Part 3

“‘I’ve sent for Father Quinn,’ he contin’ed, ‘cal’latin’ to hev you jined to the family rite off, afore you leave the house,’ and he gin the cleaver a sweepin’ flourish; but while he was a-doin’ it he sort of took his eyes away from me, and before he could say ‘scat,’ I jest shet my eyes tight, and made one detarmined lunge for the winder, head fust, like a sheep through a clump of briars, and went a-crashin’ plum out on all fours into the gardin, takin’ the hull lower sash along with me.

“The old man gin one rattlin’ shout like a wounded gorrillar, when he seed me go. I knowed he’d be arter me mi’ty quick, so I broke through the gardin for the toll-road, the blarsted ole sash a-hangin’ around my neck like a hog-yoke, catchin’ on everythin’ as I ran. I hadn’t more’n struck the road and begun to dust along it, when I heered the old man comin’, a-snortin’ an’ a spatterin’, down the turnpike ahind me. I ‘lowed he’d overhaul me if I kept right on, ’cause I hadn’t got the sash off yet, and the blamed thing was jest ginnin’ my neck jess; so flouncin’ aside pooty sudden, I flopped down ahind a sassafras bush, and I hadn’t more’n got thar nuther when old Hurley went a-rackin’ and a rearin’ past, the bloodthirsty great meat-ax a-gleamin’ in his hand. He reckoned I was still ahead, so he went a-flukin’ down the road, clearin’ the toll-bar at one bounce, without so much as dustin’ it, and keepin’ right on for Gosport. Thunder! didn’t I tear off the ruins of that winder mity fast, though? Then I clim’ the fence, and took across lots through Hiram Nye’s corn patch, and down by Blake’s orchard, comin’ into town by the lower road. I think more’n likely old Hurley kept a-goin’ it plum to Gosport before he mistrusted that I dodged him; and I do jest think if he had got hold on me—a-bilin’ as he was—he wouldn’t have left a piece of me together large enough to bait a mink trap. Wasn’t that an all-fired close dodge, though? I reckon you’ll not see me in Gosport agin, leastways not while old Hurley’s a-livin’. I’ve no notion o’ gettin’ married in no such haste as that. Thar’s the bugle callin’ to muster—let’s hurry up and go.”

TRIALS OF THE FARMER.

I want to be a farmer And with the farmers stand— A whetstone in my pocket, A blister on my hand.

I sing to be a farmer, Without the right of way Across my neighbor’s lot to drive My ox-cart or my sleigh.

I long to be a farmer And own a breachy mare, That oft will leap the bound’ry line, And make my neighbors swear.

I pine to be a farmer And own a kicking steer, That I may feel his horny heel Whenever I draw near.

I sigh to be a farmer And plant my field of corn, That crows may flock and pull it up Before the streak of morn.

I shout to be a farmer: How much I would adore To drive a big and stubborn pig Some five miles or more.

A CUNNING DODGE.

There was a certain citizen of this place, a butcher by occupation, who, deeming the remuneration he received small in comparison to the amount of service done, resolved to discontinue butchering cattle and become a butcher of men, or in other words to assume the responsibilities of a practicing physician and surgeon. It seems in his travels he had collected quite a number of receipts and prescriptions from old almanacs and doctors’ books.

With this limited stock of medical knowledge, and an unusually large amount of “cheek,” he thought to work himself into a lucrative business. As an invoice of smallpox was expected by every steamer, he imagined he might pass among other professionals as though his scientific acquirements were excelled by none, and his vocabulary of Latin names surpassed “Doctor Hornbook’s.”

Hiring an office in a central locality, he hoisted a board reaching nearly across the building, on which his name and calling were made known in large characters. Then sitting down amidst a “beggarly account of empty bottles,” he patiently awaited the result. Whether the city had suddenly become remarkably healthy through the sanitary exertions of the health commissioners, or he had not his proportionate share of the medical practice in requisition, he knew not, but certain it was, that from morn to noon, from noon to dewy eve he sat in his room—

“As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.”

One day, however, while straying along North Beach, musing on the strange vicissitudes in human affairs, and thinking how “weary, stale, flat and unprofitable” were all the uses of this world, a happy idea presented itself. In the vicinity of the County Hospital he had noticed the invalids coming out to sun themselves, like seals, along the Beach. What a glorious attraction to custom they would be, congregated around his door! Entering into conversation with some of them, he soon struck a bargain with thirty or more. They were to visit his office once a day, those who could walk there without much trouble or pain receiving fifty cents per day, while those who traveled under greater difficulties were to be paid accordingly. So, every morning, after breakfast, they took up their line of march in twos and threes along the street toward the charlatan’s place of business. They were indeed a motley crowd—that cripple brigade—as they hobbled through the thoroughfare.

There came the maimed, the halt, the withered, and the blind, shuffling into his office thicker than diseased Jews to the troubled pool of Bethesda. If any stranger chanced to drop in for medical treatment, the crowd of hired specimens began at once to converse among themselves of the wonderful skill of the physician. One remarked how his sight had improved under treatment, how he could see two objects now where he used to see but one. Another related in glowing terms the ravenous appetite the doctor’s bitters had awakened in his system; through all the hours of the day he was now as hungry as a whirlpool. A third would eulogize his method of treating contagious diseases in general.

In this way the real patient, though receiving no actual benefit from the watery potions administered, was retained in hopes of an ultimate cure. At length the curiosity of the resident physician of the Hospital was aroused. He couldn’t imagine where his patients filed away to every morning, as regularly as liberated geese to some well-known pond. Following up the bandaged crew and investigating the matter, he soon learned the state of affairs, and forbade their leaving the Hospital yard without a permit. This sudden falling off in the would-be-doctor’s patients made a material change in the appearance of his office. In short, it leveled his business and his hopes, and again the quack sank into that obscurity from which he so energetically struggled to emerge.

A TERRIBLE TAKE IN.

To-day, while taking dinner in an eating-house in a Western town, I witnessed an amusing incident. It appears the proprietor had often been imposed upon by bummers who would walk boldly into the dining-room, and after stowing away a supply of victuals that would fill an ordinary carpet sack, would shuffle up to the counter, and in an undertone of voice inform the person there officiating that they were unfortunately “dead broke.” Of course the law doesn’t allow any ripping to be done on such occasions, other than swearing. Then the well-filled rascals would walk off picking their teeth with the utmost composure; except in extreme cases when the out-going party would be assisted over the threshold by an uprising boot. But even kicks would not bring the coin into the till, or bring back upon the table the vanished edibles, so this treatment was seldom resorted to. Finally, the proprietor bought a large syringe, and placing it in a drawer in the dining-room, bided his time.

It happened while I was sitting at the table an individual, whose cheek the proprietor had reason to believe far exceeded his checks, entered the room and sat down directly in front of me. A plate of hot bean soup sat invitingly before him, from which the savory steam rose up in clouds, and not only filled the nostrils of the hungry man with delicious and enticing odors, but served to whet the hungry edge of appetite.

Lifting a large pewter spoon that lay beside the plate, he was about to introduce it to the hot decoction before him. Already the limber hinges of his jaw began to relax, preparatory to admitting the well-filled spoon. His attention was suddenly arrested by the proprietor, who, with one hand behind him and the other laid upon the spoon-arm of the would-be eater, demanded the price of the dinner before he went any further. The man, it seems, was not a member of that class of individuals which the hotel keeper thought him. He was justly indignant, therefore, at the demand, and sharply informed mine host that “he guessed after he had eaten his dinner would be time enough to pay for it.” But the oft-swindled proprietor thought differently. The man had scarcely got the words out of his mouth before “mine host” produced a syringe, large as the trunk of a small-sized elephant, and slapping the nozzle of it into the soup, ran it circling around the plate, and with one long, slobbering draught, like that of a horse drinking through his bits, the soup plate was left lying before the hungry man, as empty as his own stomach.

The astonished individual looked first at his plate, on which not even a bean was left, then at the dripping, steaming muzzle of the syringe, and lastly at the landlord, who stood with a look of triumph spreading over his face, silently waiting for the man to either come down with the coin or leave the table.

Though not liking that summary way of treating a person, the man was either too hungry or too limited in time to go further for a meal, so he fished out of his pocket the change and handed it to the proprietor. The latter thereupon discharged the contents of the syringe into the soup plate again, and walked away, leaving the customer to proceed with his dinner.

A FAMILY JAR.

One night, while passing through the street, A stranger paused to hear The tumult from a cottage nigh, That stunned the listening ear. And as he stood without the door The sound of war arose, As when Boroo the Irish king Engaged his stubborn foes.

So drawing nigh the window-sill He studied matters fair, And lo, the husband and the wife Engaged in battle there: The former with his doubled fists The battle sought to win; While to his head the wife applied The heavy rolling-pin.

And as the stranger stood without He thus communed with care,— For he was shrewd and thought it best To weigh the danger there,— “This is some family affair: Some question I opine That I should not discuss with them, Nor make the quarrel mine; For I am newly risen up From off the bed of pain, And they perchance will turn on me, And send me there again.”

So turning from the window-sill He journeyed on his way, And went not in, but left the pair Engaged in doubtful fray; And when he was a great way off The stranger paused once more, And lo! the noise of battle fell Still louder than before.

Then he remarked, “This is indeed A battle fierce and great; I now repent me that I went Not in, to remonstrate.” Then taking to his road again, He moved, repenting still, And turned not back to enter in, But slowly climbed the hill.

Not many minutes later on, Behold, another man Was passing by, and heard the war That through the building ran; And lo! the tumult that arose Was like the clamor high When Michael’s host and Satan’s horde Did mingle in the sky.

And while he paused, he heard the stroke The active husband sped; And heard the fall of rolling-pin Upon the husband’s head. And he communed thus with himself,— For he loved ways of peace, Delighting not in heavy strokes, But thinking war should cease:

Said he, “A family jar, no doubt, Now falls upon mine ear; And I should promptly enter in The house, to interfere; Or soon, perchance, a murder will Be done beneath this roof; And I appear like one to blame, Because I stood aloof, Or passed along upon my way And took no noble stand, Nor raised my voice the war to stay, Nor caught a lifted hand.”

So then the traveler left the street And bravely entered in, Through porch and hall, and gained the room Where rose the fearful din; And on the husband laying hold, He cried, “Why do ye go Beyond the brute that roots the sod In this contention low, And neither spare the sex, nor kin, Which you are bound to do? Now use no more your ready hand Or you the act may rue!”

Then said the husband, turning round, “Why, is she not mine own? My flesh of flesh, as we are told, And also bone of bone? And who are you that here comes in At me to rail and scout, When I, by neither word nor line, Sent invitation out? Do I not answer for the rent? And all the taxes pay? And say to whom I will, ‘Come in,’ Or, ‘Stand without,’ I pray?”

Then also did that warring wife Now rest her rolling-pin, And thus addressed the stranger too, “Aye! wherefore came ye in? Come, let us beat him soundly here, And throw him down the stairs, And teach him not to interfere With other folks’ affairs.”

So hands they laid upon the wretch While edging for the door, And beat him freely out of shape, And dragged him round the floor. The wife would hold him down awhile The husband’s blows to bide; And then the husband held him till The wife her weapon plied.

They rent the garments from his back, And from his scalp the hair; And from his face in handfuls plucked The whiskers long and fair; And there, contrary to the laws, And to his wish to boot, He swallowed teeth that in his jaws In youth had taken root.

At last, uniting at the task, They hauled him to the door And sent him howling home in pain; A man both lame and sore.

Who showed the greatest wisdom here,— The one who heard the fray And went not in, but later stood Repenting in the way? Or he, who turning from his path Went in to stay the rout, And after wished, with all his heart, That he had stayed without?

The observations of a life Prove, eight times out of nine, They best can meddle with a strife Who bear official sign.

But notwithstanding all the facts This lesson has laid bare; Of reaping good for noble acts We never should despair. Not here below reward we’ll know, But virtue still prevails; And valor, love, and rightful deeds, Will count upon the scales.

THE ROD OF CORRECTION.

It is not often that a poor fellow like myself can have a good laugh at the expense of a high dignitary. To-day, however, an opportunity presented itself, and happily I was in the right humor to appreciate it. Passing along a narrow street, I saw an old Irish woman unmercifully beating her boy with a rod, which, if it had not been divested of twigs and leaves, would have served as a Christmas tree for a good-sized family. This of itself was nothing to make one smile, and perhaps no person would more readily endorse such a sentiment than the boy himself. But the end was not yet.

It appears that while on his way from the grocery, with a pitcher of beer for his mother, the little fellow tripped-up and spilled nearly the whole contents in the street. This was something that Temperance folk might well rejoice over, but it was a serious matter for the boy. The old woman, with parched lips was standing at the gate, impatiently awaiting her youngster’s return. She saw him emerge from the store, pitcher in hand. Her quick eye caught sight of the light foam rising in airy bubbles above the brim, and she knew the grocer had sent her no stinted measure. In fancy she was already quenching her thirst with copious draughts of the cooling drink—when she saw the boy measuring his length upon the planks. Worst, and most lamentable of all, she saw the delectable beverage coursing down the sidewalk in a dozen foaming streams. Her rage knew no bounds. The moment the boy put his foot inside the gate, she seized him with the grip of a virago, and belabored him with the cudgel till he roared. So great was the outcry that every window in the vicinity was immediately crammed with heads. Taught by the lessons of my youth that he who meddles in other people’s affairs often treads upon his own corns, I maintained a wise silence; but I mentally prayed that the wrath of the old fury would be appeased, for the cries and wild antics of the little wretch began to grow monotonous.

There chanced at that moment to be passing an eminent minister who weekly fills his fashionable, spacious church with a glittering congregation. He saw the woman was in a towering passion, and he ventured to remark: “My good woman, the rod of correction should never become the weapon of passion.” The remark, which seemed good and to the point, caused her temporarily to suspend hostilities; but she still retained her hold on the collar, as she turned around sharply to ascertain who dared criticise her method of training up a child in the way he should go.

For a minute she glared upon the clergyman with flashing eyes, as if astonished at his interference. Surveying him from the soles of his boots to the very crown swirl of his silk hat, she drew herself up to her full height, and, in the most indignant voice, shouted: “Away wid yer cotations, you ould sermon thief! It’s not from the likes of yees I learn me juty!”

The clergyman was nonplussed; he quailed before the fiery eyes and sarcastic tongue of the old vixen; and I fancied his face lit up with joy when he discovered that he was nigh a corner, around which he quickly disappeared.

GONE FROM HIS GAZE.

There was a little man, And he had a little dog; And he said: “Little dog, you must stay, stay, stay, Playing here by the house, As peaceful as a mouse, And never hoist your tail and away, ’way, ’way— And never hoist your tail and away.”

Then said this little pup, At its master looking up: “I know, little master, you are cute, cute, cute; But if you will allow Such a question, tell me, now, What the dickens do you want with a brute, brute, brute? What the dickens do _you_ want with a brute?”

Then the little man did stare, And up rose his little hair; And his cheeks with fear grew pale, pale, pale, As he said: “I do propose, Soon as you have found your nose, To kill by the dozen little quail, quail, quail— To kill by the dozen little quail.”

At this the puppy grinned, Like a mischief-making fiend, As he whined: “You cannot come it upon me, me, me. You would have me lie around In a back-yard, like a hound, And become a paradise for the flea, flea, flea— And become a paradise for the flea.”

When the toil of day had flown, Little man, with little bone, Went out where the little dog ought to be, be, be; He whistled, and he called, He patted, and he bawled, But nary little dog could he see, see, see— But nary little dog could he see.

Next day he chanced to stop By a sausage maker’s shop, And something that he saw made him holler, holler, holler; For there in the street, All bloody, at his feet, Lay his poor little dog’s leather collar, collar, collar— Lay his poor little dog’s leather collar.

ST. PATRICK’S DAY.

Erin go bragh! St. Patrick’s day is upon us, and the city seems wrapped in a “mantle of green,” so numerous are the Irish flags flying in the breeze.

From hovel roof, and church of size Alike, the harp and sun-burst flies!

The ear of morn is stunned with the bray of at least a dozen blatant bands, as they discourse Old Erin’s soul-stirring airs. It is an easy matter for a person to imagine himself sitting by some sheeling door in “County Kerry” instead of this great American city by the sea. The Ancient Order of Hibernians and the Fenians are out in full force, with clean-boiled shirts and soap-washed faces. Marshals charge around upon their caparisoned steeds like real heroes, and sitting gracefully as a sack of potatoes upon the back of a spavined mule trotting over a corduroy road. Evidently some of them have never before bent over anything that came nigher to an equine than a saw-horse. It is plain

Those who always rode, now ride the more, And those now ride who never rode before.

Well, they love the country that gave them birth, and that is a virtue that is certainly commendable,—a natural excellence often wanting in other nationalities. Besides, celebrating the old gentleman’s birthday makes business lively with the stable men and the shoemakers, and that of itself is a good reason why the demonstration should be encouraged. It is hardly probable that any of the great powers will be materially weakened by these loyal manifestations.

Here is a sketch of a spirited member of the “Ancient Order of Hibernians,” as he appeared passing my window in the morning, full of life and loyalty, tripping the asphaltum pavement lightly as though traversing the springy surface of his native bogs. And following is another sketch of the same individual in the evening, when full of oaths and whiskey, lying in the gutter with all that ease and abandon which characterizes the Celtic race, wherever dispersed, in every land and in every age.

The different races of men have their different weaknesses. It may seem an extravagant statement, but I venture to say if there had been no rice plant in the world, the Chinese would not have cared to live. I will even go further and say perhaps there would have been no Mongolian race. And now the thought occurs to me, this deficiency in the human family would not have been such a terrible thing after all. True, we should have been obliged to get along with catnip tea instead of Souchong, which would have been pretty heavy on old women. We also would have been obliged to worry through without old Confucius, which might have made some confusion in metaphysics or political morality. But as the latter could hardly be worse than it is at present with all his teachings, we possibly might have managed to exist very well without the moon-eyed philosopher.