Part 9

"John," said Mrs. Sanscript to her husband one evening last week, "I've been reading the paper."--"That's nothin'," grunted John: "I've seen people before who read newspapers."--"Yes; but there are several things in the paper I can't understand."--"Then don't read 'em."--"What do they mean by the strike, John? What is a strike, anyhow?"--"A strike is where they have struck;" and Sanscript knocked the ashes from his cigar. "I don't grasp your meaning exactly," said Mrs. Sanscript, with a puzzled look. "Now, these strikers have stopped all the railroad-trains in the country. Why did they do it?"--"To prevent 'em from running."--"Yes, but why didn't they want trains to run?"--"Because they wanted more money for running them."--"Do they pay more for stopping trains than for running them?"--"No, you stupid woman!"--"Then why in the world did they stop 'em? why didn't they run more of 'em, or run 'em faster? Seems to me that would pay better."--"Mary Ann, you will never surround the problem."--"Maybe not, John. Some things are gotten up purposely to bother women. Now here is a column headed 'Base-Ball.' What is base-ball, John?"--"Don't you know what base-ball is? Happy woman! you have not lived in vain."--"Here it says that 'The Hartfords could not collar Cumming's curves.' What under the sun are Cumming's curves?"--"It's the way he delivers the ball."--"Is the ball chained?"--"No, you booby!"--"Then how does he deliver it?"--"I mean, pitches it."--"Oh! Now here it says Jones muffed a ball after a hard run. What was a ball doing after a hard run?"--"Hadn't you better confine your research to the obituary and marriage columns, Mary, with an occasional advertisement thrown in to vary the monotony?"--"Yes, but, John, I want to know! There's Mrs. Racket, over the way, who goes to all the base-ball games, and comes home to talk me blind about 'fly fouls,' 'base hits,' 'sky-scrapers,' and all those things. For heaven's sake, John, what is a sky-scraper?"--"Compose yourself, old woman. You are treading on dangerous ground; your feet are on slippery rocks, while raging billows roll beneath."--"Mercy on me! What do you mean?"--"I mean, my dear madam, that whenever a woman begins to pry about among three strikes, fair balls, base hits, daisy cutters, home runs, and kindred subjects, she's in danger of being lost."--"Well, I confess I'm completely lost to know what this newspaper means when it says Addy stole a base, while the spectators applauded. Have we come to such a pass that society will applaud a theft? Why wasn't Addy arrested? Now here's Manning put out by Start, assisted by Carey, and I can't see that he did any thing wrong, either. Jemima Christopher! Here it says that Pike flew out. I don't believe a word of it. I never saw a man fly yet, and I won't believe it can be done till I see it with my own eyes. John, what makes these newspaper men lie so horribly?"

John was asleep; and Mrs. Sanscript turned gloomily, not to say sceptically, to the letter-list for information. Newspapers were not made for women.

AN EXCITING CONTEST.

We have doubts about the following story, which comes to us from the interior; but the author is responsible for what he says, and his name can be obtained upon application at this office.

Last winter two of my neighbors, Mr. Miller and Mr. Grant, lost their wives upon the same day; and both of the funerals took place three days afterwards, the interments being made at the cemetery about the same hour. As the two funeral parties were coming out of the burying-ground, Miller met Grant; and, clasping each other's hand, they indulged in a sympathetic squeeze, and the following conversation ensued:--

_Miller._ "I'm sorry for you. It's an unspeakable loss, isn't it?"

_Grant._ "Awful! She was the best woman that ever lived."

_Miller._ "She was, indeed. I never met her equal. She was a good wife to me."

_Grant._ "I was referring to my wife. There couldn't be two best, you know."

_Miller._ "Yes, I know. I know well enough that your wife couldn't hold a candle to mine."

_Grant._ "She couldn't, hey? Couldn't hold a candle! Why, she could dance all round Mrs. Miller every day in the week, including Sundays, and not half try! She was an unmitigated angel, take her any way you would."

_Miller._ "Oh! she was, was she? Well, I don't want to be personal; but if I owned a cross-eyed angel with red hair and no teeth, and as bony as an omnibus-horse, I'd kill her if she didn't die of her own accord. Dance!--how could a woman dance that had feet like candle-boxes, and lame at that?"

_Grant._ "Better be cross-eyed than wear the kind of a red nose that your wife flourished around this community. I bet it'll burn a hole through the coffin-lid. And you pretend you're sorry she's gone. But you can't impose on me: I know you're so glad you can hardly hold in. She was the chuckle-headedest woman that ever disgraced a graveyard: that's what _she_ was."

_Miller._ "If you abuse my wife, I'll knock you down."

_Grant._ "I'd like to see you try it."

Then the two disconsolate widowers engaged in a hand-to-hand combat; and, after tussling a while in the snow, the mourners pulled them apart, just as Mr. Miller was about to insist upon his wife's virtues by biting off Mr. Grant's nose.

When they got home, Mr. Grant tied crape upon all his window-shutters to show how deeply he mourned; and, as Miller knew that his grief for Mrs. Miller was deeper, he not only decorated his shutters, but he fixed five yards of black bombazine on the bell-pull, and dressed his whole family in mourning. Then Grant determined that his duty to the departed was not to let himself be beaten by a man who couldn't feel any genuine sorrow: so he sewed a black flag on his lightning-rod, and festooned the front of his house with black alpaca.

Then Miller became excited; and he expressed his sense of bereavement by painting his dwelling black, and by putting up a monument to Mrs. Miller in his front-yard. Grant thereupon stained his yellow horse with lampblack, tied crape to his cow's horn, daubed his dog with ink, and began to wipe his nose on a black handkerchief. As soon as Miller saw these proceedings, he spread a layer of charcoal all over his front-yard, he assumed a black shirt, he corked the faces of his family when they went to church, and he hired a colored man to stand on his steps and cry for twelve hours every day. Just as Grant was about to see this, and go it one better, he encountered Miss Lang, a young lady from the city; and in a couple of weeks they were engaged. Then he began to take in the evidences of his grief; and this made Miller so mad, that he went around and proposed to Miss Jones, an old maid who never had an offer before. She accepted him on the spot; and they were married the day before Grant's wedding, which so disgusted him that he would have given up Lang if she hadn't threatened him with a suit for breach of promise. There is peace between the two families now; but, when Mrs. Miller gets on the rampage sometimes, Mr. Miller mourns for his first wife more than ever.

A LAUGHING PHILOSOPHER.

Admiring my flowers, sir? P'raps you'd step inside the gate, and walk round my little place? It ain't big, but there's plenty of variety,--violets and cabbages, roses and artichokes. Any one that didn't care for flowers 'ud be sure to find beauty in them young spring onions. People's ideas differ very much, there ain't a doubt of it. One man's very happy over a glass of whiskey and water, and another thinks every thing 'ud go straight in this 'ere world if we all drank tea and lemonade. And it's right enough: it keeps things even. We should have the world a very one-sided affair if everybody pulled the same way. Philosopher, am I? Well, I dunno. I've got a theory to be sure--every one has nowadays; and mine is, that there is a joke to be found in every mortal thing if only we look in the right place for it. But some people don't know how to look for it. Why, sir, if you'll believe it, I was talking to a man yesterday that couldn't see any thing to laugh at in the naval demonstration.

Am I independent? Well, I makes money by my fruit and vegetables, if that's what you mean. But there's so many ways of being independent. One man marries a woman with £20,000 a year, and calls that independence. Another votes on the strongest side, and calls that being independent. One takes up every new-fangled idea that comes out, and says he's independent. Some calls impudence independence. There's not a name as fits so many different articles. No! I've never bin married. Somehow, I don't think married men see the fun in every thing same as single ones. I don't mean to be disrespectful to the ladies, but I do think they enjoy a good cry more than a good laugh. Was I ever in love? and did I laugh then? Why, yes, never laughed heartier in my life. It's a good many years ago now. I was living in lodgings down Clerkenwell way, and the landlady's daughter was as pretty a creature as ever you see, bright and cheery, like a robin, when first I knew her. But, by and by, she grew pale and peaky,--used to go about the house without singing, and had such big, sad-looking eyes. Her home wasn't a particularly happy one, for her mother was a nagger. Perhaps you've never come across a woman of that pertikler character. Well, then, you should say double the prayers of ordinary people; for you've much to be thankful for. I never looked at her without feeling that her husband must have been very happy indeed when he got to heaven. I sometimes think, sir, that women of this sort might be made use of, and prisons, and all other kind of punishment, done away with: perhaps, though, the lunatic asylums 'ud get too full.

Well, I grew to be quite intimate with Bessie; and one evening, I don't know how it was, she told me all her troubles. She was engaged to a young man; and her mother wouldn't consent to them marrying, and was always worrying her to break it off. I asked her if there were any thing against him. Nothing, except that her mother had taken a dislike to him: he wasn't very strong, but he was the best, cleverest, dearest fellow that ever lived. All the time she was talking I felt a gnawing sort of pain somewhere in my inside. First, I thought I must be hungry; but, when I came to eat, all my food seemed to get in my throat, and stick there. This won't do, old fellow, thinks I: there must be a joke to be got out of it somewhere. So I set to consider; and there, clear enough, it was. Why, the joke 'ud be to let Bessie marry her young man, and see the pretty cheeks grow round and pink again. But how to do it, there was the rub. I began to cultivate the old lady's society with a view to finding out her weak point: for, being a woman, of course she had a weak point; and, being a very ugly woman, what do you think it was? Why, vanity, to be sure. I soon noticed a change in her. She took her hair out of paper every day, instead of only on Sundays, as she had been used to do; and she put on a clean cap sometimes, and smirked whenever I passed her. Why, here's a bigger joke than I bargained for, thinks I! While I've been studying the woman to find out her weak point, she thinks I've been admiring her. But I soon saw what use I could make of this. I went down into the kitchen when she wasn't busy,--I knew it would be rather too hot other times,--and I got talking about Bessie. "It's strange," I says, "that a fine-looking girl like that shouldn't have a sweetheart. Things was different when you was younger, I'll be bound."

"As for that," says she, "Bessie has a sweetheart; but I don't approve of him. He's not exactly the sort of man I expected for her."

"But, lor'," I says, "you wouldn't go and keep that girl single! Think what harm you may do yourself. You can't be so cruel as to give up all idea of marrying agin! Why, you don't look forty." That wasn't an untruth, for she looked fifty. She tossed her head, and told me to go along. I didn't go along. I says, "There's no doubt lots of young fellows 'ud be glad enough of a good-looking wife like you, but mightn't care for a daughter as old as Miss Bessie." This seemed to strike her very much. I followed it up, got talking to her day after day, and always led the conversation to the same point. At last one day when I came home from work, she says, "It's all settled. Bessie's going to be married, and her Tom's coming here this evening." Then I went up to my own room, and laughed till I cried. Presently I heard the little girl run up-stairs as she hadn't run for many a long day, and I knew she'd gone to put on a smart ribbon for Tom's sake. She tapped at my door as she passed. Would I come down? somebody was there, and wanted to know me. I called out that I was busy, and couldn't come; and she went away. But after about an hour she came again. I was sitting in the dark, thinking of a good many things; and before I had time to speak she was down oh her knees beside me, and hiding her face.

"You told me you were busy," she said; "and here you are all in the dark and cold, and I can't bear any one to be dull or lonely to-night, because I'm so very, very happy. And I know it's all through you. Mother would never have given in of her own accord. You've always been my friend when I wanted one very badly; and now you must be angry with me, or you wouldn't stay away to-night. And you won't even speak to me. Oh, whatever I've done to vex you, don't think of it any more!"

She nestled up to me so close that her hair touched my coat-sleeve, and her pretty eyes looked up all swimming with tears. I ground my teeth, and clinched my hands, or--or I don't know what I mightn't ha' done. You see the joke of this, sir, don't you? Here was the girl crying, and asking me to forgive her, and like her a little; and there was I--not disliking her a bit all the time. Ha, ha, ha! I had a hearty laugh at her, and hurried with her down-stairs, and was introduced to Tom, and I talked to the old lady, and drank the young people's health, and was as happy as possible. And on the wedding-day I gave her away as if I had been her father; and I sang a song and danced: and, when the time came for Bessie to go away with her husband, I dried her eyes; for at the last moment the tender-hearted little thing broke down, and cried, and kissed us all, and asked her mother not to feel angry with her for leaving her all alone; and then the mother cried, and what with having so many eyes to wipe, I found myself wiping my own just as if it all weren't a tremendous joke.

How have they got on since? 'Bout as well as most people, I suppose: she loves him, and takes care of him. And the mother's softened down a bit since she's bin a grandmother. And as to my godson, there never was such a boy. I have him with me as much as possible, and he's beginning to see the joke of every thing almost as much as I do myself. And when I die, all this little place'll belong to him, and he'll be a rich man: so my death'll be the biggest joke of all, you see, sir.

IN DER SHWEED LONG AGO.

In der shweed long ago I dinked I vas shmard, Und I dinked I did vant me a vife To share all my money und sorrows und joys, Und to helb me along drough my life. I vanted a lady kind-hearted und goot, Dot vas handsome und sensiple doo, Dot cood blay der biano or cook a beefshdeak, Darn my shdockings or made me a shdew.

She must nod be doo shmall-seized or neider doo dall, Und she musn'd be old or doo young, Und ven I vas shboking had visdom enuff To alwoys kebd quied her tongue. She musd nod be doo dark or agin be doo lighd-- A kinder bedwixed und bedween; She musd nod knew doo leedle, or vorse, knew it all, Or be vat some beebles call "creen."

She musd be good-nadured, vear always a shmile, No madder of dings did vent wrong; Ven my friends came around for to make me a call, Be ready to sung dem a song. Of der lodge bisness habben'd to kebd me oud lade, Und I come valdzing home "dighdly-shlighd," She musd pet und caress me, und dank her good shdars Dot I didn'd shdaid apsend all nighd.

In a vord, be berfecd--mind, feature, und form-- From her feet to der crown of her head. Now, dot vas der damsel dot I had in view, Und der von I vas villing to ved. Dot's a long dime ago, and my head dot vas pald, And I vas a pachelor shdill. My gal, I hafe nefer saw shkibbing round loose-- Vat's more, I don'd dink dot I vill.

OOFTY GOOFT.

DOT STUPPORN PONY.

I growt so ferry heffy Dot too much de walkin' pe, So I pyed me of von pony; But dot pettler he sheat me. Bote eyes of him was limpy, Bote leeks of him vas plint; But dot vot prake of me mine heart Dot pony vas oonkint.

He keeck shust like a chackess, Oop, town, pefore, pehint; Und how to cure dot pony I rollt oop in my mint. Dot sympathee vas nonsense, Shust efery dinks he preak; Vhen sutton coomt von grant itee, I tole you how I make:

I keetch him mit de shafters, But--outsite in instet-- His het oop py dot vagon, His dail vere vos his het. Den--one, doo, tree--I schlag him. Ach, himmel! how he keeck! But vhen he fints he noddings stroock, He stop dot pooty queeck.

Den looks he oop aschtountet, Oxcited pooty pat; Den sutten makes he backvarts, Like as of he vas mat I laugh as I vas tying Vhen I see him go dat vay; Den on his haunch he stoomples town, As he vas going to bray.

How schamt he look, vateffer! I tole him vat I dinks; Doo dears drop oud his eyepalls, Mit grief his dail he vinks. Arount all right I toorn him, His het pefore him now, Und streecks!--he trives as goot und kind As he vas peen my frau!

HARRY WOODSON.

SPOOPENDYKE OPENING OYSTERS.

"My dear," queried Mr. Spoopendyke, "did you put those oysters on the cellar floor with the round shells down, as I told you to?"

"I did most of 'em," replied Mrs. Spoopendyke. "Some of 'em wouldn't stay that way. They turned right over."

"Must have been extraordinary intelligent oysters," murmured Mr. Spoopendyke, eying her with suspicion. "Didn't any of 'em stand up on end, and ask for the morning paper, did they?"

"You know what I mean," fluttered Mrs. Spoopendyke. "They tipped over sideways, and so I laid them on the flat shell."

"That's right," grunted Mr. Spoopendyke. "You want to give an oyster his own way, or you'll hurt his feelings. Suppose you bring up some of those gifted oysters, and an oyster-knife, and we'll eat 'em."

Mrs. Spoopendyke hurried away, and pattered back with the feast duly set out on a tea-waiter, which she placed before Mr. Spoopendyke with a flourish.

"Now," said she, drawing up her sewing-chair, and resting her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands, "when you get all you want, you may open me some."

Mr. Spoopendyke whirled the knife around his head, and brought it down with a sharp crack. Then he clipped away at the end a moment, and jabbed at what he supposed was the opening. The knife slipped, and ploughed the bark off his thumb.

"Won't come open, won't ye?" he shouted, fetching it another lick, and jabbing away again. "Haven't completed your census of who's out here working at ye, have ye?" and he brought it another whack. "P'rhaps ye think I haven't fully made up my mind to inquire within, don't ye?" and he rammed the point of the knife at it, knocking the skin off his knuckles.

"That isn't the way to open an oyster," suggested Mrs. Spoopendyke.

"Look here," roared Mr. Spoopendyke, turning fiercely on his wife. "Have you got any private understanding with this oyster? Has the oyster confided in you the particular way in which he wants to be opened?"

"No-o!" stammered Mrs. Spoopendyke. "Only I thought"--

"This is no time for thought!" shouted Mr. Spoopendyke, banging away at the edge of the shell. "This is the moment for battle; and if I've happened to catch this oyster during office hours, he's going to enter into relations with the undersigned. Come out, will ye?" he yelled, as the knife flew up his sleeve. "Maybe ye don't recognize the voice of Spoopendyke. Come out, ye measly coward, before ye make an enemy of me for life!" and he belted away at the shell with the handle of the knife, and spattered mud like a dredging-machine.

"Let me get you a hammer to crack him with," recommended Mrs. Spoopendyke, hovering over her husband in great perturbation.

"Don't want any hammer," howled Mr. Spoopendyke, slamming around with his knife. "S'pose I'm going to use brute force on a measly fish that I could swallow alive if I could only get him out of his house? Open your measly premises!" raved Mr. Spoopendyke, stabbing at the oyster vindictively, and slicing his shirt-sleeve clear to the elbow. "Come forth, and enjoy the society of Spoopendyke!" And the worthy gentleman foamed at the mouth, and he sunk back in his chair, and contemplated his stubborn foe with glaring eyes.

"I'll tell you what to do," exclaimed Mrs. Spoopendyke, radiant with a profound idea. "Crack him in the door."

"That's the scheme," grinned Mr. Spoopendyke, with horrible contortions of visage. "Fetch me the door. Set that door right before me on a plate. This oyster is going to stay here. If you think this oyster is going to enjoy any change of climate until he strikes the tropics of Spoopendyke, you don't know the domestic habits of shell-fish. Loose your hold!" squealed Mr. Spoopendyke, returning to the charge, and fetching the bivalve a prodigious whack. "Come into the outer world, where all is gay and beautiful. Come out, and let me introduce you to my wife." And Mr. Spoopendyke laid the oyster on the arm of his chair, and slugged him remorselessly.

"Wait," squealed Mrs. Spoopendyke: "here's one with his mouth open," and she pointed cautiously at a gaping oyster, who had evidently taken down the shutters to see what the row was about.

"Don't care a measly nickel with a hole in it," protested Mr. Spoopendyke, thoroughly impatient. "Here's one that's going to open his mouth, or the resurrection will find him still wrestling with the ostensible head of this family. Ow!" and Mr. Spoopendyke, having rammed the knife into the palm of his hand, slammed the oyster against the chimney-piece, where it was shattered, and danced around the room wriggling with wrath and agony.

"Never mind the oysters, dear," cried Mrs. Spoopendyke, following him around, and trying to disengage his wounded hand from his armpit.

"Who's minding 'em?" roared Mr. Spoopendyke, standing on one leg, and bending up double. "I tell ye that when I start to inflict discipline on a narrow-minded oyster that won't either accept an invitation or send regrets, he's going to mind me! Where's the oyster? Show me the oyster! Arraign the oyster!"

"Upon my word, you've opened him," giggled Mrs. Spoopendyke, picking up the smashed bivalve between the tips of her thumb and forefinger.

"Won't have him," sniffed Mr. Spoopendyke, eying the broken shell, and firing his defeated enemy into the grate. "If I can't go in the front-door of an oyster, I'm not going down the scuttle. That all comes of laying 'em on the flat shell," he continued, suddenly recollecting that his wife was to blame for the whole business. "Now you take the rest of 'em down, and lay 'em as I told you to."

"Yes, dear."

"And another time you want any oysters, you sit around in the cellar, and when they open their mouths you put sticks in. You hear?"

"Yes, dear."

And Mrs. Spoopendyke took the bivalves back, resolving that the next time they were in demand they would crawl out of their shells, and walk up-stairs arm in arm, before she would have any hand in the mutilation of her poor, dear, suffering husband by bringing them up herself.

STANLEY HUNTLEY.