Part 10

TO A FRIEND STUDYING GERMAN.

Vill'st dou learn de deutsche Sprache? Denn set it on your card, Dat all de nouns have shenders, Und de shenders all are hard; Dere ish also dings called pronoms, Vitch it's shoost ash vell to know; Boot ach! de verbs, or timevords-- Dey'll vork you bitter voe.

Vill'st dou learn de deutsche Sprache? Den you allatag moost go To sinfonies, sonatas, Or an oritorio. Vhen you dinks you knows 'pout musik More ash any oder man, Be sure de soul of Deutschland Into your soul ish ran.

Vill'st dou learn de deutsche Sprache? Dou moost eat apout a peck A veek of stinging sauerkraut, Und sefen pounds of speck, Mit Gott knows vot in vinegar, Und deuce knows vot in rum; Dish ish de only cerdain way To make de accents coom.

Vill'st dou learn de deutsche Sprache? Brepare dein soul to shtand Soosh sendences ash ne'er vas heardt In any oder land. Till dou canst make parenteses Intwisted--ohne zahl-- Dann wirst du erst Deutschfertig seyn; For a languashe ideal.

Vill'st dou learn de deutsche Sprache? Dou must mitout all fear Trink efery tay an gallon dry Of foamin' Sherman beer. Und de more you trinks, pe certain More Deutsche you'll surely pe; For Gambrinus is de Emperor Of de whole of Shermany.

Vill'st dou learn de Deutsche Sprache? Be sholly, brav, an' treu, For dat veller is kein Deutscher Who ish not a sholly poy, Find out vot means Gemuthlichkeit, Und do it mitout fail, In Sang und Klang dein Lebenlang, A brick--gans Kreuzfidel.

Vill'st dou learn de deutsche Sprache? If a shendleman dou art, Denn shtrike right indo Deutschland Und get a schveetes heart, From Schwabenland or Sachsen, Vhere now dis writer pees; Und de bretty girls all wachsen Shoost like apples on de drees.

Boot if dou bee'st a laty, Denn, on de odder hand, Take a blonde moustachiod lofer In de vine green Sherman land, Und if you shoost kit married (Vood mit vood soon makes a vire), You'll learn to sprechen Deutsch, mein Kind, Ash fast as you tesire.

CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.

TAMMY'S PRIZE.

"Awa' wi' ye, Tammy man, awa' wi' ye to the schule, aye standin' haverin'," and the old shoemaker looked up through his tear-dimmed spectacles at his son, who was standing with his cap on and his book in his hand.

Tammy made a move to the door. "An' is't the truth, Tammy? and does the maister say't himsel'? Say't ower again."

The boy turned back, and stood looking on the ground.

"It wasna muckle he said, fayther. He just said, 'It'll be Tammy Rutherford that'll get the prize i' the coontin.'"

"He said you, did he?" said the old man, as if he had heard it for the first time, and not for the hundredth.

Again Tammy made a move for the door; and again the fond father would have called him back, had not the schoolbell at that instant rung out loud and clear.

"Ay, ay!" said he to himself, after his son had gone, "a right likely lad, and a credit to his fayther;" and he bent again to the shoe he was working at, though he could scarcely see it for the tears that started in his eyes.

The satisfied smile had not worn off his face when the figure of a stout woman appeared at the door. The shoemaker took off his spectacles, and wiped them, and then turned to the new-comer.

"A bra' day till ye, Mistress Knicht. An' hoo'll ye be keepin'?"

"Oh! brawly, Maister Rutherford. It's the sheen I've come aboot for my guidman; the auld anes are sare crackit."

"Aweel, mistress, the new anes'll be deen the morn. Set yersel' doon;" and, complying with this invitation, she sat down. "An' hoo's yere Sandie gettin' on at the schule, Mistress Knicht?"

"'Deed, noo ye speak on't, he's a sare loon; he'll niver look at's lessons."

"He winna be ha'in' ony o' the prizes, I'm thinkin' at that gate."

"Na, na; he'll niver bother his heed aboot them. But he's sayin' yer Tam'll ha'e the coontin' prize."

"Ye _dinna_ say sae! Weel, that is news." And he looked up with ill-concealed pride. "The lad was talkin' o't himsel'; but 'deed I niver thocht on't. But there's nae sayin'."

"Aweel, guid-day to ye; and I'll look in the morn for the sheen."

"An' are they sayin' Tam'll ha'e a prize?" continued the old man.

"Ay, ay; the laddie was sayin' sae." And she went away.

The shoemaker seemed to have fallen on a pleasant train of thought; for he smiled away to himself, and occasionally picked up a boot, which he as soon let drop. Visions of Tammy's future greatness rose before his mind. Perhaps of too slight a fabric were they built; but he saw Tammy a great and honored man, and Tammy's father leaning on his son's greatness....

"Presairve us a'! it's mair nor half-six!" (half-past five.) And he started up from his revery. "Schule'll hae been oot an 'oor, an' the laddie's no hame." And he got up, and moved towards the door. The sun was just sinking behind the horizon, and the light was dim in the village street. He put up his hand to his eyes, and peered down in the direction of the school.

"What in a' the world's airth's keepin' him?" he muttered; and then turning round he stumbled through the darkness of his workshop to the little room behind. He filled an antiquated kettle, and set it on the fire. Then he went to the cupboard, and brought out half a loaf, some cheese, a brown teapot, and a mysterious parcel. He placed these on the table, and then gravely and carefully unrolled the little parcel, which turned out to be tea.

"Presairve us, I can niver min' whaur ye put the tea, or hoo muckle. It's an awfu' waicht on the min' to make tea."

His wife had died two years before; and his little son, with the assistance of a kindly neighbor, had managed to cook their humble meals. Porridge was their chief fare; but a cup of tea was taken as a luxury every evening.

"I'm jist some fear't about it. I'll waicht till Tammas comes in;" and he went out again to the door to see what news there was of his son.

The sun had completely disappeared now; and the village would have been quite dark had it not been for the light in the grocer's window, a few doors down.

The shoemaker leaned against his cottage, and tried to see if any one were in sight; but not a soul seemed about, although now and then a sound of laughter was borne up the street.

The door of his next neighbor's house was wide open. He looked in, and saw a woman standing at the fire, superintending some cooking operation, with her back to him.

"Is yer Jim in, mistress?"

"Na," she said, without turning her head. "He'll be doon at some o' his plays. He's nae been in frae the schule yet."

"It's the same wi' Tam. Losh! I'm wunnerin, what's keepin' him."

"Keepin' him, say ye? What wad keep a laddie?"

Half satisfied, the shoemaker went back to his house, and found the kettle singing merrily on the fire. He felt a little anxious. The boy was always home in good time. He crept round again to his neighbor's.

"I'm gettin' fear't about him," he said: "he's niver been sae late's this."

"Hoot, awa' wi' ye! he'll be doon, maybe, at the bathin' wi' the lave, but I'll gang doon the village wi' ye, an' we'll soon fin' the laddie."

She hastily put her bonnet on her head, for the night air was cold, and they both stood together outside the cottage.

He clutched her arm. What was that? Through the still night air, along the dark street, came the sound of muffled feet and hushed voices, as of those who bore a burden. With blanched face the old man tried to speak, but he could not. A fearful thought came upon him....

They are coming nearer. They are stopping and crowding together, and whispering low. The two listeners crept up to them; and there in the middle of the group lay Tammy dead--drowned.

With a loud shriek, "Tammy, my Tammy!" the old man fell down beside the body of his son.

They carried both in together into the little room behind the shop, and went out quietly, leaving one of their number who volunteered to stay all night.

The shoemaker soon revived. He sat down on one side of the fire, and the man who watched with him sat on the other. The kettle was soon on the fire, and he watched its steam rising with a half-interested indifference. Then at times he would seem to remember that something had happened; and he would creep to the side of the bed where the body lay, and gaze on the straight, handsome features and the bloodless cheeks, quiet and cold in death. "Tammy, my man; my ain Tammy, speak to me ance--jist ance--I'm awfu' lonesome-like." Then the watcher would lead him quietly to his seat by the fire; and there they sat the whole night long, till the stir of the outer world aroused them....

The school is filled with happy, pleasant faces. The prize day has come. There stands the minister, looking very important, and the schoolmaster very excited. The prizes are all arranged on a table before the minister, and the forms for the prize-winners are before the table. And now every thing is ready. The minister begins by telling the parents present how he has examined the school, and found the children quite up to the mark; and then he addresses a few words to the children, winding up his remarks by telling them how at school he had thought that "multiplication is a vexation," &c., but that now he found the use of it. And then the children laughed, for they heard the same speech every year; but it made the excitement greater when they had the prizes to look at, as they shone on the table in their gorgeous gilding, during the speech. And now the schoolmaster is going to read out the prize-winners, and the children are almost breathless with excitement,--you might have heard a pin drop,--when from the end of the room, a figure totters forward, the figure of an old man, white-headed, and with a strange, glassy look in his eye. He advances to where the children are sitting, and takes his place amongst them. Every one looks compassionately towards him, and women are drying their eyes with their aprons. The schoolmaster hesitates a moment, and looks at the minister. The minister nods to him, and he begins the list. It is with almost a saddened look that the children come to take their prizes, for they think of the sharp, bright, active playmate who was so lately with them; and they gaze timidly towards his father who sits in their midst.

"Thomas Rutherford," reads out the master, "gained the prize for arithmetic."

"I'll tak' Tam's prize for him. The laddie's na weel. He's awa'. I'll tak' it;" and the shoemaker moved hastily up to the table.

The minister handed him the book; and, silently taking it, he made his way to the door....

A quiet old man moves listlessly about the village. He does nothing, but every one has a kind word for him. He never walks towards the river, but shudders when its name is mentioned. He sits in his workshop often, and looks up expectantly when he hears the joyous shout of the boys as they come out of school, and then a look of pain flits across his face. He has one treasure,--a book, which he keeps along with his family Bible, and he is never tired of reading through his blurred spectacles the words on the first page:--

BARNES SCHOOL. FIRST CLASS. PRIZE FOR ARITHMETIC AWARDED TO THOMAS RUTHERFORD.

THE SCOTCHMAN AT THE PLAY.

After paying our money at the door, never while I live and breathe will I forget what we saw and heard that night. It just looks to me, by all the world, when I think on it, like a fairy dream. The place was crowded to the full; Maister Glen and me having nearly got our ribs dung in before we found a seat, the folks behind being obliged to mount the back benches to get a sight. Right to the forehand of us was a large green curtain, some five or six ells wide, a good deal the worse of the wear, having seen service through two-three summers: and just in the front of it were eight or ten penny candles stuck in a board fastened to the ground, to let us see the players' feet like, when they came on the stage; and even before they came on the stage; for, the curtain being scrimpit in length, we saw legs and sandals moving behind the scenes very neatly; while two blind fiddlers they had brought with them played the bonniest ye ever heard. 'Od! the very music was worth a sixpence of itself.

The place, as I said before, was choke-full, just to excess; so that one could scarcely breathe. Indeed, I never saw any part so crowded, not even at a tent-preaching when the Rev. Mr. Roarer was giving his discourses on the building of Solomon's Temple. We were obligated to have the windows opened for a mouthful of fresh air, the barn being as close as a baker's oven, my neighbor and me fanning our red faces with our hats to keep us cool; and, though all were half stewed, we certainly had the worst of it, the toddy we had taken having fermented the blood of our bodies into a perfect fever.

Just at the time that the two blind fiddlers were playing the "Downfall of Paris" a hand-bell rang, and up goes the green curtain; being hauled to the ceiling, as I observed with the tail of my eye, by a birkie at the side, that had hold of a rope. So, on the music stopping, and all becoming as still as that you might have heard a pin fall, in comes a decent old gentleman at his leisure, well powdered, with an old-fashioned coat on, waistcoat with flap-pockets, brown breeches with buckles at the knees, and silk stockings with red gushats on a blue ground. I never saw a man in such distress: he stamped about, and better stamped about, dadding the end of his staff on the ground, and imploring all the powers of heaven and earth to help him to find out his runaway daughter, that had decamped with some ne'er-do-weel loon of a half-pay captain, that keppit her in his arms from her bedroom-window, up two pair of stairs.

Every father and head of a family must have felt for a man in his situation, thus to be robbed of his dear bairn, and an only daughter too, as he told us over and over again, as the salt, salt tears ran gushing down his withered face, and he aye blew his nose on his clean calendered pocket-napkin. But, ye know, the thing was absurd to suppose that we should know any inkling about the matter, having never seen him or his daughter between the een before, and not kenning them by headmark: so, though we sympathized with him, as folks ought to do with a fellow-creature in affliction, we thought it best to hold our tongues, to see what might cast up better than he expected. So out he went stumping at the other side, determined, he said, to find them out, though he should follow them to the world's end, Johnny Groat's house, or something to that effect.

Hardly was his back turned, and almost before ye could cry Jack Robison, in comes the birkie and the very young lady the old gentleman described, arm-and-arm together, smoodging and laughing like daft. Dog on it! it was a shameless piece of business. As true as death, before all the crowd of folk, he put his arm round her waist, and called her his sweetheart, and love, and dearie, and darling, and every thing that is fine. If they had been courting in a close together on a Friday night, they could not have said more to one another, or gone greater lengths. I thought such shame to be an eye-witness to sic on-goings, that I was obliged at last to hold up my hat before my face, and look down; though, for all that, the young lad, to be such a blackguard as his conduct showed, was well enough faured, and had a good coat to his back, with double gilt buttons and fashionable lapels, to say little of a very well-made pair of buckskins, a thought the worse of the wear, to be sure, but which, if they had been well cleaned, would have looked almost as good as new. How they had come we never could learn, as we neither saw chaise nor gig; but, from his having spurs on his boots, it is more than likely that they had lighted at the back-door of the barn from a horse, she riding on a pad behind him, maybe, with her hand round his waist.

The father looked to be a rich old bool, both from his manner of speaking, and the rewards he seemed to offer for the apprehension of his daughter; but, to be sure, when so many of us were present that had an equal right to the spullaie, it would not be a great deal, a thousand pounds, when divided. Still it was worth the looking after: so we just bidit a wee.

Things were brought to a bearing, howsoever, sooner than either themselves, I dare say, or anybody else present, seemed to have the least glimpse of: for, just in the middle of their fine goings-on, the sound of a coming foot was heard; and the lassie, taking guilt to her, cried out, "Hide me, hide me, for the sake of goodness! for yonder comes my old father!"

No sooner said than done. In he stappit her into a closet; and, after shutting the door on her, he sat down upon a chair, pretending to be asleep, in the twinkling of a walking-stick. The old father came bouncing in; and, seeing the fellow as sound as a top, he ran forward and gave him such a shake as if he would have shooken him all sundry; which soon made him open his eyes as fast as he had steeked them. After blackguarding the chield at no allowance, cursing him up hill and down dale, and calling him by every name but a gentleman, he held his staff over his crown, and, gripping him by the cuff of the neck, asked him, in a fierce tone, what he had made of his daughter. Never since I was born did I ever see such brazen-faced impudence! The rascal had the brass to say at once, that he had not seen word or wittens of the lassie for a month, though more than a hundred folk sitting in his company had beheld him dauting her with his arm round her jimpy waist not five minutes before. As a man, as a father, as an elder of our kirk, my corruption was raised; for I aye hated lying as a poor cowardly sin, and an inbreak on the Ten Commandments; and I found my neighbor, Mr. Glen, fidgeting on the seat as well as me. So I thought that whoever spoke first would have the best right to be entitled to the reward: whereupon, just as he was in the act of rising up, I took the word out of his mouth, saying, "Dinna believe him, auld gentleman; dinna believe him, friend: he's telling a parcel of lees. Never saw her for a month! It's no worth arguing, or calling witnesses: just open that press-door, and ye'll see whether I'm speaking truth or not!"

The old man stared, and looked dumfoundered; and the young one, instead of running forward with his double nieves to strike me, the only thing I was feared for, began a-laughing, as if I had done him a good turn. But never since I had a being did I ever witness such an uproar and noise as immediately took place. The whole house was so glad that the scoundrel had been exposed, that they set up siccan a roar of laughter, and thumped away at siccan a rate at the boards with their feet, that at long and last, with pushing and fidgeting, clapping their hands, and holding their sides, down fell the place they call the gallery, all the folk in't being hurled topsy-turvy, headforemost, among the sawdust on the floor below; their guffawing soon being turned to howling, each one crying louder than another at the top note of their voices, "Murder! murder! hold off me! murder! my ribs are in! murder! I'm killed! I'm speechless!" and other lamentations to that effect: so that a rush to the door took place, in the which every thing was overturned; the door-keeper being wheeled away like wildfire; the furms stramped to pieces; the lights knocked out; and the two blind fiddlers dung headforemost over the stage, the bass-fiddle cracking like thunder at every bruise. Such tearing and swearing, and tumbling and squealing, was never witnessed in the memory of man since the building of Babel; legs being likely to be broken, sides staved in, eyes knocked out, and lives lost,--there being only one door, and that a small one: so that, when we had been earned off our feet that length, my wind was fairly gone; and a sick dwalm came over me, lights of all manner of colors, red, blue, green, and orange, dancing before me, that entirely deprived me of common sense; till, on opening my eyes in the dark, I found myself leaning with my broadside against the wall on the opposite side of the close. It was some time before I minded what had happened: so, dreading skaith, I found first the one arm, and then the other, to see if they were broken; syne my head; and finally both of my legs; but all, as well as I could discover, was skin-whole and scart-free. On perceiving this, my joy was without bounds, having a great notion that I had been killed on the spot. So I reached round my hand very thankfully to take out my pocket-napkin, to give my brow a wipe, when, lo and behold! the tail of my Sunday's coat was fairly off and away, docked by the hainch buttons.

So much for plays and play-actors,--the first and last, I trust in grace, that I shall ever see. But indeed I could expect no better, after the warning that Maister Wiggie had more than once given us from the pulpit on the subject. Instead, therefore, of getting my grand reward for finding the old man's daughter, the whole covey of them, no better than a set of swindlers, took leg-bail, and made that very night a moonlight flitting; and Johnny Hammer, honest man, that had wrought from sunrise to sunset for two days, fitting up their place by contract, instead of being well paid for his trouble, as he deserved, got nothing left him but a ruckle of his own good deals, all dung to shivers.

AN IRISH LOVE-LETTER.

A SCENE FROM GEORGE M. BAKER'S NEW PLAY (FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY) IN THREE ACTS, ENTITLED "REBECCA'S TRIUMPH."

_Characters_: KATY, _an Irish servant_, GYP, _a colored girl_; DORA, _a young lady_.

(_Enter_ KATY, _with a letter in her hand_.)

KATY (_turning letter over and over_). An' sure I got a love-lether frum Patsy; an' phat will I do wid it I dunno. I can't rade, and the misthress is away wid the company girls. How will I find out phat's inside it? It's bothered I am intirely.

(_Enter from_ L., _through_ C. _door_, DORA.)

DORA. Ah, Katy! Is it ther yees are? Where's Mrs. Delaine's shawl? I see it. (_Goes towards window_ R.)

KATY. If yees plase, Miss Dora, might I be after troubling yees?

DORA (_comes down_). Certainly, Katy. What's the trouble?

KATY. If yees plase, I have a lether.

DORA. From the ould counthry?

KATY. No, indade: it's from--it's from--sure you'll be afther laughin' if I tole yees.

DORA. Then you needn't tell me, Katy; I can guess. It's a love-letter.

KATY. An' who towld yees that?

DORA. Yourself, Katy, by the blushes on your cheeks and the sparkle in your eyes. You want me to read it for you?

KATY. If yees plase, Miss Dora. (_Hands letter._)

DORA (_opening letter_). I shall learn all your secrets, Katy. Perhaps the young man would not like that.

KATY. Thin yees moight shkip the sacrets.

DORA (_laughs_). All right, Katy. (_Reads._) "Lovely Katy."

KATY. That's me. Sure that's no sacret.

DORA (_reads_). "I take me pin in hand wid a bating heart, to till yees uv the sthrong wakeniss I have for yees."

KATY. Yees moight shkip that.

DORA (_reads_). "I have nather ate, dhrunk, nor slipt, for a wake."

KATY. Will, that jist accounts for the wakeniss.

DORA (_reads_). "Barrin' my thray males a day, an 'me pipe an' tobacyer."

KATY. An' he wid the hearty appetite!

DORA (_reads_). "An' all me slapeliss nights are fill wid drames of yees, Katy mavourneen."

KATY. Sure he's the darlin'.

DORA (_reads_). "I have yees phortygraff nailed to the hid uv me bid; and ivery night, afther I've blown out the candle wid me fingers, I tak a good look at it, an' if ye'll belave me, there's not a dry thread in me eyes."

KATY. Sure he was alwus tinder-hearted.