The Wit and Humor of America Volume V Part 15

Miss Patience took her seat, ran her fingers over a few octaves, and if "Moses in Egypt" was not perfectly _executed_, Moses in Hardscrabble _was_. The dulcet sound ceased. "Miss," said Cash, the moment that he could express himself, so entranced was he by the music,--"Miss Doolittle, what was the instrument Mo Mercer showed me in your gallery once, it went by a crank and had rollers in it?"

It was now the time for Miss Patience to blush: so away went the blood from confusion to her cheeks. She hesitated, stammered, and said, if Mr.

Cash must know, it was a-a-a-_Yankee washing-machine_.

The name grated on Mo Mercer's ears as if rusty nails had been thrust into them; the heretofore invulnerable Mercer's knees trembled, the sweat started to his brow, as he heard the taunting whispers of "visiting the Capitol twice" and seeing pianos as plenty as woodchucks.

The fashionable vices of envy and maliciousness were that moment sown in the village of Hardscrabble; and Mo Mercer, the great, the confident, the happy and self-possessed, surprising as it may seem, was the first victim sacrificed to their influence.

Time wore on, and pianos became common, and Mo Mercer less popular; and he finally disappeared altogether, on the evening of the day on which a Yankee peddler of notions sold to the highest bidder, "six patent, warranted, and improved Mo Mercer pianos."

WHAR DEM SINFUL APPLES GROW

BY ANNE VIRGINIA CULBERTSON

Ol' Adam he live in de Gyardin uv Eden, ('Way down yonner) He didn' know writin' an' he didn' know readin', ('Way down yonner) He stay dar erlone jes' eatin' an' a-sleepin', He say, "Dis mighty po' comp'ny I'se a-keepin',"

'Way down yonner whar dem sinful apples grow.

So dey tuck ol' Adam an' dey putt him a-nappin', ('Way down yonner) An' de fus' thing you know dish yer w'at happen, ('Way down yonner) Dey tucken his rib an' dey made a 'ooman, She mighty peart an' she spry an' she bloomin', 'Way down yonner whar dem sinful apples grow.

Dey 'spute sometimes an' he say, ol' Adam, ('Way down yonner) "You nuttin' but spar'-rib, nohow, madam,"

('Way down yonner) She say, "Dat de trufe an' hit ain' a-hu't'n', Fer de spar'-rib's made f'um a hawg, dat's sut'n,"

'Way down yonner whar dem sinful apples grow.

De Sarpint he slip in de Gyardin uv Eden, ('Way down yonner) He seed Mis' Eve an' he 'gun his pleadin', ('Way down yonner) 'Twel she tucken de apple an' den he quit 'er, Hissin', "Ho! ho! dat fruit mighty bitter."

'Way down yonner whar dem sinful apples grow.

Ol' Adam he say, "W'at dat you eatin'?"

('Way down yonner) "Please gimme a bite er dat summer-sweetin',"

('Way down yonner) She gin de big haff wid de core an' de seed in, An' dar whar she show her manners an' her breedin', 'Way down yonner whar dem sinful apples grow.

Den Adam he ac' right sneakin' sho'ly, ('Way down yonner) An' mek his 'scuse ter de Lawd right po'ly, ('Way down yonner) Blamin' Eve 'kase she do w'at he tell 'er, An' settin' dat 'zample fer many a feller, 'Way down yonner whar dem sinful apples grow.

Den de Lawd He say in de Gyardin uv Eden, ('Way down yonner) "No sech a man sh.e.l.l do my weedin',"

('Way down yonner) So fo'th f'um de Gyardin de Lawd He bid him, An' o' co'se Mis' Eve she up an' went wid him, 'Way down yonner whar dem sinful apples grow.

Oh, sinner, is you in de Gyardin uv Eden?

('Way down yonner) Is you on dem sinful apples feedin'?

('Way down yonner) Come out, oh, sinner, befo' youse driven, De debil gwine git you ef you goes on livin'

'Way down yonner whar dem sinful apples grow!

A NIGHT IN A ROCKING-CHAIR

BY KATE FIELD

It may be true that America is going to perdition; that all Americans are rascals; that there are no American gentlemen; that culture, refinement, and social manners can only be found in the Old World: but if it be true, what an extraordinary anomaly it is that women, old and young, ugly and handsome, can travel alone from one end of this great country to the other, receiving only such attention as is acceptable.

Having journeyed up and down the land to the extent of twenty thousand miles, I am persuaded that a woman can go anywhere and do anything, provided she conducts herself properly. Of course it would be absurd to deny that it is not infinitely more agreeable to be accompanied by the "tyrant" called "man"; but when there is no tyrant to come to lovely woman's rescue, it is astonishing how well lovely woman can rescue herself, if she exerts the brain and muscle, given her thousands of years ago, and not entirely annihilated by long disuse. I have been nowhere that I have not been treated with greater consideration than if I had belonged to the other s.e.x. There is not a country in Europe of which this can be said; and if a nation's civilization is gauged--as the wise declare--by its treatment of women, then America, rough as it may be, badly dressed as it is, tobacco-chewing as it often is, stands head, shoulders, and heart above all the rest of the world. The Frenchwoman was right in declaring America to be _le paradis des dames_, and those women who exalt European gallantry above American honesty are as blind to their own interests as an owl at high noon.

There is no royal railroad to lecturing. At best it is hard work, but lecture committees "do their possible," as the Italians say, to lessen the weight, and that "possible" is heartily appreciated by such of us as inwardly long for a natural bridge between stations and hotels. A woman is never so forlorn as when getting out of a car or entering a strange hotel.

However, there never was a rule without its exception, and though courtesy has marked the majority of lecture committees for its own, a lecturer may occasionally find himself stranded upon a desert of indifference, and languish for the comforts of a home not twenty miles distant. Thus it happened that once upon arriving at my destination when the shades of evening were falling fast, and glancing about for the customary smiling gentlemen who smooth out the rough places by carrying bags, superintending the transportation of luggage, and driving you to your abiding-place in the best carriage of the period, I found no gentlemen, smiling or otherwise, to deliver me from my own ignorance.

"Carriage, ma'am?" screamed a Jehu in top-boots ornamented with a grotesque tracery of mud.

Well, yes, I would take a carriage; so up I clambered and sat down upon what in the darkness I supposed was a seat, but what gave such palpable evidences of animation in howls and attempts at a.s.sault and battery, as to prove its right to be called a boy. "An' sure the lady didn't mane to hurt ye, Jimmy," expostulated something that turned out to be the boy's mother, whereupon a baby and a small sister of the small boy sent forth their voices in unison with that of their extinguished brother.

"Driver, let me get out," I said pathetically.

"Certainly, ma'am, but where will you go to? There ain't no other carriage left."

True; and I remained, and when I was asked where I wanted to stop, I really did not know. Was there a hotel? Yes. Was there more than one hotel? No. I breathed more freely, and said I would go to the hotel.

The driver evidently entertained a poor opinion of my mental capacity, for he mumbled to himself that "people who didn't know where they was agoin' had nuff sight better stay at home," and deposited me at the hotel with a caution against pickpockets. This was sufficiently humiliating, yet were there lower depths. Entering the parlor, I found it monopolized by a young lady in green silk and red ribbons, and a pink young man with his hair parted in the middle and his shirt-bosom resplendent with brilliants of the last water. They were at the piano, singing "Days of Absence" in a manner calculated to depress the most buoyant spirits. I rang the bell, and the green young lady and pink young man began on the second verse. No answer. Again I rang the bell, and the songsters began on the third verse. No answer. Once more I rang the bell, and the green young lady and pink young man piped upon the touching lay of "No one to love." Little cared those "two souls with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one," for the third heart and soul, victim of misplaced confidence. Ring! I rang that bell until I ached to be a man for one brief moment. Does a man ever endure such torture? No. He puts on his hat, walks into the hotel office, gives somebody a piece of his mind, and demands the satisfaction of a gentleman. But a woman can go to no office. She must remain up stairs and cultivate patience on hunger and thirst and a general mortification of the senses. "Victory, or destruction to the bell!" I said at last, and pulled the rope with the desperation of a maniac.

"Did you ring?" asked a mild clerk, entering on the tips of his toes as if there were not enough of him to warrant so extravagant an expenditure as the use of his whole sole. Did I ring? I who had been doing nothing else for half an hour! I who had but forty-five minutes in which to eat my supper and dress for the lecture!

Presenting my card, I desired the mild clerk to show me to my room. The mild clerk was exceedingly sorry, but the committee had left no order, and there was not a vacant room in the house!

"What am I to do?" I asked in agony of spirit. "I _must_ have a room."

_Must_ is an overpowering word. Only say _must_ with all the emphasis of which it is capable, and longings are likely to be realized.

Well, the mild clerk didn't know but as how he might turn out and let me have _his_ room.

Blessed man! Had I been pope, he should have been canonized on the spot.

Following him up several steep flights of stairs, lighted by a kerosene lamp that perfumed the air as only kerosene can, I was at last ushered into a room where sat a young girl knitting. She seemed to be no more astonished at my appearance than were the chairs and table, merely remarking, when we were left alone, "That's my father. I suppose you won't have any objections to my staying here as long as I please." How could I, an interloper, say "no" to the rightful proprietor of that room? I smiled feebly, and the damsel pursued her knitting with her fingers and me with her eyes, until everything in the room seemed to turn into eyes. The frightful thought came o'er me that perhaps my companion was "our own correspondent" for the "Daily Slasher!"--a thought that sent my supper down the wrong way, deprived me of appet.i.te, and made me thankful that my back hair did not come off! The damsel sat and sat, knitted and knitted, until she had superintended every preparation, and then, like an Arab, silently stole away.

What next? Why, the committee called for me at the appointed hour, seemed blandly ignorant of the fact that they had not done their whole duty to woman, and maintained that walking was much better than driving.

The wind blew, dust sought shelter within the recesses of eyes and ears and nose, but patient Griselda could not have behaved better than I. In fact, a woman who lectures must endure quietly what a singer or actress would stoutly protest against, for the reason that lecturing brings down upon her the taunt of being "strong-minded," and any a.s.sertion of rights or exhibition of temper is sure to be misconstrued into violent hatred of men and an insane desire to be President of the United States. This can hardly be called logic, but it _is_ truth. Logic is an unknown quant.i.ty in the ordinary public estimation of women lecturers.

Inwardly cross and outwardly cold, I delivered my lecture, and went back to that much-populated room, thinking that at least I should obtain a few hours' sleep before starting off at "five o'clock in the morning,"--a nice hour to sing about, but a horrible one at which to get up. I approached the bed. Shade of that virtue which is next to G.o.dliness! the linen was--was--yes, it was--second-hand! and calmly reposing on a pillow of doubtful color, my startled vision beheld an

"... ugly, creepin', blast.i.t wonner, Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner."

That I should come to this! I sought for a bell. Alas, there was none!

Should I scream? No, that might bring out the fire-engines. Should I go in search of the housekeeper? How to find her at that hour of the night?

No; rather than wander about a strange house in a strange place, I would sit up. Of course there was a rocking-chair; in that I took refuge, and there I sat with a quaint old-fashioned clock for company, with such stout lungs as to render sleep an impossibility. No fairy G.o.dmother came in at the key-hole to transform my chair into a couch and that talkative clock into a handmaiden. No ghosts beguiled the weary hours. Eleven, twelve, one, two, three, four! As the clock struck this last hour, a porter pounded on the door, and, not long after, I was being driven through the cold, dark morning to a railroad station. My Jehu was he of the previous day, and a very nice fellow he turned out to be. "I didn't know it was you yesterday, you see, miss, or I wouldn't have said nothing about pickpockets. You don't look like a lecturer, you see, and that's what's the matter."

"Indeed, and how ought a lecturer to look?"

"Well, I don't exactly know, but I always supposed they didn't look like you. Reckon you don't enjoy staying around here in the dark, so I'll just wait here till the train comes," and there that good creature remained until the belated train s.n.a.t.c.hed me up and whisked off to the city. When the express agent pa.s.sed through the car to take the baggage-checks, it was as good as a play to see the different ways in which people woke up. Some turned over and wouldn't wake up at all; others sat bolt upright and blinked; some were very cross, and wondered why they could not be let alone; others, again, rubbed their eyes, scratched their heads, said "All right," and would have gone to sleep again had not the agent shaken them into consciousness.