Part 5

Then I said, “I rather guess I can see into this mess, And explain the startlin’ error which has given you such shocks. When that Boston fellow, he Asked the route I’d take of me, I pinted, inadvertional, unto another box.”

Now Eagle Davis lies Beneath the Northern skies, Where the snow is on the pine-tree while we are with the palm; But I reckon if his spirit Should ever come to hear it, He’ll be perfectly contented with the story in this psalm.

ZION JERSEY BOGGS A LEGEND OF PHILADELPHIA

Before the telegraphic wires Had ever run from pole to pole, Or telegirls sent telegrams To cheer the weary waiting soul; When all things went about as slow As terrapins could run on clogs, Was played a game By one whose name Was Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

A Philadelphia newspaper Was printed then on Chestnut Street, While ’crost the way, just opposite, There lived a sufferin’ rival sheet, Whose editors could get no news, Which made ’em cross as starvin’ hogs; The first, I guess, Had an express Which kind o’ b’longed to Mister Boggs.

But in those days the only news Which reëly opened readers’ eyes, Was of the New York lottery, And who by luck had got a prize. All other news, for all they cared, Might travel to the orful dogs; And this they got All piping hot— Though surreptitiously—from Boggs.

For of the crew no party knew That Boggs did any horses own. All sportin’ amputations he Did most concussively disown; For he had serious subtle aims, His wheels were full of secret cogs,— Well oiled and slow, Yet sure to go, Was Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

One mornin’ he, mysteriously, An’ smilin’ quite ironical, Spoke to the other editor, The man who run the _Chronicle:_ “The _Ledger_ has a hoss express By which your lottery news he flogs.” “Yes, that is true, But what’s to do?” Replied the man to Mister Boggs.

Then Mister Boggs let down his brows, And with a long deep knowing wink, Said, “Hosses travel mighty fast, But ther air faster things, I think; An’ kerrier-pidgings, as you know, Kin find their way thro’ storm and fogs: Them air the bugs To fly like slugs!” Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

“And in my glorious natyve land, Which lies acrost the Delaware, I hev a lot upon the spot,— Just twenty dollars fur a pair. These gentle insects air the things To make the _Ledger_ squeal like hogs; That is the game To hit ’em lame!” Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

The editor looked back again, And saw him better on his wink. “It is the crisis of our fate— Say, Boggs, what is your style of drink? Step to the bar of Congress Hall;— We’ll try your poultry on, by Gogs! An’ let ’em fly Tarnation high!” “Amen!” said Zion Jersey Boggs.

The pidgins came, the pidgins flew, They lit upon the lofty wall; They made their five an’ ninety miles In just about no time at all. Compared to them, the _Ledger_ team Went just as slow as haulin’ logs. But all was mum, Shut close an’ dum, By the request of Mister Boggs.

Then on the follerin’ Monday he, Lookin’ profounder as he prowled, This son of sin an’ mystery, Into the _Ledger_ orfice owled. “An’ oh! to think,” he sadly groaned, “That earth should bear setch skalliwogs! Setch all-fired snakes, And no mistakes!” Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

“Why, what is up?” asked Mr. Swain; “It seems you’ve had some awful shoves.” “The _Chronicle_,” his agent cried, “Has went an’ bin an’ bought some doves! Them traitors, wretches, swindlers, cheats, Hev smashed us up like polywogs. They’ve knocked, I guess, Our hoss express Higher than any kite,” said Boggs.

“Have you no plan?” asked Mister Swain, “To keep the fellows off our walks?” “I _hev_,” said Boggs, as grim as death; “What do you think of pidging-horks? For in my glorious natyve land, Acrost the river, ’mong the frogs, I hev a lot All sharply sot To eat them pidgings up,” said Boggs.

“They are the chosen birds of wrath, They fly like arrers through the air, Or angels sent by orful Death— Jist fifty dollars fur a pair; An’ cheap to keep, because, you see, Upon the enemy they progs.” “Well, try it on, And now begone!” Said Mister Swain to Mister Boggs.

The autumn morn was bright and fair, Fresh as a rose with recent rain. The pidgins tortled through the air, But nary one came home again. Some feathers dropped in Chestnut Street, Some bills and claws among the logs: Wipin’ a tear, “I greatly fear That all’s not right,” said Mr. Boggs.

Into the _Chronicle_ he went, Twice as mysterious as before, “And _hev_ you heard the orful news?” He whispered as he shet the door. “Oh, I hev come to tell a tale Of crime, which all creation flogs, Of wretchery And treachery That bangs tarnation sin,” said Boggs.

“Them _Ledger_ fellers with their tricks, Hev slopped clean over crime’s dark cup. They’ve bin an’ bought some pidging-horks, And they hev _et_ our pidgings up. Oh, whut is life wuth livin’ fur When editors behave like hogs? An’ ragin’ crime Makes double time; Oh, darn setch villany!” cried Boggs.

“But hark! bee-hold, to-morrer, thou In deep revenge may dry your tears; I hev a plan, which, you’ll allow, Beats all-git-out when it eppears. The ragin’ eagle of the North, The bird which all creation flogs, Will cause them horks To walk ther chalks, An’ give us grand revenge,” said Boggs.

“Them glorious birds of liberty, Them symbols of our country’s fame, Wild, sarsy, furious, and free, Indeliably rowdy game; They shall revenge them gentile doves, Our harmless messengers, by Gogs! In which the horks Hev stuck ther forks,” Cried Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

“For in my glorious natyve land Acrost the river, down below, I hev a farm, and in the barn Six captyve eagles in a row: One hundred dollars fur a pair; Fetch out the flimsies frum your togs An’ up on high _I’ll_ make ’em fly,” Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

But this same editor had heard Some hint or rumour, faint or dim, How Mister Boggs, it was averred, Was coming Paddy over him. An earlier tale of soapy deeds Then gave his memory startling jogs, And full of wrath Right in his path He went for Zion Jersey Boggs.

“Horses and pidgins—pidgin-horks”— That was enough to raise his Dutch: He saw it all—and also saw The eagle—“Just one bird too much.” Too mad to mind his shootin’-iron, And throw good powder to the dogs, He grabbed his chair, And then and there Corrected Zion Jersey Boggs.

After long years had rolled away, And Morse’s telegraph came in, Still on the facing rival roofs Two grey old cages could be seen, And young reporters o’er their drinks Would tell each other—jolly dogs— Of ancient time What in this rhyme I’ve told of Zion Jersey Boggs.

THE BALLAD OF THE GREEN OLD MAN

It was a balmeous day in May, when spring was springing high And all amid the buttercups the bees did butterfly; While the butterflies were being enraptured in the flowers, And winsome frogs were singing soft morals to the showers.

Green were the emerald grasses which grew upon the plain, And green too were the verdant boughs which rippled in the rain, Far green likewise the apple hue which clad the distant hill, But at the station sat a man who looked far greener still.

An ancient man, a boy-like man, a person mild and meek, A being who had little tongue, and nary bit of cheek. And while upon him pleasant-like I saw the ladies look, He sat a-counting money in a brownsome pocket-book.

Then to him a policeman spoke: “Unless you feel too proud, You’d better stow away that cash while you’re in this here crowd; There’s many a chap about this spot who’d clean you out like ten.” “And can it be,” exclaimed the man, “there are such wicked men?

“Then I will put my greenbacks up all in my pocket-book, And keep it buttoned very tight, and at the button look.” He said it with a simple tone, and gave a simple smile— You never saw a half-grown shad one-half so void of guile.

And the bumble-bees kept bumbling away among the flowers, While distant frogs were frogging amid the summer showers, And the tree-toads were tree-toadying in accents sharp or flat— All nature seemed a-naturing as there the old man sat.

Then up and down the platform promiscuous he strayed, Amid the waiting passengers he took his lemonade, A-making little kind remarks unto them all at sight, Until he met two travellers who looked cosmopolite.

Now even as the old was green, this pair were darkly-brown; They seemed to be of that degree which sports about the town. Amid terrestrial mice, I ween, their destiny was Cat; If ever men were gonoffs,[9] I should say these two were that.

And they had watched that old man well with interested look, And gazed him counting greenbacks in that brownsome pocket-book; And the elder softly warbled with benevolential phiz, “Green peas has come to market, and the veg’tables is riz.”

Yet still across the heavenly sky the clouds went clouding on, The rush upon the gliding brook kept rushing all alone, While the ducks upon the water were a-ducking just the same, And every mortal human man kept on his little game.

And the old man to the strangers very affable let slip How that zealousy policeman had given him the tip, And how his cash was buttoned in his pocket dark and dim, And how he guessed no man alive on earth could gammon him.

In ardent conversation ere long the three were steeped, And in that good man’s confidence the younger party deeped. The p’liceman, as he shadowed them, exclaimed in blooming rage, “They’re stuffin’ of that duck, I guess, and leavin’ out the sage.”

He saw the game distinctly, and inspected how it took, And watched the reappearance of that brownsome pocket-book, And how that futile ancient, ere he buttoned up his coat, Had interchanged, obliging-like, a greensome coloured note.

And how they parted tenderly, and how the happy twain Went out into the Infinite by taking of the train; Then up the blue policeman came, and said, “My ancient son, Now you have gone and did it; say what you have been and done?”

And unto him the good old man replied with childish glee, “They were as nice a two young men as I did ever see; But they were in such misery their story made me cry; So I lent ’em twenty dollars—which they’ll pay me by-and-bye.

“But as I had no twenty, we also did arrange, They got from me a fifty bill, and gimme thirty change; But they will send that fifty back, and by to-morrow’s train——” “That note,” out cried the constable, “you’ll never see again.”

“And that,” exclaimed the sweet old man, “I hope I never may, Because I do not care a cuss how far it keeps away; For if I’m a judge of money, and I _reether_ think I am, The one I shoved was never worth a continental dam.

“They hev wandered with their sorrers into the sunny South, They hev got uncommon swallows and an extry lot of mouth. In the next train to the North’ard I expect to widely roam, And if any come inquirin’, jist say I ain’t at home.”

The p’liceman lifted up his glance unto the sunny skies, I s’pose the light was fervent, for a tear were in his eyes, And said, “If in your travels a hat store you should see, Just buy yourself a beaver tile and charge that tile to me.”

While the robins were a-robbing acrost the meadow gay, And the pigeons still a-pigeoning among the gleam of May, All out of doors kept out of doors as suchlike only can, A-singing of an endless hymn about that good old man.

[9] _Gonoff_, a Scriptural term for a Member of the Legislature, or suchlike.

CARRYING COALS

In the gloomsome abysses where darkness is kept, And the spirit of silence for ages has slept, In the great shaft of Pottsville, way down in the hole, There came seven parties, all dealers in coal; But they never had been in that chasm before, Nor had the sensation of darkness all o’er, Which so greatly expandeth the soul.

And one of ’em said, “It’s an awful delight To be infinite deep into no end of night, Where the heavenly sunshine can’t manage to spring,— And, talking of that, I’ve a notion, by Jing! Let we ourselves mine out some coal lumps to-day To show to the folks,—which I think, by the way, Would be a poetical thing.”

So they filled up their pockets, untried by a doubt, And in the hotel they unveiled ’em all out; But their glances grew strange as they turned o’er the weight, Till one of them shouted, “By thunder, it’s slate!” Yet the youngest among them had dealered in coal, And unto that traffic surrendered his soul, Since the Anno Eighteen Forty-eight.

For all of man’s wisdom is only a dream, Which passeth away like a plate of ice-cream, And the best of experience fails, as we mark, If you go for to dig when you’re all in the dark; For there’s always a moral inside of a tale, And big things in little things always prevail As sure as there’s wood in the bark.

CAREY, OF CARSON

The night-mist dim and darkling, As o’er the roads we pass, Lies in the morning sparkling As dewdrops on the grass. E’en so the deeds of darkness, Which come like midnight dews, Appear as sparkling items Next morning in the news.

Away in Carson City, Far in the Silver Land, There lives one Justice Carey, A man of head and hand; And as upon his table The Judge a-smoking sat There rowdied in a rougher Who wore a gallows hat.

He looked upon the Justice, But Justice did not budge Until the younger warbled, “Say—don’t you know me, Judge?” “I think,” said Carey meekly, “Your face full well I know,— I sent you up for stealing A horse a year ago.”

“Ay, that is just the hair-pin I am, and that’s my line; And here is twenty dollars I’ve brought to pay the fine.” “You owe no fine,” said Carey, “Your punishment is o’er.” “Not yet,” replied the rover; “I’ve come to have some more.

“Fust-rate assault and batt’ry I’m goin’ to commit, And you’re the mournful victim That I intend to hit, And give you such a scrampin’ As never was, nohow; And so, to save the lawin’, I guess I’ll settle now.”

Up rose the Court in splendour; “Young man, your start is fair, Sail in, my son, sail over, And we will call it square! Go in upon your chances,— Perhaps you may not miss; I like to see young heroes Ambitionin’ like this.”

The young one at the older Went in with all his heft, And, like a flyin’ boulder, At once let out his left; The Court, in haste, ducked under Its head uncommon spry, Then lifted the intruder With a puncher in the eye,—

A regular right-hander; And like a cannon-ball, The young man, when percussioned Went over on the wall. In just about a second, The Court, with all its vim, Like squash-vines o’er a meadow, Went climbing over him.

Yea, as the pumpkin clambers Above an Indian grave, Or as the Mississippi Inunders with its wave, And merrily slops over A town in happy sport, E’en so that man was clambered All over by the Court.

And in about a minute That party was so raw, He would have seemed a stranger Unto his dearest squaw; Till he was soft and tender, This morsel once so tough, And then, in sad surrender, He moaned aloud, “Enough!”

He rose; and Justice Carey Said to him ere he went, “I do not think the fightin’ You did was worth a cent. I charge for time two dollars, As lawyers should, ’tis plain; The balance of the twenty I give you back again.

“I like to be obligin’ To folks with all my powers, So when you next want fightin’ Don’t come in office hours; I only make my charges For what’s in legal time,— Drop in, my son, this evenin’, And I’ll not charge a dime.”

The young man took the guerdon, As he had ta’en the scars; Then took himself awayward To the ’Ginia City cars. ’Tis glorious when heroes Go in to right their wrongs; But if you’re only hair-pins, Oh, then beware of tongs!

JOSEPHI IN BENICIA

There was a man who spent his mortal life A-prisoning until there came a war; And with the war there came an enemy, And with the enemy came dynamite, And with the dynamite the engineers Histed that prison-house, and with it all That was therein. And when the man came down And lay a-dying, round the chaplain lit, And asked him “What of life?” and he replied, “To me this life has been a blasted cell.” And so he died like any other man, And thus it is things work among mankind.

The great Josephi—the piano lord— When in the land of California Was duly published for Benicia, Yet never once put in; and then arose Dame Rumour with a hundred thousand tongues, And people said that he had bust his wires, And had neuralgia in his sounding-board, And the dyspepsia in his pedal joint, And the stricnosis in his upper keys,— Yet all was false, and I will tell you why. The day before he was to have gone in Unto his glory in Benicia, There came a visitor whose sun-grilled face And grand prize pumpkin air had all the style Of a Maud Muller’s father; and this man, Being shown in, remarked, “I s’pose you air Mister Joseephee?” To him in reply The small piano-smasher nodded “Yes.” And thus the agriculturist went on:— “I’m from Beneesh, I am, and I belong To the Town Council—that is my posish. Down here disposin’ of my barley, and I thort I’d call and see yer, being as Yer comin’ down ter-morrer fur to play.” “Ja, dot is so,” replied the music man. “Ye see, yer comin’ to a stranger town, And so I thort I’d let yer hev some pints About the programme. We’re a-payin’ yer A pot o’ money, and of course yer want To suit the ordience.” “Vell, vot you like,” Exclaimed the great musician. “I can blay Chopin, Beethoven, Liszt—ja! all de crate Gombosers, and I gifes you vot you shoose.” “I never heerd them tunes,” replied his guest. “Do yer know ‘Nancy Lee’?” “Not I, bei Gott!” “Nor ‘Mary Ann’?” “Nein” (_very haughtily_). “The ‘Spanish Dona’—the ‘Monastery Bells’?” “Gott’s dammerwetter! Himmelspotzen—NEIN!” “Wall, now, whar did ye learn? My darter Sue Goes to Miss Lynch’s, and she knows ’em all, An’ plays ’em all by heart right straight along. I never thought her no great shakes, and yet She’s clean ahead of you.” A gloomy pause Ensued, and two long glares. Then he set on, “What kind o’ dancing music are ye gwine To fetch along? for that’s the heavy jerk.” “_Tantz musik!_” Oh, the horror of the voice Of great Josephi when he heard these words. “Yes, certinly. Ain’t ye a-goin’ to play Fur dancing arter supper? Wot d’ye s’pose We’re gwine to pay yer fur?” (Here came the squall.) “Go to der Teufel mit your tantz musik! Dere-to your tauter also. Sapperment! Verflucht sei deine Seele—do you dink I coom to blay fur caddle? I ton’t go Unto Benicia. Dell your veller-bigs Your tauter blays in my blace—in de blace Of Herr Josephi—do you oonderstand, You hundert tousend plasted _Schweinigel_!” And in the rustic’s face he slammed the door.

He did not play in fair Benicia, And in that town he is not popular; And in its leading circles seven out Of eight regard him as a German fraud, Who cannot even play “My Mary Ann.” And thus it is they think he is a sell, And thus it is things work among mankind.

THE STORY OF A LIE

Who asks an ape to throw a coco-nut Should take it not amiss if it be thrown On his own head, as echo answers song.

There was a man named Jesse, who was called The greatest liar in Connecticut. For there are giants among the Brobdingnags.

It was a burning day, and William Hoop Sat in the shade, when Jess came riding by. When wolves run past your door-step, let them run.

But William cried, “Stop for a moment, Jess, And tell us a big lie.” Jesse liked it not. Ne’er ask a hangman how to tie a noose.

But hastily and sadly he replied, “This is no time for lying now; oh, woe!” A wanton widow may wear darkest weeds.

“Your Uncle Sol died very suddenly An hour ago, and you would have me lie!” Who weaveth nets is often caught in them.

“And I am riding for the coroner, And for a coffin. William, learn from this _Never while living ask a man to lie_.”

Then William ran in and told his wife, And he and she and all the family Burst into tears. The thistle soon bears thorns.

And in his waggon, leaving everything, They posted off and on, four miles away. The eagle hastens at the eaglet’s cry.

And when arrived they found the family In the large kitchen, but in ne’er a grief. It pains a man at times to miss his pain.

There Uncle Sol was buried—to the eyes, In a great water-melon, lush and red. Life’s sweetest things are water after all:

Which rises in a mist, and comes again As rainy tears. And William almost wept For rage, because he had no cause to cry.

But after this he never did entreat Another man to tell a lie to him. Burnt child seeks not a second time the fire.

THE LEGEND OF SAINT ANTHONY

The seek-no-further face of loveliness, The perfect form of fawn-like springfulness, Rich as a bonanza just unbound: Catherine Van Peyster, of Fifth Avenue.

She lived a year in Europe—but for aye In all the hearts of all who met her there; And then her pa allowed her boundless cash, Which she laid out in glorious works of art.

Such as the dream-like dresses made by Worth, And heavenly hats by Virot, and all things Refined, æsthetic, swell, and classical; Yea, even a picture—she bought everything.

’Tis true it was a picture of herself, And when she ordered it she simply said, “I know that I am very beautiful, My mirror tells me that—distinctively;

“But I am also very clever too, For I am of a clever family, Papa and sisters all are awful smart; Now you must make it somehow sparkle out

“In what you paint. And as for me I guess I’ll show you how to fix it—wait a bit. Ain’t there a saint they call Saint Catherine? One of my beaux, I think, once called me that.”

“_Si, Illustrissima_,” the artist said, “Dere is a Santa Catarina, who Is beautiful most of the oder sants, Vitch giusto suit so lovely mad as you!

“And she do always hold opon a vheel.” “I see!” cried Miss Van Peyster—“just the thing, The wheel of fortune—and the loveliest saint; That’s me exactly. What a perfect fit!”

And so ’twas painted, and the painted pair, Saint Catherine and Miss Catherine, went across Unto New York; and many people came To call and worship—or to make believe.

And with the rest came Mr. Anthony, A blooming broker, and a mighty man, Who did not think small brewings of himself, Albeit his studies had been very small,