Chapter 48

From room to room, from floor to floor, From Number One to Twenty-four, The nuisance bellowed; till all patience lost, Down came Miss Frost, Expostulating at her open door-- "Peace, monster, peace! Where is the new police? I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray, Do n't stand there bawling, fellow, don't! You really send my serious thoughts astray, Do--there's a dear, good man--do, go away." Says he, "I won't!"

The spinster pulled her door to with a slam, That sounded like a wooden d--n; For so some moral people, strictly loth To swear in words, however up, Will crash a curse in setting down a cup, Or through a door-post vent a banging oath,-- In fad, this sort of physical transgression Is really no more difficult to trace, Than in a given face A very bad expression.

However in she went Leaving the subject of her discontent To Mr. Jones's clerk at Number Ten; Who throwing up the sash, With accents rash, Thus hailed the most vociferous of men; "Come, come, I say, old fellow, stop your chant; I cannot write a sentence--no one can't! So pack up your trumps,-- And stir your stumps." Says he "I shan't!"

Down went the sash, As if devoted to "eternal smash." (Another illustration Of acted imprecation,) While close at hand, uncomfortably near, The independent voice, so loud and strong, And clanging like a gong, Roared out again the everlasting song, "I have a silent sorrow here!"

The thing was hard to stand! The music-master could not stand it, But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in hand, As savage as a bandit, Made up directly to the tattered man, And thus in broken sentences began: "Com--com--I say! You go away! Into two parts my head you split-- My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit, When I do play-- You have no business in a place so still! Can you not come another day?" Says he, "I will."

"No--no--you scream and bawl! You must not come at all! You have no right, by rights, to beg- You have not one off leg-- You ought to work--you have not some complaint-- You are not cripple in your back or bones-- Your voice is strong enough to break some stones"-- Says he, "It ain't."

"I say you ought to labor! You are in a young case, You have not sixty years upon your face, To come and beg your neighbor-- And discompose his music with a noise More worse than twenty boys-- Look what a street it is for quiet! No cart to make a riot, No coach, no horses, no postillion: If you will sing, I say, it is not just To sing so loud." Says he, "I must! I'm singing for the million!" T. Hood.

CCCLVIII.

ODE T0 MY BOY, AGED THREE YEARS.

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 little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestruck, 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 a-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 play-fellow for fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls his tail!) Thou human humming-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 stampt 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 tints 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 thistle-down, 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 the 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.) T. Hood.

CCCLIX.

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.

I wrote some lines, once on a time In wondering merry mood, And thought, as usual, men would say They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer, I laughed as I would die; Albeit in the general way, A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came; How kind it was of him, To mind a slender man like me, He of the mighty limb!

"These to the printer," I exclaimed, And, in my humorous way, I added (as a trifling jest), "There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched, And saw him peep within; At the first line he read, his face Was all upon a grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad. And shot from ear to ear; He read the third; a chuckling noise I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar; The fifth; his waistband split; The sixth; he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man; And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can. O. W. Holmes.

CCCLX.

THE SEPTEMBER GALE.

I'm not a chicken; I have seen Full many a chill September, And though I was a youngster then, That gale I well remember; The day before my kite-string snapped, And I, my kite pursuing, The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;-- For me two storms were brewing!

It came as quarrels sometimes do, When married pairs get clashing; There was a heavy sigh or two, Before the fire was flashing,-- A little stir among the clouds, Before they rent asunder,-- A little rocking of the trees, And then came on the thunder.

Oh! how the ponds and rivers boiled, And how the shingles rattled! And oaks were scattered on the ground, As if the Titans battled; And all above was in a howl, And all below a clatter,-- The earth was like a frying-pan, Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing-day, And all our things were drying; The storm came roaring through the lines, And set them all a flying; I saw the shirts and petticoats Go riding off like witches; I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,-- I lost my Sunday breeches!

I saw them straddling through the air, Alas! too late to win them; I saw them chase the clouds as if A demon had been in them; They were my darlings and my pride,-- My boyhood's only riches,-- "Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,-- "My breeches! O my breeches!"

That night I saw them in my dreams, How changed from what I knew them! The dews had steeped their faded thread, The winds had whistled through them; I saw the wide and ghastly rents, Where demon claws had torn them; A hole was in their amplest part, As if an imp had worn them.

I have had many happy years, And tailors kind and clever, But those young pantaloons have gone Forever and forever! And not till fate has cut the last Of all my earthly stitches, This aching heart shall cease to mourn My loved, my long-lost breeches! O. W. Holmes.

CCCLVI.

LOVE AND MURDER.

In Manchester a maiden dwelt, Her name was Phœbe Blown; Her cheeks were red, her hair was black, And, she was considered by good judges to be by all odds the best looking girl in town.

Her age was nearly seventeen, Her eyes were sparkling bright; A very lovely girl she was, And for about a year and a half there had been a young man paying his attention to her, by the name of Reuben Wright.

Now Reuben was a nice young man As any in the town, And Phœbe loved him very dear, But, on account of his being obliged to work for a living, he never could make himself agreeable to old Mr. and Mrs. Brown.

Her parents were resolved Another she should wed, A rich old miser in the place, And old Brown frequently declared, that rather than have his daughter marry Reuben Wright, he'd sooner knock him in the head.

But Phœbe's heart was brave and strong, She feared not her parents' frowns; And as for Reuben Wright so bold, I've heard him say more than fifty times that (with the exception of Phœbe) he did n't care a cent for the whole race of Browns.

So Phœbe Brown and Reuben Wright Determined they would marry; Three weeks ago last Tuesday night, They started for old Parson Webster's, determined to be united in the holy bonds of matrimony, though it was tremendous dark, and rained like the old Harry.

But Captain Brown was wide awake, He loaded up his gun, And then pursued the loving pair; He overtook 'em when they'd got about half way to the Parson's, and then Reuben and Phœbe started off upon the run.

Old Brown then took a deadly aim Toward young Reuben's head, But, oh! it was a bleeding shame, He made a mistake, and shot his only daughter, and had the unspeakable anguish of seeing her drop right down stone dead.

Then anguish filled young Reuben's heart, And vengeance crazed his brain, He drew an awful jack-knife out, And plunged it into old Brown about fifty or sixty times, so that it's very doubtful about his ever coming to again.

The briny drops from Reuben's eyes In torrents pouréd down,-- And in this melancholy and heart-rending manner terminates the history of Reuben and Phœbe and likewise old Captain Brown. Anonymous.

CCCLXII.

THE REMOVAL.

A nervous old gentleman, tired of trade,-- By which, though, it seems, he a fortune had made,-- Took a house 'twixt two sheds, at the skirts of the town, Which he meant, at his leisure, to buy and pull down.

This thought struck his mind when he viewed the estate; But, alas! when he entered he found it too late; For in each dwelt a smith;--a more hard-working two Never doctored a patient, or put on a shoe.

At six in the morning, their anvils, at work, Awoke our good squire, who raged like a Turk. "These fellows," he cried, "such a clattering keep, That I never can get above eight hours of sleep."

From morning till night they keep thumping away,-- No sound but the anvil the whole of the day; His afternoon's nap and his daughter's new song, Were banished and spoiled by their hammer's ding-dong.

He offered each Vulcan to purchase his shop; But, no! they were stubborn, determined to stop; At length, (both his spirits and health to improved,) He cried, "I'll give each fifty guineas to move."

"Agreed!" said the pair; "that will make us amends." "Then come to my house, and let us part friends; You shall dine; and we'll drink on this joyful occasion, That each may live long in his new habitation."

He gave the two blacksmiths a sumptuous regale; He spared not provisions, his wine, nor his ale; So much was he pleased with the thought that each guest Would take from him noise, and restore him to rest.

"And now." said he, "tell me, where mean you to move? I hope to some spot where your trade will improve." "Why, sir," replied one with a grin on his phiz, "Tom Forge moves to my shop, and I move to his!" Anonymous.

CCCLXIII.

NONGTONGPAW.

John Bull for pastime took a prance, Some time ago, to peep at France; To talk of sciences and arts, And knowledge gained in foreign parts. Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak, And answered John in heathen Greek: To all he asked, 'bout all he saw, 'T was "Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas."

John, to the Palais-Royal came, Its splendor almost struck him dumb. "I say, whose house is that there here?" "House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."-- "What, Nongtongpaw again!" cries John; "This fellow is some mighty Don: No doubt he 's plenty for the maw, I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw."

John saw Versailles from Marlé's height, And cried, astonished at the sight, "Whose fine estate is that there here?" "State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "His? What the land and houses too? The fellow's richer than a Jew: On everything he lays his claw! I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw."

Next tripping came a courtly fair, John cried, enchanted with her air, "What lovely wench is that there here?" "Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "What, he again? Upon my life! A palace, lands, and then a wife Sir Joshua might delight to draw: I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw."

"But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John. "Je vous n'entends paw."--"what is he gone? Wealth fame, and beauty could not save Poor Nongtongpaw then from the grave! His race is run, his game is up,-- I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup; But since he chooses to withdraw, Good-night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw." C. Dibdin.

CCCLXIV.

THE SWELLS SOLILOQUY ON THE WAR.

I don't approve this hawid waw; Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes; And guns and drums are such a baw-- Why don't the pawties compwamise?

Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms; But why must all the vulgah crowd Pawsist in spawting uniforms In cullaws so extremely loud?

And then the ladies--precious deahs!-- I mawk the change on ev'wy bwow; Bai Jove! I really have my feahs They wathah like the howid wow!

To hear the chawming cweatures talk, Like patwons of the bloody wing, Of waw and all its dawty wark?-- It does n't seem a pwappah thing!

I called at Mrs. Gween's last night, To see her niece, Miss Mary Hertz, And found her making--cwushing sight!-- The weddest kind of flannel shirts! Of cawce I wose and saught the daw, With fewy flashing from my eyes! I can't approve this hawid waw;-- Why don't the parties compromise? Vanity Fair.

CCCLXV.

THE ALARMED SKIPPER.

Many a long, long year ago, Nantucket skippers had a plan Of finding out, though "lying low," How near New York their schooners ran.

They greased the lead before it fell, And then, by sounding through the night, Knowing the soil that stuck, so well, They always guessed their reckoning right.

A skipper gray, whose eye's were dim, Could tell by tasting, just the spot, And so below, he'd "dowse the glim,"-- After, of course, his "something hot."

Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock, This ancient skipper might be found; No matter how his craft would rock, He slept,--for skippers' naps are sound!

The watch on deck would now and then Run down and wake him, with the lead; He'd up and taste, and tell the men How many miles they went ahead.

One night, 't was Jotham Marden's watch, A curious wag,--the pedler's son; And so he mused (the wanton wretch), "To-night I'll have a grain of fun.

"We're all a set of stupid fools, To think the skipper knows by tasting, What ground he's on; Nantucket schools Don't teach such stuff; with all their basting!"

And so he took the well-greased lead, And rubbed it o'er a box of earth That stood on deck--(a parsnip bed),-- And then he sought the skipper's berth.

"Where are we now, sir, please to taste." The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, Then oped his eyes in wondrous haste, And then upon the floor he sprung!

The skipper stormed, and tore his hair, Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden,-- "Nantucket 's sunk, and here we are Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!" J. T. Fields.

CCCLXVI.

THE COLD-WATER MAN.

It was an honest fisherman, I knew him passing well; And he lived by a little pond, Within a little dell.

A grave and quiet man was he, Who loved his hook and rod; So even ran his line of life His neighbors thought it odd.

For science and for books, he said He never had a wish; No school to him was worth a fig, Except a school of fish.

In short, this honest fisherman, All other tools forsook; And though no vagrant man was he, He lived by hook and crook.

He ne'er aspired to rank or wealth, Nor cared about a name; For though much famed for fish was he, He never fished for fame!

To charm the fish he never spoke, Although his voice was fine; He found the most convenient way Was just to drop a line!

And many a gudgeon of the pond, If they could speak to-day, Would own, with grief, the angler had A mighty taking way!