“‘And, furious, every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.’”
The verse ended with an indescribable sound, and Hiram drew his hand across his mouth before he spoke in answer to Polly’s questioning eyes.
“I call that a pretty fair neigh,” he said, encouragingly. “I don’t know as I’d go so far as to say ’twould deceive anybody into thinking there was a horse right on the spot, but it’s improving in its quality all the time, I notice.”
“I’m so glad,” said Polly, “because, you see, I can’t make the roars and other noises for the ‘dreadful revelry’ the way you can, and I wanted to do something.”
The next two verses finished Polly’s recitation for that evening. Hiram had promised to assist with “the hills with thunder riven” and the “red artillery.” The thunder was to be made with a pair of wooden dumb-bells, and the “red artillery” was a little old lantern with a red glass front which would dart about Polly’s figure in Mr. Green’s hand.
“That was an extra good rehearsal,” said he, as the little girl sat down beside him on the stairs. “Now, we’ll learn the next verse, shall we, and call it we’ve finished for the night?”
When the next lines, with their “furious Frank and fiery Hun,” were pronounced perfect, Polly begged for a story.
“Just a little bit of a short one, Mr. Hiram, before I go to bed,” she said, coaxingly, “and I don’t care whether it is true or not.”
“That being the case,” said Hiram, soberly, as they sat close together with the lantern at their feet, “I’ll relate a little circumstance that a man once told me. It’ll give you something to think about, but I shouldn’t want to say how true ’tis, for it seems a mite improbable. This man said that a friend of his out West somewhere had always had trouble with the chimney in his parlor—I would say with the draught of it up from the fireplace. He had it tinkered off an’ on for years, and finally he decided he’d have the old contraption torn down and a bran’ new chimney put up.