Well, yes, 'tis a hair-curlin' story—I would it could not be recalled.The terrible fright of that hell-tinctured nightIs the cause of my head bein' bald.I was runnin' the Git-There Express, sir,On the Yankee Creek Jerkwater line.An' the track along there was as crooked, I swear,As the growth of a field pumpkin vine.My run was a night one, an' nights on the YankWar as black as the coal piled back there on the tank.We pulled out of Tenderfoot Station,A day and almost a-half late,An' every durn wheel was a-poundin' the steelAt a wildly extravagant rate.My fireman kept pilin' the coal inThe jaws of the ol' 94,Till the sweat from his nose seemed to play through a hoseAn' splashed 'round his feet on the floor,As we thundered along like a demon in flight,A-rippin' a streak through the breast of the night.As we rounded the curve on the mountain,Full sixty an hour I will swear,Jest ahead was a sight that with blood-freezin' frightWould have raised a stuffed buffalo's hair.The bridge over Ute Creek was burnin',The flames shootin' up in their glee;My God! how they gleamed in the air, till they seemedLike the fiery-tongued imps on a spree—Jest snickered an' sparkled an' laughed like they knowedI'd make my next trip on a different road.In frenzy I reached for the throttle,But 'twas stuck an' refused to obey.I yelled in affright, for our maddenin' flightI felt that I never could stay.Then wildly I grasped the big lever,Threw her over, then held my hot breath,An' waited for what I assuredly thoughtWas a sure an' terrible death.Then came the wild crash, an' with horror-fringed yellDown into that great fiery chasm I fell.When I came to myself I was lyin'On the floor of the bedroom; my wifeSat astride of my form, and was making it warmFur her darlin', you bet your sweet life!My hair she had clutched in her fingers,An' was jammin' my head on the floor,Yet I yelled with delight when I found that my frightWas a horrible dream, nothin' more.I had wildly grabb'd one of her ankles, she said,An' reversed her clear over the head of the bed.
Well, yes, 'tis a hair-curlin' story—I would it could not be recalled.The terrible fright of that hell-tinctured nightIs the cause of my head bein' bald.I was runnin' the Git-There Express, sir,On the Yankee Creek Jerkwater line.An' the track along there was as crooked, I swear,As the growth of a field pumpkin vine.My run was a night one, an' nights on the YankWar as black as the coal piled back there on the tank.
We pulled out of Tenderfoot Station,A day and almost a-half late,An' every durn wheel was a-poundin' the steelAt a wildly extravagant rate.My fireman kept pilin' the coal inThe jaws of the ol' 94,Till the sweat from his nose seemed to play through a hoseAn' splashed 'round his feet on the floor,As we thundered along like a demon in flight,A-rippin' a streak through the breast of the night.
As we rounded the curve on the mountain,Full sixty an hour I will swear,Jest ahead was a sight that with blood-freezin' frightWould have raised a stuffed buffalo's hair.The bridge over Ute Creek was burnin',The flames shootin' up in their glee;My God! how they gleamed in the air, till they seemedLike the fiery-tongued imps on a spree—Jest snickered an' sparkled an' laughed like they knowedI'd make my next trip on a different road.
In frenzy I reached for the throttle,But 'twas stuck an' refused to obey.I yelled in affright, for our maddenin' flightI felt that I never could stay.Then wildly I grasped the big lever,Threw her over, then held my hot breath,An' waited for what I assuredly thoughtWas a sure an' terrible death.Then came the wild crash, an' with horror-fringed yellDown into that great fiery chasm I fell.
When I came to myself I was lyin'On the floor of the bedroom; my wifeSat astride of my form, and was making it warmFur her darlin', you bet your sweet life!My hair she had clutched in her fingers,An' was jammin' my head on the floor,Yet I yelled with delight when I found that my frightWas a horrible dream, nothin' more.I had wildly grabb'd one of her ankles, she said,An' reversed her clear over the head of the bed.
I saw her, as I fancied, fair,Yes, fairest of earth's creatures;I saw the purest red and whiteO'erspread her lovely features;She fainted, and I sprinkled her,Her malady relieving:I washed both rose and lily off!Oh! seeing's not believing!I looked again, again I longedTo breathe love's fond confessionI saw her eyebrows formed to giveHer face its arch expression;But gum is very apt to crack,And whilst my breast was heaving,It so fell out that one fell off!Oh! seeing's not believing!I saw the tresses on her browSo beautifully braided;I never saw in all my lifeLocks look so well as they did,She walked with me one windy day—Ye zephyrs, why so thieving?The lady lost her flaxen wig!Oh! seeing's not believing!I saw her form, by Nature's handSo prodigally finished,She were less perfect if enlarged,Less perfect if diminished;Her toilet I surprised—the worstOf wonders then achieving;None knew the bustle I perceived!Oh! seeing's not believing!I saw, when costly gems I gave,The smile with which she took them;And if she said no tender things,I've often seen her look them;I saw her my affianced bride,And then, my mansion leaving,She ran away with Colonel Jones!Oh! seeing's not believing!I saw another maiden soon,And struggled to detain her;I saw her plain enough—in fact,Few women could be plainer;'Twas said, that at her father's deathA plum she'd be receiving:I saw that father's house and grounds!Oh! seeing's not believing!I saw her mother—she was deck'dWith furbelows and feathers;I saw distinctly that she woreSilk stockings in all weathers;I saw, beneath a load of gems.The matron's bosom heaving;I saw a thousand signs of wealth!Oh! seeing's not believing!I saw her father, and I spokeOf marriage in his study;But would he let her marry meAlas! alas! how could he?I saw him smile a glad consent,My anxious heart relieving,And then I saw the settlementsOh! seeing's not believing!I saw the daughter, and I namedMy moderate finances;She spurned me not, she gave me oneOf her most tender glances.I saw her father's bank—thought I,There cash is safe from thieving;I saw my money safely lodged:Oh! seeing's not believing!I saw the bank, the shutters up,I could not think what they meant,The old infirmity of firms,The bank had just stopped payment!I saw my future father thenWas ruined past retrieving,Like me, without a singlesou:Oh! seeing's not believing!I saw the banker's wife had gotThe fortune settled on her;What cared he, when the creditorsTalked loudly of dishonour!I saw his name in theGazette,But soon I stared, perceiving,He bought another house and grounds:Oh! seeing's not believing!I saw—yes, as plain as could be,I saw the banker's daughter;She saw me, too, and called for salVolatile and water.She said that she had just espousedA rich old man, conceivingThat I was dead or gone to gaol:Oh! seeing's not believing!I saw a friend, and freely spokeMy mind on the transaction;Her brother heard it, and he called,Demanding satisfaction.We met—I fell—that brother's ballIn my left leg receiving;I have two legs, true—one is cork:Oh! seeing's not believing!Thomas Haynes Bayley.
I saw her, as I fancied, fair,Yes, fairest of earth's creatures;I saw the purest red and whiteO'erspread her lovely features;She fainted, and I sprinkled her,Her malady relieving:I washed both rose and lily off!Oh! seeing's not believing!
I looked again, again I longedTo breathe love's fond confessionI saw her eyebrows formed to giveHer face its arch expression;But gum is very apt to crack,And whilst my breast was heaving,It so fell out that one fell off!Oh! seeing's not believing!
I saw the tresses on her browSo beautifully braided;I never saw in all my lifeLocks look so well as they did,She walked with me one windy day—Ye zephyrs, why so thieving?The lady lost her flaxen wig!Oh! seeing's not believing!
I saw her form, by Nature's handSo prodigally finished,She were less perfect if enlarged,Less perfect if diminished;Her toilet I surprised—the worstOf wonders then achieving;None knew the bustle I perceived!Oh! seeing's not believing!
I saw, when costly gems I gave,The smile with which she took them;And if she said no tender things,I've often seen her look them;I saw her my affianced bride,And then, my mansion leaving,She ran away with Colonel Jones!Oh! seeing's not believing!
I saw another maiden soon,And struggled to detain her;I saw her plain enough—in fact,Few women could be plainer;'Twas said, that at her father's deathA plum she'd be receiving:I saw that father's house and grounds!Oh! seeing's not believing!
I saw her mother—she was deck'dWith furbelows and feathers;I saw distinctly that she woreSilk stockings in all weathers;I saw, beneath a load of gems.The matron's bosom heaving;I saw a thousand signs of wealth!Oh! seeing's not believing!
I saw her father, and I spokeOf marriage in his study;But would he let her marry meAlas! alas! how could he?I saw him smile a glad consent,My anxious heart relieving,And then I saw the settlementsOh! seeing's not believing!
I saw the daughter, and I namedMy moderate finances;She spurned me not, she gave me oneOf her most tender glances.I saw her father's bank—thought I,There cash is safe from thieving;I saw my money safely lodged:Oh! seeing's not believing!
I saw the bank, the shutters up,I could not think what they meant,The old infirmity of firms,The bank had just stopped payment!I saw my future father thenWas ruined past retrieving,Like me, without a singlesou:Oh! seeing's not believing!
I saw the banker's wife had gotThe fortune settled on her;What cared he, when the creditorsTalked loudly of dishonour!I saw his name in theGazette,But soon I stared, perceiving,He bought another house and grounds:Oh! seeing's not believing!
I saw—yes, as plain as could be,I saw the banker's daughter;She saw me, too, and called for salVolatile and water.She said that she had just espousedA rich old man, conceivingThat I was dead or gone to gaol:Oh! seeing's not believing!
I saw a friend, and freely spokeMy mind on the transaction;Her brother heard it, and he called,Demanding satisfaction.We met—I fell—that brother's ballIn my left leg receiving;I have two legs, true—one is cork:Oh! seeing's not believing!
Thomas Haynes Bayley.
Now, Mr. Caudle—Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be asleep already, I know. Now, what I mean to say is this: there's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but at last my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I shall quit the house. No, no! There's an end of the marriage state, I think—and an end of all confidence between man and wife—if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wifecan't know 'em. Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel, there's a good soul: tell me, what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I daresay; still—not that I care much about it—still, I should like to know. There's a dear. Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it; I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr. Caudle; I know there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well?
And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You mean to say—you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in a passion—not that I care about the secret itself; no, I wouldn't give a button to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about; it's the slight, Mr. Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to himself which he won't let her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a Mason—when he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? Ha! you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all the best of them to yourselves; otherwise a woman ought to be allowed a divorce when a man becomes a Mason—when he's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart, a secret place in his mind, that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage.
Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute!—yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might oblige me, and you won't. I'm sure I don't object to your being a Mason; not at all, Caudle; I daresay it's a very goodthing; I daresay it is: it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you'll tell me—you'll tell your own Margaret? You won't? You're a wretch, Mr. Caudle.
Douglas Jerrold.
There, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you were this morning. There, you needn't begin to whistle: people don't come to bed to whistle. But it's like you; I can't speak, that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the best creature living: now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long: it's very hard if I can't speak a word at night; and it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness knows!
Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must almost swear the roof off the house. You didn't swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what you do when you're in a passion. You were not in a passion, wer'n't you? Well, then I don't know what a passion is; and I think I ought by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that.
It's a pity you hav'n't something worse to complain of than a button off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm never without a needle-and-thread in my hand; what with you andthe children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks? Why, if once in your life a button's off your shirt—what do you say "ah" at? I say once, Mr. Caudle; or twice or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than yours. I only wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married! I should like to know where were your buttons then?
Yes, it is worth talking of! But that's how you always try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then, if I only try to speak, you won't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to yourselves: a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of but her husband's buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha! if poor women only knew what they had to go through! What with buttons—and one thing and another! They'd never tie themselves up to the best man in the world, I'm sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle?—Why, do much better without you, I'm certain.
And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt; it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to talk about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for anything. All I know is, it's very odd that the button should be off the shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons than I am. I only say it's very odd.
However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to death with your temper, and sha'n't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may laugh! And I daresayyou would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's your love; that's your feeling! I know that I'm sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second wife will look after your buttons! You'll find out the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back.
Douglas Jerrold.
Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives,Because he don't live, you see:Leastways, he's got out of the habitOf livin' like you and me.Whar have you been for the last three years,That you haven't heard folks tellHow Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks,The night of the "Prairie Belle"?He warn't no saint—them engineersIs all pretty much alike—One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill,And another one here, in Pike.A careless man in his talk was Jim,And an awkward man in a row—But he never pinked, and he never lied,I reckon he never knowed how.And this was all the religion he had—To treat his engine well;Never be passed on the river;To mind the pilot's bell;And if ever thePrairie Belletook fire,A thousand times he sworeHe'd hold her nozzle agin the bankTill the last soul got ashore.All boats has their day on the Mississip'.And her day came at last—TheMovastarwas a better boat,But theBelle, she wouldn't be passed,And so came tearin' along that night,The oldest craft on the line,With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine.The fire bust out as she clared the bar,And burnt a hole in the night,And quick as a flash she turned, and madeFor that willer-bank on the right.There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled outOver all the infernal roar,"I'll hold her nozzle agin the bankTill the last galoot's ashore."Thro' the hot, black breath of the burnin' boatJim Bludso's voice was heard,And they all had trust in his cussedness,And know'd he would keep his word.And sure's you're born, they all got offAfore the smoke-stacks fell,And Bludso's ghost went up aloneIn the smoke of thePrairie Belle.He warn't no saint—but at judgmentI'd run my chance with Jim'Longside of some pious gentlemenThat wouldn't shook hands with him.He'd seen his duty a dead sure thing,And went for it thar and then;And Christ ain't a-goin' to be too hardOn a man that died for men.Colonel John Hay.
Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives,Because he don't live, you see:Leastways, he's got out of the habitOf livin' like you and me.Whar have you been for the last three years,That you haven't heard folks tellHow Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks,The night of the "Prairie Belle"?
He warn't no saint—them engineersIs all pretty much alike—One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill,And another one here, in Pike.A careless man in his talk was Jim,And an awkward man in a row—But he never pinked, and he never lied,I reckon he never knowed how.
And this was all the religion he had—To treat his engine well;Never be passed on the river;To mind the pilot's bell;And if ever thePrairie Belletook fire,A thousand times he sworeHe'd hold her nozzle agin the bankTill the last soul got ashore.
All boats has their day on the Mississip'.And her day came at last—TheMovastarwas a better boat,But theBelle, she wouldn't be passed,And so came tearin' along that night,The oldest craft on the line,With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire bust out as she clared the bar,And burnt a hole in the night,And quick as a flash she turned, and madeFor that willer-bank on the right.There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled outOver all the infernal roar,"I'll hold her nozzle agin the bankTill the last galoot's ashore."
Thro' the hot, black breath of the burnin' boatJim Bludso's voice was heard,And they all had trust in his cussedness,And know'd he would keep his word.And sure's you're born, they all got offAfore the smoke-stacks fell,And Bludso's ghost went up aloneIn the smoke of thePrairie Belle.
He warn't no saint—but at judgmentI'd run my chance with Jim'Longside of some pious gentlemenThat wouldn't shook hands with him.He'd seen his duty a dead sure thing,And went for it thar and then;And Christ ain't a-goin' to be too hardOn a man that died for men.
Colonel John Hay.
Old Mose, who sells eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived; but he has got the habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in front of the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady came out to the gate to make the purchases.
"Have you got any eggs this morning, Uncle Mose?" she asked.
"Yes, indeed I has. Jes got in ten dozen from de kentry."
"Are they fresh?"
"I gua'ntee 'em. I knows dey am fresh jess de same as ef I had laid 'em myse'f."
"I'll take nine dozen. You can count them in this basket."
"All right, mum." He counts: "One, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten. You kin rely on dem bein' fresh. How's your son comin' on at de school? He mus' be mos' grown."
"Yes, Uncle Mose, he is a clerk in a bank at Galveston."
"Why, how ole am de boy?"
"He is eighteen."
"You don't tole me so. Eighteen and gettin' a salary already! eighteen (counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-free, twenty-foah, twenty-five, and how's yore gal comin' on? She was mos' growed up de las' time I seed her."
"She is married and living in Dallas."
"Wal, I declar. How de time scoots away! An' yo' say she has childruns? Why, how ole am de gal? She mus' be about——"
"Thirty-three."
"Am dat so? (counting) firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six, firty-seben, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-free. Hit am so singular dat you has sich old childruns. I can't believe you has grand-childruns. You don't look more den forty yeahs old youself."
"Nonsense, old man, I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to be fifty-three years old——"
"Fifty-free? I jess dun gwinter b'lieve hit, fifty-free, fifty-foah, fifty-five, fifty-six—I want you to pay tenshun when I counts de eggs, so dar'll be no mistake—fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-free, sixty-foah—whew! Dat am a warm day. Dis am de time of yeah when I feels I'se gettin' ole myse'f. I ain't long for dis worl. You comes from an ole family. When your fodder died he was sebenty years ole."
"Seventy-two, Uncle Mose."
"Dat's ole, suah. Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six,sebenty-seven, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine—and your mudder? she was one ob de noblest lookin' ladies I ebber see. You reminds me ob her so much. She libbed to mos' a hundred. I bleeves she was done past a centurion when she died."
"No, Uncle Mose, she was only ninety-six when she died."
"Den she wasn't no chicken when she died. I know dat—ninety-six, ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight—dar 108 nice fresh eggs—jess nine dozen, and heah am one moah egg in case I has discounted myse'f."
Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Burton said to her husband, "I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood right there and heard Old Mose count them myself, and there were nine dozen."
I was walking in Savannah, past a church decayed and dim,When there slowly through the windows came a plaintive funeral hymn;And the sympathy awakened, and a wonder quickly grew,Till I found myself environed in a little negro pew.Out at front a coloured couple sat in sorrow, nearly wild;On the altar was a coffin, in the coffin was a child.I could picture him when living—curly hair, protruding lip—And had seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried Southern trip.But no baby ever rested in the soothing arms of deathThat had fanned more flames of sorrow with his little fluttering breath;And no funeral ever glistened with more sympathy profoundThan was in the chain of teardrops that enclasped those mourners round.Rose a sad, old coloured preacher at the little wooden desk—With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance grotesque;With simplicity and shrewdness on his Ethiopian face;With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed, undying race.And he said: "Now, don' be weepin' for dis pretty bit o' clay—For de little boy who lived dere, he's done gone an' run away!He was doin' very finely, an' he 'preciate your love;But his sure 'nuff Father want him in de large house up above."Now, he didn't give you that baby, by a hundred thousan' mile!He just think you need some sunshine, an' He lent it for a while!An' He let you keep an' love it till your hearts were bigger grown;An' dese silver tears your sheddin's jest de interes' on the loan."Here's yer oder pretty childrun!—doan' be makin' it appearDat your love got sort o' 'nopolised by dis little fellow here;Don' pile up too much your sorrow on dere little mental shelves,So's to kind 'o set 'em wonderin' if dey're no account demselves."Just you think, you poor deah mounahs, creepin' long o'er Sorrow's way,What a blessed little pic-nic dis yere baby's got to-day!Your good faders and good moders crowd de little fellow roundIn de angel-tended garden ob de big Plantation Ground."An' dey ask him, 'Was your feet sore?' an' take off his little shoes,An' dey wash him, an' dey kiss him, an' dey say—'Now what's de news?'An' de Lawd done cut his tongue loose, den de little fellow say—'All our folks down in the valley tries to keep de hebbenly way.'"An' his eyes dey brightly sparkle at de pretty things he view;Den a tear come an' he whispers—'But I want my parents too!'But de Angel Chief Musician teach dat boy a little song—Says 'If only dey be fait'ful dey will soon be comin' 'long.'An' he'll get an' education dat will proberbly be worthSeberal times as much as any you could buy for him on earth;He'll be in de Lawd's big schoolhouse, widout no contempt or fear;While dere's no end to the bad tings might have happened to him here."So, my pooah dejected mounahs, let your hearts wid Jesus rest,An' don't go to critercisin' dat ar One w'at knows the best!He have sent us many comforts—He have right to take away—To the Lawd be praise an' glory now and ever! Let us pray!"Will Carleton.
I was walking in Savannah, past a church decayed and dim,When there slowly through the windows came a plaintive funeral hymn;And the sympathy awakened, and a wonder quickly grew,Till I found myself environed in a little negro pew.Out at front a coloured couple sat in sorrow, nearly wild;On the altar was a coffin, in the coffin was a child.I could picture him when living—curly hair, protruding lip—And had seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried Southern trip.
But no baby ever rested in the soothing arms of deathThat had fanned more flames of sorrow with his little fluttering breath;And no funeral ever glistened with more sympathy profoundThan was in the chain of teardrops that enclasped those mourners round.
Rose a sad, old coloured preacher at the little wooden desk—With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance grotesque;With simplicity and shrewdness on his Ethiopian face;With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed, undying race.
And he said: "Now, don' be weepin' for dis pretty bit o' clay—For de little boy who lived dere, he's done gone an' run away!He was doin' very finely, an' he 'preciate your love;But his sure 'nuff Father want him in de large house up above.
"Now, he didn't give you that baby, by a hundred thousan' mile!He just think you need some sunshine, an' He lent it for a while!An' He let you keep an' love it till your hearts were bigger grown;An' dese silver tears your sheddin's jest de interes' on the loan.
"Here's yer oder pretty childrun!—doan' be makin' it appearDat your love got sort o' 'nopolised by dis little fellow here;Don' pile up too much your sorrow on dere little mental shelves,So's to kind 'o set 'em wonderin' if dey're no account demselves.
"Just you think, you poor deah mounahs, creepin' long o'er Sorrow's way,What a blessed little pic-nic dis yere baby's got to-day!Your good faders and good moders crowd de little fellow roundIn de angel-tended garden ob de big Plantation Ground.
"An' dey ask him, 'Was your feet sore?' an' take off his little shoes,An' dey wash him, an' dey kiss him, an' dey say—'Now what's de news?'An' de Lawd done cut his tongue loose, den de little fellow say—'All our folks down in the valley tries to keep de hebbenly way.'
"An' his eyes dey brightly sparkle at de pretty things he view;Den a tear come an' he whispers—'But I want my parents too!'But de Angel Chief Musician teach dat boy a little song—Says 'If only dey be fait'ful dey will soon be comin' 'long.'An' he'll get an' education dat will proberbly be worthSeberal times as much as any you could buy for him on earth;He'll be in de Lawd's big schoolhouse, widout no contempt or fear;While dere's no end to the bad tings might have happened to him here.
"So, my pooah dejected mounahs, let your hearts wid Jesus rest,An' don't go to critercisin' dat ar One w'at knows the best!He have sent us many comforts—He have right to take away—To the Lawd be praise an' glory now and ever! Let us pray!"
Will Carleton.
I reads in Yawcob's shtory book,A couple veeks ago,Von firsd-rade boem, vot I dinksDer beoples all should know.I'd ask dis goot conundhrum, too,Vich ve should brofit by:"'Vill you indo mine parlor valk?'Says der Shpider off der fly."Dot set me dinking, righdt avay,Und vhen, von afternoon,A shbeculator he comes inUnd dells me, pooty soon,He haf silfer mine to sell,Und ask me eef I puy,I dink off der oxberienceOff dot plue-pottle fly.Der oder day, vhen on der carsI vent by Nie Yorck oudt,I meets a fraulein on der train,Who dold me, mit a pout,She likes der Deutscher shentlemansUnd dells me sit peside her—I says: "Mine friendt, I vas no fly,Eef you vas peen a shpider."I vent indo der shmoking car,Vhere dhey vas blaying boker,Und also haf somedings dhey callsDer funny "leedle joker."Some money id vas shanging hands,Dhey vanted me to try—I says: "You vas too brevious,I don'd vas been a fly!"On Central Park a shmardt young manSays: "Strauss, how vas you peen?"Und dake me kindtly py der hand,Und ask off mine Katrine.He vants to shange a feefty bill,Und says hees name vas Schneider—Maype, berhaps, he vas all righdt;More like he vas a shpider.Mosd efry day some shwindling chapHe dries hees leedle game;I cuts me oudt dot shpider bieceUnd poot id in a frame;Righdt in mine shtore I hangs it oup,Und near id, on der shly,I geeps a glub, to send gvick oudt,Dhose shpiders, "on der fly."Charles Follen Adams.
I reads in Yawcob's shtory book,A couple veeks ago,Von firsd-rade boem, vot I dinksDer beoples all should know.I'd ask dis goot conundhrum, too,Vich ve should brofit by:"'Vill you indo mine parlor valk?'Says der Shpider off der fly."
Dot set me dinking, righdt avay,Und vhen, von afternoon,A shbeculator he comes inUnd dells me, pooty soon,He haf silfer mine to sell,Und ask me eef I puy,I dink off der oxberienceOff dot plue-pottle fly.
Der oder day, vhen on der carsI vent by Nie Yorck oudt,I meets a fraulein on der train,Who dold me, mit a pout,She likes der Deutscher shentlemansUnd dells me sit peside her—I says: "Mine friendt, I vas no fly,Eef you vas peen a shpider."
I vent indo der shmoking car,Vhere dhey vas blaying boker,Und also haf somedings dhey callsDer funny "leedle joker."Some money id vas shanging hands,Dhey vanted me to try—I says: "You vas too brevious,I don'd vas been a fly!"
On Central Park a shmardt young manSays: "Strauss, how vas you peen?"Und dake me kindtly py der hand,Und ask off mine Katrine.He vants to shange a feefty bill,Und says hees name vas Schneider—Maype, berhaps, he vas all righdt;More like he vas a shpider.
Mosd efry day some shwindling chapHe dries hees leedle game;I cuts me oudt dot shpider bieceUnd poot id in a frame;Righdt in mine shtore I hangs it oup,Und near id, on der shly,I geeps a glub, to send gvick oudt,Dhose shpiders, "on der fly."
Charles Follen Adams.
"Well, stranger, 'twas somewhere in 'sixty-nineI wore runnin' the 'Frisco fast express;An' from Murder Creek to Blasted Pine,Were nigh onto eighteen mile, I guess.The road were a down-grade all the way,An' we pulled out of Murder a little late,So I opened the throttle wide that day,And a mile a minute was 'bout our gait."My fireman's name was Lariat Bill,A quiet man with an easy way,Who could rope a steer with a cow-boy's skill,Which he'd learned in Texas, I've heard him say.The coil were strong as tempered steel,An' it went like a bolt from a cross-bow flung,An' arter Bill changed from saddle to wheel,Just over his head in the cab it hung."Well, as I were saying, we fairly flew,As we struck the curve at Buffalo Spring,An' I give her full steam an' put her through,An' the engine rocked like a living thing;When all of a sudden I got a scare—For thar on the track were a little child!An' right in the path of the engine thereShe held out her little hands and smiled!"I jerked the lever and whistled for brakes,The wheels threw sparks like a shower of gold;But I knew the trouble a down-grade makes,An' I set my teeth an' my flesh grew cold.Then Lariat Bill yanked his long lassoo,An' out on the front of the engine crept—He balanced a moment before he threw,Then out in the air his lariat swept!"He paused. There were tears in his honest eyes;The stranger listened with bated breath."I know the rest of the tale," he cries;"He snatched the child from the jaws of death!'Twas the deed of a hero, from heroes bred,Whose praises the very angels sing!"The engineer shook his grizzled head,And growled: "He didn't do no sich thing."He aimed at the stump of a big pine tree,An' the lariat caught with a double hitch,An' in less than a second the train an' weWere yanked off the track an' inter the ditch!'Twere an awful smash, an' it laid me out,I ain't forgot it, and never shall;Were the passengers hurt? Lemme see—about—Yes, it killed about forty—but saved the gal!"G. W. H.
"Well, stranger, 'twas somewhere in 'sixty-nineI wore runnin' the 'Frisco fast express;An' from Murder Creek to Blasted Pine,Were nigh onto eighteen mile, I guess.The road were a down-grade all the way,An' we pulled out of Murder a little late,So I opened the throttle wide that day,And a mile a minute was 'bout our gait.
"My fireman's name was Lariat Bill,A quiet man with an easy way,Who could rope a steer with a cow-boy's skill,Which he'd learned in Texas, I've heard him say.The coil were strong as tempered steel,An' it went like a bolt from a cross-bow flung,An' arter Bill changed from saddle to wheel,Just over his head in the cab it hung.
"Well, as I were saying, we fairly flew,As we struck the curve at Buffalo Spring,An' I give her full steam an' put her through,An' the engine rocked like a living thing;When all of a sudden I got a scare—For thar on the track were a little child!An' right in the path of the engine thereShe held out her little hands and smiled!
"I jerked the lever and whistled for brakes,The wheels threw sparks like a shower of gold;But I knew the trouble a down-grade makes,An' I set my teeth an' my flesh grew cold.Then Lariat Bill yanked his long lassoo,An' out on the front of the engine crept—He balanced a moment before he threw,Then out in the air his lariat swept!"
He paused. There were tears in his honest eyes;The stranger listened with bated breath."I know the rest of the tale," he cries;"He snatched the child from the jaws of death!'Twas the deed of a hero, from heroes bred,Whose praises the very angels sing!"The engineer shook his grizzled head,And growled: "He didn't do no sich thing.
"He aimed at the stump of a big pine tree,An' the lariat caught with a double hitch,An' in less than a second the train an' weWere yanked off the track an' inter the ditch!'Twere an awful smash, an' it laid me out,I ain't forgot it, and never shall;Were the passengers hurt? Lemme see—about—Yes, it killed about forty—but saved the gal!"
G. W. H.
Little orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,And wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,An' make the fire, and bake the bread, an' earn her board an' keep;An' all us other children, when the supper things is done,We set around the kitchen fire, an' has the mostest funA-list'ning to the witch tales 'at Annie tells about,An' the gobble-uns 'at gits youEf youDon'tWatchOut!Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs;An' when he went to bed 'at night, away upstairs,His mammy heard him holler, and his daddy heard him bawl,An' whin they turn'd the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!An' they seeked him in the rafter room, and cubby hole and press,An' seeked him up the chimbly flue an' ever'wheres, I guess,But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout!An' the gobble-uns 'll git youEf youDon'tWatchOut!An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh and grin,An' make fun of ever'one, an' all her blood an' kin;An' onc't when they was company an' ole folks was there,She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she know'd what she's about,An' the gobble-uns 'll git youEf youDon'tWatchOut!An' little orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is grey,An' the lightnin' bugs in dew is all squelched away,You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear,An' cherish them 't loves you, and dry the orphant's tear,An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at cluster all about,Er the gobble-uns 'll git youEf youDon'tWatchOut!James Whitcomb Riley.
Little orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,And wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,An' make the fire, and bake the bread, an' earn her board an' keep;An' all us other children, when the supper things is done,We set around the kitchen fire, an' has the mostest funA-list'ning to the witch tales 'at Annie tells about,An' the gobble-uns 'at gits youEf youDon'tWatchOut!
Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs;An' when he went to bed 'at night, away upstairs,His mammy heard him holler, and his daddy heard him bawl,An' whin they turn'd the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!An' they seeked him in the rafter room, and cubby hole and press,An' seeked him up the chimbly flue an' ever'wheres, I guess,But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout!An' the gobble-uns 'll git youEf youDon'tWatchOut!
An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh and grin,An' make fun of ever'one, an' all her blood an' kin;An' onc't when they was company an' ole folks was there,She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she know'd what she's about,An' the gobble-uns 'll git youEf youDon'tWatchOut!
An' little orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is grey,An' the lightnin' bugs in dew is all squelched away,You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear,An' cherish them 't loves you, and dry the orphant's tear,An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at cluster all about,Er the gobble-uns 'll git youEf youDon'tWatchOut!
James Whitcomb Riley.
A warrior so bold and a virgin so bright,Conversed as they sat on the green;They gazed on each other with tender delight;Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight,—The maiden's the Fair Imogene."And oh!" said the youth, "since to-morrow I goTo fight in a far distant land,Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow,Some other will court you, and you will bestowOn a wealthier suitor your hand!""Oh cease these suspicions," Fair Imogene said."Offensive to love and to me;For if you be living, or if you be dead,I swear by the Virgin that none in your stead,Shall husband of Imogene be."If e'er by lust or by wealth led astray I forget my Alonzo the Brave,God grant that to punish my falsehood and prideYour ghost at the marriage may sit by my side,May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride,And bear me away to the grave."To Palestine hastened the hero so bold,His love she lamented him sore;But scarce had a twelve-month elapsed, when behold!A Baron, all covered with jewels and gold,Arrived at Fair Imogene's door.His treasures, his presents, his spacious domainSoon made her untrue to her vows;He dazzled her eyes, he bewildered her brain,He caught her affection, so light and so vain,And carried her home as his spouse.And now had the marriage been blest by the priest,And revelry now had begun;The tables they groaned with the weight of the feast.Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased,When the bell at the castle tolled—one.Then first with amazement Fair Imogene foundA stranger was placed by her side;His air was terrific, he uttered no sound—He spake not, he moved not—he looked not around,But earnestly gazed on the bride.His visor was closed, and gigantic his height,His armour was sable to view;All pleasure and laughter were hushed at the sight,All the dogs as they eyed him drew back in afright,All the lights in the chamber burned blue.His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay,The guests sat in silence and fear;At length spake the bride, while she trembled, "I pray,Sir Knight, that your helmet aside you would lay,And deign to partake of our cheer."The lady is silent—the stranger complies—His visor he slowly unclosed;Oh God! what a sight met Fair Imogene's eyes!What word can express her dismay and surprise,When a skeleton's head was exposed.All present then uttered a terrified shout,All turned in disgust from the scene;The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out,And sported his eyes and his temples about,While the spectre addressed Imogene."Behold me, thou false one—behold me!" he cried; "Remember Alonzo the Brave!God grant that to punish thy falsehood and pride,My ghost at thy marriage should sit at thy side,Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride,And bear thee away to the grave!"Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound,While loudly she shrieked in dismay;And sank with his prey through the wide yawning ground,Nor ever again was Fair Imogene found,Or the spectre that bore her away.Not long lived the Baron, and none since that timeTo inhabit the castle presume;For chronicles say, that by order sublime,There Imogene suffers the pain of her crime,And mourns her deplorable doom.At midnight four times in each year does her sprite,When mortals in slumber are bound,Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white,Appear in the hall of the skeleton knight,And shriek as he whirls her around.While they drink out of skulls, newly torn from the grave,Dancing around them the spectres are seen;Their liquid is blood, and this horrible staveThey howl: "To the health of Alonzo the Brave,And his consort, the Fair Imogene."Matthew Gregory Lewis (Monk Lewis).
A warrior so bold and a virgin so bright,Conversed as they sat on the green;They gazed on each other with tender delight;Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight,—The maiden's the Fair Imogene.
"And oh!" said the youth, "since to-morrow I goTo fight in a far distant land,Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow,Some other will court you, and you will bestowOn a wealthier suitor your hand!"
"Oh cease these suspicions," Fair Imogene said."Offensive to love and to me;For if you be living, or if you be dead,I swear by the Virgin that none in your stead,Shall husband of Imogene be.
"If e'er by lust or by wealth led astray I forget my Alonzo the Brave,God grant that to punish my falsehood and prideYour ghost at the marriage may sit by my side,May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride,And bear me away to the grave."
To Palestine hastened the hero so bold,His love she lamented him sore;But scarce had a twelve-month elapsed, when behold!A Baron, all covered with jewels and gold,Arrived at Fair Imogene's door.
His treasures, his presents, his spacious domainSoon made her untrue to her vows;He dazzled her eyes, he bewildered her brain,He caught her affection, so light and so vain,And carried her home as his spouse.
And now had the marriage been blest by the priest,And revelry now had begun;The tables they groaned with the weight of the feast.Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased,When the bell at the castle tolled—one.
Then first with amazement Fair Imogene foundA stranger was placed by her side;His air was terrific, he uttered no sound—He spake not, he moved not—he looked not around,But earnestly gazed on the bride.
His visor was closed, and gigantic his height,His armour was sable to view;All pleasure and laughter were hushed at the sight,All the dogs as they eyed him drew back in afright,All the lights in the chamber burned blue.
His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay,The guests sat in silence and fear;At length spake the bride, while she trembled, "I pray,Sir Knight, that your helmet aside you would lay,And deign to partake of our cheer."
The lady is silent—the stranger complies—His visor he slowly unclosed;Oh God! what a sight met Fair Imogene's eyes!What word can express her dismay and surprise,When a skeleton's head was exposed.
All present then uttered a terrified shout,All turned in disgust from the scene;The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out,And sported his eyes and his temples about,While the spectre addressed Imogene.
"Behold me, thou false one—behold me!" he cried; "Remember Alonzo the Brave!God grant that to punish thy falsehood and pride,My ghost at thy marriage should sit at thy side,Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride,And bear thee away to the grave!"
Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound,While loudly she shrieked in dismay;And sank with his prey through the wide yawning ground,Nor ever again was Fair Imogene found,Or the spectre that bore her away.
Not long lived the Baron, and none since that timeTo inhabit the castle presume;For chronicles say, that by order sublime,There Imogene suffers the pain of her crime,And mourns her deplorable doom.
At midnight four times in each year does her sprite,When mortals in slumber are bound,Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white,Appear in the hall of the skeleton knight,And shriek as he whirls her around.
While they drink out of skulls, newly torn from the grave,Dancing around them the spectres are seen;Their liquid is blood, and this horrible staveThey howl: "To the health of Alonzo the Brave,And his consort, the Fair Imogene."
Matthew Gregory Lewis (Monk Lewis).