Chapter XXII: Part II: Readings and Recitations From the Most Celebrated Authors (8)

Oh, dear! What shall I do? I have consulted almost every doctor
in the country, but they don’t any of them seem to understand my
case. I have tried everything that I could think of; but I can’t
find anything that does me the least good. (_Coughs._)

Oh, this cough—it will be the death of me yet! You know I had
my right hip put out last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones’
saw-mill; it’s getting to be very troublesome just before we
have a change of weather. Then I’ve got the sciatica in my right
knee, and sometimes I’m so crippled up that I can hardly crawl
round in any fashion.

What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was
out plowing last week? Why, the weaked old critter, she kept
a backing and backing, ontil she backed me right up agin the
colter, and knock’d a piece of skin off my shin nearly so big.
(_Coughs._)

But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You
see it was washing-day—and my wife wanted me to go out and bring
in a little stove-wood—you know we lost our help lately, and my
wife has to wash and tend to everything about the house herself.

I knew it wouldn’t be safe for me to go out—as it was raining at
the time—but I thought I’d risk it anyhow. So I went out, picked
up a few chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into
the house, when my feet slipped from under me, and I fell down as
sudden as if I’d been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face,
broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knocked
out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of
it, as you may suppose, and my face ain’t well enough yet to make
me fit to be seen, ’specially by the women folks. (_Coughs._)
Oh, dear! but that ain’t all, Doctor; I’ve got fifteen corns on
my toes—and I’m afeard I’m going to have the “yaller janders.”
(_Coughs._)

DR. VALENTINE.

THE SCHOOL-MA’AM’S COURTING.

When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay
I was glad, fer I like ter see a gal makin’ her honest way.
I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin’ high,
Tew high fer busy farmer folks with chores ter dew ter fly.
But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontel
She come in her reg’lar boardin’ raound ter visit with us a spell.
My Jake an’ her had been cronies ever since they could walk,
An’ it tuk me aback ter hear her kerrectin’ him in his talk.

Jake ain’t no hand at grammar, though he hain’t his beat for work;
But I sez ter myself, “Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin’ with a Turk!”
Jake bore it wonderful patient, an’ said in a mournful way,
He p’sumed he was behindhand with the doin’s at Injun Bay.
I remember once he was askin’ for some o’ my Injun buns,
An’ she said he should allus say, “them air,” stid o’ “them is” the ones.
Wal, Mary Ann kep’ at him stiddy mornin’ an’ evenin’ long,
Tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o’ talkin’ wrong.

One day I was pickin’ currants daown by the old quince tree,
When I heerd Jake’s voice a-sayin’: “Be ye willin’ ter marry me?”
An’ Mary Ann kerrectin’, “Air ye willin’, yeou sh’d say.”
Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum, decided way,
“No wimmen-folks is a-goin’ ter be re-arrangin’ me.
Hereafter I says ‘craps,’ ‘them is,’ ‘I calk’late,’ an’ ‘I be.’
Ef folks don’t like my talk they needn’t hark ter what I say;
But I ain’t a-goin’ to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay.
I ask you free an’ final: Be ye goin’ ter marry me?”
An’ Mary Ann sez, tremblin’, yet anxious-like, “I be.”

FLORENCE E. PYATT.

THE DUTCHMAN’S SNAKE.

Near the town of Reading, in Berks County, Pennsylvania, there
formerly lived a well-to-do Dutch farmer named Peter Van Riper.
His only son was a strapping lad of seventeen, also named Peter,
and upon old Peter and young Peter devolved the principal cares
of the old man’s farm, now and then assisted by an ancient
Dutchman named Jake Sweighoffer, who lived in the neighborhood,
and went out to work by the day.

One warm day in haying time this trio were hard at work in a
meadow near the farm-house, when suddenly Peter the elder dropped
his scythe and called out:

“Oh! mine gracious, Peter! Peter!”

“What’s de matter, fader?” answered the son, straightening up and
looking at his sire.

“Oh! mine Peter! Peter!” again cried the old man, “do come here,
right off! Der schnake pite mine leg!”

If anything in particular could disturb the nerves of young
Peter, it was snakes; for he had once been chased by a black
one and frightened nearly out of his wits. At the word snake,
therefore, young Van Riper fell back, nimbly as a wire-drawer,
and called out in turn: “Where is der shnake, fader?”

“Here, up mine preeches!—Oh! my! my! my!”

“Vy don’t you kill him, fader?” exclaimed Peter, junior, keeping
at a safe distance from his suffering sire.

“I can’t get at der little sinner, Peter; you come dake off my
drowsis, or he’ll kill me mit his pites.”

But the fears of Peter, the younger, overcame his filial
affection, and lent strength to his legs, for he started off
like a scared two-year-old toward the old man Jake, to call him
to the assistance of his unhappy father. A few moments after,
the two came bounding toward the old man, and as they passed a
haycock where their garments had been laid when they began work,
Jake grabbed the vest which he supposed belonged to his employer.
During this time old Peter had managed to keep on his feet,
although he was quaking and trembling like an aspen leaf in a
June gale of wind.

“Oh! come quick, Yacob!” exclaimed he, “he pite like sixty, here,
on mine leg.”

Old Jake was not particularly sensitive to fear, but few people,
young or old, are free from alarm when a “pizenous” reptile is
about. He seized a small pitchfork, and, telling the unhappy Van
Riper to stand steady, promised to stun the reptile by a rap or
two, even if he didn’t kill it outright. The frightened old man
did not long hesitate between the risk of a broken leg or being
bitten to death by a snake, but promptly indicated the place
where Jake should strike. Whack went the pitchfork, and down
tumbled Peter, exclaiming, “Oh! my! my! my; I pleeve you’ve proke
mine leg! but den der shnake’s gone.”

“Vere! vere’s he gone to?” says old Sweighoffer, looking sharply
about on the ground he stood upon.

“Never mind der shnake now, Yacob,” says Van Riper, “come and
help me up, and I’ll go home.”

“Here, I’ve got your shacket—put it on,” says Jacob, lifting up
the old man, and slipping his arms into the armholes of the vest.

The moment old Peter made the effort to get the garment on his
shoulders, he grew livid in the face—his hair stood on end—he
shivered and shook—his teeth chattered, and his knees knocked an
accompaniment. “O Yacob!” exclaimed he, “help me to go home—I’m
dead! I’m dead!”

“Vat’s dat you say? Ish dere nodder shnake in your preeches?”
inquired the intrepid Jacob.

“Not dat—I don’t mean dat,” says the farmer, “but shust you look
on me—I’m shwelt all up, pigger as an ox! my shacket won’t go on
my pack. I’m dying mit de pizen. Oh! oh! oh! help me home quick.”

The hired man came to the same conclusion; and with might and
main he hurried old Peter along toward the farm-house. Meantime
young Peter had run home, and so alarmed the women folks that
they were in a high state of excitement when they saw the
approach of the good old man and his assistant.

Old man Peter was carried into the house, laid on a bed, and
began to lament his sad misfortune in a most grievous manner,
when the old lady, his frow, came forward and proposed to examine
the bitten leg. The unhappy man opened his eyes and feebly
pointed out the place of the bite. She carefully ripped up his
pantaloons, and out fell—a thistle-top! and at the same time a
considerable scratch was made visible.

“Call dis a shnake? Bah!” says the old lady, holding up the
thistle.

“Oh! but I’m pizened to death, Katreen!—see, I’m all pizen!—mine
shacket!—Oh! dear, mine shacket not come over mine pody!”

“Haw! haw! you crazy fellow,” roars the frow, “dat’s not your
shacket—dat’s Peter’s shacket! ha! ha! ha!”

“Vat! dat Peter’s shacket?” says old Peter, shaking off death’s
icy fetters at one surge, and jumping up: “Bosh! Jacob, vat an
old fool you must be to say I vas shnake-pite! Go ’pout your
pusiness, gals. Peter, give me mine pipe.”

NO KISS.

“Kiss me, Will,” sang Marguerite,
To a pretty little tune,
Holding up her dainty mouth,
Sweet as roses born in June.
Will was ten years old that day,
And he pulled her golden curls
Teasingly, and answer made—
“I’m too old—I don’t kiss girls.”

Ten years pass, and Marguerite
Smiles as Will kneels at her feet,
Gazing fondly in her eyes,
Praying, “Won’t you kiss me, sweet?”
’Rite is seventeen to-day,
With her birthday ring she toys
For a moment, then replies:
“I’m too old—I don’t kiss boys.”

THE LISPING LOVER.

Oh! thtay one moment, love implorth,
Ere yet we break thith happy thpell!
For to the thoul my thoul adorth
It ith tho hard to thay farewell.

And yet how thad to be tho weak,
To think forever, night or day,
The thententheth my heart would thpeak
Thethe lipth can never truly thay.

How mournful, too, while thuth I kneel,
With nervouthneth my blith to mar,
And dream each moment that I feel
The boot-toe of thy thtern papa.

Or yet to fanthy that I hear
A thudden order to decamp,
Ath dithagreeably thevere
Ath—“Get out you infernal thcamp!”

Yet recklethly I pauthe by thee,
To lithp my hopeth, my fearth, my careth,
Though any moment I may be
Turning a thomerthet down the thtairth!

LARRIE O’DEE.

Now the widow McGee,
And Larrie O’Dee,
Had two little cottages out on the green,
With just room enough for two pig-pens between.
The widow was young and the widow was fair,
With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair;
And it frequently chanced, when she came in the morn
With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the corn.
And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand,
In the pen of the widow were certain to land.

One morning said he:
“Och! Misthress McGee,
It’s a waste, of good lumber, this runnin’ two rigs,
Wid a fancy petition betwane our two pigs!”
“Indade sur, it is!” answered Widow McGee,
With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O’Dee.
“And thin, it looks kind o’ hard-hearted and mane,
Kapin’ two friendly pigs so exsaidenly near
That whiniver one grunts the other can hear,
And yit kape a cruel petition betwane.”

“Shwate Widow McGee,”
Answered Larrie O’Dee,
“If ye fale in your heart we are mane to the pigs,
Ain’t we mane to ourselves to be runnin’ two rigs?
Och! it made me heart ache whin I paped through the cracks
Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez shwingin’ yer axe;
An’ a bobbin’ yer head an’ a shtompin’ yer fate,
Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate,
A-sphlittin’ yer kindlin’-wood out in the shtorm,
When one little shtove it would kape us both warm!”

“Now, piggy,” said she;
“Larrie’s courtin’ o’ me,
Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you,
So now yez must tell me jisht what I must do;
For, if I’m to say yez, shtir the swill wid yer snout;
But if I’m to say no, ye must kape yer nose out.
Now Larrie, for shame! to be bribin’ a pig
By a-tossin’ a handful of corn in its shwig!”
“Me darlint, the piggy says yes,” answered he.
And that was the courtship of Larrie O’Dee.

W. W. FINK.

HOW PADEREWSKI PLAYS THE PIANO.

First a soft and gentle tinkle,
Gentle as the rain-drop’s sprinkle,
Then a stop,
Fingers drop.
Now begins a merry trill,
Like a cricket in a mill;
Now a short, uneasy motion,
Like a ripple on the ocean.

See the fingers dance about,
Hear the notes come tripping out;
How they mingle in the tingle
Of the everlasting jingle,
Like to hailstones on a shingle,
Or the ding-dong, dangle-dingle
Of a sheep-bell! Double, single,
Now they come in wilder gushes,
Up and down the player rushes,
Quick as squirrels, sweet as thrushes.

Now the keys begin to clatter
Like the music of a platter
When the maid is stirring batter.
O’er the music comes a change,
Every tone is wild and strange;
Listen to the lofty tumbling,
Hear the mumbling, fumbling, jumbling,
Like the rumbling and the grumbling
Of the thunder from its slumbering
Just awaking. Now it’s taking
To the quaking, like a fever-and-ague shaking;
Heads are aching, something’s breaking—
Goodness gracious! it is wondrous,
Rolling round, above, and under us,
Like old Vulcan’s stroke so thunderous.

Now ’tis louder, but the powder
Will be all exploded soon;
For the only way to do,
When the music’s nearly through,
Is to muster all your muscle for a bang,
Striking twenty notes together with a clang:
Hit the treble with a twang,
Give the bass an awful whang,
And close the whole performance
With a slam—bang—whang!

THE FRECKLE-FACED GIRL.

“Ma’s up stairs changing her dress,” said the freckled-faced
little girl, tying her doll’s bonnet strings and casting her
eye about for a tidy large enough to serve as a shawl for that
double-jointed young person.

“Oh, your mother needn’t dress up for me,” replied the female
agent of the missionary society, taking a self-satisfied view of
herself in the mirror. “Run up and tell her to come down just as
she is in her everyday clothes, and not stand on ceremony.”

“Oh, but she hasn’t got on her everyday clothes. Ma was all
dressed up in her new brown silk dress, ’cause she expected Miss
Dimmond to-day. Miss Dimmond always comes over here to show off
her nice things, and ma doesn’t mean to get left. When ma saw you
coming she said, ‘the dickens!’ and I guess she was mad about
something. Ma said if you saw her new dress, she’d have to hear
all about the poor heathen, who don’t have silk, and you’d ask
her for money to buy hymn books to send ’em. Say, do the nigger
ladies use hymn-book leaves to do their hair up on and make it
frizzy? Ma says she guesses that’s all the good the books do ’em,
if they ever get any books. I wish my doll was a heathen.”

“Why, you wicked little girl! what do you want of a heathen
doll?” inquired the missionary lady, taking a mental inventory
of the new things in the parlor to get material for a homily on
worldly extravagance.

“So folks would send her lots of nice things to wear, and feel
sorry to have her going about naked. Then she’d have her hair to
frizz, and I want a doll with truly hair and eyes that roll up
like Deacon Silderback’s when he says amen on Sunday. I ain’t a
wicked girl, either, ’cause Uncle Dick—you know Uncle Dick, he’s
been out West and swears awful and smokes in the house—he says
I’m a holy terror, and he hopes I’ll be an angel pretty soon.
Ma’ll be down in a minute, so you needn’t take your cloak off.
She said she’d box my ears if I asked you to.

“Ma’s putting on that old dress she had last year, ’cause she
didn’t want you to think she was able to give much this time,
and she needed a muff worse than the queen of the cannon-ball
islands needed ’ligion. Uncle Dick says you oughter get to the
islands, ’cause you’d be safe there, and the natives would be
sorry they was such sinners anybody would send you to ’em. He
says he never seen a heathen hungry enough to eat you, ’less it
was a blind one, an’ you’d set a blind pagan’s teeth on edge so
he’d never hanker after any more missionary. Uncle Dick’s awful
funny, and makes ma and pa die laughing sometimes.”

“Your Uncle Richard is a bad, depraved wretch, and ought to have
remained out West, where his style is appreciated. He sets a
horrid example for little girls like you.”

“Oh, I think he’s nice. He showed me how to slide down the
banisters, and he’s teaching me to whistle when ma ain’t around.
That’s a pretty cloak you’ve got, ain’t it? Do you buy all your
clothes with missionary money? Ma says you do.”

Just then the freckle-faced little girl’s ma came into the parlor
and kissed the missionary lady on the cheek and said she was
delighted to see her, and they proceeded to have a real sociable
chat. The little girl’s ma cannot understand why a person who
professes to be so charitable as the missionary agent does should
go right over to Miss Dimmond’s and say such ill-natured things
as she did, and she thinks the missionary is a double-faced
gossip. The little girl understands it better than her ma does.

WHEN GIRLS WORE CALICO.

There was a time, betwixt the days
Of linsey woolsey, straight and prim,
And these when mode, with despot ways,
Leads woman captive at its whim,
Yet not a hundred years ago,
When girls wore simple calico.

Within the barn, by lantern light,
Through many a reel, with flying feet,
The boys and maidens danced at night
To fiddled measures, shrilly sweet;
And merry revels were they, though
The girls were gowned in calico.

Across the flooring rough and gray
The gold of scattered chaff was spread,
And long festoons of clover hay
That straggled from the loft o’erhead,
Swung scented fringes to and fro
O’er pretty girls in calico.

They used to go a-Maying then,
The blossoms of the spring to seek
In sunny glade and sheltered glen,
Unweighed by fashion’s latest freak;
And Robin fell in love, I know,
With Phyllis in her calico.

A tuck, a frill, a bias fold,
A hat curved over gipsy-wise,
And beads of coral and of gold,
And rosy cheeks and merry eyes,
Made lassies in that long ago
Look charming in their calico.

The modern knight who loves a maid
Of gracious air and gentle grace,
And finds her oftentimes arrayed
In shining silk and priceless lace,
Would love her just as well, I know,
In pink and lilac calico.

HATTIE WHITNEY.

A WINNING COMPANY.

Ef gran’paw was a soldier now
He’d show ’em what to do;
You ought to come and lisen how
He talks to me and Sue.

He tells us all about the days
He led his gallant men,
And all about the different ways
He won the battles then.

An’ ev’ry night when paw comes in
An’ says the fight’s begun,
He tells what they could do to win
Er what they ought to done.

An’ paw he laugh and looks at me
An’ says we’d surely win it
If gran’paw led a company
An’ Sue an’ me was in it.

THE BRAVEST SAILOR OF ALL.

This graceful tribute to the martial spirit of the little tots should be recited in a slightly bombastic style. The little one considers himself quite a hero and should be described accordingly.

I know a naval officer, the bravest fighting man;
He wears a jaunty sailor suit, his cap says “Puritan.”
And all day long he sails a ship between our land and Spain,
And he avenges, every hour, the martyrs of the “Maine.”

His warship is six inches square, a wash-tub serves for ocean;
But never yet, on any coast, was seen such dire commotion.
With one skilled move his boat is sent from Cuba to midsea,
And just as quickly back it comes to set Havana free.

He fights with Dewey; plants his flag upon each island’s shore,
Then off with Sampson’s fleet he goes to shed the Spanish gore.
He comes to guard New England’s coast, but ere his anchor falls,
He hurries off in frightful speed, to shell Manila’s walls.

The Philippines so frequently have yielded to his power,
There’s very little left of them, I’m certain, at this hour;
And when at last he falls asleep, it is to wake again
And hasten into troubled seas and go and conquer Spain.

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

HOW SHE WAS CONSOLED.

Out in the field in the red o’ the rain
That crimsoned the breasts that the battle had slain,
He lay in the shadow—the captain—at rest,
With a lock of gold hair round a face on his breast.

Out in the darkness, all pallid and dumb,
A woman waits long for the captain to come;
And she kisses his portrait. O, pitiful pain!
She shall kiss not the lips of the captain again!

But a woman’s a woman, though loyal and brave,
Love fareth but ill in the gloom of a grave.
The captain lies mute ’neath the stars and the snow,
And the woman he loved—well, she’s married you know!

THAT HIRED GIRL.

When she came to work for the family on Congress street, the lady
of the house sat down and told her that agents, picture-sellers,
peddlers, ragmen, and all that class of people must be met at the
front door and coldly repulsed, and Sarah said she’d repulse them
if she had to break every broomstick in town.

And she did. She threw the door open wide, bluffed right up at
’em, and when she got through talking, the cheekiest agent was
only too glad to leave. It got so after a while that peddlers
marked that house, and the door-bell never rang except for
company.

The other day, as the girl of the house was wiping off the
spoons, the bell rang. She hastened to the door, expecting to see
a lady, but her eyes encountered a slim man, dressed in black and
wearing a white necktie. He was the new minister, and was going
around to get acquainted with the members of his flock, but Sarah
wasn’t expected to know this.

“Ah—um—is—Mrs.—ah!”

“Git!” exclaimed Sarah, pointing to the gate.

“Beg pardon, but I would like to see—see—!”

“Meander!” she shouted, looking around for a weapon; “we don’t
want any flour-sifters here!”

“You’re mistaken,” he replied, smiling blandly. “I called to—”

“Don’t want anything to keep moths away—fly!” exclaimed Sarah,
getting red in the face.

“Is the lady in?” he inquired, trying to look over Sarah’s head.

“Yes, the lady is in, and I’m in, and you are out!” she snapped;
“and now I don’t want to stand here talking to a fly-trap agent
any longer! Come lift your boots!”

“I’m not an agent,” he said, trying to smile. “I’m the new—”

“Yes, I know you—you are the new man with the patent flat-iron,
but we don’t want any, and you’d better go before I call the dog!”

“Will you give the lady my card, and say that I called?”

“No, I won’t; we are bored to death with cards and handbills and
circulars. Come, I can’t stand here all day.”

“Didn’t know that I was a minister?” he asked, as he backed off.

“No, nor I don’t know it now; you look like the man who sold the
woman next door a ten cent chromo for two dollars.”

“But here is my card.”

“I don’t care for cards, I tell you! If you leave that gate open,
I will have to fling a flower-pot at you!”

“I will call again,” he said, as he went through the gate.

“It won’t do any good!” she shouted after him; “we don’t want no
prepared food for infants—no piano music—no stuffed birds! I know
the policeman on this beat, and if you come around here again,
he’ll soon find out whether you are a confidence man or vagrant!”

And she took unusual care to lock the door.

WHAT SAMBO SAYS.

Now, in dese busy wukin’ days, dey’s changed de Scripter fashions,
An’ you needn’t look to mirakuls to furnish you wid rations;
Now, when you’s wantin’ loaves o’ bread, you got to go and fetch ’em,
An’ ef you’s wantin’ fishes, you mus’ dig your wums an’ ketch ’em;
For you kin put it down as sartin dat the time is long gone by,
When sassages an’ ’taters use to rain fum out de sky!

I nebber likes de cullud man dat thinks too much o’ eatin’;
But frolics froo de wukin’ days, and snoozes at de meetin’;
Dat jines de Temp’ance ’Ciety, an’ keeps a gettin’ tight,
An’ pulls his water-millions in de middle ob de night!

Dese milerterry nigger chaps, with muskets in deir han’s,
Perradin’ froo de city to de music ob de ban’s,
Had better drop deir guns, an’ go to marchin’ wid deir hoes
An’ git a honest libbin’ as dey chop de cotton-rows,
Or de State may put ’em arter while to drillin’ in de ditches,
Wid more’n a single stripe a-runnin’ ’cross deir breeches.

Well, you think dat doin’ nuffin’ ’tall is mighty sort o’ nice,
But it busted up de renters in de lubly Paradise!
You see, dey bofe was human bein’s jes’ like me an’ you,
An’ dey couldn’t reggerlate deirselves wid not a thing to do;
Wid plenty wuk befo’ ’em, an’ a cotton crop to make,
Dey’d nebber thought o’ loafin’ roun’ an’ chattin’ wid de snake.

THE IRISH SLEIGH RIDE.

O don’t go way until you hear
A story, though it may seem queer,
Of a family known both near and far
By the funny name of Ump Ha Ha.

Mr. Ump Ha Ha, one day,
Thought he would like to take a sleigh
And ride upon the frozen snow;
And Mrs. Ump Ha Ha said she would go,
Taking all the family, of course,
Including, too, the family horse.
He was a mule, and a thin one, too;
You could see his ribs where the hay stuck through.

They hitched him up to an old-time bob.
Then you ought to have seen the mob!
There were Patrick, Mary Ump Ha Ha,
Grace and Carrie Ump Ha Ha,
Mike and Freddie Ump Ha Ha,
Willie and Eddie Ump Ha Ha,
Tim and Juley Ump Ha Ha,
Rose and Peggy Ump Ha Ha,
Lizzie and Mayme Ump Ha Ha,
Big fat Jammie Ump Ha Ha.

Fifteen people in one sleigh
Started out to spend the day.
The way they packed and jammed them in,
It made the family horse look thin.
As luck will have it, as it will,
They started from the top of a hill.
The hill was slippery; down they flew.
How fast they went they never knew.
The time they made it can’t be beat.
The old mule had no use for his feet;
He went like a bird or ships on sail;
He flew with his ears and steered with his tail.
It was a mile to the bottom and the bottom was mud,
And they went down with a sickening thud.

Mary Ump Ha Ha was dazed,
Patrick Ump Ha Ha was crazed,
Little Willie bumped his nose,
Big fat Jammie she got froze.
Fourteen doctors came at once.
The old mule was buried in the ground.
Did you ever see a dead mule laying around?
It took four drays to get them home,
And when they found they broke no bones,
They all sat down and thanked their stars,
And then they laughed out, Ump Ha Ha.

JANE JONES.

Jane Jones keeps a-whisperin’ to me all the time,
An’ says: “Why don’t you make it a rule
To study your lessons, an’ work hard an’ learn,
An’ never be absent from school?
Remember the story of Elihu Burritt,
How he clumb up to the top;
Got all the knowledge ’at he ever had
Down in the blacksmithin’ shop.”
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so;
Mebby he did—I dunno;
’Course, what’s a-keepin’ me ’way from the top
Is not never havin’ no blacksmithin’ shop.

She said ’at Ben Franklin was awfully poor,
But full o’ ambition and brains,
An’ studied philosophy all ’is hull life—
An’ see what he got for his pains.
He brought electricity out of the sky
With a kite an’ the lightnin’ an’ key,
So we’re owin’ him more’n any one else
For all the bright lights ’at we see.
Jane Jones she actually said it was so.
Mebby he did—I dunno;
’Course, what’s allers been hinderin’ me
In not havin’ any kite, lightnin’ or key.

Jane Jones said Columbus was out at the knees
When he first thought up his big scheme;
An’ all of the Spaniards an’ Italians, too,
They laughed an’ just said ’twas a dream;
But Queen Isabella she listened to him,
An’ pawned all her jewels o’ worth,
An’ bought ’im the “Santa Marier” ’n said:
“Go hunt up the rest of the earth.”
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so;
Mebby he did—I dunno;
’Course, that may all be, but you must allow
They ain’t any land to discover just now.

BEN KING.

DE OLE PLANTATION MULE.

A werry funny feller is de ole plantation mule;
An’ nobody’ll play wid him unless he is a fool.
De bestest ting to do w’en you meditates about him,
Is to kinder sorter calkerlate you’ll get along widout him.

W’en you try to ’proach dat mule from de front endwise,
He look as meek as Moses, but his looks is full ob lies;
He doesn’t move a muscle, he doesn’t even wink;
An’ you say his dispersition’s better’n people tink.

He stan’ so still that you s’pose he is a monument of grace;
An’ you almos’ see a ’nevolent expression on his face;
But dat ’nevolent expression is de mask dat’s allers worn;
For ole Satan is behin’ it, jest as sure as you is born.

Den you cosset him a little, an’ you pat his other end,
An’ you has a reverlation dat he ain’t so much your friend;
You has made a big mistake; but before de heart repents,
You is histed werry sudden to de odder side de fence.

Well, you feel like you’d been standin’ on de locomotive track
An’ de engine come an’ hit you in de middle ob de back;
You don’ know wat has happened, you can scarcely cotch your breff;
But you tink you’ve made de ’quaintance ob a werry vi’lent deff.

ADAM NEVER WAS A BOY.

Of all the men the world has seen
Since time his rounds began,
There’s one I pity every day—
Earth’s first and foremost man;
And then I think what fun he missed
By failing to enjoy
The wild delights of youth-time, for
He never was a boy.

He never stubbed his naked toe
Against a root or stone;
He never with a pin-hook fished
Along the brook alone;
He never sought the bumblebee
Among the daisies coy,
Nor felt its business end, because
He never was a boy.

He never hookey played, nor tied
The ever-ready pail,
Down in the alley all alone,
To trusting Fido’s tail.
And when he home from swimmin’ came,
His happiness to cloy,
No slipper interfered, because
He never was a boy.

He might refer to splendid times
’Mong Eden’s bowers, yet
He never acted Romeo
To a six year Juliet.
He never sent a valentine,
Intended to annoy
A good, but maiden aunt, because
He never was a boy.

He never cut a kite string, no!
Nor hid an Easter egg;
He never ruined his pantaloons
A-playing mumble-peg;
He never from the attic stole,
A coon-hunt to enjoy,
To find “the old man” watching, for
He never was a boy.

I pity him. Why should I not?
I even drop a tear;
He did not know how much he missed;
He never will, I fear.
And when the scenes of “other days”
My growing mind employ,
I think of him, earth’s only man
Who never was a boy.

T. C. HARBAUGH.

A REMARKABLE CASE OF S’POSIN.

A man hobbled into the Colonel’s office upon crutches. Proceeding
to a chair and making a cushion of some newspapers, he sat down
very gingerly, placed a bandaged leg upon another chair, and said:

“Col. Coffin, my name is Briggs. I want to get your opinion about
a little point of law. Now, Colonel, s’posin’ you lived up the
pike here a half mile, next door to a man named Johnson. And
s’posin’ you and Johnson was to get into an argument about the
human intellect, and you was to say to Johnson that a splendid
illustration of the superiority of the human intellect was to be
found in the power of the human eye to restrain the ferocity of a
wild animal. And s’posin’ Johnson was to remark that that was all
bosh, because nobody _could_ hold a wild animal with the human
eye, and you should declare that you could hold the savagest
beast that was ever born if you could once fix your gaze on him.

“Well, then, s’posin’ Johnson was to say he’d bet a hundred
dollars he could bring a tame animal that you couldn’t hold with
your eye, and you was to take him up on it, and Johnson was
to ask you to come down to his place to settle the bet. You’d
go, we’ll say, and Johnson’d wander round to the back of the
house and pretty soon come front again with a dog bigger’n any
four decent dogs ought to be. And then s’posin’ Johnson’d let
go of that dog and set him on you, and he’d come at you like a
sixteen-inch shell out of a howitzer, and you’d get scary about
it and try to hold the dog with your eye and couldn’t.

“And s’posin’ you’d suddenly conclude that maybe your kind of
an eye wasn’t calculated to hold that kind of a dog, and you’d
conclude to run for a plum tree in order to have a chance to
collect your thoughts and to try to reflect what sort of an eye
would be best calculated to mollify that sort of a dog. You ketch
my idea, of course?

“Very well, then; s’posin’ you’d take your eye off of that
dog—Johnson, mind you, all the time hissing him on and laughing,
and you’d turn and rush for the tree, and begin to swarm up as
fast as you could. Well, sir, s’posin’ just as you got three feet
from the ground Johnson’s dog would grab you by the leg and hold
on like a vise, shaking you until you nearly lost your hold.

“And s’posin’ Johnson was to stand there and holloa, ‘Fix your
eye on him, Briggs! Why don’t you manifest the power of the
human intellect?’ and so on, howling out ironical remarks like
those; and s’posin’ he kept that dog on that leg until he made
you swear to pay the bet, and then at last had to pry the dog off
with a hot poker, bringing away at the same time some of your
flesh in the dog’s mouth, so that you had to be carried home on
a stretcher, and to hire several doctors to keep you from dying
with lock-jaw.

“S’posin’ this, what I want to know is, couldn’t you sue Johnson
for damages and make him pay heavily for what that dog did?
That’s what I want to get at.”

The Colonel thought for a moment, and then said:

“Well, Mr. Briggs, I don’t think I could. If I agreed to
let Johnson set the dog at me, I should be a party to the
transaction, and I could not recover.”

“Do you mean to say that the law won’t make that infernal
scoundrel Johnson suffer for letting his dog eat me up?”

“I think not, if you state the case properly.”

“It won’t, hey?” exclaimed Mr. Briggs, hysterically. “Oh, very
well, very well! I s’pose if that dog had chewed me all up it’d
’ve been all the same to this constitutional republic. But hang
me if I don’t have satisfaction. I’ll kill Johnson, poison his
dog, and emigrate to some country where the rights of citizens
are protected!”

Then Mr. Briggs got on his crutches and hobbled out. He is still
a citizen, and will vote at the next election.

MY PARROT.

Let your face express contempt on the word “pshaw,” and make the gesture in Figure 24 of Typical Gestures. Drawl out the word “yawned” in the third verse and give a comical wink in the fourth verse. Prolong the sound on “pshaw” in the last line.

I had a parrot once, an ugly bird,
With the most wicked eye I ever saw,
Who, though it comprehended all it heard,
Would only say, “O pshaw!”

I did my best to teach it goodly lore;
I talked to it of medicine and law;
It looked as if it knew it all before,
And simply said, “O pshaw!”

I sat me down upon a dry-goods box
To stuff sound doctrine down its empty craw,
It would have none of matters orthodox,
But yawned and said, “O pshaw!”

I talked to it of politics, finance;
I hoped to teach the bird to say “Hurrah!”
For my pet candidates when he’d a chance,
He winked and chirped, “O pshaw!”

I am for prohibition, warp and woof,
But that bird stole hard cider through a straw,
And then he teetered off at my reproof
And thickly said, “O pshaw!”

Enraged, I hurled a bootjack, missed my aim
And plugged a passing stranger in the jaw;
He wheeled to see from whence the missile came;
The demon laughed “O pshaw!”

I gave the creature to an old-maid aunt,
And shook with parting grief its skinny claw.
“He’ll serve to cheer,” she said, “my lonely hearth,
For I’d not marry the best man on earth!”
“O pshaw!” sneered Poll, “O psha-a-w!”

EMMA H. WEBB.

BAKIN AND GREENS.

Yo’ may tell me ob pastries and fine oyster patties,
Of salads and crowkets an’ Boston baked beans,
But dar’s nuffin so temptin’ to dis nigger’s palate
As a big slice of bakin and plenty ob greens.

Jes bile ’em right down, so dey’ll melt when yo’ eat ’em;
Hab a big streak ob fat an’ a small streak o’ lean;
Dar’s nuffin on earf yo’ kin fix up to beat ’em,
Fur de king ob all dishes am bakin and greens.

Den take some co’hnmeal and sif’ it and pat it.
An’ put it in de ashes wid nuffin between;
Den blow off de ashes and set right down at it,
For dar’s nuffin like ashcake wid bakin and greens.

’Twill take de ole mammies to fix ’em up greasy,
Wid a lot ob good likker and dumplin’s between,
Take all yo’ fine eatin’, I won’t be uneasy,
If you’ll gimme dat bakin wid plenty ob greens.

Rich folks in dar kerrage may frow de dust on me;
But how kin I envy dem men ob big means.
Dey may hab de dispepsey and do’ they may scorn me,
Dey can’t enjoy bakin wid a dish ob good greens.

You may put me in rags, fill my cup up wid sorrow;
Let joy be a stranger, and trouble my dreams,
But I still will be smilin’, no pain kin I borrow,
Ef you lebe me dat bakin wid plenty of greens.

HUNTING A MOUSE.

I was dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of the
good times which I hope are coming, when there fell upon my
ears a most startling scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann
in agony. The voice came from the kitchen, and to the kitchen I
rushed. The idolized form of my Maria was perched on a chair, and
she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions and shouting
“shoo,” in a general manner, at everything in the room. To my
anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she screamed, “O
Joshua! a mouse, shoo—wha—shoo—a great—ya—shoo—horrid mouse,
and—she—ew—it ran right out of the cupboard—shoo—go way—O
Lord—Joshua—shoo—kill it, oh, my—shoo.”

All that fuss, you see, about one little harmless mouse. Some
women are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and set
myself to poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down and ran off
into another room. I found the mouse in a corner under the sink.
The first time I hit it I didn’t poke it any on account of
getting the poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink;
and I did not hit it any more because the mouse would not stay
still. It ran right toward me, and I naturally jumped, as anybody
would; but I am not afraid of mice, and when the horrid thing ran
up inside the leg of my pantaloons, I yelled to Maria because I
was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my garment.

I did not lose my presence of mind for an instant. I caught the
mouse just as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing
firmly on the outside of the cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner
on the inside. I kept jumping around with all my might to confuse
it, so that it would not think about biting, and I yelled so that
the mice would not hear its squeaks and come to its assistance. A
man can’t handle many mice at once to advantage. Besides, I’m not
so spry as I was before I had that spine in my back and had to
wear plasters.

Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen and
asked what she should do—as though I could hold the mouse
and plan a campaign at the same time. I told her to think
of something, and she thought she would throw things at the
intruder; but as there was no earthly chance for her to hit the
mouse, while every shot took effect on me, I told her to stop,
after she had tried two flat-irons and the coal-scuttle. She
paused for breath; but I kept bobbing around. Somehow I felt no
inclination to sit down anywhere. “O Joshua,” she cried, “I wish
you had not killed the cat.”

Then she got the tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I
objected to that process, except as a last resort. Then she got
some cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not dare to let go,
for fear it would run up. Matters were getting desperate. I told
her to think of something else, and I kept jumping. Just as I was
ready to faint with exhaustion, I tripped over an iron, lost my
hold, and the mouse fell to the floor, very dead. I had no idea
a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy.

That was not the end of the trouble, for before I had recovered
my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a
whole company followed him through, and they dragged hose around,
and mussed things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted
to thrash me because the house was not on fire, and I had hardly
got him pacified before a policeman came in and arrested me. Some
one had run down and told him I was drunk and was killing Maria.
It was all Maria and I could do, by combining our eloquence, to
prevent him from marching me off in disgrace, but we finally got
matters quieted and the house clear.

Now when mice run out of the cupboard I go outdoors, and let
Maria “shoo” them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun
don’t pay for the trouble.

JOSHUA JENKINS.

THE VILLAGE SEWING SOCIETY.

This is a very amusing recitation when correctly rendered. The gossips make the most disparaging remarks about their neighbors, but are very pleasant to their faces. The words in parentheses should be spoken ‘aside’ in an undertone. A recital for one who can imitate different female voices.

“Mis’ Jones is late agin to-day:
I’d be ashamed now ef ’twas me.
Don’t tell it, but I’ve heerd folks say
She only comes to get her tea.”

“Law me! she needn’t want it _here_,
The deacon’s folks ain’t much on eatin’:
They haven’t made a pie this year!
Of course, ’twon’t do to be repeatin’;

“But old Mis’ Jenkins says it’s true
(You know she lives just ’cross the way,
And sees most everything they do.)
She says she saw ’em t’other day—”

“Hush, here comes Hannah! How d’ye do?
Why, what a pretty dress you’ve got!”
(“Her old merino made up new:
_I_ know it by that faded spot.”)

“Jest look! there’s Dr. Stebbins’ wife”—
“A bran-new dress and bunnit!—well—
They say she leads him _such_ a life!
But, there! I promised not to tell.”

“What’s that, Mis’ Brown? ‘_All friends_,’ of course;
And you can see with your own eyes,
That _that_ gray mare’s the better horse,
Though gossipin’ I do dispise.”

“Poor Mary Allen’s lost her beau”—
“It serves her right, conceited thing!
She’s flirted awfully, I know.
Say have you heard she kept his ring?”

“Listen! the clock is striking six.
Thank goodness! then it’s time for tea.”
“Now ain’t that too much! Abby Mix
Has folded up her work! Just see!”

“Why _can’t_ she wait until she’s told?
Yes, thank you, deacon, here we come.”
(“I hope the biscuits won’t be cold:
No coffee? Wish I was tu hum!”)

“Do tell, Mis’ Ellis! _Did_ you make
This cheese? the best I ever saw.
Such jumbles too (no jelly cake):
I’m quite ashamed to take one more.”

“Good-by: we’ve had a first-rate time,
And first-rate tea, I must declare.
Mis’ Ellis’ things are always prime.
(Well, next week’s meetin’ won’t be _there_!”)

SIGNS AND OMENS.

An old gentleman, whose style was Germanized, was asked what he
thought of signs and omens.

“Vell, I don’t dinks mooch of dem dings, und I don’t pelieve
averydings; but I dells you somedimes dere is somedings ash dose
dings. Now de oder night I sit and reads mine newspaper, und my
frau she speak und say—

“‘Fritz, de dog ish howling!’

“Vell, I don’ dinks mooch of dem dings, und I goes on und reads
mine paper, und mine frau she says—

“‘Fritz, dere is somedings pad is happen,—der dog ish howling!’

“Und den I gets hop mit mineself und look out troo de wines on
de porch, und de moon was shinin’, und mine leetle dog he shoomp
right up und down like averydings, und he park at de moon, dat
was shine so bright as never vas. Und ash I hauled mine het in de
winder, de old voman she say—

“‘Mind, Fritz, I dells you dere ish someding pad ish happen. De
dog ish howling.’

“Vell, I goes to ped, und I shleeps, und all night long ven I
vakes up dere vas dat dog howling outside, und ven I dream I hear
dat howling vorsher ash never. Und in de morning I kits up und
kits mine breakfast, und mine frau she looks at me und say, werry
solemn—

“‘Fritz, dere is somedings pad ish happen. De dog vas howl all
night.’

“Und shoost den de newspaper came in, und I opens him und by
shings, vot you dinks; dere vas a man’s vife cracked his skull in
Philadelphia!”

THE GHOST.

Sing to the tune of Yankee Doodle the words designated.

’Tis about twenty years since Abel Law,
A short, round-favored, merry
Old soldier of the Revolutionary War,
Was wedded to
A most abominable shrew.
The temper, sir, of Shakespeare’s Catharine
Could no more be compared with hers,
Than mine
With Lucifer’s.

Her eyes were like a weasel’s; she had a harsh
Face, like a cranberry marsh.
All spread
With spots of white and red;
Hair of the color of a wisp of straw,
And a disposition like a cross-cut saw.
The appellation of this lovely dame
Was Nancy; don’t forget the name.

Her brother David was a tall,
Good-looking chap, and that was all;
One of your great, big nothings, as we say
Here in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes
And cracking them on other folks.
Well, David undertook one night to play
The Ghost, and frighten Abel, who,
He knew,
Would be returning from a journey through
A grove of forest wood
That stood
Below
The house some distance—half a mile, or so.

With a long taper
Cap of white paper,
Just made to cover
A wig, nearly as large over
As a corn-basket, and a sheet
With both ends made to meet
Across his breast,
(The way in which ghosts are always dressed,)
He took
His station near
A huge oak-tree,
Whence he could overlook
The road and see
Whatever might appear.

It happened that about an hour before, friend Abel
Had left the table
Of an inn, where he had made a halt,
With horse and wagon,
To taste a flagon,
Of malt
Liquor, and so forth, which, being done.
He went on,
Caring no more for twenty ghosts,
Than if they were so many posts.

David was nearly tired of waiting;
His patience was abating;
At length, he heard the careless tones
Of his kinsman’s voice,
And then the noise
Of wagon-wheels among the stones.
Abel was quite elated, and was roaring
With all his might, and pouring
Out, in great confusion,
Scraps of old songs made in “the Revolution.”

His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton
And jovially he went on,
Scaring the whip-po’-wills among the trees
With rhymes like these:—[_Sings._]
“See the Yankees
Leave the hill,
With baggernetts declining,
With lopped-down hats
And rusty guns,
And leather aprons shining.”
“See the Yankees—Whoa! Why, what is that?”
Said Abel, staring like a cat,
As, slowly on, the fearful figure strode
Into the middle of the road.

“My conscience! what a suit of clothes!
Some crazy fellow, I suppose.
Hallo! friend, what’s your name? By the powers of gin,
That’s a strange dress to travel in.”
“Be silent, Abel; for I now have come
To read your doom;
Then hearken, while your fate I now declare.
I am a spirit”—“I suppose you are;
But you’ll not hurt me, and I’ll tell you why:
Here is a fact which you cannot deny;—
All spirits must be either good
Or bad—that’s understood—
And be you good or evil, I am sure
That I’m secure.
If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil—
And I don’t know but you may be the Devil—
If that’s the case, you’ll recollect, I fancy,
That I am married to your sister Nancy!”

A BIG MISTAKE.

Recently our church had a new minister. He is a nice, good,
sociable gentleman; but coming from a distant State, of course he
was totally unacquainted with our people. Therefore it happened
that during his pastoral calls, he made several ludicrous
blunders. One as follows: The other evening he called upon Mrs.
Haddon. She had just lost her husband, and she naturally supposed
that his visit was relative to the sad occurrence. So, after a
few common-places had been exchanged, she was not surprised to
hear him remark:

“It was a sad bereavement, was it not, Mrs. Haddon?”

“Yes,” faltered the widow.

“Totally unexpected?”

“Oh, yes; I never dreamed of it.”

“He died in the barn, I suppose.”

“Oh, no; in the house.”

“Ah, well, I suppose you must have thought a great deal of him?”

“Of course, sir.”

This was with vim. The minister looked rather surprised, crossed
his legs and renewed the conversation.

“Blind staggers was the disease, I believe.”

“No, sir,” snapped the widow. “Apoplexy.”

“Indeed; you must have fed him too much.”

“He was quite capable of feeding himself, sir.”

“Very intelligent he must have been. Died hard?”

“He did.”

“You had to hit him on the head with an axe to put him out of his
misery, I am told.”

Mrs. Haddon’s eyes snapped fire.

“Whoever told you that did not speak the truth,” she haughtily
uttered. “James died naturally.”

“Yes,” continued the minister, in a perplexed tone. “He kicked
the side of the barn down in his last agonies, didn’t he?”

“No, sir; he did not.”

“Well, I have been misinformed, I suppose. How old was he?”

“Thirty-five.”

“He did not do much active work. Perhaps you are better without
him, for you can easily supply his place with a better one.”

“_Never!_ sir, will I find such a good one as he.”

“Oh, yes you will; he had the heaves bad, you know.”

“Nothing of the kind, sir.”

“Why, I recollect I saw him one day, with you on his back, and I
distinctly recollect that he had the heaves, and walked as if he
had the spring-halt.”

Mrs. H.’s eyes snapped fire, and she stared at the reverend
visitor as if she imagined he was crazy.

“He could not have had the spring-halt, for he had a cork-leg,”
she replied.