The frozen rider in that frozen wilderness!
THE MAN WITH THE BIG BOX.
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BY G. G. FOSTER.
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Mr. Robert Short—or, as he was called for shortness, Bob Short—was a genius. He could write a passable poem, and on one occasion—perhaps I should say two—had imprinted a sonnet upon each virgin sole of a pair of stainless satin slippers, kindly loaned him by the fair owner who was to trample upon his mounting aspirations. But some, who accidentally read the verses in the evening—ladies’ slippers will come off and get passed round the room, you know—asserted that Bob had put his foot into it more completely than the lady. And then the pretty excuses he made for the minuteness of the hand, or rather foot writing—“they were really so very small he could scarcely crowd his rhymes upon them, in any character!” It was quite charming and irresistible! Mr. Short rose cent. per cent. in moral and social stature, and eventually swelled to the size of a lion. Don’t be alarmed, ladies—we mean a New York lion—not a real king of the forest, with yellow mane, eyes of fire, and a roar like Niagara Falls; but that much more harmless and docile animal, a civil, social lion—the lion of ladies in want of distinction, the lion of the bas bleu, the lion of Waverley Place and other high latitudes.
But, with all his numerous and admirable qualifications, Mr. Short had no genius for packing big boxes. Indeed, he had no genius for packing at all; and when his wife sent him packing, during his first courtship, he wouldn’t stay packed, but came back and plagued her so with his attentions that at length she fairly married him to get rid of him—and a very good way it is, too, to get rid of a man’s society, as many wives have proved. Mr. Short turned out, as might have been expected, any thing but an efficient housekeeper. He could cut a pigeon-wing, but was incapable of carving a chicken; he could wheedle the Muses, but was invariably cheated by the market-women; he could make bon mots, after a fashion, but bargains not at all. Although his verses were eminently mechanical, his manual dexterity extended to no useful purpose. As for putting up a bedstead, he could no more do it than he could have built a gallows and hung himself with the bed-cord; and he was obliged to wear gaiters all winter from lack of sufficient ingenuity to construct a boot-jack.
But Bob loved his wife, and felt ashamed of his utter inefficiency about the house. When his first child was born, therefore, he determined to reform, and see if he could not acquire some of the faculties in which he found himself so lamentably deficient. So he quit sonneteering and conundrum-making and betook himself to his study, where he passed day and night in profound meditation. His wife thought he was only a little more crazy than usual; but the neighbors contended that he was calculating the centre of gravity. The result, however, upset every body’s gravity, and all their calculations. Bob had invented a cradle! Such a cradle! If I had the pencil of Darley or Martin I could show you something of an idea of this wonderful cradle—but you must imagine. In form it was a happy combination of Cleopatra’s barge and the tub of Diogenes; while in convenience and “general utility” it was at least equal to the Chinese junk at the Battery, or the walking gentleman at the —— theatre. Proud of his baby—for which he was indebted to his wife—he was still prouder of his cradle—which was entirely his own. No sooner was the grand idea perfected than he rushed to the cabinet-maker, who, after anxious reflection on the subject, informed him that it would require a month to give form and mahogany to his magnificent conception. Meanwhile, what was to be done with Baby? He could not, of course, possibly think of sleeping and being rocked in a common cradle—no, that would be rank sacrilege. The father had an idea—Baby should sleep in a champagne-basket, until the cradle was finished. It would be so cool and pleasant—champagne was cool and pleasant—and so promotive of sleep, for were not its contents originally of the pop-py variety? So it was settled that the little Short should take the place of a whole dozen of champagne, and be packed in a basket. Had it been the third, or even the second child, Mrs. Short would have taken the management of affairs more decidedly into her own hands; but young mothers are so tender and yielding!