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Wit and Humor of America, The Vol 02

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[Pg 321]</div></div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>MR. DOOLEY ON REFORM CANDIDATES</h2> <h3>BY FINLEY PETER DUNNE</h3> "That frind iv ye'ers, Dugan, is an intilligent man," said Mr. Dooley. "All he needs is an index an' a few illusthrations to make him a bicyclopedja iv useless information." "Well," said Mr. Hennessy, judiciously, "he ain't no Soc-rates an' he ain't no answers-to-questions colum; but he's a good man that goes to his jooty, an' as handy with a pick as some people are with a cocktail spoon. What's he been doin' again ye?" "Nawthin'," said Mr. Dooley, "but he was in here Choosday. 'Did ye vote?' says I. 'I did,' says he. 'Which wan iv th' distinguished bunko steerers got ye'er invalu'ble suffrage?' says I. 'I didn't have none with me,' says he, 'but I voted f'r Charter Haitch,' says he. 'I've been with him in six ilictions,' says he, 'an' he's a good man,' he says. 'D'ye think ye're votin' f'r th' best?' says I. 'Why, man alive,' I says, 'Charter Haitch was assassinated three years ago,' I says. 'Was he?' says Dugan. 'Ah, well, he's lived that down be this time. He was a good man,' he says. "Ye see, that's what thim rayform lads wint up again. If I liked rayformers, Hinnissy, an' wanted f'r to see thim win out wanst in their lifetime, I'd buy thim each a suit iv chilled steel, ar-rm thim with raypeatin' rifles, an' take thim east iv State Sthreet an' south iv Jackson Bullyvard. At prisint th' opinion that pre-vails in th' ranks iv[Pg 322] th' gloryous ar-rmy iv ray-form is that there ain't anny-thing worth seein' in this lar-rge an' commodyous desert but th' pest-house an' the bridewell. Me frind Willum J. O'Brien is no rayformer. But Willum J. undherstands that there's a few hundherds iv thousands iv people livin' in a part iv th' town that looks like nawthin' but smoke fr'm th' roof iv th' Onion League Club that have on'y two pleasures in life, to wur-ruk an' to vote, both iv which they do at th' uniform rate iv wan dollar an' a half a day. That's why Willum J. O'Brien is now a sinitor an' will be an aldherman afther next Thursdah, an' it's why other people are sinding him flowers. "This is th' way a rayform candydate is ilicted. Th' boys down town has heerd that things ain't goin' r-right somehow. Franchises is bein' handed out to none iv thim; an' wanst in a while a mimber iv th' club, comin' home a little late an' thryin' to riconcile a pair iv r-round feet with an embroidered sidewalk, meets a sthrong ar-rm boy that pushes in his face an' takes away all his marbles. It begins to be talked that th' time has come f'r good citizens f'r to brace up an' do somethin', an' they agree to nomynate a candydate f'r aldherman. 'Who'll we put up?' says they. 'How's Clarence Doolittle?' says wan. 'He's laid up with a coupon thumb, an' can't r-run.' 'An' how about Arthur Doheny?' 'I swore an oath whin I came out iv colledge I'd niver vote f'r a man that wore a made tie.' 'Well, thin, let's thry Willie Boye.' 'Good,' says th' comity. 'He's jus' th' man f'r our money.' An' Willie Boye, after thinkin' it over, goes to his tailor an' ordhers three dozen pairs iv pants, an' decides f'r to be th' sthandard-bearer iv th' people. Musin' over his fried eyesthers an' asparagus an' his champagne, he bets a polo pony again a box of golf-balls he'll be ilicted unanimous; an' all th' good citizens make a vow f'r to set th' alar-rm[Pg 323] clock f'r half-past three on th' afthernoon iv iliction day, so's to be up in time to vote f'r th' riprisintitive iv pure gover'mint. "'Tis some time befure they comprehind that there ar-re other candydates in th' field. But th' other candydates know it. Th' sthrongest iv thim—his name is Flannigan, an' he's a re-tail dealer in wines an' liquors, an' he lives over his establishment. Flannigan was nomynated enthusyastically at a prim'ry held in his bar-rn; an' befure Willie Boye had picked out pants that wud match th' color iv th' Austhreelyan ballot this here Flannigan had put a man on th' day watch, tol' him to speak gently to anny raygistered voter that wint to sleep behind th' sthove, an' was out that night visitin' his frinds. Who was it judged th' cake walk? Flannigan. Who was it carrid th' pall? Flannigan. Who was it sthud up at th' christening? Flannigan. Whose ca-ards did th' grievin' widow, th' blushin' bridegroom, or th' happy father find in th' hack? Flannigan's. Ye bet ye'er life. Ye see Flannigan wasn't out f'r th' good iv th' community. Flannigan was out f'r Flannigan an' th' stuff. "Well, iliction day come around; an' all th' imminent frinds iv good gover'mint had special wires sthrung into th' club, an' waited f'r th' returns. Th' first precin't showed 28 votes f'r Willie Boye to 14 f'r Flannigan. 'That's my precin't,' says Willie. 'I wondher who voted thim fourteen?' 'Coachmen,' says Clarence Doolittle. 'There are thirty-five precin'ts in this ward,' says th' leader iv th' rayform ilimint. 'At this rate, I'm sure iv 440 meejority. Gossoon,' he says, 'put a keg iv sherry wine on th' ice,' he says. 'Well,' he says, 'at last th' community is relieved fr'm misrule,' he says. 'To-morrah I will start in arrangin' amindmints to th' tariff schedool an' th' ar-bitration threety,' he says. 'We must be up an'[Pg 324] doin',' he says. 'Hol' on there,' says wan iv th' comity. 'There must be some mistake in this fr'm th' sixth precin't,' he says. 'Where's the sixth precin't?' says Clarence. 'Over be th' dumps,' says Willie. 'I told me futman to see to that. He lives at th' cor-ner iv Desplaines an' Bloo Island Av'noo on Goose's Island,' he says. 'What does it show?' 'Flannigan, three hundherd an' eighty-five; Hansen, forty-eight; Schwartz, twinty; O'Malley, sivinteen; Casey, ten; O'Day, eight; Larsen, five; O'Rourke, three; Mulcahy, two; Schmitt, two; Moloney, two; Riordon, two; O'Malley, two; Willie Boye, wan.' 'Gintlemin,' says Willie Boye, arisin' with a stern look in his eyes, 'th' rascal has bethrayed me. Waither, take th' sherry wine off th' ice. They'se no hope f'r sound financial legislation this year. I'm goin' home.' "An', as he goes down th' sthreet, he hears a band play an' sees a procission headed be a calceem light; an', in a carredge, with his plug hat in his hand an' his di'mond makin' th' calceem look like a piece iv punk in a smokehouse, is Flannigan, payin' his first visit this side iv th' thracks."[Pg 325] <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>AN EVENING MUSICALE</h2> <h3>BY MAY ISABEL FISK</h3> Scene—A conventional, but rather over-decorated, drawing-room. Grand piano drawn conspicuously to center of floor. Rows of camp-chairs. It is ten minutes before the hour of invitation. The Hostess, a large woman, is costumed in yellow satin, embroidered in spangles. Her diamonds are many and of large size. She is seated on the extreme edge of a chair, struggling with a pair of very long gloves. She looks flurried and anxious. Poor Relative, invited as a "great treat," sits opposite. Her expression is timid and apprehensive. They are the only occupants of the room. Hostess—No such thing, Maria. You look all right. Plain black is always very genteel. Nothing I like so well for evening, myself. Just keep your face to the wall as much as you can, and the worn places will never show. You can take my ecru lace scarf, if you wish, and that will cover most of the spots. I don't mean my new scarf—the one I got two years ago. It's a little torn, but it won't matter—for you. I think you will find it on the top shelf of the store-room closet on the third floor. If you put a chair on one of the trunks, you can easily reach it. Just wait a minute, till I get these gloves on; I want you to button them. I do hope I haven't forgotten anything. Baron von Gosheimer has promised to come. I have told everybody. It would be terrible if he should disappoint me.[Pg 326] Masculine Voice from Above—Sarah, where the devil have you put my shirts? Everything is upside down in my room, and I can't find them. I pulled every blessed thing out of the chiffonier and wardrobe, and they're not there! Hostess—Oh, Henry! You must hurry—I'm going to use your room for the gentlemen's dressing-room, and it's time now for people to come. You must hurry. Host (from above, just as front door opens, admitting Baron von Gosheimer and two women guests)—Where the devil are my shirts? Hostess (unconscious of arrivals)—Under the bed in my room. Hurry! (Host, in bath gown and slippers, dashes madly into wife's room, and dives under bed as women guests enter. Unable to escape, he crawls farther beneath bed. His feet remain visible. Women guests discover them.) Guests (in chorus)—Burglars! burglars! Help! help! (Baron von Gosheimer, ascending to the next floor, hears them and hastens to the rescue.) Baron—Don't be alarmed, ladies. Has either of you a poker? No? That is to be deplored. (Catches Host by heels and drags him out. Tableau.) Hostess (to Poor Relative, giving an extra tug at her gloves)—There, it's all burst out on the side! That stupid saleslady said she knew they would be too small. Oh, dear, I'm that upset! And these Louis Quinze slippers are just murdering me. I wish it were all over. (Enter Baron von Gosheimer and women guests.) Hostess—Dear baron, how good of you! I was just saying, if you didn't come I should wish my musicale in Jericho. And, now that you are here, I don't care if any one else comes or not. (To women guests.) How d'ye do? I must apologize for Mr. Smythe—he's been de[Pg 327]tained down-town. He just telephoned me. He'll be in later. Do sit down; it's just as cheap as standing, I always say, and it does save your feet. You ladies can find seats over in the corner. (Detaining Baron.) Dear baron—(Enter guests.) Guest—So glad you have a clear evening. Now, when we gave our affair, it poured. Of course, we had a crowd, just the same. People always come to us, whether it rains or not. (Takes a seat. Guests begin to arrive in numbers.) Hostess—So sweet of you to come! Guest—So glad you have a pleasant evening. I am sure to have a bad night whenever I entertain— Hostess—(to another guest)—So delightful of you to come! Guest—Such a perfect evening! I'm so glad. I said as we started out, "Now, this time, Mrs. Smythe can't help but have plenty of people. Whenever I entertain, it's sure to—" (More guests.) (Telegram arrives, announcing that the prima donna has a sore throat, and will be unable to come. Time passes.) Male Guest (to another)—Well, I wish to heaven, something would be doing soon. This is the deadest affair I was ever up against. Omnipresent Joker (greeting acquaintance)—Hello, old man!—going to sing to-night? Acquaintance—Oh, yes, going to sing a solo. Joker—So low you can't hear it? Ha, ha! (Guests near by groan.) Voice (overheard)—Madame Cully? My dear, she always tells you that you haven't half enough material, and makes you get yards more. Besides, she never sends your pieces back, though I have[Pg 328]— Fat Old Lady (to neighbor)—I never was so warm in my life! I can't imagine why people invite you, just to make you uncomfortable. Now, when I entertain, I have the windows open for hours before any one comes. Joker (aside)—That's why she always has a frost! Ha, ha! (Host enters, showing traces of hasty toilette—face red, and a razor-cut on chin.) Host (rubbing his hands, and endeavoring to appear at ease and facetious)—Well, how d'ye do, everybody! Sorry to be late on such an auspicious— Joker (interrupting)—Suspicious! Ha, ha! Host—occasion. I hope you are all enjoying yourselves. Chorus of Guests—Yes, indeed! Hostess—'Sh, 'sh, 'sh! I have a great disappointment for you all. Here is a telegram from my best singer, saying she is sick, and can't come. Now, we will have the pleasure of listening to Miss Jackson. Miss Jackson is a pupil of Madame Parcheesi, of Paris. (Singer whispers to her.) Oh, I beg your pardon! It's Madame Marcheesi. Deaf Old Gentleman (seated by piano, talking to pretty girl)—I'd rather listen to you than hear this caterwauling. (Old Gentleman is dragged into corner and silenced.) Young Woman (singing)—"Why do I sing? I know not, I know not! I can not help but sing. Oh, why do I sing?" (Guests moan softly and demand of one another, Why does she sing?) Woman Guest (to another)—Isn't that just the way?—their relatives are always dying, and it's sure to be wash-day or just when you expect company to dinner, and off they go to the funeral[Pg 329]— (Butler appears with trayful of punch-glasses.) Male Guest (to another)—Thank the Lord! here's relief in sight. Let's drown our troubles. The Other—It's evident you haven't sampled the Smythes' punch before. I tell you it's a crime to spoil a thirst with this stuff. Well, here's how. Woman Guest (to neighbor)—I never saw Mrs. Smythe looking quite so hideous and atrociously vulgar before, did you? Neighbor—Never! Why did we come? Voice (overheard)—The one in the white-lace gown and all those diamonds? Another Voice—Yes. Well, you know it was common talk that before he married her— Hostess—'Sh, 'sh, 'sh! Signor Padrella has offered to play some of his own compositions, but I thought you would all rather hear something familiar by one of the real composers—Rubens or Chopin—Chopinhauer, I think— (Pianist plunges wildly into something.) Voice (during a lull in the music)—First, you brown an onion in the pan, then you chop the cabbage— Guest (in the dressing-room, just arriving, to another)—Yes, we are awfully late, too, but I always say you never can be too late at one of the Smythes' horrors. Thin Young Woman (in limp pink gown and string of huge pearls, who has come to recite)—I'm awfully nervous, and I do believe I'm getting hoarse. Mama, you didn't forget the lemon juice and sugar? (Drinks from bottle.) Now, where are my bronchial troches? Don't you think I could stand just a little more rouge? I think it's a shame I'm not going to have footlights. Remember, you are not to prompt me, unless I look at you. You will get me all mixed up, if you do. (They descend.)[Pg 330] Hostess (to elocutionist)—Why, I thought you were never coming! I wanted you to fill in while people were taking their seats. The guests always make so much noise, and the singers hate it. Now, what did you say you would require—an egg-beater and a turnip, wasn't it? Oh, no! That's for the young man who is going to do the tricks. I remember. Are you all ready? Elocutionist (in a trembling voice)—Ye-es. Hostess—'Sh, 'sh, 'sh! Elocutionist—Aux Italiens. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "At Paris it was, at the opera there, And she looked like—" </div></div> Guest (to another)—Thirty cents, old chap! I tell you, there's nothing will knock you out quicker than— Hostess—'Sh, 'sh, 'sh! (Young woman finishes, and retires amidst subdued applause. Reappears immediately and gives "The Maniac.") Hostess—As I have been disappointed in my best talent for this evening, Mr. Briggs has kindly consented to do some of his parlor-magic tricks. (Mr. Briggs steps forward, a large, florid young man, wearing a "made" dress-tie, the buckle of which crawls up the back of his collar.) Briggs—Now, ladies and gentlemen, I shall have to ask you all to move to the other side of the room. (This is accomplished with muttered uncomplimentary remarks concerning the magician.) Briggs (to Hostess)—I must have the piano pushed to the further end. I must have plenty of space. (All the men guests are pressed into service, and, with much difficulty the piano is moved.) Briggs—Now, I want four large screens. Hostess (faintly)—But I have only two![Pg 331] Briggs—Well, then, get me a clothes-horse and a couple of sheets. Poor Relative—You know, Sarah, I used the last two when I made up my bed in the children's nursery yesterday. I can easily get— Hostess (hastily)—No, Maria, don't trouble. (To guests)—Perhaps, some of you gentlemen wouldn't mind lending us your overcoats to cover the clothes-horse? Chorus (with great lack of enthusiasm)—Of course! Delighted! (They go for coats.) Hostess (to Poor Relative)—Maria, you get the clothes-horse. I think it's in the laundry, or—Oh, I think it's in the cellar. Well, you look till you find it. (To Briggs)—I got as many of the things you asked for as I could remember. Will you read the list over? Briggs—Turnip and egg-beater— Hostess—Yes. Briggs—Egg, large clock, jar of gold-fish, rabbit and empty barrel. Hostess—I have the egg. Briggs (much annoyed)—I particularly wanted the gold-fish, the clock and the barrel. (Guests grow restless.) Hostess—Couldn't you do a trick while we are waiting—one with the egg-beater and turnip? Briggs—No; I don't know one. Hostess—Couldn't you make up one? Briggs (icily)—Certainly not. (Gloom descends over the company, until the Poor Relative arrives, staggering under the clothes-horse.) Chorus of Men Guests—Let me help you! (Improvised screen is finally arranged. Briggs performs "parlor magic" for an hour. Guests, fidget, yawn and commence to drop away, one by one.)[Pg 332] Guest (to Hostess)—Really, we must tear ourselves away. Such a delightful evening!—not a dull moment. And your punch—heavenly! Do ask us again. Good night. Hostess—Thank you so much! So good of you to come. Another Guest—Yes, we must go. I've had a perfectly dear time. Hostess—So sorry you must go. So good of you to come. Good night. IN THE DRESSING-ROOM Chorus of Guests—Wasn't it awful?—Such low people!—Why did we ever come—Parvenue! Elocutionist—I was all right, wasn't I, mama? You noticed they never clapped a bit until I'd walked the whole length of the room to my chair. It just showed how wrought up they were. You nearly mixed me up, though, prompting me in the wrong place; I— Hostess (throwing herself on sofa as door closes on last guest)—Well, I'm completely done up! (To Poor Relative)—Maria, run up to my room, and get my red worsted bed-slippers. I can't stand these satin tortures a minute longer. Entertaining is an awful strain. It's so hard trying not to say the wrong thing at the right place. But, then, it certainly went off beautifully. I could tell every one had such a good time![Pg 333] <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>COMIN' THU</h2> <h3>BY ANNE VIRGINIA CULBERTSON</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Yer's a sinner comin' thu, Crowd roun', bre'ren, sisters, too, Sing wid all yo' might an' main, He'p de sinner out er pain, He's comin', comin' thu. </div><div class="stanza"> He bin "seekin'" dis long time, He'p him cas' de foe behime, Clap yo' han's an' sing an' shout, He'p him cas' de debil out, Le's wrassel him right thu. </div><div class="stanza"> Tu'rr side de Gate er Sin, Year him kickin' ter git in, Putt up prayers wid might an' main, Dat he doesn' kick in vain, Y'all kin pray him thu. </div><div class="stanza"> Heart a-bus'in' fer de right, Debil hol'in' to him tight, Year him swish dat forkéd tail, See de sinner-man turn pale, Come on an' he'p him thu. </div><div class="stanza"> Sinner hangin' 'bove de pit, By a hya'r strotch over hit, Debil hol' one eend an' shake, Y'all kin see de sinner quake, Quick, he'p dis man come thu.[Pg 334] </div><div class="stanza"> Seize de ropes, now, ev'y man, He'p de gospel ship ter lan', One long pull an' one gre't shout, Hallelu! We got him out, De sinner done come thu! [Pg 335]</div></div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>AUNT DINAH'S KITCHEN</h2> <h3>BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE</h3> Like a certain class of modern philosophers, Dinah perfectly scorned logic and reason in every shape, and always took refuge in intuitive certainty; and here she was perfectly impregnable. No possible amount of talent, or authority, or explanation could ever make her believe that any other way was better than her own, or that the course she had pursued in the smallest matter could be in the least modified. This had been a conceded point with her old mistress, Marie's mother; and "Miss Marie," as Dinah always called her young mistress, even after her marriage, found it easier to submit than contend; and so Dinah had ruled supreme. This was the easier, in that she was perfect mistress of that diplomatic art which unites the utmost subservience of manner with the utmost inflexibility as to measure. Dinah was the mistress of the whole art and mystery of excuse-making, in all its branches. Indeed, it was an axiom with her that the cook can do no wrong, and a cook in a Southern kitchen finds abundance of heads and shoulders on which to lay off every sin and frailty, so as to maintain her own immaculateness entire. If any part of the dinner was a failure, there were fifty indisputably good reasons for it, and it was the fault, undeniably, of fifty other people, whom Dinah berated with unsparing zeal. But it was very seldom that there was any failure in Dinah's last results. Though her mode of doing every[Pg 336]thing was peculiarly meandering and circuitous, and without any sort of calculation as to time and place,—though her kitchen generally looked as if it had been arranged by a hurricane blowing through it, and she had about as many places for each cooking utensil as there were days in the year,—yet, if one could have patience to wait her own good time, up would come her dinner in perfect order, and in a style of preparation with which an epicure could find no fault. It was now the season of incipient preparation for dinner. Dinah, who required large intervals of reflection and repose, and was studious of ease in all her arrangements, was seated on the kitchen floor, smoking a short, stumpy pipe, to which she was much addicted, and which she always kindled up, as a sort of censer, whenever she felt the need of an inspiration in her arrangements. It was Dinah's mode of invoking the domestic Muses. Seated around her were various members of that rising race with which a Southern household abounds, engaged in shelling peas, peeling potatoes, picking pin-feathers out of fowls, and other preparatory arrangements, Dinah every once in a while interrupting her meditations to give a poke, or a rap on the head, to some of the young operators, with the pudding-stick that lay by her side. In fact, Dinah ruled over the woolly heads of the younger members with a rod of iron, and seemed to consider them born for no earthly purpose but to "save her steps," as she phrased it. It was the spirit of the system under which she had grown up, and she carried it out to its full extent. Miss Ophelia, after passing on her reformatory tour through all the other parts of the establishment, now entered the kitchen. Dinah had heard, from various sources, what was going on, and resolved to stand on defensive and conservative ground,—mentally determined to op[Pg 337]pose and ignore every new measure, without any actual and observable contest. The kitchen was a large, brick-floored apartment, with a great old-fashioned fireplace stretching along one side of it,—an arrangement which St. Clair had vainly tried to persuade Dinah to exchange for the convenience of a modern cook-stove. Not she. No Pusseyite, or conservative of any school, was ever more inflexibly attached to time-honored inconveniences than Dinah. When St. Clair had first returned from the North, impressed with the system and order of his uncle's kitchen arrangements, he had largely provided his own with an array of cupboards, drawers, and various apparatus, to induce systematic regulation, under the sanguine illusion that it would be of any possible assistance to Dinah in her arrangements. He might as well have provided them for a squirrel or a magpie. The more drawers and closets there were, the more hiding-holes could Dinah make for the accommodation of old rags, hair-combs, old shoes, ribbons, cast-off artificial flowers, and other articles of vertu, wherein her soul delighted. When Miss Ophelia entered the kitchen, Dinah did not rise, but smoked on in sublime tranquillity, regarding her movements obliquely out of the corner of her eye, but apparently intent only on the operations around her. Miss Ophelia commenced opening a set of drawers. "What is this drawer for, Dinah?" she said. "It's handy for 'most anything, missis," said Dinah. So it appeared to be. From the variety it contained Miss Ophelia pulled out first a fine damask table-cloth stained with blood, having evidently been used to envelop some raw meat. "What's this, Dinah? You don't wrap up meat in your mistress's best table-cloth?"[Pg 338] "Oh, Lor', missis, no; the towels was all a-missin', so I just did it. I laid it out to wash that ar; that's why I put it thar." "Shir'less!" said Miss Ophelia to herself, proceeding to tumble over the drawer, where she found a nutmeg-grater and two or three nutmegs, a Methodist hymn-book, a couple of soiled Madras handkerchiefs, some yarn and knitting-work, a paper of tobacco and a pipe, a few crackers, one or two gilded china saucers with some pomade in them, one or two thin old shoes, a piece of flannel carefully pinned up enclosing some small white onions, several damask table-napkins, some coarse crash towels, some twine and darning-needles, and several broken papers, from which sundry sweet herbs were sifting into the drawer. "Where do you keep your nutmegs, Dinah?" said Miss Ophelia, with the air of one who "prayed for patience." "Most anywhar, missis; there's some in that cracked tea-cup up there, and there's some over in that ar cupboard." "Here are some in the grater," said Miss Ophelia, holding them up. "Laws, yes; I put 'em there this morning; I likes to keep my things handy," said Dinah. "You Jake! what are you stopping for? You'll cotch it! Be still, thar!" she added, with a dive of her stick at the criminal. "What's this?" said Miss Ophelia, holding up the saucer of pomade. "Laws, it's my har-grease: I put it thar to have it handy." "Do you use your mistress's best saucers for that?" "Law! it was 'cause I was driv' and in sich a hurry. I was gwine to change it this very day." "Here are two damask table-napkins."[Pg 339] "Them table-napkins I put thar to get 'em washed out some day." "Don't you have some place here on purpose for things to be washed?" "Well, Mas'r St. Clair got dat ar chest, he said, for dat; but I likes to mix up biscuit and hev my things on it some days, and then it ain't handy a-liftin' up the lid." "Why don't you mix your biscuits on the pastry-table, there?" "Law, missis, it gets sot so full of dishes, and one thing and another, der ain't no room, noways." "But you should wash your dishes, and clear them away." "Wash my dishes!" said Dinah, in a high key, as her wrath began to rise over her habitual respect of manner. "What does ladies know 'bout work, I want to know? When'd mas'r ever get his dinner, if I was to spend all my time a-washin' and a-puttin' up dishes? Miss Marie never telled me so, nohow." "Well, here are these onions." "Laws, yes!" said Dinah; "that is whar I put 'em, now. I couldn't 'member. Them's particular onions I was a savin' for dis yer very stew. I'd forgot they was in dat ar old flannel." Miss Ophelia lifted out the sifting papers of sweet herbs. "I wish missis wouldn't touch dem ar. I likes to keep my things where I knows whar to go to 'em," said Dinah, rather decidedly. "But you don't want these holes in the papers." "Them's handy for siftin' on't out," said Dinah. "But you see it spills all over the drawer." "Laws, yes! if missis will go a-tumblin' things all up so, it will. Missis has spilt lots dat ar way," said Dinah, coming uneasily to the drawers. "If missis only will go[Pg 340] up-sta'rs till my clarin'-up time comes, I'll have everything right; but I can't do nothin' when ladies is 'round a-henderin'. You Sam, don't you gib de baby dat ar sugar-bowl! I'll crack ye over, if ye don't mind!" "I'm going through the kitchen, and going to put everything in order, once, Dinah; and then I'll expect you to keep it so." "Lor', now, Miss 'Phelia, dat ar ain't no way for ladies to do. I never did see ladies doin' no sich; my old missis nor Miss Marie never did, and I don't see no kinder need on't." And Dinah stalked indignantly about, while Miss Ophelia piled and sorted dishes, emptied dozens of scattering bowls of sugar into one receptacle, sorted napkins, table-cloths, and towels, for washing; washing, wiping and arranging with her own hands, and with a speed and alacrity which perfectly amazed Dinah. "Lor', now! if dat ar de way dem Northern ladies do, dey ain't ladies nohow," she said to some of her satellites, when at a safe hearing-distance. "I has things as straight as anybody, when my clarin'-up times comes; but I don't want ladies 'round a-henderin' and gettin' my things all where I can't find 'em." To do Dinah justice, she had, at irregular periods, paroxysms of reformation and arrangement, which she called "clarin'-up times," when she would begin with great zeal and turn every drawer and closet wrong side outward on to the floor or tables, and make the ordinary confusion sevenfold more confounded. Then she would light her pipe and leisurely go over her arrangements, looking things over and discoursing upon them; making all the young fry scour most vigorously on the tin things, and keeping up for several hours a most energetic state of confusion, which she would explain to the satisfaction of all inquirers by the remark that she was a "clarin'-up."[Pg 341] "She couldn't hev things a-gwine on so as they had been, and she was gwine to make these yer young ones keep better order;" for Dinah herself, somehow, indulged the illusion that she herself was the soul of order, and it was only the young uns, and the everybody else in the house, that were the cause of anything that fell short of perfection in this respect. When all the tins were scoured, and the tables scrubbed snowy white, and everything that could offend tucked out of sight in holes and corners, Dinah would dress herself up in a smart dress, clean apron, and high, brilliant Madras turban, and tell all marauding "young uns" to keep out of the kitchen, for she was gwine to have things kept nice. Indeed, these periodic seasons were often an inconvenience to the whole household, for Dinah would contract such an immoderate attachment to her scoured tin as to insist upon it that it shouldn't be used again for any possible purpose,—at least till the ardor of the "clarin'-up" period abated.[Pg 342] <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>THE STRIKE AT HINMAN'S</h2> <h3>BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE</h3> Away back in the fifties, "Hinman's" was not only the best school in Peoria, but it was the greatest school in the world. I sincerely thought so then, and as I was a very lively part of it, I should know. Mr. Hinman was the Faculty, and he was sufficiently numerous to demonstrate cube root with one hand and maintain discipline with the other. Dear old man; boys and girls with grandchildren love him to-day, and think of him among their blessings. He was superintendent of public instruction, board of education, school trustee, county superintendent, principal of the high school and janitor. He had a pleasant smile, a genius for mathematics, and a West Point idea of obedience and discipline. He carried upon his person a grip that would make the imported malady which mocks that name in these degenerate days, call itself Slack, in very terror at having assumed the wrong title. We used to have "General Exercises" on Friday afternoon. The most exciting feature of this weekly frivolity consisted of a free-for-all exercise in mental arithmetic. Mr. Hinman gave out lists of numbers, beginning with easy ones and speaking slowly; each succeeding list he dictated more rapidly and with ever-increasing complications of addition, subtraction, multiplication and division, until at last he was giving them out faster than he could talk. One by one the pupils dropped out of the[Pg 343] race with despairing faces, but always at the closing peremptory: "Answer?" At least a dozen hands shot into the air and as many voices shouted the correct result. We didn't have many books, and the curriculum of an Illinois school in those days was not academic; but two things the children could do, they could spell as well as the dictionary and they could handle figures. Some of the fellows fairly wallowed in them. I didn't. I simply drowned in the shallowest pond of numbers that ever spread itself on the page. As even unto this day I do the same. Well, one year the Teacher introduced an innovation; "compositions" by the girls and "speakin' pieces" by the boys. It was easy enough for the girls, who had only to read the beautiful thought that "spring is the pleasantest season of the year." Now and then a new girl, from the east, awfully precise, would begin her essay—"spring is the most pleasant season of the year," and her would we call down with derisive laughter, whereat she walked to her seat, very stiffly, with a proud dry-eyed look in her face, only to lay her head upon her desk when she reached it, and weep silently until school closed. But "speakin' pieces" did not meet with favor from the boys, save one or two good boys who were in training by their parents for congressmen or presidents. The rest of us, who were just boys, with no desire ever to be anything else, endured the tyranny of compulsory oratory about a month, and then resolved to abolish the whole business by a general revolt. Big and little, we agreed to stand by each other, break up the new exercise, and get back to the old order of things—the hurdle races in mental arithmetic and the geographical chants which we could run and intone together.[Pg 344] Was I a mutineer? Well, say, son, your Pa was a constituent conspirator. He was in the color guard. You see, the first boy called on for a declamation was to announce the strike, and as my name stood very high—in the alphabetical roll of pupils—I had an excellent chance of leading the assaulting column, a distinction for which I was not at all ambitious, being a stripling of tender years, ruddy countenance, and sensitive feelings. However, I stiffened the sinews of my soul, girded on my armor by slipping an atlas back under my jacket and was ready for the fray, feeling a little terrified shiver of delight as I thought that the first lick Mr. Hinman gave me would make him think he had broken my back. The hour for "speakin' pieces," an hour big with fate, arrived on time. A boy named Aby Abbott was called up ahead of me, but he happened to be one of the presidential aspirants (he was mate on an Illinois river steamboat, stern-wheeler at that, the last I knew of him), and of course he flunked and "said" his piece—a sadly prophetic selection—"Mr. President, it is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of hope." We made such suggestive and threatening gestures at him, however, when Mr. Hinman wasn't looking, that he forgot half his "piece," broke down and cried. He also cried after school, a little more bitterly, and with far better reason. Then, after an awful pause, in which the conspirators could hear the beating of each other's hearts, my name was called. I sat still at my desk and said: "I ain't goin' to speak no piece." Mr. Hinman looked gently surprised and asked: "Why not, Robert?" I replied:[Pg 345] "Because there ain't goin' to be any more speakin' pieces." The teacher's eyes grew round and big as he inquired: "Who says there will not?" I said, in slightly firmer tones, as I realized that the moment had come for dragging the rest of the rebels into court: "All of us boys!" But Mr. Hinman smiled, and said quietly that he guessed there would be "a little more speaking before the close of the session." Then laying his hand on my shoulder, with most punctilious but chilling courtesy, he invited me to the rostrum. The "rostrum" was twenty-five feet distant, but I arrived there on schedule time and only touched my feet to the floor twice on my way. And then and there, under Mr. Hinman's judicious coaching, before the assembled school, with feelings, nay, emotions which I now shudder to recall, I did my first "song and dance." Many times before had I stepped off a solo-cachuca to the staccato pleasing of a fragment of slate frame, upon which my tutor was a gifted performer, but never until that day did I accompany myself with words. Boy like, I had chosen for my "piece" a poem sweetly expressive of those peaceful virtues which I most heartily despised. So that my performance, at the inauguration of the strike, as Mr. Hinman conducted the overture, ran something like this— <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Oh, not for me (whack) is the rolling (whack) drum, Or the (whack, whack) trumpet's wild (whack) appeal! (Boo-hoo!) Or the cry (swish—whack) of (boo-hoo-hoo!) war when the (whack) foe is come (ouch!) Or the (ow—wow!) brightly (whack) flashing (whack-whack) steel! (wah-hoo, wah-hoo!)" </div></div> Words and symbols can not convey to the most gifted[Pg 346] imagination the gestures with which I illustrated the seven stanzas of this beautiful poem. I had really selected it to please my mother, whom I had invited to be present, when I supposed I would deliver it. But the fact that she attended a missionary meeting in the Baptist church that afternoon made me a friend of missions forever. Suffice it to say, then, that my pantomime kept pace and time with Mr. Hinman's system of punctuation until the last line was sobbed and whacked out. I groped my bewildered way to my seat through a mist of tears and sat down gingerly and sideways, inly wondering why an inscrutable providence had given to the rugged rhinoceros the hide which the eternal fitness of things had plainly prepared for the school-boy. But I quickly forgot my own sorrow and dried my tears with laughter in the enjoyment of the subsequent acts of the opera, as the chorus developed the plot and action. Mr. Hinman, who had been somewhat gentle with me, dealt firmly with the larger boy who followed, and there was a scene of revelry for the next twenty minutes. The old man shook Bill Morrison until his teeth rattled so you couldn't hear him cry. He hit Mickey McCann, the tough boy from, the Lower Prairie, and Mickey ran out and lay down in the snow to cool off. He hit Jake Bailey across the legs with a slate frame, and it hurt so that Jake couldn't howl—he just opened his mouth wide, held up his hands, gasped, and forgot his own name. He pushed Bill Haskell into a seat and the bench broke. He ran across the room and reached out for Lem Harkins, and Lem had a fit before the old man touched him. He shook Dan Stevenson for two minutes, and when he let him go, Dan walked around his own desk five times before he could find it, and then he couldn't sit[Pg 347] down without holding on. He whipped the two Knowltons with a skate-strap in each hand at the same time; the Greenwood family, five boys and a big girl, he whipped all at once with a girl's skipping rope, and they raised such a united wail that the clock stopped. He took a twist in Bill Rodecker's front hair, and Bill slept with his eyes open for a week. He kept the atmosphere of that school-room full of dust, and splinters, and lint, weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth, until he reached the end of the alphabet and all hearts ached and wearied of the inhuman strife and wicked contention. Then he stood up before us, a sickening tangle of slate frame, strap, ebony ferule and skipping rope, a smile on his kind old face, and asked, in clear, triumphant tones: "WHO says there isn't going to be any more speaking pieces?" And every last boy in that school sprang to his feet; standing there as one human being with one great mouth, we shrieked in concerted anguish: "NOBODY DON'T!" And your Pa, my son, who led that strike, has been "speakin' pieces" ever since.[Pg 348] <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>A NAUTICAL BALLAD</h2> <h3>BY CHARLES E. CARRYL</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> A capital ship for an ocean trip Was the "Walloping Window-blind"; No gale that blew dismayed her crew Or troubled the captain's mind. The man at the wheel was taught to feel Contempt for the wildest blow, And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared, That he'd been in his bunk below. </div><div class="stanza"> "The boatswain's mate was very sedate, Yet fond of amusement, too; And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch, While the captain tickled the crew. And the gunner we had was apparently mad, For he sat on the after rail, And fired salutes with the captain's boots, In the teeth of the booming gale. </div><div class="stanza"> "The captain sat in a commodore's hat And dined in a royal way On toasted pigs and pickles and figs And gummery bread each day. But the cook was Dutch and behaved as such; For the diet he gave the crew Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns Prepared with sugar and glue.[Pg 349] </div><div class="stanza"> "All nautical pride we laid aside, And we cast the vessel ashore On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles, And the Rumbletumbunders roar. And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge And shot at the whistling bee; And the cinnamon-bats wore water-proof hats As they danced in the sounding sea. </div><div class="stanza"> "On rubgub bark, from dawn to dark, We fed, till we all had grown Uncommonly shrunk,—when a Chinese junk Came by from the torriby zone. She was stubby and square, but we didn't much care, And we cheerily put to sea; And we left the crew of the junk to chew The bark of the rubgub tree."

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