'Twas an Injin chieftain, in feathers all fine,Who stood on the ocean's rim;There were numberless leagues of excellent brine—But there wasn't enough for him.So he knuckled a thumb in his painted eye,And added a tear to the scant supply.The surges were breaking with thund'rous voice,The winds were a-shrieking shrill;This warrior thought that a trifle of noiseWas needed to fill the bill.So he lifted the top of his head off and scowled—Exalted his voice, did this chieftain, and howled!The sun was aflame in a field of goldThat hung o'er the Western Sea;Bright banners of light were broadly unrolled,As banners of light should be.But no one was "speaking a piece" to that sun,And therefore this Medicine Man begun:"O much heap of bright! O big ball of warm!I've tracked you from sea to sea!For the Paleface has been at some pains to informMe,youare the emblem ofme.He says to me, cheerfully: 'Westward Ho!'And westward I've hoed a most difficult row."Since you are the emblem of me, I presumeThat I am the emblem of you,And thus, as we're equals, 't is safe to assume,That one great law governs us two.So now if I set in the ocean with thee,With thee I shall rise again out of the sea."His eloquence first, and his logic the last!Such orators die!—and he died:The trump was against him—his luck bad—he "passed"—And so he "passed out"—with the tide.This Injin is rid of the world with a whim—The world it is rid of his speeches and him.
'Twas an Injin chieftain, in feathers all fine,Who stood on the ocean's rim;There were numberless leagues of excellent brine—But there wasn't enough for him.So he knuckled a thumb in his painted eye,And added a tear to the scant supply.
'Twas an Injin chieftain, in feathers all fine,
Who stood on the ocean's rim;
There were numberless leagues of excellent brine—
But there wasn't enough for him.
So he knuckled a thumb in his painted eye,
And added a tear to the scant supply.
The surges were breaking with thund'rous voice,The winds were a-shrieking shrill;This warrior thought that a trifle of noiseWas needed to fill the bill.So he lifted the top of his head off and scowled—Exalted his voice, did this chieftain, and howled!
The surges were breaking with thund'rous voice,
The winds were a-shrieking shrill;
This warrior thought that a trifle of noise
Was needed to fill the bill.
So he lifted the top of his head off and scowled—
Exalted his voice, did this chieftain, and howled!
The sun was aflame in a field of goldThat hung o'er the Western Sea;Bright banners of light were broadly unrolled,As banners of light should be.But no one was "speaking a piece" to that sun,And therefore this Medicine Man begun:
The sun was aflame in a field of gold
That hung o'er the Western Sea;
Bright banners of light were broadly unrolled,
As banners of light should be.
But no one was "speaking a piece" to that sun,
And therefore this Medicine Man begun:
"O much heap of bright! O big ball of warm!I've tracked you from sea to sea!For the Paleface has been at some pains to informMe,youare the emblem ofme.He says to me, cheerfully: 'Westward Ho!'And westward I've hoed a most difficult row.
"O much heap of bright! O big ball of warm!
I've tracked you from sea to sea!
For the Paleface has been at some pains to inform
Me,youare the emblem ofme.
He says to me, cheerfully: 'Westward Ho!'
And westward I've hoed a most difficult row.
"Since you are the emblem of me, I presumeThat I am the emblem of you,And thus, as we're equals, 't is safe to assume,That one great law governs us two.So now if I set in the ocean with thee,With thee I shall rise again out of the sea."
"Since you are the emblem of me, I presume
That I am the emblem of you,
And thus, as we're equals, 't is safe to assume,
That one great law governs us two.
So now if I set in the ocean with thee,
With thee I shall rise again out of the sea."
His eloquence first, and his logic the last!Such orators die!—and he died:The trump was against him—his luck bad—he "passed"—And so he "passed out"—with the tide.This Injin is rid of the world with a whim—The world it is rid of his speeches and him.
His eloquence first, and his logic the last!
Such orators die!—and he died:
The trump was against him—his luck bad—he "passed"—
And so he "passed out"—with the tide.
This Injin is rid of the world with a whim—
The world it is rid of his speeches and him.
Madame Yonsmit was a decayed gentlewoman who carried on her decomposition in a modest wayside cottage in Thuringia. She was an excellent sample of the Thuringian widow, a species not yet extinct, but trying very hard to become so. The same may be said of the whole genus. Madame Yonsmit was quite young, very comely, cultivated, gracious, and pleasing. Her home was a nest of domestic virtues, but she had a daughter who reflected but little credit upon the nest. Feodora was indeed a "bad egg"—a very wicked and ungratefulegg. You could see she was by her face. The girl had the most vicious countenance—it was repulsive! It was a face in which boldness struggled for the supremacy with cunning, and both were thrashed into subjection by avarice. It was this latter virtue in Feodora which kept her mother from having a taxable income.
Feodora's business was to beg on the highway. It wrung the heart of the honest amiable gentlewoman to have her daughter do this; but the h.a.g. having been reared in luxury, considered labour degrading—which it is—and there was not much to steal in that part of Thuringia. Feodora's mendicity would have provided an ample fund for their support, but unhappily that ingrate would hardly ever fetch home more than two or three shillings at a time. Goodness knows what she did with the rest.
Vainly the good woman pointed out the sin of coveteousness; vainly she would stand at the cottage door awaiting the child's return, and begin arguing the point with her the moment she came in sight: the receipts diminished daily until the average was less than tenpence—a sum upon which no born gentlewoman would deign to exist. So it became a matter of some importance to know where Feodora kept her banking account. Madame Yonsmit thought at first she would follow her and see; but although the good lady was as vigorous and sprightly as ever, carrying a crutch more for ornament than use, she abandoned this plan because it did not seem suitable to the dignity of a decayed gentlewoman. She employed a detective.
The foregoing particulars I have from Madame Yonsmit herself; for those immediately subjoining I am indebted to the detective, a skilful officer named Bowstr.
Feodora and Madame Yonsmit
No sooner had the scraggy old hag communicated her suspicions than the officer knew exactly what to do. He first distributed hand-bills all over the country, stating that a certain person suspected of concealing money had better look sharp. He then went to the Home Secretary, and by not seeking to understate the real difficulties of the case, induced that functionary to offer a reward of a thousand pounds for the arrest of the malefactor. Next he proceeded to a distant town, and took into custody a clergyman who resembled Feodora in respect of wearing shoes. After these formal preliminaries he took up the case with some zeal. He was not atall actuated by a desire to obtain the reward, but by pure love of justice. The thought of securing the girl's private hoard for himself never for a moment entered his head.
He began to make frequent calls at the widow's cottage when Feodora was at home, when, by apparently careless conversation, he would endeavour to draw her out; but he was commonly frustrated by her old beast of a mother, who, when the girl's answers did not suit, would beat her unmercifully. So he took to meeting Feodora on the highway, and giving her coppers carefully marked. For months he kept this up with wonderful self-sacrifice—the girl being a mere uninteresting angel. He met her daily in the roads and forest. His patience never wearied, his vigilance never flagged. Her most careless glances were conscientiously noted, her lightest words treasured up in his memory. Meanwhile (the clergyman having been unjustly acquitted) he arrested everybody he could get his hands on. Matters went on in this way until it was time for the grandcoup.
The succeeding-particulars I have from the lips of Feodora herself.
When that horrid Bowstr first came to the house Feodora thought he was rather impudent, but said, little about it to her mother—not desiring to have her back broken. She merely avoided him as much as she dared, he was so frightfully ugly. But she managed to endure him until he took to waylaying her on the highway, hanging about her all day, interfering with the customers, and walking home with her at night. Then her dislike deepened into disgust; and but for apprehensions not wholly unconnected with a certain crutch, she would have sent him about his business in short order. More thana thousand million times she told him to be off and leave her alone, but men are such fools—particularly this one.
What made Bowstr exceptionally disagreeable was his shameless habit of making fun of Feodora's mother, whom he declared crazy as a loon. But the maiden bore everything as well as she could, until one day the nasty thing put his arm about her waist and kissed her before her very face;thenshe felt—well, it is not clear how she felt, but of one thing she was quite sure: after having such a shame put upon her by this insolent brute, she would never go back under her dear mother's roof—never. She was too proud forthat, at any rate. So she ran away with Mr. Bowstr, and married him.
The conclusion of this history I learned for myself.
Upon hearing of her daughter's desertion Madame Yonsmit went clean daft. She vowed she could bear betrayal, could endure decay, could stand being a widow, would not repine at being left alone in her old age (whenever she should become old), and could patiently submit to the sharper than a serpent's thanks of having a toothless child generally. But to be a mother-in-law! No, no; that was a plane of degradation to which she positively wouldnotdescend. So she employed me to cut her throat. It was the toughest throat I ever cut in all my life.
A bear, having spread him a notable feast,Invited a famishing fox to the place."I've killed me," quoth he, "an edible beastAs ever distended the girdle of priestWith 'spread of religion,' or 'inward grace.'To my den I conveyed her,I bled her and flayed her,I hung up her skin to dry;Then laid her naked, to keep her cool,On a slab of ice from the frozen pool;And there we will eat her—you and I."The fox accepts, and away they walk,Beguiling the time with courteous talk.You'd ne'er have suspected, to see them smile,The bear was thinking, the blessed while,How, when his guest should be off his guard,With feasting hard,He'd give him a "wipe" that would spoil his style.You'd never have thought, to see them bow,The fox was reflecting deeply howHe would best proceed, to circumventHis host, and prigThe entire pig—Or other bird to the same intent.When Strength and Cunning in love combine,Be sure 't is to more than merely dine.The while these biters ply the lip,A mile ahead the muse shall skip:The poet's purpose she best may serveInside the den—if she have the nerve.Behold! laid out in dark recess,A ghastly goat in stark undress,Pallid and still on her gelid bed,And indisputably very dead.Her skin depends from a couple of pins—And here the most singular statement begins;For all at once the butchered beast,With easy grace for one deceased,Upreared her head,Looked round, and said,Very distinctly for one so dead:"The nights are sharp, and the sheets are thin:I find it uncommonly cold herein!"Dead Goat Emerging from DenI answer not how this was wrought:All miracles surpass my thought.They're vexing, say you? and dementing?Peace, peace! they're none of my inventing.But lest too much of mysteryEmbarrass this true history,I'll not relate how that this goatStood up and stamped her feet, to inform'emWith—what's the word?—I mean, to warm'em;Nor how she plucked her roughcapoteFrom off the pegs where Bruin threw it,And o'er her quaking body drew it;Nor how each act could so befall:I'll only swear she did them all;Then lingered pensive in the grot,As if she something had forgot,Till a humble voice and a voice of prideWere heard, in murmurs of love, outside.Then, like a rocket set aflight,She sprang, and streaked it for the light!Ten million million years and a dayHave rolled, since these events, away;But still the peasant at fall of night,Belated therenear, is oft affrightBy sounds of a phantom bear in flight;A breaking of branches under the hill;The noise of a going when all is still!And hens asleep on the perch, they say,Cackle sometimes in a startled way,As if they were dreaming a dream that mocksThe lope and whiz of a fleeting fox!Half we're taught, and teach to youth,And praise by rote,Is not, but merely stands for, truth.So of my goat:She's merely designed to representThe truth—"immortal" to this extent:Dead she may be, and skinned—frappé—Hid in a dreadful den away;Prey to the Churches—(any will do,Except the Church of me and you.)The simplest miracle, even then,Will get her up and about again.
A bear, having spread him a notable feast,Invited a famishing fox to the place."I've killed me," quoth he, "an edible beastAs ever distended the girdle of priestWith 'spread of religion,' or 'inward grace.'To my den I conveyed her,I bled her and flayed her,I hung up her skin to dry;Then laid her naked, to keep her cool,On a slab of ice from the frozen pool;And there we will eat her—you and I."
A bear, having spread him a notable feast,
Invited a famishing fox to the place.
"I've killed me," quoth he, "an edible beast
As ever distended the girdle of priest
With 'spread of religion,' or 'inward grace.'
To my den I conveyed her,
I bled her and flayed her,
I hung up her skin to dry;
Then laid her naked, to keep her cool,
On a slab of ice from the frozen pool;
And there we will eat her—you and I."
The fox accepts, and away they walk,Beguiling the time with courteous talk.You'd ne'er have suspected, to see them smile,The bear was thinking, the blessed while,How, when his guest should be off his guard,With feasting hard,He'd give him a "wipe" that would spoil his style.You'd never have thought, to see them bow,The fox was reflecting deeply howHe would best proceed, to circumventHis host, and prigThe entire pig—Or other bird to the same intent.When Strength and Cunning in love combine,Be sure 't is to more than merely dine.
The fox accepts, and away they walk,
Beguiling the time with courteous talk.
You'd ne'er have suspected, to see them smile,
The bear was thinking, the blessed while,
How, when his guest should be off his guard,
With feasting hard,
He'd give him a "wipe" that would spoil his style.
You'd never have thought, to see them bow,
The fox was reflecting deeply how
He would best proceed, to circumvent
His host, and prig
The entire pig—
Or other bird to the same intent.
When Strength and Cunning in love combine,
Be sure 't is to more than merely dine.
The while these biters ply the lip,A mile ahead the muse shall skip:The poet's purpose she best may serveInside the den—if she have the nerve.Behold! laid out in dark recess,A ghastly goat in stark undress,Pallid and still on her gelid bed,And indisputably very dead.Her skin depends from a couple of pins—And here the most singular statement begins;For all at once the butchered beast,With easy grace for one deceased,Upreared her head,Looked round, and said,Very distinctly for one so dead:"The nights are sharp, and the sheets are thin:I find it uncommonly cold herein!"
The while these biters ply the lip,
A mile ahead the muse shall skip:
The poet's purpose she best may serve
Inside the den—if she have the nerve.
Behold! laid out in dark recess,
A ghastly goat in stark undress,
Pallid and still on her gelid bed,
And indisputably very dead.
Her skin depends from a couple of pins—
And here the most singular statement begins;
For all at once the butchered beast,
With easy grace for one deceased,
Upreared her head,
Looked round, and said,
Very distinctly for one so dead:
"The nights are sharp, and the sheets are thin:
I find it uncommonly cold herein!"
Dead Goat Emerging from Den
Dead Goat Emerging from Den
I answer not how this was wrought:All miracles surpass my thought.They're vexing, say you? and dementing?Peace, peace! they're none of my inventing.But lest too much of mysteryEmbarrass this true history,I'll not relate how that this goatStood up and stamped her feet, to inform'emWith—what's the word?—I mean, to warm'em;Nor how she plucked her roughcapoteFrom off the pegs where Bruin threw it,And o'er her quaking body drew it;Nor how each act could so befall:I'll only swear she did them all;Then lingered pensive in the grot,As if she something had forgot,Till a humble voice and a voice of prideWere heard, in murmurs of love, outside.Then, like a rocket set aflight,She sprang, and streaked it for the light!
I answer not how this was wrought:
All miracles surpass my thought.
They're vexing, say you? and dementing?
Peace, peace! they're none of my inventing.
But lest too much of mystery
Embarrass this true history,
I'll not relate how that this goat
Stood up and stamped her feet, to inform'em
With—what's the word?—I mean, to warm'em;
Nor how she plucked her roughcapote
From off the pegs where Bruin threw it,
And o'er her quaking body drew it;
Nor how each act could so befall:
I'll only swear she did them all;
Then lingered pensive in the grot,
As if she something had forgot,
Till a humble voice and a voice of pride
Were heard, in murmurs of love, outside.
Then, like a rocket set aflight,
She sprang, and streaked it for the light!
Ten million million years and a dayHave rolled, since these events, away;But still the peasant at fall of night,Belated therenear, is oft affrightBy sounds of a phantom bear in flight;A breaking of branches under the hill;The noise of a going when all is still!And hens asleep on the perch, they say,Cackle sometimes in a startled way,As if they were dreaming a dream that mocksThe lope and whiz of a fleeting fox!
Ten million million years and a day
Have rolled, since these events, away;
But still the peasant at fall of night,
Belated therenear, is oft affright
By sounds of a phantom bear in flight;
A breaking of branches under the hill;
The noise of a going when all is still!
And hens asleep on the perch, they say,
Cackle sometimes in a startled way,
As if they were dreaming a dream that mocks
The lope and whiz of a fleeting fox!
Half we're taught, and teach to youth,And praise by rote,Is not, but merely stands for, truth.So of my goat:She's merely designed to representThe truth—"immortal" to this extent:Dead she may be, and skinned—frappé—Hid in a dreadful den away;Prey to the Churches—(any will do,Except the Church of me and you.)The simplest miracle, even then,Will get her up and about again.
Half we're taught, and teach to youth,
And praise by rote,
Is not, but merely stands for, truth.
So of my goat:
She's merely designed to represent
The truth—"immortal" to this extent:
Dead she may be, and skinned—frappé—
Hid in a dreadful den away;
Prey to the Churches—(any will do,
Except the Church of me and you.)
The simplest miracle, even then,
Will get her up and about again.
Little Johnny was a saving youth—one who from early infancy had cultivated a provident habit. When other little boys were wasting their substance in riotous gingerbread and molasses candy, investing in missionary enterprises which paid no dividends, subscribing to the North Labrador Orphan Fund, and sending capital out of the country gene rally, Johnny would be sticking sixpences into the chimney-pot of a big tin house with "BANK" painted on it in red letters above an illusory door. Or he would put out odd pennies at appalling rates of interest, with his parents, and bank the income. He was never weary of dropping coppers into that insatiable chimney-pot, and leaving them there. In this latter respect he differed notably from his elder brother, Charlie; for, although Charles was fond of banking too, he was addicted to such frequent runs upon the institution with a hatchet, that it kept his parents honourably poor to purchase banks for him; so they were reluctantly compelled to discourage the depositing element in his panicky nature.
Johnny was not above work, either; to him "the dignity of labour" was not a juiceless platitude, as it is to me, but a living, nourishing truth, as satisfying and wholesome as that two sides of a triangle are equal to one side of bacon. He would hold horses for gentlemen who desired to step into a bar to inquire for letters. He would pursue the fleeting pig at the behest of a drover. He would carry water to the lions of a travelling menagerie, or do anything, for gain. He was sharp-witted too: before conveying a drop of comfort to theparching king of beasts, he would stipulate for six-pence instead of the usual free ticket—or "tasting order," so to speak. He cared not a button for the show.
The first hard work Johnny did of a morning was to look over the house for fugitive pins, needles, hair-pins, matches, and other unconsidered trifles; and if he sometimes found these where nobody had lost them, he made such reparation as was in his power by losing them again where nobody but he could find them. In the course of time, when he had garnered a good many, he would "realize," and bank the proceeds.
Nor was he weakly superstitious, this Johnny. You could not foolhimwith the Santa Claus hoax on Christmas Eve: he would lie awake all night, as sceptical as a priest; and along toward morning, getting quietly out of bed, would examine the pendent stockings of the other children, to satisfy himself the predicted presents were not there; and in the morning it always turned out that they were not. Then, when the other children cried because they did not get anything, and the parents affected surprise (as if they really believed in the venerable fiction), Johnny was too manly to utter a whimper: he would simply slip out of the back door, and engage in traffic with affluent orphans; disposing of woolly horses, tin whistles, marbles, tops, dolls, and sugar archangels, at a ruinous discount for cash. He continued these provident courses for nine long years, always banking his accretions with scrupulous care. Everybody predicted he would one day be a merchant prince or a railway king; and some added he would sell his crown to the junk-dealers.
His unthrifty brother, meanwhile, kept growing worse and worse. He was so careless of wealth—soso wastefully extravagant of lucre—that Johnny felt it his duty at times to clandestinely assume control of the fraternal finances, lest the habit of squandering should wreck the fraternal moral sense. It was plain that Charles had entered upon the broad road which leads from the cradle to the workhouse—and that he rather liked the travelling. So profuse was his prodigality that there were grave suspicions as to his method of acquiring what he so openly disbursed. There was but one opinion as to the melancholy termination of his career—a termination which he seemed to regard as eminently desirable. But one day, when the good pastor put it at him in so many words, Charles gave token of some apprehension.
"Do you really think so, sir?" said he, thoughtfully; "ain't you playin' it on me?"
"I assure you, Charles," said the good man, catching a ray of hope from the boy's dawning seriousness, "you will certainly end your days in a workhouse, unless you speedily abandon your course of extravagance. There is nothing like habit—nothing!"
Charles may have thought that, considering his frequent and lavish contributions to the missionary fund, the parson was rather hard upon him; but he did not say so. He went away in mournful silence, and began pelting a blind beggar with coppers.
One day, when Johnny had been more than usually provident, and Charles proportionately prodigal, their father, having exhausted moral suasion to no apparent purpose, determined to have recourse to a lower order of argument: he would try to win Charles to economy by an appeal to his grosser nature. So he convened the entire family, and,
"Johnny," said he, "do you think you have muchmoney in your bank? You ought to have saved a considerable sum in nine years."
Johnny took the alarm in a minute: perhaps there was some barefooted little girl to be endowed with Sunday-school books.
"No," he answered, reflectively, "I don't think there can be much. There's been a good deal of cold weather this winter, and you know how metal shrinks! No-o-o, I'm sure there can't be only a little."
"Well, Johnny, you go up and bring down your bank. We'll see. Perhaps Charles may be right, after all; and it's not worth while to save money. I don't want a son of mine to get into a bad habit unless it pays."
So Johnny travelled reluctantly up to his garret, and went to the corner where his big tin bank-box had sat on a chest undisturbed for years. He had long ago fortified himself against temptation by vowing never to even shake it; for he remembered that formerly when Charles used to shake his, and rattle the coins inside, he always ended by smashing in the roof. Johnny approached his bank, and taking hold of the cornice on either side, braced himself, gave a strong lift upwards, and keeled over upon his back with the edifice atop of him, like one of the figures in a picture of the great Lisbon earthquake! There was but a single coin in it; and that, by an ingenious device, was suspended in the centre, so that every piece popped in at the chimney would clink upon it in passing through Charlie's little hole into Charlie's little stocking hanging innocently beneath.
Of course restitution was out of the question; and even Johnny felt that any merely temporal punishment would be weakly inadequate to thedemands of justice. But that night, in the dead silence of his chamber, Johnny registered a great and solemn swear that so soon as he could worry together a little capital, he would fling his feeble remaining energies into the spendthrift business. And he did so.
In the "backwoods" of Pennsylvania stood a little mill. The miller appertaining unto this mill was a Pennsylvania Dutchman—a species of animal in which for some centuriessauerkrauthas been usurping the place of sense. In Hans Donnerspiel the usurpation was not complete; he still knew enough to go in when it rained, but he did not know enough to stay there after the storm had blown over. Hans was known to a large circle of friends and admirers as about the worst miller in those parts; but as he was the only one, people who quarrelled with an exclusively meat diet continued to patronize him. He was honest, as all stupid people are; but he was careless. So absent-minded was he, that sometimes when grinding somebody's wheat he would thoughtlessly turn into the "hopper" a bag of rye, a lot of old beer-bottles, or a basket of fish. This made the flour so peculiar, that the people about there never knew what it was to be well a day in all their lives. There were so many local diseases in that vicinity, that a doctor from twenty miles away could not have killed a patient in a week.
Hans meant well; but he had a hobby—a hobby that he did not ride: that does not express it: it rode him. It spurred him so hard, that the poorwretch could not pause a minute to see what he was putting into his mill. This hobby was the purchase of jackasses. He expended all his income in this diversion, and his mill was fairly sinking under its weight of mortgages. He had more jackasses than he had hairs on his head, and, as a rule, they were thinner. He was no mere amateur collector either, but a sharp discriminatingconnoisseur. He would buy a fat globular donkey if he could not do better; but a lank shabby one was the apple of his eye. He rolled such a one, as it were, like a sweet morsel under his tongue.
Hans's nearest neighbour was a worthless young scamp named Jo Garvey, who lived mainly by hunting and fishing. Jo was a sharp-witted rascal, without a single scruple between, himself and fortune. With a tithe of Hans's industry he might have been almost anything; but his dense laziness always rose up like a stone wall about him, shutting him in like a toad in a rock. The exact opposite of Hans in almost every respect, he was notably similar in one: he had a hobby. Jo's hobby was the selling of jackasses.
One day, while Hans's upper and nether mill-stones were making it lively for a mingled grist of corn, potatoes, and young chickens, he heard Joseph calling outside. Stepping to the door, he saw him holding three halters to which were appended three donkeys.
"I say, Hans," said he, "here are three fine animals for your stud. I have brought 'em up from the egg, and I know 'em to be first-class. But they 're not so big as I expected, and you may have 'em for a sack of oats each."
Hans was delighted. He had not the least doubt in the world that Joe had stolen them; but it wasa fixed principle with him never to let a donkey go away and say he was a hard man to deal with. He at once brought out and delivered the oats. Jo gravely examined the quality, and placing a sack across each animal, calmly led them away.
Hans, Joseph and Three Asses
When he had gone, it occurred to Hans that he had less oats and no more asses than he had before.
"Tuyfel!" he exclaimed, scratching his pow; "I puy dot yackasses, und I don't vos god 'im so mooch as I didn't haf 'im before—ain't it?"
Very much to his comfort it was, therefore, to see Jo come by next day leading the same animals.
"Hi!" he shrieked; "you prings me to my yackasses. You gif me to my broberdy back!"
"Oh, very well, Hans. If you want to crawfish out of a fair bargain, all right. I'll give you back your donkeys, and you give me back my oats."
"Yaw, yaw," assented the mollified miller; "you his von honest shentlemans as I vos efer vent anyvhere. But I don't god ony more oats, und you moost dake vheat, eh?"
And fetching out three sacks of wheat, he handed them over. Jo was proceeding to lay these upon the backs of the animals; but this was too thin for even Hans.
"Ach! you tief-veller! you leabs dis yackasses in me, und go right avay off; odther I bust your het mid a gloob, don't it?"
So Joseph was reluctantly constrained to hang the donkeys to a fence. While he did this, Hans was making a desperate attempt to think. Presently he brightened up:
"Yo, how you coom by dot vheat all de dime?"
"Why, old mudhead, you gave it to me for the jacks."
"Und how you coom by dot oats pooty soon avhile ago?"
"Why, I gave that to you for them," said Joseph, pressed very hard for a reply.
"Vell, den, you goes vetch me back to dot oats so gwicker as a lamb gedwinkle his dail—hay?"
"All right, Hans. Lend me the donkeys to carry off my wheat, and I 'll bring back your oats on 'em."
Joseph was beginning to despair; but noobjection being made, he loaded up the grain, and made off with his docile caravan. In a half-hour he returned with the donkeys, but of course without anything else.
"I zay, Yo, where is dis oats I hear zo mooch dalk aboud still?"
"Oh, curse you and your oats!" growled Jo, with simulated anger. "You make such a fuss about a bargain, I have decided not to trade. Take your old donkeys, and call it square!"
"Den vhere mine vheat is?"
"Now look here, Hans; that wheat is yours, is it?"
"Yaw, yaw."
"And the donkeys are yours, eh?"
"Yaw, yaw."
"And the wheat's been yours all the time, has it?"
"Yaw, yaw."
"Well, so have the donkeys. I took 'em out of your pasture in the first place. Now what have you got to complain of?"
The Dutchman reflected all over his head with' his forefinger-nail.
"Gomblain? I no gomblain ven it is all right. I zee now I vos made a mistaken. Coom, dake a drinks."
Jo left the animals standing, and went inside, where they pledged one another in brimming mugs of beer. Then taking Hans by the hand,
"I am sorry," said he, "we can't trade. Perhaps some other day you will be more reasonable. Good bye!"
And Joseph departed leading away the donkeys!
Hans stood for some moments gazing after him with a complacent smile making his fat face ridiculous.Then turning to his mill-stones, he shook his head with an air of intense self-satisfaction:
"Py donner! Dot Yo Garfey bees a geen, shmard yockey, but he gonnot spiel me svoppin' yackasses!"
My name is Shandy, and this is the record of my Sentimental Journey. Mr. Ames Jordan Gannett, proprietor's son of the "York ——," with which paper I am connected by marriage, sent me a post-card in a sealed envelope, asking me to call at a well-known restaurant in Regent Street. I was then at a well-known restaurant in Houndsditch. I put on my worst and only hat, and went. I found Mr. Gannett, at dinner, eating pease with his knife, in the manner of his countrymen. He opened the conversation, characteristically, thus:
"Where's Dr. Deadwood?"
After several ineffectual guesses I had a happy thought. I asked him:
"Am I my brother's bar-keeper?"
Mr. Gannett pondered deeply, with his forefinger alongside his nose. Finally he replied:
"I give it up."
He continued to eat for some moments in profound silence, as that of a man very much in earnest. Suddenly he resumed:
"Here is a blank cheque, signed. I will send you all my father's personal property to-morrow. Take this and find Dr. Deadwood. Find him actually if you can, but find him. Away!"
I did as requested; that is, I took the cheque. Having supplied myself with such luxuries as wereabsolutely necessary, I retired to my lodgings. Upon my table in the centre of the room were spread some clean white sheets of foolscap, and sat a bottle of black ink. It was a good omen: the virgin paper was typical of the unexplored interior of Africa; the sable ink represented the night of barbarism, or the hue of barbarians, indifferently.
Now began the most arduous undertaking mentioned in the "York ——," I mean in history. Lighting my pipe, and fixing my eye upon the ink and paper, I put my hands behind my back and took my departure from the hearthrug toward the Interior. Language fails me; I throw myself upon the reader's imagination. Before I had taken two steps, my vision alighted upon the circular of a quack physician, which I had brought home the day before around a bottle of hair-wash. I now saw the words, "Twenty-one fevers!" This prostrated me for I know not how long. Recovering, I took a step forward, when my eyes fastened themselves upon my pen-wiper, worked into the similitude of a tiger. This compelled me to retreat to the hearthrug for reinforcements. The red-and-white dog displayed upon that article turned a deaf ear to my entreaties; nothing would move him.
A torrent of rain now began falling outside, and I knew the roads were impassable; but, chafing with impatience, I resolved upon another advance. Cautiously proceedingviâthe sofa, my attention fell upon a scrap of newspaper; and, to my unspeakable disappointment, I read:
"The various tribes of the Interior are engaged in a bitter warfare."
It may have related to America, but I could not afford to hazard all upon a guess. I made a widedétourby way of the coal-scuttle, and skirted painfullyalong the sideboard. All this consumed so much time that my pipe expired in gloom, and I went back to the hearthrug to get a match off the chimney-piece. Having done so, I stepped over to the table and sat down, taking up the pen and spreading the paper between myself and the ink-bottle. It was late, and something must be done. Writing the familiar word Ujijijijijiji, I caught a neighbourly cockroach, skewered him upon a pin, and fastened him in the centre of the word. At this supreme moment I felt inclined to fall upon his neck and devour him with kisses; but knowing by experience that cockroaches are not good to eat, I restrained my feelings. Lifting my hat, I said:
"Dr. Deadwood, I presume?"
He did not deny it!
Seeing he was feeling sick, I gave him a bit of cheese and cheered him up a trifle. After he was well restored,
"Tell me," said I, "is it true that the Regent's Canal falls into Lake Michigan, thence running uphill to Omaha, as related by Ptolemy, thence spirally to Melbourne, where it joins the delta of the Ganges and becomes an affluent of the Albert Nicaragua, as Herodotus maintains?"
HE DID NOT DENY IT!
The rest is known to the public.
In the city of Algammon resided the Prince Champou, who was madly enamoured of the Lady Capilla. She returned his affection—unopened.
In the matter of back-hair the Lady Capilla wasblessed even beyond her deserts. Her natural pigtail was so intolerably long that she employed two pages to look after it when she walked out; the one a few yards behind her, the other at the extreme end of the line. Their names were Dan and Beersheba, respectively.
Prince Champou and Lady Capilla
Aside from salaries to these dependents, and quite apart from the consideration of macassar, the possession of all this animal filament was financially unprofitable: the hair market was buoyant, and hers represented a large amount of idle capital. And it was otherwise a source of annoyance and irritation; for all the young men of the city were hotly in love with her, and skirmishing for a love-lock. They seldom troubled Dan much, but the outlying Beersheba had an animated time of it. He was subject to constant incursions, and was always in a riot.
The picture I have drawn to illustrate this history shows nothing of all these squabbles. My pen revels in the battle's din, but my peaceful pencil loves to depict the scenes I know something about.
Although the Lady Capilla was unwilling to reciprocate the passion of Champou the man, she was not averse to quiet interviews with Champou the Prince. In the course of one of these (see my picture), as she sat listening to his carefully-rehearsed and really artistic avowals, with her tail hanging out of the window, she suddenly interrupted him:
"My dear Prince," said she, "it is all nonsense, you know, to ask for my heart; but I am not mean; you shall have a lock of my hair."
"Do you think," replied the Prince, "that I could be so sordid as to accept a single jewel from that glorious crown? I love this hair of yours very dearly, I admit, but only because of its connection with your divine head. Sever that connection, and I should value it no more than I would a tail plucked from its native cow."
This comparison seems to me a very fine one, but tastes differ, and to the Lady Capilla it seemed quite the reverse. Rising indignantly, she marched away, her queue running in through the windowand gradually tapering off the interview, as it were. Prince Champou saw that he had missed his opportunity, and resolved to repair his error. Straightway he forged an order on Beersheba for thirty yards of love-lock. To serve this writ he sent his business partner; for the Prince was wont to beguile his dragging leisure by tonsorial diversions in an obscure quarter of the town. At first Beersheba was sceptical, but when he saw the writing in real ink, his scruples vanished, and he chopped off the amount of souvenir demanded.
Now Champou's partner was the Court barber, and by the use of a peculiar hair oil which the two of them had concocted, they soon managed to balden the pates of all the male aristocracy of the place. Then, to supply the demand so created, they devised beautiful wigs from the Lady Capilla's lost tresses, which they sold at a marvellous profit. And so they were enabled to retire from this narrative with good incomes.
It was known that the Lady Capilla, who, since the alleged murder of one Beersheba, had shut herself up like a hermit, or a jack-knife, would re-enter society; and a great ball was given to do her honour. The feauty, bank, and rashion of Algammon had assembled in the Guildhall for that purpose. While the revelry was at its fiercest, the dancing at its loosest, the rooms at their hottest, and the perspiration at spring-tide, there was a sound of wheels outside, begetting an instant hush of expectation within. The dancers ceased to spin, and all the gentlemen crowded about the door. As the Lady Capilla entered, these instinctively fell into two lines, and she passed down the space between, with her little tail behind her. As the end of the latter came into the room, the wigs of the two gentlemennearest the door leaped off to join their parent stem. In their haste to recover them the two gentlemen bent eagerly forward, knocking their shining pows together with a vehemence that shattered them like egg-shells. The wigs of the next pair were similarly affected; and in seeking to recover them the pair similarly perished. Then,crack! spat! pash!—at every step the lady took there were two heads that beat as one. In three minutes there was but a single living male in the room. He was an odd one, who, having a lady opposite him, had merely pitched himself headlong into her stomach, doubling her like a lemon-squeezer.
It was merry to see the Lady Capilla floating through the mazy dance that night, with all those wigs fighting for their old places in her pigtail.
About the middle of the fifteenth century there dwelt in the Black Forest a pretty but unfashionable young maiden named Simprella Whiskiblote. The first of these names was hers in monopoly; the other she enjoyed in common with her father. Simprella was the most beautiful fifteenth-century girl I ever saw. She had coloured eyes, a complexion, some hair, and two lips very nearly alike, which partially covered a lot of teeth. She was gifted with the complement of legs commonly worn at that period, supporting a body to which were loosely attached, in the manner of her country, as many arms as she had any use for, inasmuch as she was not required to hold baby. But all these charms were only so many objective points for the operationsof the paternal cudgel; for this father of hers was a hard, unfeeling man, who had no bowels of compassion for his bludgeon. He would put it to work early, and keep it going all day; and when it was worn out with hard service, instead of rewarding it with steady employment, he would cruelly throw it aside and get a fresh one. It is scarcely to be wondered at that a girl harried in this way should be driven to the insane expedient of falling in love.
Near the neat mud cottage in which Simprella vegetated was a dense wood, extending for miles in various directions, according to the point from which it was viewed. By a method readily understood, it had been so arranged that it was the next easiest thing in the world to get into it, and the very easiest thing in the world to stay there.
In the centre of this labyrinth was a castle of the early promiscuous order of architecture—an order which was until recently much employed in the construction of powder-works, but is now entirely exploded. In this baronial hall lived an eligible single party—a giant so tall he used a step-ladder to put on his hat, and could not put his hands into his pockets without kneeling. He lived entirely alone, and gave himself up to the practice of iniquity, devising prohibitory liquor laws, imposing the income tax, and drinking shilling claret. But, seeing Simprella one day, he bent himself into the form of a horse-shoe magnet to look into her eyes. Whether it was his magnetic attitude acting upon a young heart steeled by adversity, or his chivalric forbearance in not eating her, I know not: I only know that from that moment she became riotously enamoured of him; and the reader may accept either the scientific or the popular explanation, according to the bent of his mind.
She at once asked the giant in marriage, and obtained the consent of his parents by betraying her father into their hands; explaining to them, however, that he was not good to eat, but might be drunk on the premises.
The marriage proved a very happy one, but the household duties of the bride were extremely irksome. It fatigued her to dress the beeves for dinner; it nearly broke her back to black her lord's boots without any scaffolding. It took her all day to perform any kindly little office for him. But she bore it all uncomplainingly, until one morning he asked her to part his back hair; then the bent sapling of her spirit flew up and hit him in the face. She gathered up some French novels, and retired to a lonely tower to breathe out her soul in unavailing regrets.
One day she saw below her in the forest a dear gazelle, gladding her with its soft black eye. She leaned out of the window, and saidScat!The animal did not move. Then she waved her arms—above described—and saidShew!This time he did not move as much as he did before. Simprella decided he must have a bill against her; so she closed her shutters, drew down the blind, and pinned the curtains together. A moment later she opened them and peeped out. Then she went down to examine his collar, that she might order one like it.
When the gazelle saw Simprella approach, he arose, and, beckoning with his tail, made off slowly into the wood. Then Simprella perceived this was a supernatural gazelle—a variety now extinct, but which then pervaded the Schwarzwald in considerable quantity—sent by some good magician, who owed the giant a grudge, to pilot her out of the forest. Nothing could exceed her joy at thisdiscovery: she whistled a dirge, sang a Latin hymn, and preached a funeral discourse all in one breath. Such were the artless methods by which the full heart in the fifteenth century was compelled to express its gratitute for benefits; the advertising columns of the daily papers were not then open to the benefactor's pen.
Simprella and Gazelle
All would now have been well, but for the fact that it was not. In following her deliverer, Simprella observed that his golden collar was inscribed with the mystic words—HANDS OFF! She tried hard to obey the injunction; she did her level best; she—but why amplify? Simprella was a woman.
No sooner had her fingers touched the slender chain depending from the magic collar, than the poor animal's eyes emitted twin tears, which coursed silently but firmly down his nose, vacating it more in sorrow than in anger. Then he looked up reproachfully into her face. Those were his first tears—this was his last look. In two minutes by the watch he was blind as a mole!
There is but little more to tell. The giant ate himself to death; the castle mouldered and crumbled into pig-pens; empires rose and fell; kings ascended their thrones, and got down again; mountains grew grey, and rivers bald-headed; suits in chancery were brought and decided, and those from the tailor were paid for; the ages came, like maiden aunts, uninvited, and lingered till they became a bore—and still Simprella, with the magician's curse upon her, conducted her sightless guide through the interminable wilderness!
To all others the labyrinth had yielded up its clue. The hunter threaded its maze; the woodman plunged confidently into its innermost depths; the peasant child gathered ferns unscared in its sunless dells. But often the child abandoned his botany in terror, the woodman bolted for home, and the hunter's heart went down into his boots, at the sight of a fair young spectre leading a blind phantom through the silent glades. I saw them there in 1860, while I was gunning. I shot them.