Captain Brown

Miss Tripp for years has lived alone,Without display or fuss or pother.The house she dwells in is her own—She got it from her dying father.Miss T. delights in all good works,She goes to church three times on Sunday,Her daily duty never shirks,Nor keeps her goodness for this one day.She loves to bake and knit and sew,For wider fields she doesn't hanker;Yet for the things they have I knowA-many poor folk have to thank her.The simple life she truly leads,She loves her small domestic labors;In spring she plants her garden seedsAnd shares the product with her neighbors.ByBooks and Authorsnow I seeIn literature she's made a foray:"The Yellow Shadow"—said to be"A crackerjack detective-story."

Miss Tripp for years has lived alone,Without display or fuss or pother.The house she dwells in is her own—She got it from her dying father.

Miss T. delights in all good works,She goes to church three times on Sunday,Her daily duty never shirks,Nor keeps her goodness for this one day.

She loves to bake and knit and sew,For wider fields she doesn't hanker;Yet for the things they have I knowA-many poor folk have to thank her.

The simple life she truly leads,She loves her small domestic labors;In spring she plants her garden seedsAnd shares the product with her neighbors.

ByBooks and Authorsnow I seeIn literature she's made a foray:"The Yellow Shadow"—said to be"A crackerjack detective-story."

Bluff Captain Brown is somewhat queer,But of the sea he's very knowing.I scarcely meet him once a year—He's off in search of whales a-blowing.For fifty years—perhaps for more—He's sailed about upon the ocean.He thinks that if he lived ashoreHe'd die. But this is just a notion.Still when the Captain comes to portWith barrels of oil from whales caught napping,He'll pace the deck, and loudly snort,"This land air is my strength a-sapping."I call this living on hard terms;I wish that I had never seen land;I wish I were a-chasing spermsAbaft the nor'east coast of Greenland."Yet on his latest cruise, 'tween whalesThe Captain wrote a book most charming.It's called—and it is having sales—"Some Practical Advice on Farming."

Bluff Captain Brown is somewhat queer,But of the sea he's very knowing.I scarcely meet him once a year—He's off in search of whales a-blowing.

For fifty years—perhaps for more—He's sailed about upon the ocean.He thinks that if he lived ashoreHe'd die. But this is just a notion.

Still when the Captain comes to portWith barrels of oil from whales caught napping,He'll pace the deck, and loudly snort,"This land air is my strength a-sapping.

"I call this living on hard terms;I wish that I had never seen land;I wish I were a-chasing spermsAbaft the nor'east coast of Greenland."

Yet on his latest cruise, 'tween whalesThe Captain wrote a book most charming.It's called—and it is having sales—"Some Practical Advice on Farming."

Tom Henry Smith I long have knownAlthough he really is a hermit—At least, Tom Henry lives alone,And that's what people always term it.Tom Henry never is annoyedBy fashion's change. He wears a collarConstructed out of celluloid.His hats ne'er cost above a dollar.Tom loves about his room to mess,And cook a sausage at the fireplace.It doesn't serve to help his dress—Grease spatters over the entire place.Tom Henry likes to read a book,And writes a little for the papers,But scarcely ever leaves his nook,And takes no part in social capers.Now Tom has penned a book himself.I hope he'll never feel compunctions!Its title is—it's on my shelf—"Pink Teas and Other Social Functions."

Tom Henry Smith I long have knownAlthough he really is a hermit—At least, Tom Henry lives alone,And that's what people always term it.

Tom Henry never is annoyedBy fashion's change. He wears a collarConstructed out of celluloid.His hats ne'er cost above a dollar.

Tom loves about his room to mess,And cook a sausage at the fireplace.It doesn't serve to help his dress—Grease spatters over the entire place.

Tom Henry likes to read a book,And writes a little for the papers,But scarcely ever leaves his nook,And takes no part in social capers.

Now Tom has penned a book himself.I hope he'll never feel compunctions!Its title is—it's on my shelf—"Pink Teas and Other Social Functions."

I've found the Joneses pleasant folk—I've watched them all their children fetch up.Jones loves to have a quiet smoke—She'sfamous for tomato catchup.Ruth is their eldest—now fifteen,A tallish girl with pleasing features.Each school-day morn she can be seenAs she trips by to meet her teachers.A serious-minded miss, you'd say,Not given much to school-girl follies.She still sometimes will slip awayTo spend a half-hour with her dollies.She's learned to sweep, to sew, to bake—She's quite a helpmate to her mother.On Saturday she loves to takeThe go-cart out with little brother.At writing now she bids for fame—Her book a great success is reckoned."By Right of Flashing Sword," its name,A strong romance of James the Second.

I've found the Joneses pleasant folk—I've watched them all their children fetch up.Jones loves to have a quiet smoke—She'sfamous for tomato catchup.

Ruth is their eldest—now fifteen,A tallish girl with pleasing features.Each school-day morn she can be seenAs she trips by to meet her teachers.

A serious-minded miss, you'd say,Not given much to school-girl follies.She still sometimes will slip awayTo spend a half-hour with her dollies.

She's learned to sweep, to sew, to bake—She's quite a helpmate to her mother.On Saturday she loves to takeThe go-cart out with little brother.

At writing now she bids for fame—Her book a great success is reckoned."By Right of Flashing Sword," its name,A strong romance of James the Second.

Seated one day at the typewriter,I was weary of a's and e's,And my fingers wandered wildly,Over the consonant keys.I know not what I was writing,With that thing so like a pen;But I struck one word astounding—Unknown to the speech of men.It flooded the sense of my verses,Like the break of a tinker's dam,And I felt as one feels when the printerOf your "infinite calm" makes clam.It mixed up s's and x'sLike an alphabet coming to strife.It seemed the discordant echoOf a row between husband and wife.It brought a perplexed meaningInto my perfect piece,And set the machinery creakingAs though it were scant of grease.I have tried, but I try it vainly,The one last word to divineWhich came from the keys of my typewriterAnd so would pass as mine.It may be some other typewriterWill produce that word again,It may be, but only for others—Ishall write henceforth with a pen.

Seated one day at the typewriter,I was weary of a's and e's,And my fingers wandered wildly,Over the consonant keys.

I know not what I was writing,With that thing so like a pen;But I struck one word astounding—Unknown to the speech of men.

It flooded the sense of my verses,Like the break of a tinker's dam,And I felt as one feels when the printerOf your "infinite calm" makes clam.

It mixed up s's and x'sLike an alphabet coming to strife.It seemed the discordant echoOf a row between husband and wife.

It brought a perplexed meaningInto my perfect piece,And set the machinery creakingAs though it were scant of grease.

I have tried, but I try it vainly,The one last word to divineWhich came from the keys of my typewriterAnd so would pass as mine.

It may be some other typewriterWill produce that word again,It may be, but only for others—Ishall write henceforth with a pen.

Very dry, indeed, is the drive from Blackberry to Squash Point,—dry even for New Jersey; and when you remember that it's fifty miles between the two towns, its division into five drinks seems very natural. When you are packed, three on one narrow seat, in a Jersey stage, it is necessary.

A Jersey stage! It is not on record, but when Dante winds up his Tenth "Canter" into the Inferno with—

Each, as his back was laden, came indeedOr more or less contracted; and it seemedAs he who showed most patience in his look,Wailing, exclaimed, "I can endure no more!"

the conclusion that he alluded to a crowded Jersey stage-load is irresistible. A man with long legs, on a back seat, in one of these vehicles, suffers like a snipe shut up in a snuff-box. For this reason, the long-legged man should sit on the front seat with the driver; there, like the hen-turkey who tried to sit on a hundred eggs, he can "spread himself." The writer sat alongside the driver one morning, just at break of day, as the stage drove out of Blackberry: he was a through passenger to Squash Point. It was a very cold morning. In order to break the ice for a conversation, he praised the fine points of an off horse. The driver thawed:

"Ya-as; she's a goot hoss, und I knows how to trive him!" It was evidently a case of mixed breed.

"Where is Wood, who used to drive this stage?"

"He be's lait up mit ter rummatiz sence yesterweek, und I trives for him. So—" I went on reading a newspaper: a fellow-passenger, on a back seat, not having the fear of murdered English on his hands, coaxed the Dutch driver into a long conversation, much to the delight of a very pretty Jersey-blue belle, who laughed so merrily that it was contagious; and in a few minutes, from being like unto a conventicle, we were all as wide awake as one of Christy's audiences. By sunrise we were in excellent spirits, up to all sorts of fun; and when, a little later on, our stage stopped at the first watering-place, the driver found himself the center of a group of treaters to the distilled "juice of apples." It is just as easy to say "apple-jack," and be done with it; but the writer, being very anxious to form a style, cribs from all quarters. The so oft-repeated expression "juice of the grape" has been for a long time on his hands, and, wishing to work it up, he would have done it in this case, only he fears the skepticism of his readers. By courtesy, they may wink at the poetical license of a reporter of a public dinner who calls turnip-juice and painted whisky "juice of the grape," but they would not allow the existence, for one minute, of such application to the liquors of a Jersey tavern. It's out of place.

"Here's a package to leave at Mr. Scudder's, the third house on the left-hand side after you get into Jericho. What do you charge?" asked a man who seemed to know the driver.

"Pout a leffy," answered he. Receiving the silver, he gathered up the reins, and put the square package in the stage-box. Just as he started the horses, he leaned hishead out of the stage, and, looking back to the man who gave him the package, shouted out the question:

"Ter fird haus on ter lef hant out of Yeriko?" The man didn't hear him, but the driver was satisfied. On we went at a pretty good rate, considering how heavy the roads were. Another tavern, more watering, more apple-jack. Another long stretch of sand, and we were coming into Jericho.

"Anypotty know ter Miss Scutter haus?" asked the driver, bracing his feet on the mail-bag which lay in front of him, and screwing his head round so as to face in. There seemed to be a consultation going on inside the stage.

"I don't know nobody o' that name in Jericho. Do you, Lishe?" asked a weather-beaten-looking man, who evidently "went by water," of another one who apparently went the same way.

"There wos ole Square Gow's da'ter, she marri'd a Scudder; moved up here some two years back. Come to think on't, guess she lives nigher to Glass-house," answered Lishe.

The driver, finding he could get no light out of the passengers, seeing a tall, raw-boned woman washing some clothes in front of a house, and who flew out of sight as the stage flew in, handed me the reins as he jumped from his seat and chased the fugitive, hallooing,—

"I'fe got der small pox, I'fe got der—" Here his voice was lost as he dashed into the open door of the house. But in a minute he reappeared, followed by a broom with an enraged woman annexed, and a loud voice shouting out,—

"You git out of this! Clear yourself, quicker! I ain't goin' to have you diseasin' honest folks, ef you have got the smallpox."

"I dells you I'fe got der small pox. Ton't you versteh? der SMALL POX!" This time he shouted it out in capital letters!

"Clear out! I'll call the men-folks ef you don't clear;" and at once she shouted, in a tip-top voice, "Ike, you Ike, where air you?"

Ike made his appearance on the full run.

"W-w-what's the matter, mother?"—MissScudder his mother! I should have been shocked, as I was on my first visit to New Jersey, if I had not had a key to this. "That is a very pretty girl," I said on that occasion to a Jersey-man; "who is she?"—"She's oldMissPerrine's da'ter," was the reply. I looked at the innocent victim of man's criminal conduct with commiseration. "What a pity!" I remarked.

"Not such a very great pity," said Jersey, eying me very severely. "I reckon old man Perrine's got as big a cedar-swamp as you, or I either, would like to own."

"Her grandfather you speak of?"

"No, I don't: I'm talking 'bout her father,—he that married Abe Simm's da'ter and got a power of land by it; and that gal, their da'ter, one of these days will step right into them swamps."

"Oh," I replied, "Mrs.Perrine's daughter," accenting the "Missis!"

"Mussus or Miss, it's all the same in Jersey," he answered.

Knowing this, Ike's appeal was intelligible. To proceed with our story, the driver, very angry by this time, shouted,—

"I dells you oonst more for der last dime. I'fe got der small pox! unt Mishter Ellis he gifs me a leffy to gif der small pox to Miss Scutter; unt if dat vrow is Miss Scutter, I bromised to gif her ter small pox."

It wasMissScudder, and I explained to her that it was asmall boxhe had for her. The affair was soon settled as regarded its delivery, but not as regards the laughter and shouts of the occupants of the old stage-coach as we rolled away from Jericho. The driver joined in, although he had no earthly idea as to its cause, and added not a little to it by saying, in a triumphant tone of voice,—

"I vos pound to gif ter olt voomans ter small pox!"

Up the dusty road from Denver townTo where the mines their treasures hide,The road is long, and many miles,The golden styre and town divide.Along this road one summer's day,There toiled a tired man,Begrimed with dust, the weary wayHe cussed, as some folks can.The stranger hailed a passing teamThat slowly dragged its load along;His hail roused up the teamster old,And checked his merry song."Say-y, stranger!" "Wal, whoap.""Ken I walk behind your loadA spell in this road?""Wal, no, yer can't walk, but gitUp on this seat an' ride; git up hyer.""Nop, that ain't what I want,Fur it's in yer dust, that's like a smudge,I want to trudge, for I desarve it.""Wal, pards, I ain't no hog, an' I don'tOwn this road, afore nor 'hind.So jest git right in the dustAn' walk, if that's the way yer 'clined.Gee up, ger lang!" the driver said.The creaking wagon moved amain,While close behind the stranger trudged,And clouds of dust rose up again.The teamster heard the stranger talkAs if two trudged behind his van,Yet, looking 'round, could only spyA single lonely man.Yet heard the teamster words like theseCome from the dust as from a cloud,For the weary traveler spoke his mind.His thoughts he uttered loud,And this the burden of his talk:"Walk, now, you ——, walk!Not the way you went to Denver?Walk, —— ——! Jest walk!"Went up in the mines an' made yer stake,'Nuff to take yer back to ther stateWhar yer wur born.Whar'n hell's yer corn?Wal, walk, you ——, walk!"Dust in yer eyes, dust in yer nose,Dust down yer throat, and thickOn yer clothes. Can't hardly talk?I know it, but walk, you ——, walk!"What did yer do with all yer tin?Ya-s, blew every cent of it in;Got drunk, got sober, got drunk agin.Wal, walk, ——! Jest walk."What did yer do? What didn't yer do?Why, when ye war thar, yer gold-dust flew,Yer thought it fine to keep op'nin' wine.Now walk, you ——, walk."Stop to drink? What—water?Why, tharWater with you warn't anywhere.'Twas wine, Extra Dry. Oh,You flew high—Now walk, you ——, walk."Chokes yer, this dust? Wal, thatAin't the wust,When yer get back whar theDiggins areNo pick, no shovel, no pan;Wal, yer a healthy man,Walk—jest walk."The fools don't all go to Denver town,Nor do they all from the mines come down.'Most all of us have in our day—In some sort of shape, some kind of way—Painted the town with the old stuff,Dipped in stocks or made some bluff,Mixed wines, old and new,Got caught in wedlock by a shrew,Stayed out all night, tight,Rolled home in the morning light,With crumpled tie and torn clawhammer,'N' woke up next day with a katzenjammer,And walked, oh ——, how we walked.Now, don't try to yank every bun,Don't try to have all the fun,Don't think that you know it all,Don't think real estate won't fall,Don't try to bluff on an ace,Don't get stuck on a pretty face,Don't believe every jay's talk—For if you do you can bet you'll walk!

"Ken I walk behind your loadA spell in this road?""Wal, no, yer can't walk, but gitUp on this seat an' ride; git up hyer.""Nop, that ain't what I want,Fur it's in yer dust, that's like a smudge,I want to trudge, for I desarve it.""Wal, pards, I ain't no hog, an' I don'tOwn this road, afore nor 'hind.So jest git right in the dustAn' walk, if that's the way yer 'clined.Gee up, ger lang!" the driver said.The creaking wagon moved amain,While close behind the stranger trudged,And clouds of dust rose up again.

The teamster heard the stranger talkAs if two trudged behind his van,Yet, looking 'round, could only spyA single lonely man.Yet heard the teamster words like theseCome from the dust as from a cloud,For the weary traveler spoke his mind.His thoughts he uttered loud,And this the burden of his talk:"Walk, now, you ——, walk!Not the way you went to Denver?Walk, —— ——! Jest walk!

"Went up in the mines an' made yer stake,'Nuff to take yer back to ther stateWhar yer wur born.Whar'n hell's yer corn?Wal, walk, you ——, walk!

"Dust in yer eyes, dust in yer nose,Dust down yer throat, and thickOn yer clothes. Can't hardly talk?I know it, but walk, you ——, walk!

"What did yer do with all yer tin?Ya-s, blew every cent of it in;Got drunk, got sober, got drunk agin.Wal, walk, ——! Jest walk.

"What did yer do? What didn't yer do?Why, when ye war thar, yer gold-dust flew,Yer thought it fine to keep op'nin' wine.Now walk, you ——, walk.

"Stop to drink? What—water?Why, tharWater with you warn't anywhere.'Twas wine, Extra Dry. Oh,You flew high—Now walk, you ——, walk.

"Chokes yer, this dust? Wal, thatAin't the wust,When yer get back whar theDiggins areNo pick, no shovel, no pan;Wal, yer a healthy man,Walk—jest walk."

The fools don't all go to Denver town,Nor do they all from the mines come down.'Most all of us have in our day—In some sort of shape, some kind of way—Painted the town with the old stuff,Dipped in stocks or made some bluff,Mixed wines, old and new,Got caught in wedlock by a shrew,Stayed out all night, tight,Rolled home in the morning light,With crumpled tie and torn clawhammer,'N' woke up next day with a katzenjammer,And walked, oh ——, how we walked.

Now, don't try to yank every bun,Don't try to have all the fun,Don't think that you know it all,Don't think real estate won't fall,Don't try to bluff on an ace,Don't get stuck on a pretty face,Don't believe every jay's talk—For if you do you can bet you'll walk!

"Well, sir," said Mr. Hennessy, "that Alaska's th' gr-reat place. I thought 'twas nawthin' but an iceberg with a few seals roostin' on it, an' wan or two hundherd Ohio politicians that can't be killed on account iv th' threaty iv Pawrs. But here they tell me 'tis fairly smothered in goold. A man stubs his toe on th' ground, an' lifts th' top off iv a goold mine. Ye go to bed at night, an' wake up with goold fillin' in ye'er teeth."

"Yes," said Mr. Dooley, "Clancy's son was in here this mornin', an' he says a frind iv his wint to sleep out in th' open wan night, an' whin he got up his pants assayed four ounces iv goold to th' pound, an' his whiskers panned out as much as thirty dollars net."

"If I was a young man an' not tied down here," said Mr. Hennessy, "I'd go there: I wud so."

"I wud not," said Mr. Dooley. "Whin I was a young man in th' ol' counthry, we heerd th' same story about all America. We used to set be th' tur-rf fire o' nights, kickin' our bare legs on th' flure an' wishin' we was in New York, where all ye had to do was to hold ye'er hat an' th' goold guineas'd dhrop into it. An' whin I got to be a man, I come over here with a ham and a bag iv oatmeal, as sure that I'd return in a year with money enough to dhrive me own ca-ar as I was that me name was Martin Dooley. An' that was a cinch.

"But, faith, whin I'd been here a week, I seen thatthere was nawthin' but mud undher th' pavement,—I larned that be means iv a pick-axe at tin shillin's th' day,—an' that, though there was plenty iv goold, thim that had it were froze to it; an' I come west, still lookin' f'r mines. Th' on'y mine I sthruck at Pittsburgh was a hole f'r sewer pipe. I made it. Siven shillin's th' day. Smaller thin New York, but th' livin' was cheaper, with Mon'gahela rye at five a throw, put ye'er hand around th' glass.

"I was still dreamin' goold, an' I wint down to Saint Looey. Th' nearest I come to a fortune there was findin' a quarther on th' sthreet as I leaned over th' dashboord iv a car to whack th' off mule. Whin I got to Chicago, I looked around f'r the goold mine. They was Injuns here thin. But they wasn't anny mines I cud see. They was mud to be shovelled an' dhrays to be dhruv an' beats to be walked. I choose th' dhray; f'r I was niver cut out f'r a copper, an' I'd had me fill iv excavatin'. An' I dhruv th' dhray till I wint into business.

"Me experyence with goold minin' is it's always in th' nex' county. If I was to go to Alaska, they'd tell me iv th' finds in Seeberya. So I think I'll stay here. I'm a silver man, annyhow; an' I'm contint if I can see goold wanst a year, whin some prominent citizen smiles over his newspaper. I'm thinkin' that ivry man has a goold mine undher his own dure-step or in his neighbor's pocket at th' farthest."

"Well, annyhow," said Mr. Hennessy, "I'd like to kick up th' sod, an' find a ton iv gold undher me fut."

"What wud ye do if ye found it?" demanded Mr. Dooley.

"I—I dinnaw," said Mr. Hennessy, whose dreaming had not gone this far. Then, recovering himself, he exclaimed with great enthusiasm, "I'd throw up me job an'—an' live like a prince."

"I tell ye what ye'd do," said Mr. Dooley. "Ye'd come back here an' sthrut up an' down th' sthreet with ye'er thumbs in ye'er armpits; an' ye'd dhrink too much, an' ride in sthreet ca-ars. Thin ye'd buy foldin' beds an' piannies, an' start a reel estate office. Ye'd be fooled a good deal an' lose a lot iv ye'er money, an' thin ye'd tighten up. Ye'd be in a cold fear night an' day that ye'd lose ye'er fortune. Ye'd wake up in th' middle iv th' night, dhreamin' that ye was back at th' gas-house with ye'er money gone. Ye'd be prisidint iv a charitable society. Ye'd have to wear ye'er shoes in th' house, an' ye'er wife'd have ye around to rayciptions an' dances. Ye'd move to Mitchigan Avnoo, an' ye'd hire a coachman that'd laugh at ye. Ye'er boys'd be joods an' ashamed iv ye, an' ye'd support ye'er daughters' husbands. Ye'd rackrint ye'er tinants an' lie about ye'er taxes. Ye'd go back to Ireland on a visit, an' put on airs with ye'er cousin Mike. Ye'd be a mane, close-fisted, onscrupulous ol' curmudgeon; an', whin ye'd die, it'd take haf ye'er fortune f'r rayqueems to put ye r-right. I don't want ye iver to speak to me whin ye get rich, Hinnissy."

"I won't," said Mr. Hennessy.

Say, will she treat me white, or throw me down,Give me the glassy glare, or welcome hand,Shovel me dirt, or treat me on the grand,Knife me, or make me think I own the town?Will she be on the level, do me brown,Or will she jolt me lightly on the sand,Leaving poor Willie froze to beat the band,Limp as your grandma's Mother Hubbard gown?I do not know, nor do I give a whoop,But this I know: if she is so inclinedShe can come play with me on our back stoop,Even in office hours, I do not mind—In fact I know I'm nice and good and readyTo get an option on her as my steady.

I do not know, nor do I give a whoop,But this I know: if she is so inclinedShe can come play with me on our back stoop,Even in office hours, I do not mind—In fact I know I'm nice and good and readyTo get an option on her as my steady.

I sometimes think that I am not so good,That there are foxier, warmer babes than I,That Fate has given me the calm go-byAnd my long suit is sawing mother's wood.Then would I duck from under if I could,Catch the hog special on the jump and flyTo some Goat Island planned by destinyFor dubs and has-beens and that solemn brood.But spite of bug-wheels in my cocoa tree,The trade in lager beer is still a-humming,A schooner can be purchased for a VOr even grafted if you're fierce at bumming.My finish then less clearly do I see,For lo! I have another think a-coming.

Last night I tumbled off the water cart—It was a peacherino of a drunk;I put the cocktail market on the punkAnd tore up all the sidewalks from the start.The package that I carried was a tartThat beat Vesuvius out for sizz and spunk,And when they put me in my little bunkYou couldn't tell my jag and me apart.Oh! would I were the ice man for a space,Then might I cool this red-hot cocoanut,Corral the jim-jam bugs that madly raceAround the eaves that from my forehead jut—Or will a carpenter please come insteadAnd build a picket fence around my head?

Oh! would I were the ice man for a space,Then might I cool this red-hot cocoanut,Corral the jim-jam bugs that madly raceAround the eaves that from my forehead jut—Or will a carpenter please come insteadAnd build a picket fence around my head?

Life is a combination hard to buck,A proposition difficult to beat,E'en though you get there Zaza with both feet,In forty flickers, it's the same hard luck,And you are up against it nip and tuck,Shanghaied without a steady place to eat,Guyed by the very copper on your beatWho lays to jug you when you run amuck.O Life! you give Yours Truly quite a pain.On the T square I do not like your style;For you are playing favorites againAnd you have got me handicapped a mile.Avaunt, false Life, with all your pride and pelf:Go take a running jump and chase yourself!

O mommer! wasn't Mame a looty tootLast night when at the Rainbow Social ClubShe did the bunny hug with every scrubFrom Hogan's Alley to the Dutchman's Boot,While little Willie, like a plug-eared mute,Papered the wall and helped absorb the grub,Played nest-egg with the benches like a dubWhen hot society was easy fruit!Am I a turnip? On the strict Q.T.,Why do my Trilbys get so ossified?Why am I minus when it's up to meTo brace my Paris Pansy for a glide?Once more my hoodoo's thrown the game and scoredA flock of zeros on my tally-board.

Am I a turnip? On the strict Q.T.,Why do my Trilbys get so ossified?Why am I minus when it's up to meTo brace my Paris Pansy for a glide?Once more my hoodoo's thrown the game and scoredA flock of zeros on my tally-board.

At noon to-day Murphy and Mame were tied.A gospel huckster did the referee,And all the Drug Clerks' Union loped to seeThe queen of Minnie Street become a bride,And that bad actor, Murphy, by her side,Standing where Yours Despondent ought to be.I went to hang a smile in front of me,But weeps were in my glimmers when I tried.The pastor murmured, "Two and two make one,"And slipped a sixteen K on Mamie's grab;And when the game was tied and all was doneThe guests shied footwear at the bridal cab,And Murphy's little gilt-roofed brother JimSnickered, "She's left her happy home for him."

(Jud Brownin, when visiting New York, goes to hear Rubinstein, and gives the following description of his playing.)

Well, sir, he had the blamedest, biggest, catty-cornerdest pianner you ever laid eyes on; somethin' like a distracted billiard-table on three legs. The lid was hoisted, and mighty well it was. If it hadn't been, he'd 'a' tore the entire inside clean out and shattered 'em to the four winds of heaven.

Played well?You bet he did; but don't interrupt me. When he first sit down he 'peared to keer mighty little 'bout playin' and wisht he hadn't come. He tweedle-leedled a little on a treble, and twoodle-oodled some on the base,—just foolin' and boxin' the thing's jaws for bein' in his way. And I says to a man sittin' next to me, says I, "What sort of fool playin' is that?" And he says, "Heish!" But presently his hands commenced chasin' one another up and down the keys, like a passel of rats scamperin' through a garret very swift. Parts of it was sweet, though, and reminded me of a sugar squirrel turnin' the wheel of a candy cage.

"Now," I says to my neighbor, "he's showin' off. He thinks he's a-doin' of it, but he ain't got no idee, no plan of nothin'. If he'd play me a tune of some kind or other, I'd—"

But my neighbor says, "Heish!" very impatient.

I was just about to git up and go home, bein' tired ofthat foolishness, when I heard a little bird waking up away off in the woods and call sleepy-like to his mate, and I looked up and see that Rubin was beginning to take some interest in his business, and I sit down again. It was the peep of day. The light came faint from the east, the breezes blowed gentle and fresh, some more birds waked up in the orchard, then some more in the trees near the house, and all begun singin' together. People began to stir, and the gal opened the shutters. Just then the first beam of the sun fell upon the blossoms a leetle more, and it techt the roses on the bushes, and the next thing it was broad day; the sun fairly blazed, the birds sung like they'd split their little throats; all the leaves was movin', and flashin' diamonds of dew, and the whole wide world was bright and happy as a king. Seemed to me like there was a good breakfast in every house in the land, and not a sick child or woman anywhere. It was a fine mornin'.

And I says to my neighbor, "That's music, that is."

But he glared at me like he'd like to cut my throat.

Presently the wind turned; it begun to thicken up, and a kind of gray mist came over things; I got low-spirited directly. Then a silver rain began to fall. I could see the drops touch the ground; some flashed up like long pearl ear-rings, and the rest rolled away like round rubies. It was pretty, but melancholy. Then the pearls gathered themselves into long strands and necklaces, and then they melted into thin silver streams, running between golden gravels, and then the streams joined each other at the bottom of the hill, and made a brook that flowed silent, except that you could kinder see the music, especially when the bushes on the banks moved as the music went along down the valley. I could smell the flowers in the meadow. But the sun didn't shine, nor the birds sing: it was a foggy day, but not cold.

The most curious thing was the little white angel-boy, like you see in pictures, that run ahead of the music brook and led it on, and on, away out of the world, where no man ever was, certain, I could see the boy just as plain as I see you. Then the moonlight came, without any sunset, and shone on the graveyards, where some few ghosts lifted their hands and went over the wall, and between the black, sharp-top trees splendid marble houses rose up, with fine ladies in the lit-up windows, and men that loved 'em, but could never get anigh 'em, who played on guitars under the trees, and made me that miserable I could have cried, because I wanted to love somebody, I don't know who, better than the men with the guitars did.

Then the sun went down, it got dark, the wind moaned and wept like a lost child for its dead mother, and I could 'a' got up then and there and preached a better sermon than any I ever listened to. There wasn't a thing in the world left to live for, not a blame thing, and yet I didn't want the music to stop one bit. It was happier to be miserable than to be happy without being miserable. I couldn't understand it. I hung my head and pulled out my handkerchief, and blowed my nose loud to keep me from cryin'. My eyes is weak anyway; I didn't want anybody to be a-gazin' at me a-sniv'lin', and it's nobody's business what I do with my nose. It's mine. But some several glared at me mad as blazes. Then, all of a sudden, old Rubin changed his tune. He ripped out and he rared, he tipped and he tared, he pranced and he charged like the grand entry at a circus. 'Peared to me that all the gas in the house was turned on at once, things got so bright, and I hilt up my head, ready to look any man in the face, and not afraid of nothin'. It was a circus and a brass band and a big ball all goin' on at the same time. He lit into them keys like a thousand of brick; he give 'emno rest day or night; he set every livin' joint in me a-goin', and, not bein' able to stand it no longer, I jumped spang onto my seat, and jest hollered,—

"Go it, my Rube!"

Every blame man, woman and child in the house riz on me, and shouted, "Put him out! put him out!"

"Put your great-grandmother's grizzly gray greenish cat into the middle of next month!" I says. "Tech me if you dare! I paid my money, and you jest come anigh me!"

With that some several policemen run up, and I had to simmer down. But I would 'a' fit any fool that laid hands on me, for I was bound to hear Ruby out or die.

He had changed his tune again. He hop-light ladies and tip-toed fine from end to end of the key-board. He played soft and low and solemn. I heard the church bells over the hills. The candles of heaven was lit, one by one; I saw the stars rise. The great organ of eternity began to play from the world's end to the world's end, and all the angels went to prayers.... Then the music changed to water, full of feeling that couldn't be thought, and began to drop—drip, drop—drip, drop, clear and sweet, like tears of joy falling into a lake of glory. It was sweeter than that. It was as sweet as a sweet-heart sweetened with white sugar mixed with powdered silver and seed-diamonds. It was too sweet. I tell you the audience cheered. Rubin he kinder bowed, like he wanted to say, "Much obleeged, but I'd rather you wouldn't interrup' me."

He stopped a moment or two to catch breath. Then he got mad. He run his fingers through his hair, he shoved up his sleeve, he opened his coat-tails a leetle further, he drug up his stool, he leaned over, and, sir, he just went for that old pianner. He slapped her face, he boxed her jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched her ears, and hescratched her cheeks, until she fairly yelled. He knocked her down and he stamped on her shameful. She bellowed like a bull, she bleated like a calf, she howled like a hound, she squealed like a pig, she shrieked like a rat, andthenhe wouldn't let her up. He run a quarter stretch down the low grounds of the base, till he got clean in the bowels of the earth, and you heard thunder galloping after thunder through the hollows and caves of perdition; and then he fox-chased his right hand with his left till he got 'way out of the treble into the clouds, whar the notes was finer than the p'ints of cambric needles, and you couldn't hear nothin' but the shadders of 'em. Andthenhe wouldn't let the old pianner go. He for'ard two'd, he crost over first gentleman, he chassade right and left, back to your places, he all hands'd aroun', ladies to the right, promenade all, in and out, here and there, back and forth, up and down, perpetual motion, double twisted and turned and tacked and tangled into forty-eleven thousand double bow-knots.

By jinks! it was a mixtery. And then he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He fetcht up his right wing, he fetcht up his left wing, he fetcht up his center, he fetcht up his reserves. He fired by file, he fired by platoons, by company, by regiments, and by brigades. He opened his cannon,—siege-guns down thar, Napoleons here, twelve-pounders yonder,—big guns, little guns, middle-sized guns, round shot, shells, shrapnels, grape, canister, mortar, mines and magazines, every livin' battery and bomb a-goin' at the same time. The house trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, the floor come up, the ceilin' come down, the sky split, the ground rocked—heavens and earth, creation, sweet potatoes, Moses, ninepences, glory, tenpenny nails, Samson in a 'simmon-tree, Tump Tompson in a tumbler-cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-ruddle-uddle-uddle-uddle—raddle-addle-eedle—riddle-iddle-iddle-iddle—reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle—p-r-r-r-rlank! Bang!!! lang! perlang! p-r-r-r-r-r!! Bang!!!!

With that bang! he lifted himself bodily into the a'r, and he come down with his knees, his ten fingers, his ten toes, his elbows, and his nose, striking every single solitary key on the pianner at the same time. The thing busted and went off into seventeen hundred and fifty-seven thousand five hundred and forty-two hemi-demi-semi-quivers, and I know'd no mo'.

When I come to, I were under ground about twenty foot, in a place they call Oyster Bay, treatin' a Yankee that I never laid eyes on before and never expect to ag'in. Day was breakin' by the time I got to the St. Nicholas Hotel, and I pledge you my word I did not know my name. The man asked me the number of my room, and I told him, "Hot music on the half-shell for two!"

If Poe from Pike The Raven stole,As his accusers say,Then to embody Adam's soul,Godplagiarisedthe clay.

Sweetes' li'l honey in all dis lan',Come erlong yer an' gimme yo' han',Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Cawn all shucked an' de barn flo' clear,Come erlong, come erlong, come erlong, my dear,Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Fiddles dey callin' us high an' fine,"Time fer de darnsin', come an' jine,"Go lightly, gal, go lightly!My pooty li'l honey, but you is sweet!An' hit's clap yo' han's an' shake yo' feet,Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Hit's cut yo' capers all down de line,Den mek yo' manners an' tiptoe fine,Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Oh, hit's whu'll yo' pardners roun' an' roun',Twel you hyst dey feet clean off de groun',Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Oh, hit's tu'n an' twis' all roun' de flo',Fling out yo' feet behime, befo',Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Gre't Lan' o' Goshen! but you is spry!Kain't none er de urr gals spring so high,Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Oh, roll yo' eyes an' wag yo' haidAn' shake yo' bones twel you nigh most daid,Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Doan' talk ter me 'bout gittin' yo' bref,Gwine darnse dis out ef hit cause my def!Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Um-humph! done darnse all de urr folks down!Skip erlong, honey, jes' one mo' roun'!Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Fiddles done played twel de strings all break!Come erlong, honey, jes' one mo' shake,Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Now teck my arm an' perawd all roun',So dey see whar desho'-nuffdarnsers foun',Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Den gimme yo' han' an' we quit dish yer,Come erlong, come erlong, come erlong, my dear,Go lightly, gal, go lightly!

Fiddles dey callin' us high an' fine,"Time fer de darnsin', come an' jine,"Go lightly, gal, go lightly!My pooty li'l honey, but you is sweet!An' hit's clap yo' han's an' shake yo' feet,Go lightly, gal, go lightly!

Hit's cut yo' capers all down de line,Den mek yo' manners an' tiptoe fine,Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Oh, hit's whu'll yo' pardners roun' an' roun',Twel you hyst dey feet clean off de groun',Go lightly, gal, go lightly!

Oh, hit's tu'n an' twis' all roun' de flo',Fling out yo' feet behime, befo',Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Gre't Lan' o' Goshen! but you is spry!Kain't none er de urr gals spring so high,Go lightly, gal, go lightly!

Oh, roll yo' eyes an' wag yo' haidAn' shake yo' bones twel you nigh most daid,Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Doan' talk ter me 'bout gittin' yo' bref,Gwine darnse dis out ef hit cause my def!Go lightly, gal, go lightly!

Um-humph! done darnse all de urr folks down!Skip erlong, honey, jes' one mo' roun'!Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Fiddles done played twel de strings all break!Come erlong, honey, jes' one mo' shake,Go lightly, gal, go lightly!

Now teck my arm an' perawd all roun',So dey see whar desho'-nuffdarnsers foun',Go lightly, gal, go lightly!Den gimme yo' han' an' we quit dish yer,Come erlong, come erlong, come erlong, my dear,Go lightly, gal, go lightly!

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