Chapter V (2)

"Say," he said, "please play something livelier. Give us a jig or a quickstep--something fast and jolly."

"Ah," said the Professor, "this sad music affects your spirits then?"

"No," said the host, "I've got a man in the back yard sawing wood by the day, and he's been keeping time to your music for the last half hour."

It Covers Errors

Poetic fame can be won this way:
If you happen to have not a thing to say,
And you happen to be close-pressed for time,
And you can't for your life get a word to rhyme,
And your knowledge of English is somewhat small,
And you have no poetic turn at all,
And can't write a hand anybody can read.
You are in a first-rate way to succeed;
For who in the world can mix things worse
Than a popular writer of dialect verse?

Recognition

The new woman came in with a firm and confident tread. She hung her hat on a nail, stood her cane in the corner, and kissed her husband gayly as he was mixing the biscuit for supper.

"Any luck today, dearie?" asked the man as his careworn face took on an anxious expression.

"The best of luck," she said with a joyous smile. "The day has come when the world recognizes woman as man's equal in everything. She is no longer content to occupy a lower plane than his, and is his competitor in all the fields of action. I obtained a position today at fifty dollars per week for the entire season."

"What is the position?"

"Female impersonator at the new theater."

His Doubt

They lived in a neat little cottage on Prairie Avenue, and had been married about a year. She was young and sentimental and he was a clerk at fifty dollars per month. She sat rocking the cradle and looking at a bunch of something pink and white that was lying asleep, and he was reading the paper.

"Charlie," she said, presently, "you must begin to realize that you must economize and lay aside something each month for the future. You must realize that the new addition to our home that will bring us joy arid pleasure and make sweet music around our fireside must be provided for. You must be ready to meet the obligations that will be imposed upon you, and remember that another than ourselves must be considered, and that as our hands strike the chords so shall either harmony or discord be made, and as the notes mount higher and higher, we shall be held to account for our trust here below. Do you realize the responsibility?"

Charlie said "Yes," and then went out in the woodshed and muttered to himself: "I wonder whether she was talking about the kid, or means to buy a piano on the installment plan."

A Cheering Thought

A weary-looking man with dejected auburn whiskers, walked into the police station yesterday afternoon and said to the officer in charge:

"I want to give myself up. I expect you had better handcuff me and put me into a real dark cell where there are plenty of spiders and mice. I'm one of the worst men you ever saw, and I waive trial. Please tell the jailer to give me moldy bread to eat, and hydrant water with plenty of sulphur in it."

"What have you done?" asked the officer.

"I'm a miserable, low-down, lying, good-for-nothing, slandering, drunken, villainous, sacrilegious galoot, and I'm not fit to die. You might ask the jailer, also, to bring little boys in to look at me through the bars, while I gnash my teeth and curse in demoniac rage."

"We can't put you in jail unless you have committed some offense. Can't you bring some more specific charge against yourself?"

"No, I just want to give myself up on general principles. You see, I went to hear Sam Jones last night, and he saw me in the crowd and diagnosed my case to a _T_. Up to that time I thought I was a four-horse team with a yellow dog under the wagon, but Sam took the negative side and won. I'm a danged old sore-eyed hound dog; I wouldn't mind if you kicked me a few times before you locked me up, and sent my wife word that the old villain that has been abusin' her for twenty years has met his deserts."

"Aw, come now," said the officer, "I don't believe you are as bad as you think you are. You don't know that Sam Jones was talking about you at all. It might have been somebody else he was hitting. Brace up and don't let it worry you."

"Lemme see," said the weary-looking man reflectively. "Come to think of it there was one of my neighbors sitting right behind me who is the meanest man in Houston. He is a mangy pup, and no mistake. He beats his wife and has refused to loan me three dollars five different times. What Sam said just fits his case exactly. If I thought now--"

"That's the way to look at it," said the officer. "The chances are Sam wasn't thinking about you at all."

"Durned if I believe he was, now I remember about that neighbor of mine," said the penitent, beginning to brighten up. "You don't know what a weight you've taken off my mind. I was just feeling like I was one of the worst sinners in the world. I'll bet any man ten dollars he was talking right straight at that miserable, contemptible scalawag that sat right behind me. Say, come on and let's go out and take somethin', will you?"

The officer declined and the weary-looking man ran his finger down his neck and pulled his collar up into sight and said:

"I'll never forget your kindness, sir, in helping me out of this worry. It has made me feel bad all day. I am going out to the racetrack now, and take the field against the favorite for a few plunks. Good day, I shall always remember your kindness."

What It Was

There was something the matter with the electric lights Tuesday night, and Houston was as dark as Egypt when Moses blew the gas out. They were on Rusk Avenue, out on the lawn, taking advantage of the situation, and were holding as close a session as possible.

Presently she said:

"George, I know you love me, and I am sure that nothing in the world can change my affection for you, yet I feel that something has come between us, and although I have hesitated long to tell you, it is paining me very much."

"What is it, my darling?" asked George, in an agony of suspense. "Speak, my own, and tell me what it is that has come between you and me?"

"I think, George" she softly sighed, "it is your watch."

And George loosened his hold for a moment and shifted his Waterbury.

Vanity

A poet sang a song so wondrous sweet,
That toiling thousands paused and listened long;
So lofty, strong, and noble were his themes,
It seemed that strength supernal swayed his song.

He, god-like, chided poor, weak, weeping man,
And bade him dry his foolish, shameful tears.
Taught that each soul on its proud self should lean,
And from that rampart scorn all earth-born fears.

The poet groveled on a fresh-heaped mound
Raised o'er the grave of one he fondly loved,
And cursed the world, and drenched the sod with tears,
And all the flimsy mockery of his precepts proved.

Identified

A stranger walked into a Houston bank the other day and presented a draft to the cashier for payment.

"You will have to be identified," said the cashier, "by someone who knows your name to be Henry B. Saunders."

"But I don't know anybody in Houston," said the stranger. "Here's a lot of letters addressed to me, and a telegram from my firm, and a lot of business cards. Won't they be identification enough?"

"I am sorry," said the cashier, "but while I have no doubt that you are the party, our rule is to require better identification."

The man unbuttoned his vest and showed the initial, H. B. S., on his shirt. "Does that go?" he asked. The cashier shook his head. "You might have Henry B. Saunders' letters, and his papers, and also his shirt on, without being the right man. We are forced to be very careful."

The stranger tore open his shirt front, and exhibited a large mustard plaster, covering his entire chest. "There," he shouted, "if I wasn't Henry B. Saunders, do you suppose I would go around wearing one of his mustard plasters stuck all over me? Do you think I would carry my impersonation of anybody far enough to blister myself to look like him? Gimme tens and fives, now, I haven't got time to fool any more."

The cashier hesitated and then shoved out the money. After the stranger had gone, the official rubbed his chin gently and said softly to himself: "That plaster might be somebody else's after all, but no doubt it's all right."

The Apple

A youth held in his hand a round, red, luscious apple.

"Eat," said the Spirit, "it is the apple of life."

"I will have none of it," said the Youth, and threw it far from him. "I will have success. I will have fame, fortune, power and knowledge."

"Come, then," said the Spirit.

They went together up steep and rocky paths. The sun scorched, the rain fell upon them, the mountain mists clung about them, and the snow fell in beautiful and treacherous softness, obscuring the way as they climbed. Time swiftly passed and the golden locks of the Youth took on the whiteness of the snow. His form grew bent with the toil of climbing; his hand grew weak and his voice quivering and high.

The Spirit had not changed and upon his face was the inscrutable smile of wisdom.

They stood at last upon the topmost peak. The old man that was the Youth said to the Spirit: "Give me the apple of Success. I have come upon the heights where it grows and it is mine. Be quick, for there is a strange dimness in my sight."

The Spirit gave him an apple round and red and fair to behold.

The man bit into it and found rottenness and bitter dust.

"What is this?" he asked.

"It was the apple of Life," said the Spirit. "It is now the apple of Success."

How It Started

"You had better move your chair a little further back," said the old resident. "I saw one of the Judkinses go into the newspaper office just now with his gun, and there may be some shooting."

The reporter, who was in the town gathering information for the big edition, got his chair quickly behind a pillar of the hotel piazza, and asked what the trouble was about.

"It's an old feud of several years' standing," said the old resident, "between the editor and the Judkins family. About every two months they get to shooting at one another. Everybody in town knows about it. This is the way it started. The Judkinses live in another town, and one time a good-looking young lady of the family came here on a visit to a Mrs. Brown. Mrs. Brown gave her a big party--a regular high-toned affair, to get the young men acquainted with her. One young fellow fell in love with her, and sent a little poem to our paper, the _Observer_. This is the way it read:

To Miss Judkins
(Visiting Mrs. T. Montcalm Brown.)

"We love to see her wear
A gown of simple white.
Nothing but a rose in her hair
At Mrs. Brown's that night,
The fairest of them all
She stood, with blushes red,
While bright the gaslight shone
Upon her lovely head.

"That poem, now, was what started the feud."

"I don't see anything wrong with the poem," said the reporter. "It seems a little crude, but contains nothing to give offense."

"Well," said the old resident, "the poem was all right as it was written. The trouble originated in the newspaper office. The morning after it was sent in the society editress got hold of it first. She is an old maid and she didn't think the second line quite proper, so she ran her pencil through it. Then the advertising manager prowled around through the editor's mail as usual, and read the poem. Old Brown owed the office $17 back subscription, and the advertising manager struck out the fourth line. He said old Brown shouldn't get any free advertising in that office.

"Then the editor's wife happened to come in to see if there was any square, perfumed envelopes among his mail, and she read it. She was at the Brown's party herself, and when she read the line that proclaimed Miss Judkins 'The fairest of them all' she turned up her nose and scratched that out.

"Then the editor himself got hold of it. He is heavily interested in our new electric light plant, and his blue pencil jumped on the line 'While bright the gaslight shone' in a hurry. Later on one of the printers came in and grabbed a lot of copy, and this poem was among it. You know what printers will do if you give them a chance, so here is the way the poem came out in the paper:

To Miss Judkins
(Visiting Mrs. T. Montcalm Brown.)

"We loved to see her wear
Nothing but a rose in her hair.
She stood with blushes red
Upon her lovely head.

"And you see," continued the old resident, "the Judkinses got mad."

Red Conlin's Eloquence

They were speaking of the power of great orators, and each one had something to say of his especial favorite.

The drummer was for backing Bourke Cockran for oratory against the world, the young lawyer thought the suave Ingersoll the most persuasive pleader, and the insurance agent advanced the claims of the magnetic W. C. P. Breckenridge.

"They all talk some," said the old cattle man, who was puffing his pipe and listening, "but they couldn't hold a candle to Red Conlin, that run cattle below Santone in '80. Ever know Red?"

Nobody had had the honor.

"Red Conlin was a natural orator; he wasn't overcrowded with book learnin', but his words come free and easy, like whisky out of a new faucet from a full barrel. He was always in a good humor and smilin' clear across his face, and if he asked for a hot biscuit he did it like he was pleadin' for his life. He was one man who had the gift of gab, and it never failed him.

"I remember once, in Atascosa County, the hoss thieves worried us right smart. There was a gang of 'em, and they got runnin' off a caballaro every week or so. Some of us got together and raised a p'int of order and concluded to sustain it. The head of the gang was a fellow named Mullens, and a tough cuss he was. Fight, too, and warn't particular when. Twenty of us saddled up and went into camp, loaded down with six-shooters and Winchesters. That Mullens had the nerve to try to cut off our saddle horses the first night, but we heard him, got mounted, and went hot on his trail. There was five or six others with Mullens.

"It was dark as thunder, and pretty soon we run one of them down. His horse was lame, and we knew it was Mullens by his big white hat and black beard. We didn't hardly give him time to speak, we was so mad, but in two minutes there was a rope 'round his neck and Mullens was swung up at last. We waited about ten minutes till he was still, and then some fellow strikes a match out of curiosity and screeches out:

"'Gosh a'mighty, boys, we've strung up the wrong man!"

"And we had.

"We reopened the fellow's case and give him a new trial, and acquitted him, but it was too late to do him any good. He was as dead as Davy Crockett.

"It was Sandy McNeagh, one of the quietest, straightest, and best-respected men in the county, and what was worse, hadn't been married but about three months.

"'Whatever are we to do?' says I, and it sure was a case to think about.

"'We ought to be nigh Sandy's house now,' said one of the men, who was tryin' to peer around and kind of locate the scene of our brilliant coop detaw, as they say.

"Just then we seen a light from a door that opened in the dark, and the house wasn't two hundred yards away, and we saw what we knew must be Sandy's wife in the door a-lookin' for him.

"'Somebody's got to go and tell her,' said I. I was kind o' leadin' the boys. 'Who'll do it?' Nobody jumped at the proposition.

"'Red Conlin' says I, 'you're the man to tell her, and the only man here what could open his mouth to the poor girl. Go, like a man, and may the Lord teach you what to say, for d---d if I can.'

"That boy never hesitated. I saw him kind o' wet his hand, and smooth back his red curls in the dark, and I seen his teeth shinin' as he said:

"'I'll go, boys; wait for me.'

"He went and we saw the door open and let him in.

"'May the Lord help that poor widder,' we all said, 'and d--n us for bunglin', murderin' butchers what ain't no right to call ourselves men.'

"It was fifteen minutes, maybe, when Red came back.

"'How is it'?' we whispered, almost afraid to hear him speak.

"'It's fixed,' says Red, 'and the widdy and I asks ye to the weddin' nixt Chuesday night.'

"That fellow Red Conlin could talk."

Why He Hesitated

A man with a worn, haggard countenance that showed traces of deep sorrow and suffering rushed excitedly up the stairs into the editorial rooms of the Post.

The literary editor was alone in his corner and the man threw himself into a chair nearby and said:

"Excuse me, sir, for inflicting my troubles upon you, but I must unbosom myself to someone. I am the unhappiest of men. Two months ago, in a quiet little town in Eastern Texas, there was a family dwelling in the midst of peace and contentment. Hezekiah Skinner was the head of that family, and he almost idolized his wife, who appeared to completely return his affection. Alas, sir, she was deceiving him. Her protestations of love were but honeyed lies, intended to beguile and blind him. She had become infatuated with William Wagstaff, a neighbor, who had insidiously planned to capture her affections. She listened to Wagstaff's pleadings and fled with him, leaving her husband with a wrecked home and a broken heart. Can you not feel for me, sir?"

"I do, indeed," said the literary editor. "I can conceive the agony, the sorrow, the deep suffering that you must have felt."

"For two months," continued the man, "the home of Hezekiah Skinner has been desolate, and this woman and Wagstaff have been flying from his wrath."

"What do you intend to do?" asked the literary editor.

"I scarcely know. I do not care for the woman any longer, but I cannot escape the tortures my mind is undergoing day after day."

At this point a shrill woman's voice was heard in the outer office, making some inquiry of the office boy.

"Great heavens, her voice!" said the man, rising to his feet greatly agitated. "I must get out of here. Quick! Is there no way for me to escape? A window--a side door--anywhere before she finds me."

The literary editor rose with indignation in his face.

"For shame, sir," he said, "do not act so unworthy a part. Confront your faithless wife, Mr. Skinner, and denounce her for wrecking your life and home. Why do you hesitate to stand up for your honor and your rights?"

"You do not understand," said the man, his face white with fear and apprehension, as he climbed out the window upon a shed. "I am William Wagstaff."

Turkish Questions

Oh, Sultan, tell us quick, we pray
What was it Pasha Said?
And have they burned the vilayet?
So many tales we've read.

Who was it passed the Dardanelles?
And were they counterfeit?
And why was Kharput beaten so?
Was there much dust in it?

Oh, Ottoman, to do like you
Who Hassan eye to see
The woes your country has to hear--
Armenia heart must be!

And tell us, is the Bosphorus?
Or is it still for you?
Why is it that you every day
Mustafa head or two?

Somebody Lied

Two men went into a saloon on Main Street yesterday and braced up solemnly to the bar. One was an old man with gray whiskers, the other was a long, lanky youth, evidently his son. Both were dressed like farm hands and they appeared somewhat bewildered at the splendor of the saloon.

The bartender asked them what they would have.

The old man leaned across the bar and said hoarsely and mysteriously: "You see, mister, me an' Lem just sold a load of tomatters and green corn fer nineteen dollars en a half. The old woman at home figgered we'd git just sixteen dollars and a quarter fer the truck, so me and Lem is three twenty-five ahead. When folks makes a big strike they most al'ays gets drunk, and es me and Lem never was drunk, we says, we'll git drunk and see how it feels. The feelin's pretty bully, ain't it?"

"Some think so," said the bartender, "what'll you have?"

They both called for whisky and stood against the bar until they had taken some five or six drinks apiece.

"Feel good, Lem?" asked the old man.

"Not a dam bit," said the son.

"Don't feel like shoutin' and raisin' Cain?"

"No."

"Don't feel good at all?"

"No. Feel like the devil. Feel sick, en burnin' inside."

"Is yer head buzzin', Lem, and er achin'?"

"Yes, Dad, en is yer knees a kind er wobblin', en yer eyes a waterin'?"

"You bet, en is yer stummick er gripin' en does yer feel like yer had swallowed a wild cat en er litter of kittens?"

"Yes, Dad, and don't you wish we wuz to home, whar we could lie down in ther clover patch en kick?"

"Yes, sonny, this here is what comes of goin' back on yer ma. Does yer feel real bad?"

"Bad ez ther devil, Dad."

"Look a here, mister," said the old man to the bartender, "somebody has lied to us about the fun in gettin' drunk. We're a goin' home and never goin' to do it again. I'd ruther hev the blind staggers, the itch, en the cramp colic all to onct, then ter git drunk. Come on, sonny, en let's hunt the waggin."

Marvelous

There is one man we know who is about as clever a reasoner as this country has yet produced. He has a way of thinking out a problem that is sometimes little short of divination. One day last week his wife told him to make some purchases, and as with all his logical powers he is rather forgetful on ordinary subjects, she tied a string around his finger so he would not forget his errand. About nine o'clock that night while hurrying homeward, he suddenly felt the string on his finger and stopped short. Then for the life of him he could not remember for what purpose the string had been placed there.

"Let's see," he said. "The string was tied on my finger so I would not forget. Therefore it is a forget-me-not. Now forget-me-not is a flower. Ah, yes, that's it. I was to get a sack of flour."

The giant intellect had got in its work.

The Confession of a Murderer

He is dead and I killed him.

I gaze upon him, lying cold and still, with the crimson blood welling from his wound, and I laugh with joy. On my hand his life blood leaped and I hold it proudly aloft bearing it accusing stain and in my heart there is no pity, no remorse, no softness. Seeing him lie there crushed and pulseless is to me more than the pleasure of paradise. For months he escaped me. With all the intense hate I bore him at times, I felt admiration for his marvelous courage, his brazen effrontery, his absolute ignorance of fear. Why did I kill him? Because he had with a fixed purpose and a diabolical, persistent effrontery, conspired to rob me of that which is as dear to me as my life. Brave as I have said he was, he scarcely dared to cross my path openly, but with insidious cunning had ever sought to strike me a blow in the dark.

I did not fear him, but I knew his power, and I dared not give him his opportunity.

Many a sleepless night I have spent, planning some means to rid myself of his devilish machinations. He even attempted to torture me by seeking to harm her whom I love. He approached herewith the utmost care and cunning, wearing the guise of a friend, but striving to instill his poison into her innocent heart.

But, thank heaven, she was faithful and true and his honeyed songs and wiles had no effect. When she would tell me of his approaches, how I would grind my teeth and clench my hands in fury, and long for the time when I would wreak a just vengeance upon him. The time has come. I found him worn and helpless from cold and hunger, but there was no pity in my heart. I struck him down and reveled with heartfelt joy when I saw him sink down, bathed in blood, and die by my hands. I do not fear the consequences. When I tell my tale I will be upheld by all.

He is dead and I am satisfied.

I think he is the largest and fattest mosquito I ever saw.

"Get Off the Earth"

"Get off the earth," says I,
"With your muddy boots and your dirty face;
Such a bother I never see,
You're the biggest torment in the place;
Forever worryin' an' pesterin' me.

"Get off the earth," says I.
I didn't mean that, but I was so vexed
At the boy's disturbin' way;
I never knew what he would do next
In his noisy, mischief-makin' play.

"Get off the earth," says I.
And that very night the fever came;
And now I'm cryin' to heaven in vain
For just one more touch of them same
Lost little grimy hands again.

The Stranger's Appeal

He was tall and angular and had a keen gray eye and a solemn face. His dark coat was buttoned high and had something of a clerical cut. His pepper and salt trousers almost cleared the tops of his shoes, but his tall hat was undeniably respectable, and one would have said he was a country preacher out for a holiday. He was driving a light wagon, and he stopped and climbed out when he came up to where five or six men were sitting on the post-office porch in a little country town in Texas.

"My friends," he said, "you all look like intelligent men, and I feel it my duty to say a few words to you in regard to the terrible and deplorable state of things now existing in this section of the country. I refer to the horrible barbarities recently perpetrated in the midst of some of the most civilized of Texas towns, when human beings created in the image of their Maker were subjected to cruel torture and then inhumanly burned in the public streets. Something must be done to wipe the stigma from the fair name of your state. Do you not agree with me?"

"Are you from Galveston, stranger?" asked one of the men.

"No, sir. I am from Massachusetts, the cradle of liberty of the downtrodden negro, and the home of the champions of his cause. These burnings are causing us to weep tears of blood and I am here to see if I can not move your hearts to pity on his behalf."

"I guess you might as well drive on," said one of the group. "We are going to look out for ourselves and just so long as negroes keep on committing the crimes they have, just so long will we punish them."

"And you will not repent of the lives you have taken by the horrible agency of fire?"

"Nary repent."

"And you will continue to visit upon them the horrible suffering of being burned to death?"

"If the occasion demands it."

"Well, then, gentlemen, since you are so determined, I want to sell you a few gross of the cheapest matches you ever laid your eyes upon. Step out to the wagon and see them. Warranted not to go out in a strong wind, and to strike on anything, wood, bricks, glass, bloomers, boot soles and iron. How many boxes will you take, gentlemen?"

The Good Boy (Mostly in Words of One Syllable)

James was a good boy.

He w'ould not tease his cat or his dog.

He went to school.

One day as he went home he saw a lady cross the street, and some rude boys tried to guy her.

James took the lady by the hand and led her to a safe place.

"Oh, fie!" he said to the boys. "For shame, to talk so to the nice lady. A good, kind boy will be mild and love to help the old."

At this the boys did rail and laugh.

"Oh, boys," said James, "do not be rude and speak so harsh. At home, I have a dear old grandma, and this kind lady may be one, too."

The lady took James by the ear and said: "You contemptible little rapscallion. I've a good mind to spank you until you can't navigate. Grandmother, indeed! I'm only twenty-nine my last birthday, and I don't feel a day over eighteen. Now, you clear out, or I'll slap you good."

The Colonel's Romance

They were sitting around a stove and the tobacco was passed around. They began to grow introspective.

The talk turned upon their old homes and the changes that the cycling years bring about. They had lived in Houston for many years, but only one was a native Texan.

The colonel hailed from Alabama, the judge was born in the swamps of Mississippi, the grocer first saw the light in a frozen town of Maine, and the major proudly claimed Tennessee as his birthplace.

"Have any of you fellows been back home since you left there?" asked the colonel.

The judge had been back twice in twenty years, the major once, the grocer never.

"It's a curious feeling," said the colonel, "to go back to the old home where you were raised, after an absence of fifteen years. It is like seeing ghosts to be among people whom you have not seen in so long a time. Now I went back to Crosstree, Alabama, just fifteen years after I left there. The impression made upon me was one that never will be obliterated.

"There was a girl in Crosstree once that I loved better than anything in the world. One day I slipped away from everybody and went down to the little grove where I used to walk with her. I walked along the paths we used to tread. The oaks along the side had scarcely changed; the little blue flowers on either hand might have been the same ones she used to twine in her hair when she came to meet me.

"Our favorite walk had been along a line of thick laurels beyond which ran a little stream. Everything was the same. There was no change there to oppress my heart. Above were the same great sycamores and poplars; there ran the same brook; my feet trod the same path they had so often walked with her. It seemed that if I waited she would surely come again, tripping so lightly through the gloaming with her starry eyes, and nut-brown curls, and she loved me, too. It seemed then that nothing could ever have parted us--no doubt, no misunderstanding, no falsehood. But who can tell?

"I went to the end of the path. There stood the old hollow tree in which we used to place notes to each other. What sweet words that old tree could tell if it had known! I had fancied that during the rubs and knocks I had received from the world my heart had grown calloused, but such was not the case.

"I looked down into the hollow of the tree, and saw something white. It was a folded piece of paper, yellow and stained with age. I opened it and read it with difficulty.

"'Dearest Richard: You know I will marry you if you want
me to. Come round early tonight and I will give you my
answer in a better way. Your own Nellie.'

"Gentlemen, I stood there holding that little piece of paper in my hand like one in a dream. I had written her a note asking her to marry me and telling her to leave her answer in the old tree. She must have done so, and I never got it, and all those years had rolled away since."

The crowd was silent. The major wiped his eyes, and the judge sniffed a little. They were middle-aged men now, but they, too, had known love.

"And then," said the grocer, "you left right away for Texas and never saw her again?"

"No," said the colonel. "When I didn't come round that night she sent her father after me, and we were married two months later. She and the five kids are up at the house now. Pass the tobacco, please."

A Narrow Escape

A meek-looking man, with one eye and a timid, shuffling gait, entered a Houston saloon while no one was in except the bartender, and said:

"Excuse me, sir, but would you permit me to step behind the bar for just a moment? You can keep your eye on me. There is something there I wanted to look at."

The bartender was not busy, and humored him through curiosity.

The meek-looking man stepped around and toward the shelf back of the bar.

"Would you kindly remove that wine bottle and those glasses for a moment?"

The bartender did so, and disclosed a little plowed streak on the shelf and a small hole bored for quite a distance into the wall.

"Thanks, that's all," said the meek man, as he went around to the front again.

He leaned thoughtfully on the bar and said: "I shot that hole in there just nine years ago. I came in feeling pretty thirsty and had no money. The bartender refused me a drink and I commenced firing. That ball went through his ear and five bottles of champagne before it stopped. I then yelled quite loudly, and two men broke their arms trying to get out the door, and the bartender trembled so when he mixed a drink for me you would have thought he was putting up a milk shake for a girl who wanted to catch a street car."

"Yes?" said the bartender.

"Yes, sir, I am feeling a little out of sorts today, and it always makes me real cross and impatient when I get that way. A little gin and bitters always helps me. It was six times, I think, that I fired, the time I was telling you about. Straight whisky would do if the gin is out."

"If I had any fly paper," said the bartender, sweetly, "I would stick you on it and set you in the back window; but I am out, consequently, I shall have to adopt harsher measures. I shall tie a knot in this towel, and then count ten, and walk around the end of the bar. That will give you time to do your shooting, and I'll see that you let out that same old yell that you spoke of."

"Wait a moment," said the meek man. "Come to think of it, my doctor ordered me not to drink anything for six weeks. But you had a narrow escape all the same. I think I shall go down to the next drug store and fall in a fit on the sidewalk. That's good for some peppermint and aromatic spirits of ammonia, anyhow."

A Years Supply

He was one of the city's wealthiest men, but he made no ostentatious display of his wealth. A little, thin, poorly clad girl stood looking in the window of the restaurant at the good things to eat. The man approached and touched her on the shoulder.

"What is your name, little girl?" he asked.

"Susie Tompkins, sir," she answered, looking up at him with great, haunting, blue eyes.

There was something in her pleading, innocent voice that stirred a strange feeling in the millionaire's heart. Still it may have been indigestion.

"Have you a father?" he asked.

"Oh, no, sir, mother has only me to support."

"Is your mother very poor?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"What is your mother's name?"

"Susan, sir. Just like mine."

"Tell me, child," said the wealthy man, clutching her arm in an agony of suspense. "Has your mother a wart on her nose, and does her breath smell of onions?"

"Yes, sir."

The millionaire covered his face with his hands for a moment, and then said in a trembling voice:

"Little one, your mother and I once knew each other. You have her voice, her hair, and her eyes. If it had not been for a misunderstanding--perhaps--but that is all past now."

The man unbuttoned his overcoat and took from his vest pocket a package.

"Take this," he said. "I have more than I want. It will last you and your mother a year."

The little girl took the package and ran home in glee.

"Oh, see, mama!" she cried. "A gentleman gave me this. He said it would last us a whole year."

The pale woman unrolled the package with trembling hands.

It was a nice new calendar.

Eugene Field

No gift his genius might have had
Of titles high, in church and state,
Could charm him as the one he bore,
Of children's poet-laureate.

He smilingly pressed aside his bays
And laurel garlands that he won,
And bowed his head for baby hands
To place a daisy wreath upon.

He found his kingdom in the ways,
Of little ones he loved so well,
For them he tuned his lyre and sang.
Sweet simple songs of magic spell.

Ah! greater feat to storm the gates
Of children's pure and cleanly hearts,
Than to subdue a warring world
By stratagems and doubtful arts.

A tribute paid by chanting choirs
And pealing organs rises high;
But soft and clear, somewhere he hears
Through all, a child's low lullaby.

Slightly Mixed

A certain Houston racing man was married some months ago. He also is the proud possessor of a fine two-year-old filly that has made five and a half furlongs in 1:09 and he expects her to do better at the next races. He has named the filly after his wife and both of them are dear to his heart. A Post man who ran across him yesterday found him quite willing to talk.

"Yes," he said, "I am the happiest man in Texas. Bessie and I are keeping house now and getting quite well settled down. That filly of mine is going to do wonders yet. Bessie takes as much interest in her as I do. You know I have named her for my wife. She is a thoroughbred. I tell you it's fine to see her trotting around at home."

"Who, the filly?"

"No, my wife. She's going to bet twelve dozen pairs of kid gloves on Bessie next time she goes in. I have but one objection to her. She goes with her head on one side and is cross-legged, and tears off her shoes.

"Your w-w-wife?"

"No, what's the matter with you? The filly. It pleases me very much to have my friends inquire about Bessie. She is getting to be quite a favorite. I had hard work to get her, too. She trots double without a break."

"The filly, you mean?"

"No, my wife. I took Bessie out driving with the filly yesterday. Bessie's a daisy. She's a little high in one shoulder, and a trifle stiff in one leg, but her wind is all right. What do you think of her back?"

"Really, I--I--I never had the pleasure of meeting your wife, but I have no doubt--"

"What are you talking about? I mean the filly. The races come off just on the anniversary of our marriage. The races are going to be a big thing. You know we have been married just a year. I expect Bessie to do wonders. There's a newcomer going to be here, that we are looking for with much interest. You must really come out and see our first event."

"I--I--I really, it would be indelicate--you must really excuse me. I never saw anything of the kind. I--I--"

"Oh, there's nothing wrong about horse racing. It's fine sport. So long now. I've got to go and take Bessie out and sweat her a little."

Knew What Was Needed

A gentleman from Ohio, who has come South on a hunting trip, arrived in Houston, rather late one night last week, and on his way to a hotel stopped in a certain saloon to get a drink. A colored man was behind the bar temporarily and served him with what he wanted. The gentleman had his shotgun in its case, and he laid it upon the bar while waiting.

"Is there any game about here?" he asked, after paying for his drink.

"I guess dey is, boss," said the colored man, looking doubtfully at the gun on the counter, "but you jest wait a minute, boss, till I fixes you up in better shape."

He opened a drawer and handed the gentleman a six-shooter.

"You take dis, Boss," he said. "Dat dar gun ob yourn am too long fur you to get quick action in de game what we hab here. Now you jest go up dem steps and knock free times on de doah to your left."

Some Ancient News Notes

It will be remembered that a short while ago, some very ancient documents and records were discovered in an old monastery on Mt. Sinai, where they have been kept filed away by the monks among their dusty archives. Some of them antedate the oldest writings previously known by one hundred years. The finders claim that among them are the original Scripture traced in Syriac language, and that they differ in many material ways from the translation in use. We have procured some advance sheets from the discoverers and in a few fragments given below our readers will perceive that human nature was pretty much the same a thousand years ago. It is evident from the palimpsests in our possession that newspapers were not entirely unknown even at that early date. We give some random translations from the original manuscripts:

* * * * *

"Commodore Noah, one of our oldest citizens, predicts a big rain soon. The commodore is building an up-to-date houseboat and expects to spend about six weeks afloat with his family and his private menagerie."

* * * * *

"Colonel Goliath of Gath, and the new middleweight, Mr. David, are at their old tricks again blowing about the championship. Mr. David has one hand in a sling, but says he will be all right when the affair is pulled off. A little more fighting and less talking would please the readers of the Daily Cymbal."

* * * * *

"Ladies, get one of those new fig leaves at the Eden Bazaar before the style is dropped."

* * * * *

"The exposition at Shinar is going to be a grand success. Work on the New Woman's Building called the Tower of Babel has been stopped on account of a misunderstanding. The lady managers have been holding meetings in the Tower for some time."

* * * * *

"See Professor Daniel and his performing lions next Sunday."

* * * * *

"Colonel Job, who has been suffering from quite a siege of boils at his residence on Avenue C, was arrested yesterday for cussing and disturbing the neighborhood. The colonel has generally a very equable temper, but completely lost his balance on finding that Mrs. Job had put a large quantity of starch in his only night robe."

* * * * *

"About 1,500 extra deputy clerks were put on by the county clerk yesterday to assist in getting out summonses for witnesses in the divorce case recently brought by Judge Solomon against the last batch of his wives."

A Sure Method

The editor sat in his palatially furnished sanctum bending over a mass of manuscripts, resting his beetling brow upon his hand. It wanted but one hour of the time of going to press and there was that editorial on the Venezuelan question to write. A pale, intellectual youth approached him with a rolled manuscript tied with a pink ribbon.

"It is a little thing," said the youth, "that I dashed off in an idle moment."

The editor unrolled the poem and glanced down the long row of verses. He then drew from his pocket a $20 bill and held it toward the poet. A heavy thud was heard, and at the tinkle of an electric bell the editor's minions entered and carried the lifeless form of the poet away.

"That's three today," muttered the great editor as he returned the bill to his pocket. "It works better than a gun or a club and the coroner always brings in a verdict of heart failure."