back yard of the house adjoining the one in which I reside.
There is no use talking, I will have to get up and bundle out of this
locality, before long. It is becoming too rough a quarter for me. Its
poisonous air would tarnish the brightest reputation that ever shone
upon a forehead.
With my usual luck, I happened to witness the affair. Thus far I have
kept it to myself, as I have no desire to figure in a court of justice
in any such scrape. Some people, perhaps, would rush forward and
volunteer their testimony, but I am not of that turn of mind, and
calculate to keep my mouth shut until it is pried open by a legal bar. I
have been looking over the evening papers, but they make no mention of
the case, so perhaps the authorities are keeping the matter quiet,
fearing that by giving it publicity they would defeat the ends of
justice. With this thought in mind, and to help them along in their
efforts, it being “all fools’ day,” also, I will say no more about it.
FINDING A HORSE-SHOE.
Upon this day, and at this time, while the fire burneth in the grate and
the warm drink steameth in the bowl, I speak as with the tongue of a
scribe of the olden time, and this is the burden of my speech:—
A certain man, a citizen of this place, as he journeyed to his home,
that looketh toward the mountain which is called Lone—and at the base of
which the dead are entombed—found an horse-shoe in the way. And he was
exceeding pleased because of his luck, insomuch that he rubbed his hands
together joyfully, and said within himself: “How blessed am I in finding
this shoe in the way. This bodeth good to me and mine household, because
it pointeth in the way that I am going, and it would show a lack of
understanding in me should I not pick it up.” So he placed it carefully
in the pouch that was sewed in the hind part of his garment, which is
called the tail, and hastened on towards his home; and as he went his
countenance was bright to look upon. And it came to pass when he had
arrived at his house, and was entered in at the door, he said unto
himself—for he was an eccentric man, and his ways were not as the ways
of sensible people—“Now will I make all haste and fasten this shoe above
my parlor door, that it may continually bring good towards my house, for
my grandmother hath often said there lieth a charm for good in the
horse-shoe that is picked up by the way.” So reaching forth his hand, he
took a hammer and a nail—such a nail as builders use when they would
have their work outlast themselves—and stepping upon a chair, essayed to
transfix the shoe to the casing above the door.
[Illustration: THE HORSE-SHOE CHARM.]
Now it chanced that this man had a wife, a woman who was not eccentric,
neither had she patience to spare on those people who had eccentric
ways; and as she was at work in the kitchen—for upon the whole sea-coast
there was not found a more industrious or tidy woman—she heard the sound
of the hammer proceeding from the room which was her pride; and she made
haste and dropped the dough that she was kneading for the oven, and
looking out into the apartment, she beheld her husband standing upon the
chair attempting to transfix the horse-shoe above the door. And she was
exceeding displeased because of his action, and of his provoking
eccentricity, and she remonstrated with him mildly, saying:
“Souls of the Innocents! is this a barn? or a blacksmith’s shop? or are
ye gone stark, staring mad? or has old age benumbed your senses beyond
all hope? that thus you would establish the unsightly object above the
door, to be a jest for visitors and a shame unto us?”
But the good man of the house, looking down reprovingly from the
eminence upon which he was now set up—being nettled because she had
likened him to a man stark, staring mad—answered the woman sharply,
after this manner, saying:—
“Go delve into thy dough, _old_ woman! Did ye never have a grandmother?
or is thy memory as short as thy wind? Know ye not I fix it here that it
may bring good unto our house, as hath been said of it in the olden
time?” So he left off speaking with his wife, but turned him about and
once more essayed to establish the shoe above the door. For his mind was
firm on that point, that he would nail it there, that it might bring
good unto his house.
Then waxed the woman exceedingly wroth—for she was of the house of
O’Donohue, whose temper caused him to be cast into prison, because he
smote the anointed priest within the chapel—and bending her body, she
laid hold of the rounds of the chair upon which her husband was builded
up, and pulled it suddenly from beneath him while he did reach to drive
the spike, and behold, he came down quickly, and lay along the floor
like a cedar felled.
And it so happened, as the woman attempted to pass out by the door which
led out into the kitchen, lo! a hammer followed after, and overtook the
woman, and lodged upon her back, even between the two shoulder blades,
and caused her to cry out with a marvelous loud cry; but turning herself
around while yet the cry was proceeding from her mouth, she lifted the
hammer from the floor and cast it from her, even at the countenance of
her rising husband. Now it came to pass when the good man of the house
looked upon the weapon as it left the hand of his wife, and saw that it
was drawing nigh unto his head, swift as a javelin hurled from a
Trojan’s arm, he said within himself, “As my name is Bartholomew, my
hour is come.” And as he spoke he dived to the floor, that it might pass
over and work him no harm. But even while he stooped, the weapon caught
upon his scalp and peeled it backward to the very nape.
Then went the woman out into the kitchen, and when her husband was risen
from the floor, he ran out into the streets seeking where he might find
a surgeon; and as he ran the people stood and looked after, and communed
one with another, saying: “Surely this man hath escaped from the
Modocs!” But he was sorely troubled because of his scalp, so he heeded
not the people, neither loitered he by the way to enlighten them
concerning the wound; but when he had entered in at a surgeon’s door he
entreated him to make all haste and bind up his wounds, that he might
become whole again.
[Illustration: REPAIRS NEEDED.]
And when the surgeon drew nigh and looked upon the wound he was
exceedingly astonished, and he cried, “Of what tribe was the savage that
hath done this?”
But the injured man answered him sorrowfully, saying, “Nay, but my wife
hath done this thing!” and bowing his head between his knees he wept
bitterly, even as David wept when he learned that Absalom had perished
in the boughs of the great oak. And when the surgeon had poured oil upon
the wound, and sewed it together—even as a housewife seweth the rent in
a garment—and spread plasters upon his head in divers ways, he arose and
journeyed to the Hall of Justice, which is by the Plaza, and entered a
complaint against the woman.
And it came to pass when the magistrates and the wise men of the place
heard his complaint, they looked upon him as a person altogether given
over to falsehoods, and they questioned him, saying: “How may we know if
ye indeed speak the truth in our ears.” And removing the bandage from
his head, with which the surgeon had wrapped it round, he answered and
spake unto them, saying: “Ye ask for proof, and behold! I give it you!”
And when they drew nigh and looked upon his head they saw that it was
covered over with plasters, insomuch that it resembled a bolt of linen
fresh from the loom, and they were sore displeased because of the
assault. So they called together four men, the chosen officers of the
force, and commanded them to arrest the woman, saying: “Take ye the
woman into custody, and lodge her in prison, that on the morrow we may
sit in judgment over her.”
So these four officers, named Murry, the brave; and Flynn, styled the
“blinker,” and Curran, and Flaherty,—surnamed the “beat”—armed
themselves with pistols, and clubs, and knives, and went forth to arrest
the woman. And a great crowd followed after, for they said among
themselves, “Surely some murder hath been done.” So when they had come
nigh to the house they laid plans how they might surround it; and this
was the manner of their approach toward the house. Murry on the east
side; and Flynn, styled the “blinker,” on the west side; and Curran on
the north side; and Flaherty, surnamed the “beat” on the south side. So
they did compass the house about and enter it; and this was the manner
of their entrance. One by the front door, and one by the back door, and
one by the window that looked out at the west side of the house, and one
by the window that looked out at the east side of the house; and they
did converge and meet in the centre. And they found the hammer and the
blood thereon; and the horse-shoe and the nail sticking therein; but
they found not the woman. And they searched the house, beginning at the
cellar, and ascending even up to the loft, but be it known unto you, the
woman had fled, and her whereabouts remaineth a secret to this day.
[Illustration]
AN EVENING WITH SCIENTISTS.
This evening I accepted an invitation from a member of the Academy of
Science to attend a regular meeting. I started out almost under protest,
thinking it would prove a very dry entertainment. It had been said that
at their meetings they conversed only about fossils or strata, or grew
warm while arguing some point about the Azoic or Silurian age, that
period before the Dinotherium or even the Mastodon ran bellowing across
the flinty earth. I was agreeably disappointed, however. For I found it
not only instructive, but amusing to others than scientists. The
President announced to the Academy that a feathered mouse had been sent
by an unknown friend from a distant town. A vote of thanks was then
tendered the donor. The feathered mouse, however, proved to be a cruel
fraud, for a subsequent examination revealed the painful fact that the
feathers were stuck to the skin by some adhesive substance. The vote of
thanks was then rescinded, and the feathered mouse was informally
introduced to the office cat.
A communication was then read from a man in the interior. He informed
the Academy that he had in his possession a large sow, which, when quite
a small pig, had been severely bitten by a black dog, which made a
lasting impression upon her. In after years if any of her litter were
black she singled them out, and devoured them with as little remorse as
an old woman would a dish of stir-about. The sow had that day died from
the effects of eating a tarantula, and he offered to donate her to the
Academy, providing they would bear the cost of transporting her to the
city. By a unanimous vote the communication was laid _under_ the table.
Quite a discussion then took place as to whether pigs really do see the
wind, and if so, why?
[Illustration: THE PRESIDENT OF THE ACADEMY.]
A member then presented the Academy with a new species of snail, or
slug, which he found in the mountains, and which had but one horn. He
proposed having it called a “unicorn snail.” Quite a controversy
followed. Several members maintained that the snail imprudently left its
horns out over night, and one, getting nipped by the frost, dropped off.
This proposition angered the generous donor, and reaching forth a hand
trembling with emotion, he lifted the snail from the palm of the
admiring President, and laid it down gently upon the floor—as a mother
might deposit an infant in the cradle—and while the Academy stood
spell-bound, before a tongue could be loosened from the roof of a mouth,
or a hand stretched to save, he planted the sole of a number eleven boot
upon the crowning back of the little gasteropod, and when he lifted his
foot again, all that was visible of the one-horned snail was a little
grease spot upon the floor, the size of an average rain drop. This
inhuman act seemed to throw a gloom over the Academy.
No further business appearing, the meeting adjourned.
OUR TABLE GIRL.
“O, those girls!
Naughty, laughing, beautiful girls.”—_Old Song._
I commenced boarding in a new place to-day, and am completely smitten by
the charming table girl—
Oh, she is young and bright and fair,
With midnight eyes and inky hair,
Which unconfined, without a check,
Falls round a plump and snowy neck.
Oh, sweet she bends above my chair
Like Juno, when old Jove’s her care,
And as she stoops to hear me speak,
Soft falls her breath upon my cheek,
And I forget (true as I live)
The order that I fain would give.
Before her dark and earnest eyes
My appetite distracted flies,
And though I hungry sit me down,
I rise full as a country clown
Who by a picnic table stands,
And shovels in with both his hands.
’Tis true, at times the humble board
Does but a scant repast afford;
At times we grumble at the bread,
Or at the butter shake the head;
And oft the whisper circles round
About the mystery profound,
That may within the hash repose,
And any fateful stir disclose.
But still we linger, still we stay,
And hope for better things each day;
Thus proving that one winning face
Can keep from bankruptcy the place.
[Illustration]
AN OLD WOMAN IN PERIL.
Yesterday, while in the back country, I saw an old woman in what would
have been a very laughable predicament, had it not been a very pitiable
one.
An unusually large vulture had for some time been soaring in the
neighborhood, occasionally scraping acquaintance with one of the fat
ewes grazing in the valley. Several of the farmers had felt the vexation
of seeing him perched upon a lofty eminence and making the wool fly from
some favorite Cotswold. They were justly enraged, and resolved to put a
stop to his depredations.
They accordingly posted themselves nigh their flocks, and with guns
heavily charged, awaited the advent of the rapacious bird. But he was no
booby, and though his gizzard could digest a good-sized rib or hoof with
all the ease of a Ballyshannon woman making away with a mealy potato,
yet he hadn’t the least inclination to test its grinding power upon a
charge of slugs or buckshot.
For several days thereafter he was known in the neighborhood as a “high
flier.” With a pining maw he would sit upon some heaven-kissing crag,
and with drooping head watch the fleecy flocks grazing in the green
valley below. He found it difficult, however, to cloy the hungry edge of
appetite by bare imagination of a feast, and, emboldened by want, began
to drop to a lower level when flying across the fields.
Yesterday, as mutton was out of the question, he resolved to try his
beak upon some tougher viand, and while in the vicinity of the village,
he swooped down upon a little old woman who was gathering chips in front
of her cottage.
The poor old body had not the least warning of the vulture’s approach.
As she stooped in the act of picking fuel enough to cook her evening
meal he dropped upon her like an arrow.
[Illustration: THE OLD LADY’S ASCENT.]
Fastening his powerful talons in the strong material of her
loose-fitting garments, he spread abroad his mighty wings and began to
haul her heavenward. The astonishment, anxiety and indescribable antics
of the poor old lady when she found herself slowly but surely leaving
_terra firma_ by an unknown agency were indeed terrible to witness.
She knew not whether it was a gold-tinseled angel, or an iron-rusted
demon, that was thus, in open day, and while she was yet in the flesh,
unceremoniously translating her to some remote planet; she had no means
of discovering; she was only certain she was going—that her direction
was onward and upward. Her favorite hollyhock tickled her nose as she
swept over her little garden, and the clothes-line, that for a moment
seemed to baffle the vulture’s flight, was now stretching beneath.
She deployed her feet, regardless of appearances, first to the right,
then to the left, above and below, vainly endeavoring to come in contact
with something that would give her an inkling of what was responsible
for this mysterious movement. There was a vague uncertainty about the
whole proceeding well calculated to alarm her. Even though she succeeded
in shaking herself loose, her fall would now be fearful, and each moment
was adding to the danger. What could I do? I was powerless to save. I
had no gun, and even if I had there would have been some grave doubts in
my mind as to the propriety of firing, as I generally shoot low, and
such an error in my aim could hardly have proved otherwise than
disastrous.
There was no use striving to make the bird loosen his hold by hooting.
If there had been any virtue in that sort of demonstration the old woman
would hardly have been raised above the eaves of her shanty, for she was
screaming in a manner that would have made a Modoc blush. The only thing
that suggested itself, and that rather hurriedly, was to get out my
pencil and paper and take a sketch as she appeared passing over her
cottage in the vulture’s talons.
The blood, which at first forsook her cheeks through fear, was almost
instantly forced back into her visage again by the pendant position of
her head.
She beat the empty tin pan which she still retained in her hand, but the
voracious and hunger-pinched vulture had no notion of relinquishing his
hold on account of noise. On the contrary, he seemed to enjoy it, and
with many a sturdy twitch and flap, and many an airy wheel, he still
held his way toward a rugged promontory situated at the head of the
valley. Fortunately, when he was twenty feet from the ground and about
eighty rods from the cottage, the calico dress and undergarments in
which mainly his talons were fastened, gave out, and the liberated woman
dropped on hands and knees in the muddy bed of the creek, over which the
bird was passing at the time.
While hovering over her, about to pounce down upon her and try the
elevating business again, a sheep-herder who had seen the bird
approaching the cottage, gave him a dose of buckshot, which broke one
wing and left him at the mercy of his captor.
[Illustration]
FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE.
_Jonathan_.—“I hain’t got no tongue for soapin’ of ye, Susan Jane. I
mean _business_, I do. Will ye hev me?”
_Susan Jane_.—“I don’t know much about ye, Jonathan Junkit, but I’m
willin’ to risk it, anyhow. Yer’s my hand. I’m yourn.”
_Old Volume._
This afternoon I attended a private wedding on Howard Street. I may
safely term it “marriage in high life,” as the combined height of the
couple was something over twelve feet.
The groom was a bachelor, who for many a year had stood around the fire
like the half of a tongs, very good as a poker, but not worth standing
room as a picker up.
He looked as though it wouldn’t require much advice to make him—even at
the eleventh hour—prove recreant to his vows, and back out from under
the yoke the reverend gentleman was about to place upon his neck.
His companion, however, was no novice in the business in which she was
engaged. She was fearlessly putting forth upon that sea on which she had
twice been wrecked, but she was nothing loth to try it again. Were she
only skilled in navigation as well as in embarkation, she would have
been the one to send on expeditions to either the North or South Pole,
as the case might be.
[Illustration: THE TRYING MOMENT.]
It was truly encouraging to the timorous and uninitiated, to see with
what a broad smile she regarded her husband that was to be; and with
what a readiness she responded to the momentous question propounded by
the minister. And when they stood as husband and wife, her Milesian face
lighted up with irrepressible joy, until it beamed like a Chinese
lantern.
Her emotions went far to convince me that there is in those matrimonial
fields a balm for every ill; a perfect bliss worthy the seeking, even at
the risk of receiving the bruised spirit, if not the bruised head.
[Illustration]
ODE ON A BUMBLE-BEE.
[Illustration]
Oh, busy, breezy bumble-bee,
A fitting theme in you I see!
At once you backward turn my gaze
To orchard, mead, and pasture days,
To watch your movements to and fro
With wondering eyes, as years ago.
Come, let me set my mark on thee,
As thou hast oft remembered me,
When with a seeming special zeal
You hastened to affix your seal.
I’ve heard your gruff good-morrow ring
When meeting kinsfolk on the wing;
Now coming zig-zag, light and airy,
Now going laden, straight and wary;
Still mindful of the spider’s snare
And kingbird, pirate of the air.
[Illustration]
I’ve seen you upward turn your eye,
When clouds began to fleck the sky,
The winds to chafe the village pond,
And thunder rumble far beyond
And threaten storm, ere you could fill
Your honey sack, so empty still.
I’ve heard you whining forth your grief
When rain commenced to pelt the leaf,
And made you take the shortest road
That brought you to your dark abode.
I’ve marked your grumbling when you found
The working bee had been around;
Had left his bed and waxen door
And reached the field an hour before;
For still, with early bird, or bee,
Or man, the maxim does agree
They all must be content to find
What early risers leave behind.
Against the bell I’ve heard you storm,
Because it kept your burly form
From passing in the honeyed way,
That open to the emmet lay.
Thus human folk are oft denied
What, in their judgment, or their pride,
They should enjoy, though kept instead
For meaner things that creep ahead.
I know how apt you are to cling
To locks of hair, to hide and sing,
And keep the victim still in doubt
Just where the mischief will break out;
I know full well your angry tone,
And how you stab to find the bone;
With what a brave, heroic breast
Ye strike for queen and treasure chest,
Like Sparta’s sons, at duty’s call,
Compelled to win, or fighting fall;
Not fearing odds, nor counting twice,
Ye fix your bayonet in a trice,
And charge upon the nearest foe,
And break the ranks where’er you go.
For not the stroke of halberdier
Nor thrust of Macedonian spear
Can check your onset when you fly
With full intent to do or die!
Beneath your straight and rapid dart
The foe will tumble, turn, depart,
And leave you victor, to report
Your doings at the Queen Bee’s court.
And proudly may you bare your brow,
In presence of your sovereign bow,
And tell her why you came so late,
Thus panting, to the palace gate;
And show your limbs of wax bereft,
Your right arm crushed, and sprained the left,
Your twisted horn, exhausted sting,
Your wounded scalp and tattered wing,
But how, in spite of every ill,
You struck for independence still,
Until the acre lot was free
Of all that would molest the bee.
’Tis said that youngsters have a knack
To take you prisoner by the back;
To catch you by the wings, in haste,
A piece above the belted waist,
And hold you thus, to struggle there,
And use your sting on empty air.
But once I tried, and once I missed,
For you’re a great contortionist,
And somehow turn, and manage still
To plant your poison where you will.
Ah, they are wise, who meddling cease,
And let you go your way in peace!
Though many things may slip my mind
Before the narrow bed I find,
In fancy’s field I’d often see
The busy, burly bumble-bee.
[Illustration]
DUDLEY AND THE GREASED PIG.
Boil-stricken Job had his comforters, who, despite his timely
injunction, “Oh, lay your hands upon your mouths, and thereby show your
wisdom,” would still drum in his ear, “Hear us, for we will speak.” Poor
old Falstaff had his evil genius in Bardolph, his impecunious follower,
with his “Lend me a shilling.” And I have my burdensome “Jim Dudley,”
with his “Let me tell you a story.” I was kept awake last night
listening to his crazy yarn about the “greased pig,” as if I cared
anything about his villainous adventures.
“Oh, yes, that scrape with the greased pig? I never told you about it,
eh? It’s worth heerin’, for that was a tearin’ old race, and I came
mi’ty nigh gettin’ shoved out of the village on account of it, too, now,
I can tell ye. Down on me? Wall, I reckon you’d think so if you heered
the hollerin’ that was gwine on for awhile arter that race, some cryin’
one thin’ and some another. ‘Tar and feather the cheat,’ one would
holler.
“‘Lynch the blamed humbug!’ another would shout.
“‘Put him in a sack and h’ist him over the bridge!’ would come from
another quarter.
“A doctor was never so down on a patent medicine as they were on me
arter that race, especially Parson Coolridge, who was one of the
principal sufferers, yer see.