Part 8

"Oh! what, you want to fly by water, do you? then I'm sure I can't assist you; for we are at least a hundred miles from the seacoast, and our canal is not navigable above ten or twelve miles from here."

"Diable! sare, you are un stup of the block. I sall tell you once seven times over again--I vant deux fly on the top of de vater, to dingle dangle at the end of de long pole."

"Ay, ay! you only fly, mounseer, by land or water, and if they catch you, I'll be hanged if they won't dingle dangle you, as you call it, at the end of a long pole."

"Sacre un de Dieu! la blas! vat you mean by dat, enfer diable? you are un bandit jack of de ass, Johnny de Bull. Ba, ba, you are effrontee, and I disgrace me to parley vid you! I tell you, sare, dat I vant deux fly on the top of de vater, to dingle dangle at the end of the long pole, to la trap poisson."

"What's that you say, you French mounseer--you'll lay a trap to poison me and all my family, because I won't assist you to escape? why, the like was never heard. Here, Betty, go for the constable."

The constable soon arrived, who happened to be as ignorant as the shopkeeper; and of course, it was not expected that a constable should be a scholar. Thus the man of office began:--

"What's all this? Betty has been telling me that this here outlandish Frenchman is going to poison you and all your family! Ay, ay, I should like to catch him at it, that's all! Come, come to prison, you delinquent."

"No, sare, I sall not go to de prison; take me before de what you call it--de ting that nibble de grass?"

"Nibble grass? You mean sheep?"

"No, I mean de--de"--

"Oh, you mean the cow!"

"No, sare, not de cow; you stup Johnny bœuf--I mean de cheval, vat you ride. [Imitating.] Come, sare, gee up. Ah, ha!"

"Oh, now I know! you mean a horse."

"No, sare, I mean de horse's vife."

"What, the mare?"

"Oui, bon, yes, sare; take me to de mayor."

This request was complied with; and the French officer soon stood before the English magistrate, who, by chance, happened to be better informed than his neighbors, and thus explained the dilemma of the unfortunate Frenchman, to the satisfaction of all parties:--

"You have mistaken the intention of this honest gentleman: he did not want to fly the country, but to go a-fishing, and for that purpose went to your shop to purchase two flies, by way of bait, or, as he expressed it, to la trap la poisson. Poisson, in French, is fish."

"Why, ay," replied the shopkeeper, "that may be true, you are a scholard, and so you know better than I. Poison: in French, may be very good fish, but give me good old English roast beef."

THE FRENCHMAN'S MISTAKE.

FRENCH DIALECT RECITATION.

Not long since, a sober, middle-aged gentleman was quietly dozing in one of our railroad-trains, when his pleasant, drowsy meditations were suddenly interrupted by the sharp voice of the individual by his side. This was no less a personage than a dandified, hot-blooded, inquisitive Frenchman, who raised his hairy visage close to that of the gentleman he addressed.

"Pardonnez, sare; but vat you do viz ze pictair--_hein_?"

As he spoke, monsieur pointed to some beautiful steel-plate engravings in frames, which the quiet gentleman held in his lap, and which suited the fancy of the little French connoisseur precisely.

The quiet gentleman looked at the inquisitive foreigner with a scowl which he meant to be very forbidding, and made no reply. The Frenchman, nothing daunted, once more approached his hairy visage into that of his companion, and repeated the question:--

"Vat you do viz ze pictair--_hein_?"

"I am taking them to Salem," replied the quiet gentleman gruffly.

"Ha! you take 'em to sell 'em!" chimed in the shrill voice of the Frenchman. "I be glad of zat, by gar! I like ze pictair. I buy 'em of you, sare. Mow much you ask?"

"They are not for sale," replied the sleepy gentleman, more thoroughly awake, by the by, and not a little irritated.

"_Hein_?" grunted monsieur in astonishment. "Vat you say, sare?"

"I say I don't want to sell the pictures!" cried the other, at the top of his voice.

"By gar! _c'est drole_!" exclaimed the Frenchman, his eye beginning to flash with passion. "It is one strange circumstance, _parbleu_! I ask you vat you do viz ze pictair, and you say you take 'em to sell 'em, and zen you vill not sell 'em! Vat you mean, sare--_hein_?"

"I mean what I say," replied the other sharply. "I don't want to sell the engravings, and I didn't say I did."

"_Morbleu!_" sputtered monsieur, in a tone loud enough to attract the attention of those of his fellow-travellers who were not already listening; "_morbleu_! you mean to say I 'ave not any ear? _Non_, monsieur, by gar I hear ver' well vat you tell me. You say you sell ze pictair. Is it because I one Frenchman, zat you will not sell me ze pictair?"

The irritated gentleman, hoping to rid himself of the annoyance, turned his back upon his assailant, and made no reply.

But monsieur was not to be put off thus. He laid his hand on the shoulder of the other, and, showing his small white teeth, exclaimed,--

"_Sacristie!_ monsieur, zis is too muche. You've give me one insult, and I shall 'ave satisfaction." Still no reply. "By gar, monsieur," continued the Frenchman, "you are not one gentleman. I shall call you one _poltroon_--vat you call 'em?--coward!"

"What do you mean?" retorted the other, afraid the affair was beginning to get serious. "I haven't insulted you, sir."

"Pardonnez, monsieur; but it is one grand insult! In America, perhaps not; but in France, one blow your brains out."

"For what, pray?"

"For vat? _Parbleu!_ you call me one _menteur_--how you speak 'em--liar? you call me one liar? you call me one liar?"

"Oh, no, sir! You misunderstood"--

"No, by gar! I've got ears. You say you vill sell ze pictair; and ven I tell you vat you say, you say ze contrarie--zat is not so!"

"But I didn't tell you I would sell the pictures," remonstrated the man with the engravings, beginning to feel alarmed at the passion manifested by the other. "You misunderstood"--

"I tell you no! It is not posseebl'! Ven I ask you vat you do viz ze pictair, vat you say?"

"I said I was taking them to Salem."

"Yes, _parbleu_!" exclaimed monsieur, more angry than ever: "you say you take 'em to sell 'em"--

"No, no!" interrupted the other, "not to _sell them_, but _Salem_--the city of Salem."

"Ze city of Sell 'em!" exclaimed the Frenchman, amid the roars of laughter that greeted his ears. "_Sacristie!_ Zat is one grand mistake. Pardon, monsieur! _Que je suis bête!_ Ze city of Sell 'em? Ha, ha! I vill remember zat, by gar!" And he stroked his mustache with his fingers, while the man with the engravings once more gave way to his drowsy inclinations.

"TWO TOLLAR?"

[From the Detroit Free Press.]

There was a slight blaze on the roof of a house on Russell Street a few days ago; and when the insurance adjusters went up to make their survey, they found that about two dollars would cover all the loss.

"Two tollar!" exclaimed the owner when he heard the decision--"I can't take no two tollar."

"But you see for yourself that a dozen shingles and an hour's work will make good all damages."

"Gentlemens, you doan' put me off like dot. Vhen my vhife finds dot ve vhas on fire, she screams boleece und murder, und falls down-shtairs. Vould you let your vhife fall down-shtairs for dot sum? If so, I goes home mit you und sees der fun."

"We do not insure husbands and wives, but buildings," was the reply.

"I know; but mein oldest poy, he runs for der fire-box, und falls a picket-fence-oafer, und breaks his good clothes all to pieces. Two tollar! Dot doan' bay me for goming oop here."

"Yes, but we can only pay for actual damages."

"Dot's all I vhant. Who stole my dog ven my house vhas on fire? Dot dog ish gone, und he vhas ten tollar wort."

"We didn't insure the dog."

"Und maybe you don't insure dem poys who set on der fence und called out, 'Dot ole Dutchman's red nose has set his house on fire!' Do you oxpect I take such sass like dot for two tollar? Und vhen the firemens come here dey break mein clothes-line down mit der ladders, und dey spill wasser all oafer my carpets. Two tollar! Vhell, vhell! you go right avhay from here, und I takes dot old insurance bolicy und steps him into der mud!"

A FRENCHMAN ON MACBETH.

An enthusiastic French student of Shakspeare thus comments on the tragedy of Macbeth:--

"Ah! your Mossieu' Shak-es-pier! He is gr-r-aand--mysterieuse--sooblime! You 'ave reads ze Macabess--ze scene of Mossieu' Macabess vis ze Vitch--eh? Superb sublimitee! W'en he say to ze Vitch, 'Ar-r-roynt ye, Vitch!' she go away; but what she say when she go away? She say she will do s'omesing dat aves got no naame! Ah, ha! she say, 'I go, like ze r-r-aa-t vizout ze tail, but I'll do! I'll do!' W'at she do? Ah, haviola le graand, mysterieuse Mossieu' Shak-es-pier! She not say what she do!"

This was "grand," to be sure; but the prowess of Macbeth, in his "bout" with Macduff, awakens all the mercurial Frenchman's martial ardor:--

"Mossieu' Macabess, he see him come, clos' by: he say (proud empressement), 'Come-o-o-n, Mossieu' Macduffs, and d----d be he who first say enuffs!' Zen zey fi-i-ght-moche. Ah, ha! voila! Mossieu' Macabess, vis his br-r-ight r-r-apier, 'pink' him, vat you call, in his body. He 'ave gots mal d'estomac: he say, vis grand simplicite, 'Enoffs!' What for he say 'Enoffs'? 'Cause he got enoffs--plaanty: and he expire r-right away, mediately, pretty quick! Ah, mes amis, Mossieu' Shak-es-pier is rising man in La Belle France!"

ANONYMOUS.

LIKE MOTHER USED TO MAKE.

"I was born in Indiany," said a stranger lank and slim, As us fellers in the restaurant was kind o' guyin' him, And Uncle Jake was slidin' him another pun'kin pie And a extra cup o' coffee, with a twinkle in his eye,-- "I was born in Indiany, more'n forty year ago; And I hain't been back in twenty, and I'm workin' back'ards slow; "But I've et in every restarunt 'twixt here and Santa Fee, And I want to state, this coffee tastes like gittin' home to me! "Pour us out another, daddy," says the feller, warmin' up, A-speakin' 'crost a saucerful, as uncle tuck his cup. "When I seed yer sign out yender," he went on to uncle Jake,-- "'Come in and git some coffee like your mother used to make,'-- I thought of my old mother and the Posey-county farm, And me a little kid agin', a-hangin' on her arm; And she set the pot a-bilin', broke the eggs, and poured 'em in"-- And the feller kind o' halted with a trimble in his chin. And uncle Jake he fetched the feller's coffee back, and stood As solemn, for a minute, as a undertaker would.

Then he sort o' turned, and tiptoed to'rds the kitchen-door; and next, Here comes his old wife out with him, a-rubbin' of her specs; And she rushes for the stranger, and she hollers out, "It's him! Thank God, we've met him comin'! Don't you know your mother, Jim?" And the feller, as he grabbed her, says, "You bet I hain't forgot." But, wipin' of his eyes, says he, "Your coffee's mighty hot."

_James Whitcomb Riley, in New-York Mercury._

JOHN CHINAMAN'S PROTEST.

Melican man no wantee John Chinaman ally mo': He no slay, "John, you velly good washee." Not muchee: he slay, "John, I wipee flo' Withee you if mo' comee this countlee." What fo' Melican man No wantee John Chinaman Ally mo'?

John Chinaman he no gettee dlunk heap: He mind his own washee, washee, Alle dayee long, and takee sleep, Boil watel fo'--wat you call him?--oh, hashee! What fo' Melican man No wantee John Chinaman Ally mo'?

John Chinaman he no punchee head much; He no, like Melican man, say "Hellee!" He usee sloap, watel, sclubbin'-blush, Ebly dayee to help fillee bellee. What fo' Melican man No wantee John Chinaman Ally mo'?

John Chinaman he vellee pool man; He no have timee to fool away; He workee allee dayee fast he can: He no workee, he no gettee pay. What fo' Melican man No wantee John Chinaman Ally mo'?

John Chinaman no loafee lound the sleets; He workee hald fo' makee livin': He washee collals, shirtee, cuffee, sheets; He do no beggin' or no t'iefin. What fo' Melican man No wantee John Chinaman Ally mo'?

John Chinaman he havee no votee: Is that leason why he no wantee here? He no go lound 'lection day, and shoutee, Fightee evelybody smokee cigal, or dlink beer. What fo' Melican man No wantee John Chinaman Ally mo'?

M. F. D.

THE WHISTLER.

"You have heard,"--said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline,-- "You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood: I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine."

"And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said, While an arch smile played over her beautiful face. "I would blow it," he answered; "and then my fair maid Would fly to my side, and would there take her place."

"Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yours Without any magic!" the fair maiden cried: "A favor so slight one's good-nature secures;" And she playfully seated herself by his side.

"I would blow it again," said the youth; "and the charm Would work so, that not even modesty's check Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm." She smiled; and she laid her white arm round his neck.

"Yet once more I would blow; and the music divine Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss,-- You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine: And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a kiss."

The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee,-- "What a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd make! For only consider how silly 'twould be To sit there and whistle for what you might take."

MOTHER'S DOUGHNUTS.

EL DORADO, 1851.

I've jest bin down ter Thompson's, boys, 'N' feelin' kind o' blue, I thought I'd look in at "The Ranch," Ter find out what wuz new; When I seen this sign a-hangin' On a shanty by the lake: "Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts Like yer mother used ter make."

I've seen a grizzly show his teeth; I've seen Kentucky Pete Draw out his shooter, 'n' advise A "tenderfoot" ter treat; But nothin' ever tuk me down 'N' made my benders shake, Like that sign about the doughnuts That my mother used ter make.

A sort o' mist shut out the ranch; 'N' standin' thar instead, I seen an old white farmhouse, With its doors all painted red. A whiff came through the open door-- Wuz I sleepin', or awake? The smell wuz that of doughnuts Like my mother used ter make.

The bees wuz hummin' round the porch, Whar honeysuckles grew; A yellow dish of apple-sass Wuz sittin' thar in view; 'N' on the table, by the stove, An old-time "johnny-cake," 'N' a platter full of doughnuts Like my mother used ter make.

A patient form I seemed ter see, In tidy dress of black: I almost thought I heard the words, "When will my boy come back?" 'N' then--the old sign creaked; but now It was the boss who spake: "Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts Like yer mother used ter make."

Well, boys, that kind o' broke me up; 'N' ez I've struck pay gravel, I ruther think I'll pack my kit, Vamose the ranch, 'n' travel. I'll make the old folks jubilant; 'N' if I don't mistake, I'll try some o' them doughnuts Like my mother used ter make.

_Charles Follen Adams._

OVER THE LEFT.

Their deposits were _left over night_ in the bank,-- In a bank without whisper of fault: The amounts to their credit were placed on the books, And were left over night in the vault.

_To their credit_, I say it, the bank was locked tight, Guarding thus against fire and theft; A patrol on the walk, and a new 'lectric light, Throwing beams to the _right_ and the _left_.

* * * * *

Just here the cashier he _left over night_, Taking all but the house and the soil; And the _long_ and the _short_ of the story is this,-- He was _too long_ of stocks--_short_ of oil.

A receiver was called, and he looked o'er the wreck, And _received_ those who called--thus bereft. "_Have you nothing left over?_" they timidly ask: He answers, "_Yes, over the left_."

_W. C. Dornin._

A JOLLY FAT FRIAR.

A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store, And he had drunk stoutly at supper; He mounted his horse in the night at the door, And he sat with his face at the crupper. "Some rogue," quoth the friar, "quite dead to remorse, Some thief, whom a halter will throttle, Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse While I was engaged at the bottle, Which went gluggity, gluggity--glug--glug--glug."

The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale, 'Twas the friar's road home straight and level; But when spurred a horse follows his nose, not his tail, So he scampered due north like the devil. "This new mode of docking," the friar then said, "I perceive doesn't make a horse trot ill; And 'tis cheap--for he never can eat off his head While I am engaged at the bottle, Which goes gluggity, gluggity--glug--glug--glug."

The steed made a stop--in a pond he had got: He was rather for drinking than grazing; Quoth the friar, "'Tis strange, headless horses should trot; But to drink with their tails is amazing!" Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose, In the pond fell this son of a pottle. Quoth he, "The head's found, for I'm under his nose; I wish I were over a bottle, Which goes gluggity, gluggity--glug--glug--glug."

ANONYMOUS.

THE ENOCH OF CALAVERAS.

"Well, dog my cats! Say, stranger, You must have travelled far! Just flood your lower level And light a fresh cigar. Don't tell me in this weather! You hoofed it all the way? Well, slice my liver lengthwise! Why, stranger, what's to pay?

"Huntin' yer wife, you tell me: Well, now dog-gone my skin! She thought you dead and buried And then bestowed her tin Upon another fellow! Just put it here, old pard! Some fellows strike the soft things, But you have hit it hard.

"I'm right onto your feelin's, I know how it would be, If my own shrub slopped over And got away from me. Say, stranger; that old sage hen, That's cookin' thar inside, Is warranted the finest wool, And just a square yard wide.

"I wouldn't hurt yer, pardner, But I tell _you_, no man Was ever blessed as I am With that old pelican. It's goin' on some two year Since she was j'ined to me, She was a widder prior, Her name was Sophy Lee--

"Good God! Old man, what's happened? Her? She? Is that the one? That's her? Your wife, you tell me? Now reach down fer yer gun, I never injured no man, And no man me, but squealed, And any one who takes her Must do it d--d well heeled!

"Listen? Surely. Certainly I'll let you look at her. Peek through the door, she's in thar, Is that your furnitur'? Speak, man, quick! You're mistaken! No! Yours! You recognize My wife, your wife the same one? The man who says so, lies!

"Don't mind what I say, pardner, I'm not much on the gush, But this thing comes down on me Like fours upon a flush. If that's your wife--hold--steady! That bottle. Now, my coat, She'll think me dead as you were. My pipe. Thar. I'm afloat.

"But let me leave a message. No; tell her that I died, No, no; not that way, either, Just tell her that I cried. It don't rain much. Now, pardner, Be to her what I've been. Or by the God that hates you, You'll see me back again!"

F. BRET HARTE.

CURLY-HEAD.

What are yer askin', stranger, about that lock o' har That's kep' so nice and keerful in the family Bible thar? Wal, then, I don't mind tellin', seein' as yer wants ter know. It's from the head of our baby. Yes, that's him.--Stand up, Joe.

Joe is our only baby, nigh on ter six foot tall; And he'll be one-and-twenty comin' this next fall. But he can't yet beat his daddy in the hay-field or the swales, A-pitchin' on the wagon, or splittin' up the rails.

For I was a famous chopper, jest eighteen year ago, When this strange thing happened, that came to me and Joe. Curly-head we called him then, sir--his hair is curly yet, But them long silky ringlets I never shall forget.

Them was tough times, stranger, when all around was new, And all the kentry forests, with only "blazes" through. We lived in the old log-house then, Sally and me and Joe, In the old Black-river country, whar we made our clearin' show.

Wal, one day I was choppin' nigh to our cabin door,-- A day that I'll remember till kingdom come and more,-- And Curly-head was playin' around among the chips; A beauty, if I do say it, with rosy cheeks and lips.

I don't know how it happened; but quicker'n I can tell, Our Curly-head had stumbled, and lay thar whar he fell On the log that I was choppin', with his yellow curls outspread; And the heavy axe was fallin' right on his precious head;

The next thing, I knew nothin', and all was dark around. When I come to, I was lyin' stretched out thar on the ground; And Curly-head was callin', "O daddy, don't do so!" I caught him to my bosom, my own dear little Joe.

All safe, sir. Not a sliver had touched his little head; But one of his curls was lyin' thar on the log outspread. It lay whar the axe was stickin', cut close by its sharpened edge; And what then was my feelin's, per'aps, sir, you can jedge.

I took the little ringlet, and pressed it to my lips; Then I kneeled down and prayed, sir, right thar on the chips. We put it in the Bible, whar I often read to Joe,-- "The hairs of your head are numbered;" and, sir, I believe it's so.

_B. S. Brooks._

WARNING TO WOMAN.