Part 6

And very few i’ the heap. His face and form Were greasiness and grossness well combined, With sneeriness and nearness in the eyes; He seemed a kind of coarsest Capuchin.

And much he did admire the quaint conceit Of being taken as a holy saint, And said, “I’d like to try that thing myself. How could a feller fix it——Catherine?”

“Easy enough,” replied the beautiful: “You’ve only got to send your photograph Out to my man in Florence, and to say, ‘_Vous peignez moi comme le Saint Anthony_.’

“I’ll write it for you if you have a card, And he will fix it for you _comme il faut_.” That very hour the heavy shaver wrote, And sent the order for his portraiture.

And in due time ’twas done—and further on ’Twas in the Custom House—and thence ’twas sent To the Spring Exhibition in New York, There was no time to send it to “the House.”

And Anthony himself beheld it not Till it had hung a week upon “the walls,” And all the newspapers had served it up, And all the world had merry made withal.

Yea, he _was_ in it—clad in dirty rags, A vile abomination. In his hand A monstrous rosary. The Sunday Press Said ’twas a rope of onions, meant to feed

The monstrous hog which filled the canvas up, So vast in its proportions that it seemed As Anthony were waiting on the hog, And not the hog upon Saint Anthony.

In it and in for it. Just as the Saint Of Padua is painted, with his pig, Only a little more so. And thus ends The tale of the great hog and Anthony.

A RUSSIAN LYRIC AIR—“_Denkst du daran mein tapfre Lagienka._”

“SALTOKOFF SKUPCHIROFSKY,” said the ruler Of Russia to his captain of the guard, “I will retire; the night is growing cooler Have all the troops been posted in the yard?” “They have, my liege, and in the tower o’er you The watchman, with an opera-glass, afar Looks out to see that no one comes to bore you: _Bogu Tsarachnie!_ God protect the Tsar!”

“What have you done with him who came this morning, And wanted me to buy a lightning-rod?” “He sleeps beneath the Neva, as a warning To others like him, not as yet in quod.” “The girl who bored us for a contribution To send her blessed clergyman afar?” “She’s strangled by the Seventh Resolution: _Bogu Tsarachnie!_ God protect the Tsar!”

“And where is he who gave us the conniptions, That cheeky man from the United States, Who came unto my bedside for subscriptions To—what was it?—the ‘Life of Sergeant Bates’?” “Upon a special train that man is flying Unto Siberia in a third-class car; Thou badest him ‘dry up!’ and he is drying: _Bogu Tsarachnie!_ God protect the Tsar!”

“And where is he who bored us for insurance On life or fire, who down the chimney came?” “My liege, beneath our feet in deepest durance He pays with penance for his little game.” “And, after him, the pedlar who came plungin’ Into the parlour, smoking a cigar?” “Ask of the vipers in the palace dungeon: _Bogu Tsarachnie!_ God protect the Tsar!”

“And that young man who always kept a-saying, ‘That is the kind of hair-pin that I am’?” “My liege, the strychnine in his vitals playing May tell you how I stopped that kind of flam. “And he who at this day is still repeating, ‘What, never, never?’” “In a butt of tar We coopered _him_. His heart’s no longer beating: _Bogu Tsarachnie!_ God protect the Tsar!”

“And where is he who on the imperial fences Inscribed _Pop’s Bitters_, and _Take Fooler’s Pills_?” “My lord, his medicines were no defences, In Hades he atones for earthly ills.” “And that confounded nuisance of a Scotch Guard Who played the bagpipes up and down the car?” “My lord, the imperial headsman wears his watch-guard: _Bogu Tsarachnie!_ God protect the Tsar!”

“Captain, ’tis well. Now telegraph to London That every Nihilist has had his dose, And that a fresh conspiracy is undone, And keep the gum-drop, corn-ball peddlers close Who spread sedition in the trains to ’stress me; And keep the gates of anarchy ajar; So may Saint Feoderskidobry bless thee! _Bogu Tsarachnie!_ God protect the Tsar!”

MELODRAMNATION

“Now Mr. Gallagher is satisfied.” So says the Boston _Post_. The facts are these: He is the chief of a theatric club, And as he deems that he can melodram, He melodrammed for it a mighty piece Of thundering incidents and awful scenes, Which called for just nine actors. And they all Declared that each had got the worst and curst Of all the parts, and that ’twas written thus To boom the fame of selfish Gallagher; So the first night they came upon the boards, With hearts like hornets and with souls like snakes And feeling like old pizen, all agog To be revenged upon the common foe, Who was to act the hero. _Act the first_: The hero and his mother meet to part, And on her shoulders and o’er all her bust The parent had put pins by papersful, Till she was like a frightful porcupine; And when she pressed her darling to her breast, The pins _en masse_ entered his very soul, And pricked his nose, and ran into his cheeks, So that he howled; but his mamma held on, Easing her heart with rapturous revenge While agonizing his. In the next act He was on shipboard, and ’twas in the plot That he should be knocked down and cuffed about By a most cruel captain; and, God knows, The captain played that part most perfectly, Since in the start he went for Gallagher With a belaying-pin, and laid him out _Secundum artem_, and then let him up, Only to let into him twice as hot, ’Mid rapturous hurrahs. In the next act The hero led the crew to mutiny, And Gallagher was glorious; but just then Some one let down the trap on which he stood, And there he was, up to his waist in stage, Unable to get up or to go down, And thus they kept him in captivity While all the audience guyed him. When he strove To climb they lowered him, and when he sought To dodge beneath they highered him again; So he went up and down like Erie stock Until the scene was shifted. In the next He fought the villain of the play, and this Was Mr. Hencoop Smith, a stalwart rogue, Extremely high on muscle, and the way He lathered Gallagher about the stage Was Awful Gardener. And when Smith should cry, “Forgive me—I am crushed!” and Gallagher Replied, “I’ll have your life!” the hero lay Under the table, while his adversary Bemauled him with a chair-leg. It was o’er, And Gallagher, all black and blue, went home To plotter out revenge. On the next night The piece was adverred to be played again, And Gallagher sent round a messenger, Who said he was too ill to play his part, But he would send a substitute. He did— A giant-like ferocious prize-fighter, Under another name. And how he played! He squeezed the mother into raving fits, And jerked her wig away by accident, And threw the cruel captain down the trap, And larruped all the actors; and when Smith Came on to fight, he took him by the heels And mopped the stage with him until ’twas clean, Then hurled him through the flat. All was a wreck: And in the front seat sat the Gallagher And laughed until he cried. Revenge is sweet!

A TALE OF IDAHO

When they had finished the ethnology, And polished up the climate and the crops, And glorified the different kinds of bugs, And told in turn their lies about the snakes, And fish and deer and things, of Idaho, A pensive cuss in spectacles inquired, “All this is well enough; now how about Your educational facilities? And let me see in dots the time they go.”

“And that’s the only thing we really lack,” Replied the Ancient, with a silvery sigh; “We do defect in _that_ ostensibly. We have the schools, but then we cannot git The folks to run ’em, or who will remain Adjacent to ’em, for they will not keep.” “How!—do they _die_?” “Wall, some on ’em expired, Though Idaho ain’t an expirin’ State; But I will tell you just the time they go.

“We had a fine young fellow from the East; He licked the boys, and also kissed the gals, And was all round uncommon popular, Bein’ likewise an awful fightin’ man, And there he _did_ slop over. For one day He met a grizzly bar upon the prowl, And whistled to it, and the grizzly _come_; But when he went he carried by express All of that fine young man inside of him; And that is just about the time they go.

“We had another from Connecticut: A widder run him down, and married him Inside the very school-house where he taught, Just as an Injun cooks a terrapin In its own shell, or as a lovely deer Is sometimes aboriginally biled Inside of its own skin, for that poor man Has been in bilin’ water ever sense: They say she makes it solemn hot for him. And that is just about the time they go.

“The third was well enough, but he was lame; I needn’t tell you how _that_ one got spiled; For sense he couldn’t run, one day, of course, The Injuns overtook him, and the way They treated him was pretty nigh as bad As if they had been widders, and that man Their lawful spouse. They also made it hot, Because they took and briled him at the stake. And that is just about the time they go.

“Then we tried women-folks to keep the school. We writ for one. She came; and as she lit Down from the stage, a man proposed to her And was accepted, and she married him That very night; in fact, within an hour He gin a party, and we had a dance; But Education suffered all the same, As she declined to teach, bein’ inclined To conjugate—excuse my little joke; But that is just about the time they go.

“The second—wall, _I took_ the second one About the middle of the week she come; But telegraphed unto the Institute, ‘Send on some more; keep sending of ’em on.’ And so they kept a-comin’, but they kep’ A-going speedier than they arrove, For the third lady was abducted by A highwayman before she got to us— She took it awful kindly, I believe. And that is just about the time they go.”

“But why,” exclaimed the wondering traveller, “Don’t you obtain a scareful, ugly one— Some hideous old faggot, just like that Tremendous terror with the lantern-jaws By yonder ticket-window? She would keep.” “Alas! how strange,” replied the Ancient Man; “How is it that you people from the East Will never understand us pioneers? That woman is my wife—the very one I cut away from school; and she’s by far The handsomest there was in all the drove. For that is just about the time they go.”

A CALIFORNIAN ROMANCE

Know’st thou the burning lay of Dante’s own, “_Nix mangiare é il diavolo!_ _Ma peggior la donna?_” that’s to say, “’Tis hard to be hard up, but harder still To get ahead of women.” Never much, While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.

Oh, listen to me, for the tale I tell Is of Chicago, and the latest out, And by the noble _Tribune_ novelist. “Say, do you mean it, honest Injun, now?” Said Vivian O’Riley to his sire. “And faith I do,” the earnest sire replied: “Marry this girl if so ye choose, me son, But—if ye do—the divil a ha’penny Of all me fortune will yees ever see, While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-hids shine.”

Two hours have passed, and so have eight or ten Slow-rolling tramway cars, until there comes The one which Vivian wants, and soon it lands The lover at the door of Pericles O’Rourke, the father of _bellissima_, The Lady Ethelberta. Lo, she sits In her boudoir (the high-toned word for “room”), Casting her soul in reverie o’er the trees, While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.

“I have bad news for you, my utmost own,” Said Vivian in sad tones unto his love. “Cusses and crocuses upon my luck! And damns and daffodils on everything!” And as he spoke there came into his face A grey old scaly look which seemed to say, _Don’t bluff or you’ll be called_. “My dad and I Have had a round about, and he has dis— Sis—sis—inherited me; and I have Been given the g.-b. on your account, My be—b—beau—tiful. And I am now A beg—egg—eggar for you, Bertie dear! While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.

Her soft dusk eyes grew wide and serious.

“Yes,” he continued, “I am regular poor, Poor as a busted Indian, and of course It follows in the logic of our life That I must give you up. I cannot ask One in the golden glory of events To come and share a fate which runs upon A thousand annual dollars. Ne’er a case. While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.”

She looked at him with an incarnadine, Rich, passionate, scarlet-sanguine crimson flush Surging into her cheeks. If it had been A _full_, ’tis probable that Vivian Would have gone under; but a _flush_ Could never scare him or his similar, While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.

“Oh, Vivian!” she gurgled, like a dove, “Oh, do you think I will let up on you? And do you deem I would go back upon The note I signed, and run to protest?—no— Not while the snowy paper of my truth Is quiréd by the young-eyed cherubim, And in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.”

Three months or ninety days went by, and then Upon a golden Californian December afternoon, with azure skies Like those of summer as they are produced In less expensive countries, men beheld A diamondaine wedding at the house Of Ethelberta’s sire. As Vivian And his fair bride sat in the car—ri—age Which bore them to the station, ever on She gazed upon him like a Lamia With a strange look, which one might call, in fact, A weirdly precious smile. He gazed at her. “And so you would not leave me, love?” he cooed, “Even when you thought me poor?” And she replied, “Never, my precious one. I learned lang syne That when a sucker once drops off the hook It never bites again. And well you know That you were on the point of dropping off, And so your pa and I put up the job So as to land you, dear—as faith we did— A little quicker. Oh, men, men, men, men! If ye thus round, girls _will_ get square with you, While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.”

THE STORY OF MR. SCROPER, ARCHITECT

Yes, I’ll tell you how it happened—that, too, with all due respect To the memory of Scroper, late departed architect— How it came that he departed so abruptly in the train; Why it was he’s been so late, too, in returnin’ back again.

Now some folks are born to greatness, some achieve it, as you’ve read; And some justly stand and take it as it dollops on their head; But in this sublime Republic, where it’s help and help again, We all generally make it in cahoot with other men.

Scroper was a fine young fellow, of a monstrous enterprise; Likewise really ambitious, for he was so bound to rise, And he left no stone unturned—nor a log—he rolled ’em all, Till at last he got the contract for our new great City Hall.

Now, of all our mortal actors here upon this earthly stage, The contractors have the hardest parts to play, I will engage; Specially in bran-new cities, just between the knead and bake, And where all the population are severely on the make.

What between the Common Council, and the more uncommon sort, Politicians, Press, and preachers, Scroper fell uncommon short. All of such as come a-plummin’ when a puddin’s to be had; All against his best contractin’ counteractin’ mighty bad.

Therefore when this edificial had got up his edifice, All who’d not been edifishing with him soon got up a hiss; Said the stuff upon the buildin’ was the worst that could be had, Likewise called the architexture architechnically bad.

So it came one solemn evenin’ in a Presbyterian rain Mr. Scroper all in silence gently took the Northern train; All he left was one small message to a friend who shared his home,— _When the darned affair blows over, telegraph for me to come_.

So he sat one summer mornin’, far away in Montreal, Musin’ on his recent patrons, while at heart he darned ’em all, When there came a little letter datin’ from his recent home,— “_All the thing is quite blown over, back again we bid you come_.

“_For last night we had a tempest,—while the mighty thunder rang,_ _Up there came a real guster, which blew down the whole shebang._ (_Shebang_’s a word from Hebrew, meanin’ Seven, sayeth Krupp, And applied to any shanty where they play at seven-up.)

“_Truly it was well blown over all to splinders in the night,_ _And the winds of heaven are blowing o’er the ruins as I write._” Gentlemen, the story’s over. It would last for many a day If it told of every buildin’ built upon the swindlin’ lay.

THAT INTERESTIN’ BOY

HE sat upon the window-sill and jingled ninety cents. There came along another boy, who said, “How are you, Pence? You’re goin’ out a-Christmassin’, I guess, among the Dutch, to buy some gifts.” The other spoke: “No—not exactly much. I am in luck, this year, I am. I haven’t any bills. My sister’s sick, and can’t expect no presents but her pills. My brother Ben’s in Canada, away upon the wing. Of course, you know he can’t suppose I’ll buy him anything. My mother pulled my hair, last night, until she made me squall. Of course she knows that she’s gone up for anything at all.” “But there’s your father,” said his friend. “Well,—yes—I really thought that I was stuck on the old man, and that he had me caught, and I was kinder looking round to hunt him up a pipe; but then, this very mornin’ he hit me such a wipe! That fixed his Christmas goose for him, and took away his joy. Now all this money’s goin’ to a good and clever boy, to buy him lots of pea-nuts and candy, I’ll engage—with caramels; and that good boy is just my size and age.”

MISS MILES, THE TELEGRAPH GIRL

Thy heart is like some icy lake, On whose cold brink I stand; Oh, buckle on my spirit’s skate, And take me by the hand!

And lead, thou living saint, the way To where the ice is thin, That it may break beneath my feet, And let a lover in.

_Spiritualistic Poetry._

Since Soul first basked in Passion’s sun, I always ran to seed In seeking One who’d gone and done Some great heroic deed; And deemed I’d find Life’s Earnest Truth In Gloriana Clarke, Whose eyes were like two carriage lamps Advancing through the dark.

But as the rose of morning fades Before the fire of noon, Or sparrows yield in sylvan glades To mocking-birds in June, My Gloriana’s stock went down— Its wheat all turned to chaff— When I got in with Mary Miles, Who ran the telegraph.

Her brow betokened serious life; I knew my final queen; A soul divine in gaiter-boots, A Dream in crinoline. Her parasol a glory seemed Around a vivid saint, The whole one spirit-photograph Illumed with heavenly paint.

And thus she lifted up her voice, That mission-mantled maid; And thus she spoke with golden grace, And sacredly she said— A-pointing at me all the time With that same parasol, The light which gleams from silent lands Around her seemed to fall—

“You’ve told of great and holy deeds— I s’pose they all are true— But in our telegraphic line We’ve some adventures, too; And though I do not like to boast Of what I ever done, _One_ thing my Moral Consciousness Declares was Number One.

“Last Fall I was in Tennessee A-travelling might and main, When all at once the engine broke— They couldn’t run the train; And if another train should come ’Twould rather make us scream.” List to the glorious deed she did, This angel of my dream.

“I saw a telegraphic line Was running by our _rout_, Though not a house or a machine Was anywhere about. And the conductor said, said he, With his wild eyes of light: ‘Miss Miles, if we’d a battery, I’d fix this scrape all right.

“‘I’d send ’em down a telegram Some twenty miles below, And ask for help.’ I looked at him— ‘I’ll fix the business, Joe. Is there a pair of nippers here? If so, those nippers bring; And if you can’t, a sharp-edged file Would be a heaven-sent thing.’”

“Unshadowed girl! I see the dodge,” I cried in rapturous joy; “And didst thou climb the post thyself?” Said she, “I did, my boy. A higher law of moral truth Gave courage to my soul; I did not show my garters once In going up the pole.

“No poet ever felt such thrills In touching of his lyre As I did when I found there came A message through the wire. That wire I cut, and ’tween my teeth I held it—ay, with pride— And with my tongue the current clicked To the wire on t’other side.

“On one side came the message in From some man in New York: ‘_Buy if you can, at ninety-five,_ _Five thousand sides of pork._’ And this same electricity I changed as in a flash: ‘_Send down an engine right away,_ _Or we shall go to smash._’

“The engine came, and all were saved— Yet life is but a Dream. I live—thou livest in a cloud: We are not what we seem. Still craving for the Infinite In Time’s ideal lodge, I grasped a truth—yet after all ’Twas but an earthly dodge.”

I gazed upon that spirit grand, Upon my knees I sank, And from mine eyes the burning sand The scalding tear-drops drank. Then soft she smiled: “If deeds like this Can yield such victory, And I am in your line, my love, Then, love, I yield to thee.”

Ho, maidens of Vienna’s show! Ho, matrons of Lucerne! Look out for us next summer, when We give your shop a turn. I have won my soul’s ideal, I have booked her for a wife; And the Fancy and the Real Are united in my life.

AN AMERICAN COCK-TALE

PROFESSOR LUTHER CRANMER BANGS Has travelled in Europe more than a year, And no one need ever be troubled with pangs At telling him aught which he thought was severe; For there’s ne’er a Yankee of any size, No matter how sharply he chaffs or slangs, That can boast he ever has taken a rise On Professor Luther Cranmer Bangs.

_He_ was the man whom Dr. Snayle Read a lecture to on a morning call— Read it clear through from bill to tail; And Bangs like Old Piety bore it all. Said Snayle, when the sheets were all up-read, “I’m a-going with this to Boston, you know”— “I’m glad to hear it,” his listener said: “I always _did_ hate those Bostonians so!”

Well, last week on a City Atlas ’bus The Professor and I went riding down, While the driver politely gave to us Opinions on things about the town. And finding my friend was “prone to receive,” And came from the Western land afar, He told him just what one _ought_ to believe In politics, piety, love, and war.

Then glancing at Bangs, who sat to leeward, Looking as mild as cambric tea, He said: “I once ’ad—but I soon got cured Of—a wish to go to Amerikee. I was tired of always a-drivin’ these cusses, And so I thought I would like to range”—— “You were right,” said Bangs. “In our Yankee ’busses It’s the _driver_ who takes (and keeps) the change!”