A werry funny feller is de ole plantation mule;An’ nobody’ll play wid him unless he is a fool.De bestest ting to do w’en you meditates about him,Is to kinder sorter calkerlate you’ll get along widout him.W’en you try to ’proach dat mule from de front endwise,He look as meek as Moses, but his looks is full ob lies;He doesn’t move a muscle, he doesn’t even wink;An’ you say his dispersition’s better’n people tink.He stan’ so still that you s’pose he is a monument of grace;An’ you almos’ see a ’nevolent expression on his face;But dat ’nevolent expression is de mask dat’s allers worn;For ole Satan is behin’ it, jest as sure as you is born.Den you cosset him a little, an’ you pat his other end,An’ you has a reverlation dat he ain’t so much your friend;You has made a big mistake; but before de heart repents,You is histed werry sudden to de odder side de fence.Well, you feel like you’d been standin’ on de locomotive trackAn’ de engine come an’ hit you in de middle ob de back;You don’ know wat has happened, you can scarcely cotch your breff;But you tink you’ve made de ’quaintance ob a werry vi’lent deff.
A werry funny feller is de ole plantation mule;An’ nobody’ll play wid him unless he is a fool.De bestest ting to do w’en you meditates about him,Is to kinder sorter calkerlate you’ll get along widout him.W’en you try to ’proach dat mule from de front endwise,He look as meek as Moses, but his looks is full ob lies;He doesn’t move a muscle, he doesn’t even wink;An’ you say his dispersition’s better’n people tink.He stan’ so still that you s’pose he is a monument of grace;An’ you almos’ see a ’nevolent expression on his face;But dat ’nevolent expression is de mask dat’s allers worn;For ole Satan is behin’ it, jest as sure as you is born.Den you cosset him a little, an’ you pat his other end,An’ you has a reverlation dat he ain’t so much your friend;You has made a big mistake; but before de heart repents,You is histed werry sudden to de odder side de fence.Well, you feel like you’d been standin’ on de locomotive trackAn’ de engine come an’ hit you in de middle ob de back;You don’ know wat has happened, you can scarcely cotch your breff;But you tink you’ve made de ’quaintance ob a werry vi’lent deff.
A werry funny feller is de ole plantation mule;An’ nobody’ll play wid him unless he is a fool.De bestest ting to do w’en you meditates about him,Is to kinder sorter calkerlate you’ll get along widout him.
A werry funny feller is de ole plantation mule;
An’ nobody’ll play wid him unless he is a fool.
De bestest ting to do w’en you meditates about him,
Is to kinder sorter calkerlate you’ll get along widout him.
W’en you try to ’proach dat mule from de front endwise,He look as meek as Moses, but his looks is full ob lies;He doesn’t move a muscle, he doesn’t even wink;An’ you say his dispersition’s better’n people tink.
W’en you try to ’proach dat mule from de front endwise,
He look as meek as Moses, but his looks is full ob lies;
He doesn’t move a muscle, he doesn’t even wink;
An’ you say his dispersition’s better’n people tink.
He stan’ so still that you s’pose he is a monument of grace;An’ you almos’ see a ’nevolent expression on his face;But dat ’nevolent expression is de mask dat’s allers worn;For ole Satan is behin’ it, jest as sure as you is born.
He stan’ so still that you s’pose he is a monument of grace;
An’ you almos’ see a ’nevolent expression on his face;
But dat ’nevolent expression is de mask dat’s allers worn;
For ole Satan is behin’ it, jest as sure as you is born.
Den you cosset him a little, an’ you pat his other end,An’ you has a reverlation dat he ain’t so much your friend;You has made a big mistake; but before de heart repents,You is histed werry sudden to de odder side de fence.
Den you cosset him a little, an’ you pat his other end,
An’ you has a reverlation dat he ain’t so much your friend;
You has made a big mistake; but before de heart repents,
You is histed werry sudden to de odder side de fence.
Well, you feel like you’d been standin’ on de locomotive trackAn’ de engine come an’ hit you in de middle ob de back;You don’ know wat has happened, you can scarcely cotch your breff;But you tink you’ve made de ’quaintance ob a werry vi’lent deff.
Well, you feel like you’d been standin’ on de locomotive track
An’ de engine come an’ hit you in de middle ob de back;
You don’ know wat has happened, you can scarcely cotch your breff;
But you tink you’ve made de ’quaintance ob a werry vi’lent deff.
Of all the men the world has seenSince time his rounds began,There’s one I pity every day—Earth’s first and foremost man;And then I think what fun he missedBy failing to enjoyThe wild delights of youth-time, forHe never was a boy.He never stubbed his naked toeAgainst a root or stone;He never with a pin-hook fishedAlong the brook alone;He never sought the bumblebeeAmong the daisies coy,Nor felt its business end, becauseHe never was a boy.He never hookey played, nor tiedThe ever-ready pail,Down in the alley all alone,To trusting Fido’s tail.And when he home from swimmin’ came,His happiness to cloy,No slipper interfered, becauseHe never was a boy.He might refer to splendid times’Mong Eden’s bowers, yetHe never acted RomeoTo a six year Juliet.He never sent a valentine,Intended to annoyA good, but maiden aunt, becauseHe never was a boy.He never cut a kite string, no!Nor hid an Easter egg;He never ruined his pantaloonsA-playing mumble-peg;He never from the attic stole,A coon-hunt to enjoy,To find “the old man” watching, forHe never was a boy.I pity him. Why should I not?I even drop a tear;He did not know how much he missed;He never will, I fear.And when the scenes of “other days”My growing mind employ,I think of him, earth’s only manWho never was a boy.T. C. Harbaugh.
Of all the men the world has seenSince time his rounds began,There’s one I pity every day—Earth’s first and foremost man;And then I think what fun he missedBy failing to enjoyThe wild delights of youth-time, forHe never was a boy.He never stubbed his naked toeAgainst a root or stone;He never with a pin-hook fishedAlong the brook alone;He never sought the bumblebeeAmong the daisies coy,Nor felt its business end, becauseHe never was a boy.He never hookey played, nor tiedThe ever-ready pail,Down in the alley all alone,To trusting Fido’s tail.And when he home from swimmin’ came,His happiness to cloy,No slipper interfered, becauseHe never was a boy.He might refer to splendid times’Mong Eden’s bowers, yetHe never acted RomeoTo a six year Juliet.He never sent a valentine,Intended to annoyA good, but maiden aunt, becauseHe never was a boy.He never cut a kite string, no!Nor hid an Easter egg;He never ruined his pantaloonsA-playing mumble-peg;He never from the attic stole,A coon-hunt to enjoy,To find “the old man” watching, forHe never was a boy.I pity him. Why should I not?I even drop a tear;He did not know how much he missed;He never will, I fear.And when the scenes of “other days”My growing mind employ,I think of him, earth’s only manWho never was a boy.T. C. Harbaugh.
Of all the men the world has seenSince time his rounds began,There’s one I pity every day—Earth’s first and foremost man;And then I think what fun he missedBy failing to enjoyThe wild delights of youth-time, forHe never was a boy.
Of all the men the world has seen
Since time his rounds began,
There’s one I pity every day—
Earth’s first and foremost man;
And then I think what fun he missed
By failing to enjoy
The wild delights of youth-time, for
He never was a boy.
He never stubbed his naked toeAgainst a root or stone;He never with a pin-hook fishedAlong the brook alone;He never sought the bumblebeeAmong the daisies coy,Nor felt its business end, becauseHe never was a boy.
He never stubbed his naked toe
Against a root or stone;
He never with a pin-hook fished
Along the brook alone;
He never sought the bumblebee
Among the daisies coy,
Nor felt its business end, because
He never was a boy.
He never hookey played, nor tiedThe ever-ready pail,Down in the alley all alone,To trusting Fido’s tail.And when he home from swimmin’ came,His happiness to cloy,No slipper interfered, becauseHe never was a boy.
He never hookey played, nor tied
The ever-ready pail,
Down in the alley all alone,
To trusting Fido’s tail.
And when he home from swimmin’ came,
His happiness to cloy,
No slipper interfered, because
He never was a boy.
He might refer to splendid times’Mong Eden’s bowers, yetHe never acted RomeoTo a six year Juliet.He never sent a valentine,Intended to annoyA good, but maiden aunt, becauseHe never was a boy.
He might refer to splendid times
’Mong Eden’s bowers, yet
He never acted Romeo
To a six year Juliet.
He never sent a valentine,
Intended to annoy
A good, but maiden aunt, because
He never was a boy.
He never cut a kite string, no!Nor hid an Easter egg;He never ruined his pantaloonsA-playing mumble-peg;He never from the attic stole,A coon-hunt to enjoy,To find “the old man” watching, forHe never was a boy.
He never cut a kite string, no!
Nor hid an Easter egg;
He never ruined his pantaloons
A-playing mumble-peg;
He never from the attic stole,
A coon-hunt to enjoy,
To find “the old man” watching, for
He never was a boy.
I pity him. Why should I not?I even drop a tear;He did not know how much he missed;He never will, I fear.And when the scenes of “other days”My growing mind employ,I think of him, earth’s only manWho never was a boy.
I pity him. Why should I not?
I even drop a tear;
He did not know how much he missed;
He never will, I fear.
And when the scenes of “other days”
My growing mind employ,
I think of him, earth’s only man
Who never was a boy.
T. C. Harbaugh.
T. C. Harbaugh.
A man hobbled into the Colonel’s office upon crutches. Proceeding to a chair and making a cushion of some newspapers, he sat down very gingerly, placed a bandaged leg upon another chair, and said:“Col. Coffin, my name is Briggs. I want to get your opinion about a little point of law. Now, Colonel, s’posin’ you lived up the pike here a half mile, next door to a man named Johnson. And s’posin’ you and Johnson was to get into an argument about the human intellect, and you was to say to Johnson that a splendid illustration of the superiority of the human intellect was to be found in the power of the human eye to restrain the ferocity of a wild animal. And s’posin’ Johnson was to remark that that was all bosh, because nobodycouldhold a wild animal with the human eye, and you should declare that you could hold the savagest beast that was ever born if you could once fix your gaze on him.“Well, then, s’posin’ Johnson was to say he’d bet a hundred dollars he could bring a tame animal that you couldn’t hold with your eye, and you was to take him up on it, and Johnson was to ask you to come down to his place to settle the bet. You’d go, we’ll say, and Johnson’d wander round to the back of the house and pretty soon come front again with a dog bigger’n any four decent dogs ought to be. And then s’posin’ Johnson’d let go of that dog and set him on you, and he’d come at you like a sixteen-inch shell out of a howitzer, and you’d get scary about it and try to hold the dog with your eye and couldn’t.“And s’posin’ you’d suddenly conclude that maybe your kind of an eye wasn’t calculated to hold that kind of a dog, and you’d conclude to run for a plum tree in order to have a chance to collect your thoughts and to try to reflect what sort of an eye would be best calculated to mollify that sort of a dog. You ketch my idea, of course?“Very well, then; s’posin’ you’d take your eye off of that dog—Johnson, mind you, all the time hissing him on and laughing, and you’d turn and rush for the tree, and begin to swarm up as fast as you could. Well, sir, s’posin’ just as you got three feet from the ground Johnson’s dog would grab you by the leg and hold on like a vise, shaking you until you nearly lost your hold.“And s’posin’ Johnson was to stand there and holloa, ‘Fix your eye on him, Briggs! Why don’t you manifest the power of the human intellect?’ and so on, howling out ironical remarks like those; and s’posin’ he kept that dog on that leg until he made you swear to pay the bet, and then at last had to pry the dog off with a hot poker, bringing away at the same time some of your flesh in the dog’s mouth, so that you had to be carried home on a stretcher, and to hire several doctors to keep you from dying with lock-jaw.“S’posin’ this, what I want to know is, couldn’t you sue Johnson for damages and make him pay heavily for what that dog did? That’s what I want to get at.”The Colonel thought for a moment, and then said:“Well, Mr. Briggs, I don’t think I could. If I agreed to let Johnson set the dog at me, I should be a party to the transaction, and I could not recover.”“Do you mean to say that the law won’t make that infernal scoundrel Johnson suffer for letting his dog eat me up?”“I think not, if you state the case properly.”“It won’t, hey?” exclaimed Mr. Briggs,hysterically. “Oh, very well, very well! I s’pose if that dog had chewed me all up it’d ’ve been all the same to this constitutional republic. But hang me if I don’t have satisfaction. I’ll kill Johnson, poison his dog, and emigrate to some country where the rights of citizens are protected!”Then Mr. Briggs got on his crutches and hobbled out. He is still a citizen, and will vote at the next election.
A man hobbled into the Colonel’s office upon crutches. Proceeding to a chair and making a cushion of some newspapers, he sat down very gingerly, placed a bandaged leg upon another chair, and said:
“Col. Coffin, my name is Briggs. I want to get your opinion about a little point of law. Now, Colonel, s’posin’ you lived up the pike here a half mile, next door to a man named Johnson. And s’posin’ you and Johnson was to get into an argument about the human intellect, and you was to say to Johnson that a splendid illustration of the superiority of the human intellect was to be found in the power of the human eye to restrain the ferocity of a wild animal. And s’posin’ Johnson was to remark that that was all bosh, because nobodycouldhold a wild animal with the human eye, and you should declare that you could hold the savagest beast that was ever born if you could once fix your gaze on him.
“Well, then, s’posin’ Johnson was to say he’d bet a hundred dollars he could bring a tame animal that you couldn’t hold with your eye, and you was to take him up on it, and Johnson was to ask you to come down to his place to settle the bet. You’d go, we’ll say, and Johnson’d wander round to the back of the house and pretty soon come front again with a dog bigger’n any four decent dogs ought to be. And then s’posin’ Johnson’d let go of that dog and set him on you, and he’d come at you like a sixteen-inch shell out of a howitzer, and you’d get scary about it and try to hold the dog with your eye and couldn’t.
“And s’posin’ you’d suddenly conclude that maybe your kind of an eye wasn’t calculated to hold that kind of a dog, and you’d conclude to run for a plum tree in order to have a chance to collect your thoughts and to try to reflect what sort of an eye would be best calculated to mollify that sort of a dog. You ketch my idea, of course?
“Very well, then; s’posin’ you’d take your eye off of that dog—Johnson, mind you, all the time hissing him on and laughing, and you’d turn and rush for the tree, and begin to swarm up as fast as you could. Well, sir, s’posin’ just as you got three feet from the ground Johnson’s dog would grab you by the leg and hold on like a vise, shaking you until you nearly lost your hold.
“And s’posin’ Johnson was to stand there and holloa, ‘Fix your eye on him, Briggs! Why don’t you manifest the power of the human intellect?’ and so on, howling out ironical remarks like those; and s’posin’ he kept that dog on that leg until he made you swear to pay the bet, and then at last had to pry the dog off with a hot poker, bringing away at the same time some of your flesh in the dog’s mouth, so that you had to be carried home on a stretcher, and to hire several doctors to keep you from dying with lock-jaw.
“S’posin’ this, what I want to know is, couldn’t you sue Johnson for damages and make him pay heavily for what that dog did? That’s what I want to get at.”
The Colonel thought for a moment, and then said:
“Well, Mr. Briggs, I don’t think I could. If I agreed to let Johnson set the dog at me, I should be a party to the transaction, and I could not recover.”
“Do you mean to say that the law won’t make that infernal scoundrel Johnson suffer for letting his dog eat me up?”
“I think not, if you state the case properly.”
“It won’t, hey?” exclaimed Mr. Briggs,hysterically. “Oh, very well, very well! I s’pose if that dog had chewed me all up it’d ’ve been all the same to this constitutional republic. But hang me if I don’t have satisfaction. I’ll kill Johnson, poison his dog, and emigrate to some country where the rights of citizens are protected!”
Then Mr. Briggs got on his crutches and hobbled out. He is still a citizen, and will vote at the next election.
Let your face express contempt on the word “pshaw,” and make the gesture inFigure 24 of Typical Gestures. Drawl out the word “yawned” in the third verse and give a comical wink in the fourth verse. Prolong the sound on “pshaw” in the last line.
I had a parrot once, an ugly bird,With the most wicked eye I ever saw,Who, though it comprehended all it heard,Would only say, “O pshaw!”I did my best to teach it goodly lore;I talked to it of medicine and law;It looked as if it knew it all before,And simply said, “O pshaw!”I sat me down upon a dry-goods boxTo stuff sound doctrine down its empty craw,It would have none of matters orthodox,But yawned and said, “O pshaw!”I talked to it of politics, finance;I hoped to teach the bird to say “Hurrah!”For my pet candidates when he’d a chance,He winked and chirped, “O pshaw!”I am for prohibition, warp and woof,But that bird stole hard cider through a straw,And then he teetered off at my reproofAnd thickly said, “O pshaw!”Enraged, I hurled a bootjack, missed my aimAnd plugged a passing stranger in the jaw;He wheeled to see from whence the missile came;The demon laughed “O pshaw!”I gave the creature to an old-maid aunt,And shook with parting grief its skinny claw.“He’ll serve to cheer,” she said, “my lonely hearth,For I’d not marry the best man on earth!”“O pshaw!” sneered Poll, “O psha-a-w!”Emma H. Webb.
I had a parrot once, an ugly bird,With the most wicked eye I ever saw,Who, though it comprehended all it heard,Would only say, “O pshaw!”I did my best to teach it goodly lore;I talked to it of medicine and law;It looked as if it knew it all before,And simply said, “O pshaw!”I sat me down upon a dry-goods boxTo stuff sound doctrine down its empty craw,It would have none of matters orthodox,But yawned and said, “O pshaw!”I talked to it of politics, finance;I hoped to teach the bird to say “Hurrah!”For my pet candidates when he’d a chance,He winked and chirped, “O pshaw!”I am for prohibition, warp and woof,But that bird stole hard cider through a straw,And then he teetered off at my reproofAnd thickly said, “O pshaw!”Enraged, I hurled a bootjack, missed my aimAnd plugged a passing stranger in the jaw;He wheeled to see from whence the missile came;The demon laughed “O pshaw!”I gave the creature to an old-maid aunt,And shook with parting grief its skinny claw.“He’ll serve to cheer,” she said, “my lonely hearth,For I’d not marry the best man on earth!”“O pshaw!” sneered Poll, “O psha-a-w!”Emma H. Webb.
I had a parrot once, an ugly bird,With the most wicked eye I ever saw,Who, though it comprehended all it heard,Would only say, “O pshaw!”
I had a parrot once, an ugly bird,
With the most wicked eye I ever saw,
Who, though it comprehended all it heard,
Would only say, “O pshaw!”
I did my best to teach it goodly lore;I talked to it of medicine and law;It looked as if it knew it all before,And simply said, “O pshaw!”
I did my best to teach it goodly lore;
I talked to it of medicine and law;
It looked as if it knew it all before,
And simply said, “O pshaw!”
I sat me down upon a dry-goods boxTo stuff sound doctrine down its empty craw,It would have none of matters orthodox,But yawned and said, “O pshaw!”
I sat me down upon a dry-goods box
To stuff sound doctrine down its empty craw,
It would have none of matters orthodox,
But yawned and said, “O pshaw!”
I talked to it of politics, finance;I hoped to teach the bird to say “Hurrah!”For my pet candidates when he’d a chance,He winked and chirped, “O pshaw!”
I talked to it of politics, finance;
I hoped to teach the bird to say “Hurrah!”
For my pet candidates when he’d a chance,
He winked and chirped, “O pshaw!”
I am for prohibition, warp and woof,But that bird stole hard cider through a straw,And then he teetered off at my reproofAnd thickly said, “O pshaw!”
I am for prohibition, warp and woof,
But that bird stole hard cider through a straw,
And then he teetered off at my reproof
And thickly said, “O pshaw!”
Enraged, I hurled a bootjack, missed my aimAnd plugged a passing stranger in the jaw;He wheeled to see from whence the missile came;The demon laughed “O pshaw!”
Enraged, I hurled a bootjack, missed my aim
And plugged a passing stranger in the jaw;
He wheeled to see from whence the missile came;
The demon laughed “O pshaw!”
I gave the creature to an old-maid aunt,And shook with parting grief its skinny claw.“He’ll serve to cheer,” she said, “my lonely hearth,For I’d not marry the best man on earth!”“O pshaw!” sneered Poll, “O psha-a-w!”
I gave the creature to an old-maid aunt,
And shook with parting grief its skinny claw.
“He’ll serve to cheer,” she said, “my lonely hearth,
For I’d not marry the best man on earth!”
“O pshaw!” sneered Poll, “O psha-a-w!”
Emma H. Webb.
Emma H. Webb.
Yo’ may tell me ob pastries and fine oyster patties,Of salads and crowkets an’ Boston baked beans,But dar’s nuffin so temptin’ to dis nigger’s palateAs a big slice of bakin and plenty ob greens.Jes bile ’em right down, so dey’ll melt when yo’ eat ’em;Hab a big streak ob fat an’ a small streak o’ lean;Dar’s nuffin on earf yo’ kin fix up to beat ’em,Fur de king ob all dishes am bakin and greens.Den take some co’hnmeal and sif’ it and pat it.An’ put it in de ashes wid nuffin between;Den blow off de ashes and set right down at it,For dar’s nuffin like ashcake wid bakin and greens.’Twill take de ole mammies to fix ’em up greasy,Wid a lot ob good likker and dumplin’s between,Take all yo’ fine eatin’, I won’t be uneasy,If you’ll gimme dat bakin wid plenty ob greens.Rich folks in dar kerrage may frow de dust on me;But how kin I envy dem men ob big means.Dey may hab de dispepsey and do’ they may scorn me,Dey can’t enjoy bakin wid a dish ob good greens.You may put me in rags, fill my cup up wid sorrow;Let joy be a stranger, and trouble my dreams,But I still will be smilin’, no pain kin I borrow,Ef you lebe me dat bakin wid plenty of greens.
Yo’ may tell me ob pastries and fine oyster patties,Of salads and crowkets an’ Boston baked beans,But dar’s nuffin so temptin’ to dis nigger’s palateAs a big slice of bakin and plenty ob greens.Jes bile ’em right down, so dey’ll melt when yo’ eat ’em;Hab a big streak ob fat an’ a small streak o’ lean;Dar’s nuffin on earf yo’ kin fix up to beat ’em,Fur de king ob all dishes am bakin and greens.Den take some co’hnmeal and sif’ it and pat it.An’ put it in de ashes wid nuffin between;Den blow off de ashes and set right down at it,For dar’s nuffin like ashcake wid bakin and greens.’Twill take de ole mammies to fix ’em up greasy,Wid a lot ob good likker and dumplin’s between,Take all yo’ fine eatin’, I won’t be uneasy,If you’ll gimme dat bakin wid plenty ob greens.Rich folks in dar kerrage may frow de dust on me;But how kin I envy dem men ob big means.Dey may hab de dispepsey and do’ they may scorn me,Dey can’t enjoy bakin wid a dish ob good greens.You may put me in rags, fill my cup up wid sorrow;Let joy be a stranger, and trouble my dreams,But I still will be smilin’, no pain kin I borrow,Ef you lebe me dat bakin wid plenty of greens.
Yo’ may tell me ob pastries and fine oyster patties,Of salads and crowkets an’ Boston baked beans,But dar’s nuffin so temptin’ to dis nigger’s palateAs a big slice of bakin and plenty ob greens.
Yo’ may tell me ob pastries and fine oyster patties,
Of salads and crowkets an’ Boston baked beans,
But dar’s nuffin so temptin’ to dis nigger’s palate
As a big slice of bakin and plenty ob greens.
Jes bile ’em right down, so dey’ll melt when yo’ eat ’em;Hab a big streak ob fat an’ a small streak o’ lean;Dar’s nuffin on earf yo’ kin fix up to beat ’em,Fur de king ob all dishes am bakin and greens.
Jes bile ’em right down, so dey’ll melt when yo’ eat ’em;
Hab a big streak ob fat an’ a small streak o’ lean;
Dar’s nuffin on earf yo’ kin fix up to beat ’em,
Fur de king ob all dishes am bakin and greens.
Den take some co’hnmeal and sif’ it and pat it.An’ put it in de ashes wid nuffin between;Den blow off de ashes and set right down at it,For dar’s nuffin like ashcake wid bakin and greens.
Den take some co’hnmeal and sif’ it and pat it.
An’ put it in de ashes wid nuffin between;
Den blow off de ashes and set right down at it,
For dar’s nuffin like ashcake wid bakin and greens.
’Twill take de ole mammies to fix ’em up greasy,Wid a lot ob good likker and dumplin’s between,Take all yo’ fine eatin’, I won’t be uneasy,If you’ll gimme dat bakin wid plenty ob greens.
’Twill take de ole mammies to fix ’em up greasy,
Wid a lot ob good likker and dumplin’s between,
Take all yo’ fine eatin’, I won’t be uneasy,
If you’ll gimme dat bakin wid plenty ob greens.
Rich folks in dar kerrage may frow de dust on me;But how kin I envy dem men ob big means.Dey may hab de dispepsey and do’ they may scorn me,Dey can’t enjoy bakin wid a dish ob good greens.
Rich folks in dar kerrage may frow de dust on me;
But how kin I envy dem men ob big means.
Dey may hab de dispepsey and do’ they may scorn me,
Dey can’t enjoy bakin wid a dish ob good greens.
You may put me in rags, fill my cup up wid sorrow;Let joy be a stranger, and trouble my dreams,But I still will be smilin’, no pain kin I borrow,Ef you lebe me dat bakin wid plenty of greens.
You may put me in rags, fill my cup up wid sorrow;
Let joy be a stranger, and trouble my dreams,
But I still will be smilin’, no pain kin I borrow,
Ef you lebe me dat bakin wid plenty of greens.
I was dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of the good times which I hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most startling scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann in agony. The voice came from the kitchen, and to the kitchen I rushed. The idolized form of my Maria was perched on a chair, and she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions and shouting “shoo,” in a general manner, at everything in the room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she screamed, “O Joshua! a mouse, shoo—wha—shoo—a great—ya—shoo—horrid mouse, and—she—ew—it ran right out of the cupboard—shoo—go way—O Lord—Joshua—shoo—kill it, oh, my—shoo.”All that fuss, you see, about one little harmless mouse. Some women are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and set myself to poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down and ran off into another room. I found the mouse in a corner under the sink. The first time I hit it I didn’t poke it any on account of getting the poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink; and I did not hit it any more because the mouse would not stay still. It ran right toward me, and I naturally jumped, as anybody would; but I am not afraid of mice, and when the horrid thing ran up inside the leg of my pantaloons, I yelled to Maria because I was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my garment.I did not lose my presence of mind for an instant. I caught the mouse just as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing firmly on the outside of the cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. I kept jumping around with all my might to confuse it, so that it would not think about biting, and I yelled so that the mice would not hear its squeaks and come to its assistance. A man can’t handle many mice at once to advantage. Besides, I’m not so spry as I was before I had that spine in my back and had to wear plasters.Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen and asked what she should do—as though I could hold the mouse and plan a campaign at the same time. I told her to think of something, and she thought she would throw things at the intruder; but as there was no earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot took effect on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried two flat-irons and the coal-scuttle. She paused for breath; but I kept bobbing around. Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. “O Joshua,” she cried, “I wish you had not killed the cat.”Then she got the tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I objected to that process, except as a last resort. Then she got some cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not dare to let go, for fear it would run up. Matters were getting desperate. I told her to think of something else, and I kept jumping. Just as I was ready to faint with exhaustion, I tripped over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell to the floor, verydead. I had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy.That was not the end of the trouble, for before I had recovered my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole company followed him through, and they dragged hose around, and mussed things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted to thrash me because the house was not on fire, and I had hardly got him pacified before a policeman came in and arrested me. Some one had run down and told him I was drunk and was killing Maria. It was all Maria and I could do, by combining our eloquence, to prevent him from marching me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters quieted and the house clear.Now when mice run out of the cupboard I go outdoors, and let Maria “shoo” them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun don’t pay for the trouble.Joshua Jenkins.
I was dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of the good times which I hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most startling scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann in agony. The voice came from the kitchen, and to the kitchen I rushed. The idolized form of my Maria was perched on a chair, and she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions and shouting “shoo,” in a general manner, at everything in the room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she screamed, “O Joshua! a mouse, shoo—wha—shoo—a great—ya—shoo—horrid mouse, and—she—ew—it ran right out of the cupboard—shoo—go way—O Lord—Joshua—shoo—kill it, oh, my—shoo.”
All that fuss, you see, about one little harmless mouse. Some women are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and set myself to poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down and ran off into another room. I found the mouse in a corner under the sink. The first time I hit it I didn’t poke it any on account of getting the poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink; and I did not hit it any more because the mouse would not stay still. It ran right toward me, and I naturally jumped, as anybody would; but I am not afraid of mice, and when the horrid thing ran up inside the leg of my pantaloons, I yelled to Maria because I was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my garment.
I did not lose my presence of mind for an instant. I caught the mouse just as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing firmly on the outside of the cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. I kept jumping around with all my might to confuse it, so that it would not think about biting, and I yelled so that the mice would not hear its squeaks and come to its assistance. A man can’t handle many mice at once to advantage. Besides, I’m not so spry as I was before I had that spine in my back and had to wear plasters.
Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen and asked what she should do—as though I could hold the mouse and plan a campaign at the same time. I told her to think of something, and she thought she would throw things at the intruder; but as there was no earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot took effect on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried two flat-irons and the coal-scuttle. She paused for breath; but I kept bobbing around. Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. “O Joshua,” she cried, “I wish you had not killed the cat.”
Then she got the tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I objected to that process, except as a last resort. Then she got some cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not dare to let go, for fear it would run up. Matters were getting desperate. I told her to think of something else, and I kept jumping. Just as I was ready to faint with exhaustion, I tripped over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell to the floor, verydead. I had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy.
That was not the end of the trouble, for before I had recovered my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole company followed him through, and they dragged hose around, and mussed things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted to thrash me because the house was not on fire, and I had hardly got him pacified before a policeman came in and arrested me. Some one had run down and told him I was drunk and was killing Maria. It was all Maria and I could do, by combining our eloquence, to prevent him from marching me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters quieted and the house clear.
Now when mice run out of the cupboard I go outdoors, and let Maria “shoo” them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun don’t pay for the trouble.
Joshua Jenkins.
This is a very amusing recitation when correctly rendered. The gossips make the most disparaging remarks about their neighbors, but are very pleasant to their faces. The words in parentheses should be spoken ‘aside’ in an undertone. A recital for one who can imitate different female voices.
“Mis’ Jones is late agin to-day:I’d be ashamed now ef ’twas me.Don’t tell it, but I’ve heerd folks sayShe only comes to get her tea.”“Law me! she needn’t want ithere,The deacon’s folks ain’t much on eatin’:They haven’t made a pie this year!Of course, ’twon’t do to be repeatin’;“But old Mis’ Jenkins says it’s true(You know she lives just ’cross the way,And sees most everything they do.)She says she saw ’em t’other day—”“Hush, here comes Hannah! How d’ye do?Why, what a pretty dress you’ve got!”(“Her old merino made up new:Iknow it by that faded spot.”)“Jest look! there’s Dr. Stebbins’ wife”—“A bran-new dress and bunnit!—well—They say she leads himsucha life!But, there! I promised not to tell.”“What’s that, Mis’ Brown? ‘All friends,’ of course;And you can see with your own eyes,Thatthatgray mare’s the better horse,Though gossipin’ I do dispise.”“Poor Mary Allen’s lost her beau”—“It serves her right, conceited thing!She’s flirted awfully, I know.Say have you heard she kept his ring?”“Listen! the clock is striking six.Thank goodness! then it’s time for tea.”“Now ain’t that too much! Abby MixHas folded up her work! Just see!”“Whycan’tshe wait until she’s told?Yes, thank you, deacon, here we come.”(“I hope the biscuits won’t be cold:No coffee? Wish I was tu hum!”)“Do tell, Mis’ Ellis!Didyou makeThis cheese? the best I ever saw.Such jumbles too (no jelly cake):I’m quite ashamed to take one more.”“Good-by: we’ve had a first-rate time,And first-rate tea, I must declare.Mis’ Ellis’ things are always prime.(Well, next week’s meetin’ won’t bethere!”)
“Mis’ Jones is late agin to-day:I’d be ashamed now ef ’twas me.Don’t tell it, but I’ve heerd folks sayShe only comes to get her tea.”“Law me! she needn’t want ithere,The deacon’s folks ain’t much on eatin’:They haven’t made a pie this year!Of course, ’twon’t do to be repeatin’;“But old Mis’ Jenkins says it’s true(You know she lives just ’cross the way,And sees most everything they do.)She says she saw ’em t’other day—”“Hush, here comes Hannah! How d’ye do?Why, what a pretty dress you’ve got!”(“Her old merino made up new:Iknow it by that faded spot.”)“Jest look! there’s Dr. Stebbins’ wife”—“A bran-new dress and bunnit!—well—They say she leads himsucha life!But, there! I promised not to tell.”“What’s that, Mis’ Brown? ‘All friends,’ of course;And you can see with your own eyes,Thatthatgray mare’s the better horse,Though gossipin’ I do dispise.”“Poor Mary Allen’s lost her beau”—“It serves her right, conceited thing!She’s flirted awfully, I know.Say have you heard she kept his ring?”“Listen! the clock is striking six.Thank goodness! then it’s time for tea.”“Now ain’t that too much! Abby MixHas folded up her work! Just see!”“Whycan’tshe wait until she’s told?Yes, thank you, deacon, here we come.”(“I hope the biscuits won’t be cold:No coffee? Wish I was tu hum!”)“Do tell, Mis’ Ellis!Didyou makeThis cheese? the best I ever saw.Such jumbles too (no jelly cake):I’m quite ashamed to take one more.”“Good-by: we’ve had a first-rate time,And first-rate tea, I must declare.Mis’ Ellis’ things are always prime.(Well, next week’s meetin’ won’t bethere!”)
“Mis’ Jones is late agin to-day:I’d be ashamed now ef ’twas me.Don’t tell it, but I’ve heerd folks sayShe only comes to get her tea.”
“Mis’ Jones is late agin to-day:
I’d be ashamed now ef ’twas me.
Don’t tell it, but I’ve heerd folks say
She only comes to get her tea.”
“Law me! she needn’t want ithere,The deacon’s folks ain’t much on eatin’:They haven’t made a pie this year!Of course, ’twon’t do to be repeatin’;
“Law me! she needn’t want ithere,
The deacon’s folks ain’t much on eatin’:
They haven’t made a pie this year!
Of course, ’twon’t do to be repeatin’;
“But old Mis’ Jenkins says it’s true(You know she lives just ’cross the way,And sees most everything they do.)She says she saw ’em t’other day—”
“But old Mis’ Jenkins says it’s true
(You know she lives just ’cross the way,
And sees most everything they do.)
She says she saw ’em t’other day—”
“Hush, here comes Hannah! How d’ye do?Why, what a pretty dress you’ve got!”(“Her old merino made up new:Iknow it by that faded spot.”)
“Hush, here comes Hannah! How d’ye do?
Why, what a pretty dress you’ve got!”
(“Her old merino made up new:
Iknow it by that faded spot.”)
“Jest look! there’s Dr. Stebbins’ wife”—“A bran-new dress and bunnit!—well—They say she leads himsucha life!But, there! I promised not to tell.”
“Jest look! there’s Dr. Stebbins’ wife”—
“A bran-new dress and bunnit!—well—
They say she leads himsucha life!
But, there! I promised not to tell.”
“What’s that, Mis’ Brown? ‘All friends,’ of course;And you can see with your own eyes,Thatthatgray mare’s the better horse,Though gossipin’ I do dispise.”
“What’s that, Mis’ Brown? ‘All friends,’ of course;
And you can see with your own eyes,
Thatthatgray mare’s the better horse,
Though gossipin’ I do dispise.”
“Poor Mary Allen’s lost her beau”—“It serves her right, conceited thing!She’s flirted awfully, I know.Say have you heard she kept his ring?”
“Poor Mary Allen’s lost her beau”—
“It serves her right, conceited thing!
She’s flirted awfully, I know.
Say have you heard she kept his ring?”
“Listen! the clock is striking six.Thank goodness! then it’s time for tea.”“Now ain’t that too much! Abby MixHas folded up her work! Just see!”
“Listen! the clock is striking six.
Thank goodness! then it’s time for tea.”
“Now ain’t that too much! Abby Mix
Has folded up her work! Just see!”
“Whycan’tshe wait until she’s told?Yes, thank you, deacon, here we come.”(“I hope the biscuits won’t be cold:No coffee? Wish I was tu hum!”)
“Whycan’tshe wait until she’s told?
Yes, thank you, deacon, here we come.”
(“I hope the biscuits won’t be cold:
No coffee? Wish I was tu hum!”)
“Do tell, Mis’ Ellis!Didyou makeThis cheese? the best I ever saw.Such jumbles too (no jelly cake):I’m quite ashamed to take one more.”
“Do tell, Mis’ Ellis!Didyou make
This cheese? the best I ever saw.
Such jumbles too (no jelly cake):
I’m quite ashamed to take one more.”
“Good-by: we’ve had a first-rate time,And first-rate tea, I must declare.Mis’ Ellis’ things are always prime.(Well, next week’s meetin’ won’t bethere!”)
“Good-by: we’ve had a first-rate time,
And first-rate tea, I must declare.
Mis’ Ellis’ things are always prime.
(Well, next week’s meetin’ won’t bethere!”)
An old gentleman, whose style was Germanized, was asked what he thought of signs and omens.“Vell, I don’t dinks mooch of dem dings, und I don’t pelieve averydings; but I dells you somedimes dere is somedings ash dose dings. Now de oder night I sit and reads mine newspaper, und my frau she speak und say—“‘Fritz, de dog ish howling!’“Vell, I don’ dinks mooch of dem dings, und I goes on und reads mine paper, und mine frau she says—“‘Fritz, dere is somedings pad is happen,—der dog ish howling!’“Und den I gets hop mit mineself und look out troo de wines on de porch, und de moon was shinin’, und mine leetle dog he shoomp right up und down like averydings, und he park at de moon, dat was shine so bright as never vas. Und ash I hauled mine het in de winder, de old voman she say—“‘Mind, Fritz, I dells you dere ish someding pad ish happen. De dog ish howling.’“Vell, I goes to ped, und I shleeps, und all night long ven I vakes up dere vas dat dog howling outside, und ven I dream I hear dat howling vorsher ash never. Und in de morning I kits up und kits mine breakfast, und mine frau she looks at me und say, werry solemn—“‘Fritz, dere is somedings pad ish happen. De dog vas howl all night.’“Und shoost den de newspaper came in, und I opens him und by shings, vot you dinks; dere vas a man’s vife cracked his skull in Philadelphia!”
An old gentleman, whose style was Germanized, was asked what he thought of signs and omens.
“Vell, I don’t dinks mooch of dem dings, und I don’t pelieve averydings; but I dells you somedimes dere is somedings ash dose dings. Now de oder night I sit and reads mine newspaper, und my frau she speak und say—
“‘Fritz, de dog ish howling!’
“Vell, I don’ dinks mooch of dem dings, und I goes on und reads mine paper, und mine frau she says—
“‘Fritz, dere is somedings pad is happen,—der dog ish howling!’
“Und den I gets hop mit mineself und look out troo de wines on de porch, und de moon was shinin’, und mine leetle dog he shoomp right up und down like averydings, und he park at de moon, dat was shine so bright as never vas. Und ash I hauled mine het in de winder, de old voman she say—
“‘Mind, Fritz, I dells you dere ish someding pad ish happen. De dog ish howling.’
“Vell, I goes to ped, und I shleeps, und all night long ven I vakes up dere vas dat dog howling outside, und ven I dream I hear dat howling vorsher ash never. Und in de morning I kits up und kits mine breakfast, und mine frau she looks at me und say, werry solemn—
“‘Fritz, dere is somedings pad ish happen. De dog vas howl all night.’
“Und shoost den de newspaper came in, und I opens him und by shings, vot you dinks; dere vas a man’s vife cracked his skull in Philadelphia!”
Sing to the tune of Yankee Doodle the words designated.
’Tis about twenty years since Abel Law,A short, round-favored, merryOld soldier of the Revolutionary War,Was wedded toA most abominable shrew.The temper, sir, of Shakespeare’s CatharineCould no more be compared with hers,Than mineWith Lucifer’s.Her eyes were like a weasel’s; she had a harshFace, like a cranberry marsh.All spreadWith spots of white and red;Hair of the color of a wisp of straw,And a disposition like a cross-cut saw.The appellation of this lovely dameWas Nancy; don’t forget the name.Her brother David was a tall,Good-looking chap, and that was all;One of your great, big nothings, as we sayHere in Rhode Island, picking up old jokesAnd cracking them on other folks.Well, David undertook one night to playThe Ghost, and frighten Abel, who,He knew,Would be returning from a journey throughA grove of forest woodThat stoodBelowThe house some distance—half a mile, or so.With a long taperCap of white paper,Just made to coverA wig, nearly as large overAs a corn-basket, and a sheetWith both ends made to meetAcross his breast,(The way in which ghosts are always dressed,)He tookHis station nearA huge oak-tree,Whence he could overlookThe road and seeWhatever might appear.It happened that about an hour before, friend AbelHad left the tableOf an inn, where he had made a halt,With horse and wagon,To taste a flagon,Of maltLiquor, and so forth, which, being done.He went on,Caring no more for twenty ghosts,Than if they were so many posts.David was nearly tired of waiting;His patience was abating;At length, he heard the careless tonesOf his kinsman’s voice,And then the noiseOf wagon-wheels among the stones.Abel was quite elated, and was roaringWith all his might, and pouringOut, in great confusion,Scraps of old songs made in “the Revolution.”His head was full of Bunker Hill and TrentonAnd jovially he went on,Scaring the whip-po’-wills among the treesWith rhymes like these:—[Sings.]“See the YankeesLeave the hill,With baggernetts declining,With lopped-down hatsAnd rusty guns,And leather aprons shining.”“See the Yankees—Whoa! Why, what is that?”Said Abel, staring like a cat,As, slowly on, the fearful figure strodeInto the middle of the road.“My conscience! what a suit of clothes!Some crazy fellow, I suppose.Hallo! friend, what’s your name? By the powers of gin,That’s a strange dress to travel in.”“Be silent, Abel; for I now have comeTo read your doom;Then hearken, while your fate I now declare.I am a spirit”—“I suppose you are;But you’ll not hurt me, and I’ll tell you why:Here is a fact which you cannot deny;—All spirits must be either goodOr bad—that’s understood—And be you good or evil, I am sureThat I’m secure.If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil—And I don’t know but you may be the Devil—If that’s the case, you’ll recollect, I fancy,That I am married to your sister Nancy!”
’Tis about twenty years since Abel Law,A short, round-favored, merryOld soldier of the Revolutionary War,Was wedded toA most abominable shrew.The temper, sir, of Shakespeare’s CatharineCould no more be compared with hers,Than mineWith Lucifer’s.Her eyes were like a weasel’s; she had a harshFace, like a cranberry marsh.All spreadWith spots of white and red;Hair of the color of a wisp of straw,And a disposition like a cross-cut saw.The appellation of this lovely dameWas Nancy; don’t forget the name.Her brother David was a tall,Good-looking chap, and that was all;One of your great, big nothings, as we sayHere in Rhode Island, picking up old jokesAnd cracking them on other folks.Well, David undertook one night to playThe Ghost, and frighten Abel, who,He knew,Would be returning from a journey throughA grove of forest woodThat stoodBelowThe house some distance—half a mile, or so.With a long taperCap of white paper,Just made to coverA wig, nearly as large overAs a corn-basket, and a sheetWith both ends made to meetAcross his breast,(The way in which ghosts are always dressed,)He tookHis station nearA huge oak-tree,Whence he could overlookThe road and seeWhatever might appear.It happened that about an hour before, friend AbelHad left the tableOf an inn, where he had made a halt,With horse and wagon,To taste a flagon,Of maltLiquor, and so forth, which, being done.He went on,Caring no more for twenty ghosts,Than if they were so many posts.David was nearly tired of waiting;His patience was abating;At length, he heard the careless tonesOf his kinsman’s voice,And then the noiseOf wagon-wheels among the stones.Abel was quite elated, and was roaringWith all his might, and pouringOut, in great confusion,Scraps of old songs made in “the Revolution.”His head was full of Bunker Hill and TrentonAnd jovially he went on,Scaring the whip-po’-wills among the treesWith rhymes like these:—[Sings.]“See the YankeesLeave the hill,With baggernetts declining,With lopped-down hatsAnd rusty guns,And leather aprons shining.”“See the Yankees—Whoa! Why, what is that?”Said Abel, staring like a cat,As, slowly on, the fearful figure strodeInto the middle of the road.“My conscience! what a suit of clothes!Some crazy fellow, I suppose.Hallo! friend, what’s your name? By the powers of gin,That’s a strange dress to travel in.”“Be silent, Abel; for I now have comeTo read your doom;Then hearken, while your fate I now declare.I am a spirit”—“I suppose you are;But you’ll not hurt me, and I’ll tell you why:Here is a fact which you cannot deny;—All spirits must be either goodOr bad—that’s understood—And be you good or evil, I am sureThat I’m secure.If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil—And I don’t know but you may be the Devil—If that’s the case, you’ll recollect, I fancy,That I am married to your sister Nancy!”
’Tis about twenty years since Abel Law,A short, round-favored, merryOld soldier of the Revolutionary War,Was wedded toA most abominable shrew.The temper, sir, of Shakespeare’s CatharineCould no more be compared with hers,Than mineWith Lucifer’s.
’Tis about twenty years since Abel Law,
A short, round-favored, merry
Old soldier of the Revolutionary War,
Was wedded to
A most abominable shrew.
The temper, sir, of Shakespeare’s Catharine
Could no more be compared with hers,
Than mine
With Lucifer’s.
Her eyes were like a weasel’s; she had a harshFace, like a cranberry marsh.All spreadWith spots of white and red;Hair of the color of a wisp of straw,And a disposition like a cross-cut saw.The appellation of this lovely dameWas Nancy; don’t forget the name.
Her eyes were like a weasel’s; she had a harsh
Face, like a cranberry marsh.
All spread
With spots of white and red;
Hair of the color of a wisp of straw,
And a disposition like a cross-cut saw.
The appellation of this lovely dame
Was Nancy; don’t forget the name.
Her brother David was a tall,Good-looking chap, and that was all;One of your great, big nothings, as we sayHere in Rhode Island, picking up old jokesAnd cracking them on other folks.Well, David undertook one night to playThe Ghost, and frighten Abel, who,He knew,Would be returning from a journey throughA grove of forest woodThat stoodBelowThe house some distance—half a mile, or so.
Her brother David was a tall,
Good-looking chap, and that was all;
One of your great, big nothings, as we say
Here in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes
And cracking them on other folks.
Well, David undertook one night to play
The Ghost, and frighten Abel, who,
He knew,
Would be returning from a journey through
A grove of forest wood
That stood
Below
The house some distance—half a mile, or so.
With a long taperCap of white paper,Just made to coverA wig, nearly as large overAs a corn-basket, and a sheetWith both ends made to meetAcross his breast,(The way in which ghosts are always dressed,)He tookHis station nearA huge oak-tree,Whence he could overlookThe road and seeWhatever might appear.
With a long taper
Cap of white paper,
Just made to cover
A wig, nearly as large over
As a corn-basket, and a sheet
With both ends made to meet
Across his breast,
(The way in which ghosts are always dressed,)
He took
His station near
A huge oak-tree,
Whence he could overlook
The road and see
Whatever might appear.
It happened that about an hour before, friend AbelHad left the tableOf an inn, where he had made a halt,With horse and wagon,To taste a flagon,Of maltLiquor, and so forth, which, being done.He went on,Caring no more for twenty ghosts,Than if they were so many posts.
It happened that about an hour before, friend Abel
Had left the table
Of an inn, where he had made a halt,
With horse and wagon,
To taste a flagon,
Of malt
Liquor, and so forth, which, being done.
He went on,
Caring no more for twenty ghosts,
Than if they were so many posts.
David was nearly tired of waiting;His patience was abating;At length, he heard the careless tonesOf his kinsman’s voice,And then the noiseOf wagon-wheels among the stones.Abel was quite elated, and was roaringWith all his might, and pouringOut, in great confusion,Scraps of old songs made in “the Revolution.”
David was nearly tired of waiting;
His patience was abating;
At length, he heard the careless tones
Of his kinsman’s voice,
And then the noise
Of wagon-wheels among the stones.
Abel was quite elated, and was roaring
With all his might, and pouring
Out, in great confusion,
Scraps of old songs made in “the Revolution.”
His head was full of Bunker Hill and TrentonAnd jovially he went on,Scaring the whip-po’-wills among the treesWith rhymes like these:—[Sings.]“See the YankeesLeave the hill,With baggernetts declining,With lopped-down hatsAnd rusty guns,And leather aprons shining.”“See the Yankees—Whoa! Why, what is that?”Said Abel, staring like a cat,As, slowly on, the fearful figure strodeInto the middle of the road.
His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton
And jovially he went on,
Scaring the whip-po’-wills among the trees
With rhymes like these:—[Sings.]
“See the Yankees
Leave the hill,
With baggernetts declining,
With lopped-down hats
And rusty guns,
And leather aprons shining.”
“See the Yankees—Whoa! Why, what is that?”
Said Abel, staring like a cat,
As, slowly on, the fearful figure strode
Into the middle of the road.
“My conscience! what a suit of clothes!Some crazy fellow, I suppose.Hallo! friend, what’s your name? By the powers of gin,That’s a strange dress to travel in.”“Be silent, Abel; for I now have comeTo read your doom;Then hearken, while your fate I now declare.I am a spirit”—“I suppose you are;But you’ll not hurt me, and I’ll tell you why:Here is a fact which you cannot deny;—All spirits must be either goodOr bad—that’s understood—And be you good or evil, I am sureThat I’m secure.If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil—And I don’t know but you may be the Devil—If that’s the case, you’ll recollect, I fancy,That I am married to your sister Nancy!”
“My conscience! what a suit of clothes!
Some crazy fellow, I suppose.
Hallo! friend, what’s your name? By the powers of gin,
That’s a strange dress to travel in.”
“Be silent, Abel; for I now have come
To read your doom;
Then hearken, while your fate I now declare.
I am a spirit”—“I suppose you are;
But you’ll not hurt me, and I’ll tell you why:
Here is a fact which you cannot deny;—
All spirits must be either good
Or bad—that’s understood—
And be you good or evil, I am sure
That I’m secure.
If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil—
And I don’t know but you may be the Devil—
If that’s the case, you’ll recollect, I fancy,
That I am married to your sister Nancy!”
Recently our church had a new minister. He is a nice, good, sociable gentleman; but coming from a distant State, of course he was totally unacquainted with our people. Therefore it happened that during his pastoral calls, he made several ludicrous blunders. One as follows: The other evening he called upon Mrs. Haddon. She had just lost her husband, and she naturally supposed that his visit was relative to the sad occurrence. So, after a few common-places had been exchanged, she was not surprised to hear him remark:“It was a sad bereavement, was it not, Mrs. Haddon?”“Yes,” faltered the widow.“Totally unexpected?”“Oh, yes; I never dreamed of it.”“He died in the barn, I suppose.”“Oh, no; in the house.”“Ah, well, I suppose you must have thought a great deal of him?”“Of course, sir.”This was with vim. The minister looked rather surprised, crossed his legs and renewed the conversation.“Blind staggers was the disease, I believe.”“No, sir,” snapped the widow. “Apoplexy.”“Indeed; you must have fed him too much.”“He was quite capable of feeding himself, sir.”“Very intelligent he must have been. Died hard?”“He did.”“You had to hit him on the head with an axe to put him out of his misery, I am told.”Mrs. Haddon’s eyes snapped fire.“Whoever told you that did not speak the truth,” she haughtily uttered. “James died naturally.”“Yes,” continued the minister, in a perplexed tone. “He kicked the side of the barn down in his last agonies, didn’t he?”“No, sir; he did not.”“Well, I have been misinformed, I suppose. How old was he?”“Thirty-five.”“He did not do much active work. Perhaps you are better without him, for you can easily supply his place with a better one.”“Never!sir, will I find such a good one as he.”“Oh, yes you will; he had the heaves bad, you know.”“Nothing of the kind, sir.”“Why, I recollect I saw him one day, with you on his back, and I distinctly recollect that he had the heaves, and walked as if he had the spring-halt.”Mrs. H.’s eyes snapped fire, and she stared at the reverend visitor as if she imagined he was crazy.“He could not have had the spring-halt, for he had a cork-leg,” she replied.“A cork-leg—remarkable; but really, didn’t he have a dangerous trick of suddenly stopping and kicking the wagon all to pieces?”“Never, sir; he was not mad.”“Probably not. But there were some good points about him.”“I should think so.”“The way in which he carried his ears, for example.”“Nobody ever noticed that particular merit,” said the widow, with much asperity, “he was warm-hearted, generous and frank.”“Good qualities,” answered the minister. “How long did it take him to go a mile?”“About fifteen minutes.”“Not much of a goer. Wasn’t his hair apt to fly?”“He didn’t have any hair, he was bald-headed.”“Quite a curiosity.”“No, sir; no more of a curiosity than you are.”The minister shifted uneasily, and got red in the face; but he returned to the attack.“Did you use the whip much on him?”“Never, sir.”“Went right along without it, eh?”“Yes.”“He must have been a good sort of abrute!”The widow sat down and cried.“The idea of your coming here and insulting me,” she sobbed. “If my husband had lived you would not have done it. Your remarks in reference to the poor dead man have been a series of insults, and I won’t stand it.”He colored, and looked dumfounded.“Ain’t you Mrs. Blinkers?” at last he stammered, “and has not your gray horse just died?”“No! no!” she cried. “I never owned a horse, but my husband died a week ago.”Ten minutes later that minister came outof that house with the reddest face ever seen on mortal man.“And to think,” he groaned, as he strode home, “that I was talking horse to that woman all the time—and she was talking husband.”
Recently our church had a new minister. He is a nice, good, sociable gentleman; but coming from a distant State, of course he was totally unacquainted with our people. Therefore it happened that during his pastoral calls, he made several ludicrous blunders. One as follows: The other evening he called upon Mrs. Haddon. She had just lost her husband, and she naturally supposed that his visit was relative to the sad occurrence. So, after a few common-places had been exchanged, she was not surprised to hear him remark:
“It was a sad bereavement, was it not, Mrs. Haddon?”
“Yes,” faltered the widow.
“Totally unexpected?”
“Oh, yes; I never dreamed of it.”
“He died in the barn, I suppose.”
“Oh, no; in the house.”
“Ah, well, I suppose you must have thought a great deal of him?”
“Of course, sir.”
This was with vim. The minister looked rather surprised, crossed his legs and renewed the conversation.
“Blind staggers was the disease, I believe.”
“No, sir,” snapped the widow. “Apoplexy.”
“Indeed; you must have fed him too much.”
“He was quite capable of feeding himself, sir.”
“Very intelligent he must have been. Died hard?”
“He did.”
“You had to hit him on the head with an axe to put him out of his misery, I am told.”
Mrs. Haddon’s eyes snapped fire.
“Whoever told you that did not speak the truth,” she haughtily uttered. “James died naturally.”
“Yes,” continued the minister, in a perplexed tone. “He kicked the side of the barn down in his last agonies, didn’t he?”
“No, sir; he did not.”
“Well, I have been misinformed, I suppose. How old was he?”
“Thirty-five.”
“He did not do much active work. Perhaps you are better without him, for you can easily supply his place with a better one.”
“Never!sir, will I find such a good one as he.”
“Oh, yes you will; he had the heaves bad, you know.”
“Nothing of the kind, sir.”
“Why, I recollect I saw him one day, with you on his back, and I distinctly recollect that he had the heaves, and walked as if he had the spring-halt.”
Mrs. H.’s eyes snapped fire, and she stared at the reverend visitor as if she imagined he was crazy.
“He could not have had the spring-halt, for he had a cork-leg,” she replied.
“A cork-leg—remarkable; but really, didn’t he have a dangerous trick of suddenly stopping and kicking the wagon all to pieces?”
“Never, sir; he was not mad.”
“Probably not. But there were some good points about him.”
“I should think so.”
“The way in which he carried his ears, for example.”
“Nobody ever noticed that particular merit,” said the widow, with much asperity, “he was warm-hearted, generous and frank.”
“Good qualities,” answered the minister. “How long did it take him to go a mile?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“Not much of a goer. Wasn’t his hair apt to fly?”
“He didn’t have any hair, he was bald-headed.”
“Quite a curiosity.”
“No, sir; no more of a curiosity than you are.”
The minister shifted uneasily, and got red in the face; but he returned to the attack.
“Did you use the whip much on him?”
“Never, sir.”
“Went right along without it, eh?”
“Yes.”
“He must have been a good sort of abrute!”
The widow sat down and cried.
“The idea of your coming here and insulting me,” she sobbed. “If my husband had lived you would not have done it. Your remarks in reference to the poor dead man have been a series of insults, and I won’t stand it.”
He colored, and looked dumfounded.
“Ain’t you Mrs. Blinkers?” at last he stammered, “and has not your gray horse just died?”
“No! no!” she cried. “I never owned a horse, but my husband died a week ago.”
Ten minutes later that minister came outof that house with the reddest face ever seen on mortal man.
“And to think,” he groaned, as he strode home, “that I was talking horse to that woman all the time—and she was talking husband.”
Imitate the “bow-wow” of the dog and the “me-ow” of the cat: at least, so deliver the words as to convey the idea of the barking and the mewing.
The gingham dog and the calico catSide by side on the table sat;’Twas half-past twelve, and what do you think,Neither of them had slept a wink!And the old Dutch clock and the Chinese plateSeemed to know, as sure as fate,There was going to be an awful spat.(I wasn’t there—I simply stateWhat was told to me by the Chinese plate.)The gingham dog went “bow-wow-wow!”And the calico cat replied “me-ow?”And the air was streaked for an hour or soWith fragments of gingham and calico.While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-placeUp with its hands before its face,For it always dreaded a family row!(Now mind, I’m simply telling youWhat the old Dutch clock declares is true.)The Chinese plate looked very blueAnd wailed: “Oh, dear what shall we do?”But the gingham dog and the calico catWallowed this way and tumbled that,And utilized every tooth and clawIn the awfulest way you ever saw—And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!(Don’t think that I exaggerateI got my news from the Chinese plate.)Next morning where the two had satThey found no trace of the dog or cat;And some folks think unto this dayThat burglars stole that pair away;But the truth about that cat and pupIs that they ate each other up—Now, what do you think of that?(The old Dutch clock, it told me so,And that is how I came to know.)Eugene Field.
The gingham dog and the calico catSide by side on the table sat;’Twas half-past twelve, and what do you think,Neither of them had slept a wink!And the old Dutch clock and the Chinese plateSeemed to know, as sure as fate,There was going to be an awful spat.(I wasn’t there—I simply stateWhat was told to me by the Chinese plate.)The gingham dog went “bow-wow-wow!”And the calico cat replied “me-ow?”And the air was streaked for an hour or soWith fragments of gingham and calico.While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-placeUp with its hands before its face,For it always dreaded a family row!(Now mind, I’m simply telling youWhat the old Dutch clock declares is true.)The Chinese plate looked very blueAnd wailed: “Oh, dear what shall we do?”But the gingham dog and the calico catWallowed this way and tumbled that,And utilized every tooth and clawIn the awfulest way you ever saw—And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!(Don’t think that I exaggerateI got my news from the Chinese plate.)Next morning where the two had satThey found no trace of the dog or cat;And some folks think unto this dayThat burglars stole that pair away;But the truth about that cat and pupIs that they ate each other up—Now, what do you think of that?(The old Dutch clock, it told me so,And that is how I came to know.)Eugene Field.
The gingham dog and the calico catSide by side on the table sat;’Twas half-past twelve, and what do you think,Neither of them had slept a wink!And the old Dutch clock and the Chinese plateSeemed to know, as sure as fate,There was going to be an awful spat.
The gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat;
’Twas half-past twelve, and what do you think,
Neither of them had slept a wink!
And the old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate
Seemed to know, as sure as fate,
There was going to be an awful spat.
(I wasn’t there—I simply stateWhat was told to me by the Chinese plate.)
(I wasn’t there—I simply state
What was told to me by the Chinese plate.)
The gingham dog went “bow-wow-wow!”And the calico cat replied “me-ow?”And the air was streaked for an hour or soWith fragments of gingham and calico.While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-placeUp with its hands before its face,For it always dreaded a family row!
The gingham dog went “bow-wow-wow!”
And the calico cat replied “me-ow?”
And the air was streaked for an hour or so
With fragments of gingham and calico.
While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place
Up with its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row!
(Now mind, I’m simply telling youWhat the old Dutch clock declares is true.)
(Now mind, I’m simply telling you
What the old Dutch clock declares is true.)
The Chinese plate looked very blueAnd wailed: “Oh, dear what shall we do?”But the gingham dog and the calico catWallowed this way and tumbled that,And utilized every tooth and clawIn the awfulest way you ever saw—And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!
The Chinese plate looked very blue
And wailed: “Oh, dear what shall we do?”
But the gingham dog and the calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
And utilized every tooth and claw
In the awfulest way you ever saw—
And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!
(Don’t think that I exaggerateI got my news from the Chinese plate.)
(Don’t think that I exaggerate
I got my news from the Chinese plate.)
Next morning where the two had satThey found no trace of the dog or cat;And some folks think unto this dayThat burglars stole that pair away;But the truth about that cat and pupIs that they ate each other up—Now, what do you think of that?
Next morning where the two had sat
They found no trace of the dog or cat;
And some folks think unto this day
That burglars stole that pair away;
But the truth about that cat and pup
Is that they ate each other up—
Now, what do you think of that?
(The old Dutch clock, it told me so,And that is how I came to know.)
(The old Dutch clock, it told me so,
And that is how I came to know.)
Eugene Field.
Eugene Field.
European guides know about enough English to tangle every thing up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it. They know their story by heart—the history of every statue, painting, cathedral, or other wonder they show you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would; and if you interrupt, and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. All their lives long, they are employed in showing strange things to foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration.After we discovered this, we never went into ecstasies any more, we never admired anything, we never showed any but impassible faces and stupid indifference in the presence of the sublimest wonders a guide had to display. We had found their weak point. We made some of those people savage, at times, but we never lost our serenity.The doctor asked the questions generally, because he can keep his countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more imbecility into the tone of his voicethan any man that lives. It comes natural to him.The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion before any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as if he had swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation—full of impatience. He said:“Come wis me, genteelmen!—come! I show you ze letter writing by Christopher Colombo!—write it himself!—write it wis his own hand!—come!”He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling of keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread before us. The guide’s eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped the parchment with his finger.“What I tell you, genteelmen! Is it not so? See! handwriting Christopher Colombo!—write it himself!”We looked indifferent, unconcerned. The doctor examined the document very deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he said, without any show of interest,“Ah—what—what did you say was the name of the party who wrote this?”“Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!”Another deliberate examination.“Ah—did he write it himself, or—or how?”“He write it himself!—Christopher Colombo! he’s own handwriting, write by himself!”Then the doctor laid the document down, and said,“Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could write better than that.”“But zis is ze great Christo—”“I don’t care who it is! It’s the worst writing I ever saw. Now you mustn’t think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not fools, by a good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them out!—and if you haven’t, drive on!”We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more venture. He had something which he thought would overcome us. He said,“Ah, genteelmen, you come wis me! I show you beautiful, oh, magnificent bust Christopher Colombo—splendid, grand, magnificent!”He brought us before the beautiful bust—for itwasbeautiful—and sprang back and struck an attitude:“Ah, look, genteelmen!—beautiful, grand—bust Christopher Colombo!—beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!”The doctor put up his eye-glass—procured for such occasions:“Ah—what did you say this gentleman’s name was?”“Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!”“Christopher Colombo—the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what didhedo?”“Discover America!—discover America, oh, ze devil!”“Discover America? No—that statement will hardly wash. We are just from America ourselves. We heard nothing about it. Christopher Colombo—pleasant name—is—is he dead?”“Oh, corpo di Baccho!—three hundred year!”“What did he die of?”“I do not know. I cannot tell.”“Small-pox, think?”“I do not know, genteelmen—I do not knowwhathe died of.”“Measles, likely?”“Maybe—maybe. I donotknow—I think he die of something.”“Parents living?”“Im-possible!”“Ah—which is the bust and which is the pedestal?”“Santa Maria!—zisze bust!—zisze pedestal!”“Ah, I see, I see—happy combination—very happy combination indeed. Is—is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust?”That joke was lost on the foreigner; guides cannot master the subtleties of the American joke.We have made it interesting for this Roman guide. Yesterday we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful world of curiosities. We came very near expressing interest sometimes, even admiration. It was hard to keep from it. We succeeded, though. Nobody else ever did, in the Vatican museums. The guide was bewildered, nonplussed. He walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and exhausted all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure; we never showed any interest in anything. He had reserved what he considered to be his greatest wonder till the last—a royal Egyptian mummy, the best preserved in the world, perhaps. He took us there. He felt so sure, this time, that some of his old enthusiasm came back to him:“See, genteelmen!—Mummy! Mummy!”The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever.“Ah—what did I understand you to say the gentleman’s name was?”“Name?—he got no name!—Mummy!—’Gyptian mummy!”“Yes, yes. Born here?”“No.’Gyptianmummy.”“Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume?”“No!—notFrenchman, not Roman!—born in Egypta!”“Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality, likely. Mummy—mummy. How calm he is, how self-possessed! Is—ah—is he dead?”“Oh,sacre bleu! been dead three thousan’ year!”The doctor turned on him, savagely:“Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this? Playing us for Chinamen because we are strangers and trying to learn! Trying to impose your vile second-hand carcasses onus! Thunder and lightning! I’ve a notion to—to—if you’ve got a nicefreshcorpse, fetch him out!—or, by George, we’ll brain you!”Mark Twain.
European guides know about enough English to tangle every thing up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it. They know their story by heart—the history of every statue, painting, cathedral, or other wonder they show you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would; and if you interrupt, and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. All their lives long, they are employed in showing strange things to foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration.
After we discovered this, we never went into ecstasies any more, we never admired anything, we never showed any but impassible faces and stupid indifference in the presence of the sublimest wonders a guide had to display. We had found their weak point. We made some of those people savage, at times, but we never lost our serenity.
The doctor asked the questions generally, because he can keep his countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more imbecility into the tone of his voicethan any man that lives. It comes natural to him.
The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion before any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as if he had swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation—full of impatience. He said:
“Come wis me, genteelmen!—come! I show you ze letter writing by Christopher Colombo!—write it himself!—write it wis his own hand!—come!”
He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling of keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread before us. The guide’s eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped the parchment with his finger.
“What I tell you, genteelmen! Is it not so? See! handwriting Christopher Colombo!—write it himself!”
We looked indifferent, unconcerned. The doctor examined the document very deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he said, without any show of interest,
“Ah—what—what did you say was the name of the party who wrote this?”
“Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!”
Another deliberate examination.
“Ah—did he write it himself, or—or how?”
“He write it himself!—Christopher Colombo! he’s own handwriting, write by himself!”
Then the doctor laid the document down, and said,
“Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could write better than that.”
“But zis is ze great Christo—”
“I don’t care who it is! It’s the worst writing I ever saw. Now you mustn’t think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not fools, by a good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them out!—and if you haven’t, drive on!”
We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more venture. He had something which he thought would overcome us. He said,
“Ah, genteelmen, you come wis me! I show you beautiful, oh, magnificent bust Christopher Colombo—splendid, grand, magnificent!”
He brought us before the beautiful bust—for itwasbeautiful—and sprang back and struck an attitude:
“Ah, look, genteelmen!—beautiful, grand—bust Christopher Colombo!—beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!”
The doctor put up his eye-glass—procured for such occasions:
“Ah—what did you say this gentleman’s name was?”
“Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!”
“Christopher Colombo—the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what didhedo?”
“Discover America!—discover America, oh, ze devil!”
“Discover America? No—that statement will hardly wash. We are just from America ourselves. We heard nothing about it. Christopher Colombo—pleasant name—is—is he dead?”
“Oh, corpo di Baccho!—three hundred year!”
“What did he die of?”
“I do not know. I cannot tell.”
“Small-pox, think?”
“I do not know, genteelmen—I do not knowwhathe died of.”
“Measles, likely?”
“Maybe—maybe. I donotknow—I think he die of something.”
“Parents living?”
“Im-possible!”
“Ah—which is the bust and which is the pedestal?”
“Santa Maria!—zisze bust!—zisze pedestal!”
“Ah, I see, I see—happy combination—very happy combination indeed. Is—is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust?”
That joke was lost on the foreigner; guides cannot master the subtleties of the American joke.
We have made it interesting for this Roman guide. Yesterday we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful world of curiosities. We came very near expressing interest sometimes, even admiration. It was hard to keep from it. We succeeded, though. Nobody else ever did, in the Vatican museums. The guide was bewildered, nonplussed. He walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and exhausted all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure; we never showed any interest in anything. He had reserved what he considered to be his greatest wonder till the last—a royal Egyptian mummy, the best preserved in the world, perhaps. He took us there. He felt so sure, this time, that some of his old enthusiasm came back to him:
“See, genteelmen!—Mummy! Mummy!”
The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever.
“Ah—what did I understand you to say the gentleman’s name was?”
“Name?—he got no name!—Mummy!—’Gyptian mummy!”
“Yes, yes. Born here?”
“No.’Gyptianmummy.”
“Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume?”
“No!—notFrenchman, not Roman!—born in Egypta!”
“Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality, likely. Mummy—mummy. How calm he is, how self-possessed! Is—ah—is he dead?”
“Oh,sacre bleu! been dead three thousan’ year!”
The doctor turned on him, savagely:
“Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this? Playing us for Chinamen because we are strangers and trying to learn! Trying to impose your vile second-hand carcasses onus! Thunder and lightning! I’ve a notion to—to—if you’ve got a nicefreshcorpse, fetch him out!—or, by George, we’ll brain you!”
Mark Twain.
The boy stood on the backyard fence, whence all but him had fled;The flames that lit his father’s barn shone just above the shed.One bunch of crackers in his hand, two others in his hat,With piteous accents loud he cried, “I never thought of that!”A bunch of crackers to the tail of one small dog he’d tied;The dog in anguish sought the barn, and ’mid its ruins died.The sparks flew wide and red and hot, they lit upon that brat;They fired the crackers in his hand, and e’en those in his hat.Then came a burst of rattling sound—the boy! Where was he gone?Ask of the winds that far around strewed bits of meat and bone,And scraps of clothes, and balls, and tops, and nails, and hooks and yarn—The relics of that dreadful boy that burned his father’s barn.
The boy stood on the backyard fence, whence all but him had fled;The flames that lit his father’s barn shone just above the shed.One bunch of crackers in his hand, two others in his hat,With piteous accents loud he cried, “I never thought of that!”A bunch of crackers to the tail of one small dog he’d tied;The dog in anguish sought the barn, and ’mid its ruins died.The sparks flew wide and red and hot, they lit upon that brat;They fired the crackers in his hand, and e’en those in his hat.Then came a burst of rattling sound—the boy! Where was he gone?Ask of the winds that far around strewed bits of meat and bone,And scraps of clothes, and balls, and tops, and nails, and hooks and yarn—The relics of that dreadful boy that burned his father’s barn.
The boy stood on the backyard fence, whence all but him had fled;The flames that lit his father’s barn shone just above the shed.One bunch of crackers in his hand, two others in his hat,With piteous accents loud he cried, “I never thought of that!”A bunch of crackers to the tail of one small dog he’d tied;The dog in anguish sought the barn, and ’mid its ruins died.
The boy stood on the backyard fence, whence all but him had fled;
The flames that lit his father’s barn shone just above the shed.
One bunch of crackers in his hand, two others in his hat,
With piteous accents loud he cried, “I never thought of that!”
A bunch of crackers to the tail of one small dog he’d tied;
The dog in anguish sought the barn, and ’mid its ruins died.
The sparks flew wide and red and hot, they lit upon that brat;They fired the crackers in his hand, and e’en those in his hat.Then came a burst of rattling sound—the boy! Where was he gone?Ask of the winds that far around strewed bits of meat and bone,And scraps of clothes, and balls, and tops, and nails, and hooks and yarn—The relics of that dreadful boy that burned his father’s barn.
The sparks flew wide and red and hot, they lit upon that brat;
They fired the crackers in his hand, and e’en those in his hat.
Then came a burst of rattling sound—the boy! Where was he gone?
Ask of the winds that far around strewed bits of meat and bone,
And scraps of clothes, and balls, and tops, and nails, and hooks and yarn—
The relics of that dreadful boy that burned his father’s barn.