TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
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display incorrectly on some devices.
Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.
The Four-Masted
Cat-Boat
[Illustration]
The
Four-Masted Cat-Boat
And Other Truthful Tales
By
Charles Battell Loomis
With illustrations by
Florence Scovel Shinn
[Illustration]
New York
The Century Co.
1899
Copyright, 1899, by
THE CENTURY CO.
THE DE VINNE PRESS.
TO MY BROTHER
HARVEY WORTHINGTON LOOMIS
I DEDICATE THIS COLLECTION
OF SKETCHES
C. B. L.
Preface
To send a book into the world without a preface is like thrusting
a bashful man into a room full of company without introducing him;
and there could be only one thing worse than that,--to a bashful
man,--and that would be to introduce him.
In introducing my book to the reader (how like a book-agent that
sounds!) I wish to say that the only bond of union between the
various sketches is that they were all done by the same hand--or
hands, as they were written on a typewriter.
Whether it would have added to their interest to have placed the same
characters in each sketch is not for me to say, but it would have
been a great bother to do it, and in getting up a book the thing
to avoid is bother. It hasn’t bothered me to write it. I hope it
won’t bother you to read it, for I’d hate to have you bothered on my
account.
C. B. L.
Contents
A FEW IDIOTISMS
PAGE
I. THE FOUR-MASTED CAT-BOAT 1
II. THE POOR WAS MAD 7
III. A PECULIAR INDUSTRY 10
IV. GRIGGS’S MIND 14
V. THE SIGNALS OF GRIGGS 21
VI. À LA SHERLOCK HOLMES 25
VII. MY SPANISH PARROT 30
VIII. “TO MEET MR. CAVENDISH” 35
IX. INSTINCT SUPPLIED TO HENS 41
X. A SPRING IDYL 46
XI. AN INVERTED SPRING IDYL 49
XII. AT THE CHESTNUTS’ DINNER 52
XIII. THE ROUGH WORDS SOCIETY 57
XIV. A NEW USE FOR HORSES 63
XV. A CALCULATING BORE 67
XVI. AN URBAN GAME 71
XVII. “DE GUSTIBUS” 75
XVIII. “BUFFUM’S BUSTLESS BUFFERS” 79
AT THE LITERARY COUNTER
XIX. “THE FATHER OF SANTA CLAUS” 85
XX. THE DIALECT STORE 92
XXI. “FROM THE FRENCH” 100
XXII. ON THE VALUE OF DOGMATIC UTTERANCE 107
XXIII. THE SAD CASE OF DEACON PERKINS 112
XXIV. THE MISSING-WORD BORE 118
XXV. THE CONFESSIONS OF A CRITIC 122
XXVI. HOW ’RASMUS PAID THE MORTGAGE 128
XXVII. ’MIDST ARMED FOES 137
XXVIII. AT THE SIGN OF THE CYGNET 141
XXIX. A SCOTCH SKETCH 146
UNRELATED STORIES--RELATED
XXX. EPHRATA SYMONDS’S DOUBLE LIFE 153
XXXI. A STRANGER TO LUCK 161
XXXII. CUPID ON RUNNERS 173
XXXIII. MY TRUTHFUL BURGLAR 183
XXXIV. THE MAN WITHOUT A WATCH 189
XXXV. THE WRECK OF THE “CATAPULT” 201
ESSAYS AT ESSAYS
XXXVI. THE BULL, THE GIRL, AND THE RED SHAWL 211
XXXVII. CONCERNING DISH-WASHING 219
XXXVIII. A PERENNIAL FEVER 225
XXXIX. “AMICUS REDIVIVUS” 231
XL. THE PROPER CARE OF FLIES 236
NOTE
I am indebted to the editors of the “Century”, the “Saturday
Evening Post,” “Harper’s Bazaar,” “Puck,” the “Critic,” the
“Criterion,” and the S. S. McClure Syndicate for permission to
use the articles which first met printers’ ink in their columns.
C. B. L.
A FEW IDIOTISMS
[Illustration]
I
THE FOUR-MASTED CAT-BOAT
AN ETCHING OF THE SEA, BY A LANDLUBBER
The sea lay low in the offing, and as far as the eye could reach,
immense white-caps rode upon it as quietly as pond-lilies on the
bosom of a lake.
Fleecy clouds dotted the sky, and far off toward the horizon a
full-rigged four-masted cat-boat lugged and luffed in the calm
evening breezes. Her sails were piped to larboard, starboard,
and port; and as she rolled steadily along in the heavy wash and
undertow, her companion-light, already kindled, shed a delicate ray
across the bay to where the dull red disk of the sun was dipping its
colors.
Her cordage lay astern, in the neat coils that seamen know so well
how to make. The anchor had been weighed this half-hour, and the
figures put down in the log; for Captain Bliffton was not a man to
put off doing anything that lay in the day’s watch.
Away to eastward, two tiny black clouds stole along as if they were
diffident strangers in the sky, and were anxious to be gone. Now and
again came the report of some sunset gun from the forts that lined
the coast, and sea-robins flew with harsh cries athwart the sloop of
fishing-boats that were beating to windward with gaffed topsails.
“Davy Jones’ll have a busy day to-morrow,” growled Tom Bowsline, the
first boatswain’s mate.
“Meaning them clouds is windy?” answered the steward, with a glance
to leeward.
“The same,” answered the other, shaking out a reef, and preparing to
batten the tarpaulins. “What dinged fools them fellers on the sloop
of fishin’-ships is! They’ve got their studdin’sails gaffed and the
mizzentops aft of the gangway; an’ if I know a marlinspike from a
martingale, we’re goin’ to have as pretty a blow as ever came out of
the south.”
And, indeed, it did look to be flying in the face of Providence, for
the mackerel-ships, to the last one, were tugging and straining to
catch the slightest zephyr, with their yard-arms close-hauled and
their poop-decks flush with the fo’c’sle.
The form of the captain of the cat-boat was now visible on the
stairs leading to the upper deck. It needed but one keen glance in
the direction of the black clouds--no longer strangers, but now
perfectly at home and getting ugly--to determine his course. “Unship
the spinnaker-boom, you dogs, and be quick about it! Luff, you idiot,
luff!” The boatswain’s first mate loved nothing better than to luff,
and he luffed; and the good ship, true to her keel, bore away to
northward, her back scuppers oozing at every joint.
“That was ez neat a bit of seamanship ez I ever see,” said Tom
Bowsline, taking a huge bite of oakum. “Shiver my timbers! if my
rivets don’t tremble with joy when I see good work.”
“Douse your gab, and man the taff-rail!” yelled the captain; and Tom
flew to obey him. “Light the top-lights!”
[Illustration]
A couple of sailors to whom the trick is a mere bagatelle run nimbly
out on the stern-sprit and execute his order; and none too soon, for
darkness is closing in over the face of the waters, and the clouds
come on apace.
A rumble of thunder, followed by a blinding flash, betokens that
the squall is at hand. The captain springs adown the poop, and in a
hoarse voice yells out: “Lower the maintop; loosen the shrouds; luff
a little--steady! Cut the main-brace, and clear away the halyards. If
we don’t look alive, we’ll look pretty durn dead in two shakes of a
capstan-bar. All hands abaft for a glass of grog.”
The wild rush of sailors’ feet, the creaking of ropes, the curses of
those in the rear, together with the hoarse cries of the gulls and
the booming of the thunder, made up a scene that beggars description.
Every trough of the sea was followed by a crest as formidable, and
the salt spray had an indescribable brackish taste like bilge-water
and ginger-ale.
After the crew had finished their grog they had time to look to
starboard of the port watch, and there they beheld what filled them
with pity. The entire sloop of mackerel-ships lay with their keels up.
“I knowed they’d catch it if they gaffed their studdin’sails,” said
Tom, as he shifted the quid of oakum.
The full moon rose suddenly at the exact spot where the sun had set.
The thunder made off, muttering. The cat-boat, close-rigged from
hand-rail to taff-rail, scudded under bare poles, with the churning
motion peculiar to pinnaces, and the crew involuntarily broke into
the chorus of that good old sea-song:
The wind blows fresh, and our scuppers are astern.
II
THE POOR WAS MAD
A FAIRY SHTORY FOR LITTLE CHILDHER
Wance upon a toime the poor was virry poor indade, an’ so they wint
to a rich leddy that was that rich that she had goold finger-nails,
an’ was that beautifil that it ’u’d mek you dopey to luke at her.
An’ the poor asht her would she give thim the parin’s of her goold
finger-nails fer to sell. An’ she said she would that, an’ that ivery
Chuesdeh she did be afther a-parin’ her nails. So of a Chuesdeh the
poor kem an’ they tuke the goold parin’s to a jewel-ery man, an’ he
gev thim good money fer thim. Wasn’t she the koind leddy, childher?
Well, wan day she forgot to pare her nails, an’ so they had nothin’
to sell. An’ the poor was mad, an’ they wint an’ kilt the leddy
intoirely. An’ whin she was kilt, sorra bit would the nails grow
upon her, an’ they saw they was silly to kill her. So they wint out
to sairch fer a leddy wid silver finger-nails. An’ they found her,
an’ she was that beautifil that her face was all the colors of the
rainbow an’ two more besides. An’ the poor asht her would she give
thim the parin’s of her silver finger-nails fer to sell. An’ she
said that she would that, an’ that ivery Chuesdeh she did be afther
a-parin’ her nails. So of a Chuesdeh the poor kem an’ they tuke the
silver parin’s to the jewel-ery man, an’ he gev thim pretty good
money fer thim, but not nair as good as fer the goold. But he was the
cute jewel-ery man, wasn’t he, childher? Well, wan day she forgot to
pare her nails, an’ so they had nothin’ to sell. An’ the poor was
mad, an’ they wint an’ kilt the leddy intoirely. An’ whin she was
kilt, sorra bit would the nails grow upon her, an’ they saw they was
silly to kill her. So they wint out to sairch for a leddy wid tin
finger-nails. An’ they found her, an’ she was that beautifil that
she would mek you ristless. An’ the poor asht her would she give
thim the parin’s of her tin finger-nails fer to sell. An’ she said
she would that, an’ that ivery Chuesdeh she did be afther a-parin’
her nails. So of a Chuesdeh the poor kem. An’ did they git the tin
nails, childher? Sure, that’s where y’ are out. They did not, fer the
leddy had lost a finger in a mowin’-machine, an’ she didn’t have tin
finger-nails at arl, at arl--only noine.
[Illustration]
III
A PECULIAR INDUSTRY
The sign in front of the dingy little office on a side-street,
through which I was walking, read:
JO COSE AND JOCK EWLAH
FUNSMITHS
Being of an inquisitive turn of mind, I went in. A little dried-up
man, who introduced himself as Mr. Cose, greeted me cheerily. He said
that Mr. Ewlah was out at lunch, but he’d be pleased to do what he
could for me.
“What is the nature of your calling?” asked I.
“It is you who are calling,” said he, averting his eyes. Then he
assumed the voice and manner of a “lecturer” in a dime museum, and
rattled along as follows:
“We are in the joke business. Original and second-hand jokes bought
and sold. Old jokes made over as good as new. Good old stand-bys
altered to suit the times. Jokes cleaned and made ready for the
press. We do not press them ourselves. Joke expanders for sale cheap.
Also patent padders for stories--”
I interrupted the flow of his talk to ask him if there was much
demand for the padders.
“Young man,” said he, “do you keep up with current literature?”
Then he went over to a shelf on which stood a long line of bottles
of the size of cod-liver-oil bottles, and taking one down, he said:
“Now, here is Jokoleine, of which we are the sole agents. This will
make a poor joke salable, and is in pretty general use in the city,
although some editors will not buy a joke that smells of it.”
I noticed a tall, black-haired, Svengalic-looking person in an inner
room, and I asked Mr. Cose who he was.
“That is our hypnotizer. The most callous editors succumb to his
gaze. Take him with you when you have anything to sell. We rent him
at a low figure, considering how useful he is. He has had a busy
season, and is tired out, but that is what we pay him for. If he
were to die you’d notice a difference in many of the periodicals.
The poorer the material, the better pleased he is to place it. It
flatters his vanity.”
[Illustration]
I assured him that I was something of a hypnotist myself, and,
thanking him for his courtesy, was about to come away, when he picked
up what looked like a box of tacks and said:
“Here are points for pointless jokes. We don’t have much sale for
them. Most persons prefer an application of Jokoleine. A recent
issue of a comic weekly had sixty jokes and but one point, showing
conclusively that points are out of fashion in some editorial rooms.
“A man came in yesterday,” rattled on the senior member, “and asked
if we bought hand-made jokes, and before we could stop him he said
that by hand-made jokes he meant jokes about servant-girls. We gave
him the address of ‘Punch.’”
At this point I shook hands with Mr. Cose, and as I left he was
saying: “For a suitable consideration we will guarantee to call
anything a joke that you may bring in, and we will place it without
hypnotic aid or the use of Jokoleine. It has been done before.”
And as I came away from the sound of his voice, I reflected that it
had.
IV
GRIGGS’S MIND
The other day I met Griggs on the cars. Griggs is the man with the
mind. Other people have minds, but they’re not like Griggs’s. He
lives in Rutherford, New Jersey, and is, like me, a commuter, and as
neither of us plays cards nor is interested in politics, and as we
have tabooed the weather as a topic, it almost always happens that
when we meet, we, or rather he, falls back on his mind as subject for
conversation. For my part, my daily newspaper would be all-sufficient
for my needs on the way to town; but it pleases Griggs to talk, and
it’s bad for my eyes to read on the cars, so I shut them up and
cultivate the air of listening, the while Griggs discourses.
I had recently read in the Contributors’ Club of the “Atlantic,” an
article by a woman, who said that the letters of the alphabet seemed
to be variously colored in her mind; that is, her mental picture gave
to one letter a green hue, to another red, and so on. I spoke of
this to Griggs, and he was much interested. He said that the sound
of a cornet was always red to him. I asked him whether it made any
difference who blew it, but Griggs scorns to notice puns, and he
answered: “Not a particle. I don’t pretend to explain it, but it is
so. Likewise, to me the color of scarlet tastes salt, while crimson
is sweet.”
I opened my eyes and looked at him in amazement. It sounded like
a bit out of “Alice in Wonderland.” Then I remembered that it
was Griggs who was talking, and that he has a mind. When I don’t
understand something about Griggs, I lay it to his mind and think no
more about it. So I shut my eyes again and listened.
“By the way,” said he, “how does time run in your mind?”
“Why, I never thought of its running at all, although it passes
quickly enough, for the most part!”
“But hasn’t it some general direction? Up or down, north or south,
east or west?”
“Griggs,” said I, “is this your mind?”
“Yes,” said he.
“Well, go ahead; fire it off; unfold your kinks!” said I, leaning
back in my seat; “but kindly remember that I have no mind, and if
you can’t put it in words of one syllable, talk slowly so that I can
follow you.”
He promised to put it as plainly as though he were talking to his
youngest, aged three; and, with this assurance, my cerebrum braced
itself, so to speak, and awaited the onslaught.
“My idea of the direction of time in all its divisions and
subdivisions is as follows--”
“Say, Griggs,” said I, “let’s go into the smoker. A little oil of
nicotine always makes my brain work easier.”
When we were seated in the smoker, and had each lighted a cigar, he
went on:
“Assuming that I am facing the north, far in the southwest is the
Garden of Eden and the early years of recorded time. Moving eastward
run the centuries, and the years to come and the end of the world are
in the far east.”
I felt slightly bewizzled, but I gripped the seat in front of me and
said nothing.
“My mental picture of the months of the year is that January is far
to the north. The months follow in a more or less zigzag, easterly
movement, until we find that July and August have strayed far south.
But the autumn months zigzag back, so that by the time December
sweeps coldly by she is twelve months east of January, and then the
new January starts on a road of similar direction. You still observe
that the current of time sets toward me instead of away from me.”
What could I do but observe that it did? I had the inside seat, and
Griggs has an insistent way about him, so I generally observe just
when he asks me to, and thus avoid friction. Then, too, I always
feel flattered when Griggs condescends to talk at me and reveal the
wonders of his mind. So I observed heartily, and puffed away at my
cigar, while he continued:
“The direction of the week-days is rather hazy in my mind--”
[Illustration]
I begged him not to feel low-spirited about it--that it would
probably seem clear to him before long; but I don’t think he heard
me, for he went right on: “But it is a somewhat undulatory movement
from west to east, Sundays being on the crest of each wave. Coming
to the hours, I picture them as running, like the famous mouse,
‘down the clock,’ the early day-light being highest. The minutes
and seconds refuse to be marshaled into line, but go ticking on to
eternity helter-skelter, yet none the less inevitably.”
I rather admired the independence of the minutes and seconds in
refusing to be ordered about even by his mind; but, of course, I
didn’t tell him so. On the contrary, I congratulated him on the
highly poetic way in which he was voicing his sentiments.
Just then we came into the station, and an acquaintance of his
buttonholed him and lugged him off, for Griggs is quite a favorite,
in spite of his mind. I was sorry, for I had wanted to ask him where
the moments and instants seem bound for in his brain. I did manage,
just as we were leaving the boat at Chambers Street, to tell him that
I was going to be in the Augustan part of the city at noon, and
would be pleased to take him out to lunch, if he ran across me; but
he must have mistaken the month, as I ate my luncheon alone. I dare
say he understood me to say January, and wandered all over Harlem
looking for me. How unpleasant it must be to have a mind!
V
THE SIGNALS OF GRIGGS
You may remember Griggs as the man who had a mind. At the time that
I wrote about that useful member of his make-up he was living out in
New Jersey; but he was finally brought to see the error of his ways,
and took the top flat in a nine-story house without an elevator, ’way
up-town.
The other evening I went to call on the Griggses. He had not yet
come home, but his wife let me in and helped me to a sofa to recover
from the effects of my climb. I have been up the Matterhorn, Mont
Blanc, and Popocatepetl, but I never felt so exhausted as I did after
walking up those nine frightful flights. And Mrs. Griggs told me that
she thought nothing of running up- and down-stairs a dozen times a
day, which was a sad commentary on her truthfulness.
After I was there a few minutes, trying to get used to the notes
of two lusty and country-bred children (offspring of Mr. and Mrs.
Griggs), there came a feeble and dejected ring at the front-door
bell. Mrs. Griggs hastened to the kitchen,--they do not keep a
servant (that was their trouble in New Jersey, but now they don’t
want to),--and after pressing the electric button that opened the
front door, she said: “That’s poor Mr. Griggs. He must be feeling bad
to-night, and I must put the children to bed before he gets up, as he
is too nervous to stand their noise.”
I was somewhat astonished, but she ripped the clothes off of her buds
of promise and popped them into bed with a skill and rapidity that
would have secured her a position on the vaudeville stage. After they
were covered up she returned to me. Of course Mr. Griggs had not yet
arrived, and I asked her how she knew he was tired.
[Illustration]
“Why, we have a code of signals. Mr. Griggs invented them. When he
has done well down-town, he taps out a merry peal on the bell, and
then I tell the children to greet him at the hall door and prepare
for a romp. When the bell rings sharply I know that he is in no humor
for fun, but will tolerate the children if they are quiet. But when
he rings slowly and faintly, as he did to-night, I always put the
dears to bed, as I know he has had bad luck and is worn out.”
As she spoke, Griggs opened the hall door and staggered in, weak
from his superhuman climb and worn out from his day’s work. I said:
“Good-by, old man; I’ll call some day when you’re going to give the
bell the glad hand. You seem cozily situated.” And then I came down
in the dumb-waiter, although I suppose it was risky.
What a great thing is an electric bell! But how much greater is an
inventive mind like that of Griggs.
VI
À LA SHERLOCK HOLMES
Jones and I recently had occasion to take a drive of four or five
miles in upper Connecticut. We were met at the station by Farmer
Phelps, who soon had us snugly wrapped in robes and speeding over
the frozen highway in a sleigh. It was bitter cold weather--the
thermometer reading 3° above zero. We had come up from Philadelphia,
and to us such extreme cold was a novelty, which is all we could say
for it.
As we rode along, Jones fell to talking about Conan Doyle’s detective
stories, of which we were both great admirers--the more so as Doyle
has declared Philadelphia to be the greatest American city. It turned
out that Mr. Phelps was familiar with the “‘Meemoirs’ of Sherlock
Holmes,” and he thought there was some “pretty slick reasonin’” in
it. “My girl,” said he, “got the book out er the library an’ read it
aout laoud to my woman an’ me. But of course this Doyle had it all
cut an’ dried afore he writ it. He worked backwards an’ kivered up
his tracks, an’ then started afresh, an’ it seems more wonderful to
the reader than it reely is.”
“I don’t know,” said Jones; “I’ve done a little in the observation
line since I began to read him, and it’s astonishing how much a man
can learn from inanimate objects, if he uses his eyes and his brain
to good purpose. I rarely make a mistake.”
Just then we drove past an outbuilding. The door of it was shut. In
front of it, in a straight row and equidistant from each other, lay
seven cakes of ice, thawed out of a water-pan.
“There,” said Jones; “what do we gather from those seven cakes of ice
and that closed door?”
I gave it up.
Mr. Phelps said nothing.
Jones waited impressively a moment, and then said quite glibly: “The
man who lives there keeps a flock of twelve hens--not Leghorns, but
probably Plymouth Rocks or some Asiatic variety. He attends to them
himself, and has good success with them, although this is the seventh
day of extremely cold weather.”
I gazed at him in admiration.
Mr. Phelps said nothing.
“How do you make it all out, Jones?” said I.
“Well, those cakes of ice were evidently formed in a hens’
drinking-pan. They are solid. The water froze a little all day long,
and froze solid in the night. It was thawed out in the morning and
left lying there, and the pan was refilled. There are seven cakes of
ice; therefore there has been a week of very cold weather. They are
side by side: from this we gather that it was a methodical man who
attended to them; evidently no hireling, but the goodman himself.
Methodical in little things, methodical in greater ones; and method
spells success with hens. The thickness of the ice also proves that
comparatively little water was drunk; consequently he keeps a small
flock. Twelve is the model number among advanced poultrymen, and
he is evidently one. Then, the clearness of the ice shows that the
hens are not excitable Leghorns, but fowl of a more sluggish kind,
although whether Plymouth Rocks or Brahmas or Langshans, I can’t say.
Leghorns are so wild that they are apt to stampede through the water
and roil it. The closed door shows he has the good sense to keep them
shut up in cold weather.
[Illustration]
“To sum up, then, this wide-awake poultryman has had wonderful
success, in spite of a week of exceptionally cold weather, from his
flock of a dozen hens of some large breed. How’s that, Mr. Phelps?
Isn’t it almost equal to Doyle?”
“Yes; but not accordin’ to Hoyle, ez ye might say,” said he. “Your
reasonin’ is good, but it ain’t quite borne aout by the fac’s.
In the fust place, this is the fust reel cold day we’ve hed this
winter. Secon’ly, they ain’t no boss to the place, fer she’s a woman.
Thirdly, my haouse is the nex’ one to this, an’ my boy an’ hers hez
be’n makin’ those ice-cakes fer fun in some old cream-pans. Don’t
take long to freeze solid in this weather. An’, las’ly, it ain’t a
hen-haouse, but an ice-haouse.”
The sun rode with unusual quietness through the heavens. We heard no
song of bird. The winds were whist. All nature was silent.
So was Jones.
VII
MY SPANISH PARROT
I have two maiden aunts living down in Maine, on the edge of the
woods. Their father was a deaf-and-dumb woodsman, and their mother
died when they were small, and they hardly see a soul from one year’s
end to the other. The consequence is, they’re the simplest, dearest
old creatures one ever saw. They don’t know what evil means. They
pass their days knitting and working in their garden. The quarterly
visits of the itinerant preacher who deals out the gospel in that
region, and my occasional trips up there, constitute the only chances
they have of mingling with the outside world, and they’re as happy
and unsophisticated as birds.
A year ago I took up a parrot that I’d bought of a sailor. The bird
had a cold when I got it, and wasn’t saying a word; but the sailor
vouched for its character, and I thought it would be a novelty and
company for the old ladies, so I took it along. They’d never seen a
parrot before, and they couldn’t thank me enough. I told them that
when it got over its cold it would talk; and then it occurred to me
that as the sailor of which I bought it was a Spaniard, the bird
would be likely to speak that tongue. “So you’ll be able to learn
Spanish,” said I; and they were mightily pleased at the notion.
In about two months I received a letter from Aunt Linda, saying that
the bird was the greatest company in the world, and they didn’t know
what they’d do without him. “And,” wrote my aunt, “the bird is a
great talker of Spanish, and we have learned much of that strange
tongue.”
I was amused at the idea of those maiden aunts of mine talking
Spanish, and the next week, being in the vicinity, I took the stage
over to where they live, about fifteen miles from any railroad.
They saw me alight, and came out to meet me--two pretty, sweet,
prim-looking old ladies. I kissed them both heartily, and then Aunt
Linda said, in her gentle voice: “I’m so glad you’ve come, you dear
old blankety-blank blank blank boy. That’s Spanish.”
I nearly fell off my perch, but I managed to keep a straight
face, and then dear Aunt Jane said softly and proudly: “Why
the blankety-blank blank don’t you come to see us oftener, you
blankety-blank blank boy?”
It made my blood run cold to hear the oaths those innocent creatures
poured out on me all day. The parrot followed me around, and perked
his head on one side, as much as to say, “Aren’t they apt pupils?”
but he never opened his mouth to talk--and there really wasn’t any
need. They kept me supplied with conversation on their quiet doings,
all interlarded with their new-found “Spanish,” until it was time to
go to bed.
I hadn’t the heart to tell them that the tongue in which they were so
fluent was not Spanish; and as their hearts were as pure as a baby’s,
and they saw no one, I said nothing; but when I left, early next
morning, I was careful to bid them good-by out of ear-shot of the
stage-coach, and it’s lucky I did, for the torrent of billingsgate
that they poured fondly over me would have caused the occupants of
the coach to think entirely unwarranted things of the old ladies.
[Illustration]
As I climbed up to the seat by the driver, a man got out of the
stage and walked up to the house.
“Good heavens! who’s that?” I asked of the driver.
“Thet,” said he, “is the Methody preacher makin’ his quarterly visit
to th’ old ladies.”
VIII
“TO MEET MR. CAVENDISH”
The card read, “To meet Mr. Cavendish.” I had not been in Boston
long, and I must confess to a poor head for names, so I had no idea
who Mr. Cavendish was or what he had done, but as he was to be at
Mrs. Emerson’s, I knew he had done something.
There were only five guests there, besides Mr. Cavendish, when I
arrived, and after we were introduced it so happened that Cavendish
and I found ourselves talking together.
He looked tired, so I said as a starter: “Don’t you find your work
exhausting?” I thought I’d play “twenty questions” with him, and
determine what he had done.
“Sometimes it is, very. The expenditure of force fairly makes my
throat ache.”
It was easy. He was probably a Wagnerian singer.
“I suppose you have to be very careful about your throat.”
“Why, no,” he said; “I never think about my throat.”
He wasn’t a singer.
“Well, you’re in love with your art.”
He smiled. “Yes, I’m in love with it.”
I was in despair. What was he?
But now I would nail him. “What are your methods of work, Mr.
Cavendish?”
“Oh, I don’t spend much time in over-elaboration. My brush-strokes
are very broad.”
Ah, a painter! “Exactly,” I said. “You like a free hand.”
He said: “After all, the words are everything.”
Ah, a writer! “Yes,” said I; “your words are everything to the
public.”
“I hope so. I try to make them so,” he said modestly.
Now I felt easier, and proceeded to praise him specifically.
“Which do you like best--to make your public laugh or cry? or do you
aim to instruct it?”
“It is easy to make persons laugh, so I suppose I like rather to
bring them to tears. As for instruction, there are those who say it
is not our province to instruct.”
“But you do all three, Mr. Cavendish.”
He bowed as if he thought I had hit it.
I said: “To those who are familiar with your work there is something
that makes you just the man to pick up for a quarter of an hour.”
His blank expression showed that I had made some mistake. He is a
tall, portly man, and he seemed alarmed at the prospect of being
picked up. A fall would be serious.
“I don’t quite get your meaning, but I suppose you refer to the men
about town who stray in for a few minutes.”
It seemed a queer way to express it, but I replied: “Oh, yes; just
to browse. You repay browsing, Mr. Cavendish.”
He smiled reminiscently. “Speaking of browsing, when I was told to
go ahead on Richelieu, I browsed a long time in the British Museum
getting up data.”
[Illustration]
What, a painter, after all? I forgot all else he had said, and told
him I thought he was as happy as Sargent or Whistler.
“Yes; I don’t let little things worry me much. Sometimes the paint
gives out at a critical time in a small town.”
Good heaven! Why should the paint give out in a small town at a
critical time? _Was_ he a painter, after all? Could he be a traveling
sign-painter?
“Does it bother you to work up in the air?”
“That’s an original way of putting it,” said he, with a genial laugh.
“To play to the grand stand, as it were. Oh, no; a man must do more
or less of that to succeed.”
I was shocked. “You surely don’t believe in desecrating nature!
Sermons in stones, if you will, but not sermons _on_ stones. You
wouldn’t letter the Palisades if you had a chance, would you?”
He edged away from me, and said:
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t letter the Palisades, although I dare say my man
of affairs would be glad to.”
Then I gave up. His man of affairs! He must be a gentleman of leisure
to have a man of affairs.
And then up came Ticknor Fields, the dramatic critic, and said: “How
do you do, Mr. Cavendish? Let me congratulate you upon your success
as Richelieu. At last a successor to Booth has been found.”
I went and drank a glass of iced water. My throat was dry.
IX
INSTINCT SUPPLIED TO HENS
A company has just been formed in New Jersey for the purpose of
supplying instinct to hens. Such well-known farmers as Frank R.
Stockton, Russell Sage, and Bishop Potter are stockholders in it, and
if filling a long-felt want is all that is needed, the success of the
company is already assured.
No one who has ever dabbled in hens needs to be told that the
gallinaceous birds have no instinct whatever. Some have blind luck,
but a hen with instincts in good working order would be an anomaly.
I visited Mr. Stockton at his extensive farm in New Jersey in
order to find out what I could about the project. I found him in
a frock-coat and overalls, training a squash-vine up a maple-tree.
He greeted me cordially, and asked me to come and see his
tomato-trenches. He also showed me quite an extensive area covered
with birch poles for his radishes to climb on. He was very urbane,
and willingly told me all about the company.
“No man,” said he, sitting down on one of his largest cucumbers and
motioning me to a seat on another, “who has ever kept hens but has
wondered why they were not provided with a good commonsense brand of
instinct. No animal needs instinct more than a hen. It was to supply
this need that our company was formed. You know that if you put a
hen on cobblestones, she will brood over them with all the devotion
possible, and if at the end of three weeks you put a baby chicken
under her, her--what you might term false instinct--will cause her to
cluck and call to the cobble to come forth and follow her.”
I admitted the force of his remark, because when a boy I had once
set a hen on some green apples, and she had covered them without a
murmur for a week, when I took pity on her and replaced them with
real eggs. The following day, not liking the feeling of the eggs,
she left them, and gathering together the apples that I had left
scattered upon the barn floor, she sat on them again.
[Illustration]
I told this experience to Mr. Stockton, and he said: “If she’d had a
few of our instinct-powders before sitting she would have repudiated
the fraud at once. Is it instinct, or the lack of it,” he continued,
“that makes a heavy Light Brahma plant a ponderous and feathered foot
upon her offspring and listen calmly to their expiring peeps? It’s
lack of it; she needs one of our powders.”
I made a mental calculation of the number of chickens that I had seen
sacrificed in that way by motherly and good-natured hens who would
have felt hurt if you had told them that they did not know how to
bring up their young.
We had risen, and were now walking as we talked, and we soon came to
Mr. Stockton’s corn-trellises. He is a great believer in climbing,
and it was a pretty sight to see his corn waving in the breeze that
blew through the trellis netting.
“Poultry-raising would be an unmixed joy,” said he, as he picked a
turnip and offered it to me, “if a fellow wasn’t constantly running
up against this lack of instinct on the part of the fowls. If a hen
had instinct she’d know enough to keep her mouth shut when she laid
an egg; but as it is, she cackles away like a woman with a secret,
and before she knows it her egg is on the way to the table. But the
aim of our company will be to furnish each hen with a sufficient
amount of instinct to render her profitable to her master. When she
has that instinct she will not sit on her nest long after her eggs
have been removed; she will not walk off through the long grass,
calling to her brood to follow her, when the chicks have all been
swallowed by the treacherous domestic cat; and she will not do the
thousand and one things that any hen, no matter what her breed or
breeding, will do, as it is.”
I told Mr. Stockton, as I shook hands with him in parting, that there
was not a farmer, either amateur or professional, in the whole Union,
who would not be glad to purchase a package of his instinct-powders;
and as I left the genial granger, he was putting cushions under his
watermelons so that they would not get bruised by contact with the
earth.
X
A SPRING IDYL
It was a bright morning in early spring--one of the delightful,
languorous days that take the sap out of one and make the life of
the tramp seem blissful. The maples were just putting forth their
delicate crimson leaves, and a warm south wind bore into the city the
smell of fresh earth. Ah, what longings were stirred up in the breast
of Key, Pattit & Company’s office-boy, country-bred, but pent up in
the city for a twelvemonth past! Oh, for one day in the country! He
would follow the winding trout-stream from its source in Perkins’s
meadow until it emptied into the Naugatuck, and with angleworms dug
from the famous spot north of the barn he would lure the coy trout
from their shaded lurking-places.
[Illustration]
Hark! what was that? The “drowsy tinkling” of a cow-bell--of
cow-bells. What sweet music! It drove him wild with longing, as
louder and ever louder, and nearer and yet nearer, came the sound of
bells. Ah, he could see Jerry, the hired man, driving the cows up the
grassy lane. As usual, Betty, the Jersey, was in the lead. And there
was greedy Daisy, lingering to crop the rich grass that grew along
the lane until Jerry’s “Whe-e-y, whe-e-y!” should bid her hurry on.
And there were the twin heifers, Nanny and Fanny, perfectly matched
Holsteins. And in the rear, plodding on with dignity and fatness, was
Diana, the great Devon.
How the bells jangled! Surely it was not seeming, but actuality. They
were right outside on the street.
Impulsively he ran to the office window and looked down with boyish
anticipation.
“Jingle-jangle!” went the bells. “Rha-ags, rha-ags, any ol’ rha-ags!”
shouted the ragman.
XI
AN INVERTED SPRING IDYL
It was a bright morning in the early spring, a time to call forth
poetic fancies in the mind of the most prosaic; and Jack was more
imaginative than many boys. He had been spending the winter at his
uncle’s in the country, and these warm, languorous days had made him
long for New York once more. He sat astride of a maple-branch, on
which the crimson leaves were just peeping out. Ah me, what would
he not give to be back in the city! He leaned back against the
tree-trunk and gave himself over to day-dreams.
The boys on his block were spinning tops. Oh, for a good hard city
pavement for just five minutes, that he might do the same. Through
the hazy air came the anything but drowsy tinklings of the grip-men’s
gongs; a scissors-grinder blew his horn; and the exciting clang
of an ambulance-gong split the air as the ambulance rattled over
the Belgian blocks. Oh, for an hour of the dear city in the happy
springtime! To hear once more the piano-organ and the harp, and the
thousand delightful sounds that were so lamentably absent from the
country!
[Illustration]
What was that? Did he hear bells? Yes, surely it was the ragman. He
had never realized how he loved him. He could see the fellow, lean
and ragged and bent, pushing his cart, while from his lips came the
cry of “Rha-ags! rha-ags!” and from the sagging cord the sweet bells
jingled. Yes, surely it was the bells. All thought of the lonely
country faded away, and he was once more home; the boys were just
around the corner, and the bells were coming nearer.
Their tintinnabulations grew so loud that he waked from his day-dream
and saw--not a familiar and beloved city sight, but a tiresome herd
of cows coming home to be milked, their harsh bells jangling out of
tune.
XII
AT THE CHESTNUTS’ DINNER
The Hoary Chestnuts were assembling for their annual Christmas
dinner. Sweet music was discoursed by the chestnut bell, and,
despite their age and many infirmities, the members wore a look of
gaiety suitable to so festive an occasion. There was not a young
joke among them, excepting a very few special jokes like the Trolley
variety and the Cuban War joke, and these, from overwork, were as
superannuated-looking as the oldest there. Not a well-known joke but
would come. Of course they would all live until the next dinner, for
an old joke is immortal; but this yearly gathering was their only
chance to meet and shake hands generally, as during the rest of the
year they would be scattered through the columns of the dailies and
the comic weeklies, and their meetings would be chance ones.
The hearty old Mother-in-law joke chatted gaily with that
venerable old lady, I-will-be-a-sister-to-you. The adorable twins,
Ballet-girl’s-age and Ballet-girl’s-scant-raiment, were the center of
a group made up of the haughty Rich-plumber, the Rejected-manuscript,
the Slow-messenger-boy, the Sleeping-watchman, and a good score of
Boarding-house jokes. The one called Boarding-house-coffee felt a
little stirred up at the false report that he was losing ground,
and he had an unsettled look upon his swarthy and senile features.
The idea was absurd on the face of it, for undoubtedly he would
be printed in every section of the country before the month was
out, as he had been any month for decades past. The Summer jokes,
including, of course, the star jest, the Summer-girl, looked
comparatively fresh, as they were not in use the year round, like
Her-father’s-foot, for instance, or that other member of the same
family, the Chicago-girl’s-foot, that year in and year out is used as
a laugh-producer.
[Illustration]
The Boston jokes, icy and reserved, sat apart from the rest, and
glared at each other in a near-sighted way. The Freak jokes, on the
contrary, were hail-fellow-well-met with every one, and their vulgar
laughter could be heard everywhere.
A good deal of sympathy was expressed for Actor-walking-home, for
he was so feeble that he had to be helped across the room by Weary
Wraggles. The Tramps were out in force. Tickets to the dinner were
five dollars, and it was rumored that Dusty Rhodes had worked his way
in, but upon reflection the idea will be seen to be preposterous.
There was a strong smell of cloves in the air when the door opened
for the entrance of old Between-the-acts. He came arm in arm with
that other favorite, Detained-at-the-lodge.
The Farmer jokes came in a little late. Their chores had detained
them. But their entrance was hailed with delight by a body of
paragraphers who sat in the gallery as representatives of the press,
and who had paid many a bill, thanks to the Farmers.
A joke, rather square-cut and with wheels in his head, came in with a
“Where is she?” look on his dial, and as soon as he said, “I expected
to meter here,” he was recognized as Big-gas-bill. The Wheel jokes
were conspicuous by their absence. This was explained on the ground
that they were not yet old enough to become Hoary Chestnuts, and, as
a relentless paragrapher remarked, “They were tired, anyhow.”
The last ones to arrive were the Cannibal and Tough-missionary; and
the chairman of the reception committee having assigned them seats at
opposite ends of the table, all sat down, and the annual balloting to
determine what had been the most popular joke of the year was begun.
Many voted for themselves, notably the Boston-bean joke and the
Rich-plumber; but when the votes were counted, the successful person
proved to be neither of these, but a hideously homely woman with a
perpetual smirk upon her face.
“Who’s she?” asked one paragrapher of another.
“You don’t know her? Why, that’s
My-face-is-my-fortune-then-you-must-be-dead-broke.”
And they crowned her with laurel as unquestionably the most
perennially popular joke.
XIII
THE ROUGH WORDS SOCIETY
The other day I passed a house on which there was a sign that read,
“The Rough Words Society.” Curious to know what it could mean, I
retraced my steps, and met a millionaire whom I had long admired
from a distance--he was so rich--just leaving the door. It was a
presumptuous thing to do, but I said, “How do you do, sir?” in my
best manner. He bowed with some urbanity, and I ventured to ask him
whether he could tell me anything about the society whose rooms he
had just left. “I thought maybe you were president, sir, or one of
the directors.”
“No; I am a subscriber. If you care to hear about it, come down-town
with me, as I am in a hurry,” he replied.
A minute later I was actually in a cab with a millionaire! My heart
beat hard, but I kept my ears open, and he said:
“You see, a multi-millionaire like myself seldom meets the frank
side of people. They are afraid of offending me,” he observed, as we
went on our way. “My pastor hangs on my words, my clerks speak in
subdued tones, my servants hardly dare address me; and yet, I was
once a barefoot boy, and was considered a scapegrace by the village
people who to-day bow ceremoniously when I chance to go back to my
native place. Well, such sycophancy becomes wearing, and I often used
to wish that some one would tell me I lied, or some other wholesome
truth.”
I shook my head deprecatingly, whereat he seemed annoyed, but went
on: “One day I was passing through the street where you met me, and I
saw the sign, and, like yours, my curiosity was excited, and I went
in. I found a room somewhat like a telegraph-office in appearance. A
very downright, uncompromising-looking man sat at a roll-top desk,
while ranged against the wall were several men of exceedingly bluff
appearance. ‘Can you tell me what the aims of your society are?’ I
asked the man. ‘Certainly I can,’ said he. ‘I wouldn’t be here if
I couldn’t.’ Not a cringe, you see. It was refreshing. ‘Well, will
you?’ ‘It depends,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know for? Are you a
reporter, or do you want to subscribe?’
[Illustration]
“I suddenly divined the purpose of the society, and I said: ‘I
want to subscribe. What are your terms?’ ‘A hundred dollars for
a fifteen-minute séance, one hundred and fifty dollars for a
half-hour, and two hundred dollars for a full hour.’ I handed him a
hundred-dollar bill and said: ‘Explain.’ ‘Jack,’ said he, addressing
a bullet-headed man who was sitting with his feet up on the railing
that divided the room into two parts, ‘give this man a piece of
your mind.’ Jack ran through a directory of millionaires containing
photographs and short biographical sketches, and when he had found
mine he sailed in and talked as plainly as any one could. Didn’t say
a word that wasn’t true; but he didn’t mince his language, and he
was no more abashed by my position in the world than if I’d still
been a barefoot boy. It did me good. He overhauled many of my acts
during the last twenty years, and talked to me like a Dutch uncle.
Refreshed? Why, a Turkish bath is not in it for comfort! After he’d
finished, the manager said I could have an extra in the way of a
little billingsgate if I cared to; but, if I was born poor, I have
always had gentlemanly instincts, and so I told him I guessed not.
“As I came away, he said: ‘Glad to have you call any time that you
feel the need of a few plain truths. We have a minister who says what
he thinks in a very trenchant way, and I’m sure you’d be glad to let
him give you a raking over. Here’s one of our cards. Drop in any
time you’re passing. If, for any reason, you are not able to come,
we can send a man to take up his abode in your house, or to give you
half-hour talks from the shoulder, and you can have a monthly account
with us. Say a good word for us to any of your plutocratic friends
who are tired of sycophancy. Good day, old man.’”
I was aghast at what he had told me, and I said: “I wonder at his
temerity!”
“Why,” said the millionaire, “I love him for it! After a directors’
meeting, when I have been kotowed to until my gorge rises, I just
drop in there, and they tell me unpleasant truths about myself with
the utmost freedom,--you see, they keep posted about me,--and I come
out feeling a hundred per cent. better. Well, here’s my office. Good
day, young man.”
“Good day, sir, and thank you for letting me ride with you.”
He slammed the door as if vexed, and as he approached the door of his
office a negro ran to open it, and two office-boys took his coat and
hat, and I envied the great man from the bottom of my heart.
XIV
A NEW USE FOR HORSES
I met Scott Bindley the other day. Scott is a great schemer. I think
he must be related on his mother’s side to Colonel Sellers. At any
rate, there isn’t a day in the year that he doesn’t think of some
idea that should interest capital, although capital, somehow, fails
to become interested. As soon as he saw me he said:
“Got a great scheme. Small fortune in it for the right parties.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Come into some cheap lunch-place, and I’ll blow myself off to a meal
and give you the particulars.”
So it came to pass that we were soon seated in a restaurant which,
if cheap, is clean--a combination rarer than need be.
“You’ve probably noticed that the more automobiles there are in use,
the more breakdowns there are.”
I could but admit that it was so.
“Well, what is more useless than a broken-down motor-wagon?”
I would have suggested “Two,” but Bindley hates warmed-up jokes, so I
refrained and told him that I gave it up.