Part 2

Objections war no use erbout them days; And, like a cornsumate old fool, I drew rein at the gate ef the house, and Watch’d ’em from the back of my mule. Then them soldiers made a sortie on the bees With thar ponchos, and tuk ’em quick Ter the stream near by whar they drowned them, And lifted the hives from the creek.

While this war doin’ I sat on that mule, Till Dick Mullens upset a hive, And a swarm of mad bees came tearin’ out, And, soarin’ around, made a dive Right squar for my mule; they lit on his flanks, And his neck, his ears and back:— He rear’d and snorted, threw his head in air, Then quickly tuk a le’ard tack!

And erway on a fearful race he broke Over fences, lorgs, ditches and rocks, Headin’ for the water under the hill— He near shook me out of my socks! On his break-neck race for that brook berlow It war needless ter pull on the rein, For that ugly mule war dead set upon Gittin’ rid of his bitin’ pain!

With me the siteration war quite bad— That mule’s hide war thicker than mine; And when they lit on me I fit a while: Then foller’d the mule’s bee line! We reach’d the creek—ye may not berlieve it— But that mule went down on his knees In that ere stream, and roll’d over on me, Jist ter rid himself of the bees!

The muddy water war full four feet deep, And I came quite n’ar bein’ drown’d, _As with the old mule I battl’d thar, With the bees what war buzzin’ ’round_! I shall never forget that frisky brute, What flounder’d erbout and shook Them ere buzzin’ insects from orf his ears, And danced like mad in the brook,—

One minute he lay flat upon his back— _The next balanced, on his fores,_ _With his tail stuck out, and kickin’ like mad,_ _As the bees fell on him by scores_! Wal, while this battle war ergoin’ on ’Twixt the bees and the valiant mule, I had a chance ter crawl up ter the bank— Don’t say that my action war cru’l—

For the critter war much better prepar’d With his tail ter banish his foes, While I had not a durn’d thing erbout me Ter aid him the battle ter close. I had had quite ernough of that skirmish, And erway up the hill I run As quickly as my shanks would carry me, In sarch of my knapsack and gun.

When I had found them I war satersfied, And did not rernew the ertack On them wild bees; but, boys, I’m not carten _But that mule still lies on his back Erway down thar in Berks county, fightin’ The dercendents of them mad bees What that day swarm’d out of that broken hive! That’s the yarn!_—Who’s treat is it, please?

THAT LITTLE BLACK PET OF OUR’N.

Elder, quite a good story is that Ye read from the Bible ter-day, Of how that truant, surnam’d Jonah, Succeeded in findin’ his way Ter the mouth of that erbligin’ whale, What tuk him in out of the wet, And entertain’d him three days and nights, Whar thar’s free erpartments ter let!

’Pears ter me, that whale war kind-hearted Ter render sich an act; I’m sure Most lan’lords would jist tell him ter git Mighty quick away from thar door— If he’d not the spondulicks ter pay For his meals, his washin’ and bed; But this generous whale surplied all, And never tax’d Jonah a red!

Do ye think ye could find a lan’lord In these days as kind as that whale, _What opened his mouth and ax’d him in When the sea war runnin’ a gale_! I guess ye’d look a long while, Elder, Ter find one in this ere big State, Who would not a cuss’d right smart at him, And left Mr. J. ter his fate.

Elder, I’ve been thinkin’ it over, And, dog on it! I cannot see How that story can be at all true; But as _you_ say so, it must be: For ye teech us ter berlieve each word What is writ for our edderfecation, Ter turn poor sinners ter Jesus Christ, And rescue ’em from damnation!

I’ll take the yarn, as the whale tuk in Mr. Jonah, without any doubt; But, years ago, an ervent tuk place, What I will tell ye all erbout— And if ye don’t say, it matches your’n My name is not Pherlander Lee: It tuk place when I war rarftin’ lorgs, Years ago, upon the Suanee,—

With Ashley Cole, Will Starks and Ed. Flynn, And a dozen or more, maybe, Of lumbermen, who work’d all day at Ermanuel labor with me. We anchor’d our rarft n’ar Cedar Keys, And squatted down berside the stream One evenin’, and after supper dropp’d orf Ter slumber, ter rest and dream—

Of wives and children we’d left erbove In the pineries days berfore; And now, worn out with lerborious toil, We quickly bergan for ter snore. Ter keep the flies orf we built a fire, And Fanny, my little black dorg, That I thought a mighty sight of, sir, Doubl’d up ter snooze on a lorg—

A few yards from the fire. A sharp yelp Woke me from my dreams, and, springin’ Right out of my cot, I hurried orf Whar the cries of my Fanny war ringin’ On the air, as an allergater In his jaws had cru’lly caught her, And war makin’ right orf with my pet, Ter his young ’ns in the water!

Seizin’ a club, I feller’d right fast After the stealthy, thievin’ brute; But the night war dark, and the critter Successfully baffled pursuit! My dorg war gone: ’twar no use frettin’ O’er raid of that allergater, What had sneak’d my pet from orf that lorg, And, I doubted not, had ate her!

She did not come back ter tell the tale Of how she had been sneak’d away, And I mourn’d her as lost ter me forever, And—had not a word ter say. But, Elder, that war n’t the last I saw Of that little black pet of our’n, For two months later, when we’d come down Agin, and one day war scourin’—

Erbout for game, in a swamp n’ar by The slimy thief I once more saw! Liftin’ my rifle, I lodg’d a ball Right under his uplifted jaw. In them days I war reckon’d a shot, And, ye may bet, the critter died: Then over on his back we turn’d him, And bergun ter rermove his hide.

While this war doin’ I heer’d a bark Of a dorg, what appear’d quite near! ’Twar so much like Fanny’s, with my sleeve I—jist brush’d from my cheek a tear! Wal, when we had cut the varment open— Ye won’t berlieve it, but it’s true As any story I’ve ever told, My Fanny jump’d squar inter view!

Then, arter her came three pretty purps— Exact picters of thar mother! We ply’d our knives agin in the flesh, And then unkiver’d another! Ye see, I had rerkiver’d my pet, What brought back a numerous crop Of young dogs; now if I hain’t match’d ye, Why, Elder, I’ll gen’rously stop!

But, wait a bit; a few more inches We come ter somethin’ kinder hard, That our sharpest blades would not go through, And then old Samuel Bard Pick’d up a hatchet and whack’d erway _Until he came ter some spruce lorgs,_ _That, bein’ unkiver’d, dersplay’d ter view_ _The kennel of them little dorgs_!

OLD TOM GIN.

A “smile” is it, Hank Rowland, Ye invite me ter take, At the bar of Pete Moody, Jist for the old time sake, And ter keep me erwake? A smile of th’ distillation Of hell that is call’d Gin,— The nectar of the devils! The vile parent of sin, What many waller in?

I don’t like ter ’pear ’fensive, My friend Hank, but jist think The temptation ye set me When ye ax me ter drink! No, no! from it I shrink! Time war when a poor toper I reel’d erbout the place, A wretched victim of rum, That so many embrace Ter thar lastin’ disgrace!

Hank, I’ll tell ye a story What’s call’d ter my mind When I come any whar n’ar This great curse of mankind With which stomachs are lin’d! It makes me blush for the past, The ’nebriate I’ve been, When I think of the enemy— The inciter ter sin— They have christen’d “Tom Gin.”

When I war marri’d, Hank Rowland, A likelier young chap Ye couldn’t find anywhar This side Cumberland Gap, For I tuk no “night cap.” My wife, she war a Christian, And a true wife war she; And God rain’d down His blessin’s On Malinder and me, With a hand that war free.

She bore me three fine children— Two fair gals and a boy— Whose soft chirrupin’ voices Fill’d the cabin with joy And love without erloy. When the honeymoon pars’d And love seem’d ter grow cold, I stray’d down ter the tavern,— Thar squander’d my gold, And nerglected the fold—

Whar my sunny-ha’r’d treasurs Gather’d ’bout my wife’s side, As she teech’d ’em of the Lord Who on Calvary died, And for orphans pervide. As she told them of Heaven, And repeated that pra’r Of the Sevior of the world— So erquented with car’— They never saw me thar!

Hank Rowland, I’m ershem’d Ter admit it; but, still, It may do another good Ter warn him of what’ll kill, And I swow that I will; For, ye see, thar is many Jist like me ’round here Turnin’ erway from thar homes When the smiles diserpear, ’Cause thar wedded ter beer!

Wal, down here ter the tavern, As a matter of course I found many good fellers Who’d not any rermorse, And did not seem advarse Ter a toddy or a smoke, A yarn or a story, Of Ingen fights on the Plains, And conflicts quite gory, In sarch of mere glory.

Hank, them times war attractive, And I drank like the rest; As months pars’d it grew on me, Till I swigg’d with the best— Pour’d it down with a zest. Then reelin’ home late at night The little ones would creep Erway ter Merlinder’s room With thar mother ter weep In vain effort ter sleep!

As years pars’d I grew keerless— My farm went ter the duce— And I hurl’d at my treasures— Thinkin’ I had excuse— Vile curses and erbuse! One night I went home much later And prepar’d ter rertire; In my drink I upset the lamp— Then the house war afire, And my terror war dire!

I stagger’d out ter the yard And call’d for help. Ter late! They got out all my children But baby—little Kate— Who met a dreadful fate! The next mornin’, when sober’d, I found my infant dead,— Her body charr’d and blackened— Her death war on my head! My love for whisky fled?

Berside that rough pine coffin I knelt me down and wept, And register’d a vow thar, Whar little Katey slept, Hank Rowland, I have kept! ’Twar this: never ter touch it— This stuff they have nam’d Gin, What’s draggin’ others ter whar I, findin’ out my sin, Rerfus’d ter suck it in!

A smile is it, Hank Rowland, Ye invite me ter take, At the bar of Pete Moody, Jist for the old time sake, And ter keep me erwake? No, Hank, none of it for me! ’Twould make the engels groan Ter see me touch it. I pars! (Rather be cheng’d ter stone) Jist run the hand alone!

THE SIGN OF JOE BALL.

Ed Colby, yer noted for yer stories What are marvelous, while thar true, And I know ye’ll relish a good one, So I will rercite it ter you.

A few nights ago I kinder crav’d for A small morsel of sassage meat, And, jist seizin’ my hat from the mantel, I hurri’d out inter the street.

At the shop of Joe Ball I diskiver’d Some what look’d superbly nice; The stamps war put down, and them sassages War mine at a nomernal price.

I carri’d them ter my house in triumph, Without gettin’ scratch’d in the least, And, sev’rin’ some, waited for daylight Ter enjoy a savory feast.

I war up with the crow of the rooster, And went for my sassages straight. I be gol durn’d if one wasn’t purrin’, And rubbin’ himself ’gin the gate!

Another had crawl’d ter the parlor, Whar he crouched down and purr’d, And wistfully watch’d a wire cage Whar slumber’d my favorite bird!

Two others I found in the coal cellar, Anxiously layin’ for rats: While another had her head in a pitcher Whar wife kept the milk for the cats!

I next look’d erbout for the balance, And, an oath I thar gave vent ter. Though thar tails war tied they war creepin’ Erway from a common center!

I survey’d ’em, and they look’d at me From out thar harf-closed eyes, As one of ’em told me that thar mother Had been chopp’d up inter pies.

The poor little orphans implor’d me Thar infantile lives ter spar’; But I had sich a feline mernagerie, That I flatly rerfus’d thar pra’r.

That mornin’ I miss’d my fav’rite rerpast Of fried sassages, ter be sure; But I had the satersfaction ter see The whole lot drown’d in the sewar!

Whenever ye see the sign of Joe Ball, Be car’ful not ter enter his lair, For he prides himself upon his choice stock Of kitten spic’d sassage and hair.

“THE TABLE,”

BARRY GRAY, EDITOR,

A MONTHLY MAGAZINE,

_Devoted exclusively to subjects connected with the Pleasures of the Table, the Science of Cooking, and the Art of Good Living_.

PLAN AND CHARACTER OF THE WORK.

THE TABLE _will contain short essays on Breakfasts, Dinners & Teas, Wines, Fruits & Confections_.

_It will have its Breakfast Table Chat, its Dinner Table Talk, and its Tea Table Gossip._

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TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION:

One Copy for One Year, $1.00 Single Copies, 10

M. DOOLADY, Publisher, _98 Nassau Street_.

A New, Revised, Corrected, and Illustrated Edition

OF THE

OLD MERCHANTS

OF

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By WALTER BARRETT, Clerk.

In 3 Vols., Crown 8vo, Cloth Extra. Price, $7.50.

Of this work it is truly said “that no more interesting reading can be found for the growing MERCANTILE mind of the United States than a history of the LEADING MEN who have laid the foundations of the wealth and prosperity of its great METROPOLIS.”

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CONTENTS.

At Niblo’s by Gaslight. Grace Church Morality. In a Villain’s Toils. Crime in Pantalets. Temptations of Hotel Life. Striking Pen Portraits. A Bust for Ten Cents. A Private Post-Office. The Perils of Beauty. The Amorous Epistle of a Judge. A Meeting by Appointment. A Woman in Man’s Attire. Fashionable Society. Fifth Avenue Belles. From the Heights of Morality to the Rocks of Death.

These are some of the subjects and incidents treated in this startling record of facts. They are unpleasant examples of vice, error, and criminal guilt, leading souls from the pinnacle of morality to the degrading depths of sin and ruin; and a complete _exposé_ of some of the pernicious characters which stalk through this great city by day and night alike. Fathers, Mothers, Brothers, all should read it.