Chapter XXIV: Introduction (22)

After his death Mrs. Nye went abroad, stopping in Berlin for the education of her children. The royalty on “Bill Nye’s” books brings an ample support for his family.

* * * * *

THE WILD COW.

(CLIPPING FROM NEWSPAPER.)

WHEN I was young and used to roam around over the country, gathering water-melons in the light of the moon, I used to think I could milk anybody’s cow, but I do not think so now. I do not milk a cow now unless the sign is right, and it hasn’t been right for a good many years. The last cow I tried to milk was a common cow, born in obscurity; kind of a self-made cow. I remember her brow was low, but she wore her tail high and she was haughty, oh, so haughty.

I made a common-place remark to her, one that is used in the very best of society, one that need not have given offence anywhere. I said, “So”――and she “soed.” Then I told her to “hist” and she histed. But I thought she overdid it. She put too much expression in it.

Just then I heard something crash through the window of the barn and fall with a dull, sickening thud on the outside. The neighbors came to see what it was that caused the noise. They found that I had done it in getting through the window.

I asked the neighbors if the barn was still standing. They said it was. Then I asked if the cow was injured much. They said she seemed to be quite robust. Then I requested them to go in and calm the cow a little, and see if they could get my plug hat off her horns.

I am buying all my milk now of a milkman. I select a gentle milkman who will not kick, and feel as though I could trust him. Then, if he feels as though he could trust me, it is all right.

* * * * *

MR. WHISK’S TRUE LOVE.

SO she said to him: “Oh, darling, I fear that my wealth hath taught thee to love me, and if it were to take wings unto itself thou wouldst also do the same.”

“Nay, Gwendolin,” said Mr. Whisk, softly, as he drew her head down upon his shoulder and tickled the lobe of her little cunning ear with the end of his moustache, “I love not thy dollars, but thee alone. Also elsewhere. If thou doubtest me, give thy wealth to the poor. Give it to the World’s Fair. Give it to the Central Pacific Railroad. Give it to any one who is suffering.”

“No,” she unto him straightway did make answer, “I could not do that, honey.”

“Then give it to your daughter,” said Mr. Whisk, “if you think I am so low as to love alone your yellow dross.” He then drew himself up to his full height.

She flew to his arms like a frightened dove that has been hit on the head with a rock. Folding her warm round arms about his neck, she sobbed with joy and gave her entire fortune to her daughter.

Mr. Whisk then married the daughter, and went on about his business. I sometimes think that, at the best, man is a great coarse thing.

* * * * *

THE DISCOVERY OF NEW YORK.

FROM “BILL NYE’S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES, 1894.”

_By Permission of J. B. Lippincott Co._

THE author will now refer to the discovery of the Hudson River and the town of New York via Fort Lee and the 125th Street Ferry.

New York was afterwards sold for twenty-four dollars,――the whole island. When I think of this I go into my family gallery, which I also use as a swear room, and tell those ancestors of mine what I think of them. Where were they when New York was sold for twenty-four dollars? Were they having their portraits painted by Landseer, or their disposition taken by Jeffreys, or having their Little Lord Fauntleroy clothes made?

Do not encourage them to believe that they will escape me in future years. Some of them died unregenerate, and are now, I am told, in a country where they may possibly be damned; and I will attend to the others personally.

Twenty-four dollars for New York! Why, my Croton-water tax on one house and lot with fifty feet four and one-fourth inches front is fifty-nine dollars and no questions asked. Why, you can’t get a voter for that now.

Henry――or Hendrik――Hudson was an English navigator, of whose birth and early history nothing is known definitely, hence his name is never mentioned in many of the best homes of New York.

In 1607 he made a voyage in search of the North West Passage. In one of his voyages he discovered Cape Cod, and later on the Hudson River.

This was one hundred and seventeen years after Columbus discovered America; which shows that the discovering business was not pushed as it should have been by those who had it in charge.

Hudson went up the river as far as Albany, but, finding no one there whom he knew, he hastened back as far as 209th Street West, and anchored.

He discovered Hudson Bay and Hudson Strait, and made other journeys by water, though aquatting was then in its infancy. Afterwards his sailors became mutinous, and set Hendrik and his son, with seven infirm sailors, afloat.

Ah! Whom have we here?

It is Hendrik Hudson, who discovered the Hudson River.

Here he has just landed at the foot of 209th Street, New York, where he offered the Indians liquor, but they refused.

Illustration: (‡ Pilgrims bargaining with Indians)

How 209th Street has changed!

The artist has been fortunate in getting the expression of the Indians in the act of refusing. Mr. Hudson’s great reputation lies in the fact that he discovered the river which bears his name; but the thinking mind will at once regard the discovery of an Indian who does not drink as far more wonderful.

Some historians say that this special delegation was swept away afterwards by a pestilence, whilst others, commenting on the incident, maintain that Hudson lied.

It is the only historical question regarding America not fully settled by this book.

Nothing more was heard by him till he turned up in a thinking part in “Rip Van Winkle.”

Many claims regarding the discovery of various parts of the United States had been previously made. The Cabots had discovered Labrador; the Spaniards the southern part of the United States; the Norsemen had discovered Minneapolis; and Columbus had discovered San Salvador and had gone home to meet a ninety-day note due in Palos for the use of the Pinta, which he had hired by the hour.

But we are speaking of the discovery of New York.

About this time a solitary horseman might have been seen at West 209th Street, clothed in a little brief authority, and looking out to the west as he petulantly spoke in the Tammany dialect, then in the language of the blank-verse Indian. He began: “Another day of anxiety has passed, and yet we have not been discovered! The Great Spirit tells me in the thunder of the surf and the roaring cataract of the Harlem that within a week we will be discovered for the first time.”

As he stands there aboard of his horse one sees that he is a chief in every respect, and in life’s great drama would naturally occupy the middle of the stage. It was at this moment that Hudson slipped down the river from Albany past Fort Lee, and, dropping a nickle in the slot at 125th Street, weighed his anchor at that place. As soon as he had landed and discovered the city, he was approached by the chief, who said: “We gates. I am on the committee to show you our little town. I suppose you have a power of attorney, of course, for discovering us?”

“Yes,” said Hudson. “As Columbus used to say when he discovered San Salvador, ‘I do it by the right vested in me by my sovereigns.’ ‘That oversizes my pile by a sovereign and a half,’ says one of the natives; and so, if you have not heard it, there is a good thing for one of your dinner-speeches here.”

“Very good,” said the chief, as they jogged downtown on a swift Sixth Avenue elevated train towards the wigwams on 14th Street, and going at the rate of four miles an hour. “We do not care especially who discovers us so long as we hold control of the city organization. How about that, Hank?”

“That will be satisfactory,” said Mr. Hudson, taking a package of imported cheese and eating it, so that they could have the car to themselves.

“We will take the departments, such as Police, Street-cleaning, etc., etc., etc., while you and Columbus get your pictures on the currency and have your graves mussed up on anniversaries. We get the two-moment horses and the country châteaux on the Bronx. Sabe?”

“That is, you do not care whose portrait is on the currency,” said Hudson, “so you get the currency.”

Said the man, “That is the sense of the meeting.”

Thus was New York discovered via Albany and Fort Lee, and five minutes after the two touched glasses, the brim of the schoppin and the Manhattan cocktail tinkled together, and New York was inaugurated.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.

(“UNCLE REMUS.”)

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS has called himself “an accidental author,” for while living on a plantation as a typesetter on a country newspaper he became familiar with the curious myths and animal stories of the negroes, and some time in the seventies he printed a magazine article on these folk-lore stories, giving at the same time some of the stories as illustration.

This article attracted attention and revealed to the writer the fact that the stories had a decided literary value, and his main literary work has been the elaboration of these myths.

The stories of “Uncle Remus” are, as almost everyone knows, not creations of the author’s fancy, but they are genuine folk-lore tales of the negroes, and strangely enough many of these stories are found in varying forms among the American Indians, among the Indians along the Amazon and in Brazil, and they are even found in India and Siam, which fact has called out learned discussions of the origin and antiquity of the stories and the possible connection of the races.

Our author was born in Eatonton, a little village in Georgia, December 9, 1848, in very humble circumstances. He was remarkably impressed, while still very young, with the “Vicar of Wakefield,” and he straightway began to compose little tales of his own.

In 1862 he went to the office of the “Countryman,” a rural weekly paper in Georgia, to learn typesetting. It was edited and published on a large plantation, and the negroes of this and the adjoining plantations furnished him with the material out of which the “Uncle Remus” stories came.

While learning to set type the young apprentice occasionally tried his hand at composing, and not infrequently he slipped into the “Countryman” a little article, composed and printed, without ever having been put in manuscript form.

The publication of an article on the folk-lore of the negroes in “Lippincott’s Magazine” was the beginning of his literary career, and the interest this awakened stimulated him to develop these curious animal stories.

Many of the stories were first printed as articles in the Atlanta “Constitution,” and it was soon seen by students of myth-literature that these stories were very significant and important in their bearing on general mythology.

For the child they have a charm and an interest as “good stories,” and they are told with rare skill and power, but for the student of ethnology they have special value as throwing some light on the probable relation of the negroes with other races which tell similar folk-tales.

Mr. Harris has studied and pursued the profession of law, though he has now for many years been one of the editors of the Atlanta “Constitution,” for which many of his contributions have been originally written.

He is also a frequent contributor both of prose and poetry to current literature, and he is the author of the following books: “Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings; the Folk-lore of the Old Plantation” (New York, 1880), “Nights With Uncle Remus” (Boston, 1883), “Mingo and Other Sketches” (1883).

* * * * *

MR. RABBIT, MR. FOX, AND MR. BUZZARD.¹

(FROM “UNCLE REMUS.”)

¹ Copyright, George Routledge & Sons.

ONE evening when the little boy whose nights with Uncle Remus are as entertaining as those Arabian ones of blessed memory, had finished supper and hurried out to sit with his venerable patron, he found the old man in great glee. Indeed, Uncle Remus was talking and laughing to himself at such a rate that the little boy was afraid he had company. The truth is, Uncle Remus had heard the child coming, and when the rosy-cheeked chap put his head in at the door, was engaged in a monologue, the burden of which seemed to be――

“Ole Molly Har’,
W’at you doin’ dar,
Settin’ in de cornder
Smokin’ yo’ seegyar?”

As a matter of course this vague allusion reminded the little boy of the fact that the wicked Fox was still in pursuit of the Rabbit, and he immediately put his curiosity in the shape of a question.

“Uncle Remus, did the Rabbit have to go clean away when he got loose from the Tar-Baby?”

“Bless grashus, honey, dat he didn’t. Who? Him? You dunno nuthin’ ’tall ’bout Brer Rabbit ef dat’s de way you puttin’ ’im down. Wat he gwine ’way fer? He mouter stayed sorter close twel the pitch rub off’n his ha’r, but twern’t menny days ’fo’ he wuz loping up en down de naberhood same as ever, en I dunno ef he wern’t mo’ sassier dan befo’.

“Seem like dat de tale ’bout how he got mixt up wid de Tar-Baby got ’roun’ mongst de nabers. Leas’ways, Miss Meadows en de girls got win’ un’ it, en de nex’ time Brer Rabbit paid um a visit, Miss Meadows tackled ’im ’bout it, en de gals sot up a monstus gigglement. Brer Rabbit, he sot up des ez cool ez a cowcumber, he did, en let ’em run on.”

“Who was Miss Meadows, Uncle Remus?” inquired the little boy.

“Don’t ax me, honey. She wuz in de tale, Miss Meadows en de gals wuz, en de tale I give you like hi’t wer’ gun ter me. Brer Rabbit, he sot dar, he did, sorter lam’ like, en den bimeby he cross his legs, he did, and wink his eye slow, en up en say, sezee:

“‘Ladies, Brer Fox wuz my daddy’s ridin’-hoss for thirty year; maybe mo’, but thirty year dat I knows un,’ sezee; en den he paid um his specks, en tip his beaver, en march off, he did, dez ez stiff en ez stuck up ez a fire-stick.

“Nex’ day, Brer Fox cum a callin’, and w’en he gun fer to laff ’bout Brer Rabbit, Miss Meadows en de gals, dey ups and tells im ’bout w’at Brer Rabbit say. Den Brer Fox grit his toof sho’ nuff, he did, en he look mighty dumpy, but when he riz fer to go he up en say, sezee;

“‘Ladies, I ain’t ’sputing w’at you say, but I’ll make Brer Rabbit chaw up his words en spit um out right yer whar you kin see ’im,’ sezee, en wid dat off Brer Fox marcht.

“En w’en he got in de big road, he shuck de dew off’n his tail, en made a straight shoot fer Brer Rabbit’s house. W’en he got dar, Brer Rabbit wuz spectin’ un him, en de do’ wuz shut fas’. Brer Fox knock. Nobody ain’t ans’er. Brer Fox knock. Nobody ans’er. Den he knock agin――blam! blam! Den Brer Rabbit holler out, mighty weak:

“‘Is dat you, Brer Fox? I want you ter run en fetch de doctor. Dat bit er parsley w’at I e’t dis mawnin’ is gittin’ ’way wid me. Do, please, Brer Fox, run quick,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.

“‘I come atter you, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘Dere’s gwinter be a party up at Miss Meadow’s,’ sezee. ‘All de gals’ll be dere, en I promus’ dat I’d fetch you. De gals, dey ’lowed dat hit wouldn’t be no party ’ceppin I fotch you,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.

“Den Brer Rabbit say he wuz too sick, en Brer Fox say he wuzzent, en dar dey had it up and down sputin’ en contendin’. Brer Rabbit say he can’t walk. Brer Fox say he tote ’im. Brer Rabbit say how? Brer Fox say in his arms. Brer Rabbit say he drap ’im. Brer Fox ’low he won’t. Bimeby Brer Rabbit say he go ef Brer Fox tote ’im on his back. Brer Fox say he would. Brer Rabbit say he can’t ride widout a saddle. Brer Fox say he git de saddle. Brer Rabbit say he can’t set in saddle less he have a bridle for to hol’ by. Brer Fox say he git de bridle. Brer Rabbit say he can’t ride widout bline bridle, kaze Brer Fox be shyin’ at stumps ’long de road, en fling ’im off. Brer Fox say he git bline bridle. Den Brer Rabbit say he go. Den Brer Fox say he ride Brer Rabbit mos’ up to Miss Meadows’s, en den he could git down en walk de balance ob de way. Brer Rabbit ’greed, en den Brer Fox lipt out atter de saddle en de bridle.

“Co’se Brer Rabbit know de game dat Brer Fox wuz fixin’ fer ter play, en he ’termin’ fer ter out-do ’im; en by de time he koam his h’ar en twis’ his mustarsh, en sorter rig up, yer come Brer Fox, saddle and bridle on, en lookin’ ez peart ez a circus pony. He trot up ter de do’ en stan’ dar pawin’ de ground en chompin’ de bit same like sho’ nuff hos, en Brer Rabbit he mount, he did, en day amble off. Brer Fox can’t see behime wid de bline bridle on, but bimeby he feel Brer Rabbit raise one er his foots.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’ sezee.

“‘Short ain’ de lef stir’p, Brer Fox,’ sezee.

“Bimeby Brer Rabbit raise de udder foot.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’ sezee.

“‘Pullin’ down my pants, Brer Fox,’ sezee.

“All de time, bless grashus, honey, Brer Rabbit was puttin’ on his spurrers, en w’en dey got close to Miss Meadows’s, whar Brer Rabbit wuz to git off en Brer Fox made a motion fer ter stan’ still, Brer Rabbit slap the spurrers inter Brer Fox flanks, en you better b’lieve he got over groun’. W’en dey got ter de house, Miss Meadows en all de girls wuz settin’ on de peazzer, en stidder stoppin’ at de gate Brer Rabbit rid on by, he did, en den come gallopin’ down de road en up ter de hoss-rack, w’ich he hitch Brer Fox at, en den he santer inter de house, he did, en shake han’s wid de gals, en set dar, smokin’ his seegyar same ez a town man. Bimeby he draw in long puff, en den let hit out in a cloud, en squar hisse’f back, en holler out, he did:

“‘Ladies, ain’t I done tell you Brer Fox wuz de ridin hoss fer our fambly? He sorter losin’ his gait now, but I speck I kin fetch ’im all right in a mont’ or so,’ sezee.

“En den Brer Rabbit sorter grin, he did, en de gals giggle, en Miss Meadows, she praise up de pony, en dar wuz Brer Fox hitch fas’ ter de rack, en couldn’t he’p hisse’f.”

“Is that all, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy, as the old man paused.

“Dat ain’t all, honey, but ’twont do fer to give out too much cloff for ter cut one pa’r pants,” replied the old man sententiously.

When “Miss Sally’s” little boy went to Uncle Remus the next night, he found the old man in a bad humor.

“I ain’t tellin’ no tales ter bad chilluns,” said Uncle Remus curtly.

“But, Uncle Remus, I ain’t bad,” said the little boy plaintively.

“Who dat chunkin’ dem chickens dis mawnin’? Who dat knockin’ out fokes’s eyes wid dat Yaller-bammer sling des ’fo’ dinner? Who dat sickin’ dat pinter puppy atter my pig? Who dat scatterin’ my ingun sets? Who dat flingin’ rocks on top er my house, w’ich a little mo’ en one un em would er drap spang on my head!”

“Well, now, Uncle Remus, I didn’t go to do it. I won’t do so any more. Please, Uncle Remus, if you will tell me, I’ll run to the house, and bring you some tea-cakes.”

“Seein’ um’s better’n hearin’ tell un em,” replied the old man, the severity of his countenance relaxing somewhat; but the little boy darted out, and in a few minutes came running back with his pockets full and his hands full.

“I lay yo’ mammy’ll ’spishun dat de rats’ stummucks is widenin’ in dis naberhood w’en she come fer ter count up ’er cakes,” said Uncle Remus, with a chuckle.

“Lemme see. I mos’ dis’member wharbouts Brer Fox and Brer Rabbit wuz.”

“The rabbit rode the Fox to Miss Meadows’s and hitched him to the horse-rack,” said the little boy.

“Why co’se he did,” said Uncle Remus. “Co’se he did. Well, Brer Rabbit rid Brer Fox up, he did, en tied ’im to de rack, en den sot out in the peazzer wid de gals a smokin’ er his seegyar wid mo’ proudness dan w’at you mos’ ever see. Dey talk, en dey sing, en dey play on de peanner, de gals did, twel bimeby hit come time for Brer Rabbit fer to be gwine, en he tell um all good-by, en strut out to de hoss-rack same’s ef he was de king er der patter-rollers, en den he mount Brer Fox en ride off.

“Brer Fox ain’t sayin’ nuthin’ ’tall. He des rack off, he did, en keep his mouf shet, en Brer Rabbit know’d der wuz bizness cookin’ up fer him, en he feel monstous skittish. Brer Fox amble on twel he git in de long lane, outer sight er Miss Meadows’s house, en den he tu’n loose, he did. He rip en he r’ar, en he cuss en he swar; he snort en he cavort.”

“What was he doing that for. Uncle Remus?” the little boy inquired.

“He wuz tryin’ fer ter fling Brer Rabbit off’n his back, bless yo’ soul! But he des might ez well er rastle wid his own shadder. Every time he hump hisse’f Brer Rabbit slap de spurrers in ’im, en dar dey had it up en down. Brer Fox fa’rly to’ up de groun’, he did, en he jump so high en he jump so quick, dat he mighty nigh snatch his own tail off. Dey kep’ on gwine on dis way twel bimeby Brer Fox lay down en roll over, he did, en dis sorter unsettle Brer Rabbit, but by de time Brer Fox got en his footses agin, Brer Rabbit wuz gwine thoo de underbresh mo’ samer dan a race hoss. Brer Fox, he lit out atter ’im, he did, en he push Brer Rabbit so close, dat it wuz ’bout all he could do fer ter git in a holler tree. Hole too little fer Brer Fox fer to git in, en he hatter lay down en res’ en gadder his mine tergedder.

“While he wuz layin’ dar, Mr. Buzzard come floppin long, en seein’ Brer Fox stretch out on the groun’, he lit en view the premusses. Den Mr. Buzzard sorter shake his wing, en put his head on one side, en say to hisse’f like, sezee:

“‘Brer Fox dead, en I so sorry,’ sezee.

“‘No I ain’t dead, nudder,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘I got ole man Rabbit pent up in yer,’ sezee, ’en I’m gwineter git ’im dis time, ef it take twel Chris’mus,’ sezee.

“Den, atter some mo’ palaver, Brer Fox make a bargain dat Mr. Buzzard wuz ter watch de hole, en keep Brer Rabbit dar wiles Brer Fox went atter his axe. Den Brer Fox, he lope off, he did, en Mr. Buzzard, he tuck up his stan’ at de hole. Bimeby, w’en all get still, Brer Rabbit sorter scramble down close ter de hole, he did, en holler out:

“‘Brer Fox! Oh! Brer Fox!’

“Brer Fox done gone, en nobody say nuthin.’ Den Brer Rabbit squall out like he wuz mad:

“‘You needn’t talk less you wanter,’ sezee; ‘I knows youer dar, an I ain’t keerin’, sezee. ‘I dez wanter tell you dat I wish mighty bad Brer Tukkey Buzzard was here,’ sezee.

“Den Mr. Buzzard try to talk like Brer Fox:

“‘Wat you want wid Mr. Buzzard?’ sezee.

“‘Oh, nuthin’ in ’tickler, ’cep’ dere’s de fattes’ gray squir’l in yer dat ever I see,’ sezee, ‘en ef Brer Tukkey Buzzard was ’roun’ he’d be mighty glad fer ter git ’im,’ sezee.

“‘How Mr. Buzzard gwine ter git him?’ sez de Buzzard, sezee.

“‘Well, dar’s a little hole, roun’ on de udder side er de tree,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘en ef Brer Tukkey Buzzard was here so he could take up his stan’ dar’, sezee, ‘I’d drive dat squir’l out,’ sezee.

“‘Drive ’im out, den,’ sez Mr. Buzzard, sezee, ‘en I’ll see dat Brer Tukkey Buzzard gits’ ’im,’ sezee.

“Den Brer Rabbit kick up a racket, like he wer’ drivin’ sumpin’ out, en Mr. Buzzard he rush ’roun’ fer ter ketch de squir’l, en Brer Rabbit, he dash out, he did, en he des fly fer home.

“Well, Mr. Buzzard he feel mighty lonesome, he did, but he done prommust Brer ♦Fox dat he’d stay, en he termin’ fer ter sorter hang ’roun’ en jine in de joke. En he ain’t hatter wait long, nudder, kase bimeby yer come Brer Fox gallopin’ thoo de woods wid his axe on his shoulder.

♦ ‘Eox’ replaced with ‘Fox’

“‘How you speck Brer Rabbit gittin’ on, Brer Buzzard?’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.

“‘Oh, he in dar,’ sez Brer Buzzard, sezee. ‘He mighty still, dough. I speck he takin’ a nap,’ sezee.

“‘Den I’m des in time fer te wake ’im up,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. En wid dat he fling off his coat, en spit in his han’s, en grab de axe. Den he draw back en come down on de tree――pow! En eve’y time he come down wid de axe――pow!――Mr. Buzzard, he step high, he did, en hollar out:

“‘Oh, he in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho.’

“En eve’y time a chip ud fly off, Mr. Buzzard, he’d jump, en dodge, en hole his head sideways, he would, en holler:

“‘He in dar, Brer Fox. I done heerd ’im. He in dar, sho.’

“En Brer Fox, he lammed away at dat holler tree, he did, like a man mauling’ rails, twel bimeby atter he done got de tree most’ cut thoo, he stop fer ter ketch his bref, en he seed Mr. Buzzard laffin’ behind his back, he did, en right den en dar, widout gwine enny fudder, Brer Fox he smelt a rat. But Mr. Buzzard, he keep on holler’n:

“‘He in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho. I done seed ’im.’

“Den Brer Fox, he make like he peepin’ up de holler, en he say, sezee:

“‘Run yer, Brer Buzzard, en look ef dis ain’t Brer Rabbit’s foot hanging down yer.’

“En Mr. Buzzard, he come steppin’ up, he did, same ez ef he were treddin’ on kurkle-burrs, en he stick his head in de hole; en no sooner did he done dat dan Brer Fox grab ’im. Mr. Buzzard flap his wings, en scramble roun’ right smartually, he did, but ’twan no use. Brer Fox had de ’vantage er de grip, he did, en he hilt ’im right down ter de groun’. Den Mr. Buzzard squall out, sezee:

“‘Lemme ’lone, Brer Fox. Tu’n me loose,’ sezee; ‘Brer Rabbit’ll git out. Youer gittin’ close at ’im,’ sezee, ‘en leb’m mo’ licks’ll fetch ’im,’ sezee.

“‘I’m nigher ter you, Brer Buzzard,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘dan I’ll be ter Brer Rabbit dis day,’ sezee. ‘Wat you fool me fer?’ sezee.

“‘Lemme ’lone, Brer Fox,’ sez Mr. Buzzard, sezee; ‘my ole ’oman waitin’ for me. Brer Rabbit in dar,’ sezee.

“‘Dar’s a bunch er his fur on dat black-be’y bush,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘en dat ain’t de way he come,’ sezee.

“Den Mr. Buzzard up’n tell Brer Fox how ’twuz, en he low’d, Mr. Buzzard did, dat Brer Rabbit wuz de low-downest w’atsizname w’at he ever run up wid. Den Brer Fox say, sezee:

“‘Dat’s needer here ner dar, Brer Buzzard,’ sezee. ‘I lef’ you yer fer ter watch dish yer hole en I lef’ Brer Rabbit in dar. I comes back en I fines you at de hole, en Brer Rabbit ain’t in dar,’ sezee. ‘I’m gwinter make you pay fer’t. I done bin tampered wid twel plum down ter de sap sucker’ll set on a log en sassy me. I’m gwinter fling you in a bresh-heap en burn you up,’ sezee.

“‘Ef you fling me on der fier, Brer Fox, I’ll fly ’way,’ sez Mr. Buzzard, sezee.

“‘Well, den, I’ll settle yo’ hash right now,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, en wid dat he grab Mr. Buzzard by de tail, he did, en make fer ter dash ’im ’gin de groun’, but des ’bout dat time de tail fedders come out, en Mr. Buzzard sail off like wunner dese yer berloons, en ez he riz, he holler back:

“‘You gimme good start, Brer Fox,’ sezee, en Brer Fox sot dar en watch ’im fly outer sight.”

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

ROBERT J. BURDETTE.

THE American people have a kindly feeling for the men who make them laugh, and in no other country does a humorist have a more appreciative public. The result has been, that in a country in which the average native has a clearly marked vein of humor, the genuine “funny man” is always sure of a hearty welcome. We have a long list of writers and lecturers who have gained a wide popularity through their mirth-provoking powers, and “Bob Burdette” holds an honorable place in this guild of “funny men.”

He was born in Greensborough, Pennsylvania, July 30, 1844, though he removed early in life to Peoria, Ill., where he received his education in the public schools.

He enlisted in the Civil War and served as a private from 1862 to the end of the war.

He began his journalistic career on the Peoria “Transcript,” and, after periods of editorial connection with other local newspapers, he became associate editor of the Burlington “Hawkeye,” Iowa. His humorous contributions to this journal were widely copied and they gave him a general reputation. His reputation as a writer had prepared the way for his success as a lecturer, and in 1877 he entered the lecture field, in which he has been eminently successful. He has lectured in nearly all the cities of the United States, and he never fails to amuse his listeners.

He is a lay preacher of the Baptist Church, and it is often a surprise to those who have heard only his humorous sayings to hear him speak with earnestness and serious persuasiveness of the deeper things of life, for he is a man of deep experiences and of pure ideals.

His most popular lectures have been those on “The Rise and Fall of the Mustache,” “Home,” and “The Pilgrimage of the Funny Man.” He has published in book-form, “The Rise and Fall of the Mustache and Other Hawkeyetems” (Burlington, 1877), “Hawkeyes” (1880), “Life of William Penn” (New York, 1882), a volume in the series of “Comic Biographies;” and “Innach Garden and other Comic Sketches” (1886).

He has been a frequent contributor to the _Ladies’ Home Journal_ and other current literature, and he has recently written a convulsive description of “How I Learned to Ride the Bicycle,” which appeared in the _Wheelmen_.

He has for some years made his home at Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, and he enjoys a large circle of friends.

* * * * *

THE MOVEMENT CURE FOR RHEUMATISM.¹

¹ Copyright, R. J. Burdette.

ONE day, not a great while ago, Mr. Middlerib read in his favorite paper a paragraph copied from the _Præger Landwirthschaftliches Wochenblatt_, a German paper, which is an accepted authority on such points, stating that the sting of a bee was a sure cure for rheumatism, and citing several remarkable instances in which ♦people had been perfectly cured by this abrupt remedy. Mr. Middlerib did not stop to reflect that a paper with such a name as that would be very apt to say anything; he only thought of the rheumatic twinges that grappled his knees once in a while, and made life a burden to him.

♦ ‘peo-’ replaced with ‘people’

He read the article several times, and pondered over it. He understood that the stinging must be done scientifically and thoroughly. The bee, as he understood the article, was to be gripped by the ears and set down upon the rheumatic joint, and held there until it stung itself stingless. He had some misgivings about the matter. He knew it would hurt. He hardly thought it could hurt any worse than the rheumatism, and it had been so many years since he was stung by a bee that he had almost forgotten what it felt like. He had, however, a general feeling that it would hurt some. But desperate diseases required desperate remedies, and Mr. Middlerib was willing to undergo any amount of suffering if it would cure his rheumatism.

He contracted with Master Middlerib for a limited supply of bees. There were bees and bees, humming and buzzing about in the summer air, but Mr. Middlerib did not know how to get them. He felt, however, that he could depend upon the instincts and methods of boyhood. He knew that if there was any way in heaven or earth whereby the shyest bee that ever lifted a 200-pound man off the clover, could be induced to enter a wide-mouthed glass bottle, his son knew that way.

For the small sum of one dime Master Middlerib agreed to procure several, to-wit: six bees, age not specified; but as Mr. Middlerib was left in uncertainty as to the race, it was made obligatory upon the contractor to have three of them honey, and three humble, or in the generally accepted vernacular, bumble bees. Mr. Middlerib did not tell his son what he wanted those bees for, and the boy went off on his mission, with his head so full of astonishment that it fairly whirled. Evening brings all home, and the last rays of the declining sun fell upon Master Middlerib with a short, wide-mouthed bottle comfortably populated with hot, ill-natured bees, and Mr. Middlerib and a dime. The dime and the bottle changed hands and the boy was happy.

Mr. Middlerib put the bottle in his coat pocket and went into the house, eyeing everybody he met very suspiciously, as though he had made up his mind to sting to death the first person that said “bee” to him. He confided his guilty secret to none of his family. He hid his bees in his bedroom, and as he looked at them just before putting them away, he half wished the experiment was safely over. He wished the imprisoned bees didn’t look so hot and cross. With exquisite care he submerged the bottle in a basin of water, and let a few drops in on the heated inmates, to cool them off.

At the tea-table he had a great fight. Miss Middlerib, in the artless simplicity of her romantic nature said: “I smell bees. How the odor brings up――――”

But her father glared at her, and said, with superfluous harshness and execrable grammar:

“Hush up! You don’t smell nothing.”

“Whereupon Mrs. Middlerib asked him if he had eaten anything that disagreed with him, and Miss Middlerib said: “Why, pa!” and Master Middlerib smiled as he wondered.

Bedtime came at last, and the night was warm and sultry. Under various false pretences, Mr. Middlerib strolled about the house until everybody else was in bed, and then he sought his room. He turned the night-lamp down until its feeble rays shone dimly as a death-light.

Mr. Middlerib disrobed slowly――very slowly. When at last he was ready to go lumbering into his peaceful couch, he heaved a profound sigh, so full of apprehension and grief that Mrs. Middlerib, who was awakened by it, said if it gave him so much pain to come to bed, perhaps he had better sit up all night. Mr. Middlerib checked another sigh, but said nothing and crept into bed. After lying still a few moments he reached out and got his bottle of bees.

It is not an easy thing to do, to pick one bee out of a bottle full, with his fingers, and not get into trouble. The first bee Mr. Middlerib got was a little brown honey-bee that wouldn’t weigh half an ounce if you picked him up by the ears, but if you lifted him by the hind leg as Mr. Middlerib did, would weigh as much as the last end of a bay mule. Mr. Middlerib could not repress a groan.

“What’s the matter with you?” sleepily asked his wife.

It was very hard for Mr. Middlerib to say; he only knew his temperature had risen to 86 all over, and to 197 on the end of his thumb. He reversed the bee and pressed the warlike terminus of it firmly against his rheumatic knee.

It didn’t hurt so badly as he thought it would.

It didn’t hurt at all!

Then Mr. Middlerib remembered that when the honey-bee stabs a human foe it generally leaves its harpoon in the wound, and the invalid knew then the only thing the bee had to sting with was doing its work at the end of his thumb.

He reached his arm out from under the sheet, and dropped this disabled atom of rheumatism liniment on the carpet. Then, after a second of blank wonder, he began to feel around for the bottle, and wished he knew what he had done with it.

In the meantime, strange things had been going on. When he caught hold of the first bee, Mr. Middlerib, for reasons, drew it out in such haste that for the time he forgot all about the bottle and its remedial contents, and left it lying uncorked in the bed. In the darkness there had been a quiet but general emigration from that bottle. The bees, their wings clogged with the water Mr. Middlerib had poured upon them to cool and tranquilize them, were crawling aimlessly about over the sheet. While Mr. Middlerib was feeling around for it, his ears were suddenly thrilled and his heart frozen by a wild, piercing scream from his wife.

“Murder!” she screamed, “murder! Oh, help me! Help! help!”

Mr. Middlerib sat bold upright in bed. His hair stood on end. The night was very warm, but he turned to ice in a minute.

“Where, oh, where,” he said, with pallid lips, as he felt all over the bed in frenzied haste――“where in the world are those infernal bees?”

And a large “bumble,” with a sting as pitiless as the finger of scorn, just then lighted between Mr. Middlerib’s shoulders, and went for his marrow, and said calmly: “Here is one of them.”

And Mrs. Middlerib felt ashamed of her feeble screams when Mr. Middlerib threw up both arms, and, with a howl that made the windows rattle, roared:

“Take him off! Oh, land of Scott, somebody take him off!”

And when a little honey-bee began tickling the sole of Mrs. Middlerib’s foot, she shrieked that the house was bewitched, and immediately went into spasms.

The household was aroused by this time. Miss Middlerib, and Master Middlerib and the servants were pouring into the room, adding to the general confusion, by howling at random and asking irrelevant questions, while they gazed at the figure of a man, a little on in years, pawing fiercely at the unattainable spot in the middle of his back, while he danced an unnatural, weird, wicked-looking jig by the dim religious light of the night lamp.

And while he danced and howled, and while they gazed and shouted, a navy-blue wasp, that Master Middlerib had put in the bottle for good measure and variety, and to keep the menagerie stirred up, had dried his legs and wings with a corner of the sheet, after a preliminary circle or two around the bed, to get up his motion and settle down to a working gait, fired himself across the room, and to his dying day Mr. Middlerib will always believe that one of the servants mistook him for a burglar, and shot him.

No one, not even Mr. Middlerib himself, could doubt that he was, at least for the time, most thoroughly cured of rheumatism. His own boy could not have carried himself more lightly or with greater agility. But the cure was not permanent, and Mr. Middlerib does not like to talk about it.

POPULAR WRITERS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

Illustration: POPULAR WRITERS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

EDWARD S. ELLIS
MARTHA FINLEY • HORATIO ALGER JR.
“OLIVER OPTIC”
LOUISA M. ALCOTT • SARA JANE LIPPINCOTT

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

LOUISA MAY ALCOTT.

AUTHOR OF “LITTLE WOMEN.”

THE famous author of “Little Women,” “Little Men,” and “Old-Fashioned Girls,” made her beginning, as have many who have done any good or acquired fame in the world, by depending on herself. In other words, she was the architect of her own fortune, and has left behind her works that will endure to gladden the hearts of millions of boys and girls. But she has done more. She has left behind her a record of a life within itself, a benediction and inspiration to every thoughtful girl who reads it.

While Miss Alcott always considered New England her home, she was actually born in Germantown, Philadelphia, November 29, 1832. Her father, Amos Bronson Alcott, after his marriage in New England, accepted a position as principal of a Germantown Academy, which he occupied from 1831 to 1834, and afterwards taught a children’s school at his own residence, but he was unsuccessful and he returned to Boston in 1835, when Louisa was two years old.

From this time forward, Mr. Alcott was a close friend and associate of the poet and philosopher Emerson, sharing with him his transcendental doctrines, and joining in the Brook-Farm experiment of ideal communism at Roxbury, Mass. The Brook-Farm experiment brought Mr. Alcott to utter financial ruin, and after its failure he removed to Concord, where he continued to live until his death. It was at this time that Louisa, although a mere child, formed a noble and unselfish purpose to retrieve the family fortune. When only fifteen years of age, she turned her thoughts to teaching, her first school being in a barn and attended by the children of Mr. Emerson and other neighbors. Almost at the same time she began to compose fairy stories, which were contributed to papers; but these early productions brought her little if any compensation, and she continued to devote herself to teaching, receiving her own education privately from her father. “When I was twenty-one years of age,” she wrote many years later to a friend, “I took my little earnings ($20) and a few clothes, and went out to seek my fortune, though I might have sat still and been supported by rich friends. All those hard years were teaching me what I afterwards put into books, and so I made my fortune out of my seeming misfortune.”

Two years after this brave start Miss Alcott’s earliest book, “Fairy Tales,” was published (1855). About the same time her work began to be accepted by the “Atlantic Monthly” and other magazines of reputation. During the winters of 1862 and ’63 she volunteered her services and went to Washington and served as a nurse in the government hospitals, and her experiences here were embodied in a series of graphic letters to her mother and sisters. These letters she revised and had printed in the “Boston Commonwealth” in the summer of 1863. They were afterwards issued in a volume entitled “Hospital Sketches and Camp-Fire Stories.” This was her second book, which, together with her magazine articles, opened the way to a splendid career as an author.

Being naturally fond of young people, Miss Alcott turned her attention from this time forward to writing for them. Her distinctive books for the young are entitled “Moods” (1864); “Morning Glories” (1867); “Little Women” (1868), which was her first decided success; “An Old-Fashioned Girl” (1869); “Little Men” (1871); “Work” (1873); “Eight Cousins” (1875), and its sequel, “Rose in Bloom” (1877), which perhaps ranks first among her books; “Under the Lilacs” (1878); “Jack and Jill” (1880), and “Lulu’s Library” (1885). Besides these she has put forth, at different times, several volumes of short stories, among which are “Cupid and Chow-Chow,” “Silver Pitchers” and “Aunt Joe’s Scrap-bag.”

From childhood Miss Alcott was under the tutelage of the Emersonian school, and was not less than her father an admirer of the “Seer of Concord.” “Those Concord days,” she writes, “were among the happiest of my life, for we had the charming playmates in the little Emersons, Channings, and Hawthornes, with their illustrious parents, to enjoy our pranks and join our excursions.”

In speaking of Emerson she also wrote to a young woman a few years before her death: “Theodore Parker and Ralph Waldo Emerson have done much to help me see that one can shape life best by trying to build up a strong and noble character, through good books, wise people’s society, and by taking an interest in all reforms that help the world, ... believing always that a loving and just Father cares for us, sees our weakness, and is near to help if we call.” Continuing she asks: “Have you read Emerson? He is called a Pantheist, or believer in nature, instead of God. He was truly a Christian and saw God in nature, finding strength and comfort in the same sweet influence of the great Mother as well as the great Father of all. I, too, believe this, and when tired, sad or tempted, find my best comfort in the woods, the sky, the healing solitude that lets my poor, weary soul find the rest, the fresh hopes, the patience which only God can give us.”

The chief aim of Miss Alcott seemed to have been to make others happy. Many are the letters treasured up by young authors who often, but never in vain, sought her advice and kind assistance. To one young woman who asked her opinion on certain new books, in 1884, she wrote: “About books; yes, I’ve read ‘Mr. Isaacs’ and ‘Dr. Claudius,’¹ and like them both. The other, ‘To Leeward,’ is not so good; ‘Little Pilgrim’ was pretty, but why try to paint heaven? Let it alone and prepare for it, whatever it is, sure that God knows what we need and deserve. I will send you Emerson’s ‘Essays.’ Read those marked. I hope they will be as helpful to you as they have been to me and many others. They will bear study and I think are what you need to feed upon now.” The marked essays were those on “Compensation,” “Love,” “Friendship,” “Heroism,” and “Self-Reliance.”

¹ These are the books that made F. Marion Crawford famous.

Miss Alcott’s kindness for young people grew with her advancing years. Being a maiden lady without daughters of her own, she was looked up to and delighted in being considered as a foster-mother to aspiring girls all over the land. How many times she wrote similar sentences to this: “Write freely to me, dear girl, and if I can help you in any way be sure I will.” This was written to one she had never seen and only four years before her death, when she was far from well.

Miss Alcott died in Boston, March 6, 1888, at the age of fifty-six years, and just two days after her aged father, who was eighty-five years old, and who had depended on her many years, passed away. Though a great advocate of work for the health, she was, no doubt, a victim of overwork; for it is said she frequently devoted from twelve to fifteen hours a day to her literary labors, ... besides looking after her business affairs and caring personally for her old father, for many years an invalid. In addition to this, she educated some of her poor relatives, and still further took the place of a mother to little Lulu, the daughter of her sister, May, who died when the child was an infant.

* * * * *

HOW JO MADE FRIENDS.¹

(FROM “LITTLE WOMEN.”)

¹ Copyright, Roberts Bros.

“THAT boy is suffering for society and fun,” she said to herself. “His grandpa don’t know what’s good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. He needs a lot of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young and lively. I’ve a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so.”

The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things, and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of “going over” was not forgotten; and, when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She saw Mr. Laurence drive off, and then sailed out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took a survey. All quiet; curtains down to the lower windows; servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand, at the upper window.

“There he is,” thought Jo; “poor boy, all alone, and sick, this dismal day! It’s a shame! I’ll toss up a snowball, and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him.”

Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened, and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded, and laughed, and flourished her broom, as she called out,――

“How do you do? Are you sick?”

Laurie opened the window and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven,――

“Better, thank you. I’ve had a horrid cold, and have been shut up a week.”

“I’m sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?”

“Nothing; it’s as dull as tombs up here.”

“Don’t you read?”

“Not much; they won’t let me.”

“Can’t somebody read to you?”

“Grandpa does, sometimes; but my books don’t interest him, and I hate to ask Brooke all the time.”

“Have some one come and see you, then.”

“There isn’t any one I’d like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head is weak.”

“Isn’t there some nice girl who’d read and amuse you? Girls are quiet, and like to play nurse.”

“Don’t know any.”

“You know me,” began Jo, then laughed and stopped.

“So I do! Will you come, please?” cried Laurie.

“I’m not quiet and nice; but I’ll come, if mother will let me. I’ll go ask her. Shut that window, like a good boy, and wait till I come....

“Oh! that does me lots of good; tell on, please,” he said, taking his face out of the sofa-cushion, red and shining with merriment.

Much elevated with her success, Jo did “tell on,” all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears for father, and the most interesting events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to talking about books; and to Jo’s delight she found that Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself.

“If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandpa is out, so you needn’t be afraid,” said Laurie, getting up.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” returned Jo, with a toss of the head.

“I don’t believe you are!” exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his moods.

The atmosphere of the whole house being summer-like, Laurie led the way from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy; and so at last they came to the library, where she clapped her hands, and pranced, as she always did when specially delighted. It was lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and Sleep-Hollow chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes; and, best of all, a great, open fireplace, with quaint tiles all round it.

“What richness!” sighed Jo, sinking into the depths of a velvet chair, and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. “Theodore Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world,” she added impressively.

“A fellow can’t live on books,” said Laurie, shaking his head, as he perched on a table opposite.