Little Masterpieces of American Wit and Humor Volume I Part 11

Silence now--and how still!

Hus.h.!.+ the musical monologue begins anew; up, up into the tree-tops it mounts, fairly lifting the leaves with its pa.s.sionate effluence, it trills through the upper branches--and then dripping down the listening foliage, in a cadenza of matchless beauty, subsides into silence again.

"That's a he catbird," says my carpenter.

A catbird? Then Shakespeare and Sh.e.l.ley have wasted powder upon the skylark; for never such "profuse strains of unpremeditated art" issued from living bird before. Skylark! pooh! who would rise at dawn to hear the skylark if a catbird were about after breakfast?

I have bought me a boat. A boat is a good thing to have in the country, especially if there be any water near. There is a fine beach in front of my house. When visitors come I usually propose to give them a row. I go down--and find the boat full of water; then I send to the house for a dipper and prepare to bail; and, what with bailing and swabbing her with a mop and plugging up the cracks in her sides, and struggling to get the rudder in its place, and unlocking the rusty padlock, my strength is so much exhausted that it is almost impossible for me to handle the oars. Meanwhile the poor guests sit on stones around the beach with woe-begone faces.

"My dear," said Mrs. Sparrowgra.s.s, "why don't you sell that boat?"

"Sell it? Ha! ha!"

One day a Quaker lady from Philadelphia paid us a visit. She was uncommonly dignified, and walked down to the water in the most stately manner, as is customary with Friends. It was just twilight, deepening into darkness, when I set about preparing the boat. Meanwhile our Friend seated herself upon _something_ on the beach. While I was engaged in bailing, the wind s.h.i.+fted, and I became sensible of an unpleasant odor; afraid that our Friend would perceive it, too, I whispered Mrs.

Sparrowgra.s.s to coax her off and get her farther up the beach.

"Thank thee, no, Susan; I feel a smell hereabout and I am better where I am."

Mrs. S. came back and whispered mysteriously that our Friend was sitting on a dead dog, at which I redoubled the bailing and got her out in deep water as soon as possible.

Dogs have a remarkable scent. A dead setter one morning found his way to our beach, and I towed him out in the middle of the river; but the faithful creature came back in less than an hour--that dog's smell was remarkable indeed.

I have bought me a fyke! A fyke is a good thing to have in the country.

A fyke is a fishnet, with long wings on each side; in shape like a nightcap with ear lappets; in mechanism like a rat-trap. You put a stake at the tip end of the nightcap, a stake at each end of the outspread lappets; there are large hoops to keep the nightcap distended, sinkers to keep the lower sides of the lappets under water, and floats as large as muskmelons to keep the upper sides above the water. The stupid fish come downstream, and, rubbing their noses against the wings, follow the curve toward the fyke and swim into the trap. When they get in they cannot get out. That is the philosophy of a fyke. I bought one of Conroy. "Now," said I to Mrs. Sparrowgra.s.s, "we shall have fresh fish to-morrow for breakfast," and went out to set it. I drove the stakes in the mud, spread the fyke in the boat, tied the end of one wing to the stake, and cast the whole into the water. The tide carried it out in a straight line. I got the loose end fastened to the boat, and found it impossible to row back against the tide with the fyke. I then untied it, and it went downstream, stake and all. I got it into the boat, rowed up, and set the stake again. Then I tied one end to the stake and got out of the boat myself in shoal water. Then the boat got away in deep water; then I had to swim for the boat. Then I rowed back and untied the fyke.

Then the fyke got away. Then I jumped out of the boat to save the fyke, and the boat got away. Then I had to swim again after the boat and row after the fyke, and finally was glad to get my net on dry land, where I left it for a week in the sun. Then I hired a man to set it, and he did, but he said it was "rotted." Nevertheless, in it I caught two small flounders and an eel. At last a brace of Irishmen came down to my beach for a swim at high tide. One of them, a stout, athletic fellow, after performing sundry aquatic gymnastics, dived under and disappeared for a fearful length of time. The truth is, he had dived into my net. After much turmoil in the water, he rose to the surface with the filaments hanging over his head, and cried out, as if he had found a bird's nest: "I say, Jimmy! begorra, here's a foike!" That unfeeling exclamation to Jimmy, who was not the owner of the net, made me almost wish that it had not been "rotted."

We are worried about our cuc.u.mbers. Mrs. S. is fond of cuc.u.mbers, so I planted enough for ten families. The more they are picked, the faster they grow; and if you do not pick them, they turn yellow and look ugly.

Our neighbor has plenty, too. He sent us some one morning, by way of a present. What to do with them we did not know, with so many of our own.

To give them away was not polite; to throw them away was sinful; to eat them was impossible. Mrs. S. said, "Save them for seed." So we did. Next day, our neighbor sent us a dozen more. We thanked the messenger grimly and took them in. Next morning another dozen came. It was getting to be a serious matter; so I rose betimes the following morning, and when my neighbor's cuc.u.mbers came I filled his man's basket with some of my own, by way of exchange. This bit of pleasantry was resented by my neighbor, who told his man to throw them to the hogs. His man told our girl, and our girl told Mrs. S., and, in consequence, all intimacy between the two families has ceased; the ladies do not speak, even at church.

We have another neighbor, whose name is Bates; he keeps cows. This year our gate has been fixed; but my young peach trees near the fences are accessible from the road; and Bates's cows walk along that road morning and evening. The sound of a cow-bell is pleasant in the twilight.

Sometimes, after dark, we hear the mysterious curfew tolling along the road, and then with a louder peal it stops before our fence and again tolls itself off in the distance. The result is, my peach trees are as bare as bean-poles. One day I saw Mr. Bates walking along, and I hailed him: "Bates, those are your cows there, I believe?" "Yes, sir; nice ones, ain't they?" "Yes," I replied, "they are _nice_ ones. Do you see that tree there?"--and I pointed to a thrifty peach, with about as many leaves as an exploded sky-rocket. "Yes, sir." "Well, Bates, that red-and-white cow of yours yonder ate the top off that tree; I saw her do it." Then I thought I had made Bates ashamed of himself, and had wounded his feelings, perhaps, too much. I was afraid he would offer me money for the tree, which I made up my mind to decline at once.

"Sparrowgra.s.s," said he, "it don't hurt a tree a single mossel to chaw it if it's a young tree. For my part, I'd rather have my young trees chawed than not. I think it makes them grow a leetle better. I can't do it with mine, but you can, because you can wait to have good trees, and the only way to have good trees is to have, 'em chawed."

We have put a dumb-waiter in our house. A dumb-waiter is a good thing to have in the country, on account of its convenience. If you have company, everything can be sent up from the kitchen without any trouble; and if the baby gets to be unbearable, on account of his teeth, you can dismiss the complainant by stuffing him in one of the shelves and letting him down upon the help. To provide for contingencies, we had all our floors deafened. In consequence, you cannot hear anything that is going on in the story below; and when you are in the upper room of the house there might be a democratic ratification meeting in the cellar and you would not know it. Therefore, if any one should break into the bas.e.m.e.nt it would not disturb us; but to please Mrs. Sparrowgra.s.s, I put stout iron bars in all the lower windows. Besides, Mrs. Sparrowgra.s.s had bought a rattle when she was in Philadelphia; such a rattle as watchmen carry there. This is to alarm our neighbor, who, upon the signal, is to come to the rescue with his revolver. He is a rash man, p.r.o.ne to pull trigger first and make inquiries afterward.

One evening Mrs. S. had retired and I was busy writing, when it struck me a gla.s.s of ice-water would be palatable. So I took the candle and a pitcher and went down to the pump. Our pump is in the kitchen. A country pump in the kitchen is more convenient; but a well with buckets is certainly more picturesque. Unfortunately, our well water has not been sweet since it was cleaned out. First I had to open a bolted door that lets you into the bas.e.m.e.nt hall, and then I went to the kitchen door, which proved to be locked. Then I remembered that our girl always carried the key to bed with her and slept with it under her pillow. Then I retraced my steps, bolted the bas.e.m.e.nt door, and went up into the dining-room. As is always the case, I found, when I could not get any water, I was thirstier than I supposed I was. Then I thought I would wake our girl up. Then I concluded not to do it. Then I thought of the well, but I gave that up on account of its flavor. Then I opened the closet doors: there was no water there; and then I thought of the dumb-waiter! The novelty of the idea made me smile. I took out two of the movable shelves, stood the pitcher on the bottom of the dumb-waiter, got in myself with the lamp; let myself down, until I supposed I was within a foot of the floor below, and then let go!

We came down so suddenly that I was shot out of the apparatus as if it had been a catapult; it broke the pitcher, extinguished the lamp, and landed me in the middle of the kitchen at midnight, with no fire and the air not much above the zero point. The truth is, I had miscalculated the distance of the descent--instead of falling one foot, I had fallen five.

My first impulse was to ascend by the way I came down, but I found that impracticable. Then I tried the kitchen door; it was locked. I tried to force it open; it was made of two-inch stuff, and held its own. Then I hoisted a window, and there were the rigid iron bars. If ever I felt angry at anybody it was at myself for putting up those bars to please Mrs. Sparrowgra.s.s. I put them up, not to keep people in, but to keep people out.

I laid my cheek against the ice-cold barriers and looked out at the sky; not a star was visible; it was as black as ink overhead. Then I thought of Baron Trenck and the prisoner of Chillon. Then I made a noise. I shouted until I was hoa.r.s.e, and ruined our preserving kettle with the poker. That brought our dogs out in full bark, and between us we made night hideous. Then I thought I heard a voice and listened--it was Mrs.

Sparrowgra.s.s calling to me from the top of the staircase. I tried to make her hear me, but the infernal dogs united with howl, and growl, and bark, so as to drown my voice, which is naturally plaintive and tender.

Besides, there were two bolted doors and double-deafened floors between us; how could she recognize my voice, even if she did hear it? Mrs.

Sparrowgra.s.s called once or twice and then got frightened; the next thing I heard was a sound as if the roof had fallen in, by which I understood that Mrs. Sparrowgra.s.s was springing the rattle! That called out our neighbor, already wide awake; he came to the rescue with a bull-terrier, a Newfoundland pup, a lantern, and a revolver. The moment he saw me at the window he shot at me, but fortunately just missed me. I threw myself under the kitchen table and ventured to expostulate with him, but he would not listen to reason. In the excitement I had forgotten his name, and that made matters worse. It was not until he had roused up everybody around, broken in the bas.e.m.e.nt door with an ax, gotten into the kitchen with his cursed savage dogs and shooting-iron, and seized me by the collar, that he recognized me--and then he wanted me to explain it! But what kind of an explanation could I make to him? I told him he would have to wait until my mind was composed, and then I would let him understand the whole matter fully. But he never would have had the particulars from me, for I do not approve of neighbors that shoot at you, break in your door, and treat you, in your own house, as if you were a jailbird. He knows all about it, however--somebody has told him--_somebody_ tells everybody everything in our village.--_The Sparrowgra.s.s Papers._

LOVE IN A COTTAGE

They may talk of love in a cottage, And bowers of trellised vine---- Of nature bewitchingly simple, And milkmaids half divine; They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping In the shade of a spreading tree, And a walk in the fields at morning, By the side of a footstep free!

But give me a sly flirtation By the light of a chandelier---- With music to play in the pauses, And n.o.body very near; Or a seat on a silken sofa, With a gla.s.s of pure old wine, And mamma too blind to discover The small white hand in mine.

Your love in a cottage is hungry, Your vine is a nest for flies---- Your milkmaid shocks the Graces, And simplicity talks of pies!

You lie down to your shady slumber And wake with a bug in your ear, And your damsel that walks in the morning Is shod like a mountaineer.

True love is at home on a carpet, And mightily likes his ease---- And true love has an eye for a dinner, And starves beneath shady trees.

His wing is the fan of a lady, His foot's an invisible thing, And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel And shot from a silver string.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS

A CASE OF CONSCIENCE

_Uncle Jack:_ It is very good lemonade, I am sure; but tell me, Bonnie, why do you sell yours for three cents a gla.s.s when Charley gets five for his?

_Miss Bonnie:_ Well, you mustn't tell anybody, Uncle Jack, but the puppy fell in mine and I thought it ought to be cheaper.

A Hingham, Ma.s.sachusetts, woman is said to have hit upon a happy idea when she was puzzled what to do in order to tell her mince and apple pies apart. She was advised to mark them, and did so, and complacently announced: "This I've marked 'T. M.'--'Tis mince; an' that I've marked 'T. M.'--'Taint mince."

Doctor Oliver Wendell Holmes used to be an amateur photographer. When he presented a picture to a friend, he wrote on the back of it, "Taken by O. W. Holmes & Sun."

HANS BREITMANN'S PARTY

Hans Breitmann gife a barty: Dey had biano-blayin': I felled in lofe mit a 'Merican frau, Her name was Madilda Yane, She hat haar as prown as a pretzel, Her eyes vas himmel-plue, Und ven dey looket indo mine, Dey shplit mine heart in two.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty: I vent dere, you'll be pound.

I valtzet mit Madilda Yane Und vent shpinnen round and round.

De pootiest Fraulein in de house, She veyed 'pout dwo hoondred pound, Und efery dime she gife a shoomp She make de vindows sound.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty: I dells you it cost him dear.

Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks Of foost rate Lager Beer, Und venefer dey knocks de shpicket in De Deutschers gifes a cheer.

I d.i.n.ks dat so vine a barty Nefer coom to a het dis year.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty: Dere all vas Souse und Brouse; Ven de sooper comed in, de gompany Did make demselfs to house.

Dey ate das Brot und Gensy broost, De Bratwurst und Braten fine, Und vash der Abendessen down Mit four parrels of Neckarwein.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty: We all cot troonk ash pigs.

I poot mine mout to a parrel of beer, Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs.

Und denn I gissed Madilda Yane Und she shlog me on the kop, Und de gompany fited mit dable-lecks Dill de c.o.o.nsthable made oos shtop.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty---- Where ish dat barty now!

Where ish de lofely golden cloud Dat float on de mountain's prow?

Where ish de himmelstrahlende Stern---- De shtar of de shpirit's light?