Christmas day is a merry day
For all good lads and lassies,
But dull and lorn for th' fellow born
To ride or drive jackasses.
--_Old Song._
Yuletide afforded me few pleasures. How I was to bridge the gulf
of penury and want of the Holiday season caused me much concern.
Lacking the funds to pay my hotel and stable bills, I canvassed
the town and sold a few pictures before church time. I wished to
attend Christmas service, but lacked the nerve. My grotesque
attire might have inspired the preacher.
I had worn holes in all my socks, and not having the price of a new
pair, retired to my room to darn them. It was the first darning of that
sort I ever did; when I had finished, I darned my luck, the hard times,
and many things not down on the calendar. I pictured to my mind's eye
the pleasures of Christmastide, of which I had cheated myself; but it
was no time to brood over might-have-beens. I would start for the next
town that morning. I felt a constant anxiety for Mac A'Rony's safety,
and shouldn't feel easy until we were out of the college district.
We reached Amsterdam in time for Christmas dinner. I will not give
the bill of fare; it wouldn't whet your appetite. The following day
was almost as dull as Christmas. In the morning I was fortunate
enough to receive in advance two dollars for distributing calendars
to the farmers on my way to the next town, and employed the
afternoon repairing saddle-bags.
The snow lay deep, the weather was windy and chill, and my donkey
slower than axle grease; so I tarried over night and heard Sabbath
bells.
Sunday evening saw us comfortably quartered in the little village
of Fonda, a few miles' journey. While supping I learned that a
German newspaper reporter, who claimed to be walking across the
continent on a $750 wager, was a guest at another hotel. He came
into town shortly after dark, and, unable to pay for a bed, was
permitted to sleep on a bench, where my informant saw him. By the
terms of his bet, the fellow was not allowed to beg, but could
accept the earth, if offered him.
My sympathies were aroused, and I called on him after supper. He
told his story, showed me papers, and a book signed by the
railroad station agents on his route--for he had "hit the ties"
all the way--and expressed much anxiety about covering the
remaining 184 miles to New York in six days.
The young man looked emaciated, his shoes were literally worn out.
His one meal that day had been a cup of coffee and a roll. He
hadn't slept in a bed since leaving Detroit, where he earned his
last money, five dollars. Pod's tender heart was touched. Although
the more affluent donkey traveler possessed but a dollar and sixty
cents, he gave his brother globe-trotter a dollar, a hot supper
and bed, and would have paid for a stimulating drink had not the
hotel-keeper been inspired to treat the two.
Next morning some commercial travelers, having learned of Pod's
generosity, purchased a pair of shoes for the pedestrian. The
delighted fellow departed at an early hour, expressing his
sanguine belief that he would win his wager.
I had to hustle that morning to settle accounts, and it was eleven
o'clock before Mac and I departed. I had only a nickel in pocket.
That day we both went without lunch. It was long after dark and
past supper time when we arrived in Fort Plain, and a half hour
later before we reached the hotel. The town was illuminated with
electric arc lights, which always throw vivid shadows, and Mac
A'Rony had a desperate encounter with another donkey in the snow.
He reared, and pitched, and cavorted, and bolted; he wound me up
in the reins, and then bunked into me--I was in his way all the
time--and finally rushed down a side street, dragging me after
him. I had to lead the rampant animal through several unlighted
streets round the village to get him to the stable. It was the
first time I had presented myself at a strange hotel without my
asinine credentials. When I registered, the incredulous proprietor
went to the barn for Mac's own statement before believing me the
famous man I claimed to be.
That evening a committee from the Bohemian Club invited me to a
concert given under the auspices of the Fort Plain Band. I went,
and enjoyed it. At its conclusion, I was asked to talk to a
phonograph, the invention of the president of the Club. Having
once addressed an audience of chairs, I could not object to talk
to a funnel. I addressed the emptiness thereof with all the
eloquence I could muster, then listened while the phonograph tried
to repeat my words. It was simply awful. Had the machine been
togged out in night shirt, mask and lighted candle, and shot off
such a lingo in a dark alley, I should have thought it my own
spook and fled in terror.
When I reached Little Falls my stock of photos was exhausted,
and, but for a stroke of good luck, I fear I could not have paid
my bills. Mac A'Rony agreed to carry a sign extolling the virtues
of a one-price clothier, and that brought us a few dollars, which
we divided.
It was late when we started for Herkimer, a town twelve miles
away. The mud greatly impeded our progress and, suddenly, just
before dark, when five miles to town, we came to a long, covered,
wooden bridge. Then there was trouble. Mac obstinately refused to
enter the dark tunnel. I coaxed him with an apple to follow me; I
prodded him; I turned him about and tried to back him through; but
he would not budge. I went behind and pushed him; and vexed beyond
reason, I finally whipped him; all without avail. What could I do?
I sat down and thought. No sound of an approaching vehicle greeted
my ear, but I saw a house down the road. I decided to hitch my
obdurate beast to the fence and seek assistance. As I approached
the house the seductive aroma of frying steak told me it was
supper hour. In response to my knock a rural-looking man came out
and eyed me curiously, while chewing vigorously. Indoors I could
hear somebody drinking out of a saucer.
"Excuse me for interrupting," I said politely; "but my jackass----"
"Yer what?"
"My jackass! I am bound for California with one, and am stuck out
there by the bridge. I came to ask your assistance." The man
swallowed.
"In a hole, eh? Wall, I reckon you've come ter th' right place fer
help."
"No, I'm not in a hole exactly--that's just the trouble. My animal
abhors holes; he refuses to enter the covered bridge."
"Wall, I swan! can't yer lick him through?" the farmer asked.
"As impossible," said I, "as to lick a camel through the eye of a
needle."
"I want ter know. Come in," he said; and turning to the hired man,
added, "John, let's give th' feller a lift."
The men donned wraps and boots, and, with an old wheelbarrow,
followed me down the slushy road to the beastly eye-sore of my
existence.
To describe our efforts to get that donkey through the bridge
would tire you as much as those efforts tired me. Mac squirmed and
kicked and bit; he would not be carried by hand; so the
wheelbarrow was employed. He was too large for the vehicle, and
lapped over the edges. We consumed a half hour in the gigantic
task of wheeling Mac across that bridge.
"By gum, young feller!" exclaimed the exhausted farmer, as he
dropped the heavy live weight. "Do yer haster go through this kind
of business every bridge yer come ter?" I explained that I usually
met with difficulties at bridges, but had never encountered a
covered one before. Then I thanked the good Samaritans for their
kindness, and prodded Mac to town.
We arrived in Herkimer late. Directly after supper I canvassed the
stores, and worked till ten o'clock selling pictures.
We seemed to create quite a sensation. When about to retire, I
learned that my donkey was stolen; I was told local bandits held
him for ransom. I was greatly provoked, and rushed about the
streets, making inquiries until, at length, a street loafer
whispered that he would tell me where my animal was, if I "would
blow him to a drink." I agreed. Then the man "in the know" piloted
me to a bar-room several blocks away, where I was astonished to
find the captive drinking with several other jackasses. He was the
only one not disconcerted by my appearance, and even had the
audacity to stick his nose up at the bar-keeper and bray.
I engaged men to assist me convey the inebriate to the stable as
quickly as possible, and ordered an extra padlock to be snapped on
the door. Next morning I found my partner in a surprisingly sober
condition.
Resuming my pilgrimage, I made brief stops at Ilion and Frankfort,
and arrived in Utica shortly after dark on the last day of the
leap year. The hotel corridors swarmed with inquisitive guests who
had been apprised of my coming. The jovial proprietor gave us a
hearty welcome, and, ordering several porters to lead Mac into the
office, called loudly, to the amusement of all, "Front! Give the
donkeys the best double room in the house."
"Slow traveling for a LEAP year," I remarked to the clerk.
"Oh, that reminds me, Mr. Pod," said he; "here's a letter for
you--just came a few minutes ago."
I settled my weary frame in a rocker and read it. It was actually
an invitation to a Leap Year Ball, given under the auspices of the
society girls of Manicure Hall. The card was printed, but on its
margin were inscribed in a purely feminine hand a few choice words
urging me to come in my traveling habit. It struck me that it
might be my only chance to get engaged for eight long years, so I
washed and brushed and polished, and turned up at the ball-room at
a late but nevertheless fashionable hour.
[Illustration: "_We tramped tired and footsore into the village._"]
The ball was the most brilliant function it had been my pleasure
to attend since the days of my freedom. Caesar! what charming
girls! Were they really charming! or was it because I had been a
recluse so long that most anybody wearing dresses fascinated my
starved optics? Before advancing a rod into the hall, I
received a proposal; within an hour I had a dozen. The dance, the
supper, the defective lights, and the kisses in the dark, the
midnight alarm, and the New Year's bells, all fulfilled their
offices delightfully in turn--all, except the leave-taking of the
old year, which groaned over the effects of bad salad, and gave up
the ghost.
I devoted the afternoon to a delightful nap; I was worn out.
Saturday I called upon the genial Mayor, who paid me liberally for
a photo and subscribed to my donkey book. Sunday I set out with
Mac for Rome.
I was told all the roads were in bad condition, and was advised to
take the tow-path of the Erie Canal. After two hours of tramping
and groping in the darkness, we came to a suburban street; soon
after I was directed to a tavern, and quartered myself for the
night.
A number of commercial men had prophesied I would not make my
expenses in Rome, but I did. It was an all-day job, however, and
another night was fairly upon me before I started for Oneida,
sixteen miles away.
We had not gone far, when we came to an old-fashioned toll-gate, where I
expected to be made to contribute to the county's good-road fund. I felt
loath to do so, for nowhere else on my journey had we found the highway
in such a disreputable condition. I told Mac to keep his mouth shut, and
we stealthily walked through the gate, hoping not to be observed; but no
sooner done than the keeper issued from his shanty and welcomed me back.
He wished to talk with me, he said. His boy had preceded me from town
and given his father glowing accounts of the donkey traveler. So
interested were the toll-gate keeper and his family in the welfare of
Pod and Mac that they not only waived the toll, but gave us a pressing
invitation to remain with them over night. The generosity of that man's
big, honest heart stood out in such happy contrast with the miserly
county administration and my own penury that I gratified the man's
desire, in a measure, and hitching Mac A'Rony, followed my host into his
dwelling, where I allowed myself to share his frugal board. It was
certainly such a home where either a Don Quixote or a Pythagoras Pod
might feel himself a distinguished guest. The wife brewed tea, and
spread the table with black bread and doubtfully wholesome cakes, while
the children climbed on my knees and heard with rapture my tales of
adventure.
When it was time to go the keeper, having learned from his son
that I sold the pictures "to live on," begged me with tears to
accept a quarter for the one I gave him, saying that he had a
fair-sized garden besides the pittance he received for performing
the duties of his humble office, whereas I had to depend on
Providence for the keeping of myself and comrade on our long trip
"round the world."
So Mac and I, thanking the good people for their kindnesses--for
Mac's ever-acute appetite had not been overlooked by the
thoughtful hostess--strode on in mud and darkness, slipping,
spattering, and mumbling unintelligible and impolite words, and
hoping against hope soon to arrive at some comfortable haven of
rest.
A mile beyond we were greeted with loud applause issuing from a
huge building to our left, which I took to be a girl's seminary,
but which Mac insisted was a slaughter house. To be distinguished
in the dark and tendered such an ovation quite tickled my vanity;
but my less-conceited partner only brayed and trembled in the fear
of being chased by a mad pig with its throat cut. When we had
passed to a safe distance, I met a farmer in a wagon, and asked
him the name of the illuminated building.
"The Rome State Insane Asylum," said the man.
At length, a dense mist gathered; then it began to sprinkle. I
could scarcely distinguish Mac in the darkness. The road was
tortuous, one vast river bed of mud, as untenable as quicksand. We
first ran against a barbed-wire fence on one side, and a rail
fence on the other, and finally, I plunged over boot-tops in a
sluice, and might have drowned had I not held the reins and been
pulled out by my unintentionally heroic comrade. My boots were new
and didn't leak, and the mud and water remained in them.
If ever there was a moment on that overland "voyage" when I felt
in prime condition to give it up, it was there and then. Still we
struggled onward, and a few hundred yards ahead I discovered the
faint light of a farm house, where I stopped to ask the distance
to the next place we could secure shelter.
"'Bout four mile, I should jedge," said the farmer. I guessed as
much, but it gave me a chance to sigh.
"Mercy! None nearer?" Just then Mac coughed, and approached.
"Nope. But wait! Be you the gentleman bound fer 'Frisco with a
mule?"
"Verily so," I returned, while my partner brayed indignantly at
being called a mule.
"Wall, what's it wuth to take you both in fer the night and feed
ye?" the man asked, avariciously.
"Oh, about seventy-five cents."
"Come back," said he; "I just walked from the railroad station a
mile and a half in the mud, and lost my overshoes, and kin
sympathize with ye."
My donkey was comfortably stabled, watered and fed, and I ushered
into a cozy room, where my host brought me dry garments and
slippers, and gave me a hot supper. Truly, I thought, the darkest
hour is just before dawn.