IT is the custom for an
author to preface his volume with an apology for appearing before the public.
In this case, an apology is needed, I fear, for the author not appearing ere
this. It is four years since I came to you in book-shape: the absence was
unavoidable. When "Life in Danbury" was published, I believed it
would be the last, as it was the first, compilation of writings I should make.
Even in the flush of its great success I did not waver in this belief. In the
intervening years I have been frequently solicited to bring out a similar book,
but steadily refused. A "similar" work was not desirable. I wanted
something different, something much better, for a second book; and enough
material for this purpose was not at hand. It required time to accumulate. That
time has been accomplished now, I believe; and I send forth this volume in the
confidence, that, whatever it may do for the publisher and myself, it is a much
better book than its predecessor.
The contents of the
first book were almost entirely selected from the issues of "The
News" in the year immediately preceding, and many of the articles were
fresh in the mind of the general reader. This was dreadfully unpleasant; but it
was unavoidable. Again: the volume was largely composed of short paragraphs,
which may have been good enough in their way, but, from their brevity, made the
reading a trifle hummocky, and tended somewhat to mar the symmetry of the plot.
I like to see the plot
of a book all right, even if the binding is a little lame.
The selections for this
volume cover a period of four years. From the abundance of material in that
time furnished, a careful and conscientious choice has been made. It is a
compilation of sketches and essays without paragraphs; and, from beginning to
end, not one of its fair pages is sullied by a pun.
It is just such a book
as I have often awaked in the night and wished the other had been, but which
was, at the time, impossible to make.
And just here I desire
to heartily thank the public for the enthusiastic reception it gave to
"Life in Danbury," and express my gratitude to the writers of the
hundreds of letters sent me by pleased readers. If I were not made proud and
happy by these manifestations of approval, I would be less than human.
Now, dear reader, do be
careful in going through this book. Do be calm: there is no hurry. It is not
intended to be read through at a sitting. Not one constitution in a hundred can
pass through such an ordeal without seriously impairing its future usefulness.
It is a work to be consulted at odd times. It is designed to rest you when you
are tired, to cheer you when depressed, and to tone you down generally when you
are inclined to make yourself disagreeable about the house.
Take it with your solid
reading as you would sauce with your food.
The man who sits down
to a dinner of roast turkey and fills himself to the brim with stewed
cranberries, is not necessarily a foe to the cook; but he should be promptly
and carefully examined by a good doctor.
This is a duty he owes
to his family, I think.
Trusting that the good
feeling brought about by the advent of the other book will be greatly
stimulated by this, I remain
Yours sincerely,
THE AUTHOR
"WELL, I declare,
if the Miggses haven’t got another young one!" observed Mrs. Melville to
Mrs. Routon, who lived next door, one morning in November last.
"You don’t
say!" exclaimed Mrs. Routon in considerable amazement, which was
heightened in effect by a mark of flour on her nose, as she was mixing bread
when the information came to her.
Yes: my Henry just told
me. It does beat all what poor people want of so many young ones. It seems as
if, the less people had, the more mouths they got to fill. Now, them Miggses
have all they can do to get bread and potatoes for what they have got; and now
they’ve gone and got another mouth to fill. I have no patience with them at
all."
It immediately
transpired that what Mrs. Melville thought was just what Mrs. Routon thought.
And it came about very soon, that the entire neighborhood was of the same
opinion. The Miggses had made an unhappy mistake.
Miggs’s Julia came in
the dawn of the day when Mrs. Melville communed with Mrs. Routon. All through
that night the wind howled and shrieked and screamed, and the rain came in
dashes so prolonged and fierce, as if it was pouring out the concentrated fury
of five centuries upon the devoted earth. It was not a propitious night for
taking a first view of this world; and perhaps that may have accounted for the
tired look in the pair of eyes which lay staring upwards when the dawn came,
and into which another pair of eyes, very large and very black, looked
hungrily. If one so young, so very young, as Miggs’s Julia undoubtedly was on
this morning of its coming, could comprehend its surroundings, then it must
have understood that it was a very unfortunate, if not a criminal, thing for it
to have come at all. There can be no doubt but that it so comprehended, and
that it so understood. There was certainly an expression on the blue and
pinched face signifying that a mistake had been made, but that it was too
helpless, if not too indifferent, to correct it.
It was not a strong
child. Mrs. Miggs said this over and over again; while Mr. Miggs, although not
equally frank, still made no denial of this state of the child’s physical
condition.
It certainly was not a
strong child. Neither was it a nervous child. Day passed into night, and
emerged again, as is its habit with every revolution of the earth; but it
brought no change to Miggs’s Julia: and it may be questioned if the puny,
silent child took any note of the fact whatever. It lay on its back in the
crib, with one very blue, and very thin, and very tiny hand clinched, and its
eyes staring helplessly upward, as if in a chronic state of apology. It was not
a healthy child, and not, by any stretch of the imagination, a handsome child:
but the Miggses never spoke of these things; and perhaps they did not notice
them. They called her Julia in deference to the aunt with the ponderous
overshoes, who visited the Miggses in state two years ago, a report of which
was faithfully rendered in these columns at the time. That was the name given
to the blue-faced baby; and by it, in full, it was called. It was such an old
baby, such a tired, unimpressible baby, that no one thought of abbreviating
Julia into any thing childish and frivolous. The awful solemnity of the pinched
face precluded any such liberty. And so all in the family called it Julia,
round and full, but very tender.
Last Thursday morning,
Mrs. Routon was mixing bread again, with a mark of flour on her nose, when Mrs.
Melville came in, and immediately said, with an effort to suppress herself
which was quite evident,--
"Have you heard
the news?"
"No. What is
it?"
"That baby of
Miggs’s is dead."
"What!"
"Yes," said
Mrs. Melville, complacently smoothing the front of her dress. "It died
this morning. It was only real sick for two or three days; but then it never
did amount to any thing, you know."
"Yes, I
know," said Mrs. Routon.
"And it’s a mercy
it’s gone," remarked Mrs. Melville in the same complacent way. "They
couldn’t have brought it up as it ought to be; and it’s a thousand times better
off where it is."
"I suppose Mrs.
Miggs feels badly about it," suggested Mrs. Routon after a pause.
"I don’t see how
she can," somewhat hastily maintained Mrs. Melville: "she’s got a
whole raft of children now, and has to pinch from morning to night to get them
half clothed and fed. She ought to be thankful that this one is gone where it
won’t suffer any more."
Do you hear that,
Matilda Miggs? You ought to be thankful that your baby is gone, and to realize
that it is a mercy that it is gone. That’s what you ought to be; but you don’t
look much like it, crouched up in a corner on the floor like a stricken beast,
with your great eyes staring agonizingly at the clinched white hand and the
pinched face looking upward from the crib. Ah, Matilda Miggs! there are a score
of neighbors far better informed than you are, who can tell you, and are
anxious to tell you, that you ought to be thankful that the little clinched
hand is a dead hand, and that the white face now set heavenward forever is a
dead face. Never again will the tiny fingers loosen to pass softly over your
face; never again will the closed eyes open to look wonderingly into yours: but
you are not thankful for this. If you were in the least bit grateful, you would
not crouch down there in the corner. Are you always going to remain there? Are
you always going to stare like that? Won’t you cry out? Won’t you unclinch your
hands? Don’t you see that you are disturbing and distressing those who come and
look into the crib, and go again, by your stony eyes and your ghastly face?
Don’t you know that you
are flying into the very face of society, and the very best society at that?
And you, John Miggs,
with your great hulk of a frame, and white eyes that stare at every thing, and
see nothing, standing at the back of the house, and chewing things, and
spitting them out again, and kicking things you can’t chew,--you are far from
looking grateful, however grateful you may feel. Don’t you hear what society
says to you? You ought to be grateful that the white face is staring no more at
your ceiling, that the tired eyes are no more looking for bread, and that the
pitiful mouth has grown close in death, and will never open again for you to
fill it,--never again. Look up at the heavens, John Miggs, and see how ragged
are the clouds which cover them. Look all about you over the earth with its
decay, and its filth and debris, and bareness and rust, and then look upon
yourself and your home, and see poverty and struggling everywhere. Ain’t you
glad that the pinched face is a dead face? If you ain’t glad, you are a foe to
society, and as much of an animal as the woman with the stricken face and the
despairing eyes.
And as for you, Tommy
Miggs, grovelling on the dirty slabs of the shed-floor, there is some excuse
for you, because you are young. But even you have felt the grip of your
lifetime foe; and even you ought to get up on your feet, and take the patched
arms from over the aching head, and choke back that nameless feeling in your
breast which makes your throat dry and your eyes lustreless, and try to look
glad.
And there is the
"whole raft" of Miggses, knuckling their aching eyes with their
rebellious fists, and crying silently in darkened corners for the baby-face
with its tired look and its pitiful eyes to come back to them.
There is not a spark of
gratitude in all that house,--not one single spark of gratitude. It is awful.
HE was a stranger to
Danbury, and somewhat inebriated, we are sorry to say. Where he came from, and
where he was going, were facts that did not transpire while he was among us.
His first appearance was in the bank. There was an old gentleman at the patrons’
desk, laboriously indorsing a check. The stranger went up to him, and slapped
him on the back without ostentation. The old gentleman’s pen was just in the
act of completing the tour of the letter Z. The jar sent it up to the
north-west corner of the paper, and thence drove it into the desk. The writer
turned about in unmitigated astonishment.
"What do you want,
sir?" he demanded, with his spectacles reeling around on the end of his
nose from the effect of the shock.
"I come to see you
about Taylor," said the stranger.
"Taylor? What
Taylor?"
"Zach., of course;
President, you know," explained the stranger with an agreeable smile.
"Lays down there now; not a stone to mark his grave, by Jinks!" and
the stranger’s face suddenly grew serious.
"What do I know
about that?" said the old gentleman, grabbing up the pen.
"Ain’t you going
to do any thing about it?" demanded the stranger, catching hold of the
desk to steady himself.
"Go way! you’re
drunk!" pettishly exclaimed the old gentleman, discovering this and the
horrid scratch on the check both at the same time.
"Drunk yourself,
you ole fool!" retorted Mr. Taylor’s friend, looking about for the man who
stood back of the counter when he came in. Not seeing him, however, he gave the
old gentleman a cordial invitation to go soak himself, and departed. The moment
he got outside of the door, the cashier of the bank appeared from under the
counter, and gazed absently at the ceiling.
The stranger next went
into Morrill’s toy-store. Mr. Morrill, who is a thin, tall person, was
endeavoring to sell a lady a horse and wagon artistically constructed of tin,
and elaborately colored.
"Good-afternoon,"
said he with a merchant’s seductive smile.
"How are ye?"
responded the stranger. "Are you the proprietor?"
"I am."
"Glad to see you.
Will you just step one side a moment? I want to see you on special
business."
Mr. Morrill took the
new-comer to the end of the room, and then looked anxiously at him.
"You are nicely
fixed here, I imagine," said the stranger, peering around. "Dolls
with yaller hair, painted dogs, primers, tops, etcettery. Did you ever
think," he suddenly added, "that while you stood in the midst of all
this glitter, like a god in a barrel of ice-cream, the grave of Pres. Taylor
has no stone to mark the spot?"
"You’ll excuse me,
sir," said Mr. Morrill, nervously glancing toward the waiting lady;
"but you spoke of a matter of importance."
"Ain’t it a matter
of importance that the grave of the illustrious dead should be hid away under
weeds like a bag of stolen apples?"
"I know,
sir," said Mr. Morrill soothingly. "But you see I’m very busy just at
present, and while I naturally feel a deep interest in Mr. Taylor’s affairs,
still there’s a lady here to purchase a horse and wagon."
"Of course you are
a man of feeling," gracefully complied the stranger. "Just gimme ten
cents, and I’ll see that Zach. Taylor has an obelisk over his mound before
night."
"You’ll have to
excuse me;" and Mr. Morrill moved back to the lady.
"Ain’t you goin’
to give me ten cents, you old shrimp?" demanded the stranger with an
uncomfortable rise to his voice.
"What do you
mean?" gasped the mortified and greatly astonished merchant.
"I want ten cents
for the illustrious dead," yelled Mr. Taylor’s friend.
"You go out of
this store, or I’ll put you out," threatened Mr. Morrill.
"You’ll put me
out, will you, old flat-stomach?" derisively snorted the stranger.
"You’ll pick me right up an’ drop me in the gutter, I suppose, you old
lath, and the grave of a president as bald as your skull. Gimme ten cents, I
say, or I’ll cut off your ears, and shove you under the door."
Mr. Morrill was struck
dumb with horror.
"By Godfrey!"
suddenly ejaculated the stranger, smiting his forehead in a paroxysm of grief,
"to think of Zach. Taylor down there waiting for an obelisk,--a little
tiny obelisk,--and his only authorized agent snapped up by two quarts of bones
in a borrowed suit of clothes! I won’t stay in a town like this. I won’t stay a
minute longer. I shall go back of some freight-house and break my heart, and be
laid away with laurel and spices."
And he straightway
departed. An hour later he was sitting on a plank in the lock-up, waiting for a
freight-house and laurel and spices to come along.
AN elderly man with peaked
features, large watery eyes, and an attire of dilapidated respectability,
called at a Danbury house last Friday morning for a "lunch." He said
he was travelling from Boston to Buffalo, at which latter place he had great
expectations. He sat down at the kitchen-table, with his long legs coiled up
under it, and his long arms spread out upon it, while his ponderous nose stood
out like a grease-spot on a pair of white pants.
The woman of the house
brought him a plate of bread and meat, and a bowl of coffee. While she was
placing the things he noticed that she wore a black dress, and a look of
pallor.
"Had a death,
madam?" he softly inquired as he squared himself for the repast.
"Yes, sir."
"Lately?"
"Last
Tuesday," she answered faintly.
"I was sure of it.
Father? mother? sister? brother?" he asked, taking up a piece of meat with
one hand, and slapping it appetitely upon a piece of bread in the other.
"My husband,
sir," she said, drawing out a handkerchief, while her lips quivered. She
looked so white and sad and drooping as she sat there, that his heart was
touched.
"Did he die a
natural death?" he asked, softly chewing on the food, and bending the full
glance of his large eyes upon her.
"Yes, sir."
"It’s a bad thing
in one so young as you to lose her protector. But he died a natural death; and
there is comfort in that." He slapped another piece of meat upon another
piece of bread, and quietly put his teeth through them.
"You know,"
he presently added, revolving the morsel in his mouth, and assuming an
appearance of delicate cheerfulness, "that he died calmly, with every want
attended to, and loving hands to administer to him. Could I trouble you for a
little mustard?" She weariedly arose, and got him the article. "There’s
comfort in that, isn’t there?" he continued, referring to the passing-away
of the deceased.
"Yes," she
said in a low tone, wiping her eyes.
"Now you
know," he said, looking intently at her with his eyes, while his hands
spread the mustard, "it might have been much different and far worse. He
might have been run over by a train of coal-cars, and cut into pound lumps
stuck full of gravel?"
"I know,"
said she with a shiver.
"Then, again, he
might have been blown up in a defective sawmill," said the stranger,
taking another bite of the food, and gently closing his eyes, as if the better
to picture the irredeemable horror of this proposition, "and only about
two-thirds of him, and that badly damaged, ever returned to your agonized sight."
A low sob behind the
handkerchief was the only response, while he opened his eyes in time to detect
a fly making extraordinary efforts to shake its hind-legs free from the
mustard. Coming mechanically to the assistance of the insect, he said,--
"It is bad enough
to lose him, I’ll admit that. No one would be so calloused as to deny
that," he said, looking around inquiringly, as if to make quite sure that
no such a party was in sight. "Still it could have been much worse, you
know. He might have been prematurely perforated with the ramrod of a cannon,
and had to have had chloroform injected in him at an expense of twenty-five
dollars a day. This would have been dreadful. But if he’d fallen into a vat of
hot oil, and had all his flesh peeled off, you’d never got over it, would
you?"
"No, sir,"
said she, burying her face still deeper in her handkerchief.
"Oh! there are a
hundred ways he might have died," he went on, taking a sweep with the
knife at a fly, in the exuberance of his delight that things were as they were,
instead of as they might have been. "He might have perished in a fire, and
been dug out of the ruins the next day with a pickaxe. He might have fallen off
a two-story building, and struck on his face, and had to have gone through the
funeral on his stomach, with weeping friends pressing the last fond kiss on the
back of his head."
Here the narrator
shuddered himself at the awful prospect of such a catastrophe, while the
bereaved woman agonizingly protested against his proceeding.
"You’ll admit it
might have been worse?" he asked with undisguised anxiety.
"Oh, yes,
sir!" she replied, wiping her eyes.
"I’m glad of
that," said he, exploring his under jaw with the fork. "Afflictions
will come; but if we try to think of those which are greater that have not come
to us, then we are better able to bear those that do. It’s been my object to
teach you that a natural death is not a thing to despise in these times of
rush, crash, and sputter; and, if you have learned the lesson, my mission is
accomplished, and I go my way. I don’t want to intrude, of course, on the
privacy of a deep grief; but if the deceased was about my build, and left
behind a vest not too gaudy in pattern, I should be pleased to take it along
with me as a souvenir of departed worth." He paused an instant, and then
added with touching solemnity, "These were his victuals; and it would seem
appropriate as well as beautiful to have them held in by his vestures."
When he went away, he
had as a souvenir of departed worth something he could pull down if required so
to do.
IF there is a vacancy
in the reportorial department of any of our contemporaries, we know of a party
who can fill it, although we do not know the party’s present address. He came
to Danbury two weeks ago to report happenings for the local edition of
"The News," and proved to be an unusually acceptable man for the
place. He was a pale-faced young man, of strong nervous force, but a calm
exterior. The expression of his features was of that peculiar kind which
implied either purity of purpose, or impurity of liver. He had been here two
weeks. He was sitting alone in the editorial room last Friday, when a knock at
the door summoned him. He opened it, and let in an elderly lady of fleshy mien,
who had been so cut in breath by getting up the stairs, that she could say
nothing until she had taken a seat.
"Is the editor
in?" she finally asked.
"No, ma’am,"
replied the reporter with his deferential look. He stood near her, with one
hand resting on the back of a chair, with an expression of tender attentiveness
on his face.
It may be well to
explain here, that Danbury contains more fast horses than any town of its size
in the world; and, in consequence, fast driving and accidents are of daily
occurrence. "The News" is located in that part of Main Street where
it suddenly sprawls out as if to make a square, but unexpectedly changes its
mind and comes back again. At this point, swift flying teams are constantly
passing.
"I’m sorry for
that," observed the old lady, speaking slowly because of the trouble with
her breath, "because I wanted to see him very much. An’ then I had such a
time to get across the street for the teams! I declare, I never saw such
driving in all my life. I should think your authorities here would put a stop
to it."
"They try
to," said the reporter; "but it is no use. Are you acquainted with
Mr. Bailey?"
"Land, no! I never
saw him, an’ that’s the reason I come in. I live in Ohio, and am visiting a
friend in Brookfield; an’ I thought, as I was so near Danbury, I would come
here an’ see him. But it ’pears I have had all my trouble for nothing."
"I am real
sorry," said the new man, his face singularly brightening as he spoke.
"But he don’t come here very often. Age is telling on him."
"He is old, then,
is he?" said the old lady. "Well, I might ha’ knowed it. But how does
he get across this street, with all the teams a-coming as they do? I should
think he would be run over and killed."
"Well, I don’t
wonder you think so. Everybody expresses the same surprise. And it is
wonderful. By Jove, madam!" continued the young man, his pale face
lighting up with a glow of animation, "you would be astonished to see the
old gentleman come across that street. He comes down that street there" (pointing
up White Street, opposite); "and, when he gets to the corner, he stops and
looks as carefully and intelligently across the road as you could wish anybody
to do it. Then he takes off his wig, and wraps it up in paper, and puts it down
the leg of one of his boots"--
"Well, I
declare!" broke in the old lady. "He wears a wig?"
"Oh, yes! The
salt-rheum carried off every hair from his head, which is as bare as a
door-knob. Then he takes out his teeth--two plates"--
"Mercy
sakes!" cried the listener. "No teeth, nuther?"
"Not of his own,
ma’am. Took so much sulphur for the salt-rheum, that it carromed on every tooth
in his head, and left his mouth as smooth as a new culvert. Then he takes out
his teeth, and puts them down the other boot-leg, and watches for his
opportunity. Pretty soon he sees an opening, and then he just bends down his
head like this" (suiting the action to the words), "and goes kiting
across, throwing both hands over his head, and yowling at the top of his voice,
’Looh haw! Looh haw!’"
"Mercy
sakes!" gasped the old lady in astonishment. "What does that
mean?"
"What, ma’am?"
"Looh haw."
"Oh, that would be
’Look out!’ if it had teeth in it; but his teeth are in his boot-leg, you know.
Just as he reaches this side, two men appointed for that purpose catch him in a
quilt, and carry him right up here, because the exertion exhausts him so that
he has no life. Then we rub him, and put in his teeth, and slap on his hair,
and fix him against the desk, and he goes right to work as natural as
anybody."
"Well, I declare,
it is wonderful!" observed the old lady. "How I would like to see the
old gentleman! But I can’t stay. Please give him my best regards."
"I will, ma’am,"
said the pale young man.
"Good-day, sir. I
am much obliged to you."
"Not at all, ma’am.
Good-day." And she was bowed out.
He left Danbury shortly
after--on foot. He wouldn’t wait for the cars. He said he might as well be
walking as standing up in a car.
WE never can tell
exactly where we lose our umbrellas. It is singular how gently an umbrella
unclasps itself from the tendrils of our mind, and floats out into the filmy
distance of nothingness.
"THE JOURNAL OF
HEALTH" says that talking at the table is one of the very best digesters.
This, then, accounts for the tremendous appetite everybody has for the Sunday
dinner. We never could understand why, with scarcely any exercise on Sunday,
the dinner of that day should be heartier and more anxiously sought for by the
diner than any other dinner. Many real good Christian people will sacrifice
Sunday school, where it is a noon session, in order to get home for something
to eat. Although the breakfast has been later than any other of the week, still
noon brings a most ravenous appetite. But it is all explained now. Talking at
table does it. Everybody knows that the Sunday breakfast is the longest on the
floor, and is more talked over than any breakfast of the week. This is the way
it comes about. The children are to be got up, and got ready for church. It is
immaterial how long people have been married: the woman always gets the
breakfast ready as soon as she has called the children. They don’t come, as a
general thing, when they are called; but no woman allows this to influence her
actions. She gets the breakfast just as punctually as if she had never had to
wait an hour or so for a dilatory family. This is the grandest illustration of
the sublime faith of woman to be found on record. With one or two of the older
children about her, she sits down to the meal. The surroundings of the
breakfast would make it a repast of lead, were it not for the conversation,
which flows smoothly on. And the great variety of subjects discussed is an
important element in the development of the gastric juices. There’s her
husband, who, seeing the breakfast about ready, thoughtfully arranges his
shaving articles, and falls to lathering his face just as he is called to the
table. It occurs to him that there should be some explanation of why the meal
is always brought on just as he gets to shaving; and he demands it. Then she
wants to know why people will persist in shaving when they know the breakfast
is right before them. Thus is one subject disposed of. Then there is the boy
who is bound to have two cups of coffee. He has to be met on the very first
opening of the rebellion.
"You sha’n’t have
another cup of coffee. One cup is enough for you. You are so nervous now, there’s
no living with you."
"I want it, I tell
you."
"And I tell you
you sha’n’t have it."
"I will have
it."
"What’s that,
sir?"
No response.
"Don’t you never
let me hear you talk like that again, sir, or I’ll give you something that’ll
make your tongue civil."
There’s the other boy,
who perceives that there is not sugar enough in his cup, and hits upon the bold
expedient of declaring that there has been no sugar put in at all.
"I know better.
You stir it up, and you’ll find it sweet enough."
"But I am stirring
it up; an’ there ain’t no sugar in it at all."
"There’s all you’ll
get; and you can drink it, or leave it alone. I’ve got something else to do
besides doctoring you for worms."
Then the father sits
down, and is being helped, when another child comes in, and, seeing his mother
occupied, backs up to her to have his apron buttoned.
The temerity of this
proceeding, although somewhere near its thousandth performance, never becomes
sufficiently familiar to be understood by the mother; and she hastily
observes,--
"Get away from
here: don’t you see I’m busy?"
The child sniffles.
"Shut up that
yawp, or I’ll give you something to sniffle for," volunteers the father.
"Why don’t you
snap the young one’s head off, and be done with it?" retorts the mother,
dropping her occupation to attend to the apron.
The father stares
morosely around the table. A moment of silence succeeds. Then, the mother’s
affectionate eye catching the vacant expression on the face of the oldest
boy,--who has a piece of bread poised uncertainly in the air, and is evidently
allowing his mind to stray beyond the home-circle,--she observes,--
"Come now, stupid!
finish your breakfast, and get ready for church; and don’t sit here gormandizing
all the forenoon."
He returns to business
at once, and another pause follows. Then comes the following:--"Take your
fingers out of that dish!"
"Stop
mussing!"
"Where’s your
collar?"
"Have you washed
back of your ears?"
"Why on earth don’t
you sit up straight?"
"I’ll box your
ears till they ring if you drop another thing on that floor."
"Get out of that
butter!"
"Stop muxin’ that
bread! One would think you were a drove of young hogs to see you at the
table."
"Come, now, get
right away from this table! You’ve eaten enough for twenty people. I sha’n’t
have you muxing and gauming up the victuals. Clear out, I tell you, and get
your Sunday-school lessons!"
Appropriate responses
being made to these observations by the parties addressed, the family adjourn
from the table, to meet again at dinner with rousing appetites.
Let’s have more
conversation at meals, if we wish to enjoy perfect digestion.
DEAR reader, here is an
occurrence common all over this broad land, but which the public knows nought
of. Scene, a lighted room. Comfortably seated at the table is a man with a
careworn face, on which are strangely blended the emotions of relief and
apprehension. He settles far back in his chair. He opens a newspaper; and,
after a cursory glance over it as a whole, he turns out the local page, and,
commencing at the first column, reads carefully down. There is a dead silence
in the room. Nought but an occasional slight movement of the paper is heard.
The man still reads. He is all absorbed in the performance. Suddenly the face,
which has become inexpressive, winces. Pretty soon there is another wince,
accompanied by either a decrease or increase of color. Nervously he begins the
next column, and goes down it more hastily than the preceding. He reaches the
bottom with a sigh of relief, and attacks the third with a trifle less
nervousness and much less expression. Suddenly he clutches the paper with a
tighter grasp, as if to save himself from falling, and utters an agonizing
exclamation. It is some five minutes before he can resume the reading. Now he
is in the last column, and is perusing the marriages. He reaches the last one.
It gives the right name of the groom and bride. There is a closing sentence
made into a separate paragraph. It is simply this: "The remains will be
brought to this town for interment." Then the man in the chair drops the
paper to the floor, catches both hands into his hair as if to lift himself from
the face of the earth, and utters a groan that seems to come from the very
depths of a crushed heart. There is not a soul to witness this misery, not a
tongue to speak one word of sympathy. All alone with himself, the wretched man,
with white face and flaming eyes, fights his great grief. No one knows his
thoughts, or ever will. It is doubtful if he thinks at all. To every appearance
he is in a stupor of misery,--a stupor so great as to deprive him of reason, of
every motion except the spasmodic twisting at his hair. Heaven help the
miserable wretch! for of all the despair and desolation and agony on this globe
of ours there is nothing to equal this. The man is a country editor; and the
paper is a copy of the edition just issued.
IN our last issue we
republished from an agricultural journal an article on feed for hens. We would
like to say here that it is the duty of journals to publish all such
information, however pertinent it may or may not be. That’s the reason we
printed the piece in question. We don’t know whether the writer knew what he
was about when he brought forth the article; and we don’t care. There was no
choice with us. We submissively appropriated it just as we do all those matters
which pertain to the house and farm department. But what we started out to do
was to protest against recipes for making hens lay more eggs than Nature
designed they should. Not a day passes but somebody comes forward with a system
or diet which he has tested to his entire satisfaction, and which is adapted to
every breed and temper of hen in existence. One man gives his fowls oats alone,
and finds that they lay a fourth more eggs than they did when he fed them
exclusively on corn. This statement fires up somebody to explain that he didn’t
know what a laying hen really was until he got to feeding his flock corn alone.
Heretofore he had dosed them with oats. Here’s a decided fix apparently; but
the next week the owner of a couple of hens in Kalamazoo modestly states in a
card, that years of careful experimenting has demonstrated beyond all cavil
that oats and corn equally mixed will fire up the ambition of any hen on the
face of the earth. So they go on in the matter of food. Then there is the man
who advises lime and oyster-shells to prevent the hens from laying soft-shelled
eggs. As a hen lays about two such eggs in the course of a year, a couple of
dollars’ worth of lime judiciously fed to her will prevent the loss, and be
money well expended. Then there is the man who advocates better ventilation.
Hens are mighty sore on the subject of ventilation, as you may have noticed.
Another recommends an air-tight roosting-place; and still another advises
shutting up the fowls all the time, and is immediately confronted by a
poulterer, who says, that, if they are not allowed to run loose, you can’t get
eggs out of them any way. These things are what give agricultural journals
their wonderful variety. But we protest against them. If any one understands a
hen’s business better than the hen itself, we are prepared to listen to him;
but, until such a phenomenon appears, we unqualifiedly refuse to republish hen
recipes. A hen’s stomach is an appalling mystery. Men who can translate the
elegies of the most barbarous of ancient nations, and give you the weight to an
ounce of a square mile of atmosphere, precipitately back down from the analysis
of a hen’s stomach. An animal that can take down a whole dish-cloth at one
gulp, and regret that it wasn’t a roll of stair-carpet, is not to be told what
it shall eat.
THERE were four of
them; and they were coming down Elm Street. They ranged from four to six years
of age. Three of them wore waists; and the fourth, a jacket. All wore
knee-pants with dark-colored stockings; and two of them had copper-toed shoes.
They were holding hands, and moving along at a rapid but irregular pace. It was
evident that something of important interest was in prospect by the expectant
eyes and flushed cheeks of the four. The calmest-looking boy had something in
his mouth, which may have tended to distract his attention from the matter in
hand. Whenever he was spoken to, which was about every thirty seconds, the line
would halt, his right hand would be loosened, and he would straightway empty
into it from his mouth a penny. While this was being done, the three other boys
would gather in front of him, and look upon the operation with breathless
interest. Having decided the point at issue, the coin would be restored with
the same solemn ceremony, the line would re-form, and move forward at a lively
pace, until another question obtruded itself for immediate consideration. The
boy with the coin was the centre of all observation and consideration of the
others. This was plain to be seen. And the number of tree-boxes and posts and
people the line fetched up against, in the determined but hopeless effort of
keeping one eye on him, and the other on the path ahead at the same time, would
seem almost incredible. But what mattered it? It was better that they should
run against everybody else than to lose sight of him a minute. Oh the tender
solicitude of these hearts for him! To ignore all the wonderful sights of the
busy street just for the sake of him! It was wonderful. When they came to an
obstruction that could not be butted over, they gave way promptly, that he
might pass safely. All the dry walks were surrendered to him without
equivocation; and as for the mud on the crosswalks, they ploughed through it
with a heroism that was delightful, so that he might pass dry-shod. It is
altogether likely they would have formed a bridge with their bodies over the
most repulsive mud, had it been necessary to secure him a safe and pleasant
transit, which fortunately it was not. But to no object of interest which
happened to catch their gaze did they fail to call his attention, and with an
anxiety that must have been very comforting to him. His name was Jim. What
their names were, there were no means of finding out, as they were not uttered.
It would have sounded like sacrilege, without doubt, to have mentioned their
titles in connection with his. What a happy group they were! How their little
feet pattered, and their little legs swung along! How their faces glowed! How
their eyes burned! They were new little boys to the street. Perhaps the
majority of them had not more than once before seen those stores,--the bright
stores with the heaps of treasure glittering through the glass. Perhaps never
again would they four share this wonderful, all-consuming ecstasy together.
Thank Heaven they enjoy it so hugely! Jim is down town to spend a penny, a
whole penny all his own; and the senses of every one of his companions is
ravished as if with the glories of paradise. How their memories are spurred up
and refreshed as they gallop along! One little boy remembers that he always helped
Jim on his lessons; another has got as clear and distinct a remembrance of the
time, two months ago, when he gave Jim a piece of rubber to chew, as if the
momentous event occurred only the day before; and the third has at his tongue’s
end a perfectly comprehensive account of an occasion when he let Jim look at a
boat he was sailing in a tub, although the event took place in the far-distant
summer. As for Jim himself, no king with a sceptre, or a god with lightnings in
his grasp, for the matter of that, ever experienced such a weight of dignified
and solemn grandeur. It seemed as if his very clothes were wrought with
diamonds and gold, and as if his spine would never desert its perpendicular.
Four little boys, hand in hand, eager, expectant, hopeful, delirious, running
at the top of their speed, and happier in the anticipation of the coming joy
than if they were lovers grown, with a dollar jewelry-store on every corner.
THIS is what may be
called a sample of practical affection. True love is not content to bask in the
sunshine without an umbrella handy in case of rain. The following letter is a
sample in question:--
IT was all about a
wash-tub. Mrs. Villiers had loaned Mrs. Ransom her wash-tub. This was two weeks
ago last Monday. When Mrs. Villiers saw it again, which was the next morning,
it stood on her back-stoop, minus a hoop. Mrs. Villiers sent over to Mrs. Ransom’s
a request for that hoop, couched in language calculated to impugn Mrs. Ransom’s
reputation for carefulness. Mrs. Ransom lost no time in sending back word that
the tub was all right when it was sent back; and delicately intimated that Mrs.
Villiers had better sweep before her own door first, whatever that might mean.
Each having discharged a Christian duty to each other, further communication
was immediately cut off; and the affair was briskly discussed by the neighbors,
who entered into the merits and demerits of the affair with unselfish zeal.
Heaven bless them! Mrs. Ransom clearly explained her connection with the tub by
charging Mr. Villiers with coming home drunk as a fiddler the night before
Christmas. This bold statement threatened to carry the neighbors over in a body
to Mrs. Ransom’s view; until Mrs. Villiers remembered, and promptly chronicled
the fact, that the Ransoms were obliged to move away from their last place
because of non-payment of rent. Here the matter rested among the neighbors,
leaving them as undecided as before. But between the two families immediately
concerned the fires burned as luridly as when first kindled. It was a constant
skirmish between the two women from early morning until late at night. Mrs.
Ransom would glare through her blinds when Mrs. Villiers was in the yard, and
murmur between her clinched teeth,--"Oh, you hussy!"
And, with that wondrous
instinct which characterizes the human above the brute animal, Mrs. Villiers
understood that Mrs. Ransom was thus engaged, and, lifting her nose at the
highest angle compatible with the safety of her spinal cord, would sail around
the yard as triumphantly as if escorted by a brigade of genuine princes.
And then would come
Mrs. Villiers’s turn at the window with Mrs. Ransom in the yard, with a like
satisfactory and edifying result.
When company called on
Mrs. Villiers, Mrs. Ransom would peer from behind her curtains, and audibly
exclaim,--
"Who’s that
fright, I wonder?"
And, when Mrs. Ransom
was favored with a call, it was Mrs. Villiers’s blessed privilege to be at the
window, and audibly observe,--
"Where was that
clod dug up from?"
Mrs. Ransom has a
little boy named Tommy; and Mrs. Villiers has a similarly sized son who
struggles under the cognomen of Wickliffe Morgan. It will happen, because these
two children are too young to grasp fully the grave responsibilities of
life,--it will happen, we repeat, that they will come together in various
respects. If Mrs. Ransom is so fortunate as to first observe one of these cohesions,
she promptly steps to the door, and, covertly waiting until Mrs. Villiers’s
door opens, she shrilly observes,--
"Thomas Jefferson,
come right into this house this minit! How many times have I told you to keep
away from that Villiers brat?"
"Villiers
brat!" What a stab that is! What subtle poison it is saturated with! Poor
Mrs. Villiers’s breath comes thick and hard; her face burns like fire; and her
eyes almost snap out of her head. She has to press her hand to her heart as if
to keep that organ from bursting. There is no relief from the dreadful
throbbing and the dreadful pain. The slamming of Mrs. Ransom’s door shuts out
all hope of succor. But it quickens Mrs. Villiers’s faculties and makes her so
alert, that when the two children come together again, which they very soon do,
she is the first at the door. Now is the opportunity to heap burning coals on
the head of Mrs. Ransom. She heaps them.
"Wickliffe Morgan!
What are you doing out there with that Ransom imp? Do you want to catch some
disease? Come in here before I skin you."
And the door slams
shut; and poor Mrs. Ransom, with trembling form, and bated breath, and flashing
eyes, clinches her fingers, and glares with tremendous wrath over the
landscape.
And in the absence of
any real, tangible information as to the loss of that hoop, this is, perhaps,
the very best that can be done on either side.
THERE is a vast
difference in the conduct of a man and a woman in new clothes. When a woman
gets a new suit, she immediately prances down town, and for hours will walk
contentedly along a crowded thoroughfare, receiving fresh impulses of joy every
time another woman scans her wardrobe. But a man is so different! He won’t put
on his new clothes for the first time until it is dark; then he goes down town
so cautiously as to almost create the impression that he is sneaking along. If
he sees a crowd on a corner, he will slip across the way to avoid them; and,
when he goes into his grocery, he tries to get behind as many barrels and boxes
as he can. All the time he is trying his level best to appear as if the suit
was six months old, and all the while realizes that he is making an infernal
failure of it. We hope the time will come when new pants will be so folded by
the manufacturer, that they won’t show a ridge along the front of each leg when
the wearer dons them.
THIS is the way Astors
are made: A Munson-street man, being told that there were several pieces of tin
which needed mending, conceived the idea of getting an iron and solder, and
doing the mending himself. His wife, filled with vague forebodings perhaps,
said that the expense was such a trifle, that it would hardly pay to do it one’s
self; to which he responded,--
"I’ll admit, that,
in this one instance, it would not pay: but there is something being in want of
repair every little while; and, if I have the tools here for fixing it, we are
saved just so much expense right along. It may not be much in the course of a
year; but every little helps, and, in time, the total would amount to a nice
little lump. We don’t want the Astors lugging off all the money in the country,
by gracious!"
He got the iron (one
dollar), and fifty cents’ worth of solder, and ten cents’ worth of rosin. He
came home with these things, and went into the kitchen, looking so proud and
happy, that his wife would have been glad he got them, were it not for an
overpowering dread of an impending muss. He called for the articles needing
repair. His wife brought out a pan.
"Where’s the rest?
Bring ’em all out, an’ let me make one job of ’em while I’m about it."
He got them all, and
seemed to be disappointed that there were not more of them. He pushed the iron
into the fire, got a milk-pan inverted on his knee, and, with the solder in his
hand, waited for the right heat.
"That iron only
cost a dollar, and it’ll never wear out; and there is enough solder in this
piece to do twenty-five dollars’ worth of mending," he explained to his
wife.
Pretty soon the iron
was at the right heat, he judged. He rubbed the rosin about the hole which was
to be repaired, held the stick of solder over it, and carefully applied the
iron. It was an intensely interesting moment. His wife watched him with
feverish interest. He said, speaking laboriously as he applied the iron,
"The-only-thing-I-regret-about-it-is-that-I-didn’t-think-of-getting-this-before-we"--Then
ascended through that ceiling, and up into the very vault of heaven, the
awfullest yell that woman ever heard; and the same instant the soldering-iron
flew over the stove, the pan went clattering across the floor, and the bar of
solder struck the wall with such force as to smash right through both the
plaster and lath. And before her horrified gaze danced her husband in an
ecstasy of agony, sobbing, screaming, and holding on to his left leg as
desperately as if it was made of solid gold, and studded with diamonds.
"Get the camphor,
why don’t you?" he yelled "Send for a doctor! Oh-oh, I’m a dead
man!" he shouted.
Just then his gaze
rested on the soldering-iron. In an instant he caught it up, and hurled it
through the window, without the preliminary of raising the sash.
It was some time before
the thoroughly frightened and confused woman learned that some of the molten
solder had run through the hole in the pan, and on to his leg, although she
knew from the first that something of an unusual nature had occurred. She didn’t
send for the doctor. She made and applied the poultices herself,--to save
expenses. She said,--
"We don’t want the
Astors lugging off all the money in the country, by gracious!"
"Come, Maria, don’t
you be too cunning," he sheepishly expostulated.
THOSE who attended the
sale of animals from Barnum’s hippodrome in Bridgeport, the other day, report
the following occurrence. A tiger was being offered. The bid run up to
forty-five hundred dollars. This was made by a man who was a stranger, and to
him it was knocked down. Barnum, who had been eying the stranger uneasily
during the bidding, now went up to him, and said,--
"Pardon me for
asking the question; but will you tell me where you are from?"
"Down South a
bit," responded the man.
"Are you connected
with any show?"
"No."
"And are you
buying this animal for yourself?"
"Yes."
Barnum shifted about
uneasily for a moment, looking alternately at the man and the tiger, and
evidently trying his best to reconcile the two together.
"Now, young
man," he finally said, "you need not take this animal unless you want
to; for there are those here who will take it off your hands."
"I don’t want to
sell," was the quiet reply.
Then Barnum said in his
desperation,--
"What on earth are
you going to do with such an ugly beast, if you have no show of your own, and
are not buying for some one who is a showman?"
"Well, I’ll tell
you," said the purchaser. "My wife died about three weeks ago. We had
lived together for ten years, and--and I miss her." He paused to wipe his
eyes, and steady his voice, and then added, "so I’ve bought this
tiger."
"I understand
you," said the great showman in a husky voice.
MR. PHIPPS, of the firm
of Phipps & Hodge, the Danbury undertakers, was sitting in his shop
Saturday afternoon, ruminating gloomily upon the dull times, when the door
opened, and in came a stranger. The visitor was a slim-faced man, dressed in a
dun-colored suit of rather tight-fitting clothes. He looked clear around the
room, carefully avoiding a glance at the undertaker until the circuit was
completed.
Then he looked
curiously at him, and said,--
"Is the boss
in?"
"Yes, sir: I’m one
of them. Is there any thing I can do for you, sir?"
"Well, that’ll
depend on how we kin deal, I reckon," replied the stranger in a tone of
subdued shrewdness. "I have just had to shoulder a pretty heavy
affliction. My old woman went under yesterday." He paused, and looked
interrogatively over the array of coffins and caskets.
"Your wife is
dead?" inquired Mr. Phipps with professional anxiety.
"You’ve hit it
square, boss," replied the stranger with an approving nod.
"What time
yesterday did the sad event occur?"
"About five P.M.,
as near as we kin reckon."
"Pass away
peacefully?"
"Lit out without a
groan," explained the bereaved. "She’d been sick, off an’ on, for
about two years an’ better. Not right down sick all that time; but then I don’t
think she done a square day’s work in two years. It’s been a great expense all
through; but I don’t complain, howsumever. I came in to-day to see about fixin’
her up."
"Ah, yes! You wish
to secure a burial-case. We have, as you see, various kinds. You will want
something rather nice, I fancy?" said Mr. Phipps.
"Well, yes: I want
something that will show considerable grief an’ sorrer, but nothin’ that’s
going to upset folks, you know. We are plain people, boss, an’, at a time like
this,--with a great affliction shouldered on us--we don’t feel like riling up
the neighbors. If it was a huskin’-bee, now, or a barn-raisin’ even, I’d
calculate to make their eyes prance right around in their heads. But," and
he sighed heavily, "this is a hoss of another color."
"How would this
do?" suggested Mr. Phipps, indicating a plain rosewood.
"What’s the price
of that? You see, boss, we live over in Baxter Plain. It’s a small place, an’
there ain’t much style. We don’t want to go in too heavy, you know."
"Certainly not;
but this is a very neat-looking article."
"Yes,"
coincided the widower: "it does seem as if one needn’t feel uneasy with
that coffin in the front-room, an’ the room full of people."
"I can let you
have that for forty-five-dollars."
"Jee--oh, I couldn’t
think of paying that! Forty-five dollars! why, you kin get a wagon in two
colors for that money. You see, boss, this is a plain country funeral, an’ not
a torchlight procession," feelingly explained the widower.
"How will this do,
then?" next inquired the undertaker, hastily pointing to another article,
of common wood, brightly stained.
"How much is
that?"
"Only eighteen
dollars."
"Eighteen dollars,
hey? Well, that’s much more like it. Still, don’t it strike you that eighteen
dollars is pretty steep for these times?"
"Not for an
article like that, sir. I can assure you that such a coffin could not have been
bought for a cent less than twenty-two dollars one year ago."
"It may be cheap,
as you say," ruminated the bereaved; "yet eighteen dollars is a good
big pile of money. I want something nice, of course; but I don’t want to jump
in so mighty heavy as to make people think I never had a funeral before. You
get what I mean?"
"Oh, yes!
perfectly. You want an article that will look respectable, and in keeping with
your circumstances; but yet you do not wish to be too demonstrative in your
sorrow."
"By jinks! I guess
you’ve got it square on the head," said the pleased sufferer.
"Now, this is an
article that just answers the purpose, in my judgment; and I have had years of
experience."
"Yes, yes: you
must ’av’ tucked in a heap of em," said the stranger in a tone of
unqualified respect. "This is a sound one, I suppose," he continued,
tapping the sides.
"Perfectly so: we
use the very best kinds of wood," explained Mr. Phipps.
"Just see here a
minute," exclaimed the stranger, suddenly and impressively drawing the
undertaker to one side. "You say that coffin is sound as a nut, an’ you
want eighteen dollars for it. Now, I want you to understand there ain’t any
thing small about me, an’ that I’ve got just as much respect for the dead as
any other man living, I don’t care where you snake him from. But winter is
coming on, you know, an’ we owe a little to the living as well. That’s a sound
coffin, an’ a sound coffin does well enough in the right place, you know; but I
want to ask you, as a man of experience in these things, an’ understanding what
grief is, if you ain’t got a box of that pattern that’s got some sort of a
defect in the wood, which you could knock off a little on."
"I haven’t,
sir."
"Just think a
minit, please," he anxiously resumed. "Nothing a little rotted?"
The undertaker shook
his head.
"With a worm-hole
or so in,--I don’t mind a dozen," suggested the sorrowing one.
"No."
"Or a little
sappy? Don’t answer too quick: take time. Just a little sappy where it wouldn’t
be seen by the public, you know?"
"I haven’t such a
piece of wood in the establishment. We use none that is imperfect."
"Eighteen dollars
it is, then?" sighed the afflicted.
"Yes, sir."
"I must take it, I
suppose," he observed; "but, when the neighbors see that coffin, they’ll
swear that old J---- has struck a gold mine. Now, mark my words." And he
passed gloomily out.
IT is Saturday
night,--the dear close of a tossing, struggling, restless week. To-morrow is
the sabbath, when all labor and care are held in abeyance. Saturday night
stands like a rock before the day of rest, and says to toil and worry,
"Thus far shalt thou come, and no farther." Blessed Saturday night!
The wearied husband and father approaches his home. He looks ahead, and sees the
light streaming in cheerful radiance from the windows, and wonders if that boy
has got in the kindlings. He steps up on the stoop, and opens the door. His
faithful wife meets him at the entrance, and greets him with, "Why on
earth don’t you clean your feet, and not lug the house full of mud? Don’t you
know I’ve been scrubbing all day?" And thus he steps into the bosom of his
family, grateful for the mercies he has received, and thankful that he has a
home to come to when the worry and care and toil of the week are done. Yes, he
is home now, and has set his dinner-pail on one chair, and laid his hat and
coat on another and, with his eyes full of soap from the wash, is shouting
impetuously for the towel. Saturday night in the household! What a beautiful sight!--the
bright light, the cheerful figured carpet, the radiant stove, the neatly laid
table with the steaming teapot, the pictures on the walls, the spotless
curtains, the purring cat, and the bright-eyed children, rubbing the plates
with their fingers, and looking hungrily at the canned cherries. Even the
wearied wife is visibly affected: and, as she steps to a closet with his hat
and coat, she unconsciously observes to her husband,--
"Will you never
learn to hang your things up? or do you think I’ve got nothin’ else to do but
chase after you all the while you are in the house?"
He makes no reply; but,
as he drops into his seat at the table with a sigh of relief, he says,--
"What’s the matter
with that infernal lamp? Is the oil all out? or ain’t the chimney been cleaned?
It don’t give no more light than a fire-bug."
"Turn it up,
then," she retorts. "It was right enough when I put it on the table;
but I suppose the children have been fooling with it. They never can keep their
hands out of mischief for an instant."
"I’ll fool ’em,"
he growls, "if they don’t keep their fingers off’n things!"
After this sally, a
silence reigns, broken only by a subdued rustle of plates and cutlery. Then
comes a whisper from one of the children, which is promptly met in a loud key
by the mother.
"Not another
mouthful, I tell you. You have had one dish already, and that’s enough. I ain’t
going to be up all night wrastling around with you, young woman; and, the
quicker you straighten that face, the better it’ll be for you."
The offender looks with
abashed inquiry into the faces of her brothers and sisters, and gradually
steals a glance into the face of her father, but, finding no sympathy there,
falls to making surreptitious grimaces at the mother, to the relief of herself,
and the intense edification of the other children.
The tea is finally
over,--that delightful Saturday night’s meal; and as the appeased father
stretches back in his chair, and looks dreamily at the flame dancing in the
stove, he says to his first-born,--
"Is them kindlings
cut, young man?"
Of course they have not
been; and the youth replies,--
"I’m going right
out to do it now," and steps about lively for his hat.
"You’d better; and
if I come home again, and find them kindlings not cut, I won’t leave a whole
bone in your body. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, pa."
"Well, then, start
your boots."
They are started; and
the relieved father comes back with his eyes to the glad flame, and watches it
abstractedly, while his thoughts are busy with the bright anticipations of the
coming day of rest.
"Ain’t you going
down street? or are you goin’ to set there all night?" asks his wife. He
turns around and looks at her. It’s a sort of mechanical movement, without any
apparent expression. "There’s got to be something got for dinner to-
morrow; and I want you to go to Adams’s, an’ see if my hat is done; an’ Thomas
must have a pair of shoes; an’ there ain’t a bit of blacking in the
house," resumes the mother. "You can tell Burroughs, that that last
butter he sent up ain’t fit for a hog to eat; an’, if he ain’t got any thing
better than that, we don’t want it. You’d better get a small piece of pork
while you are down; an’ if you see Parks, ask him when he’s coming here to fix
that wall. He has got the plaster off, an’ there it stands; an’ there’s no use
of trying to put the room to rights until the wall is fixed. I don’t see what
the old fool is thinking of to leave a room like that."
Hereupon the head of
the house gets up on his feet, takes a brief, longing glance at the pleasant
stove, and wants to know where in thunder his coat and hat are, and if nothing
can be left where it is put. Then she tells him, that, if he looks where he
ought to, he’d find the things fast enough. He does find them, and then goes into
the kitchen, and a moment later re-appears with a very red face, and
passionately asks if a basket can be kept in that house for five minutes at a
time, and moodily follows his wife to where the basket is, and looks still more
moody when he is brought face to face with it, and sarcastically asked if he
could see a barn if it was in front of his nose. Thus primed with the
invigorating utterances of the home-circle, he takes up his basket, and goes
down street, leaving his faithful wife to stand as a wall of granite between
the children and the canned cherries, and to finish up the work. As he reaches
the gate, the door opens; and she shouts after him,--
"Remember to get
some matches; there ain’t one in the house: and don’t be all night, for I’m
tired, an’ want to get to bed at a decent hour, if possible."
"Go to bed, then,
an’ shut up your mouth;" and, with this parting injunction, he strides
gloomily out into the darkness. It is not exactly known what he is thinking of
as he moves along; but it is doubtless of the near approach of the sabbath. As
he comes into the light of the stores, it is evident that bright influences,
and tender memories, and glad anticipations, are weaving themselves in his
heart; for he meets Parks with a smile, and, after a pleasant chat about the
winter’s prospect, they part, laughing. Only twice in the trip does his face
fall; and that’s when he goes in after her hat, and when he gets the shoes. A
half-hour later he is in the grocery, sitting on a barrel while his goods are
being put up, and carrying on an animated discussion with the grocer and
several acquaintances. At nine o’clock he starts for home. He has several
receipted bills in his pocket, each of which is in excess, of course, of what
his wife had estimated before he left home; and as he struggles along with an
aching arm, and stumbles against various obstructions, he remembers it is
Saturday night, the end of the week of toil, and tries to recall bits of verses
and sentences of beautiful sentiment appropriate to the hour. He don’t believe
in grumbling at everybody; and so he reserves his trouble with the
grocery-bill, his indignation at the milliner, and the various annoyances he
has been subjected to, until he gets home; and then he hurls his thunder at all
these people and objects through the head of his wife. And she, the dear
companion of his life, having got the children from back of the stove and to
bed by the hair, and discovered that he has forgotten the matches, and got more
bone than meat in the steak, is fully prepared to tell him just what she thinks
of him.
And while they talk,
the flame in the stove dances happily, the lamp sheds a rich, soft glow over
the room, and the colors in the carpet and in the pictures, and the reflective
surfaces of the mantle ornaments, blend into a scene of quiet beauty. It is the
night before the sabbath,--the calm, restful sabbath; and, as the two workers
prepare to seek their well-earned repose, she says, that, if she has got to be
harassed like this, she’ll be in her grave before the winter is over; and he is
confident, that, if the bills keep mounting up as they are doing, the whole
family will be in the poor-house the first thing they know.
A FAMILY of some
pretensions, living on Nelson Street, had a party of five to tea Thursday
evening. The table was set out in fine style, as the company were from the
city, and it was absolutely necessary to show them that folks may live in a
village like Danbury, and yet understand the requirements of good society. When
they were all at the table, and the lady was preparing to dish up the tea, her
little son, whose face shone like the knees of a country clergyman’s pants,
pulled her secretly by the dress. But she was too busy to notice. He pulled her
again; but, receiving no response, he whispered,--
"Ma, ma!"
"What is it?"
"Ain’t this one of
Miss Perry’s knives?" holding up the article in his hand, and looking, as
he properly should, very much gratified by such an evidence of his discernment.
She made no reply in
words; but she gave him a look that was calculated to annihilate him.
The tea was dished out,
and the party were buttering their biscuit, when the youth suddenly whispered
again, looking at his plate with a pleased expression, "Why, ma, my plate
is different from the others."
"Thomas!" she
ejaculated under her breath.
"Why, it is,
ma," persisted Thomas. "Now, just see here: this plate has"--
"Thomas,"
again ejaculated his mother with crimsoned face, while his father assumed a
frown nearly an inch thick, "if you don’t let your victuals stop your
mouth, I’ll send you away from the table."
This quieted Thomas at
once. He was not a very particular boy; and he concluded that the difference in
the plates was not of such moment as to admit of tedious argument at this time.
Several minutes passed
without any further interruption. The young man industriously attended to his
food, but at the same time kept a close eye on what was going on around him. He
was lifting up his cup for a sip, when his glance unfortunately fell upon the
saucer. It was but a glance; but, with the keenness of a young eye, he saw that
the two were not originally designed for each other.
"Why, ma," he
eagerly whispered, "this cup don’t belong to"--
Then he suddenly
stopped. The expression of his mother’s face actually rendered him speechless,
and for a moment he applied himself to his meal in depressed silence. But he
was young, and of an elastic temper; and he soon recovered his beaming
expression. A little later, he observed a lady opposite putting a spoon of
preserved grapes in her mouth; then he twitched his mother’s dress, and said
again,--
"Ma!"
The unhappy woman
shivered at the sound; but his remark, this time, appeared to be on an entirely
different subject, as he asked,--
"Ain’t Miss Walker
a funny woman?"
"Funny?" said
his mother with a sigh of relief. And then turning to the company with the
explanation, "Mrs. Walker is an old lady who lives across the way,"
she smiled on her hopeful son, and asked, "What makes you think she is
funny?"
"Why, you
know--you know," began Thomas, in that rapid, moist way which an only son
assumes when he is imparting information before company, in response to a
cordial invitation, "when I went over there this afternoon to get the
spoons, she said she hoped the company wouldn’t bite ’em, as it would
dent"--
"Thomas!"
shrieked the unhappy mother as soon as she could break in.
"Young man,"
gasped the father, "leave this table at once."
And Thomas left at
once. His father subsequently followed him, and the two met in a backroom; and,
had both been flying express-trains coming together, there could scarcely have
been more noise.
IT was quite cold in
the car. The passengers were shrinking up into as small a space as possible,
and looking straight ahead into nothing with frowning visages. A very little
boy was snuggled up in his mother’s arms. The train stopped at a station, when
he said,--
"Am I goin’ home,
mamma?"
"Yes, dear."
"Papa’s
home?"
"Yes."
"Are you goin’ to
see papa?"
"Yes, dear."
The child lifted up his
head, and, looking eagerly into his mother’s face, enthusiastically exclaimed,
"When papa sees
me, he’ll say, ’Come here, you peshous lam’.’"
The smile which
illuminated the passengers’ faces upon this outburst of childish expectation
drove away the frown, and brought them out of themselves for the rest of the
journey.
THERE can be no doubt
whatever that a pew-bench is the most dreadful object in existence. However
cautiously you may approach it, it is sure to fly up at one end, and come down
again with a thud that makes your scalp creep, and draws upon you the indignant
glances of everybody in the building. And, even if you don’t put your foot on
it, the fear that you may do so, when not thinking, draws your mind from the
sermon, and fastens it upon the dread possibility in lively terror. Pew-
benches should be run full of lead at both ends, and held down by iron cables
attached to rocks sunk in the cellar; but, until this is done, the only
alternative offered is drawing your legs up on the seat, and sitting on them
till the service is over.
JAY CHARLTON’S
admirable articles on cookery are not always productive of the happiest
results, although the fault does not lie with him. Mr. Jopper is, ordinarily, a
quiet man, and sufficiently submissive to suit the most exacting wife. But that
discretion which is the better part of valor is quite frequently dulled and
rendered ineffective when the possessor is full of liquor. It was just in this
deplorable, and, we may add, unusual state, Mr. Jopper appeared at his home
Monday evening. At the "store" they had been talking of Mr. Charlton’s
recent article on the importance of a well-furnished table; and this topic
appeared to have engrossed his mind to the entire exclusion of every thing
else. He found his wife mixing up the pancake batter.
It was evident he was
unsettled as to the exact time of day.
"What’s the
menu?" he hilariously shouted.
"What are you
talking about?" she demanded, giving him a look that would, in sober
moments, have subdued him at once.
"The menu, the
menu: that’s what’s my language on this occasion," he boisterously
repeated, not noting her expression.
"Are you going to
bed?" she hoarsely muttered.
"No, I ain’t going
to bed, not by a jugful, until I find out what I find out." He caught hold
of a chair to steady himself. "I tell you, Mrs. Jopper, there’s goin’ to
be change here at once."
"Oh!" It was
all she said; but it had a mighty significance.
"Yez, zir, goin’
to be a change," continued the unfortunate man, flourishing his unoccupied
hand for emphasis. "I ain’t goin’ to stand this sort of living any longer.
There’s got to be a change in the menu; or, first thing you know, I’ll get
depressed, an’ be comin’ home drunk,--drunk, by gracious!"
"Oh!"
"Yez, zir. Old
girl, you’ve got to hike aroun’ and fling some style inter the victuals. You’ve"--
She was on him in a
flash,--on him with flashing eyes, and plying fingers, and heated breath.
"What do you say,
you drunken vagabond?" she screamed, placing her knees on his chest, and
clutching her fingers into his hair, and twisting his head with such fury, that
it was a great wonder she didn’t dislocate his neck.
"Lemme up!"
he yelled.
"You want a
change, do you, in the cooking?" she hissed.
"No, I don’t! no,
I don’t!" he howled. "Hope to die if I do!"
"Want me to hike
around, eh, an’ put on style, you drunken lout?" she continued in a voice
suppressed by passion.
"Lemme up!"
he screamed.
"What’s the menu,
is it? What’s the menu? Oh, you old whiskey tank! I’ll show you what’s the
menu!" and she gave his head a terrific wrench.
"Ouch!" he
yelled.
"Do you want to
know what’s the menu now?" she hissed.
"No!" he
shouted.
"Will you go to
bed?"
"Yes!" he
howled.
Then she let him up,
and, agreeably to promise, he went directly to bed, and hasn’t manifested the
faintest anxiety in regard to the menu once since.
MRS. PULSEY was real
indignant yesterday morning on finding the handle to the coal sieve not yet
mended, although broken two weeks ago. Mrs. Pulsey actually shed tears of
vexation. The very day the handle was broken she told Mr. Pulsey, and he said
he would attend to it at once; and he had continued to promise to do it with
unimpeachable faithfulness. Mrs. Pulsey lost patience now; and her irritation
found expression in words. Said Mrs. Pulsey,--
"I declare, this
is just a little too much! It is not enough that I should sift the ashes, but
that I should have to do it with a broken sieve. I am just tired of this thing,
and I shall stand it no longer. I won’t be put on like this by no Josiah
Pulsey. I won’t stand such treatment. I won’t stand it a day longer."
And with the sieve in
her hand, anger in her heart, and the tears running down her cheeks, she
started in the house to overhaul the recreant, the shamefully neglectful
husband.
Mr. Pulsey was in
there. He had made ready to go down town to his work. He was slipping on his
overcoat in some haste, when a sudden exclamation escaped him, and a scowl
settled on his face. Mr. Pulsey had shoved his arm into the sleeve with force
enough almost to have made it appear again half way across the street; but yet
it did not show itself at the end of the sleeve. It was lodged inside,--lodged
in a broken lining. For three weeks this lining had been broken. On every day
in that time he had called his wife’s attention to the fault; and on each day
she promised to attend to it when he came home at night. But the next morning
his trusting and shoving hand would fetch up against the same snag. He lost all
patience now. A violent imprecation flew from his lips, and his face flushed
with anger. He spoke aloud in a voice made harsh with passion:--
"Hang me, if this
isn’t carrying things with a pretty high hand! I wonder what that woman thinks
of herself, anyway! Three weeks ago I told her about that lining; and she has
promised a hundred times to fix it, and it ain’t done yet. By George! if I had
a conscience like that, I would trade it off for a screw-driver without any
handle, so to say I had something--curse me if I wouldn’t! I’ll give her a
piece of my mind which she will understand!"
And he started for the
yard just as she entered the back-door. They met half way in the kitchen. There
was a scowl on his face; there were tears on hers.
She pushed the broken
sieve at him, and impetuously opened her mouth.
"Josi"--Then
she saw the overcoat with the broken lining, and his name sank from her lips.
Simultaneously he shoved the overcoat towards her, and impetuously opened his
mouth. "Han"--
Then he saw the sieve
with the broken handle, and her name died on his lips.
She was the first to
speak.
"Josiah," she
said in a subdued voice, "let me take that coat, and mend it."
"Hannah," he
rejoined in a softened tone, "give me that sieve till I fix it. You sha’n’t
sieve the ashes any more."
"Josiah!"
He had started to the
door; but he turned on hearing her call. There were tears in her eyes now,
fresh tears, but not of passion. Then there was an expression to the face which
induced him to step hastily back, put his arm around her, and hide her face for
an instant with his own.
THE Cobleighs put up
the sitting-room stove Thursday. Mr. Cobleigh had been dreading the thing for a
month. He wanted to hire a regularly built stove-erector to do the job; but
work has been scarce at his shop, and he felt that he could not afford to hire.
Mrs. Cobleigh got down the pipe for him from the garret, and helped him to get
the stove out of the closet. No accident occurred during these operations. But
the unusual circumstance did not encourage Mr. Cobleigh: on the contrary, it
inspired him with greater dread. When every thing was in readiness to put up
the pipe, he walked about the machinery with considerable uneasiness, and eyed
it with undisguised apprehension. Several times he picked up a link; and then,
while a sudden tremor would flash over his frame, he would drop it again.
"Come," said
Mrs. Cobleigh, who, woman-like, knew more than Solomon about putting up a
stove, "get to work now. It can be done in a minute if you’ll only set
right to work at it."
Mr. Cobleigh turned
pale.
"Curse this being
poor!" he muttered between his clinched teeth.
Then he took hold of
the link whose flat end indicated that it belonged to the stove. It sat on its
place with the ease of long familiarity. He looked at his wife with a nameless
fear on his face. Then he picked up the next link, spread apart his legs,
compressed his lips, and proceeded to join it to the other. He had scarcely
brought the two ends together when the one slipped over, and enclosed the
other. Another link was to be put on before the elbow could be used, and he had
to use a chair to reach the place. His face was very white now; and his limbs
trembled to that degree, that he could hardly keep his place on the chair. He
took the link into his shaking hands, and raised it to its place. It went on at
once. The appearance of his face was simply ghastly now. His lips were ashen;
his eyes flamed with a sickening terror.
"For Heaven’s
sake, hand me that elbow!" he hoarsely whispered.
His wife promptly
complied. But his hand shook to such an extent, that he could not hold it; and
it fell to the floor. She picked it up, and again extended it to him.
"For pity sake,
Cobleigh, what is the matter?" she ejaculated as his deathly face appeared
to her.
"Sh! don’t
speak!" he gasped in a shaking voice.
He applied the elbow.
It went on in a flash.
"The other
link," he hysterically said with a half-suppressed scream.
Sick at heart with
apprehension, and perplexed in mind, the unhappy woman hastened to comply.
Her husband seized the
last link. There was not only no color in his face, but his hair stood right up
on his head; the perspiration hung in great beads from his forehead; the chair
on which he stood fairly rattled beneath the quiver of his person. He raised
the link; placed it in position; gave it a push. It went straight to its place;
and at the same time he shoved the other end in the chimney-hole.
A short, sharp cry
resounded through the room: there was a quick movement of the chair, and the
unhappy man lay senseless on the floor. The neighbors were alarmed, and flocked
in, and picked him up and laid him on the bed, while a doctor was sent for, and
restoratives actively applied. But it was several hours before he returned to
full consciousness. The shock to his nervous system had been very, very great.
The first words he gave utterance to were addressed to his wife,--
"Was it all a
fearful dream, Matilda?"
"What, John?"
asked the fond wife.
"The stove, the
sitting-room stove. Is it up?"
"Why, yes, John.
It is up."
"Did--did I do
it?"
"Yes, John, you
did it."
He put the trembling
hands over the white face, and burst into tears.
HE was a wonderfully
practical man, and she was marvellously poetical. To her, life had been a dream
edged with gold, and filled in with the loveliest of roseate hues. But to him
had appeared every thing in the homespun garb of every-day life. He is a
country merchant, and buys his goods in New York. His partner always went to
the city on business connected with the grocery; but the partner was recently
taken ill, and our extremely practical friend was obliged to go. It was his
first visit to the great city, and he was to be gone three days. It was a
momentous event to his fond wife. Do the best she could, her mind was troubled
with forebodings. It is difficult to tell just exactly how he felt; but, while
it was evident he realized the importance of the step he was about to take,
still he never lost sight of the fact that a mighty responsibility was resting
on his shoulders, and that all private emotion must be subserved to public
interests. His carpet-bag was packed, and his hand on the door to pass out of
the house, when she bade him good-by. She put both arms about his neck.
"John," she
sobbed, "you are going away."
This was so palpable,
that it would have been madness to attempt a denial: so he merely observed,--
"Look out for my
collar, Maria."
"You will think of
your wife while you are gone?" she whispered huskily.
He was a trifle nervous
under the pressure of her arms upon his collar; but he spoke re-assuringly,--
"I will bear it in
mind, my dear."
"You will think of
me as mourning your absence, and anxiously awaiting your return?" she
murmured.
"You can trust me
to attend to it," he replied, with as much firmness as if it had been a
request for six barrels of mackerel.
"And you’ll be
very careful of yourself for my sake?" she suggested in a broken voice.
"I will see it
attended to, my dear. But it is almost time for the train;" and he gravely
sought to remove her arms from his neck.
"John, John!"
she convulsively cried, "don’t forget me, don’t forget me!"
"Maria," he
said with a tinge of reproach in his tone, "I have made a memorandum to
that effect."
And then she let him
go, still tearful, but confident "it would be attended to."
A GENTLEMAN named
Parkington, living on Mulford Street, was awakened from a sound sleep on Friday
night by a heavy knocking on not only his front-door, but over the entire front
of the house. It was a violent slamming, and calculated to awake even a boy.
Mr. Parkington got out of bed, and hurried to his window which faced the
street. He looked out upon a spectacle that brought a countless host of goose-pimples
to his legs, and filled him with unbounded astonishment. A man, a stranger,
with a long pole in his hand, was slapping it against the front of the
building. As soon as Mr. Parkington could recover his senses, he shouted to the
party below,--
"Who are you? What
are you doing that for?"
The striking ceased at
once. The stranger brought the pole to a rest at his side, and touched his hat
with true military etiquette; and the face that was turned up to Mr. Parkington
was rugged in feature, bronzed by the weather, but beaming in expression.
"Well, what is
it?" asked Mr. Parkington after a moment of hesitation, in which he saw
that the face was not that of a bad man.
"Oh! you are
there, are you?" asked the stranger.
"Certainly,"
replied Mr. Parkington in a tone of confidence.
"You will pardon
me, I hope," said the stranger, smiling agreeably, "for awaking you
at this unseemly hour?"
Mr. Parkington was
prone to grant the pardon; but his eye caught sight of the pole, and he
hesitated.
"What did you make
such a row for?" he asked.
"Oh! that was
merely a matter of ceremony," explained the stranger. "I could have
aroused you at the door; but I know your position in society" (Mr.
Parkington keeps a feed-store), "and I wanted to show you a little distinction."
"Who are
you?" asked Mr. Parkington in a softened voice.
"I am an
American," was the reply, distinctly uttered.
"What do you
want?"
"Would you like to
make five hundred thousand dollars?" was the somewhat startling
interrogation.
"Five hundred
thousand dollars?" repeated Mr. Parkington in astonishment.
"Yes, sir; that’s
what I said," replied the stranger. "An outlay of fifty dollars, with
judgment, will accomplish this fortune. I have got the whole secret and the
judgment; and, if you can raise the fifty dollars, I will let you go in with
me; and the thing is done,--the half million dollars is ours."
"Why, what do you
mean?" asked Mr. Parkington in some bewilderment.
"You know Stanley
is in Africa, looking for the sources of the Nile?"
"Yes; but"--
"All right, don’t
interrupt me. There is a world-wide interest in the subject; and, when Stanley
finds the source of that mysterious river, there are going to be millions of
people flock there. Now, what I propose to you, if you have got fifty dollars
to put into the enterprise, is this, that we both go there as soon as
convenient, and start an eating-saloon. What do you say?"
Within the brief space
of thirty seconds, a man with a pair of pants held on to him by clutching the
waistband with one hand, while the other clinched a club, was coming off the
front-stoop like a whirlwind, while the projector of an eating- saloon in
Africa was scampering out of the gate with no less enthusiasm.
THERE is nothing flat
and monotonous about a broken lining to a coat-sleeve. It always comes up as
fresh and vivacious as at the first. A man appears about as surprised when he
runs his hand into the slit the tenth time as he did the first; and when he
looks to see his hand appear at the end, and finds that it is doubled up in the
middle of the sleeve, his countenance will assume as much interest as if the
occurrence was something never before heard of. It is astonishing, in this
connection, that a broken sleeve-lining rarely happens in the right sleeve.
This is because, perhaps, that the right arm is first inserted. A broken
sleeve-lining can only appear to advantage in one position; and that is when
the man has one arm inserted correctly, the coat in a wad against the back of
his head, and his body bent over in the effort to shove the remaining arm
through. It is at this, the most painful juncture, that his attention is called
to the rent lining. In a constrained voice he directs the notice of his wife to
the same, with a partly stifled inquiry as to what on earth she has been doing,
that the trouble has not been remedied before. It is like a woman on such an
occasion to say that he won’t leave his coat home so that it can be fixed. It
takes a woman to think of exasperating things. The only resort now left to him
is to declare that he knows better. Then she says, if he will take the coat off
now, she will fix it, and makes a show of getting a thread and needle. She
knows he won’t take it off and wait. And he don’t. A man may have a broken
sleeve-lining, and a slit in his trousers, as long as fifteen minutes at a
railway station; but he knows the propriety of things.
THERE are men who
dispute what they do not understand. Mr. Coville is such a man. When he heard a
carpenter say that there were so many shingles on the roof of his house,
because the roof contained so many square feet, Coville doubted the figures;
and, when the carpenter went away, he determined to test the matter by going up
on the roof and counting them. And he went up there. He squeezed through the
scuttle,--Coville weighs two hundred and thirty,--and then sat down on the
roof, and worked his way carefully and deliberately toward the gutter. When he
got part way down, he heard a sound between him and the shingles, and became
aware that there was an interference some way in his further locomotion. He
tried to turn over, and crawl back; but the obstruction held him. Then he tried
to move along a little, in hopes that the trouble would prove but temporary;
but an increased sound convinced him that either a nail or a sliver had hold of
his cloth, and that, if he would save any of it, he must use caution. His folks
were in the house; but he could not make them hear; and, besides, he didn’t
want to attract the attention of the neighbors. So he sat there until after
dark, and thought. It would have been an excellent opportunity to have counted
the shingles; but he neglected to use it. His mind appeared to run into other
channels. He sat there an hour after dark, seeing no one he could notify of his
position. Then he saw two boys approach the gate from the house, and, reaching
there, stop. It was light enough for him to see that one of the two was his
son; and although he objected to having the other boy know of his misfortune,
yet he had grown tired of holding on to the roof, and concluded he could bribe
the strange boy into silence. With this arrangement mapped out, he took out his
knife, and threw it so that it would strike near to the boys, and attract their
attention. It struck nearer than he anticipated; in fact, it struck so close as
to hit the strange boy on the head, and nearly brain him. As soon as he recovered
his equilibrium, he turned on Coville’s boy, who, he was confident, had
attempted to kill him, and introduced some astonishment and bruises into his
face. Then he threw him down, and kicked him in the side, and banged him on the
head, and drew him over into the gutter, and pounded his legs; and then hauled
him back to the walk again, and knocked his head against the gate. And, all the
while, the elder Coville sat on the roof, and screamed for the police, but
couldn’t get away. And then Mrs. Coville dashed out with a broom, and
contributed a few novel features to the affair at the gate; and one of the
boarders dashed out with a double-barrel gun, and, hearing the cries from the
roof, looked up there, and, espying a figure which was undoubtedly a burglar, drove
a handful of shot into its legs. With a howl of agony, Coville made a plunge to
dodge the missiles, freed himself from the nail, lost his hold to the roof, and
went sailing down the shingles with awful velocity, both legs spread out, his
hair on end, and his hands making desperate but fruitless efforts to save
himself. He tried to swear, but was so frightened that he lost his power of
speech; and, when he passed over the edge of the roof with twenty feet of tin
gutter hitched to him, the boarder gave him the contents of the other barrel,
and then drove into the house to load up again. The unfortunate Coville struck
into a cherry-tree, and thence bounded to the ground, where he was recognized,
picked up by the assembled neighbors, and carried into the house. A new doctor
is making good day wages picking the shot out of his legs. The boarder has gone
into the country to spend the summer; and the junior Coville, having
sequestered a piece of brick in his handkerchief, is lying low for that other
boy. He says, that, before the calm of another sabbath rests on New England,
there will be another boy in Danbury who can’t wear a cap.
WHEN a woman puts three
mackerel to soak over night in a dish-pan whose sides are eight inches high,
and leaves the pan on a stairway, she has accomplished her mission, and should
go hence. This was what a Division-street woman did Friday night,--filled the
pan at the pump, and then left it standing on the steps to the stoop, while she
went into the next house to see how many buttons would be required to go down
the front of a redingote. And a mighty important affair that was, to be sure.
And there was her husband tearing through the house in search of a
handkerchief, and not finding it, of course. And then he rushed out into the
yard, wondering where on earth that woman could be; and started down the steps
without seeing the pan, or even dreaming that any one could be so idiotic as to
leave it there. Of course he stepped on it; or at least that is the
supposition, as the neighbors who were brought out by the crash that followed
saw a horrified man and three very demoralized mackerel shooting across the
garden, and smashing down the shrubbery. And he was a nice sight, was that
unhappy man, when they got him on his feet. There wasn’t a dry thread on him;
and his hair was full of bits of mackerel; and one of his shoulders was out of
joint; and his coat was split the whole length of the back; and he appeared to
be out of his head. He was carried in the house by some of the men, and laid on
a bed, while others went after a doctor; and sixteen women assembled in the
front-room, and talked in whispers about the inscrutable ways of Providence,
and what a warning this was to people who never looked where they were going.
A HORSE attached to the
cart of a tin-peddler, while on Balmforth Avenue, Friday, became startled, and
ran away at a speed that was marvellous in a tin-peddler’s horse. The wagon was
old and rickety; and the horse did not appear to be in a better condition of
repairs: but both of them got through that avenue with awful velocity; the
former hooping its spine, and shaking its head, and throwing its heels
uproariously; while the latter reeled from one side the road to the other, and
bounded from rut to rut, and threw an invoice of old junk and new tinware at
every heave. One old lady was caught around the neck by a pair of satinet
pants, and nearly choked to death; and a hoop-skirt, badly damaged, descended
over the head of a man who was telling a neighbor what his mother rubbed on
sprains, and so frightened him, that he fell over a barrel, and put both his
ankles out of joint, and was bit on the shoulder by the dog of the man he was
trying to benefit. The horse, having filled the air with boilers, and old
vests, and flatirons, and worthless overalls, and brass kettles, and
broken-down gaiters, suddenly fetched up by jumping off the bridge, and into
the river, dragging the wagon and a moth-eaten undershirt in after it.
SINCE the unfortunate
accident to Mr. Coville while on the roof counting the shingles, he has been
obliged to keep pretty close to the house. Last Wednesday, he went out in the
yard for the first time; and on Friday Mrs. Coville got him an easy-chair,
which proved a great comfort to him. It is one of those chairs that can be
moved by the occupant to form almost any position by means of ratchets. Mr.
Coville was very much pleased with this new contrivance, and, the first
afternoon, did nothing but sit in it, and work it all ways. He said such a
chair as that did more good in this world than a hundred sermons. He had it in
his room,--the front bed-room up stairs; and there he would sit and look out of
the window, and enjoy himself as much as a man can whose legs have been
ventilated with shot. Monday afternoon he got in the chair as usual. Mrs.
Coville was out in the back-yard, hanging up clothes; and the son was across
the street, drawing a lath along a picket-fence. Sitting down, he grasped the
sides of the chair with both hands to settle it back, when the whole thing gave
way, and Mr. Coville came violently to the floor. For an instant, the
unfortunate gentleman was benumbed by the suddenness of the shock; but the
next, he was aroused by an acute pain in each arm; and the great drops of sweat
oozed from his forehead when he found that the little finger of each hand had
caught in the ratchets, and was as firmly held as if in a vice. There he lay on
his back, with the end of a round sticking in his side, and both hands
perfectly powerless. The least move of his body aggravated the pain, which was
chasing up his arms. He screamed for help: but Mrs. Coville was in the
back-yard, telling Mrs. Coney, next door, that she didn’t know what Coville
would do without that chair; and so she didn’t hear him. He pounded the floor
with his stockinged feet: but the younger Coville was still drawing emotion
from that fence across the way; and all other sounds were rapidly sinking into
insignificance. Besides, Mr. Coville’s legs were not sufficiently recovered
from the late accident to permit their being profitably used as mallets. How he
did despise that offspring! and how fervently he did wish the owner of that
fence would light on that boy, and reduce him to powder! Then he screamed
again, and howled, and shouted "Maria!" But there was no response.
What if he should die there alone, and in that awful shape? The perspiration
started afresh, and the pain in his arms assumed an awful magnitude. Again he
shrieked "Maria!" but the matinee across the way only grew in volume;
and the unconscious wife had gone into Mrs. Coney’s, and was trying on that
lady’s redingote. Then he prayed, and howled, and coughed, and swore, and then
apologized for it, and prayed and howled again, and screamed at the top of his
voice the awfullest things he would do to that boy, if Heaven would only spare
him, and show him an axe. Then he operated his mouth for one final shriek; when
the door opened, and Mrs. Coville appeared with a smile on her face, and Mrs. Coney’s
redingote on her back. In one glance, she saw that something awful had happened
to Joseph; and, with wonderful presence of mind, she screamed for help, and
then fainted away, and ploughed headlong into his stomach. Fortunately, the
blow deprived him of speech, else he might have said something that he would
ever have regretted; and, before he could regain his senses, Mrs. Coney dashed
in, and removed the grief-stricken wife. But it required a blacksmith to cut
Coville loose. He is again back in bed, with his mutilated fingers resting on
pillows; and there he lies all day, concocting new forms of death for the
inventor of that chair, and hoping nothing will happen to his son until he can
get well enough to administer it himself.
THOSE of our readers
acquainted on Monson Street will remember that the roof to Mr. Forceps’s saloon
adjoins his house, and is approached by two windows. One of these windows is in
Mr. Forceps’s bedroom. On this roof Mrs. Forceps has spread hesitating tomatoes
with a view to hastening their ripeness. Last Wednesday she put five more with
their fellows, making thirty in all. The Forcepses have a niece visiting with
them,--a young lady named Hall, of Thomaston. She has made the acquaintance of
many of our young people; and on Wednesday night several of them got together
to give her a serenade. Providing themselves with requisite instruments, the
young men took up a position near this addition we speak of, and struck up on
the instruments. Mrs. Forceps was first awakened by the music, and nudged her
husband. He also awoke. The music was grand,--not loud or coarse, but soft,
low, and harmonious. Mr. Forceps was very much pleased, and got up to the
window to hear it. Then Mrs. Forceps got up also, and, retying her night-cap,
stood beside Forceps. "They’re serenading Ellen," said she. "I
know it," said Forceps. "Who can they be?" she asked. "I
don’t know, I’m sure," said he; "but I suppose I could find out if I
could creep out on the roof and look over."--"Why don’t you?"
said she, her curiosity increasing. "I’m afraid they might see me,"
he said. "I don’t think they would," she said. "They wouldn’t be
looking up on the roof, would they!" Mr, Forceps thought a moment, and
then concluded no one could see him, as the moon had gone into a bank of
clouds, and objects were quite dim. And then he softly opened the blind, and
cautiously crawled out on the shingles, completely incased in red flannel
under-clothes and a night-cap of the same rich material. The music still continued,
coming up through the night-air in waves of ecstatic harmony. Mr, Forceps sat
down on the roof, and laboriously worked his way to the eaves. Then he lifted
himself up to turn over and look down; and just then he stepped on something
soft and yielding, felt his feet give, made a desperate clutch at the shingles,
was too late, gave a piercing shriek, and shot off the roof, and went revolving
and howling in among the band, followed by the tomatoes, and madly cleaving the
air with his red-flannel limbs. He struck on his back on the bass-viol, and
with one leg tore the entrails from an accordion, and with the other knocked
all the keys from a silver-mounted flute. The man who played the bass-viol was
driven senseless into a pile of pea-brush; and the flute-player, with his mouth
full of blood and splinters, jumped over the fence, and fled. What became of
the others Mr. Forceps does not know, he being too busily engaged in getting on
his feet, and into the house, to make a critical examination of the field. It
is presumed the bass-viol man died on the spot, and was surreptitiously removed
and buried by his companions, as there was no sign of him about the premises in
the morning.
THE man across the way,
who enjoyed vegetables fresh from his own garden through the summer, has bought
a cow. His wife told him how nice it would be to have a cow on the premises, so
as to have milk fresh and pure every day, and always in time, and always in
abundance. Then they could make butter themselves, and not eat the rank stuff
out of the store. She told him there was enough stuff from the garden and table
to almost keep the cow; and the product would be just about so much clear gain.
He figured it up himself with a pencil, and the result surprised him. He wondered
why he had not kept a cow before, and inwardly condemned himself for the loss
he had been inflicting upon himself. Then he bought a cow. In the evening of
its arrival he went out to milk it; but the animal was excited by the strange
surroundings, and stepped on our friend, and kicked over his pail, and nearly
knocked one of his eyes out with her tail. He worked at the experiment for an
hour, but without any success. Then his wife came out to give advice, and his
son came out to see the fun. The cow put one of her heels through the woman’s
dress, and knocked the boy down in the mud, which ended their interest in the
matter. One of the neighbors milked the animal that night, and came around the
next morning and showed the man how to do it. The third day the cow escaped the
surveillance of the boy who was left to watch her; and, when the man came home
at night, she was nowhere to be found. The boy had also disappeared, and our
neighbor found he was obliged to hunt her up before supper. He walked around for
a while, and then returned home; but the animal had not been seen. Then he went
off again, and made a very thorough search; and about ten o’clock that night he
came back with the cow, his clothes begrimed with perspiration and dust, and
his face flushed and scratched. He wanted to kick the animal’s ribs in; but,
realizing that such a course would result in pecuniary damage, he changed his
mind. The boy wishes he had obeyed the first impulse. On the fourth day they
churned, so as to have fresh butter for the table. The mother took hold of the
dasher first, because, she said, she used to do it when a girl, and liked no
better sport. She pounded away until she caught a crick in the back that
doubled her up like a knife; and then she put the heir to it. He had been
standing around, eagerly waiting for a chance, and grumbling because he didn’t
get it; and, when the dasher was placed in his hand, he was so happy he could
hardly contain himself. He pumped away for an hour at it; then he said, if he
had to do it any more, he would run away and be a robber. At noon the man came
home, and learned the situation. He was a little disgusted at the
"tom-foolery," as he called it, and took hold the churn himself, and
made it bounce for a while. Then his stomach commenced to fall in, and his
spine to unjoint, and his shoulders to loosen. He stopped and wiped off the
perspiration, and looked around with a melancholy cast to his features, and
went at it again. The butter didn’t come, however; but every thing in the way
of oratorical effect did. He got so dreadfully excited, that his wife, smelling
strong of camphor, took the dasher away from him, and went to work herself. At
this the son put his cap under his jacket, and miraculously disappeared. Later
in the day, the milk was poured around the grape-vine. On the fifth day the cow
knocked down a length of fence to the next lot, and ate all the oranges from a
tree that stood in a tub; and, when the people attempted to drive her out, she
carried away a new ivy on her horns, knocked down a valuable vase of flowers,
and capped the climax by stumbling over a box of mosses, and falling on a pile
of hot-house frames. On the sixth day our neighbor sold his cow to a butcher,
and now eats strong butter which comes from the store.
HERE is something
remarkable. A woman in New Haven was recently bereft of her scalp by the
idiosyncrasies of a shaft and belt. The doctors saw, that, to remedy the evil,
they would have to have recourse to transplanting; and so they actually
succeeded in getting a sufficient number of pieces from other people’s heads to
give this unfortunate woman a new scalp. We hope those New-Haven doctors used
more discretion than did he who attended a man named Finlay, who met with a
similar accident in Oriskany, N.Y., some thirteen years ago. Bits of scalp from
seventeen different persons were secured by this doctor, and adroitly stitched
to the head of Mr. Finlay. When it was done, people came miles to see Finlay’s
head; and Finlay himself, with his checker-board cranium, was the happiest man
in Oriskany. But when the capillary glands got in working-order, and the hair
commenced to grow, the top of that man’s head presented the most extraordinary
spectacle on record. The doctor, who was about half the time in liquor, had
consulted expediency rather than judgment, and secured that new scalp without
any reference to future developments. We never saw any thing like it. Here was
a tuft of yellow hair, and next to it a bit of black, and then a flame of red, and
a little like silk, and more like tow, with brown hair, and gray hair, and
sandy hair, and cream-colored hair, scattered over his entire skull. And what a
mad man that Finlay was! and nobody could blame him. He would stand up against
the barn for an hour at a time, and sob and swear. It was very fortunate that
the doctor was dead. He went off two weeks before with blue ague, which is a
mild sort of disease. Finlay kept his hair cut short; but that didn’t make any
difference. Then he tried dyes; but they only made matters worse. Then he got a
wig, and this covered up the deformity; but sometimes at church he would get
asleep, and the wig would fall off, and make the children cry. Once, at the
county fair, he fell asleep, and the wig dropped off; and the committee on
domestic goods, when they came around, stood in front of Finlay’s head for some
five minutes rapt in delight. They then immediately decided that it was the
most ingenious piece of patchwork in the list, and never discovered the mistake
until they attempted to pin the premium card to it, At that Finlay awoke, and
knocked down the chairman of the committee, and chased the others out of the
building. We hope those New-Haven doctors have been more particular, as it is
not a subject to trifle with.
MR. and MRS. HARBISON
had just finished their breakfast. Mr. Harbison had pushed back, and was
looking under the lounge for his boots. Mrs. Harbison sat at the table, holding
the infant Harbison, and mechanically working her fore-finger in its mouth.
Suddenly she paused in the motion, threw the astonished child on its back,
turned as white as a sheet, pried open its mouth, and immediately gasped,
"Ephraim!" Mr. Harbison, who was on his knees, with his head under
the lounge, at once came forth, rapping his head sharply on the side of the
lounge as he did so, and, getting on his feet, inquired what was the matter.
"O Ephraim!" said she, the tears rolling down her cheeks, and the
smiles coursing up. "Why, what is it, Armethea?" said the astonished
Mr. Harbison, smartly rubbing his head where it had come in contact with the
lounge. "Baby"--she gasped. Mr. Harbison turned pale, and commenced
to sweat. "Baby has--Oh, oh, oh, Ephraim! Baby has--baby has got a
tooth!"--"No!" screamed Mr. Harbison, spreading his legs apart,
dropping his chin, and staring at the struggling heir with all his might.
"I tell you it is," persisted Mrs. Harbison, with a slight evidence
of hysteria. "Oh, oh, it can’t be!" protested Mr. Harrison, preparing
to swear if it wasn’t. "Come here and see for yourself," said Mrs.
Harbison. "Open its ’ittle mousy wousy for its own muzzer; that’s a toody
woody; that’s a b’essed ’ittle ’ump o’ sugar." Thus conjured, the heir
opened its mouth sufficiently for the author of its being to thrust in his
finger; and that gentleman, having convinced himself by the most indubitable
evidence that a tooth was there, immediately kicked his hat across the room,
buried his fist in the lounge, and declared with much feeling and vehemence
that he could lick the individual who would dare to intimate that he was not
the happiest man on the face of the earth. Then he gave Mrs. Harbison a hearty
smack on the mouth, and snatched up the heir; while that lady rushed
tremblingly forth after Mrs. Simmons, who lived next door. In a moment, Mrs.
Simmons came tearing in as if she had been shot out of a gun; and right behind
her came Mrs. Harbison at a speed that indicated she had been ejected from two
guns. Mrs. Simmons at once snatched the heir from the arms of Mr. Harbison, and
hurried it to the window, where she made a careful and critical examination of
its mouth; while Mrs. Harbison held its head, and tried to still the throbbings
of her heart; and Mr. Harbison danced up and down, and snapped his fingers, to
show how calm he was. It having been ascertained by Mrs. Simmons that the tooth
was a sound one, and also that the strongest hopes for its future could be
entertained on account of its coming in the new of the moon, Mrs. Harbison got
out the necessary material, and Mr. Harbison at once proceeded to write seven
different letters to as many persons, unfolding to them the event of the
morning, and inviting them to come on as soon as possible.
THAT is a very
beautiful story of the clergyman who visited an insane-asylum, and was attacked
by a maniac, but who broke into a song, and sang it so clearly and sweetly,
that the maniac was subdued; and, when he stopped from exhaustion, the maniac
cried for more, and he sang more; and the maniac gave up. This story made a
very strong impression on Mr. Coville of this village; and, the more he thought
of it, the more he was impressed by it. A day or two after reading this
beautiful story, Mr. Coville’s boy caught a boy named Phillips near the
foundry, and filled his hair with tar. The boy went straight home, of course,
with his shocking-looking head; and, as his home is on the same street as that
of the Covilles, Mr. Phillips hurried there at once. He vociferated into Mr.
Coville’s ear the cause of his visit, and requested that Master Coville be
passed out, and cut up between them. Mr. Coville expressed his indignation at
the outrage his son had committed, and promised to punish him severely for it.
But this was not what Mr. Phillips wanted. Instead of comforting him, the
promise appeared to irritate him. He danced out to the walk, and clutched an
imaginary boy by the hair, and struck an imaginary boy in the face with a
ferocity that was dreadful, and then danced back again, and howled for Master
Coville to be brought out. Mr. Coville was frightened at his vehemence, and
sought by all the powers of persuasive oratory to soothe him; but he was not to
be quelled. At every fresh argument he repeated his singular demonstration,
with such intimidating additions as snapping his fingers, and shaking his fist
in the face of his neighbor. Having exhausted his reasoning, and Phillips
becoming more inflamed all the while, Mr. Coville was about to beat a retreat
for the safety of his own person, when the beautiful story of the clergyman and
the maniac suddenly flashed into his mind. Here was sure and unexpected relief.
Mr. Phillips had danced down to the walk, and was dancing back, with a
half-dozen imaginary boys in tow, whom he was belaboring in a most murderous
manner; but Mr. Coville did not mind him. He felt that he had the turbulent
mass of passion within his control; and, as he realized his power, a faint
smile of triumph and pleasure stole into his face. Then he began to sing. It is
years since Mr. Coville indulged in the luxury of vocal music, and his
catalogue of pieces is neither large nor varied; but he took up the first one
that presented itself, and rolled it out. It was "A Life on the Ocean
Wave,"--a very pretty piece, and quite popular when Mr. Coville retired
from singing. It is a long time, as we have said, since Mr. Coville had
occasion to use his voice; and it worked a trifle awkward and uneven at first:
but he remembered that his purpose was a noble one, and he did not shrink from
criticism. As he advanced in the song, he was pleased, but not surprised, to
see Phillips first stare at him, then drop his hands at his side, and afterward
draw back, and look around, as if he were planning an escape. But Mr. Coville
did not stop: he gathered strength as he proceeded; and turning his eyes to
heaven, and keeping time with his feet, roared along through the measure with
amazing force. He had got up on the highest note he could find, and was
bursting into a perfect apoplectic howl of melody, when he felt himself caught
abruptly by the collar, and the next instant was made aware that be was on his
back on the walk, and that a man looking dreadfully like Phillips was pounding
his head against the frozen ground, and doing something with his ribs that appeared
to be uncalled for. Then he felt himself slide through a planing-mill, and,
opening his eyes, saw that Phillips was gone, and that Mrs. Coville was trying
to get him on his feet. In this direction he gave her all the help possible,
and, getting up, looked around for the planing-mill, but, not seeing it,
allowed her to lead him into the house. To all her questions she could get no
answer; but occasionally, while she was applying the liniment, he would start
up with "A Life on the Ocean," and then suddenly stop, smile faintly,
and softly rub his nose. It was several hours before he acted natural again;
but aside from conceding that possibly Phillips didn’t have the right kind of
madness, or he himself may not have got hold of the right tune, he shows no disposition
to converse on the matter. Sunday afternoon, young Coville, to be smart, and
thinking that his father was asleep in the chair, undertook to start the tune
for the edification of his mother; and the futility of that air for enchaining
an audience was again demonstrated in a most signal manner.
WE are inclined to
think Danbury has made a stride in the matter of woman’s rights that will
astonish everybody, and edify many. We have a woman who butchers. We might have
worked around to this declaration in an elaborate and interesting introduction;
but the fact is so amazing, that we could not write with any calmness, or think
with any precision, with it staring at us. This young lady is about to marry;
that is, she is engaged: and a woman in Redding is weaving her a rag carpet. As
nothing more confirmatory than this can be produced, we feel safe in affirming
that she is about to marry. The object of her choice is a farmer. The farmer
does his own killing, as all well-informed farmers do. The young lady is aware
of this fact; and, in her strong devotion to the farmer, she is learning to
butcher. Every Friday afternoon, she accompanies one of our butchers, a
personal friend, to the slaughter. Here, with her dress pinned up, her sleeves
rolled, and her hat very much on one side of her head, she flits about in the
midst of the thrilling gore, and unimpassioned tallow, and so forth. She has
already killed four lambs, cutting their throats so artistically as to charm
the burly butcher beyond all description, and to fill every well-balanced mind
with reverential admiration. Next Friday she tries her maiden hand on a small
calf, and expects to extract the vital spark from its body in a way that will
win its eternal gratitude. In dressing bullocks--or rather in undressing
them--she is becoming quite an adept; and already excels the butcher’s boy, who
has been in the business for nearly a year. But she particularly shines when
the animal’s throat is cut, and with the animal’s tail in her hand, and her
neatly gaitered foot on the animal’s side, she pumps the life-current out of
the dying body. The butcher says she looks like an angel then; and we can
readily understand how she does. In a week or two she will try her hand at
knocking down a bullock, and will be successful, without doubt. But we hope,
and we are unselfish in the expression of it, that the laurels she is winning
will not turn her head, and fill her with aspirations above her station. It
will be a sad day for the farmer if success thus affects her: it will be a
worse day for her. Better that she had never known the delicious sensation of
prodding a lamb’s throat, or the wondrous power of pumping gore. But we envy
the young farmer the mellow Sunday evenings in her society, the beaming of her
slaughter-house eyes, and her tender discourse upon hides, leaf-lard, tripe,
plucks, and other bits of scenery. To press the lips which have caressed a gory
knife, and to clasp the delicate fingers which have ploughed through the
steaming contents of a defunct animal, is an ecstasy that no one can calmly
contemplate--on a full stomach.
NO man shows his
insignificance and utter uselessness about the house to such a degree as when
his wife is mopping up. He feels this, and so does she; and he knows she feels
it, which is worse still. To offer an adverse remark on such an occasion is
about as insane an enterprise as an individual can embark upon. But a
Patch-street man did it Saturday. His wife was mopping the kitchen-floor, and
he was moving about the room to keep out of the way of the wet mop, when he
unhappily observed that that wasn’t the way his mother did it. It was done in a
flash. There was a sharp report, as if three pounds of very wet and very dirty
cloths had settled across a human face; and in the same instant a man went over
a chair, and half way under a table, looking very much as if a mud volcano had
kicked him in the head.
IT was just after the
funeral. The bereaved and subdued widow, enveloped in millinery gloom, was
seated in the sitting-room with a few sympathizing friends. There was that
constrained look so peculiar to the occasion observable on every countenance.
The widow sighed.
"How do you feel,
my dear?" observed her sister.
"Oh! I don’t
know," said the poor woman, with difficulty restraining her tears.
"But I hope every thing passed off well."
"Indeed it
did," said all the ladies.
"It was as large
and respectable a funeral as I have seen this winter," said the sister,
looking around upon the others.
"Yes, it
was," said the lady from next door. "I was saying to Mrs. Slocum,
only ten minutes ago, that the attendance couldn’t have been better,--the bad
going considered."
"Did you see the
Taylors?" asked the widow faintly, looking at her sister. "They go so
rarely to funerals, that I was quite surprised to see them here."
"Oh, yes! the
Taylors were all here," said the sympathizing sister. "As you say,
they go but a little: they are so exclusive!"
"I thought I saw
the Curtises also," suggested the bereaved woman droopingly.
"Oh, yes!"
chimed in several. "They came in their own carriage too," said the
sister animatedly. "And then there were the Randalls, and the Van
Rensselaers. Mrs. Van Rensselaer had her cousin from the city with her; and
Mrs. Randall wore a very heavy black silk, which I am sure was quite new. Did
you see Col. Haywood and his daughters, love?"
"I thought I saw
them; but I wasn’t sure. They were here, then, were they?"
"Yes,
indeed!" said they all again; and the lady who lived across the way
observed,--
"The colonel was
very sociable, and inquired most kindly about you, and the sickness of your
husband."
The widow smiled
faintly. She was gratified by the interest shown by the colonel.
The friends now rose to
go, each bidding her good-by, and expressing the hope that she would be calm.
Her sister bowed them out. When she returned, she said,--
"You can see, my
love, what the neighbors think of it. I wouldn’t have had any thing unfortunate
happen for a good deal. But nothing did. The arrangements couldn’t have been
better."
"I think some of
the people in the neighborhood must have been surprised to see so many of the
up-town people here," suggested the afflicted woman, trying to look
hopeful.
"You may be quite
sure of that," asserted the Sister. "I could see that plain enough by
their looks."
"Well, I am glad
there is no occasion for talk," said the widow, smoothing the skirt of her
dress.
And after that the boys
took the chairs home, and the house was put in order.
AT a recent political
caucus in Danbury, one of the members was on the floor, lining out a bold,
aggressive policy for the campaign, when a little boy pulled him by the coat,
and said in quite audible tones,--
"Ma says, that, if
you don’t hurry home with them prunes, she’ll lock the door, an’ you’ll have to
sleep in the street."
"Gentlemen,"
said the orator, picking up his hat, "I’ll just step around among the
people to feel the public pulse, and will meet you on the gory field of
battle."
Then he hurried home
with the prunes.
LADIES who have
husbands who are neglectful in supplying them with kindlings should carefully
study the experience of a Division-street sister. All her married life she has
had an unbroken struggle with her husband to keep herself supplied with wood,
and the greater part of the time she has been obliged to depend upon her own
deftness with the axe; and any one who has seen a woman handle an axe knows
what a dreadful thing it is. Two months ago, she begged of him not to go away
without leaving her some kindlings. He said he wouldn’t; but he finally did.
Then she hit upon a plan. She had four dozen clothes-pins. She took one dozen
of them for starting the fire, and found they worked admirably. The next day
she used another dozen; and so she continued, until the four dozen were gone.
Then she went to the store, and purchased another four dozen, having them
"put in the bill." When they were gone, she repeated the errand. She
said no more to him about kindlings. For ten years she had kept up the battle;
and now she was tired and sick at heart. He could go his own way, and she would
go hers, patiently, uncomplainingly, until the end would come.
On Monday he signified
at the store that he would like to settle his account. The bill was made out,
and handed him. He glanced down the items. As he advanced along the column, his
face began to work. First his eyes slowly enlarged; then his mouth gradually
opened; caused by the drooping of his lower jaw; and wrinkles formed on his
forehead. One-third down the column, he formed his lips as if to whistle. Four
lines below, he did whistle. Half way down he said,--
"Gra-cious!"
A little farther on he
said,--
"Thunder!"
Four more lines were
taken in, and he spoke again,--
"By the Jumping
Jupiter!"
Then he read on,
smiting his thigh vigorously, and giving vent to various expressions of the
liveliest nature. Finally he threw the bill down.
"I say, Benson,
look here. This bill can’t be mine: you’ve got me mixed up with some
laundry."
"That’s your bill,
sir," said the grocer, smiling pleasantly.
"I tell you it can’t
be," persisted the Division-street man, beginning to look scared.
"Why, here’s fifty-five dozen clothes-pins in a two-months’ bill. What on
earth do you take me for,--a four-story laundry!"
"But it is your
bill. Your wife can explain it to you. She ordered the pins."
"My wife!"
gasped the unfortunate man.
"Yes, sir."
The debtor clutched the
bill, jammed it into his pocket, and hurried straight home. He bolted into the
house without any abatement of speed, and, flinging the paper on the table
before his wife, knocked his hat on the back of his head, and said,--
"Martha Ann
Johnson, what does this mean? There are fifty-five dozen clothes-pins in Benson’s
bill for the past two months; and he says you ordered every blessed one of
them."
"And so I
did," said she demurely.
"W-h-at!
fifty-five dozen clothes-pins in two months!" and he shot down into a
chair as if a freight-car had fallen atop of him. "Fifty-five dozen
clothes-pins in two months!" he howled. "Will a just Heaven stand that?"
"I tell you, you
needn’t stare at me that way, Reuben Wheeler Johnson, nor go to calling onto
Heaven with your impiousness. I ordered them clothes-pins myself; and I have
burnt every one of ’em in that there stove, just because you were too all-fired
lazy to get a stick of wood and I declare, before I’ll be bothered jawing and
fighting to get you to cut wood, I’ll burn up every clothes-pin in the land;
and you shall pay for them, if you have to sell the shirt on your back to do
it. So now!"
And Mrs. Johnson, with
a face like scarlet, snatched up the broom, and went to sweeping the carpet as
if every flake of dust was a red-hot coal; while the unhappy Mr. Johnson
hastened to the store, and paid the bill; and before dark, that night, he had a
half-cord of wood sawed, split, and piled up ready for use.
AN impromptu
spelling-school was inaugurated in Merrill’s grocery Saturday evening. A young
man, who last winter aided Mr. Couch in the management of the North Centre
School, conducted the class. The first word he gave out was Indian.
The first man said,
"I-n, in, d-i-n, din,--Indin."
The teacher shook his
head. "Well, I declare! I thot I had it," said the speller with keen
disappointment; but he picked up when the second man started, and eyed him with
considerable anxiety.
The next man with
desperate earnestness said, "I-n, in, d-e, de, inde, u-n,
un,--Indeun."
Then he sighed, and
gazed anxiously at the teacher; while an old party at the end of the bench, who
was watching the efforts with derisive amusement, turned the quid in his mouth,
and said,--
"You ain’t in a
rod on’t. But go on: let’s see more try."
The teacher told the
second speller that he, also, had failed; whereupon he sighed again.
Then the third man took
hold. He squared himself upon his seat, and, holding up one finger, ticked off
the letters with becoming solemnity, as follows: "I-n, in, d-d-d-a, da,
inda,--i-n, in,--Indain."
The old party on the
end of the bench, who had been teetering on the precipice of a laugh while this
effort was being put forth, snickered right out in a loud guffaw at its
conclusion.
"Well, that’s a
spell for you, I mus’ say." And then he laughed again. The speller said
nothing; but he grew very red in the face when his failure was announced, and
cast a baleful glance at the old party, whose turn had now come, and who
said,--
"You people should
keep away from Oheo, you should. And now I’ll tackle that little word;"
and he smiled all over his face, while his eyes twinkled with merriment; and,
looking sideways from one to the other, he rapidly spelled,--
"I-n, in, g-i-n,
gin,--Ingin."
His smile deepened into
a broad grin as he watched the chagrin flush to the countenances of the other
spellers, who had been misled all the time on a wrong pronunciation of the
word. He was grinning with all his might, when the teacher said,--
"You ain’t got the
right word."
"Wh--ah--ot?"
and he bore down on the brazen-faced young man a look calculated to freeze him
to the bone.
"Indian is the
word. There is no such word as Ingin," said the teacher.
"Oh! there isn’t,
hey!" (sarcastically.) "You know, of course. You know all about it,
you pimply"--
"But, my dear sir,
I"--
"You needn’t
apologize to me!" shouted the old party, stamping the floor with his cane.
"Who be you, anyway, putting on your airs about me? I could twist your
scrawny neck off of you in two minutes, you white-livered puppy, you!"
"But, my dear sir,
let me ex"--
"It isn’t Ingin,
is it?" ground out the old chap between his teeth. "It’s somethin’
else, I suppose. Oh, yes! you know, of course. And a nice one you are with your
eddication! Why don’t your mother send back them apples she borrowed a month
ago?" and he looked around the store with a triumphant glare of sarcasm.
"But just hear
me"--
"Hear you! Who are
you, anyway? What’s your father? When’s he drawed a sober breath, I’d like to
know? An’ where’s your smart brother, Ben! In pris’n somewhere, I’ll be bound.
Oh! I know your hull family like a book; and a wuss lot than they are can’t be
found in this neighborhood; and you just put that in your pipe and smoke it,
you egregious ass! Talk to me about spellin’!" And the old man, stamping
his cane again, stalked passionately out of the store.
The lesson was then
postponed.
YOUNG COVILLE is
bringing in wood. Watch him. The wood lies by the saw-buck. There are two good
armfuls of it; but he is going to bring it all in at once. That is the better
way, as it saves one trip. He is getting it upon his arm with great difficulty.
The pile rises rapidly. It is all up but a few sticks; and he has to steady
himself with a great effort while feeling around for them. Each piece comes
harder than its predecessor. The bottom sticks are apparently cutting into the
flesh of his arm; and one at the top is pressing most painfully against his
cheek. He is sitting on his haunches in a disagreeable position, the increasing
weight making his knee-joints ache. The dizzy pile is held in place only by the
severest effort of both brain and muscle. The slightest false motion would
topple it to the ground. He realizes it. All the color in his body is in his
face, and the cords thereof are drawn to the utmost tension. His eyes glow like
a flame. He can’t find that last stick. Slowly the right hand circles around,
feeling carefully for it. His eyes are bright; but they are ranged over the
load on his arm, and the very nearest approach they can make to the scene is
the distant horizon. Still he skirmishes about with the right hand. A moisture
is beginning to well up in the bright orbs, making the horizon indistinct. The
muscles nearest the mouth are commencing to slacken, and the under-lip slightly
trembles. It is noticeable that the right hand is losing its caution, and
growing a trifle impulsive. Its circles are sharper, and less in symmetry. He
has gone over all the ground in reach. He bends apprehensively forward for more
territory. There is a waver, then another, a sudden plunge for recovery, and
over goes the pile; and a boy with passion-distorted face is blindly kicking
the inoffensive sticks. Then the back-door opens; and he suddenly stops, and
glares morosely at the wreck.
"William
Henry!" exclaims a shrill voice, "are you going to be all night
bringing in that wood?"
"Go in the
house!" he mutters under his breath.
"What’s that you
say to me, young man?"
"I said I’m comin’s
quick’s I could," he hastily but frankly explains. "Do you s’pose I
can help it ’cause the wood tips over when I get it piled up?"
"What do you try
to carry so much for, then?" she properly asks. "You bring along part
of that wood, and go after the rest pretty quick, or I’ll send your father out
to you;" and the door slams again.
Does he take in part of
it! Never. His heart may be wrung, and the tears flow like rain; but he will
carry all that wood in at once, if it takes five years. It was a mere caprice
then; but it is principle now. He goes over the same performance again, and he
repeats it until he masters every stick, and rises, reeling, to his feet. Then
he stumbles painfully up the path, his breath coming quick and strong, his eyes
bulging, and his knees almost screaming out with the ache they are enduring. He
can’t see the stoop, and hardly any thing of the house but the roof. He
staggers up the steps, and kicks violently against the door. It is opened by
his impatient and thoroughly disgusted mother; but the exertion has fatally
disturbed the poise of the pile. One stick comes thundering to the floor, then
another, and another. He makes a desperate effort to reach the wood-box with
the rest of the load; but piece after piece comes crashing down, arousing the
whole family, and nearly driving his mother insane. He reaches the box. He may
not have one-half the load on his arm; but he brought it all in at once, thank
Heaven!
THIS was on Pine
Street, Saturday. The central figure was a bareheaded woman, with a broom in
her hand. She stood on the back-stoop, and was crying, "Georgie!"
There was no response;
but anybody who had been on the other side of a close board fence at the foot
of the garden might have observed two boys intently engaged in building a
mud-pie.
"That’s your
mother hollering, Georgie," said one of the two, placing his eye to a
knot-hole, and glancing through to the stoop.
"I don’t
care," said the other.
"Ain’t you going
in?"
"No."
"George!"
came another call, short and sharp, "do you hear me!"
There was no answer.
"Where is she
now?" inquired Georgie, putting in the filling of the pie.
"On the
stoop," replied the young man at the knot-hole.
"What’s she doin’?"
"Ain’t doin’
nothin’."
"George
Augustus!"
Still no answer.
"You needn’t think
you can hide from me, young man, for I can see you; and, if you don’t come in
here at once, I’ll come out there in a way that you will know it."
Now, this was an
eminently natural statement, but hardly plausible, as her eyes would have had
to pierce an inch-board fence to see Georgie; and, even were this possible, it
would have required a glance in that special direction, and not over the top of
a pear-tree in an almost opposite way. Even the boy at the knot-hole could
hardly repress a smile.
"What’s she doin’
now!" inquired Georgie.
"She stands there
yet."
"I won’t speak to
you again, George Augustus," came the voice. "Your father will be
home in a few minutes, and I shall tell him all about what you have done."
Still no answer.
"Ain’t you
afraid?" asked the conscientious young man, drawing his eye from the
knot-hole to rest it.
"Noah! She won’t
tell pa; she never does: she only sez it to scare me."
Thus enlightened and
re-assured, the guard covered the knot-hole again.
"Ain’t you coming
in here, young man?" again demanded the woman; "or do you want me to
come out there to you with a stick? I won’t speak to you again, sir!"
"Is she comin’?"
asked the baker.
"No."
"Which way is she
lookin’?"
"She’s lookin’
over in the other yard."
"Do you hear me, I
say?" came the call again.
No answer.
"George Augustus!
do you hear your mother talking to you?"
Still no answer.
"Oh! you just
wait, young man, till your father comes home, and he’ll make you hear, I’ll
warrant ye."
"She is gone in
now," announced the faithful sentinel, withdrawing from his post.
"All right! Take
hold of this crust, and pull it down on that side, and that’ll be another pie
done," said the remorse-stricken George Augustus.
IT was after the
evening service. Mrs. Coonton and the three Misses Coonton had arrived home.
They sat listlessly around the room with their things on. Mr. Coonton was lying
on the lounge, asleep. It had been, undoubtedly, an impressive sermon, as the
ladies were silent, busy with their thoughts.
"Emmeline,"
said Mrs. Coonton, suddenly addressing her eldest, "did you see Mrs.
Parker when she came in?"
"Yes, ma,"
replied Emmeline.
"She didn’t have
that hat on last Sunday, did she?"
"No," said
Emmeline. "It is her new hat. I noticed it the moment she went down the
aisle; and I says to Sarah, ’What on earth possesses Mrs. Parker to wear such a
hat as that?’ says I."
"Such a great
prancing feather on such a little hat looked awful ridiculous. I thought I
should laugh right out when I saw it," observed Sarah.
"I don’t think it
looked any worse than Mary Schuyler’s, with the flaring red bow at the
back," said Amelia.
"I don’t see what
Mrs. Schuyler can be thinking of, to dress Mary out like that," said Mrs.
Coonton with a sigh. "Mary must be older than Sarah; and yet she dresses
as if she was a mere child."
"She’s nearly a
year older than I am," asserted Sarah.
"Did you see how
the Widow Marshall was trucked out?" interrupted Emmeline. "She was
as gay as a peacock. Mercy! what airs that woman puts on! I would like to have
asked her when she’s going to bring back that pan of flour;" and Emmeline
tittered maliciously.
"She’s shining
around old McMasters, they say," mentioned Amelia.
"Old
McMasters!" ejaculated Mrs. Coonton. "Why, he is old enough to be her
father!"
"What difference
do you suppose that makes to her?" suggested Emmeline. "She’d marry
Methuselah. But I pity him if he gets her. She’s a perfect wildcat."
"Say, Em, who was
that gentleman with Ellen Byxby?" inquired Amelia.
"That’s so,"
chimed in Sarah with spirit: "who was he?"
"What
gentleman?" asked Mrs. Coonton.
"Why, I don’t know
who it was," explained Emmeline.
"They came in
during the prayer. He was a tall fellow, with light hair and
chin-whiskers."
"It couldn’t have
been her cousin John from Brooklyn," suggested Mrs. Coonton.
"Bother, no!"
said Sarah pettishly, "He is short, and has brown hair. This gentleman is
a stranger here. I wonder where she picked him up."
"She seemed to
keep mighty close to him," said Amelia. "But she needn’t be scared:
no one will take him, unless they are pretty hard pushed. He looks as soft as
squash. Did you see him tumbling up his hair with his fingers? I wonder what
that big ring cost,--two cents?" and the speaker tittered.
"Well, I’m glad if
she’s got company," said Mrs. Coonton kindly. "She’s made efforts
enough to get some one, goodness knows!"
"I should say she
had," coincided Emmeline. "She’s got on one of them Victoria hats, I
see. If I had a drunken father, I’d keep in doors, I think, and not be parading
myself in public."
Just then there was a
movement on the lounge, and the ladies began to take off their things.
"Hello,
folks!" said Mr. Coonton, rising up, and rubbing his eyes. "Is church
out?"
"Yes," said
Mrs. Coonton with a yawn, which communicated itself to her daughters.
"Did you have a
good sermon?"
"Pret-ty
good," accompanied by another yawn all round.
"See many good
clothes?" was the next query.
"I suppose you
think, Mr. Coonton, that that is all your wife and daughters go to church
for,--to look at people’s clothes," said Mrs. Coonton tartly.
"That’s just like
pa," said Emmeline, with a toss of her head: "he is always slurring
church people."
Pa sloped to bed.
A WIFE, when she has
received suitable notice, can get up an excellent dinner for her husband’s
friend. She does her level best, working without stint, until a repast which
pleases her in every particular is spread. Then the following conversation
takes place with the guest:--
"I hope you’ll be
able to make out a meal."
"I shall do
nicely, I know," he says.
"I’m really
ashamed of the table," she rattles on.
"Why, you needn’t
be," he protests.
"But it’s all his
fault," she explains, nodding toward her husband. "He never gives me
any warning scarcely; and it’s such warm weather now, that there is nothing you
can keep on hand for an emergency."
"Why, you’ve done
nobly, I think; couldn’t have done better," asserts the guest, beginning
to lose his interest in the topic.
"Oh! I hope you
don’t think this any thing of a dinner," she says, looking with anxious
pride over the spread. "You must come up again; and let me know
beforehand, and I’ll promise you something decent to eat."
"I’m sure this can’t
be beaten," protests the guest, with a sense of becoming depressed.
"Oh, bless me!
this is nothing but a pick-up dinner,--just the same as we’d have if alone. Do
try another biscuit: I don’t suppose they are fit to eat, though," she
says, with increased anxiety, as she observes their delicate color and flaky
texture.
"They are
beautiful," he hastily explains, feeling very uncomfortable the while.
"You must take the
will for the deed," she resumes. "I didn’t see we were out of bread
till the last moment, and then I hastily made up these. I didn’t think they’d
be half way decent, as there was no time to work them."
And so she rattles on
with her disastrous comments, the dear old fraud! while he continues to
protest, and continues to feel more and more like getting up and flying madly
away.
THE man across the way
recently rented the upper part of his house to a family from an outside
district. The head of the family came to secure the rent. He was a tall, bony
man, with a sunburned face, and light, tawny chin-whiskers. He looked very much
like a cross between a farmer and a planing-mill. He explained,--
"What I want is a
peaceful naberhood; and the comforts of a home I get myself. There’s the ole
woman, my wife, and our boy. James is but seven years old. He ain’t strong,
bein’ given more to study than to work; but he’s got a head on him, I can tell
you. But I want a peaceful naberhood, and you look like the man that kin just supply
the demand. We’ll be around on time."
They moved in two weeks
ago. On the close of the third day, the boy James had succeeded in flooding the
first floor by leaving a pipe running on the second, and had pulled off all the
tomatoes to throw against the barn. The man across the way mildly intimated to
his new tenant what James had done.
"He didn’t eat any
of them green termatys, did he?" inquired the anxious parent.
"I don’t suppose
he did," was the reply of the landlord, who was evidently trying to see
the relevance of the query.
"And he didn’t get
his feet wet, I hope?" was the next question.
"I believe
not," was the feeble reply.
"Well," said
the grateful father, "let us be thankful that it is no worse. James must
be more keerful. A single green termaty, or a pair of wet socks, might waft his
little soul into eternity before you’d know. I’ll reason with James at once. I
thank you, sir, for your interest in James." And he went into the house;
while the man across the way sat hastily down on the stoop, and smote his
forehead.
Before he had entirely
recovered from this affair, James again became conspicuous. This time, he stuck
a lath through the sash of the front-door.
The man across the way
met the parent at the gate that evening. He mentioned James’s exploit.
"What, with his
hand did he do it?" gasped the agitated father. "Oh, no, no! Not the
little hand which I have held so often in mine. Not the little hand which has
pulled these whiskers so many times in babyhood. Oh! say it was not with his
hand he broke the glass."
The man across the way
explained that it was done with a lath.
"Heaven be
praised!" ejaculated the grateful father. "Poor James! He ain’t
strong; an’ weak folks are always unfortunit, mostly. But I’m glad he didn’t hurt
himself. He ain’t a strong boy; but I’m in hopes, with quiet and pleasant
surroundings, he’ll improve. This is just the naberhood for James. It’s
peaceful, and I like peace: so does James an’ the ole woman." And he
passed in to his tea, leaving the man across the way with a stony stare in his
eyes.
The next day James
turned on the hose, and, before he was discovered, had prostrated twenty-five
plants, broken down a hanging-basket, torn up the flower-bed, and nearly
blinded the little girl from the next house, who was peering through the fence
at the performance.
The man across the way
came home to tea, and saw the ruin which had been effected, and he was nearly
beside himself with rage. There was a look of determination on his face when he
encountered, an hour later, the peaceable tenant coming up the yard.
"I tell you,
sir," he began, "this last freak of your boy is altogether too
much;" and he pointed to the devastation.
"Why, how did
James do that?" inquired the father.
"He turned on the
hose," explained the man across the way between his clinched teeth.
The face of the tenant
blossomed into a genial smile.
"Why, what an
observing little fellow he is!" said he. "I was saying this noon to
the ole woman, that your plants ought to be watered, or they’d all dry up; an’
he must have heard me, an’ gone an’ done it himself. That’s just like James. He’s
so thoughtful for one so young!"
The man across the way
grew black enough in the face to strangle.
"I tell you, sir,
I won’t stand this again," he declared in a voice quivering with passion.
"What that boy wants is a skinning from head to foot; and, if he had the
right kind of father, he’d get it before he was an hour older."
It was painful to see
the expression of grief and astonishment which settled like a cloud upon the
face of the new tenant.
"What!" he
gasped, "skin James, little James, the sunshine of our home,--a poor
little weakling, whose only fault is trying to do too much? And you, a man
forty years old, an’ weighing a hundred an’ sixty pounds, I dare say, get mad
with a little boy like James? Look here, you!" he suddenly blurted,
stretching his stature to the utmost: "I come here for peace; and I’ll
have peace, you bet! If you’re opposed to peace, why didn’t you say so when I
got the house of you? Wasn’t I frank an’ open an’ above-board with you? Didn’t
I tell you on the start that I wanted a peaceful naberhood? Why didn’t you deal
as honest-like with me, and own up that you was of a quarrelsome nature? Why
didn’t you do that, I want to know? I don’t want to have any words with you, an’
I ain’t a-going to have. I am a peaceful citizen, I’ve lived with twenty-five
different families, an’ I never had any trouble. I’m for peace every time; an’
I’ll have peace where I live, or I’ll git at once: you can just bet your money
on that. If you can’t keep your temper down, we’ll git; for I won’t have James
worried for all the houses between here and the perfumed plains of Araby. Gosh
all hemlock! what’s life without peace?"
Yesterday we observed
the second-floor furniture loading on a wagon; by which we conclude the man
across the way is not able to keep his temper down.
THE man who will invent
a bureau-drawer which will move out and in without a hitch will not only secure
a fortune, but will attain to an eminence in history not second to the greatest
warriors. There is nothing, perhaps (always excepting a stove-pipe), that will
so exasperate a man as a bureau-drawer which will not shut. It is a deceptive
article. It will start off all right; then it pauses at one end while the other
swings in as far as it can. It is the custom to throw the whole weight of the
person against the end which sticks. If any one has succeeded in closing a
drawer by so doing, he will confer a favor by sending his address to this
office. We have seen men do this several times, and then run from the other
side of the room, and jump with both feet against the obstinate end. This doesn’t
appear to answer the purpose any better; but it is very satisfying. Mrs.
Holcomb was trying to shut a bureau-drawer Saturday morning; but it was an
abortive effort. Finally she burst into tears. Then Mr. Holcomb told her to
stand aside, and see him do it.
"You see,"
observed Mr. Holcomb with quiet dignity, "that the drawer is all awry.
That’s what makes it stick. Now, anybody but a woman would see at once, that to
move a drawer standing in that position would be impossible. I now bring out
this other end even with the other,--so; then I take hold of both knobs, and,
with an equal pressure from each hand, the drawer moves easily in. See?"
The dreadful thing
moved readily forward for a distance of nearly two inches; then it stopped
abruptly.
"Ah!"
observed Mrs. Holcomb, beginning to look happy again.
Mr. Holcomb very
properly made no response to this ungenerous expression; but he gently worked
each end of the drawer to and fro, but without success. Then he pulled the
drawer all the way out, adjusted it properly, and started it carefully back: it
moved as if it was on oiled wheels. Mr. Holcomb smiled. Then it stopped. Mr.
Holcomb looked solemn.
"Perhaps you ain’t
got the ends adjusted," suggested the unhappy Mrs, Holcomb.
Mr. Holcomb made no
reply. Were it not for an increased flush in his face, it might have been
doubted if he heard the remark at all. He pushed harder at the drawer than was
apparent to her; but it didn’t move. He tried to bring it back again; but it
would not come.
"Are you sure you
have got every thing out of here you want?" he finally asked, with a
desperate effort to appear composed.
"Oh! that’s what
you are stopping for, is it? But you needn’t: I have got what I wanted: you can
shut it right up." Then she smiled a very wicked smile.
He grew redder in the
face, and set his teeth firmly together, and put all his strength to the
obdurate drawer, while a hard look gleamed in his eye.
But it did not move. He
pushed harder.
"Ooh, ooh!"
he groaned.
"I’m afraid you
haven’t got the ends adjusted," she maliciously suggested.
A scowl settled on his
face, while he strained every muscle in the pressure.
"What dumb fool
put this drawer together, I’d like to know?" he snapped out. She made no
reply; but she felt that she had not known such happiness since the day she
stood before the altar with him, and orange-blossoms in her hair.
"I’d like to know
what in thunder you’ve been doing to this drawer, Jane Holcomb?" he jerked
out.
"I ain’t done any
thing to it," she replied.
"I know
better," he asserted.
"Well, know what
you please, for all I care," she sympathizingly retorted.
The cords swelled up on
his neck, and the corners of his mouth grew white.
"I’ll shut that
drawer, or I’ll know the reason of it!" he shouted; and he jumped up, and
gave it a passionate kick.
"Oh my!" she
exclaimed.
He dropped on his knees
again, and grabbed hold of the knobs, and swayed and pushed at them with all
his might. But it didn’t move.
"Why in Heaven’s
name don’t you open the window? Do you want to smother me?" he
passionately cried,
It was warm, dreadfully
warm. The perspiration stood in great drops on his face, or ran down into his
neck. The birds sang merrily out the door, and the glad sunshine lay in golden
sheets upon the earth; but he did not notice them. He would have given five
dollars if he had not touched the accursed bureau; he would have given ten if
he had never been born. He threw all his weight on both knobs. It moved then.
It went to its place with a suddenness that threw him from his balance, and
brought his burning face against the bureau with force enough to skin his nose,
and fill his eyes with water to a degree that was blinding.
Then he went out on the
back-stoop and sat there for an hour, scowling at the scenery.
A DANBURY man was
looking at his yard Thursday afternoon. He was looking at it in such a way as
to easily attract the attention of any neighbor who might have a lot of
unemployed time on hand. Such a party pretty soon joined the observer, and
immediately took an all-absorbing interest in the contemplated improvement.
From this subject they rapidly drifted into finance.
"Pretty tough
times," observed the neighbor.
"Yes, they are
that; an’ it’ll be tougher before we’re over it, I imagine," was the
answer.
They were both sitting
on a saw-horse under an apple-tree, near the back-door, when this conversation
commenced. The owner of the premises was chewing on a bit of straw; and the
neighbor was mechanically pulling tops from the plantain in reach.
"What do you think
of this money-question which has got into politics this year?" inquired
the neighbor.
"I think it’ll be
settled one way or the other before another presidential election is
over," replied the owner, "You see the matter is being--"
"Ezekiel!"
pronounced a sharp voice from the stoop.
"Well, what is
it?" he curtly inquired.
"I wish you’d get
me a pail of water."
"In a minute.--As
I was sayin,’ the matter is bein’ pressed with unusual force. There has been
this effort for years to come down to a specie basis; but nothin’ definite has
been reached. Now, I imagine this campaign will settle it."
"You believe
specie to be the best currency, of course?"
"Certainly. What
does the increase of paper money amount"--
"Ezekiel!"
came the voice from the stoop.
"In a minute.--All
the paper you might print from now till"--
"Ezekiel!"
"Thunder and
lightning! Maria, what is the matter?" he passionately ejaculated.
"I want you to get
me a pail of water: I’m waitin’ for it."
"I’ll get it in a
minute, if you’ll just hold your breath.--You might, as I said, print money
till doomsday; an’, if you ain’t got the gold to back it up, what is it goin’
to amount to? As far as exchange is concerned, among ourselves I will admit
that paper"--
"Ezekiel!"
"Good gracious!
Maria, what do you want?"
"I want a pail of
water. I’ve told you a dozen times. If you don’t hurry up with it, you’ll have
to go without dinner."
"Where is the
pail?" snapped the annoyed husband, seeing it in her hand. "It’s a
pity if I can’t get a chance to say a word, without being put out every
minute."
Seeing him rise up, she
set the pail down on the stoop, and retired; and he, helping himself to a fresh
straw, said,--
"As I was sayin’,
paper is all well enough among ourselves as a matter of exchange; but what are
we goin’ to do for imports? We can’t get along without gold then. An’ what are
we goin’ to do when this money is called in, if we haven’t got gold enough to
redeem it? Now, suppose, for instance, that I had ten"--
"Ezekiel!"
came the voice again. But he did not hear it.
--"thousand
dollars in cash, an’ supposin’ I wanted to use forty thousand dollars. What do
I do? I take"--
"Ezekiel! Why on
earth don’t you stop that gab of yours, and get me a pail of water?"
"Yes, yes, in a
minute.--An’ I take my paper on the market for that amount. Here is ten
thousand dollars in cash, you see, an’ here is the--Woosh! gar! ooh!" and
just here the gasping husband was awed into silence by seeing his neighbor dash
over the fence in a dripping condition. The forty thousand dollars on paper was
not there, as might have reasonably been expected; but a pail of indifferent
water was there, hurled with all the force and fury an exasperated woman is
capable of. And, as the choking expounder of specie as a basis reached out
spasmodically for his breath, the interested neighbor, with fully two-thirds of
the contents of the bucket in his hair and under his coat-collar, sped across
the lots with a vehemence that was really marvellous as an exhibition of speed,
and with a silence in regard to the cause which was born of twenty years of
married life.
MR. COBLEIGH moved on
the Ist of May. We were going through North Street when we met him with the
insignia of the act upon him; viz., a looking-glass, clock, and lamp. If we had
suddenly discovered our own family moving, we could not have been more
astonished. He had lived in the house whence he was moving for at least eight
years. He set the lamp on a fence, and propped the clock and looking-glass
against the same.
"You are surprised
to see me at this?" he said with an anxious look.
We admitted as much.
"I little expected
it at one time myself." And he sighed drearily.
"Any trouble with
the landlord?"
"No, no."
"With the house,
then?"
"Oh, no! good
landlord, and good house. I don’t know if I’ll ever again find as good. I’ve
lived there eight years last fall; and I might’ve lived there all my life, if
it wasn’t for the danged fools in the world."
We looked our sympathy.
"You see," he
went on, "about six months ago, one of those chaps who believe in a series
of sudden and unexpected judgment-days--Second Advent, they call ’em--moved in
next door (where Parker used to live). He was a peaceful sort of a man enough
to get along with; but he was a strong Second Advent, and so is his wife. Well,
they hadn’t lived there two weeks before they got acquainted, and began to have
revelations." He paused and sighed.
"But why should
their peculiar religious belief make you dissatisfied with your home?" we
ventured to inquire.
"Why?" he
ejaculated, staring hard at us. "But then you don’t know any thing about
it. You never lived next door to a Second Advent, perhaps?"
"Not that we can
remember."
"You’d remembered
it if you had," he replied with significant emphasis. "I’ll never
forget my experience. That family got acquainted with us; and then it had its
revelations. First they borrowed a little sugar, and then a little tea, and
then a little saleratus, and then this, and then that. They said the world was
all going to be burned up in two weeks, and they didn’t feel like going to the
expense of getting a barrel of sugar, when eternity was so close; and wouldn’t
we let them have a small teacupful? We let ’em have it, Then, two days after,
they came in, and said, that, owing to the immediate approach of the end of all
things, they didn’t think it advisable to lay in a ton of saleratus, and wouldn’t
we just loan them a cupful? My wife didn’t believe, of course, that the world
was a-coming to an end; but she thought the poor critters did: and she
reasoned, that, when they saw there was no fire nor smoke on the day in
question, they’d pony up with the sugar and saleratus, and the hundred and one
other things. But they wasn’t that kind of Advents. When the time came around,
and the performance didn’t, they professed to have got a sort of postscript
with later particulars; and then they came over as rampant as ever, and more
so. In fact, every fresh disappointment appeared to give them new zeal for
victuals and other things; and it got so that they were over every day, and
sometimes twice a day, after one thing or another."
"But didn’t they
return any of the articles?"
"Certainly not. If
the world was going to end, what on earth was we a-going to do with the
articles? I couldn’t go through fire, could I, with tea-cupfuls of saleratus,
sugar, tea, &c., hung to me? That’s the way they reasoned. But they was
going to make it all right on the other shore, was what his wife always said. I
told my wife, that, if we could only get back ten per cent of the things on
this shore, I’d cheerfully run my chances for the balance when we got over
there. Besides all that, the prospect of so much groceries waiting me on the
other shore began, after a while, to get very embarrassing; and I kinder hinted
to the chap something to this effect; but it did no good. He’d got that notion
bored right into his skull; and all he could see was clouds of glory, and
angels, and harps, and my sugar and saleratus and coffee and the like. By
George! it got to be just awful, I can tell you! Day in and day out, that
fellow, or some of his folks, was repairing their ascension duds, or going for
my groceries; and it did seem as if I’d go mad, and get up a judgment-day on my
own hook. Why, that chap would come on the greatest errands you ever saw. He
come in one day to get my shaving-brush. He said he didn’t feel justified in
buying a new brush right on the eve of a general resurrection; but he would use
mine, and, when we all got over there" (here Mr. Cobleigh waved his hand
in gloomy indication of the locality), "he’d give me a shaving-brush
inlaid with precious stones, and frisking in golden foam. Bah!--the jackass!
But that’s the way he’ll talk. He got my axe one day with a lot of the same
foolishness; and, while he was using it, the handle broke, and the blade went
down the well. He come over right away to see if I had another axe; and when I
told him I hadn’t, and that I didn’t know how I was to get along without that
one, I’m blamed if he didn’t want me to borrow one from some of the neighbors,
so he could finish the little job he was at! He said there was no use of my
buying a new axe, with the crack of doom staring us in the face. There’d be no
use for a new axe in heaven, for there’d be no pain there, an’ no crying; with
a lot of other stuff. This riled me like thunder. But there was no use talking
to him. I was mad, though, about the axe,--as mad as I could be; and I told
him, if he didn’t get me a new axe, I’d bust him in pieces with the right arm
of the law. And what do you suppose he said?" And Mr. Cobleigh looked at
us with grim anxiety.
We were obliged to
admit that we couldn’t tell.
"He said he’d go
home and pray for me," added our friend with a sigh of despair. "And
now, what could I do with such a chap as that! There was no use in getting mad,
and you couldn’t reason him out of the foolishness. And he wouldn’t move; and
the day of judgment showed no signs of being in earnest. So there I was. The
only thing I could do was to get away; and I’ve hired a house at the other end
of the town, and I’m moving there. And now," added our unfortunate friend,
steadying the looking-glass and clock under his arms, while he grasped the
lamp, "I’ve got where there is a jail on one side of me, and a graveyard
on the other; and I don’t care a darn how many Second Advents move in on either
side."
And he stalked grimly
on his way.
SHE had a hen that was
bound to set, and which she was bound should not set. Where there is such a
diversion of sentiment between a family and its hens, there can be no peace nor
harmony. The feelings of both are arrayed against the other; and conflict and
jars, and unhappiness generally, are the sure results. There may come a time
when both parties will clearly comprehend each other, and when the hen’s
feelings will not only be understood, but respected. We should like very much
to live until the glad dawn of that era; but our friends mustn’t be too
confident that we will. A family on Nelson Street, just above Division, have a
hen that wishes to set. She was surprised on the nest Friday afternoon for the
severalth time. The woman of the house thus found her, and, snatching her up,
took a string, tied it about the fowl’s leg, and hitched her up to the fence.
She had just completed this act, when she was accosted by an elderly gentleman,
a stranger, who, in passing, stopped to observe the performance. He was a man of
a grave but benevolent expression of face, and one whose dress indicated that
he was in good circumstances, and thus must command respect.
"What is the
trouble with the hen, madam!" he asked.
"I’m trying to
break her up from setting," replied the woman,
"And don’t you
succeed?"
"I haven’t so far,
although I’ve tried every thing about. We’ve poured water on her, and kept her
under a barrel, and beat her, and tied a red rag around her leg, and tied her
up in the hot sun all day, and done about every thing. But I think I’ll conquer
her now. I’ve got her tied up by the leg, so she can’t touch the ground; and I
guess she’ll get sick of setting when she’s let down again."
The stranger looked at
the hen, which was evidently suffering from the position it was in, and with a
sigh asked,--
"Won’t you take
her down now? She suffers."
"I can’t help
it," said the woman with tightening teeth. She must learn better."
"Have you any
children?" he inquired.
"Yes; five."
"Why did you have
them?"
"Why--did--I--have--them?"
she repeated, staring at him. "Why, because I wanted them."
"Exactly. It was
in obedience to a maternal instinct. Now, suppose, when you felt this want for
children, you had been shoved under a barrel: would that have been right?"
"No," said
she softly.
"Or had cold water
poured on your head?"
She said nothing.
"Suppose, again,
you had a red flannel tied around you: how would that have done?"
Still she was silent.
"We’ll make
another supposition," he continued. "Suppose that when this hungering
for a little one to come to you, one that you might take and lead and teach,
just as your neighbors about you lead and teach their precious ones, you had
been beaten, tied up by the feet, and left in the hot sun all day: would that have
been right?"
She dropped her head,
and said nothing.
"Or would you
prefer being tied up by one foot to a fence?"
"No, no!"
"Will you take the
hen down?"
In something less than
four seconds that hen was down from her uncomfortable position, and moving
about with a most grateful step.
"I’ll never tie up
another hen as long as I live!" cried the excited woman.
"Good for
you!" said the old gentleman. "Hens must not always set when they
want to; but shutting them up in a coop where they can have plenty of room, but
no nests to set in, will break them up just as effectually as violent measures;
and, better yet, you retain their confidence and affection."
The repentant woman
invited him to take a glass of milk; and he went in and took it.
MR. COVILLE has got but
one apple-tree; but it is a good tree. It has hung full of blossoms, and in the
past week has been a very beautiful ornament in his little yard. We do think
apple-blossoms the sweetest flowers ever created. On Mr. Coville’s tree worms
have made a huge and unsightly nest. It was not only an objectionable shadow
upon the glory of the foliage, but it threatened to cover the tree with an
enemy which would destroy the fruit, and make its place loathsome with their
bodies. Mr. Coville learned that the only sure way of getting rid of the nest
was to burn it away. This was to be done by a lighted bunch of rags saturated
with camphene, and tied to the end of a pole so as to be applied to the nest.
It was on Friday evening that Mr. Coville did this business. His wife helped
him. He put a barrel under the tree to stand on, as he did not have a pole long
enough to reach the nest from the ground. He tied a lot of rags on the end of a
stick, and dipped the mass into a basin of camphene, and then touched off a
match, and applied the ball of flame to the nest. High as he was from the
ground, still he had to stand well up on his toes to make the remedy effective.
But Mr. Coville did not mind that at all, because the flame was doing the work
most beautifully.
"That’ll sizzle ’em,
by gracious!" he shouted down to his wife, who stood by him, while his
eyes were rivited on the devastation above his head.
"Wah, ooh,
ooh!" suddenly rent the air above the apple-tree; and, before the startled
woman could comprehend from whence came the dreadful cry, she received a blow
on the head from a ball of burning rags, and went down like a flash, striking the
ground in time to see her husband descend, seat first, on a similar ball of
flame, and rise again as if called up by an unseen but irresistible power.
It was all explained in
a minute, while Mr. Coville sat in a large dish of cold water. It appears that
a drop of the lighted camphene fell from the ball, and struck Mr. Coville on
the chin just as he was in the very climax of enthusiasm, when every nerve
seemed stretched to its utmost tension in fond anticipation of the most
gratifying results. The shock was too great for his nervous system to
withstand. The barrel went over in that awfully unexpected way which a barrel
has of going over; and, in the descent of his person, Mr. Coville fetched his
wife a wipe over the head with his fireworks, as forcible as it was unintended;
and wound up the performance by sitting abruptly and inexplicably down upon the
illumination itself. Mrs. Coville lost some hair, and was scorched on one ear,
and Mr. Coville has had to have an entirely new sag put in his pants; but the
barrel was not injured in the least, and the torch is about as good as new, if
any one cares to use it.
THEY had been having
pancakes since the Ist of February. He was an economical man, and thought
fifty-cent molasses was good enough. She was a trifle more refined in her
taste, and yearned for sirups; but, being a patient and meek woman, she gave up
the struggle for the desire of her heart, and quietly submitted to his
decision. Last Friday her mother made them her first visit. She is a woman
large of bone, quick of thought, and amply adapted to tussle with the problems
of life. She didn’t take to the cheap adornment of the pancakes, and asked her
daughter why she didn’t have sirup.
"These cakes are
too good to be smeared with such stuff," she asserted in a tone of
disgust.
The wife made a feeble
reply, while the husband smiled grimly to himself.
"Can’t you get
sirup in Danbury?" she asked him.
"I s’pose
so."
"Then I shall
expect some for my breakfast to-morrow morning," she said, looking
straight at him.
Next morning the
pitcher of molasses was on the table. She picked it up, and smelled of the
contents.
"Faugh!" she
exclaimed, lifting her nose: "where’s that sirup?"
"I didn’t get
it," said he, without looking up.
"Did you forget
it?" she asked, opening her lips as little as possible to say the words.
"No."
"Why didn’t you
get it, then?"
"Because it costs
more than I want to pay."
"Oh!"
There was a moment’s
pause after this ejaculation, during which he raised his eyes to leer at her,
but dropped them again, and moved uneasily in his chair.
"You never seem to
think of the cost when you want a cigar or a drink of liquor, or to go off
alone to a place of amusement," she said, looking straight at his
depressed face; "but, when any thing better than tar is wanted at home for
pancakes, the cost is a matter of some importance. If you had a stomach that
was half human, you couldn’t eat it."
"It’s good enough
for me; an’ what’s good enough for me must be good enough for others," he
doggedly growled.
There was a jump, the
sound of an overturning chair and crockery; and she was standing up, with one
hand convulsively grasped in his hair, and the other clutching the pitcher of
offence. His face was pressed against the table.
"Lemme up!"
he yelled.
"It’s good enough
for you, is it?" she cried. "Well, you shall have the whole of
it."
And she turned the
contents over his head, and worked it in his hair, and down his neck, and in
his ears, while he spluttered and screamed and whined, and struggled with all
his might to release himself; but he was like a baby in the hands of a giant.
When she got through,
she coolly proceeded to the sink, and deliberately washed her hands, while he
sat there, quivering all over, and staring at her with an expression in his
eyes that tallied admirably with the erect condition of his hair.
He was two full hours
getting that stuff out of his hair; but it was not wasted time. A gallon of the
best sirup was sent up to the house within an hour after he went down; and when
she returned home, four days later, he hired a carriage expressly to take her
to the cars. When she came, she had to walk from the depot.
THE first basket of
cucumbers appeared in our market last week. Cucumbers are man’s earliest
friends. In appearance they are the most unpretentious among vegetables; but in
character they take the precedence. When a cucumber first comes around, there
is a general feeling of uneasiness, arising from a doubt, whose subtle
influence is felt throughout the community. But this uneasiness wears off alter
a while, and suspicion gives way to genuine regard. In fact, there is not a
vegetable which comes to the market that will command the respect a cucumber
receives. When we see a cucumber, we are led to look back over its career. It
has been a stormy one, even under the most favorable circumstances possible to
cucumber development. Only about one in ten starting even in life ever reaches
a position in society. There is some recompense, of course, in the excitement
which arises from the dangers; and we can well believe that it must be
eminently gratifying to a successful cucumber, when it has gained the victory,
to find, that, instead of sinking into helpless old age, it has been taken into
the bosom of an enthusiastic family, and in a very few hours will be exploring
them. Nothing excites a cucumber. This has been its record since time began;
and its self-possession, even in the presence of the most famous physicians and
most successful coroners, has given rise to a popular proverb. What a cucumber has
got to do, it does with all its might. It enters upon the work with intense
enthusiasm; but it patiently waits the time of action. The great depth of its
nature is hidden from the world until about three A.M.
THIS is a very trying
season to smitten young men. The mud is very deep and very sticky; and a young
man is apt to be careless and indifferent about his stepping when escorting a
particularly attractive young lady home. A rather embarrassing predicament a
Danbury young man was placed in Sunday night. A young lady whose acquaintance
he made a short time ago, and who struck him as being a trifle above any other
being on earth, was leaving church without an escort Sunday night. He hastened
to her side with his services. She accepted, and with a heartiness that made
the universe act as if it was about to slip from under him. She took his arm;
and he moved along with her as carefully as if she was a steamboat covered with
diamonds. He never thought of the mud or the puddles, but ploughed through the
one, and splashed through the other, as if both had been the choicest flowers.
His thoughts being in heaven, it was natural that he should suppose his feet
were not far below. When they got to the house, and he saw that there were
indications of a good-sized parlor, he was fairly enchanted. They reached the
stoop: she opened the door, and stepped into the hall to permit him to pass in,
which he was hastening to do, when the burly form of the young lady’s mother
suddenly confronted him.
"Who’s this?"
she abruptly asked.
"O Ma!"
exclaimed the young girl, blushing, "this is Mr. Parker, who has come home
with me."
"An’ have you
invited him in here such a night as this, with the mud a foot deep? Do you s’pose
I’ve nothing to do but traipse after a lot of young loons, cleaning up their
mud? My gracious! just look at them feet of his!--chock-full of mud! Do you s’pose
I’m going to have that stuff tracked all over my carpets? Not by a good sight!
Let him take his mud where he got it. I won’t have it here; an’ I’ve got no
patience with people who don’t know any better than to lug a swamp along with
em."
And she swept
indignantly back to the sitting-room, leaving the daughter dumb with confusion,
and the unhappy Mr. Parker staring vacantly at her. Recovering his senses
sufficiently to bid her a husky good-night, he cast an agonized glance at
"them feet of his," and immediately lifted them in a homeward
direction.
A NEW family was to
move into the neighborhood, and the neighbors were on nettles of curiosity in
regard to them. The furniture came on Tuesday; and Mrs. Winters, who lives next
door, received a call from Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Reynolds just as the first
load of goods made its appearance on the street. "Do you know the new
neighbors are coming to-day?" inquired Mrs. Jackson.
"I’ve heard so. I
wonder what kind of people they are," said Mrs. Winters.
"I don’t
know," replied Mrs. Jackson; "but I think their furniture is coming
now."
"Is that so!"
And Mrs. Winters hastened into the next room, whose window commanded a most
desirable view of the situation.
The excellent ladies
followed immediately after her; and the three forms filled up the window, and
the three pairs of eyes peered through the blinds in the liveliest expectation.
The load drove up to the gate; and, after what appeared to be a needlessly long
time, the ropes were removed, and the unloading commenced.
"That must be the
man," said Mrs. Reynolds, indicating a gentleman who just staggered up
with a clock under one arm, a looking-glass under the other, a basket of
something or another in each hand, and his pockets full of vases.
"Of course,"
promptly chimed in her companions, recognizing at once that the pack-horse was
"the man."
"He’s
nice-looking," said one of the ladies; in which the others coincided.
"What is that at
the front of the wagon?" asked Mrs. Jackson.
"I was looking at
that myself," said Mrs. Winters. "It’s a settee, ain’t it?"
"I guess it
is," replied Mrs. Jackson anxiously. "I didn’t know at first but that
it might be a tete-a-tete."
"Oh, no! that’s
nothing but a settee,--a well-worn one too," said Mrs. Reynolds.
"Why, don’t you
suppose they’ve got a tete-a-tete!" inquired Mrs. Jackson with painful
anxiety.
"It tain’t on that
load, at any rate," said Mrs. Reynolds, whose carefully trained eyes had
already encompassed and pierced the wagonful of furniture.
"What do you think
of those chairs?" asked Mrs. Winters. "I can’t see them very well, as
my eyes trouble me so."
Mrs. Jackson kindly
came to her rescue at once.
"They’re oak, I
guess, an’ a very cheap-looking article at that. I do wonder if this is their
best furniture."
Further remark on the
topic was cut short by the appearance of a tired-looking woman leading two
children. She stopped at the load, and said something to the pack-horse.
"That’s her!"
breathlessly exclaimed Mrs. Jackson.
"Well, there’s
nothing stunning about her," suggested Mrs. Winters.
"Gracious! I
should say not," added Mrs. Reynolds. "She’s mortal homely; and she’s
got no more style than a telegraph-pole."
"Look at that hat!
It’s a fall hat, as sure as I live!" And the speaker almost lost her
breath at the discovery.
"What sort of
goods has she on? Is it calico, or a delaine?"
"I can’t see from
here; but I guess it’s some cheap woollen goods. But see how it fits!"
"And she’s got
hoops on, as true as I’m alive!" explosively announced Mrs. Winters.
"That’s so,"
chimed in the others with a tone of disgust that could not be concealed.
"Well, I know what
the rest of the furniture is without seeing it, now that I’ve seen her,"
intelligently observed Mrs. Jackson. "They ain’t got a tete-a-tete to
their name, and those chairs are their best parlor chairs too: you can take my
word for that. I sha’n’t call there in a hurry."
"Hardly,"
observed her companions with significant smiles.
And the three returned
to the other room to talk of the revival.
Reader, if you have to
move, move in the dead of the night. It’s the best time; and you don’t need
much of a torchlight procession, either.
WHETHER this is the
best time to burn garden rubbish is a question susceptible of considerable
discussion; but it is the popular season. Great care should be taken in the
composition of the burning heaps. If there are no old rubbers handy, a length
of oilcloth makes a very good substitute. There is, of course, nothing that
emits the peculiar flavor of burning rubber, unless it is hair; but hair is too
costly to be considered for a moment. A piece of old oilcloth, about three feet
or so in length, subjected to a slow flame, can be smelled by the most ordinary
nose the distance of four gardens; and to many it is just as satisfying as
burning rubber. It is best that the man should gather the rubbish. This is so
evident as to be not worthy of any discussion. A woman with a long-handled rake
is more dangerous than a wet cellar. What rubbish she gets together scarcely
compensates for the damage to the rake or to herself, or to any one who happens
to be in the same yard at the time, and is too gallant or too helpless to take
the nearest fence at a flying leap. The crowning performance is when she has
got her skirts inextricably tangled up with the implement. She then goes into
the house, leaving the rake at the foot of the back-stoop, with the teeth
upward.
A SALLOW-FACED man,
dressed in faded and insufficient garments, with a knotted, sandy beard,
skipped lightly into a Danbury dry-goods store yesterday afternoon. He had
hugged up close to him in one arm a glass jar with a bit of dingy muslin over
it. He wanted to see the proprietor; and a clerk obligingly pointed out that
gentleman to him, who was then engaged in the herculean task of selling a lady
a half-yard of linen. The stranger stalked up to him.
"Be you the boss,
mister?" he asked with a seductive smile.
"Yes, sir. Any
thing I can do for you?"
"Yes," said
the stranger, carefully depositing the jar on the counter, and with an air as
if the counter had been erected with this object specially in view. "I’ve
got a prime article of horse-radish here that I want to sell you."
"I don’t want to
buy any," said the merchant, with a tinge of pettishness in his tone.
"It’s a prime
article, I can tell ye."
"I don’t want
it."
"But you ain’t
looked at it, you ain’t tried it," argued the vender.
"I tell you I don’t
want it."
"You can have it
for fifty cents, although it’s worth seventy-five. I’ll dump it right out in a
paper; or I’ll leave the jar, and you kin bring it back to-morrow,"
"I don’t want it,
I say; take it away," demanded the merchant, flushing slightly in the
face.
"Don’t you git in
a hurry, boss," persuasively urged the proprietor of the condiment.
"You don’t git such horse-radish as this every day, I kin inform ye. I
growed the roots that came from myself, by jickey! I growed ’em back of a barn;
an’ I took as much care of their cultivation as if they had been my own flesh
and blood. Why, I’ve got up in the dead of night, with a lantern, an’ went out
back of that barn an’ tucked them up, as it were. An’ I said to my ole woman,
sez I, ’Ole woman, them roots will go to make glad the heart of a
merchant-prince,’ sez I; an’ here they be, grated up an’ ready for the table.
What do you say?"
"I say, as I said
before, that I don’t want your stuff, and I want you to take it away from here
at once," said the merchant, who had now become very red in the face.
"Stuff!"
ejaculated the man with a start, while his eyes watered, and his under-lip
trembled. "Stuff! You call that stuff,--that which grew right behind my
own barn, an’ which has had a lantern above it in the dead of night,--grated up
by my own hands, an’ with a pint of the best cider-vinegar in the country
dancing through its veins?--you call it stuff, do you? an’ you stand right
here, an’ in the broad light of day declare that none of that horse-radish will
fresco your cold meat, an’ set up before your children like a thing of beauty?
All right" [He gathered the jar up in his arm again.] "You can’t have
this horse-radish now. You needn’t whimper for it. Not a word from you,"
he added, with as much earnestness as if the merchant had dropped on his knees,
and was agonizingly begging for a hopeless favor. "You ain’t got money
enough in your hull store to buy a grain of it. You shouldn’t git as much as a
smell of it if you was to git right down on your snoot, an’ howl till you were
cracked open. Gosh dum me!" he suddenly shouted, "I’ll go out on the
boundless prairie, an’ eat every bit of it myself, if it burns a hole clean
through me as big as a tunnel, an’ sets the prairie afire, an’ devastates the
land."
And with this terrific
threat he strode gloomily away in search of a prairie.
THERE is one thing on
which a husband and wife never can and never will agree; and that is on what
constitutes a well-beaten carpet. When the article is clean, it’s a man’s
impression that it should be removed, and he be allowed to wash up, and quietly
retire. But a woman’s appetite for carpet-beating is never appeased while a man
has a whole muscle in his body; and, if he waited until she voluntarily gave
the signal to stop, he might beat away until he dropped down dead. It is
directly owing to his superior strength of mind that the civilized world is not
a widow this day.
WE suppose there is a
time that comes to every man when he feels he should like to have a garden. If
he takes such a notion, he will tell his wife of it. This is the first mistake
he makes; and the ground thus lost is never fully recovered. She draws her
chair up to his, and lays one hand on his knee, and purses up her lips into a
whistle of expectation,--the vixen!--and tells about her mother’s garden, and
how nice it is to have vegetables fresh from the vines every morning; and she
will go right out and plan the whole thing herself. And so she does. He takes
his spade, and works himself into a perspiration; and she tramps around under a
frightful sun-bonnet, and gets under his feet, and shrieks at the worms, and
loses her shoe, and makes him, first vexed, and then mad, and then ferocious.
After the garden is spaded, he gets the seed, and finds she has been thoughtful
enough to open the papers, and empty thirteen varieties of different vegetables
into one dish. This leads him to step out doors, where he communes with Nature
alone for a moment. Then he takes up the seed, and a hoe, and a line, and two
pegs, and starts for the garden. And then she puts on that awful bonnet, and
brings up the rear with a long-handled rake, and a pocketful of beans, and
petunia-seed, and dahlia-bulbs. While he is planting the corn, she stands on
the cucumber-hills and rakes over the seed-pan. Then she puts the rake-handle
over her shoulder, and the rake-teeth into his hair, and walks over the other
beds. He don’t find the squash-seed until she moves; and then he digs them out
of the earth with his thumb. She plants the beet-seed herself, putting about
two feet of earth and sod upon them. Then she takes advantage of his absorption
in other matters, and puts down the petunia-seed in one spot; and afterwards
digs them up, and puts them down in another place. The beans she conceals in
the earth wherever she can find a place, and puts the bulbs in the
cucumber-hills. Then she tips over the seed-pan again, and apologizes; and
steps on two of the best tomato-plants, and says, "Oh my!" which in
no way resembles what he says. About this time she discovers a better place for
the petunia-seed; but, having forgotten where she last put them, she proceeds
to find them, and, within an incredibly brief space of time, succeeds in
unearthing pretty much every thing that has been put down. After confusing
things so there is no earthly possibility of ever unravelling them again, she
says the sun is killing her, and goes over to the fence, where she stands four
hours, telling the woman next door about an aunt of hers who was confined to
her bed for eleven years, and had eight doctors from the city; but nothing
would give her any relief until an old lady--But you have heard it before. The
next day a man comes to his office to get the pay for a patent seed-sower which
his wife has ordered; and he no more than gets away, before the patentee of a
new lawn-mower comes in with an order for ten dollars; and he, in turn, is
followed by the corn-sheller man; and the miserable gardener starts for home to
head off the robbers, and finds his wife at the gate with his own hat on, and just
about to close a bargain with a smooth-faced individual for a
two-hundred-dollar mowing-machine, and a pearl-handled, ivory-mounted
hay-cutter. He first knocks the agricultural implement agent on the head, and
then drags the miserable woman into the house, and, locking the door, gives
himself up to his emotions.
THE chief charm of
having a garden of your own is the fresh state of the vegetables which daily
garnish your table. Any one who has always depended upon a store for his supply
does not have the faintest conception of the superior flavor, tone, and
elasticity of vegetables gathered fresh every morning from your own garden.
Aside from this benefit, gardening is the most health-giving occupation known
to man; unless we except that of a physician, which we don’t. There is a man
who lives on the other side of our street, who has a garden, and has fresh
vegetables every day, our folks say. We don’t know any thing about that; but we
do know he has a garden, because we see him out in it every morning, in
shirt-sleeves and slippers, picking cucumber and squash bugs. We know when he
gets hold of one, by the way he shuts up his mouth and fingers. Sometimes he
doesn’t catch the one he is after, and sometimes he makes a half-dozen passes
at one bug. Every time he makes one of those passes he says something. The
first remark is not very plainly heard, but the next is quite so; and the
observation that follows after the sixth unfortunate pass appears to go
completely through our head. He jumps around this way for about an hour, and,
having got his blood up to fever-heat, goes in and drinks a cup of boiling
coffee, and then goes to business. At noon he goes out there to kill a couple
more bugs, but doesn’t do it. He finds two hens from the next house in the
cucumber-patch. They have scratched down to the cool earth, and thrown the
parched soil of two cucumber-hills over their backs, and, with one eye closed
in a speculative way, are thinking of the intense heat and the short grass-crop.
When they see him, and the preparations of welcome he has hastily got together,
they get up and leave. The first thing he throws at them knocks a limb from a
choice pear-tree; and the next thing, which is generally a pail, goes through a
glass cover to some choice flower-seeds, and loses its bail. He then goes into
the house and gets some more boiling coffee, and says the man next door
is--(something we never put in print)--and goes to business again. At night he
comes home and kills bugs until supper-time, and then goes in with his fingers
smelling as if he had shaken hands with twelve hundred bed-bugs. He keeps his
boy home from school to watch the garden, and guard it against the encroachment
of straying cattle. The boy gets several other boys to come over and help him.
They take a half-dozen sheets out of the wash, and put up a circus in the back
part of the yard; and some vicious boy who hasn’t pins enough to get in leaves
the front-gate open; and, when the circus is in the midst of its glory, the cry
of "A cow in the garden!" breaks up the performance, and sends both
artists and audience in pursuit of the beast. When our neighbor comes home that
night to gather vegetables fresh from the garden, and smash bugs with his
finger and thumb, and goes out and looks at the destruction, it is altogether
likely the first thing he thinks of is the danger in eating store-vegetables
which have been picked some days before, and allowed to swelter and wither in
noxious barrels, and how much better it is to have every thing fresh from the
garden. But we are not certain; neither is the proprietor of the circus.
WE frankly confess that
we do not understand why the shaving-cup is packed at the bottom of a barrel of
tinware, or why a vest is used to wrap up a ham.
THE only way of putting
down a stair-carpet without getting mad is to take the stairs out in the yard.
MANY articles which
have become pleasant to us from long association look dreadfully cheap and
dingy when loaded on a cart, with the neighboring window in direct range.
IT is carrying two
lengths of stove-pipe, with two elbows at opposite angles, through a narrow
hall, and up a carpeted stair, without dropping soot or knocking off the
plaster, that is filling our lunatic-asylums.
NOTHING will start a
man’s temper so quick as to find the rubbish which he has thrown out of the
back of the house as worthless appearing around at the front, under the charge
of his patient and hopeful wife.
WHICH is heavier,--a
pound of lead, or a pound of feathers!--Old Conundrum.
A single pound of
leathers is just as heavy as a pound of lead; but twenty-five pounds of
feathers in a tick, in a narrow and crooked hall-way, is about as heavy as two
hundred and eighteen pounds of lead.
YEARS of experience in
moving enables a carman to distinguish, in an apparently indifferent glance,
the light from the heavy end of a stove, or which is the best position on the
stairs,--in front, or behind. Against these fearful odds the head of the family
stands no chance whatever.
THEN there is the
carman who is to move you. He is engaged the day before. He says it is going to
be so busy, that there will be some difficulty in accommodating you; but, if
you can have your things ready at seven A.M., he thinks he can fix it. You are
up at five o’clock that morning. At half-past six a full load of furniture is
out in front, and another load is stacked up in the hall and on the stairs.
Your coat is torn down he back, one thumb is out of joint, and a pint of soot
and an equal quantity of perspiration are fighting for the mastery of your
person. At eleven A.M., the carman makes his appearance, and says we are going
to have rain.
IT is singular the
influence a stove-pipe has upon a married man. There is nothing in this world
he respects so much. A passing load of furniture may, in its general
appearance, be so grotesque as to call forth the merriment of the thoughtless
young; but, if there is a piece of stove-pipe in it no larger than a hat, he
will not laugh. We don’t care who the man is, how he has been brought up, what
is his position, wealth, or influence: there is that about a length of
stove-pipe which takes hold upon his very soul with a force that he is helpless
to resist; and the married man who can stand within reaching-distance of a
stove-pipe, without feeling his heart throb, his hands clinch, his hair raise,
and his throat grow dry and husky, is an anomaly which does not exist.
Stove-pipe has only one ingredient, and that is contrariness. It is the most
perverse article in existence. It has done more to create heart-aches, imbitter
lives, break up homes, and scrape off skin, than all other domestic articles
together. The domestic screw-driver pales its ineffectual fires in the presence
of a stove-pipe; and the family hammer just paws in the dust, and weeps. We don’t
care how much pains are taken to remember and keep in order the links: they
will not come together as they came apart. This is not a joke; this is not an
exaggeration: it is simply the solemn, heaven-born truth. If we appear unduly
excited in this matter, we are sorry for it; but we cannot help it. We cannot
write upon the subject at all without feeling the blood tingle at our very
fingers’ ends.
ONE of the most
disastrous elements in a moving is a small boy with an aspiring disposition. If
he carries any thing, it must be a chair, which he takes on his head, with the
back at the front, so as to prevent him from seeing where he is going, and with
the erect legs in range of the chandelier and upper door-casings. Thus
equipped, he strikes a military step, improvising his mouth into a trumpet, and
starts out. In less than a quarter of an hour he has that chair safely on the
cart, where it is not wanted, and is hurrying back after another. Before the
carman has returned for the second load, the one boy has developed into eight;
each boy with a chair, each boy under feet, and each boy making as much noise
as a planing-mill on a damp day. If a boy cannot get a chair to carry, he wants
two bed-posts. He wants two, so he can carry one under each arm. Then he starts
down stairs. First the posts cross each other at the front, and nearly throw
him down; then they cross at the back, and the front ends fly off at a tangent,
one of them digging into the kalsomined wall, and the other entangling in the
banisters. But he won’t let one of them go, but hangs on to both with
exasperating obstinacy. In the mean time, the carman, who is working by the
load, and not by the day, is waiting at the foot of the stairs, and wishing
that he had that boy back of the Rocky Mountains for about fifteen minutes; and
the anxious father, with a straw bed in his arms, and his eyes full of dust, is
at the head of the stairs, waiting to come down, and vociferating at the top of
his voice, until the dust from the tick gets into his throat, and precipitates
him into a violent fit of coughing. By the time the third load is on the way,
the novelty of helping carry furniture is worn off to the boy; and he and his
companions are firing rubbish from the garret at each other, or fooling with
the horse just as some heavy object is being lifted on to the cart. The best
plan for a moving family that has a boy is to get him a half-bushel of frozen
potatoes to throw, and set him out in the suburbs until the affair is over.
A WOMAN’S idea of
moving is to wear a pair of odd shoes, her husband’s linen duster, a damaged
hoopskirt, and a last year’s jockey turned hind-side before. Thus formidably
attired, with a pocketful of screws, nails, and picture-cords, and a
limber-bladed case-knife in one hand, and a broom in the other, she is prepared
to believe that something is about to be done. The first move she makes is at
the parlor carpet. She takes up two tacks in about fifteen minutes, puts them
in a pint saucer, and sets the saucer in the middle of the floor, where it will
not be in the way. Then she goes into the hall to tell the carman to be careful
in bringing down the large rocking-chair, as her mother gave it to her. After
that she darts into the kitchen, stops suddenly in the middle of the room, and
says, "Now, what is it I was going to do?" and then races up stairs
with a great bustle, on suddenly remembering that a pair of vases were not
packed away with the bedding. But they were packed away; and, when she
discovers the fact, she comes back, saying that she has so much to do, she don’t
really know what she is about. Afterwards she draws out the glass-ware to put
it in a barrel; and, after packing away a couple of tumblers and a salt-cellar,
takes down her dresses, and examines them with as much care as if she was going
to a ball, and the carriage was already at the door. In the midst of this
survey she suddenly thinks of something else, and rushes off to attend to
it,--the case-knife in one hand, the broom in the other. When the stove is
taken down, she is there; when the bureau is being lifted, she is in the exact
way of the man who is going backward; when the carman gets up on the best chair
to take down a frame, she is there to rebuke him. She attends to every thing.
She makes her husband go out doors and clean his feet. She gets in the way when
they are moving the ice-chest. She leaves the dust-pan just where the carman’s
assistant can step on the handle, and have it turn with him at a most unfortunate
time. She gets the broom-stick entangled with her husband’s legs, which makes
him swear. She tries to lift a two-bushel basket of crockery, and, finding she
can’t do it, tells the carman she is not so strong as she used to be; and then
contents herself with carrying down an old wooden chair, which has just been
brought up stairs to be used in removing things from the walls, and which has
to be found and brought up again by some one else. But it is in loading where
she makes herself conspicuous. She brings out a ten-inch looking-glass, and
wants it laid on the bottom of the cart; and she don’t want any thing else to
go on until she can get her work-basket. She thinks the stove and bed-room set
should ride together; and is quite confident, that, if the bureau is permitted
to stand on the cart as it does, it will never again be fit to be seen. The
carman steps on her, and walks over her, and is swearing all the while down in
his throat; but she don’t mind him. She knows that that load isn’t put on as it
ought to be, and that there is room for lots of things yet. She brings on a
clock, and a length of damaged stove-pipe, and a pair of old boots covered with
mildew, and a small basket of empty spice-boxes, and an old gaiter, and the
back of a worn-out vest, and wants them all put on the cart. She says there is
plenty of room, and the things will come useful some time, and they don’t take
up any room anyway; and, just as the cart is moving away, she rushes after it
with a second-hand peach-can stuffed with debris, which she successfully
introduces into the load, and then comes back in triumph. And, while the carman
is gone, she is just as busy as she can be, telling the woman next door that
she can put just three times as much stuff on that cart as is on it; and, if
she has got to move again, she believes she’ll give right up and die.
IT is not the moving,
so much as the "putting to rights," which is so exhaustive to the
nervous forces of the entire family. This is due, in a great measure, to the
carelessness in moving. When a man has a great deal to do, and little time to
do it in, he takes no thought for the future. He throws a half-dozen screws
into a barrel, with an idea that they will turn up all right when he wants
them. The main object is to get them in some place now. So when he comes to put
up the curtain-fixtures in the new house, and finds the ingredients in a mass
of confusion, it is simply because he took them down that way, and cared only
for present ease, without any regard to future convenience. In putting up the
pictures, the nails are found in the bottom of a bureau-drawer under a pile of
towels, and the hammer is at the bottom of a barrel of stovepipe in the cellar.
Sometimes an hour is consumed in searching for a single stove-leg. The bread is
found rolled up in a carpet in an upper bedroom, the coffee-pot tied up in the
bedding, the sugar in a barrel of carpet-rags, the tea-canister in the scuttle
under the flatirons, the spoons in with a basket of empty medicine-bottles, and
the table-cloth tied up with a half-bushel of tinware. The man does about all
the work. The woman goes round with a broom, and sweeps up the soot, and feels
of the mouldings to see if they have been damaged, and examines the paint to
see if it is marred. She has been up the day before with a hired woman and
cleaned the house, and she is very particular about its condition. If she sees
a lump of dirt in the hall from the heel of the carman, she carefully hoists it
upon the dust-pan, and says that all she is fit for is to slave her life out
cleaning, without doing a bit of good; and then goes half way down the garden
to throw the debris away. She is ten minutes doing it; and a man would give it
one kick, and send it out of doors in an instant. When she ain’t tumbling over
the wrong articles, or misplacing the right ones, she is close at his heels,
giving advice, and asking him if he thinks a woman is made of cast-iron. When
he puts down the carpet, she stands on the breadth he is trying to stretch, and
tells him she believes she will drop dead in her tracks if she don’t get a
chance to sit down pretty soon. Sometimes she is gone from sight for nearly
half an hour, and the distant sounds of a hammer are heard. When she returns,
she has another finger in a rag, and smells stronger than ever of arnica. Then,
when the bureau is being moved, and her husband is struggling under his share
till every muscle in his body is as stiff as steel, and his face like a beet,
and his eyes protruding, and the ends of his fingers aching most acutely, she
is round again. They are going over the best carpet; and she hastens back of
him, because his boots are muddy, and, with a show of dexterity, tries to get a
length of old rag-carpet over the new in the way he is backing; and his feet
catch in it, and he yells; and then he stumbles and yells again, and catches
himself only to stumble once more, and come down with the bureau on top of him,
and the carman on top of the bureau. Then he jumps up, and makes the most
extraordinary statement at the top of his voice; and the carman limps around
with his countenance full of reproach; and she says she has always lived in a
hog-pen, and always expects to, and then goes into the next house to have a
good crying-spell and a cup of tea.
LITTLE Tommy Miggs was
observed to be very restless in school all of Friday morning. It was quite
evident to those who observed him that something of unusual importance was
resting upon his mind. He missed the easiest questions, and picked up the wrong
books, and once tried to do a sum on his slate with a willow whistle. The boy
in the next seat to Tommy was the only one who did not wonder at his
uneasiness. Five distinct times Tommy found and availed himself of the
opportunity to whisper in a sepulchral tone to this young man that his ma was
going to have a strawberry shortcake for dinner, and that he was to hurry home
just as soon as school was out. There was every encouraging indication in Tommy’s
manner of the most flattering speed being made between the school and his house
when the time came. None of these opportunities for verbal communication were
of sufficient length to permit of more than a hurried announcement of the fact;
but, by a series of diagrams hastily improvised with his hands, little Tommy
succeeded in conveying to the mind of his friend an idea of the size of the
cake, which was to be, without doubt, a "booster."
The moment Tommy got
outside the building, he "lit out" for home. Fully two-thirds of the
distance he made on a run, and the balance at a quick walk. As he reached the
gate, panting heavily, but full of glad purposes, he met his two little
brothers. Very little they were too; but there was enough of them to express
enough of any sort of deep emotion to attract attention.
"Halloo!"
said Tommy, with a sudden sinking of spirits: "is ma sick, Georgy?"
Georgy merely shook his
head, as if afraid to open his lips, and thus disclose what was evidently a
more dreadful calamity than that which Tommy’s inquiry suggested.
"What is it,
Toady?" asked Tommy, looking straight in Toady’s extended eyes.
"O Tommy!"
ejaculated Toady. And then the little fellow dug his knuckles into his eyes,
and began to whimper.
"What is it, I
tell ye?" And Tommy shook Toady to conceal his agitation.
"Company’s
come," sputtered Toady.
"Company?"
gasped Tommy, catching hold of the post.
"Yes,"
volunteered little George: "uncle Richard, and aunt Jane, and aunt Ann.
And they are goin’ to stay to dinner."
It was just as well
Tommy had hold of the gate-post, or he must surely have gone over on his back.
Poor child! All through that long, hot fore-noon he had drawn visions of pastry
glory, through which ran the rich heart-blood of the loveliest fruit the gods e’er
blessed. The last injunction of his mother had been an unbroken song in his
soul during the weary hours; and, every time he was prompted to faint, his
flagging spirits were stimulated up to a new life by the vision of the
short-cake. Poor child! He slipped heavily into the house. There was his uncle
Richard with very fat and bearded fingers clasped across a frightful expanse of
abdomen, as if to restrain its devouring tendencies till the right moment.
There were also aunts Jane and Ann, both fat, and both, apparently, in a
disastrous state of good health. In the terrible state of fear he was in, Tommy
would have felt much more comfortable, we have no doubt, in the embrace of a
boa-constrictor, rather than under the caresses of his relatives. He tried to
get a word to his mother; but she was too busy, and too flustered over the
appearance of her unexpected company, to notice Tommy. Dinner was speedily
announced; and the family sat down, leaving the children to speculate on
futurity in the wood-shed.
It was a mournful
group. Tommy sat down on the saw-buck; Georgy climbed upon the shaving-barrel;
while Toady crouched on the step close to the door leading to the kitchen,
where the dinner was going on. The children were directed to play in the yard;
but there was no desire for sport with them. Between three relatives from the
country and one shortcake there was not space to crowd the least particle of
levity, even with the aid of the sharpest knife. They wanted to get as close as
they possibly could to the noise of the fray, although every sound went to
their hearts with a great shock.
"Have they started
it yet, Toady?" whispered Tommy anxiously.
Toady cautiously raised
himself to his feet, crept up to the sill, and, standing on the extreme point
of his very little toes, was able, through the crack in the door, to take in a
view of the table.
"No," he
whispered after an instant delay, and sank back again to his place. A moment
later, Tommy again asked if they had started it; and again Toady mounted
cautiously up to his post. The instant he reached the point of survey, he fell
back so suddenly as to startle his waiting brothers.
"They’ve gone at
it!" he gasped, his eyes fairly protruding in the excitement he labored
under.
"Oh, dear!"
sighed Tommy, dropping his head.
"Gosh!"
ejaculated Georgy under his breath; while an expression of sickening fear crept
over his face.
For a full moment there
was a silence in the wood-shed. Then Georgy slid down from his barrel, and
crept up to the door, and peered through to the table. There was a look of
faint expectation on the face he presented to the crack; but it was dimmed
somewhat when he turned it about to his brothers.
"I can’t see the
plate," he said dejectedly, shaking his head; "but they’re all
a-eatin’. It’s darned mean, an’ I don’t care who knows it!" he added in
desperation, as he dropped moodily on the splitting-block.
"Sh!" said
Tommy faintly.
"To come in like
that!" pursued Georgy, apostrophizing the great grievance from its
harshest aspect. "I s’pose they smelt that cake all the way, and hain’t
had none themselves for a year, an’ so come in to take ours." And Georgy
smiled with a bitterness that was painful in one so young.
"I wish it would
choke ’em!" he shortly added.
Tommy tried to give his
brother a reproachful look, but did not succeed well; while the softening about
the corners of Toady’s mouth might have led a hasty observer to believe that he
shared in the wild desire.
The hush that followed
was broken by their mother’s voice:--
"Do have that other
piece, Richard. I know you like it."
The emphasized word no
sooner struck the ears of the anxious waiters in the shed than they
involuntarily clutched hold of their resting-places for support; while the
expression of horror which blanched their faces was pitiful to behold.
"I don’t care if I
do, Susan, seeing you’re so free," came the heavy voice of uncle Richard.
"Oh!" came
from Tommy’s white lips like a shot; and then he sank back on the saw-horse,
and dropped the white face on his knees.
Little Toady abruptly
rolled off the step on to the ground, too full of grief to make a sound; while
the aggressive George, shutting his teeth tight together, marched around the
shed, shaking his clinched fists in a way that implied the most dreadful doom
to the unsuspecting relatives from the country.
It was when Tommy was
back again in school, bending the little white face over his book, and striving
with all his might to still the pain in his heart, that the boy in the seat
whispered,--
"How’s the cake,
Tommy?"
But there was no
answer.
"Was it an old
booster?" asked the boy, trying to compress his enthusiastic expectations
into the most cautious whisper.
There was a short,
sharp sob from the white lips, which startled the boy in the next seat, and attracted
the attention of the teacher; while the little head went down on the book, and
two little threadbare sleeves coiled around it.
"What is it,
Tommy?" said the teacher, coming up.
But Tommy was as noble
as he had been sanguine. He would not say that the other boy had been teasing
him: he simply drew the patched little sleeves tighter about his head, and gave
way to a flood of agonizing tears. She was a sympathetic woman as well as a
good teacher. She laid her hand softly on his hair, and tenderly said,--
"Poor Tommy!"
"And so we,
without the blessed privilege of stroking the thin white hair, can say too,--
"Poor Tommy!"
WHAT becomes of the
flies? They go somewhere. They are gone all winter, and come back again in the
summer, all grown, and ready for business. Scientific men should solve this
problem. Every man, woman, and child is interested in knowing where flies go,
so as to be able to avoid going there too. Flies have a system which is
governed by the hours. In the morning they find their food; and until noon they
will not attend to any thing else. But in the afternoon they are ready for fun.
In the morning, a human being appears to a fly in the light of a lunch-counter.
It sweeps down on him, prowls over him, picking up what it can find; but, if
persistently interrupted, it will leave for good, and, taking position near by,
give him a look, equivalent to saying, "Hang a hog, anyway!" and then
put off for another field. A fly, if it would keep out of a pauper’s grave, has
no time to fool away during business-hours. In the afternoon it has leisure. In
the afternoon you may brush away a fly a thousand times; but it will come back
again. And, the more you knock at it, the more heartily it enjoys the
performance. It is on the same principle a miller flutters about a flame, or a
swallow skims around a boy who is trying to split its head open with a lath.
There are several ways of getting rid of flies; but knocking at them is not one
of them. That only stimulates them to greater exertions both in your behalf as
well as their own: for a fly cannot reason as you can; and your maddening
flourishes are understood by it to be so many invitations to hop in, and have
fun. There is nothing small or mean about a fly. Flies are not seen on moving trains
or ocean steamers, and rarely on the third floor of a building. But the most
popular way to get rid of flies is to hire a livery team, and drive with all
speed across the tops of mountains. A very few of the millions of flies which
infest our homes never go away for the winter. After the winter has settled
down to work, they retire to an upper corner, and with one eye held shut by a
leg, and the other wide open, they lie on their backs, and look up in your face
for days at a time.
A FEW days ago, a young
man who had been sick but a week died. His widow sent word of the mournful
event to her brother, who was at work harvesting for a farmer near Croton
Falls, N.Y. When he got the intelligence, he made haste to Danbury, some thirty
miles; but, owing to delay of several kinds, did not reach here until the
friends got back from the burial. The suddenness of the death, and the fact
that the man whom he had seen in health but three weeks before was dead and
buried, was a severe shock to him. He spoke about it several times in a dazed
sort of a way, and would break off, in inquiring the particulars of the last
sickness, to comment upon the dreadful suddenness of the affair.
"And now he is
buried," he added at the close of the bereaved women’s recital, "and
we shall never see him again. It don’t seem possible that George is gone. Don’t
cry, Maria. It’s hard on you; but it can’t be helped. You did every thing you
could to prevent it, you know." He stopped here, and nervously worked his
fingers, which were clasped together over his knees. After a moment he added,
"It was just three weeks ago last night that he came in with that new
black suit. I remember his standing up there by the chair," indicating the
spot with his eyes, while his hands still continued to play nervously together,
"with ’em on; and how they fitted him! I never see George look so well in
all my life as he did that night; and I was speaking to mother about it the
next day. And now he is dead and buried. I can’t make it seem possible.
I"--
"We buried him in
that suit of clothes," said she, interrupting, "and"--
"What!"
They were both on their
feet now. He stood there with his hands separated and clinched, a ghastly
pallor on his face, and his eyes fairly starting from their sockets. Brought to
her feet by the strength and suddenness of his exclamation, she stood before
him in pallid wonder, with the quiver of a nameless fear on her lips.
"Do you mean ter
say," he gasped, "that you chucked a new suit of clothes under ground
like that?"
"Tom!" she
cried, holding up both hands in a horror of protest.
"Don’t Tom
me!" he screamed with a bitterness indescribable. "Don’t speak to me
at all, you witless woman! I can’t bear with you! I hate you! A nice sister you
are!" It was fearful, the depth of irony in this expression. "You
deserve a brother, you do! Oh, yes! An’ him and me the same size too." He
clinched his hands tighter than before, and strode up and down the room.
"I wonder what keeps me from sinkin’ right through this floor," he
passionately added. "To grow up with a sister like that, and she a-chuckin
good clothes into the ground, with a brother that ain’t hardly a decent rag to
his back! Forty dollars’ worth of clothes for worms to cavort around in!"
And, with a groan of
despair, he sank heavily into a seat.
"Tom!" gasped
the unhappy woman in a voice of horror, "are you crazy?"
"Crazy!" he
shrilly repeated. "If I ain’t crazy, is it your fault, you miserable
sister! Crazy! It’s enough to make the hosts of heaven crazy to see forty dollars’
worth of clothes chucked to ten cents’ worth of worms."
She buried her white
face in her hands, and sobbed outright for shame and agony.
"There’s no use
crying over spilt milk," he gloomily observed. "You’ve done it, and
that’s an end of it, and can now have the consolation of knowin’ that you’ve
injured an own brother. Another time I guess you’ll be a little more careful
how you fire a new suit of clothes into the ground."
And, with this
prophecy, he morosely strode out of the house.
A COW got into Cobleigh’s
yard Friday morning, and stepped around among a dozen heads of choice late
cabbages which that gentleman had cultivated with considerable care and pride.
Mr. Cobleigh was not at home; but Mrs. Cobleigh saw the animal, and became very
much excited over its presence. It was desirable to get it off the premises as
speedily as possible; but Mrs. Cobleigh was painfully limited as to facilities.
She was afraid of a cow, and did not dare venture close enough to it to make a
clothes-pole serviceable. She had heard that a dog was an efficient agent in
the dispersion of a cow; but there was not a dog about. But a bright thought
struck the lady. She would pretend there was a dog just back of the house,
waiting to rush with terrific ferocity upon the marauding beast. So Mrs.
Cobleigh set to work, leading off with an earnest whistle, with the following
flattering result:--
"Fvew-w-w,
fvew-w-w-w--oh, my! Here, Tiger, here! Fvew-w-w, fv--what shall I do? Here,
Ponto! here, Carlo! Fvew-w-w-z-s--oh, my gracious! Fvew-w-w--bite him, Jack!
Bite him, Bull! Fvew-w-w-w--oh, dear! oh, dear! Go way, you nasty thing! Scat,
I say!"
Mrs. Cobleigh was
terribly excited. The cow looked up, and smiled.
"Go away, you
hateful object!" she screamed, "or I’ll have you torn to
pieces.--Here, Gyp, seize him! Fvew--fvew--fvew! Bite him, Ned! Sick him, Pete!
Fvew--fvew-w-w-z-z-s! Oh, gracious goodness!" And the exhausted woman sank
down on the door-stone, her face the very essence of despair; while the
exertion of her vocal organs in producing the whistle had covered her chin with
spray. During the progress of these tactics, seven dogs had gathered in the
vicinity, and were now staring through the fence at Mrs. Cobleigh with
all-absorbing interest. But the woman, unconscious of their vicinity, continued
to breathe heavily, and to look at the cow; while that animal leisurely chewed
on the cabbages, and pensively took in the surroundings.
THE 5th of July is so
closely associated with the 4th as to be a part of it. We don’t care to think
of the 5th on the 4th; but on the 5th we wish the 4th hadn’t been quite so much
to us as it was. The American mouth is equally extended on both days,--shouting
over the one, and yawning on the other. The family which celebrates awakes in a
cloud of depression. The threads which were precipitately dropped on the 3rd,
and fearfully entangled on the 4th, must be taken up again on the 5th, and
brought out of the snarl, and carried forward as before. If we could bear this
in mind at the first, we should save much trouble and annoyance. The re-action
from the excesses of the day we celebrate depresses us; and then to have to
take up duties which were too hastily and gladly put off appears to be a very
good substitute for the feather which broke the camel’s back. In the
realization of an anticipation, we rest content to let the future take care of
itself.
"That’s all right;
I’ll attend to it to-morrow;" or, "Never mind, there’ll be plenty of
time to do it to-morrow,"--are household words on a 4th of July. The 5th
of July is a most handy waste-basket. Every hour, from the eve to the close of
the "glorious anniversary," we are pitching things into it; and the
next day, with tired senses and muscles, we bend over the mass, and sort them
out again. It is a dreary task; but it shall never happen again--shall it? We
drop duties like hot shot; we sweep aside unperformed cares as so many cobwebs:
every thing is thrown recklessly and carelessly down, while we plunge into the
excitement of the event. There’ll be plenty of time to- morrow to attend to it
all: we are too excited to do any thing now. If the whole world could be swept
into eternity as soon as we should finish our celebration, what a grand day the
4th of July would be! We never shall have a perfect 4th until the 5th is
exterminated. What a hollow mockery are the burned fire-crackers, and empty
Roman candles, and charred pin-wheels, and broken rocket-sticks, the next day!
How weak and insignificant look the bunting, and greens, and other decorations!
How insipid are the mottoes which excited us the day before! How oppressive are
the things to be put to rights, the extra dishes to be washed, the debris to be
removed! How repulsive appear the every-day clothes which were thrown here, and
kicked there, on the morning of the 4th, as if they were never to be donned
again! There is a bitterness of spirit as we crawl back into them, which we
cannot entirely conceal.
The family temper is
fully alive on the 5th. There is but little in the house for breakfast, and
scarcely any disposition on the part of the woman to prepare what there is. We
all get out of bed on the wrong side, and are prone to think that our display
of patriotism the day before amply compensates for all lack of charity now.
There never was such a
hot, close, wretched day as this 5th of July. We judge it from the stand-point
of a depressed system. The stomach has been bombarded all the day before by
ice-cream and lemonade, and recoils now from food, and in the recoil appears to
have kicked us in the roof of the mouth with a pair of decayed overshoes.
"Thank Heaven, 4th
of July comes but once a year!" is the spontaneous outburst from a million
of hearth-stones on the morning of the 5th.
THERE was one man who
went to sleep with the 4th of July in his arms, under the impression that it
was an angel from heaven; and awoke the next morning to find he was being
strangled by a demon. He was not what is called a drinking man; but he loved
the glass from convivial motives. He was out all day on the 4th, being one of
the fire-men. He didn’t intend to drink much, but just enough to feel good.
What he despised above ground was to get drunk himself while his cooler friends
kept comparatively sober. He was going to look out for this to-day, and guard
against injurious excesses. This he determined before he had taken any thing.
With the first glass down, a little dissipation lost its harsh aspect. Besides,
those with him appeared to think just as he did. They were not the cold-blooded
sort of folks, but believed in having a good time without any reference to the
result. They weren’t the sort that would get him drunk, and then make fun of it
the next day. Their freedom encouraged him to proceed. As the day progressed,
he grew less guarded, and more communicative. He met and got acquainted with a
number of brother-firemen visiting town, and received each fresh acquaintance
with a heartiness that must have been eminently gratifying. His heart expanded
like debt as the hours rolled on. He wanted to treat everybody. More than that,
he was delighted with everybody, and was particular that everybody should
drink. He didn’t believe in doing these things on a half-shell; and kindly
continued to assure everybody in the company of the fact, although it was
evident that talking was becoming painfully difficult to him. He grew more and
more affectionate and more and more demonstrative with that excellent trait as
the night drew near. Once in a while he came across one who was a veteran in
the art of drinking, and who could not be beguiled into promiscuous inundation
of self and sweet confidences. These stony faces tended to make him uneasy, and
finally to fill him with pain. After a while, the light of intelligence began to
flicker in its socket; and, after a few fitful flashes, the flame went out
together.
It was the morning of
the 5th when he awoke, and quite early in the morning at that; for the
inexperienced drunkard is a light sleeper. There was a confused expression on
his mind, as if the broad daylight which struck his eyes had also suddenly
pierced to his brain; but the awful fact that he was awake, and not dreaming,
came upon him with terrific, flattening force. This was his own room. How came
he here? He had no memory of reaching it himself. Was he brought here?
Sickening thought! Who brought him? Who has seen him? Any of the neighbors? Any
of his friends? What did he do? What awful silliness was he guilty of during
that carousal? He would give the world to know every circumstance of his
conduct during that fearful day, and yet recoils in horror from the thought.
His head throbs, his flesh is feverish, his tongue swollen, and his joints
ache. He tries his best to recall every detail of yesterday’s debauch. If he can
only remember every thing he has done, he is comparatively safe from the
innuendoes of those who saw him, as he can prepare for every attack. But he can
make no satisfactory survey of the performance. He remembers how he started
off; but things grow more and more indistinct in consecutive occurrence; while
here and there flash out incidents which cause his heart to sink within him,
and his face to burn with shame,--sentiments that he expressed, promises that
he gave, invitations that he extended, exhibitions of himself made before sober
people; while the darkness of his mind is peopled with a score of horrid
absurdities whose nature he cannot fathom, but which he is confident some one
saw and remembers. Be tries to hope for the best, and is momentarily buoyed up,
only to be cast down farther than before. Then he curses the drink with
penitential earnestness, and solemnly swears he will never touch another drop.
There is comfort in this resolution; but he no sooner grasps it than it is
suddenly wrenched away from him in an overpowering flood of recollections of
his folly. Again he becomes desperate, and determines to brave it out, and to
show that the debauch is not a new thing to him by going on another in the same
company. But remorse comes in, and kicks this prop from under him; and he rolls
over, and groans in the agony of his despair. Why was he such an ass? Why was
he such an idiot? Would that he had died before he saw the men whom yesterday
he hugged, whom at no other time would he have noticed, and whom now he loathes
with all the strength of his being! What a head, what a mouth, what a mind,
that man carries with him all day of the 5th of July! He shrinks from going out
on the street; and yet he dare not stay in all day, lest those who were with
him will think that he is completely floored. And so he goes out among his
fellow-men, shrinking from their gaze, avoiding those places which he remembers
visiting, and wondering with exquisite agony if those he passes were
distinguished by his presence, and what phase of his awful idiocy he exhibited
there. At every sound and voice he starts, expecting every moment to meet or be
overtaken by some one who witnessed his shame and is only too glad to recall
the particulars to his attention. He is settled in no purpose but one; and that
is, to shut square off on drinking. Never again will another drop of liquor
pass his lips, never,--never again. And let no man pull down his vest.
THE firemen had a
parade Saturday. It was a fine affair; but the absence of Mr. O’Clarence was
deeply felt, not only by the department, but by the public. His long and
faithful services at the business-meetings and festivals, and his splendid
bearing on parade, have given Mr. O’Clarence an enviable position in the hearts
of his countrymen. We are sorry he was not present Saturday; but an
unlooked-for and very painful accident deprived him and us of a great pleasure.
The night which preceded the last anniversary of our national independence, he
took home twenty-five dollars’ worth of fireworks for a splurge on the next
night. He calculated he had glory enough in that package to fill with
gratitude, and admiration every tax-payer on North Street; and his wife, after
carefully examining the lot, was equally confident that the neighbors would see
something that would "make their eyes bung out," as she pensively
expressed it. The next morning, O’Clarence took out the bundle to look it over
again, and feed on the anticipation. There were these cannon-crackers,--several
packs;--and Roman candles, and blue-fire, and pin-wheels, and rockets, and the
like; a very creditable assortment for any family. Mr. Wickford’s boy, from the
next house, was in, and sat on the floor, holding a piece of lighted punk in
his hand, and had both his eyes and mouth wide open, enjoying the sight. O’Clarence
was sitting on his haunches, holding a pin-wheel in his hand, and explaining to
Mrs. O’Clarence how cheaply they could be made in China, and how superior in
ingenuity and industry were the Chinese to all other races. None of them know
how it happened; but O’Clarence remembers that there were two open packs of
cannon-crackers just under him, and thinks Wickford’s boy must have in some way
dropped the punk in among them, and, in the general interest, forgotten that it
was afire. At any rate, there was a sudden siss right under Mr. O’Clarence,
followed in the next instant by a tornado of sounds and sparks; and that
gentleman at once shot toward the ceiling in a blaze of various- colored
lights, while the air became thick with sparks, blue-lights, blazing balls,
industrious pin-wheels, insane sky-rockets, and screeching crackers. Mrs. O’Clarence
fell over a chair that cost eight dollars when new, and struck the back of her
head against the stove-hearth with a violence that added materially to the
display of fireworks already going on. Wickford’s boy was struck in the mouth
with a sky-rocket, and had two-thirds of his hair taken off by a Roman candle,
and was knocked through a doorway by a piece of ordnance just introduced this
season, and which will undoubtedly become popular when understood better. He
was afterward fished out of a rose-bush, and taken home in a table-cloth. O’Clarence
remained during the entire exhibition, looking at it from various positions;
and, when it was over with, he was put in a sheet by the neighbors, and
saturated with oil, and then covered with molasses and flour. We learn that new
skin is already forming on parts of him; and, if no unfavorable symptoms set
in, he will be out again in a fortnight, although it is not likely he will
mingle much in society until his hair and eyebrows commence to grow. He thinks
Wickford’s boy is dead; and they dare not tell him to the contrary, until he
gets stronger. Singularly enough, Mrs. O’Clarence escaped injury by burns: but
the blow on her head was so severe, that she cannot bear to have her back-hair
drawn up as high as it was before; and missing her church-privileges is a sore
trial to her.
CROQUET, that eminently
fascinating game, was introduced on the premises of the Collinses Friday. In
the afternoon, Podge’s boy brought up the set; and, just before tea, Mrs.
Collins arranged the wickets. Collins had learned to play when visiting in
Glovershire last summer, and Mrs. Collins acquired an indifferent knowledge of
the game from two elderly maiden sisters on Paxton Street; and so, on that
delicious Friday afternoon, they took out the mallets and balls, and commenced
the game.
"Now,
Emmeline," playfully observed Mr. Collins, "don’t you begin cheating
at the start. If you do, the game will be prostituted to mere gambling, an’ we’ll
injure our moral natures in trying to build up our physical."
"People who are so
ready to charge against others need close watching themselves, young man,"
said she in the same spirit; "and I mean to keep a sharp eye on you."
Then they both laughed.
"But it will be a
good thing for you, Emmeline," he said, with a tinge of tenderness in his
voice. "You are kept cooped up in the house so, that you hardly get a
breath of fresh air. This will give you exercise, and keep you out doors
too."
"You are always
thinking of me," said she as her eyes grew moist. "You need the
out-door air as much as I do; but you are too unselfish to think of yourself."
And, thus exchanging
sentiments which did credit to both their hearts, the game progressed.
After passing through
the centre wicket, Mr. Collins used her ball to help himself through the other
wickets to the upper stake. Then he left her near the first wicket, and struck
for the stake, which, being about eight inches distant, made him
over-confident. The ball missed by about an eighth of an inch.
"I declare!"
he exclaimed in vexation.
Then she, having
watched his rapid progress with a clouded face, now struck for him, and hit
him; and a minute later his ball was spinning through the grass to the other
end of the ground. She was now in position for her wicket, and passed through
it and the others to the stake, but missed it. Then he came up by a
well-directed blow to within two inches of the stake. But she went for him
again; and, when she got through, she was three wickets beyond the stake, and
his ball was at the other end of the ground again, and his brow was finely
corrugated. He stepped nervously toward it. It was quite evident that he was
not unruffled. When his turn came again, he drove back to the stake, but struck
a wicket, and rebounded so close to her, that she easily hit him, and again
introduced him through wickets he was not for, and then sent him flying again.
Her success caused her to laugh, and he heard it.
"You think you are
pretty smart; but I’ll get even with you," he said, without smiling.
"You’ll have to
play better than you have done," she pertinently suggested.
"I think I know as
much about croquet as you do," he said, still with a straight face.
"You don’t play as
if you did," she retorted.
"If you’d had any
fairness about you, you’d let me had that stroke over when I was up to the
stake. You knew I slipped, as well as I did," he said, growing red in the
face.
"No, I didn’t know
any thing about it," she replied, taking on a little color.
"I say you
did."
"And I say I didn’t.
But, if you are going to play this game, why don’t you go ahead?"
"I’ll play when I
get ready," he answered, turning white about the mouth.
"If you ain’t
going to play, you’d better go into the house and shut up," she suggested,
raising her voice.
"Don’t you talk to
me in that way," he cried, "or I’ll make you sorry for it, you
brazen-faced hussy!"
"Hussy,
hussy!" she screamed. "Ain’t you ashamed of yourself, John Jacob
Collins, to call your wife a hussy? Hussy, am I? you old villain! Hussy is it?
you miserable brute! I’m to be called a hussy, am I, after working my knuckles
off for you, and slaving for thirty years after your crooked carcass?
There!" she cried in a paroxysm, throwing the mallet on the ground,
"take your old croquet, and shove it down your lying throat, and choke
yourself to death with it, if you want to, you miserable old wretch! And don’t
you never ask me to play with you again, or I’ll tell you something you’ll
remember the longest day you live, you old devil!"
And then she bounced
into the house, leaving him standing out there, and rubbing his head in a
benumbed sort of way. But, almost immediately after, she thrust her head out of
the window, and snapped out, "You needn’t think you are going to get any
hot biscuit for your tea in this house this night, young man; and you can put
that in your pipe and smoke it just as soon as you are a mind to."
THIS is the season of
the year when a man may expect to be suddenly called at any moment in the night
to get up and put down the windows. On the advent of a thunder-shower, it is
rarely that a man wakes first: if he should, he keeps quiet so as not to
disturb his wife, and avail himself of the first lull to go to sleep again. How
differently a woman acts!--oh, so differently! Just as soon as she wakes up,
and hears that it is raining, she seems to lose all judgment at once. She
plants both of her feet into her husband’s back, at the same time catching him
by the hair, and shaking his head, and hysterically screams,--
"Get up! get up
quick! It’s a-pouring right down in torrents, and all the windows are up!"
He cannot wake up,
under such circumstances, with an immediately clear conception of the case: in
fact, it frequently happens that he is way out on the floor before his eyes are
fairly open, having but one idea really at work, and that as to what he is
doing out of bed. The first thing to do is to strike a light; and while he is
moving around for the matches, and swearing that some one has broken into the
house and moved them from where he laid them on going to bed (which is always
plausible enough), she hurls after him the following tonics:--
"Do hurry! Mercy,
how that rain is coming right into those windows! We won’t have a carpet left
if you don’t move faster. What on earth are you doing all this time? Can’t find
the matches! Mercy sake! you ain’t going to stumble round here looking for
matches, are you, when the water is drowning us out? Go without a light! What a
man you are! I might have better got up in the first place. Well
(despairingly), let the things go to ruin, if you are a mind to. I’ve said all
I’m going to, an’ I don’t care if the whole house goes to smash. You always
would have your own way, an’ I s’pose you always will; and now you can do as
you please: but don’t you dare to open your mouth to me about it when the ruin’s
done. I’ve talked an’ talked till I’m tired to death, and I sha’n’t talk any
more. We never could keep any thing decent, and we never can; an’ so that’s the
end of it. [A very brief pause.]. John Henry, are you, or are you not, going to
shut down those windows?"
Just then he finds the
matches, and breaks the discourse by striking a light. He was bound to have
that help before he moved out of the room. He has got the lamp lighted now. No
sooner does its glare fill the room than he immediately blows it out again for
obvious reasons. He had forgotten the windows were open and the brevity of his
night-shirt. It almost causes him to shiver when he thinks of his narrow
escape. He moves out into the other room with celerity now. He knows pretty
well the direction to go; and, when a flash of lightning comes, it shows him on
the verge of climbing over a stool or across the centre-table. If there is a
rocking-chair in the house, he will strike it. A rocking-chair is much surer in
its aim than a streak of lightning. It never misses, and it never hits a man in
but one spot; and that is just at the base of his shin. We have fallen against
more than eight hundred rockers of all patterns and prices, and always received
the first blow in the one place. We have been with dying people, and have heard
them affirm in the solemn hush of that last hour that a rocking-chair always
hits a man on the shin first.
And, when a man gets up
in the dead of night to shut down windows, he never misses the rocking-chair.
It is the rear end of one of the rockers which catches him. It is a dreadful
agony. But he rarely cries out: he knows his audience too well. A woman never
falls over a rocking-chair; and she never will understand why a man does, But
she can tell whether he has, by the way he puts down the windows when he
finally reaches them. A rocking-chair window (if we may be allowed the term)
can be heard three times as far as any other.
ONE of the most painful
of the accidents happening on Independence Day occurred to a family living on
Osborne Street. Two of the young sons had improvised a cannon from an old
gun-barrel. The father gave them a pound of powder, and took a lively interest
in the firing. It was not an ornamental piece; but it made a most astonishing
noise, which is of more importance.
"Ram her down
tight this time," suggested the exultant father, a little impatient to
increase the sound.
"But what will the
neighbors think?" mildly protested his wife. "You’ll jar their heads
off."
"Fudge on their
heads! This is the glorious Fourth, and it don’t come but once a year.--Ram her
down, boys, an’ make her sing."
They did. They worked
like veterans, and put in a lot of grass, and hammered away at the wadding like
a pair of pile-drivers. Then they fixed it for touching off. The father was
sitting on the fence, weaving to and fro, and smiling with all his might. The
match was applied. There was a siss, a flash, and then a discharge which seemed
to shake the very centre of the earth. At the same instant, the patriotic
father left the fence backwards, and went crashing end over end into the next
lot, his eyes and mouth driven full of dirt and sand. The piece had exploded;
and a portion of the barrel, weighing nearly two pounds, flew across the yard
with such force as to completely rend the seats from two pairs of new overalls
hanging on a line, and then ploughed into the earth just in front of the owner
of the garments, knocking him over, as stated. When he got on his feet, and his
eyes and senses sufficiently cleared to learn what had happened, he
unhesitatingly said,--
"Come, now, there’s
been enough of this cussed foolishness for one day."
A SERIOUS phase of
disease is that which attacks a boy on a day when he particularly objects to
going to school. He tells his mother, with the confiding frankness peculiar to
youth, that he does not feel well this morning. He don’t know what it is; but
he is lame in the joints, and his head aches, and his stomach don’t feel a bit
good. He moves about slowly; openly refuses food; looks dejected, negligent,
unhappy. Quite frequently he can be heard to sigh. But, in all his pain, he
never forgets the clock. As time advances to the hour which marks school-time,
his symptoms increase. He doesn’t say a word about school to his mother: he
feels too dreadful, perhaps, to talk of such things. He is certainly in a bad
way. His sighs increase as the dreaded time approaches, and the physical symptoms
of decay grow more and more manifest. But the greatest suffering he endures
mentally. Fifteen minutes to nine is the time he should start. It lacks but ten
minutes of that time; and nothing has been said to him about getting ready. He
wants to believe he is all right, because that is the prompting of hope, which
is strong in the youthful breast; but yet he refuses to believe he is, because
he fears the re-action of disappointment. Every time he hears his mother’s
voice, he is startled; and, every time he detects her looking toward him, he
feels his heart sink within him. It is a hard thing, indeed, to appear
outwardly languid and listless and drooping, when inwardly one is a roaring
furnace of agony; but he does it, and does it admirably. It now lacks five
minutes of the quarter: still she says nothing. His nervousness is almost
maddening. Four minutes, three minutes, two minutes, one minute: still she
makes no sign. Will his reason forsake him?
It is the quarter. Now
he should start, according to custom. One would think he had every
encouragement now; but he knows, that, even at five minutes later, he can make
school by hurrying. The agony of the suspense becomes exquisite. He trembles
all over, and be cannot help it. His hair is moist with perspiration. It seems
as if he would give up every thing, and sink into the grave, if he could but
know the result. How slowly the clock moves! It stares at him with exasperating
stoniness. The ten minutes are reached: he breathes easier. Not a word has been
said to him about school. His mother sees that he is too ill to go, and she
sympathizes with him. Heaven bless her! Did ever a boy have such a good, noble
mother as this? Visions of sunny fields, and shady woods, and running streams,
unfold before him, stirring the very depths of his soul, and filling his eyes
with tears of gladness.
"John!"
Like a great shock the
beautiful pictures fall away, and he is shot from the pinnacle of hope into the
abyss of despair. There is no mistaking the voice.
"Mercy sakes! here
you are not ready for school! Come, start your boots."
"I--I don’t feel
well enough to go to school," he whines, hardly realizing the dreadful
change that has come upon him with such blighting force and swiftness.
"I guess you ain’t
dying, quite," is the heartless reply; and, if you ain’t in school, you
will be galloping over the neighborhood. Hurry, I tell you."
"But it is almost
nine o’clock, and I’ll be late," he protests in desperation.
"Late?" she
repeats, looking at the clock. "You’ve got plenty of time. That clock is
nearly a quarter of an hour fast."
Merciful heavens! He
goes down before the terrific blow in a flush. A quarter of an hour fast!
Bleeding at every pore of his heart, stunned by a shock which was as terrible as
unexpected, he crawls inside of his jacket and under his hat, and starts on his
way in a dazed manner that is pitiful to behold.
THE idea is just
suggested, that an ornamental stove be put in the market; not merely an
ornamental article, but one that is artistic,--one that will adorn as well as
comfort the home-circle. It is a good idea, and has our hearty support. In
fact, we are anxious about it. The stove has no nobler friend than the editor
of this paper,--no one who has given it such careful, intelligent study,--no
one who has so faithfully tried to understand it. So we feel a peculiar right
to speak out. The article from which we gather the suggestion says that there
is no reason why there should not be a costly stove. We don’t exactly
understand what is meant by this. Every stove we have had any thing to do with
was costly enough. But perhaps the writer refers to the market-price. If so, we
coincide with him. Stoves have been made with a view to combine beauty and
utility with economy. But we suppose the people are now ripe for a stove that
will be an adornment without reference to the price,--just as they feel in
regard to pictures, vases, &c. An article in bronze or polished steel, with
French-plate micas, mahogany doors, and German-silver cornice, with an
electro-plated scuttle, and a pearl-handled poker, would not be a bad idea.
Such a stove, enclosed in a rosewood cabinet, and dusted off twice a day by a
team of ostriches hired expressly for that purpose, could not fail of elevating
and ennobling the atmosphere of any home. Its artistic loveliness would render
its removal unnecessary in the spring; and this of itself would save its cost
in a very little time. But, even should it have to be moved, what of it? No man
with the least discernment of the beautiful in his nature would object to being
bucked in the abdomen by a German-silver cornice, or skinning his knuckles on a
mahogany door, or even to plunging headlong over an electro-plated scuttle; and
as for sliding backwards down an entire flight of stairs with so much of the
chaste and beautiful in his arms at once, nothing would compare to it in the
way of luxurious sensations.
Let us have an artistic
stove, by all means, with alabaster boots to put against it.
DID you ever go to
sleep in church? We don’t mean to ask if you have done so deliberately. Of
course you haven’t. You put your head on the back of the seat in front, just to
rest it and to think of the sermon. The words of the preacher are very distinct
to you at first. They present something for your mind to take hold of, and to
wrestle intellectually with. Then they calm you and soothe you. They become a
lullaby that floats through your brain, gently filling in the crevices, and
giving you a blissful sense of rest. They merge themselves so imperceptibly
with your most distant thoughts as to lose their identity. Farther and farther
away they sound, until they have disappeared entirely. The scene suddenly
changes. You are in the midst of a maddened mob. There is a struggle on your
part to save yourself from their violence. You strike out and kick out, and
squirm and wrench yourself. It is a desperate struggle. Every muscle in your
body stands out like whip-cords; every nerve is stretched to its utmost. You
succeed in getting free of the mass. Then you start on a run, with the pack
running after you. You cry out for help; you shriek at the top of your voice
for succor. Blindly galloping along, you come unexpectedly to a precipice. You
make an herculean effort to save yourself; but it is too late. With a scream of
terror you go over its edge, and are hurled headlong into the dreadful abyss
below. Then you awake. You have hit your head on the back of the pew. For a
moment there is a dreadful vagueness as to your whereabouts: the next moment
brings with it the realization that you are in church, The words of the
minister awake you to this consciousness with awful distinctness. What did you
do in that dream? is a query that takes hold of you with frightful force. Did
you throw your arms in the air? Did you kick the bench? Did you scream out? The
perspiration gathers in great drops on your face, and sharp flashes of heat
shoot along your spine, while there is sinking enough in the pit of your stomach
to start a shaft in a gold-mine. You dare not look up. You can imagine every
eye in the assembly is turned upon you, waiting to confront you face to face.
It is a dreadful feeling,--so dreadful, that it finally becomes unbearable; and
finally you slowly raise your head, and gradually, but furtively, glance about
you. The congregation is as you left them. Not an eye is turned towards you;
and you might believe that you had not been asleep at all, were it not for the
awakening of one leg, accompanied by all the poignant sensations of that
operation.
THERE is nothing so
dreadful as the cry of "Fire" in the night,--unless it is
discovering, after getting your clothes on wrong, that it was a false alarm.
There is a significance to a cry of "Fire" in a village, which the
city knows not of. In a city, the aroused citizen, on satisfying himself that
the disaster is not near his own premises, retires to bed in the comforting
assurance that he will feast on the particulars in the morning. But, in a small
community, every man is a neighbor: he knows everybody else, and takes a deep
interest in his affairs,--especially in his disaster. He would no more think of
remaining in bed on a cry of "Fire" than he would of remaining in his
grave on the cry of Gabriel. So, when the alarm sounds, the whole community is
aroused, and in a state of intense excitement. The first dash the awakened
citizen makes is over two chairs and a table to the window. He catches a sight
of the flames, and, immediately locating the scene of the conflagration, goes
over the chairs and table again in a search for his clothes. He would strike a
light: but, the instant he touches the match-safe, it upsets, and throws its
contents to the floor; and he might feel around in the dark for them seven
years, without finding one of them. But, darkness or no darkness, he is deadly
earnest. He prances around like a madman; and every shout and hurrying footstep
going by add fresh impetus to his movements. And, every other time his bare
foot descends, it comes down on the heel of an overturned shoe, and nearly
overthrows him. These shoes are under his feet all the time till he comes to
need them; and then he has to flop down on his knees, and prowl over the entire
floor, before finding them. It is awful to be in such a nervous state in the
dark. To pick up your wife’s clothes ten times to where you do your own once;
to strike your naked toes against the casters of the bed; to step on the round
of a chair instead of on the floor; to get on your pants, and then discover you
have left off the drawers; to try to find the other arm-hole to your vest; to
get the left shoe on the right foot three times in succession; to pull with all
your might on a tight stocking, and find that the heel is on top of your foot,--all
these things are awful. But the climax of the horror is trying to get into a
pair of drawers, one leg of which is wrong side out. You are too excited to
discover the error; although, if you should give the matter an instant of
thought, you would understand that a man never leaves that garment in any other
shape on retiring for the night. But you are too crazed by excitement to think.
The whole building may be burned to the ground before you get there; and this
reflection, together with the awful thought that the fire may be put out before
doing much damage, completely unnerves you. Every movement you have made about
the room has tended to confuse that most valuable garment; and when you finally
secure it, and jab your foot at it for an opening, the perspiration rolls down
your face to a degree that is blinding. But it is after getting one foot in,
and while waving the other around for the other leglet,--that leglet which is
turned inside out,--that the real agony commences. The thoughts that fill a man’s
mind as he reels about like a drunken man, and madly jabs the wondering foot at
the garment in unsuccessful thrusts, cannot be properly depicted. How he
perspires! how he breathes! how he foams at the mouth! how he sobs and swears!
NOW that the
house-cleaning is over, a new exasperation sets in. This is the tidies. All
winter long they have been making. The woman from the next house has either
been in and on her knees, examining your wife’s worsted and patterns, or your
wife has been on her knees over there, examining hers. It is the same thing.
About a quarter-ton of worsted has been used up. It has been over the floor, or
the tables, or bureau-tops, pretty much all of the time. It has got entangled
with the comb and razor-strop, and other things which you have wanted. Its
favorite receptacle has been the handkerchief-drawer; and every time you have
wanted a handkerchicf has been the signal for a pitched battle with that
contemptible worsted. Once in a while it has been left on a chair, the
crochet-needles sticking upward: this has instructed, if it hasn’t amused you.
The house has been put to rights; and that mass of worsted and needles, having
evolved into block-flowers, step-ladder angels, and crooked butterflies, is now
spread out on the backs of the easiest chairs and the sofas. We don’t like
tidies. We don’t object to them as works of art; but we dislike them because of
the irritation they cause. They are designed to set off a chair; but it is the
man who sets off that chair. When the head of the house comes home at night,
wearied with toil and argument, and drops into the easy-chair, the action may
be strictly construed into a direct effort to be comfortable. He leans his head
back, and closes his eyes. She pounces on him at once. "Merciful
goodness" is all she is able to exclaim as she bounces his head from the
work of art. She does recover sufficient breath, however, to wonder "what
on earth a man can be thinking of to lay his greasy head against a tidy. But
that’s just the way when one tries to be a little decent, and have the house
look a mite respectable." As he cannot sit bolt upright in an easy-chair,
Nature never having intended he should, he sneaks off to a sofa, and drops down
there. He has just got fixed so he can close his eyes and think, when he is
suddenly lifted by the hair, and opens his eyes to behold a horrified woman,
with an apparently petrified finger pointed directly at a ruffled tidy.
"My dear,"
says he meekly, "is there any substantial objection to my going out and
perching myself on a clothes-line?"
But the sarcasm is lost
on her.
"What’s the
use," she angrily demands, "for your lopping yourself down on any
thing like a great horse? Why don’t you sit on a chair like anybody else?"
To be sure. Why don’t
he?
THE operator is just
about to withdraw the cloth. His back is toward you. The index-finger at his
unoccupied hand mutely marks the place for your eye. Every nerve in your body
is braced for the ordeal. The cloth is drawn; and the noiseless and unseen
fingers of the prepared plate are picking up your features one by one, and
transferring them to its mysterious surface. What an influence is this you are
under, and which you cannot explain, which weakens every nerve, and unloosens
every cord and muscle, and sets free upon and over you a myriad of sensations
you never knew before! The eye of the camera glares upon you like the eye of an
offended and threatening power. Prickling sensations are felt in your scalp;
and a heat evolved within with amazing rapidity flushes to the surface of your
body, and leaves it pierced with a thousand pains. You stare at the mark with
an intensity that threatens to obliterate your sight. Heavens! how slowly the
time drags! Your eyes grow weaker and weaker, filling with water as they die
out. You know that they are closing; but you cannot help yourself. Will he
never put back that cloth? A thousand reflections upon your appearance, on the
sounds in the streets, on things irreverent, and disastrous to your composure,
flood your mind, and take such hold upon you, that you cannot shake them off.
And yet no move to restore that cloth. He stands like a statue cut from flint,
and you quivering from the sole of the foot to the crown of the head, with eyes
blinded by tears, with perspiration oozing from every pore, and every muscle
strained until it seems ready to snap, and let you down upon the floor, a mass
of disfigured and palpitating flesh. He need not put up the cloth now. The
opportunity which he controlled to reproduce you in perfection is gone. It
matters not now how it looks, only that you get away, and be at rest. You grow
hysteric in your despair. It settles down upon you like a cloud, compressing
your throat within its grasp, until your breath surges back on to your lungs as
if it would rend them. A weight is pressing upon you. You struggle to wrench
yourself free from the dreadful oppression, and yet not a muscle of your body
is in motion. What dreadful thing is this? You must shriek; you--The cloth is
up; the thirty seconds have expired; and you are photographed.
THE most difficult
thing to reach is a woman’s pocket. This is especially the case if the dress is
hung up in a closet, and the man is in a hurry. We think we are safe in saying
that he always is in a hurry on such an occasion. The owner of the dress is in
the sitting-room, serenely engrossed in a book. Having told him that the
article which he is in quest of is in her dress-pocket in the closet, she has
discharged her whole duty in the matter, and can afford to feel serene. He goes
at the task with a dim consciousness that he has been there before, but says
nothing. On opening the closet-door, and finding himself confronted with a
number of dresses, all turned inside out, and presenting a most formidable
front, he hastens back to ask, "Which dress?" and being told the
brown one, and also asked if she has so many dresses that there need be any
great effort to find the right one, he returns to the closet with alacrity, and
soon has his hands on the brown dress. It is inside out, like the rest,--a fact
he does not notice, however, until he has made several ineffectual attempts to
get his hand into it. Then he turns it around very carefully, and passes over
the pocket several times without being aware of it. A nervous moving of his
hands and an appearance of perspiration on his forehead are perceptible. He now
dives one hand in at the back, and, feeling around, finds a place, and proceeds
to explore it, when he discovers that he is following up the inside of a
lining. The nervousness increases, also the perspiration. He twitches the dress
on the hook; and suddenly the pocket, white, plump, and exasperating, comes to
view. Then he sighs the relief he feels, and is mentally grateful he did not
allow himself to use any offensive expressions. It is all right now. There is
the pocket in plain view,--not the inside, but the outside,--and all he has to
do is to put his hand right around in the inside, and take out the article.
That is all. He can’t help but smile to think how near he was to getting mad.
Then he puts his hand around to the other side. He does not feel the opening.
He pushes a little farther. Now he has got it. He shoves the hand down, and is
very much surprised to see it appear opposite his knees. He had made a mistake.
He tries again: again he feels the entrance, and glides down it, only to appear
again as before. This makes him open his eyes, and straighten his face. He
feels of the outside of the pocket, pinches it curiously, lifts it up, shakes
it, and, after peering closely about the roots of it, he says, "By
gracious!" and commences again. He does it calmly this time, because
hurrying only makes matters worse. He holds up breadth after breadth; goes over
them carefully; gets his hand first into a lining, then into the air again
(where it always surprises him when it appears), and finally into a pocket, and
is about to cry out with triumph, when he discovers that it is the pocket to
another dress. He is mad now. The closet air almost stifles him. He is so
nervous, he can hardly contain himself; and the pocket looks at him so
exasperatingly, that he cannot help but "plug" it with his clinched
fist, and immediately does it. Being somewhat relieved by this performance, he
has a chance to look about him, and sees that he has put his foot through a
bandbox, and into the crown of his wife’s bonnet; has broken the brim to his
Panama hat, which was hanging in the same closet; and torn about a yard of
bugle-trimming from a new cloak. As all this trouble is due directly to his
wife’s infatuation in hanging up her dresses inside out, he immediately starts
after her, and, impetuously urging her to the closet, excitedly and almost
profanely intimates his doubts of there being a pocket in the dress anyway. The
cause of the unhappy disaster quietly inserts her hand inside the robe, and
directly brings it forth with the sought-for article in its clasp. He doesn’t
know why; but this makes him madder than any thing else.
SOME women much prefer
to use a bit of rag-carpet in place of a regular-made mat at their doors. It is
a good idea. If there is any thing better calculated to attract a man’s
attention than a rag-carpet at a door, we don’t know of it. It causes more hard
feeling, and is productive of more hard and unforgiving words, than any article
about the house, excepting always the family hammer. Three pieces of rag-carpet
thus situated will bankrupt an upright man inside of a fortnight, and turn a
happy home into an uproarious and outrageous Bedlam. Not one man in one hundred
can go through a door thus protected without catching his foot in that carpet,
to the great danger of flinging himself violently to the floor, and flattening
his nose. And it not only twists his legs, but it drags over the sill, and
catches the door as he shuts it, and starts his temper afresh. It being too
degrading and unmanly to stoop down and remove the obstacle with his hand, he
gives it a kick, and is surprised to see how easy it is to miss it. He fetches
another and more vicious kick at it, and succeeds in removing about an inch of
it. Then he swings the door to, and, setting his teeth together, attempts to
shut it over the obstacle. The more the obstruction resists him, the more
desperately he pushes. This is on the generally-received and very agreeable
theory, that inanimate things are human in so far as it is human to be vicious
and obstinate. It is the principle which induces a boy to pound a stick of wood
which flies up and hits him. Having convinced himself that the building will
not sufficiently give to permit of shutting the door without removing the
carpet, the carpet is kicked away (it is never laid away); and it is either
kicked the whole length of the hall, or tumbled in a heap just outside the
sill, where the next person appearing catches both feet into it, and shoots
into the room with hair erect, eyeballs protruding, and feet madly and
passionately endeavoring to recover their balance.
A READER who is
recently married writes us, asking which end of a stove is the lightest. We
really wish we knew; but we don’t. A stove is very deceiving; and one has to
become well acquainted with a new one to find its points of advantage. Our
friend should not be too hasty in taking hold of a stove. A stove that is to be
moved should be visited in the still watches of the night before, and carefully
examined by the light of a good lamp. The very end we thought the lightest may
prove the heaviest (in fact, is extremely likely to); or it may be that the
lightest end is the most dificult to get hold of and hang on to. It is a very
distressing undertaking to carry a half ton of stove by your finger-nails, with
a cold-blooded man easily holding the other end, and a nervous woman--with a
dust-pan in one hand, and a broom in the other--bringing up the rear, and
getting the broom between your legs. In going up stairs, it is best to be at
the lower end of the stove.
Going backwards up a
stairway with a stove in your hands requires a delicacy of perception which
very few peopie possess, and which can only come after years of conscientious
practice. If you are below, you have the advantage of missing much that must be
painful to a sensitive nature. The position you are in brings your face pretty
close to the top of the stove; and, as no one can be expected to see what is
going on when thus situated, you are relieved from all responsibility and
thought in the matter, with nothing to do but to push valiantly ahead, and
think of heaven. Then above you is the carman, whom you do not see, with his
lips two inches apart, his eyes protruding, and his tongue lolling on his chin.
And it is well you don’t see-him; for it is an awful sight. But the chief
advantage of being below is, that, in case of the stove falling, you will be
caught beneath it, and instantly killed. Nothing short of your death will ever
compensate for the scratched paint, soiled carpet, and torn oil-cloth; and no
man in his senses, and with his hearing unimpaired, would want to survive the
catastrophe.
THE wind is governed by
atmospheric changes and coal-ashes. We don’t know positively which has the
greater influence; but we are inclined to stake our all on coal-ashes. We do
not believe that all the atmosphere about us can control the wind to the degree
that one hod of coal-ashes can when passing through a sieve in the hands of a
man who has got his best suit of clothes on. We remember an occasion when the
wind was blowing direct from the west, and had been blowing from that direction
all day, and bade fair to blow straight from that direction as long as there
was any direction left, that a man (whose name we need not mention), dressed in
his best suit of clothes, and with pomade on his hair, stood on the west side
of a sieve of coal-ashes, and undertook to screen them. We remember too,--and
we remember it with a vividness that is quite remarkable,--that, when he had
gyrated that sieve about three times, that western gale veered around to the
east with such appalling promptness, that, before he could make the slightest
move to save himself, he had disappeared--Sunday clothes, pomade, and all--in a
blinding cloud of ashes, out of which immediately emerged the most
extraordinary wheezing, sneezing, and coughing ever heard in that neighborhood.
One sieveful of coal-ashes, with the operator dressed for church, has been
known to change the wind to thirty-two points of the compass.
ONE of the most
annoying complaints in the range of medical knowledge is a cold in the head.
But you would not think so. No newspaper which publishes intricate recipes for
complicated diseases tells, even in the most vague way, how to cure a cold in
the head. No doctor in regular practice pretends to know any thing about it. It
is the wandering Jew of ailments. It invades every household with impunity, and
snaps its feverish finger in the very face of medical science; and medical
science promptly dodges, and is glad it can. The man with a cold in his head is
a mournful fabric to contemplate. He is ostracized from company. He is barred
out from the family circle. He loses his interest in every thing but a stove
and a handkerchief; and, were he called upon to give an expression, it would be
found that his idea of heaven was a place where stove-founderies and
cotton-mills were about equally divided. His eyes are watery; his skin is drawn
tight to his flesh; his nose is swollen, of a fiery red, and sorer than a
strange dog. What he mostly fears is the draught; but, in spite of his most
active endeavors, he is sure to get into it; and he is hardly able to conceal
his surprise at the pressure of business the family is subjected to, which
keeps the door open about two-thirds of the time, and establishes an almost
uninterrupted current of air about his legs. Screwed up back of the stove, with
his nose like a beacon shining above it, he patiently holds his handkerchief to
the blaze, and finally slips into a mental calculation as to which will first
lose its moisture,--his cotton, or his blood. There he sits all day, with the
handkerchief as a flag of truce tendered by the fire in his head to the fire in
the stove; and at night he goes scudding through a cold hall, sneezing at every
leap. Long after every one else is asleep, he starts up with a terrific sneeze,
and finds that his feet are sticking out below the quilts, and that the
handkerchief, which he meant to have carefully located for just this emergency,
is nowhere to be found.
YOU know her. She lives
on your street. Her features are either pinched, or full and frowzy. Her dress
is wet, ill-fitting, and of no particular pattern; her slippers are broken
down; her hair is uncombed; her voice is either shrill or coarse. You have seen
her stand out in the back-yard, and put a bare arm up to her eyes, and under it
peer out to the fence or barn, where a man, in an ill-fitting coat, is
searching for something; and have heard her shout, "John! can’t George
bring me some water?" and you have heard him cry back, "If he don’t
get that water, I will take every inch of flesh from his bones." And, when
you have looked at her again, does it seem possible that those angry eyes have
drooped in maidenly reserve, or raised in coquettish light to the face of the
man in the ill-fitting coat? Can you, by any possible wrench of the
imagination, conceive of his tenderly passing peppermints to her? of his taking
that hand in his, and bashfully squeezing it? But it was so. Many a "God
bless you" has been uttered above that bare head, many a kiss pressed on
that uncombed hair. The tightly-compressed lips have lovingly framed tender
invitations to him to take another bite of cake and pickle. The hands that are
now parboiled and blistered, and marked with scars from the bread-knife, and
scratches from the last setting-hen, were once twined lovingly about his neck;
and the nose, which is now peaked and red, and looks as if it would stand on
its hind-legs and scream with rage, once followed the figures of his new
vest-pattern, or bore heavily against his jugular vein. As little probable as
this seems to you, it seems less to her. She has forgotten it: she won’t hear
it talked of by others: she cannot bear to see it acted by others. Two lovers
are to her a "passel of fools." And--but George is rubbing his head;
and we turn aside while our heroine re-adjusts her slipper.
HAVING a photograph
taken is one of the great events in a man’s life. The chief desire is to look
the very best; and on the success of the picture hinges, in many cases, the
most important epoch in life. To work up a proper appearance time enough is
used, which, if devoted to catching fleas for their phosphorus, would cancel
the entire national debt, and establish a New-York daily paper. When you have
completed your toilet, you go to the gallery, and force yourself into a
nonchalance of expression that is too absurd for any thing. Then you take the chair,
spread your legs gracefully, appropriate a calm and indifferent look, and
commence to perspire. An attenuated man with a pale face, long hair, and a
soiled nose, now comes out of a cavern and adjusts the camera. Then he gets
back of you, and tells you to sit back as far as you can in the chair, and that
it has been a remarkably backward spring. After getting you back till your
spine interferes with the chair itself, he shoves your head into a pair of
ice-tongs, and dashes at the camera again. Here, with a piece of discolored
velvet over his head, he bombards you in this manner: "Your chin out a
little, please." The chin is protruded. "That’s nicely: now a little
more." The chin advances again; and the pomade commences to melt, and
start for freedom. Then he comes back to you, and slaps one of your hands on
your leg in such a position as to give you the appearance of trying to lift it
over your head. The other is turned under itself, and has become so sweaty,
that you begin to fear that it will stick there permanently. A new stream of
pomade finds its way out, and starts downward. Then he shakes your head in the
tongs till it settles right, and says it looks like rain, and puts your chin
out again, and punches out your chest, and says he doesn’t know what the poor
are to do next winter, unless there is a radical change in affairs; and then
takes the top of your head in one hand, and your chin in the other, and gives
your neck a wrench that would earn any other man a prominent position in a new
hospital. Then he runs his hand through your hair, and scratches your scalp,
and steps back to the camera and the injured velvet for another look. By this
time, new sweat and pomade have started out. The whites of your eyes show
unpleasantly; and your whole body feels as if it had been visited by an
enormous cramp, and another and much bigger one was momentarily expected. Then
he points at something for you to look at; tells you to look cheerful and
composed; and snatches away the velvet, and pulls out his watch. When he gets
tired, and you feel as if there was but very little left in this world to live
for, he restores the velvet, says it is an unfavorable day for a picture, but
he hopes for the best, and immediately disappears in his den. Then you get up
and stretch yourself, slap on your hat, and immediately sneak home, feeling
mean, humbled, and altogether too wretched for description. The first friend
who sees the picture says he can see enough resemblance to make certain that it
is you; but you have tried to look too formal to be natural and graceful.
YOU can always tell a
boy whose mother cuts his hair. Not because the edges of it look as if it had
been chewed off by an absent-minded horse; but you tell it by the way he stops
on the street and wriggles his shoulders. When a fond mother has to cut her boy’s
hair, she is careful to guard against any annoyance and muss by laying a sheet
on the carpet. It has never yet occurred to her to sit him over a bare floor,
and put the sheet around his neck. Then she draws the front hair over his eyes,
and leaves it there while she cuts that which is at the back. The hair which
lies over his eyes appears to be surcharged with electric needles, and that
which is silently dropping down under his shirt-band appears to be on fire. She
has unconsciously continued to push his head forward until his nose presses his
breast, and is too busily engaged to notice the snuffing sound that is becoming
alarmingly frequent. In the mean time, he is seized with an irresistible desire
to blow his nose, but recollects that his handkerchief is in the other room.
Then a fly lights on his nose, and does it so unexpectedly, that he
involuntarily dodges, and catches the points of the shears in his left ear. At
this he commences to cry, and wish he was a man. But his mother doesn’t notice
him. She merely hits him on the other ear to inspire him with confidence, and
goes on with the work. When she is through, she holds his jacket-collar back
from his neck, and with her mouth blows the short bits of hair from the top of
his head down his back. He calls her attention to this fact; but she looks for
a new place on his head, and hits him there, and asks him why he didn’t use his
handkerchief. Then he takes his awfully disfigured head to the mirror, and
looks at it, and, young as he is, shudders as he thinks of what the boys on the
street will say.
THERE is no day so dear
to New England as Thanksgiving. It is the event of the year in the home-circle.
On that day the family is united, if possible to come together. The married son
with his wife and children are there; the married daughter with her husband and
children are there too; and the respective grandchildren make it hot for the
proud and happy grand-parents, and very nearly eat them out of house and home,
as it were. The unmarried daughter comes home from school, bringing a companion
with her; and the nephews and nieces are astonished at the magnitude of the
bustles and the number of hair-pins these two bring with them. But the chief
object in the home-circle to the old folks is the unmarried son, the son of
their declining years,--the boy-clerk in New York. He comes home to the old
roof-tree young, fresh, and hopeful. He has not yet developed; and all the
hopes of his parents are centred, founded as a rock, upon his future. He
arrives the evening before, takes a hearty supper, and goes out to look up a
billiard-room. Thanksgiving Day, to be natural, should come and go with a
sunless, leaden sky. The family, having retired late, rise late. Not much
breakfast is eaten in a New-England home. The meeting of those long separated,
the feeling of reverence and gratitude peculiar to the day’s observance, the
haste to get to church, and the fact that a dinner calculated to tax every
facility of the stomach will soon be served, tend to make the breakfast a hasty
and imperfect meal. That dinner is a spectacle. The room is enlivened by
suitable decorations. The table is set out with the best plate and ware. The
cooking is simply splendid. The variety of food is almost unlimited. Every
chair is occupied. Every heart shows its gladness in the beaming face and
bright eye. Home again!--home with the self-sacrificing and generous
father,--home with the dear mother’s cooking steaming deliciously in every
nostril. Heaven bless her! What an awful mockery Thanksgiving dinner would be
without her! How her eyes shine as she looks from the well-appointed board to
the enjoying ones surrounding it!--bone of her bone, and flesh of her flesh.
What fun there is at that table! How everybody praises the cooking! and how
greasy and shiny are the chubby faces of the grand-children! They do not
understand fully the significance of the feast; but they are happy in the midst
of its vapors and odors, and intend to have the wish-bone, if they have to
smash an own brother or sister flat with the earth. Ah, happy father! years
have come and gone since this home was founded. And how it has grown! There is
moisture in his eye, and a tremor to his lip, as he looks over the glad faces
about him to see--who of that band so dear to him may be out of gravy or
"stuffin’." Ah! it seems to us that we could knock the stuffing out
of any man who could look with an evil eye upon such a scene.
But the dinner draws to
a close, precious as its associations are; and each guest, with several pounds
of food in his or her stomach, held down by a quarter of mince-pie, withdraws
from the table, and carefully fondles his or her stomach surreptitiously and
uneasily. The afternoon wanes apace. The unmarried daughter shows her married
sisters how to do up their back-hair in the latest style, and tells of the
number of pieces of underclothing it is now necessary to have, with other
information too subtle for the masculine comprehension. The men-folks are off
about town, looking at the improvements, and enjoying memories of the past and
the gripes all to themselves.
And then comes the
night, and with its deepening shadows the re-united family are beneath the old
roof-tree. The day is spent; and the morrow will see them speeding on their
different ways,--that morrow, which comes whether we will or not, when every
one returns to his own, leaving behind him the dear old home and a warmed-up
turkey. To-morrow the family must dissolve into its respective fractions; but
they are together now, and no dread of the morrow shall mar the silent joy. And
the night has come. It has been a day of pleasure, a day of rejoicing, a day of
glad memories, a day of praise, a day of thanksgiving; and as night broods over
the home, and one after another the dear ones awake, and scream for the
camphor, and chew nervously at bits of sweet-flag, they all realize the
wonderful significance of the day. Heaven be merciful to the home that has no
Thanksgiving, no glad memories, no camphor, no sweet-flag!
IT is just as necessary
to have poultry for a Thanksgiving dinner as it is to have light. A Danbury
couple named Brigham were going to have poultry for their dinner. Mr. Brigham
said to his wife the day before the event,--
"I saw some
splendid chickens in front of Merrill’s store to-day; and I guess I’ll get one
of them this afternoon for to-morrow."
"I am going to
tend to that myself," said Mrs. Brigham quickly.
"But I can get it
just as well: I’m going right by there."
"I don’t want you
to get it," she asserted. "When I eat chicken, I want something I can
put my teeth in." And a hard look came into her face.
He colored up at once.
"What do you mean
by that?"
"Just what I
say," she explained, setting her teeth together.
"Do you mean to
say I don’t know how to pick out a chicken?" he angrily demanded.
"I do."
"Well, I can just
tell you, Mary Ann Brigham, that I know more about chickens in one minute than
you could ever find out in a lifetime; and, furthermore, I am going to buy that
chicken, if one is bought at all in this house." And he struck the table
with his fist.
"And I tell you,
John Joyce Brigham," she cried, "that you don’t know any more how to
pick out a good chicken than an unweaned mud-turtle; and, if you bring a
chicken in this house, it will go out again quicker’n it come in; and you can
put that in your pipe an’ smoke it as soon as you want to."
"Whose house is
this, I want to know?" he fiercely demanded.
She frankly replied at
once,--
"I suppose it
belongs to a flat-head idiot with a wart on his nose. But a woman who knows a
spring chicken from a hump-back camel is running the establishment; and, as
long as she does, he can’t bring no patent-leather hens here to be
cooked."
"You’ll see what I’ll
do!" he yelled; and he pulled his coat on, and jammed his cap on his head,
with the forepiece over his left ear.
"You bring a
chicken here if you think best, Mister Brigham," she replied.
"You see if I don’t!"
he growled, as he passed out, and slammed the door behind him.
That evening there was
a nice, fine chicken in the pantry: but he didn’t bring it. Perhaps he forgot
to get his.
Dinner came the next
day. Mr. Brigham took his seat at the table as usual; but it was evident that
he intended mischief. Mrs. Brigham filled a plate with chicken, mashed
potatoes, and boiled onions. It was a tempting dish, emitting a delicious
aroma. She passed it to Mr. Brigham. He did not look towards it.
"Brigham,"
said she, "here’s your plate."
"I don’t want any
chicken," he said, looking nervously around the room.
"Are you going to
eat that chicken?" she demanded in a voice of low intensity.
"No, I ain’t.
Wooh! ouch! ooh!"
She had sprung to her
feet in a flash, reached over the table, caught him by the hair, and had his
face burrowing in the dish of hot onions. It was done so quick, that he had no
time to save himself, and barely time to give utterance to the agonizing
exclamations which followed upon his declaration.
"Are you going to
eat that chicken?" she hoarsely demanded.
"Lemme up!"
he screamed.
She raised his head
from the dish, and jammed it on the table.
"John Joyce
Brigham," she hissed between her set teeth, "this is a day set apart
by the nation for thanksgiving and praise. I got that chicken to celebrate this
day, and I ain’t going to have my gratitude and devotion upset by such a runt
as you are. Now I want to know if you are going to eat that chicken like a
Christian, or if you are going to cut up like a cantankerous heathen. Answer me
at once, or I’ll jam your old skull into a jelly."
"I--I’ll eat
it!" he moaned,
Then she let him up,
and he took his plate; and one Thanksgiving meal, at least, passed off
harmoniously.
THANKSGIVING is
strictly a New-England day. Its religious element makes it harmonious with the
well-known sentiment of New England. It is a day for feasting, and giving
thanks unto God for his care and love during the year; and was observed by the
Squiggses, a representative family, in an eminently characteristic manner. They
had chicken for dinner. Mr. Squiggs won the chicken the night before at a raffle.
The day dawned auspiciously. The young Squiggses, three in number, after a late
breakfast, went out to slide on the ice. Mr. Squiggs proceeded to fix up a
length in the back-fence, which had needed repair for several weeks. Mrs.
Squiggs busied herself with the affairs of the house, in the intricacies of
which she was soon completely submerged. When the church-bells pealed forth
their glad notes, calling a grateful people to the temple of a merciful God to
worship him for his goodness, Mr. Squiggs was trying to saw a barrel in two for
a chicken-coop, and was carrying on like a corsair because of the eccentricity
of the saw; and Mrs. Squids was disembowelling the chicken. At half-past
twelve, when the worshippers were coming from church, Mr. Squiggs was beating
the soot out of a length of stove-pipe; and Mrs. Squiggs was sweeping out the
parlor, or "front-room" as the Squiggses called it. The three little
Squiggses, with appetites like a shark, had returned from the sliding on the
ice, being driven therefrom by hunger, and were huddled about the kitchen-fire,
with a dreadful heart-sick look in their faces, produced by the dinner-hour,
when there is no visible prospect of a dinner at hand. The kitchen was all
confusion; the "front-room" was cold, and floating with dust, in
which Mrs. Squids appeared like a being of mythology, with red arms, and a
towel wrapped about her head; the air outside was cold and cheerless in the
contemplation of an empty stomach; and the blows on the stove-pipe sounded most
dismally. About three o’clock P.M., the dinner was served. The little
Squiggses, having been cuffed alongside the head by their impatient father, and
walked over several times by the hurrying mother, were in an active condition
for an onslaught on the meal, and fell to work in a most vehement manner. The
father, who had omitted to ask God to bless the food, or to thank him for his
mercies, said they acted like hogs. This was a harsh criticism; but it had no
visible effect on their enthusiasm. When the meal was over, the three boys slid
out for the pond,--their faces shining with the friction of the feast,--the
father went out to hunt up some bits of board for a coal-bin, and the mother
went to work to "clear up." Late in the afternoon the boys returned,
having succeeded in swapping off a three-wheeled wagon for a quart of walnuts.
In the evening the father went down to the saloon and lost seventy-five cents
at raffling, and about ten o’clock returned. The boys, having had a good time,
were lying on the floor close to the stove, asleep; and the mother was busy
letting in a square of dark cloth into the rotunda of a pair of light pants.
With the memory of his losses still upon him, the father intimated to the boys,
with his boot-toes, that it was time to retire, which they did. Then he pulled
off his boots, and moved around in his stocking-feet, occasionally pausing to
make some vivid observation on nut-shells, preceded by that simple but fervent
expression,--
"Ouch!"
Shortly after, the
twain retired; and thus closed a day set apart for rejoicing and thankfulness
before God.
MRS. COBLElGH had to
run over to a neighbor’s see about pickling some green tomatoes. She had a loaf
of bread in the oven; and she told Cobleigh to take care of it. Mr. Cobleigh
was home with a boil on his knee. She said, "It won’t be any trouble to
you. In about fifteen minutes, it will be done at this end; and then you turn
it around so that the other can bake. I’ll be back in time to take it
out."
Then she threw a shawl
over her head, and started. About five minutes after she was gone, one of the
neighbors came in to show Mr. Cobleigh a double-barrelled gun which he had just
bought. After Mr. Cobleigh had carefully examined it, and held it up, and aimed
at imaginary game with it, he was forcibly reminded of a gun which his father
owned when Cobleigh was a boy, and when the family were living in Sandersville.
There were a number of astonishing incidents connected with this remarkable
fowling-piece, which Cobleigh proceeded to relate in a vivid and captivating
manner. Suddenly the neighbor snuffed up his nose, and hastily observed,--
"I say, what’s the
matter here? Any thing afire?"
Cobleigh glanced at the
stove, and then at the clock, while his face became pallid.
"By Jove!" he
ejaculated, "my wife told me to look at that bread in fifteen minutes; and
she’s been gone over a half-hour. That’s what’s burning." And Cobleigh,
with an expression of genuine distress, essayed to rise; but the neighbor
promptly came to his relief.
"Let me tend to
it; you can’t get around easily," he said.
He opened the
oven-door, and a puff of smoke came out.
"It’s a goner, I’m
afraid," he said, dropping on his knees.
It appeared to be so.
Two-thirds of the loaf was as black as the ace of spades; and there were little
flakes of live coal scattered over its surface. With that impulsive, trusting
nature peculiar to a man, the sympathetic neighbor thrust his hand into the
oven, and laid hold of that blazing, baking tin without the faintest
hesitation. Then he drew out his hand, with the awfullest howl ever heard on
that street, and--
Poor Mr. Cobleigh! In
his anxiety for the bread, and sympathy for his wife, he had approached to the
rear of his friend, and was looking over his shoulder at the ruin, when the
astonished arm was swung back; and the owner thereof instantly lost sight of
his own misery in the terrific yell which ascended just behind him. The arm
struck an obstacle; and the unfortunate Mr. Cobleigh rolled over on the floor,
screaming with all his might,--
"You’ve busted it!
O heavens! you’ve busted it!"
It was an anguish no
mortal words could allay. The neighbor saw this at a glance: so he picked up
his gun, and silently scudded home. A moment later, Mrs. Cobleigh came in; and
the instant she opened the door, Mr. Cobleigh ceased his moans, scrambled to
his feet, and stalked majestically to their bedroom, where he locked the door,
and put the bureau against it. Three minutes later, Mrs. Cobleigh knocked at
the door for admittance; but of course it was not opened.
Then she put her mouth
to the keyhole, and shouted.--
"I wouldn’t make a
fool of myself, if I was you, John Cobleigh. It is a great pity I can’t be gone
out of this house A SINGLE MINUTE, but that the whole place has got to be
turned upside down, and things go to ruin."
She actually said that.
THE quilting-season is
upon us. The frames are up stairs in the garret, with the nails conspicuously
standing out in them. The man of the house brings them down. It takes about an
hour to bring down a set of quilting-frames in a proper manner. In the first
place, they have to be got out from under five barrels, two trunks, and an
assortment of boxes; and it’s wonderful the quality of tenacity one nail
possesses when it gets caught under some object you cannot see. The frames
catch against the chimney, or entangle with the rafters; while there is never
any unity between them in descending a narrow stairway. No one really knows how
a man gets down stairs with a set of quilting-frames; but anybody not
irredeemably deaf knows that it is being done, if on the same street with the
performance. Then the frame is bolstered up on chairs in the best room, and the
long arms stick out, and catch the unwary husband in his clothes, and, in turn,
are dropped to the floor just as the weary wife is about to take a stitch; and
the remarks she makes as the quilt suddenly collapses are calculated to
instantaneously transform his scalp into a parade-ground. Four pounds of
cotton-batting are required on this occasion: three and a half pounds go into
the quilt, and the other half-pound he carries around with him on his clothes.
THE dining-room stove
is not up yet, of course. It is a little too early, and the cleaning is not yet
done: besides, the heat from the kitchen-fire is a great help, as you will
perceive while turning up the sleeves to your overcoat, so as not to get them in
the breakfast coffee.
A WOMAN feels as if she
has missed her destiny in some way if she has not arranged the cleaning-season
so as to take in one wet, miserable Sunday.
THERE is not a woman
living who has the honesty to admit she likes to clean house. She realizes just
how despicable it is, just how much misery it inflicts on those about her. That
is the reason she dare not come out openly before the world, and boldly confess
what is really a fact.
No stove is to be put
up until the house is cleaned: it is immaterial what the weather is. And, in
the week the rejuvenating is going on, a man has more misery thrust upon him,
and driven into him, and filtered through him, than it would seem possible for
one human being to hold.
WHAT strikes a man as
being almost supernaturally remarkable is the fact that house-cleaning and the
line-storm invariably strike the earth at one and the same time. He can’t very
well protest against the heavens; and he well knows there is no earthly use of
arguing the matter with his wife.
IT has been
satisfactorily demonstrated, that, when a man steps on a bar of soap which has
been left on the top step, it will start down stairs with him, and, though
having much the best start, will yet be overtaken and passed by him before it
gets half way down. This sounds almost like an Eastern allegory; but every
married man knows it is true.
THERE is a fire in the
kitchen,--a good fire. If the man of the house feels cold, why don’t he go in
there? It is a good place, is the kitchen. Every fly in the family is in there
to receive him, and sing to him, and prance around with him. The table is
loaded with fly-specked dishes; and there is a four- gallon pail of boiling
water on the stove, and mop-cloths and white-wash pails and tinware on the
floor, with a poorly discriminating girl with red arms diving to and fro with a
pan of hot water in her hands. It is a little singular that the half-frozen and
wholly crazed man does not take to the kitchen for comfort.
SHAKING a carpet is a
feature of house-cleaning which thoroughly enlists the attention of the man of
the house. It is done after dinner. The reason the woman selects this time is
because he is dressed, and has to go back to business again without a chance to
change his clothes. He carries the carpet out doors. It is not rolled up; it is
in a wad shape: and he gathers it up in his arms, and starts for the door, with
one end of the carpet dragging between his feet. He scorns to stop and roll it
up. He has got his arms full. It presses into his bosom, and leaves rifts of
sand and grit on his shirt-front; it bulges into his face, hot and dusty, and
fills his mouth and nose and eyes. Then the long end gets under one foot as he
is going down the back-stoop, and the other foot mounts up the breadth; and he
stumbles, but catches himself, and prevents falling to the ground on his face
by deliberately yet blindly jumping off the stoop. He finally gets the carpet
on the line. It is very warm. There is a breeze from the west. He steps on the
west side of the carpet, and hits it a lick with a stick: instantly the wind
turns sharp around to the east, and he is ingulfed in dust. He darts around to
the east side, and hits it another lick: the wind veers around to the west
simultaneously; and he is plunged into a sneezing-fit, which seriously
threatens to dislocate his neck. Then he pauses, and looks around uneasily. He
sees that a carpet has the same effect on the wind as a sieveful of coal-ashes,
and he doesn’t understand it. He gets a clothes-pole, and stands around at the
north end, and hits the carpet a terrible rap: the wind promptly sails around
to the south, and catches him full in the face with a pint of dust before the
pole has fairly left the carpet. He doesn’t stop to reason now: he would be a
jackass if he did. He grasps the pole with all his might, and madly smashes it
against the carpet, and dances around the line, and coughs, and sneezes, and
swears. After that, it is pulled down; and the hired girl, with the strength of
an ox, takes hold of an end with him, and they proceed to shake it. His hands
are in blisters across the palms; and his fingers, aching with the grasp on the
pole, can seem to find no hold on the woof and warp. At every other shake they
glide off, starting the nails, and causing his arms to tingle clear to the
elbows; and, every time he picks up that carpet, he does it with renewed energy
and a weaker backbone. The most we can hope for a man in this position is, that
he is not a deacon of a church, and the hired girl a member of it.
NO words can
satisfactorily paint the bleakness, the dreariness, the dejection, the awful
gloom, of a house being cleaned. The windows are out;,the carpets are up; and
the dining-room table is full of dishes. Every other chair contains either a
basin of water or a wet cloth or brush. The air is permeated with soap and wet
and mould and new white-wash. All the furniture is piled promiscuously in the
centre of the rooms, excepting what is left in a heap in the hall. In front of
the bed-room closet-door is a rocking-chair full of bed-clothes; and, when the
man wants to get there after an old coat, he has to climb and shove to get the
door open, and, after once in, he has to push like a battering-ram to get out
again. The pictures are arranged on the floor, leaning against the walls in a
way to catch the unwary boot-heel and unthinking bed-post. There is a saucer of
rusty tacks on the tete-a- tete, and a besmeared bottle of balsam on the
what-not, and an empty ink-bottle in the card-basket; while the marble top
centre-table contains an album, a piece of dried soap, an elegant lithograph,
one tack-hammer, a half-can of potash, a beautiful scriptural motto on
cardboard, and ninety-seven dead flies. It is this general upsetedness, this
awful conglomeration, this dreadful uncertainty; which gives the home-circle
its glow of terror to a man. This is what makes him move around as little as
possible in the house, and causes him every other moment to smite his head, and
gives him the vacant expression always inseparable with the face of a man whose
wife is cleaning house. And she--is she in pain? She has got on a torn dress,
hitched up at one side sufficiently to reveal an unbuttoned shoe; there are
flakes of white-wash in her hair and on her chin; her dress is wet; her fingers
are parboiled, and her thumb has been split with a hammer: but her eye is as
clear and bright as that of a major-general on field-day. She picks up a
handful of skirts, and skims through the apartments, seeing five hundred things
which should be done at once, and trying to do them; and every time she comes
in reach of the dresser she snatches a look into the glass, and shoves a fresh
hair-pin into her dilapidated coil. And thus planted in the debris, like a
queen on her throne, she unblushingly asserts that "It’s an awful
job;" "Every thing is in wretched shape;" "I’ll be so glad
when this is over!" "It does seem as if my back will snap in
two;" "I’m a good mind to say I’ll never clean house again as long as
I live." and then her mind unconsciously soars heavenward, and she wonders
if there will be a house-cleaning season there, and, if not, how a heaven can
be made of it. It is this speculation which gives her that dreamy expression
when she is cutting your bread with the soap-knife.
JUST such weather as
this instils new life and animation into a man, and is apt to make him
frolicsome. It stimulates him to racing, jumping up and down, clapping his
hands, and feeling good generally. It so stimulated one of our merchants on
Friday evening, and led him to invite his wife to catch him before be got round
to the back-stoop. He started on a smart run; and she bore down after him at a
creditable speed. He tore around the corner very much in earnest, and, stepping
on a piece of ice, swung from his foothold, and went careening across ten feet
of frozen ground, and brought up with considerable force against a
pear-tree,--a new variety, we believe. It was a genial spectacle to see the
fond wife pounce on him, and hear her gleeful shouts of victory as he struggled
madly to his feet, and besought her "not to make a darn fool of
herself."
THIS is rather late for
a Christmas story; which is one reason why we write it. The names are
fictitious, of course. However much we may desire to cut and slash our
fellow-men, and bruise their hearts, and wrench their feelings, we succeed in
overcoming it now, because of this glad holiday week; and with the influence of
peace on earth, and good-will toward men, we call him Miggs, and call them
Miggs. So their name is Miggs, and they live on Nelson Street.
Nelson Street! What a
world of pictures the very name calls up to us! We close our eyes, and the
quaint avenue appears before us. We see two long lines of houses, in all
conceivable colors for houses, with all kinds of fences in front of them. And
from the doors of these houses come broken-legged men, and bandaged men, and
bad men; and from the windows peer women,--comical women, serious women,
grotesque women, homely women, women with brooms, and women with herbs, and
women with advice; but all of them, however they may differ in appearance,
united in screaming after the men. And down the street fly hens, followed by
coal clinkers; and dogs dragging tinware after them; and half-crazed cows
swinging both hind-legs in the air (as cows do when excited); and cats with
backs like the rainbow, spitting and yowling, and distressing themselves.
The house of the
Miggses is a brown building, void of shutters or blinds. It is one of several
brown buildings, equally bereft, on that street. It is protected at the front
with a slat fence, where the slats are not gone; and the yard at the front and
sides is strewn with a little of such refuse matter as is customary to a
tenement-yard. One would think the Miggses had taken a coal-mine for debt, from
the many bits of wood scattered over the premises, and fast losing their
individuality in the mud.
The Miggses occupied
the first floor, which gave them a front-room (which was also a sitting and
dining room, and kitchen), two bed-rooms, and a pantry. The front-room was the
family room. Here were a greasy stove and mantle ornaments, a dining-table, a
red chest, several odd chairs which looked as if time could never quite
obliterate their animosity toward each other, a chromo of angels, and a
startling novelty in the shape of a steel engraving of the Declaration of
Independence. There were other things of minor importance in the room; but
these we have enumerated strike the observer most prominently. It is now five o’clock
the evening before Christmas. Mrs. Miggs, sitting in a rocker, and looking
absently at her foot is holding the youngest Miggs, whose head is buried in her
bosom. The two boy Miggs, hand in hand, are on the street, staring with all
their might at the hurrying people, and anon pausing before a well-filled and
brightly-lighted window, and devouring the sight. When we find them, they are
in front of the leading toy and confectionery store. Their hands do not now
hold each, other, but are pressed on their breasts, as if they would keep down
a cry that could not otherwise be suppressed. They were common enough children.
Robbie, the elder, a boy of eight years, had a white face, with big watery blue
eyes. Jakey, the younger, aged seven, had a white face, with big watery blue
eyes. Both of them had light, tawny hair. Here all semblance ceased.
Robbie wore a soft wool
hat with a broken brim. Jakey’s head was surmounted with a soldier’s cap, with
a formidable forepiece; and, because of the prominence of this ornament, Jakey
was obliged to crowd the cap down on the back of his head, or suffer a complete
eclipse. Robbie wore a gray jacket with black patches; and was further attired
with a dingy yellow comforter coiled about his neck like an overfed
boa-constrictor, and a pair of his mother’s cast-off gaiters securely fastened
to his feet. Jakey’s jacket was a rusty plaid without any patches, but
contemplating them; and his pants--very little pants they were in the legs, but
quite obese in the seat--were gray, and had been ingeniously darned at the
knees with black thread. Jakey’s little feet were incased in low shoes with
copper tips,--the only jewelry the child wore,--and about his neck was a
flaming red comforter, whose many folds threatened to smother him.
The store-window was
very brilliant. There were candies of every conceivable design, stored in
vases, piled on plates, and heaped in pyramids. There were suspended candy
canes, and dangling baskets of sugar fruit, and festoons of cornucopias. And
while they stood there, and stared through the window, and lost their breath
and caught it, and then lost it again, there was a sudden invasion of shouts
and steps; and a troop of wild boys, hooting and struggling, crowded up to the
window, and fell to work establishing their claims by such brief and hurried
notices as, "I dubs this pile!" "I dubs the cornucopias!"
"I dubs the gum-drops!" &c. One of the gaiters was very rudely
stepped upon; and the military cap was knocked down in front to such a degree,
that the stiff forepiece threatened to cut off the copper toes. The two Miggses
immediately kicked themselves free of the crowd, and stopped on the outskirts
to look at the struggling mass. Then bells and whistles sounded the hour of
six; and the two children clasped hands once more, and hurried home, one of
them smarting from the pressure on his foot, and the other from the vulgar
familiarity which had been taken with his cap. Supper was ready on their
arrival; but they had to wait until the coming of their father. The room had
changed wonderfully under the influence of the lamp and the singing kettle. The
two little boys, after taking the precaution to make a careful survey of the
table, unwrapped themselves from their superfluous clothing, which they
deposited on the floor, and, until the arrival of their father, treated their
mother to snatches of information of what they had seen, and contradicted each
other, and exchanged glances of mystery, and wondered what they were going to
get for Christmas. The whole of which they interspersed with such observations
as, "Oh, my!" "I guess not!" "Oh, no!" and the
like, being calculated to express, although in a very feeble manner, the great wonders
they had seen, and the great gratification they now experienced in reviewing
them. On the arrival of senior Miggs a great uproar ensued, coming mainly from
the two junior Miggses; although the very diminutive Miggs in arms gave
substantial aid by partly swallowing a button, and recovering it again.
The two Miggs boys, who
had been up street for the express although concealed purpose of catching a
glimpse of Santa Claus, now fell to bombarding their father about him, and were
gratified to learn that he had seen him, and, furthermore, had been able, at an
infinite cost of effort, to glean the gratifying information that he was
coming, and that (which was much more to the point) he had things in his bag
for Robbie and Jakey.
"And Georgy?"
shouted Robbie, indicating that party by pinching his fat nose.
"And Georgy,
too," said Mr. Miggs, nodding to the baby.
"Good!"
shrieked Robbie.
"Ki yi!"
responded Jakey.
And the two little
boys, having now finished their supper, got down back of the stove, and
speedily fell into an animated discussion as to what they would have, and as to
what they should do with it, and which would have the most, and which would
keep it the longest; and pretty soon they suddenly appeared to view with their
hands in each other’s hair, and immediately rolled under the table in a
desperate endeavor to kick off each other’s legs.
The fond but somewhat
astonished father at once swooped down on them, and, by helping himself to
their hair, soon imparted to them something of his own feelings of peace and
good-will, and for the next twenty minutes kept himself between them, and thus
secured quiet.
With a view to
conforming themselves to this sudden and rather unexpected change, the young
men slyly shook their fists at each other, and, when their father was very
busily engaged in his conversation, found time to whisper under his chair the
plans they entertained for each other’s future. By degrees, they finally worked
together again; but forgetting their past difficulty in the shadowing of the
holiday, and by the close approach of that hour when the tread of many feet
would sound on the roof, they nestled closely together by the side of the
stove, and kept their large watery eyes on their father.
Thus they sat until
both parents grew nervous, and consulted the clock as frequently as if it were
an oracle, and the only oracle within sixty miles. Sundry observations on the
remarkable safety of going to bed early had no other effect upon the two little
Miggses than to make their eyes snap. Finally it was suggested, as something
entirely original, that Santa Claus would never think of putting things in the
stockings of boys who did not go to bed at nine o’clock. There was a decided
evidence of uneasiness back of the stove. "Santa Claus," Mr. Miggs
went on to explain to Mrs, Miggs, "knew a good boy when he saw him; and he
knew the very first and last thing a good boy would persist in doing would be
in going to bed early." (The uneasiness back of the stove visibly
increased.) "However," continued Mr. Miggs, still addressing himself
to Mrs. Miggs, "there are boys who think they are smart, and will find out
what Santa Claus is going to put in their stockings before he has taken it out
of his bag; but boys like that are not so keen as they think, which they find
to their cost when morning comes, and there is nothing whatever in their
stockings." Mr. Miggs was very much depressed by the disappointment of the
smart boys, and had all he could do to restrain a tear; but the sudden movement
of the two little Miggses to bed diverted his mind.
Once in bed, they lay
conversing in whispers, and staring apprehensively at the ray of light coming
through the door. The all-absorbing topic of their thoughts being the weird
Dutchman and his countless treasures, they compared notes of their conception
of his character, and, having exhausted the fertility of their brain in giving
him shape and qualities, finally vowed to stay awake, and verify their own
predictions with their own eyes. And after that they fell asleep.
And, while they slept,
the wonderful Santa Claus took down the little patched stockings, and put
candies in them, and molasses cookies, and jumping-jacks, and little primers,
and peanuts, and sugar kisses, and handled the little stockings as tenderly as
if they were the richest the market afforded, and their contents the grandest
the world could contribute. Angels, unless they were the spirits of grocers and
clothiers troubled by the memory of bad accounts, must have smiled on this
Santa Claus and his gracious work of love.
And, when the first
flush of Christmas Day lighted up the world, the little Miggs boys were out of
bed, and on the floor of the big room, feeling their way to the mantle with the
most affectionate regard for the chairs and stoves in the way.
And when their little
fingers closed spasmodically on the stockings, and learned their plumpness by
the sense of feeling, the glad shout that went up made the old timbers resound
with a thousand echoes. They flew to the bedside of their parents, and filled
the ears of those guardians with the horrid din of proud exultation.
Then the lamp was
lighted, because there could be no more sleep in that house, and the contents
of the stockings were carefully poured out on the table; and at every advent of
a package there was another scream by the party producing it, set off by a look
of quick apprehension by the party observing it.
Then there was a great
time getting their pa and ma to taste the candy, and play the monkey-jacks;
and, when they had done this to the satisfaction of all, the little Miggses
tore out of the house in search of the other boys in the neighborhood, to see
what they got, and to compare trophies.
Some of the boys thus
sought had, we regret to say, a better variety and superior toys to what the
Miggses got; but then there were other boys who fared worse, and so the matter
was balanced.
But there is a sort of
feeling, bred from the occasion itself, we think, which pervades the
atmosphere, mellowing the hearts of all children, and making them, unless they
are brothers, perfectly contented with what they have received, as compared
with what others, more favored, have received.
The little Miggses did
not see any thing among the neighbors that made their possessions appear any
the less comforting. They chewed their candy, and cracked their peanuts, and
jumped their jacks, and thumbed their primers, in a mild insanity. And, when
they were tired of this, they went out into the yard, and slid on some
green-and-white ice made by suds. And, when their own eatables were dissolved,
they generously turned in of one accord, and helped the baby-brother to eat
his.
And when these, too,
were gone, and the Christmas-dinner eaten, they wrapped their threadbare
garments about their little forms, and stoned the neighboring hens until dark.
THEY were going to get
up a Lady Washington tea-party for the benefit of their society. It was to come
off on the night of the 22d; and, of an afternoon a few days before, several
ladies met at the house of one of the number to perfect the arrangements. It
was determined to give a grand affair,--something especially designed to
transcend the tea-party by a rival organization last year. To this purpose it
became necessary to devote the most careful thought to all the details; and
this was done. In fact, it would be difficult to find a more conscientious
committee in a hamlet the size of Danbury. When all the particulars were
arranged, and the various stands and minor offices assigned to the ordinary
members of the society,--who were not present,--the important question as to
who should take the leading character was brought up. With a view to doing
without the delay and feeling of balloting, the president kindly offered to do
Lady Washington herself. She said that she felt it was not a favorable
selection; but she was willing to take it, so that there need be no discussion
or ill-feeling. If she thought she had not placed a sufficiently modest
estimate upon her qualification for the post, she was presently set at rest on
that head. Her offer was received with silence.
"What do you
think?" she asked. "I’m willing to do it."
"Lady Washington
never weighed two hundred and fifty pounds," ominously hinted a thin lady
with very light eyes.
"She had fat
enough on her to grease a griddle, which is more’n some folks can claim,"
retorted the president, with any thing but a dreamy expression to her face. The
tall lady’s eyes grew a shade darker, and her lips shaped themselves as if they
were saying "Hussy!" but it is probable they were not.
"As our two
friends are so little likely to agree," observed a lady whose face showed
that she was about to metamorphose herself into a barrel of prime oil, and
precipitate herself on to the troubled waters, "I would suggest that I
take the character."
"Humph!"
ejaculated the president.
"Is there any
objection to my being Lady Washington?" said the new party, facing
abruptly the president, and emptying out the oil, and filling up the barrel
immediately with a superior grade of vinegar.
"I don’t know of
any, if some one will demonstrate that Lady Washington had a wart on her
nose," replied the president with unblemished serenity.
"Am I to be
insulted?" hotly demanded the proprietor of the wart.
"The truth ought
not to be insulting," replied the president.
"I s’pose our
president thinks she would be a perfect Lady Washington," ironically
suggested a weak-faced woman, who saw her chances for taking the character
dejectedly emerge from the small end of the horn.
"I don’t know as I
would be perfect in that role," replied the president; "but, as there
will be strangers present at the party, I shouldn’t want them to think that the
nearest approach Danbury could make to the dignity of ’76 was a toothless woman
down with the jaundice." And the head officer smiled serenely at the
ceiling,
"What do you mean,
you insinuating thing?" hoarsely demanded the victim of the jaundice.
"Keep your mouth
shut until you are spoken to, then," severely advised the president.
"I’m not to be
dictated to by a mountain of tallow," hissed the chromatic delegate,
flouncing out of the room.
"I think we’d
better get another president before we go any farther," said a sharp-faced
woman, very much depressed by the outlook for herself.
"It isn’t hardly
time for you yet," observed the president, with a significant look at the
sharp-faced woman, "We have to arrange for Lady Washington and George Washington
before we need the hatchet."
The sharp-faced lady
snatched up her muff without the faintest hesitation, and rushed out doors to
get her breath. She was immediately followed by the proprietor of the wart, the
thin lady disastrously connected with a griddle, and the toothless case of
jaundice. This left but the president and a little woman who had yet said
nothing.
"Has it occurred
to you that you would like to be Lady Washington?" asked the president,
concentrating both of her eyes on a wen just under the small woman’s left ear.
"Oh, no!"
gasped the small woman, impulsively covering up the excrescence with her hand.
"Then I guess we’ll
adjourn sine die," said the president; and, pulling on her gloves; she
composedly took her departure.
And the tea-party
became the fragment of a gloomy memory.
THE day after New-Year’s,
Mr. Whiting came home to dinner, and electrified his wife with--
"I have sworn off
drinking, Matilda."
"You have?"
said his wife, hardly believing her senses.
"Yes,
sir-ee!" he animatedly replied. "I’ve sworn off,--sworn off this very
day; and that’s the last of it, by hokey!"
Mr. Whiting sat down to
the table with a self-satisfied air, and rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied
way, and briskly continued:--
"I’ve been
thinking over this thing all the morning; and I’ve come to the conclusion that
I’ve made a fool of myself just long enough. Why! the money I spend in liquor
would very soon get me a house. I’ve figured it up. Take fifty or sixty cents a
day, an’ I tell you it counts up mighty fast. It costs me about a hundred and
sixty-five dollars a year; an’ in eight years that would get me a comfortable
place, to say nothing of the adornments and comforts generally which such a sum
would bring."
"Are you sure you
can stick to it?" inquired his wife with some anxiety.
"Sure of it!
Gracious! I guess I am sure of it. I ain’t been figuring this thing for
nothing. Oh! I shall do it, I’m like a flint, I am, when I get started. I’ve
got a will like a perary-fire: there’s no fighting against it. Yes, sir: I’ve
figured this thing up from bottom to top, and from top to bottom; and I’m bound
to do it. I know when I figure; and I’ve figured this thing right down to a
fine pint, you bet!"
Mr. Whiting continued
his dinner, his face shining, and his heart warmed with the greatness of his
purpose. When he got on his coat, and started for work, he observed to his
wife,--
"I’ll get you a
pair of vases in a few days, Matilda, an’ a set of furs; an’ I’m going to have
a French clock as big as a cook-stove, an’ a conservatory with the biggest
smelling flowers in the land. An’ I guess I’ll get a pianny, and a horse, an’
perhaps a couple of dogs, an’ I don’t know but a cow. I’ve figured this thing
up, an’ there’s no use talking: money is to be saved. It makes me mad enough to
kick my shoulder out of joint when I think what a fool I’ve been all these
years. Why, hang it all! we might ’av’ had an ice-house of our own, and been
living in a hotel. This is the solemn truth, or I am a tattooed galoot from
some archipelago, by hokey!"
And Mr. Whiting glowed
all over with the great excitement.
"Dear, dear
Tom!" cried his delighted wife as she threw her arms about his neck and
sobbed aloud.
"Don’t cry,
Tildy!" he hastily exclaimed, while he vainly strove to keep back the
tears from his own eyes. "It’s all right, you know," he went on in an
assuring voice, and gently stroking her hair. "I’ve figured it up, an’ I’m
going to do it. Don’t cry, Tildy: it’s all right. I’ve figured it up, an’ you
can depend on me." And, disengaging her arms, he departed to his work, his
heart lighter and gladder than it had been for some years.
"By George!"
he said to himself, suddenly pausing, and slapping his leg. "This is what
may be called living." And he went on again, looking happier than before.
He came home to tea.
There was not that hopeful, buoyant expression in his face that was there at
noon. He looked distrustfully about the room as he pulled off his coat.
"Ain’t that supper
ready yet?" he gruffly inquired.
"It will be in a
minute," replied Mrs. Whiting.
He threw his coat on
one chair, and his hat in another, and heavily sank into a third. For a moment
he sat there contemplating the fire. Then he arose, and wanted to know what in
thunder was the matter with that stove: the house was as cold as a barn. Mrs.
Whiting looked at him in astonishment. But, if she was amazed now, she was more
than dumfounded before bed-time; He said the biscuits were heavy as lead, that
the tea was slop, and that the preserves were worse than chopped-up oil-cloth.
The room was either too hot or too cold. Every thing belonging to him had been
misplaced. He picked up nothing: he snatched it up. He lay down nothing: he
threw it down. He growled when he spoke, and he spoke but little. The poor
woman was in an agony of apprehension. In all the years of their wedded life
she had never seen him act like this. He grew worse as the hours advanced, and
finally wound up by emphatically declaring that he "might as well be in a
lunatic-asylum, a-fittin’ spectacles to pink-eyed taters for his board, as to
live in such a house."
Then he went to bed.
At breakfast next
morning, Mrs. Whiting quietly observed,--
"Tom, you figured
it all out yesterday, didn’t you?"
He made no reply.
"Well, I’ve been
figuring too; and I--I think we can get along without the vases, and the piano,
and the French clock, and the other things; and as for living in a hotel, and
owning an ice-house, I haven’t the faintest desire."
And they are doing
without those things for the present.
THERE being a great
plenty of snow, there is an abundance of sleighing, and, consequently, an
abundance of misery. There is nothing in which our people so persistently labor
to deceive themselves as in the matter of sleighing. The opera is nothing to
it. If there is not much snow, everybody is sorry; if there is plenty,
everybody is glad. And yet it is safe to say, that not one in twenty who go
sleighing enjoy it. We deceive each other; we deceive ourselves. A young man
hires a horse and sleigh, and gives his girl a ride. It is a pleasure-trip,
without doubt: in fact, it is useless to dispute it. His mother wants him to
wear a cap which can be drawn down over his ears, and to tie a comforter about
his neck, and put on two pairs of pants, and a small shawl under his coat, and
a pair of mittens over his gloves; but he does not do it. He even feels
offended at the suggestion, and becomes a trifle irritable under the advice.
She is a good mother; but she is well along in years, and doesn’t understand
the proprieties of things. He understands them. He is not going after a load of
wood: he is going on a pleasure-excursion with one who is very dear to him;
and, if he should appear comfortable rather than stylish, he might lose her
favor forever. This is a serious reflection. So he dons a silk hat and a pair
of light gloves, and trusts the entire protection of his throat to a stand-up
shirt-collar. And she--how does she prepare for the ride? She, too, has a
mother,--a thoughtful old body, but so far, so very far, behind the age! And
this mother takes a hearty interest in the ride. She suggests a quilted hood
for her daughter’s head, and a pair of warm home-made mitts for her hands, and
a wealth of tippets for her neck and body. She even persists in these things,
and is honestly horrified at what she calls the temerity of going without them.
But her daughter is not going to do it. She is not going to appear to him like
a mummy. How it would look! So she puts on her Sunday bonnet with its bright
colors, and some lace around the neck, and a pair of kids on her hands. And so
they start off, leaving the mother half paralyzed with horror on the door-step,
with her arms full of comfortable woollens. But they present a fine appearance:
there is no doubt of that. The horse dashes along at a rapid pace; the bells
sound merrily; and the handsome sleigh and the bright-colored robes combine to
make a pleasant picture to outsiders. The couple are out for a sleigh-ride, and
they must enjoy it. He is very happy. His fingers feel like stove-legs; his feet
ache with the cold; his nose and ears are batteries of sharp, tingling
sensations; the play of his mouth has been crippled by the action of the biting
air; and his spine appears to have been turned into a race-course for the
special purpose of displaying the speed in a polar wave.
Everybody goes
sleigh-riding. There is a peculiar fascination in it. She feels this as they
glide along. It makes her very happy. Her new hat sits on the back of her head,
displaying her crimps to the very best advantage, and exposing one-half of her
head to the action of the weather. Her nose has become a deep carmine at the
tip; her lips are livid, her eyes set, her cheeks icy; the kidded hands are
stiff with the cold, and the kidded feet are benumbed beyond all recovery. Chills
chase wildly along the nerve-centres of their bodies; and their faces are
peppered with hardened snow and other things thrown up by the flying heels of
the horse. Such happiness! such joy! such exhilaration! People moving along on
the walks observe them with envious eyes, while the keen air through which they
are rushing is perforating them with a million sharp darts. They don’t talk
much now: their joy is too great for utterance, perhaps. At any rate, a silence
falls upon them; and he is aware, when he attempts to say any thing, that his
mouth threatens to slop all over his face, and stay there; and, when she
attempts to laugh, it seems as if the lower half of her head was about to come
off, and slip into the bottom of the sleigh, and be lost among the robes. This
is an unhappy thought: but-sleigh-riding seems to be the right thing to do; and
they are doing it. And then--and this is really the cream of the fun--they both
appear well; that is, there is nothing bungling or awkward in their appearance:
they look stylish. And so they ride, and ride, and ride; and when they get
back, and she stumbles into the house, and he reels into the stable and hands
over the five dollars with his petrified fingers, there is something so massive
about their joy, that it seems as if they never would be able to fully
comprehend it.
Then there is the
alligator, who owns a horse and sleigh of his own, and who, to get the worth of
his money, has faced all kinds of weather with them, until his skin has become
impervious, his nerves solidified, and his sensibilities deadened beyond all
recall. The only one sentiment he is capable of is revenge; and, to gratify
that, he is constantly prowling about in search of unsuspecting people, whom he
beguiles into his sleigh. His chief victim is the man of sedentary pursuits,
who, being always shut up, is the more easily seduced into the ride; and, being
always shut up, is the more susceptible to the cold. And so this unhappy wretch
is caught up, and whirled through the cold air until every tooth in his head is
loosened, and every drop of blood in his body is congealed, and every nerve
strung to its highest tension of suffering; until his heart stands still in
pain, his brain becomes locked in a sea of ice, and his limbs have lost their
power of motion. Then he is dumped out, and crawls back to his place of
business a shattered wreck of his former self. Snow may come and go, flowers
bloom and fall again, and thus the years creep on; but that man will never be
as he was before,--never, never again.
"TOMMY,"
observed a Nelson-street mother to her son, a youth of thirteen years,
"you must cut some wood for the front-room stove. Mr. Crawford comes
to-night."
Mr. Crawford is a young
man who is "keeping company" with Fanny, Tommy’s sister. The time was
a Wednesday evening. Tommy had been skating since school, and was now anxiously
awaiting his supper. The announcement came upon him with disagreeable force.
"Is that old
rooster comin’ around here to-night?" he impetuously inquired.
"Thomas!"
cried his mother in a voice of horror.
Thomas, having eased
his mind somewhat of the burden, proceeded to the wood-pile without further
remark.
He was not in good
humor as he looked around for the axe, and articles foreign to the search were
moved with graceless haste.
"This is a reg’lar
dog’s life," he moodily ejaculated. "First it’s Sunday night, an’
then it is Wednesday night, an’ then it’s Friday night, an’ every little while
an extra night thrown in. I don’t see what’s the use of a girl about the house.
If I’ve got to cut wood every time that feller comes, I’ll know the reason why.
I won’t be put on like this. I ain’t goin’ to be made a pack-mule of, by
George! for all the Crawfords and Fannys on earth. It’s all nice enough for
them to be in there toasting their shins, an’ actin’ sickish; but I notice that
I have got to do all the work. It’s played out, by Jinks! I ain’t that kind of
hair-pin. I’d just like to have somebody tell me," he added, looking
around for the person in question, "how much of the candy an’ oranges an’
other stuff that Fanny gets, I get. Not one whiff, by gracious!--not one
single, solitary whiff! An’ here I chop wood for her an’ him night after night;
an’, if it wasn’t for me, they’d shake all the teeth outen their heads. Oh,
they are a sweet-scented pair, they are!"
Closing his remarks
with this gloomy observation on his sister and her company, he worked away at
the wood until the amount necessary was prepared. About seven o’clock, Mr.
Crawford’s knock sounded at the door. Fanny’s mother was to have let him in;
but Tommy volunteered his service. He escorted the young gentleman into the
front-room; and then, backing himself against the door, he pointed to the
stove, which was throwing out a most welcome heat, and sternly inquired,--
"Is that what you’d
call a good fire?"
"Yes,
indeed!" said Mr. Crawford, rubbing his hands gratefully.
"Ah!"
observed Tommy in a tone of relief, although his face scarcely relaxed the
severity of its expression. "You couldn’t very well get along in here
without a fire, could you?"
"Hardly."
"I s’pose not.
Now, who do you s’pose made that fire?"
"Why--I--I
suppose--why, I don’t know," said Mr. Crawford, apparently embarrassed by
the question.
"No! Well, I can
tell you. I made that fire. I cut the wood for it. I cut the wood, and make
every fire you have here. I’ve been doing it all the while you’ve come here;
and you and Fan have set by it, and toasted yourselves, and ate candy, and
sucked oranges. You an’ Fan have had all the comfort of it; an’ I’ve done all
the work, every bit of it. An’ not one smell of them candies an’ oranges have I
had,--not a living smell." The unhappy boy knit his eyebrows, and
instinctively clinched his hands. Scarcely less disturbed, appeared Fanny’s
young man. He glanced uneasily from the fireman to the stove. But he made no
reply. He waited apprehensively for what was to follow.
"I’ll bet you’ve
got a pound of assorted candies in your clothes this minute for Fan!"
This came so directly
in the form of an interrogation, that Mr. Crawford unhesitatingly nodded.
"So I
thought," pursued Fanny’s brother. "Now, I want to tell you, that, if
this fire-business is to be carried on by me, there’s got to be a different
arrangement of awards: if not, you can come up here and cut your own wood. Will
you divy on them candies?"
"Why--why--I--I
hardly would like to do that, Tommy. I got these for Fanny, you know."
"Yes, I
know," said Tommy grimly. "When I see you come up here again, I shall
expect to see you lugging an axe over your shoulder."
Mr. Crawford looked
aghast.
"But, Tommy,"
he expostulated. "You won’t come back on me like that? I’ll pay you for
doing it."
"Oh! What will you
pay"
"I’ll give you
fifty cents a week."
"Hope to
die?"
"Yes," said
Mr. Crawford eagerly.
"Then I am just
your cheese," said the youth, the hard lines melting entirely out of his
face. "There’s nothing mean about me; but I don’t want to go along in the
dark. This thing had to be settled some way or another; for it was eating the
life out of me. But, now that it is fixed, you’ll find me up to the mark every
time; and, if I don’t make that stove rare right up on its hind-legs, I am a
bald-headed leper without a pedigree."
And, with a flourish
expressive of the deepest earnestness, he stalked out of the room.
POOR little Bob! Bob
had planned to go skating after school that day: but Bob’s mother was afraid of
the texture of the ice; and, when he came home for his skates, she told him he
could not go. Bob whined, and she told him to shut up, This caused him to whine
again; when she slipped off her shoe, with the intimation she would give him
something to cry for; and she did. Outraged in body and mind, Bob had betaken
himself to his own room, and sullenly squatted on the side of the bed. His face
had settled down into hard ridges, and his hands were clinched tight together.
There was a strong rebellion in Bob’s heart. He knew the ice was strong enough
to bear an elephant; and he knew his mother knew it, and that her action was
purely tyrannical. He had looked impartially over her conduct, and there could
be no other explanation. If she had loved him, she would have done differently.
They were hard thoughts that passed through Bob’s mind as he sullenly sat
there, and clinched his fingers into the palms of his hands. The shadows were
gathering outside his window, and darkness was forming the night; but Bob did
not notice it. His eyes were bent on the window; but he saw nothing through it:
he saw only the tumultuous darkness of the storm in his little heart. Every
once in a while, signs of the tempest inside appeared on the surface in
long-drawn sobs. Bob wished he was dead; wished that the golden cord could snap
right there and then. If he were dead, his mother’s heart would be touched. She
would bend over him in wild grief and bitter upbraidings; and be would lay
there white and dead, and enjoy it. Bob’s idea of death was comforting, but
hardly orthodox. Bob did not want to be an angel; but Bob did crave revenge. He
hungered to get even with his mother. In the tumult of his heart, this
unsightly object was constantly being tossed to the top; and at every
appearance it looked better and brighter to him. Open rebellion was out of the
question, and Bob realized it. Bob’s mother is one of those unhappy women who
will be obeyed. What would Bob do? The look in his eyes grew harder, the
fingers increased their pressure, and the lines in his face--the hard, cruel
lines--became more marked. Death would not come at the beck of a boy with
tear-stained cheeks. But Bob would have his revenge without the aid of the
dread messenger. Had his mother loved him, she could not have been so cruel.
But he would test that love now, however great or little it might be. His own
heart was numb with pain: why should not she suffer? She should! He brought his
hands together with sharp nervous force, and uttered this determination aloud.
He was in pain: so should she be. He could not defy her, but he could grieve
her; and he would. He would lacerate her feelings; he would wring her heart; he
would crush her soul. How? It doesn’t seem possible that a heart so young could
conceive such a cruel purpose. Bob determined to eat no supper! He could hear
the dishes rattle in the dining-room; but every sound only strengthened him in
his determination. He would go without food, and gloat over the agony in his
conscience-stricken mother’s face as he faded slowly away before her eyes. How
happy Bob was now!--so maliciously, so cruelly happy! Pretty soon there was a
step in the hall. It was his mother coming to call him to supper. She opened
the door.
"Robert!"
"’M."
"Come to your
supper."
"I don’t want no
supper," he said in a constrained voice.
"Don’t want any
supper?"
"No," he
mumbled.
"If you ain’t down
to your supper before we get through, the table will be cleared off, and you
sha’n’t have a mouthful," was the somewhat unexpected rejoinder.
"I don’t
care," he replied in a stifled voice.
Then the door was shut,
and Bob was alone again,--a somewhat surprised and disappointed Bob. To his
strained hearing every sound at the table was distinctly apparent. Then came
the extra rattling of clearing away the things, and, shortly after, a silence.
Poor Bob! He covered his hands over his head, and sobbed, and sobbed himself to
sleep. When Bob awoke, the darkness was intense, and he was chilled to the
marrow. He raised his head, and listened. Not a sound was heard. He crept out
of bed, and found his way to the door. The hall was as dark as the room. His
parents had gone to bed, and had never come near to see him fade slowly away,
and were now, without doubt, sound asleep, with no thought of little Bob. How
long he had slept he could not tell; but, while he slept, a great
transformation had gone on. The aching void in his heart had been transferred
to his stomach. Shivering and quaking, he got out of his clothes and crept into
bed, with a feeling that made him burrow his head out of sight beneath the
covers. The next morning he did not have to be called to breakfast; but at the
table, under a self-inflicted protest of a mild type, he buried his grief under
a pyramid of buckwheat-cakes.
WHAT a frightful
sensation that is, when you have just got home of a cold Monday night, and
pulled your boots off, to be told that the week’s washing is out on the line,
and must be brought in! Now, to do this of a dewy eve in the summer, with the
delicate perfume of flowers filling the air, and a brass band on the next
street, is not exactly a hardship; but to do it in the dead of winter, with a
chilling breeze blowing, and the clothes as stiff as a rolling-pin, is
something no man can contemplate without quaking. We don’t quite understand how
it is that a man invariably gets his boots off before the dread summons comes;
but the rest of it is plain enough. There is a sort of rebellious feeling in
his heart which prompts him to try to entangle his wife in an argument; and,
failing in this, he snatches up the basket and goes out in the yard with it,
rapping it against the chairs, and knocking it against the sides of the door
with as much vigor as if it was not purely accidental. If the fond wife is
anyway attentive, she can hear his well-known voice consigning various objects
to eternal suffering, long after he has disappeared. There is no levity in a
line of frozen clothes. Every article is as frigid as the Cardiff giant; and
the man who wrenches the pin off, and then holds the basket in expectation of
seeing the piece drop off the line of its own accord, is too pure and simple
for this world. But our man isn’t of that nature. He catches hold of the
garment with his chilled hands, and seeks to pull it off; but it doesn’t come.
Then he yanks it upwards, and then downwards, and then sideways; and, when it
comes off, it maintains the shape it has been all the afternoon working into,
which permits it just as readily to enter the basket as to be shoved through
the key-hole of a valise. The first articles he doubles up with his hands, and
there is a faint semblance of carefulness in packing them away; but, after
that, he smashes them into the basket without any ceremony, and crowds them
down with his foot. He uses the same care in taking down a fine cambric
handkerchief that he does in capturing a sheet, and makes two handkerchiefs of
every one. When he gets far from the basket, he allows the articles to multiply
in his arms, so as to save steps; and, when he gets his arms full of the
awkward and miserable things, whose sharp, icy corners job him in the neck and
face, he comes to an article that refuses to give way on one end. He pulls and
shakes desperately at it, howling and screaming in his rage, until he
inadvertently steps on the dragging end of a sheet, and then he comes down flat
on the frozen snow, but bounds up again, grating his teeth, and, hastily
depositing the bundle in the basket, darts back to the refractory member, and,
taking hold of it, fiercely tugs at it, while he fairly jumps up and down in
the extremity of his anger and cold. Then it comes unexpectedly, and with it a
part of the next article, and he goes over again, this time on his back, and
with violence. With the clothes gathered, he takes the basket up in his livid
hands, thus bringing the top articles against his already frozen chin, and,
thus tortured, propels his lifeless limbs into the house. She stands ready to
tell him to close the door, and is thoughtful enough to ask him if it’s cold
work. But, if he is a wise man, he will make no answer. If he is a wise man, he
will silently plant himself in front of the stove, and, fling his frozen
features into an implacable frown, will preserve that exterior, without the
faintest modification, until bedtime.
AN exceedingly fine and
stealthy rain stole upon Danbury late last night. It came so quietly, and froze
so thoroughly, that not a soul knew of its presence on the walk and stoop.
There was nothing to indicate its being there until it was stepped upon; and
all Danbury came out doors as innocent and as unsuspecting as a babe in a
spittoon. The general tableau was a back-stoop, with a hired girl frantically
endeavoring to separate herself and a pail of slops, and to strike the ground
on her feet; while at the front-door a sweet voice murmured "Good-by,
dearest; come home early;" and a deep bass voice in response, "Yes,
my precious, I’ll--Whoop! Great heav--! Ouch!" At nine A.M., there wasn’t
a rheumatic person in town who knew where his liniment was.
THE trouble with the
Danbury water-pipes in the past few days, although of a serious nature, has
been productive of ludicrous incidents. One man on Division Street had his
kitchen flooded by the bursting of a pipe late Friday night. Toward morning, he
was taken with a sharp thirst; and getting up quietly, so as not to disturb his
wife, or any one who might be in the house after plunder, he proceeded in the
dark to the kitchen for a drink. That apartment is a step or two below the
sitting-room; and, in descending to it, he planted one naked foot squarely in
the water on the floor. With a promptness that is remarkable, considering the
severe shock to his nervous system, he bounded back, and screamed, "Whoop!
murder! let go of there, I tell ye!" Then a deep silence followed.
"What’s the matter?" asked his wife, who was awakened by his cry.
There was no reply. "What’s the matter?" he demanded in a louder
voice, missing him from the bed. But still there was no answer. Now thoroughly
frightened, she cried in a higher tone, "Reuben, Reuben! what is the
matter?" and a suppressed voice within six inches of her head suddenly
hissed, "Shut up your infernal clack, can’t ye, ye old fool?" It is
presumed Reuben knew what was the matter.
YOUNG COVILLE was out
looking for a ride Friday afternoon. He had his sled with him, and wanted to
fasten it to a horse-sleigh. An opportunity finally presented itself. It was a
farmer who was driving; and he had two good horses. His son sat in the back of
the sleigh, watching the various village boys. He was a pale boy, with a broad
forehead and a soft brown eye. No one can read character so well as children;
and, when Master Coville looked into the open countenance of the farmer-lad, he
put after the sleigh with all his might, and, catching up to it, threw himself
on the tail-board, keeping his eye firmly fixed on the farmer-boy. Then the
farmer-boy suggested that young Coville get on his own sled, and he would hold
the rope for a little way. The offer was accepted at once; and Master Coville
mounted his own sled, where he rode in triumph, to the envy of every boy he
passed. Getting towards the suburbs, the farmer, who was quite deaf, hurried
forward his horses; and Master Coville tried to look ahead without smiling; but
it was impossible, the speed was so exhilarating. When the party got by
Granville Avenue, young Coville told the farmer-boy that he guessed he’d be
going back, and, if he’d kindly drop the rope, he’d confer a favor. The
farmer-boy smiled a rural smile, but didn’t relax his hold on the rope. Young
Coville smiled too, but rather feebly, and again repeated his request. But the
soft brown eye was musing, and the rope still remained in the owner’s grasp.
Young Coville began to look scared. It was after five o’clock, and would be
dark in an hour; and here he was, sailing out into the country at the rate of
eight miles an hour.
"Let go of there,
why don’t you?" he asked.
The farmer-boy
smiled,--one of those blossoming smiles, which told of green dells and
moss-fringed brooks.
"If you don’t let
go of that rope, I’ll just get into that sleigh, and smash yer darned old
snoot!" suggested young Coville; which was a very imprudent statement, in
view of the fact that every muscle was engaged in keeping his seat.
But the farmer-lad did
not let go. He kept his hold of the rope, and kept up the smiles,--the
waving-grain and blooming-daisy smiles.
"Oh! I’ll make you
laugh on the other side of your mouth if you don’t let go of that rope!"
shouted young Coville as he saw the paved side-walks give way to foot-paths,
and gardens dissolve into broad, snow-clad fields.
On they went, the
farmer-lad smiling so beautifully, and young Coville grating his teeth, and
shouting the awful things he would do in the future.
About four miles out of
town, and as they were passing through a heavy wood, the farmer-boy smiled a
broad smile, and let go of the rope; and, as the sleigh darted away, the rope
passed under the sled, bringing it up so suddenly as to throw young Coville
heels over head into the snow. When he got up, the sleigh was going over a
hill, and his tormentor was throwing agricultural kisses at him.
It was late at night
when Master Coville reached his home; but, when he went to bed, there were
thirteen snowballs, soaked with water, freezing slowly but surely on a board in
the back-yard.
WHEN a young man is in
love, he becomes suspicious of his male companions; but he doesn’t understand
why any one similarly involved should entertain this feeling toward him. The
object of the other party’s choice is indifferent to him. He sees nothing
especially attractive in her countenance or accomplishments; and, if he chooses
to pay her an attention, it is the prompting of courtesy; and, if the other
party should object, it is mean jealousy. When a man thoroughly loves a woman,
he sees in her an attraction not before noticeable; and so conspicuous become
these good qualities to him, that he easily imagines they are as plain to other
gentlemen; and any favor they may show her is simply a desperate endeavor to
gain the gem he so fondly hopes to wear. It is this simple misunderstanding
which causes four-fifths of the heart-burnings and misery attendant upon loving
and being loved.
A lovers’ quarrel is a
formidable affair while it is in progress. It shrouds the two souls in a
chilling pall of impenetrable gloom; but, looked back upon from the changed
circumstances worked by time, it appears so silly and ridiculous as to be
really exasperating.
There was such a state
of feeling existing between two of our young folks Sunday evening. They
attended church. In the pew given them was a young gentleman, who sat at the
opposite end. They entered without disturbing him; and she was brought next to
him. They three were acquainted. He nodded to her, and smiled; then he
whispered to her, and she looked wonderfully pleased, and whispered back. Her
young man smiled too: he knew that he should do something of the sort, if he
didn’t want to appear painfully conspicuous to the public, which was ready in
an instant to divine his jealousy, and gloat over his defeat. But it is a hard
matter to smile when you see nothing to smile at: it makes the face tired in an
incredibly small space of time. The service proceeded. The lover reached over
and spoke to her. He had to speak twice before she heard him. She was
apparently abstracted with thought. What thoughts? It made him sick. At the
giving-out of the hymn, he leaned forward to take a book from the rack just as
the young man secured one. He drew back. What was that young man going to do?
Have her sing with himself, of course. All right: he would not make a fool of
himself by looking up a place, offering it to her, and running the risk of a
refusal. And so the young man found the place, and extended the book to her.
Poor girl! She cast a furtive glance at her lover. He had made no provision for
the emergency. She didn’t want to sing with this young man. She didn’t love
him. It was not his shoulder she wanted to press. She took hold of the book,
and wondered with all her heart what was the matter with him. Was he ill? Was
he a little bit jealous? Woman intuition had struck it, as was evident in the
increased brightness of her eyes, in the additional flush to her face. She
could not help it any more than she could ward off the fury of Vesuvius; but
she was happy in the thought. It was another and a marked evidence of his love.
And he!--what of him!
Well, he sat as stiff as if he had suddenly been run full of lead. To add to
the pain gnawing at his heart-strings, he felt that nearly every eye in the
building was bearing upon him. He looked carefully over the ceiling of the
church, staring at the most trifling objects thereon with a fiery intenseness.
If he could only make the people believe that he was enraptured with the
beautiful and ennobling occupation of architecture, he would be satisfied. If
success is commensurate with earnestness of purpose, he was entitled to it. The
service moved along. All the time, the pit of his stomach appeared to be
receding away from him, and yet making itself dreadfully felt. His mind ran
recklessly to death, hearses, and graveyards. He pictured her in the midst of a
gay company, talking, laughing, flirting with this young man, when the news is
suddenly let in upon her that he is dead. Dead! cold, stark, stiff,--the one
who loved her so madly! There was a grim pleasure in his heart as the picture
unfolded her in awful convulsions, calling wildly for him; and on the dark
background of the ghastly spectacle was written in flame of fire, "Too
late, too late!" Over and over again, this horrible phantasm was conjured
up.
And she sat there,
happy in her own conceit, and yet feeling pity for him.
And so the service went
on; and the meeting closed, and they all passed out. He walked stiffly. She
moved easily, with radiant face; and the young man was as beaming as a
sun-flower. She told him she had not seen him in a dog’s age, and wanted to
know why he didn’t come up to the house any more. He smiled cheerfully, and
said he had been very busy of late, but would make all amends at once. At which
she appeared quite pleased, although she secretly hoped he would continue to be
too busy to come; but the words were gall and wormwood to the lover.
They got outside
finally, and were moving along alone, these two pledged hearts. His face was
like a stone, and the pit of his stomach was as faint as a traveller in a weary
land. He was rapidly planning his future course. She was heartless: that had
been satisfactorily demonstrated. She could not deny this, and also that there
had been no provocation. He must leave her. Ah! he would treat her
indifferently now: he would give her a little taste of the pain which he was
suffering, and see how she liked it. Ah! perhaps she might like it. Oh! the
perspiration stood out on his brow in great beads. Heavens! could it be
possible she was already gone out to that young man? He must not be rash; and
yet--she must suffer too; yes, yes, she must suffer too. He was on the alert
for the first evidence of pain on her part. He hungered for it. He wanted her
to droop into a despairing silence. Unfortunately, her sex rarely meets
expectations.
"How did you like
the sermon?" she artlessly asked.
He would have much
rather that she asked him why he was so still; but he crowded down the
disappointment, and determined to be as indifferent as she was.
"Oh! pretty
well," he said, raising his voice a trifle more than was absolutely necessary.
"I never enjoyed a
sermon any better in my life," she maliciously observed, at the same time
being quite confident she hadn’t been so miserable in a week.
He winced, but promptly
said,--
"That’s just what
I think about it. I shall go to that church every evening after this."
They talked about one
thing and another during the rest of the way, the interest drooping more and
more as they neared her door. Would he go in? he asked himself a hundred times
and every time he said No,--at first firmly and with vigor, but at last very
faintly indeed. When they reached the house, he hesitated. She walked up on the
stoop, opened the door, and, turning to him, said, "Ain’t you coming
in?"
He wasn’t; but she had
not yet weakened sufficiently. So he would go in, but remain dark and stiff
like a mummy, to show her what it was to suffer. But he would not give in to
her. She would mutely appeal to him, and creep up close to him, and tumble his
hair; but he would not melt. He would go away in a few minutes as repellant as
he now felt, and she would retire with a dreadful pain in her heart. It was a
bright picture he thus conjured,--so bright, that he almost smiled in its
radiance.
Then he went in. Had he
been a hearse in a city of two million inhabitants, he could not have entered
that house with more solemn magnificence. He didn’t go near the sofa: he
dropped into a chair, and stared moodily at the carpet. She arranged the lamp,
and sank down on the sofa. There was an attempt on her part to shake off the
gloom; but he did not respond. He only thought of his suddenly dying, and of
her going into maddening convulsions. He sat there, and wanted to die, so as to
see how she would take on about it; although dead men are not particularly
noted for very keenly observing what takes place about them in this life.
The conversation
lagged. Both of them were losing their Sunday evening, the dearest to them of
all the week; and she was feeling it keenly. And yet she would persist in
talking about the most foreign subjects; while he would gloomily eye the
carpet, and answer in the most depressing monosyllables. Finally he got up, and
said in a constrained voice that he guessed he must be going. He moved for his
hat, wishing that it was a mile away, and feeling as if he would give his life
if she would only speak to him. But she took up the light as if this was the
farthest from her intentions, and prepared to see him to the door. There was a
gloom resting on both of them now, a fearful looking forward to a woe that was
to come.
He reached the door
without a word being exchanged, and was turning around in an awkward way to bid
her good-night, when a peculiar look--a half-sorrowful, half-smiling look in
her eyes--caused him to hesitate, and respond with the same expression.
"What is the
matter with you, darling?" she asked, getting as close to him as possible.
There is no need of
further accompanying them. In the short space of two minutes, they were
squarely posted on the dear, familiar lounge; and it was two o’clock the next
morning, as usual, when he left.
As for the other young
man, he had eaten a piece of pie and gone to bed hours ago, totally unconscious
of the misery he had caused and of those enduring it.
THE epizootic is not
entirely confined to horses, as the following will show. They had been keeping
company a year. He told her Friday afternoon that he would be up early Sunday
evening, as he had something of great importance to tell her, and a present to
give her. With a woman’s keen intuition, she knew what the something of
importance would be, and she looked forward to the hour with sweet expectation.
He was there on time, but hardly in the condition he desired. A heavy cold had
tackled him the night before, and his eyes were red and inflamed; and his nose
was nearly twice its natural size, and shone with a lustre that would have
appeared to much better advantage on a door-plate. Singularly enough, the young
lady was similarly conditioned. She ushered him into the parlor; and, without
any preliminary ceremony, they were on the sofa together. He took out his
handkerchief, and, finding a dry section, wiped his nose, This reminded her of
a duty she owed herself; and she attended to it at once. He held one of her
hands in one of his, and his handkerchief in the other. Then he spoke:--
"Susad, I cub do
nide do dalk do you of subdig dearer--ah-ah-ooh (a prompt application of the
handkerchief cuts off the sneeze in its bud), dearer do me thad my
libe--ah-ah--thad id--ooh-ooh-ker chew, ker chew, ker chew!" A moment’s
pause. "I’be god an awvul code," he explains with due solemnity.
"Sobe I," she
sympathizingly replies.
A moment is devoted to
a silent use of the handkerchiefs; and then he continues:--
"Darlig, you musd
hab seed all de tibe how mudge--ooh-ooh-ker (the handkerchief again saves
him)--how mudge I hab dhought ob you. Ebry hour ob de day or
nide--ah-ah-ooh--ooh-ch-ch-ker chew, KER CHEW, KER CHEW!"
"Thid id
awvul," he protested, walking around the room; for the final explosion had
raised him to his feet. She wiped her eyes, and then her nose, and made an
honest endeavor to look languishing; but owing to the watery condition of the
former, and the fiery glow of the latter, she appeared to an unhappy advantage.
But he did not notice it. He felt of his proboscis tenderly for a moment, and
then returned to her side.
"Darlig, I cad no
loger lib widoud you. Widoud you, libe would indeed be a widderness;
wid"--
She impulsively raised
her hand.
"Ker-ker-ker
chew!" she shouted.
He paused, and gazed
tenderly out of his inflamed eyes upon her convulsed features.
"Darlig," he
softly continued, seeing she was through, "you cad neber know how
mudge--ah-ooh-ooh-ah-ker chew, ker--wish--sh-sh-er-r-r, ker chew, ker
chew--Ooh, my!--oh, dear!" he wailed, impetuously grabbing for his
handkerchief, while the tears ran down his cheeks.
She took advantage of
the lull to unobtrusively apply her handkerchief.
"Susad," he
began again, grasping her hand with fervor, and clutching his handkerchief with
equal earnestness, "what id libe widoud lub? Noddig. Darlig, do yoo, cad
yoo, lub me enough to be my--ah-ah-ooh-ker-chew! Heavigs, thid id awvul."
He mopped the perspiration from his troubled countenance, and then waited until
she re-appeared from behind her handkerchief, when he resumed;--
"I ask aged,
darlig, cad yoo lub me enough to be me wibe?"
The young girl dropped
her head upon his breast, put her arm around his neck, and was just about to
speak the glad answer, when a sudden spasm shook her frame, and she went off
into a series of sneezes which fairly endangered the safety of her fair neck.
"O my lub! O my brechious!" he sympathizingly exclaimed, "sbeak,
oh, sbeakd!--abooh-ooh-ker-chew, ker-chew, ker-chew!" he roared.
She fell into his arms
again, perfectly exhausted.
"You’ll be mide,
all mide!" he gasped.
"I will, Hedry, I
will!" she hoarsely whispered.
He drew her to him with
all his strength, and slipped the ring upon her trembling finger; and there
they stood together, their reddened and half-closed eyes, blinking in sweet,
holy ecstasy upon each other, while their exhausted nostrils shone with a dim
refulgence.
"My boor darlig
has got sudge a bad code," he sympathizingly murmured.
"So id my
Hedry," she softly whispered back.
"I dode gare for
myseld. I"--he suddenly put her away, recovered his handkerchief, and
instantly went off in a paroxysm of sneezes.
"Oh!" he
sighed, as he regained a perpendicular again, and mopped off his face, which
was now almost purple in hue.
"You must dake sub
medicid for that code to-nide," she said,
"Both ob us,"
he added.
"Yes, a’d you’ll
zoak your feed in hod wader."
"I will, a’d you’ll
zoak yours?" he eagerly asked.
"I will," she
solemnly replied.
"Hevig bless you,
my darlig, my brecious darlig!" he murmured, clasping her again tightly to
his breast. And then he stole out into the darkness; and she lingered a moment
at the door, and heard his dear voice ring out on the night-air as he passed
away,--
"Ker chew, ker
chew, KER C-H-E-W!"
HE got two pounds of
cream caramels for her (he got two pounds of them, because it’s a confection
she adores); then he overhauled her young brother, who was scooting around on
the street with characteristic aimlessness, and got him to take the package up
to the house. He gave the young man a nickel for the performance of the errand,
and made security doubly secure by telling him, with an air of unblemished
confidence, that it was a package of worsted, and that he must be very careful
to deliver it. The young brother started briskly for home; but, as soon as he
was out of sight of the donor, he paused, and, with a perplexed expression of
countenance, began to carefully weigh and press the package. His perplexity
increasing, he carefully poked a hole in the wrapper; then he smiled such a
wholesome smile, that it was really delightful to see it; then he quickened his
pace.
When our hero called in
the evening, he looked anxiously for marks of the caramels on his beloved’s
chin; but he looked in vain: there was not even the faintest indication at the
corners of her lovely mouth that any thing in the line of cream caramels had
travelled that way for some time. He waited all the evening for some mention of
the refreshment; but not a word: he was non-plussed. Nearly the third of a week’s
salary had gone in this purchase; and he might as well have dropped it into the
crater of Vesuvius, as far as satisfaction was concerned. The mystery appalled
him. Before morning, there was another mystery in that house. It took a doctor
and one-third of an aroused neighborhood to subdue young Johnny’s stomach-ache.
Such an astonishing ache was never before crowded into such narrow limits. The
doctor couldn’t understand it; neither could anybody else. Johnny’s nose doesn’t
mar the plate-glass of confectionery windows now; and the man who went to see
Johnny’s sister has taken to drink.
HE was on his knees to
her. His face was flushed; his eyes gleamed passionately into her’s; he talked
rapidly:--
"Nothing shall
separate us evermore, my darling. For your sake I will beard the lion in his
den; I will face death on the battle-field; I will skim the seas; I will endure
all hardship, all suffering, all misery."
He paused, and looked
eagerly to her, with his whole soul quivering in his eyes.
"Will you do all
this for the sake of my love?" said she, gazing earnestly into the burning
eyes.
"Yes, yes, a
thousand times yes!"
"And if we
wed," continued she, flushing slightly, "will you get up first and
build the fire?"
With a shriek of
despair he fled.
ONE of the Danbury
young men who has occasionally escorted a young lady home on Sunday evenings,
and went in for lunch, after performing both services last Sunday night,
suddenly said to her,--
"Do you talk in
your sleep?"
"Why--no,"
she answered in surprise.
"Do you walk in
your sleep?" he next inquired.
"No, sir."
He moved his chair an
inch closer, and with increased interest asked,--
"Do you
snore?"
"No," she
hastily replied, looking uneasily at him.
At this reply his eyes
fairly sparkled; his lips eagerly parted; and, as he gave his chair another
hitch, he briskly inquired,--
"Do you throw the
combings from your hair in the wash-basin?"
"What’s
that?" she asked with a blank face.
He repeated the
question, although with increased nervousness.
"No, I don’t,"
she answered in some haste.
Again his chair went
forward; while his agitation grew so great, that he could scarcely maintain his
place upon it, as he further asked,--
"Do you clean out
the comb when you are through?"
"Of course I
do," she said, staring at him with all her might.
In an instant he was on
his knees before her, his eyes ablaze with flame, and his hands outstretched.
"Oh, my dear miss!
I love you," he passionately cried. "I give my whole heart up to you.
Love me, and I will be your slave. Love me as I love you, and I will do every
thing on earth for you. Oh! will you take me to be your lover, your husband,
your protector, your every thing?"
It was a critical
moment for a young woman of her years; but she was equal to the emergency, as a
woman generally is, and she scooped him in.
HE wanted her; but she
would not give her consent until he had consulted her parents: so he went into
the room where they were, and modestly stated the case.
"And you really
think you love her enough to marry her?" said the father, after he had
finished.
"Oh, yes,
sir!" said the youth in fervent eagerness: "I love her with all my
soul. I love her better than I do my life. She is my guiding-star, the
worshipped object of my every thought, every hope, every aspiration." He
stood there with clasped hands, his face radiant with the strength of his
devotion. There was a moment of pause; and then the mother softly asked,--
"What do you think
of that, old man?"
"That sounds like
business, old woman," replied the satisfied father.
And so it was arranged
that the daughter should accept her suitor.
THEY had a quarrel
Sunday evening. He got mad, and swore he’d leave her; then she got vexed, and
told him he could do as he pleased. He left. The next night he came around
again. He asked to see her alone. She readily complied. She was all of a
tremor. Her heart went out to him in a gush of sympathetic love. She stood
ready to throw both arms about his neck, and cry out her joy. There was not
much color in his face, and his voice was husky. He said,--
"I have been with
you six months, Matilda; and I tried in all that time to do what was
right." He paused an instant to recover the voice which was faltering
rapidly, while her trembling increased. "I know that I have got
considerable temper, and that I do not control it always as I ought: but I have
tried to be faithful to you,--tried to do every thing that I thought would tend
to make you happy; and, feeling this, I have called to-night to see if you
wouldn’t be kind enough to give me a sort of testimonial to this effect, so
that I could show it to any other young lady I might want to go with. It might
help me."
He looked at her
anxiously. All the color left her face in a flash. She made a great effort to
swallow something which threatened to suffocate her. Then she spoke:--
"You get out of
this house as quick as you can, you miserable whelp, or my father shall kick
you out!"
He didn’t toy with
time. He left without the testimonial.
HE is a young
photographer, just starting in business and love. The other afternoon, his girl’s
mother called for a sitting. He desired to make a most favorable impression
upon that portion of her mind which could appreciate photography, and so he
became a trifle nervous in the work. But he got her fixed finally, with her
eyes fixed glassily on a certain object, as is the custom; then he drew the
cloth, took out his watch, and counted off thirty seconds, restored the cloth,
and drew out the case.
"Gracious!"
he unintentionally ejaculated, "I forgot to put in the plate."
The old lady had to sit
again, and she prepared for the ordeal, but with confidence in the operator
considerably abated. He was more nervous now than before, and it was some few
minutes before he had her arranged to suit the focus. Then the cloth was again
removed, the watch again pulled out. He counted off the thirty seconds, removed
the cloth, and drew out the case.
"Great
heavens!" he groaned in a frightened voice, "I forgot to pull out the
slide!"
The prospective
mother-in-law sprang to her feet, snatched up her hat and shawl, and, pausing
long enough to inquire if he was drunk, shot out of the door, leaving the
pallid-faced artist grasping a chair for support.
HE called Sunday night,
as had been his custom for several weeks. After they got together alone in the
parlor, he plucked up his courage to the proper point, and proposed to her,
telling her of the days when every thought was of her, and only her. Then he
said,--
"Dearest, will you
be mine?"
And she said,--
"I will."
Then he caught her in
his arms, and pressed her drooping face close to his yearning breast.
Tighter still he drew
his arms about her.
"My darling,"
he started to whisper, bending his face close to hers; when her head flew up so
suddenly as to catch him under the chin with sufficient force to almost
amputate his tongue.
"Oh!" he
gasped.
"Phew!" she
ejaculated: "why, how you smell!"
"Smell!" he
repeated, while his smarting tongue forced the tears into his eyes.
"Yes," she
replied, bending her face again to his breast, and sniping expectantly,
"Oh, my! it is awful!" she added as she drew back her head.
He dropped his own nose
into the infected neighborhood, and took a sniff; and then, as his face lighted
up, he cheerfully explained:--
"Oh! that is my
plaster. I put it on for a cold."
"Oh!" said
she in a tone of relief. And again she dropped her head on his yearning breast,
only a little higher up, and a little more to one side; while he ran out his
tongue, and tenderly caressed the wound with his handkerchief.
SHE was at a party. He
had not yet arrived; but she was momentarily expecting him. The hum of
conversation through the room had no significance for her: all her faculties
were bent on the front-door. Every time it opened, at every step in the
hall-way, she would start, while her face would flush, and her eyes light up
with feverish expectation. Then the color would go back from her cheeks, her
eyes would dull, and her heart sink, when another than he came into the room.
Finally he arrived, and took a seat by her; and she leaned over his shoulder,
and joyously murmured,--
"My darling, my
darling!" She was too happy to say aught more.
Ten years later, and
she again waits: it is in their own home now. His step is on the stoop; he
opens the door. She springs quickly to the hall.
"Clean your
feet!" she screams.
Ten years ago they were
not married: now they are.
FITZ HENRY, who goes
with Arabella, was on hand as usual Sunday evening, when high words ensued
between the two. Fitz Henry is a man of the period, and Arabella is a full-stop
woman. We don’t know how the trouble originated; but this is what was said by
the twain:--
HE.--You told ---- you
wouldn’t go.
SHE.--If I did, I don’t
know myself.
HE.--Well, that’s what
he said.
SHE.--I ain’t the girl
to give myself away like that, you bet.
HE.--What would the
galoot say it for, then? That’s what’s the matter.
SHE.--Because he found
somebody soft enough to scoop it in, I guess.
HE (agonizingly).--Are
you codding me, Arabella?
SHE (softening).--Why
should I cod you?
HE.--I don’t know why
you should, when I love you bang up.
SHE (very
softly).--Then, Hen, why should we let this rooster get us on our ear! If we
are going to mind every liar that comes around, we are going to keep in hot
water all the time; but, if we keep a stiff upper lip, they’ll soon get tired
of shooting off their mouths at us.
This view must have
struck him favorably, as there was a sound of upper lips undergoing a
strengthening process, preceded by a signification on his part to "paste
the rooster back of the ear."
HE had gone up to her
house with her from a shopping-excursion the other afternoon. While he was
there, such a flood of tenderness came over him, that he impulsively dropped on
his knees before her, and, giving her a glance that spoke volumes, huskily
said, "I can no longer keep my feelings back. I love you. Oh! will you,
oh! will you be"--
"--SHAD! ten
cents!" rang out the clarion voice of a street-vender before the house.
She made a clutch for
her handkerchief to cover up her emotion; but she was too late. The
ludicrousness of the combined sentiments was too much for her intellect, and
she melted into a prolonged giggle. His face flushed scarlet; and, for an
instant, he was too profoundly impressed to realize his position. Then he shot
up on his feet, and, with a howl of rage, departed. Really, ought not more
intelligent and more discriminating people to be employed on fish-wagons.