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Title: Humour of the North

Author: Lawrence J. Burpee

Release Date: April 11, 2008 [EBook #25041]

Language: English

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HUMOUR OF THE NORTH

SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY

LAWRENCE J. BURPEE

TORONTO
THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY
LIMITED

Entered at
Stationers' Hall 1912

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

Some day an enterprising editor may find time to glean from the whole field of Canadian literature a representative collection of wit and humour. It would include the productions of such acknowledged humorists as Thomas Chandler Haliburton and George Thomas Lanigan, as well as specimens of characteristic humour from writers who are better remembered by their more serious work. It would also include a great deal of genuine wit and humour, largely anonymous, in such Canadian periodicals as Grip, Punch in Canada, the Grumbler, the Free Lance, and Diogenes; and characteristic passages from the speeches of such brilliant and witty debaters as Thomas D'Arcy McGee, Joseph Howe, and Nicholas Flood Davin. The present little collection obviously makes no such ambitious claim. It embraces, however, what are believed to be representative examples of the work of some of our better-known writers, many of which will no doubt be quite familiar to Canadian readers, but perhaps none the less welcome on that account.

For permission to reproduce these selections the Editor is indebted to the authors or their representatives, and in the case of the late Dr. Drummond he is also indebted to the publishers, G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. The selection from Joseph Howe's work is taken from his Poems and Essays; Haliburton's sketches are taken from The Old Judge; those of Dr. Drummond from The Habitant, Johnnie Courteau, and The Voyageur; that of Mrs. Cotes from her Social Departure; McCarroll's poem from Madeleine; Lanigan's Fables from the little volume published under that title; and DeMille's selection from The Dodge Club. Lanigan's humorous verse was never brought together in book form.

Ottawa,
August, 1910.

CONTENTS

HUMOUR OF THE NORTH

THE BLUE NOSE

TO MARY

A TOAST

SHEEPSKINS AND POLITICS

You know Uncle Tim; he was small, very small—not in stature, for he was a six-footer, but small in mind and small in heart; his soul was no bigger than a flea's. "Zeb, my boy," says he to me one day, "always be neuter in elections. You can't get nothing by them but ill-will. Dear, dear! I wish I had never voted. I never did but oncest, and, dear, dear! I wish I had let that alone. There was an army doctor oncest, Zeb, lived right opposite to me to Digby: dear, dear! he was a good friend to me. He was very fond of wether mutton; and, when he killed a sheep, he used to say to me, 'Friend Tim, I will give you the skin if you will accept it.' Dear, dear! what a lot of them he gave me, first and last! Well, oncest the doctor's son, Lawyer Williams, offered for the town, and so did my brother-in-law, Phin Tucker; and, dear, dear! I was in a proper fix. Well, the doctor axed me to vote for his son, and I just up and told him I would, only my relation was candidating also; but ginn him my hand and promise I would be neuter. Well, I told brother-in-law the same, that I'd vote for him with pleasure, only my old friend, the doctor's son, was offering too; and, therefore, gave him my word also, I'd be neuter. And, oh, dear, dear! neuter I would have remained too, if it hadn't a-been for them two electioneering generals—devils, I might say—Lory Scott and Terry Todd. Dear, dear! somehow or 'nother, they got hold of the story of the sheepskins, and they gave me no peace day or night. 'What,' says they, 'are you going to sell your country for a sheepskin?' The day of the election they seized on me, one by one arm, and the other by the other, and lugged me off to the poll, whether I would or no.

"'Who do you vote for?' said the sheriff.

"'Would you sell your country for a sheepskin?' shouted Terry, in one ear.

"'Would you sell your country for a sheepskin?' bellowed Lory, in the other ear.

"I was so frightened, I hardly knew what I did; but they tell me I voted for brother Phin! Dear, dear! the doctor never gave me a sheepskin while he lived after that. Dear, dear!—that was an ugly vote for me!"

THE DOCTOR

Old Dr. Green (you knowed him, in course—everybody knowed him) lived on Digby Neck. He was reckoned a skilful man, and was known to be a regular rotated doctor; but he drank like a fish (and it's actilly astonishing how many country doctors have taken to drink), and, of course, he warn't always a very safe man in cases where a cool head and a steady hand was needed (though folks did say he knowed a plaguey sight more, even when he was drunk, than one-half of them do when they are sober). Well, one day old Jim Reid, who was a pot-companion of his, sent him a note to come into town immediately, without the loss of one moment of time, and bring his amputating instruments with him, for there was a most shocking accident had happened to his house. So in come the doctor as hard as he could drive, looking as sorry, all the time, as if he didn't live by misfortunes and accidents, the old hypocrite!

"My dear friend," said he solemnly, to Reid, and a-taking of him by the hand, and giving it a doleful shake—"My dear friend, what is the matter?—who is hurt? And what the devil is to pay now? How thankful we all ought to be that the accident hasn't occurred to one whom we all respect so much as you!"

And then he unpacked his instruments, off with his coat, and up with his sleeves; and, with one hand, pulls a hair out of his head, and, with the other, takes his knife and cuts it in two, to prove the edge was all right. Then he began to whistle while he examined his saw, for nothing puts these chaps in such good humour as cutting and slashing away at legs and arms—operating, as they call it—and, when all was ready, says he—

"Reid," says he, a-tapping him on the shoulder, "where is the patient?"

Well, Reid opened the door of another room, and there was a black boy a-holding of a duck on the table that had broke his leg!

"There is a case for amputation, doctor!" said he; "but, first of all, take a glass of brandy and water to steady your nerves. He knows you," says he; "hear him how he calls out Quack, quack! after you, as if he was afraid to let you perform on him."

Well, the doctor entered into the joke as good-natured as possible, laughed like anything, whipped down the grog, whipped off the leg, and whipped up the knives and saws in no time.

"You must stay to dine, doctor," said Reid (for the joke was only intended to get him into town to drink along with him); and he stayed to dine, and stayed to sup, and, being awful drunk, stayed to bed, too.

Well, every time Reid saw him arter that in town, he asked him to come in and see his patient, which meant to come in and drink; and so he did as long as the cask of rael, particular Jamaikey lasted.

Some time after that the old fellow sent in a bill for operating, making a wooden leg, medical attendance, and advice, per order, for twenty-five pounds; and, what's more, when Reid wouldn't pay it, the doctor sued him for it to court, and gained his cause. Fact, I assure you.

MOTHER HUNT'S CHICKENS

Five years ago, come next summer, the old lady made a trip to Halifax, in one of our Digby coasters, to see sister Susannah, that is married in that city to Ted Fowler, the upholsterer, and took a whole lot of little notions with her to market to bear expenses; for she is a saving kind of body, is mother, and likes to make two ends meet at the close of the year. Among the rest, was the world and all of eggs, for she was a grand hand in a poultry-yard. Some she stowed away in boxes, and some in baskets, and some in tubs, so that no one accident could lose them all for her. Well, under the berths in the cabin were large drawers for bedding; and she rotated that out, and packed them full of eggs in wool, as snug as you please, and off they started on their voyage. Well, they had nothing but calms, and light airs, or head winds, and were ever so long in getting to town; and, when they anchored, she got her duds together, and began to collect her eggs all ready for landing. The first drawer she opened, out hopped ever so many chickens on the cabin floor, skipping and hopping about, a-chirping, "Chick, chick, chick!" like anything!

"Well, if that don't beat all!" said mother, and she looked the very picture of doleful dumps. "I hope there is no more of them a-coming into the world that way, without being sent for!" and she opened a second, and out came a second flock, with a "Chick, chick, chick!" and another, and another, till she pulled them all out. The cabin floor was chockful of them; for the heat and confined bilge air had hatched all the eggs that were in the close and hot drawers.

Oh, the captain, and passengers, and sailors, they roared with laughter! Mother was awful mad, for nothing makes one so angry as accidents that set folks off a tee-hee-ing that way. If anybody had been to blame but herself, wouldn't they have caught it, that's all? for scolding is a great relief to a woman; but as there warn't, there was nothing left but to cry: and scolding and crying are two safety-valves that have saved many a heart from busting.

Well, the loss was not great, though she liked to take care of her coppers, too; it was the vexation that worried her. But the worst was to come yet. When she returned home, the boys to Digby got hold of the story; and, wherever she went, they called out after her "Chick, chick, chick!" I skinned about half-a-dozen of the little imps of mischief for it, but it only made them worse; for they hid in porches, and behind doors, and gates, and fences, as seen her a-coming, and roared out, "Chick, chick, chick!" and nearly bothered her to death. So she give up going out any more, and never leaves home now. It's my opinion, her rheumatism is nothing but the effect of want of exercise, and all comes from that cursed "Chick, chick, chick!"

THE DEACON'S BARGAIN

Old Deacon Bruce of Aylesford, last Monday week, bought a sleigh of his fellow-deacon, Squire Burns, for five pounds. On his way home with it, who should he meet but Zeek Morse, a-trudging along through the snow a-foot.

"Friend Zeek," says the old Christian, "won't you get in and ride? Here's room for you and welcome."

"Don't care if I do," said Zeek, "seeing that sitting is as cheap as walking, if you don't pay for it." So he hops in, and away they go.

Well, Zeek was mightily taken with the sleigh.

"Deacon," says he, "how shall you and me trade for it? It's just the article I want, for I am a-going down to Bridgetown next week to be married; and it will suit me to a notch to fetch Mrs. Morse, my wife, home in. What will you take for it?"

"Nine pounds," said old Conscience. "It cost me seven pounds ten shillings, to Deacon Burns, who built it; and as it's the right season for using it, and I can't get another made till next winter, I must have nine pounds for it, and it ain't dear at that price neither."

"Done!" says Zeek—for he is an offhand kind of chap, and never stands bantering and chaffering a long time, but says at once what he means, as I do. "Done!" says he—"'tis mine!" and the deacon drives up to his house, gets his pay, and leaves the sleigh there.

Next morning, when Zeek went to examine his purchase, he found there was a bolt left out by mistake, so off he goes to the maker, Deacon Burns, to get it put in, when he ups and tells him all about the bargain.

"Did the old gentleman tell you my price was seven pounds ten?" said he.

"Oh yes," said Zeek, "in course he did—there is no mistake about it. I'll take my oath to it."

"Well, so it was," said Burns. "He told you true. He was to give me seven pounds ten; but as there was nobody by but him and me when we traded, and as it ain't paid for yet, he might perhaps forget it, for he is getting to be an old man now. Will you try to recollect it?"

"Sartainly," said Zeek. "I'll swear to it any day you please, in any court in the world, for them was his very words to me."

What does Deacon Burns do but go right off and sue Deacon Bruce for seven pounds ten, instead of five pounds, the real price; called Zeek as a witness to his admission, and gained his case! Fact, upon my soul!

THE CORDUROY ROAD

DOMINIQUE

HOW BATEESE CAME HOME

THE JAPANESE REPORTER

We do not know to this day to what circumstance we owed the honour of appearing in print in Japan—whether we were mistaken for individuals of distinction, or whether we were considered remarkable on our own merits on account of being by ourselves; but we went downstairs fully believing it to be a custom of the country, a rather flattering custom, to which we were much pleased to conform; and this is a true chronicle of what happened.

It was a slender, round-faced youth who made his deprecating bow to us in the drawing-room. His shoulders sloped, his gray-blue kimono lay in narrow folds across his chest like what the old-fashioned people at home used to call a sontag. American boots were visible under the skirt of the garment, and an American stiff felt hat reposed on the sofa beside him. His thick, short black hair stood crisply on end, and out of his dark eyes slanted a look of modest inquiry. He was the most unaggressive reporter I have ever seen. His boots and his hat were the only things about him that I could connect with journalism, as I had previously been acquainted with it.

"How do you do?" I said, seeing that the silence must be broken and the preliminaries gone through with by somebody.

"Yes!" he responded, with an amiability that induced Orthodocia to get up hurriedly and look out of the window. "Did the radies arrive to the Duke of Westminster?" looking from one to the other of us.

"We believe they did!" gasped Orthodocia, and immediately looked out of the window again. I edged my chair toward the other window. Then the cloven foot appeared in the shape of a note-book. He produced it with gentle ostentation, as one would a trump card. The simile is complete when I add that he took it from his sleeve.

"How old is rady?" calmly, deliberately.

"I—I forget," falsified this historian; "forty-five, I believe."

The reporter put it down.

"Other rady, your friend,—not so old? Older? More old?"

"I am twenty-two years of age," said Orthodocia gravely, with a reproachful glance at me, "and I weigh ten stone. Height, five feet eight inches. In shoes, I am in the habit of wearing fives; in gloves, six and a half."

The reporter scribbled convulsively.

"Radies will study Japanese porryticks—please say."

"I beg pardon?"

"Yes." Fills another page.

Orthodocia, suavely, "Are they produced here to any extent?"

"We have here many porryticks—ribarer, conservative, monarchist."

"Oh!" more recourse to the window.

"Orthodocia," I said severely, "you may not be aware of it, but your conduct is throwing discredit upon a person hitherto fairly entitled to the world's good opinion—which is me. Continue to be absorbingly interested in that brick wall, and allow me to talk to the gentleman."

"We have come," I said distinctly—Orthodocia bears testimony to the fact that I said it distinctly—"to see Japan as far as Japan will permit. Her politics, system of education, customs, and arts will be of—ahem!—interest to us. We cannot truthfully say that we expect to penetrate more deeply into the national life than other travellers have done. In repressing this expectation we claim to be original. We confess that our impressions will naturally be superficial, but we hope to represent the crust so charmingly that nobody will ask for any of the—interior—of the—well, of the pie."

"That's equivocal," said Orthodocia, "and ridiculous."

"Notwithstanding the well-known reticence of the Japanese," I continued, "we hope to meet some of them who will show us something more of their domesticity than we can see through the windows."

"You will acquire ranguage of Japan?"

"Not all of it, I think. It seems a little difficult, but musical—much more musical than our ugly English," interposed Orthodocia.

"Yes. Will you the story of your journey please say?"

"Certainly. We came from Montreal to Vancouver by the C.P.R.—that is the best Western railroad on the continent, because it is built with English capital," bombastically. "Some people say that you never would have heard of Canada in Japan but for the C.P.R., but I am told that they are mostly jealous Republican Americans."

The reporter bowed.

"We travelled three thousand nine hundred miles by this route across the North-West and through the Rocky Mountains." Here Orthodocia dwelt upon the remarkable snow-sheds for protection against avalanches. She went on with vague confidence to speak of the opening up of trade between Canada and Japan by the new railway and steamship line, and I added a few remarks about the interest in Japanese art that existed in Montreal, and the advisability of the Japanese establishing firms of their own there; while the reporter flattered our eloquence by taking down notes enough to fill a quarto volume. We had never been interviewed before—we might never be again—and we were determined to make the occasion an illustrious one. We were quite pleased with ourselves as the nice little creature bowed himself out, promising to send us the fortunate shimbun which would publish the interview, with a translation of the same, a day or two later.

I suppose it was Orthodocia's effect upon him—the effect I had begun to find usual—but he didn't send the shimbun; he brought it next morning with much apology and many bows. I have before me a pencilled document in the handwriting of three persons. The document contains the interview as it was set down in the language of the translator, who sat with an expression of unruffled repose, and spake aloud from the shimbun which he held in his hand. Sometimes Orthodocia took it down, sometimes he took it down himself, sometimes I took it down while Orthodocia left the room. The reason for this will perhaps be self-evident. Orthodocia and I possess the document in turns, to ward off low spirits. We have only to look at it to bring on an attack of the wildest hilarity.

The reporter came entirely in Japanese costume the second time, and left his wooden sandals outside on the stairs. He left most of his English there, too, apparently, but he bowed all the way from the door to the middle of the apartment in a manner that stood for a great deal of polite conversation. Then he sat down and we sat down, and Orthodocia prepared to transcribe the interview which had introduced us to the Japanese nation from his lips. It was a proud, happy moment.

The reporter took the journal with which he was connected out of one of the long, graceful, flowing sleeves which make life worth living for masculine Japan. He told us that it was the Hochi-Hochi-Shimbun, and he carefully pointed out the title, date beginning and end of the article, which we marked, intending to buy several copies of the paper and send them home. We were anxious that the people there should be kept fully enlightened as to our movements, and there seemed to be a great deal of detail in the article. Its appearance was a little sensational, Orthodocia thought, but she silently concluded, with her usual charity, not to blame the reporter for that, since he couldn't possibly be considered responsible for the exaggerations of the Chinese alphabet.

"Yesterday," translated the reporter solemnly—I must copy the document, which does not give his indescribable pronunciation—"by Canada steamer radies arrived. The correspondent, who is me, went to Grand Hotel, which the radies is. Radies is of Canada, and in-the-time-before of Engrand. They have a beautiful countenance."

Here the reporter bowed, and Orthodocia left the room for the first time. I think she said she must go and get her pencil sharpened. She left it with me, however, and I took up the thread of the interview.

"Object of radies' rocomotion, to make beautiful their minds. Miss Elder-Rady answered, 'Our object is to observe habits, makings, and beings of the Japanese nation, and to examine how civirisation of Engrand and America prevails among the nation. And other objects is to examine the art and drawing and education from the exterior of the confectionery. In order to observe customs of Japan we intend to rearn a private house.'"

We were getting on swimmingly when Orthodocia reappeared, having recovered in the interval, and told the reporter that he must think foreigners very abrupt and rude, and that he really spoke English extremely well. To both of which remarks he responded, with a polite suavity that induced me to turn my back upon her in an agony of suppressed feeling, "Yes."

"Miss Younger-Rady-measuring-ten-stone-and-wearing-six-shoes-and-a-half, continue, 'The rai-road between the Montreal and Canada is passing——'"

"I beg pardon," said the unhappy Orthodocia, with an awful galvanism about the corners of her mouth, "I didn't quite catch what you said—I mean what I said."

The reporter translated it over again.

"Perhaps," said I nervously, "it's a misprint."

"No," the reporter replied gravely, "Miss Younger-Rady."

"Gracious!" said Orthodocia.

"And if by the rai-road we emproy the steamer, the commerce of Montreal and Japan will prevail. Correspondent asked to Miss Younger-Rady may I heard the story of your caravansery?"

Orthodocia again retired. It was a little trying for me, but when he continued, "She answered, 'From Montreal to Canada the distance is three thousand mires,'" I was glad she had gone. I am afraid I choked a little at this point, for just here he decided to wrestle with the pencil himself. When he handed the paper back again I read: "While we are passing the distance between Mount Rocky I had a great danger, for the snow over the mountain is falling down, and the railroad shall be cut off. Therefore, by the snowshade, which is made by the tree, its falling was defend. Speaking finish. The ladies is to took their caravansery attending among a few days. Ladies has the liability of many news."

"That last item," said Orthodocia, who had come in with the excuse of some tea, "is frightfully correct."

Having despatched the business of the hour and a half, the reporter began to enjoy himself, while Orthodocia and I tried to seat ourselves where we couldn't see each other's faces in the mirror over the mantelpiece. He drank his tea with his head on a level with the table, and if suction can express approval it was expressed. He said that there were fourteen editorial writers on his shimbun, and that its circulation was one million. Which shows that for the soul of a newspaper man Shintoism has no obvious advantages. He dwelt upon the weather for quarters of an hour at a time. The Japanese are such a leisurely people. He took more tea, by this time stone cold. He said he would bring a Japanese "gentleman and rady" to see us, and in response to our inquiry as to whether the lady was the wife or the sister of the gentleman, he said, with gravity, "I do not know the rady's wife." He asked us for our photographs, and when Orthodocia retired at this for the fifth time he thought she had gone to get them, and stayed until I was compelled to go and pray her to return. It was the ringing of the two o'clock lunch bell that suggested to him that the day was waning, and that perhaps he had better wane too.

THE GRAY LINNET

THE AHKOOND OF SWAT

THE AMATEUR ORLANDO

THE PLUMBER'S REVENGE

A LEGEND OF MADISON AVENUE

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

A Venetian Merchant who was lolling in the lap of luxury was accosted upon the Rialto by a friend who had not seen him for many months. "How is this?" cried the latter. "When I last saw you your gaberdine was out at elbows, and now you sail in your own gondola." "True," replied the Merchant, "but since then I have met with serious losses, and been obliged to compound with my creditors for ten cents on the dollar."

Moral.—Composition is the life of trade.

THE UNFORTUNATE ELEPHANT

An Elephant had been endeavouring to rive the bole of a knotted oak with his trunk, but the tree closed upon that member, detaining it, and causing the hapless Elphas Africanus intense pain. He shook the forest with his trumpeting, and all the beasts gathered around him. "Ah, ha, my friend," said a pert Chimpanzee, "you have got your trunk checked, I see." "My children," said a temperate Camel to her young, "let this awful example teach you to shun the bole." "Does it hurt much?" said a compassionate Gnu. "Ah, it does; it does; it must; I gnu it; I have been a mother myself." And while they were sympathising with him the unfortunate Elephant expired in great agony.

Moral.—The moral of the above is so plain as to need explanation. Talk is cheap.

THE CORONER AND THE BANANA PEEL

As a Coroner was entering a saloon to see a man he beheld a careless boy, who was eating a Banana, cast the rind of the fruit upon the slippery stone sidewalk, but instead of chiding the urchin, smiled and passed on. As he was coming out of the saloon, having satisfied his thirst, he slipped on the peel of the Banana, and, falling, broke his neck; so that a rival coroner made the fees from the inquest.

Moral.—It is rare sport to see the Coroner hoist with his own petard.

THE RHINOCEROS AND THE DROMEDARY

A thirsty Rhinoceros, having to his great joy encountered a Dromedary in the desert of Sahara, besought the latter animal of his mercy to give him a drink, but the Dromedary refused, stating that he was holding the fluid for an advance. "Why," said he to the Rhinoceros, "did you not imitate my forethought and prudence, and take some heed to the morrow?" The Rhinoceros acknowledged the justice of the rebuke. Some time afterwards he met in an oasis the Dromedary, who had realised at the turn of the market and was now trying to cover his shorts. "For Heaven's sake," he gasped to the Rhinoceros, who was wallowing in the midst of a refreshing pool, "trust me for a nip." "When I was thirsty," replied the Rhinoceros, "you declined to stand the drinks, but I will give you a horn." So saying, he let the grateful sunlight into the Dromedary's innards.

Moral.—Virtue is its own reward.

THE HEN AND THE TAILOR

A Hen who had saved a Tailor from drowning in a marine disaster that had cost several of his less fortunate companions their lives asked him his opinion of the theory of evolution. The grateful Tailor replied that he was himself an instance of the survival of the fittest; and the philosophical Fowl, remarking that it was vulgar to pun, walked off with much dignity to resume her interrupted occupation of hatching out a china nest-egg.

Moral.—Some people cannot take a joke.

THE GLOW-WORM AND THE FAMISHED NIGHTINGALE

A famished Nightingale, who had been singing to very thin houses, chanced to encounter a Glow-worm at eventide and prepared to make upon him a light repast. The unfortunate Lampyris Splendidula besought the Songster, in the sacred name of Art, not to quench his vital spark, and appealed to his magnanimity. "The Nightingale who needlessly sets claw upon a Glow-worm," he said, "is a being whom it were gross flattery to term a Luscinia Philomela." The Bird, however, turned a deaf beak to these appeals and was about to douse the glim, when the Glow-worm cried out, "Beware, lest I give you the heartburn; remember how Herod and Luther died of a diet of Glow-worms," and while the Nightingale (who was by no means a bad bird at stomach) was considering these propositions, escaped, hanging out false lights to baffle his enemy's pursuit.

Moral.—Let the dead past bury its dead; act, act in the living present.

THE CENTIPEDE AND THE BARBARIC YAK

While a Centipede was painfully toiling over the Libyan Desert he was encountered by a barbaric Yak, who scornfully asked him how were his poor feet. The humble creature made no reply at the time, but some days later found the barbaric Yak taken in the nets of the hunter and almost devoured by insects, which fled at the approach of the Centipede. "Help, help, my good friend!" exclaimed the unfortunate beast. "I cannot move a muscle in these cruel toils, and the ravenous insects have devoured my delicate flesh." "Say you so?" responded the Centipede. "Can you really not defend yourself?" "Alas! how can I?" replied the Yak. "See you not how straitly I am bound?" "And is your flesh then so delicate?" "It is, though I say it who should not." "Then," said the Centipede, "I guess I'll take a bite myself."

Moral.—The other man's extremity is often our opportunity.

THE HONEST NEWSBOY

A Newsboy was passing along the street, when he chanced to discover a purse of greenbacks. He was at first inclined to conceal it, but, repelling the unworthy suggestion, he asked a Venerable Man if it was his'n. The Venerable Man looked at it hurriedly, said it was, patted him on the head, gave him a quarter, and said he would yet be president. The Venerable Man then hastened away, but was arrested for having counterfeit bills in his possession, while the honest Newsboy played penny-ante with his humble quarter and ran it up to $2.62.

Moral.—Honesty is sometimes the best policy.

THE VILLAGER AND THE SNAKE

A Villager one frosty day found under a hedge a Snake almost dead with cold. Moved with compassion, and having heard that snake oil was good for the rheumatiz, he took it home and placed it on the hearth, where it shortly began to wake and crawl. Meanwhile, the Villager having gone out to keep an engagement with a man 'round the corner, the Villager's son (who had not drawn a sober breath for a week) entered, and, beholding the Serpent unfolding its plain, unvarnished tail, with the cry, "I've got 'em again!" fled to the office of the nearest Justice of the Peace, swore off and became an apostle of Temperance at $700 a week. The beneficent Snake next bit the Villager's mother-in-law so severely that death soon ended her sufferings—and his; then silently stole away, leaving the Villager deeply and doubly in its debt.

Moral.—A virtuous action is not always its only reward. A snake in the grass is worth two in the boot.

THE OSTRICH AND THE HEN

An Ostrich and a Hen chanced to occupy adjacent apartments, and the former complained loudly that her rest was disturbed by the cackling of her humble neighbour. "Why is it," she finally asked the Hen, "that you make such an intolerable noise?" The Hen replied, "Because I have laid an egg." "Oh no," said the Ostrich, with a superior smile, "it is because you are a Hen and don't know any better."

Moral.—The moral of the foregoing is not very clear, but it contains some reference to the Agitation for Female Suffrage.

THE SENATOR'S LAUNDRY

Signora Mirandolina Rocca, who was the landlady of the house where the Club were lodging, was a widow, of about forty years of age, still fresh and blooming, with a merry dark eye, and much animation of features. Sitting usually in the small room which they passed on the way to their apartments, they had to stop to get their keys, or to leave them when they went out, and Buttons and Dick frequently stopped to have a little conversation. The rest, not being able to speak Italian, contented themselves with smiles; the Senator particularly, who gave the most beaming of smiles both on going and on returning. Sometimes he even tried to talk to her in his usual adaptation of broken English, spoken in loud tones to the benighted but fascinating foreigner. Her attention to Dick during his sickness increased the Senator's admiration, and he thought her one of the best, one of the most kind-hearted and sympathetic of beings.

One day, toward the close of their stay in Rome, the Senator was in a fix. He had not had any washing done since he came to the city. He had run through all his clean linen, and came to a dead stand. Before leaving for another place it was absolutely necessary to attend to this. But how? Buttons was off with the Spaniards; Dick had gone out on a drive. No one could help him, so he tried it himself. In fact, he had never lost confidence in his powers of making himself understood. It was still a fixed conviction of his that in cases of necessity any intelligent man could make his wants known to intelligent foreigners. If not, there is stupidity somewhere. Had he not done so in Paris and in other places?

So he rang and managed to make the servant understand that he wished to see the landlady. The landlady had always shown a great admiration for the manly, not to say gigantic charms of the Senator. Upon him she bestowed her brightest smile, and the quick flush on her face and heaving breast told that the Senator had made wild work with her too susceptible heart.

So now when she learned that the Senator wished to see her, she at once imagined the cause to be any thing and every thing except the real one. Why take that particular time, when all the rest were out? she thought. Evidently for some tender purpose. Why send for her? Why not come down to see her? Evidently because he did not like the publicity of her room at the Conciergerie.

She arrayed herself, therefore, in her brightest and her best charms; gave an additional flourish to her dark hair that hung wavingly and luxuriantly, and still without a trace of gray, over her forehead; looked at herself with her dark eyes in the glass to see if she appeared to the best advantage; and finally, in some agitation, but with great eagerness, she went to obey the summons.

Meantime the Senator had been deliberating how to begin. He felt that he could not show his bundle of clothes to so fair and fine a creature as this, whose manners were so soft and whose smile so pleasant. He would do anything first. He would try a roundabout way of making known his wishes, trusting to his own powers and the intelligence of the lady for a full and complete understanding. Just as he had come to this conclusion there was a timid knock at the door.

"Come in," said the Senator, who began to feel a little awkward already.

"E permesso?" said a soft, sweet voice, "se puo entrare?" and Signora Mirandolina Rocca advanced into the room, giving one look at the Senator, and then casting down her eyes.

"Umilissima serva di Lei, Signore, mi commandi."

But the Senator was in a quandary. What could he do? How begin? What gesture would be the most fitting for a beginning?

The pause began to be embarrassing. The lady, however, as yet was calm—calmer, in fact, than when she entered.

So she spoke once more.

"Di che ha Ella bisogna, Illustrissimo?"

The Senator was dreadfully embarrassed. The lady was so fair in his eyes. Was this a woman who could contemplate the fact of soiled linen? Never.

"Ehem!" said he.

Then he paused.

"Serva devota," said Signora Mirandolina. "Che c'e, Signore."

Then, looking up, she saw the face of the Senator, all rosy red, turned toward her with a strange confusion and embarrassment in his eye; yet it was a kind eye—a soft, kind eye.

"Egli e forse innamorato di me," murmured the lady, gathering new courage as she saw the timidity of the other. "Che grandezza!" she continued, loud enough for the Senator to hear, yet speaking as if to herself. "Che bellezza! un galantuomo, certamente—e quest' e molto piacevole."

She glanced at the manly figure of the Senator with a tender admiration in her eye, which she could not repress, and which was so intelligible to the Senator that he blushed more violently than ever, and looked helplessly around him.

"E innamorato di me, senza dubio," said the Signora, "vergogna non vuol che si sapesse."

The Senator at length found voice. Advancing toward the lady he looked at her very earnestly, and as she thought very piteously held out both his hands, then smiled, then spread his hands apart, then nodded and smiled again, and said:

"Me—me—want—ha—hum—ah! You know—me—gentleman—hum—me——Confound the luck!" he added, in profound vexation.

"Signore," said Mirandolina, "la di Lei gentelezza me confonde."

The Senator turned his eyes all around, everywhere, in a desperate, half-conscious search for escape from an embarrassing situation.

"Signore noi ci siamo sole, nessuno ci senti," remarked the Signora encouragingly.

"Me want to tell you this!" burst forth the Senator. "Clothes—you know—washy—washy." Whereupon he elevated his eyebrows, smiled, and brought the tips of his fingers together.

"Io non so che cosa vuol dir mi, Illustrissimo," said the Signora, in bewilderment.

"You—you—you know. Ah? Washy? Hey? No, no," shaking his head, "not washy, but get washy."

The landlady smiled. The Senator, encouraged by this, came a step nearer.

"Che cosa? Il cuor me palpita. Io tremo," murmured La Rocca.

She retreated a step. Whereupon the Senator at once fell back again in great confusion.

"Washy, washy," he repeated mechanically, as his mind was utterly vague and distrait.

"Uassi-Uassi?" repeated the other interrogatively.

"Me——"

"Tu," said she, with tender emphasis.

"Wee, mounseer," said he, with utter desperation.

The Signora shook her head.

"Non capisco. Ma quelle, balordaggini ed intormentimente, che sono si non segni manifesti d'amore?"

"I don't understand, marm, a single word of that."

The Signora smiled. The Senator took courage again.

"The fact is this, marm," said he firmly, "I want to get my clothes washed somewhere. Of course you don't do it, but you can tell me, you know. Hm?"

"Non capisco."

"Madame," said he, feeling confident that she would understand that word at least, and thinking, too, that it might perhaps serve as a key to explain any other words which he might append to it, "my clothes—I want to get them washed—laundress—washy—soap and water—clean 'em all up—iron 'em—hang 'em out to dry. Ha?"

While saying this he indulged in an expressive pantomime. When alluding to his clothes he placed his hands against his chest, when mentioning the drying of them he waved them in the air. The landlady comprehended this. How not? When a gentleman places his hand on his heart, what is his meaning?

"O sottigliezza d'amore!" murmured she. "Che cosa cerca," she continued, looking up timidly but invitingly.

The Senator felt doubtful at this, and in fact a little frightened. Again he placed his hands on his chest to indicate his clothes; he struck that manly chest forcibly several times, looking at her all the time. Then he wrung his hands.

"Ah, Signore," said La Rocca, with a melting glance, "non è d'uopo di desperazione."

"Washy, washy——"

"Eppure, se Ella vuol sposarmi, non ce difficoltà," returned the other, with true Italian frankness.

"Soap and water——"

"Non ho il coraggio di dir di no."

The Senator had his arms outstretched to indicate the hanging-out process. Still, however, feeling doubtful if he were altogether understood, he thought he would try another form of pantomime. Suddenly he fell down on his knees, and began to imitate the action of a washer-woman over her tub, washing, wringing, pounding, rubbing.

"O gran' cielo!" cried the Signora, her pitying heart filled with tenderness at the sight of this noble being on his knees before her, and, as she thought, wringing his hands in despair. "O gran' cielo! Egli è innamorato di me non puo parlar Italiano e cosi non puo dirmelo."

Her warm heart prompted her, and she obeyed its impulse. What else could she do? She flung herself into his outstretched arms as he raised himself to hang out imaginary clothes on an invisible line.

The Senator was thunderstruck, confounded, bewildered, shattered, overcome, crushed, stupefied, blasted, overwhelmed, horror-stricken, wonder-smitten, annihilated, amazed, horrified, shocked, frightened, terrified, nonplussed, wilted, awe-struck, shivered, astounded, dumfounded. He did not even struggle. He was paralysed.

"Ah, carissimo," said a soft and tender voice in his ear, a low, sweet voice, "se veramenta me ami, saro lo tua carissima sposa——"

At that moment the door opened and Buttons walked in. In an instant he darted out. The Signora hurried away.

"Addio, bellissima, carissima gioia!" she sighed.

The Senator was still paralysed.

After a time he went with a pale and anxious face to see Buttons. That young man promised secrecy, and when the Senator was telling his story tried hard to look serious and sympathetic. In vain. The thought of that scene, and the cause of it, and the blunder that had been made overwhelmed him. Laughter convulsed him. At last the Senator got up indignantly and left the room.

But what was he to do now? The thing could not be explained. How could he get out of the house? He would have to pass her as she sat at the door.

He had to call on Buttons again and implore his assistance. The difficulty was so repugnant, and the matter so very delicate, that Buttons declared he could not take the responsibility of settling it. It would have to be brought before the Club.

The Club had a meeting about it, and many plans were proposed. The stricken Senator had one plan, and that prevailed. It was to leave Rome on the following day. For his part he had made up his mind to leave the house at once. He would slip out as though he intended to return, and the others could settle his bill, and bring with them the clothes that had caused all this trouble. He would meet them in the morning outside the gates of the city.

This resolution was adopted by all, and the Senator, leaving money to settle for himself, went away. He passed hurriedly out of the door. He dared not look. He heard a soft voice pronounce the word "Gioia!" He fled.

Now that one who owned the soft voice afterward changed her feelings so much toward her "gioia" that opposite his name in her house-book she wrote the following epithets: Birbone, Villano, Zolicaccio, Burberone, Gaglioffo, Meschino, Briconaccio, Anemalaccio.

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