God makes sech nights, all white an’ stillFur’z you can look or listen,Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill,All silence an’ all glisten.Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknownAn’ peeked in thru’ the winder,An’ there sot Huldy all alone,’Ith no one nigh to hender.A fireplace filled the room’s one sideWith half a cord o’ wood in—There warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died)To bake ye to a puddin’.The wa’nut logs shot sparkles outToward the pootiest, bless her,An’ leetle flames danced aboutThe chiny on the dresser.Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,An’ in amongst ’em rustedThe ole queen’s-arm thet Gran’ther YoungFetched back from Concord busted.The very room, coz she was in,Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’,An’ she looked full ez rosy aginEz the apples she was peelin’.’Twas kin’ o’ kingdom-come to lookOn sech a blessed cretur,A dogrose blushin’ to a brookAin’t modester nor sweeter.He was six foot o’ man, A 1,Clear grit an’ human natur’;None couldn’t quicker pitch a tonNor dror a furrer straighter.He’d sparked it with full twenty gals,He’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em,Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells—All is, he couldn’t love ’em.But long o’ her his veins ’ould runAll crinkly like curled maple,The side she breshed felt full o’ sunEz a south slope in Ap’il.She thought no v’ice hed sech a swingEz hisn in the choir;My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,Sheknowedthe Lord was nigher.An’ she’d blush scarlit, right in prayer,When her new meetin’-bunnetFelt somehow thru’ its crown a pairO’ blue eyes sot upon it.Thet night, I tell ye, she lookedsome!She seemed to’ve gut a new soul,For she felt sartin-sure he’d come,Down to her very shoe-sole.She heered a foot, an’ knowed it, tu,A-raspin’ on the scraper—All ways to once her feelin’s flewLike sparks in burnt-up paper.He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat,Some doubtfle o’ the sekle,His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat,But hern went pity Zekle.An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerkEz though she wished him furderAn’ on her apples kep’ to work,Parin’ away like murder.“You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?”“Wal—no—I come dasignin’——”“To see my Ma? She’s sprinklin’ clo’esAgin to-morrer’s i’nin’.”To say why gals act so or so,Or don’t ’ould be presumin’;Mebby to meanyesan’ saynoComes nateral to women.He stood a spell on one foot fust,Then stood a spell on t’other.An’ on which one he felt the wustHe couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.Says he, “I’d better call agin;”Says she, “Think likely, Mister:”Thet last word pricked him like a pin,An’——Wal, he up an’ kist her.When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips,Huldy sot pale ez ashes,All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lipsAn’ teary roun’ the lashes.For she was jes’ the quiet kindWhose naturs never vary,Like streams that keep a summer mindSnowhid in Jenooary.The blood clost roun’ her heart felt gluedToo tight for all expressin’,Tell mother see how metters stood,An’ gin ’em both her blessin’.Then her red come back like the tideDown to the Bay o’ Fundy,An’ all I know is they was criedIn meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.
God makes sech nights, all white an’ stillFur’z you can look or listen,Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill,All silence an’ all glisten.Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknownAn’ peeked in thru’ the winder,An’ there sot Huldy all alone,’Ith no one nigh to hender.A fireplace filled the room’s one sideWith half a cord o’ wood in—There warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died)To bake ye to a puddin’.The wa’nut logs shot sparkles outToward the pootiest, bless her,An’ leetle flames danced aboutThe chiny on the dresser.Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,An’ in amongst ’em rustedThe ole queen’s-arm thet Gran’ther YoungFetched back from Concord busted.The very room, coz she was in,Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’,An’ she looked full ez rosy aginEz the apples she was peelin’.’Twas kin’ o’ kingdom-come to lookOn sech a blessed cretur,A dogrose blushin’ to a brookAin’t modester nor sweeter.He was six foot o’ man, A 1,Clear grit an’ human natur’;None couldn’t quicker pitch a tonNor dror a furrer straighter.He’d sparked it with full twenty gals,He’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em,Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells—All is, he couldn’t love ’em.But long o’ her his veins ’ould runAll crinkly like curled maple,The side she breshed felt full o’ sunEz a south slope in Ap’il.She thought no v’ice hed sech a swingEz hisn in the choir;My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,Sheknowedthe Lord was nigher.An’ she’d blush scarlit, right in prayer,When her new meetin’-bunnetFelt somehow thru’ its crown a pairO’ blue eyes sot upon it.Thet night, I tell ye, she lookedsome!She seemed to’ve gut a new soul,For she felt sartin-sure he’d come,Down to her very shoe-sole.She heered a foot, an’ knowed it, tu,A-raspin’ on the scraper—All ways to once her feelin’s flewLike sparks in burnt-up paper.He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat,Some doubtfle o’ the sekle,His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat,But hern went pity Zekle.An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerkEz though she wished him furderAn’ on her apples kep’ to work,Parin’ away like murder.“You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?”“Wal—no—I come dasignin’——”“To see my Ma? She’s sprinklin’ clo’esAgin to-morrer’s i’nin’.”To say why gals act so or so,Or don’t ’ould be presumin’;Mebby to meanyesan’ saynoComes nateral to women.He stood a spell on one foot fust,Then stood a spell on t’other.An’ on which one he felt the wustHe couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.Says he, “I’d better call agin;”Says she, “Think likely, Mister:”Thet last word pricked him like a pin,An’——Wal, he up an’ kist her.When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips,Huldy sot pale ez ashes,All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lipsAn’ teary roun’ the lashes.For she was jes’ the quiet kindWhose naturs never vary,Like streams that keep a summer mindSnowhid in Jenooary.The blood clost roun’ her heart felt gluedToo tight for all expressin’,Tell mother see how metters stood,An’ gin ’em both her blessin’.Then her red come back like the tideDown to the Bay o’ Fundy,An’ all I know is they was criedIn meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.
God makes sech nights, all white an’ stillFur’z you can look or listen,Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill,All silence an’ all glisten.
God makes sech nights, all white an’ still
Fur’z you can look or listen,
Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill,
All silence an’ all glisten.
Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknownAn’ peeked in thru’ the winder,An’ there sot Huldy all alone,’Ith no one nigh to hender.
Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown
An’ peeked in thru’ the winder,
An’ there sot Huldy all alone,
’Ith no one nigh to hender.
A fireplace filled the room’s one sideWith half a cord o’ wood in—There warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died)To bake ye to a puddin’.
A fireplace filled the room’s one side
With half a cord o’ wood in—
There warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin’.
The wa’nut logs shot sparkles outToward the pootiest, bless her,An’ leetle flames danced aboutThe chiny on the dresser.
The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out
Toward the pootiest, bless her,
An’ leetle flames danced about
The chiny on the dresser.
Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,An’ in amongst ’em rustedThe ole queen’s-arm thet Gran’ther YoungFetched back from Concord busted.
Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An’ in amongst ’em rusted
The ole queen’s-arm thet Gran’ther Young
Fetched back from Concord busted.
The very room, coz she was in,Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’,An’ she looked full ez rosy aginEz the apples she was peelin’.
The very room, coz she was in,
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’,
An’ she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez the apples she was peelin’.
’Twas kin’ o’ kingdom-come to lookOn sech a blessed cretur,A dogrose blushin’ to a brookAin’t modester nor sweeter.
’Twas kin’ o’ kingdom-come to look
On sech a blessed cretur,
A dogrose blushin’ to a brook
Ain’t modester nor sweeter.
He was six foot o’ man, A 1,Clear grit an’ human natur’;None couldn’t quicker pitch a tonNor dror a furrer straighter.
He was six foot o’ man, A 1,
Clear grit an’ human natur’;
None couldn’t quicker pitch a ton
Nor dror a furrer straighter.
He’d sparked it with full twenty gals,He’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em,Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells—All is, he couldn’t love ’em.
He’d sparked it with full twenty gals,
He’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em,
Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells—
All is, he couldn’t love ’em.
But long o’ her his veins ’ould runAll crinkly like curled maple,The side she breshed felt full o’ sunEz a south slope in Ap’il.
But long o’ her his veins ’ould run
All crinkly like curled maple,
The side she breshed felt full o’ sun
Ez a south slope in Ap’il.
She thought no v’ice hed sech a swingEz hisn in the choir;My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,Sheknowedthe Lord was nigher.
She thought no v’ice hed sech a swing
Ez hisn in the choir;
My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,
Sheknowedthe Lord was nigher.
An’ she’d blush scarlit, right in prayer,When her new meetin’-bunnetFelt somehow thru’ its crown a pairO’ blue eyes sot upon it.
An’ she’d blush scarlit, right in prayer,
When her new meetin’-bunnet
Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair
O’ blue eyes sot upon it.
Thet night, I tell ye, she lookedsome!She seemed to’ve gut a new soul,For she felt sartin-sure he’d come,Down to her very shoe-sole.
Thet night, I tell ye, she lookedsome!
She seemed to’ve gut a new soul,
For she felt sartin-sure he’d come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.
She heered a foot, an’ knowed it, tu,A-raspin’ on the scraper—All ways to once her feelin’s flewLike sparks in burnt-up paper.
She heered a foot, an’ knowed it, tu,
A-raspin’ on the scraper—
All ways to once her feelin’s flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat,Some doubtfle o’ the sekle,His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat,But hern went pity Zekle.
He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o’ the sekle,
His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.
An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerkEz though she wished him furderAn’ on her apples kep’ to work,Parin’ away like murder.
An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wished him furder
An’ on her apples kep’ to work,
Parin’ away like murder.
“You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?”“Wal—no—I come dasignin’——”“To see my Ma? She’s sprinklin’ clo’esAgin to-morrer’s i’nin’.”
“You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?”
“Wal—no—I come dasignin’——”
“To see my Ma? She’s sprinklin’ clo’es
Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.”
To say why gals act so or so,Or don’t ’ould be presumin’;Mebby to meanyesan’ saynoComes nateral to women.
To say why gals act so or so,
Or don’t ’ould be presumin’;
Mebby to meanyesan’ sayno
Comes nateral to women.
He stood a spell on one foot fust,Then stood a spell on t’other.An’ on which one he felt the wustHe couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.
He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on t’other.
An’ on which one he felt the wust
He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.
Says he, “I’d better call agin;”Says she, “Think likely, Mister:”Thet last word pricked him like a pin,An’——Wal, he up an’ kist her.
Says he, “I’d better call agin;”
Says she, “Think likely, Mister:”
Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
An’——Wal, he up an’ kist her.
When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips,Huldy sot pale ez ashes,All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lipsAn’ teary roun’ the lashes.
When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips
An’ teary roun’ the lashes.
For she was jes’ the quiet kindWhose naturs never vary,Like streams that keep a summer mindSnowhid in Jenooary.
For she was jes’ the quiet kind
Whose naturs never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snowhid in Jenooary.
The blood clost roun’ her heart felt gluedToo tight for all expressin’,Tell mother see how metters stood,An’ gin ’em both her blessin’.
The blood clost roun’ her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin’,
Tell mother see how metters stood,
An’ gin ’em both her blessin’.
Then her red come back like the tideDown to the Bay o’ Fundy,An’ all I know is they was criedIn meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.
Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o’ Fundy,
An’ all I know is they was cried
In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.
“You’re clever at drawing, I own,”Said my beautiful cousin Lisette,As we sat by the window alone,“But say, can you paint a Coquette?”“She’s painted already,” quoth I;“Nay, nay!” said the laughing Lisette,“Now none of your joking—but tryAnd paint me a thorough Coquette.”“Well, Cousin,” at once I beganIn the ear of the eager Lisette,“I’ll paint you as well as I can,That wonderful thing, a Coquette.“She wears a most beautiful face”(“Of course,” said the pretty Lisette),“And isn’t deficient in grace,Or else she were not a Coquette.“And then she is daintily made”(A smile from the dainty Lisette)“By people expert in the tradeOf forming a proper Coquette.“She’s the winningest ways with the beaux”(“Go on!” said the winning Lisette),“But there isn’t a man of them knowsThe mind of the fickle Coquette!“She knows how to weep and to sigh”(A sigh from the tender Lisette),“But her weeping is all in my eye—Not that of the cunning Coquette!“In short, she’s a creature of art”(“O hush!” said the frowning Lisette),“With merely the ghost of a heart—Enough for a thorough Coquette.“And yet I could easily prove”(“Now don’t!” said the angry Lisette),“The lady is always in love—In love with herself—the Coquette!“There—do not be angry—you know,My dear little cousin Lisette,You told me a moment ago,To paintyou—a thorough Coquette!”
“You’re clever at drawing, I own,”Said my beautiful cousin Lisette,As we sat by the window alone,“But say, can you paint a Coquette?”“She’s painted already,” quoth I;“Nay, nay!” said the laughing Lisette,“Now none of your joking—but tryAnd paint me a thorough Coquette.”“Well, Cousin,” at once I beganIn the ear of the eager Lisette,“I’ll paint you as well as I can,That wonderful thing, a Coquette.“She wears a most beautiful face”(“Of course,” said the pretty Lisette),“And isn’t deficient in grace,Or else she were not a Coquette.“And then she is daintily made”(A smile from the dainty Lisette)“By people expert in the tradeOf forming a proper Coquette.“She’s the winningest ways with the beaux”(“Go on!” said the winning Lisette),“But there isn’t a man of them knowsThe mind of the fickle Coquette!“She knows how to weep and to sigh”(A sigh from the tender Lisette),“But her weeping is all in my eye—Not that of the cunning Coquette!“In short, she’s a creature of art”(“O hush!” said the frowning Lisette),“With merely the ghost of a heart—Enough for a thorough Coquette.“And yet I could easily prove”(“Now don’t!” said the angry Lisette),“The lady is always in love—In love with herself—the Coquette!“There—do not be angry—you know,My dear little cousin Lisette,You told me a moment ago,To paintyou—a thorough Coquette!”
“You’re clever at drawing, I own,”Said my beautiful cousin Lisette,As we sat by the window alone,“But say, can you paint a Coquette?”
“You’re clever at drawing, I own,”
Said my beautiful cousin Lisette,
As we sat by the window alone,
“But say, can you paint a Coquette?”
“She’s painted already,” quoth I;“Nay, nay!” said the laughing Lisette,“Now none of your joking—but tryAnd paint me a thorough Coquette.”
“She’s painted already,” quoth I;
“Nay, nay!” said the laughing Lisette,
“Now none of your joking—but try
And paint me a thorough Coquette.”
“Well, Cousin,” at once I beganIn the ear of the eager Lisette,“I’ll paint you as well as I can,That wonderful thing, a Coquette.
“Well, Cousin,” at once I began
In the ear of the eager Lisette,
“I’ll paint you as well as I can,
That wonderful thing, a Coquette.
“She wears a most beautiful face”(“Of course,” said the pretty Lisette),“And isn’t deficient in grace,Or else she were not a Coquette.
“She wears a most beautiful face”
(“Of course,” said the pretty Lisette),
“And isn’t deficient in grace,
Or else she were not a Coquette.
“And then she is daintily made”(A smile from the dainty Lisette)“By people expert in the tradeOf forming a proper Coquette.
“And then she is daintily made”
(A smile from the dainty Lisette)
“By people expert in the trade
Of forming a proper Coquette.
“She’s the winningest ways with the beaux”(“Go on!” said the winning Lisette),“But there isn’t a man of them knowsThe mind of the fickle Coquette!
“She’s the winningest ways with the beaux”
(“Go on!” said the winning Lisette),
“But there isn’t a man of them knows
The mind of the fickle Coquette!
“She knows how to weep and to sigh”(A sigh from the tender Lisette),“But her weeping is all in my eye—Not that of the cunning Coquette!
“She knows how to weep and to sigh”
(A sigh from the tender Lisette),
“But her weeping is all in my eye—
Not that of the cunning Coquette!
“In short, she’s a creature of art”(“O hush!” said the frowning Lisette),“With merely the ghost of a heart—Enough for a thorough Coquette.
“In short, she’s a creature of art”
(“O hush!” said the frowning Lisette),
“With merely the ghost of a heart—
Enough for a thorough Coquette.
“And yet I could easily prove”(“Now don’t!” said the angry Lisette),“The lady is always in love—In love with herself—the Coquette!
“And yet I could easily prove”
(“Now don’t!” said the angry Lisette),
“The lady is always in love—
In love with herself—the Coquette!
“There—do not be angry—you know,My dear little cousin Lisette,You told me a moment ago,To paintyou—a thorough Coquette!”
“There—do not be angry—you know,
My dear little cousin Lisette,
You told me a moment ago,
To paintyou—a thorough Coquette!”
Henry Ward Beecher, in his famous speech at Manchester, England, in which he talked for an hour against a howling mob of Rebel sympathizers before he gained their attention, was interrupted by a man in the audience who shouted: “Why didn’t you whip the Confederates in sixty days, as you said you would?” “Because,” replied Beecher, “we found we had Americans to fight instead of Englishmen.”
Colonel Mulberry Sellers was in his “library,” which was his “drawing-room,” and was also his “picture gallery,” and likewise his “workshop.” Sometimes he called it by one of these names, sometimes by another, according to occasion and circumstance. He was constructing what seemed to be some kind of a frail mechanical toy, and was apparently very much interested in his work. He was a white-headed man now, but otherwise he was as young, alert, buoyant, visionary and enterprising as ever. His loving old wife sat near by, contentedly knitting and thinking, with a cat asleep in her lap. The room was large, light and had a comfortable look—in fact, a homelike look—though the furniture was of a humble sort and not over-abundant, and the knick-knacks and things that go to adorn a living-room not plenty and not costly. But there were natural flowers, and there was an abstract and unclassifiable something about the place which betrayed the presence in the house of somebody with a happy taste and an effective touch.
Even the deadly chromos on the walls weresomehow without offense; in fact, they seemed to belong there and to add an attraction to the room—a fascination, anyway; for whoever got his eye on one of them was like to gaze and suffer till he died—you have seen that kind of pictures. Some of these terrors were landscapes, some libeled the sea, some were ostensible portraits, all were crimes. All the portraits were recognizable as dead Americans of distinction, and yet, through labeling, added by a daring hand, they were all doing duty here as “Earls of Rossmore.” The newest one had left the works as Andrew Jackson, but was doing its best now as “Simon Lathers Lord Rossmore, Present Earl.” On one wall was a cheap old railroad map of Warwickshire. This had been newly labeled, “The Rossmore Estates.” On the opposite wall was another map, and this was the most imposing decoration of the establishment, and the first to catch a stranger’s attention, because of its great size. It had once borne simply the title SIBERIA, but now the word “FUTURE” had been written in front of that word. There were other additions, in red ink—many cities, with great populations set down, scattered over the vast country at points where neither cities nor populations exist to-day. One of these cities, with population placed at 1,500,000, bore the name “Libertyorloffskoizalinski,” and there was a still more populous one, centrally located and marked “Capitol,” which bore the name “Freedomslovnaivenovich.”
The mansion—the Colonel’s usual name for the house—was a rickety old two-story frame of considerable size, which had been painted, some time or other, but had nearly forgotten it. It was away out in the ragged edge of Washington, and had once been somebody’s country place. It had a neglected yard around it, with a paling fence that needed straightening up in places, and a gate that would stay shut. By the door-post were several modest tin signs. “Col. Mulberry Sellers, Attorney-at-Law and Claim Agent,” was the principal one. One learned from the others that the Colonel was a Materializer, a Hypnotizer, a Mind-cure dabbler, and so on. For he was a man who could always find things to do.
A white-headed Negro man, with spectacles and damaged white cotton gloves, appeared in the presence, made a stately obeisance, and announced:
“Marse Washington Hawkins, suh.”
“Great Scott! Show him in, Dan’l; show him in.”
The Colonel and his wife were on their feet in a moment, and the next moment were joyfully wringing the hands of a stoutish, discouraged-looking man, whose general aspect suggested that he was fifty years old, but whose hair swore to a hundred.
“Well, well, well, Washington, my boy, itisgood to look at you again. Sit down, sit down, and make yourself at home. There now—why,you look perfectly natural; ageing a little, just a little, but you’d have known him anywhere, wouldn’t you, Polly?”
“Oh, yes, Berry; he’sjustlike his pa would have looked if he’d lived. Dear, dear, where have you dropped from? Let me see, how long is it since——”
“I should say it’s all of fifteen years, Mrs. Sellers.”
“Well, well, how time does get away with us. Yes, and oh, the changes that——”
There was a sudden catch of her voice and a trembling of the lip, the men waiting reverently for her to get command of herself and go on; but, after a little struggle, she turned away with her apron to her eyes, and softly disappeared.
“Seeing you made her think of the children, poor thing—dear, dear, they’re all dead but the youngest. But banish care; it’s no time for it now—on with the dance, let joy be unconfided, is my motto—whether there’s any dance to dance or any joy to unconfide, you’ll be the healthier for it every time—every time, Washington—it’s my experience, and I’ve seen a good deal of this world. Come, where have you disappeared to all these years, and are you from there now, or where are you from?”
“I don’t quite think you would ever guess, Colonel. Cherokee Strip.”
“My land!”
“Sure as you live.”
“You can’t mean it: Actuallylivingout there?”
“Well, yes, if a body may call it that; though it’s a pretty strong term for ’dobies and jackass rabbits, boiled beans and slapjack, depression, withered hopes, poverty in all its varieties——”
“Louise out there?”
“Yes, and the children.”
“Out there now?”
“Yes; I couldn’t afford to bring them with me.”
“Oh, I see—you had to come—claim against the Government. Make yourself perfectly easy—I’ll take care of that.”
“But it isn’t a claim against the Government.”
“No? Want to be a postmaster?That’sall right. Leave it to me. I’ll fix it.”
“But it isn’t postmaster—you’re all astray yet.”
“Well, good gracious, Washington, why don’t you come out and tell me what it is? What do you want to be so reserved and distrustful with an old friend like me for? Don’t you reckon I can keep a se——”
“There’s no secret about it—you merely don’t give me a chance to——”
“Now, look here, old friend, I know the human race; and I know that when a man comes to Washington, I don’t care if it’s from Heaven, let alone Cherokee Strip, it’s because hewantssomething. And I know that as a rule he’s not going to get it; that he’ll stay and try for anotherthing and won’t get that; the same luck with the next and the next and the next; and keeps on till he strikes bottom, and is too poor and ashamed to go back, even to Cherokee Strip; and at last his heart breaks and they take up a collection and bury him. There—don’t interrupt me, I know what I’m talking about. Happy and prosperous in the Far West, wasn’t I?Youknow that. Principal citizen of Hawkeye, looked up to by everybody, kind of an autocrat, actually a kind of an autocrat, Washington. Well, nothing would do but I must go as Minister to St. James’s, the Governor and everybody insisting, you know, and so at last I consented—no getting out of it,hadto do it, so here I came.A day too late, Washington. Think of that—what little things change the world’s history—yes, sir, the place had been filled. Well, there I was, you see. I offered to compromise and go to Paris. The President was very sorry and all that, but that place, you see, didn’t belong to the West, so there I was again. There was no help for it, so I had to stoop a little—we all reach the day some time or other when we’ve got to do that, Washington, and it’s not a bad thing for us, either, take it by and large all round—I had to stoop a little and offer to take Constantinople. Washington, consider this—for it’s perfectly true—within a month Iaskedfor China; within another month Ibeggedfor Japan; one year later I was away down, down, down, supplicating with tears and anguish for the bottom office in the gift ofthe Government of the United States—Flint-picker in the cellars of the War Department. And by George, I didn’t get it.”
“Flint-picker?”
“Yes. Office established in the time of the Revolution—last century. The musket-flints for the military posts were supplied from the Capitol. They do it yet; for although the flint-arm has gone out and the forts have tumbled down, the decree hasn’t been repealed—been overlooked and forgotten, you see—and so the vacancies where old Ticonderoga and others used to stand still get their six quarts of gun-flints a year just the same.”
Washington said musingly after a pause:
“How strange it seems—to start for Minister to England at twenty thousand a year and fail for flint-picker at——”
“Three dollars a week. It’s human life, Washington—just an epitome of human ambition and struggle, and the outcome; you aim for the palace and get drowned in the sewer.”
There was another meditative silence. Then Washington said, with earnest compassion in his voice:
“And so, after coming here, against your inclination, to satisfy your sense of patriotic duty and appease a selfish public clamor, you get absolutely nothing for it.”
“Nothing?” The Colonel had to get up and stand, to get room for his amazement to expand. “Nothing, Washington? I ask you this: tobe a Perpetual Member and theonlyPerpetual Member of a Diplomatic Body accredited to the greatest country on earth—do you call that nothing?”
It was Washington’s turn to be amazed. He was stricken dumb; but the wide-eyed wonder, the reverent admiration expressed in his face, were more eloquent than any words could have been. The Colonel’s wounded spirit was healed, and he resumed his seat, pleased and content. He leaned forward and said impressively:
“What was due to a man who had become forever conspicuous by an experience without precedence in the history of the world—a man made permanently and diplomatically sacred, so to speak, by having been connected, temporarily, through solicitation, with every single diplomatic post in the roster of this Government, from Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James’s all the way down to Consul to a guano rock in the Straits of Sunda—salary payable in guano—which disappeared by volcanic convulsion the day before they got down to my name in the list of applicants? Certainly something august enough to be answerable to the size of this unique and memorable experience was my due, and I got it. By the common voice of this community, by acclamation of the people, that mighty utterance which brushes aside laws and legislation, and from whose decrees there is no appeal, I was named Perpetual Member of the Diplomatic Bodyrepresenting the multifarious sovereignties and civilizations of the globe near the republican court of the United States of America. And they brought me home with a torchlight procession.”
“It is wonderful, Colonel——simply wonderful.”
“It’s the loftiest official position in the whole earth.”
“I should think so—and the most commanding.”
“You have named the word. Think of it! I frown, and there is war; I smile, and contending nations lay down their arms.”
“It is awful. The responsibility, I mean.”
“It is nothing. Responsibility is no burden to me; I am used to it; have always been used to it.”
“And the work—the work! Do you have to attend all the sittings?”
“Who, I? Does the Emperor of Russia attend the conclaves of the Governors of the provinces? He sits at home and indicates his pleasure.”
Washington was silent a moment, then a deep sigh escaped him.
“How proud I was an hour ago; how paltry seems my little promotion now! Colonel, the reason I came to Washington is—I am Congressional Delegate from Cherokee Strip!”
The Colonel sprang to his feet and broke out with prodigious enthusiasm:
“Give me your hand, my boy—this is immensenews! I congratulate you with all my heart. My prophecies stand firm. I always said it was in you. I always said you were born for high distinction and would achieve it. You ask Polly if I didn’t.”
Washington was dazed by this most unexpected demonstration.
“Why, Colonel, there’s nothingtoit. That little, narrow, desolate, unpeopled, oblong streak of grass and gravel, lost in the remote wastes of the vast continent—why, it’s like representing a billiard table—a discarded one.”
“Tut-tut, it’s a great, it’s a staving preferment, and just opulent with influence here.”
“Shucks, Colonel, I haven’t even a vote.”
“That’s nothing; you can make speeches.”
“No, I can’t. The population only two hundred——”
“That’s all right, that’s all right——”
“And they hadn’t any right to elect me; we’re not even a territory; there’s no Organic Act; the Government hasn’t any official knowledge of us whatever.”
“Never mind about that; I’ll fix that. I’ll rush the thing through; I’ll get you organized in no time.”
“Willyou, Colonel—it’stoogood of you; but it’s just your old sterling self, the same old, ever-faithful friend,” and the grateful tears welled up in Washington’s eyes.
“It’s just as good as done, my boy, just as good as done. Shake hands. We’ll hitch teamstogether, you and I, and we’ll make things hum!”
Last year I had a solitary peach upon a solitary tree, for the early frost frustrated the delicious crop. This only one, which, from its golden color, might be entitled El Dorado, I watched with fear and trembling from day to day, patiently waiting for the identical time when I should buoy it up carefully in my hand, that its pulp should not be bruised, tear off its thin peel, admonished that the time had come by a gradual releasing of the fruit from its adhesion to the stem, and I appointed the next day for the ceremonial of plucking. The morrow dawned, as bright a day as ever dawned upon the earth, and on a near approach I found it still there, and said, with chuckling gratification, “There is some delicacy in thieves.” Alas! on reaching it, somebody had taken a large bite out of the ripest cheek, but with a sacrilegious witticism had left it sticking to the stem. The detestable prints of the teeth which bit it were still in it, and a wasp was gloating at its core. Had he taken the whole peach I should have vented my feelings in a violence of indignation unsuited to a balmy garden. But as he wasjoker enough to bite only its sunny side, I must forgive him, as one who has some element of salvation in his character, because he is disposed to look at the bright side of things. What is a peach? A mere globe of succulent and delicious pulp, which I would rather be deprived of than cultivate bad feelings, even toward thieves. Wherever you find rogues whose deeds involve a saline element of wit, make up your mind that they are no rogues.—Up the River.
This morning the Shanghai hen laid another egg, of a rich brunette complexion, which we took away, and replaced by a common vulgar egg, intending to reserve the Shanghai’s in a cool place until the time of incubation. Very much amused was I with the sequel. The proud and haughty superiority of the breed manifested itself by detecting the cheat and resenting the insult. Shang and Eng flew at the suppositious egg with the utmost indignation and picked it to pieces, scratching the remnants of the shell from the nest.... There is one peculiarity of these fowls which deserves to be mentioned. When I removed mine from the basket I thought that the worthy donor had clipped their wings to prevent them from flying away or scaling the hennery. On further knowledge I have learned that their style and fashion is that of the jacket-sleeve and bobtail coat. Their eminent domesticity is clearly signified by this, because they cannot get over an ordinary fence, and would notif they could. It is because they have no disposition to do this, that Nature has cropped them of their superfluous wings and given them a plumage suitable to their desires. “Their sober wishes never learn to stray.” They often come into the kitchen, but never go abroad to associate with common fowls, but remain at home in dignified retirement. Another thing remarkable and quite renowned about this is the Oriental courtesy and politeness of the cock. If you throw a piece of bread, he waits till the hen helps herself first, and often carries it to her in his own beak. The feathered people in the East, and thosenotfeathered, are far superior to ours in those elaborate and delightful forms of manner which add a charm and zest to life. This has been from the days of Abraham until now. There are no common people in these realms. All are polite, and the very roosters illustrate the best principles laid down in any book of etiquette.Book of Etiquette!What is conventionalism without the inborn sense? Can any man or beast be taught to be mechanically polite? Not at all—not at all!...
I have received a present of a pair of Cochin Chinas, a superb cock and a dun-colored hen. I put them with my other fowls in the cellar, to protect them for a short time from the severity of the weather. My Shanghai rooster had for several nights been housed up; for on one occasion, when the cold was snapping, he was discovered under the lee of a stone wall, standingon one leg, taking no notice of the approach of any one, and nearly gone. When brought in, he backed up against the red-hot kitchen stove, and burned his tail off. Before this he had no feathers in the rear to speak of, and now he is bobtailed indeed. Anne sewed upon him a jacket of carpet, and put him in a tea-box for the night; and it was ludicrous on the next morning to see him lifting up his head above the square prison-box and crowing lustily to greet the day. But before breakfast time he had a dreadful fit. He retreated against the wall, he fell upon his side, he kicked, and he “carried on”; but when the carpet was taken off he came to himself, and ate corn with a voracious appetite. His indisposition was, no doubt, occasioned by a rush of blood to the head from the tightness of the bandages. When Shanghai and Cochin met together in the cellar, they enacted in that dusky hole all the barbarities of a profane cockpit. I heard a sound as if from the tumbling of barrels, followed by a dull, thumping noise, like spirit-rappings, and went below, where the first object which met my eye was a mouse creeping along the beam out of an excavation in my pineapple cheese. As for the fowls, instead of salutation after the respectful manner of their country—which is expressed thus: Shang knocks knees to Cochin, bows three times, touches the ground, and makes obeisance—they were engaged in a bloody fight, unworthy of celestial poultry. With their heads down, eyes flashing, and red asvipers, and with a feathery frill or ruffle about their necks, they were leaping at each other, to see who should hold dominion over the ash-heap. It put me exactly in mind of two Scythians or two Greeks in America, where each wished to be considered the only Scythian or only Greek in the country. A contest or emulation is at all times highly animating and full of zest, whether two scholars write, two athletes strive, two boilers strain, or two cocks fight. Every lazy dog in the vicinity is immediately at hand. I looked on until I saw the Shanghai’s peepers darkened, and his comb streaming with blood. These birds contended for some days after for preëminence on the lawn, and no flinching could be observed on either part, although the Shanghai was by one-third the smaller of the two. At last the latter was thoroughly mortified; his eyes wavered and wandered vaguely, as he stood opposite the foe; he turned tail and ran. From that moment he became the veriest coward, and submitted to every indignity without attempting to resist. He suffered himself to be chased about the lawn, fled from the Indian meal, and was almost starved. Such submission on his part at last resulted in peace, and the two rivals walked side by side without fighting, and ate together, with a mutual concession, of the corn. This, in turn, engendered a degree of presumption on the part of the Shanghai cock; and one day, when the dew sparkled and the sun shone peculiarly bright,he so far forgot himself as to ascend a hillock and venture on a tolerably triumphant crow. It showed a lack of judgment; his cock-a-doodle-doo proved fatal. Scarcely had he done so, when Cochin China rushed upon him, tore out his feathers, and flogged him so severely that it was doubtful whether he would remain with us. Now, alas! he presents a sad spectacle: his comb frozen off, his tail burned off, and his head knocked to a jelly. While the corn jingles in the throats of his compeers when they eagerly snap it, as if they were eating from a pile of shilling pieces or fi’-penny bits, he stands aloof and grubs in the ground. How changed!—Up the River.
A clergyman was very anxious to introduce some hymn-books into the church, and arranged with his clerk that the latter was to give out the notice immediately after the sermon. The clerk, however, had a notice of his own to give out with reference to the baptism of infants. Accordingly, at the close of the sermon he arose and announced that “All those who have children whom they wish to have baptized please send in their names at once to the clerk.” The clergyman, who was stone deaf, assumed that the clerk was giving out the hymn-book notice, and immediately rose and said: “And I should say, for the benefit of those who haven’t any, that they may be obtained at the vestry any day from three to four o’clock; the ordinary little ones at one shilling each, and specialones with red backs at one shilling and fourpence.”
As I do not suppose the most gentle of readers will believe that anybody’s sponsors in baptism ever wilfully assumed the responsibility of such a name, I may as well state that I have reason to infer that Melons was simply the nickname of a small boy I once knew. If he had any other, I never knew it.
Various theories were often projected by me to account for this strange cognomen. His head, which was covered with a transparent down, like that which clothes very small chickens, plainly permitting the scalp to show through, to an imaginative mind might have suggested that succulent vegetable. That his parents, recognizing some poetical significance in the fruits of the season, might have given this name to an August child, was an Oriental explanation. That from his infancy he was fond of indulging in melons seemed on the whole the most likely, particularly as Fancy was not bred in McGinnis’s Court. He dawned upon me as Melons. His proximity was indicated by shrill, youthful voices as “Ah, Melons!” or playfully, “Hi, Melons!” or authoritatively, “You, Melons!”
McGinnis’s Court was a democratic expression of some obstinate and radical property-holder. Occupying a limited space between two fashionable thoroughfares, it refused to conform to circumstances, but sturdily paraded its unkempt glories, and frequently asserted itself in ungrammatical language. My window—a rear room on the ground floor—in this way derived blended light and shadow from the court. So low was the window-sill, that had I been the least disposed to somnambulism it would have broken out under such favorable auspices, and I should have haunted McGinnis’s Court. My speculations as to the origin of the court were not altogether gratuitous, for by means of this window I once saw the Past, as through a glass darkly. It was a Celtic shadow that early one morning obstructed my ancient lights. It seemed to belong to an individual with a pea-coat, a stubby pipe, and bristling beard. He was gazing intently at the court, resting on a heavy cane, somewhat in the way that heroes dramatically visit the scenes of their boyhood. As there was little of architectural beauty in the court, I came to the conclusion that it was McGinnis looking after his property. The fact that he carefully kicked a broken bottle out of the road somewhat strengthened me in the opinion. But he presently walked away, and the court knew him no more. He probably collected his rents by proxy—if he collected them at all.
Beyond Melons, of whom all this is purelyintroductory, there was little to interest the most sanguine and hopeful nature. In common with all such localities, a great deal of washing was done, in comparison with the visible results. There was always something whisking on the line, and always something whisking through the court that looked as if it ought to be there. A fish-geranium—of all plants kept for the recreation of mankind, certainly the greatest illusion—straggled under the window. Through its dusty leaves I caught the first glance of Melons.
His age was about seven. He looked older, from the venerable whiteness of his head, and it was impossible to conjecture his size, as he always wore clothes apparently belonging to some shapely youth of nineteen. A pair of pantaloons that, when sustained by a single suspender, completely equipped him, formed his every-day suit. How, with this lavish superfluity of clothing, he managed to perform the surprising gymnastic feats it had been my privilege to witness, I have never been able to tell. His “turning the crab,” and other minor dislocations, were always attended with success. It was not an unusual sight at any hour of the day to find Melons suspended on a line, or to see his venerable head appearing above the roofs of the outhouses. Melons knew the exact height of every fence in the vicinity, its facilities for scaling, and the possibility of seizure on the other side. His more peaceful and quieteramusements consisted in dragging a disused boiler by a large string, with hideous outcries, to imaginary fires.
Melons was not gregarious in his habits. A few youth of his own age sometimes called upon him, but they eventually became abusive, and their visits were more strictly predatory incursions for old bottles and junk which formed the staple of McGinnis’s Court. Overcome by loneliness one day, Melons inveigled a blind harper into the court. For two hours did that wretched man prosecute his unhallowed calling, unrecompensed, and going round and round the court, apparently under the impression that it was some other place, while Melons surveyed him from an adjoining fence with calm satisfaction. It was this absence of conscientious motive that brought Melons into disrepute with his aristocratic neighbors. Orders were issued that no child of wealthy and pious parentage should play with him. This mandate, as a matter of course, invested Melons with a fascinating interest to them. Admiring glances were cast at Melons from nursery windows. Baby fingers beckoned to him. Invitations to tea (on wood and pewter) were lisped to him from aristocratic back-yards. It was evident he was looked upon as a pure and noble being, untrammeled by the conventionalities of parentage, and physically as well as mentally exalted above them. One afternoon an unusual commotion prevailed in the vicinity of McGinnis’s Court. Looking from my window I saw Melons perched on the roof of a stable, pulling up a rope by which one “Tommy,” an infant scion of an adjacent and wealthy house, was suspended in midair. In vain the female relatives of Tommy congregated in the back-yard expostulated with Melons; in vain the unhappy father shook his fist at him. Secure in his position, Melons redoubled his exertions and at last landed Tommy on the roof. Then it was that the humiliating fact was disclosed that Tommy had been acting in collusion with Melons. He grinned delightedly back at his parents, as if “by merit raised to that bad eminence.” Long before the ladder arrived that was to succor him, he became the sworn ally of Melons, and, I regret to say, incited by the same audacious boy, “chaffed” his own flesh and blood below him. He was eventually taken, though, of course, Melons escaped. But Tommy was restricted to the window after that, and the companionship was limited to “Hi, Melons!” and “You, Tommy!” and Melons to all practical purposes lost him forever. I looked afterward to see some signs of sorrow on Melons’ part, but in vain; he buried his grief, if he had any, somewhere in his one voluminous garment.
At about this time my opportunities of knowing Melons became more extended. I was engaged in filling a void in the Literature of the Pacific Coast. As this void was a pretty large one, and as I was informed that the Pacific Coast languished under it, I set apart two hours each day to this work of filling in. It was necessary that I should adopt a methodical system, so I retired from the world and locked myself in my room at a certain hour each day, after coming from my office. I then carefully drew out my portfolio and read what I had written the day before. This would suggest some alterations, and I would carefully rewrite it. During this operation I would turn to consult a book of reference, which invariably proved extremely interesting and attractive. It would generally suggest another and better method of “filling in.” Turning this method over reflectively in my mind, I would finally commence the new method which I eventually abandoned for the original plan. At this time I would become convinced that my exhausted faculties demanded a cigar. The operation of lighting a cigar usually suggested that a little quiet reflection and meditation would be of service to me, and I always allowed myself to be guided by prudential instincts. Eventually, seated by my window, as before stated, Melons asserted himself. Though our conversation rarely went further than “Hello, Mister!” and “Ah, Melons!” a vagabond instinct we felt in common implied a communion deeper than words. Thus time passed, often beguiled by gymnastics on the fence or line (always with an eye to my window) until dinner was announced and I found a more practical void required my attention. An unlooked-for incident drew us in closer relation.
A seafaring friend just from a tropical voyage had presented me with a bunch of bananas. They were not quite ripe, and I hung them before my window to mature in the sun of McGinnis’s Court, whose forcing qualities were remarkable. In the mysteriously mingled odors of ship and shore which they diffused throughout my room, there was lingering reminiscence of low latitudes. But even that joy was fleeting and evanescent: they never reached maturity.
Coming home one day, as I turned the corner of that fashionable thoroughfare before alluded to, I met a small boy eating a banana. There was nothing remarkable in that, but as I neared McGinnis’s Court I presently met another small boy, also eating a banana. A third small boy engaged in a like occupation obtruded a painful coincidence upon my mind. I leave the psychological reader to determine the exact correlation between the circumstance and the sickening sense of loss that overcame me on witnessing it. I reached my room—and found the bunch of bananas was gone.
There was but one that knew of their existence, but one who frequented my window, but one capable of gymnastic effort to procure them, and that was—I blush to say it—Melons. Melons the depredator—Melons, despoiled by larger boys of his ill-gotten booty, or reckless and indiscreetly liberal; Melons—now a fugitive on some neighborhood housetop. I lit a cigar, and, drawing my chair to the window, sought surcease of sorrow in the contemplation of the fish-geranium. In a few moments something white passed my window at about the level of the edge. There was no mistaking that hoary head, which now represented to me only aged iniquity. It was Melons, that venerable, juvenile hypocrite.
He affected not to observe me, and would have withdrawn quietly, but that horrible fascination which causes the murderer to revisit the scene of his crime impelled him toward my window.
I smoked calmly and gazed at him without speaking.
He walked several times up and down the court with a half-rigid, half-belligerent expression of eye and shoulder, intended to represent the carelessness of innocence.
Once or twice he stopped, and putting his arms their whole length into his capacious trousers, gazed with some interest at the additional width they thus acquired. Then he whistled. The singular conflicting conditions of John Brown’s body and soul were at that time beginning to attract the attention of youth, and Melons’s performance of that melody was always remarkable. But to-day he whistled falsely and shrilly between his teeth.
At last he met my eye. He winced slightly, but recovered himself, and going to the fence, stood for a few moments on his hands, withhis bare feet quivering in the air. Then he turned toward me and threw out a conversational preliminary:
“They is a cirkis”—said Melons gravely, hanging with his back to the fence and his arms twisted around the palings—“a cirkis over yonder!”—indicating the locality with his foot—“with hosses and hossback riders. They is a man wot rides six hosses to onct—six hosses to onct—and nary saddle”—and he paused in expectation.
Even this equestrian novelty did not affect me. I still kept a fixed gaze on Melons’s eye, and he began to tremble and visibly shrink in his capacious garment. Some other desperate means—conversation with Melons was always a desperate means—must be resorted to. He recommenced more artfully:
“Do you know Carrots?”
I had a faint remembrance of a boy of that euphonious name, with scarlet hair, who was a playmate and persecutor of Melons. But I said nothing.
“Carrots is a bad boy. Killed a policeman onct. Wears a dirk knife in his boots. Saw him to-day looking in your windy.”
I felt that this must end here. I rose sternly and addressed Melons.
“Melons, this is all irrelevant and impertinent to the case.Youtook those bananas. Your proposition regarding Carrots, even if I were inclined to accept it as credible information, does not alter the material issue. You took those bananas. The offense under the statutes of California is felony. How far Carrots may have been accessory to the fact either before or after it is not my intention at present to discuss. The act is complete. Your present conduct shows theanimo furandito have been equally clear.”
By the time I had finished this exordium Melons had disappeared, as I fully expected.
He never reappeared. The remorse that I have experienced for the part I had taken in what I fear may have resulted in his utter and complete extermination, alas! he may not know, except through these pages. For I have never seen him since. Whether he ran away and went to sea to reappear at some future day as the most ancient of mariners, or whether he buried himself completely in his trousers, I never shall know. I have read the papers anxiously for accounts of him. I have gone to the police office in the vain attempt of identifying him as a lost child. But I never saw him or heard of him since. Strange fears have sometimes crossed my mind that his venerable appearance may have been actually the result of senility, and that he may have been gathered peacefully to his fathers in a green old age. I have even had doubts of his existence, and have sometimes thought that he was providentially and mysteriously offered to fill the void I have before alluded to. In that hope I have written these pages.—Mrs. Skaggs’s Husbands, and other Sketches.