Chapter V: Her Own (6)

"By jinks! It _was_ a mixtery. And then he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He fecht up his right wing, he fecht up his left wing, he fecht up his centre, he fecht up his reserves. He fired by file, he fired by platoons, by company, by regiments, by brigades. He opened his cannon, siege guns down thar, Napoleons here, twelve-pounders yonder, big guns, little guns, middle-size guns, round shot, shells, shrapnels, grape, canister, mortars, mines and magazines, every livin' battery and bomb a-goin' at the same time. The house trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, the floor come up, the ceilin' come down, the sky split, the ground rock't--heaven and earth, creation, sweet potatoes, Moses, ninpences, glory, tenpenny nails, my Mary Ann, Hallelujah, Sampson in a sim-mon tree, Jerusalem, Tump Thompson in a tumbler cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-ruddle- uddle-uddle-uddle-raddle-addle-addle-addle-riddle-iddle-iddle-iddle- reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle-p-r-r-r-r-lang! per lang! per lang! p-r-r-r-r-r lang! Bang!

"With that bang he lifted himself bodily into the air, and he come down with his knees, his ten fingers, his ten toes, his elbows, and his nose, striking every single solitary key on that pianner at the same time. The thing busted and went off into seventeen hundred and fifty-seven thousand five hundred and forty-two hemi-demi-semi-quavers, and I know'd no mo'."

OBITUARY.

BY WILLIAM THOMSON.

"Down the line I'll go," he said,
"To reach the railway station."
_Friends will please accept of this
The only intimation_.

THE EDITOR'S STORY.

(_A YANKEE EDITOR IN ENGLAND_.)

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

The Editor dipp'd his pen in the ink;
He smole a smile and he wunk a wink;
He chuckled a chuck and he thunk a think.

'Twas a time of dearth
Of news, and the earth
Was rolling and bowling along on its axis
With never a murmur concerning the taxes
And never a ruse, or of rumour a particle
Needing a special or claiming an article;
In fact 'twas a terrible time for the papers,
And puzzled the brains of the paragraph shapers,
Till the whole world seem'd nothing but gases and vapours.

And the Editor wrote:
But I'm not going to quote,
Far be it from me to set rumours afloat.
Suffice it to say,
The paper next day
Contain'd such a slasher
For Captain McClasher,
The whole town declared it a regular smasher;
And what made it worse he inserted a rubber,
For the world-renowned millionaire, Alderman Grubber.

Now the Captain, you know, was the son of a gun,
He had fought many duels and never lost one;
He'd met single handed a hundred wild niggers,
All flashing their sabres and pulling their triggers,
And made them all run whether mogul or fellah:
With the flash of his eye and the bash of his 'brella
He tore up rebellion's wild weeds by the root; and he
Did more than Havelock to put down the mutiny.

And then to be told by "a thief of an Editor"
He'd been far too long his proud country's creditor
For pensions unwork'd for and honours unwon,
And that rather than fight he would more likely run;
To be told, who had acted so gallant a part,
He'd more pluck in his heels than he had in his heart!
Why zounds! man--the words used they mostly make Dutch of--

(As warm as the chutney he'd eaten so much of)
And he gave the poor table a terrible blow,
As he said with an aspirate, "Hi----ll let 'em know."

And Alderman Grubber was no less determined,
Though his gown was all silk and its edge was all ermined,
After thirty years' service to one corporation
To be libelled at last with the foul allegation,
He'd been "nicely paid for his work for the nation;
That Town Hall and Workhouse, Exchange and Infirmary,
Were all built on ground that by twistings and turnery,
Had been bought through the nose at a fabulous rate
From the patriot lord of the Grubber estate!"
Why, turtle and turbot, hock, champagne and sherry,
'Twould rile the Archbishop of Canterbury!

The Editor sat in his high-backed chair;
He listen'd a hark, and he looked a stare,
A sort of a mixture of humour and scare,
As he heard a footfall on the foot of the stair:
In a moment he buried his head in some "copy,"
As in walked the Captain as red as a poppy.

"This the Editor's room, sir?" the thunderer shouted,
In the tone which so often a phalanx had routed;
While he nervously twiddled the "gamp" in his hand,
Which so often had scatter'd a mutinous band.

Now the Editor's views were as broad as the ocean
(His heart represented its wildest commotion),
In a moment he took in the whole situation
(And double distilled it in heart palpitation):
Then quickly arose with a dignified air,
And the wave of a hand and a nod at a chair;
Saying: "Yes, sir; it is, sir: be seated a minute,
The Editor's _in_, and I'll soon send him _in it_."
Then as quick as a flash of his own ready wit,
He opened the door and got outside of it.

He skipp'd with a bound o'er
The stairs to the ground floor,
And turning his feet bore
Straight on for the street door;
When--what could astound more--'
The spot he was bound for
Was guarded in force by that great butter tubber,
The patriot millionaire, Alderman Grubber:
A smart riding-whip impatiently cracking,
The food for his vengeance the only thing lacking.
"Is the Editor in?" said the voice that had thrilled,
A thousand times over the big Town Hall filled!
While the crack of the whip and the stamp of the feet,
Made the Editor wish himself safe in the street.

But an Editor's ever a man of resource,
He is never tied down to one definite course:
He shrank not a shrink nor waver'd a wave,
He blank not a blink nor quaver'd a quave;
But, pointing upstairs as he turn'd to the door,
Said "Editor's room number two second floor."

Like a lion let loose on his innocent prey,
Strode the Alderman upstairs that sorrowful day:
Like a tiger impatiently waiting his foe,
The captain was pacing the room to and fro
When the Alderman enter'd--but here draw a veil,
There is much to be sad for and much to bewail.
Whoever began it, or ended the fray,
All they found in the room when they swept it next day,
Was a large pile of fragments beyond all identity
(Monument sad to the conflict's intensity).
And the analyst said whom the coroner quested,
The whole of the heap he had carefully tested,
And all he could find in his search analytic
(But tables and chairs and such things parenthetic),
He wore as he turned, white, black, blue, green, and purple,
Was one stone of chutney and two stone of turtle.

And the Editor throve, as all editors should
Who devote all their thought to the popular good:
For the paper containing this little affair,
Ran to many editions and sold everywhere.
And the moral is plain, tho' you do your own writing,
There are better plans than to do your own fighting!

NAT RICKET.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Nat Ricket at cricket was ever a don
As if you will listen I'll tell you anon;
His feet were so nimble, his legs were so long,
His hands were so quick and his arms were so strong,
That no matter where, at long-leg or square,
At mid-on, at mid-off, and almost mid-air,
At point, slip, or long-stop, wherever it came,
At long-on or long-off, 'twas always the same--
If Nat was the scout, back came whizzing the ball,
And the verdict, in answer to Nat's lusty call,
Was always "Run out," or else "No run" at all:
At bowling, or scouting, or keeping the wicket,
You'd not meet in an outing another Nat Ricket.

Nat Ricket for cricket was always inclined,
Even babyhood showed the strong bent of his mind:
At TWO he could get in the way of the ball;
At FOUR he could catch, though his hands were so small;
At SIX he could bat; and before he was SEVEN
He wanted to be in the county eleven.

But that was the time, for this chief of his joys,
When the Muddleby challenged the Blunderby boys:
They came in a waggon that Farmer Sheaf lent them,
With Dick Rick the carter, in whose charge he sent them.
And as they came over the Muddleby hill,
The cheer that resounded I think I hear still;
And of all the gay caps that flew into the air,
The top cap of all told Nat Ricket was there.

They tossed up, and, winning
The choice of the inning,
The Blunderby boys took the batting in hand,
And went to the wicket,
While nimble Nat Ricket
Put his _men_ in the field for a resolute stand;
And as each sturdy scout took his usual spot,
Our Nat roamed about and looked after the lot;
And as they stood there, when the umpire called "Play,"
'Twas a sight to remember for many a day,

Nat started the bowling (and take my word, misters,
There's no bowling like it for underhand twisters);
And what with the pace and the screw and the aim,
It was pretty hard _work_, was that Blunderby _game_;
With Nat in the field to look after the ball,
'Twas a terrible struggle to get runs at all;
Though they hit out their hardest a regular stunner,
'Twas rare that it reckoned for more than a oner;
'Twas seldom indeed that they troubled the scorer
To put down a twoer, a threer, or fourer;
And as for a lost ball, a fiver, or sixer,
The Blunderby boys were not up to the trick, sir;
Still they struggled full well, and at sixty the score
The last wicket fell, and the innings was o'er.

But then came the cheering,--
Nat Ricket appearing,
A smile on his face and a bat in his hand,
As he walked to the wicket,--
From hillside to thicket,
They couldn't cheer more for a lord of the land.
And when he began, 'twas a picture to see
How the first ball went flying right over a tree,
How the second went whizzing close up to the sky,
And the third ball went bang in the poor umpire's eye;

How he made poor point dance on his nimble young pins,
As a ball flew askance and came full on his shins;
How he kept the two scorers both working like niggers
At putting down runs and at adding up figures;
How he kept all the field in profuse perspiration
With rushing and racing and wild agitation,--
Why, Diana and Nimrod, or both rolled together,
Never hunted the stag as they hunted the leather.

It was something like cricket, there's no doubt of that,
When nimble Nat Ricket had hold of the bat.
You may go to the Oval, the Palace, or Lord's,
See the cricketing feats which each county affords,
But you'll see nothing there which, for vigour and life,
Will one moment compare with the passionate strife
With which Muddleby youngsters and Blunderby boys
Contend for the palm in this chief of their joys.

I need hardly say, at the end of the day,
The Muddleby boys had the best of the play,--
Tho' the bright-coloured caps of the Blunderby chaps
Were as heartily waved as the others, perhaps;
And as they drove off down the Blunderby lane,
The cheering resounded again and again.

And Nat and his party, they, too, went away;
And I haven't seen either for many a day.
Still, don't be surprised
If you see advertised,
The name of Nat Ricket
Connected with cricket,
In some mighty score or some wonderful catch,
In some North and South contest or good county match.
And if ever, when passing by cricketing places,
You see people talking and pulling long faces,
'Cause some country bumpkin has beaten the Graces,
Just step to the gate and politely enquire,
And see if they don't say, "N. Ricket, Esq.";
Or buy a "cor'ect card t' the fall o' th' last wicket,"
And see if it doesn't say "Mr. N. Ricket."
For wherever you go, and whatever you see,
In the north or the south of this land of the free,
You never will find--and that all must agree--
Such a rickety, crickety fellow as he.

'SPÄCIALLY JIM.

FROM "HARPER'S MAGAZINE."

I wus mighty good-lookin' when I wus young--
Peert an' black-eyed an' slim,
With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights,
'Späcially Jim.

The likeliest one of 'em all wus he,
Chipper an' han'som an' trim;
But I toss'd up my head, an' made fun o' the crowd,
'Späcially Jim.

I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men,
And I wouldn't take stock in _him!_
But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk,
'Späcially Jim.

I got _so_ tired o' havin' 'em roun'
('Späcially Jim!),
I made up my mind I'd settle down
An' take up with him;

So we was married one Sunday in church,
'Twas crowded full to the brim,
'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all,
'Späcially Jim.

'ARRY'S ANCIENT MARINER.

(_TOLD ON MARGATE JETTY_.)

BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.

He was an ainshunt mariner
Wot sailed the oshun blue;
His craft it was the _Crazy Jane_
Wot was made of wood and glue.

It sailed 'atween _Westminister_
And the Gulf of Timbucktoo;
Its bulkhead was a putty one;
Its cargo--no one knew.

I've heerd as how when a storm came on
It 'ud turn clean upside down,
But I _never_ could make out as why
Its skipper didn't drown.

He was the most unwashedest
Old salt I ever knowed:
And all the things as he speaked about
Was nearly always "blowed."

One day he told me a straw'nry tale,
But I don't think it were lies,
Bekos he swore as it was true--
Tho' a big 'un as to size.

He sez as how in the Biskey Bay
They was sailin' along one night,
When a _summat_ rose from the bilin' waves
As give him a _norful_ fright.

He wouldn't exzagerate, he sed--
No, he wouldn't, not if he died;
But the head of that monster was most as big
As a bloomin' mountain-side.

Its eyes was ten times bigger 'an the moon;
Its ears was as long as a street;
And each of its eyelids--_without tellin' lies_--
Would have kivered an or'nary sheet.

"And now," said he, "may I _never speak agin_
If I'm a-tellin' yer wrong,
But the length o' that sarpint from head to tail
Warn't a _ninch_ under _ten mile long_,

"To the end of its tail there hung a great wale,
And a-ridin' on its back was sharks;
On the top of its head about two hundred seals
Was a-havin' no end of larks.

"Now, as to beleevin' of what I sez _next_
Yer can do as yer likes," sez he;
"But this 'ere sarpint, or whatever he was,
He ups and he _speaks_ to me.

"Sez the sarpint, sez he, in a voice like a clap
Of thunder, or a cannon's roar:
'Now say good-bye to the air and the sky
For you'll never see land no more.'

"I shivered like a sail wot's struck by a gale
And I downs on my bended knees;
And the tears rolls over my face like a sea,
And I shrieks like a gull in a breeze.

"Sez I, 'I'm an ainshunt old skipper, that's all,
And I ain't never done nuffin wrong.'
He sez, 'You old lubber, just stow that blubber,
I'm a-going fer to haul yer along.'

"Then he puts out a fin like a big barndoor--
Now this 'ere is real straight truth--
It sounds like a fable, but he tuk my bloomin' cable,
_And he tied it to his left front tooth!_

"In another second more, at the bottom of the sea
The _Crazy Jane_ was aground; Sez I,
'You oughter be ashamed of yerself,
It's a one-der as I wasn't drowned.'

"Then he calls on a porkeypine a-standin' quite near,
Sez he, 'Look arter this barge,'
'A-begging your pardon that's a _wessel_' I sez:
Sez he: 'Werry fine and large!'

"With one of hiz eye-lashes, thick as a rope,
He ties me on to his knoze,
Then down in a cave right under the sea
Like a flash of light we goes.

"He tuk me up to his wife, who was
A murmyaid with three tails;
She was havin' of her dinner, and perlitely she sez,
'Will you have some o' these 'ere snails?'

"So I sits me down by her buteful side--
She'd a face like a sunset sky;
Her hair was a sort of a scarlety red,
And her knoze was strait as a die.

"I hadn't sot a minit wen sez she to me,
'Sammy, don't yer know me agane?
Why, I'm the wife arter wot yer call'd yer ship;
Sure enuf, it _was_ Craizy Jane--

"The wife as had bother'd me all my life,
Until she got drown'd one day,
When a-bathin' out o' one of them there masheens
In this wery same Margit Bay.

"The Sarpint was a-havin' of his dinner, and so
She perposed as how we should fly--
But, sez I to meself, 'What, take _you_ back?
Not if I knose it,' sez I.

"'But how about them there tails?' I sez--
'On shore _them_ will niver doo;'
She sez, 'Yer silly, why, karn't yer see,
They're only fixed on wi' a screw?'

"So I tells her as how I'll go fetch the old ship
Wile she's a-unscreuing of her tails;
But when I gets back to the _Crazy Jane_
I finds there a couple of wales.

"I jist had time to see the biggest of the two
A-swallerin' of the ship right whole,
And in one more momint he swallered me too,
As true as I'm a livin' sole.

"But when he got to the surfis of the sea,
A summat disagreed with that wale,
And he up with me and the _Crazy Jane_ and all--
And this 'ere's the end of my tail."

* * * * *

Then this old ainshunt mariner, he sez unto me--
And 'onesty was shinin' in hiz eyes--
"_It's jist the sort o' story wot no one won't beleeve--
But it's true, little nipper, if I dies_,"

THE AMATEUR ORLANDO.

BY GEORGE T. LANIGAN.

It was an Amateur Dram. Ass.,
(Kind hearer, although your
Knowledge of French is not first-class,
Don't call that Amature.)
It was an Amateur Dram. Ass.,
The which did warfare wage
On the dramatic works of this
And every other age.

It had a walking gentleman,
A leading juvenile,
First lady in book-muslin dressed.
With a galvanic smile;
Thereto a singing chambermaid,
Benignant heavy pa,
And oh, heavier still was the heavier vill-
Ain, with his fierce "Ha! Ha!"

There wasn't an author from Shakespeare down--
Or up--to Boucicault,
These amateurs weren't competent
To collar and assault.
And when the winter time came round--
"Season" 's a stagier phrase--
The Am. Dram. Ass. assaulted one
Of the Bard of Avon's plays.

'Twas _As You Like It_ that they chose;
For the leading lady's heart
Was set on playing _Rosalind_
Or some other page's part,
And the President of the Am. Dram. Ass.,
A stalwart dry-goods clerk,
Was cast for _Oriando_, in which _rôle_
He felt he'd make his mark.

"I mind me," said the President,
(All thoughtful was his face,)
"When _Oriando_ was taken by Thingummy
That _Charles_ was played by Mace.
_Charles_ hath not many lines to speak,
Nay, not a single length--
If find we can a Mussulman
(That is, a man of strength),
And bring him on the stage as _Charles_--
But, alas, it can't be did--"
"It can," replied the Treasurer;
"Let's get the Hunky Kid."

This Hunky Kid of whom he spoke
Belonged to the P.R.;
He always had his hair cut short,
And always had catarrh;
His voice was gruff, his language rough,
His forehead villainous low,
And 'neath his broken nose a vast
Expanse of jaw did show.
He was forty-eight about the chest,
And his fore-arm at the mid-
Dle measured twenty-one and a-half--
Such was the Hunky Kid!

The Am. Dram. Ass. they have engaged
This pet of the P.R.;
As _Charles the Wrestler_ he's to be
A bright particular star.
And when they put the programme out,
Announce him thus they did:
_Oriando_...Mr. ROMEO JONES;
_Charles_...Mr. HUNKY KID.

The night has come; the house is packed,
From pit to gallery,
As those who through the curtain peep
Quake inwardly to see.
A squeak's heard in the orchestra,
As the leader draws across
Th' intestines of the agile cat
The tail of the noble hoss.

All is at sea behind the scenes,
Why do they fear and funk?
Alas, alas, the Hunky Kid
Is lamentably drunk!
He's in that most unlovely stage
Of half intoxication
When men resent the hint they're tight
As a personal imputation!

"Ring up! Ring up!" _Orlando_ cried,
"Or we must cut the scene;
For _Charles the Wrestler_ is imbued
With poisonous benzine;
And every moment gets more drunk
Than he before has been."

The wrestling scene has come and _Charles_
Is much disguised in drink;
The stage to him's an inclined plane,
The footlights make him blink.
Still strives he to act well his part
Where all the honour lies,
Though Shakespeare would not in his lines--
His language recognise.
Instead of "Come, where is this young----?"
This man of bone and brawn,
He squares himself and bellows: "Time!
Fetch your _Orlandos_ on!"

"Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man,"
Fair _Rosalind_ said she,
As the two wrestlers in the ring
Grapple right furiously;
But _Charles the Wrestler_ had no sense
Of dramatic propriety.

He seized on Mr. Romeo Jones,
In Græco-Roman style:
He got what they call a grape-vine lock
On that leading juvenile;
He flung him into the orchestra,
And the man with the ophicleide,
On whom he fell, he just said--well,
No matter what--and died!

When once the tiger has tasted blood
And found that it is sweet,
He has a habit of killing more
Than he can possibly eat.

And thus it was with the Hunky Kid;
In his homicidal blindness,
He lifted his hand against _Rosalind_
Not in the way of kindness;
He chased poor _Celia_ off at L.,
At R.U.E. _Le Beau_,
And he put such a head upon _Duke Fred_,
In fifteen seconds or so,
That never one of the courtly train
Might his haughty master know.

* * * * *

And that's precisely what came to pass,
Because the luckless carles
Belonging to the Am. Dram. Ass.
Cast the Hunky Kid for _Charles!_

--_New York World_.

A BALLAD OF A BAZAAR.

BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.

_First Day_.

He was young, and she--enchanting!
She had eyes of tender grey,
Fringed with long and lovely lashes,
As he passed they seemed to say,
With a look that was quite killing,
"Won't you buy a pretty flower?
Come, invest--well, just a shilling,
For the fairest in my bower!"
Though that bower was full of blossoms,
Yet the fairest of them all
Was the pretty grey-eyed maiden
Standing 'mong them, slim and tall,
With her dainty arms uplifted
O'er her figure as she stood
Just inside the trellised doorway
Fashioned out of rustic wood;
And she pouted as he passed her,
And that pout did so beguile,
That he thought it more bewitching
Than another's sweetest smile.
Fair as tiny dew-dipped rosebuds
Were the little rounded lips;
And the youth ransacked his pockets
In a rhapsody of grips.
Then he went and told her plainly
That he'd not a farthing left,
But would gladly pledge his "Albert";
So with fingers quick and deft,
She unloosed his golden watch-chain--
Coiled it round her own white arm,
Said she'd keep it till the morrow
As a _souvenir_--a charm.

_Second Day_.

Full of hope, and faith, and fondness,
He went forth at early morn,
And paced up and down the entrance,
Like a man that was forlorn.
Thus for hour on hour he waited,
Till they opened the bazaar;
Then she came with kindly greeting;
"Ah, well, so then, there you are!
Come, now, go in for a raffle--
Buy a ticket--half-a-crown."
Ah, those eyes! who _could_ refuse them?--
And he put the money down.
Then, enthralled, he stood and watched her--
Sought each movement of that face,
With its wealth of witching beauty,
And its glory and its grace.
When the raffling was over,
Thus she spake in tones of pain:
"You are really most unlucky--
My--my _husband's_ won _your chain_!"

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FOUR MONTHS.

BY THOMAS HOOD.

Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop--first let me kiss away that tear)
Thou tiny image of myself?
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear)
Thou merry laughing sprite!
With spirits feather-light,
Untouched by sorrow and unsoiled by sin--
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou tricksy Puck!
With antic toys so funnily bestuck,
Light as the singing bird that wings the air--
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)
Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why Jane, he'll set his pinafore on fire)
Thou imp of mirth and joy,
In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents--(drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub!--but of earth,
Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail)
Thou human honey-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny--
(Another tumble!--that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint
(Where _did_ he learn that squint?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)
Touched with the beauteous trials of dawning life--
(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!
Toss the light ball--bestride the stick,
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies buoyant as the thistledown,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk--
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing music like the South,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove--
(I'll tell you what, my love,
I cannot write, unless he's sent above.)

'TWAS EVER THUS.

BY HENRY S. LEIGH.

I never rear'd a young gazelle
(Because, you see, I never tried);
But, had it known and loved me well,
No doubt the creature would have died.
My rich and aged uncle JOHN
Has known me long and loves me well,
But still persists in living on--
I would he were a young gazelle!

I never loved a tree or flower;
But, if I _had_, I beg to say,
The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower,
Would soon have wither'd it away.
I've dearly loved my uncle JOHN
From childhood to the present hour,
And yet he _will_ go living on--
I would he were a tree or flower!

MISS MALONEY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION.

BY MARY MAPES DODGE.

Ovh! don't be talkin'. Is it howld on, ye say? An' didn't I howld on till the heart of me was clane broke entirely, and me wastin' that thin ye could clutch me wid yer two hands. To think o' me toilin' like a nager for the six year I've been in Ameriky--bad luck to the day I iver left the owld counthry!--to be bate by the likes o' them! (faix, and I'll sit down when I'm ready, so I will, Ann Ryan; and ye'd better be listenin' than drawin' yer remarks). An' is it meself, with five good characters from respectable places, woud be herdin' wid the haythens? The saints forgive me, but I'd be buried alive sooner 'n put up wid it a day longer. Sure, an' I was the granehorn not to be lavin' at once-t when the missus kim into me kitchen wid her perlaver about the new waiter-man which was brought out from Californy. "He'll be here the night," says she. "And, Kitty, it's meself looks to you to be kind and patient wid him, for he's a furriner," says she, a kind o' lookin' off. "Sure, an' it's little I'll hinder nor interfare wid him, nor any other, mum," says I, a kind o' stiff; for I minded me how them French waiters, wid their paper collars and brass rings on their fingers, isn't company for no gurril brought up dacent and honest. Och! sorra a bit I knew what was comin' till the missus walked into me kitchen, smilin', and says, kind o' schared, "Here's Fing Wing, Kitty; an' ye'll have too much sinse to mind his bein' a little strange." Wid that she shoots the doore; and I, misthrustin' if I was tidied up sufficient for me fine buy wid his paper collar, looks up, and--Howly fathers! may I niver brathe another breath, but there stud a rayle haythen Chineser, a-grinnin' like he'd just come off a tay-box. If ye'll belave me, the crayther was that yeller it 'ud sicken ye to see him; and sorra stick was on him but a black night-gown over his trowsers, and the front of his head shaved claner nor a copper biler, and a black tail a-hangin' down from it behind, wid his two feet stook into the haythenestest shoes yer ever set eyes on. Och! but I was upstairs afore ye could turn about, a-givin' the missus warnin', an' only stopt wid her by her raisin' me wages two dollars, an' playdin' wid me how it was a Christian's duty to bear wid haythens, and taich 'em all in our power--the saints save us! Well, the ways and trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, I couldn't be tellin'. Not a blissid thing cud I do, but he'd be lookin' on wid his eyes cocked up'ard like two poomp-handles; an' he widdout a speck or smitch o' whishkers on him, an' his finger-nails full a yard long. But it's dyin' ye'd be to see the missus a-larnin' him, an' he a-grinnin', an' waggin' his pig-tail (which was pieced out long wid some black stoof, the haythen chate!), and gettin' into her ways wonderful quick, I don't deny, imitatin', that sharp, ye'd be shurprised, an' ketchin an' copyin' things the best of us will do a-hurried wid work, yet don't want comin' to the knowledge o' the family--bad luck to him!

Is it ate wid him? Arrah, an' would I be sittin' wid a haythen, an' he a-atin' wid drumsticks?--yes, an' atin' dogs an' cats unknownst to me, I warrant ye, which it is the custom of them Chinesers, till the thought made me that sick I could die. An' didn't the crayture proffer to help me a week ago come Toosday, an' me foldin' down me clane clothes for the ironin', an' fill his haythen mouth wid water, an' afore I could hinder, squirrit it through his teeth stret over the best linen table-cloth, and fold it up tight, as innercent now as a baby, the dirrity baste! But the worrest of all was the copyin' he'd been doin' till ye'd be dishtracted. It's yerself knows the tinder feet that's on me since ever I been in this counthry. Well, owin' to that, I fell into a way o' slippin' me shoes off when I'd be sittin' down to pale the praties, or the likes o' that; an' do ye mind, that haythen would do the same thing after me whiniver the missus set him to parin' apples or tomaterses.

Did I lave for that? Faix, an' I didn't. Didn't he get me into trouble wid my missus, the haythen! Ye're aware yerself how the boondles comin' in from the grocery often contains more'n'll go into anything dacently. So, for that matter, I'd now and then take out a sup o' sugar, or flour, or tay, an' wrap it in paper, and put it in me bit of a box tucked under the ironin'-blanket, the how it cuddent be bodderin' any one. Well, what shud it be, but this blessed Sathurday morn, the missus was a-spakin' pleasant an' respec'ful wid me in me kitchen, when the grocer boy comes in, and stands fornenst her wid his boondles; and she motions like to Fing Wing (which I never would call him by that name or any other but just haythen)--she motions to him, she does, for to take the boondles, an' emty out the sugar and what not where they belongs. If ye'll belave me, Ann Ryan, what did that blatherin' Chineser do but take out a sup of sugar, an' a han'ful o' tay, an' a bit o' chaze, right afore the missus, wrap, 'em into bits o' paper, an' I spacheless wid shurprise, an' he the next minute up wid the ironin'-blanket, an' pullin' out me box wid a show o' bein sly to put them in. Och! the Lord forgive me, but I clutched it, an' missus sayin' "O Kitty!" in a way that 'ud cruddle yer blood. "He's a haythen nager," says I. "I've found yer out," says she, "I'll arrist him," says I. "It's yerself ought to be arristid," says she. "Yer won't," says I, "I will," says she. And so it went, till she give me such sass as I cuddent take from no lady, an' I give her warnin' an' left that instant, an' she a-pointin' to the doore. --_Theophilus and Others_.

THE HEATHEN CHINEE.

BY BRET HARTE.

_PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES (TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1870)_.

Which I wish to remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,
Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name!
And I shall not deny,
In regard to the same,
What that name might imply;
But his smile it was pensive and childlike,
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third,
And quite soft was the skies;
Which it might be inferred
That Ah Sin was likewise;
Yet he played it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise,

Which we had a small game,
And Ah Sin took a hand;
It was Euchre. The same
He did not understand;
But he smiled as he sat by the table,
With the smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked
In a way that I grieve,
And my feelings were shocked
At the state of Nye's sleeve,
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,
And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played
By that heathen Chinee,
And the points that he made
Were quite frightful to see,--
Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye,
And he gazed upon me;
And he rose with a sigh,
And said, "Can this be?
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour,"--
And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued
I did not take a hand;
But the floor it was strewed
Like the leaves on the strand
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding,
In the game "he did not understand."

In his sleeves, which were long,
He had twenty-four packs,--
Which was coming it strong,
Yet I state but the facts;
And we found on his nails, which were taper,
What is frequent in tapers,--that's wax.

Which is why I remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,
Which the same I am free to maintain.

HO-HO OF THE GOLDEN BELT.

_ONE OF THE "NINE STORIES OF CHINA."_ BY JOHN G. SAXE.

A beautiful maiden was little Min-Ne,
Eldest daughter of wise Wang-Ke;
Her skin had the colour of saffron-tea,
And her nose was flat as flat could be;
And never was seen such beautiful eyes.
Two almond-kernels in shape and size,
Set in a couple of slanting gashes,
And not in the least disfigured by lashes;
And then such feet!
You'd scarcely meet
In the longest walk through the grandest street
(And you might go seeking
From Nanking to Peking)
A pair was remarkably small and neat.

Two little stumps,
Mere pedal lumps,
That toddle along with the funniest thumps
In China, you know, are reckon'd trumps.
It seems a trifle, to make such a boast of it;
But how they _will_ dress it:
And bandage and press it,
By making the least, to make the most of it!
As you may suppose,
She had plenty of beaux
Bowing around her beautiful toes,
Praising her feet, and eyes, and nose
In rapturous verse and elegant prose!
She had lots of lovers, old and young:
There was lofty Long, and babbling Lung,
Opulent Tin, and eloquent Tung,
Musical Sing, and, the rest among,
Great Hang-Yu and Yu-be-Hung.

But though they smiled, and smirk'd, and bow'd,
None could please her of all the crowd;
Lung and Tung she thought too loud;
Opulent Tin was much too proud;
Lofty Long was quite too tall;
Musical Sing sung very small;
And, most remarkable freak of all,
Of great Hang-Yu the lady made game,
And Yu-be-Hung she mocked the sama,
By echoing back his ugly name!

But the hardest heart is doom'd to melt;
Love is a passion that _will_ be felt;
And just when scandal was making free
To hint "What a pretty old maid she'd be,"--
Little Min-Ne,
Who but she?
Married Ho-Ho of the Golden Belt!
A man, I must own, of bad reputation,
And low in purse, though high in station,--
A sort of Imperial poor relation,
Who rank'd as the Emperor's second cousin
Multiplied by a hundred dozen;
And, to mark the love the Emperor felt,
Had a pension clear
Of three pounds a year,
And the honour of wearing a Golden Belt!
And gallant Ho-Ho
Could really show
A handsome face, as faces go
In this Flowery Land, where, you must know,
The finest flowers of beauty grow.
He'd the very widest kind of jaws,
And his nails were like an eagle's claws,
And--though it may seem a wondrous tale--
(Truth is mighty and will prevail!)
He'd a _queue_ as long as the deepest cause
Under the Emperor's chancery laws!

Yet how he managed to win Min-Ne
The men declared they couldn't see;
But all the ladies, over their tea,
In this one point were known to agree:
_Four gifts_ were sent to aid his plea:
A smoking-pipe with a golden clog,
A box of tea and a poodle dog,
And a painted heart that was all aflame,
And bore, in blood, the lover's name,
Ah! how could presents pretty as these
A delicate lady fail to please?
She smoked the pipe with the golden clog,
And drank the tea, and ate the dog,
And kept the heart,--and that's the way
The match was made, the gossips say.

I can't describe the wedding-day,
Which fell in the lovely month of May;
Nor stop to tell of the Honey-moon,
And how it vanish'd all too soon;
Alas! that I the truth must speak,
And say that in the fourteenth week,
Soon as the wedding guests were gone,
And their wedding suits began to doff,
Min-Ne was weeping and "taking-on,"
For _he_ had been trying to "take her off."
Six wives before he had sent to heaven,
And being partial to number "seven,"
He wish'd to add his latest pet,
Just, perhaps, to make up the set!
Mayhap the rascal found a cause
Of discontent in a certain clause
In the Emperor's very liberal laws,
Which gives, when a Golden Belt is wed,
Six hundred pounds to furnish the bed;
And if in turn he marry a score,
With every wife six hundred more.

First, he tried to murder Min-Ne
With a special cup of poison'd tea,
But the lady smelling a mortal foe,
Cried, "Ho-Ho!
I'm very fond of mild Souchong,
But you, my love, you make it too strong."

At last Ho-Ho, the treacherous man,
Contrived the most infernal plan
Invented since the world began;
He went and got him a savage dog,
Who'd eat a woman as soon as a frog;
Kept him a day without any prog,
Then shut him up in an iron bin,
Slipp'd the bolt and locked him in;
Then giving the key
To poor Min-Ne,
Said, "Love, there's something you _mustn't_ see
In the chest beneath the orange-tree."

* * * * *

Poor mangled Min-Ne! with her latest breath
She told her father the cause of her death;
And so it reach'd the Emperor's ear,
And his highness said, "It is very clear
Ho-Ho has committed a murder here!"
And he doom'd Ho-Ho to end his life
By the terrible dog that kill'd his wife;
But in mercy (let his praise be sung!)
His thirteen brothers were merely hung,
And his slaves bamboo'd in the mildest way,
For a calendar month, three times a day.
And that's the way that Justice dealt
With wicked Ho-Ho of the Golden Belt!

THE HIRED SQUIRREL.

_A RUSSIAN FABLE_.

BY LAURA SANFORD.

A lion to the Squirrel said:
"Work faithfully for me,
And when your task is done, my friend,
Rewarded you shall be
With a barrel-full of finest nuts,
Fresh from my own nut-tree."
"My Lion King," the Squirrel said,
"To this I do agree."

The Squirrel toiled both day and night,
Quite faithful to his hire;
So hungry and so faint sometimes
He thought he should expire.
But still he kept his courage up,
And tugged with might and main,
"How nice the nuts will taste," he thought,
"When I my barrel gain."

At last, when he was nearly dead,
And thin and old and grey,
Quoth th' Lion: "There's no more hard work
You're fit to do. I'll pay."
A barrel-full of nuts he gave--
Ripe, rich, and big; but oh!
The Squirrel's tears ran down his cheeks.
He'd _lost his teeth_, you know!

BALLAD OF THE TRAILING SKIRT.

NEW YORK "LIFE."

I met a girl the other day,
A girl with golden tresses,
Who wore the most bewitching air,
And daintiest of dresses.

I gazed at her with kindling eye
And admiration utter--
Until I saw her silken skirt
Was trailing in the gutter!

"What senseless style is this?" I thought;
"What new sartorial passion?
And who on earth stands sponsor for
The idiotic fashion?"

I've asked a dozen maids or more,
A tailor and his cutter,
But no one knows why skirts are made
To drag along the gutter.

Alas for woman, fashion's slave;
She does not seem to mind it.
Her silk or satin sweeps the street
And leaves no filth behind it.

For all the dirt the breezes blow
And all the germs that flutter
May find a refuge in the gowns
That swish along the gutter.

What lovely woman wills to do
She does without a reason.
To interfere is waste of time,
To criticise is treason.

Man's only province is to work
To earn his bread and butter--
And buy her all the skirts she wants
To trail along the gutter.

TO THE GIRL IN KHAKI.

"MODERN SOCIETY."

I put the question shyly,
Lest you inform me dryly
That women's ways are far beyond my ken;
But was not khaki chosen
For coats and breeks and hosen
To render men invisible to men?

Why, then, dear maid, do you
Forsake your gayest hue
And dress in viewless khaki spick and span?
You charming little miss,
It never can be this:
To render you invisible to man!

Not that at all? What then?
You do _not_ fear the men:
Perchance you only wish to hide your heart,
And so, you fickle flirt,
You don a khaki skirt
To foil the deadly aim of Cupid's dart.

THE TENDER HEART.

BY HELEN GRAY CONE.

She gazed upon the burnished brace
Of partridges he showed with pride;
Angelic grief was in her face;
"How _could_ you do it, dear?" she sighed,
"The poor, pathetic, moveless wings!
The songs all hushed--oh, cruel shame!"
Said he, "The partridge never sings."
Said she, "The sin is quite the same.

"You men are savage through and through.
A boy is always bringing in
Some string of bird's eggs, white or blue,
Or butterfly upon a pin.
The angle-worm in anguish dies,
Impaled, the pretty trout to tease----"
"My own, I fish for trout with flies----"
"Don't wander from the question, please!"

She quoted Burns's "Wounded Hare,"
And certain burning lines of Blake's,
And Ruskin on the fowls of air,
And Coleridge on the water-snakes.
At Emerson's "Forbearance" he
Began to feel his will benumbed;
At Browning's "Donald" utterly
His soul surrendered and succumbed.

"Oh, gentlest of all gentle girls,"
He thought, "beneath the blessed sun!"
He saw her lashes hung with pearls,
And swore to give away his gun.
She smiled to find her point was gained,
And went, with happy parting words
(He subsequently ascertained),
To trim her hat with humming-birds.

A SONG OF SARATOGA.

BY JOHN G. SAXE.

"Pray what do they do at the Springs?"
The question is easy to ask:
But to answer it fully, my dear,
Were rather a serious task.
And yet, in a bantering way,
As the magpie or mocking-bird sings,
I'll venture a bit of a song,
To tell what they do at the Springs.

_Imprimis_, my darling, they drink
The waters so sparkling and clear;
Though the flavour is none of the best,
And the odour exceedingly queer;
But the fluid is mingled, you know,
With wholesome medicinal things;
So they drink, and they drink, and they drink--
And that's what they do at the Springs!

Then with appetites keen as a knife,
They hasten to breakfast, or dine;
The latter precisely at three,
The former from seven till nine.
Ye gods! what a rustle and rush,
When the eloquent dinner-bell rings!
Then they eat, and they eat, and they eat--
And that's what they do at the Springs!

Now they stroll in the beautiful walks,
Or loll in the shade of the trees;
Where many a whisper is heard
That never is heard by the breeze;
And hands are commingled with hands,
Regardless of conjugal rings:
And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt--
And that's what they do at the Springs!

The drawing-rooms now are ablaze,
And music is shrieking away;
Terpsichore governs the hour,
And fashion was never so gay!
An arm round a tapering waist--
How closely and fondly it clings!
So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz--
And that's what they do at the Springs!

In short--as it goes in the world--
They eat, and they drink, and they sleep;
They talk, and they walk, and they woo;
They sigh, and they laugh, and they weep;
They read, and they ride, and they dance
(With other remarkable things):
They pray, and they play, and they PAY--
And _that's_ what they do at the Springs!

THE SEA.

BY EVA L. OGDEN.

She was rich and of high degree;
A poor and unknown artist he.
"Paint me," she said, "a view of the sea."
So he painted the sea as it looked the day
That Aphrodite arose from its spray;
And it broke, as she gazed in its face the while
Into its countless-dimpled smile.
"What a pokey stupid picture," said she;
"I don't believe he _can_ paint the sea!"

Then he painted a raging, tossing sea,
Storming, with fierce and sudden shock,
Wild cries, and writhing tongues of foam,
A towering, mighty fastness-rock.
In its sides above those leaping crests,
The thronging sea-birds built their nests.
"What a disagreeable daub!" said she;
"Why it isn't anything like the sea!"

Then he painted a stretch of hot, brown sand,
With a big hotel on either hand,
And a handsome pavilion for the band,--
Not a sign of the water to be seen
Except one faint little streak of green.
"What a perfectly exquisite picture," said she;
"It's the very _image_ of the sea."
--_Century Magazine_.

A TALE OF A NOSE.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

'Twas a hard case, that which happened in Lynn.
Haven't heard of it, eh? Well, then, to begin,
There's a Jew down there whom they call "Old Mose,"
Who travels about, and buys old clothes.

Now Mose--which the same is short for Moses--
Had one of the biggest kind of noses:
It had a sort of an instep in it,
And he fed it with snuff about once a minute.

One day he got in a bit of a row
With a German chap who had kissed his _frau_,
And, trying to punch him _à la_ Mace,
Had his nose cut off close up to his face.

He picked it up from off the ground,
And quickly back in its place 'twas bound,
Keeping the bandage upon his face
Until it had fairly healed in place.

Alas for Mose! 'Twas a sad mistake
Which he in his haste that day did make;
For, to add still more to his bitter cup,
He found he had placed it _wrong side up_.

"There's no great loss without some gain;"
And Moses says, in a jocular vein,
He arranged it so for taking snuff,
As he never before could get enough.

One thing, by the way, he forgets to add,
Which makes the arrangement rather bad:
Although he can take his snuff with ease,
He has to stand on his head to sneeze!

LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

I haf von funny leedle poy
Vot gomes schust to my knee--
Der queerest schap, der createst rogue
As efer you dit see.
He runs, und schumps, and schmashes dings
In all barts off der house.
But vot off dot? He vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measels und der mumbs,
Und eferyding dot's oudt;
He sbills mine glass of lager-bier,
Foots schnuff indo mine kraut;
He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese--
Dot vas der roughest chouse;
I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo
To make der schticks to beat it mit--
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!
I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,
He kicks oup such a touse!
But nefer mind, der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese:
Who baints mine nose so red?
Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?
Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp
Vene'er der glim I douse?
How gan I all dese dings eggsblain
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss.

I somedimes dink I schall go vild
Mit sooch a grazy poy,
Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest
Und beaceful dimes enshoy,
But ven he vas ashleep in ped,
So quiet as a mouse,
I prays der Lord, "Dake anydings,
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."

DOT BABY OF MINE.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

Mine cracious! Mine cracious! shust look here und see A Deutscher so habby as habby can pe. Der beoples all dink dat no prains I haf got, Vas grazy mit trinking, or someding like dot; Id vasn't pecause I trinks lager und vine, Id vas all on aggount of dot baby off mine.

Dot schmall leedle vellow I dells you vas qveer; Not mooch pigger round as a goot glass off beer, Mit a bare-footed hed, and nose but a schpeck, A mout dot goes most to der pack of his neck, And his leedle pink toes mid der rest all combine To gife sooch a charm to dot baby off mine.

I dells you dot baby vas von off der poys, Und beats leedle Yawcob for making a noise; He shust has pegun to shbeak goot English, too, Says "Mamma," und "Bapa," und somedimes "ah-goo!" You don't find a baby den dimes oudt off nine Dot vas qvite so schmart as dot baby off mine.

He grawls der vloor over, und drows dings aboudt, Und puts efryding he can find in his mout; He durables der shtairs down, und falls vrom his chair, Und gifes mine Katrina von derrible schare. Mine hair stands like shquills on a mat borcupine Ven I dinks of dose pranks of dot baby off mine.

Der vas someding, you pet, I don't likes pooty veil; To hear in der nighdt dimes dot young Deutscher yell, Und dravel der ped-room midout many clo'es, Vhile der chills down der sphine off mine pack quickly goes. Dose leedle shimnasdic dricks vasn't so fine Dot I cuts oop at nighdt mit dot baby off mine.