No! I wouldn't demane myself, Bridget,Like you, in disputin' with men—Would I fly in the face of the blissedApostles, an' Father Maginn?It isn't the talent I'm wantin'—Sure my father, ould Michael McCrary,Made a beautiful last spache and confessionWhen they hanged him in ould Tipperary.So, Bridget Muldoon, howld yer talkin'About Womins' Rights, and all that!Sure all the rights I want is the one right,To be a good helpmate to Pat;For he's a good husband—and niverLays on me the weight of his handExcept when he's far gone in liquor,And I nag him, you'll plase understand.Thrue for ye, I've one eye in mournin',That's becaze I disputed his right,To tak' and spind all my week's earnin'sAt Tim Mulligan's wake, Sunday night.But it's sildom when I've done a washin',He'll ask for more'n half of the pay;An' he'll toss me my share, wid a smile, dear,That's like a swate mornin' in May!Now where, if I rin to convintions,Will be Patrick's home-comforts and joys?Who'll clane up his broghans for Sunday,Or patch up his ould corduroys.If we tak' to the polls, night and mornin',Our dilicate charms will all flee—The dew will be brushed from the rose, dear,The down from the pache—don't you see?We'll soon tak' to shillalahs and shindiesWhin we get to be sovereign electors,And turn all our husbands' hearts from us,Thin what will we do for protectors?We'll have to be crowners an' judges,An' such like ould malefactors,Or they'll make Common Councilmin of us;Thin where will be our char-acters?Oh, Bridget, God save us from votin'!For sure as the blissed sun rolls,We'll land in the State House or Congress,Thin what will become of our sowls?
No! I wouldn't demane myself, Bridget,Like you, in disputin' with men—Would I fly in the face of the blissedApostles, an' Father Maginn?
It isn't the talent I'm wantin'—Sure my father, ould Michael McCrary,Made a beautiful last spache and confessionWhen they hanged him in ould Tipperary.
So, Bridget Muldoon, howld yer talkin'About Womins' Rights, and all that!Sure all the rights I want is the one right,To be a good helpmate to Pat;
For he's a good husband—and niverLays on me the weight of his handExcept when he's far gone in liquor,And I nag him, you'll plase understand.
Thrue for ye, I've one eye in mournin',That's becaze I disputed his right,To tak' and spind all my week's earnin'sAt Tim Mulligan's wake, Sunday night.
But it's sildom when I've done a washin',He'll ask for more'n half of the pay;An' he'll toss me my share, wid a smile, dear,That's like a swate mornin' in May!
Now where, if I rin to convintions,Will be Patrick's home-comforts and joys?Who'll clane up his broghans for Sunday,Or patch up his ould corduroys.
If we tak' to the polls, night and mornin',Our dilicate charms will all flee—The dew will be brushed from the rose, dear,The down from the pache—don't you see?
We'll soon tak' to shillalahs and shindiesWhin we get to be sovereign electors,And turn all our husbands' hearts from us,Thin what will we do for protectors?
We'll have to be crowners an' judges,An' such like ould malefactors,Or they'll make Common Councilmin of us;Thin where will be our char-acters?
Oh, Bridget, God save us from votin'!For sure as the blissed sun rolls,We'll land in the State House or Congress,Thin what will become of our sowls?
Or the triumphs of a quack, by Miss Amanda T. Jones.
I.I'm Barney O'Flannigan, lately from Cork;I've crossed the big watther as bould as a shtork.'Tis a dochther I am and well versed in the thrade;I can mix yez a powdher as good as is made.Have yez pains in yer bones or a throublesome acheIn yer jints afther dancin' a jig at a wake?Have yez caught a black eye from some blundhering whack?Have yez vertebral twists in the sphine av yer back?Whin ye're walkin' the shtrates are yez likely to fall?Don't whiskey sit well on yer shtomick at all?Sure 'tis botherin' nonsinse to sit down and wapeWhin a bit av a powdher ull put yez to shlape.Shtate yer symptoms, me darlins, and niver yez doubtBut as sure as a gun I can shtraighten yez out!Thin don't yez be gravin' no more;Arrah! quit all yer sighin' forlorn;Here's Barney O'Flannigan right to the fore,And bedad! he's a gintleman born!II.Coom thin, ye poor craytures and don't yez be scairt!Have yez batin' and lumberin' thumps at the hairt,Wid ossification, and acceleration,Wid fatty accretion and bad vellication,Wid liver inflation and hapitization,Wid lung inflammation and brain-adumbration,Wid black aruptation and schirrhous formation,Wid nerve irritation and paralyzation,Wid extravasation and acrid sacration,Wid great jactitation and exacerbation,Wid shtrong palpitation and wake circulation,Wid quare titillation and cowld perspiration?Be the powers! but I'll bring all yer woes to complation,Onless yer in love—thin yer past all salvation!Coom, don't yez be gravin' no more!Be quit wid yer sighin' forlorn;Here's the man all yer haling potations to pour,And ye'll prove him a gintleman bornIII.Sure, me frinds, 'tis the wondherful luck I have hadIn the thratement av sickness no matther how bad.All the hundhreds I've cured 'tis not aisy to shpake,And if any sowl dies, faith I'm in at the wake;There was Misthriss O'Toole was tuck down mighty quare,That wild there was niver a one dared to lave her;And phat was the matther? Ye'll like for to hare;'Twas the double quotidian humerous faver.Well, I tuck out me lancet and pricked at a vein,(Och, murther! but didn't she howl at the pain!)Six quarts, not a dhrap less I drew widout sham,And troth she shtopped howlin', and lay like a lamb.Thin for fare sich a method av thratement was risky,I hasthened to fill up the void wid ould whiskey.Och! niver be gravin' no more!Phat use av yer sighin' forlorn?Me patients are proud av me midical lore—They'll shware I'm a gintleman born.IV.Well, Misthriss O'Toole was tuck betther at once,For she riz up in bed and cried: "Paddy, ye dunce!Give the dochther a dhram." So I sat at me aiseA-brewin' the punch jist as fine as ye plaze.Thin I lift a prascription all written down nateWid ametics and diaphoretics complate;Wid anti-shpasmodics to kape her so quiet,And a toddy so shtiff that ye'd all like to thry it.So Paddy O'Toole mixed 'em well in a cup—All barrin' the toddy, and that be dhrunk up;For he shwore 'twas a shame sich good brandy to wasteOn a double quotidian faverish taste;And troth we agrade it was not bad to take,Whin we dhrank that same toddy nixt night—at the wake!Arrah! don't yez be gravin' no more,Wid yer moanin' and sighin' forlorn;Here's Barney O'Flannigan thrue to the coreAv the hairt of a gintleman born!V.There was Michael McDonegan down wid a fitCaught av dhrinkin' cowld watther—whin tipsy—a bit.'Twould have done yer hairt good to have heard him cry outFor a cup of potheen or a tankard av shtout,Or a wee dhrap av whiskey, new out av the shtill;—And the shnakes that he saw—troth 'twas jist fit to kill!It was Mania Pototororum, bedad!Holy Mither av Moses! the divils he had!Thin to scare 'em away we surroonded his bed,Clapt on forty laches and blisthered his head,Bate all the tin pans and set up sich a howl,That the last fiery divil ran off, be me sowl!And we writ on his tombsthone, "He died av a shpellCaught av dhrinkin' cowld watther shtraight out av a well."Now don't yez be gravin' no more,Surrinder yer sighin' forlorn!'Twill be fine whin ye cross to the Stygian shore,To be sint by a gintleman born.VI.There was swate Ellen Mulligan, sazed wid a cough,And ivery one said it would carry her off."Whisht," says I, "thrust to me, now, and don't yez go crazy;If the girlie must die, sure I'll make her die aisy!"So I sairched through me books for the thrue diathesisOf morbus dyscrasia tuburculous phthasis;And I boulsthered her up wid the shtrongest av tonics.Wid iron and copper and hosts av carbonics;Wid whiskey served shtraight in the finest av shtyle,And I grased all her inside wid cod-liver ile!And says she (whin she died), "Och, dochther, me honey,'Tis you as can give us the worth av our money;And begorra, I'll shpake to the divil this dayNot to kape yez a-waitin' too long for yer pay."So don't yez be gravin' no more!To the dogs wid yer sighin' forlorn!Here's dhrugs be the handful and pills be the score,And to dale thim a gintleman born.VII.There was Teddy Maloney who bled at the noseAfther blowin' the fife; and mayhap ye'd suppose'Twas no matther at all; but the books all agradeTwas a serious visceral throuble indade;Wid the blood swimmin' roond in a circle elliptic,The Schneidarian membrane was wantin' a shtyptic;The anterior nares were nadin' a plug,And Teddy himself was in nade av a jug.Thin I rowled out a big pill av sugar av lead,And I dosed him, and shtood him up firm on his head,And says I: "Now, me lad, don't be atin' yer lingth,But dhrink all ye plaze, jist to kape up yer shtringth."Faith! His widdy's a jewel! But whisht! don't ye shpake!She'll be Misthriss O'Flannigan airly nixt wake.Coom, don't yez be gravin' no more!Shmall use av yer sighin' forlorn;For yer widdies, belike, whin their mournin' is o'er,May marry some gintleman born.VIII.Ould Biddy O'Cardigan lived all alone,And she felt mighty nate wid a house av her own—Shwate-smellin' and houlsome, swaped clane wid a rake,Wid two or thray pigs jist for company's sake.Well, phat should she get but the malady vileAv cholera-phobia-vomitus-bile!And she sint straight for me: "Dochther Barney, me lad,"Says she, "I'm in nade av assistance, bedad!Have yez niver a powdher or bit av a pill?Me shtomick's a rowlin'; jist make it kape shtill!""I'm the boy can do that," says I; "hould on a minit,Here's me midicine-chist wid me calomel in it,And I'll make yez a bowle full av rid pipper taySo shtrong ye'll be thinkin' the divil's to pay,"Now don't yez be gravin' no more!Be quit wid yer sighin' forlorn,Wid shtrychnine and vitriol and opium galore,Behould me—a gintleman born.IX.Wid a gallon av rum thin a flip I created,Shwate, wid musthard and shpice; and the poker I hatedAs rid as a guinea jist out av the mint—And into her shtomick, begorra, it wint!Och, niver belave me, but didn't she roar!I'd have kaped her alive wid a quart or two more;And the thray little pigs in that house av her ownWouldn't now be a-shtarvin' and shqualin' alone.And that gossoon, her boy—the shpalpeen altogither!—Would niver have shworn that I murdhered his mither.Troth, for sayin' that same, but I served him a thrick,Whin I met him by chance wid a bit av a shtick.Faith, I dochthered him well till the cure I complated,And, be jabers! there's one man alive that I thrated!So don't yez be gravin' no more;To the dogs wid yez sighin' forlorn!Arrah! knock whin ye're sick at O'Flannigan's door,And die for a gintleman born!—Scribner's Magazine.1880.
I.
I'm Barney O'Flannigan, lately from Cork;I've crossed the big watther as bould as a shtork.'Tis a dochther I am and well versed in the thrade;I can mix yez a powdher as good as is made.Have yez pains in yer bones or a throublesome acheIn yer jints afther dancin' a jig at a wake?Have yez caught a black eye from some blundhering whack?Have yez vertebral twists in the sphine av yer back?Whin ye're walkin' the shtrates are yez likely to fall?Don't whiskey sit well on yer shtomick at all?Sure 'tis botherin' nonsinse to sit down and wapeWhin a bit av a powdher ull put yez to shlape.Shtate yer symptoms, me darlins, and niver yez doubtBut as sure as a gun I can shtraighten yez out!Thin don't yez be gravin' no more;Arrah! quit all yer sighin' forlorn;Here's Barney O'Flannigan right to the fore,And bedad! he's a gintleman born!
II.
Coom thin, ye poor craytures and don't yez be scairt!Have yez batin' and lumberin' thumps at the hairt,Wid ossification, and acceleration,Wid fatty accretion and bad vellication,Wid liver inflation and hapitization,Wid lung inflammation and brain-adumbration,Wid black aruptation and schirrhous formation,Wid nerve irritation and paralyzation,Wid extravasation and acrid sacration,Wid great jactitation and exacerbation,Wid shtrong palpitation and wake circulation,Wid quare titillation and cowld perspiration?Be the powers! but I'll bring all yer woes to complation,Onless yer in love—thin yer past all salvation!Coom, don't yez be gravin' no more!Be quit wid yer sighin' forlorn;Here's the man all yer haling potations to pour,And ye'll prove him a gintleman born
III.
Sure, me frinds, 'tis the wondherful luck I have hadIn the thratement av sickness no matther how bad.All the hundhreds I've cured 'tis not aisy to shpake,And if any sowl dies, faith I'm in at the wake;There was Misthriss O'Toole was tuck down mighty quare,That wild there was niver a one dared to lave her;And phat was the matther? Ye'll like for to hare;'Twas the double quotidian humerous faver.Well, I tuck out me lancet and pricked at a vein,(Och, murther! but didn't she howl at the pain!)Six quarts, not a dhrap less I drew widout sham,And troth she shtopped howlin', and lay like a lamb.Thin for fare sich a method av thratement was risky,I hasthened to fill up the void wid ould whiskey.Och! niver be gravin' no more!Phat use av yer sighin' forlorn?Me patients are proud av me midical lore—They'll shware I'm a gintleman born.
IV.
Well, Misthriss O'Toole was tuck betther at once,For she riz up in bed and cried: "Paddy, ye dunce!Give the dochther a dhram." So I sat at me aiseA-brewin' the punch jist as fine as ye plaze.Thin I lift a prascription all written down nateWid ametics and diaphoretics complate;Wid anti-shpasmodics to kape her so quiet,And a toddy so shtiff that ye'd all like to thry it.So Paddy O'Toole mixed 'em well in a cup—All barrin' the toddy, and that be dhrunk up;For he shwore 'twas a shame sich good brandy to wasteOn a double quotidian faverish taste;And troth we agrade it was not bad to take,Whin we dhrank that same toddy nixt night—at the wake!Arrah! don't yez be gravin' no more,Wid yer moanin' and sighin' forlorn;Here's Barney O'Flannigan thrue to the coreAv the hairt of a gintleman born!
V.
There was Michael McDonegan down wid a fitCaught av dhrinkin' cowld watther—whin tipsy—a bit.'Twould have done yer hairt good to have heard him cry outFor a cup of potheen or a tankard av shtout,Or a wee dhrap av whiskey, new out av the shtill;—And the shnakes that he saw—troth 'twas jist fit to kill!It was Mania Pototororum, bedad!Holy Mither av Moses! the divils he had!Thin to scare 'em away we surroonded his bed,Clapt on forty laches and blisthered his head,Bate all the tin pans and set up sich a howl,That the last fiery divil ran off, be me sowl!And we writ on his tombsthone, "He died av a shpellCaught av dhrinkin' cowld watther shtraight out av a well."Now don't yez be gravin' no more,Surrinder yer sighin' forlorn!'Twill be fine whin ye cross to the Stygian shore,To be sint by a gintleman born.
VI.
There was swate Ellen Mulligan, sazed wid a cough,And ivery one said it would carry her off."Whisht," says I, "thrust to me, now, and don't yez go crazy;If the girlie must die, sure I'll make her die aisy!"So I sairched through me books for the thrue diathesisOf morbus dyscrasia tuburculous phthasis;And I boulsthered her up wid the shtrongest av tonics.Wid iron and copper and hosts av carbonics;Wid whiskey served shtraight in the finest av shtyle,And I grased all her inside wid cod-liver ile!And says she (whin she died), "Och, dochther, me honey,'Tis you as can give us the worth av our money;And begorra, I'll shpake to the divil this dayNot to kape yez a-waitin' too long for yer pay."So don't yez be gravin' no more!To the dogs wid yer sighin' forlorn!Here's dhrugs be the handful and pills be the score,And to dale thim a gintleman born.
VII.
There was Teddy Maloney who bled at the noseAfther blowin' the fife; and mayhap ye'd suppose'Twas no matther at all; but the books all agradeTwas a serious visceral throuble indade;Wid the blood swimmin' roond in a circle elliptic,The Schneidarian membrane was wantin' a shtyptic;The anterior nares were nadin' a plug,And Teddy himself was in nade av a jug.Thin I rowled out a big pill av sugar av lead,And I dosed him, and shtood him up firm on his head,And says I: "Now, me lad, don't be atin' yer lingth,But dhrink all ye plaze, jist to kape up yer shtringth."Faith! His widdy's a jewel! But whisht! don't ye shpake!She'll be Misthriss O'Flannigan airly nixt wake.Coom, don't yez be gravin' no more!Shmall use av yer sighin' forlorn;For yer widdies, belike, whin their mournin' is o'er,May marry some gintleman born.
VIII.
Ould Biddy O'Cardigan lived all alone,And she felt mighty nate wid a house av her own—Shwate-smellin' and houlsome, swaped clane wid a rake,Wid two or thray pigs jist for company's sake.Well, phat should she get but the malady vileAv cholera-phobia-vomitus-bile!And she sint straight for me: "Dochther Barney, me lad,"Says she, "I'm in nade av assistance, bedad!Have yez niver a powdher or bit av a pill?Me shtomick's a rowlin'; jist make it kape shtill!""I'm the boy can do that," says I; "hould on a minit,Here's me midicine-chist wid me calomel in it,And I'll make yez a bowle full av rid pipper taySo shtrong ye'll be thinkin' the divil's to pay,"Now don't yez be gravin' no more!Be quit wid yer sighin' forlorn,Wid shtrychnine and vitriol and opium galore,Behould me—a gintleman born.
IX.
Wid a gallon av rum thin a flip I created,Shwate, wid musthard and shpice; and the poker I hatedAs rid as a guinea jist out av the mint—And into her shtomick, begorra, it wint!Och, niver belave me, but didn't she roar!I'd have kaped her alive wid a quart or two more;And the thray little pigs in that house av her ownWouldn't now be a-shtarvin' and shqualin' alone.And that gossoon, her boy—the shpalpeen altogither!—Would niver have shworn that I murdhered his mither.Troth, for sayin' that same, but I served him a thrick,Whin I met him by chance wid a bit av a shtick.Faith, I dochthered him well till the cure I complated,And, be jabers! there's one man alive that I thrated!So don't yez be gravin' no more;To the dogs wid yez sighin' forlorn!Arrah! knock whin ye're sick at O'Flannigan's door,And die for a gintleman born!
—Scribner's Magazine.1880.
Or, if one prefers to laugh at the experience of a "culled" brother, what can be found more irresistible than this?
BY JULIA PICKERING.
Brother Simon.I say, Brover Horace, I hearn you give Meriky de terriblest beating las' nite. What you and she hab a fallin'-out about?
Brother Horace.Well, Brover Simon, you knows yourself I never has no dejection to splanifying how I rules my folks at home, and 'stablishes order dar when it's p'intedly needed; and 'fore gracious! I leab you to say dis time ef 'twant needed, and dat pow'ful bad.
You see, I'se allers been a plain, straight-sided nigger, an' hain't never had no use for new fandangles, let it be what it mout; 'ligion, polytix, bisness—don't ker what. Ole Horace say: "De ole way am de bes' way, an' you niggers dat's all runnin' teetotleum crazy 'bout ebery new gimerack dat's started, better jes' stay whar you is and let them things alone." But dey won't do it; no 'mount of preaching won't sarve um. And dat is jes' at this partickeler pint dat Meriky got dat dressin'. She done been off to Richmun town, a-livin' in sarvice dar dis las' winter, and Saturday a week ago she camed home ter make a visit. Course we war all glad to see our darter. But you b'l'eve dat gal hadn't turned stark bodily naked fool? Yes, sir; she wa'n't no more like de Meriky dat went away jes' a few munts ago dan chalk's like cheese. Dar she come in wid her close pinned tight enuff to hinder her from squattin', an' her ha'r a-danglin' right in her eyes, jes' for all deworl' like a ram a-looking fru a brush-pile, and you think dat nigger hain't forgot how to talk! She jes' rolled up her eyes ebery oder word, and fanned and talked like she 'spected to die de nex' breff. She'd toss dat mush-head ob hern and talk proper as two dixunarys. 'Stead ob she call-in' ob me "daddy" and her mudder "mammy," she say: "Par and mar, how can you bear to live in sech a one-hoss town as this? Oh! I think I should die." And right about dar she hab all de actions ob an' old drake in a thunder-storm. I jes' stared at dat gal tell I make her out, an' says I to myself: "It's got to come;" but I don't say nothin' to nobody 'bout it—all de same I knowed it had to come fus' as las'. Well, I jes' let her hab more rope, as de sayin' is, tell she got whar I 'cluded war 'bout de end ob her tedder. Dat was on last Sunday mornin', when she went to meetin' in sich a rig, a-puttin' on airs, tell she couldn't keep a straight track. When she camed home she brung kumpny wid her, and, ob course, I couldn't do nuthin' then; but I jes' kept my ears open, an' ef dat gal didn't disquollify me dat day, you ken hab my hat. Bimeby dey all gits to talkin' 'bout 'ligion and de churches, and den one young buck he step up, an' says he: "Miss Meriky, give us your 'pinion 'bout de matter." Wid dat she flung up her head proud as de Queen Victory, an' says she: "I takes no intelligence in sich matters; dey is all too common forme. Baptisses is a foot or two belowmygrade. I 'tends de 'Pisclopian Church whar I resides, an' 'specs to jine dat one de nex' anniversary ob de bishop. Oh! dey does eberything so lovely, and in so much style. I declar' nobody but common folks in de city goes to de Babtiss Church. It made me sick 't my stomuck to see somuch shoutin' and groanin' dis mornin'; 'tis so ungenteel wid us to make so much sarcumlocutions in meetin'." And thar she went a-giratin' 'bout de preacher a-comin' out in a white shirt, and den a-runnin' back and gittin' on a black one, and de people a-jumpin' up and a-jawin' ob de preacher outen a book, and a-bowin' ob deir heads, and a-saying long rigmaroles o' stuff, tell my head fairly buzzed, and were dat mad at de gal I jes' couldn't see nuffin' in dat room. Well, I jes' waited tell the kumpny riz to go, and den I steps up, and says I: "Young folks, you needn't let what Meriky told you 'bout dat church put no change inter you. She's sorter out ob her right mine now, but de nex' time you comes she'll be all right on dat and seberal oder subjicks;" and den dey stared at Meriky mighty hard and goed away.
Well, I jes' walks up to her, and I says: "Darter," says I, "what chu'ch are dat you say you gwine to jine?" And says she, very prompt like: "De 'Pisclopian, pa." And says I: "Meriky, I'se mighty consarned 'bout you, kase I knows your mine ain't right, and I shall jes' hab to bring you roun' de shortest way possible." So I retch me a fine bunch of hick'ries I done prepared for dat 'casion. And den she jumped up, and says she: "What make you think I loss my senses?" "Bekase, darter, you done forgot how to walk and to talk, and dem is sure signs." And wid dat I jes' let in on her tell I 'stonished her 'siderably. 'Fore I were done wid her she got ober dem dying a'rs, and jumped as high as a hopper-grass. Bimeby she 'gins to holler: "Oh, Lordy, daddy! daddy! don't give me no more."
And says I: "You're improvin', dat's a fac'; done got your natural voice back. What chu'ch does you 'long to,Meriky?" And says she, a-cryin': "I don't 'long to none, par."
Well, I gib her anodder leetle tetch, and says I: "What chu'ch does you 'long to, darter?" And says she, all choked like: "I doesn't 'long to none."
Den I jes' make dem hick'ries ring for 'bout five minutes, and den I say: "What chu'ch you 'longs to now, Meriky?" And says she, fairly shoutin': "Baptiss; I'se a deep-water Baptiss." "Berry good," says I. "You don't 'spect to hab your name tuck offen dem chu'ch books?" And says she: "No, sar; I allus did despise dem stuck-up 'Pisclopians; dey ain't got no 'ligion nohow."
Brover Simon, you never see a gal so holpen by a good genteel thrashin' in all your days. I boun' she won't neber stick her nose in dem new-fandangle chu'ches no more. Why, she jes' walks as straight dis morning, and looks as peart as a sunflower. I'll lay a tenpence she'll be a-singin' before night dat good ole hyme she usened to be so fond ob. You knows, Brover Simon, how de words run:
"Baptis, Baptis is my name,My name is written on high;'Spects to lib and die de same,My name is written on high."
"Baptis, Baptis is my name,My name is written on high;'Spects to lib and die de same,My name is written on high."
Brother Simon.Yes, dat she will, I be boun'; ef I does say it, Brover Horace, you beats any man on church guberment an' family displanement ob anybody I ever has seen.
Brother Horace.Well, Brover, I does my bes'. You mus' pray for me, so dat my han's may be strengthened. Dey feels mighty weak after dat conversion I give dat Meriky las' night.—Scribner's Monthly,Bric-à-Brac, 1876.
If it is unadulterated consolation that you need, try
BY MARY KYLE DALLAS.
How do you do, Cornelia? I heard you were sick, and I stepped in to cheer you up a little. My friends often say: "It's such a comfort to see you, Aunty Doleful. You have such a flow of conversation, andareso lively." Besides, I said to myself, as I came up the stairs: "Perhaps it's the last time I'll ever see Cornelia Jane alive."
You don't mean to die yet, eh? Well, now, how do you know? You can't tell. You think you are getting better, but there was poor Mrs. Jones sitting up, and every one saying how smart she was, and all of a sudden she was taken with spasms in the heart, and went off like a flash. Parthenia is young to bring the baby up by hand. But you must be careful, and not get anxious or excited. Keep quite calm, and don't fret about anything. Of course, things can't go on jest as if you were down-stairs; and I wondered whether you knew your little Billy was sailing about in a tub on the mill-pond, and that your little Sammy was letting your little Jimmy down from the veranda-roof in a clothes-basket.
Gracious goodness, what's the matter? I guess Providence'll take care of 'em. Don't look so. You thought Bridget was watching them? Well, no, she isn't. I saw her talking to a man at the gate. He looked to me like a burglar. No doubt she'll let him take the impression of the door-key in wax, and then he'll get in and murder you all. There was a family at Bobble Hill all killed last weekfor fifty dollars. Now, don't fidget so; it will be bad for the baby.
Poor, little dear! How singular it is, to be sure, that you can't tell whether a child is blind, or deaf and dumb, or a cripple at that age. It might beall, and you'd never know it.
Most of them that have their senses make bad use of them though;thatought to be your comfort, if it does turn out to have anything dreadful the matter with it. And more don't live a year. I saw a baby's funeral down the street as I came along.
How is Mr. Kobble? Well, but finds it warm in town, eh? Well, I should think he would. They are dropping down by hundreds there with sun-stroke. You must prepare your mind to have him brought home any day. Anyhow, a trip on these railroad trains is just risking your life every time you take one. Back and forth every day as he is, it's just trifling with danger.
Dear! dear! now to think what dreadful things hang over us all the time! Dear! dear!
Scarlet fever has broken out in the village, Cornelia. Little Isaac Potter has it, and I saw your Jimmy playing with him last Saturday.
Well, I must be going now. I've got another sick friend, and I sha'n't think my duty done unless I cheer her up a little before I sleep. Good-by. How pale you look, Cornelia! I don't believe you have a good doctor. Do send him away and try some one else. You don't look so well as you did when I came in. But if anything happens, send for me at once. If I can't do anything else, I can cheer you up a little.
Mrs. Dallas, who lives in New York City, is a regular correspondent of the New YorkLedger, having taken Fanny Fern's place on that widely circulated paper, is a prominent member of "Sorosis," and her Tuesday evening receptions draw about her some of the brightest society of that cosmopolitan centre.
All these selections are prizes for the long-suffering elocutionist who is expected to entertain his friends with something new, laughter-provoking, and fully up to the mark.
Mrs. Ames, of Brooklyn, known to the public as "Eleanor Kirk," has revealed in her "Thanksgiving Growl" a bit of honest experience, refreshing with its plain Saxon and homely realism, which, when recited with proper spirit, is most effective.
Oh, dear! do put some more chips on the fire,And hurry up that oven! Just my luck—To have the bread slack. Set that plate up higher!And for goodness' sake do clear this truckAway! Frogs' legs and marbles on my moulding-board!What next I wonder? John Henry, wash your face;And do get out from under foot, "Afford moreCream?" Used all you had? If that's the case,Skim all the pans. Do step a little spryer!I wish I hadn't asked so many folksTo spend Thanksgiving. Good gracious! poke the fireAnd put some water on. Lord, how it smokes!I never was so tired in all my life!And there's the cake to frost, and dough to mixFor tarts. I can't cut pumpkin with this knife!Some women's husbands know enough to fixThe kitchen tools; but, for all mine would care,I might tear pumpkin with my teeth. John Henry,If you don't plant yourself on that 'ere chair,I'll set you down so hard that you'll agreeYou're stuck for good. Them cranberries are sour,And taste like gall beside. Hand me some flour,And do fly round. John Henry, wipe your nose!I wonder how 'twill be when I am dead?"How my nose'll be?" Yes, howyour nose'llbe,And howyour back'll be. If that ain't redI'll miss my guess. I don't expect you'll see—You nor your father neither—what I've doneAnd suffered in this house. As true's I liveThem pesky fowl ain't stuffed! The biggest oneWill hold two loaves of bread. Say, wipe that sieve,And hand it here. You are the slowest pokeIn all Fairmount. Lor'! there's Deacon Gubben's wife!She'll be here to-morrow. That pan can soakA little while. I never in my lifeSaw such a lazy critter as she is.If she stayed home, there wouldn't be a thingTo eat. You bet she'll fill up here! "It's riz?"Well, so it has. John Henry! Good king!How did that boy get out? You saw him goWith both fists full of raisins and a pileBehind him, and you never let me know!There! you've talked so much I clean forgot the rye.I wonder if the Governor had to slaveAs I do, if he would be so pesky fresh aboutThanksgiving Day? He'd been in his graveWith half my work. What, get along withoutAn Indian pudding? Well, that would beA novelty. No friend or foe shall sayI'm close, or haven't as much varietyAs other folks. There! I think I see my wayQuite clear. The onions are to peel. Let's see:Turnips, potatoes, apples there to stew,This squash to bake, and lick John Henry!And after that—I really think I'm through.
Oh, dear! do put some more chips on the fire,And hurry up that oven! Just my luck—To have the bread slack. Set that plate up higher!And for goodness' sake do clear this truckAway! Frogs' legs and marbles on my moulding-board!What next I wonder? John Henry, wash your face;And do get out from under foot, "Afford moreCream?" Used all you had? If that's the case,Skim all the pans. Do step a little spryer!I wish I hadn't asked so many folksTo spend Thanksgiving. Good gracious! poke the fireAnd put some water on. Lord, how it smokes!I never was so tired in all my life!And there's the cake to frost, and dough to mixFor tarts. I can't cut pumpkin with this knife!Some women's husbands know enough to fixThe kitchen tools; but, for all mine would care,I might tear pumpkin with my teeth. John Henry,If you don't plant yourself on that 'ere chair,I'll set you down so hard that you'll agreeYou're stuck for good. Them cranberries are sour,And taste like gall beside. Hand me some flour,And do fly round. John Henry, wipe your nose!I wonder how 'twill be when I am dead?"How my nose'll be?" Yes, howyour nose'llbe,And howyour back'll be. If that ain't redI'll miss my guess. I don't expect you'll see—You nor your father neither—what I've doneAnd suffered in this house. As true's I liveThem pesky fowl ain't stuffed! The biggest oneWill hold two loaves of bread. Say, wipe that sieve,And hand it here. You are the slowest pokeIn all Fairmount. Lor'! there's Deacon Gubben's wife!She'll be here to-morrow. That pan can soakA little while. I never in my lifeSaw such a lazy critter as she is.If she stayed home, there wouldn't be a thingTo eat. You bet she'll fill up here! "It's riz?"Well, so it has. John Henry! Good king!How did that boy get out? You saw him goWith both fists full of raisins and a pileBehind him, and you never let me know!There! you've talked so much I clean forgot the rye.I wonder if the Governor had to slaveAs I do, if he would be so pesky fresh aboutThanksgiving Day? He'd been in his graveWith half my work. What, get along withoutAn Indian pudding? Well, that would beA novelty. No friend or foe shall sayI'm close, or haven't as much varietyAs other folks. There! I think I see my wayQuite clear. The onions are to peel. Let's see:Turnips, potatoes, apples there to stew,This squash to bake, and lick John Henry!And after that—I really think I'm through.
PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY.
Mrs. Alice Wellington Rollins, in those interesting articles in theCriticwhich induced me to look further, says:
"We claim high rank for the humor of women because it is almost exclusively of this higher, imaginative type. A woman rarely tells an anecdote, or hoards up a good story, or comes in and describes to you something funny that she has seen. Her humor is like a flash of lightning from a clear sky, coming when you least expect it, when it could not have been premeditated, and when, to the average consciousness, there is not the slightest provocation to humor, possessing thus in the very highest degree that element of surprise which is not only a factor in all humor, but to our mind the most important factor. You tell her that you cannot spend the winter with her because you have promised to spend it with some one else, and she exclaims: 'Oh, Ellen! why were you not born twins!' She has, perhaps, recently built for herself a most charming home, and coming to see yours, which happens to be just a trifle more luxurious and charming, she remarks as she turns away: 'All I can say is, when you want to seesqualor, come and visit me in Oxford Street!' She puts down her heavy coffee-cup of stone-china with its untasted coffee at a little country inn, saying, with a sigh: 'It's no use; Ican't get at it; it's like trying to drink over a stone wall.' She writes in a letter: 'We parted this morning with mutual satisfaction; that is, I suppose we did; I know my satisfaction was mutual enough for two.' She asks her little restless daughter in the most insinuating tones if she would not like to sit in papa's lap and have him tell her a story; and when the little daughter responds with a most uncompromising 'no!' turns her inducement into a threat, and remarks with severity: 'Well, be a good girl, or you will have to!' She complains, when you have kept her waiting while you were buying undersleeves, that you must have bought 'undersleeves enough for a centipede.' You ask how poor Mr. X—— is—the disconsolate widower who a fortnight ago was completely prostrated by his wife's death, and are told in calm and even tones that he is 'beginning to take notice.' You tell her that one of the best fellows in the class has been unjustly expelled, and that the class are to wear crape on their left arms for thirty days, and that you only hope that the President will meet you in the college-yard and ask why you wear it; to all of which she replies soothingly, 'I wouldn't do that, Henry; for the President might tell you not to mourn, as your friend was not lost, onlygone before.' You tell her of your stunned sensation on finding some of your literary work complimented in theNation, and she exclaims: 'I should think so! It must be like meeting an Indian and seeing him put his hand into his no-pocket to draw out a scented pocket-handkerchief, instead of a tomahawk.' Or she writes that two Sunday-schools are trying to do all the good they can, but that each is determined at any cost to do more good than the other."
I have selected several specimens of this higher type of humor.
Mrs. Ellen H. Rollins was pre-eminently gifted in this direction. The humor in her exquisite "New England Bygones" is so interwoven with the simple pathos of her memories that it cannot be detached without detriment to both. But I will venture to select three sketches from
BY E.H. ARR.
Betsy had the reddest hair of any girl I ever knew. It was quite short in front, and she had a way of twisting it, on either temple, into two little buttons, which she fastened with pins. The rest of it she brought quite far up on the top of her head, where she kept it in place with a large-sized horn comb. Her face was covered with freckles, and her eyes, in winter, were apt to be inflamed. She always seemed to have a mop in her hand, and she had no respect for paint. She was as neat as old Dame Safford herself, and was continually "straightening things out," as she called it. Her temper, like her hair, was somewhat fiery; and when her work did not suit her, she was prone to a gloomy view of life. If she was to be believed, things were always "going to wrack and ruin" about the house; and she had a queer way of taking time by the forelock. In the morning it was "going on to twelve o'clock," and at noon it was "going on to midnight."
She kept her six kitchen chairs in a row on one side ofthe room, and as many flatirons in a line on the mantelpiece. Everything where she was had, she said, to "stand just so;" and woe to the child who carried crookedness into her straight lines! Betsy had a manner of her own, and made a wonderful kind of a courtesy, with which her skirts puffed out all around like a cheese. She always courtesied to Parson Meeker when she met him, and said: "I hope to see you well, sir." Once she courtesied in a prayer-meeting to a man who offered her a chair, and told him, in a shrill voice, to "keep his setting," though she was "ever so much obleeged" to him. This was when she was under conviction, and Parson Meeker said he thought she had met with a change of heart. Father Lathem's wife hoped so too, for then "there would be a chance of having some Long-noses and Pudding-sweets left over in the orchard."
It was in time of the long drought, when fire ran over Grayface, and a great comet appeared in the sky. Some of the people of Whitefield thought the world was coming to an end. The comet stayed for weeks, visible even at noon-day, stretching its tail from the zenith far toward the western horizon, and at night staring in at windows with its eye of fire. It was the talk of the people, who pondered over it with a helpless wonder. I recall two Whitefield women as they stood, one morning, bare-armed in a doorway, staring at and chattering about it. One says they "might as well stop work" and "take it easy" while they can. The other thinks the better way is to "keep on a stiddy jog until it comes." They wish they knew "how near it is," and "what the tail means anyway."
Betsy comes along with a pail, which she sets down, and then looks up to the comet. The air is dense with smoke from Grayface, and the dry earth is full of cracks. Betsydeclares that it is "going on two months since there has been any rain." Everything is "going to wrack and ruin," and "if that thing up there should burst, there'll be an end to Whitefield."
Then she catches sight of me listening wide-mouthed, and she tells me that I needn't suppose she is "going home to iron my pink muslin," for she thinks the tail of the comet "has started, and is coming right down to whisk it off from the line." I believe her, and distinctly remember the terror that took hold of me as I rushed home and tore the pink muslin from the line, lest it should be whisked off by the comet's tail.
When the drought broke, a single day's rain washed all the smoke from the air. Directly, the tail of the comet began to fade, and all of a sudden its fiery eye went out of the sky.
Some of the villagers thought it had "burst," others that it had "burned out." Betsy said: "Whatever it was, it was a humbug;" and the wisest man in Whitefield could neither tell whence it came nor whither it went. One thing, however, was certain: Farmer Lathem said that never, since his orchard began to bear, had he gathered such a crop of apples as he did, despite the drought, in the year of the great comet.
BY E.H. ARR.
When I read of Roman matrons I always think of Mrs. Meeker. Her features were marked, and her eyes of deepest blue. She wore her hair combed closely down over herears, so that her forehead seemed to run up in a point high upon her head: Its color was of reddish-brown, and, I am sorry to say, so far as it was seen, it was not her own. It was called a scratch, and Betsy said Mrs. Meeker "would look enough sight better if she would leave it off." Whether any hair at all grew upon Mrs. Meeker's head was a great problem with the village children, and nothing could better illustrate the dignity of this woman than the fact that for more than thirty years the whole neighborhood tried in vain to find out.
BY E.H. ARR.
Every Sunday he preached two long sermons, each with five heads, and each head itself divided. After the fifthly came an application, with an exhortation at its close. The sermons were called very able, or, more often, "strong discourses." I used to think this was because Mrs. Meeker had stitched their leaves fast together. Betsy said they were just like Deacon Saunders's breaking-up plough, "and went tearing right through sin." The parson, when I knew him, was a little slow of speech and dull of sight. He sometimes lost his place on his page. How afraid I used to be lest, not finding it, he should repeat his heads! He always brought himself up with a jerk, however, and sailed safely through to the application.
When that came, Benny almost always gave me a jog with his elbow or foot. Once he stuck a pin into my arm, which made me jump so that Deacon Saunders, who sat behind, waked up with a loud snort. The deacon wasalways talking about the sermons being "powerful in doctrine." When Benny asked Betsy what doctrines were, she told him to "let doctrines alone;" that they were "pizen things, only fit for hardened old sinners."
There are many delightful articles which must be merely alluded to in passing, as the "Old Salem Shops," by Eleanor Putnam, so delicate and delicious that, once read, it will ever be a fragrant memory; Louise Stockton's "Woman in the Restaurant" I want to give you, and Mrs. Barrow's "Pennikitty People;" a chapter from Miss Baylor's "On This Side," and the opening chapters of Miss Phelps's "Old Maids' Paradise;" also the description of "Joppa," by Grace Denio Litchfield, in "Only an Incident." There are others from which it is not possible to make extracts. Miss Woolson's admirable "For the Major," though pathetic, almost tragic, in its underlying feeling, is, at the same time, a story of exquisite humor, from which, nevertheless, not a single sentence could be quoted that would be called "funny." Her work, and that of Frances Hodgson Burnett, as well as that of Miss Phelps and Mrs. Spofford, shine with a silver thread of humor, worked too intimately into the whole warp and woof to be extracted without injuring both the solid material and the tinsel. To appreciate the point and delicacy of their finest wit, you must read the whole story and grasp the entire character or situation.
Mrs. E.W. Bellamy, a Southern lady, published in last year'sAtlantic Monthlya sketch called "At Bent's Hotel," which ought to have a place in this volume; but my publisher says authoritatively that there must be a limitsomewhere; so this gem must be included in—a second series!
There is so much truth as well as humor in the following article, that it must be included. It gives in prose the agonies which Saxe told so feelingly in verse:
BY ISABEL FRANCES BELLOWS.
I am impelled to write this as an awful warning to young men and women who are just entering upon life and its responsibilities. Years ago I thoughtlessly took a false step, which at the time seemed trivial and of little import, but which has since assumed colossal proportions that threaten to overshadow much of the innocent happiness of my otherwise placid existence. What wonder, then, that I try to avert this danger from young and inexperienced minds who in their gay thoughtlessness rush into the very jaws of the disaster, and before they are well aware find they are entrapped for life, as there is no escape for those who have thus brought their doom upon themselves.
I will try and relate how, like the Lady of Shalott, when I first began to gaze upon the world of realities "the curse" came upon me. It was in this wise:
I lived in my youth an almost cloistral life of seclusion and self-absorption, from which I was suddenly shaken by circumstances, and forced to mingle in the busy world; to which, after the first shock, I was not at all averse, but found very interesting, and also—and there was the weight that pulled me down—tolerably amusing. For I met somecurious people, and saw and heard some remarkable things; and as I went among my friends I often used to give an account of my observations, until at last I discovered that wherever I went, and under whatever circumstances (except, of course, at the funeral of a member of the family), I was expected to be amusing! I found myself in the same relation to society that the clown bears to the circus-master who has engaged him—he must either be funny or leave the troupe.
Now, I am unfortunate in having no particular accomplishments. I cannot sing either the old songs or the new; neither am I a performer on divers instruments. I can paint a little, but my paintings do not seem to rouse any enthusiasm in the beholder, nor do they add an inspiring strain to conversation. I can, indeed, make gingerbread and six different kinds of pudding, but I hesitate to mention it, because the cook is far in advance of me in all these particulars, not to mention numerous other ways in which she excels. I have thus but one resource in life; and when I give one or two instances of the humiliation and distress of mind to which I have been subjected on its account I am sure I shall win a sympathizing thought even from those who are more favored by nature, and possibly save a few young spirits from the pain of treading in my footsteps.
In the first place, I am not naturally witty. Epigrams do not rise spontaneously to my lips, and it sometimes takes days and even weeks of consideration after an opportunity of making one has occurred before the appropriate words finally dawn upon me. By that time, of course, the retort is what the Catholics call "a work of supererogation." I perhaps possess a slight "sense of the humorous," whichhas undoubtedly given rise to the fatal demand upon me, but I do not remember ever having been very funny. There never was any danger of my experiencing difficulties like Dr. Holmes on that famous occasion when he was as funny as he could be. I have often been as funny as I could be, but the smallest of buttons on the slenderest of threads never detached itself on my account. I have never had to restrain my humorous remarks in the slightest degree, but on the contrary have sometimes been driven into making the most atrocious jokes, and even puns, because it was evident something of the sort was expected from me—only, of course, something better.
One occurrence of this kind will remain forever fixed in my memory. I was invited to a picnic, that most ghastly device of the human mind for playing at having a good time. At first I had declined to go, but it was represented to me that no less than three families had company for whose entertainment something must be done; that two young and interesting friends of mine just about to be engaged to each other would be simply inconsolable if the plan were given up; and, in short, that I should show by not going an extremely hateful and unseemly spirit—"besides, it wouldn't do to have it without you, my dear," continued my amiable friend, "because you know you are always the life of the party." So I sighed and consented.
The day arrived, and before nine o'clock in the morning the mercury stood at ninety degrees in the shade. The cook overslept herself, and breakfast was so late that William Henry missed the train into the city, which didn't make it pleasanter for any of us. I had made an especially delicate cake to take with me as my share of the feast, andwhile we were at breakfast I heard a crash in the direction of the kitchen, and hastening tremblingly to discover the origin of it I found the cake and the plate containing it in one indistinguishable heap on the floor.
"It slipped between me two hands as if it was alive, bad luck to it," said the cook; "and it was meself that saw the heavy crack in the plate before you set the cake onto it, mum!"
I took cookies and boiled eggs to the picnic.
The wreck had hardly been cleared away before my son and heir appeared in the doorway with a hole of unimagined dimensions in his third worst trousers. His second worst were already in the mending basket, so nothing remained for me but to clothe him in his best suit and wonder all day in which part of them I should find the largest hole when I came home.
Lastly, I had just put on my hat, and was preparing to set forth, warm, tired and demoralized, when my youngest, in her anxiety to bid me a sufficiently affectionate farewell, lost her small balance, and came rolling down-stairs after me. No serious harm was done, but it took nearly an hour before I succeeded in soothing and comforting her sufficiently to be able to leave her, with two brown-paper patches on her head and elbow, in the care of the nurse.
When I arrived late, discouraged and with a headache, at the picnic grounds, I found the assembled company sitting vapidly about among mosquitoes and beetles, already looking bored to death, and I soon perceived that it was expected of me to provide amusement and entertainment for the crowd. I tried to rally, therefore, and proposed a few games, which went off in a spiritless manner enough, andapparently in consequence I began to be assailed with questions and remarks of a reproachful character.
"Don't you feel well to-day?" "Has anything happened?" "You don't seem as lively as usual!" No one took the slightest notice of my explanations, until at last, goaded into desperation by one evil-minded old woman, who asked me if it were true that my husband was involved in the failure of Smith, Jones & Co., I launched out and became wildly and disgracefully silly. Nothing seemed too foolish, too senseless to say if it only answered the great purpose of keeping off the attack of personal questions.
Thus the wretched day wore on, until at last it was time to go home, and the first feeling approaching content was stealing into my weary bosom as I gathered up my basket and shawls, when it was rudely dashed by the following conversation, conducted by two ladies to whom I had been introduced that day. They were standing at a little distance from the rest of the company and from me, and evidently thought themselves far enough away to talk quite loud, so that these words were plainly borne to my ears:
"I hate to see people try to make themselves so conspicuous, don't you?"
"Yes, indeed; and to try to be funny when they haven't any fun in them."
"I can't imagine what Maria was thinking about to call her witty!"
"I know it. I should think such people had better keep quiet when they haven't anything to say. I'm glad it's time to go home. Picnics are such stupid things!"
What more was said I do not know, for I left the spot as quickly as possible, making an inward resolution to avoidall picnics in the future till I should arrive at my second childhood.
I cannot refrain from giving one other little instance of my sufferings from this cause. I was again invited out; this time to a lunch party, specially to meet the friend of a friend of mine. The very morning of the day it was to take place I received a telegram stating that my great-aunt had died suddenly in California. Now people don't usually care much about their great-aunts. They can bear to be chastened in this direction very comfortably; but I did care about mine. She had been very kind to me, and though the width of a continent had separated us for the last ten years her memory was still dear to me.
I sat down immediately to write a note excusing myself from my friend's lunch party, when, just as I took the paper, it occurred to me that it was rather a selfish thing to do. My friend's guests were invited, and her arrangements all made; and as the visit of her friend was to be very short the opportunity of our meeting would probably be lost. So I wrote instead a note to the daughter of my great aunt, and when the time came I went to the lunch party with a heavy heart. I had no opportunity of telling my friend of the sad news I had received that morning, and I suppose I may have been quiet; perhaps I even seemed indifferent, though I tried not to be. I could not have been very successful, however, for I was just going up-stairs to put on my "things" to go home, when I heard this little conversation in the dressing-room:
"It's too bad she wasn't more interesting to-day, but you never can tell how it will be. She will do as she likes, and that's the end of it."
"Yes," said another voice, "I think she is rather a moody person anyway; she won't say a word if she doesn't feel like it."
"'Sh—'sh—here she comes," said another, with the tone and look that told me it was I of whom they were talking.
And so I adjure all youthful and hopeful persons, who have a tendency to be funny, to keep it a profound secret from the world. Indulge in your propensities to any extent in your family circle; keep your immediate relatives, if you like, in convulsions of inextinguishable laughter all the time; but when you mingle in society guard your secret with your life. Never make a joke, and, if necessary, never take one; and by so doing you shall peradventure escape that wrath to come to which I have fallen an innocent victim, and which I doubt not will bring me to an untimely end.—The Independent.
And a few pages from Miss Murfree, who has shown such rare power in her short character sketches.
BY CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK.
The pine-knots flamed and glistened under the great wash-kettle. A tree-toad was persistently calling for rain in the dry distance. The girl, gravely impassive, beat the clothes with the heavy paddle. Her mother shortly ceased to prod the white heaps in the boiling water, and presently took up the thread of her discourse.
"An' 'Vander hev got ter be a mighty suddint man. I hearn tell, when I war down ter M'ria's house ter the quiltin',ez how in that sorter fight an' scrimmage they hed at the mill las' month, he war powerful ill-conducted. Nobody hed thought of hevin' much of a fight—thar hed been jes' a few licks passed atwixt the men thar; but the fust finger ez war laid on this boy, he jes' lit out, an' fit like a catamount. Right an' lef' he lay about him with his fists, an' he drawed his huntin'-knife on some of 'em. The men at the mill war in no wise pleased with him."
"'Pears like ter me ez 'Vander air a peaceable boy enough, ef he ain't jawed at an' air lef' be," drawled Cynthia.
Her mother was embarrassed for a moment. Then, with a look both sly and wise, she made an admission—a qualified admission. "Waal, wimmen—ef—ef—ef they air young an' toler'ble hard-headedyit, air likely ter jawsome, ennyhow. An' a gal oughtn't ter marry a man ez hev sot his heart on bein' lef' in peace. He is apt ter be a mighty sour an' disapp'inted critter."
This sudden turn to the conversation invested all that had been said with new meaning, and revealed a subtle diplomatic intention. The girl seemed deliberately to review it as she paused in her work. Then, with a rising flush: "I ain't studyin' 'bout marryin' nobody," she asserted staidly. "I hev laid off ter live single."
Mrs. Ware had overshot the mark, but she retorted, gallantly reckless: "That's what yer Aunt Malviny useter declar' fur gospel sure, when she war a gal. An' she hev got ten chil'ren, an' hev buried two husbands; an' ef all they say air true, she's tollin' in the third man now. She's a mighty spry, good-featured woman, an' a fust-rate manager, yer Aunt Malviny air, an' both her husbands lef'her suthin—cows, or wagons, or land. An' they war quiet men when they war alive, an' stays whar they air put now that they air dead; not like old Parson Hoodenpyle, what his wife hears stumpin' round the house an' preachin' every night, though she air ez deef ez a post, an' he hev been in glory twenty year—twenty year an' better. Yer Aunt Malviny hed luck, so mebbe 'tain't no killin' complaint fur a gal ter git ter talking like a fool about marryin' an' sech. Leastwise I ain't minded ter sorrow."
She looked at her daughter with a gay grin, which, distorted by her toothless gums and the wreathing steam from the kettle, enhanced her witch-like aspect and was spuriously malevolent. She did not notice the stir of an approach through the brambly tangles of the heights above until it was close at hand; as she turned, she thought only of the mountain cattle and to see the red cow's picturesque head and crumpled horns thrust over the sassafras bushes, or to hear the brindle's clanking bell. It was certainly less unexpected to Cynthia when a young mountaineer, clad in brown jean trousers and a checked homespun shirt, emerged upon the rocky slope. He still wore his blacksmith's leather apron, and his powerful corded hammer-arm was bare beneath his tightly-rolled sleeve. He was tall and heavily built; his sunburned face was square, with a strong lower jaw, and his features were accented by fine lines of charcoal, as if the whole were a clever sketch.
His black eyes held fierce intimations, but there was mobility of expression about them that suggested changing impulses, strong but fleeting. He was like his forge-fire; though the heat might be intense for a time, it fluctuated with the breath of the bellows. Just now he was meeklyquailing before the old woman, whom he evidently had not thought to find here. It was as apt an illustration as might be, perhaps, of the inferiority of strength to finesse. She seemed an inconsiderable adversary, as, haggard, lean, and prematurely aged, she swayed on her prodding-stick about the huge kettle; but she was as a veritable David to this big young Goliath, though she, too, flung hardly more than a pebble at him.
"Laws-a-me!" she cried, in shrill, toothless glee; "ef hyar ain't 'Vander Price! What brung ye down hyar along o' we-uns, 'Vander?" she continued, with simulated anxiety. "Hev that thar red heifer o' ourn lept over the fence agin, an' got inter Pete's corn? Waal, sir, ef she ain't the headin'est heifer!"
"I hain't seen none o' yer heifer, ez I knows on," replied the young blacksmith, with gruff, drawling deprecation. Then he tried to regain his natural manner. "I kem down hyar," he remarked, in an off-hand way, "ter git a drink o' water." He glanced furtively at the girl, then looked quickly away at the gallant red-bird, still gayly parading among the leaves.
The old woman grinned with delight. "Now, ef that ain't s'prisin'," she declared. "Ef we hed knowed ez Lost Creek war a-goin' dry over yander a-nigh the shop, so ye an' Pete would hev ter kem hyar thirstin' fur water, we-uns would hev brung suthin' down hyar ter drink out'n. We-uns hain't got no gourd hyar, hev we, Cynthy?"
"'Thout it air the little gourd with the saft-soap in it," said Cynthia, confused and blushing. Her mother broke into a high, loud laugh.
"Ye ain't wantin' ter gin 'Vander the soap-gourd terdrink out'n, Cynthy! Leastwise, I ain't goin' ter gin it ter Pete. Fur I s'pose ef ye hev ter kem a haffen mile ter git a drink, 'Vander, ez surely Pete'll hev ter kem, too. Waal, waal, who would hev b'lieved ez Lost Creek would go dry nigh the shop, an' yit be a-scuttlin' along like that hyarabouts!" and she pointed with her bony finger at the swift flow of the water.
He was forced to abandon his clumsy pretence of thirst. "Lost Creek ain't gone dry nowhar, ez I knows on," he admitted, mechanically rolling the sleeve of his hammer-arm up and down as he talked.
From Miss Woolson's story of "Anne," I give the pen-portrait of the precise
"Codfish balls for breakfast on Sunday morning, of course," said Miss Lois, "and fried hasty-pudding. On Wednesdays, a boiled dinner. Pies on Tuesdays and Saturdays."
The pins stood in straight rows on her pincushion; three times each week every room in the house was swept, and the floors, as well as the furniture, dusted. Beans were baked in an iron pot on Saturday night, and sweet-cake was made on Thursday. Winter or summer, through scarcity or plenty, Miss Lois never varied her established routine, thereby setting an example, she said, to the idle and shiftless. And certainly she was a faithful guide-post, continually pointing out an industrious and systematic way, which, however, to the end of time, no French-blooded, French-hearted person will ever travel, unless dragged byforce. The villagers preferred their lake trout to Miss Lois's salt codfish, their tartines to her corn-meal puddings, and theireau-de-vieto her green tea; they loved their disorder and their comfort; her bar soap and scrubbing-brush were a horror to their eyes. They washed the household clothes two or three times a year. Was not that enough? Of what use the endless labor of this sharp-nosed woman, with glasses over her eyes, at the church-house? Were not, perhaps, the glasses the consequence of such toil? And her figure of a long leanness also?
The element of real heroism, however, came into Miss Lois's life in her persistent effort to employ Indian servants. Through long years had she persisted, through long years would she continue to persist. A succession of Chippewa squaws broke, stole, and skirmished their way through her kitchen, with various degrees of success, generally in the end departing suddenly at night with whatever booty they could lay their hands on. It is but justice to add, however, that this was not much, a rigid system of keys and excellent locks prevailing in the well-watched household. Miss Lois's conscience would not allow her to employ half-breeds, who were sometimes endurable servants; duty required, she said, that she should have full-blooded natives. And she had them. She always began to teach them the alphabet within three days after their arrival, and the spectacle of a tearful, freshly-caught Indian girl, very wretched in her calico dress and white apron, worn out with the ways of the kettles and the brasses, dejected over the fish-balls, and appalled by the pudding, standing confronted by a large alphabet on the well-scoured table, and Miss Lois by her side with a pointer, was frequent and evenregular in its occurrence, the only change being in the personality of the learners. No one of them had ever gone through the letters, but Miss Lois was not discouraged.
BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT.
I cannot truthfully say that it was a good show; it was somewhat dreary, now that I think of it quietly and without excitement. The creatures looked tired, and as if they had been on the road for a great many years. The animals were all old, and there was a shabby great elephant whose look of general discouragement went to my heart, for it seemed as if he were miserably conscious of a misspent life. He stood dejected and motionless at one side of the tent, and it was hard to believe that there was a spark of vitality left in him. A great number of the people had never seen an elephant before, and we heard a thin, little old man, who stood near us, say delightedly: "There's the old creatur', and no mistake, Ann 'Liza. I wanted to see him most of anything. My sakes alive, ain't he big!"
And Ann 'Liza, who was stout and sleepy-looking, droned out: "Ye-es, there's consider'ble of him; but he looks as if he ain't got no animation."
Kate and I turned away and laughed, while Mrs. Kew said, confidentially, as the couple moved away: "Sheneedn't be a reflectin' on the poor beast. That's Mis' Seth Tanner, and there isn't a woman in Deep Haven nor East Parish to be named the same day with her for laziness. I'm glad she didn't catch sight of me; she'd have talked about nothing for a fortnight." There was a picture of ahuge snake in Deep Haven, and I was just wondering where he could be, or if there ever had been one, when we heard a boy ask the same question of the man whose thankless task it was to stir up the lions with a stick to make them roar. "The snake's dead," he answered, good-naturedly. "Didn't you have to dig an awful long grave for him?" asked the boy; but the man said he reckoned they curled him up some, and smiled as he turned to his lions, that looked as if they needed a tonic. Everybody lingered longest before the monkeys, that seemed to be the only lively creatures in the whole collection....
Coming out of the great tent was disagreeable enough, and we seemed to have chosen the worst time, for the crowd pushed fiercely, though I suppose nobody was in the least hurry, and we were all severely jammed, while from somewhere underneath came the wails of a deserted dog. We had not meant to see the side shows; but when we came in sight of the picture of the Kentucky giantess, we noticed that Mrs. Kew looked at it wistfully, and we immediately asked if she cared anything about going to see the wonder, whereupon she confessed that she never heard of such a thing as a woman's weighing six hundred and fifty pounds; so we all three went in. There were only two or three persons inside the tent, beside a little boy who played the hand-organ.
The Kentucky giantess sat in two chairs on a platform, and there was a large cage of monkeys just beyond, toward which Kate and I went at once. "Why, she isn't more than two thirds as big as the picture," said Mrs. Kew, in a regretful whisper; "but I guess she's big enough; doesn't she look discouraged, poor creatur'?" Kate and I feltashamed of ourselves for being there. No matter if she had consented to be carried round for a show, it must have been horrible to be stared at and joked about day after day; and we gravely looked at the monkeys, and in a few minutes turned to see if Mrs. Kew were not ready to come away, when, to our surprise, we saw that she was talking to the giantess with great interest, and we went nearer.
"I thought your face looked natural the minute I set foot inside the door," said Mrs. Kew; "but you've altered some since I saw you, and I couldn't place you till I heard you speak. Why, you used to be spare. I am amazed, Marilly! Where are your folks?"
"I don't wonder you are surprised," said the giantess. "I was a good ways from this when you knew me, wasn't I? But father, he ran through with every cent he had before he died, and 'he' took to drink, and it killed him after a while; and then I begun to grow worse and worse, till I couldn't do nothing to earn a dollar, and everybody was a-coming to see me, till at last I used to ask 'em ten cents apiece, and I scratched along somehow till this man came round and heard of me; and he offered me my keep and good pay to go along with him. He had another giantess before me, but she had begun to fall away considerable, so he paid her off and let her go. This other giantess was an awful expense to him, she was such an eater; now, I don't have no great of an appetite"—this was said plaintively—"and he's raised my pay since I've been with him because we did so well." ...
"Have you been living in Kentucky long?" asked Mrs. Kew. "I saw it on the picture outside."
"No," said the giantess; "that was a picture the manbought cheap from another show that broke up last year. It says six hundred and fifty pounds, but I don't weigh more than four hundred. I haven't been weighed for some time past. Between you and me, I don't weigh as much as that, but you mustn't mention it, for it would spoil my reputation and might hinder my getting another engagement."
Then they shook hands in a way that meant a great deal, and when Kate and I said good-afternoon, the giantess looked at us gratefully, and said: "I'm very much obliged to you for coming in, young ladies."
"Walk in! Walk in!" the man was shouting as we came away. "Walk in and see the wonder of the world, ladies and gentlemen—the largest woman ever seen in America—the great Kentucky giantess!"