Chapter 3

She's "tonin'," er "develerpin'," er "printin'," ha'f the time; She's allers buyin' pasteboard ter mount up her latest crime: Our front room and the settin'-room is like some awful show, With freaks and framed outrages stuck all 'round 'em in a row: But soon I'll take them picters, and I'll fetch some of 'em out And hang 'em 'round the garden when the corn begins ter sprout; We'll have no crows and blackbirds ner that kind er feathered trash, 'Cause them photygraphs of Sary's, they beat scarecrows all ter smash.

* * * * *

WHEN PAPA'S SICK

When Papa's sick, my goodness sakes! Such awful, awful times it makes. He speaks in, oh! such lonesome tones, And gives such ghas'ly kind of groans, And rolls his eyes and holds his head, And makes Ma help him up to bed, While Sis and Bridget run to heat Hot-water bags to warm his feet, And I must get the doctor _quick_,-- We have to _jump_ when Papa's sick.

When Papa's sick Ma has to stand Right 'side the bed and hold his hand, While Sis, she has to fan an' fan, For he says he's "a dyin' man," And wants the children round him to Be there when "sufferin' Pa gets through"; He says he wants to say good-by And kiss us all, and then he'll die; Then moans and says his "breathin''s thick",-- It's awful sad when Papa's sick.

When Papa's sick he acts that way Until he hears the doctor say, "You've only got a cold, you know; You'll be all right 'n a day or so"; And then--well, say! you ought to see-- He's different as he can be, And growls and swears from noon to night Just 'cause his dinner ain't cooked right; And all he does is fuss and kick,-- We're _all_ used up when Papa's sick.

* * * * *

THE BALLAD OF McCARTY'S TROMBONE

Sure, Felix McCarty he lived all alone On the top av a hill be the town av Athione, And the pride av his heart was a batthered trombone, That he played in an iligant style av his own. And often I've heard me ould grandfather say, That, long as he lived, on Saint Patherick's Day, the minute the dawn showed the first streak av gray McCarty would rise and this tune he would play:

"Pertaters and fishes make very good dishes, Saint Patherick's Day in the mornin'!" With tootin' and blowin' he kept it a-goin', For rest was a thing he was scornin'; And thim that were lazy could niver lie aisy, But jumped out av bed at the warnin'; For who could be stayin' aslape with him playin' "Saint Patherick's Day in the mornin'?"

And thin whin the b'ys would fall in fer parade, McCarty'd be gay with his buttons and braid, And whin he stipped out fer ter head the brigade, Why, this was the beautiful tune that he played:

"By--Killarney's--lakes--and--fells, Toot--tetoot toot--toot--toot--dells!" And--the heel av--McCart--y's--boot Marked--the time at--iv'--ry--toot, While--the slide at--aich--bass--note Seemed--ter slip half--down--his throat, As--he caught his--breath--be--spells:-- "By--Killarney's--lakes--and--fells!"

Now McCarty he lived ter be wrinkled and lean, But he died wan fine day playin' "Wearin' the green," And they sould the ould horn to a British spalpeen, And it bu'st whin he tried ter blow "God save the Queen";

But the nights av Saint Patherick's Days in Athlone Folks dare not go by the ould graveyard alone, For they say that McCarty sits on his tombstone And plays this sad tune on a phantom trombone:

"The harp that wance through Tara's halls The sowl av music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that sowl were dead." And all who've heard the lonesome _keens_ That that grim ghost has blown, Know well by Tara's harp he means That batthered ould trombone.

* * * * *

SUSAN VAN DOOZEN

I'll write, for I'm witty, a popular ditty, To bring to me shekels and fame, And the only right way one may write one to-day Is to give it some Irish girl's name. There's "Rosy O'Grady," that dear "steady lady," And sweet "Annie Rooney" and such, But mine shall be nearly original, really, For Susan Van Doozen is Dutch.

_O Susan Van Doozen! the girl of my choos'n',_ _You stick in my bosom like glue; While this you're perusin', remember I'm mus'n',_ _Sweet Susan Van Doozen, on you. So don't be refus'n' my offer, and bruis'n'_ _A heart that is willing to woo; And please be excus'n', not cold and refus'n',-- O Susan Van Doozen, please do_!

Now through it I'll scatter--a quite easy matter-- Some lines that we all of us know, How "The neighbors all cry as she passes them by, 'There's Susan, the pride of the row!'" And something like "daisy" and "setting me crazy," --These lines the dear public would miss-- Then chuck a "sweetheart" in, and "never to part" in, And end with a chorus like this:

_O Susan Van Doozen! before I'd be los'n' One glance from your eyes of sky-blue, I vow I'd quit us'n' tobacco and booz'n', (That word is not nice, it is true). I wear out my shoes, 'n' I'm los'n' my roos'n'_ _My reason, I should say, dear Sue_,-- _So please change your views 'n' become my own Susan_, _O Susan Van Doozen, please do_!

* * * * *

SISTER SIMMONS

Almost every other evening jest as reg'lar as the clock When we're settin' down ter supper, wife and I, there comes a knock An' a high-pitched voice, remarking', "Don't get up; it's _me_, yer know"; An' our mercury drops from "summer" down ter "twenty-five below," An' our cup of bliss turns sudden inter wormwood mixed with gall, Fer we know it's Sister Simmons come ter make her "reg'lar call."

In she comes an' takes the rocker. Thinks she'll slip her bunnit off, But she'll keep her shawl on, coz she's 'fraid of addin' ter her cough. No, she won't set down ter supper. Tea? well, yes, a half er cup. Her dyspepsy's been so lately, seems as if she _should_ give up; An', 'tween rheumatiz an' as'ma, she's jest worn ter skin an' bone. It's a good thing that she told us,--by her looks we'd never known.

Next, she starts in on the neighbors; tells us all their private cares, While we have the fun er knowin' how she talks of _our_ affairs; Says, with sobs, that Christmas comin' makes her feel _so_ bad, for, oh! Her Isaiah, the dear departed, allers did enjoy it so. Her Isaiah, poor henpecked critter, 's been dead seven years er more, An' looked happier in his coffin than he ever did afore.

So she sits, her tongue a-waggin' in the same old mournful tones, Spoilin' all our quiet evenin's with her troubles an' her groans, Till, by Jude, I'm almost longin' fer those mansions of the blest, "Where the wicked cease from troublin' an' the weary are at rest!" But if Sister Simmons' station is before the Throne er Grace, I'll just ask 'em to excuse me, an' I'll try the other place.

* * * * *

"THE FIFT' WARD J'INT DEBATE"

Now Councilman O'Hoolihan do'n't b'lave in annixation, He says thim Phillypynos air the r-r-ruin av the nation. He says this counthry's job is jist a-mindin' av her biz, And imparyilism's thrayson, so ut is, so ut is. But big Moike Macnamara, him that runs the gin saloon, He wants the nomina-a-tion, so he sings a different chune; He's a-howlin' fer ixpansion, so he puts ut on the shlate Thot he challenged Dan O'Hoolihan ter have a j'int debate.

_Ho, ho! Begorra! Oi wisht that ye 'd been there! Ho, ho! Begorra! 'Twas lovely, Oi declare_; _The langwudge, sure 't was iligant, the rhitoric was great_, _Whin Dan and Mack, they had ut back, At our big j'int debate_.

'T was in the War-r-d Athletic Club we had ut fixed ter hear 'em, And all the sates was crowded, fer the gang was there ter cheer 'em; A foine debatin' platfor-r-m had been built inside the ring, And iverybuddy said 't was jist the thing, jist the thing. O'Hoolihan, he shtarted off be sayin', ut was safe Ter say that aich ixpansionist was jist a murth'rin thafe; And, whin I saw big Mack turn rid, and shtart ter lave his sate, Oi knew we 'd have a gor-r-geous toime at our big j'int debate.

Thin Moike he tuk his tur-r-n ter shpake, "Av Oi wance laid me hand," Says he, "upon an 'Anti,' faith! Oi'd make his nose ixpand; Oi 'd face the schnakin' blackguar-r-d, and Oi'd baste him where he shtood. Oi'd annix him to a graveyard, so Oi would, so Oi would!" Thin up jumped Dan O'Hoolihan a-roar-r-in' out "Yez loie!" And flung his b'aver hat at Mack, and plunked him in the eye; And Moike he niver shtopped ter talk, but grappled wid him straight, And the ar-r-gymint got loively thin, at our big j'int debate.

Oi niver in me loife have seen sich char-r-min' illycution, The gistures av thim wid their fists was grand in ixecution; We tried to be impar-r-tial, so no favoroite we made, But jist sicked them on tergither, yis indade, yis indade. And nayther wan was half convinced whin Sar-r-gint Leary came, Wid near a dozen other cops, and stopped the purty game; But niver did Oi see dhress-suits in sich a mortial state As thim the or-r-ators had on at our big j'int debate.

_Ho, ho! Begorra! Oi wisht that ye'd been there! Ho, ho! Begorra! The foight was on the square_; _Ter see the wagon goin' off, wid thim two on the sate_!-- _Oi 'd loike ter shtroike, 'twixt Dan and Moilce_, _Another j'int debate_.

* * * * *

HIS NEW BROTHER

Say, I've got a little brother, Never teased to have him, nuther, But he's here; They just went ahead and bought him, And, last week the doctor brought him, Wa'n't that queer?

When I heard the news from Molly, Why, I thought at first 't was jolly, 'Cause, you see, I s'posed I could go and get him And then Mama, course, would let him Play with me.

But when I had once looked at him, "Why!" I says, "My sakes, is _that_ him? Just that mite!" They said, "Yes," and, "Ain't he cunnin'?" And I thought they must be funnin',-- He's a _sight!_

He's so small, it's just amazin', And you 'd think that he was blazin', He's so red; And his nose is like a berry, And he's bald as Uncle Jerry On his head.

Why, he isn't worth a dollar! All he does is cry and holler More and more; _Won't_ sit up--you can't arrange him,-- _I_ don't see why Pa do'n't change him At the store.

Now we've got to dress and feed him, And we really didn't _need_ him More 'n a frog; Why'd they buy a baby brother, When they know I'd _good_ deal ruther Have a dog?

* * * * *

CIRCLE DAY

Me and Billy's in the woodshed; Ma said, "Run outdoors and play; Be good boys and don't be both'rin', till the company's gone away." She and sister Mary's hustlin', settin' out the things for tea, And the parlor's full of women, such a crowd you never see; Every one a-cuttin' patchwork or a-sewin' up a seam, And the way their tongues is goin', seems as if they went by steam. Me and Billy's been a-listenin' and, I tell you what, it beats Circus day to hear 'em gabbin', when the Sewin' Circle meets.

First they almost had a squabble, fightin' 'bout the future life; When they'd settled that they started runnin' down the parson's wife. Then they got a-goin' roastin' all the folks there is in town, And they never stopped, you bet yer, till they'd done 'em good and brown. They knew everybody's business and they made it mighty free, But the way they loved _each other_ would have done yer good to see; Seems ter me the only way ter keep yer hist'ry off the streets Is to be on hand a-waitin' when the Sewin' Circle meets.

Pretty quick they'll have their supper, then's the time to see the fun; Ma'll say the rolls is _awful_, and she's 'fraid the pie ain't done. Really everything is bully, and she knows it well enough, But the folks that's havin' comp'ny always talks that kind of stuff. That sets all the women goin', and they say, "How _can_ you make Such _delicious_ pies and biscuits, and such _lovely_ choc'late cake?" Me and Billy don't say nothin' when we pitches in and eats Up the things there is left over when the Sewin' Circle meets.

I guess Pa do'n't like the Circle, 'cause he said ter Uncle Jim That there cacklin' hen convention was too peppery for _him_. And he'll say to Ma, "I'm sorry, but I've really got ter dodge Down t' the hall right after supper--there's a meetin' at the lodge." Ma'll say, "Yes, so I expected." Then a-speakin' kinder cold, "Seems ter me, I'd get a new one; that excuse is gettin' old!" Pa'll look sick, just like a feller when he finds you know he cheats, But he do'n't stay home, you bet yer, when the Sewin' Circle meets.

* * * * *

SERMON TIME

"Blessed are the poor in spirit": there, I'll just remember that, And I'll say it over 'n over, till I've got it good and pat, For when I get home from meetin', Gran'ma'll ask me for the text, And if I say I've forgot it, she'll be goin' for me next, Say in', I don't pay attention, and what _am_ I comin' to; Tellin' 'bout when _she_ was little, same as old folks always do. Say, I'll bet she didn't like it any better than the rest, Sittin' 'round all stiff and starchy, dressed up in your Sunday best.

"Blessed are the poor"--I tell yer, some day I'll be clearin' out, Leavin' all this dressin' nonsense, 'cause I'm goin' ter be a scout, Same as "Deadwood Dick," a-killin' all the Injuns on the plains: _He_ do'n't comb his hair, you bet yer; no, nor wash, unless it rains. And bimeby I'll come home, bringin' loads of gold and di'mon' rings; My, won't all the boys be jealous when they see those kind of things! 'N' I'll have a reputation, folks'll call me "Lariat Ben," Gran'ma'll think I 'mount ter somethin', maybe, when she sees me then.

"Blessed are the"--There's a blackbird, outside, sittin' on a limb,-- Gosh! I wish it wasn't Sunday, p'raps I wouldn't go for him. Sis says stonin' birds is wicked, but she's got one on her hat,-- S'pose that makes it right and proper, if yer kill 'em just for that. There's that dudey city feller, sittin' in the Deacon's pew. Needn't feel so big now, Smarty, just because your clothes are new; Me and Sam has rigged a hat line; when it's dark to-morrer night We'll just catch your shiny beaver and we'll send it out of sight.

"Blessed are"--There's Mr. Wiggin sound asleep. I wish he'd snore. Cracky! Now he's been and done it, dropped his hymn-book on the floor. See how cross his wife is lookin'. Say, I bet they'll have a row; Pa said that she wore the breeches, but she's got a dress on now. There's Nell Baker with her uncle. Her 'n I don't speak at school, 'Cause she wouldn't help a feller when I clean forgot the rule. Used to be my girl before that--Gee! what was that text about? "Blessed--blessed--blessed" something. I'll ask Sis when we get out.

* * * * *

"TAKIN' BOARDERS"

_We'd_ never thought of takin' 'em,--'t was Mary Ann's idee,-- Sence she got back from boardin'-school she's called herself "Maree" An' scattered city notions like a tom-cat sheds his fur. She thought our old melodeon wa'n't good enough fer her, An' them pianners cost so that she said the only way Was ter take in summer boarders till we 'd made enough to pay; So she wrote adver_tis_ements out to fetch 'em inter camp, An' now there's boarders thicker here than June bugs round a lamp.

Our best front parlor'll jest be sp'iled; they h'ist up every shade An' open all the blinds, by gum! an' let the carpet fade. They're in there week days jest the same as Sunday; I declare, I really think our haircloth set is showin' signs o' wear! They set up ha'f the night an' sing,--no use ter try ter sleep, With them a-askin' folks ter "Dig a grave both wide an' deep," An' "Who will smoke my mashum pipe?" By gee! I tell yer what: If they want me to dig their graves, I'd jest as soon as not!

There ain't no comfort now at meals; I can't take off my coat, Nor use my knife to eat, nor tie my napkin 'round my throat, Nor drink out of my sasser. Gosh! I hardly draw my breath 'Thout Mary Ann a-tellin' me she's "mortified to death!" Before they came our breakfast time was allus ha'f-past six; By thunderation! 't wouldn't do; you'd orter hear the kicks! So jest to suit 'em 't was put off till sometime arter eight, An' when a chap gits up at four that's mighty long ter wait.

The idee was that Mary Ann would help her Ma; but, land! She can't be round a minute but some boarder's right on hand Ter take her out ter walk or ride--_she_ likes it well enough, But when you 're gittin' grub for twelve, Ma finds it kinder tough. We ain't a-sayin' nothin' now, we'll see this season through, But folks that bought one gold brick ain't in love with number two; An' if you're passin' down our way next summer, cast your eye At our front fence. You'll see a sign, "NO BOARDERS NEED APPLY."

* * * * *

A COLLEGE TRAINING

Home from college came the stripling, calm and cool and debonair, With a weird array of raiment and a wondrous wealth of hair, With a lazy love of languor and a healthy hate of work And a cigarette devotion that would shame the turbaned Turk. And he called his father "Guv'nor," with a cheek serene and rude, While that raging, wrathful rustic calld his son a "blasted dude." And in dark and direful language muttered threats of coming harm To the "idle, shif'less critter" from his father's good right arm.

And the trouble reached a climax on the lawn behind the shed,-- "Now, I'm gon' ter lick yer, sonny," so the sturdy parent said, "And I'll knock the college nonsense from your noddle, mighty quick!"-- Then he lit upon that chappy like a wagon-load of brick. But the youth serenely murmured, as he gripped his angry dad, "You're a clever rusher, Guv'nor, but you tackle very bad"; And he rushed him through the center and he tripped him for a fall, And he scored a goal and touchdown with his papa as the ball.

Then a cigarette he lighted, as he slowly strolled away, Saying, "That was jolly, Guv'nor, now we'll practice every day"; While his father from the puddle, where he wallowed in disgrace, Smiled upon his offspring, proudly, from a bruised and battered face, And with difficulty rising, quick he hobbled to the house. "Henry's all right, Ma!" he shouted to his anxious, waiting spouse, "He jest licked me good and solid, and I tell yer, Mary Ann, When a chap kin lick _your husband_ he's a mighty able man!"

* * * * *

A CRUSHED HERO

On a log behind the pigsty of a modest little farm, Sits a freckled youth and lanky, red of hair and long of arm; But his mien is proud and haughty and his brow is high and stern, And beneath their sandy lashes, fiery eyes with purpose burn. Bow before him, gentle reader, he's the hero we salute, He is Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

Search not Fame's immortal marbles, never there his name you'll find, For our hero, let us whisper, is a hero in his mind; And a youth may bathe in glory, wade in slaughter time on time, When a novel, wild and gory, may be purchased for a dime. And through reams of lurid pages has he slain the Sioux and Ute, Bloody Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

Hark, a heavy step advancing,--list, a father's angry cry, "He hain't shucked a single nubbin; where's that good-fer-nothin' Hi?" "Here, base catiff," comes the answer, "here am I who was your slave, But no more I'll do your shuckin', though I fill a bloody grave! Freedom's fire my breast has kindled; there'll be bloodshed, tyrant! brute!" Quoth brave Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

"Breast's a-blazin', is it, Sonny?" asks his father with a smile, "Kind er like a stove, I reckon, what they call 'gas-burner' style. Good 'base-burner' 's what your needin'"--here he pins our hero fast, "Come, young man, we'll try the woodshed, keep the bloodshed till the last." Then an atmosphere of horse-whip, interspersed with cow-hide boot, Wraps young Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

* * * * *

Weep ye now, oh, gentle reader, for the fallen, great of heart, As ye wept o'er Saint Helena and the exiled Bonaparte; For a picture, sad as that one, to your pity I would show Of a spirit crushed and broken,--of a hero lying low; For where husks are heaped the highest, working swiftly, hushed and mute, Shucketh Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

* * * * *

A THANKSGIVING DREAM

I'm pretty nearly certain that't was 'bout two weeks ago,-- It might be more, or, p'raps 't was less,--but, anyhow, I know 'T was on the night I ate the four big saucers of ice cream That I dreamed jest the horriblest, most awful, _worstest_ dream. I dreamed that 'twas Thanksgiving and I saw our table laid With every kind of goody that, I guess, was ever made; With turkey, and with puddin', and with everything,--but, gee! 'T was dreadful, 'cause they was alive, and set and looked at me.

And then a great big gobbler, that was on a platter there, He stood up on his drumsticks, and he says, "You boy, take care! For if, Thanksgivin' Day, you taste my dark meat or my white, I'll creep up to your bedroom in the middle of the night; I'll throw off all the blankets, and I'll pull away the sheet, I'll prance and dance upon you with my prickly, tickly feet; I'll kick you, and I'll pick you, and I'll screech, 'Remember me!' Beware, my boy! Take care, my boy!" that gobbler says, says he.

And then a fat plum puddin' kind er grunted-like and said: "I'm round and hot and steamin', and I'm heavier than lead, And if you dare to eat me, boy, upon Thanksgivin' Day, I'll come at night and tease you in a frightful sort of way. I'll thump you, and I'll bump you, and I'll jump up high and fall Down on your little stomach like a sizzlin' cannon-ball I'll hound you, and I'll pound you, and I'll screech 'Remember me!' Beware, my boy! Take care, my boy!" that puddin says, says he.

And then, soon as the puddin' stopped, a crusty ol' mince pie Jumped from its plate and glared at me and winked its little eye; "You boy," it says, "Thanksgivin' Day, don't dare ter touch a slice Of me, for if you do, I'll come and cramp you like a vise. I'll root you, and I'll boot you, and I'll twist you till you squeal, I'll stand on edge and roll around your stomach like a wheel; I'll hunch you, and I'll punch you, and I'll screech, 'Remember me!'"

* * * * *

I don't know what came after that, 'cause I woke up, you see.

You wouldn't b'lieve that talk like that one ever _could_ forget, But, say! ter-day's Thanksgivin,' and I've et, and et, and et! And when I'd stuffed jest all I could, I jumped and gave a scream, 'Cause all at once, when 't was too late, I 'membered 'bout that dream. And now it's almost bedtime, and I ought ter say my prayers And tell the folks "good-night" and go a-pokin' off up-stairs; But, oh, my sakes! I dasn't, 'cause I know them things'll be All hidin' somewheres 'round my bed and layin there fer me.

* * * * *

O'REILLY'S BILLY-GOAT

A solemn Sabbath stillness lies along the Mudville lanes, Among the crags of Shantytown a peaceful quiet reigns, For down upon McCarty's dump, in fiery fight for fame, The Shanties meet the Mudvilles in the final pennant game; And heedless of the frantic fray, in center field remote, Behind the biggest ash-heap lies O'Reilly's billy-goat.

The eager crowd bends forward now, in fierce excitement's thrall, The pitcher writhes in serpent twist, the umpire says, "Play ball!" The batsman swings with sudden spite,--a loud, resounding "spat," And hissing through the ambient air the horse-hide leaves the bat; With one terrific battle-cry, the "rooter" clears his throat, But still serene in slumber lies O'Reilly's billy-goat.