Brand-New Ballads :: :: University of Virginia Library

THE RISE AND FALL OF GLORYVILLE.

Where the rockiest Rocky Mountains interview the scornful skies,
And the sager kinds of sage-bush in the middle distance rise,
There the cultured eye descending from the dream-like azure hill,
Lights in an æsthetic foreground on the town of Gloryville.

It was in the Middle Ages—'bout the end of Sixty-eight,
So I found the hoary legend written on an ancient slate—
That one Ezry Jenks prospecting, when he reached this blooming spot,
Thus uplifted to his pardner: “Glory! Moses, let us squat!”

Thus rebounded Moses Adams: “Glory was the foremost word
Which in the untrammelled silence of this wilderness was heard,
And I arnswer, dimly feelin' like a prophet, grand and slow,
‘Glory kinder sounds like Money—up to glory let her go!’”

And this casual conversation in the year of Sixty-eight,
As if by an inspiration he recorded on a slate,
Which 't was said in later ages—six weeks after—used to hang
As a curiositary in the principal shebang.

On the spot that very evening they perceived a beauteous gleam

From a grain of shining metal in a wild auriferous stream:
As their eyes remarked the symptom thus their tongues responsive spoke:
“In this undiscovered section there is pay-dirt, sure as smoke!”

Little boots or little shoes it to inform you how like crows
To a carcase, folks came flying, and the town of Glory rose;
As in country schools the urchins cast each one a spittle-ball,
Till at last a monstrous paper fungus gathers on the wall.

'Long the road they built their cabins, in a vis-a-visual way,
As if each man to his neighbour kind of wished to have his say;
But 't was also said that like two rows of teeth the houses grew,
Threatening uncommon danger to the stranger passing through.

Yes, for like the note of freedom sounded on Hibernia's harp,
Every person in the party was a most uncommon sharp;
And it got to be a saying that from such an ornery cuss
As a regular Gloryvillin—oh, good Law deliver us!

First of all the pay-dirt vanished or became uncommon rare,

Then they wandered more than ever to the Cross and from the Square,
Since when all resources failed them nary copper did they mind,
For they had fine-answering Genius, which is never left behind.

So they got incopperated as a city fair and grand,
Spreading memoirs of their splendour over many a distant land,
Mind I say in distant places—people near them never knew
Into what unearthly beauty the great town of Glory grew.

Then they sent an ex-tra Governor over seas and far beyond,
Even unto distant Holland, loaded up with many a bond,
Splendidly engraved in London, having just the proper touch;
Quite imposing—rather—for they did impose upon the Dutch.

And with every bond the Governor had a picture to bestow
Of the town of Gloryville a-bathing in the sunset's glow;

This they had performed in Paris by an artist full of cheek,
Who was told to draw a city comme il faut dans l'Amérique.

The ideas of this artist were idead from long ago,
Out of scenery in an opera, “Cortez in the Mexico.”
Therefore all his work expanded with expensive fallacies:
Castles, towered walls, pavilions, real-estately palaces.

In the foreground lofty palm-trees, as if full of soaring love,
Bore up cocoa-nuts and monkeys to the smiling heaven above;
Jet-black Indian chieftains, at their feet, too, lovely girls were sighin',
With an elephant beyond them—here and there a casual lion.

You have seen in “Pilgrim's Progress” the Celestial City stand
Like a hub in half a cart-wheel raying light o'er all the land.
Well, in that, it is the felloes of the wheel which cause the blaze,
So in Gloryville the fellows were the ones who made the rays.

When these views were well matured the Governor went to Amsterdam,
Where to Mynheer Schmuel Ganef first of all he made his slam,
At a glance each “saw” the other—at a glance they went aside,
And without a word of bother soon the plan was cut and dried.

For one hundred thousand dollars then the Governor at will
Gave away the full fee-simple of the town of Gloryville.
“Dat for you,” said Schmuel Ganef, “is, I dink, not much too much,
But I makesh de shtock a million ven I sells him to the Dutch.”

And the secret of his selling was upon the artful plan
Known to the police in Paris as the vol Américain,
Whereby he who does the spilling manages the man who 's spilt
Very nicely, for he makes him an accomplice in the guilt.

Even as of old great sages managed the Parisian fonds,

So in Amsterdam Heer Ganef peddled out his Glory bonds;
And to all he slyly whispered, “I vill let you in de first
On de ground floor—sell out quickly—for you know de ding may burst.”

Woe to you who live by thieving, though you be of rogues the chief,
Even the greatest will discover in due time his master-thief.
True, he “let them in,” and truly on the very bottom floor,
But was with the Gloryvillins in the cellar long before.

And to tell you how the biters all got bitten were in vain;
Here the Governor leaves my story, and he comes not in again.
I will pass to later ages, when all Gloryville, you bet,
Found itself extreme encumbered with an extra booming debt.

Those who sold the bonds had vanished, those who hadn't held the town,
Little knew they of its glory over seas or great renown.
They had nothing of the fruitage, though, alas! they held the plant,
Nothing saw they of the picture, save, indeed, the Elephant.

He who had been in the background now came trampling to the fore,
Terribly he trampled on them, very awful was his roar!
Very dreadful is the silence when no human voice responds
To a legal requisition for the interest of our bonds

But ere long a shrewd reflection unto Moses Adams came—

“Darned ef I'm a-gwine to suffer fur another party's game;
Wings is given to muskeeters—like muskeeters men can fly;
Ef a strawberry-vine can travel with its roots, then why not I?”

Silently, in secret, Moses to himself a plan reveals,
Got a three-inch plank and sawed it into surreptitious wheels,

And when night in solemn mystery had succeeded unto day,
Put his hut and things on axles, and quite lonely drove away

To a place just over yonder by the old Coyote Road;
There, no more a man of glory, Moses Adams dropped his load,
And when resting from his labour and refreshing from his jug,
Having known a town called Julesberg, called his shanty Splendourbug.

On the following morn as usual in due time arose the sun,
And the Gloryvillins followed his example, one by one,
While he smiled upon the city, as on other things beneath,
'T was observed one snag was wanting in the double row of teeth.

Little said the Left-behinders, but they seemed to take the hint,
And each man surveyed his neighbour with a shrewd and genial squint;

All day long there was a sound of sawing timber up and down,
Seven more houses in the morning were a-wanting in the town.

And before the week departed all the town departed too,
Just like swallows in the autumn to another soil they flew;
Only that unlike the swallows which we hear of in the song,
When the Gloryvillins squandered each one took his nest along.

All except one ancient darkey, obstinate and blind and lame,
Who for want of wheels and credit could not follow up the game,
So the others had to leave him, which they did without regret,
Left him there without a copper—just one million deep in debt.

If you seek them you may find them comfortable as in a rug,
All of them at length established in the town of Splendourbug,

And the driver to the traveller as by Gloryville he goes,
Points him out an ancient darkey who a million dollars owes.

IN THE WRONG BOX.

When Eagle Davis died,
I was sittin' by his side,
'T was in Boston, Massachusetts; and he said to me “Old boy!
This climate—as you see—
Isn't quite the size for me;
Dead or livin', take me back if you can to Ellanoy!”

So I took him by the hand,
But he'd just run out his sand,
And his breath was gone for ever—before a word would come;
Then I and other three
Together did agree
In a party for to travel and to funeralize him home.

But Goshen Wheeler said,
As he looked upon the dead,
Weepin' mildly, “Just remark my observation what I say:

That deceased, now glorious,
Was in life a curious cuss,
And somethin' unexpectable will happen on the way.

“Frum the time that he was born
Till he doubled round the Horn
Of Death, all his measurements and pleasurements were odd,
And odd his line will be,
As you're registered to see,
Till his walnut case is underneath the gravel and the sod.”

It was bitter winter weather
When we all four got together
At the depôt with the coffin in an extra packin' box,
And a friend, with good intent,
A cask of whisky sent,
Just to keep our boats from wrackin', as they say, upon the rocks.

Then a ticket agent he
Seein' mournin', says to me,
“Can I get the cards, or help you in your trouble, Mister Brown?”
So with solemn words I said,
As I pinted to the dead,
“There you'll find, I guess, our pilgrimage and shrine is written down.”

Then all night beneath the stars
We sat grimly in the cars,
Sometimes sleepin', sometimes thinkin', sometimes drinkin', till the dawn;
And each man went in his turn
To the baggage-crate to learn
If the box was keepin' time with us, and how 't was gettin' on.

Then all day beneath the sun
Still the train went rushin' on,
While we still kep' as silent as grave-stones as we went:
Playing euchre solemnly,
Which we kinder did agree
With the stakes to build for Davis a decent monument.

'Bout once in every mile
Some mourner took a smile,
But we did no other smilin' as we travelled day or night;
And once in every hour
Some one went into the bower,
And reported the receptacle of Davis was all right

But when four days were past,
Which we still were flyin' fast,

Goshen Wheeler, very solemn, with expression to us cries,
“Where we are it should be freezin'
And our very breaths a-squeezin',
Whereas the air is hot enough to bake persimmen pies.

“Don't you smell a rich perfume
As of summer flowers in bloom?
'T is magnolias a-peddled by yon humble coloured boy:
Now, I never yet did know
That the sweet mag-no-li-o
Grew in winter in the latitude of Northern Ellanoy.”

Then said Ebenezer Dotton,
“I behold a field of cotton,
And I wonder how in thunder such a veg'table got here.
I don't know how we're fixed,
But the climate 's getting mixed,
And it's spilin' very rapidly with warmness as I fear.”

Spoke Mister Aaron Bland,
“I perceive on yonder land
That sugar-cane is bloomin', correctly, all in rows,

And not to make allusions
To Republican delusions,
But the niggers air a-getting' all around as thick as crows.”

Still we sat there mighty glum
Till along a fellow come.
And I says, says I, “Conductor, now tell us what it means,
Just inform us where we be?”
“Wall, now, gentlemen,” said he,
“I reckon we air comin' to the spot called New Or-leéns.”

So we rushed all in a row,
When we got to the depôt,
To the baggage-crate, a-wonderin' at these transformation scenes;
And we found out unexpected
That the box had been directed
Not unto Ellanoy, but to a man in New Or-leéns!

Without carin' if I'd catch it,
I straightway took a hatchet,
And busted off the cover without openin' my mouth;

And found a grand pianner
Which we'd followed for our banner
All the way from Massachusetts unto the sunny South!

Then I said, “I rather guess
I can see into this mess,
And explain the startlin' error which has given you such shocks.
When that Boston fellow, he
Asked the route I'd take of me,
I pinted, inadvertional, unto another box.”

Now Eagle Davis lies
Beneath the Northern skies,
Where the snow is on the pine-tree while we are with the palm,
But I reckon if his spirit
Should ever come to hear it,
He'll be perfectly contented with the story in this psalm

ZION JERSEY BOGGS.

A LEGEND OF PHILADELPHIA.

Before the telegraphic wires
Had ever run from pole to pole,
Or telegirls sent telegrams
To cheer the weary waiting soul;
When all things went about as slow
As terrapins could run on clogs,
Was played a game
By one whose name
Was Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

A Philadelphia newspaper
Was printed then on Chestnut Street;
While 'crost the way, just opposite,
There lived a sufferin' rival sheet,
Whose editors could get no news,
Which made 'em cross as starvin' hogs;
The first, I guess,
Had an express
Which kind o' b'longed to Mister Boggs.

But in those days the only news
Which reëly opened readers' eyes,
Was of the New York lottery,
And who by luck had got a prize.
All other news, for all they cared,
Might travel to the orful dogs;
And this they got
All piping hot—
Though surreptitiously—from Boggs.

For of the crew no party knew
That Boggs did any horses own.
All sportin' amputations he
Did most concussively disown;
For he had serious subtle aims,
His wheels were full of secret cogs,—
Well oiled and slow,
Yet sure to go,
Was Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

One mornin' he, mysteriously,
An' smilin' quite ironical,
Spoke to the other editor,
The man who run the Chronicle.
“The Ledger has a hoss express
By which your lottery news he flogs.”

“Yes, that is true,
But what 's to do?”
Replied the man to Mister Boggs.

Then Mister Boggs let down his brows,
And with a long deep knowing wink,
Said, “Hosses travel mighty fast—
But ther air faster things, I think;
An' kerrier-pidgings, as you know,
Kin find their way thro' storm and fogs:
Them air the bugs
To fly like slugs!”
Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

“And in my glorious natyve land,
Which lies acrost the Delaware,
I hev a lot upon the spot,—
Just twenty dollars fur a pair.
These gentle insects air the things
To make the Ledger squeal like hogs;
That is the game
To hit 'em lame!”
Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

The editor looked back again,
And saw him better on his wink.

“It is the crisis of our fate—
Say, Boggs, what is your style of drink?
Step to the bar of Congress Hall;—
We'll try your poultry on, by Gogs!
An' let 'em fly
Tarnation high!”
“Amen!” said Zion Jersey Boggs.

The pidgins came, the pidgins flew,
They lit upon the lofty wall;
They made ther five an' ninety miles
In just about no time at all.
Compared to them, the Ledger team
Went just as slow as haulin' logs.
But all was mum,
Shut close an' dumb,
By the request of Mister Boggs.

Then on the follerin' Monday, he,
Lookin' profounder as he prowled,
This son of sin an' mystery
Into the Ledger orfice owled.
“An' oh! to think,” he sadly groaned,
“That earth should bear setch skalliwogs!
Setch all-fired snakes,
And no mistakes!”
Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

“Why, what is up?” asked Mr. Swain;
“It seems you've had some awful shoves.”
“The Chronicle,” his agent cried,
“Has went an' bin an' bought some doves!
Them traitors, wretches, swindlers, cheats,
Hev smashed us up like polywogs.
They've knocked, I guess,
Our hoss express
Higher than any kite,” said Boggs.

“Have you no plan?” asked Mister Swain,
“To keep the fellows off our walks?”
“I hev,” said Boggs, as grim as death;
“What do you think of pidging-horks?
For in my glorious natyve land,
Acrost the river, 'mong the frogs,
I hev a lot
All sharply sot
To eat them pidgings up,” said Boggs.

“They are the chosen birds of wrath,
They fly like arrers through the air,
Or Angels sent by orful Death,—
Jist fifty dollars fur a pair;
An' cheap to keep, because, you see,
Upon the enemy they progs.”

“Well, try it on,
And now begone!”
Said Mister Swain to Mister Boggs.

The autumn morn was bright and fair,
Fresh as a rose with recent rain.
The pidgins tortled through the air,
But nary one came home again.
Some feathers dropped in Chestnut Street,
Some bills and claws among the logs:
Wipin' a tear,
“I greatly fear
That all's not right,” said Mr. Boggs.

Into the Chronicle he went,
Twice as mysterious as before,
“And hev you heard the orful news?”
He whispered as he shet the door.
“Oh, I hev come to tell a tale
Of crime, which all creation flogs,
Of wretchery
And treachery
That bangs tarnation sin,” said Boggs.

“Them Ledger fellers with their tricks,
Hev slopped clean over crime's dark cup.

They've bin an' bought some pidging-horks
And they hev et our pidgings up.
Oh, whut is life wuth livin' fur
When editors behave like hogs?
An' ragin' crime
Makes double time;
Oh, darn setch villany!” cried Boggs.

“But hark! bee-hold, to-morrer, thou
In deep revenge may dry your tears;
I hev a plan which, you'll allow,
Beats all-git-out when it eppears.
The ragin' eagle of the North,
The bird which all creation flogs,
Will cause them horks
To walk ther chalks,
An' give us grand revenge,” said Boggs.

“Them glorious birds of liberty,
Them symbols of our country's fame,
Wild, sarsy, furious, and free,
Indeliably rowdy game;
They shall revenge them gentile doves
Our harmless messengers, by Gogs!
In which the horks
Hev stuck ther forks,”
Cried Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

“For in my glorious natyve land
Acrost the river, down below,
I hev a farm, and in the barn
Six captyve eagles in a row.
One hundred dollars fur a pair;
Fetch out the flimsies frum your togs,
An' up on high
I'll make 'em fly,”
Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.

But this same editor had heard
Some hint or rumour, faint or dim,
How Mister Boggs, it was averred,
Was coming Paddy over him.
An earlier tale of soapy deeds
Then gave his memory startling jogs,
And full of wrath
Right in his path
He went for Zion Jersey Boggs.

“Horses and pidgins—pidgin-horks”—
That was enough to raise his Dutch:
He saw it all—and also saw
The eagle—“Just one bird too much.”
Too mad to mind his shootin'-iron,
And throw good powder to the dogs,

He grabbed his chair,
And then and there
Corrected Zion Jersey Boggs.

After long years had rolled away,
And Morse's telegraph came in,
Still on the facing rival roofs
Two grey old cages could be seen,
And young reporters o'er their drinks
Would tell each other,—jolly dogs,—
Of ancient time,
What in this rhyme
I've told of Zion Jersey Boggs.

THE BALLAD OF THE GREEN OLD MAN.

It was a balmeous day in May, when spring was springing high,
And all amid the buttercups the bees did butterfly;
While the butterflies were being enraptured in the flowers,
And winsome frogs were singing soft morals to the showers.

Green were the emerald grasses which grew upon the plain,
And green too were the verdant boughs which rippled in the rain,
Far green likewise the apple hue which clad the distant hill,
But at the station sat a man who looked far greener still.

An ancient man, a boy-like man, a person mild and meek,
A being who had little tongue, and nary bit of cheek.

And while upon him pleasant-like I saw the ladies look,
He sat a-counting money in a brownsome pocket-book.

Then to him a policeman spoke, “Unless you feel too proud,
You'd better stow away that cash while you're in this here crowd;
There's many a chap about this spot who'd clean you out like ten.”
“And can it be,” exclaimed the man, “there are such wicked men?

“Then I will put my greenbacks up all in my pocketbook,
And keep it buttoned very tight, and at the button look.”
He said it with a simple tone, and gave a simple smile,—
You never saw a half-grown shad one-half so void of guile.

And the bumble-bees kept bumbling away among the flowers,
While distant frogs were frogging amid the summer showers,

And the tree-toads were tree-toadying in accents sharp or flat,—
All nature seemed a-naturing as there the old man sat.

Then up and down the platform promiscuous he strayed,
Amid the waiting passengers he took his lemonade,

A-making little kind remarks unto them all at sight,
Until he met two travellers who looked cosmopolite.

Now even as the old was green, this pair were darkly brown;
They seemed to be of that degree which sports about the town.
Amid terrestrial mice, I ween, their destiny was Cat;
If ever men were gonoffs, I should say these two were that.

And they had watched that old man well with interested look,
And gazed him counting greenbacks in that brown-some pocket-book;
And the elder softly warbled with benevolential phiz,
“Green peas has come to market, and the veg'tables is riz.”

Yet still across the heavenly sky the clouds went clouding on,
The rush upon the gliding brook kept rushing all alone,

While the ducks upon the water were a-ducking just the same,
And every mortal human man kept on his little game.

And the old man to the strangers very affable let slip
How that zealousy policeman had given him the tip,
And how his cash was buttoned in his pocket dark and dim,
And how he guessed no man alive on earth could gammon him.

In ardent conversation ere long the three were steeped,
And in that good man's confidence the younger party deeped.
The p'liceman, as he shadowed them, exclaimed in blooming rage,
“They're stuffin' of that duck, I guess, and leavin' out the sage.”

He saw the game distinctly, and inspected how it took,
And watched the reappearance of that brownsome pocket-book,

And how that futile ancient, ere he buttoned up his coat,
Had interchanged, obliging-like, a greensome coloured note.

And how they parted tenderly, and how the happy twain
Went out into the Infinite by taking of the train;
Then up the blue policeman came, and said, “My ancient son,
Now you have gone and did it; say what you have been and done?”

And unto him the good old man replied with childish glee,
They were as nice a two young men as I did ever see;
But they were in such misery their story made me cry;
So I lent 'em twenty dollars—which they'll pay me by-and-bye.

But as I had no twenty, we also did arrange,
They got from me a fifty bill, and gimme thirty change;

But they will send that fifty back, and by to-morrer's train—”
“That note,” out cried the constable, “you'll never see again!”

“And that,” exclaimed the sweet old man, “I hope I never may,
Because I do not care a cuss how far it keeps away;
For if I'm a judge of money, and I reether think I am,
The one I shoved was never worth a continental dam.

“They hev wandered with their sorrers into the sunny South,
They hev got uncommon swallows and an extry lot of mouth.
In the next train to the North'ard I expect to widely roam,
And if any come inquirin', jist say I ain't at home.”

The p'liceman lifted up his glance unto the sunny skies,
I s'pose the light was fervent, for a tear were in his eyes,

And said, “If in your travels a hat store you should see,
Just buy yourself a beaver tile and charge that tile to me.”

While the robins were a-robbing acrost the meadow gay,
And the pigeons still a-pigeoning among the gleam of May,
All out of doors kept out of doors as suchlike only can,
A-singing of an endless hymn about that good old man

Gonoff. A Scriptural term for a Member of the Legislature, or suchlike.

CARRYING COALS.

In the gloomsome abysses where darkness is kept,
And the spirit of silence for ages has slept,
In the great shaft of Potsville, way down in the hole,
There came seven parties, all dealers in coal;
But they never had been in that chasm before,
Nor had the sensation of darkness all o'er,
Which so greatly expandeth the soul.

And one of 'em said, “It 's an awful delight
To be infinite deep into no end of night,
Where the heavenly sunshine can't manage to spring,—
And, talking of that, I've a notion, by Jing!
Let we ourselves mine out some coal lumps to-day
To show to the folks,—which I think, by the way,
Would be a poetical thing.”

So they filled up their pockets, untried by a doubt,
And in the hotel they unveiled 'em all out;
But their glances grew strange as they turned o'er the weight,
Till one of them shouted, “By thunder, it 's slate!”
Yet the youngest among them had dealered in coal,
And unto that traffic surrendered his soul,
Since the Anno Eighteen Forty-eight.

For all of man's wisdom is only a dream,
Which passeth away like a plate of ice-cream,
And the best of experience fails, as we mark,
If you go for to dig when you're all in the dark;
For there 's always a moral inside of a tale,
And big things in little things always prevail
As sure as there 's wood in the bark.

CAREY, OF CARSON.

The night-mist dim and darkling,
As o'er the roads we pass,
Lies in the morning sparkling
As dewdrops on the grass.
E'en so the deeds of darkness,
Which come like midnight dews,
Appear as sparkling items
Next morning in the news.

Away in Carson city,
Far in the Silver Land,
There lives one Justice Carey,
A man of head and hand;
And as upon his table
The Judge a-smoking sat
There rowdied in a rougher
Who wore a gallows hat.

He looked upon the Justice,
But Justice did not budge
Until the younger warbled,
“Say—don't you know me, Judge?”

“I think,” said Carey meekly,
“Your face full well I know,—
I sent you up for stealing
A horse a year ago.”

“Ay, that is just the hair-pin
I am, and that 's my line;
And here is twenty dollars
I've brought to pay the fine.”
“You owe no fine,” said Carey,
“Your punishment is o'er.”
“Not yet,” replied the rover,
“I've come to have some more.

“Fust-rate assault and batt'ry
I'm goin' to commit,
And you're the mournful victim
That I intend to hit,
And give you such a scrampin'
As never was, nohow;
And so, to save the lawin',
I guess I'll settle now.”

Up rose the Court in splendour;
“Young man, your start is fair,
Sail in, my son, sail over,
And we will call it square!

Go in upon your chances,—
Perhaps you may not miss;
I like to see young heroes
Ambitionin' like this.”

The young one at the older
Went in with all his heft,
And, like a flyin' boulder,
At once let out his left;
The Court, in haste, ducked under
Its head uncommon spry,
Then lifted the intruder
With a puncher in the eye,—

A regular right-hander;
And like a cannon-ball,
The young man, when percussioned
Went over on the wall.
In just about a second,
The Court, with all its vim,
Like squash-vines o'er a meadow,
Went climbing over him.

Yea, as the pumpkin clambers
Above an Indian grave,
Or as the Mississippi
Inunders with its wave,

And merrily slops over
A town in happy sport,
E'en so that man was clambered
All over by the Court.

And in about a minute
That party was so raw,
He would have seemed a stranger
Unto his dearest squaw;
Till he was soft and tender,
This morsel once so tough,
And then, in sad surrender,
He moaned aloud, “Enough!”

He rose; and Justice Carey
Said to him ere he went,
“I do not think the fightin'
You did was worth a cent.
I charge for time two dollars,
As lawyers should, 't is plain;
The balance of the twenty
I give you back again.

“I like to be obligin'
To folks with all my powers,
So when you next want fightin'
Don't come in office hours;

I only make my charges
For what 's in legal time,—
Drop in, my son, this evenin',
And I'll not charge a dime.”

The young man took the guerdon,
As he had ta'en the scars;
Then took himself awayward
To the 'Ginia City cars.
'T is glorious when heroes
Go in to right their wrongs;
But if you're only hair-pins,
Oh, then beware of tongs!

JOSEPHI IN BENICIA.

There was a man who spent his mortal life
A-prisoning until there came a war;
And with the war there came an enemy,
And with the enemy came dynamite,
And with the dynamite the engineers
Histed that prison-house, and with it all
That was therein. And when the man came down
And lay a-dying, round the chaplain lit,
And asked him “What of life?” and he replied,
“To me this life has been a blasted cell.”
And so he died like any other man,
And thus it is things work among mankind.

The great Josephi—the piano lord—
When in the land of California
Was duly published for Benicia,
Yet never once put in; and then arose
Dame Rumour with a hundred thousand tongues,
And people said that he had bust his wires,
And had neuralgia in his sounding-board,
And the dyspepsia in his pedal joint,

And the stricnosis in his upper keys,—
Yet all was false, and I will tell you why.
The day before he was to have gone in
Unto his glory in Benicia,
There came a visitor whose sun-grilled face
And grand prize pumpkin air had all the style
Of a Maud Muller's father; and this man,
Being shown in, remarked, “I s'pose you air
Mister Joseephee?” To him in reply
The small piano-smasher nodded “Yes.”
And thus the agriculturist went on:—
I'm from Beneesh, I am, and I belong
To the Town Council—that is my posish.
Down here disposin' of my barley, and
I thort I'd call and see yer, being as
Yer comin' down ter-morrer fur to play.”
“Ja, dot is so,” replied the music man.
“Ye see, yer comin' to a stranger town,
And so I thort I'd let yer hev some pints
About the programme. We're a-payin' yer
A pot o' money, and of course yer want
To suit the ordience.” “Vell, vot you like,
Exclaimed the great musician. “I can blay
Chopin, Beethoven, Liszt—ja! all de crate
Gombosers, and I gifes you vot you shoose.”
“I never heerd them tunes,” replied his guest.
“Do yer know ‘Nancy Lee’?” “Not I, bei Gott!”

“Nor ‘Mary Ann’?” “Nein” (very haughtily).
“The ‘Spanish Doana’—the ‘Monastery Bells’?”
“Gott's dammerwetter! Himmelspotzen—NEIN!”
Wall, now, whar did ye learn? My darter Sue
Goes to Miss Lynch's, and she knows 'em all,
An' plays 'em all by heart right straight along.
I never thought her no great shakes, and yet
She's clean ahead of you.” A gloomy pause
Ensued, and two long glares. Then he set on,
What kind o' dancing music are ye gwine

To fetch along? for that 's the heavy jerk.”
“Tantz musik!” Oh, the horror of the voice
Of great Josephi when he heard these words.
“Yes, certinly. Ain't ye a-goin' to play
Fur dancing arter supper? Wot d'ye s'pose
We're gwine to pay yer fur?” (Here came the squall.)
“Go to der Teufel mit your tantz musik!
Dere to your tauter also. Sapperment!
Verflucht sei deine seele—do you dink
I coom to blay fur caddle? I ton't go
Unto Benicia. Dell your veller-bigs
Your tauter blays in my blace—in de blace
Of Herr Josephi—do you oonderstand,
You hundert tousend plasted Schweinigal!”
And in the rustic's face he slammed the door.

He did not play in fair Benicia,
And in that town he is not popular;
And in its leading circles seven out
Of eight regard him as a German fraud,
Who cannot even play “My Mary Ann.”
And thus it is they think he is a sell,
And thus it is things work among mankind.

THE STORY OF A LIE.

Who asks an ape to throw a cocoa-nut
Should take it not amiss if it be thrown
On his own head, as echo answers song.

There was a man named Jesse, who was called
The greatest liar in Connecticut.
For there are giants among the Brobdignags.

It was a burning day, and William Hoop
Sat in the shade, when Jess came riding by.
When wolves run past your door-step let them run.

But William cried, “Stop for a moment, Jess,
And tell us a big lie.” Jesse liked it not.
Ne'er ask a hangman how to tie a noose.

But hastily and sadly he replied,
“This is no time for lying now; oh, woe!”
A wanton widow may wear darkest weeds.

“Your Uncle Sol died very suddenly
An hour ago, and you would have me lie!”
Who weaveth nets is often caught in them.

“And I am riding for the coroner,
And for a coffin. William, learn from this
Never while living ask a man to lie.”

Then William ran in and told his wife,
And he and she and all the family
Burst into tears. The thistle soon bears thorns.

And in his waggon, leaving everything,
They posted off and on, four miles away.
The eagle hastens at the eaglet's cry.

And when arrived they found the family
In the large kitchen, but in ne'er a grief.
It pains a man at times to miss his pain.

There Uncle Sol was buried—to the eyes,
In a great water-melon, lush and red.
Life's sweetest things are water, after all:

Which rises in a mist, and comes again
As rainy tears. And William almost wept
For rage, because he had no cause to cry.

But after this he never did entreat
Another man to tell a lie to him.
Burnt child seeks not a second time the fire.

THE LEGEND OF SAINT ANTHONY

The seek-no-further face of loveliness,
The perfect form of fawn-like springfulness,
And rich as a bonanza just unbound.
Catherine Van Peyster, of Fifth Avenue.

She lived a year in Europe—but for aye
In all the hearts of all who met her there;
And then her pa allowed her boundless cash,
Which she laid out in glorious works of art.

Such as the dream-like dresses made by Worth,
And heavenly hats by Virot, and all things
Refined, æsthetic, swell, and classical;
Yea, even a picture—she bought everything.

'T is true it was a picture of herself,
And when she ordered it she simply said,
“I know that I am very beautiful,
My mirror tells me that—distinctively;

But I am also very clever too,
For I am of a clever family,
Papa and sisters all are awful smart;
Now you must make it somehow sparkle out

“In what you paint. And as for me, I guess
I'll show you how to fix it—wait a bit.
Ain't there a saint they call Saint Catherine?
One of my beaux, I think, once called me that.”

“Si, Illustrissima,” the artist said,
“Dere is a Santa Catarina, who
Is beautiful most of the oder sants,
Vitch giusto suit so lovely mad as you!

“And she do always hold opon a vheel.”
“I see!” cried Miss Van Peyster—“just the thing
The wheel of fortune—and the loveliest saint;
That 's me exactly What a perfect fit!”

And so 't was painted, and the painted pair,
Saint Catherine and Miss Catherine, went across
Unto New York; and many people came
To call and worship—or to make believe.

And with the rest came Mr. Anthony,
A blooming broker, and a mighty man,
Who did not think small brewings of himself,
Albeit his studies had been very small,

And very few i' the heap. His face and form
Were greasiness and grossness well combined,
With sneeriness and nearness in the eyes;
He seemed a kind of coarsest Capuchin.

And much he did admire the quaint conceit
Of being taken as a holy saint,
And said, “I'd like to try that thing myself.
How could a feller fix it—Catherine?”

“Easy enough,” replied the beautiful:
“You've only got to send your photograph
Out to my man in Florence, and to say,
‘Vous peignez moi comme le Saint Anthony.’

“I'll write it for you if you have a card,
And he will fix it for you comme il faut.”
That very hour the heavy shaver wrote,
And sent the order for his portraiture.

And in due time 't was done—and further on
'T was in the Custom House—and thence 't was sent
To the Spring Exhibition in New York,
There was no time to send it to “the House.”

And Anthony himself beheld it not
Till it had hung a week upon “the walls,”
And all the newspapers had served it up,
And all the world had merry made withal.

Yea, he was in it—clad in dirty rags,
A vile abomination. In his hand
A monstrous rosary. The Sunday Press
Said 't was a rope of onions, meant to feed

The monstrous hog which filled the canvas up,
So vast in its proportions that it seemed
As Anthony were waiting on the hog,
And not the hog upon Saint Anthony.

In it and in for it. Just as the Saint
Of Padua is painted, with his pig,
Only a little more so. And thus ends
The tale of the great hog and Anthony.

A RUSSIAN LYRIC.

[_]

Air—“Denkst du daran mein tapfre Lagienka.

Saltokoff Skupchirofsky,” said the ruler
Of Russia to his captain of the guard,
“I will retire; the night is growing cooler
Have all the troops been posted in the yard?”
‘They have, my liege, and in the tower o'er you
The watchman, with an opera glass, afar
Looks out to see that no one comes to bore you:
Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”

“What have you done with him who came this morning,
And wanted me to buy a lightning-rod?”
“He sleeps beneath the Neva, as a warning
To others like him, not as yet in quod.”
“The girl who bored us for a contribution
To send her blessed clergyman afar?”
“She 's strangled by the Seventh Resolution:
Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”

“And where is he who gave us the conniptions,
That cheeky man from the United States,
Who came unto my bedside for subscriptions
To—what was it?—the ‘Life of Sergeant Bates’?”
“Upon a special train that man is flying
Unto Siberia in a third-class car;
Thou badest him ‘dry up!’ and he is drying:
Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!’

“And where is he who bored us for insurance
On life or fire, who down the chimney came?”
“My liege, beneath our feet in deepest durance
He pays with penance for his little game.”
“And, after him, the pedlar who came plungin'
Into the parlour, smoking a cigar?”
“Ask of the vipers in the palace dungeon:
Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!

“And that young man who always kept a-saying,
‘That is the kind of hair-pin that I am’?”
‘My liege, the strychnine in his vitals playing
May tell you how I stopped that kind of flam.
“And he who at this day is still repeating,
‘What, never, never?’” “In a butt of tar
We coopered him. His heart's no longer beating:
Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”

“And where is he who on the imperial fences
Inscribed Pop's Bitters, and Take Fooler's Pills?”
“My lord, his medicines were no defences,
In Hades he atones for earthly ills.”
“And that confounded nuisance of a Scotch Guard
Who played his bagpipes up and down the car?”
“My lord, the imperial headsman wears his watch-guard:
Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar!”

“Captain, 't is well. Now, telegraph to London
That every Nihilist has had his dose,
And that a fresh conspiracy is undone,
And keep the gum-drop, corn-ball peddlers close
Who spread sedition in the trains to 'stress me;
And keep the gates of anarchy ajar;
So may Saint Feoderskidobry bless thee!
Bogu Tsarachnie! God protect the Tsar

MELODRAMNATION.

“Now Mr. Gallagher is satisfied.”
So says the Boston Post. The facts are these:
He is the chief of a theatric club,
And as he deems that he can melodram,
He melodrammed for it a mighty piece
Of thundering incidents and awful scenes,
Which called for just nine actors. And they all

Declared that each had got the worst and curst
Of all the parts, and that 't was written thus
To boom the fame of selfish Gallagher;
So the first night they came upon the boards,
With hearts like hornets and with souls like snakes
And feeling like old pizen, all agog
To be revenged upon the common foe,
Who was to act the hero. Act the first:
The hero and his mother meet to part,
And on her shoulders and o'er all her bust
The parent had put pins by papers-full,
Till she was like a frightful porcupine;
And when she pressed her darling to her breast,
The pins en masse entered his very soul,
And pricked his nose, and ran into his cheeks,
So that he howled; but his mamma held on,
Easing her heart with rapturous revenge
While agonizing his. In the next act
He was on shipboard, and 't was in the plot
That he should be knocked down and cuffed about
By a most cruel captain; and, God knows,
The captain played that part most perfectly,
Since in the start he went for Gallagher
With a belaying-pin, and laid him out
Secundem artem, and then let him up,
Only to let into him twice as hot,
'Mid rapturous hurrahs. In the next act

The hero led the crew to mutiny,
And Gallagher was glorious; but just then
Some one let down the trap on which he stood,
And there he was, up to his waist in stage,
Unable to get up or to go down,
And thus they kept him in captivity
While all the audience guyed him. When he strove
To climb they lowered him, and when he sought
To dodge beneath they highered him again;
So he went up and down like Erie stock
Until the scene was shifted. In the next
He fought the villain of the play, and this
Was Mr. Hencoop Smith, a stalwart rogue,
Extremely high on muscle, and the way
He lathered Gallagher about the stage
Was Awful Gardener. And when Smith should cry,
“Forgive me—I am crushed!” and Gallagher
Replied, “I'll have your life!” the hero lay
Under the table, while his adversary
Bemauled him with a chair-leg. It was o'er,
And Gallagher, all black and blue, went home
To plotter out revenge. On the next night
The piece was adverred to be played again,
And Gallagher sent round a messenger,
Who said he was too ill to play his part,
But he would send a substitute. He did—
A giant-like ferocious prize-fighter,

Under another name. And how he played!
He squeezed the mother into raving fits,
And jerked her wig away by accident,
And threw the cruel captain down the trap,
And larruped all the actors; and when Smith
Came on to fight, he took him by the heels
And mopped the stage with him until 't was clean,
Then hurled him through the flat. All was a wreck:
And in the front seat sat the Gallagher,
And laughed until he cried. Revenge is sweet!

A TALE OF IDAHO.

When they had finished the ethnology,
And polished up the climate and the crops,
And glorified the different kinds of bugs,
And told in turn their lies about the snakes,
And fish and deer and things, of Idaho,
A pensive cuss in spectacles inquired,
“All this is well enough; now how about
Your educational facilities?
And let me see in dots the time they go.”

“And that 's the only thing we really lack,”
Replied the Ancient, with a silvery sigh;
“We do defect in that ostensibly.
We have the schools, but then we cannot git
The folks to run 'em, or who will remain
Adjacent to 'em, for they will not keep.”
How!—do they die?” “Wall, some on 'em expired,
Though Idaho ain't an expirin' State;
But I will tell you just the time they go.

“We had a fine young fellow from the East,
He licked the boys, and also kissed the gals,
And was all round uncommon popular,
Bein' likewise an awful fightin' man,

And there he did slop over. For one day
He met a grizzly bar upon the prowl,
And whistled to it, and the grizzly come;
But when he went he carried by express
All of that fine young man inside of him;
And that is just about the time they go.

“We had another from Connecticut:
A widder run him down, and married him
Inside the very school-house where he taught,
Just as an Injun cooks a terrapin
In its own shell, or as a lovely deer
Is sometimes aboriginally biled
Inside of its own skin, for that poor man
Has been in bilin' water ever sense:
They say she makes it solemn hot for him.
And that is just about the time they go.

“The third was well enough, but he was lame;
I needn't tell you how that one got spiled;
For sense he couldn't run, one day, of course,
The Injuns overtook him, and the way
They treated him was pretty nigh as bad
As if they had been widders, and that man
Their lawful spouse. They also made it hot,
Because they took and briled him at the stake.
And that is just about the time they go.

“Then we tried women-folks to keep the school.
We writ for one. She came; and as she lit
Down from the stage, a man proposed to her
And was accepted, and she married him
That very night; in fact, within an hour
He gin a party, and we had a dance;
But Education suffered all the same,

As she declined to teach, bein' inclined
To conjugate—excuse my little joke
But that is just about the time they go.

“The second—wall, I took the second one
About the middle of the week she come;
But telegraphed unto the Institute,
‘Send on some more; keep sending of 'em on.
And so they kept a-comin,' but they kep’
A-going speedier than they arrove,
For the third lady was abducted by
A highwayman before she got to us—
She took it awful kindly, I believe.
And that is just about the time they go.”

“But why,” exclaimed the wondering traveller,
“Don't you obtain a scareful, ugly one—
Some hideous old faggot, just like that
Tremendous terror with the lantern-jaws
By yonder ticket-window? She would keep.”
“Alas! how strange,” replied the Ancient Man;
“How is it that you people from the East
Will never understand us pioneers?
That woman is my wife—the very one
I cut away from school; and she 's by far
The handsomest there was in all the drove.
For that is just about the time they go.”

A CALIFORNIAN ROMANCE.

Know'st thou the burning lay of Dante's own,
“Nix mangiare é il diavolo!
Ma peggior la donna”? that 's to say,
“'T is hard to be hard up, but harder still
To get ahead of women.” Never much,
While in Night's cushion stars like pin-heads shine.

Oh, listen to me, for the tale I tell
Is of Chicago, and the latest out,
And by the noble Tribune novelist.
“Say, do you mean it, honest Injun, now?”
Said Vivian O'Riley to his sire.
“And faith I do,” the earnest sire replied:
“Marry this girl if so ye choose, me son,
But—if ye do—the divil a ha'penny
Of all me fortune will yees ever see,
While in Night's cushion stars like pin-hids shine.”

Two hours have passed, and so have eight or ten
Slow rolling tramway cars, until there comes
The one which Vivian wants, and soon it lands

The lover at the door of Pericles
O'Rourke, the father of bellissima,
The Lady Ethelberta. Lo, she sits
In her boudoir (the high-toned word for “room‘),
Casting her soul in reverie o'er the trees,
While in Night's cushion stars like pin-heads shine.

“I have bad news for you, my utmost own,”
Said Vivian in sad tones unto his love.
“Cusses and crocuses upon my luck!
And damns and daffodils on everything!”
And as he spoke there came into his face
A grey old scaly look which seemed to say,
Don't bluff or you'll be called. “My dad and I
Have had a round about, and he has dis—
Sis—sis—inherited me; and I have
Been given the g.-b. on your account,
My be—b—beau—tiful. And I am now
A beg—egg—eggar for you, Bertie dear!
While in Night's cushion stars like pin-heads shine.”

Her soft dusk eyes grew wide and serious.

“Yes,” he continued, “I am regular poor,
Poor as a busted Indian, and of course
It follows in the logic of our life
That I must give you up. I cannot ask

One in the golden glory of events
To come and share a fate which runs upon
A thousand annual dollars. Ne'er a case.
While in Night's cushion stars like pin-heads shine.”

She looked at him with an incarnadine,
Rich, passionate, scarlet-sanguine crimson flush
Surging into her cheeks. If it had been
A full, 't is probable that Vivian
Would have gone under; but a flush
Could never scare him or his similar,
While in Night's cushion stars like pin-heads shine.

“Oh, Vivian!” she gurgled, like a dove,
“Oh, do you think I will let up on you?
And do you deem I would go back upon
The note I signed, and run to protest?—no—
Not while the snowy paper of my truth
Is quired by the young-eyed cherubim,
And in Night's cushion stars like pin-heads shine.

Three months or ninety days went by, and then
Upon a golden Californian
December afternoon, with azure skies
Like those of summer as they are produced
In less expensive countries, men beheld
A diamondaine wedding at the house

Of Ethelberta's sire. As Vivian
And his fair bride sat in the car—ri—age
Which bore them to the station, ever on
She gazed upon him like a Lamia
With a strange look, which one might call, in fact,
A weirdly precious smile. He gazed at her.
“And so you would not leave me, love?” he cooed,
“Even when you thought me poor?” And she replied,
“Never, my precious one. I learned lang syne
That when a sucker once drops off the hook
It never bites again. And well you know
That you were on the point of dropping off,
And so your pa and I put up the job
So as to land you, dear—as faith we did—
A little quicker. Oh, men, men, men, men!
If ye thus round, girls will get square with you,
While in Night's cushion stars like pin-heads shine.”

THE STORY OF MR. SCROPER, ARCHITECT.

Yes, I'll tell you how it happened—that, too, with all due respect
To the memory of Scroper, late departed architect—
How it came that he departed so abruptly in the train;
Why it was he 's been so late, too, in returnin' back again.

Now some folks are born to greatness, some achieve it, as you've read;
And some justly stand and take it as it dollops on their head;
But in this sublime Republic, where it 's help and help again,
We all generally make it in cahoot with other men.

Scroper was a fine young fellow, of a monstrous enterprise;
Likewise really d-ambitious, for he was so bound to rise,

And he left no stone unturned—nor a log—he rolled 'em all,
Till at last he got the contract for our new great City Hall.

Now, of all our mortal actors here upon this earthly stage,
The contractors have the hardest parts to play, I will engage;
Specially in bran-new cities, just between the knead and bake,
And where all the population are severely on the make.

What between the Common Council, and the more uncommon sort,
Politicians, Press, and preachers, Scroper fell uncommon short.
All of such as come a plummin' when a puddin 's to be had;
All against his best contractin' counter-actin' mighty bad.

Therefore when this edificial had got up his edifice,
All who'd not been edifishing with him soon got up a hiss;

Said the stuff upon the buildin' was the worst that could be had,
Likewise called the architexture architechnically bad.

So it came one solemn evenin' in a Presbyterian rain
Mr. Scroper all in silence gently took the Northern train;
All he left was one small message to a friend who shared his home,—
When the darned affair blows over, telegraph for me to come.

So he sat one summer mornin', far away in Montreal,
Musin' on his recent patrons, while at heart he darned 'em all,
When there came a little letter datin' fron his recent home,—
“All the thing is quite blown over, back again we bid you come.

“For last night we had a tempest,—while the mighty thunder rang,
Up there came a real guster, which blew down the whole shebang.
(Shebang's a word from Hebrew, meanin' Seven, sayeth Krupp,
And applied to any shanty where they play at seven-up.)

“Truly it was well blown over all to splinders in the night,
And the winds of heaven are blowing o'er the ruins as I write.”
Gentlemen, the story's over. It would last for many a day
If it told of every buildin' built upon the swindlin' lay.

THAT INTERESTIN' BOY.

He sat upon the window-sill and jingled ninety cents. There came along another boy, who said, “How are you, Pence? You're goin' out a-Christmassin', I guess, among the Dutch, to buy some gifts.” The other spoke: “No —not exactly much I am in luck, this year, I am. I haven't any bills. My sister's sick, and can't expect no presents but her pills. My brother Ben 's in Canada, away upon the wing. Of course, you know he can't suppose I'll buy him anything. My mother pulled my hair, last night, until she made me squall. Of course she knows that she 's gone up for anything at all.” “But there 's your father,” said his friend. “Well,—yes—I really thought that I was stuck on the old man, and that he had me caught, and I was kinder looking round to hunt him up a pipe; but then, this very mornin' he hit me such a wipe! That fixed his Christmas goose for him, and took away his joy. Now all this money 's goin' to a good and clever boy, to buy him lots of pea-nuts and candy, I'll engage—with caramels; and that good boy is just my size and age.”

MISS MILES, THE TELEGRAPH GIRL.

Thy heart is like some icy lake,
On whose cold brink I stand;
Oh, buckle on my spirit's skate,
And take me by the hand!

And lead, thou living saint, the way
To where the ice is thin,
That it may break beneath my feet,
And let a lover in.

Spiritualistic Poetry.

Since Soul first basked in Passion's sun,
I always ran to seed
In seeking One who'd gone and done
Some great heroic deed;
And deemed I'd find Life's Earnest Truth
In Gloriana Clarke,
Whose eyes were like two carriage lamps
Advancing through the dark.

But as the rose of morning fades
Before the fire of noon,
Or sparrows yield in sylvan glades
To mocking-birds in June,

My Gloriana's stock went down—
Its wheat all turned to chaff—
When I got in with Mary Miles,
Who ran the telegraph.

Her brow betokened serious life;
I knew my final queen;
A soul divine in gaiter-boots,
A Dream in crinoline.
Her parasol a glory seemed
Around a vivid saint,
The whole one spirit-photograph
Illumed with heavenly paint.

And thus she lifted up her voice,
That mission-mantled maid;
And thus she spoke with golden grace,
And sacredly she said—
A-pointing at me all the time
With that same parasol,
The light which gleams from silent lands
Around her seemed to fall—

“You've told of great and holy deeds—
I s'pose they all are true—
But in our telegraphic line
We've some adventures, too;

And though I do not like to boast
Of what I ever done,
One thing my Moral Consciousness
Declares was Number One.

“Last Fall I was in Tennessee
A-travelling might and main,
When all at once the engine broke—
They couldn't run the train;
And if another train should come
'T would rather make us scream.”
List to the glorious deed she did,
This angel of my dream.

“I saw a telegraphic line
Was running by our rout,
Though not a house or a machine
Was anywhere about.
And the conductor said, said he,
With his wild eyes of light.
‘Miss Miles, if we'd a battery,
I'd fix this scrape all right.

“‘I'd send 'em down a telegram
Some twenty miles below,
And ask for help.’ I looked at him—
‘I'll fix the business, Joe.

Is there a pair of nippers here?
If so, those nippers bring;
And if you can't, a sharp-edged file
Would be a heaven-sent thing.’”

“Unshadowed girl! I see the dodge;”
I cried in rapturous joy;
“And didst thou climb the post thyself?”
Said she, “I did, my boy.
A higher law of moral truth
Gave courage to my soul;
I did not show my garters once
In going up the pole.

“No poet ever felt such thrills
In touching of his lyre
As I did when I found there came
A message through the wire.
That wire I cut, and 'tween my teeth
I held it—ay, with pride—
And with my tongue the current clicked
To the wire on t' other side.

“On one side came the message in
From some man in New York:
‘But if you can, at ninety-five,
Five thousand sides of pork.’

And this same electricity
I changed as in a flash:
‘Send down an engine right away,
Or we shall go to smash.’

“The engine came, and all were saved—
Yet life is but a Dream.
I live—thou livest in a cloud:
We are not what we seem.
Still craving for the Infinite
In Time's ideal lodge,
I grasped a Truth—yet after all
'T was but an earthly dodge.”

I gazed upon that spirit grand,
Upon my knees I sank,
And from mine eyes the burning sand
The scalding tear-drops drank.
Then soft she smiled: “If deeds like this
Can yield such victory,
And I am in your line, my love,
Then, love, I yield to thee.”

Ho, maidens of Vienna's show!
Ho, matrons of Lucerne!
Look out for us next summer, when
We give your shop a turn.

I have won my soul's ideal,
I have booked her for a wife;
And the Fancy and the Real
Are united in my life.

AN AMERICAN COCK-TALE.

Professor Luther Cranmer Bangs
Has travelled in Europe more than a year,
And no one need ever be troubled with pangs
At telling him aught which he thought was severe
For there 's ne'er a Yankee of any size,
No matter how sharply he chaffs or slangs,
That can boast he ever has taken a rise
On Professor Luther Cranmer Bangs.

He was the man whom Dr. Snayle
Read a lecture to on a morning call—
Read it clear through from bill to tail;
And Bangs like Old Piety bore it all.
Said Snayle, when the sheets were all up-read,
“I'm a-going with this to Boston, you know”—
“I'm glad to hear it,” his listener said:
“I always did hate those Bostonians so!”

Well, last week on a City Atlas 'bus
The Professor and I went riding down,
While the driver politely gave to us
Opinions on things about the town.

And finding my friend was “prone to receive,”
And came from the Western land afar,
He told him just what one ought to believe
In politics, piety, love, and war.

Then glancing at Bangs, who sat to leeward,
Looking as mild as cambric tea,
He said: “I once 'ad—but I soon got cured
Of—a wish to go to Amerikee.
I was tired of always a-drivin' these cusses,
And so I thought I would like to range”—
“You were right,” said Bangs. “In our Yankee 'busses
It 's the driver who takes (and keeps) the change!”

Sharp glanced the driver at Bangs; then said,
“What scared me of goin' was this, d'ye see,—
I'd a friend in New York, whose letters I read;
And he wrote: In the whole of your country,
He 'ad looked the biggest graveyards through,
Looked 'em through with uncommon keer,
But never 'ad come to a single view
Of a cove as vos aged fifty year.

“And as this is the case in hevery state,
I think there 's nothink on hearth for cure'n
A chap hof a fancy to hemigrate
Like readin' of them graveyards of yourn.
So I thought I'd rather perlong my breath,
Tho' sometimes here a fellow they hangs”—
“You are right, my friend. Choose your own way of death.
I go in for that,” said Professor Bangs.

“But I see you have not understood
Why no aged person is ever found
Among us. We only want young blood
On our driving, thriving, Yankee ground.
Youth alone has the power to go it;
Old men are a drag on putting it through,
So we kill them off—and our tombstones show it—
Before they arrive at a dozen and two.”

Here the driver gave a long cher—rup!
And gazed at the Yankee, dark and wan,
As if he had woke the wrong passenger up
While calmly Professor Bangs went on:
“In walking up and down Broadway,
Large mourning sign-boards at times appear
With this inscription in letters grey—
‘Elderly persons extinguished here.’

“And they put in your hand a pamphlet small,
Adapted to people of different stations,
Which cites the law, and exhorts them all
To dismiss in peace their old relations.
Why let them linger in a vale,’
It states, ‘where often colds they catch?
Send them to us, and we'll end the tale
With politeness, humanity, and dispatch.

“‘N.B.—For those who would die by the trigger
We've a merciful man who 's a practised shot,
With an elegant room, and a careful nigger
To lay them genteelly out on the spot.
Our principal has a chemist of fame,
Whom he exclusively employs on
Those who set their checks on a different game
And like to pass to heaven by poison.’

“'T is thus the ladies generally choose it;
They love to die without pain or pangs
By a nice little globule—who could refuse it?
None but a man,” said Professor Bangs.
“A saw buck extra they always charge
For the stylish mode of extinguishing breath.
A saw buck's ten dollars. It 's rather large,
But then it ensures you a cocktail death”

“Vot may that be?” said the driver, meekly,
In the tone of a greatly altered man.
I observed that he seemed to be growing weakly
Since the Professor his story began.
“A cocktail 's a tipple—America vaunts of it.
So flavoured, so foamy, so spiced, and whirled,
That he who can get as much as he wants of it
Very soon drinks himself out of the world.

“'T is said in the sky—right over Paris,
Where the American heaven is found,
Where everything brick-like and fast and rare is—
The cocks with tumblers for tails run round.
They cut to the bar for all things thinkable,—
All that is nice is a gratis boon,—
Then they come back with your favourite drinkable,
And their sickle-feather 's a silver spoon!

“But he who invented the cocktail brew is
The man before you. Thus came the hint:
I had once been kissing a pretty Jewess,
Who just before had been nibbling mint;
And in order to recall the taste
Which I found in pressing her luscious two lips,
I mingled brandy and mint, in haste,
With sugar and ice—and thus made Juleps.

“The first step was, therefore, the julep perfected,
Which gives us a menthal spirit of wine;
And finding myself thereby respected,
I sought to make bitter and sweet combine.
So I took of bitters aromatic
(I prefer the tincture of bark myself,
With orange flavoured, but if you lack it,
Try any kind on the bar-room shelf)

“And I fixed them with sugar, and ice, and spirits,
In a silver tumbler, lightning-quick, sir,
Which I shook till all their several merits
Were combined in one subtle and strange elixir.
Then I passed it through a silver sieve
Kept carefully free from spot or rust;
And the final jimglorious touch to give,
I threw in a sprinkle of nutmeg-dust.

“And I am told by the spirit-rappers
That in the American Paris-heaven,
Though they've fancy drinks which are total snappers,
There 's nothing better than mine are given.
So they die in New York without any pangs,
For they know in the next world, to requite 'em,
They'll sit over Paris,” said Mister Bangs,
“A-drinking cocktails ad infinitum.”

Here we got down, and the driver said,
“Vell, you're of the kind that will allers bang 'em!”
And turning our mocassins homeward, we sped
To that great American wigwam, the Langham.
Said Bangs, “O'er my eyes there is drawn no wool.
That man has no heart who would tell you a mock tale;
But story for story I told to the Bull,
What I call

Cove. A word erroneously supposed to be slang. It is derived from the Gipsy covo or covi, meaning that—that fellow, that thing.

JUDGE WYMAN.

A RURAL YANKEE LEGEND.

Long ago, in the State of Maine,
There lived a Judge—a good old soul,
Rather well up in the “genial vein,”
And not by any means “down on” the bowl.
N.B.—By “bowl” I mean the “cup,”
And by “cup”—N.B.—I mean a glass,
Since neither bowls nor cups go up
At present when we our liquor pass.
(Although I recall—
'T is three years this Fall—
When travelling in the wilderness,
And things were all in an awful mess,
And our crockery, with a horrible crash,
Had gone its way to eternal smash
(It came, as the driver allowed, from racin'),
We drank champagne from a tin wash-basin.
Excuse the digression—non est crimen—
And return to our Judge, whose name was Wyman.)

The Judge oft drank in a hostelrie
Kept by a man whose name was Sterret,
Where he met with jolly company,
But where the whisky was void of merit.
The real Minie rifle brand,
That at forty rods kills out of hand.

Well, it came to pass that one night the Judge
At Sterret's, after a long, hot day,
Got so tight that he couldn't budge,
And found himself “well over the bay,”
With a “snake in his boot” and one in his hat,
Like a biled owl, or a monkey horned,
Tangle-legged, hawk-eyed, on a bat,
Peepy, skewered, and slewed, and corned.
Couldn't tell a skunk from a pint of Cologne,
Couldn't see the difference 'tween fips and cents.
And when he attempted to walk alone,
Simply made a Virginia fence;
Till liquor yielded at last to sleep,
And he sank into Dream River—four miles deep.

Sanctus Ivus fuit Brito, advocatus sed non latro.
“Saint Ives the Briton first took a brief,
For, though a lawyer, he wasn't a thief.”
This is what the story declares,
Which says he listens to lawyers' prayers.

Likely enough! perhaps he may—
Whenever a lawyer tries to pray!
But another legend, old and quaint,
Assigns them a different kind of saint,
With a singular foot and peculiar hue,
Whose breath is tinged with a beautiful blue;
And this was rather the saint, I think,
Who inspired the young lawyers, twenty-four,
Who helped Judge Wyman to stow his drink,
And made them rejoice to hear him snore.
Who, save the devil, would not have wept
To see these graceless legal loons
Tricking the good old Judge as he slept,
And filling his pockets with Sterret's spoons?
With silver spoons; likewise for butter
A handsome ten-dollar silver knife;
Then put Judge Wyman on a shutter,
And carried him home to his loving wife.

If any ladies read these rhymes,
Which in Edgar A. Poetry are called “runes,”
They may just imagine what sort of times
Mrs. Wyman had when she found the spoons!
The Judge's grief was full of merit,
And his lady wasn't inclined to flout it;
But she quietly took the spoons to Sterret,
And nothing more was said about it.

A month went by, and Fama, the wench!
Had not spread a whisper to urge remorse,
And Judge Wyman sat on the legal bench,
Trying a fellow for stealing a horse.
The evidence was all due north,
It froze the prisoner every minute,
Till Judge Wyman called the culprit forth,
And asked what “he had to say agin it?”

The prisoner looked at the planks of pine
Of the little rural court-house ceiling,
At all the jury in a line,
Then answered, his only small card dealing,
“Judge, I hev lots of honesty,
But when I'm drunk I can't control it;
And as for this 'ere hoss—d'ye see?—
I was drunk as blazes when I stole it.”
Answered the Judge, “If this Court were a dunce,
She would say, in law that is no excuse;
For the Court held that opinion once,
But of late her connection's been gettin' loose.
One may be certain on law to-day,
And find himself to-morrow dumb.—
But answer me one thing truly, and say
Where'bouts it was you got your rum?”
“I drank because I was invited,
And got my rum at Sterret's, d'ye see?”

“Mr Sheriff,” cried the Judge, excited,
“This instant set that poor man free!
The liquor that Sterret sells, by thunder!
Would make a man do anything,
And some time or other, I shouldn't wonder
If it made a saint on the gallows swing;
It will run a man to perdition quicker
Than it takes a fiddler to reel off tunes;
Why, this Court herself once got drunk on that liquor,
And stole the whole of old Sterret's spoons!”

IN NEVADA.

Like an awful alligator
Breathing fire and screeching hell-some,
With a pack of hounds behind him,
As if hunted by the devil,
Came the smoking locomotive,
Followed by the cars and tender,
Down among the mountain gorges,
Till it stopped before a village
As the starry night came on.

Just before a mountain village,
Where there was a howling shindy,
Just around a bran-new gallows,
With a roaring blazing bonfire,
Casting a red light upon it,
While a crowd of roughest rowdies
Shouted, “Cuss him! darn his vitals!
Bust him! sink him! burn him! skin him!”
Evidently much excited
As the starry night came on.

On the gallows stood a culprit
Shrieking painfully for mercy.
As the train and engine halted,
Louder yelled the gasping victim.
Then out cried the grim conductor,
“What in thunder is the matter?
What 's ye doin' with that feller?
Why've ye got both fire and gallows?”
And unto him some one answered,
As the starry night came on:—

“This all-fired, skunk-eyed villain,
Whom you see upon the gallows,
Lately stole the loveliest mewel
That you ever sot your peeps on,
For a hundred shiny dollars,
Went and sold it to the Greasers.
But, as you perceive, we've nailed him,
And at present we're debatin'
Whether we had better hang him,
Or else roast him like an Injun,
Ere the starry night comes on.

‘And I think ez ther ar' ladies
Here to grace this gay occasion,

In the train, and quite convenient,
We had better take an' burn him.
'T would be kinder interestin',
Or, as folks might say, romantic,
To behold an execution,
As we do 'em here in Hell Town,
In the real frontier fashion,
Ere the starry night comes on.”

Up from all the assembled ladies,
And from all the passengeros,
Went a scream of protestation,—
“What! for nothing but a mewel!
Only for a hundred dollars
Roast alive a fine young fellow!
Never, never, never, ne—ver!”
Falling on her knees, a damsel
Begged the maddened crowd to spare him
And to her replied the spokesman,
As the starry night came on:—

Since a lady begs it of us,
And as we ar' galiant fellers,
We will smash the tail of Jestis,
And will spare this orful miscrint,
Ef you'll raise a hundred dollars
To replace the vanished mewel.

Then this fiend, unwhipped, undamaged,
May go wanderin' to thunder,
Soon as he darnation pleases,
Ere the starry night comes on.”

Straight among the pitying ladies,
And the other passageros,
Went the hat around in circle.
Dollars, quarters, halves, and greenbacks
Rained into it till the hundred
Was accomplished, and the ransom
Paid unto Judge Lynch in person,
Who received it very gracious,
And at once released the prisoner,
Sternly bidding him to squaddle,
Just as fast as he could make it,
Ere the starry night came on.

And the lady who by kneeling
Had destroyed the path of justice,
Seized upon the fine young fellow,
He who had the mulomania,
Or who was a kleptomuliac;
And she led him by the halter,
While the reckless population
Made atrocious puns upon it;
And she stowed him in the Pullman

As the safest sanctuary,
As the starry night came on.

It was over. Loud the whistle
Blew a signal of departure;
Still the dying bonfire flickering
Showed on high the ghastly gallows,
Seeming like some hungry monster
Disappointed of a victim,
Gasping as in fitful anger,
Pouring out unto the gallows
Or the sympathetic scaffold
All the story of its sorrow,
As the clouds passed o'er the moon-face,
As the starry night came on.

Soon the train and those within it
Reached and passed a second station,
And was speeding ever onward,
When at once a shriek came ringing—
'T was an utterance from the lady
Who by tears had baffled justice;
Loud she cried, “Where is my hero?
Where, oh, where 's the handsome prisoner?”
And the affable conductor
Searched the train from clue to ear-ring,
But they could not find the captive.

He had clearly just evaded
At the station just behind them,
As the starry night came on.

Then outspoke a man unnoted
Hitherto: “I heard the fellow
Say just now to the conductor,
Ere we reached the second teapot,
That he reckoned he must hook it
This here time a little sooner,
If he hoped to get his portion
Of the hundred, since the last time
He came awful nigh to lose it;
For it might be anted off all
'Fore he got a chance to strike it,
Ere the starry night came on.

And the Unknown thus continued:
“They hev hed that gallows standin'
All the summer, and the people
Mostly git ther livin' from it,
For they take ther turns in bein'
Mournful victims who hev stolen
Every one a lovely mewel;
And they always every evenin'
Hev the awful death-fire kindled,
And the ghastly captive ready.

100

It 's the fourth time I hev seen it,
Comin' through and never missed it,
Only for a variation
Now and then they hire a nigger
For the people from New England,
As the starry night comes on.

“And they find that fire and gallows
Just as good as a bonanza,
For they got the Legislater
Lately to incopperate it;
And I hear the stock is risin'
Up like prairie smoke in autumn.
Yes, in this world men diskiver
Cur'ous ways to make a livin',
Ez you'll find when you hev tried it
For a year or so about here.”
And the passengers in silence
Mused upon this new experience,
Most of all the fine young lady,
As the dragon darted onward,
And the starry night came on.

Mule.

101

THE PHILANTHROPIC CLUB.

I am the member of a club of reg'lar noble seeds,
Whose object is to give rewards for philanthropic deeds.
We root for magnanimity as spiders hunt for flies,
So we lately held a meeting to award our annual prize.

Then our President reported with great solemnity
The case of Dayball Carter, a man in Tennessee,
Who plunged into a burning store as if his doom had come,
But emergéd with an infant—and a gallon jug of rum.

But the club could nowise settle, admitting all the fact,
If the baby or the liquor had inspired the noble act,
For 't was proved he kept the liquor while he let the infant go,
So the case of Mr. Carter was adjourned in dubio.

Then the Secretary read us, in very moving tones,
The wondrous case of courage of General Pompey Jones.

102

Who found a hydrophobic dog upon a neighbour's farm,
And roped his neck and led him off where he could do no harm.

Then Brother Chunk, of Pewterville, declared that it was sad
To have to state that Jones had no idea the dog was mad,
And that in circles where he moved 't was very freely said
He'd picked it up intending to come out one dog ahead.

Then the next case reported in the doings of the day
Was that of Huckleberry Pod, a man in Iowa,
Who slopped into a raging flood to save a drowning maid,
And did it like a beaver, as admiring neighbours said.

Then Brother Chunk again let down his fist with startling bump,
And said he'd found that Mr. Pod refused to make the jump
Till offered fifty dollars by the people of the town,
And that then he wouldn't do it till he got the money down

103

Last of all we heard the instance of Golias Purple Fife,
Who went into an awful well to save a fellow's life,
A man who always spoke of Fife as of a blooming fool,
And who recently had done him blind in trading for a mule;

And on top of this, moreover, in addition, 't was a fact,
He refused a quarter-dollar for this noble manly act,
And when they asked him what he'd drink, or if he'd take a bite,
He jumped in silence on his mule and rode into the night.

This case, in the opinion of the members of the club,
Was much the most deserving, and the nearest to the hub;
And each allowed he'd never heard the like in all his life,
So, by general acclamation, they bestowed the prize on Fife:—

A silver-plated snuff-box, with a compass in the lid,
With the words, “If sold at auction always do as you are bid,”

104

Which we sent him in a hurry ere it might be understood
That this, too, was not an instance of the pure unmingled good.

And these are the proceedings of these noble-minded seeds,
Who make it their profession to discover virtuous deeds,
And every day turns out a lot, but still 't is on our mind
That a case without a speck in it is very hard to find.

105

THE COLOURED FORTUNE-HUNTER.

Pete Jonsing went to see the County Clerk
About a marriage license, and the man
Said unto him for fun, but seriously:
“I hope the bride possesses fifty cents,
Because the Legislature's passed a law
That any girl with less must not be wed.”
“Jis' go ahead wid dat 'ar paper, Boss,”
Peter replied; then whispered, bending down:
“Dar's rumers—and dey is reliable—
Dat de young woman dat I'm goin' fur,
Has got two dollars and a quarter—shoa.
And dat's de reason wy I marries her.”

106

PENN.

ON A TEXT BY ROBERT BURDETTE.

When William Penn appeared before King Charles
To get the charter of his Promised Land
In Pennsylvaniá,
'T was in his usual free-and-easy style,
With hands in pockets and his hat on side—
Singing Lard-dardy day!
Let us drink and be merry, laugh, sing, and rejoice,
With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice,
Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!

107

King Charles at once removed his feathered tile.
“Keep on your hat, young man!” said William Penn,
“It is our Quaker way;
And people will not know that you are bald;
Be quite at home to make your guests at home—
Singing Lard-dardy day!
This changeable world to our joys is unjust,
All treasure's uncertain, so down with your dust,
Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!”

“It is the custom here,” the King replied,
“For only one to cover at a time;
This is the courtly way.”
“Then you should have more covers,” warbled Penn
“Warm people's heads to make them merry men—
Singing Lard-dardy day!
And in frolics dispose of your shillings and pence,
Since we all shall be past it a hundred years hence,
Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!

“'T is a queer world, and faith! I do not lay
My hat around, loose, in a domicile
Where I don't know the way,
Unless some party gives a check for it;
I've travelled some—I have—and can't be bit—
Singing Lard-dardy day!

108

Since, despite your invention, and learning, and sense,
You'll be non est inventus a hundred years hence,
Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!”

“Odds-fish!” exclaimed his Royal Majesty,
“He talks full well, but as it seems to me,
According to our way,
There 's a tremendous pig in this same Penn.”
“Bravo, young man!” said William; “try again—
Singing Lardy-dardy day!
You have brought me a terrible one on the nob,
But I bear you no malice, not being a snob,
Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!”

And thus it is that history is writ,
And thus it is good men are slandered sore
From ever till to-day.
Some writer pastes a joke; it may remain
Safe in a corner from Time's wind and rain
Till Time has rolled away.
So, hurrah for King Charles! and hurrah, too, for Penn!
And all such and similar excellent men!
Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!

109

BALLAD OF THE FOXES.

There is a golden glory in my song
As of a picture by Carpaccio,
For it is of the early morning-time
When every man believed with tender faith
That animals could talk—oh, lovely lore!
So, lady, listen as the lay runs on.

There was a goose, and she was travelling
Across the land for her dyspepsia,
And at the moontide sat to rest herself
In a small thicket, when there came along
Two starving foxes, perishing to find
Something which was not too-too-utter-ish
To serve for dinner. And as they were wild
For want of food, it was but natural
That they should likewise be confounded cross;
Oh, lady, listen as the lay runs on!

And as they halted near the thicket, one
Of them observed, “If you were half as sharp
As books make out, you would not now, I'll bet,
Be ravenous enough to gnaw the grass.”

110

“And if you were as big, or half as big,
As you believe you are,” snarled Number Two,
“You'd be a lion of the largest size
Minus his roar, and pluck, and dignity.”
Oh, listen, lady, as the lay runs on!

“Please to observe I want no impudence
From any fifteen-nickel quadruped
Of your peculiar shape,” snapped Number One.
“And if you give me but another note
Of your chin-music,” snarled out Number Two,
“I'll make a wreck of you, you wretched beast,
Beyond insurance—bet your tail on that!”
Oh, lady, listen as the lay runs on!

“You are the champion snob of all the beasts!”
“And you the upper scum of all the frauds.”
“You are the weathercock of infamy.”
“And you the lightning-rod of falsehood's spire.”
“You are a thief!” “Ditto.” “You lie.” “I ain't.”
“Shut up, you goy!” And hearing this, the goose
Could bear no more, but walking from the bush,
Put on expression most benevolent,
And said, “Oh, gentlemen, for shame! for shame!
I'll settle this dispute: in the first place
Let me remark, as an impartial friend—”
Oh, listen, lady, as the lay runs on!

111

But she did not remark, because they made
A rush at her and caught her by the throat,
And ate her up; and as they picked their teeth
With toothpicks made of her last pin-feathers,
The first observed, and that quite affably,
‘Only a goose would ever make attempt
To settle a dispute when foxes fight”—
Oh, lady, listen as the lay runs on!

“And while I have a very great respect
For any peacemaker,” said Number Two,
‘I would suggest that I invariably
Have found, if they be really honest folk
Who interfere with reprobates like us,
They're always eaten up; there is, I think,
More clanship between devils any day
Than among all the angels. Interest
Binds us together, and howe'er we fight
Among ourselves to ease our bitter blood,
We do not hate each other half as much
As we do hate the good. Neighbours who fight
Can generally take most perfect care,
Not only of themselves, but of the goose
Who sticks her bill into the fuss they make.
This banquet now adjourns until it meets
Another wingéd angel of the sort
Which it has just discussed—may it be soon!”
Lady, this lyric runs no further on.

112

EST MODUS IN REBUS.

A NARRATIVE OF NEW YORK.

I would not say to man, “Don't spread yourself
To win the admiration of mankind,”
Since he who never spreads can never shine,
And he who never shines is never seen,
And he who 's never seen is counted out
In the great game of life; yet what is spread
Too thin entirely, when the sun shines out
Must soon dry up and be a fly-away.

There was a man who took his daily dine
At a delightful table d'hôte, where he
Was waited on by an obedient youth,
Who, as a waiter, was a paragon
Of quick politeness. He'd apologize
If the sun shone too much, or if it rained,
And say in simple faith that he would speak
To the proprietor and have it changed,
Then vanish like an elfin fly-away.

The daily boarder at this table d'hôte
Was one who greatly loved to spread himself

113

And play the imperial before the rest;
And finding that the waiter cushioned it,
Sat down on him severely. Every time
He spoke he called him names, and said that he
Forthwith would punish him in cruel wise
Unless he tortled faster, or unless
The steak was better cooked. And then he'd swear
Oh, death and dandelions! how he would swear!
Till all the blood of all the boarders round
Was almost turned to cherry-water ice,
And each and all wished they could fly away.

And yet this waiter had a fund reserved
Of pretty stout pugnacity and pride,
And every time the boarder called him “fool,”
Or “low-born rooster,” he would add it up
To the preceding pile of expletives,
And think it over. He did not forget
A single word. Of all the abusatives
There was not one which proved a fly-away.

At last the crisis came, when one fine day,
For some imagined fault, the boarder said
Unto the waiter, that unless he stirred
A little quicker he would bung his eye,
And take him by the legs instanter-ly
And wipe the floor with him. But with that word

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He overdrew the account. That was the fly
Which overset the camel, and the drop
Which made the pail slop over. For the youth
On that let out his Injun. All at once
He turned both red and white, as fat and lean
Are seen in a beefsteak before 't is cooked,
And blew his soul out in a fly-away.

“You misspelled copy of a gentleman
With all the meaning lost!—if you dare call
Me names again as you have often done,
I'll bung your pallid eyes. You've said too much,
So now just dwindle down. I've always been
Obedient and polite, and served you well,
As you were never served by any one,
And all you ever gave me was abuse,
And all because you were a vulgar fool.
Now stop your noise, or I will sling you out
Of yonder window for a fly-away!”

The boarder rose as if in roaring wrath,
The waiter jerked his linen jacket off
And fairly danced about in gipsy style,
Impatient for a fight. But then the guest
As if with self-command restrained himself,
And said to the assembled company,
“There must be lines in all society

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To regulate our conduct. Lines, I say,
Which separate us from the vulgar herd,
With whom we may not fight. I draw the line
At waiters.” Here he looked about the room
To be applauded; but the only sound
Which rose was that of a tremendous slap
On his own face, and then a mighty roar
Of laughter from the happy company,
For all his valour was a fly-away.

So he sat down too terrified to speak;
And then the waiter took a dripping jug
Of ice-water and poured out every drop
Upon his head, yea, water, ice, and all,
And then that boarder burst in bitter tears,
And blubbered like a boy, while all the room
Rang with redoubled laughter. Then a guest
Proposed a vote of thanks to him who had
Put down a public nuisance, and the next
Passed round a hat and took collection up
To give the waiter as a small reward
For punishing a coward. Then he rose,
And since that hour has been a fly-away.

116

THE MASHER.

[_]

The word to “mash,” in the sense of causing love or attracting by a glance or fascinating look, came into ordinary slang from the American stage. Thus an actress was often fined for “mashing” or smiling at men in the audience. It was introduced by the well-known gipsy family, C., among whom Romany was habitually spoken. The word “masher” or “mash” means in that tongue to allure, delude, or entice. It was doubtless much aided in its popularity by its quasi identity with the English word. A girl could be called a masher as she could be called a man-killer, or killing. But there can be no doubt as to the gipsy origin of “mash” as used on the stage. I am indebted for this information to the late well-known impresario Palmer of New York, and I made a note of it years before the term had become at all popular.

It was in the Indian summer-time, when life is tender brown,
And people in the country talk of going into town,
When the nights are crisp and cooling, though the sun is warm by day,
In the home-like town of Glasgow, in the State of Iowa;

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It was in the railroad deepô of that greatly favoured zone,
That a young man met a stranger, who was still not all unknown,
For they had run-countered casual in riding in the car,
And the latter to the previous had offered a cigar.

Now as the primal gentleman was nominated Gale,
It follows that the secondary man was Mister Dale;
This is called poetic justice when arrangements fit in time,
And Fate allows the titles to accommodate in rhyme.

And a lovely sense of autumn seemed to warble in the air;
Boys with baskets selling peaches were vibratin' everywhere,
While in the mellow distance folks were gettin' in their corn,
And the biggest yellow punkins ever seen since you were born.

Now a gradual sensation emotioned this our Gale,
That he'd seldom seen so fine a man for cheek as Mister Dale;
Yet simultaneous he felt that he was all the while
The biggest dude and cock-a-hoop within a hundred mile.

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For the usual expression of his quite enormous eyes
Was that of two ripe gooseberries who've been decreed a prize;
Like a goose apart from berries, too—though not removed from sauce—
He conversed on lovely Woman as if he were all her boss.

Till, in fact, he stated plainly that, between his face and cash,
There was not a lady living whom he was not sure to mash;
The wealthiest, the loveliest of families sublime,
At just a single look from him must all give in in time.

Now when our Dale had got along so far upon the strain,
They saw a Dream of Loveliness descending from the train,
A proud and queenly beauty of a transcendental face,
With gloves unto her shoulders, and the most expensive lace.

All Baltimore and New Orleans seemed centered into one,
As if their stars of beauty had been fused into a sun;

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But, oh! her frosty dignity expressed a kind of glow
Like sunshine when thermometers show thirty grades below.

But it flashed a gleam of shrewdness into the head of Gale,
And with aggravatin' humour he exclaimed to Mr. Dale,
“Since every girl 's a cricket ball and you're the only bat,
If you want to show you're champion, go in and mash on that.

“I will bet a thousand dollars, and plank them on the rub,
That if you try it thither, you will catch a lofty snub.
I don't mean but what a lady may reply to what you say,
But I bet you cannot win her into wedding in a day.”

A singular emotion enveloped Mr. Dale;
One would say he seemed confuseled, for his countenance was pale:
At first there came an angry look, and when that look did get,
He larft a wild and hollow larf, and said, “I take the debt.

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“The brave deserve the lovely—every woman may be won;
What men have fixed before us may by other men be done.
You will lose your thousand dollars. For the first time in my life
I have gazed upon a woman whom I wish to make my wife.”

Like a terrier at a rabbit, with his hat upon his eyes
Mr. Dale, the awful masher, went head-longing at the prize,
Looking rather like a party simply bent to break the peace.
Mr. Gale, with smiles, expected just a yell for the police.

Oh! what are women made of? Oh! what can women be?
From Eves to Jersey Lilies what bewildering sights we see!
One listened on the instant to all the Serpent said;
The other paid attention right away to Floral Ned.

With a blow as with a hammer the intruder broke the ice,
And the proud and queenly beauty seemed to think it awful nice.

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Mr. Gale, as he beheld it, with a trembling heart began
To realize he really was a most astonished man.

Shall I tell you how he wooed her? shall I tell you how he won?
How they had a hasty wedding ere the evening was done?
For when all things were considered, the fond couple thought it best—
Such things are not uncommon in the wild and rapid West.

Dale obtained the thousand dollars, and then vanished with the dream.
Gale stayed in town with sorrow, like a spoon behind the cream;
Till one morning in the paper he read, though not in rhymes,
How a certain blooming couple had been married fifty times!

How they wandered o'er the country; how the bridegroom used to bet
He would wed the girl that evening,—how he always pulled the debt;
How his eyes were large and greensome; how, in fact, to end the tale,
Their very latest victim was a fine young man named Gale.

122

ARIZONA JOHN.

When in a situation it always pays the best
To have your wits about you, for it helps the interest;
And a man gets so encouraged by succeedin' when he tries,
That the more you crowd him downward, the more he 's bound to rise.

As when near Tres Alamos, while workin' at his mine,
John Lyons, late of Tombstone, without the least design
To involve himself whatever in any kind of tricks,
Got inside an unprovided and a most unpleasant fix.

John Lyons, late of Tombstone, had but just put in a blast,
When he saw four buck Apaches approximatin' fast
Upon their headlong horses in a rackaloose career,
And every one preceded by a long projectin' spear:

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He had planted all the powder, and was just atop the shaft,
While the foemen kept a-comin' like as they was telegrapht;
To run was to be taken, and to stay was to be slew—
And in such a situation how-whatever could he do?

Bein' quick upon the trigger Lyons did not stop to choose,
For a match was in his fingers, so he lighted up the fuse,
And dropped behind a boulder for to disabuse their aim,
When at him like a sheriff's writ full dig the Injuns came.

He had timed the fuse so nicely that the 'Paches reached the rock
Exactly at the nick of the explosionary shock:
Bang! How the big rock busted as the powder gave a flare!
While a rain of stones and gravel went a-thunderin' through the air.

It was four red Apaches who also had a rise,
And started for the hunting-grounds on horseback thro' the skies;

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Or as if they had the notion, but recalled it there and then,
For they speedily descended as four non-existent men.

John Lyons, late of Tombstone, just down behind his rock,
Escaped the influential effect of such a shock,
And examinin' the prospect, he very plainly sees
He has worked the blast quite perfect—likewise slammed his enemies.

When narratin' the adventure which I've chanted in my song,
If he terms them “blasted Injuns” no one calls his language strong—
For their hopes were surely blasted which they fondly reckoned on,
And with patent giant-powder by this Arizona John.

125

THE BALLAD OF CHARITY.

It was in a pleasant deepô, sequestered from the rain,
That many weary passengers were waitin' for the train,
Piles of quite expensive baggage, many a gorgeous portmantó,
Ivory-handled umberellas made a most touristic show.

Whereunto there came a person, very humble was his mien,
Who took an observation of the interestin' scene;
Closely scanned the umberellas, watched with joy the mighty trunks,
And observed that all the people were securin' Pullman bunks:

Who was followed shortly after by a most unhappy tramp,
Upon whose features poverty had jounced her iron stamp;

126

And to make a clear impression, as bees sting you while they buzz,
She had hit him rather harder than she generally does.

For he was so awful ragged, and in parts so awful bare,
That the folks were quite repulsioned to behold him begging there;
And instead of drawing currency from out their pocket-books,
They drew themselves asunder with aversionary looks.

Sternly gazed the first new-comer on the unindulgent crowd,
Then in tones which pierced the deepô he solilicussed aloud:—
“I hev trevelled o'er this cont'nent from Quebec to Bogotáw,
But setch a set of scallawags as these I never saw.

“Ye are wealthy, ye are gifted, ye have house and lands and rent,
Yet unto a suff'rin' mortal ye will not donate a cent;
Ye expend your missionaries to the heathen and the Jew,
But there isn't any heathen that is half as small as you.

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“Ye are lucky—ye hev cheque-books and deeposits in the bank,
And ye squanderate your money on the titled folks of rank;
The onyx and the sardonyx upon your garments shine,
An' ye drink at every dinner p'r'aps a dollar's wuth of wine.

“Ye are goin' for the summer to the islands by the sea,
Where it costs four dollars daily—setch is not for setch as me;
Iv'ry-handled umberellers do not come into my plan,
But I kin give a dollar to this suff'rin' fellow-man.

“Hand-bags made of Rooshy leather are not truly at my call,
Yet in the eyes of Mussy I am richer 'en you all,
For I kin give a dollar wher' you dare not stand a dime,
And never miss it nother, nor regret it ary time.”

Sayin' this he drew a wallet from the inner of his vest,
And gave the tramp a daddy, which it was his level best;

128

Other people havin' heard him soon to charity inclined—
One giver soon makes twenty if you only get their wind.

The first who gave the dollar led the other one about,
And at every contribution he a raised a joyful shout,
Exclaimin' how 't was noble to relieviate distress,
And remarkin' that our duty is our present happiness.

Thirty dollars altogether were collected by the tramp,
When he bid 'em all good evenin' and went out into the damp,
And was followed briefly after by the one who made the speech,
And who showed by good example how to practise as to preach.

Which soon around the corner the couple quickly met,
And the tramp produced the specie for to liquidate his debt;
And the man who did the preachin' took his twenty of the sum,
Which you see that out of thirty left a tenner for the bum.

129

And the couple passed the summer at Bar Harbour with the rest,
Suckin' juleps, playin' poker, and most elegantly dressed;
Suckin' juleps, playin' poker, layin' round in love and rum—
Oh, how hard is life for many! oh, how sweet it is for some!

130

MULTUM IN PARVO.

“Great thoughts are oft expressed in fewest words,”
And I remember how long years ago,
When a great lady in her diary
Of a short visit to the Scottish land,
Recorded of a sorrowful event.
“To-day poor little Vicky, by mischance,
Sat on a wasp's nest.” All the newspapers
Declared it was a perfect masterpiece
Of excellent conciseness. Yet I think
It was outdone by a Red Indian—
One of the Quoddy tribe—who did the same;
Since he, like “little Vicky,” also sat
Upon a seat as hot; and when he rose,
Briefly exclaimed in his vernacular:—
“H'lam-kikqu'!” and being asked what this
Might mean, responded in the English tongue
“Heap hell!” Oh! reader, if the soul of wit
Be brevity, this Indian was there.