Hed poedes hie se Sas spt Nt ja Fed 5 Eek Hb oes cons ne gies Ele ees neat af Ew orn eg Pet spel Met eter es 5. x +7 ay Srisrh Ae eetarsestarst stat : : iris trees pes ¥ tata © ~ Rais Seepet oy epee set tiears ae 4 az a sah ty: £ #3. eo Roy EIEN Sag Bak ote eaereg ss: + ¥ mores (ow ade tenn rear ws Det hte + Dh kee pl peep eaten gen Gem ange hp iv rs t+ 250 Per eranr ote ays yay" Les + oC nmemerers . S| . THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS ~ LIBRARY C08 Shi7e Return this book on or before the Latest Date stamped below. University of Illinois Library L161—H41 { od Choice Dialect Characterizations Containing Readings and Recitations in frish, German Scotch, French, Negre and other Dialects Compiled by CHARLES C. SHOEMAKER Philadelphia The Penn 7 Publishing Company 1924 - 5 ote. -" ae CONTENTS. dnpze’s Ticket . Apples—A Negro Lecture... . Aunt Parson’s Story ......e. Aunt Sophronia Tabor at the Opera . Be Content Chak Bre NIK Seon Vea Sev aay SN) ‘Bevare of the Vidders ..... Biddy’s Trials Among the Yankees . . . Harper’s Bazar. Biddy McGinnis at the Photographer’s IBONnBIe Sweet JessiG: 5 5. 66s gfe eis in ee ia ale erie SOG (UAEEAI 1/5 ahs eel, y rw yo! oo) ode He AUTK:, | e KBr ieeaiotinn Journal eee 2 © © © © ee 7 e e© © © © & +6 oe @ © © © © @ Bravest of the Brave .......+.- . RB. J. Burdette MERAH hoes se ee eh sae a Cabm Hove SONG isos .6.s6 he ee Coffee My Mother Used to Make, The . Cultured Daughter of a Plain Grocer, The ....... Dat YallerGown........... . Charles H. Turner De Preacher an’ de Hants, ...... Der Deutschers Maxim. ....... « Charles F. Adams od. A, Macon . . dames Whitcomb Riley ° of © © . William H. Hayne PETAL OD MOTITIOG chy eh tei akcai eke lata iw oe AED eels g Diftidence . . Dutchman’s Testimony in aSteamboat Case,A ..... Earthquake in Egypt, The... . _ Examination in History, An . . RAMP AUS BRU Tea hel a a ialjarce: aie PAPURGTAL THOR Aer), Goes lies ees > Babe and the Irish Lady .... . Grandfather’s Rose. ...... Grandpa’s Courtship ...... ; He Guessed He'd Fight .... -~ How Pat Went Courting .... - Inasmuch (It’s Vera Weel . REPEN PRE wii- Wettelhs " Jimmie’s Prayer BPS GULe Nels kos risks COQUCLEY, 6.5 a .'42's) 0:0) 06 . Kit; or, Faithful Unto Death _ } - KyartinaJim .... om) Choice Dialects. “ee @ © © © @ © © @ @ _ Inventor’s Wife, The. ..... Engineer’s story, The ........ ' Evening Song on the Plantation . - Eugene ‘ Hall. . J. A. Macon. - Charles F. yee, . Wili Carleton ° - Mary E. C. Wyeth . . Mary A. Denison. . . Helen Whitney Clark | Wallace Bruce . . Mrs, E. T. Corbett . Wallace Dunbar . Boston Transcript . ce . 191 iv CONTENTS. Larry’s On the Force. ...... « . Irwin Russell. 2... 22 os Sh Light From Over the Range, The . . ... . 1% «<3 s 0s ee we 6 » 100 Life's Game of Ball... . . ie WA eee we ey. Mary O’Connor, the Volunteer’s Wife . - Mary A. Deniioale sijn a, ofeanemin Se Mischievous Daisy ......... . .Jounna Matthews. .....-.. 88 Mother's Doughnuts . ..,. .... » » Charles F. Adams ...,.... 144 Mr. Schmidt's Mistake ........ . Charles F. Adams ....... 8 Mausic‘of ‘the: Past, ‘Lhe c pete ier ter oit leh ar yale gee Aone aw ae 2 26) ion sapere OSES Mutilated Currency Question, The. . . . Brooklyn Eagle. ........ 17 Neighbors... . 2... + AROS, Wek Meera rs ion AM APL ein Sof ulce Le. to Old: Woman's Love: Story. fe Giaits vo) cde. we UA eb nies tivealte Ueiee oe eae ** Ole Marsters” Christmas, The. . . . .Sam W. Small .......-+. I41 Over the Crossin’ .... 4... . Springfield Republican ..... 31 PACS LOttery ie. sive. <~ eMies) a )ieale we ‘ells sells gi etga se ow ce! leutwih wf tale Pine Town Debating Society, The. ..... 2s ae), le th ag, 18 Sa ee Prayer, Thee.) cies | | Wilt Carleton PPE eres re Pe Sable: Theology, es) ie ete whe on Ee os LEAGOT] Y)\6 op eitelthy leet eh) «lemme EE Schneider's Tomatoes... 5°... s) ). Charles F, Adams «2... sake Simons Wife’s Mother Lay Sick ofa Fever ....... © 6a iat Sar! Speak Nae Til as eet fel, on cas - ere ae Mire ea ai ieee tyke Wye OE Street Gamin’s Story of the Play, A .......: CE aS a se bea he ie ‘“Teamster Jim’” i... 06's ste aces pbs Je Durdele si. tee else eee ext Without aisermon, As teeny eae. yee sikesle! he Pare A Petje): Thet Boy Oy OBrw is. 8 ek ite cas «a te dere De Brown 2°.) \oseue c eel ona rea Tim Murphy Stow |«.\s. 2 0% fe acs. < NEIGHO ORS. The preacher preach so plain on dress? It hit some folks so clear! Miss Primrose colored, like a beet— You know she wore a feather; An’ Sarah Grimes was awful mad— It hit ’em both together. I wonder if Squire Pettibone Hain’t got a bran new wig? I really do dislike that man, He feels so awful big! You saw him walking t’other night Along with Katherine Snyder? Miss Perkins, that’]l make a match, [ll bet a pint of cider. The deacon’s son is waitin’ on _ Miss Grimes’ cousin Rose— What for, do you suppose ? I hardly think he’ll marry her ; His father won’t be willin’, For she’s as poor as poor can be— She isn’t worth a shillin’. I suppose you knew Mariar Smith © Had named her darter Lily ; Vd call her Cabbage, Hollyhock— That aint a bit more silly. Miss Perkins, have you heard about That fuss with Peleg Brown? - You hain’t! Why goodness, gracious me, It’s all about the town! 14 NETGHBORS. They think he cheats his customers A-sellin’ salaratus, An’ say they’ve ketched his oldest son A-stealin’ green tomatoes. Of course you’ve heard the talk that’s round About the widder Hatch; — They say she’s after Thomas Sweet, And that’ll be a match. Her husband haint been dead six months, An’ now she wants another ; She’d never be my da’ter-in-law, If I was Thomas’ mother. Have I heard of the weddin’? No! Who, underneath the sun ? John Wait and Huldy Robinson! Miss Perkin’s, you’re in fun ; Why, he’s as much as fifty-two, And Huldy isn’t twenty ; But then you know the reason why— The old fool’s cash is plenty. Miss Perkins, now, ’twixt you and I, My Betsey an’ your Ann Are smart as any girls in town Deservin’ of a man. That spruce young clerk in Woodard’s store, As I was just remarkin’, Was here till ten last Sunday night— I guess he thinks o’ sparkin’. Miss Perkins, are you going now? One thing I’d like to know— DAT YALLER GOWN. 18 _ (Go bring her bonnet, Betsey Jane)— What makes you hurry so? Your bonnet’s just as nice as new— T swan it’s right in fashion ; Them ruffles an’ them gethers here Are really very dashin’. Oh:! yes, Miss Perkins, I shall come. You must come down ag’in; You haven’t been here in so long, It really is a sin! Good a’ternoon! Yes, Betsey Jane Shall come an’ see your da’ter. There! Isshe gone? I really hope She got what she was a’ter! In all my life I never did See such a tattlin’ critter. They ought to call her “ Scandal Bones ”== I’m sure the name would fit her. \ Is’pose I must return her call, But I wasn’t sociable at all. DAT YALLER GOWN. Ly de cutes’ pickaninny Eber bo’n in dis heah town ; -Dey’s none sich in ole Virginny As him in dat yaller gown. yo’ nebber seed a chile so kearful ’*Bout his cloze; dey’s al’us clean; _ Jes’ to speck ’em hurts ‘im fearful— De proudes’ chile yo’ ebber seen! © i6 DAT YALLER GOWN. Bress his heart! Jes’ heah ’im holler? Han’sum, aint he? Like his dad; De gander, now, he’s tryin’ to foller; Down he goes! Dat makes him mad. Jump up spry, now, Alexander ; Kearful! Doan ye see dat mud ? Heah me, chile! yo’ll riz my dander,’ If ye sile dat bran new dud! Stop dis instep! stop dat sprawlin’! Hi! yo’ Alexander Brown! Dar’s a puddle, an’ yer crawlin’ To’ard it wid yer yaller gown! See yo’self, now, jes a-drippin’ Wid dat black degustful sile, Keeps me half de time a-strippin’ Off yer cloze—ye nasty chile. Pay distenshum whan I holler! ’*Fo’ de Lawd! chile, suah’s yer bo’n, If I ebber see yo’ waller In dat hole ag’in, yer gone. Come dis way! Yes, dat’s my t’ankin’; Nex’ time look out whar ye go; Yer desarvin’ sich a spankin’ As yer nebber had befo’! Aint yer ’shamed, yeh good-fo’-nuffin’ Little niggah ? ’T sarved ye right, Case yer al’us inter suffin’ Silin’, if it’s in yer sight. THE MUTILATED CURRENCY QUESTION. 17 Dar ; now what’s de good in bawlin’? Dat won’t slick yer gown ag’in ; Yo’ air de wustest ’coon fer crawlin’ In de mud I ebber seen. CHARLES H. TURNER, THE MUTILATED CURRENCY QUESTION, “7 CAN’T take that nickel,” said a horse-car conductor to a man who got in at the City Hall. “Vat vos de matter mit dat goin?” asked the passen- ger blandly. “Tt’s no good. It’s got a hole it,” replied the con- ductor gruffly. “Ish dot so? Off you plase show me dot hole.” “Look at it. We can’t take any such money as that.” . “Oxcuse me,” smiled the passenger, and he handed over a dime. “ 'That’s worse yet,” growled the conductor. “Vas dot dime full of holes too?” asked the passen- ger, looking up innocently. _“ Here’s a whole side chipped out. We aint allowed to take mutilated money,’ and the conductor handed it back. “So?” inquired the passenger, “ hav you got changes for heluf a dollar?” and he passed over another coin. “ What's this?” asked the conductor, contemptuously, * Tt’s as bald as a deacon. There ain’t a scratch on it te show whether it’s an overcoat button or a skating rink. Haven’t you got any money ?” “Vell I should make smiles!” said the passenger, good-humeredly. “Here is fifo tollar, and you can 18 WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK. baste it together ven you got some leisures. Haf you ‘got changes off dot fife dollars?” and he handed over a bill torn in four or eight pieces. “I don’t want no more fooling,’ said the conductor. “If you can’t pay your fare get off” “Vell, don’t make so many droubles. I vill bay you,” and he pulled out a Mexican quarter. ‘“ Gif me bennies,” he suggested. “ Look here, are you going to pay your fare, or not ?” “Of gourse. May be you vas vating for dat moneys,” and he took back his ra and submitted an English sixpence. “ Now you get off this car!’ roared the conductor. “Vere has dose cars got by?” asked the passenger, rising to obey. “Fulton Ferry!” said the conductor. “Den I may as vell get owit. You dell dem gompa- nies dot some dimes dey make more money as oder dimes, off dey dook voteffer dey got, instead of going mitout nodings, don’t it ?” And the smiling passenger, having ridden to the end of the line, crossed the ferry, observing to himself: * Dot vas petter off I safe such moneys, und some dimes I go owit to East Nyarich, und it don’d gost me ne more as nodings at all.” 8 BrRooKkLyn EAGLE. WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK. TRANGER here? Yes, come from Varmont, Rutland County. You’ve hearn tell, ‘Mebbe, of the town of Granville? You born there? No! Sho! Well, weil! WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK. 19 You was born at Granville, was you? Then you know Elisha Brown, Him as runs the old meat market At the lower end of town? Well, well, well! Born down in Granville, And out here, so far away ! Stranger, I’m home sick already, Though it’s but a week to-day Since I left my good wife standin’ Out there at the kitchen door, _ Sayin’ she’d ask God to keep me; And her eyes were runnin’ o’er. You must know old Albert Wither Henry Bull, and Ambrose Cole, Know them all! And born in Granville? Well, well, well! God bless my soul! Sho! you’re not old Isaac’s nephew, Isaac Green, down on the flat, Isaac’s oldest nephew—Henry ? Well, I'd never thought of that! Have I got a hundred dollars I could loan you for a minute, Till you buy a horse at Marcy’s? -There’s my wallet! Just that in it! Hold on, though! You have ten, mebbe, You could let me keep ; you see _I might chance to need a little Betwixt now and half-past three. Ten. That’sit; you’ll owe me ninety; _ Bring it round to the hotel. So you’re old friend Isaac’s nephew ? Born in Granville! Sho! Well, well! What! Policeman! Did you call me? 20 . PAT’S LETTER, That a rascal going there ? Well, sir, do you know I thought so, And I played him pretty fair ; Hundred-dollar bill I gave him Counterfeit—and got his ten! Ten ahead! No! You don’t tell me! This bad, too! Sho! Sold again! ANON. — PAT’S LETTER. ELL, Mary, me darlint, ’'m landed at last, And troth, though they tell me the st’amer was fast It sames as if years upon years had gone by Since Paddy looked intill yer beautiful eye! For Amerikay, darlint—ye’ll think it is quare— is twinty times furder than Cork from Kildare; And the say is that broad, and the waves are that high, Ye’re tossed, like a fut-ball, ’twixt wather and shky ; And ye fale like a pratie just burstin’ the shkin, That all ye can do is to howld yersilf in. Ochone! but, me jewel, the say may be grand: But whin ye come over, dear, thravel,by land! It’s a wondherful counthry this—so I am towld— Ihey’ll not look at guineas, so chape is the gowld; And the three that poor mother sewed into my coat [ sowld for a thrifle, on l’aving the boat, And the quarest of fashions ye iver have seen! They pay ye with picters all painted in green. And the crowds that are rushing here, morning and night, PAT’S LETTER. 2) Would make the Lord Lieutenant. shake with the fright, _ The strates are that full that there’s no one can pass, And the only law is, “ Do not tread on the grass.” Their grass is the quarest of shows—by me vow— For it wouldn’t be munched by a Candlemas cow. Tell father I wint, as he bid me, to see His friend, Tim O’Shannon, from Killycaughnee. It’s rowling in riches O’Shannon is now, With a wife and tin babies, six pigs and a cow, In a nate little house, standing down from the strate, - With two beautiful rooms, and a pig-stye complate. I thought of ye, darlint, and dramed such a drame! That mebbe, some day, we'd be living the same; Though, troth, Tim O’Shannon’s wife niver could dare (Poor yaller-skinned crayther) with you to compare ; While as for the pigs, shure twas aisy to see The bastes were not mint for this land of the free. _ J think of ye, darlint, from morning till night ; _ And whin I’m not thinking, ye’re still in me sight! I see your blue eyes, with the sun in their glance— Your smile in the meadow, your fut in the dance. I'll love ye, and thrust ye, both living and dead! (Let Phil Blake look out for his carroty head!) Tm working, acushla, for you—only you! And Ill make ye a lady yit, if ye’ll be thrue; Though, troth, ye can’t climb Fortune’s laddher @ quick, Whin both of your shouldhers are loaded with brick. But I'll do it—I declare it, by—this and by that— ‘Which manes what I daren’t say—from Your own Pat. 22 THE PRAYER. THE PRAYER. WAS anight of dread in Charleston, and the air was thick with fear: Never yet had such a terror dropped its raven mantle here ; Never yet had deathly sorrow had so strange and sudden birth : As upon the visitation of this tempest of the earth. For the startled ground was surging as the waves of stormy seas, And the belfries of the churches fell like stricken forest trees, And the walls that long had lorded over seen and unseen foe ’ Covered thick with costly ruins this tornado from below. There were some who prayed God’s presence, who to God had long been near; There were some for help a Oe with repentance made of fear; There were some who raved in madness through the ° long and murderous night ; There were corses calmly waiting for a mourner’s tearful sight. And that dark race whose religion has a superstitious trend, | | And whose superstition ciambers toward an everlasting Friend, ee oe — -s THE PRAYER. 95 They were shouting in their frenzy, or in terror meekly dumb, For they thought the opening signal of the Judgment. day had come. But there sudden rose among them one of earth’s un- tutored kings, One of those unlooked-for leaders whom an hour of danger brings, And he prayed—as souls are apt to, full of arauty and love— Partly to the souls around him, partly to the God above. And he said: “I guess it’s come, Lawd—dis yer day dat’s stayed so long— For de symptoms all aroun’ here dey be mos’ tremend- ous strong ; But we aint quite ready yet, Lawd, neber min’ how well prepared ; We feel safe in Thy good mercy, but we’re eberlastin’ scared ! - For You see we’re mos’ly human when de grave comes re'lly nigh, An’ de spirit wants its freedom, but de flesh it hates to die ! We've been teasin’ You for hebben all de summer long, I know; But we aint in half de ie dat we was awhile ago. ve When we come to look it over in de light ob pain an’. fear, Dere is holes in all our armor dat at first view didn’t appear ; 24 THE PRAYER. An’ we'd like to patch ’em over, if it’s all de same to You; Put it off a yeah, for certain—or perhaps You’d make it two! | “Then we’ve got some poor relations who may neber see Thy face If dey do not earn de riches ob de sin-destroyin’ grace; Lord, protect dem wid Thy patience, jus’ de same like as before, An’ keep diggin’ roun’ dose fig-trees for anudder year or more! “Let dem off a little longer! In de light ob dis event Dey may recognize de season as a fine one to repent ! Dey will like Ye when dey know Ye, an’ be glad to enter in, An’ dere’s some dat’s awful good, Lawd, ef 1t wasn’t for deir sin ! “ Dis yer world has lots of fine folks, who 1s anxious, I’m afraid, Fore to pick a little longer fore dey have deir baskets weighed ; An’ dere’d be a large major’ty who would vote, 1t must be owned, For to hab de world’s big fun’ral eberlastin’ly pos’- poned ! *“An’ You know, O good dear Fathah, dat Your time is all home-made, Aa’ a thousan’ years is nothin’ m your golden steel- yards weighed ; ‘THE PRAYER. 95 Keep de same ol’ footstool yet, Lawd; hol’ it steady, I implore ! It'll maybe suit You better if you use it jes once more! “But ob co’se our weak-eyed wisdom’s like a rain-drop in de sea, An’ we aint got any business to be mendin’ plans for Thee ; : If it’s time to leave dese quarters an’ go somewhar else to board, Make de journey jes as easy as Your justice can afford! “ An’ we know You hab a fondness for de average human soul, So we'll hab consid’ble courage .at de callin’ ob de roll; ~ You’re our sure ’nuff livin’ Fathah—You’re our fathah’s God an’ frien’— _ To de Lawd. be praise an’ glory, now an’ evermore! Amen!” "Twas a day of peace in Charleston, after many days of dread, And the shelterless were sheltered, and the hungry had been fed ; And the death-invaded city through its misery now could grope, And look forward to a future fringed with happinesg and hope. | And those faithful dusky Christians will maintain for evermore That the fervent prayers they offered. drove destruction from their shore; SPRATT Re hee RELY Mig Ate ts PASTA, Uy cd Be kan er wae ek ae Merah a ee ha By E Oye 26 SPEAK NAE ILL. And how much faith moves a mountain, or commands a rock to stay, Is unknown to earthly ignorance, and for only God to say Wii .CARLETON. BE CONTENT. AW ye ne’er a lonely lassie, Thinkin’ gin she were a wife, The sun of joy wad ne’er gae down, But warm and cheer her a’ her life? Saw ye ne’er a weary wife, Thinkin’ gin she were a lass, She wad aye be blithe and cheerie, Lightly as the day wad pass. Wives and lassies, young and aged, Think na on each ither’s state ; Ilka ane it has its crosses, Mortal joy was ne’er complete. Ilka ane it has its blessings, Peevish dinna pass them by, But like choicest berries seek them, Tho’ among the thorns they lie. SPEAK NAE ILL. THER people have their faults, And so have you as well; But all ye chance to see or hear Ye have no right to teil. A STREET GAMIN’S STORY OF THE PLAY. N If ye canna speak 0’ good, » Take care, and see and feel ; Earth has all too much o’ woe, And not enough o’ weal. Be careful that ye make nae strife Wi meddling tongue and brain ; For ye will find enough to do If ye but look at hame. If ye canna speak 0’ good, Oh! dinna speak at all; For there is grief and woe enough On this terrestrial ball. If ye should feel like picking flaws, Ye better go, I ween, And read the book that tells ye all About the mote and beam. Dinna lend a ready ear To gossip or to strife, Or perhaps ’twill make for ye Nae sunny things of life. Oh! dinna add to others’ woe, _ Nor mock it with your mirth ; But give ye kindly sympathy To suffering ones of earth. A STREET GAMIN’S STORY OF THE PLAY. : (s small boys were looking at the large black and q red posters on the boards in front of a Bowery _ variety theatre. The larger of the boys wore a man’s 28 A STREET GAMIN’S STORY OF THE PLAY. overcoat, the sleeves of which had been shortened by rolling them up till his red and grimy hands protruded. The big coat was open in front, revealing a considerable expanse of cotton shirt. His hands were thrust in his trousers’ pockets. The visor of his heavy wool cap had come loose, except at the ends, and it rested on his nose. His smaller companion wore a jacket and trousers that were much too smalleven for lim. His hat was of black felt and of the shape of a sugar loaf. His eyes were round with wonder at the story his friend in the big overcoat was telling him. It seemed to be a synopsis of the play, scenes in which were pictured on the boards. “This duffer,” said the boy, taking one hand from his pockets and pointing to the picture of a genteel man with a heavy black moustache, “is the vill’n. It begins wid him comin’ on the stage, and sayin’: “*« What, ho! Not here yet?’ “Then an Eyetalian wid big whiskers—he’s the vill‘u’s pall—comes on, and the vill’n tells him the girl mus’ be did away wid, so he can get the boodle. “* How mucha you giv-a,’ says the Eyetalian. “* Five thousand dollars, says the vill’n, and they makes the bargain. The EHyetalian is goin’ to make b’lieve that the girl is his’n, git her away f’m her friends, and kill her. While they is makin’ the bargain a Dutchman comes out, an’ says he: “Maybe yer don’t was tink I haf heard sometings, don’t it? I vill safe dot girl!’ “The next scene is in a big, fine house. An’ old woman all dressed up swell is tellin’ a young feller that the girl is heir to fifty thousand dollars, an’ dey don’t know who her fader and mudder was. The young feller tells his mudder that he don’t care who her folks } , | A STREET GAMIN’S STORY OF THE PLAY. 29 was, an’ that he’ll marry her anyway, even if she is blind. The ole woman goes out, and a be-youtiful girl - comes in, pawin’ the air ’cause she’s blind and can’t see, and says she to the young chap: “¢ It can’t never be !’ “The feller don’t b’lieve her, an’ tells her she’s given’ him ah After a lot of coaxin’ she owns up that she is, an’ he spreads out his fins and hollers: _ “«Then you do love me, Marie? and she tumbles. “Then an ole man wid a white wig comes in—he’s the doctor—an’ he looks at the girl’s eyes an’ says that he can cure ’em but it may kill her. He takes out two bottles and says: “Tn this is sump’ n that'll put yer into a sleep. Will uct risk it ?” ‘ Be this me answer,’ said the girl, an’ she swallers the bottle an’ tips over on the lounge. “Just before the doctor is goin’ to fix her eyes, the Kyetalian jumps in an’ says: ~ “¢ Where is mai poor childa?’ an’ he won’t let the doctor do anythin’. There is a big row, an’ the Dutch- man comes in an’ says : «She don’t vas his child.’ © But the Eyetalian lugs her off, an’ the vill’n—he turns out to be her cousin—gets all the money. “The next scene is in the street. The Eyetalian an’ the be-youtiful girl all dressed in rags comes along, and she says: “Tm s-0-0 tired.’ “¢ How mucha money you gotta?’ says the Eyetalian, an’ she says she haint got no money. Then he goes to kill her, an’ the Dutchman hops out an’ yells: “¢ You macaroni dago,’ an’ the Hyetalian lights out. 0 A STREET GAMIN’S STORY OF THE PLAY. “ The Dutchman he takes the girl into his house, ar comes out into the street. The girl’s feller comes along, an’ while they is talkin’ the Eyetalian sneaks back and steals the girl away. But the Dutchman’s dog follers _him and shows the way to the cop an’ the Dutchman when they finds out that the girl is gone. They find her in a place where lots of Eyetalians is playin’ poker. There’s a big row agin, an’ the girl is took out an’ car- ried back to her home. In the row the Eyetalian gets all chawed up by the Dutchman’s dog, the cop lugs him off, an’ he’s sent up for ten years. “In the last act the girl’s eyes has been fixed, an’ she’s sittin’ on the piazzer. The papers has been found an’ the vill’n has hollered, ‘ I’m |-host, I’m l’host !’ The girl is sayin’ how glad she'll be to see her feller an’ look into his eyes, when the Eyetalian, who has skipped the ranch, comes cr-e-e-pin’ along in striped togs, an’ says he to hisself: “* T will now have mia r-r-ey ene? ; “The lights is turned down, an’ the big fiddle sis zub-zub, zub-zub. “The Eyetalian creeps up and grabs the OL Ah young girl and hollers, ‘I will killa you! an’ pulls a big knife out of his breeches’ pocket. The young girl yells, an’ jest as he’s going to jab her wid the knife, they all rushes in, an’ the darkey pulls out a pop an’ lets the Eyetalian have it in the ribs, and the Eyetalian © tumbles down an’ squirms, an’ the be-youtiful young girl faints away in her feller’s arms, an’ down goes the curtain.” ANON. = ee OVER THE CROSSIN’. 81 OVER THE CROSSIN’. “ QYHINE? shine, sor? Ye see, I’m just a-dien: Ter turn yer boots inter glass Where ye’ll see all the sights in the winders *Ithout lookin’ up as yer pass. Seen me before? I’ve no doubt, sor; I’m punctooal haar, yer know, Waitin’ along the crossin’ Fur a little un’, name o’ Joe; . My brother, sor, an’ a cute un’, Ba’ly turned seven, an’ small, — ; But gettin’ his livin’ grad’ely : Tendin’ a bit uv a stall Fur Millerkins down the av’nue; Yer kin bet that young un’s smart— Worked right in like a vet’run BN Since th’ old un’ gin ’im a start. * Folks say he’s a picter o’ father, Once mate o’ the ‘ Lucy Lee’— Lost when Joe wor a baby, Way off in some furrin sea. Then mother kep’ us together, Though nobody thought she would, : _ An’ worked an’ slaved an’ froze an’ starved Uz long uz ever she could. - An’ since she died an’ left us, - A couple o’ year ago, We've kep’ right on in Cragg Alley, A-housekeepin’—I an’ Joe. — I'd just got my kit when she went, sor, 32 OVER THE CROSSIN’. An’ people helped us a bit, So we managed to get on somehow ; Joe wus allus a brave little chit ; An’ since he’s got inter bisness, Though we don’t ape princes an’ sich, *Taint of’n we git right hungry, An’ we feel pretty tol’able rich. *T used to wait at the corner, Jest over th’ other side; But the notion o’ bein’ tended Sort o’ ruffled the youngster’s pride, So now I only watches To see that he’s safe across ; Sometimes it’s a bit o’ waitin’, But, bless yer, ’taint no loss! Look! there he is now, the rascal ! Dodgin’ across the street Ter s’prise me—an’—look! Im goin’= He’s down by the horses’ feet !” Suddenly all had happened— The look, the cry, the spring, The shielding Joe as a bird shields Its young with sheltering wing; Then up the full street of the city A pause of the coming rush, And through all the din and the tumult, A painful minute of hush ; A tumble of scattered brushes, As they lifted him up to the walk, A gathering of curious faces, And snatches of whispered talk; t Ee a ee ee THEY BOY OV OURN. 33 Little Joe all trembling beside him On the flagging, with gentle grace Pushing the tangled, soft brown hair Away from the still, white face. At his touch the shut lids lifted, And swift over lip and eye _ Came a glow as when the morning Flushes the eastern sky ; And a hand reached out to his brother, As the words came low but clear— * Joe, I reckon ye mind our mother: A minute back she wor here, Smilin’ an’ callin’ me to her! - I tell ye, Pm powerful glad Yer such a brave, smart youngster: The leavin’ yer aint so bad. Hold hard to the right things she learnt us, An’ allus keep honest an’ true; Good-bye, Joe—but mind, I’ll be watchin’ Just—over—tbe crossin’—fur you !” SPRINGFIELD REPUBLICAN. ~~ = YOET BOY OV OURN. HY. Jevds S-ey, as Pm alive! Come in an’ take a cheer; Ye hain’t be’n ia for quite a spell—it seems a’most a ‘year. [ tho’t I heerd a rappin’ tew, an’ yit I wa’n’t quite shoar, But I hadn’t the slight’st idee, my child, thet you was at the door. 3 $4 THET BOY OV OURN. Take off yer things. No? Jes’ drop’t in? Why, Linda, can’t ye stay? I’m lo’some now since Dan’l’s ded; I miss ’im ev’ry day. *Twould cheer me up ef ye wd stop, for when I set alone I think uv thet wild boy uv ourn, an’ grieve, an’ sigh, an’ groan. I know it’s—mighty weak—in me to take on so’fore you, (Why can’t—I find thet—hankercher) an’ yit what kin I deu? so Nee ee a Ef’t want fer sheddin’ now an’ shbht I think my heart ud bust, Fer in sortin’ out our trials I b’leve the Lord gev me the wust. Mebbe ye’d like to heer, my chile, jes’ what I’ve hed to bear ; { haint Be many people yit—ther haint be’n many here. I’m a’most allus feered to start I git to snifflin’ so, But I'll try to keep the flood-gates shet an’ not go ‘long — tew slow. Jes’ fifteen year ago this month, on a shiny Sabbith — morn, Es the bells wuz ringin’ fer sinner an’ saint, thet boy uv ourn wuz born. We gev the boy a Script’ral name which wuz Eliakim; But, Linda Grey, thet godly name wuz very onfit fer him. . i é THET BOY OV OURN. 38 { spoze ther’s some good reason why our futur’s allus ’ sealed, : An’ p’raps it’s jes’ as well fer me thet mine haint be’n revealed ; Rut ef I’d know’d a leetle ahead, I’d made some things more trim By namin’ thet boy Beelzebub instid uv Eliakim, Heigh hum! - Dan’l an’ me set hope on Li, our fust an’ only child, 3 Fer we b’leved the Lord thet Sabbith day had looked on him an’ smiled: So ’fore he’d be’n on airth we both on us agreed To make a preacher outen ’im for sowin’ the blessid seed. But life is mighty thwartin’, chile (I feered I’d act this way), : 'N it’s no, use layin’ o’ plans, I find —not even fer to-day & Age ee Rete An’, Linda, you may profit by one moril I hey gleaned, its never chuse yer child’s career a year afore it’s weaned. Resumin’ , Liakim grow’d an’ thruva an’ made me worlds 0 care, Fer instid 0’ sowin’ the seed, I feered he’d nike. a sower o’ tare. He never tuck to useful books, an’ tore up all my tracks, He liked sech works es “Snakefoot Jim,” with flarin’ yeller backs. { had ter thrash ’im ev’ry day, an’ Sundays allus twice; Fer tho’ I talked a heap tew im I used the strap fer spice ; 36 THET BOY OV _OURN. But the more I talked an’ the more I strapped the wus he seemed to git, An’ one night Dan’l askt o’ me ef ’twan’t about time to quit. * Jane,” sez he (I see ’im now a closin’ the blessid book) “T’gin to fear we've missed our pints a viewin’ the course we've took. I'd think es soon o’ countin’ the stars, or spungin’ up the sea, Ex drivin’ thet boy ter Zion, an’ makin’ ’im bend the knee. “T tell ye, wife, our tactics’ wrong, we’ve ben a heap tew strict, The strap’s a good subdooar shoar, but never will convict. Take this advice, or never hope to realize your dream ; Use milk o’ human kindness some, an’ don’t skim off the cream.” “ Dan’l Clack,” sez I, “look here”—fer I got rates vexed— “Sence you’ve sot out to preach tew me I’ll jes’ give ye a text: ‘Spare the rod an’ spile the chile ;’ you’ve sed the same afore ; So while ther’s life I’ll persevere, an’ talk an’ thrash the more.” He didn’t say a single word, but look’d at me so sad; (I never speak o’ that—somehow—but what I break out bad.) THET BOY OV OURN. 37 Fer though we've traveled side by side fer nigh to twenty year, Thet wuz the fust an’ unly time thet things got out 0’ gear. ‘What? Seven o’clock? I’m keepin’ ye; I’m a’most done, my chile, ‘Liakim grow’d no better fast, an’ I got fairly wild; _ An’ the more I struv, the more he struv, an’ got from bad to wus, Until fer stubbornness I tho’t he’d beat the most pervus. He kind o’ tuck to Dan somehow mor’n he did to me, An’ how the man controlled the chile I wan’t quite y clear tew see, But now them words flow through my mind in one con- tinuous stream, “ Use the milk 0’ aes kindness some, an’ don’t skim off the cream.” Heigh hum! _I tried to keep ’im in the house, an’ from corruptin’ boys; But he’d git out an’ jine the gang, an’ top the rest fer noise. He’d play fer keeps, an’ go to shows, an’ run to all the | fires, Till I ’most tho’t my fondest hopes were nothin’ but vain desires. He come a shameful thing on me in open church one day, I'd led ’im to the anxious seat to hev ’im seek the way; SE OL et EVER Pt Ny, pity een tae keel ny) SNL We WIA PLD SAUER ANP tet a A a a Se aris EAR LOR CT LS eR D ON ON ee a Ea ; , PRES VUh a mai to 2 e 38 THET BOY OV OURN. But afore I got thet torment down, he slipped his hand an’ run, An’ left me standin’, while the folks wuz snickerin’ et the fun. But after awhile the climack came, as climacks will, ye know, An’ then I ’gin to b’leve ’twuz true thet “ Life’s a fleetin’ show.” | You see I hed one Bible, chile, I allus kep’ fer nice— I think in fifteen year or more, I used it only twice. But one day our good old elder called, so I got out thet book, An’ when he ’gin to hunt the place I stood ss? horror struck— Fer in betwixt them precious leaves, an’ right afore Elder Slim, Wuz scattered a pack o’ greasy keards that b’ longed to — ’Liakim. "Course I fainted thar an’ then, an’ Elder Slim went’ | home, | I tuck so sick ’twas thirteen days afore I left my room; — But afore I tuck I flailed thet ’Li,in a way I’d call intense, | An’ thet same night he lef’ the house an’ hain’t ben — nigh it sence. ' Wal, chile, ’twas terrible bad for me an’ made my spirits | low To think I struv so powerful hard, fer Satan tew flank § me so; 1 Ne ee THE TRIBULATIONS OF BIDDY MALONE. 39 An’ then (I hev to ery or drown) ’ ef I hadn't enough ~ tew bear, Dan’ he tuck the aning so hard—he died—in less ’n a year. An’ now I’m spendin’ this life alone; no husban’, nor no boy ; An’ bidin’ the time when I shill try a life without alloy ; But, chile, ef you should hey a son an’ chuse the preacher’s scheme, Try milk o’ human kindness shoar, and don’t skim off the cream. — | . JERE Dr Brown. THE TRIBULATIONS OF BIDDY MALONE, OR answered tin advortoisements in two days, but niver a place I got at all, at all. The furrest quis- tion they ax me is, “Can ye cook?’ And whin I say ‘Tl thry,” they tell me I’ll not suit. Shure a body would think there was nothing in the worruld to do but -eook, cook, cook ; bad luck to the cookin’. ITve been in the country jist four weeks nixt Tchuesday, and this is Monday, and I’ve had enough of yer Yankee cookin’, and [ll have no more of it. Tve lost three places already with this cookin’, shure. The furrest lady, sez she, “Can ye cook?’ Sez I, “Shure, mum, I can that, for it’s ee murphy I’ve cooked at me home beyant the sea.” So I wint into the kitchen, an’ me thrunk wint up to the attic. Sez the missus, afther a while, “ Bridget, he s a turkey; shtuff it an roast it.” | Well, at two o’clock she comes into the kitchen, and 40 THE TRIBULATIONS OF BIDDY MALONE. sez she, “ Bridget, how is it ye are so late wid the dine ner. Isn’t the turkey done yet?” SezI, “ I'll see, mum.” TI wint to the pot an took off the lid. “ Look, mum,” sez I. ‘“ You’ve burnt the fowel to paces,” sez she. Sez I, “Shure you tould me to stuff the burd and roast it; so I shtuffed it into the pot.” Well, meself and me thrunk left that same noight. The nixt place I wint the lady was troubled wid a wakeness. Sez she, “ Biddy, dear, ye’ll foind a piece of bafe in the refrigeratorio ; git it and make me some bafe tea.” Well, afther huntin’ all over for the refrigera- torio, I found the mate in a chist forninst a chunk of ice. I put the mate in a tea-pot an’ lit it dhraw fur a few minuts, an’ thin I took it to the missus, wid a cup, a saucer, an’ a shpoon. “ Biddy, dear,’ sez she, “ ye needen’t moind a sendin’ for your thrunk.” So I lost that place, too. ‘ The nixt place was an ould widower’s house; he had two lazy childer; wan was twinty an’ the other was twinty, too; they were twins, ye see. Well, the butcher brought some oysters. Sez the lazy twins, “ We'll have thim shtewed.” Well, I did shtew thim, but the shpal- - peens discharged me because I biled thim like praties wid their jackets on. So here I am, this blessed day, a poor, lone gurl, sak- ing a place atsarvice. Bad luck to the Yankee cookin’. Well, Pll shtop at one more place—let me see. Yis, here’s the advertoisement: ‘ Wanted, a gurl in a shmall family consisting of thirteen childer an’ two adults.” — Well, I’d rather do their work, even if it was a big family, than be bothered with shtuffed turkey, bafe tea, — er shtewed oysters. I'll call on the shmall family. GEORGE M. VICKERs, ‘ 1 ie " a e pes * — site. % THE EARTHQUAKE IN EGYPT. _ 4} THE EARTHQUAKE IN EGYPT. A “FOOL PA’SON” AND A WAYWARD SISTER RECONCILED. N the night of the earthquake shock I was sitting with Millie, my fourteen-year-old colored protege, conning over her lesson just opposite me, when there was a knock. Millie answered the summons, but dodged back precipitately as she recognized the dusky face of the deacon of the colored church. “ Evenin’, Sist’?’ Harris; evenin’, Madam,” said the caller, shambling in with an obsequious bow. “I call’, Sist? Harris, fo’ to ’vite you down to meet de trustees ; we is bout to hol’ a meetin’, and we ’poses to rivesticate dis little diff’ence twix you an’ de pa’son.” “Hum,” grunted my protege; “ I—I ain’ meetin’ no trustees dis night. I got no diff’ence wiv de pa’son. He lets me ’lone, I lets him ’lone. Dat’s my ’ligion, dat is.” “J-y-ye bettah be a-answerin’ to de summons. I ’vises ye as a frien’ to be a-givin’ in yo’ side of de treble whilst de do’ am open to ye, Sist’ Millie. Ye bettah be a-comin’.” “ Now, I tol’ you I aint a-comin’,” repeated the obdu- rate sister. “ Ye kin jes’ be steppin’ back fo’ you pains an’ tell dat wall-eyed pa’son I got no use fo’ him, ne how, an’ neber did hab, an’ I aint a-carin’ waver dey infirms me de nex’ church meetin’ or not. Now git; ye need’en be-a-standin’ dah, fo’ [ ain’ a-comin’, an’ dat’s de en’ on it.” “ Ah? Gist’ Millie, dis ain’ no way fo’ a sist’ to ack. But de deble.am hol’in’ sway in yo’ heart, suah, an’ I 42 ‘THE EARTHQUAKE IN EGYPT. leabes ye to him diniquitous powah, Sist’ Millie. J ieabes ye to him, till de Good Lo’d kem along wid de rolling an’ rumblin’ an’ shakin of de foun’ations of de yearth, an’ den ye’ll be glad to git up an’ kem ag’in.” With which warning he shambled off. © “Deed, I ain’ goin’ to no church meetin’,” growled Millie, “fo’ no ol’ fool niggah pa’son dat eber brow bref.” “ What is the trouble, Millie?” I ventured. “Why, y’ see, Miss,” explained Millie, with her run- ning tongue; “I has de stif neck las’ Sunday, an’ I lays down on de seat in de meetin’, an’ de pa’son he kem steppin’ ‘long an’ ses he, ‘Sist’ Millie, w-w-wah you sittin’ dat way fo’? Why dun yo’ sit up an’ ac’ ina sist’s place? An’ I answers up, ‘ W-w-wah yu’ treblin’ — *bout me fo’? I—I ac’ as much in asist’s place as yo’ does in a brudder’s place.’ Den he ses, ‘ Look out dah, Sist’ Millie, de deble am gettin’ de uppah han’ ob you, suah. Try fo’ to shame de deblea little longer. Try fo’ to hol’ to grace yet awhile.’ Den I gets mad an’ I jes’ sasses him good. I tol’ him I kin git de deble in me jes as well as he kin in him, an’ I kin hol’ him a heep longer, an’ I ain’ no ways anxious to be infirmed into de chu’ch ao how. Den he shet up an’ dun say no mo’, but af’er dat he hab de insurance to ask me to pray. Oh!” with a contemptuous shrug, “dat ol’ fool nigger pa’son beat the insurance of de deble he sef, he hab, suah !” After this summing up of their differences Millie sat — down to her book, but I noticed that she was ill at ease, and that the sound of voices from the colored church as they reached us through the window seemed to dis- turb her. Suddenly my book began to sway before my eyes, and then I saw Millie’s head begin to wag from Ry hl SO ah Ne ON Sane AS ah eS ey es Paty eR at Ne anti, YAP Py se Le Tuleh Bhide fp A! ay Fs) id 4, ar ey) MeN s ‘ A ’ 5 Sd rd , 3 y 4 ti 4 THE EARTHQUAKE IN EGYPT. 43 side to side while her white-rimmed eyes rolled in ter- ror. “ Millie, what are you doing?” “L—od, Miss, I—I—I ain’ a-doin’ nuffin, but de_ hul yearth am a-trem’lin’!” she gasped through her chattering teeth. Then, with a wild leap across the table, she cried: “Oh! fo’ de Lo’d, mistcss, it am de Judgmen’ Day! It am de A’mighty kumin’ wiv de rollin’ an’ rumblin’ an’ shakin’ of de yearth! Hol’ on,. Mis’er Deble! Tse gwine, deed Tis! Ah, yes, Massa Lo’d, dis niggah will be on han’!” with which she rushed through the door and went fiying toward the colored church, uttering exclamatory prayers and promises at every leap. Before the church-door she tumbled into a group of kneeling deacons, all praying vociferously. No one had the “insurance” to ask Millie to pray, but she joined the chorus of voices without invitation. After the shock had subsided and their terror somewhat abated, the “fool niggah pa’son” stumbled to his feet, and, spreading his shaking hands above the heads of hig _ prostrate flock, said: * Bredern in de Lo’d, an’ fellah sist’s, dis am a wa’nin’ f’om de A’mighty strait an’ cl’ar fo’ us as is ’clined to fall f?om grace, fo’ us as de deble am a-reachin’ arter, to stan’ cleah of he grip! Hol’ fas’ to de Lo’d, O my chil’en! fo’ de deble am neah at han’! Heam a-movin’ de bery foundation ob de yearth! Oh! yes, dat am a fac’!” “Ahmen! Bress de Lo’d!” answered the breth- ren, and “ Oh! yes, dat ama fac’!” echoed Millie. “He was neah at han’ dis time, suah.” 44 WINNIE’S WELCOME. WINNIE’S WELCOME. ELL, Shamus, what brought ye? It’s dead, sure, I thought ye— What’s kept ye this fortnight from calling on me? Stop there! Don’t be lyin’ ; It’s no use denyin’ ; I know you’ve been sighin’ for Kitty Magee. She’s ould and she’s homely ; There’s girls young and comely ‘ Who’ve loved you much longer and better than she; But, deed! I’m not carin’ ; I’m glad I’ve no share in The love of a boy who'd love Kitty Magee. Go ’way! I’m not cryin’! Your charge I’m denyin’, You’re wrong to attribute such weakness to me; If tears ’'m a showin’, I'd have ye be knowin’, They’re shed out of pity for Kitty Magee. For mane and consated, With pride over-weighted ; Cold, heartless, and brutal she’ll find you to be, When you she'll be gettin’, She'll soon be regrettin’ She e’er changed her name from plain Kitty Magee. What’s that? Am I dhramin’, You’ve only been schamin’, fd UNCLE GABE ON CHURCH MATTERS. 45 Just thryin’ to test the affection in me? Your kisses confuse me— Well, I'll not refuse ye, I know you'll be tindher an’ lovin’ wid me; To show my conthrition For doubts and suspicion, I'll ax for my bridesmaid swate Kitty Magee. Witt EMMETT. UNCLE GABE ON CHURCH MATTERS. LD SATAN lubs to come out to de meetin’s now- a-days, An’ keeps his bizness runnin’ in de slickes’ kind 0’ ways. — He structifies a feller how to sling a fancy cane When he’s breshin’ roun’ de yaller gals wid all his might and main ; He puts de fines’ teches on a nigger’s red cravat, Or shoves a pewter quarter in de circulatin’ hat. He hangs aroun’ de sisters, too, an’ greets ’em wid a smile, An’ shows ’em how de white folks puts on lots 0’ Sun- f= day-style. He tells de congregation, in a whisper sweet as honey, To hab de benches painted wid de missionary money, Or-to send de gospel ’way out whar de neckid Injuns stay, ; An’ meet de bill by cuttin’ down de parson’s vearly Pee am ca party, UPe rk TE Be We ok a Cement OG tie eh Bi) LIL UB dds an Pay . “a a at aN aa ie oy Si eh $ Aah Siti \. if ‘ ae a 3 CNTR or ae 5 ik il ; < af SRY Sm te ‘ ex 4G “UNCLE GABE ON CHURCH MATTERS. His voice is loud an’ strong enough to make de bushes ring, An’ he sets up in de choir jes’ to show ’em how to sing. Den he drops de chune ’way down so low—an’ totes it up so high, Dat ’twould pester all de angels what’s a-listenin’ in de sky ; An’ he makes de old-time music sound so frolicsome an’ gay, Dat ’twill hardly git beyon’ de roof—much less de — Milky mays ; | For dar’s heaps 0’ dese new fashion’ songs—jes’ sing em how you please— ‘q Dat’ll fly orf wid de Baer or lodge ermongst de — trees, Or git drownded in de thunder-cloud, or tangled in de lim’s ; For dey lack de steady wild-goose flop dat lif’s de good old hymns. De wakenin’ old camp-meeting chunes is jes’ de things for me, 3 Dat starts up from a nigger’s soul like blackbirds from a tree, | Wid a flutter ’mongst his feelin’s an’ a wetness roun’ de | eyes, | Till he almost see de chimleys to de mansions in de skies. J. A. Macon. THE COFFEE MY MOTHER USED TO MAKE. 47 THE COFFEE MY MOTHER USED TO MAKE WAS born in Indiany,” says a stranger, lank and slim, _ As us fellows in the restaurant was kind of guyin’ him, - And Uncle Jake was slidin’ him another punkin pie _ And an extra cup of coffee, with a twinkle in his eye— _“T was born in Indiany—more’n forty year ago— _ And I haint been back in twenty—and I’m workin’ back’ards slow. _ And [’ye et in every restaurant ’twixt here and Santa Fe, And I want to state this coffee tastes like gettin’ home to me! _ “Pour us out another, daddy,” says the feller, warmin’ up, _ A-speakin’ ’crost a saucerful, as uncle tuck his cup. “When I seed your sign out yonder,” he went on to Uncle Jake— “Come in and git some coffee like your mother used to make ’— -*“T thought of my old mother and Posey county farm; _And me a little kid ag’in, a-hangin’ on her arm _ As she set the pot a-bilin’—broke the eggs an’ poured em in.” : And the feller hind o’ halted, with a trimble in his chin. And Uncle Jake he fetched the feller’s coffee back and stood _ As solemn for a moment as an undertaker would ; a ey ee £8 KIT, OR FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. Shen he sort o’ turned and tip-toed to’rds the kitchen door, and next— Here comes his old wife out with him a-rubbin’ off her specs— And she rushes for the stranger, and she hollers out, “Tt’s him! Thank God, we’ve met him comin’! Don’t you know your mother, Jim ?” And the feller, as he grabbed her, says: “ You bet I haint forgot—” But wipin’ of his eyes, says he, “ Your coffee’s mighty hot!” James WuitcomMsB RILEY. KIT, OR FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. T was a gala day on the avenue. All the fast horses in the town were out showing their paces, and the merry sleigh-riders shouted with mirth and enjoyment as they raced neck-and-neck, five teams deep, and when they came to a deadlock it was still more fun. At one juncture, however, there were shouts that did not sound mirthful—a wild plunge among the thoroughbreds, and gome policemen ran out from the sidewalk, and talked in authoritative tones, but the crowd was so dense no one could see what was going on among the noisy drivers and their plunging horses. “ It’s only a couple of boys,” said the beautiful Felicia Hautton, settling back among the luxurious white robes; “two of those horrid newsboys. They ought not to be allowed on the avenue at all. They’re always getting KIT, OR FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. 4Y ander foot and frightening the horses—such good time as we were making, too—how disagreeable.” is Anybody killed?” asked one fine gentleman of another, as they passed. “Naw, two boys mixed up, that’s all. One started to cross the street and fell, and t’other got run over trying to save him. Street Awabs, you know; can spware a few—ta-ta |” “Got under the feet of a highflyer, and spoiled his time,” said another, in a disgusted tone. Then the avenue was cleared and the tide of enjoy- ment went on, and no more Arabs were so foolish as to sacrifice themselves by obstructing the triumphs of the fashionable throng. At sundown of that same day two poorly dressed boys applied for admission at the doors of Harper’s Hospital, and inquired for one of their number who had been brought thither that same afternoon. They were permitted to see him for a few moments, and on tiptoe they entered the long, clean ward and sought out: the narrow bed on which he lay. When they had awkwardly greeted him they sat down on the edge of the cot, and were much embarrassed with the strange- ness of the scene, and painfully conscious of their own hands and feet : they were also rather shocked at their comrade’s clean face, it looked so unnaturally white, with a dab of red on either cheek. Their eyes rolled stealthily about over the sick-beds and their occupants. “Say, old feller,” said the biggest of the two boys, addressing his sick comrade, “aint you puttin’ on a heap of style ?” “ Where’s Kit ?” asked the sick boy, fretfully,. “ why aint he along of you?” 50 _ KIT, OR FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. The two visitors looked at each other, and their faces erew downcast and troubled; they dug the toes of thei boots into the clean floor at the bedside, and shuffled uneasily, while both coughed violently in concert, then the big boy blurted out: “Kit went on a errant, and he told me to tell you he would be up to-morrer, sure—he sez, sez he, ‘ Tell Jim it’s all rite.’ ” “ You aint gassin’, be you? Kit didn’t git hurt nor nothin’ ?” | “ He couldn’t go errants ef he waz hurt, could he?” asked the other, doggedly; “an’ here,” improNel a lie for the occasion, “ he sent yer this.” The sick and injured boy smiled as he took the big orange in his feverish hands and turned it over. “T knew Kit wasn’t the boy to forgit me—here, you fels, take a bite—it’s many a orange and stick of candy and bit of pie we’ve divided atween us afore this. Pore little Kit! He knowed as how I liked ’em; here, you take a squeeze,” as he handed it back. But the boys wouldn’t touch it, and: the sick patient put it under his pillow. Then he said, in a strange, quavering voice: “T want you fels to look after Kit, and don’t you for- get it; when I gets well, I'll pay back every cent; but it’ll be a long time, fer I’m all mashed in. He’sa little fel, and needs lookin’ arter. Now, boys, don’t go back on me, will you?” ‘ “You needn’t worry about Kit,” said the spokesman of the two, looking away, and digging violently at the floor, “he’s all rite.” “Lord, I am so tired,” said the sick bov. “If it wasn't fer Kit I'd as leve die as get well, but I promised SIT, OR FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. 53 mother as how I’d allus take care of the little chap, and I’ve done it; and he wasn’t cut up nor bruised nor nothin’ when they pulled him out’n from under the hose’ hoofs ?” 7 “Wasn’t cut up nor bruised nor nothin’,” echoed the visitor, with his back to the bed. “Good! Jes’ you look arter him tillI get outer this, and [ll work my fingers off for ye. Lord! how dead tired I am.” | He drifted away to sleep, and the two boys left with. _ out waking him; but before they went out one of them slipped a little leather bag of marbles in his hand, and - the other put a few pennies wrapped in a dirty bit of newspaper close by, where he would see them on wak- . ing “He'll think Kit sent ’em,” said one, as they softly retreated ; “ they were in Kit’s pocket when the police- ' man found him—to think he doesn’t know.” That night when the hospital doctor went his rounds i he found the new boy wide awake, but very still. To _ the familiar eye of the physician his symptoms were - clearly defined. a had ps0 Ca: A ROY Sal a oe, fb “Well, my boy,” he said, kindly, “ what can I do for you ?” _ The boy’s face lighted. “I want to see Kit—send & for Kit.” “Yes, yes,” answered the doctor, hastily; “but you _ must wait until morning.” “T don’t—think—I—can—sir. I guess ’m—booked _ —for—t’other—place. It would be all right—ef it - wasn’t for Kit. But I promised mother Id take care of him, and what’ll he do without me? I can’t leave ae Kit.” 52 KIT, OR FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. The death dew was on his forehead. “He beat his hands helplessly on the white spread, while his pale lips continued to murmur, “I can’t leave Kit.” | The physician sat down by him. It is against the rules of an hospital to hold much converse with the, dying, or even to notify those whe are in extremis of the approach of death; but this was a child—the doctor assumed the responsibility. “ My boy, if you knew you could not get well, would you feel very sorry ?” “ Not for myself; only for Kit.” “But if I told you that Kit was well taken care of— that a rich and kind father had sent for him and given him a beautiful home—” “Now you're gassin’,” said the dying boy, with his old fervor. “Dad aint that sort; besides, he broke mother’s heart, and Kit wouldn’t speak to him ef he cum back.” | “No earthly father, dear boy, but a Heavenly one— the priest has told you of Him, and the home He gives His children. He it is who has sent for Kit.” The sick boy made up his parched lips to whistle. | “ W-h-e-w,” he said, brokenly, “ Kit’s dead—killed arter all, when I tried so hard to save him.” “He was dead when they took him up,” said the doctor, “and‘not a bruise nor a broken limb—the shock killed him, and he is safe now with his Master; don’t you believe that ?” 7 But the boy did not heed him ; his lips moved faintly, and the doctor, bending down, heard him say again, “ Kit’s dead.” Then there was a long silence, and ‘ore he left, the doctor turned the white sheet over the tran- auil face, and Kit and his brother were together again. IRISH COQUETRY. 53 IRISH COQUETRY. os AYS Patrick to Biddy, “ Good-mornin’, me dear! It’s a bit av a sacret Pve got for yer ear: It’s yoursel’ that is lukin’ so charmin’ the day, That the heart in me breast is fast slippin’ away.” “Tis you that kin flatther,” Miss Biddy replies, And throws him a glance from her merry blue eyes. ‘‘ Arrah, thin,” cries Patrick, “’tis thinkin’ av you Thats makin’ me heart-sick, me darlint, that’s thrue! Sure I’ve waited a long while to tell ye this same, And Biddy Maloney will be such a foine name.” _ Cries Biddy: “ Have done wid yer talkin’, I pray; _ Shure me heart’s not me own for this many a day! _“T gave it away to a good-lookin’ boy, _ Who thinks there is no one like Biddy Malloy ; So don’t bother me, Pat; jist be aisy,” says she. _ “Tndade, if ye’ll let me, I will that!” says he; “Tt’s a bit of a flirt that ye are, on the sly; Tll not trouble ye more, but I’ll bid ye good-bye.” “ Arrah, Patrick,” cries Biddy, “ an’ where are ye goin’? Sure it isn’t the best of good manners ye’re showin’ _ To lave me so suddint!” “Och, Biddy,” says Pat, “You have knocked the cock-feathers jist out av me hat !” | | “ Come back, Pat!” says she. “ What fur, thin?’ says he. “ Bekase I meant you all the time, sir!” says she. vs fsa yiatisl cpl shi lbe eit SUAS DST Mad NON ibaa a he lai WN ae | St ae er AM hl Oe pigs. 54 GABE AND THE IRISH LADY. GABE AND THE IRISH LADY. A CHARACTER SKETCH. ERE he is, Jenny! what there is of him!” said the cheery Captain, thus introducing to his ,daughter’s notice the not very prepossessing chattel per- sonal he had just hired and brought home. “Enough of him, such as it is, I should say,” re- sponded Miss Jenny, as her keen eye and keener per- ception took in the merit of the subject before her and rated it at just about its proper value. “Oh! don’t decide in advance against yourself, Jenny,” said the Captain. “The boy may turn out better than he looks. He can scour knives and run errands, and no doubt you'll find him useful.” Then, turning to the boy, he said: “See here, Snowball, if you know your own interest, you'll take care not to offend this young lady. Understand ?” “Oh! law, Marse Cap’n,” answered the boy, grinning — relievedly (he had wilted considerably under Miss Jenny’s searching gaze), “Gabe isn’t gwine ter fend nobody. Gabe gwine ter mind Missy jis’ like a dawg.” Words fail to express the measure of abject servility he contrived to throw into his enunciation of the word dog. The boy’s eyes sought the young lady’s. Some- — thing he saw in them caused him to squirm uncomfort- ably. Miss Jenny’s lip curled. Bs “You need not act like a dog,” she said. “ Behave — yourself as a serving-boy should, and you will fare well — Otherwise—” Miss Jenny left her sentence, with its limitless possi- — _ bilities. unfinished. The Captain laughed heartily. GABE AND THE IRISH LADY. 55 “ Now you hear it,” he said. “Star of the Morning, look out for ‘ otherwises.’ ” “Golly, Marse Cap’n,” said the boy, “I dusn’t want no sich. ’Clar ter goodniss, Missy, Ise a pow’ful han’ fur clean knives, an’ shake kyapit, an’ tote watah, an’ all sich as dat. Y’alls dusn’t know what a servant ole _ Gahe is.” “No, we do not, indeed,” said Miss Jenny. “ But 1 we shall soon find out. Come to the kitchen with me. Where are his things, papa ?” : “On him, Jenny; on him. At least, all I saw of things. _ Have you any clothes or other valuables, Gabe ?” “Laws, Marse Cap’n,” answered the boy, “dat ar _ white oman kep’ every stitch ob clo’es, bosom-pin an’ all. She aint my ole Mistis. She jis’ a white pusson dat hi’ed me. She spekalate on hin’ niggahs. Ole’ _ Mistis guv me “hole heap o’ good clo’es when I go to lib wid dat white’oman. Dell law! I nebber see de fus’ rag sense, cep’ jis wot I got on. Dat aint all ’bout dat _ ar white oman. She dun cheat de Cap’n pow’ful, kase - she don’t pay my ole Mis nuffin’ jes ’cep’ two dollahs de mumf; an’ clar ter de goodniss ef she didn’t chawge de Cap’n fo’ dollahs de mumf, jis fer ole Gabe, ’dout no clo’es, jis cep’ wot he got on. Dah ar’ twice too much fer sich a Niggah, kase ole Gabe jis onpossible ter be wuth dat ar’ fo’ dollahs de mumf.” “T should think so,” said Miss Jenny. ‘ Now you are talking quite sensibly.” Gabe, quick to take his cue, perceiving that a self- deprecating style was far more likely to prove accept- able to Miss Jenny than any attempt at self-praise, at. once added : “Kase ole Gabe jis a mizzable, no-’count Niggah, dat + t 56 GABE AND THE IRISH LADY. nobody keers nuffin’ ’bout, ’an nebber teched nuffin’ sence he’s bawn. How you specs he gwine be wuth dat fo’ dollahs de mumf ?” “No one expects it,” laughed the young lady. “ But since you seem to bewail your lack of teaching, know that from henceforth you will be taught—several things. And what we do expect is that you will improve your chances.” | “Laws! Miss Jinny, Ise dat bleeged,” began Gabe, radiant with delight at the relaxation of the young lady’s rigid manner. ‘“ Now you is jis mose like de Cap'n; an’ he de mose elegantest gemman Ise seed sence Ise bawn. Dat aint no make-be’leeve lie, Miss Jinny. Dat de sollum fac’.” “Well, Gabriel,” laughed the Cap’n, “I suppose I owe you as much as two bits and a picayune for that. Take this (and he tossed him a silver half-dollar) to begin the new place on, and see how many more like it you can deserve. Be a good boy and mind your orders and you'll get along.” : | The Captain returned to his office down-town, and Miss Jenny led Gabe to the kitchen, to present him to, the new cook, who only lifted her head a trifle higher as she acknowledged the introduction, with the remark: “ Whativer’s the good uv thim haythin Nagurs it passes Biddy O’Rafferty to find out. Though, if yez do be plazed wid ’im, it’s not Biddy’s place to spake the worrud.” ‘‘ Find some work for him, Bridget,” said Miss Jenny. “T will send him to you when I have shown him to mamma.” “Faith! I wish her joy uv the soight,” responded Bridget. 1 ee eel ma il he . 7 ~~ pea. . 4 i > ‘ . % GABE AND THE IRISH LADY. “5? Mrs. Chamberlaine — mild-eyed, gentle-voiced, and easy-going—smiled benignly upon the lad and hoped he would make no trouble for the cook. “T ain't studdyin’ ’bout makin’ no trouble, no ways, _ Mistis,” said Gabe, assuringly. But he added, reflect- ively: “ Dem Tish ladies dat wuks in kitchins, dey all alike, Dey de mose onregen’ret pussons, an’ I dus ‘spise “em.” | Although gifted, like many of his race, with a rare, sweet voice, and a quick ear, the young scamp seemed to take great delight in howling, in the dismalest voice, and to most unmusical tunes, certain basket-meeting hymns, as he styled them. The first time Miss Jenny ever undertook to inflict corporeal punishment upon the urchin was on account of his persistent efforts at one of these hymns. He was seated on a grass-plat in the middle of the side yard, the knife-board between his outstretched feet, his body swaying back and forth and from side to side, as he lazily rubbed at his cutlery. And as he sat and swayed and scoured, he also sang : “As I passed by de gates ob hell, I bid dis wor!’ a long far’ well. Oh! I don’ want to stay heah no longer. Oh! wot I want to stay heah for? Dis yer worl’ a hell to me, Kase my ole Mis:is don’t lub me, Bekase I won’t drink jawbone tea. Oh! I don’t want to stay heah no longer.” “Gabe,” said Miss Jenny, rapidly crossing the grass plat and administering a smart box on his ear, “at least six times to-day I have forbidden you to how! that outlandish farrago ! Now perhaps you will remember.” 58 GABE AND THE IRISH LADY. “Conshinse sake, Miss Jinny,” exclaimed the lad “ Be sho I will. Wot yo’ spilin’ dem leetle, sof’ cotton © hans’ cuffin’ black Niggah’s jaws fo’? White ladies han’s aint fitten fer cuff wid. Yo’ jis orter leab all sich as dat ter de Cap’n.” “If you ring any more changes on that horrid howl, I will leave it to the Captain,” said Miss Jenny, signifi- cantly. “And I’ve half a mind: to take a switch to you now,’ she added, as the young monkey grinned provokingly into her face. “I thought you were going to mind so beautifully.” “So I is, Miss Jinny. Ise gwine ter mind. Ise jis studdyin’ ’bout stoppin’ off dat bahskit-meetin’ hymn, dat aint no outlanish verry go. Dat a ’ligious Niggah hymn.” “ Whatever it is, you'd better not practice it any more,” said the young lady. “I don’t object to your singing about your work, but you shall not howl and yell like an insane Dervish.” “Miss Jinuy, I aint no inshane Duvvish, I aint,” - whined the boy. “ An’ I’clar to goodniss you is dat hahd ter please.” But before the young lady had fairly passed out of } sight he threw back his head, opened his mouth, and sang like a lark or nightingale, in tones of ravishing sweetness, the stanza: “Oh! what was Love made for, If ’tis not the same, Through joy and through torment, Through grief and through shame? Through the furnace tere Thy steps Pll pursue, And shield thee and save thee Or perish there too.” GABE AND THE IRISH LADY. Hebe - Miss Jenny could not resist the impulse to toss a - picayune from the upper piazza to the silver-voiced archin, saying, as she did so: “ Never sing any worse _ than that, Gabe, and you'll get rich before long.” _ “T’ankee, Miss Jinny. Dat ar’ kase dat a lub song. _ Makes Missy tink ’bout her jularkey.” And then, laughing hilariously at the interpretation _ of the motives that actuated the young lady, he trolled forth: “ Te ab ane e aa i 7 ‘ eS. € MOTHER'S DOUGHNUTS. 145 A whiff came through the open door— Wuz I sleepin’ or awake? The smell wuz that of doughnuts Like my mother used ter make. The bees wuz hummin’ round the porch, Whar honeysuckles grew ; A yellow dish of apple-sass Wuz settin’ thar in view. ’N on the table, by the stove, An old-time “ Johnny-cake,” ’N a platter full of doughnuts Like my mother used ter make. A patient form I seemed ter see, In tidy dress of black, I almost thought I heard the words, “ When will my boy come back ?” ’"N then—the old sign creaked : - But now it was the boss who spake: _ “ Here’s whar yer gets yer doughnuts Like yer mother used ter make.” Well, boys, that kind o’ broke me up, ’"N ez I’ve “struck pay gravel,” I ruther think V’ll ae my kit, Vamose the ranch, ’n travel. I'll make the old folks ae ’N if I don’t mistake, I'll try some o’ them doughnuts Like my mother used ter make. x CHARLES F. Apams. 10 ja THE WAKE OF TIM OHARA. THE WAKE OF TIM O'HARA. O the wake of O’Hara Came companie ; All St. Patrick’s Alley Was there to see, With the friends and kinsmen Of the family. On the old deal table Tim lay in white, And at his pillow the burning light ; While, pale as himself, with the tear on her cheek, The mother received us—too full to speak. But she heap’d the fire, and, with never a word, Set the black bottle upon the board, While the company gathered, one and all, Men and women, big and small— Not one in the alley but felt a call To the wake of Tim O’ Hara. At the face of O’Hara, All white with sleep, Not one of the women But took a peep, And the wives new wedded Began to weep. The mothers clustered around about, And praised the linen and laying out, For white as snow was his winding-sheet, And all looked peaceful, and clean, and sweet ; The old wives, praising the blessed dead, Clustered thick round the old press-bed, Where O’Hara’s widow, tattered and torn, THE WAKE OF TIM OHARA. Held to her bosom the babe new-born, And stared all round her, with eyes forlorn, At the wake of Tim O’Hara. For the heart of O’ Hara Was true as gold, And the life of O’Hara Was bright and bold, And his smile was precious To young and old. Gay as a guinea, wet or dry, With a smiling mouth and a twinkling eye! Had ever an answer for chaff or fun, Would fight like a lion with any one! Not a neighbor of any trade But knew some joke that the boy had made! Not a neighbor, dull or bright, But minded something, frolic or fight, And whispered it round the fire that night, At the wake of Tim O’Hara. “To God be glory In death and life! He’s taken O’ Hara From troubie and strife,” Said one-eyed Biddy, The apple-wife. “God bless old Ireland!” said Mistress Hart, Mother of Mike, of the donkey-cart: “ God bless old Ireland till all be done! She never made wake for a better son!” And all joined chorus, and each one said Something kind of the boy that was dead. 143 THE WAKE OF TIM O'HARA. The bottle went round from lip to lip, And the weeping widow, for fellowship, Took the glass of old Biddy, and had a sip, At the wake of Tim O’Hara. Then we drank to O’Hara With drams to the brim, While the face of O’Hara Looked on so grim, In the corpse-light shining Yellow and dim. The drink went round again and again; The talk grew louder at every drain ; Louder the tongues of the women grew, The tongues of the boys were loosing too! © But the widow her weary eyelids closed, And, soothed by the drop of drink, she dozed; The mother brightened and laughed to hear Of O’Hara’s fight with the grenadier, And the hearts of us all took better cheer, At the wake of Tim O’Hara, Tho’ the face of O’ Hara Looked on so wan, In the chimney corner | The row began ; Lame Tony was in it, The oyster-man. For a dirty low thief from the North came near And whistled ‘“ Boyne Water” in his ear, And Tony, with never a word of grace, Hit out his fist in the blackguard’s face. Then all the women screamed out for fright; rt u 4 4 hi: 4 } he oa AA av, Se 4359 Y TOS ee Sa Tae Wr) } i GRANDFATHER'S ROSE. 148 The men that were drunkest began to fight; Over the chairs and the tables they threw; The corpse-light tumbled, the trouble grew; The new-born joined in the hullabaloo, At the wake of Tim O’ Hara. “ Be still! Be silent! Ye do a'sin! Shame be his portion Who dares begin !” "Twas Father O’Connor Just entered in; And all looked shamed, and the row was done; Sorry and sheepish looked every one; But the priest just smiled quite easy and free— | «Would you wake the poor boy from his sleep?” said he And he said a prayer, with a shining face, Till a kind of a brightness filled the place; The women lit up the dim corpse-light, The men were quieter at the sight ; _ And the peace of the Lord fell on all that night, At the wake of Tim O’Hara. Rospert BucHANAN, GRANDFATHER’S ROSE. OES yo’ see dem yaller roses clingin’ to de cabin wall, | Whar de bright sunshine twinkle all de day? I’s got a yaller rose dat’s sweeter dan dem all, An’ I’s gwine to gib my yaller rose away— 150 GRANDFATHER’S ROSE. Dat pesky dandy Jim, wid his button-hole bouquet, He knows I’s gwine to gib my rose, my yaller rose, away. O my yaller rose! it growed close to de cabin flo’, And its mammy lef’ it ’fore it ’gun to climb, But it run kind o’ wild in an’ out de cottage do’, Aw’ it got roun’ de ole man ebery time— T’s mighty loth to do it, but I hasn’t long to stay— So I’s gwine to gib my wild rose, my yaller rose, away. Now, dandy Jim’s de parson’s son—dey growed up side by side, My yaller rose an’ dat ar harnsome boy, Sense she’s a leetle creepsy ting, dat Jim has been her pride ; But now an’ den she grows a little coy— But I spec’s it’s cause I tole her—’twas on’y t’other day— Dat Jim had got his cabin done, an’ I was gwine away. She put dem little han’s in mine, her head upon my breas’, An’ dar she seemed to sort 0’ sob an’ sigh. I couldn’t tell de matter, but it wasn’t hard to guess Dat she moaning ’cause de ole man gwine to die; So I coax my pretty wild rose with kisses, and I say, “De ole man gwine to lib, perhaps, dese many an many a day.” O boys! I didn’t hab a t’ought dat bressed nead | would lay On any oder breas’ but Jim’s an’ mine; I t’ought dat I could hold her, to keep or gib away, But she gone to make some oder garding shine: te AN EXAMINATION IN HISTORY. 152 Her ma got tired o’ waitin’, maybe, lonesome, so to say, So she axed de King ob de garding to take my rose away. Dear lamb! she sleeping sof’ly, widout a tear or sigh, Wid de wild flowers on her little cabin bed, An’ we’s a-settin’ side ob her, poor dandy Jim an’ I, An’ a-wailin’ an’ a-wishin’ we was dead. I'd a-g’in my life for her an’ Jim, why couldn’t He let her stay ?- Ts old an’ withered, de Marster howe, but He took my rose away. T’s berry lonesome, an’ so is Jim—he’s often ober, now, An’ dem honeysuckle faded long ago ; When de sun shines in de cabin, or it’s time to milk de cow, . I kin seem to hear her foot upon de flo’ ; © my wild rose! my yaller rose! it’s mighty hard to stay ; It seems as if de Lord forgit when He took my rose away. 3 Mary A. DENIson. AN EXAMINATION IN HISTORY. OU say,” I remarked to the old negro who drove the hack, “ that you were General Washington’s body servant ?” “TDat’s so! Dat’s jus’ so, massa. I done waited on Washington since he was so high—no bigger’s a small chile.” 152 TOMMY’S TWIALS. “You know the story, then, about the cherry-tree and hatchet.” “Know it? Why, I was dar on de spot. I seen Massa Gawge climb de tree after de cherries, and I seen him filing de hatchet at de boys who was stonin’ him. I done chase dem boys off de place myself.” “Do you remember his appearance as a man—what he looked like ?” “Yes, indeed. He wasa kinder short, chunky man, sorter fat and hearty-lookin’. He had chin whiskers and moustache and spectacles. Mos’ generally wore a high hat; but I seed him ina fur cap wid ear warmers.” “ You were not with him, of course, when he crossed the Delaware—when he went across the Delaware River ?” “Wid him? Yes, sar, I was right dar; I was not mor’n two feet off’n him as he druv across de bridge in his buggy. Dat’s a fac’. I walked ‘long side of the off hand hind wheel of dat. buggy all de way.” “ You know all the General’s relations, too, I suppose? —Martin Luther, and Peter the Hermit and the rest ?” “Know’d ’em all. Many and many’s de time I don — waited on de table when Massa Gawge had *em to dinner, I remember dem two gemmen jes’s well’s if I'd seed um yesterday. Yes, sah; an’ I druv ’em out often.” ~ ANON. TOMMY’S TWIALS. FINT ’at ’is worl’ is too bad for nuffin’, An’ lickle fotes dust dits aboosed ! For dust ev’ry day I dits hurt wiv suffin’, An’ bid fotes ’ey dust loots amoosed ! “ BOOK LARNIN’.” 153 My mamma s’e says I has a bad temper, S’e fints at I dot it from pa! My papa he laughs an’ says it’s twite likely, As none has been lost by my ma! To bid fotes like 00 I s’pose it loots funny When the babies ’ey chote up an’ toff, But Vd lite to see if oo would n’t hollor If oo’d burned oor mouf a’most off! It’s all velly well to twy to play sorwy, And say “ poor, dear darlin’, don’t ky !” Oo fint ’at we child’ens don’t has any twoubles, I know by ’e loot in oor eye! I wiss dust a minute ’at oo was a baby, I don’t fint oo’d laugh so muts ’en ; Oo’d say lickle fotes has offul bid twials "At never was dweamed of by men. “BOOK LARNIN’.” OOK larnin’ is a daisy thing for the chap what’s got the brains . An’ common sense to know it, but it isn’t worth the pains An’ chink an’ time it takes to get it, if a man don’t know the way To keep it in its proper place, an’ use it where it’ll pay. _My brother had a youngster as wuz allus goin’ to school ; 154 “BOOK LARNIN’.” He went clear through the college an’ come out a regu: lar fool. He could reel off furin’ languages an’ talk uv lands an’ law, But when it come to workin’ he wuzn’t worth a straw. He got an idy in his hed that work was a disgrace ; The law, he sed, was his perfes,so he ups an’ gets a place In a city lawyer’s office, an’ began his legal course, That landed him in Jes one year within his father’s doors. He’s livin’ with his father now, and the time an’ money spent Fer to git his education hasn’t panned out worth a cent. It was castin’ on the waters bread that’s never yet re- turned, For there’s nary a single blessin’ come from all that stuff he learned. But not a spec of larnin’ had his younger brother, Bill, ‘Cept a term or so one winter at the school-house on the hill ; An’ he’s worth about a dozen of his wuthless brother’s make, Fer he’s jest chuck full of common sense, an’ that’s what takes the cake. Now ef Bill hed had the larnin’ as wuz in his brother’s — pate, He’d been a man uv power—maybe Guvner of the State. WAVE ES. Oe ag SIMON’S WIFE’S MOTHER LAY SICK OF A FEVER. 153 But in spite uv all his ignorance he made a good success, An’ he’s got the finest farm in all the county, too, 1 guess. My idy is that ef a boy haint got no common sense, An’ only ’nuff git up about him fer to set. round on the | fence, It aint no use to send him off to take a college course, Fer it jest can’t make him better, an’ it’s bound to make him worse, M. H. Turk. SIMON’S WIFE’S MOTHER LAY SICK OF A FEVER. ELL, von morning I says to Hans (Hans vos mein husband):—“ Hans, I tinks I goes down to New York, und see some sights in dot village.” Und Hans he say: “Vell, Katrina, you vork hard pooty mooch, I tinks it vould petter be dot you goes und rest yourself some.” So I gets meinself ready righd avay quick, und in two days I vos de shteam cars on vistling avay for New York. Vell, ven I got dere, dot vas Saturday mit de after- noon. I vas tired mit dot day’s travel und I goes me pooty quick to bed, und ven I vakes in de morn- ing de sun was high oup in de shky. But I gets me oup und puts on mein new silk vrock und tinks me I shall go to some fine churches und hear ein grosse breacher. Der pells vas ringing so schveet I dinks J nefer pefore hear such music. Ven I got de shtreet on ‘de beobles vos all going quiet und nice to dere blaces 156 SIMON’S WIFE’S MOTHER LAY SICK OF A FEVER. mit vurship, und I makes oup my mind to go in von of dem churches so soon as von comes along. Pooty soon I comes to de von mit ein shteeples high oup in de shky und I goes in mit de beoples und sits me down on ein seat all covered mit a little mattress. De big organ vas blaying so soft it seemed likes as if some angels must be dere to make dot music. Pooty soon de breacher man shtood in de bulbit oup und read de hymn oudt, und all de beoples sing, until de church vos filled mit de shveetness. Den de breacher man pray, und read de Pible, und den he say dot de bulbit would be occupied by de Rev. Villiam R. Shtover mit Leavenworth, Kansas. Den dot man gommences to breach und he read mit his dext, “ Und Simon’s vife’s mudder lay sick mit a fever.” He talks for so movch as ein half hour already ven de beobles sings again und goes home. I tells mein brudder-mit-law it vos so nice I tinks me I goes again mit some oder churches. So vot you tinks? I goes mit anoder churches dot afternoon und dot same Villiam R. Shtover vos dere und breach dot same sermon ofer again mit dot same dext, ‘Und Simon’s vife’s mudder lay sick mit a fever.” I tinks to my ownself—dot vos too bad, und I goes home und dells Yawcup, und he says, “ Nefer mind, Katrina, to-night ve goes somevhere else to churches.” So ven de night vas come und de lamps vos all lighted mit de shtreets, me und mein brudder-mit-law, ve goes over to dot Brooklyn town to” hear dot Heinrich Vard Peecher. My, but dot vos ein grosse church, and so many beobles vas dere, ve vas crowded mit de vall back. Ven de singing vas all done, a man vot vas sitting mit a leetle chair got oup und say dot de Rev. Heinrich Vard- . a SABLE THEOLOGY. 157 Peecher vas to de Vite Mountains gone mit dot hay fever, but dot the bulbit vould be occupied on this occa- sion by de Rev. Villiam R. Shtover mit Leavenworth, Kansas. Und dot Villiam R. Shtover he gots mit dot bulbits oup und breaches dot same sermon mit dot same text, “ Und Simon’s vife’s mudder lay sick mit a fever.” Dot vos too bad again und I gets mad. I vos so mad I vis dot he got dot fever himself. Vell, ven dot man vas troo Yawcup says to me! “Come, Katrina, ve’ll go down to dot ferry und take de boat vot goes to New York!” Ven ve vas on dot boat de fog vas so tick dot you couldn’t see your hands pehind your pack. De vistles vas plowing, und dem bells vos ringing, und von man shtepped up mit Yawcup und say: “ Vot vor dem pells pe ringing so mooch ?” Und ven I looked around dere shtood dot Villiam R. Shtover mit Leavenworth, Kansas—und I said pooty quick: “ Vot vor dem pells vas ringing? Vy, for Simon’s vife’s mudder, vot must de died, for I hear dree times to-day already dot she vos sick mit ein fever.” SABLE THEOLOGY. SE gwine dis ebenin’ fo’ ter preach ob dose infernai vandals What gits dar pleasure by dar tongues, a-circulatin scandals. : . Ef dar’s a mixture anywhar ob giddy goose an’ gandah, ‘It am dat low-down culled coon what poisons us wiv -glandah ; A-pokin’ out his forky tongue in eberybody’s faces, And settin’ all de married folks ter kickin’ in de traces. 158 SABLE THEOLOGY. De debbil nebah want a tool while sech pooah trash am libin’ ; Dey’s allus creepin’ fru de streets a-fussin’ and a-fibbin’; "Bout everybody dat dey kin, dar busy tongue’s a-wagegin’, A-puttin’ neighbahs by de ear, a-bouncin’ and a-brage gin’, : Till ebery Christian goin’ wild an’ ebery sinnah cussin’; Most eberybody’s teeth on edge an’ ebery fool a-fussin’, Dar’s some ob dem right in dis chu’ch purtend ter serve de Mastah, An’ actin’ all de week jess like de debbel’s mustard plastah Ter draw de ugliness an’ sech right out ob each pooah sinnah, | An’ servin’ little slips an’ sins ter make a gossip’s dinnah ; No man so pious or so pooah but what dar pryiw reaches, Ter suck his repertation dry, jess like a lot ob leeches, Dey’s all sech cowards dat it aint no use fur yo’ ter battle, Yo’ only nasties up yo’self by techin’ such pooah cattle ; : An’ when yo’ cotch dar slandah foul, dey’ll go fur to denyin’, A-puttin’ it on some one e’se, a-wrigglin’ an’ a-lyin’, Ontil yo’ feels like yo’ war tryin’ ter fix a lot ob lizzarda — Wivout one grain of soul or heart, but only gills an’ — gizzards SABLE THEOLOGY. 159 Dar lyin’ am an empty sham; a-groanin’ an’ repinin’, An’ sickenin’ all de honest folks wiv grimacin’ an’ whinin’. | Dey’s allus talkin’ ’bout dar wirk, dar doin’s an’ dar duty, When dey has nuffin’ wuf de name ob usefulness or beauty ; No meaner creeters eber libed, a-dodgin’ an’ a-doin’ Ter set dar traps fo’ people’s ears an’ run dem inter ruin. Dey comes ter meetin’ right along, prays loud an’ holler glory, Den off dey goes to ’sult de Lord wiv some malicious story ; A-tellin’ suffin’ *bout some man doin’ what he hadn’t oughter, Dat Deekin Pubbins stole a duck or kissed ole Grub- bins’ daughter ; An’ den dey’ll groan an’ wriggle so as tho’ dey hab de colic, Bekase dey’s so much obercome by some one else’s frolic. My fren’s, jess leave sech trash alone; don’t handle sech acreachah; Yo’ knows dey’s talked long time ’fore now about yo’ own deah preachah ; Jess stick to what yo’ knows am true—yo’ ’ligion an’ yo’ labahs— An’ trample or. dese reptile trash what scandalize yo’ ~ neighbahs. Gib ebery man his hones’ due, speak out to ebery sinnah, But don’t roll scandal on yo’ tongues—it makes a dirty dinnah. SNES MRRMAS Le CEES UN Rea erie AER psy sea tare rT yea 4 ny eae Eaton eS 160 THE LIGHT FROM OVER THE RANGE. If charity begins at home, dar needn’t be its endin’; Don’t pick at ebery little hole, but set yo’selves tea mendin’ ; Den yo’ will imitate de wirk an’ sperit ob de Saviah, An’ stead ob firin’ up a fuss, mend somebody’s behaviah, TEDGARJ. THE LIGHT FROM OVER THE RANGE. — “Do. see it, pard?” “See what, Rough ?” “The light from over the Range.” “Not a bit, Rough. ae: not daybreak Mel Yer sick, | an’ yer head horses ye.’ “ Pard, yer off. T’ve been sick, but ?’m well again. It’s not dark like it was. The bent sa comin’—comin’ like the boyhood days that crep’ inter the winders of the old home.” “Ye’ve been dreamin’, Rough. The fever haint aD outen your head yet.” : “Dreamin’? *Twant all dreams. It’s the light comin’, pard, I see ’em all plain. Thar’s the ole man lookin’ white an’ awful, just as he looked the morning he drove me from home; and that woman behind him — stretchin’ out her arms ce me is the best mother in the world. Don’t you see ’em, pard ?” “Yer flighty, Rough. It’s all dark, ’cepting a pine knot flickerin’ in the ashes.” “No—the light’s a comin’ brighter and brighter} Look! It’s beamin’ over the Range bright and gentle, like the smile that used to be over me when my head | ‘aid in my mother’s lap, long ago.” THE LIGHT FROM OVER THE RANGE. 16: “Hyar’s a little brandy, Rough. Thar; I seen it though my eyes are’ dim—somehow—hyar, Rough.” “ Never, pard. That stuff spiled the best years of my life—it sha’n’t spile my dreams of ’em. Oh! sich dreams, pard. They take me to the old home again. I see the white house ’mong the trees. I smell the breath of the apple-blossoms, an’ hear the birds singin’ an’ the bees hummin’ an’ the ole plow songs echoin’ over the leetle valley. Isee the river windin’ through the willers an’ sycamores, an’ the dear ole hills all around pintin’ up to heaven like the spires of big meetin houses. Thar’s the ole rock we called the tea-table. I climb up on it an’ play a happy boy agin. Oh! if I’d only stayed thar, pard.” ‘Don’t Rough; ye thaw meall out, talkin’ that. It = - makes me womanish.”’ “ That’s it, pard, we’ve kep’ our hearts froze so long we want it allus winter. But the summer comes back with all the light from over the Range. How bright it is, pard. Look! How it floods the cabin till the knots an’ cobwebs are plainer than day.” _ “Suthin’s wrong, Rough. It’s all dark, ’cept only that pine knot in the chimbly.” “No, it’s all right, pard. The light’s come over the Range. I kin see better’x ever I could. Kin see the moisture in yer eyes, pard, an’ see the crooked path ve come, runnin’ clean back to my mother’s knee. I wasn’t allus called Rough. Somebody used to kiss me an’ call me her boy—nobody’ll ever know I’ve kep’ it till the ends | ; “T hey wanted to ax ye, mate, why ye never had any mame but jist Rough ?” ‘Pard—it’s gettin’ dark—my name? I’ve neves 13 {62 THE LIGHT FROM OVER THE RANGE. heard it since I left home. I buried it thar in the little churchyard, whar mother’s waitin’ for the boy that never come back. I can’t tell it, pard—in my kit you'll find a package done up. Thar’s two picters in it of two faces that’s been hoverin’ over me since I took down. You'll find my name thar, pard—thar with hers and mother’s.” “Hers? Will I ever see her, Rough ?” “ Not till you see her by the light that comes from over the Range to us all. Pard, it’s gettin’ dark—dark and close—darker than it ever seemed to me afore—” “Rough, what’s the matter? Speak to me, mate Can’t I do nuthin’ fer ye?” “Yes—pard. Can’t ye—say—suthin’ ?” . ee oop mean, Rough? [ll say anyeinen to please ye.” “ Say—a—pra’r, pard.” “A pra’r? Rough, d’ye mean it ?” “Yes, a pra’r, pard. It’s the—last thing Rough’ll ever—ax of ye.” “It’s hard todo, Rough. I don’t know a pra’r.” “Think back, pard. Didn’t yer mother—teach ye— suthin’? One that begins—‘ Our Father ’—an’ then —somehow—says—‘ forgive us ’—” “ Don’t, Rough, ye break me all up—” “ The light’s a fadin’—on the golden hills—an’ the— night is comin’—out of the canyuns—pard. Be quick —ye'll try, pard. Say suthin’—fer Rough.” “ T—Rough—Our Father forgive us. Don’t be hard on Rough. We’re a tough lot. We've forgot Ye, but we haint all bad. ’Cause we haint forgot the old home. Forgive us—be—easy on Rough—Thy will be done.” THE LIGHT FROM OVER THE RANGE. 163 “ Tt’s comin’ agin—pard. The light’s—comin’—over the Range—” ‘Have mercy on—us, an’—an’—an’—settle with us ‘cordin to—to the surroundin’s of our lives. Thy— Thy kingdom come—” “Go on, pard. It’s comin’.” “‘ Now—I lay me down to sleep.” “ That’s—good—mother said that—” “Hallowed be Thy name—pray—the Lord his soul to keep.” “That’s good—pard. It’s all glory—comin’ over— the Range—mother’s face—her—face—’”’ “Thine is the glory, we ask—for Jesus’ sake— Amen.” “ Pard—” “What, Rough? I’m all unstrung. I—” Mare. “Rough! Yer worse! What, dead ?” Yes, the wanderings were over. Ended with a prayer, rough and sincere, like the heart that had ceased to throb—a prayer and a few real tears, even in that lone cabin in the canyon; truer than many a death scene knows, although a nation does honor to the dying; a prayer that pleased Him better than many a prayer. of the schools and creeds. A rough but gentle hand closed the eyes. The first rays of the morning sun broke through a crevice in the little cabin and hung like his mother’s smile over the couch of the sleeping boy, Only one mourner watched with Rough as he waited for the new name which will be given to us all, when that light. comes to the world from over the Range. — :164 “TEAMSTER JIM.” “TEAMSTER JIM.” T aint jest the story, parson, to tell ina crowd like this, Weth the virtuous matron a-frownin’ an’ chidin’ the gigglin’ miss, An’ the good old deacon a noddin’ in time with his patient snores, An’ the shocked aleet of the capital, stalkin’ away through the doors. But then, it’s a story that happened, ¢ an’ every word of it’s true, An’ sometimes we can’t help talkin’ of the things ‘that we sometimes do. An’ though good Sle coldly shets its doors onto “‘Teamster Jim,’ I’m thinkin’ ther’s lots worse people thet’s better known than him. I mind the day he was married, an’ I danced at the weddin’, too ; (- An’ I kissed the bride, sweet Maggie—daughter of Ben — | McGrew. I mind how they set up housekeepin’, two young, poor, happy fools ; When Jim’s only stock was a eee truck an’ four Kaintucky mules. Well, they lived along contented, weth their little joys an’ cares, | An’ every year a baby come, an’ twice they come in pairs ; ——~ > oe. = _ “TEAMSTER JIM.” 1623 Till the house was full of children, weth their shoutin! an’ playin’ av’ squalls. _ An’ their singin’ an’ laughin’ an’ cryin’ made Bedlam within its walls. An’ Jim he seemed to like it, an’ he spent all his even: in’s at home. He said it was full of music an’ light, an’ peace from pit to dome. T{e joined the church, an’ he used to pray that his heart might be kept from sin— The stumblin’est prayer—but heads an’ hearts used to bow when he’d begin. So, they lived along in that way, the same from day to day, With Le of time for drivin’ work, and a little time for play. An’ growin’ around ’em the sweetest girls and the live- liest, manliest boys, Till the old gray heads of the two old folks was og with the homeliest joys. Eh? Come to my story? Well, that’s all. They’re ‘ livin’ just like I said, - Only two of the girls is married, an’ one of the boys is dead. An’ they’re honest an’ decent an’ happy, an’ the very best Christians, I know, Though [ reckon in brilliant compn’y they’d be voted ¢ leetle slow. | Oh! you’re pressed for time—excuse yout Sure, Pm sorry I kept you so long; 166 THE MUSIC OF THE PAST. Good-bye. Now he looked kind o’ bored-like, an’ } reckon that 1 was wrong To tell such a commonplace story of two sech common: place lives, 3 But we can’t all git drunk an’ gamble an’ fight, an’ run off with other men’s wives. R. J. BuRDETTE, THE MUSIC OF THE PAST. ARDLY ever that a body Hears the old tunes any more}; But a trampin’ fiddler played ’em T’other evenin’ at the store. An’ the music, as he played it, Kind o’ seemed like ev’ry note Only kept the lump a-growin’ That it started in my throat. An’ as I sat a-listenen’ To them tunes I used to know, All the past riz up before me Like a magic-lantern show. Thirty years or more was taken From the tally-sheet o’ life ; Thirty years o’ work an’ worry, Disa’pintment, care, and strife. An’ a voice that now is silent Promised me in lovin’ tone, An’ a hand that now is pulseleag Lay contented in my own. SCHNEIDER'S TOMATOES. 167 While the faces that hev vanished, An’ the feet that now are still, Was a-smilin’ an’ a-dancin’ ~ In that cabin on the hill, But the player stopt a-playin’, An’ the pictur soon was gone, An’ I shouldered up the burden That ole Time keeps pilin’ on. Still, 1 couldn’t help but scatter "Mong the dust o’ all these years, As akind 0’ good-bye offerin’, Just a few regretful tears. ANON. SCHNEIDER’S TOMATOES. CHNEIDER is very fond of tomatoes. Schneider has a friend in the country who raisés “‘ garden sass and sich.” Schneider had an invitation to visit his friend last week, and regale himself on his favorite vegetable. His friend Pfeiffer being busy negotiating with a city produce dealer on his arrival, Schneider thought he would take a stroll in the garden and see some of his favorites in their pristine beauty. We will let him tell the rest of the story in his own language. “Vell, I valks shust a liddle vhile roundt, when I sees some of dose dermaters vot vos so red und nice as i nefer dit see any more, und [ dinks I vill put mine- self outside about a gauple-a-tozen, shust to geef mea liddle abbedide vor dinner. So I pulls off von ov der reddest und pest lookin’ of dose dermaters, und dakes a / “168 ji BONNIE SWEET JESSIE. pooty good bite out of dot, und vas chewing it oup pooty quick, ven—by chiminy !—I dort I had a peese ov red-hot coals in mine mout, or vas chewing oup dwo or dree bapers of needles; und I velt so pad already, dot mine eyes vas vool of tears, und I mate vor an ‘ olt oken bucket’ vot I seen hanging in der vell, as I vas goomin’ along. 3 “Shust den mine vriend Pfeiffer game oup und ask me vot mate me veel so pad, und if any of mine vamily vas dead. I’dold him dot I vos der only von ov der vamily dot vas pooty-sick, und den I ask him vot kind of dermaters dose vas vot I hat shust been bicking ; unt, mine cracious, how dot landsman laughft, und said dot dose vas red beppers dot he vas raising vor bepper- sauce. You pet my life I vas mat. I radder you give me feefty tollars as to eat some more of dose bepper- sauce dermaters.”’ aters Cuas. F. ADAMS. BONNIE SWEET JESSIE. Qe come, let us wander alone i’ the gloamin’, Awa, whare nae ither our pleasure may see, Nae hour is so happy as that when I’m roamin’ Adown the green valley, my Jessie, wi’ thee. ’Tis then we forget the dull cares that annoy us, Then nane but sweet thochts and bright fancies employ bent : And life seems sae blithesome, sae merry aad joyous, My bonnie sweet Jessie, to you and to me. Beyond the far peaks 0’ Ben Lomond descending, The sun seeks repose i’ the realms o’ the west; A TRAMP’S PHILOSOPHY. 169 The day and the night i’ safe twilight are blending, And nature sinks slowly to silence and rest. See, yonder the lark and the swift-flying plover Are speeding awa to the hawthornes’ dark cover. Then, tenderly clasped i’ the arms of thy lover, Recline, my sweet Jessie, thy head on my breast. The sunlight has fled frae the tops o’ the mountains, The night spreads its curtain o’er land and o’er sea, The stars light the clear crystal depths o’ the fountains, And shed their soft radiance o’er moorland and lea. The night wind the branches above us is wooing, And nature our souls with new love is imbuing, _As o’er thee I bend, the sweet pledges renewing, That bind me forever, sweet Jessie, to thee. : A TRAMP’S PHILOSOPHY. |e been ’round this country from Texas to Maina And mostly with nary a red; I’ve walked it for miles in the wettest of rain, And slept on a board for a bed. But l’ve learnt a few comfortin’ facts by the way, While living this queer life of mine, And the principal one of the lot, let me say, Is “it’s better to whistle than whine.” I know that the winter’s a-comin’ on fast; I’m aware that a home [ aint got; [ see that the clothes I’m a-wearing won’t last Till I reach a more torrider spot. 170 APPLES. But nobody yet has discovered in me Anxiety’s tiniest sign ; And it’s jest ’cause I learnt in my youth, don’t you ses, | That “it’s better to whistle than whine.” . It strikes me somehow that it’s mighty blamed queer That fellers much wiser than me | Keep kickin’ because this terrestrial sphere Aint jest what they want it to be. Their parents have filled them with Latin and Greek, But their logic aint equal to mine, Or else they would know every day in the week That “it’s better to whistle than whine.” MERCHANT TRAVELER. - APPLES. A NEGRO LECTURE. ‘ ‘¢ A little more cider do.” REDDERN avn’ sIsTERN: Tse gwine to gib you what I hope will prove to you a fruitful discoarse—de subject am dat ob apples. — Dem ob my hearers dat only look upon de apple wid an eye to apple sass, apple fritters, apple pies, apple dump- iins, an’ apple toddies, will hardly be able to compre- — stand de apple-cation ob my lectar—to dem I leab de peelins, an’ direct de seeds of my discoarse to such as hab souls above apple dumplins an’ taste above apple _ tarts. . Now de apple, accordin’ to Linnzous, the Philea- — botanist, am a Fruit originally exported from Adam's — APPLES. : 171 apple-orchard in de Garden ob Eden, an’ made indig- genous in ebry climate ’cept de north pole an’ its neigh- boren territory de Rolly bolly alis. _ De apple, accordin’ to those renowned Lexumcograph- ers, Samuel Johnson, Danuel Webster, an’ Dr. Skeleton McKensie, am de py-rus molus, which means “To be molded into pies.” j ~ Well, you all know dat de apple tree was de sacred vegetable ob de Garden ob Eden till de sly an’ insinu- vatin’ sea-sarpent crawled out ob de river on Friday | mornen, bit off,an apple, made “ apple-jack,” handed de jug to Eve, she took a sip, den handed it to Adam— Adam took anoder, by which bofe got topseycated an’ fell down de hill ob Paradise, an’ in consequence darof de whole woman race an’ human race fell down casmash, A like speckled apples from a tree in a stormado. Oh} y what a fall was dar, my hearers, when you an’ me, an’ I, an’ all drapt down togedder, an’ de sarpent lapped his forked tongue in fatissaction. But arter all, my hearers, dat terrible fall was ot de fault of de fruit ob de apple, but de abuse ob it ; ; fon 43 de apple am a very great wegetable, corden as we iiss it or abuse it. De apple has been de fruit ob great tings, an’ great tings hab been de fruit ob de apple. It was‘ an apple dat fust suggested to Sir Humphrey Gravy New- town de seeds ob de law ob grabitation, dat wonderful, inwisible, an’ unfrizable patent leber principle by which all dem luminous an’ voluminous planets turn round togedder, all apart in one E pluribus unum ob grabity ;_ hence de great poet Longfeller, in de fifty-’leventhcanto ° ob Lord Byron, absarves : “Man fell by apples, an’ by apples rose” ia J KA f W. Det uf / 172 APPLES. Sir Humphrey Gravy Newtown was one day snoozen fast asleep under an apple tree, when a large-sized Ken- tucky Pippen grabitated from de limb, struck him in de eye, an’ all at once his eye was suddenly opened to de universal law ob grabitation. He saw, the apple downwards fell, He thought, “ Why not fall up as well ?” It proved some telegraphic spell Pulled it arthwise. I wish he’d now come back an’ tell ‘Why apples rise so high to a half peck i in de bushel. But, my hearers, to come to de grand point ob my larned disquisition on apples. Reasoning ap-priori, 1 sroceed to dis grand fromologico-physiological phree- menon, dat eber since our great-grand-modder Eve nd our great-great-grand-fader Adam fust tasted apple- ana inde orchard ob Eden, de entire human race, an’ Jack '\n race in aera has been MBS ae wid de wome ob de apple, an’ dat all men an’ women, an’ de spiriob mankind, may be compared to some Genus of de reste. Dars de Philantropist, he’s a good meller pippen applways ripe an’ full ob de seeds ob human kindness. —ars de Miser, he’s de “ grindstone” apple—rock to de Davy core. Dars de Batchelor, heam arusty coat, an’ like Veneefsteak widout gravy—dry to de very heart. Dars 2 Dandy, he’s a long stim, all peelen. Dars de d#armer, he’s de cart-horse apple—a leetle rough on de _ peelen, but juicy wid feelen. De Fashionable gent am a French pippen, an’ de fashionable young lady am de _ Bell-flower—an’ when two sich apples am joined toged- der, dey become a pear (pair). De Pollytician am a UNCLE NED’S BANJO SONG. 173 Specked apple—little foul sometimes at de core. De young Misses am de “‘ Maiden’s Blushes.”” De Widder she am a Pine-apple—pine-en an’ sprouten in de dark leaves to blossom once more. De good Wife she am de Balsam apple of human life, an’—an’ in finis, de—de old Maid she am a crab apple—a fruit never known in de apple orchard of Paradise, an’ only fit for Sour- land—put her in de cider press of human affection an’ she’ll come out forty-leventh proof vinegar, enough to sour all human creation—even as de loud thunder ob | de hebens sours de cow-juice in de milk-house. Lastly, and to conclude, Brederenan’ Sisteren, let it be our great aim, howsomever we may differ in our various apple species, to strive to go into de great cider press of human trial widout a speck in de core or de peelen, so dat when de juice of our mortal vartues am squeezed out, de Angels when dey fust put dar lips to de cider trough, may exclaim wid de poet, “A leetle more cider do.” UNCLE NED’S BANJO SONG. [\E cloud is scattered all away, De stars is shinin’ bright ; My heart is mighty light and gay, I’s gwine abroad to-night ; De darkies gwine to ’spec’ me, An’ I knows dey’ll want a song; An’ I nebber likes to fool ’em, So Pll take de banjer ’long ; 174 UNCLE NED’S BANJO SONG. CHORUS. For I’s gwine to de shuckin’, For [’s gwine to de shuckin’, For I’s gwine to de shuckin’ of de corn. Oh! I'll tell ’em at de shuckin’ "Bout de little gal o’ mine, In her pretty little shanty On de Allerbamer line; Her eyes is like de Jack-er-lantern, Sweet enough to kill; An’ when she starts to sing a song, She beats de whipperwill ! An’ when she hunts de hick’y nuts, She mighty nice to see, ’Cause she beats de raccoon all to pieces Clammin’ up de tree ; Her teef does shine so mighty white Dey sparkle in de dark, An’ dey make de sweetest music When dey mash de scaly bark! An’ when de darkness comes at night An’ kivers up de sky, Why, she kindles up a fire Wid de brightness ob her eye; Den she gadders up a pile 0’ wood Fum out de cyp’us-brake, An’ gits de skillet orf de she’f To cook de Johnny-cake! ~ De time is slippin’ fas’ away, I see de risin’ moon ; THE TRAPPER’S LAST TRAIL. 175 T ought to be down at de corn-’ouse Knockin’ out a chune ; So I'll git my coat fum out de chis’ An’ moobe along de way ; Oh! ’twill make dem darkies happy When dey hear de banjer play | THE TRAPPER’S LAST TRAIL. YUH, Jack! ole boy, come hyer an’ lay dows Close up to my breast ; I feel so strange ; That arrow left such a stinging pain, An’ my sight’s losin’ its range. My thoughts are scatterin’ out like shot, An’ old days crowdin’ in enstead ; The wind a-touchin’ my forehead feels Like my mother’s hand on my head. ‘the deer’s a-gettin’ up now to browse, For the moon’s jest riz—Here, Sammy, say, PU make you a whistle if you don’t tell I went in swimmin’ with Tom to-day ! Shs-h, Jack! they’re moccasins stealin’ through The leaves—That breeze is a sign of rain— Oh ! somebody tear this off my throat! - Good-night, little sister—that pain— * k x eS oe * Jack snuffed and sniffed the wounded breast And uttered a pitiful wail— The trapper had gone and left no track For his dog to scent the trail. Mapce Morrm TAO SRO SES i er NMED SPR OR REEL Rea A) a Ee a a a 4 i acs Pe a! fra a M ; “tp oa ; hw f i176 KIDDY M’GINNIS AT THE PHOTOGRAPRERS. BIDDY McGINNIS AT THE PHOTOGRA- PHER’S. | , RRAH! hould your whist now, Whinny, til I’m afther tellin’ ye all about gettin’ me goodlook: in’ pictur’ tuk. Sure, an’ ye see, I got a famous letther from home, axin me viry purticalar, from me father an’ mother, me frinds and relashuns, me ansisters an’ me gransisters, iv | was thrivin’ bravely? An’ how Ameriky was agreein’ wid me? Yis, an’ iv the blush av me cheek was as rid, an’ as warrum as whin I lift the ould dart? Aye, troth, an’ iv the clothes av the counthry wur becomin’ to me? An’ be the same token it mintion’d that all that wus livin’, wur injoyin’ good health. An’ that Judy Milligan had sint home her > pictur’; an’ that all the b’ys in our parts wur nearly. mad over it; ‘twas so grand lookin’; an’ bedad, sure they must hav’ bin quare things, that wan had on the back av hur, to draw a’ remark from any b’y in the whole parish, whin I was there, or afore she lift home hersilf. Och! but she was th’ ugly drab thin, wid her carroty head an’ her turnip nose. How well, she niver mintion’d she was goin’ to hay’ her pictur’ drawn to sind home, d’ye mind! She thought she’d intice the — whole town av Mullingar quite unbeknownst to me, d’ye mind that? Bad cess to her! Arrah, d’ye ye think now, Whinny, that I’d let that wan bate or outdo me in onything? No, thin, be the powers I wuddent, unless it was quite unbeknownst to me, indade. | Says I to mesel’, “Och! glory be till the whole a vurreld, sure ’tis you, Miss Biddy McGinnis, cud be _BIDDY M’GINNIS AT THE PHOTOGRAPHERS. 17% sindin’ home the pictur’ that cud turn the b’ys’ heads, an’ that wud be worth lookin’ at.” Sure, be the same token, there was me illegant ‘new frock ; and be the powers, ’twas med up beauti-ful, just aqual to the greatest lady’s in the land ; wid side plait. _in’s an’ rufflin’s on the tail avit. Yis, an’ a luyly top skirt, an’ it tucked back that snug now, that faix whin I do be plantin’ mesel’ on me sate in the kars—it does be burstin’ on me a thrifle wid the tightness ay it. Och! musha, an’ iv ye cud only see me missus onst, cockin’ er two eyes at me, an’ she watchin’ me from the winday whin I’m goin’ out ava Sunday. Indade I think the cratur’s jealous avy me dacent looks. For, begorra, whin ’tis hersilf that’s tightened an’ pulled back, she’s that thin now, ye’d think it was three slats out ay the bedstid that was tied flat _thegether an’ was approachin’ ye, drissed. ’Tis the truth I’m tellin’ ye— av coorse it is. But the consait ay the poor thing, now. Troth it bates Bannagher, an’ Bannagher bates the whole world, ye know. Well, alanna dear, away I wint down the street wid my frock hiked up on the wan side av me, an’ the tail av it in me hand, an’ I niver made a shtop until I kem to the likeness shop. An’ after inquirin’ a bit, I spel’d up three flights av quare, durty little stairs, An’ I walked stret intil the doore av the room at the top av thim. An’ there sthood a fine big man widin ‘as smilin’ as the flowers av May, resaivin’ the ladies that kem in as grashus now as a king. What kin I be afther doin’ for ye, miss?” says he to mesel as p’lite as ye plaze, an’ a grate smile in the eye av him. “I know,” says he, “’tis yer pictur’ ye want takin’; and mebbe it’s home ye’d want to be sind: 12 € {78 EDDY M’GINNIS AT THE PHOTOGRAPHERS. in’ it to yer fellay there in ould Ireland, or some othes furrin counthry,” says he, spakin’, och, viry respictful, but wid a knowin’ wink at the same time, d’ye mind? “ Be gorra, sur,” says I, “but it’s good ye are at the guessin’, for be me sowl an’ troth that’s jist what I cum for,” spakin’ frindly to him, for he had that civil, mild, enticin’ way wid him. “ An’ iv ye can make a purty wan av me, I’d like to git one drawn immaijately,” says I. “A purty one?” says he, lookin’ quite sharp at the head av me, an’ castin’ his eye ovir the driss av me. “ Indade ’tis a luvly pictur’ ye’ll make, miss, an’ ’tis proud that I am that ’tis to our place ye come to git it tuk, for there’s no betther in the land av Ameriky,” says he, wid a fine tass av his head, d’ye mind? “ Ye’ll pay for it furst,” says he, “ an’ thin take off yer bonnit, and zo intil the room beyant there an’ the man inside will attind to ye.” Av coorse I did jist what he bid me, an’ he passed me in wid a flurish av his hand, an’ wid as much con- desinshun now as a lord, an’ the doore wide opin before him. Well, Whinny, niver sich asmill I iver smilt at home or abroad as was in that room wid some haythen pota- eary sthuff. 3 “Ye'll take a pictur’ av this young lady,” says him- self to an ouldish-lookin’ chap that was standing up wid-in. An’ he, the crayture, that starved-lookin’ an’ pale as iv he was ane “Cum this way,” says the ould man, an’ he lant me down ina cushi’ned chair forninst a bit av a box histid up on three legs an’ wid two eye-holes in the frunt av it. An’ after pushin’ it an’ straightin’ it to his mind. k ee eee t rer ee ee BIDDY M’GINNIS AT THE PHOTOGRAPHERS. 179 back he cums an’ tuk me be me two showlders an’ twishted me round on the chair, an’ thin wid me face petune his ugly-smel’in’, clatty hands, an’ thim, och, the color av a naygur’s, he gev me head a twisht, an’ howldin’ it in wan hand, he clapped a grapplin’-iron til the back av me, an’ fell to the shcrewin’ ay it wid the other hand, d’ye mind? “ What in the name av goodness are yes doin’ that for ?” says I, for be all that’s good an’ bad I was gettin’ afeard av the ould skiliton. “ What are ye doin’ to me at all at all?” says I, quite sheared like. “Och, be aisy, be aisy,” says he, ‘an’ kape sthill tha way I’ll fix ye, for I don’t want the whole av yer face to appear in the pictur’,” l’avin’ go his clutch av me at the same time, an’ before I cud hindur or prevint him, didn’t he dust: a lock av flour ovir me head, an’ jewkin’ down in front av me, admirin’-like at the same time. “Now don’t move,” says he, “kape viry sthill til’ I cum back,” an’ away he wint intil a little dark room beyant. Now, it wint through me like a flash that they were rogues, the pair av thim, an’ that they wur goin’ to chate me—the one fellay outside wid me money safe widin his trowsers, an’ this ould pick’d-lookin’ divil sthrivin’ to p’am aff the haf av me face on mesilf for the whole av it, d’ye mind? ‘“ Yez may take me for a granehorn,” says I to mesil, “but the divi] skure me iv I don’t git satisfacshun or me money out av yes, me fine laddie bucks. Yis, aven iv I hav’ to take in the purlice to the both av yes.” Howly faythers! may I niver brathe another breath, an’ ye’ll blave me, the anxiety I was sufferin’ under was terribil—it was. Be dad! he was no sooner in that little room but J Foe RPA es eS NLT Uta eAt esterase ans TRE A Ty ee see MT Ys hy ee a Tenet o ne 4 ys in ' rise 2 U rane Ai, Y . 180 BIDDY M’GINNIS AT THE PHOTOGRAPHERS. was out av that sate, an’ me roun’ to the back av the little box to satisfy mesel’ that he had no murthrus waypins consailed widin it ready to fire at me may be in an unguardid minute. But, niver a haporth cud I see,-for a black cloth he had hung ovir the frunt av it, an’ jist as I was puttin’ me hand ovir the ould rag, may all the saints in hiv purserve me, but there stud the ould bag iv bones at — the side av me; aye, an he wid me hand grab’d. Och, may I nivir stir but I was all av a violent thrimble—I was. out av there?” says he. “ Didn’t I. tell ye to kape sthill, an’ not stur ?” says he, lookin’ wild at me. “Tm not takin’ anything, sur,’ says I, when I cud command mesel’ a thrifle, an’ the heart av me givin’ ivery lape widin me throat, be the token. “Sure, sir, I was sthrivin’ to look through the little — windies at mesel’ ‘beyant there,” says I, still kapin’ me — eye viry jubius-like on the little box, d’ye mind? “ Well, yez needn’t git so frightened,’ says he, seein’ the state I was in. “ There’s no great harrum done, an’ ye needn’t be lookin’ that way at the insthrument,” says he, “ for there’s no wild baste in there that/ll j jump out an’ devour ye. An’ to quiet ye, Dll let ye look an’ yell see how your pictur’s tuk,” says he, an’ wid that j he pull’d away: the cloth. ‘“ Now,” says he, “look “le an’ yell see yersilf.”’ “Och! sure that’s not me at all at all, that Tm lookin’ at down beyant there,” says I. “Tut, tut,” says he, “avy coorse it’s not ye, but me. ; Amn’t I sthrivin’ to show ye the way ye will look whim — -yer here,” says he, ‘“ That’s the way ye’ll look.” * “ What are ye doin’ here?” says he. ‘“ What tuk ye er a Oe ee a i _ BIDDY M’GINNIS AT THE PHOTOGRAPHERS. 18] “ Are ye sure av it ?” says I. “T am,” says he. “That Pll look that way ?” says I. “Exactly. The identicle way,’’ says he. “Thin mailie, murther! mailie, murther! let me out ay here,” says I, gaspin’ like. For iv you'll b’lave me, there he was, stan’in’ forninst me, as plain as ye plaze; wid his heels in the air, an’ his head on the floore. “ Och, giv’ me me money, an’ let me out av here this minit,” says I, “ ye murtherin’ ould thafe.” “What’s the row? what’s the row?” says the big man, comin’ in out av the other roome. “Row, thin, enough,” says I. “That ould starved crow, there beyant, was goin’ to git me down there, | an’ when he get the grappers tight on the back avy me lugs, he was goin’ to stand me on the tap av me hed, . an’ may be murther me entirely. Yez tuk me for a granehorn, did yez?” says I; “well, ’'m not so grane as ye think now, may be, an’ iv ye don’t giv’ me money, an’ let me out av here, I'll hav’ yez both up afore the coort for a pair av thaves, that ye are.” - Och, thunder an’ turf, Whinny. Iv yo’ll b’lave me, an’ may I niver stir, but it’s the truth, I’m tellin’, What wur thim two villians doin’, but laughin’ an’ roarin’ at me, yis, that hearty now, that y’u’d think the very sides av thim wud split open. Aye, troth an’ me that ragin’ I cud hav’ torn ivery hair out av their heads, iv I cud hav’ clutched thim wid me two hands. O Lord! forgive me. They just curdled the blood ay me with the rage, they did. An’ whin the outside wan—yis —the wan that had me hard earnin’ in his pockit—cud control himsilf from burstin’ wid the laughin’, says he, lookin viry sawdherin’ like, ‘ Och, bless ye! bless ye! 182 BIDDY M’GINNIS AT THE PHOTOGRAPHERS. Ye didn’t understand him, Miss. Sure, it’s not ye at all, at all; but your pictur’ that’ll be revarsed in the takin’,’ says he; “ an’ it’s yersilf will be sittin’ quite quiet—in yer chair—like a quane upon her throne. Come now,” says he, “an’ Ill fix ye mesilf.” At the same time takin’ me by me hand and ladin’ me back to the sate I was in afore, yis, an’ twhistin’ me the Be identicle way the ould scare-crow did. Aye, faix! an’ grapped the ould screwin’ iron on me, too, just the same now as that ould rashkill did. “ Now, ye'll sit res an’ look at that sthick, at the corner ay the box, an’ don’t move whilst I’m countin’,” says he, at the same time puttin’ somethin’ that ould picky-bones had gev him intil the frunt av-the little box. ‘ Now mind,” says he, ‘“ don’t stur,” an’ wid that he turn’d his back an’ begun to count for his life. For I cud see plain enough that the laugh wasn’t out av him yit. Och, lave me alone, but I knew enough to not let thim bate me out of anythin’ this time, d’ye mind? So I jist planted mesilf stret round an’ cock’d me twe eyes stret in frunt av me. An’ troth I had quite — enough to kape me imployed watchin’ the little sthick,. and the box, and his own back,d’ye mind? “That'll do for the prisint,” says he, “but remain where ye are, for I may hav’ to take ye oyir ag’in.” An’ wid that. he handed 4 bit av a slate to ould skinny-bags, an’ he whip’d wid it intil his little din. Purty soon he kem out, an’ the two were talkin’ thegether like a couple ay pirates, dishputin’ betune thimsilves. So, whin they had settled it, himself walks up to me, an’ says he, “I - hav’ the pictur’ av you now, only,” says he, “ it has far more than belongs to ye, but I’ll show it to ye to con- vince ye that we wur not chatin’ ye out av yer eyes. eee eS a ee BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE. 183 onyway.” An’, Whinny, och Whinny, acushla! Iv there wasn’t mesilf wid four eyes an’ two mouths in the face av me. Allother ways as natural as life, top skirt an’ all. “Tm rot willin’ to giv’ ye so much for the price,” says he, “an’ iv ye'll just look at a luvly little burd that PIl hould in my hand intil I count thurty, Pll jist take two avy yer eyes out an’ clap thim intil me pockit to remember ye by, an’ yer mouth an yer voice. Deed, I'll niver forgit, as long as I live,” says he. So wid that the ould fairy gev him the slate back agin, an’ he clapped it intil the box, fixed me ovir, avick; held up’his little burd for me to look at, an’ be jabers! he niver tuk his two eyes off me face, this time, an’ him countin’ as solim now as an ould judge, readin’ the dith sintince ; an’ whin they got through, this was what they brung to me; an’ iv ye don’t say it’s as good a lookin’ gurril as iver left the county Connaught—heath, I’m sure my mother will, whin she sees it. Och, look it there! Isn’t it the dazzler? 7 v BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE. PIHEY's fellers a-writin’ about the wa, & ’At nobody ever knowed before, An’ ne’er a word, you understand, *Bout Corp’al Alexander Rand. In ever’ paper, West an’ Kast, Them writes the most as fit the least ; But there was chéers and carnage when Braye Corp’al Rand led on his men. 184 TESTIMONY IN A STEAMBOAT CASE. When Grant was in that awful mess A fightin’ in the Wilderness, Says Meade, “ Who bears the battle’s heft ?? Says Grant, “It’s Rand, ’at holds the left.” When rebeldom was out of j’int, An’ Lincoln came from City P’int, “ Well, well!” says he, with honest joy, “There’s Corp’al Rand, of Helinoy.” An’ yet I aint, nor you aint seen His pictur’ in a magazine ; The bravest man ’at ever drored In any cause a soljer’s sword. The sharpest, keenest, bravest man To plan, er execute a plan ; Ef long as time his fame don’t stand My name aint Alexander Rand. R. J. BURDETTH, A DUTCHMAN’S TESTIMONY IN A $ TEAM BOAT CASE. EVERAL years ago the steamboat Buckeye blew up on the Ohio River near Pittsburg, by which accident a lady rejoicing in the name of Mrs. Rebecca a Jones lost both her husband and her baggage. In due — time she brought suit against the owners of the boat for 4 | ¥ S, , TESTIMONY IN A STEAMBOAT CASE. 183 damages for the death of-her husband, as well as com. pensation for the loss of her clothing. On trial, the defense denied everything. It was alleged that neither Jones nor his wife was aboard the Buckeye, and there fore he could not have been killed, or any clothing lost. The Jones family, being strangers in Pittsburg, where they went on board the boat, it was difficult to find any witnesses to prove that the missing man was actually on board, or that he was killed. Finally Mrs. Jones remembered that a Dutchman who took their trunk from the hotel at Pittsburg was a deck passenger,’ and he was soon found and subpcenaed as a witness. His name was Deitzman, and being called to the stand, he was questioned as follows : : Counsel for Mrs. Jones—Mr. Deitzman, did you know the steamboat Buckeye? | Witness.— Yaw, I vas plow up mit her. Counsel—Were you on board when the boiler col- lapsed ? Witness.—Yaas, I vas on de poat ven de piler bust. - Counsel.—Did you know Mr. Jones, the husband of this lady ? [pointing to plaintiff]. Witness.—To pe sure I know him; [ pring his trunk on de poat at Bittsburg, and ve paid our passage toged- der at der captain’s office. Counsel.— Well, did he stay aboard; did you see him _ on the boat at the time of the soplodon! ? Witness.—Nix: I didn’t see Mr. Shones on der poat at dat time. Counsel for Defense [eagerly].—So, he wasn’t on the Buckeye when the boiler exploded, that you know of? Witness.—I didn’t say dat. 186 ‘“BEVARE OF THE VIDDERS.” Counsel [with a triumphant glance at the jury].— What did you say then? when did you last see Jones? Witness.— Vell, I shtocd by der shmoke bipe ven der piler pust, and I didn’t gee Mr. Shones den; but ven me and der shmoke bipe vas goin’ up in de air, I see Shones coming down! JDat’s der last time I see him. ; This testimony being thought conclusive, the jury gave Mrs. Jones a verdict for five thousand dollars. ‘BEVARE OF. THE VIDDERS.” XCOOSE me if I shed some tears, Und vipe my nose avay ; Und if a lump vos in my troat, It comes up dere to shtay. My sadness I shall now unfoldt, Und if dot tale of woe Don’t do some Dutchmans any good Den I don’d pelief I know. You see I fall myself in love, Und effery night I goes — Across to Brooklyn by dot pridge, All dressed in Sunday clothes. A vidder voman vos der brize, Her husband he vos dead ; Und all alone in dis coldt vorldt Dot vidder vos, she saidt. * BEVARE OF THE VIDDERS.” 187 Her heart for love vos on der pine, Und dot I like ter see; Und all de time I hoped dot heart Vos on der pine for me. I keeps a butcher-shop, you know, And in a shtocking stout I put avay my gold und bills, Und no one gets him oudt. If, in der night, some bank cashier. Goes skipping off mit cash, I shleep so sound as nefer vas, While rich folks go to smash. I court dot vidder sixteen months, Dot vidder she courts me, Und ven I says: “ Vill you be mine?” She says: “ You bet Ill be!” Ve vos engaged—oh, blessed fact! I squeeze dot dimpled hand, Her head upon my shoulder lays Shust like a bag of sand. Before der wedding day was set, She whispers in my ear: “T like to say I haf to use Some cash, my Yacob dear. “ I owns dis house und two big farms, Una ponds und railroad shtock ; Und up in Yonkers I bossess A grand big peesness block. 188 THE FUNERAL. “ Der times vos dull, my butcher boy, Der market vos no good, Und if I sell—” I squeezed her hant To show I understood. Next day—oxcoose my briny tears— Dot shtocking took a shrink ; I counted out twelve hundred in Der cleanest kind of chink. Und later by two days or more, Dot vidder shlopes avay ; — Und leaves a note behindt for me In vich dot vidder say: “DEAR SHAKE:— “ Der rose vos redt, Der violet blue~ You see I’ve left, Und you’re left, too!” THE FUNERAL. WAS walking in Savannah, past a church decayed and dim, When there slowly through the window came a plain. tive funeral hymn ; And a sympathy awakened, and a ponder quickly grew, Till I found myself environed in a little negro pew. Out at front a colored couple sat in sorrow, nearly wild; On the altar was a coffin, in the coffin was a child. THE FUNERAL. 183 I could picture him when living—curly hair, protruding ~ ip— And had seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried Southern trip. - But no baby ever rested in the soothing arms of death That had fanned more flames of sorrow with his little fluttering breath ; And no funeral ever glistened with more sympathy pro- found Than was in the chain ne tear drops that enclasped those mourners round. Rose a sad old colored preacher at the little wooden desk— - With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance grotesque ; With simplicity and shrewdness on his Ethiopian face; _ With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed, undying race. _ And he said, “ Now don’ be weepin’ for dis pretty bit o’ clay— For de little boy who lived there, he done gone an’ run away ! He was doin’ very finely, an’ he ’preciate your love ; But his sure “nuff Father want him in de large house up above. “ Now He didn’ give you dat baby, by a hundred thou- san’ mile! He just think you need some sunshine, an’ He lend it for awhile! 190 THE FUNERAL. An’ He let you keep an’ love it till your hearts was bigger grown ; An’ dese silver tears you’re sheddin’s jest de interest on de loan. “ Here your oder pretty chil’run!—don’t be makin’ it appear, Dat your love got sort 0’ ’nopolized by this little fellow here ; Don’ pile up too much your sorrow on deir little men- tal alehy es, So’s to kind o’ set ’em wonderin: if dey’re no account themselves! “ Just you think, you poor deah mounahs, creepin’ “long _ o’er Sorrow’s way, What a blessed little picnic dis yere baby’s got to-day ! Your good faders and good moders vrowd de little fel low round In de angel-tended garden of de Big Plantation-Ground. “ An’ dey ask him, ‘ Was your feet sore?’ an’ take off hig little shoes. An’ dey wash him, an’ dey kiss him, an’ dey say: ‘ Now what’s de news?” An’ de Lawd done cut his tongue loose; den de little fellow say : ‘All our folks down in de valley tries to keep de hebenly way.’ “ An’ his eyes dey brightly sparkle at de pretty things he view; Den a tear come, and he whisper: ‘ But I want my paryents, too!’ ae IT’S VERA WEEL. {91 But de Angel Chief Musician teach dat boy a little song ; Says ‘If only dey be fait’ful dey will soon be comin’ long.’ “ An’ he'll get an education dat will prober’bly be worth ) Seberal times as much as any you could buy for him on earth ; He’ll be in de Lawd’s big school-house, widout no con- tempt or fear ; While dere’s no ead to de bad tings might have hae pened to him here. “So, my pooah dejected mounahs, let your hearts wid Jesus rest, An’ don’t go to critercisin’ dat ar One w’at knows de best ! He have sent us many comforts—He have right to take away— To de Lawd & praise an’ glory now and ever! Let us | pray.” WiLuL CARLETON, IT’S VERA WEEL. —_——_—_—— se vera weel throughoot the day, When ta’en up wi’ wark or play, To think a man can live alway __ Wioot a wifey ; 192 te Re + ITS VERA WEEL. But it’s anither thing, at night, To sit alone by can’le-light, Or gang till rest, when shairp winds. bite, Woot a wifey. It’s vera weel when claes are new, To think they’ll always last just so, And look as weel as they do noo, Woot a wifey ; But when the holes begin to show, The stitches rip, the buttons go, What in the warl’s a man to do Woot a wifey ? It’s vera weel when skies are clear, When frien’s are true and lassies dear, To think ye’ll gang through life—nae fear— Wi’oot a wifey ; But clouds will come the skies athart, Lassies will marry, frien’s maun part ; Wha then can cheer your saddened heart Like a dear wifey ? It’s vera weel when young and hale:— But when ye’re ould, and crazed, and frail, And your blithe spirits ’gin to fail, You’ll want a wifey ; But mayhap then the lassies dear Will treat your offers wi’ a sneer; Because ye’re cranky, gray, and sere, Ye’ll get nae wifey. el ae AO a at DE PREACHER AN’ DE HANTS. - 193 Then haste ye, haste, ye silly loon; Rise up and seek aboot the toon, And get Heaven’s greatest earthly boon— A wee bit wifey. WALLACE DUNBAR, DE PREACHER AN’ DE HANTS. A STORY RELATED BY UNCLE PERRY, A DARKEY OF THE OLDEN TIME. AR wuz a hous’ by hitself in an ole fiel’.. De hous’ wuz off a piece from de main road. Some rich people useter lib dar wunst, but dey had all died out. De tramps an’ all de pussons trabelling along de road wouldn’t stop at de hous’, ’caise dey heerd hit was hantid, an’ wuz afeard de hants would scare ’em off. After awhile dar come an ole preacher along, an’ hit wuz rainin’ mighty heaby. He axed some ob de nabors ef he could put up at de hous’ in de fiel’ fer de night, ez hit wuz gitten berry dark ’bout dat time. De nabors tole him he could stay dar ef he wantid ter, but dat de buildin’ was bout giben up ter de hants. _ De preacher neber said much, but he borrered a box of lucifum matches an’ a big taller candil. Den he -tromped straight ter de hous’ an’ struck a light, an’ _ went in peart wid his head helt high. De fust thing he foun’ wuz an ole table in the closes’ cornder ob de down-stairs room. He drawed hit out inter de middle ob de flo’ ; den hetuk his Bible from de big inside pockit ob his coat, laid hit on de table, pulled a miljewed rockin’ chair ter de side ob der candil, tuk __ his seat easy, an’ opened de book. 194 DE PREACHER AN’ DE HANTS. All dis time de daddy-long-legs an’ de cockroaches wuz crawlin’ in an’ out ob de walls; de spiders wuz movin’ in de big black cobwebs, an’ de rats an’ mouses wuz makin’ a rakit all ober de hous’. De preacher neber tuk no notice ob de varmints ; he wiped his specs’ wid a-bluehandkercher, put dem on, an’ sot inter readin’. De rain wuz fallin’ an’ fallin’, but de win’ neber blowed much; an’ de candil kep’ still ez de preacher. "Way long bout de middle of de night in walked de body ob a bulldog, widout a head. He neber barked, but when he got clos’ ter de table he moved back’ards slow to the front door, an’ banished swif’ inter de dark- ness an’ de rain. An’ de preacher an’ de candil bofe kep’ still. After a while a cow come in wid no horns on her head an’ no motionin’ ob de tail. She crossed de room an’ passed froo de wall by the side ob de chimbly. An’ de preacher an’ de candil neber moved. Nex’ dar come in two black cats wid monstrous heads, and eyes ez big ez de owl’s a-blinkin’ at um from de dark eend ob de room. De eyes ob dem vats look like coals ob fire, wid no ashes on um. Dey crope up onder de table whar de foots ob de preacher wuz stretched out an’ mounted on um. De har on his head ris’ we’en dey teched him, but he neber sed nuthin’, an’ kep’ a-readin’ an’ readin’ in de good book. Jest ’fore de breakin’ ob de day de flame ob de candil lep’ up. De win’ neber struc’ hit, fer de a’r wuz still, De light fell suddin ez hit ris’, and sot inter burnin’ blue. Den in come a man wid a ’ooman follerin’ him, an’ bofe of um in long white clothes, wid de smell ob de grabeyard all ober dem. Dey wuz ghoses! TIM MURPHY’S STEW. 193 De preacher neber had knowed um, livin’ or dead, but he shet de Bible and axked um easy: “Name ob de Lawd, w’at yo’ want ?” Den dey tole him dey wuz from de t’other worl’ and eouldn’t res’ happy in de churchyard, becaise ob some money dey hid afore dey died. Dey sed ’twas nine t’ousan’ do’lahs and wuz Huried 3 “way down on a hillside.” Dey tole him whar to fine hit. Den dey said dey had two brudders libin’ an’ begged de preacher ter git de money an’ gib de brud- ders two t’ousan’ apiece ; de balance wuz his’n. Dey said ’twas giben ter him fer speakin’ ter dem. Dey tole him dey could res’ happy now, and dey lef’ him. An’ de mornin’ broke wid de preacher settin’ at de table wid bofe hands on de Bible. De eend ob de tale say dat de preacher foun’ de money, an’ done right by de brudders. An’ atter dat enny body could sleep in de house. Nobody neber wuz brave enuff ter speak ter de hants tzl’ de preacher come along. He jes’ sot down and read de good book all night. Wn. H. Hayne TIM MURPHY’S STEW. IM MURPHY (solus): I saw Teddy Reagan the other day; he told me he had been dealing in hogs. “Is business good?’ says J. “ Yis,” says he. “Talking about hogs, Teddy, how do you find your- self?” sez I. I wint to buy a clock the other day, to make a present to Mary Jane. “Will you have a Frinch clock?’ says the jeweler. “The deuce take your Frinch clock,” sez I. “I want a clock 196 TIM MURPHY’S STEW. that my sister can understand when it strikes.” “4 have a Dutch clock,” sez he, “an’ you can put that on the sthairs.” “It might run down if I put it there,’ sez I. “ Well,’’ sez he, “ here’s a Yankee clock, with a lookin’-glass in the front, so that you can see yourself,”’ sez he. “It’s too ugly,’ says I. “Thin I’ll take the Jookin’-glass out, an’ whin you look at it you'll not find it so ugly,’’ sez he. ) I wint to Chatham Sthreet to buy a shirt, for the one I had on was a thrifle soiled. The Jew who kept the sthore looked at my bosom, an’ said: “So hellup me gracious! how long do you vear a shirt?” “Twinty- eight inches,’ sez I. ‘Have you any fine shirts?” sez I. “ Yis,’’ sez he. ‘ Are they clane?” sez I. “ Yis,” sez he. “Thin you had betther put on one,” sez I. You may talk about bringin’ up childer in the way they should go, but I believe in bringing them up by the hair of the head. Talking about bringing up childer—I hear my childer’s prayers every night. The other night I let thim up to bed without thim. I skipped and sthood behind the door. I heard the big boy say: “Give us this day our daily bread.’ The little fellow said: “Sthrike him for pie, Johnny.” I~ have one of the most economical boys in the city of New York ; he hasn’t spint one cint for the last two years. J am expecting him down from Sing Sing next week. Talking about boys, I have a nephew who, five years ago, couldn’t write a word. Last week he wrote his name for $10,000 ; he'll git tin years in Auburn. : They had a fight at Tim Owen’s wake last week. Mary Jane was there. She says that, barrin’ herself, there was only one whole nose left in the party, an’ that Yelonged to the tay-kettle. FRITZ AND £& FRITZ AND I. NHEER, blease helb a boor oldt mam Vot gomes vrom Sharmany,- Mit Fritz, mine tog, and only freund, To geep me company. I haf no geld to puy mine pread, No blace to lay me down; For ve vas vanderers, Fritz and I, Und sdrangers in der town. Some beoples gife us dings to eadt, Und some dey kicks us oudt, Und say, “ You don’d got peesnis here To sdroll der schtreets aboudt !”" - Vot’s dot you say ?—you puy mine tog. To gift me pread to eadt ! I was so boor as never vas, But I vas no “ tead beat.” Vot, sell mine tog, mine leetle tog. Dot vollows me aboudt, Und vags his dail like anydings . Vene’er I dakes him oudt? Schust look at him, und see him schump? He likes me pooty vell ; Und dere vas somedings ’bout dot tog, Mynheer, I wouldn’t sell. . “Der collar?” Nein: ’twas someding elag Vrom vich I gould not bart; 198 A TEXT WITHOUT A SERMON. Und, if dot ding vas dook avay I dink it prakes mine heart. Vot vos it, den, aboudt dot tog, You ashk, “ dot’s not vor sale ?” I dells you vot it ish, mine freund: *Tish der vag off dot tog’s dail ! CHARLES F. ADAM& A TEXT WITHOUT A SERMON. f\HERE wor once a mason at Guiseley gat intor his heead ’aht he wor just cut aht for a preycher, so he went to see a Methody parson, an’ asst him if he couldn’t get him a job as a “ local’’ somewhear; he wor sewer if they’d nobbut give him a right chance, he could convert sinners wholesale. Well, after a gooid deal of bother t’ parson gat a vacant poolpit for him i’ some ahtside country place, an’ theer one fine Sunda’ mornin’ in t’ mason went, reight weel suited wi’ hizen. Up into t’ poolpit he mahnted, like one ’at wor weel used t’ job. All went on quietly eniff, whol t’ time come for him to begin his sarmon, an’ theer wor a rare _ congregation to listen tul him. 3 “Nah, my friends,’ he began, in a stammerin’ sort of way, “t’ text is this: ‘I am t’ leet 0’ t’ world.’’’ He then waited a bit, an’ a’ter thumpin’ t’ poolpit top toathree times, he gat on a bit further. “ Firstly, my friends,’ he says—“ firstly, I—I—I am t’ leet o’ t’ world,’ an’ then he com’ t’ another full stop, and thumpt the poolpit agean a bit. “ Yes,’’ he said agean, THE WIDOW O’SHANE’S RINT. 195 *in t’ first place I—I—I am t’ leet 0’ ? world,’’ but he couldn’t get a word further, dew what he would. At t’ last, hahiver, there wor an owd woman among’t t’ congregation sang aht, “I tell tha what it is, lad, if tha’rt t’ leet o’o t’ world, thah sadly wants snuffin’.”’ An’ t’ poor mason hookt it aht o’ t’ chapel as if he’d been bitten wi’ a mad dog. He wor never known t’ enter a poolpit at after. — ——, THE WIDOW O’SHANE’S RINT. \ HIST, there! Mary Murphy, doan think me insane, But I’m dyin’ ter tell ye of Widder O’Shane: She as lives in the attic nixt mine, doan ye know, An’ does the foine washin’ fer ould Misther Schnow. Wid niver a chick nor a child ter track in, - Her kitchen is always as nate as a pin; An’ her cap an’ her apron is always that clane— Och, a mivhty foin gurral is the Widder O’Shane, An’ wud ye belave me, on Sathurday night We heard a rough stip comin’ over our flight ; An’ Mike, me ould man, he jist hollered to me, “ Look out av the door an’ see who it moight be.” An’ I looked, Mary Murphy, an’ save me if there Wasn’t Thomas Mahone on the uppermost stair, (He’s the landlord; ye’re seen him yerself, wid a cane 3} An’ he knocked on the door of the Widder O’Shane, 200 THE WIDOW O’SHANE’S RINT. An’ I whispered to Michael, “ Now what can it mane That his worship is calling on Widder O’Shane?” (Rint day comes a Friday, wid us, doan ye see, So I knew that it wusn’t collictin’ he’d be.) “Tt must be she owes him some money for rint, Though the neighbors do say that she pays to the cint, You take care of the baby, Michael Brady,” says I, « An’ I'll pape through the keyhole, I will, if I die.” The houly saints bliss me! what shudn’t I see But the Widder O’Shane sittin’ pourin’ the tea ; An’ the landlord was there—Mr. Thomas Mahone— A-sittin’ one side ov the table alone. An’ he looked at the Widder O’Shane, an’ sez he, “Ti’s a privilege great that ye offer ter me; © Fer I’ve not sat down by a woman’s side Since I sat by her that I once called me bride. “ An’ is it ye’re poor now, Widder O’Shane? Ye’re adacent woman, tidy an’ clane; An’ we’re both av us here in the world alone— Wud ye think uy unitin’ wid Thomas Mahone?” Then the Widder O’Shane put the teakettle down, An’ she sez, “Mr. Thomas, yer name is a crown; I take it most gladly ”—an’* then me ould man © Hollered, “ Bridget cum in here quick as yer can.” So, then, Mary Murphy, I riz off that floor, An’ run into me attic an’ bolted the door; An’ I sez to me Michael, “ Now isn’t it mane? ‘She'll have no rint to pay, will that Widder O’Shane.™ SHOEMAKER’S Best Selections FOR READINGS AND RECITATIONS Numbers {to 27 Now (ssued ‘@eachers, Readers, Students, and ali persons who have occasion to use books of this kind, concede this to be the best series of speakers published. The different numbers are compiled by leading — elocutionists of the country, who have exceptionat facilities for securing selections and whose judgment as to their merits is invaluable. No trouble or exe pense is spared to obtain the very best readings and recitations, and much material is used by special arrangement with other publishers, thus securing the best selections from such American authors as Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier, Lowell, Emerson, Alice and Phoebe Cary, Mrs. Stowe, and mam others. The foremost English authors are als) represented, as well as the leading French and Ger. man writers. The series is not only valuable for the readings and recitations it contains, but is also aa attractive addition to the home library, as the seleé. tions make interesting reading as short stories. For brief descriptions of a few of the most popular pieces fm each number of this series, see pages immediately follows ing. itis not to be understood that the pieces described ere the only ones in the book. Each number contains from seventy-five to one hundred pieces. THE PENN PUBLISHING SCOMPANY PHILADELPHIA Shoemaker’s Best Selections—Ro. Abraham Lincoln, by Henry Ward beecher. An eloquent eulogy. Annie and Willie’s Prayer, for Christ- mas. Pathetic, Betsey and I Are Out, by Will Carle- ton. Rustic. Strong. Blue and the Gray, The. For Deco- ration Day. y Boys, The, by Oliver Wendell Holmes. For Class Day. Bridge, The, by Henry W. Longfellow. Reflective. Bugle Song. Break, Break, Break, by Alfred Tennyson. Great favorites. Charge of the Light Brigade. Dra- matic, Child Wife, The, by Charles Dickens. Humorous. Crossing the Carry. Mirth-provoking. Creeds of the Belis, The. For church entertainment. Humorous. Death of Little Jo, Death of Little Nell, by Charles Dickens. Pathetic. Ber Coming Man. German dialect. Dying Christian, The. Religious. Evening at the Farm, by J. T. Trow- bridge. Pastoral. Pleasing. Experience with European Guides, by Mark Twain. Very humorous. Forty Years Ago. Reminiscent. Hamilet’s Instruction to the Players. Independence Bell. Fourth of July. frish Schoolmaster, The. Irish hu- mor. John Maynard. story. Katie Lee and Willie Gray. Pleasing. Katydid, by Oliver Wendell Holmes- Quiet humor, Launch of the Ship, The, by Henry W. Longfellow. Strong, patriotic. Memory of Washington, The, by Ed Everett. Washington’s Birthday. — Mocern Cain, The. A strong temper ance selection. A thrilling, neroi¢ Nobody’s Child. Very pathetic. Old Yankee Farmer, The. Dialect. Our Folks. A story of the Rebellion, Pathetic. Patrick Dolin’s Love Letter. morous. Dialect. Piece of Bunting, A. toric. Relief of Lucknow, The. Emotional. Revolutionary Rising, The. Patriotic and stirring. Scrooge and Marley. From Dickens’ Christmas Carol. Smack in School, The. Very amusing, Spartacus to the Gladiators. Strong. Why He Wouldn’t Sell the Farm. Pathetic and patriotic. William Tell. Dramaticand thrilling. Will the New Year Come To-night, Mamma? Very pathetic. You Put No Flowers on My Papa’s Hu. Patriotic. Hise Shoemaker’s Best Selections—No. 2 Abigail Becker. A thrilling rescue. Altruism. Very amusing. Arnold Winkelried. Patriotic and soul-stirring’. Barn Window, The. and pleasing. Rural, tender, Bells of Shandon, The. Good for vocal training. Blacksmith’s Story, The. A touch- ing story of the Rebellion. Black Ranald. An heroic love story. Buck Fanshaw’s Funeral, by Mark Twain. Frontier life. Humorous. Cassius and Czsar, Hamlet’s Solil- equy, Wolsey’s Fall. Shakespeare. Three favorites. Christmas Carol, A. For Christmas. Darius Green and His Flying Ma- chine. Rustic. Mirth-provoking. Bva’s Death. From ‘ Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” Very affecting. Excelsior, Old Clock on the Stairs, The, by H. W. Longfellow. Popu- lar favorites. Hezekiah Bedott- Rustic dialect. Hu- morous. How Mr. Coville Counted the Shin- gles. Very funny. Kentucky Philosophy. Sometimes called the ‘‘Watermillion Story.’’ Negro dialect. Siberty and Unton, by Daniel Web- ater. Patriotic. Grave. For Decoration Day. Very touching. Lechinvar’s Ride. Heroic. Gallant. Mark Twain and the Interviewer. prea abst ae May Queen, The. Very peeai < Miss Maloney on the Chinese Ques. tion. Rich Irish humor. Month of Mars, The. Beautiful pio turing. ‘ New Church Organ, The, by Will Carleton. Spinster characterization, New Year’s Address, Elevating. Old Man in the Model Church, The. Touching characterization. cig Over the Hill to the Poorhouse, by Will Carieton. Very pathetic. Polish Boy, The. Intensely dramatic. Puzzled Dutchman, The. Humorous. Red Jacket, The. A thrilling rescue from fire. Rum’s Maniac. ance piece. Schneider Sees ‘‘ Leah.’’ Very amus« Dramatic tempers ing. : Socrates Snooks. Female equality emphasized. Humorous, 4 Soldier’s Reprieve, The. A touching story of President Lincoln’s kindness, Spanish Armada, The, by T. B. Ma- caulay. Dramatic description. Washington as a Civilian. For Washington’s Birthday. Yarn of the Nancy Bell, The. Hun» “rous sea tale. Shoemaker’s Best Selections—ho. 3 Adoon the Lane. Scotch humor. American Flag, The. Patriotic. Bardell and Pickwick, by Charles Dickens. The famous trial scene. Baron’s Last Banquet, The. matic. Battle of Beal an’ Duine, The, by Sir Walter Scott. A strong war poem. Charlie Machree. Exciting. Claudius and Cynthia. Very thrilling. Closing Year, The. Lofty and im- pressive. : Dutchman’s Serenade, The. Humor- ous. Eagle’s Rock, The. Dramatic. Florentine Juliet, A; From Exile; The Gladiator. Allstrongly dramatic. Good-night, Papa. A touching tem- perance piece. Haunted House, The. A stirring ghost story. if I Should Die Toenight. A Sunday- school piece. Inquiry, The. Popular. Jack and Gili. Humorous. Kit Carson’s Ride, by Joaquin Miller. A stirring incident of prairie life, Kitchen Clock, The. Humorous and very popular. Laughin’ in Meetin’, by Harriet Beecher Stowe. Humorous, suited to church occasions. Licensed to Sell; or, Little Blossom. Temperance. Dra- Lines to Bary Jade. Humorous. Maud Muller, by John G. Whittier, Always popular. National Monument to Washington. Suited to Washington’s Birthday. Olid Forsaken Schoolhouse, The. Reminiscent. Painter of Seville, The. Very popular. Parrhasius and the Captive, by N. P. Willis. Highly dramatic. Poor Little Jim. A pathetic story of the mines. Power of Habit, The, by John B. Gough. Strong temperance piece. Promise, The. Religious. ies Reaching the Early Train. Humor \ ous. Reply to Mr. Corry. A masterpiece of oratory. Reverie in Church. Humorous. For church entertainment. Rock of Ages. Contains singing parts. Senator’s Dilemma, The. Amusing. Three Fishers, The. Pathetic. Tom Sawyer’s Love Affair, by Mark Twain. Humorous. ‘ Vagabonds, The, by J. T. Trowbridge. Very popular. Waiting for the Children. For thanks- giving. Wax Work. Humorous. Woman, by Alfred Tennyson. A graces ful tribute. Shoemaker’s Best Selections—ho. 4 Angels of Buena Vista, The, by John G. Whittier. Very dramatic. Annuity, The. Scotch humor. Baggage Smasher, The. Humorous. Battle of Bunker Hill, The. Patriotic. Battle of Lookout Mountain, by George H, Boker. Thrilling descrip- tion. Battle Hymn of the Republic, by Julia Ward Howe. Religious. \ Black Horse and His Rider, The. A stirring patriotic declamation. Burning Prairie, The, by Alice Carey. ~ Dramatic. Cause of Temperance, The, by John B. Gough: Strong temperance piece. Centennial Oration. Eloquent. Christmas Sheaf, The. A Norwegian Christmas story.’ Clarence’s Dream. Intensely dramatic. Contentment. Religious, trustful. Curfew Must Not Ring To-night. - Thrilling. Deacon Munroe’s Story. characterization. Deora, by Alfred Tennyson. A power- ful storv. Dot Lambs Vot Mary Haf Got. Ger- man dialect. Faith and Reason. Moral. Fire, The. Dramatic. Gambler's Wife, The. tragic. Humorous Pathetic and ee Ghost, The. Quaint Yankee humor. Grandmother’s Story. Her account of Bunker Hill. Great Beef Contract, The, by Mark Twain. Intensely humorous, Judge Pitman on Various Kinds of Weather, by Max Adeler. Humorous, Kentucky Belle. A pleasing incident of the Civil War. Leap Year Wooing, A. Humorous. Loye Your Neighbor as Yourself. Amusing. Maiden’s Last Farewell, The. Hu- morous. Man’s a Man for a’ That, A, by Rob- ert Burns. Scotch dialect. Mark Antony Scene. Always popular. Modest Wit, A. Humorous, Negro Prayer, A. Dialect. Ode to the Legislature, by John G. Saxe. A fine satirical poem. Our Own. Moral and pathetic. Rationalistic Chicken, The. sophic humor. Philoe Raven, The. Always popular. mere Father Ryan. Deeply spize itual. Rienzi’s Address. Soul-stirring. Tommy Tuft, by Henry Ward Beecher, A deeply pathetic religious story. Tribute to Washington. For Wasi ington’s Birthday. Union, The. A patriotic poem. Shoemaker’s Best Selections—o. 5 ager, The. A humorous parody on the ‘‘ ague.”’ : Archie m. Casualty, A. Touching story of a bootblack. Condensed Telegram, The. Humor. Coaching the Rising Star, A strik- ing lesson in dramatic elocution. Docter’s Story, The, by Bret Harte. A touching incident of the Civil War. Early Start, An. A minister’s pro- gram not completely carried out. Elopement in '75. A stirring love story of the Revolution. Fortunes of War, The. of the Civil War. Following the Advice of a Physician. Very amusing. Getting Acquainted. Encore. He Werried About It, by S. W. Foss. A sad story Droll humor. Hulle. Cheering. Very popular. i Willi Not Leave You Comfortles. A pathetic tale of mountain life. Country courtship. Encore. Judy 0’ Shea Sees Hamlet. She de- scribes the play in true Irish fashion. Little Margery. and trust. ee Childhood's faith \ Little Busy Bees. How they gathef honey at a church fair. Me and Jim. Rustic characterization; pathetic, strong. Millais’s ‘‘Huguenots.’’ A pathetic love story of the eve of St. Bartholo- mew. DauERry, Kitty Clover. For little girls, Not in the Programme. An affecting incident in the life of an actress, Obstructive Hat in the Pit. amusing. Perfect Wife, The. A valuable lessen, Suited for church fairs. Poor Rule, A. Encore. Rajput Nurse, A, by Edwin Arnold A thrilling Eastern story. Riding on a Rail. Amusing incidents — on a train. Skimpsey. A thrilling and pathetic story of a horse jockey. Song of the Market Place. A power- ful picture of poverty, pity, music, and charity. Tale of Sweethearts, A, by George R. Very eyes A thrilling heart story. Dia- ect. Their First Spat. A young couple's first quarrel. Humorous. Uncle Neah’s Ghost. How he searched for and feund it. Amusing. Wedding, The, by Seuthey The dark side of the picture, Shoemaker’s Best Selections—Ro. 21 abies, by Jerome K. Jerome. Humor- ous. Because. Encore. Benediction, The, by Francois Coppée. A strong poem introducing a chant. thed, The, by Rudyard Kipling. Difficulty of choosing. Humorous. Bridal of Malahide, The. Heroic and athetic. Clive, by Robert Browning. Very dra- matic and exceedingly popular. Contentment. Reflections of a lazy man. Crossing the Bar, by Tennyson. One of his latest and most beautiful poems. Cry in the Darkness, The—The Sen- tinel’s Alarm. A story of Indian treachery. Bde BDeacen’s Downfall, The. How he - Was converted by a sweet soprano. Dreamin’ o’ Home. Pathetic. Emergency, An. A kind heart often found under a coarse coat. Flag at Shenandoah, The, by Joaquin Miller. Faithful unto death. H’anthem, The. Encore. Herod. Highly dramatic. fer Perfect Lover. Encore. italian’s Views of the Labor Ques= tion. Dialect. Humorous. Lydia’s Ride. An incident of the Brit- ish occupation of Philadelphia. Men at Gloucester. Dramatic rescue of men at sea. Shoemaker’s Best Ah Yet’sChristmas. Apatheticstory of a little Chinese boy. -Big Enough Family, A. S opinion of babies. By the Alma. Astory of Scotch hero- ism, Deacon’s Week, The. Good for Mis- sionary occasions. ®aster with Parepa, An. fully pathetic Easter story. Fallin. For G. A. R. occasions. Pate of Sir John Franklin, The. A pathetic poem of Arctic adventure. Gowk’s Errant and What Cam’0Q’t,A. A very amusing’ story done in Scotch. Hagar. A dramatic picture of the de- parture of Hagar from Abraham’s tent. Hilda. A strong story of the power of a woman’s love. Hilda’s Little Hjorth Boyeson. A little boy’s ° A power- Hood, by Hjalmer A pleasing poem. His Sister. Encore. Hunt, The. A svirited description. Joan of Arc’s Farewell. Lofty and pathetic. jock Johnston, the Tinkler. of love and chivalry. Leap-year Mishaps. As told by an old maid. Little Black Phil. A touching incident of the Civil War. Lost Paroy. The. A story Ahumorous poem, LOUGH IRE, Napoleon’s Advice to an Actor. A hint to readers and actors. y Old Canteen, The. A mother’s story — of her two sons who took opposite sides in the war. Old Vote tor ‘‘ Young Marster, ’’ An. A good story. Overboard. man washed overboard at sea. Papa Was Stumped. He couldn’t du fractions. Puzzle, A. Encore. Revenge, The, by Tennyson. An he- roic sea-fight. 1 Seaweed. A beautiful fanciful poem. Sir Hugo’s Choice. A strong story of love and duty. , Sisterly Scheme, A. How a young girl supplanted her oldersister. Very popular. St. Patrick’s Day. Irish dialect. Stranded Bugle, The. A pleasing, fanciful poem, Thar Was Jim. Pathetic. Negro dialect. Pathetic description of a — That Sugar-Plum Tree. Forchildren. — Two Gentlemen of Kentucky. negro characterization. Uncertain Pledge, An. Encore. Unregistered Record, An. jockey’s story of a mad race. What Else Could He Do? Encore. Winnie’s Welcome. A jolly Irish piece. — Woman’s Career. Clever humor, Worse than Marriage. Encore. Selections—ho. 22 Marguerite. Pathetic and tender. Fine A negro : For Decoration Day. i Mr. Kris Kringle, by Dr. S. Weir Mit- chell. A touching Christmas story. | Mr. Potts’ Story, by Max Adeler. Mrs. Potts curbs her husband’stendencyte — exaggeration. My Double and How He Undid Me, by Edward Everett Hale. Humorous. Mysterious Portrait, The. My Vesper Song. Parts to be sung. Not Ashamed of Ridicule. An excek lent boy’s story. Sean Old Wife, The. Pathetic. On the Other Train. Very pathetic and popular. " Rural Infelicity. Amusing. Scallywag. Teaches a good lesson. Soul of the Violin. story of an old musician. f Teacher’s Diadem, The. Appropriate for Sabbath-schools. Teaching a Sunday-school Class. A young lawyer’s first experience. morous. Them Oxen. Great-grandmother’s story of how the oxen drew two hearts together. Wind and the Moon, The, by George MacDonald. For Children. Work, Work Away. Instructive and Hu- / x = rs Amusing. | A strong, pathetic _ 4 See tee ve ee a GSenefits of the Constitution, - Dead Pussy Cat, The. - Execution of Andre. _ Battle of Zaraila, by Ouida. devia of Brookline, The. Shoemaker’s Best Selections—No. 23 How they announced the end of the Civil Ash. ¥: Daniel Webster. Oratorical and pa- triotic. Busy. A bad spell and its results. Chickadee, The. For children. Oppor- tunity for bird notes. Close of the Battle of Waterloo, by Victor Hugo. Full of dramatic power. fount Gismond, by Robert Browning. Dramatic and chivalric. Dance of Death, The, by Sir Walter Scott. A weird battle description. Child charac- Earl Sigurd’s Christmas Eve. A spirited Norse Christmas story. aster Eve'at Kerak-Moab. A thrill- ing and dramatic Easter tale. Vivid descrip- terization. tion. Execution of Sydney Carton, by Charies Dickens. An intensely dra- matic story of the French Revolution. How We Kept the Day, by Will Carleton. For 4th of July. Humor- ‘ous, rollicking. influence of Great Actions, The, by Daniel Webster. Instructive eloquent. Jimmy Brown’s Attempt t» Produce . FPreckies. Very amusing, y £ Literary Nightmare, A, by Magk Twain. Very funny and very popular, My Fountain Pen, by Robert J. Burdette. Most amusing. Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. A beautiful paraphrase. Owyhee Jce’s Story. A tale of the Wild West. Pheebe’s Exploit. saved a train. Saunders McGlashan’s Courtship. Avery popular piece of Scotch humor, Saved by a Boy. Teaches a lesson of honesty. For little folks. Tommy’s Dead. Pathetic, True Eloquence. A fine definition. | Used=to-be, The, by James Whitcomb Riley. A quaint and fanciful poem, Warwick, the King Maker, by Lord Lytton. Historic and dramatic. When de Darkey am a-Whistlin’ in de Co’n. A plantation song. What Miss Edith Saw from Her Window. Humorous. When I Wasa Boy, by Eugene Field, Pleasing memories of boyhood. When the Light Goes Out. Whole seme advice in pleasing doses. Whirling Wheel, The. Cheer tothe heavy laden. ‘ Wreck of ‘‘The Northern Belle,“ by Edwin Arnold.