Dat mak' 'em more excite',
W'en news ees com' overe de vires
Dat Boer an' Britain fight,
I nevere saw such meex-op yet,
In days since I be born,
Dey scowl an' call wan nodder names,
Dere faces show moch scorn.
Wan man grow wild an' mos'ly craz',
De tears stream off his eyes,
Dere's nodder man dat's laf an' shout,
It's mak' me mos' surprise.
I guess it mak' som' diffe_rance_
Vich side you're on de fence,
But in dis Bear an' Bull meex-op
I see not ver' moch sense.
HEZEKIAH BEDOTT'S OPINION
BY FRANCES M. WHICHER
He was a wonderful hand to moralize, husband was, 'specially after he
begun to enjoy poor health. He made an observation once when he was in
one of his poor turns, that I never shall forget the longest day I live.
He says to me one winter evenin' as we was a settin' by the fire,--I was
a knittin' (I was always a wonderful great knitter) and he was a smokin'
(he was a master hand to smoke, though the doctor used to tell him he'd
be better off to let tobacker alone; when he was well he used to take
his pipe and smoke a spell after he'd got the chores done up, and when
he wa'n't well, used to smoke the biggest part of the time). Well, he
took his pipe out of his mouth and turned toward me, and I knowed
something was comin', for he had a pertikkeler way of lookin' round when
he was gwine to say anything oncommon. Well, he says to me, says he,
"Silly" (my name was Prissilly naterally, but he ginerally called me
"Silly," cause 'twas handier, you know). Well, he says to me, says he,
"Silly," and he looked pretty sollem, I tell you--he had a sollem
countenance naterally--and after he got to be deacon 'twas more so, but
since he'd lost his health he looked sollemer than ever, and certainly
you wouldent wonder at it if you knowed how much he underwent. He was
troubled with a wonderful pain in his chest, and amazin' weakness in the
spine of his back, besides the pleurissy in the side, and having the
ager a considerable part of the time, and bein' broke of his rest o'
nights 'cause he was so put to 't for breath when he laid down. Why it's
an onaccountable fact that when that man died he hadent seen a well day
in fifteen year, though when he was married and for five or six years
after I shouldent desire to see a ruggeder man that he was. But the time
I'm speakin' of he'd been out o' health nigh upon ten year, and O dear
sakes! how he had altered since the first time I ever see him! That was
to a quiltin' to Squire Smith's a spell afore Sally was married. I'd no
idee then that Sal Smith was a gwine to be married to Sam Pendergrass.
She'd ben keepin' company with Mose Hewlitt, for better'n a year, and
everybody said _that_ was a settled thing, and lo and behold! all of a
sudding she up and took Sam Pendergrass. Well, that was the first time I
ever see my husband, and if anybody'd a told me then that I should ever
marry him, I should a said--but lawful sakes! I most forgot, I was gwine
to tell you what he said to me that evenin', and when a body begins to
tell a thing I believe in finishin' on't some time or other. Some folks
have a way of talkin' round and round and round forevermore, and never
come to the pint. Now there's Miss Jinkins, she that was Poll Bingham
afore she was married, she is the tejusest individooal to tell a story
that ever I see in all my born days. But I was a gwine to tell you what
husband said. He says to me, says he, "Silly"; says I, "What?" I dident
say, "What, Hezekier?" for I dident like his name. The first time I ever
heard it I near killed myself a laffin. "Hezekier Bedott," says I,
"well, I would give up if I had sich a name," but then you know I had no
more idee o' marryin' the feller than you had this minnit o' marryin'
the governor. I s'pose you think it's curus we should a named our oldest
son Hezekiah. Well, we done it to please father and mother Bedott; it's
father Bedott's name, and he and mother Bedott both used to think that
names had ought to go down from gineration to gineration. But we always
called him Kier, you know. Speakin' o' Kier, he is a blessin', ain't he?
and I ain't the only one that thinks so, I guess. Now don't you never
tell nobody that I said so, but between you and me I rather guess that
if Kezier Winkle thinks she is a gwine to ketch Kier Bedott she is a
_leetle_ out of her reckonin'. But I was going to tell what husband
said. He says to me, says he, "Silly"; I says, says I, "What?" If I
dident say "what" when he said "Silly" he'd a kept on saying "Silly,"
from time to eternity. He always did, because you know, he wanted me to
pay pertikkeler attention, and I ginerally did; no woman was ever more
attentive to her husband than what I was. Well, he says to me, says he,
"Silly." Says I, "What?" though I'd no idee what he was gwine to say,
dident know but what 'twas something about his sufferings, though he
wa'n't apt to complain, but he frequently used to remark that he
wouldent wish his worst enemy to suffer one minnit as he did all the
time; but that can't be called grumblin'--think it can? Why I've seen
him in sitivation when you'd a thought no mortal could a helped
grumblin'; but _he_ dident. He and me went once in the dead of winter in
a one-hoss shay out to Boonville to see a sister o' hisen. You know the
snow is amazin' deep in that section o' the kentry. Well, the hoss got
stuck in one o' them are flambergasted snow-banks, and there we sot,
onable to stir, and to cap all, while we was a sittin' there, husband
was took with a dretful crik in his back. Now _that_ was what I call a
_perdickerment_, don't you? Most men would a swore, but husband dident.
He only said, says he, "Consarn it." How did we get out, did you ask?
Why we might a benn sittin' there to this day fur as _I_ know, if there
hadent a happened to come along a mess o' men in a double team, and
they hysted us out. But I was gwine to tell you that observation of
hisen. Says he to me, says he, "Silly" (I could see by the light o' the
fire, there dident happen to be no candle burnin', if I don't
disremember, though my memory is sometimes ruther forgitful, but I know
we wa'n't apt to burn candles exceptin' when we had company)--I could
see by the light of the fire that his mind was oncommon solemnized. Says
he to me, says he. "Silly." I says to him, says I, "What?" He says to
me, "_We're all poor critters!_"
WHAT LACK WE YET?
BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE
When Washington was president
He was a mortal icicle;
He never on a railroad went,
And never rode a bicycle.
He read by no electric lamp,
Ne'er heard about the Yellowstone;
He never licked a postage stamp,
And never saw a telephone.
His trousers ended at his knees;
By wire he could not snatch dispatch;
He filled his lamp with whale-oil grease,
And never had a match to scratch.
But in these days it's come to pass,
All work is with such dashing done,
We've all these things, but then, alas--
We seem to have no Washington!
JACOB
BY PHOEBE CARY
He dwelt among "Apartments let,"
About five stories high;
A man, I thought, that none would get,
And very few would try.
A boulder, by a larger stone
Half hidden in the mud,
Fair as a man when only one
Is in the neighborhood.
He lived unknown, and few could tell
When Jacob was not free;
But he has got a wife--and O!
The difference to me!
TO BARY JADE
BY CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS
The bood is beabig brighdly, love;
The sdars are shidig too;
While I ab gazig dreabily,
Add thigkig, love, of you.
You caddot, oh! you caddot kdow,
By darlig, how I biss you--
(Oh, whadt a fearful cold I've got!--
Ck-_tish_-u! Ck-ck-_tish_-u!)
I'b sittig id the arbor, love,
Where you sat by by side,
Whed od that calb, autubdal dight
You said you'd be by bride.
Oh! for wud bobedt to caress
Add tederly to kiss you;
Budt do! we're beddy biles apart--
(Ho-_rash_-o! Ck-ck-_tish_-u!)
This charbig evedig brigs to bide
The tibe whed first we bet:
It seebs budt odly yesterday;
I thigk I see you yet.
Oh! tell be, ab I sdill your owd?
By hopes--oh, do dot dash theb!
(Codfoud by cold, 'tis gettig worse--
_Ck-tish-u!_ Ch-ck-_thrash_-eb!)
Good-by, by darlig Bary Jade!
The bid-dight hour is dear;
Add it is hardly wise, by love,
For be to ligger here.
The heavy dews are fallig fast:
A fod good-dight I wish you.
(Ho-_rash_-o!--there it is agaid--
Ck-_thrash_-ub! Ck-ck-_tish_-u!)
HIS GRANDMOTHER'S WAY
BY FRANK L. STANTON
Tell you, gran'mother's a queer one, shore--
Makes your heart go pitty-pat!
If the wind just happens to open a door,
She'll say there's "a sign" in that!
An' if no one ain't in a rockin'-chair
An' it rocks itself, she'll say: "Oh, dear!
Oh, dear! Oh, my!
I'm afeared 'at somebody is goin' to die!"
An' she makes me cry--
She makes me cry!
Once wuz a owl 'at happened to light
On our tall chimney-top,
An' screamed an' screamed in the dead o' night,
An' nuthin' could make it stop!
An' gran'ma--she uncovered her head
An' almos' frightened me out of the bed;
"Oh, dear; Oh, my!
I'm certain 'at some one is goin' to die!"
An' she made me cry--
She made me cry!
Just let a cow lean over the gate
An' bellow, an' gran'ma--she
Will say her prayers, if it's soon or late,
An' shake her finger at me!
An' then, an' then you'll hear her say:
"It's a sign w'en the cattle act that way!
Oh, dear! Oh, my!
I'm certain 'at somebody's goin' to die!"
Oh, she makes me cry--
She makes me cry!
Skeeriest person you ever seen!
Always a-huntin' fer "signs";
Says it's "spirits" 'at's good, or mean,
If the wind jest shakes the vines!
I always feel skeery w'en gran'ma's aroun'--
An' think 'at I see things, an' jump at each soun':
"Oh, dear! Oh, my!
I'm certain 'at somebody's goin' to die!"
Oh, she makes me cry--
She makes me cry!
_The Only True and Reliable Account of_
THE GREAT PRIZE FIGHT,
_For $100,000, at
Seal Rock Point, on Sunday Last,
Between His Excellency Gov. Stanford and Hon.
F. F. Low, Governor Elect of California._
REPORTED BY SAMUEL L. CLEMENS
For the past month the sporting world has been in a state of feverish
excitement on account of the grand prize fight set for last Sunday
between the two most distinguished citizens of California, for a purse
of one hundred thousand dollars. The high social standing of the
competitors, their exalted position in the arena of politics, together
with the princely sum of money staked upon the issue of the combat, all
conspired to render the proposed prize fight a subject of extraordinary
importance, and to give it an éclat never before vouchsafed to such a
circumstance since the world began. Additional lustre was shed upon the
coming contest by the lofty character of the seconds or bottle-holders
chosen by the two champions, these being no other than Judge Field (on
the part of Gov. Low), Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the
United States, and Hon. Wm. M. Stewart (commonly called "Bill Stewart,"
or "Bullyragging Bill Stewart"), of the city of Virginia, the most
popular as well as the most distinguished lawyer in Nevada Territory,
member of the Constitutional Convention, and future U. S. Senator for
the state of Washoe, as I hope and believe--on the part of Gov.
Stanford. Principals and seconds together, it is fair to presume that
such an array of talent was never entered for a combat of this
description upon any previous occasion.
Stewart and Field had their men in constant training at the Mission
during the six weeks preceding the contest, and such was the interest
taken in the matter that thousands visited that sacred locality daily to
pick up such morsels of information as they might, concerning the
physical and scientific improvement being made by the gubernatorial
acrobats. The anxiety manifested by the populace was intense. When it
was learned that Stanford had smashed a barrel of flour to atoms with a
single blow of his fist, the voice of the people was at his side. But
when the news came that Low had caved in the head of a tubular boiler
with one stroke of his powerful "mawley" (which term is in strict
accordance with the language of the ring) the tide of opinion changed
again. These changes were frequent, and they kept the minds of the
public in such a state of continual vibration that I fear the habit thus
acquired is confirmed, and that they will never more cease to oscillate.
The fight was to take place on last Sunday morning at ten o'clock. By
nine every wheeled vehicle and every species of animal capable of
bearing burthens, were in active service, and the avenues leading to the
Seal Rock swarmed with them in mighty processions whose numbers no man
might hope to estimate.
I determined to be upon the ground at an early hour. Now I dislike to be
exploded, as it were, out of my balmy slumbers, by a sudden, stormy
assault upon my door, and an imperative order to "Get up!"--wherefore I
requested one of the intelligent porters of the Lick House to call at
my palatial apartments, and murmur gently through the key-hole the magic
monosyllable "Hash!" That "fetched me."
The urbane livery-stable keeper furnished me with a solemn,
short-bodied, long-legged animal--a sort of animated counting-house
stool, as it were--which he called a "Morgan" horse. He told me who the
brute was "sired" by, and was proceeding to tell me who he was "dammed"
by, but I gave him to understand that I was competent to damn the horse
myself, and should probably do it very effectually before I got to the
battle-ground. I mentioned to him, however, that I was not proposing to
attend a funeral; it was hardly necessary to furnish me an animal gifted
with such oppressive solemnity of bearing as distinguished his "Morgan."
He said in reply, that Morgan was only pensive when in the stable, but
that on the road I would find him one of the liveliest horses in the
world.
He enunciated the truth.
The brute "bucked" with me from the foot of Montgomery street to the
Occidental Hotel. The laughter which he provoked from the crowds of
citizens along the sidewalks he took for applause, and honestly made
every effort in his power to deserve it, regardless of consequences.
He was very playful, but so suddenly were the creations of his fancy
conceived and executed, and so much ground did he take up with them,
that it was safest to behold them from a distance. In the self-same
moment of time, he shot his heels through the side of a street-car, and
then backed himself into Barry and Patten's and sat down on the
free-lunch table.
Such was the length of this Morgan's legs.
Between the Occidental and the Lick House, having become thoroughly
interested in his work, he planned and carried out a series of the most
extraordinary maneuvres ever suggested by the brain of any horse. He
arched his neck and went tripping daintily across the street sideways,
"rairing up" on his hind legs occasionally, in a very disagreeable way,
and looking into the second-story windows. He finally waltzed into the
large ice cream saloon opposite the Lick House, and--
But the memory of that perilous voyage hath caused me to digress from
the proper subject of this paper, which is the great prize fight between
Governors Low and Stanford. I will resume.
After an infinitude of fearful adventures, the history of which would
fill many columns of this newspaper, I finally arrived at the Seal Rock
Point at a quarter to ten--two hours and a half out from San Francisco,
and not less gratified than surprised that I ever got there at all--and
anchored my noble Morgan to a boulder on the hillside. I had to swathe
his head in blankets also, because, while my back was turned for a
single moment, he developed another atrocious trait of his most
remarkable character. He tried to eat little Augustus Maltravers
Jackson, the "humble" but interesting offspring of Hon. J. Belvidere
Jackson, a wealthy barber from San Jose. It would have been a comfort to
me to leave the infant to his fate, but I did not feel able to pay for
him.
When I reached the battle-ground, the great champions were already
stripped and prepared for the "mill." Both were in splendid condition,
and displayed a redundancy of muscle about the breast and arms which was
delightful to the eye of the sportive connoisseur. They were well
matched. Adepts said that Stanford's "heft" and tall stature were fairly
offset by Low's superior litheness and activity. From their heads to the
Union colors around their waists, their costumes were similar to that
of the Greek slave; from thence down they were clad in flesh-colored
tights and grenadier boots.
The ring was formed upon the beautiful level sandy beach above the Cliff
House, and within twenty paces of the snowy surf of the broad Pacific
Ocean, which was spotted here and there with monstrous sea-lions
attracted shoreward by curiosity concerning the vast multitude of people
collected in the vicinity.
At five minutes past ten, Brigadier-General Wright, the Referee,
notified the seconds to bring their men "up to the scratch." They did
so, amid the shouts of the populace, the noise whereof rose high above
the roar of the sea.
First Round.--The pugilists advanced to the centre of the ring, shook
hands, retired to their respective corners, and at the call of the
time-keeper, came forward and went at it. Low dashed out handsomely with
his left and gave Stanford a paster in the eye, and at the same moment
his adversary mashed him in the ear. (These singular phrases are
entirely proper, Mr. Editor--I find them in the copy of "Bell's Life in
London" now lying before me.) After some beautiful sparring, both
parties went down--that is to say, they went down to the bottle-holders,
Stewart and Field, and took a drink.
Second Round.--Stanford launched out a well intended plunger, but Low
parried it admirably and instantly busted him in the snoot. (Cries of
"Bully for the Marysville Infant!") After some lively fibbing (both of
them are used to it in political life,) the combatants went to grass.
(See "Bell's Life.")
Third Round.--Both came up panting considerably. Low let go a terrific
side-winder, but Stanford stopped it handsomely and replied with an
earthquake on Low's bread-basket. (Enthusiastic shouts of "Sock it to
him, my Sacramento Pet!") More fibbing--both down.
Fourth Round.--The men advanced and sparred warily for a few moments,
when Stanford exposed his cocoa-nut an instant, and Low struck out from
the shoulder and split him in the mug. (Cries of "Bully for the Fat
Boy!")
Fifth Round.--Stanford came up looking wicked, and let drive a heavy
blow with his larboard flipper which caved in the side of his
adversary's head. (Exclamations of "Hi! at him again Old Rusty!")
From this time until the end of the conflict, there was nothing regular
in the proceedings. The two champions got furiously angry, and used up
each other thus:
No sooner did Low realize that the side of his head was crushed in like
a dent in a plug hat, than he "went after" Stanford in the most
desperate manner. With one blow of his fist he mashed his nose so far
into his face that a cavity was left in its place the size and shape of
an ordinary soup-bowl. It is scarcely necessary to mention that in
making room for so much nose, Gov. Stanford's eyes were crowded to such
a degree as to cause them to "bug out" like a grasshopper's. His face
was so altered that he scarcely looked like himself at all.
I never saw such a murderous expression as Stanford's countenance now
assumed; you see it was so concentrated--it had such a small number of
features to spread around over. He let fly one of his battering rams and
caved in the other side of Low's head. Ah me, the latter was a ghastly
sight to contemplate after that--one of the boys said it looked "like a
beet which somebody had trod on it."
Low was "grit" though. He dashed out with his right and stove Stanford's
chin clear back even with his ears. Oh, what a horrible sight he was,
gasping and reaching after his tobacco, which was away back among his
under-jaw teeth.
Stanford was unsettled for a while, but he soon rallied, and watching
his chance, aimed a tremendous blow at his favorite mark, which crushed
in the rear of Gov. Low's head in such a way that the crown thereof
projected over his spinal column like a shed.
He came up to the scratch like a man, though, and sent one of his
ponderous fists crashing through his opponent's ribs and in among his
vitals, and instantly afterward he hauled out poor Stanford's left lung
and smacked him in the face with it.
If I ever saw an angry man in my life it was Leland Stanford. He fairly
raved. He jumped at his old speciality, Gov. Low's head; he tore it
loose from his body and knocked him down with it. (Sensation in the
crowd.)
Staggered by his extraordinary exertion, Gov. Stanford reeled, and
before he could recover himself the headless but indomitable Low sprang
forward, pulled one of his legs out by the roots, and dealt him a
smashing paster over the eye with the end of it. The ever watchful Bill
Stewart sallied out to the assistance of his crippled principal with a
pair of crutches, and the battle went on again as fiercely as ever.
At this stage of the game the battle ground was strewn with a
sufficiency of human remains to furnish material for the construction of
three or four men of ordinary size, and good sound brains enough to
stock a whole county like the one I came from in the noble old state of
Missouri. And so dyed were the combatants in their own gore that they
looked like shapeless, mutilated, red-shirted firemen.
The moment a chance offered, Low grabbed Stanford by the hair of the
head, swung him thrice round and round in the air like a lasso, and
then slammed him on the ground with such mighty force that he quivered
all over, and squirmed painfully, like a worm; and behold, his body and
such of his limbs as he had left, shortly assumed a swollen aspect like
unto those of a rag doll-baby stuffed with saw-dust.
He rallied again, however, and the two desperadoes clinched and never
let up until they had minced each other into such insignificant odds and
ends that neither was able to distinguish his own remnants from those of
his antagonist. It was awful.
Bill Stewart and Judge Field issued from their corners and gazed upon
the sanguinary reminiscences in silence during several minutes. At the
end of that time, having failed to discover that either champion had got
the best of the fight, they threw up their sponges simultaneously, and
Gen. Wright proclaimed in a loud voice that the battle was "drawn." May
my ears never again be rent asunder with a burst of sound similar to
that which greeted this announcement, from the multitudes. Amen.
By order of Gen. Wright, baskets were procured, and Bill Stewart and
Judge Field proceeded to gather up the fragments of their late
principals, while I gathered up my notes and went after my infernal
horse, who had slipped his blankets and was foraging among the
neighboring children. I--
P. S.--Messrs. Editors, I have been the victim of an infamous hoax. I
have been imposed upon by that ponderous miscreant, Mr. Frank Lawler, of
the Lick House. I left my room a moment ago, and the first man I met on
the stairs was Gov. Stanford, alive and well, and as free from
mutilation as you or I. I was speechless. Before I reached the street, I
actually met Gov. Low also, with his own head on his own shoulders, his
limbs intact, his inner mechanism in its proper place, and his cheeks
blooming with gorgeous robustitude. I was amazed. But a word of
explanation from him convinced me that I had been swindled by Mr. Lawler
with a detail account of a fight which had never occurred, and was never
likely to occur; that I had believed him so implicitly as to sit down
and write it out (as other reporters have done before me) in language
calculated to deceive the public into the conviction that I was present
at it myself, and to embellish it with a string of falsehoods intended
to render that deception as plausible as possible. I ruminated upon my
singular position for many minutes, arrived at no conclusion--that is to
say, no satisfactory conclusion, except that Lawler was an accomplished
knave and I was a consummate ass. I had suspected the first before,
though, and been acquainted with the latter fact for nearly a quarter of
a century.