Chapter 25
Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay An' wash the cups and saucers up, and brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread' an' earn her board-an'-keep; An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the gobble-uns 'at gits you--Ef you Don't Watch Out!
Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers, An' when he went to bed at night, away upstairs, His Mammy heered him holler, an' his daddy heered him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess; But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout, An' the gobble-uns'll git you--Ef you Don't Watch Out!
An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood an' kin; An' onc't, when they was "company," an' ole folks was there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They was two great big black things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about! An' the gobble-uns'll git you--Ef you Don't Watch Out!
An' Little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lamp wick sputters, an' the wind goes _woo-oo!_ An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,-- You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, Er the gobble-uns'll get you--Ef you Don't Watch Out!
THE LIMITATIONS OF YOUTH.
BY EUGENE FIELD.
I'd like to be a cowboy an' ride a fiery hoss Way out into the big and boundless West; I'd kill the bears an' catamounts an' wolves I come across, An' I'd pluck the bal'head eagle from his nest! With my pistols at my side I would roam the prarers wide, An' to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride-- If I darst; but I darsen't!
I'd like to go to Afriky an' hunt the lions there, An' the biggest ollyfunts you ever saw! I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair, An' beard the cannybull that eats folks raw! I'd chase the pizen snakes And the 'pottimus that makes His nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes-- If I darst; but I darsen't!
I would I were a pirut to sail the ocean blue, With a big black flag a-flyin' overhead; I would scour the billowy main with my gallant pirut crew, An' dye the sea a gouty, gory red! With my cutlass in my hand On the quarterdeck I'd stand And to deeds of heroism I'd incite my pirut band-- If I darst; but I darsen't!
And, if I darst, I'd lick my pa for the times that he's licked me! I'd lick my brother an' my teacher, too. I'd lick the fellers that call round on sister after tea, An' I'd keep on lickin' folks till I got through! You bet! I'd run away From my lessons to my play, An' I'd shoo the hens, an' teaze the cat, an' kiss the girls all day-- If I darst; but I darsen't!
RUBINSTEIN'S PLAYING.
ANONYMOUS.
"Jud, they say you have heard Rubinstein play when you were in New York?"
"I did, in the cool."
"Well, tell us all about it."
"What! me? I might's well tell you about the creation of the world."
"Come, now; no mock modesty. Go ahead."
"Well, sir, he had the biggest, catty-cornerdest pianner you ever laid your eyes on; somethin' like a distracted billiard table on three legs. The lid was heisted, and mighty well it was. If it hadn't, he'd a-tore the intire sides clean out, and scattered them to the four winds of heaven."
"Played well, did he?"
"You bet he did; but don't interrupt me. When he first sat down he 'peared to keer mighty little 'bout playin', and wish't he hadn't come. He tweedle-eedled a little on the trible, and twoodle-oodled some on the bass--just foolin' and boxin' the thing's jaws for bein' in his way. And I says to the man settin' next to me, s' I, 'What sort of fool-playin' is that?' And he says, 'Hush!' But presently his hands began chasin' one 'nother up and down the keys, like a parcel of rats scamperin' through a garret very swift. Parts of it was sweet, though, and reminded me of a sugar-squirrel turning the wheel of a candy-cage.
"'Now,' I says to my neighbour, 'he's a showin' off. He thinks he's a-doin' of it, but he ain't got no ide, no plan of nothin'. If he'd play a tune of some kind or other I'd----'
"But my neighbour says 'Hush,' very impatient.
"I was just about to git up and go home, bein' tired of that foolishness, when I heard a little bird waking away off in the woods, and callin' sleepy-like to his mate, and I looked up, and I see that Rubin was beginnin' to take some interest in his business, and I set down agin. It was the peep of the day. The light came faint from the east, the breeze blowed gentle and fresh, some birds waked up in the orchard, then some more in the trees near the house, and all begun singin' together. People began to stir, and the gal opened the shutters. Just then the first beam of the sun fell upon the blossoms a leetle more, and it techt the roses on the bushes, and the next thing it was the broad day: the sun fairly blazed, the birds sang like they'd split their throats; all the leaves were movin' and flashin' diamonds of dew, and the whole wide world was bright and happy as a king. Seemed to me like there was a good breakfast in every house in the land, and not a sick child or woman anywhere. It was a fine mornin'.
"And I says to my neighbour, 'That's music, that is.'
"But he glared at me like he'd cut my throat.
"Presently the wind turned; it began to thicken up and a kind of thick grey mist came over things; I got low-spirited directly. Then a silver rain began to fall. I could see the drops touch the ground, some flashed up like long pearl earrings, and the rest rolled away like rubies. It was pretty, but melancholy. Then the pearls gathered themselves into long strands and necklaces, and then they melted into thin silver streams running between golden gravels, and then the streams joined each other at the bottom of the hill, and made a brook that flowed silent, except that you could kinder see music, especially when the bushes on the bank moved as the music went along down the valley. I could smell the flowers in the meadow. But the sun didn't shine nor the birds sing; it was a foggy day, but not cold.
"The most curious thing was the little white angel boy, like you see in pictures, that run ahead of the music brook, and led it on and on, away out of the world, where no man ever was--_I_ never was, certain. I could see the boy just the same as I see you. Then the moonlight came, without any sunset, and shone on the graveyards, over the wall, and between the black, sharp-top trees splendid marble houses rose up, with fine ladies in the lift-up windows, and men that loved 'em, but never got a-nigh 'em, and played on guitars under the trees, and made me that miserable I could a-cried, because I wanted to love somebody, I don't know who, better than the men with guitars did.
"Then the sun went down, it got dark, the wind moaned and wept like a lost child for its dead mother, and I could a-got up and there and then preached a better sermon than any I ever listened to. There wasn't a thing in the world left to live for--not a single thing; and yet I didn't want the music to stop one bit. It was happier to be miserable than to be happy without being miserable. I couldn't understand it. I hung my head and pulled out my han'kerchief, and blowed my nose well to keep from cryin'. My eyes is weak anyway; I didn't want anybody to be a-gazin' at me a-snivilin', and it's nobody business what I do with my nose. It's mine. But several glared at me as mad as mad. Then, all of a sudden, old Rubin changed his tune. He rip'd and he rar'd, he tip'd and he tar'd, and he charged like the grand entry at a circus. 'Peared to me that all the gas in the house was turned on at once, things got so bright, and I hilt up my head ready to look at any man in the face, and not afear'd of nothin'. It was a circus, and a brass band, and a big ball, all going on at the same time. He lit into them keys like a thousand of bricks; he gave 'em no rest, day nor night; he set every livin' joint in me a-goin', and not bein' able to stand it no longer, I jumpt, sprang on to my seat, and jest hollered--
"'Go it, my Rube!'
"Every man, woman, and child in the house riz on me, and shouted, 'Put him out! Put him out!'
"'Put your great-grandmother's grizzly gray greenish cat into the middle of next month,' I says, 'Tech me if you dare! I paid my money, and you jest come a-nigh me!'
"With that several policemen ran up, and I had to simmer down. But I would a fit any fool that laid hands on me, for I was bound to hear Rube out or die.
"He had changed his tune again. He hopt-light ladies, and tip-toed fine from end to end of the key-bord. He played soft, and low, and solemn. I heard the church bells over the hills. The candles in heaven were lit one by one; I saw the stars rise. The great organ of eternity began to play from the world's end to the world's end; and the angels went to prayers.... Then the music changed to water, full of feeling that couldn't be thought, and began to drop--drip, drop, drip, drop--clear and sweet, like tears of joy fallin' into a lake of glory. It was as sweet as a sweetheart sweetn'd with white sugar, mixed with powdered silver and seed diamonds. It was too sweet. I tell you, the audience cheered. Rubin, he kinder bowed, like he wanted to say, 'Much obleeged, but I'd rather you wouldn't interrupt me.'
"He stopped a minute or two to fetch breath. Then he got mad. He runs his fingers through his hair, he shoved up his sleeve, he opened his coat-tails a leetle further, he drug up his stool, he leaned over, and, sir, he just went for that old pianner. He slapt her face, he boxed her jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched her ears, and he scratched her cheeks till she fairly yelled. She bellowed like a bull, she bleated like a calf, she howled like a hound, she squealed like a pig, she shrieked like a rat, and _then_ he wouldn't let her go. He ran a quarter stretch down the low grounds of the bass, till he got clean into the bowels of the earth, and you heard thunder galloping after thunder, thro' the hollows and caves of perdition; and then he fox-chased his right hand with his left till he got away out of the treble into the clouds, whar the notes was finer than the pints of cambric needles, and you couldn't hear nothin' but the shadders of 'em. And _then_ he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He for'ard two'd, he cross't over first gentleman, he cross't over first lady, he balanced two pards, he chassede right and left, back to your places, he all hands'd aroun', ladies to the right, promenade all, in and out, here and there, back and forth, up and down, perpetual motion, doubled, twisted and turned and tacked and tangled into forty-'leven thousand double bow knots.
"By jinks! It _was_ a mixtery. And then he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He fecht up his right wing, he fecht up his left wing, he fecht up his centre, he fecht up his reserves. He fired by file, he fired by platoons, by company, by regiments, by brigades. He opened his cannon, siege guns down thar, Napoleons here, twelve-pounders yonder, big guns, little guns, middle-size guns, round shot, shells, shrapnels, grape, canister, mortars, mines and magazines, every livin' battery and bomb a-goin' at the same time. The house trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, the floor come up, the ceilin' come down, the sky split, the ground rock't--heaven and earth, creation, sweet potatoes, Moses, ninpences, glory, tenpenny nails, my Mary Ann, Hallelujah, Sampson in a sim-mon tree, Jerusalem, Tump Thompson in a tumbler cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-ruddle- uddle-uddle-uddle-raddle-addle-addle-addle-riddle-iddle-iddle-iddle- reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle-p-r-r-r-r-lang! per lang! per lang! p-r-r-r-r-r lang! Bang!
"With that bang he lifted himself bodily into the air, and he come down with his knees, his ten fingers, his ten toes, his elbows, and his nose, striking every single solitary key on that pianner at the same time. The thing busted and went off into seventeen hundred and fifty-seven thousand five hundred and forty-two hemi-demi-semi-quavers, and I know'd no mo'."
OBITUARY.
BY WILLIAM THOMSON.
"Down the line I'll go," he said, "To reach the railway station." _Friends will please accept of this The only intimation_.
THE EDITOR'S STORY.
(_A YANKEE EDITOR IN ENGLAND_.)
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
The Editor dipp'd his pen in the ink; He smole a smile and he wunk a wink; He chuckled a chuck and he thunk a think.
'Twas a time of dearth Of news, and the earth Was rolling and bowling along on its axis With never a murmur concerning the taxes And never a ruse, or of rumour a particle Needing a special or claiming an article; In fact 'twas a terrible time for the papers, And puzzled the brains of the paragraph shapers, Till the whole world seem'd nothing but gases and vapours.
And the Editor wrote: But I'm not going to quote, Far be it from me to set rumours afloat. Suffice it to say, The paper next day Contain'd such a slasher For Captain McClasher, The whole town declared it a regular smasher; And what made it worse he inserted a rubber, For the world-renowned millionaire, Alderman Grubber.
Now the Captain, you know, was the son of a gun, He had fought many duels and never lost one; He'd met single handed a hundred wild niggers, All flashing their sabres and pulling their triggers, And made them all run whether mogul or fellah: With the flash of his eye and the bash of his 'brella He tore up rebellion's wild weeds by the root; and he Did more than Havelock to put down the mutiny.
And then to be told by "a thief of an Editor" He'd been far too long his proud country's creditor For pensions unwork'd for and honours unwon, And that rather than fight he would more likely run; To be told, who had acted so gallant a part, He'd more pluck in his heels than he had in his heart! Why zounds! man--the words used they mostly make Dutch of--
(As warm as the chutney he'd eaten so much of) And he gave the poor table a terrible blow, As he said with an aspirate, "Hi----ll let 'em know."
And Alderman Grubber was no less determined, Though his gown was all silk and its edge was all ermined, After thirty years' service to one corporation To be libelled at last with the foul allegation, He'd been "nicely paid for his work for the nation; That Town Hall and Workhouse, Exchange and Infirmary, Were all built on ground that by twistings and turnery, Had been bought through the nose at a fabulous rate From the patriot lord of the Grubber estate!" Why, turtle and turbot, hock, champagne and sherry, 'Twould rile the Archbishop of Canterbury!
The Editor sat in his high-backed chair; He listen'd a hark, and he looked a stare, A sort of a mixture of humour and scare, As he heard a footfall on the foot of the stair: In a moment he buried his head in some "copy," As in walked the Captain as red as a poppy.
"This the Editor's room, sir?" the thunderer shouted, In the tone which so often a phalanx had routed; While he nervously twiddled the "gamp" in his hand, Which so often had scatter'd a mutinous band.
Now the Editor's views were as broad as the ocean (His heart represented its wildest commotion), In a moment he took in the whole situation (And double distilled it in heart palpitation): Then quickly arose with a dignified air, And the wave of a hand and a nod at a chair; Saying: "Yes, sir; it is, sir: be seated a minute, The Editor's _in_, and I'll soon send him _in it_." Then as quick as a flash of his own ready wit, He opened the door and got outside of it.
He skipp'd with a bound o'er The stairs to the ground floor, And turning his feet bore Straight on for the street door; When--what could astound more--' The spot he was bound for Was guarded in force by that great butter tubber, The patriot millionaire, Alderman Grubber: A smart riding-whip impatiently cracking, The food for his vengeance the only thing lacking. "Is the Editor in?" said the voice that had thrilled, A thousand times over the big Town Hall filled! While the crack of the whip and the stamp of the feet, Made the Editor wish himself safe in the street.
But an Editor's ever a man of resource, He is never tied down to one definite course: He shrank not a shrink nor waver'd a wave, He blank not a blink nor quaver'd a quave; But, pointing upstairs as he turn'd to the door, Said "Editor's room number two second floor."
Like a lion let loose on his innocent prey, Strode the Alderman upstairs that sorrowful day: Like a tiger impatiently waiting his foe, The captain was pacing the room to and fro When the Alderman enter'd--but here draw a veil, There is much to be sad for and much to bewail. Whoever began it, or ended the fray, All they found in the room when they swept it next day, Was a large pile of fragments beyond all identity (Monument sad to the conflict's intensity). And the analyst said whom the coroner quested, The whole of the heap he had carefully tested, And all he could find in his search analytic (But tables and chairs and such things parenthetic), He wore as he turned, white, black, blue, green, and purple, Was one stone of chutney and two stone of turtle.
And the Editor throve, as all editors should Who devote all their thought to the popular good: For the paper containing this little affair, Ran to many editions and sold everywhere. And the moral is plain, tho' you do your own writing, There are better plans than to do your own fighting!
NAT RICKET.
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
Nat Ricket at cricket was ever a don As if you will listen I'll tell you anon; His feet were so nimble, his legs were so long, His hands were so quick and his arms were so strong, That no matter where, at long-leg or square, At mid-on, at mid-off, and almost mid-air, At point, slip, or long-stop, wherever it came, At long-on or long-off, 'twas always the same-- If Nat was the scout, back came whizzing the ball, And the verdict, in answer to Nat's lusty call, Was always "Run out," or else "No run" at all: At bowling, or scouting, or keeping the wicket, You'd not meet in an outing another Nat Ricket.
Nat Ricket for cricket was always inclined, Even babyhood showed the strong bent of his mind: At TWO he could get in the way of the ball; At FOUR he could catch, though his hands were so small; At SIX he could bat; and before he was SEVEN He wanted to be in the county eleven.
But that was the time, for this chief of his joys, When the Muddleby challenged the Blunderby boys: They came in a waggon that Farmer Sheaf lent them, With Dick Rick the carter, in whose charge he sent them. And as they came over the Muddleby hill, The cheer that resounded I think I hear still; And of all the gay caps that flew into the air, The top cap of all told Nat Ricket was there.
They tossed up, and, winning The choice of the inning, The Blunderby boys took the batting in hand, And went to the wicket, While nimble Nat Ricket Put his _men_ in the field for a resolute stand; And as each sturdy scout took his usual spot, Our Nat roamed about and looked after the lot; And as they stood there, when the umpire called "Play," 'Twas a sight to remember for many a day,
Nat started the bowling (and take my word, misters, There's no bowling like it for underhand twisters); And what with the pace and the screw and the aim, It was pretty hard _work_, was that Blunderby _game_; With Nat in the field to look after the ball, 'Twas a terrible struggle to get runs at all; Though they hit out their hardest a regular stunner, 'Twas rare that it reckoned for more than a oner; 'Twas seldom indeed that they troubled the scorer To put down a twoer, a threer, or fourer; And as for a lost ball, a fiver, or sixer, The Blunderby boys were not up to the trick, sir; Still they struggled full well, and at sixty the score The last wicket fell, and the innings was o'er.
But then came the cheering,-- Nat Ricket appearing, A smile on his face and a bat in his hand, As he walked to the wicket,-- From hillside to thicket, They couldn't cheer more for a lord of the land. And when he began, 'twas a picture to see How the first ball went flying right over a tree, How the second went whizzing close up to the sky, And the third ball went bang in the poor umpire's eye;
How he made poor point dance on his nimble young pins, As a ball flew askance and came full on his shins; How he kept the two scorers both working like niggers At putting down runs and at adding up figures; How he kept all the field in profuse perspiration With rushing and racing and wild agitation,-- Why, Diana and Nimrod, or both rolled together, Never hunted the stag as they hunted the leather.
It was something like cricket, there's no doubt of that, When nimble Nat Ricket had hold of the bat. You may go to the Oval, the Palace, or Lord's, See the cricketing feats which each county affords, But you'll see nothing there which, for vigour and life, Will one moment compare with the passionate strife With which Muddleby youngsters and Blunderby boys Contend for the palm in this chief of their joys.
I need hardly say, at the end of the day, The Muddleby boys had the best of the play,-- Tho' the bright-coloured caps of the Blunderby chaps Were as heartily waved as the others, perhaps; And as they drove off down the Blunderby lane, The cheering resounded again and again.