"Scotch for me," said Radcliffe, and the others said that would suit them to a fine point.
But I don't believe they would have caught me so easily if cares of state had not occupied my mind—you see I was sitting on a new scientific joke, and waiting for it to hatch.
Talking of science, I've found that it pays a man to keep right up with the times.
By observing small things he is able to increase his reputation among those who read less.
Let me prove this to you.
When that eclipse of the sun came I was down among the mountains of North Carolina.
The district was a wild one, and they made considerable moonshine whiskey round there, too; but as I received no salary from the government for looking after these mountain-dew men, I shut my eyes to their little game.
You see I hadn't forgotten all the trouble they gave my friend Bill Nye when he retired to these North Carolina wilds to make up his funny books.
It occured to me that I might have some fun with the ignorant darkies over the eclipse.
So, meeting old Uncle Lisha the day before, I told him how his chickens would all go to roost before noon on the following day.
Of course the old fellow was incredulous, and just as I supposed, circulated my prophecy round.
Well, now, I'm telling you there were some pretty badly scared darkies in that section when it began to get dark about eleven o'clock.
And the fowls perched high all right.
I never passed a cabin after that, but every inmate ran to the door and gaped after me in dumb admiration.
It was a great temptation to pose as a wizard, but I was wise enough to forbear.
Something sudden sometimes happens to wizards and other objectionable people down in that country.
Why, I remember one day seeing a poor woman sitting outside her door, and crying while she dipped snuff.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"They's took my old man an' rided him on a rail," she said.
"That's bad."
"An' then they done tarred and feathered him."
She wept copiously at the memory.
My tender heart beat in sympathy with her.
"My good woman, I'm really sorry for you. It must have been terrible hard," I said.
"It were," she cried. "They done took my best feather bed."
But to return to the eclipse.
A few days later I ran across Uncle Lisha again, and he took his hat off very humbly.
"Well, did it all happen as I said, uncle?"
"'Deed an' it did, sah, jest to de letter. 'Scuse me, but did I understan' you to say, sah, dat you knowed all about dat ting for a long time back dat it would happen?"
"Why, yes, quite a while, uncle," I replied.
"Mout it a ben as much as a yeah, sah?"
"Oh, two of them I'm certain," I replied, carelessly.
"Dat am shore a powerful queer ting," said theold man, scratching his head in perplexity as I rode on, "case, you see, sah, dem chickens waunt eben hatched den, and yet you knowed it all. Powerful strange."
I might have talked all week and that old fellow would never have understood.
I like to go househunting with my wife.
Of course we keep on living in the same place, but then she has a periodical desire to better our condition.
The last time we were out a relative of hers who has always lived in Jersey, mistress of her own lawn and with plenty of room to swing a cat in her house, accompanied us.
It was very funny.
That dear little woman gave the heartache to many a lordly janitor before we wound up the day.
Her remarks were so refreshing.
Now, at the very first place we examined I heard her give utterance to a genuinely feminine squeal of delight.
"Why, isn't this just too cute for anything—thedearest little linen closet I ever saw. Now, this is what I call sensible," she said, enthusiastically.
"Excuse me," said the agent, coldly, "but that is not a linen closet, lady; that's the dining-room."
After that I watched Mrs. Suburb eagerly, for somehow I conceived the idea that she was in for a good time.
At another place there were limited accommodations, and when my wife talked of putting Aleck to sleep in the parlor on a wire couch, I entered my solemn protest.
"The boycott is a relic of barbarism," I declared; and that settled our chances of taking that flat.
Talking about flats and moving, puts me in mind of the long ago, when I was a merry, light-hearted bachelor, not caring a rap what the day brought forth.
Little I bothered myself about the price of spring bonnets or how the crops promised.
Each day was sufficient unto itself, and brought its joys and difficulties, but the tatler never weighed heavily.
I've raised a family since, and my credit is still good.
Thank you, I appreciate your encouragement, but one experience will probably be quite sufficient for me.
Now, during these halcyon days of yore, I remember there was one dear old lady who seemed to take the greatest interest in my welfare.
I often met her in the street, and she would even stop to chat with me at times.
One day I was looking in at a shop window.
I had a cigar box under my arm.
Just then, as luck would have it, the old lady came up and greeted me.
She gave me a reproachful look.
"I'm afraid you are smoking too much for your health. I never see you now, without a cigar box under your arm," she said, in her motherly way.
"Oh, it isn't that, I assure you," I hastened to declare, "but the fact is, I'm moving again."
And speaking of those days, puts me in mind of a little thing that happened to me about that time.
I was working as a reporter then, and the managing editor complained that my material was quite too far stretched.
That is, he said I cost them too much money intelegraphic tools, and desired me to condense the details.
They could do all the romancing at the office, for we had men especially employed for that purpose, who, given a few facts for a foundation, could build up the most astonishing account imaginable.
Indeed, I've known them to describe things better than the fellow who was on the spot could have done.
That's genius, you understand.
Well, I laid low and awaited my opportunity to boil the next account down in a manner certain to please this grand mogul.
The opportunity came.
There was some sort of explosion on a big vessel over at Philadelphia, and as our regular correspondent there chanced to be ill, I was packed off to get special news.
"Be as quick as you can. Wire us hard, boiled-down facts as soon as you get hold of 'em. Leave details to the office. Perhaps you'll be in time for the noon edition."
That's what the managing editor said.
I spared no expense in hurrying to the spot, and before eleven-twenty sent this brief telegram:
"Terrific explosion. Man-o'-war. Boiler empty. Engineer full. Funeral to-morrow.Niblo."
"Terrific explosion. Man-o'-war. Boiler empty. Engineer full. Funeral to-morrow.
Niblo."
It would be hard to beat that for brevity. I believe in brevity, even when a man is proposing to his best girl.
Now there has always been considerable curiosity manifested by my friends, who know my humorous instincts, to know just how I ever popped the question.
They declare, the chances are, I must have done it in a joke.
Of course this doesn't refer to any lack of estimable qualities in my wife, but simply that a fellow of my character could not possibly do anything seriously.
I have determined to relate the facts in the case, and they can judge for themselves.
You see, we had been down to the seashore together, and, for the life of me, I couldn't muster up courage enough to ask her the all-important question.
She gave me an opening at last, though perhaps no one but a born humorist could have seen it.
Out on the rocks stood a gay old lighthouse, which seemed to possess unusual interest in the eyes of the young woman.
"It must be a lovely thing to live in such a weird place. Sometime, before I die, I hope I may keep a light house. I believe it would be lovely, don't you?" she said.
Now, to tell the truth, the idea never occured to me before, but when she spoke of it I saw my chance.
"My dear girl," I said, "if I had only known that you cared for light house-keeping, I would have spoken before this. Let us discuss the matter; what's the use waiting until long in the future, when the opportunity presents itself now."
And the result was, we pooled our issues, hired a couple of rooms, bribed a minister to say a few words, and kept house in a light way.
Since that time we've had our ups and downs.
But I've never felt toward my better half as that old bear Podgers must, with regard to the partner of his joys and woes.
He rode down with me in the elevator yesterday.
We had been having a little domestic trouble, and the lady in the kitchen had wafted herself away.
This sometimes makes a man sad, especially if his wife is seized with some of her old-time enthusiasm and joyously declares she will look up those recipe books, arranged at the time she went to cooking school.
I knew I was in for another dose of dyspepsia and had on my part been trying to remember the dozens of patent medicines to which I had given a trial on the last occasion, and which of them had been least injurious.
Of course, man-like, I poured my woes into the ear of Podgers, hoping for sympathy.
"Do you have any trouble keeping a cook?" I asked.
He laughed in a cold-blooded way.
"Not in the least—not such good luck, my boy.You see our cook has a lien on the place. She's my wife," he said.
Well, I wouldn't have said that, no matter what I thought.
But then Podgers always has been considerably henpecked at home, even if an arrogant chap downtown.
Sometimes he makes me think of the meek little fellow I saw recently in court.
He was a witness.
"Well," remarked the judge, "have you anything to say?"
Then the witness looked fearfully about him, like one long accustomed to knowing his place.
"That depends," said he, "upon circumstance. Is—er—my wife in the room, judge?"
While I am speaking of marrying let me tell you about a fellow I once knew.
His name was Steiner, and he set himself up in business as an international marriage broker.
You see, these matches between broken-down foreign noblemen and wealthy young American girls gave him an idea that he might make a nice dot.
In due time he was employed by a German count to secure an heiress for him.
The arrangement was that Steiner was to receive ten per cent. of the young lady's estate for arranging the match.
This looked like a snap, always providing Steiner should succeed in finding the heiress, and bring about an understanding.
Well, he found the girl with the ducats all right, but his price went up like bounds, until, not content with ten per cent. of the estate when a marriage was brought about, he asked for the whole shooting match.
Yes, and he got it, too.
How was that—why, just as easy as two and two make four. Steiner married the heiress himself.
Funny how one thing arouses a train of thought.
My wife brought home a curious Dutch stein after one of her shopping excursions, and I never looked at that affair without thinking of a certain graveyard out in Western New York.
Let me tell you how that happens.
While visiting a friend, he took me to see the sights of the place, and quite naturally we strolled through the churchyard.
There were lots of old-timers buried there, and some of the inscriptions quite interested me.
Presently we came to a new tombstone.
I noticed that above the inscription there had been cut a single hand, with the index finger pointing upward.
It seemed appropriate enough to me, and I was astonished when my friend, after bending down to read, actually laughed.
"Well, I declare," he said, presently, "if that isn't just like old Stein. He never did order more than one beer at a time!"
To the very last he was attached to his bier.
I remember it was in this same cemetery I ran across a funny old darky who seemed to be examining several traps which he had set.
Of course, my curiosity being aroused, I began to fire a few questions at him.
If you ever want to find anything out, the best way is to ask the why and wherefore.
What do you think he was after?
Rabbits, of course.
Then I remembered that down South it was allthe fashion for darkies to get the foot of a graveyard rabbit, and carry it around with them; they look on it as a sure thing to keep bad luck away.
I thought I might convince the old fellow of the absurdity of such mummery.
"See here, uncle, I'm afraid you're a bit superstitious," I remarked.
"'Deed I isn'," said he, shaking his white head. "Some folks is a skyaht of ghosses an' all kin's of critters; but as long as I have a rabbit's paw in mah pocket I feels puffickly safe."
After that I couldn't say a word.
In fact, I felt as though speech were denied me, as it is some unfortunate fellows.
If you ever ran across a man with a genuine impediment in his speech, well, you know how painful it seems to watch him nearly strangle in the endeavor to make himself understood.
Advice is wasted on such a man.
I remember trying it once, only to get the cold laugh.
Here's the story in verse.
Listen!
"Oh, be not hasty, friend?" I cried,"Think twice o'er all you utter.""I'm bound to do so," he replied,"I stut-tut-tut-tut-tutter."
"Oh, be not hasty, friend?" I cried,"Think twice o'er all you utter.""I'm bound to do so," he replied,"I stut-tut-tut-tut-tutter."
And I never hear any one carrying on in that way, but what I think of an old Irishman, a farmer who dropped into the office of a country weekly, run by a friend of mine.
"Sit down, Mr. Dooley," said my friend, the editor.
Mr. Dooley took a chair.
"By the way, Mr. Dooley," said my friend, "you have sent me a load of hay in payment for the five years' subscription you owed me for my paper."
"Oi d-d-d-did," declared Mr. Dooley, nodding pleasantly.
"Well, to tell you the truth, Mr. Dooley, my horse can't eat that hay."
Mr. Dooley screwed up his face, and puffed out his cheeks until I thought he would have a fit.
"T-t-t-to tell ye the t-t-truth, mister, no more c-c-can m-m-me g-g-go-go-goat e-e-eat your p-p-p-p-p-paper."
I don't know which was hotter, Mr. Dooley or the editor, when they finished their argument.
You realize there are various methods of warming a man up—for instance, at my hotel one evening a bell-boy came to the desk, after answering a call, and said:
"That fellow up in 999 says he's freezing."
"All right," said the clerk, cheerfully, "we'll soon have him hot enough. Here, take him up his bill."
I've got a great friend, Henry Badger by name, that I must tell you about.
I hardly know whether to admire the monumental nerve of Henry Badger, or class him as a near relative of the jackass tribe.
You may not know it, but his neighbors have long been aware of the fact that his good spouse ruled the roost with an iron rod, and Henry's former buoyant spirit has all but withered in his breast.
Why, he used to strut the streets with all the pompous airs of an alderman, while now he shuffles along as though he owed ten tailors on the block.
It is awful, the change made in that man.
Once in a while I understand there is a faint glow among the embers, and a trace of his old-time spirit flashes up, though it is gone almost as quickly.
That must have been the case the evening I was there.
Henry had been reading the evening paper, where many black headlines announced the exciting events of the day.
"One wife too many," I heard her say, sarcastically; "that must of course refer to the doings of another rascally bigamist."
"Not necessarily, my dear," returned Henry, without daring to take his eyes off the paper.
I held my very breath with awe.
But Mrs. Badger, after shooting him one quick look, probably decided that it was a blank cartridge.
Badger, when her back was turned, actually gave me a wicked wink behind his paper.
On the whole, I guess there's a little of the old spunk left, but it will never set the river afire.
Badger told me once, he and his wife ran away and got married by a justice of the peace.
If you never witnessed a civil marriage by an alderman, a mayor, or some such officer authorized to deal out bliss in double harness, well, you don't know what you've missed, that's all.
The first time a magistrate has to officiate upon such a happy occasion, one can hardly blame him for being kind of nervous.
A good fairy sent me to the office of a friend, who is a justice, and it happened he was tying his first double knot.
Having been duly coached, he opened the proceedings all right, and fancied he had plain sailing.
The woman had been duly asked whether she would take the aforesaid man to be her husband, and as that was the identical reason why she was there, she hastened to say that she had no objections, and at the same time took a firmer hold on his arm, as though determined not to let him get away from her.
Then the magistrate turned to the groom and pierced him with his eagle eye.
Perhaps he was so accustomed to having appealsmade to him in his official capacity, that it came very natural for him to remark:
"Prisoner at the bar, what have you to say in your defense."
At the same time I thought it rather hard on the young man, but he came up to the scratch smiling and proved an alibi.
A magistrate's office is a good place for picking up humor, but it doesn't compare with the den of an installment book agent.
The manager of the office was hauling a candidate for a position over the coals while I waited for an interview, and quite a few amusing tidbits floated over the top of the partition.
"Ever done any canvassing before, Mr. Jones?"
"Well, I worked a year in a Chicago house where they packed hams for the market."
"You are a little hoarse this morning—I hope your voice is reliable, for you'll need it in this business."
"That's all right, the neighbors think I got a good voice—they all advised me to go abroad and study."
"You complained of having the toothache—will that prevent you from carrying on business?"
"Not at all, sir. You see it's a holler tooth."
By the way, this same manager of the Book Agents' Supply Company has a most decided aversion to all department stores.
He declares they are ruining the country.
That there is no longer a chance for a young man to set himself up in business, and so forth.
You've heard the changes rung up on that story.
Possibly there's more or less truth about it; but we've got to face a condition, not a theory.
Well, Babcock carries his hatred so far that he detests the very sight and name of the department stores. His wife has the strictest instructions not to purchase anything whatever at these pernicious paradises, and, therefore, when he returned to his home early one day last week and discovered a parcel of groceries on the hall table which bore the hated imprint of Swindell & Getrich, great and tremendous was his virtuous wrath.
His knife was out in an instant, and in another the various packages were ripped up, and condensed milk, eggs, tea, sugar, and the sultanas were mixed together in a fearsome heap on the linoleum.
"Why, what are you doing, Henry?" said his wife, entering at that moment.
Rip, went another packet of Scraped Nutshells for Scraggy Nonentities, and whizz went its contents.
"I'm teaching you a lesson, madam!" he roared. "Teaching you to obey my instructions not to deal at this store?"
"Why, Henry," said the lady, "they don't belong to us at all. Mrs Jenkins, next door, has gone away for the day, and I promised to take them in for her."
And Babcock had to subdue his spleen, allow his wife to hie away to the hated department store and duplicate the whole Jenkins' order.
He is also a singular man, in that he will not allow himself the pleasure of a good cigar.
Some men would make good Mohammedans, for they always seem trying to deny themselves the good things of life—a sort of crawling to Mecca on their knees.
Why, what do you think, while Babcock and myself were sauntering through Central Park recently, up runs a smart little urchin, and sings out:
"Box o' matches, sir?"
"No," said Babcock, loftily, "don't smoke."
"Well," remarked the boy, sympathetically, "if you'll buy a box, guv'nor, I don't mind teachin' yer."
As we sauntered along we came upon a diminutive girl who was wheeling a perambulator, in which was a very young child.
As the vehicle was being pushed dangerously near the edge of a somewhat steep curb, I was alarmed, and ventured to faintly remind her that the little one was in danger of being thrown out.
The girl looked up in my face, and, in a tone of utter and complete indifference, replied:
"It don't matter, mister; it ain't our kid."
And it was on the same afternoon that I saw an amusing mix-up, as well as had my recollection of a life upon the ocean wave revived.
An old salt, who had apparently learned to navigate a bicycle fairly well, was working his wobbly way along one of the paths in the park, when, beforeour eyes, he collided with a lady wheeler.
It was awfully funny, I'm telling you, now.
Fortunately, there was no personal damage, and he hastened to murmur his excuses.
"I'm sure as I ought to be scuttled for it, mum," he said, apologetically, "but I couldn't get your signals no more as if we were feeling through a fog bank. I was blowin' for you to pass to port an' steerin' my course accordin'. Just as I was going to dip my pennant an' salute proper, your craft refused to obey her rudder, an' you struck me for'ard. Afore I could reverse, your jib-boom fouled my starboard mizzen riggin', your mainsail (skirt) snarled up with my bobstay, parted your toppin' lift, and carried away my spanker down haul. As I listed to try to jib, I capsized, keel up, an' put you flounderin' in the wreckage. I hope you'll forgive me, mum, and let's start off fresh, on a new tack."
Now, I liked that old tar.
He was a square-rigged man, and ready to accept what the gods sent him.
That's my style.
I've got my faults, but kicking isn't one of 'em, you bet.
You'll always find me at the same old stand, ready to take things as they come—but please be a little careful about the antiquity of the eggs, because, you see, I've got my best clothes on.
Now, if the orchestra will kindly wake up and give us a little music, I'll try and sing a song which I have called "No Kicker Need Apply."
Hold on, professor, you want to be sharp. I expected you'd be flat, so I guess you'd better compromise and only be natural.
Well, then, here goes:
Guess I've been about as lazy as the civil laws allow;Know blame well I've been as lazy as I could be anyhow;Never liked t' do th' milkin', never liked t' heft a hoe,Never liked to plow or harvest, never liked t' reap ner sow.Never was much good at nothin' that my daddy put me at,But I've never been a kicker, an' I'm bloomin' glad o' that.
Guess I've been about as lazy as the civil laws allow;Know blame well I've been as lazy as I could be anyhow;Never liked t' do th' milkin', never liked t' heft a hoe,Never liked to plow or harvest, never liked t' reap ner sow.Never was much good at nothin' that my daddy put me at,But I've never been a kicker, an' I'm bloomin' glad o' that.
There isn't any chorus to this song, so glide right along to the second verse, professor. Here you are.
I've been called a triflin' beggar, I've been called a shif'less slouch;I've been called some things that hurt me, but I never hollered "Ouch!"I've left undone a heap o' things I started out to do,An' I've had my share of headache—yes, I've had my share, f'r true;But my upper lip's kep' stiffer'n any board ye ever see,Fer I've never been a kicker, an' I'm never goin' t' be.I've seen days when clouds was hangin' over ev'rything in sight;I've seen times I wished t' goodness, morning wouldn't foller night;I've felt kicked an' snubbed an' slighted—though folks didn't mean it so,An' I've had to blink an' swaller for t' make my smiler go;But I made it work, by ginger, and I'm thankful for it still—Fer I've never been a beefer, an' you bet I never will.I've been watchin' folks that hollered till they's purple in th' face,Claimin' that their nat'ral enemies was all th' human race.Kep' on noticin', and purty soon their guess was blame near right,For they al'ays was commingled in some sort o' gen'ral fight.Thankful I don't see things that way, though I'm not no haloed saint;But I've never been a kicker, an' I'm mighty glad I ain't.
I've been called a triflin' beggar, I've been called a shif'less slouch;I've been called some things that hurt me, but I never hollered "Ouch!"I've left undone a heap o' things I started out to do,An' I've had my share of headache—yes, I've had my share, f'r true;But my upper lip's kep' stiffer'n any board ye ever see,Fer I've never been a kicker, an' I'm never goin' t' be.
I've seen days when clouds was hangin' over ev'rything in sight;I've seen times I wished t' goodness, morning wouldn't foller night;I've felt kicked an' snubbed an' slighted—though folks didn't mean it so,An' I've had to blink an' swaller for t' make my smiler go;But I made it work, by ginger, and I'm thankful for it still—Fer I've never been a beefer, an' you bet I never will.
I've been watchin' folks that hollered till they's purple in th' face,Claimin' that their nat'ral enemies was all th' human race.Kep' on noticin', and purty soon their guess was blame near right,For they al'ays was commingled in some sort o' gen'ral fight.Thankful I don't see things that way, though I'm not no haloed saint;But I've never been a kicker, an' I'm mighty glad I ain't.
Thank you ladies and gentlemen.
I knew the noble sentiments expressed in those verses would take your hearts by storm.
And please forbear showing your appreciation by the customary liberal supply of ancient hen fruit, tomatoes, and cabbage flowers.
I want you to understand that this is no donation party.
You doubtless saw that I was a little horse—in other words, that I have something of a colt this evening.
Now, I'm pretty good at making excuses myself, but I give the cake to Reddy Moriarty.
You see, he's a fellow working on the subway, under an old friend of mine, a Maj. Dickerson.
Just while I was interviewing the contractor the other morning, who should come along but Moriarty.
The foreman was mad clean through, and I thought only Reddy's ready Irish could save him from a hauling over the coals.
It did the same, by the powers.
"Nine o'clock!" snarled the foreman, "what d'yer mean by coming at this time of day? It's a wonder a man of your independence troubles himself about coming at all. Now, then, what's your excuse?"
Moriarty considered a moment, and at last the excuse came.
"Sure, sor," he said, "I dramed last night I was at a baseball match, betwane the giants and the Champions, that ended in a tie. So the umpire ordered extra innings to be played, and, begorra, sor, I only stopped to see the finish!"
Moriarty was once a pilot.
"Faith," says he to me, "time was when I pilotedall kinds of ships into harbor, but I've redooced it all down to a system, and the only sort I take over the bar now is schooners sor."
But I musn't forget to tell you about my friend, old Dr. Raggles.
I always refer to him as "that old war horse." You'd know why, if you cast your eye over that last bill he sent me. As a charger he'd be hard to beat.
The doctor took a day off recently and ran up to a country town to see a family horse that was for sale.
He tried the beast, fancied him, paid a stiff price for the outfit, and rode off happy.
Three hours later he came back mad.
"Look here, sir!" he yelled, "this darned old horse won't do for me. He shies. I can't get him to cross the bridge."
"That's why I sold him," said the dealer. "Didn't I advertise my reasons for selling him?"
"Yes; 'to be sold,' you stated, 'for no other reason than that the owner wanted to get out of town.'"
"Well," says the dealer, "if you can get out of town with him, it will be more than I can do!"
Say, I went on the road with a post office inspector last year.
First post office we struck, a big, strong Irish woman was behind the counter.
"Ahem!" said the inspector. "I thought a man was in charge here!"
"Begorra, ye're roight, he was," said the lady; "but Oi married him, an' Oi'm in charge now. Pfwat is it yez want?"
She was a Tartar, I tell you.
I wonder what Mr. Man was doing. Maybe he had the cradle to rock.
I was in jail last month. Oh, only as a visitor, of course. I needn't explain that. Went the rounds of the cells with the governor of the State.
Well, we struck one man who was the homeliest specimen of humanity I've ever seen.
"What are you here for?" says the governor.
"For runnin' away with a woman, yer honor!" says the man.
"Bless my soul!" says the governor, "is that so? I must send you a pardon. I don't see how a man so homely as you could ever get a wife unless he ran away with one."
A cage or two farther on was occupied by a big, husky chap.
"What are you here for?" says the governor.
"I'm here for my health, governor," says the man.
"How's that?" asks the governor.
"Well, you see, I had six wives, governor."
Well, no pardon dropped in on that chap.
He had seized just six times his share.
A few more like him and the women wouldn't go around.
Jiminy Christmas! There's the gong of my auto. My chaffeur's getting impatient. Yes, my time is up. I got ten dollars advanced on it yesterday.
Good-night!
The copy used as the basis for this digital edition was missing its back cover, so some advertising is omitted.
Some questionable spelling (e.g. occured) has been retained from the original.
Images may be clicked to view larger versions.
Some image alignments have been changed from the original to better accommodate free-flowing text.
Page 12, added period after "stopped."
Page 39, added period to first sentence on page.
Page 41, changed "neice" to "niece."
Page 50, added missing apostrophe to "Jerry's."
Page 63, changed "repentent" to "repentant."
Page 67, changed "forebear" to "forbear."
Page 75, changed "couse" to "course."