Chapter III: Part 3

Well, yes, 'tis a hair-curlin' story--
I would it could not be recalled.
The terrible fright of that hell-tinctured night
Is the cause of my head bein' bald.
I was runnin' the Git-There Express, sir,
On the Yankee Creek Jerkwater line.
An' the track along there was as crooked, I swear,
As the growth of a field pumpkin vine.
My run was a night one, an' nights on the Yank
War as black as the coal piled back there on the tank.

We pulled out of Tenderfoot Station,
A day and almost a-half late,
An' every durn wheel was a-poundin' the steel
At a wildly extravagant rate.
My fireman kept pilin' the coal in
The jaws of the ol' 94,
Till the sweat from his nose seemed to play through a hose
An' splashed 'round his feet on the floor,
As we thundered along like a demon in flight,
A-rippin' a streak through the breast of the night.

As we rounded the curve on the mountain,
Full sixty an hour I will swear,
Jest ahead was a sight that with blood-freezin' fright
Would have raised a stuffed buffalo's hair.
The bridge over Ute Creek was burnin',
The flames shootin' up in their glee;
My God! how they gleamed in the air, till they seemed
Like the fiery-tongued imps on a spree--
Jest snickered an' sparkled an' laughed like they knowed
I'd make my next trip on a different road.

In frenzy I reached for the throttle,
But 'twas stuck an' refused to obey.
I yelled in affright, for our maddenin' flight
I felt that I never could stay.
Then wildly I grasped the big lever,
Threw her over, then held my hot breath,
An' waited for what I assuredly thought
Was a sure an' terrible death.
Then came the wild crash, an' with horror-fringed yell
Down into that great fiery chasm I fell.

When I came to myself I was lyin'
On the floor of the bedroom; my wife
Sat astride of my form, and was making it warm
Fur her darlin', you bet your sweet life!
My hair she had clutched in her fingers,
An' was jammin' my head on the floor,
Yet I yelled with delight when I found that my fright
Was a horrible dream, nothin' more.
I had wildly grabb'd one of her ankles, she said,
An' reversed her clear over the head of the bed.

_SEEING'S NOT BELIEVING._

I saw her, as I fancied, fair,
Yes, fairest of earth's creatures;
I saw the purest red and white
O'erspread her lovely features;
She fainted, and I sprinkled her,
Her malady relieving:
I washed both rose and lily off!
Oh! seeing's not believing!

I looked again, again I longed
To breathe love's fond confession
I saw her eyebrows formed to give
Her face its arch expression;
But gum is very apt to crack,
And whilst my breast was heaving,
It so fell out that one fell off!
Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw the tresses on her brow
So beautifully braided;
I never saw in all my life
Locks look so well as they did,
She walked with me one windy day--
Ye zephyrs, why so thieving?
The lady lost her flaxen wig!
Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw her form, by Nature's hand
So prodigally finished,
She were less perfect if enlarged,
Less perfect if diminished;
Her toilet I surprised--the worst
Of wonders then achieving;
None knew the bustle I perceived!
Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw, when costly gems I gave,
The smile with which she took them;
And if she said no tender things,
I've often seen her look them;
I saw her my affianced bride,
And then, my mansion leaving,
She ran away with Colonel Jones!
Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw another maiden soon,
And struggled to detain her;
I saw her plain enough--in fact,
Few women could be plainer;
'Twas said, that at her father's death
A plum she'd be receiving:
I saw that father's house and grounds!
Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw her mother--she was deck'd
With furbelows and feathers;
I saw distinctly that she wore
Silk stockings in all weathers;
I saw, beneath a load of gems.
The matron's bosom heaving;
I saw a thousand signs of wealth!
Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw her father, and I spoke
Of marriage in his study;
But would he let her marry me
Alas! alas! how could he?
I saw him smile a glad consent,
My anxious heart relieving,
And then I saw the settlements
Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw the daughter, and I named
My moderate finances;
She spurned me not, she gave me one
Of her most tender glances.
I saw her father's bank--thought I,
There cash is safe from thieving;
I saw my money safely lodged:
Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw the bank, the shutters up,
I could not think what they meant,
The old infirmity of firms,
The bank had just stopped payment!
I saw my future father then
Was ruined past retrieving,
Like me, without a single _sou_:
Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw the banker's wife had got
The fortune settled on her;
What cared he, when the creditors
Talked loudly of dishonour!
I saw his name in the _Gazette_,
But soon I stared, perceiving,
He bought another house and grounds:
Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw--yes, as plain as could be,
I saw the banker's daughter;
She saw me, too, and called for sal
Volatile and water.
She said that she had just espoused
A rich old man, conceiving
That I was dead or gone to gaol:
Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw a friend, and freely spoke
My mind on the transaction;
Her brother heard it, and he called,
Demanding satisfaction.
We met--I fell--that brother's ball
In my left leg receiving;
I have two legs, true--_one is cork_:
Oh! seeing's not believing!

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.

_CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON._

Now, Mr. Caudle--Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be asleep already, I know. Now, what I mean to say is this: there's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but at last my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I shall quit the house. No, no! There's an end of the marriage state, I think--and an end of all confidence between man and wife--if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em. Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel, there's a good soul: tell me, what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I daresay; still--not that I care much about it--still, I should like to know. There's a dear. Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it; I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr. Caudle; I know there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well?

And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You mean to say--you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in a passion--not that I care about the secret itself; no, I wouldn't give a button to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about; it's the slight, Mr. Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to himself which he won't let her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a Mason--when he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? Ha! you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all the best of them to yourselves; otherwise a woman ought to be allowed a divorce when a man becomes a Mason--when he's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart, a secret place in his mind, that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage.

Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute!--yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might oblige me, and you won't. I'm sure I don't object to your being a Mason; not at all, Caudle; I daresay it's a very good thing; I daresay it is: it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you'll tell me--you'll tell your own Margaret? You won't? You're a wretch, Mr. Caudle.

DOUGLAS JERROLD.

_MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE._

There, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you were this morning. There, you needn't begin to whistle: people don't come to bed to whistle. But it's like you; I can't speak, that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the best creature living: now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long: it's very hard if I can't speak a word at night; and it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness knows!

Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must almost swear the roof off the house. You didn't swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what you do when you're in a passion. You were not in a passion, wer'n't you? Well, then I don't know what a passion is; and I think I ought by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that.

It's a pity you hav'n't something worse to complain of than a button off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm never without a needle-and-thread in my hand; what with you and the children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks? Why, if once in your life a button's off your shirt--what do you say "ah" at? I say once, Mr. Caudle; or twice or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than yours. I only wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married! I should like to know where were your buttons then?

Yes, it is worth talking of! But that's how you always try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then, if I only try to speak, you won't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to yourselves: a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of but her husband's buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha! if poor women only knew what they had to go through! What with buttons--and one thing and another! They'd never tie themselves up to the best man in the world, I'm sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle?--Why, do much better without you, I'm certain.

And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt; it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to talk about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for anything. All I know is, it's very odd that the button should be off the shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons than I am. I only say it's very odd.

However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to death with your temper, and sha'n't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may laugh! And I daresay you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's your love; that's your feeling! I know that I'm sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second wife will look after your buttons! You'll find out the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back.

DOUGLAS JERROLD.

_JIM BLUDSO._

Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives,
Because he don't live, you see:
Leastways, he's got out of the habit
Of livin' like you and me.
Whar have you been for the last three years,
That you haven't heard folks tell
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks,
The night of the "Prairie Belle"?

He warn't no saint--them engineers
Is all pretty much alike--
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill,
And another one here, in Pike.
A careless man in his talk was Jim,
And an awkward man in a row--
But he never pinked, and he never lied,
I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had--
To treat his engine well;
Never be passed on the river;
To mind the pilot's bell;
And if ever the _Prairie Belle_ took fire,
A thousand times he swore
He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats has their day on the Mississip'.
And her day came at last--
The _Movastar_ was a better boat,
But the _Belle_, she wouldn't be passed,
And so came tearin' along that night,
The oldest craft on the line,
With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,
And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine.

The fire bust out as she clared the bar,
And burnt a hole in the night,
And quick as a flash she turned, and made
For that willer-bank on the right.
There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out
Over all the infernal roar,
"I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last galoot's ashore."

Thro' the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat
Jim Bludso's voice was heard,
And they all had trust in his cussedness,
And know'd he would keep his word.
And sure's you're born, they all got off
Afore the smoke-stacks fell,
And Bludso's ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the _Prairie Belle_.

He warn't no saint--but at judgment
I'd run my chance with Jim
'Longside of some pious gentlemen
That wouldn't shook hands with him.
He'd seen his duty a dead sure thing,
And went for it thar and then;
And Christ ain't a-goin' to be too hard
On a man that died for men.

COLONEL JOHN HAY.

_HOW UNCLE MOSE COUNTED THE EGGS._

Old Mose, who sells eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived; but he has got the habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in front of the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady came out to the gate to make the purchases.

"Have you got any eggs this morning, Uncle Mose?" she asked.

"Yes, indeed I has. Jes got in ten dozen from de kentry."

"Are they fresh?"

"I gua'ntee 'em. I knows dey am fresh jess de same as ef I had laid 'em myse'f."

"I'll take nine dozen. You can count them in this basket."

"All right, mum." He counts: "One, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten. You kin rely on dem bein' fresh. How's your son comin' on at de school? He mus' be mos' grown."

"Yes, Uncle Mose, he is a clerk in a bank at Galveston."

"Why, how ole am de boy?"

"He is eighteen."

"You don't tole me so. Eighteen and gettin' a salary already! eighteen (counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-free, twenty-foah, twenty-five, and how's yore gal comin' on? She was mos' growed up de las' time I seed her."

"She is married and living in Dallas."

"Wal, I declar. How de time scoots away! An' yo' say she has childruns? Why, how ole am de gal? She mus' be about----"

"Thirty-three."

"Am dat so? (counting) firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six, firty-seben, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-free. Hit am so singular dat you has sich old childruns. I can't believe you has grand-childruns. You don't look more den forty yeahs old youself."

"Nonsense, old man, I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to be fifty-three years old----"

"Fifty-free? I jess dun gwinter b'lieve hit, fifty-free, fifty-foah, fifty-five, fifty-six--I want you to pay tenshun when I counts de eggs, so dar'll be no mistake--fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-free, sixty-foah--whew! Dat am a warm day. Dis am de time of yeah when I feels I'se gettin' ole myse'f. I ain't long for dis worl. You comes from an ole family. When your fodder died he was sebenty years ole."

"Seventy-two, Uncle Mose."

"Dat's ole, suah. Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seven, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine--and your mudder? she was one ob de noblest lookin' ladies I ebber see. You reminds me ob her so much. She libbed to mos' a hundred. I bleeves she was done past a centurion when she died."

"No, Uncle Mose, she was only ninety-six when she died."

"Den she wasn't no chicken when she died. I know dat--ninety-six, ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight--dar 108 nice fresh eggs--jess nine dozen, and heah am one moah egg in case I has discounted myse'f."

Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Burton said to her husband, "I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood right there and heard Old Mose count them myself, and there were nine dozen."

_THE NEGRO BABY'S FUNERAL._

I was walking in Savannah, past a church decayed and dim,
When there slowly through the windows came a plaintive funeral hymn;
And the sympathy awakened, and a wonder quickly grew,
Till I found myself environed in a little negro pew.
Out at front a coloured couple sat in sorrow, nearly wild;
On the altar was a coffin, in the coffin was a child.
I could picture him when living--curly hair, protruding lip--
And had seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried Southern trip.

But no baby ever rested in the soothing arms of death
That had fanned more flames of sorrow with his little fluttering
breath;
And no funeral ever glistened with more sympathy profound
Than was in the chain of teardrops that enclasped those mourners
round.

Rose a sad, old coloured preacher at the little wooden desk--
With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance grotesque;
With simplicity and shrewdness on his Ethiopian face;
With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed, undying race.

And he said: "Now, don' be weepin' for dis pretty bit o' clay--
For de little boy who lived dere, he's done gone an' run away!
He was doin' very finely, an' he 'preciate your love;
But his sure 'nuff Father want him in de large house up above.

"Now, he didn't give you that baby, by a hundred thousan' mile!
He just think you need some sunshine, an' He lent it for a while!
An' He let you keep an' love it till your hearts were bigger grown;
An' dese silver tears your sheddin's jest de interes' on the loan.

"Here's yer oder pretty childrun!--doan' be makin' it appear
Dat your love got sort o' 'nopolised by dis little fellow here;
Don' pile up too much your sorrow on dere little mental shelves,
So's to kind 'o set 'em wonderin' if dey're no account demselves.

"Just you think, you poor deah mounahs, creepin' long o'er Sorrow's
way,
What a blessed little pic-nic dis yere baby's got to-day!
Your good faders and good moders crowd de little fellow round
In de angel-tended garden ob de big Plantation Ground.

"An' dey ask him, 'Was your feet sore?' an' take off his little
shoes,
An' dey wash him, an' dey kiss him, an' dey say--'Now what's de
news?'
An' de Lawd done cut his tongue loose, den de little fellow say--
'All our folks down in the valley tries to keep de hebbenly way.'

"An' his eyes dey brightly sparkle at de pretty things he view;
Den a tear come an' he whispers--'But I want my parents too!'
But de Angel Chief Musician teach dat boy a little song--
Says 'If only dey be fait'ful dey will soon be comin' 'long.'
An' he'll get an' education dat will proberbly be worth
Seberal times as much as any you could buy for him on earth;
He'll be in de Lawd's big schoolhouse, widout no contempt or fear;
While dere's no end to the bad tings might have happened to him
here.

"So, my pooah dejected mounahs, let your hearts wid Jesus rest,
An' don't go to critercisin' dat ar One w'at knows the best!
He have sent us many comforts--He have right to take away--
To the Lawd be praise an' glory now and ever! Let us pray!"

WILL CARLETON.

_DER SHPIDER UND DER FLY._

I reads in Yawcob's shtory book,
A couple veeks ago,
Von firsd-rade boem, vot I dinks
Der beoples all should know.
I'd ask dis goot conundhrum, too,
Vich ve should brofit by:
"'Vill you indo mine parlor valk?'
Says der Shpider off der fly."

Dot set me dinking, righdt avay,
Und vhen, von afternoon,
A shbeculator he comes in
Und dells me, pooty soon,
He haf silfer mine to sell,
Und ask me eef I puy,
I dink off der oxberience
Off dot plue-pottle fly.

Der oder day, vhen on der cars
I vent by Nie Yorck oudt,
I meets a fraulein on der train,
Who dold me, mit a pout,
She likes der Deutscher shentlemans
Und dells me sit peside her--
I says: "Mine friendt, I vas no fly,
Eef you vas peen a shpider."

I vent indo der shmoking car,
Vhere dhey vas blaying boker,
Und also haf somedings dhey calls
Der funny "leedle joker."
Some money id vas shanging hands,
Dhey vanted me to try--
I says: "You vas too brevious,
I don'd vas been a fly!"

On Central Park a shmardt young man
Says: "Strauss, how vas you peen?"
Und dake me kindtly py der hand,
Und ask off mine Katrine.
He vants to shange a feefty bill,
Und says hees name vas Schneider--
Maype, berhaps, he vas all righdt;
More like he vas a shpider.

Mosd efry day some shwindling chap
He dries hees leedle game;
I cuts me oudt dot shpider biece
Und poot id in a frame;
Righdt in mine shtore I hangs it oup,
Und near id, on der shly,
I geeps a glub, to send gvick oudt,
Dhose shpiders, "on der fly."

CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.

_LARIAT BILL._

"Well, stranger, 'twas somewhere in 'sixty-nine
I wore runnin' the 'Frisco fast express;
An' from Murder Creek to Blasted Pine,
Were nigh onto eighteen mile, I guess.
The road were a down-grade all the way,
An' we pulled out of Murder a little late,
So I opened the throttle wide that day,
And a mile a minute was 'bout our gait.

"My fireman's name was Lariat Bill,
A quiet man with an easy way,
Who could rope a steer with a cow-boy's skill,
Which he'd learned in Texas, I've heard him say.
The coil were strong as tempered steel,
An' it went like a bolt from a cross-bow flung,
An' arter Bill changed from saddle to wheel,
Just over his head in the cab it hung.

"Well, as I were saying, we fairly flew,
As we struck the curve at Buffalo Spring,
An' I give her full steam an' put her through,
An' the engine rocked like a living thing;
When all of a sudden I got a scare--
For thar on the track were a little child!
An' right in the path of the engine there
She held out her little hands and smiled!

"I jerked the lever and whistled for brakes,
The wheels threw sparks like a shower of gold;
But I knew the trouble a down-grade makes,
An' I set my teeth an' my flesh grew cold.
Then Lariat Bill yanked his long lassoo,
An' out on the front of the engine crept--
He balanced a moment before he threw,
Then out in the air his lariat swept!"

He paused. There were tears in his honest eyes;
The stranger listened with bated breath.
"I know the rest of the tale," he cries;
"He snatched the child from the jaws of death!
'Twas the deed of a hero, from heroes bred,
Whose praises the very angels sing!"
The engineer shook his grizzled head,
And growled: "He didn't do no sich thing.

"He aimed at the stump of a big pine tree,
An' the lariat caught with a double hitch,
An' in less than a second the train an' we
Were yanked off the track an' inter the ditch!
'Twere an awful smash, an' it laid me out,
I ain't forgot it, and never shall;
Were the passengers hurt? Lemme see--about--
Yes, it killed about forty--but saved the gal!"

G. W. H.

_THE ELF CHILD; OR, LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE._

Little orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
And wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, and bake the bread, an' earn her board an' keep;
An' all us other children, when the supper things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire, an' has the mostest fun
A-list'ning to the witch tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the gobble-uns 'at gits you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs;
An' when he went to bed 'at night, away upstairs,
His mammy heard him holler, and his daddy heard him bawl,
An' whin they turn'd the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter room, and cubby hole and press,
An' seeked him up the chimbly flue an' ever'wheres, I guess,
But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout!
An' the gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh and grin,
An' make fun of ever'one, an' all her blood an' kin;
An' onc't when they was company an' ole folks was there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she know'd what
she's about,
An' the gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

An' little orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is grey,
An' the lightnin' bugs in dew is all squelched away,
You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear,
An' cherish them 't loves you, and dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at cluster all about,
Er the gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

_ALONZO THE BRAVE AND THE FAIR IMOGENE._

A warrior so bold and a virgin so bright,
Conversed as they sat on the green;
They gazed on each other with tender delight;
Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight,--
The maiden's the Fair Imogene.

"And oh!" said the youth, "since to-morrow I go
To fight in a far distant land,
Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow,
Some other will court you, and you will bestow
On a wealthier suitor your hand!"

"Oh cease these suspicions," Fair Imogene said.
"Offensive to love and to me;
For if you be living, or if you be dead,
I swear by the Virgin that none in your stead,
Shall husband of Imogene be.

"If e'er by lust or by wealth led astray I forget my Alonzo the
Brave,
God grant that to punish my falsehood and pride
Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side,
May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride,
And bear me away to the grave."

To Palestine hastened the hero so bold,
His love she lamented him sore;
But scarce had a twelve-month elapsed, when behold!
A Baron, all covered with jewels and gold,
Arrived at Fair Imogene's door.

His treasures, his presents, his spacious domain
Soon made her untrue to her vows;
He dazzled her eyes, he bewildered her brain,
He caught her affection, so light and so vain,
And carried her home as his spouse.

And now had the marriage been blest by the priest,
And revelry now had begun;
The tables they groaned with the weight of the feast.
Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased,
When the bell at the castle tolled--one.

Then first with amazement Fair Imogene found
A stranger was placed by her side;
His air was terrific, he uttered no sound--
He spake not, he moved not--he looked not around,
But earnestly gazed on the bride.

His visor was closed, and gigantic his height,
His armour was sable to view;
All pleasure and laughter were hushed at the sight,
All the dogs as they eyed him drew back in afright,
All the lights in the chamber burned blue.

His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay,
The guests sat in silence and fear;
At length spake the bride, while she trembled, "I pray,
Sir Knight, that your helmet aside you would lay,
And deign to partake of our cheer."

The lady is silent--the stranger complies--
His visor he slowly unclosed;
Oh God! what a sight met Fair Imogene's eyes!
What word can express her dismay and surprise,
When a skeleton's head was exposed.

All present then uttered a terrified shout,
All turned in disgust from the scene;
The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out,
And sported his eyes and his temples about,
While the spectre addressed Imogene.

"Behold me, thou false one--behold me!" he cried; "Remember Alonzo
the Brave!
God grant that to punish thy falsehood and pride,
My ghost at thy marriage should sit at thy side,
Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride,
And bear thee away to the grave!"

Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound,
While loudly she shrieked in dismay;
And sank with his prey through the wide yawning ground,
Nor ever again was Fair Imogene found,
Or the spectre that bore her away.

Not long lived the Baron, and none since that time
To inhabit the castle presume;
For chronicles say, that by order sublime,
There Imogene suffers the pain of her crime,
And mourns her deplorable doom.

At midnight four times in each year does her sprite,
When mortals in slumber are bound,
Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white,
Appear in the hall of the skeleton knight,
And shriek as he whirls her around.

While they drink out of skulls, newly torn from the grave,
Dancing around them the spectres are seen;
Their liquid is blood, and this horrible stave
They howl: "To the health of Alonzo the Brave,
And his consort, the Fair Imogene."

MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS (MONK LEWIS).

_AN ALL-AROUND INTELLECTUAL MAN._

He was up in mathematics, had a taste for hydrostatics, and could
talk about astronomy from Aristarchus down;
He could tell what kind of beans were devoured by the Chaldeans, and
he knew the date of every joke made by a circus clown.

He was versed in evolution, and would instance the poor Russian as a
type of despotism in the modern age of man.
He could write a page of matter on the different kinds of batter
used in making flinty gim-cracks on the modern cooking plan.

He could revel in statistics, he was well up in the fistics, knew
the pedigree of horses dating 'way back from the ark.
Far and wide his tips were quoted, and his base-ball stuff was
noted. In political predictions he would always hit the mark.

He could write upon the tariff, and he didn't seem to care if he was
called off to review a book or write a poem or two:
He could boil down stuff and edit, knew the value of a credit, and
could hustle with the telegraph in a style excelled by few.
He could tell just how a fire should be handled; as a liar he was
sure to exercise a wise, discriminative taste.
He was mild and yet undaunted, and no matter what was wanted he was
always sure to get it first, yet never was in haste.

But despite his reputation as a brainy aggregation, he was known to
be deficient in a manner to provoke.
For no matter when you met him he would borrow if you let him, and
he seemed to have the faculty of always being broke.

TOM MASSON.

_HER IDEAL._

She wanted to reach an ideal;
She talked of the lovely in art,
She quoted from Emerson's Essays,
And said she thought Howells had "heart."
She doted on Wagner's productions,
She thought comic opera low,
And she played trying tunes on a zither,
Keeping time with a sandal-shod toe.

She had dreams of a nobler existence--
A bifurcated, corsetless place,
Where women would stand free and equal
As queens of a glorious race.
But her biscuits were deadly creations
That caused people's spirits to sink,
And she'd views on matters religious
That drove her relations to drink.

She'd opinions on co-education,
But not an idea on cake;
She could analyse Spencer or Browning,
But the new kitchen range wouldn't bake.
She wanted to be esoteric,
And she wore the most classical clothes;
But she ended by being hysteric
And contracting a cold in her nose.

She studied of forces hypnotic,
She believed in theosophy quite,
She understood themes prehistoric
And said that the faith cure was right.
She wanted to reach the ideal,
And at clods unpoetic would rail,
And her husband wore fringe on his trousers
And fastened them on with a nail!

KATE MASTERSON.

_THE HAPPY FARMER._

The farmer is a happy man,
His life is free from care,
With naught to make his spirit sad
Or make him want to swear;
All day among the cockle burrs
He gaily grubs and hoes,
And money never troubles him,
Unless 'tis what he owes.

How sweet at early dawn of day
To rise before the sun,
And hustle briskly round the barn
Till all the chores are done;
To feed the cows, and milk them, too,
In brightly shining pails,
The while they tread upon your corns
And thump you with their tails.

How sweet to hie into the field,
From breakfast smoking hot,
And chase a plough all day around
A forty acre lot,
And, when it strikes against a stone,
Drawn by the horses stout,
To have the handles prance around
And punch your daylights out.

How sweet at noon to lie at ease
Beneath some spreading tree,
And hold a secret session
With an ardent bumble bee,
And when your rheumatism makes
Your legs refuse to go,
How sweet to lie upon your back
And watch your mortgage grow.

And when the busy cares of day
Have faded with the light,
How sweet to lie in peaceful sleep
Throughout the dewy night,
And to hear the partner of your joys,
At the first faint tinge of dawn,
Shout, "Come, old granger, hump yourself
The cows are in the corn."

MORTIMER C. BROWN.

_THE SON OF A SOLDIER_

BY OWEN OLIVER.

(_Reprinted from "To-Day" by kind permission of the Author._)

You'll be sure to know my daddy,
'Cause he wears a coat of red.
An' a rifle, an' a bay'net,
An' a helmet on his head.
An' he's very big an' handsome,
An' his name is Sergeant Smith,
An' he's gone to fight the Boers
That our Queen is angry with.
He's the good Queen's faithful soldier,
So he's angry, too, of course--
I expects they _will_ be frightened
When they know my daddy's cross!

Daddy took me up and nursed me
'For he went on Friday week;
"Sonny-boy," he said, "Here's sixpence,
Bless you, lad!" and kissed my cheek,
"Mind you write to me and tell me
How you're doing at your books,
How the baby's learning walking,
How your little sister looks,
How you're good and helping mother--
That's the news I want to find."
Mine is only printing writing,
But my daddy doesn't mind.

I'm my daddy's little soldier,
An I've often heard him say,
Soldiers ought to do their duty
Though their officer's away.
Mamma says my duty's doing
Just what daddy said I should;
But it's hard to do my lessons;
And its harder to be good!
Teacher says, "Just keep on trying,
They'll come easy by-an'-by;"
Mamma says I do grow better,
And she'll write an' say I try.

Won't he smile! unless they've shot him!
Mamma said perhaps they would;
An' she cried and cried till I cried--
But I don't believe they could.
No one couldn't hurt my daddy;
If they did, when I grow tall,
I shall take a sword and rifle,
An' I'll go and kill them all.
If I woke up big to-morrow,
Off to battle I should go;
Then I'd see who'd touch my daddy--
Please, dear God, do make me grow!

_THE MILE._

BY DAVID M'KEE WRIGHT.

(_By kind permission of the Author._)

Sports day at the township; the station chaps mustered
From Stewart's and "Flaxland" and Scott's of "Argyle;"
Good sport and good weather, and take things together
The event that they talked most about was the mile.

Young Wilson from Flaxland could run like a greyhound,
His times were a wonder with no stopwatch by;
From Stewart's, Jack Barry could go like "Old Harry,"
And Scott's chaps had pinned all their faith on Mackay.

The township had three in, and each looked like winning.
The cunning boys smiled when you asked what they knew;
I'd have sooner been resting than stripping and breasting
The mark for the honour of old Waitahu.

But the chaps that were with me would take no denial--
I used to run once and could do it to-day;
It was no use complaining I wasn't in training,
I was hard from the hills and could show them the way.

So they said; but the other blokes smiled at my chances,
Well they might when I hadn't run for a year;
I heard someone mutter, "He's softer than butter--
He used to win once, but he won't finish here."

That made me feel foolish, I wished I'd been training,
I felt if I had I could make someone spin,
But still I was thinking, "I'll finish like winking;
Though there isn't a ghost of a chance I can win!"

We all toed the line, but I wasn't excited,
I fancied the race was all over for Dan;
The slowest could do me--the pistol went through me,
I jumped from the scratch, and the tussle began.

I'd a yard at the start, but I lost it next moment,
My word, they went off at a terrible bat;
I saw in a minute I wouldn't be in it
If Wilson and Barry kept moving like that.

They went for a quarter, then Pearce, of the township,
Ran up to the lead like a young cannon ball;
I kept well behind them, I reckoned to find them
About the three-quarters, or else not at all.

Second round the same order, Mackay creeping closer,
And Pearce, of the township, dropped out at the bend;
They kept the pace going, but Wilson was blowing,
I didn't expect to see him at the end.

Third round, and, by George, I was closing upon them,
My long steady swing was beginning to tell;
Mackay took the running--he'd played pretty cunning--
I caught my first man at the three-quarter bell.

Then I let myself out and I tackled another,
Passed him quickly and got up to Wilson at last;
There was nothing left in him that once looked like winning;
He gave up the struggle the moment I passed.

Jack Barry was next, and we got going level,
I brought him along till we tackled Mackay;
The whole ground was moving, our pace was improving,
By Jove! at the finish the grass seemed to fly.

"Come on, Dan! come on! you can leave them both standing!"
"Jack Barry's the winner!" "Mackay leads the way!"--
The yelling and raving, the rushing and waving--
I'll always remember the finish that day.

We were going "eyes out," all three shoulder to shoulder,
I gathered myself for the best I could do--
I heard my name crying, I took the tape flying
For the honour and glory of old Waitahu!

_Other Volumes in this Series._

MANNERS FOR MEN
MANNERS FOR WOMEN
A WORD TO WOMEN
HOW TO BE PRETTY
WHAT SHALL I SAY?
THE BOOK OF STITCHES
HEALTH EXERCISES AND HOME GYMNASTICS
THE APPLAUSE RECITER
RECITATIONS
THE GENTLE ART OF GOOD TALKING
CONCERNING MARRIAGE
ATHLETICS OF TO-DAY
MANNERS FOR GIRLS
BEAUTY ADORNED