THE FIRST BANJO

Go 'way, fiddle; folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'— Keep silence fur yo' betters!—don't you heah de banjo talkin'? About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter—ladies, listen!— About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin': "Dar's gwine to be a' oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn— Fur Noah tuk the "Herald," an' he read de ribber column— An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl'arin' timber-patches, An' 'lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah Natchez. Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin'; An' all de wicked neighbours kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin'; But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin' whut wuz gwine to happen: An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'. Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es— Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces! He had a Morgan colt an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle— An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon's he heered de thunder rattle. Den sech anoder fall ob rain!—it come so awful hebby, De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee; De people all wuz drownded out—'cep' Noah an' de critters, An' men he'd hired to work de boat—an' one to mix de bitters. De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin', an' a-sailin'; De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin'; De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tell, whut wid all de fussin', You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' round' an' cussin'. Now, Ham, he only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de packet, Got lonesome in de barber-shop, and c'u'dn't stan' de racket; An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' bent it, An' soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented. He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an' screws an aprin; An' fitted in a proper neck—'twas berry long and tap'rin'; He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it; An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it? De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin'; De ha'r's so long an' thick an' strong,—des fit fur banjo-stringin'; Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as wash-day-dinner graces; An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'om little E's to basses. He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—'twus "Nebber min' de wedder,"— She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder; Some went to pattin'; some to dancin': Noah called de figgers; An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers! Now, sence dat time—it's mighty strange—dere's not de slightes' showin' Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin'; An' curi's, too, dat nigger's ways: his people nebber los' 'em— Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar's de banjo an' de 'possum! Irwin Russell.

THE ROMANCE OF THE CARPET

Basking in peace in the warm spring sun,
South Hill smiled upon Burlington.
The breath of May! and the day was fair,
And the bright motes danced in the balmy air.
And the sunlight gleamed where the restless breeze
Kissed the fragrant blooms on the apple-trees.
His beardless cheek with a smile was spanned,
As he stood with a carriage whip in his hand.
And he laughed as he doffed his bobtail coat,
And the echoing folds of the carpet smote.
And she smiled as she leaned on her busy mop,
And said she'd tell him when to stop.
So he pounded away till the dinner-bell
Gave him a little breathing spell.
But he sighed when the kitchen clock struck one,
And she said the carpet wasn't done.
But he lovingly put in his biggest licks,
And he pounded like mad till the clock struck six.
And she said, in a dubious sort of way,
That she guessed he could finish it up next day.
Then all that day, and the next day, too,
That fuzz from the dirtless carpet flew.
And she'd give it a look at eventide,
And say, "Now beat on the other side."
And the new days came as the old days went,
And the landlord came for his regular rent.

And the neighbors laughed at the tireless broom,
And his face was shadowed with clouds of gloom.
Till at last, one cheerless winter day,
He kicked at the carpet and slid away.
Over the fence and down the street,
Speeding away with footsteps fleet.
And never again the morning sun
Smiled on him beating his carpet-drum.
And South Hill often said with a yawn,
"Where's the carpet-martyr gone?"
Years twice twenty had come and passed
And the carpet swayed in the autumn blast.
For never yet, since that bright spring-time,
Had it ever been taken down from the line.
Over the fence a gray-haired man
Cautiously clim, clome, clem, clum, clamb.
He found him a stick in the old woodpile,
And he gathered it up with a sad, grim smile,
A flush passed over his face forlorn
As he gazed at the carpet, tattered and torn.
And he hit it a most resounding thwack,
Till the startled air gave his echoes back.
And out of the window a white face leaned,
And a palsied hand the pale face screened.
She knew his face; she gasped, and sighed,
"A little more on the other side."
Right down on the ground his stick he throwed,
And he shivered and said, "Well, I am blowed!"

And he turned away, with a heart full sore,
And he never was seen not more, not more.
Robert J. Burdette.

THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK

"Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again
The five unmistakable marks
By which you may know, wheresoever you go,
The warranted genuine Snarks.
"Let us take them in order. The first is the taste,
Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp:
Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist,
With a flavor of Will-o'-the-wisp.
"Its habit of getting up late you'll agree
That it carries too far when I say
That it frequently breakfasts at five-o'clock tea,
And dines on the following day. "The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines,
Which it constantly carries about,
And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes—
A sentiment open to doubt.
"The fifth is ambition. It next will be right
To describe each particular batch;
Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite,
From those that have whiskers, and scratch.
"For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm,
Yet I feel it my duty to say
Some are Boojums—" The Bellman broke off in alarm,
For the Baker had fainted away.
They roused him with muffins—they roused him with ice—
They roused him with mustard and cress—
They roused him with jam and judicious advice—
They set him conundrums to guess.

When at length he sat up and was able to speak,
His sad story he offered to tell;
And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!"
And excitedly tingled his bell.
There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream,
Scarcely even a howl or a groan,
As the man they called "Ho!" told his story of woe.
In an antediluvian tone.
"My father and mother were honest, though poor—"
"Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste,
"If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark,
We have hardly a minute to waste!"
"I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears,
"And proceed without further remark
To the day when you took me aboard of your ship
To help you in hunting the Snark.
"A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named)
Remarked, when I bade him farewell—"
"Oh, skip your dear uncle," the Bellman exclaimed,
As he angrily tingled his bell.
"He remarked to me then," said that mildest of men,
"'If your Snark be a Snark, that is right;
Fetch it home by all means—you may serve it with greens
And it's handy for striking a light.
"'You may seek it with thimbles—and seek it with care;
You may hunt it with forks and hope;
You may threaten its life with a railway-share;
You may charm it with smiles and soap—
"'But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,
If your Snark be a Boojum! For then
You will softly and suddenly vanish away
And never be met with again!'

"It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul,
When I think of my uncle's last words:
And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl
Brimming over with quivering curds!
"I engage with the Snark—every night after dark—
In a dreamy delirious fight:
I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes,
And I use it for striking a light:
"But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day,
In a moment (of this I am sure),
I shall softly and suddenly vanish away—
And the notion I cannot endure!"
Lewis Carroll.