Chapter 27

Which I wish to remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name! And I shall not deny, In regard to the same, What that name might imply; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third, And quite soft was the skies; Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise,

Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand; It was Euchre. The same He did not understand; But he smiled as he sat by the table, With the smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve, Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made Were quite frightful to see,-- Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh, And said, "Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour,"-- And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand; But the floor it was strewed Like the leaves on the strand With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, In the game "he did not understand."

In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four packs,-- Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts; And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers,--that's wax.

Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I am free to maintain.

HO-HO OF THE GOLDEN BELT.

_ONE OF THE "NINE STORIES OF CHINA."_ BY JOHN G. SAXE.

A beautiful maiden was little Min-Ne, Eldest daughter of wise Wang-Ke; Her skin had the colour of saffron-tea, And her nose was flat as flat could be; And never was seen such beautiful eyes. Two almond-kernels in shape and size, Set in a couple of slanting gashes, And not in the least disfigured by lashes; And then such feet! You'd scarcely meet In the longest walk through the grandest street (And you might go seeking From Nanking to Peking) A pair was remarkably small and neat.

Two little stumps, Mere pedal lumps, That toddle along with the funniest thumps In China, you know, are reckon'd trumps. It seems a trifle, to make such a boast of it; But how they _will_ dress it: And bandage and press it, By making the least, to make the most of it! As you may suppose, She had plenty of beaux Bowing around her beautiful toes, Praising her feet, and eyes, and nose In rapturous verse and elegant prose! She had lots of lovers, old and young: There was lofty Long, and babbling Lung, Opulent Tin, and eloquent Tung, Musical Sing, and, the rest among, Great Hang-Yu and Yu-be-Hung.

But though they smiled, and smirk'd, and bow'd, None could please her of all the crowd; Lung and Tung she thought too loud; Opulent Tin was much too proud; Lofty Long was quite too tall; Musical Sing sung very small; And, most remarkable freak of all, Of great Hang-Yu the lady made game, And Yu-be-Hung she mocked the sama, By echoing back his ugly name!

But the hardest heart is doom'd to melt; Love is a passion that _will_ be felt; And just when scandal was making free To hint "What a pretty old maid she'd be,"-- Little Min-Ne, Who but she? Married Ho-Ho of the Golden Belt! A man, I must own, of bad reputation, And low in purse, though high in station,-- A sort of Imperial poor relation, Who rank'd as the Emperor's second cousin Multiplied by a hundred dozen; And, to mark the love the Emperor felt, Had a pension clear Of three pounds a year, And the honour of wearing a Golden Belt! And gallant Ho-Ho Could really show A handsome face, as faces go In this Flowery Land, where, you must know, The finest flowers of beauty grow. He'd the very widest kind of jaws, And his nails were like an eagle's claws, And--though it may seem a wondrous tale-- (Truth is mighty and will prevail!) He'd a _queue_ as long as the deepest cause Under the Emperor's chancery laws!

Yet how he managed to win Min-Ne The men declared they couldn't see; But all the ladies, over their tea, In this one point were known to agree: _Four gifts_ were sent to aid his plea: A smoking-pipe with a golden clog, A box of tea and a poodle dog, And a painted heart that was all aflame, And bore, in blood, the lover's name, Ah! how could presents pretty as these A delicate lady fail to please? She smoked the pipe with the golden clog, And drank the tea, and ate the dog, And kept the heart,--and that's the way The match was made, the gossips say.

I can't describe the wedding-day, Which fell in the lovely month of May; Nor stop to tell of the Honey-moon, And how it vanish'd all too soon; Alas! that I the truth must speak, And say that in the fourteenth week, Soon as the wedding guests were gone, And their wedding suits began to doff, Min-Ne was weeping and "taking-on," For _he_ had been trying to "take her off." Six wives before he had sent to heaven, And being partial to number "seven," He wish'd to add his latest pet, Just, perhaps, to make up the set! Mayhap the rascal found a cause Of discontent in a certain clause In the Emperor's very liberal laws, Which gives, when a Golden Belt is wed, Six hundred pounds to furnish the bed; And if in turn he marry a score, With every wife six hundred more.

First, he tried to murder Min-Ne With a special cup of poison'd tea, But the lady smelling a mortal foe, Cried, "Ho-Ho! I'm very fond of mild Souchong, But you, my love, you make it too strong."

At last Ho-Ho, the treacherous man, Contrived the most infernal plan Invented since the world began; He went and got him a savage dog, Who'd eat a woman as soon as a frog; Kept him a day without any prog, Then shut him up in an iron bin, Slipp'd the bolt and locked him in; Then giving the key To poor Min-Ne, Said, "Love, there's something you _mustn't_ see In the chest beneath the orange-tree."

* * * * *

Poor mangled Min-Ne! with her latest breath She told her father the cause of her death; And so it reach'd the Emperor's ear, And his highness said, "It is very clear Ho-Ho has committed a murder here!" And he doom'd Ho-Ho to end his life By the terrible dog that kill'd his wife; But in mercy (let his praise be sung!) His thirteen brothers were merely hung, And his slaves bamboo'd in the mildest way, For a calendar month, three times a day. And that's the way that Justice dealt With wicked Ho-Ho of the Golden Belt!

THE HIRED SQUIRREL.

_A RUSSIAN FABLE_.

BY LAURA SANFORD.

A lion to the Squirrel said: "Work faithfully for me, And when your task is done, my friend, Rewarded you shall be With a barrel-full of finest nuts, Fresh from my own nut-tree." "My Lion King," the Squirrel said, "To this I do agree."

The Squirrel toiled both day and night, Quite faithful to his hire; So hungry and so faint sometimes He thought he should expire. But still he kept his courage up, And tugged with might and main, "How nice the nuts will taste," he thought, "When I my barrel gain."

At last, when he was nearly dead, And thin and old and grey, Quoth th' Lion: "There's no more hard work You're fit to do. I'll pay." A barrel-full of nuts he gave-- Ripe, rich, and big; but oh! The Squirrel's tears ran down his cheeks. He'd _lost his teeth_, you know!

BALLAD OF THE TRAILING SKIRT.

NEW YORK "LIFE."

I met a girl the other day, A girl with golden tresses, Who wore the most bewitching air, And daintiest of dresses.

I gazed at her with kindling eye And admiration utter-- Until I saw her silken skirt Was trailing in the gutter!

"What senseless style is this?" I thought; "What new sartorial passion? And who on earth stands sponsor for The idiotic fashion?"

I've asked a dozen maids or more, A tailor and his cutter, But no one knows why skirts are made To drag along the gutter.

Alas for woman, fashion's slave; She does not seem to mind it. Her silk or satin sweeps the street And leaves no filth behind it.

For all the dirt the breezes blow And all the germs that flutter May find a refuge in the gowns That swish along the gutter.

What lovely woman wills to do She does without a reason. To interfere is waste of time, To criticise is treason.

Man's only province is to work To earn his bread and butter-- And buy her all the skirts she wants To trail along the gutter.

TO THE GIRL IN KHAKI.

"MODERN SOCIETY."

I put the question shyly, Lest you inform me dryly That women's ways are far beyond my ken; But was not khaki chosen For coats and breeks and hosen To render men invisible to men?

Why, then, dear maid, do you Forsake your gayest hue And dress in viewless khaki spick and span? You charming little miss, It never can be this: To render you invisible to man!

Not that at all? What then? You do _not_ fear the men: Perchance you only wish to hide your heart, And so, you fickle flirt, You don a khaki skirt To foil the deadly aim of Cupid's dart.

THE TENDER HEART.

BY HELEN GRAY CONE.

She gazed upon the burnished brace Of partridges he showed with pride; Angelic grief was in her face; "How _could_ you do it, dear?" she sighed, "The poor, pathetic, moveless wings! The songs all hushed--oh, cruel shame!" Said he, "The partridge never sings." Said she, "The sin is quite the same.

"You men are savage through and through. A boy is always bringing in Some string of bird's eggs, white or blue, Or butterfly upon a pin. The angle-worm in anguish dies, Impaled, the pretty trout to tease----" "My own, I fish for trout with flies----" "Don't wander from the question, please!"

She quoted Burns's "Wounded Hare," And certain burning lines of Blake's, And Ruskin on the fowls of air, And Coleridge on the water-snakes. At Emerson's "Forbearance" he Began to feel his will benumbed; At Browning's "Donald" utterly His soul surrendered and succumbed.

"Oh, gentlest of all gentle girls," He thought, "beneath the blessed sun!" He saw her lashes hung with pearls, And swore to give away his gun. She smiled to find her point was gained, And went, with happy parting words (He subsequently ascertained), To trim her hat with humming-birds.

A SONG OF SARATOGA.

BY JOHN G. SAXE.

"Pray what do they do at the Springs?" The question is easy to ask: But to answer it fully, my dear, Were rather a serious task. And yet, in a bantering way, As the magpie or mocking-bird sings, I'll venture a bit of a song, To tell what they do at the Springs.

_Imprimis_, my darling, they drink The waters so sparkling and clear; Though the flavour is none of the best, And the odour exceedingly queer; But the fluid is mingled, you know, With wholesome medicinal things; So they drink, and they drink, and they drink-- And that's what they do at the Springs!

Then with appetites keen as a knife, They hasten to breakfast, or dine; The latter precisely at three, The former from seven till nine. Ye gods! what a rustle and rush, When the eloquent dinner-bell rings! Then they eat, and they eat, and they eat-- And that's what they do at the Springs!

Now they stroll in the beautiful walks, Or loll in the shade of the trees; Where many a whisper is heard That never is heard by the breeze; And hands are commingled with hands, Regardless of conjugal rings: And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt-- And that's what they do at the Springs!

The drawing-rooms now are ablaze, And music is shrieking away; Terpsichore governs the hour, And fashion was never so gay! An arm round a tapering waist-- How closely and fondly it clings! So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz-- And that's what they do at the Springs!

In short--as it goes in the world-- They eat, and they drink, and they sleep; They talk, and they walk, and they woo; They sigh, and they laugh, and they weep; They read, and they ride, and they dance (With other remarkable things): They pray, and they play, and they PAY-- And _that's_ what they do at the Springs!

THE SEA.

BY EVA L. OGDEN.

She was rich and of high degree; A poor and unknown artist he. "Paint me," she said, "a view of the sea." So he painted the sea as it looked the day That Aphrodite arose from its spray; And it broke, as she gazed in its face the while Into its countless-dimpled smile. "What a pokey stupid picture," said she; "I don't believe he _can_ paint the sea!"

Then he painted a raging, tossing sea, Storming, with fierce and sudden shock, Wild cries, and writhing tongues of foam, A towering, mighty fastness-rock. In its sides above those leaping crests, The thronging sea-birds built their nests. "What a disagreeable daub!" said she; "Why it isn't anything like the sea!"

Then he painted a stretch of hot, brown sand, With a big hotel on either hand, And a handsome pavilion for the band,-- Not a sign of the water to be seen Except one faint little streak of green. "What a perfectly exquisite picture," said she; "It's the very _image_ of the sea." --_Century Magazine_.

A TALE OF A NOSE.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

'Twas a hard case, that which happened in Lynn. Haven't heard of it, eh? Well, then, to begin, There's a Jew down there whom they call "Old Mose," Who travels about, and buys old clothes.

Now Mose--which the same is short for Moses-- Had one of the biggest kind of noses: It had a sort of an instep in it, And he fed it with snuff about once a minute.

One day he got in a bit of a row With a German chap who had kissed his _frau_, And, trying to punch him _à la_ Mace, Had his nose cut off close up to his face.

He picked it up from off the ground, And quickly back in its place 'twas bound, Keeping the bandage upon his face Until it had fairly healed in place.

Alas for Mose! 'Twas a sad mistake Which he in his haste that day did make; For, to add still more to his bitter cup, He found he had placed it _wrong side up_.

"There's no great loss without some gain;" And Moses says, in a jocular vein, He arranged it so for taking snuff, As he never before could get enough.

One thing, by the way, he forgets to add, Which makes the arrangement rather bad: Although he can take his snuff with ease, He has to stand on his head to sneeze!

LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

I haf von funny leedle poy Vot gomes schust to my knee-- Der queerest schap, der createst rogue As efer you dit see. He runs, und schumps, and schmashes dings In all barts off der house. But vot off dot? He vas mine son, Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measels und der mumbs, Und eferyding dot's oudt; He sbills mine glass of lager-bier, Foots schnuff indo mine kraut; He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese-- Dot vas der roughest chouse; I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, Und cuts mine cane in dwo To make der schticks to beat it mit-- Mine cracious, dot vas drue! I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart, He kicks oup such a touse! But nefer mind, der poys vas few Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese: Who baints mine nose so red? Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt Vrom der hair ubon mine hed? Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp Vene'er der glim I douse? How gan I all dese dings eggsblain To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss.

I somedimes dink I schall go vild Mit sooch a grazy poy, Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest Und beaceful dimes enshoy, But ven he vas ashleep in ped, So quiet as a mouse, I prays der Lord, "Dake anydings, But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."

DOT BABY OF MINE.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

Mine cracious! Mine cracious! shust look here und see A Deutscher so habby as habby can pe. Der beoples all dink dat no prains I haf got, Vas grazy mit trinking, or someding like dot; Id vasn't pecause I trinks lager und vine, Id vas all on aggount of dot baby off mine.

Dot schmall leedle vellow I dells you vas qveer; Not mooch pigger round as a goot glass off beer, Mit a bare-footed hed, and nose but a schpeck, A mout dot goes most to der pack of his neck, And his leedle pink toes mid der rest all combine To gife sooch a charm to dot baby off mine.

I dells you dot baby vas von off der poys, Und beats leedle Yawcob for making a noise; He shust has pegun to shbeak goot English, too, Says "Mamma," und "Bapa," und somedimes "ah-goo!" You don't find a baby den dimes oudt off nine Dot vas qvite so schmart as dot baby off mine.

He grawls der vloor over, und drows dings aboudt, Und puts efryding he can find in his mout; He durables der shtairs down, und falls vrom his chair, Und gifes mine Katrina von derrible schare. Mine hair stands like shquills on a mat borcupine Ven I dinks of dose pranks of dot baby off mine.

Der vas someding, you pet, I don't likes pooty veil; To hear in der nighdt dimes dot young Deutscher yell, Und dravel der ped-room midout many clo'es, Vhile der chills down der sphine off mine pack quickly goes. Dose leedle shimnasdic dricks vasn't so fine Dot I cuts oop at nighdt mit dot baby off mine.

Veil, dese leedle schafers vos goin' to pe men, Und all off dese droubles vill peen ofer den; Dey vill vear a vhite shirt-vront inshted of a bib, Und voudn't got tucked oop at nighdt in deir crib. Veil! veil! ven I'm feeple und in life's decline, May mine oldt age pe cheered by dot baby off mine.

A DUTCHMAN'S MISTAKE.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

I geeps me von leedle schtore town Proadway, und does a pooty goot peeznis, but I don't got mooch gapital to work mit, so I finds it hard vork to get me all der gredits vot I vould like.

Last veek I hear about some goots dot a barty vas going to sell pooty sheap, und so I writes dot man if he vould gief me der refusal of dose goots for a gouple of days. He gafe me der refusal--dot is, he sait I gouldn't haf dem--but he sait he vould gall on me und see mine schtore, und den if mine schtanding in peesnis vas goot, berhaps ve might do somedings togedder.

Veil, I vas behind mine gounter yesterday, ven a shentle-man gomes in and dakes me py der hant and says, "Mr. Schmidt, I pelieve." I says, "Yaw," und den I tinks to mine-self, dis vas der man vot has doze goots to sell, und I must dry to make some goot imbressions mit him, so ve gould do some peesnis.

"Dis vas goot schtore," he says, looking roundt, "bud you don't got a pooty big shtock already." I vas avraid to let him know dot I only hat 'bout a tousand tollars vort of goots in der blace, so I says, "You ton't tink I hat more as dree tousand tollars in dis leedle schtore, vould you?" He says, "You ton't tole me! Vos dot bossible!" I says, "Yaw."

I meant dot id vas bossible, dough id vasn't so, vor I vas like 'Shorge Vashingtons ven he cut town der "olt elm" on Poston Gommons mit his leedle hadchet, and gouldn't dell some lies aboud id.

"Veil," says der shentleman, "I dinks you ought to know petter as anypody else vot you haf got in der schtore." Und den he takes a pig book vrom unter his arm and say, "Veil, I poots you town vor dree tousand tollars."

I ask him vot he means py "Poots me town," und den he says he vas von off der tax-men, or assessors off broperty, und he tank me so kintly as nefer vas, pecause he say I vas sooch an honest Deutscher, und tidn't dry und sheat der gofermants.

I dells you vot it vos, I tidn't veel any more petter as a hundert ber cent, ven dot man valks oudt of mine schtore, und der nexd dime I makes free mit strangers I vinds first deir peesnis oudt.

THE OWL CRITIC.

JAMES T. FIELDS, IN "HARPER'S MAGAZINE."

"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop! The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop! The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading The _Daily_, the _Herald_, the _Post_, little heeding The young man who blurted out such a blunt question; Not one raised a head or even made a suggestion; And the barber kept on shaving.