Awoke one night from a deep bottledness,
And saw, by the rich radiance of the moon,
Which shone and shimmered like a silver spoon,
A stranger writing on a golden slate
(Exceeding store had Ben of spoons and plate),
And to the stranger in his tent he said:
"Your little game?" The stranger turned his head,
And, with a look made all of innocence,
Replied: "I write the name of Presidents."
"And is mine one?" "Not if this court doth know
Itself," replied the stranger. Ben said, "Oh!"
And "Ah!" but spoke again: "Just name your price
To write me up as one that may be Vice."
The stranger up and vanished. The next night
He came again, and showed a wondrous sight
Of names that haply yet might fill the chair--
But, lo! the name of Butler was not there!
LATTER-DAY WARNINGS
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
When legislators keep the law,
When banks dispense with bolts and locks,--
When berries--whortle, rasp, and straw--
Grow bigger _downwards_ through the box,--
When he that selleth house or land
Shows leak in roof or flaw in right,--
When haberdashers choose the stand
Whose window hath the broadest light,--
When preachers tell us all they think,
And party leaders all they mean,--
When what we pay for, that we drink,
From real grape and coffee-bean,--
When lawyers take what they would give,
And doctors give what they would take,--
When city fathers eat to live,
Save when they fast for conscience' sake,--
When one that hath a horse on sale
Shall bring his merit to the proof,
Without a lie for every nail
That holds the iron on the hoof,--
When in the usual place for rips
Our gloves are stitched with special care,
And guarded well the whalebone tips
Where first umbrellas need repair,--
When Cuba's weeds have quite forgot
The power of suction to resist,
And claret-bottles harbor not
Such dimples as would hold your fist,--
When publishers no longer steal,
And pay for what they stole before,--
When the first locomotive's wheel
Rolls through the Hoosac tunnel's bore;--
_Till_ then let Cumming blaze away,
And Miller's saints blow up the globe;
But when you see that blessed day,
_Then_ order your ascension robe!
IT PAYS TO BE HAPPY[10]
BY TOM MASSON
She is so gay, so very gay,
And not by fits and starts,
But ever, through each livelong day
She's sunshine to all hearts.
A tonic is her merry laugh!
So wondrous is her power
That listening grief would stop and chaff
With her from hour to hour.
Disease before that cheery smile
Grows dim, begins to fade.
A Christian scientist, meanwhile,
Is this delightful maid.
And who would not throw off dull care
And be like unto her,
When happiness brings, as her share,
One hundred dollars per ----?
[Footnote 10: Lippincott's Magazine.]
JAMES AND REGINALD
BY EUGENE FIELD
Once upon a Time there was a Bad boy whose Name was Reginald and there
was a Good boy whose Name was James. Reginald would go Fishing when his
Mamma told him Not to, and he Cut off the Cat's Tail with the Bread
Knife one Day, and then told Mamma the Baby had Driven it in with the
Rolling Pin, which was a Lie. James was always Obedient, and when his
Mamma told him not to Help an old Blind Man across the street or Go into
a Dark Room where the Boogies were, he always Did What She said. That is
why they Called him Good James. Well, by and by, along Came Christmas.
Mamma said, You have been so Bad, my son Reginald, you will not Get any
Presents from Santa Claus this Year; but you, my son James, will get
Oodles of Presents, because you have Been Good. Will you Believe it,
Children, that Bad boy Reginald said he didn't Care a Darn and he Kicked
three Feet of Veneering off the Piano just for Meanness. Poor James was
so sorry for Reginald that he cried for Half an Hour after he Went to
Bed that Night. Reginald lay wide Awake until he saw James was Asleep
and then he Said if these people think they can Fool me, they are
Mistaken. Just then Santa Claus came down the Chimney. He had Lots of
Pretty Toys in a Sack on his Back. Reginald shut his Eyes and Pretended
to be Asleep. Then Santa Claus Said, Reginald is Bad and I will not Put
any nice Things in his Stocking. But as for you, James, I will Fill
your Stocking Plum full of Toys, because You are Good. So Santa Claus
went to Work and Put, Oh! heaps and Heaps of Goodies in James' stocking,
but not a Sign of a Thing in Reginald's stocking. And then he Laughed to
himself and Said I guess Reginald will be Sorry to-morrow because he Was
so Bad. As he said this he Crawled up the chimney and rode off in his
Sleigh. Now you can Bet your Boots Reginald was no Spring Chicken. He
just Got right Straight out of Bed and changed all those Toys and Truck
from James' stocking into his own. Santa Claus will Have to Sit up all
Night, said He, when he Expects to get away with my Baggage. The next
morning James got out of Bed and when He had Said his Prayers he Limped
over to his Stocking, licking his chops and Carrying his Head as High as
a Bull going through a Brush Fence. But when he found there was Nothing
in his stocking and that Reginald's Stocking was as Full as Papa Is when
he comes home Late from the Office, he Sat down on the Floor and began
to Wonder why on Earth he had Been such a Good boy. Reginald spent a
Happy Christmas and James was very Miserable. After all, Children, it
Pays to be Bad, so Long as you Combine Intellect with Crime.
BANTY TIM
REMARKS OF SERGEANT TILMON JOY TO THE WHITE MAN'S COMMITTEE OF SPUNKY
POINT, ILLINOIS
BY JOHN HAY
I reckon I git your drift, gents,--
You 'low the boy sha'n't stay;
This is a white man's country;
You're Dimocrats, you say;
And whereas, and seein', and wherefore,
The times bein' all out o' j'int,
The nigger has got to mosey
From the limits o' Spunky P'int!
Le's reason the thing a minute:
I'm an old-fashioned Dimocrat too,
Though I laid my politics out o' the way
For to keep till the war was through.
But I come back here, allowin'
To vote as I used to do,
Though it gravels me like the devil to train
Along o' sich fools as you.
Now dog my cats ef I kin see,
In all the light of the day,
What you've got to do with the question
Ef Tim shill go or stay.
And furder than that I give notice,
Ef one of you tetches the boy,
He kin check his trunks to a warmer clime
Than he'll find in Illanoy.
Why, blame your hearts, jest hear me!
You know that ungodly day
When our left struck Vicksburg Heights, how ripped
And torn and tattered we lay.
When the rest retreated I stayed behind,
Fur reasons sufficient _to_ me,--
With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike,
I sprawled on that cursed glacee.
Lord! how the hot sun went for us,
And br'iled and blistered and burned!
How the Rebel bullets whizzed round us
When a cuss in his death-grip turned!
Till along toward dusk I seen a thing
I couldn't believe for a spell:
That nigger--that Tim--was a crawlin' to me
Through that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell!
The Rebels seen him as quick as me,
And the bullets buzzed like bees;
But he jumped for me, and shouldered me,
Though a shot brought him once to his knees;
But he staggered up, and packed me off,
With a dozen stumbles and falls,
Till safe in our lines he drapped us both,
His black hide riddled with balls.
So, my gentle gazelles, thar's my answer,
And here stays Banty Tim:
He trumped Death's ace for me that day,
And I'm not goin' back on him!
You may rezoloot till the cows come home,
But ef one of you tetches the boy,
He'll wrastle his hash to-night in hell,
Or my name's not Tilmon Joy!
EVENING
_By A Tailor_
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Day hath put on his jacket, and around
His burning bosom buttoned it with stars.
Here will I lay me on the velvet grass,
That is like padding to earth's meager ribs,
And hold communion with the things about me.
Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid
That binds the skirt of night's descending robe!
The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads,
Do make a music like to rustling satin,
As the light breezes smooth their downy nap.
Ha! what is this that rises to my touch,
So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage?
It is, it is that deeply injured flower,
Which boys do flout us with;--but yet I love thee,
Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout.
Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright
As these, thy puny brethren; and thy breath
Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air;
But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau,
Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences,
And growing portly in his sober garments.
Is that a swan that rides upon the water?
O no, it is that other gentle bird,
Which is the patron of our noble calling.
I well remember, in my early years,
When these young hands first closed upon a goose;
I have a scar upon my thimble finger,
Which chronicles the hour of young ambition.
My father was a tailor, and his father,
And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors;
They had an ancient goose,--it was an heirloom
From some remoter tailor of our race.
It happened I did see it on a time
When none was near, and I did deal with it,
And it did burn me,--O, most fearfully!
It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs,
And leap elastic from the level counter,
Leaving the petty grievances of earth,
The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears,
And all the needles that do wound the spirit,
For such a pensive hour of soothing silence.
Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress,
Lays bare her shady bosom;--I can feel
With all around me;--I can hail the flowers
That sprig earth's mantle,--and yon quiet bird,
That rides the stream, is to me as a brother.
The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets,
Where Nature stows away her loveliness.
But this unnatural posture of the legs
Cramps my extended calves, and I must go
Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion.
THE OLD SETTLER
_His Reasons for Thinking there is Natural Gas in Deep Rock Gulley_
BY ED. MOTT
"I see by the papers, Squire," said the Old Settler, "that they're
a-finding signs o' coal ile an' nat'ral gas like sixty here an' thar in
deestric's not so terrible fur from here, an' th't konsekently land they
usety beg folks to come an' take offen their hands at any price at all
is wuth a dollar now, jist for a peep over the stun wall at it. The
minute a feller finds signs o' ile or nat'ral gas on his plantation he
needn't lug home his supplies in a quart jug no more, but kin roll 'em
in by the bar'l, fer signs o' them kind is wuth more an inch th'n a
sartin-per-sure grass an' 'tater farm is wuth an acre."
"Guess yer huggin' the truth pooty clus fer wunst, Major," replied the
Squire, "but th' hain't none o' them signs ez likely to strike anywhar
in our bailiwick ez lightnin' is to kill a crow roostin' on the North
Pole. Thuz one thing I've alluz wanted to see," continued the Squire,
"but natur' has ben agin me an' I hain't never seen it, an' that thing
is the h'istin' of a balloon. Th' can't be no balloons h'isted nowhar,
I'm told, 'nless thuz gas to h'ist it with. I s'pose if we'd ha' had gas
here, a good many fellers with balloons 'd ha' kim 'round this way an'
showed us a balloon raisin' ev'ry now an' then. Them must be lucky
deestric's that's got gas, an' I'd like to hev somebody strike it 'round
here some'rs, jist fer the sake o' havin' the chance to see a balloon
h'istin' 'fore I turn my toes up. But that's 'bout ez liable to happen
ez it is fer to go out an' find a silver dollar rollin' up hill an' my
name gouged in it."
"Don't ye be so consarned sure o' that, Squire," said the Old Settler
mysteriously, and with a knowing shake of his head. "I've been
a-thinkin' a leetle sence readin' 'bout them signs o' gas, b'gosh! I
hain't been only thinkin', but I've been a-recollectin', an' the chances
is th't me an' you'll see wonders yet afore we paddle over Jurdan. I'm
a-gointer tell ye fer w'y, but I hadn't orter, Squire, an' if it wa'n't
fer makin' ye 'shamed o' yerself, an' showin' th't truth squashed in the
mud is bound to git up agin if ye give her time, I wouldn't do it. Ye
mowt remember th't jist ten years ago this month I kim in from a leetle
b'ar hunt. I didn't bring in no b'ar, but I fotched back an up-an'-up
account o' how I had shot one, on' how th' were sumpin' fearful an'
queer an' amazin' in the p'formances o' that b'ar arter bein' shot.
Mebby ye 'member me a-tellin' ye that story, Squire, an' you a-tellin'
me right in my teeth th't ye know'd th't some o' yer friends had took to
lyin', but th't ye didn't think any of 'em had it so bad ez that. But I
hain't a-holdin' no gredge, an' now I'll tell ye sumpin' that'll s'prise
ye.
"Ez I tol' ye at the time, Squire, I got the tip ten year ago this
month, th't unless somebody went up to Steve Groner's hill place an'
poured a pound or two o' lead inter a big b'ar th't had squatted on tha'
farm, th't Steve wouldn't hev no live-stock left to pervide pork an'
beef fer his winterin' over, even if he managed to keep hisself an'
fam'ly theirselfs from linin' the b'ar's innards. I shouldered my gun
an' went up to Steve's to hev some fun with bruin, an' to save Steve's
stock, an' resky him an' his folks from the rampagin' b'ar.
"'He's a rip-snorter,' Steve says to me, w'en I got thar. 'He don't
think nuthin' o' luggin' off a cow,' he says, 'an' ye don't wanter hev
yer weather eye shet w'en you an' him comes together,' he says.
"'B'ars,' I says to Steve, 'b'ars is nuts fer me, an' the bigger an'
sassier they be,' I says, 'the more I inj'y 'em,' I says, an' with that
I clim' inter the woods to show bruin th't th' wa'n't room enough here
below fer me an' him both. Tain't necessary fer me to tell o' the
half-dozen or more lively skrimmages me an' that b'ar had ez we follered
an' chased one another round an' round them woods--how he'd hide ahind
some big tree or stumps, an' ez I went by, climb on to me with all four
o' his feet an' yank an' bite an' claw an' dig meat an' clothes offen me
till I slung him off an' made him skin away to save his bacon; an' how
I'd lay the same way fer him, an' w'en he come sneakin' 'long arter me
agin, pitch arter him like a mad painter, an' swat an' pound an' choke
an' rassel him till his tongue hung out, till I were sorry for him, an'
let him git away inter the brush agin to recooperate fer the next round.
'Tain't wuth w'ile fer me to say anything 'bout them little skrimmages
'cept the last un, an' that un wa'n't a skrimmage but sumpin' that'd 'a'
skeert some folks dead in their tracks.
"Arter havin' a half-dozen or so o' rassels with this big b'ar, jist fer
fun, I made up my mind, ez 'twere gettin' late, an' ez Steve Groner's
folks was mebby feelin' anxious to hear which was gointer run the farm,
them or the b'ar, th't the next heat with bruin would be for keeps. I
guess the ol' feller had made up his mind the same way, fer w'en I run
agin him the las' time, he were riz up on his hind legs right on the
edge o' Deep Rock Gulley, and were waitin' fer me with his jaws wide
open. I unslung my gun, an' takin' aim at one o' the b'ar's forepaws,
thought I'd wing him an' make him come away from the edge o' the gulley
'fore I tackled him. The ball hit the paw, an' the b'ar throw'd 'em both
up. But he throw'd 'em up too fur, an' he fell over back'rd, an' went
head foremost inter the gulley. Deep Rock Gulley ain't an inch less'n
fifty foot from top to bottom, an' the walls is ez steep ez the side of
a house. I went up to the edge an' looked over. Ther' were the b'ar
layin' on his face at the bottom, whar them queer cracks is in the
ground, an' he were a-howlin' like a hurricane and kickin' like a mule.
Ther' he laid, and he wa'n't able to rise up. Th' wa'n't no way o'
gettin' down to him 'cept by tumblin' down ez he had, an' if ever
anybody were poppin' mad I were, ez I see my meat a-layin' at the bottom
o' that gulley, an' the crows a-getherin' to hev a picnic with it. The
more I kept my eyes on that b'ar the madder I got, an' I were jist about
to roll and tumble an' slide down the side o' that gulley ruther than go
back home an' say th't I'd let the crows steal a b'ar away from me, w'en
I see a funny change comin' over the b'ar. He didn't howl so much, and
his kicks wa'n't so vicious. Then his hind parts began to lift themse'fs
up offen the ground in a cur'ous sort o' way, and swung an' bobbed in
the air. They kep' raisin' higher an' higher, till the b'ar were
act'ally standin' on his head, an' swayin' to and fro ez if a wind were
blowin' him an' he couldn't help it. The sight was so oncommon out o'
the reg'lar way b'ars has o' actin' that it seemed skeery, an' I felt ez
if I'd ruther be home diggin' my 'taters. But I kep' on gazin' at the
b'ar a-circusin' at the bottom o' the gulley, an 't wa'n't long 'fore
the hull big carcase begun to raise right up offen the ground an' come
a-floatin' up outen the gulley, fer all the world ez if 't wa'n't more'n
a feather. The b'ar come up'ards tail foremost, an' I noticed th't he
looked consid'able puffed out like, makin' him seem lik' a bar'l
sailin' in the air. Ez the b'ar kim a-floatin' out o' the dep's I could
feel my eyes begin to bulge, an' my knees to shake like a jumpin'
jack's. But I couldn't move no more'n a stun wall kin, an' thar I stood
on the edge o' the gulley, starin' at the b'ar ez it sailed on up to'rd
me. The b'ar were making a desper't effort to git itself back to its
nat'ral p'sition on all fours, but th' wa'n't no use, an' up he sailed,
tail foremost, an' lookin' ez if he were gointer bust the next minute,
he were swelled out so. Ez the b'ar bobbed up and passed by me I could
ha' reached out an' grabbed him by the paw, an' I think he wanted me to,
the way he acted, but I couldn't ha' made a move to stop him, not if
he'd ha' ben my gran'mother. The b'ar sailed on above me, an' th' were a
look in his eyes th't I won't never fergit. It was a skeert look, an' a
look that seemed to say th't it were all my fault, an' th't I'd be sorry
fer it some time. The b'ar squirmed an' struggled agin comin' to setch
an' onheerdon end, but up'ard he went, tail foremost, to'ard the clouds.
"I stood thar par'lyzed w'ile the b'ar went up'ard. The crows that had
been settlin' round in the trees, 'spectin' to hev a bully meal, went to
flyin' an' scootin' around the onfortnit b'ar, an' yelled till I were
durn nigh deef. It wa'n't until the b'ar had floated up nigh onto a
hundred yards in the air, an' begun to look like a flyin' cub, that my
senses kim back to me. Quick ez a flash I rammed a load inter my rifle,
wrappin' the ball with a big piece o' dry linen, not havin' time to tear
it to the right size. Then I took aim an' let her go. Fast ez the ball
went, I could see that the linen round it had been sot on fire by the
powder. The ball overtook the b'ar and bored a hole in his side. Then
the funniest thing of all happened. A streak o' fire a yard long shot
out o' the b'ar's side where the bullet had gone in, an' ez long ez
that poor bewitched b'ar were in sight--fer o' course I thort at the
time th't the b'ar were bewitched--I could see that streak o' fire
sailin' along in the sky till it went out at last like a shootin' star.
I never knowed w'at become o' the b'ar, an' the hull thing were a
startlin' myst'ry to me, but I kim home, Squire, an' tol' ye the story,
jest ez I've tol' ye now, an' ye were so durn polite th't ye said I were
a liar. But sence, I've been a-thinkin' an' recollectin'. Squire, I
don't hold no gredge. The myst'ry's plain ez day, now. We don't want no
better signs o' gas th'n th't, do we, Squire?"
"Than what?" said the Squire.
"Than what!" exclaimed the Old Settler. "Than that b'ar, o' course!
That's w'at ailed him. It's plain enough th't thuz nat'ral gas on the
Groner place, an' th't it leaks outen the ground in Deep Rock Gulley.
Wen that b'ar tumbled to the bottom that day, he fell on his face. He
were hurt so th't he couldn't get up. O' course the gas didn't shut
itself off, but kep' on a-leakin' an' shot up inter the b'ar's mouth and
down his throat. The onfortnit b'ar couldn't help hisself, an' bimby he
were filled with gas like a balloon, till he had to float, an' away he
sailed, up an' up an' up. Wen I fired at the b'ar, ez he was floatin'
to'ard the clouds, the linen on the bullet carried fire with it, an'
w'en the bullet tapped the b'ar's side the burnin' linen sot it on fire,
showin' th't th' can't be no doubt 'bout it bein' gas th't the b'ar
swallered in Deep Rock Gulley. So ye see, Squire, I wa'n't no liar, an'
the chances is all in favor o' your seein' a balloon h'isted from gas
right in yer own bailiwick afore ye turn up yer toes."
The Squire gazed at the Old Settler in silent amazement for a minute or
more. Then he threw up his hands and said:
"Wal--I'll--be--durned!"
VERRE DEFINITE
BY WALLACE BRUCE AMSBARY
It' verre long, long tam', ma frien',
I'm leeve on Bourbonnais,
I'm keep de gen'rale merchandise,
I'm prom'nent man, dey say;
I'm sell mos' every t'ing dere ees,
From sulky plow to sock,
I don' care w'at you ask me for,
You'll fin' it in my stock.
Las' w'ek dere was de _petite fille_
Of ma frien', Gosse, he com'
Into ma shop to get stock_ing_,
She want to buy her som';
She was herself not verre ol',
Near twelve year, I suppose;
She com' to me an' say, "M'sieu,
I wan' to buy som' hose."
I always mak' de custom rule,
No matter who it ees,
To be polite an' eloquent
In transack of ma beez;
I say to her, "For who you wan'
Dese stockings to be wear?"
She say she need wan pair herself,
Also for small bruddére.
She say her bruddére's eight years ol'
An' coming almos' nine,
An' I am twelve, mos' near t'irteen,
Dat size will do for mine:
An' modder she will tak' beeg pair,
She weigh 'bout half a ton,
She wan' de size of forty year
Go_ing_ on forty-one.
THE TALKING HORSE
BY JOHN T. McINTYRE
Upon a fence across the way was posted a "twenty-four sheet block
stand," and along the top, in big red letters, it read:
"_H. Wellington Sheldon Presents_"
Then followed the names of a half dozen famous operatic stars.
Bat Scranton sat regarding it silently for a long time; but after he had
placed himself behind his third big cigar he joined in the talk.
"In fifteen years dubbing about this great and glorious," said he, "I
never run across a smoother piece of goods than old Cap. Sheldon. To see
him, now, in his plug hat, frock coat and white English whiskers, you'd
spot him as the main squeeze in a prosperous bank. He's doing the
Frohman stunt, too," and Bat nodded toward the poster, "and he handles
it with exceeding grace. When I see him after the curtain falls upon a
bunch of Verdi or Wagner stuff, come out and bow his thanks to a house
full of the town's swellest, and throw out a little spiel with an
aristocratic accent, I always think of the time when I first met him.
"Were any of you ever in Langtry, Ohio? Well, never take a chance on it
if there is anywhere else to go. It's a tank town with a community of
seven hundred of the tightest wads that ever sunk a dollar into the toe
of a sock. There was a fair going on in the place, and I blew in there
one September day; my turn just then was taking orders for crayon
portraits of rural gentlemen with horny hands and plenty of chin fringe.
I figure it out that about sixty per cent. of the parlors in the middle
west are adorned with one or more of these works of art, but Langtry,
Ohio, would not listen to the proposition for a moment; as soon as they
discovered that I wasn't giving the stuff away they sort of lost
interest in me and mine; so I began to study the time-table and kick off
the preliminary dust of the burg, preparatory to seeking a new base of
operations.
"As I made my way to the station I caught my first glimpse of Cap.
Sheldon. He had a satchel hanging from around his neck and was winsomely
wrapping ten dollar notes up with small cylinders of soap and offering
to sell them at one dollar a throw.
"'How are they going,' says I.
"'Not at all,' says he. 'There's nothing to it that I can see. The breed
and seed of Solomon himself must have camped down in this section; they
are the wisest lot I ever saw herd together. Instead of chewing straws
and leaning over fences after the customary and natural manner of
ruminates, they pike around with a calm, cold-blooded sagacity that is
truly awesome. It's me to pull out as soon as I can draw expenses.'
"The next time Cap. dawned upon my vision was a year afterward, down in
Georgia. He was doing the ballyho oration in front of a side wall circus
in a mellifluous style that was just dragging the tar heels up to the
entrance.
"'It's a little better than the Ohio gag,' says he, 'but I've seen
better, at that. I had a good paying faro outfit in Cincinnati since I
met you, but the police got sore because I wouldn't cut the takings in
what they considered the right place, so they closed me up.'
"During the next five years I met Cap. in every section of the country,
and handling various propositions. In San Francisco I caught him in the
act of selling toy balloons on a street corner; in Chicago he was
disposing of old line life insurance with considerable effect; at a
county fair, somewhere in Iowa, I ran across him as he gracefully
manipulated the shells.