Part 2

“Well, those cakes of ice were evidently formed in a hens’ drinking-pan. They are solid. The water froze a little all day long, and froze solid in the night. It was thawed out in the morning and left lying there, and the pan was refilled. There are seven cakes of ice; therefore there has been a week of very cold weather. They are side by side: from this we gather that it was a methodical man who attended to them; evidently no hireling, but the goodman himself. Methodical in little things, methodical in greater ones; and method spells success with hens. The thickness of the ice also proves that comparatively little water was drunk; consequently he keeps a small flock. Twelve is the model number among advanced poultrymen, and he is evidently one. Then, the clearness of the ice shows that the hens are not excitable Leghorns, but fowl of a more sluggish kind, although whether Plymouth Rocks or Brahmas or Langshans, I can’t say. Leghorns are so wild that they are apt to stampede through the water and roil it. The closed door shows he has the good sense to keep them shut up in cold weather.

“To sum up, then, this wide-awake poultryman has had wonderful success, in spite of a week of exceptionally cold weather, from his flock of a dozen hens of some large breed. How’s that, Mr. Phelps? Isn’t it almost equal to Doyle?”

“Yes; but not accordin’ to Hoyle, ez ye might say,” said he. “Your reasonin’ is good, but it ain’t quite borne aout by the fac’s. In the fust place, this is the fust reel cold day we’ve hed this winter. Secon’ly, they ain’t no boss to the place, fer she’s a woman. Thirdly, my haouse is the nex’ one to this, an’ my boy an’ hers hez be’n makin’ those ice-cakes fer fun in some old cream-pans. Don’t take long to freeze solid in this weather. An’, las’ly, it ain’t a hen-haouse, but an ice-haouse.”

The sun rode with unusual quietness through the heavens. We heard no song of bird. The winds were whist. All nature was silent.

So was Jones.

VII

MY SPANISH PARROT

I have two maiden aunts living down in Maine, on the edge of the woods. Their father was a deaf-and-dumb woodsman, and their mother died when they were small, and they hardly see a soul from one year’s end to the other. The consequence is, they’re the simplest, dearest old creatures one ever saw. They don’t know what evil means. They pass their days knitting and working in their garden. The quarterly visits of the itinerant preacher who deals out the gospel in that region, and my occasional trips up there, constitute the only chances they have of mingling with the outside world, and they’re as happy and unsophisticated as birds.

A year ago I took up a parrot that I’d bought of a sailor. The bird had a cold when I got it, and wasn’t saying a word; but the sailor vouched for its character, and I thought it would be a novelty and company for the old ladies, so I took it along. They’d never seen a parrot before, and they couldn’t thank me enough. I told them that when it got over its cold it would talk; and then it occurred to me that as the sailor of which I bought it was a Spaniard, the bird would be likely to speak that tongue. “So you’ll be able to learn Spanish,” said I; and they were mightily pleased at the notion.

In about two months I received a letter from Aunt Linda, saying that the bird was the greatest company in the world, and they didn’t know what they’d do without him. “And,” wrote my aunt, “the bird is a great talker of Spanish, and we have learned much of that strange tongue.”

I was amused at the idea of those maiden aunts of mine talking Spanish, and the next week, being in the vicinity, I took the stage over to where they live, about fifteen miles from any railroad.

They saw me alight, and came out to meet me--two pretty, sweet, prim-looking old ladies. I kissed them both heartily, and then Aunt Linda said, in her gentle voice: “I’m so glad you’ve come, you dear old blankety-blank blank blank boy. That’s Spanish.”

I nearly fell off my perch, but I managed to keep a straight face, and then dear Aunt Jane said softly and proudly: “Why the blankety-blank blank don’t you come to see us oftener, you blankety-blank blank boy?”

It made my blood run cold to hear the oaths those innocent creatures poured out on me all day. The parrot followed me around, and perked his head on one side, as much as to say, “Aren’t they apt pupils?” but he never opened his mouth to talk--and there really wasn’t any need. They kept me supplied with conversation on their quiet doings, all interlarded with their new-found “Spanish,” until it was time to go to bed.

I hadn’t the heart to tell them that the tongue in which they were so fluent was not Spanish; and as their hearts were as pure as a baby’s, and they saw no one, I said nothing; but when I left, early next morning, I was careful to bid them good-by out of ear-shot of the stage-coach, and it’s lucky I did, for the torrent of billingsgate that they poured fondly over me would have caused the occupants of the coach to think entirely unwarranted things of the old ladies.

As I climbed up to the seat by the driver, a man got out of the stage and walked up to the house.

“Good heavens! who’s that?” I asked of the driver.

“Thet,” said he, “is the Methody preacher makin’ his quarterly visit to th’ old ladies.”

VIII

“TO MEET MR. CAVENDISH”

The card read, “To meet Mr. Cavendish.” I had not been in Boston long, and I must confess to a poor head for names, so I had no idea who Mr. Cavendish was or what he had done, but as he was to be at Mrs. Emerson’s, I knew he had done something.

There were only five guests there, besides Mr. Cavendish, when I arrived, and after we were introduced it so happened that Cavendish and I found ourselves talking together.

He looked tired, so I said as a starter: “Don’t you find your work exhausting?” I thought I’d play “twenty questions” with him, and determine what he had done.

“Sometimes it is, very. The expenditure of force fairly makes my throat ache.”

It was easy. He was probably a Wagnerian singer.

“I suppose you have to be very careful about your throat.”

“Why, no,” he said; “I never think about my throat.”

He wasn’t a singer.

“Well, you’re in love with your art.”

He smiled. “Yes, I’m in love with it.”

I was in despair. What was he?

But now I would nail him. “What are your methods of work, Mr. Cavendish?”

“Oh, I don’t spend much time in over-elaboration. My brush-strokes are very broad.”

Ah, a painter! “Exactly,” I said. “You like a free hand.”

He said: “After all, the words are everything.”

Ah, a writer! “Yes,” said I; “your words are everything to the public.”

“I hope so. I try to make them so,” he said modestly.

Now I felt easier, and proceeded to praise him specifically.

“Which do you like best--to make your public laugh or cry? or do you aim to instruct it?”

“It is easy to make persons laugh, so I suppose I like rather to bring them to tears. As for instruction, there are those who say it is not our province to instruct.”

“But you do all three, Mr. Cavendish.”

He bowed as if he thought I had hit it.

I said: “To those who are familiar with your work there is something that makes you just the man to pick up for a quarter of an hour.”

His blank expression showed that I had made some mistake. He is a tall, portly man, and he seemed alarmed at the prospect of being picked up. A fall would be serious.

“I don’t quite get your meaning, but I suppose you refer to the men about town who stray in for a few minutes.”

It seemed a queer way to express it, but I replied: “Oh, yes; just to browse. You repay browsing, Mr. Cavendish.”

He smiled reminiscently. “Speaking of browsing, when I was told to go ahead on Richelieu, I browsed a long time in the British Museum getting up data.”

What, a painter, after all? I forgot all else he had said, and told him I thought he was as happy as Sargent or Whistler.

“Yes; I don’t let little things worry me much. Sometimes the paint gives out at a critical time in a small town.”

Good heaven! Why should the paint give out in a small town at a critical time? _Was_ he a painter, after all? Could he be a traveling sign-painter?

“Does it bother you to work up in the air?”

“That’s an original way of putting it,” said he, with a genial laugh. “To play to the grand stand, as it were. Oh, no; a man must do more or less of that to succeed.”

I was shocked. “You surely don’t believe in desecrating nature! Sermons in stones, if you will, but not sermons _on_ stones. You wouldn’t letter the Palisades if you had a chance, would you?”

He edged away from me, and said:

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t letter the Palisades, although I dare say my man of affairs would be glad to.”

Then I gave up. His man of affairs! He must be a gentleman of leisure to have a man of affairs.

And then up came Ticknor Fields, the dramatic critic, and said: “How do you do, Mr. Cavendish? Let me congratulate you upon your success as Richelieu. At last a successor to Booth has been found.”

I went and drank a glass of iced water. My throat was dry.

IX

INSTINCT SUPPLIED TO HENS

A company has just been formed in New Jersey for the purpose of supplying instinct to hens. Such well-known farmers as Frank R. Stockton, Russell Sage, and Bishop Potter are stockholders in it, and if filling a long-felt want is all that is needed, the success of the company is already assured.

No one who has ever dabbled in hens needs to be told that the gallinaceous birds have no instinct whatever. Some have blind luck, but a hen with instincts in good working order would be an anomaly.

I visited Mr. Stockton at his extensive farm in New Jersey in order to find out what I could about the project. I found him in a frock-coat and overalls, training a squash-vine up a maple-tree. He greeted me cordially, and asked me to come and see his tomato-trenches. He also showed me quite an extensive area covered with birch poles for his radishes to climb on. He was very urbane, and willingly told me all about the company.

“No man,” said he, sitting down on one of his largest cucumbers and motioning me to a seat on another, “who has ever kept hens but has wondered why they were not provided with a good commonsense brand of instinct. No animal needs instinct more than a hen. It was to supply this need that our company was formed. You know that if you put a hen on cobblestones, she will brood over them with all the devotion possible, and if at the end of three weeks you put a baby chicken under her, her--what you might term false instinct--will cause her to cluck and call to the cobble to come forth and follow her.”

I admitted the force of his remark, because when a boy I had once set a hen on some green apples, and she had covered them without a murmur for a week, when I took pity on her and replaced them with real eggs. The following day, not liking the feeling of the eggs, she left them, and gathering together the apples that I had left scattered upon the barn floor, she sat on them again.

I told this experience to Mr. Stockton, and he said: “If she’d had a few of our instinct-powders before sitting she would have repudiated the fraud at once. Is it instinct, or the lack of it,” he continued, “that makes a heavy Light Brahma plant a ponderous and feathered foot upon her offspring and listen calmly to their expiring peeps? It’s lack of it; she needs one of our powders.”

I made a mental calculation of the number of chickens that I had seen sacrificed in that way by motherly and good-natured hens who would have felt hurt if you had told them that they did not know how to bring up their young.

We had risen, and were now walking as we talked, and we soon came to Mr. Stockton’s corn-trellises. He is a great believer in climbing, and it was a pretty sight to see his corn waving in the breeze that blew through the trellis netting.

“Poultry-raising would be an unmixed joy,” said he, as he picked a turnip and offered it to me, “if a fellow wasn’t constantly running up against this lack of instinct on the part of the fowls. If a hen had instinct she’d know enough to keep her mouth shut when she laid an egg; but as it is, she cackles away like a woman with a secret, and before she knows it her egg is on the way to the table. But the aim of our company will be to furnish each hen with a sufficient amount of instinct to render her profitable to her master. When she has that instinct she will not sit on her nest long after her eggs have been removed; she will not walk off through the long grass, calling to her brood to follow her, when the chicks have all been swallowed by the treacherous domestic cat; and she will not do the thousand and one things that any hen, no matter what her breed or breeding, will do, as it is.”

I told Mr. Stockton, as I shook hands with him in parting, that there was not a farmer, either amateur or professional, in the whole Union, who would not be glad to purchase a package of his instinct-powders; and as I left the genial granger, he was putting cushions under his watermelons so that they would not get bruised by contact with the earth.

X

A SPRING IDYL

It was a bright morning in early spring--one of the delightful, languorous days that take the sap out of one and make the life of the tramp seem blissful. The maples were just putting forth their delicate crimson leaves, and a warm south wind bore into the city the smell of fresh earth. Ah, what longings were stirred up in the breast of Key, Pattit & Company’s office-boy, country-bred, but pent up in the city for a twelvemonth past! Oh, for one day in the country! He would follow the winding trout-stream from its source in Perkins’s meadow until it emptied into the Naugatuck, and with angleworms dug from the famous spot north of the barn he would lure the coy trout from their shaded lurking-places.

Hark! what was that? The “drowsy tinkling” of a cow-bell--of cow-bells. What sweet music! It drove him wild with longing, as louder and ever louder, and nearer and yet nearer, came the sound of bells. Ah, he could see Jerry, the hired man, driving the cows up the grassy lane. As usual, Betty, the Jersey, was in the lead. And there was greedy Daisy, lingering to crop the rich grass that grew along the lane until Jerry’s “Whe-e-y, whe-e-y!” should bid her hurry on. And there were the twin heifers, Nanny and Fanny, perfectly matched Holsteins. And in the rear, plodding on with dignity and fatness, was Diana, the great Devon.

How the bells jangled! Surely it was not seeming, but actuality. They were right outside on the street.

Impulsively he ran to the office window and looked down with boyish anticipation.

“Jingle-jangle!” went the bells. “Rha-ags, rha-ags, any ol’ rha-ags!” shouted the ragman.

XI

AN INVERTED SPRING IDYL

It was a bright morning in the early spring, a time to call forth poetic fancies in the mind of the most prosaic; and Jack was more imaginative than many boys. He had been spending the winter at his uncle’s in the country, and these warm, languorous days had made him long for New York once more. He sat astride of a maple-branch, on which the crimson leaves were just peeping out. Ah me, what would he not give to be back in the city! He leaned back against the tree-trunk and gave himself over to day-dreams.

The boys on his block were spinning tops. Oh, for a good hard city pavement for just five minutes, that he might do the same. Through the hazy air came the anything but drowsy tinklings of the grip-men’s gongs; a scissors-grinder blew his horn; and the exciting clang of an ambulance-gong split the air as the ambulance rattled over the Belgian blocks. Oh, for an hour of the dear city in the happy springtime! To hear once more the piano-organ and the harp, and the thousand delightful sounds that were so lamentably absent from the country!

What was that? Did he hear bells? Yes, surely it was the ragman. He had never realized how he loved him. He could see the fellow, lean and ragged and bent, pushing his cart, while from his lips came the cry of “Rha-ags! rha-ags!” and from the sagging cord the sweet bells jingled. Yes, surely it was the bells. All thought of the lonely country faded away, and he was once more home; the boys were just around the corner, and the bells were coming nearer.

Their tintinnabulations grew so loud that he waked from his day-dream and saw--not a familiar and beloved city sight, but a tiresome herd of cows coming home to be milked, their harsh bells jangling out of tune.

XII

AT THE CHESTNUTS’ DINNER

The Hoary Chestnuts were assembling for their annual Christmas dinner. Sweet music was discoursed by the chestnut bell, and, despite their age and many infirmities, the members wore a look of gaiety suitable to so festive an occasion. There was not a young joke among them, excepting a very few special jokes like the Trolley variety and the Cuban War joke, and these, from overwork, were as superannuated-looking as the oldest there. Not a well-known joke but would come. Of course they would all live until the next dinner, for an old joke is immortal; but this yearly gathering was their only chance to meet and shake hands generally, as during the rest of the year they would be scattered through the columns of the dailies and the comic weeklies, and their meetings would be chance ones.

The hearty old Mother-in-law joke chatted gaily with that venerable old lady, I-will-be-a-sister-to-you. The adorable twins, Ballet-girl’s-age and Ballet-girl’s-scant-raiment, were the center of a group made up of the haughty Rich-plumber, the Rejected-manuscript, the Slow-messenger-boy, the Sleeping-watchman, and a good score of Boarding-house jokes. The one called Boarding-house-coffee felt a little stirred up at the false report that he was losing ground, and he had an unsettled look upon his swarthy and senile features. The idea was absurd on the face of it, for undoubtedly he would be printed in every section of the country before the month was out, as he had been any month for decades past. The Summer jokes, including, of course, the star jest, the Summer-girl, looked comparatively fresh, as they were not in use the year round, like Her-father’s-foot, for instance, or that other member of the same family, the Chicago-girl’s-foot, that year in and year out is used as a laugh-producer.

The Boston jokes, icy and reserved, sat apart from the rest, and glared at each other in a near-sighted way. The Freak jokes, on the contrary, were hail-fellow-well-met with every one, and their vulgar laughter could be heard everywhere.

A good deal of sympathy was expressed for Actor-walking-home, for he was so feeble that he had to be helped across the room by Weary Wraggles. The Tramps were out in force. Tickets to the dinner were five dollars, and it was rumored that Dusty Rhodes had worked his way in, but upon reflection the idea will be seen to be preposterous.

There was a strong smell of cloves in the air when the door opened for the entrance of old Between-the-acts. He came arm in arm with that other favorite, Detained-at-the-lodge.

The Farmer jokes came in a little late. Their chores had detained them. But their entrance was hailed with delight by a body of paragraphers who sat in the gallery as representatives of the press, and who had paid many a bill, thanks to the Farmers.

A joke, rather square-cut and with wheels in his head, came in with a “Where is she?” look on his dial, and as soon as he said, “I expected to meter here,” he was recognized as Big-gas-bill. The Wheel jokes were conspicuous by their absence. This was explained on the ground that they were not yet old enough to become Hoary Chestnuts, and, as a relentless paragrapher remarked, “They were tired, anyhow.”

The last ones to arrive were the Cannibal and Tough-missionary; and the chairman of the reception committee having assigned them seats at opposite ends of the table, all sat down, and the annual balloting to determine what had been the most popular joke of the year was begun.

Many voted for themselves, notably the Boston-bean joke and the Rich-plumber; but when the votes were counted, the successful person proved to be neither of these, but a hideously homely woman with a perpetual smirk upon her face.

“Who’s she?” asked one paragrapher of another.

“You don’t know her? Why, that’s My-face-is-my-fortune-then-you-must-be-dead-broke.”

And they crowned her with laurel as unquestionably the most perennially popular joke.

XIII

THE ROUGH WORDS SOCIETY

The other day I passed a house on which there was a sign that read, “The Rough Words Society.” Curious to know what it could mean, I retraced my steps, and met a millionaire whom I had long admired from a distance--he was so rich--just leaving the door. It was a presumptuous thing to do, but I said, “How do you do, sir?” in my best manner. He bowed with some urbanity, and I ventured to ask him whether he could tell me anything about the society whose rooms he had just left. “I thought maybe you were president, sir, or one of the directors.”

“No; I am a subscriber. If you care to hear about it, come down-town with me, as I am in a hurry,” he replied.

A minute later I was actually in a cab with a millionaire! My heart beat hard, but I kept my ears open, and he said:

“You see, a multi-millionaire like myself seldom meets the frank side of people. They are afraid of offending me,” he observed, as we went on our way. “My pastor hangs on my words, my clerks speak in subdued tones, my servants hardly dare address me; and yet, I was once a barefoot boy, and was considered a scapegrace by the village people who to-day bow ceremoniously when I chance to go back to my native place. Well, such sycophancy becomes wearing, and I often used to wish that some one would tell me I lied, or some other wholesome truth.”

I shook my head deprecatingly, whereat he seemed annoyed, but went on: “One day I was passing through the street where you met me, and I saw the sign, and, like yours, my curiosity was excited, and I went in. I found a room somewhat like a telegraph-office in appearance. A very downright, uncompromising-looking man sat at a roll-top desk, while ranged against the wall were several men of exceedingly bluff appearance. ‘Can you tell me what the aims of your society are?’ I asked the man. ‘Certainly I can,’ said he. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t.’ Not a cringe, you see. It was refreshing. ‘Well, will you?’ ‘It depends,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know for? Are you a reporter, or do you want to subscribe?’

“I suddenly divined the purpose of the society, and I said: ‘I want to subscribe. What are your terms?’ ‘A hundred dollars for a fifteen-minute séance, one hundred and fifty dollars for a half-hour, and two hundred dollars for a full hour.’ I handed him a hundred-dollar bill and said: ‘Explain.’ ‘Jack,’ said he, addressing a bullet-headed man who was sitting with his feet up on the railing that divided the room into two parts, ‘give this man a piece of your mind.’ Jack ran through a directory of millionaires containing photographs and short biographical sketches, and when he had found mine he sailed in and talked as plainly as any one could. Didn’t say a word that wasn’t true; but he didn’t mince his language, and he was no more abashed by my position in the world than if I’d still been a barefoot boy. It did me good. He overhauled many of my acts during the last twenty years, and talked to me like a Dutch uncle. Refreshed? Why, a Turkish bath is not in it for comfort! After he’d finished, the manager said I could have an extra in the way of a little billingsgate if I cared to; but, if I was born poor, I have always had gentlemanly instincts, and so I told him I guessed not.