Chapter VI: Part 6

I’ve got a rousing pistol, mother, the loudest in the block;
And I have filed the little catch that holds the thing at cock,
And hardly do I get the charge of powder in the bore,
When off it goes just with a shake, and thunder! what a roar!

So sleep on if you can, dear mother, and have no thought of me,
For I’ll be up and charging round before there’s light to see;
And when you hear a bang that makes the ring dance in your ear,
Then you can bet your scissors, mother, that I am somewhere near.

JIM DUDLEY’S SERMON.

Hereafter I shall have no faith in reports. Last week I heard that Jim Dudley had left the city, and was congratulating myself on at last escaping him. But my congratulations were premature. Last night he called upon me, and kept me in torture for fully two hours; at a time, too, when I should have been asleep. But what cared he for that? The scoundrel! there was no shaking him off. He sticks to a person like mortar to a brick. I had to sit and listen, though I do honestly believe every word the fellow uttered was an unqualified lie; but he swears to its truth, and how can I prove it otherwise. It is better to take it as it comes and ask no questions for conscience’ sake.

“I never told you about the sermon I preached over in Misertown one Sunday. I had a time of it thar and no mistake. Hold on a minute and I’ll tell you how it was.

“You see, Gil Bizby—that plaguey shirk, I never mention his name but what I feel like trouncin’ of him—but he was a genius though and no foolin’ about it, a natural born inventor, chock full of notions as a toy shop.

“But somehow or another he never could bring anythin’ to a payin’ focus. Allers whittlin’ and borin’ and plannin’ around though. Wherever you’d meet him he’d be haulin’ out of his pocket some old drawin’, with more wheels and contrivances pictured out on it than you could think of in a twelve hours’ dream. He never could git the cap sheaf onto his endeavor though. Allers somethin’ amiss; a wheel too many, or another one wantin’, or too many cogs to have the thing work just right.

“He invented a contrivance for pluckin’ chickens.

“That was a rustler. He shoved the fowls through a machine somethin’ like a corn sheller, an gin ’em an electric shock while passin’ along, and shot ’em out of a spout at t’other end of the machine as bare as weavers’ shuttles. He didn’t make anythin’ out of it though. He had to chuck ’em through while alive, you see, and that clashed with the law. When he took the machine down to the city to introduce it to the pultry dealers, the society fellers who look out for the interests of dumb critters got arter him and sewed him up. They put a reef in his jib pooty quick now, I tell you.

“They were passin’ along through the market one day, and they saw Gil just a humpin’ himself showin’ off the apparatus to the market men. He was crankin’ and pumpin’ away, like a sailor when there’s fifteen feet of water in the hold and still rizin, and the chickens were a screamin’ and a scootin’ through the contrivance, close as if they were run on a string head ag’inst tail, and just a cloud of feathers hoverin’ around over it. Didn’t they fasten on to that Gil Bizby though? They snatched him up quicker than if he had been hoss-stealin’, and confiscated his plucker, and tucked an alfired heavy fine onto him besides.

“Meetin’ with such poor encouragement in that direction he went back to Sculleyville, and set out to invent a thunderin’ great machine for layin’ cobble-stones. That was just him all over; allers startin’ in to git up some outlandish lookin’ thing. This machine was a crusher and no gettin’ ‘round it. It was fearful enough to make a cow slip her cud, I’ll be shot if it wasn’t. It looked somethin’ like Noah’s ark set on wheels and filled with all kinds of machinery.

“He started in to experiment one moonlight night in front of the court house, but got the main belt crossed or somethin’, I disremember just what, and Jerusalem! in less than ten minutes he ran the whole population out to the foot-hills in thar night clothes. There wasn’t no stoppin’ the consarned thing. Poor Gil was knocked senseless at the first revolution, and nobody else knowed how to control it. It rolled the whole length of the square, tearin’ up the stones it had pounded down the day before and sendin’ of ’em buzzin’ over the village in all directions.

“No home was sacred, and no head was safe, as the poet has it. Poor old Mrs. Scooley lived just long enough to learn this, and no longer. She was goin’ once too often to git her pitcher filled at the corner grocery that night, and a stone took her in the small of the back as she was enterin’ the door, and it h’isted her clear over the counter on top of a barrel; it’s true as I’m tellin’ it to you. Poor old body; she was the pioneer female of the village too. The first woman to wash a shirt in Sculleyville. But arter all, the town wasn’t much loser by her passin’ away.

“She was a sort of panicky old critter anyhow, always scary about catchin’ the smallpox or any other prevailin’ disease that come around. The old village physician said he would ruther see the very old scratch makin’ towards him on the street than old Mrs. Scooley.

“Comin’ from church or market, as the case might be, she would fasten on to him like a wood-tick to a leaf, and he couldn’t git rid of her nohow. She would have him time her pulse right thar on the sidewalk; and be a shovin’ of her tongue out for his inspection. And she did have such an unlimited, wallopin’ great tongue too; it seemed when she was shovin’ all of it out, as though she was actewelly disgorgin’ her liver. It’s so, by Jingo! People would be a stoppin’ and standin’ thar, wonderin’ what was the matter with the old gal—that is, people that didn’t know her peculiarities; though most everybody in the village had seen her standin’ in that position so often, that they would be more surprised to see her with her tongue in her mouth than projectin’ out in the rain.

“The old Doctor used to be terribly annoyed. He would say, kind of hurriedly like, because he would be itchin’ to git away from her:

“‘Oh! you’re all right I reckon, Mrs. Scooley; but you had better be a gittin’ along home, and not stand too long in the cold air, with so much of your vital organs exposed to the weather; the result may be fearful if not fatal!’

“That would ginnerally start her off pooty lively towards her shanty. They say the first time the Doctor saw her tongue he was surprised so much that he looked actewelly skeered. Says he: ‘I’ve been nigh unto eight and thirty years a practicin’ physician, and until this moment I flattered myself that I was familiar with all the ins and outs of the profession. But I begin to think I gin over the dissectin’ knife too soon, for here’s somethin’ that I was not prepared for.’

“But that’s not tellin’ you about the sermon, is it? but when I mentioned that Gil Bizby, I sort of wandered off arter him and his contrivances. Wal, as I was about to tell you, Gil and I were saunterin’ around Misertown one Sunday, and we saw any number of gals goin’ into the school-house where the preachin’ was carried on. So we concluded to step in and git a better look at some of ’em. I didn’t know many of the people round thar, but from what I heard I judged they were the meanest, close-fistedest set of sinners that ever had the gospel dispensed with amongst ’em.

“I understood they had treated their minister plaguey mean when he fust come thar to look arter them. Thar was no regular place for him to stop, you see, and they agreed amongst themselves to take turns a keepin’ him until they could get a house up for him. He was one of those young, easy, green kind of fellers that had seemin’ly never been so far away from home before but what he could see the smoke of his father’s chimney, or smell his mother’s corn-dodgers burnin’. And they soon took advantage of it, and sort of played button with him, shovin’ him around from one to another as though he was too hot to hold.

“He fust went to a feller by the name of Wigglewort. Ses Wig, ‘I’m really very sorry, Mr. Sermonslice, but we unfortunately have no accommodations for you at present. We have no place for you to sleep ’thout we put you in the barn, and the nights are ruther cold for that, besides the rats might annoy you. Sorry you happened to come just at this time, of all others the most embarrassin’. It’s not but what I would like to have you stop with us; I would indeed, Mr. Sermonslice, consider it an honor to have you.’

“The minister, takin’ his books under his arm, started out into the night as though his life depended upon the most prompt kind of action. He wasn’t within hailin’ inside of two minutes. He went over and succeeded in gettin’ lodgin’s with a feller named Joe Grimsby, who lived over by Frog Marsh.

“Joe was too derned lazy to do his own prayin’, and while the parson stopped with him he got rid of it. They do say he was the laziest old curmudgeon that ever turned up his eyes. He used to say a praar at the beginnin’ of the month, and on the followin’ nights he would always allude to it in a sort of matter-offact way. ‘You know my feelin’s towards ye. Nothin’ hid from ye I reckon. I haven’t changed my sentiments yet. If I do I’ll let ye know of it. I’ll keep nothin’ back from you, though it should take the har off.’ He would go on in that business-like way, and the hul time be a crawlin’ into bed.

“Wal, as I was goin’ to tell you, Gil and I poked into the buildin’, and sat down thar amongst the congregation.

“The minister hadn’t come yet, and pooty soon an old feller got up, and ses he, ‘It may be the minister has had a late breakfast and will not git here for some time yet. In the meantime, as it’s a dry season and our crops need a shower of rain, we mout as well have a little prayin’ goin’ on. We can’t do much harm anyhow, and we may be the means of bringin’ down a good smart shower that will be money in our pockets in the long run.’

“He asked several to take hold and do somethin’ in that way, but one had a cold, and another one was just gettin’ over the mumps. And so on they went makin’ excuses. Finally the old feller turned to me, and ses he: ‘Perhaps _you_ would lead us, you look like one who has had some experience that way.’

“I thanked him for the compliment, but told him I was somethin’ like the officers in the army—I would ruther foller than lead. But he stuck to me like a Jew to a customer. Arter a while I consented, and jest as I was about startin’ in, a feller come in and said the minister had got a terrible ticklin’ in his throat caused by partly swallowin’ a har in the butter over to old Joe Grimsby’s, and couldn’t attend to his duties that day. So the old chap got up ag’in, and ses:—

“‘We won’t have any preachin’ then, without some person present will volunteer to act in our pastor’s place this mornin’.’ But no one spoke up. ‘Perhaps,’ he ses, turnin’ to me, ‘you would favor us by conductin’ the service, young man. You doubtless are competent to perform that duty.’

“This sort of got me. Then the thought struck me perhaps I’d make somethin’ out of ’em by it. Besides didn’t want to plead ignorance right thar amongst ’em, so gettin’ up, I ses: ‘This is somewhat unexpected. Honors foller one another pooty fast.’ With that I got into the pulpit and began to look down at ’em pooty seriously. Thar was no Bible on the desk, so I asked if thar was any person that would loan me one for the occasion.

“Some of ’em spoke up and said they had books, but were in the habit of keepin’ em to foller along arter the minister, and correct him when he made a mistake. Besides they liked to see how he worked out the text. I looked at ’em some time pooty hard. I thought they beat anythin’ I had come across for some time, and I had a good mind to git down ag’in, only I allowed they’d laugh at me. So I ses, ‘all right. You can keep your books. I reckon I know enough by heart to git along with.’ I then gin out somethin’ for them to sing.

“‘Short or long meter?’ inquired the leader of the singers, who were settin’ over in the corner. I didn’t exactly understand him. As I knowed he was in the habit of meetin’ Sal Clippercut over to Mrs. Curry’s every Sunday afternoon, I allowed he was askin’ for somethin’ shorter, as he was longin’ to meet her. I spoke up pooty sharp, and ses, ‘You will please sing what I gin you to sing. I reckon you aren’t longin’ to meet her so bad but what you can wait until arter the service is over. She’ll keep that long, I reckon, without spilin’. I know her. She isn’t none of your Spring chickens nuther,’ I contin’ed, just like that, and you ought to have seen the way he looked; and the gals commenced to snicker and crowd thar handkerchiefs into thar mouths.

“One little red-faced critter that sat alongside of him tittered right out. Her mother who was sittin’ near by jumped up and ses: ‘Becky Jane, you go right straight hum this minute, and go to peelin’ the ‘taters for dinner.’ But a feller who looked as though his mother had been a mullator, or even somethin’ of a darker shade, got up and ses:

“‘The gal isn’t to blame in the least. It’s that feller in the pulpit thar. I for one don’t want to hear any more of his lingo.’

“‘Wal, then, you can stuff wool in your ears,’ I ses, ‘and you won’t have far to go to get it nuther,’ I contin’ed, just that way, alludin’ to his own har, which seemed pooty woolly.

“You ought to see how they looked, fust at him, then at me. He colored up, I reckon, but he was too black to show it. I heard him grit his teeth from whar I was standin’. He didn’t say any more, but an old woman who was settin’ near jumped up, and ses she:

“‘The meetin’-house is turned into a thayeter! When a muntybank gets into the pulpit it is high time for respectable people to be movin’. I’ll leave!’ she exclaimed, pullin’ her shawl around her shoulders and beginnin’ to bustle out of her seat.

“‘Wal, ye kin go!’ I hollered, jest that way, for I was beginnin’ to git sort of riled at the way things war a goin’. When I’m talkin’ politics or arguin’ over the merits of whisky, I can bear crossin’ and any amount of contradiction. But right thar, where a feller had to be choice of his language, it was different business. ‘Ye kin go,’ I ses. ‘We kin git along without you, I reckon. We’re willin’ to chance it, anyhow. Take your knittin’ along; don’t leave that behind,’ I contin’ed, pointin’ to the seat as though I saw it lyin’ thar. I didn’t though, but I wanted to give her a mi’ty hard rub, for I suspected her piety was put on, and that she was displeased because nobody was noticin’ her new bonnet.

“The hul congregation took it for granted that the knittin’ _was_ thar, and you ought to have seen ’em stretchin’ and cranin’ out thar necks as far as they could to get a look into the pew.

One old feller that was settin’ back pooty far, craned out kind of quarterin’ ruther suddenly and his neck gin a crack like a bon bon. He commenced oh! ohin’ and tryin’ to git it back to its old position ag’in, but he couldn’t make any headway until his wife went to rubbin’ and chafin’ of it, right thar.

“But that old woman, whew! She was as mad as a wet hen. She couldn’t hardly find the door, she was so mixed up. When she finally got thar she turned round and straightenin’ of herself up she ses, ‘Young man!’—Before she got any further I broke in on her, for I judged she had a tongue that was hung in the middle. So I ses, ‘That’ll do, that’ll do, Mrs. You kin move along. You’re disturbin’ the peace of the congregation, and besides all that you’re showin’ your false teeth mi’ty bad in the bargain.’

“She got out arter that pooty lively, now I can tell you. I could see her as she went up the road towards her home, and two or three times she stopped and turnin’ around acted as though she had half a mind to come back and try the hul thing over ag’in. But arter standin’ thar a while thinkin’ like a pig when it’s listenin’ to the grass takin’ root, she would shake her head and move along up the turnpike as though she concluded she had enough of that kind of pie.

“This piece of performance sort of throwed me off the track. While I was standin’ thar thinkin’ where to start in with the discourse, Gil Bizby come a crawfishin’ up the steps to one side of me and whisperin’ ses, ‘I say, Jim, you haven’t got to chock blocks already, have ye?’

“‘No,’ I answered, ‘I ain’t got to chock blocks, but I’ve got the ropes twisted around and things look ginnerally mixed jist now, I can tell ye.’

“‘Wall, start in on the sermon at once then,’ he urged, ‘for they are gettin’ mi’ty impatient now I can tell you. You’ve got to be doin’ _somethin’_ pooty quick. But whatever you do,’ he contin’ed, ‘don’t git up very high without havin’ some idea how you are goin’ to git down ag’in. Keep steerin’ around waters that you’ve piloted over before. Remember a blind mouse shouldn’t venture very far from its hole, especially if thar’s a whole generation of cats watchin’ of it.’

“With that he backed down to his seat ag’in, and took out his pencil and began to design a machine for pickin’ the bones out of fish, on the fly-leaf of a book that was lyin’ thar. So I started in on the sermon. It wasn’t much of a sermon, to be sure. It was more like a lectur’. I couldn’t think of any passages of scriptur’ just then, so I gin ’em the line from the philosopher, ‘Why does the frightened dog depress his tail when he runneth?’

“You ought to have seen ’em rustlin’ and turnin’ the leaves, huntin’ to find the passage. One old feller by the name of Spudd commenced to paw over the pages, and his wife ses, ‘Don’t go that way; turn back to the Book of Job.’ He looked round at her with his under lip stickin’ out jest that way, arter wettin’ of his thumb to start turnin’ over ag’in, and ses, ‘Job be biled and buttered! I kin pick old Solomon from amongst a thousand of ’em. He was sound on the goose, he was.’

“Two or three of ’em started in to ask me where the text was located, but I kept on talkin’ right straight along, lookin’ around to all of ’em at once and no one in particular. I didn’t gin ’em a chance to stop me ag’in, or git a word in edgeways. One singular-lookin’ old coon with a weed on his hat got up and stood signalin’ of me, and waitin’ and watchin’ for a chance to ask me somethin’. But I never let on to see him. I reckon he stood thar five minutes with his finger up pointin’ to attract my attention, and his mouth open so wide, that from my elevated position I could tell what he had swallowed for breakfast.

“I gin ’em a sort of ramblin’ discourse, alludin’ to the prevailin’ passions, and errors of the age. Amongst other things I touched on jealousy a little,—I wanted to stir ’em up a trifle on that subject, because there was a great deal of jealousy in that neighborhood. The green-eyed monster was a-rantin’ and a-ravin’ round in a good many households, and as it ginnerally turns out, there was least cause for it where it was most prevailin’. One old feller was moved by the first remark. When I said—quotin’ from the poet—‘Jealousy in the wife is wuss than trichina in the pork,’ he leaned over to the man settin’ in the next pew and ses, ‘I can’t tell you for the life of me whar he gits the passage, but it’s the solid truth, anyhow.’

“So I went on and finished the sermon, or lectur’ ruther, and then I ses, ‘The choir will please sing the hymn beginnin’ “Give, give, give to the needy,” arter which I will pass around amongst the congregation and take up a collection for the benefit of the heathen in furrin parts.’

“Je-whitteker! You ought to have seen ’em turn around and look at each other when I said that. I can’t describe it to you. I can’t do the scene justiss. If I had told ’em I was goin’ to stay with them through the season, I could hardly have started ’em to thinkin’ any more than I did by tellin’ ’em about that collection for the heathen in furrin parts.

“Arter two or three attempts the singin’ began. I closed my eyes, and leanin’ back in my chair minister-like, commenced to estimate the probable yield of each pew. While I was thinkin’ thar, and cal’latin’ how much I would make by the preachin’ business, I noticed the singin’ dyin’ out, and a dyin’ out slowly like, as the prisoner said his hopes were when the sheriff was a-fumblin’ around his neck adjustin’ the rope. So I opened my eyes easy like, as though comin’ back to earthly scenes reluctantly, and you can water my whiskey if I wasn’t just in time to see ole Ned Scullet’s coat-tails whiskin’ around the door jamb, the hindmost rag of the congregation. Women and children and all were gone sure enough. On lookin’ out of the winder I see ’em a-scatterin’ and a-hustlin’ and elbowin’ themselves ahead of each other along the turnpike, as though thar was great danger in bein’ left behind.

“Would you believe it, thar was that plaguey shirk Gil Bizby a-cranin’ up the hill a-leadin’ the crowd. I sat thar a while lookin’ after ’em and then, comin’ down I began to look around a little, and pooty soon I noticed that several of ’em left thar hats, they were in such a hurry to git out. So I selected a good one, only ’twas a little out of fashion, and puttin’ it on I ses to myself, ‘If you think I’m interested enough in your welfare here or hereafter to preach to you for nothin’, you’re mistaken, I reckon.’ With that I walked out, but not until I had kicked the remainin’ hats around the room pooty lively.

“The next day I noticed an old feller with a dilapidated beaver on, that looked as if it had done duty on a scarecrow for several seasons, sidlin’ up to me, and circlin’ around two or three times lookin’ mi’ty close at my tile. I’ll allers think it was his stove-pipe, but he was too much ashamed to come right out and lay claim to it.

“But that Gil Bizby! I didn’t wonder so much at the congregation dustin’, arter all, cause they didn’t know me, but _he_!—well, no matter, I’ll git even on him yet.”

THE POISONED PET.

It was my good fortune the other day to attend a picnic in the country. A lady friend insisted on tacking her pet boy to me on that occasion. As she couldn’t go herself she wanted me to have an eye to “sonney,” and see that he didn’t come in contact with poison-oak. She assured me he was a good boy and would mind me as if I was his father! I didn’t pine for the pet’s company, but could not very well refuse her request. So he went with me.

I very soon found out he was one of those smart children, who, by a strange freak of nature, are placed in possession of an impudence that prompts them to believe they know more at the age of eight than your average adult.

My will and his wishes soon clashed.

Then the thought entered my head that his mother misrepresented “sonney’s” obedient nature. “If this is the obedience that an offspring manifests to a father,” I mentally murmured, “it were better to be destitute of the offspring.” The boy sauced me. He even went so far as to call me names anything but flattering, while I was sitting in the presence of a young lady I most ardently adored. “Go on, sonney!” I said to myself savagely, “go on, precocious youth, there are no raging bears in this suburban park to tear the flesh from the bones of mouthy children who ‘sauce’ their betters, as did the animals in the days of prophets; but nature in other ways has made provision for such as you, and has sprinkled a few shrubs around here that can pile the flesh on to a person’s bones to an alarming degree, if they get a fair chance.”

After that I paid no attention to him. He ran at will, browsed through the vines like a hungry deer, and burrowed into the very heart of the poison-oak and ivy, with as little fear as a quail retiring to roost. He enjoyed himself immensely; so he informed me in the evening. I am glad he did, for he is having a quiet time of it now. I saw him this morning, and his face was as full of expression as a Christmas pudding new rolled from the cloth. I think my lady friend will not be over-anxious to appoint me guardian over her dutiful son at another picnic. In the interests of art I have made a sketch of “sonney” as he appeared this morning, striving to recognize me by my voice, which he failed to do, however, being deaf as he was blind.

SEEKING FOR A WIFE.

And it came to pass about the year one thousand eight hundred and seventy-three, being in the autumn, when the new wine was oozing from the press, and the corn was hardening in the crib, a bachelor, a farmer of great possessions, dwelling in the valley of Berryessa, bent above his resting plow, and thus communed with himself:—

“My stacks are builded, my wine is dripping from the press, the ripe ears are garnered in my cribs, my flocks and herds feed fat upon the hills; and yet, because of my loneliness, am I unhappy.

“I will arise at eve and repair to my neighbor’s cottage. Peradventure the aged widow of the murdered gypsy can counsel me.”

So when the evening hour was come, the farmer arose and sought the aged widow’s abode.

And as he drew nigh to the cottage, he lifted up his eyes and, behold! the crone sat upon her door-step.

And when the dame looked upon the farmer she knew his heart was troubled; but she knew not the cause.

So, lifting up her voice she cried, inquiringly: “What aileth my neighbor? Has aught befel thy goods? Has bruin descended from the mountains to worry thy flocks? Or, are thy stacks consumed? that thus you droop your eyelids to the path, and move as by a hearse.”

And the farmer, drawing nigh, replied: “My flocks unharmed graze sleek upon the hills; my stacks stand unconsumed; yet is my spirit heavy, because my walks are lonely and my heart is sad, and I come as one seeking counsel.”

Then answered the dame reprovingly: “Out upon thee, for a fusty, dreamy bachelor! Go take to thyself a wife; then will thy walks be no more lonely, neither will thy heart be sad.”

But he, answering her sorrowfully, said: “Mock me not, good madam, but look with pitying eyes upon me, and hearken to my voice.

“Behold I am now well stricken in years, my body is stooping to the grave, my manners, like my hands, are rough; my blood, like my hair, is thin; and my teeth but shine in memories of the past.

“How, then, can I win maidens’ hearts? Alas! on the contrary, they would giggling flee from before me; no hope for me remains; if I would wed, I needs must wed a squaw!” And his countenance fell.

Then was the crone exceedingly displeased, because he said, “I needs must wed a squaw,” and she answered him derisively, saying:—

“Go to! Ye speak as with the beak of a parrot, and with the understanding of a babe! Are ye studied in books and know not the proverb, ‘A golden snare will catch the wildest hare?’

“Do not your stacks dot the vale below like an Egyptian camp? Are not your tanks brimming with wine and your cribs grinning with corn?

“Do not your cattle graze upon an hundred hills? and your industrious laborers follow in the furrow? And are ye still afeared? Oh, ye of doubting mind!

“Go, get thee to thy chest and take to thyself suitable coin, and hasten to that great city by the sea—whose churches point to heaven, but whose people bow to gold.

“There sojourn for a season, and make no delay in adorning thyself with precious stones.

“Put diamonds upon thy bosom and rings upon thy fingers, and be zealous to stand in the hall-ways and in the market-places, and in the houses of exchange.

“Seek to be observed of the people, and take heed that ye look upon all men as being thy servants.

“And let thy wealth be noised abroad.

“Then shall rise up in the house of mourning the widow of a month, and dry her weeping eyes.

“Then shall the maid of many summers lay aside her pets, to readjust her charms, and disinter her smiles.

“Then shall the doting damsel, when her parent maketh fast the door, creep out some other way.

“And they all shall come trooping as with the voice of birds to court thy smiles and thy manners, and thy years shall be as the silk of the spider in thy way.”

Then was he exceedingly glad because of the crone’s advice, and he went away to his own home rejoicing.

And on the morrow he arose before it was yet day, and saddled his mule, and journeyed to the great city by the sea, and lodged at the house of a friend.

And he made haste to purchase diamonds, and rubies, and emeralds, and onyx-stones, and sapphires, and put massive rings upon his fingers, and seals upon his chain.

And even as the crone had directed, he scrupled not to stand in the hall-ways, and in the market-places, and in the houses of exchange, and sought to be observed of the people, and lived as a man having great possessions.

And not many days after, a fair lady of that place looking from her window, saw that the stranger shone like the mid-day sun, even so much that her heart was warmed.

So she called the keeper of the house aside and questioned him concerning the stranger, saying:—

“Who is this stranger that lodgeth in thy house, who beameth with jewels like the noonday sun? Make him known to me, for he is a choice and goodly man, and my heart warmeth for the stranger.”

Then answered the good man of the house, “He is a sojourner from the valley of Berryessa, and lo, he is a man of great possessions; and moreover, take heed if he cometh in your way, that ye smile graciously upon him, for be it known unto you he is a bachelor, who cometh amongst us seeking a wife.”

Then was the damsel exceedingly moved.

And when it came to pass that the stranger was introduced to her, she smiled graciously upon him, and she opened her mouth and spake knowingly of barley, and of rye, and of corn in the ear, and of tares.

And she also spake of four-footed beasts, of calves, of pigs, and of goats, and cattle after their kind; and of fowls; of doves, and of ducks, and of geese, and poultry after their kind.

And she spoke also of cabbages, and of squashes, and of turnips, and of new laid eggs, and of honey, and of buckwheat cakes, and of cheese, and of sausages!

And lo! the farmer’s heart was touched, for she was comely to look upon, and wise withal.

And he communed within himself, saying: “Surely this maid would indeed be a great catch, she would make her husband’s home cheerful, and in divers ways pluck from the palm of life the festering thorns. Beshrew me, but I will lay strong siege to the damsel’s heart.”

So he made haste to pull wide open the mouth of his purse and loaded her with presents, for the damsel had found favor in his eyes, and he sought to win her.

And not many days after he espoused the maiden, and there was great feasting and merry making at that house, and the same was heard of the neighbors.

And on the following day, the farmer took her to his own home, in the valley of Berryessa, and they lived happily together for the space of many years.

DAVID GOYLE, THE MILLER MAN.

“’Tis a strange cap: ’Twill give and take, and fit many heads.”—_Old
Volume._

Oh, will you hear with patient ear,
The story I’ll relate
About man’s infidelity,
And learn his losses great?

There lived a little miller once,
Who owned a tiny mill;
While there was water in his pond
The stones were never still.
For not a man the country round,
From Inyo to the Bay,
Was closer to his business found,
Than David Goyle, they say.

Let people pass at eve, or noon,
Or at the break of day,
They’d see the dusty miller there
And hear the hoppers play;
But when the narrow stream run dry,
The miller was at fault;
The rack-a-tacket mill reposed
As silent as a vault.

The little vicious artisan
Had spun his silken snare
Across the dusty flour-chute,
And silent gearing there;
While in the elevator’s cup
Was heard the mouse’s squeak,
And village children in the flume
Dry-shod, played hide-and-seek.

Said David to his wife one day,
“I think, while water’s low,
I’ll take a business trip to town,
Just for a week or so;
I have not ground a peck of grain,
’Tis now eight days or more;
But sat and picked, and picked the stones,
And dressed their surface o’er.”

Then turned his little loving wife—
With much concern, said she,
“I hope while you are stopping there,
That you will careful be;
And shun those dark and narrow streets
Where rogues do congregate,
And look from out their low retreats
As spiders watch and wait.

“Have not the city papers teemed
With incidents, wherein
Some people proved not what they seemed,
And took the stranger in?
Then trust not smiles, or cunning wiles;
Be careful where you tread;
The very ground beneath your feet
With pitfalls may be spread;
There’s not a trick, a trap, or plot,
Or scheme of any sort—
From playing fine to drugging wine—
To which they’ll not resort.”

Then leaned this little miller man
Away back in his chair,
And laughed until his anxious wife
Thought he would strangle there.
Said he, “You much amuse me, wife;
Have you forgot, my dear,
That I have traveled in my life,
And came from Jersey here?

“Or can you for a moment think
Your husband’s mind is crude?
Or deem that I the cup would drink,
By Temperance men tabooed?
Those who can get the start of me,
In country or in town,
By Jove, must early risers be,
And you can put that down.”

For he was vain, this miller man,
Who thought his mind so vast;
But look with me, and we will see
How he comes out at last.

In course of time he reached the town,
To stop a week or more;
And in a large hotel was lodged,
Upon the second floor;
If you should doubt my word in this,
Step over to the “Grand;”
You’ll find his name recorded there,
And in a scrawling hand.

It chanced—but hold! ere more I say,
Or sentence more you read,
Are you prepared with me to stray
Wherever he may lead?
You are! all right, then “on’s” the word,
Again my pen I hold,
And blame me not, if I should jot
Down facts he’d wish untold.

It chanced while Dave was strolling down
A certain crowded street,—
(Its name at present slips my mind,
Or you’d have all complete)—
He met a stranger in the way,
Who brought him to a stand;
He smiled upon him as in joy
And reached a friendly hand.

He hailed the stranger, no, I think,
The stranger him addressed;
I would not do the fellow wrong,
He’s bad enough at best.
The stranger spoke him very free;
He came from Jersey, too;
For he was sharp as one can be;
He thought his folks he knew.

“There was a Goyle;—yes, yes, I’m sure;
How strange that we should meet!
I’ve passed his house a thousand times,
And met him on the street.”
The miller scarce could credit this;
But frank he seemed and fair,
So he resolved to step inside,
And talk the matter there.

There is a drug that bunco men
Do mingle with the wine
They give to country friends like Dave,
For what, I can’t divine.
Perhaps those thoughtful rascals deem
The noisiness of town
Might not allow refreshing sleep
To weigh their eyelids down.

But whether this the cause, or not,
Enough for you and me
To know, the wine that David got
Was not from mixtures free!
Oh! for a club to brain the knave
Who could not see the snare;
Oh! for a spade to dig his grave,
And dump him headlong there.

The night has passed away at last;
Now hand in hand we’ll scout,
Now here, now there, with greatest care,
To search that miller out.
Thus, side and side, we first will glide
O’er letter, word, and line;
Until we stand that house beside,
Where Dave was drinking wine.

Oh, sight! so painful to the eyes,
It dims them like a fog!
Within the house the miller lies,
As still as any log!
And not until the sun was high,
And bells in towers spoke,
From out that deep lethargic sleep
He wonderingly awoke.

He gazed upon the papered wall;
The ceiling overhead;
But strange was paper, pictures all,
The foot-board of the bed.
Swift as the lightning’s flash destroys
The spider’s flimsy toil,
Suspicion traveled through the head
Of the awakening Goyle.

As starts the lodger from repose,
When flames burst in the door,
So suddenly that miller rose,
And bounced upon the floor;
One stride sufficed to reach the chair;
On which his robes were cast;
But seemed it to that man an age,
Until he grasped them fast.

No nimbler does the maiden’s hand
Play o’er the keys of sound,
Than did that miller’s fingers glide
In searching pockets round.
In vain he felt from tail to top;
The thief had gone before,
And harvested a golden crop,
While he did dream and snore.

Gone was his purse, and all within;
A ring he valued more;
Gone watch and chain, the diamond pin
That on his scarf he wore.
His little wife with miser care,
(And warning words, no doubt,)
With her own hands affixed it there
The morning he set out.

Enraged, that miller waltzed around,
And like his hopper shook:
And swore by all the grists he ground,
And all the tolls he took,
That since the days when he was schooled
In games of pitch and toss,
He never was so deeply fooled,
Or so betrayed to loss!

Ten times at least, that pallid man
Strove to insinuate
His nervous limbs into his pants,
But failed to guide them straight.
First hop, hop, hop, to left he went,
Now, hop, hop, hop, to right!
Then hop, hop, backwards, till he rent
The pants asunder quite!

Now partly in and partly out,
He polka’d here and there,
Now _chasse_ up, now _chasse_ back,
Then balanced o’er the chair.
At last his toilet was complete,
The yawning rent was pinned,
And out into the narrow street
He bolted like the wind.

He traveled towards the City Hall,
And vowed at every bound
That justice would he seek and have,
If justice could be found.
The milkmen stopped their reckless drive,
Or dropped the cup and can,
And leaned to catch a glimpse of Dave
As down the street he ran.

Old women early out to mass
When Dave went racking by,
Would jump aside to let him pass,
Then to each other cry:
“The saints protect us! see him go
Upon his wild career;
A crazy creature well I know,
From some asylum near.”

Suffice it here to be explained
Before I close the tale,
The justice David Goyle obtained,
Was not of much avail.

Go net the sea to catch the whale
That did on Jonah dine;
Go rake the land to find the stone
That slew the Philistine;
But seek not her whose hoodwink’d eyes,
Proclaim her dealings just;
Well hangs her balance in the skies,
For here on earth they’d rust.

The rumbling stones are grinding now,
The water’s rushing down;
But do not bet that miller yet
Forgets his trip to town.
For every waking hour he knows
Throughout the twenty-four,
His scowling face and muttering shows
He counts his losses o’er.

There’s not a time he laves his hands,
But what that ring is missed!
(Its gold he gathered from the sands,
A gift the amethyst).
And oh, the query gives him pain,
“What is the time of day?”
For to the missing watch and chain
The miller’s mind will stray.
And now no more upon his breast
The brilliant diamond shines,
Its lustre falls in other halls
Where flow the noxious wines.

HEELS UP AND HEAD DOWN.

A stout old gentleman was enjoying the luxury of a salt-water bath in the bay, a short distance from where I was fishing. As he was a poor swimmer—notwithstanding he had a good supply of blubber—he attached a couple of inflated air-bags to his shoulders, by means of a string under his arm-pits. During his splashing about, and his repeated endeavors to strike out like Cassius bearing Cæsar from the troubled waters of the Tiber, the floats changed their position from his shoulders to his hips. This change he was not prepared for, and the result was distressing in the extreme. He immediately commenced sinking—as sailors say—by the head. In vain would he make long and desperate reaches toward the bottom, striving to anchor his feet in the soft sand. Just as his toes would touch the bed below, the buoyancy of the supports and undercurrent combined would prevail against him.

Up would come his pedal extremities to the surface, and consequently down he would go, head first, like a pearl diver, grasping at the pebbles beneath. After making a commotion in the water like the screw of a tug boat, which brought small crabs and crawfish to the top with dismembered limbs, he would manage to get his head above water long enough to get a mouthful of fresh air, but retire immediately below to digest it. Some Italian fishermen, running in from the offing with their day’s catch, sighted the old gentleman beating off the Point. They mistook him for a “devil fish,” or some other odd-looking inhabitant of the briny deep, disporting itself in the sheltered waters of the bay. Getting out their hooks and harpoons ready for action, and changing course, they bore down with all possible speed in the direction of the singular monster.

The wind was blowing quite fresh, and it wasn’t long until the Italians came nigh enough to ascertain the real state of affairs, and rescue the unfortunate swimmer from his perilous situation. The fishermen rolled the old gentleman over a keg they had in the boat for half an hour, before his stomach could be emptied of its washy load and breathing rendered easy. When sufficiently relieved to admit of speech, the bather gave his rescuers to understand that in future the tide might ebb and flow, be warm as milk new drawn from the cow, and tranquil as a frozen pond, but a common bath-tub would be rivers, lakes—yea, oceans—to him during the remainder of his natural life.

THE BITTER END.

While in one of the interior counties to-day I stood beside the graves of six members of one household. The father and his five sons all fell in one sanguinary family feud.

It seems an ill feeling had long existed between two families named respectively Frost and Coates. Though they frequently indulged in small skirmishes—from which black eyes, bloody noses, or slit ears were the principal trophies borne away—they had never met when their full forces were under arms. And for the happy hour that would bring about such a meeting, each party looked forward with interest, if not impatience.

A day arrived at last, full of promise. It was an election day. Each party expected the other out in strength, with furbished arms, and prepared themselves accordingly. They took the street, resolved, that—

“Ere the bat had flown
His cloistered flight: ere to black Hecate’s summons
The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums,
Had rung night’s yawning peal, there would be done
A deed of dreadful note.”

Two planets keep not their motion in one sphere, nor could two quarrelsome families move long in a small village, or freely patronize the same groggeries without a collision. Towards evening they met, some mounted and more on foot, and from low jests amongst themselves respecting each other’s lack of prowess upon former occasions, the controversy soon reached the point of positive contradictions. As the “lie direct” is equivalent to a well-developed kick to your average fighting man, hostilities soon commenced.

The Coates family opened the engagement with a brisk fusilade, and at the first fire the gray-bearded patriarch of the Frost faction went down with all his imperfections on his head.

The firing now became general. “From rank to rank, the volleyed thunder flew.”

Neutral parties fled from the street, and for a time transacted business with “closed doors.” The report of the firearms frightened the horse of a disinterested gentleman, who was riding through the village, and despite his efforts to control the animal, it dashed directly between the belligerent parties. The fighting men, however, did not slacken fire on his account, but blazed away without seeming to notice or care whether the agitated stranger went down in the general _melee_ or not. Fortunately, the gentleman escaped injury, but it was certainly more by chance than good guidance. It is said so rapid was the fire that a steady blaze seemed issuing from the muzzle of their weapons. When the smoke of battle raised, five of the Coates family were lying dead.

On the other side, Frost and one of his sons were killed, and a son-in-law mortally wounded. People say the funeral was a saddening spectacle. Amongst the mourners were mothers, daughters, sisters and wives.

But the end was not yet.

Before the grass had taken root upon the graves, the ground was again broken, and another victim of the malignant feud was hidden from the sight of friends and foes.

The fires of hate still smouldered, and within a year another of the Coates family was put _hors du combat_, while going one night from the village to his ranch.

He was seen leaving for home on horseback at nine o’clock, but about ten his horse ran masterless into the farm-yard. The man was found lying by the roadside dead, a bullet having passed through his head. Suspicion reverted to the Frost family, but no proof could be brought to establish their guilt. The public finger still points toward them, however, and doubtless will continue so to do for many a day, or until the mystery is cleared up.

A TRIP TO THE INTERIOR.

A flying trip into the interior has not favorably impressed me. There were too many mosquitoes—too many graybacks. It is too far from civilization, and too nigh the sun. I stopped over night in a small city, and the first thing that attracted my attention on entering the place was the pale and sickly look of the inhabitants. This I attributed to the fever and ague, the hot weather, and impure river water which they drink. I was credibly informed by several parties that their pallor was owing to the quantity of blood that is nightly extracted from their veins by the mosquitoes. From the number of these pests infesting the place, it has taken the name of “The Mosquito City.”

Those people who cannot indulge in such a luxury as mosquito bars, have to sleep during the day. They sit up nights and wage war against their ferocious enemies with tobacco smoke, burning leather, wet towels, or any other weapon to which they can conveniently resort.

To be stung by a black hornet or a scorpion is bad; to be bitten by a tarantula or rattlesnake is worse; but to be punctured to the bone by the bugle of one of these mosquitoes is terrible. They are enormous insects. When flying through the air they are as discernible as thistle-down, or even humming birds. The sharp tube through which they sap their victim’s blood is fully three-quarters of an inch long, and resembles a cambric needle; this they steadily and unhesitatingly press into the flesh until they either strike a bone, or their forehead prevents them from doing deeper injury.

Towards evening they rise with pining maws from the low, damp land around the city—

“Innumerable as the blades of green,
That carpet the vale of the San Joaquin;”

and as they close in upon the devoted inhabitants, their blended cries swell in pitch and compass until the sound resembles the impassioned tone of a fish-peddler’s horn. I stopped at a hotel in the lower part of the city, and before retiring for the night looked carefully about the room. As few mosquitoes were in sight, I concluded to sleep without using the bar. Congratulating myself on being assigned a room where so few of the common enemy of man were lying in wait, I extinguished the light and turned in.

Scarce was I stretched upon the couch when

“At once there rose such hungry yells,
From every point the compass tells,”

that I lost no time in striking a light and adjusting the netting. I now saw them emerging from every conceivable hiding place. Trooping they came, from behind picture-frames, from under the bureau; out of vases and old empty bottles. They were climbing and clambering and pitching towards me with energy. I noticed a steady stream of them shooting out of the closet through the key-hole, with such velocity that they went warping half-way across the apartment before they could check themselves sufficiently to tack around and dive for the bed.