hand, “you see that house to the left of them scrub oaks, don’t you?
that ar buildin’ with the leetle coopalow on’t? Wal, thar’s whar old
Deacon Shellbark lives; _the meanest man in this yer county_, and that’s
sayin’ considerable, too! cause we’ve got some vicey-fisted customers
round these yer parts, men who scrape the puddin’ pot mighty clean
before the dog gits a chance to canvass it, now I can tell ye. But I
feel safe in stickin’ in old Shellbark at the head, and I ain’t agwine
to haul him down nuther. I don’t believe in talkin’ much about one’s
neighbors, but I ginnerally tell strangers what sort of a man he is,
cause if they go to tradin’ with him and aren’t on thar guard, he’ll
skin ’em quicker than a whirlpool sucks in a dead fish.”
“You know the Deacon, then?” I remarked, while the hope I had
entertained of getting his name on my subscription list began to take to
itself wings.
“Yes, I reckon I do know him,” he replied, “pooty well, too; a great
sight better than is profitable to him, and he knows it. Oh, you bet he
knows it, and hates me as he does the dry murrain that gin the crows
fifteen of his best cows last summer. I knowed him back in Scrabble
Town.
“They wouldn’t allow him to come within pistol shot of a church back
thar, because they mor’n suspected he stole the wine and bread from the
communion table one day. They were down on him flatter than a stone on a
cricket allers arterwards. He’s a deacon out here though, but that ain’t
nothin’. He can’t fool me with his prayin’. I want no sech crooked old
disciple as he is intercedin’ for me, you know.”
“I was hoping he would subscribe for this book,” I remarked, “but I am
afraid there is not much use of my going there if he is so very mean.”
“Look’e here, stranger,” he remarked earnestly, “you mout just as well
stop thar whar you’re standin’. Subscribe! He’ll gig back from a
subscription list jest as he would from a six-shooter.”
“Ah, but this is a religious work, and perhaps he would lend that his
support,” I answered quickly.
“Religious work be shelved!” exclaimed the farmer. “That doesn’t help ye
any; you can’t do anythin’ with him, ’cause he hain’t got no more soul
than an empty gin bottle. You mout as well bait a rat trap with a cat’s
head and expect the varmin to go a-nibblin’ at it, as to expect him to
put his name down to anything that’s agwine to take coin from his
pockets.
[Illustration: SLEEPY DOBY.]
“You’re a stranger in these yer parts I see, and tharfore haven’t the
slightest idea what a towerin’ mean man he is; why he’d run a mile to
git on the sunny side of a feller to cheat him out of his shadow! I
knowed him back in old Indiany. He’s from the same place that I am, but
you can kick me clear over to them foot-hills and back ag’in if I don’t
feel like takin’ pizin every time I have to own up to it. He used to be
in cahoot with a tanner back thar named Doby; sleepy Doby, the boys
called him, for he was the sleepiest feller you ever did see. Go asleep
while workin’ at anythin’. He would drop asleep sometimes while scrapin’
a hide, and cut the consarned thing all into parin’s; at other times he
would fall back into the tan vat, then wake up and holler for the boys
to come and fish him out.
“They say he dropped asleep once while ringin’ a hog to prevent him from
rootin’ up the clover patch. The minister of the village had to pause in
the middle of a sermon he was preachin’ half a block away, until the
squealin’ subsided.
“But as I was gwine to tell ye, before the rheumatism got into his
j’ints, and made him shun water as he would a tax-collector, old
Shellbark used to be pooty fond of fishin’. One day Parson Bodfish was
gwine off to have a day’s sport, and took me along to carry the fish. I
was only a boy then, and mighty tickled because I could go. Jest about
the time we got to the river we overtook old Shellbark a-pointin’ thar
too. When we got to the bank they both set in gettin’ out thar hooks and
lines, and then for the first time old Shellbark found out he had left
his bait to hum. So he commenced to sputter and fret, takin’ on terribly
about it, until Parson Bodfish ses to him, ‘That’s all right; I reckon
I’ve got enough bait in this box for both of us, and I’ll give you half
of mine, and let us start in and make the most of it.’ So the Parson—who
had a heart the size of a sheep’s head—took out his bait-box and gin him
more than half. It’s so; I seed ’em when he took ’em out. Pooty soon
arter, while the parson was a-standin’ on a log that horned out over the
water, a-baitin’ of his hooks, a big-mouthed fish-hawk gin a-chatterin’
screech overhead, and startled him a leetle, and while lookin’ up he let
his bait-box fall into the river.
“The box was open, so the worms war scattered every which way, and away
went box and bait a-flukin’ down the rapids, and the parson’s cusses
follerin’ arter. He _did_ swar, by hunky! I heer’d him. He had a mi’ty
hot temper, and it was more than he could do sometimes to keep it down.
A feller couldn’t blame him much for swa’rin’ jest then, ’cause ’twas a
pooty tryin’ time. He turned around sort of quick when he thought of me
bein’ thar. I seed him turnin’, though, and let on to be talkin’ to a
fish that I was stringin’ on, so he reckoned I hadn’t noticed him. We
hurried on down the river, and arter a while overtook old Shellbark, who
was snakin ’em out as fast as he could fix bait and throw in.
“‘I lost all my worms back thar, while standin’ on a log,’ ses the
parson, ‘and will have to fall back on you for some.’ The old snipe
grumbled out somethin’ about bein’ out of all patience with people who
war so fool careless. Arter a while he took out the rag he kept the
worms in, and although he had quite a large knot of ’em, he gin the
parson jest one, and dead at that! It’s so! You may laugh, but I seed
it. When he was a-pickin’ it out and handin’ it to him, and when Parson
Bodfish was a-stickin’ the hook into him, he lay thar and took it as
e-a-s-y, and never squirmed or objected the least. You’d hev thought it
was a link of vermicelli the parson had picked out of a soup plate.
“When Parson Bodfish took it from him, he held it between his finger and
thumb a while, jest that way, and I swow I felt solid sure he was agwine
to slap it back into old Shellbark’s face.
[Illustration: OPENING HIS HEART.]
“He didn’t, though. But he did look as if he’d like to, mi’ty well. He
stood thar and stared him in the face as if actewally in doubt about his
being the person he divided with in the mornin’. Arter a while he baited
his hook and started in right thar. He had amazin’ good luck, too, with
one bait. He hauled out four floppin’ great chubs, one right arter the
other, and durin’ the same time old Shellbark didn’t get a bite from
anythin’ but musquiters. He seemed just tearin’ mad over it, too, I can
tell you.
“He stood thar a-floppin’ and a-scratchin’ and a-slingin’ of his line
out the full length, tryin’ on all sides continewally, but to no
purpose.
“At last, thinkin’ he had a fish when he didn’t, he switched up his line
so spiteful it caught in a tree-top more than fifteen feet above his
head; and while he was a-gawpin’ up thar, jerkin’ the line, and stampin’
round, he sot his foot flat onto his string of fish that war layin’ thar
on the bank, and squashed the in’ards out of nigh every one of ’em.
Between thar slipperiness and his confusion, hurryin’ to git off ’em
before they were sp’iled, he fell and slid away down the bank, head
fust, a-clawin’ and a-kickin’ jest like a skeer’d alligator. Only he
chanced to strike ag’inst an old root that was stickin’ up at the margin
of the river, he’d have gone plum to the bottom for sartain.
“Unfortunately the last fish Parson Bodfish caught had swallered the
bait, so he ses to me kind of low, ‘Dolphus, let’s see if we can’t skeer
up a lizard, or somethin’ that’ll do for bait when a man’s in a pinch.’
“So we set in to huntin’ and s’archin’ under old logs and stones, and
dead wild grass, but couldn’t git hold of anythin’. The parson fell
three times on all fours in the dirt, and gin his wrist a mi’ty bad
sprain while pursuin’ a queer, long-legg’d horned critter somethin’ like
a cricket, only pizenous, I guess. I could have caught it once, as it
went dronin’ past, but didn’t feel like touchin’ it. Finally it got
stuck into a clump of ferns, and he gin it up. So arter a while he ses,
‘I’ll have to go back and try that old Shellbark ag’in, though I’d
ruther take a dose o’ ipecac than do it.’
“So we come back to whar he was fishin’. He looked mi’ty solemn, and was
muddy as an old stone boat. Ses the parson to him, ‘I’ll have to call on
you ag’in for another _dead_ worm; the one you gin me is all gobbled
up.’
“‘Seems to me you’re mi’ty extravagint with the bait,’ he ses gruffly,
and switchin’ his line around and slingin’ it out far as the pole would
let it go, but not makin’ the least motion to comply with the parson’s
request.
“‘Waal, I don’t know how that is,’ ses Parson Bodfish, kind of easy
like, and tryin’ to keep down his anger, that I seed was rizin’ jest
like bilin’ sugar, ‘I nabbed four rousin’ good fish with that one bait.
I reckon that’s doin’ pooty well; fact I know it is. They seem to bite
fust rate at dead worms jest now.’
“‘Waal, I don’t know anythin’ about that,’ ses the old narrow gauge,
‘s’posin’ you cut up some of your fish and see if you can’t catch
somethin’ with that sort of bait; fish bite pooty well at that sort of
an offerin’ jest before rain, they say.’
“‘Then you ain’t a gwine to give me any worms?’ ses the parson, in a
husky voice, and shakin’ like a rag in the wind, he was so chock full of
passion.
“‘Waal, this is a sort of curious world, Mr. Bodfish,’ ses old
Shellbark, slow and niggardly like, jest that way, ‘and without a feller
looks out for himself he ain’t considered nothin’. ‘Sides you know,’ he
contin’ed, ‘fish bait is a good deal like an oyster or a bean—somethin’
that’s mi’ty hard to divide with a feller,’ and he commenced to troll
along down stream.
“Apple sass and spinage! I never did see a man so riled as that Parson
Bodfish was sence I could distinguish the moon from a lightnin’ bug. He
changed to all the colors of the rainbow by turns in less time than I’m
tellin’ ye. You never seed sech a struggle between sin and piety as
raged inside that parson for about five minutes.
“Fust piety seemed to be gettin’ on top, then sin would choke her down
and hold her thar. At last he turned around and run full chisel ahind
the turned up roots of a big windfall as though a gallon and a half of
black hornets war arter him. I reckoned he was gwine arter stuns to gin
the old feller a good peltin’, and that kind of work bein’ right into my
hand I ran thar too, cal’latin’ to help him do it. But I was mistaken’d.
[Illustration: SWEARING TO GET EVEN.]
“He wasn’t gwine arter stuns, for I seed so soon as he thought he was
out of sight he flopped down on his knees right thar in the mud,
a-holdin’ his hands jined together above his head jest that way. I
allowed he was a gwine to pray then for sartin, but he didn’t pray; no
siree, not much pra’ar jest then! he sw’ar’d though. He did! I heered
him, jest as plain as could be, ses he:—
“‘I sw’ar I’ll git even yet with that old Shellbark, if I have to yank
him out of his grave like a body-snatcher, to accomplish it!’
“I felt like runnin’ thar and sayin,’ ‘Don’t rise yet, let me kneel and
sw’ar too,’ the same as that tricky feller does in the play whar he’s
a-foolin’ the jealous nigger so bad; but I knowed it wouldn’t do, ’cause
he didn’t want me to see him kneel thar in the mud. So when he came back
he found me peltin’ a frog as if nothin’ had happened.
“‘Come, Dolphus,’ ses he, ‘its gettin’ pooty late; I guess we mout as
well be a-movin’ back home.’ So we turned back toward the village,
though ’twa’n’t more than noon, and left old Shellbark fishin’ thar. He
did git even with him though.
“One Sunday soon arter Parson Bodfish was”—here the farmer was
interrupted by a wild looking female who stuck her frowzy head out of an
open window, like a turtle out of its shell, and shouted, in anything
but a sweet voice:—
“‘Dolphus! you natural born talkin’ machine you! what are ye a-settin’
a-pratin’ and a-pratin’ about out thar? that old hog is in the gardin’
ag’in, a-h’istin’ the parsnips, and crunchin’ ’em like an old b’ar.’
“Consarn her spotted hide!” he vociferated, jumping up and grabbing a
huge cudgel that lay near by. “Jest you stop yer, stranger, for about
ten seconds, until I make that old swine think thar’s a trip-hammer got
a foul of her, then I’ll tell ye how the parson got even.”
“I couldn’t stop to hear the story any way,” I replied, “for I must be
travelling. However, I’ll take your advice and give the Deacon a wide
berth.”
As I descended the hill, the swine’s wail was ringing in my ears, and I
judged the trip-hammer was at work.
[Illustration]
IN A THOUSAND YEARS.
(A WOMAN’S DREAM OF THE FUTURE.)
’Twill be all the same in a thousand years!
What a terrible line this, to draw out the tears.
Oh, how oft do I weep at the dance, or the play,
O’er the sorrows we women are doomed to convey;
And can it be so, must we stand at the gate,
Denied all the honors of the country or State?
Our part but to please and obey lordly man;
Be kind when he’s surly, and be sweet as we can;
As students to shiver, like leaves in the breeze,
If we chance to infringe on his rules or decrees?
Then have pity, ye gods, who look down on our case,
Shut from Bar, Bench and School Board, and every fat place,
To pick up the pennies that oppressors fling down,
For cutting and stitching, and clothing the town.
Oh, the tyrant’s sharp lash, his “pooh pooh’s,” and his sneers,
Will be all the same in a thousand years.
Ah! ’tis not the same in a thousand years;
How sweet and how pleasant our life now appears,
For women no longer bow down at the nod
Of creatures, who ruled with a chain and a rod;
But as lawyers they plead, and as doctors dissect,
And in temples of learning control and direct.
The weak-footed student at mile-posts may rest
Without springing a mine in the President’s breast;
There’s no splitting of hairs to deny her the prize,
She receives her diploma and a blessing likewise;
Now women no more stitch and stew for their lives,
Or suffer injustice, because daughters or wives;
Lo, they sit down as jurors, they judge and they vote,
And in steering through life ply an oar in the boat.
The mother departed looks down here with pride
On her merciful child dealing charity wide;
While man, that once governed so harsh and severe,
Applies for positions in meekness and fear;
Now the cane of the dude is no more on the street,
The eyeglass is missing, and sharp-pointed feet,
The poor “chappy” himself is beyond the bright spheres,
For ’tis not the same in a thousand years.
[Illustration]
THE COBBLER’S END.
A large crowd of people was standing in and around a small shoemaker’s
shop on Third Street. Elbowing my way to the inner circle, I found the
excitement was over a man who had committed suicide. He was lying upon
the floor, his hands still grasping a shot gun, with which he had blown
off the top of his head.
I learned it was the shoemaker, and that he had committed the rash act
because the lady on whom his affections were set had seen fit to choose
another for her partner. Worst of all, it was a tailor who, to use a
common expression and one to the point, had cut him out. They were both
charmed with the comeliness of the young woman, and whenever an
opportunity offered, were in the habit of throwing sheep’s eyes in the
direction of her apartment. The lady seemed to grow more interested in
the situation, and even went so far as to smile archly upon him.
The tailor, who had never received such a compliment from so pretty a
woman before, was quite carried away with joy. He felt that his love was
returned, and from that moment the world presented a different aspect.
It was not even a new picture in an old frame, or _vice versâ_, but was
new throughout.
Even the old breeches on his lap seemed to suddenly undergo a strange
metamorphosis. The stout, rough material, over which he had lately been
bending with crippled fingers and sprung needle, in the twinkling of an
eye seemed transformed into a golden fleece, through which the waxed
thread flew like chain-lightning through a cotton umbrella. To have an
interview was now his only study, and where there’s a will there’s a
way.
One day a small boy was pressed into service and intrusted with a letter
to the woman in whom his whole heart seemed wrapped. She received it
safely, and duly by return of post broke the delightful intelligence to
the tailor that his love was returned, and ended the epistle by
requesting him to call.
Hardly had “seeling night scarfed up the tender eye of pitiful day,”
when the tailor with palpitating heart ascended the rickety stairs that
led to the apartment. How he was received there is no knowing, but it is
apparent to all he soon ingratiated himself with the handsome damsel, as
the sequel shows.
The knight of the thimble and needle had saved considerable money and
was comely to look upon, while she was both free and willing to wed, so
the courtship was a short one.
As it happened, the tailor had received an offer from a business firm in
the country that day, and as delays were considered dangerous, they
decided to be married at once and start for their new home. It chanced
that neither the lover nor his fair inamorata were troubled with enough
luggage to require the services of an express wagon, and it wasn’t long
before their traps were stuffed into sacks and bundles ready for
removal.
Talk about striking while the iron is hot: they went ahead of the
time-honored injunction, and hammered the iron while it was yet in the
furnace. The bat had hardly found his evening meal before they were
united and received the congratulations of the officiating clergyman,
and before Hesperus led her starry host down to the western main the
happy pair might have been seen bending under their respective burdens,
and moving rapidly down the thoroughfare to catch the first train for
the country.
[Illustration: A MOVING SCENE.]
Crispin soon discovered his handsome bird had flown. This was too much
for the poor cobbler. He couldn’t bear up under the weight, and having
procured a shot-gun, soon ceased to exist.
[Illustration: SHUFFLING OFF THE MORTAL COIL.]
These facts I gleaned from a grocer who lived near by, and who was
acquainted with all the parties. My mind was so disturbed by the
distressing event, I found it impossible to sleep for hours after I
reached my room. I started in to recite a book of Paradise Lost, but it
was no go. I had Michael assaulting Satan with a shoemaker’s awl instead
of with his sword of celestial temper. I then endeavored to run over an
act in Shakespeare, but met with no better success. I had Othello
blowing his head off with a shot-gun, instead of stabbing himself with a
knife. Still, the terrible combination of circumstances culminating in
the death of the poor cobbler crowded upon me in a saddening train, and
much-needed rest came not to my relief until the following lines were
composed and set to music:—
“Oh, the sunshine of his life
Had become a tailor’s wife,
Which was more than selfish heart could bear;
So he got his gun in haste,
In his mouth the muzzle placed,
Turned his eyes aloft as if in prayer;
On the trigger set his toes—
As the illustration shows—
Then up to the ceiling went his hair!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE LAST OF HIS RACE.
While passing through the market this morning, I saw the old turkey that
had escaped the ravages of Christmas. He is said to be the sole remnant
of the turkey tribe—living or dead—at present to be found. Though the
door of his coop was open he seemed to have no desire to escape.
Evidently, like Byron’s “Prisoner of Chillon,” he has been so long an
inmate he has become attached to it, and would rather remain there than
take his chances in the busy world outside.
He stood most of the time in the centre of the coop in a brown study.
Once, while I was looking at him, he attempted to expand the dilapidated
substitute for a tail and assume the dignity and strut of other days.
The effort was too much for him, and he settled down again into a
dreamy, somnolent state, from which the crowing of a large Brahma even
failed to arouse him. The poor fellow will doubtless fall a victim to
man’s rapacity on New Year, for I noticed a fleshy old epicure regarding
him with hungry sinister looks; nay, more, setting a price upon his
head.
Passing again through the market this afternoon, I noticed the coop was
empty, the “Prisoner of Chillon” was missing. Who had purchased him? or
what had become of him? were questions which, however pertinent they
might be, I felt I had no right to ask, and I didn’t. But the finger of
suspicion points directly at the mouth of that venerable justice who was
setting a price upon its head.
JIM DUDLEY’S RACE.
Now that I am rid of my wild-cat mining stock, my aching teeth and
inverted toenails, “Jim Dudley” turns up again with his stories and
slang.
Last night he told about the fast team he once sported in Indiana, and I
wager considerable that he never drove a horse in his life, except it
was to the pound that the might get half the fine. But this is the way
he spun his yarn:—
“Did the boys tell you about the span I used to drive down at Grab
Corners? No? wal, that’s queer. I owned a mi’ty fast pair while I was
stoppin’ thar.
“You see I fust had a four-year old hoss, and used to go buzzin’ through
the village like a streak o’ lightnin’; and when I had jest enough
whiskey aboard to make me feel a leetle reckless, I used to turn the
corners on the two inner wheels and never make a miss of it.
“My ambition was to own a span, though. Arter a while I bought a young
mare from Deacon Shovelridge. She was the homeliest lookin’ critter,
though, you ever sot eyes on. Her tail was as hairless as a garter
snake. She was a basin-raised colt, and one mornin’ she was standin’
round whar the boys were makin’ soap, and while backin’ up to the blaze
to git warm, her tail caught fire, and every spear of hair was burned
off. It never came out agin, nuther.
“It made her look pooty bad, but I see the go was in her, and that was
what I was arter. Durin’ fly time I used to help her out of her troubles
a leetle by fastenin’ a heavy tassel to the end of her tail, and arter
some practice she could fetch a fly off her ribs or fore shoulder
e’enmost every pop.
“I got her pooty reasonable. The Deacon said he was actewally ashamed to
go out with her, for the boys were allers a-hootin’ arter him. Besides,
the old codger seemed to have a likin’ for me, and allers took my part
when others were runnin’ me down. The mare matched the young hoss fust
rate. Both had hides like rhinoceroses, which sweat could never get
through. They might be bilin’ hot inside, but they never showed any
signs of it outwardly.
[Illustration: ABE DRAKE.]
“Arter a little trainin’ they pulled together, and spatted it out as
even as the wheels of a ferry-boat. I used to make a commotion among the
villagers when I turned out, for I could pass everythin’ around the
Corners; and you ought to have seen the fellers a-runnin’ out to hold
their hosses by the head when they see me comin’, and the wimmin
a-hollerin’ and tuckin’ up their skirts and scuddin’ arter their young
‘uns as though a drove of Mexican cattle were a-comin’ across the
bridge.
“One day an old sport named Abe Drake, a sort of spreein’ old bachelor,
come over thar from Illinois. He afterwards married a brokin’ winded old
concert singer that used to be squeakin’ around there, and went to live
in Hulltown. Wal, as I was sayin’, he came over there and brought a
spankin’ fine team along.
“They were amazin’ nice-lookin’ critters now, I can tell you; skins
smooth and shiny as seals, and tails on ’em that actewally trailed in
the dust behind. He allers had plenty of money, and was continewally
takin’ the gals around to one place or another. He was ginerally
considered the biggest cat on the wood pile. We never came in contact
when we had our teams out until one day at a picnic in Gawley’s Wood.
“That straw-headed Kate Rykert was thar. She was the rollickin’,
don’t-care gal of the village, one of these tree-climbin’,
astride-ridin’ critters, but a mi’ty good gal for all that, and handsome
as a new fiddle. She was well up in the fine arts, but she could realize
more genuine enjoyment chargin’ through the pastur’ astride the old
mooly cow than she could by trummin’ a pianer.