Chapter 8

"Shir'less!" said Miss Ophelia to herself, proceeding to tumble over the drawer, where she found a nutmeg-grater and two or three nutmegs, a Methodist hymn-book, a couple of soiled Madras handkerchiefs, some yarn and knitting-work, a paper of tobacco and a pipe, a few crackers, one or two gilded china saucers with some pomade in them, one or two thin old shoes, a piece of flannel carefully pinned up enclosing some small white onions, several damask table-napkins, some coarse crash towels, some twine and darning-needles, and several broken papers, from which sundry sweet herbs were sifting into the drawer.

"Where do you keep your nutmegs, Dinah?" said Miss Ophelia, with the air of one who "prayed for patience."

"Most anywhar, missis; there's some in that cracked tea-cup up there, and there's some over in that ar cupboard."

"Here are some in the grater," said Miss Ophelia, holding them up.

"Laws, yes; I put 'em there this morning; I likes to keep my things handy," said Dinah. "You Jake! what are you stopping for? You'll cotch it! Be still, thar!" she added, with a dive of her stick at the criminal.

"What's this?" said Miss Ophelia, holding up the saucer of pomade.

"Laws, it's my _har-grease_: I put it thar to have it handy."

"Do you use your mistress's best saucers for that?"

"Law! it was 'cause I was driv' and in sich a hurry. I was gwine to change it this very day."

"Here are two damask table-napkins."

"Them table-napkins I put thar to get 'em washed out some day."

"Don't you have some place here on purpose for things to be washed?"

"Well, Mas'r St. Clair got dat ar chest, he said, for dat; but I likes to mix up biscuit and hev my things on it some days, and then it ain't handy a-liftin' up the lid."

"Why don't you mix your biscuits on the pastry-table, there?"

"Law, missis, it gets sot so full of dishes, and one thing and another, der ain't no room, noways."

"But you should wash your dishes, and clear them away."

"Wash my dishes!" said Dinah, in a high key, as her wrath began to rise over her habitual respect of manner. "What does ladies know 'bout work, I want to know? When'd mas'r ever get his dinner, if I was to spend all my time a-washin' and a-puttin' up dishes? Miss Marie never telled me so, nohow."

"Well, here are these onions."

"Laws, yes!" said Dinah; "that _is_ whar I put 'em, now. I couldn't 'member. Them's particular onions I was a savin' for dis yer very stew. I'd forgot they was in dat ar old flannel."

Miss Ophelia lifted out the sifting papers of sweet herbs. "I wish missis wouldn't touch dem ar. I likes to keep my things where I knows whar to go to 'em," said Dinah, rather decidedly.

"But you don't want these holes in the papers."

"Them's handy for siftin' on't out," said Dinah.

"But you see it spills all over the drawer."

"Laws, yes! if missis will go a-tumblin' things all up so, it will. Missis has spilt lots dat ar way," said Dinah, coming uneasily to the drawers. "If missis only will go up-sta'rs till my clarin'-up time comes, I'll have everything right; but I can't do nothin' when ladies is 'round a-henderin'. You Sam, don't you gib de baby dat ar sugar-bowl! I'll crack ye over, if ye don't mind!"

"I'm going through the kitchen, and going to put everything in order, _once_, Dinah; and then I'll expect you to _keep_ it so."

"Lor', now, Miss 'Phelia, dat ar ain't no way for ladies to do. I never did see ladies doin' no sich; my old missis nor Miss Marie never did, and I don't see no kinder need on't." And Dinah stalked indignantly about, while Miss Ophelia piled and sorted dishes, emptied dozens of scattering bowls of sugar into one receptacle, sorted napkins, table-cloths, and towels, for washing; washing, wiping and arranging with her own hands, and with a speed and alacrity which perfectly amazed Dinah.

"Lor', now! if dat ar de way dem Northern ladies do, dey ain't ladies nohow," she said to some of her satellites, when at a safe hearing-distance. "I has things as straight as anybody, when my clarin'-up times comes; but I don't want ladies 'round a-henderin' and gettin' my things all where I can't find 'em."

To do Dinah justice, she had, at irregular periods, paroxysms of reformation and arrangement, which she called "clarin'-up times," when she would begin with great zeal and turn every drawer and closet wrong side outward on to the floor or tables, and make the ordinary confusion sevenfold more confounded. Then she would light her pipe and leisurely go over her arrangements, looking things over and discoursing upon them; making all the young fry scour most vigorously on the tin things, and keeping up for several hours a most energetic state of confusion, which she would explain to the satisfaction of all inquirers by the remark that she was a "clarin'-up." "She couldn't hev things a-gwine on so as they had been, and she was gwine to make these yer young ones keep better order;" for Dinah herself, somehow, indulged the illusion that she herself was the soul of order, and it was only the _young uns_, and the everybody else in the house, that were the cause of anything that fell short of perfection in this respect. When all the tins were scoured, and the tables scrubbed snowy white, and everything that could offend tucked out of sight in holes and corners, Dinah would dress herself up in a smart dress, clean apron, and high, brilliant Madras turban, and tell all marauding "young uns" to keep out of the kitchen, for she was gwine to have things kept nice. Indeed, these periodic seasons were often an inconvenience to the whole household, for Dinah would contract such an immoderate attachment to her scoured tin as to insist upon it that it shouldn't be used again for any possible purpose,--at least till the ardor of the "clarin'-up" period abated.

THE STRIKE AT HINMAN'S

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

Away back in the fifties, "Hinman's" was not only the best school in Peoria, but it was the greatest school in the world. I sincerely thought so then, and as I was a very lively part of it, I should know. Mr. Hinman was the Faculty, and he was sufficiently numerous to demonstrate cube root with one hand and maintain discipline with the other. Dear old man; boys and girls with grandchildren love him to-day, and think of him among their blessings. He was superintendent of public instruction, board of education, school trustee, county superintendent, principal of the high school and janitor. He had a pleasant smile, a genius for mathematics, and a West Point idea of obedience and discipline. He carried upon his person a grip that would make the imported malady which mocks that name in these degenerate days, call itself Slack, in very terror at having assumed the wrong title.

We used to have "General Exercises" on Friday afternoon. The most exciting feature of this weekly frivolity consisted of a free-for-all exercise in mental arithmetic. Mr. Hinman gave out lists of numbers, beginning with easy ones and speaking slowly; each succeeding list he dictated more rapidly and with ever-increasing complications of addition, subtraction, multiplication and division, until at last he was giving them out faster than he could talk. One by one the pupils dropped out of the race with despairing faces, but always at the closing peremptory:

"Answer?"

At least a dozen hands shot into the air and as many voices shouted the correct result. We didn't have many books, and the curriculum of an Illinois school in those days was not academic; but two things the children could do, they could spell as well as the dictionary and they could handle figures. Some of the fellows fairly wallowed in them. I didn't. I simply drowned in the shallowest pond of numbers that ever spread itself on the page. As even unto this day I do the same.

Well, one year the Teacher introduced an innovation; "compositions" by the girls and "speakin' pieces" by the boys. It was easy enough for the girls, who had only to read the beautiful thought that "spring is the pleasantest season of the year." Now and then a new girl, from the east, awfully precise, would begin her essay--"spring is the most pleasant season of the year," and her would we call down with derisive laughter, whereat she walked to her seat, very stiffly, with a proud dry-eyed look in her face, only to lay her head upon her desk when she reached it, and weep silently until school closed. But "speakin' pieces" did not meet with favor from the boys, save one or two good boys who were in training by their parents for congressmen or presidents.

The rest of us, who were just boys, with no desire ever to be anything else, endured the tyranny of compulsory oratory about a month, and then resolved to abolish the whole business by a general revolt. Big and little, we agreed to stand by each other, break up the new exercise, and get back to the old order of things--the hurdle races in mental arithmetic and the geographical chants which we could run and intone together.

Was I a mutineer? Well, say, son, your Pa was a constituent conspirator. He was in the color guard. You see, the first boy called on for a declamation was to announce the strike, and as my name stood very high--in the alphabetical roll of pupils--I had an excellent chance of leading the assaulting column, a distinction for which I was not at all ambitious, being a stripling of tender years, ruddy countenance, and sensitive feelings. However, I stiffened the sinews of my soul, girded on my armor by slipping an atlas back under my jacket and was ready for the fray, feeling a little terrified shiver of delight as I thought that the first lick Mr. Hinman gave me would make him think he had broken my back.

The hour for "speakin' pieces," an hour big with fate, arrived on time. A boy named Aby Abbott was called up ahead of me, but he happened to be one of the presidential aspirants (he was mate on an Illinois river steamboat, stern-wheeler at that, the last I knew of him), and of course he flunked and "said" his piece--a sadly prophetic selection--"Mr. President, it is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of hope." We made such suggestive and threatening gestures at him, however, when Mr. Hinman wasn't looking, that he forgot half his "piece," broke down and cried. He also cried after school, a little more bitterly, and with far better reason.

Then, after an awful pause, in which the conspirators could hear the beating of each other's hearts, my name was called.

I sat still at my desk and said:

"I ain't goin' to speak no piece."

Mr. Hinman looked gently surprised and asked:

"Why not, Robert?"

I replied:

"Because there ain't goin' to be any more speakin' pieces."

The teacher's eyes grew round and big as he inquired:

"Who says there will not?"

I said, in slightly firmer tones, as I realized that the moment had come for dragging the rest of the rebels into court:

"All of us boys!"

But Mr. Hinman smiled, and said quietly that he guessed there would be "a little more speaking before the close of the session." Then laying his hand on my shoulder, with most punctilious but chilling courtesy, he invited me to the rostrum. The "rostrum" was twenty-five feet distant, but I arrived there on schedule time and only touched my feet to the floor twice on my way.

And then and there, under Mr. Hinman's judicious coaching, before the assembled school, with feelings, nay, emotions which I now shudder to recall, I did my first "song and dance." Many times before had I stepped off a solo-cachuca to the staccato pleasing of a fragment of slate frame, upon which my tutor was a gifted performer, but never until that day did I accompany myself with words. Boy like, I had chosen for my "piece" a poem sweetly expressive of those peaceful virtues which I most heartily despised. So that my performance, at the inauguration of the strike, as Mr. Hinman conducted the overture, ran something like this--

"Oh, not for me (whack) is the rolling (whack) drum, Or the (whack, whack) trumpet's wild (whack) appeal! (Boo-hoo!) Or the cry (swish--whack) of (boo-hoo-hoo!) war when the (whack) foe is come (ouch!) Or the (ow--wow!) brightly (whack) flashing (whack-whack) steel! (wah-hoo, wah-hoo!)"

Words and symbols can not convey to the most gifted imagination the gestures with which I illustrated the seven stanzas of this beautiful poem. I had really selected it to please my mother, whom I had invited to be present, when I supposed I would deliver it. But the fact that she attended a missionary meeting in the Baptist church that afternoon made me a friend of missions forever. Suffice it to say, then, that my pantomime kept pace and time with Mr. Hinman's system of punctuation until the last line was sobbed and whacked out. I groped my bewildered way to my seat through a mist of tears and sat down gingerly and sideways, inly wondering why an inscrutable providence had given to the rugged rhinoceros the hide which the eternal fitness of things had plainly prepared for the school-boy.

But I quickly forgot my own sorrow and dried my tears with laughter in the enjoyment of the subsequent acts of the opera, as the chorus developed the plot and action. Mr. Hinman, who had been somewhat gentle with me, dealt firmly with the larger boy who followed, and there was a scene of revelry for the next twenty minutes. The old man shook Bill Morrison until his teeth rattled so you couldn't hear him cry. He hit Mickey McCann, the tough boy from, the Lower Prairie, and Mickey ran out and lay down in the snow to cool off. He hit Jake Bailey across the legs with a slate frame, and it hurt so that Jake couldn't howl--he just opened his mouth wide, held up his hands, gasped, and forgot his own name. He pushed Bill Haskell into a seat and the bench broke.

He ran across the room and reached out for Lem Harkins, and Lem had a fit before the old man touched him. He shook Dan Stevenson for two minutes, and when he let him go, Dan walked around his own desk five times before he could find it, and then he couldn't sit down without holding on. He whipped the two Knowltons with a skate-strap in each hand at the same time; the Greenwood family, five boys and a big girl, he whipped all at once with a girl's skipping rope, and they raised such a united wail that the clock stopped.

He took a twist in Bill Rodecker's front hair, and Bill slept with his eyes open for a week. He kept the atmosphere of that school-room full of dust, and splinters, and lint, weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth, until he reached the end of the alphabet and all hearts ached and wearied of the inhuman strife and wicked contention. Then he stood up before us, a sickening tangle of slate frame, strap, ebony ferule and skipping rope, a smile on his kind old face, and asked, in clear, triumphant tones:

"WHO says there isn't going to be any more speaking pieces?"

And every last boy in that school sprang to his feet; standing there as one human being with one great mouth, we shrieked in concerted anguish:

"NOBODY DON'T!"

And your Pa, my son, who led that strike, has been "speakin' pieces" ever since.

A NAUTICAL BALLAD

BY CHARLES E. CARRYL

A capital ship for an ocean trip Was the "Walloping Window-blind"; No gale that blew dismayed her crew Or troubled the captain's mind. The man at the wheel was taught to feel Contempt for the wildest blow, And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared, That he'd been in his bunk below.

"The boatswain's mate was very sedate, Yet fond of amusement, too; And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch, While the captain tickled the crew. And the gunner we had was apparently mad, For he sat on the after rail, And fired salutes with the captain's boots, In the teeth of the booming gale.

"The captain sat in a commodore's hat And dined in a royal way On toasted pigs and pickles and figs And gummery bread each day. But the cook was Dutch and behaved as such; For the diet he gave the crew Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns Prepared with sugar and glue.

"All nautical pride we laid aside, And we cast the vessel ashore On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles, And the Rumbletumbunders roar. And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge And shot at the whistling bee; And the cinnamon-bats wore water-proof hats As they danced in the sounding sea.

"On rubgub bark, from dawn to dark, We fed, till we all had grown Uncommonly shrunk,--when a Chinese junk Came by from the torriby zone. She was stubby and square, but we didn't much care, And we cheerily put to sea; And we left the crew of the junk to chew The bark of the rubgub tree."

NATURAL PERVERSITIES

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

I am not prone to moralize In scientific doubt On certain facts that Nature tries To puzzle us about,-- For I am no philosopher Of wise elucidation, But speak of things as they occur, From simple observation.

I notice _little_ things--to wit:-- I never missed a train Because I didn't _run_ for it; I never knew it rain That my umbrella wasn't lent,-- Or, when in my possession, The sun but wore, to all intent, A jocular expression.

I never knew a creditor To dun me for a debt But I was "cramped" or "busted"; or I never knew one yet, When I had plenty in my purse, To make the least invasion,-- As I, accordingly perverse, Have courted no occasion.

Nor do I claim to comprehend What Nature has in view In giving us the very friend To trust we oughtn't to.-- But so it is: The trusty gun Disastrously exploded Is always sure to be the one We didn't think was loaded.

Our moaning is another's mirth,-- And what is worse by half, We say the funniest thing on earth And never raise a laugh: Mid friends that love us overwell, And sparkling jests and liquor, Our hearts somehow are liable To melt in tears the quicker.

We reach the wrong when most we seek The right; in like effect, We stay the strong and not the weak-- Do most when we neglect.-- Neglected genius--truth be said-- As wild and quick as tinder, The more you seek to help ahead The more you seem to hinder.

I've known the least the greatest, too-- And, on the selfsame plan, The biggest fool I ever knew Was quite a little man: We find we ought, and then we won't-- We prove a thing, then doubt it,-- Know _everything_ but when we don't Know _anything_ about it.

BUDD WILKINS AT THE SHOW

BY S.E. KISER

Since I've got used to city ways and don't scare at the cars, It makes me smile to set and think of years ago.--My stars! How green I was, and how green all them country people be-- Sometimes it seems almost as if this hardly could be me.

Well, I was goin' to tell you 'bout Budd Wilkins: I declare He was the durndest, greenest chap that ever breathed the air-- The biggest town on earth, he thought, was our old county seat, With its one two-story brick hotel and dusty bizness street.

We'd fairs in fall and now and then a dance or huskin' bee, Which was the most excitin' things Budd Wilkins ever see, Until, one winter, Skigginsville was all turned upside down By a troupe of real play actors a-comin' into town.

The court-house it was turned into a theater, that night, And I don't s'pose I'll live to see another sich a sight: I guess that every person who was able fer to go Jest natchelly cut loose fer oncet, and went to see the show.

Me and Budd we stood around there all day in the snow, But gosh! it paid us, fer we got seats right in the second row! Well, the brass band played a tune or two, and then the play begun, And 'twa'n't long 'fore the villain had the hero on the run.

Say, talk about your purty girls with sweet, confidin' ways-- I never see the equal yit, in all o' my born days. Of that there brave young heroine, so clingin' and so mild, And jest as innocent as if she'd been a little child.

I most forgot to say that Budd stood six feet in his socks, As brave as any lion, too, and stronger than an ox! But there never was a man, I'll bet, that had a softer heart, And he was always sure to take the weaker person's part.

Budd, he fell dead in love right off with that there purty girl, And I suppose the feller's brain was in a fearful whirl, Fer there he set and gazed at her, and when she sighed he sighed, And when she hid her face and sobbed, he actually cried.

He clinched his fists and ground his teeth when the villain laid his plot And said out loud he'd like to kill the rogue right on the spot, And when the hero helped the girl, Budd up and yelled "Hooray!" He'd clean fergot the whole blame thing was nothing but a play.

At last the villain trapped the girl, that sweet confidin' child, And when she cried for help, why I'll admit that I was riled; The hero couldn't do a thing, but roll and writhe around And tug and groan because they'd got the poor chap gagged and bound.

The maiden cried: "Unhand me now, or, weak girl that I am--" And then Budd Wilkins he jumped up and give his hat a slam, And, quicker'n I can tell it he was up there raisin' Ned, A-rescuin' the maiden and a-punchin' the rogue's head.

I can't, somehow, perticklerize concernin' that there row: The whole thing seems a sort of blur as I recall it now-- But I can still remember that there was a fearful thud, With the air chock full of arms and legs and the villain under Budd.

I never see a chap so bruised and battered up before As that there villain was when he was picked up from the floor!-- The show? Oh, it was busted, and they put poor Budd in jail, And kept him there all night, because I couldn't go his bail.

Next mornin' what d' you think we heard? Most s'prised in all my life! That sweet, confidin' maiden was the cruel villain's wife! Budd wilted when he heard it, and he groaned, and then, says he: "Well, I'll be dummed! Bill, that's the last play actin' show fer me!"

BALLAD

BY CHARLES GODFREY LELAND

Der noble Ritter Hugo Von Schwillensaufenstein, Rode out mit shpeer and helmet, Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine.

Und oop dere rose a meer maid, Vot hadn't got nodings on, Und she say, "Oh, Ritter Hugo, Vhere you goes mit yourself alone?"

And he says, "I rides in de creenwood Mit helmet und mit shpeer, Till I cooms into em Gasthaus, Und dere I trinks some beer."

Und den outshpoke de maiden Vot hadn't got nodings on: "I tont dink mooch of beoplesh Dat goes mit demselfs alone.

"You'd petter coom down in de wasser, Vere deres heaps of dings to see, Und hafe a shplendid tinner Und drafel along mit me.

"Dere you sees de fisch a schwimmin, Und you catches dem efery one:"-- So sang dis wasser maiden Vot hadn't got nodings on.

"Dere ish drunks all full mit money In ships dat vent down of old; Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder! To shimmerin crowns of gold.

"Shoost look at dese shpoons und vatches! Shoost see dese diamant rings! Coom down und full your bockets, Und I'll giss you like avery dings.

"Vot you vantsh mit your schnapps und lager? Coom down into der Rhine! Der ish pottles der Kaiser Charlemagne Vonce filled mit gold-red wine!"

_Dat_ fetched him--he shtood all shpell pound; She pooled his coat-tails down, She drawed him oonder der wasser, De maidens mit nodings on.

THE HOOSIER AND THE SALT PILE

BY DANFORTH MARBLE