His careless feet inertly thrown
Across a chair, my fancy can
But worship this most worthless man!
I dream what joy it is to set
His slow lips round a cigarette,
With idle-humored whiff and puff--
Ah! this is innocent enough!
To mark the slender fingers raise
The waxen match's dainty blaze,
Whose chastened light an instant glows
On drooping lids and arching nose,
Then, in the sudden gloom, instead,
A tiny ember, dim and red,
Blooms languidly to ripeness, then
Fades slowly, and grows ripe again.
[Illustration: "HE SMOKES--AND THAT'S ENOUGH," SAYS MA--]
III.
I lean back, in my own boudoir--
The door is fast, the sash ajar;
And in the dark, I smiling stare
At one window over there,
Where some one, smoking, pinks the gloom,
The darling darkness of his room!
I push my shutters wider yet,
And lo! I light a cigarette;
And gleam for gleam, and glow for glow,
Each pulse of light a word we know,
We talk of love that still will burn
While cigarettes to ashes turn.
Says He
[Illustration]
"Whatever the weather may be," says he--
"Whatever the weather may be--
Its plaze, if ye will, an' I'll say me say--
Supposin' to-day was the winterest day,
Wud the weather be changing because ye cried,
Or the snow be grass were ye crucified?
The best is to make your own summer," says he,
"Whatever the weather may be," says he--
"Whatever the weather may be!"
"Whatever the weather may be," says he--
"Whatever the weather may be,
Its the songs ye sing, an' the smiles ye wear
That's a-makin' the sunshine everywhere;
An' the world of gloom is a world of glee,
Wid the bird in the bush, an' the bud in the tree,
Whatever the weather may be," says he--
"Whatever the weather may be!"
"Whatever the weather may be," says he--
"Whatever the weather may be,
Ye can bring the spring, wid its green an' gold,
An' the grass in the grove where the snow lies cold,
An' ye'll warm your back, wid a smiling face,
As ye sit at your heart like an owld fireplace,
Whatever the weather may be," says he,
"Whatever the weather may be!"
Where the Roads Are Engaged in Forking
I am writing this at an imitation hotel where the roads fork. I will
call it the Fifth Avenue Hotel because the hotel at a railroad junction
is generally called the Fifth Avenue, or the Gem City House, or the
Palace Hotel. I stopped at an inn some years since called the Palace,
and I can truly say that if it had ever been a palace it was very much
run down when I visited it.
Just as the fond parent of a white-eyed, two-legged freak of nature
loves to name his mentally-diluted son Napoleon, and for the same reason
that a prominent horse owner in Illinois last year socked my name on a
tall, buckskin-colored colt that did not resemble me, intellectually or
physically, a colt that did not know enough to go around a barbed-wire
fence, but sought to shift himself through it into an untimely grave, so
this man has named his sway-backed wigwam the Fifth Avenue Hotel.
It is different from the Fifth Avenue in many ways. In the first place
there is not so much travel and business in its neighborhood. As I said
before, this is where two railroads fork. In fact that is the leading
industry here. The growth of the town is naturally slow, but it is a
healthy growth. There is nothing in the nature of dangerous or wild-cat
speculation in the advancement of this place, and while there has been
no noticeable or rapid advance in the principal business, there has been
no falling off at all and these roads are forking as much to-day as they
did before the war, while the same three men who were present for the
first glad moment are still here to witness the operation.
Sometimes a train is derailed, as the papers call it, and two or three
people have to remain over as we did all night. It is at such a time
that the Fifth Avenue Hotel is the scene of great excitement. A large
codfish, with a broad and sunny smile and his bosom full of rock salt,
is tied in the creek to freshen and fit himself for the responsible
position of floor manager of the codfish ball.
A pale chambermaid, wearing a black jersey with large pores in it
through which she is gently percolating, now goes joyously up the stairs
to make the little post-office lock-box rooms look ten times worse than
they ever did before. She warbles a low refrain as she nimbly knocks
loose the venerable dust of centuries and sets it afloat throughout the
rooms. All is bustle about the house.
Especially the chambermaid.
We were put in the guests' chamber here. It has two atrophied beds made
up of pains and counterpanes.
This last remark conveys to the reader the presence of a light, joyous
feeling which is wholly assumed on my part.
The door of our room is full of holes where locks have been wrenched off
in order to let the coroner in. Last night I could imagine that I was
in the act of meeting, personally, the famous people who have tried to
sleep here and who moaned through the night and who died while waiting
for the dawn.
I have no doubt in the world but there is quite a good-sized delegation
from this hotel, of guests who hesitated about committing suicide,
because they feared to tread the red-hot sidewalks of perdition, but who
became desperate at last and resolved to take their chances, and they
have never had any cause to regret it.
[Illustration]
We washed our hands on doorknob soap, wiped them on a slippery elm
court-plaster, that had made quite a reputation for itself under the
nom-de-plume of "Towel," tried to warm ourselves at a pocket inkstand
stove, that gave out heat like a dark lantern and had a deformed elbow
at the back of it.
The chambermaid is very versatile, and waits on the table while not
engaged in agitating the overworked mattresses and puny pillows
up-stairs. In this way she imparts the odor of fried pork to the
pillow-cases and kerosene to the pie.
She has a wild, nervous and apprehensive look in her eye, as though she
feared that some herculean guest might seize her in his great strong
arms and bear her away to a justice of the peace and marry her. She
certainly cannot fully realize how thoroughly secure she is from such a
calamity. She is just as safe as she was forty years ago, when she
promised her aged mother that she would never elope with any one.
Still, she is sociable at times and converses freely with me at table,
as she leans over my shoulder, pensively brushing the crumbs into my lap
with a general utility towel, which accompanies her in her various
rambles through the house, and she asks what we would rather have--"tea
or eggs?"
This afternoon we will pay our bill, in accordance with a life-long
custom of ours, and go away to permeate the busy haunts of men. It will
be sad to tear ourselves away from the Fifth Avenue Hotel at this place;
still, there is no great loss without some small gain, and at our next
hotel we may not have to chop our own wood and bring it up stairs when
we want to rest. The landlord of a hotel who goes away to a political
meeting and leaves his guests to chop their own wood, and then charges
them full price for the rent of a boisterous and tempest-tossed bed,
will never endear himself to those with whom he is thrown in contact.
We leave at 2:30 this afternoon, hoping that the two railroads may
continue to fork here just the same as though we had remained.
McFeeters' Fourth
[Illustration]
It was needless to say 'twas a glorious day,
And to boast of it all in that spread-eagle way
That our forefathers had since the hour of the birth
Of this most patriotic republic on earth!
But 'twas justice, of course, to admit that the sight
Of the old Stars-and-Stripes was a thing of delight
In the eyes of a fellow, however he tried
To look on the day with a dignified pride
That meant not to brook any turbulent glee,
Or riotous flourish of loud jubilee!
So argued McFeeters, all grim and severe,
Who the long night before, with a feeling of fear,
Had slumbered but fitfully, hearing the swish
Of the sky-rocket over his roof, with a wish
That the urchin who fired it were fast to the end
Of the stick to forever and ever ascend;
Or to hopelessly ask why the boy with the horn
And its horrible havoc had ever been born!
Or to wish, in his wakefulness, staring aghast,
That this Fourth of July were as dead as the last!
So, yesterday morning, McFeeters arose,
With a fire in his eyes, and a cold in his nose,
And a gutteral voice in appropriate key
With a temper as gruff as a temper could be.
He growled at the servant he met on the stair,
Because he was whistling a national air,
And he growled at the maid on the balcony, who
Stood enrapt with the tune of "The Red, White and Blue"
That a band was discoursing like mad in the street,
With drumsticks that banged, and with cymbals that beat.
And he growled at his wife, as she buttoned his vest,
And applausively pinned a rosette on his breast
Of the national colors, and lured from his purse
Some change for the boys--for firecrackers--or worse:
And she pointed with pride to a soldier in blue
In a frame on the wall, and the colors there, too;
And he felt, as he looked on the features, the glow
The painter found there twenty long years ago,
And a passionate thrill in his breast, as he felt
Instinctively round for the sword in his belt.
What was it that hung like a mist o'er the room?--
The tumult without--and the music--the boom
Of the canon--the blare of the bugle and fife?--
No matter!--McFeeters was kissing his wife,
And laughing and crying and waving his hat
Like a genuine soldier, and crazy, at that!
--But it's needless to say 'twas a glorious day,
And to boast of it all in that spread-eagle way
That our forefathers have since the hour of birth
Of this most patriotic republic on earth!
In a Box
[Illustration]
I saw them last night in a box at the play--
Old age and young youth side by side--
You might know by the glasses that pointed that way
That they were--a groom and a bride;
And you might have known, too, by the face of the groom,
And the tilt of his head, and the grim
Little smile of his lip, he was proud to presume
That we men were all envying him.
Well, she was superb--an Elaine in the face,
A Godiva in figure and mien,
With the arm and the wrist of a Parian "Grace,"
And the high-lifted brow of a queen;
But I thought, in the splendor of wealth and of pride,
And in all her young beauty might prize,
I should hardly be glad if she sat by my side
With that far-away look in her eyes.
Seeking to Set the Public Right
[Illustration]
I would like to make an explanation at this time which concerns me, of
course, more than any one else, and yet it ought to be made in the
interests of general justice, also. I refer to a recent article
published in a Western paper and handsomely illustrated, in which, among
others, I find the foregoing picture of my residence:
The description which accompanies the cut, among other things, goes on
to state as follows: "The structure is elaborate, massive and beautiful.
It consists of three stories, basement and attic, and covers a large
area on the ground. It contains an elevator, electric bells,
steam-heating arrangements, baths, hot and cold, in every room, electric
lights, laundry, fire-escapes, etc. The grounds consist of at least five
acres, overlooking the river for several miles up and down, with fine
boating and a private fish-pond of two acres in extent, containing
every known variety of game fish. The grounds are finely laid out in
handsome drives and walks, and when finished the establishment will be
one of the most complete and beautiful in the Northwest."
No one realizes more fully than I the great power of the press for good
or evil. Rightly used the newspaper can make or unmake men, and wrongly
used it can be even more sinister. I might say, knowing this as I do, I
want to be placed right before the people. The above is not a correct
illustration or description of my house, for several reasons. In the
first place, it is larger and more robust in appearance, and in the
second place it has not the same _tout ensemble_ as my residence. My
house is less obtrusive and less arrogant in its demeanor than the
foregoing, and it has no elevator in it.
My house is not the kind that seems to crave an elevator. An elevator in
my house would lose money. There is no popular clamor for one, and if I
were to put one in I would have to abolish the dining-room. It would
also interfere with the parlor.
I have learned recently that the correspondent who came here to write up
this matter visited the town while I was in the South, and as he could
not find me he was at the mercy of strangers. A young man who lives here
and who is just in the heyday of life, gleefully consented to show the
correspondent my new residence not yet completed. So they went over and
examined the new Oliver Wendell Holmes Hospital, which will be completed
in June and which is, of course, a handsome structure, but quite
different from my house in many particulars.
For instance, my residence is of a different school of architecture,
being rather on the Scandinavian order, while the foregoing has a
tendency toward the Ironic. The hospital belongs to a very recent
school, as I may say, while my residence, in its architectural methods
and conception, goes back to the time of the mound builders, a time when
a Gothic hole in the ground was considered the _magnum bonum_ and the
scrumptuous thing in art. If the reader will go around behind the above
building and notice it carefully on the east side, he will not discover
a dried coonskin nailed to the rear breadths of the wood-shed. That
alone ought to convince an observing man that the house is not mine. The
coonskin regardant will always be found emblazoned on my arms, together
with a blue Goddess of Liberty and my name in green India ink.
[Illustration]
Above I give a rough sketch of my house. Of course I have idealized it
somewhat, but only in order to catch the eye of the keenly observant
reader. The front part of the house runs back to the time of Polypus the
First, while the L, which does not show in the drawing, runs back as far
as the cistern.
In closing, let me say that I am not finding fault with any one because
the above error has crept into the public prints, for it is really a
pardonable error, after all. Neither do I wish to be considered as
striving to eliminate my name from the columns of the press, for no one
could be more tickled than I am over a friendly notice of my arrival in
town or a timely reference to my courteous bearing and youthful
appearance, but I want to see the Oliver Wendell Holmes Hospital
succeed, and so I come out in this way over my own signature and admit
that the building does not belong to me and that, so far as I am
concerned, the man who files a lien on it will simply fritter away his
time.
A Dose't of Blues
[Illustration]
I' got no patience with blues at all!
And I ust to kindo' talk
Aginst 'em, and claim, 'tel along last fall,
They was none in the fambly stock;
But a nephew of mine, from Eelinoy,
That visited us last year,
He kindo' convinct me different
While he was a-stayin' here.
Frum ever'-which-way that blues is frum,
They'd tackle him ever' ways;
They'd come to him in the night, and come
On Sundys, and rainy days;
They'd tackle him in corn-plantin' time,
And in harvest, an airly fall,
But a dose't of blues in the wintertime
He 'lowed was the worst of all!
Said all diseases that ever he had--
The mumps, er the rheumatiz--
Er ever-other-day aigger's bad
Purt' nigh as anything is!--
Er a cyarbuncle, say, on the back of his neck,
Er a fellon on his thumb,--
But you keep the blues away frum him,
And all o' the rest could come!
And he'd moan, "they's narry a leaf below!
Ner a spear o' grass in sight!
And the whole wood-pile's clean under snow!
And the days is dark as night!
And you can't go out--ner you can't stay in--
Lay down--stand up--ner set!"
And a case o' reguller tyfoid blues
Would double him jest clean shet!
I writ his parents a postal-kyard
He could stay 'tel spring-time come;
And Aprile first, as I rickollect,
Was the day we shipped him home.
Most o' his relatives, sence then,
Has either give up, er quit,
Er jest died off, but I understand
_He's_ the same old color yit!
Wanted, a Fox
SLIPPERY ELMHURST,}
STATEN ISLAND, July 18, 1888.}
TO THE EDITOR:
Dear Sir: Could you inform a constant reader of your valuable paper
where he would be most likely to obtain a good, durable, wild fox which
could be used for hunting purposes on my premises? I desire a fox that
is a good roadster, and yet not too bloodthirsty. If I could secure one
that would not bite, it would tickle me most to death.
You know, perhaps, that I am of English origin. Some of the best and
bluest blood of the oldest and most decrepit families in England flows
in my veins. There is no better blood extant. We love the exhilarating
sports of our ancestors, and nothing thrills us through and through like
the free chase 'cross country behind the fleeing fox. Joyously we gallop
over the sward behind the yelping pack, as we clearly scent high, low,
jack and the game.
My ancestors are haughty English people from Piscataquis county, Maine.
For centuries, our rich, warm, red blood has been mellowed by the
elderberry wine and huckleberry juice of Moosehead lake; but now and
then it will assert itself and mantle in the broad and indestructible
cheek of our race. Ever and anon in our family you will notice the
slender triangular chest, the broad and haughty sweep of abdomen, and
the high, intellectual expanse of pelvic bone, which denotes the true
Englishman; proud, high-spirited, soaked full of calm disdain, wearing
checked pantaloons, and a soft, flabby tourist's hat that has a bow at
both ends, so that a man cannot get too drunk to put it on his head
wrong.
[Illustration]
I know that here is democratic America, where every man has to earn his
living or marry rich, people will scorn my high-born love of the
fox-chase, and speak in a slighting manner of my wild, wild yearn for
the rush and scamper of the hunt. By Jove, but it is joy indeed to
gallop over the sward and the cover, and the open land, the meet and the
cucumber vines of the Plebian farmer, to run over the wife of the
peasant and tramp her low, coarse children into the rich mould, to
"sick" the hounds upon the rude rustic as he paris greens his potatoes,
to pry open the jaws of the pack and return to the open-eyed peasant
the quivering seat of his pantaloons, returning it to him not because it
is lacking in its merit, but because it is not available.
Ah, how the pulses thrill as we bound over the lea, out across the wold,
anon skimming the outskirts of the moor and going home with a stellated
fracture of the dura mater through which the gas is gently escaping.
Let others rave over the dreamy waltz and the false joys of the skating
rink, but give me the maddening yelp of the pack in full cry as it
chases the speckled two-year-old of the low-born rustic across the open
and into the pond.
Let others sing of the zephyrs that fan the white sails of their
swift-flying yacht, but give me a wild gallop at the tail of my
high-priced hounds and six weeks at the hospital with a fractured rib
and I am proud and happy. All our family are that way. We do not care
for industry for itself alone. We are too proud ever to become slaves to
habits of industry. We can labor or we can let it alone.
This shows our superiority as a race. We have been that way for hundreds
of years. We could work in order to be sociable, but we would not allow
it to sap the foundations of our whole being.
I write, therefore, to learn, if possible, where I can get a good red or
gray fox that will come home nights. I had a fox last season for hunting
purposes, but he did not give satisfaction. He was constantly getting
into the pound. I do not want an animal of that kind. I want one that I
shall always know where I can put my hand upon him when I want to hunt.
Nothing can be more annoying than to be compelled to go to the pound
and redeem a fox, when a party is mounted and waiting to hunt him.
I do not care so much for the gait of a fox, whether he lopes, trots or
paces, so that his feet are sound and his wind good. I bought a
light-red fox two years ago that had given perfect satisfaction the
previous year, but when we got ready to hunt him he went lame in the off
hind foot and crawled under a hen house back of my estate, where he
remained till the hunt was over.
What I want is a young, flealess fox of the dark red or iron-gray
variety, that I can depend upon as a good roadster; one that will come
and eat out of my hand and yearn to be loved.
I would like also a tall, red horse with a sawed-off tail; one that can
jump a barbed wire fence without mussing it up with fragments of his
rider. Any one who may have such a horse or pipless fox will do well to
communicate with me in person or by letter, enclosing references. I may
be found during the summer months on my estate, spread out under a tree,
engaged in thought.
E. FITZWILLIAM NYE.
Slipperyelmhurst, Staten Island, N. Y.
[Illustration: SUTTERS CLAIM]
IMITATED.
Say! _you_ feller! _You_--
With that spade and the pick!--
What do you 'pose to do
On this side o' the crick?
Goin' to tackle this claim? Well, I reckon
You'll let up agin purty quick!
No bluff, understand,--
But the same has been tried,
And the claim never panned--
Or the fellers has lied,--
For they tell of a dozen that tried it,
And quit it most onsatisfied.
The luck's dead agin it!--
The first man I see
That stuck a pick in it
Proved _that_ thing to me,--
For he sorto took down, and got homesick,
And went back whar he'd orto be!
Then others they worked it
Some--more or less,
But finally shirked it,
In grades of distress,--
With an eye out--a jaw or skull busted,
Or some sort o' seriousness.
The _last_ one was plucky--
He wasn't afeerd,
And bragged he was "lucky,"
And said that "he'd heerd
A heep of bluff-talk," and swore awkard
He'd work any claim that he keered!
Don't you strike nary lick
With that pick till I'm through;
This-here feller talked slick
And as peart-like as you!
And he says: "I'll abide here
As long as I please!"
But he didn't.... He died here--
And I'm his disease!
Seeking to Be Identified
CHICAGO, Feb. 20, 1888.
[Illustration]
Financial circles here have been a good deal interested in the discovery
of a cipher which was recently adopted by a depositor and which began to
attract the attention at first of a gentleman employed in the
Clearing-House. He was telling me about it and showing me the vouchers
or duplicates of them.
It was several months ago that he first noticed on the back of a check
passing through the Clearing-House the following cipher, written in a
symmetrical, Gothic hand:
DEAR SIR:--Herewith find payment for last month's butter. It was
hardly up to the average. Why do you blonde your butter? Your
butter last month tried to assume an effeminate air, which
certainly was not consistent with its great vigor. Is it not
possible that this butter is the brother to what we had the month
previous, and that it was exchanged for its sister by mistake? We
have generally liked your butter very much, but we will have to
deal elsewhere if you are going to encourage it in wearing a full
beard.
Yours truly,
W.
Moneyed men all over Chicago and financial cryptogrammers came to read
the curious thing and to try and work out its bearing on trade.
Everybody took a look at it and went away defeated. Even the men who
were engaged in trying to figure out the identity of the Snell murderer,
took a day off and tried their Waterbury thinkers on this problem. In
the midst of it all another check passed through the Clearing-House with
this cipher, in the same hand:
SIR:--Your bill for the past month is too much. You forget the eggs
returned at the end of second week, for which you were to give me
credit. The cook broke one of them by mistake, and then threw up
the portfolio of pie-founder in our once joyous home. I will not
dock you for loss of cook, but I cannot allow you for the eggs. How
you succeed in dodging quarantine with eggs like that is a mystery
to yours truly,
W.