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The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VII
As the case was an urgent one, the notary made no delay in getting his papers in readiness; and in a short time the last will and testament of the wine-dealer was drawn up in due form, the notary guiding the sick man's hand as he scrawled his signature at the bottom.
As the evening wore away, the wine-dealer grew worse and worse, and at length became delirious, mingling in his incoherent ravings the phrases of the Credo and Paternoster with the shibboleth of the dram-shop and the card-table.
"Take care! take care! There, now—Credo in—Pop! ting-a-ling-ling! give me some of that. Cent-é-dize! Why, you old publican, this wine is poisoned,—I know your tricks!—Sanctam ecclesiam catholicam—Well, well, we shall see. Imbecile! to have a tierce-major and a seven of hearts, and discard the seven! By St. Anthony, capot! You are lurched,—ha! ha! I told you so. I knew very well,—there,—there,—don't interrupt me—Carnis resurrectionem et vitam eternam!"
With these words upon his lips, the poor wine-dealer expired. Meanwhile the notary sat cowering over the fire, aghast at the fearful scene that was passing before him, and now and then striving to keep up his courage by a glass of cognac. Already his fears were on the alert; and the idea of contagion flitted to and fro through his mind. In order to quiet these thoughts of evil import, he lighted his pipe and began to prepare for returning home. At that moment the apothecary turned round to him and said,—
"Dreadful sickly time, this! The disorder seems to be spreading."
"What disorder?" exclaimed the notary, with a movement of surprise.
"Two died yesterday, and three to-day," continued the apothecary, without answering the question. "Very sickly time, sir,—very."
"But what disorder is it? What disease has carried off my friend here so suddenly?"
"What disease? Why, scarlet fever, to be sure."
"And is it contagious?"
"Certainly!"
"Then I am a dead man!" exclaimed the notary, putting his pipe into his waistcoat-pocket, and beginning to walk up and down the room in despair. "I am a dead man! Now don't deceive me,—don't, will you? What—what are the symptoms?"
"A sharp, burning pain in the right side," said the apothecary.
"O, what a fool I was to come here!"
In vain did the housekeeper and the apothecary strive to pacify him;—he was not a man to be reasoned with; he answered that he knew his own constitution better than they did, and insisted upon going home without delay. Unfortunately, the vehicle he came in had returned to the city, and the whole neighborhood was abed and asleep. What was to be done? Nothing in the world but to take the apothecary's horse, which stood hitched at the door, patiently waiting his master's will.
Well, gentlemen, as there was no remedy, our notary mounted this raw-boned steed and set forth upon his homeward journey. The night was cold and gusty, and the wind right in his teeth. Overhead the leaden clouds were beating to and fro, and through them the newly-risen moon seemed to be tossing and drifting along like a cock-boat in the surf; now swallowed up in a huge billow of cloud, and now lifted upon its bosom and dashed with silvery spray. The trees by the road-side groaned with a sound of evil omen; and before him lay three mortal miles, beset with a thousand imaginary perils. Obedient to the whip and spur, the steed leaped forward by fits and starts, now dashing away in a tremendous gallop, and now relaxing into a long, hard trot; while the rider, filled with symptoms of disease and dire presentiments of death, urged him on, as if he were fleeing before the pestilence.
In this way, by dint of whistling and shouting, and beating right and left, one mile of the fatal three was safely passed. The apprehensions of the notary had so far subsided, that he even suffered the poor horse to walk up hill; but these apprehensions were suddenly revived again with tenfold violence by a sharp pain in the right side, which seemed to pierce him like a needle.
"It is upon me at last!" groaned the fear-stricken man. "Heaven be merciful to me, the greatest of sinners! And must I die in a ditch, after all? He! get up,—get up!"
And away went horse and rider at full speed,—hurry-scurry,—up hill and down,—panting and blowing like a whirlwind. At every leap the pain in the rider's side seemed to increase. At first it was a little point like the prick of a needle,—then it spread to the size of a half-franc piece,—then covered a place as large as the palm of your hand. It gained upon him fast. The poor man groaned aloud in agony; faster and faster sped the horse over the frozen ground,—farther and farther spread the pain over his side. To complete the dismal picture the storm commenced,—snow mingled with rain. But snow, and rain, and cold were naught to him; for, though his arms and legs were frozen to icicles, he felt it not; the fatal symptom was upon him; he was doomed to die,—not of cold, but of scarlet fever!
At length, he knew not how, more dead than alive, he reached the gate of the city. A band of ill-bred dogs, that were serenading at a corner of the street, seeing the notary dash by, joined in the hue and cry, and ran barking and yelping at his heels. It was now late at night, and only here and there a solitary lamp twinkled from an upper story. But on went the notary, down this street and up that, till at last he reached his own door. There was a light in his wife's bedroom. The good woman came to the window, alarmed at such a knocking, and howling, and clattering at her door so late at night; and the notary was too deeply absorbed in his own sorrows to observe that the lamp cast the shadow of two heads on the window-curtain.
"Let me in! let me in! Quick! quick!" he exclaimed, almost breathless from terror and fatigue.
"Who are you, that come to disturb a lone woman at this hour of the night?" cried a sharp voice from above. "Begone about your business, and let quiet people sleep."
"Come down and let me in! I am your husband! Don't you know my voice? Quick, I beseech you; for I am dying here in the street!"
After a few moments of delay and a few more words of parley, the door was opened, and the notary stalked into his domicile, pale and haggard in aspect, and as stiff and straight as a ghost. Cased from head to heel in an armor of ice, as the glare of the lamp fell upon him, he looked like a knight-errant mailed in steel. But in one place his armor was broken. On his right side was a circular spot, as large as the crown of your hat, and about as black!
"My dear wife!" he exclaimed with more tenderness than he had exhibited for many years, "Reach me a chair. My hours are numbered. I am a dead man!"
Alarmed at these exclamations, his wife stripped off his overcoat. Something fell from beneath it, and was dashed to pieces on the hearth. It was the notary's pipe! He placed his hand upon his side, and, lo! it was bare to the skin! Coat, waistcoat, and linen were burnt through and through, and there was a blister on his side as large as your hand!
The mystery was soon explained, symptom and all. The notary had put his pipe into his pocket without knocking out the ashes! And so my story ends.
"Is that all?" asked the radical, when the story-teller had finished.
"That is all."
"Well, what does your story prove?"
"That is more than I can tell. All I know is that the story is true."
"And did he die?" said the nice little man in gosling-green.
"Yes; he died afterwards," replied the story-teller, rather annoyed by the question.
"And what did he die of?" continued gosling-green, following him up.
"What did he die of? why, he died—of a sudden!"
HOLLY SONG
BY CLINTON SCOLLARDCare is but a broken bubble, Trill the carol, troll the catch;Sooth, we'll cry, "A truce to trouble!" Mirth and mistletoe shall match. Happy folly! we'll be jolly! Who'd be melancholy now? With a "Hey, the holly! Ho, the holly!" Polly hangs the holly bough.Laughter lurking in the eye, sir, Pleasure foots it frisk and free.He who frowns or looks awry, sir, Faith, a witless wight is he! Merry folly! what a volley Greets the hanging of the bough! With a "Hey, the holly! Ho, the holly!" Who'd be melancholy now?SONGS WITHOUT WORDS
BY ROBERT J. BURDETTEI can not sing the old songs, Though well I know the tune,Familiar as a cradle song With sleep-compelling croon;Yet though I'm filled with music As choirs of summer birds,"I can not sing the old songs"— I do not know the words.I start on "Hail Columbia," And get to "heav'n-born band,"And there I strike an up-grade With neither steam nor sand;"Star Spangled Banner" downs me Right in my wildest screaming,I start all right, but dumbly come To voiceless wreck at "streaming."So, when I sing the old songs, Don't murmur or complainIf "Ti, diddy ah da, tum dum," Should fill the sweetest strain.I love "Tolly um dum di do," And the "trilla-la yeep da"-birds,But "I can not sing the old songs"— I do not know the words.TRIOLETS
BY C.W.MShe threw me a kiss, But why did she throw it?What grieves me is this—She threw me a kiss;Ah, what chances we miss If we only could know it!She threw me a kiss But why did she throw it!Any girl might have known When I stood there so near!And we two all aloneAny girl might have knownThat she needn't have thrown! But then girls are so queer!Any girl might have known, When I stood there so near!WHAT SHE SAID ABOUT IT
BY JOHN PAULLyrics to Inez and Jane, Dolores and Ethel and May;Señoritas distant as Spain, And damsels just over the way!It is not that I'm jealous, nor that, Of either Dolores or Jane,Of some girl in an opposite flat, Or in one of his castles in Spain,But it is that salable prose Put aside for this profitless strain,I sit the day darning his hose— And he sings of Dolores and Jane.Though the winged-horse must caracole free— With the pretty, when "spurning the plain,"Should the team-work fall wholly on me While he soars with Dolores and Jane?I am neither Dolores nor Jane, But to lighten a little my lifeMight the Poet not spare me a strain— Although I am only his wife!AN EDUCATIONAL PROJECT
BY ROY FARRELL GREENESince schools to teach one this or that Are being started every day,I have the plan, a notion pat, Of one which I am sure would pay.'Twould be a venture strictly new, No shaking up of dusty bones;How does the scheme appeal to you? A regular school for chaperones!One course would be to dull the ear, And one would be to dim the eye,So whispered love they'd never hear, And glance coquettish never spy;They'd be taught somnolence, and how Ofttimes closed eye for sleep atones;Had I a million, I'd endow A regular school for chaperones!There's crying need in West and East For graduates, and not a sourceSupplying it. Some one at least Should start a correspondence course;But joy will scarce o'errun the cup Of maidenhood, my candor owns,Till some skilled Mentor opens up A regular school for chaperones!THE CAMP-MEETING
The camp was furnished with several stands for preaching, exhorting, jumping and jerking; but still one place was the pulpit, above all others. This was a large scaffold, secured between two noble sugar trees, and railed in to prevent from falling over in a swoon, or springing over in an ecstasy; its cover the dense foliage of the trees, whose trunks formed the graceful and massive columns. Here was said to be also the altar, but I could not see its horns or any sacrifice; and the pen, which I did see—a place full of clean straw, where were put into fold stray sheep willing to return. It was at this pulpit, with its altar and pen, the regular preaching was done; around here the congregation assembled; hence orders were issued; here, happened the hardest fights, and were gained the greatest victories, being the spot where it was understood Satan fought in person; and here could be seen gestures the most frantic, and heard noises the most unimaginable, and often the most appalling. It was the place, in short, where most crowded either with praiseworthy intentions of getting some religion, or with unholy purposes of being amused; we, of course, designing neither one nor the other, but only to see philosophically and make up an opinion. At every grand outcry a simultaneous rush would, however, take place from all parts of the camp, proper and improper, towards the pulpit, altar, and pen; till the crowding, by increasing the suffocation and the fainting, would increase the tumult and the uproar; but this, in the estimation of many devotees, only rendered the meeting more lively and interesting.
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