PART II. Readings and Recitations from the Most Celebrated Authors (continued 5)
Reading edition
THE LISPING LOVER.
Oh! thtay one moment, love implorth, Ere yet we break thith happy thpell! For to the thoul my thoul adorth It ith tho hard to thay farewell. And yet how thad to be tho weak, To think forever, night or day, The thententheth my heart would thpeak Thethe lipth can never truly thay. How mournful, too, while thuth I kneel, With nervouthneth my blith to mar, And dream each moment that I feel The boot-toe of thy thtern papa. Or yet to fanthy that I hear A thudden order to decamp, Ath dithagreeably thevere Ath—“Get out you infernal thcamp!” Yet recklethly I pauthe by thee, To lithp my hopeth, my fearth, my careth, Though any moment I may be Turning a thomerthet down the thtairth!
LARRIE O’DEE.
Now the widow McGee, And Larrie O’Dee, Had two little cottages out on the green, With just room enough for two pig-pens between. The widow was young and the widow was fair, With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair; And it frequently chanced, when she came in the morn With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the corn. And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand, In the pen of the widow were certain to land. One morning said he: “Och! Misthress McGee, It’s a waste, of good lumber, this runnin’ two rigs, Wid a fancy petition betwane our two pigs!” “Indade sur, it is!” answered Widow McGee, With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O’Dee. “And thin, it looks kind o’ hard-hearted and mane, Kapin’ two friendly pigs so exsaidenly near That whiniver one grunts the other can hear, And yit kape a cruel petition betwane.” “Shwate Widow McGee,” Answered Larrie O’Dee, “If ye fale in your heart we are mane to the pigs, Ain’t we mane to ourselves to be runnin’ two rigs? Och! it made me heart ache whin I paped through the cracks Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez shwingin’ yer axe; An’ a bobbin’ yer head an’ a shtompin’ yer fate, Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate, A-sphlittin’ yer kindlin’-wood out in the shtorm, When one little shtove it would kape us both warm!” “Now, piggy,” said she; “Larrie’s courtin’ o’ me, Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you, So now yez must tell me jisht what I must do; For, if I’m to say yez, shtir the swill wid yer snout; But if I’m to say no, ye must kape yer nose out. Now Larrie, for shame! to be bribin’ a pig By a-tossin’ a handful of corn in its shwig!” “Me darlint, the piggy says yes,” answered he. And that was the courtship of Larrie O’Dee. W. W. Fink.
HOW PADEREWSKI PLAYS THE PIANO.
First a soft and gentle tinkle, Gentle as the rain-drop’s sprinkle, Then a stop, Fingers drop. Now begins a merry trill, Like a cricket in a mill; Now a short, uneasy motion, Like a ripple on the ocean. See the fingers dance about, Hear the notes come tripping out; How they mingle in the tingle Of the everlasting jingle, Like to hailstones on a shingle, Or the ding-dong, dangle-dingle Of a sheep-bell! Double, single, Now they come in wilder gushes, Up and down the player rushes, Quick as squirrels, sweet as thrushes. Now the keys begin to clatter Like the music of a platter When the maid is stirring batter. O’er the music comes a change, Every tone is wild and strange; Listen to the lofty tumbling, Hear the mumbling, fumbling, jumbling, Like the rumbling and the grumbling Of the thunder from its slumbering Just awaking. Now it’s taking To the quaking, like a fever-and-ague shaking; Heads are aching, something’s breaking— Goodness gracious! it is wondrous, Rolling round, above, and under us, Like old Vulcan’s stroke so thunderous. Now ’tis louder, but the powder Will be all exploded soon; For the only way to do, When the music’s nearly through, Is to muster all your muscle for a bang, Striking twenty notes together with a clang: Hit the treble with a twang, Give the bass an awful whang, And close the whole performance With a slam—bang—whang!
THE FRECKLE-FACED GIRL.
“Ma’s up stairs changing her dress,” said the freckled-faced little girl, tying her doll’s bonnet strings and casting her eye about for a tidy large enough to serve as a shawl for that double-jointed young person.
“Oh, your mother needn’t dress up for me,” replied the female agent of the missionary society, taking a self-satisfied view of herself in the mirror. “Run up and tell her to come down just as she is in her everyday clothes, and not stand on ceremony.”
“Oh, but she hasn’t got on her everyday clothes. Ma was all dressed up in her new brown silk dress, ’cause she expected Miss Dimmond to-day. Miss Dimmond always comes over here to show off her nice things, and ma doesn’t mean to get left. When ma saw you coming she said, ‘the dickens!’ and I guess she was mad about something. Ma said if you saw her new dress, she’d have to hear all about the poor heathen, who don’t have silk, and you’d ask her for money to buy hymn books to send ’em. Say, do the nigger ladies use hymn-book leaves to do their hair up on and make it frizzy? Ma says she guesses that’s all the good the books do ’em, if they ever get any books. I wish my doll was a heathen.”
“Why, you wicked little girl! what do you want of a heathen doll?” inquired the missionary lady, taking a mental inventory of the new things in the parlor to get material for a homily on worldly extravagance.
“So folks would send her lots of nice things to wear, and feel sorry to have her going about naked. Then she’d have her hair to frizz, and I want a doll with truly hair and eyes that roll up like Deacon Silderback’s when he says amen on Sunday. I ain’t a wicked girl, either, ’cause Uncle Dick—you know Uncle Dick, he’s been out West and swears awful and smokes in the house—he says I’m a holy terror, and he hopes I’ll be an angel pretty soon. Ma’ll be down in a minute, so you needn’t take your cloak off. She said she’d box my ears if I asked you to.
“Ma’s putting on that old dress she had last year, ’cause she didn’t want you to think she was able to give much this time, and she needed a muff worse than the queen of the cannon-ball islands needed ’ligion. Uncle Dick says you oughter get to the islands, ’cause you’d be safe there, and the natives would be sorry they was such sinners anybody would send you to ’em. He says he never seen a heathen hungry enough to eat you, ’less it was a blind one, an’ you’d set a blind pagan’s teeth on edge so he’d never hanker after any more missionary. Uncle Dick’s awful funny, and makes ma and pa die laughing sometimes.”
“Your Uncle Richard is a bad, depraved wretch, and ought to have remained out West, where his style is appreciated. He sets a horrid example for little girls like you.”
“Oh, I think he’s nice. He showed me how to slide down the banisters, and he’s teaching me to whistle when ma ain’t around. That’s a pretty cloak you’ve got, ain’t it? Do you buy all your clothes with missionary money? Ma says you do.”
Just then the freckle-faced little girl’s ma came into the parlor and kissed the missionary lady on the cheek and said she was delighted to see her, and they proceeded to have a real sociable chat. The little girl’s ma cannot understand why a person who professes to be so charitable as the missionary agent does should go right over to Miss Dimmond’s and say such ill-natured things as she did, and she thinks the missionary is a double-faced gossip. The little girl understands it better than her ma does.
WHEN GIRLS WORE CALICO.
There was a time, betwixt the days Of linsey woolsey, straight and prim, And these when mode, with despot ways, Leads woman captive at its whim, Yet not a hundred years ago, When girls wore simple calico. Within the barn, by lantern light, Through many a reel, with flying feet, The boys and maidens danced at night To fiddled measures, shrilly sweet; And merry revels were they, though The girls were gowned in calico. Across the flooring rough and gray The gold of scattered chaff was spread, And long festoons of clover hay That straggled from the loft o’erhead, Swung scented fringes to and fro O’er pretty girls in calico. They used to go a-Maying then, The blossoms of the spring to seek In sunny glade and sheltered glen, Unweighed by fashion’s latest freak; And Robin fell in love, I know, With Phyllis in her calico. A tuck, a frill, a bias fold, A hat curved over gipsy-wise, And beads of coral and of gold, And rosy cheeks and merry eyes, Made lassies in that long ago Look charming in their calico. The modern knight who loves a maid Of gracious air and gentle grace, And finds her oftentimes arrayed In shining silk and priceless lace, Would love her just as well, I know, In pink and lilac calico. Hattie Whitney.
A WINNING COMPANY.
Ef gran’paw was a soldier now He’d show ’em what to do; You ought to come and lisen how He talks to me and Sue. He tells us all about the days He led his gallant men, And all about the different ways He won the battles then. An’ ev’ry night when paw comes in An’ says the fight’s begun, He tells what they could do to win Er what they ought to done. An’ paw he laugh and looks at me An’ says we’d surely win it If gran’paw led a company An’ Sue an’ me was in it.
THE BRAVEST SAILOR OF ALL.
This graceful tribute to the martial spirit of the little tots should be recited in a slightly bombastic style. The little one considers himself quite a hero and should be described accordingly.
I know a naval officer, the bravest fighting man; He wears a jaunty sailor suit, his cap says “Puritan.” And all day long he sails a ship between our land and Spain, And he avenges, every hour, the martyrs of the “Maine.” His warship is six inches square, a wash-tub serves for ocean; But never yet, on any coast, was seen such dire commotion. With one skilled move his boat is sent from Cuba to midsea, And just as quickly back it comes to set Havana free. He fights with Dewey; plants his flag upon each island’s shore, Then off with Sampson’s fleet he goes to shed the Spanish gore. He comes to guard New England’s coast, but ere his anchor falls, He hurries off in frightful speed, to shell Manila’s walls. The Philippines so frequently have yielded to his power, There’s very little left of them, I’m certain, at this hour; And when at last he falls asleep, it is to wake again And hasten into troubled seas and go and conquer Spain. Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
HOW SHE WAS CONSOLED.
Out in the field in the red o’ the rain That crimsoned the breasts that the battle had slain, He lay in the shadow—the captain—at rest, With a lock of gold hair round a face on his breast. Out in the darkness, all pallid and dumb, A woman waits long for the captain to come; And she kisses his portrait. O, pitiful pain! She shall kiss not the lips of the captain again! But a woman’s a woman, though loyal and brave, Love fareth but ill in the gloom of a grave. The captain lies mute ’neath the stars and the snow, And the woman he loved—well, she’s married you know!
THAT HIRED GIRL.
When she came to work for the family on Congress street, the lady of the house sat down and told her that agents, picture-sellers, peddlers, ragmen, and all that class of people must be met at the front door and coldly repulsed, and Sarah said she’d repulse them if she had to break every broomstick in town.
And she did. She threw the door open wide, bluffed right up at ’em, and when she got through talking, the cheekiest agent was only too glad to leave. It got so after a while that peddlers marked that house, and the door-bell never rang except for company.
The other day, as the girl of the house was wiping off the spoons, the bell rang. She hastened to the door, expecting to see a lady, but her eyes encountered a slim man, dressed in black and wearing a white necktie. He was the new minister, and was going around to get acquainted with the members of his flock, but Sarah wasn’t expected to know this.
“Ah—um—is—Mrs.—ah!”
“Git!” exclaimed Sarah, pointing to the gate.
“Beg pardon, but I would like to see—see—!”
“Meander!” she shouted, looking around for a weapon; “we don’t want any flour-sifters here!”
“You’re mistaken,” he replied, smiling blandly. “I called to—”
“Don’t want anything to keep moths away—fly!” exclaimed Sarah, getting red in the face.
“Is the lady in?” he inquired, trying to look over Sarah’s head.
“Yes, the lady is in, and I’m in, and you are out!” she snapped; “and now I don’t want to stand here talking to a fly-trap agent any longer! Come lift your boots!”
“I’m not an agent,” he said, trying to smile. “I’m the new—”
“Yes, I know you—you are the new man with the patent flat-iron, but we don’t want any, and you’d better go before I call the dog!”
“Will you give the lady my card, and say that I called?”
“No, I won’t; we are bored to death with cards and handbills and circulars. Come, I can’t stand here all day.”
“Didn’t know that I was a minister?” he asked, as he backed off.
“No, nor I don’t know it now; you look like the man who sold the woman next door a ten cent chromo for two dollars.”
“But here is my card.”
“I don’t care for cards, I tell you! If you leave that gate open, I will have to fling a flower-pot at you!”
“I will call again,” he said, as he went through the gate.
“It won’t do any good!” she shouted after him; “we don’t want no prepared food for infants—no piano music—no stuffed birds! I know the policeman on this beat, and if you come around here again, he’ll soon find out whether you are a confidence man or vagrant!”
And she took unusual care to lock the door.
WHAT SAMBO SAYS.
Now, in dese busy wukin’ days, dey’s changed de Scripter fashions, An’ you needn’t look to mirakuls to furnish you wid rations; Now, when you’s wantin’ loaves o’ bread, you got to go and fetch ’em, An’ ef you’s wantin’ fishes, you mus’ dig your wums an’ ketch ’em; For you kin put it down as sartin dat the time is long gone by, When sassages an’ ’taters use to rain fum out de sky! I nebber likes de cullud man dat thinks too much o’ eatin’; But frolics froo de wukin’ days, and snoozes at de meetin’; Dat jines de Temp’ance ’Ciety, an’ keeps a gettin’ tight, An’ pulls his water-millions in de middle ob de night! Dese milerterry nigger chaps, with muskets in deir han’s, Perradin’ froo de city to de music ob de ban’s, Had better drop deir guns, an’ go to marchin’ wid deir hoes An’ git a honest libbin’ as dey chop de cotton-rows, Or de State may put ’em arter while to drillin’ in de ditches, Wid more’n a single stripe a-runnin’ ’cross deir breeches. Well, you think dat doin’ nuffin’ ’tall is mighty sort o’ nice, But it busted up de renters in de lubly Paradise! You see, dey bofe was human bein’s jes’ like me an’ you, An’ dey couldn’t reggerlate deirselves wid not a thing to do; Wid plenty wuk befo’ ’em, an’ a cotton crop to make, Dey’d nebber thought o’ loafin’ roun’ an’ chattin’ wid de snake.
THE IRISH SLEIGH RIDE.
O don’t go way until you hear A story, though it may seem queer, Of a family known both near and far By the funny name of Ump Ha Ha. Mr. Ump Ha Ha, one day, Thought he would like to take a sleigh And ride upon the frozen snow; And Mrs. Ump Ha Ha said she would go, Taking all the family, of course, Including, too, the family horse. He was a mule, and a thin one, too; You could see his ribs where the hay stuck through. They hitched him up to an old-time bob. Then you ought to have seen the mob! There were Patrick, Mary Ump Ha Ha, Grace and Carrie Ump Ha Ha, Mike and Freddie Ump Ha Ha, Willie and Eddie Ump Ha Ha, Tim and Juley Ump Ha Ha, Rose and Peggy Ump Ha Ha, Lizzie and Mayme Ump Ha Ha, Big fat Jammie Ump Ha Ha. Fifteen people in one sleigh Started out to spend the day. The way they packed and jammed them in, It made the family horse look thin. As luck will have it, as it will, They started from the top of a hill. The hill was slippery; down they flew. How fast they went they never knew. The time they made it can’t be beat. The old mule had no use for his feet; He went like a bird or ships on sail; He flew with his ears and steered with his tail. It was a mile to the bottom and the bottom was mud, And they went down with a sickening thud. Mary Ump Ha Ha was dazed, Patrick Ump Ha Ha was crazed, Little Willie bumped his nose, Big fat Jammie she got froze. Fourteen doctors came at once. The old mule was buried in the ground. Did you ever see a dead mule laying around? It took four drays to get them home, And when they found they broke no bones, They all sat down and thanked their stars, And then they laughed out, Ump Ha Ha.
JANE JONES.
Jane Jones keeps a-whisperin’ to me all the time, An’ says: “Why don’t you make it a rule To study your lessons, an’ work hard an’ learn, An’ never be absent from school? Remember the story of Elihu Burritt, How he clumb up to the top; Got all the knowledge ’at he ever had Down in the blacksmithin’ shop.” Jane Jones she honestly said it was so; Mebby he did—I dunno; ’Course, what’s a-keepin’ me ’way from the top Is not never havin’ no blacksmithin’ shop. She said ’at Ben Franklin was awfully poor, But full o’ ambition and brains, An’ studied philosophy all ’is hull life— An’ see what he got for his pains. He brought electricity out of the sky With a kite an’ the lightnin’ an’ key, So we’re owin’ him more’n any one else For all the bright lights ’at we see. Jane Jones she actually said it was so. Mebby he did—I dunno; ’Course, what’s allers been hinderin’ me In not havin’ any kite, lightnin’ or key. Jane Jones said Columbus was out at the knees When he first thought up his big scheme; An’ all of the Spaniards an’ Italians, too, They laughed an’ just said ’twas a dream; But Queen Isabella she listened to him, An’ pawned all her jewels o’ worth, An’ bought ’im the “Santa Marier” ’n said: “Go hunt up the rest of the earth.” Jane Jones she honestly said it was so; Mebby he did—I dunno; ’Course, that may all be, but you must allow They ain’t any land to discover just now. Ben King.
DE OLE PLANTATION MULE.
A werry funny feller is de ole plantation mule; An’ nobody’ll play wid him unless he is a fool. De bestest ting to do w’en you meditates about him, Is to kinder sorter calkerlate you’ll get along widout him. W’en you try to ’proach dat mule from de front endwise, He look as meek as Moses, but his looks is full ob lies; He doesn’t move a muscle, he doesn’t even wink; An’ you say his dispersition’s better’n people tink. He stan’ so still that you s’pose he is a monument of grace; An’ you almos’ see a ’nevolent expression on his face; But dat ’nevolent expression is de mask dat’s allers worn; For ole Satan is behin’ it, jest as sure as you is born. Den you cosset him a little, an’ you pat his other end, An’ you has a reverlation dat he ain’t so much your friend; You has made a big mistake; but before de heart repents, You is histed werry sudden to de odder side de fence. Well, you feel like you’d been standin’ on de locomotive track An’ de engine come an’ hit you in de middle ob de back; You don’ know wat has happened, you can scarcely cotch your breff; But you tink you’ve made de ’quaintance ob a werry vi’lent deff.
ADAM NEVER WAS A BOY.
Of all the men the world has seen Since time his rounds began, There’s one I pity every day— Earth’s first and foremost man; And then I think what fun he missed By failing to enjoy The wild delights of youth-time, for He never was a boy. He never stubbed his naked toe Against a root or stone; He never with a pin-hook fished Along the brook alone; He never sought the bumblebee Among the daisies coy, Nor felt its business end, because He never was a boy. He never hookey played, nor tied The ever-ready pail, Down in the alley all alone, To trusting Fido’s tail. And when he home from swimmin’ came, His happiness to cloy, No slipper interfered, because He never was a boy. He might refer to splendid times ’Mong Eden’s bowers, yet He never acted Romeo To a six year Juliet. He never sent a valentine, Intended to annoy A good, but maiden aunt, because He never was a boy. He never cut a kite string, no! Nor hid an Easter egg; He never ruined his pantaloons A-playing mumble-peg; He never from the attic stole, A coon-hunt to enjoy, To find “the old man” watching, for He never was a boy. I pity him. Why should I not? I even drop a tear; He did not know how much he missed; He never will, I fear. And when the scenes of “other days” My growing mind employ, I think of him, earth’s only man Who never was a boy. T. C. Harbaugh.
A REMARKABLE CASE OF S’POSIN.
A man hobbled into the Colonel’s office upon crutches. Proceeding to a chair and making a cushion of some newspapers, he sat down very gingerly, placed a bandaged leg upon another chair, and said:
“Col. Coffin, my name is Briggs. I want to get your opinion about a little point of law. Now, Colonel, s’posin’ you lived up the pike here a half mile, next door to a man named Johnson. And s’posin’ you and Johnson was to get into an argument about the human intellect, and you was to say to Johnson that a splendid illustration of the superiority of the human intellect was to be found in the power of the human eye to restrain the ferocity of a wild animal. And s’posin’ Johnson was to remark that that was all bosh, because nobody could hold a wild animal with the human eye, and you should declare that you could hold the savagest beast that was ever born if you could once fix your gaze on him.
“Well, then, s’posin’ Johnson was to say he’d bet a hundred dollars he could bring a tame animal that you couldn’t hold with your eye, and you was to take him up on it, and Johnson was to ask you to come down to his place to settle the bet. You’d go, we’ll say, and Johnson’d wander round to the back of the house and pretty soon come front again with a dog bigger’n any four decent dogs ought to be. And then s’posin’ Johnson’d let go of that dog and set him on you, and he’d come at you like a sixteen-inch shell out of a howitzer, and you’d get scary about it and try to hold the dog with your eye and couldn’t.
“And s’posin’ you’d suddenly conclude that maybe your kind of an eye wasn’t calculated to hold that kind of a dog, and you’d conclude to run for a plum tree in order to have a chance to collect your thoughts and to try to reflect what sort of an eye would be best calculated to mollify that sort of a dog. You ketch my idea, of course?
“Very well, then; s’posin’ you’d take your eye off of that dog—Johnson, mind you, all the time hissing him on and laughing, and you’d turn and rush for the tree, and begin to swarm up as fast as you could. Well, sir, s’posin’ just as you got three feet from the ground Johnson’s dog would grab you by the leg and hold on like a vise, shaking you until you nearly lost your hold.
“And s’posin’ Johnson was to stand there and holloa, ‘Fix your eye on him, Briggs! Why don’t you manifest the power of the human intellect?’ and so on, howling out ironical remarks like those; and s’posin’ he kept that dog on that leg until he made you swear to pay the bet, and then at last had to pry the dog off with a hot poker, bringing away at the same time some of your flesh in the dog’s mouth, so that you had to be carried home on a stretcher, and to hire several doctors to keep you from dying with lock-jaw.
“S’posin’ this, what I want to know is, couldn’t you sue Johnson for damages and make him pay heavily for what that dog did? That’s what I want to get at.”
The Colonel thought for a moment, and then said:
“Well, Mr. Briggs, I don’t think I could. If I agreed to let Johnson set the dog at me, I should be a party to the transaction, and I could not recover.”
“Do you mean to say that the law won’t make that infernal scoundrel Johnson suffer for letting his dog eat me up?”
“I think not, if you state the case properly.”
“It won’t, hey?” exclaimed Mr. Briggs, hysterically. “Oh, very well, very well! I s’pose if that dog had chewed me all up it’d ’ve been all the same to this constitutional republic. But hang me if I don’t have satisfaction. I’ll kill Johnson, poison his dog, and emigrate to some country where the rights of citizens are protected!”
Then Mr. Briggs got on his crutches and hobbled out. He is still a citizen, and will vote at the next election.
MY PARROT.
Let your face express contempt on the word “pshaw,” and make the gesture in Figure 24 of Typical Gestures. Drawl out the word “yawned” in the third verse and give a comical wink in the fourth verse. Prolong the sound on “pshaw” in the last line.
I had a parrot once, an ugly bird, With the most wicked eye I ever saw, Who, though it comprehended all it heard, Would only say, “O pshaw!” I did my best to teach it goodly lore; I talked to it of medicine and law; It looked as if it knew it all before, And simply said, “O pshaw!” I sat me down upon a dry-goods box To stuff sound doctrine down its empty craw, It would have none of matters orthodox, But yawned and said, “O pshaw!” I talked to it of politics, finance; I hoped to teach the bird to say “Hurrah!” For my pet candidates when he’d a chance, He winked and chirped, “O pshaw!” I am for prohibition, warp and woof, But that bird stole hard cider through a straw, And then he teetered off at my reproof And thickly said, “O pshaw!” Enraged, I hurled a bootjack, missed my aim And plugged a passing stranger in the jaw; He wheeled to see from whence the missile came; The demon laughed “O pshaw!” I gave the creature to an old-maid aunt, And shook with parting grief its skinny claw. “He’ll serve to cheer,” she said, “my lonely hearth, For I’d not marry the best man on earth!” “O pshaw!” sneered Poll, “O psha-a-w!” Emma H. Webb.
BAKIN AND GREENS.
Yo’ may tell me ob pastries and fine oyster patties, Of salads and crowkets an’ Boston baked beans, But dar’s nuffin so temptin’ to dis nigger’s palate As a big slice of bakin and plenty ob greens. Jes bile ’em right down, so dey’ll melt when yo’ eat ’em; Hab a big streak ob fat an’ a small streak o’ lean; Dar’s nuffin on earf yo’ kin fix up to beat ’em, Fur de king ob all dishes am bakin and greens. Den take some co’hnmeal and sif’ it and pat it. An’ put it in de ashes wid nuffin between; Den blow off de ashes and set right down at it, For dar’s nuffin like ashcake wid bakin and greens. ’Twill take de ole mammies to fix ’em up greasy, Wid a lot ob good likker and dumplin’s between, Take all yo’ fine eatin’, I won’t be uneasy, If you’ll gimme dat bakin wid plenty ob greens. Rich folks in dar kerrage may frow de dust on me; But how kin I envy dem men ob big means. Dey may hab de dispepsey and do’ they may scorn me, Dey can’t enjoy bakin wid a dish ob good greens. You may put me in rags, fill my cup up wid sorrow; Let joy be a stranger, and trouble my dreams, But I still will be smilin’, no pain kin I borrow, Ef you lebe me dat bakin wid plenty of greens.
HUNTING A MOUSE.
I was dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of the good times which I hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most startling scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann in agony. The voice came from the kitchen, and to the kitchen I rushed. The idolized form of my Maria was perched on a chair, and she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions and shouting “shoo,” in a general manner, at everything in the room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she screamed, “O Joshua! a mouse, shoo—wha—shoo—a great—ya—shoo—horrid mouse, and—she—ew—it ran right out of the cupboard—shoo—go way—O Lord—Joshua—shoo—kill it, oh, my—shoo.”
All that fuss, you see, about one little harmless mouse. Some women are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and set myself to poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down and ran off into another room. I found the mouse in a corner under the sink. The first time I hit it I didn’t poke it any on account of getting the poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink; and I did not hit it any more because the mouse would not stay still. It ran right toward me, and I naturally jumped, as anybody would; but I am not afraid of mice, and when the horrid thing ran up inside the leg of my pantaloons, I yelled to Maria because I was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my garment.
I did not lose my presence of mind for an instant. I caught the mouse just as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing firmly on the outside of the cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. I kept jumping around with all my might to confuse it, so that it would not think about biting, and I yelled so that the mice would not hear its squeaks and come to its assistance. A man can’t handle many mice at once to advantage. Besides, I’m not so spry as I was before I had that spine in my back and had to wear plasters.
Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen and asked what she should do—as though I could hold the mouse and plan a campaign at the same time. I told her to think of something, and she thought she would throw things at the intruder; but as there was no earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot took effect on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried two flat-irons and the coal-scuttle. She paused for breath; but I kept bobbing around. Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. “O Joshua,” she cried, “I wish you had not killed the cat.”
Then she got the tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I objected to that process, except as a last resort. Then she got some cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not dare to let go, for fear it would run up. Matters were getting desperate. I told her to think of something else, and I kept jumping. Just as I was ready to faint with exhaustion, I tripped over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell to the floor, very dead. I had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy.
That was not the end of the trouble, for before I had recovered my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole company followed him through, and they dragged hose around, and mussed things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted to thrash me because the house was not on fire, and I had hardly got him pacified before a policeman came in and arrested me. Some one had run down and told him I was drunk and was killing Maria. It was all Maria and I could do, by combining our eloquence, to prevent him from marching me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters quieted and the house clear.
Now when mice run out of the cupboard I go outdoors, and let Maria “shoo” them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun don’t pay for the trouble.
Joshua Jenkins.
THE VILLAGE SEWING SOCIETY.
This is a very amusing recitation when correctly rendered. The gossips make the most disparaging remarks about their neighbors, but are very pleasant to their faces. The words in parentheses should be spoken ‘aside’ in an undertone. A recital for one who can imitate different female voices.
“Mis’ Jones is late agin to-day: I’d be ashamed now ef ’twas me. Don’t tell it, but I’ve heerd folks say She only comes to get her tea.” “Law me! she needn’t want it here, The deacon’s folks ain’t much on eatin’: They haven’t made a pie this year! Of course, ’twon’t do to be repeatin’; “But old Mis’ Jenkins says it’s true (You know she lives just ’cross the way, And sees most everything they do.) She says she saw ’em t’other day—” “Hush, here comes Hannah! How d’ye do? Why, what a pretty dress you’ve got!” (“Her old merino made up new: I know it by that faded spot.”) “Jest look! there’s Dr. Stebbins’ wife”— “A bran-new dress and bunnit!—well— They say she leads him such a life! But, there! I promised not to tell.” “What’s that, Mis’ Brown? ‘All friends,’ of course; And you can see with your own eyes, That that gray mare’s the better horse, Though gossipin’ I do dispise.” “Poor Mary Allen’s lost her beau”— “It serves her right, conceited thing! She’s flirted awfully, I know. Say have you heard she kept his ring?” “Listen! the clock is striking six. Thank goodness! then it’s time for tea.” “Now ain’t that too much! Abby Mix Has folded up her work! Just see!” “Why can’t she wait until she’s told? Yes, thank you, deacon, here we come.” (“I hope the biscuits won’t be cold: No coffee? Wish I was tu hum!”) “Do tell, Mis’ Ellis! Did you make This cheese? the best I ever saw. Such jumbles too (no jelly cake): I’m quite ashamed to take one more.” “Good-by: we’ve had a first-rate time, And first-rate tea, I must declare. Mis’ Ellis’ things are always prime. (Well, next week’s meetin’ won’t be there!”)
SIGNS AND OMENS.
An old gentleman, whose style was Germanized, was asked what he thought of signs and omens.
“Vell, I don’t dinks mooch of dem dings, und I don’t pelieve averydings; but I dells you somedimes dere is somedings ash dose dings. Now de oder night I sit and reads mine newspaper, und my frau she speak und say—
“‘Fritz, de dog ish howling!’
“Vell, I don’ dinks mooch of dem dings, und I goes on und reads mine paper, und mine frau she says—
“‘Fritz, dere is somedings pad is happen,—der dog ish howling!’
“Und den I gets hop mit mineself und look out troo de wines on de porch, und de moon was shinin’, und mine leetle dog he shoomp right up und down like averydings, und he park at de moon, dat was shine so bright as never vas. Und ash I hauled mine het in de winder, de old voman she say—
“‘Mind, Fritz, I dells you dere ish someding pad ish happen. De dog ish howling.’
“Vell, I goes to ped, und I shleeps, und all night long ven I vakes up dere vas dat dog howling outside, und ven I dream I hear dat howling vorsher ash never. Und in de morning I kits up und kits mine breakfast, und mine frau she looks at me und say, werry solemn—
“‘Fritz, dere is somedings pad ish happen. De dog vas howl all night.’
“Und shoost den de newspaper came in, und I opens him und by shings, vot you dinks; dere vas a man’s vife cracked his skull in Philadelphia!”
THE GHOST.
Sing to the tune of Yankee Doodle the words designated.
’Tis about twenty years since Abel Law, A short, round-favored, merry Old soldier of the Revolutionary War, Was wedded to A most abominable shrew. The temper, sir, of Shakespeare’s Catharine Could no more be compared with hers, Than mine With Lucifer’s. Her eyes were like a weasel’s; she had a harsh Face, like a cranberry marsh. All spread With spots of white and red; Hair of the color of a wisp of straw, And a disposition like a cross-cut saw. The appellation of this lovely dame Was Nancy; don’t forget the name. Her brother David was a tall, Good-looking chap, and that was all; One of your great, big nothings, as we say Here in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes And cracking them on other folks. Well, David undertook one night to play The Ghost, and frighten Abel, who, He knew, Would be returning from a journey through A grove of forest wood That stood Below The house some distance—half a mile, or so. With a long taper Cap of white paper, Just made to cover A wig, nearly as large over As a corn-basket, and a sheet With both ends made to meet Across his breast, (The way in which ghosts are always dressed,) He took His station near A huge oak-tree, Whence he could overlook The road and see Whatever might appear. It happened that about an hour before, friend Abel Had left the table Of an inn, where he had made a halt, With horse and wagon, To taste a flagon, Of malt Liquor, and so forth, which, being done. He went on, Caring no more for twenty ghosts, Than if they were so many posts. David was nearly tired of waiting; His patience was abating; At length, he heard the careless tones Of his kinsman’s voice, And then the noise Of wagon-wheels among the stones. Abel was quite elated, and was roaring With all his might, and pouring Out, in great confusion, Scraps of old songs made in “the Revolution.” His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton And jovially he went on, Scaring the whip-po’-wills among the trees With rhymes like these:—[Sings.] “See the Yankees Leave the hill, With baggernetts declining, With lopped-down hats And rusty guns, And leather aprons shining.” “See the Yankees—Whoa! Why, what is that?” Said Abel, staring like a cat, As, slowly on, the fearful figure strode Into the middle of the road. “My conscience! what a suit of clothes! Some crazy fellow, I suppose. Hallo! friend, what’s your name? By the powers of gin, That’s a strange dress to travel in.” “Be silent, Abel; for I now have come To read your doom; Then hearken, while your fate I now declare. I am a spirit”—“I suppose you are; But you’ll not hurt me, and I’ll tell you why: Here is a fact which you cannot deny;— All spirits must be either good Or bad—that’s understood— And be you good or evil, I am sure That I’m secure. If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil— And I don’t know but you may be the Devil— If that’s the case, you’ll recollect, I fancy, That I am married to your sister Nancy!”
A BIG MISTAKE.
Recently our church had a new minister. He is a nice, good, sociable gentleman; but coming from a distant State, of course he was totally unacquainted with our people. Therefore it happened that during his pastoral calls, he made several ludicrous blunders. One as follows: The other evening he called upon Mrs. Haddon. She had just lost her husband, and she naturally supposed that his visit was relative to the sad occurrence. So, after a few common-places had been exchanged, she was not surprised to hear him remark:
“It was a sad bereavement, was it not, Mrs. Haddon?”
“Yes,” faltered the widow.
“Totally unexpected?”
“Oh, yes; I never dreamed of it.”
“He died in the barn, I suppose.”
“Oh, no; in the house.”
“Ah, well, I suppose you must have thought a great deal of him?”
“Of course, sir.”
This was with vim. The minister looked rather surprised, crossed his legs and renewed the conversation.
“Blind staggers was the disease, I believe.”
“No, sir,” snapped the widow. “Apoplexy.”
“Indeed; you must have fed him too much.”
“He was quite capable of feeding himself, sir.”
“Very intelligent he must have been. Died hard?”
“He did.”
“You had to hit him on the head with an axe to put him out of his misery, I am told.”
Mrs. Haddon’s eyes snapped fire.
“Whoever told you that did not speak the truth,” she haughtily uttered. “James died naturally.”
“Yes,” continued the minister, in a perplexed tone. “He kicked the side of the barn down in his last agonies, didn’t he?”
“No, sir; he did not.”
“Well, I have been misinformed, I suppose. How old was he?”
“Thirty-five.”
“He did not do much active work. Perhaps you are better without him, for you can easily supply his place with a better one.”
“Never! sir, will I find such a good one as he.”
“Oh, yes you will; he had the heaves bad, you know.”
“Nothing of the kind, sir.”
“Why, I recollect I saw him one day, with you on his back, and I distinctly recollect that he had the heaves, and walked as if he had the spring-halt.”
Mrs. H.’s eyes snapped fire, and she stared at the reverend visitor as if she imagined he was crazy.
“He could not have had the spring-halt, for he had a cork-leg,” she replied.
“A cork-leg—remarkable; but really, didn’t he have a dangerous trick of suddenly stopping and kicking the wagon all to pieces?”
“Never, sir; he was not mad.”
“Probably not. But there were some good points about him.”
“I should think so.”
“The way in which he carried his ears, for example.”
“Nobody ever noticed that particular merit,” said the widow, with much asperity, “he was warm-hearted, generous and frank.”
“Good qualities,” answered the minister. “How long did it take him to go a mile?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“Not much of a goer. Wasn’t his hair apt to fly?”
“He didn’t have any hair, he was bald-headed.”
“Quite a curiosity.”
“No, sir; no more of a curiosity than you are.”
The minister shifted uneasily, and got red in the face; but he returned to the attack.
“Did you use the whip much on him?”
“Never, sir.”
“Went right along without it, eh?”
“Yes.”
“He must have been a good sort of a brute!”
The widow sat down and cried.
“The idea of your coming here and insulting me,” she sobbed. “If my husband had lived you would not have done it. Your remarks in reference to the poor dead man have been a series of insults, and I won’t stand it.”
He colored, and looked dumfounded.
“Ain’t you Mrs. Blinkers?” at last he stammered, “and has not your gray horse just died?”
“No! no!” she cried. “I never owned a horse, but my husband died a week ago.”
Ten minutes later that minister came out of that house with the reddest face ever seen on mortal man.
“And to think,” he groaned, as he strode home, “that I was talking horse to that woman all the time—and she was talking husband.”
THE DUEL.
Imitate the “bow-wow” of the dog and the “me-ow” of the cat: at least, so deliver the words as to convey the idea of the barking and the mewing.
The gingham dog and the calico cat Side by side on the table sat; ’Twas half-past twelve, and what do you think, Neither of them had slept a wink! And the old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate Seemed to know, as sure as fate, There was going to be an awful spat. (I wasn’t there—I simply state What was told to me by the Chinese plate.) The gingham dog went “bow-wow-wow!” And the calico cat replied “me-ow?” And the air was streaked for an hour or so With fragments of gingham and calico. While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place Up with its hands before its face, For it always dreaded a family row! (Now mind, I’m simply telling you What the old Dutch clock declares is true.) The Chinese plate looked very blue And wailed: “Oh, dear what shall we do?” But the gingham dog and the calico cat Wallowed this way and tumbled that, And utilized every tooth and claw In the awfulest way you ever saw— And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew! (Don’t think that I exaggerate I got my news from the Chinese plate.) Next morning where the two had sat They found no trace of the dog or cat; And some folks think unto this day That burglars stole that pair away; But the truth about that cat and pup Is that they ate each other up— Now, what do you think of that? (The old Dutch clock, it told me so, And that is how I came to know.) Eugene Field.
PLAYING JOKES ON A GUIDE.
European guides know about enough English to tangle every thing up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it. They know their story by heart—the history of every statue, painting, cathedral, or other wonder they show you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would; and if you interrupt, and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. All their lives long, they are employed in showing strange things to foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration.
After we discovered this, we never went into ecstasies any more, we never admired anything, we never showed any but impassible faces and stupid indifference in the presence of the sublimest wonders a guide had to display. We had found their weak point. We made some of those people savage, at times, but we never lost our serenity.
The doctor asked the questions generally, because he can keep his countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more imbecility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives. It comes natural to him.
The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion before any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as if he had swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation—full of impatience. He said:
“Come wis me, genteelmen!—come! I show you ze letter writing by Christopher Colombo!—write it himself!—write it wis his own hand!—come!”
He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling of keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread before us. The guide’s eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped the parchment with his finger.
“What I tell you, genteelmen! Is it not so? See! handwriting Christopher Colombo!—write it himself!”
We looked indifferent, unconcerned. The doctor examined the document very deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he said, without any show of interest,
“Ah—what—what did you say was the name of the party who wrote this?”
“Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!”
Another deliberate examination.
“Ah—did he write it himself, or—or how?”
“He write it himself!—Christopher Colombo! he’s own handwriting, write by himself!”
Then the doctor laid the document down, and said,
“Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could write better than that.”
“But zis is ze great Christo—”
“I don’t care who it is! It’s the worst writing I ever saw. Now you mustn’t think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not fools, by a good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them out!—and if you haven’t, drive on!”
We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more venture. He had something which he thought would overcome us. He said,
“Ah, genteelmen, you come wis me! I show you beautiful, oh, magnificent bust Christopher Colombo—splendid, grand, magnificent!”
He brought us before the beautiful bust—for it was beautiful—and sprang back and struck an attitude:
“Ah, look, genteelmen!—beautiful, grand—bust Christopher Colombo!—beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!”
The doctor put up his eye-glass—procured for such occasions:
“Ah—what did you say this gentleman’s name was?”
“Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!”
“Christopher Colombo—the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what did he do?”
“Discover America!—discover America, oh, ze devil!”
“Discover America? No—that statement will hardly wash. We are just from America ourselves. We heard nothing about it. Christopher Colombo—pleasant name—is—is he dead?”
“Oh, corpo di Baccho!—three hundred year!”
“What did he die of?”
“I do not know. I cannot tell.”
“Small-pox, think?”
“I do not know, genteelmen—I do not know what he died of.”
“Measles, likely?”
“Maybe—maybe. I do not know—I think he die of something.”
“Parents living?”
“Im-possible!”
“Ah—which is the bust and which is the pedestal?”
“Santa Maria!—zis ze bust!—zis ze pedestal!”
“Ah, I see, I see—happy combination—very happy combination indeed. Is—is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust?”
That joke was lost on the foreigner; guides cannot master the subtleties of the American joke.
We have made it interesting for this Roman guide. Yesterday we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful world of curiosities. We came very near expressing interest sometimes, even admiration. It was hard to keep from it. We succeeded, though. Nobody else ever did, in the Vatican museums. The guide was bewildered, nonplussed. He walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and exhausted all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure; we never showed any interest in anything. He had reserved what he considered to be his greatest wonder till the last—a royal Egyptian mummy, the best preserved in the world, perhaps. He took us there. He felt so sure, this time, that some of his old enthusiasm came back to him:
“See, genteelmen!—Mummy! Mummy!”
The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever.
“Ah—what did I understand you to say the gentleman’s name was?”
“Name?—he got no name!—Mummy!—’Gyptian mummy!”
“Yes, yes. Born here?”
“No. ’Gyptian mummy.”
“Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume?”
“No!—not Frenchman, not Roman!—born in Egypta!”
“Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality, likely. Mummy—mummy. How calm he is, how self-possessed! Is—ah—is he dead?”
“Oh, sacre bleu! been dead three thousan’ year!”
The doctor turned on him, savagely:
“Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this? Playing us for Chinamen because we are strangers and trying to learn! Trying to impose your vile second-hand carcasses on us! Thunder and lightning! I’ve a notion to—to—if you’ve got a nice fresh corpse, fetch him out!—or, by George, we’ll brain you!”
Mark Twain.
A PARODY.
The boy stood on the backyard fence, whence all but him had fled; The flames that lit his father’s barn shone just above the shed. One bunch of crackers in his hand, two others in his hat, With piteous accents loud he cried, “I never thought of that!” A bunch of crackers to the tail of one small dog he’d tied; The dog in anguish sought the barn, and ’mid its ruins died. The sparks flew wide and red and hot, they lit upon that brat; They fired the crackers in his hand, and e’en those in his hat. Then came a burst of rattling sound—the boy! Where was he gone? Ask of the winds that far around strewed bits of meat and bone, And scraps of clothes, and balls, and tops, and nails, and hooks and yarn— The relics of that dreadful boy that burned his father’s barn.
MAN’S DEVOTION.
Jake Boggles was a country youth, Who paid his debts and told the truth. He labored hard, and seemed content With life, no matter how it went, ’Till with a girl named Sally Skreels He fell in love head over heels. Now Sally’s father wasn’t worth A dollar or a foot of earth, And Jake’s paternal parent owed Most every other man he knowed; But Jake, who had a valiant heart, Vowed that he’d work and get a start, And with the help of Sally, dear, He’d own a farm within a year. Now Sally, who was cold And pretty—that is, pretty old, Pretended that for her dear Jacob The heaviest cross she’d gladly take up; But, really, she cared no more For Jake than for the shoes he wore. An old maid’s matrimonial chances Grow very slim as time advances, And this explains why Sally Skreels Proposed to share Jake’s bed and meals. They married. Time fled on apace— Jake rented old Bill Scroggins’ place And went to work resolved to make A fortune for his Sally’s sake. Poor soul, he toiled with all his might, From early morn till late at night; But, ah! no kind, approving word From Sally’s lips was ever heard. She lay around, chewed wax and sung Love songs she’d learned when she was young; Read old love letters she had got From boobies, long since gone to pot; Yawned o’er a scrap book filled with bosh Collected by her Cousin Josh; Trimmed her old hat in various ways With all the gew-gaws she could raise. In fact, she proved herself to be A slip-shod lump of frivolity. Poor Jake, he worked and ate cold meals, Wore socks with neither toes nor heels, Washed his own clothes when Sunday came And sewed fresh buttons on the same. Got breakfast while his Sally slept, Washed up the dishes, dusted, swept— There’s no use talking, Jacob strove To prove how perfect was his love. One day Sal ate too many beans, Grew sick and went to other scenes. From that day forth Jake seldom spoke, Or smiled, or worked—his heart was broke. In the poor-house now he sits and grieves, And wipes his eyes on his threadbare sleeves. Moral.—I’ve told you this to let you see What an all-fired fool a man can be. Parmenas Hill.
AUNT POLLY’S “GEORGE WASHINGTON.”
“George Washin’ton!”
From down the hill the answer floated up, muffled by the distance.
“Ma’m?”
“Come heah, sah!”
Aunt Polly folded her arms and leaned against the doorway and waited for the appearance of her son and heir above the edge of the hill on which her cabin stood.
“George Washin’ton,” she said, “you sartainly is de laziest nigger I eber see. How, long, sah, does you s’pose you was a-comin’ up dat hill? You don’ no? I don’ nether; ’twas so long I los’ all count. You’ll bring yore mudder’s gray har in sorrer to de grabe yet, wid yore pokin’ and slowness, see if you don’. Heah I is waitin’ and a’waitin’ on you for to go down to ole Mass’ Cunningham’s wid dose tings. Take ’em to de young city man boardin’ dar, and tell him dese is his clean close dat yore old mudder washed, and dat dey comes to fifty cents. And if you let de grass grow under yore feet, George Washin’ton, or spiles dese close, or loses dat fifty cents, I’ll break yore bones, chile, when you comes home. You heah dat?”
George Washington rested his basket on his hip and jogged along. Meditations as to what his mother might have for supper on the strength of the fifty cents brightened his visage and accelerated his steps. His fancy revelled in visions of white biscuit and crisp bacon floating in its own grease. He was gravely weighing the relative merits of spring chicken fried and more elderly chicken stewed, when—
There was only one muddy place on George Washington’s route to town; that was down at the foot of the hill, by the railroad track. Why should his feet slip from under him, and he go sliding into the mud right there? It was too bad. It did not hurt him, but those shirts and shining collars, alas! Some of them tumbled out, and he lifted them up all spattered and soiled.
He sat down and contemplated the situation with an expression of speechless solemnity. He was afraid to go back, and he was afraid to go on, but he would rather face the “city man” than his mother; and with a sigh that nearly burst the twine string that did duty as a suspender, he lifted the linen into its place and trudged on.
The young folks at “Mass’ Cunningham’s” sent him to the boarder’s room, with many a jest on his slowness, and he shook in his ragged clothes when the young man lifted the things from the basket to put them away.
He exclaimed in anger at their soiled appearance, and, of course, immediately bundled them back into the basket.
“Here, George,” he said, “take these back to your mother to wash, and don’t you dare, you little vagabond! ever bring such looking things to me again.”
Slowly the namesake of our illustrious countryman climbed the hill toward home; slowly he entered and set down his basket. The rapidity with which he emerged from the door, about three minutes later, might have led a stranger to believe that it was a different boy. But it was not. It was the same George.
The next afternoon came around, and George Washington again departed on his errand. No thoughts of supper or good things ran rife in his brain to-day. He attended strictly to business. His mother, standing in the door-way, called after him: “Be keerful, George Washin’ton, ’bout de train. I heer’d it at de upper junction jess now. It’ll be long trectly.”
George Washington nodded and disappeared. He crossed the muddy place in safety, and breathed more freely. He was turning toward town, when something on the railroad track caught his eye. There lay the big rock that had been on the hill above ever since he could remember; it was right in the track. He wondered how the coming train would get over it.
Across on the other side, the hill sloped down to a deep ravine. What if the big rock pushed the train off! His heart gave a great jump. He had heard them talk of an accident once, where many people were killed. He thought of running to tell somebody, but it was a good way to the next house, and just then he heard the train faintly; it was too late for that. Just above, in the direction that the train was coming, was a sharp curve. It could not stop if it came tearing round that, and on the other side of the bend was a very high trestle that made him sick to look at.
The slow, dull boy stood and trembled.
In a moment more he had set his basket carefully in the bush, and ran around the curve. At the edge of the trestle he paused, and then dropping on his hands and knees, crept as fast as he could over the dizzy height to the other side. He staggered to his feet, and ran on.
When the train dashed in sight, the engineer spied a small object on the track, pointing frantically behind him. The child ran away from the track, but continued to wave and point and shout “Stop!”
The train whistled and slackened. George Washington, hatless and breathless, was jerked into the engine, where he gasped, “Big rock on de track round de curve.” The train was moved slowly over the trestle and stopped in the curve, and there, indeed, was the rock that might have hurled them all down to death, but for that ridiculous-looking little boy.
Meanwhile in the cabin, Aunt Polly was restless, and concluded to go down to the foot of the hill, and wait for George Washington. Behold, then, as she appeared down the path, the sight that met her gaze.
“What’s dis boy bin a-doin’! I’se his mother. I is. What’s dis mean?”
On this identical train was the president of the road.
“Why, auntie,” he said, “you have a boy to be proud of. He crept over the high trestle and warned the train, and maybe saved all our lives. He is a hero.”
Aunt Polly was dazed.
“A hearo,” she said; “dat’s a big t’ing for a little black nigger. George Washin’ton, whar’s dat basket?”
“In de bushes, mammy; I’se gwine for to get it.”
The train was nearly ready to be off. The president called Aunt Polly aside, and she came back with a beaming face, and five ten-dollar bills clutched in her hands.
Aunt Polly caught George in her arms.
“Dey sed you was a hearo, George Washin’ton, but you is yore mammy’s own boy, and you shall hab chicken for yore supper dis berry night, and a whole poun’ cake to-morrow, yes, you shall!”
And when George Washington returned the gentleman his washing, he, like his namesake, was a hero.
MINE VAMILY.
Dimpled scheeks, mit eyes off plue, Mout’ like it was mois’d mit dew, Und leedle teeth shust peekin’ droo— Dot’s der baby. Curly hed und full of glee. Drowsers all oudt at der knee— He vas peen playin’ horss, you see— Dot’s leedle Otto. Von hunderd seexty in der shade, Der oder day ven she was veighed— She beats me soon, I vas afraid— Dot’s mine Gretchen. Bare-footed hed, und pooty stoudt, Mit grooked legs dot vill bend oudt, Fond off his beer und sauer-kraut— Dot’s me himself. Von schmall young baby, full of fun, Von leedle, pright-eyed, roguish son, Von frau to greet vhen vork was done— Dot’s mine vamily. Yawcob Strauss.
AT THE GARDEN GATE.
They lingered at the garden gate, The moon was full above; He took her darling hand in his, The trembling little dove, And pressed it to his fervent lips, And softly told his love. About her waist he placed his arm, He called her all his own; His heart, he said, it ever beat For her, and her alone; And he was happier than a king Upon a golden throne. “Come weal, come woe,” in ardent tone This youth continued he, “As is the needle to the pole, So I will constant be; No power on earth shall tear thee, love, Away, I swear, from me!” From out the chamber window popped A grizzly night-capped head; A hoarse voice yelled: “You, Susan Jane, Come in and go to bed!” And that was all—it was enough; The young man wildly fled.
THE MINISTER’S CALL.
The Rev. Mr. Mulkittle having successfully organized a church fair, was a very happy man. It had been hinted that the congregation were a “little short” on raising the reverend gentleman’s salary, hence the proceeds of the fair would more than supply the deficiency.
The good man, after retiring from a profitable afternoon’s work, during which he had assured dyspeptics that potato salad would not hurt them, seated himself by the library fire, when the “youngest” entered.
“Where have you been, pa?”
“To the fair.”
“What fair?”
“Our church fair.”
“Did they have it out to the fair grounds?”
“No.”
“Where then?”
“Down town in our church.”
“Did they have horses and cows?”
“Oh, no! they didn’t show anything.”
“Well, what did they do?”
“Oh, they sold toys and something for people to eat.”
“Did they sell it to the poor?”
“They sold it to anybody who had money.”
“Oh, papa! it was the feast of the passover, wasn’t it?”
Mr. Mulkittle took up a newspaper and began to read.
“Do you want me to be a preacher, pa?”
“Yes, if the Lord calls you.”
“Did the Lord call you?”
“Yes.”
“What did He say?”
“Told me to go and preach the gospel to every living creature.”
“Didn’t tell you to preach to niggers, did He?”
“That’ll do now.”
“You thought the Lord had called you again the other day, did you?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said the minister.
“Don’t you know the other day you told ma you had a call to go to some place, and you would go if you could get two hundred dollars more. Wouldn’t the Lord give you the two hundred dollars?”
“Didn’t I tell you to hush, sir?” said the minister, throwing down his paper and glaring at his son.
“No, sir; you told me to behave myself.”
“Well, see that you do.”
“I wish you’d tell me—”
“Tell you what?”
“’Bout the call.”
“Well, a church in another town wanted me to come there and preach.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
“Couldn’t afford it. They didn’t pay enough money.”
“Call wasn’t loud enough, was it?”
“Well, hardly,” asserted Mr. Mulkittle, with a smile. “It wasn’t loud enough to be very interesting.”
“If it had been louder, would you went?”
“I should have gone if they had offered me more money.”
“It wasn’t the Lord that called you that time then, was it?”
“I think not.”
“How much money did the Lord offer you?”
“Do you see that door?”
“No sir; which door?”
“That one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, go out and shut it.”
“I want to stay in here.”
“You cannot.”
“Why?”
“Because you are too foolishly inquisitive.”
“What’s foolish ’quisitive?”
“Asking so many questions.”
“How many must I ask?”
“None.”
“Then I couldn’t talk, could I?”
“It would be better for you, if you couldn’t talk so much.”
“How much must I talk?”
“Here, I’ll give you ten cents now, if you’ll go away and hush.”
“Call ain’t strong enough,” said the boy, shaking his head.
“Well, here’s a quarter,” said the preacher, smiling.
“Call is strong enough; I’ll go.”
LED BY A CALF.
One day through the primeval wood A calf walked home, as good as calves should, But made a trail all bent askew, A crooked trail, as all calves do. Since then two hundred years have fled, And, I infer, the calf is dead. But still he left behind his trail, And thereby hangs a mortal tale. The trail was taken up next day By a lone dog that passed that way, And then a wise bell-wether sheep Pursued the trail o’er vale and steep, And drew the flock behind him, too, As good bell-wethers always do. And from that day, o’er hill and glade, Through those old woods a path was made. And many men wound in and out, And dodged and turned and bent about, And uttered words of righteous wrath, Because ’twas such a crooked path; But still they followed—do not laugh— The first migration of that calf, And through the winding woodway stalked Because he wabbled when he walked. This forest path became a lane, That bent and turned and turned again; This crooked lane became a road, Where many a poor horse, with his load, Toiled on beneath the burning sun, And traveled some three miles in one. And thus a century and a half They trod the footsteps of that calf. The years passed on in swiftness fleet, The road became a village street. And this, before men were aware, A city’s crowded thoroughfare, And soon the central street was this Of a renowned metropolis. And men two centuries and a half Trod in the footsteps of that calf; Each day a hundred thousand rout Followed the zigzag calf about; And o’er his crooked journey went The traffic of a continent. A hundred thousand men were led By one calf near three centuries dead.
TOM GOLDY’S LITTLE JOKE.
Tom Goldy was a ladies’ man, And popular among them, very— The reason why? Because he was A maker of confectionery. Tom’s peppermints and caramels Were always fresh and handy; And so he entertained his guests With packages of candy. Tom gave a grand reception once— It was a sweet occasion— The ladies took his caramels And needed no persuasion. And when he freely passed around His most delicious fare, To all the damsels there that night He gave an equal share. But one, and she a gossip, too, Was singled out for honor, By having twice what others had Of sweets bestowed upon her. “Twice what you gave us.” One and all Against Tom laid this charge; Tom slyly winked and said, “Why not? Her mouth is twice as large.”
HOW HEZEKIAH STOLE THE SPOONS.
In a quiet little Ohio village, many years ago, was a tavern where the stages always changed, and the passengers expected to get breakfast. The landlord of the said hotel was noted for his tricks upon travelers, who were allowed to get fairly seated at the table, when the driver would blow his horn (after taking his “horn”), and sing out, “Stage ready, gentlemen!”—whereupon the passengers were obliged to hurry out to take their seats, leaving a scarcely tasted breakfast behind them, for which, however, they had to pay over fifty cents! One day, when the stage was approaching the house of this obliging landlord, a passenger said that he had often heard of the landlord’s trick, and he was afraid they would not be able to eat any breakfast.
“What!—how? No breakfast!” exclaimed the rest.
“Exactly so gents, and you may as well keep your seats and tin.”
“Don’t they expect passengers to breakfast?”
“Oh! yes! they expect you to it, but not to eat it. I am under the impression that there is an understanding between the landlord and the driver that for sundry and various drinks, etc., the latter starts before you can scarcely commence eating.”
“What on airth are you all talking about? Ef you calkelate I’m going to pay four and ninepence for my breakfast, and not get the valee on’t you’re mistaken,” said a voice from a back seat, the owner of which was one Hezekiah Spaulding—though “tew hum” they call him “Hez” for short. “I’m goin’ to get my breakfast here, and not pay nary red cent till I do.”
“Then you’ll be left.”
“Not as you knows on, I guess I won’t.”
“Well, we’ll see,” said the other, as the stage drove up to the door and the landlord ready “to do the hospitable,” says—
“Breakfast just ready, gents! Take a wash, gents? Here’s water, basins, towels, and soap.”
After performing the ablutions, they all proceeded to the dining-room, and commenced a fierce onslaught upon the edibles, though Hez took his time. Scarcely had they tasted their coffee when they heard the unwelcome sound of the horn, and the driver exclaim, “Stage ready!” Up rise eight grumbling passengers, pay their fifty cents, and take their seats.
“All on board, gents?” inquires the host.
“One missing,” said they.
Proceeding to the dining-room the host finds Hez very coolly helping himself to an immense piece of steak, the size of a horse’s hip.
“You’ll be left, sir! Stage going to start.”
“Wall, I hain’t got nothin’ agin it,” drawls out Hez.
“Can’t wait, sir—better take your seat.”
“I’ll be blowed ef I do, nother, till I’ve got my breakfast! I paid for it, and I am goin’ to get the valee on’t it; and ef you calkelate I hain’t you are mistaken.”
So the stage did start, and left Hez, who continued his attack upon the edibles. Biscuit, coffee, etc., disappeared before the eyes of the astonished landlord.
“Say, squire, them there cakes is ’bout eat—fetch on another grist on ’em. You” (to the waiter), “’nother cup of that ere coffee. Pass them eggs. Raise your own pork, squire? This is ’mazin’ nice ham. Land ’bout here tolerable cheap, squire? Hain’t much maple timber in these parts, hev ye? Dew right smart trade, squire, I calkelate?” And thus Hez kept quizzing the landlord until he had made a hearty meal.
“Say, squire, now I’m ’bout to conclude paying my devowers to this ere table, but just give us a bowl of bread and milk to top off with; I’d be much obleeged tew ye.”
So out go the landlord and waiter for the bowl, milk, and bread, and set them before him.
“Spoon, tew, ef you please.”
But no spoon could be found. Landlord was sure he had plenty of silver ones lying on the table when the stage stopped.
“Say, dew ye? dew ye think them passengers is goin’ to pay ye for a breakfuss and not git no compensashun?”
“Ah! what? Do you think any of the passengers took them?”
“Dew I think? No, I don’t think, but I’m sartin. Ef they are all as green as yew bout here I’m going to locate immediately and tew wonst.”
The landlord rushes out to the stable, and starts a man off after the stage, which had gone about three miles. The man overtakes and says something to the driver in a low tone. He immediately turns back, and on arriving at the hotel Hez comes out, takes his seat, and says:
“How are yew, gents? I’m glad to see yew.”
“Can you point out the man you think has the spoons?” asked the landlord.
“P’int him out? Sartenly I ken. Say, squire, I paid yew four and ninepence for a breakfuss, and I calkelate I got the valee on’t it! You’ll find them spoons in the coffee-pot.”
“Go ahead! All aboard, driver.”
The landlord stared.
TWO KINDS OF POLLIWOGS.
Wiggle, waggle, how they go, Through the sunny waters, Swimming high and swimming low, Froggie’s sons and daughters. What a wondrous little tail Each black polly carries, Helm and oar at once, and sail, That for wind ne’er tarries. Lazy little elves! at morn Never in a hurry, In the brook where they were born Business did not worry. When the sun goes in they sink To their muddy pillow. There they lie and eat and drink Of soft mud their fill, oh. When has passed the gloomy cloud, And the storm is over, Up they come, a jolly crowd, From their oozy cover. Wiggle, waggle, how they go! Knowing nothing better, Yet they are destined to outgrow Each his dusky fetter. Watch! they now are changing fast, Some unduly cherish The dark skin whose use is past, So they sink and perish. Others, of their new-birth pain Bitterly complaining, Would forego their unknown gain, Polliwogs remaining. There are other folk, to-day, Who, with slight endeavor, “Give it up,” and so they stay Polliwogs forever. Augusta Moore.
THE BEST SEWING-MACHINE.
“Got one? Don’t say so! Which did you get? One of the kind to open and shut? Own it or hire it? How much did you pay? Does it go with a crank or a treadle? S-a-y. I’m a single man, and somewhat green; Tell me about your sewing-machine.” “Listen, my boy, and hear all about it: I don’t know what I could do without it; I’ve owned one now for more than a year, And like it so well that I call it ‘my dear;’ ’Tis the cleverest thing that ever was seen, This wonderful family sewing-machine. “It’s none of your angular Wheeler things, With steel-shod back and cast-iron wings; Its work would bother a hundred of his, And worth a thousand! Indeed it is; And has a way—you need not stare— Of combing and braiding its own back hair! “Mine is one of the kind to love, And wears a shawl and a soft kid glove; Has the merriest eyes and the daintiest foot, And sports the charmingest gaiter-boot, And a bonnet with feathers, and ribbons, and loops, With any infinite number of hoops. “None of your patent machines for me, Unless Dame Nature’s the patentee; I like the sort that can laugh and talk, And take my arm for an evening walk; That will do whatever the owner may choose, With the slightest perceptible turn of the screws; “One that can dance, and—possibly—flirt; And make a pudding as well as a shirt; One that can sing without dropping a stitch, And play the housewife, lady, or witch; Ready to give the sagest advice, Or to do up your collars and things so nice. “What do you think of my machine? A’n’t it the best that ever was seen? ’Tisn’t a clumsy, mechanical toy, But flesh and blood! Hear that, my boy? With a turn for gossip and household affairs, Which include, you know, the sewing of tears. “Tut, tut, don’t talk. I see it all— You needn’t keep winking so hard at the wall: I know what your fidgety fumblings mean; You would like, yourself, a sewing-machine! Well, get one, then—of the same design— There are plenty left where I got mine!”
HOW THEY SAID GOOD-NIGHT.
They have had a long evening together (three whole hours), but it doesn’t seem more than five minutes to them. Still, the inexorable clock is announcing the hour of eleven in the most forcible and uncompromising manner. He knows that he ought to go, because he must be at the store at seven in the morning; she fully realizes that his immediate departure is necessary, for has not her father threatened that he will come down and “give that young Simpkins a piece of his mind if he don’t leave by eleven o’clock in the future?” They both understand that the fatal hour has come, yet how they hate to part!
“Well, I suppose I must be going,” he says, with a long, regretful sigh.
“Yes, I suppose you must,” she rejoins.
Then they gaze into each other’s eyes; then she pillows her head upon his bosom; then their lips meet, and he mentally swears that if he can get his salary raised to eighteen dollars a week he will make her Mrs. G. W. Simpkins without further agonizing delay.
The clock looks on with a cynical expression on its face. It is doing its duty, and if old man Smith comes down stairs and destroys the peace of mind of this loving couple, it will not be its fault.
He asks her if she will not be happy when the time comes that they will never, never have to part, and she murmurs an affirmative response. Then follow more kissing and embracing. If G. W. Simpkins were told now that he would ever come home to her at 2 A.M. with fabulous tales of accidents by flood and field, and on the Elevated Railroad, would he believe it? No; a smile of incredulity and scorn would wreathe his lips, and he would forthwith clasp her to his breast.
He knows that other men do such things, but he is not that sort of man. Beside, he will have the immense advantage over all others of his sex in possessing the only absolutely perfect specimen of femininity extant. He thinks that he will never be happy anywhere away from her side, and he tells her so, and she believes him.
The clock does not announce the quarter-hour, because it is not built that way, but, nevertheless, it is now 11.15. They do not imagine that it is later than 11.02. He asks her if she ever loved any one else, and she says “No;” and then he reminds her of a certain Tom Johnson with whom she used to go to the theatre, at which she becomes angry and says that he (G. W. Simpkins) is a “real mean thing.” Then G. W. S. arises with an air of dignity, and says that he is much obliged to her for her flattering opinion; and she says that he is quite welcome.
Just then a heavy foot-fall is heard upstairs. She glances at the clock, and perceives to her dismay that it is 11.20. She had expected to have a nice little quarrel, followed by the usual reconciliation, but there is no time for that now. She throws her arms around his neck, and whispers in great agitation that she believes pa is coming. G. W. S. quakes inwardly, for her pa is about four sizes larger than himself, and of a cruel, vindictive nature. But he assumes an air of bravado, and darkly hints at the extreme probability that the room in which they stand will be the scene of a sanguinary conflict in the immediate future, should any one venture to cross his path. Then she begs him to remember that papa, notwithstanding his faults, is still her father. At this he magnanimously promises to spare the old man.
But the footstep is heard no more; papa does not appear. G. W. S. puts on his overcoat. Then the couple stand by the door and settle the Tom Johnson matter. She says she never cared for Tom Johnson, and he says he knows it and that he (G. W. S., you understand) is a brute, and that she is an angel, and that he will never again refer to the aforesaid Tom Johnson. He will, though, the very next time they meet, just as he has every time they have met for the last two months.
While they are talking the clock strikes the half hour, but they don’t hear it. The Johnson business disposed of, they discuss their future prospects, vow eternal fidelity, compare themselves to all the famous lovers of history (to none of whom they bear the slightest resemblance), make an appointment for Wednesday evening (on which occasion G. W. S. will have the extreme felicity of spending two-thirds of his week’s salary for theatre tickets and a supper at the Brunswick), and indulge in the usual osculation.
Suddenly the clock begins to strike twelve, and at the same moment a hoarse masculine cough is heard in the room overhead. The fatal moment has really and truly arrived this time. One more kiss, one more embrace, and they part—he to go home and oversleep in the morning, and be docked fifty cents at the store; she to receive the reproaches of an irate parent, who hasn’t been young for such a long time himself that he has forgotten all about it.
JOSIAR’S COURTING.
I never kin forgit the day That we went out a walkin’ And sot down on the river bank, And kept on hours a-talkin’; He twisted up my apron string, An’ folded it together, An’ said he thought for harvest-time ’Twas cur’us kind o’ weather. The sun went down as we sot there— Josiar seemed uneasy, An’ mother, she began to call: “Loweezy! Come, Loweezy!” An’ then Josiar spoke right up, As I wos just a startin’ An’ said, “Loweezy, what’s the use Of us two ever partin?” It kind o’ took me by surprise, An’ yet I knew ’twas comin’— I’d heard it all the summer long In every wild bee’s hummin’; I meant to hide my love from him, But seems as if he knew it; I’d studied out the way I’d act, But la! I couldn’t do it. It darker grew as we sot there, But Josiar seemed quite easy, And mother had to call again, “Loweezy! Come, Loweezy!”
Pathetic Recitations.
It is a common saying that the public speaker who can draw both smiles and tears from his audience is the highest type of orator. The same is true of the reciter. If you would awaken pathetic emotions in the hearts of your hearers, you must have recitations suited to this purpose, tender in sentiment and full of feeling. A charming collection of such pieces is here furnished.
Put yourself fully into the spirit of each selection. Do not deliver a pathetic recitation in a cold, unfeeling manner. Look well to the tones of your voice and facial expression. If you feel the words you are uttering, the subtle influence cannot fail to move those who hear you. You cannot put on an appearance of feeling; give reality to all the emotions your words express.
PLAY SOFTLY, BOYS.
Observe the Irish brogue in this selection.
I’m thinkin’ av the goolden head I nestled to my breast; They’re telling me, “He’s betther off.” And sayin’, “God knows best.” But, oh, my heart is breakin’ And the wild, wild waves at play Where the goolden head is buried low, Close to Manila Bay. I’m thinkin’ av the roguish eyes Of tender Irish gray; They’re tellin’ me, “He’s betther off,” And, “I’ll thank God some day.” But, oh, my heart is breakin’ And the wild, wild waves at play, And my baby’s eyes all closed in death Close to Manila Bay. I’m thinkin’ av the little hands That’s fastened ’round my heart; They’re tellin’ me, “Have courage, Sure, life’s to meet and part.” But, oh, my heart is breakin’ And the wild, wild waves at play, And my baby’s hands so stiff and cold Close to Manila Bay. I’m thinkin’ av the noble boy That kissed my tears away; They’re tellin’ me, “How brave he was, And foremost in the fray!” But, oh, my heart is breakin’ And the wild, wild waves at play, And my baby and my soldier dead— Close to Manila Bay. Play softly, boys, I know you will, Remembering he’s away— My boy, who proudly marched with ye On last St. Patrick’s Day. Play softly, boys, I know ye will, And the wild, wild waves at play, And your comrade lying lonely, Close to Manila Bay. Play softly, boys, I know ye will, And hush this pain to rest— And soothe the bitter agony That’s tearin’ at my breast. How can ye march at all, at all, And the wild, wild waves at play, And the boy who loved ye lying cold— Close to Manila Bay? Teresa Beatrice O’Hare.
IN THE BAGGAGE COACH AHEAD.
On a dark stormy night, as the train rattled on, All the passengers had gone to bed, Except one young man with a babe on his arm, Who sat there with a bowed-down head. The innocent one commenced crying just then, As though its poor heart would break. One angry man said, “Make that child stop its noise, For you’re keeping all of us awake.” “Put it out,” said another; “don’t keep it in here, We’ve paid for our berths and want rest.” But never a word said the man with the child, As he fondled it close to his breast. “Where is its mother? Go, take it to her—” This a lady then softly said. “I wish that I could,” was the man’s sad reply, “But she’s dead in the coach ahead.” Every eye filled with tears when his story he told, Of a wife who was faithful and true. He told how he’s saved up his earnings for years Just to build up a home for two. How, when Heaven had sent them this sweet little babe, Their young happy lives were blessed. In tears he broke down when he mentioned her name, And in tears tried to tell them the rest. Every woman arose to assist with the child; There were mothers and wives on that train, And soon was the little one sleeping in peace, With no thoughts of sorrow and pain. Next morn’ at a station he bade all good-bye. “God bless you,” he softly said. Each one had a story to tell in their home Of the baggage coach ahead. While the train rolled onward a husband sat in tears, Thinking of the happiness of just a few short years, For baby’s face brings pictures of a cherished hope that’s dead; But baby’s cries can’t wake her in the baggage coach ahead.
THE MISSING ONE.
The deep pathos of these lines should be expressed by a trembling utterance. Put tears in your voice, if you can do this difficult thing. All the life and spirit are taken out of the old man as he thinks of the regiment returning without his son, whose desolate grave is somewhere on the Cuban shore.
I don’t think I’ll go into town to see the boys come back; My bein’ there would do no good in all that jam and pack; There’ll be enough to welcome them—to cheer them when they come A-marchin’ bravely to the time that’s beat upon the drum— They’ll never miss me in the crowd—not one of ’em will care If, when the cheers are ringin’ loud, I’m not among them there. I went to see them march away—I hollered with the rest, And didn’t they look fine, that day, a-marchin’ four abreast, With my boy James up near the front, as handsome as could be, And wavin’ back a fond farewell to mother and to me! I vow my old knees trimbled so, when they had all got by, I had to jist set down upon the curbstone there and cry. And now they’re comin’ home again! The record that they won Was sich as shows we still have men, when men’s work’s to be done! There wasn’t one of ’em that flinched, each feller stood the test— Wherever they were sent they sailed right in and done their best! They didn’t go away to play—they knowed what was in store— But there’s a grave somewhere to-day, down on the Cuban shore! I guess that I’ll not go to town to see the boys come in; I don’t jist feel like mixin’ up in all that crush and din! There’ll be enough to welcome them—to cheer them when they come A-marchin’ bravely to the time that’s beat upon the drum, And the boys’ll never notice—not a one of ’em will care, For the soldier that would miss me ain’t a goin’ to be there! S. E. Kiser.
IN MEMORIAM.
It was a strange coincidence, and a fitting end for a noble old seaman who had given his life to the service of his country, that Rear-Admiral W. A. Kirkland, U. S. N., and once commandant at Mare Island, should die the day peace was declared between our country and Spain. In strong tones give the command, “Cease firing!” Point to “the red flames,” “the gray smoke-shrouded hills,” “the weary troops,” “the armored squadron,” etc. On the first two lines of the last verse use Figure 11 of Typical Gestures.
“Cease firing!” Lo, the bugles call— “Cease!” and the red flame dies away. The thunders sleep; along the gray Smoke-shrouded hills the echoes fall. “Cease firing!” Close the columns fold Their shattered wings; the weary troops Now stand at ease; the ensign droops; The heated chargers’ flanks turn cold. “Cease firing!” Down, with point reversed, The reeking, crimson sabre drips; Cool grow the fevered cannon’s lips— Their wreathing vapors far dispersed. “Cease firing!” From the sponson’s rim The mute, black muzzles frown across The sea, where swelling surges toss The armored squadrons, silent, grim. “Cease firing!” Look, white banners show Along the groves where heroes sleep— Above the graves where men lie deep— In pure, soft flutterings of snow. “Cease firing!” Glorious and sweet For country ’tis to die—and comes The Peace—and bugles blow and drums Are sounding out the Last Retreat. Thomas R. Gregory, U. S. N.
THE DYING NEWSBOY.
In an attic bare and cheerless, Jim, the news-boy, dying lay, On a rough but clean straw pallet, at the fading of the day; Scant the furniture about him, but bright flowers were in the room, Crimson phloxes, waxen lilies, roses laden with perfume. On a table by the bedside, open at a well-worn page, Where the mother had been reading, lay a Bible stained by age. Now he could not hear the verses; he was flighty, and she wept With her arms around her youngest, who close to her side had crept. Blacking boots and selling papers, in all weathers day by day, Brought upon poor Jim consumption, which was eating life away. And this cry came with his anguish for each breath a struggle cost, “’Ere’s the morning Sun and ’Erald—latest news of steamship lost. “Papers, mister? Morning papers?” Then the cry fell to a moan, Which was changed a moment later to another frenzied tone: “Black yer boots, sir? Just a nickel! Shine ’em like an evening star. It grows late, Jack! Night is coming. Evening papers, here they are!” Soon a mission teacher entered, and approached the humble bed; Then poor Jim’s mind cleared an instant, with his cool hand on his head. “Teacher,” cried he, “I remember what you said the other day, Ma’s been reading of the Saviour, and through Him I see my way. “He is with me! Jack, I charge you of our mother take good care When Jim’s gone! Hark! boots or papers, which will I be over there? Black yer boots, sir? Shine ’em right up! Papers! Read God’s book instead, Better’n papers that to die on! Jack——” one gasp, and Jim was dead! Mrs. Emily Thornton.
“COALS OF FIRE.”
The coffin was a plain one—no flowers on its top, no lining of rose-white satin for the pale brow, no smooth ribbons about the coarse shroud. The brown hair was laid decently back, but there was no crimped cap, with its neat tie beneath the chin. “I want to see my mother,” sobbed a poor child, as the city undertaker screwed down the top. “You can’t: get out of the way, boy! Why don’t somebody take the brat away?” “Only let me see her for one minute,” cried the hapless orphan, clutching the side of the charity box. And as he gazed into that rough face tears streamed down the cheek on which no childish bloom every lingered. Oh, it was pitiful to hear him cry, “Only once! let me see my mother only once!”