Rutland County. You’ve hearn tell,
Mebbe, of the town of Granville?
You born there? No! Sho! Well, well!
You was born at Granville, was you?
Then you know Elisha Brown,
Him as runs the old meat-market
At the lower end of town?
Well, well, well! Born down in Granville,
And out here, so far away!
Stranger, I’m homesick already,
Though it’s but a week to-day
Since I left my good wife standin’
Out there at the kitchen-door,
Sayin’ she’d ask God to keep me,
And her eyes were runnin’ o’er.
You must know old Albert Withers,
Henry Bull, and Ambrose Cole?
Know them all! And born in Granville?
Well, well, well! God bless my soul!
Sho! You’re not old Isaac’s nephew,
Isaac Green, down on the flat,
Isaac’s oldest nephew,—Henry?
Well, I’d never thought of that!
Have I got a hundred dollars
I could loan you for a minute,
Till you buy a horse at Marcy’s?
There’s my wallet,—just that in it.
Hold on, though! You have ten, mebbe,
You could let me keep; you see,
I might chance to need a little
Betwixt now and half-past three.
Ten. That’s it; you’ll owe me ninety;
Bring it round to the hotel.
So you’re old friend Isaac’s nephew?
Born in Granville! Sho! Well, well!
—What! Policeman! Did you call me?
That a rascal going there?
Well, sir, do you know, I thought so,
And I played him pretty fair;
Hundred-dollar bill I gave him,—
Counterfeit,—and got his ten!
Ten ahead! No! You don’t tell me!
This bad too? Sho! Sold again!
THE RAJAH’S CLOCK.
Rajah Balpoora, Prince of Jullinder,
Reigned in the land where the Five Rivers ran;
A lordly tyrant, with none to hinder
His wildest pleasure or maddest plan.
His hall was beauty, his throne was splendor,
His meat was dainties of every zone;
Nor ever a joy that wealth can render,
His whimsical fancy left unknown.
For afar, in sight of his palace windows,
His realm was gardens on every hand;
And the feet of a hundred thousand Hindoos
Came and went at his least command.
But one thing, worthy his pride to show it,
Among his treasures, eclipsed them all;
’Twas the marvel of sage and the praise of poet,—
The wonderful clock in his palace hall.
Brain and fingers of matchless cunning
Patiently planned the strange machine,—
Framed, and balanced, and set it running,
With a living heart in its wheels unseen.
Behind the dial, the iron pallet
Counted the seconds; and just below
Hung a silver gong, and a brazen mallet
For every hour had a brazen blow;
And near, like windrowed leaves in the weather,
Or battle-wrecks at a charnel door,
Lay mock men’s limbs all huddled together
In a shapeless heap on a marble floor.
And when the dial-hands, creeping, pointed
The smallest hour on the disk of day,
Click! from the piecemeal pile, rejointed,
A new-made manikin jumped away.
Nimble-handed, a small, trim figure,
Briskly he stooped where his work begun,
Seized a mallet with nervous vigor,
And loud on the echoing gong struck _one_.
Clang! and the hammer that made the clamor
Dropped, and lay where it lay before,
And the arms of the holder fell off at the shoulder,
And his head went rolling down to the floor,
And the little man tumbled, and cracked, and crumbled,
Till the human shape that he lately bore,
With a shiver and start all rattled apart,
And vanished—as if to rise no more.
Dead! ere the great bell’s musical thunder
In the listening chambers throbbed away,—
No eye discovered the hidden wonder
(That dreaming under the ruins lay),—
Dead as the bones in the prophet’s valley,
Waiting with never a stir or sound,
While the pendulum’s tick, tick, tick, kept tally,
And the busy wheels of the clock went round,—
Till another hour, to its limit creeping,
Its sign those bodiless limbs shot through,
And a pair of manikins, swift up-leaping,
Loud on the echoing gong struck _two_.
Clang! clang! and the brazen hammers
Dropped, and lay where they lay before,
And the arms of the holders fell off their shoulders,
And their heads went rolling down to the floor,
And the little men tumbled, and cracked, and crumbled,
And vanished—as if to rise no more.
Still as the shells of the sea-floor, sleeping
Countless fathoms the waves below;
Still as the stones of a city heaping
The path of an earthquake ages ago,
Lay the sundered forms; but steadily swinging,
Beat the slow pendulum,—tick, tick, tick,—
Till lo! at the third hour, suddenly springing,
Rose three men’s limbs with a click, click, click.
And, joined together, by magic gifted,
In stature perfect and motion free,
The trio, each with his mallet lifted,
Loud on the echoing gong struck _three_.
Clang! clang! clang! and the brazen hammers
Dropped, and lay where they lay before,
And the arms of the holders fell off their shoulders,
And their heads went rolling down to the floor,
And the little men tumbled, and cracked, and crumbled,
And vanished—as if to rise no more.
And as many as each hour’s figure numbered,
So many men of that small brigade,
Whose members the marble floor encumbered,
Made themselves, and as soon unmade;
Till at noon rose all, and, each one swinging
His brazen sledge by its brazen helve,
Set all the rooms of the palace ringing
As their strokes on the silver gong told _twelve_.
Rajah Balpoora, Prince of Jullinder,
Died. But the great clock’s tireless heart
Beat on; and still, in that hall of splendor,
The twelve little sextons played their part.
And the wise who entered the palace portal
Read in the wonder the lesson plain:—
Every human hour is a thing immortal,
And days but perish to rise again.
From the grave of every life we saddened,
Comes back the clamor of olden wrongs;
And our deeds that other souls have gladdened,
Ring from the past like angel songs.
_Theron Brown._
THE DEACON’S RIDE.
On his cool back porch sat Deacon Brown, the richest and fattest man
in town.
Before, behind, to left and right, showed meadows dotted with gold
and white,
And grazing there in the pastures green, fifteen fine Jerseys as
ever seen;
The regular herd-book stock were they, and how much butter they made
each day,
I hardly would dare attempt to say.
No greater joy had Deacon Brown, than to sit on the porch, as the
sun went down,
And view his acres so broad and fine, and feast his eyes on his
Jersey kine;
But now his face wore a look much vexed, and he drummed his knees in
a way perplexed,
As, sitting snug in his tilted chair, he gazed at the goodly show
and fair,
Of bovine beauties grazing there.
Well might the Deacon muse and frown, and vaguely scratch his
smooth, bald crown;
For a Jersey heifer, his pride and boast, the one of all that he
valued most,
Had taken it into her head that she not like her meeker sisters
would be,
And so, at sight of the milking-pail, would lower her horns and
thrash her tail,
And kick till her kicking power would fail.
All sorts of cures had the Deacon tried; but, alas for a good old
churchman’s pride!
“The finest heifer in this ’ere town” would never a drop of milk
give down
For one whole day, though coaxed and fed with the “cream of the
place,” so the Deacon said;
And when thrice she’d knocked the good man over, as if barnyard mud
were a field of clover,
He vowed in his wrath, as a deacon may, that he’d sell the creetur
the very next day,
To the village butcher, and risk his pay.
Yet now, as he sat and thought it o’er, it seemed that his cross was
indeed most sore;
He could not do it: ’twould break his heart, from his goodly heifer
this way to part!
Just then strolled toward him his elder son, who never a bit of work
had done,
But fished in the brook through the livelong day, instead of helping
get in the hay,
Or “lift” at the work in any way.
So the Deacon frowned a frown most stern: “’Twas time that a lazy
youth should learn
To earn his salt; ’twas different when he was his age,—the men
_was_ men,
Not idle care-naughts; and going to school made something besides a
college fool.”
Then, growing milder, “Wal, ’bout Peachblow—I reckoned a cure you’d
hap to know,
In that heathen gabble you chatter so.”
Quoth the idle scapegrace, with twinkling eye, “I’ve heard of a cure
which you might try.”
Then some Latin words he gravely said. “If on to her back a weight
is laid,
She’ll give milk straightway, and quiet be.” Said the doubting
Deacon, “I’ll try and see.”
Out in the stable Peachblow stood, calm chewing her cud as a heifer
should.
Spoke the Deacon: “William, you’re young and spry; you can climb on
her back, now, quicker’n I.
You’ll do for the weight. I’ll fetch the stool, and milk the
critter: you just keep cool.”
But scarce had the hopeful gained his seat, when out flew the placid
Peachblow’s feet.
And milker and milking-stool upset, in a way too hurried for
etiquette.
And the Deacon roared in his wrath, “Get down! I’ll try
myself,—that’ll bring her roun’.”
And, puffing and grumbling, with Will to boost, he found himself on
his novel roost.
But, alas! with what little certainty can we plume our minds on
things to be!
For, just as the Deacon, with voice elate, cried, “Go to milkin’; you
needn’t wait!”
The stanchion was loosed by some luckless Fate,—
And wildly out through the open door dashed—as she never had dashed
before—
The frightened heifer, with snorts and bounds, and her load of a
hundred and ninety pounds.
The roaring scapegrace behind was left; while, like a creature of
sense bereft,
Young Peachblow flew with her frantic feet, a-bellowing down the
village street,—
To the district school-boys what a treat!
The Deacon’s neckerchief flapped in the wind; his hat blew off, and
was left behind;
His eyes bulged out, his face grew white, his fringe of hair stood
up with fright;
The children scampered with laugh and hoot, the dogs all started in
mad pursuit;
The geese they squawked, and the chickens flew; the wives ran,
startled by such ado;
Out ran the husbands, to cry, “Halloo!”
And the good old parson, with face aghast, flew to the gate as the
deacon passed.
What a dreadful scandal throughout the town might rise from this
frolic of Deacon Brown!
Was he drunk, or crazy, that thus he’d ride? And, loud as he could,
the parson cried,
“Stop, stop, Brother Brown! Oh! where will you go?” and back from
the dust came these words of woe:
“The Lord and this cow, sir, only know!”
But she stopped at last, this steed so gay; she stopped quite short
in a sudden way,
Struck out her heels with a graceful poise, and the hundred and
ninety avoirdupois
Shot over her head and into the dirt, with buttonless breeches and
tattered shirt.
* * * * *
Sadder and wiser, Deacon Brown led Peachblow home as the sun went
down;
And all the questioners got him to say was, that he might tell them
some other day.
But Peachblow was lamb-like enough that night,—was milked very
meekly, and seemed all right.
And the Deacon mused: “Wal, the heathen may have fust-rate cow
cures, but I must say,
They are _tryin’_ to old folks, anyway.”
_Mary C. Huntington._
THE SILVER BELL.
Once upon a time, an old legend says, in a splendid palace a king lay
dying. By his couch knelt his only son, with tears streaming down his
face; but only a few quiet words were now and then spoken.
“Father, you remember the beautiful silver bell hanging above the
palace,—the one you had made years ago, of such pure tone that the
maker stood entranced at its first note, but which has ever since been
still? Why did you hang it there, if it was never to be rung?”
“My son, when I was young, and full of life and hope, I commanded the
best workmen in my kingdom to make a perfect silver bell, and hang
it above my palace, that its sweet tones might tell my people that
their king was perfectly happy. But alas! though I expected so much
happiness, the moment has never come when I could say, ‘Ring the bell!’
and now I am dying, and it is still silent. My son, if your happiness
is ever complete,—if you are without an anxious thought or wish,—then
let the silver bell proclaim the fact to all your people.”
“But, father, if you were not lying here I should be happy now, and the
bell should ring every day of my life.”
The old king smiled sadly, and, turning his face away, soon slept to
wake no more. With much mourning he was laid away in the royal tomb,
and his son became king in his stead. He could not ring the bell then,
for he grieved for his father; but he thought that after a time he
should be happy again.
And the days went by, and the young king married a beautiful girl; and
he said, “Now, for the first time, the bell shall ring.”
But as he and his bride came from the church, a woman, young in years,
but haggard with grief, carrying a little child in her arms, threw
herself at his feet, begging him to spare the life of her husband, who
was condemned to die for plotting against the king. “He saw so much
splendor and wealth, and we were starving. Oh, on this day, pardon him!”
The king raised the wretched woman, and gave her her husband’s freedom;
but a swift shadow had come over his happiness.
And the months went by, and a beautiful babe was born to be king after
him. And he said, “Now at length the bell shall ring.” But just then
came word that a terrible sickness raged among the children of the
kingdom, that many mothers were mourners, and their hearts could not be
comforted.
And the years rolled by, and the king was a great and good man, kind
to his people, sharing their sorrows, and, so far as he could, lifting
their burdens. The days were so full of thought and work, that he did
not think of the bell, or of his own happiness.
At last he too lay dying; and when he knew that the end was drawing
near, he asked to be carried to the room of state, and to be placed
once more upon his throne, that his people might come to see him.
And they crowded in, rich and poor, high and low, kissing his hands,
his feet, and even the hem of his garment. And when he saw them so
grief-stricken and tearful, a great light came into his dim eyes; and,
lifting his trembling arms, in a clear voice he cried, “Ring the silver
bell! ring the bell! My people love me; at last I am happy!” And as,
for the first time, the bell pealed forth its ringing notes, his spirit
took its flight to the unseen land.
—_Mrs. Julia D. Pratt, in The Dayspring._
COUNTING EGGS.
Old Moses, who sells eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a
living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived; but he has got the
habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently
makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares
around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in
front of the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady herself came
out to the gate to make the purchases.
“Have you got any eggs this morning, Uncle Moses?” she asked.
“Yes, indeed I has. Jess got in ten dozen from de kentry.”
“Are they fresh?”
“Fresh? yas, indeed! I guantees ’em, an’—an’—de hen guantees ’em.”
“I’ll take nine dozen. You can just count them into this basket.”
“All right, mum;” he counts, “one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben,
eight, nine, ten.—You can rely on dem bein’ fresh. How’s your son
comin’ on de school? He must be mos’ grown.”
“Yes, Uncle Moses: he is a clerk in a bank in Galveston.”
“Why, how ole am de boy?”
“He is eighteen.”
“You don’t tole me so! Eighteen, and getting a salary already.—Eighteen
(counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three,
twenty-foah, twenty-five.—And how’s your gal comin’ on? She was most
growed up de last time I seed her.”
“She is married, and living in Dallas.”
“Wall, I declar’, how de time scoots away! And you say she has
childruns? Why, how ole am de gal? She must be jest about”—
“Thirty-three.”
“Am dat so?” (counting) “firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six,
firty-seven, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two,
forty-free.—Hit am singular dat you has sich ole childruns. You don’t
look more den forty years old yerseff.”
“Nonsense, old man; I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to
be fifty-three years old”—
“Fifty-free! I jess dun gwinter bleeve hit; fifty-free, fifty-foah,
fifty-five, fifty-six,—I want you to pay ’tenshun when I count
de eggs, so dar’ll be no mistake,—fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one,
sixty-two, sixty-free, sixty-foah.—Whew! Dat am a warm day. Dis am de
time ob year when I feels I’se gettin’ ole myself. I ain’t long for
dis world. You comes from an ole family. When yore fodder died he was
sebenty years ole.”
“Seventy-two.”
“Dat’s old, suah.—Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah,
sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seben, sebenty-eight, sebenty-eight,
sebenty-nine.—And your mudder? She was one ob de noblest lookin’
ladies I ebber see. You remind me ob her so much! She libed to mos’ a
hundred. I bleeves she was done past a centurion when she died.”
“No, Uncle Moses: she was only ninety-six when she died.”
“Den she wan’t no chicken when she died, I know dat.—Ninety-six,
ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free,
foah, five, five, six, seben, eight,—dar one hundred and eight nice
fresh eggs,—jess nine dozen, and here am one moah egg in case I have
discounted myse’f.”
Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Barton
said to her husband,
“I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied that she
steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought
them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood
right there, and heard old Moses count them myself, and there were nine
dozen.”—_Texas Siftings._
THE FALL.
“Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep.”—_Count Fathom._
Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls,
Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls;
Where down beneath, despair and death in liquid darkness grope,
And upward on the foam there shines a rainbow without hope?
While, hung with clouds of fear and doubt, the unreturning wave
Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave;
And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to vale or bliss;
One—only one—hath ever lived to rise from that abyss!
O heaven! it turns me now to ice with chill of fear extreme,
To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream!
In vain, with desperate sinews, strung by love of life and light,
I urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current’s might;
On—on—still on—direct for doom, the river rushed in force,
And fearfully the stream of time raced with it in its course.
My eyes I closed: I dared not look the way towards the goal;
But still I viewed the horrid close, and dreamt it in my soul.
Plainly, as through transparent lids, I saw the fleeting shore,
And lofty trees, like wingèd things, flit by forevermore!
Plainly—but with no prophet sense—I heard the sullen sound,
The torrent’s voice—and felt the mist, like death-sweat, gathering
round.
O agony! O life! My home, and those that made it sweet!
Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet.
With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the dizzy
edge;
Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge to
ledge,
From crag to crag—in speechless pain—from midnight deep to deep;
I did not die, but anguish stunned my senses into sleep.
How long entranced, or whither dived, no clew I have to find.
At last the gradual light of life came dawning o’er my mind;
And through my brain there thrilled a cry,—a cry as shrill as birds
Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words:—
“It’s Edgar Huntley in his cap and nightgown, I declares!
He’s been a-walking in his sleep, and pitched all down the stairs!”
_Thomas Hood._
A CENTRE-BOARD YACHT-RACE.
“Mr. Bingham,” said the “city editor” of the “Royal Bugle” one morning,
“the ‘sporting editor’ is away, and it will be necessary for you to go
down to Swampscott to report a race between centre-board yachts.”
“But I don’t know any thing about yachts or yacht-racing.”
“It’s not necessary to know. See the head man, and get the time. That’s
about all we want.”
About nine o’clock that night, a forlorn, tramp-like looking object
entered the office of the “Royal Bugle,” with the crown of his white
Derby knocked in, the rim bent, and his clothing generally hanging
limp,—the suit, once light in color, now spotted and stained. As he
advanced into a better light, he was recognized as the “fire reporter;”
and a chorus of exclamations followed: “Where’s the fire?” or, “Did
they put the hose on you?” as the unfortunate man sank, apparently
exhausted, into a chair.
“It’s not a fire,” he growled. “It’s a yacht-race.”
“What did they do to you?”
“Do to me? They did every thing except drown me, and almost did that.
This morning,” continued the dejected man, “our local editor sent me
down to Swampscott to report a centre-board yacht race. He said if
I could get aboard one of the racing yachts I’d have a delightful
time,—a regular marine picnic. Well, I had it,—yes, indeedy; enough
picnic of the kind to last the rest of life. I knew the yachtsmen
were spruce sort of fellows, dressed well; and therefore I put on
my best suit,—new rig just from the tailor’s,—and hurried away to
the Swampscott sands. I found the fleet of centre-boards tied up to
a wharf. In making inquiries of a captain, I hinted that it would be
agreeable to me to be a passenger on his yacht.
“He smiled serenely, the villain! and said he’d be delighted to have
me come aboard. Oh, the baseness of the man! Very soon the race began;
and when fairly under way, and I had settled into a comfortable seat to
enjoy it, the captain shouted, ‘All down, down below the’—the—what do
you call the rail that runs around the top of the boat?—the gun—the
gun”—
“Whale!”
“Yes, the gunwhale. Well, he said we must keep our heads below that, in
order to offer less resistance to the wind. Therefore three of us were
obliged to lie on our stomachs on the bottom of the boat. If we wanted
to see the race, we looked through the skipper’s windows”—
“The what?”
“Why, the skipper’s holes, as they call them,—a nautical term for
windows, I sup”—
“Scupper-holes!”
“Well, yes, that sounds more like. The man who lay next to me kept
himself busy and contented by eating peanuts. But that was nothing,
comparatively. Soon we ran into a big wave. If the skipper’d had any
sense of honor or regard for his passengers, he would have turned one
side to let the wave pass; but he didn’t. He ran slap into it, and the
crest of it came on board, caromed on the skipper himself, who stood at
the helm, and then circulated among the shifting ballast. Owing to the
peanut-eater, the skipper-win—no, the scupper-holes—were clogged; and
the remnant of the wave, unable to escape from the boat, was absorbed
by our clothing, and my new suit began to take additional shades and
wrinkles.
“Suddenly that graceless captain shouted something about ‘hard lee,’
and then the boat lurched and tipped the other way; and we, lying
prostrate, were ordered to creep carefully around the centre-board,
and lie on the other side. That was the most fiendish! If my memory be
good, we crawled back and forth around that centre-board a dozen times.
If we were going to win the race, why didn’t we keep straight on, and
not turn to the right or left every twenty minutes?
“But the climax came. The skipper decided to turn the boat around
when she was going at full speed, and to drive her in the opposite
direction. Well, when she turned around”—
“Jibed, you mean.”
“Yes, that sounds like it. When she jibed she turned over on her side,
and a part of the shifting ballast, another man, and myself, went
overboard; but we caught on the gunwhale, and, the boat coming down
flat again, we crawled in. When I, forlorn and dripping, asked if they
turned around usually in that way, they laughed.
“Well, about an hour afterward, after mopping the bottom of the boat
some more with our clothing, we reached the landing from which we had
departed.”
“_We did not win._
“In response to an inquiry in regard to our defeat, the captain,
ungrateful, said that he had too much ballast. Wasn’t that the
refinement of cruelty? Wasn’t it a dastardly insult? After I’d spoiled
a suit of clothes by exerting myself in his behalf in climbing around
that centre-board, and nearly lost my life,—of course, if I had not
caught the side of the boat when I went overboard, they would not stop
to take me in, because the race was very important, and the prize was
a three-cornered blue flag,—after all that, I say, ’twas rascally to
hint that I’d lost the race for him.
“When the boat was a safe distance from the shore, after leaving me on
the wharf, the captain cried, ‘Had a good time?’ Gentlemen, to reply
would have been an indignity to myself; but I indulged in a little
pantomime to show the pirate skipper that, if I’d had him there, I’d
injure the wharf with him. ‘Why didn’t I come home sooner?’ Because I
waited the coming of night to shield me from the gaze of the village
constable, who has a personal enmity against tramps,—makes them saw
wood. I knew that my tattered and begrimed appearance would bring me
under the ban of the law. I walked home by way of the beach.”
_George A. Stockwell._
THE MISSISSIPPI MIRACLE.
I’s let up on preachin’. I’s truly
De Rev’rind Dick Wilkins, D. D.;
I know I heerd Gabr’el a-callin’,
An’ thought he was callin’ on me:
“You Wilkins, go preach me de gospel!”
Dat, sah, was de way dat he went;
But now, sah, I’s mightily jubous
’Twas some oder Wilkins he meant.
Yes, sah, dat ar matter you knows of
Has cleaned me plumb out of my grace.
What! ain’t nebber heard of it? Nebbah?
Seed nobody in from de place?
Den set down an’ listen; and when, sah,
I’s tol’ you de mizable tale,
You’ll ’low dat religion, out ou’ way,
Is mighty low down in de scale.
I started to work wid good prospects:
My field, you mought call it, was good;
I tried fur to keep up de fences,
An’ worked it de best ’at I could;
De site wuzn’t much fur to brag on;
’Twas mos’ly clay gullies an’ sand;
But de craps, in de way ob collections,
Wuz good fur dat ’scription ob land.
Well, sah, we got up a revival,
To last a consid’able while,
An’ ’greed, as we’s gwine fur to hab it,
’Twas best fur to hab it in style.
We started her goin’ at sun-up,
An’ kep’ her a-bilin’ till night,
When forty-odd mo’nahs wuz shoutin’,
An’ forty more comin’ in sight.
Des den it come into my min’, sah,
To gib dem ar niggahs a trile;
An’ so I riz up, an’ I says, sah,—
I says, with a beautiful smile:
“My frien’s, I’m a-gwine to propose you
A small, onsignificant test,
To proobe—out ob all ob de virtues—
Which ob you has charity best.”
“Now, hush up a minnit! I’ll tell you,
An’ den you kin go on an’ shout.
De short ob de mattah is: Friday
My barrel ob whiskey gub out;
It happens, too, des at dis moment,
I hasn’t de money to buy:
An’ so I proposes to _you_ all,
Dat you shill make up de supply.”
“To-morrow I’ll hab me a barrel
A-settin’ out dar on the bluff,
An’ eb’ry good Christian’s expected
To fotch ’long a pint o’ good stuff.
So I’ll git my barrel ob whiskey,
An you’ll git the feeling dat you
Is got charity down till you’re ekal
To gibbin’ de debbil his due.”
Nex’ mohnin’, sah, dar wuz de barrel;
An’ eb’ry man fotched up a flask,
An’ put de neck down in de bunghole,
An’ emptied it into de cask.
I thought ‘at I’d try how it swallowed,
An’ held a gourd under the spout,
An’ den gib a turn on de fossit—
When nuffin but WATER come out!
“A miracle!” shouted de sistahs.
“A miracle nuffin!” says I;
“I see froo de mattah.—it’s easy
To tell you des how it come by:
Each man fotched a bottle ob water,
An’ thought, when de cask wuz complete,
By _eb’ry one else bringin’ whiskey_,
Nobody would notice de cheat.”
Dat sort o’ broke up the revival—
An’ raly I think it wuz time,
Wid all de head brudders convicted
Ob such a contemptible crime.
Dey isn’t no good in purfeshins;
Dat’s one thing I hope ’at you sees—
But, sah, it’s so late I mus’ leab you
To pick out what moral you please.
_Irwin Russell._
WENDELL PHILLIPS.
What shall we mourn? For the prostrate tree that sheltered the young
green wood?
For the fallen cliff that fronted the sea, and guarded the fields
from the flood?
For the eagle that died in the tempest, afar from its eyry’s brood?
Nay, not for these shall we weep; for the silver cord must be worn,
And the golden fillet shrink back at last, and the dust to its earth
return;
And tears are never for those who die with their face to the duty
done:
But we mourn for the fledglings left on the waste, and the fields
where the wild waves run.
From the midst of the flock he defended, the brave one has gone to
his rest;
And the tears of the poor he befriended their wealth of affection
attest.
From the midst of the people is stricken a symbol they daily saw,
Set over against the law-book, of a higher than human law;
For his life was a ceaseless protest, and his voice was a prophet’s
cry
To be true to the truth, and faithful, though the world were arrayed
for the lie.
From the hearing of those who hated, a threatening voice has passed;
But the lives of those who believe and die are not blown like a leaf
on the blast.
A sower of infinite seed was he, a woodman that hewed to the light,
Who dared to be traitor to Union when Union was traitor to right.
“Fanatic!” the insects hissed, till he taught them to understand
That the highest crime may be written in the highest law of the
land.
“Disturber,” and “dreamer,” the Philistines cried, when he preached
an ideal creed,
Till they learned that the men who have changed the world with the
world have disagreed;
That the remnant is right, when the masses are led like sheep to the
pen;
For the instinct of equity slumbers till roused by instinctive men.
It is not enough to win rights from a king, and write them down in a
book:
New men, new lights; and the fathers’ code the sons may never brook.
What is liberty now were license then; their freedom our yoke would
be;
And each new decade must have new men to determine its liberty.
Mankind is a marching army, with a broadening front the while.
Shall it crowd its bulk on the farm-paths, or clear to the outward
file?
Its pioneers are the dreamers who heed neither tongue nor pen
Of the human spiders whose silk is wove from the lives of toiling
men.
Come, brothers, here to the burial! But weep not, rather rejoice
For his fearless life and his fearless death; for his true,
unequalled voice,
Like a silver trumpet sounding the note of human right;
For his brave heart always ready to enter the weak ones’ fight,
For his soul unmoved by the mob’s wild shout or the social sneer’s
disgrace,
For his freeborn spirit, that drew no line between class or creed or
race.
Come, workers! here was a teacher, and the lesson he taught was
good:
There are no classes or races, but one human brotherhood;
There are no creeds to be outlawed, no colors of skin debarred;
Mankind is one in its rights and wrongs,—one right, one hope, one
guard.
By his life he taught, by his death we learn the great reformer’s
creed:
The right to be free, and the hope to be just, and the guard against
selfish greed.
And richest of all are the unseen wreaths on his coffin-lid laid
down
By the toil-stained hands of workmen,—their sobs, their kiss, and
their crown.
_John Boyle O’Reilly._
MALARIA.
Our baby lay in its mother’s arms,
All sweet with its tiny dimpled charms;
But little mouth and tongue were sore,
And of its food ’twould take no more.
The doctor hemmed, and shook his head.
And looking wise, he gravely said,
“Malaria—’tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine.”
Said grandmamma, “Dear me! that’s new;
When I was young we called it ‘sprue.’”
Our urchin Tom, ne’er off his feet,
One day his dinner could not eat;
His head ached so, he was so ill,
Poor mother’s heart with fear did fill.
The doctor felt his hands and head,
And looking wise, he gravely said,
“Malaria—’tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine.”
Said grandmamma, “That can’t be so!
He has been smoking, sir, I know.”
Our lady Maud, at seventeen—
As bright a girl as e’er was seen—
One day turned languid, white, and frail,
And roses red did strangely pale.
The doctor felt her pulse, and said,
While wisely he did shake his head,
“Malaria—it’s plainly seen—
Three times a day give her quinine.”
Said grandmamma, “That can’t be right!
Why, my good sir, she danced all night.”
Our pride, our eldest, Harry dear,
One night did act so strange and queer,
That mother, frightened, panting, said,
“Run for the doctor! he’ll be dead!”
The doctor came, and shook his head,
And, looking at him, grandly said,
“Malaria—’tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine.”
“What stuff!” said grandmamma, “I’m thinking
That good-for-nothing boy’s been drinking!”
The head of the house, forever well,
One day fell ill, and, sad to tell,
Could not arise, but loud did cry,
“If this keeps on, I’d rather die!”
The doctor came, stood by the bed,
And, looking solemn, gravely said,
“Malaria—’tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine.”
Growled grandmamma, “Oh! fiddle-dee-dee!
He’s only bilious—seems to me.”
One day our grandpa—eighty-four—
Complained that he could see no more;
That, at his age, it worried him
That his good eyesight should grow dim.
“I’ve often seen it act that way,”
The doctor solemnly did say:
“Malaria—’tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine.”
But grandma said, “I never see!
Old man, you’re growing old, like me!”
PUZZLED.
You ask me whether I’m High Church,
You ask me whether I’m Low:
I wish you’d tell the difference,
For I’m sure that _I_ don’t know.
I’m just a plain old body,
And my brain works pretty slow;
So I don’t know whether I’m High Church,
And I don’t know whether I’m Low.
I’m trying to be a Christian,
In the plain, old-fashioned way,
Laid down in my mother’s Bible,
And I read it every day,—
Our blessed Lord’s life in the Gospels,
Or a comforting Psalm of old,
Or a bit from the Revelation
Of the city whose streets are gold.
Then I pray,—why, I’m generally praying,
Though I don’t always kneel or speak out,
But I ask the dear Lord, and keep asking,
Till I fear he is all tired out;
A piece of the Litany sometimes,
The Collect, perhaps, for the day,
Or a scrap of a prayer that my mother
So long ago learned me to say.
But now my poor memory’s failing,
And often and often I find
That never a prayer from the Prayer-book
Will seem to come into my mind.
But I know what I want, and I ask it,
And I make up the words as I go:
Do you think that shows I ain’t High Church?
Do you think that it means I am Low?
My blessed old husband has left me,
’Tis years since God took him away:
I know he is safe, well, and happy,
And yet, when I kneel down to pray,
Perhaps it is wrong, but I never
Leave the old man’s name out of my prayer,
But I ask the dear Lord to do for him
What _I_ would do if I was there.
Of course he can do it much better;
But he knows, and he surely won’t mind
The worry about her old husband,
Of the old woman left here behind.
So I pray and I pray for the old man,
And I’m sure that I shall till I die;
So maybe that proves I ain’t Low Church,
And maybe it shows I am High.
My old father was never a Churchman,
But a Scotch Presbyterian saint:
Still his white head is shining in heaven,
I don’t care who says that it ain’t;
To one of our blessed Lord’s mansions
That old man was certain to go:
And _now_ do you think I am High Church?
Are you sure that I ain’t pretty Low?
I tell you, it’s all just a muddle,
Too much for a body like me;
I’ll wait till I join my old husband,
And then we shall see what we’ll see.
Don’t ask me again, if you please, sir,
For really it worries me so;
And I don’t know whether I’m High Church,
And I don’t know whether I’m Low.
THE BOOK CANVASSER.
He came into my office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it
upon the table, removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a
ragged handkerchief that had been so long out of the wash that it was
positively gloomy, he said,—
“Mr.———, I’m canvassing for the National Portrait Gallery; very
valuable work; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece; contains pictures
of all the great American heroes from the earliest times down to the
present day. Everybody subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can’t
take your name.
“Now, just cast your eyes over that,” he said, opening his book and
pointing to an engraving. “That’s—lemme see—yes, that’s Columbus,
perhaps you’ve heard sumfin’ about him. The publisher was telling me
to-day, before I started out, that he discovered—No; was it Columbus
that dis—Oh, yes, Columbus, he discovered America—was the first man
here. He came over in a ship, the publisher said, and it took fire,
and he staid on deck because his father told him to, if I remember
right, and when the old thing busted to pieces he was killed. Handsome
picture, ain’t it? Taken from a photograph, all of ’em are; done
especially for this work. His clothes are kinder odd, but they say
that’s the way they dressed in them days.
“Look at this one. Now, isn’t that splendid? That’s William Penn, one
of the early settlers. I was reading t’other day about him. When he
first arrived, he got a lot of Indians up a tree, and, when they shook
some apples down, he set one on top of his son’s head, and shot an
arrow plump through it and never grazed him. They say it struck them
Indians cold; he was such a terrific shooter. Fine countenance, hasn’t
he? Face shaved clean; he didn’t wear a mustache, I believe, but he
seems to have let himself out on hair. Now, my view is, that every man
ought to have a picture of that patriarch so’s to see how the fust
settlers looked, and what kind of weskets they used to wear. See his
legs too. Trousers a little short, maybe, as if he was going to wade in
a creek, but he’s all there. Got some kind of a paper in his hand, I
see. Subscription-list, I reckon. Now, how does that strike you?
“There’s something nice. That, I think, is—is—that—a—a—yes, to
be sure, Washington,—you recollect him, of course. Some people call
him Father of his Country; George—Washington. Had no middle name, I
believe. He lived about two hundred years ago, and he was a fighter. I
heard the publisher telling a man about him crossing the Delaware River
up yer at Trenton; and seems to me, if I recollect right, I’ve read
about it myself. He was courting some girl on the Jersey side, and he
used to swim over at nights to see her, when the old man was asleep.
The girl’s family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like a man to do
that, don’t he? He’s got it in his eye. If it’d been me, I’d gone over
on a bridge; but he probably wanted to show off afore her,—some men
are so reckless, you know. Now, if you’ll conclude to take this, I’ll
get the publisher to write out some more stories, and bring ’em round
to you, so’s you can study up on him. I know he did ever so many other
things; but I’ve forgot ’em, my memory’s so awful poor.
“Less see! Who have we next? Ah, Franklin! Benjamin Franklin! He was
one of the old original pioneers, I think. I disremember exactly what
he is celebrated for, but I think it was a—flying a—oh! yes, flying a
kite, that’s it. The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flying
a kite, you know, like boys do nowadays, and while she was a-flickering
up in the sky, and he was giving her more string, an apple fell off a
tree, and hit him on the head; then he discovered the attraction of
gravitation, I think they call it. Smart, wasn’t it? Now, if you or
me’d ’a’ been hit, it’d just ’a’ made us mad, like as not, and set us
a-ravin’. But men are so different! One man’s meat’s another man’s
pison. See what a double chin he’s got. No beard on him, either, though
a goatee would have been becoming to such a round face. He hasn’t got
on a sword, and I reckon he was no soldier; fit some when he was a boy,
maybe, or went out with the home-guard, but not a regular warrior. I
ain’t one myself, and I think all the better of him for it.
“Ah, here we are! Look at that. Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith!
Isn’t that gorgeous? See how she kneels over him, and sticks out her
hands while he lays on the ground, and that big fellow with a club
tries to hammer him up! Talk about woman’s love! There it is for you!
Modocs, I believe. Anyway, some Indians out West there, somewheres;
and the publisher tells me that Captain Shackanasty, or whatever his
name is there, was going to bang old Smith over the head with a log
of wood, and this here girl she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and
she broke loose, and jumped forward, and says to the man with a stick,
‘Why don’t you let John alone? Me and him are going to marry, and if
you kill him I’ll never speak to you as long as I live,’ or words
like them; and so the man he give it up, and both of them hunted up a
preacher, and were married, and lived happy ever afterward. Beautiful
story, isn’t it? A good wife she made him, too, I’ll bet, if she was a
little copper-colored. And don’t she look just lovely in that picture?
But Smith appears kinder sick, evidently thinks his goose is cooked;
and I don’t wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on him with such a
discouraging club.
“And now we come to—to—ah—to—Putnam—General Putnam: he fought in
the war, too; and one day a lot of ’em caught him when he was off his
guard, and they tied him flat on his back on a horse, and then licked
the horse like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go
pitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the house,
with General Putnam lying there nearly skeered to death! Leastways the
publisher said somehow that way, and I once read about it myself. But
he came out safe, and I reckon sold the horse, and made a pretty good
thing of it. What surprises me is, he didn’t break his neck; but maybe
it was a mule, for they’re pretty sure-footed, you know. Surprising
what some of these men have gone through, ain’t it?
“Turn over a couple of leaves. That’s General Jackson. My father shook
hands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in New
Orleans. Broke up the rebel legislature, and then, when the Ku Kluxes
got after him, he fought ’em behind cotton breastworks, and licked ’em
till they couldn’t stand. They say he was terrific when he got real
mad,—hit straight from the shoulder, and fetched his man every time.
Andrew, his fust name was; and look how his hair stands up.
“And then, here’s John Adams, and Daniel Boone, and two or three
pirates, and a whole lot more pictures, so you see it’s cheap as dirt.
Lemme have your name, won’t you?”
THE ENGINEER’S STORY.
Han’som, stranger? Yes, she’s purty, an’ ez peart ez she kin be.
Clever? W’y, she ain’t no chicken, but she’s good enough fur me.
What’s her name? ’Tis kind o’ common, yit I ain’t ashamed to tell,
She’s ole “Fiddler” Filkin’s daughter, and her dad he calls her
“Nell.”
I wuz drivin’ on the Central jist about a year ago,
On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe.
There’s no end o’ skeery places. ’Tain’t a road fur one who dreams,
With its curves an’ awful tres’les over rocks an’ mountain streams.
’Twuz an afternoon in August; we hed got behind an hour,
An’ wuz tearin’ up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower,
Round the bends an’ by the ledges ’bout ez fast ez we could go,
With the mountain-peaks above us an’ the river down below.
Ez we come nigh to a tres’le cros’t a holler, deep an’ wild,
Suddenly I saw a baby,—’twuz the station-keeper’s child,—
Toddlin’ right along the timbers with a bold an’ fearless tread,
Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead.
I jist jumped, an’ grabbed the throttle, an’ I fa’rly held my
breath,
Fur I felt I couldn’t stop her till the child was crushed to death,
When a woman sprang afore me like a sudden streak o’ light,
Caught the boy, an’ twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight.
I jist whis’l’d all the brakes on. An’ we worked with might an’
main,
Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn’t stop the train,
An’ it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by!
An’ the river roared below us,—I shell hear her till I die.
Then we stopped; the sun wuz shinin’; I ran back along the ridge,
An’ I found her—dead? No, livin’! She wuz hangin’ to the bridge,
Where she dropped down through the cross-ties with one arm about a
sill,
An’ the other round the baby, who wuz yellin’ fur to kill.
So we saved ’em. She wuz gritty. She’s ez peart ez she kin be;
Now we’re married; she’s no chicken, but she’s good enough for me.
An’ ef eny ask who owns her, w’y! I ain’t ashamed to tell—
She’s my wife. Ther’ ain’t none better than ole Filkin’s daughter
Nell.
_Eugene J. Hall._
THE COMING WAVE.
Dipper Bay was a little inlet, almost land-locked, in which the water
was deep enough to float his sloop at this time of tide, and its high
rocky shores would afford him a perfect protection from the fury of
any squall, or even hurricane. But Leopold felt that his chances of
reaching this secure haven were but small, for the breeze was very
light.
The sloop “Rosabel” was but a short distance from the shore when the
wind entirely subsided, and the long rollers were as smooth as glass.
The lightning glared with fearful intensity, and the thunder boomed
like the convulsions of an earthquake. By this time Rosabel [for whom
the sloop had been named], who had before enjoyed the sublimity of
the coming storm, now began to realize its terrors, and to watch the
handsome boatman with the deepest anxiety. The sails flapped idly in
the motionless air, and Dipper Bay was still half a mile distant.
“Don’t be alarmed, Miss Hamilton,” said Leopold. “If the squall will
keep off only a few moments, we shall be in a safe place.”
The skipper evidently “meant business;” and, shipping the long oars, he
worked with a zeal which seemed to promise happy results, and Rosabel
began to feel a little re-assured. But the sloop was too large, and too
broad on the beam, to be easily rowed, and her progress was necessarily
very slow.
“Can’t I help you, Leopold?” asked the maiden, when she saw what a
tremendous effort the boatman was making.
“You may take the tiller, and steer for Dip Point, if you please,”
replied Leopold, knowing that his beautiful passenger would be better
satisfied if she could feel that she was doing something.
Leopold plied his oars with all the vigor of a manly frame, intent upon
reaching the little bay, where the high rocks would shelter his craft
from the fury of the storm. Then a breeze of wind came, and he resumed
his place at the tiller. He had almost reached the haven when he saw
coming down over the waters a most terrific squall. Before he could
haul down his mainsail, the tempest struck the “Rosabel.” He placed
his fair charge in the bottom of the boat, which the savage wind was
driving towards the dangerous rocks. Before he could do any thing to
secure the sail, the main-sheet parted at the boom. He cast off the
halliards, but the sail was jammed and would not come down.
The “Rosabel” was almost upon the rocks. Seizing an oar, Leopold,
satisfied that he could do nothing to save the boat, worked her away
from the rocks, so that she would strike upon the narrow beach he had
just left. The fierce squall was hurling her with mad speed upon the
shore. By the most tremendous exertion, and at the imminent peril of
his life, he succeeded in guiding her to the beach, upon which she
struck with prodigious force, crushing in her keel and timbers beneath
the shock. Without a word of explanation, he grasped the fair Rosabel
in his arms, and leaped into the angry surges, which were driven high
upon the rocks above him. The tide had risen so that there was hardly
room under the cliff for him to stand; but he bore her to this only
partial refuge from the fury of the storm.
The tempest increased in violence, and the huge billows rolled in with
impetuous fury upon him. Grasping his fair burden in his arms, with
Rosabel clinging to him in mortal terror, he paused a moment to look at
the angry sea. There was a narrow shelf of rock near him, against which
the waves beat with terrible violence. If he could only get beyond this
shelf, which projected out from the cliffs, he could easily reach the
Hole in the Wall, where Harvey Barth had saved himself in just such a
storm. He had born Rosabel some distance along the beach, both drenched
by the lashing spray, and his strength was nearly exhausted. The
projecting shelf was before him, forbidding for the moment his further
progress.
Placing his left foot on a rock, his fair but heavy burden on his knee,
clasping her waist with his left hand, while his right was fastened
for support in a crevice of the cliff, he paused for an instant to
recover his breath and watch for a favorable chance to escape from his
perilous position. Rosabel, in her terror, had thrown her arms around
his neck, clinging to him with all her might. When he paused, she felt,
reposing on his powerful muscles, that she was safe—she confessed it
afterwards; though, in that terrible sea and near those cruel rocks,
the strength of the strongest man was but weakness. Leopold waited.
If the sea would only recede for an instant, it would give him the
opportunity to reach the broader beach beyond the shelf, over which he
could pass to the Hole in the Wall. It was a moment of hope, mingled
with a mighty fear.
A huge billow, larger than any he had yet seen, was rolling in upon
him, crested and reeking with foam, and might dash him and his feeble
charge, mangled and torn, upon the jagged rocks. Still panting from the
violence of his exertion, he braced his nerves and his stout frame to
meet the terrible shock.
With every muscle strained to the utmost tension, he waited the coming
wave. In this attitude, with the helpless maiden clinging to him for
life, with the wreck of his fine yacht near, he was a noble subject for
an inspired artist.
The coming wave, buried him and the fair maiden in its cold embrace.
It broke, and shattered itself in torrents of milky foam upon the hard
rocks. But the larger and higher the wave, the farther it recedes.
Leopold stood firm, though he was shaken in every fibre of his frame by
the shock. The retiring water—retiring only for an instant, to come
again with even greater fury-gave him his opportunity, and he improved
it. Swooping, like a strong eagle, beneath the narrow shelf of rock, he
gained the broader sands beyond the reach of the mad billows. It blew
a hurricane for some time. The stranded yacht was ground into little
pieces by the sharp rocks, but her skipper and his fair passenger were
safe.
_Oliver Optic._
THE STORY OF SIR ARNULPH.
[Matt. xxii. 37-39.—“Thou shalt love the
Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy
soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and
great commandment. And the second is like unto it,
Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”]
An earnest man, in long-forgotten years,
Relieved the maladies and stanched the tears
Of pining multitudes, who sought his aid
When death their homesteads threatened to invade.
Blest with one only son (a gentle youth,
Trained in the fear of God, and love of truth),
He fondly hoped that Arnulph might aspire
Disease and death to baffle, like his sire.
But the boy, musing gloomily apart,
Avowed at length the impulse of his heart:
“To some calm cloister, father, I would go,
And there serve God.” His father answered, “No.
“Thou doest well to wish to serve the Lord,
By thine whole life imperfectly adored;
But choose thy work amid the world, and then
Thou canst serve God, and bless thy fellow-men.”
The boy, still yearning to achieve his plan,
Spake: “It were better to serve God than man.”
“Pray God for help,” the father said, “and he
Will solve the riddle of thy doubt to thee.”
So Arnulph to his chamber went, and prayed
That in his doubts the Lord would send him aid.
And, in a vision of the silent night,
A phantom stood before him, clothed in white,—
A form for earth too beautiful and grand,
With crimson roses blooming in each hand.
And Arnulph asked the angel, “Are these flowers
Fresh culled from Eden’s amaranthine bowers?”
He answered, “Nay: these offerings are from all
Whom God the doers of his will doth call.”
“And can I offer nothing?” sighed the boy.
“May I not also serve the Lord with joy?”
“Surely thou mayest,” replied that seraph fair,—
“In my left hand, behold, thy gift I bear.”
Then Arnulph said, “I pray thee, tell me why,
In thy left hand the flowers all scentless lie,
But in the right they breathe a gracious smell,
Which long within the haunted sense doth dwell?”
The angel answered with pathetic tone,—
“In my left hand I bear the gifts alone
Of those who worship God the Sire above,
But for his children testify no love;
While _these_ sweet roses, which ne’er grow wan,
Come from the lovers of both God and man.”
The vision faded. Arnulph cried, “Alas!
My soul was blind!” And so it came to pass,
That the changed boy a cloister entered not,
But with God’s working-men took part and lot.
_Gerald Massey._
A LOST CHILD.
“I’m losted! Could you find me, please?”
Poor little frightened baby!
The wind had tossed her golden fleece,
The stones had scratched her dimpled knees;
I stooped, and lifted her with ease,
And softly whispered, “Maybe.”
“Tell me your name, my little maid:
I can’t find you without it.”
“My name is Shiny-eyes,” she said.
“Yes; but your last name?” She shook her head:
“Up to my house ’ey never said
A single word about it.”
“But, dear,” I said, “what is your name?”
“Why, didn’t you hear me told you?
Dust Shiny-eyes.” A bright thought came:
“Yes, when you’re good. But when they blame
You, little one,—is it just the same
When mamma has to scold you?”
“My mamma never scolds,” she moans,
A little blush ensuing,
“’Cept when I’ve been a-frowing stones;
And then she says [the culprit owns],—
‘Mehitabel Sapphira Jones,
What has you been a-doing?’”
_Anna F. Burnham._
WHEN McGUE PUTS THE BABY TO SLEEP.
We have a foine tinement, close be the bridge,
Wid three pairs of stairs and a farm.
The farm’s on the roof, but it’s ilegant just
For to kape the small childer from harm.
The railin’ is high. Shure it’s tired they get
From playin’ “puss corner” an’ “peep,”
An’ ’twould do your heart good in the twilight to see
Ould McGue put the baby to sleep.
McGue is my man, an’ a daisy he is,
For after the gas-house shuts down
He comes wid his pail (faith, the coal on his face
Gives the shake to the boys of the town).
Then he sits down wid me, an’ his poipe, an’ his chair,
Comfortable, cosey, an’ deep,
Wid the kid in his arms; it would break you to see
Ould McGue put the baby to sleep.
He sings him the chune of “The Old Phwiskey Jug,”
An’ juggles him up on his knee
As light as the mist from ould Erin’s green turf
That floats from the bog to the sea.
Then the gossoon lies back like a king on his couch,
An’ the shadows across his eyes creep;
I’ll lay you a bet, it’s a beautiful sight,
When McGue puts the baby to sleep.
Then the ould man says “Phwist!” as the first darling snore
He hears from the swate, sleeping child;
An’ he steps to the cradle, as aisy as mud,
An’ the drop of a pin makes him wild.
“The Virgin take care of that baby!” his prayer
Comes out of the heart low and deep;
It would kill the ould man if the kid should refuse
John McGue for to put him to sleep.
JEM’S LAST RIDE.
High o’er the snow-capped peaks of blue the stars are out to-night,
And the silver crescent moon hangs low. I watched it on my right,
Moving above the pine-tops tall, a bright and gentle shape,
While I listened to the tales you told of peril and escape.
Then, mingled with your voices low, I heard the rumbling sound
Of wheels adown the farther slope, that sought the level ground;
And suddenly, from memories that never can grow dim,
Flashed out once more the day when last I rode with English Jem.
’Twas here, in wild Montana, I took my hero’s gauge.
From Butte to Deer Lodge, four-in-hand, he drove the mountain stage;
And many a time, in sun or storm, safe mounted at his side,
I whiled away with pleasant talk the long day’s weary ride.
Jem’s faithful steeds had served him long, of mettle true and tried:
One sought in vain for trace of blows upon their glossy hide;
And to each low command he spoke, the leader’s nervous ear
Bent eager, as a lover waits his mistress’ voice to hear.
With ringing crack the leathern whip, that else had idly hung,
Kept time for many a rapid mile to English songs he sung;
And yet, despite his smile, he seemed a lonely man to be,
With not one soul to claim him kin on this side of the sea.
But after I had known him long, one mellow evening-time
He told me of his English Rose, who withered in her prime;
And how, within the churchyard green, he laid her down to rest
With her sweet babe, a blighted bud, upon her frozen breast.
“I could not stay,” he said, “where she had left me all alone!
The very hedge-rose that she loved, I could not look upon.
I could not hear the mavis sing, or see the long grass wave,
And every little daisy-bank seemed but my darling’s grave.
“Yet somehow—why, I cannot tell—but when I wandered here,
I seemed to bring her with me too, that once had been so dear.
I love these mountain summits, where the world is in the sky,
For she is in it too,—my love!—and so I bring her nigh.”
Next week I rode with Jem again. The coach was full, that day,
And there were little children there, that pleased us with their
play.
A sweet-faced mother brought her pair of rosy, bright-eyed girls,
And boy like one I left at home, with silken yellow curls.
We took fresh horses at Girard’s, and as he led them out—
A vicious pair they seemed to me—I heard the hostler shout,
“You always want good horses, Jem! Now you shall have your way.
Try these new beauties, for we sold your old team yesterday.”
O’er clean-cut limb and sloping flank, arched neck and tossing head,
I marked Jem run his practised eye, though not a word he said;
Yet, as he clambered to his seat, and took the reins once more,
I saw a look upon his face it had not worn before.
The hostler open flung the gates. “Now, Tempest, show your pace,”
He cried, and with a careless hand he struck the leader’s face.
The horse, beneath the sportive blow, reared as if poison-stung;
And, with his panic-stricken mates, to a mad gallop sprung.
We thundered through the gate, and out upon the stony road;
From side to side the great coach lurched, with all its priceless
load:
Some cried aloud for help, and some, with terror-frozen tongue,
Clung, bruised and faint in every limb, the weaker to the strong.
And men who oft had looked on death, unblanched, by flood or field,
When every nerve to do and dare by agony was steeled,
Now moaned aloud, or gnashed their teeth in helpless rage,
To die, at whim of maddened brutes, like vermin in a cage!
Too well, alas! too well I knew the awful way we went,—
The little stretch of level road, and then the steep descent;
The boiling stream that seethed and roared far down the rocky ridge,
With death, like old Horatius, grim waiting at the bridge!
But, suddenly, above the din, a voice rang loud and clear;
We knew it well, the driver’s voice,—without one note of fear;
Some strong, swift angel’s lips might thrill with such a clarion
cry,—
The voice of one who put for aye all earthly passion by:—
“Still! for your lives, and listen! See yon farmhouse by the way,
And piled along the field in front the shocks of new-mown hay.
God help me turn my horses there! And when I give the word,
Leap on the hay! Pray, every soul, to Him who Israel heard!”
Within, the coach was still. ’Tis strange, but never till I die
Shall I forget the fields that day, the color of the sky,
The summer breeze that brought the first sweet perfume of the hay,
The bobolink that in the grass would sing his life away.
One breathless moment bridged the space that lay between, and then
Jem drew upon the straining reins, with all the strength of ten.
“Hold fast the babes!” More close I clasped the fair boy at my side.
“Let every nerve be steady now!” and “Jump for life!” he cried.
Saved, every soul! Oh! dizzy—sweet life rushed in every vein,
To us who from that fragrant bed rose up to hope again!
But, ’mid the smiles and grateful tears that mingled on each cheek,
A sudden questioning horror grew, that none would dare to speak.
Too soon the answer struck our ears! One moment’s hollow roar
Of flying hoofs upon the bridge—an awful crash that tore
The very air in twain—and then, through all the world grown still,
I only heard the bobolink go singing at his will.
I was the first man down the cliff. There’s little left to tell.
We found him lying, breathing yet and conscious, where he fell.
The question in his eager eyes, I answered with a word,—
“Safe!” Then he smiled, and whispered low some words I scarcely
heard.
We would have raised him, but his lips grew white with agony.
“Not yet; it will be over soon,” he whispered. “Wait with me;”
Then, lower, smiling still, “It is my last ride, friends; but I
Have done my duty, and God knows I do not fear to die.”
He closed his eyes. We watched his life slip, like an ebbing tide,
Far out upon the infinite, where all our hopes abide.
He spoke but once again, a name not meant for mortal ears,
“My Rose!” She must have heard that call, amid the singing spheres!
_Mary A. P. Stansbury._
OVER THE CROSSIN’.
“Shine? shine, sor? Ye see, I’m just a-dien’
Ter turn yer two boots inter glass
Where ye’ll see all the sights in the winders
’Ithout lookin’ up as yer pass.
Seen me before? I’ve no doubt, sor;
I’m punctooal haar, yer know,
Waitin’ along the crossin’
Fur a little un’, name o’ Joe;
My brother, sor, an’ a cute un’,
Ba’ly turned seven, an’ small,
But gettin’ his livin’ grad’ely
Tendin’ a bit uv a stall
Fur Millerkins down the av’nue;
Yer kin bet that young un’s smart,—
Worked right in like a vet’run
Since th’ old un’ gin ’im a start.
Folks say he’s a picter o’ father,
Once mate o’ the ‘Lucy Lee’—
Lost when Joe wor a baby,
Way off in some furrin sea.
Then mother kep’ us together,
Though nobody thought she would,
An’ worked an’ slaved an’ froze an’ starved
Uz long uz ever she could.
An’ since she died an’ left us,
A couple o’ year ago,
We’ve kep’ right on in Cragg Alley,
A-housekeepin’—I an’ Joe.
I’d just got my kit when she went, sor,
An’ people helped us a bit,
So we managed to get on somehow;
Joe wus alius a brave little chit;
An’ since he’s got inter bisness,
Though we don’t ape princes an’ sich,
Tain’t of’n we git right hungry,
An’ we feel pretty tol’able rich.
I used to wait at the corner,
Jest over th’ other side;
But the notion o’ bein’ tended
Sort o’ ruffled the youngster’s pride,
So now I only watches
To see that he’s safe across;
Sometimes it’s a bit o’ waitin’,
But, bless yer, ’tain’t no loss!
Look! there he is now, the rascal!
Dodgin’ across the street
Ter s’prise me—an’—look! I’m goin’—
He’s down by the horses’ feet!
Suddenly all had happened,—
The look, the cry, the spring,
The shielding Joe as a bird shields
Its young with sheltering wing;
Then up the full street of the city
A pause of the coming rush,
And through all the din and the tumult
A painful minute of hush;
A tumble of scattered brushes,
As they lifted him up to the walk,
A gathering of curious faces,
And snatches of whispered talk;
Little Joe all trembling beside him
On the flagging, with gentle grace
Pushing the tangled, soft brown hair
Away from the still white face.
At his touch the shut lids lifted,
And swift over lip and eye
Came a glow as when the morning
Flushes the eastern sky;
And a hand reached out to his brother,
As the words came low but clear,—
“Joe, I reckon ye mind our mother:
A minute back she wor here,
Smilin’ an’ callin’ me to her!
I tell ye, I’m powerful glad
Yer such a brave, smart youngster:
The leavin’ yer ain’t so bad.
Hold hard to the right things she learnt us,
An’ allus keep honest an’ true;
Good-by, Joe—but mind, I’ll be watchin’
Just—over—the crossin’—fur you!”
_Springfield Republican._
SOMEHOW OR OTHER.
The good wife bustled about the house,
Her face still bright with a pleasant smile,
As broken snatches of happy song
Strengthened her heart and hand the while.
The good man sat in the chimney-nook,
His little clay pipe within his lips,
And all he’d made, and all he’d lost,
Ready and clear on his finger-tips.
“Good wife, I’ve just been thinking a bit:
Nothing has done very well this year;
Money is bound to be hard to get;
Every thing’s bound to be very dear;
How the cattle are going to be fed,
How we’re to keep the boys at school,
Is kind of a debit and credit sum
I can’t make balance by any rule.”
She turned her round from the baking bread,
And she faced him with a cheerful laugh;
“Why, husband, dear, one would think
That the good rich wheat was only chaff.
And what if the wheat was only chaff,
As long as we both are well and strong?
I’m not a woman to worry a bit,—
Somehow or other we get along.
Into some lives some rain must fall,
Over all lands the storm must beat;
But when the rain and storm are o’er,
The after sunshine is twice as sweet.
Through every strait we have found a road,
In every grief we’ve found a song;
We’ve had to bear, and had to wait,—
But somehow or other we get along.
For thirty years we have loved each other,
Stood by each other whatever befell;
Six boys have called us father and mother,
And all of them living and doing well.
We owe no man a penny, my dear,
We’re both of us loving, well, and strong:
Good man, I wish you would smoke again,
And think how well we’ve got along.”
He filled his pipe with a pleasant laugh;
He kissed his wife with a tender pride;
He said, “I’ll do as you tell me, love;
I’ll just count up on the other side.”
She left him then with his better thought,
And lifted her work with a low, sweet song,—
A song that followed me many a year:
“Somehow or other we get along.”
TATERS.
(WITH A CHORUS.)
Of all the wonderful works of Nater,
What surprises me most, she can _make a tater_!
She gathers the stuff to produce a skin,
And then gradually stuffs the tater in.
_Chorus._
Tater! tater! Best bread made by Nater!
No baker alive could make a tater.
In Ireland, where earth is so fertile and turfy,
They mispronounce tater by calling it _Murphy_.
In France, where all language to ribbons they tear,
They nominate tater a _pomme de terre_!
Tater! tater! The brown bread of Nater!
Old Nick couldn’t give a worse nickname for tater.
Of words that sound proud I was always a hater—
_Per_-contra—_per_-centum—_per_-digious—_per_-tater!
All creatures that _purr_, from a fool to a cat,
Should be made to eat taters without any fat.
Tater! tater! Good Nater creator!
If an angel said _per_, I belave I should bate her.
O how shall I praise you? I don’t want to hurt you
By making you vain and destroying your virtue;
But—baked, fried, boiled, roasted, you’re equally good,
And in pigpen or palace alike understood.
Tater! tater! First and best boon of Nater!
When I stop being poet, I’d turn to a tater.
What makes all men kin? It is “one touch of Nater!”
And what _is_ that touch, but the touch of a tater?
Of all flowers of the field, tater flour I most prize,
Best bread for the body and meet for the eyes.
Tater! tater! Did I wish to beat Nater,
I’d take you when new, and produce a _baked_ tater!
Some scoff at a tater, and don’t wish to see un;
They say you are _vulgar_ and very plebeian,
And call you a root! But their minds are unsound:
It’s your _modesty_ tells you to hide in the ground.
Tater! tater! Many-eyed, potent tater!
(King Richard with III. was only Dick-tater.)
But alas! you are deaf to my harp’s fond endeavor,
Or I’d sing in this beautiful fashion forever!
You have eyes, but you see not; you’re deaf as a drum;
And as none else will listen, like you I’ll be dumb.
Tater! tater! When I leave mortal Nater,
Let the world calmly think what I thought of a tater!
_W. O. Eaton._
“AN UNKNOWN MAN, RESPECTABLY DRESSED.”
“An unknown man, respectably dressed,”
That was all that the record said:
Wondering pity might guess the rest;
One thing was sure,—the man was dead.
And dead, because he’d no heart to live;
His courage had faltered, and failed the test:
How little the all we now can give,—
A nameless sod to cover his breast!
“Respectably dressed!” The thoughtless read
The sentence over, and idly say,—
“What was it, then, since it was not need,
Which made him thus fling his life away?”
“Respectably dressed!” How little they know,
Who never have been for money pressed,
What it costs respectable poor to go,
Day after day, “respectably dressed!”
The beggars on sidewalks suffer less;
They herd all together, clan and clan;
Alike and equal in wretchedness,
No room for pride between man and man.
Nothing to lose by rags or by dirt,
More often something is gained instead;
Nothing to fear but bodily hurt,
Nothing to hope for save daily bread.
But respectable poor have all to lose;
For the world to know, means loss and shame;
They’d rather die, if they had to choose;
They cling as for life to place and name,—
Cling, and pretend, and conceal and hide;
Never an hour but its terror bears;
Terror which slinks like guilt to one side,
And often a guiltier countenance wears.
“Respectably dressed” to the last; ay, last!
Last dollar, last crust, last proud pulse-beat;
Starved body, starved soul, hope dead and past:
What wonder that any death looks sweet?
“An unknown man, respectably dressed,”
That was all that the record said.
When will the question let us rest,—
Is it fault of ours that the man was dead?
_Helen Jackson._
“BAY BILLY.”
You may talk of horses of renown,
What Goldsmith Maid has done,
How Dexter cut the seconds down,
And Fellowcraft’s great run:
Would you hear about a horse that once
A mighty battle won?
’Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg,—
Perhaps the day you reck,—
Our boys, the Twenty-second Maine,
Kept Early’s men in check.
Just where Wade Hampton boomed away,
The fight went neck and neck.
All day we held the weaker wing,
And held it with a will;
Five several stubborn times we charged
The battery on the hill,
And five times beaten back, re-formed,
And kept our columns still.
At last from out the centre fight
Spurred up a general’s aide;
“That battery _must_ silenced be!”
He cried as past he sped.
Our colonel simply touched his cap,
And then, with measured tread,—
To lead the crouching line once more
The grand old fellow came;
No wounded man but raised his head,
And strove to gasp his name,
And those who could not speak or stir
“God blessed him” just the same.
For he was all the world to us,—
That hero gray and grim;
Right well he knew that fearful slope
We’d climb with none but him,
Though while his white head led the way
We’d charge hell’s portals in.
This time we were not half way up,
When, midst the storm of shell,
Our leader, with his sword upraised,
Beneath our bayonets fell;
And as we bore him back, the foe
Set up a joyous yell.
Our hearts went with him. Back we swept,
And when the bugle said,
“Up, charge again!” no man was there
But hung his dogged head.
“We’ve no one left to lead us now,”
The sullen soldiers said.
Just then, before the laggard line
The colonel’s horse we spied,—
Bay Billy, with his trappings on,
His nostril swelling wide,
As though still on his gallant back
The master sat astride.
Right royally he took the place
That was of old his wont,
And with a neigh that seemed to say
Above the battle’s brunt,
“How can the Twenty-second charge
If I am not in front?”
Like statues we stood rooted there,
And gazed a little space:
Above that floating mane we missed
The dear familiar face;
But we saw Bay Billy’s eye of fire,
And it gave us heart of grace.
No bugle-call could rouse us all
As that brave sight had done.
Down all the battered
line we felt
A lightning impulse run:
Up, up the hill we followed Bill,
And captured every gun!
And when upon the conquered height
Died out the battle’s hum,
Vainly ’mid living and the dead
We sought our leader dumb;
It seemed as if a spectre steed
To win that day had come.
And then the dusk and dew of night
Fell softly o’er the plain,
As though o’er man’s dread work of death
The angels wept again,
And drew night’s curtain gently round
A thousand beds of pain.
All night the surgeons’ torches went
The ghastly rows between;
All night with solemn step I paced
The torn and bloody green:
But who that fought in the big war
Such dread sights has not seen?
At last the morning broke. The lark
Sang in the merry skies
As if to e’en the sleepers there
It bade, Wake, and arise!
Though naught but that last trump of all
Could ope their heavy eyes.
And then once more, with banners gay,
Stretched out the long brigade;
Trimly upon the furrowed field
The troops stood on parade,
And bravely ’mid the ranks were closed
The gaps the fight had made.
Not half the Twenty-second’s men
Were in that place that morn,
And Corporal Dick, who yester-noon
Stood six brave fellows on,
Now touched my elbow in the ranks,
For all between were gone.
Ah! who forgets that dreary hour
When, as with misty eyes,
To call the old familiar roll
The solemn sergeant tries,
One feels that thumping of the heart
As no prompt voice replies?
And as in faltering tone and slow
The last few names were said,
Across the field some missing horse
Toiled up with weary tread.
It caught the sergeant’s eye, and quick
Bay Billy’s name was read.
Yes! there the old bay hero stood,
All safe from battle’s harms;
And ere an order could be heard,
Or the bugle’s quick alarms,
Down all the front, from end to end,
The troops presented arms!
Not all the shoulder-straps on earth
Could still our mighty cheer;
And ever from that famous day,
When rang the roll-call clear,
Bay Billy’s name was read, and then
The whole line answered “Here!”
_Frank H. Gassaway._
HIRING HELP.
CHARACTERS.—MRS. MERVIN;
EMMA, _her daughter_;
BRIDGET ROONEY;
NORAH MCCARTY;
ELLEN FLYNN;
JOANNA O’NEIL;
ANGELINA SIMPER;
MARY AMES.
SCENE.—MRS. MERVIN’S _Sitting-room_.
_Emma._ Well, mother, as our advertisement appeared in the paper last
evening, I suppose we may expect any amount of answers in the shape of
Irish girls.
_Mrs. Mervin._ Quite likely; and I must confess I dread the ordeal. It
is better, however, to advertise, and have the girls call at the house,
than to seek them at the intelligence office.
_Emma._ Oh, yes, indeed! I made a vow the last time you sent me there
for a girl, that if I could possibly help it I would never enter such a
place again.
_Mrs. Mervin._ Well, I hope our present plan will be successful, and
we shall be fortunate enough to secure a good girl. If we had less
company, and our family were not so large, we would try to do the work
together, and get along without help.
_Emma._ I wish we might, mother. I have often felt, after the
disorderly reign of some tyrannical Bridget, that I would like to
banish them all from whence they came, and wield the kitchen sceptre
alone. (_Bell rings._) There comes number one, I’ll warrant.
_Enter_ BRIDGET ROONEY.
_Bridget._ The top of the mornin’ to ye, ma’am; and sure is yer name
Mervin?
_Mrs. Mervin._ It is; and I suppose you have come to answer my
advertisement for a girl.
_Bridget._ Indade I have, ma’am. Is it a cook ye would be afther
wantin’?
_Mrs. Mervin._ I wish a girl to do general housework, and of course
that includes a knowledge of plain cooking. Would you like such a place?
_Bridget._ And sure I can’t tell, ma’am, till I ax ye a few questions,
and finds out the characther of the place intirely. What wages do ye
give?
_Mrs. Mervin._ Three dollars.
_Bridget._ And how many have ye in the family, ma’am?
_Mrs. Mervin._ Seven persons.
_Bridget._ Well, indade, and if ever I heard the like! Sivin persons,
and only three dollars wages! Shure me cousin, Kate Murphy, gits four
dollars, and there’s only three in the house. I’ll come for no three
dollars, unless yer house has all the modern convainyences. Do ye have
gas in the kitchen and girl’s room?
_Mrs. Mervin._ We have gas in the kitchen, but we do not think it
necessary in the girl’s sleeping-room.
_Bridget._ And, faith, it’s as much wanted there as anywhere. A poor
girl doesn’t want to be groping about with a nasty kerosene-lamp. How
much time in a week do you give a girl to herself, ma’am?
_Mrs. Mervin._ One afternoon and evening a week. I believe that is a
general rule.
_Bridget._ It’s not a rule I goes by, ma’am. I wants two afternoons a
week, and every evenin’ besides, and I’m used to have my friends come
whenever I like.
_Mrs. Mervin._ I see you wouldn’t suit me at all, so you had better not
remain here any longer. I don’t intend to pay a girl wages, and give
her half her time besides.
_Bridget._ And shure yer no lady, ma’am; and I wouldn’t set fut in yer
house if ye’d give me five dollars a week, bad luck to ye.
[_Exit_ BRIDGET.
_Mrs. Mervin._ Not a very promising specimen to begin with, surely.
_Emma._ I should think not, indeed. The idea of her asking four dollars
a week, and wanting, as you said, nearly half her time! (_Bell rings._)
There’s another. I shall find full employment in tending the door-bell,
at this rate.
_Enter_ NORAH MCCARTY.
_Norah._ Are you the lady, ma’am, the paper said wanted a girl?
_Mrs. Mervin._ Yes, I advertised for one yesterday. Can you do general
housework?
_Norah._ Faith I can, ma’am; it’s a gineral’s housework I’ve been
doing, and I might have staid in the place foriver, only that herself
was that fussy that niver a soul could plaze her.
_Mrs. Mervin._ Can you make good bread?
_Norah._ Good bread is it ye say? And indade I can make that same. I
makes it with imtens, ma’am; and if it sours a bit, I puts a handful of
salerathus into it, and it comes out of the oven as swate as a nut, and
a fine color on it besides.
_Emma._ Dear me! I should think it might have a fine color with a
handful of saleratus in it!
_Mrs. Mervin._ At what other place have you lived besides the one you
mentioned?
_Norah._ Nowheres at all, ma’am; that’s the first place I wint when I
came from the ould counthry.
_Mrs. Mervin._ How long did you live there, and what part of the work
did you do?
_Norah._ Well, ma’am, I lived there three weeks, ’liven days, and
a fortnight—barrin’ the two days that I staid out to take care of
me cousin Mike; and I did the fine work, mostly, ma’am,—scrubbing,
sifting ashes, and ’the likes of that. Do ye think ye would like to
hire me, ma’am?
_Mrs. Mervin._ I guess not. I am afraid you haven’t had experience
enough to do my work properly.
_Norah._ Well, ma’am, if that’s any thing I could buy at the store, I
would be willing to spend a thrifle to get some, for the sake of livin’
wid ye.
_Mrs. Mervin._ Experience in housework cannot be bought at the stores;
so you had better look somewhere else for a place.
[_Exit_ NORAH.
_Emma._ Well, mother, did you ever hear of such stupidity before?
_Mrs. Mervin._ She’s the greenest specimen I’ve seen yet. I wonder who
will come next? (_Bell rings._)
_Emma._ We shall soon see.
_Enter_ ELLEN FLYNN.
_Ellen._ A fine day, ma’am. Is it yerself that wants a girl?
_Mrs. Mervin._ Yes, if I can find a good one; but I am sorry to say
they seem to be growing very scarce.
_Ellen._ You are mistaken there, ma’am; it’s good places that’s gittin’
scarce. How big a family do ye have?
_Mrs. Mervin._ There are seven of us, and we of course have company
occasionally.
_Ellen._ That’s too many intirely; but I s’pose with all thim ye keep
two girls and a man besides.
_Mrs. Mervin._ No, we keep but one servant.
_Ellen._ Servint is it! Well, ma’am, that’s what I niver allows meself
to be called. What sort of convainyences is there in the house? Is
there a rocking-chair in the kitchen, where I can rest meself while the
pot’s a-bilin’?
_Mrs. Mervin._ No, I don’t consider that a necessary article of kitchen
furniture.
_Ellen._ We differs there, ma’am; I can’t do without a rocking-chair. I
see you have a pianny. I s’pose ye wouldn’t mind if I learned to play
on it afther me work is done—would ye?
_Mrs. Mervin._ I should object very strongly to giving a girl such a
privilege.
_Ellen._ Well, ma’am, it’s gittin’ quite the fashion for the ladies
that live out to play. Me cousin Kate Donnelly plays “St. Pathrick’s
Day in the Mornin’,” and “Rory O’More,” illigant; and I’ve made up me
mind I’ll live in no place agin where I can’t have the chance to play
the pianny.
_Mrs. Mervin._ Then the quicker you look for such a place, the better.
It isn’t worth while for me to spend any more time talking with you.
_Ellen._ Indade, it’s a very uncivil tongue ye have, ma’am; and it’s
meself that ought to grumble for spendin’ me precious time talkin’ to
the likes of you.
[_Exit_ ELLEN.
_Emma._ It grows worse and worse, mother! What are we coming to?
_Mrs. Mervin._ Dear me! I don’t know! I am fairly discouraged! (_Bell
rings._)
_Enter_ JOANNA.
_Joanna._ Are ye afther wantin’ a girl, ma’am?
_Mrs. Mervin._ Yes; I want a good one.
_Joanna._ Faith, thin, it’s glad I am that my brother Pathrick read me
the scrap in the paper last night, for I’m wantin’ a place.
_Mrs. Mervin._ What can you do?
_Joanna._ Well, thin, I can do any thing at all that ye likes. I washes
beautiful; and me clothes has such a fine blue color on thim, when I
takes thim in, it would do yer sowl good to see thim.
_Mrs. Mervin._ Oh, dear! I don’t like so much bluing in my clothes.
_Joanna._ Faith, thin, I’ll jist lave out the blue a few times, and
they’ll be as fine a yaller as ye wish; any thing to suit ye, ma’am.
_Emma._ Can you do common cooking?
_Joanna._ I niver does any thing common, miss; all I cooks is in the
fust style. I can make Meringo pies that would melt in your mouth,
Charlotte Russians, and Blue Munge, too.
_Emma._ Indeed! you seem quite like an adept in cooking.
_Joanna._ I don’t know what an adipt is; but if you mean I’m a good
cook, I am that. Ye ought to see the fine roast pig I cooked the other
day; sich a handsome baste was niver set before on a gintleman’s table,
I’ll warrant.
_Mrs. Mervin._ You seem to despise common cooking. I have very little
else done in my family. We live quite plainly, and I hardly think you
would suit me.
_Joanna._ Well, now, ma’am, we won’t let the cooking come betwixt us. I
can cook plain, if I like; so, if ye plaze, I’d like to come and try.
_Mrs. Mervin._ Can you bring me a certificate of good character from
the lady who last employed you?
_Joanna._ A stifkit! What’s that, shure?
_Mrs. Mervin._ A paper, stating what character you bear.
_Joanna._ Indade, ma’am, I niver carries my charactercher round in a
dirty piece of paper, that’s liable to be torn up any day. I thinks
more of meself than that.
_Mrs. Mervin._ Very well; I cannot take you, unless you can bring me
such a paper.
_Joanna._ Faith, ye won’t have the chance; and I’m thinkin’ it’ll be a
long time before ye gets suited. Ye’ll find no dacent girl will carry
her charactercher loose in her hand.
[_Exit_ JOANNA.
_Emma._ Another verdant specimen. These interviews grow interesting.
I’m beginning to enjoy them. I wonder who will come next? (_Bell
rings._)
_Mrs. Mervin._ We shall soon see who has given the bell such a gentle
pull.
_Enter_ ANGELINA SIMPER.
_Angelina._ Are you the lady who manifested her desire to secure an
assistant in her family, by inserting an advertisement in “The Gazette”
of last evening?
_Mrs. Mervin._ Yes; I advertised for a servant-girl. Do you wish such a
situation?
_Angelina._ I might be induced, madam, to accept a position in your
family for a sufficient consideration.
_Mrs. Mervin._ Are you familiar with housework?
_Angelina._ Yes, in a certain way. I am in the habit of idealizing and
etherealizing every thing which I undertake. I think I have discovered
the method of extracting the poetry from housework; and instead of
regarding it as a wearisome drudgery, I make it a grand poem.
_Emma._ I think you must be an inventive genius if you can find any
poetry in washing greasy dishes, or scrubbing kitchen floors.
_Angelina._ Ah, miss, there is poetry in every thing. I revel in it,
morning, noon, and night. Its glorious beams brighten my pathway at
every step of my earthly progress. I have written a volume of sweet
verses; and if they can only be properly brought before the public,
my name will be immortalized, and the poet’s laurels forever crown my
brow. It is to gain a sufficient sum to publish this gem among poetical
works, that I have decided, for a short time, to put in practice my
ideal method of housekeeping.
_Mrs. Mervin._ Can you make bread, and do up shirts?
_Angelina._ Yes: I can insert the rising element in a liquid form into
the snowy flour; or I can use those subtile powders that permeate the
mass of doughy particles, and make them rise in comely proportions.
_Emma._ Indeed! but how about the shirts?
_Angelina._ Well, after bringing them in from their bath in the
sunlight, I immerse them in starch of pearly whiteness, and after
sufficient time has elapsed I press to their bosoms a hot iron. I am
reminded by this that only through fiery trials we can be made to shine
with becoming lustre ourselves.
_Mrs. Mervin._ I think you will have to find some other place in which
to practise your fine ideas of housework. You soar quite too high for
us.
_Angelina._ Adieu; this weary birdling seeks another nest.
[_Exit_ ANGELINA.
_Emma._ O, mother! I thought I should burst out laughing in her face.
She is an escaped lunatic, I do believe.
_Mrs. Mervin._ I should think she was. (_Bell rings._) There’s another;
this time an artist, perhaps. I’ll go straight to the office, and have
that advertisement taken out.
_Enter_ MARY.
_Mary._ Is this Mrs. Mervin who advertised for a girl?
_Mrs. Mervin._ Yes, I am the lady. Do you know of any good girl?
_Mary._ I would like to get a place myself. I have worked in a shop
since I left my home in the country, three years ago; but I find the
confinement doesn’t agree with me, and I had rather do housework.
_Mrs. Mervin._ You understand it, then, I suppose.
_Mary._ Oh, yes! I am next to the oldest in a family of nine children,
and my mother commenced teaching me to do housework almost as soon as
I could go alone. As soon as the sister next me could take my place, I
left home to see if I could earn something to help along. A man like
my father, with a small farm and a large family of children, finds it
rather hard to get along sometimes.
_Mrs. Mervin._ Yes, he must find it hard to feed and clothe so many,
with so little ready money as farmers generally have. You are a dutiful
daughter to endeavor to assist him what you can; but would your parents
approve of your living out in the city?
_Mary._ Yes: ever since my side has ached with such constant sewing,
mother has been urging me to live out; and I should have tried to
get a place long before this, only I dreaded so much to go to an
intelligence-office. When I saw your advertisement, I decided to apply
here immediately.
_Mrs. Mervin._ I am very glad you did, for I should like to engage you
without further delay. How soon can you come?
_Mary._ To-night, if you wish; my week is out at my boarding-place, and
I shouldn’t care to commence another.
_Mrs. Mervin._ Very well, you can come, then, and I will give you three
dollars a week. Will that be satisfactory?
_Mary._ Quite so: that is more than I clear some weeks now; and it will
be such a relief to have done with so much sewing. Good-morning, ma’am.
I’ll be here about five o’clock.
[_Exit_ MARY.
_Emma._ There, mother, see what has come by advertising in a
respectable paper. I think you have secured a jewel,—so tidy and
civil,—and I know by her looks she knows how to do every thing.
_Mrs. Mervin._ Yes, I am greatly pleased with her appearance; and how
much more sensible in her to do housework than kill herself sewing in
a shop! I hope the time will soon come when a great many more in her
circumstances will go and do likewise.
_Mrs. S. E. Dawes._