The Wit and Humor of America Volume III Part 23

His was the rental of half Havana And all Matanzas; and Santa Anna, Rich as he was, could hardly hold A candle to light the mines of gold Our Cuban owned, choke-full of diggers; And broad plantations, that, in round figures, Were stocked with at least five thousand n.i.g.g.e.rs!

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!"

The Senor swore to carry the day, To capture the beautiful Princess May, With his battery of treasure; Velvet and lace she should not lack; Tiffany, Haughwout, Ball & Black, Genin and Stewart his suit should back, And come and go at her pleasure; Jet and lava--silver and gold-- Garnets--emeralds rare to behold-- Diamonds--sapphires--wealth untold-- All were hers, to have and to hold: Enough to fill a peck measure!

He didn't bring all his forces on At once, but like a crafty old Don, Who many a heart had fought and won, Kept bidding a little higher; And every time he made his bid, And what she said, and all they did-- 'Twas written down, For the good of the town, By Jeems, of _The Daily Flyer_.

A coach and horses, you'd think, would buy For the Don an easy victory; But slowly our Princess yielded.

A diamond necklace caught her eye, But a wreath of pearls first made her sigh.

She knew the worth of each maiden glance, And, like young colts, that curvet and prance, She led the Don a deuce of a dance, In spite of the wealth he wielded.

She stood such a fire of silks and laces, Jewels and gold dressing-cases, And ruby brooches, and jets and pearls, That every one of her dainty curls Brought the price of a hundred common girls; Folks thought the la.s.s demented!

But at last a wonderful diamond ring, An infant Kohinoor, did the thing, And, sighing with love, or something the same, (What's in a name?) The Princess May consented.

Ring! ring the bells, and bring The people to see the marrying!

Let the gaunt and hungry and ragged poor Throng round the great cathedral door, To wonder what all the hubbub's for, And sometimes stupidly wonder At so much sunshine and brightness which Fall from the church upon the rich, While the poor get all the thunder.

Ring, ring! merry bells, ring!

O fortunate few, With letters blue, Good for a seat and a nearer view!

Fortunate few, whom I dare not name; Dilettanti! Creme de la Creme!

We commoners stood by the street facade, And caught a glimpse of the cavalcade.

We saw the bride In diamond pride, With jeweled maidens to guard her side-- Six l.u.s.trous maidens in tarletan.

She led the van of the caravan; Close behind her, her mother (Dressed in gorgeous _moire antique_, That told as plainly as words could speak, She was more antique than the other) Leaned on the arm of Don Rataplan, Santa Claus de la Muscovado, Senor Grandissimo Bastinado.

Happy mortal! fortunate man!

And Marquis of El Dorado!

In they swept, all riches and grace, Silks and satins, jewels and lace; In they swept from the dazzled sun, And soon in the church the deed was done.

Three prelates stood on the chancel high: A knot that gold and silver can buy, Gold and silver may yet untie, Unless it is tightly fastened; What's worth doing at all's worth doing well, And the sale of a young Manhattan belle Is not to be pushed or hastened; So two Very-Reverends graced the scene, And the tall Archbishop stood between, By prayer and fasting chastened; The Pope himself would have come from Rome, But Garibaldi kept him at home.

Haply those robed prelates thought Their words were the power that tied the knot; But another power that love-knot tied, And I saw the chain round the neck of the bride-- A glistening, priceless, marvelous chain, Coiled with diamonds again and again, As befits a diamond wedding; Yet still 'twas a chain, and I thought she knew it, And half-way longed for the will to undo it, By the secret tears she was shedding.

But isn't it odd to think, whenever We all go through that terrible River-- Whose sluggish tide alone can sever (The Archbishop says) the Church decree, By floating one into Eternity And leaving the other alive as ever-- As each wades through that ghastly stream, The satins that rustle and gems that gleam, Will grow pale and heavy, and sink away To the noisome River's bottom-clay!

Then the costly bride and her maidens six, Will shiver upon the banks of the Styx, Quite as helpless as they were born-- Naked souls, and very forlorn; The Princess, then, must shift for herself, And lay her royalty on the shelf; She, and the beautiful Empress, yonder, Whose robes are now the wide world's wonder, And even ourselves, and our dear little wives, Who calico wear each morn of their lives, And the sewing-girls, and _les chiffonniers_, In rags and hunger--a gaunt array-- And all the grooms of the caravan-- Ay, even the great Don Rataplan Santa Claus de la Muscavado Senor Grandissimo Bastinado-- That gold-encrusted, fortunate man-- All will land in naked equality: The lord of a ribboned princ.i.p.ality Will mourn the loss of his _cordon_; Nothing to eat and nothing to wear Will certainly be the fashion there!

Ten to one, and I'll go it alone; Those most used to a rag and a bone, Though here on earth they labor and groan, Will stand it best, as they wade abreast To the other side of Jordan.

AN ARKANSAS PLANTER

BY OPIE READ

Slowly and heavily the Major walked out upon the veranda. He stood upon the steps leading down into the yard, and he saw Louise afar off standing upon the river's yellow edge. She had thrown her hat upon the sand, and she stood with her hands clasped upon her brown head. A wind blew down the stream, and the water lapped at her feet. The Major looked back into the library, at the door wherein Pennington had stood, and sighed with relief upon finding that he was gone. He looked back toward the river. The girl was walking along the sh.o.r.e, meditatively swinging her hat. He stepped to the corner of the house, and, gazing down the road, saw Pennington on a horse, now sitting straight, now bending low over the horn of the saddle. The old gentleman had a habit of making a sideward motion with his hand as if he would put all unpleasant thoughts behind him, and now he made the motion not only once, but many times.

And it seemed that his thoughts would not obey him, for he became more imperative in his pantomimic demand.

At one corner of the large yard, where the smooth ground broke off into a steep slope to the river, there stood a small office built of brick.

It was the Major's executive chamber, and thither he directed his steps.

Inside this place his laugh was never heard; at the door his smile always faded. In this commercial sanctuary were enforced the exactions that made the plantation thrive. Outside, in the yard, in the "big house," elsewhere under the sky, a plea of distress might moisten his eyes and soften his heart to his own financial disadvantage, but under the moss-grown shingles of the office all was business, hard, uncompromising. It was told in the neighborhood that once, in this inquisition of affairs, he demanded the last cent possessed by a widowed woman, but that, while she was on her way home, he overtook her, graciously returned the money and magnanimously tore to pieces a mortgage that he held against her small estate.

Just as he entered the office there came across the yard a loud and impatient voice. "Here, Bill, confound you, come and take this horse.

Don't you hear me, you idiot? You infernal n.i.g.g.e.rs are getting to be so no-account that the last one of you ought to be driven off the place.

Trot, confound you. Here, take this horse to the stable and feed him.

Where is the Major? In the office? The devil he is."

Toward the office slowly strode old Gideon Batts, fanning himself with his white slouch hat. He was short, fat, and bald; he was bow-legged with a comical squat; his eyes stuck out like the eyes of a swamp frog; his nose was enormous, shapeless, and red. To the Major's family he traced the dimmest line of kinship. During twenty years he had operated a small plantation that belonged to the Major, and he was always at least six years behind with his rent. He had married the widow Martin, and afterward swore that he had been disgracefully deceived by her, that he had expected much but had found her moneyless; and after this he had but small faith in woman. His wife died and he went into contented mourning, and out of grat.i.tude to his satisfied melancholy, swore that he would pay his rent, but failed. Upon the Major he held a strong hold, and this was a puzzle to his neighbors. Their characters stood at fantastic and whimsical variance; one never in debt, the other never out of debt; one clamped by honor, the other feeling not its restraining pinch. But together they would ride abroad, laughing along the road. To Mrs. Cranceford old Gid was a pest. With the shrewd digs of a woman, the blood-letting side stabs of her s.e.x, she had often shown her disapproval of the strong favor in which the Major held him; she vowed that her husband had gathered many an oath from Gid's swollen store of execration (when, in truth, Gid had been an apt pupil under the Major), and she had hoped that the Major's attachment to the church would of necessity free him from the humiliating a.s.sociation with the old sinner, but it did not, for they continued to ride abroad, laughing along the road.

Like a skittish horse old Gid shied at the office door. Once he had crossed that threshold and it had cost him a crop of cotton.

"How are you, John?" was Gid's salutation as he edged off, still fanning himself.

"How are you, sir?" was the Major's stiff recognition of the fact that Gid was on earth.

"Getting hotter, I believe, John."

"I presume it is, sir." The Major sat with his elbow resting on a desk, and about him were stacked threatening bundles of papers; and old Gid knew that in those commercial romances he himself was a familiar character.

"Are you busy, John?"

"Yes, but you may come in."

"No, I thank you. Don't believe I've got time."

"Then take time. I want to talk to you. Come in."

"No, not to-day, John. Fact is I'm not feeling very well. Head's all stopped up with a cold, and these summer colds are awful, I tell you.

It was a summer cold that took my father off."

"How's your cotton in that low strip along the bayou?"

"Tolerable, John; tolerable."

"Come in. I want to talk to you about it."

"Don't believe I can stand the air in there, John. Head all stopped up.

Don't believe I'm going to live very long."

"Nonsense. You are as strong as a buck."

"You may think so, John, but I'm not. I thought father was strong, too, but a summer cold got him. I am getting along in years, John, and I find that I have to take care of myself. But if you really want to talk to me about that piece of cotton, come out where it's cool."

The Major shoved back his papers and arose, but hesitated; and Gid stood looking on, fanning himself. The Major stepped out and Gid's face was split asunder with a broad smile.

"I gad. I've been up town and had a set-to with old Bauc.u.m and the rest of them. Pulled up fifty winner at poker and jumped. Devilish glad to see you; miss you every minute of the time I'm away. Let's go over here and sit down on that bench."

They walked toward a bench under a live-oak tree, and upon Gid's shoulder the Major's hand affectionately rested. They halted to laugh, and old Gid shoved the Major away from him, then seized him and drew him back. They sat down, still laughing, but suddenly the Major became serious.

"Gid, I'm in trouble," he said.

"Nonsense, my boy, there is no such thing as trouble. Throw it off. Look at me. I've had enough of what the world calls trouble to kill a dozen ordinary men, but just look at me--getting stronger every day. Throw it off. What is it anyway?"

"Louise declares that she is going to marry Pennington."