[Illustration]

 NYE AND RILEY'S

 Wit and Humor

 (Poems and Yarns)

 BY

 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY & BILL NYE

 Illustrated

 BY BARON DE GRIMM, E. ZIMMERMAN, WALT McDOUGALL, AND OTHERS

 THOMPSON & THOMAS, CHICAGO. 

 COPYRIGHT 1900, BY THOMPSON & THOMAS. 

 COPYRIGHT 1905, BY THOMPSON & THOMAS. 

Biographical

Edgar Wilson Nye was whole-souled, big-hearted and genial. Those whoknew him lost sight of the humorist in the wholesome friend. 

He was born August 25, 1850, in Shirley, Piscataquis County, Maine. Poverty of resources drove the family to St. Croix Valley, Wisconsin, where they hoped to be able to live under conditions less severe. Afterreceiving a meager schooling, he entered a lawyer's office, where mostof his work consisted in sweeping the office and running errands. In hisidle moments the lawyer's library was at his service. Of this crude anddesultory reading he afterward wrote:

"I could read the same passage to-day that I did yesterday and it wouldseem as fresh at the second reading as it did at the first. On thefollowing day I could read it again and it would seem as new andmysterious as it did on the preceding day. "

At the age of twenty-five, he was teaching a district school in PolkCounty, Wisconsin, at thirty dollars a month. In 1877 he was justice ofthe peace in Laramie. Of that experience he wrote:

"It was really pathetic to see the poor little miserable booth where Isat and waited with numb fingers for business. But I did not see thepathos which clung to every cobweb and darkened the rattling casement. Possibly I did not know enough. I forgot to say the office was not asalaried one, but solely dependent upon fees. So while I was calledJudge Nye and frequently mentioned in the papers with consideration, Iwas out of coal half the time, and once could not mail my letters forthree weeks because I did not have the necessary postage. "

He wrote some letters to the Cheyenne _Sun_, and soon made such areputation for himself that he was able to obtain a position on theLaramie _Sentinel_. Of this experience he wrote:

"The salary was small, but the latitude was great, and I was permittedto write anything that I thought would please the people, whether it wasnews or not. By and by I had won every heart by my patient poverty andmy delightful parsimony with regard to facts. With a hectic imaginationand an order on a restaurant which advertised in the paper I scarcelycared through the livelong day whether school kept or not. "

Of the proprietor of the _Sentinel_ he wrote:

"I don't know whether he got into the penitentiary or the Greenbackparty. At any rate, he was the wickedest man in Wyoming. Still, he waswarmhearted and generous to a fault. He was more generous to a faultthan to anything else--more especially his own faults. He gave me twelvedollars a week to edit the paper--local, telegraph, selections, religious, sporting, political, fashions, and obituary. He said twelvedollars was too much, but if I would jerk the press occasionally andtake care of his children he would try to stand it. You can't mixpolitics and measles. I saw that I would have to draw the line atmeasles. So one day I drew my princely salary and quit, having acquireda style of fearless and independent journalism which I still retain. Ican write up things that never occurred with a masterly and graphichand. Then, if they occur, I am grateful; if not, I bow to theinevitable and smother my chagrin. "

In the midst of a wrangle in politics he was appointed Postmaster of histown and his letter of acceptance, addressed to the Postmaster-Generalat Washington, was the first of his writings to attract nationalattention. 

He said that in his opinion, his being selected for the office was atriumph of eternal right over error and wrong. "It is one of the epochs, I may say, in the nation's onward march toward political purity andperfection, " he wrote. "I don't know when I have noticed any stride inthe affairs of State which has so thoroughly impressed me with itswisdom. "

Shortly after he became postmaster he started the _Boomerang_. The firstoffice of the paper was over a livery stable, and Nye put up a signinstructing callers to "twist the tail of the gray mule and take theelevator. "

He at once became famous, and was soon brought to New York, at a salarythat seemed fabulous to him. His place among the humorists of the worldwas thenceforth assured. 

He died February 22, 1896, at his home in North Carolina, surrounded byhis family. 

James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier poet, was for many years a closepersonal friend of the dead humorist. When informed of Nye's death, hesaid:

"Especially favored, as for years I have been, with close personalacquaintance and association with Mr. Nye, his going away fills me withselfishness of grief that finds a mute rebuke in my every memory ofhim. He was unselfish wholly, and I am broken-hearted, recalling thealways patient strength and gentleness of this true man, the unfailinghope and cheer and faith of his child-heart, his noble and heroic life, and pure devotion to his home, his deep affections, constant dreams, plans, and realizations. I cannot doubt but that somehow, somewhere, hecontinues cheerily on in the unspoken exercise of these samecapacities. "

Mr. Riley recently wrote the following sonnet:

 O William, in thy blithe companionship What liberty is mine--what sweet release From clamorous strife, and yet what boisterous peace! Ho! ho! It is thy fancy's finger-tip That dints the dimple now, and kinks the lip That scarce may sing in all this glad increase Of merriment! So, pray thee, do not cease To cheer me thus, for underneath the quip Of thy droll sorcery the wrangling fret Of all distress is still. No syllable Of sorrow vexeth me, no tear drops wet My teeming lids, save those that leap to tell Thee thou'st a guest that overweepeth yet Only because thou jokest overwell. 

[Illustration]

[Illustration: Why it was done. ]

What this country needs, aside from a new Indian policy and a style ofpoison for children which will be liable to kill rats if they eat it byaccident, is a Railway Guide which will be just as good two years ago asit was next spring--a Railway Guide, if you please, which shall not becursed by a plethora of facts, or poisoned with information--a RailwayGuide that shall be rich with doubts and lighted up with miserableapprehensions. In other Railway Guides, pleasing fancy, poesy andliterary beauty, have been throttled at the very threshold of success, by a wild incontinence of facts, figures, asterisks and references tomeal stations. For this reason a guide has been built at our own shopsand on a new plan. It is the literary _piece de resistance_ of the agein which we live. It will not permit information to creep in and mar thereader's enjoyment of the scenery. It contains no railroad map which isgrossly inaccurate. It has no time-table in it which has outlived itsuselessness. It does not prohibit passengers from riding on theplatform while the cars are in motion. It permits every one to do justas he pleases and rather encourages him in taking that course. 

The authors of this book have suffered intensely from the inordinate useof other guides, having been compelled several times to rise at 3o'clock a. M. , in order to catch a car which did not go and which wouldnot have stopped at the station if it had gone. 

They have decided, therefore, to issue a guide which will be good forone to read after one has missed one's train by reason of one's faith inother guides which we may have in one's luggage. 

Let it be understood, then, that we are wholly irresponsible, and weare glad of it. We do not care who knows it. We will not even holdourselves responsible for the pictures in this book, or the hard-boiledeggs sold at points marked as meal stations in time tables. We have goneinto this thing wholly unpledged, and the man who gets up before he isawake, in order to catch any East bound, or West bound, North bound, South bound, or hide-bound train, named in this book, does himself agreat wrong without in any way advancing our own interests. 

The authors of this book have made railroad travel a close study. Theyhave discovered that there has been no provision made for the man whoerroneously gets into a car which is side-tracked and swept out andscrubbed by people who take in cars to scrub and laundry. He is one ofthe men we are striving at this moment to reach with our little volume. We have each of us been that man. We are yet. 

He ought to have something to read that will distract his attention. This book is designed for him. Also for people who would like to travelbut cannot get away from home. Of course, people who do travel will findnothing objectionable in the book, but our plan is to issue a book worthabout $9, charging only fifty cents for it, and then see to it that notime-tables or maps which will never return after they have been pulledout once, shall creep in among its pages. 

It is the design of the authors to issue this guide annually unlessprohibited by law, and to be the pioneers establishing a book whichshall be designed solely for the use of anybody who desires to subscribefor it. 

 BILL NYE. 

 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 

P. S. --The authors desire to express their thanks to Mr. Riley for thepoetry and to Mr. Nye for the prose which have been used in thisbook. 

 [Illustration: Contents]

 August--Riley 32

 Anecdotes of Jay Gould--Nye 23

 A Black Hills Episode--Riley 132

 A Blasted Snore--Nye 190

 A Brave Refrain--Riley 188

 A Character--Riley 142

 A Dose't of Blues--Riley 220

 A Fall Creek View of the Earthquake--Riley 30

 A Hint of Spring--Riley 168

 A Letter of Acceptance--Nye 56

 A Treat Ode--Riley 170

 Craqueodoom--Riley 81

 Curly Locks--Riley 118

 Ezra House--Riley 161

 From Delphi to Camden--Riley 75

 Good-bye or Howdy-do--Riley 195

 Healthy, but Out of the Race--Nye 101

 Her Tired Hands--Nye 152

 His Crazy Bone--Riley 89

 His Christmas Sled--Riley 150

 His First Womern--Riley 41

 How to Hunt the Fox--Nye 46

 In a Box--Riley 214

 In the Afternoon--Riley 65

 Julius Cęsar in Town--Nye 34

 Lines on Hearing a Cow Bawl--Riley 107

 Lines on Turning Over a Pass--Nye 120

 Me and Mary--Riley 109

 McFeeters' Fourth--Riley 211

 My Bachelor Chum--Riley 178

 Mr Silberberg--Riley 96

 Niagara Falls from the Nye Side--Nye 111

 Never Talk Back--Riley 20

 Oh, Wilhelmina, Come Back--Nye 165

 Our Wife--Nye 172

 Prying Open the Future--Nye 90

 Says He--Riley 204

 Seeking to Be Identified--Nye 228

 Seeking to Set the Public Right--Nye 216

 Spirits at Home--Riley 99

 Society Gurgs from Sandy Mush--Nye 197

 Sutter's Claim--Riley 226

 This Man Jones--Riley 43

 That Night--Riley 124

 The Boy Friend--Riley 54

 The Chemist of the Carolinas--Nye 82

 The Diary of Darius T Skinner--Nye 144

 The Grammatical Boy--Nye 77

 The Gruesome Ballad of Mr Squincher--Riley 21

 The Man in the Moon--Riley 148

 The Philanthropical Jay--Nye 180

 The Truth about Methuselah--Nye 126

 The Tar-heel Cow--Nye 137

 The Rise and Fall of William Johnson--Nye 66

 The Rossville Lecture Course--Riley 134

 Wanted, a Fox--Nye 222

 Where He First Met His Parents--Nye 17

 Where the Roads are Engaged in Forking--Nye 206

 While Cigarettes to Ashes Turn--Riley 201

 Why It Was Done--Nye & Riley 11

Where He First Met His Parents

[Illustration]

Last week I visited my birthplace in the State of Maine. I waited thirtyyears for the public to visit it, and as there didn't seem to be much ofa rush this spring, I thought I would go and visit it myself. I wastelling a friend the other day that the public did not seem to manifestthe interest in my birthplace that I thought it ought to, and he said Iought not to mind that. "Just wait, " said he, "till the people of theUnited States have an opportunity to visit your tomb, and you will besurprised to see how they will run excursion trains up there toMoosehead lake, or wherever you plant yourself. It will be a perfectpicnic. Your hold on the American people, William, is wonderful, butyour death would seem to assure it, and kind of crystallize theaffection now existing, but still in a nebulous and gummy state. "

A man ought not to criticise his birthplace, I presume, and yet, if Iwere to do it all over again, I do not know whether I would select thatparticular spot or not. Sometimes I think I would not. And yet, whatmemories cluster about that old house! There was the place where I firstmet my parents. It was at that time that an acquaintance sprang up whichhas ripened in later years into mutual respect and esteem. It was therethat what might be termed a casual meeting took place, that has, underthe alchemy of resist-less years, turned to golden links, forming apleasant but powerful bond of union between my parents and myself. Forthat reason, I hope that I may be spared to my parents for many years tocome. 

Many memories now cluster about that old home, as I have said. There is, also, other bric-a-brac which has accumulated since I was born there. Itook a small stone from the front yard as a kind of memento of theoccasion and the place. I do not think it has been detected yet. Therewas another stone in the yard, so it may be weeks before any one findsout that I took one of them. 

How humble the home, and yet what a lesson it should teach the boys ofAmerica! Here, amid the barren and inhospitable waste of rocks and cold, the last place in the world that a great man would naturally select tobe born in, began the life of one who, by his own unaided effort, inafter years rose to the proud height of postmaster at Laramie City, Wy. T. , and with an estimate of the future that seemed almost prophetic, resigned before he could be characterized as an offensive partisan. 

Here on the banks of the raging Piscataquis, where winter lingers inthe lap of spring till it occasions a good deal of talk, there began acareer which has been the wonder and admiration of every vigilancecommittee west of the turbulent Missouri. 

There on that spot, with no inheritance but a predisposition to baldnessand a bitter hatred of rum; with no personal property but a misfitsuspender and a stone-bruise, began a life history which has neverceased to be a warning to people who have sold goods on credit. 

It should teach the youth of our great broad land what gloriouspossibilities may lie concealed in the rough and tough bosom of thereluctant present. It shows how steady perseverance and a good appetitewill always win in the end. It teaches us that wealth is notindispensable, and that if we live as we should, draw out of politics atthe proper time, and die a few days before the public absolutely demandit, the matter of our birthplace will not be considered. 

Still, my birthplace is all right as a birthplace. It was a good, quietplace in which to be born. All the old neighbors said that Shirley was avery quiet place up to the time I was born there, and when I took myparents by the hand and gently led them away in the spring of '53, saying, "Parents, this is no place for us, " it again became quiet. 

It is the only birthplace I have, however, and I hope that all thereaders of this sketch will feel perfectly free to go there any time andvisit it and carry their dinner as I did. Extravagant cordiality andoverflowing hospitality have always kept my birthplace back. 

[Illustration: Never Talk Back. ]

 Never talk back! sich things is ripperhensible; feller only "corks" hisse'f that jaws a man that's hot; In a quarrel, of you'll only keep your mouth shet and act sensible, The man that does the talkin'll git worsted every shot!

 Never talk back to a feller that's abusin' you-- Jest let him carry on, and rip, and cuss and swear; And when he finds his lyin' and his dammin's jest amusin' you, You've gut him clean kaflummixed, and you want to hold him there!

 Never talk back, and wake up the whole community, And call a man a liar, over law, or Politics, -- You can lift and land him furder and with gracefuller impunity With one good jolt of silence than a half a dozen kicks!

The Gruesome Ballad of Mr. Squincher

 "Ki-yi!" said Mr. Squincher, As in contemplative pose, He stood before the looking-glass And burnished up his nose, And brushed the dandruff from a span- Spick-splinter suit of clothes, -- "Why, bless you, Mr. Squincher, You're as handsome as a rose!"

 [Illustration]

 "There are some, " continued Squincher, As he raised upon his toes To catch his full reflection, And the fascinating bows That graced his legs, --"I reckon There are some folks never knows How beautiful is human legs In pantaloons like those!"

 "But ah!" sighed Mr. Squincher, As a ghastly phantom 'rose And leered above his shoulder Like the deadliest of foes, -- With fleshless arms and fingers, And a skull, with glistening rows Of teeth that crunched and gritted, -- "It's my tailor, I suppose!"

 * * * * *

 They found him in the morning-- So the mystic legend goes-- With the placid face still smiling In its statuesque repose;-- With a lily in his left hand, And in his right a rose, With their fragrance curling upward Through a nimbus 'round his nose. 

Anecdotes of Jay Gould

[Illustration]

Facial Neuralgia is what is keeping Jay Gould back this summer andpreventing him from making as much money as he would otherwise. Withgood health and his present methods of doing business Mr. Gould could ina few years be beyond the reach of want, but he is up so much nightswith his face that he has to keep one gas-jet burning all the time. Besides he has cabled once to Dr. Brown-Sequard for a neuralgia pillthat he thought would relieve the intense pain, and found after he hadpaid for the cablegram that every druggist in New York kept theBrown-Sequard pill in stock. But when a man is ill he does not care forexpense, especially when he controls an Atlantic cable or two. 

This neuralgia pill is about the size of a two-year-old colt and purewhite. I have been compelled to take several of them myself whilesuffering from facial neuralgia; for neuralgia does not spare the good, the true or the beautiful. She comes along and nips the poor yeoman aswell as the millionaire who sits in the lap of luxury. Millionaires whoflatter themselves that they can evade neuralgia by going and sitting inthe lap of luxury make a great mistake. 

"And do you find that this large porcelain pill relieves you at all, Mr. Gould?" I asked him during one of these attacks, as he sat in his studiowith his face tied up in hot bran. 

"No, it does me no good whatever, " said the man who likes to take a lamerailroad and put it on its feet by issuing more bonds. "It contains alittle morphine, which dulls the pain but there's nothing in the pill tocure the cause. My neuralgia comes from indigestion. My appetite is foursizes too large for a man of my height, and every little while Iovereat. I then get dangerously ill and stocks become greatly depressedin consequence. I am now in a position where, if I had a constitutionthat would stand the strain, I could get well off in a few years, but Iam not strong enough. Every little change in the weather affects me. Isee a red-headed girl on the street and immediately afterwards I see oneof these big white pills. "

"Are you sure, Mr. Gould, " I asked him with some solicitude, as I bentforward and inhaled the rich fragrance of the carnation in hisbutton-hole, "that you have not taken cold in some way?"

"Possibly I have, " he said, as he shrank back in a petulant way, Ithought. "Last week I got my feet a little damp while playing the hoseon some of my stocks, but I hardly think that was what caused thetrouble. I am apt to overeat, as I said. I am especially fond of fruit, too. When I was a boy I had no trouble, because I always divided myfruit with another boy, of whom I was very fond. I would always dividemy fruit in two equal parts, keeping one of these and eating the othermyself. Many and many a time when this boy and I went out together andonly had one wormy apple between us, I have divided it and given him theworm. 

[Illustration]

"As a boy, I was taught to believe that half is always better than thehole. "

"And are you not afraid that this neuralgia after it has picnickedaround among your features may fly to your vitals?"

"Possibly so, " said Mr. Gould, snapping the hunting case of hismassive silver watch with a loud report, "but I am guarding against thisby keeping my pocketbook wrapped up all the time in an old red flannelshirt. "

Here Mr. Gould arose and went out of the room for a long time, and Icould hear him pacing up and down outside, stopping now and then to peerthrough the keyhole to see if I had gone away. But in each instance hewas gratified to find that I had not. Lest any one should imagine that Itook advantage of his absence to peruse his private correspondence, Iwill say here that I did not do so, as his desk was securely locked. 

Mr. Gould's habits are simple and he does not hold his cane by themiddle when he walks. He wears plain clothes and his shirts and collarsare both made of the same shade. He says he feels sorry for any one whohas to wear a pink shirt with a blue collar. Some day he hopes to endowa home for young men who cannot afford to buy a shirt and a collar atthe same store. 

He owes much of his neuralgia to a lack of exercise. Mr. Gould nevertakes any exercise at all. His reason for this is that he sees noprospect for exercise to advance in value. He says he is willing to takeanything else but exercise. 

Up to within a very few years Jay Gould has always slept well at night, owing to regular hours for rising and retiring and his carefulabstinence from tobacco and alcohol. Lately neuralgia has kept him awakea good deal at night, but prior to that he used to sleep as sweetly andpeacefully as a weasel. 

The story circulated some years ago to the effect that a professionalburglar broke into Mr. Gould's room in the middle of the night andbefore he could call the police was robbed of his tools, is not true. People who have no higher aim in life than the peddling about of suchimprobable yarns would do well to ascertain the truth of these reportsbefore giving them circulation. 

The story that Mr. Gould once killed a steer and presented his hoofs tothe poor with the remark that it would help to keep sole and bodytogether, also turned out to have no foundation whatever in fact, butwas set afloat by an English wag who was passionately fond of a bit ofpleasantry, don't you know. 

Thus it is that a man who has acquired a competence by means of honesttoil becomes the target for the barbed shaft of contumely. 

Mr. Gould is said to be a good conversationalist, though he prefers toclose his eyes and listen to others. Nothing pleases him better than tolure a man on and draw him out and encourage him to turn his mind wrongside out and empty it. He then richly repays this confidence by sayingthat if it doesn't rain any more we will have a long dry time. The manthen goes away inflated with the idea that he has a pointer from Mr. Gould which will materially affect values. A great many men are playingcroquet at the poor-house this summer who owe their prosperity to tipsgiven them by Mr. Gould. 

As a fair sample of the way a story about a great man grows and becomesdistorted at the same time, one incident will be sufficient. Some yearsago, it is said, Mr. Gould bought a general admission ticket to hearSarah Bernhardt as Camille. Several gentlemen who were sitting nearwhere he stood asked him why he did not take a seat. Instead ofanswering directly that he could not get one he replied that he did notcare for a seat, as he wanted to be near the door when the buildingfell. Shortly after this he had more seats than he could use. I givethis story simply to illustrate how such a thing may be distorted, forupon investigation it was found to have occurred at a Patti concert, andnot at a Bernhardt exhibition at all. 

Mr. Gould's career, with its attendant success, should teach us twothings, at least. One is, that it always pays to do a kind act, for agreat deal of his large fortune has been amassed by assisting men likeMr. Field, when they were in a tight place, and taking their depressedstock off their hands while in a shrunken condition. He believes alsothat the merciful man is merciful to his stock. 

He says he owes much of his success in life to economy and neuralgia. Healso loves to relieve distress on Wall street, and is so passionatelyfond of this as he grows older that he has been known to distress otherstock men just for the pleasant thrill it gave him to relieve them. 

Jay Gould is also a living illustration of what a young man may do withnothing but his bare hands in America. John L. Sullivan and Gould areboth that way. Mr. Gould and Col. Sullivan could go into Siberiato-morrow--little as they are known there--and with a small Gordonpress, a quire of bond paper and a pair of three-pennyweight gloves theywould soon own Siberia, with a right of way across the rest of Europeand a first mortgage on the Russian throne. As fast as Col. Sullivanknocked out a dynasty Jay could come in and administer on the estate. This would be a powerful combination. It would afford us an opportunityalso to get some of those Russian hay-fever names and chilblains by redmessage. Mr. Gould would get a good deal of money out of the transactionand Sullivan would get ozone. 

[Illustration: A Fall Crick View of the Earthquake]

 I kin hump my back and take the rain, And I don't keer how she pours, I kin keep kindo' ca'm in a thunder storm, No matter how loud she roars; I haint much skeered o' the lightnin', Ner I haint sich awful shakes Afeared o' _cyclones_--but I don't want none O' yer dad-burned old _earth_-quakes!

 As long as my legs keeps stiddy, And long as my head keeps plum, And the buildin' stays in the front lot, I still kin whistle, _some_! But about the time the old clock Flops off'n the mantel-shelf, And the bureau skoots fer the kitchen, I'm a-goin' to skoot, myself!

 Plague-take! ef you keep me stabled While any earthquakes is around!-- I'm jist like the stock, --I'll beller, And break fer the open ground! And I 'low you'd be as nervous, And in jist about my fix, When yer whole farm slides from inunder you, And on'y the mor'gage sticks!

 Now cars haint a-goin' to kill you Ef you don't drive 'crost the track; Crediters never'll jerk you up Ef you go and pay 'em back; You kin stand all moral and mundane storms Ef you'll on'y jist behave-- But a' EARTHQUAKE:--well, ef it wanted you It 'ud husk you out o' yer grave!

[Illustration: August]

 O mellow month and merry month, Let me make love to you, And follow you around the world As knights their ladies do. I thought your sisters beautiful, Both May and April, too, But April she had rainy eyes, And May had eyes of blue. 

 And June--I liked the singing Of her lips, and liked her smile-- But all her songs were promises Of something, _after while_; And July's face--the lights and shade That may not long beguile, With alternations o'er the wheat The dreamer at the stile. 

 But you!--ah, you are tropical, Your beauty is so rare: Your eyes are clearer, deeper eyes Than any, anywhere; Mysterious, imperious, Deliriously fair, O listless Andalusian maid, With bangles in your hair!

Julius Cęsar in Town

[Illustration]

The play of "Julius Cęsar, " which has been at the Academy of Music thisweek, has made a great hit. Messrs. Booth and Barrett very wiselydecided that if it succeeded here it would do well anywhere. If thepeople of New York like a play and say so, it is almost sure to goelsewhere. Judging by this test the play of "Julius Cęsar" has a glowingfuture ahead of it. It was written by Gentlemen Shakespeare, Bacon andDonnelly, who collaborated together on it. Shakespeare did the lines andplot, Bacon furnished the cipher and Donnelly called attention to itthrough the papers. 

The scene of "Julius Cęsar" is laid in Rome just before the railroad wascompleted to that place. In order to understand the play itself we mustglance briefly at the leading characters which are introduced and uponwhom its success largely depends. 

Julius Cęsar first attracted attention through the Roman papers bycalling the attention of the medical faculty to the now justlycelebrated Cęsarian operation. Taking advantage of the advertisementthus attained, he soon rose to prominence and flourished considerablyfrom 100 to 44 B. C. , when a committee of representative citizens andproperty-owners of Rome called upon him and on behalf of the peoplebegged leave to assassinate him as a mark of esteem. He was stabbedtwenty-three times between Pompey's Pillar and eleven o'clock, many ofwhich were mortal. This account of the assassination is taken from alocal paper and is graphic, succinct and lacks the sensational elementsso common and so lamentable in our own time. Cęsar was the implacablefoe of the aristocracy and refused to wear a plug hat up to the day ofhis death. Sulla once said, before Cęsar had made much of a showing, that some day this young man would be the ruin of the aristocracy, andtwenty years afterwards when Cęsar sacked, assassinated and holocausteda whole theological seminary for saying "eyether" and "nyether, " the oldsettlers recalled what Sulla had said. 

Cęsar continued to eat pie with a knife and in many other ways to endearhimself to the masses until 68 B. C. , when he ran for Quęstor. Afterwardhe was Ędile, during the term of which office he sought to introduce anumber of new games and to extend the limit on some of the older ones. From this to the Senate was but a step. In the Senate he was known as agood Speaker, but ambitious, and liable to turn up during a close votewhen his enemies thought he was at home doing his chores. This made himat times odious to those who opposed him, and when he defended Catalineand offered to go on his bond, Cęsar came near being condemned to deathhimself. 

In 62 B. C. He went to Spain as Proprętor, intending to write a bookabout the Spanish people and their customs as soon as he got back, buthe was so busy on his return that he did not have time to do so. 

Cęsar was a powerful man with the people, and while in the Senate workedhard for his constituents, while other Senators were having theirphotographs taken. He went into the army when the war broke out, andafter killing a great many people against whom he certainly could nothave had anything personal, he returned, headed by the Rome SilverCornet Band and leading a procession over two miles in length. It was atthis time that he was tendered a crown just as he was passing the CityHall, but thrice he refused it. After each refusal the people applaudedand encored him till he had to refuse it again. It is at about this timethe play opens. Cęsar has just arrived on a speckled courser anddismounted outside the town. He comes in at the head of a processionwith the understanding that the crown is to be offered him just as hecrosses over to the Court-House. 

Here Cassius and Brutus meet, and Cassius tries to make a Mugwump ofBrutus, so that they can organize a new movement. Mr. Edwin Booth takesthe character of Brutus and Mr. Lawrence Barrett takes that of Cassius. I would not want to take the character of Cassius myself, even if I hadrun short of character and needed some very much indeed, but Mr. Barrett takes it and does first-rate. Mr. Booth also plays Brutus sothat old settlers here say it seems almost like having Brutus here amongus again. 

Brutus was a Roman republican with strong tariff tendencies. He was agood extemporaneous after-dinner speaker and a warm personal friend ofCęsar, though differing from him politically. In assassinating Cęsar, Brutus used to say afterwards he did not feel the slightest personalanimosity, but did it entirely for the good of the party. That is onething I like about politics--you can cut out a man's vitals and hangthem on the Christmas tree and drag the fair name of his wife or motheraround through the sewers for six weeks before election, and so long asit is done for the good of the party it is all right. 

So when Brutus is authorized by the caucus to assassinate Cęsar he feelsthat, like being President of the United States, it is a disagreeablejob; but if the good of the party seems really to demand it he will doit, though he wishes it distinctly understood that personally he hasn'tgot a thing against Cęsar. 

In act 4 Brutus sits up late reading a story by E. P. Roe, and just ashe is in the most exciting part of it the ghost of the assassinatedCęsar appears and states that it will meet him with hard gloves atPhilippi. Brutus looks bored and says that he is not in condition, butthe ghost leaves it that way and Brutus looks still more bored till theghost goes out through a white oak door without opening it. 

At Philippi, Brutus sees that there is no hope of police interference, and so before time is called he inserts his sword into his being anddies while the polite American audience puts on its overcoat and goesout, looking over its shoulder to see that Brutus does not takeadvantage of this moment, while the people are going away, toresuscitate himself. 

[Illustration]

The play is thoroughly enjoyable all the way through, especially Cęsar'sfuneral. The idea of introducing a funeral and engaging Mark Antony todeliver the eulogy, with the understanding that he was to have histraveling expenses paid and the privilege of selling the sermon to asyndicate, shows genius on the part of the joint authors. All the waythrough the play is good, but sad. There is no divertisement or tank init, but the funeral more than makes up for all that. 

Where Portia begs Brutus, before the assassination, to tell her all andlet her in on the ground floor, and asks what the matter is, and heclaims that it is malaria, and she still insists and asks, "Dwell I butin the suburbs of your good pleasure?" and he states, "You are my trueand honorable wife, as dear to me as are the ruddy drops that visit mysad heart, " I forgot myself and wept my new plug hat two-thirds full. Itis as good as anything there is in Josh Whitcomb's play. 

Booth and Barrett have the making of good actors in them. I met both ofthese gentlemen in Wyoming some years ago. We met by accident. They weregoing to California and I was coming back. By some oversight we had bothselected the same track, and we were thrown together. I do not knowwhether they will recall my face or not. I was riding on the sleepertruck at the time of the accident. I always take a sleeper and alwaysdid. I rode on the truck because I didn't want to ride inside the carand have to associate with a wealthy porter who looked down upon me. Iam the man who was found down the creek the next day gathering wildferns and murmuring, "Where am I?"

The play of "Julius Cęsar" is one which brings out the meanness andmagnetism of Cassius, and emphasizes the mistaken patriotism of Brutus. It is full of pathos, duplicity, assassination, treachery, erroneousloyalty, suicide, hypocrisy, and all the intrigue, jealousy, cowardiceand deviltry which characterized the politics of fifty years B. C. , butwhich now, thanks to the enlightenment and refinement which twentycenturies have brought, are known no more forever. Let us not forget, as we enter upon the year 1888, that it is a Presidential year, and thatall acrimony will be buried under the dew and the daisies, and that nomatter how high party spirit may run, there will be no personalenmity. 

His First Womern

[Illustration]

 I buried my first womern In the spring; and in the fall I was married to my second, And haint settled yit at all?-- Fer I'm allus thinkin'--thinkin' Of the first one's peaceful ways, A-bilin' soap and singin' Of the Lord's amazin' grace. 

 And I'm thinkin' of her, constant, Dyin' carpet-chain and stuff, And a-makin' up rag-carpets, When the floor was good enough! And I mind her he'p a-feedin' And I recollect her now A-drappin' corn, and keepin' Clos't behind me and the plow!

 And I'm allus thinkin' of her Reddin' up around the house; Er cookin' fer the farm-hands; Er a-drivin' up the cows. -- And there she lays out yender By the lower medder-fence, Where the cows was barely grazin', And they're usin' ever sence. 

 And when I look acrost there-- Say its when the clover's ripe, And I'm settin', in the evenin', On the porch here, with my pipe, And the _other'n_ hollers "Henry!"-- W'y, they ain't no sadder thing Than to think of my first womern And her funeral last spring Was a year ago. 

This Man Jones

 This man Jones was what you'd call A feller 'at had no sand at all: Kindo consumpted, and undersize, And saller-complected, with big sad eyes, And a kind-of-a-sort-of-a-hang-dog style, And a sneakin' kind-of-a-half-way smile That kindo give him away to us As a preacher, maybe, or sumpin' wuss. 

 Didn't take with the gang--well, no-- But still we managed to _use_ him, though, -- Coddin' the gilley along the rout' And drivin' the stakes that he pulled out;-- For I was one of the bosses then And of course stood in with the canvas-men-- And the way we put up jobs, you know, On this man Jones jes' beat the show!

 Used to rattle him scandalous, And keep the feller a-dodgin' us, And a-shyin' round jes' skeered to death, And a-feered to whimper above his breath; Give him a cussin', and then a kick, And then a kind-of-a back-hand lick-- Jes' for the fun of seein' him climb Around with a head on half the time. 

 But what was the curioust thing to me, Was along o' the party--let me see, -- Who was our "Lion Queen" last year?-- Mamzelle Zanty, er De La Pierre?-- Well, no matter!--a stunnin' in mash, With a red-ripe lip, and a long eye-lash, And a figger sich as the angels owns-- And one too many for this man Jones:

 He'd always wake in the afternoon As the band waltzed in on "the lion tune, " And there, from the time that she'd go in, Till she'd back out of the cage agin, He'd stand, shaky and limber-kneed-- 'Specially when she come to "feed The beast raw meat with her naked hand"-- And all that business, you understand. 

 And it _was_ resky in that den-- For I think she juggled three cubs then, And a big "green" lion 'at used to smash Collar-bones for old Frank Nash; And I reckon now she haint forgot The afternoon old "Nero" sot His paws on her:--but as for me, It's a sort-of-a-mixed-up mystery. 

 Kindo' remember an awful roar, And see her back for the bolted door-- See the cage rock--heerd her call "God have mercy!" and that was all-- For ther haint no livin' man can tell What it's like when a thousand yell In female tones, and a thousand more Howl in bass till their throats is sore!

 But the keeper said as they dragged her out, They heerd some feller laugh and shout: "Save her! Quick! I've got the cuss!" . .. And yit she waked and smiled on us! And we daren't _flinch_--for the doctor said, Seein' as this man Jones was dead, Better to jes' not let her know Nothin' o' that for a week or so. 

How to Hunt the Fox

[Illustration]

The joyous season for hunting is again upon us, and with the gentle fallof the autumn leaf and the sough of the scented breezes about thegnarled and naked limbs of the wailing trees--the huntsman comes withhis hark and his halloo and hurrah, boys, the swift rush of the chase, the thrilling scamper 'cross country, the mad dash through the LongIslander's pumpkin patch--also the mad dash, dash, dash of the farmer, the low moan of the disabled and frozen-toed hen as the whoopinghorsemen run her down; the wild shriek of the children, the lowmelancholy wail of the frightened shoat as he flees away to the strawpile, the quick yet muffled plunk of the frozen tomato and the dullscrunch of the seed cucumber. 

The huntsman now takes the flannels off his fox, rubs his stiffenedlimbs with gargling oil, ties a bunch of firecrackers to his tail andruns him around the barn a few times to see if he is in good order. 

The foxhound is a cross of the bloodhound, the grayhound, the bulldogand the chump. When you step on his tail he is said to be in full cry. The foxhound obtains from his ancestors on the bloodhound side of thehouse his keen scent, which enables him while in full cry 'cross countryto pause and hunt for chipmunks. He also obtains from the bloodhoundbranch of his family a wild yearning to star in an "Uncle Tom" company, and watch little Eva meander up the flume at two dollars per week. Fromthe grayhound he gets his most miraculous speed, which enables him toattain a rate of velocity so great that he is unable to halt during theexcitement of the chase, frequently running so far during the day thatit takes him a week to get back, when, of course, all interest has diedout. From the bulldog the foxhound obtains his great tenacity ofpurpose, his deep-seated convictions, his quick perceptions, his love ofhome and his clinging nature. From the chump the foxhound gets his highintellectuality and that mental power which enables him to distinguishalmost at a glance the salient points of difference between atwo-year-old steer and a two-dollar bill. 

The foxhound is about two feet in height, and 120 of them would beconsidered an ample number for a quiet little fox hunt. Some huntersthink this number inadequate, but unless the fox be unusually skittishand crawl under the barn, 120 foxhounds ought to be enough. The troublegenerally is that hunters make too much noise, thus scaring the fox sothat he tries to get away from them. This necessitates hard riding andgreat activity on the part of the whippers-in. Frightening a fox almostalways results in sending him out of the road and compelling horsemen tostop in order to take down a panel of fence every little while that theymay follow the animal, and before you can get the fence put up again theowner is on the ground, and after you have made change with him andmounted again the fox may be nine miles away. Try by all means to keepyour fox in the road!

It makes a great difference what kind of fox you use, however. I oncehad a fox on my Pumpkin Butte estates that lasted me three years, and Inever knew him to shy or turn out of the road for anything but a loadedteam. He was the best fox for hunting purposes that I ever had. Everyspring I would sprinkle him with Scotch snuff and put him away in thebureau till fall. He would then come out bright and chipper. He wasalways ready to enter into the chase with all the chic and embonpoint ofa regular Kenosha, and nothing pleased him better than to be about eightmiles in advance of my thoroughbred pack in full cry, scampering 'crosscountry, while stretching back a few miles behind the dogs followed apale young man and his financier, each riding a horse that had sat downtoo hard on its tail some time and driven it into his system about sixjoints. 

Some hunters, who are madly and passionately devoted to the sport, leaptheir horses over fences, moats, donjon keeps, hedges and currant busheswith utter sang froid and the wild, unfettered toot ongsomble of a brassband. It is one of the most spirited and touchful of sights to see ayoung fox-hunter going home through the gloaming with a full cry inone hand and his pancreas in the other. 

Some like to be in at the death, as it is called, and it is certainly alaudable ambition. To see 120 dogs hold out against a ferocious foxweighing nine pounds; to watch the brave little band of dogs andwhippers-in and horses with sawed-off tails, making up in heroism whatthey lack in numbers, succeeding at last in ridding the country of theferocious brute which has long been the acknowledged foe of the humanrace, is indeed a fine sight. 

We are too apt to regard fox-hunting merely as a relaxation, a source ofpleasure, and the result of a desire to do the way people do in thenovels which we steal from English authors: but this is not all. Tosuccessfully hunt a fox, to jump fences 'cross country like an unrulysteer, is no child's play. To ride all day on a very hot and restlesssaddle, trying to lope while your horse is trotting, giving your friendsa good view of the country between yourself and your horse, then leapingstone walls, breaking your collar-bone in four places, pulling out oneeye and leaving it hanging on a plum tree, or going home at night withyour transverse colon wrapped around the pommel of your saddle and yourliver in an old newspaper, requires the greatest courage. 

Too much stress cannot be placed upon the costume worn whilefox-hunting, and in fact, that is, after all, the life and soul of thechase. For ladies, nothing looks better than a close-fitting jacket, sewed together with thread of the same shade and a skirt. Neat-fittingcavalry boots and a plug hat complete the costume. Then, with a hue inone hand and a cry in the other, she is prepared to mount. Lead thehorse up to a stone wall or a freight car and spring lightly into thesaddle with a glad cry. A freight car is the best thing from which tomount a horse, but it is too unwieldy and frequently delays the chase. For this reason, too, much luggage should not be carried on a fox-hunt. Some gentlemen carry a change of canes, neatly concealed in a shawlstrap, but even this may be dispensed with. 

[Illustration]

For gentlemen, a dark, four-button cutaway coat, with neat, loose-fitting, white panties, will generally scare a fox intoconvulsions, so that he may be easily killed with a club. Ashort-waisted plug hat may be worn also, in order to distinguish thehunter from the whipper-in, who wears a baseball cap. The onlyfox-hunting I have ever done was on board an impetuous, tough-bitted, fore-and-aft horse that had emotional insanity. I was dressed in aswallow-tail coat, waistcoat of Scotch plaid Turkish toweling, and apair of close-fitting breeches of etiquette tucked into my boot-tops. As I was away from home at the time and could not reach my own steed Iwas obliged to mount a spirited steed with high, intellectual hips, onewhite eye and a big red nostril that you could set a Shanghai hen in. This horse, as soon as the pack broke into full cry, climbed over afence that had wrought-iron briers on it, lit in a corn field, stabbedhis hind leg through a sere and yellow pumpkin, which he wore the restof the day, with seven yards of pumpkin vine streaming out behind, andaway we dashed 'cross country. I remained mounted not because I enjoyedit, for I did not, but because I dreaded to dismount. I hated to get offin pieces. If I can't get off a horse's back as a whole, I would ratheradhere to the horse. I will adhere that I did so. 

We did not see the fox, but we saw almost everything else. I remember, among other things, of riding through a hothouse, and how I enjoyed it. A morning scamper through a conservatory when the syringas and Jonquilsand Jack roses lie cuddled up together in their little beds, is a thingto remember and look back to and pay for. To stand knee-deep in glassand gladiolas, to smell the mashed and mussed up mignonette and the lastfragrant sigh of the scrunched heliotrope beneath the hoof of yourhorse, while far away the deep-mouthed baying of the hoarse hounds, hotly hugging the reeking trail of the aniseseed bag, calls on thegorgeously caparisoned hills to give back their merry music or fork itover to other answering hills, is joy to the huntsman's heart. 

On, on I rode with my unconfined locks streaming behind me in the autumnwind. On and still on I sped, the big, bright pumpkin slipping up anddown the gambrel of my spirited horse at every jump. On and ever on wewent, shedding terror and pumpkin seeds along our glittering track tillmy proud steed ran his leg in a gopher hole and fell over one of thosemachines that they put on a high-headed steer to keep him from jumpingfences. As the horse fell, the necklace of this hickory poke flew up andadjusted itself around my throat. In an instant my steed was on his feetagain, and gayly we went forward while the prong of this barbarousappliance, ever and anon plowed into a brand new culvert or rooted up aclover field. Every time it ran into an orchard or a cemetery it wouldjar my neck and knock me silly. But I could see with joy that it reducedthe speed of my horse. At last as the sun went down, reluctantly, itseemed to me, for he knew that he would never see such riding again, myill-spent horse fell with a hollow moan, curled up, gave a spasmodicquiver with his little, nerveless, sawed-off tail and died. 

The other huntsmen succeeded in treeing the anise-seed bag at sundown, in time to catch the 6 o'clock train home. 

Fox-hunting is one of the most thrilling pastimes of which I know, andfor young men whose parents have amassed large sums of money in theintellectual pursuit of hides and tallow, the meet, the chase, thescamper, the full cry, the cover, the stellated fracture, the yelp ofthe pack, the yip, the yell of triumph, the confusion, the whoop, theholla, the hallos, the hurrah, the abrasion, the snort of the hunter, the concussion, the sward, the open, the earth stopper, the strangulatedhernia, the glad cry of the hound as he brings home the quivering seatof the peasant's pantaloons, the yelp of joy as he lays at hismaster's feet, the strawberry mark of the rustic, all, all areexhilarating to the sons of our American nobility. 

Fox-hunting combines the danger and the wild, tumultuous joy of theskating-rink, the toboggan slide, the mush-and-milk sociable and thestraw ride. 

With a good horse, an air cushion, a reliable earth-stopper and ananise-seed bag, a man must indeed be thoroughly blase who cannot enjoy ascamper across country, over the Pennsylvania wold, the New Jersey mere, the Connecticut moor, the Indiana glade, the Missouri brake, theMichigan mead, the American tarn, the fen, the gulch, the buffalowallow, the cranberry marsh, the glen, the draw, the canyon, the ravine, the forks, the bottom or the settlement. 

For the young American nobleman whose ducal father made his money byinventing a fluent pill, or who gained his great wealth throughrelieving humanity by means of a lung pad, a liver pad, a kidney pad ora foot pad, fox-hunting is first rate. 

The Boy Friend

[Illustration]

 Clarence, my boy-friend, hale and strong, O, he is as jolly as he is young; And all of the laughs of the lyre belong To the boy all unsung:

 So I want to sing something in his behalf-- To clang some chords, of the good it is To know he is near, and to have the laugh Of that wholesome voice of his. 

 I want to tell him in gentler ways Than prose may do, that the arms of rhyme, Warm and tender with tuneful praise, Are about him all the time. 

 I want him to know that the quietest nights We have passed together are yet with me Roistering over the old delights That were born of his company. 

 I want him to know how my soul esteems The fairy stories of Andersen, And the glad translations of all the themes Of the hearts of boyish men. 

 Want him to know that my fancy flows, With the lilt of a dear old-fashioned tune, Through "Lewis Carroll's" poemly prose, And the tale of "The Bold Dragoon. "

 O, this is the Prince that I would sing-- Would drape and garnish in velvet line Since courtlier far than any king Is this brave boy-friend of mine!

A Letter of Acceptance

The secretary of the Ashfield Farmer's Club, of Ashfield, Mass. , Mr. E. D. Church, informs me by United States mail that upon receipt of myfavorable reply I will become an honorary member of that Club, alongwith George William Curtis, Prof. Norton, Prof. Stanley Hall, ofHarvard, and other wet-browed toilers in the catnip-infested domain ofAgriculture. 

I take this method of thanking the Ashfield Farmers' Club, through itssecretary, for the honor thus all so unworthily bestowed, and joyfullyaccept the honorary membership, with the understanding, however, thatduring the County Fair the solemn duty of delivering the annual addressfrom the judges' stand, in tones that will not only ring along down thecorridors of time, but go thundering three times around a half-miletrack and be heard above the rhythmic plunk of the hired man who istrying to ascertain, by means of a large mawl and a thumping machine, how hard he can strike, shall fall upon Mr. Curtis or other honorarymembers of the club. I have a voice that does very well to expressendearment, or other subdued emotions, but it is not effective at aCounty Fair. Spectators see the wonderful play of my features, but theyonly hear the low refrain of the haughty Clydesdale steed, who has aneighsal voice and wears his tail in a Grecian coil. I received $150once for addressing a race-track one mile in length on "The Use andAbuse of Ensilage as a Narcotic. " I made the gestures, but thesentiments were those of the four-ton Percheron charger, LittleMedicine, dam Eloquent. 

[Illustration]

I spoke under a low shed and rather adverse circumstances. In talkingwith the committee afterwards, as I wrapped up my gestures and put themback in the shawl strap, I said that I felt almost ashamed to receivesuch a price for the sentiments of others, but they said that was allright. No one expected to hear an Agricultural Address. They claimedthat it was most generally purely spectacular, and so they regarded myspeech as a great success. I used the same gestures afterwards inspeaking of "The Great Falling Off among Bare-Back Riders in theCircuses of the Present Day. "

I would also like to be excused from any duties as a judge ofcurly-faced stock or as an umpire of ornamental needlework. After aperson has had a fountain pen kicked endwise through his chest by theanimal to which he has awarded the prize, and later on has his featuresworked up into a giblet pie by the owner of the animal to whom he didnot award the prize, he does not ask for public recognition at the handsof his fellow-citizens. It is the same in the matter of ornamentalneedlework and gaudy quilts, which goad a man to drink and death. WhileI am proud to belong to a farmers' club and "change works" with ahearty, whole-souled ploughman like George William Curtis, I hope thatat all County Fairs or other intellectual hand-to-hand contests betweenoutdoor orators and other domestic animals, I may be excused, and thatwhen judges of inflamed slumber robes and restless tidies, which roll upand fall over the floor or adhere to the backs of innocent people; orstiff, hard Doric pillor-shams which do not in any way enhance the joysof sleep; or beautiful, pale-blue satin pincushions which it would bewicked to put a pin in and which will therefore ever and forevermoremock the man who really wants a pin, just as a beautiful match-safestands idly through the long vigils of the night, year after year, onlyto laugh at the man who staggers towards it and falls up against it andfinds it empty; or like the glorious inkstand which is so pretty and sofragile that it stands around with its hands in its pockets acquiringdust and dead flies for centuries, so that when you are in a hurry youstick your pen into a small chamber of horrors--I say when the judgesare selected for this department I would rather have my name omittedfrom the panel, as I have formed or expressed an opinion and havereasonable doubts and conscientious scruples which it would requiretestimony to remove, and I am not qualified anyway, and I have beenalready placed in jeopardy once, and that is enough. 

Mr. Church writes that the club has taken up, discussed and settled allpoints of importance bearing upon Agriculture, from the tariff up to thequestion of whether or not turpentine poured in a cow's ear amelioratesthe pangs of hollow horn. He desires suggestions and questions fordiscussion. That shows the club to be thoroughly alive. It will soon beSpring, and we cannot then discuss these matters. New responsibilitieswill be added day by day in the way of stock, and we will have to thinkof names for them. Would it not be well before the time comes for activefarm work to think out a long list of names before the little strangersarrive? Nothing serves to lower us in the estimation of ourfellow-farmers or the world more than the frequent altercations betweenowners and their hired help over what name they shall give a weary, wobbly calf who has just entered the great arena of life, full of hopesand aspirations, perhaps, but otherwise absolutely empty. Let usconsider this before Spring fairly opens, so that we may be prepared foranything of this kind. 

One more point may properly come before the club at its next meeting, and I mention it here because I may be so busy at Washington lookingafter our other interests that I cannot get to the club meeting. I referto the evident change in climate here from year to year, and its effectupon seeds purchased of florists and seedsmen generally. 

Twenty years ago you could plant a seed according to directions and itwould produce a plant which seemed to resemble in a general way thepicture on the outside of the package. Now, under the fluctuatinginfluences of irresponsible isotherms, phlegmatic Springs, rare Juneweather and overdone weather in August, I find it almost impossible toproduce a plant or vegetable which in any way resembles its portrait. Isit my fault or the fault of the climate? I wish the club would take holdof this at its next regular meeting. I first noticed the change in thesummer of '72, I think. I purchased a small package of early Scotchplaid curled kale with a beautiful picture on the outside. It was asgood a picture of Scotch kale as I ever saw. I could imagine how gay andlight-hearted it was the day when it went up to the studio and had itspicture taken for this purpose. A short editorial paragraph under thepicture stated that I should plant in quick, rich soil, in rows fourinches apart, to a depth of one inch, cover lightly and then roll. I didso. No farmer of my years enjoys rolling better than I do. 

In a few weeks the kale came up but turned out to be a canard. I thenwaited two weeks more and other forms of vegetation made theirappearance. None of them were kale. A small delegation of bugs whichdeal mostly with kale came into the garden one day, looked at thepicture on the discarded paper, then examined what had crawled outthrough the ground and went away. I began to fear then that climaticinfluences had been at work on the seeds, but I had not fully given upall hope. 

At first the plants seemed to waver and hesitate over whether they hadbetter be wild parsnips or Lima beans. Then I concluded that they haddecided to be foliage plants or rhubarb. But they did not try to live upto their portraits. Pretty soon I discovered that they had no bugs whichseemed to go with them, and then I knew they were weeds. Things that aregood to eat always have bugs and worms on them, while tansy andcastor-oil go through life unmolested. 

I ordered a new style of gladiola eight years ago of a man who had hisportrait in the bow of his seed catalogue. If he succeeds no better inresembling his portrait than his gladiolas did in resembling theirs, hemust be a human onion whose presence may easily be detected at a greatdistance. 

Last year I planted the seeds of a watermelon which I bought of a NewYork seedsman who writes war articles winters and sells garden seeds inthe Spring. The portrait of this watermelon would tempt most any man toclimb a nine-rail fence in the dead of night and forget all else inorder to drown his better nature and his nose in its cool bosom. Peoplecame for miles to look at the picture of this melon and went away with apleasant taste in their mouths. 

The plants were a little sluggish, though I planted in hills far aparteach way in a rich warm loam enriched by everything that could make asincere watermelon get up and hump itself. The melons were to be verylarge indeed, with a center like a rose. According to the picture, thesemelons generally grew so large and plenty that most everybody had to putside-boards on the garden fence to keep them from falling over intoother farms and annoying people who had all the melons they needed. Ifought squash bugs, cut worms, Hessian flies, chinch bugs, curculio, mange, pip, drought, dropsy, caterpillars and contumely till the latterpart of August, when a friend from India came to visit me. I decided tocut a watermelon in honor of his arrival. When the proper moment hadarrived and the dinner had progressed till the point of fruit, thetropical depths of my garden gave up their season's wealth in the shapeof a low-browed citron about as large and succulent as a hot ball. 

I have had other similar experiences, and I think we ought to dosomething about it if we can. I have planted the seed of the morningglory and the moon flower and dreamed at night that my home looked likea florist's advertisement, but when leafy June came a bunch of Norwayoats and a hill of corn were trying to climb the strings nailed up forthe use of my non-resident vines. I have planted with song and laughterthe seeds of the ostensible pansy and carnation, only in tears to reapthe bachelor's button and the glistening foliage of the sorghum plant. I have planted in faith and a deep, warm soil, with pleasing hope in myheart and a dark-red picture on the outside of the package, only toharvest the low, vulgar jimson weed and the night-blooming bull thistle. 

Does the mean temperature or the average rainfall have anything to dowith it? If statistics are working these changes they ought to bestopped. For my own part, however, I am led to believe that our seedsmenput so much money into their catalogues that they do not have anythingleft to use in the purchase of seeds. Good religion and very faircookies may be produced without the aid of caraway seed, but you cannotgather nice, fresh train figs of thistles or expect much of a seedsmanwhose plants make no effort whatever to resemble their pictures. 

Hoping that you will examine into this matter, and that the club willalways hereafter look carefully in this column for its farm information, I remain, in a sitting posture, yours truly. 

 BILL NYE. 

[Illustration: "YOU IN THE HAMMOCK; AND I, NEAR BY. "]

In the Afternoon

 You in the hammock; and I, near by, Was trying to read, and to swing you, too; And the green of the sward was so kind to the eye, And the shade of the maples so cool and blue, That often I looked from the book to you To say as much, with a sigh. 

 You in the hammock. The book we'd brought From the parlor--to read in the open air, -- Something of love and of Launcelot And Guinevere, I believe, was there-- But the afternoon, it was far more fair Than the poem was, I thought. 

 You in the hammock; and on and on I droned and droned through the rhythmic stuff-- But with always a half of my vision gone Over the top of the page--enough To caressingly gaze at you, swathed in the fluff Of your hair and your odorous lawn. 

 You in the hammock--And that was a year-- Fully a year ago, I guess!-- And what do we care for their Guinevere And her Launcelot and their lordliness!-- You in the hammock still, and--Yes-- Kiss me again, my dear!

The Rise and Fall of William Johnson

(A CHRISTMAS STORY)

[Illustration]

It has always been one of my pet notions that on Christmas day we oughtnot to remember those only who may be related to us and those who areprosperous, but, that we should, while remembering them, forget not theunfortunate who are dead to all the world but themselves and who sufferin prison walls, not alone for their own crimes, perhaps, but for thecrimes of their parents and their grandparents before them. Few of theprosperous and happy pause to-day to think of the convict whose days areall alike and whose nights are filled with bitterness. 

At the risk of being dull and prosy, I am going to tell a story that isnot especially humorous or pathetic, but merely true. Every Christmas Itry to tell a true story. I do not want the day to go by without somesort of recognition by which to distinguish it from other days, and so Icelebrate it in that way. 

This is the story of William Johnson, a Swede, who went to WyomingTerritory, perhaps fifteen years ago, to seek his fortune amongstrangers, and who, without even a knowledge of the English language, began in his patient way to work at whatever his hands found to do. Hewas a plain, long-legged man, with downcast eyes and nose. 

There was some surprise expressed all around when he was charged one dayby Jake Feinn with feloniously taking, stealing, carrying away anddriving away one team of horses, the property of the affiant, and of thevalue of $200 contrary to the statutes in such case made and provided, and against the peace and dignity of the Territory of Wyoming. 

Everybody laughed at the idea of Jake Feinn owning a team worth $200, and, as he was also a chronic litigator, it was generally conceded thatJohnson would be discharged. But his misfortunes seemed to swoop down onhim from the very first moment. At the preliminary examination Johnsonacted like a man who was dazed. He couldn't talk or understand Englishvery well. He failed to get a lawyer. He pleaded guilty, not knowingwhat it meant, and was permitted to take it back. He had no witnesses, and the Court was in something of a hurry as it had to prepare a speechthat afternoon to be delivered in the evening on the "Beauties ofEternal Justice, " and so it was adjudged that in default of $500 bailthe said William Johnson be committed to the County Jail of AlbanyCounty in said Territory, there to await the action of the Grand Juryfor the succeeding term of the District Court for the Second JudicialDistrict of Wyoming. 

[Illustration]

Meekly and silently William Johnson left the warm and stimulating Indiansummer air of October to enter the dark and undesirable den of a felon. Patiently he accepted the heart-breaking destiny which seemed really tobelong to some one else. He put in his days studying an English primerall the forenoon and doing housework around the jail kitchen in theafternoon. 

He was a very tall man and a very awkward man, with large, intellectualjoints and a sad face. When he got so that he could read a little I wentin to hear him one day. He stood up like an exaggerated schoolboy, andwhile he bored holes in the page of his primer with a long and corneousforefinger he read that little poem:

 Pray tell me, bird, what you can see Up in the top of that tall tree? Have you no fear that some rude boy May come and mar your peace and joy?

 * * * * *

 Oh, no, my child, I fear no harm, While with my song I thus can charm. My mate is here, my youngsters, too, And here we sit and sing to you. 

Finally, the regular term of the District Court opened. Men who had comefor a long distance to vaunt their ignorance and other qualifications asjurors could be seen on the streets. Here and there you could see thefamiliar faces of those who had served as jurors for years and yet hadnever lost a case. Wealthy delinquents began to subpoena largedetachments of witnesses at the expense of the county, and the poorpetty larceny people in the jail began to wonder why their witnessesdidn't show up. Slowly the wheels of Justice began to revolve. Ever andanon could be heard the strident notes which came from the room wherethe counsel for the defense was filing his objections, while now andthen the ear was startled with the low quash of the indictment. 

Finally the case of the Territory against William Johnson was called. 

"Mr. Johnson, " asked Judge Blair, "have you counsel?"

The defendant said he had not. 

"Are you able to employ counsel?"

He evidently wasn't able to employ counsel twenty minutes, even if itcould be had at a dollar a day. 

"Do you wish to have the Court appoint counsel for you?"

He saw no other way, so he said yes. 

Where criminals are too poor to employ counsel the Court selects a poorbut honest young lawyer, who practices on the defendant. I was appointedthat way myself once to defend a man who swears he will kill me as soonas he gets out of the penitentiary. 

William Johnson was peculiarly unfortunate in the election of hiscounsel. The man who was appointed to defend him was a very muchoverestimated young man who started the movement himself. He wascourageous, however, and perfectly willing to wade in where angels wouldnaturally hang back. His brain would not have soiled the finest fabric, but his egotism had a biceps muscle on it like a loaf of Vienna bread. He was the kind of young man who loves to go and see the drama andexplain it along about five minutes in advance of the company in a loud, trenchant voice. 

He defended William Johnson. Thus in the prime of life, hardlyunderstanding a word of the trial, stunned, helpless, alone, the latterbegan upon his term of five years in the penitentiary. His patient, gentle face impressed me as it did others, and his very helplessnessthus became his greatest help. 

It is not egotism which prompts me to tell here of what followed. It wasbut natural that I should go to Judge Blair, who, besides being the mostpopular Judge in the West, had, as I knew, a kind heart. He agreed withme that Johnson's side of the case had not been properly presented andthat the jury had grave doubts about the horses having been worth enoughto constitute a felony even if Johnson had unlawfully taken them. Otherlawyers said that at the worst it was a civil offense, or trover, ortrespass, or wilful negligence, or embezzlement, or conversion, but thatthe remedy was by civil process. One lawyer said it was an outrage, andCharlie Bramel said that if Johnson would put up $50 he would agree tojerk him out of the jug on a writ of habeas corpus before dinner. 

[Illustration]

Seeing how the sentiment ran, I resolved to start a petition forJohnson's pardon. I got the signatures of the Court, the courtofficers, the jury and the leading men of business in the country. Justas I was about to take it to Gov. Thayer, there was an incident at thepenitentiary. William Johnson had won the hearts of the Warden and theguards to that extent that he was sent out one afternoon to assist oneof the guards in overseeing the labor of a squad working in a stonequarry near by. Taking advantage of a time when the guard was a fewhundred feet away, the other convicts knocked Johnson down and tried toget away. He got up, however, and interested them till the guard got tohim and the escape was prevented. Johnson waited till all was secureagain, and then fainted from loss of blood occasioned by a scalp woundover which he had a long fight afterward with erysipelas. 

This was all lucky for me, and when I presented the petition to theGovernor I had a strong case, made more so by the heroic action of a manwho had been unjustly condemned. 

There is but little more to tell. The Governor intimated that he wouldtake favorable action upon the petition, but he wanted time. My greatanxiety, as I told him, was to get the pardon in time so that Johnsoncould spend his Christmas in freedom. I had seen him frequently, and hewas pale and thin to emaciation. He could not live long if he remainedwhere he was. I spoke earnestly of his good character since hisincarceration, and the Governor promised prompt action. But he wascalled away in December and I feared that he might, in the rush andpressure of other business, forget the case of Johnson till after theholidays. So I telegraphed him and made his life a burden to him tillthe afternoon of the 24th, when the 4:50 train brought the pardon. In mypoor, weak way I have been in the habit for some years of makingChristmas presents, but nothing that could be bought with money evermade me a happier donor or donee than the simple act of giving toWilliam Johnson four years of freedom which he did not look for. 

I went away to spend my own Christmas, but not till I had given Johnsona few dollars to help him get another start, and had made him promise towrite me how he got along. And so that to me was a memorable and ajoyous Christmas, for I had made myself happy by making others happy. 

 BILL NYE. 

P. S. --Perhaps I ought not to close this account so abruptly as I havedone, for the reader will naturally ask whether Johnson ever wrote me, as he said he would. I only received one letter from him, and that Ifound when I got back, a few days after Christmas. It was quitecharacteristic, and read as follows:

 "Laramy the twenty-fitt dec. 

 FRENT NIE. 

"When you get this Letter i will Be in A nuther tearritory whare theweekid seize from trubbling & the weery air at Reast excoose my Poorwriting i refer above to the tearritory of Utaw where i will begin LifeA new & all will be fergott. 

"I hop god wil Reward you In Caise i Shood not Be Abel to Do so. 

"You have Bin a good frent off me and so I am shure you will enjoy toheer of my success i hope the slooth hounds of Justiss will not try tofolly me for it will be worse than Useles as i have a damsite betterteam than i had Before. 

"It is the Sheariff's team wich i have got & his name is denis, tel theGovernor to Parden me if i have seeamed Rude i shall go to some newPlais whare i will not be Looked upon with Suchpishion wishing you amary Crissmus hapy new year and April Fool i will Close from your truFrent

 "BILL JOHNSON. "

[Illustration]

From Delphi to Camden

[Illustration]

 I. 

 From Delphi to Camden--little Hoosier towns, -- But here were classic meadows, blooming dales and downs And here were grassy pastures, dewy as the leas Trampled over by the trains of royal pageantries. And here the winding highway loitered through the shade Of the hazel-covert, where, in ambuscade, Loomed the larch and linden, and the green-wood tree Under which bold Robin Hood loud hallooed to me!

 Here the stir and riot of the busy day, Dwindled to the quiet of the breath of May; Gurgling brooks, and ridges lily-marged, and spanned By the rustic bridges found in Wonderland!

 II. 

 From Delphi to Camden--from Camden back again!-- And now the night was on us, and the lightning and the rain; And still the way was wondrous with the flash of hill and plain, -- The stars like printed asterisks--the moon a murky stain!

 And I thought of tragic idyl, and of flight and hot pursuit, And the jingle of the bridle, and cuirass, and spur on boot, As our horses's hooves struck showers from the flinty bowlders set In freshet ways with writhing reed and drowning violet. 

 And we passed beleaguered castles, with their battlements a-frown; Where a tree fell in the forest was a turret toppled down; While my master and commander--the brave knight I galloped with On this reckless road to ruin or to fame, was--Dr. Smith!

[Illustration: The Grammatical Boy]

Sometimes a sad homesick feeling comes over me when I compare theprevailing style of anecdote and school literature with the old McGuffeybrand, so well known thirty years ago. To-day our juvenile literature, it seems to me, is so transparent, so easy to understand that I am notsurprised to learn that the rising generation shows signs oflawlessness. 

Boys to-day do not use the respectful language and large, luxuriantwords that they did when Mr. McGuffey used to stand around and reporttheir conversations for his justly celebrated school reader. It isdisagreeable to think of, but it is none the less true, and for one Ithink we should face the facts. 

I ask the careful student of school literature to compare the followingselection, which I have written myself with great care, and arrangedwith special reference to the matter of choice and difficult words, withthe flippant and commonplace terms used in the average school book ofto-day. 

One day as George Pillgarlic was going to his tasks, and while passingthrough the wood, he spied a tall man approaching in an oppositedirection along the highway. 

"Ah!" thought George, in a low, mellow tone of voice, "whom have wehere?"

"Good morning, my fine fellow, " exclaimed the stranger, pleasantly. "Doyou reside in this locality?"

"Indeed I do, " retorted George, cheerily, doffing his cap. "In yondercottage, near the glen, my widowed mother and her thirteen childrendwell with me. "

"And is your father dead?" exclaimed the man, with a rising inflection. 

"Extremely so, " murmured the lad, "and, oh, sir, that is why my poormother is a widow. "

"And how did your papa die?" asked the man, as he thoughtfully stood onthe other foot awhile. 

"Alas! sir, " said George, as a large hot tear stole down his pale cheek, and fell with a loud report on the warty surface of his bare foot, "hewas lost at sea in a bitter gale. The good ship foundered two years agolast Christmastide, and father was foundered at the same time. No oneknew of the loss of the ship and that the crew was drowned until thenext spring, and it was then too late. "

"And what is your age, my fine fellow?" quoth the stranger. 

"If I live till next October, " said the boy, in a declamatory tone ofvoice suitable for a Second Reader. "I will be seven years of age. "

"And who provides for your mother and her large family of children?"queried the man. 

"Indeed, I do, sir, " replied George, in a shrill tone. "I toil, oh, sohard, sir, for we are very, very poor, and since my elder sister, Ann, was married and brought her husband home to live with us, I have to toilmore assiduously than heretofore. "

"And by what means do you obtain a livelihood?" exclaimed the man, inslowly measured and grammatical words. 

"By digging wells, kind sir, " replied George, picking up a tired ant ashe spoke and stroking it on the back. "I have a good education, and so Iam able to dig wells as well as a man. I do this day-times and take inwashing at night. In this way I am enabled barely to maintain our familyin a precarious manner; but, oh, sir, should my other sisters marry, Ifear that some of my brothers-in-law would have to suffer. "

"And do you not fear the deadly fire-damp?" asked the stranger in anearnest tone. 

"Not by a damp sight, " answered George, with a low gurgling laugh, forhe was a great wag. 

"You are indeed a brave lad, " exclaimed the stranger, as he repressed asmile. "And do you not at times become very weary and wish for otherways of passing your time?"

"Indeed, I do, sir, " said the lad. "I would fain run and romp and be gaylike other boys, but I must engage in constant manual exercise, or wewill have no bread to eat, and I have not seen a pie since papa perishedin the moist and moaning sea. "

"And what if I were to tell you that your papa did not perish at sea, but was saved from a humid grave?" asked the stranger in pleasing tones. 

"Ah, sir, " exclaimed George, in a genteel manner, again doffing his cap, "I am too polite to tell you what I would say, and beside, sir, you aremuch larger than I am. "

"But, my brave lad, " said the man in low musical tones, "do you not knowme, Georgie? Oh, George!"

"I must say, " replied George, "that you have the advantage of me. WhilstI may have met you before, I cannot at this moment place you, sir. "

"My son! oh, my son!" murmured the man, at the same time taking a largestrawberry mark out of his valise and showing it to the lad. "Do you notrecognize your parent on your father's side? When our good ship went tothe bottom, all perished save me. I swam several miles through thebillows, and at last utterly exhausted, gave up all hope of life. Suddenly I stepped on something hard. It was the United States. 

"And now, my brave boy, " exclaimed the man with great glee, "see what Ihave brought for you. " It was but the work of a moment to unclasp from ashawl-strap which he held in his hand and present to George's astonishedgaze a large 40-cent water-melon, which until now had been concealed bythe shawl-strap. 

[Illustration]

[Illustration: Craqueodoom. ]

 The Crankadox leaned o'er the edge of the moon And wistfully gazed on the sea Where the Gryxabodill madly whistled a tune To the air of Ti-fol-de-ding-dee. The quavering shriek of the Fliupthecreek Was fitfully wafted afar To the Queen of the Wunks as she powdered her cheek With the pulverized rays of a star. 

 The Gool closed his ear on the voice of the Grig, And his heart it grew heavy as lead As he marked the Baldekin adjusting his wig On the opposite side of his head; And the air it grew chill as the Gryxabodill Raised his dank, dripping fins to the skies, To plead with the Plunk for the use of her bill To pick the tears out of his eyes. 

 The ghost of the Zhack flitted by in a trance; And the Squidjum hid under a tub As he heard the loud hooves of the Hooken advance With a rub-a-dub-dub-a-dub dub! And the Crankadox cried as he laid down and died, "My fate there is none to bewail!" While the Queen of the Wunks drifted over the tide With a long piece of crape to her tail. 

The Chemist of the Carolinas

Asheville, N. C. , Dec. 13--Last week I went out into the mountains forthe purpose of securing a holly tree with red berries on it forYuletide. I had noticed in all my pictures of Christmas festivities inEngland that the holly, with cranberries on it, constituted thebackground of Yuletide. A Yuletide in England without a holly bough anda little mistletoe in it wouldn't be worth half price. Here thesevegetables grow in great confusion, owing to the equable climate, and sothe holly tree is within the reach of all. 

I resolved to secure one personally, so I sped away into the mountainswhere, in less than the time it takes to tell it, I had succeeded infinding a holly tree and losing myself. It is a very solemn sensation tofeel that you are lost, and that before you can be found something isliable to happen to the universe. 

I wandered aimlessly about for half an hour, hoping that I would bemissed in society and some one sent in search of me. I was just about togive up in despair and sink down on a bed of moss with the idea ofshuffling off six or seven feet of mortal coil when, a few rods away, Isaw a blue smoke issuing from the side of the mountain and rising towardthe sky. I went rapidly towards it and found it to be a plain dugoutwith a dirt floor. I entered and cast myself upon a rude nail keg, allowing my feet to remain suspended at the lower end of my legs, anattitude which I frequently affect when fatigued. 

[Illustration]

The place was not occupied at the time I entered, though there was afire and things looked as though the owner had not been long absent. Itseemed to be a kind of laboratory, for I could see here and there theearmarks of the chemist. I feared at first that it was a bomb factory, but as I could not see any of these implements in a perfected state Idecided that it was safe and waited for the owner to arrive. 

After a time I heard a low guttural footstep approaching up the hill. Iwent to the door and exclaimed to the proprietor as he came, "MerryChristmas, Colonel. "

"Merry Christmas be d----d!" said he in the same bantering tone. "Whatin three dashes, two hyphens and an astonisher do you want here, youdouble-dashed and double-blanketed blank to dash and return!!"

The wording here is my own, but it gives an idea of the way theconversation was drifting. You can see by his manner that literarypeople are not alone in being surly, irritable and unreasonable. 

So I humored him and spoke kindly to him and smoothed down his ruffledplumage with my gay badinage, for he wore a shawl and you can never tellwhether a man wearing a shawl is armed or not. I give herewith a view ofthis chemist as he appeared on the morning I met him. 

It will be noticed that he was a man about medium height with clear-cutfeatures and hair and retreating brisket. His hair was dark and hung ingreat waves which seemed to have caught the sunlight and retained ittogether with a great many other atmospheric phenomena. He wore a strawhat, such as I once saw Horace Greeley catch grasshoppers in, on thebanks of the Kinnickinnick, just before he caught a small trout. 

I spent some time with him watching him as he made his variousexperiments. Finally, he showed me a new beverage that he had beenengaged in perfecting. It was inclosed in a dark brown stone receptacleand was held in place by a common corn-cob stopper. I took some of itin order to show that I confided in him. I do not remember anything elsedistinctly. The fumes of this drink went at once to my brain, where ithad what might be termed a complete walkover. 

I now have no hesitation in saying that the fluid must have beenalcoholic in its nature, for when I regained my consciousness I wasextremely elsewhere. I found myself on a road which seemed to lead intwo opposite directions, and my mind was very much confused. 

I hardly know how I got home, but I finally did get there, accompaniedby a strong leaning towards Prohibition. A few days ago I received thefollowing letter:

Sir:--I at first thought when I saw you at my laboratory the other daythat you was a low, inquisitive cuss and so I spoke to you in harshtones and reproached you and upbraided you by calling you everything Icould lay my tongue to, but since then I have concluded that you didn'tknow any better. 

You said to me that you found my place by seeing the smoke coming out ofthe chimbley; that has given me an idea that you might know somethingabout what's called a smoke consumer of which I have heard. I am doing afair business, but I am a good deal pestered, as you might say, bypeople who come in on me when I do not want to mingle in society. A manin the chemist business cannot succeed if he is all the timeinterrupted by Tom, Dick and Harry coming in on him when he is in themiddle of an experiment. 

I am engaged in making a remedy for which there is a great demand, butits manufacture is regarded with suspicion by United States officialswho want to be considered zealous. Rather than be drawn into anydifficulty with these people, I have always courted retirement andavoided the busy haunts of men. Still some strolling idiot or other willoccasionally see the smoke from my little home and drop in on me. 

Could you find out about this smoke consumer and see what the pricewould be and let me known as soon as possible?

If you could do so I can be of great service to you. Leave the letterunder the big stone where you found yourself the other day when you cameout of your trance. I call it a trance because this letter might fallinto the hands of your family. If you will find out about this smokeconsumer and leave the information where I have told you you will findon the following day a large jug of mountain dew in the same place thatwill make your hair grow and give a roseate hue to your otherwise gloomylife. 

Do not try to come here again. It might compromise me. A man in yourposition may not have anything to risk, but with me it is different. Myunsullied reputation is all I have to bequeath to my children. If youcome often there will not be enough left to go around, as I have a largefamily. 

If you hear of anybody that wants to trade a good double-barrel shotgunfor a small portable worm and retort that is too small for my business, I can give him a good trade on it if he will let you know. This is agood machine for experimental purposes, and being no larger than aBabcock fire-extinguisher it can be readily conveyed to a place ofsafety at a very rapid rate. 

You might say to your friends that we shall try in the future as we havein the past to keep up the standard of our goods, so as to merit acontinued patronage. 

Citizens of the United States, or those who have declared theirintention to become such, will always be welcome at our works, providedthey are not office-holders in any capacity. We have no use for thosewho are in any way connected with the public teat. 

 Dictated letter. 

 I. B. MOONSHINE. 

I hope that any one will feel perfectly free to address me in relationto anything referred to in the above letter. All communicationscontaining remittances will be regarded as strictly confidential. 

[Illustration]

His Crazy-Bone

 The man that struck his crazy-bone, All suddenly jerked up one foot And hopped three vivid hops, and put His elbow straight before him--then Flashed white as pallid Parian stone, And clinched his eyes, and hopped again. 

 He spake no word--he made no moan-- He muttered no invective--but Just gripped his eyelids tighter shut, And as the world whizzed past him then, He only knew his crazy-bone Was stricken--so--he hopped again. 

Prying Open the Future

[Illustration]

"Ring the bell and the door will open, " is the remark made by a smalllabel over a bell-handle in Third avenue, near Eighteenth street, whereMme. La Foy reads the past, present and future at so much per read. Love, marriage, divorce, illness, speculation and sickness are therehandled with the utmost impunity by "Mme. La Foy, the famous scientificastrologist, " who has monkeyed with the planets for twenty years, and ifshe wanted any information has "read it in the stars. "

I rang the bell the other day to see if the door would open. It did soafter considerable delay, and a pimply boy in knee pants showed meupstairs into the waiting-room. After a while I was removed to theconsultation-room, where Mme. La Foy, seated behind a small oil-clothcovered table, rakes up old personalities and pries into the future atcut rates. 

Skirmishing about among the planets for twenty years involves a greatdeal of fatigue and exposure, to say nothing of the night work, and soMme. La Foy has the air of one who has put in a very busy life. She isas familiar with planets though as you or I might be with our ownfamily, and calls them by their first names. She would know Jupiter, Venus, Saturn, Adonis or any of the other fixed stars the darkest nightthat ever blew. 

"Mme. La Foy De Graw, " said I, bowing with the easy grace of a gentlemanof the old school, "would you mind peering into the future for me abouta half dollar's worth, not necessarily for publication, et cetera. "

"Certainly not. What would you like to know?"

"Why, I want to know all I can for the money, " I said in a banteringtone. "Of course I do not wish to know what I already know. It is what Ido not know that I desire to know. Tell me what I do not know, Madame. Iwill detain you but a moment. "

She gave me back my large, round half dollar and told me that she wasalready weary. She asked me to excuse her. She was willing to unveil thefuture to me in her poor, weak way, but she could not guarantee to let alarge flood of light into the darkened basement of a benighted mind forhalf a dollar. 

"You can tell me what year and on what day of the month you were born, "said Mme. La Foy, "and I will outline your life to you. I generallyrequire a lock of the hair, but in your case we will dispense with it. "

I told her when I was born and the circumstances as well as I couldrecall them. 

"This brings you under Venus, Mercury and Mars. These three planets werein conjunction at the time of your birth. You were born when the signwas wrong and you have had more or less trouble ever since. Had you beenborn when the sign was in the head or the heart, instead of the feet, you would not have spread out over the ground so much. 

"Your health is very good, as is the health of those generally who areborn under the same auspices that you were. People who are born underthe reign of the crab are apt to be cancerous. You, however, have greatlung power and wonderful gastric possibilities. Yet, at times, you wouldbe easily upset. A strong cyclone that would unroof a court-house or tipover a through train would also upset you, in spite of your broad, firmfeet if the wind got behind one of your ears. 

"You will be married early, and you will be very happy, though your wifewill not enjoy herself very much. Your wife will be much happier duringher second marriage. 

"You will prosper better in business matters without forming anypartnerships. Do not go into partnership with a small, dark man who hasneuralgia and a fine yacht. He has abundant means, but he will gothrough you like an electric shock. 

"Tuesdays and Saturdays will be your most fortunate days on which toborrow money of men with light hair. Mondays and Thursdays will be yourbest days for approaching dark men. 

"Look out for a low-set man accompanied by an office cat, both of whomare engaged in the newspaper business. He is crafty and bald-headed onhis father's side. He prints the only paper that contains the full textof his speeches at testimonials and dinners given to other people. Donot loan him money on any account. 

"You would succeed as well a musician or an inventor, but you would notdo well as a poet. You have all the keen sensibility and strong passionof a poet, but you haven't the hair. Do not try poesy. 

"In the future I see you very prosperous. You are on the lectureplatform speaking. Large crowds of people are jostling each other at thebox-office and trying to get their money back. 

"Then I see you riding behind a flexible horse that must have cost alarge sum of money. You are smoking a cigar that has never been in usebefore. Then Venus bisects the orbit of Mars and I see you going homewith your head tied up in the lap robe, you and your spirited horse inthe same ambulance. "

"But do you see anything for me in the future, Mme. La Foy?" I asked, taking my feet off the table, the better to watch her features, "anything that would seem to indicate political preferment, a reward forpast services to my country, as it were?"

"No, not clearly. But wait a moment. Your horoscope begins to get alittle more intelligent. I see you at the door of the Senate Chamber. You are counting over your money and looking sadly at a schedule ofprices. Then you turn sorrowfully away and decide to buy a seat in theHouse instead. Many years after I see you in the Senate. You are thereday after day attending to your duties. You are there early, before anyone else, and I see you pacing back and forth, up and down the aisles, sweeping out the Senate Chamber and dusting off the seats andrejuvenating the cuspidors. "

"Does this horoscope which you are using this season give you any ideaas to whether money matters will be scarce with me next week orotherwise, and if so what I had better do about it?"

"Towards the last of the week you will experience considerable monetaryprostration, but just as you have become despondent, at the very tailend of the week, the horizon will clear up and a slight, dark gentleman, with wide trousers, who is a total stranger to you, will loan you quitea sum of money, with the understanding that it is to be repaid onMonday. "

"Then you would not advise me to go to Coney Island until the week afternext?"

"Certainly not. "

"Would it be etiquette in dancing a quadrille to swing a young person ofthe opposite sex twice round at a select party when you are but slightlyacquainted, but feel quite confident that her partner is unarmed?"

"Yes. "

"Does your horoscope tell a person what to do with raspberry jelly thatwill not jell?"

"No, not at the present prices. "

"So you predict an early marriage, with threatening weather and strongprevailing easterly winds along the Gulf States?"

"Yes, sir. "

"And is there no way that this early marriage may be evaded?"

"No, not unless you put it off till later in life. "

"Thank you, " I said, rising and looking out the window over a broadsweep of undulating alley and wind-swept roofing, "and now, how much areyou out on this?"

"Sir!"

"What's the damage?"

"Oh, one dollar. "

"But don't you advertise to read the past, present and future for fiftycents?"

"Well, that is where a person has had other information before in hislife and has some knowledge to begin with; but where I fill up a vacantmind entirely and store it with facts of all kinds and stock it up sothat it can do business for itself, I charge a dollar. I cannotthoroughly refit and refurnish a mental tenement from the ground up forfifty cents. "

I do not think we have as good "Astrologists" now as we used to have. Astrologists cannot crawl under the tent and pry into the future as theycould three or four thousand years ago. 

Mr. Silberberg

[Illustration]

 I like me yet dot leedle chile Vich climb my lap up in to-day, Unt took my cheap cigair avay, Unt laugh and kiss me purty whvile, -- Possescially I like dose mout' Vich taste his moder's like--unt so, Off my cigair it gone glean out --Yust let it go!

 Vat I caire den for anyding? Der paper schlip out fon my hand, And all my odvairtizement stand, Mitout new changements boddering; I only dink--I have me dis Von leedle boy to pet unt love Unt play me vit, unt hug unt kiss-- Unt dot's enough!

 Der plans unt pairposes I vear Out in der vorld all fades avay; Unt vit der beeznid of der day I got me den no time to spare; Der caires of trade vas caires no more-- Dem cash accounds dey dodge me by, Unt vit my chile I roll der floor, Unt laugh unt gry!

 Ah! frient! dem childens is der ones Dot got some happy times--you bet!-- Dot's vy ven I been grooved up yet I vish I vould been leedle vonce! Unt ven dot leetle roozter tries Dem baby-tricks I used to do, My mout it vater, unt my eyes Dey vater too!

 Unt all der summertime unt spring Of childhood it come back to me, So dot it vas a dream I see Ven I yust look at anyding, Unt ven dot leedle boy run by, I dink "dot's me, " fon hour to hour Schtill chasing yet dose butterfly Fon flower to flower!

 Oxpose I vas lots money vairt, Mit blenty schtone-front schtore to rent Unt mor'gages at twelf per-cent, Unt diamonds in my ruffled shairt, -- I make a'signment of all dot, Unt tairn it over mit a schmile, Obber you please--but don'd forgot I keep dot chile!

[Illustration]

Spirits at Home

(THE FAMILY)

 There was Father, and Mother, and Emmy, and Jane And Lou, and Ellen, and John and me-- And father was killed in the war, and Lou She died of consumption, and John did too, And Emmy she went with the pleurisy. 

(THE SPIRITS)

 Father believed in 'em all his life-- But Mother, at first, she'd shake her head-- Till after the battle of Champion Hill, When many a flag in the winder-sill Had crape mixed in with the white and red!

 I used to doubt 'em myself till then-- But me and Mother was satisfied When Ellen she set, and Father came And rapped "God bless you!" and Mother's name, And "The flag's up here!" And we just all cried!

 Used to come often after that, And talk to us--just as he used to do, Pleasantest kind! And once, for John, He said he was "lonesome but wouldn't let on-- Fear Mother would worry, and Emmy and Lou. "

 But Lou was the bravest girl on earth-- For all she never was hale and strong She'd have her fun! With her voice clean lost She'd laugh and joke us that when she crossed To father, _we'd_ all come taggin' along. 

 Died--just that way! And the raps was thick _That_ night, as they often since occur, Extry loud. And when Lou got back She said it was Father and her--and "whack!" She tuck the table--and we knowed _her_!

 John and Emmy, in five years more, Both had went. --And it seemed like fate!-- For the old home it burnt down, --but Jane And me and Ellen we built again The new house, here, on the old estate. 

 And a happier family I don't know Of anywheres--unless its _them_-- Father, with all his love for Lou, And her there with him, and healthy, too, And laughin', with John and little Em. 

 And, first we moved in the new house here, They all dropped in for a long pow-wow. "We like your buildin', of course, " Lou said, -- "But wouldn't swop with you to save your head-- For _we_ live in the ghost of the old house, now!"

[Illustration: Healthy but out of the Race. ]

In an interview which I have just had with myself, I have positivelystated, and now repeat, that at neither the St. Louis nor ChicagoConvention will my name be presented as a candidate. 

But my health is bully. 

We are upon the threshold of a most bitter and acrimonious fight. Greatwisdom and foresight are needed at this hour, and the true patriot willforget himself and his own interests in his great yearning for the goodof his common country and the success of his party. What we need at thistime is a leader whose name will not be presented at the convention butwhose health is good. 

No one has a fuller or better conception of the great duties of the hourthan I. How clearly to my mind are the duties of the American citizenoutlined to-day! I have never seen with clearer, keener vision thegreat needs of my country, and my pores have never been more open. Fouryears ago I was in some doubt relative to certain important questionswhich now are clearly and satisfactorily settled in my mind. I hesitatedthen where now I am fully established, and my tongue was coated in themorning when I arose, whereas now I bound lightly from bed, kick out awindow, climb to the roof by means of the fire-escape and there rehearsespeeches which I will make this fall in case it should be discovered ateither of the conventions that my name alone can heal the rupture in theparty and prevent its works from falling out. 

I think my voice is better also that it was either four, eight, twelveor sixteen years ago, and it does not tire me so much to think of thingsto say from the tail-gate of a train as it did when I first began torefrain from presenting my name to conventions. 

According to my notion, our candidate should be a plain man, a magneticbut hairless patriot, who should be suddenly thought of by a majority ofthe convention and nominated by acclamation. He should not be ahide-bound politician, but on the contrary he should be greatlystartled, while down cellar sprouting potatoes, to learn that he hasbeen nominated. That's the kind of man who always surprises everybodywith his sagacity when an emergency arises. 

In going down my cellar stairs the committee will do well to avoidstepping on a large and venomous dog who sleeps on the top stair. Or Iwill tie him in the barn if I can be informed when I am liable to bestartled. 

[Illustration]

I have always thought that the neatest method of calling a man topublic life was the one adopted some years since in the case ofCincinnatus. He was one day breaking a pair of nervous red steers in thenorth field. It was a hot day in July, and he was trying to summerfallow a piece of ground where the jimson weeds grew seven feet high. The plough would not scour, and the steers had turned the yoke twice onhim. Cincinnatus had hung his toga on a tamarac pole to strike a furrowby, and hadn't succeeded in getting the plough in more than twice ingoing across. Dressing as he did in the Roman costume of 458 B. C. , theblackberry vines had scratched his massive legs till they were a sightto behold. He had scourged Old Bright and twisted the tail of Bolly tillhe was sick at heart. All through the long afternoon, wearing a hot, rusty helmet with rabbit-skin ear tabs he had toiled on, when suddenly amajority of the Roman voters climbed over the fence and asked him tobecome dictator in place of Spurious Melius. 

Putting on his toga and buckling an old hame strap around his loins hesaid: "Gentlemen, if you will wait till I go to the house and get somevaseline on my limbs I will do your dictating for you as low as you haveever had it done. " He then left his team standing in the furrow while heserved his country in an official capacity for a little over twenty-nineyears, after which he went back and resumed his farming. 

[Illustration]

Though 2, 300 years have since passed away and historians have beenbusy with that epoch ever since, no one has yet discovered the methodsby which Cincinnatus organized and executed this, the most successful"People's Movement" of which we are informed. 

The great trouble with the modern boom is that it is too precocious. Itknows more before it gets its clothes on than the nurse, the physicianand its parents. It then dies before the sap starts in the mapleforests. 

My object in writing this letter is largely to tone down and keep incheck any popular movement in my behalf until the weather in moresettled. A season-cracked boom is a thing I despise. 

I inclose my picture, however, which shows that I am so healthy that itkeeps me awake nights. I go about the house singing all the time andplaying pranks on my grandparents. My eye dances with ill-concealedmerriment, and my conversation is just as sparkling as it can be. 

I believe that during this campaign we should lay aside politics so faras possible and unite on an unknown, homely, but sparkling man. Let uslay aside all race prejudices and old party feeling and elect a magneticchump who does not look so very well, but who feels first rate. 

Towards the middle of June I shall go away to an obscure place where Icannot be reached. My mail will be forwarded to me by a gentleman whoknows how I feel in relation to the wants and needs of the country. 

To those who have prospered during the past twenty years let me say theyowe it to the perpetuation of the principles and institutions towardsthe establishment and maintenance of which I have given the bestenergies of my life. To those who have been unfortunate let me sayfrankly that they owe it to themselves. 

I have never had less malaria or despondency in my system that I havethis spring. My cheeks have a delicate bloom on them like a russetapple, and my step is light and elastic. In the morning I arise from mycouch and, touching a concealed spring, it becomes an upright piano. Ithen bathe in a low divan which contains a jointed tank. I then singuntil interfered with by property owners and tax-payers who reside nearby. After a light breakfast of calf's liver and custard pie I go intothe reception-room and wait for people to come and feel my pulse. In theafternoon I lie down on a lounge for two or three hours, wondering inwhat way I can endear myself to the laboring man. I then dine heartilyat my club. In the evening I go to see the amateurs play "Pygmalion andGalatea. " As I remain till the play is over, any one can see that I am avery robust man. After I get home I write two or three thousand words inmy diary. I then insert myself into the bosom of my piano and sleep, having first removed my clothes and ironed my trousers for futurereference. 

In closing, let me urge one and all to renewed effort. The prospects fora speedy and unqualified victory at the polls were never more roseate. Let us select a man upon whom we can all unite, a man who has no venomin him, a man who has successfully defied and trampled on the infamousInterstate Commerce act, a man who, though in the full flush and prideand bloom and fluff of life's meridian, still disdains to present hisname to the convention. 

Lines

ON HEARING A COW BAWL, IN A DEEP FIT OF DEJECTION, ON THE EVENING OFJULY 3, A. D. 18--

[Illustration]

 Portentous sound! mysteriously vast And awful in the grandeur of refrain That lifts the listener's hair, as it swells past, And pours in turbid currents down the lane. 

 The small boy at the woodpile, in a dream Slow trails the meat-rind o'er the listless saw; The chickens roosting o'er him on the beam Uplifted their drowsy heads with cootered awe. 

 The "Gung-oigh" of the pump is strangely stilled; The smoke-house door bangs once emphatic'ly, Then bangs no more, but leaves the silence filled With one lorn plaint's despotic minstrelsy. 

 Yet I would join thy sorrowing madrigal, Most melancholy cow, and sing of thee Full-hearted through my tears, for, after all 'Tis very kine of you to sing for me. 

Me and Mary

 All my feelin's, in the spring Gits so blame contrary I can't think of anything Only me and Mary! "Me and Mary!" all the time, "Me and Mary!" like a rhyme Keeps a-dinging on till I'm Sick o' "Me and Mary!"

 "Me and Mary! Ef us two Only was together-- Playin' like we used to do In the Aprile weather!" All the night and all the day I keep wishin' thataway Till I'm gittin' old and gray Jist on "Me and Mary!"

 Muddy yit along the pike Sense the winter's freezin' And the orchard's backard-like Bloomin' out this season; Only heerd one bluebird yit-- Nary robin er tomtit; What's the how and why of it? S'pect its "Me and Mary!"

 Me and Mary liked the birds-- That is, Mary sorto' Liked them first, and afterwerds W'y I thought I orto. And them birds--ef Mary stood Right here with me as she should-- They'd be singin', them birds would All fer me and Mary!

 Birds er not, I'm hopin' some I kin git to plowin': Ef the sun'll only come, And the Lord allowin', Guess to-morry I'll turn in And git down to work agin: This here loaferin' won't win; Not fer me and Mary!

 Fer a man that loves, like me, And's afeard to name it, Till some other feller, he Gits the girl--dad-shame-it! Wet er dry, er clouds er sun-- Winter gone, er jist begun-- Out-door work few me er none. No more "Me and Mary!"

Niagara Falls from the Nye Side

 ON BOARD THE BOUNDING TRAIN, } LONGITUDE 600 MILES WEST OF A GIVEN POINT. }

I visited Walton, N. Y. , last week, a beautiful town in the flank of theCatskills, at the head of the Delaware. It was there in that quiet andpicturesque valley that the great philanthropist and ameliator, JayGould, first attracted attention. He has a number of relatives there whonote with pleasure the fact that Mr. Gould is not frittering away hismeans during his lifetime. 

In the office of Mr. Nish, of Walton, there is a map of the county madeby Jay Gould while in the surveying business, and several years beforehe became a monarch of all he surveyed. 

Mr. Gould also laid out the town of Walton. Since that he has laid outother towns, but in a different way. He also plotted other towns. Plotted to lay them out, I mean. 

In Franklin there is an old wheelbarrow which Mr. Gould used on hisearly surveying trips. In this he carried his surveying instruments, hisnight shirt and manicure set. Connected with the wheel there is anarrangement by which, at night, the young surveyor could tell at aglance, with the aid of a piece of red chalk and a barn door, just howfar he had traveled during the day. 

This instrument was no doubt the father of the pedometer and thecyclorama, just as the boy is frequently father to the man. It was alsono doubt the _avant courier_ of the Dutch clock now used on freightcabooses, which not only shows how far the car has traveled, but alsothe rate of speed for each mile, the average rainfall and whether theconductor has eaten onions during the day. 

This instrument has worked quite a change in railroading since mytime. Years ago I can remember when I used to ride in a caboose andenjoy myself, and before good fortune had made me the target of thealert and swift-flying whisk-broom of the palace car, it was my chiefjoy to catch a freight over the hill from Cheyenne, on the Mountaindivision. We were not due anywhere until the following day, and so atthe top of the mountain we would cut off the caboose and let the traingo on. We would then go into the glorious hills and gather sage-hens andcotton-tails. In the summer we would put in the afternoon catching troutin Dale Creek or gathering maiden-hair ferns in the bosky dells. Boskydells were more plenty there at that time than they are now. 

It was a delightful sensation to know that we could loll about in theglorious weather, secure a small string of stark, varnished trout withchapped backs, hanging aimlessly by one gill to a gory willow stringer, and then beat our train home by two hours by letting off the brakes andriding twenty miles in fifteen minutes. 

But Mr. Gould saw that we were enjoying ourselves, and so he sat upnights to oppress us. The result is that the freight conductor has verylittle more fun now than Mr. Gould himself. All the enjoyment that theconductor of "Second Seven" has now is to pull up his train where itwill keep the passengers of No. 5 going west from getting a view of thetown. He can also, if he be on a night run, get under the window of asleeping-car at about 1:35 a. M. , and make a few desultory remarks aboutthe delinquency of "Third Six" and the lassitude of Skinny Bates who issupposed to brake ahead on No. 11 going west. That is all the fun he hasnow. 

[Illustration]

I saw Niagara Falls on Thursday for the first time. The sight is onelong to be remembered. I did not go to the falls, but viewed them fromthe car window in all their might, majesty, power and dominion forever. N. B. --Dominion of Canada. 

Niagara Falls plunges from a huge elevation by reason of its inabilityto remain on the sharp edge of a precipice several feet higher than thepoint to which the falls are now falling. This causes a noise to makeits appearance, and a thick mist, composed of minute particles ofwetness, rises to its full height and comes down again afterwards. Wordsare inadequate to show here, even with the aid of a large, powerful newpress, the grandeur, what you may call the vertigo, of Niagara. Everybody from all over the world goes to see and listen to the remarksof this great fall. How convenient and pleasant it is to be a cataractlike that and have people come in great crowds to see and hear you! Howmuch better that is than to be a lecturer, for instance, and have tofollow people to their homes in order to attract their attention!

Many people in the United States and Canada who were once as pure as thebeautiful snow, have fallen, but they did not attract the attention thatthe fall of Niagara does. 

For the benefit of those who may never have been able to witness NiagaraFalls in winter I give here a rough sketch of the magnificent spectacleas I saw it from the American side. From the Canadian side the aspect ofthe falls is different, and the names on the cars are not the same, butthe effect on one of a sensitive nature is one of intense awe. I knowthat I cannot put so much of this awe into a hurried sketch as I wouldlike to. In a crude drawing, made while the train was in motion, and ata time when the customs officer was showing the other passengers what Ihad in my valise, of course I could not make a picture with muchsublimity in it, but I tried to make it as true to nature as I could. 

The officer said that I had nothing in my luggage that was liable toduty, but stated that I would need heavier underwear in Canada than thesamples I had with me. 

Toronto is a stirring city of 150, 000 people, who are justly proud ofher great prosperity. I only regretted that I could not stay there along time. 

[Illustration]

I met a man in Cleveland, O. , whose name was Macdonald. He was at theWeddell House, and talked freely with me about our country, asking me agreat many questions about myself and where I lived and how I wasprospering. While we were talking at one time he saw something in thepaper which interested him and called him away. After he had gone Inoticed the paragraph he had been reading, and saw that it spoke of aman named Macdonald who had recently arrived in town from New York, andwho was introducing a new line of green goods. 

I have often wondered what there is about my general appearance whichseemed to draw about me a cluster of green-goods men wherever I go. Isit the odor of new-mown hay, or the frank, open way in which I seem tomeasure the height of the loftiest buildings with my eye as I penetratethe busy haunts of men and throng the crowded marts of trade? Or dostrangers suspect me of being a man of means?

In Cleveland I was rather indisposed, owing to the fact that I had beensitting up until 2 or 3 o'clock a. M. For several nights in order tomiss early trains. I went to a physician, who said I was suffering fromsome new and attractive disease, which he could cope with in a day ortwo. I told him to cope. He prescribed a large 42-calibre capsule whichhe said contained medical properties. It might have contained theatricalproperties and still had room left for a baby grand piano. I do not knowwhy the capsule should be so popular. I would rather swallow a porcelainegg or a live turtle. Doctors claim that it is to prevent the bad tasteof the medicines, but I have never yet participated in any medicinewhich was more disagreeable than the gluey shell of an adult capsule, which looks like an overgrown bott and tastes like a rancid nightmare. 

I doubt the good taste of any one who will turn up his nose atcastor-oil or quinine and yet meekly swallow a chrysalis with varnish onthe outside. 

Everywhere I go I find people who seem pleased with the manner in whichI have succeeded in resembling the graphic pictures made to represent mein _The World_. I can truly say that I am not a vain man, but it iscertainly pleasing and gratifying to be greeted by a glance ofrecognition and a yell of genuine delight from total strangers. Manyhave seemed to suppose that the massive and undraped head shown in thesepictures was the result of artistic license or indolence and a generaldesire to evade the task of making hair. For such people the thrill ofjoy they feel when they discover that they have not been deceived ismarked and genuine. 

These pictures also stimulate the press of the country to try itthemselves and to add other horrors which do not in any way interferewith the likeness, but at the same time encourage me to travel mostly bynight. 

"Curly Locks!"

[Illustration]

 "_Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine? Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine-- But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam, And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream. _"

 Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine? The throb of my heart is in every line, And the pulse of a passion, as airy and glad In its musical beat as the little Prince had!

 Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine!-- O, I'll dapple thy hands with these kisses of mine Till the pink of the nail of each finger shall be As a little pet blush in full blossom for me. 

 But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam, And thou shalt have fabric as fair as a dream, -- The red of my veins, and the white of my love, And the gold of my joy for the braiding thereof. 

 And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream From a service of silver, with jewels agleam, -- At thy feet will I bide, at thy beck will I rise, And twinkle my soul in the night of thine eyes!

 "_Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine? Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine; But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam, And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream. _"

Lines on Turning Over a Pass

[Illustration]

Some newspaper men claim that they feel a great deal freer if they paytheir fare. 

That is true, no doubt; but too much freedom does not agree with me. Itmakes me lawless. I sometimes think that a little wholesome restrictionis the best thing in the world for me. That is the reason I never murmurat the conditions on the back of an annual pass. Of course they restrictme from bringing suit against the road in case of death, but I don'tmind that. In case of my death it is my intention to lay aside the caresand details of business and try to secure a change of scene andcomplete rest. People who think that after my demise I shall havenothing better to do than hang around the musty, tobacco-spatteredcorridors of a court-room and wait for a verdict of damages against acourteous railroad company do not thoroughly understand my true nature. 

But the interstate-commerce bill does not shut out the employe! Actingupon this slight suggestion of hope, I wrote, a short time ago, to Mr. St. John, the genial and whole-souled general passenger agent of theChicago, Rock Island & Pacific Railroad, as follows:

 ASHEVILLE, N. C. , Feb. 10, 1887. 

 E. St. John, G. P. A. , C. , R. I. & P. R'y, Chicago. 

Dear Sir:--Do you not desire an employe on your charming road? I do notknow what it is to be an employe, for I was never in that condition, butI pant to be one now. 

Of course I am ignorant of the duties of an employe, but I have alwaysbeen a warm friend of your road and rejoiced in its success. How areyour folks?

 Yours truly, COL. BILL NYE. 

Day before yesterday I received the following note from General St. John, printed on a purple typewriter:

 CHICAGO, Feb. 13, 1887. 

 Col. Bill Nye, Asheville, N. C. 

Sir:--My folks are quite well. 

 Yours truly, E. ST. JOHN. 

I also wrote to Gen. A. V. H. Carpenter, of the Milwaukee road, at thesame time, for we had corresponded some back and forth in the happypast. I wrote in about the following terms:

 ASHEVILLE, N. C. , Feb. 10, 1887. 

 A. V. H. Carpenter, G. P. A. C. , M. & St. P. R'y, Milwaukee, Wis. 

Dear Sir:--How are you fixed for employes this spring?

I feel like doing something of that kind and could give you some goodendorsements from prominent people both at home and abroad. 

What does an employe have to do?

If I can help your justly celebrated road any here in the South do nothesitate about mentioning it. 

I am still quite lame in my left leg, which was broken in the cyclone, and cannot walk without great pain. 

 Yours with kindest regards, BILL NYE. 

I have just received the following reply from Mr. Carpenter:

 MILWAUKEE, Wis. , Feb. 14, 1887. 

 Bill Nye, Esq. , Asheville, N. C. 

Dear Sir:--You are too late. As I write this letter, there is a stringof men extending from my office door clear down to the Soldiers' Home. All of them want to be employes. This crowd embraces the Senate andHouse of Representatives of the Wisconsin Legislature, State officials, judges, journalists, jurors, justices of the peace, orphans, overseersof highways, fish commissioners, pugilists, widows of pugilists, unidentified orphans of pugilists, etc. , etc. , and they are all justabout as well qualified to be employes as you are. 

I suppose you would poultice a hot box with pounded ice, and so wouldthey. 

I am sorry to hear about your lame leg. The surgeon of our road saysperhaps you do not use it enough. 

Yours for the thorough enforcement of law, A. V. H. CARPENTER. Per G. 

Not having written to Mr. Hughitt of the Northwestern road for a longtime, and fearing that he might think I had grown cold toward him, Iwrote the following note on the 9th:

 ASHEVILLE, N. C. , Feb. 9, 1887. 

 Marvin Hughitt, Second Vice-President and General Manager Chicago & Northwestern Railway, Chicago, Ill. 

Dear Sir:--

Excuse me for not writing before. I did not wish to write you until Icould do so in a bright and cheery manner, and for some weeks I havebeen the hot-bed of twenty-one Early Rose boils. It was extremelyhumorous without being funny. My enemies gloated over me in ghoulishglee. 

I see by a recent statement in the press that your road has greatlyincreased in business. Do you feel the need of an employe? Any lightemployment that will be honorable without involving too muchperspiration would be acceptable. 

I am traveling about a good deal these days, and if I can do you anygood as an agent or in referring to your smooth road-bed and themagnificent scenery along your line, I would be glad to regard that inthe light of employment. Everywhere I go I hear your road very highlyspoken of. 

 Yours truly, BILL NYE. 

I shall write to some more roads in a few weeks. It seems to me thereought to be work for a man who is able and willing to be an employe. 

That Night

[Illustration]

 You and I, and that night, with its perfume and glory!-- The scent of the locusts--the light of the moon; And the violin weaving the waltzers a story, Enmeshing their feet in the weft of the tune, Till their shadows uncertain, Reeled round on the curtain, While under the trellis we drank in the June. 

 Soaked through with the midnight, the cedars were sleeping. Their shadowy tresses outlined in the bright Crystal, moon-smitten mists, where the fountain's heart leaping Forever, forever burst, full with delight; And its lisp on my spirit Fell faint as that near it Whose love like a lily bloomed out in the night. 

 O your glove was an odorous sachet of blisses! The breath of your fan was a breeze from Cathay! And the rose at your throat was a nest of spi'led kisses!-- And the music!--in fancy I hear it to-day, As I sit here, confessing Our secret, and blessing My rival who found us, and waltzed you away. 

The Truth about Methuselah

[Illustration]

We first met Methuselah in the capacity of a son. At the age ofsixty-five Enoch arose one night and telephoned his family physician tocome over and assist him in meeting Methuselah. 

Day at last dawned on Enoch's happy home, and its first red rays lit upthe still redder surface of the little stranger. For three hundred yearsEnoch and Methuselah jogged along together in the capacity of father andson. Then Enoch was suddenly cut down. It was at this time that littleMethuselah first realized what it was to be an orphan. He could not atfirst realize that his father was dead. He could not understand whyEnoch, with no inherited disease, should be shuffled off at the age ofthree hundred and sixty-five years. But the doctor said to Methuselah:"My son, you are indeed fatherless. I have done all I could, but it isuseless. I have told Enoch many a time that if he went in swimmingbefore the ice went out of the creek it would finally down him, but hethought he knew better than I did. He was a headstrong man, Enoch was. He sneered at me and alluded to me as a fresh young gosling, because hewas three hundred years older than I was. He has received the reward ofthe willful, and verily the doom of the smart Aleck is his. "

Methuselah now cast about him for some occupation which would take uphis attention and assuage his wild, passionate grief over the loss ofhis father. He entered into the walks of men and learned their ways. Itwas at this time that he learned the pernicious habit of using tobacco. We cannot wonder at it when we remember that he was now fatherless. Hewas at the mercy of the coarse, rough world. Possibly he learned the useof tobacco when he went away to attend business college after the deathof his father. Be that as it may, the noxious weed certainly hastenedhis death, for six hundred years after this we find him a corpse!

Death is ever a surprise, even at the end of a long illness and after aripe old age. To those who are near it seems abrupt; so to hisgrandchildren, some of whom survived him, his children having died ofold age, the death of Methuselah came like a thunderbolt from a clearsky. 

Methuselah succeeded in cording up more of a record, such as it was, than any other man of whom history informs us. Time, the tomb-builderand amateur mower, came and leaned over the front yard and looked atMethuselah, and ran his thumb over the jagged edge of his scythe, andwent away whistling a low refrain. He kept up this refrain business fornearly ten centuries, while Methuselah continued to stand out amid thegeneral wreck of men and nations. 

Even as the young, strong mower going forth with his mower for to mowspareth the tall and drab hornet's nest and passeth by on the otherside, so Time, with his Waterbury hour-glass and his overworkedhay-knife over his shoulder, and his long Mormon whiskers, and his highsleek dome of thought with its gray lambrequin of hair around the baseof it, mowed all around Methuselah and then passed on. 

Methuselah decorated the graves of those who perished in a dozendifferent wars. He did not enlist himself, for over nine hundred yearsof his life he was exempt. He would go to the enlisting places and offerhis services, and the officer would tell him to go home and encouragehis grandchildren to go. Then Methuselah would sit around Noah's frontsteps, and smoke and criticise the conduct of the war, also the conductof the enemy. 

It is said of Methuselah that he never was the same man after his sonLamech died. He was greatly attached to Lamech, and, when he woke up onenight to find his son purple in the face with membraneous croup, hecould hardly realize that he might lose him. The idea of losing a boywho had just rounded the glorious morn of his 777th year had neveroccurred to him. But death loves a shining mark, and he garnered littleLammie and left Methuselah to mourn for a couple of centuries. 

Methuselah finally got so that he couldn't sleep any later than 4o'clock in the morning, and he didn't see how any one else could. Theolder he got, and the less valuable his time became, the earlier hewould rise, so that he could get an early start. As the centuries filedslowly by, and Methuselah got to where all he had to do was to shuffleinto his loose-fitting clothes and rest his gums on the top of a largeslick-headed cane and mutter up the chimney, and then groan andextricate himself from his clothes again and retire, he rose earlier andearlier in the morning, and muttered more and more about the young folkssleeping away the best of the day, and he said he had no doubt thatsleeping and snoring till breakfast time helped to carry off Lam. Butone day old Father Time came along with a new scythe, and he drew thewhetstone across it a few times, and rolled the sleeves of hisred-flannel undergarment up over his warty elbows, and Mr. Methuselahpassed on to that undiscovered country, with a ripe experience and along clean record. 

We can almost fancy how the physicians, who had disagreed about his caseall the way through, came and insisted on a post-mortem examination toprove which was right and what was really the matter with him. We canimagine how people went by shaking their heads and regretting thatMethuselah should have tampered with tobacco when he knew that itaffected his heart. 

But he is gone. He lived to see his own promissory notes rise, flourish, acquire interest, pine away at last and finally outlaw. He acquired alarge farm in the very heart of the county-seat, and refused to move orto plot, and called it Methuselah's addition. He came out in springregularly for nine hundred years after he got too old to work out hispoll-tax on the road, and put in his time telling the rising generationhow to make a good road. Meantime other old people, who were almost onehundred years of age, moved away and went West where they would attractattention and command respect. There was actually no pleasure in gettingold around where Methuselah was, and being ordered about and scolded andkept in the background by him. 

[Illustration]

So when at last he died, people sighed and said: "Well, it was betterfor him to die before he got childish. It was best that he should dieat a time when he knew it all. We can't help thinking what anacquisition Methuselah will be on the evergreen shore when he getsthere, with all his ripe experience and his habits of early rising. "

And the next morning after the funeral Methuselah's family did not getout of bed till nearly 9 o'clock. 

A Black Hills Episode

 A little, warty, dried-up sort O' lookin' chap 'at hadn't ort A ben a-usin' round no bar, With gents like us a-drinkin' thar!

 And that idee occurred to me The livin' minit 'at I see The little cuss elbowin' in To humor his besettin' sin. 

 There 're nothin' small in me at all, But when I heer the rooster call For shugar and a spoon, I says: "Jest got in from the States, I guess. "

 He never 'peared as if he heerd, But stood thar, wipin' uv his beard, And smilin' to hisself as if I'd been a-givin' him a stiff. 

 And I-says-I, a edgin' by The bantam, and a-gazin' high Above his plug--says I: "I knowed A little feller onc't 'at blowed Around like you, and tuck his drinks With shugar in--and _his_ folks thinks He's dead now--'cause we boxed and sent The scraps back to the Settlement!"

 * * * * *

 The boys tells me, 'at got to see His _modus operandum_, he Jest 'peared to come onjointed-like Afore he ever struck a strike!

 And I'll admit, the way he fit Wuz dazzlin'--what I see uv hit; And squarin' things up fair and fine, Says I: "A little 'shug' in mine!"

The Rossville Lecture Course

ROSSVILLE, Mich. , March, '87. 

 Folks up here at Rossville got up a lectur'-course; All the leadin' citizens they wus out in force; Met and talked at Williamses, and 'greed to meet agin, And helt another corkus when the next reports wuz in; Met agin at Samuelses; and met agin at Moore's, And Johnts he put the shutters up and jest barred the doors!-- And yit, I'll jest be dagg-don'd! ef didn't take a week 'Fore we'd settled where to write to git a man to speak!

 Found out where the Bureau wus, and then and there agreed To strike while the iron's hot, and foller up the lead. Simp was secatary; so he tuck his pen in hand, And ast what they'd tax us for the one on "Holy Land"-- "One of Colonel J. De-Koombs Abelust and Best Lecturs, " the circ'lar stated, "Give East er West!" Wanted fifty dollars, and his kyar-fare to and from, And Simp was hence instructed fer to write him not to come. Then we talked and jawed around another week er so, And writ the Bureau 'bout the town a-bein' sort o' slow And fogey-like, and pore as dirt, and lackin' enterprise, And ignornter'n any other 'cordin' to its size: Till finally the Bureau said they'd send a cheaper man Fer forty dollars, who would give "A Talk about Japan"-- "A regular Japanee hiss'f, " the pamphlet claimed; and so, Nobody knowed his languige, and of course we let him go!

 Kindo' then let up a spell--but rallied onc't ag'in, And writ to price a feller on what's called the "violin"-- A Swede, er Pole, er somepin--but no matter what he wus, Doc Sifers said he'd heerd him, and he wusn't wuth a kuss! And then we ast fer _Swingses_ terms; and _Cook_, and Ingersoll-- And blame! ef forty dollars looked like anything at all! And then _Burdette_, we tried fer him; and Bob he writ to say He wus busy writin' ortographts, and couldn't git away. 

 At last--along in Aprile--we signed to take this-here Bill Nye of Californy, 'at was posted to appear "The Humorestest Funny Man 'at Ever Jammed a Hall!" So we made big preparations, and swep' out the church and all! And night he wus to lectur', and the neighbors all was there, And strangers packed along the aisles 'at come from ever'where, Committee got a telegrapht the preacher read, 'at run-- "Got off at Rossville, Indiany, stead of Michigun. "

[Illustration]

The Tar-heel Cow

[Illustration]

ASHEVILLE, N. C. , December 9. --There is no place in the United States, so far as I know, where the cow is more versatile or ambidextrous, if Imay be allowed the use of a term that is far above my station in life, than here in the mountains of North Carolina, where the obese 'possumand the anonymous distiller have their homes. 

Not only is the Tar-heel cow the author of a pale but athletic style ofbutter, but in her leisure hours she aids in tilling the perpendicularfarm on the hillside, or draws the products to market. In this way shecontrives to put in her time to the best advantage, and when she dies, it casts a gloom over the community in which she has resided. 

The life of a North Carolina cow is indeed fraught with various changesand saturated with a zeal which is praiseworthy in the extreme. From thesunny days when she gambols through the beautiful valleys, inserting herblack retrousse and perspiration-dotted nose into the blue grass fromear to ear, until at life's close, when every part and portion of heroverworked system is turned into food, raiment or overcoat buttons, thelife of a Tar-heel cow is one of intense activity. 

[Illustration]

Her girlhood is short, and almost before we have deemed her emancipatedfrom calfhood herself we find her in the capacity of a mother. With thecares of maternity other demands are quickly made upon her. She isobliged to ostracize herself from society, and enter into the prosaicdetails of producing small, pallid globules of butter, the very pallorof which so thoroughly belies its lusty strength. 

The butter she turns out rapidly until it begins to be worth something, when she suddenly suspends publication and begins to haul wood tomarket. In this great work she is assisted by the pearl-gray or ecrucolored jackass of the tepid South. This animal has been referred to inthe newspapers throughout the country, and yet he never ceases to be anobject of the greatest interest. 

Jackasses in the South are of two kinds, viz. , male and female. Much ashas been said of the jackass pro and con, I do not remember ever to haveseen the above statement in print before, and yet it is as trite as itis incontrovertible. In the Rocky mountains we call this animal theburro. There he packs bacon, flour and salt to the miners. The minerseat the bacon and flour, and with the salt they are enabled successfullyto salt the mines. 

The burro has a low, contralto voice which ought to have some machineoil on it. The voice of this animal is not unpleasant if he would pullsome of the pathos out of it and make it more joyous. 

Here the jackass at times becomes a co-worker with the cow in haulingtobacco and other necessaries of life into town, but he goes no furtherin the matter of assistance. He compels her to tread the cheese pressalone and contributes nothing whatever in the way of assistance for thebutter industry. 

The North Carolina cow is frequently seen here driven double or singleby means of a small rope line attached to a tall, emaciated gentleman, who is generally clothed with the divine right of suffrage, to which headds a small pair of ear-bobbs during the holidays. 

The cow is attached to each shaft and a small single-tree, orswingletree, by means of a broad strap harness. She also wears abreeching, in which respect she frequently has the advantage of herescort. 

I think I have never witnessed a sadder sight than that of a new milchcow, torn away from home and friends and kindred dear, descending asteep, mountain road at a rapid rate and striving in her poor, weakmanner to keep out of the way of a small Jackson Democratic wagon loadedwith a big hogshead full of tobacco. It seems to me so totally foreignto the nature of the cow to enter into the tobacco traffic, a line ofbusiness for which she can have no sympathy and in which she certainlycan feel very little interest. 

Tobacco of the very finest kind is produced here, and is used mainly forsmoking purposes. It is the highest-price tobacco produced in thiscountry. A tobacco broker here yesterday showed me a large quantity ofwhat he called export tobacco. It looks very much like other tobaccowhile growing. 

He says that foreigners use a great deal of this kind. I am learning allabout the tobacco industry while here, and as fast as I get hold of anynew facts I will communicate them to the press. The newspapers of thiscountry have done much for me, not only by publishing many pleasantthings about me, but by refraining from publishing other things aboutme, and so I am glad to be able, now and then, to repay this kindness byfurnishing information and facts for which I have no use myself, butwhich may be of incalculable value to the press. 

As I write these lines I am informed that the snow is twenty-six inchesdeep here and four feet deep at High Point in this State. People who didnot bring in their pomegranates last evening are bitterly bewailingtheir thoughtlessness to-day. 

A great many people come here from various parts of the world, for theclimate. When they have remained here for one winter, however, theydecide to leave it where it is. 

It is said that the climate here is very much like that of Turin. But Idid not intend to go to Turin even before I heard about that. 

Please send my paper to the same address, and if some one who knows agood remedy for chilblains will contribute it to these columns, I shallwatch for it with great interest. 

 Yours as here 2 4, BILL NYE. 

P. S. --I should have said, relative to the cow of this State, that ifthe owners would work their butter more and their cows less they wouldconfer a great boon on the consumer of both. 

 B. N. 

A Character

[Illustration]

 I. 

 Swallowed up in gulfs of tho't-- Eye-glass fixed--on--who knows what? We but know he sees us not. 

 Chance upon him, here and there-- Base-ball park--Industrial Fair-- Broadway--Long Branch--anywhere!

 Even at the races, --yet With his eye-glass tranced and set On some dream-land minaret. 

 At the beach, the where, perchance-- Tenderest of eyes may glance On the fitness of his pants. 

 Vain! all admiration--vain! His mouth, o'er and o'er again Absently absorbs his cane. 

 Vain, as well, all tribute paid To his morning coat, inlaid With crossbars of every shade. 

 He is oblivious, tho We played checkers to and fro On his back--he would not know. 

 II. 

 So removed--illustrious-- Peace! kiss hands, and leave him thus He hath never need of us!

 Come away! Enough! Let be! Purest praise, to such as he, Were as basest obloquy. 

 Vex no more that mind of his, We, to him, are but as phizz Unto pop that knows it is. 

 Haply, even as we prate Of him HERE--in astral state-- Or jackastral--he, elate, Brouses 'round, with sportive hops In far fields of sphery crops, Nibbling stars like clover-tops. 

 He, occult and psychic, may Now be solving why to-day Is not midnight. --But away!

 Cease vain queries! Let us go! Leave him all unfathomed. --Lo, He can hear his whiskers grow. 

The Diary of Darius T. Skinner

[Illustration]

"FIFTH AVENUE HOTEL, New York, Dec. 31, 188-. --It hardly seems possiblethat I am here in New York, putting up at a hotel where it costs me $5or $6 a day just simply to exist. I came here from my far away-homeentirely alone. I have no business here, but I simply desired to rub upagainst greatness for awhile. I need polish, and I am smart enough toknow it. 

"I write this entry in my diary to explain who I am and to help identifymyself in case I should come home to my room intoxicated some night andblow out the gas. 

"The reason I am here is that last summer while whacking bulls, which isreally my business, I grub-staked Alonzo McReddy and forgot about ittill I got back and the boys told me that Lon had struck a FirstNational bank in the shape of the Sarah Waters claim. He was then verylow with mountain fever and so nobody felt like jumping the claim. Saturday afternoon Alonzo passed away and left me the Sarah Waters. That's the only sad thing about the whole business now. I am raised frombull-whacking to affluence, but Alonzo is not here. How we would take inthe town together if he'd lived, for the Sarah Waters was enough to makeus both well fixed. 

"I can imagine Lon's look of surprise and pride as he looks over theouter battlements of the New Jerusalem and watches me paint the town. Little did Lon think when I pulled out across the flat with my whiskersfull of alkali dust and my cuticle full of raw agency whisky, thatinside of a year I would be a nabob, wearing biled shirts every singleday of my life, and clothes made specially for me. 

"Life is full of sudden turns, and no one knows here in America wherehe'll be in two weeks from now. I may be back there associating withgreasers again as of yore and skinning the same bulls that I haveheretofore skun. 

"Last evening I went to see 'The Mikado, ' a kind of singing theater andChinese walk-around. It is what I would call no good. It is acted out bydifferent people who claim they are Chinamen, I reckon. They teeteraround on the stage and sing in the English language, but their clothesare peculiar. A homely man, who played that he was the lord highexecutioner and chairman of the vigilance committee, wore a pair ofwide, bandana pants, which came off during the first act. He was cooland collected, though, and so caught them before it was everlastinglytoo late. He held them on by one hand while he sang the rest of hispiece, and when he left the stage the audience heartlessly whooped forhim to come back. 

"'The Mikado' is not funny or instructive as a general thing, but lastnight it was accidently facetious. It has too much singing and notenough vocal music about it. There is also an overplus of conversationthrough the thing that seems like talking at a mark for $2 a week. Itmay be owing to my simple ways, but 'The Mikado' is too rich for myblood. 

"We live well here at the Fifth Avenue. The man that owns the place putstwo silver forks and a clean tablecloth on my table every day, and theyoung fellows that pass the grub around are so well dressed that itseems sassy and presumptions for me to bother them by asking them tobring me stuff when I'd just as soon go and get it myself and nothingelse in the world to do. 

"I told the waiter at my table yesterday that when he got time I wishedhe would come up to my room and we could have a game of old sledge. Heis a nice young man, and puts himself out a good deal to make mecomfortable. 

"I found something yesterday at the table that bothered me. It was a newkind of a silver dingus, with two handles to it, for getting a lump ofsugar into your tea. I saw right away that it was for that, but when Itook the two handles in my hand like a nut cracker and tried to scoop upa lump of sugar with it I felt embarrassed. Several people who weretotal strangers to me smiled. 

"After dinner the waiter brought me a little pink-glass bowl of lemonadeand a clean wipe to dry my mouth with, I reckon, after I drank thelemonade. I do not pine for lemonade much, anyhow, but this wasspecially poor. It was just plain water, with a lemon rind and no sugarinto it. 

"One rural rooster from Pittsburg showed his contempt for the blamedstuff by washing his hands in it. I may be rough and uncouth in mystyle, but I hope I will never lower myself like that in company. "

[Illustration: THE MAN IN THE MOON]

 O, The Man in the Moon has a crick in his back; Whee! Whimm! Ain't you sorry for him? And a mole on his nose that is purple and black; And his eyes are so weak that they water and run If he dares to dream even he looks at the sun, -- So he just dreams of stars, as the doctors advise-- My! Eyes! But isn't he wise-- To just dream of stars, as the doctors advise?

 And The Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear-- Whee! Whing! What a singular thing! I know; but these facts are authentic, my dear, --

 There's a boil on his ear, and a corn on his chin-- He calls it a dimple, --but dimples stick in-- Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know; Whang! Ho! Why, certainly so!-- It might be a dimple turned over, you know!

 And The Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee-- Gee! Whizz! What a pity that is! And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be. -- So whenever he wants to go North he goes South, And comes back with porridge-crumbs all round his mouth, And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan, Whing! Whann! What a marvelous man! What a very remarkably marvelous man!

[Illustration: His Christmas Sled. ]

 I watch him, with his Christmas sled; He hitches on behind A passing sleigh, with glad hooray, And whistles down the wind; He hears the horses champ their bits, And bells that jingle-jingle-- You Woolly Cap! you Scarlet Mitts! You miniature "Kriss Kringle!"

 I almost catch your secret joy-- Your chucklings of delight, The while you whizz where glory is Eternally in sight! With you I catch my breath, as swift Your jaunty sled goes gliding O'er glassy track and shallow drift, As I behind were riding!

 He winks at twinklings of the frost. And on his airy race, Its tingles beat to redder heat The rapture of his face:-- The colder, keener is the air, The less he cares a feather. But, there! he's gone! and I gaze on The wintriest of weather!

 Ah, boy! still speeding o'er the track Where none returns again, To Sigh for you, or cry for you, Or die for you were vain. -- And so, speed on! the while I pray All nipping frosts forsake you-- Ride still ahead of grief, but may All glad things overtake you!

Her Tired Hands

[Illustration]

On board a western train the other day I held in my bosom for overseventy-five miles the elbow of a large man whose name I do not know. Hewas not a railroad hog or I would have resented it. He was built wideand he couldn't help it, so I forgave him. 

He had a large, gentle, kindly eye, and when he desired to spit, he wentto the car door, opened it and decorated the entire outside of thetrain, forgetting that our speed would help to give scope to hisremarks. 

[Illustration]

Naturally as he sat there by my side, holding on tightly to his ticketand evidently afraid that the conductor would forget to come and get it, I began to figure out in my mind what might be his business. He hadpounded one thumb so that the nail was black where the blood had settledunder it. This might happen to a shoemaker, a carpenter, a blacksmith ormost anyone else. So it didn't help me out much, though it looked to meas though it might have been done by trying to drive a fence-nailthrough a leather hinge with the back of an axe, and nobody but a farmerwould try to do that. Following up the clue, I discovered that he hadmilked on his boots and then I knew I was right. The man who milksbefore daylight, in a dark barn, when the thermometer is down to 28degrees below and who hits his boot and misses the pail, by reason ofthe cold and the uncertain light and the prudishness of the cow, is amarked man. He cannot conceal the fact that he is a farmer unless heremoves that badge. So I started out on that theory and remarked thatthis would pass for a pretty hard winter on stock. 

[Illustration]

The thought was not original with me, for I have heard it expressed byothers either in this country or Europe. He said it would. 

"My cattle has gone through a whole mowful o' hay sence October andeleven ton o' brand. Hay don't seem to have the goodness to it thet ithed last year, and with their new _pro_-cess griss mills they jerk allthe juice out o' brand, so's you might as well feed cows with excelsiorand upholster your horses with hemlock bark as to buy brand. "

"Well, why do you run so much to stock? Why don't you try diversifiedfarming, and rotation of crops?"

"Well, probably you got that idee in the papers. A man that earns bigwages writing Farm Hints for agricultural papers can make more moneywith a soft lead pencil and two or three season-cracked idees likethat'n I can carrying of 'em out on the farm. We used to have a fellerin the drugstore in our town that wrote such good pieces for the _RuralVermonter_ and made up such a good condition powder out of his own head, that two years ago we asked him to write a nessay for the annual meetingof the Buckwheat Trust, and to use his own judgment about choice ofsubject. And what do you s'pose he had selected for a nessay that tookthe whole forenoon to read?"

"What subject, you mean?"

"Yes. "

"Give it up!"

"Well, he'd wrote out that whole blamed intellectual wad on the subjectof 'The Inhumanity of Dehorning Hydraulic Rams. ' How's that?"

"That's pretty fair. "

"Well, farmin' is like runnin' a paper in regards to some things. Everyfeller in the world will take and turn in and tell you how to do it, even if he don't know a blame thing about it. There ain't a man in theUnited States to-day that don't secretly think he could run airy one ifhis other business busted on him, whether he knows the differencebetween a new milch cow and a horse hayrake or not. We had one of theseembroidered night-shirt farmers come from town better'n three years ago. Been a toilet soap man and done well, and so he came out and bought afarm that had nothing to it but a fancy house and barn, a lot of medderin the front yard and a southern aspect. The farm was no good. Youcouldn't raise a disturbance on it. Well, what does he do? Goes and gitsa passle of slim-tailed, yeller cows from New Jersey and aims to handlecream and diversified farming. Last year the cuss sent a load of creamover and tried to sell it at the new creamatory while the funeral andhollercost was goin' on. I may be a sort of a chump myself, but I readmy paper and don't get left like that. "

"What are the prospects for farmers in your State?"

"Well, they are pore. Never was so pore, in fact, sence I've ben there. Folks wonder why boys leaves the farm. My boys left so as to getprotected, they said, and so they went into a clothing-store, one of'em, and one went into hardward and one is talking protection in theLegislature this winter. They said that farmin' was gittin' to be likefishin' and huntin', well enough for a man that has means and leisure, but they couldn't make a livin at it, they said. Another boy is in adrug store, and the man that hires him says he is a royal feller. "

"Kind of a castor royal feller, " I said, with a shriek of laughter. 

He waited until I had laughed all I wanted to and then he said:

[Illustration]

"I've always hollered for high terriff in order to hyst the public debt, but now that we've got the national debt coopered I wish they'd take alittle hack at mine. I've put in fifty years farmin'. I never dranklicker in any form. I've worked from ten to eighteen hours a day, beeneconomical in cloze and never went to a show more'n a dozen times in mylife, raised a family and learned upward of two hundred calves to drinkout of a tin pail without blowing all their vittles up my sleeve. Mywife worked alongside o' me sewin' new seats on the boys' pants, skimmin' milk and even helpin' me load hay. For forty years we toiledalong to-gether and hardly got time to look into each others' faces ordared to stop and get acquainted with each other. Then her healthfailed. Ketched cold in the spring house, prob'ly skimmin' milk andwashin' pans and scaldin' pails and spankin' butter. Any how, she tookin a long breath one day while the doctor and me was watchin' her, andshe says to me, 'Henry, ' says she, 'I've got a chance to rest, ' and sheput one tired, wore-out hand on top of the other tired, wore-out hand, and I knew she'd gone where they don't work all day and do chores allnight. 

"I took time to kiss her then. I'd been too busy for a good whileprevious to that, and then I called in the boys. After the funeral itwas too much for them to stay around and eat the kind of cookin' we hadto put up with, and nobody spoke up around the house as we used to. Theboys quit whistlin' around the barn and talked kind of low by themselvesabout going to town and gettin' a job. 

"They're all gone now and the snow is four feet deep on mother's graveup there in the old berryin' ground. "

Then both of us looked out of the car window quite a long while withoutsaying anything. 

"I don't blame the boys for going into something else long's otherthings paysbetter; but I say--and I say what I know--that the man whoholds the prosperity of this country in his hands, the man that actuallymakes money for other people to spend, the man that eats three good, simple, square meals a day and goes to bed at nine o'clock, so thatfuture generations with good blood and cool brains can go from his farmto the Senate and Congress and the While House--he is the man that getsleft at last to run his farm, with nobody to help him but a hired manand a high protective terriff. The farms in our State is mortgaged forover seven hundred million dollars. Ten of our Western States--I see bythe papers--has got about three billion and a half mortgages on theirfarms, and that don't count the chattel mortgages filed with the townclerks on farm machinery, stock, waggins, and even crops, by gosh! thatain't two inches high under the snow. That's what the prospects is forfarmers now. The Government is rich, but the men that made it, the menthat fought perarie fires and perarie wolves and Injuns and potato-bugsand blizzards, and has paid the war debt and pensions and everythingelse and hollered for the Union and the Republican party and freeschools and high terriff and anything else that they was told to, isleft high and dry this cold winter with a mortgage of seven billions anda half on the farms they have earned and saved a thousand times over. "

"Yes; but look at the glory of sending from the farm the futurePresident, the future Senator and the future member of Congress. "

"That looks well on paper, but what does it really amount to? Soon as afarmer boy gits in a place like that he forgets the soil that producedhim and holds his head as high as a holly-hock. He bellers forprotection to everybody but the farmer, and while he sails round in ahighty-tighty room with a fire in it night and day, his father on thefarm has to kindle his own fire in the morning with elm slivvers, and hehas to wear his own son's lawn-tennis suit next to him or freeze todeath, and he has to milk in an old gray shawl that has held that memberof Congress when he was a baby, by gorry! and the old lady has tosojourn through the winter in the flannel that was wore at the riggatterbefore he went to Congress. 

"So I say, and I think that Congress agrees with me. Damn a farmer, anyhow!"

He then went away. 

[Illustration]

Ezra House

 Come listen, good people, while a story I do tell, Of the sad fate of one which I knew so passing well; He enlisted at McCordsville, to battle in the south, And protect his country's union; his name was Ezra House. 

 He was a young school-teacher, and educated high In regards to Ray's arithmetic, and also Alegbra. He give good satisfaction, but at his country's call He dropped his position, his Alegbra and all. 

 "It's Oh, I'm going to leave you, kind scholars, " he said-- For he wrote a composition the last day and read; And it brought many tears in the eyes of the school, To say nothing of his sweet-heart he was going to leave so soon. 

 "I have many recollections to take with me away, Of the merry transpirations in the school-room so gay; And of all that's past and gone I will never regret I went to serve my country at the first of the outset!"

 He was a good penman, and the lines that he wrote On that sad occasion was too fine for me to quote, -- For I was there and heard it, and I ever will recall It brought the happy tears to the eyes of us all. 

 [Illustration]

 And when he left, his sweetheart she fainted away, And said she could never forget the sad day When her lover so noble, and gallant and gay, Said "Fare you well, my true love!" and went marching away. 

 He hadn't gone for more than two months When the sad news come--"he was in a skirmish once, And a cruel rebel ball had wounded him full sore In the region of the chin, through the canteen he wore. "

 But his health recruited up, and his wounds they got well; But while he was in battle at Bull Run or Malvern Hill, The news come again, so sorrowful to hear-- "A sliver from a bombshell cut off his right ear. "

 But he stuck to the boys, and it's often he would write, That "he wasn't afraid for his country to fight. " But oh, had he returned on a furlough, I believe He would not, to-day, have such cause to grieve. 

 For in another battle--the name I never heard-- He was guarding the wagons when an accident occurred, -- A comrade, who was under the influence of drink, Shot him with a musket through the right cheek, I think. 

 But his dear life was spared, but it hadn't been for long Till a cruel rebel colonel came riding along, And struck him with his sword, as many do suppose, For his cap-rim was cut off, and also his nose. 

 But Providence, who watches o'er the noble and the brave, Snatched him once more from the jaws of the grave; And just a little while before the close of the war, He sent his picture home to his girl away so far. 

 And she fell into decline, and she wrote in reply, "She had seen his face again and was ready to die"; And she wanted him to promise, when she was in her tomb, He would only visit that by the light of the moon. 

 But he never returned at the close of the war, And the boys that got back said he hadn't the heart; But he got a position in a powder-mill, and said He hoped to meet the doom that his country denied. 

"Oh, Wilhelmina, Come Back!"

 PERSONAL--Will the young woman who edited the gravy department and corrected proof at our pie foundry for two days and then jumped the game on the evening that we were to have our clergyman to dine with us, please come back, or write to 32 Park Row, saying where she left the crackers and cheese?

[Illustration]

Come back, Wilhelmina, and be our little sunbeam once more. Come backand cluster around our hearthstone at so much per cluster. 

If you think best we will quit having company at the house, especiallypeople who do not belong to your set. 

We will also strive, oh, so hard, to make it pleasanter for you in everyway. If we had known four or five years ago that children wereoffensive to you, it would have been different. But it is too late now. All we can do is to shut them up in a barn and feed them through aknot-hole. If they shriek loud enough to give pain to your throbbingbrow, let no one know and we will overcome any false sentiment we mayfeel towards them and send them to the Tombs. 

Since you went away we can see how wicked and selfish we were and howlittle we considered your comfort. We miss your glad smile, also yourTennessee marble cake and your slat pie. We have learned a valuablelesson since you went away, and it is that the blame should not haverested on one alone. It should have been divided equally, leaving me tobear half of it and my wife the other half. 

Where we erred was in dividing up the blame on the basis of tenderloinsteak or peach cobbler, compelling you to bear half of it yourself. Thatwill not work, Wilhelmina. Blame and preserves do not divide on the samebasis. We are now in favor of what may be called a sliding scale. Wethink you will like this better. 

We also made a grave mistake in the matter of nights out. While young, Iformed the wicked and pernicious habit of having nights out myself. Ipanted for the night air and would go a long distance and stay out along time to get enough of it for a mess and then bring it home in apaper bag, but I can see now that it is time for me to remain indoorsand give young people like yourself a chance, Wilhelmina. 

So, if I can do anything evenings while you are out that will assistyou, such as stoning raisins or neighboring windows, command me. I am nocook, of course, but I can peel apples or grind coffee or hold yourhead for you when you need sympathy. I could also soon learn to do theplain cooking, I think, and friends who come to see us after this haveagreed to bring their dinners. 

There is no reason why harmony should not be restored among us and theold sunlight come back to our roof tree. 

Another thing I wish to write before I close this humiliating personal. I wish to take back any harsh and bitter words about your singing. Isaid that you sang like a shingle-mill, but I was mad when I said it, and I wronged you. I was maddened by hunger and you told me that mushand milk was the proper thing for a brain worker, and you refused togive me any dope on my dumpling. Goaded to madness by this I said thatyou sang like a shingle-mill, but it was not my better, higher naturethat spoke. It was my grosser and more gastric nature that asserteditself, and I now desire to take it back. You do not sing like ashingle-mill; at least so much as to mislead a practiced ear. 

Your voice has more volume, and when your upper register is closed, ismellower than any shingle-mill I ever heard. 

Come back, Wilhelmina. We need you every hour. 

After you went away we tried to set the bread as we had seen you do it, but it was not a success. The next day it come off the nest with alitter of small, sallow rolls which would easily resist the action ofacids. 

If you cannot come back will you please write and tell me how you aregetting along and how you contrive to insert air-holes into home-madebread?

[Illustration: A HINT of SPRING. ]

 'Twas but a hint of Spring--for still The atmosphere was sharp and chill-- Save where the genial sunshine smote The shoulders of my overcoat, And o'er the snow beneath my feet Laid spectral fences down the street. 

 My shadow even seemed to be Elate with some new buoyancy, And bowed and bobbed in my advance With trippingest extravagance, And when a bird sang out somewhere, It seemed to wheel with me, and stare. 

 Above I heard a rasping stir-- And on the roof the carpenter Was perched, and prodding rusty leaves From out the choked and dripping eaves-- And some one, hammering about, Was taking all the windows out. 

 Old scraps of shingles fell before The noisy mansion's open door; And wrangling children raked the yard, And labored much, and laughed as hard And fired the burning trash I smelt And sniffed again--so good I felt!

[Illustration: A Treat Ode]

 "Scurious-like, " said the treetoad, "I've twittered fer rain all day; And I got up soon, And hollered till noon-- But the sun hit blazed away, Till I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole Weary at heart, and sick at soul!

 "Dozed away fer an hour, And I tackled the thing agin; And I sung, and sung, Till I knowed my lung Was jest about to give in; And then, thinks I, ef it don't rain now, There're nothin' in singin' anyhow. 

 "Once in a while some farmer Would come a driven' past And he'd hear my cry, And stop and sigh-- Till I jest laid back, at last, And I hollered rain till I thought my throat Would bust wide open at ever' note!

 "But I _fetched_ her!--O I _fetched_ her!-- 'Cause a little while ago, As I kindo' set With one eye shet, And a-singin' soft and low, A voice drapped down on my fevered brain Sayin', --'Ef you'll jest hush I'll rain!'"

"Our Wife"

[Illustration]

The story opens in 1877, when, on an April morning, the yellow-haired"devil" arrived at the office of the Jack Creek _Pizenweed_, at 7o'clock, and found the editor in. It was so unusual to find the editorin at that hour that the boy whistled in a low contralto voice, andpassed on into the "news room, " leaving the gentlemanly, genial andurbane editor of the _Pizenweed_ as he had found him, sitting in hisfoundered chair, with his head immersed in a pile of exchanges on thetable and his venerable Smith & Wesson near by, acting as apaper-weight. The gentlemanly, genial and urbane editor of the_Pizenweed_ presented the appearance of a man engaged in sleeping off along and aggravated case of drunk. His hat was on the back of his head, and his features were entirely obscured by the loose papers in whichthey nestled. 

Later on, Elijah P. Beckwith, the foreman, came in, and found thefollowing copy on the hook, marked "Leaded Editorial, " and divided it upinto "takes" for the yellow-haired devil and himself:

"In another column of this issue will be found, among the legal notices, the first publication of a summons in an action for divorce, in whichour wife is plaintiff and we are made defendant. While generallydeprecating the practice of bringing private matters into public throughthe medium of the press, we feel justified in this instance, inasmuch asthe summons sets forth, as a cause of action, that we are, and havebeen, for the space of ten years, a confirmed drunkard without hope ofrecovery, and totally unwilling to provide for and maintain our saidwife. 

"That we have been given to drink, we do not, at this time, undertake todeny or in any way controvert, but that we cannot quit at any time, wedo most earnestly contend. 

"In 1867, on the 4th day of July, we married our wife. It was a joyfulday, and earth had never looked to us so fair or so desirable as asummer resort as it did that day. The flowers bloomed, the air was freshand exhilarating, the little birds and the hens poured forth theirrespective lays. It was a day long to be remembered, and it seemed asthough we had never seen Nature get up and hump herself to be soattractive as she did on that special morning--the morning of allmornings--the morning on which we married our wife. 

"Little did we then dream that after ten years of varying fortune wewould to-day give utterance to this editorial, or that the steampower-press of the _Pizenweed_ would squat this legal notice fordivorce, _a vinculo et thoro_, into the virgin page of our paper. Butsuch is the case. Our wife has abandoned us to our fate, and has seenfit to publish the notice in what we believe to be the spiciest paperpublished west of the Missouri River. It was not necessary that thenotice should be published. We were ready at any time to admit service, provided that plaintiff would serve it while we were sober. We cannotagree to remain sober after ten o'clock a. M. In order to give people achance to serve notices on us. But in this case plaintiff knew the valueof advertising, and she selected a paper that goes to the better classesall over the Union. When our wife does anything she does it right. 

"For ten years our wife and we have trudged along together. It has beena record of errors and failures on our part; a record of heroic devotionand forbearance on the part of our wife. It is over now, and withnothing to remember that is not soaked full of bitterness and wrapped upin red flannel remorse, we go forth to-day and herald our shame bypublishing to the world the fact, that as husband, we are a depressingfailure, while as a red-eyed and a rum-soaked ruin and all-arounddrunkard, we are a tropical triumph. We print this without egotism, andwe point to it absolutely without vain glory. 

"Ah, why were we made the custodian of this fatal gift, while otherswere denied? It was about the only talent we had, but we have notwrapped it up in a napkin. Sometimes we have put a cold, wet towel onit, but we have never hidden it under a bushel. We have put it out atthree per cent a month, and it has grown to be a thirst that is worthcoming all the way from Omaha to see. We do not gloat over it. We do notsay all this to the disparagement of other bright, young drinkers, whocame here at the same time, and who had equal advantages with us. We donot wish to speak lightly of those whose prospects for filling adrunkard's grave were at one time even brighter than ours. We havesimply sought to hold our position here in the grandest galaxy ofextemporaneous inebriates in the wild and woolly West. We do not wish tovaunt our own prowess, but we say, without fear of successfulcontradiction, that we have done what we could. 

"On the fourth page of this number will be found, among otherannouncements, the advertisement of our wife, who is about to open upthe old laundry at the corner of Third and Cottonwood streets, in theBriggs building. We hope that our citizens will accord her a generouspatronage, not so much on her husband's account, but because she is adeserving woman, and a good laundress. We wish that we could as safelyrecommend every advertiser who patronizes these columns as we can ourwife. 

"Unkind critics will make cold and unfeeling remarks because our wifehas decided to take in washing, and they will look down on her, nodoubt, but she will not mind it, for it will be a pleasing relaxation towash, after the ten years of torch-light procession and Mardi Grasfrolic she has had with us. It is tiresome, of course, to chase a pillowcase up and down the wash-board all day, but it is easier andpleasanter than it is to run a one-horse Inebriate Home for ten yearson credit. 

"Those who have read the _Pizenweed_ for the past three years willremember that it has not been regarded as an outspoken temperance organ. We have never claimed that for it. We have simply claimed that, so faras we are personally concerned, we could take liquor or we could let italone. That has always been our theory. We still make that claim. Othershave said the same thing, but were unable to do as they advertised. Wehave been taking it right along, between meals for ten years. We nowpropose, and so state in the prospectus, that we will let it alone. Weleave the public to judge whether or not we can do what we claim. "

[Illustration]

After the foreman had set up the above editorial, he went in to speak tothe editor, but he was still slumbering. He shook him mildly, but he didnot wake. Then Elijah took him by the collar and lifted him up so thathe could see the editor's face. 

It was a pale, still face, firm in its new resolution to forever "let italone. " On the temple and under the heavy sweep of brown hair there wasa powder-burned spot and the cruel affidavit of the "Smith & Wesson"that our wife had obtained her decree. 

The editor of the _Pizenweed_ had demonstrated at he could drink or hecould let it alone. 

My Bachelor Chum

 O a corpulent man is my bachelor chum, With a neck apoplectic and thick, And an abdomen on him as big as a drum, And a fist big enough for the stick; With a walk that for grace is clear out of the case, And a wobble uncertain--as though His little bow-legs had forgotten the pace That in youth used to favor him so. 

 He is forty, at least; and the top of his head Is a bald and a glittering thing; And his nose and his two chubby cheeks are as red As three rival roses in spring. His mouth is a grin with the corners tucked in And his laugh is so breezy and bright That it ripples his features and dimples his chin With a billowy look of delight. 

 He is fond of declaring he "don't care a straw"-- That "the ills of a bachelor's life Are blisses compared with a mother-in-law, And a boarding-school miss for a wife!" So he smokes, and he drinks, and he jokes and he winks, And he dines, and he wines all alone, With a thumb ever ready to snap as he thinks Of the comforts he never has known. 

 But up in his den--(Ah, my bachelor chum!) I have sat with him there in the gloom, When the laugh of his lips died away to become But a phantom of mirth in the room! And to look on him there you would love him, for all His ridiculous ways, and be dumb As the little girl-face that smiles down from the wall On the tears of my bachelor chum. 

The Philanthropical Jay

It had been ten long years since I last met Jay Gould until I calledupon him yesterday to renew the acquaintance and discuss the happy past. Ten years of patient toil and earnest endeavor on my part, ten years ofphilanthropy on his, have been filed away in the grim and greedyheretofore. Both of us have changed in that time, though Jay has changedmore than I have. Perhaps that is because he has been thrown more incontact with change than I have. 

Still, I had changed a good deal in those years, for when I called atIrvington yesterday Mr. Gould did not remember me. Neither did thewatchful but overestimated dog in the front yard. Mr. Gould lives incomfort, in a cheery home, surrounded by hired help and a barbed-wirefence. 

By wearing ready-made clothes, instead of having his clothing madeespecially for himself, he has been enabled to amass a good manymillions of dollars with which he is enabled to buy things. 

Carefully concealing the fact that I had any business relations with thepress, I gave my card to the person who does chores for Mr. Gould, and, apologizing for not having dropped in before, I took a seat in the spareroom to wait for the great railroad magnate. 

Mr. Gould entered the room with a low, stealthy tread, and looked meover in a cursory way and yet with the air of a connoisseur. 

"I believe that I have never had the pleasure of meeting you before, sir, " said the great railroad swallower and amateur Philanthropist witha tinge of railroad irony. 

[Illustration]

"Yes, sir, we met some ten years ago, " said I, lightly running myfingers over the keys of the piano in order to show him that I wasaccustomed to the sight of a piano. "I was then working in the rollingmill at Laramie City, Wyo. , and you came to visit the mill, which wasthen operated by the Union Pacific Railroad Company. You do not rememberme because I have purchased a different pair of trousers since I sawyou, and the cane which I wear this season changes my whole appearancealso. I remember you, however, very much. "

"Well, if we grant all that, Mr. Nye, will you excuse me for asking youto what I am indebted for this call?"

[Illustration]

"Well, Mr. Gould, " said I, rising to my full height and putting my softhat on the brow of the Venus de Milo, after which I seated myselfopposite him in a _degage_ Western way, "you are indebted to _me_ forthis call. That's what you're indebted to. But we will let that pass. We are not here to talk about indebtedness, Jay. If you are busy youneedn't return this call till next winter. But I am here just toconverse in a quiet way, as between man and man; to talk over the past, to ask you how your conduct is and to inquire if I can do you any goodin any way whatever. This is no time to speak pieces and ask in agrammatical way, 'To what you are indebted for this call. ' My mainobject in coming up here was to take you by the hand and ask you howyour memory is this spring? Judging from what I could hear, I was led tobelieve that it was a little inclined to be sluggish and atrophied daysand to keep you awake nights. Is that so, Jay?"

"No, sir; that is not so. "

"Very well, then I have been misled by the reports in the papers, and Iam glad it is all a mistake. Now one thing more before I go. Did it everoccur to you that while you and your family are all out in your yachttogether some day, a sudden squall, a quick lurch of the lee scuppers, atremulous movement of the main brace, a shudder of the spring boom mightoccur and all be over?"

"Yes, sir. I have often thought of it, and of course such a thing mighthappen at any time; but you forget that while we are out on the broadand boundless ocean we enjoy ourselves. We are free. People with morbidcuriosity cannot come and call on us. We cannot get the dailynewspapers, and we do not have to meet low, vulgar people who pay theirdebts and perspire. "

"Of course, that is one view to take of it; but that is only a selfishview. Supposing that you have made no provision for the future in caseof accident, would it not be well for you to name some one outside ofyour own family to take up this great burden which is now weighing youdown--this money which you say yourself has made a slave of you--andlook out for it? Have you ever considered this matter seriously andsettled upon a good man who would be willing to water your stock foryou, and so conduct your affairs that nobody would get any benefit fromyour vast accumulations, and in every way carry out the policy which youhave inaugurated?

"If you have not thoroughly considered this matter I wish that you woulddo so at an early date. I have in my mind's eye just such a man as youneed. His shoulders are well fitted for a burden of this kind, and hewould pick it up cheerfully any time you see fit to lay it down. I willgive you his address. "

"Thank you, " said Mr. Gould, as the thermometer in the next roomsuddenly froze up and burst with a loud report. "And now, if you willexcuse me from offsetting my time, which is worth $500 a minute, againstyours, which I judge to be worth about $1 per week, I will bid you goodmorning. "

He then held the door open for me, and shortly after that I came away. There were three reasons why I did not remain, but the principal reasonwas that I did not think he wanted me to do so. 

And so I came away and left him. There was little else that I could sayafter that. 

It is not the first time that a Western man has been treated withconsideration in his own section, only to be frowned upon and frozenwhen he meets the same man in New York. 

Mr. Gould is below the medium height, and is likely to remain so throughlife. His countenance wears a crafty expression, and yet he allowedhimself to be April-fooled by a genial little party of gentlemen fromBoston, who salted the Central Branch of the Union Pacific Railroad byholding back all the freight for two weeks in order to have it on theroad while Jay was examining the property. 

Jay Gould would attract very little attention here on the streets, buthe would certainly be looked upon with suspicion in Paradise. A man whowould fail to remember that he had $7, 000, 000 that belonged to the Erieroad, but who does not forget to remember whenever he paid his own hotelbills at Washington, is the kind of man who would pull up and pawn thepavements of Paradise within thirty days after he got there. 

After looking over the above statement carefully, I feel called upon, injustice to myself, to state that Dr. Burchard did not assist me inconstructing the last sentence. 

For those boys who wish to emulate the example of Jay Gould, the exampleof Jay Gould is a good example for them to emulate. 

If any little boy in New York on this beautiful Sabbath morning desiresto jeopardize his immortal soul in order to be beyond the reach of want, and ride gayly over the sunlit billows where the cruel fangs of theExcise law cannot reach him, let him cultivate a lop-sided memory, swapfriends for funds and wise counsel for crooked consols. 

If I had thought of all this as I came down the front steps at Irvingtonthe other day, I would have said it to Mr. Gould; but I did not think ofit until I got home. A man's best thoughts frequently come to him toolate for publication. 

[Illustration]

But the name of Jay Gould will not go down to future generations linkedwith those of Howard and Wilberforce. It will not go very far anyway. Inthis age of millionaires, a millionaire more or less does not count verymuch, and only the good millionaires who baptize and beautify theirwealth in the eternal sunlight of unselfishness will have any claim onimmortality. 

In this period of progress and high-grade civilization, when Satan takeshumanity up to the top of a high mountain and shows his railroads andhis kerosene oil and his distilleries and his coffers filled with pureleaf lard, and says: "All this will I give for a seat in the Senate, " acommon millionaire with no originality of design does not excite anymore curiosity on Broadway than a young man who is led about by a littleecru dog. 

I do not wish to crush capital with labor, or to further intensify thefeeling which already exists between the two, for I am a land-holder andtaxpayer myself, but I say that the man who never mixes up with thecommon people unless he is summoned to explain something and shake themoths out of his memory will some day, when the grass grows green overhis own grave, find himself confronted by the same kind of a memory onthe part of mankind. 

I do not say all this because I was treated in an off-hand manner by Mr. Gould, but because I think it ought to be said. 

As I said before, Jay Gould is considerably below the medium height, andI am not going to take it back. 

He is a man who will some day sit out on the corner of a new-laid planetwith his little pink railroad maps on his knees and ask, "Where am I?"and the echoes from every musty corner of miasmatic oblivion will takeup the question and refer it to the judiciary committee; but it willcurl up and die like the minority report against a big railroad landgrant. 

[Illustration: "A Brave Refrain. "]

 When snow is here, and the trees look weird, And the knuckled twigs are gloved with frost; When the breath congeals in the drover's beard, And the old pathway to the barn is lost:

 When the rooster's crow is sad to hear, And the stamp of the stabled horse is vain, And the tone of the cow-bell grieves the ear-- O then is the time for a brave refrain!

 When the gears hang stiff on the harness-peg, And the tallow gleams in frozen streaks: And the old hen stands on a lonesome leg, And the pump sounds hoarse and the handle squeaks; When the woodpile lies in a shrouded heap, And the frost is scratched from the window-pane, And anxious eyes from the inside peep-- O then is the time for a brave refrain!

 When the ax-helve warms at the chimney-jamb! And hob-nailed boots on the hearth below, And the house cat curls in a slumber calm, And the eight-day clock ticks loud and slow; When the harsh broom-handle jabs the ceil 'Neath the kitchen-loft, and the drowsy brain Sniffs the breath of the morning meal-- O then is the time for a brave refrain!

 'ENVOI. 

 When the skillet seethes, and a blubbering hot Tilts the lid of the coffee-pot, And the scent of the buckwheat cake grows plain-- O then is the time for a brave refrain!

A Blasted Snore

Sleep, under favorable circumstances, is a great boon. Sleep, if naturaland undisturbed, is surely as useful as any other scientific discovery. Sleep, whether administered at home or abroad, under the soporificinfluences of an under-paid preacher or the unyielding wooden cellardoor that is used as a blanket in the sleeping car, is a harmlessdissipation and a cheerful relaxation. 

Let me study a man for the first hour after he has wakened and I willjudge him more correctly than I would to watch him all winter in theLegislature. We think we are pretty well acquainted with our friends, but we are not thoroughly conversant with their peculiarities until wehave seen them wake up in the morning. 

I have often looked at the men I meet and thought what a shock it mustbe to the wives of some of them to wake up and see their husbands beforethey have had time to prepare, and while their minds are still chaotic. 

The first glimpse of a large, fat man, whose brain has drooped downbehind his ears, and whose wheezy breath wanders around through thecatacombs of his head and then emerges from his nostrils with a shrillsnort like the yelp of the damned, must be a charming picture for theeye of a delicate and beautiful second wife: one who loves to look ongreen meadows and glorious landscapes; one who has always wakened witha song and a ripple of laughter that fell on her father's heart likeshower of sunshine in the somber green of the valley. 

It is a pet theory of mine that to be pleasantly wakened is half thebattle for the day. If we could be wakened by the refrain of a joyoussong, instead of having our front teeth knocked out by one of thosepatent pillow-sham holders that sit up on their hind feet at the head ofthe bed, until we dream that we are just about to enter Paradise andhave just passed our competitive examination, and which then swoop downand mash us across the bridge of the nose, there would be less insanityin our land and death would be regarded more in the light of a calamity. 

When you waken a child do it in a pleasant way. Do not take him by theear and pull him out of bed. It is disagreeable for the child, andinjures the general _tout ensemble_ of the ear. Where children go tosleep with tears on their cheeks and are wakened by the yowl ofdyspeptic parents, they have a pretty good excuse for crime in afteryears. If I sat on the bench in such cases I would mitigate thesentence. 

It is a genuine pleasure for me to wake up a good-natured child in agood-natured way. Surely it is better from those dimpled lids to chasethe sleep with a caress than to knock out slumber with a harsh word anda bed slat. 

No one should be suddenly wakened from a sound sleep. A sudden awakingreverses the magnetic currents, and makes the hair pull, to borrow anexpression from Dante. The awaking should be natural, gradual, anddeliberate. 

A sad thing occurred last summer on an Omaha train. It was a very warmday, and in the smoking car a fat man, with a magenta fringe of whiskersover his Adam's apple, and a light, ecru lambrequin of real camel's hairaround the suburbs of his head, might have been discovered. 

He could have opened his mouth wider, perhaps, but not without injuringthe mainspring of his neck and turning his epiglottis out of doors. 

He was asleep. 

He was not only slumbering, but he was putting the earnestness andpassionate devotion of his whole being into it. His shiny, oilclothgrip, with the roguish tip of a discarded collar just peeping out at theside, was up in the iron wall-pocket of the car. He also had, in theseat with him, a market basket full of misfit lunch and a two-bushel bagcontaining extra apparel. On the floor he had a crock of butter with acopy of the Punkville _Palladium_ and _Stock Grower's Guardian_ over thetop. 

He slumbered on in a rambling sort of way, snoring all the time inmonosyllables, except when he erroneously swallowed his tonsils, andthen he would struggle awhile and get black in the face, while thepassengers vainly hoped that he had strangled. 

While he was thus slumbering, with all the eloquence and enthusiasm of aman in the full meridian of life, the train stopped with a lurch, andthe brakeman touched his shoulder. 

"Here's your town, " he said. "We only stop a minute. You'll have tohustle. "

The man, who had been far away, wrestling with Morpheus, had removed hishat, coat, and boots, and when he awoke his feet absolutely refused togo back into the same quarters. 

[Illustration]

At first he looked around reproachfully at the people in the car. Thenhe reached up and got his oilcloth grip from the bracket. The bag wastied together with a string, and as he took it down the string untied. Then we all discovered that this man had been on the road for a longtime, with no object, apparently, except to evade laundries. All kindsof articles fell out in the aisle. I remember seeing a chest-protectorand a linen coat, a slab of seal-brown gingerbread and a pair of stogaboots, a hairbrush and a bologna sausage, a plug of tobacco and a porousplaster. 

He gathered up what he could in both arms, made two trips to the doorand threw out all he could, tried again to put his number eleven feetinto his number nine boots, gave it up, and socked himself out of thecar as it began to move, while the brakeman bombarded him through thewindow for two miles with personal property, groceries, dry-goods, bootsand shoes, gents' furnishing goods, hardward, notions, _bric-a-brac_, red herrings, clothing, doughnuts, vinegar bitters, and facetiousremarks. 

Then he picked up the retired snorer's railroad check from the seat, andI heard him say: "Why, dog on it, that wasn't his town after all. "

Good-bye er Howdy-do

[Illustration]

 Say good-bye er howdy-do-- What's the odds betwixt the two? Comin'--goin'--every day Best friends first to go away-- Grasp of hands you druther hold Than their weight in solid gold, Slips their grip while greetin' you. -- Say good-bye er howdy-do?

 Howdy-do, and then, good-bye-- Mixes jest like laugh and cry; Deaths and births, and worst and best Tangled their contrariest; Ev'ry jinglin' weddin'-bell Skeerin' up some funeral knell. -- Here's my song, and there's your sigh: Howdy-do, and then, good-bye!

 Say good-bye er howdy-do-- Jest the same to me and you; 'Taint worth while to make no fuss, 'Cause the job's put up on us! Some one's runnin' this concern That's got nothin' else to learn-- If he's willin', we'll pull through. Say good-bye or howdy-do!

[Illustration: SOCIETY GURGS From SANDY MUSH]

The following constitute the items of great interest occurring on theEast Side among the colored people of Blue Ruin:

Montmorency Tousley of Pizen Ivy avenue cut his foot badly last weekwhile chopping wood for a party on Willow street. He has been warnedtime and again not to chop wood when the sign was not right, but hewould not listen to his friends. He not only cut off enough of his footto weigh three or four pounds, but completely gutted the coffee sack inwhich his foot was done up at the time. It will be some time before hecan radiate around among the boys on Pizen avenue again. 

Plum Beasley's house caught on fire last Tuesday night. He reckons itwas caused by a defective flue, for the fire caught in the north wing. This is one of Plum's bon mots, however. He tries to make light of it, but the wood he has been using all winter was white birch, and when hegot a big dose of hickory at the same place last week it was so darkthat he didn't notice the difference, and before he knew it he had abigger fire than he had allowed. In the midst of a pleasant flow ofconversation gas collected in the wood and caused an explosion whichthrew a passel of live coals on the bed. The house was soon a solid massof flame. Mr. Beasley is still short two children. 

Mr. Granulation Hicks, of Boston, Mass. , who has won deserveddistinction in advancing the interests of Sir George Pullman, ofChicago, is here visiting his parents, who reside on Upper Hominy. Weare glad to see Mr. Hicks and hope he may live long to visit Blue Ruinand propitiate up and down our streets. 

Miss Roseola Cardiman has just been the recipient of a beautiful pair ofchaste ear-bobs from her brother, who is a night watchman in a jewelrystore run by a man named Tiffany in New York. Roseola claims thatTiffany makes a right smart of her brother, and sets a heap by him. 

Whooping cough and horse distemper are again making fearful havoc amongthe better classes at the foot of Pizen Ivy avenue. 

We are pained to learn that the free reading room, established overAmalgamation Brown's store, has been closed up by the police. Blue Ruinhas clamored for a free temperance reading room and brain retort for tenyears, and now a ruction between two of our best known citizens, overthe relative merits of a natural pair and a doctored flush, has calleddown the vengeance of the authorities, and shut up what was a credit tothe place and a quiet resort, where young men could come night afternight and kind of complicate themselves at. There are two or three menin this place that will bully or bust everything they can get into, andthey have perforated more outrages on Blue Ruin than we are entitled toput up with. 

There was a successful doings at the creek last Sabbath, during whichbaptism was administered to four grown people and a dude from SandyMush. The pastor thinks it will take first-rate, though it is still toosoon to tell. 

Surrender Adams got a letter last Friday from his son Gladstone, whofiled on a homestead near Porcupine, Dak. , two years ago. He says theyhave had another of those unprecedented winters there for which Dakotais so justly celebrated. He thinks this one has been even more so thatany of the others. He wishes he was back here at Blue Ruin, where a mancan go out doors for half an hour without getting ostracized by theelements. He says they brag a good deal on their ozone there, but heallows that it can be overdone. He states that when the ozone in Dakotais feeling pretty well and humping itself and curling up sheet-ironroofs and blowing trains of the track, a man has to tie a clothes-lineto himself, with the other end fastened to the door knob, before it issafe to visit his own hen-house. He says that his nearest neighbor isseventeen miles away, and a man might as well buy his own chickens as tofool his money away on seventeen miles of clothes-line. 

It is a first-rate letter, and the old man wonders who Gladstone got towrite it for him. 

The valuable ecru dog of our distinguished townsman, Mr. PiedmontBabbit, was seriously impaired last Saturday morning by an east-boundfreight. 

He will not wrinkle up his nose at another freight train. 

George Wellington, of Hickory, was in town the front end of the week. Hehas accepted a position in the livery, feed and sale stable at SandyMush. Call again, George. 

Gabriel Brant met with a sad mishap a few days since while crossing theFrench Broad river, by which he lost his leg. 

Any one who may find an extra leg below where the accident occurred willconfer a favor on Mr. Brant by returning same to No. 06-1/2 Pneumoniastreet. It may be readily identified by any one, as it is made of an oldpickhandle and weighs four pounds. 

J. Quincy Burns has written a war article for the Century Magazine, regarding a battle where he was at. In this article he aims to describethe sensations of a man who is ignorant of physical fear and yet yearnsto have the matter submitted to arbitration. He gives a thorough exposeof his efforts in trying to find a suitable board of arbitration as soonas he saw that the enemy felt hostile and eager for the fray. 

The forthcoming number of the Century will be eagerly snapped up by Mr. Burns' friends who are familiar with his pleasing and graphic style ofwriting. He describes with wonderful power the sense of utter exhaustionwhich came over him and the feeling of bitter disappointment when herealized that he was too far away to participate in the battle and toofatigued to make a further search for suitable arbitrators. 

While Cigarettes to Ashes Turn

 I. 

 "He smokes--and that's enough, " says Ma-- "And cigarettes, at that!" says Pa. 

 "He must not call again, " says she-- "He _shall_ not call again!" says he. 

 They both glare at me as before-- Then quit the room and bang the door, --

 While I, their willful daughter, say, "I guess I'll love him, anyway!"

 II. 

 At twilight, in his room, alone, His careless feet inertly thrown

 Across a chair, my fancy can But worship this most worthless man!

 I dream what joy it is to set His slow lips round a cigarette, With idle-humored whiff and puff-- Ah! this is innocent enough!

 To mark the slender fingers raise The waxen match's dainty blaze, Whose chastened light an instant glows On drooping lids and arching nose, Then, in the sudden gloom, instead, A tiny ember, dim and red, Blooms languidly to ripeness, then Fades slowly, and grows ripe again. 

[Illustration: "HE SMOKES--AND THAT'S ENOUGH, " SAYS MA--]

 III. 

 I lean back, in my own boudoir-- The door is fast, the sash ajar;

 And in the dark, I smiling stare At one window over there, Where some one, smoking, pinks the gloom, The darling darkness of his room!

 I push my shutters wider yet, And lo! I light a cigarette;

 And gleam for gleam, and glow for glow, Each pulse of light a word we know, We talk of love that still will burn While cigarettes to ashes turn. 

Says He

[Illustration]

 "Whatever the weather may be, " says he-- "Whatever the weather may be-- Its plaze, if ye will, an' I'll say me say-- Supposin' to-day was the winterest day, Wud the weather be changing because ye cried, Or the snow be grass were ye crucified? The best is to make your own summer, " says he, "Whatever the weather may be, " says he-- "Whatever the weather may be!"

 "Whatever the weather may be, " says he-- "Whatever the weather may be, Its the songs ye sing, an' the smiles ye wear That's a-makin' the sunshine everywhere; An' the world of gloom is a world of glee, Wid the bird in the bush, an' the bud in the tree, Whatever the weather may be, " says he-- "Whatever the weather may be!"

 "Whatever the weather may be, " says he-- "Whatever the weather may be, Ye can bring the spring, wid its green an' gold, An' the grass in the grove where the snow lies cold, An' ye'll warm your back, wid a smiling face, As ye sit at your heart like an owld fireplace, Whatever the weather may be, " says he, "Whatever the weather may be!"

Where the Roads Are Engaged in Forking

I am writing this at an imitation hotel where the roads fork. I willcall it the Fifth Avenue Hotel because the hotel at a railroad junctionis generally called the Fifth Avenue, or the Gem City House, or thePalace Hotel. I stopped at an inn some years since called the Palace, and I can truly say that if it had ever been a palace it was very muchrun down when I visited it. 

Just as the fond parent of a white-eyed, two-legged freak of natureloves to name his mentally-diluted son Napoleon, and for the same reasonthat a prominent horse owner in Illinois last year socked my name on atall, buckskin-colored colt that did not resemble me, intellectually orphysically, a colt that did not know enough to go around a barbed-wirefence, but sought to shift himself through it into an untimely grave, sothis man has named his sway-backed wigwam the Fifth Avenue Hotel. 

It is different from the Fifth Avenue in many ways. In the first placethere is not so much travel and business in its neighborhood. As I saidbefore, this is where two railroads fork. In fact that is the leadingindustry here. The growth of the town is naturally slow, but it is ahealthy growth. There is nothing in the nature of dangerous or wild-catspeculation in the advancement of this place, and while there has beenno noticeable or rapid advance in the principal business, there has beenno falling off at all and these roads are forking as much to-day as theydid before the war, while the same three men who were present for thefirst glad moment are still here to witness the operation. 

Sometimes a train is derailed, as the papers call it, and two or threepeople have to remain over as we did all night. It is at such a timethat the Fifth Avenue Hotel is the scene of great excitement. A largecodfish, with a broad and sunny smile and his bosom full of rock salt, is tied in the creek to freshen and fit himself for the responsibleposition of floor manager of the codfish ball. 

A pale chambermaid, wearing a black jersey with large pores in itthrough which she is gently percolating, now goes joyously up the stairsto make the little post-office lock-box rooms look ten times worse thanthey ever did before. She warbles a low refrain as she nimbly knocksloose the venerable dust of centuries and sets it afloat throughout therooms. All is bustle about the house. 

Especially the chambermaid. 

We were put in the guests' chamber here. It has two atrophied beds madeup of pains and counterpanes. 

This last remark conveys to the reader the presence of a light, joyousfeeling which is wholly assumed on my part. 

The door of our room is full of holes where locks have been wrenched offin order to let the coroner in. Last night I could imagine that I wasin the act of meeting, personally, the famous people who have tried tosleep here and who moaned through the night and who died while waitingfor the dawn. 

I have no doubt in the world but there is quite a good-sized delegationfrom this hotel, of guests who hesitated about committing suicide, because they feared to tread the red-hot sidewalks of perdition, but whobecame desperate at last and resolved to take their chances, and theyhave never had any cause to regret it. 

[Illustration]

We washed our hands on doorknob soap, wiped them on a slippery elmcourt-plaster, that had made quite a reputation for itself under thenom-de-plume of "Towel, " tried to warm ourselves at a pocket inkstandstove, that gave out heat like a dark lantern and had a deformed elbowat the back of it. 

The chambermaid is very versatile, and waits on the table while notengaged in agitating the overworked mattresses and puny pillowsup-stairs. In this way she imparts the odor of fried pork to thepillow-cases and kerosene to the pie. 

She has a wild, nervous and apprehensive look in her eye, as though shefeared that some herculean guest might seize her in his great strongarms and bear her away to a justice of the peace and marry her. Shecertainly cannot fully realize how thoroughly secure she is from such acalamity. She is just as safe as she was forty years ago, when shepromised her aged mother that she would never elope with any one. 

Still, she is sociable at times and converses freely with me at table, as she leans over my shoulder, pensively brushing the crumbs into my lapwith a general utility towel, which accompanies her in her variousrambles through the house, and she asks what we would rather have--"teaor eggs?"

This afternoon we will pay our bill, in accordance with a life-longcustom of ours, and go away to permeate the busy haunts of men. It willbe sad to tear ourselves away from the Fifth Avenue Hotel at this place;still, there is no great loss without some small gain, and at our nexthotel we may not have to chop our own wood and bring it up stairs whenwe want to rest. The landlord of a hotel who goes away to a politicalmeeting and leaves his guests to chop their own wood, and then chargesthem full price for the rent of a boisterous and tempest-tossed bed, will never endear himself to those with whom he is thrown in contact. 

We leave at 2:30 this afternoon, hoping that the two railroads maycontinue to fork here just the same as though we had remained. 

McFeeters' Fourth

[Illustration]

 It was needless to say 'twas a glorious day, And to boast of it all in that spread-eagle way That our forefathers had since the hour of the birth Of this most patriotic republic on earth! But 'twas justice, of course, to admit that the sight Of the old Stars-and-Stripes was a thing of delight In the eyes of a fellow, however he tried To look on the day with a dignified pride That meant not to brook any turbulent glee, Or riotous flourish of loud jubilee!

 So argued McFeeters, all grim and severe, Who the long night before, with a feeling of fear, Had slumbered but fitfully, hearing the swish Of the sky-rocket over his roof, with a wish That the urchin who fired it were fast to the end Of the stick to forever and ever ascend; Or to hopelessly ask why the boy with the horn And its horrible havoc had ever been born! Or to wish, in his wakefulness, staring aghast, That this Fourth of July were as dead as the last!

 So, yesterday morning, McFeeters arose, With a fire in his eyes, and a cold in his nose, And a gutteral voice in appropriate key With a temper as gruff as a temper could be. He growled at the servant he met on the stair, Because he was whistling a national air, And he growled at the maid on the balcony, who Stood enrapt with the tune of "The Red, White and Blue" That a band was discoursing like mad in the street, With drumsticks that banged, and with cymbals that beat. 

 And he growled at his wife, as she buttoned his vest, And applausively pinned a rosette on his breast Of the national colors, and lured from his purse Some change for the boys--for firecrackers--or worse: And she pointed with pride to a soldier in blue In a frame on the wall, and the colors there, too; And he felt, as he looked on the features, the glow The painter found there twenty long years ago, And a passionate thrill in his breast, as he felt Instinctively round for the sword in his belt. 

 What was it that hung like a mist o'er the room?-- The tumult without--and the music--the boom Of the canon--the blare of the bugle and fife?-- No matter!--McFeeters was kissing his wife, And laughing and crying and waving his hat Like a genuine soldier, and crazy, at that! --But it's needless to say 'twas a glorious day, And to boast of it all in that spread-eagle way That our forefathers have since the hour of birth Of this most patriotic republic on earth!

In a Box

[Illustration]

 I saw them last night in a box at the play-- Old age and young youth side by side-- You might know by the glasses that pointed that way That they were--a groom and a bride; And you might have known, too, by the face of the groom, And the tilt of his head, and the grim Little smile of his lip, he was proud to presume That we men were all envying him. 

 Well, she was superb--an Elaine in the face, A Godiva in figure and mien, With the arm and the wrist of a Parian "Grace, " And the high-lifted brow of a queen; But I thought, in the splendor of wealth and of pride, And in all her young beauty might prize, I should hardly be glad if she sat by my side With that far-away look in her eyes. 

Seeking to Set the Public Right

[Illustration]

I would like to make an explanation at this time which concerns me, ofcourse, more than any one else, and yet it ought to be made in theinterests of general justice, also. I refer to a recent articlepublished in a Western paper and handsomely illustrated, in which, amongothers, I find the foregoing picture of my residence:

The description which accompanies the cut, among other things, goes onto state as follows: "The structure is elaborate, massive and beautiful. It consists of three stories, basement and attic, and covers a largearea on the ground. It contains an elevator, electric bells, steam-heating arrangements, baths, hot and cold, in every room, electriclights, laundry, fire-escapes, etc. The grounds consist of at least fiveacres, overlooking the river for several miles up and down, with fineboating and a private fish-pond of two acres in extent, containingevery known variety of game fish. The grounds are finely laid out inhandsome drives and walks, and when finished the establishment will beone of the most complete and beautiful in the Northwest. "

No one realizes more fully than I the great power of the press for goodor evil. Rightly used the newspaper can make or unmake men, and wronglyused it can be even more sinister. I might say, knowing this as I do, Iwant to be placed right before the people. The above is not a correctillustration or description of my house, for several reasons. In thefirst place, it is larger and more robust in appearance, and in thesecond place it has not the same _tout ensemble_ as my residence. Myhouse is less obtrusive and less arrogant in its demeanor than theforegoing, and it has no elevator in it. 

My house is not the kind that seems to crave an elevator. An elevator inmy house would lose money. There is no popular clamor for one, and if Iwere to put one in I would have to abolish the dining-room. It wouldalso interfere with the parlor. 

I have learned recently that the correspondent who came here to write upthis matter visited the town while I was in the South, and as he couldnot find me he was at the mercy of strangers. A young man who lives hereand who is just in the heyday of life, gleefully consented to show thecorrespondent my new residence not yet completed. So they went over andexamined the new Oliver Wendell Holmes Hospital, which will be completedin June and which is, of course, a handsome structure, but quitedifferent from my house in many particulars. 

For instance, my residence is of a different school of architecture, being rather on the Scandinavian order, while the foregoing has atendency toward the Ironic. The hospital belongs to a very recentschool, as I may say, while my residence, in its architectural methodsand conception, goes back to the time of the mound builders, a time whena Gothic hole in the ground was considered the _magnum bonum_ and thescrumptuous thing in art. If the reader will go around behind the abovebuilding and notice it carefully on the east side, he will not discovera dried coonskin nailed to the rear breadths of the wood-shed. Thatalone ought to convince an observing man that the house is not mine. Thecoonskin regardant will always be found emblazoned on my arms, togetherwith a blue Goddess of Liberty and my name in green India ink. 

[Illustration]

Above I give a rough sketch of my house. Of course I have idealized itsomewhat, but only in order to catch the eye of the keenly observantreader. The front part of the house runs back to the time of Polypus theFirst, while the L, which does not show in the drawing, runs back as faras the cistern. 

In closing, let me say that I am not finding fault with any one becausethe above error has crept into the public prints, for it is really apardonable error, after all. Neither do I wish to be considered asstriving to eliminate my name from the columns of the press, for no onecould be more tickled than I am over a friendly notice of my arrival intown or a timely reference to my courteous bearing and youthfulappearance, but I want to see the Oliver Wendell Holmes Hospitalsucceed, and so I come out in this way over my own signature and admitthat the building does not belong to me and that, so far as I amconcerned, the man who files a lien on it will simply fritter away histime. 

A Dose't of Blues

[Illustration]

 I' got no patience with blues at all! And I ust to kindo' talk Aginst 'em, and claim, 'tel along last fall, They was none in the fambly stock; But a nephew of mine, from Eelinoy, That visited us last year, He kindo' convinct me different While he was a-stayin' here. Frum ever'-which-way that blues is frum, They'd tackle him ever' ways; They'd come to him in the night, and come On Sundys, and rainy days; They'd tackle him in corn-plantin' time, And in harvest, an airly fall, But a dose't of blues in the wintertime He 'lowed was the worst of all! Said all diseases that ever he had-- The mumps, er the rheumatiz-- Er ever-other-day aigger's bad Purt' nigh as anything is!-- Er a cyarbuncle, say, on the back of his neck, Er a fellon on his thumb, -- But you keep the blues away frum him, And all o' the rest could come! And he'd moan, "they's narry a leaf below! Ner a spear o' grass in sight! And the whole wood-pile's clean under snow! And the days is dark as night! And you can't go out--ner you can't stay in-- Lay down--stand up--ner set!" And a case o' reguller tyfoid blues Would double him jest clean shet!

 I writ his parents a postal-kyard He could stay 'tel spring-time come; And Aprile first, as I rickollect, Was the day we shipped him home. Most o' his relatives, sence then, Has either give up, er quit, Er jest died off, but I understand _He's_ the same old color yit!

Wanted, a Fox

 SLIPPERY ELMHURST, } STATEN ISLAND, July 18, 1888. }

 TO THE EDITOR:

Dear Sir: Could you inform a constant reader of your valuable paperwhere he would be most likely to obtain a good, durable, wild fox whichcould be used for hunting purposes on my premises? I desire a fox thatis a good roadster, and yet not too bloodthirsty. If I could secure onethat would not bite, it would tickle me most to death. 

You know, perhaps, that I am of English origin. Some of the best andbluest blood of the oldest and most decrepit families in England flowsin my veins. There is no better blood extant. We love the exhilaratingsports of our ancestors, and nothing thrills us through and through likethe free chase 'cross country behind the fleeing fox. Joyously we gallopover the sward behind the yelping pack, as we clearly scent high, low, jack and the game. 

My ancestors are haughty English people from Piscataquis county, Maine. For centuries, our rich, warm, red blood has been mellowed by theelderberry wine and huckleberry juice of Moosehead lake; but now andthen it will assert itself and mantle in the broad and indestructiblecheek of our race. Ever and anon in our family you will notice theslender triangular chest, the broad and haughty sweep of abdomen, andthe high, intellectual expanse of pelvic bone, which denotes the trueEnglishman; proud, high-spirited, soaked full of calm disdain, wearingchecked pantaloons, and a soft, flabby tourist's hat that has a bow atboth ends, so that a man cannot get too drunk to put it on his headwrong. 

[Illustration]

I know that here is democratic America, where every man has to earn hisliving or marry rich, people will scorn my high-born love of thefox-chase, and speak in a slighting manner of my wild, wild yearn forthe rush and scamper of the hunt. By Jove, but it is joy indeed togallop over the sward and the cover, and the open land, the meet and thecucumber vines of the Plebian farmer, to run over the wife of thepeasant and tramp her low, coarse children into the rich mould, to"sick" the hounds upon the rude rustic as he paris greens his potatoes, to pry open the jaws of the pack and return to the open-eyed peasantthe quivering seat of his pantaloons, returning it to him not because itis lacking in its merit, but because it is not available. 

Ah, how the pulses thrill as we bound over the lea, out across the wold, anon skimming the outskirts of the moor and going home with a stellatedfracture of the dura mater through which the gas is gently escaping. 

Let others rave over the dreamy waltz and the false joys of the skatingrink, but give me the maddening yelp of the pack in full cry as itchases the speckled two-year-old of the low-born rustic across the openand into the pond. 

Let others sing of the zephyrs that fan the white sails of theirswift-flying yacht, but give me a wild gallop at the tail of myhigh-priced hounds and six weeks at the hospital with a fractured riband I am proud and happy. All our family are that way. We do not carefor industry for itself alone. We are too proud ever to become slaves tohabits of industry. We can labor or we can let it alone. 

This shows our superiority as a race. We have been that way for hundredsof years. We could work in order to be sociable, but we would not allowit to sap the foundations of our whole being. 

I write, therefore, to learn, if possible, where I can get a good red orgray fox that will come home nights. I had a fox last season for huntingpurposes, but he did not give satisfaction. He was constantly gettinginto the pound. I do not want an animal of that kind. I want one that Ishall always know where I can put my hand upon him when I want to hunt. 

Nothing can be more annoying than to be compelled to go to the poundand redeem a fox, when a party is mounted and waiting to hunt him. 

I do not care so much for the gait of a fox, whether he lopes, trots orpaces, so that his feet are sound and his wind good. I bought alight-red fox two years ago that had given perfect satisfaction theprevious year, but when we got ready to hunt him he went lame in the offhind foot and crawled under a hen house back of my estate, where heremained till the hunt was over. 

What I want is a young, flealess fox of the dark red or iron-grayvariety, that I can depend upon as a good roadster; one that will comeand eat out of my hand and yearn to be loved. 

I would like also a tall, red horse with a sawed-off tail; one that canjump a barbed wire fence without mussing it up with fragments of hisrider. Any one who may have such a horse or pipless fox will do well tocommunicate with me in person or by letter, enclosing references. I maybe found during the summer months on my estate, spread out under a tree, engaged in thought. 

 E. FITZWILLIAM NYE. 

 Slipperyelmhurst, Staten Island, N. Y. 

[Illustration: SUTTERS CLAIM]

IMITATED. 

 Say! _you_ feller! _You_-- With that spade and the pick!-- What do you 'pose to do On this side o' the crick? Goin' to tackle this claim? Well, I reckon You'll let up agin purty quick! No bluff, understand, -- But the same has been tried, And the claim never panned-- Or the fellers has lied, -- For they tell of a dozen that tried it, And quit it most onsatisfied. 

 The luck's dead agin it!-- The first man I see That stuck a pick in it Proved _that_ thing to me, -- For he sorto took down, and got homesick, And went back whar he'd orto be!

 Then others they worked it Some--more or less, But finally shirked it, In grades of distress, -- With an eye out--a jaw or skull busted, Or some sort o' seriousness. 

 The _last_ one was plucky-- He wasn't afeerd, And bragged he was "lucky, " And said that "he'd heerd A heep of bluff-talk, " and swore awkard He'd work any claim that he keered!

 Don't you strike nary lick With that pick till I'm through; This-here feller talked slick And as peart-like as you! And he says: "I'll abide here As long as I please!" But he didn't. .. . He died here-- And I'm his disease!

Seeking to Be Identified

CHICAGO, Feb. 20, 1888. 

[Illustration]

Financial circles here have been a good deal interested in the discoveryof a cipher which was recently adopted by a depositor and which began toattract the attention at first of a gentleman employed in theClearing-House. He was telling me about it and showing me the vouchersor duplicates of them. 

It was several months ago that he first noticed on the back of a checkpassing through the Clearing-House the following cipher, written in asymmetrical, Gothic hand:

 DEAR SIR:--Herewith find payment for last month's butter. It was hardly up to the average. Why do you blonde your butter? Your butter last month tried to assume an effeminate air, which certainly was not consistent with its great vigor. Is it not possible that this butter is the brother to what we had the month previous, and that it was exchanged for its sister by mistake? We have generally liked your butter very much, but we will have to deal elsewhere if you are going to encourage it in wearing a full beard. 

 Yours truly, W. 

Moneyed men all over Chicago and financial cryptogrammers came to readthe curious thing and to try and work out its bearing on trade. Everybody took a look at it and went away defeated. Even the men whowere engaged in trying to figure out the identity of the Snell murderer, took a day off and tried their Waterbury thinkers on this problem. Inthe midst of it all another check passed through the Clearing-House withthis cipher, in the same hand:

 SIR:--Your bill for the past month is too much. You forget the eggs returned at the end of second week, for which you were to give me credit. The cook broke one of them by mistake, and then threw up the portfolio of pie-founder in our once joyous home. I will not dock you for loss of cook, but I cannot allow you for the eggs. How you succeed in dodging quarantine with eggs like that is a mystery to yours truly, W. 

Great excitement followed the discovery of this indorsement on a checkfor $32. 87. Everybody who knew anything about ciphering was called in toconsider it. A young man from a high school near here, who made aspecialty of mathematics and pimples, and who could readily tell howlong a shadow a nine-pound ground-hog would cast at 2 o'clock and 37minutes p. M. , on ground-hog day, if sunny, at the town of Fungus, Dak. , provided latitude and longitude and an irregular mass of red chalk begiven to him, was secured to jerk a few logarithms in the interests oftrade. He came and tried it for a few days, covered the interior of theExposition Building with figures and then went away. 

The Pinkerton detectives laid aside their literary work on the greattrain book, entitled "The Jerkwater Bank Robbery and other ChoiceCrimes, " by the author of "How I Traced a Lame Man through Michigan andother Felonies. " They grappled with the cipher, and several of themleaned up against something and thought for a long time, but they couldmake neither head nor tail to it. Ignatius Donnelly took a powerful doseof kumiss, and under its maddening influence sought to solve the greatproblem which threatened to engulf the national surplus. All was invain. Cowed and defeated, the able conservators of coin, who require aman to be identified before he can draw on his overshoes at sight, hadto acknowledge if this thing continued it threatened the destruction ofthe entire national fabric. 

About this time I was calling at the First National Bank of Chicago, thegreatest bank, if I am not mistaken, in America. I saw the bondssecuring its issue of national currency the other day in Washington, andI am quite sure the custodian told me it was the greatest of any bank inthe Union. Anyway, it was sufficient, so that I felt like doing mybanking business there whenever it became handy to do so. 

I asked for a certificate of deposit for $2, 000, and had the money topay for it, but I had to be identified. "Why, " I said to the receivingteller, "surely you don't require a man to be identified when hedeposits money, do you?"

"Yes, that's the idea. "

"Well, isn't that a new twist on the crippled industries of thiscountry?"

"No; that's our rule. Hurry up, please, and don't keep men waiting whohave money and know how to do business. "

"Well, I don't want to obstruct business, of course, but suppose, forinstance, I get myself identified by a man I know and a man you know, and a man who can leave his business and come here for the delirious joyof identifying me, and you admit that I am the man I claim to be, corresponding as to description, age, sex, etc. , with the man Iadvertise myself to be, how would it be about your ability to identifyyourself as the man you claim to be? I go all over Chicago, visiting allthe large pork-packing houses in search of a man I know, and who isintimate with literary people like me, and finally we will say I findone who knows me and who knows you, and whom you know, and who can leavehis leaf lard long enough to come here and identify me all right. Canyou identify yourself in such a way that when I put in my $2, 000 youwill not loan it upon insufficient security as they did in Cincinnatithe other day, as soon as I go out of town?"

"Oh, we don't care especially whether you trade here or not, so that youhurry up and let other people have a chance. Where you make a mistake isin trying to rehearse a piece here instead of going out to Lincoln Parkor somewhere in a quiet part of the city. Our rules are that a man whomakes a deposit here must be identified. "

"All right. Do you know Queen Victoria?"

"No, sir; I do not. "

"Well, then, there is no use in disturbing her. Do you know any of theother crowned heads?"

"No, sir. "

"Well, then, do you know President Cleveland, or any of the Cabinet, orthe Senate or members of the House?"

"No. "

"That's it, you see. I move in one set and you in another. Whatrespectable people do you know?"

[Illustration]

"I'll have to ask you to stand aside, I guess, and give that string ofpeople a chance. You have no right to take up my time in this way. Therules of the bank are inflexible. We must know who you are, even beforewe accept your deposit. "

I then drew from my pocket a copy of the Sunday World, which contained avoluptuous picture of myself. Removing my hat and making a court salaamby letting out four additional joints in my lithe and versatile limbs, Iasked if any further identification would be necessary. 

[Illustration]

Hastily closing the door to the vault and jerking the combination, hesaid that would be satisfactory. I was then permitted to deposit in thebank. 

I do not know why I should always be regarded with suspicion wherever Igo. I do not present the appearance of a man who is steeped in crime, and yet when I put my trivial little two-gallon valise on the seat of adepot-waiting-room a big man with a red moustache comes to me and hissesthrough his clinched teeth: "Take yer baggage off the seat!!" It is soeverywhere. I apologize for disturbing a ticket agent long enough tosell me a ticket, and he tries to jump through a little brass wicket andthrottle me. Other men come in and say: "Give me a ticket for Bandoline, O. , and be dam sudden about it, too, " and they get their ticket and goaboard the car and get the best seat, while I am begging for theopportunity to buy a seat at full rates and then ride in the wood-box. Ibelieve that common courtesy and decency in America need protection. Gointo an hotel or a hotel, whichever suits the eyether and nyetherreaders of these lines, and the commercial man who travels for a bigsausage-casing house in New York has the bridal chamber, while the meekand lowly minister of the Gospel gets a wall-pocket room with a cot, aslippery-elm towel, a cake of cast-iron soap, a disconnected bell, aview of the laundry, a tin roof and $4 a day. 

But I digress. I was speaking of the bank check cipher. At the FirstNational Bank I was shown another of these remarkable indorsements. Itread as follows:

 DEAR SIR:--This will be your pay for chickens and other fowls received up to the first of the present month. Time is working wondrous changes in your chickens. They are not such chickens as we used to get of you before the war. They may be the same chickens, but oh! how changed by the lapse of time! How much more indestructible! How they have learned since then to defy the encroaching tooth of remorseless ages, or any other man! Why do you not have them tender like your squashes? I found a blue poker chip in your butter this week. What shall I credit myself for it? If you would try to work your butter more and your customers less it would be highly appreciated, especially by, yours truly, W. 

Looking at the signature on the check itself, I found it to be that ofMrs. James Wexford, of this city. Knowing Mr. Wexford, a wealthy andinfluential publisher here, I asked him to-day if he knew anything aboutthis matter. He said that all he knew about it was that his wife had aseparate bank account, and had asked him several months ago what was theuse of all the blank space on the back of a check, and why it couldn'tbe used for correspondence with the remittee. Mr. Wexford said he'd bet$500 that his wife had been using her checks that way, for he said henever knew of a woman who could possibly pay postage on a note, remittance or anything else unless every particle of the surface hadbeen written over in a wild, delirious, three-story hand. Later on Ifound that he was right about it. His wife had been sassing the grocerand the butter-man on the back of her checks. Thus ended the great bankmystery. 

I will close this letter with a little incident, the story of which maynot be so startling, but it is true. It is a story of child faith. Johnny Quinlan, of Evanston, has the most wonderful confidence in theefficacy of prayer, but he thinks that prayer does not succeed unless itis accompanied with considerable physical strength. He believes thatadult prayer is a good thing, but doubts the efficacy of juvenileprayer. 

He has wanted a Jersey cow for a good while and tried prayer, but itdidn't seem to get to the central office. Last week he went to aneighbor who is a Christian and believer in the efficacy of prayer, alsothe owner of a Jersey cow. 

[Illustration]

"Do you believe that prayer will bring me a yaller Jersey cow?" saidJohnny. 

"Why, yes, of course. Prayer will remove mountains. It will doanything. "

"Well, then, suppose you give me the cow you've got and pray for anotherone. "

[Illustration: END]

THE OLD CIDER MILL. 

 If I could be a boy again For fifteen minutes, or even ten, I'd make a bee-line for that old mill, Hidden by tangled vines down by the rill, Where the apples were piled in heaps all 'round, Red, streaked and yellow all over the ground; And the old sleepy horse goes round and round And turns the wheels while the apples are ground. 

 Straight for that old cider mill I'd start, With light bare feet and lighter heart, A smiling face, a big straw hat, Hum made breeches and all o' that. And when I got there I would just take a peep, To see if old cider mill John was asleep, And if he was I'd go snooking round 'Till a great big round rye straw I'd found; I'd straddle a barrel and quick begin To fill with cider right up to my chin. 

 As old as I am, I can shut my eyes And see the yellow-jackets, bees and flies A-swarming 'round the juicy cheese, And bung-holes; drinking as much as they please I can see the clear sweet cider flow From the press above to the tub below, And a-steaming up into my old nose Comes the smell that only a cider mill knows. 

 You may talk about your fine old Crow, Your champagne, sherry, and so and so, But of all the drinks of press or still, Give me the juice of that old cider mill, A small boy's energy and suction power For just ten minutes or quarter of an hour, And the happiest boy you ever saw You'd find at the end of that rye straw, And I'll forego forevermore All liquors known on this earthly shore. 

 --_Anonymous_