Colonel Coffin"s boy leaned over the fence one day and gave to me his impressions of Scipio, a lad about fourteen years old:
"Yes, me and him are right well acquainted now; he knows more"n I do, and he"s had more experience. Bill says his father used to be a robber (Smith, by the way, is a deacon in the Presbyterian church, and a very excellent lawyer), and that he has ten million dollars in gold buried in his cellar, along with a whole lot of human bones--people he"s killed. And he says his father is a conjurer, and that he makes all the earthquakes that happen anywheres in the world. The old man"ll come home at night, after there"s been an earthquake, all covered with perspiration and so tired he kin hardly stand. Bill says it"s such hard work.
"And Bill tole me that once when a man came around there trying to sell lightning-rods his father got mad and et him--et him right up; and he takes bites out of everybody he comes acrost.
"That"s what Bill tells me. That"s all I know about it. And he tole me that once he used to have a dog--one of these little kind of dogs--and he was flying his kite, and just for fun he tied the kite-string onto his dog"s tail. And then the wind struck her and his dog went a-scuddin" down the street with his hind legs in the air for about a mile, when the kite all of a sudden begun to go up, and in about a minute the dog was fifteen miles high and commanding a view of California and Egypt, I think Bill said. He came down, anyhow, I know, in Brazil, and Bill said he swum home all the way in the Atlantic Ocean; and when he landed, his legs were all nibbled off by sharks.
"I wish father"d buy me a dog, so"s I could send him up that way. But I never have any luck. Bill said that where they used to live he went out on the roof one day to fly his kite, and he sat on top of the chimbly to give her plenty of room, and while he was sitting there thinking about nothing, the old man put a keg of powder down below in the fire-place to clean the soot out of the chimbly. And when he touched her off, Bill was blowed over agin the Baptist church steeple, and he landed on the weather-c.o.c.k with his pants torn, and they couldn"t git him down for three days, so he hung there, going round and round with the wind, and he lived by eating the crows that came and sat on him, because they thought he was made of sheet-iron and put up there on purpose.
"He"s had more fun than enough. He was telling me the other day about a sausage-stuffer his brother invented. It was a kinder machine that worked with a treadle; and Bill said the way they did in the fall was to fix it on the hog"s back, and connect the treadle with a string, and then the hog"d work the treadle and keep on running it up and down until the machine cut the hog all up fine and shoved the meat into the skins. Bill said his brother called it "Every Hog His Own Stuffer,"
and it worked splendid. But I do" know. "Pears to me "sif there couldn"t be no machine like that. But anyway, Bill said so.
"And he told me about an uncle of his out in Australia who was et by a big oyster once; and when, he got inside, he stayed there until he"d et the oyster. Then he split the sh.e.l.l open and took half a one for a boat, and he sailed along until he met a sea-serpent, and he killed it and drawed off its skin, and when he got home he sold it to an engine company for a hose, for forty thousand dollars, to put out fires with.
Bill said that was actually so, because he could show me a man who used to belong to the engine company. I wish father"d let me go out to find a sea-serpent like that; but he don"t let me have a chance to distinguish myself.
"Bill was saying only yesterday that the Indians caught him once and drove eleven railroad spikes through his stomach and cut off his scalp, and it never hurt him a bit. He said he got away by the daughter of the chief sneaking him out of the wigwam and lending him a horse. Bill says she was in love with him; and when I asked him to let me see the holes where they drove in the spikes, he said he daresn"t take off his clothes or he"d bleed to death. He said his own father didn"t know it, because Bill was afraid it might worry the old man.
"And Bill tole me they wasn"t going to get him to go to Sunday-school.
He says his father has a bra.s.s idol that he keeps in the garret, and Bill says he"s made up his mind to be a pagan, and to begin to go naked, and carry a tomahawk and a bow and arrow, as soon as the warm weather comes. And to prove it to me, he says his father has this town all underlaid with nitro-glycerine, and as soon as he gets ready he"s going to blow the old thing out, and bust her up, let her rip, and demolish her. He said so down at the dam, and tole me not to tell anybody, but I thought they"d be no harm in mentioning it to you.
"And now I believe I must be going. I hear Bill a-whistling. Maybe he"s got something else to tell me."
The Smith boy will be profitable to the youth of the community.
Barnes, the pedagogue, is a worthy man who has seen trouble. Precisely what was the nature of the afflictions which had filled his face with furrows and given him the air of one who has been overburdened with sorrows was not revealed until Mr. Keyser told the story one evening at the grocery-store. Whether his narrative is strictly true or not is uncertain. There is a bare possibility that Mr. Keyser may have exaggerated grossly a very simple fact.
"n.o.body ever knew how it got in there," said Mr. Keyser, clasping his hands over his knee and spitting into the stove. "Some thought Barnes must"ve swallowed a tadpole while drinking out of a spring and it subsequently grew inside him, while others allowed that maybe he"d accidentally eaten frogs" eggs some time and they"d hatched out.
But anyway, he had that frog down there inside of him settled and permanent and perfectly satisfied with being in out of the rain. It used to worry Barnes more"n a little, and he tried various things to git rid of it. The doctors they give him sickening stuff, and over and over agin emptied him; and then they"d hold him by the heels and shake him over a basin, and they"d bait a hook with a fly and fish down his throat hour after hour, but that frog was too intelligent. He never even gave them a nibble; and when they"d try to fetch him with an emetic, he"d dig his claws into Barnes"s membranes and hold on until the storm was over.
"Not that Barnes minded the frog merely being in there if he"d only a kept quiet. But he was too vociferous--that"s what Barnes said to me.
A taciturn frog he wouldn"t have cared about so much. But how would you like to have one down inside of you there a-whooping every now and then in the most ridiculous manner? Maybe, for instance, Barnes"d be out taking tea with a friend, and just when everybody else was quiet it"d suddenly occur to his frog to tune-up, and the next minute you"d hear something go "Blo-o-o-ood-a-noun! Blo-oo-oo-ood-a-noun!" two or three times, apparently under the table. Then the folks would ask if there was an aquarium in the house or if the man had a frog-pond in the cellar, and Barnes"d get as red as fire and jump up and go home.
"And often when he"d be setting in church, perhaps in the most solemn part of the sermon, he"d feel something give two or three quick kinder jerks under his vest, and presently that reptile would bawl right out in the meeting "Bloo-oo-oo-ood-a-noun! Bloo-oo-oo-ood-a-nou-ou-oun!"
and keep it up until the s.e.xton would come along and run out two or three boys for profaning the sanctuary. And at last he"d fix it on poor old Barnes, and then tell him that if he wanted to practice ventriloquism he"d better wait till after church. And then the frog"d give six or seven more hollers, so that the minister would stop and look at Barnes, and Barnes"d get up and skip down the aisle and go home furious about it.
"It had a deep voice for an ordinary frog--betwixt a French horn and a bark-mill. And Mrs. Barnes told me herself that often, when John"d get comfortably fixed in bed and just dropping off into a nap, the frog"d think it was a convenient time for some music; and after hopping about a bit, it"d all at once grind out three or four awful "Bloo-oo-ood-a-nouns" and wake Mrs. Barnes and the baby, and start things up generally all around the house. And--would you believe it?--if that frog felt, maybe, a little frisky, or p"raps had some tune running through its head, it"d keep on that way for hours. It worried Barnes like thunder.
"I dunno whether it was that that killed his wife or not; but anyhow, when she died, Barnes wanted to marry agin, and he went for a while to see Miss Flickers, who lives out yer on the river road, you know. He courted her pretty steady for a while, and we all thought there was goin" to be a consolidation. But she was telling my wife that one evening Barnes had just taken hold of her hand and told her he loved her, when all of a sudden something said, "Bloo-oo-oo-ood-a-nou-ou-oun!"
""What on earth"s that?" asked Miss Flickers, looking sorter scared.
""I dunno," said Barnes; "it sounds like somebody making a noise in the cellar." Lied, of course, for he knew mighty well what it was.
[Ill.u.s.tration: MR. BARNES PROPOSES]
"""Pears to me "sif it was under the sofa," says she.
""Maybe it wasn"t anything, after all," says Barnes, when just then the frog, he feels like running up the scales again, and he yells out, "Bloo-oo-ood-a-nou-ou-ou-oun!"
""Upon my word," says Miss Flickers, "I believe you"ve got a frog in your pocket, Mr. Barnes; now, haven"t you?"
"Then he gets down on his knees and owns up to the truth, and swears he"ll do his best to git rid of the frog, and all the time he is talking the frog is singing exercises and scales and oratorios inside of him, and worse than ever, too, because Barnes drank a good deal of ice-water that day, and it made the frog hoa.r.s.e--ketched cold, you know.
"But Miss Flickers, she refused him. Said she might"ve loved him, only she couldn"t marry any man that had continual music in his interior.
"So Barnes, he was the most disgusted man you ever saw. Perfectly sick about it. And one day he was lying on the bed gaping, and that frog unexpectedly made up its mind to come up to ask Barnes to eat more carefully, maybe, and it jumped out on the counterpane. After looking about a bit it came up and tried three or four times to hop back, but he kept his mouth shut, and killed the frog with the back of a hair-brush. Ever since then he runs his drinking-water through a strainer, and he hates frogs worse than you and me hate pison. Now, that"s the honest truth about Barnes; you ask him if it ain"t."
Then Keyser bought some tobacco and went home.
CHAPTER VI.
_THE EDITOR OF THE PATRIOT_.
The editor of the village paper, _The Patriot and Advertiser_, is Major Slott; and a very clever journalist he is. Even his bitterest adversary, the editor of _The Evening Mail_, in the town above us on the river, admits that. In the last political campaign, indeed, _The Mail_ undertook to tell how it was that the major acquired such a taste for journalism. The story was that shortly after he was born the doctor ordered that the baby should be fed upon goat"s milk. This was procured from a goat that was owned by an Irish woman who lived in the rear of the office of _The Weekly Startler_ and fed her goat chiefly upon the exchanges which came to that journal. The consequence, according to _The Mail_, was that young Slott was fed entirely upon milk formed from digested newspapers; and he throve on it, although when the Irish woman mixed the Democratic journals carelessly with the Whig papers they disagreed after they were eaten, and the milk gave the baby colic. Old Slott intended the boy to be a minister; but as soon as he was old enough to take notice he cried for every newspaper that he happened to see, and no sooner did he learn how to write than he began to slash off editorials upon "The Need of Reform," etc. He ran away from school four times to enter a newspaper office, and finally, when the paternal Slott put him in the House of Refuge, he started a weekly in there, and called it the _House of Refuge Record_; and one day he slid over the wall and went down to the _Era_ office, where he changed his name to Blott, and began his career on that paper with an article on "Our Reformatory Inst.i.tutions for the Young." Then old Slott surrendered to what seemed to be a combination of manifest destiny and goat"s milk, and permitted him to pursue his profession.
The major, _The Mail_ alleges, has the instinct so strong that if he should fall into the crater of Vesuvius his first thought on striking bottom would be to write to somebody to ask for a free pa.s.s to come out with. "But," continued _The Mail_, "you would hardly believe this story if you ever read _The Patriot_. We often suspect, when we are looking over that sheet, that the nurse used to mix the goat"s milk with an unfair proportion of water."
The major has a weekly edition in which he publishes serial stories of a stirring character, and he is always looking out for good ones.
Recently a tale was submitted by a certain Mr. Stack, a young man who had high ambition without much experience as a writer of fiction.
After waiting a long while and hearing nothing about the story, Mr.
Stack concluded to call upon the major in order to ascertain why that narrative had not attracted attention. When Stack mentioned his errand, the major reached for the ma.n.u.script; and looking very solemn, he said,
"Mr. Stack, I don"t think I can accept this story. In some respects it is really wonderful; but I am afraid that if I published it, it would attract almost too much attention. People would get too wild over it.
We have to be careful. For instance, here in the first chapter you mention the death of Mrs. McGinnis, the hero"s mother. She dies; you inter Mrs. McGinnis in the cemetery; you give an affecting scene at the funeral; you run up a monument over her and plant honeysuckle upon her grave. You create in the reader"s mind a strong impression that Mrs. McGinnis is thoroughly dead. And yet, over here in the twenty-second chapter, you make a man named Thompson fall in love with her, and she is married to him, and she goes skipping around through the rest of the story as lively as a gra.s.shopper, and you all the time alluding to Thompson as her second husband. You see that kind of thing won"t do. It excites remark. Readers complain about it."
"You don"t say I did that? Well, now, do you know I was thinking all the time that it was _Mr._ McGinnis that I buried in the first chapter? I must have got them mixed up somehow."
"And then," continued the major, "when you introduce the hero, you mention that he has but one arm, having lost the other in battle. But in chapter twelve you run him through a saw-mill by an accident, and you mention that he lost an arm there, too. And yet in the nineteenth chapter you say, "Adolph rushed up to Mary, threw his arms about her, and clasped her to his bosom;" and then you go on to relate how he sat down at the piano in the soft moonlight and played one of Beethoven"s sonatas "with sweet poetic fervor." Now, the thing, you see, don"t dovetail. Adolph couldn"t possibly throw his arms around Mary if one was buried in the field of battle and the other was minced up in a saw-mill, and he couldn"t clasp her to his bosom unless he threw a la.s.so with his teeth and hauled her in by swallowing the slack of the rope. As for the piano--well, you know as well as I do that an armless man can"t play a Beethoven sonata unless he knows how to perform on the instrument with his nose, and in that case you insult the popular intelligence when you talk about "sweet poetic fervor." I have my fingers on the public pulse, and I know they won"t stand it."
"Well, well," said Stack, "I don"t know how I ever came to--"
"Let me direct your attention to another incendiary matter,"
interrupted the major. "In the first love-scene between Adolph and--and--let me see--what"s her name?--Mary--you say that "her liquid blue eye rested softly upon him as he poured forth the story of his love, and its azure was dimmed by a flood of happy tears." Well, sir, about twenty pages farther on, where the villain insults her, you observe that her black eyes flashed lightning at him and seemed to scorch him where he stood. Now, let me direct attention to the fact that if the girl"s eyes were blue they couldn"t be black; and if you mean to convey the impression that she had one blue eye and one black eye, and that she only looked softly at Adolph out of the off eye, while the near eye roamed around, not doing anything in particular, why, she is too phenomenal for a novel, and only suitable for a place in the menagerie by the side of the curiosities. And then you say that although her eye was liquid yet it scorched the villain. People won"t put up with that kind of thing. It makes them delirious and murderous."
"Too bad!" said Stack. "I forgot what I"d said about her eyes when I wrote that scene with the villain."
"And here, in the twentieth chapter, you say that Magruder was stabbed with a bowie-knife in the hands of the Spaniard, and in the next chapter you give an account of the _post-mortem_ examination, and make the doctors hunt for the bullet and find it embedded in his liver.
Even patient readers can"t remain calm under such circ.u.mstances. They lose control of themselves."
"It"s unfortunate," said Stack.
"Now, the way you manage the Browns in the story is also exasperating.
First you represent Mrs. Brown as taking her twins around to church to be christened. In the middle of the book you make Mrs. Brown lament that she never had any children, and you wind up the story by bringing in Mrs. Brown with her grandson in her arms just after having caused Mr. Brown to state to the clergyman that the only child he ever had died in his fourth year. Just think of the effect of such a thing on the public mind! Why, this story would fill all the insane asylums in the country."