villages, the first antelope, and the first wolf. If I remember rightly,
this latter was the regular _cayote_ (pronounced ky-_o_-te) of the
farther deserts. And if it _was_, he was not a pretty creature or
respectable either, for I got well acquainted with his race afterward,
and can speak with confidence. The cayote is a long, slim, sick- and
sorry-looking skeleton, with a grey wolf-skin stretched over it, a
tolerably bushy tail that for ever sags down with a despairing
expression of forsakenness and misery, a furtive and evil eye, and a
long, sharp face, with slightly lifted lip and exposed teeth. He has a
general slinking expression all over. The cayote is a living, breathing
allegory of want. He is _always_ hungry. He is always poor, out of luck,
and friendless. The meanest creatures despise him, and even the fleas
would desert him for a velocipede. He is so spiritless and cowardly that
even while his exposed teeth are pretending a threat, the rest of his
face is apologising for it. And he is _so_ homely!—so scrawny, and
ribby, and coarse-haired, and pitiful. When he sees you he lifts his lip
and lets a flash of his teeth out, and then turns a little out of the
course he was pursuing, depresses his head a bit, and strikes a long,
soft-footed trot through the sage-brush, glancing over his shoulder at
you, from time to time, till he is about out of easy pistol range, and
then he stops and takes a deliberate survey of you; he will trot fifty
yards and stop again—another fifty and stop again; and finally the grey
of his gliding body blends with the grey of the sagebrush, and he
disappears. All this is when you make no demonstration against him; but
if you do, he develops a livelier interest in his journey, and instantly
electrifies his heels, and puts such a deal of real estate between
himself and your weapon that by the time you have raised the hammer you
see that you need a minié rifle, and by the time you have got him in
line you need a rifled cannon, and by the time you have “drawn a bead”
on him you see well enough that nothing but an unusually long-winded
streak of lightning could reach him where he is now. But if you start a
swift-footed dog after him, you will enjoy it ever so much—especially if
it is a dog that has a good opinion of himself, and has been brought up
to think he knows something about speed. The cayote will go swinging
gently off on that deceitful trot of his, and every little while he will
smile a fraudful smile over his shoulder that will fill that dog
entirely full of encouragement and worldly ambition, and make him lay
his head still lower to the ground, and stretch his neck further to the
front, and pant more fiercely, and stick his tail out straighter behind,
and move his furious legs with a yet wilder frenzy, and leave a broader
and broader, and higher and denser cloud of desert sand smoking behind,
and marking his long wake across the level plain! And all this time the
dog is only a short twenty feet behind the cayote, and to save the soul
of him he cannot understand why it is that he cannot get perceptibly
closer; and he begins to get aggravated, and it makes him madder and
madder to see how gently the cayote glides along and never pants or
sweats or ceases to smile; and he grows still more and more incensed to
see how shamefully he has been taken in by an entire stranger, and what
an ignoble swindle that long, calm, soft-footed trot is; and next he
notices that he is getting fagged, and that the cayote actually has to
slacken speed a little to keep from running away from him—and _then_
that town-dog is mad in earnest, and he begins to strain and weep and
swear, and paw the sand higher than ever, and reach for the cayote with
concentrated and desperate energy. This “spurt” finds him six feet
behind the gliding enemy, and two miles from his friends. And then, in
the instant that a wild new hope is lighting up his face, the cayote
turns and smiles blandly upon him once more, and with a something about
it which seems to say: “Well, I shall have to tear myself away from you,
bub—business is business, and it will not do for me to be fooling along
this way all day”—and forthwith there is a rushing sound, and the sudden
splitting of a long crack through the atmosphere, and behold that dog is
solitary and alone in the midst of a vast solitude!
It makes his head swim. He stops and looks all around; climbs the
nearest sand-mound, and gazes into the distance; shakes his head
reflectively, and then, without a word, he turns and jogs along back to
his train, and takes up a humble position under the hindmost waggon, and
feels unspeakably mean, and looks ashamed, and hangs his tail at
half-mast for a week. And forasmuch as a year after that, whenever there
is a great hue and cry after a cayote, that dog will merely glance in
that direction without emotion, and apparently observe to himself, “I
believe I do not wish any of the pie.”
The cayote lives chiefly in the most desolate and forbidding deserts,
along with the lizard, the jackass-rabbit, and the raven, and gets an
uncertain and precarious living, and earns it. He seems to subsist
almost wholly on the carcasses of oxen, mules, and horses that have
dropped out of emigrant trains and died, and upon windfalls of carrion,
and occasional legacies of offal bequeathed to him by white men who have
been opulent enough to have something better to butcher than condemned
army bacon. He will eat anything in the world that his first cousins,
the desert-frequenting tribes of Indians, will, and they will eat
anything they can bite. It is a curious fact that these latter are the
only creatures known to history who will eat nitroglycerine and ask for
more if they survive.
The cayote of the deserts beyond the Rocky Mountains has a peculiarly
hard time of it, owing to the fact that his relations, the Indians, are
just as apt to be the first to detect a seductive scent on the desert
breeze, and follow the fragrance to the late ox it emanated from, as he
is himself; and when this occurs he has to content himself with sitting
off at a little distance watching those people strip off and dig out
everything edible, and walk off with it. Then he and the waiting ravens
explore the skeleton and polish the bones. It is considered that the
cayote, and the obscene bird, and the Indian of the desert, testify
their blood kinship with each other in that they live together in the
waste places of the earth on terms of perfect confidence and friendship,
while hating all other creatures and yearning to assist at their
funerals. He does not mind going a hundred miles to breakfast, and a
hundred and fifty to dinner, because he is sure to have three or four
days between meals, and he can just as well be travelling and looking at
the scenery as lying around doing nothing and adding to the burdens of
his parents.
We soon learned to recognise the sharp, vicious bark of the cayote as it
came across the murky plain at night to disturb our dreams among the
mail-sacks; and remembering his forlorn aspect and his hard fortune,
made shift to wish him the blessed novelty of a long day’s good luck and
a limitless larder the morrow.
_Samuel L. Clemens_ (“_Mark Twain_”).
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_THE HEAD-WRITER._
[Illustration: “‘AND YOU NOTICE MY CORPULENT BUILD?’”]
IT was early in the morning when I heard a great puffing and blowing on
the stairs, and pretty soon footsteps sounded in the hall, and a woman’s
voice said—
“Now, John Quincy, you want to look as smart as you can!”
The next moment the door opened, and a big fat woman and a small thin
boy came into the room. She gave her dress a shake, snatched the boy’s
hat off, and then, looking at me, she inquired—
“Is the head-writer in?”
“He is, madam,” I replied.
“Be you him?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, as she sat down on a chair and fanned herself
with her handkerchief; “I like to have never got upstairs.”
I smiled and nodded.
“You see that boy thar?” she inquired after a while.
“Your son, I suppose?” I answered; “nice-looking lad.”
“Yes, he’s smart as a fox. There isn’t a thing he don’t know. Why, he
isn’t but eight, and he composes poetry, writes letters, and plays tunes
on the fiddle!”
“You ought to be proud of him,” I said.
“Wall, we kinder hope he’ll turn out well,” she answered. “Come up here,
John Quincy, and speak that piece about that boy who stood on the busted
deck.”
“I won’t!” replied the boy in a positive tone.
“He’s a little bashful, you see,” giving me an apologetical smile. “He’s
rid fourteen miles this morning, and he doesn’t feel well, anyhow; I
shouldn’t wonder if he was troubled with worums.”
“Worms be blowed!” replied John Quincy, chewing away at his hat.
“He’s awful skeard when he’s among strangers,” she went on; “but he’ll
git over it in a short time. What I cum in for was to see if you
wouldn’t take him and make a head-writer of him.”
“I don’t want to be a durned old bald-headed head-writer!” said John
Quincy, picking his teeth with my scissors.
“The young never knows what’s good for ’em,” she went on. “He wants to
be a preacher, or a great lawyer, or a big doctor; but he seems to take
to writing, and we thought we’d make a head-writer of him. I don’t
sopose he’d earn over five or six dollars and board a week for the first
year, but I’ve bin told that Gen’ral Jackson didn’t get half that when
he begun.”
“Madam,” I commenced, as she stopped for breath, “I’d like to take the
boy. He looks as smart as a steel trap, and no doubt he’ll turn out a
great man.”
“Then you’ll take him?”
“If you agree as to terms.”
“What is them ter-ums?”
“You see my left eye is out?”
“Yes.”
“Well, your son can never become a great writer unless you put his left
eye out. If you will think back you will remember that you never saw a
great writer whose left eye was not out. This is a matter of economy. A
one-eyed writer only needs half as much light as a man with two eyes,
and he isn’t half so apt to discover hair-pins in his butter, and
buttons in his oyster soup. The best way to put his eye out is to jab a
red-hot needle into it.”
“Good grashus!” she exclaimed.
“And you observe that I am bald-headed? You may think that my baldness
results from scalp disease, but such is not the case. When a head-writer
is bothered to get an idea he scratches his head. Scratching the hair
wouldn’t do any good; it’s the scalp he must agitate. The hair is
therefore pulled out with a pair of pincers, in order that a man can get
right down to the scalp at once, and save time.”
“Can that be possible?”
“All this is strictly true, madam. You also observe that one of my legs
is shorter than the other. Without an explanation on my part you would
attribute this to some accident. Such is not the case. Every head-writer
is located in the fourth storey of the office, and his left leg is
shortened three inches to enable him to run up and down stairs. You will
have to have a doctor unjoint your son’s leg at the hip, saw it off to
the proper length, and then hook it back in its place.”
“Did I ever hear the likes!” she exclaimed.
“And you also observe, madam, that two of my front teeth are gone. You
might think they decayed, but such was not the case. They were knocked
out with a crowbar in order to enable me to spit ten feet. According to
a law enacted at the last Session of Congress, any head-writer who can’t
spit ten feet is not entitled to receive Congressional reports free of
postage.”
“Can it be so?” she said, her eyes growing larger every moment.
“And you notice my corpulent build?” I went on; “you might think this
the result of high-living, but it is not. Every head-writer of any
prominence has one of these big stomachs on him. They are all members of
a secret society, and they tell each other outside of the lodge-room in
this way: I am naturally very tall and thin, but I had to conform to the
rules. They cut a hole in my chest and filled me out by stuffing in dry
Indian meal. It took two bushels and a peck, and then it lacked a
little, and they had to fill up with oatmeal. Now then, madam, you see
what your son must go through with, and I leave you to judge whether you
will have him learn the head-writer’s trade or not. I like the looks of
the boy very much, and if you desire to——”
“I guess we’ll go hum!” she exclaimed, lifting herself off the chair. “I
kinder want him to be a head-writer, and yit I think I ought to have a
little more talk with his father, who wants him to git to be boss in a
saw-mill. I’m ’bleged to you, and if we conclude to have him——”
“Yes, bring him right in, day or night. The first thing will be to
unhinge his left leg and——!”
But they were out in the hall, and I heard John Quincy remark:
“Head-writer be blowed!”
_C. B. Lewis_ (“_M Quad_”).
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_PELEG W. PONDER; OR, THE POLITICIAN WITHOUT A SIDE._
[Illustration: “HE DON’T KNOW WHAT TO THINK.”]
IT is a curious thing—an unpleasant thing—a very embarrassing sort of
thing—but the truth must be told—if not at all times, at least
sometimes; and truth now compels the declaration that Peleg W. Ponder,
whose character is here portrayed, let him travel in any way, cannot
arrive at a conclusion. He never had one of his own. He scarcely knows a
conclusion, even if he should chance to see one belonging to other
people, and, as for reaching a result, he would never be able to do it,
if he could stretch like a giraffe. Results are beyond his compass. And
his misfortune is, perhaps, hereditary, his mother’s name having been
Mrs. Perplexity Ponder, whose earthly career came to an end while she
was in dubitation as to which of the various physicians of the place
should be called in. If there had been only one doctor in the town,
Perplexity Ponder might have been saved. But there was many—and what
could Perplexity do in such a case?
Ponder’s father was run over by a waggon, as he stood debating with
himself, in the middle of the road, whether he should escape forward or
retreat backward. There were two methods of extrication, and between
them both old Ponder became a victim. How then could their worthy son,
Peleg, be expected to arrive at a conclusion? He never does.
Yet, for one’s general comfort and particular happiness, there does not
appear to be any faculty more desirable than the power of “making up the
mind.” Right or wrong, it saves a deal of wear and tear; and it prevents
an infinite variety of trouble. Commend us to the individual who chooses
upon propositions like a nutcracker—whose promptness of will has a
sledge-hammer way with it, and hits nails continually on the head.
Genius may be brilliant—talent commanding! but what is genius, or what
is talent, if it lack that which we may call the clinching faculty—if it
hesitates, veers, and flutters—suffers opportunities to pass, and
stumbles at occasion? To reason well is much, no doubt, but reason loses
the race if it sits in meditation on the fence when competition rushes
by.
Under the best of circumstances, something must be left to hazard. There
is a chance in all things. No man can so calculate odds in the affairs
of life as to ensure a certainty. The screws and linchpins necessary to
our purpose have not the inflexibility of fate; yet they must be trusted
at some degree of risk. Our candle may be put out by a puff of wind on
the stair, let it be sheltered ever so carefully. Betsy is a good cook,
yet beefsteaks have been productive of strangulation. Does it then
follow from this that we are never to go to bed, except in the dark, and
to abstain from breaking our fast until dinner is announced?
One may pause and reflect too much. There must be action, conclusion,
result, or we are a failure, to all intents and purposes—a
self-confessed failure—defunct from the beginning. And such was the case
with Peleg W. Ponder, who never arrived at a conclusion, or contrived to
reach a result. Peleg is always “stumped”—he “don’t know what to
think”—he “can’t tell what to say”—an unfinished gentleman, with a mind
like a dusty garret, full, as it were, of rickety furniture, yet nothing
serviceable—broken-backed chairs—three-legged tables—pitchers without
handles—cracked decanters and fractured looking-glasses—that museum of
mutilations in which housewifery rejoices, under the vague but never
realised hope that these things may eventually “come in play.” Peleg’s
opinions lie about the workshop of his brains, in every stage of
progress but the last—chips, sticks, and sawdust enough, but no article
ready to send home.
Should you meet Peleg in the street with “Good morning, Peleg—how do you
find yourself to-day?”
“Well—I don’t know exactly—I’m pretty—no, not very—pray, how do you do
yourself?”
Now if a man does not know exactly, or nearly, how he is after being up
for several hours, and having had abundant time to investigate the
circumstances of his case, it is useless to propound questions of
opinion to such an individual. It is useless to attempt it with Peleg.
“How do you do?” puzzles him—he is fearful of being too rash, and of
making a reply which might not be fully justified by after-reflection.
His head may be about to ache, and he has other suspicious feelings.
“People are always asking me how I do, and more than half the time I
can’t tell. There’s a good many different sorts of ways of feeling
betwixt and between ‘Very sick, I thank you,’ and ‘Half-dead, I’m
obliged to you;’ and people won’t stop to hear you explain the matter.
They want to know right smack, when you don’t know right smack yourself.
Sometimes you feel things a-coming, and just after you feel things
a-going. And nobody’s exactly prime all the while. I ain’t, anyhow—I’m
kinder so just now, and I’m sorter t’other way just after. Then, some
people tell you that you look very well, when you don’t feel very
well—how then?”
At table Peleg is not exactly sure what he will take; and sits looking
slowly up and down the board, deliberating what he would like, until the
rest of the company have finished their repast, there being often
nothing left which suits Peleg’s hesitating appetite.
Peleg has never married—not that he is averse to the connubial state—on
the contrary, he has a large share of the susceptibilities, and is
always partially in love. But female beauty is so various. At one time
Peleg is inclined to believe that perfection lies in queenly dignity—the
majesty of an empress fills his dreams; and he looks down with disdain
on little people. He calls them “squabs” in derogation. But anon, in a
more domestic mood, he thinks of fireside happiness and quiet bliss,
declining from the epic poetry of loveliness to the household wife, who
might be disposed to bring him his slippers, and to darn the hole in his
elbow. When in the tragic vein he fancies a brunette; and when the
sunshine is on his soul, blue eyes are at a premium. Should woman
possess the slightness of a sylph, or should her charms be of the more
solid architecture? Ought her countenance to beam in smiles, or will
habitual pensiveness be the more interesting? Is sparkling brilliancy to
be preferred to gentle sweetness?
“If there wasn’t so many of them, I shouldn’t be so bothered,” said
Peleg; “or if they all looked alike, a man couldn’t help himself. But
yesterday I wanted this one; to-day, I want that one; and to-morrow I’ll
want t’other one; and how can I tell, if I should get this, or that, or
t’other, that it wouldn’t soon be somebody else that I really wanted?
That’s the difficulty. It always happens so with me. When the lady’s
most courted, and thinks I ought to speak out, then I begin to be
skeered, for fear I’ve made a mistake, and have been thinking I loved
her, when I didn’t. Maybe it’s not the right one—maybe she won’t
suit—maybe I might do better—maybe I had better not venture at all. I
wish there wasn’t so many ‘maybe’s’ about everything, especially in such
affairs. I’ve got at least a dozen unfinished courtships on hand
already.”
But all this happened a long time ago; and Peleg has gradually lost
sight of his fancy for making an addition to his household. Not that he
has concluded, even yet, to remain a bachelor. He would be alarmed at
the bare mention of such an idea. He could not consent to be shelved in
that decisive manner. But he has subsided from active “looking around”
in pursuit of his object, into that calm, irresponsible submissiveness,
characteristic of the somewhat elderly bachelor, which waits until she
may chance to present herself spontaneously, and “come along” of her own
accord. “Some day—some day,” says Peleg; “it will happen some day or
other. What’s the use of being in a hurry?”
Peleg W. Ponder’s great object is now ambition. His personal affairs are
somewhat embarrassed by his lack of enterprise, and he hankers greatly
for an office. But which side to join? Ay, there’s the rub! Who will
purvey the loaf and fish? for whom shall Peleg shout?
Behold him as he puzzles over the returns of the State elections,
labouring in vain to satisfy his mind as to the result of the
presidential contest. Stupefied by figures—perplexed by contradictory
statements—bothered by the general hurrah; what can Peleg do?
“Who’s going to win? That’s all I want to know,” exclaims the vexed
Peleg. “I don’t want to waste my time a-blowing out for the wrong
person, and never get a thank’e. What’s the use of that? There’s
Simpkins—says I, Simpkins, says I, which is the party that can’t be
beat? And Simpkins turns up his nose and tells me every fool knows
that—it’s his side—so I hurrah for Simpkins’ side as hard as I can. But
then comes Timpkins—Timpkins’ side is t’other side from Simpkins’
side—and Timpkins offers to bet me three levies that his side is the
side that can’t be beat. Hurrah! says I, for Timpkins’ side!—and then I
can’t tell which side.”
“As for the newspapers, that’s worse still. They not only crow all
round, but they cipher it out so clear that both sides must win, if
there’s any truth in the ciphering-book; which there isn’t about
election time. What’s to be done? I’ve tried going to all the
meetings—I’ve hurrahed for everybody—I’ve been in all the processions,
and I sit a little while every evening in all sorts of headquarters.
I’ve got one kind of documents in one pocket, and t’other kind of
documents in t’other pocket; and as I go home at night I sing one sort
of song as loud as I can bawl half of the way, and try another sort of
song the rest of the way, just to split the difference and show my
impartiality. If I only had two notes—a couple of ’em—how nice it would
be!
“But the best thing that can be done now, I guess, as my character is
established both ways, is to turn in quietly till the row is all over.
Nobody will miss me when they are all so busy; and afterwards, when we
know all about it, just look for Peleg W. Ponder as he comes down the
street, shaking people by the hand, and saying how we have used them up.
I can’t say so now, or I would, for I am not perfectly sure yet which is
‘we’ or which is ‘them.’ Time enough when the election is over.”
It will thus be seen that Ponder is a remarkable person. Peter Schlemihl
lost his shadow and became memorably unhappy in consequence; but what
was his misfortune when compared with that of the man who has no side?
What are shadows if weighed against sides? And Peleg is almost afraid
that he never will be able to get a side, so unlucky has he been
heretofore. He begins to dread that both sides may be defeated; and
then, let us ask, what is to become of him? Must he stand aside?
_Joseph C. Neal._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_THE SHAKERS._
THE Shakers is the strangest religious sex I ever met.
I’D hearn tell of ’em and I’d seen ’em, with their broad brim’d hats and
long wastid coats; but I’d never cum into immejit contack with ’em and
I’d sot ’em down as lackin intelleck, as I’d never seen ’em to my
Show—leastways, if they cum they was disgised in white peple’s close, so
I didn’t know ’em.
But in the Spring of 18— I got swampt in the exterior of New York State,
one dark and stormy night, when the winds Blue pityusly, and I was
forced to tie up with the Shakers.
I was toilin threw the mud, when in the dim vister of the futer I
obsarved the gleams of a taller candle. Tiein a hornet’s nest to my off
hoss’s tail to kinder encourage him, I soon reached the place. I knockt
at the door, which it was opened unto me by a tall, slick-faced, solum
lookin individooal, who turn’d out to be a Elder.
“Mr. Shaker,” sed I, “you see before you a Babe in the Woods, so to
speak, and he axes shelter of you.”
“Yay,” sed the Shaker, and he led the way into the house, another Shaker
bein sent to put my hosses and waggin under kiver.
A solum female, lookin sumwhat like a last year’s beanpole stuck into a
long meal bag, cum in and axed me was I athurst and did I hunger? to
which I urbanely anserd “a few.” She went orf and I endeverd to open a
conversashun with the old man.
“Elder, I spect?” sed I.
“Yay,” he sed.
“Helth’s good, I reckon?”
“Yay.”
“What’s the wages of a Elder, when he understans his bizness—or do you
devote your sarvices gratooitus?”
“Yay.”
“Stormy night, sir.”
“Yay.”
“If the storm continners there’ll be a mess underfoot, hay?”
“Yay.”
“It’s onpleasant when there’s a mess underfoot?”
“Yay.”
“If I may be so bold, kind sir, what’s the price of that pecooler kind
of weskit you wear, incloodin trimmins?”
“Yay!”
I pawsd a minit, and then, thinkin I’d be faseshus with him and see how
that would go, I slapt him on the shoulder, bust into a harty larf, and
told him that as a _yayer_ he had no livin ekal.
He jumpt up as if Bilin water had bin squirted into his ears, groaned,
rolled his eyes up tords the sealin and sed: “You’re a man of sin!” He
then walkt out of the room.
Jest then the female in the meal bag stuck her hed into the room and
statid that refreshments awaited the weary travler, and I sed if it was
vittles she ment the weary travler was agreeable, and I follered her
into the next room.
I sot down to the table and the female in the meal bag pored out sum
tea. She sed nothin, and for five minutes the only live thing in that
room was a old wooden clock, which tickt in a subdood and bashful manner
in the corner. This dethly stillness made me oneasy, and I determined to
talk to the female or bust. So sez I, “Marrige is agin your rules, I
bleeve, marm?”
“Yay.”
“The sexes liv strickly apart, I spect?”
“Yay.”
“It’s kinder singler,” sez I, puttin on my most sweetest look and
speakin in a winnin voice, “that so fair a made as thou never got
hitched to some likely feller.” [N.B.—She was upards of 40 and homely as
a stump fence, but I thawt I’d tickil her.]
“I don’t like men!” she sed, very short.
“Wall, I dunno,” sez I, “they’re a rayther important part of the
populashun. I don’t scarcely see how we could git along without ’em.”
“Us poor wimin folks would git along a grate deal better if there was no
men!”
“You’ll excoos me, marm, but I don’t think that air would work. It
wouldn’t be regler.”
“I’m afraid of men!” she sed.
“That’s onnecessary, marm. _You_ ain’t in no danger. Don’t fret yourself
on that pint.”
“Here, we’re shot out from the sinful world. Here, all is peas. Here, we
air brothers and sisters. We don’t marry and consekently we hav no
domestic difficulties. Husbans don’t abooze their wives—wives don’t
worrit their husbans. There’s no children here to worrit us. Nothin to
worrit us here. No wicked matrimony here. Would thow like to be a
Shaker?”
“No,” sez I, “it ain’t my stile.”
I had now histed in as big a load of pervishuns as I could carry
comfortable, and, leanin back in my cheer, commenst pickin my teeth with
a fork. The female went out, leavin me all alone with the clock. I
hadn’t sot thar long before the Elder poked his hed in at the door.
“You’re a man of sin!” he sed, and groaned and went away.