“Cursed, thrice cursed may you be evermore, and as my people
on Mount Ebal spoke, so speak I thrice, Amen! Amen! Amen!”
Holding a Baby.
Yesterday, while waiting on the corner for a street-car, a woman, laden with an umbrella, a bandbox and a baby, accosted me with “Say, mister, can I git to Market street on these yer cars?” “You can,” I replied. “How long must I wait?” “Madam,” said I, noticing the string slipping from her bandbox, “may I hold your umbrella and bandbox until the car arrives? See, here it comes!” “I’d rather you’d hold Berthy, if you will, mister, ’cause this darned string’s a slippin’ off—quick!—ketch it! Land o’ misery! There be all my things scattered over the bricks! Do hold Berthy while I pick ’em up.” Here was a dilemma. The car was not forty yards off, while the sidewalk was strewn with every conceivable article, from a broken hair brush to a pair of old worsted slippers.
“Hurry up, then, madam,” cried I, as I reached for the child, “I have an appointment and must take this car.” Just as I took her from the woman’s arms, Berthy set up a yell that would have paralyzed a huckster. Before the woman had gathered up half the articles the car was upon us. Leaving her bandbox, she ran to the crossing, and with a “Hold on there, you!” signaled the driver to stop. The latter, taking in the situation, kept on, but a fat man standing on the platform pulled the bell and the car stopped, about half a dozen yards beyond the flag-stones. The conductor, who was inside, collecting fares, ran out, and, grasping the bell-strap with one hand and beckoning with the other, screeched: “If you want to ride down, come on; I ain’t a-goin’ to anchor here all day!” As soon as the woman took up her bandbox and umbrella, I started for the car. “Tell your wife to come,” yelled the conductor. I looked back and there stood the woman on the corner. “Do you think I’m a-goin’ to wade through that mud?” screamed the woman, “for if you do, you’re mistaken. Just back that ve-he-cle to me, right quick, too!” I had reached the platform with Berthy in my arms, but the woman, looking cyclones, still refused to move an inch. I shrieked out, “Walk along the pavement and get on here!” A cross old maid looking through the window at my elbow remarked aloud: “Hear him abuse his poor wife!” The fat man suggested that I should manage the freight and let my wife take the baby. The woman slowly picked her way through the mire and stepped on the car. The conductor gave the bell a wicked snap, and with a jerk that almost threw us over the dasher, the car started down the street like a ten-penny nail from a slap-jack. “Here, madam,” said I, in desperation, “take the child, I have forgotten my pocket book.” She dropped into a seat and took her baby. Just as I was rushing from the car
the word “scoundrel!” was hissed into my ear. Turning quickly, my horrified eyes beheld the stony gaze of my wife. “Go!” she muttered. Well, I did go! Friends do you see this bald spot on my head? Well, that reminds me never to fool with other people’s babies.
—Geo. M. Vickers.
The Spanish Mother.
[Supposed to be related by a veteran French officer.]
Yes! I have served that[117] noble chief throughout his proud career,