“Now, do, George, stop your lingo—that's a good fellow,” said the officer, coaxingly, seeing that the usual means of reaching the offender were cut off; “and come down without bother.”
“Look up!” shouted the indignant advocate of truth, “lookup, you stiff-necked, corrupt son of Belial!—you dog in office!—you, that belch forth the corrupt effluvium of liquid death, commonly styled rum!—you are the chief of a band of authorised knaves, composed of evil expounders of the law, otherwise called pettifoggers, and certain other rogues in office, who are styled 'the police.'—You lead captive the senses of the mayor, who is as much bridled by your wickedness as the beast of the same name!—you cause him by your false tongues to do evil, but, there is a day coming—there is! when, at a bar where your credit has long since been chalked out, I'll make an ajffidavy will knock you so far into the regions of darkness, that the final trump will sound like a penny whistle to your ear!—do you hear that!”
The policeman did hear that, but his amiability could stand it no longer; so, procuring a watchman's ladder, he commenced climbing to the prophet, who coolly unscrewed his gimblets, hoisted the window, lifted up his robes, and, shouting “woe to the wicked,” beat a successful retreat.
COURTING IN FRENCH HOLLOW.
Courtin' is all slick enough when every body's agreed, and the gal aint got no mischief in her, but when an extensive family, old maids, cross daddy, and a romantic old mommy, all want to put thur fingers into the young uns dish of sweet doin's, and the gal's fractious besides, why a fellar that's yearnin' arter matrimony is mity likely to git his fires dampened, or bust his biler.”
Thus reasoned Tom Bent to a select party of river cronies, who were seated around him upon the boiler deck of a Mississippi steamer, as she sped along one bright night in June, somewhere in the neighborhood of Bayou Teche. The subject was courting, and on that particular question Tom was considered an oracle, for, besides having a strong penchant for the fair sex, he had run many risks to ingratiate himself in their affections. Tom was now fast falling into the sear and yellow leaf of bachelorism, and although he had vowed unalterable affection to at least one fair one in each town between the mouth and the rapids, he still remained in unblessed singleness.
“How about that afarr of your'n with old Fecho's gal, in St. Louis, Tom?” inquired one of the circle.
“What, that little French gal?” inquired Tom, with a grin; “well, that thar was a salty scrape, boys, and though the laugh is agin me thar, I'm blessed if I don't gin you the sarcumstince.” So Tom squared himself for a yarn, wet his lips with a little corn juice, took a small strip of Missouri weed, and “let out.”