BY PYE POD.
If I know'd a donkey wot wouldn't go
To see Mrs. Jarley's wax-work show,
Do you think I'd wollop him?
Oh, no, no! Then run to Jarley's----
--_Old Curiosity Shop._
Dennison was still and peaceful when, at nine in the evening, we
trailed up to its leading hotel, after a long and tiresome day's
walk, for, to relieve Cheese and Mac A'Rony, Coonskin and I had
journeyed half the distance on foot. But we left next day in good
season for Arion, taking it slowly, as Cheese was noticeably lame;
he had stumbled in the darkness the evening before. At Arion, so
aggravated was his injury, that I tarried a whole day, for I
appraised him a valued animal.
When I resumed the pilgrimage, I took it slowly, and relieved the
animal from any burden more than his saddle. Coonskin and I took
turns riding Mac, who was as chipper and strong as ever. He
gloried in his health and vigor, and found amusement in chaffing
his unfortunate comrade.
The eve of May thirtieth was spent in camp a few miles from
Woodbine. The following morning, when we were still two miles from
town, my courier, who had preceded us, wheeled back in company
with an old, white-haired man leading three white Esquimaux dogs.
The stranger managed his sportive pets with one hand, and carried
a basket of apples in the other; and, introducing himself and
shaking hands, he presented me with the delicious russet fruit,
and welcomed me to his home in the distance as his guest for the
holiday, a pleasure I was compelled to deny myself, for lack of
time.
According to his own account, he was a hermit and lived in the
society of his canine companions, as he had the greater part of
his seventy-five years. Content to subsist on the product of his
little thirty-six acre farm, he denied himself the use of any
portion of a small fortune of $15,000 in gold which, he claimed,
he had buried somewhere outside of that state; nobody had ever
helped him to a cent, and he resolved that no one should enjoy a
dollar of his money.
I put up at the Columbia Hotel, Woodbine, a pretty brick hostelry,
and, after an enjoyable lounge in the parlor, we all went out to
see the military and civic parade, in keeping with the usual
Memorial day custom.
The band assembled from all quarters and kinds of quarters--doors,
windows, cellars, barns, corn-cribs, hay-stacks, hencoops,
smoke-houses, etc., and without delay began tuning instruments. Their
uniforms challenged imitation. No two were dressed alike. Every
horn was different; they tried to outvoice each other, when,
suddenly, the bass drum banged away and upset the equilibrium of
the horns, until the snare drums and cymbals interfered as
peacemakers. At last, after much strain of nerve tissue, the
medley of musical tools settled down to a good, sensible patriotic
tune, which held sway for fifteen minutes.
But the procession that followed the band beggared description. The
band acted as leaders, the Grand Army followed as pointers, then
trailed the wheelers--carriages filled with citizens and farmers.
There were democrat wagons, side-bar buggies, buckboards, carts,
gigs, surreys, hayricks, baby carriages, wheelbarrows, goat carts,
and velocipedes. Pedestrians then fell into line, and brought up
the rear. To cap the climax, a big, fat man with inflated chest
galloped past on a faded, wind-broken horse, and exhorted the
excitable celebrators to strictly obey orders. "Remember,
citizens," he yelled, "let us take care not to have any accident
to-day, for we are not used to 'em here!" The procession had begun
slowly to move forward, when suddenly the command was given to
halt, and the bangity-bang, clapity-clap, rip-slap of wagon tongue
against wagon boxes sounded like freight cars when the engine
clamps on the brakes.
The firearms carried looked as if they had been loaned by some
museum for the event. They were muskets, match-locks, flint-locks,
and minus-locks; Winchesters, Remingtons, Ballards, Floberts,
Sharps, Springfields; shot-guns, muzzle-loaders and breach-loaders;
blunderbusses; carbines, bean-shooters, sling-shots and
cross-guns--a most formidable looking arsenal. Such a pageant!
When the procession arrived at the cemetery, the hearse, filled
with flowers, stopped in front of a newly made grave. Then the
undertaker in black clothes and red cap, seated beside the driver
in blue coat, white trousers and stovepipe hat, banged a bass drum
in his lap with an Indian club, as each floral piece was placed on
the several soldiers' graves.
Presently my attention was directed to a new excavation, before
which solemnly stood Coonskin, as immovable and statuesque as a
marble slab; and soon I observed an aged woman approach, bend
toward the human statue, and read the pathetic epitaph on his
back: "Take Blank's cathartic pills and keep healthy."
"Poor boy!" she exclaimed, sorrowfully, "a pity to have died so
young."
That was too much for Coonskin, who instantly resumed
consciousness, and wheeled about, as the frightened mourner
gasped, "Bless my stars, alive!" When Mac took in the situation he
brayed with merriment, almost shaking me out of the saddle.
The interesting proceedings concluded with a volley fired over a
grave, and at once bird shot, buck shot, salt pork, hickory nuts,
marbles, acorns, beans, and pebbles rained about us frightfully.
When the firing was through, I assisted a quack doctor probe for a
number one duck shot in Barley's shoulder and an acorn in
Coonskin's leg. As I mounted my terrified donkey, I noticed the
old woman had fainted. Bending over her was a gallant fellow
countryman trying to fan her back to life with his broad-brimmed
hat, while exposing patched trousers to an admiring crowd. As soon
as she came to, we started for the hotel, congratulating ourselves
on our narrow escape.
Next day we set out for Logan. Our arrival was signaled by an
assembly of townspeople, headed by their Mayor, who greeted me
cordially and asked to ride the celebrated donkey. He rode Mac up
and down the central street before the cheering throng, as had the
Mayors of other towns we had visited. Then I delivered a lecture
on my travels, on a corner of the business street, after which
Coonskin, who had lately received his banjo-guitar from home,
accompanied me with my mandolin, recently purchased, as we gave a
short serenade of music and song that made everybody sad and wish
we would depart.
The morrow was the first of June; I welcomed summer joyfully.
Missouri Valley was reached in the afternoon, and there, with my
dog chained in the cellar of a hotel and the three donkeys
stabled, we men retired and slept the sleep of the just.
The further I journeyed, the more primitive and squatty were both
dwelling and store in small places, and the architecture reached
the superlative of simplicity on the plains; but I observed more
of a passion for flower gardens and shrubbery evinced west of the
Mississippi than east.
The great bluffs characterizing the banks of the Missouri now
loomed up, verdant and picturesque, after the genial showers and
sunshine of spring. Every turn in the road presented a different
kaleidoscopic effect to the landscape. Wild roses lined the
roadside as we passed in review with our hats trimmed with
blossoms, and songbirds caroled sweet melodies from early morn
till eventide. Pure springs and wells were ever within reach, and
the farmers treated us to brimming bowls of sweet milk and
buttermilk. One day, after imbibing freely from a barrel of
buttermilk, standing against the porch, where I was chatting with
the housewife, I was astonished to see a calf walk up to the
barrel and drink. After that I lost my appetite for buttermilk.
All through Iowa were droves or bunches of white-faced cattle, the
predominating breed. I was told that the white-faced cattle make
the best beef, which seemed to sustain the theory early advanced
by the Indians, that pale-faces made the best roasts.
During the last few days, I noted a happy change in Damfino's
demeanor, and a marked improvement in Cheese's tender feet.
Damfino traveled faster and more smoothly, her long ears swinging
back and forth with every stride like pendulums of a clock and
apparently assisting her to walk to regular time.
Just as we were trailing out of Crescent City, a woman presented
me with a large bouquet of flowers.
I had intended to travel ten miles that lovely June night, but
when some five miles from town, on observing an inviting grassy
lot, I decided to go into camp. We let our donkeys roam at will
and graze, and spread our sleeping-bag under an apple-tree; then,
with Don on guard and with the gleaming stars beaming on us
through the boughs, we enjoyed a delightful sleep. At dawn we were
awakened by the owner of the property, a short, crabbed
individual, who lifted a dirty face above the top fence-rail and
called, "Git out," to us.
I was awfully sleepy and dozed on luxuriously. After a while he again
hailed us, now from the opposite quarter, but still on the outside of
the enclosure, where I could see him eyeing disapprovingly my huge
dog. Finally we induced him to come into our camp, on the promise
that our dog wouldn't molest him, and even invited him to breakfast
with us. When we departed he was in good spirits. He said he lived
"over in that house yonder all alone," because he couldn't afford to
live "together." Of course, we understood. He informed me that we
were following the old Mormon trail to Council Bluffs, where
Mormonism and bigamy flourished for a season before the historic band
of pilgrims crossed the Missouri in 1848. Thursday, June third, my
donkeys ambled into Council Bluffs.