“Wal, there wasn’t hardly a gal in the village that Abe Drake hadn’t bin
a-spurrin’ round, and he had sort o’ commenced a-trampin’ on his wing
like around Kate Rykert about this time.
“It happened I had a sort of weakness that way myself, and I didn’t like
his maneuverin’ any too well now, I kin assure you. He couldn’t make
much out of Kate, though. She liked fast horses and a splurge, but she
wasn’t one of those gals that would marry an old pair of breeches jest
because there was greenbacks in the pockets.
“But, as I was remarkin’, that day while the picnic was breakin’ up, we
all got talkin’ about a ball that was comin’ off the followin’ week down
at Crow Bend. Abe wanted Kate to go down thar with him, but she had
partly agreed afore that to go long er me; so to git herself out of it
and me in, she said she would go with the one who could take her the
fastest.
“‘That’s me,’ said Abe, straightenin’ up kind of proudly, and givin’ his
pantaloons a hitch up at the waistband. ‘I can let you count the panels
along the turnpike a leetle the quickest of any person around these
quarters,’ and he looked sideways at me to see how I took the assertion.
“‘It’s not allers the hen that does the most extensive advertizin’ that
makes the largest deposits,’ said Tom Ruggles, laughin’, as he sat thar
packin’ away his dishes.
“‘No, Tom,’ said Gus Parks, the millinery man, who didn’t like Abe any
too well, because he sort o’ smashed an engagement between him and the
schoolmarm; ‘and it’s not allers your longest-tailed quadrupeds that git
over the ground the fastest, nuther.’
“‘Wal, never mind, boys,’ ses I, jest easy, that way, ‘the proof of the
whiskey is in the headache arterwards. I reckon I kin kill as many
grasshoppers between here and Grab Corners as any person that cracks a
whip in these parts.’
“‘What! with them thick-skinned critters of yourn?’ said Abe, p’intin’
his fingers at my hosses, and laughin’ as though it was mi’ty funny. It
made me feel pooty riley, but I kept my temper.
“‘Supposin’ they hev thick skins,’ I ses, ‘they’re somethin’ like the
cheese that goggle-eyed Peter bought from the peddler, their peculiarity
doesn’t lie in the thickness of their hide so much as in the mysterious
way they have of movin’ themselves around.’
“‘S’pose you try a race back to the Corner, then,’ ses one of the boys.
“‘Yes,’ ses Kate Rykert, clappin’ her hands and jumpin’ up. ‘I’ll ride
back to the Corner with one of you, and let Tilley Evans go with the
other, and I’ll go to the ball with the one who gets to the village
first.’
“‘Agreed,’ ses Abe, ‘and you’ll ride back with me?’
“‘No, I’m heavier than Tilley,’ ses Kate, ‘let everythin’ be even; toss
up for partners back to the Corner.’
“This seemed fair, so we flipped, and I won Kate. She weighed ten pounds
more than Tilley, but I didn’t care for that, for I knowed if the worst
come to the worst, she was none of your jumpin’ out kind; she would
stick to the buggy while there was one wheel and the seat left, and
that’s the sort of a gal to have along with a feller when he’s tryin’
hoss flesh.
“The whole picnic gathered around us when we were gettin’ our teams
ready and war speculatin’ on the result. Money was gwine up on all
sides. Parson Briarly had no change about him, but he bet his gold-bowed
spectacles against old Silverthorn’s meerschaum pipe that I would git to
the Corner fust.
“‘Beat him, Jim,’ ses Gus Parks, ‘and I’ll give Kate the best bonnet in
the store.’
“‘And I’ll give her the highest-heeled pair of boots that I’ve got in my
shop,’ said Tom Ruggles, the boot and shoe dealer.
“‘Then Kate is a bonnet and a pair of boots ahead, for sartain,’ says I,
jumpin’ into the buggy and squarin’ round my horses for the road; and
with that we started, lick-a-te-split! down the turnpike, Abe a leetle
ahead, but not enough to make much difference with five miles of good
turnpike ahead of us, without let or hindrance.
“Pooty soon Kate leaned over to me, and ses she, ‘You must beat him,
Jim, for between you and me, I would ruther go to the ball with you than
with Abe.’
“This made me feel mi’ty good, and ses I, ‘You mustn’t get skeered,
then, for I reckon we’ll hev to take some desperate chances to git thar
fust.’
“‘Let me alone for that,’ ses she; ‘when I can’t ride as fast as a hoss
can run, then I’ll stay to hum, and let dad tote me around in the
wheelbarrow.’
“Just then we came up with him. He tried to shake us off, and would
spurt ahead, but I’d crawl up on him agin, and stick thar, lappin’ him
and goin’ with him stretch for stretch, like a dog when he’s a-freezin’
to a pig’s ear. Away went Kate’s hat a-flutterin’ over butter-cup swale,
like a Bird of Paradise over the gardin’ of Eden.
“‘That’s mi’ty bad, Kate,’ ses I, lookin’ over my shoulder at it sailin’
off.
“‘Let it go hatchin’,’ ses Kate, laughin’. ‘It’s only gettin’ out of the
way of the new bonnet.’
“I thought ’twas a good omen myself, but didn’t say anythin’, for jist
then Abe shot a leetle ahead, and as he was gwine off, he hollered, ‘You
can’t do it, Jim.’
“‘I kin,’ ses I, determinedly.
“‘Your hosses are ginnin’ out; they hain’t got the bottom into ’em,’ he
shouted, jest that way.
“‘It must hev dropped out last night, then,’ ses I, and with that I
overhauled him agin. Past Brian O’Laughlan’s door yard we went like a
whirlwind through a flour ‘mill, over a hen and three suckin’ pigs. The
old woman was standin’ thar in the yard with her apron full of chickens,
shakin’ her fist at us and swearin’ like a drunken gypsy. Her long
tongue was a-slushin’ and dashin’ against her one front tooth like a mop
ag’inst a table leg.
[Illustration: MRS. O’LAUGHLAN.]
“I could have laughed myself to tears only I had to keep my eyes clear,
for the road was so narrow in some places that when we were abreast
there wasn’t any ground to spare.
[Illustration: JUST AS IT WAS.]
“We were now passin’ the half-way spring and the race was fully as
undecided as when we broke away from the hootin’ crowd on the picnic
grounds.
“Down past old Deacon Shovelridge’s ten-acre hop yard we went
rack-a-te-bang! hub end against hub end, and the outer wheels a-spokin’
it within six inches of a four-foot ditch.
“The ride to the Corners began to look like the ride to etarnity, and
Tilley was as pale as a gray nun’s ghost, and continewally making
narvous reaches for the lines.
“But Kate was equal to the surroundin’s. Thar she sot, with one arm
around me and ’tother graspin’ the seat rail, and above the clatter of
hoofs and steel axles, I could hear her repeatin’:—
“‘Stick to him, Jim, and start my stitches, if he doesn’t git his crop
full of dust yet!’
“Old Shovelridge was in the field on a load of hay as we were passin’.
He was inclined to piety, and if the world had no hosses in it I reckon
he’d have been as pious as a church organ.
“And when he saw us a-raspin’ down the turnpike as though we were ridin’
in a four-hoss chariot, and saw Kate Rykert’s great swad of blonde har
a-streamin’ out behind, like the tail of a comet, he couldn’t contain
his feelin’s no how.
“He gin a rousin’ whoop like a Chilchat Indian, when he sights a fur
hunter. Throwin’ away the pitchfork—which accidentl’y harpooned the old
lady in the back who was rakin’ behind—and jumpin’ from the load, he
took across the field to’ards the turnpike, swingin’ his old straw hat
and hollerin’:—
“‘Go it, Dudley; go it! Keep the hoss up with the rat-tail mare, and
I’ll bet my farm you’ll make Grab Corner fust!’
“This made me feel pooty good, for the mare was the one I had some fears
about.
“But you ought to see how it affected Abe; he commenced to slash his
hosses and swar like an ox teamster when his cart is stuck hub deep in
the mud.
“Finally the off-horse broke, and there was a sort of irregular upheaval
among ’em for a while, as though they war steppin’ on broken cakes of
ice; one would be gwine down while ’tother was a-comin’ up.
“Abe tried to bring ’em down to their work agin, and in the meantime I
kind of corkscrewed ahead and swung into the centre of the road in
advance of him. Then I began to feel somethin’ like a feller what holds
the winnin’ cards, and sees the other chaps a-pilin’ up the coin on
their inferior pasteboards. But I see some young half-breeds a-squattin’
around on the road about a quarter of a mile ahead, and knowed at the
rate we war travellin’ we’d be on top of ’em before they’d see us if I
didn’t haul up.
“So I ses to Kate, ‘See them plag’y brats ahead of us thar! what bed we
better do about it?’
“‘Run over the centipedes,’ ses she. ‘Abe ain’t a gwine to slack up for
’em,’ and she cuddled closer to me so the jolt wouldn’t hist her out.
“I shouted two or three times, but they were too busy with their mud
pies, I reckon, to take any notice, and Abe was makin’ no signs of
haulin’ up. I did my best to sheer round ’em, and kept right on for the
Corner.
“I heered ’em scream as we went a-whirlin’ on, but reckon it was more
through fright than injury.
“Abe had lost his grippin’s. He couldn’t overhaul me ag’in, no how, and
I gradually crawled away from him, if he did his pootiest.
“The whole village seemed to be out to the bridge to see what was
comin.’
“They see the dust risin’ when we were more’n a mile away, and they
allowed the greatest run-away was a-comin’ down the turnpike that had
happened since Bull Run, and were out thar speculatin’ as to whose
family was in danger.
“But when they see it was a race, and recognized me, you ought to see
the scatterin’ amongst ’em. You’d think a hull menagery had broken loose
and was comin’ for ’em.
“Ole Pelvy, the shoemaker, was a-settin’ on the railin’ of the bridge;
but jest as I crossed it, the crowd hoorayed, and jostled him off. He
hung over the railin’ by one leg, with his body swayin’ below, and him
a-hollerin’ like a good feller, and signalin’ for help, but the crowd
were so taken up with the race, and were cheerin’ and swingin’ of their
hats continewally, that they never knowed anythin’ about his position.
[Illustration: CURING PEOPLE’S CORNS.]
“Pooty soon his leg slipped over, and then he went, end over end more’n
twenty-five feet, into the river, and was carried over the falls before
anybody missed him. Arter that people weren’t troubled so much with
corns around Grab Corner, for though he’s dead now, I’ll say it of him,
he was the wust shoemaker that ever shoved an awl into a hide.
“I druv up to the hotel, and had jest got through helpin’ Kate out, when
up come Abe, with his hosses hobblin’ as if they had picked up a
twenty-penny nail in every hoof.
“They looked somewhat as if they had bin swimmin’ in a soap vat.
“Abe was very much of a man, though, arter all. His hosses I reckon had
never bin passed before, but he didn’t bluster or git mad about it
neither, though it must have bin pooty tryin’ to him.
“‘By the Witch of Endor’s long eye tooth,’ he cried, as he jumped from
the buggy, ‘you did it, Jim; and you did it fair. Only I kinder think
you swung in ahead of me a leetle too quick, back thar where that crazy
old whipperin hollered so.’
“‘No, Abe,’ ses I, ‘I didn’t take an inch o’ turnpike till I was
entitled to it.’
“‘Wal,’ ses he, as he came round to look at my animals, that were
standin’ thar seemingly as cool as a brace of toads in a celler, ‘I’ll
be shot if them hosses of yourn ain’t somethin’ like the widder Tappan’s
boarders. The speed they show in gettin’ away with anythin’ was most
surprisin’.’
“So Kate Rykert got the bonnet and boots, and I gin her a new dress to
go with them, and if we didn’t shine out some the next week down to Crow
Bend then thar ain’t no use talkin’ about it, that’s all.”
[Illustration]
OLEOMARGARINE.
Through the busy bustling street,
Rolls a cart I often meet,
The driver shouting from the seat:
“Oleomargarine!”
On the tail-board long and wide,
Reaching fair from side to side,
Shines the word in painted pride:
“Oleomargarine!”
What it is doth not appear,
Where it comes from all may fear,
Still I shudder when I hear:
“Oleomargarine!”
Here and there he slowly crawls,
Pausing by the butcher stalls,
In the kitchen door he bawls:
“Oleomargarine!”
Bring your tallow, bring your fat,
Candle ends and all like that,
They will issue from the vat
Oleomargarine.
Any scraps you have about,
Kidney, liver, tripe, or snout,
All will make, when they’re tried out,
Oleomargarine.
Comes the cry across the way,
From a dame with rent to pay:
“Do you purchase puppies? say,
Oleomargarine!”
“Is he fat?” the driver cries;
“I should say so,” she replies;
“Then pitch him in where pussy lies.”
Oleomargarine!
In the church, or at the play,
In the parlor, night or day,
Still the voices seem to say:
“Oleomargarine!”
From the birds that round me fly,
In the brook that babbles by,
Still I seem to catch the cry:
“Oleomargarine!”
With suspicion now I spread
The cow’s rich offering on my bread
That weird butter still I dread,—
Oleomargarine!
Dainties now I must forego,
Pies and cakes and puddings, Oh!
Can I trust them? no! no!! no!!!
Oleomargarine!
DINING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.
Taking dinner to-day in a restaurant, I was in danger of being carried
off by cockroaches. If I was inclined to draw comparisons, I would say
that in size the cockroaches I encountered in this place would compare
favorably with cupboard door buttons. I had seen these troublesome
insects on former occasions when I thought they were numerous—when they
were as thick around the bread-plate as bees around their hive in June.
But I had never been present when they turned out in sufficient numbers
to take and hold possession of everything upon the table, even to the
mustard-pot. To-day I witnessed such a spectacle. I counted until I
tired; their skelping to and fro made the task painfully difficult, and
the effort was abandoned. They had evidently been lying in ambush in the
cruet stand from the moment I sat down and gave my order, for the ring
of the plate as it struck the board seemed to be the signal for a
general advance. They appeared in military ranks, moving towards the
dish in a semicircle, like a line of Fenian skirmishers advancing
heroically upon a turnip patch. There were no frost-nipped fellows, with
drooping horns and dragging limbs, among those legions either. All were
active, square-shouldered customers, real thoroughbreds, wide across the
hips, and boasting a depth of chest capable of enduring any amount of
running; while their long, formidable-looking feelers stood out at right
angles from their heads, like the horns on a Mexican steer.
[Illustration: BUMMERS ON THE RAID.]
“During your natural life,” I commenced, addressing a waiter who stood
near by, evidently enjoying my surprise, “whether while officiating as
head steward on board of a floating palace on the Mississippi, or
serving as second cook on a grain scow on the San Joaquin, did you ever
run across a place where the cockroaches were one-ninetieth part as
numerous as they are in this restaurant?”
“Numerous?” he answered; “you should be here a warm, sunshiny day, if
you want to see cockroaches, for then all the invalids are out—those
fellows who have had their movements across the table accelerated by a
snapping finger, or such as have only tasted the poison scattered around
for their benefit, or those who have taken an overdose and throwed it up
again. These lie in cracks and cupboards, with stiffened joints and weak
stomachs, when the weather is cold and cloudy; but when a warm day
comes, they are all abroad and busy.”
“Well, I will bear that in mind,” I said, rising from the table, “and
when the next total eclipse of the sun occurs, which, as I am informed,
will take place in about four hundred and thirty-seven years, I may come
into this restaurant for another meal, and not until then,” and with
that I left.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
The editor of a city paper having occasion to take a trip into the
country, prevailed upon me to assume the responsibility of answering
letters from correspondents. The task is an onerous one—the more so as
the editor, with that cunning ever noticeable in a person who takes the
cream of a job, left me to reply only to the knottiest epistles. But I
will some time get even with him, however. I will assume the editorial
“we,” and should I waken the wrath of any person, _he_ will be the
sufferer. Here is a copy of my answer to “Katie:”—
“The minister was perfectly right in refusing to marry the couple, if,
as you say, the bride insisted upon holding her poodle in her arms
during the ceremony. The more so as the clergyman was near-sighted. He
might possibly mistake the puppy for the bridegroom.”
Another person accuses a correspondent of a mis-statement. He says it
was the editor of the _Farmer_, and not the editor of the _Examiner_,
who planted the package of No. 16 homœopathic pills sent him from the
country by a wag, as the seeds of a Sandwich Island cabbage.
The old editor for weeks regularly watered the plot where he sowed them;
but as nothing appeared, wrote to the country gentleman, informing him
that his seeds hadn’t sprouted, and he thought it likely they might have
been taken from a dead head.
“Amy” is all in a fluster about spirits. I will talk to her after this
manner:—
“We have always considered spiritualism the bluest carbuncle that ever
festered upon the neck of society. We care not if the spirits were
rapping around our table like a forty-stamp mill, we would eat our
regular allowance with all the coolness that a Celestial manifests when
absorbing his birds’-nest soup. If your bed dances a _pas-seul_ after
you get into it at night, there must be more than spirits around; and
you would do well to throw a boot-jack or flat-iron under it before
retiring. Such a proceeding might give you the satisfaction of hearing
the spirits yell blue murder.
“There is not much danger of your going crazy, because, in plain terms,
we consider you to be luny already. The poor fellow in the lunatic
asylum who imagines Queen Victoria has made a private residence of his
nose, and who has nearly blown both eyes out striving to eject her, is
hardly more so.”
I trust the editor will lose some hair over that answer.
On second thought, I remember the editor has none.
COURT-ROOM SCENES.
I am as full of law this evening as a sea-shell of sound, having been
wedged in the District Court room from 10 o’clock A. M. to 9 P. M.,
listening to testimony in the re-trial of the case of the People vs. a
fiery lady, if we may use the expression, who brought down her game the
first shot.
Though the room was crowded almost to suffocation, I fancy there is not
that deep interest that was manifested during the former trial. On that
occasion there were so many letters introduced in evidence, such a mass
of private correspondence dragged from musty trunks, and laid open to
the public, that thousands flocked daily to the court room, in hopes of
hearing something rich, if not instructive. I shall never forget the
excitement during the reading of letter No. 947. It was from the
defendant.
The counsel for the defence argued a good round two hours and a half by
the court-room clock, against the letter being admitted in evidence. He
maintained it was irrelevant, as it had never been opened, the receiver
forgetting to read it, or neglecting to do so, for some reason of his
own.
[Illustration: A DROWSY JURY.]
The counsel for the people followed with even a longer appeal to the
judge to admit the letter, strengthening his argument by lengthy
quotations from Blackstone, Kent, Wharton, and other authorities,
endeavoring to prove it should be put in evidence, as its contents might
assist materially in furthering the ends of justice.
The judge began to show unmistakable signs of impatience. He remarked
that already a package of letters had been read that would go far
towards shingling the Mechanics’ Pavilion, and had no more bearing upon
the point at issue than “Darwin’s Descent of Man” had upon the culture
of white beans. He finally gave way before the preponderance of the
prosecuting attorney’s argument, and directed an officer to wake the
jury, as a letter was to be read that all should hear. After
considerable shaking and poking, this difficult duty was performed. Even
the deaf juror was aroused, though the good-natured judge had permitted
him to sleep during the introduction of several preceding epistles.
After order was restored, and an inventive juror had improvised an ear
trumpet with a piece of legal cap for his unfortunate companion, the
_billet doux_ was opened. As the seal was broken, judge and jury rose to
their feet with one accord, and leaned as far forward as their desks
would allow, the more readily to catch every word of the important
document. The silence in the room was death-like. It was supposed that
on the contents of this letter hung either a scaffold or an acquittal.
The weak ticking of the dusty clock upon the wall was the only sound
that disturbed the awful stillness. As the calm settled, the muffled
beat of the time-piece increased in force and volume until it seemed to
attain the tones of a fire bell. Presently the attorney in a high and
tremulous voice began to read. The contents ran thus:—
“MY DEAR, DELIGHTFUL DARLING:—How are my stocks selling now?
Your Loving, Adoring L——.”
The effect was thrilling. The lawyer dropped the letter upon the table
before him, ran his white fingers through his hair, and looked around
with the air of a tired traveler when he ascertains he has walked five
miles upon the wrong road. The gentlemen of the jury, with looks more of
anger than of sorrow, dropped into their seats as suddenly as though an
invisible hand had caught them from behind and jerked them to their
benches.
The Judge, with an ill-concealed look of disgust, settled back into his
chair, and the deep crease in his vest, immediately over where his
dinner should have been hours before, grew more painfully perceptible.
I elbowed my way from the suffocating room before further correspondence
was selected from the package for perusal.
THE MASON’S RIDE.
The goat, the goat, the bearded goat!
The horned, the hoofed, the hairy goat!
As I’m a sinner of some note,
Last night I rode the Mason’s goat!
He was a beast of wondrous size,
With lengthy limbs and glassy eyes,
And beard that swept the carpet clear,
And horns that shook the chandelier!
Ye gods! if there’s a time we feel
Misgivings through our noddle steal,
It is when we through mystery float
Upon the dark Freemason’s goat.
Now some will say there’s no such thing,
And at the goat derision fling;
And say that all is Fancy wrought,
Through fear and dread suspicion brought.
But those who such remarks outpour
Have never knocked at Mason’s door,
Have nothing known about that beast
That was imported from the East,
Where kings of wisdom, wealth, and pomp
Bestrode him through his midnight romp.
Three times was I compelled to ride
The creature ‘round the Temple wide,
But while I tried the fearful mount,
My heart’s pulsations all might count,
For thump on thump with treble knell
Within my breast it rose and fell.
Twice did I make the circuit fair,
My hold his horns, his tail, or hair,
Though never shot a kangaroo,
So fast Australian jungle through.
From garret roof to basement floor,
Through ante-room and closet door,
O’er winding steps and columns tall,
He held his way through house and hall,
Till on the third attempt, and last,
When I presumed all danger past,
He pitched me clear of horns and head,
And left me far below for dead.
[Illustration: THE ROCKY ROAD TO MASONRY.]
I felt as though a worthless clod
Unfit to keep above the sod;
But when I rose with terror pale
The goat had vanished, head and tail,
And I was styled by one and all
The greenest mason in the hall.
Let those who deem they are possessed
Of fadeless cheeks and valiant breast,
Of hair that never will aspire
To bristle like a brush of wire,
No matter through what risk they run,
Go ride that goat, as I have done.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: JUNE]
JUNE
Oh June! thou comest once again
With bales of hay and sheaves of grain,
That make the farmer’s heart rejoice,
And anxious herds lift up their voice.
I hear thy promise, sunny maid,
Sound in the reapers’ ringing blade,
And in the laden harvest wain,
That rumbles through the stubble plain.