Chapter I: SUPPOSE we are about as happy as the most of folks, but as I was (3)

The young man in West Thirty-fifth Street who lately introduced cat-fishing as a manly and beneficent sport, can scarcely be said to have devised an absolute specific for cats, but he has unquestionably contributed to lessen the number of cats in his immediate vicinity. Early last fall a vast area of cats, accompanied with marked depression of the spirits of the inhabitants of West Thirty-fifth Street, overspread that unfortunate region. After a thorough trial of most of the popular remedies, a young man residing on the block between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, and who may be called—not necessarily for publication, but as a guarantee of good faith—by the name of Thompson, hit upon the idea of angling for cats. To the end of a strong blue-fish line he affixed a salmon hook, baited with delicate morsels of meat. At first this hook, deftly dropped from the back window, was permitted to lie on top of the back fence. The first cat that passed over the fence would investigate the bait, and finding it apparently free from fraud, would begin to eat it. A slight pull at the line would usually fix the hook in the cat’s mouth, and the angler would haul in his prey and knock it on the head. It frequently happened, however, that the cat would not be successfully “struck,” and would escape and warn his associates to beware of concealed hooks. Moreover, the angler had his bait gorged, upon one occasion, by a tramp, who had climbed the fence with a view to gaining access to the kitchen; and though the game was successfully landed in the second-storey back room, and, after being goffed with a sword-bayonet, he had so much difficulty in subsequently disposing of the body that he dreaded a repetition of the incident. He therefore altered his methods of angling, and adopted a modified style of fly-fishing.

This latter sport was carried on with the aid of a long bamboo fishing-pole. The hook was baited as before, but instead of being permitted to lie on the top of the fence, was suffered to dangle in the air, about two feet above it. As soon as a cat perceived the bait, he assumed with the intense self-conceit characteristic of his race, that it was a supernatural recognition of his extraordinary merits, and could be fearlessly appropriated. In order to seize it he was, of course, compelled to leap upwards, and it was very seldom that he failed to hook himself. By this plan, not only was the necessity of “striking” the cat obviated, but the danger that the bait would be seized by tramps was greatly lessened, while the excitement and interest of the sport were increased.

The young man became greatly fascinated with his new occupation, and having effected an arrangement with a popular French restaurant, was enabled to dispose of his game easily and profitably. On moonlight nights, when the late fall cats were in season, he often caught a string of from three to four dozen during a single night,—many of these weighing ten or fifteen pounds each. So few cats escaped after having once leaped at the bait, that no general suspicion of the deadly nature of apparently aerial meat was disseminated among the feline population of the neighbourhood. Before the winter was over cats had become so scarce that the sportsman was seriously contemplating the necessity of artificially stocking the back fences of Thirty-fifth Street, when an unfortunate accident brought his beneficent occupation to a sudden end. An old gentleman, residing in a house in Thirty-sixth Street, the backyard of which adjoined the fence where the young man practised his sport, noticed one evening that something attached to a string was dangling over his back fence. As he had a pretty daughter, he immediately suspected that it was a surreptitious note, and stole softly out to seize and confiscate it. Mounting on a barrel he clutched the supposed note, and was instantly hooked. The tackle was strong, and he would perhaps have been landed had not the hook torn out when he was about forty feet from the ground. After he had recovered from his injuries caused by the fall, and the weakness consequent upon the amputation of his legs, he showed so much annoyance at the so-called outrage which had been inflicted upon him, that the young man, who was a person of most delicate feelings, promised to give up cat-fishing. Of course, had the old gentleman been thoroughly gaffed, he would not have fallen, and perhaps the young man felt that his failure to properly gaff him was an inexcusable error, which really called for his graceful retirement from cat-fishing.

This example ought to bear fruit. At a very small expense for tackle, any resident of this city who occupies a back room can secure excellent sport, and at the same time can render a great service to humanity by reducing the number of cats. The sport ought speedily to become a very popular one, and there can be but little doubt that in time cat-fishing will rival trout-fishing in the estimation of American sportsmen.

_W. L. Alden._

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_CAPTAIN STICK AND TONY._

OLD Captain Stick was a remarkably precise old gentleman and conscientiously just man. He was, too, very methodical in his habits, one of which was to keep an account in writing of the conduct of his servants, from day to day. It was a sort of account-current, and he settled by it every Saturday afternoon. No one dreaded these hebdomadal balancings more than Tony, the boy of all-work, for the captain was generally obliged to write a receipt, for a considerable amount, across his shoulders.

One settling afternoon, the captain, accompanied by Tony, was seen “toddling” down to the old stable, with his little account book in one hand and a small rope in the other. After they had reached the “Bar of Justice,” and Tony had been properly “strung up,” the captain proceeded to state his accounts as follows:—

“Tony, _Dr._

“_Sabbath_, to not half blacking my boots, etc., five stripes.

“_Tuesday_, to staying four hours at mill longer than necessary, ten stripes.

“_Wednesday_, to not locking the hall door at night, five stripes.

“_Friday_, to letting the horse go without water, five stripes.

“Total, twenty-five stripes.

“Tony, _Cr._

“_Monday_, by first-rate day’s work in the garden, ten stripes.

“Balance due, fifteen stripes.”

The balance being thus struck, the captain drew his cowhide and remarked——“Now, Tony, you black scamp, what say you, you lazy villain, why I shouldn’t give you fifteen lashes across your back, as hard as I can draw?”

“Stop, ole mass,” said Tony; “dar’s de work in de garden, sir—dat ought to tek some off.”

“You black dog,” said the captain, “haven’t I given you the proper credit of ten stripes for that? Come, come!”

“Please, ole massa,” said Tony, rolling his eyes about in agony of fright—“dar’s—you forgot—dar’s de scourin ob de floor—ole missus say nebber been scour as good before.”

“Soho, you saucy rascal,” quoth Captain Stick, “you’re bringing in more offsets, are you? Well, now, there!” Here the captain made an entry upon his book. “You have a credit of five stripes, and the balance must be paid.”

“Gor a mity, massa, don’t hit yet—dar’s sumpen else—oh, Lord! please don’t—yes, sir—got um now—ketchin de white boy and fetchin’ um to ole missus, what trow rock at de young duck.”

“That’s a fact,” said the captain; “the outrageous young vagabond—that’s a fact, and I’ll give you credit of _ten_ stripes for it. I wish you had brought him to _me_. Now, we’ll settle the balance.”

“Bress de Lord, ole massa,” said Tony, “_dat’s all_.” Tony grinned extravagantly. The captain adjusted his tortoise-shell spectacles with great exactness, held the book close to his eyes, and ascertained that the fact was as stated by Tony. He was not a little irritated.

“You swear off the account, you infernal rascal—you swear off the account, do you?”

“All de credit is fair, ole massa,” answered Tony.

“Yes, but”—said the disappointed captain—“but—but,”—still the captain was sorely puzzled how to give Tony a _few licks_ anyhow; “but——” An idea popped into his head.

“_Where’s my costs_, you incorrigible, abominable scoundrel? You want to swindle me, do you, out of my costs, you black deceitful rascal? And,” added Captain Stick, chuckling as well at his own ingenuity as the perfect justice of the sentence, “I enter judgment against you for costs—ten stripes,” and forthwith administered the stripes and satisfied the judgment. “Ki’ nigger!” said Tony, “ki’ nigger! What dis judgmen’ for coss ole massa talk ’bout. Done git off ’bout not blackin’ de boot, git off ’bout stayin’ long time at de mill, and ebery ting else, but dis judgmen’ for coss gim me de debbil. Bress God, nigger must keep out ob de ole stable, or, I’ll tell you what, dat _judgmen’ for coss_ make e back feel mighty warm, for true!”

_Johnson T. Hooper._

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“_ITEMS” FROM THE PRESS OF INTERIOR CALIFORNIA._

A LITTLE bit of romance has just transpired to relieve the monotony of our metropolitan life. Old Sam Choggins, whom the editor of this paper has so often publicly thrashed, has returned from Mud Springs with a young wife. He is said to be very fond of her, and the way he came to get her was this:

Some time ago we courted her, but finding she was “on the make” threw her off, after shooting her brother and two cousins. She vowed revenge, and promised to marry any man who would horsewhip us. This Sam agreed to undertake, and she married him on that promise.

We shall call on Sam to-morrow with our new shot-gun, and present our congratulations in the usual form.—_Hangtown Gibbet._

* * * * *

There was considerable excitement in the street yesterday, owing to the arrival of Bust-Head Dave, formerly of this place, who came over on the stage from Pudding Springs. He was met at the hotel by Sheriff Knogg, who leaves a large family, and whose loss will be universally deplored.

Dave walked down the street to the bridge, and it reminded one of old times to see the people go away as he heaved in view. It was not through any fear of the man, but from knowledge that he had made a threat (first published in this paper) to clean out the town. Before leaving the place Dave called at our office to settle for a year’s subscription (invariably in advance), and was informed, through a chink in the logs, that he might leave his dust in the tin cup at the well.

Dave is looking very much larger than at his last visit just previous to the funeral of Judge Dawson. He left for Injun Hill at five o’clock amidst a good deal of shooting at rather long range, and there will be an election for sheriff as soon as a stranger can be found who will accept the honour.—_Yankee Flat Advertiser._

* * * * *

The superintendent of the May Davis Mine requests us to state that the custom of pitching Chinamen and Injuns down the shaft will have to be stopped, as he has resumed work in the mine. The old well-huck of Jo. Bowman’s is just as good, and is more centrally located.—_New Jerusalem Courier._

* * * * *

A stranger wearing a stove-pipe hat arrived in town yesterday, putting up at the Nugget House. The boys are having a good time with that hat this morning, and the funeral will take place at two o’clock.—_Spanish Camp Flag._

There is some dispute about land titles at Little Bilk Bar. About half-a-dozen cases were temporarily decided Wednesday, but it is supposed the widows will renew the litigation. The only proper way to prevent these vexatious law-suits is to hang the Judge of the County Court.—_Cow County Outcropper._

_Ambrose Bierce_ (_“Dod Grile”)._

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_AN AVALANCHE OF DRUGS._