Part 15

He foolishly attempts to leave the car while it is in motion, in order to save a few moments. Immediately afterwards he wishes he hadn’t, and sits down with considerable feeling to think over his rashness. There was a time, no doubt, when he could jump on and off a car like a newsboy; but that time has evidently gone by.

When we consider the roughness of his seat, and the unexpected manner in which he settled on it, we have to acknowledge that he sits with considerable grace. However, as he has lost time instead of gaining it, by the action, he will perhaps try to catch a better hold of the old rascal’s forelock the next time he is running past him.

SIMON RAND.

No poet, however gifted, can get along without his muse, any better than a navigator can without his compass. If the goddess is not at his elbow, the lyre hangs mute upon the wall, and the pen corrodes in the ink. Then what can the poor limited rhymer do without a muse to inspire him? As mine is at present leaning over the back of my chair in a very encouraging manner, I will strike my harp and lay the following heart-rending tale before the world in verse.

_First Gossip_—“Was she false?” _Second Gossip_—“Ay, false as her teeth.” —_Old Volume._

In Siskiyou, a tanner lived, Whose name was Simon Rand; He loved the miller’s daughter, fair Annetta Hildebrand. The maiden loved the tanner, too, (At least the maid so said,) And she the happy day had named The parson would them wed.

The golden day-dreams lengthened as The season shorter grew, And Cupid slung his bow across His shoulder, and withdrew. A golden pointed arrow lay Imbedded in each heart; The little god conjectured they Could never live apart.

But fire will test the iron safe, And powder prove the mine, And tempests try the ship at sea, The woodman’s axe the pine; And gold will sound the human heart, The maiden’s love it tries; It is the plummet weight that proves How deep affection lies.

One Jacob Towle, a rival, came To darken Simon’s days; His clothes were fine, his purse a mine, He drove a span of bays! The fair Annetta was his mark; He deftly played his hand; He turned her giddy head around, And love, from Simon Rand.

The tanner saw his dove prove daw, And scarce believed his eyes; But change was there, in look and air, And in her curt replies. He called one night, in hopes he might Back his affianced win; Word came by “sis” (an old game this), “Annetta was not in.”

But ah! how keen are lovers’ eyes When rivals are around; A glossy hat hung in the hall; He reached it with a bound. “See, my child, a pleasing sight!” Said he with a ghastly smile; “For into fraction, into mite, I’ll smash the villain’s tile.”

He seized it, and he squeezed it, too, He bowled it on the floor, He thumped it, and he jumped it, and He kicked it through the door. So through the gate he then escaped, And he was heard to say, “By all the hides that I have scraped With life I’ll make away.”

Next morning he was missing, and The neighbors thought it queer: For he at work was ever found Throughout the busy year. Noon came, but brought not Simon back; And then their wonder grew Into a fear, that he had done What he had sworn to do.

A search was instituted, and All work was at a stand, For weak and stout alike turned out To search for Simon Rand. Across the mill-pond and the flume, The grappling drag they drew, They scanned the trees and probed the wells The little village through. But tale or tidings none they found; So all the search gave o’er, And sat them down to talk and smoke, Around the tavern door.

When teamster Joe picked up a hoe That by his side was laid, And turning round to farmer Pound, He slapped his thigh and said, “I’ll stake my strongest pair of mules Against Moll Benson’s cat, That Simon Rand, the missing man, Lies dead in his own vat!”

No face was there, beard-hid or bare, Light, tawny-hue, or dark, But on the instant plainly showed The weight of that remark. To feet they sprung, both old and young, And down the shortest road, By Silly’s still and Burrill’s mill, To Simon’s shop they strode.

One pace in front leaned Parson Lunt, Who let his dinner stand, And joined the throng that surged along In search of Simon Rand. Across his shoulder, stooped with age, He poised his garden rake, And those had need to urge their speed Who followed in his wake.

Then side and side, with equal stride, Pressed Joe and Jasper Lane; Next Elder Chase kept even pace With stout old Sidney Vane. Then two and two, and three and three, And sometimes four abreast, With hoes and hooks, and thoughtful looks, Come clattering on the rest.

The place was gained, all eyes were strained Upon the brimming vat; But not an eye its depths could spy, Or pierce its scum of fat.

“A fearful place,” sighed Elder Chase, As down he dipped his pole; “No love or woe could make him throw Himself in such a hole. A man would choose a hempen noose, A pistol, drug, or knife, If he designed through troubled mind To make away with life.”

A silent group they kneel and stoop, And shove their poles around, Now left, now right, till all affright One cried, “I’ve something found! It’s him I know, I must let go! I dare not see his face When coming from the depths below; Will some one take my place?”

Then Parson Lunt stepped to the front, And clasped his hands in prayer; And cried, “We thank thee for his dust, His soul in mercy spare.” Then took the pole from Selby’s hand, Who quickly sought the rear, Yet dodged and peeped his best to see If Rand indeed was there.

Up rose the heavy burdened hook; “That’s him!” a dozen cried; But when they took a second look It proved a brindled hide! Then impious Brown, the village clown, Turned from that vat aside, And laughed until the tears ran down His cheeks as though he cried.

Still round he went, with body bent, His face one endless grin, Because the Parson praised the Lord, Then raised—the heifer’s skin! The tools once more sink as before, To scrape the bottom slow: Another mass—they strike—and pass, It rolls along below!

“I have him now!” cried Dennis Howe, The blacksmith’s helping man; While down his face, in rapid race, The perspiration ran. With mighty grip, and backward tip, Stout Dennis manned the pole, Which bent as though ’twould snap and go, And Howe would backwards roll.

And woe is me, that tanner man, And woe is me, that maid! And woe is me, that staring group Around that vat, afraid. The hold was good, the pole has stood, And up the hook has drawn The poor discarded Simon Rand, Dead as a pickled prawn!

And lo! a great cast-iron weight Fast to one leg was tied; Which, as he rose did oscillate, And swing from side to side. Upon a door his form they bore Back slowly through the town, And still behind them left a trail Where dripped the water down.

For every step fresh showers drew Down from that litter bare, From garments soaked quite through and through, From mouth and nose and hair. ’Twere sad to tell of funeral show That in that town was seen; Enough to know that Simon low Lies where the grass is green.

Annetta, now, is Mrs. Towle, And servants on her wait; And dogs with uninviting growl Drive beggars from her gate. And Simon’s shop has gone to wreck, No bark is needed now, No more before the greasy door Lie horns of ox or cow!

But on the anniversary Of that distressful night, The superstitious people say— Within it burns a light.

And there the tanner may be seen His thin arms shining bare, Bent o’er the bench, as though at work Fast scraping off the hair! Anon, slow rising from his toil A woeful sigh he gives, And gazes long towards the hill, Where false Annetta lives.

Then turning round he gives a bound, As when he crushed the hat, And fastening to his leg a weight He leaps into the vat! And with him goes the wondrous light That shed its ghostly ray; And dismal darkness wraps the place Until the dawn of day.

THE VALUE OF A COLLAR.

Dear me! what a terrible dodging life the poor city cur leads, to be sure, whose owner does not consider him of sufficient importance to warrant taking out a license. His excursions must necessarily be limited.

He never dares to bark in the daytime, and now I think of it, that may account for his howling all night. To bark between the hours of seven in the morning and six in the evening would be equivalent to running his head into the pound-keeper’s lariat. He knows it, too, the rascal, and hardly indulges in a yelp, even if his tail is trod upon. I have always noticed that the eyes of the cur that wears no collar—(which would entitle him to the freedom of the city)—protrude from the sockets much farther than the optics in the head of the licensed animal. I have noticed this fact and pondered over it, striving not a little to arrive at some satisfactory conclusion in regard to the matter. It may be that this strange protrusion is brought about by the continual strain while on the lookout for the pound-keeper or his sneaking aids.

Another peculiarity about the unlicensed cur,—his eyes are invariably the color of tobacco juice. “Why are they so?” you probably inquire. Be patient, and I will tell you? It is the result of the burning envy continually agitating his breast and adding a bloodier lustre to his orbs.

How must envy consume his very vitals when he beholds his younger brother, perhaps, trotting forth into the street, his neck encircled with the leather zone that insures him respect and immunity from assault; while he must cower behind the ash barrel, and wait for night to temporarily shield him from insult and injury.

The old adage is hardly applicable to his case. He has no _day_, but he has his night, however, and he would be a fool not to make the most of it.

How trifling a thing will draw the line between him and his licensed brother. One white foot, perhaps, a spot too many on the head, or want of one above the tail may have cursed him through the length and breadth of his existence. If he lives it must be by his wits. Every man’s hand or boot seems to be against him. The licensed dog can stretch lazily upon the sidewalk and oblige the pedestrians to go around him rather than take the chances of stepping over, or stirring him up with a kick.

It is dangerous business, this waking up a dog with your boot. You may take him in a time when not in the mood for permitting such familiar demonstrations.

Perhaps he may be hungry, and since the dogs devoured poor painted Jezebel, their weakness for human flesh will occasionally make itself manifest. I, who have been thrice vaccinated by a canine tooth (and it took each time, too), speak knowingly on this subject.

Now, as I gaze out upon the street, I mark the slow approach of the pound-keeper’s dingy cart. Ever and anon it comes to a sudden halt, and skirmishers are deployed on each side to search the alley-ways and lanes along the route. Hark! what cry is this that comes quavering forth from that shaky prison? A bark? No, never a bark, but a quavering bleat from the pale lips of a poor old goat. Alas! poor goat.

It, too, was evidently straying about unlawfully, in some one’s garden, perhaps, or stripping the posters off the fence before the paste was dry, or the bill-sticker a block away, and in consequence he is now occupying a position that, however exalted it may be in one sense, makes him feel very ill at ease all the same.

His fellow prisoners are dogs of every breed under the sun.

There is no discrimination in that moving prison, no separate cells. The full blood setter pup fares no better than the worthless poodle that couldn’t smell a quail a yard distant unless it was roasting. The big, sour, surly mastiff, with blood-shot eyes and pendent jowl, who long has been the acknowledged champion of a block, and in his day lacerated many a paw, hasn’t even a growl to offer, but crouches side by side with the poor maimed and mongrel cur that for years has been racking through life on three legs.

Still the dismal looking cart jolts along attracting the attention of the passing crowds. Still the villainous-looking aids, who flank the vehicle, trail their ready lariats, and dart exploring glances into every nook and corner. And as I gaze, I marvel to see how quickly the outlaws get a knowledge of its approach, and stand not upon the order of their going, but precipitately leave for back yards and kitchens.

QUAINT EPITAPHS.

While strolling through an old cemetery this afternoon I was surprised at the number of quaint epitaphs there to be found.

For a while I almost imagined myself rummaging among the old time-worn tombstones in some English or Welsh burying-ground. Many are written in verse, especially on the stones erected during a certain period, extending over about ten years, which proves that during these years the city had a tombstone poet among her citizens.

He was an odd genius, whoever he was, this graveyard rhymer.

One peculiarity seems to have been his coupling with the epitaph a brief account of the manner in which the deceased party was taken off. The first inscription which attracted my notice as odd, was chiseled upon a large marble slab which leaned over the spot where a party who had borne the ancient and honorable name of “Smith,” rested from his labors. The obituary ran thus:—

“Smith ran to catch his fatted hog, And carried the knife around; He slipped and fell; The hog is well, But Smith is under ground.”

This stanza should be introduced into public schools, and adopted as a morning chant, to impress upon the mind of the pupils the importance of a person’s having his wits about him. Death brought about by such gross carelessness as Smith showed, is—to say the least—first cousin to suicide, and doubtless there will come a time when Smith’s case will be inquired into.

Under a large oak tree on the south side I came upon a tombstone which bore no date, but had evidently been erected many years. The fence which once enclosed the grave had nearly disappeared, nothing remaining except a few rotten stakes protruding through the grass. What once had been a mound was now a hollow, which told the mute gazer, decay had done its worst.

Through a rank growth of weeds and briers, a few pale neglected flowers raised their delicate faces, like virtue struggling heavenward through the retarding throng inhabiting this naughty world.

The headstone was evidently erected before the poet’s day, and he who erected it had composed the epitaph. It is more than likely he chiseled it also, as the letters were ill-shaped and irregular, and looked as though carved out with a pick.

Here is a _fac-simile_ of the inscription:—

“Cynthy Ann is berried here. Be easy with her, Lord, And, you won’t lose nothin’, She was a plaguey good wife to me But She wouldn’t be druv.”

That “Cynthia Ann” had faults is evident from the tone. But I thought as I turned from the spot, if her greatest fault lay in not allowing herself to be “druv,” her prospects were better than the average.

What a contrast was the line inscribed upon a tombstone directly opposite:—

“He sleeps in Heaven.”

Mere speculation only, and wild at that. The extravagant notion that a person sleeps in Paradise must have emanated from the brain of some sluggard, who thought that heaven without sleep would be a wearisome place. The “sleeper’s” name was Gregg, and from a representation of a pair of scissors cut upon the slab I presumed he was a tailor. On making inquiry of the sexton, busily engaged closing a grave at the time, I found my supposition was right. Gregg was a tailor, but met death at the heels of a horse. To use the sexton’s own words, which were spoken in pure Greek—

“Begorra he _was_ a tailor, and it was meself that planted him there. He was killed in the barn beyant, while sthrivin’ to pull the makin’s of a fish-line out of the tail of owld Gleason’s stallion.”

When a person learns what his occupation had been, and how he died, the assertion that he had gone to heaven, strikes one as too ridiculous for anything.

Not less amusing or quaint was the verse inscribed upon the plain marble slab which marked the resting-place of Mr. and Mrs. Barradier. The stone was probably put up by some acquaintance of the deceased couple who knew that their marriage had been anything but a happy one; the verse upon it also informs the passer-by that they left no descendants to perform that pious duty. It said—

“Released from worldly care and strife, Here side and side lie man and wife; And with the couple buried here Expired the name of Barradier.”

MISTAKEN IDENTITY.

An amusing scene occurred this afternoon as I was coming up from the post-office. It was a case of mistaken identity. It seems a somewhat dissipated old Irish woman was deserted some weeks ago by her husband.

Through her domestic troubles and excessive drinking she at times becomes quite crazy,—so much so that her friends have to keep a constant watch over her to prevent her from doing mischief. She is very large and powerful, and when in one of her tantrums is no easy person to manage. It appears that when she has one of these crazy spells, she imagines she recognizes her husband’s Milesian features in almost every face she looks upon.

This afternoon, while the crazy fit was upon her, she escaped from her keepers, and rushed into the street with dilated eyes and dishevelled hair. With sleeves rolled above the elbows and clenched hands, she charged up the street, looking right and left for some person on whom to fasten.

She was indeed ripe for an encounter, and nearly the first person she met was a prominent clergyman returning to his residence from the Mercantile Library, with his newly selected book under his arm. She stood for a moment directly in front of the minister, and riveted her red optics upon his face in an inquiring stare, which soon kindled into one of recognition.

Anticipating trouble, he attempted to pass around her and proceed quietly on his way.

But she was too quick for him.

Reaching out her long bare arm, she brought it around like the boom of a sloop, and with one wide sweep knocked his hat spinning to the sidewalk at her feet.

He stooped to pick it up again, and while bent in the act, she seized him by the hair with both hands, and giving a guttural laugh, not unlike the self-satisfied croak of a down east bullfrog, exclaimed:—

“Ah! Barney, ye galavantin’ spalpeen! ye can’t desave me wid yer stove-pipe! So ye’d dezart the wife o’ yer boosome, would ye? ah, ha! come home wid me now, or I’ll be afther takin’ your durty ould scalp along wid me!”

A soft rabbit under the wide paw of a California lion, or a sparrow in the talons of a hawk, is not more utterly helpless than was the poor dominie in her terrible clutch. His position was anything but an enviable one. It actually seemed as if every hair upon his head was gathered and drawn into one mass, over which her muscular fingers held complete control.

He dropped his book and shouted loudly, partly through pain, and partly anger at seeing the fate of his fashionable hat, now lying under her great broad foot, flat as a German pancake.

His cries of fear only made the crazy woman more confident of her abilities. She commenced backing along the street, in the direction of home, and at every step, with an irresistible yank, she dragged the expostulating minister along with her over the uneven sidewalk.

She had snaked him along fully two rods in this manner, and was making, to use a nautical phrase, such good stern-way that she was on the point of breaking into a trot, when her heel caught on the edge of a plank.

The result was terrible in the extreme.

She fell backwards, pulling the unfortunate captive to the sidewalk after her, where they gyrated in the most ludicrous positions imaginable.

A couple of gentlemen, emerging from a store at that instant, looked on the pair in blank astonishment for a moment. Recognizing their own gifted pastor, they ran to his assistance, and lost no time in raising him to his feet, and turning over the old crazy woman to an officer who happened at that moment to step out of a saloon.

FLIRTING, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

At an open window wide, just across the way, Sits a roguish little blonde nearly all the day, Playing with a tabby cat, and gazing down below, Flirting with conductors that are passing to and fro. Some receive a passing nod, and some receive a smile; But she watches Number 6 whilst going half a mile.

And the gay conductor while he’s throwing kisses there, Doesn’t hear the signals given by an aged pair, Though the man, as best he can, whistles loud and shrill, And the wife, as though for life, charges down the hill.

And the blameful driver, while he gazes wistful back, Doesn’t see the little child a creeping on the track. Soon the jury summoned there to question how it died, Will as their opinion give, “a case of suicide;” And the driver and his mate acquitted from all blame, Kisses at the blonde will throw, and she’ll return the same.

THE CHAMPION MEAN MAN.

Yesterday I came across a singular looking individual dressed in a greasy, dingy suit. He was sitting on a log before his door engaged in repairing a shovel-handle.

“Say, stranger,” I said, addressing him, “can you inform me where Deacon Shellbark lives?”

The farmer looked up, pushed his slouched hat back on his head, and after surveying me some time in silence, drawled out:—

“Be you any relation of his’n?”

“No,” I replied, a little surprised at his manner of answering; “I haven’t a relative in the State.”

“By thunder! I congratulate you upon your good fortune,” he ejaculated, “particularly because there’s no tie of consanguinity existin’ atwixt you and old Deacon Shellbark. He’s expectin’ a son home, and I thought you mout be him.

“Wal,” he continued, pointing with a huge jack-knife that he held in his hand, “you see that house to the left of them scrub oaks, don’t you? that ar buildin’ with the leetle coopalow on’t? Wal, thar’s whar old Deacon Shellbark lives; _the meanest man in this yer county_, and that’s sayin’ considerable, too! cause we’ve got some vicey-fisted customers round these yer parts, men who scrape the puddin’ pot mighty clean before the dog gits a chance to canvass it, now I can tell ye. But I feel safe in stickin’ in old Shellbark at the head, and I ain’t agwine to haul him down nuther. I don’t believe in talkin’ much about one’s neighbors, but I ginnerally tell strangers what sort of a man he is, cause if they go to tradin’ with him and aren’t on thar guard, he’ll skin ’em quicker than a whirlpool sucks in a dead fish.”