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How Deacon Tubman and
Parson Whitney Kept New Year's
_And Other Stories_
BY
W.H.H. MURRAY
_Illustrated_
BOSTON
CUPPLES & HURD
_94 Boylston Street_
1888
CONTENTS
How Deacon Tubman and Parson Whitney Kept New Year's
The Old Beggar's Dog
The Ball
Who Was He?
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
I
HOW DEACON TUBMAN AND PARSON WHITNEY KEPT NEW YEAR'S
(Illustrated by THOMAS WORTH)
Vignette Initial--"New Year's, eh?"
"What's the matter with the pesky thing?"
"Miranda belonged to that sisterhood commonly known as spinsters"
Miranda's chirography--"A Happy New Year"
"Ha, none of that, you woolly-coated rogue, you"
"I want to talk with you about the church"
"Tell the folks that you won't be back till night"
"It was found that the parson could steer a sled"
"Little Alice Dorchester begged him to stay"
"Old Jack was a horse of a great deal of character"
"Hillow, Deacon, ain't you going to shake out old shamble-heels to-day?"
"Jack was going nigh to a thirty clip"
"Go it, old boy!"
Tail piece
II
THE OLD BEGGAR'S DOG
(Illustrated by A.B. SHUTE)
Vignette Initial--"Trusty"
"The old man and his dog were constant companions"
"He was teaching the dog a new trick"
"It was to the honor of the crowd that they hooted the officer roundly"
Tail piece
III
THE BALL
(Illustrated by A.B. SHUTE)
Vignette Initial--"It was evening"
"The Lad began to play"
"The God of Music was there"
"Even the waiters caught the infection"
"The music stopped with a snap"
Tail piece
IV
WHO WAS HE?
(Illustrated by J.H. Snow)
Vignette Initial--"John Norton watched the approaching fire"
"A deer suddenly sprang from the bank"
"Past mossy banks where the great eddies whirled"
"Come ashore--you and your companion"
"The four sat in silence by the fire"
Tail piece
How Deacon Tubman and Parson Whitney Kept New Year's
I
[Illustration: Vignette Initial N]
"New Year's, eh?" exclaimed Deacon Tubman, as he lifted himself to his
elbow and peered through the frosty window pane toward the east, where
the colorless morning was creeping shiveringly into sight.
"New Year's, eh?" he repeated, as he hitched himself into an upright
position and straightened his night-cap, that had somehow gone askew in
his slumber. "Bless my soul, how the years fly! But that's all right;
yes, that's all right. No one can expect them to stay, and why should
we? there's better fish in the net than we've taken out yet," and with
this consolatory observation, the deacon rubbed his head energetically,
while the bright, happy look of his face grew brighter and happier as
the process proceeded. "Yes, there's better fish in the net than we've
taken out," he added, gayly, "and if there isn't, there's no use of
crying about it." With this philosophical observation, he bounced
merrily out of bed and into his trousers.
I say Deacon Tubman bounced into his trousers, but, to be exact, I
should say that he bounced into half of them; and, with the other half
trailing behind him, he skipped to the window and, putting his little,
plump, round face almost against the pane, gazed out upon the world.
Everything was bright, sparkling and cold, for the earth was covered
with snow and the clear gray of the early morning spread its rayless
illumination over the great dome, in the fading blue of which a few
starry points still gleamed.
"Bless me, what a morning!" he exclaimed. "Beautiful! beautiful!" he
repeated, as he stood with his eyes fastened upon the east and,
balancing himself on one foot, felt around with the other for that half
of the trousers not yet appropriated. "Bless me, what a day," he
ejaculated, as he saved himself by a quick, upward wrench, from falling
from a trip he had inadvertently given himself in an abortive effort to
insert his foot into the unfilled leg of his pantaloons. "Ha, ha, that's
a good un," he exclaimed; "trip yourself up in getting into your own
trousers, will you, Deacon Tubman?" and he laughed long and merrily to
himself over his little joke.
"A happy New Year to everybody," cried the deacon, as he thrust his foot
into his stocking, for the floor of the good man's chamber was
carpetless and so cleanly white that its cleanliness itself was enough
to freeze one. "Yes, a happy New Year to everybody, high, low, rich,
poor, south, north, east and west, where'er they are, the world over, at
home and abroad--Amen!" And the deacon, partly at the sweeping character
of his benediction and partly because he was feeling so jolly inside he
couldn't help it, laughed merrily, as he seized a boot and thrust his
foot vigorously into it.
"What's this? what's this?" cried the deacon, as he tugged away at the
straps until he was red in the face. "This boot never went on hard
before. What's the matter with the pesky thing?" And he arose from his
chair, and, standing on one foot, turned and twisted about, tugging all
the while at the straps.
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the deacon, disgusted with its strange
behavior, "what is the matter with the pesky boot?"
[Illustration: "_What's the matter with the pesky thing?_"]
Then he sat down upon the chair again, wrenched his foot out of the
offending article and held it up between both hands in front of him and
shook it violently, when, with a bump and a bound, out rattled a package
upon the floor and rolled half way across the room. The deacon was after
it in a jiffy and, seizing it in his little fat hands, held it up
before his eyes and read: "A New Year's gift from Miranda."
Now Miranda was the deacon's housekeeper,--Mrs. Tubman having peacefully
departed this life some years before,--and, speaking appreciatively of
the sex, a more prim, prudent, particular member of it never existed.
She had been initiated, some ten years before, into that amiable
sisterhood commonly known as spinsters, and was, it might be added, a
typical representative. Industrious? You may well say so. Her floors,
stoves, dishes, linen,--- well, if they weren't clean, nowhere on earth
might you find clean ones. She hated dirt as she did original sin, and
I've no doubt but that in her own mind considered its existence in the
world as the one certain, damning and conclusive evidence of the Fall.
It was really an entertainment to see her looking about the house for a
speck of dirt; and the cold-blooded manner in which she would seize upon
it, bear it away in the dust pan, and, removing the lid of the stove,
consign it to the flames, was--well,--what should I say,--yes, that's
it--was most edifying.
Amiable! Yes,--after her way. And a very noiseless sort of way it was,
too. For, though she had lived with the deacon for nearly a dozen
years, he had never known her to so far forget her propriety as to
indulge in anything more hearty and hilarious than the most decorous of
smiles, which smile was such a kind of illumination to her face as a
star of inconceivably small magnitude makes to the sky in trailing
across it.
[Illustration: "_Miranda belonged to that sisterhood commonly known as
spinsters._"]
Of her personal appearance I will say--nothing. Sacred let it be to
memory! If you ever saw her, or one like her, whether full front or
profile, whether sideways or edgewise, the vision, I am ready to swear,
remains with you vividly still. Let it suffice, then, when I observe
that Miss Miranda was not physically stout, and that the deacon's
standing joke was by no means a bad one when he described her as "not
actually burdened with fat." Yes, she was a very cleanly, very thin,
very prudent, very particular person, that never joined in any sports or
amusements; never joked or participated in any happy events in a happy,
joyous fashion, but lived unobtrusively, and, I may say, coldly, in her
own prim, cold, bloodless, little world.
"Gracious me!" exclaimed the deacon, as he looked at the package.
"Gracious me! what has got into Mirandy?" And he looked scrutinizingly
at the little, fine, thin, faintly-traced inscription on the package, as
if the writer had begrudged the ink that must be expended on the
letters, or from a subtle and mystic self-sympathy had made the
chirography faint, delicate, and attenuated as her own self.
"Gracious me!" reiterated Deacon Tubman, as he proceeded to untie the
knot in the pale blue ribbon smoothly bound around the package. "Who
ever knew Mirandy to make a present before?" and the deacon was so
surprised at what had taken place that, for a moment, he doubted the
evidence of his own senses. "And put it in my boot, too, ha, ha!" And
the deacon stopped undoing the parcel, and, lying back in the chair,
roared at the thought of the prim, modest, particular Miranda
perpetrating such a joke. And when the wrapping of the package was at
last undone, for every corner and crease of it was as carefully turned
and as sharply edged as if the smoothing iron had passed over
them,--will wonders ever cease in this startling world of ours?--out
dropped a night-cap! Yes, a night-cap, delicately and deftly crocheted
in warm, woolen stuff of a rich cardinal color.
"Ha, ha," laughed the deacon, as he held the cap between his thumb and
forefinger of one hand up before his eyes, while he rubbed his bald
crown with the other. "Good for Mirandy." And then, as a small slip of
white paper fluttered to the floor, he seized it, and read:
[Handwritten: A happy New Year
to Deacon Tubman
from Miranda.]
"A good girl, a good girl," said the deacon, "not overburdened with fat,
but a good girl!" and with this rather equivocal compliment to the
donor, with his boot in one hand and the cap in the other, he rushed
impulsively to the stairway and shouted:
"A happy New Year to you, Mirandy. God bless you; God bless you," and he
swung the boot, instead of the cap, vigorously over his head, while his
round, rosy face beamed down the stairway into the cold hall below, like
a warm harvest moon over the autumnal stubble.
In response to the deacon's hearty, and, I may say, somewhat uproarious
greeting, the kitchen door timidly opened, and Miranda, who had been
astir for nearly an hour and had the table already laid for breakfast,
stepped into view, and, with a smile on her face that actually broadened
its thinness dangerously near to the proportions of a genial and happy
reciprocation of the jovial greeting, dropped a courtesy, and said:
"Thank you, Deacon Tubman, I hope you may have many happy returns."
"A thousand to you, Mirandy," shouted the deacon in response, "a
thousand to you and your--children!" and the little man swung his boot
vehemently over his head and laughed like a boy at his own joke, while
poor, frightened, scandalized Miranda turned and scudded, like a patch
of thin vapor blown by an unexpected gust of wind, through the door into
the kitchen, with a face colored scarlet from an actual, unmistakable
blush, though whence the blood came that reddened the clean cold-white
of her thin face is a physiological mystery.
In a moment the deacon was fully dressed and he scuttled as merrily and
noisily down the resounding stairway as a gust of autumn wind running
through a patch of russet leaves. Through the hall and kitchen he
bustled and out into the woodshed, where he ran against old Towser, the
big Newfoundland watch-dog, who stood in the passage expectantly
watching his coming.
[Illustration: "_Ha, none of that, you woolly-coated rogue, you._"]
"A happy New Year to you, Towser, old boy," he cried, and, seizing the
huge dog by his shaggy coat, he wrestled with him like a merry-hearted
boy. "A happy New Year to you, old fellow," he repeated, as the dog
broke into a series of joyful barks; "speak it right out, Towser. God
made you as full of fun as he has the rest of us, and a good deal
fuller than many of your kind, and mine, too," and with this backhanded
hit at the vinegar-visaged and acidulous-hearted of his own species, the
deacon shuffled along the crisp, icy path toward the barn, while Towser
gamboled through the deep snow and plunged into the huge, fleecy drifts
in as merry a mood as his merry master.
"A happy New Year to you, old Jack," he called out to his horse, as he
entered the barn, and Jack neighed a happy return, more expectant,
perhaps, of his breakfast of oats than appreciative of the greeting.
"And a happy New Year to you, you youngster," he shouted to the colt,
who, being at liberty to roam at will, had already appropriated a
section of the hay-mow to his own satisfaction. "Ha, none of that, you
woolly-coated rogue, you," he cried, as he jumped aside to escape a kick
that the bunch of equine mischief anticly snapped at him. "None of that,
you little unconverted sinner, you. I verily believe the parson is
right, and that
'In Adam's fall
We sinned all--'
men and beasts, colts and children, all in one lot."
And so, talking to himself and his cattle, the jolly little man, whose
good-heartedness represented more genuine orthodoxy than the whole
Westminster catechism, bustled merrily about the barn and did his
chores, while the cockerels crowed noisily from their perches overhead,
the fat white pigs grunted in lazy contentment from their warm beds of
straw, and the oxen, with their large, luminous eyes, gazed benevolently
at him as he crammed their mangers generously full with the fragrant hay
that smelled sweetly of the flowers and odorous meadow lands, where in
the warm summer sunshine it had ripened for the welcome scythe.
How happy is life, in whatever part of this great fragrant world of ours
it is lived, when men live it happily; and how gloomy seems its
sunshine, even, when seen through the shadows and darkness of our surly
moods.
What happy-hearted fairy was it that possessed the deacon's heart and
home, on this bright New Year's morn, I wonder? Surely, some angel of
fun and frolic had flown into the deacon's house with the opening of the
year and was filling it, and the hearts within it, too, with mirthful
moods. For the deacon laughed and joked as he buttered his cakes and
fired off his funny sayings at Miranda, as he had never joked and
laughed before, until Miranda herself smiled and giggled; yes, actually
giggled, behind the coffee-urn, at his merry squibs, as if the little
imp above mentioned was mischievously tickling her--yes, I will say
it,--her spinster ribs.
"Mirandy, I'm going up to see the parson," exclaimed the deacon, when
the morning devotions were over, "and see if I can thaw him out a
little. I've heard there used to be a lot of fun in him in his younger
days, but he's sort of frozen all up latterly, and I can see that the
young folks are afraid of him and the church, too, but that won't
do--no, that won't do," repeated the good man emphatically, "for the
minister ought to be loved by young and old, rich and poor, and
everybody; and a church without young folks in it is like a family with
no children in it. Yes, I'll go up and wish him a happy New Year,
anyway. Perhaps I can get him out for a ride to make some calls on the
people and see the young folks at their fun. It'll do him good and them
good and me good, and do everybody good." Saying which the deacon got
inside his warm fur coat and started towards the barn to harness Jack
into the worn, old-fashioned sleigh; which sleigh was built high in the
back and had a curved dasher of monstrous proportions, ornamented with a
prancing horse in an impossible attitude, done in bright vermilion on a
blue-black ground.
II
"Happy New Year to you, Parson Whitney; happy New Year to you," cried
the deacon, from his sleigh to the parson, who stood curled up and
shivering in the doorway of the parsonage, "and may you live to enjoy a
hundred."
"Come in; come in," cried Parson Whitney, in response, "I'm glad you've
come; I'm glad you've come. I've been wanting to see you all the
morning," and in the cordiality of his greeting, he literally pulled the
little man through the doorway into the hall and hurried him up the
stairway to his study in the chamber overhead.
"Thinking of me! Well, now, I never," exclaimed the deacon, as, assisted
by the parson, he twisted and wriggled himself out of the coat that he a
little too snugly filled for an easy exit. "Thinking of me, and among
all these books, too; bibles, catechisms, tracts, theologies, sermons;
well, well, that's funny! What made you think of me?"
"Deacon Tubman," responded the parson, as he seated himself in his
arm-chair, "I want to talk with you about the church."
[Illustration: "_I want to talk with you about the church._"]
"The church!" ejaculated the deacon, in response, "nothing going wrong,
I hope?"
"Yes, things are going wrong, deacon," responded the parson; "the
congregation is growing smaller and smaller, and yet I preach good,
strong, biblical, soul-satisfying sermons, I think."
"Good ones! good ones!" answered the deacon, promptly; "never better;
never better in the world."
"And yet the people are deserting the sanctuary," rejoined the parson,
solemnly, "and the young people won't come to the sociables and the
little children seem actually afraid of me. What shall I do, deacon?"
and the good man put the question with pathetic emphasis.
"You have hit the nail on the head, square's a hatchet, parson,"
responded the deacon. "The congregation is thinning; the young people
don't come to the meetings, and the little children are afraid of you."
"What's the matter, deacon?" cried the parson, in return. "What is it?"
he repeated, earnestly; "speak it right out; don't try to spare my
feelings. I will listen to--I will do anything to win back my people's
love," and the strong, old-fashioned, Calvinistic preacher said it in a
voice that actually trembled.
"You can do it; you can do it in a week!" exclaimed the deacon,
encouragingly. "Don't worry about it, parson, it'll be all right; it'll
be all right. Your books are the trouble."
"Eh? eh? books?" ejaculated the parson. "What have they to do with it?"
"Everything," replied the beacon, stoutly; "you pore over them day in
and day out; they keep you in this room here, when you should be out
among the people. Not making pastoral visits, I don't mean that, but
going around among them, chatting and joking and having a good time.
They would like it, and you would like it, and as for the young
folks,--how old are you, parson?"
"Sixty, next month," answered the parson, solemnly, "sixty next month."
"Thirty! thirty! that's all you are, parson, or all you ought to be,"
cried the deacon. "Thirty, twenty, sixteen. Let the figures slide down
and up, according to circumstances, but never let them go higher than
thirty, when you are dealing with young folks. I'm sixty myself,
counting years, but I'm only sixteen; sixteen this morning, that's all,
parson," and he rubbed his little, round, plump hands together, looked
at the parson and winked.
"Bless my soul, Deacon Tubman, I don't know but that you are right!"
answered the parson. "Sixty? I don't know as I am sixty." And he began
to rub his own hands, and came within an ace of executing a wink at the
deacon himself.
"Not a day over twenty, if I am any judge of age," responded the deacon,
deliberately, as he looked the white-headed old minister over with a
most comic imitation of seriousness. "Not a day over twenty, on my
honor," and the deacon leaned forward toward the parson and gave him a
punch with his thumb, as one boy might deliver a punch at another, and
then he lay back in his chair and laughed so heartily that the parson
caught the infectious mirth and roared away as heartily as the deacon.
Yes, it was impossible to sit hobnobbing with the jolly little deacon on
that bright New Year's morning and not be affected by the happiness of
his mood, for he was actually bubbling over with fun and as full of
frolic as if the finger on the dial had, in truth, gone back forty years
and he was only sixteen. "Only sixteen, parson, on my honor."
"But what can I do," queried the good man, sobering down. "I make my
pastoral visits"--
"Pastoral visits!" responded Deacon Tubman, "oh, yes, and they are all
well enough for the old folks, but they ar'n't the kind of biscuit the
young folks like--too heavy in the centre, and over-hard in the crust,
for young teeth, eh, parson?"
"But what shall I do? what shall I do?" reiterated the parson, somewhat
despondently.
"Oh, put on your hat and gloves and warmest coat and come along with me.
We will see what the young folks are doing and will make a day of it.
Come, come; let the old books and catechisms and sermons and tracts have
a respite for once, and we'll spend the day out of doors with the boys
and girls and the people."
"I'll do it!" exclaimed the parson. "Deacon Tubman, you are right. I
keep to my study too closely. I don't see enough of the world and what's
going on in it. I was reading the Testament this morning and I was
impressed with the Master's manner of living and teaching. It is not
certain that he ever preached more than twice in a church during all his
ministry on the earth. And the children! how much he loved the children
and how the little ones loved him! And why shouldn't they love me, too?
Why shouldn't they? I'll make them do it. The lambs of my flock shall
love me." And with these brave words, Parson Whitney bundled himself up
in his warmest garment and followed the deacon down stairs.
[Illustration: "_Tell the folks that you won't be back till night._"]
"Tell the folks that you won't be back till night," called the deacon
from the sleigh, "for this is New Year's and we're going to make a day
of it." And he laughed away as heartily as might be--so heartily,
indeed, that the parson joined in the laughter himself as he came
shuffling down the icy path toward him.
"Bless me, how much younger I feel already," said the good man, as he
stood up in the sleigh, and with a long, strong breath, breathed the
cool, pure air into his lungs. "Bless me, how much younger I feel
already," he repeated, as he settled down into the roomy seat of the old
sleigh. "Only sixteen to-day, eh, deacon," and he nudged him with his
elbow.
"That's all; that's all, parson," answered the deacon, gayly, as he
nudged him vigorously back, "that's all we are, either of us," and,
laughing as merrily as boys, the two glided away in the sleigh.
[Illustration: "_It was found that the parson could steer a sled._"]
Well, perhaps they didn't have fun that day--those two old boys that had
started out with the feeling that they were "only sixteen," and bound to
make "a day of it." And they did make a day of it, in fact, and such a
day as neither had had for forty years. For, first, they went to
Bartlett's hill, where the boys and girls were coasting, and coasted
with them for a full hour; and then it was discovered by the younger
portion of his flock that the parson was not an old, stiff, solemn,
surly poke, as they had thought, but a pleasant, good-natured, kindly
soul, who could take and give a joke and steer a sled as well as the
smartest boy in the crowd; and when it came to snow-balling, he could
send a ball further than Bill Sykes himself, who could out-throw any boy
in town, and roll up a bigger block to the new snow fort they were
building than any three boys among them. And how the parson enjoyed
being a boy again! How exhilarating the slide down the steep hill; how
invigorating the pure, cool air; how pleasant the noise of the chatting
and joking going on around him; how bright and sweet the boys and girls
looked, with their rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes; how the old parson's
heart thrilled as they crowded around him when he would go, and urged
him to stay; and how little Alice Dorchester begged him, with her little
arms around his neck, to "jes stay and gib me one more slide."
[Illustration: "_Little Alice Dorchester begged him to stay._"]
"You never made such a pastoral call as that, parson," said the deacon,
as they drove away amid the cheers of the boys and the good-byes of the
girls, while the former fired off a volley of snowballs in his honor and
the latter waved their muffs and handkerchiefs after them.
"God bless them! God bless them!" said the parson. "They have lifted a
great load from my heart and taught me the sweetness of life, of youth
and the wisdom of Him who took the little ones in His arms and blessed
them. Ah, deacon," he added, "I've been a great fool, but I'll be so,
thank God, no more."
III
Now, old Jack was a horse of a great deal of character, and had a great
history, but of this none in that section, save the little deacon, knew
a word. Dick Tubman, the deacon's youngest, wildest, and, I might add,
favorite son, had purchased him of an impecunious jockey at the close of
a, to him, disastrous campaign, that cleaned him completely out and left
him in a strange city, a thousand miles from home, with nothing but the
horse, harness and sulky, and a list of unpaid bills that must be met
before he could leave the scene of his disastrous fortunes. Under such
circumstances it was that Dick Tubman ran across the horse and, partly
out of pity for its owner and partly out of admiration of the horse,
whose failure to win at the races was due more to his lack of condition
and the bad management of his jockey than lack of speed, bought him
off-hand and, having no use for him himself, shipped him as a present to
the deacon, with whom he had now been for four years, with no harder
work than plowing out the good old man's corn in the summer, and jogging
along the country roads on the deacon's errands. Having said this much
of the horse, perhaps I should more particularly describe him.
[Illustration: "_Old Jack was a horse of a great deal of character._"]
He was, in sooth, an animal of most unique and extraordinary appearance.
For, in the first place, he was quite seventeen hands in height and long
in proportion. He was also the reverse of shapely in the fashion of his
build, for his head was long and bony and his hip bones sharp and
protuberant; his tail was what is known among horsemen as a "rat tail,"
being but scantily covered with hair, and his neck was even more
scantily supplied with a mane; while in color he could easily have taken
any premium put up for homeliness, being an ashen roan, mottled with
black and patches of divers hue. But his legs were flat and corded like
a racer's, his neck long and thin as a thoroughbred's, his nostrils
large, his ears sharply pointed and lively, while the white rings around
his eyes hinted at a cross, somewhere in his pedigree, with Arabian
blood. A huge, bony, homely-looking horse he was as he drew the deacon
and Miranda into the village on market days and Sundays, with a loose,
shambling gait, making altogether an appearance so homely and peculiar
that the smart village chaps, riding along in their jaunty turn-outs,
used to chaff the good deacon on the character of the steed, and
satirically challenge him to a brush. The deacon always took the
badinage in good part, although he inwardly said, more than once, "If I
ever get a good chance, when there ain't too many around, I'll go up to
the turn of the road beyond the church and let Jack out on them;" for
Dick had given him a hint of the horse's history, and told him "he could
knock the spots out of thirty," and wickedly urged the deacon to take
the shine out of them airy chaps some of these days.
Such was the horse, then, that the deacon had ahead of him and the
old-fashioned sleigh when, with the parson alongside, he struck into
the principal street of the village.
New Year's day is a lively day in many country villages, and on this
bright one especially, as the sleighing was perfect, everybody was out.
Indeed, it had got noised abroad that certain trotters of local fame
were to be on the street that afternoon and, as the boys worded it,
"There would be heaps of fun going on." So it happened that everybody in
town, and many who lived out of it, were on that particular street, and
just at the hour, too, when the deacon came to the foot of it, so that
the walk on either side was lined darkly with lookers-on and the smooth
snow path between the two lines looked like a veritable home-stretch on
a race day.
[Illustration: "_Hillow, Deacon, aren't you going to shake out Old
Shamble-Heels, to-day?_"]
Now, when the deacon had reached the corner of the main street and
turned into it, it was at that point where the course terminated and the
"brushes" were ended, and at the precise moment when the dozen or twenty
horses that had come flying down were being pulled up preparatory to
returning at a slow gait to the customary starting point at the head of
the street a half mile away. So the old-fashioned sleigh was quickly
surrounded by the light, fancy cutters of the rival racers and Old
Jack was shambling along in the midst of the high-spirited and smoking
nags that had just come down the stretch.
"Hillow, deacon," shouted one of the boys, who was driving a
trim-looking bay, and who had crossed the line at the ending of the
course second only to the pacer that could "speed like lightning," as
the boys said; "Hillow, deacon, ain't you going to shake out old
shamble-heels and show us fellows what speed is, to-day?" And the
merry-hearted chap, son of the principal lawyer of the place, laughed
heartily at his challenge, while the other drivers looked at the great
angular steed that, without check, was walking carelessly along, with
his head held down, ahead of the old sleigh and its churchly occupants.
"I don't know but what I will," answered the deacon, good-naturedly; "I
don't know but what I will, if the parson don't object, and you won't
start off too quick to begin with; for this is New Year's and a little
extra fun won't hurt any of us, I reckon."
"Do it! do it! we'll hold up for you," answered a dozen merry voices.
"Do it, deacon, it'll do old shamble-heels good to go a
ten-mile-an-hour gait for once in his life, and the parson needn't fear
of being scandalized by any speed you'll get out of him, either," and
the merry-hearted chaps haw-hawed as men and boys will when everyone is
jolly and fun flows fast.
And so, with any amount of good-natured chaffing from the drivers of the
"fast uns," and from many that lined the roads, too,--for the day gave
greater liberty than usual to bantering speech,--the speedy ones paced
slowly up to the head of the street with Old Jack shambling demurely in
the midst of them.
But the horse was a knowing old fellow and had "scored" at too many
races not to know that the "return" was to be leisurely taken; and,
indeed, he was a horse of independence and of too even, perhaps of too
sluggish a temperament to waste himself in needless action; but he had
the right stuff in him and hadn't forgotten his early training, either,
for when he came to the "turn," his head and tail came up, his eyes
brightened, and, with a playful movement of his huge body, without the
least hint from the deacon, he swung himself and the cumbrous old
sleigh into line and began to straighten himself for the coming brush.
Now, Jack was, as I have said, a horse of huge proportions, and needed
"steadying" at the start, but the good deacon had no experience with the
"ribbons," and was, therefore, utterly unskilled in the matter of
driving. And so it came about that Old Jack was so confused at the start
that he made a most awkward and wretched appearance in his effort to get
off, being all "mixed up," as the saying is, so much so that the crowd
roared at his ungainly efforts and his flying rivals were twenty rods
away before he had even got started. But at last he got his huge body in
a straight line and, leaving his miserable shuffle, squared away to his
work, and with head and tail up went off at so slashing a gait that it
fairly took the deacon's breath away and caused the crowd that had been
hooting him to roar their applause, while the parson grabbed the edge of
the old sleigh with one hand and the rim of his tall black hat with the
other.
What a pity, Mr. Longface, that God made horses as they are, and gave
them such grandeur of appearance and action, and put such an eaglelike
spirit between their ribs, so that, quitting the plodding motions of the
ox, they can fly like that noble bird and come sweeping down the course
as on wings of the wind.
It was not my fault, nor the deacon's, nor the parson's, either, please
remember, then, that awkward, shuffling, homely-looking Old Jack was
thus suddenly transformed by the royalty of blood, of pride and of speed
given him by his Creator from what he ordinarily was into a magnificent
spectacle of energetic velocity.
With muzzle lifted well up, tail erect, the few hairs in it streaming
straight behind, one ear pricked forward and the other turned sharply
back, the great horse swept grandly along at a pace that was rapidly
bringing him even with the rear line of the flying group. And yet so
little was the pace to him that he fairly gamboled in playfulness as he
went slashing along, until the deacon verily began to fear that the
honest old chap would break through all the bounds of propriety and send
his heels anticly through his treasured dashboard. Indeed, the spectacle
that the huge horse presented was so magnificent and his action so free,
spirited and playful, as he came sweeping onward that the cheers, such
as "Good heavens! see the deacon's old horse!" "Look at him! look at
him!" "What a stride!" ran ahead of him; and old Bill Sykes, a trainer
in his day, but now a hanger-on at the village tavern, or that section
of it known as the bar, wiped his watery eyes with his tremulous fist,
as he saw Jack come swinging down, and, as he swept past, with his open
gait, powerful stroke and stifles playing well out, brought his hand
down with a mighty slap against his thigh, and said: "I'll be blowed if
he isn't a regular old timer!"
It was fortunate for the deacon and the parson that the noise and
cheering of the crowd drew the attention of the drivers ahead, or there
would surely have been more than one collision, for the old sleigh was
of such size and strength, the good deacon so unskilled at the reins,
and Jack, who was adding to his momentum with every stride, going at so
determined a pace, that had he struck the rear line with no gap for him
to go through, something serious would surely have happened. But as it
was, the drivers saw the huge horse, with the cumbrous old sleigh behind
him, bearing down on them at such a gait as made their own speed, sharp
as it was, seem slow, and "pulled out" in time to save themselves; and
so, without any mishap, the big horse and heavy sleigh swept through the
rear row of racers like an autumn gust through a cluster of leaves.
[Illustration: "_Jack was going nigh to a thirty clip!_"]
But by this time the deacon had become somewhat alarmed, for Old Jack
was going nigh to a thirty clip--a frightful pace for an inexperienced
driver to ride--and began to put a good strong pressure upon the bit,
not doubting that Old Jack, ordinarily the easiest horse in the world to
manage, would take the hint and immediately slow up. But though the huge
horse took the hint, it was in exactly the opposite manner that the
deacon intended he should, for he interpreted the little man's steady
pull as an intimation that his driver was getting over his flurry and
beginning to treat him as a horse ought to be treated in a race, and
that he could now, having got settled to his work, go ahead. And go
ahead he did. The more the deacon pulled the more the great animal felt
himself steadied and assisted. And so, the harder the good man tugged at
the reins, the more powerfully the machinery of the big animal ahead of
him worked, until the deacon got alarmed and began to call upon the
horse to stop, crying, "Whoa, Jack, whoa, old boy, I say! whoa, will
you, now? that's a good fellow!" and many other coaxing calls, while he
pulled away steadily at the reins. But the horse misunderstood the
deacon's calls as he had his pressure upon the reins, for the crowds on
either side were yelling and hooting and swinging their caps so that the
deacon's voice came indistinctly to his ears at best and he interpreted
his calls for him to stop as only so many encouragements and signals for
him to go ahead. And so, with the memory of a hundred races stirring his
blood, the crowds cheering him to the echo, the steadying pull, the
encouraging cries of his driver in his ears and his only rival, the
pacer, whirling along only a few rods ahead of him, the monstrous
animal, with a desperate plunge that half lifted the old sleigh from the
snow, let out another link, and, with such a burst of speed as was never
seen in the village before, tore along after the pacer at such a
terrific pace that, within the distance of a dozen lengths, he lay
lapped upon him and the two were going it nose and nose.
What is that feeling in human hearts which makes us sympathetic with man
or animal, who has unexpectedly developed courage and capacity when
engaged in a struggle in which the odds are against him? And why do we
enter so spiritedly into the contest and lose ourselves in the
excitement of the moment? Is it pride? Is it the comradeship of courage?
Or is it the rising of the indomitable in us that loves nothing so much
as victory and hates nothing so much as defeat? Be that as it may, no
sooner was Old Jack fairly lapped on the pacer, whose driver was urging
him along with rein and voice alike, and the contest seemed doubtful,
than the spirit of old Adam himself entered into the deacon and the
parson both, so that, carried away by the excitement of the race, they
fairly forgot themselves and entered as wildly into the contest as
two ungodly jockeys.
[Illustration: "_Go it, old boy!_"]
"Deacon Tubman," said the parson, as he clutched more stoutly the rim of
his tall hat, against which, as the horse tore along, the snow chips
were pelting in showers, "Deacon Tubman, do you think the pacer will
beat us?"
"Not if I can help it! not if I can help it!" yelled the deacon, in
reply, as, with something like a reinsman's skill, he lifted Jack to
another spurt. "Go it, old boy!" he shouted, encouragingly, "go along
with you, I say!" And the parson, also, carried away by the whirl of the
moment, cried, "Go along, old boy! Go along with you, I say!"
This was the very thing, and the only thing, that the huge horse, whose
blood was now fairly aflame, wanted to rally him for the final effort;
and, in response to the encouraging cries of the two behind him, he
gathered himself together for another burst of speed and put forth his
collected strength with such tremendous energy and suddenness of
movement that the little deacon, who had risen and was standing erect in
the sleigh, fell back into the arms of the parson, while the great horse
rushed over the line amid such cheers and roars of laughter as were
never heard in that village before. Nor was the horse any more the
object of public interest and remark,--I may say favoring remark,--than
the parson, who suddenly found himself the centre of a crowd of his own
parishioners, many of whom would scarcely have been expected to
participate in such a scene, but who, thawed out of their iciness by the
genial temper of the day and vastly excited over Jack's contest,
thronged upon the good man, laughing as heartily as any jolly sinner in
the crowd.
So everybody shook hands with the parson and wished him a happy New
Year, and the parson shook hands with everybody and wished them all many
happy returns; and everybody praised Old Jack and rallied the deacon on
his driving, and then everybody went home good-natured and happy,
laughing and talking about the wonderful race and the change that had
come over Parson Whitney.
And as for Parson Whitney himself, the day and its fun had taken twenty
years from his age. And nothing would answer but the deacon must go with
him and help eat the New Year's pudding at the parsonage. And he did.
At the table they laughed and talked over the funny incidents of the day
and joked each other as merrily as two boys. Then Parson Whitney told
some reminiscences of his college days and the scrapes he got into, and
about a riot between town and gown when he carried the "Bully's Club";
and the deacon returned by narrating his experiences with a certain
Deacon Jones's watermelon patch, when he was a boy.
And over their tales and their nuts they laughed till they cried, and
roared so lustily at the remembered frolics of their youthful days that
the old parsonage rang, the books on the library shelves rattled and
several of the theological volumes actually gaped with horror.
But at last the stories were all told, the jokes all cracked, the
laughter all laughed, and the little deacon wished the parson good-bye
and jogged happily homeward. But more than once he laughed to himself
and said, "Bless my soul, I didn't know the parson had so much fun in
him."
And long the parson sat by the glowing grate, after the deacon had left
him, musing of other days and the happy, pleasant things that were in
them, and many times he smiled, and once he laughed outright at some
remembered folly, for he said: "What a wild boy I was, and yet I meant
no wrong, and the dear old days were very happy."
Aye, aye, Parson Whitney, the dear old days were very happy, not only to
thee, but to all of us, who, following our sun, have faced westward so
long that the light of the morning shows through the dim haze of memory.
But happier than even the old days will be the young ones, I ween, when,
following still westward, we suddenly come to the gates of the east and
the morning once more; and there, in the dawn of a day which is endless,
we find our lost youth and its loves, to lose them and it no more
forever, thank God.
[Illustration: Tail piece]
The Old Beggar's Dog
[Illustration: Vignette Initial H]
He was a tramp--that is all he was--at least when I knew him. What he
had been before, I cannot say, as he never told me his history. Of
course every tramp has a history, even as every leaf that the winds blow
over the fields has its history, and my old tramp doubtless had his, and
God knows it must have been sad enough, judging by his looks, for he had
the saddest face I ever looked at, and I've seen a good many sad faces
in my day.
No, he was nothing but a tramp, old and gray-headed, and nearly worn out
with his tramping. How long he had been going the rounds I cannot say,
but for nearly a dozen years, once each year, hi made his appearance in
the city, tarried a month, perhaps, and then quietly disappeared, and we
saw him no more for a twelvemonth. Inoffensive? Decidedly--as
mild-mannered a man as ever asked grace at a poorhouse table.
Indeed, the children were his best patrons, for he had a most winning
way with them, and he could scarcely be seen on the street without the
accompaniment of a dozen, tagging at his heels and holding on to his
hands and the skirts of his long coat. There's Dick there, six feet if
he's an inch and gone twenty last month. Well, many and many a time have
I seen the strapping fellow when he was a little chap sitting astride
the old vagabond's neck, with his little feet crooked in under his
armpits, laughing and screaming uproariously as his human horse
underneath him pranced and curvetted along the pavement, and charged
through the flock of childish admirers around him, as if they were a
hostile soldiery and Dick was a very Henry of Navarre, whose white plume
must always be found in the path to glory.
God bless the youngsters! Who of us with the burden of life's toil and
care weighing us down, ever saw a frolicsome group of them, happy in
their freedom from trouble and care, and did not wish he might slip his
shoulders from under the load of his fifty years and be a boy again?
What a pity it is that we must age and die in our wrinkles, leaving
nothing better to gaze upon than a shrunken face, colorless of bloom and
written all over with the scraggy record of our griefs, our errors, and
our pains! Why cannot death charm back the boyish vigor and girlish
grace to our faces, when, with the invisible and fatal gesture, he
sweeps his hand swiftly across them?
The dog? Oh! certainly; but don't hurry me. I'm too old to tell a story
in a straight line and at express speed. I will get to the dog all in
good time, and, in order to feel as I do about the terrible thing that
happened to him, you must know something about his master, for in an odd
sort of way they supplemented each other. Indeed, they seemed to have
entered into a kind of partnership to share each other's moods as they
shared each other's fortune. And it was a strange, and, I may say, a
very touching sight, to see two creatures, of different species, so
intimately attached to each other; and often, as I have looked at the
dog when he was gazing at his master, have I said to myself, "Surely,
something or some one has blundered, and a human soul was put, by
mistake, into that dog's body," for never--no, sir, I will not qualify
it--never have I seen a greater love look from human into human eyes
than I have seen gazing devotedly up into the old man's face from the
eyes of that dog. How did he look? Queer enough, I assure you, for his
cross, while an admirable one to yield wit and affection both, was the
worst possible one for beauty, for his father was a full-blooded
shepherd and his mother a Scotch terrier, without a taint in her blood.
How well I remember the dog and his peculiar looks! I remember him now
as plainly as if he were lying on the rug there this very minute. He had
the size of his father and the bristly coat of his mother. His ears were
like a terrier's, and naturally pricked forward. His color was a dirty
gray--a miserable color; his tail had been cropped and the remnant that
remained--some four inches in length--stood stiffly up, with scarce a
suggestion of a curve; he was homely, but not inferior looking, for his
head was such an one as Landseer would have loved to have translated
from time and death to the immortality of his canvas; what a matchless
front, and room enough in the cranium to hold the brains of any two
common dogs. But his eyes were the impressive and magnificent feature
of his face--large, round and warmly hazel in color, and so liquid clear
that, looking into them, you seemed to be gazing into transparent
depths, not of water, but of intelligent being. What eyes they were! I
remember what a young lady said once apropos to them. She was a belle
herself, and nature spoke through her speech. She came into the office
here one day when the dog was performing, for he was a great trick dog,
and, after watching him a moment, she exclaimed, "Ah! if a woman only
had those eyes, what might she not do!" More fun could look out of that
dog's head than of any other I ever saw, whether of dog or man. And
though you may not credit it, yet, as true as I sit here, I have seen
those eyes weep as large and honest tears as ever fell in sorrow from
human orbs. "Laugh, too?" You put that question incredulously, do you?
Well, you needn't, for the dog could laugh. "With his tail?" No, any dog
can do that, but he could laugh with his mouth. Why, sir, I have seen
him sit bolt upright on his haunches there by that post, lean his back
against it, and laugh so heartily that his mouth would open and shut
like a man's when guffawing, and you could see every tooth in his head,
and he did it intelligently, too, and laughed because he was tickled and
couldn't help it.
Alas! poor dog, he came to a sad end at last, and died in so wretched a
way that the recollection of his death puts a dark eclipse upon the
unhappy memory of his life.
[Illustration: _The old man and his dog were constant companions._]
Comfort to his master? You may well say that; and no man ever loved his
child more fondly than the old beggar loved his dog. And well he might,
for he was his companion by day, his guard by night, and the means by
which he eked out the sometime scant living that the fickle charity of
the world flung to him. How often have I seen the old man take him in
his arms and hug him to his breast, that had, I fancy, so many bitter
memories in it; and how often have I seen the dog lap with gentle and
caressing tongue the tears as they rolled down the furrowed cheeks, when
the fountain of grief within was stirred by the angel of recollection.
But it was from the sympathy of his faithful and loving companion, and
not from the moving of the bitter waters, that his aching heart found
consolation.