Chapter III: Part 3

“A doctor was never so down on a patent medicine as they were on me arter that race, especially Parson Coolridge, who was one of the principal sufferers, yer see.

“It was May Day amongst ’em, and the hull village seemed to be out thar enjoyin’ ’emselves. They had sack races and wheelbarrow races. That was the day blindfold Tom Moody ran the wheelbarrow through the grocer’s window, and Old Shulkin knocked him down with a ham, and a dog ran away with it. He charged Tom with the ham in the bill, along with the broken winder.

“They had a greased pole standin’ thar with a ten-dollar greenback tacked on top of it, but no person could get within ten feet of the bill. The hungry crowds were standin’ around all day gazin’ longin’ly up at the flutterin’ greenback, like dogs at a coon in a tree-top.

“I didn’t try the pole, but when they brought out the greased pig—a great, slab-sided critter, jest in good condition for racin’,—I got sort o’ interested in the performance. His tail was more’n a foot long, and it was greased until it would slip through a feller’s fingers like a newly caught eel.

“Several of the boys started arter him, but they’d jest make one catch, and before they were certain whether they had hold of it, they would go one way and the hog would go another. And then the crowd would holler.

“I was standin’ thar a leanin’ over the fence watchin’ of ’em for some time, and I see the pig was in the habit of formin’ a sort of ring with his tail; leastwise he’d lap it over so that it e’enmost formed a knot—all it lacked was the end wanted drawin’ through. I cal’lated that a feller with pooty nimble fingers could make a tie by jest slippin’ his fingers through the ring and haulin’ the end of the tail through. That would make a plaguey good knot, and prevent his hand from slippin’ off. Arter thinkin’ over it for some time I concluded if I could git up a bet that would pay for the hardships that a feller would be likely to experience, I would try a catch anyhow.

“So I ses to Jake Swasey, who stood alongside of me, ‘Jake, I believe that I kin hold that pig until he gins out.’

“‘Hold?’ he ses, surprised like and raisin’ his eyebrows just that way; ‘what’s the matter of ye? hain’t ye slept well? Ye mout as well try to hold old Nick by the tail as that big, slab-sided critter.’

“‘Wal, now, jest wait a bit,’ ses I; so I went on and told him what I cal’lated to do, and arter he looked awhile, he ses, ‘Wal, go ahead, Jim, I’ll back ye. I reckon we can git any amount of odds so long as we keep the knot bus’ness to ourselves.’

“So pullin’ off my coat I gin it to Jake to hold, and jumpin’ on the fence, I hollered, ‘I’ll bet ten to twenty that I kin freeze to the pig’s tail till he gins out!’

“Great fish-hooks! you ought to have seen ’em a-rustlin’ towards me. I couldn’t see anythin’ but hands for five minutes, as they were holdin’ of ’em up, and signalin’, an’ a-hollerin’, ‘I’ll take that bet, Dudley, I’ll take that bet!’ I got rid of what money I had about me pooty soon, and Jake Swasey was jest a-spreadin’ out his greenbacks like a paymaster, and arter he exhausted his treasury he started arter his sister to git what money she had. I hollered to him to come back—I was fearin’ he’d tell her about the knot bus’ness; but he wasn’t no fool and knowed too well what gals are to trust her with any payin’ secret.

“Old Judge Perkins was thar, jolly as a boy on the last day of school. Wal, he was holdin’ of the stakes, and his pockets were crammed chockfull of greenbacks. He was a pooty good friend of mine, and couldn’t conceive how in thunder I was a-gwine to get my money back.

“Beckonin’ of me one side—‘Dudley,’ ses he, kind of low that way, and confidentially like, ‘I know you’re as hard to catch as an old trout with three broken hooks in its gill; but I can’t help thinkin’ a greased pig’s tail is a mi’ty slippery foundation to build hopes on.’

“‘Never mind, Judge,’ ses I, winkin’, ‘I can see my way through.’

“‘Yes, Dudley,’ he ses, a-shakin’ of his head dubious like, ‘that’s what the fly ses when he’s a-buttin’ his head against the winder.’

“‘Wal,’ ses I, ‘without the tail pulls out, I cal’late to travel mi’ty close in the wake of that swine for the next half hour;’ and with that I moved off to where the pig was standin’ and listenin’ to all that was gwine on.

“I fooled round him a little until I got betwixt him and the crowd, and when he flopped his tail over as I was tellin’ ye, I made one desperate lunge, and made a go of it the fust time. I jest hauled the end through while he was turnin’ round, and grabbin’ hold above my hand, rolled it down into the tightest knot you ever sot eyes on. It was about two inches from the end of the tail, and he scolloped around so amazin’ lively nobody could see it. The crowd allowed I was hangin’ on the straight tail, and they didn’t know what to make of the performance anyhow.

“‘Go it, piggy,’ I ses to myself, just that way, ‘I guess it’s only a question of endurance now, as the gal said when she had the flea under the hot flat-iron.’

“The gate was open, and arter a few circles around the lot, the hog p’inted for it, and away he went, pig fust and I arter. He ran helter-skelter under old Mother Sheehan, the fruit woman, jest as she was comin’ through the gateway with a big basket of apples on each arm. I did hate like snakes to hoist the old lady, bounce me if I didn’t! I would ruther have run around a mountain than do it, ’cause you see she had jest been gittin’ off a bed of sickness that came nigh shroudin’ her, and she wasn’t prepared for a panic, by any means. I did my best to swing the critter around and git him off the notion of goin’ through, but his mind was made up. Thar was plenty of room outside for him to pass along without disturbin’ the old lady, but a hog is a hog, you know—contrary the world over. Besides, he allowed he could brush me off by the operation, but I wasn’t so easily got rid of. The money was up, you see, and I had no choice but to follow where he led and stick to the rooter till he gin out. ‘Where thou goest, I will go,’ I ses to myself, rememberin’ the passage in the Scriptures, and duckin’ my head to follow him. I scrouched down as low as I could and keep on my feet; for I cal’lated, do my best, the old woman would git elevated pooty lively.

“She hollered as though a whole menagerie—elephants, kangaroos, snakes and all—had broke loose. Her sight wasn’t any too clear, and the whole proceedin’s had come upon her so sudden that she didn’t exactly know what sort of an animal was thar. She would have been satisfied it was a hog if it hadn’t taken so long to git through. I followed so close to his hams that she reckoned we both made one animal. The hog gin a snort when he started in to run the blockade, and she ses to herself, ‘Thar goes a big hog,’ but about the time she reckoned he had got out on the other side, I come a humpin’ and a boomin’ along in my shirt-sleeves, and gin her a second boost, throwin’ the old woman completely off her pins and out of her calculations at once.

“She did holler good, thar’s no mistake about that.

“The crowd hoorayed and applauded. The older ones of course sympathized with the poor old woman; but they could do nothin’ more, ’cause the whole catastrophe come as sudden as an earthquake and nobody seemed to be to blame. I wasn’t, and they all could see that plain enough. The young uns went for the scattered apples, but the pig and I kept right on attendin’ to business. Now and agin he’d double back towards the crowd, and they’d commence scatterin’ every which way, trampin’ on each other’s feet. Si Grope, the cashiered man-of-wars-man, stepped on Pat Cronin’s bunion, and he responded by fetchin’ the old salt a welt in the burr of the ear, and at it they went, tooth and nail, right thar. A few stopped to see fair play, but the heft of the crowd, about three hundred, kept right on arter me and the hog.

“Jake Swasey managed to git up pooty nigh to us once and hollered, ‘How are you makin’ it, Jim?’

“‘Fustrate,’ I answered; ‘I cal’late to stick to this swine through bush and bramble till I tire him out.’

“‘That’s the feelin’,’ he shouted, and with that we left him behind. The old judge was a puffin’ and a blowin’, strivin’ his best to keep up, and for some time he actewally led the crowd, but he didn’t hold out very long, but gradewelly sank to the rear.

“Rod Munnion, the tanner, stumbled and fell while crossin’ the street. His false teeth dropped out into the dirt, and while he was scramblin’ on all fours to git ’em ag’in, a feller named Welsh, who was clatterin’ past, slapped his foot down and bent the plate out of all shape. Munnion snatched ’em up ag’in as quick as the foot riz, and wipin’ ’em on his overalls as he ran, chucked ’em back into his mouth ag’in, all twisted as they were. They did look awful though, stickin’ straight out from his mouth, and pressin’ his lip chock up ag’inst his nose. You couldn’t understand what he was sayin’ any more than if he was Chinnook.

“Bow-legged Spinny, the cabbagin’ tailor, was thar. He met the crowd while carryin’ home Squire Lockwood’s new suit, and catchin’ the excitement of the moment, tossed the package into Slawson’s yard, and it bounded into the well quicker than ‘scat.’ He didn’t know it though, but hollered to the old woman, as he ran past the window, to look arter the package until he got back. Not seein’ any package she allowed he was crazy as a cow with her head stuck in a barrel, and flew to boltin’ of her doors pooty lively. He had been once to the Lunatic Asylum, you see, and they were still suspicious of him.

“The crowd thought to head us off by takin’ down a narrow lane, and it was while they were in that, that they began to surge ahead of Judge Perkins. He was awful quick tempered, and pooty conceited, and when bow-legged Spinny was elbowin’ past him he got mad. Catching the poor stitcher by the coat tail, he hollered: ‘What! a miserable thread-needle machine claimin’ precedence?’ and with that he slung him more’n ten feet, landin’ him on his back in a nook of the fence.

“That was the day they buried old Mrs. Redpath, that the doctors disagreed over. Dr. Looty had been doctorin’ her for some time for bone disease. He said her back-bone war decayin’. He didn’t make much out of it though, and they got another doctor. The new feller said he understood the case thoroughly; he ridiculed the idea of bone disease, and went to work doctorin’ for the liver complaint. He said it had stopped workin’ and he was agwine to git it started ag’in. I reckon he’d have accomplished somethin’ if she had lived long enough, but she died in the meantime. When they held a post-mortem, they found out the old woman, some time in her life, had swallered a fish-bone which never passed her stomach, and eventually it killed her.

“‘Thar,’ ses Dr. Looty, ‘what did I tell ye? You’ll admit, I reckon, my diagnosis of the disease was right arter all, only I made a slight error in locatin’ the bone!’

“‘Bone be splintered!’ ses the other feller, ‘hain’t I bin workin’ nigher the ailin’ part than you?’ So they went on quackin’ thar and disagreein’ over her until old Redpath got mad and hollered, ‘You old melonheads, isn’t it enough that I’m a widderer by your fumblin’ malpractice, without havin’ ye wranglin’ over the old woman!’ So he put ’em both out, and chucked their knives and saws arter ’em.

“But as I was sayin’, that was the day of the funeral, and while it was proceedin’ from the church to the buryin’ ground with Parson Coolridge at the head, with his long white gown on, we hove in sight comin’ tearin’ down to’ards the parsonage. The minister was a feller that actewelly doted on flowers. When he wasn’t copyin’ his sermons’ he was fussin’ around among the posies. He had his gardin chock full of all kinds of plants and shrubs. Thar you could see the snapdragon from Ireland, the fu-chu from China, the snow-ball from Canada, the bachelor’s button from Californy, and every kind you could mention.

“He had noticed the gardin gate was open when the funeral passed, and it worried him considerable. So when he heered the hootin’ and hollerin’, and got sight of the crowd surgin’ down the street, and see the pig and I pointin’ in the direction of the house, he couldn’t go ahead nohow.

“Turnin’ around to the pall bearers who were puffing along behind him, he ses, ‘Ease your hands a minit, boys, and let the old woman rest ’till I run back and see if that Dudley is agwine to drive that hog into my gardin. Confound him!’ he contin’ed, ‘he’s wuss to have around the neighborhood than the measles.’ With that he started back on the run, his long, white gown a-flyin’ away out behind, the most comical lookin’ thing you ever see. And he could run, that Parson Coolridge, in a way that was astonishin’. I reckon he hadn’t stirred out of a walk before for thirty years, and yit he streaked it over the ground as though it was an every-day occurrence.

“His j’ints cracked and snapped with the unusual motion, like an old stairs in frosty weather, but he didn’t mind that so long as he could git over the ground. He was thinkin’ of his favorite plants and the prospect of their gittin’ stirred up and transplanted in a manner he wasn’t prepared to approve. He did jerk back his elbows pooty spiteful, now I can tell you. He tried to make the gateway fust, and put in his best strides. But when he saw he couldn’t, he hollered, ‘Keep that hog out of my gardin, Dudley, or I’ll take the law of ye.’

“‘Don’t git wrathy, Parson Coolridge,’ I shouted. ‘I can’t prevent the pig from gwine in. I have hold of the rudder, but I’ll be boosted if I can steer the ship.’ With that, through the openin’ we went, pig fust and me arter, and the hul crowd a clatterin’ behind us. The judge was amongst ’em, but got left in the hind end of it, where the women were a-trottin’. The Parson’s flowers went down with broken necks quicker than lightnin’. It wasn’t more’n ten seconds until they were six inches under ground, for the hog kept a circlin’ around and the hoorayin’ crowd follerin’ arter, payin’ no more attention to the Parson than if he had been a young ’un a-runnin’ around. When they saw the crowd, the pall bearers and most of the people who were jest follerin’ the remains through sympathy, turned back on the run and left the mourners standin’ thar by the coffin.

“Oh! it was the most excitin’ time the village ever seed. The ground was too soft in the gardin for the pig to git around well, and pooty soon he gin out. I was awful tired, too, and was hangin’ a dead weight on him for the last ten minutes.

“When the boys see the knot on the tail you ought to hear ’em a-hollerin’, ‘Bets off! bets off!’ They were set on claimin’ a foul, and surrounded the old judge demandin’ thar money.

“But, as the crowd was increasin’ and the Parson was e’enmost crazy, the judge told ’em to come with him to the Court-house—he wouldn’t decide nothin’ in the gardin. As the hog couldn’t walk, the judge took his tobacco knife and cut the tail off and took it along with him to introduce as proof. He decided in my favor. He said that I had held on to the tail and touched nothin’ else, and if I managed to tie a knot while runnin’ I had performed a feat never before heard of in the country, so he paid over the money.

“But Parson Coolridge was the most worked up of any of ’em. He had legal advice on the matter, but the lawyer told him to gin it up, for the judge was on my side. Besides, he shouldn’t have left the gate open, if he didn’t want the pig to go in thar. Arter a while he gin up the notion of suin’ me, but while he stopped in the village he never got over it.

“The boys had pictures chalked up on the fences and shop doors, so that wherever you’d look you’d see sketches of the Parson runnin’ back from the funeral, and me a holdin’ on to the pig’s tail. He paid out more’n ten dollars in small sums to one boy, hirin’ him to go round and rub out the pictures wherever he’d happen to see ’em. But every time the Parson would start out through the village, thar on some fence or door, or side of a buildin’, would be the same strikin’ picture of him, a streakin’ it to head off the hog, so he would start the rubbin’-out boy arter that one.

“One evenin’ he happened to ketch that selfsame little rascal hard at work chalkin’ out the identical sketch on the cooper’s shop door, and the Parson was so bilin’ mad he chased him all over the village. The young speculator had bin carryin’ on a lively business, but arter that discovery thar was a sudden fallin’ away in his income. I tell ye it made a plag’y stir thar for awhile, and I reckon if Judge Perkins hadn’t been on my side I’d have been obliged to git out of the place.”

CORA LEE.

Would you hear the story told
Of the controversy bold,
That this day I did behold,
In a court of low degree,
Where his Honor sat like fate,
To decide betwixt the state
And a wanton villain’s mate,
Named Cora Lee?

The bold chief of stars was near,
As a witness to appear.
(By his order, Cora dear
Was languishing below.)
And for counsel she had got
A descendant of old Wat—
Noted for his daring plot,
Some years ago.

It was he commenced the fuss,
“For,” said he, “by this and thus,
Here I smell an _animus_[1]
As strong as musk of yore;
And it’s my condensed belief,
That in language terse and brief,
I can trace it to the chief,
E’en to his door.”

Then to all it did appear
That the chief was seized with fear;
To the lawyer he drew near,
And to him muttered low:
“I could never think that ye
Would be quite so hard with me;
You had better let me be,
And travel slow.”

Then the lawyer quit his chair
As if wasps were buzzing there,
And with quite a tragic air,
Addressed his Honor thus—
“At your hands I claim protection.
Keep your eyes in this direction,
Take cognizance of his action,
This _animus_!”

Then arose the chief of stars,
And his visage shone like Mars,
When he recks not battle scars,
But charges to the fray.
And his hand began to glide
To his pocket deep and wide,
Where a weapon well supplied
In waiting lay.

“Ho!” he cried, “you shyster hound,
If you go on nosing round
Till an _animus_ you’ve found,
My dear sir, hearken you:
I will open, by my soul!
In your carcass such a hole,
You will think a wagon pole
Has run you through.

“_You_ would prate about the law?
_You_ would magnify a flaw?
_You_ would touch me on the raw?
So now, sir, say no more!
Keep a padlock on your jaw,
Not a sentence, or I’ll draw,
And I’ll scatter you like straw
Around the floor!”

Now the Judge’s face grew red
As a turkey gobbler’s head
When a scarlet robe is spread
On the lawn or fence.
“I adjourn the court,” he cried,
“’Till that _animus_ has died,
And is buried head and hide
Far from hence.”

Then the rush was for the door;
From the corridors they pour,—
Three old women were run o’er
Within the justice hall;
And above the tramp and patter,
And the cursing and the chatter,
And the awful din and clatter,
Rose their squall.

When the open air was gained,
Then the epithets were rained,
And the passer’s ear was pained
With profanity flung loose,
Back and forth the wordy pair,
Shameless swapped opinions there;
’Till all parties got their share
Of vile abuse.

When the man of “briefs” would flee,
Chieftain followed like a bee,
Or a shark a ship at sea
When hunger presses sore;
’Till, enraged, the lawyer, he
Cried, “If fight you want of me,
Wait with patience minutes three,
Not any more;

“’Till I hasten up the stair
To my office, and prepare,
Like yourself for rip and tear,
And piling bodies dead.
Then, if you can blaze it faster,
Carve designs for probe or plaster,
Quicker work a soul’s disaster,
Just waltz ahead.”

But alas! his hasty tongue,
Vulgar name or sentence flung,
And the chieftain’s pride was stung
Down to the marrow bone.
Now upon him, head and tail,
Pitched policemen, tooth and nail,
Hot as bees when they assail
A lazy drone.

And upon the evening breeze
Rose the “begorras” and the “yees”
Of a dozen Mulroonees,
As they roughly hale
The poor lawyer through the street,
Sometimes lifted from his feet,
Sometimes o’er the noddle beat,
Toward the jail.

Now upon a truss of straw,
Lies the counsellor-at-law,
Wishing Satan had his paw
On wily Cora Lee.
For himself to grief is brought,
While the _animus_ he sought
Running is, as free as thought,
Or like his fee.

Footnote 1:

Private enmity towards the prisoner.

A BRILLIANT FORENSIC EFFORT.

Having learned that a highly-educated and respectable lady of this city had instituted a suit in one of our courts for the purpose of obtaining a divorce from her husband, I stepped into the hall of justice to learn how the case progressed. The fact of a young wife demanding a separation in a country like this, which is proverbial for its separations, is nothing to be wondered at, and I was considerably surprised, on reaching the court room, to find it so full of people that I could hardly gain admittance. I was not so much astonished at the great rush, however, when informed by the bailiff that the ground on which the lady rested her case was that her husband snored. As I entered, the plaintiff’s lawyer commenced addressing the court. He entered into the case with the spirit and fire of a Clay or a Webster. After reviewing and commenting largely upon the testimony given in the case, he ended his argument in the following words:—

“Now, sir, whatever other people may think of this application, I take a bold stand, regardless whose corns or bunions I tread upon, so long as I put my foot down where it belongs. We have too many snorers among us. They are in our places of amusement, introducing groans and thunder where none were intended in the play. We find them in our places of worship, breaking forth in the midst of the pastor’s prayer, or while he is picturing to the congregation the wreck of ages and the crash of worlds. I maintain that this application is a righteous one; that it is a shot in the right direction, which will in all likelihood eventually bring down the game; and were I a judge invested with power to decide a peculiar case of this kind, I would show no hesitation, but grant the plaintiff her natural and very reasonable request more readily than if the grounds on which she sued for a separation were drunkenness or desertion.

“The absurdity of an irascible wife seeking a divorce from a husband because he indulges too freely in the flowing bowl must be apparent to all. She rushes into the crowded court room, and, figuratively speaking, catches the astonished justice by the ear, as Joab in the extremity of his distress laid hold upon the horns of the altar, and requests him to sever the chafing bonds with his legal shears. Again: what a pitiable lack of discretion that woman exhibits who appeals to the court merely because her husband deserts her, leaving her to pursue the even tenor of her way. Why, in nine cases out of ten this is a ‘consummation devoutly to be wished;’ she is left untrammeled, and has no husband to support.

“I will not allude to the many other failings which wreck the home and put out the cheerful light of many a hearthstone.

“But, sir, it is with no ordinary thrill of pride that I espouse the cause of the woman who seeks a divorce from a snoring husband. I say, and I may remark that I say it boldly, that I rejoice it was reserved for me to raise my voice in her defence. I hold that a man who with malice aforethought takes from her peaceful home a tender and confiding maiden without first informing her of his trouble, commits a grave and unpardonable crime. The dogs of justice should be loosened at his heels to hound him from Puget’s Sound to Passamaquoddy Bay. He should be made to repent his villainous act. Think how the tender nerves of a sensitive creature must be shocked on being awakened by such an outburst. Picture to yourself her husband, not breathing her name in words of love, but lying flat on his back, and snoring with the vehemence of a stranded porpoise.

“Now, sir, I ask what mercy should be shown the monster who has himself shown none? He has doomed a fair representative of that sex whose presence civilizes ours, to an ever new affliction and a life of perpetual wakefulness. What course can she pursue? There are but two roads. Which shall she take? One leads to the court room and the other leads to the cemetery. She must either be freed from her husband or go down to an untimely grave, perhaps to have her place quickly filled by another unsuspecting victim. No, your Honor; this man, and I regret to say it, this husband and father, should not be permitted to destroy the peace and bright prospects of more than one female. Let it be known to the world that he has ruined the hopes of a loving wife, let it be blazoned upon the housetops and upon the fences that he _snores_; then let him get another mate, if he can.

“The wife should not only have a divorce from the deceptive monster, but she should have the custody of the children. She deserves them by virtue of her long suffering and patience, while he who has so heartlessly deceived her cannot be competent to guide their little feet aright in the dangerous walks of life. On behalf of this sorrowing wife, all other wives, and of the wives yet to be, who are ripening into womanhood around our hearths, I cry separation! In the name of confidence betrayed, of hopes blasted, and of a life aged before its time, I repeat, separation! separation!”

He sank into his seat, and despite the order of the bailiff for “silence in court,” generous applause swept throughout the room. The judge took occasion to compliment the lawyer for his able argument, and said it was the greatest forensic effort he had listened to since he assumed the responsibilities of his office. The prayer was granted and the children awarded to the plaintiff.

VISITING A SCHOOL.

Accepting an invitation extended by the principal of an uptown school, I visited that institution to-day. The masses of young humanity a person finds in these temples of instruction is something amazingly impressive. Eight or nine hundred scholars are attending the one school on which I bestowed my attentions to-day.

This article must be embellished with a faithful sketch of the boy who stood at the head of his class. How he felt at that moment, I couldn’t say, never having any experience in the position myself. He looked happy and confident, however, and snapped eagerly at the words as they fell from the teacher’s lips, much as a hungry dog does at the crumbs falling from a table. But my sympathies were decidedly with the little contortionist who stood mournfully at the foot of her class. I knew how that was myself. I had been “yar,” and I regretted I wasn’t a ventriloquist, that I might from afar whisper in her ear, and assist her over some clogging syllables. If she could have gone into the yard, where I noticed a scholar of the senior class throwing herself in a delirium of joy, brought about by a skipping-rope, she would probably have acquitted herself in a creditable manner, and won the praise of all, for however inferior a person may be to another in some matters, when they can choose their game they often reverse the order, and peradventure the poor stammering scholar could have skipped the skirts off those jogging ahead of her in the common speller.

THE REJECTED SUITOR.

Not often does a sadder sight
Wake sympathetic strain,
Than glimpse of some rejected wight
Whose suit has proved in vain;
Who often pinched necessities
For bouquets, sweet and rare,
For tickets to the carnival,
The opera, or fair;

Whose pocket oft was visited
The candy box to fill;
The dollar spent that should have gone
To pay his laundry bill.
Especially the case is sad,
If he who seeks a wife
Has, step by step, encroached upon
The shady side of life.

The fly no darker prospect views
That in the inkstand peers,
Than he, whose unrequited love
Must leak away in tears.
At such a time how ill the smile
Becomes the rival face;
The “ha, ha, ha’s!” the winks and nods,
Seem sadly out of place.

And then comparisons are drawn
At the expense, no doubt,
Of him whose overflowing cup
Seems full enough without.
While he who moves away, alas!
Of every grace so free,
To criticism opens wide
The door, as all may see.

His mind is not reflecting now
On fashions, style, or art,
On proper pace, or rules of grace;
But on his slighted heart.
He now but sees his promised joys
All foundering in his view,
His castles tumbling down, that high
In brighter moments grew.

To know that now those ruby lips
Another’s mouth will press,
And now that soft and soothing hand
Another’s brow caress,—
Oh, dark before, and dark behind,
And full of woe and pain
Is life to him, whose heavy loss
Makes up a rival’s gain.

The gravel-walk beneath his feet
Cannot too sudden ope’,
To gather in the wretch, who mourns
The death of every hope.
The swallows, whispering in a row,
Seem mocking at his tear,
And in the cawing of the crow
He seems to catch a sneer;
The cattle grazing in the field
Awhile their lunch delay,
To gaze at him, who moves along
In such a listless way.

Perhaps he’ll know a thousand griefs
Ere death has laid him low.
Perhaps, beside an open grave,
He’ll shed the tear of woe;
Perhaps he’ll turn him from the sods
That hide a mother’s face,
A father’s smile, a brother’s hand,
Or sister’s buried grace;
But there can hardly come a time
When life will look so drear,
Or can so little reason show
Why he should linger here.

A NIGHT OF TERROR.

I am not the oldest inhabitant, and don’t know what sort of storms they used to have here before the flood; but I’ll wager a corner lot against a plug of tobacco, that this section, for the last twenty years, has not snoozed through a rougher night than the one just past.

It would have been a glorious night for a revivalist to stir up the masses. Converts would have crowded in like grists to a mill after harvest. Since the last great earthquake I have not felt so much concern about my future state as I did about twelve o’clock last night. I arose from bed, and went to rummaging books, trying to find the description of a storm that would equal ours. I found the tempest that Tam O’Shanter faced the night he discovered the witches, and the one in which King Lear was cavorting around, bare-headed, and that which made Cæsar take an account of stock and turn to interpreting dreams, and jumbled them all together; but the product was unequal to the fury that was raging without. There was no more similarity than a baby’s rattle bears to a Chinese gong.

Then I fished out the storm that howled while Macbeth was murdering Duncan, and tumbled it in with the others. This addition made things about even. The “lamentations heard i’ the air” of Macbeth’s tempest were a fair precedent of the clamorous uproar from the fire bell in the City Hall tower. Only an earthquake was lacking to enable us to say, “The earth was feverous, and did shake,” or boast a night outvieing four of the roughest on record, all woven into one.

It had one good effect, however—one for which poison and boot-jacks have been tried in vain: it did silence the dogs and cats. Their midnight carousals were as rare as they were in Paris just before the capitulation. Quarrelsome curs postponed the settlement of their little differences and defiant barks until such times as they would be able to discover themselves whether they barked or yawned, and cats sought other places besides a fellow’s window-sill to express opinions about each other or chant their tales of love.

I know the rain is refreshing, the wind purifying, the lightning grand, and the thunder awe-inspiring; but as the poor land-lubber advised, when he was clinging to the spar of the wrecked vessel, “Praise the sea, but keep on land,” so I say to those people who want to prick up their willing ears, like a war-horse, to catch the sublime rumble of heaven’s artillery, or sit by their window and blink at the blazing sky, like a bedazzled owl at a calcium light; but I know _one_ individual who could have got along quite as well if there had raged no war of the elements. He would have slept soundly and never mourned for what he had lost.

MY DRIVE TO THE CLIFF.

I am wofully out of humor, and what is worse, out of pocket, and have just been settling a bill for repairs to a buggy which was knocked out of kilter on the Cliff House road the other day. At the present writing I feel that it will be some time before I take the chances of injuring another. The moon may fill her horn and wane again, the seals howl, and the ocean roar, but I will hardly indulge in the luxury of a drive to the beach for many a day to come. I had a couple of ladies with me. Splendid company ladies are—so long as they have unlimited confidence in your skill as a driver. But they try one’s patience after they lose faith, and want to get the lines in their own hands every time you chance to run a wheel into the ditch, or accidentally climb over a pig or calf. Those who were with me on that occasion are not particularly loud in their praise of my driving. The fact is, I didn’t acquit myself in a manner calculated to draw down encomiums in showers upon my head. I drove a span that day. They were called high-strung animals. But I don’t like high-strung horses any more. If they would only run along the track like a locomotive, I could hold the ribbons as gracefully as anybody; but I am very much opposed to all of their little by-plays. This getting scared at a floating thistle-down, or grasshopper swinging on a straw, is something I don’t approve of in a horse. There is no reason in it; no profit accrues from it.

But my trotters were frightened at different objects at the same moment—one at a snail peacefully pursuing his way across the road, and the other at a butterfly winging his wabbling flight along the ditch. At once they became unmanageable, and vied with each other in extravagant antics. From the first the ladies had no very exalted opinion of my manner of handling the lines. Even before we were well under way I had the misfortune to run down a calf. Then a Newfoundland dog thought to stop the buggy by taking hold of one of the hubs, but he made a mis-dive, and shoving his head between the spokes, kept us company for twenty rods without any effort on his part whatever. I also ran over a wheelbarrow loaded with bricks (the Irishman escaped with a crushed hat), and overthrew an apple woman’s stand while turning a corner. I can yet hear ringing in my ear the shouts and execrations of the old vender, when she saw the wheels mounting her baskets and squeezing the cider out of her choicest bellflowers. Until I passed the next street I could look back and see the old lady in her embarrassing situation. There she sat, caught under the broken table, and kicking about wildly in frantic efforts to free herself, while her bonnet was knocked askew by the fall and stuck on one side of her head in the most jaunty position imaginable.

At this point the horses became more frightened, and commenced cutting up strange didos. Things were getting badly mixed, so much so that one horse turned his head to the dasher. The ladies took a hurried view of the situation, and voting me an incompetent driver, began to desert me by back-action movements over the rear end of the buggy.

I shall always think that I could have managed the animals without any difficulty if they had not both been frightened at the same time. But with one bucking like a Mexican plug, evidently bent on crawling under the buggy, and the other seemingly striving to reach the stars by an invisible ladder, they were indeed difficult to control.

My companions concluded they had sufficient buggy riding for one day, and took the cars into town, while I patched up the harness as best I could, and returned to the livery stable, fully concurring with the women folks that as a driver I was not a success, and that hereafter promenades would suit me better.

SECOND SIGHT.

A singular case of second sight occurred in the western part of the city last evening while I was there. An old Irishman named McSweegan, who lives in that locality, is the possessor of a multiplying pair of eyes. That is, they have the strange faculty of making two objects of one. This natural endowment is particularly distinguishable after he has been indulging freely in strong decoctions of old rye.

Yesterday he was attending a primary election, at which he expected to be brought before the public as a candidate for a fat local office. An influential friend had been intrusted with the highly important and vital mission of bringing his name before the delegates, for which service he was to receive some petty office if the election was effected. McSweegan stood back in a recess of the hall, hat in hand, impatiently waiting to hear the familiar name pronounced. In fancy, he already listened to the shout of applause that would follow his nomination. But he stood with a quiet smile and an attentive ear in vain. Candidate after candidate was announced, but the ancient and honorable name of McSweegan thrilled not his auricular nerves. The ticket was at last declared full, and he was not one of the happy number. His friend had played him false—to use a common expression, “had gone back on him,” and he was justly indignant.

On his way home he took Lethean draughts in which to drown his trouble and keen disappointment, and by the time he reached his clap-board front was in capital condition for seeing double. The hour was late as he entered his house, but he found his industrious better half sitting at a table sewing by the flicker of a tallow candle. His red and multiplying optics were riveted by the wannish flame, which to him had the semblance of two well-defined and separate lights. This was an extravagance that he could not countenance. To have found his wife up at such a late hour would have been severe enough strain upon his already ruffled temper, for he had no wish to discuss the result of the “Primary.” But to find her needlessly consuming _two_ candles showed a wastefulness on her part, evincing an utter disregard for the low condition of his exchequer. He was exceedingly provoked, and with a view of curtailing home expenses, attempted to puff out one of the flames.

After several ineffectual attempts, in which he scorched his whiskers and eyebrows, he succeeded, but found himself enveloped in Egyptian darkness. His rage increased. He at once accused his wife of blowing out the “other candle” through spite. Her contradictions only fanned his fury, and the performance ended by putting her out of the house and keeping her out all night—for which unhusbandly treatment she had him arrested, and he now languishes in the lock-up.

THE THIEF.

Richard Roe was a thief, whose temptation to steal
Always grew more resistless when wanting a meal;
Once he entered a store, when no person was by,
Took a box of sardines, and attempted to fly;
But, although he could slope when occasion required,
Like a stag to a stream when the forest is fired,
The scoundrel was spotted and nabbed at the door,
By officers Murphy, McMannus and Moore;
And away to the jail, midst a crowd you should see,
Went the thief, the sardines, and the officers three.

The next day came his hearing, and people were there
From all stations in life, on the prisoner to stare:
There were gamblers, street-pavers, stevedores, undertakers,
Ship-chandlers, brick-masons, and umbrella makers,
Corn-doctors, reporters, clerks, tailors, and teachers,
Fruit-peddlers, horse-trainers, clairvoyants, and preachers;
A few women also jammed in with the rest,
With their bonnets awry, and their clothing sore pressed,
And their uplifted faces, perspiring and red,
Full ear-deep in the back of some person ahead;
And like peas in a kettle, or bees in a hive—
Ever shifting position—so they were alive;
All impatiently wedging around in a stew,
In the hope they could better their chance for a view;
This one grumbling because some one crowded so near
That he shot his hot breath in the depths of his ear;
That one cursing because some one’s elbow so rude
On his ribs was inclined to encroach and intrude;
And another one howling and looking forlorn,
Just because some one trod on his favorite corn;
Over all the hoarse voice of the bailiff did wheeze:
“Order! order in the court, gentlemen, if you please!”

Six feet two, if an inch, and proportioned in size,
Stood the thief in the dock, when the clerk bid him rise;
And amongst all that crowd not a man could be found
With his shoulders so square and a physique so sound.

First, around on the lawyers and officers there
He defiantly gazed with a bold, brazen air;
And then, turning around, stared the Judge in the face,
As though _he_ was the thief and the rogue in the case.
The stern Judge ran his eyes the unmoved villain o’er,
From the crown of his head to his feet on the floor—
While the rogue seemed to study with critical care
The time-honored “Court,” with his thin crop of hair.

For five minutes or more, it’s my candid belief
That the thief eyed the Judge, and the Judge eyed the thief;
As two rivals, long parted, in some foreign land
By mischance blown together, each other they scanned;
While there rose from the concourse no perceptible sound,
Not a whisper or yawn, even, circled around.
But a charnel-house calm o’er the room seemed to fall,
Till the flies could be heard on the plastering crawl—
Till beneath the rogue’s stare the Court’s visage grew red.
But down-choking his rising resentment, he said:—
“Richard Roe”—and he spoke quite emphatic and slow,
As though weighing each word before letting it go—
And inclined his head downward, as men often do
When they look over spectacles rather than through—
“Richard Roe, you have come to the surface once more,
Like the ghost to the feast of the monarch of yore;
I have lectured, imprisoned and fined you in vain—
You will still depredate, and confront me again.
From the door of the jail to the till of a store
There is simply one pace unto you, and no more;

As the dog to his vomit, the sow to her mire,
You will glide, the born slave of your fiendish desire;
By my oath, it’s a sin, a disgrace, and a shame;
With your shoulders so broad, and so robust your frame,
With your arms like a Hercules, muscled and strong,
With your wind like a stag-hound’s, so perfect and long,
To earn a support you’re possessed of all means—
And yet you’ve been stealing a box of sardines.

“I have worked my way onward, year out and year in,
Among characters blackened and blistered with sin;
Amongst men I’d have quaked to have met in a lane,
As I would the arch demon, relieved of his chain;
But I’m frank to confess, and I’d state it as free
On a Bible as large as a bed, if need be,
In my thirty years’ practice, on Bench or at Bar,
A thief more consummate and bold than you are
I have never encountered, in county or town,
Among whites, copper-colored, or greasers done brown;
You’re as prone to purloin as an eagle to fly,
Or a salmon to swim, or a lover to sigh;
Not an esculent known, or utensil of use,
From a cantaloupe down to the quill of a goose,
From a tripe in the stall to a fowl in the coop,
But at some time or other in your life you did scoop.”

And as if in assent, Richard Roe bowed his head,
While the Judge wiped his face, and continuing, said:
“Here so often, of late, you have taken the stand,
To give answer for larcenies, petty or grand,
That your face has become as familiar to all
The practitioners here as the clock on the wall;”
Here he pointed it out, and a glance at it threw;
And bold Richard turned round and regarded it too,
While full back to his ears a grim smile slowly broke,
For, despite his position, he relished the joke.
“I regret that our law draws the limiting line,
For it seems but a farce to impose a small fine,
Or to send you below for a week or ten days,
To recline on a mat and hatch future forays.

“But since neither the gloom of the prison, nor fine,
Seems to work a reform in that bosom of thine,
I will try a new method—throw justice one side,
And appeal to your manhood, your honor, and pride;
It is said kindness conquers where knuckles will fail,
And a pardon may faster reform than the jail;

Since the stock-raiser advocates crossing the breed,
And the farmer finds profit by changing the seed,
Who can tell but a change may regenerate you—
So we offer you mercy where none is your due.

“Mr. Sheriff! release that purloiner! as free
As the wind that awakes the dull ocean, is he.
But, sir, hark! Richard Roe, ere you mix with the throng,
Take this friendly advice from one knowing you long:
And in future, whenever your stomach does feel
Like digesting a fish, take a rod, and a reel,
A few hooks, a fine line, and of gentles a few,
And go catch your own fry, as all good people do;
For you’ll find it more wholesome to follow a creek,
And there angle for trout seven days of the week,
Than to strive to obtain by unwarranted means
E’en a box of diminutive, oily sardines.”

Subdued was bold Richard, he gazed in surprise,
And trembled, while tears welled fast from his eyes,
As he vowed that henceforth the right course he’d pursue;
And Roe is now honest, trustworthy, and true.

A STARTLING CAT-ASTROPHE.

“Methought I heard a voice cry, ‘Sleep no more.’”
—_Shakespeare._

Last night, soon after retiring, I was made aware of the exceedingly annoying fact that a pair of cats had selected the yard under my window for their trysting-place, and were behaving in a most demonstrative manner.

I have no objection to cats having their courtships as well as men; but I see no reason in their having such a hoodooing time over it, making night hideous with rascally yowls. There is, perhaps, nothing more aggravating in life than to have a little saucy spit-fire of a puss keep a whole community awake for hours together, because an admirer of hers happens to take a moonlight stroll on a neighboring fence.

The night wore on. Their inharmonious chants increased in volume and spirit. Considering the matter, I came to the conclusion that I would rather pay the fine imposed for shooting in the city limits than lose so many hours from needed rest.

I hastened to procure my shot-gun, determined to make a scattering amongst them, if nothing more. As I reached the casement, a bright flash from the window of an adjoining house, and a simultaneous patter of shot in the yard, informed me that some co-sufferer had taken the initiative in the good work of demolition; for though wrought to the highest pitch of ferocity, his nerves were steady and his aim was sure.

He evidently hit them where their nine lives were centered, and they dropped as they stood when the fatal tube was leveled. In short—

They died as erring cats should die—
Without a kick, without a cry;
The faintest rustle in the chips,
A slight contraction of the lips,
Which brought the pointed teeth in sight,
And they had passed to endless night.

Even as I write (ten o’clock A. M.) they are lying in the yard as they fell, a terrible illustration of sudden transition from noisy debate to silent repose. There they lie, to compare small things with great, like a pair of shipwrecked lovers, who have clung to each other through fire and water, and at last have reached the wreck-strewed beach in body, but not in spirit.

The gentleman who owns the yard has just been out looking at them. After silently surveying the dead for a long time in silence, he walked away without disturbing them, pathetically murmuring the Latin motto, “_Requies-cat in pace._”

A TRIP TO THE MOUNTAINS.

I have been taking a flying trip over the Sierras about which the poet so mellifluously sings. There were many beautiful scenes presented during that trip, but abler pens than mine have described them fully, and have done them justice, so I will not attempt to set forth their various charms. It is not my _forte_, anyway, and I am free to confess the fact. Enough for me to describe the excellent lunch which I had the good fortune to have along with me, and to speak plainly, I enjoyed it the most of anything I saw during my trip. It was no ordinary lunch, however. The back-bone of it was a nicely-roasted chicken, which reflected great credit upon both the poulterer and the kind-hearted young lady who volunteered to see it through the oven. Ah, that brisk little lady can prepare a dish fit to set before the gods. If that is not doing her justice, tell me what more can be said, and I will pile it higher. She is worthy of it.