Punchinello's Vacations.
Sometimes Mr. PUNCHINELLO is very busy. Not only has he upon his
shoulders the ordinary labors of conductor of a great journal, but he
has much to do for other people. His editors, his printers, his binders,
his artists, his engravers, his corps of clerks, his office and errand
boys, and all connected with his extensive establishment, come to him
from time to time for advice in regard to the investment of their
surplus earnings, and between assisting in the purchase of a farm for
this one, a house for the other, and all sorts of stocks and bonds for
the rest, he is often terribly pressed for time.
No one who is not looked up to by a crowd of grateful dependents, all
fattening in the shadow of his prosperity, as it were, can understand
Mr. P's. feelings of responsibility at such times.
Such an unusual demand upon his time occurred last week, and Mr. P.
found that he would not be able to spend a few days as usual at some
fashionable watering place. But be must have some recreation, so he
determined to have a day's fishing among the celebrated Thousand Islands
of the St. Lawrence. He put some luncheon in a basket, and set off quite
early in the morning. Finding that some twenty hours were consumed in
the transit, Mr. P. thought that, considering his hurry, he had better,
perhaps, have gone to Newark for a day's fishing off the piers. But he
was at the St. Lawrence now, and it would not do to complain. He hired a
boat, lines, bait and two navigators, and set out bravely.
He sailed among a crowd of islands where either the bowsprit or the boom
was continually getting caught in the shrubbery and rocks, until he came
to island No. 18. Here was a picnic party.
For reasons which the accompanying view may render obvious, Mr. P. and
his men declined the invitation of the picnickers to stop and join them.
The boat continued on until it reached the channel between islands No.
87 and No. 88, and there Mr. P. got out his lines and commenced to fish,
trolling his bait behind as the boat slowly sailed, under the hot sun,
among those lovely isles, where, to be sure, burning's half o' the
sport, but where "burning SAPPHO" would have lost herself utterly, and
probably have tumbled into some of the watery intricacies and have put
herself out.
Mr. P. did not have much luck at first. He caught one muskallonge, after
a period of patient waiting which he feels he also must call long, and
once, when he thought he was hauling in a fine bass, he turned very red
when the boatmen laughed at seeing him "cotch an eel." But after a while
he got a royal bite. He hauled in manfully, and although, owing to the
intricacies of the channel, he could not see what he had caught, he knew
it was a fine fellow from its weight. At last, after tremendous tugging,
he got it in over the stem.
It was one of the thousand islands!
What could be done now?
The steersman, who had slipped under a seat when he saw the great mass
above him, and the man who managed the sails, were both Canadians, and
after a great deal of excited talk, they agreed if Mr. P. would make it
worth their while, they would endeavor to put the island back in its
place and make no remarks in public which would tend to produce a
misunderstanding between the governments of Great Britain and the United
States, on the ground of undue acquisition of territory. By the payment
of a sum, which it will require a club of thirty subscribers to make
good to him, Mr. P. concluded the arrangement, and they sailed back to
replace the island. But what was the horror of the party, when they
perceived on the unfortunate bit of British territory, a plate, which
had stuck fast by reason of a covering of the juice of plum-pie, and a
fork which was rammed firmly into the earth!
It needed but few collateral evidences to convince Mr. P. and his men
that this was the island where they had seen the picnic.
And where were the picnickers?
If any of Mr. P's. subscribers in Prince EDWARD Island, Costa Rica, the
Gallipagoes, or other outstanding places, receive their paper rather
late this week, they are informed that, in consequence of his having
spent three entire days exploring the labyrinth of these islands in
order to find the bodies of the unfortunate party of pleasure, (which
bodies he did not find,) Mr. P. was very much delayed in his office
business. His near patrons received their papers in due time, but those
at a distance will excuse him, he feels sure, when they consider what
his feelings must have been, while grappling for an entire picnic.
The island was dumped down anywhere, without reference to its former
place. When the Alabama claims are settled, Mr. P. will go back and
adjust it properly.
Mr. P. gained nothing by this trip but the knowledge that there are but
980 of these islands, which an unscrupulous monarchy imposes upon a
credulous people as a full thousand, and the gloom which would naturally
pervade a man, after an occurrence of the kind just narrated.
On his way home, he stopped for supper at Albany, and there he met CYRUS
W. FIELD and Commodore VANDERBILT. One of these gentlemen was looking
very happy and the other very doleful.
(Illustration: The tall gentleman in the picture is Mr. FIELD--not that
he is really so very tall--but he is elevated. The short one is the
Commodore--so drawn, not because he is short, but because he is
depressed.)
After the compliments of the season, (warm ones,) Mr. P. asked his
friends how the war in Europe affected them.
"Gloriously!" cried Mr. FIELD. "Nothing could be better. The messages
fly over our cables like--like--like lightning. Why, sir, I wish they
would keep up the war for ten years."
"And you, sir?" said Mr. P. to the Commodore.
"Oh, I hate it!" said VANDERBILT. "They send neither men nor munitions
by our road. It is an absolute dead loss of hundreds of thousands of
dollars to me that my railroad is on this side of the ocean. I shall
never cease to deplore it."
"But sir," said Mr. P. "the war may cause a great exportation of grain
from the West, and then your road will profit."
"Don't believe it," said the Commodore. "The war will stop exportation."
"It goes against the grain with him, any way you fix it," said Mr.
FIELD, with a festive air. "He can't carry any messages."
"On a cabalistic cable," remarked Mr. P.
CYRUS smiled.
"No, air," said the Commodore, reverting to his grievances. "Never has
such a loss happened to me, since I went into New York Centrals."
"Well, I tell you, VANDY," said Mr. FIELD, "if you and other grasping
creatures had kept away from New York's entrails it would have been much
better for the body corporate of the State."
"Look here!" cried the Commodore, in a rage.
Mr. FIELD looked there, but Mr. P. didn't. He thought it was time to go
for his train, and he went.
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