having effected an arrangement with a popular French restaurant, was
enabled to dispose of his game easily and profitably. On moonlight
nights, when the late fall cats were in season, he often caught a string
of from three to four dozen during a single night,—many of these
weighing ten or fifteen pounds each. So few cats escaped after having
once leaped at the bait, that no general suspicion of the deadly nature
of apparently aerial meat was disseminated among the feline population
of the neighbourhood. Before the winter was over cats had become so
scarce that the sportsman was seriously contemplating the necessity of
artificially stocking the back fences of Thirty-fifth Street, when an
unfortunate accident brought his beneficent occupation to a sudden end.
An old gentleman, residing in a house in Thirty-sixth Street, the
backyard of which adjoined the fence where the young man practised his
sport, noticed one evening that something attached to a string was
dangling over his back fence. As he had a pretty daughter, he
immediately suspected that it was a surreptitious note, and stole softly
out to seize and confiscate it. Mounting on a barrel he clutched the
supposed note, and was instantly hooked. The tackle was strong, and he
would perhaps have been landed had not the hook torn out when he was
about forty feet from the ground. After he had recovered from his
injuries caused by the fall, and the weakness consequent upon the
amputation of his legs, he showed so much annoyance at the so-called
outrage which had been inflicted upon him, that the young man, who was a
person of most delicate feelings, promised to give up cat-fishing. Of
course, had the old gentleman been thoroughly gaffed, he would not have
fallen, and perhaps the young man felt that his failure to properly gaff
him was an inexcusable error, which really called for his graceful
retirement from cat-fishing.
This example ought to bear fruit. At a very small expense for tackle,
any resident of this city who occupies a back room can secure excellent
sport, and at the same time can render a great service to humanity by
reducing the number of cats. The sport ought speedily to become a very
popular one, and there can be but little doubt that in time cat-fishing
will rival trout-fishing in the estimation of American sportsmen.
_W. L. Alden._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_CAPTAIN STICK AND TONY._
OLD Captain Stick was a remarkably precise old gentleman and
conscientiously just man. He was, too, very methodical in his habits,
one of which was to keep an account in writing of the conduct of his
servants, from day to day. It was a sort of account-current, and he
settled by it every Saturday afternoon. No one dreaded these hebdomadal
balancings more than Tony, the boy of all-work, for the captain was
generally obliged to write a receipt, for a considerable amount, across
his shoulders.
One settling afternoon, the captain, accompanied by Tony, was seen
“toddling” down to the old stable, with his little account book in one
hand and a small rope in the other. After they had reached the “Bar of
Justice,” and Tony had been properly “strung up,” the captain proceeded
to state his accounts as follows:—
“Tony, _Dr._
“_Sabbath_, to not half blacking my boots, etc., five stripes.
“_Tuesday_, to staying four hours at mill longer than necessary, ten
stripes.
“_Wednesday_, to not locking the hall door at night, five stripes.
“_Friday_, to letting the horse go without water, five stripes.
“Total, twenty-five stripes.
“Tony, _Cr._
“_Monday_, by first-rate day’s work in the garden, ten stripes.
“Balance due, fifteen stripes.”
The balance being thus struck, the captain drew his cowhide and
remarked——“Now, Tony, you black scamp, what say you, you lazy villain,
why I shouldn’t give you fifteen lashes across your back, as hard as I
can draw?”
“Stop, ole mass,” said Tony; “dar’s de work in de garden, sir—dat ought
to tek some off.”
“You black dog,” said the captain, “haven’t I given you the proper
credit of ten stripes for that? Come, come!”
“Please, ole massa,” said Tony, rolling his eyes about in agony of
fright—“dar’s—you forgot—dar’s de scourin ob de floor—ole missus say
nebber been scour as good before.”
“Soho, you saucy rascal,” quoth Captain Stick, “you’re bringing in more
offsets, are you? Well, now, there!” Here the captain made an entry upon
his book. “You have a credit of five stripes, and the balance must be
paid.”
“Gor a mity, massa, don’t hit yet—dar’s sumpen else—oh, Lord! please
don’t—yes, sir—got um now—ketchin de white boy and fetchin’ um to ole
missus, what trow rock at de young duck.”
“That’s a fact,” said the captain; “the outrageous young vagabond—that’s
a fact, and I’ll give you credit of _ten_ stripes for it. I wish you had
brought him to _me_. Now, we’ll settle the balance.”
[Illustration: “‘STOP, OLE MASS,’ SAID TONY; ‘DAR’S DE WORK IN DE
GARDEN, SIR.’”]
“Bress de Lord, ole massa,” said Tony, “_dat’s all_.” Tony grinned
extravagantly. The captain adjusted his tortoise-shell spectacles with
great exactness, held the book close to his eyes, and ascertained that
the fact was as stated by Tony. He was not a little irritated.
“You swear off the account, you infernal rascal—you swear off the
account, do you?”
“All de credit is fair, ole massa,” answered Tony.
“Yes, but”—said the disappointed captain—“but—but,”—still the captain
was sorely puzzled how to give Tony a _few licks_ anyhow; “but——” An
idea popped into his head.
“_Where’s my costs_, you incorrigible, abominable scoundrel? You want to
swindle me, do you, out of my costs, you black deceitful rascal? And,”
added Captain Stick, chuckling as well at his own ingenuity as the
perfect justice of the sentence, “I enter judgment against you for
costs—ten stripes,” and forthwith administered the stripes and satisfied
the judgment. “Ki’ nigger!” said Tony, “ki’ nigger! What dis judgmen’
for coss ole massa talk ’bout. Done git off ’bout not blackin’ de boot,
git off ’bout stayin’ long time at de mill, and ebery ting else, but dis
judgmen’ for coss gim me de debbil. Bress God, nigger must keep out ob
de ole stable, or, I’ll tell you what, dat _judgmen’ for coss_ make e
back feel mighty warm, for true!”
_Johnson T. Hooper._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“_ITEMS” FROM THE PRESS OF INTERIOR CALIFORNIA._
[Illustration]
A LITTLE bit of romance has just transpired to relieve the monotony of
our metropolitan life. Old Sam Choggins, whom the editor of this paper
has so often publicly thrashed, has returned from Mud Springs with a
young wife. He is said to be very fond of her, and the way he came to
get her was this:
Some time ago we courted her, but finding she was “on the make” threw
her off, after shooting her brother and two cousins. She vowed revenge,
and promised to marry any man who would horsewhip us. This Sam agreed to
undertake, and she married him on that promise.
We shall call on Sam to-morrow with our new shot-gun, and present our
congratulations in the usual form.—_Hangtown Gibbet._
* * * * *
There was considerable excitement in the street yesterday, owing to the
arrival of Bust-Head Dave, formerly of this place, who came over on the
stage from Pudding Springs. He was met at the hotel by Sheriff Knogg,
who leaves a large family, and whose loss will be universally deplored.
Dave walked down the street to the bridge, and it reminded one of old
times to see the people go away as he heaved in view. It was not through
any fear of the man, but from knowledge that he had made a threat (first
published in this paper) to clean out the town. Before leaving the place
Dave called at our office to settle for a year’s subscription
(invariably in advance), and was informed, through a chink in the logs,
that he might leave his dust in the tin cup at the well.
Dave is looking very much larger than at his last visit just previous to
the funeral of Judge Dawson. He left for Injun Hill at five o’clock
amidst a good deal of shooting at rather long range, and there will be
an election for sheriff as soon as a stranger can be found who will
accept the honour.—_Yankee Flat Advertiser._
* * * * *
The superintendent of the May Davis Mine requests us to state that the
custom of pitching Chinamen and Injuns down the shaft will have to be
stopped, as he has resumed work in the mine. The old well-huck of Jo.
Bowman’s is just as good, and is more centrally located.—_New Jerusalem
Courier._
* * * * *
A stranger wearing a stove-pipe hat arrived in town yesterday, putting
up at the Nugget House. The boys are having a good time with that hat
this morning, and the funeral will take place at two o’clock.—_Spanish
Camp Flag._
There is some dispute about land titles at Little Bilk Bar. About
half-a-dozen cases were temporarily decided Wednesday, but it is
supposed the widows will renew the litigation. The only proper way to
prevent these vexatious law-suits is to hang the Judge of the County
Court.—_Cow County Outcropper._
_Ambrose Bierce_ (_“Dod Grile”)._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_AN AVALANCHE OF DRUGS._
[Illustration “THE JUDGE WAS GRATIFIED TO FIND THAT HIS HAIR HAD
RETURNED.”]
I HAVE been the victim of a somewhat singular persecution for several
weeks past. When we came here to live, Judge Pitman was partially bald.
Somebody induced him to apply to his head a hair restorative made by a
Chicago man named Pulsifer. After using this liquid for a few months the
judge was gratified to find that his hair had returned; and as he
naturally regarded the remedy with admiration, he concluded that it
would be simply fair to give expression to his feelings in some form. As
I happened to be familiar with all the facts of the case, the judge
induced me to draw up a certificate affirming them over my signature.
This he mailed to Pulsifer. I have not yet ceased to regret the weakness
which permitted me to stand sponsor for Judge Pitman’s hair. Of course,
Pulsifer immediately inserted the certificate, with my name and
residence attached to it, in half the papers in the country, as a
displayed advertisement, beginning with the words, “_Hope for the
bald-headed; the most remarkable cure on record_,” in the largest
capital letters.
I have had faith in advertising since that time; and Pulsifer had
confidence in it too, for he wrote to me to know what I would take to
get him up a series of similar certificates of cures performed by his
other patent medicines. He had a Corn Salve which dragged a little in
its sales, and he was prepared to offer me a commission if I would write
him a strong letter to the effect that six or eight frightful corns had
been eradicated from my feet with his admirable preparation. He was in a
position also to do something handsome if I could describe a few
miraculous cures that had been effected by his Rheumatic Lotion, or if I
would name certain ruined stomachs which had, as it were, been born
again through the influence of Pulsifer’s Herb Bitters; and from the
manner in which he wrote, I think he would have taken me into
partnership if I had consented to write an assurance that his Ready
Relief had healed a bad leg of eighteen years standing, and that I could
never feel that my duty was honourably performed until he sent me a
dozen bottles more for distribution among my friends whose legs were in
that defective and tiresome condition. I was obliged to decline
Pulsifer’s generous offer.
I heard with singular promptness from other medical men. Fillemup &
Killem forwarded some of their Hair Tonic, with a request for me to try
it on any bald heads I happened to encounter, and report. Doser & Co.
sent on two packages of their Capillary Pills, with a suggestion to the
effect that if Pitman lost his hair again he would get it back finally
by following the enclosed directions. I also heard from Brown & Bromley,
the agents for Johnson’s Scalp Awakener. They sent me twelve bottles for
distribution among my bald friends. Then Smith & Smithson wrote to say
that a cask of their Vesuvian Wash for the hair would be delivered in my
cellar by the Express Company; and a man called on me from Jones,
Butler, & Co., with a proposition to pump out my vinegar barrel, and
fill it with Balm of Peru for the gratuitous use of the afflicted in the
vicinity.
But this persecution was simply unalloyed felicity when compared with
the suffering that came in other forms. I will not attempt to give the
number of the letters I received. I cherish a conviction that the mail
received at our post-office doubled the first week after Judge Pitman’s
cure was announced to a hairless world. I think every bald-headed man in
the Tropic of Cancer must have written to me at least twice upon the
subject of Pulsifer’s Renovator and Pitman’s hair. Persons dropped me a
line to inquire if Pitman’s baldness was hereditary; and if so, if it
came from his father’s or his mother’s side. One man, a phrenologist,
sent on a plaster head mapped out into town-lots, with a suggestion that
I should ink over the bumps that had been barest and most fertile in the
case of Pitman. He said he had a little theory which he wanted to
demonstrate. A man in San Francisco wrote to inquire if my Pitman was
the same Pitman who came out to California in 1849 with a bald head; and
if he was, would I try to collect two dollars Pitman had borrowed from
him in that year? The superintendent of a Sunday-school in Vermont
forwarded eight pages of foolscap covered with an argument supporting
the theory that it was impious to attempt to force hair to grow upon a
head which had been made bald, because, although Elisha was bald, we
find no record in the Bible that he used renovator of any kind. He
warned Pitman to beware of Absalom’s fate, and to avoid riding mules out
in the woods. A woman in Snyder County, Pennsylvania, sent me a poem
inspired by the incident, and entitled “Lines on the Return of Pitman’s
Hair.” A party in Kansas desired to know whether I thought Pulsifer’s
Renovator could be used beneficially by a man who had been scalped. Two
men in New Jersey wrote, in a manner totally irrelevant to the subject,
to inquire if I could get each of them a good hired girl.
I received a confidential letter from a man who was willing to let me
into a “good thing” if I had five hundred dollars cash capital. Mrs.
Singerly, of Frankford, related that she had shaved her dog, and shaved
him too close, and she would be relieved if I would inform her if the
Renovator would make hair grow on a dog. A devoted mother in Rhode
Island said her little boy had accidentally drank a bottle of the stuff,
and she would go mad unless I could assure her that there was no danger
of her child having his stomach choked up with hair. And over eleven
hundred boys inquired what effect the Renovator would have on the growth
of whiskers which betrayed an inclination to stagnation.
[Illustration: “SOME BALD-HEADED MISCREANT WOULD STOP ME IN THE MIDST OF
THE DANCE.”]
But the visitors were a more horrible torment. Bald men came to see me
in droves. They persecuted me at home and abroad. If I went to church,
the sexton would call me out during the prayers to see a man in the
vestibule who wished to ascertain if Pitman merely bathed his head or
rubbed the medicine in with a brush. When I went to a party, some
bald-headed miscreant would stop me in the midst of the dance to ask if
Pitman’s hair began to grow in the full of the moon or when it was new.
While I was being shaved, some one would bolt into the shop and insist,
as the barber held me by the nose, upon knowing whether Pitman wore
ventilators in his hat. If I attended a wedding, as likely as not a
bare-headed outlaw would stand by me at the altar and ask if Pitman ever
slept in nightcaps; and more than once I was called out of bed at night
by wretches who wished to learn, before they left the town, if I thought
it hurt the hair to part it behind.
It became unendurable. I issued orders to the servants to admit to the
house no man with a bald head. But that very day a stranger obtained
admission to the parlour; and when I went down to see him, he stepped
softly around, closed all the doors mysteriously, and asked me, in a
whisper, if any one could hear us. Then he pulled off a wig; and handing
me a microscope, he requested me to examine his scalp and tell him if
there was any hope. I sent him over to see Pitman; and I gloat over the
fact that he bored Pitman for two hours with his baldness.
I am sorry now that I ever wrote anything upon the subject of his hair.
A bald Pitman, I know, is less fascinating than a Pitman with hair; but
rather than have suffered this misery, I would prefer a Pitman without
an eye-winker, or fuzz enough on him to make a camel’s-hair pencil. But
I shall hardly give another certificate of cure in any event. If I
should see a patent medicine man take a mummy which died the year Joseph
was sold into Egypt, and dose it until it kicked off its rags and danced
the polka mazurka while it whistled the tune, I would die at the stake
sooner than acknowledge the miracle on paper. Pitman’s hair winds me up
as far as medical certificates are concerned.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_MUSIC._
[Illustration: “ENDING BY SHINNING UP A TREE.”]
A WILD cat was listening with rapt approval to the melody of distant
hounds tracking a remote fox.
“Excellent! _bravo_!” she exclaimed at intervals. “I could sit and
listen all day to the like of that. I am passionately fond of music.
_Ong core!_”
Presently the tuneful sounds drew near, whereupon she began to fidget,
ending by shinning up a tree, just as the dogs burst into view below
her, and stifling their songs upon the body of their victim before her
eyes—which protruded.
“There is an indefinable charm,” said she—“a subtle and tender spell—a
mystery—a conundrum, as it were—in the sounds of an unseen orchestra.
This is quite lost when the performers are visible to the audience.
Distant music (if any) for your obedient servant!”
_Ambrose Bierce_ (“_Dod Grile._”)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_MAXIMS._
NEVER spare the parson’s wine, nor the baker’s pudding.
A house without woman or firelight, is like a body without soul or
sprite.
Kings and bears often worry their keepers.
Light purse, heavy heart.
He’s a fool that makes his doctor his heir.
Ne’er take a wife till thou hast a house (and a fire) to put her in.
To lengthen thy life lessen thy meals.
He that drinks fast pays slow.
He is ill-clothed who is bare of virtue.
Beware of meat twice boil’d, and an old foe reconcil’d.
The heart of a fool is in his mouth, but the mouth of a wise man is in
his heart.
He that is rich need not live sparingly, and he that can live sparingly
need not be rich.
He that waits upon fortune is never sure of a dinner.
_Benjamin Franklin._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_MODEL OF A LETTER OF RECOMMENDATION OF A PERSON YOU ARE UNACQUAINTED
WITH._
PARIS, _April 2, 1777_.
SIR,—The bearer of this, who is going to America, presses me to give him
a letter of recommendation, though I know nothing of him, not even his
name. This may seem extraordinary, but I assure you it is not uncommon
here. Sometimes, indeed, one unknown person brings another equally
unknown, to recommend him; and sometimes they recommend one another! As
to this gentleman, I must refer you to himself for his character and
merits, with which he is certainly better acquainted than I can possibly
be. I recommend him, however, to those civilities which every stranger,
of whom one knows no harm, has a right to; and I request you will do him
all the favour that, on further acquaintance, you shall find him to
deserve. I have the honour to be, etc.
_Benjamin Franklin._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_ECHO-SONG_.
[Illustration: “WHO CAN SAY WHERE ECHO DWELLS?”]
I.
WHO can say where Echo dwells?
In some mountain-cave methinks,
Where the white owl sits and blinks;
Or in deep sequestered dells,
Where the foxglove hangs its bells,
Echo dwells.
Echo!
Echo!
II.
Phantom of the crystal air,
Daughter of sweet mystery!
Here is one has need of thee;
Lead him to thy secret lair,
Myrtle brings he for thy hair—
Hear his prayer—
Echo!
Echo!
III.
Echo, lift thy drowsy head,
And repeat each charmëd word
Thou must needs have overheard
Yestere’en ere, rosy-red,
Daphne down the valley fled—
Words unsaid,
Echo!
Echo!
IV.
Breathe the vows she since denies!
She hath broken every vow;
What she would she would not now—
Thou didst hear her perjuries.
Whisper, whilst I shut my eyes,
Those sweet lies,
Echo!
Echo!
_Thomas Bailey Aldrich._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_COLONEL MULBERRY SELLERS._
COLONEL MULBERRY SELLERS was in his “library,” which was his
“drawing-room,” and was also his “picture gallery,” and likewise his
“workshop.” Sometimes he called it by one of these names, sometimes by
another, according to occasion and circumstance. He was constructing
what seemed to be some kind of a frail mechanical toy, and was
apparently very much interested in his work. He was a white-headed man
now, but otherwise he was as young, alert, buoyant, visionary, and
enterprising as ever. His loving old wife sat near by, contentedly
knitting and thinking, with a cat asleep in her lap. The room was large,
light, and had a comfortable look—in fact, a home-like look—though the
furniture was of a humble sort, and not over-abundant, and the
knick-knacks and things that go to adorn a living-room not plenty and
not costly. But there were natural flowers, and there was an abstract
and unclassifiable something about the place which betrayed the presence
in the house of somebody with a happy taste and an effective touch.
Even the deadly chromos on the walls were somehow without offence; in
fact, they seemed to belong there, and to add an attraction to the
room—a fascination, anyway; for whoever got his eye on one of them was
like to gaze and suffer till he died—you have seen that kind of
pictures. Some of these terrors were landscapes, some libelled the sea,
some were ostensible portraits, all were crimes. All the portraits were
recognisable as dead Americans of distinction, and yet, through
labelling, added by a daring hand, they were all doing duty here as
“Earls of Rossmore.” The newest one had left the works as Andrew
Jackson, but was doing its best now as “Simon Lathers Lord Rossmore,
Present Earl.” On one wall was a cheap old railroad map of Warwickshire.
This had been newly labelled, “The Rossmore Estates.” On the opposite
wall was another map, and this was the most imposing decoration of the
establishment, and the first to catch a stranger’s attention, because of
its great size. It had once borne simply the title SIBERIA; but now the
word “FUTURE” had been written in front of that word. There were other
additions, in red ink—many cities, with great populations set down,
scattered over the vast country at points where neither cities nor
populations exist to-day. One of these cities, with population placed at
1,500,000, bore the name “Libertyorloffskoizalinski,” and there was a
still more populous one, centrally located and marked “Capitol,” which
bore the name “Freedomslovnaivenovich.”
The mansion—the Colonel’s usual name for the house—was a rickety old
two-storey frame of considerable size, which had been painted, some time
or other, but had nearly forgotten it. It was away out in the ragged
edge of Washington, and had once been somebody’s country place. It had a
neglected yard around it, with a paling fence that needed straightening
up, in places, and a gate that would stay shut. By the door-post were
several modest tin signs. “Col. Mulberry Sellers, Attorney-at-Law and
Claim Agent,” was the principal one. One learned from the others that
the Colonel was a Materialiser, a Hypnotiser, a Mind-cure dabbler, and
so on. For he was a man who could always find things to do.
A white-headed negro man, with spectacles and damaged white cotton
gloves, appeared in the presence, made a stately obeisance, and
announced—
“Marse Washington Hawkins, suh.”
“Great Scott! Show him in, Dan’l, show him in.”
[Illustration: “A STOUTISH, DISCOURAGED-LOOKING MAN.”]
The Colonel and his wife were on their feet in a moment, and the
next moment were joyfully wringing the hands of a stoutish,
discouraged-looking man, whose general aspect suggested that he was
fifty years old, but whose hair swore to a hundred.
“Well, well, well, Washington, my boy, it _is_ good to look at you
again. Sit down, sit down, and make yourself at home. There now—why, you
look perfectly natural; ageing a little, just a little, but you’d have
known him anywhere, wouldn’t you, Polly?”
“Oh, yes, Berry, he’s _just_ like his pa would have looked if he’d
lived. Dear, dear, where have you dropped from? Let me see, how long is
it since——”