Chapter M: F. D (1)

THE WHISTLER.

"You have heard,"--said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood
While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline,--
"You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood:
I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine."

"And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said,
While an arch smile played over her beautiful face.
"I would blow it," he answered; "and then my fair maid
Would fly to my side, and would there take her place."

"Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yours
Without any magic!" the fair maiden cried:
"A favor so slight one's good-nature secures;"
And she playfully seated herself by his side.

"I would blow it again," said the youth; "and the charm
Would work so, that not even modesty's check
Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm."
She smiled; and she laid her white arm round his neck.

"Yet once more I would blow; and the music divine
Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss,--
You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine:
And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a kiss."

The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee,--
"What a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd make!
For only consider how silly 'twould be
To sit there and whistle for what you might take."

MOTHER'S DOUGHNUTS.

EL DORADO, 1851.

I've jest bin down ter Thompson's, boys,
'N' feelin' kind o' blue,
I thought I'd look in at "The Ranch,"
Ter find out what wuz new;
When I seen this sign a-hangin'
On a shanty by the lake:
"Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts
Like yer mother used ter make."

I've seen a grizzly show his teeth;
I've seen Kentucky Pete
Draw out his shooter, 'n' advise
A "tenderfoot" ter treat;
But nothin' ever tuk me down
'N' made my benders shake,
Like that sign about the doughnuts
That my mother used ter make.

A sort o' mist shut out the ranch;
'N' standin' thar instead,
I seen an old white farmhouse,
With its doors all painted red.
A whiff came through the open door--
Wuz I sleepin', or awake?
The smell wuz that of doughnuts
Like my mother used ter make.

The bees wuz hummin' round the porch,
Whar honeysuckles grew;
A yellow dish of apple-sass
Wuz sittin' thar in view;
'N' on the table, by the stove,
An old-time "johnny-cake,"
'N' a platter full of doughnuts
Like my mother used ter make.

A patient form I seemed ter see,
In tidy dress of black:
I almost thought I heard the words,
"When will my boy come back?"
'N' then--the old sign creaked; but now
It was the boss who spake:
"Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts
Like yer mother used ter make."

Well, boys, that kind o' broke me up;
'N' ez I've struck pay gravel,
I ruther think I'll pack my kit,
Vamose the ranch, 'n' travel.
I'll make the old folks jubilant;
'N' if I don't mistake,
I'll try some o' them doughnuts
Like my mother used ter make.

_Charles Follen Adams._

OVER THE LEFT.

Their deposits were _left over night_ in the bank,--
In a bank without whisper of fault:
The amounts to their credit were placed on the books,
And were left over night in the vault.

_To their credit_, I say it, the bank was locked tight,
Guarding thus against fire and theft;
A patrol on the walk, and a new 'lectric light,
Throwing beams to the _right_ and the _left_.

* * * * *

Just here the cashier he _left over night_,
Taking all but the house and the soil;
And the _long_ and the _short_ of the story is this,--
He was _too long_ of stocks--_short_ of oil.

A receiver was called, and he looked o'er the wreck,
And _received_ those who called--thus bereft.
"_Have you nothing left over?_" they timidly ask:
He answers, "_Yes, over the left_."

_W. C. Dornin._

A JOLLY FAT FRIAR.

A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store,
And he had drunk stoutly at supper;
He mounted his horse in the night at the door,
And he sat with his face at the crupper.
"Some rogue," quoth the friar, "quite dead to remorse,
Some thief, whom a halter will throttle,
Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse
While I was engaged at the bottle,
Which went gluggity, gluggity--glug--glug--glug."

The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale,
'Twas the friar's road home straight and level;
But when spurred a horse follows his nose, not his tail,
So he scampered due north like the devil.
"This new mode of docking," the friar then said,
"I perceive doesn't make a horse trot ill;
And 'tis cheap--for he never can eat off his head
While I am engaged at the bottle,
Which goes gluggity, gluggity--glug--glug--glug."

The steed made a stop--in a pond he had got:
He was rather for drinking than grazing;
Quoth the friar, "'Tis strange, headless horses should trot;
But to drink with their tails is amazing!"
Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose,
In the pond fell this son of a pottle.
Quoth he, "The head's found, for I'm under his nose;
I wish I were over a bottle,
Which goes gluggity, gluggity--glug--glug--glug."

ANONYMOUS.

THE ENOCH OF CALAVERAS.

"Well, dog my cats! Say, stranger,
You must have travelled far!
Just flood your lower level
And light a fresh cigar.
Don't tell me in this weather!
You hoofed it all the way?
Well, slice my liver lengthwise!
Why, stranger, what's to pay?

"Huntin' yer wife, you tell me:
Well, now dog-gone my skin!
She thought you dead and buried
And then bestowed her tin
Upon another fellow!
Just put it here, old pard!
Some fellows strike the soft things,
But you have hit it hard.

"I'm right onto your feelin's,
I know how it would be,
If my own shrub slopped over
And got away from me.
Say, stranger; that old sage hen,
That's cookin' thar inside,
Is warranted the finest wool,
And just a square yard wide.

"I wouldn't hurt yer, pardner,
But I tell _you_, no man
Was ever blessed as I am
With that old pelican.
It's goin' on some two year
Since she was j'ined to me,
She was a widder prior,
Her name was Sophy Lee--

"Good God! Old man, what's happened?
Her? She? Is that the one?
That's her? Your wife, you tell me?
Now reach down fer yer gun,
I never injured no man,
And no man me, but squealed,
And any one who takes her
Must do it d--d well heeled!

"Listen? Surely. Certainly
I'll let you look at her.
Peek through the door, she's in thar,
Is that your furnitur'?
Speak, man, quick! You're mistaken!
No! Yours! You recognize
My wife, your wife the same one?
The man who says so, lies!

"Don't mind what I say, pardner,
I'm not much on the gush,
But this thing comes down on me
Like fours upon a flush.
If that's your wife--hold--steady!
That bottle. Now, my coat,
She'll think me dead as you were.
My pipe. Thar. I'm afloat.

"But let me leave a message.
No; tell her that I died,
No, no; not that way, either,
Just tell her that I cried.
It don't rain much. Now, pardner,
Be to her what I've been.
Or by the God that hates you,
You'll see me back again!"

F. BRET HARTE.

CURLY-HEAD.

What are yer askin', stranger, about that lock o' har
That's kep' so nice and keerful in the family Bible thar?
Wal, then, I don't mind tellin', seein' as yer wants ter know.
It's from the head of our baby. Yes, that's him.--Stand up, Joe.

Joe is our only baby, nigh on ter six foot tall;
And he'll be one-and-twenty comin' this next fall.
But he can't yet beat his daddy in the hay-field or the swales,
A-pitchin' on the wagon, or splittin' up the rails.

For I was a famous chopper, jest eighteen year ago,
When this strange thing happened, that came to me and Joe.
Curly-head we called him then, sir--his hair is curly yet,
But them long silky ringlets I never shall forget.

Them was tough times, stranger, when all around was new,
And all the kentry forests, with only "blazes" through.
We lived in the old log-house then, Sally and me and Joe,
In the old Black-river country, whar we made our clearin' show.

Wal, one day I was choppin' nigh to our cabin door,--
A day that I'll remember till kingdom come and more,--
And Curly-head was playin' around among the chips;
A beauty, if I do say it, with rosy cheeks and lips.

I don't know how it happened; but quicker'n I can tell,
Our Curly-head had stumbled, and lay thar whar he fell
On the log that I was choppin', with his yellow curls outspread;
And the heavy axe was fallin' right on his precious head;

The next thing, I knew nothin', and all was dark around.
When I come to, I was lyin' stretched out thar on the ground;
And Curly-head was callin', "O daddy, don't do so!"
I caught him to my bosom, my own dear little Joe.

All safe, sir. Not a sliver had touched his little head;
But one of his curls was lyin' thar on the log outspread.
It lay whar the axe was stickin', cut close by its sharpened edge;
And what then was my feelin's, per'aps, sir, you can jedge.

I took the little ringlet, and pressed it to my lips;
Then I kneeled down and prayed, sir, right thar on the chips.
We put it in the Bible, whar I often read to Joe,--
"The hairs of your head are numbered;" and, sir, I believe it's so.

_B. S. Brooks._

WARNING TO WOMAN.

"John," said Mrs. Sanscript to her husband one evening last week, "I've been reading the paper."--"That's nothin'," grunted John: "I've seen people before who read newspapers."--"Yes; but there are several things in the paper I can't understand."--"Then don't read 'em."--"What do they mean by the strike, John? What is a strike, anyhow?"--"A strike is where they have struck;" and Sanscript knocked the ashes from his cigar. "I don't grasp your meaning exactly," said Mrs. Sanscript, with a puzzled look. "Now, these strikers have stopped all the railroad-trains in the country. Why did they do it?"--"To prevent 'em from running."--"Yes, but why didn't they want trains to run?"--"Because they wanted more money for running them."--"Do they pay more for stopping trains than for running them?"--"No, you stupid woman!"--"Then why in the world did they stop 'em? why didn't they run more of 'em, or run 'em faster? Seems to me that would pay better."--"Mary Ann, you will never surround the problem."--"Maybe not, John. Some things are gotten up purposely to bother women. Now here is a column headed 'Base-Ball.' What is base-ball, John?"--"Don't you know what base-ball is? Happy woman! you have not lived in vain."--"Here it says that 'The Hartfords could not collar Cumming's curves.' What under the sun are Cumming's curves?"--"It's the way he delivers the ball."--"Is the ball chained?"--"No, you booby!"--"Then how does he deliver it?"--"I mean, pitches it."--"Oh! Now here it says Jones muffed a ball after a hard run. What was a ball doing after a hard run?"--"Hadn't you better confine your research to the obituary and marriage columns, Mary, with an occasional advertisement thrown in to vary the monotony?"--"Yes, but, John, I want to know! There's Mrs. Racket, over the way, who goes to all the base-ball games, and comes home to talk me blind about 'fly fouls,' 'base hits,' 'sky-scrapers,' and all those things. For heaven's sake, John, what is a sky-scraper?"--"Compose yourself, old woman. You are treading on dangerous ground; your feet are on slippery rocks, while raging billows roll beneath."--"Mercy on me! What do you mean?"--"I mean, my dear madam, that whenever a woman begins to pry about among three strikes, fair balls, base hits, daisy cutters, home runs, and kindred subjects, she's in danger of being lost."--"Well, I confess I'm completely lost to know what this newspaper means when it says Addy stole a base, while the spectators applauded. Have we come to such a pass that society will applaud a theft? Why wasn't Addy arrested? Now here's Manning put out by Start, assisted by Carey, and I can't see that he did any thing wrong, either. Jemima Christopher! Here it says that Pike flew out. I don't believe a word of it. I never saw a man fly yet, and I won't believe it can be done till I see it with my own eyes. John, what makes these newspaper men lie so horribly?"

John was asleep; and Mrs. Sanscript turned gloomily, not to say sceptically, to the letter-list for information. Newspapers were not made for women.

AN EXCITING CONTEST.

We have doubts about the following story, which comes to us from the interior; but the author is responsible for what he says, and his name can be obtained upon application at this office.

Last winter two of my neighbors, Mr. Miller and Mr. Grant, lost their wives upon the same day; and both of the funerals took place three days afterwards, the interments being made at the cemetery about the same hour. As the two funeral parties were coming out of the burying-ground, Miller met Grant; and, clasping each other's hand, they indulged in a sympathetic squeeze, and the following conversation ensued:--

_Miller._ "I'm sorry for you. It's an unspeakable loss, isn't it?"

_Grant._ "Awful! She was the best woman that ever lived."

_Miller._ "She was, indeed. I never met her equal. She was a good wife to me."

_Grant._ "I was referring to my wife. There couldn't be two best, you know."

_Miller._ "Yes, I know. I know well enough that your wife couldn't hold a candle to mine."

_Grant._ "She couldn't, hey? Couldn't hold a candle! Why, she could dance all round Mrs. Miller every day in the week, including Sundays, and not half try! She was an unmitigated angel, take her any way you would."

_Miller._ "Oh! she was, was she? Well, I don't want to be personal; but if I owned a cross-eyed angel with red hair and no teeth, and as bony as an omnibus-horse, I'd kill her if she didn't die of her own accord. Dance!--how could a woman dance that had feet like candle-boxes, and lame at that?"

_Grant._ "Better be cross-eyed than wear the kind of a red nose that your wife flourished around this community. I bet it'll burn a hole through the coffin-lid. And you pretend you're sorry she's gone. But you can't impose on me: I know you're so glad you can hardly hold in. She was the chuckle-headedest woman that ever disgraced a graveyard: that's what _she_ was."

_Miller._ "If you abuse my wife, I'll knock you down."

_Grant._ "I'd like to see you try it."

Then the two disconsolate widowers engaged in a hand-to-hand combat; and, after tussling a while in the snow, the mourners pulled them apart, just as Mr. Miller was about to insist upon his wife's virtues by biting off Mr. Grant's nose.

When they got home, Mr. Grant tied crape upon all his window-shutters to show how deeply he mourned; and, as Miller knew that his grief for Mrs. Miller was deeper, he not only decorated his shutters, but he fixed five yards of black bombazine on the bell-pull, and dressed his whole family in mourning. Then Grant determined that his duty to the departed was not to let himself be beaten by a man who couldn't feel any genuine sorrow: so he sewed a black flag on his lightning-rod, and festooned the front of his house with black alpaca.

Then Miller became excited; and he expressed his sense of bereavement by painting his dwelling black, and by putting up a monument to Mrs. Miller in his front-yard. Grant thereupon stained his yellow horse with lampblack, tied crape to his cow's horn, daubed his dog with ink, and began to wipe his nose on a black handkerchief. As soon as Miller saw these proceedings, he spread a layer of charcoal all over his front-yard, he assumed a black shirt, he corked the faces of his family when they went to church, and he hired a colored man to stand on his steps and cry for twelve hours every day. Just as Grant was about to see this, and go it one better, he encountered Miss Lang, a young lady from the city; and in a couple of weeks they were engaged. Then he began to take in the evidences of his grief; and this made Miller so mad, that he went around and proposed to Miss Jones, an old maid who never had an offer before. She accepted him on the spot; and they were married the day before Grant's wedding, which so disgusted him that he would have given up Lang if she hadn't threatened him with a suit for breach of promise. There is peace between the two families now; but, when Mrs. Miller gets on the rampage sometimes, Mr. Miller mourns for his first wife more than ever.

A LAUGHING PHILOSOPHER.

Admiring my flowers, sir? P'raps you'd step inside the gate, and walk round my little place? It ain't big, but there's plenty of variety,--violets and cabbages, roses and artichokes. Any one that didn't care for flowers 'ud be sure to find beauty in them young spring onions. People's ideas differ very much, there ain't a doubt of it. One man's very happy over a glass of whiskey and water, and another thinks every thing 'ud go straight in this 'ere world if we all drank tea and lemonade. And it's right enough: it keeps things even. We should have the world a very one-sided affair if everybody pulled the same way. Philosopher, am I? Well, I dunno. I've got a theory to be sure--every one has nowadays; and mine is, that there is a joke to be found in every mortal thing if only we look in the right place for it. But some people don't know how to look for it. Why, sir, if you'll believe it, I was talking to a man yesterday that couldn't see any thing to laugh at in the naval demonstration.

Am I independent? Well, I makes money by my fruit and vegetables, if that's what you mean. But there's so many ways of being independent. One man marries a woman with £20,000 a year, and calls that independence. Another votes on the strongest side, and calls that being independent. One takes up every new-fangled idea that comes out, and says he's independent. Some calls impudence independence. There's not a name as fits so many different articles. No! I've never bin married. Somehow, I don't think married men see the fun in every thing same as single ones. I don't mean to be disrespectful to the ladies, but I do think they enjoy a good cry more than a good laugh. Was I ever in love? and did I laugh then? Why, yes, never laughed heartier in my life. It's a good many years ago now. I was living in lodgings down Clerkenwell way, and the landlady's daughter was as pretty a creature as ever you see, bright and cheery, like a robin, when first I knew her. But, by and by, she grew pale and peaky,--used to go about the house without singing, and had such big, sad-looking eyes. Her home wasn't a particularly happy one, for her mother was a nagger. Perhaps you've never come across a woman of that pertikler character. Well, then, you should say double the prayers of ordinary people; for you've much to be thankful for. I never looked at her without feeling that her husband must have been very happy indeed when he got to heaven. I sometimes think, sir, that women of this sort might be made use of, and prisons, and all other kind of punishment, done away with: perhaps, though, the lunatic asylums 'ud get too full.

Well, I grew to be quite intimate with Bessie; and one evening, I don't know how it was, she told me all her troubles. She was engaged to a young man; and her mother wouldn't consent to them marrying, and was always worrying her to break it off. I asked her if there were any thing against him. Nothing, except that her mother had taken a dislike to him: he wasn't very strong, but he was the best, cleverest, dearest fellow that ever lived. All the time she was talking I felt a gnawing sort of pain somewhere in my inside. First, I thought I must be hungry; but, when I came to eat, all my food seemed to get in my throat, and stick there. This won't do, old fellow, thinks I: there must be a joke to be got out of it somewhere. So I set to consider; and there, clear enough, it was. Why, the joke 'ud be to let Bessie marry her young man, and see the pretty cheeks grow round and pink again. But how to do it, there was the rub. I began to cultivate the old lady's society with a view to finding out her weak point: for, being a woman, of course she had a weak point; and, being a very ugly woman, what do you think it was? Why, vanity, to be sure. I soon noticed a change in her. She took her hair out of paper every day, instead of only on Sundays, as she had been used to do; and she put on a clean cap sometimes, and smirked whenever I passed her. Why, here's a bigger joke than I bargained for, thinks I! While I've been studying the woman to find out her weak point, she thinks I've been admiring her. But I soon saw what use I could make of this. I went down into the kitchen when she wasn't busy,--I knew it would be rather too hot other times,--and I got talking about Bessie. "It's strange," I says, "that a fine-looking girl like that shouldn't have a sweetheart. Things was different when you was younger, I'll be bound."

"As for that," says she, "Bessie has a sweetheart; but I don't approve of him. He's not exactly the sort of man I expected for her."

"But, lor'," I says, "you wouldn't go and keep that girl single! Think what harm you may do yourself. You can't be so cruel as to give up all idea of marrying agin! Why, you don't look forty." That wasn't an untruth, for she looked fifty. She tossed her head, and told me to go along. I didn't go along. I says, "There's no doubt lots of young fellows 'ud be glad enough of a good-looking wife like you, but mightn't care for a daughter as old as Miss Bessie." This seemed to strike her very much. I followed it up, got talking to her day after day, and always led the conversation to the same point. At last one day when I came home from work, she says, "It's all settled. Bessie's going to be married, and her Tom's coming here this evening." Then I went up to my own room, and laughed till I cried. Presently I heard the little girl run up-stairs as she hadn't run for many a long day, and I knew she'd gone to put on a smart ribbon for Tom's sake. She tapped at my door as she passed. Would I come down? somebody was there, and wanted to know me. I called out that I was busy, and couldn't come; and she went away. But after about an hour she came again. I was sitting in the dark, thinking of a good many things; and before I had time to speak she was down oh her knees beside me, and hiding her face.

"You told me you were busy," she said; "and here you are all in the dark and cold, and I can't bear any one to be dull or lonely to-night, because I'm so very, very happy. And I know it's all through you. Mother would never have given in of her own accord. You've always been my friend when I wanted one very badly; and now you must be angry with me, or you wouldn't stay away to-night. And you won't even speak to me. Oh, whatever I've done to vex you, don't think of it any more!"

She nestled up to me so close that her hair touched my coat-sleeve, and her pretty eyes looked up all swimming with tears. I ground my teeth, and clinched my hands, or--or I don't know what I mightn't ha' done. You see the joke of this, sir, don't you? Here was the girl crying, and asking me to forgive her, and like her a little; and there was I--not disliking her a bit all the time. Ha, ha, ha! I had a hearty laugh at her, and hurried with her down-stairs, and was introduced to Tom, and I talked to the old lady, and drank the young people's health, and was as happy as possible. And on the wedding-day I gave her away as if I had been her father; and I sang a song and danced: and, when the time came for Bessie to go away with her husband, I dried her eyes; for at the last moment the tender-hearted little thing broke down, and cried, and kissed us all, and asked her mother not to feel angry with her for leaving her all alone; and then the mother cried, and what with having so many eyes to wipe, I found myself wiping my own just as if it all weren't a tremendous joke.

How have they got on since? 'Bout as well as most people, I suppose: she loves him, and takes care of him. And the mother's softened down a bit since she's bin a grandmother. And as to my godson, there never was such a boy. I have him with me as much as possible, and he's beginning to see the joke of every thing almost as much as I do myself. And when I die, all this little place'll belong to him, and he'll be a rich man: so my death'll be the biggest joke of all, you see, sir.

IN DER SHWEED LONG AGO.

In der shweed long ago I dinked I vas shmard,
Und I dinked I did vant me a vife
To share all my money und sorrows und joys,
Und to helb me along drough my life.
I vanted a lady kind-hearted und goot,
Dot vas handsome und sensiple doo,
Dot cood blay der biano or cook a beefshdeak,
Darn my shdockings or made me a shdew.

She must nod be doo shmall-seized or neider doo dall,
Und she musn'd be old or doo young,
Und ven I vas shboking had visdom enuff
To alwoys kebd quied her tongue.
She musd nod be doo dark or agin be doo lighd--
A kinder bedwixed und bedween;
She musd nod knew doo leedle, or vorse, knew it all,
Or be vat some beebles call "creen."

She musd be good-nadured, vear always a shmile,
No madder of dings did vent wrong;
Ven my friends came around for to make me a call,
Be ready to sung dem a song.
Of der lodge bisness habben'd to kebd me oud lade,
Und I come valdzing home "dighdly-shlighd,"
She musd pet und caress me, und dank her good shdars
Dot I didn'd shdaid apsend all nighd.

In a vord, be berfecd--mind, feature, und form--
From her feet to der crown of her head.
Now, dot vas der damsel dot I had in view,
Und der von I vas villing to ved.
Dot's a long dime ago, and my head dot vas pald,
And I vas a pachelor shdill.
My gal, I hafe nefer saw shkibbing round loose--
Vat's more, I don'd dink dot I vill.

OOFTY GOOFT.

DOT STUPPORN PONY.

I growt so ferry heffy
Dot too much de walkin' pe,
So I pyed me of von pony;
But dot pettler he sheat me.
Bote eyes of him was limpy,
Bote leeks of him vas plint;
But dot vot prake of me mine heart
Dot pony vas oonkint.

He keeck shust like a chackess,
Oop, town, pefore, pehint;
Und how to cure dot pony
I rollt oop in my mint.
Dot sympathee vas nonsense,
Shust efery dinks he preak;
Vhen sutton coomt von grant itee,
I tole you how I make:

I keetch him mit de shafters,
But--outsite in instet--
His het oop py dot vagon,
His dail vere vos his het.
Den--one, doo, tree--I schlag him.
Ach, himmel! how he keeck!
But vhen he fints he noddings stroock,
He stop dot pooty queeck.

Den looks he oop aschtountet,
Oxcited pooty pat;
Den sutten makes he backvarts,
Like as of he vas mat
I laugh as I vas tying
Vhen I see him go dat vay;
Den on his haunch he stoomples town,
As he vas going to bray.

How schamt he look, vateffer!
I tole him vat I dinks;
Doo dears drop oud his eyepalls,
Mit grief his dail he vinks.
Arount all right I toorn him,
His het pefore him now,
Und streecks!--he trives as goot und kind
As he vas peen my frau!

HARRY WOODSON.

SPOOPENDYKE OPENING OYSTERS.

"My dear," queried Mr. Spoopendyke, "did you put those oysters on the cellar floor with the round shells down, as I told you to?"

"I did most of 'em," replied Mrs. Spoopendyke. "Some of 'em wouldn't stay that way. They turned right over."

"Must have been extraordinary intelligent oysters," murmured Mr. Spoopendyke, eying her with suspicion. "Didn't any of 'em stand up on end, and ask for the morning paper, did they?"

"You know what I mean," fluttered Mrs. Spoopendyke. "They tipped over sideways, and so I laid them on the flat shell."

"That's right," grunted Mr. Spoopendyke. "You want to give an oyster his own way, or you'll hurt his feelings. Suppose you bring up some of those gifted oysters, and an oyster-knife, and we'll eat 'em."

Mrs. Spoopendyke hurried away, and pattered back with the feast duly set out on a tea-waiter, which she placed before Mr. Spoopendyke with a flourish.

"Now," said she, drawing up her sewing-chair, and resting her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands, "when you get all you want, you may open me some."

Mr. Spoopendyke whirled the knife around his head, and brought it down with a sharp crack. Then he clipped away at the end a moment, and jabbed at what he supposed was the opening. The knife slipped, and ploughed the bark off his thumb.

"Won't come open, won't ye?" he shouted, fetching it another lick, and jabbing away again. "Haven't completed your census of who's out here working at ye, have ye?" and he brought it another whack. "P'rhaps ye think I haven't fully made up my mind to inquire within, don't ye?" and he rammed the point of the knife at it, knocking the skin off his knuckles.

"That isn't the way to open an oyster," suggested Mrs. Spoopendyke.

"Look here," roared Mr. Spoopendyke, turning fiercely on his wife. "Have you got any private understanding with this oyster? Has the oyster confided in you the particular way in which he wants to be opened?"

"No-o!" stammered Mrs. Spoopendyke. "Only I thought"--

"This is no time for thought!" shouted Mr. Spoopendyke, banging away at the edge of the shell. "This is the moment for battle; and if I've happened to catch this oyster during office hours, he's going to enter into relations with the undersigned. Come out, will ye?" he yelled, as the knife flew up his sleeve. "Maybe ye don't recognize the voice of Spoopendyke. Come out, ye measly coward, before ye make an enemy of me for life!" and he belted away at the shell with the handle of the knife, and spattered mud like a dredging-machine.

"Let me get you a hammer to crack him with," recommended Mrs. Spoopendyke, hovering over her husband in great perturbation.

"Don't want any hammer," howled Mr. Spoopendyke, slamming around with his knife. "S'pose I'm going to use brute force on a measly fish that I could swallow alive if I could only get him out of his house? Open your measly premises!" raved Mr. Spoopendyke, stabbing at the oyster vindictively, and slicing his shirt-sleeve clear to the elbow. "Come forth, and enjoy the society of Spoopendyke!" And the worthy gentleman foamed at the mouth, and he sunk back in his chair, and contemplated his stubborn foe with glaring eyes.

"I'll tell you what to do," exclaimed Mrs. Spoopendyke, radiant with a profound idea. "Crack him in the door."

"That's the scheme," grinned Mr. Spoopendyke, with horrible contortions of visage. "Fetch me the door. Set that door right before me on a plate. This oyster is going to stay here. If you think this oyster is going to enjoy any change of climate until he strikes the tropics of Spoopendyke, you don't know the domestic habits of shell-fish. Loose your hold!" squealed Mr. Spoopendyke, returning to the charge, and fetching the bivalve a prodigious whack. "Come into the outer world, where all is gay and beautiful. Come out, and let me introduce you to my wife." And Mr. Spoopendyke laid the oyster on the arm of his chair, and slugged him remorselessly.

"Wait," squealed Mrs. Spoopendyke: "here's one with his mouth open," and she pointed cautiously at a gaping oyster, who had evidently taken down the shutters to see what the row was about.

"Don't care a measly nickel with a hole in it," protested Mr. Spoopendyke, thoroughly impatient. "Here's one that's going to open his mouth, or the resurrection will find him still wrestling with the ostensible head of this family. Ow!" and Mr. Spoopendyke, having rammed the knife into the palm of his hand, slammed the oyster against the chimney-piece, where it was shattered, and danced around the room wriggling with wrath and agony.

"Never mind the oysters, dear," cried Mrs. Spoopendyke, following him around, and trying to disengage his wounded hand from his armpit.

"Who's minding 'em?" roared Mr. Spoopendyke, standing on one leg, and bending up double. "I tell ye that when I start to inflict discipline on a narrow-minded oyster that won't either accept an invitation or send regrets, he's going to mind me! Where's the oyster? Show me the oyster! Arraign the oyster!"

"Upon my word, you've opened him," giggled Mrs. Spoopendyke, picking up the smashed bivalve between the tips of her thumb and forefinger.

"Won't have him," sniffed Mr. Spoopendyke, eying the broken shell, and firing his defeated enemy into the grate. "If I can't go in the front-door of an oyster, I'm not going down the scuttle. That all comes of laying 'em on the flat shell," he continued, suddenly recollecting that his wife was to blame for the whole business. "Now you take the rest of 'em down, and lay 'em as I told you to."

"Yes, dear."

"And another time you want any oysters, you sit around in the cellar, and when they open their mouths you put sticks in. You hear?"

"Yes, dear."

And Mrs. Spoopendyke took the bivalves back, resolving that the next time they were in demand they would crawl out of their shells, and walk up-stairs arm in arm, before she would have any hand in the mutilation of her poor, dear, suffering husband by bringing them up herself.

STANLEY HUNTLEY.

TO A FRIEND STUDYING GERMAN.

Vill'st dou learn de deutsche Sprache?
Denn set it on your card,
Dat all de nouns have shenders,
Und de shenders all are hard;
Dere ish also dings called pronoms,
Vitch it's shoost ash vell to know;
Boot ach! de verbs, or timevords--
Dey'll vork you bitter voe.

Vill'st dou learn de deutsche Sprache?
Den you allatag moost go
To sinfonies, sonatas,
Or an oritorio.
Vhen you dinks you knows 'pout musik
More ash any oder man,
Be sure de soul of Deutschland
Into your soul ish ran.

Vill'st dou learn de deutsche Sprache?
Dou moost eat apout a peck
A veek of stinging sauerkraut,
Und sefen pounds of speck,
Mit Gott knows vot in vinegar,
Und deuce knows vot in rum;
Dish ish de only cerdain way
To make de accents coom.

Vill'st dou learn de deutsche Sprache?
Brepare dein soul to shtand
Soosh sendences ash ne'er vas heardt
In any oder land.
Till dou canst make parenteses
Intwisted--ohne zahl--
Dann wirst du erst Deutschfertig seyn;
For a languashe ideal.

Vill'st dou learn de deutsche Sprache?
Dou must mitout all fear
Trink efery tay an gallon dry
Of foamin' Sherman beer.
Und de more you trinks, pe certain
More Deutsche you'll surely pe;
For Gambrinus is de Emperor
Of de whole of Shermany.

Vill'st dou learn de Deutsche Sprache?
Be sholly, brav, an' treu,
For dat veller is kein Deutscher
Who ish not a sholly poy,
Find out vot means Gemuthlichkeit,
Und do it mitout fail,
In Sang und Klang dein Lebenlang,
A brick--gans Kreuzfidel.

Vill'st dou learn de deutsche Sprache?
If a shendleman dou art,
Denn shtrike right indo Deutschland
Und get a schveetes heart,
From Schwabenland or Sachsen,
Vhere now dis writer pees;
Und de bretty girls all wachsen
Shoost like apples on de drees.

Boot if dou bee'st a laty,
Denn, on de odder hand,
Take a blonde moustachiod lofer
In de vine green Sherman land,
Und if you shoost kit married
(Vood mit vood soon makes a vire),
You'll learn to sprechen Deutsch, mein Kind,
Ash fast as you tesire.

CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.

TAMMY'S PRIZE.

"Awa' wi' ye, Tammy man, awa' wi' ye to the schule, aye standin' haverin'," and the old shoemaker looked up through his tear-dimmed spectacles at his son, who was standing with his cap on and his book in his hand.

Tammy made a move to the door. "An' is't the truth, Tammy? and does the maister say't himsel'? Say't ower again."

The boy turned back, and stood looking on the ground.

"It wasna muckle he said, fayther. He just said, 'It'll be Tammy Rutherford that'll get the prize i' the coontin.'"

"He said you, did he?" said the old man, as if he had heard it for the first time, and not for the hundredth.

Again Tammy made a move for the door; and again the fond father would have called him back, had not the schoolbell at that instant rung out loud and clear.

"Ay, ay!" said he to himself, after his son had gone, "a right likely lad, and a credit to his fayther;" and he bent again to the shoe he was working at, though he could scarcely see it for the tears that started in his eyes.

The satisfied smile had not worn off his face when the figure of a stout woman appeared at the door. The shoemaker took off his spectacles, and wiped them, and then turned to the new-comer.

"A bra' day till ye, Mistress Knicht. An' hoo'll ye be keepin'?"

"Oh! brawly, Maister Rutherford. It's the sheen I've come aboot for my guidman; the auld anes are sare crackit."

"Aweel, mistress, the new anes'll be deen the morn. Set yersel' doon;" and, complying with this invitation, she sat down. "An' hoo's yere Sandie gettin' on at the schule, Mistress Knicht?"

"'Deed, noo ye speak on't, he's a sare loon; he'll niver look at's lessons."

"He winna be ha'in' ony o' the prizes, I'm thinkin' at that gate."

"Na, na; he'll niver bother his heed aboot them. But he's sayin' yer Tam'll ha'e the coontin' prize."

"Ye _dinna_ say sae! Weel, that is news." And he looked up with ill-concealed pride. "The lad was talkin' o't himsel'; but 'deed I niver thocht on't. But there's nae sayin'."

"Aweel, guid-day to ye; and I'll look in the morn for the sheen."

"An' are they sayin' Tam'll ha'e a prize?" continued the old man.

"Ay, ay; the laddie was sayin' sae." And she went away.

The shoemaker seemed to have fallen on a pleasant train of thought; for he smiled away to himself, and occasionally picked up a boot, which he as soon let drop. Visions of Tammy's future greatness rose before his mind. Perhaps of too slight a fabric were they built; but he saw Tammy a great and honored man, and Tammy's father leaning on his son's greatness....

"Presairve us a'! it's mair nor half-six!" (half-past five.) And he started up from his revery. "Schule'll hae been oot an 'oor, an' the laddie's no hame." And he got up, and moved towards the door. The sun was just sinking behind the horizon, and the light was dim in the village street. He put up his hand to his eyes, and peered down in the direction of the school.

"What in a' the world's airth's keepin' him?" he muttered; and then turning round he stumbled through the darkness of his workshop to the little room behind. He filled an antiquated kettle, and set it on the fire. Then he went to the cupboard, and brought out half a loaf, some cheese, a brown teapot, and a mysterious parcel. He placed these on the table, and then gravely and carefully unrolled the little parcel, which turned out to be tea.

"Presairve us, I can niver min' whaur ye put the tea, or hoo muckle. It's an awfu' waicht on the min' to make tea."

His wife had died two years before; and his little son, with the assistance of a kindly neighbor, had managed to cook their humble meals. Porridge was their chief fare; but a cup of tea was taken as a luxury every evening.

"I'm jist some fear't about it. I'll waicht till Tammas comes in;" and he went out again to the door to see what news there was of his son.

The sun had completely disappeared now; and the village would have been quite dark had it not been for the light in the grocer's window, a few doors down.

The shoemaker leaned against his cottage, and tried to see if any one were in sight; but not a soul seemed about, although now and then a sound of laughter was borne up the street.

The door of his next neighbor's house was wide open. He looked in, and saw a woman standing at the fire, superintending some cooking operation, with her back to him.

"Is yer Jim in, mistress?"

"Na," she said, without turning her head. "He'll be doon at some o' his plays. He's nae been in frae the schule yet."

"It's the same wi' Tam. Losh! I'm wunnerin, what's keepin' him."

"Keepin' him, say ye? What wad keep a laddie?"

Half satisfied, the shoemaker went back to his house, and found the kettle singing merrily on the fire. He felt a little anxious. The boy was always home in good time. He crept round again to his neighbor's.

"I'm gettin' fear't about him," he said: "he's niver been sae late's this."

"Hoot, awa' wi' ye! he'll be doon, maybe, at the bathin' wi' the lave, but I'll gang doon the village wi' ye, an' we'll soon fin' the laddie."

She hastily put her bonnet on her head, for the night air was cold, and they both stood together outside the cottage.

He clutched her arm. What was that? Through the still night air, along the dark street, came the sound of muffled feet and hushed voices, as of those who bore a burden. With blanched face the old man tried to speak, but he could not. A fearful thought came upon him....

They are coming nearer. They are stopping and crowding together, and whispering low. The two listeners crept up to them; and there in the middle of the group lay Tammy dead--drowned.

With a loud shriek, "Tammy, my Tammy!" the old man fell down beside the body of his son.

They carried both in together into the little room behind the shop, and went out quietly, leaving one of their number who volunteered to stay all night.

The shoemaker soon revived. He sat down on one side of the fire, and the man who watched with him sat on the other. The kettle was soon on the fire, and he watched its steam rising with a half-interested indifference. Then at times he would seem to remember that something had happened; and he would creep to the side of the bed where the body lay, and gaze on the straight, handsome features and the bloodless cheeks, quiet and cold in death. "Tammy, my man; my ain Tammy, speak to me ance--jist ance--I'm awfu' lonesome-like." Then the watcher would lead him quietly to his seat by the fire; and there they sat the whole night long, till the stir of the outer world aroused them....

The school is filled with happy, pleasant faces. The prize day has come. There stands the minister, looking very important, and the schoolmaster very excited. The prizes are all arranged on a table before the minister, and the forms for the prize-winners are before the table. And now every thing is ready. The minister begins by telling the parents present how he has examined the school, and found the children quite up to the mark; and then he addresses a few words to the children, winding up his remarks by telling them how at school he had thought that "multiplication is a vexation," &c., but that now he found the use of it. And then the children laughed, for they heard the same speech every year; but it made the excitement greater when they had the prizes to look at, as they shone on the table in their gorgeous gilding, during the speech. And now the schoolmaster is going to read out the prize-winners, and the children are almost breathless with excitement,--you might have heard a pin drop,--when from the end of the room, a figure totters forward, the figure of an old man, white-headed, and with a strange, glassy look in his eye. He advances to where the children are sitting, and takes his place amongst them. Every one looks compassionately towards him, and women are drying their eyes with their aprons. The schoolmaster hesitates a moment, and looks at the minister. The minister nods to him, and he begins the list. It is with almost a saddened look that the children come to take their prizes, for they think of the sharp, bright, active playmate who was so lately with them; and they gaze timidly towards his father who sits in their midst.

"Thomas Rutherford," reads out the master, "gained the prize for arithmetic."

"I'll tak' Tam's prize for him. The laddie's na weel. He's awa'. I'll tak' it;" and the shoemaker moved hastily up to the table.

The minister handed him the book; and, silently taking it, he made his way to the door....

A quiet old man moves listlessly about the village. He does nothing, but every one has a kind word for him. He never walks towards the river, but shudders when its name is mentioned. He sits in his workshop often, and looks up expectantly when he hears the joyous shout of the boys as they come out of school, and then a look of pain flits across his face. He has one treasure,--a book, which he keeps along with his family Bible, and he is never tired of reading through his blurred spectacles the words on the first page:--

BARNES SCHOOL. FIRST CLASS. PRIZE FOR ARITHMETIC AWARDED TO THOMAS RUTHERFORD.

THE SCOTCHMAN AT THE PLAY.

After paying our money at the door, never while I live and breathe will I forget what we saw and heard that night. It just looks to me, by all the world, when I think on it, like a fairy dream. The place was crowded to the full; Maister Glen and me having nearly got our ribs dung in before we found a seat, the folks behind being obliged to mount the back benches to get a sight. Right to the forehand of us was a large green curtain, some five or six ells wide, a good deal the worse of the wear, having seen service through two-three summers: and just in the front of it were eight or ten penny candles stuck in a board fastened to the ground, to let us see the players' feet like, when they came on the stage; and even before they came on the stage; for, the curtain being scrimpit in length, we saw legs and sandals moving behind the scenes very neatly; while two blind fiddlers they had brought with them played the bonniest ye ever heard. 'Od! the very music was worth a sixpence of itself.

The place, as I said before, was choke-full, just to excess; so that one could scarcely breathe. Indeed, I never saw any part so crowded, not even at a tent-preaching when the Rev. Mr. Roarer was giving his discourses on the building of Solomon's Temple. We were obligated to have the windows opened for a mouthful of fresh air, the barn being as close as a baker's oven, my neighbor and me fanning our red faces with our hats to keep us cool; and, though all were half stewed, we certainly had the worst of it, the toddy we had taken having fermented the blood of our bodies into a perfect fever.

Just at the time that the two blind fiddlers were playing the "Downfall of Paris" a hand-bell rang, and up goes the green curtain; being hauled to the ceiling, as I observed with the tail of my eye, by a birkie at the side, that had hold of a rope. So, on the music stopping, and all becoming as still as that you might have heard a pin fall, in comes a decent old gentleman at his leisure, well powdered, with an old-fashioned coat on, waistcoat with flap-pockets, brown breeches with buckles at the knees, and silk stockings with red gushats on a blue ground. I never saw a man in such distress: he stamped about, and better stamped about, dadding the end of his staff on the ground, and imploring all the powers of heaven and earth to help him to find out his runaway daughter, that had decamped with some ne'er-do-weel loon of a half-pay captain, that keppit her in his arms from her bedroom-window, up two pair of stairs.

Every father and head of a family must have felt for a man in his situation, thus to be robbed of his dear bairn, and an only daughter too, as he told us over and over again, as the salt, salt tears ran gushing down his withered face, and he aye blew his nose on his clean calendered pocket-napkin. But, ye know, the thing was absurd to suppose that we should know any inkling about the matter, having never seen him or his daughter between the een before, and not kenning them by headmark: so, though we sympathized with him, as folks ought to do with a fellow-creature in affliction, we thought it best to hold our tongues, to see what might cast up better than he expected. So out he went stumping at the other side, determined, he said, to find them out, though he should follow them to the world's end, Johnny Groat's house, or something to that effect.

Hardly was his back turned, and almost before ye could cry Jack Robison, in comes the birkie and the very young lady the old gentleman described, arm-and-arm together, smoodging and laughing like daft. Dog on it! it was a shameless piece of business. As true as death, before all the crowd of folk, he put his arm round her waist, and called her his sweetheart, and love, and dearie, and darling, and every thing that is fine. If they had been courting in a close together on a Friday night, they could not have said more to one another, or gone greater lengths. I thought such shame to be an eye-witness to sic on-goings, that I was obliged at last to hold up my hat before my face, and look down; though, for all that, the young lad, to be such a blackguard as his conduct showed, was well enough faured, and had a good coat to his back, with double gilt buttons and fashionable lapels, to say little of a very well-made pair of buckskins, a thought the worse of the wear, to be sure, but which, if they had been well cleaned, would have looked almost as good as new. How they had come we never could learn, as we neither saw chaise nor gig; but, from his having spurs on his boots, it is more than likely that they had lighted at the back-door of the barn from a horse, she riding on a pad behind him, maybe, with her hand round his waist.

The father looked to be a rich old bool, both from his manner of speaking, and the rewards he seemed to offer for the apprehension of his daughter; but, to be sure, when so many of us were present that had an equal right to the spullaie, it would not be a great deal, a thousand pounds, when divided. Still it was worth the looking after: so we just bidit a wee.