Chapter 3

Take another cup o' tea, Mr. Crane. Why, you don't mean to say you've got done supper! ain't you gwine to take nothin' more? no more o' the pie? nor the sass? Well, won't you have another pickle? Oh, that reminds me: I was a-gwine to tell what Carline Gallup said about Kesier Winkle. Why, Kier, seems to me you ain't very perlite to leave the table afore anybody else does. Oh, yes, I remember now; it's singin'-school night: I s'pose it's time you was off. Melissy, you want to go tew, don't you? Well, I guess Mr. Crane'll excuse you. We'll jest set back the table ag'in' the wall. I won't dew the dishes jest now. Me and Melissy does the work ourselves, Mr. Crane. I hain't kept no gal sense Melissy was big enough t' aid and assist me. I think help's more plague than profit. No woman that has growed-up darters needn't keep help if she's brung up her gals as she'd ought tew. Melissy, dear, put on your cloak: it's a purty tejus evenin'. Kier, you tie up your throat: you know you was complainin' of a soreness in't to-day; and you must be keerful to tie it up when you cum hum: it's dangerous t' egspose yerself arter singin'--apt to give a body the brown-critters,--and that's turrible. You couldn't sing any more if you should git that, you know. You'd better call for Mirandy and Seliny, hadn't you? Don't be out late.

Now, Mr. Crane, draw up to the stove: you must be chilly off there. You gwine to the party to Major Coon's day arter to-morrow? S'pose they'll give out ther invatations to-morrow. Do go, Mr. Crane: it'll chirk you up and dew you good to go out into society ag'in. They say it's to be quite numerous. But I guess ther won't be no dancin' nor highty-tighty dewin's. If I thought ther would be I shouldn't go myself; for I don't approve on 'em, and couldn't countenance 'em. What do you think Sam Pendergrass's wife told me? She said how't the widder Jinkins (she 'twas Poll Bingham) is a-havin' a new gownd made a purpose to wear to the party,--one of these 'ere flambergasted, blazin' plaid consarns, with tew awful wide kaiterin' flounces around the skirt. Did you ever! How reedickilous for a woman o' her age, ain't it? I s'pose she expects t' astonish the natyves, and make her market tew, like enough. Well, she's to be pitied. Oh, Mr. Crane, I thought I _should go off_ last night when I see that old critter squeeze up and hook onto you. How turrible imperdent, wa'n't it! But seems to me I shouldn't 'a' felt as if I was obleeged to went hum with her if I'd 'a' ben in your place, Mr. Crane. She made a purty speech about me to the lectur': I'm 'most ashamed to tell you on't, Mr. Crane, but it shows what the critter is. Kier says he heered her stretch her neck acrost and whisper to old Green, "Mr. Green, don't you think the widder Bedott seems to be wonderfully took up with _crainiology_?" She's the brazin'-facedest critter 't ever lived; it does beat all; I never _did_ see her equill. But it takes all sorts o' folks to make up the world, you know. What did I understand you to say, Mr. Crane?--a few minnits' conversation with me? Deary me! Is it anything pertickler, Mr. Crane? Oh, dear suz! how you _dew_ frustrate me! Not that it's anything oncommon fer the gentlemen to ax to have private conversations with me, you know; but then--but then--bein' you, it's different: circumstances alter cases, you know. What was you a-gwine to say, Mr. Crane?

Oh, no, Mr. Crane, by no manner o' means; 'tain't a minute tew soon for you to begin to talk about gittin' married ag'in. I am amazed you should be afeerd I'd think so. See--how long's Miss Crane been dead? Six months!--land o' Goshen!--why, I've know'd a number of individdiwals get married in less time than that. There's Phil Bennet's widder 't I was a-talkin' about jest now,--she 'twas Louisy Perce: her husband hadn't been dead but _three_ months, you know. I don't think it looks well for a _woman_ to be in such a hurry; but for a _man_ it's a different thing: circumstances alter cases, you know. And then, sittiwated as you be, Mr. Crane, it's a turrible thing for your family to be without a head to superintend the domestic consarns and 'tend to the children,--to say nothin' o' yerself, Mr. Crane. You dew need a companion, and no mistake. Six months! Good grevious! Why, Squire Titus didn't wait but six _weeks_ after he buried his fust wife afore he married his second. I thought ther' wa'n't no partickler need o' his hurryin' so, seein' his family was all growed up. Such a critter as he pickt out, tew! 'Twas very onsuitable; but every man to his taste,--I hain't no dispersition to meddle with nobody's consarns. There's old farmer Dawson, tew,--his pardner hain't ben dead but ten months. To be sure, he ain't married yet; but he would 'a' ben long enough ago, if somebody I know on 'd gin him any incurridgement. But 'tain't for me to speak o' that matter. He's a clever old critter, and as rich as a Jew; but--lawful sakes!--he's old enough to be my father. And there's Mr. Smith,--Jubiter Smith: you know him, Mr. Crane,--his wife, (she 't was Aurory Pike) she died last summer, and he's ben squintin' round among the wimmin ever since, and he _may_ squint for all the good it'll dew him so far as I'm consarned,--though Mr. Smith's a respectable man,--quite young and hain't no family,--very well off, tew, and quite intellectible,--but I'm purty partickler. Oh, Mr. Crane, it's ten years come Jinniwary sense I witnessed the expiration o' my belovid companion!--an uncommon long time to wait, to be sure; but 'tain't easy to find anybody to fill the place o' Hezekier Bedott. I think _you're_ the most like husband of ary individdiwal I ever see, Mr. Crane. Six months! murderation! cur'us you should be afeard I'd think 'twas too soon. Why, I've knowed--

_Mr. Crane_--Well, widder, I've been thinking about taking another companion, and I thought I'd ask you--

_Widow_--Oh, Mr. Crane, egscuse my commotion; it's so onexpected. Jest hand me that are bottle of camfire off the mantletry shelf: I'm ruther faint. Dew put a little mite on my handkercher and hold it to my nuz. There, that'll dew: I'm obleeged tew ye. Now I'm ruther more composed: you may perceed, Mr. Crane.

_Mr. C._--Well, widder, I was a-going to ask you whether--whether--

_Widow_--Continner, Mr. Crane,--dew. I know it's turrible embarrassin'. I remember when my dezeased husband made his suppositions to me he stammered and stuttered, and was so awfully flustered it did seem as if he'd never git it out in the world; and I suppose it's ginerally the case,--at least it has been with all them that's made suppositions to me: you see they're generally oncerting about what kind of an answer they're a-gwine to git, and it kind o' makes 'em narvous. But when an individdiwal has reason to s'pose his attachment's reciperated, I don't see what need there is o' his bein' flustrated,--though I must say it's quite embarrassin' to me. Pray continner.

_Mr. C._--Well, then, I want to know if you're willing I should have Melissy.

_Widow_--The dragon!

_Mr. C._--I hain't said anything to her about it yet,--thought the proper way was to get your consent first. I remember when I courted Trypheny we were engaged some time before mother Kenipe knew anything about it, and when she found it out she was quite put out because I didn't go to her first. So when I made up my mind about Melissy, thinks me, I'll do it right this time, and speak to the old woman first--

_Widow_--_Old woman_, hey! That's a purty name to call me!--amazin' perlite, tew! Want Melissy, hey! Tribble-ation! gracious sakes alive! Well, I'll give it up now! I always knowed you was a simpleton, Tim Crane, but, I _must_ confess, I didn't think you was _quite_ so big a fool. Want Melissy, dew ye? If that don't beat all! What an everlastin' old calf you must be, to s'pose she'd _look_ at _you_! Why, you're old enough to be her father, and more, tew; Melissy ain't only in her twenty-oneth year. What a reedickilous idee for a man o' your age! As gray as a rat, tew! I wonder what this world _is_ a-comin' tew: 'tis astonishin' what fools old widdiwers will make o' themselves! Have Melissy! Melissy!

_Mr. C._--Why, widder, you surprise me. I'd no idee of being treated in this way, after you'd ben so polite to me, and made such a fuss over me and the girls.

_Widow_--Shet yer head, Tim Crane; nun o' yer sass to me. _There's_ your hat on that are table, and _here's_ the door; and the sooner you put on _one_ and march out o' t'other the better it will be for you. And I advise you, afore you try to git married ag'in, to go out West and see 'f yer wife's cold; and arter yer satisfied on that p'int, jest put a little lampblack on yer hair,--'twould add to yer appearance, undoubtedly, and be of sarvice tew you when you want to flourish round among the gals; and when ye've got yer hair fixt, jest splinter the spine o' your back,--'twouldn't hurt your looks a mite: you'd be intirely unresistible if you was a _leetle_ grain straiter.

_Mr. C._--Well, I never!

_Widow_--Hold your tongue, you consarned old coot you! I tell you _there's_ your hat, and _there's_ the door: be off with yerself, quick metre, or I'll give ye a h'ist with the broomstick.

_Mr. C._--Gimmeni!

_Widow_ (rising)--Git out, I say! I ain't a-gwine to stan' here and be insulted under my own ruff; and so git along; and if ever you darken my door ag'in, or say a word to Melissy, it'll be the wuss for you,--that's all.

_Mr. C._--Treemenjous! What a buster!

_Widow_--Go 'long,--go 'long,--go long, you everlastin' old gum! I won't hear another word (stops her ears). I won't. I won't. I won't. (Exit Mr. Crane.)

* * * * *

(Enter Melissy, accompanied by Captain Canoot.)

Good-evenin', cappen! Well, Melissy, hum at last, hey? Why didn't you stay till mornin'? Purty business keepin' me up here so late waitin' for you, when I'm eny-most tired to death iornin' and workin' like a slave all day,--ought to ben abed an hour ago. Thought ye left me with agreeable company, hey? I should like to know what arthly reason you had to s'pose old Crane's was agreeable to me? I always despised the critter; always thought he was a turrible fool, and now I'm convinced on't. I'm completely dizgusted with him; and I let him know it to-night. I gin him a piece o' my mind't I guess he'll be apt to remember for a spell. I ruther think he went off with a flea in his ear. Why, cappen, did ye ever hear of such a piece of audacity in all yer born days? for him--_Tim Crane_--to durst to expire to my hand,--the widder o' Deacon Bedott! Jest as if _I_'d condescen' to look at _him_,--the old numskull! He don't know B from a broomstick; but if he'd 'a' stayed much longer I'd 'a' teached him the difference, I guess. He's got his _walkin'-ticket_ now. I hope he'll lemme alone in futur'. And where's Kier? Gun home with the Cranes, hey! Well, I guess it's the last time. And now, Melissy Bedott, you ain't to have nothin' more to dew with them gals,--d'ye hear? You ain't to 'sociate with 'em at all arter this: 'twould only be incurridgin' the old man to come a-pesterin' me ag'in; and I won't have him round,--d'ye hear? Don't be in a hurry, cappen, and don't be alarmed at my gettin' in such a passion about old Crane's persumption. Mebby you think 'twas onfeelin' in me to use him so,--and I don't say but what 'twas, _ruther_; but then he's so awful dizagreeable tew me, you know: 'tain't _everybody_ I'd treat in such a way. Well, if you _must_ go, good-evenin'! Give my love to Hanner when you write ag'in: dew call frequently, Captain Canoot,--dew.

THE LUGUBRIOUS WHING-WHANG

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

The rhyme o' The Raggedy Man's 'at's best Is Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs,-- 'Cause that-un's the strangest of all o' the rest, An' the worst to learn, an' the last one guessed, An' the funniest one, an' the foolishest.-- Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

I don't know what in the world it means-- Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!-- An' nen when I _tell_ him I don't, he leans Like he was a-grindin' on some machines An' says: Ef I _don't_, w'y, I don't know _beans_! Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

Out on the margin of Moonshine Land, Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs! Out where the Whing-Whang loves to stand, Writing his name with his tail in the sand, And swiping it out with his oogerish hand; Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

Is it the gibber of Gungs or Keeks? Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs! Or what _is_ the sound that the Whing-Whang seeks? Crouching low by the winding creeks And holding his breath for weeks and weeks! Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

Anoint him, the wraithest of wraithly things! Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs! 'Tis a fair Whing-Whangess, with phosphor rings, And bridal-jewels of fangs and stings; And she sits and as sadly and softly sings As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings,-- Tickle me, Dear, Tickle me here, Tickle me, Love, in me Lonesome Ribs!

THE RUNAWAY TOYS

BY FRANK L. STANTON

The Hobby Horse was so tired that day, With never a bite to eat, That he whispered the Doll: "I shall run away!" And he galloped out to the street With the curly-headed Doll Baby on his back; And hard at his heels went the Jumping Jack! And the little boy--he never knew, Though the little Steam Engine blew and blew!

Then the Humming Top went round and round, And crashed through the window-pane, And the scared Tin Monkey made a bound For the little red Railroad Train. The painted Duck went "Quack! quack! quack!" But the Railroad Train just whistled back! Till the Elephant saw what the racket meant And packed his trunk and--away he went!

The little Toy Sheep in the corner there Was bleating long and loud; But the Parrot said "Hush!" and pulled his hair, And he galloped off with the crowd! And the Tin Horn blew and the Toy Drum beat, But away they went down the frightened street, Till they all caught up with the Railroad Train, And they never went back to their homes again!

The blue policeman and all the boys Went racing away--away! For a big reward for the runaway Toys Was cried in the streets that day. But they kept right on round the world so wide, While the Little Boy stood on the steps and cried. Where did they go to, and what did they do? Bored a hole to China and--dropped through!

TIM FLANAGAN'S MISTAKE

BY WALLACE BRUCE AMSBARY

Dat Irishman named Flanagan, He's often joke wid me, He leeve here now mos' twanty year, Ver' close to Kankakee; I always look for chance to gat An' even op wid heem, But he's too smart, exception wance, Dis Irishman named Tim.

Wan Sunday tam' I'm walking out I meet Tim on de knoll, We bot' are hav' a promenade An' mak' a leddle stroll; We look down from de top of hill, An' on de reevere's edge Is w'at you call a heifer calf,-- He stan' dere by de hedge.

Dat calf stan' still an' wag hees tail On eas' an' den wes' side, An' den he wag it to de sout' For whip flies off hees hide; I say to Tim dat heifer calf Dat stan' so quiet still, You can not push him on de stream; He say, "By gosh, I will."

An' den he grin an' smile out loud, He fall opon de groun', An' den he laugh wance mor' again An' roll de place aroun': He say, 'twill be a ver' good joke Opon dat heifer calf, An' wance mor' he start op h'right quick An' mak' de beeg horse laugh.

Says Tim, "You watch me now, ma frien', I'll geeve dat calf wan scare, I will rone down an' push him quick On Kankakee Reevere." An' he laugh out a beeg lot mor', Den he t'row off hees hat, An' start down hill two-forty gait, He fly as swif' as bat.

Dat calf he stan' an' wag hees tail For 'bout two t'ree tam' mor'; W'en Tim com' ronnin' down de hill She move two yard down shore; But Tim now com' lak' cannon ball, He can't turn right nor lef', He miss de calf an' den, by gosh! Fall on reevere himse'f.

Dose Sunday close dat Tim had on He wet dem t'roo an' t'roo, An' w'en he pick himse'f op slow An' walk heem out de sloo, He say, "Dat's good I mak' a laugh Before I tak' dat fall; I laugh not den, I hav' no fone Out of dis t'ing at all."

THE MILLIONAIRES

BY MAX ADELER

It had always been one of the luxuries of the Grimeses to consider what they would do if they were rich. Many a time George and his wife, sitting together of a summer evening upon the porch of their own pretty house in Susanville, had looked at the long unoccupied country-seat of General Jenkins, just across the way, and wished they had money enough to buy the place and give it to the village for a park.

Mrs. Grimes often said that if she had a million dollars, the very first thing she would do would be to purchase the Jenkins place. George's idea was to tear down the fences, throwing everything open, and to dedicate the grounds to the public. Mrs. Grimes wanted to put a great free library in the house and to have a club for poor working-women in the second-floor rooms. George estimated that one hundred thousand dollars would be enough to carry out their plans. Say fifty thousand dollars for purchase money, and then fifty more invested at six per cent. to maintain the place.

"But if we had a million," said George, "I think I should give one hundred and fifty thousand to the enterprise and do the thing right. There would always be repairs and new books to buy and matters of that kind."

But this was not the only benevolent dream of these kind-hearted people. They liked to think of the joy that would fill the heart of that poor struggling pastor, Mr. Borrow, if they could tell him that they would pay the whole debt of the Presbyterian Church, six thousand dollars.

"And I would have his salary increased, George," said Mrs. Grimes. "It is shameful to compel that poor man to live on a thousand dollars."

"Outrageous," said George. "I would guarantee him another thousand, and maybe more; but we should have to do it quietly, for fear of wounding him."

"That mortgage on the Methodist Church," said Mrs. Grimes. "Imagine the happiness of those poor people in having it lifted! And so easy to do, too, if we had a million dollars."

"Certainly, and I would give the Baptists a handsome pipe-organ instead of that wheezing melodeon. Dreadful, isn't it?"

"You can get a fine organ for $2,000," said Mrs. Grimes.

"Yes, of course, but I wouldn't be mean about it; not mean on a million dollars. Let them have a really good organ, say for $3,000 or $3,500; and then build them a parsonage, too."

"The fact is," said Mrs. Grimes, "that people like us really ought to have large wealth, for we know how to use it rightly."

"I often think of that," answered George. "If I know my own soul I long to do good. It makes my heart bleed to see the misery about us, misery I am absolutely unable to relieve. I am sure that if I really had a million dollars I should not want to squander it on mere selfish pleasure, nor would you. The greatest happiness any one can have is in making others happy; and it is a wonder to me that our rich people don't see this. Think of old General Jenkins and his twenty million dollars, and what we would do for our neighbors with a mere fraction of that!"

"For we really want nothing much for ourselves," said Mrs. Grimes. "We are entirely satisfied with what we have in this lovely little home and with your $2,000 salary from the bank."

"Almost entirely," said George. "There are some few little things we might add in--just a few; but with a million we could easily get them and more and have such enormous amounts of money left."

"Almost the first thing I would do," said Mrs. Grimes, "would be to settle a comfortable living for life on poor Isaac Wickersham. That man, George, crippled as he is, lives on next to nothing. I don't believe he has two hundred dollars a year."

"Well, we could give him twelve hundred and not miss it and then give the same sum to Widow Clausen. She can barely keep alive."

"And there's another thing I'd do," said Mrs. Grimes. "If we kept a carriage I would never ride up alone from the station or for pleasure. I would always find some poor or infirm person to go with me. How people can be so mean about their horses and carriages as some rich people are is beyond my comprehension."

It is delightful pastime, expending in imagination large sums of money that you haven't got. You need not regard considerations of prudence. You can give free rein to your feelings and bestow your bounty with reckless profusion. You obtain almost all the pleasure of large giving without any cost. You feel nearly as happy as if you were actually doing the good deeds which are the children of your fancy.

George Grimes and his wife had considered so often the benevolences they would like to undertake if they had a million dollars that they could have named them all at a moment's notice without referring to a memorandum. Nearly everybody has engaged in this pastime, but the Grimeses were to have the singular experience of the power to make their dream a reality placed in their hands.

For one day George came flying home from the bank with a letter from the executors of General Jenkins (who died suddenly in Mexico a week or two before) announcing that the General had left a million dollars and the country-seat in Susanville to George Grimes.

"And to think, Mary Jane," said George when the first delirium of their joy had passed, "the dear old man was kind enough to say--here, let me read it to you again from the quotation from the will in the letter: 'I make this bequest because, from repeated conversations with the said George Grimes, I know that he will use it aright.' So you see, dear, it was worth while, wasn't it, to express our benevolent wishes sometimes when we spoke of the needs of those who are around us?"

"Yes, and the General's kind remark makes this a sacred trust, which we are to administer for him."

"We are only his stewards."

"Stewards for his bounty."

"So that we must try to do exactly what we think he would have liked us to do," said George.

"Nothing else, dear?"

"Why, of course we are to have some discretion, some margin; and besides, nobody possibly could guess precisely what he would have us do."

"But now, at any rate, George, we can realize fully one of our longing desires and give to the people the lovely park and library?"

George seemed thoughtful. "I think, Mary Jane," he said, "I would not act precipitately about that. Let us reflect upon the matter. It might seem unkind to the memory of the General just to give away his gift almost before we get it."

They looked at each other, and Mrs. Grimes said:

"Of course there is no hurry. And we are really a little cramped in this house. The nursery is much too small for the children and there is not a decent fruit tree in our garden."

"The thing can just stay open until we have time to consider."

"But I am so glad for dear old Isaac. We can take care of him, anyhow, and of Mrs. Clausen, too."

"To be sure," said George. "The obligation is sacred. Let me see, how much was it we thought Isaac ought to have?"

"Twelve hundred a year."

"H-m-m," murmured George, "and he has two hundred now; an increase of five hundred per cent. I'm afraid it will turn the old man's head. However, I wouldn't exactly promise anything for a few days yet."

"Many a man in his station in life is happy upon a thousand."

"A thousand! Why, my dear, there is not a man of his class in town that makes six hundred."

"George?"

"Well?"

"We must keep horses, and there is no room to build a stable on this place."

"No."