A friend of mine was stopping at the hotel, having gone up to Maine on a fishing trip. He fell into the habit of glancing through the back pages of the register, more for the enjoyment he got from the quaint language of the entries than because he was interested in bygone neighborhood history.
On succeeding pages of the book for a week of the early spring of the year previous, he found these progressive records of a local tragedy:
Tuesday: “While fishing through the ice yesterday, Henry Whippet fell in the Saco River up to his neck. He was drawed out and took home.”
Wednesday: “Henry Whippet is in bed with a powerful bad cold. His folks are thinking some about calling in a doctor.”
Thursday: “Henry Whippet is rapidly continuing to get no better. It now looks like he is fixing to break out with the pneumonia.”
Friday: “Henry Whippet is sinking rapidly.”
Saturday: “At nine o’clock this morning our esteemed fellow-citizen, Henry J. Whippet, Esq., went to his Maker entirely uncalled for.”
§ 331 He Couldn’t Stick to Any One Thing
Carried away by a spirit of patriotism, a New York song-writer, of indolent habits, signed up for a citizens’ training-camp. On his arrival he was assigned to an awkward squad under charge of a sergeant of the regular army.
Bearing a dummy musket, our hero lined up with the rest of the green hands. Facing them, the drill-master proceeded to rattle off the manual.