Strange to see what delight we married people have
to see these poor fools decoyed into our condition, every
man and woman gazing and smiling at them.
--_Samuel Pepys' Diary._
We did not reach Albion until noon. So numerous were the
snow-drifts that we made only a mile an hour. Old Boreas might
have been a little more considerate and brushed the snow along the
fences instead of piling it across our path. That morning I dug
Mac out of a dozen snow-drifts.
Albion looked to be a pretty place. Besides many attractive homes,
it possesses the celebrated Pullman Memorial Church, a High
School, and a woman's reformatory. But I did not visit those
interesting places. Being a high churchman, the church was too low
for me; not being up in the classics, the high school was too high
for me; and believing women to be terrestrial angels, I did not
wish to be convinced that my judgment was wrong by investigating a
female reformatory. I put up at a comfortable hotel, where I was
told that the relentless storm would likely imprison me several
days, and found cozy quarters for Mac A'Rony. The day after my
arrival, a neighboring farmer took me sleigh-riding into the
country to dine with him and his mother, his fleet horse having
once conveyed him and his father from Dakota to Albion, 1,600
miles, in thirty-six days. When I told Mac about it, he turned a
deaf ear, lay down, and groaned a groan of incredulity. Ex-Consul
Dean Currie invited me to spend an evening with him and his
family, and took me to call on the Mayor, who received me
cordially and offered me the use of the Town Hall for a lecture. I
accepted, and addressed a well-filled house; my receipts far
exceeding my expenses in town.
The coziest place during these three stormy days, I found to be an
easy chair by the great stove in the hotel office, where I whiled
away most of my time. There, throughout the wintry days and
evenings, assembled the guests of the house and many convivial
spirits from town, to hear the biggest lie, or to relate the most
ridiculous yarn.
At one of those gatherings, I met an interesting character
Sylvenus Reynolds. Although he was eighty-four years old, he
appeared as young and agile as most men of half his years. He
attributed his longevity to active out-of-door life. Judging from
his talk, one would have thought him to be the greatest traveler
living; but, because he was denied the gift of a scribe, he would
probably die like the heroes of the country churchyard, "unknown
to fortune and to fame." He had tramped and lived by his rifle
from Puget Sound to Terra Del Fuego, and was the first white man
to cross the Andes from Chili to Brazil.
Once in the jungles of India he and a lion and a tiger all met
unexpectedly, and, while the three were determining which two
should become partners, the tiger made a spring at Sylvenus, and
just when his gun missed fire and he thought it all up with him,
the lion leaped in the air, caught the tiger by the neck, and
killed it. He said after that he never could be induced to take
the life of a lion, "the kindest and gentlest of wild beasts."
But I must tell about his famous jump across the Lock at Lockport,
at that time 14-1/2 feet wide. The event was well advertised.
Temporary toll-gates were established, and ten cents levied on
such individual passing through to the "show." Over eight hundred
and eighty-eight dollars were collected for the jumper. The jump
was successful, and Syl got the pot. The narrative closed with a
discussion--and another jump.
"That wasn't such a mighty big jump," remarked a listener. "I know
several fellows who can jump to beat 14-1/2 feet."
"I'll bet a dollar with any or all the men present," said I, "that
not one of you can stand still on this floor and jump 7 feet."
I had ten takers. The money was deposited with the proprietor; the
house was thrown into great excitement. The ten jumps were made.
But the judges agreed with Pod that the jumpers failed to STAND
STILL and jump, and so handed me the money. Naturally, the
jumpers, being in a jumping mood, wanted to jump on me next, but
they finally conciliated, and regarded me thereafter with
suspicion.
Although the roads were reported impassable, we departed for
Medina on Sunday morning, and, the day following, hastened on
toward Lockport. When yet two miles to town, after traveling
sixteen miles, a boy ran after us in the darkness and persuaded me
to return to his house, as his Pa wished me to be his guest over
night; so we did not reach Lockport until eleven next morning. I
no sooner stabled Mac than I boarded the train for Buffalo in
quest of a theatre engagement; failing in that, I returned to
enjoy a stroke of good luck in the form of an engagement for Mac
and me to appear on a vaudeville stage in Lockport, which netted
me a few honest dollars.
At six o'clock Thursday morning we were off for Buffalo, a
twenty-six mile journey. Only once did we stop, when I unsaddled
for our mid-day meal at Stormville, Mammoth snow-drifts were piled
against the fences and across the roads which, melting, gave way
under my donkey's weight, frequently imprisoning his slim legs.
We reached a school-house near the village of Williamsville just
as the scholars were dismissed for their nooning, and were
immediately set upon by a laughing, shouting, questioning bevy of
frolicsome children, who made merry sport of my partner's
predicament; he was stuck in a snow-drift. If Mac had exerted
himself a little, he might have climbed out, but he was tired,
unusually obstinate, and naturally lazy, and so preferred to await
developments.
One precocious genius in the crowd suggested rolling the donkey
into a snowball, and rolling him to town. That was the signal for
a general hurrah. I shook my head disapprovingly, but, on thinking
it over, decided to try the novel plan.
"Come on, boys," I said. And then with peals of merriment and
youthful energy which I never saw equalled, the whole lot soon
packed the snow about the patient animal, until only his head and
tail were left exposed; then I gave the word "heave to," and the
asinine snowball began to turn slowly on its axis, and made a
complete revolution. The donkey brayed with laughter; but before
he had rolled a dozen times he stopped braying and began kicking,
or rather made futile efforts to kick. A dozen more revolutions
and he complained of dizziness, but the children only pushed and
rolled with renewed energy. Larger and larger the snowball grew,
until finally we had to stop and scale off sufficient snow to
enable the good work to go on. And presently it did go on, and we
rolled the asinine snowball into town amid the cheers and laughter
of the children, the frightful brays of protestation from the
imprisoned donkey, and the dumb consternation of the villagers.
Mac, when liberated, rose at once, only to topple over on his
head. He claimed the earth was turning around, which was true
enough, although not the way the donkey meant. He was too dizzy to
stand for some time; each effort resulted in a comical physical
collapse, that set the villagers shrieking with laughter. This was
a good time for me to profit by Mac's generous entertainment, and
while telling the assembled crowd all about our travels, I sold
photos by the dozen. The people opened their pockets liberally,
and before they could recover from the effects of the sensation
Mac had caused, we pilgrims were hurrying out of town, over an
easier road to Buffalo.
In consequence of the snowball affair and several other delays, we
did not reach the city until after dark. Having traveled seventeen
miles since lunch, we were ravenously hungry. Buffalo presented a
beautiful sight, with her myriad lights gleaming on the snow. Down
Main street, I espied a patent night-lunch wagon standing by the
curb, and hitching Mac to the hind axle, I went in for a bite.
Suddenly I became conscious that the vehicle was moving, and made
a hasty exit, to discover I had traveled several blocks in the
lunch wagon.
The hard travel Mac had been subjected to for the past week
necessitated his having a long rest before resuming the journey.
The morning after our arrival in Buffalo, my aristocratic donkey
was made the honored guest of the Palace Stables, a large and
handsome brick building. Mac's box stall was on the third floor,
and could be reached either by an inclined run-way, or an
elevator. The donkey being unaccustomed to such extravaganzas as
elevators, chose the inclined plane, and even then he put on such
airs that it required the united efforts of a half dozen
stablemen to escort him to his apartment. Once there, he was feted
like a nobleman.
I, too, was lavishly entertained. But of all the courtesies
extended me the most interesting was the invitation to stand up
with a young Italian wedding party in the City Hall, where the
Mayor, who sent for me, tied the knot. His Honor did the sacred
office bravely--until the conclusion, when he flunked completely.
I'll explain.
Casimo Mazzette and Rosino Lodico were dago peasants, born in
Palermo, Sicily. The groom was tall and proud and embarrassed,
although ten years the senior of his eighteen-year-old bride, who
was too coy to meet his gaze. She at first took Pod for a
preacher, engaged to prompt the Mayor. According to the custom of
their native heath, they simply joined hands, instead of using a
wedding-ring,--a very sensible idea, for hard times. The pretty
ceremony over, the bewitching female benedict looked at the Mayor,
and moved toward him, and raised her face, but the embarrassed
Mayor withdrew, to the astonishment of everyone, explaining that
he was married to a jealous woman, and asked me to kiss the bride
for him. He preferred to do the honors by proxy. So, without
comment or hesitation, I stepped up to the pretty dago, placed my
arm around her to avoid danger of making a bungle of the first
kiss I ever gave a woman, drew her face to mine, and kissed her
squarely on her ruby lips. She looked so happy that I was about to
repeat the act, but her husband stepped between us. The pair shook
hands with the Mayor and his clerical-looking assistant, who
wished them lots of luck and "dagoettes," and then the blushing
bride fled with her devoted swain out of the hall.
Next day I accepted for Mac an invitation to a phonograph
exhibition in the Ellicott Building. We both attended and were
richer for it. The room was well-filled with men and women who
eagerly awaited the advertised show. When the manager courteously
asked what was the donkey's favorite style of music I explained
that, as he was a slow animal, he probably preferred lively music.
At once the "yellow kid" held the tubes to the donkey's ears;
those sensitive organs indicated his delight by each alternatively
flapping forward and backward; but, suddenly, as they were thrown
forward together, the jackass kicked an incandescent light globe
above into flying fragments. Women screamed and fell into the arms
of the men for protection.
"You said the donkey was gentle," said the manager, angrily.
"So he is," I returned.
"Then how do you account for such high kicking?"
"Struck a discord, I presume," I said. "What music is in that
machine?"
The clerk answered. "The first p-p-piece was the "Darkey's Dream,""
said he, with slight impediment of speech, "but the s-s-second was
"Schneider's Band.""
"Who wouldn't kick!" I exclaimed. Due apologies were in order, and
confidence was restored, and an hour later we two departed with
the donkey's earnings and the well wishes of all.