five dollars on this one?
The most elusive kind of bargain is that set forth in alluring
advertisements as a small lot, perhaps three, four, or two dozen
articles of a kind, offered at a price unprecedentedly low.
When you reach the store, you are generally told that they--whatever
they may be--are all gone. The other woman so often arrives earlier than
you, apparently, that finally you come to doubt their existence.
Once in a while, if you are eminent among your fellows by some gift of
nature, as is an acquaintance of mine, you may chase down one of these
will-o'-the-wisps.
He--yes, it is he, for what woman would own to a number ten foot even
for the sake of a bargain?--saw a fire sale advertised, with men's shoes
offered at a dollar a pair. He went to the store. Sure enough, a fire
had occurred somewhere, but not there. It was sufficiently near,
however, for a fire sale.
A solitary box was brought out, whose edges were scorched, as by a match
passed over them; within was a pair of number ten shoes. Number tens
alone, whether one pair or more, I wot not, represented their gigantic
fire sale. And I can not say how many men had come only to be confronted
with tens, before this masculine Cinderella triumphantly filled their
capacious maws with his number ten feet, and gleefully carried off what
may have been the only bargain in the shop.
In spite of the suspicions of some doubting Thomases who regard all
bargains as snares and delusions, it is certain that many real bargains
are offered among the numerous things advertised as such; but to profit
by them, I may add, one must have an aptitude, either natural or
acquired, for bargains.
P.S.--I have just learned that my wicker chair would not have been very
cheap at six dollars.
FABLE
BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter "Little Prig";
Bun replied,
"You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together,
To make up a year
And a sphere,
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I can not carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut."
THE WOMAN-HATER REFORMED
BY ROY FARRELL GREENE
He said to sue for maiden's heart
And hand required too much of art
In framing phrases, making pleas,
And swearing vows on bended knees
"Till death (or court decree) doth part."
One's oh, so apt to get the cart
Before the horse, and at the start
Break down. It's torture by degrees,
He said, to sue!
Yet when sweet Susan, coy but smart,
Safe landed him, and Cupid's dart
Went through his breast as through a cheese,
And pierced his heart with perfect ease,
He--well, I'll not the words impart
He said to Sue!
HOW MR. TERRAPIN LOST HIS PLUMAGE AND WHISTLE
BY ANNE VIRGINIA CULBERTSON
"Well," said Janey, as Aunt 'Phrony finished telling of the loss of Mr.
Terrapin's beard, "I saw a terrapin the other day, and it didn't look as
though it ever had had a beard or wattles. I thought it was real ugly."
"Law, chil'," answered the story-teller, "you kain't tell w'at one'r
dese yer creeturs bin in de times pas' jes' by lookin' at 'em now. W'y,
de day's bin w'en ol' man Tarr'pin wuz plumb harnsum. He done bin trick'
out er mo'n jes' his by'ud an' wattles, I kin tell you."
"Oh, please _do_ tell us!" cried Janey, and little Kit came and leaned
on her knees and looked up into her face and echoed, "'Es, please to
tell us."
Thus besieged, Aunt 'Phrony consented to tell how the Terrapin lost his
plumage and his whistle.
"I done tol' you," said she. "Tarr'pin wuz onct a harnsum man, an' dat
de sho'-'nuff trufe, fer he had nice, sof' fedders all over his body an'
a fine, big, spreadin' tail, an' his eyes wuz mighty bright an' his
voice wuz de cle'res' whustle you uver yearn. He wuz a gre't man in dem
days, I tell you _dat_, an' his house wuz chock full er all sorts er
fine fixin's. He had sof' furs ter set on an' long strings er shells fer
money, an clo'es all imbroider' wid dyed pokkypine quills, an' he had
spears an' bows an' arrers an' deer-hawns, an' I dunno w'at all sidesen
dat.
"In dem days de Quail wuz a homely, no-kyount creetur, wid sca'cely any
fedders, an' a shawt, stumpy tail, an' no voice wuf speakin' uv. He wuz
po', too, an' nob'dy tuck much notuss uv him, jes' call him 'dat 'ar ol'
Bob White,' an' he go wannerin' up an' down de kyountry all by his
lonesome.
"One day he come 'long pas' Mistah Tarr'pin's house, an' he peek in thu
de do', he did, an' w'en he see all de fine doin's, seem lak he kain't
tek his eye 'way f'um de crack. Den he seed Tarr'pin comin' down de road
home, an' he 'low ter hisse'f, he did, dat dish yer de harnsumes' man
w'at he uver seed, an' he be puffickly sassified ef he cu'd look jes'
lak dat. He git mo' an' mo' enviable uv 'im an' tuck ter hangin' 'roun'
de naberhood, peekin' an' peerin' in at Tarr'pin w'enuver he git de
chanct. Las' he say ter hisse'f dat he jes' natchully 'bleeged ter have
dem fedders an' tail an' whustle, but he ain' knowin' jes' how ter git
'em, so he g'long off ter ax de he'p uv a wise ol' Wolf whar live 'way,
'way up on de mountain an' whar wuz one'r dem cunjerers I done tol' you
'bout. Ez he went 'long he wuz fixin' up a tale ter tell Wolf, an' w'en
he git ter de kyave whar de cunjerer live he knock an' Wolf 'spon',
'Come in!' in sech a deep, growly voice dat li'l Quail felt kind er
skeery, an' he feel mo' skeery yit w'en he go hoppin' in an' see Wolf
settin' dar wid bones strowed all roun' him, an' showin' dem long, white
toofs er his ev'y time he open his mouf. But he perch hisse'f up in
front er Wolf, an' he say in a voice dat wuz right trim'ly, 'Howdy,
Uncle Wolf, howdy! I done comed all de way up yer ter ax yo' he'p, 'kase
I knows dar ain' nair' nu'rr man on dis mountain whar knows half ez much
ez w'at you does. Please, suh, tell me w'at ter do.'
"'Bob White, you is a li'l ol' fool,' sez Wolf, sezee, 'how kin I tell
you w'at ter do w'en you ain' tol' me w'at 'tis you wants?'
"Den Quail he git li'l mo' pearter, an' he try ter mek Wolf feel
please', so he say, 'Laws-a-mussy! Uncle Wolf, I done fergit dat, but I
reckon I do so 'kase you is dat smart I thought you mought know widout
me tellin'.'
"'Drap dat foolishness,' sez Wolf, sezee, 'an' lemme know w'at you comed
atter.' But all de same he wan't too smart ner too ol' ter feel please'
wid de flatt'ry; show me de man whar is; lots uv 'em gits ketched by
dat, nuttin' mo' ner less," and here Aunt 'Phrony cast a scornful glance
at Nancy, who answered it by a toss of the head.
"Well, den," she resumed, "Quail start inter de meanness he bin hatchin'
up, an' he say, sezee, 'Uncle Wolf, deys a man down dar below whar
gittin' ter be dangersome. He's rich an' goodlookin', an' a gre't chieft
an' a sho'-'nuff fighter, an' he kin do 'bout w'at he please wid tu'rr
creeturs. A man lak dat boun' ter wu'k mischief. Now, suh, ef you sesso,
'pears ter me hit be mighty good notion ter tek 'way his good looks an'
dat pleasin' voice whar he uses ter 'suade de people wid, an' gin 'em
ter some er de quiet an' peace'ble folks whar ain' all de time stickin'
derse'fs ter de front an' tryin' ter lead de people. Now yer I is, you
bin knowin' me dis good w'ile, an' you knows my numbility an'
submissity, an' ef you mek me de one ter do de deed an' den give me de
fixin's fer my trouble, I gwine feel dat I kain't ve'y well refuge 'em.'
Right dar he putt his haid on one side an' look up at Wolf mighty meek
an' innercent.
"Wolf he say he gwine think 'bout hit, an' he tell Quail ter come back
in seven days an' git de arnser. So Quail he go hippitty-hoppin' down de
mountains, thinkin' he bin mighty smart, an' wunnerin' ef he kin stan'
hit ter wait seven mo' days befo' he rob po' ol' Tarr'pin.
"Wolf he went off higher yit, ter de top er de mountain fer ter ax de
'pinion er seven urr wolfs mo' older an' wiser dan w'at he wuz. Dey
talked an' dey 'sputed toge'rr fer seven days an' nights. Den Wolf came
back an' Quail made has'e up ter see him ag'in. He say Quail mus' go ter
Tarr'pin's house at midnight an' do jes' lak he tell 'im to, er hit be
wusser fer him, stidder better. Quail lissen an' say he gwine do jes'
lak he tell 'im, an' wid dat he g'long off. Jes' at de stroke er
midnight, w'en de bats wuz a-flyin' an' de squinch-owls hootin' an' de
jacky-my-lanturns trabellin' up an' down, he knock on Mistah Tarr'pin's
do' an' gin out dat he wuz a trabeller whar comed a fur ways an' wuz
pow'ful tired an' hongry.
"Tarr'pin wuz a kin' man, so he 'vited him in an' gin him sump'n ter eat
an' drink an' made him set down on de sof' furs, 'kase he felt saw'y fer
any pusson so po' an' ugly ez w'at Quail wuz. Den he say, 'You mus' be
tired atter yo' journeyin', lemme rub you a w'iles.' He rub de ugly,
rough creetur fer so long time, an' den Quail sez, sezee, 'You sut'n'y
is kin', but I ain' wanter tire you out. I is res'ed now, so please,
suh, ter lemme rub _you_ a li'l.' He rub an' he rub Tarr'pin wid one
han', an' all de time he wuz rubbin' hisse'f wid de urr. Dat-a-way he
rub all de fedders offen Tarr'pin onter his own se'f. Den he rub down
Tarr'pin's tail 'twel 'twan't nuttin' but a li'l roun', sharp-p'inted
stump, an' at de same time he wuz rubbin' his own tail wid tu'rr han'
an' puttin' Tarr'pin's fine, spreadin' tail onter his own li'l stump.
Hit wuz plumb dark, so't Mistah Tarr'pin ain' see w'at bin done, an'
sidesen dat he wuz pow'ful sleepy fum de rubbin'. Den Quail say he
'bleeged ter lay down 'kase he mus' git him a early start in de mawnin'.
"Befo' sun-up he wuz stirrin' an' he say he mus' be gittin' 'long.
Tarr'pin go ter de do' wid him an' den Quail say, sezee, 'Mistah
Tarr'pin, I year you has a monst'ous fine whustle, I lak mighty well ter
year hit befo' I go.'
"'W'y sut'n'y,' sez de Tarr'pin, sezee, an' wid dat he whustle long an'
loud. Quail lissen at him wid all his years, an' den he say: 'Well, dog
my cats, ef I ain' beat! Yo' voice is de prezack match er mine.
"'You don't sesso! lemme year you whustle,' sez Tarr'pin, sezee.
"'Dat I will,' sez Quail, 'but lemme go off li'l ways an' show you how
fer I kin mek myse'f yearn,' sezee. He sesso 'kase he'z gittin' mighty
'feerd dat Tarr'pin gwine fin' out his fedders wuz gone. So he go 'way
off inter de bushes an' whustle, an' sho' nuff, 'twuz jes' lak Mistah
Tarr'pin's voice. Den Tarr'pin try ter whustle back, but lo, beholst
you! his voice clean gone, nuttin' lef' but a li'l hiss, an' hit done
stay dat-a-way clean ontwel dis day. 'Twuz gittin' daylight, an' he look
down uv a suddint an' dar he wuz! wid nair' a smidgin' uv a fedder on
his back. He feel so bad he go inter de house an' cry ontwel his eyes
wuz so raid dat dey stayed dat-a-way uver sence.
"Den Mis' Tarr'pin she say, 'Is you a chieft, er is you a ol' ooman?
Whyn't you go atter dat man an' gin him a lambastin' an' git back w'at
b'long to you?' He feel kind er 'shame', so he pull hisse'f toge'rr an'
go out ter see w'at he kin do. 'Fo' long he fin' out dat de cunjerers
bin at wu'k, so he know he gotter have he'p, an' he go an' git all tu'rr
tarr'pins ter he'p him. Dey went ter de ol' wolfs, de cunjerers, an' dey
ses: 'We is a slow people an' you is a swif people, but nemmine dat, we
dyar's you-all to a race, an' ef you-all wins, den you kin kill we-all;
an' ef we-all wins, den we gwine exescoot you. An' ef you ain't dast ter
tek up dis dyar', den ev'yb'dy gwine know you is cowerds.'
"Co'se de wolfs tucken de dyar' up, an' hit wuz 'greed de race wuz ter
be over seben mountain ridges, an' dat hit wuz ter be run 'twix' one
wolf an' one tarr'pin, de res' ter look on.
"Wen de day come, ol' Tarr'pin he tuck an' fix up dis trick; he git six
urr tarr'pins whar look jes' lak him, an' he hide one away in de bresh
on top uv each er de six mountains, an' he hide hisse'f away on top er
de sebent'. Jes' befo' Wolf git ter de top er de fus' mountain, de
tarr'pin whar wuz hidin' dar crawl outen de bresh an' git ter de top
fus' an' gin a whoop, an' went over a li'l ways an' hid in de bresh
ag'in. Wolf think dat mighty cur'ous, but he keep on, an' 'twuz jesso at
ev'y one, an' at de las' ridge co'se Tarr'pin jes' walk hisse'f outen de
bresh an' gin a gre't whoop ter let ev'yb'dy know he done won de race.
"Den de tarr'pins mek up der min's ter kill de wolfs by fire, so dey pen
'em all in a big kyave on de mountain an' dey bring bresh an' wood an'
pile in front uv hit, a pile mos' ez high ez de mountain, an' den dey
set fire to hit, an' de wolfs howl an' de fire hit spit an' sputter an'
hiss an' crack an' roar, an' all de creeturs on de mountain set up a big
cry an' run dis-a-way an' dat ter git outen de fire; dey wuz plumb
'stracted, an' hit soun' lak all de wil' beas'es in creation wuz turnt
aloose an' tryin' w'ich kin yell de loudes'. But de tarr'pins jes' drord
inter der shells an' sot dar safe an' soun', an' watched de fire burn
an' de smoke an' de flame rollin' inter de kyave.
"De wolfs dey howled an' dey howled _an'_ dey howled, an' de li'l ones
dey cried an' dey cried _an'_ dey cried, an' las' de ol' ones felt so
bad 'bout de chillen dat dey 'gun ter kill 'em off so's't dey ain'
suffer no mo'. Wen de tarr'pins see dat, dey wuz saw'y, an' dey mek up
der min's ter let de res' off, so dey turnt 'em aloose f'um de kyave.
But lots uv 'em had died in dar, an' dat huccome dar ain' so many wolfs
now ez dey useter be. Some wuz nearer ter de fire dan tu'rrs an' got
swinged, an' some got smoked black, an' dat w'y, ontwel dis day, some
wolfs is black an' some gray an' some white, an' some has longer,
bushier tails dan tu'rrs. Dey got so hoarse wid all dat cryin' dat der
voices bin nuttin' but a howl uver sence.
"Quail he year w'at gwine on, an' he tucken hisse'f outen dat kyountry
fas' ez his laigs cu'd kyar' him, so Tarr'pin nuver got back de fedders
ner de whustle, an' ef you goes out inter de fiel' mos' any day you kin
see Quail gwine roun' in de stolen fedders an' year him whustle:
_'Bob White, do right! do right!
Do right! do right, Bob White!'_
jes' ez sassy ez ef _he_ bin doin' right all his days, an' ez ef he bin
raised wid dat voice stidder stealin' hit way f'um ol' man Tarr'pin."
BY BAY AND SEA
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS
The little rills of poesie
That flow from Helicon
Sometimes escape into the sea
And rest there all unknown.
While others, finding surer guides,
Fall into happier ways,
And go to swell the rising tides
That make the Poet's bays.
BILL NATIONS
BY BILL ARP
You never knowd Bill, I rekun. Hes gone to Arkensaw, and I don't
know whether hes ded or alive. He was a good feller, Bill was, as
most all whisky drinkers are. Me and him both used to love it
powerful--especially Bill. We soaked it when we could git it, and when
we coudent we hankered after it amazingly. I must tell you a little
antidote on Bill, tho I dident start to tell you about that.
We started on a little jurney one day in June, and took along a bottle
of "old rye," and there was so many springs and wells on the road that
it was mighty nigh gone before dinner. We took our snack, and Bill
drained the last drop, for he said we would soon git to Joe Paxton's,
and that Joe always kept some.
Shore enuff Joe dident have a drop, and we concluded, as we was mighty
dry, to go on to Jim Alford's, and stay all night. We knew that Jim had
it, for he always had it. So we whipped up, and the old Bay had to
travel, for I tell you when a man wants whiskey everything has to bend
to the gittin' of it. Shore enuff Jim had some. He was mity glad to see
us, and he knowd what we wanted, for he knowd how it was hisself. So he
brought out an old-fashend glass decanter, and a shugar bowl, and a
tumbler, and a spoon, and says he, "Now, boys, jest wait a minit till
you git rested sorter, for it ain't good to take whiskey on a hot
stomack. I've jest been readin' a piece in Grady's newspaper about a
frog--the darndest frog that perhaps ever come from a tadpole. It was
found up in Kanetucky, and is as big as a peck measure. Bill, do you
take this paper and read it aloud to us. I'm a poor hand to read, and I
want to hear it. I'll be hanged if it ain't the darndest frog I ever
hearn of." He laid the paper on my knees, and I begun to read, thinkin'
it was a little short anticdote, but as I turned the paper over I found
it was mighty nigh a column. I took a side glance at Bill, and I saw the
little dry twitches a jumpin' about on his countenance. He was mighty
nigh dead for a drink. I warent so bad off myself, and I was about half
mad with him for drainin' the bottle before dinner; so I just read along
slow, and stopped two or three times to clear my throat just to consume
time. Pretty soon Bill got up and commenced walkin' about, and he would
look at the dekanter like he would give his daylights to choke the corn
juice out of it. I read along slowly. Old Alford was a listnin' and
chawin' his tobakker and spittin' out of the door. Bill come up to me,
his face red and twitchin', and leanin' over my shoulder he seed the
length of the story, and I will never forgit his pitiful tone as he
whispered, "Skip some, Bill, for heaven's sake skip some."
My heart relented, and I did skip some, and hurried through, and we all
jined in a drink; but I'll never forgit how Bill looked when he
whispered to me to "skip some, Bill, skip some." I've got over the like
of that, boys, and I hope Bill has, too, but I don't know. I wish in my
soul that everybody had quit it, for you may talk about slavery, and
penitentiary, and chain-gangs, and the Yankees, and General Grant, and a
devil of a wife, but whiskey is the worst master that ever a man had
over him. I know how it is myself.
But there is one good thing about drinkin'. I almost wish every man was
a reformed drunkard. No man who hasn't drank liker knows what a luxury
cold water is. I have got up in the night in cold wether after I had
been spreein' around, and gone to the well burnin' up with thirst,
feeling like the gallows, and the grave, and the infernal regions was
too good for me, and when I took up the bucket in my hands, and with my
elbows a tremblin' like I had the shakin' ager, put the water to my
lips; it was the most delicious, satisfyin', luxurius draft that ever
went down my throat. I have stood there and drank and drank until I
could drink no more, and gone back to bed thankin' God for the pure,
innocent, and coolin' beverig, and cursin' myself from my inmost soul
for ever touchin' the accursed whisky. In my torture of mind and body I
have made vows and promises, and broken 'em within a day. But if you
want to know the luxury of cold water, get drunk, and keep at it until
you get on fire, and then try a bucket full with your shirt on at the
well in the middle of the night. You won't want a gourd full--you'll
feel like the bucket ain't big enuf, and when you begin to drink an
earthquake couldn't stop you. My fathers, how good it was! I know a
hundred men who will swear to the truth of what I say: but you see its a
thing they don't like to talk about. It's too humiliatin'.
But I dident start to talk about drinkin'. In fact, I've forgot what I
did start to tell you. My mind is sorter addled now a days, anyhow, and
I hav to jes let my tawkin' tumble out permiskuous. I'll take another
whet at it afore long, and fill up the gaps.
THE SKELETON IN THE CLOSET
BY EDWARD EVERETT HALE
(This paper was first published in the _Galaxy_, in 1866.)
I see that an old chum of mine is publishing bits of confidential
Confederate History in Harper's Magazine. It would seem to be time,
then, for the pivots to be disclosed on which some of the wheelwork of
the last six years has been moving. The science of history, as I
understand it, depends on the timely disclosure of such pivots, which
are apt to be kept out of view while things are moving.
I was in the Civil Service at Richmond. Why I was there, or what I did,
is nobody's affair. And I do not in this paper propose to tell how it
happened that I was in New York in October, 1864, on confidential
business. Enough that I was there, and that it was honest business. That
business done, as far as it could be with the resources intrusted to me,
I prepared to return home. And thereby hangs this tale, and, as it
proved, the fate of the Confederacy.
For, of course, I wanted to take presents home to my family. Very little
question was there what these presents should be,--for I had no boys nor
brothers. The women of the Confederacy had one want, which overtopped
all others. They could make coffee out of beans; pins they had from
Columbus; straw hats they braided quite well with their own fair hands;
snuff we could get better than you could in "the old concern." But we
had no hoop-skirts,--skeletons, we used to call them. No ingenuity had
made them. No bounties had forced them. The Bat, the Greyhound, the
Deer, the Flora, the J.C. Cobb, the Varuna, and the Fore-and-Aft all
took in cargoes of them for us in England. But the Bat and the Deer and
the Flora were seized by the blockaders, the J.C. Cobb sunk at sea, the
Fore-and-Aft and the Greyhound were set fire to by their own crews, and
the Varuna (our Varuna) was never heard of. Then the State of Arkansas
offered sixteen townships of swamp land to the first manufacturer who
would exhibit five gross of a home-manufactured article. But no one ever
competed. The first attempts, indeed, were put to an end, when Schofield
crossed the Blue Lick, and destroyed the dams on Yellow Branch. The
consequence was, that people's crinolines collapsed faster than the
Confederacy did, of which that brute of a Grierson said there was never
anything of it but the outside.
Of course, then, I put in the bottom of my new large trunk in New York,
not a "duplex elliptic," for none were then made, but a "Belmonte," of
thirty springs, for my wife. I bought, for her more common wear, a good
"Belle-Fontaine." For Sarah and Susy each I got two "Dumb-Belles." For
Aunt Eunice and Aunt Clara, maiden sisters of my wife, who lived with us
after Winchester fell the fourth time, I got the "Scotch Harebell," two
of each. For my own mother I got one "Belle of the Prairies" and one
"Invisible Combination Gossamer." I did not forget good old Mamma Chloe
and Mamma Jane. For them I got substantial cages, without names. With
these, tied in the shapes of figure eights in the bottom of my trunk, as
I said, I put in an assorted cargo of dry-goods above, and, favored by a
pass, and Major Mulford's courtesy on the flag-of-truce boat, I arrived
safely at Richmond before the autumn closed.
I was received at home with rapture. But when, the next morning, I
opened my stores, this became rapture doubly enraptured. Words can not
tell the silent delight with which old and young, black and white,
surveyed these fairy-like structures, yet unbroken and unmended.
Perennial summer reigned that autumn day in that reunited family. It
reigned the next day, and the next. It would have reigned till now if
the Belmontes and the other things would last as long as the
advertisements declare; and, what is more, the Confederacy would have
reigned till now, President Davis and General Lee! but for that great
misery, which all families understand, which culminated in our great
misfortune.
I was up in the cedar closet one day, looking for an old parade cap of
mine, which, I thought, though it was my third best, might look better
than my second best, which I had worn ever since my best was lost at the
Seven Pines. I say I was standing on the lower shelf of the cedar
closet, when, as I stepped along in the darkness, my right foot caught
in a bit of wire, my left did not give way in time, and I fell, with a
small wooden hat-box in my hand, full on the floor. The corner of the
hat-box struck me just below the second frontal sinus, and I fainted
away.
When I came to myself I was in the blue chamber; I had vinegar on a
brown paper on my forehead; the room was dark, and I found mother
sitting by me, glad enough indeed to hear my voice, and to know that I
knew her. It was some time before I fully understood what had happened.
Then she brought me a cup of tea, and I, quite refreshed, said I must go
to the office.
"Office, my child!" said she. "Your leg is broken above the ankle; you
will not move these six weeks. Where do you suppose you are?"