Rolling Pin, which was a Lie. James was always Obedient, and when his
Mamma told him not to Help an old Blind Man across the street or Go into
a Dark Room where the Boogies were, he always Did What She said. That is
why they Called him Good James. Well, by and by, along Came Christmas.
Mamma said, You have been so Bad, my son Reginald, you will not Get any
Presents from Santa Claus this Year; but you, my son James, will get
Oodles of Presents, because you have Been Good. Will you Believe it,
Children, that Bad boy Reginald said he didn't Care a Darn and he Kicked
three Feet of Veneering off the Piano just for Meanness. Poor James was
so sorry for Reginald that he cried for Half an Hour after he Went to
Bed that Night. Reginald lay wide Awake until he saw James was Asleep
and then he Said if these people think they can Fool me, they are
Mistaken. Just then Santa Claus came down the Chimney. He had Lots of
Pretty Toys in a Sack on his Back. Reginald shut his Eyes and Pretended
to be Asleep. Then Santa Claus Said, Reginald is Bad and I will not Put
any nice Things in his Stocking. But as for you, James, I will Fill
your Stocking Plum full of Toys, because You are Good. So Santa Claus
went to Work and Put, Oh! heaps and Heaps of Goodies in James' stocking,
but not a Sign of a Thing in Reginald's stocking. And then he Laughed to
himself and Said I guess Reginald will be Sorry to-morrow because he Was
so Bad. As he said this he Crawled up the chimney and rode off in his
Sleigh. Now you can Bet your Boots Reginald was no Spring Chicken. He
just Got right Straight out of Bed and changed all those Toys and Truck
from James' stocking into his own. Santa Claus will Have to Sit up all
Night, said He, when he Expects to get away with my Baggage. The next
morning James got out of Bed and when He had Said his Prayers he Limped
over to his Stocking, licking his chops and Carrying his Head as High as
a Bull going through a Brush Fence. But when he found there was Nothing
in his stocking and that Reginald's Stocking was as Full as Papa Is when
he comes home Late from the Office, he Sat down on the Floor and began
to Wonder why on Earth he had Been such a Good boy. Reginald spent a
Happy Christmas and James was very Miserable. After all, Children, it
Pays to be Bad, so Long as you Combine Intellect with Crime.

BANTY TIM

REMARKS OF SERGEANT TILMON JOY TO THE WHITE MAN'S COMMITTEE OF SPUNKY
POINT, ILLINOIS

BY JOHN HAY

    I reckon I git your drift, gents,--
      You 'low the boy sha'n't stay;
    This is a white man's country;
      You're Dimocrats, you say;
    And whereas, and seein', and wherefore,
      The times bein' all out o' j'int,
    The nigger has got to mosey
      From the limits o' Spunky P'int!

    Le's reason the thing a minute:
      I'm an old-fashioned Dimocrat too,
    Though I laid my politics out o' the way
      For to keep till the war was through.
    But I come back here, allowin'
      To vote as I used to do,
    Though it gravels me like the devil to train
      Along o' sich fools as you.

    Now dog my cats ef I kin see,
      In all the light of the day,
    What you've got to do with the question
      Ef Tim shill go or stay.
    And furder than that I give notice,
      Ef one of you tetches the boy,
    He kin check his trunks to a warmer clime
      Than he'll find in Illanoy.

    Why, blame your hearts, jest hear me!
      You know that ungodly day
    When our left struck Vicksburg Heights, how ripped
      And torn and tattered we lay.
    When the rest retreated I stayed behind,
      Fur reasons sufficient _to_ me,--
    With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike,
      I sprawled on that cursed glacee.

    Lord! how the hot sun went for us,
      And br'iled and blistered and burned!
    How the Rebel bullets whizzed round us
      When a cuss in his death-grip turned!
    Till along toward dusk I seen a thing
      I couldn't believe for a spell:
    That nigger--that Tim--was a crawlin' to me
      Through that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell!

    The Rebels seen him as quick as me,
      And the bullets buzzed like bees;
    But he jumped for me, and shouldered me,
      Though a shot brought him once to his knees;
    But he staggered up, and packed me off,
      With a dozen stumbles and falls,
    Till safe in our lines he drapped us both,
      His black hide riddled with balls.

    So, my gentle gazelles, thar's my answer,
      And here stays Banty Tim:
    He trumped Death's ace for me that day,
      And I'm not goin' back on him!
    You may rezoloot till the cows come home,
      But ef one of you tetches the boy,
    He'll wrastle his hash to-night in hell,
      Or my name's not Tilmon Joy!

EVENING

_By A Tailor_

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

      Day hath put on his jacket, and around
    His burning bosom buttoned it with stars.
    Here will I lay me on the velvet grass,
    That is like padding to earth's meager ribs,
    And hold communion with the things about me.
    Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid
    That binds the skirt of night's descending robe!
    The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads,
    Do make a music like to rustling satin,
    As the light breezes smooth their downy nap.

      Ha! what is this that rises to my touch,
    So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage?
    It is, it is that deeply injured flower,
    Which boys do flout us with;--but yet I love thee,
    Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout.
    Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright
    As these, thy puny brethren; and thy breath
    Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air;
    But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau,
    Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences,
    And growing portly in his sober garments.

      Is that a swan that rides upon the water?
    O no, it is that other gentle bird,
    Which is the patron of our noble calling.
    I well remember, in my early years,
    When these young hands first closed upon a goose;
    I have a scar upon my thimble finger,
    Which chronicles the hour of young ambition.
    My father was a tailor, and his father,
    And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors;
    They had an ancient goose,--it was an heirloom
    From some remoter tailor of our race.
    It happened I did see it on a time
    When none was near, and I did deal with it,
    And it did burn me,--O, most fearfully!

      It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs,
    And leap elastic from the level counter,
    Leaving the petty grievances of earth,
    The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears,
    And all the needles that do wound the spirit,
    For such a pensive hour of soothing silence.
    Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress,
    Lays bare her shady bosom;--I can feel
    With all around me;--I can hail the flowers
    That sprig earth's mantle,--and yon quiet bird,
    That rides the stream, is to me as a brother.
    The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets,
    Where Nature stows away her loveliness.
    But this unnatural posture of the legs
    Cramps my extended calves, and I must go
    Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion.

THE OLD SETTLER

_His Reasons for Thinking there is Natural Gas in Deep Rock Gulley_

BY ED. MOTT

"I see by the papers, Squire," said the Old Settler, "that they're
a-finding signs o' coal ile an' nat'ral gas like sixty here an' thar in
deestric's not so terrible fur from here, an' th't konsekently land they
usety beg folks to come an' take offen their hands at any price at all
is wuth a dollar now, jist for a peep over the stun wall at it. The
minute a feller finds signs o' ile or nat'ral gas on his plantation he
needn't lug home his supplies in a quart jug no more, but kin roll 'em
in by the bar'l, fer signs o' them kind is wuth more an inch th'n a
sartin-per-sure grass an' 'tater farm is wuth an acre."

"Guess yer huggin' the truth pooty clus fer wunst, Major," replied the
Squire, "but th' hain't none o' them signs ez likely to strike anywhar
in our bailiwick ez lightnin' is to kill a crow roostin' on the North
Pole. Thuz one thing I've alluz wanted to see," continued the Squire,
"but natur' has ben agin me an' I hain't never seen it, an' that thing
is the h'istin' of a balloon. Th' can't be no balloons h'isted nowhar,
I'm told, 'nless thuz gas to h'ist it with. I s'pose if we'd ha' had gas
here, a good many fellers with balloons 'd ha' kim 'round this way an'
showed us a balloon raisin' ev'ry now an' then. Them must be lucky
deestric's that's got gas, an' I'd like to hev somebody strike it 'round
here some'rs, jist fer the sake o' havin' the chance to see a balloon
h'istin' 'fore I turn my toes up. But that's 'bout ez liable to happen
ez it is fer to go out an' find a silver dollar rollin' up hill an' my
name gouged in it."

"Don't ye be so consarned sure o' that, Squire," said the Old Settler
mysteriously, and with a knowing shake of his head. "I've been
a-thinkin' a leetle sence readin' 'bout them signs o' gas, b'gosh! I
hain't been only thinkin', but I've been a-recollectin', an' the chances
is th't me an' you'll see wonders yet afore we paddle over Jurdan. I'm
a-gointer tell ye fer w'y, but I hadn't orter, Squire, an' if it wa'n't
fer makin' ye 'shamed o' yerself, an' showin' th't truth squashed in the
mud is bound to git up agin if ye give her time, I wouldn't do it. Ye
mowt remember th't jist ten years ago this month I kim in from a leetle
b'ar hunt. I didn't bring in no b'ar, but I fotched back an up-an'-up
account o' how I had shot one, on' how th' were sumpin' fearful an'
queer an' amazin' in the p'formances o' that b'ar arter bein' shot.
Mebby ye 'member me a-tellin' ye that story, Squire, an' you a-tellin'
me right in my teeth th't ye know'd th't some o' yer friends had took to
lyin', but th't ye didn't think any of 'em had it so bad ez that. But I
hain't a-holdin' no gredge, an' now I'll tell ye sumpin' that'll s'prise
ye.

"Ez I tol' ye at the time, Squire, I got the tip ten year ago this
month, th't unless somebody went up to Steve Groner's hill place an'
poured a pound or two o' lead inter a big b'ar th't had squatted on tha'
farm, th't Steve wouldn't hev no live-stock left to pervide pork an'
beef fer his winterin' over, even if he managed to keep hisself an'
fam'ly theirselfs from linin' the b'ar's innards. I shouldered my gun
an' went up to Steve's to hev some fun with bruin, an' to save Steve's
stock, an' resky him an' his folks from the rampagin' b'ar.

"'He's a rip-snorter,' Steve says to me, w'en I got thar. 'He don't
think nuthin' o' luggin' off a cow,' he says, 'an' ye don't wanter hev
yer weather eye shet w'en you an' him comes together,' he says.

"'B'ars,' I says to Steve, 'b'ars is nuts fer me, an' the bigger an'
sassier they be,' I says, 'the more I inj'y 'em,' I says, an' with that
I clim' inter the woods to show bruin th't th' wa'n't room enough here
below fer me an' him both. Tain't necessary fer me to tell o' the
half-dozen or more lively skrimmages me an' that b'ar had ez we follered
an' chased one another round an' round them woods--how he'd hide ahind
some big tree or stumps, an' ez I went by, climb on to me with all four
o' his feet an' yank an' bite an' claw an' dig meat an' clothes offen me
till I slung him off an' made him skin away to save his bacon; an' how
I'd lay the same way fer him, an' w'en he come sneakin' 'long arter me
agin, pitch arter him like a mad painter, an' swat an' pound an' choke
an' rassel him till his tongue hung out, till I were sorry for him, an'
let him git away inter the brush agin to recooperate fer the next round.
'Tain't wuth w'ile fer me to say anything 'bout them little skrimmages
'cept the last un, an' that un wa'n't a skrimmage but sumpin' that'd 'a'
skeert some folks dead in their tracks.

"Arter havin' a half-dozen or so o' rassels with this big b'ar, jist fer
fun, I made up my mind, ez 'twere gettin' late, an' ez Steve Groner's
folks was mebby feelin' anxious to hear which was gointer run the farm,
them or the b'ar, th't the next heat with bruin would be for keeps. I
guess the ol' feller had made up his mind the same way, fer w'en I run
agin him the las' time, he were riz up on his hind legs right on the
edge o' Deep Rock Gulley, and were waitin' fer me with his jaws wide
open. I unslung my gun, an' takin' aim at one o' the b'ar's forepaws,
thought I'd wing him an' make him come away from the edge o' the gulley
'fore I tackled him. The ball hit the paw, an' the b'ar throw'd 'em both
up. But he throw'd 'em up too fur, an' he fell over back'rd, an' went
head foremost inter the gulley. Deep Rock Gulley ain't an inch less'n
fifty foot from top to bottom, an' the walls is ez steep ez the side of
a house. I went up to the edge an' looked over. Ther' were the b'ar
layin' on his face at the bottom, whar them queer cracks is in the
ground, an' he were a-howlin' like a hurricane and kickin' like a mule.
Ther' he laid, and he wa'n't able to rise up. Th' wa'n't no way o'
gettin' down to him 'cept by tumblin' down ez he had, an' if ever
anybody were poppin' mad I were, ez I see my meat a-layin' at the bottom
o' that gulley, an' the crows a-getherin' to hev a picnic with it. The
more I kept my eyes on that b'ar the madder I got, an' I were jist about
to roll and tumble an' slide down the side o' that gulley ruther than go
back home an' say th't I'd let the crows steal a b'ar away from me, w'en
I see a funny change comin' over the b'ar. He didn't howl so much, and
his kicks wa'n't so vicious. Then his hind parts began to lift themse'fs
up offen the ground in a cur'ous sort o' way, and swung an' bobbed in
the air. They kep' raisin' higher an' higher, till the b'ar were
act'ally standin' on his head, an' swayin' to and fro ez if a wind were
blowin' him an' he couldn't help it. The sight was so oncommon out o'
the reg'lar way b'ars has o' actin' that it seemed skeery, an' I felt ez
if I'd ruther be home diggin' my 'taters. But I kep' on gazin' at the
b'ar a-circusin' at the bottom o' the gulley, an 't wa'n't long 'fore
the hull big carcase begun to raise right up offen the ground an' come
a-floatin' up outen the gulley, fer all the world ez if 't wa'n't more'n
a feather. The b'ar come up'ards tail foremost, an' I noticed th't he
looked consid'able puffed out like, makin' him seem lik' a bar'l
sailin' in the air. Ez the b'ar kim a-floatin' out o' the dep's I could
feel my eyes begin to bulge, an' my knees to shake like a jumpin'
jack's. But I couldn't move no more'n a stun wall kin, an' thar I stood
on the edge o' the gulley, starin' at the b'ar ez it sailed on up to'rd
me. The b'ar were making a desper't effort to git itself back to its
nat'ral p'sition on all fours, but th' wa'n't no use, an' up he sailed,
tail foremost, an' lookin' ez if he were gointer bust the next minute,
he were swelled out so. Ez the b'ar bobbed up and passed by me I could
ha' reached out an' grabbed him by the paw, an' I think he wanted me to,
the way he acted, but I couldn't ha' made a move to stop him, not if
he'd ha' ben my gran'mother. The b'ar sailed on above me, an' th' were a
look in his eyes th't I won't never fergit. It was a skeert look, an' a
look that seemed to say th't it were all my fault, an' th't I'd be sorry
fer it some time. The b'ar squirmed an' struggled agin comin' to setch
an' onheerdon end, but up'ard he went, tail foremost, to'ard the clouds.

"I stood thar par'lyzed w'ile the b'ar went up'ard. The crows that had
been settlin' round in the trees, 'spectin' to hev a bully meal, went to
flyin' an' scootin' around the onfortnit b'ar, an' yelled till I were
durn nigh deef. It wa'n't until the b'ar had floated up nigh onto a
hundred yards in the air, an' begun to look like a flyin' cub, that my
senses kim back to me. Quick ez a flash I rammed a load inter my rifle,
wrappin' the ball with a big piece o' dry linen, not havin' time to tear
it to the right size. Then I took aim an' let her go. Fast ez the ball
went, I could see that the linen round it had been sot on fire by the
powder. The ball overtook the b'ar and bored a hole in his side. Then
the funniest thing of all happened. A streak o' fire a yard long shot
out o' the b'ar's side where the bullet had gone in, an' ez long ez
that poor bewitched b'ar were in sight--fer o' course I thort at the
time th't the b'ar were bewitched--I could see that streak o' fire
sailin' along in the sky till it went out at last like a shootin' star.
I never knowed w'at become o' the b'ar, an' the hull thing were a
startlin' myst'ry to me, but I kim home, Squire, an' tol' ye the story,
jest ez I've tol' ye now, an' ye were so durn polite th't ye said I were
a liar. But sence, I've been a-thinkin' an' recollectin'. Squire, I
don't hold no gredge. The myst'ry's plain ez day, now. We don't want no
better signs o' gas th'n th't, do we, Squire?"

"Than what?" said the Squire.

"Than what!" exclaimed the Old Settler. "Than that b'ar, o' course!
That's w'at ailed him. It's plain enough th't thuz nat'ral gas on the
Groner place, an' th't it leaks outen the ground in Deep Rock Gulley.
Wen that b'ar tumbled to the bottom that day, he fell on his face. He
were hurt so th't he couldn't get up. O' course the gas didn't shut
itself off, but kep' on a-leakin' an' shot up inter the b'ar's mouth and
down his throat. The onfortnit b'ar couldn't help hisself, an' bimby he
were filled with gas like a balloon, till he had to float, an' away he
sailed, up an' up an' up. Wen I fired at the b'ar, ez he was floatin'
to'ard the clouds, the linen on the bullet carried fire with it, an'
w'en the bullet tapped the b'ar's side the burnin' linen sot it on fire,
showin' th't th' can't be no doubt 'bout it bein' gas th't the b'ar
swallered in Deep Rock Gulley. So ye see, Squire, I wa'n't no liar, an'
the chances is all in favor o' your seein' a balloon h'isted from gas
right in yer own bailiwick afore ye turn up yer toes."

The Squire gazed at the Old Settler in silent amazement for a minute or
more. Then he threw up his hands and said:

"Wal--I'll--be--durned!"

VERRE DEFINITE

BY WALLACE BRUCE AMSBARY

    It' verre long, long tam', ma frien',
      I'm leeve on Bourbonnais,
    I'm keep de gen'rale merchandise,
      I'm prom'nent man, dey say;
    I'm sell mos' every t'ing dere ees,
      From sulky plow to sock,
    I don' care w'at you ask me for,
      You'll fin' it in my stock.

    Las' w'ek dere was de _petite fille_
      Of ma frien', Gosse, he com'
    Into ma shop to get stock_ing_,
      She want to buy her som';
    She was herself not verre ol',
      Near twelve year, I suppose;
    She com' to me an' say, "M'sieu,
      I wan' to buy som' hose."

    I always mak' de custom rule,
      No matter who it ees,
    To be polite an' eloquent
      In transack of ma beez;
    I say to her, "For who you wan'
      Dese stockings to be wear?"
    She say she need wan pair herself,
      Also for small bruddére.

    She say her bruddére's eight years ol'
      An' coming almos' nine,
    An' I am twelve, mos' near t'irteen,
      Dat size will do for mine:
    An' modder she will tak' beeg pair,
      She weigh 'bout half a ton,
    She wan' de size of forty year
      Go_ing_ on forty-one.

THE TALKING HORSE

BY JOHN T. McINTYRE

Upon a fence across the way was posted a "twenty-four sheet block
stand," and along the top, in big red letters, it read:

"_H. Wellington Sheldon Presents_"

Then followed the names of a half dozen famous operatic stars.

Bat Scranton sat regarding it silently for a long time; but after he had
placed himself behind his third big cigar he joined in the talk.

"In fifteen years dubbing about this great and glorious," said he, "I
never run across a smoother piece of goods than old Cap. Sheldon. To see
him, now, in his plug hat, frock coat and white English whiskers, you'd
spot him as the main squeeze in a prosperous bank. He's doing the
Frohman stunt, too," and Bat nodded toward the poster, "and he handles
it with exceeding grace. When I see him after the curtain falls upon a
bunch of Verdi or Wagner stuff, come out and bow his thanks to a house
full of the town's swellest, and throw out a little spiel with an
aristocratic accent, I always think of the time when I first met him.

"Were any of you ever in Langtry, Ohio? Well, never take a chance on it
if there is anywhere else to go. It's a tank town with a community of
seven hundred of the tightest wads that ever sunk a dollar into the toe
of a sock. There was a fair going on in the place, and I blew in there
one September day; my turn just then was taking orders for crayon
portraits of rural gentlemen with horny hands and plenty of chin fringe.
I figure it out that about sixty per cent. of the parlors in the middle
west are adorned with one or more of these works of art, but Langtry,
Ohio, would not listen to the proposition for a moment; as soon as they
discovered that I wasn't giving the stuff away they sort of lost
interest in me and mine; so I began to study the time-table and kick off
the preliminary dust of the burg, preparatory to seeking a new base of
operations.

"As I made my way to the station I caught my first glimpse of Cap.
Sheldon. He had a satchel hanging from around his neck and was winsomely
wrapping ten dollar notes up with small cylinders of soap and offering
to sell them at one dollar a throw.

"'How are they going,' says I.

"'Not at all,' says he. 'There's nothing to it that I can see. The breed
and seed of Solomon himself must have camped down in this section; they
are the wisest lot I ever saw herd together. Instead of chewing straws
and leaning over fences after the customary and natural manner of
ruminates, they pike around with a calm, cold-blooded sagacity that is
truly awesome. It's me to pull out as soon as I can draw expenses.'

"The next time Cap. dawned upon my vision was a year afterward, down in
Georgia. He was doing the ballyho oration in front of a side wall circus
in a mellifluous style that was just dragging the tar heels up to the
entrance.

"'It's a little better than the Ohio gag,' says he, 'but I've seen
better, at that. I had a good paying faro outfit in Cincinnati since I
met you, but the police got sore because I wouldn't cut the takings in
what they considered the right place, so they closed me up.'

"During the next five years I met Cap. in every section of the country,
and handling various propositions. In San Francisco I caught him in the
act of selling toy balloons on a street corner; in Chicago he was
disposing of old line life insurance with considerable effect; at a
county fair, somewhere in Iowa, I ran across him as he gracefully
manipulated the shells.

"But Cap. did not break permanently into the show business until he
coupled up with the McClintock in Milwaukee. Mac was an Irish
Presbyterian, and was proud of it; he came out of the Black North and
was the most acute harp, mentally, that I had ever had anything to do
with. The Chosen People are not noted for commercial density; but a Jew
could enter Mac's presence attired in the height of fashion and leave it
with only his shoe strings and a hazy recollection as to how the thing
was done.

"Now, when a team like Cap. and Mac took to pulling together, there just
naturally had to be something doing. They began with a small show under
canvas, and their main card was a twenty-foot boa-constrictor, which
they billed as 'Mighty Mardo.' Then they had a boy with three legs, one
of which they neglected to state was made of wood; also a blushing
damsel with excess embonpoint to the extent of four hundred pounds. With
this outfit they campaigned for one season; in the fall they bought a
museum in St. Louis and settled themselves as impresarios.

"Now, in my numerous meetings with Cap. I had never thought to ask his
name, so when I saw an 'ad' in the _Clipper_ stating that Sheldon &
McClintock was in need of a good full-toned lecturer that doubled in
brass, I just sat me down in my ignorance and dropped them a line. They
sent me a ticket to where I was sidetracked up in Michigan, and I
hurried down.

"'Oh, it's you, is it?' says Cap., as I piked into the ten by twelve
office and announced myself. 'Well, I've heard you throw a spiel and
think you'll do. But I didn't know that you played brass. What's your
instrument?'

"Now, I had a faint sentiment from the beginning that this clause in
their bill of requirements would get me into trouble, for I knew no more
about band music than a he goat knows about the book of common prayer.

"'I do the cymbals,' says I.

"'What!' snorts Cap., rearing up; 'I thought you wrote that you played
brass?'

"'Well,' says I, 'ain't cymbals brass?'

"It must have been my cold nerve that won Cap.'s regard, for he placed
me as 'curio hall' lecturer and advertising man at twenty a week.

"The museum of Sheldon & McClintock proved to be a great notch. More
fake freaks were thought out, worked up and exhibited during the course
of that winter season than I would care to count. Then there was a small
theater attached in which they put on very bad specialties and where
painful-voiced young men and women warbled sentimental ballads about
their childhood homes and stuff of that character. These got about ten
dollars a week and had to do about thirty turns a day; they lived in
their make-up and got so accustomed to grease paint before the end of
their engagements that they felt only half dressed without it.

"The trick made money, and in about a year McClintock cut loose and went
into a patent promoting scheme.

"Shortly afterward the first 'continuous house' was opened in St. Louis,
and the novelty of the thing was a body blow to Cap. He made a good
fight, but lost money every day; and at last he imparted to me in
confidence that if business did not improve he could see himself getting
out the shells and limbering up on them preparatory to going out and
facing the world once more.

"'The bank will stand for three hundred thousand dollars' worth more of
my checks,' says he, 'and after they're used up I'm done.'

"He began to cut down expenses with the reckless energy of a man who saw
the poor-house looming ahead for him; the results was that his bad shows
grew worse, and the attendance wasn't enough to dust off the seats. The
biggest item of expense about the place was 'Mighty Mardo,' the
boa-constrictor; his diet was live rabbits, and a twenty-foot snake with
a body as thick as a four-inch pipe can dispose of good and plenty of
them when he takes the notion. Cap. began to feed him live rats, and the
mighty one soon began to show the effects of it.

"'He'll die on you,' says I to Cap. one day.

"'Let him,' says he; 'the rabbits stay cut out.'

"One day a fellow came along with a high-schooled horse that he wanted
to sell. He had more use for ready money just then than he had for the
nag, so he offered to put it in cheap. But Cap. waved him away.

"'I'll need the money to buy meals with before long,' says he to the
fellow, 'so tempt me not to my going hungry.'

"This little incident seemed to make the old man feel bad; he locked
himself up in the office for four hours or so communing with his inner
self; but when he came out he was looking bright and gay.

"'Say,' says he, 'I've changed my mind and just bought that horse.'

"'I didn't see the man come back,' says I.

"'I made the deal over the 'phone,' says Cap. Then he pushes a thick wad
of penciled stuff at me. 'Here's some truck I want you to take over to
the printing house,' he goes on. 'When it's out and up the brute will be
well known.'

"I takes a look over the copy, and my hat was lifted two inches straight
off my head. The first one read something like this:

ADMIRAL

THE TALKING HORSE

TALKS LIKE A HUMAN BEING
VOCAL ORGANS DEVELOPED LIKE THOSE OF
A MAN
HEAR HIM SING THE BASS SOLO
"DOWN IN THE DEPTHS"

TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS

TO ANY ONE PROVING THESE CLAIMS
FAKE IN THE SLIGHTEST DEGREE

"'Reads good, don't it?' asks Cap., sort of beaming through his
nose-pinzes. 'But give a look at the others.'

"The next one was as bad as the first:

ADMIRAL!!!

THE HORSE WHO RECITES
THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE
IN A DEEP BASS VOICE
AND WITH PERFECT ENUNCIATION

"'I didn't hear the fellow say the skate could do that kind of stuff,'
says I, just a bit dazed, after looking over a lot more of it.

"'He only handed it to me as a sort of last card,' says Cap., 'and
that's what made me change my mind about buying him. Get five thousand
twelve sheets in yellow and red; ten thousand three sheets; fifteen
thousand block one sheets with cut of the horse. And you can place an
order for as many black and white dodgers as they can turn out between
this and the end of the week. It's a big card and we're going into it up
to our eyebrows.'

"If I had had time to consider anything but hustling, I might have
thought the thing was a fake. But it was the old man's game and I left
him to do the worrying. I threw rush orders into the printers and soon
had the presses banging away on the stuff desired.

"Next day Cap. started a four-inch double-column notice in every paper
in town. I hired an army of distributers and began to put out the
dodgers as they came hot off the bat; then I got a couple of Guinea
bands, put them in open wagons, done up with painted muslin
announcements, and sent them forth to tear off the melody and otherwise
delight the eye and ear of the town. As the big stuff came off the press
it was slapped up on every blank wall and fence in the city that wasn't
under guard; and when the job was finished, St. Louis fairly glared with
it. If there was a person who hadn't heard of the Talking Horse by the
end of the week, they must have been deaf, dead or in jail.

"The nag was to make his first appearance on Monday, and the last sheet
of paper had been put up and the last hand bill disposed of by Saturday
afternoon.

"'How does she look?' says Cap. to me when I came in.

"'Great,' says I. 'If they ain't tearing the place down to get in on
Monday, why my bump of prophecy has a dent in it.'

"'Let 'em come,' says Cap., looking very much tickled. 'We need the
money and we ain't turning nobody away. The horse has reached town and
will be brought around to-morrow morning; so you make it a point to be
on hand to let it and the handler in.'

"I was around bright and early on Sunday morning, and along comes the
horse. He was got up in the swellest horse stuff I ever saw--beaded
blankets of plush and silk, with his name embroidered on them, and all
that kind of goods. The handler was a husky with one lamp and a bad one
at that.

"'Where do I put him?' says he.

"'On the top floor,' says I. 'We've got planks on the stairs and a
rigging fixed to haul him up by.'

"When we got him safely landed and the glad coverings off, I looked him
over.

"'His intellect must sort of tell on him, don't it?' asks I.

"'Why, he is some under weight,' says the fellow in charge.

"'He don't look over-bright to me,' I goes on.

"'He never does on Sundays,' the husky comes back. 'It's sort of an off
day with him.'

"Then I went out to lunch and stayed about two hours; when I got back I
found a gang of cops and things buzzing all over the place. Cap. was in
the office, his plug hat on the back of his head and a cigar in his
mouth.

"'What's the trouble?' says I.

"'Had a hell of a time around here,' says he. 'I was called up on the
'phone and got down as soon as I could. Just take an observation of that
fellow over there.'

"The fellow referred to was the handler of the Talking Horse. His left
arm was done up in splints and bandaged from finger-tips to shoulder,
and he had a clump of reporters around him about six feet thick.

"'What hit him?' asks I.

"'About everything on the top floor,' says Cap., solemnly. 'The Talking
Horse is dead. Mighty Mardo broke out of his showcase about an hour ago,
took a couple of half hitches around the Admiral and crushed him to
death.'

"'Go 'way!' says I.

"'Sure thing,' says Cap. 'Come up stairs and have a look.'

"We went up and did so. The place was a wreck; the horse was the deadest
I ever saw and the constrictor was still twined about him.

"'Why, the snake's passed out, too,' says I.

"Cap. folds his hands meekly across his breast in a resigned sort of
way.

"'Yes,' says he; 'he, too, was killed in the dreadful struggle. He must
have went straight for the Admiral as soon as he got loose. The handler
was down in the office, alone, when the uproar started; he came jumping
upstairs six steps to the jump and when he sees Mardo putting in that
bunch of body holds on his intelligent charge, why, he took a hand. The
result was a dead snake for me and a crippled wing for him. When I got
here, Doc. Forbes was tying him up,' Cap. goes on rather sorrowful like;
'and when I sees what's happened, I know that I'm a ruined man. So I
'phones for the police and reporters to come down and view my finish.'

"From the way he talked I expected to see him carted home before the
hour was up; but he wasn't. As soon as the newspaper fellows cleared out
with all the facts of the case in their note-books, Cap. sends for a
fellow and puts him right to work fixing up the horse and snake so's
they'll keep, and then lays them out.

"Next morning the newspapers slopped over with scare headlines telling
of the battle. According to their way of looking at it, the struggles in
the arena of old Rome were scared to death in comparison, and modern
times did not come anywhere near showing a parallel of the combat
between the terrible constrictor and the horse with the human voice. The
result of this was that when the time came to open the doors at noon we
had to have a squad of police to keep the mob from blocking traffic for
squares around. Cap. had changed and doubled the size of his ads. over
night.

"The horse was done up in a big black coffin covered with flowers; and
the lid with his name, age and wonderful accomplishment engraved upon a
plate stood beside him. The remains of Mighty Mardo, stuffed with baled
hay and excelsior, were embracing the dead Admiral with monster coils;
and the crowds came, gazed, and marveled; then they went forth to tell
their friends that they might come and do likewise.

"For weeks the coin came into the box like a spring freshet in the hill
country, and Cap. must have kept the bank working after hours; at any
rate, he sat around and smoked with a smile so angelic, that, to look at
him, one wondered how he could wear it and not drift away into the
ethereal blue. It was a good month before the thing lost its pulling
power, and when it stopped Cap. had planted the stake that boosted him
into the company he now keeps and set him to handling voices that cost
thousands of simoleons an hour.

"When all was over, I found time to take the husky, with the damaged
fin out and throw a few drinks into him. Then he told me the whole
story.

"'The old man didn't think you could do the thing justice if you were
wise,' says he, 'so he kept you out. This ain't the horse the fellow
offered to sell him, at all. He bought it at a bazar for ten dollars,
the day before I brought it around. When you went out for lunch Cap. he
comes in. We done for the plug in a minute, and as Mighty Marda was all
but gone, on account of his rat diet, we finished him, too. Then we
wrecked the place up some, took a couple of turns about the horse with
Mardo, called in Doc. Forbes, who stood in, to fix up the fictitious
fracture, and then rung in the show.'

"Yes," observed Bat, thoughtfully, after a pause, "I've made up my mind
that H. Wellington Sheldon is a wise plug."

THE OWL-CRITIC

BY JAMES T. FIELDS

    "Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop,
    The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop;
    The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading
    The "Daily," the "Herald," the "Post," little heeding
    The young man who blurted out such a blunt question;
    Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion;
              And the barber kept on shaving.

    "Don't you see, Mr. Brown,"
    Cried the youth, with a frown,
    "How wrong the whole thing is,
    How preposterous each wing is
    How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is--
    In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis!
    I make no apology;
    I've learned owl-eology.
    I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections,
    And can not be blinded to any deflections
    Arising from unskilful fingers that fail
    To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.
    Mister Brown! Mister Brown!
    Do take that bird down,
    Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!"
              And the barber kept on shaving.

    "I've _studied_ owls,
    And other night-fowls,
    And I tell you
    What I know to be true;
    An owl can not roost
    With his limbs so unloosed;
    No owl in this world
    Ever had his claws curled,
    Ever had his legs slanted,
    Ever had his bill canted,
    Ever had his neck screwed
    Into that attitude.
    He can't _do_ it, because
    'Tis against all bird-laws.
    Anatomy teaches,
    Ornithology preaches,
    An owl has a toe
    That _can't_ turn out so!
    I've made the white owl my study for years,
    And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!
    Mr. Brown, I'm amazed
    You should be so gone crazed
    As to put up a bird
    In that posture absurd!
    To _look_ at that owl really brings on a dizziness;
    The man who stuffed _him_ don't half know his business!"
              And the barber kept on shaving.

    "Examine those eyes.
    I'm filled with surprise
    Taxidermists should pass
    Off on you such poor glass;
    So unnatural they seem
    They'd make Audubon scream,
    And John Burroughs laugh
    To encounter such chaff.
    Do take that bird down;
    Have him stuffed again, Brown!"
              And the barber kept on shaving.

    "With some sawdust and bark
    I could stuff in the dark
    An owl better than that.
    I could make an old hat
    Look more like an owl
    Than that horrid fowl,
    Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather.
    In fact, about _him_ there's not one natural feather."

    Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,
    The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,
    Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic
    (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic,
    And then fairly hooted, as if he should say:
    "Your learning's at fault _this_ time, anyway;
    Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.
    I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good day!"
              And the barber kept on shaving.

THE MOSQUITO

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

    Fair insect! that, with thread-like legs spread out,
      And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing,
    Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about,
      In pitiless ears, fall many a plaintive thing,
    And tell how little our large veins should bleed
    Would we but yield them to thy bitter need.

    Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse,
      Full angrily, men listen to thy plaint;
    Thou gettest many a brush and many a curse,
      For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint.
    Even the old beggar, while he asks for food,
    Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could.

    I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,
      Has not the honor of so proud a birth:
    Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green,
      The offspring of the gods, though born on earth;
    For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she,
    The ocean-nymph that nursed thy infancy.

    Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung,
      And when at length thy gauzy wings grew strong,
    Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung,
      Rose in the sky and bore thee soft along;
    The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way,
    And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.

    Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence
      Came the deep murmur of its throng of men,
    And as its grateful odors met thy sense,
      They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen.
    Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight
    Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.

    At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway,--
      Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed
    By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray
      Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist;
    And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin,
    Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

    Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite!
      What! do I hear thy slender voice complain?
    Thou wailest when I talk of beauty's light,
      As if it brought the memory of pain.
    Thou art a wayward being--well, come near,
    And pour thy tale of sorrow in mine ear.

    What say'st thou, slanderer! rouge makes thee sick?
      And China Bloom at best is sorry food?
    And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick,
      Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood?
    Go! 'twas a just reward that met thy crime;
    But shun the sacrilege another time.

    That bloom was made to look at,--not to touch;
      To worship, not approach, that radiant white;
    And well might sudden vengeance light on such
      As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite.
    Thou shouldst have gazed at distance, and admired,--
    Murmured thy admiration and retired.

    Thou'rt welcome to the town; but why come here
      To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee?
    Alas! the little blood I have is dear,
      And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.
    Look round: the pale-eyed sisters in my cell,
    Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.

    Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood
      Enriched by generous wine and costly meat;
    On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud,
      Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet.
    Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls,
    The oyster breeds and the green turtle sprawls.

    There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows,
      To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now
    The ruddy cheek and now the ruddier nose
      Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow;
    And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings,
    No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

"TIDDLE-IDDLE-IDDLE-IDDLE-BUM! BUM!"

BY WILBUR D. NESBIT

    When our town band gets on the square
    On concert night you'll find me there.
    I'm right beside Elijah Plumb,
    Who plays th' cymbals an' bass drum;
    An' next to him is Henry Dunn,
    Who taps the little tenor one.
    I like to hear our town band play,
    But, best it does, I want to say,
    Is when they tell a tune's to come
    With
        "Tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-
                                  Bum-Bum!"

    O' course, there's some that likes the tunes
    Like _Lily Dale_ an' _Ragtime Coons_;
    Some likes a solo or duet
    By Charley Green--B-flat cornet--
    An' Ernest Brown--th' trombone man.
    (An' they can play, er no one can);
    But it's the best when Henry Dunn
    Lets them there sticks just cut an' run,
    An' 'Lijah says to let her hum
    With
        "Tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-
                                  Bum-Bum!"

    I don't know why, ner what's the use
    O' havin' that to interduce
    A tune--but I know, as fer me
    I'd ten times over ruther see
    Elijah Plumb chaw with his chin,
    A-gettin' ready to begin,
    While Henry plays that roll o' his
    An' makes them drumsticks fairly sizz,
    Announcin' music, on th' drum,
    With
        "Tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-
                                  Bum-Bum!"

MY FIRST CIGAR

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

    'Twas just behind the woodshed,
      One glorious summer day,
    Far o'er the hills the sinking sun
      Pursued his westward way;
    And in my safe seclusion
      Removed from all the jar
    And din of earth's confusion
      I smoked my first cigar.

        It was my first cigar!
        It was the worst cigar!
    Raw, green and dank, hide-bound and rank
        It was my first cigar!

    Ah, bright the boyish fancies
      Wrapped in the smoke-wreaths blue;
    My eyes grew dim, my head was light,
      The woodshed round me flew!
    Dark night closed in around me--
      Black night, without a star--
    Grim death methought had found me
      And spoiled my first cigar.

        It was my first cigar!
        A six-for-five cigar!
    No viler torch the air could scorch--
        It was my first cigar!

    All pallid was my beaded brow,
      The reeling night was late,
    My startled mother cried in fear,
      "My child, what have you ate?"
    I heard my father's smothered laugh,
      It seemed so strange and far,
    I knew he knew I knew he knew
      I'd smoked my first cigar!

        It was my first cigar!
        A give-away cigar!
    I could not die--I knew not why--
        It was my first cigar!

    Since then I've stood in reckless ways,
      I've dared what men can dare,
    I've mocked at danger, walked with death,
      I've laughed at pain and care.
    I do not dread what may befall
      'Neath my malignant star,
    No frowning fate again can make
      Me smoke my first cigar.

        I've smoked my first cigar!
        My first and worst cigar!
    Fate has no terrors for the man
        Who's smoked his first cigar!

SHONNY SCHWARTZ

BY CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS

    Haf you seen mine leedle Shonny,--
                              Shonny Schwartz,--
    Mit his hair so soft und yellow,
    Und his face so blump und mellow;
    Sooch a funny leedle fellow,--
                              Shonny Schwartz?

    Efry mornings dot young Shonny--
                              Shonny Schwartz--
    Rises mit der preak off day,
    Und does his chores oup righdt avay;
    For he gan vork so vell as blay,--
                              Shonny Schwartz.

    Mine Katrina says to Shonny,
                              "Shonny Schwartz,
    Helb your barents all you gan,
    For dis life vas bud a shban:
    Py und py you'll been a man,
                              Shonny Schwartz."

    How I lofes to see dot Shonny--
                              Shonny Schwartz--
    Vhen he schgampers off to schgool,
    Vhere he alvays minds der rule!
    For he vas nopody's fool,--
                              Shonny Schwartz.

    How I vish dot leedle Shonny--
                              Shonny Schwartz--
    Could remain von leedle poy,
    Alvays full off life und shoy,
    Und dot Time vould not annoy
                              Shonny Schwartz!

    Nefer mindt, mine leedle Shonny,--
                              Shonny Schwartz;
    Efry day prings someding new:
    Alvays keep der righdt in view,
    Und baddle, den, your own canoe,
                              Shonny Schwartz.

    Keep her in der channel, Shonny,--
                              Shonny Schwartz:
    Life's voyich vill pe quickly o'er;
    Und den ubon dot bedder shore
    Ve'll meet again, to bart no more,
                              Shonny Schwartz.

A BULLY BOAT AND A BRAG CAPTAIN

_A Story of Steamboat Life on the Mississippi_

BY SOL SMITH

Does any one remember the _Caravan_? She was what would now be
considered a slow boat--_then_ (1827) she was regularly advertised as
the "fast running," etc. Her regular trips from New Orleans to Natchez
were usually made in from six to eight days; a trip made by her in five
days was considered remarkable. A voyage from New Orleans to Vicksburg
and back, including stoppages, generally entitled the officers and crew
to a month's wages. Whether the _Caravan_ ever achieved the feat of a
voyage to the Falls (Louisville) I have never learned; if she did, she
must have "had a _time_ of it!"

It was my fate to take passage in this boat. The Captain was a
good-natured, easy-going man, careful of the comfort of his passengers,
and exceedingly fond of the _game of brag_. We had been out a little
more than five days, and we were in hopes of seeing the bluffs of
Natchez on the next day. Our wood was getting low, and night coming on.
The pilot on duty _above_ (the other pilot held three aces at the time,
and was just calling out the Captain, who "went it strong" on three
kings) sent down word that the mate had reported the stock of wood
reduced to half a cord. The worthy Captain excused himself to the pilot
whose watch was _below_ and the two passengers who made up the party,
and hurried to the deck, where he soon discovered by the landmarks that
we were about half a mile from a woodyard, which he said was situated
"right round yonder point." "But," muttered the Captain, "I don't much
like to take wood of the yellow-faced old scoundrel who owns it--he
always charges a quarter of a dollar more than any one else; however,
there's no other chance." The boat was pushed to her utmost, and in a
little less than an hour, when our fuel was about giving out, we made
the point, and our cables were out and fastened to trees alongside of a
good-sized wood pile.

"Hallo, Colonel! How d'ye sell your wood _this_ time?"

A yellow-faced old gentleman, with a two weeks' beard, strings over his
shoulders holding up to his armpits a pair of copperas-colored
linsey-woolsey pants, the legs of which reached a very little below the
knee; shoes without stockings; a faded, broad-brimmed hat, which had
once been black, and a pipe in his mouth--casting a glance at the empty
guards of our boat and uttering a grunt as he rose from fastening our
"spring line," answered:

"Why, Capting, we must charge you _three and a quarter_ THIS _time_."

"The d--l!" replied the Captain--(captains did swear a little in those
days); "what's the odd _quarter_ for, I should like to know? You only
charged me _three_ as I went down."

"Why, Capting," drawled out the wood merchant, with a sort of leer on
his yellow countenance, which clearly indicated that his wood was as
good as sold, "wood's riz since you went down two weeks ago; besides,
you are awar that you very seldom stop going _down_--when you're going
_up_ you're sometimes obleeged to give me a call, becaze the current's
aginst you, and there's no other woodyard for nine miles ahead; and if
you happen to be nearly out of fooel, why--"

"Well, well," interrupted the Captain, "we'll take a few cords, under
the circumstances," and he returned to his game of brag.

In about half an hour we felt the _Caravan_ commence paddling again.
Supper was over, and I retired to my upper berth, situated alongside and
overlooking the brag-table, where the Captain was deeply engaged, having
now the _other_ pilot as his principal opponent. We jogged on
quietly--and seemed to be going at a good rate.

"How does that wood burn?" inquired the Captain of the mate, who was
looking on at the game.

"'Tisn't of much account, I reckon," answered the mate; "it's
cottonwood, and most of it green at that."

"Well, Thompson--(Three aces again, stranger--I'll take that X and the
small change, if you please. It's your deal)--Thompson, I say, we'd
better take three or four cords at the next woodyard--it can't be more
than six miles from here--(Two aces and a bragger, with the age! Hand
over those V's.)."

The game went on, and the paddles kept moving. At eleven o'clock it was
reported to the Captain that we were nearing the woodyard, the light
being distinctly seen by the pilot on duty.

"Head her in shore, then, and take in six cords if it's good--see to it,
Thompson; I can't very well leave the game now--it's getting right warm!
This pilot's beating us all to smash."

The wooding completed, we paddled on again. The Captain seemed somewhat
vexed when the mate informed him that the price was the same as at the
last woodyard--_three and a quarter_; but soon again became interested
in the game.

From my upper berth (there were no staterooms _then_) I could observe
the movements of the players. All the contention appeared to be between
the Captain and the pilots (the latter personages took it turn and turn
about, steering and playing brag), _one_ of them almost invariably
winning, while the two passengers merely went through the ceremony of
dealing, cutting, and paying up their "anties." They were anxious to
_learn the game_--and they _did_ learn it! Once in a while, indeed,
seeing they had two aces and a bragger, they would venture a bet of five
or ten dollars, but they were always compelled to back out before the
tremendous bragging of the Captain or pilot--or if they did venture to
"call out" on "two bullits and a bragger," they had the mortification to
find one of the officers had the same kind of a hand, and were _more
venerable_! Still, with all these disadvantages, they continued
playing--they wanted to learn the game.

At two o'clock the Captain asked the mate how we were getting on.

"Oh, pretty glibly, sir," replied the mate; "we can scarcely tell what
headway we _are_ making, for we are obliged to keep the middle of the
river, and there is the shadow of a fog rising. This wood seems rather
better than that we took in at Yellow-Face's, but we're nearly out
again, and must be looking out for more. I saw a light just ahead on the
right--shall we hail?"

"Yes, yes," replied the Captain; "ring the bell and ask 'em what's the
price of wood up here. (I've got you again; here's double kings.)"

I heard the bell and the pilot's hail, "What's _your_ price for wood?"

A youthful voice on the shore answered, "Three _and_ a quarter!"

"D--nèt!" ejaculated the Captain, who had just lost the price of two
cords to the pilot--the strangers suffering _some_ at the same
time--"three and a quarter again! Are we _never_ to get to a cheaper
country? (Deal, sir, if you please; better luck next time.)"

The other pilot's voice was again heard on deck:

"How much _have_ you?"

"Only about ten cords, sir," was the reply of the youthful salesman.

The Captain here told Thompson to take six cords, which would last till
daylight--and again turned his attention to the game.

The pilots here changed places. _When did they sleep?_

Wood taken in, the _Caravan_ again took her place in the middle of the
stream, paddling on as usual.

Day at length dawned. The brag-party broke up and settlements were being
made, during which operation the Captain's bragging propensities were
exercised in cracking up the speed of his boat, which, by his reckoning,
must have made at least sixty miles, and _would_ have made many more if
he could have procured good wood. It appears the two passengers, in
their first lesson, had incidentally lost one hundred and twenty
dollars. The Captain, as he rose to see about taking in some _good_
wood, which he felt sure of obtaining now that he had got above the
level country, winked at his opponent, the pilot, with whom he had been
on very bad terms during the progress of the game, and said, in an
undertone, "Forty apiece for you and I and James (the other pilot) is
not bad for one night."

I had risen and went out with the Captain, to enjoy a view of the
bluffs. There was just fog enough to prevent the vision taking in more
than sixty yards--so I was disappointed in _my_ expectation. We were
nearing the shore, for the purpose of looking for wood, the banks being
invisible from the middle of the river.

"There it is!" exclaimed the Captain; "stop her!" Ding--ding--ding! went
the big bell, and the Captain hailed:

"Hallo! the woodyard!"

"Hallo yourself!" answered a squeaking female voice, which came from a
woman with a petticoat over her shoulders in place of a shawl.

"What's the price of wood?"

"I think you ought to know the price by this time," answered the old
lady in the petticoat; "it's three and a qua-a-rter! and now you know
it."

"Three and the d--l!" broke in the Captain. "What, have you raised on
_your_ wood, too? I'll give you _three_, and not a cent more."

"Well," replied the petticoat, "here comes the old man--_he'll_ talk to
you."

And, sure enough, out crept from the cottage the veritable faded hat,
copperas-colored pants, yellow countenance and two weeks' beard we had
seen the night before, and the same voice we had heard regulating the
price of cottonwood squeaked out the following sentence, accompanied by
the same leer of the same yellow countenance:

"Why, darn it all, Capting, there is but three or four cords left, and
_since it's you_, I don't care if I _do_ let you have it for
_three_--_as you're a good customer_!"

After a quick glance at the landmarks around, the Captain bolted, and
turned in to take some rest.

The fact became apparent--the reader will probably have discovered it
some time since--that _we had been wooding all night at the same
woodyard_!

WHEN THE ALLEGASH DRIVE GOES THROUGH

BY HOLMAN F. DAY

    We're spurred with the spikes in our soles;
      There is water a-swash in our boots;
    Our hands are hard-calloused by peavies and poles,
      And we're drenched with the spume of the chutes;
    We gather our herds at the head,
      Where the axes have toppled them loose,
    And down from the hills where the rivers are fed
      We harry the hemlock and spruce.

    We hurroop them with the peavies from their sullen beds of snow;
    With the pickpole for a goadstick, down the brimming streams we go;
    They are hitching, they are halting, and they lurk and hide and dodge,
    They sneak for skulking-eddies, they bunt the bank and lodge;
    And we almost can imagine that they hear the yell of saws
    And the grunting of the grinders of the paper-mills, because
    They loiter in the shallows and they cob-pile at the falls,
    And they buck like ugly cattle where the broad dead-water crawls;
    But we wallow in and welt 'em, with the water to our waist,
    For the driving pitch is dropping and the drouth is gasping "Haste"!
    Here a dam and there a jam, that is grabbed by grinning rocks,
    Gnawed by the teeth of the ravening ledge that slavers at our flocks;
    Twenty a month for daring Death--for fighting from dawn to dark--
    Twenty and grub and a place to sleep in God's great public park;
    We roofless go, with the cook's bateau to follow our hungry crew--
    A billion of spruce and hell turned loose when the Allegash drive goes
        through.

        My lad with the spurs at his heel
          Has a cattle-ranch bronco to bust;
        A thousand of Texans to wheedle and wheel
          To market through smother and dust;
        But I with the peavy and pole
          Am driving the herds of the pine,
        Grant to my brother what suits his soul,
          But no bellowing brutes in mine.

    He would wince to wade and wallow--and I hate a horse or steer!
    But we stand the kings of herders--he for There and I for Here;
    Though he rides with Death behind him when he rounds the wild stampede,
    I will chop the jamming king-log and I'll match him deed for deed;
    And for me the greenwood savor, and the lash across my face
    Of the spitting spume that belches from the back-wash of the race;
    The glory of the tumult where the tumbling torrent rolls,
    With half a hundred drivers riding through with lunging poles;
    Here's huzza, for reckless chances! Here's hurrah for those who ride
    Through the jaws of boiling sluices, yeasty white from side to side!
    Our brawny fists are calloused, and we're mostly holes and hair,
    But if grit were golden bullion we'd have coin to spend and spare!

    Here some rips and there the lips of a whirlpool's bellowing mouth,
    Death we clinch and Time we fight, for behind us gasps the Drouth;
    Twenty a month, bateau for a home, and only a peep at town,
    For our money is gone in a brace of nights after the drive is down;
    But with peavies and poles and care-free souls our ragged and roofless
        crew
    Swarms gayly along with whoop and song when the Allegash drive goes
        through.