The "Last Gustive" attends the Annual Clam-Bake.
Empires may totter and Dienastys pass in their checks.
Politicians may steal the Goddess of Liberty poorer than JOB'S old
Maskaline Gobbler.
J. FISK, Jr., may set the heel of his bute down onto the neck of Rail
Rodes--Steambotes--ballet gals, and all that sort o' thing, and this
mundane speer will jog along, as slick as a pin, and no questions asked.
But deprive a Fat man of his little clam-bake, and it would be full as
pleasant as settin' down onto a Hornet's nest, when the Hornet family
were all to home.
That's so.
Another cargo of clams has gone to that born whence no clam returns,
onless you ram your finger down your throte, or take an Emetick.
In the words of Commodore PERRY, who is, alas! no more.
"The misfortenit bivalves meet the Fat man, and they're his'n."
Altho' I'me not much on the fat order myself, I received an invitation
to attend the grate Clam-bake. Mrs. GREEN put me up a lunch to eat on
the cars, and robin' myself in a cleen biled shirt, I sholdered my
umbreller and left Skeensboro.
The seen at Union Park was sublime with plenty of Ham fat. If all flesh
is grass, thought I, when old _tempus fugit_ comes along with his mowin'
masheen to cut this crop of fat men, I reckon he will have to hire some
of his nabor's barns, to help hold all of his hay.
Great mountins of hooman flesh were bobbin' about like kernals of corn
on a red hot stove, remindin' me of a corn field full of punkins set up
on clothes pins.
The little heads on top of the great sweating bodies, looked as if they
were sleev buttons drove in the top of the Punkins.
When a fat man laffs, his little head sinks down into his shirt collar,
and disappears in the fat, like a turtle's head when you tickle his nose
with a sharp stick.
And then to see them eat clams. I've seen men punish clams by the
bushel--by the barrel--but never did I see men shovel clams in by the
cart load before.
"Gee-whitaker," said I, to a Reporter of a N.Y. Journal, "them critters
must have a dredful elastic stomack."
"Yes," said he, "when Fat-men get clam hungry, the sea banks has to give
up her clams, and the grocery keepers furnish the seasonin'."
"Wall," said I, "if the Sea has many such runs on her clam-banks as
this, she will have to put on her shutters soon, and go into
lickerdation."
"In which state," said he laffin', "it would be exceedin'ly
_clam_-etous."
The members of the Fat Men's Club all went prepared for hot weather,
dressed in a linnen soot and carryin' palm leaf fans.
I also notised large fassits onto the toes of their butes, so as to let
out the grease occasionly, and keep there butes from sloppin' over.
President RANSOM told me, that a fat man's wife invented the fassets, so
as to save sope grease.
"One fat man in hot weather," said Mister RANSOM, "will furnish grease
enuff, in the summer time, to keep his family in soft sope the year
around, besides supplyin' two or three daily papers with a lot."
Between you and me, Friend PUNCHINELLO, that greasy yarn seems rather
too slipperry to swaller, but I guess it'll wash after all.
PETER REED, of New York, and Docter WHITBECK, of West Troy, danced the
hiland fling for the championship and a barrel of clams.
"While PETE was cuttin' a pigin wing, and the Dr. was rakin' down a
dubble shuffle, they made things rattle, and naborin' towns thought it
was an airthquake, and began movin' out their feather beds.
"Go it, my fat friends," said I, to encourage 'em, "blood will tell, and
exercise help to digest your clams."
They shook their feet ontil exhausted natur, from necessity, ceased to
be virtous, when suddenly they both tumbled over onto their backs, and
blowed like porpoises.
The weather bein' hot, a shovel full of cloride of lime was sprinkled
onter them, to keep them from gettin' fly blode.
I was introjuced to a North River steembote pilot, whose corporosity
looked like the Commissary department of a Prushion Regiment.
"How are you, Paunchy Pilate," said I, gettin' off a joak at his
expense. "How many clams have you crucifide to-day?"
"Bully for you, ole man. Haw! haw! he! he! ho! ho!" roared half a dozen
fat men at my faceshusness, and they laffed and shook their sides, ontil
I thought they'd colaps a floo and spatter me.
One of them fat men approched me, and invited me to have a game of leep
frog.
"Excuse me, Captin," said I, "when I get so I can sholder an elefant,
I'le come around and accomodate you."
Some was playin' tag. Some was playin' blindman's-buff, while all was
amusin' themselves, at some innocent pastime or other.
The day's performance was closed by chasin' a greased pig.
The hog was well greased and let loose, and the whole lot of fat men
started pell-mell.
It was "Root hog, or die" with the odds in favor of the Hog.
All of a sudden, the hog turned back, and the fat men coulden't stop,
when down they all fell on top of poor piggy, smashin' him flatter'n a
pancake.
The bystanders were startin' for derricks and jack-screws to raise the
fat men off from each other.
"Hold on," says I, "I know a trick worth 2 of that."
I rusht into the house, and ceasin' the dinner-bell, rung it as hard as
I could.
It delited me, in my old age, to see them chaps scrabble when they heard
that bell.
In 10 seconds time, only one member of the pile diden't git up, and
rise, and that was the hog.
It was a cruel deception--but I believe the mean trick justifide the
end, and saved the Bord of Helth a big bill of expense. For sure's
you're borned, it would have been a meesely old job, cartin' of that big
pile of corrupshun.