Jake Boggles was a country youth,Who paid his debts and told the truth.He labored hard, and seemed contentWith life, no matter how it went,’Till with a girl named Sally SkreelsHe fell in love head over heels.Now Sally’s father wasn’t worthA dollar or a foot of earth,And Jake’s paternal parent owedMost every other man he knowed;But Jake, who had a valiant heart,Vowed that he’d work and get a start,And with the help of Sally, dear,He’d own a farm within a year.Now Sally, who was coldAnd pretty—that is, pretty old,Pretended that for her dear JacobThe heaviest cross she’d gladly take up;But, really, she cared no moreFor Jake than for the shoes he wore.An old maid’s matrimonial chancesGrow very slim as time advances,And this explains why Sally SkreelsProposed to share Jake’s bed and meals.They married. Time fled on apace—Jake rented old Bill Scroggins’ placeAnd went to work resolved to makeA fortune for his Sally’s sake.Poor soul, he toiled with all his might,From early morn till late at night;But, ah! no kind, approving wordFrom Sally’s lips was ever heard.She lay around, chewed wax and sungLove songs she’d learned when she was young;Read old love letters she had gotFrom boobies, long since gone to pot;Yawned o’er a scrap book filled with boshCollected by her Cousin Josh;Trimmed her old hat in various waysWith all the gew-gaws she could raise.In fact, she proved herself to beA slip-shod lump of frivolity.Poor Jake, he worked and ate cold meals,Wore socks with neither toes nor heels,Washed his own clothes when Sunday cameAnd sewed fresh buttons on the same.Got breakfast while his Sally slept,Washed up the dishes, dusted, swept—There’s no use talking, Jacob stroveTo prove how perfect was his love.One day Sal ate too many beans,Grew sick and went to other scenes.From that day forth Jake seldom spoke,Or smiled, or worked—his heart was broke.In the poor-house now he sits and grieves,And wipes his eyes on his threadbare sleeves.Moral.—I’ve told you this to let you seeWhat an all-fired fool a man can be.Parmenas Hill.
Jake Boggles was a country youth,Who paid his debts and told the truth.He labored hard, and seemed contentWith life, no matter how it went,’Till with a girl named Sally SkreelsHe fell in love head over heels.Now Sally’s father wasn’t worthA dollar or a foot of earth,And Jake’s paternal parent owedMost every other man he knowed;But Jake, who had a valiant heart,Vowed that he’d work and get a start,And with the help of Sally, dear,He’d own a farm within a year.Now Sally, who was coldAnd pretty—that is, pretty old,Pretended that for her dear JacobThe heaviest cross she’d gladly take up;But, really, she cared no moreFor Jake than for the shoes he wore.An old maid’s matrimonial chancesGrow very slim as time advances,And this explains why Sally SkreelsProposed to share Jake’s bed and meals.They married. Time fled on apace—Jake rented old Bill Scroggins’ placeAnd went to work resolved to makeA fortune for his Sally’s sake.Poor soul, he toiled with all his might,From early morn till late at night;But, ah! no kind, approving wordFrom Sally’s lips was ever heard.She lay around, chewed wax and sungLove songs she’d learned when she was young;Read old love letters she had gotFrom boobies, long since gone to pot;Yawned o’er a scrap book filled with boshCollected by her Cousin Josh;Trimmed her old hat in various waysWith all the gew-gaws she could raise.In fact, she proved herself to beA slip-shod lump of frivolity.Poor Jake, he worked and ate cold meals,Wore socks with neither toes nor heels,Washed his own clothes when Sunday cameAnd sewed fresh buttons on the same.Got breakfast while his Sally slept,Washed up the dishes, dusted, swept—There’s no use talking, Jacob stroveTo prove how perfect was his love.One day Sal ate too many beans,Grew sick and went to other scenes.From that day forth Jake seldom spoke,Or smiled, or worked—his heart was broke.In the poor-house now he sits and grieves,And wipes his eyes on his threadbare sleeves.Moral.—I’ve told you this to let you seeWhat an all-fired fool a man can be.Parmenas Hill.
Jake Boggles was a country youth,Who paid his debts and told the truth.
Jake Boggles was a country youth,
Who paid his debts and told the truth.
He labored hard, and seemed contentWith life, no matter how it went,
He labored hard, and seemed content
With life, no matter how it went,
’Till with a girl named Sally SkreelsHe fell in love head over heels.
’Till with a girl named Sally Skreels
He fell in love head over heels.
Now Sally’s father wasn’t worthA dollar or a foot of earth,
Now Sally’s father wasn’t worth
A dollar or a foot of earth,
And Jake’s paternal parent owedMost every other man he knowed;
And Jake’s paternal parent owed
Most every other man he knowed;
But Jake, who had a valiant heart,Vowed that he’d work and get a start,
But Jake, who had a valiant heart,
Vowed that he’d work and get a start,
And with the help of Sally, dear,He’d own a farm within a year.
And with the help of Sally, dear,
He’d own a farm within a year.
Now Sally, who was coldAnd pretty—that is, pretty old,
Now Sally, who was cold
And pretty—that is, pretty old,
Pretended that for her dear JacobThe heaviest cross she’d gladly take up;
Pretended that for her dear Jacob
The heaviest cross she’d gladly take up;
But, really, she cared no moreFor Jake than for the shoes he wore.
But, really, she cared no more
For Jake than for the shoes he wore.
An old maid’s matrimonial chancesGrow very slim as time advances,
An old maid’s matrimonial chances
Grow very slim as time advances,
And this explains why Sally SkreelsProposed to share Jake’s bed and meals.
And this explains why Sally Skreels
Proposed to share Jake’s bed and meals.
They married. Time fled on apace—Jake rented old Bill Scroggins’ place
They married. Time fled on apace—
Jake rented old Bill Scroggins’ place
And went to work resolved to makeA fortune for his Sally’s sake.
And went to work resolved to make
A fortune for his Sally’s sake.
Poor soul, he toiled with all his might,From early morn till late at night;
Poor soul, he toiled with all his might,
From early morn till late at night;
But, ah! no kind, approving wordFrom Sally’s lips was ever heard.
But, ah! no kind, approving word
From Sally’s lips was ever heard.
She lay around, chewed wax and sungLove songs she’d learned when she was young;
She lay around, chewed wax and sung
Love songs she’d learned when she was young;
Read old love letters she had gotFrom boobies, long since gone to pot;
Read old love letters she had got
From boobies, long since gone to pot;
Yawned o’er a scrap book filled with boshCollected by her Cousin Josh;
Yawned o’er a scrap book filled with bosh
Collected by her Cousin Josh;
Trimmed her old hat in various waysWith all the gew-gaws she could raise.
Trimmed her old hat in various ways
With all the gew-gaws she could raise.
In fact, she proved herself to beA slip-shod lump of frivolity.
In fact, she proved herself to be
A slip-shod lump of frivolity.
Poor Jake, he worked and ate cold meals,Wore socks with neither toes nor heels,
Poor Jake, he worked and ate cold meals,
Wore socks with neither toes nor heels,
Washed his own clothes when Sunday cameAnd sewed fresh buttons on the same.
Washed his own clothes when Sunday came
And sewed fresh buttons on the same.
Got breakfast while his Sally slept,Washed up the dishes, dusted, swept—
Got breakfast while his Sally slept,
Washed up the dishes, dusted, swept—
There’s no use talking, Jacob stroveTo prove how perfect was his love.
There’s no use talking, Jacob strove
To prove how perfect was his love.
One day Sal ate too many beans,Grew sick and went to other scenes.
One day Sal ate too many beans,
Grew sick and went to other scenes.
From that day forth Jake seldom spoke,Or smiled, or worked—his heart was broke.
From that day forth Jake seldom spoke,
Or smiled, or worked—his heart was broke.
In the poor-house now he sits and grieves,And wipes his eyes on his threadbare sleeves.
In the poor-house now he sits and grieves,
And wipes his eyes on his threadbare sleeves.
Moral.—I’ve told you this to let you seeWhat an all-fired fool a man can be.
Moral.—I’ve told you this to let you see
What an all-fired fool a man can be.
Parmenas Hill.
Parmenas Hill.
“George Washin’ton!”From down the hill the answer floated up, muffled by the distance.“Ma’m?”“Come heah, sah!”Aunt Polly folded her arms and leaned against the doorway and waited for the appearance of her son and heir above the edge of the hill on which her cabin stood.“George Washin’ton,” she said, “you sartainlyis de laziest nigger I eber see. How, long, sah, does you s’pose you was a-comin’ up dat hill? You don’ no? I don’ nether; ’twas so long I los’ all count. You’ll bring yore mudder’s gray har in sorrer to de grabe yet, wid yore pokin’ and slowness, see if you don’. Heah I is waitin’ and a’waitin’ on you for to go down to ole Mass’ Cunningham’s wid dose tings. Take ’em to de young city man boardin’ dar, and tell him dese is his clean close dat yore old mudder washed, and dat dey comes to fifty cents. And if you let de grass grow under yore feet, George Washin’ton, or spiles dese close, or loses dat fifty cents, I’ll break yore bones, chile, when you comes home. You heah dat?”George Washington rested his basket on his hip and jogged along. Meditations as to what his mother might have for supper on the strength of the fifty cents brightened his visage and accelerated his steps. His fancy revelled in visions of white biscuit and crisp bacon floating in its own grease. He was gravely weighing the relative merits of spring chicken fried and more elderly chicken stewed, when—There was only one muddy place on George Washington’s route to town; that was down at the foot of the hill, by the railroad track. Why should his feet slip from under him, and he go sliding into the mud right there? It was too bad. It did not hurt him, but those shirts and shining collars, alas! Some of them tumbled out, and he lifted them up all spattered and soiled.He sat down and contemplated the situation with an expression of speechless solemnity. He was afraid to go back, and he was afraid to go on, but he would rather face the “city man” than his mother; and with a sigh that nearly burst the twine string that did duty as a suspender, he lifted the linen into its place and trudged on.The young folks at “Mass’ Cunningham’s” sent him to the boarder’s room, with many a jest on his slowness, and he shook in his ragged clothes when the young man lifted the things from the basket to put them away.He exclaimed in anger at their soiled appearance, and, of course, immediately bundled them back into the basket.“Here, George,” he said, “take these back to your mother to wash, and don’t you dare, you little vagabond! ever bring such looking things to me again.”Slowly the namesake of our illustrious countryman climbed the hill toward home; slowly he entered and set down his basket. The rapidity with which he emerged from the door, about three minutes later, might have led a stranger to believe that it was a different boy. But it was not. It was the same George.The next afternoon came around, and George Washington again departed on his errand. No thoughts of supper or good things ran rife in his brain to-day. He attended strictly to business. His mother, standing in the door-way, called after him: “Be keerful, George Washin’ton, ’bout de train. I heer’d it at de upper junction jess now. It’ll be long trectly.”George Washington nodded and disappeared. He crossed the muddy place in safety, and breathed more freely. He was turning toward town, when something on the railroad track caught his eye. There lay the big rock that had been on the hill above ever since he could remember; it was right in the track. He wondered how the coming train would get over it.Across on the other side, the hill sloped down to a deep ravine. What if the big rock pushed the train off! His heart gave a great jump. He had heard them talk of an accident once, where many people were killed. He thought of running to tell somebody,but it was a good way to the next house, and just then he heard the train faintly; it was too late for that. Just above, in the direction that the train was coming, was a sharp curve. It could not stop if it came tearing round that, and on the other side of the bend was a very high trestle that made him sick to look at.The slow, dull boy stood and trembled.In a moment more he had set his basket carefully in the bush, and ran around the curve. At the edge of the trestle he paused, and then dropping on his hands and knees, crept as fast as he could over the dizzy height to the other side. He staggered to his feet, and ran on.When the train dashed in sight, the engineer spied a small object on the track, pointing frantically behind him. The child ran away from the track, but continued to wave and point and shout “Stop!”The train whistled and slackened. George Washington, hatless and breathless, was jerked into the engine, where he gasped, “Big rock on de track round de curve.” The train was moved slowly over the trestle and stopped in the curve, and there, indeed, was the rock that might have hurled them all down to death, but for that ridiculous-looking little boy.Meanwhile in the cabin, Aunt Polly was restless, and concluded to go down to the foot of the hill, and wait for George Washington. Behold, then, as she appeared down the path, the sight that met her gaze.“What’s dis boy bin a-doin’! I’se his mother. I is. What’s dis mean?”On this identical train was the president of the road.“Why, auntie,” he said, “you have a boy to be proud of. He crept over the high trestle and warned the train, and maybe saved all our lives. He is a hero.”Aunt Polly was dazed.“A hearo,” she said; “dat’s a big t’ing for a little black nigger. George Washin’ton, whar’s dat basket?”“In de bushes, mammy; I’se gwine for to get it.”The train was nearly ready to be off. The president called Aunt Polly aside, and she came back with a beaming face, and five ten-dollar bills clutched in her hands.Aunt Polly caught George in her arms.“Dey sed you was a hearo, George Washin’ton, but you is yore mammy’s own boy, and you shall hab chicken for yore supper dis berry night, and a whole poun’ cake to-morrow, yes, you shall!”And when George Washington returned the gentleman his washing, he, like his namesake, was a hero.
“George Washin’ton!”
From down the hill the answer floated up, muffled by the distance.
“Ma’m?”
“Come heah, sah!”
Aunt Polly folded her arms and leaned against the doorway and waited for the appearance of her son and heir above the edge of the hill on which her cabin stood.
“George Washin’ton,” she said, “you sartainlyis de laziest nigger I eber see. How, long, sah, does you s’pose you was a-comin’ up dat hill? You don’ no? I don’ nether; ’twas so long I los’ all count. You’ll bring yore mudder’s gray har in sorrer to de grabe yet, wid yore pokin’ and slowness, see if you don’. Heah I is waitin’ and a’waitin’ on you for to go down to ole Mass’ Cunningham’s wid dose tings. Take ’em to de young city man boardin’ dar, and tell him dese is his clean close dat yore old mudder washed, and dat dey comes to fifty cents. And if you let de grass grow under yore feet, George Washin’ton, or spiles dese close, or loses dat fifty cents, I’ll break yore bones, chile, when you comes home. You heah dat?”
George Washington rested his basket on his hip and jogged along. Meditations as to what his mother might have for supper on the strength of the fifty cents brightened his visage and accelerated his steps. His fancy revelled in visions of white biscuit and crisp bacon floating in its own grease. He was gravely weighing the relative merits of spring chicken fried and more elderly chicken stewed, when—
There was only one muddy place on George Washington’s route to town; that was down at the foot of the hill, by the railroad track. Why should his feet slip from under him, and he go sliding into the mud right there? It was too bad. It did not hurt him, but those shirts and shining collars, alas! Some of them tumbled out, and he lifted them up all spattered and soiled.
He sat down and contemplated the situation with an expression of speechless solemnity. He was afraid to go back, and he was afraid to go on, but he would rather face the “city man” than his mother; and with a sigh that nearly burst the twine string that did duty as a suspender, he lifted the linen into its place and trudged on.
The young folks at “Mass’ Cunningham’s” sent him to the boarder’s room, with many a jest on his slowness, and he shook in his ragged clothes when the young man lifted the things from the basket to put them away.
He exclaimed in anger at their soiled appearance, and, of course, immediately bundled them back into the basket.
“Here, George,” he said, “take these back to your mother to wash, and don’t you dare, you little vagabond! ever bring such looking things to me again.”
Slowly the namesake of our illustrious countryman climbed the hill toward home; slowly he entered and set down his basket. The rapidity with which he emerged from the door, about three minutes later, might have led a stranger to believe that it was a different boy. But it was not. It was the same George.
The next afternoon came around, and George Washington again departed on his errand. No thoughts of supper or good things ran rife in his brain to-day. He attended strictly to business. His mother, standing in the door-way, called after him: “Be keerful, George Washin’ton, ’bout de train. I heer’d it at de upper junction jess now. It’ll be long trectly.”
George Washington nodded and disappeared. He crossed the muddy place in safety, and breathed more freely. He was turning toward town, when something on the railroad track caught his eye. There lay the big rock that had been on the hill above ever since he could remember; it was right in the track. He wondered how the coming train would get over it.
Across on the other side, the hill sloped down to a deep ravine. What if the big rock pushed the train off! His heart gave a great jump. He had heard them talk of an accident once, where many people were killed. He thought of running to tell somebody,but it was a good way to the next house, and just then he heard the train faintly; it was too late for that. Just above, in the direction that the train was coming, was a sharp curve. It could not stop if it came tearing round that, and on the other side of the bend was a very high trestle that made him sick to look at.
The slow, dull boy stood and trembled.
In a moment more he had set his basket carefully in the bush, and ran around the curve. At the edge of the trestle he paused, and then dropping on his hands and knees, crept as fast as he could over the dizzy height to the other side. He staggered to his feet, and ran on.
When the train dashed in sight, the engineer spied a small object on the track, pointing frantically behind him. The child ran away from the track, but continued to wave and point and shout “Stop!”
The train whistled and slackened. George Washington, hatless and breathless, was jerked into the engine, where he gasped, “Big rock on de track round de curve.” The train was moved slowly over the trestle and stopped in the curve, and there, indeed, was the rock that might have hurled them all down to death, but for that ridiculous-looking little boy.
Meanwhile in the cabin, Aunt Polly was restless, and concluded to go down to the foot of the hill, and wait for George Washington. Behold, then, as she appeared down the path, the sight that met her gaze.
“What’s dis boy bin a-doin’! I’se his mother. I is. What’s dis mean?”
On this identical train was the president of the road.
“Why, auntie,” he said, “you have a boy to be proud of. He crept over the high trestle and warned the train, and maybe saved all our lives. He is a hero.”
Aunt Polly was dazed.
“A hearo,” she said; “dat’s a big t’ing for a little black nigger. George Washin’ton, whar’s dat basket?”
“In de bushes, mammy; I’se gwine for to get it.”
The train was nearly ready to be off. The president called Aunt Polly aside, and she came back with a beaming face, and five ten-dollar bills clutched in her hands.
Aunt Polly caught George in her arms.
“Dey sed you was a hearo, George Washin’ton, but you is yore mammy’s own boy, and you shall hab chicken for yore supper dis berry night, and a whole poun’ cake to-morrow, yes, you shall!”
And when George Washington returned the gentleman his washing, he, like his namesake, was a hero.
Dimpled scheeks, mit eyes off plue,Mout’ like it was mois’d mit dew,Und leedle teeth shust peekin’ droo—Dot’s der baby.Curly hed und full of glee.Drowsers all oudt at der knee—He vas peen playin’ horss, you see—Dot’s leedle Otto.Von hunderd seexty in der shade,Der oder day ven she was veighed—She beats me soon, I vas afraid—Dot’s mine Gretchen.Bare-footed hed, und pooty stoudt,Mit grooked legs dot vill bend oudt,Fond off his beer und sauer-kraut—Dot’s me himself.Von schmall young baby, full of fun,Von leedle, pright-eyed, roguish son,Von frau to greet vhen vork was done—Dot’s mine vamily.Yawcob Strauss.
Dimpled scheeks, mit eyes off plue,Mout’ like it was mois’d mit dew,Und leedle teeth shust peekin’ droo—Dot’s der baby.Curly hed und full of glee.Drowsers all oudt at der knee—He vas peen playin’ horss, you see—Dot’s leedle Otto.Von hunderd seexty in der shade,Der oder day ven she was veighed—She beats me soon, I vas afraid—Dot’s mine Gretchen.Bare-footed hed, und pooty stoudt,Mit grooked legs dot vill bend oudt,Fond off his beer und sauer-kraut—Dot’s me himself.Von schmall young baby, full of fun,Von leedle, pright-eyed, roguish son,Von frau to greet vhen vork was done—Dot’s mine vamily.Yawcob Strauss.
Dimpled scheeks, mit eyes off plue,Mout’ like it was mois’d mit dew,Und leedle teeth shust peekin’ droo—Dot’s der baby.
Dimpled scheeks, mit eyes off plue,
Mout’ like it was mois’d mit dew,
Und leedle teeth shust peekin’ droo—
Dot’s der baby.
Curly hed und full of glee.Drowsers all oudt at der knee—He vas peen playin’ horss, you see—Dot’s leedle Otto.
Curly hed und full of glee.
Drowsers all oudt at der knee—
He vas peen playin’ horss, you see—
Dot’s leedle Otto.
Von hunderd seexty in der shade,Der oder day ven she was veighed—She beats me soon, I vas afraid—Dot’s mine Gretchen.
Von hunderd seexty in der shade,
Der oder day ven she was veighed—
She beats me soon, I vas afraid—
Dot’s mine Gretchen.
Bare-footed hed, und pooty stoudt,Mit grooked legs dot vill bend oudt,Fond off his beer und sauer-kraut—Dot’s me himself.
Bare-footed hed, und pooty stoudt,
Mit grooked legs dot vill bend oudt,
Fond off his beer und sauer-kraut—
Dot’s me himself.
Von schmall young baby, full of fun,Von leedle, pright-eyed, roguish son,Von frau to greet vhen vork was done—Dot’s mine vamily.
Von schmall young baby, full of fun,
Von leedle, pright-eyed, roguish son,
Von frau to greet vhen vork was done—
Dot’s mine vamily.
Yawcob Strauss.
Yawcob Strauss.
They lingered at the garden gate,The moon was full above;He took her darling hand in his,The trembling little dove,And pressed it to his fervent lips,And softly told his love.About her waist he placed his arm,He called her all his own;His heart, he said, it ever beatFor her, and her alone;And he was happier than a kingUpon a golden throne.“Come weal, come woe,” in ardent toneThis youth continued he,“As is the needle to the pole,So I will constant be;No power on earth shall tear thee, love,Away, I swear, from me!”From out the chamber window poppedA grizzly night-capped head;A hoarse voice yelled: “You, Susan Jane,Come in and go to bed!”And that was all—it was enough;The young man wildly fled.
They lingered at the garden gate,The moon was full above;He took her darling hand in his,The trembling little dove,And pressed it to his fervent lips,And softly told his love.About her waist he placed his arm,He called her all his own;His heart, he said, it ever beatFor her, and her alone;And he was happier than a kingUpon a golden throne.“Come weal, come woe,” in ardent toneThis youth continued he,“As is the needle to the pole,So I will constant be;No power on earth shall tear thee, love,Away, I swear, from me!”From out the chamber window poppedA grizzly night-capped head;A hoarse voice yelled: “You, Susan Jane,Come in and go to bed!”And that was all—it was enough;The young man wildly fled.
They lingered at the garden gate,The moon was full above;He took her darling hand in his,The trembling little dove,And pressed it to his fervent lips,And softly told his love.
They lingered at the garden gate,
The moon was full above;
He took her darling hand in his,
The trembling little dove,
And pressed it to his fervent lips,
And softly told his love.
About her waist he placed his arm,He called her all his own;His heart, he said, it ever beatFor her, and her alone;And he was happier than a kingUpon a golden throne.
About her waist he placed his arm,
He called her all his own;
His heart, he said, it ever beat
For her, and her alone;
And he was happier than a king
Upon a golden throne.
“Come weal, come woe,” in ardent toneThis youth continued he,“As is the needle to the pole,So I will constant be;No power on earth shall tear thee, love,Away, I swear, from me!”
“Come weal, come woe,” in ardent tone
This youth continued he,
“As is the needle to the pole,
So I will constant be;
No power on earth shall tear thee, love,
Away, I swear, from me!”
From out the chamber window poppedA grizzly night-capped head;A hoarse voice yelled: “You, Susan Jane,Come in and go to bed!”And that was all—it was enough;The young man wildly fled.
From out the chamber window popped
A grizzly night-capped head;
A hoarse voice yelled: “You, Susan Jane,
Come in and go to bed!”
And that was all—it was enough;
The young man wildly fled.
The Rev. Mr. Mulkittle having successfully organized a church fair, was a very happy man. It had been hinted that the congregation were a “little short” on raising the reverend gentleman’s salary, hence the proceeds of the fair would more than supply the deficiency.The good man, after retiring from a profitable afternoon’s work, during which he had assured dyspeptics that potato salad would not hurt them, seated himself by the library fire, when the “youngest” entered.“Where have you been, pa?”“To the fair.”“What fair?”“Our church fair.”“Did they have it out to the fair grounds?”“No.”“Where then?”“Down town in our church.”“Did they have horses and cows?”“Oh, no! they didn’t show anything.”“Well, what did they do?”“Oh, they sold toys and something for people to eat.”“Did they sell it to the poor?”“They sold it to anybody who had money.”“Oh, papa! it was the feast of the passover, wasn’t it?”Mr. Mulkittle took up a newspaper and began to read.“Do you want me to be a preacher, pa?”“Yes, if the Lord calls you.”“Did the Lord call you?”“Yes.”“What did He say?”“Told me to go and preach the gospel to every living creature.”“Didn’t tell you to preach to niggers, did He?”“That’ll do now.”“You thought the Lord had called you again the other day, did you?”“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said the minister.“Don’t you know the other day you told ma you had a call to go to some place, and you would go if you could get two hundred dollars more. Wouldn’t the Lord give you the two hundred dollars?”“Didn’t I tell you to hush, sir?” said the minister, throwing down his paper and glaring at his son.“No, sir; you told me to behave myself.”“Well, see that you do.”“I wish you’d tell me—”“Tell you what?”“’Bout the call.”“Well, a church in another town wanted me to come there and preach.”“Why didn’t you go?”“Couldn’t afford it. They didn’t pay enough money.”“Call wasn’t loud enough, was it?”“Well, hardly,” asserted Mr. Mulkittle, with a smile. “It wasn’t loud enough to be very interesting.”“If it had been louder, would you went?”“I should have gone if they had offered me more money.”“It wasn’t the Lord that called you that time then, was it?”“I think not.”“How much money did the Lord offer you?”“Do you see that door?”“No sir; which door?”“That one.”“Yes, sir.”“Well, go out and shut it.”“I want to stay in here.”“You cannot.”“Why?”“Because you are too foolishly inquisitive.”“What’s foolish ’quisitive?”“Asking so many questions.”“How many must I ask?”“None.”“Then I couldn’t talk, could I?”“It would be better for you, if you couldn’t talk so much.”“How much must I talk?”“Here, I’ll give you ten cents now, if you’ll go away and hush.”“Call ain’t strong enough,” said the boy, shaking his head.“Well, here’s a quarter,” said the preacher, smiling.“Call is strong enough; I’ll go.”
The Rev. Mr. Mulkittle having successfully organized a church fair, was a very happy man. It had been hinted that the congregation were a “little short” on raising the reverend gentleman’s salary, hence the proceeds of the fair would more than supply the deficiency.
The good man, after retiring from a profitable afternoon’s work, during which he had assured dyspeptics that potato salad would not hurt them, seated himself by the library fire, when the “youngest” entered.
“Where have you been, pa?”
“To the fair.”
“What fair?”
“Our church fair.”
“Did they have it out to the fair grounds?”
“No.”
“Where then?”
“Down town in our church.”
“Did they have horses and cows?”
“Oh, no! they didn’t show anything.”
“Well, what did they do?”
“Oh, they sold toys and something for people to eat.”
“Did they sell it to the poor?”
“They sold it to anybody who had money.”
“Oh, papa! it was the feast of the passover, wasn’t it?”
Mr. Mulkittle took up a newspaper and began to read.
“Do you want me to be a preacher, pa?”
“Yes, if the Lord calls you.”
“Did the Lord call you?”
“Yes.”
“What did He say?”
“Told me to go and preach the gospel to every living creature.”
“Didn’t tell you to preach to niggers, did He?”
“That’ll do now.”
“You thought the Lord had called you again the other day, did you?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said the minister.
“Don’t you know the other day you told ma you had a call to go to some place, and you would go if you could get two hundred dollars more. Wouldn’t the Lord give you the two hundred dollars?”
“Didn’t I tell you to hush, sir?” said the minister, throwing down his paper and glaring at his son.
“No, sir; you told me to behave myself.”
“Well, see that you do.”
“I wish you’d tell me—”
“Tell you what?”
“’Bout the call.”
“Well, a church in another town wanted me to come there and preach.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
“Couldn’t afford it. They didn’t pay enough money.”
“Call wasn’t loud enough, was it?”
“Well, hardly,” asserted Mr. Mulkittle, with a smile. “It wasn’t loud enough to be very interesting.”
“If it had been louder, would you went?”
“I should have gone if they had offered me more money.”
“It wasn’t the Lord that called you that time then, was it?”
“I think not.”
“How much money did the Lord offer you?”
“Do you see that door?”
“No sir; which door?”
“That one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, go out and shut it.”
“I want to stay in here.”
“You cannot.”
“Why?”
“Because you are too foolishly inquisitive.”
“What’s foolish ’quisitive?”
“Asking so many questions.”
“How many must I ask?”
“None.”
“Then I couldn’t talk, could I?”
“It would be better for you, if you couldn’t talk so much.”
“How much must I talk?”
“Here, I’ll give you ten cents now, if you’ll go away and hush.”
“Call ain’t strong enough,” said the boy, shaking his head.
“Well, here’s a quarter,” said the preacher, smiling.
“Call is strong enough; I’ll go.”
One day through the primeval woodA calf walked home, as good as calves should,But made a trail all bent askew,A crooked trail, as all calves do.Since then two hundred years have fled,And, I infer, the calf is dead.But still he left behind his trail,And thereby hangs a mortal tale.The trail was taken up next dayBy a lone dog that passed that way,And then a wise bell-wether sheepPursued the trail o’er vale and steep,And drew the flock behind him, too,As good bell-wethers always do.And from that day, o’er hill and glade,Through those old woods a path was made.And many men wound in and out,And dodged and turned and bent about,And uttered words of righteous wrath,Because ’twas such a crooked path;But still they followed—do not laugh—The first migration of that calf,And through the winding woodway stalkedBecause he wabbled when he walked.This forest path became a lane,That bent and turned and turned again;This crooked lane became a road,Where many a poor horse, with his load,Toiled on beneath the burning sun,And traveled some three miles in one.And thus a century and a halfThey trod the footsteps of that calf.The years passed on in swiftness fleet,The road became a village street.And this, before men were aware,A city’s crowded thoroughfare,And soon the central street was thisOf a renowned metropolis.And men two centuries and a halfTrod in the footsteps of that calf;Each day a hundred thousand routFollowed the zigzag calf about;And o’er his crooked journey wentThe traffic of a continent.A hundred thousand men were ledBy one calf near three centuries dead.
One day through the primeval woodA calf walked home, as good as calves should,But made a trail all bent askew,A crooked trail, as all calves do.Since then two hundred years have fled,And, I infer, the calf is dead.But still he left behind his trail,And thereby hangs a mortal tale.The trail was taken up next dayBy a lone dog that passed that way,And then a wise bell-wether sheepPursued the trail o’er vale and steep,And drew the flock behind him, too,As good bell-wethers always do.And from that day, o’er hill and glade,Through those old woods a path was made.And many men wound in and out,And dodged and turned and bent about,And uttered words of righteous wrath,Because ’twas such a crooked path;But still they followed—do not laugh—The first migration of that calf,And through the winding woodway stalkedBecause he wabbled when he walked.This forest path became a lane,That bent and turned and turned again;This crooked lane became a road,Where many a poor horse, with his load,Toiled on beneath the burning sun,And traveled some three miles in one.And thus a century and a halfThey trod the footsteps of that calf.The years passed on in swiftness fleet,The road became a village street.And this, before men were aware,A city’s crowded thoroughfare,And soon the central street was thisOf a renowned metropolis.And men two centuries and a halfTrod in the footsteps of that calf;Each day a hundred thousand routFollowed the zigzag calf about;And o’er his crooked journey wentThe traffic of a continent.A hundred thousand men were ledBy one calf near three centuries dead.
One day through the primeval woodA calf walked home, as good as calves should,But made a trail all bent askew,A crooked trail, as all calves do.Since then two hundred years have fled,And, I infer, the calf is dead.But still he left behind his trail,And thereby hangs a mortal tale.
One day through the primeval wood
A calf walked home, as good as calves should,
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail, as all calves do.
Since then two hundred years have fled,
And, I infer, the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs a mortal tale.
The trail was taken up next dayBy a lone dog that passed that way,And then a wise bell-wether sheepPursued the trail o’er vale and steep,And drew the flock behind him, too,As good bell-wethers always do.And from that day, o’er hill and glade,Through those old woods a path was made.
The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way,
And then a wise bell-wether sheep
Pursued the trail o’er vale and steep,
And drew the flock behind him, too,
As good bell-wethers always do.
And from that day, o’er hill and glade,
Through those old woods a path was made.
And many men wound in and out,And dodged and turned and bent about,And uttered words of righteous wrath,Because ’twas such a crooked path;But still they followed—do not laugh—The first migration of that calf,And through the winding woodway stalkedBecause he wabbled when he walked.
And many men wound in and out,
And dodged and turned and bent about,
And uttered words of righteous wrath,
Because ’twas such a crooked path;
But still they followed—do not laugh—
The first migration of that calf,
And through the winding woodway stalked
Because he wabbled when he walked.
This forest path became a lane,That bent and turned and turned again;This crooked lane became a road,Where many a poor horse, with his load,Toiled on beneath the burning sun,And traveled some three miles in one.And thus a century and a halfThey trod the footsteps of that calf.
This forest path became a lane,
That bent and turned and turned again;
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse, with his load,
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half
They trod the footsteps of that calf.
The years passed on in swiftness fleet,The road became a village street.And this, before men were aware,A city’s crowded thoroughfare,And soon the central street was thisOf a renowned metropolis.
The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
The road became a village street.
And this, before men were aware,
A city’s crowded thoroughfare,
And soon the central street was this
Of a renowned metropolis.
And men two centuries and a halfTrod in the footsteps of that calf;Each day a hundred thousand routFollowed the zigzag calf about;And o’er his crooked journey wentThe traffic of a continent.A hundred thousand men were ledBy one calf near three centuries dead.
And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf;
Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed the zigzag calf about;
And o’er his crooked journey went
The traffic of a continent.
A hundred thousand men were led
By one calf near three centuries dead.
Tom Goldy was a ladies’ man,And popular among them, very—The reason why? Because he wasA maker of confectionery.Tom’s peppermints and caramelsWere always fresh and handy;And so he entertained his guestsWith packages of candy.Tom gave a grand reception once—It was a sweet occasion—The ladies took his caramelsAnd needed no persuasion.And when he freely passed aroundHis most delicious fare,To all the damsels there that nightHe gave an equal share.But one, and she a gossip, too,Was singled out for honor,By having twice what others hadOf sweets bestowed upon her.“Twice what you gave us.” One and allAgainst Tom laid this charge;Tom slyly winked and said, “Why not?Her mouth is twice as large.”
Tom Goldy was a ladies’ man,And popular among them, very—The reason why? Because he wasA maker of confectionery.Tom’s peppermints and caramelsWere always fresh and handy;And so he entertained his guestsWith packages of candy.Tom gave a grand reception once—It was a sweet occasion—The ladies took his caramelsAnd needed no persuasion.And when he freely passed aroundHis most delicious fare,To all the damsels there that nightHe gave an equal share.But one, and she a gossip, too,Was singled out for honor,By having twice what others hadOf sweets bestowed upon her.“Twice what you gave us.” One and allAgainst Tom laid this charge;Tom slyly winked and said, “Why not?Her mouth is twice as large.”
Tom Goldy was a ladies’ man,And popular among them, very—The reason why? Because he wasA maker of confectionery.
Tom Goldy was a ladies’ man,
And popular among them, very—
The reason why? Because he was
A maker of confectionery.
Tom’s peppermints and caramelsWere always fresh and handy;And so he entertained his guestsWith packages of candy.
Tom’s peppermints and caramels
Were always fresh and handy;
And so he entertained his guests
With packages of candy.
Tom gave a grand reception once—It was a sweet occasion—The ladies took his caramelsAnd needed no persuasion.
Tom gave a grand reception once—
It was a sweet occasion—
The ladies took his caramels
And needed no persuasion.
And when he freely passed aroundHis most delicious fare,To all the damsels there that nightHe gave an equal share.
And when he freely passed around
His most delicious fare,
To all the damsels there that night
He gave an equal share.
But one, and she a gossip, too,Was singled out for honor,By having twice what others hadOf sweets bestowed upon her.
But one, and she a gossip, too,
Was singled out for honor,
By having twice what others had
Of sweets bestowed upon her.
“Twice what you gave us.” One and allAgainst Tom laid this charge;Tom slyly winked and said, “Why not?Her mouth is twice as large.”
“Twice what you gave us.” One and all
Against Tom laid this charge;
Tom slyly winked and said, “Why not?
Her mouth is twice as large.”
In a quiet little Ohio village, many years ago, was a tavern where the stages always changed, and the passengers expected to get breakfast. The landlord of the said hotel was noted for his tricks upon travelers, who were allowed to get fairly seated at the table, when the driver would blow his horn (after taking his “horn”), and sing out, “Stage ready, gentlemen!”—whereupon the passengers were obliged to hurry out to take their seats, leaving a scarcely tasted breakfast behind them, for which, however, they had to pay over fifty cents! One day, when the stage was approaching the house of this obliging landlord, a passenger said that he had often heard of the landlord’s trick, and he was afraid they would not be able to eat any breakfast.“What!—how? No breakfast!” exclaimed the rest.“Exactly so gents, and you may as well keep your seats and tin.”“Don’t they expect passengers to breakfast?”“Oh! yes! they expect you to it, but not to eat it. I am under the impression that there is an understanding between the landlord and the driver that for sundry and various drinks, etc., the latter starts before you can scarcely commence eating.”“What on airth are you all talking about? Ef you calkelate I’m going to pay four and ninepence for my breakfast, and not get the valee on’t you’re mistaken,” said a voice from a back seat, the owner of which was one Hezekiah Spaulding—though “tew hum”they call him “Hez” for short. “I’m goin’ to get my breakfast here, and not pay nary red cent till I do.”“Then you’ll be left.”“Not as you knows on, I guess I won’t.”“Well, we’ll see,” said the other, as the stage drove up to the door and the landlord ready “to do the hospitable,” says—“Breakfast just ready, gents! Take a wash, gents? Here’s water, basins, towels, and soap.”After performing the ablutions, they all proceeded to the dining-room, and commenced a fierce onslaught upon the edibles, though Hez took his time. Scarcely had they tasted their coffee when they heard the unwelcome sound of the horn, and the driver exclaim, “Stage ready!” Up rise eight grumbling passengers, pay their fifty cents, and take their seats.“All on board, gents?” inquires the host.“One missing,” said they.Proceeding to the dining-room the host finds Hez very coolly helping himself to an immense piece of steak, the size of a horse’s hip.“You’ll be left, sir! Stage going to start.”“Wall, I hain’t got nothin’ agin it,” drawls out Hez.“Can’t wait, sir—better take your seat.”“I’ll be blowed ef I do, nother, till I’ve got my breakfast! I paid for it, and I am goin’ to get the valee on’t it; and ef you calkelate I hain’t you are mistaken.”So the stage did start, and left Hez, who continued his attack upon the edibles. Biscuit, coffee, etc., disappeared before the eyes of the astonished landlord.“Say, squire, them there cakes is ’bout eat—fetch on another grist on ’em. You” (to the waiter), “’nother cup of that ere coffee. Pass them eggs. Raise your own pork, squire? This is ’mazin’ nice ham. Land ’bout here tolerable cheap, squire? Hain’t much maple timber in these parts, hev ye? Dew right smart trade, squire, I calkelate?” And thus Hez kept quizzing the landlord until he had made a hearty meal.“Say, squire, now I’m ’bout to conclude paying my devowers to this ere table, but just give us a bowl of bread and milk to top off with; I’d be much obleeged tew ye.”So out go the landlord and waiter for the bowl, milk, and bread, and set them before him.“Spoon, tew, ef you please.”But no spoon could be found. Landlord was sure he had plenty of silver ones lying on the table when the stage stopped.“Say, dew ye? dew ye think them passengers is goin’ to pay ye for a breakfuss and not git no compensashun?”“Ah! what? Do you think any of the passengers took them?”“Dew I think? No, I don’t think, but I’m sartin. Ef they are all as green as yew bout here I’m going to locate immediately and tew wonst.”The landlord rushes out to the stable, and starts a man off after the stage, which had gone about three miles. The man overtakes and says something to the driver in a low tone. He immediately turns back, and on arriving at the hotel Hez comes out, takes his seat, and says:“How are yew, gents? I’m glad to see yew.”“Can you point out the man you think has the spoons?” asked the landlord.“P’int him out? Sartenly I ken. Say, squire, I paid yew four and ninepence for a breakfuss, and I calkelate I got the valee on’t it! You’ll find them spoons in the coffee-pot.”“Go ahead! All aboard, driver.”The landlord stared.
In a quiet little Ohio village, many years ago, was a tavern where the stages always changed, and the passengers expected to get breakfast. The landlord of the said hotel was noted for his tricks upon travelers, who were allowed to get fairly seated at the table, when the driver would blow his horn (after taking his “horn”), and sing out, “Stage ready, gentlemen!”—whereupon the passengers were obliged to hurry out to take their seats, leaving a scarcely tasted breakfast behind them, for which, however, they had to pay over fifty cents! One day, when the stage was approaching the house of this obliging landlord, a passenger said that he had often heard of the landlord’s trick, and he was afraid they would not be able to eat any breakfast.
“What!—how? No breakfast!” exclaimed the rest.
“Exactly so gents, and you may as well keep your seats and tin.”
“Don’t they expect passengers to breakfast?”
“Oh! yes! they expect you to it, but not to eat it. I am under the impression that there is an understanding between the landlord and the driver that for sundry and various drinks, etc., the latter starts before you can scarcely commence eating.”
“What on airth are you all talking about? Ef you calkelate I’m going to pay four and ninepence for my breakfast, and not get the valee on’t you’re mistaken,” said a voice from a back seat, the owner of which was one Hezekiah Spaulding—though “tew hum”they call him “Hez” for short. “I’m goin’ to get my breakfast here, and not pay nary red cent till I do.”
“Then you’ll be left.”
“Not as you knows on, I guess I won’t.”
“Well, we’ll see,” said the other, as the stage drove up to the door and the landlord ready “to do the hospitable,” says—
“Breakfast just ready, gents! Take a wash, gents? Here’s water, basins, towels, and soap.”
After performing the ablutions, they all proceeded to the dining-room, and commenced a fierce onslaught upon the edibles, though Hez took his time. Scarcely had they tasted their coffee when they heard the unwelcome sound of the horn, and the driver exclaim, “Stage ready!” Up rise eight grumbling passengers, pay their fifty cents, and take their seats.
“All on board, gents?” inquires the host.
“One missing,” said they.
Proceeding to the dining-room the host finds Hez very coolly helping himself to an immense piece of steak, the size of a horse’s hip.
“You’ll be left, sir! Stage going to start.”
“Wall, I hain’t got nothin’ agin it,” drawls out Hez.
“Can’t wait, sir—better take your seat.”
“I’ll be blowed ef I do, nother, till I’ve got my breakfast! I paid for it, and I am goin’ to get the valee on’t it; and ef you calkelate I hain’t you are mistaken.”
So the stage did start, and left Hez, who continued his attack upon the edibles. Biscuit, coffee, etc., disappeared before the eyes of the astonished landlord.
“Say, squire, them there cakes is ’bout eat—fetch on another grist on ’em. You” (to the waiter), “’nother cup of that ere coffee. Pass them eggs. Raise your own pork, squire? This is ’mazin’ nice ham. Land ’bout here tolerable cheap, squire? Hain’t much maple timber in these parts, hev ye? Dew right smart trade, squire, I calkelate?” And thus Hez kept quizzing the landlord until he had made a hearty meal.
“Say, squire, now I’m ’bout to conclude paying my devowers to this ere table, but just give us a bowl of bread and milk to top off with; I’d be much obleeged tew ye.”
So out go the landlord and waiter for the bowl, milk, and bread, and set them before him.
“Spoon, tew, ef you please.”
But no spoon could be found. Landlord was sure he had plenty of silver ones lying on the table when the stage stopped.
“Say, dew ye? dew ye think them passengers is goin’ to pay ye for a breakfuss and not git no compensashun?”
“Ah! what? Do you think any of the passengers took them?”
“Dew I think? No, I don’t think, but I’m sartin. Ef they are all as green as yew bout here I’m going to locate immediately and tew wonst.”
The landlord rushes out to the stable, and starts a man off after the stage, which had gone about three miles. The man overtakes and says something to the driver in a low tone. He immediately turns back, and on arriving at the hotel Hez comes out, takes his seat, and says:
“How are yew, gents? I’m glad to see yew.”
“Can you point out the man you think has the spoons?” asked the landlord.
“P’int him out? Sartenly I ken. Say, squire, I paid yew four and ninepence for a breakfuss, and I calkelate I got the valee on’t it! You’ll find them spoons in the coffee-pot.”
“Go ahead! All aboard, driver.”
The landlord stared.
Wiggle, waggle, how they go,Through the sunny waters,Swimming high and swimming low,Froggie’s sons and daughters.What a wondrous little tailEach black polly carries,Helm and oar at once, and sail,That for wind ne’er tarries.Lazy little elves! at mornNever in a hurry,In the brook where they were bornBusiness did not worry.When the sun goes in they sinkTo their muddy pillow.There they lie and eat and drinkOf soft mud their fill, oh.When has passed the gloomy cloud,And the storm is over,Up they come, a jolly crowd,From their oozy cover.Wiggle, waggle, how they go!Knowing nothing better,Yet they are destined to outgrowEach his dusky fetter.Watch! they now are changing fast,Some unduly cherishThe dark skin whose use is past,So they sink and perish.Others, of their new-birth painBitterly complaining,Would forego their unknown gain,Polliwogs remaining.There are other folk, to-day,Who, with slight endeavor,“Give it up,” and so they stayPolliwogs forever.Augusta Moore.
Wiggle, waggle, how they go,Through the sunny waters,Swimming high and swimming low,Froggie’s sons and daughters.What a wondrous little tailEach black polly carries,Helm and oar at once, and sail,That for wind ne’er tarries.Lazy little elves! at mornNever in a hurry,In the brook where they were bornBusiness did not worry.When the sun goes in they sinkTo their muddy pillow.There they lie and eat and drinkOf soft mud their fill, oh.When has passed the gloomy cloud,And the storm is over,Up they come, a jolly crowd,From their oozy cover.Wiggle, waggle, how they go!Knowing nothing better,Yet they are destined to outgrowEach his dusky fetter.Watch! they now are changing fast,Some unduly cherishThe dark skin whose use is past,So they sink and perish.Others, of their new-birth painBitterly complaining,Would forego their unknown gain,Polliwogs remaining.There are other folk, to-day,Who, with slight endeavor,“Give it up,” and so they stayPolliwogs forever.Augusta Moore.
Wiggle, waggle, how they go,Through the sunny waters,Swimming high and swimming low,Froggie’s sons and daughters.
Wiggle, waggle, how they go,
Through the sunny waters,
Swimming high and swimming low,
Froggie’s sons and daughters.
What a wondrous little tailEach black polly carries,Helm and oar at once, and sail,That for wind ne’er tarries.
What a wondrous little tail
Each black polly carries,
Helm and oar at once, and sail,
That for wind ne’er tarries.
Lazy little elves! at mornNever in a hurry,In the brook where they were bornBusiness did not worry.
Lazy little elves! at morn
Never in a hurry,
In the brook where they were born
Business did not worry.
When the sun goes in they sinkTo their muddy pillow.There they lie and eat and drinkOf soft mud their fill, oh.
When the sun goes in they sink
To their muddy pillow.
There they lie and eat and drink
Of soft mud their fill, oh.
When has passed the gloomy cloud,And the storm is over,Up they come, a jolly crowd,From their oozy cover.
When has passed the gloomy cloud,
And the storm is over,
Up they come, a jolly crowd,
From their oozy cover.
Wiggle, waggle, how they go!Knowing nothing better,Yet they are destined to outgrowEach his dusky fetter.
Wiggle, waggle, how they go!
Knowing nothing better,
Yet they are destined to outgrow
Each his dusky fetter.
Watch! they now are changing fast,Some unduly cherishThe dark skin whose use is past,So they sink and perish.
Watch! they now are changing fast,
Some unduly cherish
The dark skin whose use is past,
So they sink and perish.
Others, of their new-birth painBitterly complaining,Would forego their unknown gain,Polliwogs remaining.
Others, of their new-birth pain
Bitterly complaining,
Would forego their unknown gain,
Polliwogs remaining.
There are other folk, to-day,Who, with slight endeavor,“Give it up,” and so they stayPolliwogs forever.
There are other folk, to-day,
Who, with slight endeavor,
“Give it up,” and so they stay
Polliwogs forever.
Augusta Moore.
Augusta Moore.
“Got one? Don’t say so! Which did you get?One of the kind to open and shut?Own it or hire it? How much did you pay?Does it go with a crank or a treadle? S-a-y.I’m a single man, and somewhat green;Tell me about your sewing-machine.”“Listen, my boy, and hear all about it:I don’t know what I could do without it;I’ve owned one now for more than a year,And like it so well that I call it ‘my dear;’’Tis the cleverest thing that ever was seen,This wonderful family sewing-machine.“It’s none of your angular Wheeler things,With steel-shod back and cast-iron wings;Its work would bother a hundred of his,And worth a thousand! Indeed it is;And has a way—you need not stare—Of combing and braiding its own back hair!“Mine is one of the kind to love,And wears a shawl and a soft kid glove;Has the merriest eyes and the daintiest foot,And sports the charmingest gaiter-boot,And a bonnet with feathers, and ribbons, and loops,With any infinite number of hoops.“None of your patent machines for me,Unless Dame Nature’s the patentee;I like the sort that can laugh and talk,And take my arm for an evening walk;That will do whatever the owner may choose,With the slightest perceptible turn of the screws;“One that can dance, and—possibly—flirt;And make a pudding as well as a shirt;One that can sing without dropping a stitch,And play the housewife, lady, or witch;Ready to give the sagest advice,Or to do up your collars and things so nice.“What do you think of my machine?A’n’t it the best that ever was seen?’Tisn’t a clumsy, mechanical toy,But flesh and blood! Hear that, my boy?With a turn for gossip and household affairs,Which include, you know, the sewing of tears.“Tut, tut, don’t talk. I see it all—You needn’t keep winking so hard at the wall:I know what your fidgety fumblings mean;You would like, yourself, a sewing-machine!Well, get one, then—of the same design—There are plenty left where I got mine!”
“Got one? Don’t say so! Which did you get?One of the kind to open and shut?Own it or hire it? How much did you pay?Does it go with a crank or a treadle? S-a-y.I’m a single man, and somewhat green;Tell me about your sewing-machine.”“Listen, my boy, and hear all about it:I don’t know what I could do without it;I’ve owned one now for more than a year,And like it so well that I call it ‘my dear;’’Tis the cleverest thing that ever was seen,This wonderful family sewing-machine.“It’s none of your angular Wheeler things,With steel-shod back and cast-iron wings;Its work would bother a hundred of his,And worth a thousand! Indeed it is;And has a way—you need not stare—Of combing and braiding its own back hair!“Mine is one of the kind to love,And wears a shawl and a soft kid glove;Has the merriest eyes and the daintiest foot,And sports the charmingest gaiter-boot,And a bonnet with feathers, and ribbons, and loops,With any infinite number of hoops.“None of your patent machines for me,Unless Dame Nature’s the patentee;I like the sort that can laugh and talk,And take my arm for an evening walk;That will do whatever the owner may choose,With the slightest perceptible turn of the screws;“One that can dance, and—possibly—flirt;And make a pudding as well as a shirt;One that can sing without dropping a stitch,And play the housewife, lady, or witch;Ready to give the sagest advice,Or to do up your collars and things so nice.“What do you think of my machine?A’n’t it the best that ever was seen?’Tisn’t a clumsy, mechanical toy,But flesh and blood! Hear that, my boy?With a turn for gossip and household affairs,Which include, you know, the sewing of tears.“Tut, tut, don’t talk. I see it all—You needn’t keep winking so hard at the wall:I know what your fidgety fumblings mean;You would like, yourself, a sewing-machine!Well, get one, then—of the same design—There are plenty left where I got mine!”
“Got one? Don’t say so! Which did you get?One of the kind to open and shut?Own it or hire it? How much did you pay?Does it go with a crank or a treadle? S-a-y.I’m a single man, and somewhat green;Tell me about your sewing-machine.”
“Got one? Don’t say so! Which did you get?
One of the kind to open and shut?
Own it or hire it? How much did you pay?
Does it go with a crank or a treadle? S-a-y.
I’m a single man, and somewhat green;
Tell me about your sewing-machine.”
“Listen, my boy, and hear all about it:I don’t know what I could do without it;I’ve owned one now for more than a year,And like it so well that I call it ‘my dear;’’Tis the cleverest thing that ever was seen,This wonderful family sewing-machine.
“Listen, my boy, and hear all about it:
I don’t know what I could do without it;
I’ve owned one now for more than a year,
And like it so well that I call it ‘my dear;’
’Tis the cleverest thing that ever was seen,
This wonderful family sewing-machine.
“It’s none of your angular Wheeler things,With steel-shod back and cast-iron wings;Its work would bother a hundred of his,And worth a thousand! Indeed it is;And has a way—you need not stare—Of combing and braiding its own back hair!
“It’s none of your angular Wheeler things,
With steel-shod back and cast-iron wings;
Its work would bother a hundred of his,
And worth a thousand! Indeed it is;
And has a way—you need not stare—
Of combing and braiding its own back hair!
“Mine is one of the kind to love,And wears a shawl and a soft kid glove;Has the merriest eyes and the daintiest foot,And sports the charmingest gaiter-boot,And a bonnet with feathers, and ribbons, and loops,With any infinite number of hoops.
“Mine is one of the kind to love,
And wears a shawl and a soft kid glove;
Has the merriest eyes and the daintiest foot,
And sports the charmingest gaiter-boot,
And a bonnet with feathers, and ribbons, and loops,
With any infinite number of hoops.
“None of your patent machines for me,Unless Dame Nature’s the patentee;I like the sort that can laugh and talk,And take my arm for an evening walk;That will do whatever the owner may choose,With the slightest perceptible turn of the screws;
“None of your patent machines for me,
Unless Dame Nature’s the patentee;
I like the sort that can laugh and talk,
And take my arm for an evening walk;
That will do whatever the owner may choose,
With the slightest perceptible turn of the screws;
“One that can dance, and—possibly—flirt;And make a pudding as well as a shirt;One that can sing without dropping a stitch,And play the housewife, lady, or witch;Ready to give the sagest advice,Or to do up your collars and things so nice.
“One that can dance, and—possibly—flirt;
And make a pudding as well as a shirt;
One that can sing without dropping a stitch,
And play the housewife, lady, or witch;
Ready to give the sagest advice,
Or to do up your collars and things so nice.
“What do you think of my machine?A’n’t it the best that ever was seen?’Tisn’t a clumsy, mechanical toy,But flesh and blood! Hear that, my boy?With a turn for gossip and household affairs,Which include, you know, the sewing of tears.
“What do you think of my machine?
A’n’t it the best that ever was seen?
’Tisn’t a clumsy, mechanical toy,
But flesh and blood! Hear that, my boy?
With a turn for gossip and household affairs,
Which include, you know, the sewing of tears.
“Tut, tut, don’t talk. I see it all—You needn’t keep winking so hard at the wall:I know what your fidgety fumblings mean;You would like, yourself, a sewing-machine!Well, get one, then—of the same design—There are plenty left where I got mine!”
“Tut, tut, don’t talk. I see it all—
You needn’t keep winking so hard at the wall:
I know what your fidgety fumblings mean;
You would like, yourself, a sewing-machine!
Well, get one, then—of the same design—
There are plenty left where I got mine!”
They have had a long evening together (three whole hours), but it doesn’t seem more than five minutes to them. Still, the inexorable clock is announcing the hour of eleven in the most forcible and uncompromising manner. He knows that he ought to go, because he must be at the store at seven in the morning; she fully realizes that his immediate departure is necessary, for has not her father threatened that he will come down and “give that young Simpkins a piece of his mind if he don’t leave by eleven o’clock in the future?” They both understand that the fatal hour has come, yet how they hate to part!“Well, I suppose Imustbe going,” he says, with a long, regretful sigh.“Yes, I suppose you must,” she rejoins.Then they gaze into each other’s eyes; then she pillows her head upon his bosom; then their lips meet, and he mentally swears that if he can get his salary raised to eighteen dollars a week he will make her Mrs. G. W. Simpkins without further agonizing delay.The clock looks on with a cynical expression on its face. It is doing its duty, and if old man Smith comes down stairs and destroys the peace of mind of this loving couple, it will not be its fault.He asks her if she will not be happy when the time comes that they will never, never have to part, and she murmurs an affirmative response. Then follow more kissing and embracing. If G. W. Simpkins were told now that he would ever come home to her at 2A.M.with fabulous tales of accidents by flood and field, and on the Elevated Railroad, would he believe it? No; a smile of incredulity and scorn would wreathe his lips, and he would forthwith clasp her to his breast.He knows that other men do such things, but he is not that sort of man. Beside, he will have the immense advantage over all others of his sex in possessing the only absolutely perfect specimen of femininity extant. He thinks that he will never be happy anywhere away from her side, and he tells her so, and she believes him.The clock does not announce the quarter-hour, because it is not built that way, but, nevertheless, it is now 11.15. They do not imagine that it is later than 11.02. He asks her if she ever loved any one else, and she says “No;” and then he reminds her of a certain Tom Johnson with whom she used to go to the theatre, at which she becomes angry and says that he (G. W. Simpkins) is a “real mean thing.” Then G. W. S. arises with an air of dignity, and says that he is much obliged to her for her flattering opinion; and she says that he is quite welcome.Just then a heavy foot-fall is heard upstairs. She glances at the clock, and perceives to her dismay that it is 11.20. She had expected to have a nice little quarrel, followed by the usual reconciliation, but there is no time for that now. She throws her armsaround his neck, and whispers in great agitation that she believes pa is coming. G. W. S. quakes inwardly, for her pa is about four sizes larger than himself, and of a cruel, vindictive nature. But he assumes an air of bravado, and darkly hints at the extreme probability that the room in which they stand will be the scene of a sanguinary conflict in the immediate future, should any one venture to cross his path. Then she begs him to remember that papa, notwithstanding his faults, is still her father. At this he magnanimously promises to spare the old man.But the footstep is heard no more; papa does not appear. G. W. S. puts on his overcoat. Then the couple stand by the door and settle the Tom Johnson matter. She says she never cared for Tom Johnson, and he says he knows it and that he (G. W. S., you understand) is a brute, and that she is an angel, and that he will never again refer to the aforesaid Tom Johnson. He will, though, the very next time they meet, just as he has every time they have met for the last two months.While they are talking the clock strikes the half hour, but they don’t hear it. The Johnson business disposed of, they discuss their future prospects, vow eternal fidelity, compare themselves to all the famous lovers of history (to none of whom they bear the slightest resemblance), make an appointment for Wednesday evening (on which occasion G. W. S. will have the extreme felicity of spending two-thirds of his week’s salary for theatre tickets and a supper at the Brunswick), and indulge in the usual osculation.Suddenly the clock begins to strike twelve, and at the same moment a hoarse masculine cough is heard in the room overhead. The fatal moment has really and truly arrived this time. One more kiss, one more embrace, and they part—he to go home and oversleep in the morning, and be docked fifty cents at the store; she to receive the reproaches of an irate parent, who hasn’t been young for such a long time himself that he has forgotten all about it.
They have had a long evening together (three whole hours), but it doesn’t seem more than five minutes to them. Still, the inexorable clock is announcing the hour of eleven in the most forcible and uncompromising manner. He knows that he ought to go, because he must be at the store at seven in the morning; she fully realizes that his immediate departure is necessary, for has not her father threatened that he will come down and “give that young Simpkins a piece of his mind if he don’t leave by eleven o’clock in the future?” They both understand that the fatal hour has come, yet how they hate to part!
“Well, I suppose Imustbe going,” he says, with a long, regretful sigh.
“Yes, I suppose you must,” she rejoins.
Then they gaze into each other’s eyes; then she pillows her head upon his bosom; then their lips meet, and he mentally swears that if he can get his salary raised to eighteen dollars a week he will make her Mrs. G. W. Simpkins without further agonizing delay.
The clock looks on with a cynical expression on its face. It is doing its duty, and if old man Smith comes down stairs and destroys the peace of mind of this loving couple, it will not be its fault.
He asks her if she will not be happy when the time comes that they will never, never have to part, and she murmurs an affirmative response. Then follow more kissing and embracing. If G. W. Simpkins were told now that he would ever come home to her at 2A.M.with fabulous tales of accidents by flood and field, and on the Elevated Railroad, would he believe it? No; a smile of incredulity and scorn would wreathe his lips, and he would forthwith clasp her to his breast.
He knows that other men do such things, but he is not that sort of man. Beside, he will have the immense advantage over all others of his sex in possessing the only absolutely perfect specimen of femininity extant. He thinks that he will never be happy anywhere away from her side, and he tells her so, and she believes him.
The clock does not announce the quarter-hour, because it is not built that way, but, nevertheless, it is now 11.15. They do not imagine that it is later than 11.02. He asks her if she ever loved any one else, and she says “No;” and then he reminds her of a certain Tom Johnson with whom she used to go to the theatre, at which she becomes angry and says that he (G. W. Simpkins) is a “real mean thing.” Then G. W. S. arises with an air of dignity, and says that he is much obliged to her for her flattering opinion; and she says that he is quite welcome.
Just then a heavy foot-fall is heard upstairs. She glances at the clock, and perceives to her dismay that it is 11.20. She had expected to have a nice little quarrel, followed by the usual reconciliation, but there is no time for that now. She throws her armsaround his neck, and whispers in great agitation that she believes pa is coming. G. W. S. quakes inwardly, for her pa is about four sizes larger than himself, and of a cruel, vindictive nature. But he assumes an air of bravado, and darkly hints at the extreme probability that the room in which they stand will be the scene of a sanguinary conflict in the immediate future, should any one venture to cross his path. Then she begs him to remember that papa, notwithstanding his faults, is still her father. At this he magnanimously promises to spare the old man.
But the footstep is heard no more; papa does not appear. G. W. S. puts on his overcoat. Then the couple stand by the door and settle the Tom Johnson matter. She says she never cared for Tom Johnson, and he says he knows it and that he (G. W. S., you understand) is a brute, and that she is an angel, and that he will never again refer to the aforesaid Tom Johnson. He will, though, the very next time they meet, just as he has every time they have met for the last two months.
While they are talking the clock strikes the half hour, but they don’t hear it. The Johnson business disposed of, they discuss their future prospects, vow eternal fidelity, compare themselves to all the famous lovers of history (to none of whom they bear the slightest resemblance), make an appointment for Wednesday evening (on which occasion G. W. S. will have the extreme felicity of spending two-thirds of his week’s salary for theatre tickets and a supper at the Brunswick), and indulge in the usual osculation.
Suddenly the clock begins to strike twelve, and at the same moment a hoarse masculine cough is heard in the room overhead. The fatal moment has really and truly arrived this time. One more kiss, one more embrace, and they part—he to go home and oversleep in the morning, and be docked fifty cents at the store; she to receive the reproaches of an irate parent, who hasn’t been young for such a long time himself that he has forgotten all about it.
I never kin forgit the dayThat we went out a walkin’And sot down on the river bank,And kept on hours a-talkin’;He twisted up my apron string,An’ folded it together,An’ said he thought for harvest-time’Twas cur’us kind o’ weather.The sun went down as we sot there—Josiar seemed uneasy,An’ mother, she began to call:“Loweezy! Come, Loweezy!”An’ then Josiar spoke right up,As I wos just a startin’An’ said, “Loweezy, what’s the useOf us two ever partin?”It kind o’ took me by surprise,An’ yet I knew ’twas comin’—I’d heard it all the summer longIn every wild bee’s hummin’;I meant to hide my love from him,But seems as if he knew it;I’d studied out the way I’d act,But la! I couldn’t do it.It darker grew as we sot there,But Josiar seemed quite easy,And mother had to call again,“Loweezy! Come, Loweezy!”
I never kin forgit the dayThat we went out a walkin’And sot down on the river bank,And kept on hours a-talkin’;He twisted up my apron string,An’ folded it together,An’ said he thought for harvest-time’Twas cur’us kind o’ weather.The sun went down as we sot there—Josiar seemed uneasy,An’ mother, she began to call:“Loweezy! Come, Loweezy!”An’ then Josiar spoke right up,As I wos just a startin’An’ said, “Loweezy, what’s the useOf us two ever partin?”It kind o’ took me by surprise,An’ yet I knew ’twas comin’—I’d heard it all the summer longIn every wild bee’s hummin’;I meant to hide my love from him,But seems as if he knew it;I’d studied out the way I’d act,But la! I couldn’t do it.It darker grew as we sot there,But Josiar seemed quite easy,And mother had to call again,“Loweezy! Come, Loweezy!”
I never kin forgit the dayThat we went out a walkin’And sot down on the river bank,And kept on hours a-talkin’;He twisted up my apron string,An’ folded it together,An’ said he thought for harvest-time’Twas cur’us kind o’ weather.
I never kin forgit the day
That we went out a walkin’
And sot down on the river bank,
And kept on hours a-talkin’;
He twisted up my apron string,
An’ folded it together,
An’ said he thought for harvest-time
’Twas cur’us kind o’ weather.
The sun went down as we sot there—Josiar seemed uneasy,An’ mother, she began to call:“Loweezy! Come, Loweezy!”An’ then Josiar spoke right up,As I wos just a startin’An’ said, “Loweezy, what’s the useOf us two ever partin?”
The sun went down as we sot there—
Josiar seemed uneasy,
An’ mother, she began to call:
“Loweezy! Come, Loweezy!”
An’ then Josiar spoke right up,
As I wos just a startin’
An’ said, “Loweezy, what’s the use
Of us two ever partin?”
It kind o’ took me by surprise,An’ yet I knew ’twas comin’—I’d heard it all the summer longIn every wild bee’s hummin’;I meant to hide my love from him,But seems as if he knew it;I’d studied out the way I’d act,But la! I couldn’t do it.
It kind o’ took me by surprise,
An’ yet I knew ’twas comin’—
I’d heard it all the summer long
In every wild bee’s hummin’;
I meant to hide my love from him,
But seems as if he knew it;
I’d studied out the way I’d act,
But la! I couldn’t do it.
It darker grew as we sot there,But Josiar seemed quite easy,And mother had to call again,“Loweezy! Come, Loweezy!”
It darker grew as we sot there,
But Josiar seemed quite easy,
And mother had to call again,
“Loweezy! Come, Loweezy!”