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THE WIT AND HUMOR OF AMERICA
In Ten Volumes
VOL. III
[Illustration: SAMUEL L. CLEMENS (MARK TWAIN)]
THE WIT AND HUMOR OF AMERICA
EDITED BY MARSHALL P. WILDER
_Volume III_
Funk & Wagnalls Company
New York and London
Copyright MDCCCCVII, BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
Copyright MDCCCCXI, THE THWING COMPANY
CONTENTS
PAGE
Arkansas Planter, An Opie Read 556
Auto Rubaiyat, The Reginald Wright Kauffman 546
Ballade of the "How To" Books, A John James Davies 416
Bohemians of Boston, The Gelett Burgess 519
Courtin', The James Russell Lowell 524
Crimson Cord, The Ellis Parker Butler 470
Diamond Wedding, The Edmund Clarence Stedman 549
Dislikes Oliver Wendell Holmes 536
Dos't o' Blues, A James Whitcomb Riley 486
Dying Gag, The James L. Ford 569
Elizabeth Eliza Writes a Paper Lucretia P. Hale 454
Garden Ethics Charles Dudley Warner 425
Genial Idiot Suggests a Comic Opera, The John Kendrick Bangs 504
Hans Breitmann's Party Charles Godfrey Leland 446
Hired Hand and "Ha'nts," The E.O. Laughlin 419
In Elizabeth's Day Wallace Rice 572
In Philistia Bliss Carman 567
Letter from Home, A Wallace Irwin 522
Little Mock-Man, The James Whitcomb Riley 540
Little Orphant Annie James Whitcomb Riley 444
Mammy's Lullaby Strickland W. Gillilan 542
Maxioms Carolyn Wells 424
Morris and the Honorable Tim Myra Kelly 488
Mr. Stiver's Horse James Montgomery Bailey 464
My First Visit to Portland Major Jack Downing 409
My Sweetheart Samuel Minturn Peck 544
New Version, The W.J. Lampton 574
Our New Neighbors at Ponkapog Thomas Bailey Aldrich 403
Plaint of Jonah, The Robert J. Burdette 485
Retort, The George P. Morris 584
Rhyme of the Chivalrous Shark, The Wallace Irwin 483
Rollo Learning to Read Robert J. Burdette 448
Selecting the Faculty Bayard Rust Hall 437
Southern Sketches Bill Arp 575
Tower of London, The Artemus Ward 528
Traveled Donkey, A Bert Leston Taylor 428
Tree-Toad, The James Whitcomb Riley 418
Two Automobilists, The Carolyn Wells 573
Two Business Men, The Carolyn Wells 583
Two Housewives, The Carolyn Wells 566
Two Ladies, The Carolyn Wells 548
Two Young Men, The Carolyn Wells 565
Uncle Simon and Uncle Jim Artemus Ward 539
Wamsley's Automatic Pastor Frank Crane 511
Wild Animals I Have Met Carolyn Wells 414
COMPLETE INDEX AT THE END OF VOLUME X.
OUR NEW NEIGHBORS AT PONKAPOG
BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH
When I saw the little house building, an eighth of a mile beyond my own,
on the Old Bay Road, I wondered who were to be the tenants. The modest
structure was set well back from the road, among the trees, as if the
inmates were to care nothing whatever for a view of the stylish
equipages which sweep by during the summer season. For my part, I like
to see the passing, in town or country; but each has his own
unaccountable taste. The proprietor, who seemed to be also the architect
of the new house, superintended the various details of the work with an
assiduity that gave me a high opinion of his intelligence and executive
ability, and I congratulated myself on the prospect of having some very
agreeable neighbors.
It was quite early in the spring, if I remember, when they moved into
the cottage--a newly married couple, evidently: the wife very young,
pretty, and with the air of a lady; the husband somewhat older, but
still in the first flush of manhood. It was understood in the village
that they came from Baltimore; but no one knew them personally, and they
brought no letters of introduction. (For obvious reasons, I refrain from
mentioning names.) It was clear that, for the present at least, their
own company was entirely sufficient for them. They made no advance
toward the acquaintance of any of the families in the neighborhood, and
consequently were left to themselves. That, apparently, was what they
desired, and why they came to Ponkapog. For after its black bass and
wild duck and teal, solitude is the chief staple of Ponkapog. Perhaps
its perfect rural loveliness should be included. Lying high up under the
wing of the Blue Hills, and in the odorous breath of pines and cedars,
it chances to be the most enchanting bit of unlaced disheveled country
within fifty miles of Boston, which, moreover, can be reached in half an
hour's ride by railway. But the nearest railway station (Heaven be
praised!) is two miles distant, and the seclusion is without a flaw.
Ponkapog has one mail a day; two mails a day would render the place
uninhabitable.
The village--it looks like a compact village at a distance, but unravels
and disappears the moment you drive into it--has quite a large floating
population. I do not allude to the perch and pickerel in Ponkapog Pond.
Along the Old Bay Road, a highway even in the Colonial days, there are a
number of attractive villas and cottages straggling off toward Milton,
which are occupied for the summer by people from the city. These birds
of passage are a distinct class from the permanent inhabitants, and the
two seldom closely assimilate unless there has been some previous
connection. It seemed to me that our new neighbors were to come under
the head of permanent inhabitants; they had built their own house, and
had the air of intending to live in it all the year round.
"Are you not going to call on them?" I asked my wife one morning.
"When they call on _us_," she replied lightly.
"But it is our place to call first, they being strangers."
This was said as seriously as the circumstance demanded; but my wife
turned it off with a laugh, and I said no more, always trusting to her
intuitions in these matters.
She was right. She would not have been received, and a cool "Not at
home" would have been a bitter social pill to us if we had gone out of
our way to be courteous.
I saw a great deal of our neighbors, nevertheless. Their cottage lay
between us and the post-office--where _he_ was never to be met with by
any chance--and I caught frequent glimpses of the two working in the
garden. Floriculture did not appear so much an object as exercise.
Possibly it was neither; maybe they were engaged in digging for
specimens of those arrowheads and flint hatchets, which are continually
coming to the surface hereabouts. There is scarcely an acre in which the
plowshare has not turned up some primitive stone weapon or domestic
utensil, disdainfully left to us by the red men who once held this
domain--an ancient tribe called the Punkypoags, a forlorn descendant of
which, one Polly Crowd, figures in the annual Blue Book, down to the
close of the Southern war, as a state pensioner. At that period she
appears to have struck a trail to the Happy Hunting Grounds. I quote
from the local historiographer.
Whether they were developing a kitchen garden, or emulating Professor
Schliemann, at Mycenæ, the newcomers were evidently persons of refined
musical taste: the lady had a contralto voice of remarkable sweetness,
although of no great compass, and I used often to linger of a morning by
the high gate and listen to her executing an arietta, conjecturally at
some window upstairs, for the house was not visible from the turnpike.
The husband, somewhere about the ground, would occasionally respond with
two or three bars. It was all quite an ideal, Arcadian business. They
seemed very happy together, these two persons, who asked no odds
whatever of the community in which they had settled themselves.
There was a queerness, a sort of mystery, about this couple which I
admit piqued my curiosity, though as a rule I have no morbid interest in
the affairs of my neighbors. They behaved like a pair of lovers who had
run off and got married clandestinely. I willingly acquitted them,
however, of having done anything unlawful; for, to change a word in the
lines of the poet,
"It is a joy to _think_ the best
We may of human kind."
Admitting the hypothesis of elopement, there was no mystery in their
neither sending nor receiving letters. But where did they get their
groceries? I do not mean the money to pay for them--that is an enigma
apart--but the groceries themselves. No express wagon, no butcher's
cart, no vehicle of any description, was ever observed to stop at their
domicile. Yet they did not order family stores at the sole establishment
in the village--an inexhaustible little bottle of a shop which, I
advertise it gratis, can turn out anything in the way of groceries, from
a hand-saw to a pocket-handkerchief. I confess that I allowed this
unimportant detail of their _ménage_ to occupy more of my speculation
than was creditable to me.
In several respects our neighbors reminded me of those inexplicable
persons we sometimes come across in great cities, though seldom or never
in suburban places, where the field may be supposed too restricted for
their operations--persons who have no perceptible means of subsistence,
and manage to live royally on nothing a year. They hold no government
bonds, they possess no real estate (our neighbors did own their house),
they toil not, neither do they spin; yet they reap all the numerous soft
advantages that usually result from honest toil and skilful spinning.
How do they do it? But this is a digression, and I am quite of the
opinion of the old lady in "David Copperfield," who says, "Let us have
no meandering!"
Though my wife had declined to risk a ceremonious call on our neighbors
as a family, I saw no reason why I should not speak to the husband as an
individual, when I happened to encounter him by the wayside. I made
several approaches to do so, when it occurred to my penetration that my
neighbor had the air of trying to avoid me. I resolved to put the
suspicion to the test, and one forenoon, when he was sauntering along on
the opposite side of the road, in the vicinity of Fisher's sawmill, I
deliberately crossed over to address him. The brusque manner in which he
hurried away was not to be misunderstood. Of course I was not going to
force myself upon him.
It was at this time that I began to formulate uncharitable suppositions
touching our neighbors, and would have been as well pleased if some of
my choicest fruit-trees had not overhung their wall. I determined to
keep my eyes open later in the season, when the fruit should be ripe to
pluck. In some folks, a sense of the delicate shades of difference
between _meum_ and _tuum_ does not seem to be very strongly developed in
the Moon of Cherries, to use the old Indian phrase.
I was sufficiently magnanimous not to impart any of these sinister
impressions to the families with whom we were on visiting terms; for I
despise a gossip. I would say nothing against the persons up the road
until I had something definite to say. My interest in them was--well,
not exactly extinguished, but burning low. I met the gentleman at
intervals, and passed him without recognition; at rarer intervals I saw
the lady.
After a while I not only missed my occasional glimpses of her pretty,
slim figure, always draped in some soft black stuff with a bit of
scarlet at the throat, but I inferred that she did not go about the
house singing in her light-hearted manner, as formerly. What had
happened? Had the honeymoon suffered eclipse already? Was she ill? I
fancied she was ill, and that I detected a certain anxiety in the
husband, who spent the mornings digging solitarily in the garden, and
seemed to have relinquished those long jaunts to the brow of Blue Hill,
where there is a superb view of all Norfolk County combined with sundry
venerable rattlesnakes with twelve rattles.
As the days went by it became certain that the lady was confined to the
house, perhaps seriously ill, possibly a confirmed invalid. Whether she
was attended by a physician from Canton or from Milton, I was unable to
say; but neither the gig with the large white allopathic horse, nor the
gig with the homoeopathic sorrel mare, was ever seen hitched at the
gate during the day. If a physician had charge of the case, he visited
his patient only at night. All this moved my sympathy, and I reproached
myself with having had hard thoughts of our neighbors. Trouble had come
to them early. I would have liked to offer them such small, friendly
services as lay in my power; but the memory of the repulse I had
sustained still rankled in me. So I hesitated.
One morning my two boys burst into the library with their eyes
sparkling.
"You know the old elm down the road?" cried one.
"Yes."
"The elm with the hang-bird's nest?" shrieked the other.
"Yes, yes!"
"Well, we both just climbed up, and there's three young ones in it!"
Then I smiled to think that our new neighbors had got such a promising
little family.
MY FIRST VISIT TO PORTLAND
BY MAJOR JACK DOWNING
In the fall of the year 1829, I took it into my head I'd go to Portland.
I had heard a good deal about Portland, what a fine place it was, and
how the folks got rich there proper fast; and that fall there was a
couple of new papers come up to our place from there, called the
"Portland Courier" and "Family Reader," and they told a good many queer
kind of things about Portland, and one thing and another; and all at
once it popped into my head, and I up and told father, and says,--
"I am going to Portland, whether or no; and I'll see what this world is
made of yet."
Father stared a little at first, and said he was afraid I would get
lost; but when he see I was bent upon it, he give it up, and he stepped
to his chist, and opened the till, and took out a dollar, and he gave it
to me; and says he,--
"Jack, this is all I can do for you; but go and lead an honest life, and
I believe I shall hear good of you yet."
He turned and walked across the room, but I could see the tears start
into his eyes. And mother sat down and had a hearty crying-spell.
This made me feel rather bad for a minit or two, and I almost had a mind
to give it up; and then again father's dream came into my mind, and I
mustered up courage, and declared I'd go. So I tackled up the old horse,
and packed in a load of axe-handles, and a few notions; and mother
fried me some doughnuts, and put 'em into a box, along with some cheese,
and sausages, and ropped me up another shirt, for I told her I didn't
know how long I should be gone. And after I got rigged out, I went round
and bid all the neighbors good-by, and jumped in, and drove off for
Portland.
Aunt Sally had been married two or three years before, and moved to
Portland; and I inquired round till I found out where she lived, and
went there, and put the old horse up, and eat some supper, and went to
bed.
And the next morning I got up, and straightened right off to see the
editor of the "Portland Courier," for I knew by what I had seen in his
paper, that he was just the man to tell me which way to steer. And when
I come to see him, I knew I was right; for soon as I told him my name,
and what I wanted, he took me by the hand as kind as if he had been a
brother, and says he,--
"Mister," says he, "I'll do anything I can to assist you. You have come
to a good town; Portland is a healthy, thriving place, and any man with
a proper degree of enterprise may do well here. But," says he,
"stranger," and he looked mighty kind of knowing, says he, "if you want
to make out to your mind, you must do as the steamboats do."
"Well," says I, "how do they do?" for I didn't know what a steamboat
was, any more than the man in the moon.
"Why," says he, "they go ahead. And you must drive about among the folks
here just as though you were at home, on the farm among the cattle.
Don't be afraid of any of them, but figure away, and I dare say you'll
get into good business in a very little while. But," says he, "there's
one thing you must be careful of; and that is, not to get into the hands
of those are folks that trades up round Huckler's Row, for ther's some
sharpers up there, if they get hold of you, would twist your eye-teeth
out in five minits."
Well, arter he had giv me all the good advice he could, I went back to
Aunt Sally's ag'in, and got some breakfast; and then I walked all over
the town, to see what chance I could find to sell my axe-handles and
things and to get into business.
After I had walked about three or four hours, I come along towards the
upper end of the town, where I found there were stores and shops of all
sorts and sizes. And I met a feller, and says I,--
"What place is this?"
"Why, this," says he, "is Huckler's Row."
"What!" says I, "are these the stores where the traders in Huckler's Row
keep?"
And says he, "Yes."
"Well, then," says I to myself, "I have a pesky good mind to go in and
have a try with one of these chaps, and see if they can twist my
eye-teeth out. If they can get the best end of a bargain out of me, they
can do what there ain't a man in our place can do; and I should just
like to know what sort of stuff these 'ere Portland chaps are made of."
So I goes into the best-looking store among 'em. And I see some biscuit
on the shelf, and says I,--
"Mister, how much do you ax apiece for them 'ere biscuits?"
"A cent apiece," says he.
"Well," says I, "I shan't give you that, but, if you've a mind to, I'll
give you two cents for three of them, for I begin to feel a little as
though I would like to take a bite."
"Well," says he, "I wouldn't sell 'em to anybody else so, but, seeing
it's you, I don't care if you take 'em."
I knew he lied, for he never seen me before in his life. Well, he handed
down the biscuits, and I took 'em and walked round the store awhile, to
see what else he had to sell. At last says I,--
"Mister, have you got any good cider?"
Says he, "Yes, as good as ever ye see."
"Well," says I, "what do you ax a glass for it?"
"Two cents," says he.
"Well," says I, "seems to me I feel more dry than I do hungry now. Ain't
you a mind to take these 'ere biscuits again, and give me a glass of
cider?"
And says he,--
"I don't care if I do."
So he took and laid 'em on the shelf again, and poured out a glass of
cider. I took the cider and drinkt it down, and, to tell the truth, it
was capital good cider. Then says I,--
"I guess it's time for me to be a-going," and I stept along towards the
door; but says he,--
"Stop, mister: I believe you haven't paid me for the cider?"
"Not paid you for the cider!" says I. "What do you mean by that? Didn't
the biscuits that I give you just come to the cider?"
"Oh, ah, right!" says he.
So I started to go again, and says he,--
"But stop there, mister: you didn't pay me for the biscuits."
"What!" says I, "do you mean to impose upon me? do you think I am going
to pay you for the biscuits and let you keep them, too? Ain't they there
now on your shelf? What more do you want? I guess, sir, you don't
whittle me in that way."
So I turned about and marched off, and left the feller staring and
scratching his head, as though he was struck with a dunderment.
Howsomever, I didn't want to cheat him, only jest to show 'em it wa'n't
so easy a matter to pull my eye-teeth out; so I called in next day and
paid him two cents.
WILD ANIMALS I HAVE MET
BY CAROLYN WELLS
THE LION
I've met this beast in drawing-rooms,
'Mong ladies gay with silks and plumes.
He looks quite bored, and silly, too,
When he's held up to public view.
I think I like him better when
Alone I brave him in his den.
THE BEAR
I never seek the surly Bear,
But if I meet him in his lair
I say, "Good day, sir; sir, good day,"
And then make haste to get away.
It is no pleasure, I declare,
To meet the cross, ill-natured Bear.
THE GOOSE
I know it would be of no use
To say I'd never met a Goose.
There are so many all around,
With idle look and clacking sound.
And sometimes it has come to pass
I've seen one in my looking-glass.
THE DUCK
This merry one, with laughing eyes,
Not too sedate nor overwise,
Is best of comrades; frank and free,
A clever hand at making tea;
A fearless nature, full of pluck,
I like her well--she is a Duck.
THE CAT
The Cat's a nasty little beast;
She's seen at many a fête and feast.
She's spiteful, sly and double-faced,
Exceeding prim, exceeding chaste.
And while a soft, sleek smile she wears,
Her neighbor's reputation tears.
THE PUPPY
Of all the animals I've met
The Puppy is the worst one yet.
Clumsy and crude, he hasn't brains
Enough to come in when it rains.
But with insufferable conceit
He thinks that he is just too sweet.
THE KID
Kids are the funniest things I know;
Nothing they do but eat and grow.
They're frolicsome, and it is said
They eat tin cans and are not dead.
I'm not astonished at that feat,
For all things else I've seen them eat.
A BALLADE OF THE "HOW TO" BOOKS
BY JOHN JAMES DAVIES
That time when Learning's path was steep,
And rocks and fissures marred the way,
The few who dared were forced to creep,
Their souls oft quaking with dismay;
The goal achieved, their hairs were gray,
Their bodies bent like shepherds' crooks;
How blest are we who run to-day
The easy road of "How To" books!
The presses groan, and volumes heap,
Our dullness we no more betray;
To know the stars, or shear a sheep--
To live on air, or polo play;
The trick is ours, or we may stray
Beneath the seas, with science cooks,
And sprint by some reflected ray
The easy road of "How To" books!
Who craves the boon of dreamless sleep?
Who bricks would make, _sans_ straw or clay?
"Call spirits from the vasty deep,"
Or weave a lofty, living lay?
Let him be heartened, jocund, gay,
Nor hopeless writhe on tenter-hooks,--
They meet no barriers who essay
The easy road of "How To" books!
ENVOY
The critics still _will_ slash and slay
Poor hapless scribes, in sanctum nooks;
Lo! here's a refuge for their prey--
The easy road of "How To" books!
THE TREE-TOAD
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
"'Scurious-like," said the tree-toad,
"I've twittered fer rain all day;
And I got up soon,
And I hollered till noon--
But the sun, hit blazed away,
Till I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole,
Weary at heart, and sick at soul!
"Dozed away fer an hour,
And I tackled the thing agin;
And I sung, and sung,
Till I knowed my lung
Was jest about give in;
And then, thinks I, ef hit don't rain now,
There're nothin' in singin', anyhow!
"Once in awhile some farmer
Would come a-drivin' past;
And he'd hear my cry,
And stop and sigh--
Till I jest laid back, at last,
And I hollered rain till I thought my th'oat
Would bust right open at ever' note!
"But I _fetched_ her! O _I fetched_ her!--
'Cause a little while ago,
As I kindo' set,
With one eye shet,
And a-singin' soft and low,
A voice drapped down on my fevered brain,
Sayin',--'Ef you'll jest hush I'll rain!'"
THE HIRED HAND AND "HA'NTS"
BY E.O. LAUGHLIN
The Hired Hand was Johnnie's oracle. His auguries were infallible; from
his decisions there was no appeal. The wisdom of experienced age was
his, and he always stood willing to impart it to the youngest. No
question was too trivial for him to consider, and none too abstruse for
him to answer. He did not tell Johnnie to "never mind" or wait until he
grew older, but was ever willing to pause in his work to explain things.
And his oracular qualifications were genuine. He had traveled--had even
been as far as the State Fair; he had read--from _Robinson Crusoe_ to
_Dick the Dead Shot_, and, more than all, he had meditated deeply.
The Hired Hand's name was Eph. Perhaps he had another name, too, but if
so it had become obsolete. Far and wide he was known simply as Eph.
Eph was generally termed "a cur'ous feller," and this characterization
applied equally well to his peculiar appearance and his inquiring
disposition. In his confirmation nature had evidently sacrificed her
love of beauty to a temporary passion for elongation. Length seemed to
have been the central thought, the theme, as it were, upon which he had
been composed. This effect was heightened by generously broad hands and
feet and a contrastingly abbreviated chin. The latter feature caused his
countenance to wear in repose a decidedly vacant look, but it was seldom
caught reposing, usually having to bear a smirk of some sort.
Eph's position in the Winkle household was as peculiar as his
personality. Nominally he was a hired servant, but, in fact, from his
own point of view at least, he was Mr. Winkle's private secretary and
confidential adviser. He had been on the place "ever sence old Fan was a
yearlin'," which was a long while, indeed; and had come to regard
himself as indispensable. The Winkles treated him as one of the family,
and he reciprocated in truly familiar ways. He sat at the table with
them, helped entertain their guests, and often accompanied them to
church. In regulating matters on the farm Mr. Winkle proposed, but Eph
invariably disposed, in a diplomatic way, of course; and, although his
judgment might be based on false logic, the result was generally
successful and satisfactory.
With all his good qualities and her attachment to him, however, Mrs.
Winkle was not sure that Eph's moral status was quite sound, and she was
inclined to discourage Johnnie's association with him. As a matter of
fact she had overheard Johnnie utter several bad words, of which Eph was
certainly the prime source. But a mother's solicitude was of little
avail when compared with Eph's Delphian wisdom. Johnnie would steal away
to join Eph in the field at every chance, and the information he
acquired at these secret séances, was varied and valuable.
It was Eph who taught him how to tell the time of day by the sun; how to
insert a "dutchman" in the place of a lost suspender button; how to make
bird-traps; and how to "skin the cat." Eph initiated him into the
mysteries of magic and witchcraft, and showed him how to locate a
subterranean vein of water by means of a twig of witch-hazel. Eph also
confided to Johnnie that he himself could stanch the flow of blood or
stop a toothache instantly by force of a certain charm, but he could
not tell how to do this because the secret could be imparted only from
man to woman, or vice versa. Even the shadowy domain of spirits had not
been exempt from Eph's investigations, and he related many a terrifying
experience with "ha'nts."
Johnnie was first introduced to the ghost world one summer night, when
he and Eph had gone fishing together.
"If ye want to ketch the big uns, always go at night in the dark o' the
moon," said Eph, and his piscatorial knowledge was absolute.
They had fished in silence for some time, and Johnnie was nodding, when
Eph suddenly whispered:
"Let's go home, sonny, I think I see a ha'nt down yander."
Johnnie had no idea what a "ha'nt" might be, but Eph's constrained
manner betokened something dreadful.
It was not until they had come within sight of home that Johnnie
ventured to inquire:
"Say, Eph, what is a ha'nt?"
"Huh! What is ha'nts? Why, sonny, you mean to tell me you don't know
what ha'nts is?"
"Not exactly; sompin' like wildcats, ain't they?"
"Well, I'll be confounded! Wildcats! Not by a long shot;" and Eph broke
into the soft chuckle which always preceded his explanations. They
reached the orchard fence, and, seating himself squarely on the topmost
rail, Eph began impressively:
"Ha'nts is the remains of dead folks--more 'specially them that's been
assinated, er, that is, kilt--understan'? They're kind o' like sperrits,
ye know. After so long a time they take to comin' back to yarth an'
ha'ntin' the precise spot where they wuz murdered. They always come
after dark, an' the diffrunt shapes they take on is supprisin'. I have
seed ha'nts that looked like sheep, an' ha'nts that looked like human
persons; but lots of 'em ye cain't see a-tall, bein' invisible, as the
sayin' is. Now, fer all we know, they may be a ha'nt settin' right here
betwixt us, this minute!"
With this solemn declaration Johnnie shivered and began edging closer to
Eph, until restrained and appalled by the thought that he might actually
sit on the unseen spirit by such movement.
"But do they hurt people, Eph?" he asked anxiously.
Eph gave vent to another chuckle.
"Not if ye understan' the'r ways," he observed sagely. "If ye let 'em
alone an' don't go foolin' aroun' the'r ha'ntin'-groun' they'll never
harm ye. But don't ye never trifle with no ha'nt, sonny. I knowed a
feller't thought 'twuz smart to hector 'em an' said he wuzn't feared.
Onct he throwed a rock at one--"
Here Eph paused.
"What h-happened?" gasped Johnnie.
"In one year from that time," replied Eph gruesomely, "that there
feller's cow wuz hit by lightnin'; in three year his hoss kicked him an'
busted a rib; an' in seven year he wuz a corpse!"
The power of this horrible example was too much for Johnnie.
"Don't you reckon it's bedtime?" he suggested tremblingly.
Thenceforth for many months Johnnie led a haunted life. Ghosts glowered
at him from cellar and garret. Specters slunk at his heels, phantoms
flitted through the barn. Twilight teemed with horrors, and midnight,
when he awoke at that hour, made of his bedroom a veritable Brocken.
It was vain for his parents to expostulate with him. Was one not bound
to believe one's own eyes? And how about the testimony of the Hired
Hand?
The story in his reader--told in verse and graphically illustrated--of
the boy named Walter, who, being alone on a lonesome highway one dark
night, beheld a sight that made his blood run cold, acquired an abnormal
interest for Johnnie. Walter, with courage resembling madness, marched
straight up to the alleged ghost and laughed gleefully to find, "It was
a friendly guide-post, his wand'ring steps to guide."
This was all very well, as it turned out, but what if it had been a
sure-enough ghost, reflected Johnnie. What if it had reached down with
its long, snaky arms and snatched Walter up--and run off with him in the
dark--and no telling what? Or it might have swooped straight up in the
air with him, for ghosts could do that. Johnnie resolved he would not
take any chances with friendly guide-posts which might turn out to be
hostile spirits.
Then there was the similar tale of the lame goose, and the one
concerning the pillow in the swing--each intended, no doubt, to allay
foolish fears on the part of children, but exercising an opposite and
harrowing influence upon Johnnie.
MAXIOMS
BY CAROLYN WELLS
Reward is its own virtue.
The wages of sin is alimony.
Money makes the mayor go.
A penny saved spoils the broth.
Of two evils, choose the prettier.
There's no fool like an old maid.
Make love while the moon shines.
Where there's a won't there's a way.
Nonsense makes the heart grow fonder.
A word to the wise is a dangerous thing.
A living gale is better than a dead calm.
A fool and his money corrupt good manners.
A word in the hand is worth two in the ear.
A man is known by the love-letters he keeps.
A guilty conscience is the mother of invention.
Whosoever thy hands find to do, do with thy might.
It's a wise child who knows less than his own father.
Never put off till to-morrow what you can wear to-night.
He who loves and runs away, may live to love another day.
GARDEN ETHICS
BY CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
I believe that I have found, if not original sin, at least vegetable
total depravity in my garden; and it was there before I went into it. It
is the bunch-, or joint-, or snake-grass,--whatever it is called. As I
do not know the names of all the weeds and plants, I have to do as Adam
did in his garden,--name things as I find them. This grass has a
slender, beautiful stalk: and when you cut it down, or pull up a long
root of it, you fancy it is got rid of; but in a day or two it will come
up in the same spot in half a dozen vigorous blades. Cutting down and
pulling up is what it thrives on. Extermination rather helps it. If you
follow a slender white root, it will be found to run under the ground
until it meets another slender white root; and you will soon unearth a
network of them, with a knot somewhere, sending out dozens of
sharp-pointed, healthy shoots, every joint prepared to be an independent
life and plant. The only way to deal with it is to take one part hoe and
two parts fingers, and carefully dig it out, not leaving a joint
anywhere. It will take a little time, say all summer, to dig out
thoroughly a small patch; but if you once dig it out, and keep it out,
you will have no further trouble.
I have said it was total depravity. Here it is. If you attempt to pull
up and root out sin in you, which shows on the surface,--if it does not
show, you do not care for it,--you may have noticed how it runs into an
interior network of sins, and an ever-sprouting branch of these roots
somewhere; and that you can not pull out one without making a general
internal disturbance, and rooting up your whole being. I suppose it is
less trouble to quietly cut them off at the top--say once a week, on
Sunday, when you put on your religious clothes and face,--so that no one
will see them, and not try to eradicate the network within.
_Remark._--This moral vegetable figure is at the service of any
clergyman who will have the manliness to come forward and help me at a
day's hoeing on my potatoes. None but the orthodox need apply.
I, however, believe in the intellectual, if not the moral, qualities of
vegetables, and especially weeds. There was a worthless vine that (or
who) started up about midway between a grape-trellis and a row of
bean-poles, some three feet from each, but a little nearer the trellis.
When it came out of the ground, it looked around to see what it should
do. The trellis was already occupied. The bean-pole was empty. There was
evidently a little the best chance of light, air, and sole
proprietorship on the pole. And the vine started for the pole, and began
to climb it with determination. Here was as distinct an act of choice,
of reason, as a boy exercises when he goes into a forest, and, looking
about, decides which tree he will climb. And, besides, how did the vine
know enough to travel in exactly the right direction, three feet, to
find what it wanted? This is intellect. The weeds, on the other hand,
have hateful moral qualities. To cut down a weed is, therefore, to do a
moral action. I feel as if I were destroying a sin. My hoe becomes an
instrument of retributive justice. I am an apostle of nature. This view
of the matter lends a dignity to the art of hoeing which nothing else
does, and lifts it into the region of ethics. Hoeing becomes, not a
pastime, but a duty. And you get to regard it so, as the days and the
weeds lengthen.
_Observation._--Nevertheless, what a man needs in gardening is a
cast-iron back, with a hinge in it. The hoe is an ingenious instrument,
calculated to call out a great deal of strength at a great disadvantage.
The striped bug has come, the saddest of the year. He is a moral
double-ender, iron-clad at that. He is unpleasant in two ways. He
burrows in the ground so that you can not find him, and he flies away so
that you can not catch him. He is rather handsome, as bugs go, but
utterly dastardly, in that he gnaws the stem of the plant close to the
ground, and ruins it without any apparent advantage to himself. I find
him on the hills of cucumbers (perhaps it will be a cholera-year, and we
shall not want any), the squashes (small loss), and the melons (which
never ripen). The best way to deal with the striped bug is to sit down
by the hills, and patiently watch for him. If you are spry, you can
annoy him. This, however, takes time. It takes all day and part of the
night. For he flieth in the darkness, and wasteth at noonday. If you get
up before the dew is off the plants,--it goes off very early,--you can
sprinkle soot on the plant (soot is my panacea: if I can get the disease
of a plant reduced to the necessity of soot, I am all right); and soot
is unpleasant to the bug. But the best thing to do is set a toad to
catch the bugs. The toad at once establishes the most intimate relations
with the bug. It is a pleasure to see such unity among the lower
animals. The difficulty is to make the toad stay and watch the hill. If
you know your toad, it is all right. If you do not, you must build a
tight fence round the plants, which the toad can not jump over. This,
however, introduces a new element. I find that I have a zoölogical
garden. It is an unexpected result of my little enterprise, which never
aspired to the completeness of the Paris "Jardin des Plantes."
A TRAVELED DONKEY
BY BERT LESTON TAYLOR
But Buddie got no farther. The sound of music came to her ears, and she
stopped to listen. The music was faint and sweet, with the sighful
quality of an Æolian harp. Now it seemed near, now far.
"What can it be?" said Buddie.
"Wait here and I'll find out," said Snowfeathers. He darted away and
returned before you could count fifty.
"A traveling musician," he reported. "Come along. It's only a little
way."
Back he flew, with Buddie scrambling after. A few yards brought her to a
little open place, and here was the queerest sight she had yet seen in
this queer wood.
On a bank of reindeer moss, at the foot of a great white birch, a
mouse-colored donkey sat playing a lute. Over his head, hanging from a
bit of bark, was the sign:
WHILE YOU WAIT
OLD SAWS RESET
After the many strange things that Buddie had come upon in Queerwood,
nothing could surprise her very much. Besides, as she never before had
seen a donkey, or a lute, or the combination of donkey and lute, it did
not strike her as especially remarkable that the musician should be
holding his instrument upside down, and sweeping the strings with one of
his long ears, which he was able to wave without moving his head a jot.
And this it was that gave to the music its soft and furry-purry quality.
The Donkey greeted Buddie with a careless nod, and remarked, as if
anticipating a comment he had heard many times:
"Oh, yes; I play everything _by ear_."
"Please keep on playing," said Buddie, taking a seat on another clump of
reindeer moss.
"I intended to," said the Donkey; and the random chords changed to a
crooning melody which wonderfully pleased Buddie, whose opportunities to
hear music were sadly few. As for the White Blackbird, he tucked his
little head under his wing and went fast asleep.
"Well, what do you think of it?" asked the Donkey, putting down the
lute.
"Very nice, sir," answered Buddie, enthusiastically; though she added to
herself: The idea of saying sir to an animal! "Would you please tell me
your name?" she requested.
The Donkey pawed open a saddle-bag, drew forth with his teeth a card,
and presented it to Buddie, who spelled out the following:
PROFESSOR BRAY
TENORE BARITONALE
TEACHER OF SINGING ALL METHODS
CONCERTS AND RECITALS
While Buddie was reading this the Donkey again picked up his instrument
and thrummed the strings.
"Did you ever see a donkey play a lute?" said he. "That's an old saw,"
he added.
"I never saw a donkey before," said Buddie.
"You haven't traveled much," said the other. "The world is full of
them."
"This is the farthest I've ever been from home," confessed Buddie,
feeling very insignificant indeed.
"And how far may that be?"
Buddie couldn't tell exactly.
"But it can't be a great way," she said. "I live in the log house by the
lake."
"Pooh!" said the Donkey. "That's no distance at all." Buddie shrank
another inch or two. "I'm a great traveler myself. All donkeys travel
that can. If a donkey travels, you know, he _may_ come home a horse; and
to become a horse is, of course, the ambition of every donkey!"
"Is it?" was all Buddie could think of to remark. What could she say
that would interest a globe-trotter?
"Perhaps you have an old saw you'd like reset," suggested the Donkey,
still thrumming the lute-strings.
Buddie thought a moment.
"There's an old saw hanging up in our woodshed," she began, but got no
farther.
"Hee-haw! hee-haw!" laughed the Donkey. "Thistles and cactus, but that's
rich!" And he hee-hawed until the tears ran down his nose. Poor Buddie,
who knew she was being laughed at but didn't know why, began to feel
very much like crying and wished she might run away.
"Excuse these tears," the Donkey said at last, recovering his family
gravity. "Didn't you ever hear the saying, A burnt child dreads the
fire?"
Buddie nodded, and plucked up her spirits.
"Well, that's an old saw. And you must have heard that other very old
saw, No use crying over spilt milk."
Another nod from Buddie.
"Here's my setting of that," said the Donkey; and after a few
introductory chords, he sang:
"'Oh, why do you cry, my pretty little maid,
With a Boo-hoo-hoo and a Heigho?'
'I've spilled my milk, kind sir,' she said,
And the Cat said, 'Me-oh! my-oh!'
'No use to cry, my pretty little maid,
With a Boo-hoo-hoo and a Heigho.'
'But what shall I do, kind sir?' she said,
And the Cat said, 'Me-oh! my-oh!'
'Why, dry your eyes, my pretty little maid,
With a Boo-hoo-hoo and a Heigho.'
'Oh, thank you, thank you, sir,' she said,
And the Cat said, 'Me-oh! my-oh!'"
"How do you like my voice?" asked the Donkey, in a tone that said very
plainly: "If you don't like it you're no judge of singing."
Buddie did not at once reply. A professional critic would have said, and
enjoyed saying, that the voice was of the hit-or-miss variety; that it
was pitched too high (all donkeys make that mistake); that it was harsh,
rasping and unsympathetic, and that altogether the performance was "not
convincing."
Now, Little One, although Buddie was not a professional critic, and
neither knew how to wound nor enjoyed wounding, even _she_ found the
Donkey's voice harsh; but she did not wish to hurt his feelings--for
donkeys _have_ feelings, in spite of a popular opinion to the contrary.
And, after all, it was pretty good singing for a donkey. Critics should
not, as they sometimes do, apply to donkeys the standards by which
nightingales are judged. So Buddie was able to say, truthfully and
kindly:
"I think you do very well; very well, indeed."
It was a small tribute, but the Donkey was so blinded by conceit that he
accepted it as the greatest compliment.
"I _ought_ to sing well," he said. "I've studied methods enough. The
more methods you try, you know, the more of a donkey you are."
"Oh, yes," murmured Buddie, not understanding in the least.
"Yes," went on the Donkey; "I've taken the Donkesi Method, the Sobraylia
Method, the Thistlefixu Method--"
"I'm afraid I don't quite know what you mean by 'methods,'" ventured
Buddie.
The Donkey regarded her with a pitying smile.
"A method," he explained, "is a way of singing 'Ah!' For example, in the
Thistlefixu Method, which I am at present using, I fill my mouth full of
thistles, stand on one leg, take in a breath three yards long, and sing
'Ah!' The only trouble with this method is that the thistles tickle your
throat and make you cough, and you have to spray the vocal cords twice a
day, which is considerable trouble, especially when traveling, as _I_
always am."
"I should think it _would_ be," said Buddie. "Won't you sing something
else?"
"I'm a little hoarse," apologized the singer.
"That's what you want to be, isn't it?" said Buddie, misunderstanding
him.
"Hee-haw!" laughed the Donkey. "Is that a joke? I mean my _throat_ is
hoarse."
"And the rest of you is donkey!" cried Buddie, who could see a point as
quickly as any one of her age.
"There's something to that," said the other, thoughtfully. "Now, if the
_hoarseness_ should spread--"
"And you became _horse_ all over--"
"Why, then--"
"Why, then--"
"Think of another old saw," said the Donkey, picking up his lute.
"No; I don't believe I can remember any more old saws," said Buddie,
after racking her small brain for a minute or two.
"Pooh!" said the Donkey. "They're as common as, Pass the butter, or,
Some more tea, please. Ever hear, Fair words butter no parsnips?"
Buddie shook her head.
"The wolf does something every day that keeps him from church on
Sunday--?"
Again Buddy shook her head.
"It is hard to shave an egg--?"
Still another shake.
"A miss is as good as a mile? You can not drive a windmill with a pair
of bellows? Help the lame dog over the stile? A hand-saw is a good
thing, but not to shave with? Nothing venture, nothing have? Well, you
haven't heard much, for a fact," said the Donkey, contemptuously, as
Buddie shook her head after each proverb. "I'll try a few more; there's
no end to them. Ever hear, When the sky falls we shall all catch larks?
Too many cooks spoil the broth?"
"I've heard _that_," said Buddie, eagerly.
"It's a wonder," returned the Donkey. "Well, I have a very nice setting
of that." And he sang:
"Some said, 'Stir it fast,'
Some said, 'Slow';
Some said, 'Skim it off,'
Some said, 'No';
Some said, 'Pepper,'
Some said, 'Salt';--
All gave good advice,
All found fault.
Poor little Tommy Trottett!
Couldn't eat it when he got it."
"I like that," said Buddie. "Oh, and I've just thought of another old
ax--I mean saw, if it _is_ one--Don't count your chickens before they
are hatched. Do you sing that?"
"One of my best," replied the Donkey. And again he sang:
"'Thirteen eggs,' said Sammy Patch,
'Are thirteen chickens when they hatch.'
The hen gave a cluck, but said no more;
For the hen had heard such things before.
The eggs fall out from tilted pail
And leave behind a yellow trail;
But Sammy,--counting, as he goes,
Upon his fingers,--never knows.
Oh, Sammy Patch, your 'rithmetic
Won't hatch a solitary chick."
"I like that the best," said Buddie, who knew what it was to tip over a
pail of eggs, and felt as sorry for Sammy Patch as if he really existed.
"It's one of my best," said the Donkey. "I don't call it my very best.
Personally I prefer, Look before you leap. You've heard that old saw, I
dare say."
"No; but that doesn't matter. I shall like it just as well," replied
Buddie.
"_That_ doesn't follow, but _this_ does," said the Donkey, and once more
he sang:
"A foolish Frog, one summer day,
While splashing round in careless way,
Observed a man
With large tin can,
And manner most suspicious.
'I think I know,' remarked the Frog,
'A safer place than on this log;
For when a man
Comes with a can
His object is malicious.'
Thus far the foolish Frog was wise;
But had he better used his eyes,
He would have seen,
Close by, a lean
Old Pike--his nose just showing.
Kersplash! The Pike made just one bite....
The moral I need scarce recite:
Before you leap
Just take a peep
To see where you are going."
Buddie, however, clung to her former opinion. "I like _Sammy Patch_ the
best," said she.
"That," rejoined the singer, "is a matter of taste, as the donkey said
to the horse who preferred hay to thistles. Usually the public likes
best the very piece the composer himself cares least about. So wherever
I go I hear, 'Oh, Professor, do sing us that beautiful song about Sammy
Patch.' And I can't poke my head inside the Thistle Club but some donkey
bawls out, 'Here's Bray! Now we'll have a song. Sing us _Sammy Patch_,
old fellow.' Really, I've sung that song so many times I'm tired of the
sound of it."
"It must be nice to be such a favorite," said Buddie.
"Suppose we go up to the Corner and see what's stirring," suggested the
Donkey, with a yawn.
"Oh, are _you_ going up to the Corner, too?" cried Buddie. "I am to meet
the Rabbit there at two o'clock. I hope it isn't late."
The Donkey glanced skyward.
"It isn't noon yet," said he.
"How do you tell time?" inquired Buddie.
"By the way it flies. Time flies, you know. You can tell a great many
birds that way, too." As he spoke the Donkey put his lute into one of
his bags and took down his sign.
"You can ride if you wish," he offered graciously.
"Thank you," said Buddie. And leaving the White Blackbird asleep on his
perch,--for, as Buddie said, he was having such a lovely nap it would be
a pity to wake him,--they set off through the wood.
It was bad traveling for a short distance, but presently they came out
on an old log-road; and along this the Donkey ambled at an easy pace. On
both sides grew wild flowers in wonderful abundance, but, as Buddie
noticed, they were all of one kind--Enchanter's Nightshade.
Buddie had also noticed, when she climbed to her comfortable seat, a
peculiar marking on the Donkey's broad back. It was bronze in color, and
in shape like a cross.
"Perhaps it's a strawberry mark," she thought, "and he may not want to
talk about it." But curiosity got the better of her.
"Oh, that?" said the Donkey, carelessly, in reply to a question. "That's
a Victoria Cross. I served three months with the British army in South
Africa, and was decorated for gallantry in leading a charge of the
ambulance corps. I shall have to ask you not to hang things on my neck.
It's all I can do to hold up my head."
"Oh, excuse me," said Buddie, untying the sign, OLD SAWS RESET WHILE YOU
WAIT.
"Hang it round your own neck," said the Donkey, and Buddie did so.
"I often wonder," she said, "whether a horse doesn't sometimes get tired
holding his head out at the end of his neck. And as for a giraffe, I
don't see how he stands it."
"Well, a giraffe's neck runs out at a more convenient angle," said the
Donkey. "Still, it _is_ tiresome without a check-rein. You hear a great
deal about a check-rein being a cruel invention, but, on the contrary,
it's a great blessing. Now, a nose-bag is a positive outrage, and the
more oats it contains the more of an imposition it is. People have the
queerest ideas!"