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Library Edition
THE WIT AND HUMOR OF AMERICA
In Ten Volumes
VOL. VIII
[Illustration: ROBERT J. BURDETTE]
THE WIT AND HUMOR OF AMERICA
EDITED BY MARSHALL P. WILDER
_Volume VIII_
Funk & Wagnalls Company New York and London
Copyright MDCCCCVII, BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
Copyright MDCCCCXI, THE THWING COMPANY
CONTENTS
PAGE
Boston Ballad, A. Walt Whitman 1479
Branch Library, A. James Montgomery Flagg 1446
Chief Mate, The James Russell Lowell 1482
Columbia and the Cowboy Alice MacGowan 1582
Daniel Come to Judgment, A Edmund Vance Cooke 1399
Darius Green and His Flying Machine J. T. Trowbridge 1539
"Day is Done, The" Phoebe Cary 1628
Dictum Sapienti John Paul 1624
Duluth Speech, The J. Proctor Knott 1606
Enchanted Hat, The Harold MacGrath 1510
Eve's Daughter Edward Rowland Sill 1605
Fate R. K. Munkittrick 1554
Final Choice, The Edmund Vance Cooke 1427
Forbearance of the Admiral, The Wallace Irwin 1553
Gentle Art of Boosting, The John Kendrick Bangs 1575
Girl and the Julep, The Emerson Hough 1401
Grandfather Squeers James Whitcomb Riley 1571
Guest at the Ludlow Bill Nye 1503
Hard Tom Masson 1625
Hon. Ranson Peabody George Ade 1429
Icarus John G. Saxe 1493
Is it I? Warwick S. Price 1447
Johnny's Lessons Carroll Watson Rankin 1570
Kaiser's Farewell to Prince Henry Bert Leston Taylor 1568
Life Elixir of Marthy, The Elizabeth Hyer Neff 1555
Litigation Bill Arp 1533
Mr. Carteret and His Fellow
Americans Abroad David Gray 1462
Mr. Dooley on Golf Finley Peter Dunne 1630
Niagara be Dammed Wallace Irwin 1551
Not According to Schedule Mary Stewart Cutting 1448
Nothing to Wear William Allen Butler 1435
One of the Palls Doane Robinson 1601
Paper: A Poem Benjamin Franklin 1548
Road to a Woman's Heart, The Sam Slick 1487
Sceptics, The Bliss Carman 1626
Staccato to O Le Lupe, A Bliss Carman 1499
Table Manners James Montgomery Flagg 1400
V-A-S-E, The James Jeffrey Roche 1603
Vive la Bagatelle Clinton Scollard 1497
When the Sirup's on the Flapjack Bert Leston Taylor 1634
COMPLETE INDEX AT THE END OF VOLUME X.
A DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT[1]
BY EDMUND VANCE COOKE
Now, everything that Russell did, he did his best to hasten,
And one day he decided that he'd like to be a Mason;
But nothing else would suit him, and nothing less would please,
But he must take, and all at once, the thirty-three degrees.
So he rode the--ah, that is, he crossed the--I can't tell;
You either must not know at all, or else know very well.
He dived in--well, well, never mind! It only need be said
That somewhere in the last degree poor Russell dropped down dead.
They arrested all the Masons, and they stayed in durance vile
Till the jury found them guilty, when the Judge said, with a smile,
"I'm forced to let the prisoners go, for I can find," said he,
"No penalty for murder in the thirty-third degree!"
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Lippincott's Magazine.
TABLE MANNERS[2]
BY JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG
When you turn down your glass, it's a sign
That you're not going to take any wign.
So turn down your plate
When they serve things you hate,
And you'll often be asked out to dign.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] By permission of Life Publishing Company.
THE GIRL AND THE JULEP
BY EMERSON HOUGH
In the warm sun of the southern morning the great plantation lay as
though half-asleep, dozing and blinking at the advancing day. The
plantation house, known in all the country side as the Big House, rested
calm and self-confident in the middle of a wide sweep of cleared lands,
surrounded immediately by dark evergreens and the occasional primeval
oaks spared in the original felling of the forest. Wide and rambling
galleries of one height or another crawled partially about the expanses
of the building, and again paused, as though weary of the attempt to
circumvent it. The strong white pillars, rising from the ground floor
straight to the third story, shone white and stately, after the old
Southern fashion, that Grecian style, simplified and made suitable to
provincial purses by those Adams brothers of old England who first set
the fashion in early American architecture. White-coated, with wide,
cool, green blinds, with ample and wide-doored halls, and deep, low
windows, the Big House, here in the heart of the warm southland, was
above all things suited to its environment. It was all so safe and sure
that there was no need for anxiety. Life here was as it had been for
generations, even for the generation following the upheaval of the Civil
War.
But if this were a kingdom apart and self-sufficient, what meant this
thing which crossed the head of the plantation--this double line,
tenacious and continuous, which shone upon the one hand dark, and upon
the other, where the sun touched it, a cold gray in color? What meant
this squat little building at the side of these rails which reached on
out straight as the flight of a bird across the clearing and vanished
keenly in the forest wall? This was the road of the iron rails. It clung
close to the ground, at times almost sinking into the embankment now
grown scarcely discernible among the concealing grass and weeds,
although the track itself had been built but recently. This railroad
sought to efface itself, even as the land sought to aid in its
effacement, as though neither believed that this was lawful spot for it.
One might say it made a blot upon this picture of the morning.
Perhaps it seemed thus to the tall young girl who now stood upon its
long gallery, her tangle of high-rolled, red-brown hair held back by the
hand which half shaded her eyes as she looked out discontentedly over
the familiar scene. Miss Lady--for thus she was christened by the Big
House servants; and she bore well the title--frowned now as she tapped a
little foot upon the gallery floor. Perhaps it was not so much what she
saw as what she did not see that made Miss Lady discontented, for this
white rim of the forest bounded the world for her; yet after all, youth
and the morning do not conspire with discontent. A moment more, light,
fleet of foot, Miss Lady fled down the gallery steps, through the gate
and out along the garden walk. Beyond the yard fence she was greeted
riotously by a score of dogs and puppies, long since her friends and
devoted admirers; as, indeed, were all dwellers, dumb or human,
thereabout.
Had Miss Lady, or any observer, looked from the gallery off to the
southward and down the railway track, there might thus have been
discovered two figures just emerging from the rim of the forest
something like a mile away; and these might have been seen growing
slowly more distinct, as they plodded up the railway track toward the
Big House. Presently they might have been discovered to be a man and a
woman; the former tall, thin, dark and stooped; his companion, tall as
himself, quite as thin, and almost as bent. The garb of the man was
nondescript, neutral, loose; his hat dark and flapping. The woman wore a
shapeless calico gown, and on her head was a long, telescopic sunbonnet
of faded pink, from which she must perforce peer forward, looking
neither to the right nor to the left.
The travelers, indeed, needed not to look to the right or the left, for
the path of the iron rails led them directly on. They did not step to
the gallery, did not knock at the door, or, indeed, give any evidences
of their intentions, but seated themselves deliberately upon a pile of
boards that lay near in the broad expanse of the front yard. Here they
remained, silent and at rest, fitting well enough into the sleepy scene.
No one in the house noticed them for a time, and they, tired by the
walk, seemed willing to rest under the shade of the evergreens before
making known their errand. They sat speechless and content for several
moments, until finally a mulatto house-servant, passing from one
building to another, cast a look in their direction, and paused
uncertainly in curiosity. The man on the board-pile saw her.
"Here, Jinny! Jinny!" he called, just loud enough to be heard, and not
turning toward her more than half-way. "Come here."
"Yessah," said the girl, and slowly approached.
"Get us a little melk, Jinny," said the speaker. "We're plumb out o'
melk down home."
"Yessah," said Jinny, and disappeared leisurely, to be gone perhaps half
an hour.
There remained little sign of life on the board-pile, the bonnet tube
pointing fixedly toward the railway station, the man now and then slowly
shifting one leg across the other, but staring out at nothing, his lower
lip drooping laxly. When the servant finally brought back the milk-pail
and placed it beside him, he gave no word of thanks. To all appearances,
he was willing to wait here indefinitely, forgetful of the pail of milk,
toward which the sun was creeping ominously close. The way back home
seemed long and weary at that moment. His lip drooped still more laxly,
as he sat looking out vaguely.
Not so calm seemed his consort, she of the sunbonnet. Restored to some
extent by her tarrying in the shade, she began to shift and hitch about
uneasily upon the board-pile. At length she leaned a bit to one side,
reached into a pocket and taking out a snuff-stick and a parcel of its
attendant compound, began to take a "dip" of snuff, after the habit of
certain of the population of that region. This done, she turned with a
swift jerk of the head, bringing to bear the tube of her bonnet in full
force upon her lord and master.
"Jim Bowles," she said, "this here is a shame! Hit's a plumb shame!"
There was no answer, save an uneasy hitch on the part of the person so
addressed. He seemed to feel the focus of the sunbonnet boring into his
system. The voice in the bonnet went on, shot straight toward him, so
that he might not escape.
"It's a plumb shame," said Mrs. Bowles again.
"I know it, I know it," said her husband at length, uneasily. "But, now,
Sar' Ann, how kin I help it? The cow's daid and I kain't help it, and
that's all about it. My God, woman!"--this with sudden energy,--"do you
think I kin bring a cow to life that's been killed by the old railroad
kyahs? I ain't no 'vangelist. It ain't my fault old Muley got killed."
"Ain't yore fault!"
"No, it ain't my fault. Whut am I going to do? I kaint get no otheh cow
right now, and I done tol' you so. You reckon cows grows on bushes?"
"Grows on bushes!"
"Yes, or that they comes for nuthin'?"
"Comes for nuthin'!"
"Yes, Sar' Ann, that's whut I said. I tell you, it ain't so fur to come,
ain't so fur up here, if you take it easy; only three mile. And Cunnel
Blount'll give us melk as long as we want. I reckon he would give us a
cow, too, if I ast him. I s'pose I could pay him out o' the next crop,
if they wasn't so many things that has to be paid out'n the crop. It's
too blame bad 'bout Muley." He scratched his head thoughtfully.
"Yes," responded his spouse, "Muley was a heap better cow then you'll
ever git agin. Why, she gave two quo'ts o' melk the very mornin' she was
done killed, two quo'ts. I reckon we didn't have to walk no three mile
that mornin', did we? And she that kin' and gentle like--oh, we ain't
goin' to git no new cow like Muley, no time right soon, I want to tell
you that, Jim Bowles."
"Well, well, I know all that," said her husband, conciliatingly, a
trifle easier now that the sunbonnet was for the moment turned aside.
"That's all true, mighty true. But what kin you _do_?"
"Do? Why, do _somethin'_! Somebody sho' ought to suffer for this here.
This new-fangled railroad a-comin' through here, a-killing things an'
a-killing _folks_! Why, Bud Sowers said just the other week he heard of
three darkies gittin' killed in one bunch down to Allenville. They
standin' on the track, jes' talkin' and visitin' like. Didn't notice
nuthin'. Didn't notice the train a-comin'. 'Biff!' says Bud; an' thah
was them darkies."
"Yes," said Mr. Bowles, "that's the way it was with Muley. She just walk
up out'n the cane, and stan' thah in the sun on ther track, to sort o'
look aroun' whah she could see free for a little ways. Then, 'long comes
the railroad train, an' biff! Thah's Muley!"
"Plumb daid."
"Plumb daid."
"And she a good cow fer us fer fo'teen yeahs. It don't look exactly
right, now, does it? It sho' don't."
"It's a outrage, that's whut it is," said Sar' Ann Bowles.
"Well, we got the railroad," said her husband, tentatively.
"Yes, we got the railroad," said Sar' Ann Bowles, savagely, "and what
yearthly good is hit? Who wants any railroad? Why, all the way here this
mornin', I was skeered every foot of the way, afearin' that there ingine
was goin' to come along an' kill us both!"
"Sho! Sar' Ann," said her husband, with superiority. "It ain't time for
the train yit--leastwise I don't think it is." He looked about uneasily.
"That's all right, Jim Bowles. One of them ingines might come 'long most
any time. It might creep up behine you, then, biff! Thah's Jim Bowles!
Whut use is the railroad, I'd like to know? I wouldn't be caught a
climbin' in one o' them thar kyars, not for big money. Supposin' it run
off the track?"
"Oh, well, now," said her husband, "maybe it don't, always."
"But supposin' it _did_?" The front of the telescope turned toward him
suddenly, and so burning was the focus this time that Mr. Bowles shifted
his seat, and took refuge upon another board at the other end of the
board-pile, out of range.
"Whut made you vote for this yere railroad?" said Sarah Ann, following
him mercilessly with the bonnet tube. "We didn't want no railroad. We
never did have one, and we never ought to a-had one. You listen to me;
that railroad is goin' to ruin this country. Th' ain't a woman in these
yeah bottoms but would be skeered to have a baby grow up in her house.
Supposin' you got a baby; nice little baby, never did harm no one. You
a-cookin' or somethin'--out to the smoke-house, like enough; baby alone
for about two minutes. Baby crawls out on to the railroad track. Along
comes the ingine, an' biff! Thah's baby!" Mrs. Bowles shed tears at this
picture which she had conjured up, and even her less imaginative consort
became visibly affected, so that for a moment he half-straightened up.
"Well, I dunno," said he, vaguely, and sighed softly; all of which
irritated Mrs. Bowles to such an extent that she flounced suddenly
around to get a better gaze upon her master. In this movement, her foot
struck the pail of milk which had been sitting near, and overturned it.
"Jinny," she called out, "you, Jinny!"
"Yassam," replied Jinny, from some place on the gallery.
"Come here," said Mrs. Bowles. "Git me another pail o' melk. I done
spilled this one."
"Yassam," replied Jinny, and presently returned with the refilled
vessel.
"Well, anyway," said Jim Bowles at length, rising and standing with
hands in pockets, inside the edge of the shade line of the evergreens,
"I heard that there was a man came down through yere a few days ago. He
was sort of taking count of the critters that done got killed by the
railroad kyahs."
"That so?" said Sarah Ann, somewhat mollified.
"I reckon so," said Jim Bowles. "I 'lowed I'd ast Cunnel Blount here at
the Big House, about that some time. O' course it don't bring Muley
back, but then--"
"No, hit don't," said Sarah Ann, resuming her original position. "And
our little Sim, he just loved that Muley cow, little Sim, he did. Say,
Jim Bowles, do you heah me!"--this with a sudden flirt of the sunbonnet
in an agony of actual fear. "Why, Jim Bowles, do you know that our
little Sim might be a playin', out thah in front of ouah house, on to
that railroad track, at this very minute? S'pose, s'posen--'long comes
that there railroad train? Say, man, whut you standin' there in that
there shade fer? We got to go! We got to git home! Come right along this
minute, er we may be too late."
And so, smitten by this sudden thought, they gathered themselves
together as best they might and started toward the railroad for their
return. Even as they did so there appeared upon the northern horizon a
wreath of smoke rising above the forest. There was the far-off sound of
a whistle, deadened by the heavy intervening vegetation; presently there
puffed into view one of the railroad trains, still new upon this region.
Iconoclastic, modern, strenuous, it wabbled unevenly over the new-laid
rails up to the station house, where it paused for a few moments ere it
resumed its wheezing way to the southward. The two visitors at the Big
House gazed at it open-mouthed for a time, until all at once her former
thought crossed the woman's mind. She turned upon her husband.
"Thar hit goes! Thar hit goes!" she cried. "Right on straight to our
house! Hit kaint miss hit! And little Sim, he's sure to be playin' out
thah on the track. Oh, he's daid right this minute, he shorely is!"
Her speech exercised a certain force upon Jim Bowles. He stepped on the
faster, tripped upon a clod and stumbled, spilling half the milk from
the pail.
"Thah, now," said he. "Thah hit goes agin. Done spilled the melk. Well,
hit's too far back to the house now fer mo'. But, now, mabbe Sim wasn't
playin' on the track."
"Mabbe he wasn't!" said Sarah Ann scornfully. "Why, _o' course_ he was."
"Well, if he was," said Jim Bowles, philosophically, "why, Sar' Ann,
from whut I done notice about this here railroad train, why--it's too
_late_ now."
He might perhaps have pursued this logical line of thought further, had
not there occurred an incident which brought the conversation to a
close. Looking up, the two saw approaching them across the lawn,
evidently coming from the little railway station, and doubtless
descended from this very train, the alert, quick-stepping figure of a
man evidently a stranger to the place. Jim and Sarah Ann Bowles stepped
to one side as he approached and lifted his hat with a pleasant smile.
"Good morning," said the stranger. "It's a fine day, isn't it? Can you
tell me whether or not Colonel Blount is at home this morning?"
"Well, suh," said Jim Bowles, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "he is, an'
he ain't. He's home, o' course; that is, he hain't gone away no whah, to
co'te er nothin'. But then ag'in he's out huntin', gone after b'ah. I
reckon he's likely to be in 'most any day now."
"'Most any day?"
"Yessah. You better go on up to the house."
"Thank you," said the stranger. "I am very much obliged to you, indeed.
I believe I'll wait here for just a little while. Good morning, sir.
Good morning, madam."
He turned and walked slowly up the path toward the house, as the others
pursued their way to the railroad track, down which they presently were
plodding on their homeward journey. There was at least a little milk
left in the pail when finally they reached their small log cabin, with
its yard full of pigs and chickens. Eagerly they scanned the sides of
the railway embankment as they drew near, looking for signs of what they
feared to see. One need not describe the fierce joy with which Sarah Ann
Bowles fell upon little Sim, who was presently discovered, safe and
dirty, knocking about on the kitchen floor in abundant company of
puppies, cats and chickens.
"I knowed he would be killed," said Sarah Ann.
"But he _hain't_," said her husband, triumphantly. And for one time in
their married life there seemed to be no possible way in which she might
contradict him, which fact for her constituted a situation somewhat
difficult.
"Well, it hain't yore fault ef he hain't," said she at length.
The new-comer at the Big House was a well-looking figure enough as he
advanced up the path toward the white-pillared galleries. In height just
above middle stature, and of rather spare habit of body, alert, compact
and vigorous, he carried himself with a self-respect redeemed from
aggressiveness by an open candor of face and the pleasant forthright
gaze of a kindly blue-gray eye. In spite of a certain gravity of mien,
his eyes seemed wont to smile upon occasions, as witnessed divers little
wrinkles at the corners. A hurried observer might have guessed his age
within ten years, but might have been wrong upon either side, and might
have had an equal difficulty in classifying his residence or occupation.
It was evident that he was not ill at ease in this environment; for as
he met coming around the corner an old colored man, who, with a rag in
one hand and a bottle in the other, seemed intent upon some errand at
the dog kennel beyond, he paused not in query or salutation, but tossed
his umbrella to the servant and at the same time handed him his
traveling-bag. "Take care of these, Bill," said he.
Bill, for that was indeed his name, placed the bag and umbrella upon a
gallery floor, and with the air of owning the place himself, invited the
visitor to enter.
"The Cunnel's not to home, suh," said Bill. "But you better come in and
sed-down. I'll go call the folks."
"Never mind," said the visitor. "I reckon I'll just walk around a little
outside. I hear Colonel Blount is off on a bear hunt."
"Yassah," said Bill. "An' when he goes he mostly gets b'ah. I'm right
'spondent dis time, though, 'deed I is, suh."
"What's the matter?"
"Why, you see, suh," replied Bill, leaning comfortably back against a
gallery post. "It's dis-a-way. I'm just gwine out to fix up Old Hec's
foot. He's ouah bestest b'ah dog, but he got so blame biggoty, las' time
he was out, stuck his foot right intoe a ba'h's mouth. Now, Hec's lef'
home, an' me lef' home to 'ten' to Hec. How kin Cunnel Blount git any
b'ah widout me an' Hec along? I'se right 'spondent, dat's whut I is."
"Well, now, that's too bad," said the stranger, with a smile.
"Too bad? I reckon it sho' is. Fer, if Cunnel Blount don't get no
b'ah--look out den, _I_ kin tell you."
"Gets his dander up, eh?"
"Dandah--dandah! You know him? Th' ain't no better boss, but ef he goes
out huntin' b'ah and don't get no _b'ah_--why, den dey ain't no reason
gwine _do_ foh him.
"Now, when you see Cunnel Blount come home, he'll come up along dat
lane, him an' de dogs, an' dem no 'count niggers he done took 'long with
him; an' when he gits up to whah de lane crosses de railroad track, ef
he come' ridin' 'long easy like, now an' den tootin' his hawn to sort o'
let us know he's a-comin'--ef he do dat-a-way, dat's all right,--dat's
all right." Here the garrulous old servant shook his head. "But ef he
don't--well den--"
"That's bad, if he doesn't, eh?"
"Yessah. Ef he don' come a-blowin' an' ef he _do_ come _a-singin_', den
look out! I allus did notice dat ef Cunnel Blount 'gins to sing 'ligious
hymns, somethin's wrong, and somethin' gwine ter drap. He hain't right
easy ter git 'long wif when he's a-singin'. But if you'll 'scuse me,
suh, I got ter take care o' Hec. Jest make yourself to home,
suh,--anyways you like."
The visitor contented himself with wandering about the yard, until at
length he seated himself on the board-pile beneath the evergreen trees,
and so sank into an idle reverie, his chin in his hand, and his eyes
staring out across the wide field. He sat thus for some time, and the
sun was beginning to encroach upon his refuge, when suddenly he was
aroused by the faint and far-off sound of a hunting-horn. That the
listener distinguished it at such a distance might have argued that he
himself had known hound and saddle in his day; yet he readily caught the
note of the short hunting-horn universally used by the Southern hunters,
and recognized the assembly call for the hunting-pack. As it came near,
all the dogs in the kennel yards heard it and raged to escape from their
confinement. Old Bill came hobbling around the corner. Steps were heard
on the gallery. The visitor's face showed a slight uneasiness as he
caught a glance of a certain spot now suddenly made alive by the flutter
of a soft gown and the flash of a bunch of scarlet ribbons. Thither he
gazed as directly as he might under these circumstances, but the girl
was gone before he had opportunity even to rise and remove his hat.
"That's her. That's Miss Lady," said Bill to his new friend, in a low
voice. "Han'somest gal in the hull Delta. They'll all be right glad ter
see the Cunnel back. He's got a b'ah shore, fer he's comin' a-blowin'."
Bill's joy was not long-lived, for even as the little cavalcade came in
view, a tall figure on a chestnut hunting horse riding well in advance,
certain colored stragglers coming behind, and the party-colored pack
trotting or limping along on all sides, the music of the summoning horn
suddenly ceased. Looking neither to the right nor to the left, the
leader of the hunt rode on up the lane, sitting loose and careless in
the saddle, his right hand steadying a short rifle across the saddle
front. He rode thus until presently those at the Big House heard, softly
rising on the morning air, the chant of an old church hymn: "On Jordan's
strand I'll take my stand, An-n-n--"
"Oh, Lawd," exclaimed Bill. "Dat's his very wustest chune!"--saying
which he dodged around the corner of the house.
Turning in from the lane at the yard gate, Colonel Calvin Blount and his
retinue rode close up to the side door of the plantation house; but even
here the master vouchsafed no salutation to those who awaited his
coming. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, lean and muscular; yet so
far from being thin and dark, he was spare rather from physical exercise
than through gaunt habit of body; his complexion was ruddy and
sun-colored, and the long mustache hanging across his jaws showed a deep
mahogany-red. Western ranchman one might have called him, rather than
Southern planter. Scotch-Irish, generations back, perhaps, yet Southern
always, and by birthright American, he might have been a war-lord of
another land and day. No feudal baron ever dismounted with more
assuredness at his own hall, to toss careless rein to a retainer. He
stood now, tall and straight, a trifle rough-looking in his careless
planter's dress, but every inch the master. A slight frown puckered up
his forehead, giving to his face an added hint of sternness.
Colonel Blount busied himself with directions as to the horses and dogs.
The latter came straggling along in groups or pairs or singly, some of
them hobbling on three legs, many showing bitter wounds. The chase of
the great bear had proved stern pastime for them. Of half a hundred
hounds which had started, not two-thirds were back again, and many of
these would be unfit for days for the resumption of their savage trade.
None the less, as the master sounded again, loud and clear, the call for
the assembly, all the dogs about the place, young and old, homekeepers
and warriors, came pouring in with heads uplifted, each pealing out his
sweet and mournful music. Blount spoke to dozens of them, calling each
by its proper name.
In the confusion of the disbandment of the hunt, the master of the Big
House had as yet hardly had time to look about him, but now, as the
conclave scattered he found himself alone, and turning discovered the
occupant of the board-pile, who arose and advanced, offering his hand.
"This is Colonel Blount, I presume," said he.
"Yes, sir, that's my name. I beg your pardon, I'm sure, but I didn't
know you were there. Come right on into the house and sit down, sir.
Now, your name was--?"
"Eddring," said the new-comer. "John Eddring. I am just down on the
morning's train from the city."
"I'm right glad to see you, Mr. Eddring," said Colonel Blount, extending
his hand. The two, without plan, wandered over toward the shade of the
evergreen, and presently seated themselves at the board-pile.
"Well, Colonel Blount," said the visitor, "I reckon you must have had a
good hunt."
"Yes, sir, there ain't a ba'h in the Delta can get away from those dogs.
We run this fellow straight on end for ten miles; put him across the
river twice, and all around the Black Bayou, but the dogs kept him hot
all the time, I'm telling you, for more than five miles through the cane
beyond the bayou."
"Who got the shot, Colonel?" asked Eddring--a question apparently most
unwelcome.
"Well, I ought to have had it," said Blount, with a frown of
displeasure. "The fact is, I did take a flying chance from horseback,
when the ba'h ran by in the cane half a mile back of where they killed
him. Somehow I must have missed. But man! you ought to have heard that
pack for two hours through the woods. It certainly would have raised
your hair straight up. You ever hunt ba'h, sir?"
"A little, once in a while, when I have had the time. You see, a
railroad man can't always choose."
"Railroad man?" said Colonel Blount. A sudden gloom fell upon his ruddy
face. "Railroad man, eh? Well, I wish you was something else. Now, I
helped get that railroad through this country--if it hadn't been for me,
they never could have laid a mile of track through here. But now, do you
know what they done did to me the other day, with their damned old
railroad?"
"No, sir, I haven't heard."
"Well, I'll tell you--Bill! Oh, _Bill_! Go into the house and get me
some ice; and go pick some mint and bring it here to this gentleman and
me--Say, do you know what that railroad did? Why, it just killed the
best filly on my plantation, my best running stock, too. Now, I was the
man to help get that railroad through the Delta, and I--"
"Well, now, Colonel Blount," said the other, "the road isn't a bad sort
of thing for you all down here, after all. It relieves you of the river
market, and it gives you a double chance to get out your cotton. You
don't have to haul your cotton twelve miles back to the boat any more.
Here is your station right at your door, and you can load on the cars
any day you want to."
"Oh, that's all right, that's all right. But how about this killing of
my stock?"
"Well, that's so," said the other, facing the point and ruminatingly
biting a splinter between his teeth. "It does look as if we had killed
about everything loose in the whole Delta during the last month or so."
"Are you on this railroad?" asked Blount suddenly.
"I reckon I'll have to admit that I am," said the other, smiling.
"Passenger agent, or something of that sort, I reckon? Well, let me tell
you, you change your road. Say, there was a man down below here last
week settling up claims--Bill! Ah-h, _Bill_! Where've you gone?"
"Yes," said Eddring, "it certainly did seem that when we built this road
every cow and every nigger, not to mention a lot of white folks, made a
bee-line straight for our right of way. Why, sir, it was a solid line of
cows and niggers from Memphis to New Orleans. How could you blame an
engineer if he run into something once in a while? He couldn't _help_
it."
"Yes. Now, do you know what this claim-settler, or this claim-agent man
did? Why, he paid a man down below here two stations--what do you think
he paid him for as fine a heifer as ever eat cane? Why, fifteen
dollars!"
"Fifteen dollars!"
"Yes, fifteen dollars."
"That looks like a heap of money for a heifer, doesn't it, Colonel
Blount?"
"A heap of money? Why, no. Heap of _money_? Why, what do you mean?"
"Heifers didn't bring that before the road came through. Why, you would
have had to drive that heifer twenty-five miles before you could get a
market, and then she wouldn't have brought over twelve dollars. Now,
fifteen dollars, seems to me, is about right."
"Well, let the heifer go. But there was a cow killed three miles below
here the other day. Neighbors of mine. I reckon that claim agent
wouldn't want to allow any more than fifteen dollars for Jim Bowles'
cow, neither."
"Maybe not."
"Well, never mind about the cow, either; but look here. A nigger lost
his wife down there, killed by these steam kyars--looks like the niggers
get _fascinated_ by them kyars. But here's Bill coming at last. Now, Mr.
Eddring, we'll just make a little julep. Tell me, how do you make a
julep, sir?"
Eddring hitched a little nearer on the board-pile. "Well, Colonel
Blount," said he, "in our family we used to have an old silver mug--sort
of plain mug, you know, few flowers around the edge of it--been in the
family for years. Now, you take a mug like that and let it lie in the
ice box all the time, and when you take it out, it's sort of got a white
frost all over it. Now, my old daddy, he would take this mug and put
some fine ice into it,--not too fine. Then he'd take a little cut loaf
sugar, in another glass, and he'd mash it up in a little water--not too
much water--then he'd pour that in over the ice. Then he would pour in
some good corn whisky, till all the interstices of that ice were filled
plumb up; then he'd put some mint--"
"Didn't smash the mint? Say, he didn't smash the mint, did he?" said
Colonel Blount, eagerly, hitching over toward the speaker.
"Smash it? I should say not, sir! Sometimes, at certain seasons of the
mint, he might just sort of take a twist at the leaf, to sort of release
a little of the flavor, you know. You don't want to be rough with mint.
Just twist it gently between the thumb and finger. Then you set it in
nicely around the edge of the glass. Sometimes just a little powder of
fine sugar around on top of the mint leaves, and then a straw--"
"Sir," said Colonel Blount, gravely rising and taking off his hat, "you
are welcome to my home!"
Eddring, with equal courtesy, arose and removed his own hat.
"For my part," resumed Blount, judicially, "I rather lean to a piece of
cut glass, for the green and the crystal look mighty fine together. I
don't always make them with any sugar on top of the mint. But, you know,
just a circle of mint--not crushed--not crushed, mind you--just a green
ring of fragrance, so that you can bury your nose in it and forget your
troubles. Sir, allow me once more to shake your hand. I think I know a
gentleman when I see one."
"A gentleman," said the other, smiling slightly. "Well, don't shake
hands with me yet, sir. I don't know. You see I'm a railroad man, and
I'm here on business."
"Damn it, sir, if it was only your description of a julep, if it was
only your mention of that old family silver mug, devoted to that sacred
purpose, sir--that would be your certificate of character here. Forget
your business. Come down here and live with me. We'll go huntin' ba'h
together. Why, man, I'm mighty glad to make your acquaintance."
"But wait," said Eddring, "there may be two ways of looking at this."
"Well, there's only one way of looking at a julep," said Blount, "and
that's down a straw. Now, I'll show you how we make them down here in
the Sunflower country.
"But, as I as a-sayin'"--and here Blount set down the glasses midway in
his compounding, and went on with his interrupted proposition,--"now
here was that nigger that lost his wife. Of course he had a whole flock
of children. Now, what do you think that claim agent said he would pay
that nigger for his wife?"
"Well, I--"
"Well, but what do you _reckon_?"
"Why, I reckon about fifteen dollars."
"That's it, that's it!" said Blount, slapping his hand upon the board
until the glasses jingled. "That's just what he did offer; fifteen
dollars! Not a cent more."
"Well, now, Colonel Blount," said Eddring, "you know there's a heap of
mighty trifling niggers loose in this part of the world. You see, that
fellow would marry again in a little while, and he might get a heap
better woman next time. There's a lot of swapping wives among the
niggers at best. Now, here's a man lost his wife decent and respectable,
and there's nothing on earth a nigger likes better than a good funeral,
even if it has to be his own wife. Now, how many nigger funerals are
there that cost fifteen dollars? I'll bet you if that nigger had it to
do over again he'd a heap rather be rid of her and have the fifteen
dollars. Look at it! Fine funeral for one wife and something left over
to get a bonnet for his new wife. I'll bet there isn't a nigger on your
place that wouldn't jump at a chance like that."
Colonel Blount scratched his head. "You understand niggers all right,
I'll admit," said he. "But, now, supposin' it had been a white man?"
"Well, supposing it was?"
"We don't need to suppose. There was the same thing happened to a white
family. Wife got killed--left three children."
"Oh, you mean that accident down at Shelby?"
"Yes, Mrs. Something-or-other, she was. Well, sir, damn me, if that
infernal claim agent didn't have the face to offer fifteen dollars for
her, too."
"Looks almost like he played a fifteen-dollar limit all the time,
doesn't it?" said the visitor.
"It certainly does. It ain't right."
"Well, now, I heard about that woman. She was a tall, thin creature,
with no liver left at all, and her chills came three times a week. She
wouldn't work; she was red-headed and had only one straight eye; and as
for a tongue--well, I only hope, Colonel Blount, that you and I will
never have a chance to meet anything like that. Of course, I know she
was killed. Her husband just hated her before she died, but blame _me_,
just as soon as she was _dead_, he loved her more than if she was his
sweetheart all over again. Now, that's how it goes. Say, I want to tell
you, Colonel Blount, this road is plumb beneficent, if only for the fact
that it develops human affection the way it does. Fifteen dollars! Why,
I tell you, sir, fifteen dollars was _more_ than enough for that woman."
He turned indignantly on the board-pile.
"I reckon," said Colonel Blount, "that you would say that about my
neighbor Jim Bowles' cow?"
"Certainly. I know about that cow, too. She was twenty years old and on
her last legs. Road kills her, and all at once she becomes a dream of
heifer loveliness. _I_ know."
"I reckon," said Colonel Blount, still more grimly; "I reckon if that
damned claim agent was to come here, he would just about say that
fifteen dollars was enough for my filly."
"I shouldn't wonder. Now, look here, Colonel Blount. You see, I'm a
railroad man, and I'm able to see the other side of these things."
"Oh, well, all right," said Blount, "but that don't bring my filly back.
You can't get Himyah blood every day in the week. That filly would have
seen Churchill Downs in her day, if she had lived."
"Yes; and if she had, you would have had to back her, wouldn't you? You
would have trained that filly and paid a couple of hundred for it. You
would have fitted her at the track and paid several hundred more. You
would have bet a couple of thousand, anyway, as a matter of principle,
and, like enough, you'd have lost it. Now, if this road paid you fifteen
dollars for that filly and saved you twenty-five hundred or three
thousand into the bargain, how ought you to feel about it? Are you
twenty-five hundred behind or fifteen ahead?"
Colonel Calvin Blount had now feverishly finished his julep, and as the
other stopped, he placed his glass beside him on the board-pile and
swung a long leg across, so that he sat directly facing his enigmatical
guest. The latter, in the enthusiasm of his argument, swung into a
similar position, and so they sat, both hammering on the board between
them.
"Well, I would like to see that damned claim agent offer me fifteen
dollars for that filly," said Blount. "I might take fifty, for the sake
of the road; but fifteen--"
"Well, what would you do?"
"Well, by God, sir, if I saw that claim agent--"
"Well, by God, sir, _I'm_ that claim agent; and I _do_ offer you fifteen
dollars for that filly, right now!"
"What! You--"
"Yes, me!"
"Fifteen dollars!"
"Yes, sir, fifteen dollars."
Colonel Blount burst into a sudden song--"On _Jor_dan's strand I'll
_take_ my stand!" he began.
"It's all she's worth," interrupted the claim agent.
Blount fairly gasped. "Do you mean to tell me," said he, in forced calm,
"that you are this claim agent?"
"I have told you. That's the way I make my living. That's my duty."
"Your duty to give me fifteen dollars for a Himyah filly?"
"I said fifteen."
"And I said fifty."
"You don't get it."
"I don't, eh? Say, my friend"--Blount pushed the glasses away, his
choler rising at the temerity of this, the only man who in many a year
had dared to confront him. "You look here. Write me a check for fifty;
an' write it now." With a sudden whip of his hand he reached behind him.
Like a flash he pulled a long revolver from its holster. Eddring gazed
into the round aperture of the muzzle and certain surrounding apertures
of the cylinder. "Write me a check," said Blount, slowly, "and write it
for fifty. I may tear it up when I get it--I don't care fifty cents for
it--but you write it!"
The eyes of the two met, and which were the braver man it had been hard
to tell. Neither flinched. Eddring returned a gaze as direct as that
which he received. The florid face back of the barrel held a gleam of
half-admiration at witnessing his deliberation. The claim agent's eye
did not falter.
"You said fifty dollars, Colonel Blount," said he, just a suggestion of
a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Don't you think there has been a
slight misunderstanding between us two? If you are so blamed particular
and really _want_ a check for fifty, why, here it is." He busied himself
a moment, and passed over a strip of paper. Even as he did so, the ire
of Colonel Blount cooled as suddenly as it had gained warmth. A sudden
contrition sat on his face, and he crowded the paper into his pocket
with an air half shamed-faced.
"Sir--Mr. Eddring--" he began, falteringly.
"Well, what do you want? You've got your check, and you've got the
railroad. We've paid our little debt to you."
"Sir," said Blount. "My friend--why, sir, here is your julep."
"To hell with your julep, sir."
"My friend," said Blount, flushing. "You serve me right. I am forgetting
my duties as a gentleman. I asked you into my house."
"I'll see you damned first," said Eddring, hotly.
"Right!" cried Blount, exultingly. "You're right. You are one of the
fighting Eddrings, sure as you're born. Why, sir, come on in. You
wouldn't punish the son of your uncle's friend, your own daddy's friend,
would you? Why, man, I know your folks--"
But the ire of Eddring was now aroused. A certain smoldering fire, long
with difficulty suppressed, began to flame in spite of him.
"Bring me out a plate," said he, bitterly, "and let me eat on the
gallery. As you say, I am only a claim agent. Good God, man!" And then
of a sudden his wrath arose still higher. His own hand made a swift
motion. "Give me back that check," he said, and his extended hand
presented a weapon held steady as though supported by the limb of a
tree. "You didn't give me a fair show."
"Well, by the eternal," half-whispered Colonel Calvin Blount to himself.
"Ain't he a fightin' chicken?"
"Give it to me," demanded Eddring; and the other, astounded, humbled,
reached into his pocket and produced the paper.
"I will give it to you, boy," said he, soberly, "and twenty like it, if
you'll forget all this and come into my house."
"I will not, sir," said Eddring. "This was business, and you made it
personal."
"Oh, business!" said Blount.
"Sir," said John Eddring, "the world never understands when a fellow has
to choose between being a business man and a gentleman. I can't afford
to be a gentleman--"
"And you are so much one, my son," said Calvin Blount, grimly, "that you
won't do anything but what you know is right. My friend, I won't ask you
in again, not any more, right now. But when you can, come again, sir,
some day. When you come right easy and pleasant, my son, why, you know I
want you."
John Eddring's hard-set jaw relaxed, trembled, and he dared not commit
himself to speech. With a straight look into Colonel Blount's eyes, he
half turned away, and passed on down the path, Blount looking after him
more than half-yearningly.
So intent, indeed, was the latter in his gaze upon the receding figure
that he did not hear the swift rush of light feet on the gallery, nor
turn until Miss Lady stood before him. The girl swept him a deep
curtsey, spreading out the skirt of her biscuit-colored gown in mocking
deference of posture.
"Please, Mr. Colonel," said she, "since he can't hear the dinner-bell,
would he be good enough to tell whether or not he will come in and eat?
Everything is growing cold; and I made the biscuits."
Calvin Blount put out his hand, and a softer shade came upon his face.
"Oh, it is you, Miss Lady, is it?" said he. "Yes, I'm back home again.
And you made the biscuits, eh?"
"I called to you several times," said Miss Lady. "Who is that gentleman
you are staring at? Why doesn't he come in and eat with us?"
Colonel Blount turned slowly as Miss Lady tugged at his arm. "Who is
he?" he replied, half-musingly. "Who is he? You tell me. He refused to
eat in Calvin Blount's house; that's why he didn't come in, Miss Lady.
He says he's the cow coroner on the railroad; but I want to tell you,
he's the finest fellow and the nearest to a gentleman that ever struck
this country. That's what he is. I'm mighty troubled over his going
away."
"Why, he didn't drink his julep!" said Miss Lady, severely.
"No," said Blount, miserably.
"And he hasn't any other place to eat," said Miss Lady, argumentatively.
"No."
"And he--he hasn't been introduced to me," said Miss Lady, conclusively.
"No."
"Colonel Cal, call him!" said Miss Lady, decisively.
Her words roused the old planter.
"You--I say, Eddring; you, there! Come on back here! Forgot something!"
In spite of himself--or was it in union with himself?--John Eddring
turned back, and at last stood hat in hand near to the others. A smile
softened the stern features of Colonel Blount as he pointed,
half-quizzically to the untasted julep on the board-pile.
"Besides, Mr. Eddring," said he; "besides, you have not yet heard that
this young lady of ours, Miss Lady, here, helped make the dinner this
evenin'. Now, sir, I ask, will you come?"
The same odd tremble caught the claim agent's lip, and he frowned to
pull himself out of his own weakness before he made reply. Miss Lady,
tall, well-rounded, dark-eyed, her ruff of red-brown hair thrown back,
stood looking at him, her hand clasped upon Blount's arm.
Eddring bowed deeply. "Sir," he said, "it wasn't fair of you; but I
yield to your superior weapons!"
THE FINAL CHOICE[3]
BY EDMUND VANCE COOKE
"_Dark doubts between the promise and event._"--_Young._
I rather thought that Alexander
Would sound well at the font,
While mother much preferred Leander
For him who swam the Hellespont.
Grandfather clamored for Uriah,
While grandma mentioned Obadiah.
Then mother spoke of Clarence, Cyril,
And Reginald and Claude,
But I thought none of them were virile
Like some such name as Ichabod.
Grandfather spoke for Jeremiah.
And grandma favored Azariah.
Then Harold, Gerald, Donald, Luke,
And lordly Roderick
Waged wordy war with Marmaduke
And Bernard and Theodoric,
While grandpa hinted Zachariah
And grandma thought of Hezekiah.
We spoke of Gottlieb from the German,
Of Gaius, Caius, Saul,
Of Andrew, François, Ivan, Herman,
Of Caspar, Jasper, Peter, Paul.
Still grandpa stuck for Nehemiah,
And grandma ventured Jedediah.
From Aaron down to Zeph we went,
But Fate is so contrary!
For after the august event
The name we really chose was Mary!
Though grandma much preferred Maria,
And grandpa rooted for Sophia.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] Lippincott's Magazine.
HON. RANSOM PEABODY
BY GEORGE ADE
The Fable of the Hoosier Bill of Fare and How the Women Folks Cooked Up
Things for the Well-known Citizen.
Once upon a Time there was a Hired Hand who felt that he was cut out to
be Somebody. Among the Agriculturists he was said to be too dosh-burned
Toney because he wore gloves when he Toiled and on Sundays put on a slew
of Agony, with sheet-iron Shoes pointed at the End and a neat Derby
purchased in Terry Hut.
Now this Freckled Swain, whose name was Ransom, wanted to hop on the
Inter-Reuben and go zipping away to see the Great World. He wanted to
live in a Big Town where he would not have to walk on the Ploughed
Ground and where he could get something Good to Eat. He was tired of the
plain Vittles out on the Farm. They very seldom had anything on the
Table except Chicken with Gravy, Salt-Rising Bread, Milk, seven or eight
Vegetables, Crulls, Cookies, Apple Butter, Whortleberry Pie, Light
Biscuit, Spare Ribs, Pig's Feet, Hickory Nut Cake and such like. This
thing of drawing up every A. M. to the same old Lay Out of home-made
Sausage, Buckwheat Cakes, Recent Eggs, Fried Mush and Mother's Coffee
was beginning to wear on him. Often he dreamt of being in the
Metropolis, where he could get an Oyster Stew, Sardines, and Ice Cream
in the Winter Time.