ASININE TABLE OF MEASUREMENT.
Nine square inches make one foot,
Four all-around feet make one jackass,
One cross jackass makes three kicks,
Two hard kicks make one corpse;
Corpse, kicks, jackass, feet--
How many doggies do we meet?
--_Dogeared Doggerels._
From which table we may safely conclude there is one dog less in
the world, and that, estimating him by his kicks, Mac is a jackass
and a half.
If I had kept a complete record of the breeds, sorts, colors, and
conditions of the canines, the pups and curs we met with on the
road from New York, I might have compiled a book larger than
Trow's New York City Directory, which still would exclude the
mongrels and all unclassified "wags" and "barks" of the country
sausage-districts.
From a financial point of view, I was disappointed with our
four-days' sojourn in Buffalo, but Mac and I were rested, and the
weather was milder. The winds from Lake Erie had swept the snow
off the roads against the fences where it didn't belong, so that
my partner had to drag the sled out of Buffalo over a dry and
rutty highway. There were, however, several places where the
elements had shown a grudge against the farmers by piling huge
snow drifts across the road to impede their travel and maliciously
blowing the white spread from the fields of winter wheat which
required its protecting warmth.
Directly on reaching Hamburg, we were taken in charge by a Mr.
Kopp (Mac had predicted a cop would have us before long), and
given a warm reception. On the way to Eaton's Corners, six miles
beyond, I undertook to earn fifty cents in an extraordinary
manner; some might call it a hoggish manner. A farmer hailed me
from a barnyard, and asked if he could sell me a boar.
"Boar!" I exclaimed, almost losing my breath; and I added: "No,
sir; one boar is enough."
"Well, then, do yer want to make a half dollar?" he called.
"Course I do--more than anxious," I answered.
"Then jes' help me drag this 'ere hog ter town most; Squire Birge
has bought it, and I've agreed ter deliver it or bust."
"Let's see it," I said. "Don't know much about hogs, but I'll know
more, I guess, when I see yours."
I followed the man, Mac tagging close behind. Behold! A docile
looking hog of mastodon dimensions was conveying the contents of a
corn crib to its inner self. I walked around the beast several
times to count his good points, and closed the bargain.
An end of a rope was fastened to the hog's hind foot, and the
other end wound round the pommel of the saddle. Then I gave the
infuriated donkey the whip. A tug of war followed; presently the
rope snapped, and donkey and hog were hurled in opposite
directions, both turning somersaults. Luckily my rifle escaped
injury. The hog lost the kink in his tail; he looked mad, and with
his vicious stares, frightened Mac half to death. Finally the rope
was again adjusted, and an exciting scene ensued. The velocity of
the vibrations of that hog's roped foot, trying to kick loose, put
electricity to shame. When the donkey eased up a little, the boar
showed its true character by starting for the barn, pulling Mac
after him; while, on the other hand, when the hog stopped for
wind, the donkey would make a dive for town and drag him until he
also had to pause for breath. So those obdurate beasts worked
rather than played at cross-purposes for half an hour before I
forfeited my contract and proceeded on over the frozen road.
We reached Angola by seven, and Farnham at ten o'clock. There we
were comfortably quartered; Mac was rubbed with liniment, fed and
watered, while I, too late for supper, retired with an empty
stomach.
The Lake Shore road threads some thrifty-looking towns. The
country was dotted with neatly painted barns and cozy houses,
surrounded by energetic windmills and inert live-stock, while
denuded vineyards laced the frosted shores for miles about. We
lunched at Silver Creek, where a burly denizen tried to sell me a
big dog, which, he claimed, would tear an ox into pieces. The
price named was $5. Neither man nor dog made an impression on me.
When I finally drew rein in Dunkirk, at 7:30 P. M., the hotel was
alive with commercial men who quickly surrounded us. In ten
minutes I sold enough chromos to pay our expenses over night and
purchase a new breast-band for Mac.
Prior to February 12, Lincoln's Birthday, I traveled so rapidly
(even with a donkey), that events somewhat confused me; following
the shore of Lake Erie, I visited a dozen towns or more, sometimes
several in a single day.
I had no sooner disfigured the guest register of the New Hotel,
Fredonia, with my odd signature than I discovered the illustrious
name of Geo. W. Cable on the line above mine. It seemed a strange
coincidence that two such famous men as Cable and Pod should be so
unexpectedly crowded together in that little book, in a little
inn, in that town. Natural enough and pursuant to the Law of
Affinities, I immediately sent my card to the celebrated author,
who at once invited the eccentric traveler to his room. Mr. Cable
had been reclining, having just arrived by train. He gave me a
complimentary ticket to his lecture, that evening, which I placed
in my pocket, and later gave to the hotel clerk for discounting my
bill.
"What a pretty place this must be in summer," was the author's
initiatory remark, while twisting a yawn into a smile.
"Yes, indeed," I answered, and stretched my legs.
"And how do you stand the journey."
"Oh, fairly well; getting in better condition every day."
"You are a slender man, Professor, but I assume, very wiry, like
the cables."
The conversation continued until I felt the strain, and I
presently shook hands, and wishing him a full house, departed. The
author-lecturer is a little under stature; he wore a genial smile
and frock coat; his eyes were as bright as duplex burners; and he
shook hands just as other people do.
It was long after dark when we travelers ambled into Brockton and
put up for the night.
Mac and I had passed the day in the village of Ripley. The Raines
Law did not seem to have a salutary effect on that section of the
State. I met on the road that afternoon a tall, lank, tipsy
fellow, carrying a long muzzle-loader gun. He stopped me, and said
he was a Westerner, a half-breed, and fifty years old. "Been out
shootin' mavericks," he said importantly. "Same gun (hic) had in
th' Rockies. I'm gentle, though--gentle as a kitten." I was
charmed to know he was not hostile, said "So long," and hurried
on.
Sunday was Valentine's Day. I received a few doubtfully
appropriate souvenirs, but did not discover the name of a single
friend in the batch. Before leaving Ripley I was presented with a
large and handsome dog, a cross between the bloodhound and the
mastiff, a pup weighing 98 pounds, which I named Donkeyota. The
generous donor was a Mr. W. W. Rickenbrode, who accompanied me
some distance to assist me in handling the huge animal, in case of
emergency. He had no sooner bade me good-bye than I feared lest I
should not be able to make another mile that day. The wind blew a
hurricane. While passing a cemetery, I took a snap-shot of square
grave-stones, which photograph shows them rolling in that driving
gale. It was the most wonderful demonstration of the wind's power
I ever witnessed.
Shortly afterward, in descending a steep and icy road into a gully
the sled with its burden ran against my donkey's heels, upset him,
and carried him half way down the hill. In my anxiety and haste to
assist Mac, and hold on to my hat, I dropped the dog's chain, and
away he went kiting down hill after the sled; and I needed four
hands. To my surprise, the dog, Don, seemed to enjoy the
entertainment, and instead of fleeing back to Ripley, rolled in
the snow and barked in glee.
We reached the Half Way House, Harbor Creek, after dark. Next
morning after breakfast the landlord's little daughter came
rushing into the house to impart the thrilling news that John,
their horse, had a little colt; and, enthusiastically leading us
to the stable, she pointed to my donkey and said, "There! see?"
Mac A'Rony turned his head and regarded the little one with a
comical expression on his countenance, as much as to say, "If I
brayed, you'd think me a Colt's revolver."
Upon entering the city of Erie, Pa., the Transfer Company sent an
invitation to Mac A'Rony and Donkeyota to be its guests; I sought
a leading hotel, and busied myself with my newspaper article.
Tuesday, late in the day, we started for Fairview, twelve miles
beyond. We passed many jolly sleighing parties, some of whom
stopped to chat with me, and share with me refreshments, and
purchase my chromos; and one sleigh load promised to entertain me
royally at the hotel. They kept their word, and after refreshments
and an hour's rest, we resumed the journey in the light of the
full moon, arriving at Girard by 9:30. Next morning, the village
constable arrested my attention and persuaded me to act as
auctioneer at a vendue; by which deal I made some money. I worded
the hand-bill as follows:
AUCTION SALE.
Monday, February 15th, 1897.
The farm of Jeremy Shimm, its buildings, live-stock,
farming utensils and implements, its crops
and its woodland, its weals and its woes, including the
following named articles and belongings, will
be sold under hammer this day at 10 a. m.:
Barns and sheds, and other stable articles,
pens and pig-pens, hen-roosts, dog-kennels,
house and smoke-house, step-ladders, dove-cotes,
buggies, wagons, traps and rat-traps, plows,
sows, cows, bow-wows, hay-mows, sleds, beds, sheds, drills,
wills and mills, wagon-jacks and boot-jacks,
yoke of oxen, yolk of eggs, horse-clippers,
sheep-shears, horse-rakes, garden-rakes, cradles,
corn-cribs and baby-cribs, cultivators, lawn
mowers, corn-shellers, chickens and coops, roosters
and weathercocks, swine, wine, harrows, wheel-
barrows, bows-and-arrows, stoves, work horses, sawhorses,
axles and axle-grease, axes, cider, carpets,
tables, chairs, wares, trees, bees, cheese, etc.
By orders of the TOWN CONSTABLE,
Hank Kilheffer,
Pythagoras Pod, Auctioneer.
The dodgers were speedily printed and circulated in all
directions--sown broadcast, as it were--and, it being a windy
day, they flew like scudding snow-flakes over every farm for miles
around.
A great throng assembled to witness the extraordinary event, and
to take advantage of bargains with the traveler-auctioneer, who,
mounted on a pile of wood, with plug hat in hand, yelled at the
top of his voice and finally disposed of the rubbish. The art of
auctioneering seemed to come to me by inspiration, and the
enthusiastic farmers and towns-people swarmed around me, eager to
secure a trophy of the notable sale.
"Three superb harrows are now to be sold, and will be sold, if I
have to buy them myself--seventy-two tooth, thirty-six tooth and
false tooth harrows; harrows with wisdom teeth, eye teeth and
grinders, will grind up the soil and corn-stubble in a harrowing
manner, and cultivate the acquaintance of the earth better than
any other kinds made. How much am I offered?" As I yelled, I felt
that I had strained my voice.
"One dollar," called a granger to set the ball rolling.
"One dollar, one dollar, one dollar--going one dollar--gone one
dollar--to the bow-legged gentleman over there, with albino
eyebrows"--"THIS WAY, SIR!" I shouted. "Constable, please take his
name, and chain him to the wood pile."
In this manner it didn't take me long to dispose of the farm,
including the soil four thousand miles deep, and the air
forty-five miles high. I finished the ordeal by noon, was paid my
fee, and then discourteously told that I had realized several
hundred dollars less from the sale than the constable himself
could have done. Still every purchaser admitted he was more than
satisfied with my generous conduct, shook my hand, bought a
chromo and expressed the desire to meet me again. And that was a
thing that does not happen always in connection with vendues.