls in that season
When the sunshine is short and so fickle.

'Tis a treat in the hot days of August
To be lulled by the wild ocean's roar;

It is fun to go nutting in autumn.

When the picnicking season is o'er ;

But the first little snow-storm quite daxes,

With its bluster and splenetic phases.
In the chill, early days of December,
Ere we think that the autumn is ended.

It is grand iu mid-winter, when skating
In the flood of the full moon above ;

But a pleasure that surely outweighs this
Is a drive with the one whom I love.

So I'm happy to-day while it's snowing,

And a keen wind is icily Mowing,

For I know if the snow-fall prove lasting,
Ned will give me a sleigh-ride to-morrow.

Little Maud's Wedding Day.

389

roak;

ke!

»e —
ter.

ckle.

LITTLE MAUD'S WEDDING-DAY.

A UTTLB verae is then all that you crave,

Fair maiden, when you well know that a score

Of cavaliers would gladly give you more,

Or for your sake would fearsome dangers brave,

For, sooth, I know how fervently they rave

Your sweetness o'er, your goodness, and your power
As a sweet singer ; and these touch the core
Of honest hearts, be maii or gay or grave.

Ah ! how would these fond swains invoke the Muse,
Did you. their goddess, deign them but a band
Of ribbon, or a lock of hair, to lose

Which you'd ne'er miss, they'll cry, with flatt'ry bland;
But which your noble womanhood will choose
To keep for him who's won your heart and hand.

led.

uting,
orrow.

390

Not According to the Guide-Books.

NOT ACCORDING TO THE GUIDE-BOOKS.

THE guide-books have it all their own way. But here
is a letter that apparently goes out of its way to
volunteer information about a beautiful summer resort, that
any self-respecting guide-book or newspaper (Particularly a
Philadelphia paper) would promptly suppress. To be sure,
the letter doesn't say or insinuate much, as the writers were
perhaps afraid they might get into print. It runs m thts
way: —

.'My dear old chum -.-Well, here we are at home
again, after our summering in Atlantic City. We are veiy
glad to have a room again large enough to put a trunk in,
L it is unpleasant to have to go out into the hallway eve^r
time a fellow wishes to get mto that useful receptade^
Dick's room was of these cramped proportions, but Tom s
and mine were so generously ample as to admit a treacherous
rocker in one and a writing table in the other, which we
never dared to use, lest we should have to pay for them
We miss the bracing sea-breeze, and feel drowsy and inert
but Tom says he is sure he could not take an afternoon nap
now if his life depended on it. as he should so crave the
^iLe of the h^f-hourly roar and rattle of the coming
and going excursion-trains -so -f ^^^^^ ^^J^nfy
Atlantic City. We are unanimously agreed that the only
pleint featLs there are the beach and the Boardwa^ -
everything else is more or less repellent. Pleasures come

Not According to the Guide-Boohs.

391

»E-BOOKS.

ay. But here
of its way to
ler resort, that
(particularly a
5. To be sure,
he writers were
It runs in this

e are at home
. We are very
put a trunk in,
; hallway every
eful receptacle,
ions, but Tom's
lit a treacherous
jther, which we
) pay for them,
owsy and inert;
in afternoon nap
aid so crave the
e of the coming
feature of life at
sd that the only
he Boardwalk —
Pleasures come

high, but a glass of ice-water and other vital necessities can
be had from a penny upwards. They can not be had gratis.
To be sure, you arc not charged for sitting down on the
sand under the Boardwalk, nor yet for your mosquito bites ;
but there are sharks there who would very much like to
charge you for a view of the ocean and a sniff of the breeze.
Coming out on the Boardwalk from say Pennsylvania-
avenue, the old-fashioned idea of Paradi** might suggest
itself to you ; but when you saunter on till the hideous
strains of the merry-go-rounds assail your ears, the orthodox
idea of Purgatory will be more likely to suggest itself. And
yet these latter are ridiculously popular, and like the way
that is broad and filled with many people, many are the

people therein.

"We sadly miss, this afternoon, the breezy affabihty 01
the five and ten cent fakirs, the Araerican-flag-desecrating
horrore of the bath-house owners along the Boardwalk, the
discourtesy of the indigenous police force stationed there,
the unobtrusive bathers in their damp flannels, and the
gigantic proportions of most of our landladies. Likewise,
we greatly miss the sudorific effects of our landlady's tea^f
which she always brewed as uniform a cup as we ever sipped,
and the indomitable biscuit that smiled upon us from the
supper-table, when we would come home hot and dusty after
a crabbing expedition up the Thoroughfare.

" We patronized two or three different boarding-houses,
but stayed last aiid longest with a Mrs. Clam-chowder. She
was deplorably ignorant of everything except natural his-
tory. She could not very well be ignorant of the habits of
spiders, cats, dogs, chickens, mice, and Jersey mosquitoes—
for her house was alive with them. We took advantage of
her ignorance (which we should have pitied and respected)
to pay some very dubious compliments to her pets. For

393 J^ot According to the Guide-Books.

instance, we told her (Tom did) that there never was a dog
that had the insidious sycophancy about him that her Major
has, and then deprecated it by adding that he ^l^^y^^***"*^^^^
it in ' Maje ' as his most redeeming foible. Then Dick told
her that although he had seen motherly cats before, he never
saw one that could stretch itself in that graceful laissez-
S^ Ttitude that her poor old Alf affected so naturally,
Xn he felt in a somnolent humor, and that there was a
leilduous peculiarity in her cat's fur. that was stnkmgly
apparent w^n one stroked him. and which no other ca

c^uldhope to attain, even with -«-. J^'^^" ^^^rs Clam
that they had had chickens at home. ' but really. Mrs. Clam-
chowder.' he said, 'they hadn't that indecorous voracity
and impassive stolidity, and pusillanimous insouciance that
yours always s^ow,' adding that he could forgive them for
Ch'ring us all so much, when he thought of their many
^calcitrant characteristics. These were all choice comph-
ments to her. and always brought forth some tid-bit m the

way of fruit or pastry. • ^ „ «f

.^ Our landlady had a servant who looked the picture of

a contented, prosperous waiter. He was a fif-«"f «-"f
in his way. for he said he could, on a sallery o^ ^»7-50 per
month, lay up $200 a year, buy a twenty-Bve cent nove^
every Friday night, indulge in a new corn-cob pipe evenr
six weeks, subscribe for the DaUy Bombast and any sub-
scription book that has ferocious enough P^<=t;««^J^*' ^"^
him^lf in watch-keys and hair-oil. and send a Christmas

card to all his friends twice a year.

" Fraternally yours.

"Tom, Dick. & Harrv."

To Death.

393

ver was a dog
bat her Major
ways admired
lien Dick told
fore, he never
aceful laissez-

so naturally,
at there was a
was strikingly

no other cat
Tom told her
lly, Mrs. Clam-
rous voracity,
isouciance that
)rgive them for
t of their many
choice compli-
e tid-bitinthe

i the picture of
financial genius

j' of $17.50 per
five cent novel
-cob pipe every
t and any sub-
ctures in it, find
nda Christmas

TO DEATH.

The sun half dim, the river, ah, so calm,

No birds, no sound, a sad November hush.
With scarce a leaf to stir on tree or bush ;
The air, the clouds, the lull, a perfect psalm.

No pain, nor ling'ring hope, nor passing qualm ;
Par, far away from the unholy crush
Of crowded streets, far from the shrill, mad rush
And roar of trains, this quiet is a balm

That tempts, not soothes. I know, oh Death, no fear ;
I^ife hath no charm for me in such a place.
Oh, welcome Death ! how sweet to have thee near,

With face so peaceful, chaste, and kind ! Life's race
Now done, how restful seem these depths ; so here
I gladly throw myself in thy embrace.

, & Harry.

The Old Hand-Sled.

THE OIvD HAND-SLED.

T 91T bv my window to-day,

And watch how the snow silent falls;
AS dreaming, my thoughts drift away

To scenes that one fondly recalls,
To boyhood's glad time, in years fled
And romps with my old-fash.oned sled.

Our cottage, for ninety long days.

Lav buried— or almost — m snow;

Ite coming filled young hearts with P""««.
That grieved when the spring saw it go-

For what othir sport can compare

With sledding down hills, through keen air?

My chums my good sled often sought

"^ PTwould carry four lads-at -J«««=»>.)
Though home we might bleeding be brought.

From no hills an.und would we flinch.
My sled was scarce handled with care,
But father had built it for wear !

Tit* countrv school-house on the hill

^ Wrlncircled with sleds, brought by boys ;

The teacher, herself, with a will.

Encouraged and ne'er checked our noise
At noon-time; and one day was known
To venture down hill, all alone !

Is;

raise,

it go-
to air?

The Old Hand-Sled.

She met with a mishap, of course ;

Was thrown in a snow-bank full soon.
We cheered, till our throats were all hoarse,

Her pluck — and we had a long noon !
Then sometimes we hitched on behind
A cutter, whose driver was kind.

My sled was so strong and so swift,

And oh ! what a lark it was thought

To steer for some tow'ring big drift
And bury the load that it brought

Of boys — or, it may be, of girls,

Who scream, as the snow 'round them whirls!

Our chivalry then kiiew a code

More easily learnt than to-day's ;

We seldom would draw up a load,

But cheerfully loaned girls our sleighs —

Yet never a warning would speak

Of bumps, or of ice that was weak !

There's winter to-day in my heart,
A!id snow in the pathway I tread;

But mayhap to-night I shall start.

In dreams, down those hills on my sled.

If so, I shall wake on the morn

With hope and with courage new-bom.

395

inch.)

brought,

liuch.

t by boys ;

>ur noise
wn

'^^"^^^^

396

So Have I Loved You !

SO HAVE I LOVED YOU !

ALONB in mWty, with grief half •obbii.g.
oXB^d with fancies my hot br.in mobbrng.

si have 1 loved you; w leave you!

December dullness is now encroaching.
While Death-s fell angel is fast approachmg;
Mv life and autumn's are but as poaclinig
O. ^o«;^ -here Winter and Death are coachmg-
So must I leave you. yet love you!

I send no tidings. I'd not awake..
Forgotten moments, nor have you ^h»^«"
Witt vain remor«. for the course youWetaken^
Be mine the pangs that bnt Death can slaken
So have I loved you, and love you!

By sorrow shadowed, from joy long parted.
I die still hoping, yet broken-hearted;
I oo in silence, alone, uncharted,
A.id lose the lil^> t^at for you -" ""J**-
You, whom T worshipped and lived for!

Could vou but send me a slight love-to^en
?r^r?rom mem'ry your last -'ds jkeu ;
t i-^_a message; your silence broken
i^STet Z:Zv in rny grave-house oaken-
How can I sleep, you still ..lent?

I think, or dream it. there will come healing
A. I lie dying. When light is steahng.
^ Shadow's creeping, I'll aee vou kneeling.
Tn laat atonement my pale lip« -eal-R-
May I but know it, and pardon !

A Little Rosebud Mouth.

397

:hing —

II —

A LITTLE ROSEBUD MOUTH.

A I.ITTI.R ronebud mouth ha» May,
A lightsome face, a flashing eye ;

Soft, nut-brown curU, that love to play
With every wind that paaaeth by.

A rippling laugh has she, a tongue

That stern commands to me conveys; —

Its praise were better left unsung.

Since my fond hopes it ruthless slays.

She loves me, but will not confess ;

And ah ! how am I made to quail
When I her rosebud mouth would press —

Her saucy tongue begins to rail.

I love her so, this elfin miss ;

Her little mouth perhaps the best ;
Yet must I steal when I would kiss.

Must come as robber, not as gu<^8t.

en;
en —

Ah, me ! those kisses are so sweet
I can forgive her pouting lips,

I can forgive the words that greet

Success, although they sting like whips.

A little rosebud mouth has May ;

A saucy tongue to keep it guard.
But she shall yet my love repay ; —

May naught that happy hour retard I

398

The Gipsy Supper.

THE GIPSY SUPPER.

ONR fine day, In the goldeti October,

When the equitiox fierce hml blown o er,

All the scholar, with basket* assembled,
To the numl)er at least of two score.

For the feast that was given twice-yearly,

flu areen May and ere autumn severely

^ Touched U,e leaves, yet had ripened the beech-.mts)
And most aptly was called gipsy »npper.

'Twas a wonderful place for a picnic,

A wild grove by the forks of the creek.

Which thenceforward was known as a nver-
One which campers or gipsies mtght seek.

•Twas a spot where the maddest carousals

Of high feasting and games had espousals,

When the squirrels and such folk had garnered
All the nuts that were left by the schoolboys.

There were swings for the girls, but their brothers
Took more kindly to tending the fire,

Which scorched eye-brows and trousers while brewmg
Cans of tea — that no one could admire.

But how happy the boy who, in fishing.

Hooked an eel, which with yell he sent sw.shing
Through the air, to stampede some old lady.
Who from May-day till frost looked for serpents !

But a fire always proved very haudy

To dry off some amphibious boy.
Who, unless he was soused in the river

And then steamed, could no picnic enjoy.

The Gipsy Supper.

39^

eech-iiul»)

rnered

boys.

ttbers
: brewing

tiling
lady,
serpents !

If Koofl fishes were cnuKht they were roaste'1,
So that vian<l8 of all kinds were boasted —
Hut no famished young village reporter
Was on hand, to enlarge in his Weekly.

Rustic games that are known in the country,

With their innocent frolic and mirth.
Were enjoyed, till there came a loud clamor

That all present should judge of the worth
Of the marvelous dainties, appealing
To the hungry, that they should be kneeling

On the grass 'round the white table covers.

Ere the ants and the spiders forestalled them.

•Twas the cookery that ruled in the 'fifties,

When our grandmothers learned how to bake ;

But the delicate foods that were offered.
Or in pastry, confections, or cake.

Would have tickled an appetite jaded

By the wares now on picnickers traded.

By the sandwiches served at our "socials,"
Or the restaurant products of henneries.

There were sliced meats, so juicy and tender,
Roasted pears, to be eaten with cream ;

But no clams, lemonade, or bananas,

Or cheap oysters — that haunt like a dream.

All could praise, without seeming officious,

Mrs. Strawberry's short-cake delicious,

Apple Urts, that straight called up her orchard,
And peach pies, that would stain any shirt-front.

Then the smartest boy made an oration.

While some urchin or miss spoke a "piece,"

And the picnicking season was over

Till Thanksgiving Day brought the snow's fleece.

No regrets with our pleasure were blended

As at sunset our way home we wended ;

But we laughed at some boy's buttered coat-sleeves
And the crUmbs in the teacher's scant whiskers.

40O

The ^Abandoned Graveyard.

THE ABANDONED GRAVEYARD.

Far ill the country's peaceful heart,

Remote from hamlet or steam road,
Where never town will take its start.

Or aught save quiet find abode.
There is a spot, so lone, so calm,

Forsaken now. yet loved, not feared.
As Nature's sweet and sacred psalm,

That should be treasured and revered.

This burying-ground neglected lies,

Save by some faithful ones, drawn there
To visit graves that family ties

Endear. Chance visitors are rare.
And burials few. Ite quiet now

Is undisturbed, and will be so —
Unless some ruthless, Vandal plow

Shall come -until the last trump blow.

It crowns a gently sloping hill,

From which is seen the distant lake-
Too distant for the whistle shrill

Of passing steamer to awake
A faint, far echo; sleep profound

Is here, with none to speak a word
Or break the restful c»lm; no sound,

Except from some far-calling bird.

The tAbandotted Graveyard.

Yet, in the spring-time, cheerfully

The husbandman will sometimes sing
Old, tuneful hymns, as fearfully

He thinks upon the Ules that cling
To all lone graveyards; and he guides

The plow-share 'round the tott'ring fence
Full steadily, as if there hides

A spirit that would drive him thence.

And in the spring-time robins nest

In tall fir-trees, that all the year
Dense, slumb'rous shadows throw, and rest

In peace above the graves, and rear
Their fledglings, singing blithe the while.

So that, at this glad time, the thrill
Of life is known, without its guile ;

But all is else so still — so still.

401

Each pleasant eve slow cometh one.

With snowy beard and kingly mien.
To watch the disappearing sun

Gild all the skies, till dim are seen
The head-stones in the dusk's wan light.

Here slumber those who knew his love,
And whom he longs, when earthly night

Is past, to join in realms above.

Here would I rest, when life is done,

No costly stone to mark my grave.
Which would neglected lie, for none

Would mourn me there ; as 'neatb the wave
I'd sleep— as peacefully and well;

Here, with my kindred, who were known
But to their neighbors, who yet tell

Their kindly deeds, in years long flown.

A Trip to Washington.

A TRIP TO WASHINGTON.

(NOT A HONEYMOOK TRIP.)

dock i» romtag him ap at an "■■=«r°tl^Le the boat

""rf?*i;U .t.r« .harp a. «ven," b. said, half-apologrti.

cally, •■ and it is six "»;<'■'' i„„^ ,„ eat my

But he magnanimously allowed me ttn nu

-«- •-- r *L^:^^^U S. td ZZ the dog

immin«.t risk of running foul »' *e d^ .^^W not pause
„„ apparently used to *at «>" f ^^"«;Xw fifteen min-
ten minutes on that account. I always a.iow

uTes o«r-time." he said after - •jf* j^,,"* „iSTe
somebody is bound for to bender me. 1 said

j4 Trip to Washington.

403

jouniey, and,
r his baggage

the mercy of

for it. The
a note of his

cotton string
ting dreams to

as an alarm-
)ur.

jefore the boat
a train, that I
)h is in so far

half-apologeti-

lutes to eat my
ip. It was his
roused the dog
window, at the
itcher. But he
id did not pause
How fifteen min-
,t off, "because
aid I wished he

had told me sooner about allowing a fifteen minutes' leprieve,
as I should have felt justified in asking for something more
substantial for breakfast than a raw omelet and some cold
oatmeal.

As we drove along the wharf (for I accompanied him) he
uttered an emphatic exclamation of disgust on seeing a
brother expressman drawn up alongside the steamer, ahead
of him. So, it was evidently his ambition to get down lo
the boats ahead of all comers. I could have approved of
this sort of thing much better if I had had a more staying
breakfast.

But at last I was on board, bag and baggage. This con-
sisted of a square-sized trunk (capacity 250 cwt., tare 40
lbs.), that had always proved a favorite with expres.smen
and railway porters, as it was portable, easy to get a good
grip on, and, on account of its square shape, would, admit of
other trunks being flung on top of it without danger of their
rolling oflF. Besides this I had a " small wheel-chair," as I
called it, and an invalid tricycle. The si7.e of the "small
wheel-chair" always assumed large proportions to the as-
tonished porter, when he nonchalantly took it with one hand,
only to brace himself and grasp hold with both hands ; while
the tricycle was 42 inches wide, six feet long, and stood four
feet high in its stocking feet. As the classical young man
fix)m Smith Crik Bridge observed to me, I had a " not incon-
siderable quantity of impedimenta" to look after; and I
was mean enough to envy the old lady who was only bur-
dened with an occupied parrot-cage, a pet dog in a blanket
suit, six or seven venturesome nephews and nieces (mostly
boys and tomboys), scattered about the upper and lower
decks, and a valise, that was not burglar-proof, amidships.

A whole-souled passenger, who seemed to have no baggage
whatever to bother about, except a generous load of stimu-

A Trip to Washington.

404

?SLtnr;l'iif party would ,«ep 0.e c»un»y

is, .ho had come over on » ^^'^ t^''^°:::S.teg.

only a night's stoiw.»et at Toronto. He n

and was badly in need of oemg ^ f^J^ *7<^,„, „Mch

ireS,^^r-rx-f?---t.^j
rrj:o.r^.rx-re:^f^^^^^

c^„l .0 keep within U.e truth in my ^-^^^ ^Z
were interrupted by a feh ^'^^ "^' "^^^^ re wan-
whom I had forgotten ; and I am sony to say t
dered straight aw^ftom the b«^t.Mtm*^^^ ^^

he said. But he «'°«°^>'^^',,^' ^' Zl^ oMinary card-

was »"!4««J.^.'7f;^f.:^e«omotting paper. con.id«^
case. To be brief, it iiras a '"«" . ^,^ ^j, ^me

abiy -aller than a .«i fi^m. '^^^''J^Z^ ,i, .eie-
in two-mch capitals, his House an ,... jnggs. He

phone number, and a pointed inumat^o^^^^^^

Ld schoolchildren often ^^^^^.^f J^^^'^'^^Uy know a
that children and the "-f^^^f ^^^^^Tout whati
good thing when they see it. H^^^^^J ^ • j ^^ that
meant, but as he turned to go ''^^V'^tlli^l crzmta^
his left breast pocket hung heavy, and that it was era
full of his schoolchildren-allunng cards.

A Trip to Washington.

405

y interest in
ics, claiming
ark of mine,
the course of
artlessly told
ation ; and he
nade, and in-
p the country

adelphia tour-
fa allowed him
seen nothing,
re was a blank,
roronto, which
d he posted his
It I was likely
iderings, I was
lation. But we
5 knew me, but
ly that he wan-^
b in everything
on parting. It
le ordinary card-
paper, consider-
t, with his name
address, his tele-
lis business. He
cards, and I said
generally know a
make out what I
away, I saw that
t it was crammed

It was a fast boat, and soon brought us all to Niagara,
where some of us changed from boat to train. The interval
was not a long one, and was profitably spent in listening to
a telephone conversation between a customs officer and a
railway man, about a horse deal and a deferred fishing excur-
sion.' Their language was good.

The run from Niagara to Buffalo by the Michigan Central
was a remarkably pleasant one, enjoyed by all the passen-
gers except one nervous old gentleman, who insisted that we
must all change cars before we could possibly get into Buf-
falo. The fact that the train kept right on and that the
good-humored conductor gave his affidavit that it was all
right made no difference to the old gentleman, and it was all
they could do to keep him from getting off at every stopping-
place. At Falls View all the passengers but this excitable
party and myself seemed to get off, helter-skelter, to run
down the sidewalk and gaze at' the Falls. Suddenly it struck
him that this must be the place to change cars, and he turned
appealingly to me. "No," I said, " these people have got
off to see the Falls."— " Fine sight," he said. " Is— is it—
the— Niagara Falls?"— "Yes," I told him, "I expect it
is."_««Well, well!" he ejaculated. "I never saw them
tjefore ! " — I believed him. I also believed that he, too, was
from Smith Crik Bridge, and that in his guileless innocence
he imagined that before he got into Buffalo the train was
likely to run alongside of several cataracts, and that if he
should travel for two or three days, he would run across no
end of falls like Niagara. But I felt sorry when I learned
that he was a very sick man, going to a quack doctor's insti-
tution in Buffalo.

It was a long wait at the Erie station, from 12.15 tiU 5.30,
so I went about a little, looking at the trains and talking to
the trainmen, as is m^ wont. I knew I could not see much

A Trip to Washington.

406

of Buffalo: and so did not t^J '^^^^^^^Z^:!
not sensible, but it was re^HuL J ^^^ J„ ^,^,^ ^ive
how the Erie and ^^^^ ?^^f^X order to show them,
all my stuff, although I ^^^^ aj""^" ^^^ Lehigh Valley
and so made haste to xntemew th^m^ J ^^ ^^^^ ^^^

baggageman. I ^^^^f • ^f J^^ ^^ole souled railway man I
and I found him to be Uie mos whol ^^^^ ^^ ^^ ^^^

ever ran across, and the «°«* f f ^^^ ^e that he had
had a long chat together, ''"j f ^"^^. fo, thirteen years,

been on the road, i» f P.'T^f^^^rt^^^^^^^^^ above seven or
and I informed him that I had never t ^^ ^^^

eight hundred miles >njny h e^ ^faln himself, put me in the
this, but hel^d - ^-^^^^^^^^^ side to'get the best

through car for P^* f *^P;*J^ ^^^ t my machine and
view of Portage Falls; »«d *^"'^^! ^^^ 1 was traveling
Call wheel-chair- -^^ '"' '?„' e'ager to talk to entire
alone, and. as he must have -^ ^^er^ ,,„, ,,ek to me
strangers, when ^^PP^^^.^^^J^^^fo, „ot coming down m
for another chat, ^^^^^l^^f ^^^ething of the picturesque
daylight, so that r could ^^ ^"f.^J^ia." you won't se«

Lehigh Valley sc*nery^ ^^.^ they climb the mountain; 1
anything ; you won t ^^/^'l: ^is^uie. But you must
win be dark before we get to Ho^eUsv ^^^ ^^^^ ^^

come back in broad dayhght. ^ ,^ „„ ^ne that tt

and I never saw ^^^J^^^J,:^\,,^. „.e. but of getting
wasn't a question of seeing scen«>

r, PbUaddphi. in "-* j'^'-^l^ „ ^ .„ sleep, a, I did

I didn't make any »I«°°' , .r,o\e^een, even if H""

„ish to see what there >°'8'" *=. J^i^^^ But at .11 honrs

:„,y the blank no.h.ngne^ "f ™d„sW ^^ „„

of the "iSht, "'^"""^'^'JX^'iSiMVpsesof the

A Trip to Washington.

407

This was
doubts as to
rould receive

show them,
ehigh Valley

to deal ^ith,
ailway man I
:o. He and I
: that he had
hirteen years,
ibove seven or
lespise me for

put me in the

get the best
machine and

1 was traveling
talk to entire

itne back to me
jming down in
the picturesque
"you won't see
le mountain; it
But you must
train at Elmiri,
to no one that it
e, but of getting

to sleep, as I did
jn, even if it was
But at all hours
, passengers were
it glimpses of the
ia& reflected on it,

and could always tell when we were crossing a bridge. These
things Were a great consolation to me — till I raised the win-
dow to get the midnight air, and then couldn't get it down
again. However, at every station and every switch I could
the better see the pretty and effective-looking white caps of
the trainmen. Once I accosted a switchman with the intel-
ligence that it was a fine night. He looked up at me in
evident astonishment, and said, rather plaintively, but with
the characteristic indifference of switchmen : "It's raining. ' '
When we got fairly down into the coal region, the .skies, for
miles, seemed all ablaze. It was the reflection from the
great furnaces, and I congratulated myself that I knew it
without having to ask the conductor. There was nothing
to mar my enjoyment of this lonely run except the gurgling
noise from a tired boy, who was just learning how to snore.
I am afraid it will take him three or four years of patient
practice to get the art of snoring down fine, but in another
six months he will be able to count his enemies, if he travels
much by night, as Samson counted his slain Philistines —
by thousands.

Morning came when the sun rose, naturally. It was rain-
ing, surely enough. But I was now able to amuse myself
by looking at the toy engines and cars, as I styled ,them, of
the Lehigh Valley Co. vSoon two young men appeared in
my car, from another car. They were good-natured young
fellows, and very talkative. They had traveled a great deal,'
and considerably farther this trip than I had, and were also
a great deal hungrier than I was. We took the Reading
road at Bethlehem, and at every stopping-point thereafter
the two young men would get off, with the determination to
get something to eat. But they would barely get on the
station platform when the train was off again, and they
would come back, hungrier than ever, but always good-

-g A Trip to H''ashittgton.

A "Tt seems funny." said one of them, " to get

xo give ui t,<. was a New Jersey farmer, as i naa

and finding out that he was a «ew •» -^ ^^^ ^is-

armed ^*"; "J^'X' ."..^^ the mosquitoes are as bad over

r:l •" ?J»'TSit::U, « : found .e could .... a

good d«l more senribly ">"" \~f ^„„ ;„,„ «,« station at

.;'' 'd*S,:e':7.^randTbr"h»Hgbt»t doubt that

s rut^TunT- f r^tS":.*" '-^r.^'

*' rain -P^^, ^ * » ' r «C-« ovetU-

ntr.rd^n:rt.o,ta,»a,tPb^«;. .»..--

«op a stteet^ar and an ommbus to ^*^ »
eroU tborougbfe. "^^ •^^' t"ig^"!w. drift
,U„g »»"«» *^; '^tS^ a cUcn^AK of a country
back to a bright June day. woe directly over a cross-

village stopped bis "f^, ""^^^ ^Sng my way.
road, on seeing °>= ^* ^^^J l gamine a dilapi-

■""l^Tr He taSf st"^ to i«pre« me with his
dated bridge. He ^^^^^^ . **7*^^, ,,^ r._ stalked leisurely
authority. I waited a mmute, while he staiKe

A Trip to IVashington.

409

em, "to get
" I thought
into the great

ilderly man in
wn beside me
oon be there ;
rmer, as I had
ness that dis-
tive mosquito,
re as bad over
aake them out
P. & R. coal
t seen any this
le could talk a

3 the station at
itest doubt that

Ths imposing
ether with the
time. At last
ckened up till I

all over again.
Iphia policemen
le me to cross a
hough the same
bits always drift
IAN of a country
:tly over a cross-
arring my way.
xamine a dilapi-
:ess me with his
stalked leisurely

about, then said, " Would you kindly drive the horse forward
a little, so that I may pass. ' ' The coUNCitMAN did nothing,
but a man who chanced along promptly lead the horse out
of the highway, while the aggrieved councilman muttered,
"If time is precious to yoyx." — "U what f" I asked flip-
pantly, and he repeated his remark, when I replied, "I
must get past, that's all." Yes, that was all ; but I have
always wondered which of us enjoyed that scene most, he, in
stopping me, or I, in being stopped.

The next day I went down to the Broad-street station, to
get oflF to Bryn Mawr. Here the "special messenger" of
the Pennsylvania fixed things for me, and I had no trouble.
The return fare is fifty-one cents. "This is one dollar,"
said the special messenger, as I handed him a bill. Then
he brought me ray ticket, with the watch-word: "Count
your change. Come this way." And he saw me safe up
the baggage elevator, on my machine, and pointed out the
Bryn Mawr accommodation, when he disappeared, like a
flash, to waylay some other troubled traveller. The ten-
mile run over the Pennsylvania's perfect road-bed was
all too short. But it looked like more rain, and I got off
the train and hurried away. I was afraid I might not find
the humorist at home, after all. But the quick step and the
genial, " How are you, Bruce ! " re-assured me, for I knew
it was the humorist himself.

I had to wait on the platform at Bryn Mawr about ten
minutes, when I could get back on the same train I had
come out on. I had told the conductor I should "lay for "
him again, and he had smiled feebly, whether at the slip-
shod slang or at the unparalleled compliment thus paid him,
I don't know. While waiting, the magnificent "Pennsyl-

A 7rit> to iyashhigton.
410 ^ " f

• ,- -..A •• flnshed past, and a thrill of enthusiasm shot
vanrn hm,ted A" J^^s^' stopped since she left Harr.s-
TT' Tcried fnd a by'stanrr looked at n,e pityingly
^"? -1 'Oh 'ves she has ! " - " Isn't that the Limited,
and said OJ;^^I•;llld of a train-hand, and he cor-
'T ITme "BuUt will have stopped at Lancaster -
roborated me BUi 1 divisions." said the

^"n' d" and th b^stand^ turned huffishly away,
train-haiid ; and the by ^^^ ^^^^.^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^

outraged that a total siraug ^^^^^^

•-""*■ tr.na X*X tilet aXuevea .a of .U

came to the long luuu . however. But he was

■-r:ssro.-sr:.:'r'™. - ...

A Trip to [Vasbiuf^ton.

411

ithusiasm shot
le left Harris-
t me pityingly
it the Limited,
I, and he cor-
at Lancaster,"
5ns," said the
luffishly away,
on platform at
)W) more about
Philadelphian.

d-street station,
;ial messenger"
elieved me of all
runk were to go,
down in time —
3 train, with my
*he conductor on
hted up when we
)re. I don't sup-
ver. But he was
t last the Capitol
5walk glimpses of
to the B. & P. de-
This noble m&u

g the way, for the
-the more so, as I
ay. "Better keep
't like it," advised
io. But what ave-
i! Washington is

famous for its magnificent thoroughfares and its perfect pave-
ments. Away up Capitol Hill I went, to B Street South-
east, where I got good accommodation. This was not .no
much due to newspaper advertisements as to an alert and
yet thoroughly obliging boy, who directed me to such good
purpose that I found lodgings with his parents. I felt at
home with them at once, and was never made more comfort-
able in my life. Lest I should forget it, I will pause here to
speak a good word for the frank and courteous citizens of
the American capital, whose democratic simplicity is a real-
ity, not a sham.

The next day I went into Virginia — at least, I went down
through Georgetown and crossed the Potomac bridge. I
anticipated seeing negro women carrying baskets on their
heads, and I was not disappointed. Perhaps I might have
been disappointed any other day. And I also saw the ven-
erable old negro of tradition, driving a steer tackled to an
equally venerable cart, that was six feet wide. I will say it
was six feet, but I could just as easily say it was seven, and
not grieve my conscience a bit. I was looking for this old
negro— and he must have been looking for me, for he said
good day to me and looked pleased to see me.

Just after crossing the bridge a small boy came up to me
and said, mysteriously : " Mister, you ain't allowed to goon
this sidewalk. Kin you give me a cent ? " I said, " I have
nothing but a bill ; you wouldn't want that, would you ? "
Then he took the road, and I kept the sidewalk. George-
town is a quiet place, and most of the inhabitants are con-
tent to claim a population of only 20,000. It is, like Wash-
ington, under District Government. The old Chesapeake and
Ohio Canal, unlike the old negro, had got tired of waiting for
me, and had temporarily given up the ghost.

I lost no time in seeing the editor. He was not so formid-

/I Trip to Washington.
-ft«r all In fact, I thought his cigar
^' ^e^dlTeTugge 'v of dan "r tL« he di.. ; and I an. glad
r iLTnocaut to be afraid of him -and. of course, he

Tdi-^ acknowlX whether he was afraid of me. or not.
wouldn t aclcnowieuKc >» Pennsvlvan a-avenue

:r"hI"Cw of .he monumen., and .ook a good long looW

"ihctn'ream of vUi.or, « enonnou,. They aeeevery-
. J IrtlbTause everything U free, and partly because
r/n,«"givfarU6.Jry account of the city »hen they
they ""»' g" ^„h;_.to„ has public squares and little
„tum l'°""*'"7X« there are always fountains, and

re^rarirsts/^raterisusuajly -^-w^^^^^

always able to sing *''' "W ^",f ^ f„„„i „„y„here, it is
. " Thrar&p-nt^-«of all lta.es and .11
bere ; ^^'"J?^:^ .„ .J good-natured, and proud of the
raScity,1n*:ot a bit r^.less under .he n.ild rule of

;i:;7J'"Thr".t:s':. p.^ud of .h^r i„sti.u.ous.

A Trip to U^a.-ihington.

413

jht his cigar
and I am glad
, of course, he
of me, or not.
Ivania-avenue
The gleaming
n from almost
on the memory
ipecially when
le broken walk
good long look

They see every-
partly because
:ity when they
lares and little
s fountains, and
hydrant water,"
;roes are always
d the locusts are

anywhere, it is
all States and all
and proud of the
the mild rule of

eht — and all offi-
; pride in showing
buildings, and are
d opinion of the
» me, many times :
;s the city, in spite
their institutions,

and Uncle Sam's Government is extremely popular. They
have no mayor or aldenuen to vote for, and no vote at Presi-
dential elections. Consequently there is t>o pandering to
voters, and the citizens have their time to devote to their
business. All the same, the keer?i.t interest is felt in Presi-
dential contests. But here is manifestly a system that
would not suit some ambitious cities, whose citizens would
relapse into barbarism, if it were not for their annual alder-
manic elections.

The White House and grounds are always open to the
public, and I frequently turned in at the great gates on Penn-
sylvania-avenue, which stand wide open. There is one
notice only, over the driving stables, which reads " Private
Entrance." Otherwise, some eager visitor from Coal Oil
Junction might be determined to find out how the horses are
shod, and so get his wisdom teeth knocked where they would
be safest — down his throat.

It was no joke for me to climb the steep grade of Capitol
Hill, but there was always some one to give me a push up it.
I usually halted by the imposing Garfield monument — not
to look out for possible assistance, but to admire the monu-
ment. At least, I am sure it always had that appearance.
A ragged little urchin told me, the first day, the significance
of the allegorical figures at the base of the monument, its
cost, and other particulars. In Washington even the street
urchin reads the newspapers he sells, and has a sense of gen-
uine patriotism. One day I encountered, midway up the
grade, a spick and span little buggy, drawn by a team of well-
trained goats. I have seen goat teams before, but I never
saw clean and civilized-looking goats before. Everybody
admired the turnout, especially a Maryland farmer (all the
same, he may have been a Government employ^), who
halted, and observed to me, ' 'Isn' t that a dahling team ! " I

414

A Trip to H^asbitigton.

expect he halted because he reflected that it was not every day
he could enjoy the spectacle of such a team as the boy's, and
such a rig as mine. But I reflected that' the Canadian
farmer has not yet been born (though one could wish other-
wise) who would cheerfully use such an expression as, "Isn't
that a dahling team ! "

My first day out I went down to the navy yard, where the
young marines kindly insisted on showing me everything.
As a matter of fact, there wasn't much for me to .see, except a
big gun, nearly completed. I always liked to see the ma-
rines on the street, in their smart attire, and with their care-
less, jaunty air. They always looked to be in fighting trim,
too. But orce I got badly fooled. Seeing a negro in what
seemed to be a negligi sailor costume, I asked him if he was
a U. S. marine. He grinned all over, and said : " No, sah ;
but I am often mistaken for one. I don't wear no coat, but
these heah shirts are made to ordah." — " They cost you a
doUah and a half apiece, don't they, Jim?" suggested a
companion of his. — "Three dollahs a pair," corrected Jim,
with a bland smile. — On my way back from the navy yard,
I paused to rest iinder a grocery awning, and overheard the
grocer and an idler discussing the Bering Sea troubles! For
the sake of springing a feeble joke on them, I listened atten-
tively, occasionally putting in my oar. When the question
was thoroughly discussed, they became the more interested in
me, and I said, as I turned to go, " I am a Canadian, and I
have just been down inspecting your navy yard." I had
expected to see a look of surprise steal over their faces. I
saw a good deal more, but kept right on, without pausing to
guess exactly what their looks indicated.

Sunday in Washington I spent indoors, on account of a
broken tire. I did enjoy looking out of the window at the
church-goers and passers-by. Street-cars going all day long,

A Trip to Washington.

415

lot every day
le boy's, and
he Canadian
d wish other-

ion as,

'Isn't

ird, where the
e everything.
> see, except a
to see the ma-
ith their care-
fighting trim,
negro in what
him if he was
d: "No, sah ;
ar no coat, but
liey cost you a
'" suggested a
corrected Jim,
the navy yard,
I overheard the
, troubles'. For
[ listened atten-
en the qiiestion
ore interested in
Canadian, and I
r yard." I had
r their faces. I
thout pausing to

on account of a
le window at the
Ding all day long,

and boys boarding them to sell the papers. Apparently,
these boys would sometimes innocently accost a clergyman.
The negro church-goers, from my locality, had a prosperous
look. The only pathetic sight I saw on this Sunday was a
little boy of eight or nine years, with his hair hanging down
his back in long, straggling curls, and with a bright red
sash about his wai.st. I had noticed the same boy on
Saturday, when his hair was braided and negligently hair-
pinned to his crown ; and then, as now, he bravely ignored
the whispered jests of other boys, whose parents had them
patronize the aesthetic Washington barbers. It was a
spectacle to bring tears to one's eyes — a cheap edition of
the little lord.

"Which way are you going now?" cried out a friendly
voice to me, and I recognized a gentleman of whom I had
previously made inquiries. I replied that I thought of going
down into Alexandria. "Oh, don't take such a trip as
that, where there is nothing you would care to see. Go
along New Hampshire-avenue, and take a look at the
extravagant mansions there. It is the most aristocratic part
of Washirgton." Presently I concluded to do so, getting a
wayfarer to point out to me Secretary Blaine's house, and the
building occupied by the Chinese legation. I also had the
good fortune to see the Japanese minister and his suite ; and
I smiled to think how prone we are to judge foreigners by the
worst representatives of their nationality, instead of by the
best. What nation would like to be judged by its fugitive
and outcast classes ?

I wandered about the Botanical Gardens (very often in
quest of a drink of cold water), and spent a good deal of
time at the Smithsonian Institute. "Are you from French
Canada, or English Canada?" asked a kindly old guard, to

4t6

j4 Trip to Washington.

whom I had revealed my nationality, thus demonstrating to
me that he knew all about my country.

When Friday came around again, it occurred to me that
I was getting homesick ; so I put a new label on the trunk,
and went down to the ticket oflSce. If I had got up fifteen
minutes earlier, I could have "patronized" the Northern
Central, the direct route to Suspension Bridge; but, as it
was, I decided to inflict myself upon the B. & O. people to
Philadelphia, and thence home as I had come. It was only
fair play to give all the railroads a show, anyway. The
scalpers had nothing up my way, but they expressed their
regret, and never once intimated that they took me for a
boodler, fleeing to Canada. I have no reason to suppose
they did.

It was a magnificent train that pulled out from the foot of
Capitol Hill at 4.20 p. m., and we ran to Baltimore without
a halt. But shortly after leaving Baltimore the engine
broke down, and we were detained more than au hour.
Other trains were flagged, of course, but there was an
element of danger in the situation that made the waiting
time quite interesting. The passengers got ofi" the train in
large numbers, and then would pound vigorously on the
vestibuled doors for admittance — to the great annoyance of
the trainmen. One young man climbed down the steep em-
bankment we were on, and gathered a handful of mayweed.
With this he returned to the train, crying, "Marguerites,
marguerites, only fi' cent a bunch." But even this failed
to rouse one indifferent passenger, who showed his contempt
for railway accidents by falling asleep in his seat. At last
the engine was in a fit condition to back the train up to a
siding, where another engfine was in waiting, arid we were
off again. The conductor agreed to telegraph ahead to find
out whether the Buffalo train could be held. This was

A Trip to Washington.

417

nstrating to

to me that
1 the trunk,
3t up fifteen
be Northern
:; but, as it
O. people to

It was only
lyway. The
pressed their
)ok me for a
a to suppose

jm the foot of
more without
e the engine
lan au hour,
there was an
ie the waiting
ff the train in
»rously on the
: annoyance of
\ the steep em-
il of mayweed.
"Marguerites,
ven this failed
;d his contempt
seat. At last
; train up to a
g, arid we were
)h ahead to find
leld. This was

doubtful ; and I journeyed on through the rain (for it
naturally began to rain as we drew near Philadelphia) with
the prospect of a " lay over ' ' of twelve hours in the Quaker
City.

We got in an hour and twenty minutes late. Immediately
a man boarded my car, saying, in an audible voice : ' ' Pass-
engers via Lehigh Valley will please change cars, as there is
no through connection to-night ; ' ' and I knew the ' ' lay over ' '
was inevitable. So I entrusted him with the secret that I
had a machine on board, and he kindly set about getting me
off. In a short time he, the conductor, the train porter, the
brakeman, a policeman, and the big, good-natured station
master had me aboard my machine, and I was glad, because
I knew that some one of them would be able to tell me where
I could get something to eat. However, I spent some little
time perusing the inscriptions on the trains, while good-
natured Charley Selby, the colored station porter, went out
and got me a substantial supper, as the station restaurant
was then closed.

Early next morning I went up to Wayne Junction, from
the B. & O. station, and had another wait, of nearly two
hours. Of course it was raining. There are trains passing
here till you can't rest ; and the gigantic, odd-built engines
of the Reading company are a treat to look at. I wasn't yet
wearied when the baggageman called tome, "Bethlehem
train, sir ! Come this way ! " And I was off, on the morn-
ing t'ain, with the opportunity of seeing some of the finest
scenery in the world, in spite of fate. I declined the train-
boy's exciting romances, and even felt no interest in looking
up the daily railroad accidents in the newspapers, because
I knew I could at least get an itnsatisfactor>' glimpse of Solo-
mon's Gap, Mauch Chunk, the valley of the Wyoming, and
the winding Lehigh.

^ Trip to Washington.

418

A voung man had kindly given up his seat to me but I
.at nC Jmfo.ta.y ^^U^d io. so lon^^

lehem the -^^^I^^Thf smS^^^ <>£ the parlor

kindly put me mto the ^'^^^f "^ ^ J ^^^ ^^^ „ever more
car. Here there -'^^^ ^^Jl^fZZ^^y r.ot^n.^.o ra.r

than four in at <>-^>^^^'^J^''' l'^ the rest of the way I
one's enjoyment of the journey. ^^^^

looked out of the window, and I am su^e I s ^ _^ ^^^^^ ^^^
tnost people on that tram .^^^'^ J^^jd „gs at Mauch
not more than seventeen ^^'S^ ^ettoe •' I am sorry to
Chunk. I shall be able to see Bomet^^«g^ i
say that there must ^^ve b^ ^^^^^^^^^ ^.t off the'view.
tered about in the most f "'^^^^'"^.'^Y^^ Central tracks.

But it ^^o^f}-^;:2t::::^t^^ ^u the

we P^^yf ^\^^ tba'e Tntir was .musing to watch their
way up t° W^^f ^^;' J, we had climbed the mountam.

rLr^^-"^^on.some.^f^^^

^r^;trrxr:rt.tisituationisde-

lightfuUy romantic- .omn-rtment was entered by

At Wilkesbarre the smokmg <=o™P;^!^;"; ^ .^,^ „oble-
a distinguished party, in the Pe^-"jfXf^„own more
„.en. from the B^-k ^ountr^^ wl^ ^^^.^ ^^^„

about the topography of Egypt ana ^^ ^^

^ost of us will ever wish to know^"^^^^^^^^ ^ ^^^, ,,,,
the moment they had crossed the AUanUc y ^^

.. doing " the mines, and now on their waj to J ^^^^^^^^
flew past ten or twelve ^t^tions before J^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^

wUh any one but them^Wes ; but th«r res^ ^^^^^

at last, and all the rest m ^^^^^ plainsman.

t/l Trip to Washington.

419

, me, but I
id at Beth-
:nd of them)
f the parlor

never more
ithing to mar
of the way I
y more than
"if there are
igs at Mauch

am sorry to
lundred, seat-
off the view,
entral tracks,
ailroad all the
watch their
;he mountain,
;he passengers
\ is scarcely an
ituationis de-
was entered by
English noble-
e known more
ler India than
were all at sea
They were over
o Niagara. We
would converse
:rve was broken
f proved genial
stem plainsman,
from one source

and another, on that trip, because no absurd fear of display-
ing their ignorance restrained them from asking pertinent
questions ; and in all cases of doubt, appeal was made to the
puUman conductor for corroboration or disproof. "Oh,"
said one of them, as we were running from Sayre, Pa., to
Waverly, N. Y., (a distance of two miles), "Oh, there is
New York City and New York State !" Yet no one could
laugh at such remarks, because they were made so artlessly.
Said another, " When it is five o'clock with you, it is ten
o'clock in England." — " Yes ; and only two o'clock on the
Pacific coast." They were so much impressed with the
vastness of the country, just from one day's ride, that they
were advised to take a six days' journey across the conti-
nent. Such practical suggestions as these give foreigners at
least a vague notion of our country.

There was a giant on our train, who got off at Homells-
ville for his supper, and frightened the depot policeman into
a burst of unprofessional laughter. The giant stood seven
feet high, and was perfectly proportioned ; and the blinds of
the dining-hall had to be lowered to keep the vulgar eye
from spoiling the giant's appetite.

There was a lively American from Newark in the smoking
compartment, who was determined that the English lords
should see everything and be posted in everything. He got
them out on the platform when the train slowed ever Portage
bridge, where they amused all the passengers by one of them
jocosely asking for his friend's accident insurance policy.
This refreshing witticism, coming from an Englishman, was
the funniest incident of the trip. The storj' told by the
American gentleman about the Switch Tiack was the best
story ; but probably it is well known. The English noble-
men, however, paid most attention to his instructions to
them how to find Main-street, Buffa'io, from the Erie depot.

^ Trip to Washington.

420

♦« crpt ft bracine drink of some-

„„„di„gs that »e got '^h-'t '^•^'"« '*'^ "r I »as alone
Cantilever did not Aow up to e->od '^T ^«J^ ,^, j„„„gi

at .Ms time, and had an ^°^^';^^tn.pWed at Niagara
conductor of the Lehigh. H>'.™''7~ ^J^^ he kindly
Falls station, on *;.C-»''«Xtrs ,t unusually ex-
brought me my ™*'"',;^ ^X'lTnquired the days on
press regret on parting «■* me "Ut^JJ^q

^hich this K"«l^™" »='=:' *u^"i™ I revisit Washing-
and proposed to come do»nv,..htam^i^j^^^ ^ ^^,_,

ton - and he heard me '•■"Ugh wrtn ,_^ ^^^ ^

not but admire such courage. And «. «y ^^^_^^ ^^^

^''""""'TSiTbut Lw n^Ung of him. I neg-
Si::C.r«rS.trai„shema.esJ.is-^^

r;rin%r— -- -^^'» - "-^°'

course. ' , ,r i^ ^as midnight) with

I got off a few ^"-^7^J^^'^,^i^^^^^^ and was in-

the customs officer and the sta^°»^ ^^^^ ^, ,^,

formed that I could have a cnoi ^^^^^

Bridge or at Hamilton as the ^^"^'^ ^^^^^^ ,^ Toronto,
^asbutone train, intheevemn^^^^^^^^
Another "lay over ' this tj«e 01 ^ ^^^^^

before me. All this was ^"nb^^^^l^ to ^^^^ ^ ^^^^ ^,^^^,
. engine on the picturesque B. & ». J^ „^, .^ntee to

Jdsgave me to understand they -^^^
„,„ on their own time, ^s for the de y ^ ^^^^^^ ^^ ^^
getting from the Bn^ge to To^ o tb ^elatedtrav-

ronto and Montreal philanthropists, 10

t/l Trip to IVashington.

431

k of some-
rht glimpse

ills and sur-
Even the

1 was alone '
the through

i at Niagara
e he kindly

usually ex-
the days on
astern, trips,
jsitWashing-
ing. I could
ed, in the ex-
my friend the
him. I neg-
runs ; but am
tad he been on

me away, of

nidnight) with
n, and was in-
ing over at the
r Sunday, there
ton to Toronto.
:nty hours, was

2 collapse of the
:r, as they after-
not guarantee to
twenty hours in
a scheme of To-

ible belated trav-

ellers to do the Falls or Hamilton's Mountain (capital M) on
Sunday, when expenses are lighter.

I at once decided on a ramble next day about the Falls,
as it seemed my destiny to have an opportunity to see every-
thing. Soon I was greeted by a cheery voice, and recog-
nized the young man with whom I had sat on leaving Wayne
Junction. He was far from traveling alone, as I was, for he
was one of a party of seven, bound for Minneapolis. They
all crowded about me, with I esprit de corps of fellow-
travellers. Besides, it was u. country now that we were all
in. "This is the young man who gave up his seat to you,
and this is the one whom you asked if the car you were in
ran through to Suspension Bridge." And so on. A hand-
shake, and they were all aboard the through Grand Trunk
train for Chicago. The English lords did not cross the
Bridge, and expressed no desire to visit Canada. I hope I
was in no way responsible for this !

Unwashed, and even ja«j breakfast, I made an early morn-
ing start for the Falls. Perhaps I was as clean as (and I
hope I was no hungrier than) the few people astir at that
early hour. I had bargained on being able to enjoy the sub-
lime spectacle with no one about to dictate to me, or say,
"Look from this point, or gaze at that projecting rock;"
and I was not disappointed. In a word, the Niagara Falls
liar and the impromptu poet were noii est, and the solitude
of the early morning hour was a fitting time to see the Falls.
I knew, from my sharp appetite, that I should seem to be
getting the worth of my breakfast, when I got back ; and
again I was not disappointed. I crossed the bridge in the
afternoon, and looked about on the American side. A party
of Scandinavian emigrants who came in, en route to Minne-
sota, were too much worn out even to look at the Falls ; and
I could sympathize with them. But perhaps they did not

^ Trip to U^asbiiigtoii.

^^ * «f the country, or realize they

.„„« .>.e^»- j *: i;r„rt* >r . .Le, on Canadian
were en pying ^^^ P"^*'^^ ,„^ .t.. ^orld as in a dream,
soil! Someofusgoj^hrough^^^^^^^^ AUeast. I thought
It was an uneventful ride to ^^ ^.^^^ ^^^k-

so ; but as I had not been able to ge y^^^^^
.ning Friday -ormng- J w J -t ^ ^^^ ^^^^^, ,^,

take in the scentc ^"ra^^"'"^^^^^ ^wo others came tn

train there as soon as it ^*« "^^f ^^^^^ ^^t i warned them
shortly afterwards, and m -J^f^J^, ,„d a half. One
th.t the train did not ^f^^^^^^^,^,, ^. always made it
of them, an American ^^'""J'^^l^^^^ for him. And we
, nile not to keep -^^^y ^f ""^^^ o'ther got off at Bur-
laughed, and were ^o^^^^^^^^;^ ^^ ^.^dn't walked, to save
lington; and I «-^;^^?t;S hour late in starting. Two
time, for we were ^nother^halt ^^^ ^.^^^^ ^^

cowboys who f°»%'" X- but just why cowboys should

lantern ; and so I •^^""^J^P^Xgton. and have fared ?s
bave come all the way ^^^V^-^^^^^^^^ 'gi^g^iariy enough,
well at your hands as ^^^^^ ^l^,^,,^ but took the checks
he didn't ask me to g°J«^; P;f^',!^„gM me. and seeing me
for my machine which be had broug^ ^^^^ ^
all aboard, made off ^^^b h s ^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ „ot

home, wondering If I was^^;^ ^^,^ I knew how

pausing to -<l"J'^^/^^^,t rP<^pulation in the ten days I
much Toronto had gainea in p f

had been away.

This last sketch «as«nt,en ^« *^^f ^^wng' opX
guided friend, «boadv.sed me torn

-ri—f--^—"-'

ealize they
n Canadian

ream.

t, I thoitght
since awak-
perbaps, to (
t aboard the
lers came in
warned them
I half. One
fiays made it
■tn. And we
)t off at Bur-
Iked, to save
arting. Two
ively. They
jwboys should

something I

and I took his
id to him, " 1
have fared as
rularly enough,
!ook the checks
and seeing me
en I started for
t there, and not
tn I knew, how
1 the ten days I

•/f Trip to H'''asbi)igton.

423

about myself, in a frank, desultory way, without indefensible
clap-trap or any chicken-hearted feeling about egotism.
Said fiiend has been jailed, and such advice will hardly be
given me again —but if it should be, I will promise not to
heed it.

THE END.

igation of a mis-
nnething openly

> i

m.'

aiJ^itiW^T