New Century Speaker and Writer: Being a Standard Work on Composition and Oratory

by Henry Davenport Northrop

Humorous Recitations.

A recitation that has a touch of humor, one that is quaint and droll, one that has comical situations, or one that hits off any popular absurdity, is sure to be well received by your audience. A school exhibition or an evening’s entertainment without something of this kind would be pronounced dull and dry.

Some readers are especially adapted to recitals of this description. They have an innate sense of the ludicrous and are able to convey it by voice and manner. Those who are not favored with the very desirable gift of humor should confine themselves to selections of a graver character. The department of Wit and Humor here presented is large and complete, containing a great variety of readings that cannot fail to be enthusiastically received when properly rendered.

BILL’S IN TROUBLE!

I’ve got a letter, parson, from my son away out West,

An’ my ol’ heart is heavy as an anvil in my breast,

To think the boy whose futur’ I had once so proudly planned

Should wander from the path o’ right an’ come to sich an end!

Bill made a faithful promise to be keerful, an’ allowed

He’d build a reputation that’d make us mighty proud,

But it seems as how my counsel sort o’ faded from his mind,

An’ now the boy’s in trouble o’ the very wustest kind!

His letters came so seldom that I somehow sort o’ knowed

That Billy was a-trampin’ on a mighty rocky road,

But never once imagined he would bow my head in shame,

An’ in the dust’d waller his ol’ daddy’s honored name.

He writes from out in Denver, an’ the story’s mighty short;

I just can’t tell his mother; it’ll crush her poor ol’ heart!

An’ so I reckoned, parson, you might break the news to her—

Bill’s in the Legislatur, but he doesn’t say what fur.

“’SPACIALLY JIM.”

I wus mighty good-lookin’ when I was young,

Peert an’ black-eyed an’ slim,

With fellers a courtin’ me Sunday nights,

’Spacially Jim.

The likeliest one of ’em all was he,

Chipper an’ han’som’ an’ trim,

But I tossed up my head an’ made fun o’ the crowd,

’Spacially Jim!

I said I hadn’t no ’pinion o’ men,

An’ I wouldn’t take stock in him!

But they kep’ up a-comin’ in spite o’ my talk,

’Spacially Jim!

I got so tired o’ havin’ ’em roun’

(’Spacially Jim!)

I made up my mind I’d settle down

An’ take up with him.

So we was married one Sunday in church,

’Twas crowded full to the brim;

’Twas the only way to get rid of ’em all,

’Spacially Jim.

THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY.

Be careful, in all dialect recitations, to enunciate as the piece requires. A good part of the humor is brought out in the accent, and you should study this until you are master of it.

You promise now, you goot man dere,

Vot shtunds upon de floor,

To take dis woman for your vrow,

And luff her efermore;

You’ll feed her well on sauerkraut,

Beans, buttermilk and cheese,

And in all dings to lend your aid

Vot vill promote her ease?

—Yah!

Yes, and you, good voman, too—

Do you pledge your vord dis day

Dat you vill take dis husband here

And mit him alvays shtay?

Dat you vill bet and board mit him,

Vash, iron and mend his clothes;

Laugh when he schmiles, veep when he sighs

Und share his joys and voes?

—Yah!

Vel, den, mitin these sacred halls,

Mit joy and not mit grief,

I do bronounce you man and vife;

Von name, von home, von beef!

I publish now dese sacred bonts,

Dese matrimonial dies,

Pefore mine Got, mine vrow, minezelf

Und all dese gazing eyes.

Und now, you pridegroom standing dere,

I’ll not let go yoz collar

Undil you dell me one ding more,

Dat ish: vere ish mine tollar?

BLASTED HOPES.

We said good-bye! My lips to hers were pressed.

We looked into each other’s eyes and sighed;

I pressed the maiden fondly to my breast,

And went my way across the foamy tide.

I stood upon the spot where Cæsar fell,

I mused beside the great Napoleon’s tomb;

I loitered where dark-visaged houris dwell,

And saw the fabled lotus land abloom.

I heard Parisian revelers, and so

Forgot the maiden who had wept for me;

I saw my face reflected in the Po,

And saw Italian suns sink in the sea.

Aweary of it all, at last, I turned

My face back to my glorious native land;

I thought of her again—my bosom burned—

And joyfully I left the ancient strand.

At last, I held her little hand again,

But, oh, the seasons had kept rolling on,

I did not stroke her head or kiss her then—

Another had appeared while I was gone.

I’d brought her trinkets from across the sea—

Ah, well! she shall not have them now, of course;

Alas! the only thing that’s left for me

Is to give her little boy a hobby horse!

TIM MURPHY MAKES A FEW REMARKS.

A good specimen of the Irish brogue and wit.

I saw Teddy Reagan the other day; he told me he had been dealing in hogs. “Is business good?” says I. “Yis,” says he. “Talking about hogs, Teddy, how do you find yourself?” sez I. I wint to buy a clock the other day, to make a present to Mary Jane. “Will you have a Frinch clock?” says the jeweler. “The deuce take your Frinch clock,” sez I. “I want a clock that my sister can understand when it strikes.” “I have a Dutch clock,” sez he, “an’ you kin put that on the shtairs.” “It might run down if I put it there,” sez I. “Well,” sez he, “here’s a Yankee clock, with a lookin’-glass in the front, so that you can see yourself,” sez he. “It’s too ugly,” sez I. “Thin I’ll take the lookin’-glass out, an’ whin you look at it you’ll not find it so ugly,” sez he.

I wint to Chatham Sthreet to buy a shirt, for the one I had on was a thrifle soiled. The Jew who kept the sthore looked at my bosom, an’ said: “So hellup me gracious! how long do you vear a shirt?” “Twinty-eight inches,” sez I. “Have you any fine shirts?” sez I. “Yis,” sez he. “Are they clane?” says I. “Yis,” sez he. “Thin you had better put one on,” sez I.

You may talk about bringin’ up childer in the way they should go, but I believe in bringing them up by the hair of the head. Talking about bringing up childer—I hear my childer’s prayers every night. The other night I let thim up to bed without thim. I skipped and sthood behind the door. I heard the big boy say: “Give us this day our daily bread.” The little fellow said: “Sthrike him for pie, Johnny.” I have one of the most economical boys in the Citty of New York; he hasn’t spint one cint for the last two years. I am expecting him down from Sing Sing prison next week.

Talking about boys, I have a nephew who, five years ago, couldn’t write a word. Last week he wrote his name for $10,000; he’ll git tin years in the pinatintiary. I can’t write, but I threw a brick at a policeman and made my mark.

They had a fight at Tim Owen’s wake last week. Mary Jane was there. She says, barrin’ herself, there was only one whole nose left in the party, an’ that belonged to the tay-kettle.

PASSING OF THE HORSE.

I drove my old horse, Dobbin, full slowly toward the town,

One beautiful spring morning. The rising sun looked down

And saw us slowly jogging and drinking in the balm

Of honeyed breath of clover fields. We lissed, in Nature’s calm,

To chirping squirrel, and whistling bird, the robin and the wren;

The sound of life and love and peace came o’er the fields again.

’Way back behind the wagon there came a tandem bike,

A pedaling ’long to beat the wind, I never saw the like.

They started by—the road was wide, old Dobbin feeling good,

The quiet calmness of the morn had livened up his mood,

And stretching out adown the road he chased these cyclers two,

And Dobbin in his younger days was distanced by but few.

We sped along about a mile, it was a merry chase,

But Dobbin gave it up at last, and, dropping from the race,

He looked at me, as if to say: “Old man, I’m in disgrace.

The horse is surely passing by, the bike has got his place”

And all that day, while in the town, old Dobbin’s spirits fell;

His stout old pride was broken sure; the reason I could tell.

But when that night we trotted back from town, below the hill

We met two weary cyclers who waved at us a bill

That had a big V on it, and said it would be mine

If I would let them ride with us and put their bike behind,

And so I whistled softly; and Dobbin winked at me,

“I guess the horse will stay, old man; he’s puncture proof—you see?”

A SCHOOL-DAY.

Don’t overdo the whimpering and crying, but make the facial expressions and imitate the sobbing of one in tears. Make use of a handkerchief to render the imitation more effective.

“Now, John,” the district teacher says

With frown that scarce can hide

The dimpling smiles around her mouth,

Where Cupid’s hosts abide,

“What have you done to Mary Ann,

That she is crying so?

Don’t say ’twas ‘nothing’—don’t, I say,

For, John, that can’t be so;

“For Mary Ann would never cry

At nothing, I am sure;

And if you’ve wounded justice, John,

You know the only cure

Is punishment! So, come, stand up;

Transgression must abide

The pain attendant on the scheme

That makes it justified.”

So John steps forth with sun-burnt face,

And hair all in a tumble,

His laughing eyes a contrast to

His drooping mouth so humble.

“Now, Mary, you must tell me all—

I see that John will not,

And if he’s been unkind or rude,

I’ll whip him on the spot.”

“W—we were p—playin’ p—pris’ner’s b—base,

An’ h—he is s—such a t—tease,

An’ w—when I w—wasn’t l—lookin’, m—ma’am’

H—he k—kissed me—if you please.”

Upon the teacher’s face the smiles

Have triumphed o’er the frown,

A pleasant thought runs through her mind

The stick comes harmless down.

But outraged law must be avenged!

Begone, ye smiles, begone!

Away, ye little dreams of love,

Come on, ye frowns, come on!

“I think I’ll have to whip you, John,

Such conduct breaks the rule;

No boy, except a naughty one,

Would kiss a girl—at school.”

Again the teacher’s rod is raised,

A Nemesis she stands—

A premium were put on sin,

If punished by such hands!

As when the bee explores the rose

We see the petals tremble,

So trembled Mary’s rosebud lips—

Her heart would not dissemble.

“I wouldn’t whip him very hard”—

The stick stops in its fall—

“It wasn’t right to do it, but—

It didn’t hurt at all!”

“What made you cry, then, Mary Ann?”

The school’s noise makes a pause,

And out upon the listening air,

From Mary comes—“Because!”

W. F. McSparran.

THE BICYCLE AND THE PUP.

’Tis a bicycle man, over his broken wheel,

That grieveth himself full sore,

For the joy of its newness his heart shall feel,

Alack and alas! no more.

When the bright sun tippeth the hills with gold,

That rider upriseth gay,

And with hat all beribboned and heart that is bold,

Pursueth his jaunty way.

He gazeth at folks in the lowly crowd

With a most superior air.

He thinketh ha! ha! and he smileth aloud

As he masheth the maiden fair.

Oh, he masheth her much in his nice new clothes,

Nor seeth the cheerful pup,

Till he roots up the road with his proud, proud nose,

While the little wheel tilteth up.

Oh, that youth on his knees—though he doth not pray—

Is a pitiful sight to see,

For his pants in their utterest part give way,

While merrily laugheth she.

And that bicycle man in his heart doth feel

That the worst of unsanctified jokes

Is the small dog that sniffeth anon at his wheel,

But getteth mixed up in the spokes.

THE PUZZLED CENSUS TAKER.

Before reciting this state to your audience that “nein” is the German for “no.”

“Got any boys?” the marshal said,

To a lady from over the Rhine;

And the lady shook her flaxen head.

And civilly answered “nein!”

“Got any girls?” the marshal said,

To that lady from over the Rhine;

And again the lady shook her head,

And civilly answered “nein!”

“But some are dead,” the marshal said

To the lady from over the Rhine;

And again the lady shook her head,

And civilly answered “nein!”

“Husband, of course?” the marshal said

To the lady from over the Rhine;

And again she shook her flaxen head,

And civilly answered “nein!”

“The duce you have!” the marshal said

To the lady from over the Rhine;

And again she shook her flaxen head,

And civilly answered “nein!”

“Now what do you mean by shaking your head

And always answering “nein?”

“Ich kann nicht Englisch,” civilly said

The lady from over the Rhine.

IT MADE A DIFFERENCE.

“Now, then,” said the short and fat and anxious-looking man as he sat down in the street car and unfolded a map he had just bought of a fakir. “I want to know how this old thing works. Let me first find the Philippine Islands and Manila. Here I am, and here is Ca-vitt.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the man on his left, “but that name is pronounced Kah-vee-tay.”

“Then why ain’t it spelled that way?” demanded the short and fat man. “No wonder Dooye has been left there a whole month without reinforcements when they mix up things that way.”

“You mean Dewey,” corrected the man on his right.

“I heard it called Dooye, sir.”

“But it isn’t right.”

“Then why don’t this map give it right? Is it the plan of our map-makers to bamboozle the American patriot? Let us turn to Cuba. Ah! here is that San Jew-an they are talking so much about.”

“Will you allow me to say that the name is pronounced San Wan?” softly observed the man on the left.

“By whom, sir?”

“By everybody.”

“I deny it, sir!” exclaimed the fat man. “If J-u-a-n don’t spell ‘Juan’ then I can’t read. If I am wrong then why don’t this map set me right? Is it the idea to mix up the American patriot until he can’t tell whether he’s in Cuba or the United States?”

“Where is that Ci-en-fue-gos I’ve read about?”

“Do you wish for the correct pronunciation of that name?” asked a man on the other side of the car.

“Haven’t I got it?”

“Not exactly, sir.”

“Then let her slide. The men who got out this map ought to be indicted for swindling. Maybe I’m wrong in calling it Ma-tan-zas?”

“It is hardly correct, sir.”

“And I’m off on Por-to Ri-co?”

“Just a little off.”

“That settles it, sir—that settles it!” said the short man as he folded up the map and tossed it away on the street. “I had a grandfather in the Revolutionary War, a father in the war with Mexico, and two brothers in the late Civil War, and I was going to offer my services to Uncle Sam in this emergency; but it’s off, sir—all off.”

“But what difference does the pronunciation make?” protested the man on the right.

“All the difference in the world, sir. My wife is tongue-tied and my only child has got a hare-lip, and if I should get killed neither one of them would be able to ever make any one understand whether I poured out my blood in a battle in Cuba or was run over by an ice-wagon in front of my own house!”

BRIDGET O’FLANNAGAN ON CHRISTIAN SCIENCE AND COCKROACHES.

Och, Mollie Moriarty, I’ve been havin’ the quare iksparyincis since yiz hurrud from me, an’ if I’d known how it wud be whin I lift ould Oireland, I’d nivir have sit fut intil this coonthry befoor landin’. Me prisint misthriss that I had befoor the lasht wan is a discoiple av a new koind av relijun called Christian Soience. She’s been afthur takin’ a sooccission av coorsis av coolchur (I belave that’s fwhat they call it), an’ she knows all aboot this Christian Soience.

I’ve hurrud her talkin’ wid the other ladies about moind an’ matther, an’ as will as I can undherstand, Christian Soience manes that iverything is all moind an’ no matther, or all matther an’ nivir moind, an’ that ivery wan’s nobody, an’ iverything’s nothing ilse. The misthriss ses there’s no disase nor trooble, an’ no nade av physic; nivirthiliss, whin she dishcoovered cockroaches intil the panthry, she sint me out wid the money to buy an iksterminatin’ powdher.

Thinks I to mesilf, “I’ll give thim roaches a dose av Christian Soience, or fwhat the ladies call an ‘absint thratemint.’” So I fixed the powers av me moind on the middlesoom craythers an’ shpint the money till me own binifit. Afther a few days the misthriss goes intil the panthry, an’ foinds thim roaches roonin’ ’round as if they’d nivir been kilt at all. I throied to iksplain, but wid the inconsishtency av her six she wouldn’t listhin till a worrud, but ses I was addin’ impertinince to desaving’. So I’m afther lookin’ fur a place, an’ if yiz know av any lady widout notions that do be bewildherin’ to me moind, address,

Miss Bridget O’Flannagan,
Post Office, Ameriky.
M. Bourchier.

CONVERSATIONAL

“How’s your father?” Came the whisper,

Bashful Ned the silence breaking;

“Oh, he’s nicely,” Annie murmured,

Smilingly the question taking.

Conversation flagged a moment,

Hopeless, Ned essayed another:

“Annie, I—I,” then a coughing,

And the question, “How’s your mother!”

“Mother? Oh, she’s doing nicely!”

Fleeting fast was all forbearance,

When in low, despairing accents

Came the climax, “How’s your parents?”

WANTED, A MINISTER’S WIFE.

Wanted, a perfect lady,

Delicate, gentle, refined,

With every beauty of person

And every endowment of mind;

Fitted by early culture

To move in a fashionable life.

Please notice our advertisement:

“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”

Wanted, a thoroughbred worker,

Who well to her household looks

(Shall we see our money wasted

By extravagant, stupid cooks?)

Who cuts the daily expenses

With economy as sharp as a knife,

And washes and scrubs in the kitchen.

“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”

A very domestic person.

To “callers” she must not be “out;”

It has such a bad appearance

For her to be gadding about.

Only to visit the parish

Every day of her life,

And attend the funerals and weddings.

“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”

Conduct the ladies’ meeting,

The sewing-circle attend,

And when we work for the needy,

Her ready assistance to lend.

To clothe the destitute children

Where sorrow and want are rife;

To hunt up Sunday-school scholars.

“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”

Careful to entertain strangers,

Traveling agents, and “such;”

Of this kind of “angel visits”

The leaders have had so much

As to prove a perfect nuisance,

And “hope these plagues of their life

Can soon be sent to their parson’s.”

“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”

A perfect pattern of prudence

To all others, spending less,

But never disgracing the parish

By looking shabby in dress.

Playing the organ on Sunday

Would aid our laudable strife

To save the society’s money.

“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”

HOW A MARRIED MAN SEWS ON A BUTTON.

It is bad enough to see a bachelor sew on a button, but he is the embodiment of grace alongside a married man. Necessity has compelled experience in the case of the former, but the latter has depended upon some one else for this service, and fortunately for the sake of society, it is rarely he is obliged to resort to the needle himself. Sometimes the patient wife scalds her right hand, or runs a sliver under the nail of the index finger of that hand, and it is then the man clutches the needle around the neck, and, forgetting to tie a knot on the thread, commences to put on the button.

It is always in the morning, and from five to twenty minutes after this he is expected to be down street. He lays the button on exactly the site of its predecessor, and pushes the needle through one eye, and carefully draws the thread after, leaving about three inches of it sticking up for leeway. He says to himself, “Well, if women don’t have the easiest time I ever see.”

Then he comes back the other way and gets the needle through the cloth easy enough, and lays himself out to find the eye, but, in spite of a great deal of patient jabbing, the needle point persists in bucking against the solid parts of the button, and finally, when he loses patience, his fingers catch the thread, and that three inches he has left to hold the button slips through the eye in a twinkling, and the button rolls leisurely across the floor. He picks it up without a single remark, out of respect for his children, and makes another attempt to fasten it.

This time, when coming back with the needle, he keeps both the thread and button from slipping, by covering them with his thumb; and it is out of regard for that part of him that he feels around for the eye in a very careful and judicious manner, but eventually losing his philosophy as the search becomes more and more hopeless, he falls to jabbing about in a loose and savage manner, and it is just then the needle finds the opening and comes up the button and part way through his thumb with a celerity that no human ingenuity can guard against. Then he lays down the things with a few familiar quotations, and presses the injured hand between his knees, and then holds it under the other arm, and finally jams it into his mouth, and all the while he prances and calls upon heaven and earth to witness that there has never been anything like it since the world was created, and howls, and whistles, and moans and sobs. After a while he calms down and puts on his pants and fastens them together with a stick, and goes to his business a changed man.

J. M. Bailey.

THE DUTCHMAN’S SERENADE.

You do not need any set tune for the words to be sung. It will be more amusing to have none, but to extemporize as you go along. Stop singing when you come to the words in parenthesis and speak them. To complete the impersonation, you should have a violin. Do not recite German dialect pieces too rapidly; the words should be pronounced very distinctly.

Vake up, my schveet! Vake up, my lofe!

Der moon dot can’t been seen abofe.

Vake oud your eyes, und dough it’s late,

I’ll make you oud a serenate.

Der shtreet dot’s kinder dampy vet,

Und dhere vas no goot blace to set;

My fiddle’s getting oud of dune,

So blease get vakey wery soon.

O my lofe! my lofely lofe!

Am you avake ub dhere abofe,

Feeling sad und nice to hear

Schneider’s fiddle schrabin near?

Vell, anyvay, obe loose your ear,

Und try to saw if you kin hear

From dem bedclose vat you’m among,

Der little song I’m going to sung:

Sing.

O lady! vake! Get vake!

Und hear der tale I’ll tell;

O you vot’s schleebin’ sound ub dhere,

I like you pooty vell!

Sing.

Your plack eyes dhem don’t shine

When you’m ashleep—so vake!

(Yes, hurry upp, and voke up quick,

For gootness gracious sake!)

Sing.

My schveet imbatience, lofe,

I hope you vill excuse;

I’m singing schveetly (dhere, py Jinks!

Dhere goes a shtring proke loose!)

Sing.

O putiful, schveet maid!

O vill she ever voke?

Der moon is mooning—(Jimminy! dhere

Anoder shtring vent proke!)

I say, you schleeby, vake!

Vake oud! Vake loose! Vake ub!

Fire! Murder! Police! Vatch!

O cracious! do vake ub!

Dot girl she schleebed—dot rain it rained

Und I looked shtoopid like a fool,

Vhen mit my fiddle I shneaked off

So vet und shlobby like a mool!

BIDDY’S TROUBLES.

If this selection were recited in the costume of a housemaid, with apron, sunbonnet and bare arms, the effect would be intensified. Place the hands on the hips except when gesticulating.

“It’s thru for me, Katy, that I never seed the like of this people afore. It’s a time I’ve been having since coming to this house, twelve months agone this week Thursday. Yer know, honey, that my fourth coosin, Ann Macarthy, recommended me to Mrs. Whaler, and told the lady that I knew about genteel housework and the likes; while at the same time I had niver seed inter an American lady’s kitchen.

“So she engaged me, and my heart was jist ready to burst wid grief for the story that Ann had told, for Mrs. Whaler was a swate-spoken lady, and never looked cross-like in her life; that I knew by her smooth, kind face. Well, jist the first thing she told me to do, after I dressed the children, was to dress the ducks for dinner. I stood looking at the lady for a couple of minutes, before I could make out any maneing at all to her words.

“Thin I went searching after clothes for the ducks; and such a time as I had, to be sure. High and low I went till at last my mistress axed me for what I was looking; and I told her the clothes for the ducks, to be sure. Och, how she scramed and laughed, till my face was as rid as the sun wid shame, and she showed me in her kind swate way what her maneing was. Thin she told me how to air the beds; and it was a day for me, indade, when I could go up chamber alone and clare up the rooms. One day Mrs. Whaler said to me:

“‘Biddy, an’ ye may give the baby an airin’, if yees will.’

“What should I do—and it’s thru what I am saying this blessed minute—but go upstairs wid the child, and shake it, and then howld it out of the winder. Such a scraming and kicking as the baby gave—but I hild on the harder. Everybody thin in the strate’ looked at me; at last misthress came up to see what for was so much noise.

“‘I am thrying to air the baby,’ I said, ‘but it kicks and scrames dridfully.’

“There was company down below; and whin Mrs. Whaler told them what I had been after doing, I thought they would scare the folks in the strate wid scraming.

“And then I was told I must do up Mr. Whaler’s sharts one day when my mistress was out shopping. She told me repeatedly to do them up nice, for master was going away, so I takes the sharts and did them all up in some paper that I was after bringing from the ould country wid me, and tied some nice pink ribbon around the bundle.

“‘Where are the sharts, Biddy?’ axed Mrs. Whaler, when she comed home.

“‘I have been doing them up in a quair nice way,’ I said, bringing her the bundle.

“‘Will you iver be done wid your graneness!’ she axed me with a loud scrame.

“I can’t for the life of me be tellin’ what their talkin’ manes. At home we call the likes of this fine work starching; and a deal of it I have done, too. Och! and may the blessed Vargin pity me, for I never’ll be cured of my graneness!”

THE INVENTOR’S WIFE.

It’s easy to talk of the patience of Job. Humph! Job hed nothin’ to try him!

Ef he’d been married to ’Bijah Brown, folks wouldn’t have dared come nigh him.

Trials, indeed! Now I’ll tell you what—ef you want to be sick of your life,

Jest come and change places with me a spell—for I’m an inventor’s wife.

And sech inventions! I’m never sure, when I take up my coffee-pot,

That ’Bijah hain’t been “improvin’” it, and it mayn’t go off like a shot.

Why, didn’t he make me a cradle once, that would keep itself a-rockin’;

And didn’t it pitch the baby out, and wasn’t his head bruised shockin’?

And there was his “Patent Peeler,” too—a wonderful thing, I’ll say;

But it hed one fault—it never stopped till the apple was peeled away.

As for locks, and clocks, and mowin’ machines, and reapers, and all sech trash,

Why, ’Bijah’s invented heaps of em, but they don’t bring in no cash.

Law! that don’t worry him—not at all; he’s the aggravatin’est man—

He’ll set in his little workship there, and whistle, and think, and plan.

Inventin’ a jew’s-harp to go by steam, or a new-fangled powder-horn,

While the children’s goin’ barefoot to school and the weeds is chokin’ our corn.

When I’ve been forced to chop the wood, and tend to the farm beside,

And look at ’Bijah a-settin there, I’ve jest dropped down and cried.

We lost the hull of our turnip crop while he was inventin’ a gun;

But I counted it one of my marcies when it bust before ’twas done.

So he turned it into a “burglar alarm.” It ought to give thieves a fright—

’Twould scare an honest man out of his wits, ef he sot it off at night.

Sometimes I wonder ef ’Bijah’s crazy, he does such cur’ous things.

Hev I told you about his bedstead yit?—’Twas full of wheels and springs;

It had a key to wind it up, and a clock face at the head;

All you did was to turn them hands, and at any hour you said,

That bed got up and shook itself, and bounced you on the floor,

And then shet up, jest like a box, so you couldn’t sleep any more.

Wa’al ’Bijah he fixed it all complete, and he sot it at half-past five,

But he hadn’t more’n got into it when—dear me! sakes alive!

Them wheels began to whiz and whir! I heerd a fearful snap!

And there was that bedstead, with ’Bijah inside, shet up jest like a trap!

I screamed, of course, but ’twan’t no use; then I worked that hull long night

A-tryin’ to open the pesky thing. At last I got in a fright;

I couldn’t hear his voice inside, and I thought he might be dyin;

So I took a crow-bar and smashed it in.—There was ’Bijah, peacefully lyin’,

Inventin’ a way to git out again. That was all very well to say,

But I don’t b’lieve he’d have found it out if I’d left him in all day.

Now, sence I’ve told you my story, do you wonder I’m tired of life?

Or think it strange I often wish I warn’t an inventor’s wife?

Mrs. E. T. Corbett.

MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG.

“My sister’ll be down in a minute, and says you’re to wait, if you please;

And says I might stay till she came, if I’d promise her never to tease,

Nor speak till you spoke to me first. But that’s nonsense; for how would you know

What she told me to say, if I didn’t? Don’t you really and truly think so?

“And then you’d feel strange here alone. And you wouldn’t know just where to sit;

For that chair isn’t strong on its legs, and we never use it a bit:

We keep it to match with the sofa; but Jack says it would be like you

To flop yourself right down upon it, and knock out the very last screw.

“Suppose you try! I won’t tell. You’re afraid to! Oh! you’re afraid they would think it was mean!

Well, then, there’s the album: that’s pretty, if you’re sure that your fingers are clean.

For sister says sometimes I daub it; but she only says that when she’s cross.

There’s her picture. You know it? It’s like her; but she ain’t as good-looking, of course.

“This is me. It’s the best of ’em all. Now, tell me, you’d never have thought

That once I was little as that? It’s the only one that could be bought;

For that was the message to pa from the photograph-man where I sat—

That he wouldn’t print off any more till he first got his money for that.

“What? Maybe you’re tired of waiting. Why, often she’s longer than this.

There’s all her back hair to do up, and all of her front curls to friz.

But it’s nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just you and me!

Do you think you’ll be coming here often? Oh, do! But don’t come like Tom Lee—

“Tom Lee, her last beau. Why, my goodness! he used to be here day and night,

Till the folks thought he’d be her husband; and Jack says that gave him a fright;

You won’t run away then, as he did? for you’re not a rich man, they say.

Pa says you’re poor as a church-mouse. Now, are you? and how poor are they?

“Ain’t you glad that you met me? Well, I am; for I know now your hair isn’t red;

But what there is left of it’s mousy, and not what that naughty Jack said.

But there! I must go; sister’s coming! But I wish I could wait, just to see

If she ran up to you, and she kissed you in the way she used to kiss Lee.”

Bret Harte.

THE MAN WHO HAS ALL DISEASES AT ONCE.

Imitate the cough. Put your hands on different parts of your body in describing your aches and pains. Wear a long dismal face. Bend forward and limp as you change your position.

Good Morning, Doctor; how do you do? I hain’t quite as well as I have been; but I think I’m some better than I was. I don’t think that last medicine that you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible time with the earache last night; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of walnut sap into it, and that relieved it some; but I didn’t get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a week, Doctor, I’ve had the worst kind of a narvous headache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought my head would bust open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I’m the most afflictedest human that ever lived.

Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have had every winter for the last fifteen years, has began to pester me agin. (Coughs.) Doctor, do you think you can give me any thing that will relieve this desprit pain I have in my side?

Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of my neck, so that I can’t turn my head without turning the hull of my body. (Coughs.)

Oh, dear! What shall I do? I have consulted almost every doctor in the country, but they don’t any of them seem to understand my case. I have tried everything that I could think of; but I can’t find anything that does me the least good. (Coughs.)

Oh, this cough—it will be the death of me yet! You know I had my right hip put out last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones’ saw-mill; it’s getting to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. Then I’ve got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I’m so crippled up that I can hardly crawl round in any fashion.

What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out plowing last week? Why, the weaked old critter, she kept a backing and backing, ontil she backed me right up agin the colter, and knock’d a piece of skin off my shin nearly so big. (Coughs.)

But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You see it was washing-day—and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little stove-wood—you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and tend to everything about the house herself.

I knew it wouldn’t be safe for me to go out—as it was raining at the time—but I thought I’d risk it anyhow. So I went out, picked up a few chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my feet slipped from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I’d been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knocked out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face ain’t well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, ’specially by the women folks. (Coughs.) Oh, dear! but that ain’t all, Doctor; I’ve got fifteen corns on my toes—and I’m afeard I’m going to have the “yaller janders.” (Coughs.)

Dr. Valentine.

THE SCHOOL-MA’AM’S COURTING.

When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay

I was glad, fer I like ter see a gal makin’ her honest way.

I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin’ high,

Tew high fer busy farmer folks with chores ter dew ter fly.

But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontel

She come in her reg’lar boardin’ raound ter visit with us a spell.

My Jake an’ her had been cronies ever since they could walk,

An’ it tuk me aback ter hear her kerrectin’ him in his talk.

Jake ain’t no hand at grammar, though he hain’t his beat for work;

But I sez ter myself, “Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin’ with a Turk!”

Jake bore it wonderful patient, an’ said in a mournful way,

He p’sumed he was behindhand with the doin’s at Injun Bay.

I remember once he was askin’ for some o’ my Injun buns,

An’ she said he should allus say, “them air,” stid o’ “them is” the ones.

Wal, Mary Ann kep’ at him stiddy mornin’ an’ evenin’ long,

Tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o’ talkin’ wrong.

One day I was pickin’ currants daown by the old quince tree,

When I heerd Jake’s voice a-sayin’: “Be ye willin’ ter marry me?”

An’ Mary Ann kerrectin’, “Air ye willin’, yeou sh’d say.”

Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum, decided way,

“No wimmen-folks is a-goin’ ter be re-arrangin’ me.

Hereafter I says ‘craps,’ ‘them is,’ ‘I calk’late,’ an’ ‘I be.’

Ef folks don’t like my talk they needn’t hark ter what I say;

But I ain’t a-goin’ to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay.

I ask you free an’ final: Be ye goin’ ter marry me?”

An’ Mary Ann sez, tremblin’, yet anxious-like, “I be.”

Florence E. Pyatt.

THE DUTCHMAN’S SNAKE.

Near the town of Reading, in Berks County, Pennsylvania, there formerly lived a well-to-do Dutch farmer named Peter Van Riper. His only son was a strapping lad of seventeen, also named Peter, and upon old Peter and young Peter devolved the principal cares of the old man’s farm, now and then assisted by an ancient Dutchman named Jake Sweighoffer, who lived in the neighborhood, and went out to work by the day.

One warm day in haying time this trio were hard at work in a meadow near the farm-house, when suddenly Peter the elder dropped his scythe and called out:

“Oh! mine gracious, Peter! Peter!”

“What’s de matter, fader?” answered the son, straightening up and looking at his sire.

“Oh! mine Peter! Peter!” again cried the old man, “do come here, right off! Der schnake pite mine leg!”

If anything in particular could disturb the nerves of young Peter, it was snakes; for he had once been chased by a black one and frightened nearly out of his wits. At the word snake, therefore, young Van Riper fell back, nimbly as a wire-drawer, and called out in turn: “Where is der shnake, fader?”

“Here, up mine preeches!—Oh! my! my! my!”

“Vy don’t you kill him, fader?” exclaimed Peter, junior, keeping at a safe distance from his suffering sire.

“I can’t get at der little sinner, Peter; you come dake off my drowsis, or he’ll kill me mit his pites.”

But the fears of Peter, the younger, overcame his filial affection, and lent strength to his legs, for he started off like a scared two-year-old toward the old man Jake, to call him to the assistance of his unhappy father. A few moments after, the two came bounding toward the old man, and as they passed a haycock where their garments had been laid when they began work, Jake grabbed the vest which he supposed belonged to his employer. During this time old Peter had managed to keep on his feet, although he was quaking and trembling like an aspen leaf in a June gale of wind.

“Oh! come quick, Yacob!” exclaimed he, “he pite like sixty, here, on mine leg.”

Old Jake was not particularly sensitive to fear, but few people, young or old, are free from alarm when a “pizenous” reptile is about. He seized a small pitchfork, and, telling the unhappy Van Riper to stand steady, promised to stun the reptile by a rap or two, even if he didn’t kill it outright. The frightened old man did not long hesitate between the risk of a broken leg or being bitten to death by a snake, but promptly indicated the place where Jake should strike. Whack went the pitchfork, and down tumbled Peter, exclaiming, “Oh! my! my! my; I pleeve you’ve proke mine leg! but den der shnake’s gone.”

“Vere! vere’s he gone to?” says old Sweighoffer, looking sharply about on the ground he stood upon.

“Never mind der shnake now, Yacob,” says Van Riper, “come and help me up, and I’ll go home.”

“Here, I’ve got your shacket—put it on,” says Jacob, lifting up the old man, and slipping his arms into the armholes of the vest.

The moment old Peter made the effort to get the garment on his shoulders, he grew livid in the face—his hair stood on end—he shivered and shook—his teeth chattered, and his knees knocked an accompaniment. “O Yacob!” exclaimed he, “help me to go home—I’m dead! I’m dead!”

“Vat’s dat you say? Ish dere nodder shnake in your preeches?” inquired the intrepid Jacob.

“Not dat—I don’t mean dat,” says the farmer, “but shust you look on me—I’m shwelt all up, pigger as an ox! my shacket won’t go on my pack. I’m dying mit de pizen. Oh! oh! oh! help me home quick.”

The hired man came to the same conclusion; and with might and main he hurried old Peter along toward the farm-house. Meantime young Peter had run home, and so alarmed the women folks that they were in a high state of excitement when they saw the approach of the good old man and his assistant.

Old man Peter was carried into the house, laid on a bed, and began to lament his sad misfortune in a most grievous manner, when the old lady, his frow, came forward and proposed to examine the bitten leg. The unhappy man opened his eyes and feebly pointed out the place of the bite. She carefully ripped up his pantaloons, and out fell—a thistle-top! and at the same time a considerable scratch was made visible.

“Call dis a shnake? Bah!” says the old lady, holding up the thistle.

“Oh! but I’m pizened to death, Katreen!—see, I’m all pizen!—mine shacket!—Oh! dear, mine shacket not come over mine pody!”

“Haw! haw! you crazy fellow,” roars the frow, “dat’s not your shacket—dat’s Peter’s shacket! ha! ha! ha!”

“Vat! dat Peter’s shacket?” says old Peter, shaking off death’s icy fetters at one surge, and jumping up: “Bosh! Jacob, vat an old fool you must be to say I vas shnake-pite! Go ’pout your pusiness, gals. Peter, give me mine pipe.”

NO KISS.

“Kiss me, Will,” sang Marguerite,

To a pretty little tune,

Holding up her dainty mouth,

Sweet as roses born in June.

Will was ten years old that day,

And he pulled her golden curls

Teasingly, and answer made—

“I’m too old—I don’t kiss girls.”

Ten years pass, and Marguerite

Smiles as Will kneels at her feet,

Gazing fondly in her eyes,

Praying, “Won’t you kiss me, sweet?”

’Rite is seventeen to-day,

With her birthday ring she toys

For a moment, then replies:

“I’m too old—I don’t kiss boys.”

THE LISPING LOVER.

Oh! thtay one moment, love implorth,

Ere yet we break thith happy thpell!

For to the thoul my thoul adorth

It ith tho hard to thay farewell.

And yet how thad to be tho weak,

To think forever, night or day,

The thententheth my heart would thpeak

Thethe lipth can never truly thay.

How mournful, too, while thuth I kneel,

With nervouthneth my blith to mar,

And dream each moment that I feel

The boot-toe of thy thtern papa.

Or yet to fanthy that I hear

A thudden order to decamp,

Ath dithagreeably thevere

Ath—“Get out you infernal thcamp!”

Yet recklethly I pauthe by thee,

To lithp my hopeth, my fearth, my careth,

Though any moment I may be

Turning a thomerthet down the thtairth!

LARRIE O’DEE.

Now the widow McGee,

And Larrie O’Dee,

Had two little cottages out on the green,

With just room enough for two pig-pens between.

The widow was young and the widow was fair,

With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair;

And it frequently chanced, when she came in the morn

With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the corn.

And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand,

In the pen of the widow were certain to land.

One morning said he:

“Och! Misthress McGee,

It’s a waste, of good lumber, this runnin’ two rigs,

Wid a fancy petition betwane our two pigs!”

“Indade sur, it is!” answered Widow McGee,

With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O’Dee.

“And thin, it looks kind o’ hard-hearted and mane,

Kapin’ two friendly pigs so exsaidenly near

That whiniver one grunts the other can hear,

And yit kape a cruel petition betwane.”

“Shwate Widow McGee,”

Answered Larrie O’Dee,

“If ye fale in your heart we are mane to the pigs,

Ain’t we mane to ourselves to be runnin’ two rigs?

Och! it made me heart ache whin I paped through the cracks

Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez shwingin’ yer axe;

An’ a bobbin’ yer head an’ a shtompin’ yer fate,

Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate,

A-sphlittin’ yer kindlin’-wood out in the shtorm,

When one little shtove it would kape us both warm!”

“Now, piggy,” said she;

“Larrie’s courtin’ o’ me,

Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you,

So now yez must tell me jisht what I must do;

For, if I’m to say yez, shtir the swill wid yer snout;

But if I’m to say no, ye must kape yer nose out.

Now Larrie, for shame! to be bribin’ a pig

By a-tossin’ a handful of corn in its shwig!”

“Me darlint, the piggy says yes,” answered he.

And that was the courtship of Larrie O’Dee.

W. W. Fink.

HOW PADEREWSKI PLAYS THE PIANO.

First a soft and gentle tinkle,

Gentle as the rain-drop’s sprinkle,

Then a stop,

Fingers drop.

Now begins a merry trill,

Like a cricket in a mill;

Now a short, uneasy motion,

Like a ripple on the ocean.

See the fingers dance about,

Hear the notes come tripping out;

How they mingle in the tingle

Of the everlasting jingle,

Like to hailstones on a shingle,

Or the ding-dong, dangle-dingle

Of a sheep-bell! Double, single,

Now they come in wilder gushes,

Up and down the player rushes,

Quick as squirrels, sweet as thrushes.

Now the keys begin to clatter

Like the music of a platter

When the maid is stirring batter.

O’er the music comes a change,

Every tone is wild and strange;

Listen to the lofty tumbling,

Hear the mumbling, fumbling, jumbling,

Like the rumbling and the grumbling

Of the thunder from its slumbering

Just awaking. Now it’s taking

To the quaking, like a fever-and-ague shaking;

Heads are aching, something’s breaking—

Goodness gracious! it is wondrous,

Rolling round, above, and under us,

Like old Vulcan’s stroke so thunderous.

Now ’tis louder, but the powder

Will be all exploded soon;

For the only way to do,

When the music’s nearly through,

Is to muster all your muscle for a bang,

Striking twenty notes together with a clang:

Hit the treble with a twang,

Give the bass an awful whang,

And close the whole performance

With a slam—bang—whang!

THE FRECKLE-FACED GIRL.

“Ma’s up stairs changing her dress,” said the freckled-faced little girl, tying her doll’s bonnet strings and casting her eye about for a tidy large enough to serve as a shawl for that double-jointed young person.

“Oh, your mother needn’t dress up for me,” replied the female agent of the missionary society, taking a self-satisfied view of herself in the mirror. “Run up and tell her to come down just as she is in her everyday clothes, and not stand on ceremony.”

“Oh, but she hasn’t got on her everyday clothes. Ma was all dressed up in her new brown silk dress, ’cause she expected Miss Dimmond to-day. Miss Dimmond always comes over here to show off her nice things, and ma doesn’t mean to get left. When ma saw you coming she said, ‘the dickens!’ and I guess she was mad about something. Ma said if you saw her new dress, she’d have to hear all about the poor heathen, who don’t have silk, and you’d ask her for money to buy hymn books to send ’em. Say, do the nigger ladies use hymn-book leaves to do their hair up on and make it frizzy? Ma says she guesses that’s all the good the books do ’em, if they ever get any books. I wish my doll was a heathen.”

“Why, you wicked little girl! what do you want of a heathen doll?” inquired the missionary lady, taking a mental inventory of the new things in the parlor to get material for a homily on worldly extravagance.

“So folks would send her lots of nice things to wear, and feel sorry to have her going about naked. Then she’d have her hair to frizz, and I want a doll with truly hair and eyes that roll up like Deacon Silderback’s when he says amen on Sunday. I ain’t a wicked girl, either, ’cause Uncle Dick—you know Uncle Dick, he’s been out West and swears awful and smokes in the house—he says I’m a holy terror, and he hopes I’ll be an angel pretty soon. Ma’ll be down in a minute, so you needn’t take your cloak off. She said she’d box my ears if I asked you to.

“Ma’s putting on that old dress she had last year, ’cause she didn’t want you to think she was able to give much this time, and she needed a muff worse than the queen of the cannon-ball islands needed ’ligion. Uncle Dick says you oughter get to the islands, ’cause you’d be safe there, and the natives would be sorry they was such sinners anybody would send you to ’em. He says he never seen a heathen hungry enough to eat you, ’less it was a blind one, an’ you’d set a blind pagan’s teeth on edge so he’d never hanker after any more missionary. Uncle Dick’s awful funny, and makes ma and pa die laughing sometimes.”

“Your Uncle Richard is a bad, depraved wretch, and ought to have remained out West, where his style is appreciated. He sets a horrid example for little girls like you.”

“Oh, I think he’s nice. He showed me how to slide down the banisters, and he’s teaching me to whistle when ma ain’t around. That’s a pretty cloak you’ve got, ain’t it? Do you buy all your clothes with missionary money? Ma says you do.”

Just then the freckle-faced little girl’s ma came into the parlor and kissed the missionary lady on the cheek and said she was delighted to see her, and they proceeded to have a real sociable chat. The little girl’s ma cannot understand why a person who professes to be so charitable as the missionary agent does should go right over to Miss Dimmond’s and say such ill-natured things as she did, and she thinks the missionary is a double-faced gossip. The little girl understands it better than her ma does.

WHEN GIRLS WORE CALICO.

There was a time, betwixt the days

Of linsey woolsey, straight and prim,

And these when mode, with despot ways,

Leads woman captive at its whim,

Yet not a hundred years ago,

When girls wore simple calico.

Within the barn, by lantern light,

Through many a reel, with flying feet,

The boys and maidens danced at night

To fiddled measures, shrilly sweet;

And merry revels were they, though

The girls were gowned in calico.

Across the flooring rough and gray

The gold of scattered chaff was spread,

And long festoons of clover hay

That straggled from the loft o’erhead,

Swung scented fringes to and fro

O’er pretty girls in calico.

They used to go a-Maying then,

The blossoms of the spring to seek

In sunny glade and sheltered glen,

Unweighed by fashion’s latest freak;

And Robin fell in love, I know,

With Phyllis in her calico.

A tuck, a frill, a bias fold,

A hat curved over gipsy-wise,

And beads of coral and of gold,

And rosy cheeks and merry eyes,

Made lassies in that long ago

Look charming in their calico.

The modern knight who loves a maid

Of gracious air and gentle grace,

And finds her oftentimes arrayed

In shining silk and priceless lace,

Would love her just as well, I know,

In pink and lilac calico.

Hattie Whitney.

A WINNING COMPANY.

Ef gran’paw was a soldier now

He’d show ’em what to do;

You ought to come and lisen how

He talks to me and Sue.

He tells us all about the days

He led his gallant men,

And all about the different ways

He won the battles then.

An’ ev’ry night when paw comes in

An’ says the fight’s begun,

He tells what they could do to win

Er what they ought to done.

An’ paw he laugh and looks at me

An’ says we’d surely win it

If gran’paw led a company

An’ Sue an’ me was in it.

THE BRAVEST SAILOR OF ALL.

This graceful tribute to the martial spirit of the little tots should be recited in a slightly bombastic style. The little one considers himself quite a hero and should be described accordingly.

I know a naval officer, the bravest fighting man;

He wears a jaunty sailor suit, his cap says “Puritan.”

And all day long he sails a ship between our land and Spain,

And he avenges, every hour, the martyrs of the “Maine.”

His warship is six inches square, a wash-tub serves for ocean;

But never yet, on any coast, was seen such dire commotion.

With one skilled move his boat is sent from Cuba to midsea,

And just as quickly back it comes to set Havana free.

He fights with Dewey; plants his flag upon each island’s shore,

Then off with Sampson’s fleet he goes to shed the Spanish gore.

He comes to guard New England’s coast, but ere his anchor falls,

He hurries off in frightful speed, to shell Manila’s walls.

The Philippines so frequently have yielded to his power,

There’s very little left of them, I’m certain, at this hour;

And when at last he falls asleep, it is to wake again

And hasten into troubled seas and go and conquer Spain.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

HOW SHE WAS CONSOLED.

Out in the field in the red o’ the rain

That crimsoned the breasts that the battle had slain,

He lay in the shadow—the captain—at rest,

With a lock of gold hair round a face on his breast.

Out in the darkness, all pallid and dumb,

A woman waits long for the captain to come;

And she kisses his portrait. O, pitiful pain!

She shall kiss not the lips of the captain again!

But a woman’s a woman, though loyal and brave,

Love fareth but ill in the gloom of a grave.

The captain lies mute ’neath the stars and the snow,

And the woman he loved—well, she’s married you know!

THAT HIRED GIRL.

When she came to work for the family on Congress street, the lady of the house sat down and told her that agents, picture-sellers, peddlers, ragmen, and all that class of people must be met at the front door and coldly repulsed, and Sarah said she’d repulse them if she had to break every broomstick in town.

And she did. She threw the door open wide, bluffed right up at ’em, and when she got through talking, the cheekiest agent was only too glad to leave. It got so after a while that peddlers marked that house, and the door-bell never rang except for company.

The other day, as the girl of the house was wiping off the spoons, the bell rang. She hastened to the door, expecting to see a lady, but her eyes encountered a slim man, dressed in black and wearing a white necktie. He was the new minister, and was going around to get acquainted with the members of his flock, but Sarah wasn’t expected to know this.

“Ah—um—is—Mrs.—ah!”

“Git!” exclaimed Sarah, pointing to the gate.

“Beg pardon, but I would like to see—see—!”

“Meander!” she shouted, looking around for a weapon; “we don’t want any flour-sifters here!”

“You’re mistaken,” he replied, smiling blandly. “I called to—”

“Don’t want anything to keep moths away—fly!” exclaimed Sarah, getting red in the face.

“Is the lady in?” he inquired, trying to look over Sarah’s head.

“Yes, the lady is in, and I’m in, and you are out!” she snapped; “and now I don’t want to stand here talking to a fly-trap agent any longer! Come lift your boots!”

“I’m not an agent,” he said, trying to smile. “I’m the new—”

“Yes, I know you—you are the new man with the patent flat-iron, but we don’t want any, and you’d better go before I call the dog!”

“Will you give the lady my card, and say that I called?”

“No, I won’t; we are bored to death with cards and handbills and circulars. Come, I can’t stand here all day.”

“Didn’t know that I was a minister?” he asked, as he backed off.

“No, nor I don’t know it now; you look like the man who sold the woman next door a ten cent chromo for two dollars.”

“But here is my card.”

“I don’t care for cards, I tell you! If you leave that gate open, I will have to fling a flower-pot at you!”

“I will call again,” he said, as he went through the gate.

“It won’t do any good!” she shouted after him; “we don’t want no prepared food for infants—no piano music—no stuffed birds! I know the policeman on this beat, and if you come around here again, he’ll soon find out whether you are a confidence man or vagrant!”

And she took unusual care to lock the door.

WHAT SAMBO SAYS.

Now, in dese busy wukin’ days, dey’s changed de Scripter fashions,

An’ you needn’t look to mirakuls to furnish you wid rations;

Now, when you’s wantin’ loaves o’ bread, you got to go and fetch ’em,

An’ ef you’s wantin’ fishes, you mus’ dig your wums an’ ketch ’em;

For you kin put it down as sartin dat the time is long gone by,

When sassages an’ ’taters use to rain fum out de sky!

I nebber likes de cullud man dat thinks too much o’ eatin’;

But frolics froo de wukin’ days, and snoozes at de meetin’;

Dat jines de Temp’ance ’Ciety, an’ keeps a gettin’ tight,

An’ pulls his water-millions in de middle ob de night!

Dese milerterry nigger chaps, with muskets in deir han’s,

Perradin’ froo de city to de music ob de ban’s,

Had better drop deir guns, an’ go to marchin’ wid deir hoes

An’ git a honest libbin’ as dey chop de cotton-rows,

Or de State may put ’em arter while to drillin’ in de ditches,

Wid more’n a single stripe a-runnin’ ’cross deir breeches.

Well, you think dat doin’ nuffin’ ’tall is mighty sort o’ nice,

But it busted up de renters in de lubly Paradise!

You see, dey bofe was human bein’s jes’ like me an’ you,

An’ dey couldn’t reggerlate deirselves wid not a thing to do;

Wid plenty wuk befo’ ’em, an’ a cotton crop to make,

Dey’d nebber thought o’ loafin’ roun’ an’ chattin’ wid de snake.

THE IRISH SLEIGH RIDE.

O don’t go way until you hear

A story, though it may seem queer,

Of a family known both near and far

By the funny name of Ump Ha Ha.

Mr. Ump Ha Ha, one day,

Thought he would like to take a sleigh

And ride upon the frozen snow;

And Mrs. Ump Ha Ha said she would go,

Taking all the family, of course,

Including, too, the family horse.

He was a mule, and a thin one, too;

You could see his ribs where the hay stuck through.

They hitched him up to an old-time bob.

Then you ought to have seen the mob!

There were Patrick, Mary Ump Ha Ha,

Grace and Carrie Ump Ha Ha,

Mike and Freddie Ump Ha Ha,

Willie and Eddie Ump Ha Ha,

Tim and Juley Ump Ha Ha,

Rose and Peggy Ump Ha Ha,

Lizzie and Mayme Ump Ha Ha,

Big fat Jammie Ump Ha Ha.

Fifteen people in one sleigh

Started out to spend the day.

The way they packed and jammed them in,

It made the family horse look thin.

As luck will have it, as it will,

They started from the top of a hill.

The hill was slippery; down they flew.

How fast they went they never knew.

The time they made it can’t be beat.

The old mule had no use for his feet;

He went like a bird or ships on sail;

He flew with his ears and steered with his tail.

It was a mile to the bottom and the bottom was mud,

And they went down with a sickening thud.

Mary Ump Ha Ha was dazed,

Patrick Ump Ha Ha was crazed,

Little Willie bumped his nose,

Big fat Jammie she got froze.

Fourteen doctors came at once.

The old mule was buried in the ground.

Did you ever see a dead mule laying around?

It took four drays to get them home,

And when they found they broke no bones,

They all sat down and thanked their stars,

And then they laughed out, Ump Ha Ha.

JANE JONES.

Jane Jones keeps a-whisperin’ to me all the time,

An’ says: “Why don’t you make it a rule

To study your lessons, an’ work hard an’ learn,

An’ never be absent from school?

Remember the story of Elihu Burritt,

How he clumb up to the top;

Got all the knowledge ’at he ever had

Down in the blacksmithin’ shop.”

Jane Jones she honestly said it was so;

Mebby he did—I dunno;

’Course, what’s a-keepin’ me ’way from the top

Is not never havin’ no blacksmithin’ shop.

She said ’at Ben Franklin was awfully poor,

But full o’ ambition and brains,

An’ studied philosophy all ’is hull life—

An’ see what he got for his pains.

He brought electricity out of the sky

With a kite an’ the lightnin’ an’ key,

So we’re owin’ him more’n any one else

For all the bright lights ’at we see.

Jane Jones she actually said it was so.

Mebby he did—I dunno;

’Course, what’s allers been hinderin’ me

In not havin’ any kite, lightnin’ or key.

Jane Jones said Columbus was out at the knees

When he first thought up his big scheme;

An’ all of the Spaniards an’ Italians, too,

They laughed an’ just said ’twas a dream;

But Queen Isabella she listened to him,

An’ pawned all her jewels o’ worth,

An’ bought ’im the “Santa Marier” ’n said:

“Go hunt up the rest of the earth.”

Jane Jones she honestly said it was so;

Mebby he did—I dunno;

’Course, that may all be, but you must allow

They ain’t any land to discover just now.

Ben King.

DE OLE PLANTATION MULE.

A werry funny feller is de ole plantation mule;

An’ nobody’ll play wid him unless he is a fool.

De bestest ting to do w’en you meditates about him,

Is to kinder sorter calkerlate you’ll get along widout him.

W’en you try to ’proach dat mule from de front endwise,

He look as meek as Moses, but his looks is full ob lies;

He doesn’t move a muscle, he doesn’t even wink;

An’ you say his dispersition’s better’n people tink.

He stan’ so still that you s’pose he is a monument of grace;

An’ you almos’ see a ’nevolent expression on his face;

But dat ’nevolent expression is de mask dat’s allers worn;

For ole Satan is behin’ it, jest as sure as you is born.

Den you cosset him a little, an’ you pat his other end,

An’ you has a reverlation dat he ain’t so much your friend;

You has made a big mistake; but before de heart repents,

You is histed werry sudden to de odder side de fence.

Well, you feel like you’d been standin’ on de locomotive track

An’ de engine come an’ hit you in de middle ob de back;

You don’ know wat has happened, you can scarcely cotch your breff;

But you tink you’ve made de ’quaintance ob a werry vi’lent deff.

ADAM NEVER WAS A BOY.

Of all the men the world has seen

Since time his rounds began,

There’s one I pity every day—

Earth’s first and foremost man;

And then I think what fun he missed

By failing to enjoy

The wild delights of youth-time, for

He never was a boy.

He never stubbed his naked toe

Against a root or stone;

He never with a pin-hook fished

Along the brook alone;

He never sought the bumblebee

Among the daisies coy,

Nor felt its business end, because

He never was a boy.

He never hookey played, nor tied

The ever-ready pail,

Down in the alley all alone,

To trusting Fido’s tail.

And when he home from swimmin’ came,

His happiness to cloy,

No slipper interfered, because

He never was a boy.

He might refer to splendid times

’Mong Eden’s bowers, yet

He never acted Romeo

To a six year Juliet.

He never sent a valentine,

Intended to annoy

A good, but maiden aunt, because

He never was a boy.

He never cut a kite string, no!

Nor hid an Easter egg;

He never ruined his pantaloons

A-playing mumble-peg;

He never from the attic stole,

A coon-hunt to enjoy,

To find “the old man” watching, for

He never was a boy.

I pity him. Why should I not?

I even drop a tear;

He did not know how much he missed;

He never will, I fear.

And when the scenes of “other days”

My growing mind employ,

I think of him, earth’s only man

Who never was a boy.

T. C. Harbaugh.

A REMARKABLE CASE OF S’POSIN.

A man hobbled into the Colonel’s office upon crutches. Proceeding to a chair and making a cushion of some newspapers, he sat down very gingerly, placed a bandaged leg upon another chair, and said:

“Col. Coffin, my name is Briggs. I want to get your opinion about a little point of law. Now, Colonel, s’posin’ you lived up the pike here a half mile, next door to a man named Johnson. And s’posin’ you and Johnson was to get into an argument about the human intellect, and you was to say to Johnson that a splendid illustration of the superiority of the human intellect was to be found in the power of the human eye to restrain the ferocity of a wild animal. And s’posin’ Johnson was to remark that that was all bosh, because nobody could hold a wild animal with the human eye, and you should declare that you could hold the savagest beast that was ever born if you could once fix your gaze on him.

“Well, then, s’posin’ Johnson was to say he’d bet a hundred dollars he could bring a tame animal that you couldn’t hold with your eye, and you was to take him up on it, and Johnson was to ask you to come down to his place to settle the bet. You’d go, we’ll say, and Johnson’d wander round to the back of the house and pretty soon come front again with a dog bigger’n any four decent dogs ought to be. And then s’posin’ Johnson’d let go of that dog and set him on you, and he’d come at you like a sixteen-inch shell out of a howitzer, and you’d get scary about it and try to hold the dog with your eye and couldn’t.

“And s’posin’ you’d suddenly conclude that maybe your kind of an eye wasn’t calculated to hold that kind of a dog, and you’d conclude to run for a plum tree in order to have a chance to collect your thoughts and to try to reflect what sort of an eye would be best calculated to mollify that sort of a dog. You ketch my idea, of course?

“Very well, then; s’posin’ you’d take your eye off of that dog—Johnson, mind you, all the time hissing him on and laughing, and you’d turn and rush for the tree, and begin to swarm up as fast as you could. Well, sir, s’posin’ just as you got three feet from the ground Johnson’s dog would grab you by the leg and hold on like a vise, shaking you until you nearly lost your hold.

“And s’posin’ Johnson was to stand there and holloa, ‘Fix your eye on him, Briggs! Why don’t you manifest the power of the human intellect?’ and so on, howling out ironical remarks like those; and s’posin’ he kept that dog on that leg until he made you swear to pay the bet, and then at last had to pry the dog off with a hot poker, bringing away at the same time some of your flesh in the dog’s mouth, so that you had to be carried home on a stretcher, and to hire several doctors to keep you from dying with lock-jaw.

“S’posin’ this, what I want to know is, couldn’t you sue Johnson for damages and make him pay heavily for what that dog did? That’s what I want to get at.”

The Colonel thought for a moment, and then said:

“Well, Mr. Briggs, I don’t think I could. If I agreed to let Johnson set the dog at me, I should be a party to the transaction, and I could not recover.”

“Do you mean to say that the law won’t make that infernal scoundrel Johnson suffer for letting his dog eat me up?”

“I think not, if you state the case properly.”

“It won’t, hey?” exclaimed Mr. Briggs, hysterically. “Oh, very well, very well! I s’pose if that dog had chewed me all up it’d ’ve been all the same to this constitutional republic. But hang me if I don’t have satisfaction. I’ll kill Johnson, poison his dog, and emigrate to some country where the rights of citizens are protected!”

Then Mr. Briggs got on his crutches and hobbled out. He is still a citizen, and will vote at the next election.

MY PARROT.

Let your face express contempt on the word “pshaw,” and make the gesture in [Figure 24 of Typical Gestures]. Drawl out the word “yawned” in the third verse and give a comical wink in the fourth verse. Prolong the sound on “pshaw” in the last line.

I had a parrot once, an ugly bird,

With the most wicked eye I ever saw,

Who, though it comprehended all it heard,

Would only say, “O pshaw!”

I did my best to teach it goodly lore;

I talked to it of medicine and law;

It looked as if it knew it all before,

And simply said, “O pshaw!”

I sat me down upon a dry-goods box

To stuff sound doctrine down its empty craw,

It would have none of matters orthodox,

But yawned and said, “O pshaw!”

I talked to it of politics, finance;

I hoped to teach the bird to say “Hurrah!”

For my pet candidates when he’d a chance,

He winked and chirped, “O pshaw!”

I am for prohibition, warp and woof,

But that bird stole hard cider through a straw,

And then he teetered off at my reproof

And thickly said, “O pshaw!”

Enraged, I hurled a bootjack, missed my aim

And plugged a passing stranger in the jaw;

He wheeled to see from whence the missile came;

The demon laughed “O pshaw!”

I gave the creature to an old-maid aunt,

And shook with parting grief its skinny claw.

“He’ll serve to cheer,” she said, “my lonely hearth,

For I’d not marry the best man on earth!”

“O pshaw!” sneered Poll, “O psha-a-w!”

Emma H. Webb.

BAKIN AND GREENS.

Yo’ may tell me ob pastries and fine oyster patties,

Of salads and crowkets an’ Boston baked beans,

But dar’s nuffin so temptin’ to dis nigger’s palate

As a big slice of bakin and plenty ob greens.

Jes bile ’em right down, so dey’ll melt when yo’ eat ’em;

Hab a big streak ob fat an’ a small streak o’ lean;

Dar’s nuffin on earf yo’ kin fix up to beat ’em,

Fur de king ob all dishes am bakin and greens.

Den take some co’hnmeal and sif’ it and pat it.

An’ put it in de ashes wid nuffin between;

Den blow off de ashes and set right down at it,

For dar’s nuffin like ashcake wid bakin and greens.

’Twill take de ole mammies to fix ’em up greasy,

Wid a lot ob good likker and dumplin’s between,

Take all yo’ fine eatin’, I won’t be uneasy,

If you’ll gimme dat bakin wid plenty ob greens.

Rich folks in dar kerrage may frow de dust on me;

But how kin I envy dem men ob big means.

Dey may hab de dispepsey and do’ they may scorn me,

Dey can’t enjoy bakin wid a dish ob good greens.

You may put me in rags, fill my cup up wid sorrow;

Let joy be a stranger, and trouble my dreams,

But I still will be smilin’, no pain kin I borrow,

Ef you lebe me dat bakin wid plenty of greens.

HUNTING A MOUSE.

I was dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of the good times which I hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most startling scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann in agony. The voice came from the kitchen, and to the kitchen I rushed. The idolized form of my Maria was perched on a chair, and she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions and shouting “shoo,” in a general manner, at everything in the room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she screamed, “O Joshua! a mouse, shoo—wha—shoo—a great—ya—shoo—horrid mouse, and—she—ew—it ran right out of the cupboard—shoo—go way—O Lord—Joshua—shoo—kill it, oh, my—shoo.”

All that fuss, you see, about one little harmless mouse. Some women are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and set myself to poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down and ran off into another room. I found the mouse in a corner under the sink. The first time I hit it I didn’t poke it any on account of getting the poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink; and I did not hit it any more because the mouse would not stay still. It ran right toward me, and I naturally jumped, as anybody would; but I am not afraid of mice, and when the horrid thing ran up inside the leg of my pantaloons, I yelled to Maria because I was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my garment.

I did not lose my presence of mind for an instant. I caught the mouse just as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing firmly on the outside of the cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. I kept jumping around with all my might to confuse it, so that it would not think about biting, and I yelled so that the mice would not hear its squeaks and come to its assistance. A man can’t handle many mice at once to advantage. Besides, I’m not so spry as I was before I had that spine in my back and had to wear plasters.

Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen and asked what she should do—as though I could hold the mouse and plan a campaign at the same time. I told her to think of something, and she thought she would throw things at the intruder; but as there was no earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot took effect on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried two flat-irons and the coal-scuttle. She paused for breath; but I kept bobbing around. Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. “O Joshua,” she cried, “I wish you had not killed the cat.”

Then she got the tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I objected to that process, except as a last resort. Then she got some cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not dare to let go, for fear it would run up. Matters were getting desperate. I told her to think of something else, and I kept jumping. Just as I was ready to faint with exhaustion, I tripped over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell to the floor, very dead. I had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy.

That was not the end of the trouble, for before I had recovered my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole company followed him through, and they dragged hose around, and mussed things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted to thrash me because the house was not on fire, and I had hardly got him pacified before a policeman came in and arrested me. Some one had run down and told him I was drunk and was killing Maria. It was all Maria and I could do, by combining our eloquence, to prevent him from marching me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters quieted and the house clear.

Now when mice run out of the cupboard I go outdoors, and let Maria “shoo” them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun don’t pay for the trouble.

Joshua Jenkins.

THE VILLAGE SEWING SOCIETY.

This is a very amusing recitation when correctly rendered. The gossips make the most disparaging remarks about their neighbors, but are very pleasant to their faces. The words in parentheses should be spoken ‘aside’ in an undertone. A recital for one who can imitate different female voices.

“Mis’ Jones is late agin to-day:

I’d be ashamed now ef ’twas me.

Don’t tell it, but I’ve heerd folks say

She only comes to get her tea.”

“Law me! she needn’t want it here,

The deacon’s folks ain’t much on eatin’:

They haven’t made a pie this year!

Of course, ’twon’t do to be repeatin’;

“But old Mis’ Jenkins says it’s true

(You know she lives just ’cross the way,

And sees most everything they do.)

She says she saw ’em t’other day—”

“Hush, here comes Hannah! How d’ye do?

Why, what a pretty dress you’ve got!”

(“Her old merino made up new:

I know it by that faded spot.”)

“Jest look! there’s Dr. Stebbins’ wife”—

“A bran-new dress and bunnit!—well—

They say she leads him such a life!

But, there! I promised not to tell.”

“What’s that, Mis’ Brown? ‘All friends,’ of course;

And you can see with your own eyes,

That that gray mare’s the better horse,

Though gossipin’ I do dispise.”

“Poor Mary Allen’s lost her beau”—

“It serves her right, conceited thing!

She’s flirted awfully, I know.

Say have you heard she kept his ring?”

“Listen! the clock is striking six.

Thank goodness! then it’s time for tea.”

“Now ain’t that too much! Abby Mix

Has folded up her work! Just see!”

“Why can’t she wait until she’s told?

Yes, thank you, deacon, here we come.”

(“I hope the biscuits won’t be cold:

No coffee? Wish I was tu hum!”)

“Do tell, Mis’ Ellis! Did you make

This cheese? the best I ever saw.

Such jumbles too (no jelly cake):

I’m quite ashamed to take one more.”

“Good-by: we’ve had a first-rate time,

And first-rate tea, I must declare.

Mis’ Ellis’ things are always prime.

(Well, next week’s meetin’ won’t be there!”)

SIGNS AND OMENS.

An old gentleman, whose style was Germanized, was asked what he thought of signs and omens.

“Vell, I don’t dinks mooch of dem dings, und I don’t pelieve averydings; but I dells you somedimes dere is somedings ash dose dings. Now de oder night I sit and reads mine newspaper, und my frau she speak und say—

“‘Fritz, de dog ish howling!’

“Vell, I don’ dinks mooch of dem dings, und I goes on und reads mine paper, und mine frau she says—

“‘Fritz, dere is somedings pad is happen,—der dog ish howling!’

“Und den I gets hop mit mineself und look out troo de wines on de porch, und de moon was shinin’, und mine leetle dog he shoomp right up und down like averydings, und he park at de moon, dat was shine so bright as never vas. Und ash I hauled mine het in de winder, de old voman she say—

“‘Mind, Fritz, I dells you dere ish someding pad ish happen. De dog ish howling.’

“Vell, I goes to ped, und I shleeps, und all night long ven I vakes up dere vas dat dog howling outside, und ven I dream I hear dat howling vorsher ash never. Und in de morning I kits up und kits mine breakfast, und mine frau she looks at me und say, werry solemn—

“‘Fritz, dere is somedings pad ish happen. De dog vas howl all night.’

“Und shoost den de newspaper came in, und I opens him und by shings, vot you dinks; dere vas a man’s vife cracked his skull in Philadelphia!”

THE GHOST.

Sing to the tune of Yankee Doodle the words designated.

’Tis about twenty years since Abel Law,

A short, round-favored, merry

Old soldier of the Revolutionary War,

Was wedded to

A most abominable shrew.

The temper, sir, of Shakespeare’s Catharine

Could no more be compared with hers,

Than mine

With Lucifer’s.

Her eyes were like a weasel’s; she had a harsh

Face, like a cranberry marsh.

All spread

With spots of white and red;

Hair of the color of a wisp of straw,

And a disposition like a cross-cut saw.

The appellation of this lovely dame

Was Nancy; don’t forget the name.

Her brother David was a tall,

Good-looking chap, and that was all;

One of your great, big nothings, as we say

Here in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes

And cracking them on other folks.

Well, David undertook one night to play

The Ghost, and frighten Abel, who,

He knew,

Would be returning from a journey through

A grove of forest wood

That stood

Below

The house some distance—half a mile, or so.

With a long taper

Cap of white paper,

Just made to cover

A wig, nearly as large over

As a corn-basket, and a sheet

With both ends made to meet

Across his breast,

(The way in which ghosts are always dressed,)

He took

His station near

A huge oak-tree,

Whence he could overlook

The road and see

Whatever might appear.

It happened that about an hour before, friend Abel

Had left the table

Of an inn, where he had made a halt,

With horse and wagon,

To taste a flagon,

Of malt

Liquor, and so forth, which, being done.

He went on,

Caring no more for twenty ghosts,

Than if they were so many posts.

David was nearly tired of waiting;

His patience was abating;

At length, he heard the careless tones

Of his kinsman’s voice,

And then the noise

Of wagon-wheels among the stones.

Abel was quite elated, and was roaring

With all his might, and pouring

Out, in great confusion,

Scraps of old songs made in “the Revolution.”

His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton

And jovially he went on,

Scaring the whip-po’-wills among the trees

With rhymes like these:—[Sings.]

“See the Yankees

Leave the hill,

With baggernetts declining,

With lopped-down hats

And rusty guns,

And leather aprons shining.”

“See the Yankees—Whoa! Why, what is that?”

Said Abel, staring like a cat,

As, slowly on, the fearful figure strode

Into the middle of the road.

“My conscience! what a suit of clothes!

Some crazy fellow, I suppose.

Hallo! friend, what’s your name? By the powers of gin,

That’s a strange dress to travel in.”

“Be silent, Abel; for I now have come

To read your doom;

Then hearken, while your fate I now declare.

I am a spirit”—“I suppose you are;

But you’ll not hurt me, and I’ll tell you why:

Here is a fact which you cannot deny;—

All spirits must be either good

Or bad—that’s understood—

And be you good or evil, I am sure

That I’m secure.

If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil—

And I don’t know but you may be the Devil—

If that’s the case, you’ll recollect, I fancy,

That I am married to your sister Nancy!”

A BIG MISTAKE.

Recently our church had a new minister. He is a nice, good, sociable gentleman; but coming from a distant State, of course he was totally unacquainted with our people. Therefore it happened that during his pastoral calls, he made several ludicrous blunders. One as follows: The other evening he called upon Mrs. Haddon. She had just lost her husband, and she naturally supposed that his visit was relative to the sad occurrence. So, after a few common-places had been exchanged, she was not surprised to hear him remark:

“It was a sad bereavement, was it not, Mrs. Haddon?”

“Yes,” faltered the widow.

“Totally unexpected?”

“Oh, yes; I never dreamed of it.”

“He died in the barn, I suppose.”

“Oh, no; in the house.”

“Ah, well, I suppose you must have thought a great deal of him?”

“Of course, sir.”

This was with vim. The minister looked rather surprised, crossed his legs and renewed the conversation.

“Blind staggers was the disease, I believe.”

“No, sir,” snapped the widow. “Apoplexy.”

“Indeed; you must have fed him too much.”

“He was quite capable of feeding himself, sir.”

“Very intelligent he must have been. Died hard?”

“He did.”

“You had to hit him on the head with an axe to put him out of his misery, I am told.”

Mrs. Haddon’s eyes snapped fire.

“Whoever told you that did not speak the truth,” she haughtily uttered. “James died naturally.”

“Yes,” continued the minister, in a perplexed tone. “He kicked the side of the barn down in his last agonies, didn’t he?”

“No, sir; he did not.”

“Well, I have been misinformed, I suppose. How old was he?”

“Thirty-five.”

“He did not do much active work. Perhaps you are better without him, for you can easily supply his place with a better one.”

“Never! sir, will I find such a good one as he.”

“Oh, yes you will; he had the heaves bad, you know.”

“Nothing of the kind, sir.”

“Why, I recollect I saw him one day, with you on his back, and I distinctly recollect that he had the heaves, and walked as if he had the spring-halt.”

Mrs. H.’s eyes snapped fire, and she stared at the reverend visitor as if she imagined he was crazy.

“He could not have had the spring-halt, for he had a cork-leg,” she replied.

“A cork-leg—remarkable; but really, didn’t he have a dangerous trick of suddenly stopping and kicking the wagon all to pieces?”

“Never, sir; he was not mad.”

“Probably not. But there were some good points about him.”

“I should think so.”

“The way in which he carried his ears, for example.”

“Nobody ever noticed that particular merit,” said the widow, with much asperity, “he was warm-hearted, generous and frank.”

“Good qualities,” answered the minister. “How long did it take him to go a mile?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“Not much of a goer. Wasn’t his hair apt to fly?”

“He didn’t have any hair, he was bald-headed.”

“Quite a curiosity.”

“No, sir; no more of a curiosity than you are.”

The minister shifted uneasily, and got red in the face; but he returned to the attack.

“Did you use the whip much on him?”

“Never, sir.”

“Went right along without it, eh?”

“Yes.”

“He must have been a good sort of a brute!”

The widow sat down and cried.

“The idea of your coming here and insulting me,” she sobbed. “If my husband had lived you would not have done it. Your remarks in reference to the poor dead man have been a series of insults, and I won’t stand it.”

He colored, and looked dumfounded.

“Ain’t you Mrs. Blinkers?” at last he stammered, “and has not your gray horse just died?”

“No! no!” she cried. “I never owned a horse, but my husband died a week ago.”

Ten minutes later that minister came out of that house with the reddest face ever seen on mortal man.

“And to think,” he groaned, as he strode home, “that I was talking horse to that woman all the time—and she was talking husband.”