Chapter XVI: Part IV (10)

She invited us to come on the twelfth of August. It takes all day to get there. She lives at Little River in New Hampshire, way up. You have to wait at South Lawrence in a poky little depot, and you get some played out--at least I don't, but Jill does. So we bought a paper and Jill sat up and read it. When he'd sat a minute and read along--

"Look here!" said he.

"Look where?" said I.

"Why, there's going to be a comet," said Jill.

"Who cares?" said I.

Jill laid down the paper, and crunched a pop-corn all up before he answered that, then said he, "I don't see why father didn't tell us. I suppose he thought we'd be frightened, or something. Why, s'posing the world did come to an end? That's what this paper says. 'It is pre--' where is my place? Oh! I see--'predicted by learned men that a comet will come into con-conjunction with our plant'--no--'our planet this night. Whether we shall be plunged into a wild vortex of angry space, or suffocated with n-o-x--noxious gases, or scorched to a helpless crisp, or blasted at once, eternal an-ni-hi--'" A gust of wind grabbed the paper out of Jill's hand just then, and took it out of the window; so I never heard the rest.

"Father isn't a goose," said I. "He didn't think it worth while mentioning. He isn't going to be afraid of a comet at his time of life." So we didn't think any more about the comet till we got to Aunt John's, where we found company. It wasn't a relation, only an old school friend, and her name was Miss Togy; she had come without an invitation, but had to have the spare room because she was a lady. That was how Jill and I came to be put in the little chimney bedroom.

That little chimney bedroom is the funniest place you ever slept in. There had been a chimney once, and it ran up by the window, and grandfather had it taken away. It was a big, old-fashioned chimney, and it left the funniest little gouge in the room, so the bed went in as nice as could be. We couldn't see much but the ceiling when we got to bed.

"It's pretty dark," said Jill; "I shouldn't wonder if it did blow up a storm a little--wouldn't it scare--Miss--Bogy!"

"Togy," said I.

"Well, T-o--" said Jill; and right in the middle of it he went off as sound as a weasel.

The next thing I can remember is a horrible noise. I can't think of but one thing in this world it was like, and that isn't in this world so much. I mean the last trumpet, with the angel blowing as he blows in my old primer. The next thing I remember is hearing Jill sit up in bed--for I couldn't see him, it was so dark--and his piping out the other half of Miss Togy's name just as he had left it when he went to sleep.

"Gy--Bogy!--Fogy!--Soaky!--Oh," said Jill, coming to at last, "I thought--why, what's up?"

I was up, but I couldn't tell what else was for a little while. I went to the window. It was as dark as a great rat-hole out-of-doors, all but a streak of lightning and an awful thunder, as if the world was cracking all to pieces.

"Come to bed!" shouted Jill, "you'll get struck, and then that will kill me."

I went back to bed, for I didn't know what else to do, and we crawled down under the clothes and covered ourselves all up.

"W-would--you--call--Aunt--John?" asked Jill. He was most choked. I came up for air.

"No," said I, "I don't think I'd call Aunt John." I should have liked to call her by that time, but then I should have felt ashamed.

"I s'pose she has got her hands full with Miss Croaky, anyway," chattered Jill, bobbing up and under again. By that time the storm was the worst storm I had ever seen in my life. It grew worse and worse--thunder, lightning, and wind--wind, lightning, and thunder; rain and roar and awfulness. I don't know how to tell how awful it was.

In the middle of the biggest peal we'd had yet, up jumped Jill. "Jack!" said he, "that comet!" I'd never thought of the comet till that minute; I felt an ugly feeling and cold all over. "It is the comet!" said Jill. "It is the day of judgment, Jack."

Then it happened. It happened so fast I didn't even have time to get my head under the clothes. First there was a creak, then a crash, then we felt a shake as if a giant pushed his shoulder up through the floor and shoved us. Then we doubled up. And then we began to fall. The floor opened, and we went through. I heard the bed-post hit as we went by. Then I felt another crash; then we began to fall again; then we bumped down hard. After that we stopped falling. I lay still. My heels were doubled up over my head. I thought my neck would break. But I never dared to stir, for I thought I was dead. By and by I wondered if Jill were dead too, so I undoubled my neck a little and found some air. It seemed just as uncomfortable to breathe without air when you were dead as when you weren't.

I called out softly, "Jill!" no answer. "Jill!" not a sound. "O--Jill!" But he did not speak, so then I knew Jill must be dead, at any rate. I couldn't help wondering why he was so much deader than I that he couldn't answer a fellow. Pretty soon I heard a rustling noise under my feet, then a weak, sick kind of a voice, just the kind of a noise I always supposed ghosts would make if they could talk.

"Jack?"

"Is that you, Jill?"

"I--suppose--so. Is it you, Jack?"

"Yes. Are you dead?"

"I don't know. Are you?"

"I guess I must be if you are. How awfully dark it is."

"Awfully dark! It must have been the comet."

"Yes; did you get much hurt?"

"Not much--I say, Jack?"

"What?"

"It is the judgment day."

Jill broke up, so did I; we lay as still as we could. If it were the judgment day--"Jill!" said I.

"Oh, dear me!" sobbed Jill.

We were both crying by that time, and I don't feel ashamed to own up, either.

"If I'd known," said I, "that the day of judgment was coming on the twelfth of August, I wouldn't have been so mean about that jack-knife of yours with the notch in it."

"And I wouldn't have eaten your luncheon that day last winter when I got mad at you," said Jill.

"Nor we wouldn't have cheated mother about smoking, vacations," said I.

"I'd never have played with the Bailey boys out behind the barn," said Jill.

"I wonder where the comet went to?" said I.

"'Whether we shall be plunged into,'" quoted Jill, in a horrible whisper, from that dreadful newspaper, "'shall be plunged into a wild vortex of angry space--or suffocated with noxious gases--or scorched to a helpless crisp--or blasted--'"

"When do you think they will come after us?" I interrupted Jill.

That very minute somebody came. We heard a step and then another, then a heavy bang. Jill howled out a little. I didn't, for I was thinking how the cellar door banged like that. Then came a voice, an awful hoarse and trembling voice as ever you heard.

"George Zacharias!"

Then I knew it must be the judgment day and that the angel had me in court to answer him, for you couldn't expect an angel to call you Jack after you was dead.

"George Zacharias!" said the awful voice again. I didn't know what else to do, I was so frightened, so I just hollered out "Here!" as I do at school.

"Timothy!" came the voice once more.

Now Jill had a bright idea. Up he shouted, "Absent!" at the top of his lungs.

"George! Jack! Jill! where are you? Are you killed? Oh, wait a minute and I'll bring a light."

This did not sound so much like judgment day as it did like Aunt John. I began to feel better. So did Jill. I sat up. So did he. It wasn't a minute till the light came into sight, and something that looked like a cellar door, the cellar steps, and Aunt John's spotted wrapper, and Miss Togy in a night-gown, away behind as white as a ghost. Aunt John held the light above her head and looked down. I don't believe I shall ever see an angel that will make me feel any better to look at than Aunt John did that night.

"O you blessed boys!" said Aunt John--she was laughing and crying together. "To think that you should have fallen through the old chimney to the cellar floor and be sitting there alive in such a funny heap as that!"

And that was just what we had done. The old flooring (not very secure) had given away in the storm; and we'd gone down through two stories, where the chimney ought to have been, jam! into the cellar on the coal heap, and all as good as ever excepting the bedstead.

FOOTNOTE:

[66] From "Trot's Wedding Journey."

DE APPILE TREE[67]

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Dat's a mighty quare tale, 'bout de appile tree
In de pah'dise gyardin, whar Adam runned free,
Whar de butter-flies drunk honey wid ole mammy bee.
Talk about yo good times, I bet you he had 'em--Adam--
Adam en Eve, an' de appile tree.

He woke one mawnin wid a pullin at he sleeve;
He open his eye, an' dar was Eve--
He shook her han', wid a "Honey, don' grieve.
You's de only gal on earth for me
An' dats de truf, believe."
Talk about yo good times, I'll bet you dey had 'em--Adam--
Adam en Eve, an' de appile tree.

Den Eve took a bite er de appile fruit
En Adam he bit, en den dey scoot.
Dar's whar de niggah leahn de quick cally hoot,
Ben a runnin' ever since from somebody's boot.
En runned en hide behin' de fig tree--Adam--
Adam en Eve behin' de fig tree.

Dey had der frolics, en dey had dere flings,
Den arter dat, de fun tuck wings,
Honey's mighty sweet, but bees has stings
An' dey came into de shadder dat de storm cloud brings.
Talk about yo hahd times, u-h-m uhm,
I bet you dey had 'em--Adam--
Adam en Eve behin' de fig tree.

Kase outer de gyardin dey had fur tuh skin.
Ter fin' de crack whar Satan crept in
Dey sarch fur and wide, dey sarch mighty well.
Eve, she knowed, but she 'fused fur ter tell.
Ole Satan's trail was all rubbed out
'Ceppen a track er two, whar he walked about.
Talk about troubles, I bet you dey had 'em--Adam--
Adam en Eve, en all dere kin.

Well, when dey got back de gate wuz shut.
An' dat wuz de pay, what Adam got.
In dat gyardin he went no moh.
De ober-seer gib him a shobel en a hoe,
A mule, en a plow, en a swingle tree,
Talk about yo hahd times, I bet you dey had 'em--Adam--
En all uh his chillen bofe slave en free.

En de chillen ob Adam, en de chillen's kin,
Dey all got smeared wid de pitch ob sin.
Dey shut dere eyes, to de great here-atter,
En flung sin aroun', wid a turrible splatter.
En cahooted wid Satan, en dat wat de matter--
An' troubles, well. I bet you dey had 'em--Adam--
De chillen ob Adam, what forgot ter pray, dey had 'em,
And dey keep on a hadden 'em down tuh dis day.

But dat wa'n't de las' ob de appile tree,
Kase she scatter her seeds bofe fur en free,
And dat's whut de mattah wid you en me,
I knows de feelin's what brought on de fall,
Dat same ole appile, an' ole Satan's call,
Lor' bless yo chile, I knows 'em all.

I'm kinder lop-sided en pigeon toed
But jes' you watch me keep in de middle ob de road.
Kase de troubles I'se got is a mighty heavy load.
Talk about troubles, I got 'em en had 'em,
Same as Adam.

An' don' yo see I mighty well know
Dat I got 'em from Adam long ago,
From Adam en Eve en de appile tree,
When dey runned free
In de pahdise gyardin
Wid butter-flies en honey bee?

FOOTNOTE:

[67] By permission of D. Appleton & Co.

MR. DOOLEY ON LA GRIPPE MICROBES

FINLEY PETER DUNNE

Mr. Dooley was discovered making a seasonable beverage consisting of one part syrup, two parts quinine and fifteen parts strong waters.

"What's the matter?" asked Mr. McKenna.

"I have th' lah gr-rip," said Mr. Dooley, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. "Bad cess to it! Oh, me poor back! It feels as if a dhray had r-run over it. Did ye iver have it? Ye did not. Well, ye'er lucky. Ye'er a lucky man.

"I wint to McGuire's wake las' week. They give him a dacent sind-off. No porther. An' himsilf looked natural--as fine a corpse as iver Gavin laid out. Gavin tould me so himsilf. He was as pr-roud iv McGuire as if he ownded him; fetched half th' town in to look at him an' give ivery wan iv thim his ca-ards. He near frightened ol' man Dugan into a faint. 'Misther Dugan, how old a-are ye?' 'Sivinty-five, thanks be,' says Dugan. 'Thin,' says Gavin, 'take wan iv me ca-ards,' he says. 'I hope ye'll not forget me,' he says.

"'Twas there I got th' lah grip. Lasteways 'tis me opinion iv it, though th' docther says I swallowed a bug. It don't seem right, Jawn, f'r th' McGuires is a clane fam'ly, but th' docther says a bug got into me system. 'What sort iv bug?' says I. 'A lah grip bug,' he says. 'Yez have Mickrobes in ye'er lung,'he says. 'What's thim?' says I. 'Thims th' lah grip bugs,' says he. 'Ye took wan in an' warmed it,' he says, 'an' it has growed an' multiplied till ye'er system does be full iv thim,' he says, 'millions iv thim,' he says, 'ma-archin' an' counthermarchin' through ye.' 'Glory be to th' saints,' says I. 'Had I betther swallow some insect powdher?' I says. 'Some iv thim in me head has had a fallin' out an' is throwin' bricks.' 'Foolish man,' says he. 'Go to bed,' he says, 'an lave thim alone,' he says. 'Whin they find who they're in,' he says, 'they'll quit ye.'

"So I wint to bed an' waited, while th' Mickrobes had fun with me. Monday all iv thim was quiet but thim in me stummick. They stayed up late dhrinkin' an' carousin' an' dancin' jigs till wur-ruds come up bechune th' Kerry Mickrobes an' thim fr'm Wixford an' th' whole pa-arty wint over to me lift lung, where they could get th' air, an' had it out. Th' nex' day th' little Mickrobes made a toboggan slide iv me spine an' manetime some Mickrobes that was wur-r-kin' f'r th' tiliphone comp'ny got it in their heads that me legs was poles, an' put on their spikes an' climbed all night long.

"They was tired out th' nex' day till about 5 o'clock, whin thim that was in me head begin flushin' out th' rooms an' I knew they're was goin' to be doings in th' top flat. What did thim Mickrobes in me head do but invite all th' other Mickrobes in f'r th' avnin'. They all come. Oh, by gar, they was not wan iv thim stayed away. At 6 o'clock they begun to move fr'm me shins to me thrawt. They come in platoons an' squads an' dhroves. Some iv thim brought along brass bands an' more thin wan hundred thousand iv thim dhruv through me pipes in dhrays. A throlley line was started up me back an ivry car r-run into a wagon load iv scrap iron at th' base iv me skull.

"Th' Mickrobes in me head must've done thimsilves proud. Ivery few minutes some wan iv th' kids 'd be sint out with th' can an' I'd say to mesilf: 'There they go, carryin' th' trade to Schwartzmeister's because I'm sick an' can't wait on thim.' I was daffy, Jawn, d'ye mind? Th' likes iv me fillin' a pitcher f'r a little boy-bug! Ho, ho! Such dhreams. An' they had a game iv forty-fives, an' there was wan Mickrobe there that larned to play th' game in th' County Tipp'rary, where 'tis played on stone, an' iv'ry time he led thrumps he'd like to knock me head off. 'Who's thrick is that?' says th' Tipp'rary Mickrobe. 'Tis mine,' says a little red-headed Mickrobe fr'm th' County Roscommon. They tipped over th' chairs an' tables, an' in less time thin it takes to tell th' whole pa-arty was at it. They'd been a hurlin' game in th' back iv me skull an' th' young folks was dancin' breakdowns an' havin' leppin' matches in me forehead, but they all stopped to mix in. Oh, 'twas a grand shindig--tin millions iv thim min, women an' childher rowlin' on th' flure, hands an' feet goin', icepicks an' hurlin' sticks, clubs, brickbats an' beer kags flyin' in th' air. How manny iv thim was kilt I'll niver know, f'r I wint as daft as a hen an' dhreamt iv organizin' a Mickrobe Campaign club, that'd sweep th' prim'ries an' maybe go acrost an' free Ireland. Whin I woke up me legs was as weak as a day-old babby's an' me poor head impty as a cobbler's purse. I want no more iv thim. Give me anny bug fr'm a cockroach to an aygle save an' excipt thim wist iv Ireland fenians--th' Mickrobes."

A DOCTRINAL DISCUSSION

HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS

Looking wearily over the far-stretching fields of corn, the leaves twisting in the heat, and contemplating the discouraging cotton prospect, old Uncle Henry, the plantation carpenter, said, half jestingly to a negro passing, "Uncle Ben, why don't you pray for rain?"

"Ef I had faith enough, I could fetch er rain, for don't de Book say, ef you have faith as er mustard seed you can move mountains? I say you done parted from de faith, Unc' Henry. Ef you was still en de faith, an' ask anythin', you goin' ter git it."

"Why don't you ask fer er million dollars; what you hoein' out dah en de sun fer, when all you got ter do is ter ask de Lord fer money?"

"Dat ain't de question, dat ain't hit. You dodgin' now!"

"No, I ain't dodgin'--"

"Yes, you is. De Lord don't sen' ter people what dey axes fer deyse'ves. He only sen' blessin's. Ef I ax fer er million er money, hit 'u'd be 'cause I'd natch'ly want ter quit work, an' dat's erg'in' his law. By de sweat er de brow de Book says, dat's how hit's got ter come ef hit come lawful."

"Well, why don't you git rain, then? Hyah's Mr. Ed'ards waitin' an' waitin' fer rain, payin' you ter hoe, an' one good rain 'd do more fer him 'n all the hoein' in the worl'."

"I didn't say I could fetch rain, Unc' Henry, I didn't say hit!"

"What did you say then?"

"I said, ef I had faith."

"You b'lieve ef you had faith you could fetch er rain?"

"Yes, I do!"

"Well, ain't dat faith? Ef you b'lieve hit, hit's faith. Trouble is, you don't b'lieve hit yo'se'f."

"Yes I do. You done parted from de faith, Unc' Henry, dat's what ails you."

"No, I ain't parted from no faith, but I got too much sense ter b'lieve any man can git rain by asking fer hit."

"Don't de Book say, 'Ask, an' you shall receive'?"

"Not rain. Hit mean grace. When hit comes ter rain, de Lord don't let nobody fool wid him; he look atter de rain, 'specially hisse'f. Why, man, look at hit right! S'pose two men side by side pray diffunt--an' wid faith--what happen? Yonder's Mr. Ed'ards's oats ter be cut nex' week, an' on 'tother side de fence Unc' Jim's gyarden burnin' up. Mr. Ed'ards wants dry weather, an' Jim want rain, an' dey bofe pray deir own way! Bofe got faith, now, bofe got faith, an' one pray fer rain while t'other pray fer dry weather; what de Lord goin' do? Is he goin' ter split er rain on dat fence? Answer me! Don't turn yo' back ter me; answer me, Ben!"

"You want my answer?"

"Yes, I want hit. Don't stan' dah a stammerin'! What de Lord goin' do?"

"You want my answer? Well, hyah 'tis. De Lord 'u'd sen' 'nough rain to help de gyarden, but not 'nough ter hurt de oats. Dat's my answer!"

"You don't know what you all talkin' bout! Send 'nough rain ter help de gyarden, an' not 'nough to hurt de oats! You reckon Mr. Ed'ards let er nigger stay on dis place an' pray fer rain when he cuttin' oats? You reckon er nigger goin' ter come hyah an' run er market-gyarden wid 'im on sheers, an' him er prayin' fer dry wedder when cabbage oughter be headin' up? No, sah! You c'n pray fer grace, an' when you gits grace you're all right, rain er no rain; but you better not resk yo'se'f on rain. Folks got ter have somebody ter settle when hit shall rain, an' when hit sha'n't rain. Faith ain' got nothin' ter do 'ith hit. It takes horse sense. Why, ef de Lord was ter tie er rope to de flood-gates, an' let hit down hyah ter be pulled when dey need rain, somebody'd git killed ev'y time dey pulled hit. Folks wid oats ter cut 'u'd lie out wid dey guns an' gyard dat rope, an' folks wid cabbages 'd be sneakin' up in de dyark tryin' ter git hold er hit. Fus' thing you know, er cem'tery grow up roun' dyah an' nobody lef' ter pull de rope!"

"Faith 'u'd fetch it. Yes, sah, hit'll fetch hit."

"You got any?"

"Not 'nough ter fetch rain."

"Yo' fam'bly got any?"

"Not 'nough fer rain."

"Well den it look like faith es 'bout as scyarce an' hard ter git as rain. Has Macedony Church got any?"

"Plenty."

"Got 'nough fer rain?"

"Plenty."

"Well den you go down dyah to prayer-meeting ter-night; an' take yo' fambly, an' all de niggers in de settlement what' got faith,--don't get none but faith niggers,--an' see ef you git er rain. You git rain, an' I'll give up. I hyah you all been prayin' fer me ter come in chu'ch--cause de ole roof wants patchin' I reckon. Git de rain an' you gits me too. Go on, an' try hit. I ain't got no time ter waste. Fus' thing you know, rain'll be pourin' down, an' dat dah chu'ch'll be leakin' faster'n a sieve. You goin' ter git rain, Ben?"

"Yes, I'm going' ter try. An' ef we have faith we'll git hit. Hit's a dry moon; ain't narry drop of water dyah, but faith c'n do hit."

The next morning a thin little cloud floated out of the brazen east, a mere ghost of a cloud, and from it was sifted down for about two minutes the poorest apology that nature ever made to injured verdure. Soon it passed into nothingness, and the full sun blazed over the parched land once more. A triumphant laugh was heard out where the hands were hoeing, and Ben's voice was recognized above all the others. They were congratulating him upon his success, when up came old Henry, his sack of carpenter's tools on his back. Ben shouted,

"Hello, Unc' Henry. I told you we'd fetch hit."

"Ben, did you say hit only taks faith as er grain er mustard seed ter move er mountain?"

"Yes, sah."

"Well now, hyah's de whole of Macedony Church, full of faith niggers, a prayin' for rain, an' de whole pack o' 'em can't lay de dust!"

FINNIGIN TO FLANNIGAN[68]

S. W. GILLILAN

Superintindint wuz Flannigan;
Boss of the siction wuz Finnigin;
Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack
An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back,
Finnigin writ it to Flannigan,
Afther the wrick wuz all on agin.
That is, this Finnigin
Repoorted to Flannigan.

Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan
He writ tin pages--did Finnigin.
An' he tould jist how the smash occurred--
Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd
Did Finnigin write to Flannigan
Afther the cars had gone on agin.
That wuz how Finnigin
Repoorted to Flannigan.

Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin--
Had more idjucation--had Flannigan;
An' it wore 'm clane an' complately out
To tell what Finnigin writ about
In his writin' to Muster Flannigan.
So he writed back to Finnigin:
"Don't do sich a sin agin!
Make 'em brief, Finnigin!"

Whin Finnigin got this frum Flannigan,
He blushed rosy rid--did Finnigin;
An' he said: "I'll gamble a whole moonth's pa-ay
That it will be minny an' minny a da-ay
Befoore Sup'rintindint--that's Flannigan--
Gits a whack at this very same sin agin.
From Finnigin to Flannigan
Repoorts won't be long agin."

Wan da-ay on the siction of Finnigin,
On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan,
A rail give way on a bit av a curve,
An' some kyears went off as they made the swerve.
"There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin,
"But repoorts must be made to Flannigan,"
An' he winked at McGorrigan
As married a Finnigin.

He wus shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin,
As minny a railroader's been agin,
An' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin' bright
In Finnigin's shanty all that night--
Bilin' down his repoort, wuz Finnigin.
An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan:
Off agin, on agin,
Gone agin.--Finnigin."

FOOTNOTE:

[68] By permission of the author.

GAVROCHE AND THE ELEPHANT[69]

VICTOR HUGO

[A story of how Gavroche, a street gamin of Paris, uses for a home
the monument built in the form of a huge elephant, which Napoleon
Bonaparte erected in 1823.]

The forest has a bird. Paris a child. The bird is called a sparrow. The child--a gamin. This little being is joyous; he has not food every day; no shoes on his feet; not much clothing on his body. He runs, he swears like a convict, he haunts all the wine shops, knows all the thieves--but he has no evil in his heart. Little Gavroche was one of these. He had been dispatched into life with a kick and had simply taken flight. The pavements were less hard to him than his mother's heart.

One evening, little Gavroche was skipping along an alley, hands in his pockets and singing merrily, when he came upon a young man who had a wild, happy look in his eye, but no hat on his head.

"Whoa there, monsieur, where's your roof? You've got enough light in them blinkers of yours to light up my apartments--say, monsieur, you're either crazy or you've had an awful good time!"

"Be off with you, imp."

"Say, did you know there wus a goin' ter be war in this town in a few days and I'm goin' to enlist as general of the army--Forward--March--Say, monsieur, I believe I know you, yes, sir, I've seen you down in that Napoleon meetin' way down there in that cellar--"

"Oh, be off with you, imp!"

"Yes, sir, I'm goin' now. Sorry I can't walk with you further, but business calls me in the other direction.

"Good evenin', monsieur--Watch out there. Can't ye see where yer goin'? Little more an' ye'd been eatin' the dandelions! Good evenin', monsieur!"

A little further down the street, Gavroche was standing scrutinizing a shop window, when two little children came up to him crying.

"What's the matter with you, brats?"

"Boo-hoo--we--ain't got no place to sleep."

"The idea a bawlin' about that. Come along with me, I'll give ye a place to sleep. Say, hev ye got any shiners?"

"Boo-hoo--no--sir!"

"Well, come along with me. I'm rich. Ye can't hear 'em rattle, but all is not gold that rattles."

"Monsieur, we--boo-hoo--we asked that barber man over there to let us get warm in his store and--and--he wouldn't do--it--boo-hoo!"

"Well, now, don't bawl about that. He don't know no better. He's an Englishman. But I'll jes' take a note of that insult. [Takes paper from his pocket and writes.]--Get even with Barber at 63 Rue Saint Antoine. Too mean to occupy space here below. There now! that'll fix 'em. Hurry along here now or my hotel will be closed.--Say, brats, you stay here a minute. There is a poor little girl what's cold and she ain't got nothin' around her. You stay here till I gits back.

"There, little girl, take my scarf and put around you. This kind of life is alright fer boys but it's pretty tough on girls. Brr! it's rather chilly. And I'll eat a piece out o' Hades if it ain't re-raining again."

"Monsieur, boo-hoo--we--ain't had nothin' to eat--since--morning."

"Well, now don't bawl about that. Let me see--oh, here's a shop. Shovel in here.

"Boy, give us five centimes worth o' bread."

"For how many?"

"Well, there seem to be two uv 'em.

"Here--now take that--brat senior, and you take that, brat junior--now grub away. Ram that into your muzzle. Don't you understand? Well, classically speaking--eat. Well, I thought ye knew how to do that. [Whistles Marseillaise until they have finished, then stops suddenly and says to the boy behind the counter.]--Say, ain't them two nice specimens to be bawlin' jes' 'cause they ain't got no home?

"Hey there, are ye through? Well, shovel out, then. We've got to hurry or the elephant will have closed down his ears. Hey there, Montparnasse! See my two kids?"

"Well, where did you get them, Gavroche?"

"Oh, a gentleman made me a present of 'em, down the street--say, they've got hides like linseed plasters, hain't they?"

"Where are you taking them, Gavroche?"

"To my lodging--the Elephant."

"The Elephant!"

"Yes--the El-e-phant. Any complaints?"

"You don't mean Napoleon's monument?"

"I mean Napoleon's monument--You see when Napoleon left for Elba, he put me in charge of the Elephant. Forward, march, there, brats! Good evenin', Montparnasse."

On arriving at the Elephant, Gavroche climbed up and then invited his friends to come up.

"Hey, there, brat senior--see that ladder? Well, put your foot on--Now ye ain't agoin' ter be afraid are ye? Here, give me your hands--Now--up--There, you stand still now, till I git yer little brother up--Here, brat junior. Oh, can't you reach that ladder? Well, step on the Elephant's corn then--That's the way--Now--up--There! Now, gentlemen, you're on the inside of the Elephant. Don't ye feel something like Jonah? But stop yer talkin' now fer we're goin' straight ter bed. This way to yer sleepin' apartments--Here, brat junior, we'll wrap you up in this blanket."

"O, thank you, sir. It's so nice and warm."

"Well, that's what the monkeys thought. Here, senior, you take this mattress. Ye see, I stole these from the Jardin de Plants. But I told the animals over there that they were fer the Elephant and they said that was all right. Are ye in bed? Now I am goin' ter suppress de candelabra. [Blows out candle.] Whew! listen to it rain. How the rain do be runnin' down the legs of this here house. That's first class thunder too. Whew! that's no slouch uv a streak uv lightnin' nuther. Here, calm down there, gentlemen, or ye'll topple over this edifice. Time ter sleep now, good-night. Shut yer peepers!"

"Oh, sir?"

"Hey?"

"What's that noise?"

"Why--it's--rats."

"Oh, sir."

"Hey?"

"What is rats?"

"Oh--rats--is--mice."

"Sir?"

"Hey?"

"Why don't you get a cat?"

"Oh--I--I did have--a cat and--and the rats eat 'er up."

"Boo-hoo. Will they eat us up too?"

"Ah--no--they won't eat you. You ain't got enough meat on you. Besides I got 'em all screened off with a wire. They can't get at ye. See here--Ef yer goin' ter be afraid, take hold er my hand an' I'll lay down long side o' yer and go ter sleep--Now I fergot ter tell you gentlemen that when ye wake up--I'll be gone, fer business calls me early, but ye're to make this yer home jes' as long as yer wants ter and come here jes' whenever yer wants ter. Now fer the last time--good-night!"

FOOTNOTE:

[69] A dramatization from "Les Misérables," by Lucy Dean Jenkins.

THE HAZING OF VALIANT

ANONYMOUS

She was a small girl, but her sense of the ridiculous was tremendous. All summer long she sat on the sand and was nice to two boys, a sub-freshman and a sophomore. The sub-freshman's name was Valiant; he had a complexion that women envied, he was small and dainty and smelled sweet. The other, whose name was Buckley, was bigger and much more self-assertive.

One day the girl decided it would be fun to make them hate each other, and after that, when they were all three together, the sophomore would tell her how hard his class would haze the freshman in the Fall, while the sub-freshman only gazed out over the water and smiled. But one day the sophomore made a remark about "pretty pink-cheeked boys," which had better been left unsaid. Then arose the younger one and shaking impressively a slender pink-nailed finger he spoke, "You had better not try to haze me, Will Buckley."

In the good old days you had only to casually drop a word to a freshman on the way to recitation to wait for you when evening came, and he would turn up promptly, take his little dose meekly and go back to bed a better boy for it. But all that is changed now.

Twice had Buckley waited near the house where Valiant ate his dinner. He had tried several ways of getting into the house where Valiant lived, but without success; then for three successive nights he waited in an alley near by; on the third night Valiant came, but with him an upper classman friend. Buckley kept in the shadow but Valiant called out, "Oh, is that you, Mr. Buckley? How do you do? Aren't you coming in to see me?" Which was decidedly fresh.

"Not now, I'll drop in later. Which is your room?"

"That room up there, see?"

The next night Buckley got his gang together. They decided that a dip in the canal would be excellent for Valiant's health; if he felt cold after that he could climb a telephone pole for exercise. It was nearly two o'clock when they carried a ladder into the alley way. This was a particularly nervy go. A young professor and his young wife had a suite of rooms in this house; it was moonlight, and a certain owl-eyed proctor was pretty sure to pass not far away; but if they hurried they thought they could send a man up and get away without being caught.

Buckley was to get in the window, which was open, it being a warm night, the others were to hustle away with the ladder, and wait for him at a street several blocks distant. There was no doubt but that Valiant would have to come with him.

Buckley climbed up, got one foot over the sill, and was in the room. He leaned out and raised his hand. Silently the ladder disappeared. He turned and started across the room; when a soft voice said, "Is that you, dear?"

Then before all the blood in his body had time to freeze, he stepped out of the moonlight into the shadow and whispered, "Shsss!" Instinct made him do this.

Across the silence the soft voice came again, "Oh, I'm not asleep. But why did you stay so long, Guy dear?"

Buckley heard the squeaking of a bed-spring and as his knees stiffened he spied coming toward him something white with two black streaks hanging half way down, which as the thing came into the moonlight, he saw to be long braids of dark hair. It was a tall, slender figure clothed in a white garment. The face was young and beautiful. Buckley closed his eyes. But it came nearer and nearer. He stood up perfectly rigid in the darkness as two soft arms reached up and met about his neck.

Buckley did not budge and the soft voice began, "You have not forgiven me yet." It began to sob. "You know I did not mean it. Won't you forgive me? Tell me you do forgive me. Say it with your own lips, Guy dear. Speak to me, my husband!" Buckley didn't. A soft, fragrant hand came up along his cheek, which tingled, and over his eyes, which quivered. For fully a half minute he tried to think what to do, then he gritted his teeth and placed one arm about her waist and threw the other around her neck in such a way that he could draw it tight if necessary. Suddenly she raised her head, gave one startled look into his face, and with a shuddering gasp, she recoiled.

"For Heaven's sake, don't scream--I can explain!"

"Ugh, oh, let go! Who--let me go, or I'll screa-ch-ch-ch!"

Buckley pressed on the windpipe, feeling like three or four murderers as he did so. "Oh, please, if you scream it'll only make things awfully awkward. I got in here by mistake. Oh, please keep quiet. Promise me you'll not cry out, and I'll let you go."

"Yes, yes, I promise," said the scared voice. Buckley released his grasp. She fled across the room. He thought she was making for the door and sprang to stop her, but she only snatched up an afghan or something from the sofa, and holding it about her, retreated to the dark part of the room, moaning, "Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

"I don't know who you are, but I wish you wouldn't cry. Please be calm. It's all a big mistake, I thought I was coming to my own room--"

"Your own room!"

"I mean my classmate's room,--I mean I thought a freshman roomed here. You aren't half so sorry as I am--oh, yes, you are--I mean I'm awfully sorry, and wish to apologize. I didn't mean anything."

"Mean anything!"

"Really I didn't. If you'll only let me go down and promise not to wake the house before I get out, why no one will ever know anything about it and I'll promise not to do it again."

"Just as soon as I get my breath I mean to wake up the whole house, and the whole town if I can." Buckley started across the room.

"Stop!"

"You promised not to scream."

"You forced me to promise. I am going to scream."

The bold, bad sophomore went down on his knees with his hands clasped toward the dark where the voice came from. "Oh, don't, please don't. Have pity on me."

"You stay right there in the moonlight."

"Right here?"

"Right there, and if you dare to move I'll scream with all my might." Buckley shivered and froze stiff.

And then he began to plead. "Please, oh, please, whoever you are, won't you forgive me and let me go? I wouldn't harm a girl for the world. I'll be fired--I mean expelled from college--I'll be disgraced for life. I'll--"

"Stop! While it may be true that you did not break into my room with intent to rob or injure a defenseless woman, yet, by your own confession you came to torment a weaker person. You came to haze a freshman. And when my husband--"

"Have mercy, have mercy. If I'm fired from college I'll be disgraced for life. All my prospects will be blighted; my life will be ruined, and my mother's heart broken."

She gave a little hysterical sob:--

"For your poor mother's sake, go!"

"Oh, thank you with all my heart. My mother would too if she could know. I don't deserve to be treated so well. I shall always think of you as my merciful benefactress. I can never forgive myself for causing you pain. Oh, thank you," and Buckley the proud sophomore groveled out of the room.

Next morning he received a letter, which read as follows:

"Just as a tall woman looks short in a man's make-up, so does a
short man look tall in a woman's make-up, and you should know that
blondes are hard to recognize in brunette wigs. You ought to know
that a real girl wouldn't have behaved quite that way. You see you
still have a number of things to learn, even though you are a soph.
Hoping that you will learn to forgive yourself, I am,

"Your merciful benefactress,
"H. G. VALIANT."

THE HINDOO'S PARADISE

ANONYMOUS

A Hindoo died, a happy thing to do,
When twenty years united to a shrew.
Released, he hopefully for entrance cries
Before the gates of Brahma's paradise.

"Hast thou been through purgatory?" Brahma said,
"No, but I've been married," and he hung his head.
"Come in, come in, and welcome too, my son,
Marriage and purgatory are as one."

In bliss extreme he entered heaven's door,
And knew the peace he ne'er had known before.
But scarce had he entered the garden fair,
When another Hindoo asked admission there.

The self-same question, Brahma asked,
"Hast thou been through purgatory?"
"No, what then?" "Thou canst not enter," did the God reply.
"Why, he that entered first was there no more than I."

"All that is true, but he has married been,
And so on earth, had suffered from all sin."
"Married, 'tis well, I've been married twice."
"Begone, we'll have no fools in Paradise."

IF I KNEW

ANONYMOUS

If I knew the box where the smiles are kept,
No matter how large the key,
Or strong the bolt, I would try so hard,
'Twould open, I know, for me.
Then over the land and sea broadcast,
I'd scatter the smiles to play,
That the children's faces might hold them fast
For many and many a day.

If I knew a box that was large enough
To hold all the frowns I meet,
I would like to gather them, every one,
From the nursery, school and street,
Then, holding and folding I'd pack them in,
And turning the monster key
I'd hire a giant to drop the box,
Into the depths of the sea.

THE IMAGINARY INVALID[70]

JEROME K. JEROME

I remember going to the British Museum one day to read up the treatment for some slight ailment of which I had a touch--hay fever, I fancy it was. I got down the book, and read all I came to read; and then, in an unthinking moment, I idly turned the leaves, and began to indolently study diseases generally. I forget which was the first distemper I plunged into--some fearful, devastating scourge I know--and, before I had glanced half down the list of "premonitory symptoms," it was borne in upon me that I had fairly got it.

I sat for a while, frozen with horror; and then, in the listlessness of despair, I again turned over the pages. I came to typhoid fever--read the symptoms--discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for months without knowing it--wondered what else I had got; turned up St. Vitus's Dance--found, as I expected, that I had that too,--began to get interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom and so started alphabetically--read up ague, and learned that I was sickening for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another fortnight. Bright's disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for years. Cholera I had, with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was housemaid's knee.

I felt rather hurt about this at first; it seemed somehow to be a sort of slight. Why hadn't I got housemaid's knee? Why this invidious reservation? After a while, however, less grasping feelings prevailed. I reflected that I had every other known malady in the pharmacology, and grew less selfish, and determined to do without housemaid's knee. Gout, in its most malignant stage, it would appear, had seized me without my being aware of it; and zymosis I had evidently been suffering with from boyhood. There were no more diseases after zymosis, so I concluded there was nothing else the matter with me.

I sat and pondered. I thought what an interesting case I must be from a medical point of view, what an acquisition I should be to a class! Students would have no need to "walk the hospitals," if they had me. I was a hospital in myself. All they need do would be to walk around me, and, after that, take their diploma.

Then I wondered how long I had to live. I tried to examine myself. I felt my pulse. I could not at first feel any pulse at all. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed to start off. I pulled out my watch and timed it. I made a hundred and forty-seven to the minute. I tried to feel my heart. I could not feel my heart. It had stopped beating. I have since been induced to come to the opinion that it must have been there all the time, and must have been beating, but I cannot account for it. I patted myself all over my front, from what I call my waist up to my head, and I went a bit round each side, and a little way up the back. But I could not feel or hear anything. I tried to look at my tongue. I stuck it out as far as ever it would go, and I shut one eye, and tried to examine it with the other. I could only see the tip, and the only thing that I could gain from that was to feel more certain than before that I had scarlet fever.

I went to my medical man. He is an old chum of mine, and feels my pulse, and looks at my tongue, and talks about the weather, all for nothing, when I fancy I'm ill; so I thought I would do him a good turn by going to him now. "What a doctor wants," I said, "is practice. He shall have me. He will get more practice out of me than out of seventeen hundred of your ordinary, commonplace patients, with only one or two diseases each." So I went straight up and saw him, and he said:

"Well, what's the matter with you?"

I said:

"I will not take up your time, dear boy, with telling you what is the matter with me. Life is brief, and you might pass away before I had finished. But I will tell you what is not the matter with me. I have not got housemaid's knee. Why I have not got housemaid's knee, I cannot tell you; but the fact remains that I have not got it. Everything else, however, I have got."

And I told him how I came to discover it all.

Then he opened me and looked down me, and clutched hold of my wrist, and then he hit me over the chest when I wasn't expecting it--a cowardly thing to do, I call it--and immediately afterward butted me with the side of his head. After that, he sat down and wrote out a prescription, and folded it up and gave it me, and I put it in my pocket and went out.

I did not open it. I took it to the nearest chemist's and handed it in. The man read it and then handed it back. He said he didn't keep it.

I said:

"You are a chemist?"

"I am a chemist. If I was a coöperative store and family hotel combined I might be able to oblige you. Being only a chemist hampers me."

I read the prescription. It ran:

"1 lb. beefsteak, every 6 hours,
1 ten-mile walk every morning,
1 bed at 11 sharp every night.
And don't stuff up your head with things you don't understand."

FOOTNOTE:

[70] From "Three Men in a Boat," published by Henry Holt & Co.

JANE JONES[71]

BEN F. KING

Jane Jones keeps talkin' to me all the time,
An' says you must make it a rule
To study your lessons 'nd work hard 'nd learn,
An' never be absent from school.
Remember the story of Elihu Burrit,
An' how he clum up to the top,
Got all the knowledge 'at ever he had
Down in a blacksmithing shop!
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!
Mebbe he did--
I dunno!
O' course what's a-keepin' me 'way from the top,
Is not never havin' no blacksmithing shop.

She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor,
But full of ambition an' brains;
An' studied philosophy all his hull life,
An' see what he got for his pains!
He brought electricity out of the sky,
With a kite an' a bottle an' key,
An' we're owing him more 'n any one else
For all the bright lights 'at we see.
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!
Mebbe he did--
I dunno!
O' course what's allers been hinderin' me
Is not havin' any kite, lightning, er key.

Jane Jones said Abe Lincoln had no books at all
An' used to split rails when a boy;
An' General Grant was a tanner by trade
An' lived way out in Ill'nois.
So when the great war in the South first broke out
He stood on the side o' the right,
An' when Lincoln called him to take charge o' things
He won nearly every blamed fight.
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!
Mebbe he did--
I dunno!
Still I ain't to blame, not by a big sight,
For I ain't never had any battles to fight.

She said 'at Columbus was out at the knees
When he first thought up his big scheme,
An' told all the Spaniards 'nd Italians, too,
An' all of 'em said 'twas a dream.
But Queen Isabella jest listened to him,
'Nd pawned all her jewels o' worth,
'Nd bought him the Santa Maria 'nd said,
"Go hunt up the rest o' the earth!"
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!
Mebbe he did--
I dunno!
O' course that may be, but then you must allow
They ain't no land to discover jest now!

FOOTNOTE:

[71] By permission of the author and Forbes & Co., publishers.

KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE[72]

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Tell you what I like the best--
'Long about knee-deep in June,
'Bout the time strawberries melt
On the vine,--some afternoon
Like to jes' git out and rest,
And not work at nothin' else!

Orchard's where I'd ruther be--
Needn't fence it in fer me!
Jes' the whole sky overhead,
And the whole airth underneath--
Sorto' so's a man kin breathe
Like he ort, and kind o' has
Elbow-room to keerlessly
Sprawl out len'thways on the grass
Where the shadders thick and soft
As the kivvers on the bed
Mother fixes in the loft
Allus, when they's company!

Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there--
S'lazy, 'at you peek and peer
Through the wavin' leaves above
Like a feller 'at's in love
And don't know it, ner don't kere!
Ever'thing you hear and see
Got some sort o' interest--
Maybe find a bluebird's nest
Tucked up there conveenently
Fer the boy 'at's apt to be
Up some other apple-tree!
Watch the swallers skootin' past
'Bout as peert as you could ast;
Er the Bob-white raise and whiz
Where some other's whistle is.

Ketch a shadder down below,
And look up to find the crow--
Er a hawk,--away up there,
'Pearantly froze in the air!--
Hear the old hen squak, and squat
Over ever' chick she's got,
Suddent-like--And she knows where
That-air hawk is, well as you!--
You jes' bet yer life she do!--
Eyes a-glitterin' like glass,
Waitin' till he makes a pass!

Pee-wees' singin', to express
My opinion, 's second class,
Yit you'll hear 'em more er less;
Sapsucks gittin' down to biz,
Weedin' out the lonesomeness;
Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass,
In them base-ball clothes o' his,
Sportin' 'round the orchard jes'
Like he owned the premises!
Sun out in the fields kin sizz,
But flat on yer back, I guess,
In the shade's where glory is!
That's jes' what I'd like to do
Stiddy fer a year er two!

Plague! ef they ain't somepin' in
Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in
My convictions!--'long about
Here in June especially!--
Under some old apple-tree,
Jes' a-restin' through and through,
I could git along without
Nothin else at all to do
Only jes' a-wishin' you
Was a-gittin' there like me,
And June war eternity!

Lay out there and try to see
Jes' how lazy you kin be!--
Tumble round and souse yer head
In the clover-bloom, er pull
Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes,
And peek through it at the skies,
Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead,
Maybe, smilin' back at you
In betwixt the beautiful
Clouds o' gold and white and blue!--
Month a man kin railly love--
June, you know, I'm talkin' of!