Illustration: (‡ decoration)_Library of the best American literature Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers

JOHN BACH McMASTER.

HISTORIAN OF THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES.

JOHN BACH McMASTER is one of the few men who excel in widely different

fields. To be a teacher of English grammar, a college instructor in

civil engineering, to do the work of a specialist in the United States

Coast Survey, to write a monumental history and to build up a great

department in a leading university, surely this is a sufficiently long

catalogue for a man forty-five years old. The father of Prof. McMaster

was, at the beginning of the Civil War, a banker and planter at New

Orleans. The son, however, grew up in the Northern metropolis, and was

graduated at the College of the City of New York at the age of twenty,

in 1872. After a year devoted to teaching grammar in that institution

he took up the study of civil engineering, and began, in the autumn of

1873, the work of preparing his “History of the People of the United

States from the Revolution to the Civil War.”

He was appointed, in 1877, Instructor in Civil Engineering at

Princeton, and became, in 1883, Professor of American History in the

University of Pennsylvania. Besides the four volumes of his “History”

already published, he has written a “Life of Benjamin Franklin” for

the “Men of Letters Series,” and has been a frequent contributor upon

historical topics to the leading periodicals. His “History” is not a

story of political intrigue, of the petty jealousies of neighboring

communities, of our quarrels with each other or with the Indians,

but tells in a clear and strikingly pictorial manner the story of the

people themselves, of how they lived and dressed, what they ate, what

were their pleasures, their social customs, how they worshipped, how

they grew to be a mighty nation and became the people that we are. It

is a wonderful story, and not only is every page filled with living

interest, but any chapter might well be a monument to the painstaking

accuracy, the devoted labor, the historical insight, and the literary

skill of the author. But if Prof. McMaster has been in love with his

work as a historian he has none the less been devoted to his office

as an instructor of youth. During the years in which he has filled

a chair in the University of Pennsylvania, the department of history

of the United States has assumed such proportions that it may fairly

claim to outrank any similar department in any other institution in

the country. In this way and as a lecturer before bodies of teachers,

Prof. McMaster has held a foremost place in the movement which has

demanded, and successfully demanded, that in the lower schools greater

attention shall be paid to the history and institutions of our own

country, and which is bringing about a more intelligent patriotism

and a widespread interest in the way in which we govern ourselves.

The boy who applies for admission to the University of Pennsylvania,

if he imagines that the history of his country consists of a list of

dates of explorations, battles, and of presidents, and of the names of

generals and politicians, will be astonished when he is asked to draw

a map showing how the United States obtained the various portions of

its territory, to tell what were the Virginia and Kentucky Resolutions,

and to outline the relations between the President and the two houses

of Congress in our government. But the trembling applicant will find

his blundering answers leniently judged, and when he looks back from

the eminence of his graduation day upon this time of trial, he will

agree that the view of history taken by Prof. McMaster is the true one,

and that no man has done more than he to bring the intelligent people

of our time to that opinion.

* * * * *

THE AMERICAN WORKMAN IN 1784.¹

(FROM “A HISTORY OF THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES.”)

¹ Copyright, D. Appleton & Co.

THERE can, however, be no doubt that a wonderful amelioration has

taken place since that day in the condition of the poor. Their houses

were meaner, their food was coarser, their clothing was of commoner

stuff; their wages were, despite the depreciation that has gone

on in the value of money, lower by one-half than at present. A man

who performed what would be called unskilled labor, who sawed wood,

dug ditches, who mended roads, who mixed mortar, who carried boards

to the carpenter and bricks to the mason, or helped to cut hay in

harvest-time, usually received as the fruit of his daily toil two

shillings. Sometimes when the laborers were few he was paid more, and

became the envy of his fellows if at the end of a week he took home

to his family fifteen shillings, a sum now greatly exceeded by four

dollars. Yet all authorities agree that in 1784 the hire of workmen

was twice as great as in 1774.

On such a pittance it was only by the strictest economy that a

mechanic kept his children from starvation and himself from jail. In

the low and dingy rooms which he called his home were wanting many

articles of adornment and of use now to be found in the dwelling of

the poorest of his class. Sand sprinkled on the floor did duty as a

carpet. There was no glass on his table, there was no china in his

cupboard, there were no prints on his wall. What a stove was he did

not know, coal he had never seen, matches he had never heard of. Over

a fire of fragments of barrels and boxes, which he lit with the sparks

struck from a flint, or with live coals brought from a neighbor’s

hearth, his wife cooked up a rude meal and served it in pewter dishes.

He rarely tasted fresh meat as often as once in a week, and paid

for it a much higher price than his posterity. Everything, indeed,

which ranked as a staple of life was very costly. Corn stood at three

shillings the bushel, wheat at eight and six pence, an assize of

bread was four pence, a pound of salt pork was ten pence. Many other

commodities now to be seen on the tables of the poor were either quite

unknown or far beyond the reach of his scanty purse. Unenviable is

the lot of that man who cannot, in the height of the season, when the

wharfs and markets are heaped with baskets and crates of fruit, spare

three cents for a pound of grapes, or five cents for as many peaches,

or, when Sunday comes round, indulge his family with watermelons or

cantaloupes. One hundred years ago the wretched fox-grape was the only

kind that found its way to market, and was the luxury of the rich.

Among the fruits and vegetables of which no one had then even heard

are cantaloupes, many varieties of peaches and pears, tomatoes and

rhubarb, sweet corn, the cauliflower, the eggplant, head lettuce,

and okra. On the window benches of every tenement-house may be seen

growing geraniums and verbenas, flowers not known a century ago.

In truth, the best-kept gardens were then rank with hollyhocks and

sunflowers, roses and snowballs, lilacs, pinks, tulips, and, above all,

the Jerusalem cherry, a plant once much admired, but now scarcely seen.

If the food of an artisan would now be thought coarse, his clothes

would be thought abominable. A pair of yellow buckskin or leathern

breeches, a checked shirt, a red flannel jacket, a rusty felt hat

cocked up at the corners, shoes of neats-skin set off with huge

buckles of brass, and a leathern apron, comprised his scanty wardrobe.

The leather he smeared with grease to keep it soft and flexible. His

sons followed in his footsteps, and were apprenticed to neighboring

tradesmen. His daughter went out to service. She performed, indeed,

all the duties at present exacted from women of her class; but

with them were coupled many others rendered useless by the great

improvement that has taken place in the conveniences of life.

She mended the clothes, she did up the ruffs, she ran on errands from

one end of the town to the other, she milked the cows, made the butter,

walked ten blocks for a pail of water, spun flax for the family linen,

and, when the year was up, received ten pounds for her wages. Yet,

small as was her pay, she had, before bestowing herself in marriage

upon the footman or the gardener, laid away in her stocking enough

guineas and joes to buy a few chairs, a table, and a bed.

* * * * *

“THE MINISTER IN NEW ENGLAND.”¹

(FROM “A HISTORY OF THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES.”)

¹ Copyright, D. Appleton & Co.

HIGH as the doctors stood in the good graces of their fellow-men, the

ministers formed a yet more respected class of New England society.

In no other section of the country had religion so firm a hold on the

affections of the people. Nowhere else were men so truly devout, and

the ministers held in such high esteem. It had, indeed, from the days

of the founders of the colony been the fashion among New Englanders to

look to the pastor with profound reverence, not unmingled with awe. He

was not to them as other men were. He was the just man made perfect;

the oracle of divine will; the sure guide to truth. The heedless one

who absented himself from the preaching on a Sabbath was hunted up by

the tithing-man, was admonished severely, and, if he still persisted

in his evil ways, was fined, exposed in the stocks, or imprisoned in

the cage. To sit patiently on the rough board seats while the preacher

turned his hour-glass for the third time, and with his voice husky

from shouting, and the sweat pouring in streams down his face, went

on for an hour more, was a delectable privilege. In such a community

the authority of the reverend man was almost supreme. To speak

disrespectfully concerning him, to jeer at his sermons, or to laugh

at his odd ways, was sure to bring down on the offender a heavy fine.

His advice was often sought on matters of State, nor did he hesitate

to give, unasked, his opinion on what he considered the arbitrary acts

of the high functionaries of the province. In the years immediately

preceding the war the power of the minister in matters of government

and politics had been greatly impaired by the rise of that class

of laymen in the foremost ranks of which stood Otis and Hancock and

Samuel Adams. Yet his ♦spiritual influence was as great as ever.

He was still a member of the most learned and respected class in a

community by no means ignorant. He was a divine, and came of a family

of divines. Not a few of the preachers who witnessed the Revolution

could trace descent through an unbroken line of ministers, stretching

back from son to father for three generations, to some canting,

psalm-singing Puritan who bore arms with distinction on the great day

at Naseby, or had prayed at the head of Oliver’s troops, and had, at

the restoration, when the old soldiers of the protector were turning

their swords into reaping-hooks and their pikes into pruning-knives,

come over to New England to seek that liberty of worship not to be

found at home. Such a man had usually received an education at Harvard

or at Yale, and would in these days be thought a scholar of high

attainments.

♦ ‘spiritunl’ replaced with ‘spiritual’

OUR NATIONAL HUMORISTS

Illustration: OUR NATIONAL HUMORISTS

ROBT. J. BURDETT • “JOSH BILLINGS”

“MARK TWAIN”

CHAS. FOLEN ADAMS • “BILL NYE”

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

FRANCES MIRIAM WHITCHER.

THE “WIDOW BEDOTT” AND “WIDOW SPRIGGINS.”

IT was back in the early forties in “Neal’s Gazette” that the “Widow

Bedott Table Talk” series of articles began to attract attention, and

the question arose, Who is the Widow Bedott? for no one knew at that

time that Mrs. Whitcher was the real author behind this _nom-de-plume_.

James Neal himself――the well-known author of “Charcoal Sketches” and

publisher of the magazine above referred to――was so struck with the

originality and clearness of the first of the series when submitted

that he sought a correspondence with the author, thinking it was

a man, and addressed her as “My dear Bedott.” Mrs. Whitcher often

insisted that she must cease to write, as her humorous sketches were

not relished by some of her neighbors whom they touched, but Mr. Neal

would not hear to it. In a letter of September 10, 1846, he wrote: “It

is a theory of mine that those gifted with truly humorous genius like

yourself are more useful as moralists, philosophers and teachers than

whole legions of the gravest preachers. They speak more effectually to

the general ear and heart, even though they who hear are not aware of

the fact that they are imbibing wisdom.” Further on he adds: ‘I would

add that Mr. Godey called on me to inquire as to the authorship of the

“Bedott Papers,” wishing evidently to obtain you for a correspondent

to the “Ladies’ Book.”’

For richness of humor and masterly handling of the Yankee dialect,

certainly, the “Widow Bedott” and the “Widow Spriggins” occupy a

unique space in humorous literature, and the influence she has

exercised on modern humorists is more in evidence than most readers

are aware of. Her husband, “Hezekiah Bedott,” is a character who will

live alongside of “Josiah Allen” as one of the prominent heroes of the

humorous literature of our country. In fact, no reader of both these

authors will fail to suspect that Miss Marietta Holley used “Hezekiah”

as a model for her “Josiah;” while the redoubtable widow herself was

enough ♦similar to “Samantha Allen” to have been her natural, as she,

perhaps, was her literary, grandmother. Nor was Miss Holley alone

in following her lead. Ever since the invention of “Hezekiah Bedott”

by Mrs. Whitcher, an imaginary person of some sort, behind whom the

author might conceal his own identity, has seemed to be a necessity

to our humorists, as witness the _noms-de-plume_ of “Artemus Ward,”

“Josh Billings,” “Mark Twain,” etc., under which our greatest American

humorists have written.

♦ ‘similiar’ replaced with ‘similar’

Mrs. Whitcher was the daughter of Mr. Lewis Berry, and was born

at Whitesboro, New York, 1811, and died there in 1852. As a child

she was unusually precocious. Before she learned her letters, even

before she was four years old, she was making little rhymes and funny

stories, some of which are preserved by her relatives. Her education

was obtained in the village school of Whitesboro, and she began to

contribute at an early age stories and little poems to the papers.

After she had won considerable literary fame she was married, in 1847,

to the Rev. Benjamin W. Whitcher, pastor of the Protestant Episcopal

Church at Elmira, New York, where she resided with her husband for a

period of three years, continuing to contribute her humorous papers

to the magazine, and taking as her models her acquaintances at Elmira,

as she had been accustomed to do at Whitesboro. The people of Elmira,

however, were not so ready to be victimized, and turned against her

such shafts of persecution and even insult for her ludicrous pictures

of them as to destroy her happiness and her husband’s usefulness as

a minister to an extent that they were compelled to leave Elmira, and

they removed to Whitesboro in 1850, where, as stated above, she died

two years later.

Mrs. Whitcher was something of an artist as well as a writer and

illustrated certain of her sketches with her own hands. During

her life none of her works were published except in magazines and

periodicals, but after her death these contributions were collected

and published in book form; the first entitled “The Widow Bedott

Papers,” appearing in 1855, with an introduction by Alice B. Neal. In

1857 came “The Widow Spriggins, Mary Allen and Other Sketches,” edited

by Mrs. M. L. Ward Whitcher with a memoir of the author. We publish in

connection with this sketch the poem “Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles”

and also her own humorous comments on some of her poetry, about her

husband Hezekiah, which she wrote to a friend, pausing as the various

stanzas suggest, to throw in amusing side lights on neighborhood

character and gossip.

* * * * *

WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES.

(FROM THE “WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS.”)

O REVEREND sir, I do declare

It drives me most to frenzy,

To think of you a lying there

Down sick with influenzy.

A body’d thought it was enough

To mourn your wife’s departer,

Without sich trouble as this ere

To come a follerin’ arter.

But sickness and affliction, are

Sent by a wise creation,

And always ought to be underwent

By patience and resignation.

O I could to your bedside fly,

And wipe your weeping eyes,

And do my best to cheer you up,

If’t wouldn’t create surprise.

It’s a world of trouble we tarry in,

But, Elder, don’t despair;

That you may soon be movin’ again

Is constantly my prayer.

Both sick and well, you may depend

You’ll never be forgot

By your faithful and affectionate friend,

PRISCILLA POOL BEDOTT.

* * * * *

THE WIDOW’S POETRY ABOUT HEZEKIAH

AND HER COMMENTS ON THE SAME.

(FROM “WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS.”)

YES,――he was one o’ the best men that ever trod shoe-leather, husband

was, though Miss Jenkins says (she ’twas Poll Bingham), _she_ says,

I never found it out till after he died, but that’s the consarndest

lie that ever was told, though it’s jest a piece with everything else

she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ

to his mem’ry, nobody wouldn’t think I dident set store by him. Want

to hear it? Well, I’ll see if I can say it; it ginerally affects me

wonderfully, seems to harrer up my feelin’s; but I’ll try. It begins

as follers:――

He never jawed in all his life,

He never was onkind,――

And (tho’ I say it that was his wife)

Such men you seldom find.

(That’s as true as the Scripturs; I never knowed him to say a harsh

word.)

I never changed my single lot,――

I thought ’twould be a sin――

(Though widder Jinkins says it’s because I never had a chance.) Now

’tain’t for me to say whether I ever had a numerous number o’ chances

or not, but there’s them livin’ that _might_ tell if they wos a mind

to; why, this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major

Coon, three years after husband died. I guess the ginerality o’ folks

knows what was the nature o’ Majors Coon’s feelin’s towards me, tho’

his wife and Miss Jinkins _does_ say I tried to ketch him. The fact is,

Miss Coon feels wonderfully cut up ’cause she knows the Major took her

“Jack at a pinch,”――seein’ he couldent get such as he wanted, he took

such as he could get,――but I goes on to say――

I never changed my single lot,

I thought ’twould be a sin,――

For I thought so much o’ Deacon Bedott,

I never got married agin.

If ever a hasty word he spoke,

His anger dident last,

But vanished like tobacker smoke

Afore the wintry blast.

And since it was my lot to be

The wife of such a man,

Tell the men that’s after me

To ketch me if they can.

If I was sick a single jot,

He called the doctor in――

That’s a fact,――he used to be scairt to death if anything ailed me.

Now only jest think,――widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she

’twas Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great

store by me, or he wouldent went off to confrence meetin’, when I was

down with the fever. The truth is, they couldent git along without him

no way. Parson Potter seldom went to confrence meetin’, and when _he_

wa’n’t there, who was ther’, pray tell, that knowed enough to take

the lead if husband dident do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and

Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all come onto Deacon

Bedott,――and he was always ready and willin’ to do his duty, you know;

as long as he was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to

confrence meetin’; why, I’ve knowed that man to go when he couldent

scarcely crawl on account o’ the pain in the spine of his back.

He had a wonderful gift, and he wa’n’t a man to keep his talents hid

up in a napkin,――so you see ’twas from a sense o’ duty he went when I

was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where was

I? Oh!――

If I was sick a single jot,

He called the doctor in――

I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott

I never got married agin.

A wonderful tender heart he had,

That felt for all mankind,――

It made him feel amazin’ bad

To see the world so blind.

Whiskey and rum he tasted not――

That’s as true as the Scripturs,――but if you’ll believe it, Betsy, Ann

Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house

how’t she’d seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin! did you ever!

Well, I’m glad nobody don’t pretend to mind anything _she_ says. I’ve

knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and she never knowed how to speak the

truth――besides she always had a partikkeler spite against husband and

me, and between us tew I’ll tell you why if you won’t mention it, for

I make it a pint never to say nothin’ to injure nobody. Well, she was

a ravin’-distracted after my husband herself, but it’s a long story,

I’ll tell you about it some other time, and then you’ll know why

widder Jinkins is etarnally runnin’ me down. See,――where had I got to?

Oh, I remember now,――

Whisky and rum he tasted not,――

He thought it was a sin,――

I thought so much o’ Deacon Bedott

I never got married agin.

But now he’s dead! the thought is killin’,

My grief I can’t control――

He never left a single shillin’

His widder to console.

But that wa’n’t his fault――he was so out o’ health for a number o’

year afore he died, it ain’t to be wondered at he dident lay up

nothin’――however, it dident give him no great oneasiness,――he never

cared much for airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she

heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the skin on his

back,――begrudged folks their vittals when they come to his house! did

you ever! why, he was the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born

days. If I’d such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I’d hold my tongue

about my neighbors’ husbands. He was a dretful mean man, used to git

drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high temper,――used to

swear like all possest when he got mad,――and I’ve heard my husband say

(and he wa’n’t a man that ever said anything that wa’n’t true),――I’ve

heard _him_ say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of

his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! “His widder to

console,”――ther ain’t but one more verse, ’tain’t a very lengthy poim.

When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he,――“What did you

stop so soon for?”――but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby’s _she_ thought

I’d better a’ stopt afore I’d begun,――she’s a purty critter to talk so,

I must say. I’d like to see some poitry o’ hern,――I guess it would be

astonishin’ stuff; and mor’n all that, she said there wa’n’t a word o’

truth in the hull on’t,――said I never cared tuppence for the deacon.

What an everlastin’ lie! Why, when he died, I took it so hard I went

deranged, and took on so for a spell they was afraid they should have

to send me to a Lunatic Arsenal. But that’s a painful subject, I won’t

dwell on’t.

I conclude as follers:――

I’ll never change my single lot,――

I think ’twould be a sin,――

The inconsolable widder o’ Deacon Bedott

Don’t intend to git married agin.

Excuse my cryin’――my feelin’s always overcomes me so when I say that

poitry――O-o-o-o-o-o!

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

CHARLES F. BROWNE.

(ARTEMUS WARD).

ARTEMUS WARD first revealed to the world that humor is a

characteristic trait of the Yankee, and he was the first to succeed

in producing a type of comic literature distinctively American, purely

the product of his original genius.

It is impossible to analyze his jokes or to tell why they are

irresistibly funny, but it would be generally admitted that his best

things are as much creations of genius as masterpieces of art are.

He was one of the kindest and most generous of men; he used his keen

wit to smite evil customs and to satirize immoral deeds, and he went

through his short life enjoying above everything to make people laugh

and to laugh himself, but with all his play of wit there was a tinge

of melancholy in his nature and a tendency to do the most unexpected

things, a tendency which he never tried to control. He was born in

Waterford, Maine, in 1834, and he came honestly by a view of humor

from his father’s side. He had only a most meagre school education,

and at fourteen he set himself to learn the printer’s trade, becoming

one of the best typesetters in the country.

He drifted from place to place and finally became one of the staff

of the “Commercial” at Toledo, Ohio, where he first displayed his

peculiar richness of humor in his news reports. In 1857 he became

local editor of the “Plain-Dealer” in Cleveland, and it was here his

sketches were first signed Artemus Ward, a name which he took from

a peculiar character who called on him once in his Cleveland office.

He is described at this time as being in striking degree gawky and

slouchy, with yellowish, straight hair, a loose swaggering gait, and

strangely ill-fitting clothes, though as his popularity and position

rose he took on more cultivated manners and grew very particular

regarding his dress.

His first attempts at lecturing were not marked with success and he

was forced to explain his jokes to his audiences to make the desired

laugh come, but he soon attracted attention and multitudes flocked

to hear the “grate showman,” with his “moral wax figgers.” In 1863 he

crossed the continent and on this trip he collected material for his

most humorous lectures and for the best of his chapters.

The Mormons furnished him with the material for his most telling

lecture, and it was a mark of his genius that he was irresistibly

drawn to Utah to study this peculiar type of American society.

He went to England in 1866, where, though in failing health, ending

in premature death, he created almost a sensation and had flattering

successes. The “Mormons” never failed to fill a hall and always

carried his audiences by storm.

Some of his most brilliant articles were written for “Punch,” and

the American humorist was recognized as a typical genius; but he

was a dying man while he was making his London audiences laugh at

his spontaneous wit, and his life came to an end at Southampton,

January 23, 1867.

He provided in his will for the establishment of an asylum for

printers and for the education of their orphan children, an action

which revealed, as many acts of his life had done, the kindly human

spirit of the humorist.

His published books, which owe much of their charm to his

characteristic spelling, are as follows: “Artemus Ward, His Book,”

and “Artemus Ward, His Travels” (1865), “Artemus Ward in London”

(1867), “Artemus Ward’s Lecture, as delivered in Egyptian Hall,

London,” edited by T. W. Robertson and E. P. Hingston (1869), and

“Artemus Ward, His Works Complete,” with biographical sketch by

Melville D. Landon (1875).

* * * * *

ARTEMUS WARD VISITS THE SHAKERS.

“MR. SHAKER,” sed I, “you see before you a Babe in the Woods, so to

speak, and he axes a shelter of you.”

“Yay,” said the Shaker, and he led the way into the house, another

bein’ sent to put my horse and wagon under kiver.

A solum female, lookin’ somewhat like a last year’s bean-pole stuck

into a long meal-bag, cum in and axed me was I athirst and did I

hunger? To which I asserted, “A few.” She went orf, and I endeavored

to open a conversation with the old man.

“Elder, I spect,” sed I.

“Yay,” he said.

“Health’s good, I reckon?”

“Yay.”

“What’s the wages of a Elder, when he understands his bizness――or do

you devote your sarvices gratooitous?”

“Yay.”

“Storm nigh, sir?”

“Yay.”

“If the storm continues there’ll be a mess underfoot, hay?”

“Yay.”

“If I may be so bold, kind sir, what’s the price of that pecooler kind

of wesket you wear, includin’ trimmin’s?”

“Yay.”

I pawsed a minit, and, thinkin’ I’d be faseshus with him and see how

that would go, I slapt him on the shoulder, burst into a hearty larf,

and told him that as a yayer he had no livin’ ekel.

He jumped up as if bilin’ water had been squirted into his ears,

groaned, rolled his eyes up tords the sealin’ and sed:

“You’re a man of sin!”

He then walked out of the room.

Directly thar cum in two young Shakeresses, as putty and slick lookin’

galls as I ever met. It is troo they was drest in meal-bags like the

old one I’d met previsly, and their shiny, silky hair was hid from

sight by long, white caps, such as I spose female gosts wear; but

their eyes sparkled like diamonds, their cheeks was like roses, and

they was charmin’ enuff to make a man throw stuns at his grandmother,

if they axed him to. They commenst clearing away the dishes, casting

shy glances at me all the time. I got excited. I forget Betsey Jane in

my rapter, and sez I:

“My pretty dears, how air you?”

“We air well,” they solumly sed.

“Where is the old man?” said I, in a soft voice.

“Of whom dost thou speak――Brother Uriah?”

“I mean that gay and festive cuss who calls me a man of sin. Shouldn’t

wonder if his name wasn’t Uriah.”

“He has retired.”

“Wall, my pretty dears,” sez I, “let’s have some fun. Let’s play puss

in the corner. What say?”

“Air you a ♦Shaker, sir?” they asked.

♦ ‘Skaker’ replaced with ‘Shaker’

“Wall, my pretty dears, I haven’t arrayed my proud form in a long

weskit yet, but if they wus all like you perhaps I’d jine ’em. As it

is, I am willing to be Shaker protemporary.”

They was full of fun. I seed that at fust, only they was a little

skeery. I tawt ’em puss in the corner, and sich like plase, and we had

a nice time, keepin’ quiet of course, so that the old man shouldn’t

hear. When we broke up, sez I:

“My pretty dears, ear I go, you have no objections have you? to a

innersent kiss at partin’?”

“Yay,” they said, and I――yayed.

* * * * *

ARTEMUS WARD AT THE TOMB OF SHAKESPEARE.

I’VE been lingerin’ by the tomb of the lamented Shakespeare.

It is a success.

I do not hes’tate to pronounce it as such.

You may make any use of this opinion that you see fit. If you think

its publication will subswerve the cause of literatoor, you may

publicate.

I told my wife Betsey, when I left home, that I should go to the

birthplace of the orthur of _Otheller_ and other Plays. She said

that as long as I kept out of Newgate she didn’t care where I went.

“But,” I said, “don’t you know he was the greatest Poit that ever

lived? Not one of these common poits, like that young idyit who writes

verses to our daughter, about the roses as groses, and the breezes as

blowses――but a Boss poit――also a philosopher, also a man who knew a

great deal about everything.”

Yes. I’ve been to Stratford onto the Avon, the Birth-place of

Shakespeare. Mr. S. is now no more. He’s been dead over three hundred

(300) years. The peple of his native town are justly proud of him.

They cherish his mem’ry, and them as sell picturs of his birth-place,

&c., make it prof’tible cherishin’ it. Almost everybody buys a pictur

to put into their Albiom.

“And this,” I said, as I stood in the old churchyard at Stratford,

beside a Tombstone, “this marks the spot where lies William W.

Shakespeare. Alars! and this is the spot where――”

“You’ve got the wrong grave,” said a man――a worthy villager;

“Shakespeare is buried inside the church.”

“Oh,” I said, “a boy told me this was it.” The boy larfed and put the

shillin’ I’d given him into his left eye in a inglorious manner, and

commenced moving backwards towards the street.

I pursood and captered him, and, after talking to him a spell in a

sarkastic stile, I let him went.

William Shakespeare was born in Stratford in 1564. All the

commentators, Shakesperian scholars, etsetry, are agreed on this,

which is about the only thing they are agreed on in regard to him,

except that his mantle hasn’t fallen onto any poet or dramatist hard

enough to hurt said poet or dramatist _much_. And there is no doubt if

these commentators and persons continner investigatin’ Shakespeare’s

career, we shall not in doo time, know anything about it at all. When

a mere lad little William attended the Grammar School, because, as he

said, the Grammar School wouldn’t attend him. This remarkable remark

coming from one so young and inexperunced, set peple to thinkin’ there

might be something in this lad. He subsequently wrote _Hamlet_ and

_George Barnwell_. When his kind teacher went to London to accept a

position in the offices of the Metropolitan Railway, little William

was chosen by his fellow-pupils to deliver a farewell address. “Go on,

sir,” he said, “in a glorous career. Be like a eagle, and soar, and

the soarer you get the more we shall be gratified! That’s so.”

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

HENRY WHEELER SHAW.

(“JOSH BILLINGS.”)

IT is astonishing what effect is produced by peculiarities of form or

manner. It may be true that the writings of Thomas Carlyle owe much

of their force and vigor to his disregard for grammatical rules and

his peculiar arrangement of words and sentences; but one of the most

surprising instances of this kind is in the fact that the “Essay on

the Mule, by Josh Billings,” received no attention whatever, while

the same contribution transformed into the “Essa on the Muel, bi

Josh Billings,” was eagerly copied by almost every paper in the

country. Josh Billings once said that “Chaucer was a great poit, but

he couldn’t spel,” and apparently it was Mr. Shaw’s likeness, in this

respect, to the author of “Canterbury Tales” which won him much of his

fame.

He was the son of a member of the Massachusetts Legislature, born in

1818, and entered Hamilton College; but being captivated by stories of

Western life and adventure, abandoned college to seek his fortune in

the West. The fortune was slow in coming, and he worked as a laborer

on steamboats on the Ohio, and as a farmer, and finally drifted back

to Poughkeepsie, New York, as an auctioneer. Here he wrote his first

contribution to a periodical, “The Essa on the Muel,” which has been

above mentioned.

The popularity of the revised form of this classic of poor spelling

induced him to publish “Josh Billings’ Farmers’ Allminax,” which

continued for ten years, having during a part of the time a

circulation of one hundred and twenty-seven thousand copies per

annum. In 1863 Mr. Shaw entered the lecture-field. His lectures

being a series of pithy sayings without care or order, delivered

in an apparently awkward manner. The quaintness and drollery of

his discourse won very great popularity. For twenty years he was a

regular contributor of “The New York Weekly,” and it is said that the

articles which appeared in “The Century Magazine,” under the signature

of “Uncle Esek,” were his. His published books are “Josh Billings,

His Sayings;” “Josh Billings on Ice;” “Everybody’s Friend;” “Josh

Billings’ Complete Works,” and “Josh Billings’ Spice Box.”

Mr. Shaw died in Monterey, California, in 1885.

* * * * *

JOSH BILLING’S ADVERTISEMENT.

(FROM “JOSH BILLINGS, HIS WORKS.” 1876.)

I KAN sell for eighteen hundred and thirty-nine dollars a pallas,

a sweet and pensive retirement, lokated on the virgin banks ov the

Hudson, kontaining eighty-five acres. The land is luxuriously divided

by the hand of natur and art into pastor and tillage, into plain and

deklivity, into stern abruptness, and the dallianse ov moss-tufted

medder; streams ov sparkling gladness (thick with trout) danse

through this wilderness ov buty tew the low musik ov the kricket and

grasshopper. The evergreen sighs as the evening sephir flits through

its shadowy buzzum, and the aspen trembles like the luv-smitten harte

ov a damsell. Fruits ov the tropicks, in golden buty, melt on the bows,

and the bees go heavy and sweet from the fields to their garnering

hives. The manshun is ov Parian marble; the porch iz a single diamond,

set with rubiz and the mother ov pearl; the floors are ov rosewood,

and the ceilings are more butiful than the starry vault of heaven. Hot

and cold water bubbles and quirts in evry apartment, and nothing is

wanting that a poet could pra for, or art could portray. The stables

are worthy of the steeds ov Nimrod or the studs ov Akilles, and its

hennery waz bilt expressly for the birds of paradice; while sombre in

the distance, like the cave ov a hermit, glimpses are caught ov the

dorg-house. Here poets hav cum and warbled their laze――here skulptors

hav cut, here painters hav robbed the scene ov dreamy landscapes, and

here the philosopher diskovered the stun which made him the alkimist

ov natur. Next, northward ov this thing ov buty, sleeps the residence

and domain ov the Duke, John Smith, while southward, and nearer the

spice-breathing tropicks, may be seen the barronial villy ov Earl

Brown and the Duchess, Widder Betsy Stevens. Walls ov primitiff rock,

laid in Roman cement, bound the estate, while upward and downward the

eye catches the magesta and slow grander ov the Hudson. As the young

moon hangs like a cutting ov silver from the blue brest ov the ski, an

angel may be seen each night dansing with golden tiptoes on the green.

(N. B.――This angel goes with the place.)

* * * * *

MANIFEST DESTINY.

MANIFESS destiny iz the science ov going tew bust, or enny other place

before yu git thare. I may be rong in this centiment, but that iz

the way it strikes me; and i am so put together that when enny thing

strikes me i immejiately strike back. Manifess destiny mite perhaps be

blocked out agin as the condishun that man and things find themselfs

in with a ring in their nozes and sumboddy hold ov the ring. I may be

rong agin, but if i am, awl i have got tew sa iz i don’t kno it, and

what a man don’t kno ain’t no damage tew enny boddy else. The tru way

that manifess destiny had better be sot down iz the exact distance

that a frog kan jump down hill with a striped snake after him; i don’t

kno but i may be rong onst more, but if the frog don’t git ketched the

destiny iz jist what he iz a looking for.

When a man falls into the bottom ov a well and makes up hiz minde tew

stay thare, that ain’t manifess destiny enny more than having yure

hair cut short iz; but if he almost gits out and then falls down in

agin 16 foot deeper and brakes off hiz neck twice in the same plase

and dies and iz buried thare at low water, that iz manifess destiny

on the square. Standing behind a cow in fly time and gitting kicked

twice at one time must feel a good deal like manifess destiny. Being

about 10 seckunds tew late tew git an express train, and then chasing

the train with yure wife, and an umbreller in yure hands, in a hot

day, and not getting as near tew the train az you waz when started,

looks a leetle like manifess destiny on a rale rode trak. Going into a

tempranse house and calling for a leetle old Bourbon on ice, and being

told in a mild way that “the Bourbon iz jist out, but they hav got

sum gin that cost 72 cents a gallon in Paris,” sounds tew me like the

manifess destiny ov most tempranse houses.

Mi dear reader, don’t beleave in manifess destiny until yu see it.

Thare is such a thing az manifess destiny, but when it occurs it iz

like the number ov rings on the rakoon’s tale, ov no great consequense

onla for ornament. Man wan’t made for a machine, if he waz, it was a

locomotiff machine, and manifess destiny must git oph from the trak

when the bell rings or git knocked higher than the price ov gold.

Manifess destiny iz a disseaze, but it iz eazy tew heal; i have seen

it in its wust stages cured bi sawing a cord ov dri hickory wood. i

thought i had it onse; it broke out in the shape ov poetry; i sent a

speciment ov the disseaze tew a magazine; the magazine man wrote me

next day az follers:

“_Dear Sur_: You may be a phule, but you are no poeck. Yures, in

haste.”

* * * * *

LETTERS TO FARMERS.

BELOVED FARMERS: Agrikultur iz the mother ov farm produce; she is also

the step-mother ov gardin sass.

Rize at half-past 2 o’clock in the morning, bild up a big fire in the

kitchen, burn out two pounds ov kandles, and grease yure boots. Wait

pashuntly for dabrake. When day duz brake, then commence tew stir up

the geese and worry the hogs.

Too mutch sleep iz ruinous tew geese and tew hogs. Remember yu kant

git rich on a farm, unless yu rize at 2 o’clock in the morning, and

stir up the hogs and worry the geese.

The happyest man in the world iz the farmer; he rizes at 2 o’clock in

the morning, he watches for da lite tew brake, and when she duz brake,

he goes out and stirs up the geese and worrys the hogs.

What iz a lawyer!――What iz a merchant?――What iz a doktor?――What iz a

minister?――I answer, nothing!

A farmer is the nobless work ov God; he rizes at 2 o’clock in the

morning, and burns out a half a pound ov wood and two kords of kandles,

and then goes out tew worry the geese and stir up the hogs.

Beloved farmers, adew.

JOSH BILLINGS.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

SAMUEL L. CLEMENS.

(MARK TWAIN).

MARK TWAIN has a world wide reputation as the great American humorist,

a reputation which has been steadily growing at home and abroad since

the publication of “Innocents Abroad” in 1869, and he is undoubtedly

one of the most popular authors in the United States. The story of his

life is the record of a career which could have been possible in no

other country in the world.

He was born in Florida in 1835, though most of his boyhood was passed

at ♦Hannibal, Mo., where he attended the village school until he was

thirteen, which was his only opportunity for educational training.

At this early age he was apprenticed to a printer and worked at this

trade in St. Louis, ♠Cincinnati, Philadelphia and New York. During his

boyhood his great ambition, his one yearning, had been to become one

day a pilot on a Mississippi steamboat. He realized this ambition in

1851 and the experiences of this pilot life are told in his “Life on

the Mississippi.” His pen-name was suggested by the expression used in

Mississippi navigation where in sounding a depth of two fathoms, the

leadsman calls out, “Mark Twain!”

♦ ‘Hanibal’ replaced with ‘Hannibal’

♠ ‘Cincinnatti’ replaced with ‘Cincinnati’

After serving in 1861 in Nevada as private secretary to his brother

who was at this time secretary of the Territory, he became city editor

of the Virginia City “Enterprise,” and here his literary labors began,

and the pseudonym now so familiar was first used.

In 1865, he was reporter on the staff of the San Francisco “Morning

Call,” though his newspaper work was interspersed with unsuccessful

attempts at gold digging and a six months’ trip to Hawaii.

This was followed by a lecture trip through California and Nevada,

which gave unmistakable evidence that he had the “gift” of humor.

His fame, however, was really made by the publication of “Innocents

Abroad” (Hartford, 1869), 125,000 copies of which were sold in three

years. This book is a brilliant, humorous account of the travels,

experiences and opinions of a party of tourists to the Mediterranean,

Egypt, Palestine, France and Italy.

His next literary work of note was the publication of “Roughing It”

(Hartford, 1872), which shook the sides of readers all over the United

States. This contained inimitable sketches of the rough border life

and personal experiences in California, Nevada and Utah. In fact all

Mark Twain’s literary work which bears the stamp of permanent worth

and merit is personal and autobiographical. He is never so successful

in works that are purely of an imaginative character.

In 1873, in conjunction with Charles Dudley Warner, he produced a

story entitled the “Gilded Age” which was dramatized and had a marked

success on the stage. His other well-known works are: “Sketches Old

and New;” “Adventures of Tom Sawyer” (1876), a story of boy life in

Missouri and one of his best productions, “Punch, Brothers, Punch”

(1878); “A Tramp Abroad” (1880), containing some of his most humorous

and successful descriptions of personal experiences on a trip through

Germany and Switzerland; “The Stolen White Elephant” (1882); “Prince

and the Pauper” (1882); “Life on the Mississippi” (1883); “Adventures

of Huckleberry Finn” (1885), a sequel to “Tom Sawyer;” “A Yankee at

King Arthur’s Court” and “Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc”

(1896).

In 1884, he established in New York City the publishing house of

C. L. Webster & Co., which issued in the following year the “Memoirs”

of U. S. Grant, the profits from which publication to the amount

of $350,000 were paid to Mrs. Grant in accordance with an agreement

previously signed with General Grant.

By the unfortunate failure of this company in 1895, Mark Twain found

himself a poor man and morally, though not legally, responsible for

large sums due the creditors. Like Sir Walter Scott, he resolved

to wipe out the last dollar of the debt and at once entered upon a

lecturing trip around the world, which effort is proving financially

a success. He is also at work upon a new book soon to be published.

His home is at Hartford, Connecticut, where he has lived in delightful

friendship and intercourse with Charles Dudley Warner, Harriet Beecher

Stowe and other literary characters of that city. His writings have

been translated into German and they have met with large sales both in

England and on the continent.

* * * * *

JIM SMILEY’S FROG.

WELL, this yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken-cocks, and all

them kind of things, till you couldn’t rest, and you couldn’t fetch

nothing for him to bet on but he’d match you. He ketched a frog one

day, and took him home, and said he cal’klated to edercate him; and

so he never done nothing for three months but set in his back yard

and learn that frog to jump. And you bet he _did_ learn him, too. He’d

give him a little punch behind, and the next minute you’d see that

frog whirling in the air like a doughnut,――see him turn one summerset,

or maybe a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat-footed

and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of catching

flies, and kept him in practice so constant, that he’d nail a fly

every time as far as he could see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted

was education, and he could do most anything; and I believe him.

Why, I’ve seen him set Dan’l Webster down here on this floor,――Dan’l

Webster was the name of the frog,――and sing out, “Flies, Dan’l,

flies,” and quicker’n you could wink he’d spring straight up, and

snake a fly off’n the counter there, and flop down on the floor again,

as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head

with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn’t no idea he’d been

doing any more’n any frog might do. You never see a frog so modest

and straightfor’ard as he was, for all he was so gifted. And when it

came to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over

more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see.

Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; and when

it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a

red. Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for

fellers that had traveled and been everywhere, all said he laid over

any frog that ever _they_ see.

Well, Smiley kept the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to

fetch him down town sometimes, and lay for a bet. One day a feller,――a

stranger in the camp he was,――came across him with his box, and says:

“What might it be that you’ve got in the box?”

And Smiley says sorter indifferent like, “It might be a parrot, or it

might be a canary, may be, but it ain’t,――it’s only just a frog.”

And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round

this way and that, and says, “H’m! so ’tis. Well, what’s _he_ good

for?”

“Well,” Smiley says, easy and careless, “he’s good enough for one

thing, I should judge――he can outjump any frog in Calaveras County.”

The feller took the box again, and took another long particular look,

and gave it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, “Well, I don’t

see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.”

“May be you don’t,” Smiley says. “May be you understand frogs, and may

be you don’t understand ’em; may be you’ve had experience, and may be

you an’t only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got _my_ opinion,

and I’ll risk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in Calaveras

County.”

And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like, “Well,

I’m only a stranger here, and I ain’t got no frog; but if I had a frog,

I’d bet you.”

And then Smiley says, “That’s all right, that’s all right; if you’ll

hold my box a minute, I’ll go and get you a frog.” And so the feller

took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley’s and set

down to wait. So he set there a good while, thinking and thinking to

hisself, and then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open, and

took a teaspoon and filled him full of quail shot,――filled him pretty

near up to his chin,――and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the

swamp, and slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he

ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and

says:

“Now, if you’re ready, set him alongside of Dan’l, with his

fore-paws just even with Dan’l, and I’ll give the word.” Then he says,

“One――two――three――jump;” and him and the feller touched up the frogs

from behind, and the new frog hopped off, but Dan’l gave a heave and

hysted up his shoulders,――so,――like a Frenchman, but it wasn’t no

use,――he couldn’t budge; he was planted as solid as an anvil, and he

couldn’t no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was a good

deal surprised, and he was disgusted, too, but he didn’t have no idea

what the matter was, of course.

The feller took the money and started away; and when he was going

out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulders,――this

way,――at Dan’l, and says again, very deliberate, “Well, _I_ don’t see

no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.”

Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan’l a long

time, and at last he says, “I do wonder what in the nation that frog

throwed off for; I wonder if there an’t something the matter with him,

he ’pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.” And he ketched Dan’l by the

nap of the neck, and lifted him up, and says, “Why, blame my cats, if

he don’t weigh five pound!” and turned him upside down, and he belched

out a double handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and he was

the maddest man. He set the frog down, and took out after that feller,

but he never ketched him.

* * * * *

UNCLE DAN’L’S APPARITION AND PRAYER.

(FROM “THE GILDED AGE” OF CLEMENS AND WARNER.)

A DEEP coughing sound troubled the stillness, way toward a wooded cape

that jutted into the stream a mile distant. All in an instant a fierce

eye of fire shot out from behind the cape and sent a long brilliant

pathway quivering athwart the dusky water. The coughing grew louder

and louder, the glaring eye grew larger and still larger, glared

wilder and still wilder. A huge shape developed itself out of the

gloom, and from its tall duplicate horns dense volumes of smoke,

starred and spangled with sparks, poured out and went tumbling away

into the farther darkness. Nearer and nearer the thing came, till its

long sides began to glow with spots of light which mirrored themselves

in the river and attended the monster like a torchlight procession.

“What is it? Oh, what _is_ it, Uncle Dan’l!”

With deep solemnity the answer came:

“It’s de Almighty! Git down on yo’ knees!”

It was not necessary to say it twice. They were all kneeling in a

moment. And then while the mysterious coughing rose stronger and

stronger and the threatening glare reached farther and wider, the

negro’s voice lifted up its supplications:

“O Lord, we’s ben mighty wicked, an’ we knows dat we ’zerve to go to

de bad place, but good Lord, deah Lord, we ain’t ready yit, we ain’t

ready――let these po’ chil’en hab one mo’ chance, jes’ one mo’ chance.

Take de old niggah if you’s got to hab somebody. Good Lord, good deah

Lord, we don’t know whah you’s a gwine to, we don’t know who you’s

got yo’ eye on, but we knows by de way you’s a comin’, we knows by the

way you’s a tiltin’ along in yo’ charyot o’ fiah dat some po’ sinner’s

a gwine to ketch it. But, good Lord, dese chil’en don’ b’long heah,

dey’s f’m Obedstown whah dey don’t know nuffin, an’ yo’ knows, yo’ own

sef, dat dey ain’t ’sponsible. An’ deah Lord, good Lord, it ain’t like

yo’ mercy, it ain’t like yo’ pity, it ain’t like yo’ long-sufferin’

lovin’-kindness for to take dis kind o’ ’vantage o’ sich little

chil’en as dese is when dey’s so many onery grown folks chuck full o’

cussedness dat wants roastin’ down dah. O Lord, spah de little chil’en,

don’t tar de little chil’en away f’m dey frens, jes’ let ’em off dis

once, and take it out’n de ole niggah. HEAH I IS, LORD, HEAH I IS! De

ole niggah’s ready, Lord, de ole――――”

The flaming and churning steamer was right abreast the party, and not

twenty steps away. The awful thunder of a mud-valve suddenly burst

forth, drowning the prayer, and as suddenly Uncle Dan’l snatched a

child under each arm and scoured into the woods with the rest of the

pack at his heels. And then, ashamed of himself, he halted in the deep

darkness and shouted (but rather feebly):

“Heah I is, Lord, heah I is!”

There was a moment of throbbing suspense, and then, to the surprise

and comfort of the party, it was plain that the august presence had

gone by, for its dreadful noises were receding. Uncle Dan’l headed

a cautious reconnoissance in the direction of the log. Sure enough

“the Lord” was just turning a point a short distance up the river, and

while they looked the lights winked out and the coughing diminished by

degrees and presently ceased altogether.

“H’wsh! Well, now, dey’s some folks says dey ain’t no ’ficiency in

prah. Dis chile would like to know whah we’d a ben _now_ if it warn’t

fo’ dat prah! Dat’s it. Dat’s it!”

“Uncle Dan’l, do you reckon it was the prayer that saved us?” said

Clay.

“Does I _reckon_? Don’t I _know_ it! Whah was yo’ eyes? Warn’t de Lord

jes’ a comin’ _chow!_ _chow!_ CHOW! an’ a goin’ on turrible――an’ do

de Lord carry on dat way ’dout dey’s sumfin don’t suit him? An’ warn’t

he a lookin’ right at dis gang heah, an’ warn’t he jes’ a reachin’ fer

’em? An’ d’you spec’ he gwine to let ’em off ’dout somebody ast him to

do it? No indeedy!”

“Do you reckon he saw us, Uncle Dan’l?”

“De law sakes, chile, didn’t I see him a lookin’ at us?”

“Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan’l?”

“_No_ sah! When a man is ’gaged in prah he ain’t ’fraid o’ nuffin――dey

can’t nuffin tech him.”

“Well, what did you run for?”

“Well, I――I――Mars Clay, when a man is under de influence ob de sperit,

he do-no what he’s ’bout――no sah; dat man do-no what he’s ’bout.

You might take an’ tah de head off’n dat man an’ he wouldn’t scasely

fine it out. Dah’s de Hebrew chil’en dat went frough de fiah; dey was

burnt considable――ob coase dey was; but _dey_ did’nt know nuffin ’bout

it――heal right up agin; if dey’d been gals dey’d missed dey long haah

(hair), maybe, but dey wouldn’t felt de burn.”

“_I_ don’t know but what they _were_ girls. I think they were.”

“Now, Mars Clay, you knows better’n dat. Sometimes a body can’t tell

whedder you’s a sayin’ what you means or whedder you’s a saying what

you don’t mean, ’case you says ’em bofe de same way.”

“But how should _I_ know whether they were boys or girls?”

“Goodness sakes, Mars Clay, don’t de good book say? ’Sides don’t it

call ’em de _He_-brew chil’en? If dey was gals wouldn’t dey be de

she-brew chil’en? Some people dat kin read don’t ’pear to take no

notice when dey _do_ read.”

“Well, Uncle Dan’l, I think that―――― My! here comes another one up the

river! There can’t be _two_.”

“We gone dis time――we done gone dis time sho’! Dey ain’t, two, Mars

Clay, dat’s de same one. De Lord kin ’pear everywhah in a second.

Goodness, how de fiah an’ de smoke do belch up! Dat means business,

honey. He comin’ now like he forgot sumfin. Come ’long, chil’en, time

you’s gone to roos’. Go ’long wid you――ole Uncle Dan’l gwine out in de

woods to rastle in prah――de ole niggah gwine to do what he kin to sabe

you agin!”

He did go to the woods and pray; but he went so far that he doubted

himself if the Lord heard him when he went by.

* * * * *

THE BABIES.

From a speech of Mark Twain at the banquet given in honor of

Gen. Grant, by the Army of the Tennessee, at the Palmer House,

Chicago, Nov. 14, 1879.

TOAST:――“The Babies――As they comfort us in our sorrows, let us not

forget them in our festivities.”

I like that. We haven’t all had the good fortune to be ladies; we

haven’t all been generals, or poets, or statesmen; but when the toast

works down to the babies, we stand on common ground, for we have

all been babies. It is a shame that for a thousand years the world’s

banquets have utterly ignored the baby――as if _he_ didn’t amount to

anything! If you gentlemen will stop and think a minute,――if you will

go back fifty or a hundred years, to your early married life, and

recontemplate your first baby, you will remember that he amounted to

a good deal, and even something over. You soldiers all know that when

that little fellow arrived at family head-quarters you had to hand

in your resignation. He took entire command. You became his lackey,

his mere body-servant, and you had to stand around, too. He was not a

commander who made allowances for time, distance, weather, or anything

else. You had to execute his order whether it was possible or not.

And there was only one form of marching in his manual of tactics, and

that was the double-quick. He treated you with every sort of insolence

and disrespect, and the bravest of you didn’t dare to say a word. You

could face the death-storm of Donelson and Vicksburg, and give back

blow for blow; but when he clawed your whiskers, and pulled your hair,

and twisted your nose, you had to take it. When the thunders of war

were sounding in your ears, you set your faces toward the batteries

and advanced with steady tread; but when he turned on the terrors of

his war-whoop, you advanced in the other direction――and mighty glad

of the chance, too. When he called for soothing syrup, did you venture

to throw out any side remarks about certain services unbecoming an

officer and a gentleman? No,――you got up and got it. If he ordered his

bottle, and it wasn’t warm, did you talk back? Not you,――you went to

work and warmed it. You even descended so far in your menial office as

to take a suck at that warm, insipid stuff yourself, to see if it was

right,――three parts water to one of milk, a touch of sugar to modify

the colic, and a drop of peppermint to kill those immortal hiccups.

I can taste that stuff yet. And how many things you learned as you

went along; sentimental young folks still took stock in that beautiful

old saying that when the baby smiles in his sleep, it is because the

angels are whispering to him. Very pretty, but “too thin,”――simply

wind on the stomach, my friends! If the baby proposed to take a walk

at his usual hour, 2:30 in the morning, didn’t you rise up promptly

and remark――with a mental addition which wouldn’t improve a

Sunday-school book much――that that was the very thing you were about

to propose yourself! Oh, you were under good discipline! And as you

went fluttering up and down the room in your “undress uniform” you not

only prattled undignified baby-talk, but even tuned up your martial

voices and tried to sing “Rockaby baby in a tree-top,” for instance.

What a spectacle for an Army of the Tennessee! And what an affliction

for the neighbors, too,――for it isn’t everybody within a mile around

that likes military music at three in the morning. And when you

had been keeping this sort of thing up two or three hours, and your

little velvet-head intimated that nothing suited him like exercise

and noise,――“Go on!”――what did you do? You simply _went_ on, till you

disappeared in the last ditch.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

MISS MARIETTA HOLLEY.

(“JOSIAH ALLEN’S WIFE.”)

THE poetic declaration that “genius unbidden rises to the top” is

fully verified in the now famous “Josiah Allen’s Wife.” Miss Holley

commenced to write at an early age both verses and sketches, but was

so timid that she jealously hid them away from every eye until she

had accumulated quite a collection of manuscript. This most famous

humorist among women was born in a country place near Adams, New York,

where she still lives, and where five generations of her ancestors

have resided. Her first appearance in print was in a newspaper

published in Adams. The editor of the paper, it is said, praised

her article, and she was also encouraged by Charles J. Peterson, for

whom she wrote later. She wrote also for “The Independent” and other

journals. Most of her early articles were poems, and were widely

copied both in America and Europe.

Miss Holley’s first pen-name was ♦“Jemyma.” It was not until she

wrote a dialectic sketch for “Peterson’s Magazine” that she began to

sign her name as “Josiah Allen’s Wife.” This sketch brought her into

prominence, and ♠Elijah Bliss, President of The American Publishing

Company, of Hartford, Connecticut, it is said, against the protests

of his company, published “Josiah Allen’s Wife” in book form, and

encouraged her to write another book, which he issued under the name

of “My Opinions and Betsy Bobbet’s” (1872). Since this Miss Holley’s

fame has steadily increased, and she has issued a book every few

years. “Samantha at the Centennial” appeared in 1877, describing

the experiences of herself and Josiah at that great international

exhibition. It is extremely humorous and added to her already great

fame. “My Wayward Pardner” appeared in 1880. In 1882 she published

“Miss Richards’ Boy,” a book of stories, but not written in dialect.

All of the above works were issued by her Hartford publisher, as was

also her illustrated poem entitled “The Mormon Wife.” In 1885 “Sweet

Cicely, or Josiah Allen’s Wife as a Politician,” appeared in New

York. In 1887 her famous book, “Samantha at Saratoga,” was issued

in Philadelphia, for the manuscript of which she was paid $10,000 in

cash, in addition to which sum she also received a considerable amount

from the “Ladies’ Home Journal” for parts of the work published in

serial form in that magazine. Nearly a quarter of a million copies

of her “Samantha at Saratoga” have already been sold. During the same

year she issued a book of poems in New York, and further popularized

her _nom-de-plume_ by “Samantha Among the Brethren” in 1891. In 1893

“Samantha on the Race Problem” created considerable amusement by the

mixture of grotesque humor and philosophy on this much discussed and

serious problem, the illustrations in the work adding no small quota

to its popularity. In 1894 appeared “Samantha at the World’s Fair”

in which the experiences of herself and her partner, Josiah, are even

more amusing than those at the Centennial in 1876.

♦ ‘Jemyme’ replaced with ‘Jemyma’

♠ ‘Elija’ replaced with ‘Elijah’

Through all of Miss Holley’s works there runs a vein of homely

philosophy and practical common sense. It is in a most delightfully

good-humored manner that she takes off the foibles and follies of

“racin’ after fashion.” Her humor is remarkably wholesome, and while

it is not remiss in laughter-provoking quality, is always clear, and

above all things pure. Her books have been widely circulated both

in America and in Europe, and some of them have been translated into

other languages.

* * * * *

JOSIAH ALLEN’S WIFE CALLS ON THE PRESIDENT.¹

Josiah Alien has a violent attack of political fever and his

wife being greatly exercised over it finally concludes to

visit Washington, and take the advice of the President on the

disturbing question. This interview with the President is a

fair example of the author’s style.

¹ From “Sweet Cicely.” Permission of Funk & Wagnalls.

AND so we wended our way down the broad, beautiful streets towards the

White House. Handsomer streets I never see. I had thought Jonesville

streets wus middlin’ handsome and roomy. Why, two double wagons

can go by each other with perfect safety, right in front of the

grocery-stores, where there is lots of boxes too; and wimmen can be

a-walkin’ there too at the same time, hefty ones.

But, good land! loads of hay could pass each other here, and droves

of dromedaries, and camels, and not touch each other, and then there

would be lots of room for men and wimmen, and for wagons to rumble,

and perioguers to float up and down――if perioguers could sail on dry

land.

Roomier, handsomer, well-shadeder streets I never want to see, nor

don’t expect to. Why Jonesville streets are like tape compared with

’em; and Loontown and Toad Holler, they are like thread, No. 50

(allegory).

Bub Smith wus well acquainted with the President’s hired man, so he

let us in without parlay.

I don’t believe in talkin’ big as a general thing. But think’es I,

Here I be, a-holdin’ up the dignity of Jonesville: and here I be, on

a deep, heart-searchin’ errent to the Nation. So I said, in words and

axents a good deal like them I have read of in “Children of the Abbey”

and “Charlotte Temple,”――

“Is the President of the United States within?”

He said he was, but said sunthin’ about his not receiving calls in the

mornings.

But I says in a very polite way,――for I like to put folks at their

ease, presidents or peddlers or anything,――

It hain’t no matter at all if he hain’t dressed up; of course he

wuzn’t expectin’ company. Josiah don’t dress up mornin’s.”

And then he says something about “he didn’t know but he was engaged.”

Says I, “That hain’t no news to me, nor the Nation. We have been

a-hearin’ that for three years, right along. And if he is engaged, it

hain’t no good reason why he shouldn’t speak to other wimmen,――good,

honorable married ones too.”

“Well,” says he, finally, “I will take up your card.”

“No, you won’t!” says I, firmly. “I am a Methodist! I guess I can

start off on a short tower without takin’ a pack of cards with me.

And if I had ’em right here in my pocket, or a set of dominoes, I

shouldn’t expect to take up the time of the President of the United

States a-playin’ games at this time of the day.” Says I, in deep tones,

“I am a-carrien’ errents to the President that the world knows not of.”

He blushed up red; he was ashamed; and he said, “he would see if I

could be admitted.”

* * * * *

I was jest a-thinkin’ this when the hired man came back, and said,――

“The President would receive me.”

“Wall,” says I, calmly, “I am ready to be received.”

So I follered him; and he led the way into a beautiful room,

kinder round, and red-colored, with lots of elegant pictures and

lookin’-glasses and books.

* * * * *

He then shook hands with me, and I with him. I, too, am a perfect lady.

And then he drawed up a chair for me with his own hands (hands that

grip holt of the same hellum that G. W. had gripped holt of. O soul!

be calm when I think on’t), and asked me to set down; and consequently

I sot.

I leaned my umberell in a easy, careless position against a adjacent

chair, adjusted my long green veil in long, graceful folds,――I hain’t

vain, but I like to look well,――and then I at once told him of my

errents. I told him――

“I had brought three errents to him from Jonesville,――one for myself,

and two for Dorlesky Burpy.”

He bowed, but didn’t say nothin’: he looked tired. Josiah always looks

tired in the mornin’ when he has got his milkin’ and barn-chores done,

so it didn’t surprise me. And havin’ calculated to tackle him on my

own errent first, consequently I tackled him.

I told him how deep my love and devotion to my pardner wuz.

And he said “he had heard of it.”

And I says, “I s’pose so. I s’pose such things will spread, bein’ a

sort of a rarity. I’d heard that it had got out, ’way beyend Loontown,

and all round.”

“Yes,” he said, “it was spoke of a good deal.”

“Wall,” says I, “the cast-iron love and devotion I feel for that man

don’t show off the brightest in hours of joy and peace. It towers up

strongest in dangers and troubles.” And then I went on to tell him how

Josiah wanted to come there as a senator, and what a dangerous place I

had always heard Washington wuz, and how I had felt it was impossible

for me to lay down on my goose-feather pillow at home, in peace and

safety, while my pardner was a-grapplin’ with dangers of which I

did not know the exact size and heft. Then, says I, solemnly, “I ask

you, not as a politician, but as a human bein’, would you dast to let

Josiah come?”

The President didn’t act surprised a mite. And finally he told me,

what I had always mistrusted, but never knew, that Josiah had wrote

to him all his political views and aspirations, and offered his help

to the government. And says he, “I think I know all about the man.”

“Then,” says I, “you see he is a good deal like other men.”

And he said, sort o’ dreamily, “that he was.”

And then again silence rained. He was a-thinkin’, I knew, on all the

deep dangers that hedged in Josiah Allen and America if he come. And

a-musin’ on all the probable dangers of the Plan. And a-thinkin’ it

over how to do jest right in the matter,――right by Josiah, right by

the nation, right by me.

Finally the suspense of the moment wore onto me too deep to bear, and

I says, in almost harrowin’ tones of anxiety and suspense,――

“Would it be safe for my pardner to come to Washington? Would it be

safe for Josiah, safe for the nation?” Says I, in deeper, mournfuller

tones,――

“Would you――would you dast to let him come?”

Pity and good feelin’ then seemed to overpower for a moment the

statesman and courteous diplomat.

And he said, in gentle, gracious tones, “If I tell you just what I

think, I would not like to say it officially, but would say it in

confidence, as from an Allen to an Allen.”

“Says I, “It shan’t go no further.”

And so I would warn everybody that it must not be told.

Then says he, “I will tell you. I wouldn’t dast.”

Says I, “That settles it. If human efforts can avail, Josiah Allen

will not be United States Senator.” And says I, “You have only

confirmed my fears. I knew, feelin’ as he felt, that it wuzn’t safe

for Josiah or the nation to have him come.”

Agin he reminded me that it was told to me in confidence, and agin I

want to say that it _must_ be kep’.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.

AUTHOR OF “LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.”

THE humorous and dialectic literature of America owes more to Charles

Follen Adams perhaps than to any other contributor who has not made

literature a business or depended upon his pen for his livelihood.

There is not a pretentious book of humorous readings or popular

selections of late years which has not enriched its pages from this

pleasingly funny man who delineates the German-American character and

imitates its dialect with an art that is so true to nature as to be

well-nigh perfection. “The Puzzled Dutchman;” “Mine Vamily;” “Mine

Moder-in-Law;” “Der Vater Mill;” “Der Drummer,” and, above all, “Dot

Leedle Yawcob Strauss,” have become classics of their kind and will

not soon suffer their author to be forgotten.

Charles Follen Adams was born in Dorchester, Mass., April 21, 1842,

where he received a common school education, leaving school at fifteen

years of age to take a position in a business house in Boston. This

place he occupied until August, 1862, when he enlisted, at the age

of twenty, in the Thirteenth Massachusetts Regiment of Volunteers,

and saw service in a number of hard-fought battles. At Gettysburg,

in 1863, he was wounded and held a prisoner for three days until

the Union forces recaptured the town. After the close of the war he

resumed business, and succeeded in placing himself at the head of a

large business house in Boston, where he has continued to reside.

It was not until 1870 that Mr. Adams wrote his first poem, and it

was two years later that his first dialectic effort, “The Puzzled

Dutchman,” appeared and made his name known. From that time he begun

to contribute “as the spirit moved him” to the local papers, “Oliver

Optic’s Magazine,” and, now and then, to “Scribner’s.” In 1876 he

became a regular contributor to the “Detroit Free Press,” his “Leedle

Yawcob Strauss” being published in that paper in June, 1876. For many

years all his productions were published in that journal, and did much

to enhance its growing popularity as a humorous paper.

As a genial, companionable man in business and social circles, Mr.

Adams has as great distinction among his friends as he holds in the

literary world as a humorist. His house is one of marked hospitality

where the fortunate guest always finds a cordial welcome.

* * * * *

DER DRUMMER.¹

¹ Special Permission of the Author.

WHO puts oup at der pest hotel,

Und dakes his oysders on der schell,

Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell?

Der drummer.

Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore,

Drows down his pundles on der vloor,

Und nefer schtops to shut der door?

Der drummer.

Who dakes me py der handt, und say,

“Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day?”

Und goes vor peeseness righdt avay?

Der drummer.

Who shpreads his zamples in a trice,

Und dells me, “Look, und see how nice?”

Und says I get “der bottom price?”

Der drummer.

Who dells how sheap der goods vas bought,

Mooch less as vot I gould imbort,

But lets dem go as he vas “short?”

Der drummer.

Who says der tings vas eggstra vine,――

“Vrom Sharmany, ubon der Rhine,”――

Und sheats me den dimes oudt off nine?

Der drummer.

Who varrants all der goots to suit

Der gustomers ubon his _route_,

Und ven dey gomes dey vas no goot?

Der drummer.

Who gomes aroundt ven I been oudt,

Drinks oup mine bier, and eats mine kraut,

Und kiss Katrina in der mout’?

Der drummer.

Who, ven he gomes again dis vay,

Vill hear vot Pfeiffer has to say,

Und mit a plack eye goes avay?

Der drummer.

* * * * *

HANS AND FRITZ.¹

¹ Special Permission of the Author.

HANS and Fritz were two Deutschers who lived side by side,

Remote from the world, its deceit and its pride:

With their pretzels and beer the spare moments were spent,

And the fruits of their labor were peace and content.

Hans purchased a horse of a neighbor one day,

And, lacking a part of the _Geld_,――as they say,――

Made a call upon Fritz to solicit a loan

To help him to pay for his beautiful roan.

Fritz kindly consented the money to lend,

And gave the required amount to his friend;

Remarking,――his own simple language to quote,――

“Berhaps it vas bedder ve make us a note.”

The note was drawn up in their primitive way,――

“I, Hans, gets from Fritz feefty tollars to-day;”

When the question arose, the note being made,

“Vich von holds dot baper until it vas baid?”

“You geeps dot,” says Fritz, “und den you vill know

You owes me dot money.” Says Hans, “Dot ish so:

Dot makes me remempers I half dot to bay,

Und I prings you der note und der money some day.”

A month had expired, when Hans, as agreed,

Paid back the amount, and from debt he was freed.

Says Fritz, “Now dot settles us.” Hans replies, “Yaw:

Now who dakes dot baper accordings by law?”

“I geeps dot now, aind’t it?” says Fritz; “den you see,

I alvays remempers you paid dot to me.”

Says Hans, “Dot ish so: it vas now shust so blain,

Dot I knows vot to do ven I porrows again.”

* * * * *

YAWCOB STRAUSS.¹

¹ Special Permission of the Author.

I HAF von funny leedle poy,

Vot gomes schust to mine knee;

Der queerest schap, der createst rogue,

As efer you dit see,

He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings

In all barts off der house:

But vot off dot? he vas mine son,

Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measles und der mumbs,

Und eferyding dot’s oudt;

He sbills mine glass off lager bier,

Poots schnuff indo mine kraut,

He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese.――

Dot vas der roughest chouse:

I’d dake dot vrom no oder poy

But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,

Und cuts mine cane in dwo,

To make der schticks to beat it mit.――

Mine cracious dot vas drue!

I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,

He kicks oup sooch a touse:

But nefer mind; der poys vas few

Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese:

Who baints mine nose so red?

Who vas it cut dot schmoodth blace oudt

Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?

Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp

Vene er der glim I douse.

How gan I all dose dings eggsblain

To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?

I somedimes dink I schall go vild

Mit sooch a grazy poy,

Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest,

Und beaceful dimes enshoy;

But ven he vas ashleep in ped,

So guiet as a mouse,

I prays der Lord, “Dake anyding,

But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss.”

* * * * *

MINE MODER-IN-LAW.¹

¹ Copyright, Harper & Bros.

THERE vas many qveer dings in dis land of der free,

I neffer could qvite understand;

Der beoples dhey all seem so deefrent to me

As dhose in mine own faderland.

Dhey gets blendy droubles, und indo mishaps

Mitout der least bit off a cause;

Und vould you pelief it? dhose mean Yangee shaps

Dhey fights mit dheir moder-in-laws?

Shust dink off a vhite man so vicked as dot!

Vhy not gife der oldt lady a show?

Who vas it gets oup, ven der nighdt id vas hot,

Mit mine baby, I shust like to know?

Und dhen in dher vinter vhen Katrine vas sick

Und der mornings vas shnowy und raw,

Who made righdt avay oup dot fire so quick?

Vhy, dot vas mine moder-in-law.

Id vas von off dhose voman’s righdts vellers I been

Dhere vas noding dot’s mean aboudt me;

Vhen der oldt lady vishes to run dot masheen,

Vhy, I shust let her run id, you see.

Und vhen dot shly Yawcob vas cutting some dricks

(A block off der oldt chip he vas, yaw!)

Ef he goes for dot shap like some dousand off bricks,

Dot’s all righdt! She’s mine moder-in-law.

Veek oudt und veek in, id vas always der same,

Dot vomen vas boss off der house;

But, dehn, neffer mindt! I vas glad dot she came

She vas kind to mine young Yawcob Strauss.

Und ven dhere vas vater to get vrom der spring

Und firevood to shplit oup und saw

She vas velcome to do it. Dhere’s not anyding

Dot’s too good for mine moder-in-law.

* * * * *

YAWCOB’S DRIBULATIONS.¹

(SEQUEL TO “LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.”)

¹ Copyright, Lee & Shepard.

MAYBE dot you don’d rememper,

Eighdeen――dwendy years ago,

How I dold aboudt mine Yawcob――

Dot young rashkell, don’t you know,

Who got schicken-box und measles;

Filled mine bipe mit Limburg sheeze;

Cut mine cane oup indo dhrum-schticks,

Und blay all sooch dricks as dhese.

Vell! dhose times dhey vas been ofer,

Und dot son off mine, py shings!

Now vas taller as hees fader,

Und vas oup to all sooch dhings

Like shimnasdic dricks und pase pall;

Und der oder day he say

Dot he boxes mit “adthledics,”

Somevheres ofer on Back Bay.

Times vas deeferent, now, I dold you,

As vhen he vas been a lad;

Dhen Katrine she make hees drowsers

Vrom der oldt vones off hees dad;

Dhey vas cut so full und baggy,

Dot id dook more as a fool

To find oudt eef he vas going,

Or vas coming home vrom school.

Now, dhere vas no making ofer

Off mine clothes to make a suit

For dot poy――der times vas schanged;

“Der leg vas on der oder boot;”

For vhen hees drowsers dhey gets dhin,

Und sort off “schlazy” roundt der knee,

Dot Mrs. Strauss she dake der sceessors

Und she cuts dhem down for me.

Shust der oder day dot Yawcob

Gife me von electric shock,

Vhen he say he vants fife-hundord

To invesht in railroadt schtock.

Dhen I dell him id vas beddher

Dot he leaf der schtocks alone,

Or some fellar dot vas schmardter

Dake der meat und leaf der bone.

Und vhen I vas got oxcited,

Und say he get “schwiped” und fooled,

Dhen he say he haf a “pointer”

Vrom soom frendts off Sage und Gould;

Und dot he vas on “rock bottom;”

Had der “inside drack” on “Atch――”

Dot vas too mooch fur hees fader,

Und I coom oup to der scratch.

Dhen in bolitics he dabbles,

Und all qvesdions, great und schmall,

Make no deeferent to dot Yawcob――

For dot poy he knows id all.

Und he say dot dhose oldt fogies

Must be laid oup on der shelf,

Und der governors und mayors

Should pe young men――like himself.

Vell! I vish I vas dransborted

To dhose days of long ago,

Vhen dot schafer beat der milk-ban,

Und schkydoodled droo der schnow.

I could schtand der mumbs und measles,

Und der ruckshuns in der house;

Budt mine presendt dribulations

Vas too mooch for Meester Strauss.

* * * * *

THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN.¹

The copy for this selection was forwarded to us by the author

himself with the notation on the side, “My First Dialect Poem.”

¹ Copyright, Lee & Shepard.

I’M a broken-hearted Deutscher,

Vots villed mit crief unt shame.

I dells you vot der drouble ish――

I doesn’t know my name.

You dinks it ferry vunny, eh?

Ven you der story hear,

You vill not wonder den so mooch,

It vas so shtrange und queer.

Mein mudder had dwo liddle dwins――

Dey vas me und mein brudder;

Ve lookt so very mooch alike

No von knew vich from toder.

Von of der poys was Yawcob

Und Hans der oder’s name;

But den it made no different――

Ve both got called der same.

Vell, von of us got tead――

Yaw, Mynheer, dat is so;

But vedder Hans or Yawcob,

Mein mudder she don’t know.

Und so I am in droubles;

I gan’t git droo mein hed

Vedder I’m Hans vot’s living,

Or Yawcob vot is tead.

* * * * *

DER OAK AND DER VINE.¹

¹ From “Dialect Ballads.” Copyright, 1887, by Harper

& Brothers.

I DON’D vas preaching voman’s righdts,

Or anyding like dot,

Und I likes to see all beoples

Shust gondented mit dheir lot;

Budt I vants to gondradict dot shap

Dot made dis leedle shoke;

“A voman vas der glinging vine,

Und man, der shturdy oak.”

Berhaps, somedimes, dot may be drue;

Budt, den dimes oudt off nine,

I find me oudt dot man himself

Vas peen der glinging vine;

Und ven hees friendts dhey all vas gone,

Und he vas shust “tead proke,”

Dot’s vhen der voman shteps righdt in,

Und peen der shturdy oak.

Shust go oup to der paseball groundts

Und see dhose “shturdy oaks”

All planted roundt ubon der seats――

Shust hear dheir laughs and shokes!

Dhen see dhose vomens at der tubs,

Mit glothes oudt on der lines;

Vhich vas der shturdy oaks, mine friendts,

Und vhich der glinging vines?

Ven sickness in der householdt comes,

Und veeks und veeks he shtays,

Who vas id fighdts him mitoudt resdt,

Dhose veary nighdts und days?

Who beace und gomfort alvays prings,

Und cools dot fefered prow?

More like id vas der tender vine

Dot oak he glings to, now.

“Man vants budt leedle here below,”

Der boet von time said;

Dhere’s leedle dot man he don’d vant,

I dink id means, inshted;

Und ven der years keep rolling on,

Dheir cares und droubles pringing,

He vants to pe der shturdy oak,

Und, also, do der glinging.

Maype, vhen oaks dhey gling some more,

Und don’d so shturdy peen,

Der glinging vines dhey haf some shance

To helb run life’s masheen.

In helt und sickness, shoy und pain,

In calm or shtormy veddher,

’Twas beddher dot dhose oaks und vines

Should alvays gling togeddher.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

EDGAR WILSON NYE.

(BILL NYE.)

AMONG those who have shaken the sides of the fun-loving citizens of

the United States and many in the old world with genuine wit and droll

humor, our familiar and purely American “Bill Nye” must be numbered.

Edgar Wilson Nye was a born “funny man” whose humor was as

irrepressible as his disposition to breathe air. The very face of the

man, while far from being homely, as is frequently judged from comic

pictures of him, was enough to provoke the risibility of the most

sedate and unsmiling citizens in any community. When Mr. Nye walked

out on the platform to exhibit in his plain manner a few samples of

his “Baled Hay,” or offer what he was pleased to term a few “Remarks,”

or to narrate one or more of the tales told by those famous creatures

of his imagination known as “The Forty Liars,”――before a word was

uttered an infectious smile often grew into a roaring laugh.

Edgar Wilson Nye was born at Shirley, Maine, 1850. His parents removed

to Wisconsin, and thence to Wyoming Territory when he was but a boy,

and he grew up amid the hardships and humorous aspects of frontier

life, which he has so amusingly woven into the warp and the woof of

his early “yarns.” Mr. Nye studied law and was admitted to the bar

in 1876; but practiced his profession only one year. Afterwards he

reported for the newspapers, and, in 1878, began to write regularly

a weekly humorous letter for the Sunday papers in the West. This

he continued to do for several years, receiving good compensation

therefor, and his reputation as a humorous writer grew steadily and

rapidly.

In 1884, Mr. Nye came to New York and organized the Nye Trust,

or Syndicate, through which a weekly letter from him should

simultaneously appear in the journals of the principal cities of the

Union. This increased his fame; and during the later years of his life

he was engaged much of his time on the lecture platform, sometimes

alone, and sometimes in company with other prominent authors. He and

the poet, James Whitcomb Riley, did considerable touring together

and were enthusiastically welcomed wherever they went, the people

invariably turning out in large numbers to enjoy a feast of fun and

good feeling which this pair of prominent and typical Westerners never

failed to treat them to.

Among the most humorous of Mr. Nye’s recent writings were his famous

letters from Buck’s Shoals, North Carolina, where, in his imagination,

he established himself as a southern farmer, and dealt out his rural

philosophy and comments on current events to the delight, not only of

the farmers――many of whom imagined that he was really one of them――but

of every class of readers throughout the country.

In 1894 Mr. Nye turned his attention to another branch of humor, and

brought out “Bill Nye’s History of the United States.” The drollery

and humor of this work is unsurpassed――the interest and delight of

the reader being greatly enhanced by the fact that he followed the

chronological thread of the real historic narrative on which he pours

the sidelights of his side-splitting humor. The success of this book

was so great that Mr. Nye was preparing to go abroad to write humorous

histories of England and other European countries when he suddenly

died in 1896, in the 47th year of his age.

After his death Mrs. Nye went abroad, stopping in Berlin for the

education of her children. The royalty on “Bill Nye’s” books brings an

ample support for his family.

* * * * *

THE WILD COW.

(CLIPPING FROM NEWSPAPER.)

WHEN I was young and used to roam around over the country, gathering

water-melons in the light of the moon, I used to think I could

milk anybody’s cow, but I do not think so now. I do not milk a cow

now unless the sign is right, and it hasn’t been right for a good

many years. The last cow I tried to milk was a common cow, born in

obscurity; kind of a self-made cow. I remember her brow was low, but

she wore her tail high and she was haughty, oh, so haughty.

I made a common-place remark to her, one that is used in the very best

of society, one that need not have given offence anywhere. I said,

“So”――and she “soed.” Then I told her to “hist” and she histed. But I

thought she overdid it. She put too much expression in it.

Just then I heard something crash through the window of the barn and

fall with a dull, sickening thud on the outside. The neighbors came to

see what it was that caused the noise. They found that I had done it

in getting through the window.

I asked the neighbors if the barn was still standing. They said it was.

Then I asked if the cow was injured much. They said she seemed to be

quite robust. Then I requested them to go in and calm the cow a little,

and see if they could get my plug hat off her horns.

I am buying all my milk now of a milkman. I select a gentle milkman

who will not kick, and feel as though I could trust him. Then, if he

feels as though he could trust me, it is all right.

* * * * *

MR. WHISK’S TRUE LOVE.

SO she said to him: “Oh, darling, I fear that my wealth hath taught

thee to love me, and if it were to take wings unto itself thou wouldst

also do the same.”

“Nay, Gwendolin,” said Mr. Whisk, softly, as he drew her head down

upon his shoulder and tickled the lobe of her little cunning ear with

the end of his moustache, “I love not thy dollars, but thee alone.

Also elsewhere. If thou doubtest me, give thy wealth to the poor. Give

it to the World’s Fair. Give it to the Central Pacific Railroad. Give

it to any one who is suffering.”

“No,” she unto him straightway did make answer, “I could not do that,

honey.”

“Then give it to your daughter,” said Mr. Whisk, “if you think I am

so low as to love alone your yellow dross.” He then drew himself up

to his full height.

She flew to his arms like a frightened dove that has been hit on the

head with a rock. Folding her warm round arms about his neck, she

sobbed with joy and gave her entire fortune to her daughter.

Mr. Whisk then married the daughter, and went on about his business.

I sometimes think that, at the best, man is a great coarse thing.

* * * * *

THE DISCOVERY OF NEW YORK.

FROM “BILL NYE’S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES, 1894.”

_By Permission of J. B. Lippincott Co._

THE author will now refer to the discovery of the Hudson River and the

town of New York via Fort Lee and the 125th Street Ferry.

New York was afterwards sold for twenty-four dollars,――the whole

island. When I think of this I go into my family gallery, which I also

use as a swear room, and tell those ancestors of mine what I think of

them. Where were they when New York was sold for twenty-four dollars?

Were they having their portraits painted by Landseer, or their

disposition taken by Jeffreys, or having their Little Lord Fauntleroy

clothes made?

Do not encourage them to believe that they will escape me in future

years. Some of them died unregenerate, and are now, I am told, in a

country where they may possibly be damned; and I will attend to the

others personally.

Twenty-four dollars for New York! Why, my Croton-water tax on one

house and lot with fifty feet four and one-fourth inches front is

fifty-nine dollars and no questions asked. Why, you can’t get a voter

for that now.

Henry――or Hendrik――Hudson was an English navigator, of whose birth

and early history nothing is known definitely, hence his name is never

mentioned in many of the best homes of New York.

In 1607 he made a voyage in search of the North West Passage. In one

of his voyages he discovered Cape Cod, and later on the Hudson River.

This was one hundred and seventeen years after Columbus discovered

America; which shows that the discovering business was not pushed as

it should have been by those who had it in charge.

Hudson went up the river as far as Albany, but, finding no one there

whom he knew, he hastened back as far as 209th Street West, and

anchored.

He discovered Hudson Bay and Hudson Strait, and made other journeys

by water, though aquatting was then in its infancy. Afterwards his

sailors became mutinous, and set Hendrik and his son, with seven

infirm sailors, afloat.

Ah! Whom have we here?

It is Hendrik Hudson, who discovered the Hudson River.

Here he has just landed at the foot of 209th Street, New York, where

he offered the Indians liquor, but they refused.

Illustration: (‡ Pilgrims bargaining with Indians)

How 209th Street has changed!

The artist has been fortunate in getting the expression of the Indians

in the act of refusing. Mr. Hudson’s great reputation lies in the fact

that he discovered the river which bears his name; but the thinking

mind will at once regard the discovery of an Indian who does not drink

as far more wonderful.

Some historians say that this special delegation was swept away

afterwards by a pestilence, whilst others, commenting on the incident,

maintain that Hudson lied.

It is the only historical question regarding America not fully settled

by this book.

Nothing more was heard by him till he turned up in a thinking part in

“Rip Van Winkle.”

Many claims regarding the discovery of various parts of the United

States had been previously made. The Cabots had discovered Labrador;

the Spaniards the southern part of the United States; the Norsemen had

discovered Minneapolis; and Columbus had discovered San Salvador and

had gone home to meet a ninety-day note due in Palos for the use of

the Pinta, which he had hired by the hour.

But we are speaking of the discovery of New York.

About this time a solitary horseman might have been seen at West

209th Street, clothed in a little brief authority, and looking out to

the west as he petulantly spoke in the Tammany dialect, then in the

language of the blank-verse Indian. He began: “Another day of anxiety

has passed, and yet we have not been discovered! The Great Spirit

tells me in the thunder of the surf and the roaring cataract of the

Harlem that within a week we will be discovered for the first time.”

As he stands there aboard of his horse one sees that he is a chief in

every respect, and in life’s great drama would naturally occupy the

middle of the stage. It was at this moment that Hudson slipped down

the river from Albany past Fort Lee, and, dropping a nickle in the

slot at 125th Street, weighed his anchor at that place. As soon as he

had landed and discovered the city, he was approached by the chief,

who said: “We gates. I am on the committee to show you our little town.

I suppose you have a power of attorney, of course, for discovering us?”

“Yes,” said Hudson. “As Columbus used to say when he discovered San

Salvador, ‘I do it by the right vested in me by my sovereigns.’ ‘That

oversizes my pile by a sovereign and a half,’ says one of the natives;

and so, if you have not heard it, there is a good thing for one of

your dinner-speeches here.”

“Very good,” said the chief, as they jogged downtown on a swift Sixth

Avenue elevated train towards the wigwams on 14th Street, and going

at the rate of four miles an hour. “We do not care especially who

discovers us so long as we hold control of the city organization. How

about that, Hank?”

“That will be satisfactory,” said Mr. Hudson, taking a package of

imported cheese and eating it, so that they could have the car to

themselves.

“We will take the departments, such as Police, Street-cleaning, etc.,

etc., etc., while you and Columbus get your pictures on the currency

and have your graves mussed up on anniversaries. We get the two-moment

horses and the country châteaux on the Bronx. Sabe?”

“That is, you do not care whose portrait is on the currency,” said

Hudson, “so you get the currency.”

Said the man, “That is the sense of the meeting.”

Thus was New York discovered via Albany and Fort Lee, and five minutes

after the two touched glasses, the brim of the schoppin and the

Manhattan cocktail tinkled together, and New York was inaugurated.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.

(“UNCLE REMUS.”)

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS has called himself “an accidental author,” for

while living on a plantation as a typesetter on a country newspaper

he became familiar with the curious myths and animal stories of the

negroes, and some time in the seventies he printed a magazine article

on these folk-lore stories, giving at the same time some of the

stories as illustration.

This article attracted attention and revealed to the writer the fact

that the stories had a decided literary value, and his main literary

work has been the elaboration of these myths.

The stories of “Uncle Remus” are, as almost everyone knows, not

creations of the author’s fancy, but they are genuine folk-lore

tales of the negroes, and strangely enough many of these stories are

found in varying forms among the American Indians, among the Indians

along the Amazon and in Brazil, and they are even found in India and

Siam, which fact has called out learned discussions of the origin and

antiquity of the stories and the possible connection of the races.

Our author was born in Eatonton, a little village in Georgia, December

9, 1848, in very humble circumstances. He was remarkably impressed,

while still very young, with the “Vicar of Wakefield,” and he

straightway began to compose little tales of his own.

In 1862 he went to the office of the “Countryman,” a rural weekly

paper in Georgia, to learn typesetting. It was edited and published

on a large plantation, and the negroes of this and the adjoining

plantations furnished him with the material out of which the “Uncle

Remus” stories came.

While learning to set type the young apprentice occasionally tried

his hand at composing, and not infrequently he slipped into the

“Countryman” a little article, composed and printed, without ever

having been put in manuscript form.

The publication of an article on the folk-lore of the negroes in

“Lippincott’s Magazine” was the beginning of his literary career, and

the interest this awakened stimulated him to develop these curious

animal stories.

Many of the stories were first printed as articles in the Atlanta

“Constitution,” and it was soon seen by students of myth-literature

that these stories were very significant and important in their

bearing on general mythology.

For the child they have a charm and an interest as “good stories,”

and they are told with rare skill and power, but for the student

of ethnology they have special value as throwing some light on the

probable relation of the negroes with other races which tell similar

folk-tales.

Mr. Harris has studied and pursued the profession of law, though

he has now for many years been one of the editors of the Atlanta

“Constitution,” for which many of his contributions have been

originally written.

He is also a frequent contributor both of prose and poetry to current

literature, and he is the author of the following books: “Uncle Remus,

His Songs and His Sayings; the Folk-lore of the Old Plantation” (New

York, 1880), “Nights With Uncle Remus” (Boston, 1883), “Mingo and

Other Sketches” (1883).

* * * * *

MR. RABBIT, MR. FOX, AND MR. BUZZARD.¹

(FROM “UNCLE REMUS.”)

¹ Copyright, George Routledge & Sons.

ONE evening when the little boy whose nights with Uncle Remus are as

entertaining as those Arabian ones of blessed memory, had finished

supper and hurried out to sit with his venerable patron, he found the

old man in great glee. Indeed, Uncle Remus was talking and laughing to

himself at such a rate that the little boy was afraid he had company.

The truth is, Uncle Remus had heard the child coming, and when the

rosy-cheeked chap put his head in at the door, was engaged in a

monologue, the burden of which seemed to be――

“Ole Molly Har’,

W’at you doin’ dar,

Settin’ in de cornder

Smokin’ yo’ seegyar?”

As a matter of course this vague allusion reminded the little boy of

the fact that the wicked Fox was still in pursuit of the Rabbit, and

he immediately put his curiosity in the shape of a question.

“Uncle Remus, did the Rabbit have to go clean away when he got loose

from the Tar-Baby?”

“Bless grashus, honey, dat he didn’t. Who? Him? You dunno nuthin’

’tall ’bout Brer Rabbit ef dat’s de way you puttin’ ’im down. Wat he

gwine ’way fer? He mouter stayed sorter close twel the pitch rub off’n

his ha’r, but twern’t menny days ’fo’ he wuz loping up en down de

naberhood same as ever, en I dunno ef he wern’t mo’ sassier dan befo’.

“Seem like dat de tale ’bout how he got mixt up wid de Tar-Baby got

’roun’ mongst de nabers. Leas’ways, Miss Meadows en de girls got win’

un’ it, en de nex’ time Brer Rabbit paid um a visit, Miss Meadows

tackled ’im ’bout it, en de gals sot up a monstus gigglement. Brer

Rabbit, he sot up des ez cool ez a cowcumber, he did, en let ’em run

on.”

“Who was Miss Meadows, Uncle Remus?” inquired the little boy.

“Don’t ax me, honey. She wuz in de tale, Miss Meadows en de gals wuz,

en de tale I give you like hi’t wer’ gun ter me. Brer Rabbit, he sot

dar, he did, sorter lam’ like, en den bimeby he cross his legs, he did,

and wink his eye slow, en up en say, sezee:

“‘Ladies, Brer Fox wuz my daddy’s ridin’-hoss for thirty year; maybe

mo’, but thirty year dat I knows un,’ sezee; en den he paid um his

specks, en tip his beaver, en march off, he did, dez ez stiff en ez

stuck up ez a fire-stick.

“Nex’ day, Brer Fox cum a callin’, and w’en he gun fer to laff ’bout

Brer Rabbit, Miss Meadows en de gals, dey ups and tells im ’bout w’at

Brer Rabbit say. Den Brer Fox grit his toof sho’ nuff, he did, en he

look mighty dumpy, but when he riz fer to go he up en say, sezee;

“‘Ladies, I ain’t ’sputing w’at you say, but I’ll make Brer Rabbit

chaw up his words en spit um out right yer whar you kin see ’im,’

sezee, en wid dat off Brer Fox marcht.

“En w’en he got in de big road, he shuck de dew off’n his tail, en

made a straight shoot fer Brer Rabbit’s house. W’en he got dar, Brer

Rabbit wuz spectin’ un him, en de do’ wuz shut fas’. Brer Fox knock.

Nobody ain’t ans’er. Brer Fox knock. Nobody ans’er. Den he knock

agin――blam! blam! Den Brer Rabbit holler out, mighty weak:

“‘Is dat you, Brer Fox? I want you ter run en fetch de doctor. Dat bit

er parsley w’at I e’t dis mawnin’ is gittin’ ’way wid me. Do, please,

Brer Fox, run quick,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.

“‘I come atter you, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘Dere’s gwinter

be a party up at Miss Meadow’s,’ sezee. ‘All de gals’ll be dere, en I

promus’ dat I’d fetch you. De gals, dey ’lowed dat hit wouldn’t be no

party ’ceppin I fotch you,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.

“Den Brer Rabbit say he wuz too sick, en Brer Fox say he wuzzent, en

dar dey had it up and down sputin’ en contendin’. Brer Rabbit say he

can’t walk. Brer Fox say he tote ’im. Brer Rabbit say how? Brer Fox

say in his arms. Brer Rabbit say he drap ’im. Brer Fox ’low he won’t.

Bimeby Brer Rabbit say he go ef Brer Fox tote ’im on his back. Brer

Fox say he would. Brer Rabbit say he can’t ride widout a saddle. Brer

Fox say he git de saddle. Brer Rabbit say he can’t set in saddle less

he have a bridle for to hol’ by. Brer Fox say he git de bridle. Brer

Rabbit say he can’t ride widout bline bridle, kaze Brer Fox be shyin’

at stumps ’long de road, en fling ’im off. Brer Fox say he git bline

bridle. Den Brer Rabbit say he go. Den Brer Fox say he ride Brer

Rabbit mos’ up to Miss Meadows’s, en den he could git down en walk de

balance ob de way. Brer Rabbit ’greed, en den Brer Fox lipt out atter

de saddle en de bridle.

“Co’se Brer Rabbit know de game dat Brer Fox wuz fixin’ fer ter play,

en he ’termin’ fer ter out-do ’im; en by de time he koam his h’ar en

twis’ his mustarsh, en sorter rig up, yer come Brer Fox, saddle and

bridle on, en lookin’ ez peart ez a circus pony. He trot up ter de do’

en stan’ dar pawin’ de ground en chompin’ de bit same like sho’ nuff

hos, en Brer Rabbit he mount, he did, en day amble off. Brer Fox can’t

see behime wid de bline bridle on, but bimeby he feel Brer Rabbit

raise one er his foots.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’ sezee.

“‘Short ain’ de lef stir’p, Brer Fox,’ sezee.

“Bimeby Brer Rabbit raise de udder foot.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’ sezee.

“‘Pullin’ down my pants, Brer Fox,’ sezee.

“All de time, bless grashus, honey, Brer Rabbit was puttin’ on his

spurrers, en w’en dey got close to Miss Meadows’s, whar Brer Rabbit

wuz to git off en Brer Fox made a motion fer ter stan’ still, Brer

Rabbit slap the spurrers inter Brer Fox flanks, en you better b’lieve

he got over groun’. W’en dey got ter de house, Miss Meadows en all de

girls wuz settin’ on de peazzer, en stidder stoppin’ at de gate Brer

Rabbit rid on by, he did, en den come gallopin’ down de road en up ter

de hoss-rack, w’ich he hitch Brer Fox at, en den he santer inter de

house, he did, en shake han’s wid de gals, en set dar, smokin’ his

seegyar same ez a town man. Bimeby he draw in long puff, en den let

hit out in a cloud, en squar hisse’f back, en holler out, he did:

“‘Ladies, ain’t I done tell you Brer Fox wuz de ridin hoss fer our

fambly? He sorter losin’ his gait now, but I speck I kin fetch ’im all

right in a mont’ or so,’ sezee.

“En den Brer Rabbit sorter grin, he did, en de gals giggle, en Miss

Meadows, she praise up de pony, en dar wuz Brer Fox hitch fas’ ter de

rack, en couldn’t he’p hisse’f.”

“Is that all, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy, as the old man

paused.

“Dat ain’t all, honey, but ’twont do fer to give out too much cloff

for ter cut one pa’r pants,” replied the old man sententiously.

When “Miss Sally’s” little boy went to Uncle Remus the next night, he

found the old man in a bad humor.

“I ain’t tellin’ no tales ter bad chilluns,” said Uncle Remus curtly.

“But, Uncle Remus, I ain’t bad,” said the little boy plaintively.

“Who dat chunkin’ dem chickens dis mawnin’? Who dat knockin’ out

fokes’s eyes wid dat Yaller-bammer sling des ’fo’ dinner? Who dat

sickin’ dat pinter puppy atter my pig? Who dat scatterin’ my ingun

sets? Who dat flingin’ rocks on top er my house, w’ich a little mo’

en one un em would er drap spang on my head!”

“Well, now, Uncle Remus, I didn’t go to do it. I won’t do so any more.

Please, Uncle Remus, if you will tell me, I’ll run to the house, and

bring you some tea-cakes.”

“Seein’ um’s better’n hearin’ tell un em,” replied the old man, the

severity of his countenance relaxing somewhat; but the little boy

darted out, and in a few minutes came running back with his pockets

full and his hands full.

“I lay yo’ mammy’ll ’spishun dat de rats’ stummucks is widenin’ in dis

naberhood w’en she come fer ter count up ’er cakes,” said Uncle Remus,

with a chuckle.

“Lemme see. I mos’ dis’member wharbouts Brer Fox and Brer Rabbit wuz.”

“The rabbit rode the Fox to Miss Meadows’s and hitched him to the

horse-rack,” said the little boy.

“Why co’se he did,” said Uncle Remus. “Co’se he did. Well, Brer Rabbit

rid Brer Fox up, he did, en tied ’im to de rack, en den sot out in

the peazzer wid de gals a smokin’ er his seegyar wid mo’ proudness

dan w’at you mos’ ever see. Dey talk, en dey sing, en dey play on de

peanner, de gals did, twel bimeby hit come time for Brer Rabbit fer

to be gwine, en he tell um all good-by, en strut out to de hoss-rack

same’s ef he was de king er der patter-rollers, en den he mount Brer

Fox en ride off.

“Brer Fox ain’t sayin’ nuthin’ ’tall. He des rack off, he did, en keep

his mouf shet, en Brer Rabbit know’d der wuz bizness cookin’ up fer

him, en he feel monstous skittish. Brer Fox amble on twel he git in

de long lane, outer sight er Miss Meadows’s house, en den he tu’n

loose, he did. He rip en he r’ar, en he cuss en he swar; he snort en

he cavort.”

“What was he doing that for. Uncle Remus?” the little boy inquired.

“He wuz tryin’ fer ter fling Brer Rabbit off’n his back, bless yo’

soul! But he des might ez well er rastle wid his own shadder. Every

time he hump hisse’f Brer Rabbit slap de spurrers in ’im, en dar dey

had it up en down. Brer Fox fa’rly to’ up de groun’, he did, en he

jump so high en he jump so quick, dat he mighty nigh snatch his own

tail off. Dey kep’ on gwine on dis way twel bimeby Brer Fox lay down

en roll over, he did, en dis sorter unsettle Brer Rabbit, but by de

time Brer Fox got en his footses agin, Brer Rabbit wuz gwine thoo de

underbresh mo’ samer dan a race hoss. Brer Fox, he lit out atter ’im,

he did, en he push Brer Rabbit so close, dat it wuz ’bout all he could

do fer ter git in a holler tree. Hole too little fer Brer Fox fer to

git in, en he hatter lay down en res’ en gadder his mine tergedder.

“While he wuz layin’ dar, Mr. Buzzard come floppin long, en seein’

Brer Fox stretch out on the groun’, he lit en view the premusses. Den

Mr. Buzzard sorter shake his wing, en put his head on one side, en say

to hisse’f like, sezee:

“‘Brer Fox dead, en I so sorry,’ sezee.

“‘No I ain’t dead, nudder,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘I got ole man Rabbit

pent up in yer,’ sezee, ’en I’m gwineter git ’im dis time, ef it take

twel Chris’mus,’ sezee.

“Den, atter some mo’ palaver, Brer Fox make a bargain dat Mr. Buzzard

wuz ter watch de hole, en keep Brer Rabbit dar wiles Brer Fox went

atter his axe. Den Brer Fox, he lope off, he did, en Mr. Buzzard, he

tuck up his stan’ at de hole. Bimeby, w’en all get still, Brer Rabbit

sorter scramble down close ter de hole, he did, en holler out:

“‘Brer Fox! Oh! Brer Fox!’

“Brer Fox done gone, en nobody say nuthin.’ Den Brer Rabbit squall out

like he wuz mad:

“‘You needn’t talk less you wanter,’ sezee; ‘I knows youer dar, an

I ain’t keerin’, sezee. ‘I dez wanter tell you dat I wish mighty bad

Brer Tukkey Buzzard was here,’ sezee.

“Den Mr. Buzzard try to talk like Brer Fox:

“‘Wat you want wid Mr. Buzzard?’ sezee.

“‘Oh, nuthin’ in ’tickler, ’cep’ dere’s de fattes’ gray squir’l in yer

dat ever I see,’ sezee, ‘en ef Brer Tukkey Buzzard was ’roun’ he’d be

mighty glad fer ter git ’im,’ sezee.

“‘How Mr. Buzzard gwine ter git him?’ sez de Buzzard, sezee.

“‘Well, dar’s a little hole, roun’ on de udder side er de tree,’ sez

Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘en ef Brer Tukkey Buzzard was here so he could

take up his stan’ dar’, sezee, ‘I’d drive dat squir’l out,’ sezee.

“‘Drive ’im out, den,’ sez Mr. Buzzard, sezee, ‘en I’ll see dat Brer

Tukkey Buzzard gits’ ’im,’ sezee.

“Den Brer Rabbit kick up a racket, like he wer’ drivin’ sumpin’ out,

en Mr. Buzzard he rush ’roun’ fer ter ketch de squir’l, en Brer Rabbit,

he dash out, he did, en he des fly fer home.

“Well, Mr. Buzzard he feel mighty lonesome, he did, but he done

prommust Brer ♦Fox dat he’d stay, en he termin’ fer ter sorter hang

’roun’ en jine in de joke. En he ain’t hatter wait long, nudder, kase

bimeby yer come Brer Fox gallopin’ thoo de woods wid his axe on his

shoulder.

♦ ‘Eox’ replaced with ‘Fox’

“‘How you speck Brer Rabbit gittin’ on, Brer Buzzard?’ sez Brer Fox,

sezee.

“‘Oh, he in dar,’ sez Brer Buzzard, sezee. ‘He mighty still, dough. I

speck he takin’ a nap,’ sezee.

“‘Den I’m des in time fer te wake ’im up,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. En wid

dat he fling off his coat, en spit in his han’s, en grab de axe. Den

he draw back en come down on de tree――pow! En eve’y time he come down

wid de axe――pow!――Mr. Buzzard, he step high, he did, en hollar out:

“‘Oh, he in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho.’

“En eve’y time a chip ud fly off, Mr. Buzzard, he’d jump, en dodge, en

hole his head sideways, he would, en holler:

“‘He in dar, Brer Fox. I done heerd ’im. He in dar, sho.’

“En Brer Fox, he lammed away at dat holler tree, he did, like a man

mauling’ rails, twel bimeby atter he done got de tree most’ cut thoo,

he stop fer ter ketch his bref, en he seed Mr. Buzzard laffin’ behind

his back, he did, en right den en dar, widout gwine enny fudder, Brer

Fox he smelt a rat. But Mr. Buzzard, he keep on holler’n:

“‘He in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho. I done seed ’im.’

“Den Brer Fox, he make like he peepin’ up de holler, en he say, sezee:

“‘Run yer, Brer Buzzard, en look ef dis ain’t Brer Rabbit’s foot

hanging down yer.’

“En Mr. Buzzard, he come steppin’ up, he did, same ez ef he were

treddin’ on kurkle-burrs, en he stick his head in de hole; en no

sooner did he done dat dan Brer Fox grab ’im. Mr. Buzzard flap his

wings, en scramble roun’ right smartually, he did, but ’twan no use.

Brer Fox had de ’vantage er de grip, he did, en he hilt ’im right down

ter de groun’. Den Mr. Buzzard squall out, sezee:

“‘Lemme ’lone, Brer Fox. Tu’n me loose,’ sezee; ‘Brer Rabbit’ll git

out. Youer gittin’ close at ’im,’ sezee, ‘en leb’m mo’ licks’ll fetch

’im,’ sezee.

“‘I’m nigher ter you, Brer Buzzard,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘dan I’ll be

ter Brer Rabbit dis day,’ sezee. ‘Wat you fool me fer?’ sezee.

“‘Lemme ’lone, Brer Fox,’ sez Mr. Buzzard, sezee; ‘my ole ’oman

waitin’ for me. Brer Rabbit in dar,’ sezee.

“‘Dar’s a bunch er his fur on dat black-be’y bush,’ sez Brer Fox,

sezee, ‘en dat ain’t de way he come,’ sezee.

“Den Mr. Buzzard up’n tell Brer Fox how ’twuz, en he low’d, Mr.

Buzzard did, dat Brer Rabbit wuz de low-downest w’atsizname w’at he

ever run up wid. Den Brer Fox say, sezee:

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