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COLLIER "MEMORIAL EDITION"
"JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY COMPLETE WORKS"

Vol 10, Part 2

THE OLD MAN........................................................................ 2577

THE GILDED ROLL.................................................................. 2586

A WILD IRISHMAN................................................................. 2603

THE OLD MAN

[Response made to the sentiment, "The Old Man,"
at a dinner of the Indianapolis
Literary Club.]

     "You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;

And yet you incessantly stand on your head—
Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

     The OLD MAN never grows so old as to become either stale, juiceless, or unpalatable. The older he grows, the mellower and riper he becomes. His eyes may fail him, his step falter, and his big‑ mouthed shoes—"a world too wide for his shrunk shank"—may cluck and shuffle as he walks ; his rheumatics may make great knuckles of his knees ; the rusty hinges of his vertebrae may refuse cun‑
ningly to articulate, but all the same the "backbone" of the old man has been time-seasoned, tried, and tested, and no deerskin vest was ever buttoned round a tougher ! Look at the eccentric kinks and curvings of it—its abrupt depression at the base, and its rounded bulging at the shoulders ; but don't laugh with the smart young man who airily observes how full-chested the old man would be if his head

2578                         THE OLD MAN

were only turned around, and don't kill the young man, either, until you take him out some place and tell him that the old man got himself warped up in that shape along about the time when everybody had to hump himself. Try to bring before the young man's defective mental vision a dissolving view of a "good old-fashioned barn-raisin' "—and the old man doing all the "raisin" himself, and "grubbin'," and "burnin' " logs and "underbrush," and "dreenin' " at the same time, and trying to coax something besides calamus to grow in the spongy little tract of swamp-land that he could stand in the middle of and "wobble" and shake the whole farm. Or, if you can't recall the many salient features of the minor disadvantages under which the old man used to labor, your pliant limbs may soon overtake him, and he will smilingly tell you of trials and pri­vations of the early days, until your anxiety about the young man just naturally stagnates, and dries up, and evaporates, and blows away.

In this little side-show of existence the old man is always worth the full price of admission. He is not only the greatest living curiosity on exhibi­tion, but the object of the most genial solicitude and interest to the serious observer. It is even good to look upon his vast fund of afflictions, finding promi­nent above them all that wholesome patience that surpasseth understanding ; to dwell compassionately upon his prodigality of aches and ailments, and yet, by his pride in their wholesale possession, and his thorough resignation to the inevitable, continually to

THE OLD MAN                    2579

be rebuked, and in part made envious of the old man's right-of-title situation. Nature, after all, is kinder than unkind to him, and always has a com­pensation and a soothing balm for every blow that age may deal him. And in the fading embers of the old man's eyes there are, at times, swift flashes and rekindlings of the smiles of youth, and the old artlessness about the wrinkled face that dwelt there when his cheeks were like the pippins, and his

"Red lips, redder still, Kissed by strawberries on the hill."

And thus it is the children are intuitively drawn toward him, and young, pure-faced mothers are forever hovering about him, with just such humor­ings and kindly ministrations as they bestow on the little emperor of the household realm, strapped in his high chair at the dinner-table, crying "Amen" in the midst of "grace," and ignoring the "substan­tials" of the groaning board, and at once insisting upon a square deal of the more "temporal blessings" of jelly, cake, and pie. And the old man has justly earned every distinction he enjoys. Therefore let him make your hearthstone all the brighter with the ruddy coal he drags up from it with his pipe, as he comfortably settles himself where, with reminiscent eyes, he may watch the curling smoke of his to­bacco as it indolently floats, and drifts and drifts, and dips at last, and vanishes up the grateful flue. At such times, when a five-year-old, what a haven

2580                    THE OLD MAN

every boy has found between the old grandfather's knees ! Look back in fancy at the faces blending there—the old man's and the boy's—and, with the nimbus of the smoke-wreaths round the brows, the gilding of the firelight on cheek and chin, and the rapt and far-off gazings of the eyes of both, why, but for the silver tinsel of the beard of one and the dusky elf-locks of the other, the faces seem almost like twins.

With such a view of age, one feels like whipping up the lazy years and getting old at once. In heart and soul the old man is not old—and never will be. He is paradoxically old, and that is all. So it is that he grows younger with increasing years, until old age at worst is always at a level par with youth. Who ever saw a man so old as not secretly and most heartily to wish the veteran years upon years of greater age ? And at what great age did ever any old man pass away and leave behind no sudden shock, and no selfish hearts still to yearn after him and grieve on unconsoled ? Why, even in the slow declining years of old Methuselah—the banner old man of the universe,—so old that history grew abso­lutely tired waiting for him to go off some place and die—even Methuselah's taking off must have seemed abrupt to his immediate friends, and a blow to the general public that doubtless plunged it into the pro­foundest gloom. For nine hundred and sixty-nine years this durable old man had "smelt the rose above the mold," and doubtless had a thousand times been told by congratulating friends that he didn't

THE OLD MAN                    2581

look a day older than nine hundred and sixty-eight ; and necessarily the habit of living, with him, was hard to overcome.

In his later years what an oracle he must have been, and with what reverence his friends must have looked upon the "little, glassy-headed, hairless man," and hung upon his every utter­ance! And with what unerring gift of prophecy could he foretell the long and husky droughts of summer — the gracious rains, at last, — the milk-sick breeding autumn and the blighting winter, simply by the way his bones felt after a cen­tury's casual attack of inflammatory rheumatism ! And, having annually frosted his feet for some odd centuries—boy and man—we can fancy with what quiet delight he was wont to practise his prog­nosticating facilities on "the boys," forecasting the coming of the then fledgling cyclone and the gosling blizzard, and doubtless even telling the day of the month by the way his heels itched. And with what wonderment and awe must old chronic maladies have regarded him—tackling him singly or in solid phalanx, only to drop back pantingly, at last, and slink away dumfounded and abashed ! And with what brazen pride the final conquering disease must have exulted over its shameless victory ! But this is pathos here, and not a place for ruthless specula­tion : a place for asterisks—not words. Peace ! peace! The man is dead ! "The fever called living is over at last." The patient slumbers. He takes

2582                    THE OLD MAN

his rest. He sleeps. Come away ! He is the oldest dead man in the cemetery.

Whether the hardy, stall-fed old man of the coun­try, or the opulent and well-groomed old man of the metropolis, he is one in our esteem and the still warmer affections of the children. The old man f rom trie country—you are always glad to see him and hear him talk. There is a breeziness of the woods and hills and a spice of the bottom-lands and thickets in everything he says, and dashes of shadow and sunshine over the waving wheat are in all the varying expressions of his swarthy face. The grip of his hand is a thing to bet on, and the undue loudness of his voice in greeting you is even lulling and melodious, since unconsciously it argues for the frankness of a nature that has nothing to conceal. Very probably you are forced to smile, meeting the old man in town, where he never seems at ease, and invariably apologizes in some way for his pres­ence, saying, perhaps, by way of explanation : "Yes-sir, here I am, in spite o' myself. Come in day afore yisterd'y. Boys was thrashin' on the place, and the beltin' kept a-troublin' and delayin' of 'em —and I was potterin' round in the way anyhow, tel finally they sent me off to town to git some whang-luther and ribbets, and while I was in, I thought—I thought I'd jest run over and see the Jedge about that Henry County matter ; and as I was knockin' round the court-house, first thing I knowed I'll be switched to death of they didn't pop

THE OLD MAN                2583

me on the jury ! And here I am, eatin' my head off up here at the tavern. Reckon, tho', the county'll stand good for my expenses. Ef hit cain't, I kin !" And, with the heartiest sort of a laugh, the old man jogs along, leaving you to smile till bedtime over the happiness he has unconsciously contributed.

Another instance of the old man's humor under trying circumstances was developed but a few days ago. This old man was a German citizen of an inundated town in the Ohio valley. There was much of the pathetic in his experience, but the bravery with which he bore his misfortunes was admirable. A year ago his little home was first invaded by the flood, and himself and wife, and his son's family, were driven from it to the hills for safety—but the old man's telling of the story can not be improved upon. It ran like this : "Last year, ^yen I svwim out fon dot leedle home off mine, mit my vife, unt my son, his vife unt leedle girls, I dink dot's der la-4- time goot-by to dose proberty ! But afder der vatei is gone down, unt dry oop unt eberding, dere vas yet der house dere. Unt my friends dey sait, 'Dot's all you got yet.—Vell, feex oop der house—dot's someding! feex oop der house, unt you vood still hatt yet a home!' Vell, all summer I go to work, unt spent me eberding unt feex der proberty. Den I got yet a morgage on der house! Dees time here der vater come again—till I vish it vas last year vonce ! Unt now all I safe is my vife, unt my son his vife, unt my leedle grandchilderns ! Else ever-ding is gone ! All—everyding!—Der house gone

x.-0

2584                             THE OLD MAN

unt—unt—der morgage gone, too !" And then the old Teutonic face "melted all over in sunshiny smiles," and, turning, he bent and lifted a sleepy little girl from a pile of dirty bundles in the depot waiting-room and went pacing up and down the muddy floor, saying things in German to the child. I thought the whole thing rather beautiful. That's the kind of an old man who, saying good-by to his son, would lean and kiss the young man's hand, as in the Dutch regions of Pennsylvania, two or three weeks ago, I saw an old man do.

Mark Lemon must have known intimately and loved the genteel old man of the city when the once famous domestic drama of "Grandfather White­head" was conceived. In the play the old man—a once prosperous merchant—finds a happy home in the household of his son-in-law. And here it is that the gentle author has drawn at once the poem, the picture, and the living proof of the old Words­worthian axiom, "The child is father to the man." The old man, in his simple way, and in his great love for his wilful little grandchild, is being con­tinually distracted from the grave sermons and moral lessons he would read the boy. As, for in­stance, aggrievedly attacking the little fellow's neglect of his books and his inordinate tendency toward idleness and play—the culprit, in the mean­time, down on the floor clumsily winding his top—the old man runs on something in this wise :

"Play! play! play ! Always play and no work, no study, no lessons. And here you are, the only child

THE OLD MAN                2585

of the most indulgent parents in the world—parents that, proud as they are of you, would be ten times prouder only to see you at your book, storing your mind with useful knowledge, instead of, day in, day out, frittering away your time over your toys and your tops and marbles. And even when your old grandfather tries to advise you and wants W help you, and is always ready and eager to assist you, and all—why, what's it all amount to ? Coax .and beg and tease and plead with you, and yet—and yet"— (Mechanically kneeling as he speaks)—"Now that's not the way to wind your top ! How many more times will I have to show you !" And an instant later the old man's admonitions are en­tirely forgotten, and his artless nature—dull now to everything but the childish glee in which he shares—is all the sweeter and more lovable for its simplicity.

And so it is, Old Man, that you are always touch­ing the very tenderest places in our hearts—un­consciously appealing to our warmest sympathies, and taking to yourself our purest love. We look upon your drooping figure, and we mark your tot­tering step and trembling hand, yet a reliant some­thing in your face forbids compassion, and a some­thing in your eye will not permit us to look sorrow­fully on you. And, however we may smile at your quaint ways and old-school oddities of manner and of speech, our merriment is ever tempered with the gentlest reverence.

THE GILDED ROLL

OSING around in an old box—packed away, and lost to memory for years—an hour ago I found a musty package of gilt paper, or rather, a roll it was, with the green-tarnished gold of the old sheet for the outer wrapper. I picked it up mechanically to toss it into some obscure corner, when, carelessly lifting it by one end, a child's tin whistle dropped therefrom and fell tinkling on the attic floor. It lies before me on my writing table now—and so, too, does the roll entire, though now a roll no longer,—for my eager fingers have un­rolled the gilded covering, and all its precious con­tents are spread out beneath my hungry eyes.

Here is a scroll of ink-written music. I don't read music, but I know the dash and swing of the pen that rained it on the page. Here is a letter, with the selfsame impulse and abandon in every syllable and its melody—however sweet the other —is far more sweet to me. And here are other let­ters like it—three—five—and seven, at least. Bob wrote them from the front, and Billy kept them for me when I went to join him. Dear boy ! Dear boy!

Here are some cards of bristol-board. Ah! when
Bob came to these there were no blotches then.
2586

THE GILDED ROLL                2587

What faces—what expressions ! The droll, ridicu­lous, good-for-nothing genius, with his "sad mouth," as he called it, "upside down," laughing always—at everything, at big rallies, and mass-meetings and conventions, county fairs, and floral halls, booths, watermelon-wagons, dancing-tents, the swing, the Daguerrean-car, the "lung-barometer," and the air-gun man. Oh ! what a gifted, good-for-nothing boy Bob was in those old days ! And here's a picture of a girlish face—a very faded photograph—even fresh from "the gallery," five and twenty years ago, it was a faded thing. But the living face—how bright and clear that was !—for "Doc," Bob's awful name for her, was a pretty girl, and brilliant, clever, lovable every way. No wonder Bob fancied her ! And you could see some hint of her jaunty loveli­ness in every fairy face he drew, and you could find her happy ways and dainty tastes unconscious­ly assumed in all he did—the books he read—the poems he admired, and those he wrote ; and, ring­ing clear and pure and jubilant, the vibrant beauty of her voice could clearly be defined and traced through all his music. Now, there's the happy pair of them—Bob and Doc. Make of them just what­ever your good fancy may dictate, but keep in mind the stern, relentless ways of destiny.

You are not at the beginning of a novel, only at the threshold of one of a hundred experiences that lie buried in the past, and this particular one most happily resurrected by these odds and ends found in the gilded roll.

2588                       THE GILDED ROLL

You see, dating away back, the contents of this package, mainly, were hastily gathered together after a week's visit out at the old Mills farm ; the gilt paper, and the whistle, and the pictures, they were Billy's ; the music pages, Bob's, or Doc's ; the letters and some other manuscripts were mine.

The Mills girls were great friends of Doc's, and often came to visit her in town ; and so Doc often visited the Mills's. This is the way that Bob first got out there, and won them all, and "shaped the thing" for me, as he would put it ; and lastly, we had lugged in Billy,—such a handy boy, you know, to hold the horses on picnic excursions, and to watch the carriage and the luncheon, and all that.—"Yes, and," Bob would say, "such a serviceable boy in getting all the fishing tackle in proper order, and digging bait, and promenading in our wake up and down the creek all day, with the minnow-bucket hanging on his arm, don't you know !"

But jolly as the days were, I think jollier were the long evenings at the farm. After the supper in the grove, where, when the weather permitted, al­ways stood the table ankle-deep in the cool green plush of the sward ; and after the lounge upon the grass, and the cigars, and the new fish stories, and the general invoice of the old ones, it was delect­able to get back to the girls again, and in the old "best room" hear once more the lilt of the old songs and the staccatoed laughter of the piano ming­ling with the alto and falsetto voices of the Mills girls, and the gallant soprano of the dear girl Doc.

THE GILDED ROLL                2589

This is the scene I want you to look in upon, as, in fancy, I do now—and here are the materials for it all, husked from the gilded roll :

Bob, the master, leans at the piano now, and Doc is at the keys, her glad face often thrown up side­wise toward his own. His face is boyish—for there is yet but the ghost of a mustache upon his lip. His eyes are dark and clear, of over-size when look­ing at you, but now their lids are drooped above his violin, whose melody has, for the time, almost smoothed away the upward kinkings of the cor­ners of his mouth. And wonderfully quiet now is every one, and the chords of the piano, too, are low and faltering ; and so, at last, the tune itself swoons into the universal hush, and—Bob is rasp­ing, in its stead, the ridiculous, but marvelously perfect imitation of the "priming" of a pump, while Billy's hands forget the "chiggers" on the bare backs of his feet, as, with clapping palms, he dances round the room in ungovernable spasms of delight. And then we all laugh ; and Billy, taking advantage of the general tumult, pulls Bob's head down and whispers, "Git 'em to stay up 'way late to-night !" And Bob, perhaps remembering that we go back home to-morrow, winks at the little fellow and whis­pers, "You let me manage 'em ! Stay up till broad daylight if we take a notion—eh ?" And Billy dances off again in newer glee, while the inspired musician is plunking a banjo imitation on his en­chanted instrument, which is unceremoniously

2590              THE GILDED ROLL

drowned out by a circus-tune from Doc that is absolutely inspiring to every one but the barefooted brother, who drops back listlessly to his old posi­tion on the floor and sullenly renews operations on his "chigger" claims.

"Thought you was goin' to have pop-corn to-night all so fast !" he says, doggedly, in the midst of a momentary lull that has fallen on a game of whist. And then the oldest Mills girl, who thinks cards stu­pid anyhow, says : "That's so, Billy ; and we're go­ing to have it, too ; and right away, for this game's just ending, and I shan't submit to being bored with another. I say 'pop-corn' with Billy ! And after that," she continues, rising and addressing the party in general, "we must have another literary and artistic tournament, and that's been in contemplation and preparation long enough ; so you gentlemen can be pulling your wits together for the exercises, while us girls see to the refreshments."

"Have you done anything toward it !" queries Bob, when the girls are gone, with the alert Billy in their wake.

"Just an outline," I reply. "How with you ?"

"Clean forgot it—that is, the preparation ; but I've got a little old second-hand idea, if you'll all help me out with it, that'll amuse us some, and tickle Billy, I'm certain."

So that's agreed upon ; and while Bob produces his portfolio, drawing paper, pencils and so on, I turn to my note-book in a dazed way and begin

THE GILDED ROLL                2591

counting my fingers in a depth of profound abstrac­tion, from which I am barely aroused by the reap­pearance of the girls and Billy.

"Goody, goody, goody ! Bob's goin' to make pic­tures !" cries Billy, in additional transport to that the cake pop-corn had produced.

"Now, you girls," says Bob, gently detaching the affectionate Billy from one leg and moving a chair to the table, with a backward glance of intelligence toward the boy,—"you girls are to help us all you can, and we can all work ; but, as I'll have all the illustrations to do, I want you to do as many of the verses as you can—that'll be easy, you know,—because the work entire is just to consist of a series of fool-epigrams, such as, for instance,—listen, Billy :

Here lies a young man

Who in childhood began

To swear, and to smoke, and to drink,—In his twentieth year

He quit swearing and beer,

And yet is still smoking, I think."

And the rest of his instructions are delivered in lower tones, that the boy may not hear; and then, all matters seemingly arranged, he turns to the boy with —"And now, Billy, no lookin' over shoulders, you know, or swinging on my chair-back while I'm at work. When the pictures are all finished, then you can take a squint at 'em, and not before. Is that all hunky, now ?"

"Oh ! who's a-goin' to look over your shoulder—only Doc." And as the radiant Doc hastily quits

2592             THE GILDED ROLL

that very post, and dives for the offending brother, he scrambles under the piano and laughs derisively.

And then a silence falls upon the group—a gra­cious quiet, only intruded upon by the very juicy and exuberant munching of an apple from a remote fastness of the room, and the occasional thumping of a bare heel against the floor.

At last I close my note-book with a half slam.

"That means," says Bob, laying down his pencil, and addressing the girls,—"that means he's con­cluded his poem, and that he's not pleased with it in any manner, and that he intends declining to read it, for that self-acknowledged reason, and that he expects us to believe every affected word of his en­tire speech—"

"Oh, don't !" I exclaim.

"Then give us the wretched production, in all its hideous deformity !"

And the girls all laugh so sympathetically, and Bob joins them so gently, and yet with a tone, I know, that can be changed so quickly to my further discomfiture, that I arise at once and read, without apology or excuse, this primitive and very callow poem recovered here to-day from the gilded roll :

A BACKWARD LOOK

As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday,

And lazily leaning back in my chair, Enjoying myself in a general way—Allowing my thoughts a holiday

From weariness, toil and care,—,

"As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday, And lazily leaning back in my chair"

THE GILDED ROLE                2593

My fancies—doubtless, for ventilation—.

Left ajar the gates of my mind,

And Memory, seeing the situation,

Slipped out in the street of "Auld Lang Syne"—

Wandering ever with tireless feet

Through scenes of silence, and jubilee Of long-hushed voices ; and faces sweet

Were thronging the shadowy side of the street

As far as the eye could see;

Dreaming again, in anticipation,

The same old dreams of our boyhood's days That never come true, from the vague sensation Of walking asleep in the world's strange ways.

Away to the house where I was born!

And there was the selfsame clock that tickod From the close of dusk to the burst of morn, When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn

And helped when the apples were picked. And the "chany dog" on the mantel-shelf,

With the gilded collar and yellow eyes,
Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself

Sound asleep with the dear surprise.

And down to the swing in the locust-tree,

Where the grass was worn from the trampled ground, And where "Eck" Skinner, "Old" Carr, and three Or four such other boys used to be

Doin' "sky-scrapers," or "whirlin' round":

And again Bob climbed for the bluebird's nest,
And again "had shows" in the buggy-shed

Of Guymon's barn, where still, unguessed,

The old ghosts romp through the best days dead!

And again I gazed from the old schoolroom With a wistful look, of a long June day, When on my cheek was the hectic bloom

2594                THE GILDED ROLL

Caught of Mischief, as I presume—
He had such a "partial" way,

It seemed, toward me.—And again I thought

Of a probable likelihood to be

Kept in after school—for a girl was caught

Catching a note from me.

And down through the woods to the swimming-hole‑

Where the big, white, hollow, old sycamore grows,--And we never cared when the water was cold, And always "ducked" the boy that told

On the fellow that tied the clothes.—When life went so like a dreamy rhyme,

That it seems to me now that then The world was having a jollier time

Than it ever will have again.

The crude production is received, I am glad to note, with some expressions of favor from the com­pany though Bob, of course, must heartlessly dis­sipate my weak delight by saying, "Well, it's cer­tainly bad enough ; though," he goes on with an air of deepest critical sagacity and fairness, "consid­ered, as it should be, justly, as the production of a jour.-poet, why, it might be worse—that is, a little worse."

"Probably," I remember saying,—"probably I might redeem myself by reading you this little ama­teurish bit of verse, enclosed to me in a letter by mistake, not very long ago." I here fish an envelope from my pocket, the address of which all recognize as in Bob's almost printed writing. He smiles va­cantly at it—then vividly colors.

"What date ?" he stoically asks.

THE GILDED ROLL                2595

"The date," I suggestively answer, "of your last letter to our dear Doc, at boarding-school, two days exactly in advance of her coming home—this ver­itable visit now."

Both Bob and Doc rush at me—but too late. The letter and contents have wholly vanished. The youngest Miss Mills quiets us—urgently distracting us, in fact, by calling our attention to the immediate completion of our joint production ; "For now," she says, "with our new reinforcement, we can, with be­coming diligence, soon have it ready for both printer and engraver, and then we'll wake up the boy (who has been fortunately slumbering for the last quarter of an hour), and present to him, as designed and intended, this matchless creation of our united intel­lects." At the conclusion of this speech we all .go good-humoredly to work, and at the close of half an hour the tedious, but most ridiculous, task is an­nounced completed.

As I arrange and place in proper form here on the table the separate cards—twenty-seven in number—I sigh to think that I am unable to transcribe for you the best part of the nonsensical work—the illus­trations. All I can give is the written copy of--

BILLY'S ALPHABETICAL ANIMAL SHOW

WAS an elegant Ape Who tied up his ears with red tape, And wore a long vei)

revealing nis tail

Which was trimmed with jet bugles and crape

2596                THE GILDED ROLL

was a boastful old Bear Who used to say,—"Hoomh ! I declare I can eat—if you'll get me

The children, and let me

Ten babies, teeth, toe-nails and hair !"

was a Codfish who sighed When snatched from the home of his pride, But could he, embrined,

Guess this fragrance behind,
How glad he would be to have died!

was a dandified Dog Who said,—"Though it's raining like fog I wear no umbrellah,

Me boy, for a fellah

Might just as well travel incog!"

an elderly Eel ^1: " Who would say,—"Well, I really feel—As my grandchildren wriggle

And shout 'I should giggle'— A trifle run down at the heel!"

was a Fowl who conceded Some hens might hatch more eggs than she did,— But she'd children as plenty

As eighteen or twenty,

And that was quite all that she needed.

was a gluttonous Goat Who, dining one day, table d'hôte, Ordered soup-bone, au fait, And fish, papier-mache, And a filet of Spring overcoat.

THE GILDED ROLL                2597

was a high-cultured Hound Who could clear forty feet at a bound, And a coon once averred

That his howl could be heard

For five miles and three-quarters around.

_T was an Ibex ambitious

To dive over chasms auspicious;
He would leap down a peak

And not light for a week,

And swear that the jump was delicious.

was a Jackass who said

J He had such a bad cold in his head, If it wasn't for leaving

The rest of us grieving,

He'd really rather be dead.

was a profligate Kite Who would haunt the saloons every night; And often he ust

To reel back to his roost Too full to set up on it right.

was a wary old Lynx Who would say,—"Do you know wot I thinks?— I thinks of you happen

To ketch me a-nappin'

I'm ready to set up the drinks !"

was a merry old Mole,

¹¹'¹ Who would snooze all the day in his hole, Then—all night, a-rootin'

Around and galootin'—

He'd sing "Johnny, Fill up the Bowl!"

2598               THE GILDED ROLL

was a caustical Nautilus  Who sneered, "I suppose, when they've caught all us, Like oysters they'll serve us,

And can us, preserve us,

And barrel, and pickle, and bottle us !"

was an autocrat Owl—

^V.-^I Such a wise—such a wonderful fowl! Why, for all the night through He would hoot and hoo-hoo,

And hoot and hoo-hooter and howl!

was a Pelican pet,  Who gobbled up all he could get; He could eat on until

He was full to the bill,

And there he had lodgings to let!

was a querulous Quail, Who said: "It will little avail The efforts of those

Of my foes who propose

To attempt to put salt on my tail!"

was a ring-tailed Raccoon,  With eyes of the tinge of the moon, And his nose a blue-black, And the fur on his back A sad sort of sallow maroon.

is a Sculpin—you'll wish Very much to have one on your dish, Since all his bones grow On the outside, and so He's a very desirable fish.

THE GILDED ROLL                   2599

was a Turtle, of wealth,  Who went round with particular stealth, "Why," said he, "I'm afraid

Of being waylaid

When I even walk out for my health!"

was a Unicorn curious,  With one horn, of a growth so luxurious, He could level and stab it

If you didn't grab it

Clean through you, he was so blamed furious!

was a vagabond Vulture ^V Who said: "I don't want to insult yer, But when you intrude

Where in lone solitude

I'm a-preyin', you're no man o' culture!"

was a wild Woodchuck, And you just bet that he could "chuck"— He'd eat raw potatoes,

Green corn, and tomatoes,

And tree roots, and call it all "good chuck!"

was a kind of X-cuse Of some-sort-o'-thing that got loose Before we could name it, And cage it, and tame it, And bring it in general use.

N7 is the Yellowbird,—bright

^I As a petrified lump of starlight,
Or a handful of lightning‑

Bugs, squeezed in the tight'ning Pink fist of a boy, at night.

x.-7

2600               THE GILDED ROLL

is the Zebra, of course!—

^Z-⁴A kind of aclown-of-a-horse,— Each other despising,

Yet neither devising

A way to obtain a divorce!

Q_.here is the famous—what-is-it?

UG Walk up, Master Billy, and quiz it:

You've seen the rest of 'em

Ain't this the best of 'em,

Right at the end of your visit?

At last Billy is sent off to bed. It is the prudent mandate of the old folks : But so loathfully the poor child goes, Bob's heart goes, too.—Yes, Bob himself, to keep the little fellow company for a while, and, up there under the old rafters, in the pleasant gloom, lull him to famous dreams with fairy tales. And it is during this brief absence that the youngest Mills girl gives us a surprise. She will read a poem, she says, written by a very dear friend of hers who, fortunately for us, is not present to prevent her. We guard door and window as she reads. Doc says she will not listen ; but she does listen, and cries, too—out of pure vexation, she asserts. The rest of us, however, cry just because of the apparent honesty of the poem of

BEAUTIFUL HANDS

0 your hands—they are strangely fair! Fair—for the jewels that sparkle there,— Fair—for the witchery of the spell That ivory keys alone can tell;

THE GILDED ROLL                2601

But when their delicate touches rest Here in my own do I love them best, As I clasp with eager, acquisitive spans My glorious treasure of beautiful hands!

Marvelous—wonderful—beautiful hands! They can coax roses to bloom in the strands Of your brown tresses; and ribbons will twine, Under mysterious touches of thine,

Into such knots as entangle the soul

And fetter the heart under such a control

As only the strength of my love understands—My passionate love for your beautiful hands.

As I remember the first fair touch

Of those beautiful hands that I love so much, I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled,

Kissing the glove that I found unfilled

When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow

As you said to me, laughingly, "Keep it now !" . • • And dazed and alone in a dream I stand,

Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand.

When first I loved, in the long ago,

And held your hand as I told you so—Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss And said "I could die for a hand like this !" Little I dreamed love's "fullnessyet

Had to ripen when eyes were wet

And prayers were vain in their wild demands For one warm touch of your beautiful hands.

Beautiful Hands !—O Beautiful Hands!

Could you reach out of the alien lands

Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night, Only a touch—were it ever so light‑

2602                THE GILDED ROLL

My heart were soothed, and my weary brain Would lull itself into rest again;

For there is no solace the world commands Like the caress of your beautiful hands.

Violently winking at the mist that blurs my sight, I regretfully awaken to the here and now. And is it possible, I sorrowfully muse, that all this glory can have fled away ?—that more than twenty long, long years are spread between me and that happy night ? And is it possible that all the dear old faces —Oh, quit it! quit it ! Gather the old scraps up and wad 'em back into oblivion, where they belong!

Yes, but be calm—be calm ! Think of cheerful things. You are not all alone. Billy's living yet.

I know—and six feet high—and sag-shouldered­and owns a tin and stove-store, and can't hear thun­der ! Billy!

And the youngest Mills girl—she's alive, too. S'pose I don't know that? I married her ! And Doc.—

B ob married her. Been in California for more than fifteen years—on some blasted cattle-ranch, or something,—and he's worth a half a million! And am I less prosperous with this gilded roll?

A WILD IRISHMAN

OT very many years ago the writer was for some months stationed at South Bend, a thriv­ing little city of northern Indiana. Its population is mainly on the one side of the St. Joseph River, but quite a respectable fraction thereof takes its indus­trial way to the opposite shore, and there gains an audience and a hearing in the rather imposing growth and hurly-burly of its big manufactories, and the consequent rapid appearance of multitudi­nous neat cottages, tenement houses and business blocks. A stranger entering South Bend proper on any ordinary day, will be at some loss to account for its prosperous appearance—its flagged and bouldered streets—its handsome mercantile blocks, banks, and business houses generally. Reasoning from cause to effect, and seeing but a meager sprinkling of people on the streets throughout the day, and these seem­ing, for the most part, merely idlers, and in nowise accessory to the evident thrift and opulence of their surroundings, the observant stranger will be puzzled at the situation. But when evening comes, and the outlying foundries, sewing-machine, wagon, plow, and other "works," together with the paper-mills

2603

2604                      A WILD IRISHMAN

and all the nameless industries—when the opera­tions of all these are suspended for the day, and the workmen and workwomen loosed from labor—then, as this vast army suddenly invades and overflows bridge, roadway, street and lane, the startled stran­ger will fully comprehend the why and wherefore of the city's high prosperity. And, once acquainted with the people there, the fortunate sojourner will find no ordinary culture and intelligence, and, as certainly, he will meet with a social spirit and a whole-souled heartiness that will make the place a lasting memory. The town, too, is the home of many world-known people, and a host of local celebrities, the chief of which latter class I found, during my stay there, in the person of Tommy Staf­ford, or "The Wild Irishman" as everybody called him.

"Talk of odd fellows and eccentric characters," said Major Blowney, my employer, one afternoon, "you must see our 'Wild Irishman' here before you say you've yet found the queerest, brightest, clever­est chap in all your travels. What d'ye say, Stock-ford?" And the Major paused in his work of charging cartridges for his new breech-loading shot­gun and turned to await his partner's response.

Stockford, thus addressed, paused above the shield-sign he was lettering, slowly smiling as he dipped and trailed his pencil through the ivory black upon a bit of broken glass and said, in his deliberate, half absent-minded way,—"Is it Tommy you're tell­ing him about ?" and then, with a gradual broaden‑

A WILD IRISHMAN              2605

ing of the smile, he went on, "Well, I should say so. Tommy ! What's come of the fellow, anyway ? I haven't seen him since his last bout with the mayor, on his trial for shakin' up that fast-horse man."

"The fast-horse man got just exactly what he needed, too," said the genial Major, laughing, and mopping his perspiring brow. "The fellow was barkin' up the wrong stump when he tackled Tommy ! Got beat in the trade, at his own game, you know, and wound up by an insult that no Irish­man would take ; and Tommy just naturally wore out the hall carpet of the old hotel with him !"

"And then collared and led him to the mayor's office himself, they say !"

"Oh, he did !" said the Major, with a dash of pride in the confirmation ; "that's Tommy all over !"

"Funny trial, wasn't it ?" continued the ruminat­ing Stockford.

"Wasn't it though ?" laughed the Major. "The porter's testimony : You see, he was for Tommy, of course, and on examination testified that the horseman struck Tommy first. And here Tommy broke in with : 'He's a-meanin' well, yer Honor, but he's lyin' to ye—he's lyin' to ye. No livin' man iver struck me first—nor last, nayther, for the matter o' that !' And I thought—the—court—would—die !" continued the Major, in a like imminent state of merriment.

"Yes, and he said if he struck him first," supple­mented Stockford, "he'd like to know why the horseman was `wearin' all the black eyes, and the

2606                A WILD IRISHMAN

blood, and the boomps on that head of urn!' And it's that talk that got him off with so light a fine !"

"As it always does," said the Major, coming to himself abruptly and looking at his watch. "Stock, you say you're not going along with our duck-shoot­ing party this time ? The old Kankakee is just lousy with 'em this season !"

"Can't go possibly," said Stockford, "not on ac­count of the work at all, but the folks ain't just as well as I'd like to see them, and I'll stay here till they're better. Next time I'll try and be ready for you. Going to take Tommy, of course ?"

"Of course ! Got to have 'The Wild Irishman' with us ! I'm going around to find him now." Then turning to me the Major continued, "Suppose you get on your coat and hat and come along? It's the best chance you'll ever have to meet Tommy. It's late anyhow, and Stockford'll get along without you. Come on."

"Certainly," said Stockford ; "go ahead. And you can take him ducking, too, if he wants to go."

"But he doesn't want to go—and won't go," re­plied the Major with a commiserative glance at me. "Says he doesn't know a duck from a poll-parrot­nor how to load a shotgun—and couldn't hit a house if he were inside of it and the door shut. Admits that he nearly killed his uncle once, on the other side of a tree, with a squirrel runnin' down it. Don't want him along !"

When I reached the street with the genial Major, he gave me this advice ; "Now, when you meet Tom‑

A WILD IRISHMAN              2607

my, you mustn't take all he says for dead earnest, and you mustn't believe, because he talks loud, and in italics every other word, that he wants to do all the talking and won't be interfered with. That's the way he's apt to strike folks at first—but it's their mistake, not his. Talk back to him—controvert him whenever he's aggressive in the utterance of his opinions, and if you're only honest in the announce­ment of your own ideas and beliefs, he'll like you all the better for standing by them. He's quick-tem­pered, and perhaps a trifle sensitive, so share your greater patience with him, and he'll pay you back by fighting for you at the drop of the hat. In short, he's as nearly typical of his gallant country's brave, im­petuous, fun-loving race as one man can be."

"But is he quarrelsome ?" I asked.

"Not at all. There's the trouble. If he'd only quarrel there'd be no harm done. Quarreling's cheap, and Tommy's extravagant. A big black­smith here, the other day, kicked some boy out of his shop, and Tommy, on his cart, happened to be pass­ing at the time ; and he just jumped off without a word, and went in and worked on that fellow for about three minutes, with such disastrous results that they couldn't tell his shop from a slaughter-house ; paid an assault and battery fine, and gave the boy a dollar besides, and the whole thing was a positive luxury to him. But I guess we'd better drop the sub­ject, for here's his cart, and here's Tommy. Hi ! there, you Tardown' Irish Mick !" called the Major,

2608                A WILD IRISHMAN

in affected antipathy, "been out raiding the honest farmers' hen-roosts again, have you ?"

We had halted at a corner grocery and produce store, as I took it, and the smooth-faced, shaven-headed man in woolen shirt, short vest, and suspen­derless trousers so boisterously addressed by the Major, was just lifting from the back of his cart a coop of cackling chickens.

"Arrah ! ye blasted Kerryonian !" replied the handsome fellow, depositing the coop on the curb and straightening his tall, slender figure; "I were jist thinkin' of yez and the ducks, and here ye come quackin' into the prisence of r'yalty, wid yer canvas­back suit upon ye and the schwim-skins bechuxt yer toes ! How air yez, anyhow—and air we startin' for the Kankakee by the nixt post ?"

"We're to start just as soon as we get the boys to­gether," said the Major, shaking hands. "The crowd's to be at Andrews' by four, and it's fully that now ; so come on at once. We'll go 'round by Mun­son's and have Hi send a boy to look after your horse. Come ; I want to introduce my friend here to you, and we'll all want to smoke and jabber a little in appropriate seclusion. Come on." And the impatient Major had linked arms with his hesi­tating ally and myself, and was turning the corner of the street.

"It's an hour's work I have yet wid the squawk­ers," mildly protested Tommy, still hanging back and stepping a trifle high ; "but, as one Irishman

A WILD IRISHMAN              2609

would say til another, Te're wrong, but I'm wid !' "

ye.

And five minutes later the three of us had joined a very jolly party in a snug back room, with

"The chamber walls depicted all around

With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound, And the hurt deer ;"

and where, as well, drifted over the olfactory intel­ligence a certain subtle, warm-breathed aroma, that genially combated the chill and darkness of the day without, and, resurrecting long-dead Christmases, brimmed the grateful memory with all comfortable cheer.

A dozen hearty voices greeted the appearance of Tommy and the Major, the latter adroitly pushing the jovial Irishman to the front, with a mock-heroic introduction to the general company, at the conclu­sion of which Tommy, with his hat tucked under his left elbow, stood bowing with a grace of pose and presence Lord Chesterfield might have ap­plauded.

"Gintlemen," said Tommy, settling back upon his heels and admiringly contemplating the group "gintlemen, I congratu-late yez wid a pride that shoves the thumbs o' me into the arrum-holes of me weshkit ! At the inshtigation of the bowld O'Blow­ney—axin' the gintleman's pardon—I am here wid no silver tongue of illoquence to para-lyze yez, but I am prisent, as has been ripresinted, to jine wid yez

2610                       A WILD IRISHMAN

in a stupendous waste of gunpowder, and duck-shot, and 'high-wines,' and ham sandwiches, upon the silvonian banks of the ragin' Kankakee, where the 'di-dipper' tips ye good-by wid his tail, and the wild loon skoots like a sky-rocket for his exiled home in the alien dunes of the wild morass—or, as Tommy Moore so illegantly describes the blashted birrud,—

`Away to the dizhmal shwamp he spheeds­His path is rugged and sore,

Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, And many a fen where the serpent feeds, And birrud niver flew before

And niver will fly any more'

if iver he arrives back safe into civilization again—and I've been in the poultry business long enough to know the private opinion and personal integrity of ivery fowl that flies the air or roosts on poles. But, changin' the subject of my few small remarks here, and thankin' yez wid an overflowin' heart but a dhry tongue, I have the honor to propose, gintlemen, long life and health to ivery mother's son o' yez, and suc­cess to the 'Duck-hunters of Kankakee.' "

"The duck-hunters of the Kankakee !" chorused the elated party in such musical uproar that for a full minute the voice of the enthusiastic Major—who was trying to say something—could not be heard. Then he said :

"I want to propose that theme—`The Duck-hunt‑

A WILD IRISHMAN                            2611

ers of the Kankakee', for one of Tommy's impro­visations. I move we have a song now from Tommy on 'The Duck Hunters of the Kankakee.' "

"Hurrah ! Hurrah ! A song from Tommy," cried the crowd. "Make us up a song,,and put us all into it ! A song from Tommy ! A song ! A song !"

There was a queer light in the eye of the Irish­man. I observed him narrowly—expectantly. Often I had read of this phenomenal art of improvised ballad-singing, but had always remained a little skeptical in regard to the possibility of such a feat. Even in the notable instances of this gift as dis­played by the very clever Theodore Hook, I had always half suspected some prior preparation—some adroit forecasting of the sequence that seemed the instant inspiration of his witty verses. Here was evidently to be a test example, and I was all alert to mark its minutest detail.

The clamor had subsided, and Tommy had drawn a chair near to and directly fronting the Major's. His right hand was extended, closely grasping the right hand of his friend which he scarce perceptibly, though measuredly, lifted and let fall throughout the length of all the curious performance. The voice was not unmusical, nor was the quaint old ballad-air adopted by the singer unlovely in the least ; simply a monotony was evident that accorded with the levity and chance-finish of the improvisation—and that the song was improvised on the instant I am certain—though in nowise remarkable, for other reasons, in rhythmic worth or finish. And while his

2612                A WILD IRISHMAN

smiling auditors all drew nearer, and leant, with parted lips to catch every syllable, the words of the strange melody trailed unhesitatingly into the lines literally, as here subjoined :

"One gloomy day in the airly Fall,

Whin the sunshine had no chance at all—No chance at all for to gleam and shine And lighten up this heart of mine:

"'Twas in South Bend, that famous town, Whilst I were a-strollin' round and round, I met some friends and they says to me: `It's a hunt we'll take on the Kankakee!"

"Hurrah for the Kankakee ! Give it to us, Tommy !" cried an enthusiastic voice between verses. "Now give it to the Major!" And the song went on:—

"There's Major Blowney leads the van, As crack a shot as an Irishman,—For it's the duck is a tin decoy

That his owld shotgun can't destroy:"

And a half-dozen jubilant palms patted the Major's shoulders, and his ruddy, good-natured face beamed with delight. "Now give it to the rest of 'em, Tommy !" chuckled the Major. And the song continued :—

"And along wid 'Hank' is Mick Maharr, And Barney Pince, at 'The Shamrock' bar—There's Barney Pinch, wid his heart so true; And the Andrews Brothers they'll go too."

A TVILD IRISHMAN              2613

"Hold on, Tommy !" chipped in one of the An­drews ; "you must give 'the Andrews Brothers' a better advertisement than that ! Turn us on a full verse, can't you ?"

"Make 'em pay for it if you do !" said the Major in an undertone. And Tommy promptly amended

"0, the Andrews Brothers, they'll be there, Wid good se-gyars and wine to sphare,— They'll treat us here on fine champagne, And whin we're there they'll treat us again."

The applause here was vociferous, and only dis­continued when a box of Havanas stood open on the table. During the momentary lull thus occasioned, I caught the Major's twinkling eyes glancing eva­sively toward me, as he leaned whispering some fur­ther instructions to Tommy, who again took up his desultory ballad, while I turned and fled for the street, catching, however, as I went, and high above the laughter of the crowd, the satire of this quatrain to its latest line

"But R-R-Riley he'll not go, I guess, Lest he'd get lost in the wil-der-ness, And so in the city he will shtop

For to curl his hair in the barber shop."

It was after six when I reached the hotel, but I had my hair trimmed before I went in to supper. The style of trimming adopted then I still rigidly

2614                       A WILD IRISHMAN

adhere to, and call it "the Tommy Stafford stubble-crop."

Ten days passed before I again saw the Major. Immediately upon his return—it was late after­noon when I heard of it—I determined to take my evening walk out the long street toward his pleasant home and call on him there. This I did, and found him in a wholesome state of fatigue, slippers and easy chair, enjoying his pipe on the piazza. Of course, he was overflowing with happy reminis­cences of the hunt—the wood-and-water-craft­boats—ambushes---decoys, and tramp, and camp, and so on, without end ;—but I wanted to hear him talk of "The Wild Irishman"—Tommy ; and I think, too, now, that the sagacious Major secretly read my desires all the time. To be utterly frank with the reader I will admit that I not only think the Major divined my interest in Tommy, but I know he did ; for at last, as though reading my very thoughts, he abruptly said, after a long pause, in which he knocked the ashes from his pipe and refilled and lighted it :—"Well, all I know of 'The Wild Irish­man' I can tell you in a very few words—that is, if you care at all to listen?" And the crafty old Major seemed to hesitate.

"Go on—go on !" I said eagerly.

"About forty years ago," resumed the Major placidly, "in the little, old, unheard-of town Karn­teel, County Tyrone, Province Ulster, Ireland, Tommy Stafford was fortunate enough—despite the contrary opinion on that point of his wretchedly

A WILD IRISHMAN              2615

poor parents—to be born. And here, again, as I ad­vised you the other day, you must be prepared for constant surprises in the study of Tommy's char­acter."

"Go on," I said ; "I'm prepared for anything."

The Major smiled profoundly and continued :—

"Fifteen years ago, when he came to America—^.And the Lord only knows how he got the passage­money—he brought his widowed mother with him here, and has supported, and is still supporting her. Besides," went on the still secretly smiling Major, "the fellow has actually found time, through all his adversities, to pick up quite a smattering of educa­tion, here and there—"

"Poor fellow !" I broke in sympathizingly, "what a pity it is that he couldn't have had such advantages earlier in life," and as I recalled the broad brogue of the fellow, together with his careless dress, rec­ognizing beneath it all the native talent and bril­liancy of a mind of most uncommon worth, I could not restrain a deep sigh of compassion and regret.

The Major was leaning forward in the gathering dusk, and evidently studying my own face, the ex­pression of which, at that moment, was very grave and solemn, I am sure. He suddenly threw himself backward in his chair, in an uncontrollable burst of laughter. "Oh, I just can't keep it up any longer," he exclaimed.

"Keep what up ?"I queried, in a perfect maze of bewilderment and surprise. "Keep what up ?" I repeated.

x.-8

2616                       A WILD IRISHMAN

"Why, all this twaddle, farce, travesty and by­play regarding Tommy ! You know I warned you, over and over, and you mustn't blame me for the deception. I never thought you'd take it so in ear­nest !" and here the jovial Major again went into convulsions of laughter.

"But I don't understand a word of it all," I cried, half frenzied with the gnarl and tangle of the whole affair. "What 'twaddle, farce and by-play,' is it, anyhow ?" And in my vexation, I found myself on my feet and striding nervously tip and down the paved walk that joined the street with the piazza, pausing at last and confronting the Major almost petulantly. "Please explain," I said, controlling my vexation with an effort.

The Major arose. "Your striding up and down there reminds me that a little stroll on the street might do us both good," he said. "Will you wait until I get a coat and hat ?"

He rejoined me a moment later, and we passed through the open gate ; and saying, "Let's go down this way," he took my arm and turned into a street, where, cooling as the dusk was, the thick maples lining the walk seemed to throw a special shade of tranquillity upon us.

"What I meant was"—began the Major in a low serious voice,—"What I meant was—simply this : Our friend Tommy, though the truest Irishman in the world, is a man quite the opposite every way of the character he has appeared to you. All that rich brogue of his is assumed. Though he was poor, as I

A WILD IRISHMAN              2617

told you, when he came here, his native quickness, and his marvelous resources, tact, judgment, busi­ness qualities—all have helped him to the equivalent of a liberal education. His love of the humorous and the ridiculous is unbounded ; but he has serious moments, as well, and at such times is as dignified and refined in speech and manner as any man you'd find in a thousand. He is a good speaker, can stir a political convention to highest excitement when he gets fired up ; and can write an article for the press that goes spang to the spot. He gets into a great many personal encounters of a rather undignified character ; but they are almost invariably bred of his innate interest in the 'under dog,' and the fire and tow of his impetuous nature."

My companion had paused here, and was looking through some printed slips in his pocketbook. "I wanted you to see some of the fellow's articles in print, but I have nothing of importance here—only some of his 'doggerel,' as he calls it, and you've had a sample of that. But here's a bit of the upper spirit of the man—and still another that you should hear him recite. You can keep them both if you care to. The boys all fell in love with that last one, par­ticularly, hearing his rendition of it. So we had a lot printed, and I have two or three left. Put these two in your pocket and read them at your leisure."

But I read them there and then, as eagerly, too, as I append them here and now. The first is called‑

2618                A WILD IRISHMAN SAYS HE

"Whatever the weather may be," says he-- "Whatever the weather may be,

It's plaze, if ye will, an' I'll say me say,— Supposin' to-day was the winterest day,

Wud the weather be changing because ye cried, Or the snow be grass were ye crucified?

The best is to make your own summer," says he, "Whatever the weather may be," says he

"Whatever the weather may be!

"Whatever the weather may be," says he—"Whatever the weather may be,

It's the songs ye sing, an' the smiles ye wear, That's a-makin' the sun shine everywhere; An' the world of gloom is a world of glee,

Wid the bird in the bush, an' the bud in the tree, An' the fruit on the stim of the bough," says he, "Whatever the weather may be," says he

"Whatever the weather may be!

"Whatever the weather may be," says he—"Whatever the weather may be,

Ye can bring the Spring, wid its green an' gold, An' the grass in the grove where the snow lies cold; An' ye'll warm yer back, wid a smiling face, As ye sit at yer heart, like an owld fireplace, An' toast the toes o' yer sowl," says he, "Whatever the weather may be," says he

"Whatever the weather may be!"

"Now," said the Major, peering eagerly above my shoulder, "go on with the next. To my mind, it is even better than the first. A type of character you'll

A WILD IRISHMAN                        2619

recognize.—The same 'broth of a boy,' only Amer­icanized, don't you know."

And I read the scrap entitled‑

CHAIRLEY BURKE

It's Chairley Burke's in town, b'ys! He's down til "Jamesy's Place,"

Wid a bran'-new shave upon 'urn, an' the fhwhuskers aff his face;

He's quit the Section-Gang last night, and yez can chalk it down

There's goin' to be the divil's toime, sence Chairley Burke's in town.

It's treatin' iv'ry b'y he is, an' poundin' on the bar

Till iv'ry man he's drinkin' wid must shmoke a foine cigar; An' Missus Murphy's little Kate, that's coomin' there for

beer,

Can't pay wan cint the bucketful, the whilst that Chairley's here!

He's joompin' oor the tops o' sthools, the both forninst an' back!

He'll lave yez pick the blessed flure, an' walk the straight­est crack!

He's liftin' barrels wid his teeth, and singin' "Garry Owen,"

Till all the house be strikin' hands, sence Chairley Burke's in town.

The Road-Yaird hands coomes dhroppin' in, an' niver goin' back;

An' there's two freights upon the switch—the wan on aither track

An' Mr. Gearry, from The Shops, he's mad enough to swear,

An' durstn't spake a word but grin, the whilst that Chair­ley's there!

2620                 A WILD IRISHMAN

Och ! Chairley ! Chairley ! Chairley Burke ! ye divil, wid yer ways

0' dhrivin' all the throubles aff, these dhark an' ghloomy days !

Ohone ! that it's meself, wid all the graifs I have to dhrown, Must lave me pick to resht a bit, sence Chairley Burke's in town.

"Before we turn back, now," said the smiling Major, as I stood lingering over the indefinable humor of the last refrain, "before we turn back I want to show you something eminently character­istic. Come this way a half-dozen steps."

As he spoke I looked up, first to observe that we had paused before a handsome square brick resi­dence, centering a beautiful smooth lawn, its emer­ald only littered with the light gold of the earliest autumn leaves. On either side of the trim walk that led up from the gate to the carved stone bal­lusters of the broad piazza, with its empty easy chairs, were graceful vases, frothing over with late blossoms, and wreathed with laurel-looking vines ; and, luxuriantly lacing the border of the pave that turned the farther corner of the house, blue, white and crimson, pink and violet, went fad­ing away in perspective as my gaze followed the gesture of the Major's.

"Here, come a little farther. Now do you see that man there ?"

Yes, I could make out a figure in the deepening dusk—the figure of a man on the back stoop—a tired-looking man, in his shirt-sleeves, who sat upon

'A WILD IRISHMAN             2621

a low chair—no, not a chair—an empty box. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and the hands dropped limp. He was smoking, too, I could barely see his pipe, and but for the odor of very strong tobacco, would not have known he had a pipe. Why does the master of the house permit his servants so to desecrate this beautiful home? I thought.

"Well, shall we go now ?" said the Major.

I turned silently and we retraced our steps. I think neither of us spoke for the distance of a square.

"Guess you didn't know the man there on the back porch ?" said the Major.

"No ; why ?" I asked dubiously.

"I hardly thought you would, and besides the poor fellow's tired, and it was best not to disturb him," said the Major.

"Why ; who was it—some one I know ?"

"It was Tommy."

"Oh," said I inquiringly, "he's employed there in some capacity ?'

"Yes, as master of the house."

"You don't mean it ?"

"I certainly do. He owns it, and made every cent of the money that paid for it !" said the Major proudly. "That's why I wanted you particularly to note that 'eminent characteristic' I spoke of. Tommy could just as well be sitting, with a fine cigar, on the front piazza in an easy chair, as, with his dhudeen, on the back porch, on an empty box,

2622                      A WILD IRISHMAN

where every night you'll find him. It's the uncon­scious dropping back into the old ways of his father, and his father's father, and his father's father's father. In brief, he sits there the poor lorn symbol of the long oppression of his race."