In fact Mrs. Cairnes found herself under restraints that wer_The Wit and Humor of America, Volume IX (of X)

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Library Edition

THE WIT AND HUMOR OF AMERICA

In Ten Volumes

VOL. IX

[Illustration: EDGAR WILSON NYE (BILL NYE)

Drawing from photo, copyright by Rockwood]

THE WIT AND HUMOR OF AMERICA

EDITED BY MARSHALL P. WILDER

_Volume IX_

Funk & Wagnalls Company

New York and London

CONTENTS

PAGE

Ballade of Ping-Pong, A Alden Charles Noble 1690

Boat that Ain't, The Wallace Irwin 1764

Budge and Toddie John Habberton 1692

Cavalier's Valentine, A Clinton Scollard 1782

Conscientious Curate and the

Beauteous Ballet Girl, The William Russell Rose 1756

Country School, The Anonymous 1734

Evan Anderson's Poker Party Benjamin Stevenson 1737

Experiences of Gentle Jane, The Carolyn Wells 1797

Few Reflections, A Bill Arp 1799

Great Celebrator, A Bill Nye 1784

Gusher, The Charles Battell Loomis 1656

He Wanted to Know Sam Walter Foss 1794

Hoss, The James Whitcomb Riley 1759

How I Spoke the Word Frank L. Stanton 1725

How Jimaboy Found Himself Francis Lynde 1765

How the Money Goes John G. Saxe 1780

"Hullo!" Sam Walter Foss 1706

Lugubrious Whing-Whang, The James Whitcomb Riley 1669

Millionaires, The Max Adeler 1675

Mystery of Gilgal, The Hay 1654

Natural Philosophy William Henry Drummond 1722

Nine Little Goblins, The James Whitcomb Riley 1635

Old-Fashioned Choir, The Benjamin F. Taylor 1790

Our Polite Parents Carolyn Wells 1688

Our Very Wishes Harriet Prescott Spofford 1637

Reflective Retrospect, A John G. Saxe 1703

Rule of Three, A Wallace Rice 1779

Runaway Toys, The Frank L. Stanton 1671

Soldier, Rest! Robert J. Burdette 1796

Tale of the Tangled Telegram, The Wilbur D. Nesbit 1709

Threnody, A George Thomas Lanigan 1754

Tim Flannigan's Mistake Wallace Bruce Amsbary 1673

University Intelligence Office, The John Kendrick Bangs 1727

Warrior, The Eugene Field 1708

When Doctors Disagree S. E. Kiser 1762

When the Little Boy Ran Away Frank L. Stanton 1792

Widow Bedott's Visitor, The Frances M. Whicher 1660

COMPLETE INDEX AT THE END OF VOLUME X.

THE NINE LITTLE GOBLINS

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

They all climbed up on a high board-fence--

Nine little Goblins, with green-glass eyes--

Nine little Goblins that had no sense,

And couldn't tell coppers from cold mince pies;

And they all climbed up on the fence, and sat--

And I asked them what they were staring at.

And the first one said, as he scratched his head

With a queer little arm that reached out of his ear

And rasped its claws in his hair so red--

"This is what this little arm is fer!"

And he scratched and stared, and the next one said

"How on earth do _you_ scratch your head?"

And he laughed like the screech of a rusty hinge--

Laughed and laughed till his face grew black;

And when he choked, with a final twinge

Of his stifling laughter, he thumped his back

With a fist that grew on the end of his tail

Till the breath came back to his lips so pale.

And the third little Goblin leered round at me--

And there were no lids on his eyes at all--

And he clucked one eye, and he says, says he,

"What is the style of your socks this fall?"

And he clapped his heels--and I sighed to see

That he had hands where his feet should be.

Then a bald-faced Goblin, gray and grim,

Bowed his head, and I saw him slip

His eyebrows off, as I looked at him,

And paste them over his upper lip;

And then he moaned in remorseful pain--

"Would--Ah, would I'd me brows again!"

And then the whole of the Goblin band

Rocked on the fence-top to and fro,

And clung, in a long row, hand in hand,

Singing the songs that they used to know--

Singing the songs that their grandsires sung

In the goo-goo days of the Goblin-tongue.

And ever they kept their green-glass eyes

Fixed on me with a stony stare--

Till my own grew glazed with a dread surmise,

And my hat whooped up on my lifted hair,

And I felt the heart in my breast snap to

As you've heard the lid of a snuff-box do.

And they sang, "You're asleep! There is no board-fence,

And never a Goblin with green-glass eyes!--

'Tis only a vision the mind invents

After a supper of cold mince-pies,--

And you're doomed to dream this way," they said,--

"_And you sha'n't wake up till you're clean plum dead!_"

OUR VERY WISHES

BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD

It was natural that it should be quiet for Mrs. Cairnes in her empty

house. Once there had been such a family of brothers and sisters there!

But one by one they had married, or died, and at any rate had drifted

out of the house, so that she was quite alone with her work, and her

memories, and the echoes in her vacant rooms. She hadn't a great deal of

work; her memories were not pleasant; and the echoes were no pleasanter.

Her house was as comfortable otherwise as one could wish; in the very

centre of the village it was, too, so that no one could go to church, or

to shop, or to call, unless Mrs. Cairnes was aware of the fact, if she

chose; and the only thing that protected the neighbors from this

supervision was Mrs. Cairnes's mortal dread of the sun on her carpet;

for the sun lay in that bay-windowed corner nearly all the day, and even

though she filled the window full of geraniums and vines and

calla-lilies she could not quite shut it out, till she resorted to

sweeping inner curtains.

Mrs. Cairnes did her own work, because, as she said, then she knew it

was done. She had refused the company of various individuals, because,

as she said again, she wouldn't give them house-room. Perhaps it was for

the same reason that she had refused several offers of marriage;

although the only reason that she gave was that one was quite enough,

and she didn't want any boots bringing in mud for her to wipe up. But

the fact was that Captain Cairnes had been a mistake; and his relict

never allowed herself to dwell upon the fact of her loss, but she felt

herself obliged to say with too much feeling that all was for the best;

and she dared not risk the experiment again.

Mrs. Cairnes, however, might have been lonelier if she had been very

much at home; but she was President of the First Charitable, and

Secretary of the Second, and belonged to a reading-club, and a

sewing-circle, and a bible-class, and had every case of illness in town

more or less to oversee, and the circulation of the news to attend to,

and so she was away from home a good deal, and took many teas out. Some

people thought that if she hadn't to feed her cat she never would go

home. But the cat was all she had, she used to say, and nobody knew the

comfort it was to her. Yet, for all this, there were hours and seasons

when, obliged to stay in the house, it was intolerably dreary there, and

she longed for companionship. "Some one with an interest," she said.

"Some one who loves the same things that I do, who cares for me, and for

my pursuits. Some one like Sophia Maybury. Oh! how I should have liked

to spend my last days with Sophia! What keeps Dr. Maybury alive so, I

can't imagine. If he had only--gone to his rest"--said the good woman,

"Sophia and I could join our forces and live together in clover. And how

we should enjoy it! We could talk together, read together, sew together.

No more long, dull evenings and lonely nights listening to the mice. But

a friend, a dear sister, constantly at hand! Sophia was the gentlest

young woman, the prettiest,--oh, how I loved her in those days! She was

a part of my youth. I love her just as much now. I wish she could come

and live here. She might, if there weren't any Dr. Maybury. I can't

stand this solitude. Why did fate make me such a social old body, and

then set me here all alone?"

If Sophia was the prettiest young woman in those days, she was an

exceedingly pretty old woman in these, with her fresh face and her

bright eyes, and if her hair was not all her own, she had companions in

bangs. Dr. Maybury made a darling of her all his lifetime, and when he

died he left her what he had; not much,--the rent of the Webster

House,--but enough.

But there had always been a pea-hen in Mrs. Maybury's lot. It was all

very well to have an adoring husband,--but to have no home! The Doctor

had insisted for years upon living in the tavern, which he owned, and if

there was one thing that his wife detested more than another, it was

life in a tavern. The strange faces, the strange voices, the going and

coming, the dreary halls, the soiled table-cloths, the thick crockery,

the damp napkins, the flies, the tiresome _menu_--every roast tasting of

every other, no gravy to any,--the all out-doors feeling of the whole

business, your affairs in everybody's mouth, the banging doors, the

restless feet, the stamping of horses in the not distant stable, the

pandemonium of it all! She tried to make a little home in the corner of

it; but it was useless. And when one day Dr. Maybury suddenly died,

missing him and mourning him, and half distracted as she was, a thrill

shot across the darkness for half a thought,--now at any rate she could

have a home of her own! But presently she saw the folly of the

thought,--a home without a husband! She staid on at the tavern, and took

no pleasure in life.

But with Dr. Maybury's departure, the thought recurred again and again

to Mrs. Cairnes of her and Sophia's old dream of living together. "We

used to say, when we were girls, that we should keep house together, for

neither of us would ever marry. And it's a great, great pity we did! I

dare say, though, she's been very happy. I know she has, in fact. But

then if she hadn't been so happy with him, she wouldn't be so unhappy

without him. So it evens up. Well, it's half a century gone; but perhaps

she'll remember it. I should like to have her come here. I never could

bear Dr. Maybury, it's true; but then I could avoid the subject with

her. I mean to try. What a sweet, comfortable, peaceful time we should

have of it!"

A sweet, comfortable, peaceful time! Well; you shall see. For Mrs.

Maybury came; of course she came. Her dear, old friend Julia! Oh, if

anything could make up for Dr. Maybury's loss, it would be living with

Julia! What castles they used to build about living together and working

with the heathen around home. And Julia always went to the old East

Church, too; and they had believed just the same things, the same

election, and predestination and damnation and all; at one time they had

thought of going out missionaries together to the Polynesian Island, but

that had been before Julia took Captain Cairnes for better or worse,

principally worse, and before she herself undertook all she could in

converting Dr. Maybury,--a perfect Penelope's web of a work; for Dr.

Maybury died as he had lived, holding her fondest beliefs to be old

wives' fables, but not quarreling with her fidelity to them, any more

than with her finger-rings or her false bangs, her ribbons, and what she

considered her folderols in general. And how kind, she went on in her

thoughts, it was of Julia to want her now! what comfort they would be to

each other! Go,--of course she would!

She took Allida with her; Allida who had been her maid so long that she

was a part of herself; and who, for the sake of still being with her

mistress, agreed to do the cooking at Mrs. Cairnes's and help in the

house-work. The house was warm and light on the night she arrived;

other friends had dropped in to receive her, too; there were flowers on

the table in the cosy red dining-room, delicate slices of ham that had

been stuffed with olives and sweet herbs, a cold queen's pudding rich

with frosting, a mold of coffee jelly in a basin of whipped cream, and

little thin bread-and-butter sandwiches.

"Oh, how delightful, how homelike!" cried Mrs. Maybury. How unlike the

great barn of a dining-room at the Webster House! What delicious bread

and butter! Julia had always been such a famous cook! "Oh, this is home

indeed, Julia!" she cried.

Alas! The queen's pudding appeared in one shape or another till it lost

all resemblance to itself, and that ham after a fortnight became too

familiar for respect.

Mrs. Cairnes, when all was reëstablished and at rights, Sophia in the

best bedroom, Allida in the kitchen, Sophia's board paying Allida's

wages and all extra expense, Sophia's bird singing like a little

fountain of melody in the distance, Mrs. Cairnes then felt that after a

long life of nothingness, fate was smiling on her; here was friendship,

interest, comfort, company, content. No more lonesomeness now. Here was

a motive for coming home; here was somebody to come home to! And she

straightway put the thing to touch, by coming home from her

prayer-meeting, her bible-class, her Ladies' Circle, her First

Charitable, and taking in a whole world of pleasure in Sophia's waiting

presence, her welcoming smile, her voice asking for the news. And if

Sophia were asking for the news, news there must be to give Sophia! And

she went about with fresh eagerness, and dropped in here, there, and

everywhere, and picked up items at every corner to retail to Sophia. She

found it a little difficult to please Sophia about the table. Used to

all the variety of a public-house, Mrs. Maybury did not take very

kindly to the simple fare, did not quite understand why three people

must be a whole week getting through with a roast,--a roast that, served

underdone, served overdone, served cold, served warmed up with herbs,

served in a pie, made five dinners; she didn't quite see why one must

have salt fish on every Saturday, and baked beans on Sunday; she

hankered after the flesh-pots that, when she had them, she had found

tiresome, and than which she had frequently remarked she would rather

have the simplest home-made bread and butter. Apples, too. Mrs.

Cairnes's three apple-trees had been turned to great account in her

larder always; but now,--Mrs. Maybury never touched apple-sauce,

disliked apple-jelly, thought apple-pie unfit for human digestion,

apple-pudding worse; would have nothing with apples in it, except the

very little in mince-pie which she liked as rich as brandy and sherry

and costly spices could make it.

"No profit in this sort of boarder," thought the thrifty Mrs. Cairnes.

But then she didn't have Sophia for profit, only for friendliness and

companionship; and of course there must be some little drawbacks. Sophia

was not at all slow in expressing her likes and dislikes. Well, Mrs.

Cairnes meant she should have no more dislikes to express than need be.

Nevertheless, it made Mrs. Cairnes quite nervous with apprehension

concerning Mrs. Maybury's face on coming to the dinner-table; she left

off having roasts, and had a slice of steak; chops and tomato-sauce; a

young chicken. But even that chicken had to make its reappearance till

it might have been an old hen. "I declare," said Mrs. Cairnes, in the

privacy of her own emotions, "when I lived by myself I had only one

person to please! If Sophia had ever been any sort of a housekeeper

herself--it's easy to see why Dr. Maybury chose to live at a hotel!"

Still the gentle face opposite her at the table, the lively warmth of a

greeting when she opened the door, the delight of some one with whom to

talk things over, the source of life and movement in the house; all this

far outweighed the necessity of having to plan for variety in the little

dinners.

"I really shall starve to death if this thing does on," Mrs. Maybury had

meanwhile said to herself. "It isn't that I care so much for what I have

to eat; but I really can't eat enough here to keep me alive. If I went

out as Julia does, walking and talking all over town, I daresay I could

get up the same sort of appetite for sole-leather. But I haven't the

heart for it. I can't do it. I have to sit at home and haven't any

relish for anything. I really will see if Allida can't start something

different." But Allida could not make bricks without straw; she could

only prepare what Mrs. Cairnes provided, and as Mrs. Cairnes had never

had a servant before, she looked on the whole tribe of them as marauders

and natural enemies, and doled out everything from a locked store-room

at so much a head. "Well," sighed Mrs. Maybury, "perhaps I shall get

used to it." From which it will be seen that Julia's efforts after all

were not particularly successful. But if Mrs. Cairnes had been lonely

before Mrs. Maybury came, Mrs. Maybury was intolerably lonely, having

come; the greater part of the time, Allida being in the kitchen, or out

herself, and no one in the house but the sunshine, the cat, and the

bird; and she detested cats, and had a shudder if one touched her.

However, this was Julia's cat, this great black and white evil spirit,

looking like an imp of darkness; she would be kind to it if it didn't

touch her. But if it touched her--she shivered at the thought--she

couldn't answer for the consequences. Julia was so good in taking her

into her house, and listening to her woes, and trying to make her

comfortable,--only if this monster tried to kill her bird,--Mrs.

Maybury, sitting by herself, wept at the thought. How early it was dark

now, too! She didn't see what kept Julia so,--really she was doing too

much at her age. She hinted that gently to Julia when Mrs. Cairnes did

return. And Mrs. Cairnes could not quite have told what it was that was

so unpleasant in the remark. "My age," she said, laughing. "Why, I am as

young as ever I was, and as full of life. I could start on an exploring

expedition to Africa, to-morrow!" But she began to experience a novel

sense of bondage,--she who had all her life been responsible to no one.

And presently, whenever she went out, she had a dim consciousness in her

mental background of Sophia's eyes following her, of Sophia's thoughts

upon her trail, of Sophia's face peering from the bay-window as she went

from one door to another. She begged some slips, and put a half dozen

new flower-pots on a bracket-shelf in the window, in order to obscure

the casual view, and left the inner curtain drawn.

She came in one day, and there was that inner curtain strung wide open,

and the sun pouring through the plants in a broad radiance. Before she

took off her bonnet she stepped to the window and drew the curtain.

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Maybury, "what made you do that? The sunshine is so

pleasant."

"I can't have the sun streaming in here and taking all the color out of

my carpet, Sophia!" said Julia, with some asperity.

"But the sun is so very healthy," urged Mrs. Maybury.

"Oh, well! I can't be getting a new carpet every day."

"You feel," said Mrs. Maybury, turning away wrath, "as you did when you

were a little girl, and the teacher told you to lay your wet slate in

your lap: 'It'll take the fade out of my gown,' said you. How long ago

is it! Does it seem as if it were you and I?"

"I don't know," said Julia tartly. "I don't bother myself much with

abstractions. I know it is you and I." And she put her things on the

hall-rack, as she was going out again in the afternoon to bible-class.

She had no sooner gone out than Mrs. Maybury went and strung up every

curtain in the house where the sun was shining, and sat down

triumphantly and rocked contentedly for five minutes in the glow, when

her conscience overcame her, and she put them all down again, and went

out into the kitchen for a little comfort from Allida. But Allida had

gone out, too; so she came back to the sitting-room, and longed for the

stir and bustle and frequent faces of the tavern, and welcomed a

book-canvasser presently as if she had been a dear friend.

Perhaps Julia's conscience stirred a little, too; for she came home

earlier than usual, put away her wraps, lighted an extra lamp, and said,

"Now we'll have a long, cosy evening to ourselves."

"We might have a little game of cards," said Sophia, timidly. "I know a

capital double solitaire--"

"Cards!" cried Julia.

"Why--why not?"

"Cards! And I just came from bible-class!"

"What in the world has that got to do with it?"

"Everything!"

"Why, the Doctor and I used--"

"That doesn't make it any better."

"Why, Julia, you can't possibly mean that there's any harm,--that,--that

it's wicked--"

"I think we'd better drop the subject, Sophia," said Julia loftily.

"But I don't want to drop the subject!" exclaimed Mrs. Maybury. "I don't

want you to think that the Doctor would--"

"I can't help what the Doctor did. I think cards are wicked! And that's

enough for me!"

"Well!" cried Mrs. Maybury, then in great dudgeon. "I'm not a member of

the old East Church in good and regular standing for forty years to be

told what's right and what's wrong by any one now!"

"If you're in good and regular standing, then the church is very lax in

its discipline, Sophia; that's all I've got to say."

"But, Julia, things have been very much liberalized of late years. The

minister's own daughter has been to dancing-school." The toss of Julia's

head, and her snort of contempt only said, "So much the worse for the

minister's daughter!"

"Nobody believes in infant damnation now," continued Mrs. Maybury.

"I do."

"O Julia!" cried Mrs. Maybury, for the moment quite faint, "that is

because," she said, as soon as she had rallied, and breaking the

dreadful silence, "you never had any little babies of your own, Julia."

This was adding insult to injury, and still there was silence. "I don't

believe it of you, Julia," she continued, "your kind heart--"

"I don't know what a kind heart has to do with the immutable decrees of

an offended deity!" cried the exasperated Julia. "And this only goes to

show what forty years' association with a free-thinking--"

"You were right in the beginning, Julia; we had better drop the

subject," said Mrs. Maybury; and she gathered up her Afghan wools

gently, and went to her room.

Mrs. Maybury came down, however, when tea was ready, and all was serene

again, especially as Susan Peyster came in to tell the news about Dean

Hampton's defalcation at the village bank, and had a seat at the table.

"But I don't understand what on earth he has done with the money," said

Mrs. Maybury.

"Gambled," said Susan.

"Cards," said Mrs. Cairnes. "You see!"

"Not that sort of gambling!" cried Susan. "But stocks and that."

"It's the same thing," said Mrs. Cairnes.

"And that's the least part of it! They do say"--said Susan, balancing

her teaspoon as if in doubt about speaking.

"They say what?" cried Mrs. Cairnes.

But for our part, as we don't know Mr. Dean Hampton, and, therefore, can

not relish his misdoings with the same zest as if we did, we will not

waste time on what was said. Only when Susan had gone, Mrs. Maybury

rose, too, and said, "I must say, Julia, that I think this dreadful

conversation is infinitely worse and more wicked than any game of cards

could be!"

"What are you talking about?" said Julia, jocosely, and quite

good-humored again.

"And the amount of shocking gossip of this description that I've heard

since I've been in your house is already more than I've heard in the

whole course of my life! Dr. Maybury would never allow a word of gossip

in our rooms." And she went to bed.

"You shall never have another word in mine!" said the thunderstricken

Julia to herself. And if she had heard that the North Pole had tipped

all its ice off into space, she wouldn't have told her a syllable about

it all that week.

But in the course of a fortnight, a particularly choice bit of news

having turned up, and the edge of her resentment having worn away, Mrs.

Cairnes could not keep it to herself. And poor Mrs. Maybury, famishing

now for some object of interest, received it so kindly that things

returned to their former footing. Perhaps not quite to their former

footing, for Julia had now a feeling of restraint about her news, and

didn't tell the most piquant, and winked to her visitors if the details

trenched too much on what had better be unspoken. "Not that it was

really so very--so very--but then Mrs. Maybury, you know," she said

afterward. But she had never been accustomed to this restraint, and she

didn't like it.

In fact Mrs. Cairnes found herself under restraints that were amounting

to a mild bondage. She must be at home for meals, of course; she had

been in the habit of being at home or not as she chose, and often of

taking the bite and sup at other houses, which precluded the necessity

of preparing anything at home. She must have the meals to suit another

and very different palate, which was irksome and troublesome. She must

exercise a carefulness concerning her conversation, and that of her

gossips, too, which destroyed both zest and freedom. She strongly

suspected that in her absence the curtains were up and the sun was

allowed to play havoc with her carpets. She was remonstrated with on her

goings and comings, she who had had the largest liberty for two score

years. And then, when the minister came to see her, she never had the

least good of the call, so much of it was absorbed by Mrs. Maybury. And

Mrs. Maybury's health was delicate, she fussed and complained and

whined; she cared for the things that Mrs. Cairnes didn't care for, and

didn't care for the things that Mrs. Cairnes did care for; Mrs. Cairnes

was conscious of her unspoken surprise at much that she said and did,

and resented the somewhat superior gentleness and refinement of her old

friend as much as the old friend resented her superior strength and

liveliness.

"What has changed Sophia so? It isn't Sophia at all! And I thought so

much of her, and I looked forward to spending my old age with her so

happily!" murmured Julia. "But perhaps it will come right," she reasoned

cheerily. "I may get used to it. I didn't suppose there'd be any rubbing

of corners. But as there is, the sooner they're rubbed off the better,

and we shall settle down into comfort again, at last instead of at

first, as I had hoped in the beginning."

Alas! "I really can't stand these plants of yours, Julia, dear," said

Mrs. Maybury, soon afterward. "I've tried to. I've said nothing. I've

waited, to be very sure. But I never have been able to have plants about

me. They act like poison to me. They always make me sneeze so. And you

see I'm all stuffed up--"

Her plants! Almost as dear to her as children might have been! The chief

ornament of her parlors! And just ready to bloom! This was really asking

too much. "I don't believe it's the plants at all," said Julia. "That's

sheer nonsense. Anybody living on this green and vegetating earth to be

poisoned by plants in a window! I don't suppose they trouble you any

more than your lamp all night does me; but I've never said anything

about that. I can't bear lamplight at night; I want it perfectly dark,

and the light streams out of your room--"

"Why don't you shut the door, then?"

"Because I never shut my door. I want to hear if anything disturbs the

house. Why don't you shut yours?"

"I never do, either. I've always had several rooms, and kept the doors

open between. It isn't healthy to sleep with closed doors."

"Healthy! Healthy! I don't hear anything else from morning till night

when I'm in the house."

"You can't hear very much of it, then."

"I should think, Sophia Maybury, you wanted to live forever!"

"Goodness knows I don't!" cried Mrs. Maybury, bursting into tears. And

that night she shut her bedroom door and opened the window, and sneezed

worse than ever all day afterward, in spite of the fact that Mrs.

Cairnes had put all her cherished plants into the dining-room alcove.

"I can't imagine what has changed Julia so," sighed Mrs. Maybury. "She

used to be so bright and sweet and good-tempered. And now I really don't

know what sort of an answer I'm to have to anything I say. It keeps my

nerves stretched on the _qui vive_ all day. I am so disappointed. I am

sure the Doctor would be very unhappy if he knew how I felt."

But Mrs. Maybury had need to pity herself; Julia didn't pity her. "She's

been made a baby of so long," said Julia, "that now she really can't go

alone." And perhaps she was a little bitterer about it than she would

have been had Captain Cairnes ever made a baby of her in the least, at

any time.

They were sitting together one afternoon, a thunderstorm of unusual

severity having detained Mrs. Cairnes at home, and the conversation had

been more or less acrimonious, as often of late. Just before dusk there

came a great burst of sun, and the whole heavens were suffused with

splendor.

"O Julia! Come here, come quick, and see this sunset!" cried Mrs.

Maybury. But Julia did not come. "Oh! I can't bear to have you lose it,"

urged the philanthropic lover of nature again. "There! It's streaming up

the very zenith. I never saw such color--do come."

"Mercy, Sophia! You're always wanting people to leave what they're about

and see something! My lap's full of worsteds."

"Well," said Sophia. "It's for your own sake. I don't know that it will

do me any good. Only if one enjoys beautiful sights."

"Dear me! Well, there! Is that all? I don't see anything remarkable. The

idea of making one get up to see that!" And as she took her seat, up

jumped the great black and white cat to look out in his turn. Mrs.

Maybury would have been more than human if she had not said "Scat! scat!

scat!" and she did say it, shaking herself in horror.

It was the last straw. Mrs. Cairnes took her cat in her arms and moved

majestically out of the room, put on her rubbers, and went out to tea,

and did not come home till the light up stairs told her that Mrs.

Maybury had gone to her room.

Where was it all going to end? Mrs. Cairnes could not send Sophia away

after all the protestations she had made. Mrs. Maybury could never put

such a slight on Julia as to go away without more overt cause for

displeasure. It seemed as though they would have to fight it out in the

union.

But that night a glare lit the sky which quite outdid the sunset; the

fire-bells and clattering engines called attention to it much more

loudly than Sophia had announced the larger conflagration. And in the

morning it was found that the Webster House was in ashes. All of Mrs.

Maybury's property was in the building. The insurance had run out the

week before, and meaning to attend to it every day she had let it go,

and here she was penniless.

But no one need commiserate with her. Instead of any terror at her

situation a wild joy sprang up within her. Relief and freedom clapped

their wings above her.

It was Mrs. Cairnes who felt that she herself needed pity. A lamp at

nights, oceans of fresh air careering round the house, the everlasting

canary-bird's singing to bear, her plants exiled, her table

revolutionized, her movements watched, her conversation restrained, her

cat abused, the board of two people and the wages of one to come out of

her narrow hoard. But she rose to the emergency. Sophia was penniless.

Sophia was homeless. The things which it was the ashes of bitterness to

allow her as a right, she could well give her as a benefactress. Sophia

was welcome to all she had. She went into the room, meaning to overwhelm

the weeping, helpless Sophia with her benevolence. Sophia was not there.

Mrs. Maybury came in some hours later, a carriage and a job-wagon

presently following her to the door. "You are very good, Julia," said

she, when Julia received her with the rapid sentences of welcome and

assurance that she had been accumulating. "And you mustn't think I'm not

sensible of all your kindness. I am. But my husband gave the institution

advice for nothing for forty years, and I think I have rights there now

without feeling under obligations to any. I've visited the directors,

and I've had a meeting called and attended,--I've had all your energy,

Julia, and have hurried things along in quite your own fashion. And as I

had just one hundred dollars in my purse after I sold my watch this

morning, I've paid it over for the entrance-fee, and I've been admitted

and am going to spend the rest of my days in the Old Ladies' Home. I've

the upper corner front room, and I hope you will come and see me there."

"Sophia!"

"Don't speak! Don't say one word! My mind was made up irrevocably when I

went out. Nothing you, nothing any one, can say, will change it. I'm one

of the old ladies now."

Mrs. Cairnes brought all her plants back into the parlor, pulled down

the shades, drew the inside curtain, had the cat's cushion again in its

familiar corner, and gave Allida warning, within half an hour. She

looked about a little while and luxuriated in her freedom,--no one to

supervise her conversation, her movements, her opinions, her food. Never

mind the empty rooms, or the echoes there! She read an angry psalm or

two, looked over some texts denouncing pharisees and hypocrites, thought

indignantly of the ingratitude there was in the world, felt that any

way, and on the whole, she was where she was before Sophia came, and

went out to spend the evening, and came in at the nine-o'clock

bell-ringing with such a sense of freedom, that she sat up till midnight

to enjoy it.

And Sophia spent the day putting her multitudinous belongings into

place, hanging up her bird-cage, arranging her books and her

bureau-drawers, setting up a stocking, and making the acquaintance of

the old ladies next her. She taught one of them to play double solitaire

that very evening. And then she talked a little while concerning Dr.

Maybury, about whom Julia had never seemed willing to hear a word; and

then she read, "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and

I will give you rest," and went to bed perfectly happy.

Julia came to see her the next day, and Sophia received her with open

arms. Every one knew that Julia had begged her to stay and live with her

always, and share what she had. Julia goes now to see her every day of

her life, rain or snow, storm or shine; and the whole village says that

the friendship between those two old women is something ideal.

THE MYSTERY OF GILGAL

BY JOHN HAY

The darkest, strangest mystery

I ever read, or heern, or see

Is 'long of a drink at Taggart's Hall--

Tom Taggart's of Gilgal.

I've heern the tale a thousand ways,

But never could git through the maze

That hangs around that queer day's doin's;

But I'll tell the yarn to youans.

Tom Taggart stood behind his bar,

The time was fall, the skies was fa'r,

The neighbors round the counter drawed,

And ca'mly drinked and jawed.

At last come Colonel Blood of Pike,

And old Jedge Phinn, permiscus-like,

And each, as he meandered in,

Remarked, "A whisky-skin."

Tom mixed the beverage full and fa'r,

And slammed it, smoking, on the bar.

Some says three fingers, some says two,--

I'll leave the choice to you.

Phinn to the drink put forth his hand;

Blood drawed his knife, with accent bland,

"I ax yer parding, Mister Phinn--

Jest drap that whisky-skin."

No man high-toneder could be found

Than old Jedge Phinn the country round.

Says he, "Young man, the tribe of Phinns

Knows their own whisky-skins!"

He went for his 'leven-inch bowie-knife:--

"I tries to foller a Christian life;

But I'll drap a slice of liver or two,

My bloomin' shrub, with you."

They carved in a way that all admired,

Tell Blood drawed iron at last, and fired.

It took Seth Bludso 'twixt the eyes,

Which caused him great surprise.

Then coats went off, and all went in;

Shots and bad language swelled the din;

The short, sharp bark of Derringers,

Like bull-pups, cheered the furse.

They piled the stiffs outside the door;

They made, I reckon, a cord or more.

Girls went that winter, as a rule,

Alone to spellin'-school.

I've sarched in vain, from Dan to Beer-

Sheba, to make this mystery clear;

But I end with hit as I did begin,--

WHO GOT THE WHISKY-SKIN?

THE GUSHER

BY CHARLES BATTELL LOOMIS

Of course an afternoon tea is not to be taken seriously, and I hold that

any kind of conversation goes, as long as it is properly vacuous and

irrelevant.

One meets many kinds of afternoon teas--the bored, the bashful, the

intense, and once in a while the interesting, but for pure delight there

is nothing quite equals the gusher. She is generally very pretty. Nature

insists upon compensations.

When you meet a real gusher--one born to gush--you can just throw all

bounds of probability aside and say the first thing that comes into your

head, sure that it will meet with an appreciative burst of enthusiasm,

for your true gusher is nothing if she is not enthusiastic. There are

those who listen to everything you say and punctuate it with "Yes-s-s,

yes-s-s, yes-s-s," until the sibilance gets on your nerves; but the

attention of the Simon-pure gusher is purely subconscious. She could not

repeat a thing of what you have told her a half minute after hearing it.

Her real attention is on something else all the while--perhaps on the

gowns of her neighbors, perhaps on the reflection of her pretty

face--but never on the conversation. And why should it be? Is a tea a

place for the exercise of concentration? Perish the thought.

You are presented to her as "Mr. Mmmm," and she is "delighted," and

smiles so ravishingly that you wish you were twenty years younger. You

do not yet know that she is a gusher. But her first remark labels her.

Just to test her, for there is something in the animation of her face

and the farawayness of the eye that makes you suspect her sincerity, you

say:

"I happen to have six children--"

"Oh, how perfectly dee-ar! How old are they?"

She scans the gown of a woman who has just entered the room and, being

quite sure that she is engaged in a mental valuation of it, you say:

"They're all of them six."

"Oh, how lovely!" Her unseeing eyes look you in the face. "Just the

right age to be companions."

"Yes, all but one."

The eye has wandered to another gown, but the sympathetic voice says:

"Oh, what a pi-i-ty!"

"Yes, isn't it? But he's quite healthy."

It's a game now--fair game--and you're glad you came to the tea!

"Healthy, you say? How nice. It's perfectly lovely to be healthy. Do you

live in the country?"

"Not exactly the country. We live in Madison Square, under the trees."

"Oh, how perfectly idyllic!"

"Yes; we have all the advantages of the city and the delights of the

country. I got a permit from the Board of Education to put up a little

bungalow alongside the Worth monument, and the children bathe in the

fountain every morning when the weather is cold enough."

"Oh, how charming! How many children have you?"

"Only seven. The oldest is five and the youngest is six."

"Just the interesting age. Don't you think children fascinating?"

Again the roaming eye and the vivacious smile.

"Yes, indeed. My oldest--he's fourteen and quite original. He says that

when he grows up he doesn't know what he'll be."

"Really? How cute!"

"Yes, he says it every morning, a half-hour before breakfast."

"Fancy! How old did you say he was?"

"Just seventeen, but perfectly girl-like and masculine."

She nods her head, bows to an acquaintance in a distant part of the

room, and murmurs in musical, sympathetic tones:

"That's an adorable age."

"What, thirteen?"

"Yes. Did you say it was a girl?"

"Yes, his name's Ethel. He's a great help to her mother."

"Little darling."

"Yes; I tell them there may be city advantages, but I think they're much

better off where they are."

"Where did you say you were?"

"On the Connecticut shore. You see, having only the one child, Mrs.

Smith is very anxious that it should grow up healthy" (absent-minded

nods indicative of full attention), "and so little Ronald never comes to

the city at all. He plays with the fisherman's child and gets great

drafts of fresh air."

"Oh, how perfectly entrancing! You're quite a poet."

"No; I'm a painter."

Now she is really attentive. She thought you were just an ordinary

beast, and she finds that you may be a lion. Smith? Perhaps you're

Hopkinson Smith.

"Oh, do you paint? How perfectly adorable! What do you paint--landscapes

or portraits?"

Again the eye wanders and she inventories a dress, and you say:--

"Oils."

"Do you ever allow visitors come to your studio?"

"Why, I never prevent them, but I'm so afraid it will bore them that I

never ask them."

"Oh, how could anybody be bored at anything?"

"But every one hasn't your enthusiasm. My studio is in the top of the

Madison Square tower, and I never see a soul from week's end to week's

end."

"Oh, then you're not married."

"Dear, no; a man who is wedded to his art mustn't commit bigamy."

"Oh, how clever. So you're a bachelor?"

"Yes, but I have my wife for a chaperon and I'd be delighted to have you

come and take tea with us some Saturday from six until three."

"Perfectly delighted!" Her eye now catches sight of an acquaintance just

coming in, and as you prepare to leave her you say:--

"Hope you don't mind a little artistic unconventionality. We always have

beer at our teas served with sugar and lemons, the Russian fashion."

"Oh, I think it's much better than cream. I adore unconventionality."

"You're very glad you met me, I'm sure."

"Awfully good of you to say so."

Anything goes at an afternoon tea. But it's better not to go.

THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S VISITOR

BY FRANCES M. WHICHER

Jest in time, Mr. Crane: we've jist this minit sot down to tea. Draw up

a cheer and set by. Now, don't say a word: I shan't take _no_ for an

answer. Should a had things ruther different, to be sure, if I'd

suspected _you_, Mr. Crane; but I won't appolligize,--appolligies don't

never make nothin' no better, you know. Why, Melissy, you hain't half

sot the table: where's the plum-sass? thought you was a-gwine to git

some on't for tea? I don't see no cake, nother. What a keerless gal you

be! Dew bring 'em on quick; and, Melissy, dear, fetch out one o' them

are punkin pies and put it warmin'. How do you take your tea, Mr. Crane?

clear, hey? How much that makes me think o' husband! he always drunk

hisen clear. Now, dew make yerself to hum, Mr. Crane: help yerself to

things. Do you eat johnny-cake? 'cause if you don't I'll cut some white

bread. Dew, hey? We're all great hands for injin bread here, 'specially

Kier. If I don't make a johnny-cake every few days he says to me, says

he, "Mar, why don't you make some injin bread? it seems as if we hadn't

never had none." Melissy, pass the cheese. Kier, see't Mr. Crane has

butter. This 'ere butter's a leetle grain frouzy. I don't want you to

think it's my make, for't ain't. Sam Pendergrass's wife (she 'twas Sally

Smith) she borrowed butter o' me t'other day, and this 'ere's what she

sent back. I wouldn't 'a' had it on if I'd suspected company. How do you

feel to-day, Mr. Crane? Didn't take no cold last night! Well, I'm glad

on't. I was raly afeard you would, the lectur'-room was so turrible hot.

I was eny-most roasted, and I wa'n't dressed wonderful warm nother,--had

on my green silk mankiller, and that ain't very thick. Take a pickle,

Mr. Crane. I'm glad you're a favorite o' pickles. I think pickels a

delightful beveridge,--don't feel as if I could make out a meal without

'em. Once in a while I go visitin' where they don't have none on the

table, and when I git home the fust thing I dew's to dive for the

butt'ry and git a pickle. But husband couldn't eat 'em: they was like

pizen tew him. Melissy never eats 'em nother: she ain't no pickle hand.

Some gals eat pickles to make 'em grow poor, but Melissy hain't no such

foolish notions. I've brung her up so she shouldn't have. Why, I've

heered of gals drinkin' vinegar to thin 'em off and make their skin

delekit. They say Kesier Winkle--Why, Kier, what be you pokin' the sass

at Mr. Crane for? Melissy jest helped him. I heered Carline Gallup say

how't Kesier Winkle--Why, Kier, what do you mean by offerin' the cold

pork to Mr. Crane? jest as if he wanted pork for his tea! You see,

Kier's been over to the Holler to-day on bizness with old Uncle Dawson,

and he come hum with quite an appertite: says to me, says he, "Mar, dew

set on some cold pork and 'taters, for I'm as hungry as a bear." Lemme

fill up your cup, Mr. Crane. Melissy, bring on that are pie: I guess

it's warm by this time. There, I don't think anybody'd say that punkin

was burnt a-stewin! Take another pickle, Mr. Crane. Oh, I was a-gwine to

tell what Carline Gallup said about Kesier Winkle. Carline Gallup was a

manty-maker--What, Kier? ruther apt to talk? well, I know she was; but

then she used to be sewin' 't old Winkle's about half the time, and she

know'd purty well what went on there: yes, I know sewin'-gals is

ginerally tattlers.... But I was gwine to tell what Carline Gallup said.

Carline was a very stiddy gal: she was married about a year

ago,--married Joe Bennet,--Philander Bennet's son: you remember Phil

Bennet, don't you, Mr. Crane?--he 'twas killed so sudding over to

Ganderfield? Though, come to think, it must 'a' ben arter you went away

from here. He'd moved over to Ganderfield the spring afore he was

killed. Well, one day in hayin'-time he was to work in the

hay-field--take another piece o' pie, Mr. Crane: oh, dew! I insist

on't--well, he was to work in the hay-field, and he fell off the

hay-stack. I s'pose 'twouldn't 'a' killed him if it hadn't 'a' ben for

his comin' kermash onto a jug that was a-settin' on the ground aside o'

the stack. The spine of his back went right onto the jug and broke

it,--broke his back, I mean,--not the jug: that wa'n't even cracked.

Cur'us, wa'n't it? 'Twas quite a comfort to Miss Bennet in her

affliction: 'twas a jug she valleyed,--one 'twas her mother's....

Take another cup o' tea, Mr. Crane. Why, you don't mean to say you've

got done supper! ain't you gwine to take nothin' more? no more o' the

pie? nor the sass? Well, won't you have another pickle? Oh, that reminds

me: I was a-gwine to tell what Carline Gallup said about Kesier Winkle.

Why, Kier, seems to me you ain't very perlite to leave the table afore

anybody else does. Oh, yes, I remember now; it's singin'-school night: I

s'pose it's time you was off. Melissy, you want to go tew, don't you?

Well, I guess Mr. Crane'll excuse you. We'll jest set back the table

ag'in' the wall. I won't dew the dishes jest now. Me and Melissy does

the work ourselves, Mr. Crane. I hain't kept no gal sense Melissy was

big enough t' aid and assist me. I think help's more plague than

profit. No woman that has growed-up darters needn't keep help if she's

brung up her gals as she'd ought tew. Melissy, dear, put on your cloak:

it's a purty tejus evenin'. Kier, you tie up your throat: you know you

was complainin' of a soreness in't to-day; and you must be keerful to

tie it up when you cum hum: it's dangerous t' egspose yerself arter

singin'--apt to give a body the brown-critters,--and that's turrible.

You couldn't sing any more if you should git that, you know. You'd

better call for Mirandy and Seliny, hadn't you? Don't be out late.

Now, Mr. Crane, draw up to the stove: you must be chilly off there. You

gwine to the party to Major Coon's day arter to-morrow? S'pose they'll

give out ther invatations to-morrow. Do go, Mr. Crane: it'll chirk you

up and dew you good to go out into society ag'in. They say it's to be

quite numerous. But I guess ther won't be no dancin' nor highty-tighty

dewin's. If I thought ther would be I shouldn't go myself; for I don't

approve on 'em, and couldn't countenance 'em. What do you think Sam

Pendergrass's wife told me? She said how't the widder Jinkins (she 'twas

Poll Bingham) is a-havin' a new gownd made a purpose to wear to the

party,--one of these 'ere flambergasted, blazin' plaid consarns, with

tew awful wide kaiterin' flounces around the skirt. Did you ever! How

reedickilous for a woman o' her age, ain't it? I s'pose she expects t'

astonish the natyves, and make her market tew, like enough. Well, she's

to be pitied. Oh, Mr. Crane, I thought I _should go off_ last night when

I see that old critter squeeze up and hook onto you. How turrible

imperdent, wa'n't it! But seems to me I shouldn't 'a' felt as if I was

obleeged to went hum with her if I'd 'a' ben in your place, Mr. Crane.

She made a purty speech about me to the lectur': I'm 'most ashamed to

tell you on't, Mr. Crane, but it shows what the critter is. Kier says

he heered her stretch her neck acrost and whisper to old Green, "Mr.

Green, don't you think the widder Bedott seems to be wonderfully took up

with _crainiology_?" She's the brazin'-facedest critter 't ever lived;

it does beat all; I never _did_ see her equill. But it takes all sorts

o' folks to make up the world, you know. What did I understand you to

say, Mr. Crane?--a few minnits' conversation with me? Deary me! Is it

anything pertickler, Mr. Crane? Oh, dear suz! how you _dew_ frustrate

me! Not that it's anything oncommon fer the gentlemen to ax to have

private conversations with me, you know; but then--but then--bein' you,

it's different: circumstances alter cases, you know. What was you

a-gwine to say, Mr. Crane?