Part 4

The Teuton dotes on his well-seasoned bologna. The grizzly Emperor William I, standing upon an eminence near Rezonville, overlooking the battle-field, with a spy-glass in one hand and a large bologna sausage in the other, furnished indeed a striking sketch for the special artist of the occasion. The humor of the situation came in when the Emperor, forgetting himself in the excitement of the moment, raised the sausage to his eye instead of the spy-glass, and because he failed to see the squadron of Uhlans—that a moment before were charging upon a battery—concluded they were blown to smithereens, and losing his usual equanimity, commenced to swear fearfully, and order up another division to take their place. There was a broad and sarcastic humor couched in the remark of the officer at his side, who observed the mistake, and ventured the suggestion, “If your Majesty will take another bite from the sausage, perhaps you will be able to see through it.”

And then, there is the jovial, careless, free-hearted, yet quarrelsome Irishman, who thinks a new Jerusalem without a little whiskey still in one corner of it,—“over beyant the throne, and forninst the back dure,” for instance—would be just no Paradise at all. I believe there is not a race of men on the face of the earth—from Behring Straits to Terra del Fuego, round and about, over and under, or down either quarter—that can extract the same genuine soul-satisfying bliss from a flattened nose or swelled lip, that a real, irrepressible, County Kerry Irishman can. Let him have that, and a good stiff horn of whiskey to keep the blood running freely, and my advice to you is, keep upon the other side of the street, if you intend to sit for your picture that afternoon, or visit your sweetheart that evening, or expect to take up the collection during divine worship the next Sunday. At such a time he is no respecter of persons, this set-up Irishman.

You may be the Rector of the finest cathedral in the place, the mayor of the city, the judge of the supreme court, or even the governor of the state, and should your hat chance to blow off and roll in front of him,—though it should cost him a fall upon the pavement,—that man will kick it. I tell you he will kick it, and soundly too. He will make no mincing about it, but go for it, as he would for his neighbor’s pig, should he find it in his garden of cabbages. At such he is full of words also, and can bestow upon the stone that trips him up the same flow of abuse that he can shower upon the man who assists him to his feet.

THE CONTENTED FROG.

The frog that once in Selby’s dam Its weird music shed, Now lies as mute as stranded clam— Because that frog is dead.

So sleeps the plague of former days, So noisy nights are o’er, And he now on the pond decays Who long cried, “Sleep no more!”

A frog upon a log one day In meditation sat, And gazed upon his pond, that lay Still as a tanner’s vat.

No fish swam in his fetid lake, No current seaward run; But hemmed by grasses, weed, and brake, It mantled in the sun.

At length from revery he woke, And thus to free his mind, He in the gutt’ral jargon spoke Peculiar to his kind:—

“Give me my slimy pool,” quoth he, “Before a river wide, Where cranes are found, still wading round, And hungry fishes glide.

“Here light first dawn’d, here was I spawn’d, And here I make my home— Those longest live who’re not inclined In foreign parts to roam.

“Upon this log, or stone, I sit, The water-fly to view, Or watch the glossy whirligig Describe his circles true.

“How foolish are some pollywogs; Before they’ve lost their tails They often class themselves with frogs, And leave their native swales;

“And while exploring down some ditch, Beneath a scorching ray, Upon a sandy bar they hitch, And bake as dry as hay.

“Had they but waited till the tail Had from their body dropp’d— And in its stead four legs shot forth— Away they might have hopp’d.”

Thus while he sat above the pool, Commenting on his lot, He heard a truant boy from school Come whistling to the spot.

“Ah ha!” quoth he, “I hear, I see An ancient foe of mine; He stones will throw, that well I know, And straight ones I divine.

“The sparrow on the picket fence, The squirrel on the limb, The swallow flying overhead, Alike look out for him.

“There are some hands I scarcely fear, So ill a stone they guide; But when Bob Stevenson is near ’Tis meet that I should hide.”

So, prompted by the fearful thought, He leaped in with a thud, And diving to the bottom, sought Concealment in the mud.

Now burrow, burrow, little frog, As you will trouble find; Think not because your eyes are shut That every one is blind.

Then burrow deeper, deeper far, Leave not one claw in view; Or, swifter than a falling star, A stone will cleave you through.

“While here,” said he, “I’m safe enough, And here I’ll peaceful lie Until that little whistling rough Has passed the water by.”

But, ah! while he did reckon that The host was not around,— The youngster saw him quit the log, And soon a stone was found.

He stood beside the circling pond, And gazed a while below— The tell-tale mud the frog disturbed Rose from the bottom slow.

But, ah! for childhood’s searching eyes! What can escape their darts? Projecting from the mud he spies The croaker’s hinder parts.

“Ho! ho!” then laughed this cruel boy, As downward he did stare, “If you from trouble would be free Of every part take care.”

Then down he sent the ready stone, Nor went it down in vain— Dead as the missile that was thrown, The frog came up again.

Along the river’s ferny banks The frogs still chant their lays While floating on his native pool That stone-killed frog decays.

ALL FOOLS’ DAY.

This is “all fools’ day,” and judging by the number of people who are passing along the sidewalk with strings and rags dangling from their coat tails, the custom of making people appear ridiculous is not obsolete. What delight the youngsters take in covering a few bricks with an old hat, and leaving it temptingly upon the sidewalk, while they withdraw into some nook to watch the bait and halloo at the person who is thoughtless enough to kick it.

Though the custom has age to sanction it, I am decidedly opposed to making people—either on the first of April or upon any other day—appear ridiculous in their own eyes as well as in the eyes of every person with whom they come in contact. People will make fools of themselves often enough, without the assistance of others. I wonder why men are not more upon their guard upon this day. Just now I saw a newspaper reporter, who certainly should have known better, kick an old hat from his way, and go limping to the office, denouncing everybody in general, but children in particular. Speaking of reporters calls to mind something that I have often thought. I believe if I had been endowed with more cheek and less scruples about over-stepping the line of veracity, I long before this would have made my mark in the world as a newspaper scribbler.

My unconquerable modesty always rose up like a barrier between me and reportorial fame. It would never allow me to dip into trivial, baseless rumors, and magnify them into scandalous reports. My pride, too, was a clog that blocked the wheel of progress. I could never throw it aside long enough to intrude myself uninvited at select gatherings, or creep and crouch under a window-sill or behind a door, like a base eavesdropper, to hear words that were not intended for the public ear, in order to work up a stirring article. But for these drawbacks, I cannot help thinking I would have done well at the business, because, by a singular decree of fate, I am generally present whenever any strange or amusing incident transpires, or even when scenes of a serious nature furnish work for the pen, and many a time, too, when I could well wish myself suddenly removed far enough from the distressing scene before me.

This afternoon, for example, a terrible assault was perpetrated in the back yard of the house adjoining the one in which I reside.

There is no use talking, I will have to get up and bundle out of this locality, before long. It is becoming too rough a quarter for me. Its poisonous air would tarnish the brightest reputation that ever shone upon a forehead.

With my usual luck, I happened to witness the affair. Thus far I have kept it to myself, as I have no desire to figure in a court of justice in any such scrape. Some people, perhaps, would rush forward and volunteer their testimony, but I am not of that turn of mind, and calculate to keep my mouth shut until it is pried open by a legal bar. I have been looking over the evening papers, but they make no mention of the case, so perhaps the authorities are keeping the matter quiet, fearing that by giving it publicity they would defeat the ends of justice. With this thought in mind, and to help them along in their efforts, it being “all fools’ day,” also, I will say no more about it.

FINDING A HORSE-SHOE.

Upon this day, and at this time, while the fire burneth in the grate and the warm drink steameth in the bowl, I speak as with the tongue of a scribe of the olden time, and this is the burden of my speech:—

A certain man, a citizen of this place, as he journeyed to his home, that looketh toward the mountain which is called Lone—and at the base of which the dead are entombed—found an horse-shoe in the way. And he was exceeding pleased because of his luck, insomuch that he rubbed his hands together joyfully, and said within himself: “How blessed am I in finding this shoe in the way. This bodeth good to me and mine household, because it pointeth in the way that I am going, and it would show a lack of understanding in me should I not pick it up.” So he placed it carefully in the pouch that was sewed in the hind part of his garment, which is called the tail, and hastened on towards his home; and as he went his countenance was bright to look upon. And it came to pass when he had arrived at his house, and was entered in at the door, he said unto himself—for he was an eccentric man, and his ways were not as the ways of sensible people—“Now will I make all haste and fasten this shoe above my parlor door, that it may continually bring good towards my house, for my grandmother hath often said there lieth a charm for good in the horse-shoe that is picked up by the way.” So reaching forth his hand, he took a hammer and a nail—such a nail as builders use when they would have their work outlast themselves—and stepping upon a chair, essayed to transfix the shoe to the casing above the door.

Now it chanced that this man had a wife, a woman who was not eccentric, neither had she patience to spare on those people who had eccentric ways; and as she was at work in the kitchen—for upon the whole sea-coast there was not found a more industrious or tidy woman—she heard the sound of the hammer proceeding from the room which was her pride; and she made haste and dropped the dough that she was kneading for the oven, and looking out into the apartment, she beheld her husband standing upon the chair attempting to transfix the horse-shoe above the door. And she was exceeding displeased because of his action, and of his provoking eccentricity, and she remonstrated with him mildly, saying:

“Souls of the Innocents! is this a barn? or a blacksmith’s shop? or are ye gone stark, staring mad? or has old age benumbed your senses beyond all hope? that thus you would establish the unsightly object above the door, to be a jest for visitors and a shame unto us?”

But the good man of the house, looking down reprovingly from the eminence upon which he was now set up—being nettled because she had likened him to a man stark, staring mad—answered the woman sharply, after this manner, saying:—

“Go delve into thy dough, _old_ woman! Did ye never have a grandmother? or is thy memory as short as thy wind? Know ye not I fix it here that it may bring good unto our house, as hath been said of it in the olden time?” So he left off speaking with his wife, but turned him about and once more essayed to establish the shoe above the door. For his mind was firm on that point, that he would nail it there, that it might bring good unto his house.

Then waxed the woman exceedingly wroth—for she was of the house of O’Donohue, whose temper caused him to be cast into prison, because he smote the anointed priest within the chapel—and bending her body, she laid hold of the rounds of the chair upon which her husband was builded up, and pulled it suddenly from beneath him while he did reach to drive the spike, and behold, he came down quickly, and lay along the floor like a cedar felled.

And it so happened, as the woman attempted to pass out by the door which led out into the kitchen, lo! a hammer followed after, and overtook the woman, and lodged upon her back, even between the two shoulder blades, and caused her to cry out with a marvelous loud cry; but turning herself around while yet the cry was proceeding from her mouth, she lifted the hammer from the floor and cast it from her, even at the countenance of her rising husband. Now it came to pass when the good man of the house looked upon the weapon as it left the hand of his wife, and saw that it was drawing nigh unto his head, swift as a javelin hurled from a Trojan’s arm, he said within himself, “As my name is Bartholomew, my hour is come.” And as he spoke he dived to the floor, that it might pass over and work him no harm. But even while he stooped, the weapon caught upon his scalp and peeled it backward to the very nape.

Then went the woman out into the kitchen, and when her husband was risen from the floor, he ran out into the streets seeking where he might find a surgeon; and as he ran the people stood and looked after, and communed one with another, saying: “Surely this man hath escaped from the Modocs!” But he was sorely troubled because of his scalp, so he heeded not the people, neither loitered he by the way to enlighten them concerning the wound; but when he had entered in at a surgeon’s door he entreated him to make all haste and bind up his wounds, that he might become whole again.

And when the surgeon drew nigh and looked upon the wound he was exceedingly astonished, and he cried, “Of what tribe was the savage that hath done this?”

But the injured man answered him sorrowfully, saying, “Nay, but my wife hath done this thing!” and bowing his head between his knees he wept bitterly, even as David wept when he learned that Absalom had perished in the boughs of the great oak. And when the surgeon had poured oil upon the wound, and sewed it together—even as a housewife seweth the rent in a garment—and spread plasters upon his head in divers ways, he arose and journeyed to the Hall of Justice, which is by the Plaza, and entered a complaint against the woman.

And it came to pass when the magistrates and the wise men of the place heard his complaint, they looked upon him as a person altogether given over to falsehoods, and they questioned him, saying: “How may we know if ye indeed speak the truth in our ears.” And removing the bandage from his head, with which the surgeon had wrapped it round, he answered and spake unto them, saying: “Ye ask for proof, and behold! I give it you!” And when they drew nigh and looked upon his head they saw that it was covered over with plasters, insomuch that it resembled a bolt of linen fresh from the loom, and they were sore displeased because of the assault. So they called together four men, the chosen officers of the force, and commanded them to arrest the woman, saying: “Take ye the woman into custody, and lodge her in prison, that on the morrow we may sit in judgment over her.”

So these four officers, named Murry, the brave; and Flynn, styled the “blinker,” and Curran, and Flaherty,—surnamed the “beat”—armed themselves with pistols, and clubs, and knives, and went forth to arrest the woman. And a great crowd followed after, for they said among themselves, “Surely some murder hath been done.” So when they had come nigh to the house they laid plans how they might surround it; and this was the manner of their approach toward the house. Murry on the east side; and Flynn, styled the “blinker,” on the west side; and Curran on the north side; and Flaherty, surnamed the “beat” on the south side. So they did compass the house about and enter it; and this was the manner of their entrance. One by the front door, and one by the back door, and one by the window that looked out at the west side of the house, and one by the window that looked out at the east side of the house; and they did converge and meet in the centre. And they found the hammer and the blood thereon; and the horse-shoe and the nail sticking therein; but they found not the woman. And they searched the house, beginning at the cellar, and ascending even up to the loft, but be it known unto you, the woman had fled, and her whereabouts remaineth a secret to this day.

AN EVENING WITH SCIENTISTS.

This evening I accepted an invitation from a member of the Academy of Science to attend a regular meeting. I started out almost under protest, thinking it would prove a very dry entertainment. It had been said that at their meetings they conversed only about fossils or strata, or grew warm while arguing some point about the Azoic or Silurian age, that period before the Dinotherium or even the Mastodon ran bellowing across the flinty earth. I was agreeably disappointed, however. For I found it not only instructive, but amusing to others than scientists. The President announced to the Academy that a feathered mouse had been sent by an unknown friend from a distant town. A vote of thanks was then tendered the donor. The feathered mouse, however, proved to be a cruel fraud, for a subsequent examination revealed the painful fact that the feathers were stuck to the skin by some adhesive substance. The vote of thanks was then rescinded, and the feathered mouse was informally introduced to the office cat.

A communication was then read from a man in the interior. He informed the Academy that he had in his possession a large sow, which, when quite a small pig, had been severely bitten by a black dog, which made a lasting impression upon her. In after years if any of her litter were black she singled them out, and devoured them with as little remorse as an old woman would a dish of stir-about. The sow had that day died from the effects of eating a tarantula, and he offered to donate her to the Academy, providing they would bear the cost of transporting her to the city. By a unanimous vote the communication was laid _under_ the table.

Quite a discussion then took place as to whether pigs really do see the wind, and if so, why?

A member then presented the Academy with a new species of snail, or slug, which he found in the mountains, and which had but one horn. He proposed having it called a “unicorn snail.” Quite a controversy followed. Several members maintained that the snail imprudently left its horns out over night, and one, getting nipped by the frost, dropped off. This proposition angered the generous donor, and reaching forth a hand trembling with emotion, he lifted the snail from the palm of the admiring President, and laid it down gently upon the floor—as a mother might deposit an infant in the cradle—and while the Academy stood spell-bound, before a tongue could be loosened from the roof of a mouth, or a hand stretched to save, he planted the sole of a number eleven boot upon the crowning back of the little gasteropod, and when he lifted his foot again, all that was visible of the one-horned snail was a little grease spot upon the floor, the size of an average rain drop. This inhuman act seemed to throw a gloom over the Academy.

No further business appearing, the meeting adjourned.

OUR TABLE GIRL.

“O, those girls! Naughty, laughing, beautiful girls.”—_Old Song._

I commenced boarding in a new place to-day, and am completely smitten by the charming table girl—

Oh, she is young and bright and fair, With midnight eyes and inky hair, Which unconfined, without a check, Falls round a plump and snowy neck. Oh, sweet she bends above my chair Like Juno, when old Jove’s her care, And as she stoops to hear me speak, Soft falls her breath upon my cheek, And I forget (true as I live) The order that I fain would give. Before her dark and earnest eyes My appetite distracted flies, And though I hungry sit me down, I rise full as a country clown Who by a picnic table stands, And shovels in with both his hands. ’Tis true, at times the humble board Does but a scant repast afford; At times we grumble at the bread, Or at the butter shake the head; And oft the whisper circles round About the mystery profound, That may within the hash repose, And any fateful stir disclose. But still we linger, still we stay, And hope for better things each day; Thus proving that one winning face Can keep from bankruptcy the place.

AN OLD WOMAN IN PERIL.

Yesterday, while in the back country, I saw an old woman in what would have been a very laughable predicament, had it not been a very pitiable one.

An unusually large vulture had for some time been soaring in the neighborhood, occasionally scraping acquaintance with one of the fat ewes grazing in the valley. Several of the farmers had felt the vexation of seeing him perched upon a lofty eminence and making the wool fly from some favorite Cotswold. They were justly enraged, and resolved to put a stop to his depredations.

They accordingly posted themselves nigh their flocks, and with guns heavily charged, awaited the advent of the rapacious bird. But he was no booby, and though his gizzard could digest a good-sized rib or hoof with all the ease of a Ballyshannon woman making away with a mealy potato, yet he hadn’t the least inclination to test its grinding power upon a charge of slugs or buckshot.

For several days thereafter he was known in the neighborhood as a “high flier.” With a pining maw he would sit upon some heaven-kissing crag, and with drooping head watch the fleecy flocks grazing in the green valley below. He found it difficult, however, to cloy the hungry edge of appetite by bare imagination of a feast, and, emboldened by want, began to drop to a lower level when flying across the fields.

Yesterday, as mutton was out of the question, he resolved to try his beak upon some tougher viand, and while in the vicinity of the village, he swooped down upon a little old woman who was gathering chips in front of her cottage.

The poor old body had not the least warning of the vulture’s approach. As she stooped in the act of picking fuel enough to cook her evening meal he dropped upon her like an arrow.