face, and when he would finally strike the openin’, it would be away
round on one side of his head, so much so in fact, that a person would
think he was pourin’ the soup into his ear. He would be all hunkadory
then durin’ the remainder of that meal, but the next time he would come
to the table, the same performance would have to be gone through with.
“He couldn’t keep run of the thing, nohow. It was here to-day and
somewhere else to-morrow, like a wrinkle in a shirt.
“The swellin’ kept shiftin’ and undulatin’ about continually, down in
one place and up in another, all within an hour, and that would shove
the mouth away down along the neck somewhere, or clear across to the
other side of the head, perhaps.
“The family would be sittin’ thar eatin’ no more than he was, they would
be so busily engaged watchin’ his singular manœuverin’, and it would
make him so roarin’ mad that he would send ’em all away from the table.
“He tried to eat by the aid of a small lookin’ glass, but that didn’t
work any better than goin’ it blind. When he saw how disfigured every
feature was, his appetite would begin to git away from him pooty lively,
and he would sling the glass into the corner, and fall to denouncin’ me
like a crazy bush-whacker.
“The yard, too, was a sight; everythin’ in it was painted and scratched
and painted ag’in.
“Old Mrs. Sharron—who was allers a-smellin’ around about butcherin’
time, on the lookout for a fresh morsel—was gwine by the Doctor’s the
next mornin’, and she noticed the blood and ha’r a-stickin’ to the chips
and pump handle, and she allowed he had killed his spring pig, so she
dropped in to ask him for the ears and a piece of the liver.
“The Doctor thought she was runnin’ him on his late skirmish, and you
never see a man fly into such a passion in all your born days.
“He jumped up and pulled his pizen pump out of a drawer, and ses he:
‘You old faded remnant! you scollop! you creasy old cinder of an
incendi’ry fire!’ he contin’ed, jest that way, ‘I’ll gin ye jest seven
seconds to git out of my house in, or I’ll hoist the gizzard out of ye
mi’ty quick!’
“Jehominy! wasn’t she skeered, though? You never see a cat git from
under a stove quicker when a pot biles over, than she got out of that
house.
“So Dr. Tweezer didn’t speak very highly of me, eh? Wal, now you kind o’
know the reason, don’t ye?”
MY NEIGHBOR WORSTED.
As I look from my window I am surprised at the change the last half hour
has wrought upon my neighbor and his immediate surroundings. At that
time he emerged from the shed in which he keeps his extra household
furniture, with a length of stove-pipe and an elbow under his arms. They
were apparently just the things he needed to tone down the draught of
his new stove, and shoot the sparks clear of the banker’s eaves.
I think I never saw him look better-natured than at that moment. His
face was clear and unruffled as a woodland pool. His children played
around him with unsuspecting minds and unlimited speech. The household
cat, with all confidence in his noble nature, familiarly rubbed her ribs
against his leg, as he for a moment stood deciding which end of the
length to introduce to the elbow. Even the old hen roosting on the
enclosure seemed to settle her head into her body with more than
ordinary satisfaction as she regarded the complacent scene beneath her.
But half an hour ago all was peace, confidence and love, and now what a
change is here! I hear the children, but see them not. Their plaintive
wail reminds me how often laughter is the harbinger of tears. The hen
with ruffled feathers and outstretched neck stands aloof upon the ridge
of a distant dwelling. The household cat that had grown old in the
family, and had good reason to believe herself privileged, purrs no
more. She has painful reasons to think otherwise now, as she crouches in
the most retired corner of the premises, assiduously applying whatever
balm her tongue affords to injured parts. She doubtless muses how
heavier than an infant’s spoon it is to feel an adult’s boot.
Yet my neighbor was neither rash nor hasty.
He seemed the embodiment of perseverance, as he repeatedly offered that
length of stove-pipe an elbow which it, like a prudish maiden,
provokingly refused. Soon the drops of perspiration began to stand upon
his face and neck in large globes, and I knew that patience was oozing
from every pore. I knew by the scattering children, the cackling hen,
and the flying household cat, that the “rose-lipped cherubim” of which
the poet sings, were abiding with him no longer.
Presently his wife came to his assistance with a case-knife, and for a
time it seemed as though victory would crown their united efforts.
Reinforcements turned the tide at Waterloo, and laid proud France at the
mercy of Europe, and how often the assistance from the mind or arm of a
noble wife rolls back the enemy from the door. But reinforcements could
not mend the matter here. The poor woman soon retired from the scene
with wounded fingers and damaged pride.
My neighbor himself has ceased to strive. Flattened, kicked, and
abandoned, the pipes lie masters of the situation.
Ah! I am fully persuaded that neither depth of affliction, nor height of
impudence, nor length of trial, nor breadth of argument, nor
extravagance, nor parsimony, nor things in particular, nor things in
general, can begin to compare, as triers of patience, with a couple of
old frill-edged stove-pipes, that emphatically set their edge against a
union.
[Illustration]
THE BREATHING SPELL.
As some lone reaper, tanned and sore,
Doth pause to glance his acres o’er,
Comparing what hath passed his hands
With what before him bristling stands—
Behind him lie the shocks and sheaves,
While like a sea before him heaves,
Far over valley, hill and plain,
The waving heads of waiting grain—
So pause I now, when half way through
This growing book, my task to view;
Behind lie many a sketch and line;
Before me, countless pages shine;
Behind, the thoughts are shaped and bound;
Before, they float in freedom round.
And as that reaper stoops again
To throw his hook around the grain,
And sinks amid the sea of gold,
To rise when hands no longer hold;
So bend I to my task anew,
And undismayed my course pursue,
’Till clip on clip, and sheaf on sheaf,
Shall bear me to the farthest leaf.
A VISIT TO BENICIA.
To-day I had occasion to visit Benicia. The place is situated on the
Straits of Carquinez. Not far from the town the Government Arsenal and
Barracks are situated. And as a striking proof of the loyal and
law-abiding spirit of the citizens, I may mention the fact, that all the
government property above alluded to is defended by two soldiers, a
corporal—who, by the way, has a wooden leg—and a high private.
While stopping there, I noticed they were engaged in the pleasurable
task of firing a salute of twenty-one guns, in commemoration of Bunker
Hill. They were having a busy time of it, for while the wooden-legged
corporal was loading and discharging the cannon, the private was
forwarding the ammunition from the magazine—about a quarter of a mile
distant—in a wheelbarrow. “If soldiers will do this in time of peace,” I
said to myself, “what would they not accomplish in time of war?” and I
walked away from the spot, congratulating myself for having invested in
Government bonds.
The town, in all likelihood, would never have been heard of outside of
the State of California, had it not been for the brave “Benicia Boy.”
Here it was that he swung the blacksmith’s heavy sledge, and practiced
the first rudiments of the pugilistic profession, which subsequently
gained him his world-wide notoriety.
Many of the citizens are yet pointed out to the visitor as parties who
at some period of their life served as a sand bag on which the muscular
“Boy” hardened his knuckles.
As I gazed upon the scattered village,—for it is no more,—I mused, how a
man should come forth from such a paltry place to “awe” the world. For
as Goliath challenged the hosts of Israel, so came the brave “Benicia
Boy” and dared creation’s millions.
And as the youthful shepherd, afterwards king, rose up and smote the
overweening giant with a stone, till all his brain oozed forth, so from
Albion’s Isle a youthful “King,” smote the western champion in the
midriff with his mawley, and all his wind gushed out!
[Illustration: ONE OF HEENAN’S MEMENTOES.]
After searching some time to discover the blacksmith shop where the
pugilist used to work, I learned that it was long since torn down and a
church now occupied the site. But an old gentleman who kept a small
boarding house, conducted me to an ancient pump, at which he said the
“Boy” on several occasions bathed his nose after having a bout with some
person who didn’t let him have things all his own way, and there I wept
my tears of tribute.
A large iron-bound boot-jack, set in a glass case, was shown to me by a
saloon-keeper. He assured me, with this weapon the “Boy” had killed
several cats belonging to the neighbors which had disturbed his
slumbers. This boot-jack had also caused the death of a mule, for on one
occasion the pugilist hurled it with such violence at a cat that was
scampering across the roof of a shed that the heavy missile went through
the boards. A farmer’s mule that was standing inside received the weapon
behind the ear, and immediately went to gravel as though he had been
felled with a sledge-hammer. The farmer instituted a suit against the
“Boy” to recover damages, but the friends of the pugilist made up a
purse to satisfy the demand of the farmer, and the matter was hushed.
I was also shown a jagged hole in a high board fence, which, it is said,
the “Boy” made one night while going home from a neighboring saloon.
It seems he had some trouble with a companion before leaving the saloon,
and seeing his shadow dogging his steps, mistook it for the substance of
his late antagonist; very naturally presuming that his intentions were
anything but friendly, he turned hastily around and dissipated the
obnoxious shadow by knocking it about fifteen feet into the garden.
[Illustration: A SCIENTIFIC OPENING.]
The fence rattled and shook around the whole lot under the terrible
blow. He made a hole in the boards through which a large goat could
readily jump without sacrificing any of its hair by the performance, and
permanently injured a good-sized pear tree that stood inside the
enclosure, about three feet distant. The concussion was terrible. A
couple of turkeys that happened to be roosting in the tree at the time
dropped from their limb as though shot through the head with a
needle-gun. Never afterwards could they be induced to roost upon
anything further from the ground than the cross-bar of a saw-horse or
the handles of a wheelbarrow.
No doubt the town at one time had great expectations, as it formerly was
the capital of the State. It is now a capital joke to see a person
undertaking to walk through the town in the winter season, without faith
strong enough or feet broad enough to support him upon the surface of
the oceans of mud he will find himself gazing wistfully across.
On my way down a man was pointed out to me on the boat who is said to be
the meanest man in his county. My informant assured me that when the
mean individual’s wife died last year, he borrowed a pair of forceps
from the dentist at Benicia, and extracted all her gold-filled teeth.
And on the morning prior to her funeral he sat upon the door-step,
hammer in hand, with a flat-iron upon his knees, cracking the teeth like
English walnuts, and with a sewing awl extracting the filling from the
cavities.
During my journey I didn’t cultivate that man’s acquaintance. He is a
person to stand away from, especially when clouds are charged with
electricity.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
TOO MUCH OF INDIAN.
Take away the dish; I have had my fill of Modoc; have had buck for
breakfast, squaw for dinner, and papoose for supper, until at the very
name of Indian my appetite forsakes me.
The appellations that for a season fell upon my ears, like a new poem
from the lips of some sweet bard, have poetry for me no longer. The
names, “Captain Jack,” “Scarfaced Charlie,” “Shacknasty Jim,”
“Rain-in-the-face,” “Old-man-afraid-of-his-horse,” “Sitting Bull,” or
“Ellen’s Man,” have lost their charm. They have become dull and
uninteresting, and I would hear them no more forever. I have been duped,
deceived, defrauded, on account of these rascally Indians.
I have gazed in silent awe upon what I supposed to be the scalp of no
less a personage than “Old Sconchin,” and it now transpires that the
redoubtable old chief turns up among the Indians recently captured.
Oh! Oh! how this world is given to lying!
I have journeyed long and far, by water and by rail, on horseback and on
foot, and purchased at an extravagant price an Indian’s scalp which the
seller under oath, with lifted hand, assured me was the veritable crown
lock of that same “Old Sconchin.”
With tears coursing down his sunburned cheeks he informed me, that with
his own eyes, in the full light of day, he saw it plucked smoking from
the sconce of the expiring brave.
I have consequently braided watch chains of the hair, fashioned a money
purse of the skin, and then withdrawn into a private apartment to shed
bitter tears of sorrow, because the material didn’t quite hold out to
make a tobacco pouch. And now the distressing intelligence reaches me
that the renowned “Old Sconchin” stands manacled in the camp of his
foemen, with an unscarified top and as luxuriant hair as ever drew
nourishment from an Indian head.
Oh! where shall we turn, or where shall we look for honesty, since it is
not found in the breast of the Indian scalp peddler?
GOING UP THE SPOUT.
Rats and mice, like ourselves, often labor at a great disadvantage while
endeavoring to make a livelihood. They often make a miss of it
altogether by not knowing the proper time to set out upon an expedition.
Their life is a perpetual skirmish. They have to take chances and be
upon their guard continually. Their mortal enemy and dread, the cat, may
be asleep in the fourth story, and the poor mouse knows not of it as he
looks wistfully across the intervening space between the ash barrel and
the basement stairs; but after weighing the chances of escape or
capture, he scurries across the opening with as much haste as though the
sharp claws of pussy were raking the stunted fur from his wiry tail.
The sun may pour down its genial rays and the planks which his way lies
over be warm and inviting, but he cannot loiter to enjoy its warmth or
survey the beauties of nature. Oh! who would be a mouse? sigh I, as I
sit and ponder over his life of inherent fear and uncertainty.
He seems to have no confidence in himself. His actions are like those of
an inferior checker player. Shove about as he may, the chances are he
will soon regret the manœuvre, and wish himself safely back again at the
starting point.
[Illustration: AN OBJECT OF SUSPICION.]
Everything about the premises seems to be after him. He regards the old
blacking-brush that lies under the bench with looks of suspicion for
hours together, and dare not risk a scamper past. He takes it for a
horrid cat, quietly and patiently biding her time. He retires into his
hole and waits fully an hour before peeping out again; but there it sits
to blast his sight and cause a cold thrill to run along his little
spine. The fact that it does not change its position does not in the
least weaken his mistrust; on the contrary, it rather strengthens it.
“It is so cat-like,” he says to himself, “for it to be sitting there
motionless.” In the handle projecting from one end he very naturally
thinks he recognizes the tail, and at this new discovery he backs into
his hole again in great trepidation.
He feels certain now that he was right in his suspicions. Another wait
follows. On again emerging, there it lies as before; and if that mouse
was profane, and had a soul to hazard, it would undoubtedly hazard it,
and roundly berate that brush through compressed teeth.
It takes but little to set a poor mouse into a perfect fluster. Down
rolls a stick of wood from the pile, and Mr. Mouse, nibbling at the
other corner of the shed, jumps at least eight feet in the direction of
his hole. The wind blows down the clothes-line stick, and simultaneous
with its fall upon the planks the heart, liver and lights of the poor
mouse seem to be running a steeple-chase to see which can jump from his
mouth first. Away he scurries across the yard, so fast, that though your
eyes were endeavoring to keep up with him all the way, you merely know
_something_ has been moving, but can only surmise what.
We sometimes think the trials and disappointments of humanity are great,
but dear me! what are they compared to the miseries of these poor
creatures. From their hardships deliver me! For all their care and
caution, they do so often miscalculate. This is evidenced by the number
of times our old cat enters the house with her mouth full, and her eyes
sparkling with pride.
There is nothing so very degrading or humiliating in a cat’s life, and
the thought of becoming a cat does not make one shudder as does the
thought of becoming a mouse. A good household cat does not occupy such a
very bad position in life after all; by _good_ I mean an excellent
mouser, one never guilty of letting a mouse escape after having the
second wipe at him; no scraggy creature with stove-singed back and
scolloped ears, but a well-behaved, home-loving animal. The lot of such
a creature is preferable to that of some men whom I have met in life,
that is, if there were no rude children in the house. There is always
some drawback; a cat is peculiarly blessed that lives in a house where
there are no children; it seems to be counted as one of the family
almost, and its life, though short, is certainly a happy one. But ah!
these reckless children, that snatch up Tommy by the tail as they would
a sauce-pan, and as though the tail was actually intended for a handle.
On second thought, the life of a cat is not so very pleasant after all.
For the last half hour I have been deeply interested in the manœuvres of
a large rat in the yard of an adjacent house. He has made three
unsuccessful attempts to go up the sink-spout. Thrice has he glided up
the slippery incline until the tip of his long tail disappeared from
view, but as often has he beat a hasty retreat, assisted on his downward
way by a rushing torrent of hot dish-water.
[Illustration: ON A RAID.]
He is a determined fellow, however, and sticks to an enterprise with the
spirit and pertinacity of a world-seeking Columbus, or a prison-breaking
Monte Christo. No doubt the hungry edge of appetite is whetted by the
strong effluvium arising from Limburger cheese (the people are Germans)
that fills the whole atmosphere with an odor truly agreeable to the
rodent nose, every time the pantry door is opened. The cheese has been
lately stirred up, I presume, by the trenchant knife of Pater-familias,
and consequently the poor hunger-pinched rat is allured up the spout at
this inopportune hour, while the servant girl is washing the dishes.
Every living creature has its weakness. The horse whinnies when the oats
draw nigh, and forgets the galling collar. Sheep, that at other times
will not come within gunshot, grow tame and unsuspicious when the salt
is shaken in the pan.
The hog has a penchant for clover-roots, or wherefore does the rusted
wire ring ornament his nose? Is it there because it is the fashion? Ask
the farmer.
And undoubtedly cheese is the weakness of the rat family. It is their
aim, and often their end, too. It is the shrine to bow down before which
the rat will jeopardize his life every hour of the twenty-four.
He dreams of it. In his fitful slumbers he beholds it ranged around him
tier on tier, as in a great store room, and not a cat within forty
leagues. He is in the rat’s Paradise, and happy. No deceptive poisons
that consume the stomach, no insidious, subtle traps, yawning ready to
clutch the unsuspecting victim, surround him. He is safe and at peace,
and would dwell there forever and forever in one unbroken endless night.
But the heavy rumbling of a dray startles him, for all sweet dreams have
their wakings, alas! that it is so! He wakes, and where is he? Under the
wet sidewalk, drenched and tousled with the drippings of the day’s rain,
with nothing for breakfast but a dry onion peel, the prog of the
previous night, which nothing but a forty-eight hours’ fast could induce
him to seize. Ah, me! what chances the fellow has to take in order to
secure sufficient sustenance to keep life and body together.
“Honor pricks me on,” soliloquized old Sir John, on the field of
Shrewsbury, when he withdrew from the general clash and rendering up of
souls, to breathe a spell, and moralize upon the insignificance of Fame,
or Honor, as against the value of life. But nothing pricks on the poor
rat but his craving little digestive organs. The mill is crying out for
grists, the hopper is empty, the stone still turning, and something must
be done, and that quickly.
No honor is attached to the expedition, and even though he should
succeed in making the “inning,” which is doubtful, all that can be said
is that he has “gone up the spout,” and in the common acceptation of the
saying, that is certainly nothing to be very highly elated over.
I actually feel ashamed when I think of the many projects I have
abandoned through life, because I met with slight reverses. Here before
me is this poor water-soaked rat, his hair still smoking from his recent
scald, emerging once more from behind the wood box, determined to solve
the problem of the sink-spout or perish in the attempt. A grim smile of
resolution seems to part his pointed features, as he moves quietly up to
the dripping conduit from which he lately scampered with steaming ribs.
They may talk of deeds of noble daring, of vaulting the breach, or
traversing the wild; but for sterling courage, for indomitable
perseverance and pluck, commend me to this little adventurer in my
neighbor’s yard. In the face of three scalding inundations, he ventures
again upon the expedition, unshaken, unsubdued, unterrified. He takes
more chances and subjects himself to more risks in ascending that spout
than old Samuel de Champlain in exploring up the St. Lawrence among the
Iroquois.
What if the large flea-pasturing dog lying indolently in the yard would
rouse from the lethargic sleep that holds him, and for once make himself
useful by thrusting his bristling muzzle up the orifice after the little
explorer, thereby cutting off retreat in the event of another disastrous
deluge? The terrible result of such an action on the part of the dog is
too painful and improbable to contemplate.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE GLORIOUS FOURTH.
You need not wake to call me, to call me, mother dear,
For to-morrow’ll be the noisest day of all the passing year;
Of all the passing year, mother, the most uproarious day,
And I, you bet, will stirring be before the morning gray.
A flag-staff will be hoisted, mother, two hundred feet in air,
And cannon will be ranged around the whole of Union Square,
And on the instant Phœbus shoots his arrows o’er the hill,
There’ll be a roar will shake the shore as far as Watsonville.
You know the tailor’s nephew, mother, they call him Squinty Ware;
Last year he powdered Perry’s jaw, and blinded Dobson’s mare,
And while his poor old grandmamma was peeping through the blind,
She got a “whiz” in her old phiz, that she’ll forever mind.
And Henrietta Loring, mother, tied crackers to the tail
Of Deacon Reed’s big, lazy hound, while eating from a pail;
And goodness! gracious! how he jumped, and dusted for the shed;
And in a moment every straw was blazing in his bed.
And you’d have died of laughter, mother, I’m certain, if you saw
Old Deacon Reed run out to tramp upon the burning straw;
And when he ran to get the hose—for tramping would not do—
His wig blew off, and down the street for half a block it flew.
[Illustration: CELEBRATING THE FOURTH.]
I _know_ it was not proper, mother, and I ashamed should be
To stand and gag, just like a wag, another’s loss to see;
But ’twas a sight that got me quite, and I’ll be old indeed
When I forget the comic look of that old Deacon Reed.