Shame on the world! said I to myself. Did we but
love each other as this poor soul loved his ass, 'twould
be something.
--_Sentimental Journey_--_Stearne._
An empty heart is like an empty barrel conveniently located;
nobody will dare to gamble on the first thing to be thrown into
it: and a full heart, like a barrel of fruit, must be sorted
frequently, lest a bit of blemish corrupt the whole.
My heart was as full of Macaroni from New York to Po'keepsie as my
stomach once had been from Milan to Naples. I first fancied my
donkey, next admired him, suddenly became conscious of a growing
contempt for him, and finally pity, now that the time for parting
with him had come. Having depended entirely upon the stupid beast
for companionship, he really had become a pet. Often he had
offended and vexed me beyond seeming pardon; on the other hand, he
had afforded me amusement during my lonesome hours, often causing
me to laugh outright at his antics. But, in order to complete my
journey on time, I felt I must avail myself of the first
opportunity to exchange him for a livelier steed. It was my Vassar
friend who told me about Dr. Jackson and his precocious donkey;
she claimed the animal often displayed human intelligence.
With some difficulty I found the doctor's residence; when,
introducing myself and acquainting him with my errand, he put on
his hat and took me to the barn. Behold! the cutest little donkey
I ever saw. He was a sleek, slender creature of blush color, with
an intelligent but roguish countenance, and with cropped ears
which gave him a semblance to a deer. The doctor said the animal
was hardly three years old. His hoofs were very small, so tiny
that he might have stepped into an after-dinner cup and not
damaged more than your appetite for coffee.
"What do you call the little fellow?" I asked.
"Mac A'Rony," said the doctor.
The coincidence made me smile. "That, too, is my donkey's name," I
declared, somewhat to his astonishment. He then spelled his
animal's name, showing that there was as much difference between
the names as between the donkeys, between patrician and plebeian.
He said that Mac A'Rony was the lineal descendant of an ancient
and honorable family of Irish asses; whereas, I believed Macaroni
could boast of no more distinguished heritage than that of Italian
peasantry. The doctor even harbored the suspicion that his donkey
must be a descendant of Balaam's famous ass.
"His bluish coat is a reflection of the blue blood in his veins,"
observed the doctor; and I was made to feel of the same opinion.
I coveted that donkey, but had little hope of securing it, as my
means were so limited. Imagine my astonishment when the doctor
proposed that we make an even exchange of animals.
"If your overland journey continues to be as notable as it is thus
far," said he, "I should like to possess the first donkey you
used."
I dared not believe my ears.
"But you have not seen my donkey," I reminded him.
"I will accept your representation of the animal," he replied. The
bargain made, we parted. An hour later Macaroni was in the
doctor's barn, and Mac A'Rony in the livery stable. The greatest
objection I had to my new companion was his youth. The fastidious
appetite of this Irish gentleman demanded bread, and other table
fare; he actually stuck up his nose at oats and hay. What would he
do should we get stranded! I might live a whole day on three milk
punches which I could pay for with photos, but experience had
taught me it required many punches to keep a donkey moving.
When about to depart, I was disconcerted to discover the doctor's
boy riding his new possession down the street toward the hotel.
Macaroni seemed to realize we were to part forever. There was a
sad, depressed look in his eyes; his brows knitted, and his nose
wept, as he brayed "When shall we three meet again." I felt a pang
in my heart, and turning my eyes from him, headed Mac A'Rony for
the West.
Shortly afterward, I was stopped by a blacksmith who recognized
Mac and asked to shoe him, saying he would do it for a picture,
seeing it was I. Of course, I was delighted, and leaving the
donkey in his custody, dropped in a restaurant and lunched; after
which I bought Mac a loaf of graham bread.
The kind-hearted blacksmith had several horses waiting to be shod,
and it was nearly night when Mac A'Rony ceased to be a "bare-foot
boy." I remained in Po'keepsie over night, and early next day,
Friday, set out for Kingston. But that quadruped traveled so fast
that he tired out after going a few miles, and I had to put up at
a little inn at Staatsburg for the night. Had it not been that I
sold next day a number of photos at princely villas on the way, I
should have had trouble to keep from starving. No remittance had
come from the papers as yet, and lecturing was out of the question
at that time. I had written to several soap, sarsaparilla,
tobacco and pill companies for a contract to advertise their
stuffs by distributing circulars, or samples, or displaying a sign
from my donkey's back, but thus far had received no favorable
replies.
At length the blue summits of the Catskills loomed against an
azure sky in the west, and I caught occasional glimpses of
Kingston and Rondout, the twin cities, nestling in the foothills
by the Hudson.
At three o'clock we crossed the ferry, and soon afterward arrived
at the Mansion House, Kingston. The landlord received us with
gracious hospitality, but I, having lost so much time by accident
and other misfortune, only tarried for the night, and hastened on
up the valley.
The days were perceptibly shorter while we traveled in the shadow
of the Catskills. The roads were so heavy, and the recent cold I
had contracted so stiff and uncomfortable, that I decided at seven
o'clock to spend the night at a German road-house. Landlord
Schoentag gave us soft beds, in spite of his hard name, and his
spouse was kind enough to make me a hot brandy and a foot bath. I
drank the one; Mac cheated me of the other. I retired early under
a pile of bedding as thick as it was short, and soon found myself
in a terrible sweat. This was not due alone to the comfortables,
but to a party of convivial young people, who thrummed on a
discordant piano, and sang, and danced till daylight, their
hilarity causing Mac in the stable sundry vocal selections, such
as should have disturbed the spirit of Rip Van Winkle, eight miles
away.
Monday we pushed on toward Saugerties. But for a delay at Soaper's
Creek Bridge, we should have reached Catskill before dark. Mac
A'Rony stopped stock still at the bridge approach, and neither the
eloquence of gad nor gab moved him an inch. I petted him and
patted him; I stroked his ears and I rubbed his nose; and then I
asked him point blank what ailed him.
"You big fool, can't you see that sign up there?" he retorted, as
he eyed me squarely. It was fully sixty seconds before I realized
that the animal had actually spoken; then I looked up and read the
sign hanging from the iron girder overhead, "Ten dollars fine for
riding or driving over this bridge faster than a walk." I must say
I greatly appreciated Mac's consideration for my pocket-book, but
his obduracy struck me as being not a little absurd, since he had
not yet demonstrated to me that he could go faster than a walk,
even on a level and unimpeded road. All I could do was to sit down
on a stone and, like Macawber, wait for something to turn up. It
seemed ages before a farmer came along with a ton of hay; he was
kind enough to slide off the load and assist me to carry the
donkey across the bridge.
The night was spent in Catskill. Smith's Hotel was swarming with
busy grangers, generally good-hearted, garrulous characters, whose
society lightened the tedium of two days, while I nursed my cold
and weaned Mac. We reached Athens, a village eight miles to the
north, Wednesday noon, but being somewhat rusty in Greek, I
ferried the river to Hudson. A light snow had fallen; the wind was
sharp shod, and traveled forty miles an hour.
A small German hotel opened its doors to us, and I persuaded Mac
to ascend the low stoop and venture half his length indoors; the
landlord aided me at the helm and we managed to anchor my "craft"
out of range of the storm, though we couldn't get it across the
bar. Mac lay down in a heap, and I called for port, to find none
in stock. Suddenly, a man in shirt sleeves hastily entered with a
pitcher in hand, and before he could check himself, went sprawling
over the frightened beast, smashing the pitcher and setting Mac
to braying. The man hurriedly collected himself, glanced at the
strange-looking quadruped, and not stopping for beer, fled in
dismay. When the storm had abated somewhat, we started for
Kinderhook.
Late in the afternoon we trailed into a thrifty little town where
I found stock port in Stockport. Here the cheery aspect of the
Brookside Hotel tempted me to remain over night, and doctor the
severe cold in my chest. This tavern, the pride of the village,
was said to be the oldest on the old "post road" from New York to
Albany. So comfortable was the hotel that I hesitated long before
accepting a cordial invitation, extended to me through his
coachman, to be the guest of the wealthiest resident of the town.
I was driven over to the home of Mr. Van ----, and the affable
gentleman introduced me to his family, before driving me to his
father's residence. The old gentleman was enthusiastic in his
reception of the donkey traveler, and after doping me with some
delicious cider, reluctantly allowed his son to keep me for the
night.
After a month of "roughing it," my happy affiliation with those
refined and cultured people acted like a healing balm to my
wearied heart. Many and many a time thereafter on the tiresome,
lonesome trail did my memory recall that pleasant evening. The
daughters entertained me with music and song, the parents brought
out refreshments, and, at last, with a hot foot-bath, and a hotter
mustard leaf on my chest, I retired.
Next morning, Georgie, the little son, rushed into my chamber
calling, "Get up, you people, the pancakes are getting cold!"
"All right," I answered meekly.
"Oh!" the little fellow gasped with astonishment, as he beheld Pod
tucked neck-deep in eider-down. "I--I--I thought you was the
girls."
[Illustration: "_We consumed a half hour in the gigantic task._"]
[Illustration: "_I found the captive drinking with other
jackasses._"]
The boy had retired early the evening before, quite ignorant of
the fact that the eccentric traveler was delegated to snooze in
his sisters' bedroom.
Through the happy agency of conversation Mr. Van---- and I
discovered a mutual friendship. The family, somewhat to my
embarrassment, insisted upon purchasing pictures galore, and after
breakfast and a little music in the glow of a blazing fireplace, I
donned my overcoat and made my adieux.
How chill and heartless that December morning was! The wind blew
my plug hat off to begin with, and, as I was driven to the
Brookside Inn, had the courage to try to freeze my face. A half
hour later Mac and Pod were marching to Kinderhook.