As Bud bestrode the donkey the cheers of the throng rose, but
above the tumult he could hear the North End jeering at him.
--_Much Pomp and Several Circumstances._
From Willoughby we went to Cleveland. My route through the
beautiful city lay along one of the finest residence streets in
America--the famous Euclid avenue.
From there we marched to Superior street, where cheers greeted us
on every hand. The papers had heralded my advent, and as in the
other towns and cities, the newspaper artists had taxed their
imaginations to picture Pod and Mac.
We two were engaged to appear at the Star Theatre Wednesday
evening, and when I rode out on to the stage the house shook with
laughter and cheers. I made a short address and announced that I
would sell photos of Mac A'Rony and his master at the door.
That theatre put me way ahead financially. Thursday morning I
called on the Mayor, Mark Hanna and Senator Garfield, and added
the autographs of all three to my album. Mr. Garfield invited me
to attend the weekly dinner and reception of the "Beer and
Skittles Club," that evening. I went and enjoyed myself.
Next day I reached the village of Bedford by 7:00 P. M., only
making thirteen miles; and the following night I put up at a cozy
inn at Cuyahoga Falls. We three had covered eighteen miles that
day; it seemed twice the distance. I was almost frozen. All day I
held my once frost-bitten nose in my woolen mittens, and my ears
were wrapped in a silk muffler. In the morning a man hailed me:
"Cold day!"
"Yes, pretty chilly," I returned, politely.
A half mile on a farmer opened the door and yelled:
"Pretty cold, hain't it, Professor?"
"You bet," said Pod, icily.
Some distance further a fat German drove by in a gig and said: "It
vash cold--don't it?"
"'Course it's cold!" I answered, acridly.
A mile beyond two men reminded me it was a very wintry day.
Then a woman drove past and tossed me the comforting reminder:
"Don't you find it awfully cold?" I did not reply to the last two.
Twenty minutes later a boy, from a cozy home, yelled to me. I had
passed to some distance, and did not understand. It sounded like,
"Won't you come in and warm, and have lunch," I hesitated a moment
in the biting wind, then retraced my steps and called to the lad:
"What's that you said?"
"It's a cold day!" yelled the scamp.
I was mad enough to unload my Winchester. But I didn't; I only
tucked my half-frozen nose in my mits, rubbed my ears, and
continued my journey, like an ice-covered volcano. A mile beyond a
wagon with a family in it passed me, and the man said, "Cold, my
friend." At dusk a farmer inquired, "Hasn't it been a pretty
frigid day?" The human volcano was now ready to burst. So when a
man and woman warmly clad drove by in a buggy, with top up, I
resolved to get even. I shouted several times before the rig
stopped. A fur-clad head stuck out to one side, and a male voice
called: "Can't hear ye; come nearer." I ambled up, put a foot on
the hub of a wheel, and said, "I simply want to say, it's a cold
day."
"You--!----!!------!!!--------!!!!"
As soon as he had finished, I said, by way of civil explanation:
"My dear sir, do you know, a hundred people have stopped me to-day
and told me it is cold. I have tramped nearly twenty miles without
stopping to warm or eat; and I resolved to let the next fellow
have the same dose I have been taking half-hourly all day. Now, if
you are satisfied that it is a cold day, I will bid you good
night."
With this I returned to my companions, somewhat warmer physically,
but cooler in spirit.
The hotel in Cuyahoga Falls received us most hospitably; I never
shall forget the kindnesses of its landlady. The village dates
back to pioneer days. It is built on the hunting grounds of the
old Cuyahoga Indians.
Monday, March 1st, at 12:30 P. M., we arrived in Canton.
The citizens expected my arrival, and Market street teemed with
excitement. In front of two hotels, a block apart, stood their
proprietors waving hats and arms, and calling to me to be their
guest. I was puzzled to know which invitation to accept. While
deliberating, one of the landlords approached, and taking my arm,
led me to his comfortable hostelry, where he royally entertained
me and my animals.
The pageant that celebrated the departure of William McKinley to
the seat of Government was a fair estimate of the regard in which
his fellow-citizens held him. Canton did him honor. I witnessed
the leave-taking at his house, his ride to the train in the coach
drawn by four greys under escort of a band, and heard him deliver
his farewell address from the rear platform of his private car.
I spent Wednesday night in Massillon, and next morning returned to
Canton, to take some interior photographs of McKinley's home. I
was successful, beyond my hopes and expectations, securing fine
pictures of his study and parlor. The President's inauguration at
Washington called forth a deafening demonstration. Cannon boomed,
steam whistles shrieked, and the citizens shouted and hurrahed,
and I was glad Mac was not with me to add his salute.
I returned to Massillon, and at 4:00 P. M., set out for Dalton over the
muddiest, stickiest red-clay roads I ever encountered. I saw a
meadow-lark on the first of March; this day I heard blue-birds and
robins singing gaily. It looked as though spring had come to stay.
I expected that day to reach Dalton, only eight miles distant, but
the mud prevented me. I put my foot in it--the genuine red and
yellow mixture of real Ohio clay. It was so deep, and sticky, and
liberally diluted with thawed frost that once I was compelled to
crawl along the top of a rail fence two hundred feet and more, and
drag my jackass. At dusk I had covered only three miles. Then I
sought lodgings. A store loomed into view shortly; I was elated.
According to the sign over the entrance, the younger generation
was the ruling power. It read: "Hezekiah Brimley and Father." I
made for Hez. He said the town hadn't reached the hotel stage of
development yet, but that he would gladly take me in, provided I'd
sleep with his clerk in the garret.
I found the store full of loungers, who patronized the chairs,
soap and starch boxes, mackerel kits and counter, forming a silent
circle round a towering stove in the center. The village treasurer
wore a "boiled shirt" and brass collar-buttons, but no collar or
coat. His companions were generally attired in flannel shirts of
different hues and patterns, plush caps, which might be formed
into several shapes and styles, and felt boots encased in heavy
overshoes. These rural men eyed me with suspicion until I
mentioned Mac A'Rony. Then there was a rush to the door. As it
swung open, in leaped my great dog; at once the crowd surged back
to the stove.
"Does yer dorg bite?" came several queries in a bunch.
"No," I said. "He has killed a bull, chewed up a ram, made Thanks-giving
mince-meat of several dogs, chased a pig up a tree, and only this
morning ate two chickens and a duck and chased a farmer into his hay
loft. But he doesn't bite."
My statement had a sensational effect on the assembly, who, one by
one, sneaked out of the door, leaving Hez and his odd guest alone.
As soon as the junior member, Hez's father, came in, Hez took my
animals to the shed and fed them, and told me to help myself to
the best in the store. "Ye know what ye want; I don't."
Hez said he was sorry he was just out of butter and bread. I was
sorry, too. Wishing a light supper, I selected one yeast cake
(warranted 104 per cent. pure), a pint of corned oysters (light
weight), some crackers, and leaf lard, to take the place of
butter, and a cake of bitter chocolate. I left a few things
unmolested; such as soap, cornstarch, cloves, baking-powder and
stove-polish.
My assorted supper went down all right until I tackled the
chocolate. Chocolate is a favorite beverage of mine; besides, I
wanted a hot drink. To be good, chocolate must be well dissolved.
No pot was to be had, save a flower-pot with a hole in the bottom.
A great idea popped into my head. I would drink chocolate on the
instalment plan. Did you ever try it? If not, don't let your
curiosity get the better of you.
Chocolate belongs to the bean family, and the bean is a very
treacherous thing--chocolate bean, castor-oil bean, pork-bean, and
all kinds. I first ate the cake of chocolate, then some sugar,
and drank two dippersful of hot water,--then shook myself. That
mixture might suit my stomach, I thought, but it doesn't delight
my palate. I felt I had eaten a heavy meal unwittingly, and sat
down to digest it. I hadn't sat long before I felt myself
swelling. Something within was sizzling and brewing and steaming;
gas and steam choked me. I was sure there was going to be a
demonstration in my honor that I had not bargained for. The yeast
cake came to mind; then I knew the cause. My body grew warm, and
finally I was so hot that I had to go to the garret and take a
cold bath; after which I excused myself to the clerk, and went to
bed, and dreamed I was being cremated alive.
Next morning, on invitation of the superintendent, I visited the
Pocock Coal Mine, situated close by, and had an enjoyable trip
through its subterranean passages.