As we are by the sea, nautical rhymes seem to turn out naturally. The writer of this remarkable effusion is evidently not an evolutionist, though he may think there are some "queer fish" among the heterogeneous inhabitants of this island.
At last the day comes when we must turn away from these lovely scenes; and it is with regret, and many a backward look, that we are conveyed to the Rockland boat. That vessel pursues a circuitous route along the coast, among the picturesque islands; the trip suggesting quite forcibly the St. Lawrence with its Thousand Isles, as old Neptune is fortunately in amiable mood, and shows a smiling countenance. So we have no grudge to lay up against him, and only pictures tinged with couleur-de-rose to carry away with us.
SEA-SIDE AMUSEMENT IN THE "CITY OF SOLES".
As it is our custom to come to these New England shores every summer, in order, as Jim says, to get salted so that we may keep well through the winter (by which you need not infer that we "get into a pickle"), we commence the process at this place, before proceeding to more Northerly points.
As the "dry spell" has made the roads so dusty that there is little pleasure in driving, and our horses are at present in the stables of our Chateaux-en-Espagne, and consequently not available this warm evening, we gather on the porch to be entertained by the learned converse of the professors, until an approaching storm drives us in-doors. Within the "shooting box", as the young man who has traveled christens the house,— thinking that an appropriate title for a domicile where so many members of the Hunt family are collected,—there is a motley assembly, as they gather around the sitting room table. There are Portuguese, Michiganders, Pennites, Illinoisyones, Bangorillas, and other specimens of natural history such as would have puzzled Agassiz himself; and the question arises, "What shall we do to amuse ourselves this rainy evening?" But "Pat", the engineer, oiler of the domestic machinery of the establishment, and keeper of this menagerie, seems overcome with fatigue; the Astronomer is eclipsed in a corner; the professors are absorbed in sines and co-sines; the Fisherman nods over his paper; Grandma knits her brows and the stocking; Elsie is deep in a book; and no one displays any special interest in the matter until pencils and paper are distributed for the game of Crambo. The modus operandi of that most wise and learned game is as follows: Four slips of paper are given each person, on one of which he is requested to write a question, and on each of the other scraps a word. These are then shuffled, and all in turn draw. And now there is great commotion, for each participant is expected to answer his question in rhyme, and to bring the three words which he has drawn, into his answer, also. Such a chorus of "Oh dears", and such dismayed faces! The student proposes to procure the coffee mill to assist him in grinding out his "pome"; the tennis player wishes she had a hatchet to chop up a long word which has fallen to her lot, so that she can put it in proper metre; but Mr. Short (6 ft. 2 in.), with watch in hand, calls "Time", and then "Silence", as pencils race over papers as if on a wager. Ten minutes is the brief space allotted for the production of the wondrous effusions; and when Mr. S. announces, "Time's up", the hat is again full; and one says, with a sigh of relief, "There, I never made two lines rhyme in my life before;" another modestly remarks, "You needn't think we are verdant because we are in Green—" but the warning finger of the Philosopher is raised, and Pat, the reader, begins, emphasizing the words drawn as he reads:—
"Why so much quarrelling about Religion!
It's as plain as string beans
That from this very means
The world is not right,
If I had but clear sight
I might hope ere this night
Is beginning to wane
The thing to explain.
But, lacking the wit,
I must e'en submit
This doggerel rhyme
And hope 't is in time."
"Oh! oh!" exclaimed the "small specimen" (aged ten), "that's Grandma's; I heard her say she 'knows beans', 'cause she is a Yankee;" but the S. S. subsides on hearing the next paper read, and shows so plainly that she "wishes herself further" that it is not difficult to guess the author:—
"What's quicker than lightning?
A Turkey or a squirrel
Can 'cut' like a knife
But I never saw a creature rash
Like a deer in all my life."
"Good for Ten-year-old!" exclaim the chorus; and the S. S., brightening up, concludes she'll try it again sometime. Next comes the question:—
"Where do cabbages come from?
My will is good, and I propose
To tell you all I can
In this dry time a garden hose
Must come into the plan
First plant the seed, and in due course
Will little shoots appear,
When each from other has divorce
They'll flourish, it is clear.
If this rhyme is worth preserving,
With mucilage it may be fixed
On any wall deserving
Such wit and wisdom mixed."