I asked John how the horse happened to be called Napoleon, but he did not know. He was equally ignorant concerning the animal’s eminent blood-stained namesake. He thought he “was some fightin’ feller in Europe,” but did not know “which side ’e was on.”
The world execrates its petty criminals, and immortalizes its great malefactors. As Napoleon, for selfish ends, caused the destruction of countless lives, instead of one, his glory should reach even unto Catfish John.
If the poor little horse had been called “Rembrandt” or “Shakespeare,” the name would have been just as heavy for him to bear, but it would suggest good instead of evil to enlightened minds. He was, however, oblivious to all these things, and went on his humble way, thinking probably only of his oats and the queer smells that emanated from the fish-box.
We proceeded about half a mile along the shore, and took the road that led through the sand hills into the back country. When we got to the marshy strip, we bumped along over the corduroy for quite a distance, but the road became better when we got to higher ground. As soon as we arrived on firm soil, Napoleon stopped. A fat man with a green basket was advancing hurriedly along the edge of the thin timber, about a quarter of a mile away, and the horse probably surmised that his coming was in some way connected with a rest.
The fat man was a picturesque figure, and we watched his progress with interest. His embonpoint was rendered more conspicuous by the legs of his breeches, which were about twice as large and not as long as appeared to be necessary. The wide ends flapped to and fro about nine inches above his feet as he ambled along. The garment was ridiculous simply because it did not happen to be “in style” at the time. A faint and mysterious whisper from the unknown gods who dictate the absurdities in human attire would immediately invest its masses and contours with elegance and propriety, and those we now wear would appear as outrageous, artistically, as they really are. The freaks of vanity are the mockeries of art.
“Them are high-water pants all right, an’ some day I’m goin’ to have some like ’em,” remarked John.
It might be suggested that “trousers” are breeches which are in style, and “pants” are those which are not. Gentlemen wear trousers and “gents” wear “pants.”
“That ol’ feller lives in that brown house over in the clearin’ yonder,” said John. “His name is Dan’l Smith. He’s got two sons, an’ them an’ ’is wife do all the work now, an’ ’e’s got fat settin’ ’round an’ eatin’ everythin’ in sight. He trots over ’ere when ’e sees me comin’ an’ gits fish. He’s partic’lar ’bout ’em bein’ fresh, an’ ’e likes to git ’em when I first start out. He’s a good customer, but ’e owes me a lot o’ money. He says ’e’s got some money comin’ from a patent he’s inventin’, an’ I’ll have to wait awhile. This patent’s to keep flies offen cows when they’re bein’ milked, but I ain’t never seen it work. He drawed it all out on some paper oncet, to show me, but I don’t know nothin’ ’bout patents, an’ I couldn’t see just how it went. It’s some kind o’ thing with little oars on it that ’e winds up an’ fastens on ’em, an’ then it goes ’round an’ ’round. The little oars are all sticky with some goo ’e puts on ’em, an’ the flies that don’t go ’way, when the little oars come ’round, git stuck on ’em, an’ can’t git off. The contraption’s got some guide sticks on behind, an’ when the cows switch their tails, they have to switch ’em back’ards an’ forrads, instid o’ sideways. There’s some parts of it that ’e’s keepin’ secret, so’s none o’ them fellers down to the store’ll git the patent fust.”
“Good mornin’, Dan’l!” said John cheerily, as the fat man came up, much out of breath; “did ye have a hard time gittin’ through?”
“I got through all right, but it’s a good ways over ’ere from the house, an’ I ain’t as frisky as I was oncet, an’ I’m ’fraid I’m gittin’ a little rheumaticks in my legs. Wotcher got in th’ box to-day?”