But all in vain he tried,
"I see it all, I am betrayed,
The water's froze," he cried.
Down to the kitchen then he rushed,
And in the basement dove,
Long strived he for to turn the plugs,
But all in vain he strove.
"The hydrant may be running yet,"
He cried in hopeful tone,
Alas, the hydrant too, was froze,
As stiff as any stone.
There came a burst, the water pipes
And plugs, oh, where were they?
Ask of the soulless plumber man
Who called around next day.
THE DEMON OF THE STUDY
BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
The Brownie sits in the Scotchman's room,
And eats his meat and drinks his ale,
And beats the maid with her unused broom,
And the lazy lout with his idle flail;
But he sweeps the floor and threshes the corn,
And hies him away ere the break of dawn.
The shade of Denmark fled from the sun,
And the Cocklane ghost from the barn-loft cheer,
The fiend of Faust was a faithful one,
Agrippa's demon wrought in fear,
And the devil of Martin Luther sat
By the stout monk's side in social chat.
The Old Man of the Sea, on the neck of him
Who seven times crossed the deep,
Twined closely each lean and withered limb,
Like the nightmare in one's sleep.
But he drank of the wine, and Sindbad cast
The evil weight from his back at last.
But the demon that cometh day by day
To my quiet room and fireside nook,
Where the casement light falls dim and gray
On faded painting and ancient book,
Is a sorrier one than any whose names
Are chronicled well by good King James.
No bearer of burdens like Caliban,
No runner of errands like Ariel,
He comes in the shape of a fat old man,
Without rap of knuckle or pull of bell;
And whence he comes, or whither he goes,
I know as I do of the wind which blows.
A stout old man with a greasy hat
Slouched heavily down to his dark, red nose,
And two gray eyes enveloped in fat,
Looking through glasses with iron bows.
Read ye, and heed ye, and ye who can,
Guard well your doors from that old man!
He comes with a careless "How d'ye do?"
And seats himself in my elbow-chair;
And my morning paper and pamphlet new
Fall forthwith under his special care,
And he wipes his glasses and clears his throat,
And, button by button, unfolds his coat.
And then he reads from paper and book,
In a low and husky asthmatic tone,
With the stolid sameness of posture and look
Of one who reads to himself alone;
And hour after hour on my senses come
That husky wheeze and that dolorous hum.
The price of stocks, the auction sales,
The poet's song and the lover's glee,
The horrible murders, the sea-board gales,
The marriage list, and the _jeu d'esprit_,
All reach my ear in the self-same tone,--
I shudder at each, but the fiend reads on!
Oh, sweet as the lapse of water at noon
O'er the mossy roots of some forest tree,
The sigh of the wind in the woods of June,
Or sound of flutes o'er a moonlight sea,
Or the low soft music, perchance, which seems
To float through the slumbering singer's dreams.
So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone,
Of her in whose features I sometimes look,
As I sit at eve by her side alone,
And we read by turns, from the self-same book,
Some tale perhaps of the olden time,
Some lover's romance or quaint old rhyme.
Then when the story is one of woe,--
Some prisoner's plaint through his dungeon-bar,
Her blue eye glistens with tears, and low,
Her voice sinks down like a moan afar;
And I seem to hear that prisoner's wail,
And his face looks on me worn and pale.
And when she reads some merrier song,
Her voice is glad as an April bird's,
And when the tale is of war and wrong,
A trumpet's summons is in her words,
And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear,
And see the tossing of plume and spear!
Oh, pity me then, when, day by day,
The stout fiend darkens my parlor door;
And reads me perchance the self-same lay
Which melted in music, the night before,
From lips as the lips of Hylas sweet,
And moved like twin roses which zephyrs meet!
I cross my floor with a nervous tread,
I whistle and laugh and sing and shout,
I flourish my cane above his head,
And stir up the fire to roast him out;
I topple the chairs, and drum on the pane,
And press my hands on my ears, in vain!
I've studied Glanville and James the wise.
And wizard black-letter tomes which treat
Of demons of every name and size
Which a Christian man is presumed to meet,
But never a hint and never a line
Can I find of a reading fiend like mine.
I've crossed the Psalter with Brady and Tate,
And laid the Primer above them all,
I've nailed a horseshoe over the grate,
And hung a wig to my parlor wall
Once worn by a learned Judge, they say,
At Salem court in the witchcraft day!
"_Conjuro te, sceleratissime_,
_Abire ad tuum locum!_"--still
Like a visible nightmare he sits by me,--
The exorcism has lost its skill;
And I hear again in my haunted room
The husky wheeze and the dolorous hum!
Ah! commend me to Mary Magdalen
With her sevenfold plagues, to the wandering Jew,
To the terrors which haunted Orestes when
The furies his midnight curtains drew,
But charm him off, ye who charm him can,
That reading demon, that fat old man!
UNCLE BENTLEY AND THE ROOSTERS
BY HAYDEN CARRUTH
The burden of Uncle Bentley has always rested heavily on our town.
Having not a shadow of business to attend to he has made other people's
business his own, and looked after it in season and out--especially out.
If there is a thing which nobody wants done, to this Uncle Bentley
applies his busy hand.
One warm summer Sunday we were all at church. Our pastor had taken the
passage on turning the other cheek, or one akin to it, for his text, and
was preaching on peace and quiet and non-resistance. He soon had us in a
devout mood which must have been beautiful to see and encouraging to the
good man.
Of course, Uncle Bentley was there--he always was, and forever in a
front pew, with his neck craned up looking backward to see if there was
anything that didn't need doing which he could do. He always tinkered
with the fires in the winter and fussed with the windows in the summer,
and did his worst with each. His strongest church point was ushering.
Not content to usher the stranger within our gates, he would usher all
of us, and always thrust us into pews with just the people we didn't
want to sit with. If you failed to follow him when he took you in tow,
he would stop and look back reproachfully, describing mighty indrawing
curves with his arm; and if you pretended not to see him, he would give
a low whistle to attract your attention, the arm working right along,
like a Holland windmill.
On this particular warm summer Sunday Uncle Bentley was in place wearing
his long, full-skirted coat, a queer, dark, bottle-green, purplish blue.
He had ushered to his own exceeding joy, and got two men in one pew, and
given them a single hymn-book, who wouldn't on week-days speak to each
other. I ought to mention that we had long before made a verb of Uncle
Bentley. To unclebentley was to do the wrong thing. It was a regular
verb, unclebentley, unclebentleyed, unclebentleying. Those two rampant
enemies in the same pew had been unclebentleyed.
The minister was floating along smoothly on the subject of peace when
Uncle Bentley was observed to throw up his head. He had heard a sound
outside. It was really nothing but one of Deacon Plummer's young
roosters crowing. The Deacon lived near, and vocal offerings from his
poultry were frequent and had ceased to interest any one except Uncle
Bentley. Then in the pauses between the preacher's periods we heard the
flapping of wings, with sudden stoppings and startings. Those
unregenerate fowls, unable to understand the good man's words, were
fighting. Even this didn't interest us--we were committed to peace. But
Uncle Bentley shot up like a jack-in-a-box and cantered down the aisle.
Of course, his notion was that the roosters were disturbing the
services, and that it was his duty to go out and stop them. We heard
vigorous "Shoos!" and "Take thats!" and "Consairn yous!" and then Uncle
Bentley came back looking very important, and as he stalked up the aisle
he glanced around and nodded his head, saying as clearly as words,
"There, where would you be without me?" Another defiant crow floated in
at the window.
The next moment the rushing and beating of wings began again, and down
the aisle went Uncle Bentley, the long tails of that coat fairly
floating like a cloud behind him. There was further uproar outside, and
Uncle Bentley was back in his place, this time turning around and
whispering hoarsely, "I fixed 'em!" But such was not the case, for twice
more the very same thing was repeated. The last time Uncle Bentley came
back he wore a calm, snug expression, as who should say, "Now I _have_
fixed 'em!" We should have liked it better if the roosters had fixed
Uncle Bentley. But nobody paid much attention except Deacon Plummer. The
thought occurred to him that perhaps Uncle Bentley had killed the fowls.
But he hadn't.
However, there was no more disturbance without, and after a time the
sermon closed. There was some sort of a special collection to be taken
up. Of course, Uncle Bentley always insisted on taking up all the
collections. He hopped up on this occasion and seized the plate with
more than usual vigor. His struggles with the roosters had evidently
stimulated him. He soon made the rounds and approached the table in
front of the pulpit to deposit his harvest. As he did so we saw to our
horror that the long tails of that ridiculous coat were violently
agitated. A sickening suspicion came over us. The next moment one of
those belligerent young roosters thrust a head out of either of those
coat-tail pockets. One uttered a raucous crow, the other made a vicious
dab. Uncle Bentley dropped the plate with a scattering of coin, seized a
coat skirt in each hand, and drew it front. This dumped both fowls out
on the floor, where they went at it hammer and tongs. What happened
after this is a blur in most of our memories. All that is certain is
that there was an uproar in the congregation, especially the younger
portion; that the Deacon began making unsuccessful dives for his
poultry; that the organist struck up "Onward, Christian Soldiers," and
that the minister waved us away without a benediction amid loud shouts
of, "Shoo!" "I swanny!" and, "Drat the pesky critters!" from your Uncle
Bentley.
Did it serve to subdue Uncle Bentley? Not in the least; he survived to
do worse things.
A SHINING MARK
BY IRONQUILL
A man came here from Idaho,
With lots of mining stock.
He brought along as specimens
A lot of mining rock.
The stock was worth a cent a pound
If stacked up in a pile.
The rock was worth a dollar and
A half per cubic mile.
We planted him at eventide,
'Mid shadows dim and dark;
We fixed him up an epitaph,--
"Death loves a mining shark."
A BOOKWORM'S PLAINT[3]
BY CLINTON SCOLLARD
To-day, when I had dined my fill
Upon a Caxton,--you know Will,--
I crawled forth o'er the colophon
To bask awhile within the sun;
And having coiled my sated length,
I felt anon my whilom strength
Slip from me gradually, till deep
I dropped away in dreamful sleep,
Wherein I walked an endless maze,
And dined on Caxtons all my days.
Then I woke suddenly. Alas!
What in my sleep had come to pass?
That priceless first edition row,--
Squat quarto and tall folio,--
Had, in my slumber, vanished quite;
Instead, on my astonished sight
The newest novels burst,--a gay
And most unpalatable array!
I, that have battened on the best,
Why should I thus be dispossessed
And with starvation, or the worst
Of diets, cruelly be curst?
FOOTNOTES:
[3] Lippincott's Magazine.
A POE-'EM OF PASSION
BY CHARLES F. LUMMIS
It was many and many a year ago,
On an island near the sea,
That a maiden lived whom you mightn't know
By the name of Cannibalee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than a passionate fondness for me.
I was a child, and she was a child--
Tho' her tastes were adult Feejee--
But she loved with a love that was more than love,
My yearning Cannibalee;
With a love that could take me roast or fried
Or raw, as the case might be.
And that is the reason that long ago,
In that island near the sea,
I had to turn the tables and eat
My ardent Cannibalee--
Not really because I was fond of her,
But to check her fondness for me.
But the stars never rise but I think of the size
Of my hot-potted Cannibalee,
And the moon never stares but it brings me nightmares
Of my spare-rib Cannibalee;
And all the night-tide she is restless inside,
Is my still indigestible dinner-belle bride,
In her pallid tomb, which is Me,
In her solemn sepulcher, Me.
THE REAL DIARY OF A REAL BOY
BY HENRY A. SHUTE
Mar. 11, 186----Went to church in the morning. the fernace was all
write. Mister Lennard preeched about loving our ennymies, and told every
one if he had any angry feelings towards ennyone to go to him and shake
hands and see how much better you wood feel. i know how it is becaus
when me and Beany are mad we dont have eny fun and when we make up the
one who is to blam always wants to treet. why when Beany was mad with me
becaus i went home from Gil Steels surprise party with Lizzie Towle, Ed
Towles sister, he woodent speak to me for 2 days, and when we made up he
treated me to ice cream with 2 spoons and he let me dip twice to his
once. he took pretty big dips to make up. Beany is mad if enny of the
fellers go with Lizzie Towle. she likes Beany better than she does enny
of the fellers and Beany ought to be satisfied, but sometimes he acks
mad when i go down there to fite roosters with Ed. i gess he needent
worry much, no feller isnt going to leave of fiting roosters to go with
no girls. well i most forgot that i was going to say, but after church i
went up to Micky Gould who was going to fite me behind the school house,
and said Micky lets be friends and Micky said, huh old Skinny, i can
lick you in 2 minits and i said you aint man enuf and he called me a
nockneed puke, and i called him a wall eyed lummix and he give me a
paist in the eye and i gave him a good one in the mouth, and then we
rassled and Micky threw me and i turned him, and he got hold of my new
false bosom and i got hold of his hair, and the fellers all hollered hit
him Micky, paist him Skinny, and Mister Purington, Pewts father pulled
us apart and i had Mickys paper collar and necktie and some of his hair
and he had my false bosom and when i got home father made me go to bed
and stay there all the afternoon for fiting, but i guess he didnt like
my losing my false bosom. ennyway he asked me how many times i hit Micky
and which licked. he let me get up at supper time. next time i try to
love my ennymy i am a going to lick him first.
Went to a sunday school concert in the evening. Keene and Cele sung now
i lay me down to sleep. they was a lot of people sung together and
Mister Gale beat time. Charlie Gerish played the violin and Miss Packard
sung. i was scart when Keene and Cele sung for i was afraid they would
break down, but they dident, and people said they sung like night harks.
i gess if they knowed how night harks sung they woodent say much. father
felt pretty big and to hear him talk you wood think he did the singing.
he give them ten cents apeace. i dident get none. you gest wait, old man
till i git my cornet.
Went to a corcus last night. me and Beany were in the hall in the
afternoon helping Bob Carter sprinkle the floor and put on the sordust.
the floor was all shiny with wax and aufully slipery. so Bob got us to
put on some water to take off the shiny wax. well write in front of the
platform there is a low platform where they get up to put in their votes
and then step down and Beany said, dont put any water there only jest
dry sordust. so i dident. well that night we went erly to see the fun.
Gim Luverin got up and said there was one man which was the oldest voter
in town and he ought to vote the first, the name of this destinkuished
sitizen was John Quincy Ann Pollard. then old mister Pollard got up and
put in his vote and when he stepped down his heels flew up and he went
down whak on the back of his head and 2 men lifted him up and lugged him
to a seat, and then Ed Derborn, him that rings the town bell, stepped up
pretty lively and went flat and swort terrible, and me and Beany nearly
died we laffed so. well it kept on, people dident know what made them
fall, and Gim Odlin sat write down in his new umbrella and then they
sent me down stairs for a pail of wet sordust and when i was coming up i
heard an awful whang, and when i got up in the hall they were lugging
old mister Stickney off to die and they put water on his head and lugged
him home in a hack. me and Beany dont know what to do. if we dont tell,
Bob will lose his place and if we do we will get licked.
Mar. 31. April fool day tomorrow. i am laying for Beany. old Francis
licked 5 fellers today becaus they sung rong when we was singing speek
kindly it is better for to rule by luv than feer.
June 14. Rashe Belnap and Horris Cobbs go in swimming every morning at
six o'clock. i got a licking today that beat the one Beany got. last
summer me and Tomtit Tomson and Cawcaw Harding and Whack and Poz and
Boog Chadwick went in swimming in May and all thru the summer until
October. one day i went in 10 times. well i dident say anything about it
to father so as not to scare him. well today he dident go to Boston and
he said i am going to teech you to swim. when i was as old as you i cood
swim said he, and you must lern, i said i have been wanting to lern to
swim, for all the other boys can swim. so we went down to the gravil and
i peeled off my close and got ready, now said he, you jest wade in up to
your waste and squat down and duck your head under. i said the water
will get in my nose. he said no it wont jest squat rite down. i cood
see him laffin when he thought i wood snort and sputter.
so i waded out a little ways and then div in and swam under water most
across, and when i came up i looked to see if father was surprised. gosh
you aught to have seen him. he had pulled off his coat and vest and
there he stood up to his waste in the water with his eyes jest bugging
rite out as big as hens eggs, and he was jest a going to dive for my
dead body. then i turned over on my back and waved my hand at him. he
dident say anything for a minute, only he drawed in a long breth. then
he began to look foolish, and then mad, and then he turned and started
to slosh back to the bank where he slipped and went in all over. When he
got to the bank he was pretty mad and yelled for me to come out. when i
came out he cut a stick and whaled me, and as soon as i got home he sent
me to bed for lying, but i gess he was mad becaus i about scart the life
out of him. but that nite i heard him telling mother about it and he
said that he div 3 times for me in about thirty feet of water. but he
braged about my swimming and said i cood swim like a striped frog. i
shall never forget how his boots went kerslosh kerslosh kerslosh when we
were skinning home thru croslots. i shall never forget how that old
stick hurt either. ennyhow he dident say ennything about not going in
again, so i gess i am all rite.
June 15, 186----Johnny Heeld, a student, came to me and wanted me to carry
some tickets to a dance round to the girls in the town. there was about
1 hundred of them. he read the names over to me and i said i knew them
all. so after school me and Beany started out and walked all over town
and give out the tickets. i had a long string of names and every time i
wood leave one i wood mark out the name. i dident give the Head girls
any because they told father about some things that me and Beany and
Pewt did and the Parmer girls and the Cilley girls lived way up on the
plains and i dident want to walk up there, so when i went over to
Hemlock side to give one, i went over to the factory boarding house and
give some to them. they was auful glad to get them too and said they
would go to the dance. some people was not at home and so i gave their
tickets to the next house. it took me till 8 o'clock and i got 1 dollar
for it. i dont believe those girls that dident get their tickets will
care much about going ennyway. i gess the Head girls wont want to tell
on me another time.
June 23. there is a dead rat in the wall in my room. it smells auful.
A MOTHERS' MEETING[4]
BY MADELINE BRIDGES
"Where's the maternal parent of
This boy that stands in need of beating,
And of this babe that pines for love?"
"Oh, she is at a Mothers' Meeting!"
"Fair daughter, why these young tears shed,
For passion's tale, too sweet and fleeting,
Lonely and mute, uncomforted?"
"My mother's at a Mothers' Meeting."
"Man, whom misfortunes jeer and taunt,
Whom frauds forsake, and hope is cheating,
Fly to your mother's arms." "I can't--
You see, she's at a Mothers' Meeting."
Alas, what next will woman do?
Love, duty, children, home, maltreating,
The while she, smiling, rallies to
The roll-call of a Mothers' Meeting!
FOOTNOTES:
[4] Lippincott's Magazine.
MISTER RABBIT'S LOVE AFFAIR
BY FRANK L. STANTON
One day w'en Mister Rabbit wuz a-settin' in de grass
He see Miss Mary comin', en he wouldn't let her pass,
Kaze he know she lookin' purty in de river lookin'glass,
O Mister Rabbit, in de mawnin'!
But de Mockin'bird wuz singin' in de blossom en de dew,
En he know 'bout Mister Rabbit, en he watchin' er 'im,
too;
En Miss Mary heah his music, en she tell 'im "Howdy-do!"
O Mister Rabbit, in de mawnin'!
Mister Rabbit 'low he beat 'im, en he say he'll l'arn ter sing,
En he tried it all de winter, en he kep' it up in spring;
But he wuzn't buil' fer singin', kaze he lack de voice en wing,--
Good-by, Mister Rabbit, in de mawnin'!
OUR HIRED GIRL
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
Our hired girl, she's 'Lizabuth Ann;
An' she can cook best things to eat!
She ist puts dough in our pie-pan,
An' pours in somepin' 'at's good and sweet,
An' nen she salts it all on top
With cinnamon; an' nen she'll stop
An' stoop an' slide it, ist as slow,
In th' old cook-stove, so's 'twon't slop
An' git all spilled; nen bakes it, so
It's custard pie, first thing you know!
An' nen she'll say:
"Clear out o' my way!
They's time fer work, an' time fer play!--
Take yer dough, an' run, Child; run!
Er I cain't git no cookin' done!"
When our hired girl 'tends like she's mad,
An' says folks got to walk the chalk
When _she's_ around, er wisht they had,
I play out on our porch an' talk
To th' Raggedy Man 'at mows our lawn;
An' he says "_Whew!_" an' nen leans on
His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes
An' sniffs all round an' says,--"I swawn!
Ef my old nose don't tell me lies,
It 'pears like I smell custard-pies!"
An' nen _he'll_ say,--
"'Clear out o' my way!
They's time fer work an' time fer play!
Take yer dough, an' run, Child; run!
Er _she_ cain't git no cookin' done!'"
Wunst our hired girl, one time when she
Got the supper, an' we all et,
An' it was night, an' Ma an' me
An' Pa went wher' the "Social" met,--
An' nen when we come home, an' see
A light in the kitchen-door, an' we
Heerd a maccordeum, Pa says "Lan'-
O'-Gracious! who can _her_ beau be?"
An' I marched in, an' 'Lizabuth Ann
Wuz parchin' corn fer the Raggedy Man!
_Better_ say
"Clear out o' the way!
They's time fer work, an' time fer play!
Take the hint, an' run, Child; run!
Er we cain't git no _courtin'_ done!"
THE REASON
BY IRONQUILL
Says John last night:
"William, by grab! I'm beat
To know why stolen kisses
Taste so sweet."
Says William: "Sho!
That's easily explained--
It's 'cause they're _syrup_-
titiously obtained."
* * * * *
O cruel thought!
O words of cruel might!
The coroner
He sat on John that night.
ONCL' ANTOINE ON 'CHANGE
BY WALLACE BRUCE AMSBARY
(_Antoine Boisvert, Raconteur._)
I've jus' com' from Chicago town,
A seein' all de sights
From stockyard to de ballet gairl,
All drass' in spangled tights.
But all de worstes' nonsens'
T'roo vich I got to wade,
I t'ink de t'ing dat gats de cake
Ees place called Board of Trade.
I heard moch talk about dem chap
Dey call de Bull an' Bear,
Dat play aroun' with price of stock
An' get you unaware.
Who'll tell you w'at your wheat
Will bring in Fevuary nex',
In jus' so smood an' quiet vay
De curé read his tex'.
An' dere dey vere out on de floor,
De mans who mak' de price
Of all de country produce,
A lookin' smood an' nice.
But dey had vink opon dere eye
Dat look you t'roo an' t'roo,
Like tricky bunko steerer ven
He's hunting after you.
Dey got de ball to roll ver' swif'
An' firs' fall from de dock
Vas bottom off on July pork;
An' heem dat held de stock
Commence to hiss an' wriggle
Lak' a yellow rattlesnake;
De res' buzz jus' lak' bumblebee
Stirred op vit hayin' rake.
Dis bottom off on July pork
Is strike me kin' of queer,
I's t'ink dat hogs is good for eat
Mos' all of de 'hole year.
Dose feller on Chicago town
Is mak' such fonny phrase
Dat--_entre nous_--I sometimes t'ink
Dat som' of dem ees craz'.