Elbow-Room by Charles Heber Clark (AKA Max Adeler)A Novel Without a Plot (page 3)

Longfellow had his leg cut pretty near to the bone.”

“Did any of the shots strike her?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“You said he kept shooting past her, and I thought maybe some of the bullets might have struck her.”

“Why, I meant that he _ran_ past her, of course. How in the thunder could he shoot bullets at her?”

“I thought maybe he had a gun. But I don’t understand any of it. It is the most astounding thing I ever heard of, at any rate.”

“Now, my dear sir, I want to ask you how Longfellow _could_ manage a gun?”

“Why, as any other man does, of course.”

“Man! man! Why, merciful Moses! you didn’t think I was talking about human beings all this time, did you? Why, Longfellow is a horse! They were racing–running races over at the course this afternoon; and I was trying to tell you about it.”

“You don’t say?” remarked the doctor, with a sigh of relief. “Well, I declare, I thought you were speaking of the poet, and I hardly knew whether to believe you or not; it seemed so strange that he should behave in that manner.”

Then Mr. Butterwick went into the smoking-car to tell the joke to his friends, and the doctor sat reflecting upon the outrageous impudence of the men who name their horses after respectable people.

While he was thinking about it, another sensational occurrence attracted his attention.

A man sitting in the same car with the doctor had placed a bottle of tomato catsup neck downward in the rack above his seat. Presently a friend came in, and in a few moments the friend, who was cutting his finger-nails with a knife, introduced the subject of the races. The discussion gradually became warm, and as the excitement increased the man with the knife gesticulated violently with the hand containing the weapon while he explained his views. Meantime, the cork jolted out of the bottle overhead, and the catsup dripped down over the owner’s head and coat and collar without his perceiving the fact.

[Illustration: AN EXCITED OLD LADY]

Soon a nervous old lady on the back seat caught sight of the red stain, and imagining it was blood, instantly began to scream “Murder!” at the top of her voice. As the passengers, conductor and brakemen rushed up she brandished her umbrella wildly and exclaimed,

“Arrest that man there! Arrest that willin! I see him do it. I see him stab that other one with his knife until the blood spurted out. Oh, you wretch! Oh, you willinous rascal, to take human life in that scandalous manner! I see you punch him with the knife, you butcher, you! and I’ll swear it agin you in court, too, you owdacious rascal!”

They took her into the rear car and soothed her, while the victim wiped the catsup off his coat. But that venerable old woman will go down to the silent grave with the conviction that she witnessed in those cars one of the most awful and sanguinary encounters that has occurred since the affair between Cain and Abel.

* * * * *

Dr. Dox recently was called upon to settle a bet upon a much more serious matter than a horse-race. During a religious controversy between Peter Lamb and some of his friends one of the latter asserted that Peter didn’t know who was the mother-in-law of Moses, and that he couldn’t ascertain. Peter offered to bet that he could find out, and the wager was accepted. After searching in vain through the Scriptures, Mr. Lamb concluded to go around and interview Deacon Jones about it. The deacon is head-man in the gas-office, and in the office there are half a dozen small windows, behind which sit clerks to receive money. Applying at one of these, Mr. Lamb said,

“Is Deacon Jones in?”

“What’s your business?”

“Why, I want to find out the name of Moses’–“

“Don’t know anything about it. Look in the directory;” and the clerk slammed the window shut.

Then Peter went to the next window and said,

“I want to see Mr. Jones a minute.”

“What for?”

“I want to see if he knows Moses’–“

“Moses who?”

“Why, Moses, the Bible Moses–if he knows–“

“Patriarchs don’t belong in this department. Apply across the street at the Christian Association rooms;” and then the clerk closed the window.

At the next window Mr. Lamb said,

“I want to see Deacon Jones a minute in reference to a matter about Moses.”

“Want to pay his gas-bill? What’s the last name?”

“Oh no. I mean the first Moses, the original one.”

“Anything the matter with his meter?”

“You don’t understand me. I refer to the Hebrew prophet. I want to see–“

“Well, you can’t see him here. This is the gas-office. Try next door.”

At the adjoining window Mr. Lamb said,

“Look here! I want to see Deacon Jones a minute about the prophet Moses, and I wish you’d tell him so.”

“No, I won’t,” replied the clerk. “He’s too busy to be bothered with-anything of that kind.”

“But I must see him,” said Peter; “I insist on seeing him. The fact of the matter is, I’ve got a bet about Moses’–“

“Don’t make any difference what you’ve got; you can’t see him.”

“But I will. I want you to go and tell him I’m here, and that I wish for some information respecting Moses. I’ll have you discharged if you don’t go.”

“Don’t care if you want to see him about all the children of Israel, and the Pharaohs and Nebuchadnezzars. I tell you you can’t. That settles it. Turn off your gas and quit.”

Then Peter resolved to give up the deacon and try Rev. Dr. Dox. When he called at the parsonage, the doctor came down into the parlor. Because of the doctor’s deafness there was a little misunderstanding when Peter said,

“I called, doctor, to ascertain if you could tell me who was the mother-in-law of Moses.”

“Well, really,” said the doctor, “there isn’t much preference. Some like one kind of roses and some like another. A very good variety of the pink rose is the Duke of Cambridge; grows large, bears early and has very fine perfume. The Hercules is also excellent, but you must manure it well and water it often.”

“I didn’t ask about _roses_, but _Moses_. You make a mistake,” shouted Peter.

“Oh, of course! by all means. Train them up to a stake if you want to. The wind don’t blow them about so and they send out more shoots.”

“You misunderstand me,” yelled Mr. Lamb. “I asked about Moses, not roses. I want to know who was the mother-in-law of Moses.”

“Oh yes; certainly. Excuse me; I thought you were inquiring about roses. The law of Moses was the foundation of the religion of the Jews. You can find it in full in the Pentateuch. It is admirable–very admirable–for the purpose for which it was ordained. We, of course, have outlived that dispensation, but it still contains many things that are useful to us, as, for instance, the–“

“Was Moses married?” shrieked Mr. Lamb.

“Married? Oh, yes; the name of his father-in-law, you know, was Jethro, and–“

“Who was his wife?”

“Why, she was the daughter of Jethro, of course. I said Jethro was his father-in-law.”

“No; Jethro’s wife, I mean. I want to know to settle a bet.”

“No, that wasn’t her name. ‘Bet’ is a corruption of Elizabeth, and that name, I believe, is not found in the Old Testament. I don’t remember what the name of Moses’ wife was.”

“I want to know what was the name of the mother-in-law of Moses, to settle a bet.”

“Young man,” said the old doctor, sternly, “you are trifling with a serious subject. What do you mean by wanting Moses to settle a bet?”

Then Mr. Lamb rolled up a sheet of music that lay on the piano; and putting it to the doctor’s ear, he shouted,

“I made–a–bet–that–I–could–find–out–what–the–name–of Moses’–mother-in-law–was. Can–you–tell–me?”

“The Bible don’t say,” responded the doctor; “and unless you can get a spiritualist to put you in communication with Moses, I guess you will lose.”

Then Peter went around and handed over the stakes. Hereafter he will gamble on other than biblical games.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE CAT SUCCUMBS]

Mr. Lamb has an inquiring mind. He is always investigating something. He read somewhere the other day that two drops of the essential oil of tobacco placed upon the tongue of a cat would kill the animal instantly. He did not believe it, and he concluded to try the experiment to see if it was so. Old Squills, the druggist, has a cat weighing about fifteen pounds, and Mr. Lamb, taking the animal into the back room, shut the door, opened the cat’s mouth, and applied the poison. One moment later a wild, unearthly “M-e-e-e-e-ow-ow-ow!” was emitted by the cat, and, to Mr. Lamb’s intense alarm, the animal began swishing around the room with hair on end and tail in convulsive excitement, screeching like a fog-whistle. Mr. Lamb is not certain, but he considers it a fair estimate to say that the cat made the entire circuit of the room, over chairs and under tables, seventy-four times every minute, and he is willing to swear to seventy times, without counting the occasional diversions made by the brute for the purpose of snatching at Mr. Lamb’s pantaloons and hair. Just as Mr. Lamb had about made up his mind that the cat would conclude the gymnastic exercises by eating him, the animal dashed through the glass sash of the door into the shop, whisked two jars of licorice root and tooth-brushes off the counter, tore out the ipecac-bottle and four jugs of hair-dye, smashed a bottle of “Balm of Peru,” alighted on the bonnet of a woman who was drinking soda-water, and after a few convulsions rolled over into a soap-box and died.

Mr. Lamb is now satisfied that a cat actually can be killed in the manner aforementioned, but he would be better satisfied if old Squills didn’t insist upon collecting from him the price of those drugs and the glass sash.

* * * * *

Last summer Peter’s brother spent a few weeks with him. He owned a “pistol cane,” which he carried about with him loaded; but when he went away, he accidentally left it behind, and without explaining to Peter that it was different from ordinary canes.

So, one afternoon a few days later, Peter went out to Keyser’s farm to look at some stock, and he picked up the cane to take along with him. When he got to Keyser’s, the latter went to the barnyard to show him an extraordinary kind of a new pig that he had developed by cross-breeding.

“Now that pig,” said Keyser, “just lays over all the other pigs on the Atlantic Slope. Take him any way you please, he’s the most gorgeous pig anywheres around. Fat! Why, he’s all fat! There’s no lean in him. He ain’t anything but a solid mass of lard. Put that pig near a fire, and in twenty minutes his naked skeleton’d be standing there in a puddle of grease. That’s a positive fact. Now, you just feel his shoulder.”

Then Peter lifted up his cane and gave the pig a poke. He poked it two or three times, and he had just remarked, “That certainly is a splendid pig,” when he gave it another poke, and then somehow the pistol in the cane went off and the pig rolled over and expired.

[Illustration: HOW THE PIG WAS KILLED]

“What in the mischief d’you do that for?” exclaimed Keyser, amazed and indignant.

“Do it for? _I_ didn’t do it! This cane must’ve been made out of an old gun-barrel with the load left in. I never had the least idea, I pledge _you_ my word, that there was anything the matter with it.”

“That’s pretty thin,” said Keyser; “you had a grudge agin that pig because you couldn’t scare up a pig like him, and you killed him on purpose.”

“That’s perfectly ridiculous.”

“Oh, maybe it is. You’ll just fork over two hundred dollars for that piece of pork, if you please.”

“I’ll see you in Egypt first.”

* * * * *

Peter whipped; but if Keyser _did_ give in first, Peter went home with a bleeding nose, and the next day he was arrested for killing the pig. The case is coming up soon, and Peter’s brother is on, ready to testify about that cane. Peter himself walks now with a hickory stick.

CHAPTER XIV.

_RESPECTING CERTAIN SAVAGES_.

When young Mr. Spooner, Judge Twiddler’s nephew, left college, he made up his mind to enter the ministry and become a missionary. One day he met Captain Hubbs; and when he mentioned that he thought of going out as a missionary, Captain Hubbs asked him, “Where are you going?”

_S_. “To the Navigator Islands. I sail in October.”

_Capt_. (shaking his head mournfully). “Pore young man! Pore young man! It is too bad–too bad indeed! Going to the Navigator Islands! Not married yet, I reckon? No? Ah! so much the better. No wife and children to make widows and orphans of. But it’s sad, anyway. A promising young fellow like you! My heart bleeds for you.”

_S_. “What d’you mean?”

_Capt_. “Oh, nothing. I don’t want to frighten you. I know you’re doing it from a sense of duty. But I’ve been there to the Navigator Islands, and I’m acquainted with the people’s little ways, and I–well, I–I–the fact is, you see, that–well, sooner’n disguise the truth, I don’t mind telling you straight out that the last day I was there the folks et one of my legs–sawed it off an’ et it. Now you can see how things are yourself. Those Navigators gobbled that leg right up. It was a leg a good deal like yours, only heavier, I reckon.”

_S_. “You astonish me!”

_Capt._ “Oh, that’s nothing. They did that just for a little bit of fun. The chief told me the day before that they never et anything but human beings. He said his family consumed about three a day all the year round, counting holidays and Sundays. He was a light eater himself, he said, on account of gitting dyspepsia from a tough Australian that he et in 1847, but the girls and the old woman, so he said, were very hearty eaters, and it kept him busy prowling around after human beings to satisfy ’em. The old woman, he said, rather preferred to eat babies, on account of her teeth being poor, but the girls could eat the grizzliest sailor that ever went aboard ship.”

_S_. “This is frightful.”

_Capt_. “And the chief said sometimes the supply was scarce, but lately they had begun to depend more on imported goods than on the home products. And they were better, anyhow, for all the folks preferred white meat. He said the missionary societies were shipping them some nice lots of provender, and the tears came in his eyes when he said how good they were to the poor friendless savage away on a distant island. He said he liked a missionary not too old or too young. But let’s see; what’s your age, did you say?”

[Illustration: MR. SPOONER IS ALARMED]

_S_. “I am twenty-eight.”

_Capt._ “I think he mentioned twenty-seven; but howsomedever, he liked ’em old enough to be solid and young enough to be tender. And he said he liked missionaries because they never used rum or tobacco and always kept their flavor. I know I seen one young fellow who came out there from Boston. He got up a camp-meeting in the woods; and while he was giving out the hymn, one of the congregation banged him on the head with a club, and in less than no time he was sizzling over a fire right in front of the pulpit. They lit the fire with his hymn-book and kept her going with his sermons. He was a man just about your build–a little leaner’n you, maybe. And they like a man to be stoutish. He eats more tender.”

_S_. “I had no idea that such awful practices existed.”

_Capt_. “I haven’t told you half, for I don’t want to discourage you. I know you mean well, and maybe they’ll let you alone. But I remember, when I told the chief that there was a whole lot of you chaps studying to be missionaries, he laughed and rubbed his hands, and ordered the old woman to plant more horseradish and onions the following year. He was a forehanded kind of a man for a mere pagan. He said that if they would only give his tribe time, if they would send him along the supplies regular, so’s not to glut the market, they could put away the entire clergy of the United States and half the deacons without an effort. He was nibbling at a missionary-bone when he spoke, and the old woman was making a new club out of another one. They are an economical people. They utilize everything.”

_S_. “This is the most painful intelligence that I ever received. If I felt certain about it, I would remain at home.”

_Capt_. “Don’t let me induce you to throw the thing up. I wouldn’t a told you, anyway, only you kind of drew the information out of me. And as long as I’ve gone this far, I might as well tell you that I got a letter the other day from a man who’d just come from there, and he said the crops were short, eatable people were scarce, and not one of them savages had had a square meal for months. When he left, they were sitting on the rocks, hungry as thunder, waiting for a missionary-society ship to arrive. And now I must be going. Good-bye. I know I’ll never see you again. Take a last look at me. Good-morning.”

Then the captain hobbled off.

Mr. Spooner has concluded to stay at home and teach school.

* * * * *

Another rather more enthusiastic friend of the savage is Mr. Dodge. He came into the office the _Patriot_ one day and sought a desk where a reporter was writing. Seating himself and tilting the chair until it was nicely balanced upon two legs, he smiled a serene and philanthropic smile, and said,

“You see, I’m the friend of the poor Indian; he regards me as his Great White Brother, and I reciprocate his confidence and affection by doing what I can to alleviate his sufferings in his present unfortunate situation. Young man, you do not know the anguish that fills the soul of the red man as civilization makes successive inroads upon his rights. It is too sacred for exhibition. He represses his emotion sternly, and we philanthropists only detect it by observing that he betrays an increased longing for firewater and an aggravated indisposition to wash himself. Now, what do you suppose is the _last_ sorrow that has come to blast the happiness of this persecuted being? What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

“I will tell you. It is the increasing tendency of the white man to baldness. As civilization pushes upward, the hair of the pale face recedes. Eventually, I suppose, about every other white man will be bald. I notice that even you are gradually being reduced to a mere fringe around the base of your skull. Now, imagine how an Indian feels when he considers this tendency. Is it any wonder that the future seems dark and gloomy and hairless to him? The scalping operation to him is a sacred rite. It is interwoven with his most cherished traditions. When he surrenders it, he dies with a broken heart. What then, is to be done?”

“Oh, do hush up and quit.”

“There is but one thing to be done to meet this grave emergency. We cannot justly permit that grand aboriginal man who once held sway over this mighty continent to be filled with desolation and misery by the inaccessibility of the scalps of his fellow-creatures. My idea, therefore, is to bring those scalps within his reach, even when they are baldest and shiniest. But how?”

“That’ll do now. Don’t want to hear any more.”

“Here my ingenuity comes into play. I have invented a simple little machine which I call ‘The Patent Adjustable Atmospheric Scalp-lifter.’ Here it is. The device consists of a disk of thin leather about six inches in diameter. In the centre is a hole through which runs a string. When the Indian desires to deal with a man with a bald head, he proceeds as follows–observe the simplicity of the operation: He wets the leather, stamps it carefully down upon the surface of the scalp, slides his knife around over the ears, gives the string a jerk, and off comes the scalp as nicely as if it had been Absalom’s. In fact, you will see at once that it is an ingenious application of the ‘sucker’ used by boys to raise bricks and stones. I know what you are going to say–that a white man who is to be manipulated by an Indian needs succor worse than the red man. It is an old joke, and a good one; but my desire is to bring joy to the wigwam of the Kickapoo and to make the heart of the Arapahoe glad.”

“Oh, do dry up and go down stairs.”

“You catch the idea, of course; but perhaps you’d like to see the apparatus in operation. Wait a moment; I’ll show you how splendidly it works.”

Then, as the reporter resolutely continued at his task with his nose almost against the desk, the friend of the disconsolate red man suddenly produced a moist sucker and clapped it firmly upon the bald place on the reporter’s head, and then, before the indignant victim could offer resistance, the Great White Brother, with the string in his hand, careered around the office a couple of times, drawing the helpless journalist after him. As he withdrew the machine he smiled and said,

“Elegant, isn’t it? Could pull a horse-car with it. I wish you’d come to Washington with me and lend me your head, so’s I can show the Secretary of the Interior how the thing works. You have the best scalp for a good hold of any I’ve tried yet.”

But the reporter was at the speaking-tube calling for a boy to go for a policeman, and he didn’t seem to hear the suggestion. And so Mr. Dodge folded up the machine, placed it in his carpet-bag, and went out smiling as though he had been received with enthusiasm and been promised a gratuitous advertisement. He passed the policeman on the stairs, and then sailed serenely out of reach, perhaps to seek for another and more sympathetic bald man upon whom to illustrate the value of his invention.

* * * * *

Reference to the Indians reminds me of the very ungenerous treatment that Mr. Bartholomew, one of our citizens, received at the hands of certain red men with whom he trafficked in the West.

A year or two ago Mr. Bartholomew was out in Colorado for a few months, and just before he started for the journey home he wrote to his wife concerning the probable time of his arrival. As a postscript to the letter he added the following message to his son, a boy about eight years old:

“Tell Charley I am going to bring with me a dear little baby-bear that I bought from an Indian.”

Of course that information pleased Charley, and he directed most of his thoughts and his conversation to the subject of the bear during the next two weeks, wishing anxiously for his father to come with the little pet. On the night which been fixed by Bartholomew for his arrival he did not come, and the family were very much disappointed. Charley particularly was dreadfully sorry, because he couldn’t get the bear. On the next evening, while Mrs. Bartholomew and the children were sitting in the front room with the door open into the hall, they heard somebody running through the front yard. Then the front door was suddenly burst open, and a man dashed into the hall and up stairs at a frightful speed. Mrs. Bartholomew was just about to go up after him to ascertain who it was, when a large dark animal of some kind darted in through the door and with an awful growl went bowling up stairs after the man. It suddenly flashed upon the mind of Mrs. Bartholomew that the man was her husband, and that that was the little baby-bear. Just then the voice of Bartholomew was heard calling from the top landing:

“Ellen, for gracious sake get out of the house as quick as you can, and shut all the doors and window-shutters.”

[Illustration: THE LITTLE BABY-BEAR]

Then Mrs. Bartholomew sent the boys into Partridge’s, next door, and she closed the shutters, locked all the doors and went into the yard to await further developments. When she got outside, she saw Bartholomew on the roof kneeling on the trap-door, which he kept down only by the most tremendous exertions. Then he screamed for somebody to come up and help him, and Mr. Partridge got a ladder and a hatchet and some nails, and ascended. Then they nailed down the trap-door, and Bartholomew and Partridge came down the ladder together. After he had greeted his family, Mrs. Bartholomew asked him what was the matter, and he said,

“Why, you know that little baby-bear I said I’d bring Charley? Well, I had him in a box until I got off the train up here at the depot, and then I thought I’d take him out and lead him around home by the chain. But the first thing he did was to fly at my leg; and when I jumped back, I ran, and he after me. He would’ve eaten me up in about a minute. That infernal Indian must have fooled me. He said it was a cub only two months old and it had no teeth. I believe it’s a full-grown bear.”

It then became a very interesting question how they should get the bear out of the house. Bartholomew thought they had better try to shoot him, and he asked a lot of the neighbors to come around to help with their shot-guns. When they would hear the bear scratching at one of the windows, they would pour in a volley at him, but after riddling every shutter on the first floor they could still hear the bear tearing around in there and growling. So Bartholomew and the others got into the cellar, and as the bear crossed the floor they would fire up through it at about the spot where they thought he was. But the bombardment only seemed to exasperate the animal, and after each shot they could hear him smashing something.

Then Partridge said maybe a couple of good dogs might whip him; and he borrowed a bulldog and a setter from Scott and pushed them through the front door. They listened, and for half an hour they could hear a most terrific contest raging; and Scott said he’d bet a million dollars that bull-dog would eat up any two bears in the Rocky Mountains. Then everything became still, and a few moments later they could hear the bear eating something and cracking bones with his teeth; and Bartholomew said that the Indian out in Colorado told him that the bear was particularly fond of dog-meat, and could relish a dog almost any time.

At last Bartholomew thought he would try strategy. He procured a huge iron hook with a sharp point to it, tied it to a rope and put three or four pounds of fresh beef on the hook. Then he went up the ladder, opened the trap-door in the roof and dropped in the bait. In a few moments he got a bite, and all hands manned the rope and pulled, when out came Scott’s bull-dog, which had been hiding in the garret. Bartholomew was disgusted; but he put on fresh bait and threw in again, and in about an hour the bear took hold, and they hauled him out and knocked him on the head.

Then they entered the house. In the hall the carpet was covered with particles of dead setter, and in the parlor the carpet and the windows had been shot to pieces, while the furniture was full of bullet-holes. The bear had smashed the mirror, torn up six or seven chairs, knocked over the lamp and demolished all the crockery in the pantry. Bartholomew gritted his teeth as he surveyed the ruin, and Mrs. Bartholomew said she wished to patience he had stayed in Colorado. However, they fixed things up as well as they could, and then Mrs. Bartholomew sent into Partridge’s for Charley and the youngest girl. When Charley came, he rushed up to Bartholomew and said,

“Oh, pa! where’s my little baby-bear?”

Then Bartholomew gazed at him severely for a moment, looked around to see if Mrs. Bartholomew had left the room, and then gave Charley the most terrific spanking that he ever received.

The Bartholomew children have no pets at present but a Poland rooster which has moulted his tail.

CHAPTER XV.

_LOVE, SUFFERING AND SUICIDE_.

Peter Lamb, a young man who is employed in one of the village stores, some time ago conceived a very strong passion for a neighbor of his, Miss Julia Brown, the doctor’s daughter. But the Fates seemed to be against the successful prosecution of his suit, for he managed to plunge into a series of catastrophes in the presence of the young lady, and to make himself so absurd that even his affection seemed ridiculous. One summer evening, when he was just beginning to make advances, Miss Brown came over to see Peter’s sister, and the two girls sat out upon the front porch together in the darkness, talking. Peter plays a little upon the bugle, and it occurred to him that it would be a good thing to exhibit his skill to Julia. So he went into the dark parlor and felt over the top of the piano for the horn. It happened that his aunt from Penn’s Grove had been there that day and had left her brass ear-trumpet lying on the piano, and Peter got hold of this without perceiving the mistake, as the two were of similar shape. He took it in his hand and went out on the porch where Miss Brown was sitting. He asked Miss Brown if she was fond of music on the horn; and when she said she adored it, he asked her how she would like him to play “Ever of Thee;” and she said that was the only tune she cared anything for.

So Peter put the small end of the trumpet to his lips and blew. He blew and blew. Then he blew some more, and then he drew a fresh breath and blew again. The only sound that came was a hollow moan, which sounded so queerly in the darkness that Miss Brown asked him if he was not well. And when he said he was, she said that he went exactly like a second cousin of hers that had the asthma.

Then Peter remarked that somehow the horn was out of order for “Ever of Thee;” but if Miss Brown would like to hear “Sweetly I dreamed, Love,” he would try to play it, and Miss Brown said that the fondest recollections clustered about the melody.

So Peter put the trumpet to his lips again and strained his lungs severely in an effort to make some music. It wouldn’t come, but he made a very singular noise, which induced Miss Brown to ask if the horse in the stable back of the house had heaves. Then Peter said he thought somebody must have plugged the bugle up with something, and he asked his sister to light the gas in the entry while he cleaned it out. When she did so, the ear-trumpet became painfully conspicuous, and both the girls laughed. When Miss Brown laughed, Peter looked up at her with pain in his face, put on his hat and went out into the street, where he could express his feelings in violent terms.

A few nights later the Browns had a tea-party, to which Mr. Lamb was invited. He went, determined to do his full share of entertaining the company. While supper was in progress, Mr. Lamb said in a loud voice,

“By the way, did you read that mighty good thing in the _Patriot_ the other day about the woman over in Bridgeport? It was one of the most amusing things that ever came under my observation. The woman’s name, you see, was Emma. Well, there were two young fellows paying attention to her, and after she’d accepted one of them the other also proposed to her and as she felt certain that the first one wasn’t in earnest, she accepted the second one too. So a few days later both of ’em called at the same time, both claimed her hand, and both insisted on marrying her at once. Then, of course, she found herself face to face with a mighty unpleasant–unpleasant–Er–er–er–Less see; what’s the word I want? Unpleasant–Er–er–Blamed if I haven’t forgotten that word.”

“Predicament,” suggested Mr. Potts.

“No, that’s not it. What’s the name of that thing with two horns? Unpleasant–Er–er–Hang it! it’s gone clear out of my mind.”

“A cow,” hinted Miss Mooney.

“No, not a cow.”

“Maybe it’s a buffalo,” remarked Dr. Dox.

“No, no kind of an animal. Something else with two horns. Mighty queer I can’t recall it.”

“Perhaps it’s a brass band,” observed Butterwick.

“Or a man who’s had a couple of drinks,” suggested Dr. Brown.

“Of course not.”

“You don’t mean a fire company?” asked Mrs. Banger.

“N–no. That’s the confounded queerest thing I ever heard of, that I can’t remember that word,” said Mr. Lamb, getting warm and beginning to feel miserable.

“Well, give us the rest of the story without it,” said Potts.

“That’s the mischief of it,” said Mr. Lamb. “The whole joke turns on that infernal word.”

“_Two_ horns did you say?” asked Dr. Dox. “Maybe it is a catfish.”

“Or a snail,” remarked Judge Twiddler.

“N–no; none of those.”

“Is it an elephant or a walrus?” asked Mrs. Dox.

“I guess I’ll have to give it up,” said Mr. Lamb, wiping the perspiration from his brow.

“Well, that’s the sickest old story I ever encountered,” remarked Butterwick to Potts. Then everybody smiled, and Mr. Lamb, looking furtively at Julia, appeared to feel as if he would welcome death on the spot.

The mystery is yet unsolved; but it is believed that Peter was trying to build up the woman’s name, Emma, into a pun upon the word “dilemma.” The secret, however, is buried in his bosom.

Peter professes to be an expert in legerdemain, and he came to Brown’s prepared to perform some of his best feats. When the company assembled in the drawing-room after tea, he determined to redeem the fearful blunder that he had made in the dining-room.

Several of the magicians who perform in public do what they call “the gold-fish trick.” The juggler stands upon the stage, throws a handkerchief over his extended arm and produces in succession three or four shallow glass dishes filled to the brim with water in which live gold-fish are swimming. Of course the dishes are concealed somehow upon the person of the performer.

Peter had discovered how the trick was done, and he resolved to do it now. So the folks all gathered in one end of the parlor, and in a few moments Lamb entered the door at the other end. He said,

“Ladies and gentlemen, you will perceive that I have nothing about me except my ordinary clothing; and yet I shall produce presently two dishes filled with water and living fish. Please watch me narrowly.”

Then Peter flung the handkerchief over his hand and arm, and we could see that he was working away vigorously at something beneath it. He continued for some moments, and still the gold-fish did not appear. Then he began to grow very red in the face, and we saw that something was the matter. Then the perspiration began to stand on Peter’s forehead, and Mrs. Brown asked him if anything serious was the matter. Then the company smiled, and the magician grew redder; but he kept on fumbling beneath that handkerchief, and apparently trying to reach around under his coat-tails. Then we heard something snap, and the next moment a quart of water ran down the wizard’s left leg and spread out over the carpet. By this time he looked as if joy had forsaken him for ever. But still he continued to feel around under the handkerchief. At last another snap was heard, and another quart of water plunged down his right leg and formed a pool about his shoe. Then the necromancer hurriedly said that the experiment had failed somehow, and he darted into the dining-room. We followed him, and found him sitting on the sofa trying to remove his pantaloons. He exclaimed,

“Oh, gracious! Come here quick, and pull these off! They’re soaking wet, and I’ve got fifteen live gold-fish inside my trousers flipping around, and rasping the skin with their fins enough to set a man crazy. Ouch! Hurry that shoe off, and catch that fish there at my left knee, or I’ll have to howl right out.”

[Illustration: THE GOLDFISH TRICK]

Then we undressed him and picked the fish out of his clothes, and we discovered that he had had two dishes full of water and covered with India-rubber tops strapped inside his trousers behind. In his struggle to get at them he had torn the covers to rags. We fixed him up in a pair of Dr. Brown’s trousers, which were six inches too short for him, and then he climbed over the back fence and went home. Such misfortunes would have discouraged most men utterly, but Peter was desperately in love; and a week or two later, without stopping to estimate his chances, he proposed to his fair enchantress. She refused him promptly, of course. He seemed almost wild over his defeat, and his friends feared that some evil consequences would ensue. Their apprehensions were realized. Peter called upon young Potts and asked him if he had a revolver, and Potts said he had. Peter asked Potts to lend it to him, and Potts did so. Then Peter informed Potts that he had made up his mind to commit suicide. He said that since Miss Brown had dealt so unkindly with him he felt that life was an insupportable burden, and he could find relief only in the tomb. He intended to go down by the river-shore and there blow out his brains, and so end all this suffering and grief and bid farewell to a world that had grown dark to him. He said that he mentioned the fact to Potts in confidence because he wanted him to perform some little offices for him when he was gone. He entrusted to Potts a sonnet entitled “A Last Farewell,” and addressed to Julia Brown. This he asked should be delivered to Miss Brown as soon as his corpse was discovered. He said it might excite a pang in her bosom and induce her to cherish his memory. Then he gave Potts his watch as a keepsake, and handed him forty dollars, with which he desired Mr. Potts to purchase a tombstone. He said he would prefer a plain one with his simple name cut upon it, and he wanted the funeral to be as unostentatious as possible.

Potts promised to fulfill these commissions, and he suggested that he would lend Mr. Lamb a bowie-knife, with which he could slash himself up if the pistol failed.

But the suicide said that he would make sure work with the revolver, although he was much obliged for the offer all the same. He said he would like Potts to go around in the morning and break the news as gently as possible to his unhappy mother, and to tell her that his last thought was of her. But he particularly requested that she would not put on mourning for her erring son.

Then he said that the awful act would be performed on the beach, just below the gas-works, and he wished Potts to come out with some kind of a vehicle to bring the remains home. If Julia came to the funeral, she was to have a seat in the carriage next to the hearse; and if she wanted his heart, it was to be given to her in alcohol. It beat only for her. Potts was to tell his employers at the store that he parted with them with regret, but doubtless they would find some other person more worthy of their confidence and esteem. He said he didn’t care where he was buried, but let it be in some lonely place far from the turmoil and trouble of the world–some place where the grass grows green and where the birds come to carol in the early spring-time.

Mr. Potts asked him if he preferred a deep or a shallow grave; but Mr. Lamb said it made very little difference–when the spirit was gone, the mere earthly clay was of little account. He owed seventy cents for billiards down at the saloon, and Potts was to pay that out of the money in his hands, and to request the clergyman not to preach a sermon at the cemetery. Then he shook hands with Potts and went away to his awful doom.

The next morning Mr. Potts wrote to Julia, stopped in to tell them at the store, and nearly killed Mrs. Lamb with the intelligence. Then he borrowed Bradley’s wagon; and taking with him the coroner, he drove out to the beach, just below the gas-works, to fetch home the mutilated corpse. When they reached the spot, the body was not there, and Potts said he was very much afraid it had been washed away by the flood tide. So they drove up to Keyser’s house, about half a mile from the shore, to ask if any of the folks there had heard the fatal pistol-shot or seen the body.

On going around to the wood-pile they saw Keyser holding a terrier dog backed close up against a log. The dog’s tail was lying across the log, and another man had the axe uplifted. A second later the axe descended and cut the tail off close to the dog, and while Keyser restrained the frantic animal, the other man touched the bleeding stump with caustic. As they let the dog go Potts was amazed to see that the chopper was the wretched suicide. He was amazed, but before he could ask any questions Peter stepped up to him and said, “Hush-sh-sh! Don’t say anything about that matter. I thought better of it. The pistol looked so blamed dangerous when I cocked it that I changed my mind and came over here to Keyser’s to stay all night. I’m going to live just to spite that Brown girl.”

[Illustration: A CURTAILMENT]

Then the coroner said that he didn’t consider he had been treated like a gentleman, and he had half a notion to give Mr. Lamb a pounding. But they all drove home in the wagon, and just as Mrs. Lamb got done hugging Peter a letter was handed him containing the sonnet he had sent Julia. She returned it with the remark that it was the most dreadful nonsense she ever read, and that she knew he hadn’t courage enough to kill himself. Then Peter went back to the store, and was surprised to find that his employers had so little emotion as to dock him for half a day’s absence. What he wants now is to ascertain if he cannot compel Potts to give up that watch. Potts says he has too much respect for the memory of his unfortunate friend to part with it, but he is really sorry now that he ordered that tombstone. On the first of May, Peter’s bleeding heart had been so far stanched as to enable him to begin skirmishing around the affections of a girl named Smith; and if she refuses him, he thinks that tombstone may yet come into play. But we all have our doubts about it.

CHAPTER XVI.

_MR. FOGG AS A SPORTSMAN AND A SPOUSE_.

Game was so plenty about our neighborhood last fall that Mr. Fogg determined to become a sportsman. He bought a double-barrel gun, and after trying it a few times by firing it at a mark, he loaded it and placed it behind the hall door until he should want it. A few days later he made up his mind to go out and shoot a rabbit or two, so he shouldered his gun and strode off toward the open country. A mile or two from the town he saw a rabbit; and taking aim, he pulled the trigger. The gun failed to go off. Then he pulled the other trigger, and again the cap snapped. Mr. Fogg used a strong expression of disgust, and then, taking a pin, he picked the nipples of the gun, primed them with a little powder and made a fresh start. Presently he saw another rabbit. He took good aim, but both caps snapped. The rabbit did not see Mr. Fogg, so he put on more caps, and they snapped too.

Then Mr. Fogg cleaned out the nipples again, primed them and leveled the gun at a fence. The caps snapped again. Then Mr. Fogg became furious, and in his rage he expended forty-two caps trying to make the gun go off. When the forty-second cap missed also, Mr. Fogg thought, perhaps, there might be something the matter with the inside of the gun, and so he sounded the barrels with his ramrod. To his utter dismay, he discovered that both barrels were empty. Mrs. Fogg, who is nervous about firearms, had drawn the loads without telling Fogg. The language used by Mr. Fogg when he made this discovery was extremely disgraceful, and he felt sorry for it a moment afterward. As he grew cooler he loaded both barrels and started afresh for the rabbits. He saw one in a few moments and was about to fire, when he noticed that there were no caps on the gun. He felt for one, and, to his dismay, found that he had snapped the last one off. Then he ground his teeth and walked home. On his way he saw a greater number of rabbits than he ever saw before or is likely to see again, and as he looked at them and thought of Mrs. Fogg he felt mad and murderous. He went gunning eight or ten times afterward that autumn, always with a full supply of ammunition, but he never once saw a rabbit or any other kind of game within gun-shot.

[Illustration: AN INDIGNANT GUNNER]

But he forgave Mrs. Fogg, and for a while their domestic peace was unruffled. One evening, however, while they were sitting together, they got to talking about their married life and their past troubles until both of them grew quite sympathetic. At last Mrs. Fogg suggested that it might help to kindle afresh the fire of love in their hearts if they would freely confess their faults to each other and promise to amend them. Mr. Fogg said it struck him as being a good idea. For his part, he was willing to make a clean breast of it, but he suggested that perhaps his wife had better begin. She thought for a moment, and this conversation ensued:

“Well, then,” said Mrs. Fogg, “I am willing to acknowledge that I am the worst-tempered woman in the world.”

_Mr. Fogg_ (turning and looking at her). “Maria, that’s about the only time you ever told the square-toed truth in your life.”

_Mrs. Fogg_ (indignantly). “Mr. Fogg, that’s perfectly outrageous. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

_F_. “Well, you know it’s so. You _have_ got the worst temper of any woman I ever saw–the very worst; now haven’t you?”

[Illustration: CONFESSING THEIR FAULTS]

_Mrs. F_. “No, I haven’t, either. I’m just as good-tempered as you are.”

_F_. “That’s not so. You’re as cross as a bear If you were married to a graven image, you’d quarrel with it.”

_Mrs. F_. “That’s an outrageous falsehood! There isn’t any woman about this neighborhood that puts up with as much as I do without getting angry. You’re a perfect brute.”

_F_. “It’s you that is the brute.”

_Mrs. F_. “No, it isn’t.”

_F_. “Yes, it is. You’re as snappish as a mad dog. It’s few men that could live with you.”

_Mrs. F_. “If you say that again, I’ll scratch your eyes out.”

_F_. “I dare you to lay your hands on me, you vixen.”

_Mrs. F_. “You do, eh? Well, take that! and that” (cuffing him on the head).

_F_. “You let go of my hair, or I’ll murder you.”

_Mrs. F_. “I will; and I’ll leave this house this very night; I won’t live any longer with such a monster.”

_F_. “Well, quit; get out. The sooner, the better. Good riddance to bad rubbish; and take your clothes with you.”

_Mrs. F_. “I’m sorry I ever married you. You ain’t fit to be yoked with any decent woman, you wretch you!”

_F_. “Well, you ain’t half as sorry as I am. Good-bye. Don’t come back soon.”

Then Mrs. Fogg put on her bonnet and went around to her mother’s, but she came back in the morning. Mr. Fogg hasn’t yet confessed what his principal failing is.

* * * * *

Mr. Fogg’s life has been very troublous. He told me that he had a fit of sleeplessness one night lately, and after vainly trying to lose himself in slumber he happened to remember that he once read in an almanac that a man could put himself to sleep by imagining that he saw a lot of sheep jumping over a fence, and by counting them as they jumped. He determined to try the experiment; and closing his eyes, he fancied the sheep jumping and began to count. He had reached his one hundred and fortieth sheep, and was beginning to doze off, when Mrs. Fogg suddenly said,

“Wilberforce!”

“Oh, what?”

“I believe that yellow hen of ours wants to set.”

“Oh, don’t bother me with such nonsense as that now! Do keep quiet and go to sleep.”

Then Mr. Fogg started his sheep again and commenced to count. He got up to one hundred and twenty, and was feeling as if he would drop off at any moment, when, just as his one hundred and twenty-first sheep was about to take that fence, the baby began to cry.

“Hang that child!” he shouted at Mrs. Fogg. “Why don’t you tend to it and put it to sleep? Hush, you little imp, or I’ll spank you!”

When Mrs. Fogg had quieted it, Mr. Fogg, although a little nervous and excited, concluded to try it again. Turning on the imaginary mutton, he began. Only sixty-four sheep had slid over the fence, when Fogg’s aunt knocked at the door and asked if he was awake. When she learned that he was, she said she believed he had forgotten to close the back shutters, and she thought she heard burglars in the yard.

Then Mr. Fogg arose in wrath and went down to see about it. He ascertained that the shutters were closed, as usual, and as he returned to bed he resolved that his aunt should leave the house for good in the morning, or he would. However, he thought he might as well give the almanac-plan another trial; and setting the sheep in motion, he began to count. This time he reached two hundred and forty, and would probably have got to sleep before the three hundredth sheep jumped, had not Mix’s new dog, in the next yard, suddenly become home-sick and begun to express his feelings in a series of prolonged and exasperating howls.

Mr. Fogg was indignant. Neglecting the sheep, he leaped from bed and began to bombard Mix’s new dog with boots, soap-cups and every loose object he could lay his hands on. He hit the animal at last with a plaster bust of Daniel Webster, and induced the dog to retreat to the stable and think about home in silence.

It seemed almost ridiculous to resume those sheep again, but he determined to give the almanac-man one more chance, and soon as they began to jump the fence he began to count, and after seeing the eighty-second sheep safely over he was gliding gently in the land of dreams, when Mrs. Fogg rolled out of bed and fell on the floor with such violence that she waked the baby and started it crying, while Mr. Fogg’s aunt came down stairs four steps at a time to ask if they felt that earthquake.

The situation was too awful for words. Mr. Fogg regarded it for a minute with speechless indignation, and then, seizing a pillow, he went over to the sofa in the back sitting-room and lay down.

He fell asleep in ten minutes without the assistance of the almanac, but he dreamed all night that he was being butted around the equator by a Cotswold ram, and he woke in the morning with a terrific headache and a conviction that sheep are good enough for wool and chops, but not worth anything as a narcotic.

* * * * *

Mr. Fogg has a strong tendency to exaggeration in conversation, and he gave a striking illustration of this in a story that he related one day when I called at his house. Fogg was telling me about an incident that occurred in a neighboring town a few days before, and this is the way he related it:

“You see old Bradley over here is perfectly crazy on the subject of gases and the atmosphere and such things–absolutely wild; and one day he was disputing with Green about how high up in the air life could be sustained, and Bradley said an animal could live about forty million miles above the earth if–“

“Not forty millions, my dear,” interposed Mrs. Fogg; “only forty miles, he said.”

“Forty, was it? Thank you. Well, sir, old Green, you know, said that was ridiculous; and he said he’d bet Bradley a couple of hundred thousand dollars that life couldn’t be sustained half that way up, and so–“

“Wilberforce, you are wrong; he only offered to bet fifty dollars,” said Mrs. Fogg.

“Well, anyhow, Bradley took him up quicker’n a wink, and they agreed to send up a cat in a balloon to decide the bet. So what does Bradley do but buy a balloon about twice as big as our barn and begin to–“

“It was only about ten feet in diameter, Mr. Adeler; Wilberforce forgets.”

“–Begin to inflate her. When she was filled, it took eighty men to hold her; and–“

“Eighty men, Mr. Fogg!” said Mrs. F. “Why, you know Mr. Bradley held the balloon himself.”

“He did, did he? Oh, very well; what’s the odds? And when everything was ready, they brought out Bradley’s tomcat and put it in the basket and tied it in, so it couldn’t jump, you know. There were about one hundred thousand people looking on; and when they let go, you never heard such–“

“There was not one more than two hundred people there,” said Mrs. Fogg; “I counted them myself.”

“Oh, don’t bother me!–I say, you never heard such a yell as the balloon went scooting up into the sky, pretty near out of sight. Bradley said she went up about one thousand miles, and–now, don’t interrupt me, Maria; I know what the man said–and that cat, mind you, howling like a hundred fog-horns, so’s you could a heard her from here to Peru. Well, sir, when she was up so’s she looked as small as a pin-head something or other burst. I dunno know how it was, but pretty soon down came that balloon, a-hurtling toward the earth at the rate of fifty miles a minute, and old–“

“Mr. Fogg, you know that the balloon came down as gently as–“

“Oh, do hush up! Women don’t know anything about such things.–And old Bradley, he had a kind of registering thermometer fixed in the basket along with that cat–some sort of a patent machine; cost thousands of dollars–and he was expecting to examine it; and Green had an idea he’d lift out a dead cat and take in the stakes. When all of a sudden, as she came pelting down, a tornado struck her–now, Maria, what in the thunder are you staring at me in that way for? It was a tornado–a regular cyclone–and it struck her and jammed her against the lightning-rod on the Baptist church-steeple; and there she stuck–stuck on that spire about eight hundred feet up in the air, and looked as if she had come there to stay.”

“You may get just as mad as you like,” said Mrs. Fogg, “but I am positively certain that steeple’s not an inch over ninety-five feet.”

“Maria, I wish to _gracious_ you’d go up stairs and look after the children.–Well, about half a minute after she struck out stepped that tomcat onto the weathercock. It made Green sick. And just then the hurricane reached the weathercock, and it began to revolve six hundred or seven hundred times a minute, the cat howling until you couldn’t hear yourself speak.–Now, Maria, you’ve had your put; you keep quiet.–That cat stayed on the weathercock about two months–“

“Mr. Fogg, that’s an awful story; it only happened last Tuesday.”

“Never mind her,” said Mr. Fogg, confidentially.–And on Sunday the way that cat carried on and yowled, with its tail pointing due east, was so awful that they couldn’t have church. And Sunday afternoon the preacher told Bradley if he didn’t get that cat down he’d sue him for one million dollars damages. So Bradley got a gun and shot at the cat fourteen hundred times.–Now you didn’t count ’em, Maria, and I did.–And he banged the top of the steeple all to splinters, and at last fetched down the cat, shot to rags; and in her stomach he found his thermometer. She’d ate it on her way up, and it stood at eleven hundred degrees, so old–“

“No thermometer ever stood at such a figure as that,” exclaimed Mrs. Fogg.

“Oh, well,” shouted Mr. Fogg, indignantly, “if you think you can tell the story better than I can, why don’t you tell it? You’re enough to worry the life out of a man.”

Then Fogg slammed the door and went out, and I left. I don’t know whether Bradley got the stakes or not.

CHAPTER XVII.

_HOW WE CONDUCT A POLITICAL CAMPAIGN_.

The people of Millburg feel a very intense interest in politics, and during a campaign there is always a good deal of excitement. The bitterest struggle that the town has had for a long while was that which preceded the election of a couple of years ago, when I was not a resident of the place. One incident particularly attracted a good deal of attention. Mr. Potts related the facts to me in the following language:

“You know we nominated Bill Slocum for burgess. He was the most popular man in the place; everybody liked him. And a few days after the convention adjourned Bill was standing talking to Joe Snowden about the election, and Bill happened to remark, ‘I’ve got to win.’ Mrs. Martin was going by at the time; and as Bill was speaking very rapidly, he pronounced it like this: ‘I’ve got t’win;’ and Mrs. Martin thought he was telling Snowden that he’d got _twins_. And Mrs. Martin, just like all women about such matters, at once went through the village spreading the report that Mrs. Slocum had twins.

“So, of course, there was a fuss right off; and the boys said that as Bill was a candidate, and a mighty good fellow anyhow you took him, it’d be nothing more than fair to congratulate him on his good luck by getting up some kind of a public demonstration from his fellow-citizens. Well, sir, you never saw such enthusiasm. The way that idea took was wonderful, and all hands agreed that we ought to have a parade. So they ran up the flags on the hotels and the town-hall, and on the two schooners down at the wharf, and Judge Twiddler adjourned the court over till the next day, and the supervisors gave the public schools a holiday and got up a turkey dinner for the convicts in the jail.

“And some of the folks drummed up the brass band, and it led off, with Major Slott following, carrying an American flag hung with roses. Then came the clergy in carriages, followed by the Masons and Odd Fellows and Knights of Pythias. And the Young Men’s Christian Association turned out with the Sons of Temperance, about forty strong, in full regalia. And General Trumps pranced along on a white horse ahead of the Millburg Guards. After them came the judges on foot, followed by the City Council and the employes of the gas-works, and the members of the Bible Society and Patriotic Sons of America. Then came citizens walking two and two, afoot, while a big crowd of men and boys brought up the rear.

“The band, mind you, all this time playing the most gorgeous music–‘Star-Spangled Banner,’ ‘Life on the Ocean Wave,’ ‘Beautiful Dreamer,’ ‘Home Again,’ and all those things, with cymbals and Jenkins’ colored man spreading himself on the big drum. And Bill never knew anything about it. It was a perfect surprise to him. And when the procession stopped in front of his house, they gave him three cheers, and he came rushing out on the porch to see what all the noise was about. As soon as he appeared the band struck up ‘See, the Conquering Hero Comes,’ and Major Slott lowered the flag, and General Trumps waved his hat, and the guard fired a salute, and everybody cheered.

“Bill bowed and made a little speech, and said how honored he was by such a demonstration, and he said he felt certain of victory, and when he was in office he would do his best to serve his fellow-citizens faithfully. Bill thought it was a political serenade; and when he got through, General Trumps cried,

“‘Bring out the twins.’

“Bill looked puzzled for a minute, and then he says,

“‘I don’t think I understand you. What d’you say?’

“‘Bring out the twins,’ said Judge Twiddler. ‘Less look at ’em.’

“‘Twins!’ says Bill. ‘Twins! Why, what d’ye mean, judge?’

“‘Why, the twins. Rush ’em out. Hold ’em in the window, so’s we can see ’em,’ said Major Slott.

“‘Gentlemen,’ said Bill, ‘there must be some little, some slight mistake respecting the–that is, you must have been misinformed about the–the–er–er–Why, there are no twins about this house.’

“Then they thought he was joking, and the band broke in with ‘Listen to the Mocking-bird,’ and Bill came down to find out the drift of Judge Twiddler’s remarks. And when he really convinced them that there wasn’t a twin anywhere about the place, you never saw a worse disgusted crowd in your life. Mad as fury. They said they had no idea Bill Slocum would descend to such trickery as that.

“So they broke up. The judge went back to the court-room so indignant he sentenced a prisoner for twenty years, when the law only allowed him to give ten. The supervisors, they took their spite out by docking the school-teachers half a day and cutting off the cranberry sauce from the turkey dinner at the jail. General Trumps got drunk as an owl. The City Councils held an adjourned meeting and raised the water rent on Slocum, and Jenkins’ nigger burst in the head of the big drum with a brick. Mad’s no word for it. They were wild with rage.

“And that killed Bill. They beat him by two hundred majority at the election, just on account of old Mrs. Martin misunderstanding him. Rough, wasn’t it? But it don’t seem to me like the fair thing on Bill.”

Mr. Slocum was defeated, despite the fact that he wished to succeed. Mr. Walsh, it appears, was disappointed, in the same contest, in a wholly different manner. Mr. Walsh was the predecessor of our present coroner, Mr. Maginn. How Mr. Walsh was elected he informed me in these words:

“You know,” said Mr. Walsh, “that I didn’t want that position. When they talked of nominating me, I told them, says I, ‘It’s no use; you needn’t elect me; I’m not going to serve. D’you s’pose I’m going to give up a respectable business to become a kind of State undertaker? I’m opposed to this _post-mortem_ foolery, any way. When a man’s blown up with gunpowder, it don’t interest me to know what killed him; so you needn’t make me coroner, for I won’t serve.’

“Well, do you believe that they persisted in nominating me on the Republican ticket–actually put me up as a candidate? So I published a letter declining the nomination; but they absolutely had the impudence to keep me on the ticket and to hold mass-meetings, at which they made speeches in my favor. I was pretty mad about it, because it showed such a disregard of my feelings; and so I chummed in with the Democrats, and for about two months I went around to the Democratic mass-meetings and spoke against myself and in favor of the opposition candidate. I thought I had them for sure, because I knew more about my own failings than those other fellows did, and I enlarged upon them until I made myself out–Well, I heaped up the iniquity until I used to go home feeling that I was a good deal wickeder sinner than I ever thought I was before. It did me good, too: I reformed. I’ve been a better man ever since.

“Now, you’d a thought people would a considered me pretty fair authority about my own unfitness for the office, but hang me if the citizens of this county positively didn’t go to the polls and elect me by about eight hundred majority. I was the worst disappointed of any man you ever saw. I had repeaters around at the polls, too, voting for the Democratic candidate, and I paid four of the judges to falsify the returns, so as to elect him. But it was no use; the majority was too big. And on election night the Republican executive committee came round to serenade me, and as soon as the band struck up I opened on them with a shot-gun and wounded the bass drummer in the leg. But they kept on playing; and after a while, when they stopped, they poked some congratulatory resolutions under the front door, and gave me three cheers and went home. I was never so annoyed in my life.

“Then they sent me round my certificate of election, but I refused to receive it; and those fellows seized me and held me while Harry Hammer pushed the certificate into my coat-pocket, and then they all quit. The next day a man was run over on the railroad, and they wanted me to tend to him. But I was angry, and I wouldn’t. So what does the sheriff do but come here with a gang of police and carry me out there by force? And he hunted up a jury, which brought in a verdict. Then they wanted me to take the fees, but I wouldn’t touch them. I said I wasn’t going to give my sanction to the proceedings. But of course it was no use. I thought I was living in a free country, but I wasn’t. The sheriff drew the money and got a mandamus from the court, and he came here one day while I was at dinner. When I said I wouldn’t touch a dollar of it, he drew a pistol and said if I didn’t take the money he’d blow my brains out. So what was a man to do? I resigned fifteen times, but somehow those resignations were suppressed. I never heard from them. Well, sir, at last I yielded, and for three years I kept skirmishing around, perfectly disgusted, meditating over folks that had died suddenly.

[Illustration: FORCED TO DO DUTY]

“And do you know that on toward the end of my term they had the face to try to nominate me again? It’s a positive fact. Those politicians wanted me to run again; said I was the most popular coroner the county ever had; said that everybody liked my way of handling a dead person, it was so full of feeling and sympathy, and a lot more like that. But what did I do? I wasn’t going to run any such risk again. So I went up to the city, and the day before the convention met I sent word down that I was dead. Circulated a report that I’d been killed by falling off a ferry-boat. Then they hung the convention-hall in black and passed resolutions of respect, and then they nominated Barney Maginn.

“On the day after election I turned up, and you never saw men look so miserable, so cut to the heart, as those politicians. They said it was an infamous shame to deceive them in that way, and they declared that they’d run me for sheriff at the next election to make up for it. If they do, I’m going to move for good. I’m going to sail for Colorado, or some other decent place where they’ll let a man alone. I’ll die in my tracks before I’ll ever take another office in this county. I will, now mind me!”

CHAPTER XVIII.

_THE MATUTINAL ROOSTER_.

Horatio remarks to Hamlet, “The morning cock crew loud;” and I have no doubt he did; he always does, especially if he is confined during the performance of his vocal exercises to a narrow city yard surrounded by brick walls which act as sounding-boards to carry the vibrations to the ears of a sleeper who is already restless with the summer heat and with the buzzing of early and pertinacious flies. To such a man, aroused and indignant, there comes a profound conviction that the urban rooster is far more vociferous than his rural brethren; that he can sing louder, hold on longer and begin again more quickly than the bucolic cock who has communed only with nature and known no envious longings to outshriek the morning milkman or the purveyor of catfish. And he who is thus afflicted perhaps may be justified if he regards “the cock, that trumpet of the morn,” as an insufferable nuisance, whose only excuse for existence is that he is pleasant to the eye and the palate when, bursting with stuffing, he lies, brown and crisp, among the gravy, ready for the carving-knife.

But the man who is fortunate enough to dwell in the country during the ardent summer days takes a different and more kindly view of chanticleer. If he is waked early in the morning by the clarion voice of some neighboring cock, he will not repine, provided he went to bed at a reasonably early hour, for he will hear some music that is not wholly to be despised. The rooster in the neighboring barn-yard gives out the theme. His voice is a deep, but broken, bass. It is suggestive of his having roosted during the night in a draft, which has inflamed his vocal chords so that his tones have lost their sweetness. It is as if a coffee-mill had essayed to crow. The theme is taken up by a thin-voiced rooster a quarter of a mile away, and scarcely has he reached the concluding note before a baritone cock, a little more remote, repeats the cadence, only to have his song broken in upon by a nearer bird who understands exactly the part he is to play in the fugue. And so it passes on from the one to the other, growing fainter and fainter in the distance as Shanghai sings to Bantam and Chittagong to Brahmapootra, until, at last, there is silence; and then, “O hark! O hear! How thin and clear!” far, far away some rooster sends out a delicate falsetto note that might have come from a microscopic cock who is practicing ventriloquism in the cellar. Instantly the catarrhal chicken in the next yard begins the refrain again with his hoarse voice; and then again and again the fugue goes round, never tiring the listener, but always growing more musical, until the sun is fairly up, the hens awake and the scratching of the day is ready to begin.

The note of the cock has been misrepresented. Shakespeare, following usage, perhaps, has given it as “cock-a-doodle-doo,” and that is the accepted interpretation of it. But this does not convey the proper impression. We should say that if human syllables can tell the story they would assume some such form as:

_Ooauk-auk-auk-au-au-au-auk_!

It is a song that ought to be studied and glorified in print. Think what a history it has! That identical combination of sounds which wakes and maddens the sleeping citizen of to-day was heard by Noah and his family with precisely the same cadence and accent in the ark. It was that very crow that Peter heard when he had denied his Master. It is a crow that has come down to us from Eden almost without a moment’s intermission. It is a crow which has passed round the world century after century, and now passes, as the herald of the coming of the sun. It may yet be made the theme of a majestic musical composition, now that Wagner has come to teach men how to build a lyric drama upon a phrase. Perhaps the coming American national song may have this familiar crow for its inspiration and its burden. We might do worse, perhaps, than to take the rooster for our national bird, even if we reject his song as the basis of our national anthem. We took our eagle from Rome, as France did hers; would it not have been wiser if we had taken the cock instead, as France did after the Revolution? The Romans and Greeks regarded the cock as a sacred bird. The principal thing that the average school-boy remembers about Socrates is that he killed himself immediately after ordering that a cock should be sacrificed to Aesculapius; and some have held that the reason of his suicide was the vociferousness of the cock, which he wanted to kill in revenge for the misery it had caused him while he was trying to sleep or to think.

[Illustration: THE EARLY COCK]

The cock is a braver bird than the eagle. He has ever been a bold and ready warrior, and has worn a warrior’s spurs from the beginning. He has one high soldierly quality: he knows when he is whipped; for who has not seen him, when defeated in a gallant contest, sneak away to a distant-corner to stand, with ruffled feathers, upon a single leg, the very picture of humiliation and despair? And he is vigilant, for has he not for ages revolved upon church-steeples as the emblem of watchfulness? He has the homelier virtues. He is a kind father and a fond as well as a multitudinous husband. He knows how to protect his family from errant and disreputable roosters, and he is always willing to stand aside with unsatisfied appetite and permit them to devour a dainty he has found. He is useful and admirable in his relation to this world, and he is not without value to the next, for popular belief has credited him with the office of warning revisiting spirits to retire from the earth; and when he crows all through the night, the Katie Kings and other ghostly persons who come from space to rap upon tables and evoke discordant twangs from guitars are deaf to the seductive entreaties of the mediums. When

“This bird of dawning singeth all night long, … then they say no spirit dares stir abroad.”

Perhaps the true method of expelling Satan from the land and of reforming the corruption which afflicts the country is to place the cock upon our standards and to offer him inducements to crow perpetually. There should be something to that effect in the political platforms. A goose saved Rome; why should not a rooster rescue America? Let the patriot who curses the noisy bird which crows him from his drowsy couch at an unseemly hour think of these things and allay his wrath with reflections upon the well-deserved glories of the matutinal rooster.

I have one neighbor who does not regard the crowing cock with proper enthusiasm–who is indeed inclined to look upon it with disgust; but as he has been a victim of the bird’s vociferousness, perhaps his sentiments of dislike for the proud bird may be excused.

The agricultural society of our county held a poultry show last fall, and Mr. Butterwick, who is a member of the society, was invited to deliver the address at the commencement of the fair. Mr. Butterwick prepared what he considered a very learned paper upon the culture of domestic fowls; and when the time arrived, he was on the platform ready to enlighten the audience. The birds were arranged around the hall in cages; and when the exhibition had been formally opened by the chairman, the orator came forward with his manuscript in his hand. Just as he began to read it a black Poland rooster close to the stage uttered a loud and defiant crow. There were about two hundred roosters in the hall, and every one of them instantly began to crow in the most vehement manner, and the noise excited the hens so much that they all cackled as loudly they could.

Of course the speaker’s voice could not be heard, and he came to a dead halt, while the audience laughed. After waiting for ten minutes silence was again obtained, and Butterwick began a second time.

As soon as he had uttered the words “Ladies and gentlemen,” the Poland rooster, which seemed to have a grudge against the speaker, emitted another preposterous crow, and all the other fowls in the room joined in the deafening chorus. The audience roared, and Butterwick grew red in the face with passion. But when the noise subsided, he went at it again, and got as far as “Ladies and gentlemen, the domestic barn-yard fowl affords a subject of the highest interest to the–” when the Poland rooster became engaged in a contest with an overgrown Shanghai chicken, and this set the hens of the combatants to cackling, and in a moment the entire collection was in another uproar. This was too much. Mr. Butterwick was beside himself with rage. He flung down his manuscript, rushed to the cage, and shaking his fist at the Poland chicken exclaimed,

“You diabolical fiend, I’ve half a mind to murder you!”

Then he kicked the cage to pieces with his foot, and seizing the rooster twisted its neck and flung it on the floor. Then he fled from the hall, followed by peals of laughter from the audience and more terrific clatter from the fowls. The exhibition was opened without further ceremony, and the dissertation on the domestic barn-yard fowl was ordered to be printed in the annual report of the proceedings of the society.

One day while I was talking with Mr. Keyser upon the subject of the cock he pointed to a chicken that was roosting upon an adjoining fence, and told me a story about the fowl that I must refuse to believe.

“Perhaps you never noticed that rooster,” said Keyser–“very likely you wouldn’t have observed him; but I don’t care in what light you look at him, the more you study him, the more talented he appears. You talk about your American iggles and birds of freedom, but that insignificant-looking chicken yonder can give any of them twenty points and pocket them at the first shot. That rooster has traits of character that’d adorn almost any walk of life.

[Illustration: THE AFFAIR AT THE POULTRY-SHOW]

“Most chickens are kinder stupid; but what I like about him is that he is sympathetic, he has feeling. I know last fall that my Shanghai hen was taken sick while she was trying to hatch out some eggs, and that rooster was so compassionate that he used to go in and set on that nest for hours, trying to help her out, so that she could go off recreating after exercise. And when she died, he turned right in and took charge of things–seemed to feel that he ought to be a father to those unborn little orphans; and he straddled around over those eggs for ever so long. He never got much satisfaction out of it, though. Most of them were duck eggs, and it seemed to kinder cut him up when he looked at those birds after they hatched out. He took it to heart, and appeared to feel low-spirited and afflicted. He would go off and stand by himself–stand on one leg in a corner of the fence and let his mind brood over his troubles until you’d pity him. It disgusted him to think how the job turned out.

“Now, you wouldn’t think such a chicken as that would have much courage, but he’d just as leave fight a wagon-load of tigers as not. He got a notion in his head that that rooster over there on the Baptist church-steeple was alive, and he couldn’t bear to think that it was up there sailing around and putting on airs over him, and a good many times I’ve seen him try to fly up at it, so’s to arrange a fight. When he found he couldn’t make it, he’d crow at the Baptist rooster and dare it to come down, and at last, when all his efforts were useless, would you believe that rooster one day attacked the sexton as the weathercock’s next friend, and drove his spurs so far into the sexton’s shanks that he walked on crutches for more’n a week? I never saw a mere chicken have such fine instincts and such pluck.

“He is a splendid fighter, anyway, just as he stands. Why, he had a little fuss with Murphy’s Poland rooster here some time back, and instead of going at him and taking the chances of getting whipped, that chicken actually put himself into training, ate nothing but corn, took regular exercise, went to roost early, took a cold bath every morning and got a pullet to rub him down with a corn-cob. It was wonderful; and in a week or so he was all bone and muscle, and he flickered over the fence after Murphy’s rooster and sent him whizzing into the next world on the fourth round.

“I never knew such a rooster. Now, do you know I believe that chicken actually takes an interest in politics? Oh, you may laugh, but last fall during the campaign he was so excited about something that he couldn’t eat, and the night they had the Republican mass-meeting here he roosted on the chandelier in the hall, and every time General Trumps made a good point that chicken would cackle and flap his wings, as much as to say, ‘Them’s my sentiments!’ And on the day of the parade he turned out and followed the last wagon, keeping step with the music and never dropping out of line but once, when he stopped to fight a Democratic rooster belonging to old Byerly, who was on the Democratic ticket. And in the morning, after the Republicans won, he just got on the fence out here and crowed so vociferously you could’ve heard him across the river, particularly when I ran up the American flag and read the latest returns.

“Yes, sir. Now, I know you’ll think it’s ridiculous when I tell you, but it’s an actual fact, that that very day my daughter was playing the ‘Star-spangled Banner’ on the piano, and that rooster, when he heard it, came scudding into the parlor, and after flipping up on the piano he struck out and crowed that tune just as natural as if he was an educated musician. Positive truth; and he beat time with his tail. He don’t crow like any other rooster. Every morning he works off selections from Beethoven and Mozart and those people, and on Sundays he frequently lets himself out on hymn-tunes. I’ve known him to set on that fence for more’n an hour at a time practicing the scales, and he nearly kicked another rooster to death one day because that rooster crowed flat. I saw him do it myself. And now I really must be going. Good-morning.”

I think I shall send out and kill that rooster at the first opportunity. I want Keyser to have one thing less to fib about. He has too much variety at present.

CHAPTER XIX.

_AN UNRULY METER.–SCENES IN A SANCTUM_.

During one of the cold spells of last winter the gas-meter in my cellar was frozen. I attempted to thaw it out by pouring hot water over it, but after spending an hour upon the effort I emerged from the contest with the meter with my feet and trousers wet, my hair full of dust and cobwebs and my temper at fever heat. After studying how I should get rid of the ice in the meter, I concluded to use force for the purpose, and so, seizing a hot poker, I jammed it through a vent-hole and stirred it around inside of the meter with a considerable amount of vigor. I felt the ice give way, and I heard the wheels buzz around with rather more vehemence than usual. Then I went up stairs.

I noticed for three or four days that the internal machinery of the meter seemed to be rattling around in a remarkable manner; it could be heard all over the house. But I was pleased to find that it was working again in spite of the cold weather, and I retained my serenity.

About two weeks afterward my gas bill came. It accused me of burning during the quarter about one million five hundred thousand feet of gas, and it called on me to settle to the extent of nearly three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I put on my hat and went down to the gas-office. I addressed one of the clerks:

“How much gas did you make at the Blank works last quarter?”

“I dunno; about a million feet, I reckon.”

“Well, you have charged me in my bill for burning half a million more than you made; I want you to correct it.”

“Less see the bill. Hm–m–m! this is all right. It’s taken off of the meter. That’s what the meter says.”

“S’pose’n it does; I _couldn’t_ have burned more’n you made.”

“Can’t help that; the meter can’t lie.”

“Well, but how d’you account for the difference?”

“Dunno; ’tain’t our business to go nosing and poking around after scientific truth. We depend on the meter. If that says you burned six million feet, why, you _must_ have burned it, even if we never made a foot of gas out at the works.”

“To tell you the honest truth,” said I, “the meter was frozen, and I stirred it up with a poker and set it whizzing around.”

“Price just the same,” said the clerk. “We charge for pokers just as we do for gas.”

“You are not actually going to have the audacity to ask me to pay three hundred and fifty thousand dollars on account of that poker?”

“If it was seven hundred thousand dollars, I’d take it with a calmness that would surprise you. Pay up, or we’ll turn off your gas.”

“Turn it off and be hanged,” I exclaimed as I emerged from the office, tearing the bill to fragments. Then I went home; and grasping that too lavish poker, I approached the meter. It had registered another million feet since the bill was made out; it was running up a score of a hundred feet a minute; in a month I would have owed the gas company more than the United States Government owes its creditors. So I beat the meter into a shapeless mass, tossed it into the street and turned off the gas inside the cellar.

Then I went down to the _Patriot_ office to persuade Major Slott to denounce the fraud practiced by the company. While I was in the editorial room two or three visitors came in. The first one behaved in a violent and somewhat mysterious manner. He saluted the major by throwing a chair at him. Then he seized the editor by the hair, bumped his head against the table three or four times and kicked him. When this exhilarating exercise was over, the visitor shook his fist very close to the major’s nose and said, “You idiot and outcast, if you don’t put that notice in to-morrow, I’ll come round here and murder you! Do you hear me?” Then he cuffed the major’s ears a couple of times, kicked him some more, emptied the ink-stand over his head, poured the sand from the sand-box in the same place, knocked over the table and went out. During all this time the major sat still with a sickly kind of a smile upon his face and never uttered a word. When the man left, the major picked up the table, wiped the ink and sand from his face, and turning to me said,

“Harry will have his little fun, you see.”

[Illustration: THE SHERIFF IS MAD]

“He is a somewhat exuberant humorist,” I replied. “What was the object of the joke?”

“Well, he’s going to sell his furniture at auction, and I promised to notice the fact in to-day’s _Patriot_, but I forgot it, and he called to remind me of it.”

“Do all of your friends refresh your memory in that vivid manner? If I’d been in your place, I’d have knocked him down.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” said Slott–“no, you wouldn’t. Harry is the sheriff, and he controls two thousand dollars’ worth of official advertising. I’d sooner he’d kick me from here to Borneo and back again than to take that advertising away from the _Patriot_. What are a few bumps and a sore shin or two compared with all that fatness? No, sir; he can have all the fun he wants out of me.”

The next visitor was less demonstrative. He was tall and slender and clad in the habiliments of woe. He entered the office and took a chair. Removing his hat, he wiped the moisture from his eyes, rubbed his nose thoughtfully for a moment, put his handkerchief in his hat, his hat upon the floor, and said,

“You didn’t know Mrs. Smith?”

“I hadn’t that pleasure. Who was she?”

“She was my wife. She’s been sick some time. But day before yesterday she was took worse, and she kep’ on sinking until evening, when she gave a kinder sudden jump a couple of times, and then her spirit flickered. Dead, you know. Passed away into another world.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“So am I. And I called around to see if I couldn’t get some of you literary people to get out some kind of a poem describing her peculiarities, so that I can advertise her in the paper.”

“I dunno; maybe we might.”

[Illustration: MR. SMITH’S GRIEF]

“Oh, you didn’t know her, you say? Well, she was a sing’lar kinder woman. Had strong characteristics. Her nose was the crookedest in the State–all bent around sideways. Old Captain Binder used to say that it looked like the jibsail of an oyster-sloop on the windward tack. Only his fun, you know. But Helen never minded it. She said herself that it aimed so much around the corner that whenever she sneezed she blew down her back hair. There were rich depths of humor in that woman. Now, I don’t mind if you work into the poem some picturesque allusion to the condition of her nose, so her friends will recognize her. And you might also spend a verse or two on her defective eye.”

“What was the matter with her eye?”

“Gone, sir–gone! Knocked out with a chip while she was splitting kin’ling-wood when she was a child. She fixed it up somehow with a glass one, and it gave her the oddest expression you ever saw. The false one would stand perfectly still while the other one was rolling around, so that ’bout half the time you couldn’t tell whether she was studying astronomy or watching the hired girl pare potatoes. And she lay there at night with the indisposed eye wide open glaring at me, while the other was tight shut, so that sometimes I’d get the horrors and kick her and shake her to make her get up and fix it. Once I got some mucilage and glued the lid down myself, but she didn’t like it when she woke in the morning. Had to soak her eye in warm water, you know, to get it open.

“Now, I reckon you could run in some language about her eccentricities of vision, couldn’t you? Don’t care what it is, so that I have the main facts.”

“Was she peculiar in other respects?”

“Well, yes. One leg was gone–run over by a wagon when she was little. But she wore a patent leg that did her pretty well. Bothered her sometimes, but most generally gave her a good deal of comfort. She was fond of machinery. She was very grateful for her privileges. Although sometimes it worried her, too. The springs’d work wrong now and then, and maybe in church her leg’d give a spurt and begin to kick and hammer away at the board in front of the pew until it sounded like a boiler-factory. Then I’d carry her out, and most likely it’d kick at me all the way down the aisle and end up by dancing her around the vestibule, until the sexton would rebuke her for waltzing in church. Seems to me there’s material for poetry in that, isn’t there? She was a self-willed woman. Often, when she wanted to go to a sewing-bee or to gad about somewhere, maybe, I’d stuff that leg up the chimney or hide it in the wood-pile. And when I wouldn’t tell her where it was, do you know what she’d do?”

“What?”

“Why, she’d lash an umbrella to her stump and drift off down the street ‘sif that umbrella was born there. You couldn’t get ahead of her. She was ingenious.

“So I thought I’d mention a few facts to you, and you can just throw them together and make them rhyme, and I’ll call ’round and pay you for them. What day? Tuesday? Very well; I’ll run in on Tuesday and see how you’ve fixed her up.”

Then Mr. Smith smoothed up his hat with his handkerchief, wiped the accumulated sorrow from his eyes, placed his hat upon his head, and sailed serenely out and down the stairs toward his desolated hearthstone.

The last caller was an artist. He took a chair and said,

“My name is Brewer; I am the painter of the allegorical picture of ‘The Triumph of Truth’ on exhibition down at Yelverton’s. I called, major, to make some complaint about the criticism of the work which appeared in your paper. Your critic seems to have misunderstood somewhat the drift of the picture. For instance, he says–Let me quote the paragraph:

“‘In the background to the left stands St. Augustine with one foot on a wooden Indian which is lying upon the ground. Why the artist decorated St. Augustine with a high hat and put his trousers inside his boots, and why he filled the saint’s belt with navy revolvers and tomahawks, has not been revealed. It strikes us as being ridiculous to the very last degree.’

“Now, this seems to me to be a little too harsh. That figure does _not_ represent St. Augustine. It is meant for an allegorical picture of Brute Force, and it has its foot upon Intellect–_Intellect_, mind you! and _not_ a cigar-store Indian. It is a likeness of Captain Kidd, and I set it back to represent the fact that Brute Force belonged to the Dark Ages. How on earth that man of yours ever got an idea that it was St. Augustine beats me.”

“It is singular,” said the major.

“And now let me direct your attention to another paragraph. He says,

“‘We were astonished to notice that while Noah’s ark goes sailing in the remote distance, there is close to it a cotton-factory, the chimney of which is pouring out white smoke that covers the whole of the sky in the picture, while the ark seems to be trying to sail down that chimney. Now, they didn’t have cotton-factories in those days; the thing don’t hang. The artist must have been drunk.’

“Now, this insinuation pains me. How would you like it if you painted a picture of the tower of Babel, and somebody should come along and insist that it was the chimney of a cotton-factory, and that the clouds with which the sky is covered were smoke? Cotton-factory! Your man certainly cannot be familiar with the Scriptures; and when he talks about the ark sailing down that chimney, he forgets that the reason why it is standing on one end is that the water is so rough as to make it pitch. You know the Bible says that arks did pitch ‘without and within.’ Now, don’t it?”

“I think maybe it does,” said the major.

“But that’s not the worst. I can stand that; but what do you think of a man that goes to criticising a work of art, and says–Now just listen to this:

“‘On the right is a boy who has his clothes off and has apparently been in swimming, and has been rescued by a big yellow dog just as he was about to drown. What this has to do with the Triumph of Truth we don’t know, but we do know that the dog is twice as large as the boy, and that he has the boy’s head in his mouth, while the boy’s hands are tied behind his back. Now, for a boy to go in swimming with his hands tied, and for a dog to swallow his head so as to drag him out, appears to us the awfulest foolishness on earth.’

“You will probably be surprised to learn that your critic is here referring to a very beautiful study of a Christian martyr who has been thrown among the wild beasts of the arena, and who is engaged in being eaten by a lion. The animal is not a yellow dog; that human being has not been in swimming; and the reason that he is smaller than the lion is that I had to make him so in order to get his head into the lion’s mouth. Would you have me represent the lion as large as an elephant? Would you have me paste a label on the Christian martyr to inform the public that ‘This is not a boy who has been treading water with his hands tied’? Now, look at the matter calmly. Is the _Patriot_ encouraging art when it goes on in this manner? Blame me if I think it is.”

“It certainly doesn’t seem so.”

“Well, then, what do you say to this? What do you think of a critic who remarks,

“‘But the most extraordinary thing in the picture is the group in the foreground. An old lady with an iron coal-scuttle on her head is handing some black pills to a ballet-dancer dressed in pink tights, while another woman in a badly-fitting chemise stands by them brushing off the flies with the branch of a tree, with a canary-bird resting upon her shoulder and trying to sing at some small boys who are seen in the other corner of the field. What this means we haven’t the remotest idea; but we do know that the ballet-dancers’ legs have the knee-pans at the back of the joint, and that the canary-bird looks more as if he wanted to eat the coal-scuttle than as if he desired to sing.’

“This is too bad. Do you know what that beautiful group really represents? That old lady, as your idiot calls her, is Minerva, the goddess of War, handing cannon balls to the goddess of Love as a token there shall be no more war. And the figure in what he considers the chemise is the genius of Liberty holding out an olive branch with one hand, while upon her shoulder rests an American eagle screaming defiance at the enemies of his country, who are seen fleeing in the distance. Canary bird! small boys! ballet-girl! The man is crazy, sir; stark, staring mad. And now I want you to write up an explanation for me. This kind of thing exposes me to derision. I can’t stand it, and, by George! I won’t! I’ll sue you for libel.”

Then the major promised to make amends, and Mr. Brewer withdrew in a calmer mood.

CHAPTER XX.

_HIGH ART_.

An itinerant theatrical company gave two or three performances in Millburg last winter, and in a very creditable fashion, too. One of the plays produced was Shakespere’s “King John,” with the “eminent tragedian Mr. Hammer” in the character of the _King_. It is likely that but for an unfortunate misunderstanding the entertainment would have been wholly delightful. There is a good deal of flourishing of trumpets in the drama, and the manager, not having a trumpeter of his own, engaged a German musician named Schenck to supply the music. Schenck doesn’t understand the English language very well, and the manager put him behind the scenes on the left of the stage, while the manager stood in the wing at the right of the stage. Then Schenck was instructed to toot his trumpet when the manager signaled with his hand. Everything went along smoothly enough until _King John_ (Mr. Hammer) came to the passage, “Ah, me! this tyrant fever burns me up!” Just as _King John_ was about to utter this the manager brushed a fly off of his nose, and Schenck, mistaking the movement for the appointed signal, blew out a frightful blare upon his bugle. The _King_ was furious and the manager made wild gestures for Schenck to stop, but that estimable German musician imagined that the manager wanted him to play louder, and every time a fresh motion was made Schenck emitted a more terrific blast The result was something like the following:

_King John_. “Ah, me! this tyrant–“

_Schenck_ (with his cheeks distended and his eyes beaming through his spectacles). “Ta-tarty; ta-ta-tarty, rat-tat tarty-tarty-tarty, ta-ta-ta, tanarty-arty, te-tarty.”

_King John_. “Fever burns–“

_Schenck_. “Rat-tat-tarty, poopen-arty, oopen-arty, ta-tarty-arty-oopen-arty; ta-ta; ta-ta-ta-tarty poopen-arty, poopen a-a-a-arty-arty.”

_King John_. “Ah, me! this–“

_Schenck_ (ejecting a hurricane from his lungs). “Hoopen-oopen-oopen-arty, ta-tarty; tat-tat-ta-tarty-ti-ta-tarty; poopen-ta-poopen-ta-poopen-ta-a-a-a-tarty-whoop ta-ta.”

_King John_ (quickly). “Tyrant fever burns me up.”

_Schenck_ (with perspiration standing out on his forehead). “To-ta ta-ta. Ta-ta ta-ta tatten-atten-atten arty te-tarty poopen oopen-oo-oo-oo-oo-oopen te-tarty ta-ta-ar-ar-ar-te tarty-to-ta-a-a-a-_a_-A-+A+-+_A!_+”

_King John_ (to the audience). “Ladies and gentlemen–“

_Schenck_. “Ta-ta, ta-ta, ta-ta, poopen-oopen, poopen-oopen, te-ta, tarty oo-hoo oo-hoo-te tarty arty, appen-arty.”

_King John_. “There is a German idiot behind the scenes here who is–“

_Schenck_. “Whoopen-arty te-tarty-arty-arty-ta-ta-a-a-a tat-tarty.”

_King John_. “Blowing infamously upon a horn, and–“

_Schenck_. “Poopen-arty.”

_King John_. “If you will excuse me–“

_Schenck_. “Pen-arty-arty.”

_King John_. “I will go behind the scenes and check him in his wild career.”

_Schenck_. “Poopen-arty ta-tarty-arty poopen-a-a-a-arty tat-tat-ta-tarty.”

Then _King John_ disappeared and a scuffle was heard, with some violent expressions in the German language. Ten minutes later a gentleman from the Fatherland might have been seen standing on the pavement in front of the theatre with a bugle under his arm and a handkerchief to his bleeding nose, wondering what on earth was the matter. In the mean time the _King_ had returned to the stage, and the performance concluded without any music. After this the manager will employ home talent when he wants airs on the bugle.

* * * * *

I have been studying the horn to some extent myself. Nothing is more delightful than to have sweet music at home in the evenings. It lightens the burdens of care, it soothes the ruffled feelings, it exercises a refining influence upon the children, it calms the passions and elevates the soul. A few months ago I thought that it might please my family if I learned to play upon the French horn. It is a beautiful instrument, and after hearing a man perform on it at a concert I resolved to have one. I bought a splendid one in the city, and concluded not to mention the fact to any one until I had learned to play a tune. Then I thought I would serenade Mrs. A. some evening and surprise her. Accordingly, I determined to practice in the garret. When I first tried the horn I expected to blow only a few gentle notes