Though the road be long and dreary,
And the end be out of sight,
Foot it bravely, strong or weary,
Trust in God and do the right.
The realities of life are continually changing. Persons can retain a
hobby or an illusion for a time or for all time. An illusion may live in
our minds, even become a part of our lives. Life is but thought.
Pleasant illusions are, as a rule, weapons against meanness and
littleness. Illusions, when based upon the sensible and material things
of this life, are uplifting.
It is said genius and common sense never dwell in the same mortal. The
lives of all of those of genius of whom the world has been informed have
been governed to a very great extent by illusions not fanatical fads,
not an illusion that impels one to endeavor to solve improbable
problems.
The centralization of ideas on some particular project or profession
that appeared impracticable at first, often leads to an inspiration, the
enthusiasm created by the illusions leading to success. Illusions have
side-tracked many life-failures.
You may endeavor to persuade yourself that you have no illusions. Search
your mind. Is there not a recollection of something you have worked and
hoped for? You may not have attained that which you aimed at, yet the
illusion enriched your imagination. Is there not something that you
dreamed of in youth, forgotten for years, that has come to you later on?
Hug your illusions if they are pleasant. Treasure them, they make you
cheerful, they sun your soul.
The father and mother of Alfred had different ideas of the boy's future.
The father was wedded to his calling and fondly hoped the boy would
follow in his footsteps in mechanical pursuits. It was the mother's hope
that the son would become a medical practitioner. The grandfather prayed
that the boy would embrace the ministry as had two of his sons.
Consequently, when Alfred seriously announced that he had determined to
become a clown in the circus, the family were greatly shocked, but the
boy's declaration was regarded as a harmless illusion. This idea had
taken complete control of his boyish imagination. Urged on by illusory
hopes he was constantly practicing tricks and antics that led him into
many heartbreaking escapades that made the cellar sessions more
frequent. But nothing could suppress his good nature and innate love of
fun.
There was but one human being in the world thoroughly in sympathy with
the boy's ambitions. She it was who bought the rouge and red that
painted his face in his first attempts to become a clown. She it was who
cut up one of her best red skirts to complete the costume of which Mrs.
Young furnished the foundation in the garments Alfred was sent home in
the day of the rescue from the raft. And it is a fact that to this day
the costumes of clowns and near-clowns have been patterned after those
self-same garments and they are as strikingly funny to spectators today
as they were in the days Alfred first wore them, a tribute to Lin's
ingenuity.
Lin often remarked: "Alfurd will come to town some day a real clown in a
circus and the whole country will turn out to see him, and Litt Dawson
(the Congressman) won't be so much when Alfurd gits a-goin'. Why, he kin
sing eny song and do ent cut-up antik eny of 'em kin. He's the cutest
boy I ever seed. They'll never whup his devilishness out of him."
Lin was always an appreciative audience for Alfred. When he learned to
do head-sets, hand-springs and the like she urged him on to greater
acrobatic achievements. When he attempted to walk on his hands she
followed his zig-zag course, steadying him when he threatened to topple
over.
When Bent Wilgus, a Bridgeport boy, came up to Jeffries' Commons and
entered the ring that was once enclosed by Alfred's tent, and performed
a dozen feats that Alfred had never even witnessed, thereby winning the
applause of the crowd of boys, both Lin and Alfred remained silent. When
he did a round off a flip-flap and a high back somersault, a row of
head-sets across the ring, finishing by doing heels in the mud, Alfred
turned green with envy. He felt his reputation slipping away from him
and realized he was deposed as the boys' and girls' idol, as an actor.
Lin felt like driving the usurper off the commons. Later, she consoled
Alfred with the statement that Bent Wilgus had gum in his shoes that
made him bounce so. "His daddy keeps a shoe store an' thet's where he
gits bouncin' shoes from. I'll git ye a pair ef I hev to send to
Filadelphy fur 'em."
The Quaker City was the metropolis of the world to the good people of
the town in those days. New York City was never considered in the same
breath with old Philly.
Brownsville had but one representative in the show profession so far as
any one knew. He had left the town many years before and it was reported
had become a great actor. Alfred had never heard the word actor save in
connection with a circus performer. He had never witnessed or even heard
of a dramatic actor. He had gotten his idea for his impersonation from a
rider, who, standing on a broad pad on a horse's back in the circus
ring, impersonated noted characters such as Richard III, Daniel Boone,
Davy Crockett and a shepherd boy.
The reputation of Tony Bailles, the only actor Brownsville ever
produced, was folklore in his native place. Tony had never appeared in
his home town. And that which greatly enhanced the reputation of the
great actor in the minds of the people in his home was the oft repeated
stories of his prowess as a fighter.
In those days every man and boy was judged by his personal courage.
Courage was the supreme test by which all males were gauged. The man or
boy who did not have the bravery to uphold his dignity with his fists
was not worthy.
In the tales told of Tony Bailles' great prowess with his fists and
feet, it was asserted that he more often used his feet than his fists
and that his adversary rarely got near him. As they advanced upon him
Tony kicked them under the chin just once. One kick and all the fight
was out of them.
Tony was one of Alfred's illusions. He desired to imitate him, travel
all over the land and become a great actor, a greater actor than even
his heroic model, as Alfred had never heard Tony's great feats
described. The kick under the chin was Tony's only feat impressed
strongly enough on Alfred's mind to have him imitate.
Tommy White, Lash Hyatt and Jim Campbell were either housed up or
walking about with stiff necks and swollen jaws ere it was discovered
that Alfred was imitating Tony Bailles. Lash Hyatt's folks, feeling sure
the boy had the mumps, sent for the doctor. It was then revealed that
Alfred did not fight fair but "kicked you under the chin before you
could raise a hand," as the boys described it.
Alfred tried the Tony Bailles' high kick on big, husky George
Herbertson. The kick started as it had with the other boys but instead
of reaching the chin at which it was aimed, a big, husky blacksmith's
helper checked it. Alfred sat down so suddenly he imagined the earth had
"flew" up and hit him. While the blacksmith helper held his leg aloft
Alfred, as he lay on his back, saw a big fist coming straight for his
face. He has no distinct recollection of when it reached its landing
place.
Uncle Ned Snowden assisted Alfred home, where he remained in doors
several days with two parti-hued eyes.
While housed up, Alfred promised Lin he would always thereafter fight
fair. Consequently, he thereafter carried two big limestones, one in
each coat pocket for George Herbertson. Somehow the blacksmith boy was
always too quick for Alfred and the next time they met, which was on the
Bridgeport wharf, the blacksmith boy trimmed Alfred again. And thus it
was that the old iron bridge, the first of its kind constructed in the
United States and built by John Herbertson, the father of George, became
the dead line between the boys of the two towns.
If a boy from one town was found in the other he was compelled to fight
or flee.
[Illustration: The First Iron Bridge Built in the U. S.]
The word "actor" to the good people of those days always referred to a
circus performer as mentioned previously. It is related of Joseph
Jefferson, the dean of the dramatic profession, that while visiting his
plantation near New Iberia, Louisiana, he walked over the grounds
accompanied by an old, colored field hand. He talked in his usual manner
with the old negro telling him of the many cities in which his contracts
compelled him to act ere he would again visit his beautiful southern
home.
The old negro said he was sorry "kase all de folks, white uns an' black
uns, was jes mos' crazy for to see massa Joe ak." As they walked and
talked the old negro informed Mr. Jefferson that Dan Rice's circus was
"dere a while back, jes on the aidge ob kane cuttin' time, an' dey had
some mighty fine actuhs but nuthin' like de actin' ob Massah Joe."
The old fellow, growing more confidential at the pleased manner in which
Mr. Jefferson received his compliments, added that he would gladly walk
to New Orleans to see him act. When the great actor advised the old
fellow that he would not appear in New Orleans that year, the old fellow
said: "Now des look at dat. I'll nevah git to see you ak, Massa Joe."
The actor assured him that at some time in the future he would have that
pleasure. The old negro said: "No, no, I'm an ole man. I ain't got much
futhah to go, an' I des doan wan' to die fo' I see you ak."
Mr. Jefferson assured the earnest old negro that he would be glad to
arrange some plan whereby not only he but all of his friends in the
parish might witness him act.
The old negro began in an entreating tone: "Massa Joe, I knows you'd
like to ak fer all ob us but Lor' only knows when it'll be. I'se mos'
f'raid to ax ye but de grass out yar is so sof' an 'nice I jes' thought
maybe ye'd ak out a little fer me. Jes' twist about an' turn a couple of
summah-saults fer dis pooh ol' nigger."
This was the only idea Alfred had of acting. He longed to see Tony
Bailles act, that he might catch an idea. He felt it would be so much
easier for him to learn to act by seeing Bailles than it would be to see
others, that Bailles was more like himself, not a superior being, as
other actors were regarded.
Cousin Charley was even more elated than Alfred when they read and
re-read the joyous announcement, to them, that Van Amburg's Great Golden
Menagerie and Zoological Institute was headed for Brownsville.
The startling news was spread that Tony Bailles was with the show.
Alfred scanned the bills, no names appearing on them or descriptions of
the great feats their owners performed, and his youthful mind could not
comprehend this omission in advertising. Animals of all species were
pictured but the graceful bare-back rider, high in the air above the
horse's back, throwing a back somersault through a paper balloon, was
not there. The lady rider on the back of a fast flying steed, one foot
pointing to six o'clock, the other to high noon, was searched for in
vain.
Alfred finally arrived at this explanation of the oversight in not
advertising the circus actors--that the menagerie was so immense the
circus was a secondary consideration. He argued that they never
advertised the side-show but it was always there.
Circus day dawned, the crowds came, the old town was a scene of bustle
and activity. The town people were all agog, all the older ones seemed
to be seeking Tony Bailles. Alfred and Charley followed his brother Joe
up through Bridgeport to the new show grounds. The advertisements gave
it that the old bottom, the usual show grounds, was too small for the
big show.
When the grounds were reached a large man with a very red nose announced
from the top of a wagon the program of the day:
First, Mlle. Carlotta De Berg would ascend a slender wire from the
ground to the apex of the grand pavilion. After this thrilling free
exhibition the Grand Annex containing one thousand animate and inanimate
wonders would throw open its doors. As this was a new name for the
side-show, Cousin Charley and Alfred began to get their money ready.
(Alfred carried his own money this show day).
But when the front of the tent was reached and the same old gaudily
painted pictures swayed in the breeze, both boys involuntarily halted as
they realized the Grand Annex was that deadfall known as the side show.
Cousin Charley swore he "seen the same feller standing in the door of
the tent that swindled him and so many others at the last show." Cousin
Charley said: "He dodged back when he seen me."
In the verdancy of his suckerdom, Charley imagined the fakir who had
done him had preserved as keen a recollection of the transaction as
himself. He learned afterwards that there is a sucker born every minute
and the crop of fakirs is nearly as great.
A tall, black-haired man, with rather a heavy face, black velvet vest,
stood at the door. A long gold watch chain was around his neck and
running across the velvet vest it made the chain appear the most
conspicuous thing about the man. Of course he wore other articles of
clothing but the above description stands out in Alfred's mind to the
exclusion of his other apparel unless it be the flat-top hat and the
white bow tie. The hat and tie gave the wearer a sort of clerical
appearance. He had the appearance of a respectable gambler, such as were
on river steamers in those days.
And this was Tony Bailles, the actor-athlete of Alfred's dreams and
talks. Alfred was simply bewildered. His hero stood aloft pacing to and
fro on an elevated platform, describing the wonders of the great moral
exhibition especially for ladies and children.
Alfred argued to Charley that this was Tony's home and his oratory would
appeal more strongly to the people than a stranger's and he was only of
the side show for the day. He disliked to have the hero of his dreams
discredited so prematurely and he still hoped to see his idol in
spangled tights in the big show performing all kinds of wonderful feats.
But the big show was an animal show, pure and simple, not an actor, not
a clown, not a rider, not a horse, not even a ring. Two ponies and a
little cart introduced in the show could not dispel the gloom that had
settled over the disappointed gathering in the big tent.
The only excitement of the day was when Bill Gaskill, Mart Claybaugh, Ab
Linn, and two or three Washington County men engaged in a fight. When
Tony Bailles rushed in to quell the disturbance and did not kick one or
more of the combatants under the chin, the boy's admiration gradually
turned to disgust and he was ready to leave the tent although all were
admonished that the most astounding and greatest treat in natural
history was about to be brought to their notice. The mammoth of
mammoths, the behemoth of Holy Writ was about to be exhibited, the only
one in captivity, something to tell your children and your children's
children of. The hippopotamus was brought from his cage and waddled into
the roped enclosure in the center of the tent. Bob Ellingham, the
lecturer, talked long and learnedly on the habits and capture of the
animal. The name hippopotamus was mentioned at least twenty times in the
lecture as a dramatic climax. Ellingham rubbed a piece of white paper
over the animal's back. Standing on a stool above the heads of the
multitude he held the once spotless sheet of paper in his left hand,
pointing his right forefinger at the paper, now discolored with the
matter that oozed from the animal's body, he dramatically exclaimed: "He
is truly the behemoth of Holy Writ. See, he sweateth blood!"
As he stood motionless, still holding the paper aloft, Old man Hare,
Lacy's father, who had stood a most interested listener during the
lecture, looked up into the lecturer's face and, in a querulous tone
asked: "What fer animal did ye say it was?"
"A guinea pig, you dam old fool," flashed back Ellingham, as he stepped
off the stool, while the crowd yelled, "Bully for Hare."
The old fellow felt greatly grieved although the shouts of approval from
the crowd partially appeased him. How he talked back to the show man
made him quite a hero among the country folks for a long time
afterwards.
It is safe to assert that a more disappointed audience never left an
exhibition than filed out of the big tent. Even the ministers, and they
were all admitted free, were not satisfied. Bob Playford did not gather
up the boys on the lot and pay their way in.
As the audience filed out the man with the big red nose stood on top of
the wagon and invited everybody into the tent where Christy's Original
Minstrels were about to offer the good people of Brownsville the same
choice and amusing performance they had won fame with in the principal
theatres in New York City. Songs, glees, choruses, banjo solos, pathetic
ballads, side-splitting farces, the whole concluding with a grand walk
around by the entire company.
Bob Playford and Dan French made all manner of fun of the big man with
the red nose. Playford laughingly shouted: "Pay no attention to him, he
don't belong to the show, he lives out in the country. He's a neighbor
of old man Hare's."
Cousin Charley and Alfred were won by the man's eloquence or the
twanging of the stringed musical instruments that could be heard in the
tent. They were soon inside. A platform on a wagon served as a stage,
and a curtain with a cabin and woods as a background hung at the rear of
the stage. The entire company of seven persons attired in shirts and
trousers made of bed-ticking material, were seated in a semi-circle on
the improvised stage.
This was Alfred's first sight of a minstrel first part. "Gentlemen, be
seated." The opening chorus was not half over before Alfred was laughing
as heartily as ever boy laughed. The antics of the fellow with the
tambourine who hit the singer sitting next to him on the head with it in
time with the pattering of the sheepskin on his knees, hands and head,
the assumed anger of the singer as he again hit him a resounding thwack,
the finish, where the man with the bones and tambo worked all over the
small stage and seemed in danger of upsetting it with their antics, had
the crowd wild with their enthusiasm.
[Illustration]
The songs, the jokes, the final farce, "Handy Andy," pleased Alfred so
greatly that he remained for the next performance as did Lin and her
beau, Cousin Charley and several of Alfred's friends. He bought a song
book containing only the words. He caught several of the airs and sang
them all the way home.
It was difficult to convince Alfred that the performers were white men
blacked up. At supper Van Amberg's Great Moral Menagerie received a
lambasting that boded no good for its future in Brownsville. Lin said:
"It was jes a show for Baptusts and sich and they was all thar. Huh,
they let the preachers in free gratis, an' they ought to let everybody
in fer nuthin' caus it warn't wuth nuthin'. Durned ef I walk to the
grounds to see seven shows like it. The niggers in the side show beat
the big show all holler."
Alfred declared that outside of the animals _his_ show was better than
Van Amberg's. Lin added: "Yes, ef Joe Sanford's wall-paper suit wus out
of it."
The supper was not over ere Lin and Alfred were in the parlor with the
melodeon endeavoring to sing the songs of the minstrels. They had the
book and hot were the arguments as to whether they had the tune right or
not.
Lin, Cousin Charley, Alfred, Billy Woods, and Bill Hyatt decided to go
back to the minstrels at night. Alfred sang the songs under his breath.
He drank in every word of the jokes and the farce he committed to
memory.
When they reached home the melodeon was started up again, and its
strains swelled out on the night air until the father closed the
rehearsal abruptly by ordering all to bed.
The seed had been sown; even the chaff had taken root. The clown
illusion still clung to Alfred but the minstrel idea seemed nearer
realization. Did ever a party of amateurs decide to assault the public
that they did not use a minstrel performance as their weapon?
Despite the protests of the parents, the old melodeon, notwithstanding
its age and other infirmities, was worked overtime. Alfred sang and
resang the songs they had learned or deceived themselves into believing
they had learned at the minstrels.
Billy Woods had a good ear for tunes. As Lin put it, Billy caught more
of the tunes than any of the others. Billy became a nightly visitor.
Billy's flute and the melodeon did not harmonize as the melodeon had
only three notes left in it. Lin just waited when a note was missing
until the next measure and then "ketched up" as she expressed it.
Amity Getty was another addition to the little band. He was really a
good performer on the guitar. Alfred's especial favorite in the
minstrels was the fellow who handled the tambourine. The mother said
there was not a pie pan in the house they could bake in, Alfred had them
so battered and dented thumping them on his knees, head and elbows.
"I declare, I believe the boy is going crazy; I don't know what we will
do with him," often said the mother.
Cousin Charley was of an inventive turn of mind. He had become greatly
interested in the nightly singing and fashioned a tambourine out of an
old cheese box by cutting it down. Dennis Isler put tin jingles in it
and put on a sheepskin head.
The instrument in Alfred's hands became a terror to the household. He
was banished to the commons where, surrounded by the children of the
neighborhood, he did his practicing to the delight and danger of his
audience as he persisted in finishing his antics by thumping one of the
audience on the head with his instrument of torture, which generally
sent the recipient of his thwack home, holding his head and crying. This
usually brought a complaint from the victim's parents and Alfred's
visits to the cellar accompanied by his father became so frequent that a
boy with less ardor would surely have lost interest in his instrument.
Alfred repeatedly advised Lin that they never could be minstrels if they
did not have bones. He selected Billy Storey to perform on these
necessary adjuncts to the minstrels. When Lin brought home from John
Allison's meat shop a rib roast, the mother, astonished at the size of
it, said: "My goodness, Lin, that roast is big enough for any tavern in
town."
The fact was Lin had not closely studied the bone player's instruments.
She was of the opinion it required eight bones instead of four, hence
the magnitude of the roast.
The little band made the big front room the mecca for pilgrims nightly.
The mother was nearly frantic; after every concert of the embryotic
minstrels she solemnly admonished Lin and Alfred that that would be the
last.
Lin in turn would accuse Alfred of being the cause of all the din and
racket. "Ef it hadn't been fer Cousin Charley makin' Alfurd thet
infernal head drum (Lin could never say tambourine), Mary would never
sed a word as she jus loves music es well es eny body else."
Lin asserted that "the durn jingling contraption, jes spiled the hull
thing and ye don't make good music with it nohow." Lin's deductions
could not be controverted. Alfred did not make good music with his
tambourine but it is a fact that he succeeded in drowning a great deal
of bad.
It was a night never to be forgotten; one of those nights that will
linger long in fondest remembrance by any who have enjoyed them. It was
the night of one of those old time parties, one of those healthful,
pleasure giving affairs, an old fashioned family party. Relatives, near
and distant, uncles, aunts, nephews and nieces, cousins and friends,
came by invitation to the old home.
Games and recitations, blind-man's buff, button, button, who's got the
button, Uncle Joe, blindfolded, pursuing the prettiest girl at the
frolic, brought roars of laughter from everyone but Aunt Betsy. Lin,
sitting on a crock endeavoring to pass a linen thread through the eye of
a cambric needle; Uncle Jack, blindfolded trying to pin the tail on the
proper place on the paper donkey stuck against the wall. When he stuck
the pin in the keyhole of the parlor door the laughter shook the sash in
the windows.
The young folks formed in a circle holding hands, slowly revolving
around a bashful young man standing in the center of the circle. As they
circled they sang that old ditty so dear to the youth of those days:
"King William was King George's son,
And from a royal race he sprung;
And on his breast he wore a star,
That marked his bravery in the war.
Go choose your East, go choose your West,
Go choose the one that you love best."
Here the young man tagged the girl of his choice. Of course, the girl
broke from the circle and ran but was easily captured. She was led to
the center of the circle which again revolved and the song continued:
"Down on this carpet you must kneel,
Just as the grass grows in the field;
Salute your bride and kiss her sweet,
And you may rise unto your feet."
When the bashful young man received a thumping thwack from the girl of
his choice in return for the kiss he planted on her rosy cheek, the
laughter was renewed tenfold.
All this may look cold in print to the young folks of today but it made
the hot blood of the boys and girls of those good old days flow faster
than the patter of their feet to the tune of the songs they sang.
Sis Minks sang "Barbara Allen" with such telling effect that the
assembled multitude became "as subdued as a Quaker meetin'" as Lin
described it.
Sis was an old maid and lived in the country; her dog had followed her
to the party. The standing of every family in those parts was rated by
the number of dogs they possessed. Sis's people had stood high for many
years but their canine possessions had decreased. When questioned by a
neighbor as to the number of dogs in his possession, the father of Sis
ruefully replied: "Wall, I hev a house dog, a coon dog, a fox dog an' a
'feist'--it just seems like I can't git a start in dogs again." It was
the house dog that had followed Sis.
Sis always sang "Barbara Allen" with her eyes shut. Lin said: "Becaus'
she'd furgit it ef she looked."
Sis was in the midst of Barbara's woes when someone opened the door
slightly. Her dog slipped in. Seeing his mistress before him and hearing
her voice, the dog instinctively crept towards her. As her voice grew
more tremulous describing Barbara's sad fate, the dog, encouraged by the
kindly tones, crept nearer. Rising on his hind legs he drew his long,
red tongue across her face and mouth. Sis opened her eyes and sat down
in confusion and no entreaties could induce her to continue. Lin said:
"I'll bet a fippennybit she thought she'd bin kissed by some feller."
Alfred did not greatly enjoy the party. He whispered to Lin: "Let's
practice."
[Illustration: Sis Opened Her Eyes and Sat Down]
Lin ran her fingers over the keys of the melodeon. The others wanted to
be coaxed as amateurs always do. There is no backwardness that requires
as much persuasion to appear before an audience as that of an amateur,
but when once persuaded there is no cheerfulness that exceeds that of an
amateur in responding to an encore.
It was not long before the little band began their concert. As they had
been rehearsing for several weeks, the opening chorus, with musical
accompaniment, was rendered with such vim that the assembled guests were
carried off their feet. Alfred's antics with the tambourine, Storey's
manipulation of the bones, the singing, the instrumentation, were a
revelation to the good people.
Alfred's reputation as an actor was known to all the guests. Urgent
requests were made that he should don his costumes and perform his
feats. Alfred and Lin hastened to his room, returning soon, Alfred in
his clown make-up, Mrs. Young's lowers and Lin's body dress. Prolonged
laughter and applause greeted his appearance.
First he essayed to sing a clown song entitled "The Song of All Songs"
which runs thusly:
"The subject of my song you have seen I dare say,
As you've walked along the streets on a fine summer's day;
On fences and railings wherever you go,
You will see the penny ballads pasted up in a row.
I noted them down as I read them along,
And I've put them together to make up my song.
There was Abraham's daughter going out on a spree
With old Uncle Snow in the cottage by the sea.
Do they think of me at and I'll be easy still,
Give us back our old commander with the sword of Bunker Hill."
There was a great deal more of this jingle of words, ringing in the
titles of all the songs of the day. Notwithstanding, Alfred had sung it
without pause or hesitation night after night with only his associates
as an audience, yet at "the sword of Bunker Hill" his voice faltered and
a stage fright that could not be conquered overtook him. The words of
the song had left his mouth, the tongue was paralyzed.
As many an older actor has done before and since, Alfred endeavored to
conceal his confusion by stalling. It was really Alfred's first
appearance before a heterogenous audience.
Alfred learned even at that early age that there is a difference in
audiences. Notwithstanding his failure, with the density of perception
that usually pervades an amateur's mind, Alfred changed his costume to
Lacy Hare's military togs. He mistook the shouts of laughter aroused by
this suit as approval of his acting. Lin relieved the situation by
leading Alfred out of the room ere he had presented half of his famous
impersonations.
Lin said afterwards: "I don't know what got inter thet boy. Why I allus
said he had brass enuf in his face to act afore a protracted meetin' but
be durned ef he warn't es bad es Joe Sanford when he stuck on the pole.
I never been more cut up in my life, fur I would a swore he was too
spunkey to git skeered."
The remainder of the program was more than successful. Everyone
acquitted themselves creditably excepting Alfred. Lin sang the pathetic
ballad:
"Out in the cold world, out in the street,
Asking a penny of each one I meet;
Shoeless I wander about through the day,
Wearing my young life in sorrow away.
No one to help me, no one to love,
No one to pity me, none to caress,
Fatherless, motherless, sadly I roam;
A child of misfortune, I'm driven from home."
Lin had a deep, sweet voice, almost a baritone. She was full of
sentiment and magnetism. Deeply in earnest she sang the song with
telling effect. A tear, a heartfelt tear, came from the eyes of more
than one of the sympathetic group.
Uncle Joe and Uncle Jack and one or two of the elder men had been led to
the cellar several times during the evening, for a more pleasant purpose
than Alfred generally went there for. The hard cider was kept in the
cellar, the sweet cider upstairs. Uncle Joe was as mellow as a pippin.
At the end of Lin's first chorus he threw her a handful of change. The
other men threw coppers or small silver pieces. Lin, like a true artist,
stood unmoved and continued her song. Alfred picked up the money and
handed it to her. She disdained to receive it. How the fires of jealousy
burned within Alfred's breast as he noted the triumph of Lin. How the
men could become so affected as to throw her money he could not
comprehend.
Before the next song, Lin lectured Alfred before the entire company,
saying: "The fellur with the head drum (tambourine) in the circus
minstrels never beat it in the sad tunes, only in the comic ones. Es
long as ye've bin showin', a body'd think ye knowed thet much."
This calling down further humiliated Alfred.
Bill Storey followed in a tuneful baritone, singing:
"Oh, the old home ain't what it used to be, de banjo and de fiddel
am gone,
An' no more you'll hear the darkies singing among de sugar cane
an' corn.
Great changes hab come to de poor colored man, but dis change
makes him sad an' forlorn,
For no more we hear de darkies singing among de sugar cane an'
corn."
Then all sang the chorus:
"No, the old home ain't what it used to be, (etc.)"
This number met with great approval. Professional jealousy surged
through Alfred's breast. He hated everyone who had been successful.
Thoughts of all kinds of revenge ran through his mind. He would tell
mother that the ten pound rib roast was bought only to get eight bones
for Bill Storey and four bones was all he could rattle on at one time.
Alfred felt that the whole company had conspired against him, that they
were the cause of his not being appreciated.
Supper was announced. Yes, supper, and they all sat down to a table;
none of your society lunches, juggled on your knees, as served at the
fashionable functions of today. When Uncle Wilse called down blessings
upon all, even those sitting around the fire in the other room, who
could not find places at the first table, bowed their heads reverently.
Cold roast chicken, pickles, sweet preserves, doughnuts, jellies, fine
and red, cold claw, beets, hot mince pie, pound cake, layer cake,
apples, tea, coffee and cider.
It took mother and Lin all day to prepare the repast. Fun and jokes were
passed at and upon one another and everybody was happy, everybody but
Alfred. With jealousy gnawing his vitals he sat between two big,
grown-up men, unnoticed save when he requested some edible passed to
him. He almost made up his mind to forsake the amusement profession and
take his mother's advice to study to become a doctor.
Supper over, good nights were said. Guest after guest departed. One
garrulous gentleman remained; he was noted for his staying qualities. He
would visit a family in the country near his home and keep them up until
after midnight, which was a terrible breach of etiquette in those days
when country folks went to bed with the chickens and town people who
stayed up after eleven were looked upon with suspicion.
The mother had caught herself nodding several times, the father was
yawning, Lin could scarcely keep her eyes open, and Alfred had taken two
or three naps. The prolonged visit had become almost unbearable to all
except the lone guest who kept up a commonplace conversation, just
sufficiently animated to keep him awake. In the middle of one of his
dryest sentences Lin jumped up and said:
"Come on folks, let's go to bed, I expect Uncle Wilse wants to go
home."