Part 1 — THE BOOK CANVASSER.
Reading edition
He came into my office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it upon the table, removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a ragged handkerchief that had been so long out of the wash that it was positively gloomy, he said,—
“Mr.———, I’m canvassing for the National Portrait Gallery; very valuable work; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece; contains pictures of all the great American heroes from the earliest times down to the present day. Everybody subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can’t take your name.
“Now, just cast your eyes over that,” he said, opening his book and pointing to an engraving. “That’s—lemme see—yes, that’s Columbus, perhaps you’ve heard sumfin’ about him. The publisher was telling me to-day, before I started out, that he discovered—No; was it Columbus that dis—Oh, yes, Columbus, he discovered America—was the first man here. He came over in a ship, the publisher said, and it took fire, and he staid on deck because his father told him to, if I remember right, and when the old thing busted to pieces he was killed. Handsome picture, ain’t it? Taken from a photograph, all of ’em are; done especially for this work. His clothes are kinder odd, but they say that’s the way they dressed in them days.
“Look at this one. Now, isn’t that splendid? That’s William Penn, one of the early settlers. I was reading t’other day about him. When he first arrived, he got a lot of Indians up a tree, and, when they shook some apples down, he set one on top of his son’s head, and shot an arrow plump through it and never grazed him. They say it struck them Indians cold; he was such a terrific shooter. Fine countenance, hasn’t he? Face shaved clean; he didn’t wear a mustache, I believe, but he seems to have let himself out on hair. Now, my view is, that every man ought to have a picture of that patriarch so’s to see how the fust settlers looked, and what kind of weskets they used to wear. See his legs too. Trousers a little short, maybe, as if he was going to wade in a creek, but he’s all there. Got some kind of a paper in his hand, I see. Subscription-list, I reckon. Now, how does that strike you?
“There’s something nice. That, I think, is—is—that—a—a—yes, to be sure, Washington,—you recollect him, of course. Some people call him Father of his Country; George—Washington. Had no middle name, I believe. He lived about two hundred years ago, and he was a fighter. I heard the publisher telling a man about him crossing the Delaware River up yer at Trenton; and seems to me, if I recollect right, I’ve read about it myself. He was courting some girl on the Jersey side, and he used to swim over at nights to see her, when the old man was asleep. The girl’s family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like a man to do that, don’t he? He’s got it in his eye. If it’d been me, I’d gone over on a bridge; but he probably wanted to show off afore her,—some men are so reckless, you know. Now, if you’ll conclude to take this, I’ll get the publisher to write out some more stories, and bring ’em round to you, so’s you can study up on him. I know he did ever so many other things; but I’ve forgot ’em, my memory’s so awful poor.
“Less see! Who have we next? Ah, Franklin! Benjamin Franklin! He was one of the old original pioneers, I think. I disremember exactly what he is celebrated for, but I think it was a—flying a—oh! yes, flying a kite, that’s it. The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flying a kite, you know, like boys do nowadays, and while she was a-flickering up in the sky, and he was giving her more string, an apple fell off a tree, and hit him on the head; then he discovered the attraction of gravitation, I think they call it. Smart, wasn’t it? Now, if you or me’d ’a’ been hit, it’d just ’a’ made us mad, like as not, and set us a-ravin’. But men are so different! One man’s meat’s another man’s pison. See what a double chin he’s got. No beard on him, either, though a goatee would have been becoming to such a round face. He hasn’t got on a sword, and I reckon he was no soldier; fit some when he was a boy, maybe, or went out with the home-guard, but not a regular warrior. I ain’t one myself, and I think all the better of him for it.
“Ah, here we are! Look at that. Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith! Isn’t that gorgeous? See how she kneels over him, and sticks out her hands while he lays on the ground, and that big fellow with a club tries to hammer him up! Talk about woman’s love! There it is for you! Modocs, I believe. Anyway, some Indians out West there, somewheres; and the publisher tells me that Captain Shackanasty, or whatever his name is there, was going to bang old Smith over the head with a log of wood, and this here girl she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and she broke loose, and jumped forward, and says to the man with a stick, ‘Why don’t you let John alone? Me and him are going to marry, and if you kill him I’ll never speak to you as long as I live,’ or words like them; and so the man he give it up, and both of them hunted up a preacher, and were married, and lived happy ever afterward. Beautiful story, isn’t it? A good wife she made him, too, I’ll bet, if she was a little copper-colored. And don’t she look just lovely in that picture? But Smith appears kinder sick, evidently thinks his goose is cooked; and I don’t wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on him with such a discouraging club.
“And now we come to—to—ah—to—Putnam—General Putnam: he fought in the war, too; and one day a lot of ’em caught him when he was off his guard, and they tied him flat on his back on a horse, and then licked the horse like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go pitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the house, with General Putnam lying there nearly skeered to death! Leastways the publisher said somehow that way, and I once read about it myself. But he came out safe, and I reckon sold the horse, and made a pretty good thing of it. What surprises me is, he didn’t break his neck; but maybe it was a mule, for they’re pretty sure-footed, you know. Surprising what some of these men have gone through, ain’t it?
“Turn over a couple of leaves. That’s General Jackson. My father shook hands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in New Orleans. Broke up the rebel legislature, and then, when the Ku Kluxes got after him, he fought ’em behind cotton breastworks, and licked ’em till they couldn’t stand. They say he was terrific when he got real mad,—hit straight from the shoulder, and fetched his man every time. Andrew, his fust name was; and look how his hair stands up.
“And then, here’s John Adams, and Daniel Boone, and two or three pirates, and a whole lot more pictures, so you see it’s cheap as dirt. Lemme have your name, won’t you?”
THE ENGINEER’S STORY.
Han’som, stranger? Yes, she’s purty, an’ ez peart ez she kin be. Clever? W’y, she ain’t no chicken, but she’s good enough fur me. What’s her name? ’Tis kind o’ common, yit I ain’t ashamed to tell, She’s ole “Fiddler” Filkin’s daughter, and her dad he calls her “Nell.” I wuz drivin’ on the Central jist about a year ago, On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe. There’s no end o’ skeery places. ’Tain’t a road fur one who dreams, With its curves an’ awful tres’les over rocks an’ mountain streams. ’Twuz an afternoon in August; we hed got behind an hour, An’ wuz tearin’ up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower, Round the bends an’ by the ledges ’bout ez fast ez we could go, With the mountain-peaks above us an’ the river down below. Ez we come nigh to a tres’le cros’t a holler, deep an’ wild, Suddenly I saw a baby,—’twuz the station-keeper’s child,— Toddlin’ right along the timbers with a bold an’ fearless tread, Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead. I jist jumped, an’ grabbed the throttle, an’ I fa’rly held my breath, Fur I felt I couldn’t stop her till the child was crushed to death, When a woman sprang afore me like a sudden streak o’ light, Caught the boy, an’ twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight. I jist whis’l’d all the brakes on. An’ we worked with might an’ main, Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn’t stop the train, An’ it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by! An’ the river roared below us,—I shell hear her till I die. Then we stopped; the sun wuz shinin’; I ran back along the ridge, An’ I found her—dead? No, livin’! She wuz hangin’ to the bridge, Where she dropped down through the cross-ties with one arm about a sill, An’ the other round the baby, who wuz yellin’ fur to kill. So we saved ’em. She wuz gritty. She’s ez peart ez she kin be; Now we’re married; she’s no chicken, but she’s good enough for me. An’ ef eny ask who owns her, w’y! I ain’t ashamed to tell— She’s my wife. Ther’ ain’t none better than ole Filkin’s daughter Nell. Eugene J. Hall.
THE COMING WAVE.
Dipper Bay was a little inlet, almost land-locked, in which the water was deep enough to float his sloop at this time of tide, and its high rocky shores would afford him a perfect protection from the fury of any squall, or even hurricane. But Leopold felt that his chances of reaching this secure haven were but small, for the breeze was very light.
The sloop “Rosabel” was but a short distance from the shore when the wind entirely subsided, and the long rollers were as smooth as glass. The lightning glared with fearful intensity, and the thunder boomed like the convulsions of an earthquake. By this time Rosabel [for whom the sloop had been named], who had before enjoyed the sublimity of the coming storm, now began to realize its terrors, and to watch the handsome boatman with the deepest anxiety. The sails flapped idly in the motionless air, and Dipper Bay was still half a mile distant.
“Don’t be alarmed, Miss Hamilton,” said Leopold. “If the squall will keep off only a few moments, we shall be in a safe place.”
The skipper evidently “meant business;” and, shipping the long oars, he worked with a zeal which seemed to promise happy results, and Rosabel began to feel a little re-assured. But the sloop was too large, and too broad on the beam, to be easily rowed, and her progress was necessarily very slow.
“Can’t I help you, Leopold?” asked the maiden, when she saw what a tremendous effort the boatman was making.
“You may take the tiller, and steer for Dip Point, if you please,” replied Leopold, knowing that his beautiful passenger would be better satisfied if she could feel that she was doing something.
Leopold plied his oars with all the vigor of a manly frame, intent upon reaching the little bay, where the high rocks would shelter his craft from the fury of the storm. Then a breeze of wind came, and he resumed his place at the tiller. He had almost reached the haven when he saw coming down over the waters a most terrific squall. Before he could haul down his mainsail, the tempest struck the “Rosabel.” He placed his fair charge in the bottom of the boat, which the savage wind was driving towards the dangerous rocks. Before he could do any thing to secure the sail, the main-sheet parted at the boom. He cast off the halliards, but the sail was jammed and would not come down.
The “Rosabel” was almost upon the rocks. Seizing an oar, Leopold, satisfied that he could do nothing to save the boat, worked her away from the rocks, so that she would strike upon the narrow beach he had just left. The fierce squall was hurling her with mad speed upon the shore. By the most tremendous exertion, and at the imminent peril of his life, he succeeded in guiding her to the beach, upon which she struck with prodigious force, crushing in her keel and timbers beneath the shock. Without a word of explanation, he grasped the fair Rosabel in his arms, and leaped into the angry surges, which were driven high upon the rocks above him. The tide had risen so that there was hardly room under the cliff for him to stand; but he bore her to this only partial refuge from the fury of the storm.
The tempest increased in violence, and the huge billows rolled in with impetuous fury upon him. Grasping his fair burden in his arms, with Rosabel clinging to him in mortal terror, he paused a moment to look at the angry sea. There was a narrow shelf of rock near him, against which the waves beat with terrible violence. If he could only get beyond this shelf, which projected out from the cliffs, he could easily reach the Hole in the Wall, where Harvey Barth had saved himself in just such a storm. He had born Rosabel some distance along the beach, both drenched by the lashing spray, and his strength was nearly exhausted. The projecting shelf was before him, forbidding for the moment his further progress.
Placing his left foot on a rock, his fair but heavy burden on his knee, clasping her waist with his left hand, while his right was fastened for support in a crevice of the cliff, he paused for an instant to recover his breath and watch for a favorable chance to escape from his perilous position. Rosabel, in her terror, had thrown her arms around his neck, clinging to him with all her might. When he paused, she felt, reposing on his powerful muscles, that she was safe—she confessed it afterwards; though, in that terrible sea and near those cruel rocks, the strength of the strongest man was but weakness. Leopold waited. If the sea would only recede for an instant, it would give him the opportunity to reach the broader beach beyond the shelf, over which he could pass to the Hole in the Wall. It was a moment of hope, mingled with a mighty fear.
A huge billow, larger than any he had yet seen, was rolling in upon him, crested and reeking with foam, and might dash him and his feeble charge, mangled and torn, upon the jagged rocks. Still panting from the violence of his exertion, he braced his nerves and his stout frame to meet the terrible shock.
With every muscle strained to the utmost tension, he waited the coming wave. In this attitude, with the helpless maiden clinging to him for life, with the wreck of his fine yacht near, he was a noble subject for an inspired artist.
The coming wave, buried him and the fair maiden in its cold embrace. It broke, and shattered itself in torrents of milky foam upon the hard rocks. But the larger and higher the wave, the farther it recedes. Leopold stood firm, though he was shaken in every fibre of his frame by the shock. The retiring water—retiring only for an instant, to come again with even greater fury-gave him his opportunity, and he improved it. Swooping, like a strong eagle, beneath the narrow shelf of rock, he gained the broader sands beyond the reach of the mad billows. It blew a hurricane for some time. The stranded yacht was ground into little pieces by the sharp rocks, but her skipper and his fair passenger were safe.
Oliver Optic.
THE STORY OF SIR ARNULPH.
[Matt. xxii. 37-39.—“Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”]
An earnest man, in long-forgotten years, Relieved the maladies and stanched the tears Of pining multitudes, who sought his aid When death their homesteads threatened to invade. Blest with one only son (a gentle youth, Trained in the fear of God, and love of truth), He fondly hoped that Arnulph might aspire Disease and death to baffle, like his sire. But the boy, musing gloomily apart, Avowed at length the impulse of his heart: “To some calm cloister, father, I would go, And there serve God.” His father answered, “No. “Thou doest well to wish to serve the Lord, By thine whole life imperfectly adored; But choose thy work amid the world, and then Thou canst serve God, and bless thy fellow-men.” The boy, still yearning to achieve his plan, Spake: “It were better to serve God than man.” “Pray God for help,” the father said, “and he Will solve the riddle of thy doubt to thee.” So Arnulph to his chamber went, and prayed That in his doubts the Lord would send him aid. And, in a vision of the silent night, A phantom stood before him, clothed in white,— A form for earth too beautiful and grand, With crimson roses blooming in each hand. And Arnulph asked the angel, “Are these flowers Fresh culled from Eden’s amaranthine bowers?” He answered, “Nay: these offerings are from all Whom God the doers of his will doth call.” “And can I offer nothing?” sighed the boy. “May I not also serve the Lord with joy?” “Surely thou mayest,” replied that seraph fair,— “In my left hand, behold, thy gift I bear.” Then Arnulph said, “I pray thee, tell me why, In thy left hand the flowers all scentless lie, But in the right they breathe a gracious smell, Which long within the haunted sense doth dwell?” The angel answered with pathetic tone,— “In my left hand I bear the gifts alone Of those who worship God the Sire above, But for his children testify no love; While these sweet roses, which ne’er grow wan, Come from the lovers of both God and man.” The vision faded. Arnulph cried, “Alas! My soul was blind!” And so it came to pass, That the changed boy a cloister entered not, But with God’s working-men took part and lot. Gerald Massey.
A LOST CHILD.
“I’m losted! Could you find me, please?” Poor little frightened baby! The wind had tossed her golden fleece, The stones had scratched her dimpled knees; I stooped, and lifted her with ease, And softly whispered, “Maybe.” “Tell me your name, my little maid: I can’t find you without it.” “My name is Shiny-eyes,” she said. “Yes; but your last name?” She shook her head: “Up to my house ’ey never said A single word about it.” “But, dear,” I said, “what is your name?” “Why, didn’t you hear me told you? Dust Shiny-eyes.” A bright thought came: “Yes, when you’re good. But when they blame You, little one,—is it just the same When mamma has to scold you?” “My mamma never scolds,” she moans, A little blush ensuing, “’Cept when I’ve been a-frowing stones; And then she says [the culprit owns],— ‘Mehitabel Sapphira Jones, What has you been a-doing?’” Anna F. Burnham.
WHEN McGUE PUTS THE BABY TO SLEEP.
We have a foine tinement, close be the bridge, Wid three pairs of stairs and a farm. The farm’s on the roof, but it’s ilegant just For to kape the small childer from harm. The railin’ is high. Shure it’s tired they get From playin’ “puss corner” an’ “peep,” An’ ’twould do your heart good in the twilight to see Ould McGue put the baby to sleep. McGue is my man, an’ a daisy he is, For after the gas-house shuts down He comes wid his pail (faith, the coal on his face Gives the shake to the boys of the town). Then he sits down wid me, an’ his poipe, an’ his chair, Comfortable, cosey, an’ deep, Wid the kid in his arms; it would break you to see Ould McGue put the baby to sleep. He sings him the chune of “The Old Phwiskey Jug,” An’ juggles him up on his knee As light as the mist from ould Erin’s green turf That floats from the bog to the sea. Then the gossoon lies back like a king on his couch, An’ the shadows across his eyes creep; I’ll lay you a bet, it’s a beautiful sight, When McGue puts the baby to sleep. Then the ould man says “Phwist!” as the first darling snore He hears from the swate, sleeping child; An’ he steps to the cradle, as aisy as mud, An’ the drop of a pin makes him wild. “The Virgin take care of that baby!” his prayer Comes out of the heart low and deep; It would kill the ould man if the kid should refuse John McGue for to put him to sleep.
JEM’S LAST RIDE.
High o’er the snow-capped peaks of blue the stars are out to-night, And the silver crescent moon hangs low. I watched it on my right, Moving above the pine-tops tall, a bright and gentle shape, While I listened to the tales you told of peril and escape. Then, mingled with your voices low, I heard the rumbling sound Of wheels adown the farther slope, that sought the level ground; And suddenly, from memories that never can grow dim, Flashed out once more the day when last I rode with English Jem. ’Twas here, in wild Montana, I took my hero’s gauge. From Butte to Deer Lodge, four-in-hand, he drove the mountain stage; And many a time, in sun or storm, safe mounted at his side, I whiled away with pleasant talk the long day’s weary ride. Jem’s faithful steeds had served him long, of mettle true and tried: One sought in vain for trace of blows upon their glossy hide; And to each low command he spoke, the leader’s nervous ear Bent eager, as a lover waits his mistress’ voice to hear. With ringing crack the leathern whip, that else had idly hung, Kept time for many a rapid mile to English songs he sung; And yet, despite his smile, he seemed a lonely man to be, With not one soul to claim him kin on this side of the sea. But after I had known him long, one mellow evening-time He told me of his English Rose, who withered in her prime; And how, within the churchyard green, he laid her down to rest With her sweet babe, a blighted bud, upon her frozen breast. “I could not stay,” he said, “where she had left me all alone! The very hedge-rose that she loved, I could not look upon. I could not hear the mavis sing, or see the long grass wave, And every little daisy-bank seemed but my darling’s grave. “Yet somehow—why, I cannot tell—but when I wandered here, I seemed to bring her with me too, that once had been so dear. I love these mountain summits, where the world is in the sky, For she is in it too,—my love!—and so I bring her nigh.” Next week I rode with Jem again. The coach was full, that day, And there were little children there, that pleased us with their play. A sweet-faced mother brought her pair of rosy, bright-eyed girls, And boy like one I left at home, with silken yellow curls. We took fresh horses at Girard’s, and as he led them out— A vicious pair they seemed to me—I heard the hostler shout, “You always want good horses, Jem! Now you shall have your way. Try these new beauties, for we sold your old team yesterday.” O’er clean-cut limb and sloping flank, arched neck and tossing head, I marked Jem run his practised eye, though not a word he said; Yet, as he clambered to his seat, and took the reins once more, I saw a look upon his face it had not worn before. The hostler open flung the gates. “Now, Tempest, show your pace,” He cried, and with a careless hand he struck the leader’s face. The horse, beneath the sportive blow, reared as if poison-stung; And, with his panic-stricken mates, to a mad gallop sprung. We thundered through the gate, and out upon the stony road; From side to side the great coach lurched, with all its priceless load: Some cried aloud for help, and some, with terror-frozen tongue, Clung, bruised and faint in every limb, the weaker to the strong. And men who oft had looked on death, unblanched, by flood or field, When every nerve to do and dare by agony was steeled, Now moaned aloud, or gnashed their teeth in helpless rage, To die, at whim of maddened brutes, like vermin in a cage! Too well, alas! too well I knew the awful way we went,— The little stretch of level road, and then the steep descent; The boiling stream that seethed and roared far down the rocky ridge, With death, like old Horatius, grim waiting at the bridge! But, suddenly, above the din, a voice rang loud and clear; We knew it well, the driver’s voice,—without one note of fear; Some strong, swift angel’s lips might thrill with such a clarion cry,— The voice of one who put for aye all earthly passion by:— “Still! for your lives, and listen! See yon farmhouse by the way, And piled along the field in front the shocks of new-mown hay. God help me turn my horses there! And when I give the word, Leap on the hay! Pray, every soul, to Him who Israel heard!” Within, the coach was still. ’Tis strange, but never till I die Shall I forget the fields that day, the color of the sky, The summer breeze that brought the first sweet perfume of the hay, The bobolink that in the grass would sing his life away. One breathless moment bridged the space that lay between, and then Jem drew upon the straining reins, with all the strength of ten. “Hold fast the babes!” More close I clasped the fair boy at my side. “Let every nerve be steady now!” and “Jump for life!” he cried. Saved, every soul! Oh! dizzy—sweet life rushed in every vein, To us who from that fragrant bed rose up to hope again! But, ’mid the smiles and grateful tears that mingled on each cheek, A sudden questioning horror grew, that none would dare to speak. Too soon the answer struck our ears! One moment’s hollow roar Of flying hoofs upon the bridge—an awful crash that tore The very air in twain—and then, through all the world grown still, I only heard the bobolink go singing at his will. I was the first man down the cliff. There’s little left to tell. We found him lying, breathing yet and conscious, where he fell. The question in his eager eyes, I answered with a word,— “Safe!” Then he smiled, and whispered low some words I scarcely heard. We would have raised him, but his lips grew white with agony. “Not yet; it will be over soon,” he whispered. “Wait with me;” Then, lower, smiling still, “It is my last ride, friends; but I Have done my duty, and God knows I do not fear to die.” He closed his eyes. We watched his life slip, like an ebbing tide, Far out upon the infinite, where all our hopes abide. He spoke but once again, a name not meant for mortal ears, “My Rose!” She must have heard that call, amid the singing spheres! Mary A. P. Stansbury.
OVER THE CROSSIN’.
“Shine? shine, sor? Ye see, I’m just a-dien’ Ter turn yer two boots inter glass Where ye’ll see all the sights in the winders ’Ithout lookin’ up as yer pass. Seen me before? I’ve no doubt, sor; I’m punctooal haar, yer know, Waitin’ along the crossin’ Fur a little un’, name o’ Joe; My brother, sor, an’ a cute un’, Ba’ly turned seven, an’ small, But gettin’ his livin’ grad’ely Tendin’ a bit uv a stall Fur Millerkins down the av’nue; Yer kin bet that young un’s smart,— Worked right in like a vet’run Since th’ old un’ gin ’im a start. Folks say he’s a picter o’ father, Once mate o’ the ‘Lucy Lee’— Lost when Joe wor a baby, Way off in some furrin sea. Then mother kep’ us together, Though nobody thought she would, An’ worked an’ slaved an’ froze an’ starved Uz long uz ever she could. An’ since she died an’ left us, A couple o’ year ago, We’ve kep’ right on in Cragg Alley, A-housekeepin’—I an’ Joe. I’d just got my kit when she went, sor, An’ people helped us a bit, So we managed to get on somehow; Joe wus alius a brave little chit; An’ since he’s got inter bisness, Though we don’t ape princes an’ sich, Tain’t of’n we git right hungry, An’ we feel pretty tol’able rich. I used to wait at the corner, Jest over th’ other side; But the notion o’ bein’ tended Sort o’ ruffled the youngster’s pride, So now I only watches To see that he’s safe across; Sometimes it’s a bit o’ waitin’, But, bless yer, ’tain’t no loss! Look! there he is now, the rascal! Dodgin’ across the street Ter s’prise me—an’—look! I’m goin’— He’s down by the horses’ feet! Suddenly all had happened,— The look, the cry, the spring, The shielding Joe as a bird shields Its young with sheltering wing; Then up the full street of the city A pause of the coming rush, And through all the din and the tumult A painful minute of hush; A tumble of scattered brushes, As they lifted him up to the walk, A gathering of curious faces, And snatches of whispered talk; Little Joe all trembling beside him On the flagging, with gentle grace Pushing the tangled, soft brown hair Away from the still white face. At his touch the shut lids lifted, And swift over lip and eye Came a glow as when the morning Flushes the eastern sky; And a hand reached out to his brother, As the words came low but clear,— “Joe, I reckon ye mind our mother: A minute back she wor here, Smilin’ an’ callin’ me to her! I tell ye, I’m powerful glad Yer such a brave, smart youngster: The leavin’ yer ain’t so bad. Hold hard to the right things she learnt us, An’ allus keep honest an’ true; Good-by, Joe—but mind, I’ll be watchin’ Just—over—the crossin’—fur you!” Springfield Republican.
SOMEHOW OR OTHER.
The good wife bustled about the house, Her face still bright with a pleasant smile, As broken snatches of happy song Strengthened her heart and hand the while. The good man sat in the chimney-nook, His little clay pipe within his lips, And all he’d made, and all he’d lost, Ready and clear on his finger-tips. “Good wife, I’ve just been thinking a bit: Nothing has done very well this year; Money is bound to be hard to get; Every thing’s bound to be very dear; How the cattle are going to be fed, How we’re to keep the boys at school, Is kind of a debit and credit sum I can’t make balance by any rule.” She turned her round from the baking bread, And she faced him with a cheerful laugh; “Why, husband, dear, one would think That the good rich wheat was only chaff. And what if the wheat was only chaff, As long as we both are well and strong? I’m not a woman to worry a bit,— Somehow or other we get along. Into some lives some rain must fall, Over all lands the storm must beat; But when the rain and storm are o’er, The after sunshine is twice as sweet. Through every strait we have found a road, In every grief we’ve found a song; We’ve had to bear, and had to wait,— But somehow or other we get along. For thirty years we have loved each other, Stood by each other whatever befell; Six boys have called us father and mother, And all of them living and doing well. We owe no man a penny, my dear, We’re both of us loving, well, and strong: Good man, I wish you would smoke again, And think how well we’ve got along.” He filled his pipe with a pleasant laugh; He kissed his wife with a tender pride; He said, “I’ll do as you tell me, love; I’ll just count up on the other side.” She left him then with his better thought, And lifted her work with a low, sweet song,— A song that followed me many a year: “Somehow or other we get along.”
TATERS.
(WITH A CHORUS.)
Of all the wonderful works of Nater, What surprises me most, she can make a tater! She gathers the stuff to produce a skin, And then gradually stuffs the tater in. Chorus. Tater! tater! Best bread made by Nater! No baker alive could make a tater. In Ireland, where earth is so fertile and turfy, They mispronounce tater by calling it Murphy. In France, where all language to ribbons they tear, They nominate tater a pomme de terre! Tater! tater! The brown bread of Nater! Old Nick couldn’t give a worse nickname for tater. Of words that sound proud I was always a hater— Per-contra—per-centum—per-digious—per-tater! All creatures that purr, from a fool to a cat, Should be made to eat taters without any fat. Tater! tater! Good Nater creator! If an angel said per, I belave I should bate her. O how shall I praise you? I don’t want to hurt you By making you vain and destroying your virtue; But—baked, fried, boiled, roasted, you’re equally good, And in pigpen or palace alike understood. Tater! tater! First and best boon of Nater! When I stop being poet, I’d turn to a tater. What makes all men kin? It is “one touch of Nater!” And what is that touch, but the touch of a tater? Of all flowers of the field, tater flour I most prize, Best bread for the body and meet for the eyes. Tater! tater! Did I wish to beat Nater, I’d take you when new, and produce a baked tater! Some scoff at a tater, and don’t wish to see un; They say you are vulgar and very plebeian, And call you a root! But their minds are unsound: It’s your modesty tells you to hide in the ground. Tater! tater! Many-eyed, potent tater! (King Richard with III. was only Dick-tater.) But alas! you are deaf to my harp’s fond endeavor, Or I’d sing in this beautiful fashion forever! You have eyes, but you see not; you’re deaf as a drum; And as none else will listen, like you I’ll be dumb. Tater! tater! When I leave mortal Nater, Let the world calmly think what I thought of a tater! W. O. Eaton.
“AN UNKNOWN MAN, RESPECTABLY DRESSED.”
“An unknown man, respectably dressed,” That was all that the record said: Wondering pity might guess the rest; One thing was sure,—the man was dead. And dead, because he’d no heart to live; His courage had faltered, and failed the test: How little the all we now can give,— A nameless sod to cover his breast! “Respectably dressed!” The thoughtless read The sentence over, and idly say,— “What was it, then, since it was not need, Which made him thus fling his life away?” “Respectably dressed!” How little they know, Who never have been for money pressed, What it costs respectable poor to go, Day after day, “respectably dressed!” The beggars on sidewalks suffer less; They herd all together, clan and clan; Alike and equal in wretchedness, No room for pride between man and man. Nothing to lose by rags or by dirt, More often something is gained instead; Nothing to fear but bodily hurt, Nothing to hope for save daily bread. But respectable poor have all to lose; For the world to know, means loss and shame; They’d rather die, if they had to choose; They cling as for life to place and name,— Cling, and pretend, and conceal and hide; Never an hour but its terror bears; Terror which slinks like guilt to one side, And often a guiltier countenance wears. “Respectably dressed” to the last; ay, last! Last dollar, last crust, last proud pulse-beat; Starved body, starved soul, hope dead and past: What wonder that any death looks sweet? “An unknown man, respectably dressed,” That was all that the record said. When will the question let us rest,— Is it fault of ours that the man was dead? Helen Jackson.
“BAY BILLY.”
You may talk of horses of renown, What Goldsmith Maid has done, How Dexter cut the seconds down, And Fellowcraft’s great run: Would you hear about a horse that once A mighty battle won? ’Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg,— Perhaps the day you reck,— Our boys, the Twenty-second Maine, Kept Early’s men in check. Just where Wade Hampton boomed away, The fight went neck and neck. All day we held the weaker wing, And held it with a will; Five several stubborn times we charged The battery on the hill, And five times beaten back, re-formed, And kept our columns still. At last from out the centre fight Spurred up a general’s aide; “That battery must silenced be!” He cried as past he sped. Our colonel simply touched his cap, And then, with measured tread,— To lead the crouching line once more The grand old fellow came; No wounded man but raised his head, And strove to gasp his name, And those who could not speak or stir “God blessed him” just the same. For he was all the world to us,— That hero gray and grim; Right well he knew that fearful slope We’d climb with none but him, Though while his white head led the way We’d charge hell’s portals in. This time we were not half way up, When, midst the storm of shell, Our leader, with his sword upraised, Beneath our bayonets fell; And as we bore him back, the foe Set up a joyous yell. Our hearts went with him. Back we swept, And when the bugle said, “Up, charge again!” no man was there But hung his dogged head. “We’ve no one left to lead us now,” The sullen soldiers said. Just then, before the laggard line The colonel’s horse we spied,— Bay Billy, with his trappings on, His nostril swelling wide, As though still on his gallant back The master sat astride. Right royally he took the place That was of old his wont, And with a neigh that seemed to say Above the battle’s brunt, “How can the Twenty-second charge If I am not in front?” Like statues we stood rooted there, And gazed a little space: Above that floating mane we missed The dear familiar face; But we saw Bay Billy’s eye of fire, And it gave us heart of grace. No bugle-call could rouse us all As that brave sight had done. Down all the battered line we felt A lightning impulse run: Up, up the hill we followed Bill, And captured every gun! And when upon the conquered height Died out the battle’s hum, Vainly ’mid living and the dead We sought our leader dumb; It seemed as if a spectre steed To win that day had come. And then the dusk and dew of night Fell softly o’er the plain, As though o’er man’s dread work of death The angels wept again, And drew night’s curtain gently round A thousand beds of pain. All night the surgeons’ torches went The ghastly rows between; All night with solemn step I paced The torn and bloody green: But who that fought in the big war Such dread sights has not seen? At last the morning broke. The lark Sang in the merry skies As if to e’en the sleepers there It bade, Wake, and arise! Though naught but that last trump of all Could ope their heavy eyes. And then once more, with banners gay, Stretched out the long brigade; Trimly upon the furrowed field The troops stood on parade, And bravely ’mid the ranks were closed The gaps the fight had made. Not half the Twenty-second’s men Were in that place that morn, And Corporal Dick, who yester-noon Stood six brave fellows on, Now touched my elbow in the ranks, For all between were gone. Ah! who forgets that dreary hour When, as with misty eyes, To call the old familiar roll The solemn sergeant tries, One feels that thumping of the heart As no prompt voice replies? And as in faltering tone and slow The last few names were said, Across the field some missing horse Toiled up with weary tread. It caught the sergeant’s eye, and quick Bay Billy’s name was read. Yes! there the old bay hero stood, All safe from battle’s harms; And ere an order could be heard, Or the bugle’s quick alarms, Down all the front, from end to end, The troops presented arms! Not all the shoulder-straps on earth Could still our mighty cheer; And ever from that famous day, When rang the roll-call clear, Bay Billy’s name was read, and then The whole line answered “Here!” Frank H. Gassaway.
HIRING HELP.
Characters.—Mrs. Mervin;
Emma, her daughter;
Bridget Rooney;
Norah McCarty;
Ellen Flynn;
Joanna O’Neil;
Angelina Simper;
Mary Ames.
Scene.—Mrs. Mervin’s Sitting-room.
Emma. Well, mother, as our advertisement appeared in the paper last evening, I suppose we may expect any amount of answers in the shape of Irish girls.
Mrs. Mervin. Quite likely; and I must confess I dread the ordeal. It is better, however, to advertise, and have the girls call at the house, than to seek them at the intelligence office.
Emma. Oh, yes, indeed! I made a vow the last time you sent me there for a girl, that if I could possibly help it I would never enter such a place again.
Mrs. Mervin. Well, I hope our present plan will be successful, and we shall be fortunate enough to secure a good girl. If we had less company, and our family were not so large, we would try to do the work together, and get along without help.
Emma. I wish we might, mother. I have often felt, after the disorderly reign of some tyrannical Bridget, that I would like to banish them all from whence they came, and wield the kitchen sceptre alone. (Bell rings.) There comes number one, I’ll warrant.
Enter Bridget Rooney.
Bridget. The top of the mornin’ to ye, ma’am; and sure is yer name Mervin?
Mrs. Mervin. It is; and I suppose you have come to answer my advertisement for a girl.
Bridget. Indade I have, ma’am. Is it a cook ye would be afther wantin’?
Mrs. Mervin. I wish a girl to do general housework, and of course that includes a knowledge of plain cooking. Would you like such a place?
Bridget. And sure I can’t tell, ma’am, till I ax ye a few questions, and finds out the characther of the place intirely. What wages do ye give?
Mrs. Mervin. Three dollars.
Bridget. And how many have ye in the family, ma’am?
Mrs. Mervin. Seven persons.
Bridget. Well, indade, and if ever I heard the like! Sivin persons, and only three dollars wages! Shure me cousin, Kate Murphy, gits four dollars, and there’s only three in the house. I’ll come for no three dollars, unless yer house has all the modern convainyences. Do ye have gas in the kitchen and girl’s room?
Mrs. Mervin. We have gas in the kitchen, but we do not think it necessary in the girl’s sleeping-room.
Bridget. And, faith, it’s as much wanted there as anywhere. A poor girl doesn’t want to be groping about with a nasty kerosene-lamp. How much time in a week do you give a girl to herself, ma’am?
Mrs. Mervin. One afternoon and evening a week. I believe that is a general rule.
Bridget. It’s not a rule I goes by, ma’am. I wants two afternoons a week, and every evenin’ besides, and I’m used to have my friends come whenever I like.
Mrs. Mervin. I see you wouldn’t suit me at all, so you had better not remain here any longer. I don’t intend to pay a girl wages, and give her half her time besides.
Bridget. And shure yer no lady, ma’am; and I wouldn’t set fut in yer house if ye’d give me five dollars a week, bad luck to ye.
[Exit Bridget.
Mrs. Mervin. Not a very promising specimen to begin with, surely.
Emma. I should think not, indeed. The idea of her asking four dollars a week, and wanting, as you said, nearly half her time! (Bell rings.) There’s another. I shall find full employment in tending the door-bell, at this rate.
Enter Norah McCarty.
Norah. Are you the lady, ma’am, the paper said wanted a girl?
Mrs. Mervin. Yes, I advertised for one yesterday. Can you do general housework?
Norah. Faith I can, ma’am; it’s a gineral’s housework I’ve been doing, and I might have staid in the place foriver, only that herself was that fussy that niver a soul could plaze her.
Mrs. Mervin. Can you make good bread?
Norah. Good bread is it ye say? And indade I can make that same. I makes it with imtens, ma’am; and if it sours a bit, I puts a handful of salerathus into it, and it comes out of the oven as swate as a nut, and a fine color on it besides.
Emma. Dear me! I should think it might have a fine color with a handful of saleratus in it!
Mrs. Mervin. At what other place have you lived besides the one you mentioned?
Norah. Nowheres at all, ma’am; that’s the first place I wint when I came from the ould counthry.
Mrs. Mervin. How long did you live there, and what part of the work did you do?
Norah. Well, ma’am, I lived there three weeks, ’liven days, and a fortnight—barrin’ the two days that I staid out to take care of me cousin Mike; and I did the fine work, mostly, ma’am,—scrubbing, sifting ashes, and ’the likes of that. Do ye think ye would like to hire me, ma’am?
Mrs. Mervin. I guess not. I am afraid you haven’t had experience enough to do my work properly.
Norah. Well, ma’am, if that’s any thing I could buy at the store, I would be willing to spend a thrifle to get some, for the sake of livin’ wid ye.
Mrs. Mervin. Experience in housework cannot be bought at the stores; so you had better look somewhere else for a place.
[Exit Norah.
Emma. Well, mother, did you ever hear of such stupidity before?
Mrs. Mervin. She’s the greenest specimen I’ve seen yet. I wonder who will come next? (Bell rings.)
Emma. We shall soon see.
Enter Ellen Flynn.
Ellen. A fine day, ma’am. Is it yerself that wants a girl?
Mrs. Mervin. Yes, if I can find a good one; but I am sorry to say they seem to be growing very scarce.
Ellen. You are mistaken there, ma’am; it’s good places that’s gittin’ scarce. How big a family do ye have?
Mrs. Mervin. There are seven of us, and we of course have company occasionally.
Ellen. That’s too many intirely; but I s’pose with all thim ye keep two girls and a man besides.
Mrs. Mervin. No, we keep but one servant.
Ellen. Servint is it! Well, ma’am, that’s what I niver allows meself to be called. What sort of convainyences is there in the house? Is there a rocking-chair in the kitchen, where I can rest meself while the pot’s a-bilin’?
Mrs. Mervin. No, I don’t consider that a necessary article of kitchen furniture.
Ellen. We differs there, ma’am; I can’t do without a rocking-chair. I see you have a pianny. I s’pose ye wouldn’t mind if I learned to play on it afther me work is done—would ye?
Mrs. Mervin. I should object very strongly to giving a girl such a privilege.
Ellen. Well, ma’am, it’s gittin’ quite the fashion for the ladies that live out to play. Me cousin Kate Donnelly plays “St. Pathrick’s Day in the Mornin’,” and “Rory O’More,” illigant; and I’ve made up me mind I’ll live in no place agin where I can’t have the chance to play the pianny.
Mrs. Mervin. Then the quicker you look for such a place, the better. It isn’t worth while for me to spend any more time talking with you.
Ellen. Indade, it’s a very uncivil tongue ye have, ma’am; and it’s meself that ought to grumble for spendin’ me precious time talkin’ to the likes of you.
[Exit Ellen.
Emma. It grows worse and worse, mother! What are we coming to?
Mrs. Mervin. Dear me! I don’t know! I am fairly discouraged! (Bell rings.)
Enter Joanna.
Joanna. Are ye afther wantin’ a girl, ma’am?
Mrs. Mervin. Yes; I want a good one.
Joanna. Faith, thin, it’s glad I am that my brother Pathrick read me the scrap in the paper last night, for I’m wantin’ a place.
Mrs. Mervin. What can you do?
Joanna. Well, thin, I can do any thing at all that ye likes. I washes beautiful; and me clothes has such a fine blue color on thim, when I takes thim in, it would do yer sowl good to see thim.
Mrs. Mervin. Oh, dear! I don’t like so much bluing in my clothes.
Joanna. Faith, thin, I’ll jist lave out the blue a few times, and they’ll be as fine a yaller as ye wish; any thing to suit ye, ma’am.
Emma. Can you do common cooking?
Joanna. I niver does any thing common, miss; all I cooks is in the fust style. I can make Meringo pies that would melt in your mouth, Charlotte Russians, and Blue Munge, too.
Emma. Indeed! you seem quite like an adept in cooking.
Joanna. I don’t know what an adipt is; but if you mean I’m a good cook, I am that. Ye ought to see the fine roast pig I cooked the other day; sich a handsome baste was niver set before on a gintleman’s table, I’ll warrant.
Mrs. Mervin. You seem to despise common cooking. I have very little else done in my family. We live quite plainly, and I hardly think you would suit me.
Joanna. Well, now, ma’am, we won’t let the cooking come betwixt us. I can cook plain, if I like; so, if ye plaze, I’d like to come and try.
Mrs. Mervin. Can you bring me a certificate of good character from the lady who last employed you?
Joanna. A stifkit! What’s that, shure?
Mrs. Mervin. A paper, stating what character you bear.
Joanna. Indade, ma’am, I niver carries my charactercher round in a dirty piece of paper, that’s liable to be torn up any day. I thinks more of meself than that.
Mrs. Mervin. Very well; I cannot take you, unless you can bring me such a paper.
Joanna. Faith, ye won’t have the chance; and I’m thinkin’ it’ll be a long time before ye gets suited. Ye’ll find no dacent girl will carry her charactercher loose in her hand.
[Exit Joanna.
Emma. Another verdant specimen. These interviews grow interesting. I’m beginning to enjoy them. I wonder who will come next? (Bell rings.)
Mrs. Mervin. We shall soon see who has given the bell such a gentle pull.
Enter Angelina Simper.
Angelina. Are you the lady who manifested her desire to secure an assistant in her family, by inserting an advertisement in “The Gazette” of last evening?
Mrs. Mervin. Yes; I advertised for a servant-girl. Do you wish such a situation?
Angelina. I might be induced, madam, to accept a position in your family for a sufficient consideration.
Mrs. Mervin. Are you familiar with housework?
Angelina. Yes, in a certain way. I am in the habit of idealizing and etherealizing every thing which I undertake. I think I have discovered the method of extracting the poetry from housework; and instead of regarding it as a wearisome drudgery, I make it a grand poem.
Emma. I think you must be an inventive genius if you can find any poetry in washing greasy dishes, or scrubbing kitchen floors.
Angelina. Ah, miss, there is poetry in every thing. I revel in it, morning, noon, and night. Its glorious beams brighten my pathway at every step of my earthly progress. I have written a volume of sweet verses; and if they can only be properly brought before the public, my name will be immortalized, and the poet’s laurels forever crown my brow. It is to gain a sufficient sum to publish this gem among poetical works, that I have decided, for a short time, to put in practice my ideal method of housekeeping.
Mrs. Mervin. Can you make bread, and do up shirts?
Angelina. Yes: I can insert the rising element in a liquid form into the snowy flour; or I can use those subtile powders that permeate the mass of doughy particles, and make them rise in comely proportions.
Emma. Indeed! but how about the shirts?
Angelina. Well, after bringing them in from their bath in the sunlight, I immerse them in starch of pearly whiteness, and after sufficient time has elapsed I press to their bosoms a hot iron. I am reminded by this that only through fiery trials we can be made to shine with becoming lustre ourselves.
Mrs. Mervin. I think you will have to find some other place in which to practise your fine ideas of housework. You soar quite too high for us.
Angelina. Adieu; this weary birdling seeks another nest.
[Exit Angelina.
Emma. O, mother! I thought I should burst out laughing in her face. She is an escaped lunatic, I do believe.
Mrs. Mervin. I should think she was. (Bell rings.) There’s another; this time an artist, perhaps. I’ll go straight to the office, and have that advertisement taken out.
Enter Mary.
Mary. Is this Mrs. Mervin who advertised for a girl?
Mrs. Mervin. Yes, I am the lady. Do you know of any good girl?
Mary. I would like to get a place myself. I have worked in a shop since I left my home in the country, three years ago; but I find the confinement doesn’t agree with me, and I had rather do housework.
Mrs. Mervin. You understand it, then, I suppose.
Mary. Oh, yes! I am next to the oldest in a family of nine children, and my mother commenced teaching me to do housework almost as soon as I could go alone. As soon as the sister next me could take my place, I left home to see if I could earn something to help along. A man like my father, with a small farm and a large family of children, finds it rather hard to get along sometimes.
Mrs. Mervin. Yes, he must find it hard to feed and clothe so many, with so little ready money as farmers generally have. You are a dutiful daughter to endeavor to assist him what you can; but would your parents approve of your living out in the city?
Mary. Yes: ever since my side has ached with such constant sewing, mother has been urging me to live out; and I should have tried to get a place long before this, only I dreaded so much to go to an intelligence-office. When I saw your advertisement, I decided to apply here immediately.
Mrs. Mervin. I am very glad you did, for I should like to engage you without further delay. How soon can you come?
Mary. To-night, if you wish; my week is out at my boarding-place, and I shouldn’t care to commence another.
Mrs. Mervin. Very well, you can come, then, and I will give you three dollars a week. Will that be satisfactory?
Mary. Quite so: that is more than I clear some weeks now; and it will be such a relief to have done with so much sewing. Good-morning, ma’am. I’ll be here about five o’clock.
[Exit Mary.
Emma. There, mother, see what has come by advertising in a respectable paper. I think you have secured a jewel,—so tidy and civil,—and I know by her looks she knows how to do every thing.
Mrs. Mervin. Yes, I am greatly pleased with her appearance; and how much more sensible in her to do housework than kill herself sewing in a shop! I hope the time will soon come when a great many more in her circumstances will go and do likewise.
Mrs. S. E. Dawes.