“'Oh, mon amie, nevair be fear fur him, he is von great, strong as vat you call de gentleman cow?—von bull,—but, mon Dieu! what shall I do wiz you, suppose he come, eh? He vill cut you into bits all ovair!' “'But, my angel,' ses I, 'he shant ketch me, fur I'll streak it like a fast boat, the moment I hear steam from his scape-pipe—the old man might as well try to catch a Massissippi catty with a thread line, as git his fingers on me.' I had no sooner said so, than bang! went the door below, and old Fecho, juicy as a melon, came feelin' his way up stairs, mutterin' like a small piece of fat thunder, and swarin' in French, orfully. I know'd thar warn't much time to spare, so I histed the winder and backed out. Jest as I was about to drop, Marie says to me—'Oh, mon Dieu! don't drop into de vell!' and instanter shut the winder. My har riz on eend in a moment—'don't drop into the well!' I'll tell you what, boys, a souse into the Massissippi in ice time warn't half as cold as her last warnin' made me. It was so etarnal dark that I couldn't begin to tell which side of the buildin' I wur on, and that wur an all important perticuler, fur it wur jest three stories high on one side, towards the Hollow, and it warn't only one on the side next the hill—in course, all the chances wur in favor of the well bein' on the low side. I'd gin all I had then to know which side was waitin' below fur me. I looked up, as I hung on, to see ef thar warn't a star shinin' somewhare, jest to give a hint of what was below, but they'd all put on thar night caps, and wouldn't be coaxed from under the kiver; then I'd look below, and listen, until I made sartin in my mind that I could hear the droppin' of water, somewhare about fifty feet below me! Old Fecho was a tearin' through the room, and a rippin' out French oaths, in an oncommon rapid manner, and declarin' that he knew some one had bin thar, fur he'd bin told so. Two or three times he appeared to be a rushin' for the winder, and the little gal would coax him back agin, and then he'd cuss de Yankee doodels, and grit his teeth most owdaciously. Well, ef I warn't in an oneasy situation all this time, then I'm more than human—my arms jest stretched out to about a yard and a half in length, and gin to cramp and git orful weak. I couldn't fur the life of me think on any prayer I'd ever heerd—at last, jest as one hand was givin' way its hold, I thort of a short one I used to say when I was a younker, and mutterin'—'Here I drop me down deep, I pray the Lord my bones to keep!' I sot my teeth together, drew a long breath, shut my eyes, and let go!—whiz!—r-r-r-ip!—bang! I went—as I supposed—about fifty feet; and didn't I holler, when I lit and rolled over, and the water soused all round me! 'Murder! oh, git me out, oh-o-o-o, murder! The people came a rushin' out of their houses, with lights, and sich another jargon of questions as they showered at me—askin', all together, who'd bin a stabbin' me? what wur the marter? and who'd hit me? I opened my eyes to tell 'em I'd fell from the third story, and broke every bone in my body, when, on lookin' up, thar wur the old Frenchman and his darter, grinnin' out of the top winder, about ten feet above me! The fact wur, boys, I'd dropped out on the hill side of the house, and jumped down jest four feet from whar my toes reached,—I had lit on the edge of a water pail, and it flowed about me when I fell over! Arter old Fecho told them the joke, they pretty nigh busted a larfin' at me. I crawled off, arter firin' a volly at old Mounseer, of the hardest kind of cusses, and from that day to this I han't gone a courtin' in French Hollow!
THE SECOND ADVENT! TOM BANGALL, THE ENGINEER, AND MILLERISM.
About the period fixed upon by Father Miller, for the general blowing up of the world, some of the engineers upon our western waters, who had been used to blowing up its inhabitants, became a little frightened at the prospect of having to encounter, in another world, the victims of steamboat disaster. Among these was Tom Bangall, the engineer of the Arkansas Thunder. Tom was a rearing, tearing, bar state scrouger—could chaw up any single specimen of the human race—any quantity of tobacco, and drink steam without flinching!—A collapsed flue had blown him once somewhere in the altitude of an Alpine height, but dropped him unharmed into the Arkansas, and he used to swear that after the steam tried to jerk him apart and found it couldn't do it, why, it just dropped the subject, as the stump speakers say, by dropping him into the “drink”—he therefore incontinently set water, hot or cold, at defiance. Tom was, withal, a generous, open-hearted, whole-souled fellow, and his cheering words to the emigrants on the boiler deck, and many a kind act to a suffering passenger, proved that beneath his rough exterior he had a heart open to gentle influences. As a further proof of this, Tom had a wife, a good wife, too, and what's more he tenderly loved her; but she in vain tried to cure him of drinking and swearing. Tom swore that he would swear, that a steamboat wouldn't work without some swearing, and if a fellar didn't drink he'd bust, and, therefore, it was necessary to take a bust now and then to keep out of danger. “There is no use,” he would say, “in blowing off steam from your 'scape-pipe agin it, for it has to be did!”
One day on Tom's return home, he found Mrs. Mary Bangall weeping bitterly, and Tom became, instantly, correspondingly distressed.
“Why, Polly,” inquired he, “what's the matter, gal?—what's hurt you?—is anythin' broke loose that can't be mended?—what the thunder makes you take on so?—Come, out with the cause, or I shall git a blubberin' too.”
“Only look here, Tom,” said Mary, “here's a whole account of how the world is going to be destroyed this April.—Every thing has been counted up by Father Miller, and the sum total's a general burn! Now, Tom, don't swear, nor drink any more or you won't be able to stand the fire no more than gunpowder!”
Tom indulged in a regular guffaw at her distress, and told her she was a fool to be frightened at that—it was all moonshine, humbug—smoke,— that Father Miller was an old granny, and it warn't possible—anyhow he warn't afraid of fire, “so it might fire away!”
“But, Tom,” continued Mary, “let me read to you the proof—it's irresistible, Tom,—the times and the half times, are so correctly added up that there can be no mistake, and if you don't make some preparation we will be separated for ever.”