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Choice Dialect 

and other 


Containing I^eadings and 
Jiecitations in Irish, German 

Scotch, French, ^fegro 
and other Dialects 

Compiled by 


The Penn 
Publishing Company 


Copyright igiS by The Penn Publishing CoMPA>ft 



^DDie's Ticket . a'JS 

Apples— A aSegro Lecture iift 

Aunt Parson's ritory Presbyterian Journal 112 

Aunt 8<jphroaia Tabor at tbe Opere 77 

Bo Content 26 

Bevare of the Yidders - . • 186 

Biddy's Trials Among Ihe Yankees . . . Harper's Bazar 70 

Biddy McOlunis at the I'hotographer's 176 

Bonnie Sweet Jessie 168 

" Book Larnin' " M. U. Turlr 163 

Braveet of the Brave R. J. Burdetle 183 

Burglar Bill 108 

Cabin Love Song J. A. Macon 128 

Coffee My Mother Used to Make, The . . James MTiUcomb Riley 47 

Cultured Daughter of a Plain Grocer, The 132 

Dat Yaller Gown Charles U. Turner 16 

Ve Preacher an' de Hants, Willium H. Hayne 193 

Der Deutscher's Maxim Charles F. Adams 122 

Me Yaller Chinee 69 

Diftidence 143 

Dutchman's Testimony in a Steamboat Case, A 184 

Earthquake in Kgypt, The 41 

Engineer's 'tory, The Eugene J. Hall. 66 

Evening Song on the Plantation J. A. Kaeon 100 

Examination in History, An 161 

Fritz and I Charles F. Adams 197 

Funeral, The WiU CarUton 188 

3abe and the Irish Lady Mary E. C. Wyelh 54 

Wrandfuth'ir'g Khho Mary A. lumison 149 

erandpa's ("iiurtship IMm Whitney Clark 91 

He Guessed Ho d Kight 81 

How Pat Went Courting * 

Tnaamii'-h WtUlnce Tiruce . 62 

Invenlor'H Wife, The Mrs. E. T. CorbfU 110 

Irish OKjuPtry 63 

It's Vrni Wr-fll WnUnt^ Thinhar 1»1 

Jimmi«"B Prayer liMhrn Traturrij>l 13» 

Kit: or, Kailhfnl Unto Death <• 

KyarNna Jim A. O. Oordtm M 

CV>lo« DIaWM. ill 



Larry's On the Force Irwin Rvsiett 84 

Light From Over the Range, The 160 

Life's Game of Hall 74 

Mary O'Connor, the Volunteer's Wife . . Mary A. Doiison 6 

Mischievous Daisy Joanna Matthews 8S 

Mother's Doughnuts Charles F. Adam* 144 

Mr. Schmidt s Miataks Charles F. Adams 87 

Music of the I'ast, The „ 166 

Mutilated Currency Question, The .... Brooklyn Eagle 17 

Neighbors U 

Old Woman's Love Story 100 

" Ole Marsters " Christmas, The Sam W. Small 141 

Over the Crossin' Springfield Republican 31 

Pat's Letter 20 

Pine Town Debating Society, The . 104 

Prayer, The Will CarleU)n 22 

Sable Theology I<''lg"Ki 157 

Schneider's Tomatoes Charles F. Adams 167 

Simon's Wife's Mother Lay Sick of a Fever 155 

Speak Nae 111 26 

Street Gamin's Story of the Play, A 27 

"Teamster Jim " • R. J. Burdette 164 

TextWithout a Sermon, A 198 

Thet Boy ov Ourn Jere De Brown 33 

Tim Murphy's Stew 195 

Tommy's Twials 152 

Tramp's Philosophy. A • . . Merchard Traveler 169 

Trapper's Last Trail, The Madge Morris 175 

Tribulations of Biddy Malone, The . . . George M. Vickers 39 

Uncle GaVie on Church Matters J. A. Macon 45 

Uncle Gabe at the Corn Shucking . . . . J. A. Macon 8 

Uncle Ned's Banjo Song 173 

Uncle Pete and Marse George 129 

Wake of Tim O'Hara, The Robert Buchanan 146 

Wee, Wee Bairnie, The 97 

Wet Weather Talk James M'Tiitcomh RUey 95 

When Greek Meets Greek 18 

Why Ben Schneider Decides for Prohibi- 
tion Vira Hopkins 136 

Widow O'Shane's Rint, The 199 

Winnie's Welcome Will Emmett 44 

foure Truly 13.' 

•hslM OltlMl. 







AN' shure I was tould to come here to your Honor, 
To see if you'd write a few words to me Pat. 
He's gone for a soger is Mister O'Connor, 

Wid a stripe on his arm and a band to his hat. 

An' what'Il you tell him ? It ought to be aisy 
For such aa your Honor to spake wid the pen, 

An' say I'm all right, and that mavourneen Daisy 
(The baby, your Honor) is betther agen. 

For whin he went off, it's so sick was the childer, 
She niver held up her blue eyes to his face, 

And whin I'd he cryin', he'd look but the wilder, 
And say would I wish for the country's disgrace? 

So he left her in danger, and nie sorely greeting, 
And followed the flag wid an Irishman's joy, 

Oh ! it's often I drame of tlie great drums a beating, 
And a bullet gone straight to the heart of me boy. 



And say will lie send me a bit of his money, 

For the rint, and the doctor's bill, due in a week? 

Well, surely, there's tears on your eyelashes, honey, 
Ah ! faith, I've no right wid such freedom to speak 

Vou're overmuch trifling — I'll not give you trouble ; 

I'll find some one willin' ; oh ! what can it be ? 
What's that in the newspaper folded up double ? 

Yer Honor — don't hide it — but read it to me. 

What? Patrick O'Connor? — no, no, it's some other; 

D«ad ! dead ! — no, not him, 'tis a week scarce g^%8 
Dead ! dead I why, the kiss on the cheek of his mo*Her' 

It hasn't had time yet, yer Honor, to dry. 

Don't tell me — it's not him — O God ! am I crazy ? 

Shot dead ! — oh ! for love of sweet Heaven say no : 
An' what'll I do in the world wid poor Daisy I 

Oh ! how will I live, and oh ! where will I go ! 

The room is so dark — I'm not seein', your Honor ; 

I — think — I'll go home. And a sob quick and dry 
Came sharp from the bosom of Mary O'Connor, 

But never a tear-drop welled up to her eye. 

Mary A. Denison. 


(From The Leed Mercury.) 

SHE'S consinted at last 1 Fur two years I'd thocht 
a dale ov Nelly McC iker, only I had nothin' ov 
fin Irish boy's boldness to ap and tell her that same. 


But yiBterday sez I to mesilf — " Pat Murky, now's jsr 
toime, or niver." Nelly was in the pantry wasliin' dishes 
an' sumthin' shouted : " Ax her ! She's too busy to 
look at yer, ony way." So I starts on with — " Troth, Nelly, 
it's a bad loife for a boy to be livin' alone." " Yis,"sez she, 
wid nary a twinkle, "Mike Ryan, that's jist bin sent 
to prison, is in a bad way indade." " Och," sez I, 
" there's mony a boy that's lonely livin' rite wid his 
friends an' naybors. Sure an' I'm lonesome mesilf." 
" How can I b'lave that," sez she, " whin y've got a 
fiddul ?" "Fidduls," sez I, "are cheerin', but I've 
got me two eyes set on somet, on somethin' cheeriner." 
She forgot to ax me what that sumthin' wus, so I trotted 
off by another road, sayin' : " Faith, Nelly, I'm goin' 
back to Ould Ireland." " Indade," sez she, flirtin' the 
dishrag. " An' it's a pity ye iver cum over." " Yis," 
sez I, " Jane said that same in her last lether." 

" An' who's Jane ?" axt Nelly, gettin' red loike the 
crabs on the table besoid her. " She thinks a power o' 
me," sez I, onheedin'. " Shure an' that's quare. Is 
she young— as me?" "Yis." "An' better lookin'?" 
" Paple moight think so." " An' is she waitin' fur ye?" 
"Yis." "She'll be changin' names sure, I reckon?" 
" Yis." " Wat's her name now ?" " Jane— Murky !" 
cried I, wid delight. "Thin she's your sister?" sez 
Nelly, ez her mistress. " Well, it aint much mat- 
ter, seein' ez how I've got a boy wotchin' fur me over 
in Ballycoran." " Wat's his name?" axt I, turnin' hot 
an' cold all at wunst. " Barney Flynn," sez she. 
"About me size?" "Yis." " An' duz he luv ye?" 
" Nixt to the Vargin." "Is he comin' over sure?" 
" No." " Why not, bcdad ?" " Och, Pat, he's married 
tlriddy !" " The spalpeen !" says I. " Don't give hiia 


hard names," sez she, "Barney Flynn's me stip« 
brother !" 

Then she laflEl that purty Liugh o' hern, an' I went up 
close. " Nelly," sez I. " Wat, Pat ?" " Cud ye luv a boy 
loike me ?" " Troth an' I wouldn't thry." " Why not, 
darlint ?" " Faith, I was niver axt to." " Then I'll ax 
ye now." " Don't do it," sez she. " I'm that full o' 
work I couldn't reply for a month," and the dishea 
flew'd ivry wich way ez she said it. But I sat down 
on the stip. " I kin wait," sez I. " The misthress will 
come an' foind yez here." " I'll be plazed to mate her." 
" I'll tell her ye're a robber." " Begorra, that's just 
what I am, for I'm afther Nelly McCusker's heart !" 
" Ye'll be arrested." " I hav bin alriddy, an' yer blu' 
eyes did it !" sez 1. " Cum, Nelly, lock me up in yer 
warm heart foriver." " Och, it's boulted an' I've lost 
the key." "Thin I'll cloimb in at the winder." She 
hung her curly hed fur a minit, and whin she lookt up 
I axt her to be me woife. " I'll guv je five secinds," 
sez I. " Ef ye wull, just fotch me the big pewter spoon 
ye've bin wipin' ; ef ye won't, thin put it back in the 
'drawer !" She peeped at me over the top av it. " D'ye 
mane what ye say, Pat ?" " Yis, darlint," sez I. " Thin 
here's the spoon." 


DE stars is shinin' out de sky de brightes' eber seen ; ' 
De shucks behine', de corn befo', de niggers in 
between ; 
Oe likely gals is he'pin' an' deir shiny eyes a-blinkin'; 


De shucka is flyin' libely an' de pile ob com is 

swinkin' ;* 
De weeds is gittin' jewy — we mus' push de bizniss fas', 
Dar's a little jug behiu' us jes a-waitiu' in de graae. 
(You fellers stop your co'tin' tell you hear me raise de 

An' you better medjer orf de cloud dat's slidin' 'cross 

de moon !) 
Now cl'ar your th'oats an' hep' me jes' sing a song or 

two ; 
We'll start out wid de " Johnson Gals " an' see what 

we kin do : 


Oh ! taint nuffin' tall like de Johnson gals, 

For dey bangs all de county out ! 
Folks on de creek gwine to look mighty sharp 

When de Johnson gals come 'bout ; 
Dey libs in de quarters on de j'inin' place. 

Right close to de en' o' de lane ; 
Dey's sweet as de hole in de 'lases bar'l 

An' nice ae de sugar-cane ! 


Den, cl'ar de track for de Johnson gals! 
Johnson gals ! I 
Johnson gals 1 ! I 
Oh ! cl'ar de track for do Johnson gab I 
Johnson gals is de gals for me! ! 


Oh ! nigger wuk liard in de new groun' trac', 

Au' he git mighty tired in de plantin' ; 
But he sing jes' same as a frog in de swamp, 

When de ebenin' sun go to slantin' ; 
No matter ef de plow-p'int hit 'g'in de rocks, 

An' de day git hot as it please, 
He know he gwine to see dem Johnson gals 

When de moon clammin' up froo de trees I 

De morkin' sing when de bright day breakin'. 

An' he wake up de bushes all aroun' ; 
But he aint half sweet as de old whipperwill, 

Dat sing when de sun gone down ! 
De morkin' tell you when to hitch up de team. 

An' he call out de niggers to de hoes ; 
De whipperwill talk 'bout de Johnson gals, 

'Cause he sing when de moon done rose ! I 

Den, far' you well, Miss Susie, dear, 

Far' you well, Miss Jane ! 
I gwine out to see dat sweet bunch o' gala 

Dat lib at de en' o' de lane ! 
Far' you well, my old true love, 

I aint got time to stay ! 
I been out long wid de Johnson gals, 

An' dey stole my heart away. 

(At this stage of the musical entertainment, Uncle 
Gabe was accidentally struck on the head by an ear of 
com, thrown from the hand of some one sitting behind 
him. The interruption called forth something like the 
following parenthetical observation in stalwart prose : 
" Lookae 'ere ! what club-foot vilyun flung dat corn ? 


You kin shuck jes' as well widout bu's'in' de bark dat 
way ! You settiu' in de wrong place, 'way back dar, 
anyhow ! Ef you piny woods niggers can't tell de top 
o' my head funi de pile o' clean corn, you better go 
home ; an' ef you aint got 'nough strenk in your arm 
to pitch a ear o'corn ten foot, you better lay down an' 
res' awhile ! Brer Ab, you lif dc nex' chune ; my head 
gone to yoonhi' same as a bumbler-bee nes' !") 

J. A. Macon. 


WHO'S that a-comiug up the path ? 
Run, Betsey Jane, and see ; 
I'll bet it's hateful old Miss Jones 

A-comin' here to tea ! 
Miss Perkins, is it ? deary me ! 
I'd rather hear it thunder — 
She's allers out a-tattlin' — 

Wha'. brings her here, I wonder? 

I hope she's only come to call — 

Don't ask her, dear, to stay ; 
For, if you urged her hard enough 

She'd never go away. 
Of all the wimmen that I know 

Miss Perkins beats them holler; 
She's comin' here to spy around, 

I'll bet a silver dollar. 

She's got her old silk bonnet on , 

It's older than the hills ! 
I'm sure it looks n^dickcrlous 

All ruffles, tucks, and frills: 


Good gracious rae ! she's got her work- 
I'll hev to get my knittin' ; 

I s'pose you knew Bill Smith had give 
Her darter Ann the mitten. 

Come in ! Miss Perkins, is that you ? 

I'm desprit glad you've come ; 
For, as I said to Betsey Jane, 

The house seems awful dumb ! 
Miss Perkins, take the rockin'-chair. 

An', Betsey, take her bonnet ; 
Be sure you put it where the flies 

An' dust won't get upon it. 

Sez I, not half an hour ago, 

Sez I to Betsey Jane 
I wonder where Miss Perkins is, 

Why don't she come again ? 
Sez I, I hope she'll come to-day 

If nothin's up to hinder ; 
She's comin' now, says Betsey Jane, 

A-lookin' out the winder. 

Miss Perkins, take a pinch of snuff 

An' tell us all the news, 
I haven't heard 'em in so long 

I've almost got the blues. 
Miss Johnson got a new silk dress! 

Miss Perkins, well, I never ! 
I wonder if she really thinks 

Her money'll last forever ! 

Miss Perkins, yes, I was at church ; 
Now want vou glad to hear 


The preacher preach so plain on drew? 

It hit some folks so clear ! 
Miss Primrose colored, like a beet — 

You know she wore a feather ; 
An' Sarah Grimes was awful mad — 

It hit 'em both together. 

I wonder if 'Squire Pettibone 

Hain't got a bran new wig ? 
I really do dislike that man, 

He feels so awful big ! 
You saw him walking t'other night 

Along with Katherine Snyder ? 
Miss Perkins, that'll make a match, 

I'll bet a pint of cider. 

The deacon's son is waitin' on 

Miss Grimes' cousin Rose — 

What for, do you suppose? 
I hardly think he'll marry her ; 

His father won't be willin', 
For she's as poor as poor can be — 

She isn't worth a shillin'. 

I suppose you knew Mariar Smith 

Had named her darter Lily ; 
I'd call her Cabbage, Hollyhock— 

That aint a bit more silly. 

Miss Perkins, have you heard about 

That fuss with Pcleg Brown? 
You hain't ! Why goodness, gracious me. 

It's all about the town I 


They think he cheats his customers 

A-sellin' salaratus, 
An' say they've ketched his oldest son 

A-stealin' green tomatoes. 

Of course you've heard the talk that's round 

About the widder Hatch ; 
They say she's after Thomas Sweet, 

And that'll be a match. 
Her husband haint been dead six months. 

An' now she wants another ; 
She'd never be my da'ter-in-law. 

If I was Thomas' mother. 

Have I heard of the weddin' ? No ! 

Who, underneath the sun ? 
John Wait and Huldy Robinson ! 

Miss Perkin's, you're in fun ; 
Why, he's as much as fifty-two, 

And Huldy isn't twenty ; 
But then you know the reason why— 

The old fool's cash is plenty. 

Miss Perkins, now, 'twixt you and I, 

My Betsey an' your Ann 
Are smart as any girls in town 

Deservin' of a man. 
That spruce young clerk in Woodard's stort, 

As I was just remarkin'. 
Was here till ten last Sunday night — 

I guess he thinks o' sparkin'. 

Miss Perkins, are you going now ? 
One thing I'd like to know — • 


(Go bring her bonnet, Betsey Jane)— • 

What makes you hurry so ? 
Your bonnet's just as nice as new— 

I swan it's right in fashion ; 
Them ruffles an' them gethers here 

Are really very dashin'. 

Oh ! yes, Miss Perkins, I shall come. 

You must come down ag'in ; 
You haven't been here in so long, 

It really is a sin ! 
Good a'ternoon ! Yes, Betsey Jane 

Shall come an' see your da'ter. 
There ! Is she gone ? I really hope 

She got what she was a'ter ! 
In all my life I never did 

See such a tattlin' critter. 
They ought to call her " Scandal Bones "— • 

I'm sure the name would fit her. 
I s'pose I must return her call, 
But I wasn't sociable at all. 


DAT'S de cutes' pickaninny 
Eber bo'n in dis heah town ; 
Dey's none sich in ole Virginny 
As him in dat yaller gown. 

yo' nebber seed a chile so kcarful 

'Bout his cloze; dey's al'iis clean ; 

Jes' to speck 'cm hurts 'im fearful — 

De proudes' chile yo' ebber seen ! 


Bress his heart ! Jes' heah 'im holler ? 

Han 'sura, aint he ? Like his dad ; 
De gander, now, he's tryin' to foller ; 

Down he goes ! Dat makes him mad. 

Jump up spry, now, Alexander ; 

Kearful ! Doan ye see dat mud ? 
Heah me, chile ! yo'll riz my dander, 

If ye s'ile dat bran new dud ! 

Stop dis instep ! stop dat sprawlin' ! 

Hi ! yo' Alexander Brown ! 
Dar's a puddle, an' yer crawlin* 

To'ard it wid yer yaller gown ! 

See yo'self, now, jes a-drippin* 
Wid dat black degustful sile, 

Keeps me half de time a-strippin' 
Off yer cloze — ^ye nasty chile. 

Pay distenshum whan I holler ! 

'Fo' de Lawd ! chile, suah's yer bo*n. 
If I ebber see yo' waller 

In dat hole ag'in, yer gone. 

Come dis way ! Yes, dat's my t'ankin* ; 

Nex' time look out whar ye go ; 
Yer desarvin' sich a spankin' 

As yer nebber had befo' ! 

Aint yer 'shamed, yeh good-fo'-nuffin' 
Little niggah ? 'T sarved ye right. 

Case yer al'us inter suffin' 
S'ilin', if it's in yer sight. 


Dar ; now what's de good in bawlin' ? 

Dat won't slick yer gown ag'in ; 
Yo' air de wustest 'coon fer crawlin' 

In de mud I ebber seen. 

Charles H. Turner. 


*T CAN'T take that nickel," said a horse-car conductor 

-L to a man who got in at the City Hall. 

" Vat vos de matter mit dat goin ?" asked the passen- 
ger blandly. 

" It's no good. It's got a hole it," replied the con- 
ductor grufily. 

" Ish dot so ? Off you plase show me dot hole," 

"Look at it. We can't take any such money as 

*' Oxcuse me," smiled the passenger, and he handed 
over a dime. 

" That's worse yet," growled the conductor. 

" Vas dot dime full of holes too ?" asked the passen- 
ger, looking up innocently. 

" Here's a whole side chipped out. We aint allowed to 
take mutilated money," and the conductor handed it back. 

" So?" inquired the passenger, " hav you got changes 
for heluf a dollar?" and he ])assed over another coin. 

" What's this?" asked the conductor, contemptuously. 
*' It's as bald as a deacon. There ain't a scratch on it 
to show whether it's an overcoat button or a skating 
rink. Haven't you got any money ?" 

" Veil I should make smiles !" said the passenger, 
good-humoredly. " Here is fifo tollar. and you can 


baste it together ven you got some leisures. Haf you 
got changes off dot fife dollars ?" and he handed over a 
bill torn in four or eight pieces. 

" I don't want no more fooling," said the conductor. 
• If you can't pay your fare get oflf." 

" Veil, don't make so many droubles. I vill bay 
you," and he pulled out a Mexican quaiter. " Gif me 
bennies," he suggested. 

" Look here, are you going to pay your fare, or not ?" 

" Of gourse. May be you vas vating for dat moneys," 
and he took back his quarter, and submitted an English 

" Now you get off this car !" roared the conductor. 

" Vere has dose cars got by ?" asked the passenger, 
rising to obey. 

" Fulton Ferry !" said the conductor. 

" Den I may as veil get owit. You dell dem gompa- 
nies dot some dimes dey make more money as oder dimes, 
off dey dook voteffer dey got, instead of going mitout 
nodings, don't it ?" 

And the smiling passenger, having ridden to the end 
of the line, crossed the ferry, observing to himself: 
" Dot vas petter off I safe such moneys, und some dimes 
I go owit to East Nyarich, und it don'd gost me n« 
more as nodings at all." Brooklyn Eagle. 


STRANGER here ? Yes, come from Varmont, 
Rutland County. You've hearn tell, 
Mebbe, of the town of Granville ? 

You born there ? No 1 Sho ! Well, wefll 


You was bom at Granville, was you ? 

Then you know Elisha Brown, 
Him as runs the old meat market 

At the lower end of town ? 
Well, well, well ! Born down in Granville, 

And out here, so far away ! 
Stranger, I'm home sick already, 
Though it's but a week to-day 
Since I left my good wife standin' 

Out there at the kitchen door, 
Sayin' she'd ask God to keep me ; 
And her eyes were runnin' o'er. 
You must know old Albert Wither 
Henry Bull, and Ambrose Cole, 
Know them all ! And born in Granville? 

Well, well, well ! God bless my soul ! 
Sho ! you're not old Isaac's nephew, 

Isaac Green, down on the flat, 
Isaac's oldest nephew — Henry? 

Well, I'd never thought of that ! 
Have I got a hundred dollars 

I could loan you for a minute. 
Till you buy a horse at Marcy's ? 

There's my wallet ! Just that in it ! 
Hold on, though ! You have ten, mebbe, 

You could let me keep ; you see 
I might chance to need a little 

Betwixt now and half-past three. 
Ten. That's it ; you'll owe me ninety ; 

Bring it round to the hotel. 
So you're old friend Isaac's nephew ? 

Born in Granville! Sho! Well, well! 
Wliat ! Policeman I Did you call me ? 

20 pat's letteb. 

That a rascal going there ? 
Well, sir, do you know I thought so. 

And I played him pretty fair ; 
Hundred-dollar bill I gave him 

Counterfeit — and got his ten ! 
Ten ahead ! No ! You don't tell me ! 

This bad, too ! Sho ! Sold again ! 



WELL, Mary, me darlint, I'm landed at last, 
And troth, though they tell me the st'amer was 
It sames as if years upon years had gone by 
Since Paddy looked intill yer beautiful eye ! 
For Amerikay, darlint — ye'll think it is quare — 
Is twinty times furder than Cork from Kildare ; 
And the say is that broad, and the waves are that high, 
Ye're tossed, like a fut-ball, 'twixt wather and shky ; 
And ye fale like a pratie just burstin' the shkin, 
That all ye can do is to howld yersilf in. 
Ochone ! but, me jewel, the say may be grand : 
But whin ye come over, dear, thravel by land ! 

It's a wondherftil counthry this — so I am towld — 
They'll not look at guineas, so chape is the gowld ; 
And the three that poor mother sewed into my coat 
I sowld for a thrifle, on I'aving the boat, 
And the quarest of fashions ye iver have seen ? 
They pay ye with picters all painted in green. 
And the crowds that are rushing here, morning and 

pat's letter. 21 

Would make the Lord Lieutenant shake with the fright. 
The strates are that full that there's no one can pass, 
And the only law is, " Do not tread on the grass." 
Their grass is the quarest of shows — by me vow — ' 
For it wouldn't be munched by a Candlemas cow. 

Tell father I wint, as he bid me, to see 

His friend, Tim O'Shannon, from Killycaughnee. 

It's rowling in riches O'Shannon is now. 

With a wife and tin babies, six pigs and a cow, 

In a nate little house, standing down from the strata. 

With two beautiful rooms, and a pig-stye complate. 

I thought of ye, darlint, and dramed such a drame ! 

That mebbe, some day, we'd be living the same ; 

Though, troth, Tim O'Shannon 's wife niver could dare 

(Poor yaller-skinned crayther) with you to compare ; 

While as for the pigs, shure twas aisy to see 

The bastes were not mint for this land of the free. 

I think of ye, darlint, from morning till night; 
And whin I'm not tliinking, ye're still in me sight I 
I see your blue eyes, with the sun in their glance— 
Your smile in the meadow, your fut in the dance. 
I'll love ye, and thrust ye, both living and dead ! 
(Let Phil Blake look out for his carroty headl) 
I'm working, acushla, for you — only you ! 
And I'll make ye a lady yit, if ye'U be thrue; 
Though, troth, ye can't climb Fortune's laddher an 

Whin iKjth of your shouldhers are loaded with brick. 
But I'll do it — I declare it, by — this and by that — 
Which manes what I daren't say — from 

Your own Pat. 



'rpWAS a night of dread in Charleston, and the air 
J- was thick with fear : 
Never yet had such a terror dropped its raven mantle 

here ; 
Never yet had deathly sorrow had so strange and sudden 

As upon the visitation of this tempest of the earth. 

For the startled ground was surging as the waves of 

stormy seas, 
And the belfries of the churches fell like stricken forest 

And the walls that long had lorded over seen and unseen 

Covered thick with costly ruins this tornado from below. 

There were some who prayed God's presence, who to 

God had long been near ; 
There were some for help entreating with repentance 

made of fear ; 
There were some who raved in madness through the 

long and murderous night ; 
There were corses calmly waiting for a mourner's tearful 


And that dark race whose religion has a superstitious 

And whose superstition clambers toward an everlasting 



They were shouting in their frenzy, or in terror meekly 

For they thought the opening signal of the Judgment* 

day had come. 

But there sudden rose among them one of earth's un- 
tutored kings, 

One of those unlooked-for leaders whom an hour of 
danger brings, 

And he prayed — as souLs are apt to, full of sympathy 
and love — 

Partly to the souls around him, partly to the God 

And he said : " I guces it's come, Lawd — dis yer day 
dat's stayed gc long — 

For de symptoms all aroun' here day be mos' tremend- 
ous strong ; 

But we aint quite ready yet, Lawd, neber min* how 
well prepared ; 

W» he\ safe in Thy good mercy, but we're eberlastin' 
scared ! 

•^ For You see we're mos'ly human when de grave comes 

re'lly nigh, 
A.n' de spirit wants its freedom, but de flesh it hates to 

We've been teasin' You for hebben all de summer long, 

I know ; 
But we aint in half de hurry dat we was awhile ago. 

*' When we come to look it over in de light ob pain an' 

Dere is holes in all our anuor dat at first view didn't 



An* we'd like to patch 'em over, if it's all de same to 

Put it off a yeah, for certain — or perhaps You'd maka 

it two ! 

" Then we've got some poor relations who may neher 

see Thy face 
[f dey do not earn de riches ob de sin-destroy in' grace ; 
Lord, protect dem wid Thy patience, jus' de same like 

as before, 
An' keep diggin' roun' dose fig-trees for anudder year 

or more ! 

" Let dem off a little longer ! In de light ob dis event 
Dey may recognize de season as a fine one to repent ! 
Dey will like Ye when dey know Ye, an' be glad to 

enter in, 
An' dere's some dat's awful good, Lawd, ef it wasn't for 

deir sin ! 

" Dis yer world has lots of fine folks, who is anxious, 

I'm afraid. 
Fore to pick a little longer 'fore dey have deir baskets 

weighed ; 
An' dere'd be a large major'ty who would vote, it must 

be owned, 
For to hab de world's big fiin'ral eberlastin'ly poe'- 

poned ! 

* An' You know, O good dear Fathah, dat Your time is 

all home-made, 
Ac' a thousan' years is nothin' in your golden steel* 

yards weighed; 



Keep de same ol' footstool yet, Lawd ; hoi' it steady, I 

implore ! 
It'll maybe suit You better if you use it jes once more I 

* But ob eo'se our weak-eyed wisdom's like a rain-drop 

in de sea, 
An' we aint got any business to be mendin' plans for 

If it's time to leave dese quarters an' go somewhar else 

to board, 
Make de journey jes as easy as Your justice can afford ! 

"An' we know You hab a fondness for de average 

human soul. 
So we'll hab consid'ble courage at de eallin' ob de roll; 
You're our sure 'nuff liviu' Fathah — You're our 

fathah's God an' frien' — 
To de Lawd be praise an' glory, uow an' evermore ! 

Amen !" 

'Twaa a day of peace in Charleston, after many days of 

A.nd the shelterless were sheltered, and the hungry had 

been fed ; 
And the death-invaded city through its misery now 

could gro})e, 
A.nd look forward to a future fringed with happinesa 

and hope. 

A.nd those faithful dusky Christians will maintain for 

That the fervent prayera they offered drove destructioa 

from their shore ; 


And how much faith moves a mountain, or commands a 

rock to stay, 
Is unknown to earthly ignorance, and for only God to 


Will Carleton. 


SAW ye ne'er a lonely lassie, 
Thinkin' gin she were a wife, 
The sun of joy wad ne'er gae down. 

But warm and cheer her a' her life ? 
Saw ye ne'er a weary wife, 

Thinkin' gin she were a lass. 

She wad aye be blithe and cheerie, 

Lightly as the day wad pass. 

Wives and lassies, youug and aged, 

Think na on each ither's state ; 
Ilka ane it has its crosses, 

Mortal joy was ne'er complete. 
Ilka ane it has its blessings. 

Peevish dinna pass them by, 
But like choicest berries seek them, 

Tho' among the thorns they lie. 


OTHER people have their fault*. 
And so have you as well ; 
But all ye chance to see or hear 
Ye have no right to telL 


If ye canna speak o' good, 

Take care, and see and feel ; 
Earth has all too much o' woe, 

And not enough o' weal. 

Be careful that ye make nae strife 
Wi' meddling tongue and brain ; 

For ye will find enough to do 
If ye but look at hame. 

If ye canna speak o' good, 

Oh ! dinna speak at all ; 
For there is grief and woe enough 

On this terrestrial ball. 

If ye should feel like picking flaws, 

Ye better go, I ween. 
And read the book that tells ye all 

About the mote and beam. 

Dinna lend a ready ear 

To gossip or to strife, 
Or perhaps 'twill make for ye 
Nae sunny things of life. 

Oh ! dinna add to others' woe. 

Nor mock it with your mirth ; 
But give ye kindly sympathy 

To suffering ones of earth. 


?T^WO small boys were looking at the large black and 
A. r(;d posters on the boards in front of a IJowery 
rariety theatre. The larger of the boys wore a mau'a 


overcoat, the sleeves of which had been shortened by 
rolling them up till his red and grimy hands protruded. 
The big coat was open in front, revealing a considerable 
expanse of cotton shirt. His hands were thrust in his 
trousers' pockets. The visor of his heavy wool cap had 
come loose, except at the ends, and it rested on his 
nose. His smaller companion wore a jacket and 
trousers that were much too small even for him. His hat 
was of black felt and of the shape of a sugar loaf. Hia 
eyes were round with wonder at the story his friend in the 
big overcoat was telling him. It seemed to be a synopsis 
of the play, scenes in which were pictured on the boards. 

" This duffer," said the boy, taking one hand from 
his pockets and pointing to the picture of a genteel man 
with a heavy black moustache, " is the vill'n. It 
begins wid him corain' on the stage, and sayin' : 

" ' What, ho f Not here yet ?' 

" Then an Eyetalian wid big whiskere — he's the 
vill'ii's pall — comes on, and the vill'n tells him the girf 
mus' be did away wid, so he can get the boodle. 

" ' How mucha you giv-a,' says the Eyetalian. 

" ' Five thousand dollars,' says the vill'n, and they 
makes the bargain. The Eyetalian is goin' to make 
b'lieve that the girl is his'n, git her away f'm her 
friends, and kill her. While they is makin' the bargain 
a Dutchman comes out, an' says he : 

" ' Maybe yer don't W'as tink I haf heard sometings, 
don't it ? I vill safe dot girl !' 

" The next scene is in a big, fine house. An' old 
woman all dressed up swell is tellin' a young feller that 
the girl is heir to fifty thousand dollars, an' dey don't 
know who her fader and mudder was. The young 
feller tells his mudder that he don't care who her folks 

▲ 8TREET gamin's STORY OF THE PLA.Y. 29 

was, an' that he'll marry her anyway, even if she is 
blind. The ole woman goes out, and a be-youtiful girl 
comes in, pawin' the air 'cause she's blind and can't see, 
and says she to the young chap : 

" ' It can't never be !' 

" The feller don't b'lieve her, an' tells her she's given' 
him guff. After a lot of coaxin' she owns up that she 
is, an' he spreads out his fins and hollers : 

" ' Then you do love me, Marie ?' and she tumbles. 

" Then an ole man wid a white wig comes in — he's 
the doctor — an' he looks at the girl's eyes an' says that 
he can cure 'em but it may kill her. He takes out two 
bottles and says : 

" ' In this is sump'n that'll put yer into a sleep. Will 
yer risk it ?' 

" * Be this me answer,' said the girl, an' she swallers 
the bottle an' tips over on the lounge. 

" Just before the doctor is goin' to fix her eyes, the 
Eyetalian jumps in an' says : 

" ' Where is mai poor childa ?' an' he won't let the 
doctor do anythin'. There is a big row, an' the Dutch- 
man comes in an' says : 

" ' She don't vas his child.' 

" But the Eyetalian lugs her off", an' the vill'n — he 
turns out to be her cousin — gets all the money. 

" The next scene is in the street. The Eyetalian an* 
the be-youtiful girl all dressed in rags comes along, and 
Bhe says : 

" 'I'm 8-0-0 tired.' 

" ' How mucha money you gotta ?' says the Eyetalian, 
an' she says she haint got no money. Then he goes to 
kill her, an' the Dutchman hops out an' yells: 

" ' You macaroni dago,' an' the Eyetalian lights out 


" The Dutchman he takes the girl into his house, an 
comes out into the street. The girl's feller comes along, 
an' while they is talkin' the Eyetalian sneaks back and 
steals the girl away. But the Dutchman's dog follers 
him and shows the way to the cop an' the Dutchman 
when they finds out that the girl is gone. They find 
her in a place where lots of Eyetalians is playin' poker. 
There's a big row agin, an' the girl is took out an' car- 
ried back to her home. In the row the Eyetalian gets 
all chawed up by the Dutchman's dog, the cop lugs him 
off, an' he's sent up for ten years. 

" In the last act the girl's eyes has been fixed, an' 
she's sittin' on the piazzer. The papers has been found 
an' the vill'n has hollered, ' I'm 1-host, I'm I'host !' The 
girl is say in' how glad she'll be to see her feller an' 
look into his eyes, when the Eyetalian, who has skipped 
the ranch, comes cr-e-e-pin' along in striped togs, an' says 
he to hisself : 

" ' I will now liave mia r-r-evenge.' 

" The lights is turned down, an' the big fiddle goes 
zub-zub, zub-zub. 

" The Eyetalian creeps up and grabs the be-youtiful 

young girl and hollers, ' I will killa you !' an' pulls a 

big knife out of his breeches' pocket. The young girl 

yells, an' jest as he's going to jab her wid the knife, 

they all rushes in, an' the darkey pulls out a pop an' 

lets the Eyetalian have it in the ribs, and the Eyetalian 

tumbles down an' squirms, an' the be-youtiful young 

girl faints away in her feller's arms, an' down goes th» 





**CIHINE? shine, sor? Ye see, I'm just a-dien 
^ Ter turn yer boots inter glass 
Where ye'll see all the sights in the winders 

'Ithout lookin' up as yer pass. 
Seen me before ? I've no doubt, sor ; 

I'm punctooal haar, yer know, 
Waitin' along the crossin' 

Fur a little un', name o' Joe ; 
My brother, sor, an' a cute un', 

Ba'ly turned seven, an' small, 
But gettin' his liviu' grad'ely 

Tendin' a bit uv a stall 
Fur Millerkins down the av'nue; 

Yer kin bet that young un's smarts 
Worked right in like a vet'run 

Since th' old un' gin 'ira a start. 

** Folks say he's a pictcr o' father, 

Once mate o' the ' Lucy Lee * — 
Lost when Joe wor a baby, 

Way off in some furrin sea. 
Then mother kep' us together, 

Though nobody thought she would, 
An' worked an' slaved an' froze an' starved 

Uz h)ng uz ever she coukl. 
An' since she died an' left us, 

A couple o' year ago. 
We've kep' right on in Cragg Alley, 

A-housekecpin' — I an' Joe. 
I'd just got ray kit when she went, sor. 


An' people helped us a bit, 
So we managed to get on somehow ; 

Joe wus alius a brave little chit ; 
An' since he's got inter bisness, 

Though we don't ape princes an' sich. 
'Taint of 'n we git right hungry, 

An' we feel pretty tol'able rich. 

** I used to wait at the comer, 

Jest over th' other side ; 
But the notion o' bein' tended 

Sort o' ruffled the youngster's pride. 
So now I only watches 

To see that he's safe across ; 
Sometimes it's a bit o' waitin', 

But, bless yer, 'taint no loss ! 
Look ! there he is now, the rascal ! 

Dodgin' across the street 
Ter s'prise me — an' — look ! I'm goin'-« 

He's down by the horses' feet !" 

Suddenly all had happened — 

The look, the cry, the spring, 
The shielding Joe as a bird shields 

Its young with sheltering wing ; 
Then up the full street of the city 

A pause of the coming rush. 
And through all the din and the tumuU 

A painful minute of hush ; 
A tumble of scattered brushes. 

As they lifted him up to the walk, 
A gathering of curious faces, 

And snatches of whispered talk ; 


Little Joe all trembling beside him 

On the flagging, with gentle grac« 
Pushing the tangled, soft brown hair 

Away from the still, white face. 
At his touch the shut lids lifted, 

And swift over lip and eye 
Came a glow as when the morning 

Flushes the eastern sky ; 
And a hand reached out to his brother, 

As the words came low but clear — 
Joe, I reckon ye mind our mother : 

A minute back she wor here, 
Smilin' an' callin' me to her ! 

I tell ye, I'm powerful glad 
Yer such a brave, smart youngster ; 

The leavin' yer aint so bad. 
Hold hard to the right things she learnt us. 

An' alius keep honest an' true ; 
Good-bye, Joe — but mind, I'll be watchin' 

Just — over — the crossin' — fur you!" 

Springfield Republican. 


flTHY. I<>pdr, 0*ey, as I'm alive! Come in an' take 
»» a cheer; 
Ye hain't be'n in for quite a spell — it seems a'most a 

I tho't I heerd a rappiu' tew, an' yit I wa'n't quite 

But I hadn't the slight'st idee, my child, thet you wa# 

at the door. 


Take off yer things. No? Jes' drop't in? Why, 

Linda, can't ye stay? 
I'm lo'some now since Dan'l's ded ; I miss 'im ev'ry day. 
'Twould cheer me up ef ye w'd stop, for when I set 

I think uv thet wild boy uv ourn, an' grieve, an' sigh, 

an' groan. 

I know it's — mighty weak — in me to take on so 'fore 

(Why can't — I find thet — hankercher) an' yit what kin 

I deu ? 
Eft want fer sheddin' now an' then, I think my heart 

ud bust, 
Fer in sortin' out our trials I b'leve the Lord gev me 

the wust. 

Mebbe ye'd like to heer, my chile, jes' what I've hed to 

bear ; 
t haint tole many people yit — ther haint be'n many 

I'm a'most alius feered to start I git to snifilin' so, 
But I'll try to keep the flood-gates shet an' not go 'long 

tew slow. 

Jee' fifteen year ago this month, on a shiny Sabbith 

Ee the bells wuz ringin' fer sinner an' saint, thet boy uv 

ourn wuz born. 
We gev the boy a Script'ral name which wuz Eliakim ; 
But, Linda Grey, thet godly name wuz very onfit fer 



I spoze ther's some good reason why our fiitur's alius 

An' p'raps it's jes' as well fer me thet mine haint be'n 

revealed ; 
But ef I'd know'd a leetle ahead, I'd made some things 

more trim 
By namin' thet boy Beelzebub instid uv EliaJ^im. 

Heigh hum ! 

Dan'l an' me set hope on Li, our fust an' only child, 
Fer we b'leved the Lord thet Sabbith day had looked 

on him an' smiled : 
80 'fore he'd be'n on airth we both on us agreed 
To make a preacher outen 'im for sowin' the blessid 


But life is mighty thwartin', chile (I feered I'd act this 

'N it's no use layin' 0' plans, I find— not even fer to-day 
An', Linda, you may profit by one moril I hcv gleaned, 
It's never chuse yer child's career a year afore it's 


Resumin', 'Liakim grow'd an' thruvan' made me worlds 

o' care, 
Fer instid o' sowin' the seed, I feered he'd make a sower 

o' tare. 
He never tuck to useful l)ooks, an' tore up all my tracks. 
He liked scch works cs " Snakefoot Jim," with ilariu' 

yeller backs. 

I had ter tlira-yli 'im ev'ry day, an' Sundays alius twice; 
Fer tho' I talked a heap tew 'im I used the strap fer 
spice ; 


But the more I talked an' the more I strapped the wus 

he seemed to git, 
An' one night Dan'l askt o' me ef 'twan't about time to 


•• Jane," sez he (I see 'im now a closin' the blessid book) 
" I 'gin to fear we've missed our pints a viewin' the 

course we've took. 
I'd think es soon o' countin' the stars, or spungin' np 

the sea, 
E« drivin' thet boy ter Zion, an' makin' 'im bend the 


" I tell ye, wife, our tactics' Avrong, we've ben a heap 

tew strict. 
The strap's a good subdooar shoar, but never will convict. 
Take this advice, or never hope to realize your dream ; 
Use milk o' human kindness some, an' don't skim off the 


" Dan'l Clack," sez I, " look here "— fer I got rather 

vexed — 
" Sence you've sot out to preach tew me I'll jes' give ye 

a text : 
* Spare the rod an' spile the chile ;' you've sed the same 

afore ; 
Bo while ther's life I'll persevere, an' talk an' thrash th« 


He didn't say a single word, but look'd at me so sad ; 
il never speak o' that — somehow — but what I break out 


Fer though we've traveled side by side fer nigh to twenty 

Thet wuz the fust an' unly time thet things got out o' 


What ? Seven o'clock ? I'm keepin' ye ; I'm a'most 

done, my chile, 
'Liakim grow'd no better fast, an' I got fairly wild ; 
A.n' the more I struv, the more he struv, an' got from 

bad to wus, 
Until fer stubbornness I tho't he'd beat the most pervus. 

He kind o' tuck to Dan somehow raor'n he did to me, 
An' how the man controlled the chile I wan't quite 

clear tew see, 
But now them words flow tlirough my mind in one con. 

tinuous stream, 
" Use the milk o' human kindness some, an' don't skim 

oft' the cream." Heigh hum ! 

I tried to keep 'im in the house, an' from corruptin* 

boys ; 
But he'd git out an' jine the gang, an' top the rest far 

He'd play fer keeps, an' go to shows, an' run to all the 

Till I 'most tho't my fondest hopes were notliin' but 

vain deaires. 

He come a shameful thing on me in open church one 

I'd led 'im to the anxious »eat to hev 'Lm seek the way j 

4 .t f*orr^^y 


But afore I got thet torment down, he slipped his hand 

an' run, 
An' left me standin', while the folks wuz snickerin' et 

the fun. 

But after awhile the climack came, as climacks will, ye 

An' then I 'gin to b'leve 'twuz true thet " Life's a fleetin' 

You see I hed one Bible, chile, I alius kep' fer nice — 
I think in fifteen year or more, I used it only twice. 

But one day our good old elder called, so I got out thet 

An' when he 'gin to hunt the place I stood thar horror 

struck — 
Fer in betwixt them precious leaves, an' right afore 

Elder Slim, 
Wuz scattered a pack o' greasy keards that b'longed to 


'Course I fainted thar an' then, an' Elder Slim went 

I tuck so sick 'twas thirteen days afore I left my room ; 
But afore I tuck I flailed thet 'Li, in a way I'd call 

An' thet same night he lef the house an' hain't ben 

nigh it sence. 

Wal, chile, 'twas terrible bad for me an' made my spirits 

To think I struv so powerful hard, fer Satan tew flank 

me so ; 


An' then (I iiev to cry or drown) 's ef I hadn't enough 

tew bear, 
Dan'l he tuck the thing so hard — he died — in less 'n a 


An' now I'm spendin' this life alone ; no husban', nor 

no boy ; 
An' bidin' the time when I shill try a life without alloy ; 
But, chile, ef you should hev a son an' chuse the 

preacher's scheme, 
Try milk o' human kindness shoar, and don't skim off 

the cream. 

Jere De Brown. 


I'VE answered tin advortoisements in two days, but 
niver a place I got at all, at all. The furrest quis- 
tion they ax me is, " Can ye cook ?" And whin I say 
" I'll thry," they tell me I'll not suit. Shure a body 
would think there was nothing in the worruld to do but 
cook, cook, cook ; bad luck to the cookin'. I've been 
in the country jist four weeks nixt Tchuesday, and this 
is Monday, and I've had enough of yer Yankee cookin', 
and I'll have no more of it. 

I've lost three places already with this cookin', shurc. 
The furrest lady, sez she, "Can ye cook?" Sez I, 
"Shure, mum, I can that, for it's many a murphy I've 
cooked at me home beyant tlie sea." So I wint into 
the kitchen, an' me tliruiik wint up to the attic. Sez 
the missus, afthor a while, "Bridget, here's a turkey, 
shtufl' il an roast it." 

Well, at two o'clock she cornea into the kitchen, and 


sez she, " Bridget, how is it ye are so late wid the din. 
ner. Isu'tthe turkey done yet?" Sez I, " I'll see, mum." 
I wint to the pot an took off the lid. " Look, mum," 
sez I. " You've burnt the fowel to paces," sez she. 
Sez I, " Shure you tould me to stuff the burd and roast 
it ; so I shtuffed it into the pot." Well, meself and me 
thrunk left that same noight. 

The nixt place I wint the lady was troubled wid a 
wakeness. Sez she, " Biddy, dear, ye'll foind a piece of 
bafe in the refrigeratorio ; git it and make me some bafe 
tea." Well, afther huntin' all over for the refrigera- 
torio, I found the mate in a chist forninst a chunk of ice. 
I put the mate in a tea-pot an' lit it dhraw fur a few 
minuts, an' thin I took it to the missus, wid a cup, a 
saucer, an' a shpoon. " Biddy, dear," sez she, " ye 
needen't moind a sendin' for your thrunk." So I lost 
that place, too. 

The nixt place was an ould widower's house ; he had 
two lazy childer ; wan was twinty an' the other was 
twinty, too ; they were twins, ye see. Well, the butcher 
brought some oysters. Sez the lazy twins, " We'll have 
thim shtewed." Well, I did shtew thim, but the shpal- 
peens discharged me because I biled thim like praties 
wid their jackets on. 

So here I am, this blessed day, a poor, lone gurl, sak- 
ing a place at sarvice. Bad luck to the Yankee cookin'. 
Well, I'll shtop at one more place — let me see. Yis, 
fitre's the advertoisement : " Wanted, a gurl in a shmall 
family consisting of thirteen childer an' two adults." 
Well, I'd rather do their work, even if it was a big 
family, than be bothered with shtuffed turkey, bafe tea, 
»r shtewed oysters. I'll call on the shmall family. 

GeokctK M. Vickers. 




ON the night of the earthquake shock I was sitting 
with Millie, my fourteen-year-old colored protege, 
conning over her lesson just opposite me, when there 
was a knock. Millie answered the summons, but dodged 
back precipitately as she recognized the dusky face of 
the deacon of the colored church. 

" Evenin', Sist' Harris ; evenin', Madam," said the 
caller, shambling in with an obsequious iow. " I call', 
Sist' Harris, fo' to 'vite you down to meet de trustees ; 
we is 'bout to hoi' a meetiu', and we 'poses to rivesticate 
dis little diff'ence twix you an' de pa'son." 

" Hum," grunted my protege ; " I — I ain' meetin' no 
trustees dis night. I got no diff'ence wiv de pa'son. 
He lets me 'lone, I lets him 'lone. Dat's my 'ligioUj 
dat is." 

" /-y-ye bettah be a-answerin' to de summons. 1 
'vises ye as a frieu' to be a-givin' in yo' side of de treble 
whilst de do' am open to ye, Sist' Millie. Ye bettah be 

" Now, I tol' you I aint a-comin'," repeated the obdu- 
rate sister. " Ye kin jes' be steppin' back fo' you puina 
an' tell dat \vall-ey(<l pa'son I got no use fo' him, no 
how, an' iiebor did hab, an' I aint a-carin' waver dey 
infirras me de nex' church meetin' or not. Now git; 
ye need'en be a-standin' dah, fo' I ain' a-comin', an' dat'a 
de en' on it." 

'• Ah ! Sist' Millie, dis ain' no way fo' a sist* to ack. 
But de deble am hol'in' sway in yo' heart, suah, an' I 


leabes ye to him diniquitous powah, Sist' Millie. 1 
leabes ye to him, till de Good Lo'd kem along wid de 
rolling an' rumblin' an' shakin of de foun'ations of de 
yearth, an' den ye'll be glad to git up an' kem ag'in." 
With which warning he shambled off. 

" 'Deed, I ain' goin' to no church meetin'," growled 
Millie, " fo' no ol' fool niggah pa'son dat eber brow 

" What is the trouble, Millie ?" I ventured. 

" Why, y' see, Miss," explained Millie, with her run- 
ning tongue ; " I has de stif neck las' Sunday, an' I lays 
down on de seat in de meetin', an' de pa'son he kem 
steppin' 'long an' ses he, ' Sist' Millie, w-w-wah you 
sittin' dat way fo' ? Why dun yo' sit up an' ac' in a 
sist's place ?' An' I answers up, ' W-w-wah yu' treblin' 
'bout me fo' ? I — I ac' as much in a sist's place as yo' does 
in a brudder's place.' Den he ses, ' Look out dah, Sist' 
Millie, de deble am gettin' de uppah han' ob you, suah. 
Try fo' to shame de deble a little longer. Try fo' to hoi' 
to grace yet awhile.' Den I gets mad an' I jes' sasses him 
good. I tol' him I kin git de deble in me jes as well 
as he kin in him, an' I kin hoi' him a heep longer, 
an' I ain' no ways anxious to be infirmed into de chu'ch 
no how. Den he shet up an' dun say no mo', but af 'er 
dat he hab de insurance to ask me to pray. Oh !" 
with a contemptuous shrug, " dat ol' fool nigger pa'son 
beat the insurance of de deble he sef, he hab, suah !" 

After this summing up of their differences Millie sat 
down to her book, but I noticed that she was ill at ease, 
and that the sound of voices from the colored church 
as they reached us through the window seemed to dis' 
turb her. Suddenly my book began to sway before my 
eyes, and th«n I saw Millie's head begin to wag from 


■ide to side while her white-rimmed eyes rolled in ter- 

" Millie, what are you doing ?" 

" L — 'od, Miss, I — I — I ain' a-doin' nuffin,' but de 
hul yearth am a-trem'lin' !" she gasped through her 
chattering teeth. Then, with a wild leap across the 
table, she cried : " Oh ! fo' de Lo'd, mistess, it am de 
Judgmen' Day ! It am de A'mighty kumin' wiv de 
rollin' an' rumblin' an' shakin' of de yearth ! Hoi' on, 
Mis'er Deble ! I'se gwine, 'deed I is ! Ah, yes, Massa 
Lo'd, dis niggah will be on ban' !" with which she rushed 
through the door and went flying toward the colored 
church, uttering exclamatory prayers and promises at 
ever)' leap. Before the church-door she tumbled into a 
group of kneeling deacons, all praying vociferously. 
No one had the " insurance" to ask Millie to pray, but 
she joined the chorus of voices without invitation. 
After the shock had subsided and their terror somewhat 
abated, the " fool niggali pa'son " stumbled to his feet, 
and, spreading his shaking hands above the heads of hia 
prostrate flock, said: 

" Bredern in de Lo'd, an' fellah sist's, dis am a wa'nin* 
f'om de A'mighty strait an' cl'ar fo' us as is 'clined to 
fall f'om grace, fo' us as de deble am a-reachin' arter, 
to stan' cleah of he grip ! Hoi' fas' to de Lo'd, O my 
chil'en ! fo' de deble am neah at ban' ! He am a-movin' 
de bery foundation ob de yearth ! Oh ! yes, dat am a 
fac' !" " Ahmen ! Brcss de Lo'd !" answered the breth- 
ren, and " Oh ! yes, dat am a fac' !" echoed Millie. " Hs 
was neah at ban' dis time, suah." 



WELL, Shanius, what brought ye ? 
It's dead, sure, I thought ye — 
Vhat's kept ye this fortnight from calling on me? 
Stop there ! Don't be lyin' ; 
It's no use denyin' ; 
i know you've been sighin' for Kitty Magee. 

She's ould and she's homely ; 

There's girls young and comely 
Who've loved you much longer and better than she; 

But, deed ! I'm not carin' ; 

I'm glad I've no share in 
The love of a boy who'd love Kitty Magee. 

Go 'way ! I'm not cryin' ! 

Your charge I'm denyin', 
You're wrong to attribute such weakness to me ; 

If tears I'm a showin', 

I'd have ye be knowin', 
They're shed out of pity for Kitty Magee. 

For mane and consated, 

With pride over-weighted ; 
Cold, heartless, and brutal she'll find you to be. 

When you she'll be gettin'. 

She'll soon be regrettin' 
She e'er changed her name from plain Kitty Mage«t 

What's that ? Ami dhramin', 
You've only been schamin'. 


Just thryin' to test the affection in me ? 

Your kisses confuse me — 

Well, I'll not refuse ye, 
I know you'll be tindher an' lovin' wid me ; 

To show ray conthrition 

For doubts and suspicion, 
I'll ax for my bridesmaid swate Kitty Magee. 

Will Emmett, 


OLD SATAN lubs to come out to de meetin's now- 
An' keeps his biznes^s runnin' in de slickes' kind o' 

He structifies a feller how to sling a fancy cane 
When he's breshin' roun' de yaller gals wid all tis 

might and main ; 
He puts de fines' teches on a nigger's red cravat, 
Or shoves a pewter quarter in de circulatin' hat. 
He hangs aroun' de sisters, too, an' greets 'em wid a 

An' shows 'em how dc white folks puts on lots o' Sun- 
day style. 
He tells de congregation, in a wliisju-r sweet as horsey, 
To hah de benches painted wid dc missionary money. 
Or to send dc gospel 'way out whar dc norki4 Tnjuna 

An' meet do bill by cuttin' <lown de parson's vearlr 
pay. . 


His voice is loud an' strong enough to make de buehei 

An' he sets up in de choir jes' to show 'em how to sing. 
Den he drops de chune 'way down so low — an' totes it 

up so high, 
Dat 'twould pester all de angels what's a-listenin' in de 

An' he makes de old-time music sound so frolicsome an' 


.Dat 'twill hardly git beyon' de roof — much less de 

Milky AVay ; 
For dar's heaps o' dese new^ fashion' songs — jes' sing 'em 

how you please — 
Dat'll fly orf wid de hurrykin, or lodge ermongst de 

Or git drownded in de thunder-cloud, or tangled in de 

lira's ; 
For dey lack de steady wild-goose flop dat lif 's de good 

old hymns. 
De wakenin' old camp-meeting chunes is jes' de things 

for me, 
Dat starts up from a nigger's soul like blackbirds from 

a tree, 
"Wid a flutter 'mongst his feelin's an' a wetness roun' de 

Till he almost see de chimleys to de mansions in de 


J. A. Macon. 



" T WAS born in Indiany," says a stranger, lank and 

J- slim, 
As us fellows in the restaurant was kind of guyin' him, 
And Uncle Jake Avas slidin' him another punkin pie 
And an extra cup of coffee, with a twinkle in his eye — • 

" I was born in Indiany — more'n forty year ago — 
And I haint been back in twenty — and I'm workin' 

back'ards slow. 
And I've et in every restaurant 'twixt here and Santa 

And I want to state this coffee tastes like gettin' home 

to me! 

" Pour us out another, daddy," says the feller, warmin' 

A-speakin' 'crost a saucerful, as uncle tuck his cup. 
" When I seed your sign out yonder," he went on to 

Uncle Jake — 
* * Come in and git some coffee like your mother used to 

make ' — 

" I thought of my old mother and Posey county farm ; 

And me a little kid ag'in, a-hangin' on her arm 

As she set the pot a-bilin' — broke the eggs an' poured 

'em in." 
And the feller hind o' halted, with a trimble in his chin. 

And Uncle Jake he fetched the feller's coffee back and 

As solemn for a moment as an undertaker would ; 


rheii he sort o' turned and tip-toed to'rds the kitchen 

door, and next — 
Here comes his old wife out with him a-rubbin' off het 

specs — 

And she rashes for the stranger, and she hollers out, 

" It's him ! 
Thank God, we've met him comin' ! Don't you know 

your mother, Jim ?" 
And the feller, as he grabbed her, says : " You bet X 

haint forgot — " 
But wipin' of his eyes, says he, " Your coffee's mighty 

hot I" 

James Whitcomb Riley. 


IT was a gala day on the avenue. All the fast horsea 
in the town were out showing their paces, and the 
merry sleigh-riders shouted with mirth and enjoyment 
as they raced neck-and-neck, five teams deep, and when 
they came to a deadlock it was still more fun. At one 
juncture, however, there were shouts that did not sound 
mirthful — a wild plunge among the thoroughbreds, and 
8ome policemen ran out from the sidewalk, and talked 
in authoritative tones, but the crowd was so dense no 
one could see what was going on among the noisy drivers 
and their plunging horses. 

" It's only a couple of boys," said the beautiful Felicia 
Hautton, settling back among the luxurious white robes ; 
" two of those horrid newsboys. They ought not to be 
allowed on the avenue at all. They're always getting 


ander foot and frightening the horses — such good time 
as we were making, too — how disagreeable." 

" Anybody killed ?" asked one fine gentleman of 
another, as they passed. 

" Naw, two boys mixed up, that's all. One started 
to cross the street and fell, and t'other got run ovei 
trying to save him. Street Awabs, you know ; can 
epware a few — ta-ta !" 

" Got under the feet of a highflyer, and spoiled his 
time," said another, in a disgusted tone. 

Then the avenue was cleared and the tide of enjoy- 
ment went on, and no more Arabs were so foolish as to 
sacrifice themselves by obstructing the triumphs of the 
fashionable throng. 

At sundown of that same day two poorly dressed 
boys applied for admission at the doors of Harper's 
Hospital, and inquired for one of their num])er who 
had been brought thither that same afternoon. They 
were permitted to see him for a few moments, and on 
tiptoe they entered the long, clean ward and sought out 
the narrow bed on which he lay. When they had 
awkwardly greeted him they sat down on the edge of 
the cot, and were much embarrassed with the strange- 
ness of the scene, and painfully conscious of their own 
hands and feet ; they were also rather shocked at their 
comrade's clean face, it looked so unnaturally white, 
with a dab of red on either cheek. Tlioir eyes rolled 
stealthily about over the sick-beds and tlieir occupants. 

" Ray, old feller," said the biggest of the two boys, 
addressing his sick comrade, " aint you puttin' on a 
heap of stylf' ?" 

" Where's Kit?" asked the sick boy, fretfully, "why 
uot he along of you?" 


The two visitors looked at each other, and their face* 
grew downcast and troubled ; they dug the toes of then 
boots into the clean floor at the bedside, and shuffled 
uneasily, while both coughed violently in concert, thcD 
the big boy blurted out : 

" Kit went on a errant, and he told me to tell you 
he would be up to-morrer, sure — he sez, sez he, ' Tell 
Jim it's all rite.' " 

" You aint gassin', be you ? Kit didn't git hurt nor 
nothin' ?" 

" He couldn't go errants ef he waz hurt, could he ?" 
asked the other, doggedly ; " an' here," improvising a 
lie for the occasion, " he sent yer this." 

The sick and injured boy smiled as he took the big 
orange in his feverish hands and turned it over. 

" I knew Kit wasn't the boy to forgit me — here, you 
fels, take a bite — it's many a orange and stick of candy 
and bit of pie we've divided atween us afore this. 
Pore little Kit! He knowed as how I liked 'em ; here, 
you take a squeeze," as he handed it back. 

But the boys wouldn't touch it, and the sick patient 
put it under his pillow. Then he said, in a strange, 
quavering voice : 

" I want you fels to look after Kit, and don't you for- 
get it; when I gets well, I'll pay back every cent; 
but it'll be a long time, fer I'm all mashed in. He's a 
little fel, and needs lookin' arter. Now, boys, don't go 
back on me, will you ?" 

*' You needn't worry about Kit," said the spokesman 
of the two, looking away, and digging violently at the 
floor, " he's all rite." 

" Lord, I am so tired," said the sick bnv. " If i. 
•vaan't fer Kit I'd as leve die as get well, but I promiseU 


mother as how I'd alius take care of the little chap, 
and I've done it ; and he wasn't cut up nor bruised nor 
nothin' when they pulled him out'n from under the hoss' 

" Wasn't cut up nor bruised nor nothin'," echoed the 
visitor, with his back to the bed. 

" Good ! Jes' you look arter him till I get outer this, 
and I'll work my fingers off for ye. Lord ! how dead 
tired I am." 

He drifted away to sleep, and the two boys left with' 
out waking him ; but before they went out one of them 
slipped a little leather bag of marbles in his hand, and 
the other put a few pennies wrapped in a dirty bit of 
newspaper close by, where he would see them on wak« 

" He'll think Kit s^nt 'era," said one, as they softly 
retreated ; " they were in Kit's pocket when the police- 
man found him — to think he doesn't know." 

That night when the hospital doctor went his rounds 
he found the new boy wide awake, but very still. To 
the familiar eye of the physician his symptoms were 
clearly defined. 

" Well, my boy," he said, kindly, " what can I do foi- 

The boy's face lighted. " I want to see Kit — send 
for Kit." 

" Yes, yes," answered the doctor, hastily ; " but ycni 
must wait until morning." 

" I don't — think — I — can — sir. I guess I'm — booked 
— for — t'other — place. It would be all right— ef it 
wasn't for Kit. But I promised mother I'd take care 
of him, and what'll he do witho\it mo ? I can't leave 


The death dew was on his forehead. He beat his 
hands helplessly on the white spread, while his pale lips 
continued to murmur, " I can't leave Kit." 

The physician sat down by him. It is against the 
rules of an hospital to hold much converse with the 
dying, or even to notify those wh© are in extremis of 
the approach of death ; but this was a child — the doctor 
assumed the responsibility. 

" My boy, if you knew you could not get well, would 
you feel very sorry ?" 

" Not for myself; only for Kit." 
" But if I told you that Kit was well taken care of— 
that a rich and kind father had sent for him and given 
him a beautiful home — " 

" Now you're gassin'," said the dying boy, with his 
old fervor. " Dad aint that sort ; besides, he broke 
mother's heart, and Kit wouldn't speak to him ef he cum 

" No earthly father, dear boy, but a Heavenly one — 
the priest has told you of Him, and the home He gives 
His children. He it is who has sent for Kit." 

The sick boy made up his parched lips to whistle. 
" W-h-e-w," he said, brokenly, " Kit's dead — killed arter 
all, when I tried so hard to save him." 

"He was dead when they took him up," said the 
doctor, " and not a bruise nor a broken limb — the shock 
killed him, and he is safe now with his Master ; don't 
you believe that ?" 

But the boy did not heed him ; his lips moved faintly, 
and the doctor, bending down, heard him say again, 
" Kit's dead." Then there was a long silence, ani? '';^rore 
he left, the doctor turned the white sheet over the tran- 
quil face, and Kit and his brother were together again. 



SAYS Patrick to Biddy, " Good-morniu', me dearl 
It's a bit av a sacret I've got for yer ear : 
It's yoursel' that is lukin' so eharniin' the day. 
That the heart in me breast is fast slippin' away." 
" 'Tis you that kin flatther," Miss Biddy replies, 
And throws him a gUmce from her merry blue eyes. 

'' Arrah, thin," cries Patrick, " 'tis thinkin' av you 
Thats makin' me heart-sick, me darlint, that's thrue ' 
Sure I've waited a long while to tell ye this same, 
And Biddy Maloney will be such a foine name." 
Cries Biddy : " Have done wid yer talkin', I pray ; 
Share me heart's not me own for this many a day ! 

" I gave it away to a good-lookin' boy, 

Who thinks there is no one like Biddy Malloy ; 

So don't bother me, Pat ; jist be aisy," says she. 

" Indade, if ye'll let me, I will that !" says he ; 

" It's a bit of a flirt that ye are, on the sly ; 

I'll not tnnible ye more, but I'll bid ye good-bye." 

" Arrah, Patrick," cries Biddy," an' where are ye goin'f 
Sure it isn't the best of good manners ye' re showin' 
To lave me so suddint !" " Och, liiddy," says Pat, 
" You have knocked the cock-feathers jist out av me 

hat !" 
"Come back, Pat!" says she. " What fur, thin?" saya 

" Bekase I meant you all the time, sir !" says she. 




"TT.'ilRE he is, Jenny ! what there is of him I" said 
J-L the cheery Captain, thus introducing to his 
daughter's notice the not very prepossessing chattel per- 
sonal he had just hired and brought home. 

" Enough of him, such as it is, I should say," re- 
sponded Miss Jenny, as her keen eye and keener per^ 
ception took in the merit of the subject before her and 
rated it at just about its proper value. 

" Oh ! don't decide in advance against yourself, 
Jenny," said the Captain. " The boy may turn out 
better than he looks. He can scour knives and run 
errands, and no doubt you'll find him useful." Then, 
turning to the boy, he said : " See here. Snowball, if 
you know your own interest, you'll take care not to 
offend this young lady. Understand ?" 

" Oh ! law, Marse Cap'n," answered the boy, grinning 
relievedly (he had wilted considerably under Miss 
Jenny's searching gaze), " Gabe isn't gwine ter 'fend 
nobody. Gabe gwine ter mind Missy jis' like a dawg." 

Words fail to express the measure of abject servility 
he contrived to throw into his enunciation of the word 
dog. The boy's eyes sought the young lady's. Some- 
thing he saw in them caused him to squirm uncomfort- 
ably. Miss Jenny's Yip curled. 

" You need not act like a dog," she said. " Behave 
yourself as a serving-boy should, and you will fare well. 
Otherwise — " 

Miss Jenny left her sentence, with its limitless possi- 
bilities, unfinished. The Captain laughed heartily. 


*' Now you hear it," he said. " Star of the Morning, 
look out for ' otherwises.' " 

" Golly, Marse Cap'n," said the boy, " I dusn't want 
no sich. 'Clar ter goodniss. Missy, Ise a pow'ful han' 
fur clean knives, an' shake kyapit, an' tote watah, an' 
all sich as dat. Y'alls dusn't know what a servant ole 
Gabe b." 

" No, we do not, indeed," said Miss Jenny. " But 
we shall soon find out. Come to the kitchen with me. 
Where are his things, papa ?" 

" On him, Jenny ; on him. At least, all I saw of things. 
Have you any clothes or other valuables, Gabe ?" 

" Laws, Marse Cap'n," answered the boy, " dat ar 
white 'oraan kep' every stitch ob clo'es, bosom-pin an' 
all. She aint my ole Mistis. She jis' a white pusson 
dat hi'ed me. She spekalate on hi'in' niggahs. Ole 
Mistis guv me 'hole heap o' good clo'es when I go to lib 
wid dat white 'oman. Dell law ! I nebber see de fus' 
rag sense, 'cep' jis wot I got on. Dat aint all 'bout dat 
ar' white 'oman. She dun cheat de Cap'n pow'ful, kase 
she don't pay my ole Mis nuffin' jes 'cep' two dollahs 
de mumf ; an' clar ter de goodniss ef she didn't chawge 
de Cap'n fo' dollahs de mumf, jis fer ole Gabe, 'dout no 
clo'es, jis 'cep' wot he got on. Dah ar' twice too much 
fer sich a Niggah, kase ole Gabe jis onpossible ter be 
wuth dat ar' fo' dollahs de mumf." 

"I should think so," said Miss Jenny. " Now you 
are talking quite sensibly," 

Gabe, quick to take his cue, perceiving that a self- 
deprecating style was far more likely to prove accept- 
able to Miss Jenny than any attempt at sclf-j)raise, at 
once added : 

" Kase ole Gabe jis a mizzalile, no-'count Niggah, dat 


nobody keers nuffin' 'bout, 'an nebber tecbed nuflSrf 
sence he's bawn. How you specs be gwiue be wutb dat 
to' dollabs de mumf ?" 

" No one expects it," laugbed the young lady. " But 
since you seem to bewail your lack of teaching, know 
that from henceforth you will be taught — several things. 
And what we do expect is that you will improve your 

" Laws ! Miss Jinny, Ise dat bleeged," began Gabe, 
radiant with delight at the relaxation of the young 
lady's rigid manner. " Now you is jis mose like de 
Cap'n ; an' he de mose elegantest gemman Ise seed 
sence Ise bawn. Dat aint no make-be'leeve lie, Miss 
Jinny. Dat de solium fiic'." 

" Well, Gabriel," laughed the Cap'n, " I suppose I 
owe you as much as two bits and a picayune for that. 
Take this (and he tossed him a silver half-dollar) to 
begin the new place on, and see how many more like it 
you can deserve. Be a good boy and mind your orders, 
and you'll get along." 

The Captain returned to his office down-town, and 
Miss Jenny led Gabe to the kitchen, to present him to 
the new cook, who only lifted her head a trifle higher 
as she acknowledged the iutroduction, with the remark: 
" Whativer's the good uv thim haythin Nagui"s it passes 
Biddy O'Rafferty to find out. Though, if yez do be 
plazed wid 'im, it's not Biddy's place to spake the 

" Find some work for him, Bridget," said Miss Jenny. 
" I will send him to you whec I have shown him to 

" Faith ! I wish her joy uv th» scig'nt," responded 


Mrs. Chamberlaine — mild-eyed, gentle-voiced, and 
easy-going — smiled benignly upon the lad and hoped 
he would make no trouble for the cook. 

" I ain't studdyin' 'bout makiu' no trouble, no ways, 
Mistis," said Gabe, assuringly. But he added, reflect- 
ively : " Dem Fish ladies dat wuks in kitchins, dey all 
alike. Dey de mose ouregen'ret pussons, an' I dus 
'spise 'em." 

Although gifted, like many of his race, with a rare, 
8weet voice, and a quick ear, the young scamp seemed 
to take great delight in howling, in the dismalest voice, 
and to most unmusical tunes, certain basket-meeting 
hymns, as he styled them. The first time Miss Jenny 
ever undertook to inflict corporeal punishment upon the 
urchin was on account of his persistent efforts at one of 
these hymns. He was seated on a grass-plat in the 
middle of the side yard, the knife-board between his 
outstretched feet, his body swaying back and forth and 
from side to side, as he lazily rubbed at his cutlery 
And as he sat and swayed and scoured, he also sang : 

" As I passed by de gates ob hell, 
1 bid dis worl' a long far'well. 
Oh I I don' want to stay heah no longer. 
Oh I wot I want to stay heah for ? 
Dis yer worl' a hell to me, 
Kase ray ole Mistis don't lub me, 
Bekase I won't drink jawbone tea. 

Ohl I don't want to stay heah no longer." 

" Gabe," said Miss Jenny, rapidly crossing the 
plat and administering a smart box on his ear, " at 
least six times to-day I have forbidden you to howl that 
outlandish farrago I Now perhaps you will remember." 


" Conshinse sake, Miss Jinny," exclaimed the lad 
'* Be slio I will. Wot yo* spilin' dem Jeetle, sof" cottun 
bans* cuffin' black Niggah's jaws fo' ? White ladies 
ban's aint fitten fer cutf wid. Yo' jis orter leab all 
flich as dat ter de Cap'u." 

" If you ring any more changes on that horrid howl^ 
I will leave it to the Captain," said Miss Jenny, signifi- 
cantly. " And I've half a mind to take a switch to 
you now," she added, as the young monkey grinned 
provokingly into her face. " I thought you were going 
to mind so beautifully." 

" So I is. Miss Jinny. Ise gwine ter mind. Ise jis 
s(tuddyiii' 'bout stoppin' off dat bahskit-meetin' hymn, 
dat aint no outlauish verry go. Dat a 'ligious Niggah 

" Whatever it is, you'd better not practice it any 
more," said the young lady. " I don't object to your 
singing about your work, but you shall not howl and 
yell like an insane Dervish." 

" Miss Jinny, I aint no inshane Duvvish, I aint," 
whined the boy. " An' I 'clar to goodniss you is dat 
hahd ter please." 

But before the young lady had fairly passed out of 
eight he threw back his head, opened his mouth, and 
sang like a lark or nightingale, in tones of ravishing 
■weetness, the stanza : 

'' Oh ! what was Love made for, 

If 'tis not the same, 
Through joy and through torment, 

Through grief and through shame? 
Through the furnace unshrinking 

Thy steps I'll pursue. 
And shield thee and save thee 

Or perish there too." 


Miss Jenny could not resist the impulse to toss a 
picayune from the upper piazza to the silver-voiced 
urchin, saying, as she did so : " Never sing any woree 
than that, Gabe, and you'll get rich before long." 

" T'ankee, Miss Jinny. Dat ar' kase dat a lub song. 
Makes Missy link 'bout her jularkey." 

And then, laughing liilariously at the interpretation 
of the motives that actuated the young lady, he trolled 

" ' O Miss Missy ! don't you cry ; 
Yore jularkey'll come bym-bye. 
Dar he come, all drest in blue ; 
Dat's a sign dat he lubs you.' 

Ki \ Isn't white young missises dat curus ?" 

Between Gabe and the autocrat of the kitchen therfc 
was mutual and uncompromising animosity. Bridget 
could never bring herself to any repression of her scorn 
for the " haythun Nagurs " in general, this luckless lad 
in particular ; while Gabe, in return, enjoyed nothing 
more than an opportunity, which he never failed to 
improve, of either vexing or scaring " dat ar' I'ish 
lady." One of his favorite revenges was to seize the 
garden hose and dart out upon the front pavement at 
an early hour in tlie morning, to wash the stone flagging 
and compass her confusion. Bridget was a faithful 
attendant ujjon morning mass, and so punctual was the 
rigid maiden that Gal)e could reckon, to the fraction of 
a minute, the time of her appearance at the garden 
corner, which he, eyes to tlie ground and hose-nozzle in 
full play a few inches higlicr, would turn at full speed 
at the precise moment when Bridget, from tlu^ side 
itreet, arrived at the fateful spot. Of course, her two 

60 gABE and the IRISH LADY. 

feet and ankles received the whole benefit of the stream 
i>f water, and many an involuntary Irish jig did the 
poor girl execute at this unlucky corner, in consequence 
of the " haythen Nagur's " well-laid scheme. 

" Whist ! Ari-a I The howly saints protict us ! Bad 
luck thin to yez for a mannerless spalpeen, and may all 
the imps uv Satan fly away wid yez !" she would wail 
as she hopped frantically up and down, while Gabe, 
with well-feigned wonderment, would stare at the girl 
in strange antics prancing ; for all the while he would 
manage to keep the nozzle aimed with great precision 
at her lower extremeties, until, with a loud shriek and 
bound forward, the exasperated damsel would siezt 
Gabe by the collar, and cufl^ him soundly. 

" Dell law ! Sich a 'ligion as dat is you gits !" the 
boy would comment, disgustfully. " Why in de good- 
niss gurracious couldn't yo' tole ole Gabe de wattah 
a-squhtin' on ye ? Good golly ! Gwine ter de chu'ch 
fer git 'ligion fus ting in de mawin', fo' breakfus, an' 
den comin' home a-rippin' an' a-tarrin' sich a way as 
dat is ! Smackin' a po' Niggah's jaws off*, jis on 'count 
ob her own orkidniss a-ruunin' inter dat wattah-squht. 
Sho ! 'Clar ter de goodniss, I donno wot sort o' stufl 
dey has ter dat ar' chu'ch. 'Tain't 'ligion, no ways." 

Another sweet revenge of Gabe's he compassed with 
" pop-cracks," by which expressive term he designated 
all manner of Chinese fire-crackers, torpedoes, grass- 
hoppers, and the like, that came into his possession 
through the Captain's rather injudicious liberality. It 
was his delight to place under the cellar door a quantity 
of fire-crackers, discriminatingly fused, so as to ex- 
plode, with startling reverberations, just as Biddy, a 
pan of potatoes in one hand, some other commodity in 


the other, reached the topmost step. At every suet 
eelebration the frightened girl, with a wild shriek, 
would bound forward, sending her commodities all 
oyer the paved walk, and protesting in loud voice 
against the " Sorra luck that iver sint the hajrthen 
Nagur, wid no raoi-e sinse nor an ijit, intil the fambly, 
to break ivery bone in the two ligs uv poor Biddy, wid 
his raurtherin' devishes." 

" Good conshinse ! I'ish ladies is dat skeery !" the 
boy would comment, as he hastened from some conve- 
niently out-of-the-way spot to the " scene of confusion 
and creature complaints," and proceeded to propitiate 
the irate damsel by picking up her scattered stores. 

" Put dera yer pop-cracks cl'ar under de sullar-do 
jis a-puppus, so dey wouldn't huht ye no ways. 'Pears 
like it jis onpossible for Ole Gabe ter suit ye 'bout dem 
pop-cracks de Cap'n fotch." 

" Sure, an it's ivery outlandish place ye do pick out 
to pit the murtherin' things. That a sinsible man like 
the Captin should indulge ye to thim same ! Didn't 
ye stoof a pint uv thim intil the coal-hod the mornin' 
an' cum near blowing the brikfas' oop the chimbly wid 
yer foolery ?" returned Bridget on one such occasion. 

" You dju do dat ar' yo' ownse'f Gabe jis chuck a 
few pop-cracks inter de coal-hod, kase ho pockets bustin' 
a big hole. Dat de time yo's too suddin' 'bout chunkin' 
up de fiah." 

And Gabo, unmindriil of discretion, burst into a fit 
of laughter at the droll memory called up by Bridget's 

" Sure, it's Biddy that do wish she had the ordering 
uv yez tor a month," said the disgusted damsel. " Not 
van d.iy shud go over yer haythin hid, wid wool on it 

62 " INASMUCH." 

like a shape's back, but yez shud be packed intil a tooli 
under the hvdrint, wid the fool foorce of the shtrame 
turned ontil yer bare back. Mebby thin some uv the 
dirthy thricks uv ye'd be washed cot by the toime 
Biddy ud turn that sthrame off." 

" Dell law !" ejaculated Gabe, rolling his eyes wildly. 
And when he repeated Bridget's good wishes to his 
next friend, Captain Tucker's Ike, he added conclu' 
eively : " Dat wot make me 'spise dem I'ish ladies." 

Mary E. C. Wyeth. 



YOU say that you want a meetin'-house for the boyf 
in the gulch up there, 
And a Sunday-school with pictur'-books ! Well, puf 

me down for a share. 
I believe in little children ; it's as nice to hear 'em read 
As to wander round the ranch at noon and see the cattle 

And I believe in preachin' too — by men for pieachin' 

Who let aione the husks of creed, and measure out the 

The pulpit's but a manger where the pews are gospel- 
And they say 'twas to a manger that the star of glory 

Bo I'll subscribe a dollar toward the manger and the 

stalls ; 

•* INASMUCH.^" 63 

I always givf the best I've got whenever my partner 

And, stranger, let me tell you : I'm beginning to sus- 
That all the world are partners, whatever their creed or 

sect ; 
That life is a kind of pilgrimage, a sort of Jericho 

4nd kindness to one's fellows the sweetest law in the 

No matter about the 'nitials; from a farmer, you under- 
Who's generally had to play it alone from rather an 

or'nary hand. 
I've never struck it rich ; for farming, you see, is slow, 
And whenever the crops are fairly good, the prices are 

always low. 
A dollar isn't very much, but it helps to count the same, 
The lowest trump supports the ace, and sometimes wins 

the game. 
It assists a fellow's praying when he's down upon his 

knees — 
" Inasmuch as you have done it to one of the least of 

I know the verses, stranger, so you needn't stop to 

It's a different thing to know tliom or to say them of! 

by rote. 
I'll tell you where I learned them, if you'll stop in from 

the rain : 
'Twas down in Frisco years ago ; had hern there haul 

ing grain. 
It waa just acroBS the ferry on the Sacramento pike, 


Where stores and sheds are rather mixed, and shanties 

scatterin' like. 
Not the likeliest place to be in, I remember, the saloon, 
With grocery, market, baker-shop, and bar-room all in 

And this made up the picture — my hair was not then 

But everything still seems as real as if 'twere yesterday. 
A little girl with haggard face stood at the counter 

Kot more than ten or twelve at most, but worn with 

grief and care ; 
And her voice was kind of raspy, like a sort of chronic 

cold — 
Just the tone you find in children who are prematurely 

She said : " Two bits for bread and tea. Ma hasn't 

much to eat ; 
She hopes next week to work again, and buy us all 

some meat. 
We've been half starved all winter, but spring will soon 

be here. 
And she tells us, keep up courage, for God is always 

Just then a dozen men came in; the boy was called 

To shake the spotted cubes for drinks, as Forty-niners 

I never heard from human lips such oaths and curses loud 
As rose above the glasses of that crazed and reckless 

But the poor, tired girl sat waiting, lost at J^wt to revels 


"inasmuch." 65 

On a keg beside a barrel in the corner, fast asleep. 
Well, I stood there, sort of waiting, until some one at 

the bar 
Said, " Hello ! I say, stranger, what have you over 

thar ?" 
The boy then told her story, and that crew, so fierce 

and wild. 
Grew intent, and seemed to listen to the breathing of 

the child. 
The glasses all were lowered ; said the leader : " Boys, 

see here ; 
All day we've been pouring whisky, drinking deep our 

Christmas cheer. 
' Here's two dollars — I've got feelings which are not 

entirely dead — 
For this little girl and mother suffering for the want of 

" Here's a dollar." " Here's another." And they all 

chipped in their share, 
And they planked the ringing metal down upon the 

counter there. 
Then the spokesman took a golden double-eagle from 

his belt, 
Softly stepped from bar to counter, and beside the 

sleeper knelt ; 
Took the " two bits " from her fingers ; changed her 

silver piece for gold. 
"See there, boys ; the girl is dreaming." Down her 

checks the tciir-clro|>s roMcd. 
One by one the swarthy miners p}is.scd in silence to tbo 

Gently we awoke the sleeper, but she started to her 



66 THE engineer's story. 

With li dazed and strange expression, saying : " Oh ! 1 

thought 'twas true ! 
Ma was well, and we were happy ; round our door-stone 

roses grew. 
We had everything we wanted, food enough, and clothes 

to wear; 
And my hand burns where an angel touched it soft with 

fingers fair." 
As she looked, and saw the money, in her fingers glisten- 
ing bright, 
" Well, now, ma has long been praying, but she won't 

believe me quite. 
How you've sent way up to heaven, where the golden 

treasures are. 
And have also got an angel clerking at your grocery 

That's a Christmas story, stranger, which I thought 

you'd like to hear ; 
True to fact and human nature, pointing out cue's 

duty clear. 
Hence to matters of subscriptions you will see that I'm 

alive : 

Juat mark ofi* that dollar, stranger ; I think I'll mak« 

it five. 

Wallace Brucb. 


HAN'SOM, stranger ? Yes, she's purty an' ez pearl 
ez she kin be. 
Clever? Wy! she aint no chicken, but she's good 
enough for me. 


WThat's her name ? 'Tis kind o' common, yit I aint 

ashamed to tell, 
She's ole " Fiddler " Filkin's daughter, an' her dad he 

calls her " Nell." 

I wuz drivin' on the " Central " jist about a year ago 

On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe. 

There's no end o' skeery places. 'Taint a road fur one 
who dreams, 

With its curves an' awful tres'les over rocks an' moun- 
tain streams. 

"Twuz an afternoon in August, we hed got behind an 

An' wus tearin' up the mountain like a summer thunder- 

Round the bends an* by the ledges, 'bout ez fast ez we 
could go, 

With the mountain peaks above us an' the river down 

Ez we come nigh to a tres'le 'crost a holler, deep an* 

Suddenly I saw a baby, 'twuz the station-keeper's 

Toddlin' right along the timbers with a bold an' fear- 
less tread, 

Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead. 

I jist jiiiripcd an' gral)l)od the throttle an' I fa'rly held 

my breath, 
Fur I felt I coi)l<hrt stop her till the child wuz crushed 

to death, 

68 THE engineer's story. 

When a woman sprang afore me, like a sudden streai 

o' light, 
Caught the boy, an' 'twixt the timbers in a second sank 

from sight. 

t jist whis'l'd all the brakes on. An' we worked with 

might an' main, 
Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn't stop 

the train, 
A.n' it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez 

we rolled by. 
An' the river roared below us — I shall hear her till I 


Then we stop't ; the sun wuz shinin' ; I ran back along 

the ridge 
An' I found her — dead ? No ! livin' ! She wuz hangin' 

to the bridge 
Where she drop't down thro' the cross-ties, with one arm 

about a sill, 
An' the other round the baby, who wuz yellin' fur to 


So we saved 'em. She wuz gritty. She's ez peart ez 

she kin be — 
Now we're marrid — she's no chicken, but she's good 

enough for me. 
An' ef eny ask who owns her, wy, I aint ashamed to 

et «'8 my wife. Ther' aint none better than oh Filkin's 
daughter "Nell." 

Eugene J. Hall. 



(as discussed in THE CABIN.) 

HE kin pick up a libbin' wharebber he goes 
By wukin de railroad an' washin' ole clo'es ; 
He kin lib' 'bout as cheap as a leather wing bat. 
For he watches de rat market keen as a cat ; 
An' his boa'd an' his rations is pretty nigh free, 
For a mighty smart cuss is de yaller Chinee. 

Den, he's not gwine to keer whar' you put him to stay, 
An' his eatin' don't cost but a nickel a day. 
An' he won't gib a straw for de finest hotel, 
When a slab-sided shanty will suit him as well ; 
An* a empty old box, or a holler gum-tree. 
Is a big boa'din'-house for de yaller Chinee. 

An' he eats little mice, when de blackberries fail, 
Till de ha'r on his head gits de shape ob a tail ; 
An' I know by his clo'es an' his snuff-cullud face 
Dat he comes from a scrubby an' one-gallus race ; 
An' I's trabbled a heap, but I nebber did see 
Sich a curisome chap as de yaller Chinee. 

Dis country was made for de whites an' de blacks, 
For dey hoes all de corn an' dey j)ays all de tax ; 
You may think what you choose, but de 'sertion is true 
Dat de orf-cullud furriner nebber will do ; 
For dar's heap o' tough people from ober de aea, 
But de cussedest sort is de yaller Chinee 1 

70 biddy's trials among the YANKEES. 

When de bumble-bee crawls in de dirt-dobber's hole 
To warm up his fingers an' git out de cole, 
Dar's gwine to be fuss in de family sho' ! 
An' one ob de critters mus' pack up and go ; 
An' de Chinerman's gwine to diskiver right soon 
Dat de rabbit can't lib' in a stump wid de 'coon ! 

When de woodpecker camps on de morkin'-bird's net*. 
You kin tell pretty quick which kin tussle de bes' ; 
Dar's a mighty good chance ob a skirmish ahead 
When de speckled dog loafs 'round de tommy -cat's bedj 
An' dar's gwine to be a racket wuf waitin' to see 
When de wukin'-man butts 'gin de yaller Chinee. 


FAITH ! Ann Hooligan, an' I don't deny that these 
Amerykans has plinty o' beautiful convanyences 
to work wid in their kitchens, more'n iver the likes cud 
be found in the whole of ould Ireland, where we was 
usen to bake the brid an cook the petaties all in the 
game iron pot ; an' shure, along wid so many bewilderin' 
things, it wad be ixpicted that a girl wud make a mish- 
take sometimes. An' is it the Aistern paple ye'd be 
afther praisin' ? May the saints defind us ! an' it's 
raesilf that's lived among thim Yankees till I was that 
sick of their haythenish way of shpakin' that I had to 
lave. What wud ye think, Ann Hooligan, of bein' 
axed the firsht day as ye lived at a place if ye cud pail 
(provincialism for milk) the k-e-o-w ! fur that's the out- 
landish way thim paple has o' sayiu' cow. Of coorse, 

biddy's trials among the YANKEES. 71 

it's not fur the likes o' me to be braggin', but I can pale 
petaties an' apples wid the bisht o' thim. But to take 
the palin' off of a cow ! Howly St. Patrick ! did they 
take me for a bootcher? Yersilf knows the wake 
shtomach of me, an' how it goes aginst me to shkin 
aiven a bird or a toorkey ; an', begorra ! cud it be ix- 
picted that I cud tackle a big anynuil like a cow? All 
the flish an' blood in nie rose up forniust such a prosay- 
din'. But I cud shtand the chewin' and twishtin' up o' 
their words if they wudn't be after mixin' up the names 
o' things. An' thin they're always radin' books, and 
gittin' that litherary they don't know annythiug. Wud 
ye belave it, Ann Hooligan, some o' thim missuses I 
lived along wid was that fond of radin' that they aiven 
cooked out of a book. 

His riv'rence, Father Ryan, taught me to rade before 
I lift the ould country, an' I wud have just suited thim 
Yankey ladies if it hadn't been fur thim awful words I 
was tellin' ye of Ye see, one day the missis I was liviu' 
wid ixprished a wish to have a chicken-pie fur dinner, 
an' sez she, " Biddy, ye'U find the rissypee in my cookin' 
book. Ye can follow thim direcshuns, an' not come 
to bother me wid questions ; for I'm goin' to paint this 
raornin', an' I don't want to be dishturbed," sez she, an' 
wid that slie gits up an' goes ujwhtairs. Of coorse, I 
was a little sheared, but I wint to work, and began 
a-shcaldin' and a-shkinnin' the chicken ; ])ut when I 
came to look at the rissypee, millia murthur! if it 
didn't say it was to be butthered an' saysoned an put 
in a spider ! I thought there was some mishtake, an' I 
shpclled the radin' all over ag'in, but there it was right 
in f)riiit before the two eyes o' me ; so I shlips ujjshtairs 
to the missus's door to ax if the book was corrict, ai;' 

72 biddy's trials among the YANKEES. 

she was busy paintin' on a chiny plate the beautifulesl 
boonch o' roses an' pinks an' heart's-disease ye iver saw. 
But she heerd me, an', widout turnin' her head, sez 
she, " Plaze don't annoy me now, Bridget. I want to 
finish this paintin' before dinner, an' I don't want to be 
throubled wid annything." " Faix, mem," sez I, " but 
I musht shpake till ye about the chicken-pie. The 
rissypee sez to put it in a spider, an' — " " Of coorse," 
sez she, interruptiu' me; "jist follow the rissypee; it's 
an ixcellent one, an' ye naden't fear but your pot-pie 
will be all right." 

Well, I was in dishpair, but I knew there was plinty 
o' cobwebs in the cellar, and mabby I cud find a spider's 
nest, an' pick out a good-sized one that wud be big 
enoof; but, faith ! I didn't like to be afther touching 
wan wid me bare hand, for I've always been afeard o' 
the craythurs ; but I tuk a broom, an' I shwept the 
bames an' the walls o' that cellar claner than they'd 
been for tin years, an' I cudn't find one bigger nor the 
end o' my finger. Jist wid that the missus called me to 
bring her a crickit to put her feet on. " A crickit," 
sez I, wringin' me hands. " Howly Virgin ! what 
shtrange notions these Yankeys has ! Two varmints 
wanted, an' I don't know where to find aither o' thim !" 
I'd heer'd o' thim haythen Chinessers, who supped on 
rats and birds' nists, but, bedad ! for an Amerykan 
family that purtinded to be respictable to be afther 
wantin' thim dirthy insex, faith ! I didn't consider it 
nayther Christian nor day cent. But the missus was 
callin', an' thinkin' the wood-house wud be the likeliest 
place to get the baste she was inquirin' for, I wint in 
there ; an' though I got a big shplinter under me nail, 
an' toor me driss, an' nearly broke me leg fallin' over 

biddy's trials among the YANKEES. 7S 

th€ wood, niver a crickit did I find. The missus wa« 
gittiu' impayshunt, an' was schraniin' to me to hurry 
an' bring it. " I can't find one," sez I. " Won't anny 
other kind of a boog do as well ? I cud aisy git ye a 
grasshopper or a muskeety," sez I. " Don't be impi- 
dent," sea she, scowliu', " I'll wait on meself, so go back 
to your work !" an' she shut the door. 

By me sowl, Ann Hooligan, I was nearly druv wild 
intirely betwixt the crickit an' thinkin' how I was to git 
the pizen creepin' thing the rissypee called for, an' so I 
sarched ag'in all over the dark corners of the closets an' 
in the shtable ; but all that I found was too shmall, for 
by the time ye wud take the ligs ofl* thim there wudn't 
be much left. At lasht afther awhile, all at oust the 
missus kera into the kitchen, an' whin she saw there was 
no dinner cookin' she flared up, an' give me sich a look 
as if a clap o' thunder was goin' to bursht an' kill me 
flat, an' sez she, " Is it possible that ye hasn't got the 
chicken-pie ready to bake yit ? Really, I can't put up 
wid such slowness." " Begorra ! mem," sez I, for I 
was gittin' mad too, " I hunted ivery })lace on the 
premises for a spider big enoof to cook it in, an' anny- 
how I aint accushtomed to live wid paple who has sich 
a relish for venymous insex as ye has here. I've 
waishted me whole mornin' tryin' to fulfill the demanda 
o' yersilf and that haythenish cookin' book, not to min- 
tion the crickit ye wanted to crush under the two feet 
of ye. But ye may as well know crickits is shcarce 
around here, as ye can see fur yerself, bedad ! how I 
toor me drias, an' skinned the leg o* me on the wood-pile 
whin I wfw a-huntin' one." " Ye nuisht be crazy," sez 
she, " I don't kape me crickits in the wood-iiouse. Come 
into the parloor, an' I'll show ye wan," sez she. " That's 

74 life's game of ball. 

what I call a crickit," sez she, wid a scornful shniff o* 
her nose, p'inting wid her finger ; an' wud ye belave it, 
Ann Hooligan, it was only a little wee shmall shtool to 
rest yer fut on whin ye be tired ! " Begorra ! that's a 
fearful on-Christain name to give to yer furnytoor," says 
I, shtickin' up me nose as high as hers. " An' the 
spider, mem," sez I, " belike it's some haythenish title 
yez bin devisin' to toormint paple wid, too." She tossed 
her head an' lid the way to the pantry. " There, Brid- 
get, ye musht be blind in both eyes if ye don't know 
what this thing is," sez she. " It's a skillit," sez I, 
shakin' me fist at her, " and it's a mean trick to be 
christenin' it afther anny kind of a riptile that iver 
crawled. I'll shack the dust o' ye Yankeys off me fate 
foriver," sez I. "I'll not deny that in some ways yer 
shniart enoof, but as long as ye mixes up skillits and 
spiders, an' crickits an' shtools, an' porches an' shtoops, 
bedad ! ye're not fit fur the society of anny intelligent 

Harper's Bazar. 


THEY tell me you're goin', Robbie, away from home 
and all, 
Goin' out on the fields of the future to play at Life's 

game of ball ; 
They tell me you're one and twenty — you don't look as 

old as that ; 
Seems like you're young and slender to handle Life's 
ball and bat. 


I reckon I'm kinder fogj'ish ; don't matter much what 1 

But I'd like to advise a little 'bout the game you're 

goin' to play. 

bly score is made, I've had my strikes ; all past is my 

fears and doubts. 
Vm waiting now till the Great Umpire calls me to take 

my outs, 
In the deepening shadows of years, the years of my 

young day's time, 
I'll set and watch you make your base — and, boy, you've 

got to climb ! 
You've got to do your level best if you hope for a 

chance to win. 
The " Trials of Life " is a difficult nine and they're run 

by a chap named Sia. 

The World will be the Umpire, boy, and you won't get 

favored there ; 
[a fact, when you first begin the game, you'll hardly get 

what's fair. 
Pick out a good sound bat, look well to what you 

take — 
Some use the basswood bat of Luck, but it's miglity apt 

to break ; 
Don't the Ash of Rashness, nor the heavy Oak of 

They're either light or heavy, and you'll most dead sure 

strike out. 
Don't use the Elm of Di.-jhonor, or tho I con wood oi 


76 life's game of Bali.. 

For, though they sometimes do the work, they fail mort 

every time. 
So don't choose one too heavy, nor neither one too lights 
But there's a bat that never fails, and that is the Willow 

of Right. 

Old Time is a swift curve pitcher, and a tricky one 

But never mind how fair they look, don't go to strikin 

wides ; 
But when the chance is right, and you get a ball that's 

Don't wait for a softer snap, my boy, let go at it solid 

and square. 
Don't count too much on your strength and knock 

Hope's balls too high. 
The fielder Disappointment's apt to take such balls on 

the fly. 
Don't muff golden opportunities, guard well against a 

jDon't knock the ball of Resentment through any one's 

window glass, 
ft aint always best to try too hard to tally a clean 

home run. 
For often the surest way is to make your bases one by 


Remember that every foul you make will be took by 

the Catcher Slur, 
Temptation holds the first base well. Despair is the 

short fielder. 
One of the hardest points to make is the first base in 

the run. 


hni i£ you do the thing you ought, it can, and ought 

to be done. 
After you've made your first, watch out for swift defeat^ 
The very worst man in the nine, my boy, is the second 

base, Self-Conceit. 
There'll be the third base, too, and fielders a couple 

Who'll be on the watch to put you out and blacken 

your final score ; 
But then you'll have a team that's strong, who work to 

put you through, 
Your backers are Conscience and Honor and Pluck, 

and they are strong players, too. 
So brace to the work before you, dismiss all doubts and 

And I will watch the game as I wait in the shade of 

the by-gone years. 


" CJO this is the uproar? Well, isn't this a monster 
^-^ big building? And that chanticleer ! It's got a 
thousand candles if it has one. It must have taken a 
sight of tallow to have run them all!" "They are 
make-believe candles, aunt, with little jets of gas inside 
to give the eflfect of real ones." " I want to know I 
Well, I only wish that your Uncle Peleg was here. 
You're sure, Louisa, that this is a pcrfeelly proj)er 
place?" "Why, aunt, you don't suppose that f)apa 
would consent to our attending the opera if it were 
other than a perfectly proper jilace, do you ?" " No, no, 
dear ; I suppose not. But Hoinchow you city folks look 


tipon such tilings diiferently from what we do who Im 
in the country. Dear suz! Louisa, do look way up 
there in the tiptop of the house ! Did you ever see 
such a sight of people? Why, excui-sion-trains must 
have run from all over the State. Massy, child ! There'% 
a woman forgot her bonnet ! Do just nudge her, 
Louisa, and tell her of it. My Eliza Ann cut just such 
a caper a.s that one Sunday last summer — got clean into 
the meeting-house, and half-way down the middle aisle, 
before she discovered it, and the Avhole congregation 
a-giggling and a-tittering. Your cousin, Woodmai^ 
Harrison, shook the whole pew ; and I don't know but 
what he'd a-hawhawed right out in meeting if his father 
hadn't a-given him one of his looks. As 'tAvas, I wa(^ 
afeard he'd bust a blood-vessel. Just speak to that poor 
creature, Louisa. She'll feel aAvfully cut up when she 
finds it out, and 'tis a Christian duty to tell her," 
" Why, aunt, don't you know that she is in full dress, 
and left her bonnet at home intentionally? See how 
beautifully her hair is arranged. You don't suppose 
she wanted to cover up all that elegance, do you?" 
" Come bareheaded a-purpose ! Well, I do declare ! 
But, Louisa, where's the horse-chestnut ?" " The horse- 
chestnut, aunt ?" " Yes, child ; you said something or 
other about a horse-chestnut playing a voluntary or 
something of that sort." " Oh ! the orchestra ! Yes, 
I remember. Don't you see those gentlemen in front 
of the stage ?" " Them men with the fiddles and the 
bass-viols ?" " Yes. Well, they compose the orchestra, 
and the orchestral part of this opera is particularly 
fine." " I want to know ! Belong to the first families, 
[ suppose. They are an uncommon good-looking set of 
men. Is Mrs. Patte a furrener?" " Yes ; she's a mix 

Atnrr sophronia tabor at the opera. T9 

ture of Spanish and Italian. She was born in Madrid, 
but came to the United States when only five years of 
age, and remained here until she was nearly seventeen. 
There, aunt ; there's the bell, and the curtain will rise 
in a minute. Yes ; see, there it goes." " Louisa !" 
" Sh — ! listen. I want you to hear Signor Monti. He ia 
considered a very fine bass." " But, Louisa, oughtn't we 
to stand up during prayer-time ?" " You fijrget, aunt, that 
this is only a play, and not a temple." " Dear suz ! I 
only wish your Uncle Peleg was here. Somehow it 
seems kinder unchristian to be play-acting worship " 
" Why, aunt, there's no need of your feeling so con- 
science-stricken. Lots of church-people come to the 
opera. It isn't like the theatre, you know. It's more 
— more — cr — well, I can't just express it, aunt. But, 
anyway, people who discountenance the theatre, espe- 
cially during Lent, approve of the opera." " But, Louisa, 
what is the matter? La sakes, child! lets get out as 
spry as ever we can ! Tlie theatre is all on fire. Hurry, 
Louisa! Wish that your Uncle Peleg — " "Sh — , aunt; 
do sit down. It isn't a fire. It's only the people ap- 
plauding because Patti is on the stage. Don't you see 
her." "Sakes alive! Is that it? I thought we wa« 
all afire, or Wiggin's flood had come. So that is Mrs. 
Pattc. Well, I declare for it ! she's as spry as a cricket, 
and no mistake. Why, Louisa, how old is she? She 
looks scarcely out of her teens." " O aunt ! you must 
not be so practical, and ask such personal questions. 
Jjadics don't always want their ages known ; but, be^ 
twcon ourselves, she's f)ver forty." " Is it poasible? 
There, they're at it again. What is the matter now?" 
" Why, Sealehi has appeared. Don't you see?" " What, 
that dapi>er little fellow a-bowing an<l a-scraping and 


a-smirking? Is that Mr. Scalchi?" " That's Madamt 
Scalchi, aunt ; and she's taking the part of Arsaces, 
the commander of the Assyrian Army, you know." 
'•■ Louisa, are you sure that this is a perfectly propei 
place ? I only wish Peleg was here, for then I shouldn't 
feel so sort a-skeery like and guilty." " Now, aunt, we 
mustn't speak another word till the opera is through, 
because we disturb the people." " I suppose we do ; but, 
whenever anything happens, you nudge me, and I'll 
nudge you ; or we can squeeze hands — that's the way 
Peleg and I do when we go to the lyceum. It's sorter 
eocial, and everybody can hear just as well." Soon 
outrang the glorious voice. " Bravo ! bravo ! bravo !" 
echoed from all parts of the house. " Hooray !" " Why, 
Aunt Tabor ! sit down." " If Peleg were only here ! 
Hip ! hip !" " Aunt, in pity's name, keep still ! Don't 
get so excited." "Well, I never! The sweat's just 
a- rolling off me, and I am as weak as a rag-baby. 
I wish I had my turkey -tail. This mite of a fan of 
yours don't give wind enough to cool a mouse." " Now, 
aunt, do keep quiet. You'll hear better, and won't get 
so warm." " Well, dear, I suppose you are right. But 
didn't that sound like an angel-choir ?" " 'Twas cer- 
tainly very fine. One thing is sure ; you've heard Patti 
at her best." " I'm so glad I came ; and if Peleg Avaa 
only along ! But, there, I haint going to speak again 
till the uproar is over." And so the opera went on, 
when, suddenly : " Louisa Allen, what are them half- 
nude statutes a-standing up in the back there? Don't 
they realize that the whole congregation can see them, 
and haven't they any modesty?" " Why, aunt, that's 
the ballet." " The what ?" " The ballet, aunt. Look, 
look! there they come. Isn't that the very poetry 


of — " " Louisa Sophronia Tabor Allen, just you pick 
up your regimentals, and follow me ; and that quick, 
loo." " But, auntie — " " You needn't auntie me. Just 
get your duds together and we'll travel. Thank good- 
ness your Uncle Peleg Josiah Tabor is not herel Don't 
let me see you give as much as a glance to where those 
graceless nudities are, or, big as you are, I'll box jour 
ears." " Why, aunt — " " Louisa, I only wish I had 
my thickest veil, for I am positively ashamed to be 
caught in this unchristian scrapie. Come, and don't 
raise your eyes. There, thank goodness, we're in pure 
air at last !" " Why, aunt, I thought you were enjoy- 
ing the opera?" "The uproar, Louisa? I have noth- 
ing to say agin the uproar. Them voices would grace 
a celestial choir. This I say with all reverence. But 
that side-show ! I wouldn't have had my Eliza Ann 
nor my Woodman Harrison, a-witnessed what we've 
come near a-witnessing for a thousand-dollar bill. No, 
not for a ten-thousand bill. And I am so thankful that 
your Uncle Peleg was not here ! Somehow, Louisa, I feel 
as if I'd fallen like the blessed Lucifer out of the moon." 


POLITENESS was born in him, and he couldn't help 
it. He drifted into a prominent town in the South 
soon after Johnston's surrender, and before anybody's 
temper had cooled down. He was after cotton, and he 
let the fact be known. He was from Connecticut, an(v 
he did n*»t try to conceal it. He hadn't been in the 
town two hours before an " unregonerated " pullud hia 



" Ah — yes !" said the man from Connecticut. ** Was 
that accidental ?" 

" No, sir ! No, sir !" was the fierce rejoinder. 

" Did it a purpose, eh ?" 

" Of course I did !" 

" Well, I shouldn't a-thought it of you ! I'll pass it 
over as a case of temporary insanity." 

An hour later, as he sat in the hotel, a fire-eater 
approached him and spit on his boots and stood and 
glared at him. 

" You must have a wobble to your tongue if you 
can't spit straighter than that," said the man from Con- 

" I meant it so, sir — I meant it so I" 

" Wanted to get me' mad, eh ?" 

" Yes, sir ! Yes, sir !" 

" You shouldn't do so. When I'm roused I'm a hard 
man to handle. I'll excuse this on the grounds that 
you don't know me." 

In the afternoon he was given a hint that he had 
better leave town at once, and when he demurred, a 
lawyer sent him a challenge. 

" What's it fur ?" asked the Yankee, as he read the 

"You insulted him, and he demands satisfaction," 
exclaimed the messenger. 

" Can't I argy the case with him ?" 

"No, sir!" 

" S'posen I give him five dollars to settle ?" 

" He wants to fight you, sir. And you must eithw 
fight or he will horsewhip you !" 

" Warm me up with a rawhide, eh ?" 



"Shoo! but who'd a thought it! Say, I'll gin him 
ten dollars." 

" Sir ! You likewise insult me !" 

" Do, eh ? I swan I didn't mean to. Then I've got 
to fight ?" 

" You have." 

" May get killed, or kill the other feller ?" 

" Exactly." 

" Well, I'm kinder sorr)\ I never had but one fight 
in my life, and then I got licked. I don't want to be 
hurt, and I don't want to injure anybody else, and — " 

" You'll wait to be horsewhipped ?" 

" I rayther guess not. I guess I'll fight. I'll choose 
rifles at twenty paces, and you kin pick out your own 
ground. Just let me know when it's to come off*, and 
I'll try and be thar'." 

It came off" next morning. He was thar'. They 
offered him an opportunity to apologize, but he wouldn't 
touch it. He stood up as stiff" as a new barn door, and 
bored a bullet through his man's shoulder, and came off 
without a scratch himself. 

" Bein' as I'm out here now, and bein' as somebody 
else may want to horsewhip me to-morrow, wouldn't 
this be a good time for him to show up and save time?" 
he asked, as he loaned on his rifle, and looked around 

No one showed up. The Yankee liked the town, and 
Bent for his family. The people liked the Yankee, and 
made him postmaster, and he stuck there until five 
years at^o. 



WELL, Katie, and is this yersilf ? And where wa» 
you this while ? 
And ain't ye dhrissed ? You are the wan to illusthrat* 

the stoile ! 
But never moind them matthers now — there's toime 

enough for thim ; 
And Larry — that's me b'y— I want to shpake to you 
av him. 

Sure, Larry bates thim all for luck ! — 'tis he will make 

his way. 
And be the proide and honnur to the sod beyant the 

We'll soon be able— whist! I do be singing till I'm 

For iver since a month or more my Larry's on the 

foorce I 

There's not a private gintleman that boords in all the 

Who houlds himsilf loike Larry does, or makes as foine 

a show : 
Thim eyes av his, the way they shoine — his coat and 

butthons too — 
He bates them kerrige dhroivers that be on the avenue I 

He shtips that proud and shtately-loike, you'd think he 

owned the town. 
And houlds his shtick canvanient to be tappin' some 

wan down — 

Larry's on the force. S5 

Aieh blissed day I watch to see him comin' up the 

For, by the greatest bit uv luck, our house is ou his 


The little b'ys is feared av him, for Larry's moighty 

And many's the litthle blagyard he's arristed, I expict ; 
The beggyars gets acrass the shtrate — you ought to see 

thim fly — 
And organ-groindhers scatthers whin they see him 

comin' by. 

I know that Larry's bound to roise ; he'll get a sergent's 

And afther that a captincy within a year at most ; 
And av he goes in polities he has the head to throive— 
I'll be an Alderwoman, Kate, afore I'm thirty-foive i 

What's that again ? Y'are jokin', surely — Katie ! — is it 

Last noight, you say, he — married ? and Aileen O'Dona- 

O Larry c'u'd ye have the hairt — but let the spalpeen be ; 
Av he demanes himsilf to her, he's nothing more to me. 

The ugly shcamp ! I always said, just as I'm tellin' you, 
That Larry was the biggest fool av all I iver knew ; 
And many a toime I've tould niesilf — you see it now, av 

course — 
He'd niver come to anny good av he irnt on tlu' ftxjreel 

Ikwin KuaaKLU 



fisherman's hut, CHESAPEAKE BAY, 1878. 

WHEN you was hei-e some sixteen year 
Or so, aback, you says 
^. darkey named Kyarlina Jim, 
He fished fom dis here place? 

i)at yonder's him, Kyarlina Jim, 

On de bench dar by de do' ; 
He have been po' an' weak an' bline 

Sence dat long time ago. 

Yes — dat's de way he spen's each day 

O' de blessed year 'dout fail, 
VVid face turned out'ard to'ds de bay, 

Like watchin' fur a sail. 

Eben when clouds 'ull come in crowds. 
An' de beatin' win's 'ull blow, 

He still keeps settin', pashunt, dar 
In his ole place by de do'. 

An' de sweet sunlight, 'tis jes like nighty 

Ter po' Kyarlina Jim, 
He's weak an' bline ; so rain an' shino 

Is all de same ter him. 

Dat chile you see dar on his knee, 

She never fails ter come 
About dis time o' ev'ry day 

Ter fetch Kyarlina home. 


I »eldom cries, but when my eyes 

Lights on de chile an' Jim, 
Dar's sumpin sort o' makes me feel 

Kind, — ter his gal an' him. 

Another chile he los' long while 

Ago, I'se heerd him say, 
Is out dar waitin' in a boat 

On de blue waves o' de bay. 

I 'specs, bekase o' what he says, 

Dat chile he los' 'ull come 
'Fo' long, jes like dis here one does, 

An' fetch Kyarliua home. 

A. C. GoRDOlf. 


IGEEPS me von leetle schtore town Proadway, und 
does a pooty goot peesnis, but I don't got mooch 
gapital to vork mit, so I finds id hard vork to get me 
oil der gredits vot I vould like. Last veek I hear 
aboud some goots dot a barty vas going to sell pooty 
sheap, und so I writes dot man if he vould gief me der 
refusal of dose goots for a gouple of days. He gafe me 
der refusal — dot is, he sait I gouldn't haf deni —but he 
Bait he vould gall on me und see mine schtore und den 
if mine schtanding in peesnis vas goot, l)orhapi ve might 
do somedings togedder. Veil, I vas bchint n liio goun- 
ter yesterday, ven a shentleman gomes in um( dukes me 
py der hand und say : " Mr. Scliinidt, I pdicve." I 
says, " Yaw," und den I dinks to inincseU", dis vas der 
man vot has dose goots to sell, und 1 iimsd dr_y t^» make 


Borne goot imbressions mit liim, so ve gould do some 
peeanis. " Dis vas goot sehtore," he says, looking 
rouudt, " bud you don't got pooty pig slitock already." 
I vas avraid to let him know dot I only hat 'bout a 
tousand tollars vort of goots in der blaee, so I says : 
" You ton't vould dink I hat more as dree tousand 
tollars in dis leedle sehtore, aint id?" He says: " You 
don't tole me! Vos dot bossible!" I says : "Yaw." I 
meant dot id vas bossible, dough id vasn't so, vor I vaa 
like Shorge Vashingtons vcn he cut town der " olt elm " 
on Poston Gommons mit his leetle hadchet, und gouldn't 
dell some lies aboud id. 

" Veil," says der shentleman, " I dinks you ought 
to know petter as anypody else vot you haf got in der 
Bchtore." Und den he dakcs a pig book vrom vmter his 
arm und say : " Veil, I poots you town vor dree tousand 
tollars." I ask him vot he means py " poots me town," 
und den he says he vas von off der dax-men, or as- 
sessors of broperty, und he tank me so kintly as nefer 
vos, pecause he say I vas sooch an honest Deutcher, 
und didn't dry und sheat der gofermants. I dells you 
v^at it was, I didn't veel any more petter as a hundord 
feer cent, ven dot man valks oudt of mine sehtore, und 
der nexd dime I makes free mit sdrangers I vinds first 
deir peesnis oudt. 

Chas. F. Adams. 


DERE'S a d'eat bid, blat bump on my follid ; 
I dot it a fallin' down 'tairs ; 
And a udly wed stratch on my elbow. 
But seems to me nobody tares. 


Mamma has done out in do tallidge, 

An' wouldn't let Daisy do too. 
I tored my new d'ss in my tumble ; 

De button tame off my s'oe. 

My bid dolly's head is all b'oten, 

Dere's holes where s'e had her two eyes ; 
I wanted to see what's inside her 

To mate all dat noise when s'e twies, 
And now all de twy is done out her, 

I'm s'ure I don't know where it's don — 
It didn't fall out in de nurse'y, 

'Tause I loot'd for it ever so Ion'. 

Nurse says dat my own darlin' papa 

Will stold me, an say, " Naughty dirl !* 
'Tause I toot up de scissors an' tut off 

Dust one 'ittle mite of a turl. 
Dere's one sing I did I mus' tell him — 

Old Mammy don't know about dat — 
I poured all de tweam out de pitser, 

Wight into his s'iny new hat. 

Dat tweam 'haved itsc'f welly badly, 

I wanted to pour it all bat, 
But 'fore I tc^uld put down de pitaer 

It wan away out of de hat ; 
Wan down on de table an' carpet, 

All over my mamma's nice boots, 
An' made sut's a defful bid dea.^pot 

Oo don't know iiow liollid it loukal 

De baby was 'seep in de t'adle, 
S'e toot 8ut3 a welly lou' uap. 


When I wanted to hold her a'n tiss her 
And tuddle her up on my lap, 

So I toot 'ittle stit an' did pote her, 
An' den s'e was wat'd up wis a twy ; 

Den mamma did lose all her pasence, 
And here in de torner am I. 

Nui"se says s'e will wite 'ittle letter, 

Tell Santa Taus all I have done, 
So when Tismas mornin' is tomin' 

An' Daisy wates up wis de sun, 
Her stotin' will han' dere all empty. 

Wis never a tandy or toy ; 
For Santa Taus dives to dood chillen, 

But stolds de bad dirl an' bad boy. 

I -wonner if papa loots soUy, 

I wonner if mamma will, too. 
An' sate dere heads, an' say, " Daisy, 

What is to be done now, wis oo ?" 
I did do a deat deal of mistif, 

An' twoubled my nursei an' was bad ; 
I wis I tould be a dood dirly 

An' mate my dear mamma be dlad ! 

I tell her mos' evely morning, 

" Oor Daisy '11 'have pitty to-day ;'* , 
An' den I fordet, an' am naughty, 

An' 'have in a welly sad way ; 
I Avis I tould fin' out de weason 

Dat mates me so naughty an' wild ; 
I'd lite my dear mamma to tall me 

Her own darlin' dood 'ittle child I 


I dess I'll tell " dentle Desus," 

An' ast Him to help me be dood ; 
He'll hear me wight out of His Heaven, 

For mamma did say dat He tould. 
S'e says dat He loves 'ittle chilleu, 

An' tares for dem all de day Ion' ; 
P'ease Desus, to help 'ittle Daisy, 

Don't let her do sings dat are wrong. 

Don't let her dis'bey her dear mamma, 

Nor tease her old mamma no more ; 
Don't let her wate up 'ittle sister. 

Nor f 'ow all de pins on de f 'oor. 
Don't let her say words dat are saucy, 

Don't let her be naughty aden ; 
But mate her a dood 'ittle Daisy ; 

Dear Desus, dat's all now. Amen. 

Joanna Matthews. 



T wan't so very long ago, 'bout forty year, I guess, 
That I first went a-courting Deacon Bodkin's darte? 

(Or leastways Betsy was her name, but that aiut iiere 

nor there). 
She was an orful pretty gal, with yallcr urbuii hair, 
An' cheeks as round an' rosy as any ttnijjtin' peacli 
That makes a fellow smack his lips because it's out of 



Hit was down in ole Missoury, an' I was keepin' batcl* 
When nie an' Betsy Bodkin fust thought about a match ; 
I had a little cabin, an' a good chunk of a lioss, 
In Buck Crick bottom, 'side the crick, and Bodkina 

lived across, 
A mile or so on t'other side ; an' when the crick was low 
I used to ford it every day, to see my gal, you know. 

The Deacon — wal, I reckon now, that he was putty 

No better, an' no wusser, than other people air ; 
But then he wa'n't no favorite with rae, an' you kin 

'Twas 'cause he couldn't see the pint of me a-courtin* 

An' when he found that me an' her was wantin' to git 

He rared an' tore an' ordered rae to git right up an* 


The reason why he got so mad at me is easy told ; 
*Twas 'cause my trousers pockets wasn't cluttered up 

with gold. 
He 'lowed that I had better clare, or he would raise a 

breeze ; 
His darter shouldn't hev a man as poor as black-eyed 

Besides, thar was another chap, a drover, wanted Bess ; 
He had right smart of money, say a thousand more or 


But he was mortal humly, an' stubborn as a mule, 
iLa' Bess declared she wa'n't a-goin' to hev no auch a 

grandpa's courtship. 93 

An' when the Deacon rared an' pitched, an' ordered me 

She up and vowed emphatic like, that she would never 

To marry any drover that ever wore a hat. 
An' what the Deacon's darter said, she meant, and that 

was flat ! 

The Deacon's wife. Aunt Polly, she sort o' &,vored me, 
An' alius made me welcome, when he wam't there to 

see ; 
An' when the Deacon rared an' swowed that Bess should 

marry Si — 
(The drover's name was Silas) — or he'd know the reason 

Aunt Polly sided 'long of Bess, an' — wal, I'm free to 

We got our plans all ready, fur we 'lowed to run away. 

So Bess she slipped away one day an' met me in the 

The roads was awful muddy, fur there'd been a power 

of rain. 
But she dumb up behind me — my horse would carry 

two — 
An' off we went toward the crick, the nighest distance 

Fur I 'lowed that we could ford it, bein' Jeff, my boss, 

was stout, 
But when we reached the ford, 1 sec my reckonin' was 

Fur the rain liiul riz (lif crick up, till it got so mortal 

I gee wc couldn't ford it, an' it wa'n't no use to try. 


An' jest that very minute, while we was standin' still, 
We heard the sound of horses' hoofs a-tearin' down the 

An' Bess, she gives a little screech, an' lit right off the 

Fur 'twas her pa a-comin', with the drover, Silas Cross ! 
An' — wal, I had to 'elect my thoughts, an' that most 

'mazing quick, 
So I jest made a grab for Bess, an' jumped right in the 


The water biled around us, but I struck out fiir the 

An' I swum as I don't reckon I had ever swum before : 
But we got a-crost, an' there we stood, a-shakin' with 

the cold. 
An' Bess'es hair fell down her back, jest like a showe* 

of gold. 
But we was safe, an' so went an' found some friends of 

An' I went fur the preacher, while they helped her 

change her dress. 
There wa'n't no licenses them times, an' 'twasn't long 

till we 
Was man 'an wife, an' started home, as happy as could 


An' who should be there waitin', at the bars, but Jeff 

my hoss ; 
t knowed 'twas safe to leave him, an' he'd foller me 

A.n' — wall, there aint much more to tell, but in about » 



The Deacon he came walkin' in a-lookin* powerful 

An' arter we had all shuck hands, he says : " That Silas 

Would you believe he was so mean ? He went an' stole 

ray hoss ! 
He did ! — the finest hoss I had, the rascally, thievin' cuss! 
But then, if he had married Bess, 'twould been a blamed 

sight wuss. 

** An', Hiram, sence you swum that crick, I've thought 

that I an' you 
Would make good pardners after all, and Polly thinks 

so too ; 
An' though you stole my darter, Bess, I reckon 'twan't 

no sin ; 
So come with me, fur Polly wants to see her gal agin." 
Wal, children, that's the story I've bin promisin' to 

A.n' you can ask your grandma if I haven't told it 

true ! 

Helen Whitney Clark. 


IT aint no use to grumble and ('onii)lain ; 
It's just as cheap and easy to rejoice ; 
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, 
W'y, rain's my choice. 

Men gener'ly to all intents — 

Although they're ap' to giumlilc some — • 


Puts most their trust in Providence, 
And take things as they come — 
That is the commonality 
Of men that's lived as long as me 
Has watched the world enough to learn 
They're not the boss of this concern. 

With some, of course, it's different — 

I've seen young men that knowed it all, 
An' didn't like the way things went 
On this terrestrial ball, 

But, all the same, the rain some way 
Rained just as hard on picnic day ; 
Or when they really wanted it 
It maybe wouldn't rain a bit. 

In this existence, dry and wet 

Will overtake the best of men — 
Some little shift o' clouds '11 shet 
The sun off now and then. 

But maybe as you're wonderin' who 
You've fool-like lent your umbrella to. 
And want it — out'll pop the sun. 
And you'll be glad you aint got none. 

It aggervates the farmers, too — 

Ther's too much wet, or too much sun, 
Or work or waitin' round to do 
Before the plowin's done. 

And maybe, like as not, the wheat. 
Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat, 
Will ketch the storm — and jest about 
The time the corn's a jintin out. 


It aint no use to grumble and complain ; 

It's jeet as cheap and easy to rejoice ; 
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, 

Wy, rain's my choice. 

James Whitcomb Rilet 


«' QTEP gently, sir, step gently." 

O I stepped hastily back. I feared I had been tread- 
ing on some of the old man's flowers. 

He leaned on his spade, and made no motion for some 
minutes. At length he raised his head, and in a 
husky voice began — 

" Ay, sir, I mind the time as weel as 'twere yesterday, 
and it's forty years sine when oor wee, wee bairnie died. 
It was his fourth birthday, and he stopped up tae wait 
till I cam hame wi' a bit present for him. I sat doon 
be' the fire tae wait for my supper (my wife was ben the 
hoose bakin'), when I heard the patterin' o' his little 
feet, and I looked up an' held oot my airms for him. 
Ho didna come rinnin' tae them sae rjnjck as usual, an' 
when I had him on my knees, says I, ' An' fa'll ye be, 
ye wee bit niekum ?' 

" ' I'm fayther's wee, wee bairnie.' 

" An' wi' that he nestled closer to me. He dinna 
aeem cheery, sae I cald the doggie tae 'im, an' the dog- 
gie cam lazy like frae his comer stretchin' his legs. 
"The bairnif; put flof)n his littl(! han' an'strokit the dog's 
head. But he didna get up an' play wi't, and seemod 


" ' Janet,' ca'd I ben the hoose, ' what ails £h* 
bairnie ?' 

" ' Ails him !' said she. ' Awa' wi' ye, naethin' ails 

" ' But he's tired like.' 

" ' Hoot,' says she, ' nae wunner, sittin' up till this 
'time o' night.' 

" ' Ah ! but it's nae that ; it's mair than tired he is, 
Janet, he's nae weel.' 

" Janet took up the child in her airms. 

" * Aweel,' said she, ' an' he's no weel. I'll pit him 
tae bed when I'll hae done wi' the bakin';' an' wi' that 
she set him doon i' the floor. Forty years it is syne ; 
but I can see the laddie standin' there yet, wi' his head 
hangin' owre his clean frock, and his wee bit leggies 
bare tae the knees. 

" ' Pit him tae bed the noo, Janet. Dinna min' the 

" She took him up again in her airms, and as she did 
sae, his wee facie became as pale as death, an' his little 
body shook a' ower. I niver waited a meenit, but awa' 
I ran oot at the door for the doctor as hard as I could 
rin, twa miles across the fields, wi' my heart beatin' 
hard at every step. The doctor wasna in. Wi' a sair 
heart I turned back. I stopped runnin' whan I got till 
cor gate, and walked quietly in. ' The doctor's nae in. 
Waur luck,' said I, as I crassed the door. Nae a word. 
I turned roun' intae the kitchen, an' there was such a 
gicht I could niver forget. In ae corner was my wife 
lying on the grun', and beside her the wee bit bairn — • 
nae a soun' frae either o' them. I touchit my wife i' 
th' shouther, an' she lookit up, an' then rose up wi'out 
a word, and stood beside me, lookin' at the form of th« 


little laddie. Suddenly he gied a start, an' held oot his 
airms tae me — ' Am I no yer ain wee, wee bairnie, 
fayther ?' ' Ay, ay,' said I. I could hardly speak, an' I 
knelt doon beside him, an' took his little hand. My 
wife knelt doon on th' other side o' him an' took his 
other hand, ' Yer wee, wee bairnie,' he muttered, as if 
tae himsel' — for he had gied himsel' the name — au' then 
he had laid his head back, an' -we could see he was gone. 
The doggie cam' an' lookit in his face, and lickit his 
han' and' then wi' a low whine went an' lay down at his 
feet. Niver a tear did we weep ; but we sat baith o' 
us lookin' intae the sweet wae facie till th' mornin' 
broke in on us. The neebors cam' i' the mornin', an' I 
rose up and spoke tae them ; but my wife, she never 
stirred, nor gied a sound, till ane o' them spoke o' when 
he wad be carried tae the auld kirkyard. ' Kirkyard,' 
said she, ' kirkyard ! Nae kirkyard for me. My bairnie 
shall sleep whaur he played — in oor garden. Nae a 
step farer.' ' But it'll nivor be allowed.' ' Allowed !' 
cried she. ' The bairnie shannastir past the end o' the 
garden.' An' she had her way. Naebody interfered ; 
an' there he lies jist whaur ye were gaun to pit yer fit, 
an' there he'll lie tae the resurrection mornin'. An' ilka 
evenin' my wife comes an' sits here wi' her knittin,' an' 
we niver tire o' speakin' o' him that lies beneath." 

And the old man bent down and passed his hand 
over the loose mould jus if he were smoothing the pillow 
of his wee, wee bairnie. 



DE night-time comin' an' de daylight scootin' ; 
De jew-draps fallin' an' de big owl hootin' ; 
You kin soon see de bright stars fallin' an' a-shootin*, 
An' hear de old huntin'-horn blovvin' an' a-tootin' ! 

Oh ! de Seben Stars gittin' up higher an' higher, 
De supper-time comin' on nigher an' nigher ; 
Gwine to cote Miss Dinah by de hick'ry fire 
An' roas' dem taters while I settin' down by her. 

De cat-bird happy when de cherries gettin' redder ; 
De sheep mighty libely when he grazin' in de medder^ 
But de nigger an' his little gal settin' down togedder 
Jos' happy as a cricket in de sunshiny wedder! 

Refrain. — Hi O, Miss Dinah, 
Listen to de song ! 
Hi O, Miss Dinah, 

I 's comin' straight erlong I 
Hi O, Miss Dinah, 

Gwine to see you little later ! 
Hi O, Miss Dinah, 

Gwine to help you peel dat 'tater ! 

J. A. Macok. 


IT was a long time ago, one winter's eve, and father 
and me were alone in the kitchen. I was a-sewing 
Ml my wedding clothes, not that anybody had ever 

OLD woman's love STORY. 101 

aaked me to have him, and I didn't think aa anybody 
ever would, but I thought I'd be ready in case anybody 
should ask me. Father said to me, said he, " Samanthyr' 
Said I to him, said I, " What, sir ?" Said he to me, 
said he, " Hadn't you better go to the door?" Said I 
to him, said I, " No, sir !" For I didn't hear anything 
at the door ; and I went on with my sewing. And after 
awhile I did hear something at the door. And after 
awhile father said to me, " Samanthy, hadn't you better 
go to the door ?" Said I to him, said I, " Yes, sir." 
And I went to the door, and there stood a man. I was 
80 frightened I didn't know what to do. And the man 
came in and tuck a seat. And father and him went ou 
a-talking. And after awhile father said to me, " Sa« 
manthy !" Said I to him, said I, " What, sir ?" Said 
he to me, " Samanthy, can't Ave have some cider ?" Said 
I to him, said I, " Yes, sir." So I got the cider. I 
filled father's glass, and I filled the old man's glass, and 
I filled father's glass and I filled the old man's glass 
again ; and then they filled their own glasses, and drank 
up all the cider. Then after awhile father said to me, 
said he, "Samanthy!" Said I to him, said I, " What, 
sir ?" Said he to me, said he, " Hadn't I better go to 
bed?" Said I to him, said I, " Yes, sir." And he 
took his candle and lit it, and went away and left me 
alone with that strange man. I was so frightened I 
didn't know what to do. And the man said to me, 
a-moving his chair closer to mine, said he, "Samanthy." 
Said I to him, said I, " Wluit, sir ?" Said he to me, 
said he, "Samanthy, won't you have me?" Said I to 
him, said I, " No, sir." Ami witli that I moved away, 
and he moved his chair closer to mine again, and said 
be to me, auld he, " Samanthy, I'm only going to aide 

102 Annie's ticket. 

you twice more. Won't you have me ?" Said I to him, 
«aid I, " No, sir." And with that I moved away again. 
And he moved his chair still closer to mine again, and 
said he to me, said he, " Samanthy, won't you have me ?" 
Said I to him, said I, " Yes, sir." For I was so fright- 
ened I didn't know what else to say. 


PLEASE, sir, 1 have brought you the ticket 
You gave her a short week ago — 
My own little girl I am meaning. 

The one with the fair hair, you know, 
And the blue eyes so gentle and tender, 

And sweet as the angels above. 
God help me, she's one of them now, sir, 
And I've nothin' at all left to love. 

It came on me sudden, ye see, sir ; 

She was never an ailin' child, 
Though her face was as white as a lily 

And her ways just that quiet and mild. 
The others was always a trouble. 

And botherin', too, every way. 
But the first tears that ever she cost me 

Are them that I'm sheddin' to-day. 

'Twas on Tuesday night that she sicken«d, 
She'd been blithe as a bird all day, 

Wid the ticket ye gave her, 
And never another word 

Annie's ricKET. 103 

But " Mammie, just think of the music," 
And, "jMummie, they'll give us ice-cream. 

We can roll on the turf and pick posies ; 
O Mammie ! it's just like a dream 1" 

And so, when the fever came on her, 

It seemed the one thought in her brain. 
Twould have melted the heart in your breast 

To hear her, again and again, 
Beggin', " Mammie, oh ! plaze get me ready, 

The boat will be goin' off, I say, 
I hear the bell ring. Where's me ticket? 

Oh ! won't we be happy to-day !" 

Three days she raved with the fever, 

Wid her face and her hands in a flame, 
But on Friday at noon she grew quiet. 

She knew me, and called me by name. 
My heart gave a leap when I heard it, 

But, O sir ! it turned me to stone. 
The look on the face, pinched and drawn like, 

I knew God had sent for His own. 

And she knew it too, sir, the creature, 

And said, when I told her the day, 
In her weak little voice, " Mammie, darlin', 

Bon't cry 'cause I'm goin' away. 
To-morrow they'll go to the picnic — 

They'll have beautiful times, I know. 
But Heaven is like it, and better, 

And so I am ready to go. 

■ And Marninie, I iiiiit a bit frightened. 
There's many a little girl died. 


And it seems like the dear lovin' Saviour 
Was staudiu' right here by me side. 

Take my ticket, dear Mammie, and ask tbeu 
If some other child, poor and sick. 

That hasn't got Heaven and Jesus, 
May go in my place and be glad." 

And then, with " Good-bye, Mammie darlin',*' 

She drew my lips down to her own. 
And the One she had felt close beside her 

Bent too, and I sat there alone. 
And so I have brought you the ticket, 

Though me heart seems ready to break, 
To ask you to let some poor creature 

Feel glad for my dead darlin's sake. 


(From Harper's Magazine.) 

Question for Debate : '' Which hab produced de morf 
wonders — de Ian' or de water ?" 

THE meeting having been called to order, the chair* 
man said, " Water takes de lead." 
Dr. Crane came forward. He said : " Mr. Chaarman, 
geografers tell us dat one-quarter of de yaarth's surface 
is Ian' an' three-quarters is water; in one squaar foot of 
dat water is more wonders dan in forty squaar rods of 
Ian'. Dese chillen settin' round hyar can figger on dat. 
Dat's a argyment I introduce jus' to keep the chillen 
quiet awhile. When you spill water on a table it 
spreads out all thin — on a clean table, I mean. Now, 
ipoeen de table dusty. Note de change. De water 


•eparates in globules. (For de information of some of 
de folks, I would explain that globules is drops, separated 
drops.) Now, why is dat? Isn't dat wonderful ? Can 
de Ian' do like dat ? No, saar. Dere's no such wonder 
In de Ian'." 

Mr. Laukins said : " Mr.'Chaarman, I don't see nothin' 
wonderful in de water gettin' in drops on de dusty table. 
Dat's the natcher ob de water. Dere's nothing wonder- 
ful in anything actin' accordin' to natcher. Sposen it 
wasn't its natcher, wh^t causes it to get into drops ? De 
dust. De dust ! de Ian' ! de Ian' ! De wonder's in de 
Ian*, after all. iMr. Chaarraan, Dr. Crane makes no 
argyment for de water at all, but all for de Ian'. He 
makes a p'int dat de table should be dusty. De dust 
makes de wonderful change in de water, an' dust ia 
Ian' ! I wants no better argyment for de Ian' dan 
Dr. Crane makes." 

Mr. Hunnicut said: " Mr. Chaarman, speakin' ob de 
wonders in de water, I take my position on Niagary 
Falls — de gran', stupenjus, majestic wonder ob de hol« 
world. Dere's no such or-inspiriug objeck in de Ian'. 
Den see the waterfalls ob minor importance scattered 
all ober de face ob de yaarth. Whoeber saw de Ian' 
rollin' ober de precipice like de water ? See de mitey 
oshun. She hole up the ship full ob frate and passengera 
widout props, an' yit de ship move along in de water if 
jus' a little wind touch her. Put de ship on de Ian' an* 
load her ; forty locomotives tear her all to pieces 'fore 
she move. Dr. Crane tells us dere's more wonders in 
one squaar foot ob water dan in forty rods ob Ian' 
He's right. Why, one night las' week I's ober to Doo 
Ru-ssell's house, an' de ole d(Jctor he ax me would I like 
to »ee a drop ob water in his glaas (his uiuguilyin' 


glass, I mean) ; I tole urn sai'tinly. So he rig up de 
glass, an' when he got urn all right, he tole me to take 
a good look. AVell, Mr. Chaarman, in dat one drop ob 
»vater I seed more wonders than I eber saw in de whole 
course ob my life. Dere wos a animal like a gran'- 
mother's nightcap with one string, a-scootin' roun' after 
another thing like a curry-comb with a flounced handle. 
Dere was a year ob corn wid a ruffle down each side, 
an' the fiist thing I knowed a six-legged bass drum 
come swimmin' along an' jes' swallowed it. Talk about 
wonders on de Ian', dey aint a patchin' to de water." 

Mr. Lewman said : " De fust part ob Mr. Hunnicut's 
argyment, seems to me, is all for de Ian'. Dere would 
be no Niagary or any odder falls if de Ian' wasn't in 
Buch amos' wondei'ful shape to make falls. De water 
falls 'cause dat's its natcher. Jus' look right here in 
Mount Vernon. Dere's Norton's dam ; dere's de same 
principle, the same law ob natchur. Take away de dam, 
de water is no more dan common water. No, saar, 
dhere's no wonder in de water at Niagary. De wonder 
is in de Ian'." 

Dr. Crane said : " Perhaps it's not generally known 
but still it is a fac', dat if it's not for de water in de air, 
we'd all die. Dere mus' be water in de air we take into 
our lungs to sustain life. An', strange as it may seem, 
dere mus' be water in the air to sustain combustion. 
You could not kindle a fire were it not for de aqueous 
gases ob de air. (By aqueous^ I mean watery.) I call 
dat wonderful — I can see nothing like it in de Ian' — dat 
de water which put out de fire is necessary to make the 
are burn." 

Mr. Morehouse said : " Mr. Chaarman, I hope dat 
fou'll rule out all dat Dr. Crane jus' said. Instruct de 


Committee not to take no 'count ob it. Sich talk's too 
much foul nonsense. (Excuse my 'spression, but I get 
60 excited when I hear sich tomfoolery an' ridiculus 
«lush in a 'spectaMe meetin', dat I forgets myself, an' 
don't know for de minit wedder I's drivin' a mule wag- 
gin' or in meetin'. 'Sense me, an' I'll try to keep my 
feelin's down. But, as I say, when sich trash is lugged 
in as sinsible argyment, it riles me.) Dr. Crane says 
we mus' hab water to breeve. 1 daar him to de trial. 
He may go down an' stick his college hed (excuse me, 
saar), his eddicated hed, in de creek, an' take his breevin' 
dar, saar,an' I'll take my stan' an' my breevin' on dis plat- 
form by de stove, an' let de Committee decide de case on 
de merits ob de proof on who holes out de longest. Den 
listen to what he says about water makin' de fire burn. 
Did you eber — did you eber hyaar de like? Now, 
'cordin' to Dr. Crane, s'posen I wants to start a fire in 
dis yar stove. I gets some shavin's an' den puts in some 
pine kindlin's, den berry carefully pour on a little, jes' 
a little, karysene, den puts on a few nice pieces ob coal, 
lights a match, sticks her to de shavin's, and she don't 
burn ; I lights a newspaper an' frows her under de grate ; 
de shavin's don't light. I gits mad, an' I slaps in a 
bucket of water, an' away she goes, all a-blazin' in a 
second. Oh, shaw ' sich bosh ! Don't take no 'count 
ob dat. It would be a wonder if it was true ; but, oh 
my! what cabbage it is, Jedges, don't take no 'count 
ob sich idle talk. I say, saar, dat the Ian' produce de 
mos' wcmders. Look at de trees, de flowers, de grain, 
de cabbugoH, de inyiins, dat spring up out ob de Ian'. 
Look at de Mammoth Cave, more wonderful dan al] de 
falls dat ebber fell. See Ikjw de bore in de groun' fifteen 
hundred feet an' more, and out come coal-oil two thou- 


■and bar'l a rainit. I'd jes' like to see any dese water 
folks bore a hole fifteen lumdreJ feet down into de ocean, 
an' pump out one gallon ob coal-oil in an hour. Can 
you dig down in de ocean or in de lakes an' git out gold 
an' silber, an' iron, an' coal? Can you build a raleroad 
0!) de ocean, an' cut a tunnel thru de waters? No, 

Mr. Hunnicut said : " It's jus' 'curred to my mind, 
on Mr. Morehouse speakin' 'bout de trees an' de graes 
an' de inyuns an' cabbages, dat when I was out in de 
fur Wes' I alius notice dat on de plains, on de moun- 
tains, anywhere away from de streams, no timber grows, 
no wegitation, no grass, mos'ly barr'n ; but all long de 
streams dere's de grass, de trees, de wegitation. Why ? 
'Cause ob de moistureness, de water. So, 'pears to 
me dat de cause ob all de b'utiful wegitation, after all, 
is de water. Aint dat so, saar?" 

Several other speeches were made on both sides. 
The Committee decided about as follows : " D^ advo« 
cates ob water hab made a good showin', considerin' how 
little we really know about water. But as we is more 
sure ob de Ian', we mus' decide in favor ob de Ian', but 
recommend de water side as deserbin' high credit for 
deir investigations, an' de instruction an' edifyin' ob do 
meetin'." Anon. 


THROUGH a window in the attic brawny Burglar 
Bill has crept ; 
Stealthily he seeks a chamber where the j'©welx7 u 
kept J 


He is furnished with a jimmy, centre-bit, and carpet" 

For the latter " comes in handy," as he says, " to stow 

the swag." 
Here, upon the second landing, he secure may work his 

will ; 
Down below's a dinner-party — up above the house is 

Suddenly — in spell-bound horror — all his satisfaction 

ends — 
For a little white-robed figure by the banister descends ! 
Bill has reached for his revolver — but he hesitates to fire: 
Child is it, or apparition, that provokes him to perspire? 
Can it be his guardian angel, sent to stay his hand from 

He could wish she had selected some more seasonable 

time ! 
*' Go away !" he whimpers, hoarsely. " Burglars have 

their bread to earn ! 
I don't need no gordian angel comin' givin' me a turn !" 
But the blue eyes ojten wider, ruby lips reveax their 

pearl : — 
** I is not a garden angel — I is dust a yickel girl ! 
On the thairs to thit I'm doin' till the tarts and jellies 

tum ; 
Partinthon, the butler, alwayth thaves for Baby Bella 

thome ! 
Poor man 'oo is lookin' 'ungry — leave 'oo burgling fings 

up dere, 
Tum along an' have some sweeties, thitting on the bot- 
tom thair." 
"Reely, miss, yo»i must excoosc me," says the burglar, 

with a jerfc; 


" Dooty calls, and time is pressing — I must set about 

my work !" 
" Is 'oo work to bweak in houses ? Nana told me so, 

I'm sure ! 
Will 'oo try if 'oo can manage to bweak in my doU's- 

house door ? 
I tan never det it undone, so my dollies tan't det out ; 
They don't like the fwont to open every time they'd 

walk about ! 
Twy — and if 'oo does it nicely, when I'm thent upthairs 

to theep, 
I will bring 'oo up some goodies — which thall be for 'oo 

to keep !" 
Off the little angel flutters — but the burglar wipes hia 

He is wholly unaccustomed to a kindly greeting now, 
Never with a smile of welcome has he seen his entrance 

met ! 
Nobody (except the policeman) ever wanted him as 

Many a stately home he's entered — but, with unobtru- 
sive tact, 
He has ne'er, in paying visits, called attention to the 

Gain he counts it, on departing, if he has avoided strife. 
Ah ! my brothers, but the burglar's is a sad and lonely 

All forgotten are the jewels, once the purpose of his 

As he sinks upon the doormat with a deep and choking 

Then, the infant's plea recalling, seeks the nursery 



Looking for the Lilliputian crib he is to crack — for 

love I 
In the corner stands the doll's house, gayly painted green 

and red ; 
And the door declines to open — even as the child hat 

Out comes centre-bit and jimmy, all his implements are 

plied ; 
Never has he burgled better, as he feels with honest 

pride ! 
Deftly now the task's accomplished — for the door will 

open well — 
When a childish voice behind him breaks the silence 

like a bell — 
*' Sank 'oo, Missa Burglar, sank 'oo ; and, betause 'oo's 

been tho nice, 
See, I've bwought 'oo up a tartlet — gweat big gweedies 

eat the ice ! 
Pappa says he wants to see 'oo — Partinthon is turamin' 

too — 
Tan't 'oo stay '?" * * * " "Well, not this evenin', so, 

ray little dear — adoo !" 
Fast he speeds across the house-tops — but his bosom 

throbs with bliss, 
For upon his rough lips linger traces of a baby's kiss. 
Dreamily on downy pillow Baby Bella murmurs sweet: 
" Burglar, tum adain an' thee me — I will dive 'oo cakes 

to cut !" 
In his garret, worn and weary, Burglar Bill has sunk 

to rest, 
Clasping tenderly a damson tartlet to his ])urly breaet! 



I TOLD Hezekiah — that's my man. People mostly 
call him Deacon Parsons, but he never gets any 
deaconing from me. We were married — "Hezekiah 
and Amariah " — that's going on forty years ago, and 
he's jest Hezekiah to me, and nothin' more. 

Well, as I was saying, says I, " Hezekiah, we aren't 
right. I am sure of it." And he said, " Of course not. 
We are poor sinners. Amy ; all poor sinners." And I 
said, " Hezekiah, this ' poor sinner ' talk has gone on 
long enough. I suppose we are poor sinners, but I 
don't see any use of being mean sinners ; and there's 
one thing I think is real mean." 

It was jest after breakfast, and, as he felt poorly, he 
hedn't gone to the shop yet ; and so I had this little 
talk with him to sort o' chirk him up. He knew what 
I was comin' to, for we hed had the subject up before. It 
was our little church. He always said, " The poor peo- 
ple, and what should we ever do ?" And I always said, 
" We never shall do nothin' unless we try." And so, 
when I brought the matter up iu this way, he just 
began biting his toothpick, and said, " What's up now ? 
Who's mean ? Amariah, we oughtn't to speak evil of 
one another." Hezekiah always says "poor sinners," 
and doesn't seem to mind it ; but when I occasionally 
say, " mean sinners," he somehow gits oneasy. But I 
was started, and I meant to free my mind. 

So I said, says I, " I was goin' to confess our sina 
Dan'l confessed for all his people, and I was confeesin 
for all our little church. 
" Truth is," says I, " ours is alius called one of the 


* feeble churches,' and I am tried about it. I've raised 
seveu children, and at fourteen months old every boy 
and girl of 'era could run alone. And our church is 
fourteen years old," says I, " and it can't take a step 
yet without somebody to hold on by. The Board helps 
us, and General Jones, good man, he helps us — helps too 
much, I think — and so we live along ; but we don't 
seem to get strong. Our people draw their rations 
every year as the Indians do up at the agency, and it 
doesn't seem sometimes as if they ever thought of doing 
anything else. 

" They take it so easy," I said. " That's what worries 
me. I don't suppose we could pay all expenses, but we 
might act as if we wanted to, and as if we meant to do 
all we can. 

" I read," says I, " last week about the debt of the 
Board ; and this week, as I understand," says I, " our 
application is going in for another year, and no particu- 
lar effort to do any better ; and it frets me. I can't 
sleep nights, and I can't take comfort Sundays. I've 
got to feelin' as if we were a kind of j)erpetual paupers. 
And that was what I meant when I said, ' It is real 
mean !' I sui)pose T said it a little sharp," says I, " but 
I'd rather be sharp than flat any day ; and if we don't 
begin to stir ourselves, we shall be flat enough before 
long, and shall deserve to be. It grows on me. It has 
jest been ' l>oard. Board, Board,' for fourteen years, 
and I'm tired of it. I never did like boardin'," says I, 
** and even if wo were poor, I believe wo might do some- 
thing toward settin' up housekeepin' for ourselves. 

"Well, there's not many of us — about a hundred, 1 
believe, and pome of these is women-folks, and sojtic is 
jest girls and boys. And wc all have to work hard, 


and live close ; but," says I, " let us show a disposition 
if nothing more. Hezekiah, if there's any spirit left in 
us, let us show some sort of a disposition," 

And Hezekiah had his toothpick in his teeth, and 
looked down at his boots, and rubbed his chin as he 
always does when he's goin' to say somethin', " I think 
there's some of us that shows a disposition." 

Of course I understood that hit, but I kep' still. I 
kep' right on with my argument, and I said, " Yes, and 
a pretty bad disposition it is. It's a disposition to let 
ourselves be helped when we ought to be helping our- 
selves. It's a disposition to lie still and let somebody 
carry us. And we are growing up cripples — only we 
don't grow. 

" 'Kiah," says I, " do you hear me ?" Sometimes 
when I want to talk a little he jest shets his eyes, and 
begins to rock himself back and forth in the old arm- 
chair, and he was doin' that now. So I said, " Kiah, 
do you hear ?" And he said, " Some !" and I went on. 
" I've got a proposition," says I. And he sort o' looked 
up, and said, " Hey you ? Well, between a disposition 
and a proposition, I guess the proposition might be 

He's awful sarcrostic, sometimes. But I wasn't goin* 
to get riled, nor thrown off the track ; so I jest said, 
" Yes, do you and I git two shilliu's' worth apiece, a 
week, out o' that blessed little church o' ourn, do you 
think ?" says I. " Cos, if we do, I want to give two 
fihillin's a week to keep it goin' ; and I thought maybe 
you could do as much." So he said he guessed we could 
•stand that ; and I said, " That's my proposition, and I 
mean to see if we can't find somebody else that'll d( 
the same. It'll show disposition, anjwaj." 


" Well, I suppose you'll have your own way," says he ; 
** you most always do." And I said, " Isn't it most 
allers a good way ?" Then I brought out my subscrip- 
tion paper. I had it all ready. I didn't jest know how 
to shape it, but I knew it was something about "the 
sums set opposite our names ;" and so I drawed it uj 
and took my chances. " You must head it," says I 
" because you're the oldest deacon ; and I must go on 
next, because I am the deacon's wife ; and then I'll see 
Bome of the rest of the folks." 

So 'Kiah sot down, and put on his specs, and took his 
pen, but did not write. " What's the matter ?" says I. 
And he said, " I'm sort o' 'shamed to subscribe two 
shillin's. I never signed so little as that for any 
thing. I used to give that to the circus Avhen I was 
nothin' but a boy, and I ought to do more than that to 
support the gos[)el. Two shillin' a week ! Why, it's 
only a shillin' a sermon, and all the prayer-meetin's 
throwcd in. I can't go less than fifty cents, I am sure." 
So down he went for fifty cents ; and then I signed for 
a quarter, and then my sunbonnet went onto my head 
pretty lively, and says I, " Ilezekiah, there's some cold 
potato in the pantry, and you know where to find the 
salt ; so, if I am not back by dinner-time, don't be 
bashful, help yourself" And I started. 

I called on the Smith family first. I felt sure of 
them. And they were just happy. Mr. Smith signed, 
and so did Mrs. Smith ; and Long John, he came in 
while we were talkin', and put his name down ; and 
then old Grandma Smith, she didn't want to be left 
out; so there was fijur of 'em. I've allers found it a 
great thing in any great enterprise to enlist the Smith 
femily. There's a good many of 'em. Next I called 


on the Joslyns, and next on the Chapins, and then on 
the Widdy Chadwick, and so I kept on. 

I met a little trouble once or twice, but not much. 
There was Fussy Furber ; and bein' trustee, he thought 
I was out of my spear, he said ; and he wanted it un- 
derstood that such work belonged to the trustees. " To 
be sure," says I ,• " I'm glad I've found it out. I wish 
the trustees had discovered that a leetle sooner." Then 
there was sister Puffy that's got the asthma. She 
thought we ought to be lookin' after *' the sperritooali- 
ties." She said we must get down before the Lord. 
She didn't think churches could be run on money. But 
I told her I guessed we should be jest as spiritual to 
look into our pocketbooks a little, and I said it was a 
shame to be 'tarnally beggin' so of the Board. 

She looked dredful solemn when I said that, and I 
almost felt as I'd been committin' profane language. 
But I hope the Lord will forgive me if I took anything 
in vain. I did not take my call in vain, I tell you. 
Mrs. Puffy is good, only she alius wanted to talk so 
pious ; and she put down her two shillin's and then 
hove a sigh. Then I found the boys at the cooper-shop, 
and got seven names there at one lick ; and when the 
list began to grow, people seemed ashamed to say no ; 
and I kept gainin' till I had jest an even hundred, and 
then I went home. 

Well, it was pretty well toward candle-light when I 
got back, and I was that tired I didn't know much of 
any thing. I've washed, and I've scrubbed, and I've 
baked, and I've cleaned house, and I've biled soap, and 
I've moved ; and I 'Ioav that a'most any one of that 
sort of thing is a little exhaustin'. But put your 
bakin' and movin' and bilin' soap all together, and it 


won't work out as much genuine tired soul and body aa 
one day ^vith a subscription paper to support the gospel. 
tio when I sort o' dropped into a chair, and llezekiah 
iaid, " Well ?" I was past speukin' ; and I })ut my chock 
apron up to mv face as I hadn't done since I was a 
young, foolish girl, and cried. I don't know what 1 
felt so bad about, I don't know as I did feel bad. But 
I felt cry, and I cried. And 'Kiah, seein' how it was, 
felt kind o' sorry for me, and set some tea a-steepin' ; 
and when I had had my drink with weepin', I felt 
better. I handed him the subscription paper, and he 
looked it over as if he didn't expect any thing ; but 
soon he began saying, " I never ! I never !" And I 
said : " Of course you didn't ; you never tried. How 
much is it?" " Why, don't you know ?" says he. " No," 
I said ; " I aint quick in figures, and I hadn't time to 
foot it up. I hoj)e it will make us out this year three 
hundred dollars or so." 

" Amy," says he, " you're a prodigy — a prodigal, I 
may say — and you don't know it. A hundred names at 
two shillin' each gives us twenty-five dollars a Sunday. 
Some of 'em may fail, but most of 'em is good ; and 
there is ten, eleven, thirteen, that sign fifty cents. 
That '11 make up what fails. That paper of yourn '11 
give us thirteen hundred dollars a year!" I jumped 
up like I was shot. " Yes," he says, " we sha'n't need 
any thing this year from the Board, This cluircli, for 
this year at any rate, is self-supporting." 

We botli sot down and kej)' still a minute, when I 
said kind o' softly : "Hezekiah," says I, " isn't it about 
time for [)ravers ?" I was just chokin' ; but as lie took 
down the Bible, he said, " I guess we bad l)etter sing 
iomethin'." I nodded like, and he just struck in. W« 


often sing at prayei-s in the morning, but now it seemed 
like the Seripter that says, " He giveth songs in the 
night." 'Kiah generally likes the solemn tunes, too ; 
and we sing " Show pitv, Lord," a great deal; and this 
mornin' we had sung " Hark ! from the tombs a doleful 
sound," 'cause 'Kiah was not feelin' very well, and we 
wanted to chii-k up a little. 

So I just Avaited to see what metre he'd strike to- 
night ; and would you believe it ? I didn't know that 
he knew any sech tune. But off he started on " Joy to 
the world, the Lord is come." I tried to catch on, but 
he went off lickerty-switch, like a steam-engine, and I 
couldn't keep up. I was jiartly laughin' to see 'Kiah 
go it, and partly crying a.gaiu, my heart was so full ; so 
I doubled up some of the notes, and jumped over the 
others ; and so we safely reached the end. 

But, I tell you, Hezekiah prayed. He allers prays 
well ; but this was a bran' new prayer, exactly suited 
io the occasion. And when Sunday come, and the 
minister got up and told what had been done, and said, 
" It is all the work of one good woman, and done in 
one day," I just got scared and wanted to run. And 
when some of the folks shook hands with me after 
meetin', and said, with tears in their eyes, how I'd 
saved the church, and all that, I came awful nigh 
gettin' proud. But, as Hezekiah says, " we're all poor 
sinners," and so I choked it back. But I am glad I 
did it; and I don't believe our church will ever go 
boarding any more. 

Presbyterian Journal. 

THE inventor's WIFE. 119 


JT'S easy to talk of the patience of Job. Humph ! 
Job hed uothin' to try him ! 
Ef he'd been married to 'Bijali Brown, fulks wouldn't 

have dared come nigh hi:u. 
Trials, indeed? Now I'll tell you what — ef you want 

to be sick of your life, 
Jest come and change places with me a spell— -for I'm 

an inventor's wife. 
And such inventions ! I'm never sure, when I take up 

my coffee-pot. 
That 'Bijah haint been " improvin' " it and it mayn't 

go off like a shot. 
Why, didn't he make me a cradle once, that would keep 

itself a-rockin' ; 
And didn't it pitch the baby out, and wasn't his head 

bruised shockin' ? 
And there was his " Patent Peeler," too — a wonderful 

thing, I'll say ; 
But it hed one fault — it never stopped till the applo 

was peeled away. 
As fur locks and clocks, and mowin' machines and 

reapers, and all such trash, 
Why, 'Bijah's invented heaps of 'em, but they don't 

bring in no cash. 
Law ! that don't worry him — not at all ; he's the most 

aggravatin'est man — 
He'll set in his little workshoj) tliere, and whistle, and 

think, and phin, 
Inventin' a jew's-harp to go by steam, or a ncw-fanglod 


120 THE inventor's WIFE. 

While the children's goin' barefoot to school and th« 

weeds is chokin' our corn. 
When 'Bijah and me kep' company, he warn't like this, 

you know ; 
Our folks all thought he was dreadful smart — but that 

was years ago. 
He was handsome as any pictur then, and he had such 

a glib, bright way — 
I never thought that a time would come when I'd rue 

my weddin' day ; 
But when I've been forced to chop the wood, and tend 

to the farm beside, 
Ajid look at 'Bijah a-settin' there, I've jesi dropped 

down and cried. 
We lost the hull of our turnij) crop while he was Ie- 

ventin' a gun ; 
But I counted it one of my marcies when it bu'st 

before 'twas done. 
So he turned it into a " burglar alarm." It ought to 

give thieves a fright — 
'Twould scare an honest man out of his wits, ef he sot it 

off at night. 
Sometimes I wonder if 'Bijah's crazy, he does gech 

cur'ous things. 
Hev I told you about his bedstead yit ? — 'Twas full of 

wheels and springs ; 
It hed a key to wind it up, and a clock face at the head ; 
All you did was to turn them hands, and at any hour 

you said, 
That bed got up and shook itself, and bounced you on 

the floor. 
And then shet up, jes like a box, so you couldn't sleep 

any more. 

THE inventor's WIFE. 121 

Wa'al, 'Bijah he fixed it all complete, and he sot it at 

halt-past five, 
But he hadn't iiiur'ii got into it wlieu — dear me! sakes 

alive ! 
Them wheels began to whiz and whir ! 1 heerd a fear- 
ful snap ! 
And there was that bedstead, with 'Bijah inside, shetup 

jest like a trap ! 
I screamed, of course, but 'twan't no use, then I worked 

that hull long night 
A-trying to open the pesky thing. At last I got in a 

fright ; 
I couldn't hear his voice inside, and I thought he might 

be dyin' ; 
So I took a crow-bar and smashed it in. — There waa 

'Bijah peacefully lyin', 
Inventin' a way to git out agin. That was all very well 

to say. 
But I don't b'lieve he'd have found it out if I'd left him 

in all day. 
Now, sence I've told you my story, do you wonder I'm 

tired of life ? 
Or think it strange I often wish I warn't an inventor's 


Mk8. E. T. Corbett. 

122 DER deutscher's maxim. 


DHERE vas vot you call a maxim 
Dot I hear der oder day, 
Und I wride id in mine album, 

So id don'd could got avay ; 
Und I dells mine leedle Yawcob 
He moost mind vot he's aboud : 
** 'Tis too late to lock der shtable 

Vhen der horse he vas gone oudt.'* 

Vhen I see ubon der corners 

Off der shtreets, most efry night, 

Der loafers und der hoodlums, 
Who do nix but shvear und fight, 

I says to mine Katrina : 
" Let us make home bright und gay ; 

Ve had petter lock der shtable. 
So our colts don'd got avay." 

Vhen you see dhose leedle urchins, 

Not mooch ofer knee-high tall 
Shump righdt indo der melon patch, 

Shust owf der garden vail, 
Und vatch each leedle rashkell 

Vhen he cooras back mit hees " boodlfe,** 
Look oudt und lock your shtable, 

So your own nag don'd shkydoodle ! 

Vhen der young man at der counter 
Vants to shpecgulate in shtocks, 

Und buys hees girl some timand rings, 
Und piles righdt oup der rocks, 


Look oudt for dot young feller ; 

Id vas safe enuff to say 
Dot der shtable id vas empty, 

Und der horse vas gone avay. 

Dhen dake Time by der fetlock ; 

Don'd hurry droo life's courses ; 
Rememper vot der poet says, 

" Life's but a shpan " — off horses ; 
Der poy he vas der comiu' man ; 

Be careful vhile you may ; 
Shust keep der shtable bolted, 
Und der horse don'd got avay. 

Charles Follen AoAMa 


" A MAZIN GRACE," said Mrs. Pilsbury, as she sat 
-l\. with her daughter at their afternoon sewing, " b« 
yew goin' to piece a quilt ?" 

" What fur, mother ?" 

" Why, aint ^Ir. Van Vleet been to see you twice't 
mnnin' lately? He's axed ye, I s'pose, to hev him?" 

" An' I guiv him the mitten." 

" Shu ! you wouldn't be half so silly ! Why, he's wuth 
a dozen ord'nary men. You mought go further and 
fore wuss." 

" Jest what I'm goin' to dew." 

" Did yew tell him so?" 

" No, I writ ; now, mother, let me be ; I aint goin' to 


marry no man thet thinks I'm jumpin' et the chance. 
I'd a heap ruther be an old maid." 

There was nothing said for some time ; then the widow 

" When did yew write, 'Mazin ?" 

" A day or so past." 

" Where did you get a pen ?" 

" I borrowed one. Mebbe you'd like to know what I 
gaid tew him ?" 

" You've guessed rite," said the widow, eagerly. 

" It aint nuthin' to nobody but us, mother, s'long as 
I didn't have him," said the girl, curtly ; and no more 
was said, but the widow sighed heavily, and held her 
hand to her left side. 

Amazin knew that it meant her heart, for she had 
been brought up to respect that organ as an intimidating 
power. This time she did not relent, but wondered why 
she could not like that big, good-looking Van Vleet 
well enough to marry him, for they were poor — poor as 
that historic church-mouse — and he was well off. 

But they were not mercenary. People called them 
simple folks ; perhaps because they lacked education, 
and believed everything that was told them. But they 
were good as gold. The widow's face and form, lank 
sind ungainly, were familiar to every sick-room. They 
i-endered unto Ctesar the things that were Caesar's, 
They owed no man anything, though they worked early 
And late to accomplish it. They were good to every- 
body and everything, and Amazin Grace (her mother 
had named her after the hymn commencing " Amazing 
Grace, how sweet the sound ") was really pretty. So 
thought big, hulking, shame-faced Van Vleet when he 
came a-courting her with his trowsers tucked into cow- 


hide boots and a coon-skin cap tied down over his ears. 
She was the only girl he was afraid of, and he wasn't 
afraid of her, come right down to it. 

He was an honest, decent chap, with a fist like a 
sledge-hammer and a heart like a child's. He wanted 
Araazin Grace, and he couldn't imagine any reason why 
he should not have her. AVhen he got her simple little 
letter of refusal, written out with infinite difiiculty, and 
spelled on a new plan of phonetic, he read it over and 
over, smoked his cob-pipe, read the letter again, grinned 
a good bit, then folded it reverently and put it in the, 
pocket nearest his heart. 

" That's all rite, my girl," he chuckled. 

A couple of months passed away. One peculiarity 
of time is tliat it treats all people alike. It does not 
fly from some and stand still for others. It was spring 
at the Van Vleet farm, which was one mass of cherry 
and apple-blossoms, and it was spring at the Widow 
Pilsbury's little lean-to house, without shrub or blossom. 
The widow looked out of the window and sighed. She 
had never heard the " Song of the Shirt," but she had 
sung it all her life. It was her bread and butter. 

" Thei-e's Van Vleet !" she exclaimed, booking up 
from her lapboard. " Well, I declare ! What brings 
him here ?" 

" P'raps he's comin' to ask yew to hev him, mother," 
said Amazin Grace, laughing, while a sweet flush of 
pink stained her round cheeks. 

"I wish he would," said the widow, devoutly; "I 
should consider it was flyin' in the face of Providence 
not to marry such a man — if he asked uu." 

Tint Mr. Van Vleet stalked in with a brief " good- 
day," tlirew an armful of blossoms in the lap of Amazin 
Grace, and said ; 


" I'm ready for a weddin'." 

" Did you get my letter ?" asked the girl. 

"Yep! It warn't, to say, lovin', but I took you* 
meanin'. I've fenced in the hull north lot, and for- 
bushed the house up, so yer wouldn't know it, and kal- 
«ulate ef we kin git married next week, it won't inter- 
fere with my spring work — hey ?" 

Araazin Grace sat back and looked the picture of 
surprise. The widow thought she heard the cat in the 
pantry and discreetly withdrew. As the door closed 
Farmer Van Vleet took two little red hands in his, 
and, bending forward, gave Amazin Grace an awful 

" That seals the bargain," he said, but the indignant 
girl jumped up and ordered him out of the house. To 
her astonishment he didn't budge a step. 

" Not much ! I reckin I've a right to kiss yer now," 
he said, boldly ; then he stepped to the door and called 
loudly : 

" Mother ! kum here !" 

The widow must have been conveniently near, for she 
almost fell into the room at his first word, and he be- 
stowed another sounding smack on her. 

" It's all rite," he said, " me an' Amazin Grace is 
goin' to be married, and you kin dance at the weddin'." 

" But — but the letter," gasped the girl. " You aint 
understood a word of it." 

" The fact is," said Farmer Van Vleet, " I aint had 
no eddication to speak of; been too busy grubbin' land 
all my life. I didn'i, raly read the letter to sense, but 
when I see how you signed it that was enufFfor me. I 
knowed you wouldn't hev writ that way to a feller ye 
wem't goin' to marry. I don't know much about gals, 
(»ut I know that." 


When it ^^vas all settled that they were to be married 
the next week, Sunday, Farmer Van Vleet rode off, and 
the women put away the lap-robe and resigned the uni- 
versal shirt-making forever. 

" I'd give the world to know what I writ to him/* 
said Amazin Grace. 

" The world aiut yourn tew give," corrected her 
mother, piously. 

" I'm sartin sure I told him no," said the girl, " but I 
reckon he was bound to hev me, an' I dunno ez I'm half 
«orry, either, now." 

When they were married and Amazin Grace and her 
mother had gone out to the new hon^e in the smart new 
spring-wagon, the bride returned to the subject of the 

" I hev a burnin' cur'osity to know what I writ," she 
said, " causs (blushing prettily) I thought I riffused you." 

" O ho ! I guess not," said the triumphant lover. 
" Look a-here, Mrs. Van Vleet, here's the letter. 'Taint 
but a few words. There aint no 'ticular meanin' in 
them, but it's the signing of them. Do you see that? 
Them two words would standi in law to mean plain yes ; 
there's no gittin' round them !" 

Amazin Grace and her mother both read at once : 

"Mr. Van Vleet: 

"deer sir — I am sorry to Inform you that your attenshuns are 
in nowise Kecliiperkatod. 

" Yures trewly, 

" Amazin Grace Pii,sbupy. " 

"That fetched me," .«aid Mr. Van Vleet, looking ad- 
miringly at his new posscs-sion. " I doan't know mu(;h, 
but I kin (clI what a girl means when she writer to 8 
feller and signs henjelf ' Yures trewly.' " 



OH, listen to me, darkies, 
I'll tell you a little story : 
'Tis all about my true love, 

De Flat Creek mornin'-glory j 
She's as nice as any jew-drap 

Inside de open flower ; 
She sof 'er dan de moonshine, 
An' I lubs her eb'ry hour! 

Chorus. — Mag is a sunflower, 
Mag is a daisy ; 
Mag is de very gal 

To run a darkey crazy! 

Her head is like de full moon, 

Her lips is sweet as a cherry ; 
Her furrud's smoov as a lookin'-glasi, 

An' slick as a huckleberry; 
Her face is like a picter. 

Her teef is white an' pearly : 
Her eye is bright as a lightnin'-bug, 

An' her ha'r is 'mazin' curly ! 

I like to chop de 'backer patch 

Wid Mag right close behind me ; 
I'd like to be a 'backer-wum 

Ef Mag would only find me ; 
I'd like to be a flock o' sheep 

Ef Mag would dribe me 'bout; 
I'd like to be a 'tater-slip 

Ef Mag would set me out I 


I seed her for de fus' time 

In thinnin' out de com ; 
She made my feeliu's flutterate, 

An' now my heart is gone ; 
Oh, I lubs her like de mischuf, 

I's bound to tell her soon, 
An' I'll cote her at de shuckin' 

On de changin' ob de moon ! 

J. A. Maooh. 


HE sat in musing mood on the top rail of a worm 
fence, and gazed wistfully across a forty-acre field 
toward the double log cabin of a Missouri landed pro- 
prietor. Peace and good-will to all were written in 
every feature of his ebony countenance. A few gray 
hairs were visible in his beard and wool, and as he got 
down off the fence and started across the half-plowed 
stubble field toward the mansion at which he had been 
gazing, a limp was noticeable in his left leg, the knee of 
which bowed outward somewhat. 

Tills venerable colored man was known in the neigh« 
borhood as " Uncle Pete." As he neared the double 
cabin he halted, shaded his eyes with his hand, and, 
after gazing a moment, muttered : 

" Yes, dar he is, dar is Marsc George a-sittin' on de 
poarch a-readin' his papah. I coch um at home !" 

" Marse George," said Uncle Peter, a few miniitc« 
later, as he hobbled into the veranda, seated himself on 
a bench, and decorously adjusted his old worn hat over 
the glaring patches on the knees of the trousers, " Mars* 


George, Tse come to see you once mo', once mo', befo* 
I leabes you fo'ebber. Marse George, I'se gwine to de 
odder shoah ; I'se far on de way to my long home, to 
dat home ober acrost de ribber, whar de wicked hab 
no mo' trouble and whar water millions ripen all de 

• " Youns has all bin bery kine to me heah, Marse 
George, berry kine to de ole man, but I'se gwine away 
acrost de dark ribber. I'se gwine ober, an' dar on dat 
odder shoah I'll stan' an' pick on de golden hawp among 
de angels an' in de company of de blest. Dar I'll fine 
my rest ; dar I'll stan' befo' de throne fo'ebber mo' 
a-singin' an' a-shoutin' susannis to de Lord !" 

" Oh ! no, Uncle Pete, you're all right yet — you're 
good for another twenty years." 

" Berry kine o' you to say dat, Marse George — berry 
kine — but it's no use. It almos' breaks my heart to leab 
you an' to leab de missus an' de chillun, Marse George, 
but I'se got my call — I'se all gone inside." 

" Don't talk so. Uncle Pete ; you are still quite a hale 
old man." 

" No use talkin', Marse George, I'se gwine to hebben 
berry soon. 'Pears like I can heah de singin' on de 
odder shoah. 'Pears like I can heah de voice ob Aunt 
Liza an' de odders dat's gone befoah. You'se bin berry 
kine to me, Marse George — de missus an' de chillun's 
bin berry good — seems like all de people's bin berry 
good to poor ole Pete — poor creetur like me." 

" Nonsense, Uncle Pete (kindly and encouragingly), 
nonsense, you are good for many years yet. You'll see 
the sod placed on the graves of many younger men than 
you are before they dig the hole for you. What you 
want just now, Uncle Pete, is a good square meaL Go 


teto the kitchen and help yourself — fill up inside. There 
is no one at home, but I think you know the road. 
Plenty of cold victuals of all kinds in there." 

" 'Bleeged t'ye, Marse George, 'bleeged t'ye, sah, I'll 
go ! For de little time I has got to stay, I'll not go 
agin natur'; but it's no use. I'se all gone inside — I'se 
got my call. I'm one o' dem dat's on de way to de 
golden shoah." 

Old Pete's limp was hardly noticeable as he departed 
for the depository of eatables, and a saintly smile illum- 
inated his wrinkled face. 

Left alone, the planter was soon absorbed in his paper, 
and he noted the long absence of Uncle Pete. At last, 
however, he was aroused by hearing the old man's voice 
as he merrily caroled as follows : 

"Jaybird, jay bird, sittin' on a limb, 
He winked at me, an' I at him ; 
G)cked my gun and split his shin. 
An' left the arrow a-stickin' in." 

" Zounds !" cried the planter, " if that old thief hasn't 
found my bitters bottle ! Pete ! Pete, you rascal 1" 

"Snake bake a hoecake, 

An' set the frog to mind it; 
But the frog lie fell asleep, 
An' de lizard came an' find it." 

" Pete, you rascal, come out of that," cried tJi* 

Pete heard not, for he was dancing a gentle sbuffl* 
and singing : 


" De debble catch de groun' hog 
A-sittin' in de sun, 
An' kick him off de back-log 
Jes' to see de fun." 

" You Pete ! Blast the nigger !" cried the now thor« 
oughly aroused planter, throwing down his paper, and 
rushing to the scene of this unseemly hilarity. 

Unconscious of the approach, or of his presence in 
the world, Pete sang : 

" De weasel went to see de pole-cat's wife, 
You nebber smelt such a row in yer — ■" 

" Pete !" broke in the irate Missourian, " Pete, you 
old rascal, is that the way you are crossing the river ? 
Are those the songs they sing on the golden shore? Is 
this the way for a man to act when he has got his call — ■ 
when he is all gone inside ?" 

Old Pete, looking very much as he would had he 
been caught in a hen-roost, at last found courage to say : 
" Marse George, I'se got de call, sure, an' I'se gwine 
Acrost de dark ribber soon, but I'se now braced up a 
little on de inside, an' de 'scursion am postponed — 
'scursion am postponed, sah !" Anon. 


FN September last the daughter of a Towsontown 
J ivian, who had grown comfortably well-off in the 
grocery business, was sent away to a female college, and 
last week arrived home for a vacation as her health 


was not good at school. The father was in attendance 
at the depot when the train arrived, with the old 
horse in a delivery wagon, to convey his daughter and 
her trunks to the house. When the train had stopped, 
a bewitching array of dry goods and a wide-brimmed 
hat dashed from the car and flung itself into the elderly 
party's arms. 

" Why, you superlative pa !" she exclaimed, " I'm so 
utterly glad to see you." 

The old gentleman was somewhat unnerved by the 
greeting, but he recognized the sealskin cloak in his 
grip as the identical piece of property he had paid for 
with the bay mare, and he sort of embraced it in his 
arms and planted a kiss where it would do most good, 
with a report that sounded above the noise of the depot. 
In a brief space of time the trunk and its accompany- 
ing baggage were loaded in the wagon, which waa soon 
bumping over the road toward home. 

" Pa, dear," said the young miss, surveying the team 
with a critical eye, " do you consider this quite exces- 
sively beyond ?" 

" Hey ?" returned the old man, with a puzzled air ; 
" quite excessively beyond what ? — beyond Waverly ? 
I consider it somewhat about a mile beyond Waverlj . 
countin' from the toll-gate, if that's what you mean?" 

" Oh ! no, pa ; you don't understand me," the daughter 
explained; "I mean this horse and wagon. Do you 
think they are soulful? do you think they could be 
studied apart in the light of a symphony, or even $ 
»imple poem, and appear as intensely utter to one ou 
returning home as one could wish ?" 

The father twisted unea.«ily in his seat, and muttered 
•omething about he believed it used to be uaed for an 


express wagon before he bought it to deliver pork in 
but the conversation appeared to be traveling in such 
a lonesome direction that he fetched the horse a re- 
sounding crack on the rotunda, and tlie severe jolting 
over the ground prevented further remarks. 

" Oh ! there is that lovely and consummated ma !" 
screamed the returning collegiatess, as they drove up at 
the door, and presently she was lost in the embrace 
of a motherly woman in spectacles. 

" Well, Maria," said the old man at the supper-table, 
as he nipped a piece of butter off the lump with hia 
own knife, " and how d'ye like your school ?" 

" Well, there, pa, now you're shou — I mean, I con- 
sider it far too beyond," replied the daughter. " It ia 
unquenchably ineffable. The girls are so sumptuously 
stunning — I mean grand — so exquisite — so intense. 
And then the parties, the balls, the rides — oh ! the past 
weeks have been one sublime harmony." 

" I s'pose so — I s'pose so," nervously assented the old 
gentleman, as he reached for his third cup, " half full — 
but how about your books ? — readin', writin', grammar, 
rule o' three — how about them ?" 

" Pa, don't," exclaimed the daughter, reproachfully ; 
" the rule of three! grammar! it is French, and music, 
and painting, and the divine in art, that have made my 
echool life the boss — I mean rendered it one unbroken 
flow of rhythmatic bliss — incomparably and exquisitely 
all but." 

The groceryman and his wife looked helplessly at each 
other across the table. After a lonesome pause the oW 
lady said : 

" How do you like the biscuits, Mary ?" 

**They are too utter for anything," gushed the young 


lady, " and this plum preserve is simply a poem in it- 

The old gentleman abruptly arose from the table and 
went out of the room, rubbing his head in a dazed 
manner, and the mass convention was dissolved. That 
night he and his wife sat alone by the stove until a late 
hour, and at the breakfast table next morning he 
rapped smartly on his plate with the handle of his knife, 
and remarked : 

" Maria, me an' your mother have been talkin' the 
thing over, an' we've come to the conclusion that this 
boardin'-school business is too utterly all but too much 
nonsense. Me an' her considered that we haven't lived 
forty odd consummate years for the purpose of raisin' a 
curiosity, an' there's goin' to be a stop put to this un- 
quenchable foolishness. Now, after you have finished 
eatiu' that poem of fried sausage, and that symphony of 
twisted doughnut, you take an' dust upstairs in less'n 
two seconds, an' peel that fancy gown an' put on a calli- 
ker, an' then come down and help your mother wash 
dishes. I want it distinctly understood that there aiut 
goin' to be no more rhythmic foolishness in this house so 
long's your superlative ])a an' your lovely an' consum- 
mate ma's runnin' the ranch. You hear me, Maria ?" 

Maria was listening. 



OU schust vants me to dells you apout it, does you? 
Veil, it von't dake me long, and mine schtory '\» 


Dot vee poy, schtanding oop, mit his head on te ground, 
Ish mine leetle jjoy Fritz ; dare's no prighter poy round. 
And, sir, somedimes I dinks dot ven grown oop is he, 
Schust so schmart like his fadder dot youngster vill be. 
Veil, von day in te garden ven trinking mine peer, 
Dot poy, Fritz, he comes oop and sez he, " Fadder dear, 
De pright peer look so coot, schust a leetle gif me» 
For I vants him so pad ven I effer him see. 
Do gif me some, von't you ? I so likes te peer." 
But I sets down my mug and bretends I no hear ; 
And I looks at mine poy, all so pright and so schmart, 
And holds myself shtill, though so fast peats my heart ; 
Den I puts oud mine hand and sez, " Fritz, coom oop 

And say how you know dot so coot am te peer." 
" Veil, mine fiidder," sez he, " ven I first goes in haste 
For yourn peer, he schlop oud, and a leetle I taste, 
But he taste ferry pad ; den you sends me for more, 
And so pright te peer look dot I taste as pefore. 
And so better he gets, dot I's glad ven you say, 
' Come, Fritz, and pring fadder his peer for to-day.* 
Py-aud-py, den, I like him so veil as I can, 
And vill trink all te time ven I gets a big man. 
Oh ! te peer makes me feel so cholly and gay. 
Dot ven I grows oop I '11 trink all te long day." 

sir ! 'twas shust awful to hear dot vee lad 
Talking on in dot vay ; oh ! it hurt me so pad 

1 shust vished dot one eart'quake vould open te ground 
And schwallow me oop, out of sight and of sound. 
Ten, me tinks, I can't tie, for mine Fritz I must save. 
Or dey'll find him soom night in a poor trunkard'a 

grave ; 


Or dey'U scoop him oop out of te gutter scorn tay, 

Aud off to te calapoose dake him avay; 

Or, he do soom pad crime, te first ting I know, 

Den pehind iron bars in Schtate's prison he'll go. 

If I dells him te peer is not coot for him, ten 

He vill say it tastes coot, and it don't hurt te men. 

If I say it is vicked to trink, he vill say, 

'■* Den, fadder, vot makes you so vicked each day?" 

If I say he must not te peer trink, den, I know, 

Ven te peer t'ii"st come on, to dot grog-shop he'll go, 

And dey'U gif him tet rinks forte pennies he'll schpend. 

Oh ! if to dot place I had neffer him send ! 

But he know te road easy ; for near a two year 

He has been effery day to pring me my peer ; 

And I tought it so schmart veu he big enuff gita 

To go for te peer. O mine leetle poy Fritz ! 

If aeffer I'd sent him, how tankful I'd be! 

But now, how shall I safe him ? Oh ! who can tell me? 

Den, metinks, now I haf it, te Cherman Liepig 

Hay peer is not coot for mans, leetle or big ; 

But ven I vanted peer, den I say. He don't know, 

But now I'll git pooks, and find out it is so. 

And I, den, vill tell Fritz, in te pooks I schust read, 

How d(jt peer is not coot for anypodies, dey said. 

Fadder dinks it is drue, so we'll trink not a dhrop, 

And he'll vant like his fadder to be, so he'll schtop — 

Den, I tonglit, dat's all right, only maybe he'll do 

As his fadder did vonce, von't pelieve it is drue. 

Den, all V^ saloons I vished under te ground, 

And noddings of visky or peer could be found. 

Den tere comes to my mind how voii man did vunoe 

De salooud would all go if men fote as tey pray. 


And if effry man his known duty would do, 

And fote prohibition, dot ticket all droo, 

In den years dere vould be no saloons in te land, 

And no blace vere a liquor-shop effer could schtand. 

Oh ! how mad I vas den, but schust now, in some vay, 

It don't make me so mad ; it sounds coot, and I say 

To Katrina, mine frau, I's schust going to schtop 

Dis trinking te peer ven I comes from mine schop. 

Den, laughing, she says, schust to try me, I tinks, 

" Vait till Jim cooms along ; pretty quick vill you 

Den " Xatrina," says I, " you spose noddings I care 
For dot leetle poy Fritz, vot is schumping out dere ?" 
Veil, den, py-and-py dot man Jim, he comes here 
And sez, " Come along, Ben, let us go for some peer." 
But I dells him I's going right down to te schtore. 
And as for te peer, I shall trink him no more ; 
And he petter not ask me to go in dot vay, 
For von demperance man I vas, now, effry day. 
" Vot's dot did you say ?" and he schumps from his chair -, 
" You von demperance crank?" den oh ! how he schwear ! 
And I dells him, " Yes dwo cranks, but schust you look 

I shall dake no more visky, or prandy, or peer." 
Den he say dot te peer is no hurt, it neffer hurt him. 
Den I say, " How you got dot plack eye, dell me dot, 

vill you, Jim ?" 
Den says he, " From te cellar vay down to the garret I 

And shtuck a knot-hole in mine eye on te vail." 
Den I dells him, if I always demperance schtay, 
No knot-holes I gets in mine eyes in dot vay. 
Now, I dells you, mine freint, I vas petter man now, 

jimmie's prayer, 139 

And I gets in no throubles from any big row, 
And Katrimi, she say, how much petter I looks, 
And I has so much time for te reading coot books, 
And te money I safes makes de home look so neat, 
And Katrina, so schmiling, so happy, and sehweet. 
Ven a man schmokes and trinks he gets noddings to be 
But a parrel on legs and a schmoke-schtack, ye see, 
So I quits the pipe, too, for I'm schure 'tis no schoke, 
In effery man's face to be puffing te schmoke. 
" I's a prohibition crank, droo and droo, did ye say?" 
VeU, dot crank is a crank you can turn but one way ; 
And so schure as Ben .Schneider's my name, I shall try 
To make dis land safe for mine Fritz, py-and-py ; 
For if from te peer I can't make him to schtay, 
I vill fote for te peer to be out of his vay. 
So von prohibition crank you may effer me call, 
I shall fote to save Fritz, sir, now dot is shust all ; 
For a parrel of peer I muscht neffer him see, 
Mit a schmoke-schtack on top, were the prains ought 
to be. 

ViRA Hopkins. 


DEAR DOD, pwease to bwess my mamma, 
Betause she's so pretty and dood. 
She never stops loving nie all the day long, 

Though sometimes I'm nauglity end wude. 
But Dod, if you'll dive me a new little heart, 
I'll begin all again — I'll take a fwesh start. 


Pwease don't let my papa fordet 

The wagon he promised to bring, 
And I'll kiss him and be des as dood as I tan, 

And let Nellie have the first swing. 
And I'll twy vewry hard to bwess cousin Ned, 
Though he hurt me so awful right here on my head. 

And bw^ess my dear Carlo, who keeps 

The naughty bad men all away, 
And Kitty, and all of the dear little chicks 

That ate froo their egg-shells to-day. 
And Ned — but I'm 'fwaid I'm not dood enough yet 
To bwess him — O Dod ! it's so hard to fordet. 

And pwease let the angels send down 
Pretty dweams all froo the long night. 

I don't like to dweam of ugly black wolves, 
But of flowers and birdies and light ; 

And I fink that whenever my own mamma dear 

Comes to kiss me, the angels are then very near. 

And, Dod, will you make my pinks grow 

A little bit faster than Lute's ? 
I'm not so bad now, but she bwagged so, that once 

I pulled hers all up by the woots. 
A.nd bwess — but, dear Dod, I'm so sleepy, my head 
Does ache — and to-morrow I'll pway for poor Ned. 

BosTOM Traijsckife 



^TTER axes me what dis heah is, sah ? 

A Well hits nuffin', sah, but jes'er coat— 
Jes' one ob dese long, gray, ulsty kin', 

Whar buttons close up on de th'oat. 
I got hit ter fit on er fren', sah, 

An' I'se gwine an' wid my own han' 
Ter wrap hit eroun' de bes' hart, sah, 

Dat is beatin' ter-day in dis Ian' ! 

** No, taint far nobody whar's kin ter me — 

'Cept dis, sah, dat in dem ole days 
'Fore de wah, an' 'fore freedum cum in, sah, 

He wuz den my * Ole Marster ' always. 
He wuz kin' an' ez jest ez er judge, sah, 

An' always done right by us all. 
An' he nebber forgot w'en 'twuz Christmas 

Ter hab suthin' in ban' fer us all ! 

" But de wah an' dcstruckshin cum on him 

An' he loss all he had in de Ian', 
An' feebled, an' fren'less an' weak, sah. 

Had ter lib by de wuck ob his han'. 
I tell yer de fite's bin er hard 'un — 

Dis keepin' do wolf from dc do', 
An' off'en he'z sed he'd gib up, sah, 

An' not try ter fitc enny mo' ! 

"But I'd brace him up, snrtcr-liko, sayin*, 
' Dar's better times cumin ahead — 
Jes' keep on er peggin' ami prayin'. 
An' nebber say die till yer dead I* 


An' so he'd keep tryin' an' tryin', 
But he coodn't keep up a strong lick, 

An' at las' had ter gib up his weapon*, 
An' lay down like a little chile, sick. 

** Den we dun de bes' wuck in de wull', sah, 

Ter bring him ag'in ter hisse'f, 
Ter keep his po' body awhile heah, 

An' keep in hit hiz flickerin' bref ; 
But I seed him dis raawin' so poly, 

So thin an' so pale, an' so bar', 
Dat I jes' tuck er holt on my hart-strings. 

An' played 'em fer all dat wuz dar ! 

" So I'se tuck all de munny I'd laid up 

Fer ter buy me my own Christmus gif*, 
An' boughten dis coat, good an' warm, sah, 

Fer ter gib my ' Ole INIarster ' a lif ' ! 
I know he'll be glad wid de cumfurt 

Hit'll bring to his weakly ole frame ; 
While me ? — I kin skirmish eroun' heah 

An' feel happy an' rich jes' de same !" 

So Avent the old man on his mission. 

As happy as ever a king. 
His heart beating holier music 

Than ever a mortal can sing. 
And though others may think that a darkey 

Has never the gift of a soul. 
He's got something will pass for its equal 

When Heaven shall call its last roll! 

Sam W. Small. 




** T'M afther axin', Biddy, my dear "— 
-L And here he paused awhile — 
To fringe the words the merest mite. 

With something of a smile — 
A smile that found its image 

In a face of beauteous mold, 
Whose liquid eyes were peeping 

From a broidery of gold. 

^ I've come to ax ye, Biddy, dear, 

If—" then he stopped again, 
As if his heart had bubl)led o'er 

And overflowed his brain ; 
His lips were twitching nervously 

O'er what they had to tell, 
And timed their (juivers with the eyes 

That gently rose and fell. 

" I've come — " and then he shook her hand*. 

And held them in his own — 
*' To ax — " and then he watched the buds 

That on her cheeks had blown. 
" Me purty dear — " and then he heard 

The throbbing of her heart, 
That told him love had entered in 

And claimed its every part. 

" Ofh ! don't bo tazin' mo," said she, 

With just the faintest sigh, 
* I've si use enough to see you've come. 

But what's the raysou why ?" 

144 mother's doughnuts. 

** To ax — " and once again the tongue 
Forbade its sweets to tell — 

" To ax— if Mrs. Mulligan 
Has any pigs to sell ?" 


EL DORADO, 1851. 

I'VE just bin down ter Thompson's, boys, 
'N feelin' kind o' blue, 
I thought I'd look in at " The Ranch," 

Ter find out what wuz new ; 
When I seed this sign a-hangin' 
On a shanty by the lake : 
■* Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts 
Like yer mother used ter make." 

I've seen a grizzly show his teeth, 

I've seen Kentucky Pete 
Draw out his shooter, 'n advise 

A " tender-foot " ter treat ; 
But nuthin' ever tuk me down, 

'N made my benders shake, 
Like that sign about the doughnuts 

That my mother used ter make. 

A sort o' mist shut out the ranch, 

'N standin' thar instead, 
I seen an old, white farm-house, 

With its doors all painted red. 

mother's doughnuts. 145 

A. whiff came through the open door— 

Wuz I sleepin' or awake? 
The smell wuz that of doughnuts 

Like my mother used ter make. 

The hees wuz hummin' round the porch, 

Whar honeysuckles grew ; 
A yellow dish of apple-sass 

Wuz settin' thar in view. 
'N on the table, by the stove, 

An old-time " Johnny-cake," 
'N a platter full of doughnuts 

Like my mother used ter make. 

A patient form I seemed ter see. 

In tidy dress of black, 
I almost thought I heard the words, 

" When will my boy come back ?" 
'N then — the old sign creaked : 

But now it was the boss who spake : 
" Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts 

Like yer mother used ter make." 

Well, boys, that kind o' broke me up, 

'N ez I've " struck pay gravel," 
I ruther think I'll pack my kit, 

Vamose the ranch, 'n travel. 
I'll make the old folks jubilant, 

'N if I don't mistake, 
I'll try some o' them doughnuts 

Like ray mother used ter make. 

Charles F. Ai>ai«b. 




TO the wake of O'Hara 
Came companie ; 
All St. Patrick's Alley 

Was there to see, 
With the friends and kinsmen 
Of the family. 
On the old deal table Tim lay in white, 
And at his pillow the burning light ; 
While, pale as himself, with the tear on her cheek. 
The mother received us — too full to speak. 
But she heap'd the fire, and, with never a word. 
Set the black bottle upon the board, 
While the company gathered, one and all, 
Men and women, big and small — 
Not one in the alley but felt a call 

To the wake of Tim O'Hara. 

At the face of O'Hara, 

All white with sleep. 

Not one of the women 

But took a peep, 
And the wives new wedded 
Began to weep. 
The mothers clustered around about. 
And praised the linen and laying out, 
For white as snow was his winding-sheet, 
A nd all looked peaceful, and clean, and swe^ ; 
The old wives, praising the blessed dead, 
Clustered thick round the old press-bed, 
Where O'Hara's widow, tattered and toni. 


Held to her bosom the babe new-born, 
And stared all round her, with eyes forlorn, 
At the wake of Tim O'Hara. 

For the heart of O'Hara 
Was true as gold, 

And the life of O'Hara 
Was bright and bold, 

And his smile was precious 
To young and old. 
Gay as a guinea, wet or dry, 
With a smiling mouth and a twinkling eye! 
Had ever an answer for chaff or fun, 
Would fight like a lion with any one ! 
Not a neighbor of any trade 
But knew some joke that the boy had made i 
Not a neighbor, dull or bright, 
But minded something, frolic or fight, 
And whispered it round the fire that night, 

At the wake of Tim O'Hara. 

« To God be glory 
In death and life ! 
He's taken O'Hara 

From trouble and strife," 
Said one-eyed Biddy, 
The apple-wife. 
"God Mess old Ireland !" said Mistress Hart, 
Mothfrf of Mike, of the donkey-cart: 
"God bless old Ireland till all be done! 
She never much; wake for a better son !" 
And all joined chf)rus, and each one said 
Something kind of the boy that waa dead- 


The bottle went round from lip to lip, 
And the weeping widow, for fellowship, 
Took the glass of old Biddy, and had a sip. 
At the wake of Tim O'Hara. 

Then we drank to O'Hara 
With drams to the brim, 

While the face of O'Hara 
Looked on so grim. 

In the corpse-light shining 
Yellow and dim. 
The drink went round again and again; 
The talk grew louder at every drain ; 
Louder the tongues of the women grew. 
The tongues of the boys were loosing too ! 
But the widow her weary eyelids closed, 
And, soothed by the drop of drink, she dozed ; 
The mother brightened and laughed to hear 
Of O'Hara's fight with the grenadier, 
And the hearts of us all took better cheer, 

At the wake of Tim O'Hara, 

Tho' the face of O'Hara 

Looked on so wan. 
In the chimney corner 

The row began ; 
Lame Tony was in it, 
The oyster-man. 
For a dirty low thief from the North came neat 
And whistled " Boyne Water " in his ear, 
And Tony, with never a word of grace. 
Hit out his fist in the blackguard's face. 
Then all the women screamed out for fright; 

grandfather's rose. 149 

The men that were drunkest began to fight; 
Over the chairs and the tables they threw ; 
The corpse-liglit tumbled, the trouble grew; 
The new-born joined in the hullabaloo, 

At the wake of Tim O'Hara. 

" Be still ! Be silent ! 
Ye do a sin ! 
Shame be his portion 
Who dares begin !" 
'Twas Father O'Connor 
Just entered in ; 
And all looked shamed, and the row was done; 
Sorry and sheepish looked every one ; 
But the priest just smiled quite easy and free — 
" Would you wake the poor boy from his sleep ?" said be 
And he said a prayer, with a shining face, 
Till a kind of a brightness filled the place; 
The women lit up the dim corpse-light, 
The men were quieter at the sight ; 
And the peace of the Lord fell on all that night, 
At the wake of Tim O'Hara. 

Robert Buchanan. 


DOES yo' see dem yaller roses elingin' to do cabin 
Wliar dc bright sunshine twiiiklu :ill de day ? 
I's got a yaller rose dat's sweeter dan di-m all. 
An' I's gwine to gib my yaller rose away — 

150 grandfather's rose. 

Dat pesky dandy Jim, wid his button-hole bouquet, 
He knows I's gvvine to gib my rose, my yaller roae^ 

ray yaller rose ! it growed close to de cabin flo'. 
And its mammy lef it 'fore it 'gun to climb, 

But it run kind o' wild in an' out de cottage do', 

An' it got roun' de ole man ebery time — 
I's mighty loth to do it, but I hasn't long to stay — 
So I's gwine to gib my wild rose, my yaller rose, away. 

Now, dandy Jim's de jiarson's son — dey growed up side 
by side. 
My yaller rose an' dat ar harnsome boy, 
Sense she's a leetle creepsy ting, dat Jim has been her 
pride ; 
But now an' den she grows a little coy — 
But I spec's it's 'cause I tole her — 'twas on'y t'othei 

day — 
Dat Jim had got his cabin done, an' I was gwine away. 

She put dem little ban's in mine, her head upon my 
An' dar she seemed to sort o' sob an' sigh. 

1 couldn't tell de matter, but it wasn't hard to guess 
Dat she moaning 'cause de ole man gwine to die ; 

So I coax my pretty wild rose Avith kisses, and I say, 
*' De ole man gwine to lib, perhaps, dese many an 
many a day." 

boys ! I didn't hab a fought dat bressed head 

would lay 
On any oder breas' but Jim's an' mine ; 

1 fought dat I could hold her, to keep or gib away, 
But sh« gone to make some oder garding shine; 


Her raa got tired o' waitin', maybe, lonesome, so to say, 
So she axed de King ob de garding to take my rose 

Dear lamb! she sleeping sof ly, widout a tear or sigh, 

Wid de wild flowers on her littlo cabin bed. 
An' we's a-settin' side ob her^ poor dandy Jim an' I, 

An' a-wailin' an' a-wishin' we was dead. 
I'd a-g'in my life for her an' Jim, why couldn't He let 

her stay ? 
I's old an' withered, de Marster knows, but He took my 
rose away. 

I's berry lonesome, an' so is Jim — he's often ober, now, 

An' dem honeysuckle faded long ago ; 
When de sun shines in de cabin, or it's time to milk de 
I kin seem to hear her foot upon de flo' ; 
O my wild rose ! my yaller rose ! it's mighty hard to 

stay ; 
It seems as if de Lord forgit when He took my rose 

Mary A. Denisow. 


" X/^OU say," I remarked to the old negro who drove 
J- the hack, " that you were General Washington's 

body servant ?" 

" Dat's s(^ ! Dat's jus' so, mas^sa. I done waited on 

Washington since he was so high — no biggcr'a a small 


152 tommy's twialb. 

" You know the story, then, about the cherry-trw 
and hatchet." 

" Know it ? Why, I was dar on de spot. I seen 
Massa Gawge climb de tree after de cherries, and I seen 
him fling de hatchet at de boys who was stonin' him. I 
done chase dem boys oft* de place myself." 

" Do you remember his appearance as a man — what 
'le looked like ?" 

"Yes, indeed. He was a kinder short, chunky man, 
sorter fat and hearty-lookin'. He had chin whiskers 
and moustache and spectacles. Mos' generally wore a 
high hat ; but I seed him in a fur cap wid ear warmers." 

" You were not with him, of course, when he crossed the 
Delaware — when he went across the Delaware River ?" 

" Wid him ? Yes, sar, I was right dar ; I was not 
mor'n two feet off"n him as he druv across de bridge in 
his buggy. Dat's a fac'. I walked 'long side of the off- 
hand hind wheel of dat buggy all de way." 

" You know all the General's relations, too, I suppose ? 
— Martin Luther, and Peter the Hermit and the rest?" 

" Know'd 'em all. Many and many's de time I don 
waited on de table when Massa Gawge had 'em to dinner. 
I remember dem two gemmen jes's well's if I'd seed 
'um yesterday. Yes, sah ; an' I druv 'em out often." 



IFINT 'at 'is worl' is too bad for nufiin'. 
An' lickle fotes dust dits aboosed ! 
For dust ev'ry day I dits hurt wiv suffin*, 
An' bid fotes 'ey dust loots amoosed I 

"book larnin'.'* 153 

My mamma s'e says I has a bad temper/ 

S'e fiats at I dot it from pa ! 
My papa he laughs an' says it's twite likely. 

As uone lias been lost by my ma ! 

To bid fotes like oo I s'pose it loots funny 
When the babies 'ey chote up an' tofl" 

But I'd lite to see if oo would n't hollor 
If oo'd burned oor mouf a'most off! 

It's all velly well to twy to play sorwy, 
And say " poor, dear darlin', don't ky !" 

00 fint 'at we child'ens don't has any twouble*, 
I know by 'e loot in cor eye ! 

1 wiss dust a minute 'at oo was a baby, 

I don't fint oo'd laugh so muts 'en ; 

Oo'd say lickle fotes has offiil bid twials 

'At never was dweamed of by men. 


BOOK larnin' is a daisy thing for the chap what's got 
the brains 
An' common sense to know it, but it isn't worth the 

An' chink an' time it takes to get it, if a man don't 

know the way 
T« keep it in its proper place, an' uho it where it'll pay. 

My brother had a youngster ua v/uz alius goin' to 
ijchuol ; 

154 "BOOK larnin'." 

He went clear through the college an' come out a regu- 
lar fool. 

He could reel ofl' fiiriu' languages an' talk uv lands an* 

But when it come to workin' he wuzn't worth a straw. 

He got an idy in his hed that work was a disgrace ; 
The law, he sed, was his perfes, so he ups an' gets a 

In a city lawyer's office, an' began his legal course, 
That landed him in jest one year within his father's 


He's livin' with his father now, and the time an' money 

Fer to git his education hasn't panned out worth a 

It was castin' on the waters bread that's never yet re- 

For there's nary a single blessin' come from all that 
stuff he learned. 

But not a spec of larnin' had his younger brother, Bill, 
'Cept a term or so one winter at the school-house on the 

An' he's worth about a dozen of his wuthless brother's 

Fer he's jest chuck full of common sense, an' that's 

what takes the cake. 
Now ef Bill hed had the larnin' as wuz in his brother's 

He'd been a man uv power — maybe Guvner of the 


Simon's wife's mother lay sick of a fever. 155 

But in spite uv all his igiiumnce he made a good success, 
Au' he's got the Unest farm iu all the couuty, too, 1 

My idy is that ef a boy haint got no common sense, 
An' only 'nuff git up about him fer to set round on the 

It aint no use to send him off to take a college course, 
Fer it jest can't make him better, an' it's bound to 

make him worse. 

M. H. Turk. 


YELL, von morning I says to Hans (Hans vos meio 
husband): — " Hans, I tinks I goes down to New 
York, und see some sights in dot village." 

Und Hans he say : " Veil, Katrina, you vork hard 
pooty mooch, I tinks it vould petter be dot you goes 
und rest yourself some." So I gets meinself ready righd 
avay quick, und in two days I vos de shteam cars on 
vistling avay for New York. 

Veil, ven I got dere, dot vas Saturday mit de aflei^ 
noon. I vas tired mit dot day's travel und I goes 
me pooty quick to bed, und ven I vakes in de morn- 
ing de sun was high ouj) in de sliky. But I gets 
me oup und puts on mein new silk vrock und tinks me 
I shall go to some fine churches und hear ein grosse 
breacher. Der pells vas ringing so schveet I dinks I 
Defer pefore hear such music. Ven I got de shtrect <»n 
de beoblea vtw all going quiet und nice to dere blaceg 

156 SIMON'S wipe's mother lay sick of a pevek. 

mit vurship, und I makes oup my mind to go in vok, 
of dem churches so soon as von comes along. Pooty 
soon I comes to de von mit ein shteeples high oup in de 
silky und I goes in mit de beoples und sits me down on 
ein seat all covered mit a little mattress. De big organ 
vas blaying so soft it seemed likes as if some angels 
must be dere to make dot music. 

Pooty soon de breacher man shtood in de bulbit oup 
und read de hymn oudt, und beoples sing until 
de church vos filled mit de shveetness. Den de breacher 
man pray, und read de Pible, und den he say dot de 
bulbit would be occupied by de Rev. Villiam R. Shtover 
roit Leavenworth, Kansas. 

Den dot man gommences to breach und he read mit 
his dext, " Und Simon's vife's mudder lay sick mit a 
fever." He talks for so mo^ch as ein half hour already 
yen de beobles sings again und goes home.. I tells mein 
brudder-mit-law it vos so nice I tinks me I goes again 
mit some oder churches. So vot you tinks ? I goes mit 
anoder churches dot afternoon und dot samw Villiam R. 
Shtover vos dere und breach dot same sermon ofer 
again mit dot same dext, " Und Simon's vife's mudder 
lay sick mit a fever." I tinks to my ownself — dot vos 
too bad, und I goes home und dells Yawcup, und he 
says, " Nefer mind, Katrina, to-night ve goes somevhere 
else to churches." So ven de night vas come und de 
lamps vos all lighted mit de shtreets, me und mein 
brudder-mit-law, ve goes over to dot Brooklyn town to 
hear dot Heinrich Vard Peecher. 

My, but dot vos ein grosse church, and so many 
beobles vas dere, ve vas crowded mit de vail back. Ven 
de singing vas all done, a man vot vas sitting mit a 
leetle chair got oup und say dot de Rev. Heinrich Var4 


Peecher vas to de Vite Mountains gone mit dot haj 
fever, bnt dot the bulbit vould be occupied on this occa. 
gion by de Rev. Villiam R. Shtover mit Leavenworth, 
Kansas. Und dot Villiam R. Shtover he gots mit dot 
bulbits oup und breaches dot same sermon mit dot same 
text, " Und Simon's vife's mudder lay sick mit a fever." 

Dot vos too bad again und I gets mad. I vos so mad 
I vis dot he got dot fever himself. 

Veil, ven dot man vas troo Yawcup says to me : 
"Come, Katrina, ve'll go down to dot ferry und take 
de boat vot goes to New York !" Ven ve vas on dot 
boat de fog vas so tick dot you couldn't see your hands 
pehind your pack. De vistlcs vas plowing, und dcni 
bells vos ringing, und von man shtepped up mit Yawcup 
und say : " Vot vor dem pells pc ringing so mooch ?" 

Und ven I looked around dere shtood dot Villiam 
R. .Shtover mit Leavenworth, Kansas — und I said pooty 
quick: "Vot vor dein pells vas ringing? Vy, for 
Simon's vife's mudder, vot must de died, for I hear dree 
times to-day already dot she vos sick mit ein fever." 


ISE gwine dis ebenin' fo' ter preach ob dose infernal 
What gits dar pleasure by dar tongues, a-circulatin 

Ef dar's a mixture niiywharol) giddy goose an' gandah, 
It am dat low-down fuUed coon what poisons us wiv 

slandah ; 
A.-p)kin' out his fnrky tongue in rbcrvhorly's faces, 
4.nd settiii' ail <lc i)iani<<l folks tcr kickin' in de trace* 


De debbil nebah want a tool while sech pooah trash am 

libin' ; 
Dey's alius creepin' fru de streets a-fussin' and a-fibbin'; 
'Bout everybody dat dey kin, dar busy tongue's 

A-puttin' neighbahs by de ear, a-bouncin' and a-brag« 

rill ebery Christian goin' wild an' ebery sinnah cussin' ; 
Most eberybody's teeth on edge an' ebery fool a-fussin', 

Dar's some ob dem right in dis chu'ch purtend ter serve 

de Mastah, 
Aji' actin' all de week jess like de debbel's mustard 

Ter draw de ugliness an' sech right out ob each pooah 

An' servin' little slips an' sins ter make a gossip's 

dinnah ; 
No man so pious or so pooah but what dar pryiif 

Ter suck his repertation dry, jess like a lot ob leeches 

Dey's all sech cowards dat it aint no use fur yo' ter 

Yo' only nasties up yo'self by techin' such pooah 

cattle ; 
An' ivhen yo' cotch dar slandah foul, dey'U go fiir to 

A-puttin' it on some one e'se, a-wrigglin' an' a-lyin', 
Ontil yo' feels like yo' war tryin' ter fix a lot ob lizzardi^ 
Wivout one grain of soul or heart, but only gills an' 



Dar lyin' am an empty sham ; a-groanin' an' repinin', 
An' sickenin' all de honest folks wiv grimacin' an' 

Dey's alius talkin' 'bout dar wirk, dar doin's an' dar duty, 
When dey has nuffin' wuf de name ob usefulness or 

beauty ; 
No meaner creeters eber libed, a-dodgin' an' a-doin* 
Ter set dar traps fo' people's ears an' run dem inter rufti. 

Dey comes ter meetin' right along, prays loud an' holler 

Den off dey goes to 'suit de Lord wiv some malicioiuf 
story ; 

A.-tellin' suffin' 'bout some man doiu' what he hadn't 

Dat Deekin Publiins stole a duck or kissed ole Grub- 
bins' daughter; 

A.n' den dey'Il groan an' wriggle so as tho' dey hab de 

Bekase dey's so much obercome by some one else's frolic 

My fren's, jess leave sech trash alone; don't handle 

sech a creachah ; 
Yo' knows dey's talked long time 'fore now about yo' 

own deah preachah ; 
Jess stick to wliat yo' knows am true — yo' 'ligion au* 

yo* lal)ahs — 
A.n' trample on dese reptile trajjh what scandalize yo' 

Gib ebcry man his hones' due, speak out to ebcry 

But don't roll scandal on yo' tongues — it make* a diriy 


If charity begins at home, dar needn't be its endin* ; 
Don't pick at ebery little hole, but set yo'selves tm 

mendin' ; 
Pen yo' will imitate de wirk an' sperit ob de Saviah,. 
Kn' stead ob firin' up a fuss, mend somebody's behaviah. 



* pV'YE see it, pard ?" 

jJ " See what. Rough ?" 

'* The light from over the Range." 

" Not a bit. Rough. It's not daybreak yet. Yer sick, 
an' yer head bothers ye." 

" Pard, yer off. I've been sick, but I'm well again. 
It's not dark like it was. The light's a comin' — comin' 
like the boyhood days that crep' inter the winders of 
the old home." 

" Ye've been dreamin'. Rough. The fever haint all 
outen your head yet." 

"Dreamin'? 'Twant all dreams. It's the light 
comin', pard, I see 'em all plain. Thar's the ole man 
lookin' white an' awful, just as he looked the morning 
he drove me from home ; and that woman behind him 
stretchin' out her arms arter me is the best mother in 
the world. Don't you see 'em, pard ?" 

" Yer flighty, Rough. It's all dark, 'cepting a pine 
knot flickerin' in the ashes." 

"No — the light's a comin' brighter and brighter J 
Look I It's beamin' over the Range bright and gentle, 
like the smile that used to be over me when my head 
^ftid in my mother's lap, long ago.*'* 


**Hyar'8 a little brandy, Rough. Thar; I seen h 
though my eyes are dim — somehow — hyar, Rough." 

" Never, pard. That stuff spiled the best years ol 
my life — it sha'n't spile my dreams of 'em. Oh ! sicb 
dreams, pard. They take me to the old home again. I 
see the white house 'mong the trees. I smell the breath 
of the apple-blosaoms, an' hear the birds singin' an' the 
bees hummin' an' the ole plow songs echoin' over the 
leetle valley. I see the river windin' through the 
willers an' sycamores, an' the dear ole hills all around 
pintin' up to heaven like the spires of big meetin 
houses. Thar's the ole rock we called the tea-table. I 
climb up on it an' play a happy boy agin. Oh I if I'd 
only stayed thar, pard." 

" Don't Rough ; ye thaw me all out, talkin' that. li 
makes me womanish." 

" That's it, pard, we've kep* our hearts froze so long 
we want it alius winter. But the summer comes back 
with all the light from over the Range. How bright it 
is, pard. Look ! How it floods the cabin till the knots 
an' cobwebs are plainer than day." 

" Suthin's wrong, Rough. It's all dark, 'cept only that 
pine knot in the chimbly." 

" No, it's all right, pard. The light's come over the 
Range. I kin see better'^ ever I could. Kin see the 
moisture in yor eyes, pard, an' see the crooked path I'vo 
come, runnin' clean back to my mother's knee. I wa,sn'4 
alius called Rough. Somebody used to kiss me an' call 
me her boy — nobody'll ever know I've kop' it till the 

" I hev wanted to ax ye, jnate, why ye never had anj 
B*me but jist Rough ?" 

* Pard — it's gettin' dark — my name? I'vo n»rm 


heard it since I left home. I buried it thar in the littU 
chui-chyard, whar mother's waitin' for the boj that 
never come back. I can't tell it, pard — in my kit you'll 
find a package done up. Thar's two picters in it of two 
faces that's been hoverin' over me since I took down. 
You'll find my name thar, pard — thar with hers an</ 

" Hers ? Will I ever see her. Rough ?" 

" Not till you see her by the light that comes from 
over the Range to us all. Pard, it's gettin' dark — dark 
and close — darker than it ever seemed to me afore — " 

" Rough, what's the matter ? Speak to me, mat& 
Can't I do nuthin' fer ye ?" 

" Yes — pard. Can't ye — say — suthin' ?" 

"What d'ye mean, Rough? I'll say anything to 
please ye." 

" Say — a — pra'r, pard." 

" A pra'r? Rough, d'ye mean it?" 

" Yes, a pra'r, pard. It's the — last thing Rough'll 
ever — ax of ye." 

" It's hard to do, Rough. I don't know a pra'r." 

" Think back, pard. Didn't yer mother — -teach ye — 
euthin' ? One that begins — ' Our Father ' — an' then 
— somehow — says — ' forgive us ' — " 

" Don't, Rough, ye break me all up — '* 

" The light's a fadin' — on the golden hills — an' the — 
night is comin' — out of the canyiins — pard. Be quick 
— ye'll try, pard. Say suthin' — fer Rough." 

" I — Rough— Our Father forgive us. Don't be hard 
on Rough. We're a tough lot. We've forgot Ye, 
but we haint all bad. 'Cause we haint forgot the old 
home. Forgive us — ^be — easy on Rough — Thy will be 


" It's corain' agin — pard. The light's — comin' — over 
the Range — " 

" Have mercy on — us, an' — an' — an' — settle with ug 
'cordin to — to the surroundin's of our lives. Thy— 
Thy kingdom come — " 

" Go on, pard. It's comin'." 

" Now — I lay me down to sleep." 

" That's — good — mother said that — " 

" Hallowed be Thy name — pray — the Lord his soul 
to keep." 

"That's good — pard. It's all glory — comin' over — 
the Range — mother's face — her — face — " 

"Thine is the glory, we ask — for Jesus' sake— 

" Pard—" 

" What, Rough ? I'm all unstrung. I—" 

" Fare—" 

" Rough ! Yer worse ! What, dead ?" 

Yes, the wanderings were over. Ended with a prayer, 
rough and sincere, like the heart that had ceased to 
throb — a prayer and a few real tears, even in that lone 
cabin in the canyon ; truer than many a death sceno 
knows, although a nation does honor to the dying ; a 
prayer that pleased Him better than many a prayer of 
the schools and creeds. A rough but gentle hand closed 
the eyes. The first rays of the morning sun broke 
through a crevice in the litth- cabin and hung like his 
mother's smile over the courli of the sleeping boy. 
Only one motirncr watched with Rough aa he waited 
for tlie new name which will l)e given to us all, wiieu 
that light, comes to the world from over the Range. 



IT aint jest the story, parson, to tell in a crowd like 
Weth the virtuous matron a-frownin' an' chidin' the 

gigglin' miss, 
An' the good old deacon a noddin' in time with his 

patient snores, 
An* the shocked aleet of the capital, stalkin' away 
through the doors. 

But then, it's a story that happened, an' every word of 

it's true, 
An' sometimes we can't help talkin' of the things that 

we sometimes do. 
An' though good society coldly shots its doors onto 

" Teamster Jim," 
I'm thinkin' ther's lots worse people thet's better known 

than him. 

I mind the day he was married, an' I danced at the 

weddin', too ; 
An' I kissed the bride, sweet Maggie — daughter of Ben 

I mind how they set up housekeepin', two young, poor, 

happy fools ; 
When Jim's only stock was a heavy truck an' four 

Kaintucky mules. 

Well, they lived along contented, weth their little joya 

an' cares. 
An' every year a baby come, an' twice they come in 

pairs ; 


nil the house was full of children, weth their shoutin' 

an' phiyin' au' -;quiills. 
A.n' their singin' an' laughin' an' cryiu' made Bedlam 

within its walls. 

An' Jim he seemed to like it, an' he spent all his even* 

in's at home. 
He said it was full of music an' light, an' peace from 

pit to dome. 
He joined the church, an' he used to pray that his heart 

might be kept from sin — 
The Btumblin'est prayer — but heads an* hearts used to 

bow when he'd begin. 

60, they lived along in that way, the same from day to 

With plenty of time for drivin' work, and a little time 

for play. 
An' growin' around 'em the sweetest girls and the live« 

liest, manliest boys, 
Till the old gray heads of the two old folks was crowned 

with the homeliest joys. 

Eh ? Come to my story ? Well, that's all. They're 

livin' just like I said, 
Only two of the girls is married, an' one of the boys is 

An' they're honest an' decent an' luqjpy, an' the ver) 

best Christians, I know. 
Though I reckon in brilliant conipn'y they'd be voted J 

leetle slow. 

Ob! you're pres.sed for time — excuse you? Sure, I'm 
sorry I kept you so long ; 


(lood-bye. Now he looked kind o' bored-like, an' 1 
reckon that I was wrong 

To tell such a commonplace story of two sech common- 
place lives, 

But we can't all git drunk an' gamble an' fight, an' run 
off with other men's wives. 



HARDLY ever that a body 
Hears the old tunes any more ; 
But a trampin' fiddler played 'em 
T'other evenin' at the store. 

An' the music, as he played it, 
Kind o' seemed like ev'ry note . 

Only kept the lump a-growin' 
That it started in my throat. 

An' as I sat a-listenen' 

To them tunes I used to know. 
All the past riz up before me 

Like a magic-lantern show. 

Thirty years or more was taken 
From the tally-sheet o' life ; 

■Thirty years o' work an' worry, 
Disa'pintment, care, and strife. 

An' a voice that now is silent 
Promised me in lovin' tone, 

An' a hand tliat now is pulseleas 
Lay contented in my own. 

Schneider's tomatoes. 

While the faces that hev vanished^ 
An' the feet that now are still, 

Was a-smilin' an' a-dancin' 
In that cabin on the hill, 

But the player stopt a-playin', 
An' the pictur soon was gone, 

An' I shouldered up the burden 
That ole Time keeps pilin' on. 

Still, I couldn't help but scatter 
'Mong the dust o' all these years. 

As a kind o' good-bye offerin'. 
Just a few regretful tears. 




SCHNEIDER is very fond of tomatoes. Schneider 
has a friend in the country who raises " garden sass 
and sich." Schneider had an invitation to visit his 
friend last week, and regale himself on his favorite 
vegetable. His friend Pfeiffer being busy negotiating 
with a city produce dealer on his arrival, Schneider 
thought he would take a stroll in the garden and see 
some of his favorites in their pristine beauty. We will 
let him tell the rest of the story in his own language. 

" Veil, I valks shust a liddle vhilc rouiidt, wlieii I 
sees some of dose dermaters vot vos so red uiid nice a.s 
I nefer dit see any more, und I dinks I vill put iniiic- 
self outside about a gauplc-a-tozen, shust t(i gcef me a 
liddle abbedide vor dinner. So I pulls off von ov der 
reddest und peat l<jokiu' of dose dermaters, und dakea a 


pooty good bite out of dot, und vas chewing it oup 

pooty quick, ven — by cbiminy ! — I dort I had a peese 

ov red-hot coals in mine mout, or vas chewing oup dwo 

or dree bapers of needles ; und I velt so pad already, 

dot mine eyes vas vool of tears, und I mate vor an ' olt 

oken bucket ' vot I seen hanging in der veil, as I vas 

goomin' along. 

" Shust den mine vriend Pfeiffer game oup und ask 

me vot mate me veel so pad, und if any of mine vamily 

vas dead. I dold him dot I vos der only von ov der 

vamily dot vas pooty sick, und den I ask him vot kind 

of dermaters dose vas vot I hat shust been bicking ; unt, 

mine cracious, how dot landsman laughft, und said dot 

dose vas red beppers dot he vas raising vor bepper- 

sauce. You pet my life I vas mat. I radder you give 

me feefty tollars as to eat some more of dose bepper- 

sauce dermaters." r\ t^ k 

Chas. F. Adams. 


OH ! come, let us wander alone i' the gloamin', 
Awa, whare nae ither our pleasure may see, 
Nae hour is so happy as that when I'm roamin' 
Adown the green valley, my Jessie, wi' thee. 
'Tis then we forget the dull cares that annoy us, 
Then nane but sweet thochts and bright fancies employ 

And life seems sae blithesome, sae merry and joyous. 
My bonnie sweet Jessie, to you and to me. 

Beyond the far peaks o' Ben Lomond descending. 
The sun seeks repose i' the realms o' the west ; 

A tramp's philosophy. 169 

The day and the night i' safe twilight are blending, 
And nature sinks slowly to silence and rest. 

See, yonder the lark and the swift-flying plover 

Are speeding awa to the hawthornes' dark cover. 

Then, tenderly clasped i' the arms of thy lover, 
Recline, my sweet Jessie, thy head on my breast. 

The sunlight has fled frae the tops o' the mountains, 

The night spreads its curtain o'er land and o'er sea, 
The stars light the clear crystal depths o' the fountains^ 

And shed their soft radiance o'er moorland and lea. 

The night wind the branches above us is wooing, 

And nature our souls with new love is imbuing, 

Aa o'er thee I bend, the sweet pledges renewing, 

That bind me forever, sweet Jessie, to thee. 


I'VE been 'round this country from Texas to Maia% 
And mostly with nary a red ; 
I've walked it for miles in the wettest of rain, 

And slept on a board for a bed. 
But I've learnt a few' comfortin' facts by the way, 

"NVliile living this queer life of jnino, 
And the principal one of the lot, let me say, 
Is " it's better to whistle than whine." 

I know that the winter's a-comin' on fast; 

I'm aware that a home I aint got ; 
I Bee that the clothes I'm a-wearing won't lait 

Till I reach a more torridcr apot. 

170 APPLES. 

But nobody yet has discovered in me 

Anxiety's tiniest sign ; 
And it's jest 'cause I learnt in my youth, don't you sea, 

That " it's better to whistle than whine." 

It strikes me somehow that it's mighty blamed queer 

That fellers much wiser than me 
Keep kickin' because this terrestrial sphere 

Aint jest what they want it 'to be. 
Their parents have filled them with Latin and Greek, 

But their logic aint equal to mine, 
Or else they would know every day in the week 

That " it's better to whistle than whine." 

Merchant Tkaveleb. 


" A little more cider do." 

BREDDERN an' sistern: 
I'se gwine to gib you what I hope will prove to 
you a fruitful discoarse — de subject am dat ob apples. 
Dem ob my hearers dat only look upon de apple wid an 
eye to apple sass, apple fritters, apple pies, apple dump- 
iins, an' apple toddies, will hardly be able to compre- 
stand de apple-cation ob my lectar — to dem I leab de 
peelins, an' direct de seeds of my discoarse to such as 
hab souls above apple dumplins an' taste above apple 
tarts - 

Now de apple, accordin' to Linnceous, the Philea- 
botanist. am a Fruit originally exported from Adam's 

APPLES. 171 

apple-orchard in de Garden ob Eden, an' made indig- 
genous in ebry climate 'cept de north pole an' its neigh- 
boren territory de Roily bolly alis. 

De apple, accordin' to those renowned Lexumcograph- 
ers, Samuel Johnson, Danuel Webster, an' Dr. Skeleton 
McKensie, am de py-rus molus, which means " To be 
molded into pies." 

Well, you all know dat de apple tree was de sacred 
vegetable ob de Garden ob Eden till de sly an' insinu- 
vatin' sea-sarpeut crawled out ob de river on Friday 
momen, bit off' an apple, made " apple-jack," handed 
de jug to Eve, she took a sip, den handed it to Adam — 
Adam took anoder, by which bofe got topseycated an' 
fell down de hill ob Paradise, an' in consequence darof 
de whole womau race an' human race fell down casmash, 
like speckled apples from a tree in a stormado. Oh ! 
what a fall wtus dar, my hearers, when you an' me, an' 
I, an' all drajjt down togedder, an' de sarpent iiapped 
his forked tongue in fatissaction. 

But arter all, my hearers, dat terrible fall wa.s not de 
fault of de fruit ob de apple, but de abuse ob it ; for de 
apple am a very great wegetable, corden as we use it or 
abuse it. De apple has been de fruit ob great tings, an' 
great tings hab been de fruit ob de apple. It wius an 
apple dat fust suggested to Sir Humphrey Gravy New- 
town de seeds ob de law ob grabitation, dat wonderful, 
inwisible, an' unfrizable patent leber principle by which 
all dciii luminous an' voluminous plaiu-ts turn round 
togedder, all apart in one K pluribus nmiin ob grabity ; 
hence de great poet Longfelkr, in de filly-'leventh canto 
ob Lord Bynjn, absarves ; 

"Man fell by apples, an' by apples ros«." 

172 APPLES. 

Sir Humphrey Gravy Newtown was one day snoozen 
fast asleep under an apple tree, when a large-sized Ken- 
tucky Pippen grabitated from de limb, struck him in 
de eye, an' all at once his eye was suddenly opened to 
de universal law ob grabitation. 

He saw the apple downwards fell, 

He thought, " Why not fall up as well ?* 

It proved some telegraphic spell 

Pulled it arthwise. 
I wish he'd now come back an' tell 

Why apples rise 

80 high to a half peck in de bushel. 

But, my hearers, to come to de grand point ob my 
larned disquisition on apples. Reasoning ap-priori, I 
proceed to dis grand fromologico-physiological phree- 
noraenon, dat eber since our great-grand-modder Eve 
and our great-great-grand-fader Adam fust tasted apple- 
jack in de orchard ob Eden, de entire human race, an' 
woman race in particlar, has been impregnated wid de 
spirit ob de apple, an' dat all men an' women, an' de 
rest ob mankind, may be compared to some Genus of de 
apple. Dars de Philantropist, he's a good meller pippen 
—always ripe an' full ob de seeds ob human kindness. 
Dars de Miser, he's de " grindstone " apple — rock to de 
very core. Dars de Batchelor, he am a rusty coat, an' like 
a beefsteak widout gravy — dry to de very heart. Dars 
de Dandy, he's a long stim, all peelen. Dars de 
Farmer, he's de cart-horse apple — a leetle rough on de 
peelen, but juicy wid feelen, De Fashionable gent am 
a French pippen, an' de fashionable young lady am de 
Bell-flower — an' when two sich apples am joined toged- 
der, dey become a pear (pair). De Pollytician am a 


Specked apple — little foul sometimes at de core. De 
young Misses am de " Maiden's Blushes." De Widder 
she am a Pine-apple — pine-en an' sprouten in de dark 
leaves to blossom once more. De good Wife she am d« 
Balsam apple of human life, an' — an' in finis, de — de 
old Maid she am a crab apple — a fruit never known 
in de apple orchard of Paradise, an' only fit for Sour- 
land — put her in de cider press of human affection an' 
•he'll come out forty-'leventh proof vinegar, enough 
to sour all human creation — even as dc loud thunder ob 
de hebens sours de cow-juice in de milk-house. 

Lastly, and to conclude, Brederenan' Sisteren,let it be 
our great aim, howsomever we may differ in our various 
ap[)le species, to strive to go into de great cider press 
of human trial widout a speck in de core or de peelen, 
so dat when de juice of our mortal vartues am squeezed 
out, de Angels when (ley fust put dar lips to de cider 
trough, may exclaim wid de poet, 

"A leetle more cider do." 


DE floud is srattrred all away, 
De stars is shinin' l)right ; 
My heart is miglity ligbt and gay, 

I's gwine abroad to-night ; 
De darkies gwine to 'sj)Pc' me, 

An' I knows dcy'l! want a song; 
An' I nebber likes to fool 'em, 
So I'll take de banjer 'long ; 

j74 uncle ned^s banjo song. 

For Vs gwine to de shuckin', 
For I's gwine to de shuckin', 
For I's gwine to de shuckin' of de corn. 

Oh ! I'll tell 'em at de shuckin' 

'Bout de little gal o' mine, 
In her pretty little shanty 

On de Allerbamer line ; 
Her eyes is like de Jack-er-lantem, 

Sweet enough to kill ; 
An' Avhen she starts to sing a song, 

She beats de whipperwill ! 


An' when she hunts de hick'y nuts. 

She mighty nice to see, 
'Cause she beats de raccoon all to pieces 

Clammin' up de tree ; 
Her teef does shine so mighty white 

Dey sparkle in de dai-k, 
An' dey make de sweetest music 

When dey mash de scaly bark ! 

An' when de darkness comes at night 

An' kivers up de sky, 
Why, she kindles up a fire 

AVid de brightness ob her eye ; 
Den she gadders up a pile o' wooci 

Fum out de cy^i'us-brake. 
An' gits de skillet orf de she'f 

To cook de Johnny-cake ! 

De time is slippin' fas' away, 
I see de risin' moon ; 

THE trapper's LAST TRAIL. 17i 

I ought to be down at de corn-'ouaa 

Knockin' out a chime ; 
So I'll git my coat fum out de chis* 

An' moobe along de way ; 
Oh ! 'twill make dem darkies happy 

When dey hear de banjer play I 


HYUH, Jack ! ole boy, come hyer an' lay dowi 
Close up to my breast ; I feel so strange ; 
That arrow left such a stinging pain, 
An' my sight's losin' its range. 

My thoughts are scatterin' out like shot. 

An' old days crowdin' in enstead ; 
The wind a-touchin' my forehead feela 

Like ray mother's hand on my head. 

'.fhe deer's a-gettin' up now to browse. 

For the moon's jest riz — Here, Sammy, say, 

I'll make you a whistle if you don't tell 
I went in swimmin' with Tom to-day I 

Shs-h, Jack ! they're moccasins stealin' through 
The leaves — That breeze is a sign of rain — 

Oh ! somelxxly tear this off my throat! 
Good-iiiglit, little sister— that pain^ 

Jack snuffled and sniffed the wounded breast 

And uttered a pitiful wail— 

Thf trapjifr liad gour and lofl no track 

For hiri dog to scent the trail. 




ARRAH! hould your whist now. Whinny, til I'lr 
afther tellin' ye all about gettin' me goodlook 
in' pictur' tuk. Sure, an' ye see, I got a famous letthei 
from home, axin me viry purticalar, from me father 
an' mother, me frinds and relashuns, me ansisters an' 
me gransisters, iv I was thrivin' bravely ? An' how 
Ameriky was agreein' wid me ? Yis, an' iv the blush 
av me cheek was as rid, an' as warrum as whin I lift 
the ould dart ? Aye, troth, an' iv the clothes av the 
counthry wur becomin' to me ? An' be the same token 
it mintion'd that all that wus livin', wur injoyin' good 
health. An' that Judy Milligan had sint home her 
pictur' ; an' that all the b'ys in our parts wur- nearly 
mad over it ; 'twas so grand lookin' ; an' bedad, sure 
they must hav' bin quare things, that wan had on the 
back av hur, to draw a remark from any b'y in the 
whole parish, whin I was there, or afore she lift home 
hersilf. Och ! but she was th' ugly drab thin, wid lier 
carroty head an' her turnip nose. How well, she niver 
mintion'd she was goin' to hav' her pictur' drawn to 
Bind home, d'ye mind ! She thought she'd intice the 
whole town av Mullingar quite unbeknownst to me, 
i'ye mind that ? Bad cess to lier ! Arrah, d'ye ye 
think now, Whinny, that I'd let that wan bate or 
outdo me in onything? No, thin, be the powers I 
wuddent, unless it was quite unbeknownst to me, 

Says I to mesel', " Och ! glory be till the whole 
»urreld, sure 'tis you, Miss Biddy McGinnis, cud be 


ilndin' home the pictur' that cud turn the b'ys' head^Sj 
sm' that wud be worth lookin' at." 

Sure, be the same token, there was me illegaut neM 
frock ; and be the powers, 'twas med up beauti-ful, jusl 
aqual to the greatest lady's in the land ; wid side plait- 
in's an' rufRin's on the tail av it. Yis, an' a luvly 
top skirt, an' it tucked back that snug now, that faix 
whin I do be plantin' raesel' on me sate in the kars — it 
does be burstin' on me a thrifle wid the tightness av it. 
Och ! musha, an' iv ye cud only see me missus onst, 
cockin* her two eyes at me, an' she watchin' me from 
the winday whin I'm goin' out av a Sunday. Indade I 
think the cratur's jealous av me dacent looks. For, 
begorra, whin 'tis hersilf that's tightened an' pulled 
back, she's that thin now, ye'd think it was three slata 
out av the bedstid that was tied flat thegether an' was 
approachin' ye, drissed. 'Tis the truth I'm tellin' ye — 
av coorse it is. But the consait av the poor thing, now. 
Troth it bates Bannagher, an* Bannagher bates the 
whole world, ye know. 

Well, alanna dear, away I wint down the street wid 
my frock hiked up on the wan side av me, an' the 
tail av it in me baud, an' I niver made a shtop until 
I kem to the likeness shop. An' after inquirin' a bit, 
I spel'd up three flights av quare, durty little stairs. 
An* I walked stret intil the doore av the room at tlia 
top av thini. An' there sthood a fine big nuin widin 
aa smilin' as the flowers av May, resaivin' the ladiea 
that kem in sis grashus now as a king. 

" What kin I be afther doin' for ye, miss?" says he 

to mcsel as p'lite as ye plaze, an' a grate smile in the 

eye av him. "I know," says he, "'tis y<>r pictur' ye 

want takin' ; and meblxj it's home ye'd want to be sind- 


f78 Bn>DY m'gi»^nis at the photographebs. 

in' it to yer fellay there in ould Ireland, or some othei 
furrin counthry," says he, spakin', och, viry respictful^ 
but wid a knowin' wink at the same time, d'ye mind ? 

" Be gorra, sur," says I, "but it's good ye are at the 
guessin', for be me sowl an' troth that's jist what I cum 
for/' spakin' frindly to him, for he had that civil, mild, 
enticin' way wid him. " An' iv ye can make a purty wan 
av me, I'd like to git one drawn immaijately," says I. 

" A purty one ?" says he, lookin' quite sharp at the 
head av me, an' castin' his eye ovir the driss av me. 
" Indade 'tis a luvly pictur' ye'll make, miss, an' 'tis 
proud that I am that 'tis to our place ye come to git it 
tuk, for there's no betther in the land av Ameriky," says 
he, wid a fine tass av his head, d'ye mind ? " Ye'll pay 
for it furst," says he, " an' thin take off yer bonuit, and 
go intil the room beyant there an' the man inside will 
attind to ye." 

Av coorse I did jist what he bid me, an' he passed 
me in wid a flurish av his hand, an' wid as much con- 
desinshun now as a lord, an' the doore wide opin before 

Well, Whinny, niver sich a smill I iver smilt at home 
or abroad as was in that room wid some haythen pota- 
cary sthuff. 

" Ye'll take a pictur' av this young lady," says him- 
self to an ouldish-lookin' chap that was standing up 
wid-in. An' he, the crayture, that starved-lookin' an' 
pale as iv he was expictin — 

" Cum this way," says the ould man, an' he plantid 
me down in a cushi'ned chair forninst a bit av a box 
histid up on three legs an' wid two eye-holes in the 
frunt av it. 

An' after pushin' it an' straightin' it to his mind< 


back be cums an' tuk me be me two showlders an' 
twishted me round on tbe chair, an' thin wid me face 
betune his ugly-smel'in', clatty hands, an' thim, ocb, the 
color av a naygur's, he gev me head a twisht, an' 
howldin' it in wan hand, he clapped a grapplin'-iron til 
the back av me, an' fell to the shcrewin' av it wid the 
other hand, d'ye mind ? 

" What in the name av goodness are yes doin' that 
for ?" says I, for be all that's good an' bad I was gettin' 
afeard av the ould skiliton. " What are ye doin' to ma 
at all at all ?" says I, quite sheared like. 

" Och, be, be aisy," says he, " an' kape stliill thfl 
way I'll fix ye, for I don't want the whole av yer face 
to appear in the pictur'," I'avin' go his clutch av me at 
the same time, au' before I cud hindur or prevint him, 
didn't he dust a lock av flour ovir me head, an' jewkin' 
down in front av me, admirin'-like at the same time. 
" Now don't move," says he, " kape viry sthill til' I 
cum back," an' away he wint intil a little dark room 

Now, it wint through me like a flash that they were 
rogues, the pair av thim, an' that they wur goin' to 
chate me — the one fellay outside wid me money safe 
widin his trowsers, an' this ould pick'd-lookin' divil 
sthrivin' to p'am aff" the haf av me face on mesilf for 
the whole av it, d'ye mind ? " Yez may take me for a 
granehorn," says I to mesil, " but the divil skure me iv 
I don't git satisfacshun or me money out av yes, me 
fine laddie bucks. Yis, aven iv I hav' to take in the 
purlice to the both av yes." Howly faythcrs ! may I 
nivcr brathe anotlior breath, an' ye'll blave mo, the 
anxiety I wnn sulfcrin' und<'r wius torribil — it waa. 

Be dad ! he was no sooner in that littic room but I 


was out av that sate, an' me roun' to the back av the 
little box to satisfy mesel' that he had no murthrus 
waypins consailed widin it ready to fire at me may be 
in an unguardid minute. 

But, niver a haporth cud I see, for a black cloth he 
had hung ovir the frunt av it, an' jist as I was puttin' 
me hand ovir the ould rag, may all the saints in hivin 
purserve me, but there stud the ould bag iv bones at 
the side av me ; aye, an he wid me hand grab'd. Och, 
may I nivir stir but I was all av a violent thrimble — I 

" What are ye doin' here ?" says he. " What tuk ye 
out av there ?" says he. " Didn't I tell ye to kape 
sthill, an' not stur ?" says he, lookin' wild at me. 

" I'm not takin' anything, sur," says I, when I cud 
command mesel' a thrifle, an' the heart av me givin* 
ivery lape widin me throat, be the token. 

" Sure, sir, I was sthrivin' to look through the little 
windies at mesel' beyant there," says I, still kapin' me 
eye viry jubius-like on the little box, d'ye mind ? 

" Well, yez needn't git so frightened," says he, seein' 
the state I was in. " There's no great harrum done, an' 
ye needn't be lookin' that way at the insthrument," 
says he, " for there's no wild baste in there that'll jump 
out an' devour ye. An' to quiet ye, I'll let ye look an* 
ye'll see how your pictur's tuk," says he, an' wid that 
he pull'd away the cloth. " Now," says he, " look in — 
an' ye'll see yersilf." 

" Och ! sure that's not me at all at all, that I'm 
lookin' at down beyant there," says I. 

" Tut, tut," says he, " av coorse it's not ye, but me. 
Amn't I sthrivin' to show ye the way ye will look whi* 
yer here," 8*78 he. " That's the way ye'll look." 


** Are ye sure av it ?" says I. 

" I am," says he. 

"That I'll look that way?" says I. 

"Exactly. The itlenticle way," says he. 

" Thin mailie, inurtlier ! mailie, niurther ! let me out 
av here," says I, gaspin' like. For iv you'll b'lave rue, 
there he was, stan'in' forninst nie, a.s plain as ye plaze ; 
wid his heels in the air, au' his head on the lioore. 

" Och, giv' me me money, an' let me out av here this 
minit," says I, " ye murtherin' ould thafe." 

"What's the row ? what's the row ?" says the big man, 
comin' in out av the other roome. 

" Row, thin, enough," says I. " That ould starved 
crow, there beyant, was goin' to git me down tliere, 
an' when he got the grappers tight on the back av 
me lugs, he was goin' to stand me on the tap av me hed, 
an' may be murther me entirely. Yez tuk me for a 
granehorn, did yez?" says I; "well, I'm not so grane 
as ye think now, may be, an' iv ye don't giv' me money, 
an* let me out av here, I'll hav' yez both up afore 
the coort for a pair av thaves, that ye are." 

Och, thunder an' turf, Whinny. Iv yo'll b'lave me, 
an' may I niver stir, but it's the truth, I'm tellin'. 
What wur thim two villians doin', but laughin' an' 
roarin' at me, yis, that hearty now, that y'u'd think the 
very sides a V thim wud split open. Aye, trntli an' me 
that ragin' I cud luiv' torn ivery hair out av their 
heads, iv I cud hav' clutched thim wi<l me two hands. 
O Lord! forgive me. They just curdled the blood :iv me 
with the rage, they did. An' whin the outsi<lt' wan — yiu 
— the wan that had me hard eaniiii' in hi.s pockit — cud 
control hiinsilf from burstiii' wid the lauLrliiii', says he, 
lookin viry .sawdherln' like, ' Och, bless ye! bleau yof 


Ye didn't understand him, Miss. Sure, it's not ye at 
all, at all ; but your pictur' that'll be revarsed in the 
takin'," says he ; " an' it's yersilf will be sittiu' quite 
quiet — in yer chair — like a quane upon her throne. 
Come now," says he, "an' I'll fix ye mesilf." At the 
same time takin' me by me hand and ladin' me back to 
the sate I was in afore, yis, an' twhistin' me the viry 
identicle way the ould scare-crow did. Aye, faix ! an' 
grapped the ould screwin' iron on me, too, just the same 
now as that ould rashkill did. 

" Now, ye'll sit quiet, an' look at that sthick, at the 
corner av the box, an' don't move whilst I'm countin'," 
Bays he, at the same time puttin' somethin' that ould 
picky-bones had gev him intil the frunt av the little 
box. " Now mind," says he, " don't stur," an' wid that 
he turn'd his back an' begun to count for his life. For 
I cud see plain enough that the laugh wasn't out av him 
yit. Och, lave me alone, but I knew enough to not let 
thim bate me out of anythin' this time, d'ye mind? 
So I jist planted mesilf stret round an' cock'd me two 
eyes stret in frunt av me. An' troth I had quite 
enough to kape me imployed watchin' the little sthick, 
and the box, and his own back, d'ye mind ? " That'll 
do for the prisint," says he, " but remain where ye are, 
for I may hav' to take ye ovir ag'in." An' wid that 
he handed a bit av a slate to ould skinny-bags, an' he 
whip'd wid it intil his little din. Purty soon he kem 
out, an' the two were talkin' thegether like a couple av 
pirates, dishputin' betune thimsilves. So, whin they 
had settled it, himself walks up to me, an' says he, " 1 
hav' the pictur' av you now, only," says he, " it has far 
more than belongs to ye, but I'll show it to ye to con- 
fince ye that we wur not chatin' ye out av yer eyes, 


onyway." An', Whinny, och Whinny, acushla ! Iv 
there wasn't mesilf wid four eyes an' two mouths in the face 
»v me. All other ways as natural as life, top skirt an' all. 

" I'm not willin' to giv' ye so much for the price," 
says he, "an' iv ye'll just look at a luvly little burd 
that I'll hould in my hand intil I count thurty, I'll jist 
take two av yer eyes out an' clap ihlm intil me pockit 
to remember ye by, an' yer mouth an yer voice. 'Deed, 
I'll niver forgit, as long as I live," says he. 

So wid that the ould fairy gev him the slate back 
agin, an' he clapped it intil the box, fixed me ovir, 
avick ; held up his little burd for me to look at, an' be 
jabers ! he niver tuk his two eyes off me face, this time, 
an' him countin' as solim now as an ould judge, readin' the 
dith sintince ; an' whin they got through, this was what 
they brung to me ; an' iv ye don't say it's as good a 
lookin' gurril as iver left the county Connaught — heath, 
I'm sure my mother will, whin she sees it. Och, look 
it there 1 Isn't it the dazzler ? 


THEY'S fellers a-writin' al)out the w^» 
'At nobody ever kiiowcd brfore, 
An' ne'er a word, you understand, 
'Bout Corp'al Alexander Rand. 

In ever' paper, West an', 
Them writes the most as fit the leaat ; 
But there was cheers and carnage whon 
Brave Corp'al Rand led on his men. 


When Graut was in that awful mess 

A lightin' in the Wilderness, 

Says Meade, " Who bears the battle's heft?" 

Says Grant, " It's Rand, 'at holds the left." 

When rebeldom was out of j'int, 
An' Lincoln came from City P'int, 
" Well, well !" says he, with honest joy, 
" There's Corp'al Hand, of Eelinoy." 

An* yet I aint, nor you aint seen 
His pictur' in a magazine ; 
The bravest man 'at ever drored 
In any cause a soljer's sword. 

The sharpest, keenest, bravest man 
To plan, er execute a plan ; 
Ef long as time his fame don't standi 
My name aint Alexander Rand. 



SEVERAL years ago the steamboat Buckeye blew 
up on the Ohio River near Pittsburg, by which 
accident a lady rejoicing in the name of Mrs. Rebecca 
Jones lost both her husband and her baggage. In due 
time she brought suit against the owners of the boat for 


damages for the death of lier husband, as well as com- 
pensation for the loss of her clothing. On trial, the 
defense denied everything. It was alleged that neither 
Jones nor his wife was aboard the Buckeye, and there- 
fore he could not have been killed, or any clothing lost. 
The Jones family, being strangers in Pittsburg, where 
they went on board the boat, it was diflieult to ilnd any 
witnesses to prove that the missing man was actually 
on board, or that he was killed. Finally Mi-s. Jones 
remembered that a Dutchman who took their trunk 
from the hotel at Pittsburg was a deck passenger, and 
he was soon found and subpoenaed as a witness. Plis 
name was Deitzman, and being called to the stand, he 
was questioned as follows : 

Counsel for Mrs. Jones. — Mr. Deitzman, did you know 
the steamboat Buckeye ? 

"Witness. — Yaw, I vas plow up mit her. 

Counsel. — Were you on board when the boiler col- 
lapsed ? 

Witness. — Yaas, I vas on de poat ven de piler l)ust. 

Counsel. — Did you know Mr. Jones, the husband of 
this lady ? [pointing to plaintiff.] 

Witness. — To pe sure I know him ; I pring his trunk 
on de poat at Bittsburg, and ve })aid our passage toged- 
der at der caj)tain's office. 

Counsel. — Well, did he stay aboard ; did you see hinj 
on the boat at the time of the explosion ? 

Witness. — Nix : I didn't see Mr. Shoncs on der poat 
at dat time. 

Counsel for Defense [eagerly]. — So, he wasn't on 
the Buckeye when the boiler exploded, that you kiio>f 

Witness. — 1 didn't say dot. 

186 "bevare of the vidders." 

Counsel [with a triumphant glance at the jury].— 
What did you say then ? when did you last see Jones ? 

Witness. — Veil, I shtocd by der shmoke bipe ven de^ 
piler pust, and I didn't see Mr. Shones den ; but 
ven me and der shmoke bipe vas goin' up in de air, 
I see Shones coming down ! Dat's der last time I see 

This testimony being thought conclusive, the jury 
gave Mrs. Jones a verdict for five thousand dollars. 


OXCOOSE me if I shed some tears, 
Und vipe my nose avay ; 
Und if a lump vos in my troat, 
It comes up dere to shtay. 

My sadness I shall now unfoldt, 

Und if dot tale of woe 
Don't do some Dutch mans any good 

Den I don'd pelief I know. 

You see I fall myself in love, 

Und effery night I goes 
Across to Brooklyn by dot pridge. 

All dressed in Sunday clothes. 

A vidder voman vos der brize. 

Her husband he vos dead ; 
Und all alone in dis coldt vorldt 

Dot vidder vos, she saidt. 


Her heart for love vos on der pine, 

Uud dot I like ter see ; 
tJnd all de time I hoped dot heart 

Vos on der pine for me. 

I keeps a butcher-shop, you know. 

And in a shtocking stout 
I put avay my gold und bills, 

Und no one gets him oudt. 

If, in der night, some bank cashier 

Goes skipping off mit cash, 
I shleep so sound as nefer vas. 

While ricli folks go to smash. 

I court dot vidder sixteen months, 

Dot vidder she courts me, 
Und ven I says: " Vill you be mine?** 

She says: " You bet I'll be!" 

Ve vos engaged — oh, blessed fact I 

I squeeze dot dimpled hand, 
Her head upon my shoulder lays 

Shust like a bag of sand. 

Before der wedding day was set. 
She whispers in my ear: 
* I like to say I haf to use 

Some cash, my Yacol) dear. 

** I owns did house und two hi;; farms, 
Und ponds und railroad shtock; 
Uud u[) in Yonkers I bufise-ss 
A grand big peesneas block. 

18ft THE PUNERAr,. 

** Der times vos dull, my butcher boy, 
Der market vos no good, 
Und if I sell — " I squeezed her hant 
To show I understood. 

Next day — oxcoose my briny tears- 
Dot shtocking took a shrink ; 

I counted out twelve hundred in 
Der cleanest kind of chink. 

Und later by two days or more, 
Dot vidder shlopes avay ; 

Und leaves a note behindt for me 
In vich dot vidder say : 

*Dear Shake: — 

" Der rose vos redt, 
Der violet blue— 
You see I've left, 

Und you're left, too !'* 


I WAS walking in Savannah, past a church decayed 
and dim, 
When there slowly through the window came a plain- 

tive funeral hymn ; 
And a sympathy awakened, and a wonder quickly grew. 
Till I found myself environed in a little negro pew. 

Out at front a colored couple sat in sorrow, nearly wild; 
On the altar was a coffin, in the Qoffin was a child. 


I could picture him when living — curly liair, protruding 

lip — 
And had seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried 

Southern trip. 

But no baby ever rested in the soothing arms of death 

That had fanned more flames of sorrow with his little 
fluttering breath ; 

And no funeral ever glistened with more sympathy pro- 

Than was in the cliain of tear drops that enclasped those 
mourners round. 

Rose a sad old colored preacher at the little wooden 

desk — 
With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance 

grotesque ; 
With simplicity and shrewdness on his Eihioi)ian face ; 
With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed, undying 


And he said, " Now don' he weepin' for dis pretty bit o' 

For de little boy who lived there, he done gone an' run 

away ! 
He was doin' very finely, an' he 'preciate your love ; 
But his ,sur(! 'nuff Father want him in de large hou8« 

u[) above. 

••Now lie didn' give you dat baby, by a hundred thou- 

san' mile I 
lie jii>t think you need some sunshine, an' Ho lend it 

for awiulal 


An' He let you keep an' love it till your hearts wa» 

bigger grown ; 
An' dese silver tears you're sheddin's jest de interest on 

de loan. 

* Here your oder pretty chil'run ! — don't be makin' it 


Oat your love got sort o' 'nopolized by this little fellow 
here ; 

Don' pile up too much your sorrow on deir little men- 
tal shelves, 

So's to kind o' set 'em wonderin' if dey're no account 
themselves ! 

" Just you think, you poor deah mounahs, creepin' 'long 

o'er Sorrow's way, 
What a blessed little picnic dis yere baby's got to-day 1 
Your good faders and good moders crowd de little fel 

low i-ound 
In de angel-tended garden of de Big Plantation-Ground, 

" An' dey ask him, ' Was your feet sore ?' an' take oft' his 

little shoes. 
An' dey wash him, an' dey kiss him, an' dey say : ' Now 

what's de news ?' 
An' de Lawd done cut his tongue loose ; den de littl© 

fellow say : 

* All our folks down in de valley tries to keep de hebenly 


" An' his eyes dey brightly sparkle at de pretty things 

he view ; 
Den a tear come, and he whisper : ' But I want my 

paryente, too !' 

it's vera weel. 191 

But de Angel Chief Musician teach dat Hoy a little 

song ; 
Says ' If only dey be fait'ful dey will soon be comin' 


"An' he'll get an education dat will prober'bly be 

Seberal times as much as any you could buy for him on 
earth ; 

He'll be in de Lawd's big school-house, widout no con- 
tempt or fear ; 

While dere's no end to de bad tings might have hap- 
pened to him here. 

" iSo, my pooah dejected mounahs, let your hearts wid 

Jesus rest, 
An' don't go to critercisin' dat ar One w'at knows de 

He have seut us many comforts — He have right to take 

away — 
To de Lawd be praise an' glory now and ever ! Let ui 


Will Carleton. 


IT'S vera wocl thronghoot the day, 
Wlieu ta'en up wi' wark or play, 
To think u man ran live alway 
Wi'oot a wifey ; 


But it's anitlier thing, at night, 
To sit alone by caii'le-light, 
Or gang till rest, when shairp winds bite, 
Wi'oot a wifey. 

It's vera weel when claes are new, 
To think they'll always last just so, 
And look as weel as they do noo, 
Wi'oot a wifey ; 

But when the holes begin to show, 
The stitches rip, the buttons go, 
What in the warl's a man to do 
Wi'oot a wifey ? 

It's vera weel when skies are clear, 
When frien's are true and lassies dear, 
To think ye'll gang through life — nae fear- 
Wi'oot a wifey ; 

But clouds will come the skies athart, 
Lassies will marry, frien'a maun part ; 
Wha then can cheer your saddened heart 
Like a dear wifey ? 

It's vera weel when young and hale: — 
But when ye're ould, and crazed, and frail. 
And your blithe spirits 'gin to fail, 
You'll want a wifey ; 

But mayhap then the lassies dear 
Will treat your offers wi' a sneer ; 
Because ye're cranky, gray, and sere, 
Ye'll get nae wifej. 


Then haste ye, haste, ye silly loon ; 
Rise up and seek aboot the toon. 
And get Heaven's greatest earthly boon — 
A wee bit wifey. 

Wallace Dunbar. 



DAR wuz a hous' by hitself in an ole fiel'. De hous' 
wuz off a piece from de main road. Some rich 
people useter lib dar wunst, but dey had all died out. 
De tramps an' all de pussons trabelling along do road 
wouldn't stop at de hous', 'caise dey heerd hit was 
hantid, an' wuz afeard de hants would scare 'em off. 

After awhile dar come an ole preacher Jilong, an' hit 
wuz rainin' mighty heaby. He axed some ob de nabors 
ef he could put up at de hous' in de fiel' fer de night, 
ez hit wuz gitten berry dark 'bout dat time. Do nabors 
tole him he could stay dar of he wantid tcr, but dat de 
buildin' was 'bout gibcn up ter de hants. 

De preacher ncber said much, but he borrered a box 
of lucifum matches an' a big taller candil. Den he 
tromped straight tcr de hous' an' struck a light, an' 
went in peart wid his head holt high. 

De fust thing he fouu' wuz an ole table in tlio closes' 
cornder ob de down-stairs ro(»ni. Tic drawcd hit out 
inter de middle ob de fio' ; don hctuk his Ribic from (1« 
big inside pockit ob his coat, laid hit on de hihle, pulled 
a miljewod rockin' chair tor <lo side ob der caudil, tub 
hia Mat eaay, an' opened de book. 


All dis time de daddy-long-legs an' de cockroaches 
wuz crawlin' in an' out ob de walls ; de spiders wuz 
movin' in de big black cobwebs, an' de rats an' mouses 
wuz makin' a rakit all ober de hous'. De preacher 
neber tuk no notice ob de varmints ; he wiped his specs' 
wid a_bluehandkercher, put dem on, an' sot inter readin', 

De rain wuz fallin' an' fallin', but de win' neber 
blowed much, an' de caudil kep' still ez de preacher. 

'Way long 'bout de middle of de night in walked de 
body ob a bulldog, widout a head. He neber barked, 
but when he got clos' ter de table he moved back'ards 
slow to the front door, an' banished swif inter de dark- 
ness an' de rain. 

An' de preacher an' de candil bofe kep' still. 

After a while a cow come in wid no horns on her 
head an' no motionin' ob de tail. She crossed de room 
an' passed froo de wall by the side ob de chimbly. 

An' de preacher an' de candil neber moved. 

Nex' dar come in two black cats wid monstrous heads, 
and eyes ez big ez de owl's a-blinkin' at um from de 
dark eend ob de room. De eyes ob dem eats look like 
coals ob fire, wid no ashes on um. Dey crope up onder 
de table whar de foots ob de preacher wuz stretched out 
an' mounted on um. De har on his head ris' we'en dey 
teched him, but he neber sed nuthin', an' kep' a-readin' 
an' readin' in de good book. 

Jest 'fore de breakin' ob dc day de flame ob de candil 
lep' up. De win' neber struc' hit, fer de a'r wuz still. 
De light fell suddin ez hit ris', and sot inter burnin' blue. 

Den in come a man wid a 'ooman follerin' him, an' 
bofe of um in long white clothes, wid de smell ob df 
grabeyard all ober dem. 

Dey wuz ghoses ! 


De preacher nebcr had knowed um, Hvin' or dead, 
but he shet de Bible and axked um easy : 

" Name ob de Lawd, w'at yo' want ?" 

Den dey tole him dey wuz from de t'other worl' and 
couldn't res' happy in de churchyard, becaise ob som« 
money dey hid afore dey died. 

Dey sed 'twas nine t'ousan' do'lahs and wuz buried 
"way down on a hillside." Dey tole him wliar to fine 
hit. Den dey said dey had two brudders libin' an' 
begged de preacher ter git de money an' gib de brud- 
ders two t'ousan' apiece ; de balance wuz his'n. 

Dey said 'twas giben ter him fer spcakin' ter dera. 
Dey tole him dey could res' happy now, and dey lef 
him. An' de mornin' broke wid de preacher settin' at 
de table wid bofe hands on de Bible. 

De eend ob tie tale say dat de preacher foun' da 
money, an' done right by d(,' brudders. An' alter dat 
enny body could sleep in de house. 

Nobody neber wuz brave cnuffter speak ter de hants 
ttV de preacher come along. He jes' sot down and read 
de good book all night. Wm. H. Hayne. 


TIM MITRPIIY rsolus): I saw Teddy Ronpan tha 
other day ; he tohl me he had been dealing in 
hogs. " Is business good ?" says I. " Yis," sayH he. 
"Talking about hogs, Teddy, how do you fitul your- 
ielf ?" 8<z I. I wint to buy a clock the other day, to 
make a present to Mary Jane. " Will you havo 
a Frineh cloek ?" says the jeweh'r. " The deuce 
take your Frineh clock," hcz I. " 1 want u clock 


that my sister can understand when it strikes." **i 
have a Dutch clock," sez he, " an' you can put that 
on the sthairs." " It might run down if I put it there," 
sez I. " Well," sez he, " here's a Yankee clock, with a 
lookin'-glass in the front, so that you can see yourself," 
sez he. " It's too ugly," says I. " Thin I'll take the 
lookin'-glass out, an' whin you look at it you'll not find 
it so ugly," sez he. 

I wint to Chatham Sthreet to buy a shirt, for the one 
I had on wa.s a thrifle soiled. The Jew who kept the 
sthore looked at my bosom, an' said : " So hellup me 
gracious! how long do you vear a shirt?" " Twinty 
eight inches,' ' sez I. " Have you any fine shirts ?" sez 
I. "Yis,"sezhe. " Are they clane?" sez I. "Yis," 
Be?, he. " Thin you had betther put on one," sez I. 

You may talk about bringin' up childer in the way 
thej' should go, but I believe in bringing them up by 
the hair of the head. Talking about bringing up 
childer — I hear ray childer's prayers every night. The 
other night I let thim up to bed without thim. I 
skipped and sthood behind the door. I heard the big 
boy say: "Give us this day our daily bread." The 
little fellow said : " Sthrike him for pie, Johnny." I 
have one of the most economical boys in the city of New 
York ; he hasn't spint one cint for the last two yeara 
I am expecting him down from Sing Sing next week. 

Talking about boys, I have a nephew who, five years 
ago, couldn't write a word. Last week he wrote his 
name for $10,000 ; he'll git tin years in Auburn. 

They had a fight at Tim Owen's wake last week. 
Mary Jane was there. She says that, barrin' herself, 
there was only one whole nose left in the party, an' that 
belonged to the tay-kettle. 



MYNHEER, blease belb a boor olcifl maa 
Vot gomes vrom Sbarmany, 
Mit Fritz, mine tog, and only freund. 
To geep me company. 

I haf no geld to pay mine pread, 

No blace to lay me down ; 
For ve vas vanderers, Fritz and I, 

Und sdrangers in der town. 

Some beoples gife us dings to eadt, 

Und some dey kicks us oudt, 
Und say, " You don'd got peesnia her* 

To sdroll der scbtreets aboudt !" 

Vol's dot you say? — you puy mine tog. 

To gift me pread to eadt ! 
I was 80 boor as never vas, 

But I va.s no " tead beat." 

Vot, sell mine tog, mine leetle tog. 

Dot vollows nie aboudt, 
Und vags bis dail like anydinga 

Vene'er I dakes him oudt? 

Bcbust l(jok at biiu, und see him sclnimp! 

He likcH me j)ooty veil ; 
Und dere vaw somcdings 'bout dot tog, 

Mynheer, I wouldn't sell. 

*' Der collar ?" Ntin : 'twius someding elflt 
Vrom vich I ^uuld uut bart ; 


Und, if dot ding vas dook avay 
I dink it prakes mine heart. 

Vot vos it, den, aboudt dot tog-, 
You ashk, " dot's not vor sale T 

I dells you vot it ish, mine freund : 
'Tish der vag off dot tog's dail ! 

Charles F. AdamSi 


THERE wor once a mason at Guiseley gat intor his 
heead 'aht he wor just cut aht for a preycher, so 
he went to see a Methody parson, an' asst him if he 
couldn't get him a job as a "local" somewhear ; he 
wor sewer if they'd nobbut give him a right chance, he 
could conve-t sinners wholesale. Well, after a gooid 
deal of bother t' parson gat a vacant poolpit for him i' 
some ahtside country place, an' theer one fine Sunda' 
mornin' in t' mason went, reight weel suited wi' hizen. 
Up into t' poolpit he mahnted, like one 'at wor weel 
used t' job. All went on quietly eniff, whol t' time 
come for him to begin his sarmon, an' theer wor a rare 
congregation to listen tul him. 

" Nah, my friends," he began, in a stammerin' sort of 
way, " t' text is this : * I am t' leet o' t' world.' " He 
then waited a bit, an* a'ter thumpin' t' poolpit top 
toathree times, he gat on a bit further, " Firstly, my 
friends," he says — "firstly, I — I — I am t' leet o' t* 
world," an' then he com' t' another full stop, and 
thumpt the poolpit agean a bit. " Yes," he said agean, 

THE WIDOW o'sHANe's RINT. 199 

■ in t' first place I— I— I am t' leet o' t' world," but 
he coulJu't get a word further, dew what he would. 

At t' last, hahiver, there wor an owd woman among't 
t' congregation sang aht, " I tell tha what it is, lad, if 
tha'rt t' leet o'o t' world, thah sadly wants snuflin'." 

An' t' poor mason hookt it aht o' t' chapel as if he'd 
been bitten wi' a mad dog. He wor never known t' 
enter a poolpit at after. 


WHIST, there ! Mary Murphy, doan think me 
But I'm dyiii' ter tell ye of Widder O'Shane: 
She as lives in the attic nixt mine, doan ye know, 
An' does tlie foinc washin' fer ould Misther Schnow. 

Wid niver a chick nor a child ter track in, 
Her kitchen !s always as natc as a ])in ; 
An' her cap an' her apron is always that clane — 
Och, a rai^iity foin gurral is the Widder O'Shane. 

An' wild ye belave me, on Sathurday night 
We heard a rough stip comin' over our (light; 
An' Mike, me ould nmn, he jist hollcretl to me, 
•* Look out av the door an' see who it moight be.** 

An' I looked, Mary Miirpliy, an' save me if there 
Wasn't Thomas Mahone on the uppermost stair, 
(He's tlw laiidlonl ; y«^'re stu'U him y<'r«"ir, wid a cano ;) 
An' he knocked on the door of the Widder O'Shane. 


An' I whispered to Michael, " Now what can it manCs 
That his worship is calling on Widder O'Shane V* 
(Rint day comes a Friday, wid us, doan ye see. 
So I knew that it wusn't collictin' he'd be.) 

" It must be she owes him some money for rint, 
Though the neighbors do say that she pays to the cint. 
You take care of the baby, Michael Brady," says I, 
" An' I'll pape through the keyhole, I will, if I die." 

The houly saints bliss me ! what shudn't I see 
But the Widder O'Shane sittin' pourin' the tea ; 
An' the landlord was there — Mr. Thomas Mahone— • 
A-sittin' one side ov the table alone. 

An' he looked at the Widder O'Shane, an' sez he, 
*' It's a privilege great that ye offer ter me ; 
Fer I've not sat down by a woman's side 
Since I sat by her that I once called me bride. 

" An' is it ye're poor now, Widder O'Shane ? 
Ye're a dacent woman, tidy an' clane ; 
An' we're both av us here in the world alone — 
Wud ye think uv unitin' wid Thomas Mahone ?" 

Then the Widder O'Shane put the teakettle down. 
An' she sez, "Mr. Thomas, yer name is a crown ; 
I take it moat gladly " — an* then me ould man 
Hollered, " Bridget cum in here quick as yer can." 

So, then, Mary Murphy, I riz off that floor. 

An* run into me attic an' bolted the door ; 

A.n' I sez to me Michael, " Now isn't it mane ? 

Ske'll have no rint to pay, will that Widder O'Shane." 

^ntertammant Sooks for Toting PeopH 

Choice Humor 

By Chi^rley C. Shoein&.ker 

For Reading and Recitation 
To prepare a book of humor that shall be free front anything 
that is coarse or vult^ar on the one haml, and avoid what is flat and 
insipid on the other, it the difficult task which the compiler set for 
hhnself, and wliich he has successfully accomplished. The book 
has been prepared with the utmost care, and it ivill be found &a 
interesting and attractive for private reading as it is valuable for 
public entertainment. 

Choice Di&.Iect 

By Chislej- C. Shoem&J<er 

For Reading cad Recitation 
This book will be found to contain a rare and valuable colleO' 
tion of Irish, German, Scotch, French, Negro, and other dialects, 
and to represent every phase of sentiment from the keenest humor 
or the tenderest pathi>s to that which is strongly dramatic. It 
afibrds to the amateur reader and the professional elocutionist the 
largest scope for his varied abilities, and is entirely free from any- 
thing that would olfeud the most refined taste. 

Choice Dialogues 

By Mrj-. J. W. Shoemewker 
Per School and Social Entertainment 

Entirely new and original . The topics huM- been arranged on m 
•omprehensivi' plan, with reference to 8i-<-uriii>{ the greatest posai- 
ble variety, and the matter has been Hi>e<iall.v prepared by a corpa 
of able writers, their aim being to secure loflint-Hs of conception, 
purity of tone, and ada]itability to the ni-e<lN of amateurs. It is an 
all-round dialogue book, being Huite<l to children and u<1ults, and 
to Suuiiay-HciioolH and day-schools. It is conceded tu be oag uf lb* 
^•it dialogue books iu print. 


Snteriainment Books for Tonng Ba^ptf 

Primary Recitations 

By Amos M. Kellogg 
For Children of Seven Years 
A rentable store-house of short rhymes, brief paragraphs and 
•ouplets adapted to the age when the aspiring speaker first Belects 
his own piece. It is particularly available for its newly culled 
collection of nature recitations and poems which encourage the 
youthful interest and love of outdoor beauty. 

Littie PeopleV Spea^ker 

By Mr J". J. W. ShoemeJcer 

For Children of Nine Years 

The book comprises 100 pages of choice pieces in prose ani 
verse adapted to childhood. It contains a number of bright and 
attractive Recitations, Motion Songs, Concert Recitations, Holiday 
Exercises, and stirring Temperance and Patriotic Pieces. All the 
selections are new, a number of them being specially written fo> 
tills work, and others appearing for the first time in book form. 

Primary Speaker 

By Amos M. Kellogg 

For Children of Ten Years 
This volume contains 200 carefully selected pieces for just that 
age when the child's natural diffidence makes the right pieof 
necessary. Boys, especially, have been considered in the com 
pilation, while for the more ready speakers there are a number 
of selections that afford opportunity for the display of dramatic 


Entertainment Books for Voung People 

Sterling Di&.logues 

By Willia^m M. ClarK 
The dialogues comprising this volume have been tnosen from a 
large store of material. The contrihutioQS are from the pens of 
the most gifted writers in this field of bujraiiire, and the topics are 
80 varied and comprehensive that they are readily adapted to th« 
needs of .Scliools, Academies, and Literary Societies. They ar« 
especially suited for Social Gatherings and Home Amusement, a* 
the staging required is simple ana easily obtained. 

Model Dialogues 

By Willizwm M. Clark 

The dialogues comprising this collection have been contributed 
by over thirty of America's best writers in tliis field of literature. 
They represent every variety of sentiment and emotion, from the 
extremely humorous to the pathetic. Every dialogue is full of life 
and action; the sunjects are well chosen, and are so varied as to 
Buit all grades of performers. The book is especially adapted for 
School Exhibitions, Literary Societies, and Suuday-schoul and 
Social Gatherings. 

Standard Dizwlogues 

By Rev. Alexander Clzwrk. A. M. 

The author's name is n k'uarant y of the excellence of this book. 
His long experience as a lecturer before Teachers' Institutes, and 
his cirtse study of tlie tt-achers' needs, his lofty ideals of education 
and of life, his refinement of taste, diversity of attainment, and 
versatility of cxpn-ssion, all comliiiic to qualify him in an eminent 
degree for the preparation of sucli a volume. I'or both teacher 
and cfitcrtaiiier this b(>ok lias special points of luurit, tu the di»* 
luRues are interesting tiH wcfll as instructive. 

THE PENN publishing; COMPANY 

Entertainment Sook^ for Vonng tl^opAi 

Schoolday Dialogues 

By Rev. Alexander Cleurk, A. M. 

I'his book of dialogues, prepared for use in School Entei^ 
lainments, furnishes great diversity of sentiment and diction. 
Although for the most part composed of serious or pathetic subject- 
matter, there will be found many humorous dialogues and much 
good material for the little folks, as well as for the older ones. 
The staging and costuming are of the simplest character, and are 
60 fully described as to make the task of preparation quite easy, 
even for the novice. 

Popular Dialogues 

By Phinezk.] Garrett 

The author's large experience in the Entertainment and Amuse- 
ment field has qualified him for the preparation ot a book of 
unusual merit. No work of this kind more fully meets the popu- 
lar demand for interesting and refined entertainment. In this 
collection will be found dialogues to suit every occasion, either for 
public entertainment or for a social evening at home. Humor and 
pathos are pleasantly blended, and provision is made for the 
wants of the young and the old, the grave and the gay, the exp«i 
rienced and the inexperienced. 

£xcelsior Dialogues 

By Phine&.s Geirrett 

This book is composed of original dialogues and colloquies 
designed for students in Schools and Academies, and prepared 
expressly for this work by a corps of professional teachers and 
writers. Comedy and tragedy are provided in due proportion, 
and the moral tone of the work is of the highest order. Teachers 
will here find just the material for which they have been search- 
ing, something with plot enough to hold the attention and that 
uiU eommaud the best efforts of the older pupils. 


"Zntertatam^ui Books tot Toant i^oi ••• 

Fancy Drills and Marches 

By Alice M. Kellogg 

.^Idren enjoy drills, and this is the most successful drill book 
ever published. It has more than fifty new ideas — drills, marchea, 
motion songs and action pieces. Among them are a Sifter Drill, 
tBibbon M»rch with Grouping and Posing, Pink Rose Drill, Christ- 
inas Tree Drill, Delsarte Children, Zouave Drill, Wreath Drill 
end March, Glove Drill, Tambourine Drill, March of the Red, 
White and Blue. Teachers will be especially pleased with the 
care given to the exercises for the smaller children. A*l of th« 
^illsare fully illustrated. 

Idedwl Drills 

By Ma^rgucrite W. Morton 

This book contains a collection of entirely new and original 
drills, into which art introduced many unique and efifective 
features. The fullest descriptions arc given for the successful pro- 
duction of the drills, and to this end nearly UK) diugrai;is have 
been inserted showing tlie ditFcriint movements. l'-v(;rything is 
made so clear that anyone can use llio drills without tJie slightest 
diflBculty. Among the more popular an<l pleasing drills are : Tb* 
Brownie, Taper, Maypole, Rainbow, Dumb-bell, Butterfly, Sword 
Flower, Ring, Scarf, Flag, and Swing Song and Drill. 

Eureka Entertainments 

'fhe title of this v.)lniiie cxjin^sscs in a nulsbcll (Ik; charaoi/croi 
Its fontuuta. The wear> searcher after niat*;rial for any kind ol 
entertainment will, upon cxnmiiiutir>n of this book, at once 
exclaim, "I have found ii." Here is just wimt is wanted for usfl 
in Ay-school, Kunday-H<bi'id, at chDrch Ho<'ial8, ♦<•»«, an"l othi-t 
'estivals, for parlor or (ircsi'le atnuBcnient, in fact, for all kinds ol 
yhool or boinc, public or |>rivate enU.>rtainni<-nts. The workil 
characterize*! by freshnesH and originality throughout. 


Bntertainmeat Books for Tonng PeopU 

Special Day Exerciser 

By Amos M. Kellogg 

Almost every week in the school year has its birthday of a 
national hero or a great writer. Washington, Michael Angelo, 
Shakespeare, Longfellow, Holmes, Browning and Emereon are 
among those the children learn to know from this book. The holi. 
, days, Easter, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Memorial Day are not for. 
gotten ; and in between are many happy suggestions for tree plant 
ing, for bird and flower lessons.and debates. 

Christmas Selections 

By Rosamond Livingstone McNa^ught 

For Readings and Recitations 
Sunday schools, day schools, the home circle, all demand mir 
terial for Christmas entertainments, and all want something new 
and appropriate. This book contains just what is wanted. Every 
piece is absolutely new, not a single one having previously been 
published in any book. It contains recitations, in prose and 
poetry, for every conceivable kind of public or private entertain* 
ment at Christmas time. 

Holiday Selections 

By Sara Sigourney Rice 

For Rsadings and Recitations 
The selections in this volume are adapted to all the different 
holidays of the year and are classified accordingly. Fully half of 
the pieces are for Christmas, but ample provision is also made for 
New Year's, St. Valentine's Day, Washington's Birthday, Easter, 
Arbor Day, Decoration Day, Fourth of July, and Thanksgiving. 
The pieces are unusuaRy bright, and the variety under each holi- 
day will afford the fullest opportunity for a satisfactory choice; 
the older students and the little ones alike will find SOluettUDj; 
•uited to theii different degrees of ability. 


^Vfertainment Books for Tonng People 

Holiday Ehtertaitiments 

By Cha..rles C. Shoemaker 
Absolutely new and original. There are few things more popn- 
lar during the holiday season than Entertainments and Exhibi- 
tions, and there is scarcely anything more difficult to procure than 
new and meritorious material appropriate for such occasions. 
This book is made up of short dramas, dialogues, tableaux, 
recitations, etc., introducing many novel features tliat give the 
spice and sparkle so desirable f(jr such occasions. It is adapted to 
the full round of holidays, containing features especially prepared 
for Christmas, New Year's, "Washington's Birthday, Easter, Deco- 
ration Day, Fourth of July, and Thanksgiving. 

Spring and Summer School 

By Alice M. Kellogg 
This book shows liow to capture "all ounloors" for the school 
room. Every warm weather holiday, including May Day, 
Memorial Day, Closijig Dr-.y, is represented; for each the book 
offers from ten to thirty new suggestions. Tableaux, pantomimes, 
recitations, marches, drills, souks and special programs, provide 
exactly the ri^ht kind of material fur Spring exercises of any sort. 
The drills and action pieces are fully illustrated. Everything in 
the book has been especially edited and arranged for it. 

Select Speeches for Declamation 

By John H. Bechtel 

This book contains a lar^c iiuinKcr of short prose piecea 
chosen from the leading writi-rs and speakers of all ages and 
nations, and ndminilily adapted for use l>y ctdlcge men. Only the 
very best, from u large store of rlioicc material, was selected for 
this work. The naines of Demosthenes, I-ivy, Kossuth. Hona- 
jiarle, Chalhani, Hurke, Macauhiy, Hugo, (MaiiHtone, \Va.sliiiii;lon, 
Jf-fferHon, (iarlitj.l, ilarrison, Webster, Everett, Phillips, Curtis, 
lUaiuf, Hee<li< r, (irady, Clevdund, MiKinhy, and Depcw may 
aorvc to suirKi'st tlie standard <>' Uie srlrctionH. 


BBteriainmeat Books for Tonng People 

Temperance Selections 

By John H. Bechtel 

For Readings and Recitations 
These selections have been taken from the utterances of pulpit 
orators, from the speeches of political. leaders, and from the pens 
of gifted poets. They depict the life of the drunkard, point oui 
'the first beginnings of vice, and illustrate the growth of the habit 
'as one cup after another is sipped amid the pleasures and gayeties 
of social life. This volume appeals to human intelligence, and 
speaks words of truth and wisdom that cannot be gainsaid. 

Sunday-School Selections 

By John H. Bechtel 

For Readings and Recitations 
This volume contains about 150 selections of unusual merit. 
Among them something will be found adapted to every occasion 
Bjd condition where a choice reading or recitation may be wanted. 
Suitable provision has been made for the Church Social, the Sun- 
day-school Concert, Teachers' Gatherings, Christian Endeavor 
Societies, Anniversary occasions, and every assemblage of a relig- 
ious or spiritual character. Besides its value for readings and 
recitations, the pastor will find much in it to adorn his sermon, 
and the superintendent points by which to illustrate the Sunday- 
school lesson 

Sunday-School Entertainments 

All new and original. The demand for a book of pleasing and 
appropriate Sunday-school entertainments is here supplied. The 
articles are largely in the nature of dialogues, tableaux, recita- 
tions, concert pieces, motion songs, dramatized Bible stories, and 
responsive exercises, all based upon or illustrating some Biblical 
truth. Special care has been taken to make provision for such 
' occasions as Christmas, New Year's, Easter, Thanksgiving, and 
the full round of celebrations, so that no time or season Is witb' 
«ut a subject • • 


This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 

JUL 2 7 i^^^^ 
4 1934l tv 



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