Chapter VIII: Part 8

“Wal,” he continued, pointing with a huge jack-knife that he held in his hand, “you see that house to the left of them scrub oaks, don’t you? that ar buildin’ with the leetle coopalow on’t? Wal, thar’s whar old Deacon Shellbark lives; _the meanest man in this yer county_, and that’s sayin’ considerable, too! cause we’ve got some vicey-fisted customers round these yer parts, men who scrape the puddin’ pot mighty clean before the dog gits a chance to canvass it, now I can tell ye. But I feel safe in stickin’ in old Shellbark at the head, and I ain’t agwine to haul him down nuther. I don’t believe in talkin’ much about one’s neighbors, but I ginnerally tell strangers what sort of a man he is, cause if they go to tradin’ with him and aren’t on thar guard, he’ll skin ’em quicker than a whirlpool sucks in a dead fish.”

“You know the Deacon, then?” I remarked, while the hope I had entertained of getting his name on my subscription list began to take to itself wings.

“Yes, I reckon I do know him,” he replied, “pooty well, too; a great sight better than is profitable to him, and he knows it. Oh, you bet he knows it, and hates me as he does the dry murrain that gin the crows fifteen of his best cows last summer. I knowed him back in Scrabble Town.

“They wouldn’t allow him to come within pistol shot of a church back thar, because they mor’n suspected he stole the wine and bread from the communion table one day. They were down on him flatter than a stone on a cricket allers arterwards. He’s a deacon out here though, but that ain’t nothin’. He can’t fool me with his prayin’. I want no sech crooked old disciple as he is intercedin’ for me, you know.”

“I was hoping he would subscribe for this book,” I remarked, “but I am afraid there is not much use of my going there if he is so very mean.”

“Look’e here, stranger,” he remarked earnestly, “you mout just as well stop thar whar you’re standin’. Subscribe! He’ll gig back from a subscription list jest as he would from a six-shooter.”

“Ah, but this is a religious work, and perhaps he would lend that his support,” I answered quickly.

“Religious work be shelved!” exclaimed the farmer. “That doesn’t help ye any; you can’t do anythin’ with him, ’cause he hain’t got no more soul than an empty gin bottle. You mout as well bait a rat trap with a cat’s head and expect the varmin to go a-nibblin’ at it, as to expect him to put his name down to anything that’s agwine to take coin from his pockets.

“You’re a stranger in these yer parts I see, and tharfore haven’t the slightest idea what a towerin’ mean man he is; why he’d run a mile to git on the sunny side of a feller to cheat him out of his shadow! I knowed him back in old Indiany. He’s from the same place that I am, but you can kick me clear over to them foot-hills and back ag’in if I don’t feel like takin’ pizin every time I have to own up to it. He used to be in cahoot with a tanner back thar named Doby; sleepy Doby, the boys called him, for he was the sleepiest feller you ever did see. Go asleep while workin’ at anythin’. He would drop asleep sometimes while scrapin’ a hide, and cut the consarned thing all into parin’s; at other times he would fall back into the tan vat, then wake up and holler for the boys to come and fish him out.

“They say he dropped asleep once while ringin’ a hog to prevent him from rootin’ up the clover patch. The minister of the village had to pause in the middle of a sermon he was preachin’ half a block away, until the squealin’ subsided.

“But as I was gwine to tell ye, before the rheumatism got into his j’ints, and made him shun water as he would a tax-collector, old Shellbark used to be pooty fond of fishin’. One day Parson Bodfish was gwine off to have a day’s sport, and took me along to carry the fish. I was only a boy then, and mighty tickled because I could go. Jest about the time we got to the river we overtook old Shellbark a-pointin’ thar too. When we got to the bank they both set in gettin’ out thar hooks and lines, and then for the first time old Shellbark found out he had left his bait to hum. So he commenced to sputter and fret, takin’ on terribly about it, until Parson Bodfish ses to him, ‘That’s all right; I reckon I’ve got enough bait in this box for both of us, and I’ll give you half of mine, and let us start in and make the most of it.’ So the Parson—who had a heart the size of a sheep’s head—took out his bait-box and gin him more than half. It’s so; I seed ’em when he took ’em out. Pooty soon arter, while the parson was a-standin’ on a log that horned out over the water, a-baitin’ of his hooks, a big-mouthed fish-hawk gin a-chatterin’ screech overhead, and startled him a leetle, and while lookin’ up he let his bait-box fall into the river.

“The box was open, so the worms war scattered every which way, and away went box and bait a-flukin’ down the rapids, and the parson’s cusses follerin’ arter. He _did_ swar, by hunky! I heer’d him. He had a mi’ty hot temper, and it was more than he could do sometimes to keep it down. A feller couldn’t blame him much for swa’rin’ jest then, ’cause ’twas a pooty tryin’ time. He turned around sort of quick when he thought of me bein’ thar. I seed him turnin’, though, and let on to be talkin’ to a fish that I was stringin’ on, so he reckoned I hadn’t noticed him. We hurried on down the river, and arter a while overtook old Shellbark, who was snakin ’em out as fast as he could fix bait and throw in.

“‘I lost all my worms back thar, while standin’ on a log,’ ses the parson, ‘and will have to fall back on you for some.’ The old snipe grumbled out somethin’ about bein’ out of all patience with people who war so fool careless. Arter a while he took out the rag he kept the worms in, and although he had quite a large knot of ’em, he gin the parson jest one, and dead at that! It’s so! You may laugh, but I seed it. When he was a-pickin’ it out and handin’ it to him, and when Parson Bodfish was a-stickin’ the hook into him, he lay thar and took it as e-a-s-y, and never squirmed or objected the least. You’d hev thought it was a link of vermicelli the parson had picked out of a soup plate.

“When Parson Bodfish took it from him, he held it between his finger and thumb a while, jest that way, and I swow I felt solid sure he was agwine to slap it back into old Shellbark’s face.

“He didn’t, though. But he did look as if he’d like to, mi’ty well. He stood thar and stared him in the face as if actewally in doubt about his being the person he divided with in the mornin’. Arter a while he baited his hook and started in right thar. He had amazin’ good luck, too, with one bait. He hauled out four floppin’ great chubs, one right arter the other, and durin’ the same time old Shellbark didn’t get a bite from anythin’ but musquiters. He seemed just tearin’ mad over it, too, I can tell you.

“He stood thar a-floppin’ and a-scratchin’ and a-slingin’ of his line out the full length, tryin’ on all sides continewally, but to no purpose.

“At last, thinkin’ he had a fish when he didn’t, he switched up his line so spiteful it caught in a tree-top more than fifteen feet above his head; and while he was a-gawpin’ up thar, jerkin’ the line, and stampin’ round, he sot his foot flat onto his string of fish that war layin’ thar on the bank, and squashed the in’ards out of nigh every one of ’em. Between thar slipperiness and his confusion, hurryin’ to git off ’em before they were sp’iled, he fell and slid away down the bank, head fust, a-clawin’ and a-kickin’ jest like a skeer’d alligator. Only he chanced to strike ag’inst an old root that was stickin’ up at the margin of the river, he’d have gone plum to the bottom for sartain.

“Unfortunately the last fish Parson Bodfish caught had swallered the bait, so he ses to me kind of low, ‘Dolphus, let’s see if we can’t skeer up a lizard, or somethin’ that’ll do for bait when a man’s in a pinch.’

“So we set in to huntin’ and s’archin’ under old logs and stones, and dead wild grass, but couldn’t git hold of anythin’. The parson fell three times on all fours in the dirt, and gin his wrist a mi’ty bad sprain while pursuin’ a queer, long-legg’d horned critter somethin’ like a cricket, only pizenous, I guess. I could have caught it once, as it went dronin’ past, but didn’t feel like touchin’ it. Finally it got stuck into a clump of ferns, and he gin it up. So arter a while he ses, ‘I’ll have to go back and try that old Shellbark ag’in, though I’d ruther take a dose o’ ipecac than do it.’

“So we come back to whar he was fishin’. He looked mi’ty solemn, and was muddy as an old stone boat. Ses the parson to him, ‘I’ll have to call on you ag’in for another _dead_ worm; the one you gin me is all gobbled up.’

“‘Seems to me you’re mi’ty extravagint with the bait,’ he ses gruffly, and switchin’ his line around and slingin’ it out far as the pole would let it go, but not makin’ the least motion to comply with the parson’s request.

“‘Waal, I don’t know how that is,’ ses Parson Bodfish, kind of easy like, and tryin’ to keep down his anger, that I seed was rizin’ jest like bilin’ sugar, ‘I nabbed four rousin’ good fish with that one bait. I reckon that’s doin’ pooty well; fact I know it is. They seem to bite fust rate at dead worms jest now.’

“‘Waal, I don’t know anythin’ about that,’ ses the old narrow gauge, ‘s’posin’ you cut up some of your fish and see if you can’t catch somethin’ with that sort of bait; fish bite pooty well at that sort of an offerin’ jest before rain, they say.’

“‘Then you ain’t a gwine to give me any worms?’ ses the parson, in a husky voice, and shakin’ like a rag in the wind, he was so chock full of passion.

“‘Waal, this is a sort of curious world, Mr. Bodfish,’ ses old Shellbark, slow and niggardly like, jest that way, ‘and without a feller looks out for himself he ain’t considered nothin’. ‘Sides you know,’ he contin’ed, ‘fish bait is a good deal like an oyster or a bean—somethin’ that’s mi’ty hard to divide with a feller,’ and he commenced to troll along down stream.

“Apple sass and spinage! I never did see a man so riled as that Parson Bodfish was sence I could distinguish the moon from a lightnin’ bug. He changed to all the colors of the rainbow by turns in less time than I’m tellin’ ye. You never seed sech a struggle between sin and piety as raged inside that parson for about five minutes.

“Fust piety seemed to be gettin’ on top, then sin would choke her down and hold her thar. At last he turned around and run full chisel ahind the turned up roots of a big windfall as though a gallon and a half of black hornets war arter him. I reckoned he was gwine arter stuns to gin the old feller a good peltin’, and that kind of work bein’ right into my hand I ran thar too, cal’latin’ to help him do it. But I was mistaken’d.

“He wasn’t gwine arter stuns, for I seed so soon as he thought he was out of sight he flopped down on his knees right thar in the mud, a-holdin’ his hands jined together above his head jest that way. I allowed he was a gwine to pray then for sartin, but he didn’t pray; no siree, not much pra’ar jest then! he sw’ar’d though. He did! I heered him, jest as plain as could be, ses he:—

“‘I sw’ar I’ll git even yet with that old Shellbark, if I have to yank him out of his grave like a body-snatcher, to accomplish it!’

“I felt like runnin’ thar and sayin,’ ‘Don’t rise yet, let me kneel and sw’ar too,’ the same as that tricky feller does in the play whar he’s a-foolin’ the jealous nigger so bad; but I knowed it wouldn’t do, ’cause he didn’t want me to see him kneel thar in the mud. So when he came back he found me peltin’ a frog as if nothin’ had happened.

“‘Come, Dolphus,’ ses he, ‘its gettin’ pooty late; I guess we mout as well be a-movin’ back home.’ So we turned back toward the village, though ’twa’n’t more than noon, and left old Shellbark fishin’ thar. He did git even with him though.

“One Sunday soon arter Parson Bodfish was”—here the farmer was interrupted by a wild looking female who stuck her frowzy head out of an open window, like a turtle out of its shell, and shouted, in anything but a sweet voice:—

“‘Dolphus! you natural born talkin’ machine you! what are ye a-settin’ a-pratin’ and a-pratin’ about out thar? that old hog is in the gardin’ ag’in, a-h’istin’ the parsnips, and crunchin’ ’em like an old b’ar.’

“Consarn her spotted hide!” he vociferated, jumping up and grabbing a huge cudgel that lay near by. “Jest you stop yer, stranger, for about ten seconds, until I make that old swine think thar’s a trip-hammer got a foul of her, then I’ll tell ye how the parson got even.”

“I couldn’t stop to hear the story any way,” I replied, “for I must be travelling. However, I’ll take your advice and give the Deacon a wide berth.”

As I descended the hill, the swine’s wail was ringing in my ears, and I judged the trip-hammer was at work.

IN A THOUSAND YEARS.
(A WOMAN’S DREAM OF THE FUTURE.)

’Twill be all the same in a thousand years!
What a terrible line this, to draw out the tears.
Oh, how oft do I weep at the dance, or the play,
O’er the sorrows we women are doomed to convey;
And can it be so, must we stand at the gate,
Denied all the honors of the country or State?
Our part but to please and obey lordly man;
Be kind when he’s surly, and be sweet as we can;
As students to shiver, like leaves in the breeze,
If we chance to infringe on his rules or decrees?
Then have pity, ye gods, who look down on our case,
Shut from Bar, Bench and School Board, and every fat place,
To pick up the pennies that oppressors fling down,
For cutting and stitching, and clothing the town.
Oh, the tyrant’s sharp lash, his “pooh pooh’s,” and his sneers,
Will be all the same in a thousand years.

Ah! ’tis not the same in a thousand years;
How sweet and how pleasant our life now appears,
For women no longer bow down at the nod
Of creatures, who ruled with a chain and a rod;
But as lawyers they plead, and as doctors dissect,
And in temples of learning control and direct.
The weak-footed student at mile-posts may rest
Without springing a mine in the President’s breast;
There’s no splitting of hairs to deny her the prize,
She receives her diploma and a blessing likewise;
Now women no more stitch and stew for their lives,
Or suffer injustice, because daughters or wives;
Lo, they sit down as jurors, they judge and they vote,
And in steering through life ply an oar in the boat.
The mother departed looks down here with pride
On her merciful child dealing charity wide;
While man, that once governed so harsh and severe,
Applies for positions in meekness and fear;
Now the cane of the dude is no more on the street,
The eyeglass is missing, and sharp-pointed feet,
The poor “chappy” himself is beyond the bright spheres,
For ’tis not the same in a thousand years.

THE COBBLER’S END.

A large crowd of people was standing in and around a small shoemaker’s shop on Third Street. Elbowing my way to the inner circle, I found the excitement was over a man who had committed suicide. He was lying upon the floor, his hands still grasping a shot gun, with which he had blown off the top of his head.

I learned it was the shoemaker, and that he had committed the rash act because the lady on whom his affections were set had seen fit to choose another for her partner. Worst of all, it was a tailor who, to use a common expression and one to the point, had cut him out. They were both charmed with the comeliness of the young woman, and whenever an opportunity offered, were in the habit of throwing sheep’s eyes in the direction of her apartment. The lady seemed to grow more interested in the situation, and even went so far as to smile archly upon him.

The tailor, who had never received such a compliment from so pretty a woman before, was quite carried away with joy. He felt that his love was returned, and from that moment the world presented a different aspect. It was not even a new picture in an old frame, or _vice versâ_, but was new throughout.

Even the old breeches on his lap seemed to suddenly undergo a strange metamorphosis. The stout, rough material, over which he had lately been bending with crippled fingers and sprung needle, in the twinkling of an eye seemed transformed into a golden fleece, through which the waxed thread flew like chain-lightning through a cotton umbrella. To have an interview was now his only study, and where there’s a will there’s a way.

One day a small boy was pressed into service and intrusted with a letter to the woman in whom his whole heart seemed wrapped. She received it safely, and duly by return of post broke the delightful intelligence to the tailor that his love was returned, and ended the epistle by requesting him to call.

Hardly had “seeling night scarfed up the tender eye of pitiful day,” when the tailor with palpitating heart ascended the rickety stairs that led to the apartment. How he was received there is no knowing, but it is apparent to all he soon ingratiated himself with the handsome damsel, as the sequel shows.

The knight of the thimble and needle had saved considerable money and was comely to look upon, while she was both free and willing to wed, so the courtship was a short one.

As it happened, the tailor had received an offer from a business firm in the country that day, and as delays were considered dangerous, they decided to be married at once and start for their new home. It chanced that neither the lover nor his fair inamorata were troubled with enough luggage to require the services of an express wagon, and it wasn’t long before their traps were stuffed into sacks and bundles ready for removal.

Talk about striking while the iron is hot: they went ahead of the time-honored injunction, and hammered the iron while it was yet in the furnace. The bat had hardly found his evening meal before they were united and received the congratulations of the officiating clergyman, and before Hesperus led her starry host down to the western main the happy pair might have been seen bending under their respective burdens, and moving rapidly down the thoroughfare to catch the first train for the country.

Crispin soon discovered his handsome bird had flown. This was too much for the poor cobbler. He couldn’t bear up under the weight, and having procured a shot-gun, soon ceased to exist.

These facts I gleaned from a grocer who lived near by, and who was acquainted with all the parties. My mind was so disturbed by the distressing event, I found it impossible to sleep for hours after I reached my room. I started in to recite a book of Paradise Lost, but it was no go. I had Michael assaulting Satan with a shoemaker’s awl instead of with his sword of celestial temper. I then endeavored to run over an act in Shakespeare, but met with no better success. I had Othello blowing his head off with a shot-gun, instead of stabbing himself with a knife. Still, the terrible combination of circumstances culminating in the death of the poor cobbler crowded upon me in a saddening train, and much-needed rest came not to my relief until the following lines were composed and set to music:—

“Oh, the sunshine of his life
Had become a tailor’s wife,
Which was more than selfish heart could bear;
So he got his gun in haste,
In his mouth the muzzle placed,
Turned his eyes aloft as if in prayer;
On the trigger set his toes—
As the illustration shows—
Then up to the ceiling went his hair!

THE LAST OF HIS RACE.

While passing through the market this morning, I saw the old turkey that had escaped the ravages of Christmas. He is said to be the sole remnant of the turkey tribe—living or dead—at present to be found. Though the door of his coop was open he seemed to have no desire to escape. Evidently, like Byron’s “Prisoner of Chillon,” he has been so long an inmate he has become attached to it, and would rather remain there than take his chances in the busy world outside.

He stood most of the time in the centre of the coop in a brown study. Once, while I was looking at him, he attempted to expand the dilapidated substitute for a tail and assume the dignity and strut of other days. The effort was too much for him, and he settled down again into a dreamy, somnolent state, from which the crowing of a large Brahma even failed to arouse him. The poor fellow will doubtless fall a victim to man’s rapacity on New Year, for I noticed a fleshy old epicure regarding him with hungry sinister looks; nay, more, setting a price upon his head.

Passing again through the market this afternoon, I noticed the coop was empty, the “Prisoner of Chillon” was missing. Who had purchased him? or what had become of him? were questions which, however pertinent they might be, I felt I had no right to ask, and I didn’t. But the finger of suspicion points directly at the mouth of that venerable justice who was setting a price upon its head.

JIM DUDLEY’S RACE.

Now that I am rid of my wild-cat mining stock, my aching teeth and inverted toenails, “Jim Dudley” turns up again with his stories and slang.

Last night he told about the fast team he once sported in Indiana, and I wager considerable that he never drove a horse in his life, except it was to the pound that the might get half the fine. But this is the way he spun his yarn:—

“Did the boys tell you about the span I used to drive down at Grab Corners? No? wal, that’s queer. I owned a mi’ty fast pair while I was stoppin’ thar.

“You see I fust had a four-year old hoss, and used to go buzzin’ through the village like a streak o’ lightnin’; and when I had jest enough whiskey aboard to make me feel a leetle reckless, I used to turn the corners on the two inner wheels and never make a miss of it.

“My ambition was to own a span, though. Arter a while I bought a young mare from Deacon Shovelridge. She was the homeliest lookin’ critter, though, you ever sot eyes on. Her tail was as hairless as a garter snake. She was a basin-raised colt, and one mornin’ she was standin’ round whar the boys were makin’ soap, and while backin’ up to the blaze to git warm, her tail caught fire, and every spear of hair was burned off. It never came out agin, nuther.

“It made her look pooty bad, but I see the go was in her, and that was what I was arter. Durin’ fly time I used to help her out of her troubles a leetle by fastenin’ a heavy tassel to the end of her tail, and arter some practice she could fetch a fly off her ribs or fore shoulder e’enmost every pop.

“I got her pooty reasonable. The Deacon said he was actewally ashamed to go out with her, for the boys were allers a-hootin’ arter him. Besides, the old codger seemed to have a likin’ for me, and allers took my part when others were runnin’ me down. The mare matched the young hoss fust rate. Both had hides like rhinoceroses, which sweat could never get through. They might be bilin’ hot inside, but they never showed any signs of it outwardly.

“Arter a little trainin’ they pulled together, and spatted it out as even as the wheels of a ferry-boat. I used to make a commotion among the villagers when I turned out, for I could pass everythin’ around the Corners; and you ought to have seen the fellers a-runnin’ out to hold their hosses by the head when they see me comin’, and the wimmin a-hollerin’ and tuckin’ up their skirts and scuddin’ arter their young ‘uns as though a drove of Mexican cattle were a-comin’ across the bridge.

“One day an old sport named Abe Drake, a sort of spreein’ old bachelor, come over thar from Illinois. He afterwards married a brokin’ winded old concert singer that used to be squeakin’ around there, and went to live in Hulltown. Wal, as I was sayin’, he came over there and brought a spankin’ fine team along.

“They were amazin’ nice-lookin’ critters now, I can tell you; skins smooth and shiny as seals, and tails on ’em that actewally trailed in the dust behind. He allers had plenty of money, and was continewally takin’ the gals around to one place or another. He was ginerally considered the biggest cat on the wood pile. We never came in contact when we had our teams out until one day at a picnic in Gawley’s Wood.

“That straw-headed Kate Rykert was thar. She was the rollickin’, don’t-care gal of the village, one of these tree-climbin’, astride-ridin’ critters, but a mi’ty good gal for all that, and handsome as a new fiddle. She was well up in the fine arts, but she could realize more genuine enjoyment chargin’ through the pastur’ astride the old mooly cow than she could by trummin’ a pianer.

“Wal, there wasn’t hardly a gal in the village that Abe Drake hadn’t bin a-spurrin’ round, and he had sort o’ commenced a-trampin’ on his wing like around Kate Rykert about this time.

“It happened I had a sort of weakness that way myself, and I didn’t like his maneuverin’ any too well now, I kin assure you. He couldn’t make much out of Kate, though. She liked fast horses and a splurge, but she wasn’t one of those gals that would marry an old pair of breeches jest because there was greenbacks in the pockets.

“But, as I was remarkin’, that day while the picnic was breakin’ up, we all got talkin’ about a ball that was comin’ off the followin’ week down at Crow Bend. Abe wanted Kate to go down thar with him, but she had partly agreed afore that to go long er me; so to git herself out of it and me in, she said she would go with the one who could take her the fastest.

“‘That’s me,’ said Abe, straightenin’ up kind of proudly, and givin’ his pantaloons a hitch up at the waistband. ‘I can let you count the panels along the turnpike a leetle the quickest of any person around these quarters,’ and he looked sideways at me to see how I took the assertion.

“‘It’s not allers the hen that does the most extensive advertizin’ that makes the largest deposits,’ said Tom Ruggles, laughin’, as he sat thar packin’ away his dishes.

“‘No, Tom,’ said Gus Parks, the millinery man, who didn’t like Abe any too well, because he sort o’ smashed an engagement between him and the schoolmarm; ‘and it’s not allers your longest-tailed quadrupeds that git over the ground the fastest, nuther.’

“‘Wal, never mind, boys,’ ses I, jest easy, that way, ‘the proof of the whiskey is in the headache arterwards. I reckon I kin kill as many grasshoppers between here and Grab Corners as any person that cracks a whip in these parts.’

“‘What! with them thick-skinned critters of yourn?’ said Abe, p’intin’ his fingers at my hosses, and laughin’ as though it was mi’ty funny. It made me feel pooty riley, but I kept my temper.

“‘Supposin’ they hev thick skins,’ I ses, ‘they’re somethin’ like the cheese that goggle-eyed Peter bought from the peddler, their peculiarity doesn’t lie in the thickness of their hide so much as in the mysterious way they have of movin’ themselves around.’

“‘S’pose you try a race back to the Corner, then,’ ses one of the boys.

“‘Yes,’ ses Kate Rykert, clappin’ her hands and jumpin’ up. ‘I’ll ride back to the Corner with one of you, and let Tilley Evans go with the other, and I’ll go to the ball with the one who gets to the village first.’

“‘Agreed,’ ses Abe, ‘and you’ll ride back with me?’

“‘No, I’m heavier than Tilley,’ ses Kate, ‘let everythin’ be even; toss up for partners back to the Corner.’

“This seemed fair, so we flipped, and I won Kate. She weighed ten pounds more than Tilley, but I didn’t care for that, for I knowed if the worst come to the worst, she was none of your jumpin’ out kind; she would stick to the buggy while there was one wheel and the seat left, and that’s the sort of a gal to have along with a feller when he’s tryin’ hoss flesh.

“The whole picnic gathered around us when we were gettin’ our teams ready and war speculatin’ on the result. Money was gwine up on all sides. Parson Briarly had no change about him, but he bet his gold-bowed spectacles against old Silverthorn’s meerschaum pipe that I would git to the Corner fust.

“‘Beat him, Jim,’ ses Gus Parks, ‘and I’ll give Kate the best bonnet in the store.’

“‘And I’ll give her the highest-heeled pair of boots that I’ve got in my shop,’ said Tom Ruggles, the boot and shoe dealer.

“‘Then Kate is a bonnet and a pair of boots ahead, for sartain,’ says I, jumpin’ into the buggy and squarin’ round my horses for the road; and with that we started, lick-a-te-split! down the turnpike, Abe a leetle ahead, but not enough to make much difference with five miles of good turnpike ahead of us, without let or hindrance.

“Pooty soon Kate leaned over to me, and ses she, ‘You must beat him, Jim, for between you and me, I would ruther go to the ball with you than with Abe.’

“This made me feel mi’ty good, and ses I, ‘You mustn’t get skeered, then, for I reckon we’ll hev to take some desperate chances to git thar fust.’

“‘Let me alone for that,’ ses she; ‘when I can’t ride as fast as a hoss can run, then I’ll stay to hum, and let dad tote me around in the wheelbarrow.’

“Just then we came up with him. He tried to shake us off, and would spurt ahead, but I’d crawl up on him agin, and stick thar, lappin’ him and goin’ with him stretch for stretch, like a dog when he’s a-freezin’ to a pig’s ear. Away went Kate’s hat a-flutterin’ over butter-cup swale, like a Bird of Paradise over the gardin’ of Eden.

“‘That’s mi’ty bad, Kate,’ ses I, lookin’ over my shoulder at it sailin’ off.

“‘Let it go hatchin’,’ ses Kate, laughin’. ‘It’s only gettin’ out of the way of the new bonnet.’

“I thought ’twas a good omen myself, but didn’t say anythin’, for jist then Abe shot a leetle ahead, and as he was gwine off, he hollered, ‘You can’t do it, Jim.’

“‘I kin,’ ses I, determinedly.

“‘Your hosses are ginnin’ out; they hain’t got the bottom into ’em,’ he shouted, jest that way.

“‘It must hev dropped out last night, then,’ ses I, and with that I overhauled him agin. Past Brian O’Laughlan’s door yard we went like a whirlwind through a flour ‘mill, over a hen and three suckin’ pigs. The old woman was standin’ thar in the yard with her apron full of chickens, shakin’ her fist at us and swearin’ like a drunken gypsy. Her long tongue was a-slushin’ and dashin’ against her one front tooth like a mop ag’inst a table leg.

“I could have laughed myself to tears only I had to keep my eyes clear, for the road was so narrow in some places that when we were abreast there wasn’t any ground to spare.

“We were now passin’ the half-way spring and the race was fully as undecided as when we broke away from the hootin’ crowd on the picnic grounds.

“Down past old Deacon Shovelridge’s ten-acre hop yard we went rack-a-te-bang! hub end against hub end, and the outer wheels a-spokin’ it within six inches of a four-foot ditch.

“The ride to the Corners began to look like the ride to etarnity, and Tilley was as pale as a gray nun’s ghost, and continewally making narvous reaches for the lines.

“But Kate was equal to the surroundin’s. Thar she sot, with one arm around me and ’tother graspin’ the seat rail, and above the clatter of hoofs and steel axles, I could hear her repeatin’:—

“‘Stick to him, Jim, and start my stitches, if he doesn’t git his crop full of dust yet!’

“Old Shovelridge was in the field on a load of hay as we were passin’. He was inclined to piety, and if the world had no hosses in it I reckon he’d have been as pious as a church organ.

“And when he saw us a-raspin’ down the turnpike as though we were ridin’ in a four-hoss chariot, and saw Kate Rykert’s great swad of blonde har a-streamin’ out behind, like the tail of a comet, he couldn’t contain his feelin’s no how.

“He gin a rousin’ whoop like a Chilchat Indian, when he sights a fur hunter. Throwin’ away the pitchfork—which accidentl’y harpooned the old lady in the back who was rakin’ behind—and jumpin’ from the load, he took across the field to’ards the turnpike, swingin’ his old straw hat and hollerin’:—

“‘Go it, Dudley; go it! Keep the hoss up with the rat-tail mare, and I’ll bet my farm you’ll make Grab Corner fust!’

“This made me feel pooty good, for the mare was the one I had some fears about.

“But you ought to see how it affected Abe; he commenced to slash his hosses and swar like an ox teamster when his cart is stuck hub deep in the mud.

“Finally the off-horse broke, and there was a sort of irregular upheaval among ’em for a while, as though they war steppin’ on broken cakes of ice; one would be gwine down while ’tother was a-comin’ up.

“Abe tried to bring ’em down to their work agin, and in the meantime I kind of corkscrewed ahead and swung into the centre of the road in advance of him. Then I began to feel somethin’ like a feller what holds the winnin’ cards, and sees the other chaps a-pilin’ up the coin on their inferior pasteboards. But I see some young half-breeds a-squattin’ around on the road about a quarter of a mile ahead, and knowed at the rate we war travellin’ we’d be on top of ’em before they’d see us if I didn’t haul up.

“So I ses to Kate, ‘See them plag’y brats ahead of us thar! what bed we better do about it?’

“‘Run over the centipedes,’ ses she. ‘Abe ain’t a gwine to slack up for ’em,’ and she cuddled closer to me so the jolt wouldn’t hist her out.

“I shouted two or three times, but they were too busy with their mud pies, I reckon, to take any notice, and Abe was makin’ no signs of haulin’ up. I did my best to sheer round ’em, and kept right on for the Corner.

“I heered ’em scream as we went a-whirlin’ on, but reckon it was more through fright than injury.

“Abe had lost his grippin’s. He couldn’t overhaul me ag’in, no how, and I gradually crawled away from him, if he did his pootiest.

“The whole village seemed to be out to the bridge to see what was comin.’

“They see the dust risin’ when we were more’n a mile away, and they allowed the greatest run-away was a-comin’ down the turnpike that had happened since Bull Run, and were out thar speculatin’ as to whose family was in danger.

“But when they see it was a race, and recognized me, you ought to see the scatterin’ amongst ’em. You’d think a hull menagery had broken loose and was comin’ for ’em.

“Ole Pelvy, the shoemaker, was a-settin’ on the railin’ of the bridge; but jest as I crossed it, the crowd hoorayed, and jostled him off. He hung over the railin’ by one leg, with his body swayin’ below, and him a-hollerin’ like a good feller, and signalin’ for help, but the crowd were so taken up with the race, and were cheerin’ and swingin’ of their hats continewally, that they never knowed anythin’ about his position.

“Pooty soon his leg slipped over, and then he went, end over end more’n twenty-five feet, into the river, and was carried over the falls before anybody missed him. Arter that people weren’t troubled so much with corns around Grab Corner, for though he’s dead now, I’ll say it of him, he was the wust shoemaker that ever shoved an awl into a hide.

“I druv up to the hotel, and had jest got through helpin’ Kate out, when up come Abe, with his hosses hobblin’ as if they had picked up a twenty-penny nail in every hoof.

“They looked somewhat as if they had bin swimmin’ in a soap vat.

“Abe was very much of a man, though, arter all. His hosses I reckon had never bin passed before, but he didn’t bluster or git mad about it neither, though it must have bin pooty tryin’ to him.

“‘By the Witch of Endor’s long eye tooth,’ he cried, as he jumped from the buggy, ‘you did it, Jim; and you did it fair. Only I kinder think you swung in ahead of me a leetle too quick, back thar where that crazy old whipperin hollered so.’

“‘No, Abe,’ ses I, ‘I didn’t take an inch o’ turnpike till I was entitled to it.’

“‘Wal,’ ses he, as he came round to look at my animals, that were standin’ thar seemingly as cool as a brace of toads in a celler, ‘I’ll be shot if them hosses of yourn ain’t somethin’ like the widder Tappan’s boarders. The speed they show in gettin’ away with anythin’ was most surprisin’.’

“So Kate Rykert got the bonnet and boots, and I gin her a new dress to go with them, and if we didn’t shine out some the next week down to Crow Bend then thar ain’t no use talkin’ about it, that’s all.”

OLEOMARGARINE.

Through the busy bustling street,
Rolls a cart I often meet,
The driver shouting from the seat:
“Oleomargarine!”

On the tail-board long and wide,
Reaching fair from side to side,
Shines the word in painted pride:
“Oleomargarine!”

What it is doth not appear,
Where it comes from all may fear,
Still I shudder when I hear:
“Oleomargarine!”

Here and there he slowly crawls,
Pausing by the butcher stalls,
In the kitchen door he bawls:
“Oleomargarine!”

Bring your tallow, bring your fat,
Candle ends and all like that,
They will issue from the vat
Oleomargarine.

Any scraps you have about,
Kidney, liver, tripe, or snout,
All will make, when they’re tried out,
Oleomargarine.

Comes the cry across the way,
From a dame with rent to pay:
“Do you purchase puppies? say,
Oleomargarine!”

“Is he fat?” the driver cries;
“I should say so,” she replies;
“Then pitch him in where pussy lies.”
Oleomargarine!

In the church, or at the play,
In the parlor, night or day,
Still the voices seem to say:
“Oleomargarine!”

From the birds that round me fly,
In the brook that babbles by,
Still I seem to catch the cry:
“Oleomargarine!”

With suspicion now I spread
The cow’s rich offering on my bread
That weird butter still I dread,—
Oleomargarine!

Dainties now I must forego,
Pies and cakes and puddings, Oh!
Can I trust them? no! no!! no!!!
Oleomargarine!

DINING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

Taking dinner to-day in a restaurant, I was in danger of being carried off by cockroaches. If I was inclined to draw comparisons, I would say that in size the cockroaches I encountered in this place would compare favorably with cupboard door buttons. I had seen these troublesome insects on former occasions when I thought they were numerous—when they were as thick around the bread-plate as bees around their hive in June. But I had never been present when they turned out in sufficient numbers to take and hold possession of everything upon the table, even to the mustard-pot. To-day I witnessed such a spectacle. I counted until I tired; their skelping to and fro made the task painfully difficult, and the effort was abandoned. They had evidently been lying in ambush in the cruet stand from the moment I sat down and gave my order, for the ring of the plate as it struck the board seemed to be the signal for a general advance. They appeared in military ranks, moving towards the dish in a semicircle, like a line of Fenian skirmishers advancing heroically upon a turnip patch. There were no frost-nipped fellows, with drooping horns and dragging limbs, among those legions either. All were active, square-shouldered customers, real thoroughbreds, wide across the hips, and boasting a depth of chest capable of enduring any amount of running; while their long, formidable-looking feelers stood out at right angles from their heads, like the horns on a Mexican steer.

“During your natural life,” I commenced, addressing a waiter who stood near by, evidently enjoying my surprise, “whether while officiating as head steward on board of a floating palace on the Mississippi, or serving as second cook on a grain scow on the San Joaquin, did you ever run across a place where the cockroaches were one-ninetieth part as numerous as they are in this restaurant?”

“Numerous?” he answered; “you should be here a warm, sunshiny day, if you want to see cockroaches, for then all the invalids are out—those fellows who have had their movements across the table accelerated by a snapping finger, or such as have only tasted the poison scattered around for their benefit, or those who have taken an overdose and throwed it up again. These lie in cracks and cupboards, with stiffened joints and weak stomachs, when the weather is cold and cloudy; but when a warm day comes, they are all abroad and busy.”

“Well, I will bear that in mind,” I said, rising from the table, “and when the next total eclipse of the sun occurs, which, as I am informed, will take place in about four hundred and thirty-seven years, I may come into this restaurant for another meal, and not until then,” and with that I left.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The editor of a city paper having occasion to take a trip into the country, prevailed upon me to assume the responsibility of answering letters from correspondents. The task is an onerous one—the more so as the editor, with that cunning ever noticeable in a person who takes the cream of a job, left me to reply only to the knottiest epistles. But I will some time get even with him, however. I will assume the editorial “we,” and should I waken the wrath of any person, _he_ will be the sufferer. Here is a copy of my answer to “Katie:”—

“The minister was perfectly right in refusing to marry the couple, if, as you say, the bride insisted upon holding her poodle in her arms during the ceremony. The more so as the clergyman was near-sighted. He might possibly mistake the puppy for the bridegroom.”

Another person accuses a correspondent of a mis-statement. He says it was the editor of the _Farmer_, and not the editor of the _Examiner_, who planted the package of No. 16 homœopathic pills sent him from the country by a wag, as the seeds of a Sandwich Island cabbage.

The old editor for weeks regularly watered the plot where he sowed them; but as nothing appeared, wrote to the country gentleman, informing him that his seeds hadn’t sprouted, and he thought it likely they might have been taken from a dead head.

“Amy” is all in a fluster about spirits. I will talk to her after this manner:—

“We have always considered spiritualism the bluest carbuncle that ever festered upon the neck of society. We care not if the spirits were rapping around our table like a forty-stamp mill, we would eat our regular allowance with all the coolness that a Celestial manifests when absorbing his birds’-nest soup. If your bed dances a _pas-seul_ after you get into it at night, there must be more than spirits around; and you would do well to throw a boot-jack or flat-iron under it before retiring. Such a proceeding might give you the satisfaction of hearing the spirits yell blue murder.

“There is not much danger of your going crazy, because, in plain terms, we consider you to be luny already. The poor fellow in the lunatic asylum who imagines Queen Victoria has made a private residence of his nose, and who has nearly blown both eyes out striving to eject her, is hardly more so.”

I trust the editor will lose some hair over that answer.

On second thought, I remember the editor has none.

COURT-ROOM SCENES.

I am as full of law this evening as a sea-shell of sound, having been wedged in the District Court room from 10 o’clock A. M. to 9 P. M., listening to testimony in the re-trial of the case of the People vs. a fiery lady, if we may use the expression, who brought down her game the first shot.

Though the room was crowded almost to suffocation, I fancy there is not that deep interest that was manifested during the former trial. On that occasion there were so many letters introduced in evidence, such a mass of private correspondence dragged from musty trunks, and laid open to the public, that thousands flocked daily to the court room, in hopes of hearing something rich, if not instructive. I shall never forget the excitement during the reading of letter No. 947. It was from the defendant.

The counsel for the defence argued a good round two hours and a half by the court-room clock, against the letter being admitted in evidence. He maintained it was irrelevant, as it had never been opened, the receiver forgetting to read it, or neglecting to do so, for some reason of his own.

The counsel for the people followed with even a longer appeal to the judge to admit the letter, strengthening his argument by lengthy quotations from Blackstone, Kent, Wharton, and other authorities, endeavoring to prove it should be put in evidence, as its contents might assist materially in furthering the ends of justice.

The judge began to show unmistakable signs of impatience. He remarked that already a package of letters had been read that would go far towards shingling the Mechanics’ Pavilion, and had no more bearing upon the point at issue than “Darwin’s Descent of Man” had upon the culture of white beans. He finally gave way before the preponderance of the prosecuting attorney’s argument, and directed an officer to wake the jury, as a letter was to be read that all should hear. After considerable shaking and poking, this difficult duty was performed. Even the deaf juror was aroused, though the good-natured judge had permitted him to sleep during the introduction of several preceding epistles.

After order was restored, and an inventive juror had improvised an ear trumpet with a piece of legal cap for his unfortunate companion, the _billet doux_ was opened. As the seal was broken, judge and jury rose to their feet with one accord, and leaned as far forward as their desks would allow, the more readily to catch every word of the important document. The silence in the room was death-like. It was supposed that on the contents of this letter hung either a scaffold or an acquittal. The weak ticking of the dusty clock upon the wall was the only sound that disturbed the awful stillness. As the calm settled, the muffled beat of the time-piece increased in force and volume until it seemed to attain the tones of a fire bell. Presently the attorney in a high and tremulous voice began to read. The contents ran thus:—

“MY DEAR, DELIGHTFUL DARLING:—How are my stocks selling now?

Your Loving, Adoring L——.”

The effect was thrilling. The lawyer dropped the letter upon the table before him, ran his white fingers through his hair, and looked around with the air of a tired traveler when he ascertains he has walked five miles upon the wrong road. The gentlemen of the jury, with looks more of anger than of sorrow, dropped into their seats as suddenly as though an invisible hand had caught them from behind and jerked them to their benches.

The Judge, with an ill-concealed look of disgust, settled back into his chair, and the deep crease in his vest, immediately over where his dinner should have been hours before, grew more painfully perceptible.

I elbowed my way from the suffocating room before further correspondence was selected from the package for perusal.

THE MASON’S RIDE.

The goat, the goat, the bearded goat!
The horned, the hoofed, the hairy goat!
As I’m a sinner of some note,
Last night I rode the Mason’s goat!

He was a beast of wondrous size,
With lengthy limbs and glassy eyes,
And beard that swept the carpet clear,
And horns that shook the chandelier!
Ye gods! if there’s a time we feel
Misgivings through our noddle steal,
It is when we through mystery float
Upon the dark Freemason’s goat.

Now some will say there’s no such thing,
And at the goat derision fling;
And say that all is Fancy wrought,
Through fear and dread suspicion brought.
But those who such remarks outpour
Have never knocked at Mason’s door,
Have nothing known about that beast
That was imported from the East,
Where kings of wisdom, wealth, and pomp
Bestrode him through his midnight romp.

Three times was I compelled to ride
The creature ‘round the Temple wide,
But while I tried the fearful mount,
My heart’s pulsations all might count,
For thump on thump with treble knell
Within my breast it rose and fell.

Twice did I make the circuit fair,
My hold his horns, his tail, or hair,
Though never shot a kangaroo,
So fast Australian jungle through.
From garret roof to basement floor,
Through ante-room and closet door,
O’er winding steps and columns tall,
He held his way through house and hall,
Till on the third attempt, and last,
When I presumed all danger past,
He pitched me clear of horns and head,
And left me far below for dead.

I felt as though a worthless clod
Unfit to keep above the sod;
But when I rose with terror pale
The goat had vanished, head and tail,
And I was styled by one and all
The greenest mason in the hall.

Let those who deem they are possessed
Of fadeless cheeks and valiant breast,
Of hair that never will aspire
To bristle like a brush of wire,
No matter through what risk they run,
Go ride that goat, as I have done.

JUNE

Oh June! thou comest once again
With bales of hay and sheaves of grain,
That make the farmer’s heart rejoice,
And anxious herds lift up their voice.
I hear thy promise, sunny maid,
Sound in the reapers’ ringing blade,
And in the laden harvest wain,
That rumbles through the stubble plain.