Chapter XXIII: Part II: Readings and Recitations From the Most Celebrated Authors (9)

“A cork-leg—remarkable; but really, didn’t he have a dangerous
trick of suddenly stopping and kicking the wagon all to pieces?”

“Never, sir; he was not mad.”

“Probably not. But there were some good points about him.”

“I should think so.”

“The way in which he carried his ears, for example.”

“Nobody ever noticed that particular merit,” said the widow, with
much asperity, “he was warm-hearted, generous and frank.”

“Good qualities,” answered the minister. “How long did it take
him to go a mile?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“Not much of a goer. Wasn’t his hair apt to fly?”

“He didn’t have any hair, he was bald-headed.”

“Quite a curiosity.”

“No, sir; no more of a curiosity than you are.”

The minister shifted uneasily, and got red in the face; but he
returned to the attack.

“Did you use the whip much on him?”

“Never, sir.”

“Went right along without it, eh?”

“Yes.”

“He must have been a good sort of a _brute_!”

The widow sat down and cried.

“The idea of your coming here and insulting me,” she sobbed. “If
my husband had lived you would not have done it. Your remarks in
reference to the poor dead man have been a series of insults, and
I won’t stand it.”

He colored, and looked dumfounded.

“Ain’t you Mrs. Blinkers?” at last he stammered, “and has not
your gray horse just died?”

“No! no!” she cried. “I never owned a horse, but my husband died
a week ago.”

Ten minutes later that minister came out of that house with the
reddest face ever seen on mortal man.

“And to think,” he groaned, as he strode home, “that I was
talking horse to that woman all the time—and she was talking
husband.”

THE DUEL.

Imitate the “bow-wow” of the dog and the “me-ow” of the cat: at least, so deliver the words as to convey the idea of the barking and the mewing.

The gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat;
’Twas half-past twelve, and what do you think,
Neither of them had slept a wink!
And the old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate
Seemed to know, as sure as fate,
There was going to be an awful spat.

(I wasn’t there—I simply state
What was told to me by the Chinese plate.)

The gingham dog went “bow-wow-wow!”
And the calico cat replied “me-ow?”
And the air was streaked for an hour or so
With fragments of gingham and calico.
While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place
Up with its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row!

(Now mind, I’m simply telling you
What the old Dutch clock declares is true.)

The Chinese plate looked very blue
And wailed: “Oh, dear what shall we do?”
But the gingham dog and the calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
And utilized every tooth and claw
In the awfulest way you ever saw—
And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!

(Don’t think that I exaggerate
I got my news from the Chinese plate.)

Next morning where the two had sat
They found no trace of the dog or cat;
And some folks think unto this day
That burglars stole that pair away;
But the truth about that cat and pup
Is that they ate each other up—
Now, what do you think of that?

(The old Dutch clock, it told me so,
And that is how I came to know.)

EUGENE FIELD.

PLAYING JOKES ON A GUIDE.

European guides know about enough English to tangle every thing
up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it. They know
their story by heart—the history of every statue, painting,
cathedral, or other wonder they show you. They know it and tell
it as a parrot would; and if you interrupt, and throw them off
the track, they have to go back and begin over again. All their
lives long, they are employed in showing strange things to
foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration.

After we discovered this, we never went into ecstasies any more,
we never admired anything, we never showed any but impassible
faces and stupid indifference in the presence of the sublimest
wonders a guide had to display. We had found their weak point. We
made some of those people savage, at times, but we never lost our
serenity.

The doctor asked the questions generally, because he can keep his
countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more
imbecility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives.
It comes natural to him.

The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party,
because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment
and emotion before any relic of Columbus. Our guide there
fidgeted about as if he had swallowed a spring mattress. He was
full of animation—full of impatience. He said:

“Come wis me, genteelmen!—come! I show you ze letter writing
by Christopher Colombo!—write it himself!—write it wis his own
hand!—come!”

He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive
fumbling of keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged
document was spread before us. The guide’s eyes sparkled. He
danced about us and tapped the parchment with his finger.

“What I tell you, genteelmen! Is it not so? See! handwriting
Christopher Colombo!—write it himself!”

We looked indifferent, unconcerned. The doctor examined the
document very deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he said,
without any show of interest,

“Ah—what—what did you say was the name of the party who wrote
this?”

“Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!”

Another deliberate examination.

“Ah—did he write it himself, or—or how?”

“He write it himself!—Christopher Colombo! he’s own handwriting,
write by himself!”

Then the doctor laid the document down, and said,

“Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that
could write better than that.”

“But zis is ze great Christo—”

“I don’t care who it is! It’s the worst writing I ever saw. Now
you mustn’t think you can impose on us because we are strangers.
We are not fools, by a good deal. If you have got any specimens
of penmanship of real merit, trot them out!—and if you haven’t,
drive on!”

We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made
one more venture. He had something which he thought would
overcome us. He said,

“Ah, genteelmen, you come wis me! I show you beautiful,
oh, magnificent bust Christopher Colombo—splendid, grand,
magnificent!”

He brought us before the beautiful bust—for it _was_
beautiful—and sprang back and struck an attitude:

“Ah, look, genteelmen!—beautiful, grand—bust Christopher
Colombo!—beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!”

The doctor put up his eye-glass—procured for such occasions:

“Ah—what did you say this gentleman’s name was?”

“Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!”

“Christopher Colombo—the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what
did _he_ do?”

“Discover America!—discover America, oh, ze devil!”

“Discover America? No—that statement will hardly wash. We
are just from America ourselves. We heard nothing about it.
Christopher Colombo—pleasant name—is—is he dead?”

“Oh, corpo di Baccho!—three hundred year!”

“What did he die of?”

“I do not know. I cannot tell.”

“Small-pox, think?”

“I do not know, genteelmen—I do not know _what_ he died of.”

“Measles, likely?”

“Maybe—maybe. I do _not_ know—I think he die of something.”

“Parents living?”

“Im-possible!”

“Ah—which is the bust and which is the pedestal?”

“Santa Maria!—_zis_ ze bust!—_zis_ ze pedestal!”

“Ah, I see, I see—happy combination—very happy combination
indeed. Is—is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a
bust?”

That joke was lost on the foreigner; guides cannot master the
subtleties of the American joke.

We have made it interesting for this Roman guide. Yesterday we
spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful
world of curiosities. We came very near expressing interest
sometimes, even admiration. It was hard to keep from it. We
succeeded, though. Nobody else ever did, in the Vatican museums.
The guide was bewildered, nonplussed. He walked his legs off,
nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and exhausted all his
ingenuity on us, but it was a failure; we never showed any
interest in anything. He had reserved what he considered to be
his greatest wonder till the last—a royal Egyptian mummy, the
best preserved in the world, perhaps. He took us there. He felt
so sure, this time, that some of his old enthusiasm came back to
him:

“See, genteelmen!—Mummy! Mummy!”

The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever.

“Ah—what did I understand you to say the gentleman’s name was?”

“Name?—he got no name!—Mummy!—’Gyptian mummy!”

“Yes, yes. Born here?”

“No. _’Gyptian_ mummy.”

“Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume?”

“No!—_not_ Frenchman, not Roman!—born in Egypta!”

“Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality,
likely. Mummy—mummy. How calm he is, how self-possessed! Is—ah—is
he dead?”

“Oh, _sacre bleu_! been dead three thousan’ year!”

The doctor turned on him, savagely:

“Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this? Playing
us for Chinamen because we are strangers and trying to learn!
Trying to impose your vile second-hand carcasses on _us_! Thunder
and lightning! I’ve a notion to—to—if you’ve got a nice _fresh_
corpse, fetch him out!—or, by George, we’ll brain you!”

MARK TWAIN.

A PARODY.

The boy stood on the backyard fence, whence all but him had fled;
The flames that lit his father’s barn shone just above the shed.
One bunch of crackers in his hand, two others in his hat,
With piteous accents loud he cried, “I never thought of that!”
A bunch of crackers to the tail of one small dog he’d tied;
The dog in anguish sought the barn, and ’mid its ruins died.

The sparks flew wide and red and hot, they lit upon that brat;
They fired the crackers in his hand, and e’en those in his hat.
Then came a burst of rattling sound—the boy! Where was he gone?
Ask of the winds that far around strewed bits of meat and bone,
And scraps of clothes, and balls, and tops, and nails, and hooks
and yarn—
The relics of that dreadful boy that burned his father’s barn.

MAN’S DEVOTION.

Jake Boggles was a country youth,
Who paid his debts and told the truth.

He labored hard, and seemed content
With life, no matter how it went,

’Till with a girl named Sally Skreels
He fell in love head over heels.

Now Sally’s father wasn’t worth
A dollar or a foot of earth,

And Jake’s paternal parent owed
Most every other man he knowed;

But Jake, who had a valiant heart,
Vowed that he’d work and get a start,

And with the help of Sally, dear,
He’d own a farm within a year.

Now Sally, who was cold
And pretty—that is, pretty old,

Pretended that for her dear Jacob
The heaviest cross she’d gladly take up;

But, really, she cared no more
For Jake than for the shoes he wore.

An old maid’s matrimonial chances
Grow very slim as time advances,

And this explains why Sally Skreels
Proposed to share Jake’s bed and meals.

They married. Time fled on apace—
Jake rented old Bill Scroggins’ place

And went to work resolved to make
A fortune for his Sally’s sake.

Poor soul, he toiled with all his might,
From early morn till late at night;

But, ah! no kind, approving word
From Sally’s lips was ever heard.

She lay around, chewed wax and sung
Love songs she’d learned when she was young;

Read old love letters she had got
From boobies, long since gone to pot;

Yawned o’er a scrap book filled with bosh
Collected by her Cousin Josh;

Trimmed her old hat in various ways
With all the gew-gaws she could raise.

In fact, she proved herself to be
A slip-shod lump of frivolity.

Poor Jake, he worked and ate cold meals,
Wore socks with neither toes nor heels,

Washed his own clothes when Sunday came
And sewed fresh buttons on the same.

Got breakfast while his Sally slept,
Washed up the dishes, dusted, swept—

There’s no use talking, Jacob strove
To prove how perfect was his love.

One day Sal ate too many beans,
Grew sick and went to other scenes.

From that day forth Jake seldom spoke,
Or smiled, or worked—his heart was broke.

In the poor-house now he sits and grieves,
And wipes his eyes on his threadbare sleeves.

MORAL.—I’ve told you this to let you see
What an all-fired fool a man can be.

PARMENAS HILL.

AUNT POLLY’S “GEORGE WASHINGTON.”

“George Washin’ton!”

From down the hill the answer floated up, muffled by the distance.

“Ma’m?”

“Come heah, sah!”

Aunt Polly folded her arms and leaned against the doorway and
waited for the appearance of her son and heir above the edge of
the hill on which her cabin stood.

“George Washin’ton,” she said, “you sartainly is de laziest
nigger I eber see. How, long, sah, does you s’pose you was
a-comin’ up dat hill? You don’ no? I don’ nether; ’twas so long
I los’ all count. You’ll bring yore mudder’s gray har in sorrer
to de grabe yet, wid yore pokin’ and slowness, see if you don’.
Heah I is waitin’ and a’waitin’ on you for to go down to ole
Mass’ Cunningham’s wid dose tings. Take ’em to de young city man
boardin’ dar, and tell him dese is his clean close dat yore old
mudder washed, and dat dey comes to fifty cents. And if you let
de grass grow under yore feet, George Washin’ton, or spiles dese
close, or loses dat fifty cents, I’ll break yore bones, chile,
when you comes home. You heah dat?”

George Washington rested his basket on his hip and jogged along.
Meditations as to what his mother might have for supper on the
strength of the fifty cents brightened his visage and accelerated
his steps. His fancy revelled in visions of white biscuit and
crisp bacon floating in its own grease. He was gravely weighing
the relative merits of spring chicken fried and more elderly
chicken stewed, when—

There was only one muddy place on George Washington’s route to
town; that was down at the foot of the hill, by the railroad
track. Why should his feet slip from under him, and he go sliding
into the mud right there? It was too bad. It did not hurt him,
but those shirts and shining collars, alas! Some of them tumbled
out, and he lifted them up all spattered and soiled.

He sat down and contemplated the situation with an expression
of speechless solemnity. He was afraid to go back, and he was
afraid to go on, but he would rather face the “city man” than his
mother; and with a sigh that nearly burst the twine string that
did duty as a suspender, he lifted the linen into its place and
trudged on.

The young folks at “Mass’ Cunningham’s” sent him to the
boarder’s room, with many a jest on his slowness, and he shook in
his ragged clothes when the young man lifted the things from the
basket to put them away.

He exclaimed in anger at their soiled appearance, and, of course,
immediately bundled them back into the basket.

“Here, George,” he said, “take these back to your mother to wash,
and don’t you dare, you little vagabond! ever bring such looking
things to me again.”

Slowly the namesake of our illustrious countryman climbed the
hill toward home; slowly he entered and set down his basket.
The rapidity with which he emerged from the door, about three
minutes later, might have led a stranger to believe that it was a
different boy. But it was not. It was the same George.

The next afternoon came around, and George Washington again
departed on his errand. No thoughts of supper or good things ran
rife in his brain to-day. He attended strictly to business. His
mother, standing in the door-way, called after him: “Be keerful,
George Washin’ton, ’bout de train. I heer’d it at de upper
junction jess now. It’ll be long trectly.”

George Washington nodded and disappeared. He crossed the muddy
place in safety, and breathed more freely. He was turning toward
town, when something on the railroad track caught his eye. There
lay the big rock that had been on the hill above ever since he
could remember; it was right in the track. He wondered how the
coming train would get over it.

Across on the other side, the hill sloped down to a deep ravine.
What if the big rock pushed the train off! His heart gave a great
jump. He had heard them talk of an accident once, where many
people were killed. He thought of running to tell somebody,
but it was a good way to the next house, and just then he heard
the train faintly; it was too late for that. Just above, in the
direction that the train was coming, was a sharp curve. It could
not stop if it came tearing round that, and on the other side of
the bend was a very high trestle that made him sick to look at.

The slow, dull boy stood and trembled.

In a moment more he had set his basket carefully in the bush, and
ran around the curve. At the edge of the trestle he paused, and
then dropping on his hands and knees, crept as fast as he could
over the dizzy height to the other side. He staggered to his
feet, and ran on.

When the train dashed in sight, the engineer spied a small object
on the track, pointing frantically behind him. The child ran away
from the track, but continued to wave and point and shout “Stop!”

The train whistled and slackened. George Washington, hatless and
breathless, was jerked into the engine, where he gasped, “Big
rock on de track round de curve.” The train was moved slowly over
the trestle and stopped in the curve, and there, indeed, was the
rock that might have hurled them all down to death, but for that
ridiculous-looking little boy.

Meanwhile in the cabin, Aunt Polly was restless, and concluded to
go down to the foot of the hill, and wait for George Washington.
Behold, then, as she appeared down the path, the sight that met
her gaze.

“What’s dis boy bin a-doin’! I’se his mother. I is. What’s dis
mean?”

On this identical train was the president of the road.

“Why, auntie,” he said, “you have a boy to be proud of. He crept
over the high trestle and warned the train, and maybe saved all
our lives. He is a hero.”

Aunt Polly was dazed.

“A hearo,” she said; “dat’s a big t’ing for a little black
nigger. George Washin’ton, whar’s dat basket?”

“In de bushes, mammy; I’se gwine for to get it.”

The train was nearly ready to be off. The president called Aunt
Polly aside, and she came back with a beaming face, and five
ten-dollar bills clutched in her hands.

Aunt Polly caught George in her arms.

“Dey sed you was a hearo, George Washin’ton, but you is yore
mammy’s own boy, and you shall hab chicken for yore supper dis
berry night, and a whole poun’ cake to-morrow, yes, you shall!”

And when George Washington returned the gentleman his washing,
he, like his namesake, was a hero.

MINE VAMILY.

Dimpled scheeks, mit eyes off plue,
Mout’ like it was mois’d mit dew,
Und leedle teeth shust peekin’ droo—
Dot’s der baby.

Curly hed und full of glee.
Drowsers all oudt at der knee—
He vas peen playin’ horss, you see—
Dot’s leedle Otto.

Von hunderd seexty in der shade,
Der oder day ven she was veighed—
She beats me soon, I vas afraid—
Dot’s mine Gretchen.

Bare-footed hed, und pooty stoudt,
Mit grooked legs dot vill bend oudt,
Fond off his beer und sauer-kraut—
Dot’s me himself.

Von schmall young baby, full of fun,
Von leedle, pright-eyed, roguish son,
Von frau to greet vhen vork was done—
Dot’s mine vamily.

YAWCOB STRAUSS.

AT THE GARDEN GATE.

They lingered at the garden gate,
The moon was full above;
He took her darling hand in his,
The trembling little dove,
And pressed it to his fervent lips,
And softly told his love.

About her waist he placed his arm,
He called her all his own;
His heart, he said, it ever beat
For her, and her alone;
And he was happier than a king
Upon a golden throne.

“Come weal, come woe,” in ardent tone
This youth continued he,
“As is the needle to the pole,
So I will constant be;
No power on earth shall tear thee, love,
Away, I swear, from me!”

From out the chamber window popped
A grizzly night-capped head;
A hoarse voice yelled: “You, Susan Jane,
Come in and go to bed!”
And that was all—it was enough;
The young man wildly fled.

THE MINISTER’S CALL.

The Rev. Mr. Mulkittle having successfully organized a church
fair, was a very happy man. It had been hinted that the
congregation were a “little short” on raising the reverend
gentleman’s salary, hence the proceeds of the fair would more
than supply the deficiency.

The good man, after retiring from a profitable afternoon’s work,
during which he had assured dyspeptics that potato salad would
not hurt them, seated himself by the library fire, when the
“youngest” entered.

“Where have you been, pa?”

“To the fair.”

“What fair?”

“Our church fair.”

“Did they have it out to the fair grounds?”

“No.”

“Where then?”

“Down town in our church.”

“Did they have horses and cows?”

“Oh, no! they didn’t show anything.”

“Well, what did they do?”

“Oh, they sold toys and something for people to eat.”

“Did they sell it to the poor?”

“They sold it to anybody who had money.”

“Oh, papa! it was the feast of the passover, wasn’t it?”

Mr. Mulkittle took up a newspaper and began to read.

“Do you want me to be a preacher, pa?”

“Yes, if the Lord calls you.”

“Did the Lord call you?”

“Yes.”

“What did He say?”

“Told me to go and preach the gospel to every living creature.”

“Didn’t tell you to preach to niggers, did He?”

“That’ll do now.”

“You thought the Lord had called you again the other day, did
you?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said the minister.

“Don’t you know the other day you told ma you had a call to go to
some place, and you would go if you could get two hundred dollars
more. Wouldn’t the Lord give you the two hundred dollars?”

“Didn’t I tell you to hush, sir?” said the minister, throwing
down his paper and glaring at his son.

“No, sir; you told me to behave myself.”

“Well, see that you do.”

“I wish you’d tell me—”

“Tell you what?”

“’Bout the call.”

“Well, a church in another town wanted me to come there and
preach.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“Couldn’t afford it. They didn’t pay enough money.”

“Call wasn’t loud enough, was it?”

“Well, hardly,” asserted Mr. Mulkittle, with a smile. “It wasn’t
loud enough to be very interesting.”

“If it had been louder, would you went?”

“I should have gone if they had offered me more money.”

“It wasn’t the Lord that called you that time then, was it?”

“I think not.”

“How much money did the Lord offer you?”

“Do you see that door?”

“No sir; which door?”

“That one.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, go out and shut it.”

“I want to stay in here.”

“You cannot.”

“Why?”

“Because you are too foolishly inquisitive.”

“What’s foolish ’quisitive?”

“Asking so many questions.”

“How many must I ask?”

“None.”

“Then I couldn’t talk, could I?”

“It would be better for you, if you couldn’t talk so much.”

“How much must I talk?”

“Here, I’ll give you ten cents now, if you’ll go away and hush.”

“Call ain’t strong enough,” said the boy, shaking his head.

“Well, here’s a quarter,” said the preacher, smiling.

“Call is strong enough; I’ll go.”

LED BY A CALF.

One day through the primeval wood
A calf walked home, as good as calves should,
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail, as all calves do.
Since then two hundred years have fled,
And, I infer, the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs a mortal tale.

The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way,
And then a wise bell-wether sheep
Pursued the trail o’er vale and steep,
And drew the flock behind him, too,
As good bell-wethers always do.
And from that day, o’er hill and glade,
Through those old woods a path was made.

And many men wound in and out,
And dodged and turned and bent about,
And uttered words of righteous wrath,
Because ’twas such a crooked path;
But still they followed—do not laugh—
The first migration of that calf,
And through the winding woodway stalked
Because he wabbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane,
That bent and turned and turned again;
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse, with his load,
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half
They trod the footsteps of that calf.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
The road became a village street.
And this, before men were aware,
A city’s crowded thoroughfare,
And soon the central street was this
Of a renowned metropolis.

And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf;
Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed the zigzag calf about;
And o’er his crooked journey went
The traffic of a continent.
A hundred thousand men were led
By one calf near three centuries dead.

TOM GOLDY’S LITTLE JOKE.

Tom Goldy was a ladies’ man,
And popular among them, very—
The reason why? Because he was
A maker of confectionery.

Tom’s peppermints and caramels
Were always fresh and handy;
And so he entertained his guests
With packages of candy.

Tom gave a grand reception once—
It was a sweet occasion—
The ladies took his caramels
And needed no persuasion.

And when he freely passed around
His most delicious fare,
To all the damsels there that night
He gave an equal share.

But one, and she a gossip, too,
Was singled out for honor,
By having twice what others had
Of sweets bestowed upon her.

“Twice what you gave us.” One and all
Against Tom laid this charge;
Tom slyly winked and said, “Why not?
Her mouth is twice as large.”

HOW HEZEKIAH STOLE THE SPOONS.

In a quiet little Ohio village, many years ago, was a tavern
where the stages always changed, and the passengers expected to
get breakfast. The landlord of the said hotel was noted for his
tricks upon travelers, who were allowed to get fairly seated at
the table, when the driver would blow his horn (after taking his
“horn”), and sing out, “Stage ready, gentlemen!”—whereupon the
passengers were obliged to hurry out to take their seats, leaving
a scarcely tasted breakfast behind them, for which, however,
they had to pay over fifty cents! One day, when the stage was
approaching the house of this obliging landlord, a passenger
said that he had often heard of the landlord’s trick, and he was
afraid they would not be able to eat any breakfast.

“What!—how? No breakfast!” exclaimed the rest.

“Exactly so gents, and you may as well keep your seats and tin.”

“Don’t they expect passengers to breakfast?”

“Oh! yes! they expect you to it, but not to eat it. I am under
the impression that there is an understanding between the
landlord and the driver that for sundry and various drinks, etc.,
the latter starts before you can scarcely commence eating.”

“What on airth are you all talking about? Ef you calkelate I’m
going to pay four and ninepence for my breakfast, and not get the
valee on’t you’re mistaken,” said a voice from a back seat, the
owner of which was one Hezekiah Spaulding—though “tew hum” they
call him “Hez” for short. “I’m goin’ to get my breakfast here,
and not pay nary red cent till I do.”

“Then you’ll be left.”

“Not as you knows on, I guess I won’t.”

“Well, we’ll see,” said the other, as the stage drove up to the
door and the landlord ready “to do the hospitable,” says—

“Breakfast just ready, gents! Take a wash, gents? Here’s water,
basins, towels, and soap.”

After performing the ablutions, they all proceeded to the
dining-room, and commenced a fierce onslaught upon the edibles,
though Hez took his time. Scarcely had they tasted their coffee
when they heard the unwelcome sound of the horn, and the driver
exclaim, “Stage ready!” Up rise eight grumbling passengers, pay
their fifty cents, and take their seats.

“All on board, gents?” inquires the host.

“One missing,” said they.

Proceeding to the dining-room the host finds Hez very coolly
helping himself to an immense piece of steak, the size of a
horse’s hip.

“You’ll be left, sir! Stage going to start.”

“Wall, I hain’t got nothin’ agin it,” drawls out Hez.

“Can’t wait, sir—better take your seat.”

“I’ll be blowed ef I do, nother, till I’ve got my breakfast! I
paid for it, and I am goin’ to get the valee on’t it; and ef you
calkelate I hain’t you are mistaken.”

So the stage did start, and left Hez, who continued his attack
upon the edibles. Biscuit, coffee, etc., disappeared before the
eyes of the astonished landlord.

“Say, squire, them there cakes is ’bout eat—fetch on another
grist on ’em. You” (to the waiter), “’nother cup of that ere
coffee. Pass them eggs. Raise your own pork, squire? This is
’mazin’ nice ham. Land ’bout here tolerable cheap, squire?
Hain’t much maple timber in these parts, hev ye? Dew right smart
trade, squire, I calkelate?” And thus Hez kept quizzing the
landlord until he had made a hearty meal.

“Say, squire, now I’m ’bout to conclude paying my devowers to
this ere table, but just give us a bowl of bread and milk to top
off with; I’d be much obleeged tew ye.”

So out go the landlord and waiter for the bowl, milk, and bread,
and set them before him.

“Spoon, tew, ef you please.”

But no spoon could be found. Landlord was sure he had plenty of
silver ones lying on the table when the stage stopped.

“Say, dew ye? dew ye think them passengers is goin’ to pay ye for
a breakfuss and not git no compensashun?”

“Ah! what? Do you think any of the passengers took them?”

“Dew I think? No, I don’t think, but I’m sartin. Ef they are all
as green as yew bout here I’m going to locate immediately and tew
wonst.”

The landlord rushes out to the stable, and starts a man off after
the stage, which had gone about three miles. The man overtakes
and says something to the driver in a low tone. He immediately
turns back, and on arriving at the hotel Hez comes out, takes his
seat, and says:

“How are yew, gents? I’m glad to see yew.”

“Can you point out the man you think has the spoons?” asked the
landlord.

“P’int him out? Sartenly I ken. Say, squire, I paid yew four and
ninepence for a breakfuss, and I calkelate I got the valee on’t
it! You’ll find them spoons in the coffee-pot.”

“Go ahead! All aboard, driver.”

The landlord stared.

TWO KINDS OF POLLIWOGS.

Wiggle, waggle, how they go,
Through the sunny waters,
Swimming high and swimming low,
Froggie’s sons and daughters.

What a wondrous little tail
Each black polly carries,
Helm and oar at once, and sail,
That for wind ne’er tarries.

Lazy little elves! at morn
Never in a hurry,
In the brook where they were born
Business did not worry.

When the sun goes in they sink
To their muddy pillow.
There they lie and eat and drink
Of soft mud their fill, oh.

When has passed the gloomy cloud,
And the storm is over,
Up they come, a jolly crowd,
From their oozy cover.

Wiggle, waggle, how they go!
Knowing nothing better,
Yet they are destined to outgrow
Each his dusky fetter.

Watch! they now are changing fast,
Some unduly cherish
The dark skin whose use is past,
So they sink and perish.

Others, of their new-birth pain
Bitterly complaining,
Would forego their unknown gain,
Polliwogs remaining.

There are other folk, to-day,
Who, with slight endeavor,
“Give it up,” and so they stay
Polliwogs forever.

AUGUSTA MOORE.

THE BEST SEWING-MACHINE.

“Got one? Don’t say so! Which did you get?
One of the kind to open and shut?
Own it or hire it? How much did you pay?
Does it go with a crank or a treadle? S-a-y.
I’m a single man, and somewhat green;
Tell me about your sewing-machine.”

“Listen, my boy, and hear all about it:
I don’t know what I could do without it;
I’ve owned one now for more than a year,
And like it so well that I call it ‘my dear;’
’Tis the cleverest thing that ever was seen,
This wonderful family sewing-machine.

“It’s none of your angular Wheeler things,
With steel-shod back and cast-iron wings;
Its work would bother a hundred of his,
And worth a thousand! Indeed it is;
And has a way—you need not stare—
Of combing and braiding its own back hair!

“Mine is one of the kind to love,
And wears a shawl and a soft kid glove;
Has the merriest eyes and the daintiest foot,
And sports the charmingest gaiter-boot,
And a bonnet with feathers, and ribbons, and loops,
With any infinite number of hoops.

“None of your patent machines for me,
Unless Dame Nature’s the patentee;
I like the sort that can laugh and talk,
And take my arm for an evening walk;
That will do whatever the owner may choose,
With the slightest perceptible turn of the screws;

“One that can dance, and—possibly—flirt;
And make a pudding as well as a shirt;
One that can sing without dropping a stitch,
And play the housewife, lady, or witch;
Ready to give the sagest advice,
Or to do up your collars and things so nice.

“What do you think of my machine?
A’n’t it the best that ever was seen?
’Tisn’t a clumsy, mechanical toy,
But flesh and blood! Hear that, my boy?
With a turn for gossip and household affairs,
Which include, you know, the sewing of tears.

“Tut, tut, don’t talk. I see it all—
You needn’t keep winking so hard at the wall:
I know what your fidgety fumblings mean;
You would like, yourself, a sewing-machine!
Well, get one, then—of the same design—
There are plenty left where I got mine!”

HOW THEY SAID GOOD-NIGHT.

They have had a long evening together (three whole hours), but
it doesn’t seem more than five minutes to them. Still, the
inexorable clock is announcing the hour of eleven in the most
forcible and uncompromising manner. He knows that he ought to
go, because he must be at the store at seven in the morning; she
fully realizes that his immediate departure is necessary, for has
not her father threatened that he will come down and “give that
young Simpkins a piece of his mind if he don’t leave by eleven
o’clock in the future?” They both understand that the fatal hour
has come, yet how they hate to part!

“Well, I suppose I _must_ be going,” he says, with a long,
regretful sigh.

“Yes, I suppose you must,” she rejoins.

Then they gaze into each other’s eyes; then she pillows her head
upon his bosom; then their lips meet, and he mentally swears that
if he can get his salary raised to eighteen dollars a week he
will make her Mrs. G. W. Simpkins without further agonizing delay.

The clock looks on with a cynical expression on its face. It
is doing its duty, and if old man Smith comes down stairs and
destroys the peace of mind of this loving couple, it will not be
its fault.

He asks her if she will not be happy when the time comes
that they will never, never have to part, and she murmurs an
affirmative response. Then follow more kissing and embracing. If
G. W. Simpkins were told now that he would ever come home to her
at 2 A.M. with fabulous tales of accidents by flood and field,
and on the Elevated Railroad, would he believe it? No; a smile
of incredulity and scorn would wreathe his lips, and he would
forthwith clasp her to his breast.

He knows that other men do such things, but he is not that sort
of man. Beside, he will have the immense advantage over all
others of his sex in possessing the only absolutely perfect
specimen of femininity extant. He thinks that he will never be
happy anywhere away from her side, and he tells her so, and she
believes him.

The clock does not announce the quarter-hour, because it is not
built that way, but, nevertheless, it is now 11.15. They do not
imagine that it is later than 11.02. He asks her if she ever
loved any one else, and she says “No;” and then he reminds her of
a certain Tom Johnson with whom she used to go to the theatre, at
which she becomes angry and says that he (G. W. Simpkins) is a
“real mean thing.” Then G. W. S. arises with an air of dignity,
and says that he is much obliged to her for her flattering
opinion; and she says that he is quite welcome.

Just then a heavy foot-fall is heard upstairs. She glances at
the clock, and perceives to her dismay that it is 11.20. She had
expected to have a nice little quarrel, followed by the usual
reconciliation, but there is no time for that now. She throws her
arms around his neck, and whispers in great agitation that she
believes pa is coming. G. W. S. quakes inwardly, for her pa is
about four sizes larger than himself, and of a cruel, vindictive
nature. But he assumes an air of bravado, and darkly hints at the
extreme probability that the room in which they stand will be the
scene of a sanguinary conflict in the immediate future, should
any one venture to cross his path. Then she begs him to remember
that papa, notwithstanding his faults, is still her father. At
this he magnanimously promises to spare the old man.

But the footstep is heard no more; papa does not appear. G. W.
S. puts on his overcoat. Then the couple stand by the door and
settle the Tom Johnson matter. She says she never cared for Tom
Johnson, and he says he knows it and that he (G. W. S., you
understand) is a brute, and that she is an angel, and that he
will never again refer to the aforesaid Tom Johnson. He will,
though, the very next time they meet, just as he has every time
they have met for the last two months.

While they are talking the clock strikes the half hour, but they
don’t hear it. The Johnson business disposed of, they discuss
their future prospects, vow eternal fidelity, compare themselves
to all the famous lovers of history (to none of whom they bear
the slightest resemblance), make an appointment for Wednesday
evening (on which occasion G. W. S. will have the extreme
felicity of spending two-thirds of his week’s salary for theatre
tickets and a supper at the Brunswick), and indulge in the usual
osculation.

Suddenly the clock begins to strike twelve, and at the same
moment a hoarse masculine cough is heard in the room overhead.
The fatal moment has really and truly arrived this time. One more
kiss, one more embrace, and they part—he to go home and oversleep
in the morning, and be docked fifty cents at the store; she to
receive the reproaches of an irate parent, who hasn’t been young
for such a long time himself that he has forgotten all about it.

JOSIAR’S COURTING.

I never kin forgit the day
That we went out a walkin’
And sot down on the river bank,
And kept on hours a-talkin’;
He twisted up my apron string,
An’ folded it together,
An’ said he thought for harvest-time
’Twas cur’us kind o’ weather.

The sun went down as we sot there—
Josiar seemed uneasy,
An’ mother, she began to call:
“Loweezy! Come, Loweezy!”
An’ then Josiar spoke right up,
As I wos just a startin’
An’ said, “Loweezy, what’s the use
Of us two ever partin?”

It kind o’ took me by surprise,
An’ yet I knew ’twas comin’—
I’d heard it all the summer long
In every wild bee’s hummin’;
I meant to hide my love from him,
But seems as if he knew it;
I’d studied out the way I’d act,
But la! I couldn’t do it.

It darker grew as we sot there,
But Josiar seemed quite easy,
And mother had to call again,
“Loweezy! Come, Loweezy!”

PATHETIC RECITATIONS.

It is a common saying that the public speaker who can draw both smiles and tears from his audience is the highest type of orator. The same is true of the reciter. If you would awaken pathetic emotions in the hearts of your hearers, you must have recitations suited to this purpose, tender in sentiment and full of feeling. A charming collection of such pieces is here furnished.

Put yourself fully into the spirit of each selection. Do not deliver a pathetic recitation in a cold, unfeeling manner. Look well to the tones of your voice and facial expression. If you feel the words you are uttering, the subtle influence cannot fail to move those who hear you. You cannot put on an appearance of feeling; give reality to all the emotions your words express.

PLAY SOFTLY, BOYS.

Observe the Irish brogue in this selection.

I’m thinkin’ av the goolden head
I nestled to my breast;
They’re telling me, “He’s betther off.”
And sayin’, “God knows best.”
But, oh, my heart is breakin’
And the wild, wild waves at play
Where the goolden head is buried low,
Close to Manila Bay.

I’m thinkin’ av the roguish eyes
Of tender Irish gray;
They’re tellin’ me, “He’s betther off,”
And, “I’ll thank God some day.”
But, oh, my heart is breakin’
And the wild, wild waves at play,
And my baby’s eyes all closed in death
Close to Manila Bay.

I’m thinkin’ av the little hands
That’s fastened ’round my heart;
They’re tellin’ me, “Have courage,
Sure, life’s to meet and part.”
But, oh, my heart is breakin’
And the wild, wild waves at play,
And my baby’s hands so stiff and cold
Close to Manila Bay.

I’m thinkin’ av the noble boy
That kissed my tears away;
They’re tellin’ me, “How brave he was,
And foremost in the fray!”
But, oh, my heart is breakin’
And the wild, wild waves at play,
And my baby and my soldier dead—
Close to Manila Bay.

Play softly, boys, I know you will,
Remembering he’s away—
My boy, who proudly marched with ye
On last St. Patrick’s Day.
Play softly, boys, I know ye will,
And the wild, wild waves at play,
And your comrade lying lonely,
Close to Manila Bay.

Play softly, boys, I know ye will,
And hush this pain to rest—
And soothe the bitter agony
That’s tearin’ at my breast.
How can ye march at all, at all,
And the wild, wild waves at play,
And the boy who loved ye lying cold—
Close to Manila Bay?

TERESA BEATRICE O’HARE.

IN THE BAGGAGE COACH AHEAD.

On a dark stormy night, as the train rattled on,
All the passengers had gone to bed,
Except one young man with a babe on his arm,
Who sat there with a bowed-down head.

The innocent one commenced crying just then,
As though its poor heart would break.
One angry man said, “Make that child stop its noise,
For you’re keeping all of us awake.”

“Put it out,” said another; “don’t keep it in here,
We’ve paid for our berths and want rest.”
But never a word said the man with the child,
As he fondled it close to his breast.

“Where is its mother? Go, take it to her—”
This a lady then softly said.
“I wish that I could,” was the man’s sad reply,
“But she’s dead in the coach ahead.”

Every eye filled with tears when his story he told,
Of a wife who was faithful and true.
He told how he’s saved up his earnings for years
Just to build up a home for two.

How, when Heaven had sent them this sweet little babe,
Their young happy lives were blessed.
In tears he broke down when he mentioned her name,
And in tears tried to tell them the rest.

Every woman arose to assist with the child;
There were mothers and wives on that train,
And soon was the little one sleeping in peace,
With no thoughts of sorrow and pain.

Next morn’ at a station he bade all good-bye.
“God bless you,” he softly said.
Each one had a story to tell in their home
Of the baggage coach ahead.

While the train rolled onward a husband sat in tears,
Thinking of the happiness of just a few short years,
For baby’s face brings pictures of a cherished hope that’s dead;
But baby’s cries can’t wake her in the baggage coach ahead.

THE MISSING ONE.

The deep pathos of these lines should be expressed by a trembling utterance. Put tears in your voice, if you can do this difficult thing. All the life and spirit are taken out of the old man as he thinks of the regiment returning without his son, whose desolate grave is somewhere on the Cuban shore.

I don’t think I’ll go into town to see the boys come back;
My bein’ there would do no good in all that jam and pack;
There’ll be enough to welcome them—to cheer them when they come
A-marchin’ bravely to the time that’s beat upon the drum—
They’ll never miss me in the crowd—not one of ’em will care
If, when the cheers are ringin’ loud, I’m not among them there.

I went to see them march away—I hollered with the rest,
And didn’t they look fine, that day, a-marchin’ four abreast,
With my boy James up near the front, as handsome as could be,
And wavin’ back a fond farewell to mother and to me!
I vow my old knees trimbled so, when they had all got by,
I had to jist set down upon the curbstone there and cry.

And now they’re comin’ home again! The record that they won
Was sich as shows we still have men, when men’s work’s to be done!
There wasn’t one of ’em that flinched, each feller stood the test—
Wherever they were sent they sailed right in and done their best!
They didn’t go away to play—they knowed what was in store—
But there’s a grave somewhere to-day, down on the Cuban shore!

I guess that I’ll not go to town to see the boys come in;
I don’t jist feel like mixin’ up in all that crush and din!
There’ll be enough to welcome them—to cheer them when they come
A-marchin’ bravely to the time that’s beat upon the drum,
And the boys’ll never notice—not a one of ’em will care,
For the soldier that would miss me ain’t a goin’ to be there!

S. E. KISER.

IN MEMORIAM.

It was a strange coincidence, and a fitting end for a noble old seaman who had given his life to the service of his country, that Rear-Admiral W. A. Kirkland, U. S. N., and once commandant at Mare Island, should die the day peace was declared between our country and Spain. In strong tones give the command, “Cease firing!” Point to “the red flames,” “the gray smoke-shrouded hills,” “the weary troops,” “the armored squadron,” etc. On the first two lines of the last verse use Figure 11 of Typical Gestures.

“Cease firing!” Lo, the bugles call—
“Cease!” and the red flame dies away.
The thunders sleep; along the gray
Smoke-shrouded hills the echoes fall.

“Cease firing!” Close the columns fold
Their shattered wings; the weary troops
Now stand at ease; the ensign droops;
The heated chargers’ flanks turn cold.

“Cease firing!” Down, with point reversed,
The reeking, crimson sabre drips;
Cool grow the fevered cannon’s lips—
Their wreathing vapors far dispersed.

“Cease firing!” From the sponson’s rim
The mute, black muzzles frown across
The sea, where swelling surges toss
The armored squadrons, silent, grim.

“Cease firing!” Look, white banners show
Along the groves where heroes sleep—
Above the graves where men lie deep—
In pure, soft flutterings of snow.

“Cease firing!” Glorious and sweet
For country ’tis to die—and comes
The Peace—and bugles blow and drums
Are sounding out the Last Retreat.

THOMAS R. GREGORY, U. S. N.

THE DYING NEWSBOY.

In an attic bare and cheerless, Jim, the news-boy, dying lay,
On a rough but clean straw pallet, at the fading of the day;
Scant the furniture about him, but bright flowers were in the room,
Crimson phloxes, waxen lilies, roses laden with perfume.

On a table by the bedside, open at a well-worn page,
Where the mother had been reading, lay a Bible stained by age.
Now he could not hear the verses; he was flighty, and she wept
With her arms around her youngest, who close to her side had crept.

Blacking boots and selling papers, in all weathers day by day,
Brought upon poor Jim consumption, which was eating life away.
And this cry came with his anguish for each breath a struggle cost,
“’Ere’s the morning _Sun_ and _’Erald_—latest news of steamship lost.

“Papers, mister? Morning papers?” Then the cry fell to a moan,
Which was changed a moment later to another frenzied tone:
“Black yer boots, sir? Just a nickel! Shine ’em like an evening star.
It grows late, Jack! Night is coming. Evening papers, here they are!”

Soon a mission teacher entered, and approached the humble bed;
Then poor Jim’s mind cleared an instant, with his cool hand on his head.
“Teacher,” cried he, “I remember what you said the other day,
Ma’s been reading of the Saviour, and through Him I see my way.

“He is with me! Jack, I charge you of our mother take good care
When Jim’s gone! Hark! boots or papers, which will I be over there?
Black yer boots, sir? Shine ’em right up! Papers! Read God’s book
instead,
Better’n papers that to die on! Jack——” one gasp, and Jim was dead!

MRS. EMILY THORNTON.

“COALS OF FIRE.”

The coffin was a plain one—no flowers on its top, no lining of
rose-white satin for the pale brow, no smooth ribbons about the
coarse shroud. The brown hair was laid decently back, but there
was no crimped cap, with its neat tie beneath the chin. “I want
to see my mother,” sobbed a poor child, as the city undertaker
screwed down the top. “You can’t: get out of the way, boy! Why
don’t somebody take the brat away?” “Only let me see her for one
minute,” cried the hapless orphan, clutching the side of the
charity box. And as he gazed into that rough face tears streamed
down the cheek on which no childish bloom every lingered. Oh, it
was pitiful to hear him cry, “Only once! let me see my mother
only once!”

Brutally, the hard-hearted monster struck the boy away, so that
he reeled with the blow. For a moment the boy stood panting with
grief and rage, his blue eyes expanded, his lips sprang apart; a
fire glittered through his tears as he raised his puny arm, and
with a most unchildish accent screamed, “When I am a man I’ll
kill you for that!” A coffin and a heap of earth was between the
mother and the poor forsaken child; a monument stronger than
granite built in his boy-heart to the memory of a heartless deed.

The court house was crowded to suffocation. “Does any one appear
as this man’s counsel?” asked the judge. There was silence when
he finished, until, with lips tightly pressed together, a look
of strange recognition blended with haughty reserve upon his
handsome features, a young man, a stranger, stepped forward to
plead for the erring and the friendless. The splendor of his
genius entranced, convinced. The man who could not find a friend
was acquitted.

“May God bless you, sir! I cannot.” “I want no thanks,” replied
the stranger, with icy coldness. “I—I believe you are unknown
to me.” “Man, I will refresh your memory. Twenty years ago you
struck a broken-hearted boy away from his poor mother’s coffin;
I was that poor, miserable boy.” “Have you rescued me, then,
to take my life?” “No! I have a sweeter revenge: I have saved
the life of a man whose brutal deed has rankled in my breast for
twenty years. Go, and remember the tears of a friendless child.”

DIRGE OF THE DRUMS.

The effect produced by this selection will depend very much upon the manner in which you speak the constantly repeated word, “Dead!” It should be spoken with subdued force, rather slowly, and in a low tone. Show intense emotion, but not in a boisterous manner.