As we stepped from the wood into the open road, I contemplated, for a moment, the ludicrous appearance of my unfortunate companion. Poor Sam!—daylight, and the prospect of home, brought no joy to him—and as he stood before me, with the saddle and bridle of the deceased Blaze girded about his neck, his musket in one hand, and pan in the other, drenched with rain, his clothes torn, and a countenance that told of the painful conflict within, I could not but regard him as an object of sympathy rather than ridicule.
“Well,” said he, with a heavy sigh, and without looking me in the face, “good mornin’, Major.”
“Good morning,” I replied, touched with sympathy for his misfortune, and reproaching myself for the mirth I had enjoyed at his expense—“Good morning, Mr. Sikes. I am very sorry for your loss, and hope you will have better luck in future.”
“Oh, Major,” said he, “it ain’t the vally of the mule that I minds so much—though old Blaze was a monstrous handy cretur on the place. But thar’s my wife—what’ll she say when she sees me comin’ home in this here fix? Howsomedever, what can’t be cured must be indured, as the feller said when the monkey bit him.”
“That’s the true philosophy,” I remarked, seeing that he endeavoured to take courage from the train of reasoning into which he had fallen; “and Mrs. Sikes should bear in mind that accidents will happen, and be thankful that it’s no worse.”
“To be sure she ought,” replied Sam, “but that ain’t the way with her—she don’t believe in accidents, nohow; and then she’s so howdacious unreasonable when she’s raised. But, she better not,” he continued, with a stern look as he spoke—“she better not come a cavortin’ ’bout me with any of her rantankerous carryin’s on this mornin’, for I ain’t in no humour nohow!” and he made a threatening gesture with his head, as much as to say he’d make the fur fly if she did.
We parted at the gate, Sam for his home, and I for my bed; he sorely convinced that a “bad beginning” does not always “make a good ending,” and I fully resolved that it should be my first and last fire-hunt.
XX.
A PAIR OF SLIPPERS; OR, FALLING WEATHER.
Whenever we look upon the crowded thoroughfare, or regard the large assembly, we are compelled to admit that the infinite variety of form in the human race contributes largely to the picturesque. The eye travels over the diversity of shape and size without fatigue, and renews its strength by turning from one figure to another, when, at each remove, it is sure to find a difference. Satiated with gazing at rotundity, it is refreshed by a glance at lathiness: and, tired with stooping to the lowly, it can mount like a bird to the aspiring head which tops a maypole.
But, while the potency of these pictorial beauties is admitted, it must be conceded that the variations from the true standard, although good for the eyesight, are productive of much inconvenience; and that, to consider the subject like a Benthamite, utility and the general advantage would be promoted if the total amount of flesh, blood, bone, and muscle were more equally distributed. As affairs are at present arranged, it is almost impossible to find a “ready-made coat” that will answer one’s purpose, and a man may stroll through half the shops in town without being able to purchase a pair of boots which he can wear with any degree of comfort. In hanging a lamp, every shop-keeper, who “lights up,” knows that it is a very troublesome matter so to swing it, that, while the short can see the commodities, the tall will not demolish the glass. If an abbreviated “turnippy” man, in the goodness of his heart and in articulo mortis, bequeaths his wardrobe to a long and gaunt friend, of what service is the posthumous present? It is available merely as new clothing for the juveniles, or as something toward another kitchen carpet. Many a martial spirit is obliged to content himself with civic employment, although a mere bottle of fire and wrath, because heroism is enlisted by inches, and not by degree.