MAN’S DEVOTION.
AUNT POLLY’S “GEORGE WASHINGTON.”
“George Washin’ton!”
From down the hill the answer floated up, muffled by the distance.
“Ma’m?”
“Come heah, sah!”
Aunt Polly folded her arms and leaned against the doorway and waited for the appearance of her son and heir above the edge of the hill on which her cabin stood.
“George Washin’ton,” she said, “you sartainly is de laziest nigger I eber see. How, long, sah, does you s’pose you was a-comin’ up dat hill? You don’ no? I don’ nether; ’twas so long I los’ all count. You’ll bring yore mudder’s gray har in sorrer to de grabe yet, wid yore pokin’ and slowness, see if you don’. Heah I is waitin’ and a’waitin’ on you for to go down to ole Mass’ Cunningham’s wid dose tings. Take ’em to de young city man boardin’ dar, and tell him dese is his clean close dat yore old mudder washed, and dat dey comes to fifty cents. And if you let de grass grow under yore feet, George Washin’ton, or spiles dese close, or loses dat fifty cents, I’ll break yore bones, chile, when you comes home. You heah dat?”
George Washington rested his basket on his hip and jogged along. Meditations as to what his mother might have for supper on the strength of the fifty cents brightened his visage and accelerated his steps. His fancy revelled in visions of white biscuit and crisp bacon floating in its own grease. He was gravely weighing the relative merits of spring chicken fried and more elderly chicken stewed, when—
There was only one muddy place on George Washington’s route to town; that was down at the foot of the hill, by the railroad track. Why should his feet slip from under him, and he go sliding into the mud right there? It was too bad. It did not hurt him, but those shirts and shining collars, alas! Some of them tumbled out, and he lifted them up all spattered and soiled.
He sat down and contemplated the situation with an expression of speechless solemnity. He was afraid to go back, and he was afraid to go on, but he would rather face the “city man” than his mother; and with a sigh that nearly burst the twine string that did duty as a suspender, he lifted the linen into its place and trudged on.
The young folks at “Mass’ Cunningham’s” sent him to the boarder’s room, with many a jest on his slowness, and he shook in his ragged clothes when the young man lifted the things from the basket to put them away.
He exclaimed in anger at their soiled appearance, and, of course, immediately bundled them back into the basket.
“Here, George,” he said, “take these back to your mother to wash, and don’t you dare, you little vagabond! ever bring such looking things to me again.”
Slowly the namesake of our illustrious countryman climbed the hill toward home; slowly he entered and set down his basket. The rapidity with which he emerged from the door, about three minutes later, might have led a stranger to believe that it was a different boy. But it was not. It was the same George.
The next afternoon came around, and George Washington again departed on his errand. No thoughts of supper or good things ran rife in his brain to-day. He attended strictly to business. His mother, standing in the door-way, called after him: “Be keerful, George Washin’ton, ’bout de train. I heer’d it at de upper junction jess now. It’ll be long trectly.”
George Washington nodded and disappeared. He crossed the muddy place in safety, and breathed more freely. He was turning toward town, when something on the railroad track caught his eye. There lay the big rock that had been on the hill above ever since he could remember; it was right in the track. He wondered how the coming train would get over it.
Across on the other side, the hill sloped down to a deep ravine. What if the big rock pushed the train off! His heart gave a great jump. He had heard them talk of an accident once, where many people were killed. He thought of running to tell somebody, but it was a good way to the next house, and just then he heard the train faintly; it was too late for that. Just above, in the direction that the train was coming, was a sharp curve. It could not stop if it came tearing round that, and on the other side of the bend was a very high trestle that made him sick to look at.
The slow, dull boy stood and trembled.
In a moment more he had set his basket carefully in the bush, and ran around the curve. At the edge of the trestle he paused, and then dropping on his hands and knees, crept as fast as he could over the dizzy height to the other side. He staggered to his feet, and ran on.
When the train dashed in sight, the engineer spied a small object on the track, pointing frantically behind him. The child ran away from the track, but continued to wave and point and shout “Stop!”
The train whistled and slackened. George Washington, hatless and breathless, was jerked into the engine, where he gasped, “Big rock on de track round de curve.” The train was moved slowly over the trestle and stopped in the curve, and there, indeed, was the rock that might have hurled them all down to death, but for that ridiculous-looking little boy.
Meanwhile in the cabin, Aunt Polly was restless, and concluded to go down to the foot of the hill, and wait for George Washington. Behold, then, as she appeared down the path, the sight that met her gaze.
“What’s dis boy bin a-doin’! I’se his mother. I is. What’s dis mean?”
On this identical train was the president of the road.
“Why, auntie,” he said, “you have a boy to be proud of. He crept over the high trestle and warned the train, and maybe saved all our lives. He is a hero.”
Aunt Polly was dazed.
“A hearo,” she said; “dat’s a big t’ing for a little black nigger. George Washin’ton, whar’s dat basket?”
“In de bushes, mammy; I’se gwine for to get it.”
The train was nearly ready to be off. The president called Aunt Polly aside, and she came back with a beaming face, and five ten-dollar bills clutched in her hands.
Aunt Polly caught George in her arms.
“Dey sed you was a hearo, George Washin’ton, but you is yore mammy’s own boy, and you shall hab chicken for yore supper dis berry night, and a whole poun’ cake to-morrow, yes, you shall!”
And when George Washington returned the gentleman his washing, he, like his namesake, was a hero.
MINE VAMILY.
AT THE GARDEN GATE.
THE MINISTER’S CALL.
The Rev. Mr. Mulkittle having successfully organized a church fair, was a very happy man. It had been hinted that the congregation were a “little short” on raising the reverend gentleman’s salary, hence the proceeds of the fair would more than supply the deficiency.
The good man, after retiring from a profitable afternoon’s work, during which he had assured dyspeptics that potato salad would not hurt them, seated himself by the library fire, when the “youngest” entered.
“Where have you been, pa?”
“To the fair.”
“What fair?”
“Our church fair.”
“Did they have it out to the fair grounds?”
“No.”
“Where then?”
“Down town in our church.”
“Did they have horses and cows?”
“Oh, no! they didn’t show anything.”
“Well, what did they do?”
“Oh, they sold toys and something for people to eat.”
“Did they sell it to the poor?”
“They sold it to anybody who had money.”
“Oh, papa! it was the feast of the passover, wasn’t it?”
Mr. Mulkittle took up a newspaper and began to read.
“Do you want me to be a preacher, pa?”
“Yes, if the Lord calls you.”
“Did the Lord call you?”
“Yes.”
“What did He say?”
“Told me to go and preach the gospel to every living creature.”
“Didn’t tell you to preach to niggers, did He?”
“That’ll do now.”
“You thought the Lord had called you again the other day, did you?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said the minister.
“Don’t you know the other day you told ma you had a call to go to some place, and you would go if you could get two hundred dollars more. Wouldn’t the Lord give you the two hundred dollars?”
“Didn’t I tell you to hush, sir?” said the minister, throwing down his paper and glaring at his son.
“No, sir; you told me to behave myself.”
“Well, see that you do.”
“I wish you’d tell me—”
“Tell you what?”
“’Bout the call.”
“Well, a church in another town wanted me to come there and preach.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
“Couldn’t afford it. They didn’t pay enough money.”
“Call wasn’t loud enough, was it?”
“Well, hardly,” asserted Mr. Mulkittle, with a smile. “It wasn’t loud enough to be very interesting.”
“If it had been louder, would you went?”
“I should have gone if they had offered me more money.”
“It wasn’t the Lord that called you that time then, was it?”
“I think not.”
“How much money did the Lord offer you?”
“Do you see that door?”
“No sir; which door?”
“That one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, go out and shut it.”
“I want to stay in here.”
“You cannot.”
“Why?”
“Because you are too foolishly inquisitive.”
“What’s foolish ’quisitive?”
“Asking so many questions.”
“How many must I ask?”
“None.”
“Then I couldn’t talk, could I?”
“It would be better for you, if you couldn’t talk so much.”
“How much must I talk?”
“Here, I’ll give you ten cents now, if you’ll go away and hush.”
“Call ain’t strong enough,” said the boy, shaking his head.
“Well, here’s a quarter,” said the preacher, smiling.
“Call is strong enough; I’ll go.”
LED BY A CALF.
TOM GOLDY’S LITTLE JOKE.
HOW HEZEKIAH STOLE THE SPOONS.
In a quiet little Ohio village, many years ago, was a tavern where the stages always changed, and the passengers expected to get breakfast. The landlord of the said hotel was noted for his tricks upon travelers, who were allowed to get fairly seated at the table, when the driver would blow his horn (after taking his “horn”), and sing out, “Stage ready, gentlemen!”—whereupon the passengers were obliged to hurry out to take their seats, leaving a scarcely tasted breakfast behind them, for which, however, they had to pay over fifty cents! One day, when the stage was approaching the house of this obliging landlord, a passenger said that he had often heard of the landlord’s trick, and he was afraid they would not be able to eat any breakfast.
“What!—how? No breakfast!” exclaimed the rest.
“Exactly so gents, and you may as well keep your seats and tin.”
“Don’t they expect passengers to breakfast?”
“Oh! yes! they expect you to it, but not to eat it. I am under the impression that there is an understanding between the landlord and the driver that for sundry and various drinks, etc., the latter starts before you can scarcely commence eating.”
“What on airth are you all talking about? Ef you calkelate I’m going to pay four and ninepence for my breakfast, and not get the valee on’t you’re mistaken,” said a voice from a back seat, the owner of which was one Hezekiah Spaulding—though “tew hum” they call him “Hez” for short. “I’m goin’ to get my breakfast here, and not pay nary red cent till I do.”
“Then you’ll be left.”
“Not as you knows on, I guess I won’t.”
“Well, we’ll see,” said the other, as the stage drove up to the door and the landlord ready “to do the hospitable,” says—
“Breakfast just ready, gents! Take a wash, gents? Here’s water, basins, towels, and soap.”
After performing the ablutions, they all proceeded to the dining-room, and commenced a fierce onslaught upon the edibles, though Hez took his time. Scarcely had they tasted their coffee when they heard the unwelcome sound of the horn, and the driver exclaim, “Stage ready!” Up rise eight grumbling passengers, pay their fifty cents, and take their seats.
“All on board, gents?” inquires the host.
“One missing,” said they.
Proceeding to the dining-room the host finds Hez very coolly helping himself to an immense piece of steak, the size of a horse’s hip.
“You’ll be left, sir! Stage going to start.”
“Wall, I hain’t got nothin’ agin it,” drawls out Hez.
“Can’t wait, sir—better take your seat.”
“I’ll be blowed ef I do, nother, till I’ve got my breakfast! I paid for it, and I am goin’ to get the valee on’t it; and ef you calkelate I hain’t you are mistaken.”
So the stage did start, and left Hez, who continued his attack upon the edibles. Biscuit, coffee, etc., disappeared before the eyes of the astonished landlord.
“Say, squire, them there cakes is ’bout eat—fetch on another grist on ’em. You” (to the waiter), “’nother cup of that ere coffee. Pass them eggs. Raise your own pork, squire? This is ’mazin’ nice ham. Land ’bout here tolerable cheap, squire? Hain’t much maple timber in these parts, hev ye? Dew right smart trade, squire, I calkelate?” And thus Hez kept quizzing the landlord until he had made a hearty meal.
“Say, squire, now I’m ’bout to conclude paying my devowers to this ere table, but just give us a bowl of bread and milk to top off with; I’d be much obleeged tew ye.”
So out go the landlord and waiter for the bowl, milk, and bread, and set them before him.
“Spoon, tew, ef you please.”
But no spoon could be found. Landlord was sure he had plenty of silver ones lying on the table when the stage stopped.
“Say, dew ye? dew ye think them passengers is goin’ to pay ye for a breakfuss and not git no compensashun?”
“Ah! what? Do you think any of the passengers took them?”
“Dew I think? No, I don’t think, but I’m sartin. Ef they are all as green as yew bout here I’m going to locate immediately and tew wonst.”
The landlord rushes out to the stable, and starts a man off after the stage, which had gone about three miles. The man overtakes and says something to the driver in a low tone. He immediately turns back, and on arriving at the hotel Hez comes out, takes his seat, and says:
“How are yew, gents? I’m glad to see yew.”
“Can you point out the man you think has the spoons?” asked the landlord.
“P’int him out? Sartenly I ken. Say, squire, I paid yew four and ninepence for a breakfuss, and I calkelate I got the valee on’t it! You’ll find them spoons in the coffee-pot.”
“Go ahead! All aboard, driver.”
The landlord stared.
TWO KINDS OF POLLIWOGS.
THE BEST SEWING-MACHINE.
HOW THEY SAID GOOD-NIGHT.
They have had a long evening together (three whole hours), but it doesn’t seem more than five minutes to them. Still, the inexorable clock is announcing the hour of eleven in the most forcible and uncompromising manner. He knows that he ought to go, because he must be at the store at seven in the morning; she fully realizes that his immediate departure is necessary, for has not her father threatened that he will come down and “give that young Simpkins a piece of his mind if he don’t leave by eleven o’clock in the future?” They both understand that the fatal hour has come, yet how they hate to part!
“Well, I suppose I must be going,” he says, with a long, regretful sigh.
“Yes, I suppose you must,” she rejoins.
Then they gaze into each other’s eyes; then she pillows her head upon his bosom; then their lips meet, and he mentally swears that if he can get his salary raised to eighteen dollars a week he will make her Mrs. G. W. Simpkins without further agonizing delay.
The clock looks on with a cynical expression on its face. It is doing its duty, and if old man Smith comes down stairs and destroys the peace of mind of this loving couple, it will not be its fault.
He asks her if she will not be happy when the time comes that they will never, never have to part, and she murmurs an affirmative response. Then follow more kissing and embracing. If G. W. Simpkins were told now that he would ever come home to her at 2 A.M. with fabulous tales of accidents by flood and field, and on the Elevated Railroad, would he believe it? No; a smile of incredulity and scorn would wreathe his lips, and he would forthwith clasp her to his breast.
He knows that other men do such things, but he is not that sort of man. Beside, he will have the immense advantage over all others of his sex in possessing the only absolutely perfect specimen of femininity extant. He thinks that he will never be happy anywhere away from her side, and he tells her so, and she believes him.
The clock does not announce the quarter-hour, because it is not built that way, but, nevertheless, it is now 11.15. They do not imagine that it is later than 11.02. He asks her if she ever loved any one else, and she says “No;” and then he reminds her of a certain Tom Johnson with whom she used to go to the theatre, at which she becomes angry and says that he (G. W. Simpkins) is a “real mean thing.” Then G. W. S. arises with an air of dignity, and says that he is much obliged to her for her flattering opinion; and she says that he is quite welcome.
Just then a heavy foot-fall is heard upstairs. She glances at the clock, and perceives to her dismay that it is 11.20. She had expected to have a nice little quarrel, followed by the usual reconciliation, but there is no time for that now. She throws her arms around his neck, and whispers in great agitation that she believes pa is coming. G. W. S. quakes inwardly, for her pa is about four sizes larger than himself, and of a cruel, vindictive nature. But he assumes an air of bravado, and darkly hints at the extreme probability that the room in which they stand will be the scene of a sanguinary conflict in the immediate future, should any one venture to cross his path. Then she begs him to remember that papa, notwithstanding his faults, is still her father. At this he magnanimously promises to spare the old man.
But the footstep is heard no more; papa does not appear. G. W. S. puts on his overcoat. Then the couple stand by the door and settle the Tom Johnson matter. She says she never cared for Tom Johnson, and he says he knows it and that he (G. W. S., you understand) is a brute, and that she is an angel, and that he will never again refer to the aforesaid Tom Johnson. He will, though, the very next time they meet, just as he has every time they have met for the last two months.
While they are talking the clock strikes the half hour, but they don’t hear it. The Johnson business disposed of, they discuss their future prospects, vow eternal fidelity, compare themselves to all the famous lovers of history (to none of whom they bear the slightest resemblance), make an appointment for Wednesday evening (on which occasion G. W. S. will have the extreme felicity of spending two-thirds of his week’s salary for theatre tickets and a supper at the Brunswick), and indulge in the usual osculation.
Suddenly the clock begins to strike twelve, and at the same moment a hoarse masculine cough is heard in the room overhead. The fatal moment has really and truly arrived this time. One more kiss, one more embrace, and they part—he to go home and oversleep in the morning, and be docked fifty cents at the store; she to receive the reproaches of an irate parent, who hasn’t been young for such a long time himself that he has forgotten all about it.