Reliable statistics relative to the number of men out of employment and seeking work have always been difficult to obtain. In June, 1879, the Massachusetts Bureau of Statistics of Labor investigated the matter in that State, reporting "28,508 as the aggregate number of skilled and unskilled laborers, male and female, seeking and in want of work in Massachusetts." In November of the same year the number was reported as being 23,000. This was a little less than five per cent of the total number of skilled and unskilled laborers in the State at that time. Upon that basis, says the report, "there would be 460,000 unemployed able-bodied men and women in the United States, ordinarily having work, now out of employment." On the basis of the June report, there would have been 570,000 unemployed in the United States. This was the only statistical report upon the subject made prior to 1885; and coming, as it does, from Colonel Carroll D. Wright, through the Massachusetts Bureau of Labor, it possesses as much authority as statistical statements ever do.
While taking the census of Massachusetts for 1885, Colonel Wright thoroughly canvassed the subject of the unemployed in that State, the result being published in the Report of the Bureau of Labor for1887. This report, though much delayed, is a remarkable one, not only for its completeness and the masterly analysis of the figures it contains, but also for its minute divisions of the classes of unemployed; giving the age, sex, nativity, and trade of each person unemployed, and how many months in the year such enforced idleness is suffered.
Out of a total of 816,470 persons employed in gainful occupations in Massachusetts in 1885, 241,589, or 29.59 per cent, were unemployed. The duration of the idleness varied greatly in different industries and localities, but the average loss of time was 4.11 months per year for each of the unemployed. Over 29 per cent of Massachusetts protected workingmen idle for over four months of each year! The idleness of 241,589 persons for 4.11 months is equivalent to 82.744 persons unemployed for an entire year. This is nearly 11 per cent of the entire population employed in gainful pursuits. Idleness, that is enforced idleness, increased 110 per cent in Massachusetts between 1879 and 1885; and this average time unemployed is net average, as the 10,758 persons, whose loss of time at their "principal occupation" or trade was partially made up by securing "other occupations" and "odd jobs," are separately tabulated, and the amount of work at "other occupations" is deducted from their loss of time at "principal occupation," thus giving a net average of the time wholly unoccupied at any sort of labor. It is interesting to note the industries in which the greatest percentage of this enforced idleness occurs. I take the following from an elaborate table given in Mr. Wright's report. In the boot and shoe industry of Massachusetts, 48,105 male adults are supposed to be employed. Of these 15,731 get steady work, while 32,374, or 67.3 per cent, are unemployed four months in the year. The same industry employs 14,420 females, of whom 10,250, or 71 per cent, are idle four months, an average of 2.62 months idleness for all persons employed in that industry. The cotton-mill operatives number 58,383 of whom 26,642 are males, 31,741 females. Of all these operatives, 24,250, or 41.5 per cent, are idle more than one third of the time.
In the manufacturing of agricultural implements, a protected industry that, being carried on in factories, needs not stop for weather, 69.1 per cent of all persons employed are idle 4.12 months per year; whereas, of farm laborers, whose occupation is unprotected, and whose employment is wholly at the mercy of seasons, only 30.19 are idle during any part of the year, while 69.81 per cent find steady employment the year around.
Carpenters, also, whose labor is unprotected and dependent largely upon season, report 52.82 per cent steadily employed, with 47.18 per cent idle three months in the year.
Compositors and printers number 4541 in the State, only 450, or 9.91 per cent, of whom are idle during any part of the year, while 90.09 per cent find steady work. On the other hand, 51.31 per cent of the stove-makers are idle 4.09 months per year, and 66.4 per cent of rolling-mill employés are idle 4.04 months. Stone-workers and brick-masons fare better, though unprotected, since but 46 per cent of these are idle during any part of the year; while the tack-makers, taking both sexes, have 70 per cent of idleness for one-third of the time, only 30 per cent finding steady work. The silk industry employs 1975 persons—556 males and 1419 females; of these, 979, or 49.5 per cent, are idle nearly four months each year.
The woollen industries of Massachusetts employ 22,726 operatives of both sexes. Of these, 9463, or 42 per cent, are idle four months in the year.
Perhaps the infinite beauty of protection is best illustrated by a comparison of the work secured by blacksmiths with that of rolling-mill employés. Of blacksmiths, 82.25 per cent had steady work for the entire year, while only 17.75 per cent were idle 4.41 months. Of rolling-mill employés, as stated above, 66.40 per cent were idle 4.04 months, and of nail-makers 73.49 per cent were idle 3.86 months.
The manufacturing industries of Massachusetts furnish 69.14 per cent of the idleness of the State; i.e., of the 241,589 unemployed, 167,041 depend upon the manufacturers for work and sustenance. On the other hand, agriculture furnishes but 6.28 per cent, transportation 2.91 per cent, personal service but 1.72 per cent, and the day laborers but 8.43 per cent.
Fall River, with a total laboring population of 26,220, found steady employment for but 11,437, or 43.62 per cent, while 14,783, or 56.38 per cent of her population, were seeking work 3.49 months in the year. The result of it all is that one third of the persons engaged in remunerative employment in Massachusetts were unemployed for more than one third of the time.
It is significant that 129,272, or 53.51 per cent, of the total number of unemployed were found in twenty-three cities of the State, while 325 towns furnished 46.49 per cent.
It is often claimed that labor disturbances, strikes, and lock-outs are responsible for most of the idleness in manufacturing industries. The report under review goes into this question, and as aresult ascertains that in the manufacturing industries "an average suspension of one-fifth of a month (0.20) was caused by repairs, improvements, etc. An average suspension of one-fiftieth of a month (0.02) was caused by strikes and lock-outs," while the balance was due to "slack trade." Just how much of the loss of time was due to combinations and trusts "restricting production, so as to control prices," does not appear; but when it is shown that in an average idleness of 4.11 months per year, strikes are responsible for but an average of one fiftieth of one month, or but little over one-half day, it is time for "statesmen" to abandon their stock argument of "strikes and strikers," and look about for some of the real causes of present conditions.
It is possible to only partially supplement this investigation in Massachusetts by similar investigations in other States.
In 1886 the Illinois Bureau of Labor Statistics, in an investigation of trade and labor organizations, covered the question of the number of weeks' work secured during the year. The following analysis of that report refers only to the membership of labor organizations in the State which reported upon that question, or 85,392 workingmen. For these the average was 37.1 weeks work and 14.9 weeks idleness during the year. Only one-fifth found steady work for the year; about one-third could get work but one-half the time; while, to quote from the report, "the industrial people, as a class, secure work for only 71.7 per cent of full time, and spend 28.3 per cent of their time in idleness, for want of work to do." (Illinois Report for 1886, page 319.) The coal-miners of the State secure work for but 23 weeks in the year. The occupations securing the greatest percentage of employment are those most removed from the protecting influences of that Congressional bill of fare called tariff. Thus the barbers, horseshoers, printers and pressmen, street-railway employés and railroad men, report nearly full time; iron-moulders and rolling-mill men, 35 weeks per year; while other metal-workers report 30 weeks of work and 20 weeks of want of work.
In commenting upon the tables given, Colonel John S. Lord, the able secretary of the Bureau, says: "Whatever value may be attached to the ultimate percentage of time lost, as deduced from all classes, the specific facts remain as to a great number of men and occupations. No interpretation of these facts can obscure the important fact that out of 85,329 workingmen, organized to promote their material interests, and presumably able to secure a greatershare of them than the unorganized, only about one-fifth of them can obtain continuous work for a full year of working time. As the last table shows, those who get less than 40 weeks work are 65 per cent of the whole; and those who get only from 13 to 30 weeks' wages in the year are 35 per cent of the whole, or 30,451 in number." (Page 320.)
Another and not less important feature of the Illinois report is that it shows the number of members of labor organizations out of work at the time of the investigation—June and July, 1886.
The question of the number of weeks' work secured during the year might be sometimes loosely answered by the secretaries of labor unions; but as to the number at that time unemployed the answers would be almost as accurate as a census enumeration. The 634 labor organizations of Illinois had an enrolled membership in June, 1886, of 114,365. It was found that 17 per cent of these belonged to both the Knights of Labor and to a trade union, and had hence been duplicated. Deducting these, it was found that 103,843 persons were members of these bodies. Of these, 88,223, or 85 per cent, were employed, while 15,620, or 15 per cent, were idle. Applying this percentage to the entire number of persons engaged in the industries in which organizations were found, basing that number on the census of 1880, there must have been in the three grand divisions of industry—manufacturing, mining, and transportation—at least 50,000 men unemployed in Illinois in June, 1886. If that percentage could be applied to all occupations, this number would be swelled to 150,000. The Illinois Bureau found 15 per cent of all those engaged in manufacturing and mining industries idle in 1886.
Massachusetts finds the equivalent of 11 per cent of all her industrial population idle during the year 1885, and finds 69 per cent of this idleness in protected manufacturing industries.
So far as I can see, the result of the Illinois investigation strengthens and verifies that of Massachusetts, both resulting in the conclusion that for 1885 and 1886 the equivalent of at least 11 per cent of our industrial population was out of work. The Iowa Bureau of Labor Statistics in 1887 threw out the "raw material" of a report that would, if digested and tabulated, strengthen this position. Unfortunately, the report as printed is but the reproduction of individual returns, and the work of getting an average is too great for the time at command.
A brief computation, however, on the figures presented showsthat, in a total of 1989 reports to that Bureau from workingmen in all industries, trades, and occupations, there was an average loss of time of 80 days per man per year; or, counting 300 working days per year, 26 per cent of the time of the workingmen of Iowa is unemployed.
After this survey of the field from the reports of three States, we turn to the report of the United States Bureau, at Washington, for 1885 (pages 65 and 66).
That report, from information gained by its agents and other sources of information at its hand, estimates that 7-1/2 per cent of the 255,000 manufacturing establishments of the country were absolutely idle during the year ending July 1, 1885, and that 168,750 factory hands were thus rendered idle. By applying the 7-1/2 per cent to all industries, that bureau stated that there "might be" 1,304,407 men out of employment that year, but again readjusts its estimate as being too large, and gives the number as 998,839. That same year 11 per cent of all the people engaged in all gainful pursuits in Massachusetts were idle; the next year 15 per cent of all those engaged in the three principal industries aside from agriculture were idle in Illinois. In Iowa, 26 per cent of the time of workingmen in all industries is spent in hunting work; and how, from this state of facts, the Federal Bureau could get at a 7-1/2 per cent estimate it is difficult to see. Massachusetts finds 29 per cent of her people idle one-third of the time, or 11 per cent all the time. If it is said that this percentage would be reduced in agricultural States, Iowa proves it to be not quite true, and at least the reduction would be slight. Allowing 4 per cent less of idleness for Western States than for Massachusetts is shown to be error by the reports of Illinois and Iowa. The first estimate of the Federal Bureau, 1,304,407, was not too high, but rather too low at that time. Applying the Massachusetts percentage to the entire country at that time, there must have been 1,913,130 persons out of work; and it should be remembered, too, that this is using as a base the number reported in the census of 1880, without allowing for the increase. Colonel Wright gives in his Massachusetts report for 1885, 816,470 persons engaged in all industries; the census of 1880 gives that State 720,774, showing an increase of 95,696, or a gain of over 13 per cent. Applying the Massachusetts gain to the entire class of productive industries, we find 19,753,071 as the number to which this percentage should be applied, instead of the Census number of 17,392,099.
I think no fair estimate of the number of unemployed in 1885 could be much under 1,900,000, and I believe no fair estimate of the present number of idle persons wishing employment and unable to find it, can be placed lower than 1,500,000. At least 6,000,000 of persons ordinarily employed are in enforced idleness from two to five months in the year, and thus forced to consume, while seeking work, the little it was possible to save during their six or eight months of employment.
It is not the purpose of this paper to consider the causes for this tremendous aggregate of enforced idleness. Doubtless much of it is due to the frantic attempts of combinations to control prices by limiting production. Protected by laws of Congress from competition with the industries of other nations, under the guise of "protection to American labor," the combined steel industries of the country pay the Vulcan Steel Works of St. Louis $400,000 to stand idle, thus throwing its workmen out of employ! The Waverly Stone Ring pays quarries thousands of dollars—in one instance, $4500 per year—to do nothing. The salt works along the Kanawha were bought up by the American Salt Manufacturers' Association, and have never employed a man since. Thus is American labor protected! The Standard Oil Company buys up competitors and dismantles their works. The tack manufacturers buy out a refractory fellow who would not join the pool, and not a wheel has turned since. The Western Lead and Shot Association buys the shot-tower at Dubuque, Iowa, to keep men from working there. A leading politician and prominent officeholder of Illinois goes to Washington to prevent the tariff reduction on jute bagging proposed by the Mills bill, and pleads manfully for the poor American workingman, though his own bagging mill has been idle for three years, while he draws a dividend from the pool for "limiting production," greater than he could realize by running his works. It doth not yet appear that his idle workmen have shared in the profits he derives from their idleness.
Sloan and Company stop as many coal-mines as is necessary to prevent the output from exceeding the limit agreed upon at the "annual meeting" of the combination. So with the coke-ovens.
The Joliet Steel Mills suspended "indefinitely" upon the publication of Cleveland's message to Congress, because "we can just as well as not, and we wish to impress upon our workmen the necessity of maintaining the tariff." Very timid is capital, and very shywhen it uses its power to starve a thousand men into voting for its interest and against their own!
That very much of this idleness is caused by these attempts on the part of protected industries to limit the production of commodities at home, is probably true. That voluntary immigration into a country already cursed with a large idle population is the cause of much of it is probably also true; but not to so great an extent as the imported contract foreign labor. Voluntary immigrants usually come intending to go far west and take up land. They come with intelligent purposes, and intelligently carry them out. The imported laborers are of a very different type.
A Pennsylvania newspaper states: "There were six hundred and forty Bulgarians just from Europe, by way of Castle Garden, marched to the mouth of a coal-shaft at Johnstown yesterday and halted at the entrance like soldiers. On the opposite side of a close board fence six hundred and forty of the old miners marched out and were discharged. The new men, great, burly, blank-faced fellows, then marched into the dark hole and took up the task laid down by the malcontents. We doubt if one of the 'new arrivals' knew a word of English, or how much they were to receive for their labor. What grand opportunities these animals will have to study the beauties of our institutions!"
There is in New York a company, with a capital of $50,000, chartered by the State to furnish Italian and Hungarian laborers, in defiance of the laws of Congress. That a committee has been appointed to "investigate" this matter of the importation of foreign labor under contract would be a healthful sign, had not these investigations become so diseased by contamination with corporate influences that most of them end at the "gate." The immigration for the first six months of 1888 exceeds that of any year since 1880, and it must follow that a vast percentage of this is either imported under contract, or, what amounts to the same thing, deceived by the lying promises of the agents of those interested in flooding the American labor market. There is certainly no crying need for additional laborers in this country, except to accomplish the purposes of a circular not long ago issued from a New York banking house, stating that "to check the demands of labor for excessive wages, it is necessary to augment the tide of immigration to the United States." The excessive demands of labor average $1.16 per day.
It is not, however, much that New York should charter a company to violate the law of the land, when an Illinois legislatureelects to the United States Senate a "high-protective-tariff" man who is building the State House of Texas with foreign contract laborers, brought there in defiance of the law passed by the Senate to which he was elected. Just how many of the four hundred thousand immigrants arriving annually are brought here under contract, or lured by deceptive promises and advertisements of those most interested in making laborers so plentiful that labor shall be cheap, it is of course impossible to tell. But that the fact is one of evil omen admits of no doubt. Rome drew nearer and nearer her end as the army of idle, hungry men increased. Feeding them from her public granaries may have postponed, it could not prevent, her final collapse. "Enforced idleness, or the cheapening of men," says a writer, "is not the sign of decadence, itisdecadence." It is laudable and praiseworthy to make money by just and legitimate means, but it is damnable tounmakemen in order to make money. To study the causes for this vast and constantly increasing army of unemployed, and thendo somethingto check those causes and prevent their effects, while it might not be so good partisanship, would be much better statesmanship than to "fire the Northern heart" by "bloody shirt" speeches in the Senate, and the raking up of old letters to "expose" the views some men held twenty-five years ago.
Ethelbert Stewart.
P. S.—Since writing the above, several hosiery works and woollen mills have closed because of a "tariff agitation" which, if successful, will give them cheaper raw material! "No matter," says a leading hose manufacturer in a Chicago paper, "whether the result of the proposed tariff-tinkering will benefit or injure us ultimately, any sort of agitation of the question immediately blocks trade. People will not buy when there is the remotest hope that goods will be cheaper after a while. The manufacturing industries at this time cannot stand any tariff agitation." No sane person believes that there is a man, woman, or child in the United States going without stockings until they see whether the Mills bill will pass the Senate! No sane man believes that one pair less of hose is sold in the United States because of tariff agitation. The underlying fact is, that the protected industries propose to "shut down" and throw their employés out of work for the purpose of starving them into voting for a continuation of the present iniquitous tariff schedules. It is the refined "shot-gun electioneering system" of the North.
E. S.
O bells that madly toll to-night,What is the meaning of your note?Is disappointment or delightThe burden of each brazen throat?And what the words my weary brainDiscovers in your vague refrain?From the high casement of my roomI watch the world below asleep;While from the belfries clothed in gloomThe clangor rolls from deep to deep,Repeating, as afar 'tis flung,A lesson from an unknown tongue.O music that eludes the soul,—Like that sweet sea which vexed the thirstOf Tantalus, but never stoleAcross his fevered lips accursed,—Unfold your mysteries to-night,Your misty meaning and your might.It surging sweeps upon the air.Besides the clamor of the bellsAre echoing strains from everywhere,Past, present, future. How it swellsInto an endless sea which roarsAnd moans on lonely rock-bound shores!Hoarse, hollow echoes from dead yearsOf that which I have thought and done—The discords of past sin and tearsThrough e'en your fairest measures run.Alas! when will those discords cease?Does sorrow never lead to peace?Chords of the present clash and jarAs though each note would never end;Yet as their rhythms die afar,They slowly unto beauty blend,And the last cadence fades awayAs fades a perfect summer day.O vibrant strains of the to-be,With promise pregnant and with hope,You are a glad epitomeOf the hereafter's power and scope;Yet 'neath your softest note appearsThe thunder-march of coming years.Ring, Christmas bells! The past is dead,E'en though its requiem never die,And God His endless love has spreadUpon the scenes that round us lie.Ring loudly to the midnight airThat Love and Hope have slain Despair.Ring out, O bells! The world is wide,And Goodness sits upon a throne.Ring out upon the Christmas-tideThat God will not forget His own,And that on all, from far above,Descends His never-failing love.William E. S. Fales.
It seems to be a striking case of misunderstanding from the Romans down, or up, to the Americans. Every theory and supposition has curiously added to the misapprehension. Rightly judged, with the plainest facts of his life even casually considered, the Bird o' Freedom seems so disreputable a fowl that one wonders how he ever came to be chosen as a figure-head by Romans, Germans, Americans, or the Michigan Regiment that bore him alive as its standard through the smoke of a score of battles, and brought him home again unscathed to make a curious part of the history of a gallant State in the times that tried men's souls. Innumerable myths trail behind him as appendages to his unearned fame. He was the Bird of Jove. He has ever been the reputed king of an ethereal world of fancy. His eye alone may look upon the sun unwinking and undazed. And yet it is all in his eye, or rather in that of the credulous mortals who believe the ancient story. There never lived a poet, sticking to his business, that has not at some time in his career become a panegyrist of his extraordinary supposed qualities and a proclaimer of his magnificence. It is a curious fact, too, that all the moralists, save one, have at some time orother used him as a simile, a great example, a something to be imitated. That one, greatest of all, is content with the familiar and plebeian hen and chickens in one of the most eloquent and touching of his monologues, and uses the miserable sparrow in that illustration which has in all time since given comfort to forsaken souls.
With the poetry about this overrated fowl everybody is more or less familiar. There is nothing finer; and it is somewhat startling, and also destructive of our most cherished ideas, to say that it seems a case of mistaken identity almost from beginning to end. It cannot be the eagle,oureagle, that is meant. He has never in a single instance done anything to entitle him to a medal. Yet the idealism of the ages has been heaping honors on his crested head through the necessity, as yet unexplained, of having some winged creature to glorify, to use as an emblem, to paint, to describe incorrectly if poetically, to embellish a heroic national moral with. It has been done without regard to fact in all the school-readers and other truthful volumes intended for the use of the very young. Every boy regards the American Eagle as the king of birds even from a moral standpoint, and he is liable to at least a brief spell of disappointment if he has the faculty of observation and the love of nature sufficiently developed to find out by-and-by that he has been deceived.
The coparcener with the eagle in all this beautiful nonsense is a bird that never existed at all, and who, having at last fallen from her high estate, is now principally useful as a name for a hotel that has been too often burned, or as the escutcheon of an insurance company. Considered in a matter-of-fact way, and in the cold and unflattering light of natural history, our national emblem is no more a truth than the Phœnix is, and is almost as preposterous as the roc. One wonders why, in the course of so many ages in which the gradual drift has been toward common-sense and fact, men have not learned to turn for their animal ideals, if it is necessary to have them, to the beasts and birds entitled to some consideration for actual qualities; for both beauty and gallantry, for instance, to the male of the barn yard fowl; for devotion, to the grotesquely homely stork; for self-sacrifice, to any of the beautiful creatures who flutter along before you in the path, with the distressful pantomime of a broken wing and great distress, inviting you to kill them easily with a stick or stone if you have the heart, and offering you every inducement to pursue them that is latent inman's cruel heart, but only after all to lead the marauder further and further away from a nest that is cherished.
As to the first of these hastily-given examples, any country-raised boy will concede the point, and he has not been left entirely out in the poetry, and especially in the folk-lore, of the nations. He it was who marked with his clarion the moment when he upon whose name is founded the most powerful of the Christian Churches denied his master and his faith. He sings the coming of the dawn in every clime, and marks the hour when graveyards cease to yawn, or when Romeos must depart. He leads his harem abroad in the morning as he has ever done, ever ready to fight his rival from across the fence or to meet in unconsidered duel the marauding hawk. With a gallantry quite unknown to any other bird or human, he calls familiarly to others of his family to come and eat the choicest morsel he may find. He is gay. He has the natural gait and air of an acknowledged chieftain. The sun glints upon his neck. His tail is a waving plume the equal of which few birds can boast. He hath a bold and glittering eye. Sometimes retreating under the dictates of prudence, as many higher personages have often done and been commended therefor, he is yet the ideal of homely, home-defending courage. Withal, he will upon necessity demean himself to scratch for a brood of chirping orphans, and gather them to his gallant breast because they have no mother. Yet, forsooth, not this illustrious bird, but the eagle—the "American" Eagle—is the emblem of the foster-mother of all the nations.
There is a place where every visitor to Chicago may see this emblematic lordling near at hand. It is at Lincoln Park. There is a colossal cage there where there are a dozen or so of him, and he is not even restricted in certain limited flights which seem fully satisfying to him in his well-fed condition. If you go to see him there you will have the advantage of observing how absurdly draggle tailed and slovenly he may become with full leisure to make his toilet if he ever does, and that he evidently is not naturally a dandy. This trait is not common with any of his captive neighbors except the coyotes, and nobody who has known the coyote in his native wilderness expects anything better of him. You can also observe his grotesqueness when he is on the ground, where he often comes, and there is probably nothing more ridiculously abortive in all nature than his movements when so situated. But one cannot visit him often or observe him long without becoming convinced that none of the attitudes in which he is almost invariablydepicted on flags, medals, seals, coins, and other ornamental and emblematic devices is natural to him. He never assumes them even by mistake or chance. "The poised eagle" becomes poetry like all the rest, when you observe that his "eagle glance" has taken in a piece of fresh meat somewhere, and he wishes to keep someone else from getting it. He then scrambles to the edge of a board, or hitches along to the end of a branch of the dead tree where he sits, and drops off like a hen, making an awkward flight toward the morsel that has attracted him. And when he gets there he edges suspiciously around it in the evident fear that it may be alive and may bite him.
You will, however, be able to observe some of his traits that seem more natural. There are the cruel eyes and the relentless expression; the "hooked claws" and the "bending beak." It is an eye whose expression never changes, and which regards with constant malice all its surroundings. The brow, which gives it the look so much admired, seems, according to Mr. Ruskin, to be merely a provision of nature to keep the sun from shining into it, thus disposing, Ruskin-like, at one fell swoop of one of the most striking of the poetical myths.
Still others will be disposed of if you stay long. Did any one of my readers ever read that neither the eagle nor the lion would eat anything they had not themselves slain? Well, later advices seem to indicate that both will upon occasion descend to carrion of the basest quality, and that both consume considerable time in their native haunts in catching and devouring bugs. Lizards and such small fry are assiduously looked for. Convincing proof of this, in the eagle's case, was not wanting in one brief visit to the above-mentioned famous and beautiful resort. In the same huge cage with the eagles were certain crocodiles, or alligators, or whatever name you may choose to call the Floridian saurian by. To me they all seem very much alike. I suppose this is because I do not care much about supra-orbital bones, or the number of teeth or toes, or minute particulars of anatomical conformation, but am disposed, after a blundering and non-technical fashion, to mostly regard looks and actions. The adult, or semi-adult, alligators lie all the time asleep, never moving, never winking, never so much as apparently breathing, and looking very much like chunks in a clearing. One wonders, in view of all the stories told, if they are really alive this fine summer weather, when there is no excuse for hibernation, and if so, how they ever manage to catch anything except possibly bylying with their mouth open and waiting until something mistakes the locality and crawls into it by inadvertance.
But there is one little beast in this interesting family so young and inexperienced as to be only about nine inches long, including all there is belonging to him, largely tail. He is of a dark-green color, with a mottled-yellow belly, and a mouth, when he opens it, very red indeed. He has no teeth large enough to be very frightful at a distance, and evidently depends upon the mere opening of this fiendish mouth to scare away all disturbers of the profound peace which broods perpetually over him and all his family.
This small one had got away, and in a modified and unsatisfactory search for his native bayou had crept through the meshes of the wire and into the other apartment where the eagles were. He was down in the little rill of running water, and partially hidden under a stone. An eagle had espied him there, and was watching him, while I watched the eagle. Presently the natural instincts of the bird of Jove became too strong for successful repression even in the presence of distinguished company, and he left his perch in the usual ungraceful way, and after alighting on the ground waddled to where the little reptile was having a comfortable time in his exile. He hesitated about the water, but finally waded in and scratched the monster out from under his sheltering rock. He then caught him round the middle with one gigantic claw which met entirely around his prey, and scrambled ashore. By this time the saurian was fairly awake, and began to provide for his immediate future by opening his mouth. The eagle, looking between his legs, saw this and dropped him as an uncanny thing, and afterwards spent some ridiculous minutes dancing around his foe and warily dodging his satanic manifestations of open mouth. The whole performance was such on the part of the eagle as would have disgraced in the eyes of her waiting family, an ordinary hen, and the end was that the alligator got safely back to his puddle and his rock. He did it deliberately, and backwards, with his mouth open about one-third of his entire length. The bird was of average size. He had the white feathers on his head which made him the "bald" or "American" eagle. Here was the emblem of this great republic vanquished by a sleepy little lizard less than a foot long. It was almost as disgraceful a performance as the Mexican War of '46.
I was once part proprietor of an eagle. He belonged to us, and we were a company of soldiers at a frontier post. While I knew him he lived in the mule-corral, and appeared to me to be at a greatdisadvantage there. Somebody had winged him against the face of the brown cliff at whose top he had been hatched, and he was now accustomed to sit upon a rail in the corner of the shed, and glare balefully at all intruders in the place he fancied he owned. He was perhaps fat beyond rule, but his claws were as long and sharp, and his eye was as relentless, as though still obliged to follow his natural calling of catching the little New-Mexican cotton-tail, and swooping down upon horned toads.
His wings measured about five feet from tip to tip, though he was supposed to have only lately passed the perilous period of his first moulting, and to be quite young. He was fed with bloody morsels of beef, and had, when he chose to take it, the freedom of the whole enclosure. But he was not on good terms with his neighbors, and maintained a very dignified demeanor toward some fifty mules, a dozen or so of cocks and hens, and an especially-privileged pig who had the run of the premises because it had been brought up by hand, and had, for a pig, remarkably aristocratic ideas. He frowned upon all manner of fellow-creatures who by accident and unintentionally paid a visit to his majesty. Peg, who owned a house which she considered her own near his perch, this mansion being a deal-box turned down, was a special aversion. Peggy was a large dog, and was herself not a pattern of amiability, especially when she was the mother of from nine to thirteen puppies, as frequently was the case; and it was commonly remarked that Aquila was in danger of having his head bitten off if he interfered with this interesting family, which he seemed rather foolishly inclined to do. Yet this was not by any means what became of this Monarch of the Air finally.
If the eagle is one of the striking emblems of power, he is also upon occasion, as before remarked, a specimen of decided and almost pitiable imbecility. He cannot even walk. His utmost endeavors in that humble direction seem to result only in an ungraceful waddle, in which his claws interfere with his shins, and those of his right foot interfere with those of his left, and he drags his tail in a most undignified manner in the dust. Also, his long wing-tips refuse to stay folded in a proper manner, as each time he stumbles he is impelled to throw out a wing, reminding one of a boy walking across a brook on a log. This one could fly only a little. The accident that had resulted in his captivity he had recovered from, but the wing bone had not been properly set where it was broken, and the short flights he attempted were very one-sided.So when he wished to go anywhere he usually walked, and it was such a walk as above described, or worse.
And when he did, it was to a place one would never have imagined that a properly conducted and self-respecting eagle would have thought of. But the bird seemed to have a liking for low resorts, and his special weakness was the pig-pen. This was, as it should have been, outside the walls, and was generally occupied by some eight or a dozen little, sharp-nosed, pointed-eared, anti-Berkshire, Mexican pigs, whose business it was to eat up all that was left from the dinner of more than a hundred soldiers, and to be the heirs of all the condemned commissary stores, and whose fate it was to be finally eaten themselves, say about Christmas. The last lot that went in there is a distinct recollection to me, aside from their doings with the eagle. They came from some aboriginal hamlet on the banks of the Rio Grande, about a hundred miles away. Each two of them had accommodations to themselves—a pen made of willow sticks, tied together with raw-hide, and slung upon a donkey. The long-suffering animal who had carried them so far had a round dozen for his cargo. He was heaped and piled with pig-cages, and the topmost pair of little swine were having an airy ride at the apex of a pyramid about eight feet from the ground, swaying from side to side with a sea-sick motion as the donkey walked; and they looked sick. A more unpromising family was never reared even in New Mexico. Nevertheless they were dropped over the side of the pen after much chaffering with the owner, and at an expense of "four bits" each.
As soon as by some means he found out they were there, it was to the pig-pen that this fatuous fowl resorted. I do not know why, but it was not because he loved them, nor that he had especial business with them. Making his way thither as best he could he would perch upon the side of the pen and glare balefully down upon the occupants, who did not seem to greatly care if he chose to amuse himself in that senseless manner. But after a while he would drop down on the back of the nearest one, and holding fast with his claws, he would proceed to bite the back of his neck, tweak his ears, and otherwise maltreat him. But at his first squeal the others would make common cause with him, after the unselfish fashion of pigs, and together they would pull our emblem down, drag him down in the dust or mud as the case might be, and finally would hustle him off into a corner, where he would sit scowling until some soldier came and took him away. Whenever the shrillvoice of a pig was heard expostulating it would be understood that the eagle was at it again, and somebody would go to the rescue of our national greatness. Often have I seen a couple of soldiers, each with the tip of a wing in his hand, and with the eagle between them, marching him across the parade-ground to his proper roost. On these occasions he looked exceedingly silly. When his feet touched the ground he would attempt to walk, and with even less success than usual. He reminded me of some urchin who had fallen into the creek, and who was being led homeward in much wetness and humiliation.
It is a sad story when the traditional dignity of the principal character is considered, for he was finally killed by those pigs. The facts developed at the inquest seemed to indicate that he had no discretion, and had gone too often. They had walked over him, and had even lain down upon him. Dead and disregarded he lay in a corner among the litter, and they had not even attempted to eat him. This seemed to indicate that they had killed him merely as a lesson to him. There never was more ignominious end to an exalted character.
Literature is very full of the reputed nobleness of certain birds and beasts; their vaunted qualities of head and heart; the pride of their bearing; the independence of their lives; the solitary grandeur of their characters. And in the majority of cases these heathenish notions have remained undispelled by the lapse of time. Even men assume for long periods of time the characters that romantic biographers have clothed them with, and the youth of this country, now men, are only just beginning to recover their senses after the singular yarns of such books as Abbott's Life of Napoleon, read in youth. As instances of the first statement, the elephant is actually, and in his real circus life, an indocile and malicious beast, prone to blind rages, revenges, and sly malice. The camel, darling of the Arab, ship of the desert, etc., has, by the testimony of those who know him well, less sense than a sheep; as long-necked and homely a piece of perfect stupidity as there is in the caravan, and looks it. I shall have attained the topmast round of a species of high treason when I mention a doubt as to whether that noble slave, the horse, is entitled to his general reputation, but such a doubt I have. There are those who lose a good deal of money on him, and will forgive him anything, even to the occasional breaking of their necks. He has his admirers in a majority of mankind, yet there never actually lived that fabled creature, a "safe" horse.
To revert again, and finally, to our national emblem, his mode of life gives him, if we may fall into the vernacular, dead away. He may have his virtues from our standpoint, and one of them is that he is not prolific. His crude nest is such a one as a boy might build in rough imitation of a nest, and call it an eagle's. Made of big sticks and nothing else, and added to as the years pass, it is wedged into the forks of a solitary hemlock, as high as possible from the ground and as remote as possible from any other thing, or is perched upon the shelf of the cliff above the canyon or the coast. It contains only three or four homely eggs. He seems faithful in his domestic relations, and pairs off not for a season, but for life or good behavior. This one fact covers his good qualities, for there is undoubtedly a spice of the heroic about it. With all his rapacious and predatory power of wing it may not be doubted that he is a bug-eater and a lizard-catcher, and that on mesa or in valley he fights with the raven and the buzzard for the possession of the uppermost eye of the casual dead mule. But his especial, weakness is an article of diet that he has no right to in the animal code, for the reason that he can't catch it. That is fish, and he invariably simply steals it when he gets it. Any man who has witnessed this proceeding and not been outraged by it could hardly be considered a competent juryman in a Chicago boodle case. The osprey, having caught his lawful fish by pure skill and natural capacity, bears it away wriggling in his talons. He is weighted by his booty and flies heavily. Somebody who has been sulkily watching him for perhaps a day or two from some unseen nook, sails after him and pounces upon him from above. Turning to fight he must drop his fish, which the other gets and goes off with. One can but see the disappointed fisherman return again to his watching, and think of a hungry brood of nestlings waiting at home, and feel some degree of displeasure and regret in the fact that the marauder, unpunished and unregretful, is none other than the emblem and figure-head of the great republic. He knows that no nation can be considered strictly honest except his own, and he ever after is disposed to wonder at that ignorance of the plainest facts of natural history that has led it to choose out from the beasts and birds a thief and a coward for the only bit of heraldry its statutes know,
James Steele.
It was so still a night—So calm and still!And watching stars, far in the silent sky,Shone tenderlyUpon the quiet world asleep and chill,And lying breathless in the frozen light.O earth, unconscious earth!Serene that hourAs the untroubled heart of the sweet maidWho now hath laidHer little Child to rest—her Child whose powerHath bid e'en soulless things proclaim His birth.Yet silent lies He now,And asketh naught,This sweetest One, but on His mother's breastHe findeth rest.And of her tender smiling (sorrow-bought)The still light falleth on His sleeping brow."My Own!" she whispers low,And then her earHath caught the angel anthem from above,Where the Blest DoveForever broodeth, and she waits to hearThe song of peace re-echoed o'er the snow.And yet the Babe doth sleep;And does He dreamHow, in the golden Christmases to come,Through each fair houseThat self-same song of peace, while tapers gleam,Shall sound, as now it soundeth, strong and deep.For happy childhood bearsForevermoreHis seal upon its brow, and childhood's voiceShall e'er rejoiceAt this glad time, when the Redeemer woreIts poverty, its feebleness, and tears.And every human heartShall tender growAnd very humble, if a child but speak,That seemeth weak,But still is strong in Him who would foregoThrough strength of love all things that joy impart.We praise Thee, O Thou KingThou Holy One!We praise Thee for our childhood, and we praiseThrough all our daysThis festival of peace and good-will shownTo man, while evermore the angels sing.Helen Grace Smith.
In the early days when stage coaching formed a prominent feature of frontier existence, "The Pioneer Home" was one of the most popular of the Sierra stations. This was not due to its dimensions, nor to its architectural advantages, nor to the accommodations it offered, for it was nothing more than a roughly though substantially built, comfortable-looking log-cabin. But standing as it did on the main street of Nevada City, it would have invited observation on account of its neatly kept, old-fashioned garden of hollyhocks, marigolds, and gilly-flowers, even if a swinging black sign-board had not designated it in glaring red letters as a place of "Entertainment for Man and Beast."
It was Nathaniel Parkenson who, with the aid of his wife, rendered this depot attractive both within and without. When news of the discovery of gold in California reached there, this enterprising couple were among the first to venture from their home in Connecticut. Bent on seeking a fortune in the new El Dorado, they crossed the plains and joined an established mining camp. But their hardships were by no means terminated when their journey came to an end. Nathaniel found working the pick and shovel far more laborious than he had anticipated, and the privations and exposure of camp-life soon began to tell upon his health.
As for Mrs. Parkenson, able-bodied and capable of work though she was, she soon determined in her mind that more congenial occupation and surroundings would have to be sought. Many a plan suggested itself to her, but none formulated to her satisfactionuntil the coarse canvas bag in which her husband's earnings had been concealed and regularly added to through many months began to evince a state of plethora. Then she felt that the time had come when silence ceased to be golden.
"This kind of livin' ain't goin' to do for you, nor me nuther, Nathanel," was the statement with which she one day interrupted a fit of coughing on the part of her husband.
Too much absorbed with the suggestion she was about to offer to observe his surprise at the first expression of dissatisfaction he had heard from her lips, she continued: "We've got to git out er this place in a little less nor no time, unless we wait till we're tuk out, and that's all there is about it." Mrs. Parkenson emphasized her remarks with decided jerks of the head, which set in motion the half-dozen black, pipe stem curls that hung on either cheek.
Nathaniel recognised this swaying of his wife's ringlets as a sign of deep emotion, which only served to increase his surprise.
"But, Marthy, how's it to be managed?" he inquired in a gentle, deprecating tone. "Surely yer wouldn't go back East to set the folks there to makin' fun of us, would yer, arter what they said agin our comin' so far away?"
"Who spoke of East or West or any other p'ints of the cumpis, I should like to know?" asked Mrs. Parkenson, in a tone that indicated the uselessness of reply. "Ef you think I'd be satisfied jest to settle down here and cook for the fellers in this camp for the rest of my natural existence, you don't know the stuff Martha Gummidge Parkenson is made of."
Nathaniel gazed at his wife with admiration and pride, while she laid before him, in her peculiarly convincing manner, the project that had long occupied her thoughts. This was that he should obtain the agency for a stage company; and, encouraged by the expression of his countenance, she explained how she had already begun negotiations which it would be easy for him to complete.
And this is how it came about that Nathaniel Parkenson purchased the establishment in Nevada City which he called "The Pioneer Home." It did not take long for travellers to find out that here pies, biscuits, corn-bread, and Indian pudding of a superior order were to be had; for Mrs. Parkenson had profited by her New England training, and cooking was in her eyes a fine art not to be despised. Besides, she was ably assisted in her labors by Mary Jane, a niece who had joined the Parkensons shortly after their removal to Nevada City. Mary Jane was a dark-haired, brown-eyed, well-grown Yankee girl, who delighted in styling herself "Aunt Marthy's right bower," which she did with an air of unmistakable appreciation of her own importance.
The dining-room was Mary Jane's special charge; and as the stage-drivers, accompanied by the passengers they had brought, filed in with an expectant air (for they knew what good cheer was sure to await them at this station), the girl received each with a friendly nod, some cheerful remark, or other token of kindly recognition. It is needless to state that she had her favorites amongst those whom she knew best, for, being a woman and young, she had dreamed of her beau ideal in the opposite sex. Ample opportunity was at hand to study the male character in certain circumstances, and Mary Jane did not neglect it.
The bar-room was simply a part of the dining-room, a red calico curtain, almost always drawn aside, forming the line of division between the two apartments. Here the men employed in the stables, the drivers, and whatever passengers waited over for the morning stages congregated to pass the evening; and the smoking, drinking, and card-playing were interspersed with many a thrilling, blood-curdling story of the road.
Mary Jane's ideas of propriety would not permit her to cross the curtain line at such times, but standing within its folds, partly concealed, she would strain her ears to catch every detail of the narrative, oblivious of work or of Aunt Marthy's displeasure, until warned by Nathaniel to "Git along, Mol, and do up yer chores."
Thus she first learned of Joe Marshall's exploits, and his bravery elicited her admiration.
Joe drove the stage between Nevada City and Camptonville, a distance of twenty miles, including a dangerous mountain-trail. Nobody knew anything about his antecedents, but he was considered "the whip" of the hour, and his daring feats were oftener recounted than those of any other mountain Jehu. In short, his comrades regarded him as an honor to the "profession." Mary Jane did more: she fell in love with him in spite of her aunt's frequently expressed disapproval.
"Girls always have a fancy for these good-lookin', rakish kind of fellers that don't care a fig for anybody," said Mrs. Parkenson; "but, take my word for it, Joe'll be slinkin' off one of these fine days and makin' love to some other girl; then you'll just break your heart over him," she added, with a violent shake of the curls in her niece's direction.
Mrs. Parkenson's warning was not prompted by dislike of Joe, but, with an eye to the main chance, she had set her heart on bringing Dick Bowles into her family. Dick was the driver of the You Bet stage, and he had prospects in the shape of a wealthy uncle in the East who had promised to make him sole heir to his entire fortune.
"Dick ain't so very good-lookin', I'll allow," Mrs. Parkenson would add, by way of comparison; "but he's more of a man than Joe, as anybody might see with half an eye. Besides, he's clean gone on you, Mary Jane, and he don't mind if the hull world knows it; but that Joe's indifference jest riles me all over. He's nuthin' but a beardless, pretty, good-natured, kind-hearted, careless boy—that's what he is," she added with a low chuckle, "though he will persist in declarin' over and over agin that he's turned twenty-five. Some folks may credit that, but I don't."
"Humph!" exclaimed the girl, tossing her head and turning up her nose, while she thought: "I'd like to know where auntie gits her men if Joe's a boy." The angry color dyed her cheeks as she spoke in defence of her favorite: "I guess it's no fault of his if he ain't got a beard; just give him time, and I'll bet a quarter he'll turn out as good a crop as any of the other fellers."
Mary Jane was perhaps the more indignant because she could not but acknowledge to herself the justice of Mrs. Parkenson's criticism. Joe was, without doubt, undersized and boyish in stature; the most vivid imagination would fail to discover even embryotic promise of beard or mustache; and although his flowing chestnut locks might excite admiration, they served to enhance his youthful appearance. These facts provoked the girl excessively, particularly as ardor, which would have compensated her for everything else, was decidedly lacking in Joe Marshall.
Joe's peculiarities were not infrequently the subject of comment amongst the men. "It's not that ee's muskilar, but ee's wiry," was the criticism of Captain Cullen, the driver of the Malakoff stage. Cullen had been in command of a British brig before emigrating to America, and therefore retained his title, while he still struggled with his h's. "Joe hain't afraid of nothink," he would declare, shaking his head and opening his round, dull eyes to their fullest extent; "and dern me if 'is 'orses don't seem to know it by the way they 'ammer hover the road. 'Tain't that ee can outcuss the rest on us, for by Jove! I never 'eard a hoath hout of 'is lips. I've made hup my mind that it's sumthin' supernateral wot's got hinto'im." Having thus delivered himself, Captain Cullen considered that point satisfactorily explained.
"I reckon you've about hit it," returned Dick Bowles. "Joe's got his good p'ints, to be sure, though he can't cuss wuth a damn. Mebbe it's coz he don't drink whiskey; I dunno. That larf o' hisn gets me every time; I never did hear anythin' to ekal it! Mebbe you've heard tell of the circus man that cum along here last year and offered to give Joe fifty dollars a week ef he'd agree to travel about with his show jest to start up the larf at the performances."
This was a fact. But the proprietor of the circus was not the only person on whom Joe's laughter made an impression. When his full red lips parted in merriment, displaying his large, pearly teeth, and emitting a low, gurgling sound, one was reminded of the rippling of water over pebbles. Mrs. Parkenson declared that "Joe's laugh was more contagious nor the measles."
"'Most everybody takes to Joe," said the landlord, by way of accounting for Bowles's statement. "For when he gits off that larf o' hisn, I'll be blowed ef it don't kinder draw folks towards him. But yer can't take no liberties with him, once he fixes them gray eyes on yer."
"He's too soft and sneaky for me," returned Bowles, testily. Then observing the deprecatory glances of the others, he added: "Ef I hadn't er seen him oncet when the Injins got arter him, the way he blazed away at the skinflints and then druv his team straight ahead 'thout even so much as losin' his color, I'd call him an out-an'-out milksop."
Knowing glances were exchanged by some of the men, amongst whom it was no secret that Dick was decidedly jealous of Mary Jane's preference for Joe. Dick had reason to believe that if this formidable rival were removed the girl would treat him better. For, cruel though she was at times, she accepted his attentions with unconcealed satisfaction when Joe was out of the way; it aggravated him, therefore, beyond measure to see her sweetest smiles bestowed upon his rival.
"Guess you ain't feelin' O K," said Mary Jane one evening as she placed a dish of smoking-hot bacon and eggs in front of Joe. "Wot's up? bad noos from the States?" she added, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. This was banter, for nobody knew better than she that the young man never received a communication of any sort through the mail.
Mrs. Parkenson had remarked upon this many a time, and in nocomplimentary terms. "It must be a black sheep, and no mistake, that home folks wouldn't send a letter to in all these years," she had said.
Joe looked into Mary Jane's face, while a pained expression flitted across his own; this was instantly followed by his peculiar laugh, though it lacked the genuine ring and sounded forced and jerky. But it attracted the attention of two strangers who sat at the end of the long table. They had arrived by one of the stages, and had registered in Parkenson's big book as "John Carter, M.D., and Edward Fulton, Minneapolis, Minn." Their business had been to examine a mine in the interest of an Eastern company, and they were now on their return-trip. Both seemed young, though the doctor's hair was sprinkled with gray at the temples, and there were dark lines beneath his eyes which told of sorrow.
The doctor started perceptibly at the sound of Joe's voice, and dropping his knife and fork, leaned forward with an attempt to obtain a view of his features. This was frustrated by our hero, who had turned away, and in a low tone was answering his interlocutrice. The doctor looked puzzled, and continued his meal.
Presently Joe left the table and passed into the bar-room. In silence he examined the last leaf of the register. His face flushed, his hand trembled; he was thankful that his agitation escaped observation. He longed to get to his little room over the stable; but the only exit was through the apartment he had just left, and he hesitated. At the sound of approaching footsteps he moved towards the curtain, raised it, and met Doctor Carter face to face. They exchanged glances; neither spoke, but the doctor looked troubled, and with a deep frown riveted his gaze on Joe's retreating form.
"Who is that youth?" he asked, pointing toward the door through which Joe had disappeared.
"That's Marshall." answered the landlord. "Everybody in these parts knows him."
"Is he employed here?" was the next query.
"He runs the Camptonville stage, and there ain't a better driver in the hull West."
"Strange!" said the doctor, evidently not satisfied with the intelligence. "Has he been here long?" he added.
"It must be all of five years since Joe put in an appearance on this line," returned the landlord.
"Five years," repeated the doctor dreamily. He looked as though some painful reminiscence had been recalled to him.
"I'd like to know what you've found to interest you in that fellow," said Fulton, who now stood at his friend's elbow. "You could scarcely eat for watching him, and I failed to make you listen when I spoke to you."
"It is a resemblance to a person whom I once knew well—nothing more—queer, is it not, with what persistency a familiar face will sometimes haunt us?" returned the doctor, assuming an off-hand air.
"This fellow's double must surely have robbed you—for you looked ready to spring upon him just now when he went out," said Fulton, jocosely.
"Robbed me?" repeated the doctor; "ah, yes—he did, indeed—but you shall hear about it another time." And they seated themselves at the card table.
When Joe closed the door behind him, he moved slowly away. His eyes were fixed on the ground; he was absorbed in thought. Suddenly his attention was arrested by Mary Jane, who awaited him, as she had frequently done, in the doorway of a rickety, long-disused barn. "I say, Joe!—hist!" she exclaimed, on seeing that he was about to pass without observing her. "Look wot I've fetched yer;" and she held up a couple of well-polished apples.
The young man's melancholy smile troubled her, and although he pressed her hand in gratitude for the attention, she felt instinctively that she had not occupied his thoughts.
"I say, Joe, what ails you?" she asked, tenderly. "Did I hurt your feelin's when I asked ef you had noos from home? I thought you'd know it was fun."
"Ah, no; you have never been unkind to me; you're a good girl. I'm not ungrateful; you must never think that—but—"
"But you're sick," she interrupted. "I just knew there was somethin' out er kilter when you kum in, fur you looked so kinder wore out. I'll run and git you some brandy."
He held her back. "No—no; stay—it's nothing; I'll be all right to-morrow—'all hunky,' as you say." He laughed to reassure her, and asked where she got the apples.
"Jake fotched 'em up from Frisco, and it isn't everybody I'd hook things for, you'd better believe."
"Wouldn't you do it for Dick?" Joe asked, with a mischievous smile.
"None o' yer business," she returned, indignantly. It would have pleased her to notice even a suspicion of jealousy on Joe's part;but it seemed to her that the mention of his rival just at that moment was ill-timed, and she wondered why the fellow stupidly neglected his opportunities. He was evidently touched, though, for he folded her in his arms, and spoke affectionately.
"Tell me, Mary Jane," he said, looking into her eyes, "is it because you really like me so much that you are so kind to me and put nice things in my room? Did you think I couldn't guess who left the cake there yesterday?"
The girl blushed with pleasure, and her eyes fell beneath his gaze. When she raised them they were filled with tears, and her voice trembled when she spoke:
"Oh, Joe, if I didn't care so orful much for you I wouldn't be always gittin scolded about you; but—but—" She was interrupted by her sobs. Joe stroked her hair lovingly, and she wept freely upon his shoulder. "Ca-ant yer see I lo-ve you better nor Dick and all the rest o' the fellers put together?" she asked, at last.
He kissed her again and again, then darted away and left her alone.
"Well, ef he isn't the queerest lot I everdidsee!" said Mary Jane, after convincing herself that he had really gone. "He hugs a girl different from any man I ever heerd of; Dick could give him pints on the subject and no mistake."
Prompted by coquetry and an earnest desire to arouse Joe's resentment, she lavished attentions on Dick the next morning, much to this individual's satisfaction. Her indignation was increased considerably at Joe's unmistakable indifference. Indeed, he took so little notice of her that after hastily swallowing a cup of coffee and refusing the viands she placed before him, he devoted himself to his horses, fondling them, calling each by name, rubbing their limbs, and adjusting the various straps and buckles about the harness, until the stable boys set up their shrill nasal cries:
"All aboard for You Bet! Here you are for Camptonville! This way for Downieville, Blue Tent, Forest City!"
At the sound of a loud, piercing whistle every driver springs to the box of his respective stage, the passengers take their places, crack go the whips, and the coaches are off.
They were scarcely out of sight before Fulton began to regret that he had persuaded his friend to remain over for a day's rest, for the doctor was evidently chafing at the delay, and he seemed unaccountably out of sorts. He wandered along the road, and evinced the greatest impatience every time he consulted his watch.He questioned the landlord so closely about the stage drivers that Fulton laughingly inquired whether he proposed establishing an opposition company.
The day dragged its slow length along, and sunset brought the excitement and bustle that accompanied the return of the stages. They came in at intervals, each depositing its passengers, bundles, boxes, and mail-bags, then disappearing in the direction of the stable. It was soon observed that the Camptonville coach, usually one of the first, had not returned. Supper was served at the customary hour, and by eight o'clock the men had assembled in the bar-room; still no Camptonville coach. The air was rife with conjecture.
"I say, Parkenson, wot's 'appened to 'er?" asked Captain Cullen; "she's genally the fust in."
"I reckon we'll have to go out in search of her putty soon ef she don't appear," replied the landlord, who was showing unmistakable signs of uneasiness.
"'Taint likely the road agents has stopped her, is it?" asked Bowles, in an awed tone.
"Wall, they'll find our Joe one too many for 'em ef they git arter him, for there ain't a better fighter nor a truer shot in the hull country," returned Parkenson, so ready to exalt Marshall's qualities that it required only a slight stretch of imagination to proclaim him a pugilist. "Wasn't I along with him oncet when the Injuns attacked him—"
"Yes," interrupted the Captain, "but Hinjuns is different from road hagents; yer hain't got no chance with a lot of fellers as jump hout from be'ind a tree with a rifle levelled at yer 'ead."
"But I tell you, I seen Joe," persisted the landlord, raising his voice with a determination to be heard, "when the derned redskins cum along whooping and yelling like a lot o' devils let loose. Joe never stopped to ask how he could sarve 'em, but he jest blazed away at 'em, keeping the mustangs straight along 'thout so much as lettin' a cuss or a sound out of his mouth."
This was one of Marshall's peculiarities. He was ostentatious in his silence, seldom uttering a syllable while driving, unless it was to give vent to some scarcely audible command to his horses.