There is another game which Ronald called the “Game of Literary Patchwork,” that may be played with the same cards. One person reads the story, as in the other game, and the company, instead of taking the cards hap-hazard, select at each pause one that they suppose will fit the sentence. If the match proves in any case incongruous or absurd, the reader may be empowered to exact a forfeit from the offender.
It should also be noticed that this is not merely a game to amuse an idle hour. It is also a “Literary Puzzle,” designed to exercise and sharpen the wits; for it is so arranged that it can be put together so as to make sense, from beginning to end. There is a particular place for each phrase, but it will call into exercise some ingenuity, judgment and carefulness, to give to each “Jack” its own appropriate “Gill.” It will, however, be a profitable exercise, and, I think, will repay the young reader for the attempt, even if he should not be perfectly successful.
Now for the game:
PETER CODDLE’S TRIP TO NEW YORK.
Mr. Peter Coddle, of Hogginsville, on reaching the mature age of eighteen, was profoundly impressed with the idea that he needed a larger field in which to develop his powers, and make his fortune. So, one fine morning, having dressed himself in his new Sunday suit, and tied up his old clothes in a cotton handkerchief, he bade adieu to the old folks, and with high hopes in his heart, and about twenty-five dollars tucked away in his pocket, he set out for the city of New York.
A few days after, to the great surprise of all Hogginsville, Peter suddenly re-appeared, in a very dirty and shabby suit, and with an anxious and wo-begone countenance. He was evidently in a very excited state of mind, and gave a most extraordinary account of his adventures. Meeting-houses and saw-mills, thunder-claps and three-legged stools, salt fish and bull-frogs, were so strangely jumbled together in his mind, that he apparently could not distinguish one from the other. The ‘squire said he had undoubtedly been drugged with stupefying poisons, by some villain in that great and wicked city of New York. The doctor shook his head, and said he exhibited symptoms of a certain disease with a learned name, sufferers from which were accustomed to transpose their words and sentences in laughable ways; and he recommended “a good honest dose of calomel,” as the best thing for him. Others thought the unfortunate young man had gone crazy; but all finally agreed that it was possible he had been drinking something stronger than country well-water. Which of these theories was the true one, I shall not undertake to decide, but will hasten to tell you his story, just as he related it to the wondering Hogginsvillians:
PETER’S STORY.
Well, boys, you know I streaked it off a-foot bright and early Monday morning, for the Cranktown railroad depot. I had all my baggage tied up in ... It wasn’t very heavy, you know, for there wasn’t anything in it but ..., and ..., and ..., and.... But by-and-by I began to grow sort of tired, and just then there came along ... riding in something that looked like.... So I sung out, “Give us a ride, will ye?” says I; and says he, “Yes, jump in,” says he, as civil as.... So in I jumps, and then we travelled, I tell you. Why, we went like.... Says I, “She’s running away, aint she?” says I. Says he, “No, she’s as steady as ... if you know how steady that is,” says he.
Well, just then ... started up suddenly from ... near the road, and frightened the mare like all possessed. She took the bits in her mouth, and ran like ... down a tremendous long hill. We met ..., and ..., and ... driving ...; but we got by them all without rubbing a hair. But just then, ... come jumping out of ..., and sprung right at the mare’s head. Well, you see that made her shy one side, and plump we went right against ..., that knocked us all into.... And such a sight as there was, you never did see. The man had in his cart ..., and ..., and ..., and ..., besides.... The cart was smashed into flinters and everything was scattered round in ...; and the horse with the shafts was streaking it off like ..., towards Cranktown depot.
Well, after I found out I wasn’t killed, I jumps up, and says I, “Why, you, this is a bad fix, isn’t it, now? I declare, I never saw ... before, did you?” says I. Says he, “Oh dear,” says he, “I’ve sprained ..., and broke ..., and tore a hole in ... big enough to drive ... through,” says he. Says I, “That’s easily mended,” says I; “come, let’s pick up the pieces, and make the best of....” But the old fellow wouldn’t stir a peg, but lay as still as ..., and all he said was, that it wasn’t of any use to cry for ..., or anything else that couldn’t be helped. So after awhile I told him I must be on my taps, or I should miss the cars, and I’d rather give ... than do that.