The Writings of Bret Harte :: :: University of Virginia Library

At Number Four, had Dennis More
A decent situation—
A Celtic youth, who showed, in truth,
But little cultivation,
And “wore the green”—the kind, I mean,
Not reached by legislation.

His knowledge did not go beyond
The doorbell he attended,
The boots he blacked—the services
On which his place depended;
Yet with his humble duties he
A certain zeal had blended.

One Sunday morn—the folks were all
At church, and no doubt sleeping,
While Dennis More at Number Four
His household watch was keeping—
When all at once there came a ring
That set his pulses leaping.

He started to his feet, but ere
He took erect position,
A certain trembling in his knees
Betrayed their weak condition;
And looking round, poor Dennis found
This fearful exhibition:

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The kitchen clock that ere the shock
The time of day was showing,
Had stopped its pendulum, although
The clock itself was going;
It fell—he thought the End of Time
Had come with no man's knowing.

The tumblers tumbled on the shelves,
Moved by mysterious forces,
The plates were shifted as they are
In dinners of twelve courses;
And knives went racing for the plate,
Just like St. Leger horses.

But high above the general crash
He heard the doorbell ringing,
And staggering to his feet he reached
The hall where he saw swinging
The study door, and down before
Its bookshelves he fell, clinging.

One hurried glance he gave—enough
For fatal confirmation—
The very globe upon its stand
Still rocked to its foundation,
And all the standard volumes seemed
In active circulation.

The fearful thrill, continuing still,
Had loosed “The Stones of Venice,”
The law-books just above his head
Ejectment seemed to menace—
Till down fell “Coke on Littleton,”
Followed by “Kent” on Dennis!

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The very poets were disturbed—
The mild and peaceful Lakers,
As though they 'd caught from “Aspen Court”
Some power that made them Shakers;
Or, that the “Life of William Penn”
Had turned them all to Quakers.

The “Testimony of the Rocks,”
In rocking, was appalling—
Thermometer and weather-glass
Both side by side were falling;
Yet 'midst the jar—a Leyden jar—
He heard the doorbell calling.

Half dead, he reached the hall again,—
Sometimes on all-fours creeping,—
Wide swung the parlor's creaking door,
And, through the portals peeping,
He saw a Turkish ottoman
Like some wild dervish leaping;

Four high-backed chairs that waltzed in pairs,
Two easy-chairs coquetting;
And—like some dowager that found
A partner hard of getting—
The piano against the wall
Was right and left foot poussetting.

Yet, spite of giddy sights and scenes
Of books and portraits reeling,
To Dennis' brain one thing was plain—
The doorbell still was pealing;
He seized the knob expectant of
Some frightful form revealing!

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The hinges swung—the door was flung
Wide open, but no spying
Disclosed the hand that rung the bell,
Nor anybody trying,
Save that a pale-faced man stood near,
The walls intently eyeing.

One bound gave Dennis to the ground
And seized the rash spectator—
With wicked fingers round his throat
He clutched his respirator:
“Is thim your Sunday thricks?” he cried,
“Ye haythen agitator!”

“The earthquake!” gasped the wretch. With scorn
Bold Dennis drew his brows down;
“The airthquake, is it?” Then he gave
A forcible but coarse noun—
“And that 's the wake excuse ye 'd give
For ringing master's house down!”