He was rather for drinking than grazing;
Quoth the friar, "'Tis strange, headless horses should trot;
But to drink with their tails is amazing!"
Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose,
In the pond fell this son of a pottle.
Quoth he, "The head's found, for I'm under his nose;
I wish I were over a bottle,
Which goes gluggity, gluggity--glug--glug--glug."
ANONYMOUS.
THE ENOCH OF CALAVERAS.
"Well, dog my cats! Say, stranger,
You must have travelled far!
Just flood your lower level
And light a fresh cigar.
Don't tell me in this weather!
You hoofed it all the way?
Well, slice my liver lengthwise!
Why, stranger, what's to pay?
"Huntin' yer wife, you tell me:
Well, now dog-gone my skin!
She thought you dead and buried
And then bestowed her tin
Upon another fellow!
Just put it here, old pard!
Some fellows strike the soft things,
But you have hit it hard.
"I'm right onto your feelin's,
I know how it would be,
If my own shrub slopped over
And got away from me.
Say, stranger; that old sage hen,
That's cookin' thar inside,
Is warranted the finest wool,
And just a square yard wide.
"I wouldn't hurt yer, pardner,
But I tell _you_, no man
Was ever blessed as I am
With that old pelican.
It's goin' on some two year
Since she was j'ined to me,
She was a widder prior,
Her name was Sophy Lee--
"Good God! Old man, what's happened?
Her? She? Is that the one?
That's her? Your wife, you tell me?
Now reach down fer yer gun,
I never injured no man,
And no man me, but squealed,
And any one who takes her
Must do it d--d well heeled!
"Listen? Surely. Certainly
I'll let you look at her.
Peek through the door, she's in thar,
Is that your furnitur'?
Speak, man, quick! You're mistaken!
No! Yours! You recognize
My wife, your wife the same one?
The man who says so, lies!
"Don't mind what I say, pardner,
I'm not much on the gush,
But this thing comes down on me
Like fours upon a flush.
If that's your wife--hold--steady!
That bottle. Now, my coat,
She'll think me dead as you were.
My pipe. Thar. I'm afloat.
"But let me leave a message.
No; tell her that I died,
No, no; not that way, either,
Just tell her that I cried.
It don't rain much. Now, pardner,
Be to her what I've been.
Or by the God that hates you,
You'll see me back again!"
F. BRET HARTE.
CURLY-HEAD.
What are yer askin', stranger, about that lock o' har
That's kep' so nice and keerful in the family Bible thar?
Wal, then, I don't mind tellin', seein' as yer wants ter know.
It's from the head of our baby. Yes, that's him.--Stand up, Joe.
Joe is our only baby, nigh on ter six foot tall;
And he'll be one-and-twenty comin' this next fall.
But he can't yet beat his daddy in the hay-field or the swales,
A-pitchin' on the wagon, or splittin' up the rails.
For I was a famous chopper, jest eighteen year ago,
When this strange thing happened, that came to me and Joe.
Curly-head we called him then, sir--his hair is curly yet,
But them long silky ringlets I never shall forget.
Them was tough times, stranger, when all around was new,
And all the kentry forests, with only "blazes" through.
We lived in the old log-house then, Sally and me and Joe,
In the old Black-river country, whar we made our clearin' show.
Wal, one day I was choppin' nigh to our cabin door,--
A day that I'll remember till kingdom come and more,--
And Curly-head was playin' around among the chips;
A beauty, if I do say it, with rosy cheeks and lips.
I don't know how it happened; but quicker'n I can tell,
Our Curly-head had stumbled, and lay thar whar he fell
On the log that I was choppin', with his yellow curls outspread;
And the heavy axe was fallin' right on his precious head;
The next thing, I knew nothin', and all was dark around.
When I come to, I was lyin' stretched out thar on the ground;
And Curly-head was callin', "O daddy, don't do so!"
I caught him to my bosom, my own dear little Joe.
All safe, sir. Not a sliver had touched his little head;
But one of his curls was lyin' thar on the log outspread.
It lay whar the axe was stickin', cut close by its sharpened edge;
And what then was my feelin's, per'aps, sir, you can jedge.
I took the little ringlet, and pressed it to my lips;
Then I kneeled down and prayed, sir, right thar on the chips.
We put it in the Bible, whar I often read to Joe,--
"The hairs of your head are numbered;" and, sir, I believe it's so.
_B. S. Brooks._
WARNING TO WOMAN.
"John," said Mrs. Sanscript to her husband one evening last week,
"I've been reading the paper."--"That's nothin'," grunted John:
"I've seen people before who read newspapers."--"Yes; but there are
several things in the paper I can't understand."--"Then don't read
'em."--"What do they mean by the strike, John? What is a strike,
anyhow?"--"A strike is where they have struck;" and Sanscript knocked
the ashes from his cigar. "I don't grasp your meaning exactly," said
Mrs. Sanscript, with a puzzled look. "Now, these strikers have stopped
all the railroad-trains in the country. Why did they do it?"--"To
prevent 'em from running."--"Yes, but why didn't they want trains
to run?"--"Because they wanted more money for running them."--"Do
they pay more for stopping trains than for running them?"--"No, you
stupid woman!"--"Then why in the world did they stop 'em? why didn't
they run more of 'em, or run 'em faster? Seems to me that would pay
better."--"Mary Ann, you will never surround the problem."--"Maybe
not, John. Some things are gotten up purposely to bother women. Now
here is a column headed 'Base-Ball.' What is base-ball, John?"--"Don't
you know what base-ball is? Happy woman! you have not lived in
vain."--"Here it says that 'The Hartfords could not collar Cumming's
curves.' What under the sun are Cumming's curves?"--"It's the way he
delivers the ball."--"Is the ball chained?"--"No, you booby!"--"Then
how does he deliver it?"--"I mean, pitches it."--"Oh! Now here it
says Jones muffed a ball after a hard run. What was a ball doing
after a hard run?"--"Hadn't you better confine your research to the
obituary and marriage columns, Mary, with an occasional advertisement
thrown in to vary the monotony?"--"Yes, but, John, I want to know!
There's Mrs. Racket, over the way, who goes to all the base-ball
games, and comes home to talk me blind about 'fly fouls,' 'base hits,'
'sky-scrapers,' and all those things. For heaven's sake, John, what
is a sky-scraper?"--"Compose yourself, old woman. You are treading on
dangerous ground; your feet are on slippery rocks, while raging billows
roll beneath."--"Mercy on me! What do you mean?"--"I mean, my dear
madam, that whenever a woman begins to pry about among three strikes,
fair balls, base hits, daisy cutters, home runs, and kindred subjects,
she's in danger of being lost."--"Well, I confess I'm completely lost
to know what this newspaper means when it says Addy stole a base, while
the spectators applauded. Have we come to such a pass that society
will applaud a theft? Why wasn't Addy arrested? Now here's Manning put
out by Start, assisted by Carey, and I can't see that he did any thing
wrong, either. Jemima Christopher! Here it says that Pike flew out.
I don't believe a word of it. I never saw a man fly yet, and I won't
believe it can be done till I see it with my own eyes. John, what makes
these newspaper men lie so horribly?"
John was asleep; and Mrs. Sanscript turned gloomily, not to say
sceptically, to the letter-list for information. Newspapers were not
made for women.
AN EXCITING CONTEST.
We have doubts about the following story, which comes to us from the
interior; but the author is responsible for what he says, and his name
can be obtained upon application at this office.
Last winter two of my neighbors, Mr. Miller and Mr. Grant, lost their
wives upon the same day; and both of the funerals took place three days
afterwards, the interments being made at the cemetery about the same
hour. As the two funeral parties were coming out of the burying-ground,
Miller met Grant; and, clasping each other's hand, they indulged in a
sympathetic squeeze, and the following conversation ensued:--
_Miller._ "I'm sorry for you. It's an unspeakable loss, isn't it?"
_Grant._ "Awful! She was the best woman that ever lived."
_Miller._ "She was, indeed. I never met her equal. She was a good wife
to me."
_Grant._ "I was referring to my wife. There couldn't be two best, you
know."
_Miller._ "Yes, I know. I know well enough that your wife couldn't hold
a candle to mine."
_Grant._ "She couldn't, hey? Couldn't hold a candle! Why, she could
dance all round Mrs. Miller every day in the week, including Sundays,
and not half try! She was an unmitigated angel, take her any way you
would."
_Miller._ "Oh! she was, was she? Well, I don't want to be personal; but
if I owned a cross-eyed angel with red hair and no teeth, and as bony
as an omnibus-horse, I'd kill her if she didn't die of her own accord.
Dance!--how could a woman dance that had feet like candle-boxes, and
lame at that?"
_Grant._ "Better be cross-eyed than wear the kind of a red nose that
your wife flourished around this community. I bet it'll burn a hole
through the coffin-lid. And you pretend you're sorry she's gone. But
you can't impose on me: I know you're so glad you can hardly hold in.
She was the chuckle-headedest woman that ever disgraced a graveyard:
that's what _she_ was."
_Miller._ "If you abuse my wife, I'll knock you down."
_Grant._ "I'd like to see you try it."
Then the two disconsolate widowers engaged in a hand-to-hand combat;
and, after tussling a while in the snow, the mourners pulled them
apart, just as Mr. Miller was about to insist upon his wife's virtues
by biting off Mr. Grant's nose.
When they got home, Mr. Grant tied crape upon all his window-shutters
to show how deeply he mourned; and, as Miller knew that his grief for
Mrs. Miller was deeper, he not only decorated his shutters, but he
fixed five yards of black bombazine on the bell-pull, and dressed his
whole family in mourning. Then Grant determined that his duty to the
departed was not to let himself be beaten by a man who couldn't feel
any genuine sorrow: so he sewed a black flag on his lightning-rod, and
festooned the front of his house with black alpaca.
Then Miller became excited; and he expressed his sense of bereavement
by painting his dwelling black, and by putting up a monument to Mrs.
Miller in his front-yard. Grant thereupon stained his yellow horse
with lampblack, tied crape to his cow's horn, daubed his dog with
ink, and began to wipe his nose on a black handkerchief. As soon as
Miller saw these proceedings, he spread a layer of charcoal all over
his front-yard, he assumed a black shirt, he corked the faces of his
family when they went to church, and he hired a colored man to stand on
his steps and cry for twelve hours every day. Just as Grant was about
to see this, and go it one better, he encountered Miss Lang, a young
lady from the city; and in a couple of weeks they were engaged. Then he
began to take in the evidences of his grief; and this made Miller so
mad, that he went around and proposed to Miss Jones, an old maid who
never had an offer before. She accepted him on the spot; and they were
married the day before Grant's wedding, which so disgusted him that he
would have given up Lang if she hadn't threatened him with a suit for
breach of promise. There is peace between the two families now; but,
when Mrs. Miller gets on the rampage sometimes, Mr. Miller mourns for
his first wife more than ever.
A LAUGHING PHILOSOPHER.
Admiring my flowers, sir? P'raps you'd step inside the gate, and
walk round my little place? It ain't big, but there's plenty of
variety,--violets and cabbages, roses and artichokes. Any one that
didn't care for flowers 'ud be sure to find beauty in them young spring
onions. People's ideas differ very much, there ain't a doubt of it. One
man's very happy over a glass of whiskey and water, and another thinks
every thing 'ud go straight in this 'ere world if we all drank tea and
lemonade. And it's right enough: it keeps things even. We should have
the world a very one-sided affair if everybody pulled the same way.
Philosopher, am I? Well, I dunno. I've got a theory to be sure--every
one has nowadays; and mine is, that there is a joke to be found in
every mortal thing if only we look in the right place for it. But some
people don't know how to look for it. Why, sir, if you'll believe it, I
was talking to a man yesterday that couldn't see any thing to laugh at
in the naval demonstration.
Am I independent? Well, I makes money by my fruit and vegetables, if
that's what you mean. But there's so many ways of being independent.
One man marries a woman with £20,000 a year, and calls that
independence. Another votes on the strongest side, and calls that being
independent. One takes up every new-fangled idea that comes out, and
says he's independent. Some calls impudence independence. There's not
a name as fits so many different articles. No! I've never bin married.
Somehow, I don't think married men see the fun in every thing same
as single ones. I don't mean to be disrespectful to the ladies, but
I do think they enjoy a good cry more than a good laugh. Was I ever
in love? and did I laugh then? Why, yes, never laughed heartier in my
life. It's a good many years ago now. I was living in lodgings down
Clerkenwell way, and the landlady's daughter was as pretty a creature
as ever you see, bright and cheery, like a robin, when first I knew
her. But, by and by, she grew pale and peaky,--used to go about the
house without singing, and had such big, sad-looking eyes. Her home
wasn't a particularly happy one, for her mother was a nagger. Perhaps
you've never come across a woman of that pertikler character. Well,
then, you should say double the prayers of ordinary people; for you've
much to be thankful for. I never looked at her without feeling that
her husband must have been very happy indeed when he got to heaven. I
sometimes think, sir, that women of this sort might be made use of, and
prisons, and all other kind of punishment, done away with: perhaps,
though, the lunatic asylums 'ud get too full.
Well, I grew to be quite intimate with Bessie; and one evening, I don't
know how it was, she told me all her troubles. She was engaged to a
young man; and her mother wouldn't consent to them marrying, and was
always worrying her to break it off. I asked her if there were any
thing against him. Nothing, except that her mother had taken a dislike
to him: he wasn't very strong, but he was the best, cleverest, dearest
fellow that ever lived. All the time she was talking I felt a gnawing
sort of pain somewhere in my inside. First, I thought I must be hungry;
but, when I came to eat, all my food seemed to get in my throat, and
stick there. This won't do, old fellow, thinks I: there must be a joke
to be got out of it somewhere. So I set to consider; and there, clear
enough, it was. Why, the joke 'ud be to let Bessie marry her young
man, and see the pretty cheeks grow round and pink again. But how to
do it, there was the rub. I began to cultivate the old lady's society
with a view to finding out her weak point: for, being a woman, of
course she had a weak point; and, being a very ugly woman, what do you
think it was? Why, vanity, to be sure. I soon noticed a change in her.
She took her hair out of paper every day, instead of only on Sundays,
as she had been used to do; and she put on a clean cap sometimes,
and smirked whenever I passed her. Why, here's a bigger joke than I
bargained for, thinks I! While I've been studying the woman to find
out her weak point, she thinks I've been admiring her. But I soon saw
what use I could make of this. I went down into the kitchen when she
wasn't busy,--I knew it would be rather too hot other times,--and I got
talking about Bessie. "It's strange," I says, "that a fine-looking girl
like that shouldn't have a sweetheart. Things was different when you
was younger, I'll be bound."
"As for that," says she, "Bessie has a sweetheart; but I don't approve
of him. He's not exactly the sort of man I expected for her."
"But, lor'," I says, "you wouldn't go and keep that girl single! Think
what harm you may do yourself. You can't be so cruel as to give up
all idea of marrying agin! Why, you don't look forty." That wasn't
an untruth, for she looked fifty. She tossed her head, and told me
to go along. I didn't go along. I says, "There's no doubt lots of
young fellows 'ud be glad enough of a good-looking wife like you, but
mightn't care for a daughter as old as Miss Bessie." This seemed to
strike her very much. I followed it up, got talking to her day after
day, and always led the conversation to the same point. At last one day
when I came home from work, she says, "It's all settled. Bessie's going
to be married, and her Tom's coming here this evening." Then I went up
to my own room, and laughed till I cried. Presently I heard the little
girl run up-stairs as she hadn't run for many a long day, and I knew
she'd gone to put on a smart ribbon for Tom's sake. She tapped at my
door as she passed. Would I come down? somebody was there, and wanted
to know me. I called out that I was busy, and couldn't come; and she
went away. But after about an hour she came again. I was sitting in the
dark, thinking of a good many things; and before I had time to speak
she was down oh her knees beside me, and hiding her face.
"You told me you were busy," she said; "and here you are all in the
dark and cold, and I can't bear any one to be dull or lonely to-night,
because I'm so very, very happy. And I know it's all through you.
Mother would never have given in of her own accord. You've always been
my friend when I wanted one very badly; and now you must be angry with
me, or you wouldn't stay away to-night. And you won't even speak to me.
Oh, whatever I've done to vex you, don't think of it any more!"
She nestled up to me so close that her hair touched my coat-sleeve, and
her pretty eyes looked up all swimming with tears. I ground my teeth,
and clinched my hands, or--or I don't know what I mightn't ha' done.
You see the joke of this, sir, don't you? Here was the girl crying, and
asking me to forgive her, and like her a little; and there was I--not
disliking her a bit all the time. Ha, ha, ha! I had a hearty laugh at
her, and hurried with her down-stairs, and was introduced to Tom, and
I talked to the old lady, and drank the young people's health, and was
as happy as possible. And on the wedding-day I gave her away as if I
had been her father; and I sang a song and danced: and, when the time
came for Bessie to go away with her husband, I dried her eyes; for at
the last moment the tender-hearted little thing broke down, and cried,
and kissed us all, and asked her mother not to feel angry with her for
leaving her all alone; and then the mother cried, and what with having
so many eyes to wipe, I found myself wiping my own just as if it all
weren't a tremendous joke.
How have they got on since? 'Bout as well as most people, I suppose:
she loves him, and takes care of him. And the mother's softened down a
bit since she's bin a grandmother. And as to my godson, there never was
such a boy. I have him with me as much as possible, and he's beginning
to see the joke of every thing almost as much as I do myself. And when
I die, all this little place'll belong to him, and he'll be a rich man:
so my death'll be the biggest joke of all, you see, sir.
IN DER SHWEED LONG AGO.
In der shweed long ago I dinked I vas shmard,
Und I dinked I did vant me a vife
To share all my money und sorrows und joys,
Und to helb me along drough my life.
I vanted a lady kind-hearted und goot,
Dot vas handsome und sensiple doo,
Dot cood blay der biano or cook a beefshdeak,
Darn my shdockings or made me a shdew.
She must nod be doo shmall-seized or neider doo dall,
Und she musn'd be old or doo young,
Und ven I vas shboking had visdom enuff
To alwoys kebd quied her tongue.
She musd nod be doo dark or agin be doo lighd--
A kinder bedwixed und bedween;
She musd nod knew doo leedle, or vorse, knew it all,
Or be vat some beebles call "creen."
She musd be good-nadured, vear always a shmile,
No madder of dings did vent wrong;
Ven my friends came around for to make me a call,
Be ready to sung dem a song.
Of der lodge bisness habben'd to kebd me oud lade,
Und I come valdzing home "dighdly-shlighd,"
She musd pet und caress me, und dank her good shdars
Dot I didn'd shdaid apsend all nighd.
In a vord, be berfecd--mind, feature, und form--
From her feet to der crown of her head.
Now, dot vas der damsel dot I had in view,
Und der von I vas villing to ved.
Dot's a long dime ago, and my head dot vas pald,
And I vas a pachelor shdill.
My gal, I hafe nefer saw shkibbing round loose--
Vat's more, I don'd dink dot I vill.
OOFTY GOOFT.
DOT STUPPORN PONY.
I growt so ferry heffy
Dot too much de walkin' pe,
So I pyed me of von pony;
But dot pettler he sheat me.
Bote eyes of him was limpy,
Bote leeks of him vas plint;
But dot vot prake of me mine heart
Dot pony vas oonkint.
He keeck shust like a chackess,
Oop, town, pefore, pehint;
Und how to cure dot pony
I rollt oop in my mint.
Dot sympathee vas nonsense,
Shust efery dinks he preak;
Vhen sutton coomt von grant itee,
I tole you how I make:
I keetch him mit de shafters,
But--outsite in instet--
His het oop py dot vagon,
His dail vere vos his het.
Den--one, doo, tree--I schlag him.
Ach, himmel! how he keeck!
But vhen he fints he noddings stroock,
He stop dot pooty queeck.
Den looks he oop aschtountet,
Oxcited pooty pat;
Den sutten makes he backvarts,
Like as of he vas mat
I laugh as I vas tying
Vhen I see him go dat vay;
Den on his haunch he stoomples town,
As he vas going to bray.
How schamt he look, vateffer!
I tole him vat I dinks;
Doo dears drop oud his eyepalls,
Mit grief his dail he vinks.
Arount all right I toorn him,
His het pefore him now,
Und streecks!--he trives as goot und kind
As he vas peen my frau!
HARRY WOODSON.
SPOOPENDYKE OPENING OYSTERS.
"My dear," queried Mr. Spoopendyke, "did you put those oysters on the
cellar floor with the round shells down, as I told you to?"
"I did most of 'em," replied Mrs. Spoopendyke. "Some of 'em wouldn't
stay that way. They turned right over."
"Must have been extraordinary intelligent oysters," murmured Mr.
Spoopendyke, eying her with suspicion. "Didn't any of 'em stand up on
end, and ask for the morning paper, did they?"
"You know what I mean," fluttered Mrs. Spoopendyke. "They tipped over
sideways, and so I laid them on the flat shell."
"That's right," grunted Mr. Spoopendyke. "You want to give an oyster
his own way, or you'll hurt his feelings. Suppose you bring up some of
those gifted oysters, and an oyster-knife, and we'll eat 'em."
Mrs. Spoopendyke hurried away, and pattered back with the feast duly
set out on a tea-waiter, which she placed before Mr. Spoopendyke with a
flourish.
"Now," said she, drawing up her sewing-chair, and resting her elbows on
her knees, and her chin on her hands, "when you get all you want, you
may open me some."
Mr. Spoopendyke whirled the knife around his head, and brought it down
with a sharp crack. Then he clipped away at the end a moment, and
jabbed at what he supposed was the opening. The knife slipped, and
ploughed the bark off his thumb.
"Won't come open, won't ye?" he shouted, fetching it another lick, and
jabbing away again. "Haven't completed your census of who's out here
working at ye, have ye?" and he brought it another whack. "P'rhaps ye
think I haven't fully made up my mind to inquire within, don't ye?"
and he rammed the point of the knife at it, knocking the skin off his
knuckles.
"That isn't the way to open an oyster," suggested Mrs. Spoopendyke.
"Look here," roared Mr. Spoopendyke, turning fiercely on his wife.
"Have you got any private understanding with this oyster? Has the
oyster confided in you the particular way in which he wants to be
opened?"
"No-o!" stammered Mrs. Spoopendyke. "Only I thought"--
"This is no time for thought!" shouted Mr. Spoopendyke, banging away
at the edge of the shell. "This is the moment for battle; and if I've
happened to catch this oyster during office hours, he's going to enter
into relations with the undersigned. Come out, will ye?" he yelled, as
the knife flew up his sleeve. "Maybe ye don't recognize the voice of
Spoopendyke. Come out, ye measly coward, before ye make an enemy of
me for life!" and he belted away at the shell with the handle of the
knife, and spattered mud like a dredging-machine.
"Let me get you a hammer to crack him with," recommended Mrs.
Spoopendyke, hovering over her husband in great perturbation.