in a loud whisper. “Allers the same, bless you! Can jerk a rhyme as easy
as turnin' jack. Never had any eddication; lived out in Missooray all
his life. But he's chock full o' poetry. On'y this mornin' sez I to
him,--he camps along o' me,--'Milt!' sez I, 'are breakfast ready?' and
he up and answers back quite peert and chipper, 'The breakfast it is
ready, and the birds is singing free, and it's risin' in the dawnin'
light is happiness to me!' When a man,” said Mr. McCorkle, dropping his
voice with deep solemnity, “gets off things like them, without any
call to do it, and handlin' flapjacks over a cookstove at the same
time,--that man's a borned poet.”
There was an awkward pause. Mr. McCorkle beamed patronizingly on
his protege. The born poet looked as if he were meditating another
flight,--not a metaphorical one. The editor asked if he could do
anything for them.
“In course you can,” responded Mr. McCorkle, “that's jest it. Milt,
where's that poetry!”
The editor's countenance fell as the poet produced from his pocket a
roll of manuscript. He, however, took it mechanically and glanced over
it. It was evidently a duplicate of the former mysterious contribution.
The editor then spoke briefly but earnestly. I regret that I cannot
recall his exact words, but it appeared that never before, in the
history of the “Record,” had the pressure been so great upon its
columns. Matters of paramount importance, deeply affecting the material
progress of Sierra, questions touching the absolute integrity of
Calaveras and Tuolumne as social communities, were even now waiting
expression. Weeks, nay, months, must elapse before that pressure would
be removed, and the “Record” could grapple with any but the sternest of
topics. Again, the editor had noticed with pain the absolute decline
of poetry in the foot-hills of the Sierras. Even the works of Byron and
Moore attracted no attention in Dutch Flat, and a prejudice seemed to
exist against Tennyson in Grass Valley. But the editor was not without
hope for the future. In the course of four or five years, when the
country was settled,--
“What would be the cost to print this yer?” interrupted Mr. McCorkle,
quietly.
“About fifty dollars, as an advertisement,” responded the editor with
cheerful alacrity.
Mr. McCorkle placed the sum in the editor's hand. “Yer see thet's what
I sez to Milt, 'Milt,' sez I, 'pay as you go, for you are a borned
poet. Hevin no call to write, but doin' it free and spontaneous like, in
course you pays. Thet's why Mr. Editor never printed your poetry.'”
“What name shall I put to it?” asked the editor.
“Milton.”
It was the first word that the born poet had spoken during the
interview, and his voice was so very sweet and musical that the editor
looked at him curiously, and wondered if he had a sister.
“Milton; is that all?”
“Thet's his furst name,” exclaimed Mr. McCorkle.
The editor here suggested that as there had been another poet of that
name--
“Milt might be took for him! Thet's bad,” reflected Mr. McCorkle with
simple gravity. “Well, put down his hull name,--Milton Chubbuck.”
The editor made a note of the fact. “I'll set it up now,” he said. This
was also a hint that the interview was ended. The poet and patron, arm
in arm, drew towards the door. “In next week's paper,” said the editor,
smilingly, in answer to the childlike look of inquiry in the eyes of the
poet, and in another moment they were gone.
The editor was as good as his word. He straight-way betook himself to
his case, and, unrolling the manuscript, began his task. The woodpeckers
on the roof recommenced theirs, and in a few moments the former sylvan
seclusion was restored. There was no sound in the barren, barn-like room
but the birds above, and below the click of the composing-rule as the
editor marshalled the types into lines in his stick, and arrayed them in
solid column on the galley. Whatever might have been his opinion of the
copy before him, there was no indication of it in his face, which wore
the stolid indifference of his craft. Perhaps this was unfortunate, for
as the day wore on and the level rays of the sun began to pierce the
adjacent thicket, they sought out and discovered an anxious ambushed
figure drawn up beside the editor's window,--a figure that had sat
there motionless for hours. Within, the editor worked on as steadily and
impassively as Fate. And without, the born poet of Sierra Flat sat and
watched him as waiting its decree.
The effect of the poem on Sierra Flat was remarkable and unprecedented.
The absolute vileness of its doggerel, the gratuitous imbecility of its
thought, and above all the crowning audacity of the fact that it was
the work of a citizen and published in the county paper, brought it
instantly into popularity. For many months Calaveras had languished for
a sensation; since the last vigilance committee nothing had transpired
to dispel the listless ennui begotten of stagnant business and growing
civilization. In more prosperous moments the office of the “Record”
would have been simply gutted and the editor deported; at present the
paper was in such demand that the edition was speedily exhausted. In
brief, the poem of Mr. Milton Chubbuck came like a special providence
to Sierra Flat. It was read by camp-fires, in lonely cabins, in
flaring bar-rooms and noisy saloons, and declaimed from the boxes of
stagecoaches. It was sung in Poker Flat with the addition of a local
chorus, and danced as an unhallowed rhythmic dance by the Pyrrhic
phalanx of One Horse Gulch, known as “The Festive Stags of Calaveras.”
Some unhappy ambiguities of expression gave rise to many new readings,
notes, and commentaries, which, I regret to state, were more often
marked by ingenuity than delicacy of thought or expression.
Never before did poet acquire such sudden local reputation. From the
seclusion of McCorkle's cabin and the obscurity of culinary labors, he
was haled forth into the glowing sunshine of Fame. The name of Chubbuck
was written in letters of chalk on unpainted walls, and carved with a
pick on the sides of tunnels. A drink known variously as “The Chubbuck
Tranquillizer,” or “The Chubbuck Exalter,” was dispensed at the
bars. For some weeks a rude design for a Chubbuck statue, made up of
illustrations from circus and melodeon posters, representing the genius
of Calaveras in brief skirts on a flying steed in the act of crowning
the poet Chubbuck, was visible at Keeler's Ferry. The poet himself was
overborne with invitations to drink and extravagant congratulations.
The meeting between Colonel Starbottle of Siskyion and Chubbuck, as
previously arranged by our “Boston,” late of Roaring Camp, is said to
have been indescribably affecting. The Colonel embraced him unsteadily.
“I could not return to my constituents at Siskyion, sir, if this hand,
which has grasped that of the gifted Prentice and the lamented Poe,
should not have been honored by the touch of the godlike Chubbuck.
Gentlemen, American literature is looking up. Thank you, I will take
sugar in mine.” It was “Boston” who indited letters of congratulations
from H. W. Longfellow, Tennyson, and Browning, to Mr. Chubbuck,
deposited them in the Sierra Flat post-office, and obligingly consented
to dictate the replies.
The simple faith and unaffected delight with which these manifestations
were received by the poet and his patron might have touched the hearts
of these grim masters of irony, but for the sudden and equal development
in both of the variety of weak natures. Mr. McCorkle basked in the
popularity of his protege, and became alternately supercilious or
patronizing toward the dwellers of Sierra Flat; while the poet, with
hair carefully oiled and curled, and bedecked with cheap jewelry and
flaunting neck-handkerchief, paraded himself before the single hotel.
As may be imagined, this new disclosure of weakness afforded intense
satisfaction to Sierra Flat, gave another lease of popularity to the
poet, and suggested another idea to the facetious “Boston.”
At that time a young lady popularly and professionally known as the
“California Pet” was performing to enthusiastic audiences in the
interior. Her specialty lay in the personation of youthful masculine
character; as a gamin of the street she was irresistible, as a
negro-dancer she carried the honest miner's heart by storm. A saucy,
pretty brunette, she had preserved a wonderful moral reputation even
under the Jove-like advances of showers of gold that greeted her
appearance on the stage at Sierra Flat. A prominent and delighted member
of that audience was Milton Chubbuck. He attended every night. Every
day he lingered at the door of the Union Hotel for a glimpse of the
“California Pet.” It was not long before he received a note
from her,--in “Boston's” most popular and approved female
hand,--acknowledging his admiration. It was not long before “Boston” was
called upon to indite a suitable reply. At last, in furtherance of his
facetious design, it became necessary for “Boston” to call upon the
young actress herself and secure her personal participation. To her
he unfolded a plan, the successful carrying out of which he felt would
secure his fame to posterity as a practical humorist. The “California
Pet's” black eyes sparkled approvingly and mischievously. She only
stipulated that she should see the man first,--a concession to her
feminine weakness which years of dancing Juba and wearing trousers and
boots had not wholly eradicated from her wilful breast. By all means, it
should be done. And the interview was arranged for the next week.
It must not be supposed that during this interval of popularity Mr.
Chubbuck had been unmindful of his poetic qualities. A certain portion
of each day he was absent from town,--“a communin' with natur',” as Mr.
McCorkle expressed it,--and actually wandering in the mountain trails,
or lying on his back under the trees, or gathering fragrant herbs and
the bright-colored berries of the Marzanita. These and his company he
generally brought to the editor's office, late in the afternoon,
often to that enterprising journalist's infinite weariness. Quiet and
uncommunicative, he would sit there patiently watching him at his work
until the hour for closing the office arrived, when he would as quietly
depart. There was something so humble and unobtrusive in these visits,
that the editor could not find it in his heart to deny them, and
accepting them, like the woodpeckers, as a part of his sylvan
surroundings, often forgot even his presence. Once or twice, moved by
some beauty of expression in the moist, shy eyes, he felt like seriously
admonishing his visitor of his idle folly; but his glance falling upon
the oiled hair and the gorgeous necktie, he invariably thought better of
it. The case was evidently hopeless.
The interview between Mr. Chubbuck and the “California Pet” took place
in a private room of the Union Hotel; propriety being respected by
the presence of that arch-humorist, “Boston.” To this gentleman we are
indebted for the only true account of the meeting. However reticent
Mr. Chubbuck might have been in the presence of his own sex, toward the
fairer portion of humanity he was, like most poets, exceedingly voluble.
Accustomed as the “California Pet” had been to excessive compliment, she
was fairly embarrassed by the extravagant praises of her visitor. Her
personation of boy characters, her dancing of the “champion jig,” were
particularly dwelt upon with fervid but unmistakable admiration.
At last, recovering her audacity and emboldened by the presence of
“Boston,” the “California Pet” electrified her hearers by demanding,
half jestingly, half viciously, if it were as a boy or a girl that she
was the subject of his flattering admiration.
“That knocked him out o' time,” said the delighted “Boston,” in his
subsequent account of the interview. “But do you believe the d----d
fool actually asked her to take him with her; wanted to engage in the
company.”
The plan, as briefly unfolded by “Boston,” was to prevail upon Mr.
Chubbuck to make his appearance in costume (already designed and
prepared by the inventor) before a Sierra Flat audience, and recite
an original poem at the Hall immediately on the conclusion of the
“California Pet's” performance. At a given signal the audience were to
rise and deliver a volley of unsavory articles (previously provided by
the originator of the scheme); then a select few were to rush on the
stage, seize the poet, and, after marching him in triumphal procession
through town, were to deposit him beyond its uttermost limits, with
strict injunctions never to enter it again. To the first part of the
plan the poet was committed, for the latter portion it was easy enough
to find participants.
The eventful night came, and with it an audience that packed the long
narrow room with one dense mass of human beings. The “California Pet”
never had been so joyous, so reckless, so fascinating and audacious
before. But the applause was tame and weak compared to the ironical
outburst that greeted the second rising of the curtain and the entrance
of the born poet of Sierra Flat. Then there was a hush of expectancy,
and the poet stepped to the foot-lights and stood with his manuscript in
his hand.
His face was deadly pale. Either there was some suggestion of his fate
in the faces of his audience, or some mysterious instinct told him of
his danger. He attempted to speak, but faltered, tottered, and staggered
to the wings.
Fearful of losing his prey, “Boston” gave the signal and leaped upon
the stage. But at the same moment a light figure darted from behind the
scenes, and delivering a kick that sent the discomfited humorist back
among the musicians, cut a pigeon-wing, executed a double-shuffle,
and then advancing to the foot-lights with that inimitable look, that
audacious swagger and utter abandon which had so thrilled and fascinated
them a moment before, uttered the characteristic speech: “Wot are you
goin' to hit a man fur, when he's down, s-a-a-y?”
The look, the drawl, the action, the readiness, and above all the
downright courage of the little woman, had its effect. A roar of
sympathetic applause followed the act. “Cut and run while you can,” she
whispered hurriedly over her one shoulder, without altering the other's
attitude of pert and saucy defiance toward the audience. But even as she
spoke the poet tottered and sank fainting upon the stage. Then she threw
a despairing whisper behind the scenes, “Ring down the curtain.”
There was a slight movement of opposition in the audience, but among
them rose the burly shoulders of Yuba Bill, the tall, erect figure of
Henry York of Sandy Bar, and the colorless, determined face of John
Oakhurst. The curtain came down.
Behind it knelt the “California Pet” beside the prostrate poet. “Bring
me some water. Run for a doctor. Stop!! CLEAR OUT, ALL OF YOU!”
She had unloosed the gaudy cravat and opened the shirt-collar of the
insensible figure before her. Then she burst into an hysterical laugh.
“Manuela!”
Her tiring-woman, a Mexican half-breed, came toward her.
“Help me with him to my dressing-room, quick; then stand outside and
wait. If any one questions you, tell them he's gone. Do you hear? HE's
gone.”
The old woman did as she was bade. In a few moments the audience had
departed. Before morning so also had the “California Pet,” Manuela,
and--the poet of Sierra Flat.
But, alas! with them also had departed the fair fame of the “California
Pet.” Only a few, and these it is to be feared of not the best moral
character themselves, still had faith in the stainless honor of their
favorite actress. “It was a mighty foolish thing to do, but it'll all
come out right yet.” On the other hand, a majority gave her full credit
and approbation for her undoubted pluck and gallantry, but deplored that
she should have thrown it away upon a worthless object. To elect for
a lover the despised and ridiculed vagrant of Sierra Flat, who had not
even the manliness to stand up in his own defence, was not only evidence
of inherent moral depravity, but was an insult to the community. Colonel
Starbottle saw in it only another instance of the extreme frailty of the
sex; he had known similar cases; and remembered distinctly, sir, how a
well-known Philadelphia heiress, one of the finest women that ever rode
in her kerridge, that, gad, sir! had thrown over a Southern member of
Congress to consort with a d----d nigger. The Colonel had also noticed a
singular look in the dog's eye which he did not entirely fancy. He would
not say anything against the lady, sir, but he had noticed--And here
haply the Colonel became so mysterious and darkly confidential as to be
unintelligible and inaudible to the bystanders.
A few days after the disappearance of Mr. Chubbuck a singular report
reached Sierra Flat, and it was noticed that “Boston,” who since the
failure of his elaborate joke had been even more depressed in spirits
than is habitual with great humorists, suddenly found that his presence
was required in San Francisco. But as yet nothing but the vaguest
surmises were afloat, and nothing definite was known.
It was a pleasant afternoon when the editor of the “Sierra Flat Record”
looked up from his case and beheld the figure of Mr. Morgan McCorkle
standing in the doorway. There was a distressed look on the face of
that worthy gentleman that at once enlisted the editor's sympathizing
attention. He held an open letter in his hand, as he advanced toward the
middle of the room.
“As a man as has allers borne a fair reputation,” began Mr. McCorkle
slowly, “I should like, if so be as I could, Mister Editor, to make a
correction in the columns of your valooable paper.”
Mr. Editor begged him to proceed.
“Ye may not disremember that about a month ago I fetched here what so be
as we'll call a young man whose name might be as it were Milton--Milton
Chubbuck.”
Mr. Editor remembered perfectly.
“Thet same party I'd knowed better nor fower year, two on 'em campin'
out together. Not that I'd known him all the time, fur he war shy and
strange at spells and had odd ways that I took war nat'ral to a borned
poet. Ye may remember that I said he was a borned poet?”
The editor distinctly did.
“I picked this same party up in St. Jo., takin' a fancy to his face, and
kinder calklating he'd runn'd away from home,--for I'm a married man,
Mr. Editor, and hev children of my own,--and thinkin' belike he was a
borned poet.”
“Well?” said the editor.
“And as I said before, I should like now to make a correction in the
columns of your valooable paper.”
“What correction!” asked the editor.
“I said, ef you remember my words, as how he was a borned poet.”
“Yes.”
“From statements in this yer letter it seems as how I war wrong.”
“Well!”
“She war a woman.”
THE CHRISTMAS GIFT THAT CAME TO RUPERT.
A STORY FOR LITTLE SOLDIERS.
It was the Christmas season in California,--a season of falling rain and
springing grasses. There were intervals when, through driving clouds and
flying scud, the sun visited the haggard hills with a miracle, and death
and resurrection were as one, and out of the very throes of decay a
joyous life struggled outward and upward. Even the storms that swept
down the dead leaves nurtured the tender buds that took their places.
There were no episodes of snowy silence; over the quickening fields the
farmer's ploughshare hard followed the furrows left by the latest rains.
Perhaps it was for this reason that the Christmas evergreens which
decorated the drawing-room took upon themselves a foreign aspect, and
offered a weird contrast to the roses, seen dimly through the windows,
as the southwest wind beat their soft faces against the panes.
“Now,” said the Doctor, drawing his chair closer to the fire, and
looking mildly but firmly at the semicircle of flaxen heads around him,
“I want it distinctly understood before I begin my story, that I am not
to be interrupted by any ridiculous questions. At the first one I shall
stop. At the second, I shall feel it my duty to administer a dose of
castor-oil, all around. The boy that moves his legs or arms will be
understood to invite amputation. I have brought my instruments with me,
and never allow pleasure to interfere with my business. Do you promise?”
“Yes, sir,” said six small voices, simultaneously. The volley was,
however, followed by half a dozen dropping questions.
“Silence! Bob, put your feet down, and stop rattling that sword. Flora
shall sit by my side, like a little lady, and be an example to the rest.
Fung Tang shall stay, too, if he likes. Now, turn down the gas a little;
there, that will do,--just enough to make the fire look brighter, and to
show off the Christmas candles. Silence, everybody! The boy who cracks
an almond, or breathes too loud over his raisins, will be put out of the
room?”
There was a profound silence. Bob laid his sword tenderly aside, and
nursed his leg thoughtfully. Flora, after coquettishly adjusting the
pocket of her little apron, put her arm upon the Doctor's shoulder, and
permitted herself to be drawn beside him. Fung Tang, the little heathen
page, who was permitted, on this rare occasion, to share the Christian
revels in the drawing-room, surveyed the group with a smile that was at
once sweet and philosophical. The light ticking of a French clock on the
mantel, supported by a young shepherdess of bronze complexion and great
symmetry of limb, was the only sound that disturbed the Christmas-like
peace of the apartment,--a peace which held the odors of evergreens, new
toys, cedar-boxes, glue, and varnish in an harmonious combination that
passed all understanding.
“About four years ago at this time,” began the Doctor, “I attended
a course of lectures in a certain city. One of the professors,
who was a sociable, kindly man,--though somewhat practical and
hard-headed,--invited me to his house on Christmas night. I was very
glad to go, as I was anxious to see one of his sons, who, though only
twelve years old, was said to be very clever. I dare not tell you how
many Latin verses this little fellow could recite, or how many English
ones he had composed. In the first place, you'd want me to repeat them;
secondly, I'm not a judge of poetry, Latin or English. But there were
judges who said they were wonderful for a boy, and everybody predicted
a splendid future for him. Everybody but his father. He shook his head
doubtingly, whenever it was mentioned, for, as I have told you, he was a
practical, matter-of-fact man.
“There was a pleasant party at the Professor's that night. All the
children of the neighborhood were there, and among them the Professor's
clever son, Rupert, as they called him,--a thin little chap, about as
tall as Bobby there, and as fair and delicate as Flora by my side. His
health was feeble, his father said; he seldom ran about and played with
other boys, preferring to stay at home and brood over his books, and
compose what he called his verses.
“Well, we had a Christmas-tree just like this, and we had been laughing
and talking, calling off the names of the children who had presents
on the tree, and everybody was very happy and joyous, when one of the
children suddenly uttered a cry of mingled surprise and hilarity, and
said, 'Here's something for Rupert; and what do you think it is?'
“We all guessed. 'A desk'; 'A copy of Milton'; 'A gold pen'; 'A rhyming
dictionary? 'No? what then?'
“'A drum!'
“'A what?' asked everybody.
“'A drum! with Rupert's name on it?'
“Sure enough there it was. A good-sized, bright, new, brass-bound drum,
with a slip of paper on it, with the inscription, 'FOR RUPERT.'