Part 17

“That straw-headed Kate Rykert was thar. She was the rollickin’, don’t-care gal of the village, one of these tree-climbin’, astride-ridin’ critters, but a mi’ty good gal for all that, and handsome as a new fiddle. She was well up in the fine arts, but she could realize more genuine enjoyment chargin’ through the pastur’ astride the old mooly cow than she could by trummin’ a pianer.

“Wal, there wasn’t hardly a gal in the village that Abe Drake hadn’t bin a-spurrin’ round, and he had sort o’ commenced a-trampin’ on his wing like around Kate Rykert about this time.

“It happened I had a sort of weakness that way myself, and I didn’t like his maneuverin’ any too well now, I kin assure you. He couldn’t make much out of Kate, though. She liked fast horses and a splurge, but she wasn’t one of those gals that would marry an old pair of breeches jest because there was greenbacks in the pockets.

“But, as I was remarkin’, that day while the picnic was breakin’ up, we all got talkin’ about a ball that was comin’ off the followin’ week down at Crow Bend. Abe wanted Kate to go down thar with him, but she had partly agreed afore that to go long er me; so to git herself out of it and me in, she said she would go with the one who could take her the fastest.

“‘That’s me,’ said Abe, straightenin’ up kind of proudly, and givin’ his pantaloons a hitch up at the waistband. ‘I can let you count the panels along the turnpike a leetle the quickest of any person around these quarters,’ and he looked sideways at me to see how I took the assertion.

“‘It’s not allers the hen that does the most extensive advertizin’ that makes the largest deposits,’ said Tom Ruggles, laughin’, as he sat thar packin’ away his dishes.

“‘No, Tom,’ said Gus Parks, the millinery man, who didn’t like Abe any too well, because he sort o’ smashed an engagement between him and the schoolmarm; ‘and it’s not allers your longest-tailed quadrupeds that git over the ground the fastest, nuther.’

“‘Wal, never mind, boys,’ ses I, jest easy, that way, ‘the proof of the whiskey is in the headache arterwards. I reckon I kin kill as many grasshoppers between here and Grab Corners as any person that cracks a whip in these parts.’

“‘What! with them thick-skinned critters of yourn?’ said Abe, p’intin’ his fingers at my hosses, and laughin’ as though it was mi’ty funny. It made me feel pooty riley, but I kept my temper.

“‘Supposin’ they hev thick skins,’ I ses, ‘they’re somethin’ like the cheese that goggle-eyed Peter bought from the peddler, their peculiarity doesn’t lie in the thickness of their hide so much as in the mysterious way they have of movin’ themselves around.’

“‘S’pose you try a race back to the Corner, then,’ ses one of the boys.

“‘Yes,’ ses Kate Rykert, clappin’ her hands and jumpin’ up. ‘I’ll ride back to the Corner with one of you, and let Tilley Evans go with the other, and I’ll go to the ball with the one who gets to the village first.’

“‘Agreed,’ ses Abe, ‘and you’ll ride back with me?’

“‘No, I’m heavier than Tilley,’ ses Kate, ‘let everythin’ be even; toss up for partners back to the Corner.’

“This seemed fair, so we flipped, and I won Kate. She weighed ten pounds more than Tilley, but I didn’t care for that, for I knowed if the worst come to the worst, she was none of your jumpin’ out kind; she would stick to the buggy while there was one wheel and the seat left, and that’s the sort of a gal to have along with a feller when he’s tryin’ hoss flesh.

“The whole picnic gathered around us when we were gettin’ our teams ready and war speculatin’ on the result. Money was gwine up on all sides. Parson Briarly had no change about him, but he bet his gold-bowed spectacles against old Silverthorn’s meerschaum pipe that I would git to the Corner fust.

“‘Beat him, Jim,’ ses Gus Parks, ‘and I’ll give Kate the best bonnet in the store.’

“‘And I’ll give her the highest-heeled pair of boots that I’ve got in my shop,’ said Tom Ruggles, the boot and shoe dealer.

“‘Then Kate is a bonnet and a pair of boots ahead, for sartain,’ says I, jumpin’ into the buggy and squarin’ round my horses for the road; and with that we started, lick-a-te-split! down the turnpike, Abe a leetle ahead, but not enough to make much difference with five miles of good turnpike ahead of us, without let or hindrance.

“Pooty soon Kate leaned over to me, and ses she, ‘You must beat him, Jim, for between you and me, I would ruther go to the ball with you than with Abe.’

“This made me feel mi’ty good, and ses I, ‘You mustn’t get skeered, then, for I reckon we’ll hev to take some desperate chances to git thar fust.’

“‘Let me alone for that,’ ses she; ‘when I can’t ride as fast as a hoss can run, then I’ll stay to hum, and let dad tote me around in the wheelbarrow.’

“Just then we came up with him. He tried to shake us off, and would spurt ahead, but I’d crawl up on him agin, and stick thar, lappin’ him and goin’ with him stretch for stretch, like a dog when he’s a-freezin’ to a pig’s ear. Away went Kate’s hat a-flutterin’ over butter-cup swale, like a Bird of Paradise over the gardin’ of Eden.

“‘That’s mi’ty bad, Kate,’ ses I, lookin’ over my shoulder at it sailin’ off.

“‘Let it go hatchin’,’ ses Kate, laughin’. ‘It’s only gettin’ out of the way of the new bonnet.’

“I thought ’twas a good omen myself, but didn’t say anythin’, for jist then Abe shot a leetle ahead, and as he was gwine off, he hollered, ‘You can’t do it, Jim.’

“‘I kin,’ ses I, determinedly.

“‘Your hosses are ginnin’ out; they hain’t got the bottom into ’em,’ he shouted, jest that way.

“‘It must hev dropped out last night, then,’ ses I, and with that I overhauled him agin. Past Brian O’Laughlan’s door yard we went like a whirlwind through a flour ‘mill, over a hen and three suckin’ pigs. The old woman was standin’ thar in the yard with her apron full of chickens, shakin’ her fist at us and swearin’ like a drunken gypsy. Her long tongue was a-slushin’ and dashin’ against her one front tooth like a mop ag’inst a table leg.

“I could have laughed myself to tears only I had to keep my eyes clear, for the road was so narrow in some places that when we were abreast there wasn’t any ground to spare.

“We were now passin’ the half-way spring and the race was fully as undecided as when we broke away from the hootin’ crowd on the picnic grounds.

“Down past old Deacon Shovelridge’s ten-acre hop yard we went rack-a-te-bang! hub end against hub end, and the outer wheels a-spokin’ it within six inches of a four-foot ditch.

“The ride to the Corners began to look like the ride to etarnity, and Tilley was as pale as a gray nun’s ghost, and continewally making narvous reaches for the lines.

“But Kate was equal to the surroundin’s. Thar she sot, with one arm around me and ’tother graspin’ the seat rail, and above the clatter of hoofs and steel axles, I could hear her repeatin’:—

“‘Stick to him, Jim, and start my stitches, if he doesn’t git his crop full of dust yet!’

“Old Shovelridge was in the field on a load of hay as we were passin’. He was inclined to piety, and if the world had no hosses in it I reckon he’d have been as pious as a church organ.

“And when he saw us a-raspin’ down the turnpike as though we were ridin’ in a four-hoss chariot, and saw Kate Rykert’s great swad of blonde har a-streamin’ out behind, like the tail of a comet, he couldn’t contain his feelin’s no how.

“He gin a rousin’ whoop like a Chilchat Indian, when he sights a fur hunter. Throwin’ away the pitchfork—which accidentl’y harpooned the old lady in the back who was rakin’ behind—and jumpin’ from the load, he took across the field to’ards the turnpike, swingin’ his old straw hat and hollerin’:—

“‘Go it, Dudley; go it! Keep the hoss up with the rat-tail mare, and I’ll bet my farm you’ll make Grab Corner fust!’

“This made me feel pooty good, for the mare was the one I had some fears about.

“But you ought to see how it affected Abe; he commenced to slash his hosses and swar like an ox teamster when his cart is stuck hub deep in the mud.

“Finally the off-horse broke, and there was a sort of irregular upheaval among ’em for a while, as though they war steppin’ on broken cakes of ice; one would be gwine down while ’tother was a-comin’ up.

“Abe tried to bring ’em down to their work agin, and in the meantime I kind of corkscrewed ahead and swung into the centre of the road in advance of him. Then I began to feel somethin’ like a feller what holds the winnin’ cards, and sees the other chaps a-pilin’ up the coin on their inferior pasteboards. But I see some young half-breeds a-squattin’ around on the road about a quarter of a mile ahead, and knowed at the rate we war travellin’ we’d be on top of ’em before they’d see us if I didn’t haul up.

“So I ses to Kate, ‘See them plag’y brats ahead of us thar! what bed we better do about it?’

“‘Run over the centipedes,’ ses she. ‘Abe ain’t a gwine to slack up for ’em,’ and she cuddled closer to me so the jolt wouldn’t hist her out.

“I shouted two or three times, but they were too busy with their mud pies, I reckon, to take any notice, and Abe was makin’ no signs of haulin’ up. I did my best to sheer round ’em, and kept right on for the Corner.

“I heered ’em scream as we went a-whirlin’ on, but reckon it was more through fright than injury.

“Abe had lost his grippin’s. He couldn’t overhaul me ag’in, no how, and I gradually crawled away from him, if he did his pootiest.

“The whole village seemed to be out to the bridge to see what was comin.’

“They see the dust risin’ when we were more’n a mile away, and they allowed the greatest run-away was a-comin’ down the turnpike that had happened since Bull Run, and were out thar speculatin’ as to whose family was in danger.

“But when they see it was a race, and recognized me, you ought to see the scatterin’ amongst ’em. You’d think a hull menagery had broken loose and was comin’ for ’em.

“Ole Pelvy, the shoemaker, was a-settin’ on the railin’ of the bridge; but jest as I crossed it, the crowd hoorayed, and jostled him off. He hung over the railin’ by one leg, with his body swayin’ below, and him a-hollerin’ like a good feller, and signalin’ for help, but the crowd were so taken up with the race, and were cheerin’ and swingin’ of their hats continewally, that they never knowed anythin’ about his position.

“Pooty soon his leg slipped over, and then he went, end over end more’n twenty-five feet, into the river, and was carried over the falls before anybody missed him. Arter that people weren’t troubled so much with corns around Grab Corner, for though he’s dead now, I’ll say it of him, he was the wust shoemaker that ever shoved an awl into a hide.

“I druv up to the hotel, and had jest got through helpin’ Kate out, when up come Abe, with his hosses hobblin’ as if they had picked up a twenty-penny nail in every hoof.

“They looked somewhat as if they had bin swimmin’ in a soap vat.

“Abe was very much of a man, though, arter all. His hosses I reckon had never bin passed before, but he didn’t bluster or git mad about it neither, though it must have bin pooty tryin’ to him.

“‘By the Witch of Endor’s long eye tooth,’ he cried, as he jumped from the buggy, ‘you did it, Jim; and you did it fair. Only I kinder think you swung in ahead of me a leetle too quick, back thar where that crazy old whipperin hollered so.’

“‘No, Abe,’ ses I, ‘I didn’t take an inch o’ turnpike till I was entitled to it.’

“‘Wal,’ ses he, as he came round to look at my animals, that were standin’ thar seemingly as cool as a brace of toads in a celler, ‘I’ll be shot if them hosses of yourn ain’t somethin’ like the widder Tappan’s boarders. The speed they show in gettin’ away with anythin’ was most surprisin’.’

“So Kate Rykert got the bonnet and boots, and I gin her a new dress to go with them, and if we didn’t shine out some the next week down to Crow Bend then thar ain’t no use talkin’ about it, that’s all.”

OLEOMARGARINE.

Through the busy bustling street, Rolls a cart I often meet, The driver shouting from the seat: “Oleomargarine!”

On the tail-board long and wide, Reaching fair from side to side, Shines the word in painted pride: “Oleomargarine!”

What it is doth not appear, Where it comes from all may fear, Still I shudder when I hear: “Oleomargarine!”

Here and there he slowly crawls, Pausing by the butcher stalls, In the kitchen door he bawls: “Oleomargarine!”

Bring your tallow, bring your fat, Candle ends and all like that, They will issue from the vat Oleomargarine.

Any scraps you have about, Kidney, liver, tripe, or snout, All will make, when they’re tried out, Oleomargarine.

Comes the cry across the way, From a dame with rent to pay: “Do you purchase puppies? say, Oleomargarine!”

“Is he fat?” the driver cries; “I should say so,” she replies; “Then pitch him in where pussy lies.” Oleomargarine!

In the church, or at the play, In the parlor, night or day, Still the voices seem to say: “Oleomargarine!”

From the birds that round me fly, In the brook that babbles by, Still I seem to catch the cry: “Oleomargarine!”

With suspicion now I spread The cow’s rich offering on my bread That weird butter still I dread,— Oleomargarine!

Dainties now I must forego, Pies and cakes and puddings, Oh! Can I trust them? no! no!! no!!! Oleomargarine!

DINING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

Taking dinner to-day in a restaurant, I was in danger of being carried off by cockroaches. If I was inclined to draw comparisons, I would say that in size the cockroaches I encountered in this place would compare favorably with cupboard door buttons. I had seen these troublesome insects on former occasions when I thought they were numerous—when they were as thick around the bread-plate as bees around their hive in June. But I had never been present when they turned out in sufficient numbers to take and hold possession of everything upon the table, even to the mustard-pot. To-day I witnessed such a spectacle. I counted until I tired; their skelping to and fro made the task painfully difficult, and the effort was abandoned. They had evidently been lying in ambush in the cruet stand from the moment I sat down and gave my order, for the ring of the plate as it struck the board seemed to be the signal for a general advance. They appeared in military ranks, moving towards the dish in a semicircle, like a line of Fenian skirmishers advancing heroically upon a turnip patch. There were no frost-nipped fellows, with drooping horns and dragging limbs, among those legions either. All were active, square-shouldered customers, real thoroughbreds, wide across the hips, and boasting a depth of chest capable of enduring any amount of running; while their long, formidable-looking feelers stood out at right angles from their heads, like the horns on a Mexican steer.

“During your natural life,” I commenced, addressing a waiter who stood near by, evidently enjoying my surprise, “whether while officiating as head steward on board of a floating palace on the Mississippi, or serving as second cook on a grain scow on the San Joaquin, did you ever run across a place where the cockroaches were one-ninetieth part as numerous as they are in this restaurant?”

“Numerous?” he answered; “you should be here a warm, sunshiny day, if you want to see cockroaches, for then all the invalids are out—those fellows who have had their movements across the table accelerated by a snapping finger, or such as have only tasted the poison scattered around for their benefit, or those who have taken an overdose and throwed it up again. These lie in cracks and cupboards, with stiffened joints and weak stomachs, when the weather is cold and cloudy; but when a warm day comes, they are all abroad and busy.”

“Well, I will bear that in mind,” I said, rising from the table, “and when the next total eclipse of the sun occurs, which, as I am informed, will take place in about four hundred and thirty-seven years, I may come into this restaurant for another meal, and not until then,” and with that I left.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The editor of a city paper having occasion to take a trip into the country, prevailed upon me to assume the responsibility of answering letters from correspondents. The task is an onerous one—the more so as the editor, with that cunning ever noticeable in a person who takes the cream of a job, left me to reply only to the knottiest epistles. But I will some time get even with him, however. I will assume the editorial “we,” and should I waken the wrath of any person, _he_ will be the sufferer. Here is a copy of my answer to “Katie:”—

“The minister was perfectly right in refusing to marry the couple, if, as you say, the bride insisted upon holding her poodle in her arms during the ceremony. The more so as the clergyman was near-sighted. He might possibly mistake the puppy for the bridegroom.”

Another person accuses a correspondent of a mis-statement. He says it was the editor of the _Farmer_, and not the editor of the _Examiner_, who planted the package of No. 16 homœopathic pills sent him from the country by a wag, as the seeds of a Sandwich Island cabbage.

The old editor for weeks regularly watered the plot where he sowed them; but as nothing appeared, wrote to the country gentleman, informing him that his seeds hadn’t sprouted, and he thought it likely they might have been taken from a dead head.

“Amy” is all in a fluster about spirits. I will talk to her after this manner:—

“We have always considered spiritualism the bluest carbuncle that ever festered upon the neck of society. We care not if the spirits were rapping around our table like a forty-stamp mill, we would eat our regular allowance with all the coolness that a Celestial manifests when absorbing his birds’-nest soup. If your bed dances a _pas-seul_ after you get into it at night, there must be more than spirits around; and you would do well to throw a boot-jack or flat-iron under it before retiring. Such a proceeding might give you the satisfaction of hearing the spirits yell blue murder.

“There is not much danger of your going crazy, because, in plain terms, we consider you to be luny already. The poor fellow in the lunatic asylum who imagines Queen Victoria has made a private residence of his nose, and who has nearly blown both eyes out striving to eject her, is hardly more so.”

I trust the editor will lose some hair over that answer.

On second thought, I remember the editor has none.

COURT-ROOM SCENES.

I am as full of law this evening as a sea-shell of sound, having been wedged in the District Court room from 10 o’clock A. M. to 9 P. M., listening to testimony in the re-trial of the case of the People vs. a fiery lady, if we may use the expression, who brought down her game the first shot.

Though the room was crowded almost to suffocation, I fancy there is not that deep interest that was manifested during the former trial. On that occasion there were so many letters introduced in evidence, such a mass of private correspondence dragged from musty trunks, and laid open to the public, that thousands flocked daily to the court room, in hopes of hearing something rich, if not instructive. I shall never forget the excitement during the reading of letter No. 947. It was from the defendant.

The counsel for the defence argued a good round two hours and a half by the court-room clock, against the letter being admitted in evidence. He maintained it was irrelevant, as it had never been opened, the receiver forgetting to read it, or neglecting to do so, for some reason of his own.

The counsel for the people followed with even a longer appeal to the judge to admit the letter, strengthening his argument by lengthy quotations from Blackstone, Kent, Wharton, and other authorities, endeavoring to prove it should be put in evidence, as its contents might assist materially in furthering the ends of justice.

The judge began to show unmistakable signs of impatience. He remarked that already a package of letters had been read that would go far towards shingling the Mechanics’ Pavilion, and had no more bearing upon the point at issue than “Darwin’s Descent of Man” had upon the culture of white beans. He finally gave way before the preponderance of the prosecuting attorney’s argument, and directed an officer to wake the jury, as a letter was to be read that all should hear. After considerable shaking and poking, this difficult duty was performed. Even the deaf juror was aroused, though the good-natured judge had permitted him to sleep during the introduction of several preceding epistles.

After order was restored, and an inventive juror had improvised an ear trumpet with a piece of legal cap for his unfortunate companion, the _billet doux_ was opened. As the seal was broken, judge and jury rose to their feet with one accord, and leaned as far forward as their desks would allow, the more readily to catch every word of the important document. The silence in the room was death-like. It was supposed that on the contents of this letter hung either a scaffold or an acquittal. The weak ticking of the dusty clock upon the wall was the only sound that disturbed the awful stillness. As the calm settled, the muffled beat of the time-piece increased in force and volume until it seemed to attain the tones of a fire bell. Presently the attorney in a high and tremulous voice began to read. The contents ran thus:—

“MY DEAR, DELIGHTFUL DARLING:—How are my stocks selling now?

Your Loving, Adoring L——.”

The effect was thrilling. The lawyer dropped the letter upon the table before him, ran his white fingers through his hair, and looked around with the air of a tired traveler when he ascertains he has walked five miles upon the wrong road. The gentlemen of the jury, with looks more of anger than of sorrow, dropped into their seats as suddenly as though an invisible hand had caught them from behind and jerked them to their benches.

The Judge, with an ill-concealed look of disgust, settled back into his chair, and the deep crease in his vest, immediately over where his dinner should have been hours before, grew more painfully perceptible.

I elbowed my way from the suffocating room before further correspondence was selected from the package for perusal.

THE MASON’S RIDE.

The goat, the goat, the bearded goat! The horned, the hoofed, the hairy goat! As I’m a sinner of some note, Last night I rode the Mason’s goat!

He was a beast of wondrous size, With lengthy limbs and glassy eyes, And beard that swept the carpet clear, And horns that shook the chandelier! Ye gods! if there’s a time we feel Misgivings through our noddle steal, It is when we through mystery float Upon the dark Freemason’s goat.