you to begin to talk about gittin' married ag'in. I am amazed you should
be afeerd I'd think so. See--how long's Miss Crane been dead? Six
months!--land o' Goshen!--why, I've know'd a number of individdiwals get
married in less time than that. There's Phil Bennet's widder 't I was
a-talkin' about jest now,--she 'twas Louisy Perce: her husband hadn't
been dead but _three_ months, you know. I don't think it looks well for
a _woman_ to be in such a hurry; but for a _man_ it's a different thing:
circumstances alter cases, you know. And then, sittiwated as you be, Mr.
Crane, it's a turrible thing for your family to be without a head to
superintend the domestic consarns and 'tend to the children,--to say
nothin' o' yerself, Mr. Crane. You dew need a companion, and no mistake.
Six months! Good grevious! Why, Squire Titus didn't wait but six _weeks_
after he buried his fust wife afore he married his second. I thought
ther' wa'n't no partickler need o' his hurryin' so, seein' his family
was all growed up. Such a critter as he pickt out, tew! 'Twas very
onsuitable; but every man to his taste,--I hain't no dispersition to
meddle with nobody's consarns. There's old farmer Dawson, tew,--his
pardner hain't ben dead but ten months. To be sure, he ain't married
yet; but he would 'a' ben long enough ago, if somebody I know on 'd gin
him any incurridgement. But 'tain't for me to speak o' that matter. He's
a clever old critter, and as rich as a Jew; but--lawful sakes!--he's old
enough to be my father. And there's Mr. Smith,--Jubiter Smith: you know
him, Mr. Crane,--his wife, (she 't was Aurory Pike) she died last
summer, and he's ben squintin' round among the wimmin ever since, and he
_may_ squint for all the good it'll dew him so far as I'm
consarned,--though Mr. Smith's a respectable man,--quite young and
hain't no family,--very well off, tew, and quite intellectible,--but I'm
purty partickler. Oh, Mr. Crane, it's ten years come Jinniwary sense I
witnessed the expiration o' my belovid companion!--an uncommon long time
to wait, to be sure; but 'tain't easy to find anybody to fill the place
o' Hezekier Bedott. I think _you're_ the most like husband of ary
individdiwal I ever see, Mr. Crane. Six months! murderation! cur'us you
should be afeard I'd think 'twas too soon. Why, I've knowed--
_Mr. Crane_--Well, widder, I've been thinking about taking another
companion, and I thought I'd ask you--
_Widow_--Oh, Mr. Crane, egscuse my commotion; it's so onexpected. Jest
hand me that are bottle of camfire off the mantletry shelf: I'm ruther
faint. Dew put a little mite on my handkercher and hold it to my nuz.
There, that'll dew: I'm obleeged tew ye. Now I'm ruther more composed:
you may perceed, Mr. Crane.
_Mr. C._--Well, widder, I was a-going to ask you whether--whether--
_Widow_--Continner, Mr. Crane,--dew. I know it's turrible embarrassin'.
I remember when my dezeased husband made his suppositions to me he
stammered and stuttered, and was so awfully flustered it did seem as if
he'd never git it out in the world; and I suppose it's ginerally the
case,--at least it has been with all them that's made suppositions to
me: you see they're generally oncerting about what kind of an answer
they're a-gwine to git, and it kind o' makes 'em narvous. But when an
individdiwal has reason to s'pose his attachment's reciperated, I don't
see what need there is o' his bein' flustrated,--though I must say it's
quite embarrassin' to me. Pray continner.
_Mr. C._--Well, then, I want to know if you're willing I should have
Melissy.
_Widow_--The dragon!
_Mr. C._--I hain't said anything to her about it yet,--thought the
proper way was to get your consent first. I remember when I courted
Trypheny we were engaged some time before mother Kenipe knew anything
about it, and when she found it out she was quite put out because I
didn't go to her first. So when I made up my mind about Melissy, thinks
me, I'll do it right this time, and speak to the old woman first--
_Widow_--_Old woman_, hey! That's a purty name to call me!--amazin'
perlite, tew! Want Melissy, hey! Tribble-ation! gracious sakes alive!
Well, I'll give it up now! I always knowed you was a simpleton, Tim
Crane, but, I _must_ confess, I didn't think you was _quite_ so big a
fool. Want Melissy, dew ye? If that don't beat all! What an everlastin'
old calf you must be, to s'pose she'd _look_ at _you_! Why, you're old
enough to be her father, and more, tew; Melissy ain't only in her
twenty-oneth year. What a reedickilous idee for a man o' your age! As
gray as a rat, tew! I wonder what this world _is_ a-comin' tew: 'tis
astonishin' what fools old widdiwers will make o' themselves! Have
Melissy! Melissy!
_Mr. C._--Why, widder, you surprise me. I'd no idee of being treated in
this way, after you'd ben so polite to me, and made such a fuss over me
and the girls.
_Widow_--Shet yer head, Tim Crane; nun o' yer sass to me. _There's_ your
hat on that are table, and _here's_ the door; and the sooner you put on
_one_ and march out o' t'other the better it will be for you. And I
advise you, afore you try to git married ag'in, to go out West and see
'f yer wife's cold; and arter yer satisfied on that p'int, jest put a
little lampblack on yer hair,--'twould add to yer appearance,
undoubtedly, and be of sarvice tew you when you want to flourish round
among the gals; and when ye've got yer hair fixt, jest splinter the
spine o' your back,--'twouldn't hurt your looks a mite: you'd be
intirely unresistible if you was a _leetle_ grain straiter.
_Mr. C._--Well, I never!
_Widow_--Hold your tongue, you consarned old coot you! I tell you
_there's_ your hat, and _there's_ the door: be off with yerself, quick
metre, or I'll give ye a h'ist with the broomstick.
_Mr. C._--Gimmeni!
_Widow_ (rising)--Git out, I say! I ain't a-gwine to stan' here and be
insulted under my own ruff; and so git along; and if ever you darken my
door ag'in, or say a word to Melissy, it'll be the wuss for you,--that's
all.
_Mr. C._--Treemenjous! What a buster!
_Widow_--Go 'long,--go 'long,--go long, you everlastin' old gum! I won't
hear another word (stops her ears). I won't. I won't. I won't. (Exit Mr.
Crane.)
* * * * *
(Enter Melissy, accompanied by Captain Canoot.)
Good-evenin', cappen! Well, Melissy, hum at last, hey? Why didn't you
stay till mornin'? Purty business keepin' me up here so late waitin' for
you, when I'm eny-most tired to death iornin' and workin' like a slave
all day,--ought to ben abed an hour ago. Thought ye left me with
agreeable company, hey? I should like to know what arthly reason you had
to s'pose old Crane's was agreeable to me? I always despised the
critter; always thought he was a turrible fool, and now I'm convinced
on't. I'm completely dizgusted with him; and I let him know it to-night.
I gin him a piece o' my mind't I guess he'll be apt to remember for a
spell. I ruther think he went off with a flea in his ear. Why, cappen,
did ye ever hear of such a piece of audacity in all yer born days? for
him--_Tim Crane_--to durst to expire to my hand,--the widder o' Deacon
Bedott! Jest as if _I_'d condescen' to look at _him_,--the old numskull!
He don't know B from a broomstick; but if he'd 'a' stayed much longer
I'd 'a' teached him the difference, I guess. He's got his
_walkin'-ticket_ now. I hope he'll lemme alone in futur'. And where's
Kier? Gun home with the Cranes, hey! Well, I guess it's the last time.
And now, Melissy Bedott, you ain't to have nothin' more to dew with them
gals,--d'ye hear? You ain't to 'sociate with 'em at all arter this:
'twould only be incurridgin' the old man to come a-pesterin' me ag'in;
and I won't have him round,--d'ye hear? Don't be in a hurry, cappen, and
don't be alarmed at my gettin' in such a passion about old Crane's
persumption. Mebby you think 'twas onfeelin' in me to use him so,--and I
don't say but what 'twas, _ruther_; but then he's so awful dizagreeable
tew me, you know: 'tain't _everybody_ I'd treat in such a way. Well, if
you _must_ go, good-evenin'! Give my love to Hanner when you write
ag'in: dew call frequently, Captain Canoot,--dew.
THE LUGUBRIOUS WHING-WHANG
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
The rhyme o' The Raggedy Man's 'at's best
Is Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs,--
'Cause that-un's the strangest of all o' the rest,
An' the worst to learn, an' the last one guessed,
An' the funniest one, an' the foolishest.--
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
I don't know what in the world it means--
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!--
An' nen when I _tell_ him I don't, he leans
Like he was a-grindin' on some machines
An' says: Ef I _don't_, w'y, I don't know _beans_!
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Out on the margin of Moonshine Land,
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Out where the Whing-Whang loves to stand,
Writing his name with his tail in the sand,
And swiping it out with his oogerish hand;
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Is it the gibber of Gungs or Keeks?
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Or what _is_ the sound that the Whing-Whang seeks?
Crouching low by the winding creeks
And holding his breath for weeks and weeks!
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Anoint him, the wraithest of wraithly things!
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
'Tis a fair Whing-Whangess, with phosphor rings,
And bridal-jewels of fangs and stings;
And she sits and as sadly and softly sings
As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings,--
Tickle me, Dear,
Tickle me here,
Tickle me, Love, in me Lonesome Ribs!
THE RUNAWAY TOYS
BY FRANK L. STANTON
The Hobby Horse was so tired that day,
With never a bite to eat,
That he whispered the Doll: "I shall run away!"
And he galloped out to the street
With the curly-headed Doll Baby on his back;
And hard at his heels went the Jumping Jack!
And the little boy--he never knew,
Though the little Steam Engine blew and blew!
Then the Humming Top went round and round,
And crashed through the window-pane,
And the scared Tin Monkey made a bound
For the little red Railroad Train.
The painted Duck went "Quack! quack! quack!"
But the Railroad Train just whistled back!
Till the Elephant saw what the racket meant
And packed his trunk and--away he went!
The little Toy Sheep in the corner there
Was bleating long and loud;
But the Parrot said "Hush!" and pulled his hair,
And he galloped off with the crowd!
And the Tin Horn blew and the Toy Drum beat,
But away they went down the frightened street,
Till they all caught up with the Railroad Train,
And they never went back to their homes again!
The blue policeman and all the boys
Went racing away--away!
For a big reward for the runaway Toys
Was cried in the streets that day.
But they kept right on round the world so wide,
While the Little Boy stood on the steps and cried.
Where did they go to, and what did they do?
Bored a hole to China and--dropped through!
TIM FLANAGAN'S MISTAKE
BY WALLACE BRUCE AMSBARY
Dat Irishman named Flanagan,
He's often joke wid me,
He leeve here now mos' twanty year,
Ver' close to Kankakee;
I always look for chance to gat
An' even op wid heem,
But he's too smart, exception wance,
Dis Irishman named Tim.
Wan Sunday tam' I'm walking out
I meet Tim on de knoll,
We bot' are hav' a promenade
An' mak' a leddle stroll;
We look down from de top of hill,
An' on de reevere's edge
Is w'at you call a heifer calf,--
He stan' dere by de hedge.
Dat calf stan' still an' wag hees tail
On eas' an' den wes' side,
An' den he wag it to de sout'
For whip flies off hees hide;
I say to Tim dat heifer calf
Dat stan' so quiet still,
You can not push him on de stream;
He say, "By gosh, I will."
An' den he grin an' smile out loud,
He fall opon de groun',
An' den he laugh wance mor' again
An' roll de place aroun':
He say, 'twill be a ver' good joke
Opon dat heifer calf,
An' wance mor' he start op h'right quick
An' mak' de beeg horse laugh.
Says Tim, "You watch me now, ma frien',
I'll geeve dat calf wan scare,
I will rone down an' push him quick
On Kankakee Reevere."
An' he laugh out a beeg lot mor',
Den he t'row off hees hat,
An' start down hill two-forty gait,
He fly as swif' as bat.
Dat calf he stan' an' wag hees tail
For 'bout two t'ree tam' mor';
W'en Tim com' ronnin' down de hill
She move two yard down shore;
But Tim now com' lak' cannon ball,
He can't turn right nor lef',
He miss de calf an' den, by gosh!
Fall on reevere himse'f.
Dose Sunday close dat Tim had on
He wet dem t'roo an' t'roo,
An' w'en he pick himse'f op slow
An' walk heem out de sloo,
He say, "Dat's good I mak' a laugh
Before I tak' dat fall;
I laugh not den, I hav' no fone
Out of dis t'ing at all."
THE MILLIONAIRES
BY MAX ADELER
It had always been one of the luxuries of the Grimeses to consider what
they would do if they were rich. Many a time George and his wife,
sitting together of a summer evening upon the porch of their own pretty
house in Susanville, had looked at the long unoccupied country-seat of
General Jenkins, just across the way, and wished they had money enough
to buy the place and give it to the village for a park.
Mrs. Grimes often said that if she had a million dollars, the very first
thing she would do would be to purchase the Jenkins place. George's idea
was to tear down the fences, throwing everything open, and to dedicate
the grounds to the public. Mrs. Grimes wanted to put a great free
library in the house and to have a club for poor working-women in the
second-floor rooms. George estimated that one hundred thousand dollars
would be enough to carry out their plans. Say fifty thousand dollars for
purchase money, and then fifty more invested at six per cent. to
maintain the place.
"But if we had a million," said George, "I think I should give one
hundred and fifty thousand to the enterprise and do the thing right.
There would always be repairs and new books to buy and matters of that
kind."
But this was not the only benevolent dream of these kind-hearted people.
They liked to think of the joy that would fill the heart of that poor
struggling pastor, Mr. Borrow, if they could tell him that they would
pay the whole debt of the Presbyterian Church, six thousand dollars.
"And I would have his salary increased, George," said Mrs. Grimes. "It
is shameful to compel that poor man to live on a thousand dollars."
"Outrageous," said George. "I would guarantee him another thousand, and
maybe more; but we should have to do it quietly, for fear of wounding
him."
"That mortgage on the Methodist Church," said Mrs. Grimes. "Imagine the
happiness of those poor people in having it lifted! And so easy to do,
too, if we had a million dollars."
"Certainly, and I would give the Baptists a handsome pipe-organ instead
of that wheezing melodeon. Dreadful, isn't it?"
"You can get a fine organ for $2,000," said Mrs. Grimes.
"Yes, of course, but I wouldn't be mean about it; not mean on a million
dollars. Let them have a really good organ, say for $3,000 or $3,500;
and then build them a parsonage, too."
"The fact is," said Mrs. Grimes, "that people like us really ought to
have large wealth, for we know how to use it rightly."
"I often think of that," answered George. "If I know my own soul I long
to do good. It makes my heart bleed to see the misery about us, misery I
am absolutely unable to relieve. I am sure that if I really had a
million dollars I should not want to squander it on mere selfish
pleasure, nor would you. The greatest happiness any one can have is in
making others happy; and it is a wonder to me that our rich people don't
see this. Think of old General Jenkins and his twenty million dollars,
and what we would do for our neighbors with a mere fraction of that!"
"For we really want nothing much for ourselves," said Mrs. Grimes. "We
are entirely satisfied with what we have in this lovely little home and
with your $2,000 salary from the bank."
"Almost entirely," said George. "There are some few little things we
might add in--just a few; but with a million we could easily get them
and more and have such enormous amounts of money left."
"Almost the first thing I would do," said Mrs. Grimes, "would be to
settle a comfortable living for life on poor Isaac Wickersham. That man,
George, crippled as he is, lives on next to nothing. I don't believe he
has two hundred dollars a year."
"Well, we could give him twelve hundred and not miss it and then give
the same sum to Widow Clausen. She can barely keep alive."
"And there's another thing I'd do," said Mrs. Grimes. "If we kept a
carriage I would never ride up alone from the station or for pleasure. I
would always find some poor or infirm person to go with me. How people
can be so mean about their horses and carriages as some rich people are
is beyond my comprehension."
It is delightful pastime, expending in imagination large sums of money
that you haven't got. You need not regard considerations of prudence.
You can give free rein to your feelings and bestow your bounty with
reckless profusion. You obtain almost all the pleasure of large giving
without any cost. You feel nearly as happy as if you were actually doing
the good deeds which are the children of your fancy.
George Grimes and his wife had considered so often the benevolences they
would like to undertake if they had a million dollars that they could
have named them all at a moment's notice without referring to a
memorandum. Nearly everybody has engaged in this pastime, but the
Grimeses were to have the singular experience of the power to make their
dream a reality placed in their hands.
For one day George came flying home from the bank with a letter from the
executors of General Jenkins (who died suddenly in Mexico a week or two
before) announcing that the General had left a million dollars and the
country-seat in Susanville to George Grimes.
"And to think, Mary Jane," said George when the first delirium of their
joy had passed, "the dear old man was kind enough to say--here, let me
read it to you again from the quotation from the will in the letter: 'I
make this bequest because, from repeated conversations with the said
George Grimes, I know that he will use it aright.' So you see, dear, it
was worth while, wasn't it, to express our benevolent wishes sometimes
when we spoke of the needs of those who are around us?"
"Yes, and the General's kind remark makes this a sacred trust, which we
are to administer for him."
"We are only his stewards."
"Stewards for his bounty."
"So that we must try to do exactly what we think he would have liked us
to do," said George.
"Nothing else, dear?"
"Why, of course we are to have some discretion, some margin; and
besides, nobody possibly could guess precisely what he would have us
do."
"But now, at any rate, George, we can realize fully one of our longing
desires and give to the people the lovely park and library?"
George seemed thoughtful. "I think, Mary Jane," he said, "I would not
act precipitately about that. Let us reflect upon the matter. It might
seem unkind to the memory of the General just to give away his gift
almost before we get it."
They looked at each other, and Mrs. Grimes said:
"Of course there is no hurry. And we are really a little cramped in this
house. The nursery is much too small for the children and there is not a
decent fruit tree in our garden."
"The thing can just stay open until we have time to consider."
"But I am so glad for dear old Isaac. We can take care of him, anyhow,
and of Mrs. Clausen, too."
"To be sure," said George. "The obligation is sacred. Let me see, how
much was it we thought Isaac ought to have?"
"Twelve hundred a year."
"H-m-m," murmured George, "and he has two hundred now; an increase of
five hundred per cent. I'm afraid it will turn the old man's head.
However, I wouldn't exactly promise anything for a few days yet."
"Many a man in his station in life is happy upon a thousand."
"A thousand! Why, my dear, there is not a man of his class in town that
makes six hundred."
"George?"
"Well?"
"We must keep horses, and there is no room to build a stable on this
place."
"No."
"Could we live here and keep the horses in the General's stables across
the way, even if the place were turned into a park?"
"That is worth thinking of."
"And George?"
"Well, dear?"
"It's a horrid thing to confess, but do you know, George, I've felt
myself getting meaner and meaner, and stingier and stingier ever since
you brought the good news."
George tried to smile, but the effort was unsuccessful; he looked
half-vexed and half-ashamed.
"Oh, I wouldn't put it just that way," he said. "The news is so exciting
that we hardly know at once how to adjust ourselves to it. We are simply
prudent. It would be folly to plunge ahead without any caution at all.
How much did you say the debt of the Presbyterian Church is?"
"Six thousand, I think."
"A good deal for a little church like that to owe."
"Yes, but--"
"You didn't promise anything, Mary Jane, did you, to Mrs. Borrow?"
"No, for I had nothing to promise, but I did tell her on Sunday that I
would help them liberally if I could."
"They will base large expectations on that, sure. I wish you hadn't said
it just that way. Of course, we are bound to help them, but I should
like to have a perfectly free hand in doing it."
There was silence for a moment, while both looked through the window at
the General's place over the way.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" asked Mrs. Grimes.
"Lovely. That little annex on the side would make a snug den for me; and
imagine the prospect from that south bedroom window! You would enjoy
every look at it."
"George?"
"What?"
"George, dear, tell me frankly, do you really feel in your heart as
generous as you did yesterday?"
"Now, my dear, why press that matter? Call it meaner or narrower or what
you will; maybe I am a little more so than I was; but there is nothing
to be ashamed of. It is the conservative instinct asserting itself; the
very same faculty in man that holds society together. I will be liberal
enough when the time comes, never fear. I am not going to disregard what
one may call the pledges of a lifetime. We will treat everybody right,
the Presbyterian Church and Mr. Borrow included. His salary is a
thousand, I think you said?"
"Yes."
"Well, I am willing to make it fifteen hundred right now, if you are."
"We said, you remember, it ought to be two thousand."
"Who said so?"
"You did, on the porch here the other evening."
"I never said so. There isn't a preacher around here gets that much. The
Episcopalians with their rich people only give eighteen hundred."
"And a house."
"Very well, the Presbyterians can build a house if they want to."
"You consent then to pledge five hundred more to the minister's salary?"
"I said I would if you would, but my advice is just to let the matter go
over until to-morrow or next day, when the whole thing can be
considered."
"Very well, but, George, sixty thousand dollars is a great deal of
money, and we certainly can afford to be liberal with it, for the
General's sake as well as for our own!"
"Everything depends upon how you look at it. In one way the sum is
large. In another way it isn't. General Jenkins had just twenty times
sixty thousand. Tremendous, isn't it? He might just as well have left us
another million. He is in Heaven and wouldn't miss it. Then we could
have some of our plans more fully carried out."
"I hate to be thought covetous," answered Mrs. Grimes, "but I do wish he
had put on that other million."
The next day Mr. Grimes, while sitting with his wife after supper, took
a memorandum from his pocket and said:
"I've been jotting down some figures, Mary Jane, just to see how we will
come out with our income of sixty thousand dollars."
"Well?"
"If we give the place across the street for a park and a library and a
hundred thousand dollars with which to run it, we shall have just nine
hundred thousand left."
"Yes."
"We shall want horses, say a carriage pair, and a horse for the station
wagon. Then I must have a saddle horse and there must be a pony for the
children. I thought also you might as well have a gentle pair for your
own driving. That makes six. Then there will have to be, say, three
stable men. Now, my notion is that we shall put up a larger house
farther up town with all the necessary stabling. Count the cost of the
house and suitable appointments, and add in the four months' trip to
Europe which we decided yesterday to take next summer, and how much of
that fifty-four thousand do you think we shall have left at the end of
the year?"
"But why build the house from our income?"
"Mary Jane, I want to start out with the fixed idea that we will not cut
into our principal."
"Well, how much will we have over?"
"Not a dollar! The outlay for the year will approximate fifty-six
thousand dollars."
"Large, isn't it?"