This day Dame Nature seemed in love:
The lusty sap began to move;
Fresh juice did stir th' embracing Vines,
_And birds had drawn their Valentines_.
--_The Complete Angler._
It was noon when I started for Dalton, three miles away, and night
before we arrived there. The mud oozed into my overshoes, and I
made Mac carry me and my grip. I delivered a lecture, whose
receipts about defrayed my expenses, and was presented a pair of
rubber boots by a man frank enough to admit the boots didn't fit
him.
We spent the Sabbath in Wooster. While strolling down its main
street with my dog, I suddenly came upon a captive coyote, which
defied Don, who ran off in a fright. That monster canine fell
considerably in my estimation. I wondered what he would do when
our camps on the plains were surrounded with a hundred of these
yelping beasts.
Wooster, rather a pretty town, is the seat of a university. The
word "seat" reminds me that I needed a pair of trousers. The rainy
season had set in, and I wanted a reserve pair. Otherwise, when my
only pair got soaked I must go to bed until they dried. I walked
into a Jewish clothier's, and, selecting a pair of corduroys,
inquired, "How much?"
"Two dollahs ond a hollaf," said the merchant. He informed me that
in Mansfield the same "pants" would cost $3, in Fort Wayne $5, in
Chicago $7, etc. I said that according to his way of reckoning I
could have purchased the same kind of trousers in Dalton for $2,
in Massillon for $1, and in Canton for a song. My argument
staggered him, but he soon recovered, and showed me a great
colored picture, representing a pair of corduroys, one leg chained
to an elephant, the other hooked to a locomotive, and both powers
working in opposite directions to part those wonderful trousers.
"Just vot you vant vor riding a jockoss; can't bull abart; vy, my
dear sir, it's a bargain." That was a strong argument; I bought
the "pants."
Passing on through Jeromeville and Mifflin, we reached Mansfield,
the home of Senator Sherman; and sixteen miles beyond Galion. That
lovely spring day, with the birds chirping merrily in the trees,
my pilgrimage seemed unusually irksome. Next day was my birthday,
and I resolved to make it a holiday.
I enjoyed a day of recreation, so did my donkey and dog, and in
the evening delivered a lecture on my travels before a campaign
league at its club house.
On Friday morning I started for the town of Marion, twenty-six
miles away. Many citizens of Galion assembled to see us off. Mac
and Don were impatient for the journey, and amused the crowd by
pulling each other's whiskers. I had boasted of having trained Mac
A'Rony to follow me. When I set out with a wave of my hat and a
beckon to my partner, he responded promptly, and for some distance
verified my boasts. He never before had acted so tractable.
Suddenly, a cheer sounded in the distance, and, turning, I beheld
that asinine rascal making back to town on a hop-skip-and-jump.
How the crowd did yell! It was a circus for them. Mac certainly
had rested too long and eaten too many oats. The only time I got
ahead of him was when I photographed him. I did not upbraid him,
but when I readjusted my scattered belongings and whirled the whip
over his head, he moved forward with utmost humility.
At Caledonia, I took advantage of the farmers' market day and sold
a large number of photos at a good price. I could not appear
anywhere on the street without some rural stranger stopping me to
shake hands and purchase a chromo. Saturday evening I lectured to
a crowded house.
It was 4:30 P. M. Sunday before I started to Kenton, twenty-seven
miles beyond. When nearly there, I passed a small farm whose rural
incumbent came to the fence to question me.
"Goin' ter show to-night?" he inquired.
"Nope," I answered, and kept Mac A'Rony moving.
"Hold a minute!--Be ye travelin' er goin' somewhere?" the man
persisted, as he leaned over the fence-rail. He interested me.
"When you see people walking," I returned, bringing my donkey to
halt, "you can take it for granted, they are going somewhere."
The lonesome-looking farmer was the first I had met who was
neither busy at work nor whittling. Gray locks fell wantonly over
his ears. His faded coat, blue overalls and felt boots exhibited
signs of a persistent conflict with farm implements, hooking cows,
kicking horses, and a rich clayey soil. A cow and two hogs eyed my
donkey and dog with contempt through the bars of the barnyard
fence. I observed that all the buildings, including the house,
were of logs. The man, judging from his property, didn't have a
dollar in the world, but had great expectations. He asked if I had
any books to sell. I had one, a copy of a volume I had published,
several of which I had sold on my journey at a good price. I had
lost fifteen valuable minutes talking with the man, and resolved
to get even. While wondering what I could take in exchange for the
book, a hen cackled.
"Certainly. I have a book to sell," I said.
"How much is it?"
"Dollar and a half."
"I'd buy it," said the farmer, longingly, "but I hain't got the
price."
"Have you got any eggs?" I asked.
"Dozens of 'em. How many kin ye suck at a sittin'?"
"I don't wish to suck them; I want them to sell," I replied. "How
much do you ask a dozen?"
"Six cents," he answered.
"Well," I said, "I will trade the book for ten dozen. Is that a
bargain? It looks like a cinch for you."
"I meant a book about yer travels t' San Francisco," he explained,
as he looked far away.
"Well, that's just what it is," I returned, bound to make a sale,
or die in the attempt. "Tells all about them: how robbers shot at
me in York State, bull chased me down a well in Pennsylvania, dog
worried me up a tree in Illinois, cowboys rescued me from Indians
in the Rocky Mountains, grizzly bear hugged--"
"Whew," ejaculated the man. "Thet's what I want. Ye got yer book
aout purty soon. Wait till I go and fetch th' eggs." And the
apparently ignorant man disappeared, soon to re-appear with a
paper sack full of hen fruit.
"Fresh?" I inquired, as I tied the fragile bundle to the saddle-horn.
"Couldn't be fresher," was the positive answer. "Some laid terday,
some yisterday, but most on 'em ter-morrer." Then observing my
arched brows, he added, "Yaas--yer thunk I was a know-nuthin', and
I let yer think so, 'cause yer need 'couragement. And I say
agin, most on 'em was laid ter-morrer, and th' best on 'em is
rooster eggs."
I delivered the book, feeling the farmer had somewhat the better
of me after all, and came to the conclusion that because a man
looks primitive, and lives in primitive style, he is not
necessarily of primitive intellect.
Mac joined in a pleasant adieu to Mr. Bosh, and we sauntered on,
I, behind, deeply absorbed in thought. We hadn't proceeded a half
mile, however, before Mac shied at a bunch of hay, and ran plumb
against a rail-fence; in a jiffy that jackass looked like an
egg-nog. There is no word coined to express my eggs-ass-peration.
When I caught the scapegrace, it required a half hour to make him
and the saddle look the least respectable. I stopped at the next
farm house, where a windmill supplied me with the water to wash
the outfit, and I signed a pledge never to have anything to do
with shell games of any kind. They always get the better of you.