Part 6

And this was all the religion he had-- To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the _Prairie Belle_ took fire, A thousand times he swore He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats has their day on the Mississip'. And her day came at last-- The _Movastar_ was a better boat, But the _Belle_, she wouldn't be passed, And so came tearin' along that night, The oldest craft on the line, With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine.

The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer-bank on the right. There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore."

Thro' the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And know'd he would keep his word. And sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smoke-stacks fell, And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the _Prairie Belle_.

He warn't no saint--but at judgment I'd run my chance with Jim 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. He'd seen his duty a dead sure thing, And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain't a-goin' to be too hard On a man that died for men.

COLONEL JOHN HAY.

_HOW UNCLE MOSE COUNTED THE EGGS._

Old Mose, who sells eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived; but he has got the habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in front of the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady came out to the gate to make the purchases.

"Have you got any eggs this morning, Uncle Mose?" she asked.

"Yes, indeed I has. Jes got in ten dozen from de kentry."

"Are they fresh?"

"I gua'ntee 'em. I knows dey am fresh jess de same as ef I had laid 'em myse'f."

"I'll take nine dozen. You can count them in this basket."

"All right, mum." He counts: "One, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten. You kin rely on dem bein' fresh. How's your son comin' on at de school? He mus' be mos' grown."

"Yes, Uncle Mose, he is a clerk in a bank at Galveston."

"Why, how ole am de boy?"

"He is eighteen."

"You don't tole me so. Eighteen and gettin' a salary already! eighteen (counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-free, twenty-foah, twenty-five, and how's yore gal comin' on? She was mos' growed up de las' time I seed her."

"She is married and living in Dallas."

"Wal, I declar. How de time scoots away! An' yo' say she has childruns? Why, how ole am de gal? She mus' be about----"

"Thirty-three."

"Am dat so? (counting) firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six, firty-seben, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-free. Hit am so singular dat you has sich old childruns. I can't believe you has grand-childruns. You don't look more den forty yeahs old youself."

"Nonsense, old man, I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to be fifty-three years old----"

"Fifty-free? I jess dun gwinter b'lieve hit, fifty-free, fifty-foah, fifty-five, fifty-six--I want you to pay tenshun when I counts de eggs, so dar'll be no mistake--fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-free, sixty-foah--whew! Dat am a warm day. Dis am de time of yeah when I feels I'se gettin' ole myse'f. I ain't long for dis worl. You comes from an ole family. When your fodder died he was sebenty years ole."

"Seventy-two, Uncle Mose."

"Dat's ole, suah. Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seven, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine--and your mudder? she was one ob de noblest lookin' ladies I ebber see. You reminds me ob her so much. She libbed to mos' a hundred. I bleeves she was done past a centurion when she died."

"No, Uncle Mose, she was only ninety-six when she died."

"Den she wasn't no chicken when she died. I know dat--ninety-six, ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight--dar 108 nice fresh eggs--jess nine dozen, and heah am one moah egg in case I has discounted myse'f."

Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Burton said to her husband, "I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood right there and heard Old Mose count them myself, and there were nine dozen."

_THE NEGRO BABY'S FUNERAL._

I was walking in Savannah, past a church decayed and dim, When there slowly through the windows came a plaintive funeral hymn; And the sympathy awakened, and a wonder quickly grew, Till I found myself environed in a little negro pew. Out at front a coloured couple sat in sorrow, nearly wild; On the altar was a coffin, in the coffin was a child. I could picture him when living--curly hair, protruding lip-- And had seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried Southern trip.

But no baby ever rested in the soothing arms of death That had fanned more flames of sorrow with his little fluttering breath; And no funeral ever glistened with more sympathy profound Than was in the chain of teardrops that enclasped those mourners round.

Rose a sad, old coloured preacher at the little wooden desk-- With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance grotesque; With simplicity and shrewdness on his Ethiopian face; With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed, undying race.

And he said: "Now, don' be weepin' for dis pretty bit o' clay-- For de little boy who lived dere, he's done gone an' run away! He was doin' very finely, an' he 'preciate your love; But his sure 'nuff Father want him in de large house up above.

"Now, he didn't give you that baby, by a hundred thousan' mile! He just think you need some sunshine, an' He lent it for a while! An' He let you keep an' love it till your hearts were bigger grown; An' dese silver tears your sheddin's jest de interes' on the loan.

"Here's yer oder pretty childrun!--doan' be makin' it appear Dat your love got sort o' 'nopolised by dis little fellow here; Don' pile up too much your sorrow on dere little mental shelves, So's to kind 'o set 'em wonderin' if dey're no account demselves.

"Just you think, you poor deah mounahs, creepin' long o'er Sorrow's way, What a blessed little pic-nic dis yere baby's got to-day! Your good faders and good moders crowd de little fellow round In de angel-tended garden ob de big Plantation Ground.

"An' dey ask him, 'Was your feet sore?' an' take off his little shoes, An' dey wash him, an' dey kiss him, an' dey say--'Now what's de news?' An' de Lawd done cut his tongue loose, den de little fellow say-- 'All our folks down in the valley tries to keep de hebbenly way.'

"An' his eyes dey brightly sparkle at de pretty things he view; Den a tear come an' he whispers--'But I want my parents too!' But de Angel Chief Musician teach dat boy a little song-- Says 'If only dey be fait'ful dey will soon be comin' 'long.' An' he'll get an' education dat will proberbly be worth Seberal times as much as any you could buy for him on earth; He'll be in de Lawd's big schoolhouse, widout no contempt or fear; While dere's no end to the bad tings might have happened to him here.

"So, my pooah dejected mounahs, let your hearts wid Jesus rest, An' don't go to critercisin' dat ar One w'at knows the best! He have sent us many comforts--He have right to take away-- To the Lawd be praise an' glory now and ever! Let us pray!"

WILL CARLETON.

_DER SHPIDER UND DER FLY._

I reads in Yawcob's shtory book, A couple veeks ago, Von firsd-rade boem, vot I dinks Der beoples all should know. I'd ask dis goot conundhrum, too, Vich ve should brofit by: "'Vill you indo mine parlor valk?' Says der Shpider off der fly."

Dot set me dinking, righdt avay, Und vhen, von afternoon, A shbeculator he comes in Und dells me, pooty soon, He haf silfer mine to sell, Und ask me eef I puy, I dink off der oxberience Off dot plue-pottle fly.

Der oder day, vhen on der cars I vent by Nie Yorck oudt, I meets a fraulein on der train, Who dold me, mit a pout, She likes der Deutscher shentlemans Und dells me sit peside her-- I says: "Mine friendt, I vas no fly, Eef you vas peen a shpider."

I vent indo der shmoking car, Vhere dhey vas blaying boker, Und also haf somedings dhey calls Der funny "leedle joker." Some money id vas shanging hands, Dhey vanted me to try-- I says: "You vas too brevious, I don'd vas been a fly!"

On Central Park a shmardt young man Says: "Strauss, how vas you peen?" Und dake me kindtly py der hand, Und ask off mine Katrine. He vants to shange a feefty bill, Und says hees name vas Schneider-- Maype, berhaps, he vas all righdt; More like he vas a shpider.

Mosd efry day some shwindling chap He dries hees leedle game; I cuts me oudt dot shpider biece Und poot id in a frame; Righdt in mine shtore I hangs it oup, Und near id, on der shly, I geeps a glub, to send gvick oudt, Dhose shpiders, "on der fly."

CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.

_LARIAT BILL._

"Well, stranger, 'twas somewhere in 'sixty-nine I wore runnin' the 'Frisco fast express; An' from Murder Creek to Blasted Pine, Were nigh onto eighteen mile, I guess. The road were a down-grade all the way, An' we pulled out of Murder a little late, So I opened the throttle wide that day, And a mile a minute was 'bout our gait.

"My fireman's name was Lariat Bill, A quiet man with an easy way, Who could rope a steer with a cow-boy's skill, Which he'd learned in Texas, I've heard him say. The coil were strong as tempered steel, An' it went like a bolt from a cross-bow flung, An' arter Bill changed from saddle to wheel, Just over his head in the cab it hung.

"Well, as I were saying, we fairly flew, As we struck the curve at Buffalo Spring, An' I give her full steam an' put her through, An' the engine rocked like a living thing; When all of a sudden I got a scare-- For thar on the track were a little child! An' right in the path of the engine there She held out her little hands and smiled!

"I jerked the lever and whistled for brakes, The wheels threw sparks like a shower of gold; But I knew the trouble a down-grade makes, An' I set my teeth an' my flesh grew cold. Then Lariat Bill yanked his long lassoo, An' out on the front of the engine crept-- He balanced a moment before he threw, Then out in the air his lariat swept!"

He paused. There were tears in his honest eyes; The stranger listened with bated breath. "I know the rest of the tale," he cries; "He snatched the child from the jaws of death! 'Twas the deed of a hero, from heroes bred, Whose praises the very angels sing!" The engineer shook his grizzled head, And growled: "He didn't do no sich thing.

"He aimed at the stump of a big pine tree, An' the lariat caught with a double hitch, An' in less than a second the train an' we Were yanked off the track an' inter the ditch! 'Twere an awful smash, an' it laid me out, I ain't forgot it, and never shall; Were the passengers hurt? Lemme see--about-- Yes, it killed about forty--but saved the gal!"

G. W. H.

_THE ELF CHILD; OR, LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE._

Little orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, And wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, and 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'ning 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 pray'rs; An' when he went to bed 'at night, away upstairs, His mammy heard him holler, and his daddy heard him bawl, An' whin they turn'd the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter room, and cubby hole and 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 and 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 know'd 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 lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is grey, An' the lightnin' bugs in dew is all squelched away, You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear, An' cherish them 't loves you, and dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at cluster all about, Er the gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

_ALONZO THE BRAVE AND THE FAIR IMOGENE._

A warrior so bold and a virgin so bright, Conversed as they sat on the green; They gazed on each other with tender delight; Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight,-- The maiden's the Fair Imogene.

"And oh!" said the youth, "since to-morrow I go To fight in a far distant land, Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow, Some other will court you, and you will bestow On a wealthier suitor your hand!"

"Oh cease these suspicions," Fair Imogene said. "Offensive to love and to me; For if you be living, or if you be dead, I swear by the Virgin that none in your stead, Shall husband of Imogene be.

"If e'er by lust or by wealth led astray I forget my Alonzo the Brave, God grant that to punish my falsehood and pride Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side, May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride, And bear me away to the grave."

To Palestine hastened the hero so bold, His love she lamented him sore; But scarce had a twelve-month elapsed, when behold! A Baron, all covered with jewels and gold, Arrived at Fair Imogene's door.

His treasures, his presents, his spacious domain Soon made her untrue to her vows; He dazzled her eyes, he bewildered her brain, He caught her affection, so light and so vain, And carried her home as his spouse.

And now had the marriage been blest by the priest, And revelry now had begun; The tables they groaned with the weight of the feast. Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased, When the bell at the castle tolled--one.

Then first with amazement Fair Imogene found A stranger was placed by her side; His air was terrific, he uttered no sound-- He spake not, he moved not--he looked not around, But earnestly gazed on the bride.

His visor was closed, and gigantic his height, His armour was sable to view; All pleasure and laughter were hushed at the sight, All the dogs as they eyed him drew back in afright, All the lights in the chamber burned blue.

His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay, The guests sat in silence and fear; At length spake the bride, while she trembled, "I pray, Sir Knight, that your helmet aside you would lay, And deign to partake of our cheer."

The lady is silent--the stranger complies-- His visor he slowly unclosed; Oh God! what a sight met Fair Imogene's eyes! What word can express her dismay and surprise, When a skeleton's head was exposed.

All present then uttered a terrified shout, All turned in disgust from the scene; The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out, And sported his eyes and his temples about, While the spectre addressed Imogene.

"Behold me, thou false one--behold me!" he cried; "Remember Alonzo the Brave! God grant that to punish thy falsehood and pride, My ghost at thy marriage should sit at thy side, Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride, And bear thee away to the grave!"

Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound, While loudly she shrieked in dismay; And sank with his prey through the wide yawning ground, Nor ever again was Fair Imogene found, Or the spectre that bore her away.

Not long lived the Baron, and none since that time To inhabit the castle presume; For chronicles say, that by order sublime, There Imogene suffers the pain of her crime, And mourns her deplorable doom.

At midnight four times in each year does her sprite, When mortals in slumber are bound, Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white, Appear in the hall of the skeleton knight, And shriek as he whirls her around.

While they drink out of skulls, newly torn from the grave, Dancing around them the spectres are seen; Their liquid is blood, and this horrible stave They howl: "To the health of Alonzo the Brave, And his consort, the Fair Imogene."

MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS (MONK LEWIS).

_AN ALL-AROUND INTELLECTUAL MAN._

He was up in mathematics, had a taste for hydrostatics, and could talk about astronomy from Aristarchus down; He could tell what kind of beans were devoured by the Chaldeans, and he knew the date of every joke made by a circus clown.

He was versed in evolution, and would instance the poor Russian as a type of despotism in the modern age of man. He could write a page of matter on the different kinds of batter used in making flinty gim-cracks on the modern cooking plan.

He could revel in statistics, he was well up in the fistics, knew the pedigree of horses dating 'way back from the ark. Far and wide his tips were quoted, and his base-ball stuff was noted. In political predictions he would always hit the mark.

He could write upon the tariff, and he didn't seem to care if he was called off to review a book or write a poem or two: He could boil down stuff and edit, knew the value of a credit, and could hustle with the telegraph in a style excelled by few. He could tell just how a fire should be handled; as a liar he was sure to exercise a wise, discriminative taste. He was mild and yet undaunted, and no matter what was wanted he was always sure to get it first, yet never was in haste.

But despite his reputation as a brainy aggregation, he was known to be deficient in a manner to provoke. For no matter when you met him he would borrow if you let him, and he seemed to have the faculty of always being broke.

TOM MASSON.

_HER IDEAL._

She wanted to reach an ideal; She talked of the lovely in art, She quoted from Emerson's Essays, And said she thought Howells had "heart." She doted on Wagner's productions, She thought comic opera low, And she played trying tunes on a zither, Keeping time with a sandal-shod toe.

She had dreams of a nobler existence-- A bifurcated, corsetless place, Where women would stand free and equal As queens of a glorious race. But her biscuits were deadly creations That caused people's spirits to sink, And she'd views on matters religious That drove her relations to drink.

She'd opinions on co-education, But not an idea on cake; She could analyse Spencer or Browning, But the new kitchen range wouldn't bake. She wanted to be esoteric, And she wore the most classical clothes; But she ended by being hysteric And contracting a cold in her nose.

She studied of forces hypnotic, She believed in theosophy quite, She understood themes prehistoric And said that the faith cure was right. She wanted to reach the ideal, And at clods unpoetic would rail, And her husband wore fringe on his trousers And fastened them on with a nail!

KATE MASTERSON.

_THE HAPPY FARMER._

The farmer is a happy man, His life is free from care, With naught to make his spirit sad Or make him want to swear; All day among the cockle burrs He gaily grubs and hoes, And money never troubles him, Unless 'tis what he owes.

How sweet at early dawn of day To rise before the sun, And hustle briskly round the barn Till all the chores are done; To feed the cows, and milk them, too, In brightly shining pails, The while they tread upon your corns And thump you with their tails.

How sweet to hie into the field, From breakfast smoking hot, And chase a plough all day around A forty acre lot, And, when it strikes against a stone, Drawn by the horses stout, To have the handles prance around And punch your daylights out.

How sweet at noon to lie at ease Beneath some spreading tree, And hold a secret session With an ardent bumble bee, And when your rheumatism makes Your legs refuse to go, How sweet to lie upon your back And watch your mortgage grow.

And when the busy cares of day Have faded with the light, How sweet to lie in peaceful sleep Throughout the dewy night, And to hear the partner of your joys, At the first faint tinge of dawn, Shout, "Come, old granger, hump yourself The cows are in the corn."

MORTIMER C. BROWN.

_THE SON OF A SOLDIER_

BY OWEN OLIVER.

(_Reprinted from "To-Day" by kind permission of the Author._)

You'll be sure to know my daddy, 'Cause he wears a coat of red. An' a rifle, an' a bay'net, An' a helmet on his head. An' he's very big an' handsome, An' his name is Sergeant Smith, An' he's gone to fight the Boers That our Queen is angry with. He's the good Queen's faithful soldier, So he's angry, too, of course-- I expects they _will_ be frightened When they know my daddy's cross!