Riding on a pony,
Stuck a feather in his cap,
And called him "Mac A'Rony."
A county poor-house on the road to Elkhart attracted my notice when I was about to pass it by. My outfit was recognized by a man raking the front lawn, and he urged me to visit the institution; so, thinking I might devote a quarter-hour to the cause of self-education, I tied Mac in the yard, and was shown through the dirtiest and most uninteresting building I ever inspected.
Old, lazy-looking men, with empty heads in full hands, lounged about on benches, and several others in the hospital ward seemed to be trying harder to die than to live. One wrinkled but round-faced wench, with a soiled bandage round her ears and forehead, was smoking a well-seasoned pipe in the kitchen while stirring mush. I was glad to see the house prison empty. Five minutes indoors sufficed me; and, bidding my escort a hasty adieu, I piloted Mac on to Elkhart.
Arriving in the city, I at once procured a license to sell pictures on the curb, a precaution I had been timely advised to take, and one that was rarely necessary on that trip. Then, before going to eat and to rest my tired bones, I led the donkey to a prominent corner in the business center and began to sell. I had disposed of two photos only, when a policeman with unusual pomposity ordered me away, but I continued to make sales and, as he was about to take me in custody, shook my license in his face, causing much merriment to the crowd.
Soon the cheering attracted the Mayor to the scene, and he, to my surprise, not only bought a chromo, but paid me for the privilege of riding Mac A'Rony. The jack reluctantly consenting, his Honor got into the saddle and rode down the half-choked thoroughfare a block and back amid thunderous applause.
The profits from my sales did not meet my expenses, including the cost of license, so I hurried on to Mishawaka, where, after supper I delivered a street lecture, passed my hat and collected 24 cents. I would yet be stranded in Indiana, at that rate. Mac advised me to leave town at once, and we made for South Bend at dark, reaching that city by ten o'clock. And there with only $6.50 in pocket, I put up at a small hotel and tossed in bed half the night, wondering how I should save myself.
"The darkest hour is just before dawn," and it was about that time when I recollected having received, a few days before my pilgrimage began, a letter from a Mr. Adams, of Chicago, extending me an invitation to be his guest, should I pass through that city. It was one of many letters received at the time, which I had not answered. I now regretted my negligence, but nevertheless, next morning, with due apologies I wired him to expect me on a certain train, and planned for a week's absence.
The lenient hotel proprietor agreed to take care of my animals as security for my hotel and stable bill; then I purchased a return ticket for emergency, and boarded the train for the Windy City, trusting to a dollar and a half, to my wits, and to "luck" to carry me through.