Chapter V (1)

The footsteps prove to be those of Thomas R. Hefflebomer of Washington Territory, who introduces positive proof of having murdered the judge during a fit of mental aberration, and Mabel marries a man named Tompkins, whom she met two years later at Hot Springs.

Futility

To be so near--and then to vanish
Like some unreal creature of the sense;
To come so near that every fiber, tingling,
Makes ready welcome; then to surge
Back into the recesses of the strange,
Mysterious unknown. Ye gods!
What agony to feel thee slowly steal
Away from us when, with caught breath
And streaming eyes, and parted lips,
We fain would with convulsive gasp
And tortured features bow our frame
In one loud spasm of homage to thy spell!
But with what grief we find we can not do it;
The dream is o'er--we can not sneeze.

The Wounded Veteran

A party of Northern tourists passed through Houston the other day, and while their train was waiting at the depot an old colored man, with one arm bandaged and hung in an old red handkerchief for a sling, walked along the platform.

"What's the matter with your arm, uncle?" called out one of the tourists.

"It was hurt in de wah, sah. Hab you any 'bacco you could gib a po' ole niggah, sah?"

Several of the tourists poked their heads out of the car windows to listen, and in a few moments the old darky had taken up a collection in his hat, consisting of a plug of tobacco, three or four cigars, and sundry nickels, dimes, and quarters.

"How were you wounded?" asked a tourist. "Were you shot in the arm?"

"No, sah; hit wusn't exac' by a shot."

"Piece of shell strike you?"

"No, sah; wusn't a shell."

"Bayonet wound, maybe?"

"No, boss, hit wusn't a bayonet."

"What battle were you in?"

"Do' know ef it had a name, but hit was a mighty hot fight while it lasted."

"Do you draw a pension?"

"No, boss."

"It seems it would be a charitable act," said a tourist to the others, "to take this old darky's name and see that he gets the pension he is certainly entitled to. What is your name, uncle?"

"Mose Atkisson, sah."

"Now, Mose," said the tourist, "give me the particulars of the engagement you were in, and the date, and all the information you possess about the manner in which you were wounded, and the government will pay you a nice little sum every three months to help you along."

"Am dat so, boss?" asked the old darky, his eyes growing big with wonder. "Den I'll sho tell you about hit. Hit wus jes' befor' supper en I was totin' a big chance ob wood in to make a fiah, when--"

"Never mind about what you did in camp," said the tourist. "Tell us in which battle of the War of the Rebellion were you engaged."

"It wusn't dat wah, boss; it wus de wah wid Spain."

"What do you mean?"

"Lemme tell you how it wus. I cuts wood and does odd jobs up to Cunnel Wadkinses. Cunnel Wadkins am de bigges' fighter in de Souf. W'en dis here wah wid Spain cum up in de papers Cunnel Wadkins 'low he gwine ter pulverize de whole Spanish nation. He set all day in de saloon an' he talk about it, an' he cum home at meal time an' he git out his ole' s'ord, an' he don' talk about nuthin' else.

"Mis' Susie, de Cunnel's wife, she suppote de family, an' she do de cookin'. Las' Sadday night de Cunnel cum home, an' he been drinkin' plenty. Mis' Susie she look at him an' shet her mouf tight, an' say nothin'.

"De Cunnel git out de s'ord an' 'low dat de day ob recknin' am cum wid de cruel an' bloodthusty Spaniards. Mis' Susie went on fryin' batter cakes, but Land! don't I know dat woman gwine ter bus' things wide open putty soon!

"I fetch in a turn ob wood; de Cunnel he settin' by de kitchen stobe, kinder rockin' roun' in de chur. Es I cum in de do' Cunnel say: 'You is treat me col', Madam, kase I uphol' de dignity ob de Wadkins fambly. De Wadkinses nebber wuk; dey am solgers an' am got ter keep ready fur der country's call.'

"'Treats you col', does I?' says Mis' Susie. 'Well, den, lemme treat you warm some,' says she.

"She po' out of de bilin' tea-kittle a big pan full ob hot water an' she fling it all ober de Cunnel. I gits a big lot ob it on dis arm as I was pilin' de wood in de box, an' it tuk de skin off, an' I dun had it wrapped up fo' days. De Cunnel am in bed yit, but he sw'ar w'en he git up he gwine ter wuk.

"Dat's how dis here wah wid Spain done up dis ole niggah. 'Bout w'en, boss, will de fus' payment ob dat penshun git here, do you recum?"

"The ignorance and stupidity," said the tourist, as he shut down his window, "of the colored man in the South are appalling."

Her Ruse

"How do I keep John home of nights?" asked a Houston lady of a friend the other day.

"Well, I struck a plan once by a sudden inspiration, and it worked very nicely. John had been in a habit of going downtown every night after supper and staying until ten or eleven o'clock. One night he left as usual, and after going three or four blocks he found he had forgotten his umbrella and came back for it. I was in the sitting room reading, and he slipped in the room on his tiptoes and came up behind me and put his hands over my eyes. John expected me to be very much startled, I suppose, but I only said softly, 'Is that you, Tom?' John hasn't been downtown at night since."

Why Conductors Are Morose

Street car conductors often have their tempers tried by the inconsiderate portion of the public, but they are not allowed to ease their feelings by "talking back." One of them related yesterday an occurrence on his line a few days ago.

A very fashionably dressed lady, accompanied by a little boy, was in the car, which was quite full of people. "Conductor," she said languidly, "let me know when we arrive at Peas Avenue."

When the car arrived at that street the conductor rang the bell and the car stopped.

"Peas Avenue, ma'am," he said, climbing off to assist her from the car.

The lady raised the little boy to his knees and pointed out the window at the name of the street which was on a board, nailed to the corner of a fence.

"Look, Freddy," she said, "that tall, straight letter with a funny little curl at the top is a '_P_.' Now don't forget it again. You can go on, conductor; we get off at Gray Street."

"Only to Lie--"

Only to lie in the evening,
Watching the drifting clouds,
O'er the blue heavens sailing;
Mystical, dreamlike shrouds.
Watching the purple shadows
Filling the woodland glades,
Only to lie in the twilight
Deep in the gathering shade.

Only to lie at midnight,
Climbing the pitch-dark stairs;
Wife at the top of them waiting;
Upwards are rising our hairs.
Only to lie as she asks us--
"Where have you been so late?"
Only to lie with judgment--
"Cars blocked; I had to wait."

The Pewee

In the hush of the drowsy afternoon.
When the very mind on the breast of June
Lies settled, and hot white tracery
Of the shattered sunlight flitters free
Through the unstinted leaves to the pied cool sward,
On a dead tree branch sings the saddest bard
Of the birds that be.
'Tis the lone pewee;
Its note is a sob, and its song is pitched
In a single key like a soul bewitched
To a mournful minstrelsy.

"Pewee, Pewee," doth it ever cry;
A sad, sweet, minor threnody
That threads the aisles of the dim hot grove
Like a tale of a wrong or a vanished love,
And the fancy comes that the wee dun bird
Perchance was a maid, and her heart was stirred
By some lover's rhyme
In a golden time,
And broke when the world turned false and old;
And her dreams grew dark and her faith grew cold,
In some fairy far-off clime.
And her soul crept into the pewee's breast;
And forever she cries with a strange unrest
For something lost, in the afternoon;
For something missed from the lavish June;
For the heart, that died in the long ago;
For the livelong pain that pierceth so;
Thus the pewee cries,
While the evening lies
Steeped in the languorous still sunshine,
Rapt, to the leaf and the bough and the vine,
Of some hopeless paradise.

The Sunday Excursionist

Somebody--who it was doesn't make any difference--has said something like the following: "There is something grand in the grief of the Common People, but there is no sadder sight on earth than that of a Philistine enjoying himself."

If a man would realize the truth of this, let him go on a Sunday excursion. The male Sunday excursionist enjoys himself, as the darkies say, "a gwine and a cornin'." No other being on earth can hold quite so much bubbling and vociferous joy. The welkin that would not ring when the Sunday excursionist opens his escape valve is not worth a cent. Six days the Sunday excursionist labors and does his work, but he does his best to refute the opponents of the theory of the late Charles Darwin. He occupies all the vacant seats in the car with his accomplices, and lets his accursed good nature spray over the rest of the passengers. He is so infernally happy that he wants everybody, to the brakeman on the rear car, to know it. He is so devilish agreeable, so perniciously jolly and so abominably entertaining that people who were bom with or have acquired brains love him most vindictively.

People who become enamored of the Sunday excursionist are apt to grow insanely jealous, and have been known to rise up and murder him when a stranger enters the car and he proceeds to repeat his funny remarks for the benefit of a fresh audience.

The female Sunday excursionist generally accompanies him. She brings her laugh with her, and does a turn in the pauses of his low comedy work. She never by any accident misplaces her laugh or allows it to get out of curl. It ripples naturally and conforms readily to the size of the car. She puts on the male Sunday excursionist's hat, and he puts on hers, and if the other passengers are feeling worse than usual, they sing "The Swanee River." There is enough woe and sorrow in the world without augmenting it in this way.

Men who have braved the deepest troubles and emerged unscathed from the heaviest afflictions have gone down with a shriek of horror and despair before the fatal hilarity of the Sunday excursionist. There is no escape from his effects.

Decoration Day

Decoration Day has passed, and the graves of the Northern and Southern soldiers have been duly flower strewn, as is meet and fitting. The valor of the North has been told on a thousand rostrums, and the courage of the South has been related from ten hundred platforms. Battles have been fought again, and redoubts retaken. Much has been said of brotherly love and the bridging of the chasm. The Blue has marched abreast to the common meeting place, and the Gray has marched abreast, and they have met and shaken hands and said the war is over. There can be no such thing as a union of the Blue and the Gray. When you pronounce the words you form the bar that separates them. The Blue is one thing and the Gray is another. There should be no more Blue and no more Gray. If a tribute is to be paid to the heroes on either side whom we wish to keep in remembrance, it should be made by American citizens, not divided by the colors of their garments. There is no need to march by grand armies, by camps, or by posts. If there is to be a shaking of hands, let it be by one citizen of the United States with another. The Gray and Blue are things of the past. In the innermost hearts, in the still, quick memories of the South, the Gray will always live, but it should live as in a shrine, hallowed and hidden from pomp and display. As citizens of a common country, we of the South offer our hands to citizens of the North in peace and fellowship, but we do not mingle the Gray with the Blue.

Charge of the White Brigade

Mehitabel, Claribel, Bessie, and Sue
All in white lawn and ribbons pale blue.
Went into a drug store; each sat on a stool,
And called for some phosphate to make them all cool.
"Oh! what is that big copper thing over there?"
Asked Bessie the gay one, asked Bessie the fair.
"Why that," said the clerk, "is the thing with which we
Charge the phosphate and soda we sell, don't you see?"
"How nice," said bright Bessie and then they all rose,
And shook out their ruffles and beautiful clothes;
"Please charge those we had," said the girls--then they flew,
Mehitabel, Claribel, Bessie, and Sue.

An Inspiration

He was seated on an empty box on Main Street late yesterday evening during the cold drizzling rain. He was poorly clad and his thick coat was buttoned up high under his chin. He had a woeful, harassed appearance, and there was something about him that indicated that he was different from the average tramp who beats his way by lies and fraud.

The _Post_ man felt a touch of sympathy and went up to him and said:

"There's a place around the corner where you can get a lunch and lodging for a small sum. When did you strike town?"

The man gazed at the reporter out of his small, keen eyes and said:

"You're a new man on the _Post_, are you not?"

"Yes, comparatively."

"Do you see that block of three-story buildings over there?"

"Yes."

"Well, I own them and was just sitting here studying what I'm going to do."

"What's the trouble?"

"Why, the walls are cracking and bulging out on the sides, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to put a lot of money into repairs. I've got over one hundred tenants in those buildings."

"I'll tell you what to do."

"What?"

"You say the walls are bulging out?"

"Yes."

"Well, that makes more room everywhere. You just raise all your tenants' rent on account of the extra space."

"Young man, you're a genius. I'll put rents up twenty percent tomorrow."

And one more capitalist was saved.

Coming to Him

The man who keeps up with the latest scientific discoveries is abroad in the land. He knows all about bacilli, microbes, and all the various newly found foes to mankind. He reads the papers and heeds all the warnings that lead to longevity and safety to mind and limb. He stopped a friend on Main Street yesterday who was hurrying to the post-office and said excitedly:

"Wait a minute, Brown. Do you ever bite your finger nails?"

"I think so--no, I don't know; excuse me, please, I've got to catch that car."

"Hold on, man; great goodness alive, you don't know what danger you are in. If a sharp particle of the nail gets into your lungs, inflammation is bound to set in, and finally laceration, consumption, hemorrhage, fits, coma, tuberculosis, and death. Think of it! And by the way, a new bacillus has been found in water in which roses have been left standing that is very fatal. I want to warn you. Do you know that--"

"Say, old man, I'm much obliged, but this letter--"

"What is a letter compared with your life? There are 10,000,000 animalcules in a spoonful of ordinary hydrant water; there are 2,000 different varieties known. Do you ever put salt in your beer?"

"I don't know; I really must go, I--"

"Don't hold me responsible for your life, I'm trying to save it. Why, Heavens, man, it's nothing but a miracle that we live a single day. In every glass of beer there is an infinitesimal quantity of hydrochloric acid. Salt is a chloride of sodium, and the union releases the chlorine. You are drinking chlorine gas every day of your life. Pause, before it is too late."

"I don't drink beer."

"But you breathe through your mouth when you are asleep. Do you know what that does? Brings on angina pectoris and bronchitis. Are you determined to let your ignorance carry you to your grave? Think of your wife and children! Do you know that the common house fly carries 40,000 microbes on his feet, and can convey cholera, typhoid fever, diphtheria, pyaemia, and--"

"Dang your microbes. I've got just three minutes to catch that mail. So long."

"Wait just a minute. Dr. Pasteur says that--"

But the victim was gone.

Ten minutes later the heeder of new discoveries was knocked down by a wagon while trying to cross the street reading about a new filter, and was carried home by sympathizing friends.

His Pension

"Speaking of the $140,000,000 paid out yearly by the government in pensions," said a prominent member of Hood's brigade to the Post's representative, "I am told that a man in Indiana applied for a pension last month on account of a surgical operation he had performed on him during the war. And what do you suppose that surgical operation was?"

"Haven't the least idea."

"He had his retreat cut off at the battle of Gettysburg!"

The Winner

After the performance of "In Old Kentucky" Friday night three old cronies went into a saloon with the inflexible determination of taking a drink. After doing so, they added an amendment in the shape of another and then tacked on an emergency clause.

When they got to feeling a little mellow they sat down at a table and commenced lying. Not maliciously, but just ordinary, friendly lying, about the things they had seen and done. They all tried their hand at relating experiences, and as the sky was clear, there was no matinee performance of the Ananias tragedy.

Finally the judge suggested the concoction of a fine large julep--a julep that would render the use of curling irons unnecessary--and the one who told the most improbable story should be allowed to produce the vacuum in the straws.

The major and the judge led off with a couple of marvelous narratives which were about a tie. The colonel moistened his lips as his eye rested on the big glass filled with diamonds and amber, and crowned with fragrant mint. He commenced his story:

"The incident I am about to relate is not only wonderful, but true. It happened in this very town on Saturday afternoon. I got up rather early Saturday morning, as I had a big day's work ahead of me. My wife fixed me up a rattling good cocktail when I got up and I was feeling pretty good. When I came downstairs she handed me a five-dollar bill that had dropped out of my pocket and said: 'John, you must really get a better looking housemaid. Jane is so homely, and you never did admire her. See if you can find a real nice-looking one--and John, dear, you are working too hard. You must really have some recreation. Why not take Miss Muggins, your typewriter, out for a drive this afternoon? Then you might stop at the milliner's and tell them not to send up that hat I ordered, and--"

"Hold on. Colonel," said the judge. "You just drink that mint julep right now. You needn't go any further with your story."

Hungry Henry's Ruse

Hungry Henry: Madam, I am state agent for a new roller-action, unbreakable, double-elastic suspender. Can I show you some?

Mrs. Lonestreet: No, there ain't no man on the place.

Hungry Henry: Well, then, I am also handling something unique in the way of a silvermounted, morocco leather, dog collar, with name engraved free of charge. Perhaps--

Mrs. Lonestreet: 'Tain't no use. I ain't got a dog.

Hungry Henry: Hat's what I wanted to know. Now fix me de best supper you'se kin, and do it quick or it won't be healthy fur you. See?

A Proof of Love

"If you love me as I love you"--
(Ah, sweet those words to lover's ear,
'Twas Lois spake, in accents true,
So loving, tender, kind and dear.)

"If you love me as I love you"--
(Ah, heaven and earth were wrapped in bliss,
The wild rose listened, dissolved in dew;
The very zephyrs sought her kiss.)

"If you love me as I love you"--
(Ah, strains from Paradise her words!)
"And if I do, what then?" I asked;
While round us winged the listening birds.

"If you love me as I love you--"
She raised those fringed eyes of jet,
And whispered low in pleading tones:
"Just fill the wood box, will you, pet?"

One Consolation

Breakfast was over and Adam had gone to his daily occupation of pasting the names of the animals on their cages. Eve took the parrot to one side and said: "It was this way. He made a big kick about those biscuits not being good at breakfast."

"And what did you say?" asked the parrot.

"I told him there was one consolation; he couldn't say his mother ever made any better ones."

An Unsuccessful Experiment

There is an old colored preacher in Texas who is a great admirer of the Rev. Sam Jones.[1] Last Sunday he determined to drop his old style of exhorting the brethren, and pitch hot shot plump into the middle of their camp, after the manner so successfully followed by the famous Georgia evangelist. After the opening hymn had been sung, and the congregation led in prayer by a worthy deacon, the old preacher laid his spectacles on his Bible, and let out straight from the shoulder.

"My dearly belubbed," he said, "I has been preachin' to you fo' mo' dan five years, and de grace ob God hab failed to percolate in yo' obstreperous hearts. I hab nebber seen a more or'nery lot dan dis belubbed congregation. Now dar is Sam Wadkins in de fo'th bench on de left. Kin anybody show me a no'counter, trashier, lowdowner buck nigger in dis community? Whar does the chicken feathers come from what I seen in his back yard dis mawnin'? Kin Brudder Wadkins rise and explain?"

Brother Wadkins sat in his pew with his eyes rolling and breathing hard, but was taken by surprise and did not respond.

"And dar is Elder Hoskins, on de right. Everybody knows he's er lying, shiftless, beer-drinking bum. His wife supports him takin' in washin'. What good is de blood of de Lamb done for him? Wonder ef he thinks dat he kin keep a lofin' 'round in de kitchen ob de New Jerusalem?"

Elder Hoskins, goaded by these charges, rose in his seat, and said:

"Dat reminds me ob one thing. I doesn't remember dat I hab ebber worked on de county road fur thirty days down in Bastrop County fur stealin' a bale of cotton."

"Who did? Who did?" said the parson, putting on his specs and glaring at the elder. "Who stole dat cotton? You shet yo' mouf, niggah, fo' I come down dah and bust you wide open. Den dar sets Miss Jinny Simpson. Look at dem fine clo'es she got on. Look at dem yallar shoes, and dem ostrick feathers, and dat silk waist and de white glubs. Whar she git de money to buy dem clo'es? She don't work none. De Lawd am got his eye on dat triflin' hussy, and He's gwine ter fling her in de burnin' brimstone and de squenchable pit."

Miss Simpson arose, her ostrich plumes trembling with indignation.

"You mis'able lyin' ol' niggah," she said. "You don' pay fur none ob my clo'es. S'pose you tells dis 'sembled congregation who was it handed dat big bouquet and dat jib ob cider ober de fence to Liza Jackson yisterday mawnin' when her old man gone to work?"

"Dat's a lie, you sneakin', low-down spyin' daughter ob de debble. I wuz in my house ras'lin in pra'er fur de wicked sisters and brudders ob dis church. I come down dah an' smack you in de mouf ef you don't shet up. You is all boun' for de fire ob destruction. You am all nothin' but vile sweepins ob de yearth. I see Bill Rodgers ober dar, who am known to hab loaded dice fur playin' craps, and he nebber pays a cent fur what his family eats. De Lawd am shore gwine ter smote him in de neck. De judgment ob de Spirit am gwine ter rise up an' call him down."

Bill Rodgers stood up and put his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. "I could name, sah," he said, "a certain party who wuz run off ob Colonel Yancy's fahm fo' playin' sebben up wid marked cya'ds, ef I choosed to."

"Dat's anudder lie," said the preacher, closing his Bible and turning up his cuffs. "Look out, Bill Rodgers, I'm comin' down dar to you."

The preacher got out of his pulpit and made for Bill, but Miss Simpson got her hands in his wool first, and Sam Wadkins and Elder Hoskins came quickly to her assistance. Then the rest of the brothers and sisters joined in, and the flying hymn books and the sound of ripping clothes testified to the fact that Sam Jones's style of preaching did not go in that particular church.

[1] The methods of the Rev. Sam Jones, who was the Billy Sunday of his time, were frequently the subject of O. Henry's satire.

Superlatives

"I think the song that is sweetest
Is the one that is never sung;
That lies in the heart of the singer,
Too grand for mortal tongue."
--Some poet or other.

The hen egg that is largest
Was the one she never laid;
And the biggest bet in all the world
Was the one we never made.

And the biggest fight that Dallas had
Was the one that did not go;
And the finest poet in the world was the one
That didn't write "Beautiful Snow."

The finest country in all the world
Has never yet been explored,
And the finest artesian well in town
Has not at this time been bored.

By Easy Stages

"You're at the wrong place," said Cerberus. "This is the gate that leads to the infernal regions, while it is a passport to Heaven that you have handed me."

"I know it," said the departed shade wearily, "but it allows a stopover here; you see, I'm from Galveston and I have got to make the change gradually."

Even Worse

Two Houston men were going home one rainy night last week, and as they stumbled and plowed through the mud across one of the principal streets, one of them said:

"This is hell, isn't it?"

"Worse," said the other. "Even hell is paved with good intentions."

The Shock

A man with a very pale face, wearing a woolen comforter and holding a slender stick in his hand, staggered into a Houston drug store yesterday and leaned against the counter, holding the other hand tightly against his breast.

The clerk got a graduating glass, and poured an ounce of spiritus frumenti into it quickly, and handed it to him. The man drank it at a gulp.

"Feel better?" asked the clerk.

"A little. Don't know when I had such a shock. I can hardly stand. Just a little more, now--"

The clerk gave him another ounce of whisky.

"My pulse has started again, I believe," said the man. "It was terrible, though!"

"Fell off a wagon?" asked the clerk.

"No, not exactly."

"Slip on a banana peel?"

"I think not. I'm getting faint again, if you--"

The obliging clerk administered a third dose of the stimulant.

"Street car run over you?" he asked.

"No," said the pale man. "I'll tell you how it was. See that red-faced man out there swearing and dancing on the corner?"

"Yes."

"He did it. I don't believe I can stand up much longer. I--thanks."

The man tossed off the fourth reviver and began to look better.

"Shall I call a doctor?" asked the clerk.

"No, I guess not. Your kindness has revived me. I'll tell you about it. I have one of those toy spiders attached to a string at the end of this stick, and I saw that red-faced man sitting on a doorstep with his back to me, and I let the spider down over his head in front of his nose. I didn't know who he was, then.

"He fell over backwards and cut his ear on the foot-scraper and broke a set of sixty-dollar false teeth. That man is my landlord and I owe him $37 back rent, and he holds a ten-dollar mortgage on my cow, and has already threatened to break my back. I slipped in here and he hasn't seen me yet. The shock to my feelings when I saw who it was, was something awful. If you have a little more of that spirits now, I--"

The Cynic

Junior Partner: Here's an honest firm!

Sharp and Simpson send us a check for $50 in addition to their monthly account, to cover difference in price of a higher grade of goods shipped them last time by mistake.

Senior Partner: Do they give us another order?

Junior Partner: Yes! The longest they have ever made.

Senior Partner: Ship 'em COD.

* * * * *

"Well! how are they coming?"

"I'm getting a move on me," said the checkerboard.

"And I'm getting a head in the world," said the piece of sensation news.

"I'm dead in it," said the spoiled bivalve at the clambake.

"I think I shall get along well," said the artesian water company.

"And my work is all being cut out for me," said the grape seed.

Speaking of Big Winds

The man with the bronzed face and distinguished air was a great traveler, and had just returned from a tour around the world. He sat around the stove at the Lamlor, and four or five drummers and men about town listened with much interest to his tales.

He was speaking of the fierce wind storms that occur in South America, when the long grass of the pampas is interlaced and blown so flat by the hurricanes that it is cut into strips and sold for the finest straw matting.

He spoke also of the great intelligence of the wild cattle which, he said, although blown about by the furious hurricanes and compelled to drift for days before the drenching floods of the rainy season, never lost their direction by day or night.

"How do they guide themselves?" asked the Topeka flour drummer.

"Oh, by their udders, of course," said the traveler.

"I don't see anything to laugh about," said the Kansas man, "but speaking of big winds we have something of the kind in our state. You've all heard of the Kansas cyclones, but very few of you know what they are. We have plenty of them and some are pretty hard ones, too, but most of the stories you read about them are exaggerated. Still a good, full-grown cyclone can carry things pretty high sometimes. About the only thing they spend their fury upon in vain is a real estate agent. I know a fellow, named Bob Long, who was a real estate hustler from away back. Bob had bought up a lot of prairie land cheap, and was trying to sell it in small tracts for farms and truck patches. One day he took a man in his buggy out to this land and was showing it to him. 'Just look at it,' he said. 'It is the finest, richest piece of ground in Kansas. Now it's worth more, but to start things off, and get improvements to going, I'll sell you 160 acres of this land at $40 per--!'

"Before Bob could say 'acre,' a cyclone came along, and the edge of it took Bob up straight into the air. He went up till he was nothing but a black speck and the man stood there and watched him till he was out of sight.

"The man liked the land, so he bought it from Bob's heirs, and pretty soon a railroad cut across it, and a fine flourishing town sprang up on the spot.

"Well, this man was standing on the sidewalk one day thinking of how lucky he had been, and about Bob's unfortunate fate, when he happened to look up and saw something falling. It grew larger and larger, and finally it turned out to be a man.

"He came tumbling down, struck the sidewalk with a sound you could have heard four blocks away, bounded up at least ten feet, came down on his feet and shouted 'Front foot!'

"It was Bob Long. His beard was a little grayer and longer, but he was all business still. He had noticed the changes that had taken place while he was coming down, and when he finished the sentence that he began when the cyclone took him up, he altered his language accordingly. Bob was a hustler. Sometime after that he--"

"Never mind," said the traveler. "Let's go in and take something on this one first. I claim the usual time before the next round."

Unknown Title

An old woman who lived in Fla. Had some neighbors who all the time ba Tea, sugar, and soap Till she said: "I do hope I'll never see folks that are ha."

An Original Idea

There is a lady in Houston who is always having original ideas.

Now, this is a very reprehensible thing in a woman and should be frowned down. A woman should find out what her husband thinks about everything and regulate her thoughts to conform with his. Of course, it would not be so bad if she would keep her independent ideas to herself, but who ever knew a woman to do that?

This lady in particular had a way of applying her original ideas to practical use, and her family, and even neighbors, were kept constantly on the lookout for something startling at her hands.

One day she read in the columns of an Austin newspaper an article that caused her at once to conceive an original idea. The article called attention to the well-known fact that if men's homes supplied their wants and desires they would have no propensity to wander abroad, seeking distraction in gilded saloons. This struck the lady as a forcible truth, and she boldly plagiarized the idea and resolved to put it into immediate execution as an original invention.

That night when her husband came home he noticed a curtain stretched across one end of the sitting room, but he had so long been used to innovations of all sorts that he was rather afraid to investigate.

It might be stated apropos to the story that the lady's husband was addicted to the use of beer.

He not only liked beer, but he fondly loved beer. Beer never felt the slightest jealousy when this gentleman was out of its sight.

After supper the lady said: "Now, Robert, I have a little surprise for you. There is no need of your going downtown tonight, as you generally do, because I have arranged our home so that it will supply all the pleasures that you go out to seek."

With that she drew the curtain and Robert saw that one end of the sitting room had been fitted up as a bar--or rather his wife's idea of a bar.

A couple of strips of the carpet had been taken up and sawdust strewn on the floor. The kitchen table extended across the end of the room, and back of this on a shelf were arranged a formidable display of bottles, of all shapes and sizes, while the mirror of the best dresser had been taken off and placed artistically in the center.

On a trestle stood a fresh keg of beer and his wife, who had put on a coquettish-looking cap and apron, tripped lightly behind the bar, and waving a beer mug coyly at him said:

"It's an idea I had, Robert. I thought it would be much nicer to have you spend your money at home, and at the same time have all the amusement and pleasure that you do downtown. What will you have, sir?" she continued, with fine, commercial politeness.

Robert leaned against the bar and pawed the floor fruitlessly three or four times, trying to find the foot rest. He was a little stunned, as he always was at his wife's original ideas. Then he braced himself and tried to conjure up a ghastly imitation of a smile.

"I'll take a beer, please," he said.

His wife drew the beer, laid the nickel on the shelf and leaned on the bar, chatting familiarly on the topics of the day after the manner of bartenders.

"You must buy plenty, now," she said archly, "for you are the only customer I have tonight."

Robert felt a strong oppression of spirits, which he tried to hide. Besides the beer, which was first rate, there was little to remind him of the saloons where he had heretofore spent his money.

The lights, the glittering array of crystal, the rattle of dice, the funny stories of Brown, Jones, and Robinson, the motion and color that he found in the other places were wanting.

Robert stood still for quite a while and then an original idea struck him.

He pulled a handful of change from his pocket and began to call for glass after glass of beer. The lady behind the bar was beaming with pleasure at the success of her experiment. Ordinarily she had made quite a row, if her husband came home smelling of beer--but now, when the profits were falling into her own hands, she made no complaint.

It is not known how many glasses she sold her husband but there was quite a little pile of nickels and dimes on the shelf, and two or three quarters.

Robert was leaning rather heavily against the bar, now and then raising his foot and making a dab for the rod that was not there, but he was saying very little. His wife ought to have known better, but the profits rendered her indiscreet.

Presently Robert remarked in a very loud tone:

"Gozzamighty, se' 'm up all roun' barkeep'n puzzom on slate 'm busted."

His wife looked at him in surprise.

"Indeed, I will not, Robert," she said. "You must pay me for everything you have. I thought you understood that."

Robert looked in the mirror as straight as he could, counted his reflections, and then yelled loud enough to be heard a block away:

"Gosh dang it, gi' us six glasses beer and put 'em on ice, Susie, old girl, or I'll clean out your joint, 'n bus' up business. Whoopee!"

"Robert!" said his wife, in a tone implying a growing suspicion, "you've been drinking!"

"Zas d---d lie!" said Robert, as he threw a beer glass through the mirror. "Been down t' office helpin' friend pos' up books 'n missed last car. Say, now, Susie, old girl, you owe me two beers from las' time. Give 'em to me or I'll kick down bar."

Robert's wife was named Henrietta. When he made this remark she came around to the front and struck him over the eye with a lemon squeezer. Robert then kicked over the table, broke about half the bottles, spilled the beer, and used language not suited for the mailable edition.

Ten minutes later his wife had him tied with the clothes line, and during the intervals between pounding him on the head with a potato masher she was trying to think how to get rid of her last great original idea.

Calculations

A gentleman with long hair and an expression indicating heavenly resignation stepped off the twelve-thirty train at the Grand Central Depot yesterday. He had a little bunch of temperance tracts in his hand, and he struck a strong scent and followed it up to a red-nosed individual who was leaning on a trunk near the baggage room.

"My friend," said the long-haired man, "do you know that if you had placed the price of three drinks out at compound interest at the time of the building of Solomon's temple, you would now have $47,998,645.22?"

"I do," said the red-nosed man. "I am something of a calculator myself. I also figured out when the doctor insisted on painting my nose with iodine to cure that boil, that the first lanternjawed, bone-spavined, rubbernecked son-of-a-gun from the amen corner of Meddlesome County that made any remarks about it would have to jump seventeen feet in nine seconds or get kicked thirteen times below the belt. You have just four seconds left."

The long-haired man made a brilliant retreat within his allotted time, and bore down with his temperance tracts upon a suspicious-looking Houston man who was carrying home a bottle of mineral water wrapped in a newspaper to his mother-in-law.

A Valedictory

The "Some Postscripts" man on the _Post_ has
about reached the end of his vein. These spurts of
brilliancy many are capable of, but the sustained
light that burns for years to gladden and instruct is
a rare quality, and the possessor should be
appreciated by the people, for he is the true
Messiah--the eldest son of the great intellectual lord
of the universe.

--Brenham _Press_

Brother, you should not have given us away. We just had to salt that vein before we could get it in the market, and when the "salt" gave out, and the end of the vein was reached, we hoped you wouldn't notice the fact. If you hadn't mentioned it we might have gone on for years gladdening and instructing and drawing princely salary, but now our little spurt of our brilliancy will have to put on its pajamas and retire between the cold sheets of oblivion. We do not blame you at all for calling the public's attention to the played-out lode, for it is a terrible responsibility to guide the footsteps of innocent purchasers who may be taken in by glittering, quartz and seductive pyrites of iron. To have one whom we regarded as a friend jerk us backward by the left leg when we had made such a successful sneak, and were about to scramble over the back fence of the temple of fame makes us sad, but we do not repine for:

"'Twere better to have spurted and lost
Than never to have spurted at all."

We really intended our light to burn for years, and to have the wick snuffed so quickly, although done in sorrowing kindness, causes us to sputter and smoke a little as we go out.

When the true Messiah comes along and shies his valise over to the night clerk, and turns back his cuffs ready to fill the long-felt want; if he should ever hear the whoops of those unappreciative critics who would crucify him, these few lines may teach him to fly to Brenham where his papa, the great intellectual lord of the universe, will protect him.

Solemn Thoughts

The golden crescent of the new moon hung above the market house, and the night was cool, springlike, and perfect.

Five or six men were sitting in front of the Hutchins House, and they had gradually shifted their chairs until they were almost in a group.

They were men from different parts of the country, some of them from cities thousands of miles away. They had been rattled in the dice box of chance and thrown in a temporary cluster into the hospitable gates of the Magnolia city.

They smoked and talked, and that feeling of comradeship which seizes men who meet in the world far from their own homes, was strong upon them.

They told all their funny stories and compared experiences, and then a little silence fell upon them, and while the hanging strata of blue smoke grew thicker, their thoughts began to wander back--as the cows stray homeward at eventide--to other scenes and faces.

"'And o'er them many a flaming range of vapor buoyed the crescent
bark:
And rapt through many a rosy change
The twilight melted into dark,'"

quoted the New York drummer. "Heigho! I wish I was at home tonight."

"Same here," said the little man from St. Louis. "I can just see the kids now tumbling round on the floor and cutting up larks before Laura puts them to bed. There's one blessing, though, I'll be home on Thanksgiving."

"I had a letter from home today," said the white-bearded Philadelphian, "and it made me homesick. I would give a foot of that slushy pavement on Spruce Street for all these balmy airs and mockingbird solos in the South. I'm going to strike a bee line for the Quaker City in time for that fat turkey, I don't care what my house says."

"Yust hear dot band playing," said the fat gentleman. "I can almost dink I vos back in Cincinnati 'neber die Rhein' mit dot schplendid little beautiful girl from de hat factory. I dink it is dese lovely nights vot makes us of home, sweet home, gedinken."

"Now you're shoutin'," said the Chicago hardware drummer. "I wish I was in French Pete's restaurant on State Street with a big bottle of beer and some chitterlings and lemon pie. I'm feelin' kinder sentimental myself tonight."

"The worst part of it is," said the man with the gold nose glasses and green necktie, "that our dear ones are separated from us by many long and dreary miles, and we little know what obstacles in the shape of storm and flood and wreck lie in our way. If we could but annihilate time and space for a brief interval there are many of us who would clasp the forms of those we love to our hearts tonight. I, too, am a husband and father."

"That breeze," said the man from New York, "feels exactly like the ones that used to blow over the old farm in Montgomery County, and that 'orchard and meadow, and deep tangled wildwood,' etc., keep bobbing up in my memory tonight."

"How many of us," said the man with gold glasses, "realize the many pitfalls that Fate digs in our path? What a slight thing may sever the cord that binds us to life! There today, tomorrow gone forever from the world!"

"Too true," said the Philadelphia man, wiping his spectacles.

"And leave those we love behind," continued the other. "The affections of a lifetime, the love of the strongest hearts, ended in the twinkling of an eye. One loses the clasp of hands that would detain and drifts away into the sad, unknowable, other existence, leaving aching hearts to mourn forever. Life seems all a tragedy."

"Banged if you ain't rung the bell first shot," said the Chicago drummer. "Our affections get busted up something worse'n killing hogs."

The others frowned upon the Chicago drummer, for the man with gold glasses was about to speak again.

"We say," he went on, "that love will live forever, and yet when we are gone others step into our places and the wounds our loss had made are healed. And yet there is an added pang to death that those of us that are wise can avoid, the sting of death and the victory of the grave can be lessened. When we know that our hours are numbered, and when we lie with ebbing breath and there comes

'Unto dying ears the earliest pipe
Of half awakened birds;
And unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square,'

there is sweet relief in knowing that those we leave behind us are shielded from want.

"Gentlemen, we are all far from home and you know the risks of travel. I am representing one of the best accident insurance companies on earth, and I want to write every one of you. I offer you the finest death, partial disablement, loss of finger or toe, nervous shock, sick benefit policy known to--"

But the man with gold spectacles was talking to five empty chairs, and the moon slipped down below the roof of the market house with a sardonic smile.

Explaining It

A member of the Texas Legislature from one of the eastern counties was at the chrysanthemum show at Turner Hall last Thursday night, and was making himself agreeable to one of the lady managers.

"You were in the House at the last session, I believe?" she inquired.

"Well, madam," he said, "I was in the House, but the Senate had me for about forty-five dollars when we adjourned."

Her Failing

They were two Houston girls, and they were taking a spin on their wheels. They met a fluffy girl who didn't "bike," out driving with a young man in a buggy.

Of course they must say something about her--as this is a true story and they were real, live girls--so one of them said:

"I never did like that girl."

"Why?"

"Oh, she's too effeminate."

A Disagreement

"Dat Mr. Bergman, vot run de obera house, not dread me right," said a Houston citizen. "Ven I go dere und vant ein dicket to see dot 'Schpider und dot Vly' gompany de oder night, I asg him dot he let me in mit half brice, for I was teaf py von ear, and can not but one half of dot performance hear; und he dell me I should bay double brice, as it vould dake me dwice as long to hear de berformance as anypody else."

An E for a Knee

When Pilgrim fathers landed safe
On Plymouth Rock at last,
They bowed their heads and bent a knee,
And kept a holy fast.

But now to celebrate the day
We dine--to say the least--
We add an "e" into their plan
And change their fast to feast.

The Unconquerable

A man may avoid the Nin-com-poop
By flying fast and far.
And even subdue the Scalawag
By stratagems of war.

And he even may dodge the Fly-up-the-Creek
If he's lucky and does not fear;
And sometimes conquer the powerful chump.
Though the victory cost him dear.

And a brave man may do up the Galoot,
Though it be a terrible fight,
But no man yet has escaped from the clutch
Of the terrible Blatherskite.

An Expensive Veracity

A Houston man who attended a great many of Sam Jones's sermons was particularly impressed with his denunciation of prevaricators, and of lies of all kinds, white, variegated, and black.

So strongly was he affected and in such fertile ground did the seed sown by the great evangelist fall, that the Houston man, who had been accustomed occasionally to evade the truth, determined one morning he would turn over a new leaf and tell the truth in all things, big and little. So he commenced the day by scorning to speak even a word that did not follow the exact truth for a model.

At breakfast, his wife said:

"How are the biscuit, Henry?"

"Rather heavy," he answered, "and about half done."

His wife flounced out of the dining room and he ate breakfast with the children. Ordinarily Henry would have said, "They are very fine, my dear," and all would have been well.

As he went out the gate, his rich old aunt, with whom he had always been a favorite, drove up. She was curled, and stayed, and powdered to look as young as possible.

"Oh, Henry," she simpered. "How are Ella and the children? I would come in but I'm looking such a fright today I'm not fit to be seen."

"Yes," said Henry, "you do. It's a good thing your horse has a blind bridle on, for if he got a sight of you he'd run away and break your neck."

His aunt glared furiously at him and drove away without saying a word.

Henry figured it up afterward and found that every word he said to her cost him $8,000.

Grounds for Uneasiness

When Sousa's Band was in Houston a week or so ago, Professor Sousa was invited to dine with a prominent citizen who had met him while on a visit to the North.

This gentleman, while a man of high standing and reputation, has made quite a fortune by the closest kind of dealing. His economies in the smallest matters are a fruitful subject of discussion in his neighborhood, and one or two of his acquaintances have gone so far as to call him stingy.

After dinner Professor Sousa was asked to play upon the piano, of which instrument he is a master, and he did so, performing some lovely Beethoven sonatas, and compositions by the best masters.

While playing a beautiful adagio movement in a minor key, the Professor caught sight of his host casting uneasy glances out of the window and appearing very restless and worried. Presently the Houston gentleman came over to the piano and touched Professor Sousa on the shoulder.