He then passed out into the chill air, and gliding slowly along the

gravel walk, paused to contemplate the ruins of the front gate and

speculate on the whereabouts of the handsome youth who had so lately

enacted the part of a modern Samson, and had torn down the gates to

Gaza little on the loved face which parental tyranny would thereafter

conceal from his ardent gaze forever.

“It is ever thus,” moralized the ghost; “at once the mightiest and

the weakest being in created life, God’s noblest work is the toy of

bodiless phantoms. We tear down and we build up; we purpose and we

prevent; we do and we undo; we overcome every real difficulty, and

surmount every actual obstacle, and at last, when our object is all

but accomplished--lo, a shadow terrifies us, and the courage and labor

of an hour, a year, or a lifetime, are swept into ruins. At least,

_we_ used to do thus. I have left the firm, but the surviving partners

carry on the business of life in pretty much the same old style. The

world invents a great deal, but it doesn’t improve very much. It is the

same old world, after all. It has the locomotive and the telegraph,

true; but the men who invented the locomotive and the telegraph loved,

feared, hoped and lived pretty much as Cæsar’s couriers and Dido’s

sailors used to. Men declaim against the remotest possibility of the

spirits of the dead revisiting the glimpses of the moon, and yet my

presence affects in the same unpleasant and turbulent manner alike the

most skeptical and the most credulous and superstitious. I believe,

speaking of spirits, I will go down town to a certain house I wot of,

where parties of my friends, the Spiritualists, hold frequent seances,

at which they converse familiarly, though ungrammatically, with the

spirits of their own deceased friends, and of the illustrious dead.

They will be glad to see me, I know, because I am intimately acquainted

with some of the parties whom they occasionally summon back to earth,

and they will be glad too, because I can correct some of the erroneous

ideas they entertain in regard to the present condition of some of

these spirits who are constantly writing back, in such execrable

English as would make a cultured, intelligent ghost blush, how happy

they are, and how glad they are that they died, and how much they know.

I am as contented a ghost as one can find under the republic, and I

never was glad that I died, and I never write to any of my relatives,

and never visit any of them, except,” he added thoughtfully, “my dear

haunt.” And he chuckled grimly over his ghastly little joke.

In another moment he was seated comfortably beneath a table which

was surrounded by a party of seekers after truth, who were patiently

sitting up for the latest returns from the spirit world. The ghost was

much touched by the anxiety displayed by a young man in very long hair

and green spectacles to hear from his departed uncle. The spirit mails

were snowed in, or intercepted by guerrillas, or held for postage, or

suffering from some other cause of detention that Christmas Eve; for it

seemed as though the young man never would receive so much as a postal

card from his deceased relative. The ghost pitied him, and just as

the medium, a beautiful young girl of forty-nine summers, was passing

into another trance, he crawled out from under the table and bowed

pleasantly to the anxious inquirer.

“I think I can allay any anxiety you may feel on account of your

departed avuncular relative,” he said; “I have met him several times,

and although the peculiar and pressing nature of his engagements

elsewhere prevents his attending in person social assemblies on this

side of the ground, he is----”

He ceased speaking at this point, for his voice had long been drowned

in the uproar of shrieks, and breaking furniture, and crashing glass,

as the seance broke up along with the tables and chairs, and the

anxious seekers after truth emerged into the night with window sashes

hanging round their necks. Foreseeing that there would be trouble if

he did not emigrate in order to permit the wanderers to return and

resurrect the overturned stove, the messenger from the realm of shadows

departed and once more sought his station on the hill. And again he

whistled. “Down Among the Dead Men” through his teeth, while he smiled

pensively, and communed with his own pleasant thoughts.

“It’s just as I said,” he mused; “had I been that young man’s uncle,

whom he so earnestly desired to see, his terror would have been just as

great. They rap and call for us, they implore us to come, and when we

come they go. And they go very abruptly. Some of those people to-night

got out of that room by edging through fissures that would squeeze the

very breath out of the leanest ghost I ever saw. Believer or skeptic,

it makes no difference. Saul was not more terrified at Samuel’s ghost,

which he was so anxious to see, than was the witch who accidentally

raised the apparition. But these broken, interrupted interviews with

terrified mortals are growing monotonous. I will stay out all night,

because it is Christmas Eve and my night out, but I will spend the

remaining silent hours in meditation, and let the wicked old world

sleep in peace, unless, mayhap, some belated wayfarer should stray

this way, when I will revenge myself upon him for the shabby treatment

I have received at mortal hands to-night. I will frighten him so that

he will not be through screaming when I come here again next Christmas

Eve. I have tried to be agreeable to everybody to-night, and everybody

has refused to be sociable, and has repulsed my courteous advances with

the most hideous shrieks and uproar. And to the next hapless mortal who

shall cross my haunt, I will be terrible.”

He ceased speaking, and knotted his face with a series of horrible

contortions and hideous grimaces, which he practiced until he acquired

one which appeared to satisfy his fastidious taste. This one he

exercised several times in order to fix it firmly in his memory, and

then, folding his arms, he leaned against the railing and gloomily

waited for a customer, as ill-natured and unhappy a ghost as could be

found in all the haunts of men or specters.

His ghostship did not have long to wait for a subject, standing there

in the gloomy street, with the cold, glittering stars occasionally

peeping timidly through the rifted clouds sailing overhead. Before long

a heavy footfall was heard ascending the lower part of the hill, and

then, as it came nearer, the dismal one could hear the frosty earth

creaking under the passenger’s feet at every step he took. A voice

which was marked by that peculiar intonation which we so frequently

notice in close proximity to a pick or a hod, uttered, in sentences

so profusely vaccinated with trilled r’s that it sounded like a high

school commencement, a wrathful objurgation upon the wind, as the

winter zephyr well nigh lifted the speaker from his feet.

“Growl about that, will you?” muttered the ghost, with savage

gleefulness, “I’ll make you wish the wind had blown you into the moon

before you get to the top of the hill. I wish he would walk more

slowly,” the specter went on, rubbing his fleshless hands in delighted

anticipation; “I should like to have a few moments’ quiet enjoyment in

contemplating the possible and probable actions of the worst frightened

man in America. I have been accused of frightening people before now,

but those vile slanders against my considerate and pacific disposition

and my reassuring physiognomy will all be retracted and atoned for

after to-night. After this man’s experience no man, no living mortal

will dare stand up and say that any one was ever frightened prior to

this date. Why, there won’t be as much hair left on this individual’s

head, in about three minutes, as would make me a switch. All the

doctors in America won’t be able to get his eyes back into their proper

places. He will howl and yell and shriek and pray to the day of his

death. Scared? It isn’t the word. It’s too weak. Whistle, will you?” he

continued, apostrophizing the approaching figure, “I’ll make you wish

you had a French horn fifteen feet long, with all the keys open and the

mouth-piece cracked, to express your feelings through. Why,” he said,

arranging his robe and twisting his face into such a blood-curdling

awful contortion that it raised a blister on the frozen ground and the

very wind turned and blew up hill for dear life; “why, my unsuspicious

republican, you’ll be the worst demoralized community in about fifteen

seconds that ever disturbed the holy quiet of midnight.”

Stretching out his gaunt arm in a weird, ghostly gesture, the white

drapery falling away from it in conventional folds, the specter stepped

out to the middle of the sidewalk to confront the coming man. A man

of medium size, the new-comer, with bluff square shoulders, twinkling

eyes, a nose that had been made of a remnant so that the unfinished

end retreated toward the eyes, a mouth puckered up in a melodious

whistle, the head covered with an abundance of closely-cut hair of the

shade of St. Louis pressed brick; a ragged coat was buttoned close and

the wearer carried under his arm a walking-stick of most benevolent

aspect, the bulge on the end of which reminded one of an invitation to

join the innumerable caravan. His whistle ceased as the ghost loomed

up before him, not suddenly cutting off his tune in the middle of the

note, but in a long-drawn diminuendo passage, commonly expressive of

inexpressible astonishment.

The ghost slowly and impressively waved his extended arm in the

direction of the gloomy ravine. The mortal shuffled uneasily toward

the middle of the street in an effort to get round the unpleasant

obstruction. The specter noiselessly glided before him and still

confronted him with outstretched arm and hideous countenance, and both

figures regarded each other in silence. The mortal was the first to

open the conversation, who, after muttering under his breath, “The

saints betune us and har-rum, an’ phwat is he makin’ thim faces at me

for?” remarked in a brisk tone:

“Cool avenin’!”

Motionless as a statue, the ghastly figure glowered upon him in its

frozen attitude and terrifying gesture.

“Is it Tim Moriarity, as died the year before I kim’ over, I don’ know?”

No reply and no change of posture on the part of the specter.

“Is it the Feenicks boys ye are thin, as kilt aich other the night ov

the ball at the creek three years ago come nixt September an’ jist two

months lackin’ six weeks after O’Flaherty’s sisther dhrove the cow off

the wagon bridge?”

Still the specter maintained its silence and its position.

“Ye’ve a mighty familiar countenince, onyhow,” continued the mortal,

who kept up his cautious maneuvering for the weather gauge, in which he

was steadily baffled by the ghost. “It seems to me I’ve seen the face

av yez somewhare on a tombstone. Yer not livin’ fur around here, mebbe?”

In hollow tones the ghost replied, “I am dead.”

“Did, is it? Oh, the saints rist yer ristless sowl. An’ phwat are ye

doin’ out here? Whaire do ye live--I mane, whaire are ye buried?”

“At the top of this hill,” came in the same hollow tones.

“An’ a mighty agreeable place that same is, to be sure,” replied the

mortal, in a conciliatory intonation, “shlapin’ undher the grass, wid

the cows and pigs browsin’ and rootin’ around all day long an’ kapen’

ye company nights. Born divil that ye air,” he added, in a lower tone,

“I wisht wan or the other of us wur thayre now, fur it’s a onpleasant

company ye air, anyhow. Well,” he added, aloud and with great

cheerfulness, “good night till ye. Be good to yerself.”

“Stay,” uttered the terrible monotone; “come thou with me.”

“Oh-h, the dev--I beg yer par-r-don. I mane I can’t think of it. Luk at

the time it is, an’ see the murdherin’ cowld I have in me head already,

along ov being out till midnight. The wife and childher’ll be did

intirely wid sittin’ up fur me, an’----”

“Follow me!” said the hollow tones of the ghost.

“Oh-h, tundher an’ turf--I mane--I beg yer par-r-don, don’t shpake

of it; it’s a married man I am. I can’t sthay; besides, there’s no

use--ivery place in town is shut up, and sorra the wan ov me dhrinks av

they wasn’t. I wouldn’t taste a dhrop av I lived in lashins ov it; I’m

a whole Father Mathew society by myself.”

“Come! Come!! Come!!!” The sepulchral tones boomed out like a bass drum

solo.

“Aw-w-w! Millia murther! Go aisy now! Phwat du ye mane, divilin’ the

tin sinses out of me to come, whin ye see I want to go? By the mortial

gob,” he added, under his breath, “av I thought I cud find anything

in yer head to feel it, avick, I’d make ye raisonable wid a welt

ov this splinther av a sthick. Whist! ye bloody-minded villin!” he

roared, with suddenly increasing courage, as some wakeful Brahma in a

neighboring coop startled the night with a stentorian crow, which was

shrilly echoed by a bantam and a dozen or more obscure roosters of no

particular strain, like the birds that crow at election times, “Do ye

hear that? An’ that? An’ that agin? An’ the wan afther that? Scat! ye

bloody-minded Banshee, or we’ll crow the rags aff o’ yer beggarly back!”

The ghost gave a hollow laugh, that sounded like water pouring out of a

jug.

“You may crow,” he said, more in his easy conversational style and

tone than he had been using, “till you split your throats; this is an

anniversary night with me, and I won’t go home till morning.”

His uneasy companion’s face fell at this announcement, and he looked

like a man who felt that he had prematurely committed himself. But he

rallied again.

“A anniver-sary, is it? Do ye have it often?”

“About once a year.”

“Is that all? An’ just think ov yer makin’ so much fuss about that!

Kape on yer hat, or what iver ye call it, or ye’ll have a cowld in the

head. Good avenin’, agin.”

The ghost mildly protested against his haste. It was Christmas Eve, he

said, a season devoted to sociability and good fellowship----

“An’ a foine idee ye have of bein’ sociable, too,” interrupted his

auditor; “Christmas is a nice enough saison, but a frayzin’ hillside

at midnight, wid the wind blowin’ a jimmycane an’ the thermomether

twinty-sivin degrays ferninst Cairo, isn’t the way I’m thinking to be

sociable about it, jist.”

“I am delighted to have met you under such----”

“Faix, thin, thayre’s only wan of us that’s feeling so delighted about

it.”

“----Favorable and pleasant circumstances. I should never have forgiven

myself had I permitted you to pass by without speaking. I must

insist----”

“Begorra, thin, it’s too har-r-d ye wad be on yersilf intirely. It’s

me that wad give mesilf absolution fur a week av I had gone around the

other way an’ never heard ov ye in me life.”

“----On your further acquaintance.”

“Thrue for you, avick, an’ the furdther it is the betther it wud shuit

me. An’ the quicker we star-r-t, don’t ye see, the furdther we can make

it before mornin’. I know I’ll think betther ov ye whin I can’t see ye.

_Good_ avenin’.”

“Stay,” said the specter, detaining him as he sought to hurry by, “I

have that to tell you, and that to show you, to-night, which will make

you a rich man, and send me back to my narrow resting place----”

“Oh-h-h! hear ’im talk about it!”

“----Never to leave it again until the last dread trump shall summon

me.”

“Don’t mintion it, don’t; don’t shpake ov it at all, at all.”

“My tale is brief and sad.”

“An’ have ye a tail, thin?”

“Listen!”

“Shpake!”

“In early life----”

“Phwat’s that?”

“----I plowed the raging main.”

“An’ was ye a Granger, thin?”

“Nay, I was a pirate!”

“Same thing; kape on; it’s frazin’ I am.”

“I steeped my wicked hands in human gore for many years. When my

atrocious crimes had amassed me a princely fortune, I repented me of my

evil ways.”

“Musha, thin, it war you for knowin’ whin to repint.”

“I bade adieu to my evil companions, and taking my share----”

“Ah, did ye, though? An’ it was a cautious ould reformer ye was, all

the same.”

“----of our ill-gotten spoils, I fled west--far to the inland--pursued

by the stings of an avenging conscience and a sheriff’s posse.”

“It was thim as stirred up yer conshince.”

“I reached this city in safety and hid my gold, stained with human

lives, in yonder deep ravine. Oft as I needed money, I came here by

night and got what I wished.”

“Can ye get any ov it now, do ye think?”

“One winter night--a cold, bleak Christmas Eve--returning from such a

visit to my hoard, I was waylaid by two men, who suspected my secret,

on this very spot----”

“GOOD avenin’!”

“Stay yet one moment. They seized me, hurled me to the ground----”

“Here?”

“On this very spot where now we stand. They----”

“Let’s walk furdther down the hill.”

“Listen. They hurled me to the ground, and, as I struggled for my gold,

they--slew me!”

“Phwat!”

“They cut my throat from ear to ear!”

“M-i-l-l-i-a m-u-r-d-t-h-e-r! An’ did it hurt?”

“It haggled some, but----”

“An’ did yez niver git over it?”

“I died!”

“Oh-h-h-h! Bones of the martyrs! GOOD avenin’!”

“Stop a moment. I----”

“Ah yes, shtop a minit. It’s yerself is the pleasant man to be

shtoppin’ wid, on a hillside at midnight. Go on, thin, for it’s

starvin’ wid the cold I am.”

“I died where I fell; and a coroner’s jury, after due deliberation,

returned a verdict, on my lifeless remains, that ‘the alleged deceased

came to his probable death in a fit of temporary inanition, induced

by the administering of narcotic drug or drugs, by some visitation of

Providence to the jury unknown.’”

“Wur that all, alanna? I thought ye said they cut the throat ov ye.”

“They did. But the intelligent citizens who composed the coroner’s jury

could not see that that had anything to do with it. Since that time,

once a year, on every anniversary of my untimely death, I am forced to

leave my grave----”

“Oh, mortial man! don’t shpake ov it at all, an’ us out here in the

dark an’ could, and niver a dhrop ov anything to rise the cockles ov

me heart wid nearer than town. But kape on.”

“----and haunt this hill. My spirit can not rest in peace until the

money which I left concealed from human gaze shall be given into hands

fit to be entrusted with wealth.”

“An’ is that all, acushla? Go back to yer den, and dhraw yer stool in

to the fire, an’ be comfortable. Show me whare to dig jist, and sorrow

light upon me av ye’ll ever have any more nade to wake up an’ worry

about another cint as long as ye live--I mane, as long as ye don’t

live. Whare’s yer bank? Divil be in me but thare’ll be such a run on it

in about ten minits they’ll think thare’s an ould-fashioned American

panic broke loose in ghostland, for a truth. Can’t shlape because ye

can’t give yer money away! Musha, thin, it’s meself can’t shlape often

enough because I haven’t ony to give away, or to kape, ayther. Show me

yer threasury, avick; I’m yer oysther.”

“Years ago I might have given it away, had men but known my secret. But

the spell laid upon me----”

“A spell ov what?”

“----forbade me to reveal my hidden wealth until I should meet a man

going home sober, on Christmas Eve, who would not be afraid of me. The

condition was a hard one, for although in my annual hauntings I have

met many men plodding up this hill too drunk to be frightened, you are

the first sober man I have met on Christmas Eve since the city was an

Indian trading post.”

“Ah well then, it’s small blame to them, for it’s gettin’ ready to

shwear off New Year’s day they are, the whole jing-bang ov thim. Troth,

they do that every year.”

“You did not manifest any fear at my sudden appearance. You were not,

apparently, afraid of me; you----”

“Afraid, is it?”

“I merely remarked that you were not afraid of me.”

“Is it me?”

“I said, my quick-tempered friend, that----”

“Is it you?”

“Calm yourself, my bellicose mortal, I simply----”

“Listen to ’im! Hear ’im talk about ony body bein ashkared ov an ould

bag o’ bones sthandin’ in the dark makin’ faces! Why, ye consaited old

skeleton, is it comin’ to Ameriky to be shkared wid you I’d be, whin we

had a ghosht ov our own in the Ould Sod for more nor twinty years? A

ghosht that wur worth bein’ shkared ov, too.”

“You surprise me,” said the ghost. “Are you quite certain that your

own family was favored with the permanent society of a ghost? You will

pardon me for intimating that your appearance and dress do not indicate

a station in life that calls for such a condition of things. For I am

decidedly under the impression that we are permitted to haunt only

aristocratic families, who inhabit large rambling houses, with long

gloomy corridors and magnificent bay windows and lofty mansard roofs

and heavy mortgages; full of dark corners and convenient hiding places

for ghosts, and frequently so uncomfortable and dreary, especially on

the occasion of a poor relation’s visit, that no one but a ghost can

enjoy living in them. I once knew a most respectable ghost, a specter

of a most extraordinarily rugged constitution, who haunted one of these

houses, and went to sleep in the spare room one night and was so laid

up with the rheumatism that he was unable to get out of his grave----”

“The saints betune us! Don’t mintion it!”

“----for nearly six weeks. I took his place at the mansion during his

indisposition. A dreary, frosty place enough, fitted up elegantly with

a thousand-dollar piano, a costly mechanic’s lien, Brussels carpets,

a chattel mortgage or two, French plate windows, a tax title, and a

few similar expensive luxuries. I did not wish to be laid up with the

rheumatism, so I took preventives instead of cures. From being frosty

and chilly, I made that house the warmest place this side of----”

“Don’t say it, alanna! Skip that!”

“----the equator,” pursued the ghost, quietly. “It soon became the most

hospitable mansion on the street. It was full of company all the time,

and poor relations came and got square meals and slept in the best beds

and were made welcome. You can not imagine how I softened that old

fellow’s proud heart. And you must excuse me if I say that you do not

appear to belong to that favored class which is honored with hereditary

ghosts. A ghost, my unsophisticated friend, is an expensive luxury.”

“Thrue for you, it is, thin. The wan we had was the most expinsive

thing we wur ever throubled wid. He kim till the house in me father’s

time an’ I dunno how long befoar.”

“Did he look like me?”

“Sorra the wan ov him. He’d ate a rigimint ov yez in a minit.

Shouldhers like a sailor an’ a head set on ’im like a bull dog’s. He

wur a ghosht now that cud talk to ye about bein’ ashkared ov him.”

“Does he ever annoy--that is, entertain you now?”

“Faix, thin he doesn’t. It isn’t here he cud live at all, at all. It

wur in the ould counthry he did be vexin’ us an’ teasin’ the life out

ov us from mornin’ till night.”

“Why, did he appear in the daytime, then?”

“It wur grace fur his bones that he did. Be the holy poker, alanna, it

wur waitin’ fur him in the dark twinty times a month we was. Catch an

Irish ghosht comin’ in the dark. He knowed whin to come.”

“Did you ever try to lay the ghost?”

“Wanst. The byes laid him wid a blackthorn stick, an’ sorra the wan of

him throubled us agin fur six weeks afther.”

“I don’t understand. Why did he haunt you? What was----”

“Why did he? For the rint, av coorse. It was the thavin’ ould landlord,

bloody end to him. Talk about ghosts! The ould _boddagh Sassenagh_

gev us more throuble in wan day than the whole jing-bang ov such

thin-legged spooks as yerself cud make us in a week. Thare was wan

time the ould swaddler kim down to Muldoonery’s shebeen--ye knew the

Muldoonery’s?”

“The name is familiar, but I can not say that I ever had the honor of

the family’s acquaintance.”

“The betther for you thin, for ye died wid a whole head----”

“But my neck was spoiled.”

“Oh-h, by this an’ by that, listen to him! Don’t sphake ov it. The

Muldoonerys was me father’s own family. Ould Malachi Muldoonery, wan

of the Killatalicks, thim as was own cousins to the O’Slaughtery’s of

Killgobbin--ah, thim was the high-toned wans fur ye; when it come to

ould families, they lifted the pins, jist. They had a ghosht ov thare

own, a rale wan, sphooky enough to frighten a horse from his oats, that

wore a long night-shirt like yer own, an’ carried his head undher his

arm. Oh, Gog’s blakey, but he wur the boss ghosht. He wur beheaded fur

headin’ a rebellyun three hundhred years ago. Ah, tare-an-ouns, the

tussle me own uncle, who was an O’Slaughtery, had wid this same ghosht

wanst. We heard the sphook thramplin’ up an’ down the hall, fur he

always wore a shurt of armor undher his white dhress, an’ me uncle got

up an’ wint out, an’ peerin’ down the dark hall, sees him.

“‘Arrah!’ sez me uncle.

“‘Sorra the word’ sez the ghosht.

“‘Are ye thaire?’ sez me uncle.

“The ghosht stopped walkin’ and screwed on his head like the head ov a

cane.

“‘An’ phwat av I am?’ sez he.

“‘Come out o’ that, thin, ye bladdherhang,’ sez me uncle.

“‘I won’t, thin,’ sez the ghosht.

“‘Ye’d betther,’ sez me uncle.

“‘I hadn’t thin,’ sez the ghosht.

“‘Do ye know what this is, ye omadhawn?’ sez me uncle, balancin’ his

blackthorn.

“‘None o’ yer chaff,’ sez the ghosht.

“‘I wont lave a whole bone in yer carkidge,’ says he.

“‘I hwat!’ sez the ghosht.

“‘I wont!’ sez he.

“‘Yer a liar!’ sez he.

“‘Is it me?’ sez he.

“‘Show me yer head!’ sez he.

“‘Whoop!’ sez he.

“‘Hurroo!’ sez he.

“Whack! wint the blackthorn, and wid that the whole house was roused

wid a bellerin’ an’ roarin’ that wud shame the bulls ov Bashan. It was

me uncle, an’ they found him out dures tied to the gate-posht wid a

bed-cord half a mile long and knotted up that way that it tuk thim till

after daylight to ontie him, for sorra the knot cud they cut. Oh, heavy

heart go wid the ghosht that tied him out in the cowld that a-way. An’

afther they got him untied he died.”

“Immediately?” asked the specter.

“Och, the divil, no; about twenty-sivin years afther. But this isn’t

tellin’ me about that famous bank ov yours?”

“True,” said the specter “we are losing time. To you, who have kept

sober Christmas Eve, and have scorned to desecrate and profane the

sacred memories of the season----”

“Tower ov ivory!” whispered the exile of Killatalick, “av that isn’t

purty good for an ould cut-throat ov a pirate!”

“----and have shown the integrity of your moral being----”

“An phwat’s thim, I wondher?”

“----in that you feel no fear of visitants from the spirit world, to

you I commit gold won by dishonest means, but which at last reaches

honest hands that will devote it to worthy purposes. Come with me, and

do as I tell you.”

Crossing himself with an energy and rapidity that indicated a slight

lack of confidence in the moral standing of his guide, the descendant

of the Muldoonerys of Killgobbin followed his ghostly leader down the

hillside into the hollow and along the course of the bewildered and

frozen brook, until they paused before an irregular wall of rock, long

ago cut down by the action of the water. As they stood before this rude

wall, the specter turned to his companion.

“If,” he said solemnly, “you do not feel as though you could maintain

the strictest silence, and not utter a word or an exclamation, no

matter what wonders you may see, do not follow me farther. The charm

which opens the care of my hidden wealth to your eyes, closes it in

destruction on any violation of the spell under which I am held. Are

you ready? On your life now, do not utter a sound.”

The ghost touched the rock with his bony hand. It yawned like a door,

and in the cavern behind the gloomy entrance they crept, crouching,

along a narrow passage until the roof arched and they stood erect. An

open chest lay at their feet; glittering jewels sparkled like stars in

the gloom; precious stones in the mysterious coffer gleamed till their

rays pierced the shadowy pall of the cavern with a pale, tremulous

light. At a silent motion from the specter, the mortal, trembling with

excitement and eagerness, bent down and seized the chest. Once, twice,

thrice, he strained every muscle, and tugged until it seemed as though

his eyes were bursting from their sockets, but the glittering fortune

seemed immovable. He set every nerve for one tremendous effort; he

braced his feet firmly and once more grasped the handles of the coffer.

It moves! The ransom of an empire is his!

“’S’matter ’ith you fellers? Hic! Watchu doin’? Hey?”

The blinding light, and the deafening crash that followed lasted

scarce the duration of the lightning’s flash, and all was darkness

and silence. When the gray light of morning quenched the beams of the

paling stars, the exile woke to consciousness to find himself lying

outside the spell-bound cavern, with the unbroken rock looming cold and

pitiless beside him, and his dream of wealth was gone. A faint odor of

stale whisky kissed the wintry zephyrs, and a shattered bottle in the

near distance lay like a mournful memory of his happy dreams. When the

unhappy man’s friends discovered him, they took in all the conditions

of the cheerless bivouac, and when in the cozy surroundings of his

home he told his marvelous narrative, they were skeptical enough to

declare that they believed all the story about the ghost and the cavern

and the money chest was only the inspiration of that bottle before it

was broken, and that the exile of Killgobbin saw the light and heard

the crash when he staggered over the edge of the wall and broke his

head. But he still believes that if the young fellow who went into camp

on the hillside at the opening of this story had not finished his sleep

and broke in upon them in such an untimely manner, he would never again

have done a harder day’s work than cutting off coupons from government

bonds.

The rest of us know that this is true. And if any young man doubts the

truth of this veracious chronicle, he can easily verify its statements

by keeping sober next Christmas Eve, and patrolling the quiet streets

until he meets the ghost. And if he doesn’t see the specter, he will at

least enjoy the singular sensation of going home sober Christmas Eve, a

thing of much greater rarity and wonder to most of “the boys” than an

interview with a Moneyed Ghost.

MIDDLERIB’S PICNIC.

“It isn’t age that makes people grow old,” Mr. Middlerib remarked

to his family as they were gathered at the breakfast table. “It is

incessant application; it is unending, incessant work and worry. The

mind, the body, all the faculties, mental and physical, are kept on

the alert without rest or recreation, until outraged nature rises in

rebellion against the slavery to which it is subjected, and deluded

man, with all the aches and tremor of senility in his young joints,

awakes to find that he has lived his three score years and ten in half

his allotted number of days.” And with this sage remark Mr. Middlerib

leaned back in his chair and regarded his family with the air of a man

who has just imparted a volume of information that would stagger the

average comprehension.

“That’s what ailed these spring chickens, I reckon,” suggested Master

Middlerib, struggling with a wing that was supplied with the latest

improved fish-plate joints; “wore themselves out trying to lay ten

years’ eggs in five.”

[Illustration: MIDDLERIB’S PICNIC.]

Mr. Middlerib gazed at the boy in a meaning manner, and the young

gentleman immediately elevated one of his elbows until it was as

high as his head, and held his guard up while he warily regarded his

parent’s disengaged hand. But the usual consequences did not follow,

and Mr. Middlerib proceeded to announce that he would shake off the

sordid cares of business, and free himself from the shackles of

commercial servitude, and enjoy a picnic with his family and a few

chosen friends. And immediately upon this, the family loosed their

tongues and talked all together, and as loud and fast as possible for

twenty-five minutes. Then, Mr. Middlerib, smiling benignly upon the

scene of pleasure which his announcement had created, went off to his

office. When he returned, Miss Middlerib had a list made out of the

people they would invite. It embraced one hundred and fifteen names,

not including alternates, and Mr. Middlerib’s jaw fell as he gazed at

the catalogue.

“Daughter, dear,” he remarked, as soon as he could command his

feelings, “do you take me for Calvary Mission Sunday-school, that you

have included the census of this city in our picnic?”

Then explanations were demanded, and it appeared that Mr. Middlerib’s

idea had been to take a couple of big wagons, furnished with temporary

seats, and have a decidedly rustic, old-fashioned picnic, of an

exclusively family nature. And Miss Middlerib sat down and blotted

out an even hundred names with tears, after which Mr. Middlerib gazed

upon the revised and corrected list, expunged edition, and pronounced

it good. Then they fixed upon the day, which was settled after much

wrangling and profound discussion. Mr. M. went out and looked at the

sky, and noted the direction of the wind, and watched the movements

of the chimney swallows with a critical and scientific eye, and came

in and announced that it would not rain for five days, and they would

have the picnic just two days before the rain. And from the hour of

that announcement the Middlerib family and their invited relations did

nothing but bake, and roast, and stew, and iron clothes, and declare

they were tired to death and would be glad when it was all over and

done with. It is a somewhat remarkable fact that all people who make

up their minds to go to a picnic, always do say that they will be glad

when it is over, and act as though they were going merely as an act of

self-denial and a mortification of the flesh.

But when the day finally rolled around, as days will roll, the

excitement was at its height. The sun struggled to his place at the

usual hour, as soon as he was called, and his broad, red face had a

terribly wild and dissipated look as he glared through the bank of

clouds that curtained his getting up place, as though he had been

tearing around all night, and had never had his boots off, and had

only got up to collar the water pitcher. No wonder the whole party

lost confidence in such a sun the moment they looked at him. He looked

too much like a prodigal sun, just before he got starved into reform,

rather than a smiling, cheery picnic sun. And the Middleribs took turns

going out singly and in small groups to look at him, and revile his

unpromising appearance, and after each observation they would return

to the house and ask each other in tones somewhat tinged with a tender

melancholy, “Well, what do you think of it?” And the questioned one

would stifle a sigh and reply “I don’t know, do you?”

There is no scene in all this wide world of pathos more pathetic than

a group of anxious mortals, on the morn of a picnic, trying to delude

each other into the belief that when the sky is covered with heavy

black clouds, 800 feet thick, and a damp scud is driving through the

air, and the sun is only half visible occasionally through a thin cloud

that is waiting to be patched up to the standard thickness and density,

it is going to be a very fine day indeed. So the Middleribs looked at

the coppery old sun, and the dismal clouds, and tried to look cheerful,

and said encouragingly that “Oh, it never rained when the clouds came

up that way;” and, “See, it is all clear over in the east;” and, “It

often rains very heavily in town when there doesn’t a drop of water

fall at Prospect Hill.” And thus, with many encouraging remarks of

similar import, they awaited the gathering of the party, and the human

beings finally climbed into one wagon, put the baskets and the boys in

the other, and drove away, giggling and howling with well dissembled

glee.

The happy party, although they well knew that it would not rain, had

taken the precaution nevertheless to take a large assortment of shawls

and umbrellas. They were a quarter of a mile from town when it began

to thunder some, but as it didn’t thunder in the direction of Prospect

Hill, distant some three miles, they went on, confident that it wasn’t

raining, and wouldn’t, and couldn’t rain at Prospect Hill. They were

half a mile from town when the cloud that all the rest of the clouds

had been waiting for came up and remorselessly sat down on the last,

solitary lingering patch of blue that broke the monotony of the leaden

sky, but the party pressed on, confident that they would find blue

sky when they got to Prospect Hill. They were a mile from town when

old Aquarius pulled the bottom out of the rain wagon and began the

entertainment. It was a grand success. The curtain hadn’t been up ten

minutes before all the standing room in the house was taken up and

the box office was closed. The Middlerib party having gone early,

and secured front seats, were able to see everything. They expressed

their pleasure by loud shrieks, and howls, and wails. They tore

umbrellas, that had been furtively placed in the wagon, out of their

lurking places, and shot them up with such abruptness that the hats

in the wagon were knocked out into the road. Then the wagon stopped

and people crawled out and waded around after hats, and came piling

back into the wagon, with their feet loaded with mud. The umbrellas

got into each other’s way, and from the points of the ribs streams of

dirty water trickled down shuddering backs, and stained immaculate

dresses, and took the independence out of glossy shirt fronts. And the

picnic party turned homeward, but still the Middleribs did not lose

heart. They smiled through their tears, and Miss Middlerib, beautiful

in her grief, still advocated going on and having the picnic in a barn,

and wept when they refused her. It rained harder every rod of the way

back. Then when they got everybody and every thing into the house, the

heart-rending discovery was made that the boys had taken the rubber

blanket which was to have covered the baskets in case of rain, and

spread it over themselves when the moisture gathered, and consequently

the edibles were in a state of dampness.

Then the clouds broke, and the sun came out, and smiling nature stood

around looking as pleasant as though it had never played a mean trick

on a happy picnic party in its life; and the Middleribs hung themselves

out in the sun to dry, and tried to play croquet in the wet grass, and

kept up their spirits as well as they knew how, and were not cross if

they did get wet. If smiling nature had only given them a show, or even

half a chance, they would have got along all right. They were bound to

have the picnic party anyhow, so they kept all the relations at the

house, and when dinner time came, the grass was dry and they set the

table out under the trees and made it look as picnicky as possible.

It clouded up a little when they were setting the table, but nobody

thought it looked very threatening. The soaked things had been dried

as carefully as possible, and the table looked beautiful when they

gathered around it. And just about the time they got their plates

filled and declared that they were glad they came back, and that this

was ever so much better than Prospect Hill, a forty acre cloud came and

stood right over the table, and then and there went all to pieces.

That was what spoiled the picnic.

The pleasure-seekers grabbed whatever they could reach and broke for

the house, uttering wild shrieks of dismay. They crowded into the hall,

which wasn’t half big enough, and there they stood on each other’s

trains, and trod on each other’s corns, and poured coffee down each

other’s backs, and jabbed forks into one another’s arms. When one

frantic looking woman would rush in and set a plate of cake down on

the floor while she dived out into the rain with a woman’s anxiety to

recover some more provisions from the dripping wreck, a forlorn looking

man would immediately step on that plate of cake, and stand there

gazing wonderingly and apprehensively at the shrieking crowd around

him, pointing their forks and fingers at him and at his feet, and

yelling, in a deafening chorus, something as utterly unintelligible as

“shouting proverbs.” And when the man, in a vain effort to do something

in compliance with the shrieking which was evidently intended for him,

stepped off the cake and stood in a huge dish of baked beans for a

change, the wail of consternation that went up from the congregation

fairly rent the bending skies. And when Uncle Steve, who had found Aunt

Carrie’s baby out under the deserted table, maintaining an unequal

struggle with half of a huckleberry pie and a whole thunder-storm, came

tearing in with the hapless infant, and, dashing through the crowd,

deposited it on top of a pile of hard-boiled eggs, Miss Middlerib

fainted, and the youngest gentleman cousin was driven into a spasm of

jealousy because he couldn’t walk over a row of cold meats and lobster

salad to get to her, and had to endure the misery of seeing the oldest

and ugliest bachelor uncle carry her drooping form to a sofa, and lay

her down tenderly, with her classic head in a nest of cream tarts and

her dainty feet on Sadie’s Jenny Lind cake. And when Mrs. Middlerib

looked out of the window, and saw the dog Heedle with his fore paws in

the lemonade bucket, growling at Cousin John, who was trying to drive

him out of it, she expressed a willingness to die right there. And when

they were startled by some unearthly sounds and muffled shrieks, that

even rose above the human babel in the hall, and found that the cat had

got its poor head jammed tighter than wax in the mouth of the jar that

contained the cream, everybody just sat on the plate of things nearest

him, and gasped, “What next?” while Cousin David lifted cat and jar

by the tail of the former, and carried them out to be broken apart.

And when old Mr. Rubelkins lost his teeth in the coffee pot, half the

people in the hall began to lose heart, and one discouraged young

cousin said he half wished that they had put the picnic off a day. And

finally, when the uproar was at its height, the door-bell rang, and the

aunt nearest the door opened it, and there stood the Hon. Mrs. J. C. P.

R. Le Von Blatheringford and her daughter, the richest and most stylish

people in the neighborhood, arrayed like fashion-plates, making their

first formal call. While they stood gazing in mute bewilderment at the

scene of ruin and devastation and chaos before them, Mrs. Middlerib

just got behind the door and pounded her head against the wall; while

Miss Middlerib, springing from her sofa, ran to her room, leaving a

trail of Jenny Lind cake and cream tarts behind her, as the fragments

dropped from her back hair and heels. And the rest of the company,

staring at the guests with their mouths full of assorted provisions,

and their hearts full of bitter disappointment, mumbled, in hospitable

chorus, “Wup pin,” which, had their mouths been empty, would have been

rendered, “Walk in.”

This blow settled the picnic. Gloom hung over the house the rest of the

day. Mr. Middlerib decided, after the company had departed, that the

easiest and cheapest way to clean the hall would be to turn the river

through it. And that night, when they were assembled at a comfortless

tea-table--Master Middlerib having been sent to bed so sick that they

didn’t think his toe-nails would be able to hold down till morning--Mr.

Middlerib said:

“It isn’t the steady, honest, ambitious devotion to business that

makes men old. Labor is a law of our nature. We are happiest and most

content when we are busiest. It is the healthful labor of the day

that brings the sweet, refreshing repose of the night. Pleasure flies

us when we seek her; she comes to us when we least regard her calls.

Remember what I have always said, and find your pleasure in your daily

work--in the regular routine of daily life, and its duties and useful

avocations--and age will only come upon you slowly, and youth will

linger in your hearts and on your faces long years after the allotted

days of youth are past. The next time you want to have a picnic,

remember how often I have warned you against them.”

MASTER BILDERBACK’S POULTRY YARD.

If there was anything she abominated more than one thing, Mrs.

Bilderback used to say with some warmth, it was another, and that was

chickens. And she resolutely protested against keeping any of them

about the place. She wanted to keep a few flowers this year, and she

wasn’t going to be mortified again as she was last Summer, by having

every woman who called at that house smile at the forest of bare

stalks and scraggy branches that stood for the collection of house

plants that she and her daughter tried to raise for ornaments to the

place, but which were really of no use except to fill the crops of

a lot of long-legged, hungry chickens. And for a long time the good

lady held out stoutly against the chicken proposition, but was at

last over-argued and over-persuaded and gave her unwilling consent

for Master Bilderback to keep three dozen chickens, the party of the

second part binding himself to keep the table supplied with fresh eggs

and spring chickens, and to keep all hens, roosters, and all young

chickens of unknown sex, but of sufficient physical development to

scratch, out of the front yard and away from the flower beds. This

contract Master Bilderback placed himself under heavy bonds to carry

out, by saying, “honest injun,” “’pon nonnor,” and “’cross my heart,”

and having solemnly repeated this awful and impressive formula, he

went sedately out of the room and immediately threw himself down on

a verbena bed, where he pounded the ground with his heels in the

ecstasy of his joy. In due time the new hen-house was completed, and

Mr. Bilderback, breathing maledictions on the wretches who pulled the

pickets off his front fence for kindling wood, had that important

boundary repaired before he noticed that the apertures in the fence

corresponded to certain neat looking improvements on the hennery. The

house was stocked rather slowly, for it was part of the contract which

Mrs. Bilderback had drawn that the party of the second part should

purchase his own stock. It was noticeable that Master Bilderback’s

taste ran greatly toward gamey looking roosters, and as the perches in

the hennery became more and more populated, the outlook for fresh eggs

and spring chickens became very discouraging indeed. The first fowl the

poulterer brought home was a gaunt Hamburg with one eye and a game leg,

but beautifully spangled, which interesting bird, Master Bilderback

informed his sister, was the worst pill in the box and had lost his eye

while fighting a cow. The next day he traded a pocketful of marbles for

a little bantam that crowed twenty-four hours a day, could slip through

a season crack in a warped board, and could dig a hole in the middle

of a flower bed that you could bury a calf in. There wasn’t a moment’s

silence about the house after the bantam’s arrival, for when he was not

fighting the Hamburg, which was only when that valiant but prudent bird

got up on top of the house and hid behind a chimney, he was wandering

through the house trying his voice in the different rooms, or standing

on the front porch issuing proclamations of defiance to all roosters

to whom these presents might come, greeting. A day or two after the

bantam’s arrival Master Bilderback traded his knife for a Black

Spanish rooster with a broken wing. The Spaniard when put in the coop

proceeded at once to clean out the disheartened Hamburg, who fought on

the tactics which had so often proved of so great value to him, and

amazed his furious antagonist by the briskness with which he got out

of the coop, up on to the barn, and perched himself on the restless

and uncertain weather-cock. The Spaniard and the bantam then had it

until neither of them could stand, when the pacific Hamburg improved

the opportunity to come down and partake of the first square meal he

had eaten since the new boarders had come to the house. Two days later,

Master Bilderback brought home a vile looking white rooster with no

tail feathers, his comb shaved off close to the head, and spurs as long

as your thumb, a vile plebeian of a rooster without a line of pedigree,

of no particular strain, except a strain that made his very eyes turn

red when he growled, which he had bought for an old base ball club. But

the nameless stranger amazed the proprietor of the hennery by waltzing

into the establishment with a terrific rooster oath, and following it

up by kicking the bantam clear out of his mind, jerking the wattles

off the Spaniard, and chasing the persecuted Hamburg half-way up the

side of the house. This was the last addition made to the happy family

for some time, Mr. Bilderback declaring that he was not going to have

his premises turned into a cock-pit, and Master Bilderback was sternly

forbidden to arrange any more meetings in the alley, with other boys

and their birds. But a few days afterward, when Master Bilderback came

home from school, it was evident that he had made a trade. He had

some other boy’s shabby old hat on his head, and there wasn’t a lead

pencil, piece of string, pistol cartridge, top, fish-hook, chalk line,

marble, dime novel, or street car ticket in his pockets, and he had a

new rooster, the crowning glory of the vast collection of fowls that

were to furnish forth his mother’s table with fresh eggs and spring

chickens. It was a Shanghai; young one, Master Bilderback said, as he

prepared to untie its legs and wings and introduce it to its new home;

hadn’t got his growth yet, but he was “a buster.” And Mrs. Bilderback

thought he was. When he was untied he stood up and flapped one of his

wings in his proprietor’s face, until that young gentleman was ready

to “cross his heart,” that somebody had hit him with a clapboard. And

before he had recovered from the effects of this blow the noble bird

kicked him under the chin and darted off toward the front yard, with

prodigious strides. He uttered a most awful croak as he neared Mrs.

Bilderback, who was trying to get out of his way, and in a vain attempt

to fly over her, he struck her on the head, just abaft her ear with his

heel, gently dropping her; “grassed the old lady,” Master Bilderback

afterward explained to his sister, “like a shot.” The wretched bird

paused as he passed the sitting-room window, which was just about

on a level with his head when he stooped, to look in and make some

unintelligible remark in a guttural tone of language, and snatching

up a new tidy that Miss Bilderback was at work upon, swallowed it and

passed on. Wherever he trod, he smashed a house plant, and whenever

he croaked, he threw somebody into a fit. He met Mr. Bilderback as he

suddenly turned the corner of the house, ran against the old gentleman

with a wild kind of a crow that sounded like a steamboat whistle with

a bad cold, and as he trampled over that good man’s prostrate form, he

plucked off his necktie and swallowed it. Then the “buster” wheeled

around and straddled into the sitting-room window, and before they

could head him out of the house he swallowed two spools of cotton, a

tack hammer, a set of false teeth belonging to Mrs. Bilderback, a cake

of toilet soap, a shoe buttoner, a ball of yarn, an arctic over-shoe,

and finally choked on a photograph album which flew open when it was

about half-way down. The bird when last heard from was still at large

roaming around South Hill, but Master Bilderback’s hennery is empty

and lonesome, because his parents are, from some unaccountable reason,

bitterly prejudiced against keeping chickens.

A SUNDAY IDYL.

You see, the tenor had got kind of abstracted, or restless, or

something during the long prayer, and was thinking about the European

war, or the wheat corner last week, or something, and so when the

minister gave out hymn 231, on page 67, and the chorister whispered

them to sing the music on page 117, it all came in on the tenor like

a volley, and as he had only the playing of the symphony in which to

make the necessary combination of time, hymn and page, he came to the

front just a little bit disorganized, and his fingers sticking between

every leaf in the book. And the choir hadn’t faced the footlights half

a minute before the congregation more than half suspected something was

wrong. For you see, the soprano, in attempting to answer the frenzied

whisper of the tenor in regard to the page, lost the first two or three

words of the opening line herself, and that left the alto to start

off alone, for the basso was so profoundly engaged in watching the

tenor and wondering what ailed him, that he forgot to sing. The music

wasn’t written for an alto solo, and consequently there wasn’t very

much variety to that part, and after singing nearly through the first

line alone, and receiving neither applause nor bouquets for one of

the finest contralto efforts a Burlington or any other audience ever

listened to, the alto stopped and looked reproachfully at the soprano,

who had just plunged the tenor’s soul into a gulf of dark despair by

leaving him to find his way out of the labyrinth of tunes and pages

and hymns into which his own heedlessness had led him, by giving him

a frantic shake of her head, which unsettled the new spring bonnet

(just the sweetest duck of a Normandy), to that extent that every

woman in the congregation noticed it. All this time the organist was

doing nobly, and the alto, recovering her spirits, sang another bar,

which, for sweetness and tenacious adherence to the same note, all the

way through, couldn’t be beat in America. By this time the bass had

risen to the emergency and sang two deep guttural notes, with profound

expression, but as those of the congregation sitting nearest the choir

could distinctly hear him sing “Ho, ho!” to the proper music, it was

painfully evident that the basso had the correct tune, but was running

wild on the words. At this point the soprano got her time and started

off with a couple of confident notes, high and clear as a bird song,

and the congregation, inspired with an over-ready confidence, broke

out on the last word of the verse with a discordant roar that rattled

the globes on the big chandelier, and as the verse closed with this

triumphant outbreak, an expression of calm, restful satisfaction was

observed to steal over the top of the pastor’s head, which was all that

could be seen of him, as he bowed himself behind the pulpit.

The organist played an intricate and beautiful interlude without a

tremor or a false note; not an uncertain touch to indicate that there

was a particle of excitement in the choir, or that anything had gone

wrong.

The choir didn’t exactly appear to catch the organist’s reassuring

steadiness, for the basso led off the second verse by himself, and his

deep-toned “Ho, ho!” was so perceptible throughout the sanctuary that

several people started, and looked down under the seats for a man, and

one irreverent sinner, near the door, thrust a felt hat into his mouth

and slid out. The soprano got orders and started out only three or four

words behind time, but she hadn’t reached the first siding before she

collided with a woman in the audience, running wild and trying to carry

a new tune to the old words. And then, to make it worse, the soprano

handed her book to the tenor, and pointed him to the tune on page 117

and the words on page 67, and if that unhappy man didn’t get his orders

mixed, and struck out on schedule time, with the tune on page 67 and

the words on page 117, and in less than ten words ditched himself so

badly that he was laid out for the rest of the verse, and then he lost

his place, handed the book back to the soprano, took the one she had,

and held it upside down, and no living man could tell from his face

what he was thinking of or trying to say. Meanwhile the soprano, when

the books were so abruptly changed on her, did just what might have

been expected, and telescoped two tunes and sets of words into each

other with disastrous effect. The alto was running smoothly along,

passenger time, for the several wrecks gave her the track, so far as

it was clear, all to herself. The basso, who had slipped an eccentric

and was only working one side, was rumbling cautiously along, clear off

his own time, flagging himself every mile of the way, and asking for

orders every time he got a chance. The pastor’s head was observed to

tremble with emotion, and the people sitting nearest the pulpit say

they could indistinctly hear sounds from behind it that resembled the

syllables “Te, he!” As the organist pulled and crowded and encouraged

them along toward the closing line, it looked as though public

confidence might soon be restored and the panic abated, but alas, as

even the demoralized tenor rallied, and came in with the full quartette

on the last line, a misguided man in the audience suddenly thought

he recognized in the distracted tune an old, familiar acquaintance,

and broke out in a joyous howl on something entirely different that

inspired every singing man and woman in the congregation with the same

idea, and the hymn was finished in a terrific discord of sixty-nine

different tunes, and the rent and mangled melody flapped and fluttered

around the sacred edifice like a new kind of delirium tremens, and all

the wrecking cars on the line were started for the scene at once.

The pastor deserves more praise than can be crowded into these pages

for pronouncing the benediction in clear, even tones, without even the

ghost of a smile on his placid countenance.

RUPERTINO’S PANORAMA.

Our first view is leaving New York harbor. This is a beautiful picture.

See the mighty vessel, spreading her snowy wings to the gale, glide

through the water like a thing of life. There is nothing to hinder her,

and nothing in that fact to make a fuss about. But if the water was to

glide through her, it would be time for reflection on the brevity of

one’s life insurance policy. The noble ship is freighted with precious

human souls, bright hopes, happy anticipations, hides, salt meat and

highwines.

This is a view of the Bourse in Paris, a twin institution to the

Burlington Board of Trade. The man in the background, trying to hang

himself on a lamp-post, is a member of the Bourse. He has just been

Boursted. He has been operating in corn. If you will hold a bottle or

small tumbler to your mouth and look steadily at this picture, you will

see how they usually operate in corn at the Exchanges.

This is a view in Egypt. The great city of Cairo. It is named after

Cairo, Illinois. Cairo is on the river Nile. Cairo never struck ile

that we know of, but we do know that Cairo seen Nile. We do not know,

history does not tell us, what there was so important in this event,

but we know it is commemorated by monuments erected all over America.

You can’t go into a cemetery in the United States without seeing one or

more monuments erected to the memory of Cairo C. Nile. He was probably

the inventor of a cooking-stove, as some reference is usually made to

the kitchen fire.

This is a view of the Seine. This is the favorite place for the

Parisians to shuffle off their mortal coil. The volatile Frenchman gets

himself full of elan (you know what that is) and jumps off one of these

arched bridges, the Pont Noof or the Pont de Jena, down by the Shong

de Mar. The zhong darmay, which is French for river police, fishes the

victim out; the coroner pronounces him incurably inseine, his property

is confiscated, and his insurance policy declared void, so as to spoil

his wife’s chances of marrying again. Such is the grasp of an iron

despotism upon the wretched slaves of down-trodden Europe. (Applause)

Here is a view in London of the old Bucking’em palace. This is an

exterior view. Inside there are several keno banks, some chuckaluck

tables and a faro bank, and the nobility are in there bucking the

tiger. King Richard came out of that palace once, cleaned out, after a

run of bad luck. He remarked to a friend, “So much for bucking ’em.”

The quotation has passed into history.

A panoramic view of Scotland. The gentleman in the peculiar position

in the foreground is scratching his back against a mile post and

remarking, “God bless the gude Duke of Argyle.” The children in

Scotland are taught that the Duke of Argyle made the world. This is an

error.

We stand among the antiquities of Rome--Rome that stood on her seven

hills, like James Robinson in his famous eight-horse bareback act.

This is Trajan’s Column--his spinal column. This is the Arch of Titus.

When he put up that arch he was Titus a brick. This is the place where

the Roman mobs used to collect and the police went Forum. Here is the

Coliseum. There is the bloody sand of the arena; there is the spot

where “the dying gladiator” lied. “I see before me the dying gladiator

lie.” Some calm and temperate Roman ought to have cast the scoundrel’s

lies in his teeth. The Romans were very depraved, wicked people, and

the entire civilized world yet suffers from the effects of their

malicious iniquity. They invented the Latin grammar, Nepos, Cicero

and Virgil, and hurled upon the boys of succeeding ages a language

containing ten rules to every word, and twenty exceptions to every

rule. This is a statue of a noble Roman, Julius Cæsar. He was named

after the Fourth of July and President Grant.

We stand in Greece. “The isles of Greece! The isles of Greece!”

Probably the poet referred to goose grease. The Greeks were an ancient

people. They wrote their letters in cipher, and schoolboys of to-day

sigh for hours over their letters. Here are the ruins of the temple of

Jupiter O’Lympus, erected to him by the ancient Greeks, thus proving

that the Irish nation sprang from these ancient heroes. Here is an

ancient theater. It is closed now for repairs; has been closed for

a few thousand years, and the actors have gone off to their Summer

resort, at Hades on the Styx.

Behold buried Pompeii. The city was entombed in an eruption that hadn’t

been equaled since Job got well. The gentleman in a military position

at the gate, dressed in a full suit of bones, is not only a charming

specimen of anatomy, but was a brave sentinel, who was covered up with

ashes before he could run. He would have been 1,795 years old to-morrow

if he had run and kept on living. It appears, however, that he is dead.

The fact is not substantiated by any direct evidence, as no witnesses

can be found who saw him die, and his will, therefore, has not been

probated. But it is generally believed that he is dead. Weep not for

him, friends. He was a heathen, and has gone to a place where he is

probably used to volcanoes by this time.

This building, the venerable pile that rises before you, is 27,000

years old. It originally cost $850, and took ten men nearly all Summer

to build it. It was whitewashed nearly 4,000 years ago, but received

no later repairs. The room on the right as you enter the hall on the

first floor, is the Torture Room. It is called the County Treasurer’s

office, and is where people go and mortgage their farms and homes for

taxes. The room opposite is the County Insane Asylum. The juries are

confined there while on duty, and the local debating societies also

meet there. This court-house was built many ages before Burlington was

settled. The massive walls are engraved with the names of eminent men

who have served on the juries. A grim and imposing antiquity frowns

upon us as we enter the Judgment Hall up stairs. The benches and desks

are made of wood taken from the decks of the ark. The tobacco quids in

the corners were piled there so long ago that people had not begun to

remember anything. The wood-box is a pre-Adamic creation. It is modeled

after the megatherium. The only man living who knows any thing about

the early history of the court-house is dead.

MIDDLERIB’S DOG.

Mr. Middlerib used to be a devoted dog fancier. About three years ago

he owned a beautiful hound pup about five months old. It was considered

an ornament to the neighborhood. A hound pup at that age is an object

of surprising beauty, under any circumstances; but when you consider

that Mr. Middlerib had raised his pup on scientific principles (boiled

beef and rice), you can readily imagine what a canine divinity it was.

Gaunt legs, longer than your grandfather’s stories, and the hind ones

so crooked that the dog sticks his foot into everything in the yard

every time he tries to scratch his ear; sides look as though he had

swallowed an old hoopskirt, and the springs showed through; more ribs

under his hide than there are spots on it; tail as long as the dog, and

two inches across the big end and tapering down like a marlinspike, so

lean you can count every joint in it, and so hard that you couldn’t

scratch it with a diamond--has every appearance of having been made

ten years before the dog was, and then hung out to bleach in the rain

and dry in the sun until the dog came along; ears soft as a kid glove,

and about the size and appearance of a blacksmith’s apron--bear every

evidence of being considered by all other dogs in the precinct as

dreadful nice things to chew. Beautiful eyes; open twenty-three hours

and fifty-nine minutes of the day; scare every woman into fits that

looks into the back yard after dark. Sweet mouth, opens on a hinge at

the back of his head, and is never shut unless there is something in

it. That’s the best picture of a growing hound, one of this kind with

liver colored spots, that we can draw, and Mr. Middlerib’s was just

like that, only more so. His principal characteristic was a tendency to

lunch. He was fond of nibbling little things around the house. Split

his face one Sunday while the folks were at church, and shut it down

over a whole ham. Liked to peek at odd bones and scraps, and one Monday

morning he ate two tablecloths, a flannel shirt, a big roller towel,

half a dozen clothes pins and thirteen linear yards of clothes-line,

before the washing had been hung out half an hour. Fond of eggs, too,

and knows every hen by sight in the neighborhood, and sets off on a

friendly call every time he hears a cackle. Mrs. M. wants to sell him,

but Middlerib says gold couldn’t buy him. So he stays, and eggs are as

scarce in that ward as ever.

Well, one night, Mrs. M. had made something by pulverizing a lot of

very hot potatoes. We believe it was yeast. Any how, it was necessary

that it should cool very presently, and after some misgivings relative

to the dog and his weakness, which were dispelled by Middlerib’s

indignant defense of that sagacious animal, the dish containing the

fiery compound was placed on the outer edge of a window sill, to cool

in the night air.

Then the family resumed their occupation of hearing Middlerib explain

the causes that led to the recent revolution in politics.

Such a weird, unearthly, piercing wail hadn’t been heard since

Dresseldorf learned to play the clarionet. It seemed to come out of

the ground, out of the sky, out of the air around them, and for an

instant the frightened Middleribs gazed at each other with white,

terror-blanched faces. Then they rushed to the door and looked out. A

gaunt, ghostly form, with liver colored spots and a mouth full of red

hot potato yeast thrashed wildly up and down the yard, splitting the

darkness with terrific yells at every jump. It was Middlerib’s dog;

and it was apparently feeling uneasy. It dashed madly around in short

circles and screamed “Police,” and scraped its jaws with its paws,

and wept and rubbed its chops along the cold ground, and swore and

howled for water, and pawed the earth and sang psalms, and in several

ways expressed its disapprobation of potato yeast as a diet. Finally,

the dog wedged himself in between the fence and the ash-barrel, and

told all about it, how it happened and what it felt like, and how he

liked it as far as he’d got. He never slept a wink that night. He was

too anxious to get his narrative completed and see the proofs of it.

Neither did anybody in the neighborhood sleep, either. And every time

a water pitcher would crash down into the yard, or a boot-jack bang

against the fence or an andiron plunge madly into the ash-barrel, the

dog would laugh in mocking tones, and go on with his testimony. About

midnight a vigilance committee waited on Mr. Middlerib, but he wouldn’t

come out, and they couldn’t stand the noise long enough to break in the

door. The dog finished his statement about sunrise, when the committee

rose. The family ate baker’s bread the next day, and Middlerib so far

yielded to Mrs. M.’s entreaties as to say that if any man will make a

fair offer, he might sell an undivided third of the dog.

A BOY’S DAY AT HOME.

Master Bilderback had been home all day, confined to the house and

barn by the rain, and excited by the prospect of unlimited fun during

the long vacation. He was a blessing to his mother and sister, and his

affectionate parent caught her death of cold by running around after

him in one stocking foot, searching out the tender places in his nature

and anatomy with a four and a half slipper. He tied one end of his

sister’s ball of crochet cotton to the fly-wheel of the sewing-machine

and the other around the tail of the cat, and by the time his mother

had sewed half-way down one of the long seams in Mr. Bilderback’s new

shirt, all but a few yards of that cotton was a chaotic mass about

that fly-wheel and shaft, and the cat was waltzing in and out of the

kitchen, sprawling along backward, tail straight as a poker, fur up

and eyes aflame, snowling, and spitting, and swearing like mad, and

Mrs. Bilderback and her daughter climbed upon the table and shrieked

till the windows rattled, while Master Bilderback, hid behind the

clothes-horse in the kitchen, lay down on his back and laughed a wicked

gurgling kind of a laugh. Then he went out and jammed a potato into

the nose of the chain pump and the hired girl went out and pumped till

her arms ached clear down to her heels, and then told Mrs. Bilderback

the cistern had sprung a leak and was dry as a bone. And then Mrs.

Bilderback, declaring she knew better, went out and turned the wheel

till her head swam and she gave up, and Miss Bilderback went out and

turned till she cried, and then Master Bilderback, rather than go to

the neighbor’s for water, went out and fixed the pump and came in to

be praised, and was duly praised with the slipper, for he had been

watched. He put an old last year’s fire-cracker in the kitchen stove;

he insured a steady run of strange visitors for about two hours, to the

great amazement of his mother and sister, by pinning a placard on the

porch step, plainly seen from the street, but invisible from the front

door, “Man wanted to drive carriage; $35.00 a month and board.” Mrs.

Bilderback drew a sigh of relief when she heard Mr. B.’s step in the

hall, and informed her son that as soon as his father came in he should

be duly informed of all that had been going on. A most impressive

silence followed this remark, and the trio in the sitting-room listened

to Mr. Bilderback’s heavy breathing as he divested himself of his wet

boots, and prepared to assume his slippers. Master Bilderback’s face

wore an expression of the deepest concern.

Suddenly the silence was broken by a shout of astonishment and terror,

followed by a howl of intense agony, and there was a clattering as of a

runaway crockery wagon in the hall. The affrighted family rushed to the

door, and beheld Mr. Bilderback cleaving the shadows with wild gestures

and frantic gyrations. “Take it off,” he shouted, and made a grab at

his own foot, but, missing it, went on with his war-dance. “Water!” he

shrieked, and started up stairs, three at a step, and turning, came

back in a single stride, “Oh, I’m stabbed!” he cried, and sank to the

floor and held his right leg high above his head; then he rose to his

feet with a bound and screamed for the boot-jack, and held his foot out

toward his terrified family. “Oh, bring me the arnica!” he yelled, and

with one despairing effort he reached his slipper and got it off,

and with a groan as deep as a well and hollow as a drum, sank into a

chair and clasped his foot in both hands. “Look out for the scorpion,”

he whispered hoarsely, “I’m a dead man.”

[Illustration: A BOY’S DAY AT HOME.]

Master Bilderback was by this time out in the woodshed, rolling in

the kindling in an ecstasy of glee, and pausing from time to time to

explain to the son of a neighbor, who had dropped in to see if there

was any innocent sport going on in which he could share, “Oh, Bill,

Bill,” he said, “you wouldn’t believe; some time to-day, some how or

Other, a big blue wasp got into the old man’s slipper, and when he come

home and put it on--oh, Bill, you don’t know!”

WHY MR. BOSTWICK MOVED.

Young Mr. Bostwick has moved. He liked the house he has been living in

well enough, and Mrs. Bostwick fairly cried her eyes out when they left

it, because it had a bay window and blinds with slats that you could

turn so that you could see anybody in the street and nobody could see

you. But old Mr. Glasford, the landlord, was very deaf, and it was on

account of this infirmity that his tenant left the house. Mrs. Bostwick

said she couldn’t see what Mr. Glasford’s deafness had to do with the

house, but her husband only looked worried and said it made a good

deal of difference with a man’s peace of mind, when he had something

he wanted to whisper, and had to whisper it to a man who couldn’t

hear anything if he went into a boiler factory. Mrs. Bostwick didn’t

understand what difference it made anyhow, but then she wasn’t down

town that terrible Wednesday, when old Mr. Glasford went into the store

where her husband was selling a lovely young divinity from Denmark a

dress pattern off a piece of Centennial percale. Mr. Bostwick saw the

old gentleman coming and felt very nervous. Eager to anticipate the

demand which he knew the old man was going to make, he dashed toward

him with an abruptness that astonished the fair customer who had just

lost herself in admiration of Bostwick’s diamond pin, and the fact,

just confidentially imparted to her, that he was not a clerk but the

silent partner, holding about $475,000 worth of stock in the concern,

and that he just worked from pure love of employment. Mr. Bostwick

checked the old gentleman about ten feet away from his customer, and

leaning over the counter so as to get as close range on his ear as

possible, whispered hoarsely that “it wouldn’t be convenient to pay

that rent to-day.”

“Hey?” shouted the old man, looking at Bostwick’s agitated face in some

alarm, “why, why, wha’s the matter? ’S happened?”

Mr. Bostwick made a futile effort to catch hold of the old man’s ear,

intending to pour his explanation into it as one pours water into a

funnel, but his landlord briskly dodged and waved Bostwick away with

an expression of considerable apprehension. Mr. Bostwick groaned and

endeavored to explain to the old gentleman in a manner that would

convey to the pretty customer and the others in the store the idea that

he was refusing to give the old party credit, and at the same time let

old Glasford know that he was bankrupt.

“Can’t do it!” he shouted.

“Can’t do what?” inquired the mystified old gentleman in those

stentorian tones so popular with deaf people.

“Can’t help you!” shouted Bostwick, in tones the sternness of which

contrasted ludicrously with the sheepish expression of his countenance.

“Can’t do anything for you!”

The old man looked at Bostwick in helpless wonder and then at the door,

with his mind half made up to run away, under the impression that the

young man was crazy. He finally stared at him in open-mouthed amazement

and speechless bewilderment.

“Oh, Moses,” thought Bostwick, “he’s mad as a hornet, he’ll break out

in a minute; I know he will.” Then he tried him again, in a voice like

a steam whistle.

“I can’t do anything for you!”

The old man’s mouth opened still wider, and his eyes stood around on

his cheek-bones in their amazement.

“Who asked ye to do anything for me?” he finally gasped. “What is it ye

can’t do?”

Bostwick groaned, and in a fit of desperation he broke down, and gave

it up.

“I can’t pay that rent to-day!” he shrieked, and the pretty customer

was so shocked that she dropped her parasol, fan and paper of gum drops.

“What went to-day?” asked the old man, waving Bostwick off with his

stick.

Here the proprietor officiously interposed to cover Bostwick’s

confusion, speaking in the highest key he could assume.

“Rent! Rent! House rent, you know! He says he can’t pay his house rent

to-day!”

“Rent day?” echoed old Glasford, “yes, oh yes, that’s past, two weeks

ago; first of the month.”

“Yes,” shrieked Mr. Bostwick, while the store full of customers and

his fellow clerks stood around and smiled, “I know it, but I can’t pay

it to-day; haven’t got a cent!”

“Oh!” exclaimed the old man, with a gleam of intelligence passing over

his face, “I don’t care about that; that isn’t what I come for. I come

to tell you if your wife wanted that front room down stairs papered, to

go ahead and have it done, and I’d allow it.”

The pretty customer wouldn’t have a word to say to the discomfited Mr.

Bostwick when he went back, and the old man told the proprietor as he

went out of the door that he believed that young man was just about

half crazy, and the clerks were all so pleasant that Bostwick nearly

went mad every time he was reminded of his unfortunate precipitancy,

and that is the way he became convinced that it was altogether lighter

than vanity to rent of a deaf man.

SPECIAL PROVIDENCES.

There was wailing and woe in Burlingtown,

For every other day

The humid showers came tumbling down,

As they had come to stay.

There was water enough in the land to spare;

And men who were wont to pray,

When they looked in the cellar each morn would swear

And wrathfully turn away.

All out on South Hill they pumped and pumped

From morn till dewy eve,

But their every effort the storm king trumped,

And laughed him in his sleeve,

Till the South Hill man his spirit was broke,

And he sate him down on his hill.

“Though I pump till my back cries out,” he spoke,

“My cellar still keeps its fill.”

“Now lithe and listen, good pump of mine,

If ever I touch thee more,

May never again the bright sun shine

As it shone in the days of yore.”

Then he took his pump and he hung it up

Where it might not taunt his sight,

And he drowned his grief in the poisonous cup

Which “moveth itself aright.”

And he vowed him that if the immortal gods

Would hold up their rain for a while,

He’d build him a cellar and take the odds--

On top of his domicile.

“For what was the use,” he grimly said,

“Of a cellar in the ground,

Into the which, if you went for bread,

You were pretty sure to be drowned?”

“I hate the cellar; oh winds of the south,

Thy rains, as hard as I can;

I wish I could strike them both with a drouth,”

Exclaimed the South Hill man.

He lifted his eyes to the city road

A coming figure to scan,

And a wild fierce light in his optics glowed

When they fell on the hated gas man.

He carried his book and his railway lamp,

And wore a sinister frown;

And he sought out the meter in cellars damp,

And he noted the figures down.

And whether a man burned much or small,

Or how often the gas man came,

Or whether they turned on the gas at all,

The meter just counted the same.

So the man of South Hill, when he saw him come,

Supposing that he had come th--

Rough ignorance, said, in tones full glum,

“You cut off my gas last month.”

The gas man he winked, and eke as he wunk,

He shook his head knowinglee,

And, as though he something suspiciously thunk,

“We’ll look at the meter,” said he.

Then he opened the door of the cellar so damp,

And he stepped where the pump log had been,

And he went out of sight, with his book and his lamp,

As the water he tumbled in.

“Oh, help!” loud he shrieked as his noddle came up,

“Hubbulubbulup!” as his noddle went down,

While the man of South Hill on the cellar door sill,

Was the happiest man in the town.

Splash! Splash! Blubbulup! in the cellar he heard,

And he hugged himself close in his glee;

And whenever the gas man would sputter a word,

“Oh, catch hold of the meter!” cried he.

And he shut down the doors, and he locked them up tight,

And into the well threw the key,

And, “Providence always and ever is right:

Rains and cellars are useful,” said he.

MR. BARINGER’S HOUSE-CLEANING.

You see, Mr. Baringer has only been keeping house about a year,

and they took the carpets up this Spring for their first general

house-cleaning. Mrs. Baringer’s mother was there, because she said

Olivia was a mere child at such things, and she didn’t believe that

Aristarchus was much better, and it was better to have some one around

who could manage. The young people, however, felt very confident that

they had, by numerous consultations and many well-laid plans, reduced

house-cleaning to a perfect science, a system that had never yet been

attained by any other housekeepers, and they were all impatient to get

at work and clean the whole house, from garret to cellar, and have all

the pictures back on the walls and carpets nailed down again before

dark. They were disgusted at the way other people cleaned house, and

Olivia thought it was perfectly wonderful how Aristarchus could have

such beautifully lucid and systematic ideas on matters of which most

men, and she would say most women as well, were so deplorably stupid

and ignorant.

The stirring notes of the alarm clock dragged Mr. Baringer out of bed

at 3:15 A. M., and he thought he felt intolerably sleepy for five

o’clock, but he didn’t look at the clock until he was dressed, and

then he was too mad to swear. He merely woke Mrs. Baringer up to tell

her that he’d bet a thousand dollars some stupid had changed the alarm

after he set it and then he flopped down on a lounge to sleep till

daylight. He awoke at half-past seven o’clock, the hour at which, by

their prearranged system and calculations, the two up-stairs bed-room

carpets were to have been beaten and ready to put down as soon as the

floors were dry. Then the kitchen fire went out twice, and they finally

sat down to breakfast at half-past eight o’clock, Mrs. Baringer’s

mother beguiling the time during that matin meal by asking Olivia if

she minded how she used to be half through her house-cleaning by nine

o’clock in the morning. But Mr. Baringer bore up very well under it,

and immediately after breakfast, he took up the bed-room carpets. It

was slow work, jerking the tacks out one at a time. Some times they

flew up into his face; some times he pulled the head off and left the

tack in the floor; and when they got to be rather thickly scattered

around the room he put his knee down on one occasionally and talked

in a fragmentary manner about certain mill privileges in connection

with housekeeping which Mrs. Baringer couldn’t understand. At last he

noticed that by lifting up the edge of the carpet, a gentle pull would

bring up half a dozen tacks in rapid succession. Happy thought. He rose

to his feet, grasped the bound edge of the carpet in both hands, gave

a mighty lift and a tremendous pull--k-r-r-r-r-r-t! and when the dust

settled a little, Mrs. Baringer and her mother were discovered standing

in the door, looking in speechless horror at Mr. Baringer, who stood

like an image of despair, holding a carpet with a fringe in one hand,

and a long line of carpet binding in the other.

“How _did_ you do it?” shrieked Mrs. Baringer.