Chapter 22

"He said the idea didn't strike him. So then I suggested that he might turn it into Columbus discovering America. Let George stand for Columbus, and the tree be turned into a native, and the hatchet made to answer for a flag, while the mountain in the background would answer for the rolling billows of the ocean. He said he'd be hanged if it should. So I mentioned that it might perhaps pass for the execution of Mary Queen of Scots. Put George in black for the headsman, bend over the tree and put a frock on it for Mary, let the hatchet stand, and work in the guinea-pig and the factory chimney as mourners. Just as I had got the words out of my mouth, Barker knocked me clean through the picture. My head tore out Washington's near leg, and my right foot carried away about four miles of the river. We had it over and over on the floor for a while, and finally Barker whipped. I am going to take the law of him in the interests of justice and high art."

So Barker was bound over, and Mr. Potts went down to the office of the _Spy_ to write up his criticism.

THE WOODEN LEG.

BY MAX ADELER.

"Mr. Brown, you don't want to buy a first-rate wooden leg, do you? I've got one that I've been wearing for two or three years, and I want to sell it. I'm hard up for money; and although I'm attached to that leg, I'm willing to part with it, so's I kin get the necessaries of life. Legs are all well enough; they are handy to have around the house, and all that; but a man must attend to his stomach, if he has to walk about on the small of his back. Now, I'm going to make you an offer. That leg is Fairchild's patent; steel-springs, india-rubber joints, elastic toes and everything, and it's in better order now than it was when I bought it. It'd be a comfort to any man. It's the most luxurious leg I ever came across. If bliss ever kin be reached by a man this side of the tomb, it belongs to the person that gets that leg on and feels the consciousness creeping over his soul that it is his. Consequently, I say that when I offer it to you I'm doing a personal favour; and I think I see you jump at the chance, and want to clinch the bargain before I mention--you'll hardly believe it, I know--that I'll actually knock that leg down to you at four hundred dollars. Four hundred, did I say? I meant six hundred; but let it stand. I never back out when I make an offer; but it's just throwing that leg away--it is, indeed."

"But I don't want an artificial leg," said Brown.

"The beautiful thing about the limb," said the stranger, pulling up his trousers and displaying the article, "is that it is reliable. You kin depend on it. It's always there. Some legs that I have seen were treacherous--most always some of the springs bursting out, or the joints working backwards, or the toes turning down and ketching in things. Regular frauds. But it's almost pathetic the way this leg goes on year in and year out, like an old faithful friend, never knowing an ache or a pain, no rheumatism, nor any such foolishness as that, but always good-natured and ready to go out of its way to oblige you. A. man feels like a man when he gets such a thing under him. Talk about your kings and emperors and millionaires, and all that sort of nonsense! Which of 'em's got a leg like that? Which of 'em kin unscrew his knee-pan, and look at the gum thingamajigs in his calf? Which of 'em kin leave his leg downstairs in the entry on the hat-rack, and go to bed with only one cold foot? Why, it's enough to make one of them monarchs sick to think of such a convenience. But they can't help it. There's only one man kin buy that leg, and that's you. I want you to have it so bad that I'll deed it to you for fifty dollars down. Awful, isn't it. Just throwing it away: but take it, take it, if it does make my heart bleed to see it go out of the family."

"Really, I have no use for such a thing," said Mr. Brown.

"You can't think," urged the stranger, "what a benediction a leg like this is in a family. When you don't want to walk with it, it comes into play for the children to ride horsey on; or you kin take it off and stir the fire with it in a way that would depress the spirits of a man with a real leg. It makes the most efficient potato-masher ever you saw. Work it from the second joint, and let the knee swing loose; you kin tack carpets perfectly splendid with the heel; and when a cat sees it coming at him from the winder, he just adjourns, _sine die_, and goes down off the fence screaming. Now, you're probably afeared of dogs. When you see one approaching, you always change your base. I don't blame you; I used to be that way before I lost my home-made leg. But you fix yourself with this artificial extremity, and then what do you care for dogs? If a million of 'em come at you, what's the odds? You merely stand still and smile, and throw out your spare leg, and let 'em chaw, let 'em fool with that as much as they've a mind to, and howl and carry on, for you don't care. An' that's the reason why I say that when I reflect on how imposing you'd be as the owner of such a leg, I feel like saying, that if you insist on offering only a dollar and a half for it, why, take it; it's yours. I'm not the kinder man to stand on trifles. I'll take it off and wrap it up in paper for you; shall I?"

"I'm sorry," said Brown, "but the fact is, I have no use for it. I've got two good legs already. If I ever lose one, why, maybe, then I'll----"

"I don't think you exactly catch my idea on the subject," said the stranger. "Now, any man kin have a meat-and-muscle leg; they're as common as dirt. It's disgusting how monotonous people are about such things. But I take you for a man who wants to be original. You have style about you. You go it alone, as it were. Now, if I had your peculiarities, do you know what I'd do? I'd get a leg snatched off some way, so's I could walk around on this one. Or, it you hate to go to the expense of amputation, why not get your pantaloons altered, and mount this beautiful work of art just as you stand? A centipede, a mere ridicklous insect, has half a bushel of legs, and why can't a man, the grandest creature on earth, own three? You go around this community on three legs, and your fortune's made. People will go wild over you as the three-legged grocer; the nation will glory in you; Europe will hear of you; you will be heard of from pole to pole. It'll build up your business. People'll flock from everywheres to see you, and you'll make your sugar and cheese and things fairly hum. Look at it as an advertisement! Look at it any way you please, and there's money in it--there's glory, there's immortality. Now, look at it that way; and if it strikes you, I tell you what I'll do: I'll actually swap that imperishable leg off to you for two pounds of water-crackers and a tin cupful of Jamaica rum. Is it a go?"

Then Brown weighed out the crackers, gave him a drink of rum, and told him if he would take them as a present and quit he would confer a favour. And he did. After emptying the crackers in his pockets, and smacking his lips over the rum, he went to the door, and as he opened it said,--

"Good-bye. But if you ever really do want a leg, Old Reliable is ready for you; it's yours. I consider that you've got a mortgage on it, and you kin foreclose at any time. I dedicate this leg to you. My will shall mention it; and if you don't need it when I die, I'm going to have it put in the savings bank to draw interest until you check it out."

THE ENCHANTED SHIRT.

BY COLONEL JOHN HAY.

The King was sick. His cheek was red, And his eye was clear and bright; He ate and drank with a kingly zest, And peacefully snored at night.

But he said he was sick, and a king should know, And doctors came by the score, They did not cure him. He cut off their heads, And sent to the schools for more.

At last two famous doctors came, And one was as poor as a rat,-- He had passed his life in studious toil, And never found time to grow fat.

The other had never looked in a book; His patients gave him no trouble: If they recovered they paid him well; If they died their heirs paid double.

Together they looked at the royal tongue, As the King on his couch reclined; In succession they thumped his august chest, But no trace of disease could find.

The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut." "Hang him up," roared the King in a gale-- In a ten-knot gale of royal rage; The other leech grew a shade pale;

But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, And thus his prescription ran-- _The King will be well if he sleeps one night In the Shirt of a Happy Man_.

* * * * *

Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode, And fast their horses ran, And many they saw, and to many they spoke, But they found no Happy Man....

They saw two men by the roadside sit, And both bemoaned their lot; For one had buried his wife, he said, And the other one had not.

At last they came to a village gate, A beggar lay whistling there! He whistled and sang, and laughed and rolled On the grass in the soft June air.

The weary courtiers paused and looked At the scamp so blithe and gay; And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend! You seem to be happy to-day."

"O yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed, And his voice rang free and glad; "An idle man has so much to do That he never has time to be sad."

"This is our man," the courier said; "Our luck has led us aright. I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, For the loan of your shirt to-night."

The merry blackguard lay back on the grass, And laughed till his face was black; "I would do it," said he, and he roared with the fun, "But I haven't a shirt to my back."

* * * * *

Each day to the King the reports came in Of his unsuccessful spies, And the sad panorama of human woes Passed daily under his eyes.

And he grew ashamed of his useless life, And his maladies hatched in gloom; He opened his windows and let the air Of the free heaven into his room.

And out he went in the world, and toiled In his own appointed way; And the people blessed him, the land was glad, And the King was well and gay.

JIM BLUDSO.

BY COLONEL JOHN HAY.

Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives, Because he don't live, you see: Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three years That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks, The night of the _Prairie Bell?_

He weren't no saint--them engineers Is all pretty much alike-- One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill And another one here, in Pike. A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward man in a row-- But he never funked, and he never lied, I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had-- To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the Pilot's bell; And if the _Prairie Bell_ took fire-- A thousand times he swore, He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats has their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last-- The _Movastar_ was a better boat, But the _Belle_ she _wouldn't_ be passed. And so come tearin' along that night-- The oldest craft on the line, With a nigger squat on her safety valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.

The fire burst out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For the wilier-bank on the right. There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal, roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore."

Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. And sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell,-- And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the _Prairie Belle_.

He weren't no saint--but at jedgment I'd run my chance with Jim, 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. He'd seen his duty, a dead-sure thing-- And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain't a going to fee too hard On a man that died for men.

FREEDOM.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Men! whose boast it is that ye Come of fathers brave and free, If there breathe on earth a slave, Are ye truly free and brave? If ye do not feel the chain, When it works a brother's pain, Are ye not base slaves indeed,-- Slaves unworthy to be freed?

Women! who shall one day bear Sons to breathe New England air, If ye hear, without a blush, Deeds to make the roused blood rush Like red lava through your veins, For your sisters now in chains,-- Answer! are ye fit to be Mothers of the brave and free?

Is true Freedom but to break Fetters for our own dear sake, And, with leathern hearts forget That we owe mankind a debt? No! true freedom is to share All the chains our brothers wear, And, with heart and hand, to be Earnest to make others free!

They are slaves who fear to speak For the fallen and the weak; They are slaves who will not choose Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, Rather than in silence shrink From the truth they needs must think; They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three.

THE COORTIN'.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten.

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown, An' peeked in thru' the winder; An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room's one side, With half a cord o' wood in; There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'.

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, Ah' in amongst em rusted The ole queen's-arm that gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'.

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur; A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A1, Clean grit an' human natur'; None couldn't quicker pitch a ton, Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells-- All is, he wouldn't love 'em.

But 'long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple; The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir: My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upon it.

That night, I tell ye, she looked _some!_ She seemed to've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heerd a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-rasping on the scraper; All ways at once her feelin's flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' loitered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle; His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But her'n went pity Zekle.

An yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal--no--I come dasignin'--" "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin."

To say why gals act so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; Mebbe to mean _yes_ an' say _no_ Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t'other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he, "I'd better call agin;" Says she, "Think likely, Mister;" Thet last word prick'd him like a pin, An'--wal, he up an' kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips, An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snow-hid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters stood, An' gin 'em both her blessin'.

Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy; An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

THE HERITAGE.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

The Rich Man's Son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold; And he inherits soft white hands And tender flesh that fears the cold-- Nor dares to wear a garment old: A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce could wish to hold in fee. The Rich Man's Son inherits cares: The bank may break--the factory burn; A breath may burst his bubble shares; And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn. The Rich Man's Son inherits wants: His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds, with brown arms bare-- And wearies in his easy-chair.

What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit? Stout muscles, and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art: A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things; A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labour sings! What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit? A patience learnt of being poor; Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it: A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the Outcast bless his door.

Oh! Rich Man's Son, there is a toil That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten soft white hands-- This is the best crop from thy lands. A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee.

* * * * *

Oh! Poor Man's Son, scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And-makes rest fragrant and benign! Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; Both children of the same great God! Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-spent past. A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.

LADY CLARE.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn; Lovers long betroth'd were they They two will wed the morrow morn; God's blessing on the day!

"He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, "Who was this that went from thee?" "It was my cousin," said Lady Clare; "To-morrow he weds with me."

"O God be thank'd!" said Alice the nurse, "That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare."

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse," Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?" "As God's above," said Alice the nurse, "I speak the truth: you are my child.

"The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth as I live by bread! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead."

"Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother," she said, "if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due."

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife."

"If I'm a beggar born," she said, "I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by."

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret all ye can." She said "Not so: but I will know If there be any faith in man."

"Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse, "The man will cleave unto his right." "And he shall have it," the lady replied, "Tho' I should die to-night."

"Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! Alas! my child, I sinn'd for thee." "O mother, mother, mother," she said, "So strange it seems to me.

"Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go."

She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare: She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, And follow'd her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower. "O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth?"

"If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born," she said, "And not the Lady Clare."

"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "Your riddle is hard to read."