Old Rough the miser

The hour for the Widow O’Warty’s reception was approaching, and everything seemed favorable for a happy evening. The sun disappeared in the west, and the golden and red-tinted clouds reflected his parting rays. These deepened into a violet hue, as twilight stole gradually on, and then a soft gray light fell over all.

This is the hour dear to all the little animals that inhabit the woods and fields. They seem to fear the brilliant daylight, and their timid natures grow bolder as night steals on.

At this hour the cheerful crickets sing out more cheerfully and boldly, the shy tree-toads pipe their shrill song, and from every ditch and pond arise the melancholy tones of the emotional frog, the far-reaching tenor and the resounding bass.

In the depths of the wood rings out more often the cheerful chirrup of the shy squirrel; the hedge-hog squeaks, and the little mice scurry along the ground. All of these sounds were heard on the evening of the Widow O’Warty’s reception, and as night came on these voices increased.

Then, when the twilight disappeared and all grew dark, out came the fireflies, floating over the meadow, and often soaring over the tallest trees, every motion of their gauzy wings displaying the brilliant strips of greenish light on their little bodies.

The glow-worms, too, wriggled their shining bodies through the grass, doing their best to light on their way the Widow O’Warty’s guests.

The hostess herself sat in front of her dwelling, her affable countenance wreathed in smiles, as she welcomed each guest. A lawn-party it must be, for the widow’s house was too dark and cramped to contain the hosts of friends her hospitality included.

Johnny the basso was one of the first to arrive, and, as he sat beside the hostess, she found time, between the arrivals, to acquaint him with the characters of her guests.

“It’s a furriner ye are, an’ it’s meself that will acquaint ye wid the ways of me fri’nds,” she explained.

A light green katydid, accompanied by her pale and delicate looking son, were seen approaching.

“Sure, an’ if me two eyes do not dec’ave me, that swate cratur Katrina Diddo an’ her remarkable son are appearing to me view. Good evening, Ma’arm,” continued the hostess, as the two approached. “It’s proud I account meself to rec’ave yees.”

“Thanks,” murmured the katydid, with her head poised on one side, and her full eyes gazing with a rapt expression far over the Widow O’Warty’s head into vacancy. “How extremely kind of you to draw us out this marvellous evening, when each slender blade of grass and each tiny leaflet is bathed in translucent dew, and the spirit of inspiration hovers above us, earth creatures as we are;” and the speaker heaved a sigh as she closed her eyes dreamily.

“It’s intinse Katrina is,” whispered the widow to the basso; “an’ how is the swate b’y, ma’am,” she added, to the poetic katydid, whose dreamy eyes still looked far away into space.

“Well, my dear Widow. Excelsior is as well as one can be, who hears the voice of genius forever calling him to higher things, and to deeds where we, poor earth-worms as we are, cannot follow him,—that ceaseless call, as the ocean beats his great heart out against a giant wall. Ah me! what is life!”

“Ye may well remark it,” answered the widow; “it’s a mystery, is life, an’ that’s the troot.”

“You know it? You feel it too?” exclaimed Katrina, with a sudden burst of intensity. “Oh! the crushing weight of that thought to a soaring human soul!”

With a deep sigh the poetess passed on, followed closely by her talented son.

“Zis grande poetess, I perceive she have one foreign name; I taught she was American,” remarked the basso, as the pair disappeared.

“It’s American hersilf is,” replied the widow, confidentially, “an’ it’s Katy Did her name is; but whin it’s famous she became, she changed the name of her, Katy did, as was r’asonable. It’s one of the ‘tin million’ Katy is,” added the widow, in a whisper.

The poetess’s son, Excelsior, had not spoken a word, but had gazed about him in an abstracted manner during the conversation between his mother and the Widow O’Warty, not evincing by a look or sign that he had understood the conversation.

“What’s zee matter wiz zat garçon?” asked the basso, who had been a silent observer.

“Ye may will ask fwhat’s the matter wid the gossoon; an’ it’s mesilf that’s not able to acquaint you wid his complaint,” replied the widow; “but I suspicion that it’s on account of the head of him being too large for the body of him.”

“What does he do, this spirituel garçon? Does he make poetry like his talented mamma?”

“Indade an’ he does no sich a thing,” replied the widow, in a tone that expressed resentment at the question. “There is not body enough to contain the brain av him in the furst place; an’ thin it’s such a d’ale of thinking the cratur kapes up that there’s no vint for the same, an’ the thoughts they kape revolving trou’ the brain av him, till I’m tauld there’s great danger av an ixplosion.”

“I am sorry for zis pauvre garçon,” replied the basso; and he once more watched with interest the poetess and her remarkable son, who was unable to give expression to the great thoughts that seethed through his gigantic brain.

“Della bella Wartyo,” cried a high tenor voice, as a tree-toad appeared.

“Is it yourself, Signor Trillo?” answered the widow, cordially. “It’s rej’iced to see ye I am. I was afeard we should lose the pl’isure of your company this evening.”

“A million thanks,” replied the tenor, effusively; “Madame is too gracious.”

“I take pl’isure, Signor, in presinting to ye Johnny the basso, the swatest of singers, yourself ixcipted,” said the widow, graciously.

Johnny the basso darted a scrutinizing glance at the tenor, for a secret misgiving seized him. Could this tenor be the identical one who had stolen from him the affection of the little brown frog? It might be so,—that this foreigner, said to be of noble birth, so much courted and feted by the “ten million” on account of the high position he was supposed to hold in his native land, had won the fancy of the fair brown frog. But he would not be precipitate, he would watch this tenor; and if his suspicions were verified, then let the tenor look to his safety!

The tenor evidently was not disturbed by any such emotions as agitated the great basso, and he greeted the latter in so unembarrassed a manner, that the basso felt obliged to conceal his suspicions as well as possible, and wait for future developments.

“It’s a po’me Katrina Diddo will be afther reciting to us,” said the widow, as the poetess came forward, and fixing her eyes on the full moon that stood overhead, gazed at it awhile in silence. Then, while the other guests waited breathlessly for the inspiration that she seemed invoking from that brilliant orb, Katrina, still gazing upward, recited the following lines:—

“How exquisite!” murmured an ecstatic young grasshopper, who had gazed enraptured on the ardent poetess; “methinks I faint with the sweet oppression.”

“Ye may will faint, that’s a fact!” replied the Widow O’Warty. “Will ye recite that iligant thing, ‘Among the Daffodils’? I’m tauld it’s accounted the finest po’me ye’ve proju’ced yit.”

Whereupon the poetess, fixing her eyes on vacancy, recited the following verses:—

“An’ now will ye give us the pl’isure of a song, Signor Trillo?” asked the hostess, when the enthusiasm that followed the poem had died away.

The tenor, in his high voice, responded with the following ditty:—

During the song, the basso felt his emotion overpowering him, and at its conclusion he hopped up to the singer and exclaimed fiercely,—

“I wish to know, sair, who is zis leetle brown frog of whom you sing?”

The tenor turned, and gazed in astonishment on the excited countenance of the disturbed basso.