'/,
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
AT LOS ANGELES
Digitized by tlie Internet Arcliive
in 2008 witli funding from
IVIicrosoft Corporation
littp://www.arcli ive.org/details/clioicedialectotliOOslioe
Choice Dialect
and other
Characterizations
Containing I^eadings and
Jiecitations in Irish, German
Scotch, French, ^fegro
and other Dialects
Compiled by
CHAIif.ES C. SHOEMAKEU
Philadelphia
The Penn
Publishing Company
149257
Copyright igiS by The Penn Publishing CoMPA>ft
DGS5
CONTENTS.
^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
nr CONTENTS.
PAflC.
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.
CHOICE DIALECT
AND
OTHER CHARACTERIZATIONS
FOR
READING AND RECITATION
MARY O'CONNOR, THE VOLUNTEER'S
WIFE.
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.
6
6 HOW PAT WENT COURTING.
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
by;
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.
HOW PAT WENT COURTING.
(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.
HOW PAT WENT COURTING. 7
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, cro.ss 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
8 UNCLE GABE AT THE CORN-SKUCKINO.
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."
UNCLE GABE AT THE CORN-SHUCKING.
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';
UNCItE GABE AT THE CORN-SHUCKINO. 9
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
chune,
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 :
JOHNSON GALS.
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 !
CHORUS.
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! !
10 UNCJLE GABE AT THE CORN-SHUCKING.
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 ?
NEIGHBORS. 11
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.
NEIGHBORS.
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:
12 NEIGHBORS.
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
MEIGHOORS, H
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
14 NEIGHBORS.
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 — •
DAT YALLER GK)Wir. 1&
(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 YALLER GOWN.
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 !
16 DAT TALLER GOWIT.
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.
THE MUTILATED CURRENCY QUESTION. 17
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.
THE MUTILATED CURRENCY QUESTION.
*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
that."
*' 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
2
18 WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK.
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
eixpence.
" 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.
WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK.
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
WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK. 19
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 !
Anow.
PAT'S LETTER.
WELL, Mary, me darlint, I'm landed at last,
And troth, though they tell me the st'amer was
fast
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
night,
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
quick,
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.
32 THE PRAYER.
THE PRAYER.
'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
birth
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
trees,
And the walls that long had lorded over seen and unseen
foe
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
sight.
And that dark race whose religion has a superstitious
trend.
And whose superstition clambers toward an everlasting
Friend,
THE PRAYER. 23
They were shouting in their frenzy, or in terror meekly
dumb,
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
above.
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
die!
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'
fear,
Dere is holes in all our anuor dat at first view didn't
appear;
24 THE PRAYER.
An* we'd like to patch 'em over, if it's all de same to
You;
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;
THE PRAYER.
25
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
Thee;
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
dread,
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
evermore
That the fervent prayera they offered drove destructioa
from their shore ;
26 SPEAK NAE ILL.
And how much faith moves a mountain, or commands a
rock to stay,
Is unknown to earthly ignorance, and for only God to
say
Will Carleton.
BE CONTENT.
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.
SPEAK NAE ILL.
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
A STREET GAMIX'S STORY OF THE PLAY. 2t
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.
^ STREET GAMIN'S STORY OF THE PLAY.
?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
28 A STREET gamin's STORY OF THE PLAT.
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
0 A STREET gamin's STORY OF THE PLAY.
" 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»
curtain."
Anon.
OVER THE CROSSIN'. 31
OVER THE CROSSIN'.
**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.
82 OVER THE CROeSIN*.
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 ;
THEf EOT OV OURN. «
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.
THEl BOY OV OURN.
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
year.
I tho't I heerd a rappiu' tew, an' yit I wa'n't quite
shoar,
But I hadn't the slight'st idee, my child, thet you wa#
at the door.
84 THET BOY OV OURN.
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
alone
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
you,
(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
here.
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
morn,
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
him.
THET BOY OV OURN. JJ5
I spoze ther's some good reason why our fiitur's alius
sealed,
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
seed.
But life is mighty thwartin', chile (I feered I'd act this
way),
'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
weaned.
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 ;
36 THET BOY OV OURN.
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
quit.
•• 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
knee.
" 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
cream."
" 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«
more."
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
bad.)
THET BOY OV OURN. 37
Fer though we've traveled side by side fer nigh to twenty
year,
Thet wuz the fust an' unly time thet things got out o'
gear.
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
noise.
He'd play fer keeps, an' go to shows, an' run to all the
fires.
Till I 'most tho't my fondest hopes were notliin' but
vain deaires.
He come a shameful thing on me in open church one
day,
I'd led 'im to the anxious »eat to hev 'Lm seek the way j
4 .t f*orr^^y
38 THET BOY OV OURN;
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
know,
An' then I 'gin to b'leve 'twuz true thet " Life's a fleetin'
show."
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
book,
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
'Liakim.
'Course I fainted thar an' then, an' Elder Slim went
home,
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
intense.
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
low
To think I struv so powerful hard, fer Satan tew flank
me so ;
THE TRIBULATIONS OP BIDDY MALONE. 39
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
year.
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.
THE TRIBULATIONS OF BIDDY MALONE.
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
40 THE TRIBULATIONS OF BIDDY MALONE.
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.
THE EARTHQUAKE IN EGYPT^. 4)
THE EARTHQUAKE IX EGYPT.
▲ " FOOL PA'sON " AND A WAYWARD SISTER
RECONCILED.
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
a-comin'."
" 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
42 THE EARTHQUAKE IN EGYPT.
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
bref."
" 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
THE EARTHQUAKE IN EGYPT. 43
■ide to side while her white-rimmed eyes rolled in ter-
ror.
" 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."
44 WINNIE'S WELCOMB.
WINNIE'S WELCOME.
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'.
UNCLE GABE ON CHURCH MATTERS. 45
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,
UNCLE GABE ON CHURCH MATTERS.
OLD SATAN lubs to come out to de meetin's now-
a-days,
An' keeps his biznes^s runnin' in de slickes' kind o'
Avays.
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
smile,
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
stay,
An' meet do bill by cuttin' <lown de parson's vearlr
pay. .
46 UNCLE GABE ON CHURCH MATTERS.
His voice is loud an' strong enough to make de buehei
ring,
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
sky;
An' he makes de old-time music sound so frolicsome an'
gay,
.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
trees,
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
eyes.
Till he almost see de chimleys to de mansions in de
skies.
J. A. Macon.
THE COFFEE MY MOTHER USED TO MAKE. 47
THE COFFEE MY MOTHER USED TO MAKE.
" 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
Fe,
And I want to state this coffee tastes like gettin' home
to me!
" Pour us out another, daddy," says the feller, warmin'
up,
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
stood
As solemn for a moment as an undertaker would ;
fO KIT. OR FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.
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.
KIT, OR FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.
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
KIT, OR FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. 4t
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?"
4
60 KIT, OR FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.
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
fCIT, OR FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. 51
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'
hoofs?"
" 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«
ing.
" 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-
you?"
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
Kit."
52 KIT, OB FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.
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
back."
" 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.
IEI8H COQUETRY. 53
IRISH COQUETRY.
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
he.
" Bekase I meant you all the time, sir !" says she.
64 GABE AND THE IRISH LADY.
GABE AND THE IRISH LADY.
A CHARACTER SKETCH.
"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.
QABE AND THE IRISH LADY. 55
*' 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
56 GABE AND THE IRISH LADY.
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
chances."
" 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
worrud."
" Find some work for him, Bridget," said Miss Jenny.
" I will send him to you whec I have shown him to
mamma."
" Faith ! I wish her joy uv th» scig'nt," responded
Bridget.
<3ABE AND THE IRISH LADY. 5?
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 gra.ss-
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."
68 OABE AND THE IKISH LADY.
" 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
ijiymn."
" 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."
GABE AND THE IRISH LADY. 59
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
forth:
" ' 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
OABE AND THE IRISH LADY. f51
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
alhision.
" 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.
"INASMUCH."
A CHRISTMAS STORY.
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
feed.
And I believe in preachin' too — by men for pieachin'
born,
Who let aione the husks of creed, and measure out the
corn.
The pulpit's but a manger where the pews are gospel-
fed;
And they say 'twas to a manger that the star of glory
led.
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
calls.
And, stranger, let me tell you : I'm beginning to sus-
pect
That all the world are partners, whatever their creed or
sect ;
That life is a kind of pilgrimage, a sort of Jericho
road,
4nd kindness to one's fellows the sweetest law in the
code.
No matter about the 'nitials; from a farmer, you under-
stand,
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
these."
I know the verses, stranger, so you needn't stop to
quote.
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,
M *' INASMUCH.**
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
one.
And this made up the picture — my hair was not then
gray,
But everything still seems as real as if 'twere yesterday.
A little girl with haggard face stood at the counter
there,
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
old.
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
near."
Just then a dozen men came in; the boy was called
away
To shake the spotted cubes for drinks, as Forty-niners
say.
I never heard from human lips such oaths and curses loud
As rose above the glasses of that crazed and reckless
crowd.
But the poor, tired girl sat waiting, lost at J^wt to revels
deep,
"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
bread."
" 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
street.
Gently we awoke the sleeper, but she started to her
fd«t
6
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
bar."
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.
THE ENGINEER'S STORY.
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.
THE ENGINEER'S STORY. 6^
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
hour.
An' wus tearin' up the mountain like a summer thunder-
shower,
Round the bends an* by the ledges, 'bout ez fast ez we
could go,
With the mountain peaks above us an' the river down
below.
Ez we come nigh to a tres'le 'crost a holler, deep an*
wild,
Suddenly I saw a baby, 'twuz the station-keeper's
child,
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
diel
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
kill!
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
ten-
et «'8 my wife. Ther' aint none better than oh Filkin's
daughter "Nell."
Eugene J. Hall.
DE YALLER CHINEE. 69
DE YALLER CHINEE.
(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.
BIDDY'S TRIALS AMONG THE YANKEES.
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
person."
Harper's Bazar.
LIFE'S GAME OF BALL.
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.
LIFES GAME OF BALL. 75
I reckon I'm kinder fogj'ish ; don't matter much what 1
say;
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 u.se the Ash of Rashness, nor the heavy Oak of
Doubt,
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
Crime,
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
beside,
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
fair.
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
pass,
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
one.
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.
AUNT 80PHR0NIA TABOR AT THE OPERA. 77
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
more.
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
fears,
And I will watch the game as I wait in the shade of
the by-gone years.
AUNT SOPHRONIA TABOK AT THE OPERA,
" 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
78 AUNT SOPHEONIA TABOR AT THE OPERA.
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
^0 AUNT SOPHRONIA TABOR AT THE OPERA.
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
HE GUESSED HE'd FIGHT. 81
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."
HE GUESSED HE'D FIGHT.
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
noec.
f
82 HE GUESSED HE'D FIGHT.
" 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-
necticut.
" 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
missive.
"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 ?"
"HewUll"
HE GUESSED HE'D FIGHT. »3
"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
him.
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.
84 LARRY'S ON THE FORCE.
LARRY'S ON THE FORCE.
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
say—
We'll soon be able— whist! I do be singing till I'm
hoorse,
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
row
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
sthrate,
For, by the greatest bit uv luck, our house is ou his
bate.
The little b'ys is feared av him, for Larry's moighty
shtrict.
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
post.
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
thrue?
Last noight, you say, he — married ? and Aileen O'Dona-
hue?
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
VQ KYARLINA JIM.
KYARLINA JIM.
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.
MR. SCHMIDT'S MISTAKE. 8?
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.
MR. SCHMIDT'S MISTAKE.
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
88 MISCHIEVOUS DAISY.
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.
MISCHIEVOUS DAISY.
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.
lOflCHIKVOUS DAISY. 88
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.
to MISCHIEVOUS DAISY.
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
GRANDPA'S COUKTSHIP. 91
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.
GRANDPA'S COURTSHIP.
I
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
reach.
•2 GRANDPA'S COURTSHIP.
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
square,
No better, an' no wusser, than other people air ;
But then he wa'n't no favorite with rae, an' you kin
guess
'Twas 'cause he couldn't see the pint of me a-courtin*
Bess;
An' when he found that me an' her was wantin' to git
spliced,
He rared an' tore an' ordered rae to git right up an*
h'iste.
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
peas.
Besides, thar was another chap, a drover, wanted Bess ;
He had right smart of money, say a thousand more or
less.
But he was mortal humly, an' stubborn as a mule,
iLa' Bess declared she wa'n't a-goin' to hev no auch a
fool.
grandpa's courtship. 93
An' when the Deacon rared an' pitched, an' ordered me
away,
She up and vowed emphatic like, that she would never
stay
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
why,
Aunt Polly sided 'long of Bess, an' — wal, I'm free to
say,
We got our plans all ready, fur we 'lowed to run away.
So Bess she slipped away one day an' met me in the
lane;
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
through,
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
ont,
Fur the rain liiul riz (lif crick up, till it got so mortal
high
I gee wc couldn't ford it, an' it wa'n't no use to try.
94 GRANDPA'S COI^RTSHIP.
An' jest that very minute, while we was standin' still,
We heard the sound of horses' hoofs a-tearin' down the
hill!
An' Bess, she gives a little screech, an' lit right off the
hoss.
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
crick.
The water biled around us, but I struck out fiir the
shore,
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
Bess,
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
be.
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
across,
A.n' — wall, there aint much more to tell, but in about »
week
WET WEATHER TALK. 95
The Deacon he came walkin' in a-lookin* powerful
meek,
An' arter we had all shuck hands, he says : " That Silas
Cross,
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
you,
A.n' you can ask your grandma if I haven't told it
true !
Helen Whitney Clark.
WET WEATHER TALK.
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 — •
96 WET WEATHER TALK.
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.
THE WEE, WEE BAIRNIE. 97
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
THE WEE, WEE BAIRNIE.
«' 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
tired-Uko.
T
98 THE WEE, WEE BAIRITIE.
" ' Janet,' ca'd I ben the hoose, ' what ails £h*
bairnie ?'
" ' Ails him !' said she. ' Awa' wi' ye, naethin' ails
him.'
" ' 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
cakes.'
" 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«
THE WEE, WEE BAIRNIE, 99
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.
100 OLD WOMAN S LOVE STORT.
EVENING SONG ON THE PLANTATION.
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.
OLD WOMAN'S LOVE STORY.
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.
ANNIE'S TICKET.
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.
IU4 THE PINE TOWN DEBATING SOCIETY.
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.
THE PINE TOWN DEBATING SOCIETY.
(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
THE PINE TOWN DEBATING SOCrETT. 105
•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'
106 THE PINE TOWN DEBATING SOCIETY.
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
THE PINE TOWN DEBATING SOCIETY. 107
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-
108 BURGLAR BILI,.
■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,
saar."
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.
BURGLAR BILL.
THROUGH a window in the attic brawny Burglar
Bill has crept ;
Stealthily he seeks a chamber where the j'©welx7 u
kept J
BURGLAR BILL, 109
He is furnished with a jimmy, centre-bit, and carpet"
bag—
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
still.
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
crime?
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;
110 BURGLAR BILL.
" 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
brow,
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
yet!
Many a stately home he's entered — but, with unobtru-
sive tact,
He has ne'er, in paying visits, called attention to the
fact.
Gain he counts it, on departing, if he has avoided strife.
Ah ! my brothers, but the burglar's is a sad and lonely
life!
All forgotten are the jewels, once the purpose of his
"job,"
As he sinks upon the doormat with a deep and choking
sob!
Then, the infant's plea recalling, seeks the nursery
above,
BURGLAR BILL. Ill
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
said!
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!
112 AUNT PARSONS'S STORY.
AUNT PARSONS'S STORY.
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
AUNT PARSONS'S STORY. 113
* 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,
8
114 AUNT PARSONS'S 8T0RT.
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
better."
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."
AT^XT PARSONS'S STORY. 115
" 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
116 AUNT PARSONS'S STORY.
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
AUNT PARSONS'S STORY. 117
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«
118 ' AUNT PAESONS'S STORY.
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
THE INVENTOR'S WIFE.
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
]>owder-hom.
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
wife?
Mk8. E. T. Corbett.
122 DER deutscher's maxim.
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,
YOURS, TRULY. 123
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
YOURS, TRULY.
" 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
124 YOURS, TRULY.
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
asked:
" 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-
TOURS, TRULY. 125
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 ;
126 YOURS, TRULY.
" 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
smack.
" 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."
YOURS, TRULY. 127
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
letter.
" 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.' "
128 CABIN LOVE-SONO.
CABIN LOVE-SONG.
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
UHCLE PETE AND MAR8E GEORGE. 129
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.
UNCLE PETE AND MARSE GEORGE.
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*
130 UNCLE PETE AND MAR8E GEORGE.
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
yeah!
• " 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
UNCLE PETE AND MARSE GEORGE. 131
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*
planter.
Pete heard not, for he was dancing a gentle sbuffl*
and singing :
132 CULTURED DAUGHTER OF A PLAIN oEOCJwB.
" 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.
THE CULTURED DAUGHTER OF A PLAIN
GROCER.
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
CULTURED DAUGHTER OF A P1.AIN GROCER. 18S
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
134 CULTURED DAUGHTER OF A PLAIN GROCER.
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
BEN SCHNEIDER ON PROHIBITION. 135
lady, " and this plum preserve is simply a poem in it-
self."
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.
WHY BEN SCHNEIDER DECIDES FOR PRO-
HIBITION.
Y
OU schust vants me to dells you apout it, does you?
Veil, it von't dake me long, and mine schtory '\»
drue,
136 BEN SCHNEIDER ON PROHIBITION.
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
here,
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."
0 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 ;
BEN SCHNEIDER ON PROHIBITION. 187
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
say,
De salooud would all go if men fote as tey pray.
138 BEN SCHNEIDER ON PROHIBITION.
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
trinks."
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
here,
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
fall.
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.
JIMMIE'S PRAYER.
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.
146 JIMMIE S PKAYEK.
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
THE "OLE MARSTER's" CHRISTMAS. 141
THE "OLE MARSTER'S" CHRISTMAS.
^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*
142 THE '*OLE MARSTER's" CHRISTMAS.
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.
DIFFIDENCE.
DIFFIDENCE.
143
** 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 ?"
MOTHER'S DOUGHNUTS.
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.
10
Iflfe' THE WAKE OF TIM O'HARA.
THE WAKE OF TIM O'HARA.
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.
THE WAKE OF TIM CTHARA. 1^
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-
248 THE WAKE OF TIM o'hARA.
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.
GRANDFATHER'S ROSE.
DOES yo' see dem yaller roses elingin' to do cabin
wall,
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^
away.
0 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
breas',
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."
0 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;
AN EXAMINATION IN HISTORY. 151
Her raa got tired o' waitin', maybe, lonesome, so to say,
So she axed de King ob de garding to take my rose
away.
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
cow,
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
away.
Mary A. Denisow.
AN EXAMINATION IN HISTORY.
" 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
chile."
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."
Anon.
TOMMY'S TWIALS.
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'."
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
pains
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*
law,
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
place
In a city lawyer's office, an' began his legal course,
That landed him in jest one year within his father's
doors.
He's livin' with his father now, and the time an' money
spent
Fer to git his education hasn't panned out worth a
cent.
It was castin' on the waters bread that's never yet re-
turned,
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
hill;
An' he's worth about a dozen of his wuthless brother's
make,
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
pate,
He'd been a man uv power — maybe Guvner of the
State.
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
guess.
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
fence,
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.
SIMON'S WIFE'S MOTHER LAY SICK OF A
FEVER.
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 all.de 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
SABLE THEOLOGY. 157
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."
SABLE THEOLOGY.
ISE gwine dis ebenin' fo' ter preach ob dose infernal
vandals
What gits dar pleasure by dar tongues, a-circulatin
ficaji<lals.
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*
158 SABLE THEOLOGY.
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-waggin',
A-puttin' neighbahs by de ear, a-bouncin' and a-brag«
gin',
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
plastah
Ter draw de ugliness an' sech right out ob each pooah
sinnah,
An' servin' little slips an' sins ter make a gossip's
dinnah ;
No man so pious or so pooah but what dar pryiif
reaches,
Ter suck his repertation dry, jess like a lot ob leeches
Dey's all sech cowards dat it aint no use fur yo' ter
battle,
Yo' only nasties up yo'self by techin' such pooah
cattle ;
An' ivhen yo' cotch dar slandah foul, dey'U go fiir to
denyin',
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'
gizzards
SABLE THEOLOGY. 159
Dar lyin' am an empty sham ; a-groanin' an' repinin',
An' sickenin' all de honest folks wiv grimacin' an'
whinin'.
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
glory,
Den off dey goes to 'suit de Lord wiv some malicioiuf
story ;
A.-tellin' suffin' 'bout some man doiu' what he hadn't
oughter,
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
colic,
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'
neighbahs.
Gib ebcry man his hones' due, speak out to ebcry
sinnah.
But don't roll scandal on yo' tongues — it make* a diriy
160 THE LIGHT FROM OVER THE RANGE.
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.
Iedgarj.
THE LIGHT FROM OVER THE RANGE.
* 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.*'*
THE LIGHT PROM O^ER THE RANGE. 16'.
**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
end."
" 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
U
162 THE LIGTHT FROM OVEB THE RANGE.
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</
mother's."
" 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
done."
THE LIGHT FROM OVER THE RANGE. 163
" 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—
Amen."
" 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.
164 "TEAMSTER JIM."
" TEAMSTER JIM."
IT aint jest the story, parson, to tell in a crowd like
this,
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
McGrew.
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 ;
"TEAMSTER JIM." 161
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
day.
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
dead.
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 ;
166 THE MUSIC OF THE PAST.
(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.
R. J. BUEDETTE.
THE MUSIC OF THE PAST.
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.
167
Anoic.
SCHNEIDER'S TOMATOES.
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
168 BONNIE SWEET JESSIE.
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.
BONNIE SWEET JESSIE.
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
us,
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.
A TRAMP'S PHILOSOPHY.
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.
APPLES.
A NEGRO LECTURE.
" 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
tJNCLE NED's BAXJO SONG. 178
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."
UNCLE NED'S BANJO SONG.
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.
Chorus.
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 !
I
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
THE TRAPPER'S LAST TRAIL.
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.
Ma DOB MoERM.
.76 BIDDT M'gINNIB AT THE PHOTOGRAPȣfi8,
BIDDY McGINNIS AT THE PHOTOGRA-
PHER'S.
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,
indade.
Says I to mesel', " Och ! glory be till the whole
»urreld, sure 'tis you, Miss Biddy McGinnis, cud be
BIDDY M'GINNIS AT THE PHOTOGRAPHERS. 171
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-
12
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
him.
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<
BIDDY m'gINKIS AT THE PHOTOGRAPHERS. 179
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 ai.sy, 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
beyant.
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
180 BIDDY m'GINNIS AT THE PHOTOGRAPHERS.
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
was.
" 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."
BIDDY m'gINNIS AT THE PHOTOGRAPHER3. 181
** 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
182 BIDDY m'gINNIS AT THE PHOTOGRAPHERS.
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,
BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE. 183
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 ?
BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE.
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' Ea.st,
Them writes the most as fit the leaat ;
But there was cheers and carnage whon
Brave Corp'al Rand led on his men.
184 TESTIMONY IN A STEAMBOAT CASK.
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.
R. J. BUEDETTH.
A DUTCHMAN'S TESTIMONY IN A .STEAM
BOAT CASE.
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
TESTIMONY IN A STEAMBOAT CASE. 185
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
9f?
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
him.
This testimony being thought conclusive, the jury
gave Mrs. Jones a verdict for five thousand dollars.
* BEVARE OF THE VIDDERS.'*
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.
"BEVARE OF THE VIDDERS. ' 187
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 !'*
THE FUNERAL.
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.
THE FUNERAL. 18S
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-
found
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
race.
And he said, " Now don' he weepin' for dis pretty bit o'
clay—
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
190 THE FUNERAL.
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
appear
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
way.'
" 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'
'long/
"An' he'll get an education dat will prober'bly be
worth
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
best!
He have seut us many comforts — He have right to take
away —
To de Lawd be praise an' glory now and ever ! Let ui
pray."
Will Carleton.
IT'S VERA WEEL.
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 ;
lyZ IT'S VERA WEEL.
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.
DE PREACHER AN' DE HANTS. 195
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.
DE PREACHER AN' DE HANTS.
A OTORY RELATED BY UNCLE PERRY, A DARKEY OF
THE OLDEN TIME.
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.
194 DE PREACHER An' DE HANTS.
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 !
TIM MURPHY^S STEW. 195
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 MURPHY'S STEW.
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
ISW flM MURPHY'S STEW.
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.
VBITZ AND L 191
FRITZ AND I.
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 ;
I9S A TEXT WITHOUT A 8ERM0W.
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
A TEXT WITHOUT A SERMON.
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.
THE WIDOW O'SHANE'S RINT.
WHIST, there ! Mary Murphy, doan think me
insane,
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.
too THE WIDOW O'SHANE'8 RI»*.
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.
TUX Pi;NN PUiOJSiilNC COMPANT
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
■kill.
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
925-27 FILBERT STREET PHII ADEKPHIA
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.
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
"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.
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
M25-a7 FILBERT STKEET PHILADELPHIA
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.
THE PENN PUBLtSHING COMPAMY
^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
Celebration*/*
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.
TH£ PCNN PUBLISHING COMPANY
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 • •
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
This book is DUE on the last date stamped below
JUL 2 7 i^^^^
4 1934l tv
nV^
1241
l*>^-. V , h
u
•-^ (i^
>
SEP I 5 19^
>£P I 5 19&I
!G 1 ''^-^
\m BOOK BO^
JPL ^19^1 fc; [ V E D
I.IAIN LOArj CEs;;
JANS
L,-ft7ftP.m-8,'28
URfj SEP 7
^ 1§65^
P.r.:. i
A
UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNI A-L03 ANGELES
III II! nil
L 007 771 986 2
UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY EACILITY
III! till
AA 000 409 698 8
Live Music Archive
Librivox Free Audio
Metropolitan Museum
Cleveland Museum of Art
Internet Arcade
Console Living Room
Books to Borrow
Open Library
TV News
Understanding 9/11