IN THE WRONG BOX
When Eagle Davis died,
I was sittin’ by his side,
’Twas in Boston, Massachusetts; and he said to me, “Old boy!
This climate—as you see—
Isn’t quite the size for me;
Dead or livin’, take me back if you can to Ellanoy!”
So I took him by the hand,
But he’d just run out his sand,
And his breath was gone for ever—before a word would come;
Then I and other three
Together did agree
In a party for to travel and to funeralise him home.
But Goshen Wheeler said,
As he looked upon the dead,
Weepin’ mildly, “Just remark my observation what I say:
That deceased, now glorious,
Was in life a curious cuss,
And somethin’ unexpectable will happen on the way.
“Frum the time that he was born
Till he doubled round the Horn
Of Death, all his measurements and pleasurements were odd;
And odd his line will be,
As you’re registered to see,
Till his walnut case is underneath the gravel and the sod.”
It was bitter winter weather
When we all four got together
At the depôt with the coffin in an extra packin’ box;
And a friend with good intent,
A cask of whisky sent,
Just to keep our boats from wrackin’, as they say, upon the rocks.
Then a ticket agent he
Seein’ mournin’, says to me,
“Can I get the cards, or help you in your trouble, Mister Brown?”
So with solemn words I said,
As I pinted to the dead,
“There you’ll find, I guess, our pilgrimage and shrine is written down.”
Then all night beneath the stars
We sat grimly in the cars,
Sometimes sleepin’, sometimes thinkin’, sometimes drinkin’, till the dawn;
And each man went in his turn
To the baggage-crate to learn
If the box was keepin’ time with us, and how ’twas gettin’ on.
Then all day beneath the sun
Still the train went rushin’ on,
While we still kep’ as silent as grave-stones as we went:
Playing euchre solemnly,
Which we kinder did agree
With the stakes to build for Davis a decent monument.
’Bout once in every mile
Some mourner took a smile,
But we did no other smilin’ as we travelled day or night;
And once in every hour
Some one went into the bower,
And reported the receptacle of Davis was all right.
But when four days were past,
Which we still were flyin’ fast,
Goshen Wheeler, very solemn, with expression to us cries,
“Where we are it should be freezin’
And our very breaths a-squeezin’,
Whereas the air is hot enough to bake persimmon pies.
“Don’t you smell a rich perfume
As of summer flowers in bloom?
’Tis magnolias a-peddled by yon humble coloured boy:
Now, I never yet did know
That the sweet mag-no-li-o
Grew in winter in the latitude of Northern Ellanoy.”
Then said Ebenezer Dotton,
“I behold a field of cotton,
And I wonder how in thunder such a veg’table got here.
I don’t know how we’re fixed,
But the climate’s getting mixed,
And it’s spilin’ very rapidly with warmness as I fear.”
Spoke Mister Aaron Bland,
“I perceive on yonder land
That sugar-cane is bloomin’, correctly, all in rows,
And not to make allusions
To Republican delusions,
But the niggers air a-gettin’ all around as thick as crows.”
Still we sat there mighty glum
Till along a fellow come.
And I says, says I, “Conductor, now tell us what it means,
Just inform us where we be?”
“Wall, now, gentlemen,” said he,
“I reckon we air comin’ to the spot called New Or-leéns!”
So we rushed all in a row,
When we got to the depôt,
To the baggage-crate, a-wonderin’ at these transformation scenes;
And we found out unexpected
That the box had been directed
Not unto Ellanoy, but to a man in New Or-leéns!
Without carin’ if I’d catch it,
I straightway took a hatchet,
And busted off the cover without openin’ my mouth;
And found a grand pianner
Which we’d followed for our banner
All the way from Massachusetts unto the sunny South!
Then I said, “I rather guess
I can see into this mess,
And explain the startlin’ error which has given you such shocks.
When that Boston fellow, he
Asked the route I’d take of me,
I pinted, inadvertional, unto another box.”
Now Eagle Davis lies
Beneath the Northern skies,
Where the snow is on the pine-tree while we are with the palm;
But I reckon if his spirit
Should ever come to hear it,
He’ll be perfectly contented with the story in this psalm.
ZION JERSEY BOGGS
a legend of philadelphia
Before the telegraphic wires
Had ever run from pole to pole,
Or telegirls sent telegrams
To cheer the weary waiting soul;
When all things went about as slow
As terrapins could run on clogs,
Was played a game
By one whose name
Was Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.
A Philadelphia newspaper
Was printed then on Chestnut Street,
While ’crost the way, just opposite,
There lived a sufferin’ rival sheet,
Whose editors could get no news,
Which made ’em cross as starvin’ hogs;
The first, I guess,
Had an express
Which kind o’ b’longed to Mister Boggs.
But in those days the only news
Which reëly opened readers’ eyes,
Was of the New York lottery,
And who by luck had got a prize.
All other news, for all they cared,
Might travel to the orful dogs;
And this they got
All piping hot—
Though surreptitiously—from Boggs.
For of the crew no party knew
That Boggs did any horses own.
All sportin’ amputations he
Did most concussively disown;
For he had serious subtle aims,
His wheels were full of secret cogs,—
Well oiled and slow,
Yet sure to go,
Was Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.
One mornin’ he, mysteriously,
An’ smilin’ quite ironical,
Spoke to the other editor,
The man who run the Chronicle:
“The Ledger has a hoss express
By which your lottery news he flogs.”
“Yes, that is true,
But what’s to do?”
Replied the man to Mister Boggs.
Then Mister Boggs let down his brows,
And with a long deep knowing wink,
Said, “Hosses travel mighty fast,
But ther air faster things, I think;
An’ kerrier-pidgings, as you know,
Kin find their way thro’ storm and fogs:
Them air the bugs
To fly like slugs!”
Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.
“And in my glorious natyve land,
Which lies acrost the Delaware,
I hev a lot upon the spot,—
Just twenty dollars fur a pair.
These gentle insects air the things
To make the Ledger squeal like hogs;
That is the game
To hit ’em lame!”
Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.
The editor looked back again,
And saw him better on his wink.
“It is the crisis of our fate—
Say, Boggs, what is your style of drink?
Step to the bar of Congress Hall;—
We’ll try your poultry on, by Gogs!
An’ let ’em fly
Tarnation high!”
“Amen!” said Zion Jersey Boggs.
The pidgins came, the pidgins flew,
They lit upon the lofty wall;
They made their five an’ ninety miles
In just about no time at all.
Compared to them, the Ledger team
Went just as slow as haulin’ logs.
But all was mum,
Shut close an’ dum,
By the request of Mister Boggs.
Then on the follerin’ Monday he,
Lookin’ profounder as he prowled,
This son of sin an’ mystery,
Into the Ledger orfice owled.
“An’ oh! to think,” he sadly groaned,
“That earth should bear setch skalliwogs!
Setch all-fired snakes,
And no mistakes!”
Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.
“Why, what is up?” asked Mr. Swain;
“It seems you’ve had some awful shoves.”
“The Chronicle,” his agent cried,
“Has went an’ bin an’ bought some doves!
Them traitors, wretches, swindlers, cheats,
Hev smashed us up like polywogs.
They’ve knocked, I guess,
Our hoss express
Higher than any kite,” said Boggs.
“Have you no plan?” asked Mister Swain,
“To keep the fellows off our walks?”
“I hev,” said Boggs, as grim as death;
“What do you think of pidging-horks?
For in my glorious natyve land,
Acrost the river, ’mong the frogs,
I hev a lot
All sharply sot
To eat them pidgings up,” said Boggs.
“They are the chosen birds of wrath,
They fly like arrers through the air,
Or angels sent by orful Death—
Jist fifty dollars fur a pair;
An’ cheap to keep, because, you see,
Upon the enemy they progs.”
“Well, try it on,
And now begone!”
Said Mister Swain to Mister Boggs.
The autumn morn was bright and fair,
Fresh as a rose with recent rain.
The pidgins tortled through the air,
But nary one came home again.
Some feathers dropped in Chestnut Street,
Some bills and claws among the logs:
Wipin’ a tear,
“I greatly fear
That all’s not right,” said Mr. Boggs.
Into the Chronicle he went,
Twice as mysterious as before,
“And hev you heard the orful news?”
He whispered as he shet the door.
“Oh, I hev come to tell a tale
Of crime, which all creation flogs,
Of wretchery
And treachery
That bangs tarnation sin,” said Boggs.
“Them Ledger fellers with their tricks,
Hev slopped clean over crime’s dark cup.
They’ve bin an’ bought some pidging-horks,
And they hev et our pidgings up.
Oh, whut is life wuth livin’ fur
When editors behave like hogs?
An’ ragin’ crime
Makes double time;
Oh, darn setch villany!” cried Boggs.
“But hark! bee-hold, to-morrer, thou
In deep revenge may dry your tears;
I hev a plan, which, you’ll allow,
Beats all-git-out when it eppears.
The ragin’ eagle of the North,
The bird which all creation flogs,
Will cause them horks
To walk ther chalks,
An’ give us grand revenge,” said Boggs.
“Them glorious birds of liberty,
Them symbols of our country’s fame,
Wild, sarsy, furious, and free,
Indeliably rowdy game;
They shall revenge them gentile doves,
Our harmless messengers, by Gogs!
In which the horks
Hev stuck ther forks,”
Cried Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.
“For in my glorious natyve land
Acrost the river, down below,
I hev a farm, and in the barn
Six captyve eagles in a row:
One hundred dollars fur a pair;
Fetch out the flimsies frum your togs
An’ up on high
I’ll make ’em fly,”
Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.
But this same editor had heard
Some hint or rumour, faint or dim,
How Mister Boggs, it was averred,
Was coming Paddy over him.
An earlier tale of soapy deeds
Then gave his memory startling jogs,
And full of wrath
Right in his path
He went for Zion Jersey Boggs.
“Horses and pidgins—pidgin-horks”—
That was enough to raise his Dutch:
He saw it all—and also saw
The eagle—“Just one bird too much.”
Too mad to mind his shootin’-iron,
And throw good powder to the dogs,
He grabbed his chair,
And then and there
Corrected Zion Jersey Boggs.
After long years had rolled away,
And Morse’s telegraph came in,
Still on the facing rival roofs
Two grey old cages could be seen,
And young reporters o’er their drinks
Would tell each other—jolly dogs—
Of ancient time
What in this rhyme
I’ve told of Zion Jersey Boggs.