I like me yet dot leedle chileVich climb my lap up in to-day,Unt took my cheap cigair avay,Unt laugh and kiss me purty whvile,—Possescially I like dose mout'Vich taste his moder's like—unt so,Off my cigair it gone glean out—Yust let it go!Vat I caire den for anyding?Der paper schlip out fon my hand,And all my odvairtizement stand,Mitout new changements boddering;I only dink—I have me disVon leedle boy to pet unt loveUnt play me vit, unt hug unt kiss—Unt dot's enough!Der plans unt pairposes I vearOut in der vorld all fades avay;Unt vit der beeznid of der dayI got me den no time to spare;Der caires of trade vas caires no more—Dem cash accounds dey dodge me by,Unt vit my chile I roll der floor,Unt laugh unt gry!Ah! frient! dem childens is der onesDot got some happy times—you bet!—Dot's vy ven I been grooved up yetI vish I vould been leedle vonce!Unt ven dot leetle roozter triesDem baby-tricks I used to do,My mout it vater, unt my eyesDey vater too!Unt all der summertime unt springOf childhood it come back to me,So dot it vas a dream I seeVen I yust look at anyding,Unt ven dot leedle boy run by,I dink "dot's me," fon hour to hourSchtill chasing yet dose butterflyFon flower to flower!Oxpose I vas lots money vairt,Mit blenty schtone-front schtore to rentUnt mor'gages at twelf per-cent,Unt diamonds in my ruffled shairt,—I make a'signment of all dot,Unt tairn it over mit a schmile,Obber you please—but don'd forgotI keep dot chile!
I like me yet dot leedle chileVich climb my lap up in to-day,Unt took my cheap cigair avay,Unt laugh and kiss me purty whvile,—Possescially I like dose mout'Vich taste his moder's like—unt so,Off my cigair it gone glean out—Yust let it go!Vat I caire den for anyding?Der paper schlip out fon my hand,And all my odvairtizement stand,Mitout new changements boddering;I only dink—I have me disVon leedle boy to pet unt loveUnt play me vit, unt hug unt kiss—Unt dot's enough!Der plans unt pairposes I vearOut in der vorld all fades avay;Unt vit der beeznid of der dayI got me den no time to spare;Der caires of trade vas caires no more—Dem cash accounds dey dodge me by,Unt vit my chile I roll der floor,Unt laugh unt gry!Ah! frient! dem childens is der onesDot got some happy times—you bet!—Dot's vy ven I been grooved up yetI vish I vould been leedle vonce!Unt ven dot leetle roozter triesDem baby-tricks I used to do,My mout it vater, unt my eyesDey vater too!Unt all der summertime unt springOf childhood it come back to me,So dot it vas a dream I seeVen I yust look at anyding,Unt ven dot leedle boy run by,I dink "dot's me," fon hour to hourSchtill chasing yet dose butterflyFon flower to flower!Oxpose I vas lots money vairt,Mit blenty schtone-front schtore to rentUnt mor'gages at twelf per-cent,Unt diamonds in my ruffled shairt,—I make a'signment of all dot,Unt tairn it over mit a schmile,Obber you please—but don'd forgotI keep dot chile!
(THE FAMILY)There was Father, and Mother, and Emmy, and JaneAnd Lou, and Ellen, and John and me—And father was killed in the war, and LouShe died of consumption, and John did too,And Emmy she went with the pleurisy.
(THE SPIRITS)Father believed in 'em all his life—But Mother, at first, she'd shake her head—Till after the battle of Champion Hill,When many a flag in the winder-sillHad crape mixed in with the white and red!I used to doubt 'em myself till then—But me and Mother was satisfiedWhen Ellen she set, and Father cameAnd rapped "God bless you!" and Mother's name,And "The flag's up here!" And we just all cried!Used to come often after that,And talk to us—just as he used to do,Pleasantest kind! And once, for John,He said he was "lonesome but wouldn't let on—Fear Mother would worry, and Emmy and Lou."But Lou was the bravest girl on earth—For all she never was hale and strongShe'd have her fun! With her voice clean lostShe'd laugh and joke us that when she crossedTo father,we'dall come taggin' along.Died—just that way! And the raps was thickThatnight, as they often since occur,Extry loud. And when Lou got backShe said it was Father and her—and "whack!"She tuck the table—and we knowedher!John and Emmy, in five years more,Both had went.—And it seemed like fate!—For the old home it burnt down,—but JaneAnd me and Ellen we built againThe new house, here, on the old estate.And a happier family I don't knowOf anywheres—unless itsthem—Father, with all his love for Lou,And her there with him, and healthy, too,And laughin', with John and little Em.And, first we moved in the new house here,They all dropped in for a long pow-wow."We like your buildin', of course," Lou said,—"But wouldn't swop with you to save your head—Forwelive in the ghost of the old house, now!"
In an interview which I have just had with myself, I have positively stated, and now repeat, that at neither the St. Louis nor Chicago Convention will my name be presented as a candidate.But my health is bully.We are upon the threshold of a most bitter and acrimonious fight. Great wisdom and foresight are needed at this hour, and the true patriot will forget himself and his own interests in his great yearning for the good of his common country and the success of his party. What we need at this time is a leader whose name will not be presented at the convention but whose health is good.No one has a fuller or better conception of the great duties of the hour than I. How clearly to my mind are the duties of the American citizen outlined to-day!I have never seen with clearer, keener vision the great needs of my country, and my pores have never been more open. Four years ago I was in some doubt relative to certain important questions which now are clearly and satisfactorily settled in my mind. I hesitated then where now I am fully established, and my tongue was coated in the morning when I arose, whereas now I bound lightly from bed, kick out a window, climb to the roof by means of the fire-escape and there rehearse speeches which I will make this fall in case it should be discovered at either of the conventions that my name alone can heal the rupture in the party and prevent its works from falling out.I think my voice is better also that it was either four, eight, twelve or sixteen years ago, and it does not tire me so much to think of things to say from the tail-gate of a train as it did when I first began to refrain from presenting my name to conventions.
In an interview which I have just had with myself, I have positively stated, and now repeat, that at neither the St. Louis nor Chicago Convention will my name be presented as a candidate.
But my health is bully.
We are upon the threshold of a most bitter and acrimonious fight. Great wisdom and foresight are needed at this hour, and the true patriot will forget himself and his own interests in his great yearning for the good of his common country and the success of his party. What we need at this time is a leader whose name will not be presented at the convention but whose health is good.
No one has a fuller or better conception of the great duties of the hour than I. How clearly to my mind are the duties of the American citizen outlined to-day!I have never seen with clearer, keener vision the great needs of my country, and my pores have never been more open. Four years ago I was in some doubt relative to certain important questions which now are clearly and satisfactorily settled in my mind. I hesitated then where now I am fully established, and my tongue was coated in the morning when I arose, whereas now I bound lightly from bed, kick out a window, climb to the roof by means of the fire-escape and there rehearse speeches which I will make this fall in case it should be discovered at either of the conventions that my name alone can heal the rupture in the party and prevent its works from falling out.
I think my voice is better also that it was either four, eight, twelve or sixteen years ago, and it does not tire me so much to think of things to say from the tail-gate of a train as it did when I first began to refrain from presenting my name to conventions.
According to my notion, our candidate should be a plain man, a magnetic but hairless patriot, who should be suddenly thought of by a majority of the convention and nominated by acclamation. He should not be a hide-bound politician, but on the contrary he should be greatly startled, while down cellar sprouting potatoes, to learn that he has been nominated. That's the kind of man who always surprises everybody with his sagacity when an emergency arises.
In going down my cellar stairs the committee will do well to avoid stepping on a large and venomous dog who sleeps on the top stair. Or I will tie him in the barn if I can be informed when I am liable to be startled.
Cincinnatus.
I have always thought that the neatest method ofcalling a man to public life was the one adopted some years since in the case of Cincinnatus. He was one day breaking a pair of nervous red steers in the north field. It was a hot day in July, and he was trying to summer fallow a piece of ground where the jimson weeds grew seven feet high. The plough would not scour, and the steers had turned the yoke twice on him. Cincinnatus had hung his toga on a tamarac pole to strike a furrow by, and hadn't succeeded in getting the plough in more than twice in going across. Dressing as he did in the Roman costume of 458 B. C., the blackberry vines had scratched his massive legs till they were a sight to behold. He had scourged Old Bright and twisted the tail of Bolly till he was sick at heart. All through the long afternoon, wearing a hot, rusty helmet with rabbit-skin ear tabs he had toiled on, when suddenly a majority of the Roman voters climbed over the fence and asked him to become dictator in place of Spurious Melius.
Putting on his toga and buckling an old hame strap around his loins he said: "Gentlemen, if you will wait till I go to the house and get some vaseline on my limbs I will do your dictating for you as low as you have ever had it done." He then left his team standing in the furrow while he served his country in an official capacity for a little over twenty-nine years, after which he went back and resumed his farming.
Though 2,300 years have since passed away and historians have been busy with that epoch ever since, no one has yet discovered the methods by which Cincinnatus organized and executed this, the most successful "People's Movement" of which we are informed.
The great trouble with the modern boom is that it is too precocious. It knows more before it gets its clothes on than the nurse, the physician and its parents. It then dies before the sap starts in the maple forests.
My object in writing this letter is largely to tone down and keep in check any popular movement in my behalf until the weather in more settled. A season-cracked boom is a thing I despise.
I inclose my picture, however, which shows that I am so healthy that it keeps me awake nights. I go about the house singing all the time and playing pranks on my grandparents. My eye dances with ill-concealed merriment, and my conversation is just as sparkling as it can be.
I believe that during this campaign we should lay aside politics so far as possible and unite on an unknown, homely, but sparkling man. Let us lay aside all race prejudices and old party feeling and elect a magnetic chump who does not look so very well, but who feels first rate.
Towards the middle of June I shall go away to an obscure place where I cannot be reached. My mail will be forwarded to me by a gentleman who knows how I feel in relation to the wants and needs of the country.
To those who have prospered during the past twenty years let me say they owe it to the perpetuation of the principles and institutions towards the establishmentand maintenance of which I have given the best energies of my life. To those who have been unfortunate let me say frankly that they owe it to themselves.
I have never had less malaria or despondency in my system that I have this spring. My cheeks have a delicate bloom on them like a russet apple, and my step is light and elastic. In the morning I arise from my couch and, touching a concealed spring, it becomes an upright piano. I then bathe in a low divan which contains a jointed tank. I then sing until interfered with by property owners and tax-payers who reside near by. After a light breakfast of calf's liver and custard pie I go into the reception-room and wait for people to come and feel my pulse. In the afternoon I lie down on a lounge for two or three hours, wondering in what way I can endear myself to the laboring man. I then dine heartily at my club. In the evening I go to see the amateurs play "Pygmalion and Galatea." As I remain till the play is over, any one can see that I am a very robust man. After I get home I write two or three thousand words in my diary. I then insert myself into the bosom of my piano and sleep, having first removed my clothes and ironed my trousers for future reference.
In closing, let me urge one and all to renewed effort. The prospects for a speedy and unqualified victory at the polls were never more roseate. Let us select a man upon whom we can all unite, a man who has no venom in him, a man who has successfully defied and trampled on the infamous Interstate Commerce act, a man who, though in the full flush and pride and bloom and fluff of life's meridian, still disdains to present his name to the convention.
Portentous sound! mysteriously vastAnd awful in the grandeur of refrainThat lifts the listener's hair, as it swells past,And pours in turbid currents down the lane.The small boy at the woodpile, in a dreamSlow trails the meat-rind o'er the listless saw;The chickens roosting o'er him on the beamUplifted their drowsy heads with cootered awe.The "Gung-oigh" of the pump is strangely stilled;The smoke-house door bangs once emphatic'ly,Then bangs no more, but leaves the silence filledWith one lorn plaint's despotic minstrelsy.Yet I would join thy sorrowing madrigal,Most melancholy cow, and sing of theeFull-hearted through my tears, for, after all'Tis very kine of you to sing for me.
Portentous sound! mysteriously vastAnd awful in the grandeur of refrainThat lifts the listener's hair, as it swells past,And pours in turbid currents down the lane.The small boy at the woodpile, in a dreamSlow trails the meat-rind o'er the listless saw;The chickens roosting o'er him on the beamUplifted their drowsy heads with cootered awe.The "Gung-oigh" of the pump is strangely stilled;The smoke-house door bangs once emphatic'ly,Then bangs no more, but leaves the silence filledWith one lorn plaint's despotic minstrelsy.Yet I would join thy sorrowing madrigal,Most melancholy cow, and sing of theeFull-hearted through my tears, for, after all'Tis very kine of you to sing for me.
All my feelin's, in the springGits so blame contraryI can't think of anythingOnly me and Mary!"Me and Mary!" all the time,"Me and Mary!" like a rhymeKeeps a-dinging on till I'mSick o' "Me and Mary!""Me and Mary! Ef us twoOnly was together—Playin' like we used to doIn the Aprile weather!"All the night and all the dayI keep wishin' thatawayTill I'm gittin' old and grayJist on "Me and Mary!"Muddy yit along the pikeSense the winter's freezin'And the orchard's backard-likeBloomin' out this season;Only heerd one bluebird yit—Nary robin er tomtit;What's the how and why of it?S'pect its "Me and Mary!"Me and Mary liked the birds—That is, Mary sorto'Liked them first, and afterwerdsW'y I thought I orto.And them birds—ef Mary stoodRight here with me as she should—They'd be singin', them birds wouldAll fer me and Mary!Birds er not, I'm hopin' someI kin git to plowin':Ef the sun'll only come,And the Lord allowin',Guess to-morry I'll turn inAnd git down to work agin:This here loaferin' won't win;Not fer me and Mary!Fer a man that loves, like me,And's afeard to name it,Till some other feller, heGits the girl—dad-shame-it!Wet er dry, er clouds er sun—Winter gone, er jist begun—Out-door work few me er none.No more "Me and Mary!"
On Board the Bounding Train,}Longitude 600 Miles West of a Given Point.}
I visited Walton, N. Y., last week, a beautiful town in the flank of the Catskills, at the head of the Delaware. It was there in that quiet and picturesque valley that the great philanthropist and ameliator, Jay Gould, first attracted attention. He has a number of relatives there who note with pleasure the fact that Mr. Gould is not frittering away his means during his lifetime.
In the office of Mr. Nish, of Walton, there is a map of the county made by Jay Gould while in the surveying business, and several years before he became a monarch of all he surveyed.
Mr. Gould also laid out the town of Walton. Since that he has laid out other towns, but in a different way. He also plotted other towns. Plotted to lay them out, I mean.
In Franklin there is an old wheelbarrow which Mr. Gould used on his early surveying trips. In this he carried his surveying instruments, his night shirt and manicure set. Connected with the wheel there is an arrangement by which, at night, the young surveyor could tell at a glance, with the aid of a piece of red chalk and a barn door, just how far he had traveled during the day.
This instrument was no doubt the father of the pedometer and the cyclorama, just as the boy is frequently father to the man. It was also no doubt theavant courierof the Dutch clock now used on freight cabooses, which not only shows how far the car has traveled, but also the rate of speed for each mile, the average rainfall and whether the conductor has eaten onions during the day.
This instrument has worked quite a change in railroading since my time. Years ago I can remember when I used to ride in a caboose and enjoy myself, and before good fortune had made me the target of the alert and swift-flying whisk-broom of the palace car, it was my chief joy to catch a freight over the hill from Cheyenne, on the Mountain division. We were not due anywhere until the following day, and so at the top of the mountain we would cut off the caboose and let the train go on. We would then go into the glorious hills and gather sage-hens and cotton-tails. In the summer we would put in the afternoon catching trout in Dale Creek or gathering maiden-hair ferns in the bosky dells. Bosky dells were more plenty there at that time than they are now.
It was a delightful sensation to know that we could loll about in the glorious weather, secure a small string of stark, varnished trout with chapped backs, hanging aimlessly by one gill to a gory willow stringer, and then beat our train home by two hours by letting off the brakes and riding twenty miles in fifteen minutes.
But Mr. Gould saw that we were enjoying ourselves, and so he sat up nights to oppress us. The result is that the freight conductor has very little more fun nowthan Mr. Gould himself. All the enjoyment that the conductor of "Second Seven" has now is to pull up his train where it will keep the passengers of No. 5 going west from getting a view of the town. He can also, if he be on a night run, get under the window of a sleeping-car at about 1:35 a. m., and make a few desultory remarks about the delinquency of "Third Six" and the lassitude of Skinny Bates who is supposed to brake ahead on No. 11 going west. That is all the fun he has now.
I saw Niagara Falls on Thursday for the first time. The sight is one long to be remembered. I did not go to the falls, but viewed them from the car window in all their might, majesty, power and dominion forever. N. B.—Dominion of Canada.
Niagara Falls plunges from a huge elevation by reason of its inability to remain on the sharp edge of a precipice several feet higher than the point to which the falls are now falling. This causes a noise to make its appearance, and a thick mist, composed of minute particles of wetness, rises to its full height and comes down again afterwards. Words are inadequate toshow here, even with the aid of a large, powerful new press, the grandeur, what you may call the vertigo, of Niagara. Everybody from all over the world goes to see and listen to the remarks of this great fall. How convenient and pleasant it is to be a cataract like that and have people come in great crowds to see and hear you! How much better that is than to be a lecturer, for instance, and have to follow people to their homes in order to attract their attention!
Many people in the United States and Canada who were once as pure as the beautiful snow, have fallen, but they did not attract the attention that the fall of Niagara does.
For the benefit of those who may never have been able to witness Niagara Falls in winter I give here a rough sketch of the magnificent spectacle as I saw it from the American side. From the Canadian side the aspect of the falls is different, and the names on the cars are not the same, but the effect on one of a sensitive nature is one of intense awe. I know that I cannot put so much of this awe into a hurried sketch as I would like to. In a crude drawing, made while the train was in motion, and at a time when the customs officer was showing the other passengers what I had in my valise, of course I could not make a picture with much sublimity in it, but I tried to make it as true to nature as I could.
The officer said that I had nothing in my luggage that was liable to duty, but stated that I would need heavier underwear in Canada than the samples I had with me.
Toronto is a stirring city of 150,000 people, who arejustly proud of her great prosperity. I only regretted that I could not stay there a long time.
I met a man in Cleveland, O., whose name was Macdonald. He was at the Weddell House, and talked freely with me about our country, asking me a great many questions about myself and where I lived and how I was prospering. While we were talking at one time he saw something in the paper which interestedhim and called him away. After he had gone I noticed the paragraph he had been reading, and saw that it spoke of a man named Macdonald who had recently arrived in town from New York, and who was introducing a new line of green goods.
I have often wondered what there is about my general appearance which seemed to draw about me a cluster of green-goods men wherever I go. Is it the odor of new-mown hay, or the frank, open way in which I seem to measure the height of the loftiest buildings with my eye as I penetrate the busy haunts of men and throng the crowded marts of trade? Or do strangers suspect me of being a man of means?
In Cleveland I was rather indisposed, owing to the fact that I had been sitting up until 2 or 3 o'clock a. m. for several nights in order to miss early trains. I went to a physician, who said I was suffering from some new and attractive disease, which he could cope with in a day or two. I told him to cope. He prescribed a large 42-calibre capsule which he said contained medical properties. It might have contained theatrical properties and still had room left for a baby grand piano. I do not know why the capsule should be so popular. I would rather swallow a porcelain egg or a live turtle. Doctors claim that it is to prevent the bad taste of the medicines, but I have never yet participated in any medicine which was more disagreeable than the gluey shell of an adult capsule, which looks like an overgrown bott and tastes like a rancid nightmare.
I doubt the good taste of any one who will turn up his nose at castor-oil or quinine and yet meekly swallow a chrysalis with varnish on the outside.
Everywhere I go I find people who seem pleased with the manner in which I have succeeded in resembling the graphic pictures made to represent me inThe World. I can truly say that I am not a vain man, but it is certainly pleasing and gratifying to be greeted by a glance of recognition and a yell of genuine delight from total strangers. Many have seemed to suppose that the massive and undraped head shown in these pictures was the result of artistic license or indolence and a general desire to evade the task of making hair. For such people the thrill of joy they feel when they discover that they have not been deceived is marked and genuine.
These pictures also stimulate the press of the country to try it themselves and to add other horrors which do not in any way interfere with the likeness, but at the same time encourage me to travel mostly by night.
"Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine?Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine—But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream."Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine?The throb of my heart is in every line,And the pulse of a passion, as airy and gladIn its musical beat as the little Prince had!Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine!—O, I'll dapple thy hands with these kisses of mineTill the pink of the nail of each finger shall beAs a little pet blush in full blossom for me.But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,And thou shalt have fabric as fair as a dream,—The red of my veins, and the white of my love,And the gold of my joy for the braiding thereof.And feast upon strawberries, sugar and creamFrom a service of silver, with jewels agleam,—At thy feet will I bide, at thy beck will I rise,And twinkle my soul in the night of thine eyes!"Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine?Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine;But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream."
omenewspaper men claim that they feel a great deal freer if they pay their fare.
That is true, no doubt; but too much freedom does not agree with me. It makes me lawless. I sometimes think that a little wholesome restriction is the best thing in the world for me. That is the reason I never murmur at the conditions on the back of an annual pass. Of course they restrict me from bringing suit against the road in case of death, but I don't mind that. In case of my death it is my intention to lay aside the cares and details of business and try tosecure a change of scene and complete rest. People who think that after my demise I shall have nothing better to do than hang around the musty, tobacco-spattered corridors of a court-room and wait for a verdict of damages against a courteous railroad company do not thoroughly understand my true nature.
But the interstate-commerce bill does not shut out the employe! Acting upon this slight suggestion of hope, I wrote, a short time ago, to Mr. St. John, the genial and whole-souled general passenger agent of the Chicago, Rock Island & Pacific Railroad, as follows:
Asheville, N. C., Feb. 10, 1887.E. St. John, G. P. A., C., R. I. & P. R'y, Chicago.Dear Sir:—Do you not desire an employe on your charming road? I do not know what it is to be an employe, for I was never in that condition, but I pant to be one now.Of course I am ignorant of the duties of an employe, but I have always been a warm friend of your road and rejoiced in its success. How are your folks?Yours truly,Col. Bill Nye.Day before yesterday I received the following note from General St. John, printed on a purple typewriter:Chicago, Feb. 13, 1887.Col. Bill Nye, Asheville, N. C.Sir:—My folks are quite well.Yours truly,E. St. John.I also wrote to Gen. A. V. H. Carpenter, of the Milwaukee road, at the same time, for we had corresponded some back and forth in the happy past. I wrote in about the following terms:Asheville, N. C., Feb. 10, 1887.A. V. H. Carpenter, G. P. A. C., M. & St. P. R'y, Milwaukee, Wis.Dear Sir:—How are you fixed for employes this spring?I feel like doing something of that kind and could give you some good endorsements from prominent people both at home and abroad.What does an employe have to do?If I can help your justly celebrated road any here in the South do not hesitate about mentioning it.I am still quite lame in my left leg, which was broken in the cyclone, and cannot walk without great pain.Yours with kindest regards,Bill Nye.I have just received the following reply from Mr. Carpenter:Milwaukee, Wis., Feb. 14, 1887.Bill Nye, Esq., Asheville, N. C.Dear Sir:—You are too late. As I write this letter, there is a string of men extending from my office door clear down to the Soldiers' Home. All of them want to be employes. This crowd embraces the Senate and House of Representatives of the Wisconsin Legislature, State officials, judges, journalists, jurors, justices of the peace, orphans, overseers of highways, fish commissioners, pugilists, widows of pugilists, unidentified orphans of pugilists, etc., etc., and they are all just about as well qualified to be employes as you are.I suppose you would poultice a hot box with pounded ice, and so would they.I am sorry to hear about your lame leg. The surgeon of our road says perhaps you do not use it enough.Yours for the thorough enforcement of law,A. V. H. Carpenter.Per G.Not having written to Mr. Hughitt of the Northwestern road for a long time, and fearing that he might think I had grown cold toward him, I wrote the following note on the 9th:Asheville, N. C., Feb. 9, 1887.Marvin Hughitt, Second Vice-President and GeneralManager Chicago & Northwestern Railway,Chicago, Ill.Dear Sir:—Excuse me for not writing before. I did not wish to write you until I could do so in a bright and cheery manner, and for some weeks I have been the hot-bed of twenty-one Early Rose boils. It was extremely humorous without being funny. My enemies gloated over me in ghoulish glee.I see by a recent statement in the press that your road has greatly increased in business. Do you feel the need of an employe? Any light employment that will be honorable without involving too much perspiration would be acceptable.I am traveling about a good deal these days, and if I can do you any good as an agent or in referring to your smooth road-bed and the magnificent scenery along your line, I would be glad to regard that in the light of employment. Everywhere I go I hear your road very highly spoken of.Yours truly,Bill Nye.
Asheville, N. C., Feb. 10, 1887.E. St. John, G. P. A., C., R. I. & P. R'y, Chicago.
Dear Sir:—Do you not desire an employe on your charming road? I do not know what it is to be an employe, for I was never in that condition, but I pant to be one now.Of course I am ignorant of the duties of an employe, but I have always been a warm friend of your road and rejoiced in its success. How are your folks?Yours truly,Col. Bill Nye.
Dear Sir:—Do you not desire an employe on your charming road? I do not know what it is to be an employe, for I was never in that condition, but I pant to be one now.
Of course I am ignorant of the duties of an employe, but I have always been a warm friend of your road and rejoiced in its success. How are your folks?
Yours truly,
Col. Bill Nye.
Day before yesterday I received the following note from General St. John, printed on a purple typewriter:
Chicago, Feb. 13, 1887.Col. Bill Nye, Asheville, N. C.Sir:—My folks are quite well.Yours truly,E. St. John.
Chicago, Feb. 13, 1887.
Col. Bill Nye, Asheville, N. C.
Sir:—My folks are quite well.
Yours truly,
E. St. John.
I also wrote to Gen. A. V. H. Carpenter, of the Milwaukee road, at the same time, for we had corresponded some back and forth in the happy past. I wrote in about the following terms:
Asheville, N. C., Feb. 10, 1887.A. V. H. Carpenter, G. P. A. C., M. & St. P. R'y, Milwaukee, Wis.Dear Sir:—How are you fixed for employes this spring?I feel like doing something of that kind and could give you some good endorsements from prominent people both at home and abroad.What does an employe have to do?If I can help your justly celebrated road any here in the South do not hesitate about mentioning it.I am still quite lame in my left leg, which was broken in the cyclone, and cannot walk without great pain.Yours with kindest regards,Bill Nye.
Asheville, N. C., Feb. 10, 1887.
A. V. H. Carpenter, G. P. A. C., M. & St. P. R'y, Milwaukee, Wis.
Dear Sir:—How are you fixed for employes this spring?
I feel like doing something of that kind and could give you some good endorsements from prominent people both at home and abroad.
What does an employe have to do?
If I can help your justly celebrated road any here in the South do not hesitate about mentioning it.
I am still quite lame in my left leg, which was broken in the cyclone, and cannot walk without great pain.
Yours with kindest regards,
Bill Nye.
I have just received the following reply from Mr. Carpenter:
Milwaukee, Wis., Feb. 14, 1887.Bill Nye, Esq., Asheville, N. C.Dear Sir:—You are too late. As I write this letter, there is a string of men extending from my office door clear down to the Soldiers' Home. All of them want to be employes. This crowd embraces the Senate and House of Representatives of the Wisconsin Legislature, State officials, judges, journalists, jurors, justices of the peace, orphans, overseers of highways, fish commissioners, pugilists, widows of pugilists, unidentified orphans of pugilists, etc., etc., and they are all just about as well qualified to be employes as you are.I suppose you would poultice a hot box with pounded ice, and so would they.I am sorry to hear about your lame leg. The surgeon of our road says perhaps you do not use it enough.Yours for the thorough enforcement of law,A. V. H. Carpenter.Per G.
Milwaukee, Wis., Feb. 14, 1887.
Bill Nye, Esq., Asheville, N. C.
Dear Sir:—You are too late. As I write this letter, there is a string of men extending from my office door clear down to the Soldiers' Home. All of them want to be employes. This crowd embraces the Senate and House of Representatives of the Wisconsin Legislature, State officials, judges, journalists, jurors, justices of the peace, orphans, overseers of highways, fish commissioners, pugilists, widows of pugilists, unidentified orphans of pugilists, etc., etc., and they are all just about as well qualified to be employes as you are.
I suppose you would poultice a hot box with pounded ice, and so would they.
I am sorry to hear about your lame leg. The surgeon of our road says perhaps you do not use it enough.
Yours for the thorough enforcement of law,
A. V. H. Carpenter.Per G.
Not having written to Mr. Hughitt of the Northwestern road for a long time, and fearing that he might think I had grown cold toward him, I wrote the following note on the 9th:
Asheville, N. C., Feb. 9, 1887.Marvin Hughitt, Second Vice-President and GeneralManager Chicago & Northwestern Railway,Chicago, Ill.Dear Sir:—Excuse me for not writing before. I did not wish to write you until I could do so in a bright and cheery manner, and for some weeks I have been the hot-bed of twenty-one Early Rose boils. It was extremely humorous without being funny. My enemies gloated over me in ghoulish glee.I see by a recent statement in the press that your road has greatly increased in business. Do you feel the need of an employe? Any light employment that will be honorable without involving too much perspiration would be acceptable.I am traveling about a good deal these days, and if I can do you any good as an agent or in referring to your smooth road-bed and the magnificent scenery along your line, I would be glad to regard that in the light of employment. Everywhere I go I hear your road very highly spoken of.Yours truly,Bill Nye.
Asheville, N. C., Feb. 9, 1887.
Marvin Hughitt, Second Vice-President and GeneralManager Chicago & Northwestern Railway,Chicago, Ill.
Dear Sir:—
Excuse me for not writing before. I did not wish to write you until I could do so in a bright and cheery manner, and for some weeks I have been the hot-bed of twenty-one Early Rose boils. It was extremely humorous without being funny. My enemies gloated over me in ghoulish glee.
I see by a recent statement in the press that your road has greatly increased in business. Do you feel the need of an employe? Any light employment that will be honorable without involving too much perspiration would be acceptable.
I am traveling about a good deal these days, and if I can do you any good as an agent or in referring to your smooth road-bed and the magnificent scenery along your line, I would be glad to regard that in the light of employment. Everywhere I go I hear your road very highly spoken of.
Yours truly,
Bill Nye.
I shall write to some more roads in a few weeks. It seems to me there ought to be work for a man who is able and willing to be an employe.
You and I, and that night,with its perfume and glory!—The scent of the locusts—the light of the moon;And the violin weaving thewaltzers a story,Enmeshing their feet in theweft of the tune,Till their shadows uncertain,Reeled round on the curtain,While under the trellis we drank in the June.Soaked through with the midnight, the cedars were sleeping.Their shadowy tresses outlined in the brightCrystal, moon-smitten mists, where the fountain's heart leapingForever, forever burst, full with delight;And its lisp on my spiritFell faint as that near itWhose love like a lily bloomed out in the night.O your glove was an odorous sachet of blisses!The breath of your fan was a breeze from Cathay!And the rose at your throat was a nest of spi'led kisses!—And the music!—in fancy I hear it to-day,As I sit here, confessingOur secret, and blessingMy rival who found us, and waltzed you away.
You and I, and that night,with its perfume and glory!—The scent of the locusts—the light of the moon;And the violin weaving thewaltzers a story,Enmeshing their feet in theweft of the tune,Till their shadows uncertain,Reeled round on the curtain,While under the trellis we drank in the June.Soaked through with the midnight, the cedars were sleeping.Their shadowy tresses outlined in the brightCrystal, moon-smitten mists, where the fountain's heart leapingForever, forever burst, full with delight;And its lisp on my spiritFell faint as that near itWhose love like a lily bloomed out in the night.O your glove was an odorous sachet of blisses!The breath of your fan was a breeze from Cathay!And the rose at your throat was a nest of spi'led kisses!—And the music!—in fancy I hear it to-day,As I sit here, confessingOur secret, and blessingMy rival who found us, and waltzed you away.
efirst met Methuselah in the capacity of a son. At the age of sixty-five Enoch arose one night and telephoned his family physician to come over and assist him in meeting Methuselah.
Day at last dawned on Enoch's happy home, and its first red rays lit up the still redder surface of the little stranger. For three hundred years Enoch and Methuselah jogged along together in the capacity of father and son. Then Enoch was suddenly cut down. It was at this time that little Methuselah first realized what it was to be an orphan. He could not at first realize that his father was dead. He could not understand why Enoch, with no inherited disease, should be shuffled off at the age of three hundred and sixty-five years. But the doctor said to Methuselah:"My son, you are indeed fatherless. I have done all I could, but it is useless. I have told Enoch many a time that if he went in swimming before the ice went out of the creek it would finally down him, but he thought he knew better than I did. He was a headstrong man, Enoch was. He sneered at me and alluded to me as a fresh young gosling, because he was three hundred years older than I was. He has received the reward of the willful, and verily the doom of the smart Aleck is his."
Methuselah now cast about him for some occupation which would take up his attention and assuage his wild, passionate grief over the loss of his father. He entered into the walks of men and learned their ways. It was at this time that he learned the pernicious habit of using tobacco. We cannot wonder at it when we remember that he was now fatherless. He was at the mercy of the coarse, rough world. Possibly he learned the use of tobacco when he went away to attend business college after the death of his father. Be that as it may, the noxious weed certainly hastened his death, for six hundred years after this we find him a corpse!
Death is ever a surprise, even at the end of a long illness and after a ripe old age. To those who are near it seems abrupt; so to his grandchildren, some of whom survived him, his children having died of old age, the death of Methuselah came like a thunderbolt from a clear sky.
Methuselah succeeded in cording up more of a record, such as it was, than any other man of whom history informs us. Time, the tomb-builder and amateur mower, came and leaned over the front yard andlooked at Methuselah, and ran his thumb over the jagged edge of his scythe, and went away whistling a low refrain. He kept up this refrain business for nearly ten centuries, while Methuselah continued to stand out amid the general wreck of men and nations.
Even as the young, strong mower going forth with his mower for to mow spareth the tall and drab hornet's nest and passeth by on the other side, so Time, with his Waterbury hour-glass and his overworked hay-knife over his shoulder, and his long Mormon whiskers, and his high sleek dome of thought with its gray lambrequin of hair around the base of it, mowed all around Methuselah and then passed on.
Methuselah decorated the graves of those who perished in a dozen different wars. He did not enlist himself, for over nine hundred years of his life he was exempt. He would go to the enlisting places and offer his services, and the officer would tell him to go home and encourage his grandchildren to go. Then Methuselah would sit around Noah's front steps, and smoke and criticise the conduct of the war, also the conduct of the enemy.
It is said of Methuselah that he never was the same man after his son Lamech died. He was greatly attached to Lamech, and, when he woke up one night to find his son purple in the face with membraneous croup, he could hardly realize that he might lose him. The idea of losing a boy who had just rounded the glorious morn of his 777th year had never occurred to him. But death loves a shining mark, and he garnered little Lammie and left Methuselah to mourn for a couple of centuries.
Methuselah finally got so that he couldn't sleep anylater than 4 o'clock in the morning, and he didn't see how any one else could. The older he got, and the less valuable his time became, the earlier he would rise, so that he could get an early start. As the centuries filed slowly by, and Methuselah got to where all he had to do was to shuffle into his loose-fitting clothes and rest his gums on the top of a large slick-headed cane and mutter up the chimney, and then groan and extricate himself from his clothes again and retire, he rose earlier and earlier in the morning, and muttered more and more about the young folks sleeping away the best of the day, and he said he had no doubt that sleeping and snoring till breakfast time helped to carry off Lam. But one day old Father Time came along with a new scythe, and he drew the whetstone across it a few times, and rolled the sleeves of his red-flannel undergarment up over his warty elbows, and Mr. Methuselah passed on to that undiscovered country, with a ripe experience and a long clean record.
We can almost fancy how the physicians, who had disagreed about his case all the way through, came and insisted on a post-mortem examination to prove which was right and what was really the matter with him. We can imagine how people went by shaking their heads and regretting that Methuselah should have tampered with tobacco when he knew that it affected his heart.
But he is gone. He lived to see his own promissory notes rise, flourish, acquire interest, pine away at last and finally outlaw. He acquired a large farm in the very heart of the county-seat, and refused to move or to plot, and called it Methuselah's addition. He came out in spring regularly for nine hundred years after hegot too old to work out his poll-tax on the road, and put in his time telling the rising generation how to make a good road. Meantime other old people, who were almost one hundred years of age, moved away and went West where they would attract attention and command respect. There was actually no pleasure in getting old around where Methuselah was, and being ordered about and scolded and kept in the background by him.