Chapter 26
And Nat and his party, they, too, went away; And I haven't seen either for many a day. Still, don't be surprised If you see advertised, The name of Nat Ricket Connected with cricket, In some mighty score or some wonderful catch, In some North and South contest or good county match. And if ever, when passing by cricketing places, You see people talking and pulling long faces, 'Cause some country bumpkin has beaten the Graces, Just step to the gate and politely enquire, And see if they don't say, "N. Ricket, Esq."; Or buy a "cor'ect card t' the fall o' th' last wicket," And see if it doesn't say "Mr. N. Ricket." For wherever you go, and whatever you see, In the north or the south of this land of the free, You never will find--and that all must agree-- Such a rickety, crickety fellow as he.
'SPÄCIALLY JIM.
FROM "HARPER'S MAGAZINE."
I wus mighty good-lookin' when I wus young-- Peert an' black-eyed an' slim, With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, 'Späcially Jim.
The likeliest one of 'em all wus he, Chipper an' han'som an' trim; But I toss'd up my head, an' made fun o' the crowd, 'Späcially Jim.
I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men, And I wouldn't take stock in _him!_ But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk, 'Späcially Jim.
I got _so_ tired o' havin' 'em roun' ('Späcially Jim!), I made up my mind I'd settle down An' take up with him;
So we was married one Sunday in church, 'Twas crowded full to the brim, 'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all, 'Späcially Jim.
'ARRY'S ANCIENT MARINER.
(_TOLD ON MARGATE JETTY_.)
BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.
He was an ainshunt mariner Wot sailed the oshun blue; His craft it was the _Crazy Jane_ Wot was made of wood and glue.
It sailed 'atween _Westminister_ And the Gulf of Timbucktoo; Its bulkhead was a putty one; Its cargo--no one knew.
I've heerd as how when a storm came on It 'ud turn clean upside down, But I _never_ could make out as why Its skipper didn't drown.
He was the most unwashedest Old salt I ever knowed: And all the things as he speaked about Was nearly always "blowed."
One day he told me a straw'nry tale, But I don't think it were lies, Bekos he swore as it was true-- Tho' a big 'un as to size.
He sez as how in the Biskey Bay They was sailin' along one night, When a _summat_ rose from the bilin' waves As give him a _norful_ fright.
He wouldn't exzagerate, he sed-- No, he wouldn't, not if he died; But the head of that monster was most as big As a bloomin' mountain-side.
Its eyes was ten times bigger 'an the moon; Its ears was as long as a street; And each of its eyelids--_without tellin' lies_-- Would have kivered an or'nary sheet.
"And now," said he, "may I _never speak agin_ If I'm a-tellin' yer wrong, But the length o' that sarpint from head to tail Warn't a _ninch_ under _ten mile long_,
"To the end of its tail there hung a great wale, And a-ridin' on its back was sharks; On the top of its head about two hundred seals Was a-havin' no end of larks.
"Now, as to beleevin' of what I sez _next_ Yer can do as yer likes," sez he; "But this 'ere sarpint, or whatever he was, He ups and he _speaks_ to me.
"Sez the sarpint, sez he, in a voice like a clap Of thunder, or a cannon's roar: 'Now say good-bye to the air and the sky For you'll never see land no more.'
"I shivered like a sail wot's struck by a gale And I downs on my bended knees; And the tears rolls over my face like a sea, And I shrieks like a gull in a breeze.
"Sez I, 'I'm an ainshunt old skipper, that's all, And I ain't never done nuffin wrong.' He sez, 'You old lubber, just stow that blubber, I'm a-going fer to haul yer along.'
"Then he puts out a fin like a big barndoor-- Now this 'ere is real straight truth-- It sounds like a fable, but he tuk my bloomin' cable, _And he tied it to his left front tooth!_
"In another second more, at the bottom of the sea The _Crazy Jane_ was aground; Sez I, 'You oughter be ashamed of yerself, It's a one-der as I wasn't drowned.'
"Then he calls on a porkeypine a-standin' quite near, Sez he, 'Look arter this barge,' 'A-begging your pardon that's a _wessel_' I sez: Sez he: 'Werry fine and large!'
"With one of hiz eye-lashes, thick as a rope, He ties me on to his knoze, Then down in a cave right under the sea Like a flash of light we goes.
"He tuk me up to his wife, who was A murmyaid with three tails; She was havin' of her dinner, and perlitely she sez, 'Will you have some o' these 'ere snails?'
"So I sits me down by her buteful side-- She'd a face like a sunset sky; Her hair was a sort of a scarlety red, And her knoze was strait as a die.
"I hadn't sot a minit wen sez she to me, 'Sammy, don't yer know me agane? Why, I'm the wife arter wot yer call'd yer ship; Sure enuf, it _was_ Craizy Jane--
"The wife as had bother'd me all my life, Until she got drown'd one day, When a-bathin' out o' one of them there masheens In this wery same Margit Bay.
"The Sarpint was a-havin' of his dinner, and so She perposed as how we should fly-- But, sez I to meself, 'What, take _you_ back? Not if I knose it,' sez I.
"'But how about them there tails?' I sez-- 'On shore _them_ will niver doo;' She sez, 'Yer silly, why, karn't yer see, They're only fixed on wi' a screw?'
"So I tells her as how I'll go fetch the old ship Wile she's a-unscreuing of her tails; But when I gets back to the _Crazy Jane_ I finds there a couple of wales.
"I jist had time to see the biggest of the two A-swallerin' of the ship right whole, And in one more momint he swallered me too, As true as I'm a livin' sole.
"But when he got to the surfis of the sea, A summat disagreed with that wale, And he up with me and the _Crazy Jane_ and all-- And this 'ere's the end of my tail."
* * * * *
Then this old ainshunt mariner, he sez unto me-- And 'onesty was shinin' in hiz eyes-- "_It's jist the sort o' story wot no one won't beleeve-- But it's true, little nipper, if I dies_,"
THE AMATEUR ORLANDO.
BY GEORGE T. LANIGAN.
It was an Amateur Dram. Ass., (Kind hearer, although your Knowledge of French is not first-class, Don't call that Amature.) It was an Amateur Dram. Ass., The which did warfare wage On the dramatic works of this And every other age.
It had a walking gentleman, A leading juvenile, First lady in book-muslin dressed. With a galvanic smile; Thereto a singing chambermaid, Benignant heavy pa, And oh, heavier still was the heavier vill- Ain, with his fierce "Ha! Ha!"
There wasn't an author from Shakespeare down-- Or up--to Boucicault, These amateurs weren't competent To collar and assault. And when the winter time came round-- "Season" 's a stagier phrase-- The Am. Dram. Ass. assaulted one Of the Bard of Avon's plays.
'Twas _As You Like It_ that they chose; For the leading lady's heart Was set on playing _Rosalind_ Or some other page's part, And the President of the Am. Dram. Ass., A stalwart dry-goods clerk, Was cast for _Oriando_, in which _rôle_ He felt he'd make his mark.
"I mind me," said the President, (All thoughtful was his face,) "When _Oriando_ was taken by Thingummy That _Charles_ was played by Mace. _Charles_ hath not many lines to speak, Nay, not a single length-- If find we can a Mussulman (That is, a man of strength), And bring him on the stage as _Charles_-- But, alas, it can't be did--" "It can," replied the Treasurer; "Let's get the Hunky Kid."
This Hunky Kid of whom he spoke Belonged to the P.R.; He always had his hair cut short, And always had catarrh; His voice was gruff, his language rough, His forehead villainous low, And 'neath his broken nose a vast Expanse of jaw did show. He was forty-eight about the chest, And his fore-arm at the mid- Dle measured twenty-one and a-half-- Such was the Hunky Kid!
The Am. Dram. Ass. they have engaged This pet of the P.R.; As _Charles the Wrestler_ he's to be A bright particular star. And when they put the programme out, Announce him thus they did: _Oriando_...Mr. ROMEO JONES; _Charles_...Mr. HUNKY KID.
The night has come; the house is packed, From pit to gallery, As those who through the curtain peep Quake inwardly to see. A squeak's heard in the orchestra, As the leader draws across Th' intestines of the agile cat The tail of the noble hoss.
All is at sea behind the scenes, Why do they fear and funk? Alas, alas, the Hunky Kid Is lamentably drunk! He's in that most unlovely stage Of half intoxication When men resent the hint they're tight As a personal imputation!
"Ring up! Ring up!" _Orlando_ cried, "Or we must cut the scene; For _Charles the Wrestler_ is imbued With poisonous benzine; And every moment gets more drunk Than he before has been."
The wrestling scene has come and _Charles_ Is much disguised in drink; The stage to him's an inclined plane, The footlights make him blink. Still strives he to act well his part Where all the honour lies, Though Shakespeare would not in his lines-- His language recognise. Instead of "Come, where is this young----?" This man of bone and brawn, He squares himself and bellows: "Time! Fetch your _Orlandos_ on!"
"Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man," Fair _Rosalind_ said she, As the two wrestlers in the ring Grapple right furiously; But _Charles the Wrestler_ had no sense Of dramatic propriety.
He seized on Mr. Romeo Jones, In Græco-Roman style: He got what they call a grape-vine lock On that leading juvenile; He flung him into the orchestra, And the man with the ophicleide, On whom he fell, he just said--well, No matter what--and died!
When once the tiger has tasted blood And found that it is sweet, He has a habit of killing more Than he can possibly eat.
And thus it was with the Hunky Kid; In his homicidal blindness, He lifted his hand against _Rosalind_ Not in the way of kindness; He chased poor _Celia_ off at L., At R.U.E. _Le Beau_, And he put such a head upon _Duke Fred_, In fifteen seconds or so, That never one of the courtly train Might his haughty master know.
* * * * *
And that's precisely what came to pass, Because the luckless carles Belonging to the Am. Dram. Ass. Cast the Hunky Kid for _Charles!_
--_New York World_.
A BALLAD OF A BAZAAR.
BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.
_First Day_.
He was young, and she--enchanting! She had eyes of tender grey, Fringed with long and lovely lashes, As he passed they seemed to say, With a look that was quite killing, "Won't you buy a pretty flower? Come, invest--well, just a shilling, For the fairest in my bower!" Though that bower was full of blossoms, Yet the fairest of them all Was the pretty grey-eyed maiden Standing 'mong them, slim and tall, With her dainty arms uplifted O'er her figure as she stood Just inside the trellised doorway Fashioned out of rustic wood; And she pouted as he passed her, And that pout did so beguile, That he thought it more bewitching Than another's sweetest smile. Fair as tiny dew-dipped rosebuds Were the little rounded lips; And the youth ransacked his pockets In a rhapsody of grips. Then he went and told her plainly That he'd not a farthing left, But would gladly pledge his "Albert"; So with fingers quick and deft, She unloosed his golden watch-chain-- Coiled it round her own white arm, Said she'd keep it till the morrow As a _souvenir_--a charm.
_Second Day_.
Full of hope, and faith, and fondness, He went forth at early morn, And paced up and down the entrance, Like a man that was forlorn. Thus for hour on hour he waited, Till they opened the bazaar; Then she came with kindly greeting; "Ah, well, so then, there you are! Come, now, go in for a raffle-- Buy a ticket--half-a-crown." Ah, those eyes! who _could_ refuse them?-- And he put the money down. Then, enthralled, he stood and watched her-- Sought each movement of that face, With its wealth of witching beauty, And its glory and its grace. When the raffling was over, Thus she spake in tones of pain: "You are really most unlucky-- My--my _husband's_ won _your chain_!"
A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FOUR MONTHS.
BY THOMAS HOOD.
Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop--first let me kiss away that tear) Thou tiny image of myself? (My love, he's poking peas into his ear) Thou merry laughing sprite! With spirits feather-light, Untouched by sorrow and unsoiled by sin-- (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)
Thou tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air-- (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why Jane, he'll set his pinafore on fire) Thou imp of mirth and joy, In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents--(drat the boy! There goes my ink!)
Thou cherub!--but of earth, Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail) Thou human honey-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny-- (Another tumble!--that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint (Where _did_ he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous trials of dawning life-- (He's got a knife!)
Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball--bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistledown, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk-- (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove-- (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above.)
'TWAS EVER THUS.
BY HENRY S. LEIGH.
I never rear'd a young gazelle (Because, you see, I never tried); But, had it known and loved me well, No doubt the creature would have died. My rich and aged uncle JOHN Has known me long and loves me well, But still persists in living on-- I would he were a young gazelle!
I never loved a tree or flower; But, if I _had_, I beg to say, The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower, Would soon have wither'd it away. I've dearly loved my uncle JOHN From childhood to the present hour, And yet he _will_ go living on-- I would he were a tree or flower!
MISS MALONEY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION.
BY MARY MAPES DODGE.
Ovh! don't be talkin'. Is it howld on, ye say? An' didn't I howld on till the heart of me was clane broke entirely, and me wastin' that thin ye could clutch me wid yer two hands. To think o' me toilin' like a nager for the six year I've been in Ameriky--bad luck to the day I iver left the owld counthry!--to be bate by the likes o' them! (faix, and I'll sit down when I'm ready, so I will, Ann Ryan; and ye'd better be listenin' than drawin' yer remarks). An' is it meself, with five good characters from respectable places, woud be herdin' wid the haythens? The saints forgive me, but I'd be buried alive sooner 'n put up wid it a day longer. Sure, an' I was the granehorn not to be lavin' at once-t when the missus kim into me kitchen wid her perlaver about the new waiter-man which was brought out from Californy. "He'll be here the night," says she. "And, Kitty, it's meself looks to you to be kind and patient wid him, for he's a furriner," says she, a kind o' lookin' off. "Sure, an' it's little I'll hinder nor interfare wid him, nor any other, mum," says I, a kind o' stiff; for I minded me how them French waiters, wid their paper collars and brass rings on their fingers, isn't company for no gurril brought up dacent and honest. Och! sorra a bit I knew what was comin' till the missus walked into me kitchen, smilin', and says, kind o' schared, "Here's Fing Wing, Kitty; an' ye'll have too much sinse to mind his bein' a little strange." Wid that she shoots the doore; and I, misthrustin' if I was tidied up sufficient for me fine buy wid his paper collar, looks up, and--Howly fathers! may I niver brathe another breath, but there stud a rayle haythen Chineser, a-grinnin' like he'd just come off a tay-box. If ye'll belave me, the crayther was that yeller it 'ud sicken ye to see him; and sorra stick was on him but a black night-gown over his trowsers, and the front of his head shaved claner nor a copper biler, and a black tail a-hangin' down from it behind, wid his two feet stook into the haythenestest shoes yer ever set eyes on. Och! but I was upstairs afore ye could turn about, a-givin' the missus warnin', an' only stopt wid her by her raisin' me wages two dollars, an' playdin' wid me how it was a Christian's duty to bear wid haythens, and taich 'em all in our power--the saints save us! Well, the ways and trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, I couldn't be tellin'. Not a blissid thing cud I do, but he'd be lookin' on wid his eyes cocked up'ard like two poomp-handles; an' he widdout a speck or smitch o' whishkers on him, an' his finger-nails full a yard long. But it's dyin' ye'd be to see the missus a-larnin' him, an' he a-grinnin', an' waggin' his pig-tail (which was pieced out long wid some black stoof, the haythen chate!), and gettin' into her ways wonderful quick, I don't deny, imitatin', that sharp, ye'd be shurprised, an' ketchin an' copyin' things the best of us will do a-hurried wid work, yet don't want comin' to the knowledge o' the family--bad luck to him!
Is it ate wid him? Arrah, an' would I be sittin' wid a haythen, an' he a-atin' wid drumsticks?--yes, an' atin' dogs an' cats unknownst to me, I warrant ye, which it is the custom of them Chinesers, till the thought made me that sick I could die. An' didn't the crayture proffer to help me a week ago come Toosday, an' me foldin' down me clane clothes for the ironin', an' fill his haythen mouth wid water, an' afore I could hinder, squirrit it through his teeth stret over the best linen table-cloth, and fold it up tight, as innercent now as a baby, the dirrity baste! But the worrest of all was the copyin' he'd been doin' till ye'd be dishtracted. It's yerself knows the tinder feet that's on me since ever I been in this counthry. Well, owin' to that, I fell into a way o' slippin' me shoes off when I'd be sittin' down to pale the praties, or the likes o' that; an' do ye mind, that haythen would do the same thing after me whiniver the missus set him to parin' apples or tomaterses.
Did I lave for that? Faix, an' I didn't. Didn't he get me into trouble wid my missus, the haythen! Ye're aware yerself how the boondles comin' in from the grocery often contains more'n'll go into anything dacently. So, for that matter, I'd now and then take out a sup o' sugar, or flour, or tay, an' wrap it in paper, and put it in me bit of a box tucked under the ironin'-blanket, the how it cuddent be bodderin' any one. Well, what shud it be, but this blessed Sathurday morn, the missus was a-spakin' pleasant an' respec'ful wid me in me kitchen, when the grocer boy comes in, and stands fornenst her wid his boondles; and she motions like to Fing Wing (which I never would call him by that name or any other but just haythen)--she motions to him, she does, for to take the boondles, an' emty out the sugar and what not where they belongs. If ye'll belave me, Ann Ryan, what did that blatherin' Chineser do but take out a sup of sugar, an' a han'ful o' tay, an' a bit o' chaze, right afore the missus, wrap, 'em into bits o' paper, an' I spacheless wid shurprise, an' he the next minute up wid the ironin'-blanket, an' pullin' out me box wid a show o' bein sly to put them in. Och! the Lord forgive me, but I clutched it, an' missus sayin' "O Kitty!" in a way that 'ud cruddle yer blood. "He's a haythen nager," says I. "I've found yer out," says she, "I'll arrist him," says I. "It's yerself ought to be arristid," says she. "Yer won't," says I, "I will," says she. And so it went, till she give me such sass as I cuddent take from no lady, an' I give her warnin' an' left that instant, an' she a-pointin' to the doore. --_Theophilus and Others_.
THE HEATHEN CHINEE.
BY BRET HARTE.
_PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES (TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1870)_.