The Project Gutenberg EBook of O. Henry Encore, by William Sydney Porter

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Title: O. Henry Encore

Author: William Sydney Porter

Editor: Mary Sunlocks Harrell

Release Date: March 29, 2020 [EBook #61701]
[Last updated: September 17, 2020]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK O. HENRY ENCORE ***




Produced by Vince Rice




O. HENRY ENCORE

STORIES AND ILLUSTRATIONS BY O. HENRY * _Usually Under the Name_
The Post Man * _Discovered and Edited by_ Mary Sunlocks Harrell



_New York 1939_

Doubleday, Doran & Company, Inc.

Printed at the _Country Life Press_, Garden City, N.Y., U.S.A.

CL
Copyright, 1939
By Mary Sunlocks Harrell
All Rights Reserved



TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface

Introduction

Part One: Stories
A Night Errant
In Mezzotint
The Dissipated Jeweler
How Willie Saved Father
The Mirage on the Frio
A Tragedy
Sufficient Provocation
The Bruised Reed
Paderewski's Hair
A Mystery of Many Centuries
A Strange Case
Simmon's Saturday Night
An Unknown Romance
Jack the Giant Killer
The Pint Flask
An Odd Character
A Houston Romance
The Legend of San Jacinto
Binkley's Practical School of Journalism
A New Microbe
Vereton Villa
Whiskey Did It
Nothing New Under the Sun
Led Astray
A Story for Men
How She Got in the Swim
The Barber Talks
Barbershop Adventure

Part Two: Sketches
Did You See the Circus?
Thanksgiving Remarks
When the Train Comes In
Christmas Eve
New Year's Eve and How It Came to Houston
Watchman, What of the Night?
Newspaper Poets
Her Choice

Part Three: Newspaper Poetry
Topical Verse
Cape Jessamines
The Cricket
My Broncho
The Modern Venus
Celestial Sounds
The Snow
"Little Things, but Ain't They Whizzers?"
Last Fall of the Alamo



Preface

During the years 1934 and 1935 I made a close study of O. Henry's
Texas contacts. The newspapers of Texas during the time of O. Henry's
residence in the state furnished one of the sources which I
investigated; and it was during my research in the files of the
_Houston Post_, 1895-1896, that I discovered the stories and
illustrations which make up this book. In reprinting this material, I
have followed the original version meticulously except for the
correction of obvious typographical errors and certain slight
aberrations in punctuation that seemed to demand revision for the sake
of consistency or to comply with modern standards of usage. Even so, I
have allowed many typographical and even grammatical conventions to
remain as they were printed forty years ago.

The companion volume to O. Henry Encore, namely, O. Henry in Texas,
embodies the results of my investigation into the Texas period of O.
Henry's life, and contains a much more complete account of his work on
the _Houston Post_ than I have been able to give in the short
introduction to the present volume.

Permission for reprinting the material here was arranged for me by
former Governor W. P. Hobby of Texas, now President of the Houston
Post, and Mr. A. E. Clarkson, Business Manager of the Post. I am happy
to express my gratitude to them. My thanks are due also to Dr.
Leonidas Warren Payne, Jr., of The University of Texas, Dr. Vernon
Loggins, of Columbia University, and the late Dr. Dorothy Scarborough,
of Columbia University, for helping in the identification of the
material. Mary Sunlocks Harrell



Introduction

O. Henry's real name was William Sidney (Sydney) Porter. He was born
in Greensboro, North Carolina, 1862, of mixed Quaker (Connecticut) and
Southern (Virginia) ancestry. His mother, a woman of remarkable
strength of character and some literary talent, died in 1865, and O.
Henry's rearing was entrusted to his paternal grandmother. His father
was a physician, but apparently a business failure at everything he
attempted. What schooling O. Henry had was received in the little
private school of an aunt, Miss Lina Porter. From early boyhood he
worked in the drug store of an uncle, and long before he was twenty he
was a registered pharmacist.

In 1882 O. Henry left for Texas to seek a dryer climate. It was feared
that he was developing consumption. He settled on the Hall ranch in La
Salle County, almost half way between San Antonio and the Mexican
border. He spent two years on the ranch and in 1884 went to Austin.
During his first three years there, he lived as practically an adopted
son in the home of Mr. Joe Harrell, who was also a native of
Greensboro. He worked at various "jobs"--cigar-store clerk,
pharmacist, etc.

In 1887 O. Henry secured a position in the State Land Office as
assistant compiling draftsman. Here he remained for four years--the
happiest ones, it seems, in his life. The position meant to him
prosperity; and five months after he had begun his work, he was
married to Miss Athol Estes, the daughter of Mrs. G. P. Roach. There
was a romantic elopement, a family reconciliation, and what O. Henry
called "a settling down to a comedy of happiness ever afterwards."
It was shortly after he took up his work in the Land Office that O.
Henry first marketed his writings. The amount received for a "string
of jokes and sketches" accepted by the Detroit Free Press was small,
but it was to increase steadily, even during the most troublous period
of his life. As a boy in Greensboro he was known for his drawings and
cartoons, and while on the ranch in Texas he drew some pictures and
also wrote to his relatives and friends in North Carolina letters
indicative of his later literary style.

A change in the State administration in 1891 meant that O. Henry's
position in the Land Office was lost. He became connected with the
First National Bank of Austin as paying and receiving teller, where he
was to work until December, 1894. Before giving up his position in the
bank, he had undertaken the publication of a humorous, semi-political
weekly, The Rolling Stone, published at Austin and later
simultaneously in Austin and San Antonio. After he left the bank, he
had to depend on The Rolling Stone for all his income, but without
capital he could not make of it a financial success. It existed only a
year, from April 28, 1894, to April 27, 1895. Almost six months passed
before O. Henry left Austin to become a staff contributor to the
_Houston Daily Post_. His first work appeared in the Post on October
19, 1895.

It was shortly after this date that an ominous shadow settled over O.
Henry's head. In February of 1896 the Federal Grand Jury at Austin
brought an indictment against W. S. Porter, charging the embezzlement
of funds while he was acting as paying and receiving teller of the
First National Bank of Austin. Finally, summoned to trial in July,
1896, O. Henry left Houston to answer the charge; but he only got as
far as Hempstead. There it was necessary to change trains; but instead
of taking the train for Austin, he returned to Houston and then went
on to New Orleans. When next heard from, he was in Honduras. In
January, 1897, after six month's absence O. Henry received news of the
serious illness of his wife. He set out to join her immediately and
reached Austin by February 5, 1897. He at once reported to the civil
authorities. His bondsmen had not been assessed, and he was allowed to
go free but with his bond doubled.

His wife died of tuberculosis the following July, and in February,
1898, O. Henry' case came to trial. He plead not guilty, but for some
unknown reason he maintained an utter indifference throughout the
trial. On March 25 he was sentenced to imprisonment in the Federal
Ward of the Ohio State Penitentiary. On account of good behavior,
however, O. Henry's term in prison was shortened to a little over
three years. On July 24, 1901, he again became a free man. His ability
as a pharmacist gave him the opportunity to work in prison at
something comparatively easy. But what is of most interest to us in
regard to his life there is that by the time he got out of confinement
he was pretty well known, under the pseudonym of O. Henry by editors
of a number of America's most popular magazines.

As soon as he was out of prison O. Henry went to join his daughter and
the Roaches, who were then living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He now
devoted all his energies to writing, and in the spring of 1902 he was
called to New York. The eight years that O. Henry spent in the great
metropolis were marked by an astonishing fecundity in literary
production and an ever increasing fame as the writer of a peculiar
type of short story, now known universally as the "O. Henry short
story."

O. Henry died in New York City on June 5,
1910, and was buried in Asheville, North Carolina. The only other
event of his life which should be recorded here is his marriage in
1907 to Miss Sara Coleman, a sweetheart of his North Carolina days,
and author of Wind of Destiny in which appear many letters written to
her by O. Henry just before their marriage.

    II

Practically the whole body of O. Henry's stories and sketches first
appeared in periodicals. Doubleday, Page & Company (now Doubleday,
Doran and Company) have put into book form almost everything he wrote,
and the volumes in the order of their publication are as follows:
_Cabbages and Kings_, 1904; _The Four Million_, 1906; The Trimmed Lamp
and _Heart of the West_, 1907; _The Voice of the City_ and _The Gentle
Grafter_, 1908; _Roads of Destiny_ and _Options_, 1909; _Strictly
Business_ and _Whirligigs_, 1910; _Sixes and Sevens_, 1911; Rolling
Stones, 1913; _Waifs and Strays_, 1917. In 1923 Harper and Brothers
brought out _Postscripts_ by O. Henry, edited by Florence Stratton.

The title of _Rolling Stones_, invented by Harry Peyton Steger, is
based on the weekly, _The Rolling Stone_, published by O. Henry in
Texas in 1894 and 1895. It contains odds and ends; some stories
written when O. Henry was at his best, "The Fog in Santone," for
example; material used in the original The Rolling Stone; excerpts
from the Postscripts column written for the _Houston Post_; and a few
letters. _Postscripts_ by O. Henry, as the name suggests, contains
material taken from Will Porter's _Houston Post_ column. _The Four
Million_ is based on New York life, and _The Trimmed Lamp_, _The Voice
of the City_, and _Strictly Business_ are simply "more stories of the
four million." _Heart of the West_ is made up exclusively of western
stories. _Cabbages and Kings_, a composite of several individual
stories separately published and now woven together, depicts life as
O. Henry saw it in Honduras, Central America. _The Gentle Grafter_ is
supposedly based upon stories which O. Henry heard his fellow
prisoners relate in the Ohio Penitentiary. The other volumes are made
up of stories varied in character--New York, Texas, and tropical
America.

Just as every other great artist has done, O. Henry has set an
example. He invented a short-story technique of his own, and the most
discriminating critics have studied that technique and pronounced it
good. He owed no more to the "unity of impression idea" of Poe than to
the stringy structure of the medieval Patient Griselda. Almost by
chance, it seems, he hit upon the trick of concentration of attention,
economy of words, rising suspense, and denouement of climax and
surprise; and in that trick lies his art.

There was in O. Henry, however, a power greater than his art. That was
his genius for observation. Art without ideas profits nothing. O.
Henry got his ideas by seeing everything about him, by always keeping
on the qui vive, as he himself said, for "the man around the corner."
Fate dealt him a life of manifold experiences, and from every
experience his store of observations increased. After all, his works
are no more than an artistic record of life as he saw it.

    III

The stories that make up the present volume have for forty years
remained unnoticed in the files of the _Houston Post_. The general
belief that O. Henry was simply a columnist on the Post is probably
the reason for their being overlooked. The idea that his column
appeared regularly has, furthermore, tended to dismiss the question of
what sort of work he really did on the paper. When I examined the
files of the Post, I was surprised to find that the column "Some
Postscripts" was often missing. In February, 1896, it came out only
four times, in April seven, in June three. In spite of this
irregularity Will Porter's salary had gradually been raised from $15
to $25 a week.

Here is a situation which has only one logical explanation. O. Henry
must have done other work in order to draw this steadily increasing
weekly salary. A close examination of the Houston Post files from
October 19, 1895, to June 22, 1896, reveals a mass of material,
heretofore unidentified, as unmistakably the work of Will Porter.

What first attracts the eye is the abundance of unsigned comic
drawings and clever cartoons. The style of these drawings is
unquestionably O. Henry's. We know from various sources that he was
constantly drawing pictures, and we have a positive statement from
Colonel R. M. Johnston, under whom Will Porter worked on the Houston
Post, that his ability to draw cartoons was called into requisition
soon after he joined the staff of the Post. Some of the best of these
cartoons depict the political situation of the time. Others are
entirely independent of politics and point to the development of the
present-day comic strips in all newspapers. Sometimes they portray
character traits and are accompanied by rhymed quips. At other times
they are used to illustrate lengthy stories. These stories, of course,
were composed by Will Porter, and from them the selections for this
volume have been made.

The word-usage, sentence-structure, mythological allusion,
plot-manipulation, character types, and central ideas that
characterize O. Henry's short stories generally, are also plainly
recognizable in these selections from the _Houston Post_. For example,
"A Tragedy" not only turns on a pun, as O. Henry's stories often do,
but is based upon the story of The Arabian Nights, which later colored
O. Henry's whole conception of New York City, Little-Old-Bagdad-on-
the-Subway. The central idea of "An Odd Character," the story of a
tramp who claims to be 241 years old, appeared later in "The Enchanted
Kiss" and "Door of Unrest."

The characters of these earlier stories--shop-girls, Irish policemen,
crooks, tramps, sheep-men, cowmen, drunkards, pharmacists, doctors,
newspaper reporters, dudes--are practically identical with many of
those used in later O. Henry stories. Likewise, O. Henry's propensity
for the use of the "envelope structure," the sort provided by the
pilgrimage in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, and "narrated development,"
or the telling of the story by one of the characters, is very much in
evidence in these _Houston Post_ stories, as in a number of his later
acknowledged works. For example, in "The Mirage on the Frio" a
sheep-man from La Salle County tells his story to a group of men on a
Buffalo Bayou fishing party; and later in Cabbages and Kings the story
of "The Shamrock and the Palm" is told by the Irishman Clancy to a
group of fellow Caucasians who have met at the end of a tropical day.
A large amount of internal evidence, moreover, points emphatically to
O. Henry as the author of these pieces. They have the unmistakable
stylistic qualities, the humorous point of view, the unexpected
climaxes of O. Henry, After a careful and detailed study of every
single piece of the material here reproduced, along with the
application of various stylistic tests, I was thoroughly convinced of
the authenticity of its authorship. In order to support my own
convictions, however, I consulted experts who have been students of O.
Henry for years. Dr. L. W. Payne, Jr., of The University of Texas, Dr.
Vernon Loggins, of Columbia University, and Dr. Dorothy Scarborough,
also of Columbia and compiler of many books of short stories, examined
photostatic copies which I had made of the material. They are
unanimous in the opinion that the authorship of both the drawings with
their legends and the articles and stories may be safely attributed to
O. Henry's pen.

The nature of the material included in this volume determined the
arrangement of the book into three parts. The stories in the first
part show that Will Porter had already discovered the technique that
made him famous as O. Henry. The sketches in the second part show O.
Henry at work-gathering story material from his observations of life.
Will Porter's ventures into the realm of newspaper poetry, I have
included in order to illustrate the principles set forth in his
article "Newspaper Poets," also reprinted here. As far as I know, this
article is the only bit of serious literary criticism ever written by
O. Henry. It is noteworthy also as the only article in the _Houston
Post_ which was ever signed in full by "W. S. Porter." A more detailed
treatment of this and allied topics concerning O. Henry's life in
Texas may be found in my O. Henry in Texas, designed as a companion
volume to the present book.



Part One: Stories

A Night Errant

One of the greatest of books is the daily life around us. All that the
human mind can conceive; all that the human heart can feel, and the
lips tell are encompassed in the little world about us. He that
beholds with understanding eyes can see beneath the thin veil of the
commonplace, the romance, the tragedy and the broad comedy that is
being played upon the world's stage by the actors great and little who
tread the boards of the Theater of the Universe.

Life is neither tragedy nor comedy. It is a mingling of both. High
above us omnipotent hands pull the strings that choke our laughter
with sobs and cause strange sounds of mirth to break in upon our
deepest grief. We are marionettes that dance and cry, scarce at our
own wills; and at the end, the flaring lights are out, we are laid to
rest in our wooden boxes, and down comes the dark night to cover the
scene of our brief triumph.

We elbow heroes on the streets as grand as any the poets have sung; in
the faces of obscure women and prosy men a student of his kind can see
the imprints of all the passions, both good and bad, that have
illuminated the pages of song and story.

There is good in all, and we are none all good. The scholar in his
library, the woodcutter in the forest, my lady in her boudoir and the
painted, hard-eyed denizen of the byways--we are all from the same
clay.

And the hands of fate pull the strings, and we caper and pirouette;
and some go up and some go down and haphazard chance or else an
obscure divinity pulls us this way and that, and where are we left?
Blind and chattering on the brink of an eternal unknowableness. We
spring from a common root. The king and the bricklayer are equal
except as to environs; the queen and the milkmaid may sit side by side
with pail and crown on the ragged edge of destiny; the human heart is
the same the world over; and when the judge sits upon the doings of
his puppets, who will prevail?

The Post Man has an overcoat with a high collar. This is convenient in
more ways than one. He turns it up when passing beggars upon the
street corners, and thus shuts out their importunities and saves his
conscience; he pulls it around his ears with dignified stateliness
when meeting gentlemen who deal in goods which he hath bought anon;
and lastly, it is useful when the weather is cold.

Sometimes when the purple shades begin to fall on Saturday evening and
the cool mists creep up from the sluggish waters of the bayou the Post
Man dons his useful article of apparel and hieth him forth among the
hedges and the highways. He sees the seamy side through the gilding
that covers the elect of the earth, and he sees the pure gold that
glitters amid the mire where tread the lowly and meek of heart. He
catches the note of discord in the prayer of the Pharisee on the
street corner, and the jangle of the untuned bells that hang above
many houses of worship. He sees strange deeds of nobility and lofty
self-denial among people from whose touch respectability draws aside
its skirts, and the mark of the beast upon the brow of the high and
saintly.

A little here and there he jots down upon his pad; the greater part of
the panorama goes by unrecorded until something comes in the vast To
Be that will either explain--or end.

    * * * * *

Robert Burns has drawn a perfect picture of the purest peace and
happiness in his "Cotter's Saturday Night." The laborer comes home
from his work and is met by his joyful family. The fire burns
brightly, the lamp is lit, and they draw the curtains and sit about
their humble board, shutting in their little happy world from the cold
and bleak night.

There are such homes now and always will be, but if one will traverse
the streets of a city on Saturday night he will witness many scenes of
a far different nature.

As the homeward bound columns file along the sidewalks there is much
to be seen that presages sorrow and scant comfort to the waiting ones
at their homes. There are staggering steps, loud speeches with rude
and thickened tongues, and plentiful signs of misspent wages and the
indulgence of debased appetites.

The saloons are reaping a rich harvest that should belong to wives and
children. Some fling away in an hour what has taken them days to earn,
and will carry home nothing but sullen looks and empty pockets. You
can see all along the streets pale, anxious-looking women slipping
through the crowd in the hope of meeting the providers and protectors
of their homes, and inducing them to come there instead of lingering
with their besotted comrades. What should be a season of rest and
repose beneath the home vine and fig tree is turned into Saturnalia,
and a loosing of bad passions.

Homeward flit the trim shop girls, the week's work over, intent on the
rest and pleasure of the morrow; threading their straightforward and
dextrous way through the throng. Homeward plods the weary housekeeper
with her basket of vegetables for Sunday's dinner. Homeward goes the
solid citizen laden with bundles and bags. Homeward slip weary working
women, hurrying to fill the hungry mouths awaiting them.
Respectability moves homeward, but as the everlasting stars creep out
above, queer and warped things steal forth like imps of the night to
hide, and sulk, and carouse, and prey upon whatever the darkness
bringeth to them.

Down on the bank of the bayou, beyond the car shops, the foundries,
the lumbermills and the great manufactories that go to make Houston
the wonderful business and trade center she is, stands--or rather,
leans--a little shanty. It is made of clapboards, old planks, pieces
of tin and odds and ends of lumber picked up here and there. It is
built close to the edge of the foul and sluggish bayou. Back of it
rises the bank full ten feet high; below it, only a few feet, ripples
the sullen tide.

In this squalid hut lives Crip. Crip is nine years old. He is
freckled-faced, thin and subdued. From his knee his left leg is gone
and in its place is a clumsy wooden stump, on which he limps around at
quite a wonderful pace. Crip's mother cleans up three or four offices
on Main Street and takes in washing at other times. Somehow, they
manage to live in this tottering habitation patched up by Crip's
father, who several years before had fallen into the bayou one night
while drunk, and what was left of him by the catfish was buried upon
the bank a hundred yards farther down. Of late, Crip had undertaken to
assist in the mutual support.

One morning he came stumping timidly into the office of the Post and
purchased a few papers. These he offered for sale upon the streets
with great diffidence. Crip had no difficulty in selling his papers.
People stopped and bought readily the wares of this shrinking,
weak-voiced youngster. His wooden leg caught the eye of hurrying
passersby and the nickels rained into his hand as long as he had any
papers left.

One morning Crip failed to call for his papers. The next day he did
not appear, nor the next, and one of the newsboys was duly questioned
as to his absence.

"Crip's got de pewmonia," he said.

The Post Man, albeit weighed down by numerous tribulations of others
and his own, when night comes puts on his overcoat and wends his way
down the bayou toward the home of Crip.

The air is chilly and full of mist, and great puddles left by the
recent rains glimmer and sparkle in the electric lights. No wonder
that pneumonia has laid its cold hand upon the frail and weakly Crip,
living as he does in the rain-soaked shanty down on the water's edge.
The Post Man goes to inquire if he has had a doctor and if he is
supplied with the necessities his condition must require. He walks
down the railroad tracks and comes close upon two figures marching
with uncertain stateliness in the same direction.

One of them speaks loudly, with oratorical flourish, but with an
exaggerated carefulness that proclaims he is in a certain stage of
intoxication. His voice is well known in the drawing-rooms and the
highest social circles of Houston. His name is--well, let us call him
Old Boy, for so do his admiring companions denominate him. There comes
hurrying past them the form of a somberly-clad woman.

Intuitively the Post Man thinks she is of the house of Crip and
accosts her with interrogatories. He gleans from her gasping brogue
that a doctor has seen Crip and that he is very sick, but with proper
medicines, nursing and food he will probably recover. She is now
hastening to the drug store to buy--with her last dollar, she
says--the medicine he must take at once.

"I will stay with him until you return," says the Post Man, and with a
fervent "Hiven bless you, sorr!" she melts away toward the lights of
the city.

The house where Crip lives is on a kind of shelf on the bayou side and
its approach from above must be made down a set of steep and roughly
hewn steps cut into the bank by the deceased architect of the house.
At the top of these stairs the two society lights stop.

"Old Boy," says one of them, "give it up. It might be catching. And
you are going to the dance tonight. This little rat of a newsboy--why
should you see him personally? Come, let's go back. You've had so
much--"

"Bobby," says the Old Boy, "have I labored all these years in vain,
trying to convince you that you are an ass? I know I'm a devil of a
buzzerfly, and glash of fashion, but I've gozzer see zat boy. Sold me
papers a week, 'n now zey tell me he's sick in this ratsh hole down
here. Come on, Bobby, or else go't devil. I'm going in."

Old Boy pushes his silk hat to the back of his head and starts with
dangerous rapidity down the steep stairs.

His friend, seeing that he is determined, takes his arm and they both
sway and stagger down to the little shelf of land below.

The Post Man follows them silently, and they are too much occupied
with their own unsteady progress to note his presence. He slips around
them, raises the latch of the rickety door, stoops and enters the
miserable hut.

Crip lies on a meager bed in the corner, with great, feverish eyes,
and little, bony, restless fingers moving nervously upon the covers.
The night wind blows in streamy draughts between the many crannies and
flares the weak flame of a candle stuck in its own grease upon the top
of a wooden box.

"Hello, mister," says Crip. "I knows yer. Yer works on de paper. I
been laid up wid a rattlin' pain in me chist. Who wins de fight?"

"Fitzsimmons won," says the Post Man, feeling his hot freckled hand.
"Are you in much pain?"

"How many rounds?"

"First round. Less than two minutes. Can I do anything to make you
easier?"

"Geeminetty! dat was quick. Yer might gimme a drink."

The door opens again and two magnificent beings enter. Crip gives a
little gasp as his quick eyes fall upon them. Old Boy acknowledges the
presence of the Post Man by a deep and exaggerated but well
intentioned bow, and then he goes and stands by Crip's bedside.

"Old man," he says, with solemnly raised eyebrows, "Whazzer mazzer?"

"Sick," says Crip. "I know yer. Yer gimme a quarter for a paper one
mornin'."

Old Boy's friend ranges himself in the background. He is a man in a
dress suit with a mackintosh and cane, and is not of an obtrusive
personality.

He shows an inclination to brace himself against something, but the
fragile furniture of the hut not promising much support, he stands
uneasily, with a perplexed frown upon his face, awaiting developments.

"You little devil," says Old Boy, smiling down with mock anger at the
little scrap of humanity under the covers, "Do you know why I've come
to see you?"

"N-n-n-no, sir," says Crip, the fever flush growing deeper on his
cheeks. He has never seen anything so wonderful as this grand, tall,
handsome man in his black evening suit, with the dark, half-smiling,
half-frowning eyes, and the great diamond flashing on his snowy bosom,
and the tall, shiny hat on the back of his head.

"Gen'lemen," says Old Boy, with a comprehensive wave of his hand, "I
don't know myself, why I have come here, but I couldn't help it. That
little devil's eyes have been in my head for a week. I've never sheen
him 'n my life till a week ago; but I've sheen his eyes somewhere,
long time ago. Sheems to me I knew this little rascal when I was a kid
myself 'way back before I left Alabama; but, then, gentlemen, thash
impossible. However, as Bobby will tell you, I made him walk all the
way down here with me to shee zis little sick fellow, 'n now we mus'
do all we can for 'm."

Old Boy runs his hands into his pockets and draws out the contents
thereof and lays all, with lordly indiscrimination, on the ragged
quilt that covers Crip.

"Little devil," he says solemnly, "you mus' buy medicine and get well
and come back and shell me papers again. Where in thunder have I seen
you before? Never mind. Come on, Bobby--good boy to wait for me--come
on now and le's get a zrink."

The two magnificent gentlemen sway around grandly for a moment, make
elaborate but silent adieus in the direction of Crip and the Post Man,
and finally dwindle out into the darkness, where they can be heard
urging each other forward to the tremendous feat of remounting the
steps that lead to the path above.

Presently Crip's mother returns with his medicine and proceeds to make
him comfortable. She gives a screech of surprise at what she sees
lying upon the bed, and proceeds to take an inventory. There are $42
in currency, $6.50 in silver, a lady's silver slipper buckle and an
elegant pearl-handled knife with four blades.

The Post Man sees Crip take his medicine and his fever go down, and
promising him to bring down a paper that tells all about the great
fight, he moves away. A thought strikes him, and he stops near the
door and says:

"Your husband, now where was he from?"

"Oh, plaze yer honor," says Crip's mother, "from Alabama he was, and a
gentleman born, as everyone could tell till the dhrink got away wid
him, and thin he married me."

As the Post Man departs he hears Crip say to his mother reverentially:

"Dat man what left de stuff, mammy, he couldn't have been God, for God
don't get full; but if it wasn't him, mammy, I bet a dollar he was Dan
Stuart."

As the Post Man trudges back along the dark road to the city, he says
to himself:

"We have seen tonight good springing up where we would never have
looked for it, and something of a mystery all the way from Alabama.
Heigho! this is a funny little world."

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, March 1, 1896.)



In Mezzotint

The doctor had long ago ceased his hospital practice, but whenever
there was a case of special interest among the wards, his spirited
team of bays was sure to be seen standing at the hospital gates.
Young, handsome, at the head of his profession, possessing an ample
income, and married but six months to a beautiful girl who adored him,
his lot was certainly one to be envied.

It must have been nine o'clock when he reached home. The stableman
took the team, and he ran up the steps lightly. The door opened, and
Doris's arms were flung tightly about his neck, and her wet cheek
pressed to his.

"Oh, Ralph," she said, her voice quivering and plaintive, "you are so
late. You can't think how I miss you when you don't come at the usual
hour. I've kept supper warm for you. I'm so jealous of those patients
of yours--they keep you from me so much."

"How fresh and sweet and wholesome you are, after the sights I have to
see," he said, smiling down at her girlish face with the airy
confidence of a man who knows himself well beloved. "Now, pour my
coffee, little one, while I go up and change clothes."

After supper he sat in the library in his favorite arm chair, and she
sat in her especial place upon the arm of the chair and held a match
for him to light his cigar. She seemed so glad to have him with her;
every touch was a caress, and every word she spoke had that lingering,
loving drawl that a woman uses to but one man--at a time.

"I lost my case of cerebrospinal meningitis tonight," he said gravely.

"I have you, and I don't have you," she said. "Your thoughts are
always with your profession, even when I think you are most mine. Ah,
well," with a sigh, "you help the suffering, and I would see all that
suffer relieved or else like your cerebro--what is it?--patient, at
rest."

"A queer case, too," said the doctor, patting his wife's hand and
gazing into the clouds of cigar smoke. "He should have recovered. I
had him cured, and he died on my hands without any warning.
Ungrateful, too, for I treated that case beautifully. Confound the
fellow. I believe he wanted to die. Some nonsensical romance worried
him into a fever."

"A romance? Oh, Ralph, tell it to me. Just think! A romance in a
hospital."

"He tried to tell it to me this morning in snatches between paroxysms
of pain. He was bending backward till his head almost touched his
heels, and his ribs were nearly cracking, yet he managed to convey
something of his life story."

"Oh, how horrible," said the doctor's wife, slipping her arm between
his neck and the chair.

"It seems," went on the doctor, "as well as I could gather, that some
girl had discarded him to marry a more well-to-do man, and he lost
hope and interest in life, and went to the dogs. No, he refused to
tell her name. There was a great pride in that meningitis case. He
lied like an angel about his own name, and he gave his watch to the
nurse and spoke to her as he would to a queen. I don't believe I ever
will forgive him for dying, for I worked the next thing to a miracle
on him. Well, he died this morning, and--let me get a match--oh, yes,
here's a little thing in my pocket he gave me to have buried with him.
He told me about starting to a concert with this girl one night, and
they decided not to go in, but take a moonlight walk instead. She tore
the ticket in two pieces, and gave him one-half and kept the other.
Here's his half, this little red piece of pasteboard with the word
'Admit--' printed on it. Look out, little one--that old chair arm is
so slippery. Hurt you?"

"No, Ralph. I'm not so easy hurt. What do you think love is, Ralph?"

"Love? Little one! Oh, love is undoubtedly a species of mild insanity.
An overbalance of the brain that leads to an abnormal state. It is as
much a disease as measles, but as yet, sentimentalists refuse to hand
it over to us doctors of medicine for treatment."

His wife took the half of the little red ticket and held it up.
"Admit--" she said, with a little laugh. "I suppose by this time he's
admitted somewhere, isn't he, Ralph?"

"Somewhere," said the doctor, lighting his cigar afresh.

"Finish your cigar, Ralph, and then come up," she said. "I'm a little
tired, and I'll wait for you above."

"All right, little one," said the doctor. "Pleasant dreams!" He smoked
the cigar out, and then lit another.

It was nearly eleven when he went upstairs.

The light in his wife's room was turned low, and she lay upon her bed
undressed. As he stepped to her side and raised her hand, some steel
instrument fell and jingled upon the floor, and he saw upon the white
countenance a creeping red horror that froze his blood.

He sprang to the lamp and turned up the blaze. As he parted his lips
to send forth a shout, he paused for a moment, with his eyes upon his
dead patient's half ticket that lay upon the table. The other half had
been neatly fitted to it, and it now read:

   +-----------+
   | Admit Two |
   +-----------+

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)



The Dissipated Jeweler

You will not find the name of Thomas Keeling in the Houston city
directory. It might have been there by this time, if Mr. Keeling had
not discontinued his business a month or so ago and moved to other
parts. Mr. Keeling came to Houston about that time and opened up a
small detective bureau. He offered his services to the public as a
detective in rather a modest way. He did not aspire to be a rival of
the Pinkerton agency, but preferred to work along less risky lines.

If an employer wanted the habits of a clerk looked into, or a lady
wanted an eye kept upon a somewhat too gay husband, Mr. Keeling was
the man to take the job. He was a quiet, studious man with theories.
He read Gaboriau and Conan Doyle and hoped some day to take a higher
place in his profession. He had held a subordinate place in a large
detective bureau in the East, but as promotion was slow, he decided to
come West, where the field was not so well covered.

Mr. Keeling had saved during several years the sum of $900, which he
deposited in the safe of a business man in Houston to whom he had
letters of introduction from a common friend. He rented a small
upstairs office on an obscure street, hung out a sign stating his
business, and burying himself in one of Doyle's Sherlock Holmes
stories, waited for customers.

Three days after he opened his bureau, which consisted of himself, a
client called to see him.

It was a young lady, apparently about 26 years of age. She was slender
and rather tall and neatly dressed. She wore a thin veil which she
threw back upon her black straw hat after she had taken the chair Mr.
Keeling offered her. She had a delicate, refined face, with rather
quick gray eyes, and a slightly nervous manner.

    * * * * *

"I came to see you, sir," she said in a sweet, but somewhat sad,
contralto voice, "because you are comparatively a stranger, and I
could not bear to discuss my private affairs with any of my friends. I
desire to employ you to watch the movements of my husband. Humiliating
as the confession is to me, I fear that his affections are no longer
mine. Before I married him he was infatuated with a young woman
connected with a family with whom he boarded. We have been married
five years, and very happily, but this young woman has recently moved
to Houston, and I have reasons to suspect that he is paying her
attentions. I want you to watch his movements as closely as possible
and report to me. I will call here at your office every other day at a
given time to learn what you have discovered. My name is Mrs. R----,
and my husband is well known. He keeps a small jewelry store on
Street. I will pay you well for your services and here is $20 to begin
with."

The lady handed Mr. Keeling the bill and he took it carelessly as if
such things were very, very common in his business.

He assured her that he would carry out her wishes faithfully, and
asked her to call again the afternoon after the next at four o'clock,
for the first report.

The next day Mr. Keeling made the necessary inquiries toward beginning
operations. He found the jewelry store, and went inside ostensibly to
have the crystal of his watch tightened. The jeweler, Mr. R----, was a
man apparently 35 years of age, of very quiet manners and industrious
ways. His store was small, but contained a nice selection of goods and
quite a large assortment of diamonds, jewelry and watches. Further
inquiry elicited the information that Mr. R was a man of excellent
habits, never drank and was always at work at his jeweler's bench.

Mr. Keeling loafed around near the door of the jewelry store for
several hours that day and was finally rewarded by seeing a flashily
dressed young woman with black hair and eyes enter the store. Mr.
Keeling sauntered nearer the door, where he could see what took place
inside. The young woman walked confidently to the rear of the store,
leaned over the counter and spoke familiarly to Mr. R----. He rose
from his bench and they talked in low tones for a few minutes.
Finally, the jeweler handed her some coins, which Mr. Keeling heard
clinking as they passed into her hands. The woman then came out and
walked rapidly down the street.

Mr. Keeling's client was at his office promptly at the time agreed
upon. She was anxious to know if he had seen anything to corroborate
her suspicions. The detective told her what he had seen.

"That is she," said the lady, when he had described the young woman
who had entered the store. "The brazen, bold thing! And so Charles is
giving her money. To think that things should come to this pass."

The lady pressed her handkerchief to her eyes in an agitated way.

"Mrs. R----," said the detective, "what is your desire in this matter?
To what point do you wish me to prosecute inquiries?"

"I want to see with my own eyes enough to convince me of what I
suspect. I also want witnesses, so I can instigate suit for divorce. I
will not lead the life I am now living any longer."

She then handed the detective a ten-dollar bill.

On the day following the next, when she came to Mr. Keeling's office
to hear his report, he said:

"I dropped into the store this afternoon on some trifling pretext.
This young woman was already there, but she did not remain long.
Before she left, she said: 'Charlie, we will have a jolly little
supper tonight as you suggest; then we will come around to the store
and have a nice chat while you finish that setting for the diamond
broach with no one to interrupt us.' Tonight, Mrs. R----, I think,
will be a good time for you to witness the meeting between your
husband and the object of his infatuation, and satisfy your mind how
matters stand."

"The wretch," cried the lady with flashing eyes. "He told me at dinner
that he would be detained late tonight with some important work. And
this is the way he spends his time away from me!"

"I suggest," said the detective, "that you conceal yourself in the
store, so you can hear what they say, and when you have heard enough
you can summon witnesses and confront your husband before them."

"The very thing," said the lady. "I believe there is a policeman whose
beat is along the street the store is on who is acquainted with our
family. His duties will lead him to be in the vicinity of the store
after dark. Why not see him, explain the whole matter to him and when
I have heard enough, let you and him appear as witnesses?"

"I will speak with him," said the detective, "and persuade him to
assist us, and you will please come to my office a little before dark
tonight, so we can arrange to trap them."

    * * * * *

The detective hunted up the policeman and explained the situation.

"That's funny," said the guardian of the peace. "I didn't know R----
was a gay boy at all. But, then, you can never tell about anybody. So
his wife wants to catch him tonight. Let's see, she wants to hide
herself inside the store and hear what they say. There's a little room
in the back of the store where R---- keeps his coal and old boxes. The
door between is locked, of course, but if you can get her through that
into the store she can hide somewhere. I don't like to mix up in these
affairs, but I sympathize with the lady. I've known her ever since we
were children and don't mind helping her to do what she wants."

About dusk that evening the detective's client came hurriedly to his
office. She was dressed plainly in black and wore a dark round hat and
her face was covered with a veil.

"If Charlie should see me he will not recognize me," she said.

Mr. Keeling and the lady strolled down the street opposite the jewelry
store, and about eight o'clock the young woman they were watching for
entered the store. Immediately afterwards she came out with Mr. R----,
took his arm, and they hurried away, presumably to their supper.

The detective felt the arm of the lady tremble.

"The wretch," she said bitterly. "He thinks me at home innocently
waiting for him while he is out carousing with that artful, designing
minx. Oh, the perfidy of man."

Mr. Keeling took the lady through an open hallway that led into the
back yard of the store. The outer door of the back room was unlocked,
and they entered.

"In the store," said Mrs. R----, "near the bench where my husband
works is a large table, the cover of which hangs to the floor. If I
could get under that I could hear every word that was said."

Mr. Keeling took a big bunch of skeleton keys from his pocket and in a
few minutes found one that opened the door into the jewelry store. The
gas was burning from one jet turned very low.

The lady stepped into the store and said: "I will bolt this door from
the inside, and I want you to follow my husband and that woman. See if
they are at supper, and if they are, when they start back, you must
come back to this room and let me know by tapping thrice on the door.
After I listen to their conversation long enough I will unbolt the
door, and we will confront the guilty pair together. I may need you to
protect me, for I do not know what they might attempt to do to me."

    * * * * *

The detective made his way softly out and followed the jeweler and the
woman. He soon discovered that they had taken a private room in a
little out of the way restaurant and had ordered supper. He lingered
about until they came out and then hurried back to the store, and
entering the back room, tapped three times on the door.

In a few minutes the jeweler entered with the woman and the detective
saw the light shine more brightly through a crack in the door. He
could hear the man and woman conversing familiarly and constantly, but
could not distinguish their words. He slipped around again to the
street, and looking through the window, could see Mr. R---- working
away at his jeweler's bench, while the black-haired woman sat close to
his side and talked.

"I'll give them a little time," thought Mr. Keeling, and he strolled
down the street.

The policeman was standing on the corner.

The detective told him that Mrs. R---- was concealed in the store, and
that the scheme was working nicely.

"I'll drop back behind now," said Mr. Keeling, "so as to be ready when
the lady springs her trap."

The policeman walked back with him, and took a look through the
window.

"They seem to have made up all right," said he. "Where's the other
woman gotten to?"

"Why, there she is sitting by him," said the detective. "I'm talking
about the girl R---- had out to supper."

"So am I," said the detective.

"You seem to be mixed up," said the policeman. "Do you know that lady
with R----?"

"That's the woman he was out with."

"That's R----'s wife," said the policeman. "I've known her for fifteen
years."

"Then, who--?" gasped the detective, "Lord A'mighty, then who's under
the table?"

Mr. Keeling began to kick at the door of the store. Mr. R---- came
forward and opened it.

The policeman and the detective entered. "Look under that table,
quick," yelled the detective. The policeman raised the cover and
dragged out a blade dress, a black veil and a woman's wig of black
hair.

"Is this lady your w-w-wife?" asked Mr. Keeling excitedly, pointing
out the dark-eyed young woman, who was regarding them in great
surprise.

"Certainly," said the jeweler. "Now what the thunder are you looking
under my tables and kicking down my door for, if you please?"

"Look in your show cases," said the policeman, who began to size up
the situation.

    * * * * *

The diamond rings and watches that were missing amounted to $800, and
the next day the detective settled the bill.

Explanations were made to the jeweler that night, and an hour later
Mr. Keeling sat in his office busily engaged in looking over his
albums of crook's photos.

At last he found one, and he stopped turning over the leaves and tore
his hair. Under the picture of a smooth-faced young man, with delicate
features was the following description:

    "James H. Miggles, alias Slick Simon, alias The Weeping
    Widow, alias Bunco Kate, alias Jimmy the Sneak, General
    confidence man and burglar. Works generally in female
    disguises. Very plausible and dangerous. Wanted in Kansas
    City, Oshkosh, New Orleans and Milwaukee."

This is why Mr. Thomas Keeling did not continue his detective business
in Houston.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)



How Willie Saved Father

Willie Flint was a little Houston boy, six years of age. He was a
beautiful child, with long golden curls and wondering, innocent blue
eyes. His father was a respectable, sober citizen, who owned four or
five large business buildings on Main Street. All day long Mr. Flint
toiled among his renters, collecting what was due him, patching up
broken window panes, nailing down loose boards and repairing places
where the plastering had fallen off. At noon he would sit down upon
the stairs of one of his buildings and eat the frugal dinner he had
brought, wrapped up in a piece of newspaper, and think about the hard
times. Gay and elegantly attired clerks and business men would pass up
and down the stairs, but Mr. Flint did not envy them. He lived in a
little cottage near the large trash pile known as "Tomato Can
Heights," on one of the principal residence streets of Houston. He was
perfectly contented to live there with his wife and little boy Willie,
and eat his frugal but wholesome fare and draw his $1,400 per month
rent for his buildings. He was industrious and temperate, and hardly a
day passed that he did not raise the rent of some of his offices, and
lay by a few more dollars for a rainy day.

One night Mr. Flint came home ill. He had been pasting up some cheap
green wall paper on an empty stomach, or rather on the wall of one of
his stores without eating, and it had not agreed with him. He went to
bed flushed with fever, muttering: "God help my poor wife and child!
What will become of them now?"

Mr. Flint sent Willie to the other side of the room and drew a roll of
greenbacks from under his pillow.

"Take this," he said to his wife, "to the bank and deposit it. There
is only $900 there. Some of my renters have not paid me yet, and five
of them want awnings put up at the windows. He who sent the ravens to
feed Elijah will provide for us. Come by the baker's and get a nickel
loaf of bread, and then hurry back and pray."

Willie was pretending to play with his Noah's ark, by charging the
animals for rent and water, and adding the amounts on his slate, but
he heard what his father said.

As his mother went out, he asked: "Mamma, is papa too sick to work?"

"Yes, dear," said Mrs. Flint; "he has a high fever, and I fear will be
very ill." After his mother had gone Willie put on his hat and slipped
out the front door.

"I want to do something to help my good, kind papa, who is sick," he
said to himself.

He wandered up to Main Street and stood looking at the tall buildings
that his poor father owned.

Passersby smiled when they saw the little flaxen-haired boy, and many
a rough face softened at the sight of his innocent blue eyes. Poor
little Willie. What could he do in the great, busy city to help his
sick father?

"I know what I will do," he said to himself presently. "I will go up
and raise the rent of several offices and that will make my papa feel
better."

Willie toiled up three flights of stairs of one of his father's
largest buildings. He had to sit down quite often and rest, for he was
short on wind.

Away up to the third story was an office rented by two young men who
had just begun to practice law. They had their sign out, and had given
their note to Mr. Flint for the first month's rent. As Willie climbed
the stairs the young lawyers were eating some cheese and crackers,
with their feet on their desks, and six empty quart beer bottles stood
upon a table. They were breathing hard, and one of them, who had a
magnolia in his buttonhole, was telling a funny story about a girl.

Presently one of them took his feet off his desk, opened his eyes and
said: "Jeeminy! Bob, get onto his Fauntleroyets."

The gentleman addressed as Bob also took his feet down, wiped his
knife, with which he had been slicing cheese, on his hair, and looked
around.

A little blue-eyed boy with long golden curls stood in the doorway.

"Come in, sissy," said one of the young men.

Willie walked boldly into the room.

"I'm not a girl," he said. "My name is Willie Flint, and I've come to
raise the rent."

"Now, that's kind of you, Willie," said the young man called Bob, "to
come and do that, for we couldn't do it if we were to be electrocuted.
Is that your own hair, Willie, or do you ride a bicycle?"

"Don't worry the little boy," said the other young gentleman, whom Bob
addressed as Sam. "I'm sure that this is a nice little boy. I say,
Willie, did you ever hear a gumdrop?"

"Don't tease him," said Bob severely. "He reminds me of
someone--excuse my tears--those curls, those bloomers. Say, Willie,
speak quick, my child--two hundred and ten years ago, were you
standing--"

"Oh, let him alone," said Sam, frowning at the other young gentleman.
"Willie, as a personal favor, would you mind weeping a while on the
floor? I am overcome by ennui, and would be moved to joy."

"My papa is very ill," said Willie, bravely forcing back his tears,
"and something must be done for him. Please, kind gentleman, let me
raise the rent of this office so I can go back and tell him and make
him better."

"It's old Flint's kid," said Bob. "Don't he make your face wide? Say,
Willie, how much do you want to raise the rent?"

"What do you pay now?" asked Willie.

"Ten dollars a month."

"Could you make it twelve?"

"Call it fifty," said Sam, lighting a black cigar, "at ninety days,
and open the beer, Willie, and it's a deal."

"Don't talk nonsense," said Bob. "I say, Willie, you may raise the
rent to twenty dollars if you like, and run and tell your father, if
it will do him any good."

"Oh, thank you," cried Willie, and he ran home with a light heart,
singing merrily.

When he got home he found Mr. Flint sinking fast and muttering
something about giving his wife a ten-dollar bill.

"He is out of his head," said Mrs. Flint, bursting into tears.

Willie ran to the bed and whispered to his father's ear: "Papa, I have
raised the rent of one of your offices from ten to twenty dollars."

"You, my child!" said his father, laying his hand on Willie's head.
"God bless my brave little boy."

Mr. Flint sank into a peaceful slumber and his fever left him. The
next day he was able to sit up, and feeling much stronger, when Willie
told him whose rent it was he had raised.

Mr. Flint then fell dead.

Alas! messieurs, life is full of disappointments!

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 3, 1896.)



The Mirage on the Frio

The sheep man rejected the offer of a match, and lit his pipe from a
burning brand. We were down on Buffalo Bayou fishing, and had cooked
and eaten supper. Fried fresh fish, coffee, corn bread, potatoes, and
just enough crisp bacon to flavor gave us a supper at which none
murmured.

We reclined at ease and worshipped the goddess Nicotine. The moon made
a glory in the eastern sky and spread a white shimmering glamour upon
the black water of the bayou. A phantom tug crept down stream, leaving
a ghostly, wavering silver wake, and a mysterious lapping and washing
along the unseen shores. Mosquitoes hummed angrily about the borders
of the hanging cloud of tobacco smoke. A dank fresh smell arose from
bursting buds and wild flowers. We five sat in the chiaroscuro of the
live oaks and cypresses, and babbled as most men and all women will
when Night, the tongue loosener, succeeds the discrete Day.

Night should be held responsible for poets, breach of promise suits,
betrayed secrets and dull stories. The man who will not tell more than
he knows in the moonlight of a spring night is a rarity. Four of us
were more or less hardened to moonlight and roses; one among us was
young enough to note the soft effect of Luna's kiss upon the dim tree
tops, the aerial perspective of the drifting gulf clouds, and the dim
white eyes of the dogwood blossoms peering out of the wooded darkness.
He noted and spake his thoughts without stint of adjectives, while we
world-worn passengers grunted in reply; puffed at our cigars and
pipes, and refused to commit ourselves on such trifling matters.

"Isn't it beautiful?" asked the young man. "The sky like the derne of
some dream temple, the woods dark with mystery and the silence broken
only by the faint breathing of nature."

"It's nice, and no mistake," answered the insurance agent, "but let me
tell you, I've known men to plant the seeds of incurable disease along
this old bayou. Feel that dampness rising every minute? A fellow never
knows what is going to happen. Especially a man with a family
dependent on him should--"

"Shut up," snapped the druggist. "For talking shop, recommend me to a
man in your line. This is a pleasure trip we are on, and I have to
have it spoiled by ringing in business. Talk about your malaria, why,
two bottles of my--"

"There you go, just as bad," said the lawyer. "You fellows have run in
the same old rut so long you can't get your minds on anything else.
Put me on the witness stand, and I'll swear that I never mention my
own business outside of my office; if I don't, kick me clean out of
court."

"This night," said the sheep man, "reminds me of the night I was lost
in the brush along the Frio. That was the night before the morning I
seen the mi-ridge."

"The--ah--oh! the mirage?" said the young man.

"No," said the sheep man, "it wasn't no mi-rosh; this was a mi-ridge,
and the plainest one I ever seen. They happened somethin' queer about
this one, too, and I don't often tell it, after seein' that
incredoolity generally waits upon the relatin' of it."

    * * * * *

"Light up," said the druggist, reaching for the tobacco sack, "and let
us have your yarn. There are very few things a man can't believe
nowadays."

"It was in the fall of '80," said the sheep man, "when I was runnin'
sheep in La Salle County. There came a norther that scattered my flock
of 1500 muttons to thunderation. The shepherd couldn't hold 'em and
they split up right and left, through the chaparral. I got on my hoss
and hunted all one day, and I rounded up the biggest part of 'em
during the afternoon. I seen a Mexican ridin' along what told me they
was a big 'tajo of 'em down near the Palo Blanco crossin' of the Frio.
I rode over that way, and when sundown come I was down in a big
mesquite flat, where I couldn't see fifty yards before me any ways.
Well, I got lost. For some four or five hours my pony stumbled around
in the sacuista grass, windin' about this way and that, without
knowin' any more than I did where he was at. 'Bout 12 o'clock I give
it up, staked my pony and laid down under my saddle blanket to wait
till mornin'. I was awful worried about my wife and the kid, who was
by themselves on the ranch, for I knew they'd be scared half to death.
There wasn't much to be afraid of, but you know how women folks are
when night comes, 'specially when they wasn't any neighbor in ten
miles of 'em.

    * * * * *

"I was up at daylight, and soon as I'd got my bearin's I knowed just
where I was. Right where I was I seen the Fort Ewell road, and a big
dead elm on one side that I knew. I was just eighteen miles from my
ranch. I jumped in the saddle, when all at once, looking across the
Frio towards home, I seen this mi-ridge. These mi-ridges are sure
wonderful. I never seen but three or four. It was a kind of misty
mornin', with woolly gulf clouds a-flyin' across, and the hollows was
all hazy. I seen my ranch house, shearin' pen, the fences with saddles
hangin' on 'em, the wood pile, with the ax stickin' in a log, and
everything about the yard as plain as if they was only 200 yards away,
and I was lookin' at 'em on a foggy mornin'. Everything looked
somewhat ghostly like, and a little taller and bigger than it really
was, but I could see even the white curtains at the windows and the
pet sheep grazin' 'round the corral. It made me feel funny to see
everything so close, when I knew I was eighteen miles away.

"All to once I seen the door open, and wife come out with the kid in
her arms. It was all I could do to keep from hollerin' at her. You
bet, I was glad to see her anyhow, and know they was all safe. Just
then I seen somethin' big and black a-movin', and it growed plainer,
like it had kinder come into focus, and it was a Mexican with a
broad-brimmed sombrero, on a hoss what rode up to the fence. He
stopped there a minute and then I seen my wife run into the house and
shut the door. I seen the Mexican jump off his hoss, try the door, and
then go and get the ax at the wood pile. He came back and commenced to
split down the door. The mi-ridge commenced to get dimmer and faint
like. I don't know what made me do such a fool thing, but I couldn't
help it. I jerked my Winchester out'n its scabbard, drawed a bead on
the darned scoundrel and fired. Then I cussed myself for an idiot, for
tryin' to shoot somethin' eighteen miles away, jabbed my Winchester
back in the scabbard, stuck my spurs in my broncho, and split through
the brush like a roadrunner after a rattlesnake.

    * * * * *

"I made that eighteen miles in eighty minutes. I never took the road,
but crashed through the chaparral, jumped prickly pear and arroyo just
as they come. When I got to the ranch I fell off my pony, and he
leaned up against the fence streamin' wet and lookin' at me mighty
reproachful. I never breathed in jumpin' from the fence to the back
door. I clattered up the steps and yelled for Sallie, but my voice
sounded to me like somebody else's, 'way off. The door opened and out
tumbled the wife and the kid, all right, but scared as wild ducks.
'Oh, Jim,' says the wife, 'where, oh where have you been? A drunken
Mexican attacked the house this morning and tried to cut down the door
with an ax.' I tried to ask some questions, but I couldn't. 'Look,'
says Sallie.

"The other door was busted all to pieces and the ax was lyin' on the
step, and the Mexican was lyin' on the ground and a Winchester ball
had passed clear through his head."

"Who shot him?" asked the lawyer.

"I've told you all I know," said the sheep man. "Sallie said the man
dropped all of a sudden while he was choppin' at the door, and she
never heard no gun shoot. I don't pretend to explain nothin', I'm
telling you what happened. You might say somebody in the brush seen
him breakin' in the door and shot him, usin' noiseless powder, and
then slipped away without leavin' his card, or you might say you don't
know nothin' at all about it, as I do."

"Do you think--" began the young man.

"No, I don't think," said the sheep man, rather shortly. "I said I'd
tell you about the mi-ridge I seen, and I told you just as it
happened. Is they any coffee left in that pot?"

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 19, 1896.)



A Tragedy

"By the beard of the Prophet. Oh, Scheherezade, right well hast thou
done," said the Caliph, leaning back and biting off the end of a
three-for.

For one thousand nights Scheherezade No. 2, daughter of the Grand
Vizier, had sat at the feet of the mighty Caliph of the Indies
relating tales that held the court entranced and breathless.

The soft, melodious sound of falling water from the fountain tinkled
pleasantly upon the ear. Slaves sprinkled attar of roses upon the
tessellated floor, and waved jeweled fans of peacock's feathers in the
air. Outside, in the palace gardens the bulbul warbled in the date
trees, the hoodoo flitted among the banyan branches, and the dying
song of the goo-goo floated in upon the breeze from New York.

"And, now, oh, Scheherezade," continued the Caliph, "your contract
calls for one more tale. One thousand have you told unto us, and we
have rejoiced exceedingly at your narrative powers. Your stories are
all new and do not weary us as do the chestnuts of Marshall P. Wilder.
You are quite a peach. But, listen, oh, Daughter of the Moon, and
first cousin to a phonograph, there is one more yet to come. Let it be
one that has never before been related in the Kingdom. If it be thus,
thou shalt have 10,000 gold pieces and a hundred slaves at thy
command, but if it bear whiskers, then shall thy head pay the
forfeit."

The Caliph made a sign, and Mesrour, the executioner, stepped to the
side of Scheherezade. In his dark hand he held a glittering scimeter.
He folded his arms and stood like a statue as the Caliph spoke again.

"Now, oh, Scheherezade, let her go. If it be that thou givest us
something like that tale No. 475, where the Bagdad merchant was found
by his favorite wife at the roof-garden concert, with his typewriter,
or No. 684, where the Cadi of a certain town came home late from the
lodge with his shoes off and stepped upon a tack, all will be well,
but if you work off a Joe Miller on us, verily you get it in the
neck."

Scheherezade took a fresh chew of gum, sat down on one foot and began.

"Oh, mighty Caliph, I have one story that would hold you spellbound. I
call it my 288 story. But I really can not tell it. I--"

"And why not, oh, Scheherezade?"

"Oh, Brother to the Sun, and Private Secretary to the Milky Way, I am
a modest woman, it is too gross, too gross to relate."

Scheherezade covered her face in confusion.

"Speak, I command you," said the Caliph, drawing nearer. "You need not
mind me. I have read Laura Lean Jibbey and Isben. Go on with 288."

"I have said it, oh, Caliph. It is too gross."

The Caliph made a sign: Mesrour, the executioner, whirled his scimeter
through the air and the head of Scheherezade rolled upon the floor.
The Caliph pulled his beard and muttered softly to himself:

"I knew all the time that 288 is two gross, but puns don't go anywhere
in my jurisdiction at present."

(_Houston Daily Post_, Friday morning, November 8, 1895.)



Sufficient Provocation

"He hit me fust."

"He gimme de probumcation, judge."

"Nebber touched dat nigger tell he up en hit me wid er cheer."

They were two Houston negroes, and they were up before the recorder
for fighting.

"What did you strike this man with a chair for?" asked the recorder.

"I wuz playin' de French hahp, judge, to de ball ob de Sebem
'Mancipated Sons ob de Lebem Virgins, en Sam Hobson he wuz playin' de
guitar fur de niggers to dance by. Dis here coon what I hit thinks he
kin play de French hahp, too, but he kaint."

"Dat's a lie, I kin play--"

"Keep still," said the recorder sternly. "Go on with your statement."

"I wuz playin' en up comes dis here coon what I hit. He am pow'ful
jealous ob my playin' en he wuz mad 'coz de flo' committee selected me
to puhfahm. While I wuz playin' dis obstrepelous coon came right close
up to me en he say: 'Watermillions be gittin' ripe now in nudder
mont'. I keeps on playin'. He says: 'Sposin' you had a great big ripe
watermillion, wid red meat en black seeds.' I keeps on playin'. He
says: 'You take him en bus him open on a rock, en you scoop up a big
han'ful ob de heart, en you look all roun' en nobody come.' I keeps on
playin. He says: 'You cram de heart in yo' mouf, en crunch down on
hit, en de juice hit run down yo' ahm en hit run down yo' chin to yo'
neck, en de sweetness run down you' th'oat.' Den my mouf water so it
fill dat French hahp plum full, en de music stop, en de flo' committee
look aroun'. Den I up wit a chair en bus' dis coon ober de head, en I
flings myself on de mussy ob dis co't, kase, Mars Judge, you knows
what dese here sandy lan' watermillions is yo'sef."

"Get out of here, both of you," said the recorder. "Next case."

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)



The Bruised Reed

The popular preacher sat in his study before a glowing grate, and a
satisfied smile stole over his features, as he remembered his sermon
of that morning. He had struck strong blows at sin; relating to his
breathless congregation in plain and burning words, tales of the
wickedness, debauchery, drunkenness and depravity that was going on in
their very midst.

Following the prominent example of a certain pureminded and original
servant of the Lord, he had gone down himself among the lowest haunts
of vice and iniquity, and there sketched in his mind those flaming and
accusive portraits that he had painted before the astonished eyes of
his congregation, with a broad brush and vivid colors. He had heard
blasphemies from lips that were once as pure as his sisters'; he had
stood in the midst of unbridled vice, where wine flowed like water and
amidst songs, curses, laughing and revelry, the chink of money, earned
by dripping hearts' blood, could be heard as it fell into the coffers
of the devil. Oh, he had astonished his flock! He had hurled at them
fiery words of blame that these things were allowed to exist. It had
been a new departure for him, but he expected grand results. And now
he sat by his anthracite fire, and thought over the success of his
labors, and smiled with satisfaction. The latch of his study door
clicked and a being entered. He was grizzly, rum-soaked, dirty,
ragged, disreputable, blear-eyed and of uncertain step. Once, he might
have been a man.

Across his forehead stretched a long strip of dingy court plaster; on
the bridge of his nose an unhealed wound showed scarlet against the
milder red of his face. He brought with him an odor of
disrespectability, rum and unsanctification.

The preacher rose; a slight distension visible in his delicate
nostril; a little shiver of repulsion rippling through his
broadcloth-vestured figure. "What is it, my good man?" he asked.

    * * * * *

The being spoke, and the preacher still standing, followed him through
the husky labyrinth of his speech.

"Don't yer know me? I lives in 'Hell's Delight.' I knows you. You come
down, you did, and wants ter take in ther sights. You asks Tony, the
Dago, fer a guide and he sends yer to Creepy Jake. That's me. I takes
yer through the dives, one and all. I knows yer a preacher from the
way yer did. Yer buys the wine like a gent, though--like a real, high
roller gent; anybody would 'a took yer fer a gent."

"Excuse me," said the preacher, "that wound on your forehead--the
blood seems to be dripping on those engravings--allow me--"

"Keep your hankcher, reverend," said the being, as he raised a ragged
coat tail and wiped the drops from his brow. "I won't spile yer
pictures. I'll git off en yer carpet, and let some fresh air in in a
minute. One time I could 'a told yer all about them pictures--dat's
Una and de lion--dat one's the Venus of Milo--de other one's the disc
thrower--you wouldn't believe, reverend, that I knowed de names, would
you? One time I set in cheers like dat--I allus liked dat Spanish
leather upholstering, but your wainscotin' ain't right. De carvin's
allegorical and it don't suit de modern panels--'scuse me, reverend,
dat ain't what I come to say. After you took in de Tenderloin, I got
to tinkin' bout somethin' you said one night after I went wid you to
de tough dance at Gilligan's. Dey was a cove dere dat twigged you as a
parson and was about to biff you one on de ear, but he see'd my gun
showin' down in my pocket, and den he see'd my eye, and changed his
mind--but dat's all right. You says to yerself dat night, but I heard
yer: 'De bruised reed he shall not quench, and de smokin' flax he will
not put out,' or somethin' like dat, and I got ter studyin' over what
a low down bum I've been, and I says, 'I'm goin' to de big bug church,
and hear de bloke preach.'

"De boys an' de tinhorns gimme de laugh and called me 'Pious Jake,'
but today I went to der big church where you preaches, reverend. I
says to myself dat I showed you round de Tenderloin, and stood by you
when de rounders guyed you, and never let de coves work de flimflam on
yer, and when I heard tell of the big sermons yer was preachin' and de
hot shot yer was shootin' into de tough gang, I was real proud, and I
felt like I kinder had a share in de business fer havin' gone de
rounds with yer. I says I'll hear dat cove preach, and maybe de
bruised reed'll git a chance to straighten up--'scuse me, reverend,
don't git skeared, I ain't goin' to fall and spile yer carpet. I'm a
little groggy. That cut on my head is bled a heap, but I ain't drunk."

"Perhaps you would like--possibly, if you would sit--just for a
moment--"

"Thanks, reverend, I won't sit down. I've jest about finished shootin'
in my dye stuff. I goes to dat church and I goes in. I hears music
playin', and I suppose them was angels singin' up in de peanut
gallery, an' I smelt--such a smell ov violets and stuff like de hay
when we used to cut it in de meaders when I wuz a kid. Dey wuz fine
people in welvets and folde-rols, and way over at de oder end was you,
reverend, standin' in de gran' stan', lookin' carm and fur away like,
jest as yer did at Gilligan's ball when de duck tried to guy yer, and
I went in fur to hear yer preach."

    * * * * *

A flattering sentence from the report of his sermon in the morning
paper came to the preacher's mind:

"His wonderful, magnetic influence is as powerful to move the hearts
of his roughest, most unlettered hearer, as it is to touch a
responsive chord in the cultured brain of the man of refinement and
taste."

"And my sermon," said the preacher, laying his delicate finger tips
one against the other, and allowing the adulation even of this being
to run with a slight exhilaration through his veins. "Did it awaken in
you any remorse for the life of sin you have led, or bring any light
of Divine pity and pardon to your soul, as He promises even unto the
most degraded and wicked of creation?"

"Yer sermon, reverend?" asked the being, carrying a trembling hand to
the disfiguring wounds upon his face. "Do you see them cuts and them
bruises? Do you know where I got 'em? I never heard yer sermon. I got
dese cuts on de rocks outside when de cop and yer usher fired me out
de church. De bruised reed He will not quench, an' de smokin' flax He
will not 'stinguish. Has you anything to say, reverend?"

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, December 1, 1895.)



Paderewski's Hair

The Post Man had the pleasure of meeting Colonel Warburton Pollock
yesterday in the rotunda of the New Hutchins.

Colonel Pollock is one of the most widely known men in this country,
and has probably a more extended acquaintance with distinguished men
of the times than any other living man. He is a wit, a raconteur of
rare gifts, a born diplomat, and a man of worldwide travel and
experience. Nothing pleases him so well as to relate his extremely
interesting reminiscences of men and events to some congenial circle
of listeners. His recollections of his associations with famous men
and women would fill volumes.

Colonel Pollock has a suite of rooms permanently engaged in a
Washington City hotel, where he passes, however, only a small portion
of his time. He always spends his summers in Europe, principally in
Naples and Florence, but he rarely stays in one place more than a few
weeks or months.

Colonel Pollock is now on his way to South America to look after his
interests in some valuable mahogany forests there.

The colonel chatted freely and most interestingly about his
experiences, and told to an admiring and attentive group of listeners
some excellent stories about well known people.

"Did I ever tell you?" he asked, as he puffed at his long black
Principe, "about an adventure I had in Africa a few years ago? No?
Well, I see Paderewski is coming to Houston soon, and the story may
not be inapropos. You have all heard Paderewski's wonderful hair
spoken of, of course. Well, very few people know how he came by it.
This is how it was. A few years ago, some of us made up a party to go
lion hunting in Africa. There was Nat Goodwin, Paderewski, John L.
Sullivan, Joe Pulitzer, and myself. That was before any of us had
acquired fame, but we were all ambitious, and everyone of us needed
the rest and recreation we were taking. We were a congenial, jolly
crowd, and had a rattling good time on the trip. When we landed we
hired guides, and stocked up with provisions and ammunition for a
month's trip into the Zambesi country.

"We were all anxious to kill a lion, and we penetrated into quite a
wild and unexplored region.

"We had great times at night over our camp fire, chatting and chaffing
one another, and thoroughly enjoying ourselves.

"Paderewski was the only member of our party who had been making
money. It was just about the time there was such a furor about his
playing, and he had plied up quite a neat sum from his piano recitals.

"One day Goodwin, Sullivan, Paderewski and I were loafing around camp
just before dinner. We had been out hunting all the morning without
success. Pulitzer had not yet shown up. Goodwin and Sullivan got into
a dispute about the proper way to dodge and counter a certain upper
cut made famous by Heenan. You know Nat Goodwin is quite an athlete
himself, and handles his hands like a professional. Paderewski was
always a quiet sort of fellow, but amiable and well liked by everyone.
He was sitting on the stump of a banyan tree gazing into the distance
with a dreamy look in his magnetic eyes. I was loading some
cartridges, and not paying much attention until I heard Sullivan and
Goodwin raise their voices in quite an angry dispute.

"'If I had a pair of gloves, I'd soon prove I am right,' said Nat.

"'I wish you had,' said John. 'In a minute you wouldn't know
anything.'

"'You couldn't stand up two minutes before a man who knew the first
principles of boxing,' said Goodwin. 'Your weight and your rush are
the only points in your favor.'

"'If we just had some gloves!' said John, grinding his teeth.

    * * * * *

"They both turned and looked at Paderewski as if by common consent.

"Paderewski at that time had coal black hair, as smooth and straight
as an Indian's, that hung down his back in a thick mass.

"Sullivan and Goodwin sprang upon him at the same time. I don't know
which of them did it, but there was the flash of a knife, and in two
seconds Paderewski was scalped as neatly as a Comanche Indian could
have done it.

"They divided the mass of hair in two parts, each stuffed his portion
into two leather cartridge pouches, wound the straps around his
wrists, and they went at each other in regular prize ring style with
their extemporized boxing gloves.

"Paderewski gave a yell of pain and dismay, and clasped his hands to
his bald head in horror.

"'I am ruined,' he said. 'My professional career is at an end. What
shall I do?'

"I tried to separate John and Nat, but I got a backhander from one of
those Paderewski boxing gloves that stretched me out into a big
cactus.

    * * * * *

"Just then Joe Pulitzer came into camp, dragging a big lion by the
tail he had just shot in a canebrake on the river.

"'Vat's dis?' he asked, gazing through his spectacles at the two
boxers who were hitting at each other and dodging around and at
Paderewski, who was wailing and moaning at the loss of his scalp.

"'I wouldn't have taken $5,000 for that hair,' he groaned.

"'Vat vill you gif,' said Pulitzer, 'for another head of hair yoost as
good?'

"He went up close to Paderewski and they whispered together for a few
minutes. Then Joe got out a tape line and measured Paderewski's head.
Then he took a knife and cut out a piece the exact size from the back
of the lion's head and fitted it on Paderewski's. He pressed it down
close, and bound it with light bandages.

"It seems almost incredible, but in three days the skin had grown
fast, the pain was gone, and Paderewski had the loveliest head of
thick, tawny, flowing hair you ever laid your eyes on.

"I saw Paderewski give Pulitzer a check that evening behind the tent,
and you can bet it was a stiff one. I don't know the exact figure, but
Joe bought out the _World_ as soon as we got back to New York and has
since done well.

"It simply made Paderewski's fortune. That head of hair he wears will
make him a millionaire yet. I never hear him bang down hard on the
bass keys of a piano, but I think of a lion roaring in a South African
forest, and I'll bet he does, too."

    * * * * *

"I like stage people," continued Colonel Pollock. "They are, as a
rule, the jolliest companions in the world and the most entertaining.
Hardly a year passes that I do not make up a congenial party for a
pleasure trip of some kind, and I always have two or three actors in
the crowd. Now, a year or two ago, some of us got together and took a
three months' voyage to see the sights. There were DeWolf Hopper, Dr.
Parkhurst, Buffalo Bill, Eugene Field, Steve Brodie, Senator Sherman,
General Coxey, and Hermann, the great magician, among the party.

"We were guests of the Prince of Wales, and went in his steam yacht,
the _Albion_. None of us had been to Australia, and the prince wanted
to show us around that country. We had a lovely trip. We were all
congenial souls, and our time on shipboard was one long banquet and
frolic during the whole journey.

"We landed at Melbourne and were met by the governor of Victoria and
only a few dignitaries of the place, as the prince had sent word that
he wished to pass his visit there strictly incog. In a day or two our
entertainers took us on a little tour through New South Wales to show
us the country, and give us some idea of the great mining and sheep
raising industries of the country. We went through Wagga Wagga, Jumbo
Junction, and Narraudera, and from there went on horseback through the
great pasture country near Cudduldury.

"When we reached a little town named Cobar in the center of the sheep
raising district, some loyal Englishmen living there recognized the
prince, and in an hour the whole town was at our heels, following us
about, huzzaring and singing 'God save the Queen.'

"'It's annoying, Pollock,' says the prince to me, 'but it can't be
helped now.'

"Our party rode out into the country to have a look at the sheep
ranches, and at least two hundred citizens followed us on foot,
staring at us in the deepest admiration and wonder.

"It seemed that it had been a mighty bad year on the sheep men, and
they were feeling gloomy and disheartened over the prospects. The
great trouble in Australia is this: The whole continent is overrun
with a prolific breed of rabbits that feed upon the grass and shrubs,
sometimes completely destroying all vegetation within large areas. The
government has a standing offer of something like 50,000 pounds for a
plan by which these rabbits can be destroyed, but nothing has ever
been discovered that will do the work.

"During years when these rabbits are unusually destructive, the sheep
men suffer great losses by not having sufficient range for their
sheep. At the time of our visit the rabbits had almost ruined the
country. A few herds of sheep were trying to subsist by nibbling the
higher branches that the rabbits could not reach, but many of the
flocks had to be driven far into the interior. The people were feeling
very sore and blue, and it made them angry to even hear anybody
mention a rabbit.

"About noon we stopped for lunch near the outskirts of a little
village, and the prince's servants spread a fine cold dinner of potted
game, pate de foie gras, and cold fowls. The prince had ordered a
large lot of wines to be sent along, and we had a merry repast.

"The villagers and sheep raisers loafed around by the hundred,
watching us; and a hungry-looking, starved-out lot they were.

    * * * * *

"Now, there isn't a more vivacious, genial and convivial man in the
world than Hermann, the great prestidigitateur. He was the life of the
party, and as soon as the prince's wine began to mellow him up, he
began to show off his tricks. He threw things in the air that
disappeared from sight, changed water into liquids of all colors,
cooked an omelet in a hat; and pretty soon we were surrounded by a
gaping, awestruck lot of bushmen, both natives and English born.

"Hermann was pleased with the open-mouthed attention he was creating,
so he walked out into an open space where he could face them all, and
began drawing rabbits out of his sleeves, his coat collar, his pockets
by the half dozen. He threw them down, and as fast as they could
scamper away the great magician kept on pulling out more rabbits to
the view of the astonished natives.

"Suddenly, with a loud yell, the sheep raisers seized clubs and stones
and drawing their long sheath knives, rushed upon our party.

"The prince seized my arm.

"'Run for it, Pollock,' he cried, 'this rabbit business has set them
wild. They'll kill us all if we don't cut our sticks.'"

    * * * * *

"I believe," said Colonel Pollock, "that that was the closest shave I
ever had. I struck out as hard as I could run, with about forty
natives after me, some of them throwing spears and boomerangs at me
every jump. When I was going over a little hill I turned my head and
looked back just in time to see Steve Brodie jump off a bridge into
the Murrumbidgee river at least 200 feet high. All our party escaped,
and came straggling back within two or three days, but they had some
tough experiences. Senator Sherman was out two nights in the bush and
was severely frostbitten.

"I understand DeWolf Hopper is going to dramatize the incident, and
will produce it next season, appearing as a kangaroo.

"Coxey was caught on the edge of a little stream which he refused to
enter, and the natives dragged him before an English justice of the
peace who released him the next day. The prince took the whole thing
as a good joke. He is an all round good fellow and no mistake.

"Sometime," said Colonel Pollock, as he rose to receipt for a
telegram, "I will tell you about an adventure I had among the
Catacombs of Rome, along with Ralph Waldo Emerson, Barney Gibbs and
the Shah of Persia." Colonel Pollock leaves on the night train for San
Antonio on his way to the City of Mexico.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, January 26, 1896.)



A Mystery of Many Centuries

Up to a few years ago man regarded the means of locomotion possessed
by the fair sex as a sacred areanum into which it were desecration to
inquire.

The bicycle costume has developed the fact that there are two--well,
that there are two. Whereas man bowed down and worshipped what he
could not understand nor see, when the veil of mystery was rent, his
reverence departed. For generations woman has been supposed in moving
from one place to another to simply get there. Whether borne like
Venus in an invisible car drawn by two milk white doves, or wafted
imperceptibly by the force of her own sweet will, admiring man did not
pause to consider. He only knew that there was a soft rustle of unseen
drapery, an entrancing frou-frou of something agitated but unknown and
the lovely beings would be standing on another spot. Whereat he
wondered, adoring, but uninquisitive. At times beneath the lace-hemmed
snowy skirts might be seen the toe of a tiny slipper, and perhaps the
gleam of a silver buckle upon the arch of an instep, but thence
imagination retired, baffled, but enthralled. In olden times the
sweetest singers among the poets sang to their lutes of those
Lilliputian members, and romance struck a lofty note when it wove the
deathless legend of Cinderella and the slipper of glass. Courtiers
have held aloft the silken slipper of the adored one filled with
champagne and drank her health. Where is the bicyclist hero who would
undertake the task of draining to the good health of his lady love her
bicycle gaiter filled with beer?

The mysterious and lovelorn damosel no longer chucks roses at us from
her latticed window and sighs to us from afar. She has descended,
borrowed our clothes, and is our good friend and demands equal rights.
We no longer express our admiration by midnight serenades and sonnets.
We slap her on the back and feel we have gained a good comrade. But we
feel like inserting the following want ad in every paper in the land:

    Lost--A maiden dressed in long skirts: blushes sometimes,
    and wears a placard round her neck, which says, "hands
    off." A liberal reward will be paid for her return.

The other, day the Post Man saw a nice, clean-minded old gentleman,
who is of the old school of cavaliers, and who is loath to see woman
come down from the pedestal on which he has always viewed her.=

He was watching a lady bicycle rider go by. The Post Man asked him
what he thought.

"I never see a lady on a bicycle," said he, "but I am reminded of God,
for they certainly move in a mysterious way their wonders to perform."

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 10, 1896.)



A Strange Case

A _Post_ reporter met a young Houston physician the other afternoon,
with whom he is well acquainted, and suggested that they go into a
neighboring cafe and partake of a cooling lemonade. The physician
agreed, and they were soon seated at a little table in a quiet corner,
under an electric fan. After the physician had paid for the lemonade,
the reporter turned the conversation upon his practice, and asked if
he did not meet with some strange cases in his experience.

"Yes, indeed," said the doctor, "many that professional etiquette will
not allow me to mention, and others that involve no especial secrecy,
but are quite as curious in their way. I had one case only a few weeks
ago that I considered very unusual, and without giving names, I think
I can relate it to you."

"By all means do so," said the reporter, "and while you are telling
it, let us have another lemonade." The young physician looked serious
at this proposition, but after searching in his pocket and finding
another quarter he assented.

"About a week ago," he began, "I was sitting in my office, hoping for
a patient to come in, when I heard footsteps, and looking up, saw a
beautiful young lady enter the room. She advanced at the most curious
gait I ever beheld in one so charming. She staggered from side to side
and lurched one way and another, succeeding only by a supreme effort
in reaching the chair I placed for her. Her face was very lovely, but
showed signs of sadness and melancholy.

"'Doctor,' she said, in a very sweet, but sorrowful voice, 'I want to
consult you about my condition, and as it is a most unusual affection,
I will have to trouble you to listen to a no doubt tedious discourse
upon my family history.'

"'Madam,' said I, 'my time is yours. Anything you have to say that
will throw light upon your trouble will, of course, benefit me in my
diagnosis.'

"She thanked me with a smile that for a moment erased the sad lines
from her face.

"'My father,' she said, 'was one of the Adamses of Eastern Texas. You
have doubtless heard of the family.'

"'Perhaps so,' I replied, 'but there are so many families by the name
of Adams that--'

"'It is of no consequence,' she continued with a little wave of her
hand. 'Fifty years ago a violent feud broke out between my
grandfather's family and another family of old Texas settlers named
Redmond. The bloodshed and inhumanities exchanged between the people
of each side would fill volumes. The horrors of the old Kentucky and
West Virginia feuds were repeated by them. An Adams would shoot a
Redmond from behind a fence, at his table while eating, in a church,
or anywhere; and a Redmond would murder an Adams in like manner. The
most violent hatred imaginable existed between them. They poisoned
each other's wells, they killed each other's stock, and if an Adams
met a Redmond, only one would leave the spot. The children of each
family were taught to hate the others from the time they could speak,
and so the legacy of antipathy was handed down from father to son and
from mother to daughter. For thirty years this battle raged between
them, and one by one the death-dealing rifle and revolver thinned the
families until one day just twenty years ago there remained but a
single representative of each family, Lemuel Adams and Louisa Redmond.
They were both young and handsome, and at their first meeting forgot
the ancient feud of their families and loved each other. They married
at once, and thus ended the great Adams-Redmond feud. But, alas, sir,
the inherited discord and hatred of so many years' standing was
destined to rebound upon an innocent victim.'

"'I was the child of that marriage, and the Adams and Redmond blood
would not mingle. As a babe I was like any other, and was even
considered unusually prepossessing.'

"'I can well believe that, madam,' I interrupted.

"The lady colored slightly and went on: 'As I grew older a strange
warring and many adverse impulses began to sway me. Every thought or
movement I made was met by a contradictory one. It was the result of
hereditary antagonism. Half of me was Adams and the other half
Redmond. If I attempted to look at an object, one of my eyes would
gaze in another direction. If I tried to salt a potato while eating,
the other hand would involuntarily reach out and sprinkle it with
sugar.

"'Hundreds of times while playing the piano, while one hand would
strike the notes of a lovely Beethoven sonata, I could not keep the
other from pounding out "Over the Garden Wall," or "The Skidmore
Guards." The Adams and the Redmond blood would not flow in harmony. If
I went into an ice cream saloon, I would order a vanilla cream in
spite of myself, when my very soul was clamoring for lemon. Many a
time I would strive with every nerve to disrobe for the night, and the
opposing influence would be so strong that I have instead put on my
finest and most elaborate clothing and retired with my shoes on. Have
you ever met with a similar case, doctor?'

"'Never,' I said. 'It is indeed remarkable. And you have never
succeeded in overcoming the adverse tendency?'

"Oh, yes. By constant efforts and daily exercise I have succeeded so
far that it troubles me now in one respect only. With one exception I
am now entirely released from its influence. It is my locomotion that
is affected. My l-lower limbs refuse to coincide in their movements.
If I try to walk in a certain direction, one--one of them will take
the step I desire, and the other tries to go by an entirely different
route. It seems that one l--one of them is Adams, and the other
Redmond. Absolutely the only time when they agree is when I ride a
bicycle, and as one goes up when the other is going down, their
opposite movements of course facilitate my progress; but when
endeavoring to walk I find them utterly unmanageable. You observed my
entrance into this room. Is there anything you can do for me, doctor?'

"'Your case is indeed a strange one,' I said. 'I will consider the
situation, and if you will call tomorrow at 10 o'clock I will
prescribe for you.'

"She rose from her chair, and I assisted her down the stairs to her
carriage, which waited below. Such a sprawling, ungainly, mixed up
walk I never saw before.

"I meditated over her case for a long time that night and consulted
all the authorities on locomotor ataxia, and diseases of the muscles,
that I could find. I found nothing covering her case, and about
midnight I wandered out along the streets for a breath of cool air. I
passed a store kept by an old German whom I knew, and dropped in to
speak a word with him. I had noticed some time before two tame deer he
kept running about in a paddock in his yard. I asked him about them.
He told me that they had been fighting, and had not been able to
agree, so he had separated them, placing each one in a separate yard.
Of a sudden an idea came to me.

"The next day at ten the young lady came to my office. I had a
prescription ready for her. I gave it to her, she read it, flushed and
was inclined to be angry.

"'Try it, madam,' I said.

"She agreed to do so, and only yesterday I saw her on the street,
walking as gracefully and easily as any lady in the city."

"What was your prescription?" asked the reporter.

"It was simply to wear a pair of bloomers," said the young physician.
"You see by separating the opposing factions harmony was restored. The
Adams and the Redmond divisions no longer clashed, and the cure of the
patient was complete. Let me see," continued the physician, "it is
nearly half past seven, and I have an engagement to call upon her at
eight. In confidence, I may say that she has consented to change her
name to mine at an early date. I would not have you repeat what I have
told you, of course."

"To be sure, I will not," said the reporter. "But won't you take
another lemo--"

"No, no, thank you," said the doctor, rising hurriedly, "I must go.
Good evening. I will see you again in a few days."

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 3, 1896.)



Simmon's Saturday Night

How a Guileless Cattle Man Saw the Sights in Houston

One fine Saturday afternoon a young man got off the 9:10 p.m. Katy
train at the Houston depot, and looked about him in rather a
bewildered way. He was deliriously pastoral in his appearance, and
presented an aspect almost as rural as that of the young countryman
upon the stage as depicted by our leading comedians. He wore a very
long black coat of the cut that has perpetuated the name of the late
Prince Albert, such as is seen on Sundays at country churches, a pair
of pantaloons too short for his somewhat lengthy limbs, and a
wondrously tied scarf of deep crimson spotted with green. His face was
smoothly shaven, and wore a look of deep wonder, if not apprehension,
and his blue eyes were stretched to their widest as he viewed the
sights about him. In his hand he carried a long carpet bag of the old
style, made of some shiny substance resembling black oil cloth.

This young gentleman climbed nervously upon an electric car that was
pointed out to him as going into the center of the city, and held his
carpet bag upon his knees, clasping it with both hands, as if he
distrusted the other people upon the car.

As the car started again with a loud hum and scattering of sparks, he
grasped the arm of the seat in such a startled way that the conductor
could not repress a smile.

When the young man was approached for his fare, he opened the carpet
bag, pulling out a lot of socks and handkerchiefs, and after searching
for some time drew forth an old-fashioned beaded purse from which he
drew a nickel and handed it to the conductor.

When the car arrived at Main Street the young man requested that it be
stopped, and climbed off. He wandered up the side walk, stopping to
look with awe and admiration in the jewelers' windows, and his long
boot heels and awkward, mincing gait caused much amusement to
passersby.

Then it was that a well-dressed gentleman wearing a handsome light
Melton overcoat happened to pass, and his beautiful Malacca
gold-headed cane accidentally touched the elbow of the verdant-looking
young man.

"I beg a thousand pardons," said the well-dressed gentleman.

"It's all right, pardner," said the young man with a friendly smile.
"You ain't done no damage. You can't faze a Texas cow man with no
plaything like that. Don't mention it."

The well-dressed man bowed, and went leisurely on his way. The young
man stumbled on up Main Street to a corner, then turned in an aimless
way to the right and walked another block. There he looked up and saw
the illuminated clock in the market house tower, and drawing from his
vest pocket an immense silver watch fully as large as a saucer, he
wound it up with a key and set its hands with the clock in the tower.
While he was doing this a well-dressed gentleman carrying a
gold-headed Malacca cane slipped past and walked softly down the shady
side of the street, stopped in a deep shadow and seemed to be waiting
for someone.

About fifteen minutes later the young man entered a restaurant on
Congress Street and took his seat timidly at a table. He drew another
chair close to his side and deposited carefully therein his carpet
bag. Five minutes later a well-dressed man with a gold-headed Malacca
cane entered in a great hurry and after hanging up his silk hat,
seated himself, almost out of breath, at the same table. Then, looking
up, he recognized the young man whom he had seen gazing in the
jeweler's window, and smiling pleasantly remarked:

"Ah, we meet again, sir. I have just had a most exhausting race to
catch a train. You see, I am the paymaster of the Southern Pacific
Railway Company, and am on my way to pay off the hands down the road.
I missed my train by about three minutes. It's very awkward, too, as I
have nearly two thousand dollars on my person, and I am entirely
unacquainted in Houston."

"Dod gast it, colonel," said the young man, "I'm in the same fix. I'm
just getting back from Kansas City, where I sold a drove of
two-year-olds, and I haven't had time to do anything with the money.
You beat me on the amount, though; I ain't got but $900."

The well-dressed gentleman took a large roll of bills from his pocket,
skinned off one with which to pay for his supper, and returned the
rest carefully to the inside pocket of his coat.

"We seem to be about in the same situation, indeed," he said. "I very
much dislike to carry so much money on my person all night. Suppose we
form a mutual protection society, and in the meantime walk about and
see what sights there are to be seen in town."

At first the young man appeared suddenly suspicious at this
proposition, and became coldly reserved, but gradually thawed under
the frank and unassuming politeness of the well-dressed man, and when
that gentleman insisted upon paying for both suppers, his doubts
seemed to vanish, and he became not only confidential, but actually
loquacious. He informed the well-dressed man that his name was
Simmons, that he owned a nice little ranch in Encinal County, and that
this was his first trip out of Texas. The well-dressed man said his
name was Clancy, called "Captain" by his friends, that he lived in
Dallas, and was a member of the Young Men's Christian Association at
that place. He handed Mr. Simmons a card on which was printed "Captain
Richard Saxon Clancy," and below was scribbled somewhat hastily in
pencil, "With M. K. & T. Ry. Co."

    * * * * *

"Now," said Mr. Simmons, when they had finished supper, "I'm sorter
shy about proposin' it, you bein' a stranger, but I'm in for havin' a
glass of beer. If you don't like the scheme, why, excuse me, and don't
think hard of me for suggestin' it."

Captain Chancy smiled indulgently. "Have a care," he said, in a
sprightly bantering tone. "Remember, you and I must take care of
ourselves tonight. I am responsible to the railroad company for the
funds I have, and besides, I rarely ever touch beer--well, I guess one
glass won't hurt me."

Mr. Simmons opened the carpet bag and after some search found the bead
purse, from which he drew a dime, and suggested the immediate
investment of it. Captain Clancy remembered to have heard a friend say
that there was a quiet saloon on--let's see, what street was it?

After some hesitation and search they came upon a place with swinging
doors where a light was hanging outside, and the captain suggested
that they could probably get a glass of beer within. They entered and
found themselves before a gorgeous bar, ablaze with lights and
mirrors, at which lounged five or six men of a rather rough and
night-owlish appearance.

Mr. Simmons called for two glasses of beer, and when they had drunk it
he laid his dime upon the counter.

"Wot's eatin' you?" said the bartender. "They is two for. Cough up
some more right away once."

"See here," said Mr. Simmons, "beer is 5 cents a glass everywheres.
Don't you take me for no country jay."

Captain Clancy whispered that they had better pay what was asked than
get into a difficulty. "It seems a rough sort of place," he said, "and
you must remember it won't do to endanger ourselves while we have our
money about us. Let me pay the 15 cents additional."

"No, you don't," said Mr. Simmons. "I guess when I treat I foot the
whole bill." He went down into the carpet bag again and brought forth
three more nickels.

Just then an orchestra near at hand struck up in a lively air, and Mr.
Simmons turned to look whence it came.

The bartender winked at Captain Clancy and said softly:

"Struck it rich, eh, Jimmy, old boy?"

"Think it will pay," said the captain, as softly, closing his left eye
at the bartender.

"Say," said Mr. Simmons, "whatever have you got in there?" pointing in
the direction of the music.

"Finest high-class musical and dramatic entertainment in the South,"
said the bartender. "Refined and elevatin' specialties by
distinguished artists. Walk in, gents."

"It's a play show, by gum," said Mr. Simmons. "Shall we go in?"

"I don't like the looks of the place much," said Captain Clancy, "but
let's have a look at it, anyhow, to pass away the time; let's see,
it's just half past ten; we can look on a while and then go up to the
hotel and get to bed by eleven-thirty. Let me pay for tickets."

"All right," said Mr. Simmons, "I paid for the beer."

The bartender pointed out the way through a little hallway, where they
entered another door and found a very glib gentleman who persuaded
them to buy tickets that admitted them upstairs. They ascended and
found themselves in the family circle of a little theater. There were
about twenty or thirty men and boys scattered about among the seats,
and the performance seemed quite well under way. On the stage a very
exaggerated Irishman was chasing a very exaggerated negro with an ax,
while a soubrettish young lady dressed in a ruffle and blue tights
stood upon a barrel and screamed something in a high, cracked voice.

    * * * * *

"I shouldn't like it if there should happen to be anyone downstairs
that knows me," said the captain. "Suppose we take one of these
boxes." They went into a little box, screened from view by soiled
cheap lace curtains, containing four or five chairs and a little table
with little rings all over it made by the bottoms of wet glasses.

Mr. Simmons was delighted with the performance. He laughed
unrestrainedly at the jokes of the comedian, and leaned half out of
the box to applaud when the DeVere sisters did their song and dance
and split specialty. Captain Clancy leaned back in his chair and
hardly looked at the stage, but on his face was an expression of large
content, and a tranquil smile. Mr. Simmons kept the carpet bag in both
hands all this time. Presently, while he was listening with apparent
rapture to a topical song by Mlle. Fanchon, the Parisian nightingale,
he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He turned about and beheld a
vision that seemed to take away his breath. Two radiant beings in
white, with blue ribbons, and showing quite a stretch of black ribbed
stockings were in the box. Mr. Simmons hugged his carpet bag to his
breast and started up in embarrassed alarm.

"Don't shy, old man," said one of them. "Sit down and buy some beer."

Mr. Simmons seemed so full of blushes and perturbation for a while
that he scarcely knew what he was doing, but Captain Clancy seemed so
cool and easy, and began to chat so companionably with the ladies that
he presently took courage, and the next quarter of an hour found the
four seated opposite one another at the little table, and a colored
waiter was kept busy bringing bottles of beer from the bar and
carrying away empty glasses. Mr. Simmons grew absolutely hilarious. He
told funny stories about ranch life, and spoke quite boastingly about
the gay times he had had in Kansas City during the three days he was
there.

"Oh, you're a bold, bad man," said one of the young ladies, called
Violet. "If Lillie and Jim--I mean your friend, wasn't in here I'd be
real 'fraid of you."

"Go way, now," said Mr. Simmons; "you know I ain't nothin' of that
sort. Bring some more beer there, you colored feller!"

The party certainly were enjoying themselves. Presently Violet leaned
over the railing and called Mr. Simmons' attention to a lady that was
singing on the stage. Mr. Simmons turned his back, and as he did so
Captain Clancy quickly drew from his pocket a small vial and poured
the contents into the glass of beer on Mr. Simmons' side of the waiter
that had just been brought in.

"Here, you all," called the lady addressed as Lillie, "the beer's
getting cold." Mr. Simmons and Violet turned back to the table, and
Mr. Simmons accidentally stumbled over his carpet bag, which he had
actually set down for a moment upon the floor. He fell sprawling
across the table, striking the edge of the waiter with his hand and
nearly turning Captain Clancy over in his chair, but spilling none of
the beer.

"Excuse me," he said, turning very red. "Got my foot caught. I'm as
awkward as a cowboy at a dance. Well, here's luck."

Everybody drank the beer, and Lillie began to hum a little song. In
about a minute Violet reeled around in her chair and tumbled off on
the floor in a confused heap of white muslin, blondined hair and black
stockings.

Captain Clancy seemed much vexed. He shot a steel blue flash from his
eyes at Lillie and said something very much like "d--n it" to himself.

"Great heavens!" cried Mr. Simmons, "this lady has fainted. Call a
doctor, or get some water or somethin' quick."

"Say," said Lillie, lighting a cigarette, "don't get woozy. She'll
sleep it off. You gents get out for a while. Say, J-Mister, tell the
bartender to send Sam up as you go out. Good night."

"We had better go," said the captain.

Mr. Simmons, with many protestations of sympathy and anxiety, was led
away by Captain Clancy downstairs, where he delivered the message, and
thence out into the cool night air.

He was feeling pretty strongly the effects of the beer he had drunk,
and leaned heavily upon the captain's arm. Captain Clancy assured him
that the lady would be all right in a little while, that she had
merely drunk a little too much beer, which had affected her rather
suddenly, and succeeded in restoring Mr. Simmons to his former
cheerful spirits.

"It is not yet half past eleven," said the captain. "How would you
like to go up into one of the gambling rooms just to look on a while?
It is a very interesting sight."

"Just the thing," said Mr. Simmons. "They are not new things to me at
all. Twice I have been in 'em in San Antone. Saw a feller win $18 one
night in this game you play with little buttons on little boards."

"Keno, I believe," said the captain. "Yes, that's it--keno."

    * * * * *

I shall not undertake to describe the locality of the apartments to
which our visitors next went. Gambling houses are almost unknown in
Houston, and as this is a true story, the attempt to give a definite
location to such an institution in a city of the well known morality
of Houston would meet with incredulity. Neither is it clear how they
managed to find such a place, both of them being strangers, but by
some accidental blunder, Captain Clancy led Mr. Simmons up a brightly
lighted and carpeted stair into a large apartment, where a goodly
crowd of men were gathered, trying their luck at the different games
usually found in a well appointed gambling house.

The stairway opened into the room nearly at the end farthest from the
street. Immediately in front of the two gentlemen when they entered
was a room in which were two or three round tables and chairs, at that
time unoccupied.

Captain Clancy and Mr. Simmons walked about the larger room for a
while, gazing upon the players as they won or lost in the vicissitudes
and fortunes of the games. The men in the room viewed Mr. Simmons with
ill-concealed hilarity. His carpet bag seemed to create a vast deal of
merriment, and every man in the room, while betraying much amusement,
still gazed upon him with longing and hungry eyes, as upon some choice
tit-bit upon which they fain would feast.

One fat man with a dyed mustache nudged Captain Clancy in the side and
said:

"Gad! Jimmy, can't you let me in on it?"

The captain frowned and the fat man moved away with a sigh. Mr.
Simmons was interested almost to excitement. Presently he said:

"Say, I don't know how it will strike you, cap'n, but I guess I must
have some sportin' blood in me. Now, I don't gamble, but I'm the
darnedest checker player in Southwest Texas. Let's go in that other
room, and I'll play you some checkers and the man what loses buys a
glass of beer for both of us."

"Now, Mr. Simmons," said the captain, raising a warning finger and
smiling. "Remember our mutual protection society. I don't like this
place at all. We had better be out of it. However, I used to be the
crack checker and croquet player in our Young Men's Christian
Association--just a game or two, now."

They played a game or two, and then they played half a dozen more. The
captain won every game. Mr. Simmons was much vexed. He grew very red
in the face as his reputation as a checker player began to vanish.

"Confound it," he said, "I'm out 70 cents. Gimmie a chance to get
even. I'd give it to you if I was ahead."

"Why, certainly," said the captain, "but checkers is rather tiresome.
Some other way suit you? Let's have in a deck of cards and play a few
hands until you get even."

"Any way," said Mr. Simmons. His hat was on the back of his head; his
light-blue eyes were blinking and somewhat unsteady. His red and green
spotted tie was almost under one ear. He sat with the black carpet bag
in his lap, and his checked trousers had drawn half way up to his
knees.

"What, oh, what," said the captain softly, to himself, "have I done to
deserve this manna descending to me in the wilderness; this good thing
dropping into my hands as if it were greased; this great big soft snap
coming my way without a ripple. It's too good to be true."

The captain struck a little bell and a waiter brought a deck of cards.

"Let's call it poker," said the captain. Mr. Simmons rose to his feet.

"That's a gambling game," he said severely. "I ain't no gambler."

"Neither am I, Mr. Simmons," said the captain with a sudden dignity
and a trifle of a frown. "A game of poker for insignificant stakes
between gentlemen is entirely allowable in the circles in which I have
moved, and any institution--"

"Oh, dang it all," said Mr. Simmons, "I didn't mean anything. I've
played some on the ranch with the boys of nights for grains of corn.
Deal 'em out."

    * * * * *

The old story of the hawk and the pigeon has been told so often that
the details are apt to weary. From a stake of 10 cents they rose to 50
cents and a dollar. Mr. Simmons won, of course. He had taken the bead
purse out of his bag and therefrom abstracted certain silver dollars,
and later on, $25 in bills. Once he held up a package from the carpet
bag tied with a string and winked at the captain.

"That's the nine hundred," he said.

The captain won a pot occasionally, but the bulk of the money was
going to Mr. Simmons, who was jubilant but sympathetic.

"You're out of luck," he said jollily, but thickly. He was
considerably under the influence of the beer he had drunk, to all
appearances. The captain looked worried and anxious.

"That's nearly all my expense money," he said moodily. "I say,
Simmons, take off the limit and give a feller a chance to get even."

"What's that?" asked Mr. Simmons. "You mean bet any amount we please?"

"Yes."

"Let 'er go," said Mr. Simmons. "Shay, zis beer (hic) make'm me
shorter shick."

Mr. Simmons seemed to play a very loose game, and his luck began to
desert him. He lost a large portion of his winnings on an ace full,
and had several fine hands beaten. In a little while his velvet was
gone and the next hand lost him all his little capital. He grew more
deeply flushed, and his round light eyes shone with an excited stare.
He once more opened the black carpet bag, took out his pocket knife
and put both hands inside. The captain heard him cut the string of the
package and out came the hands grasping a mass of fives, tens and
twenties. The carpet bag still kept its place in his lap.

"Bring 'sh s'm beer," said Mr. Simmons, loudly. "Jolly f'ler ze
captain. Play'm all night 'f wanter. 'M a little full, but bes'
checker 'n poker player 'n Encinal County. Deal 'em."

    * * * * *

Captain Richard Saxon Clancy, paymaster (?) of the M. K. & T. Railway
Company, drew himself together, his time had come. The manna was about
to descend. The pigeon was already fluttering in his talons. The
victim was in exactly the right stage of drunkenness; enough to be
reckless and not too observant, but not too much so to prevent his
playing the game.

The captain coughed rather loudly. One or two men strolled in from the
other room and watched the game silently. The captain coughed again. A
pale young man with gloomy eyes and an unhealthy-looking face lounged
around somewhat back of Mr. Simmons' chair, and listlessly looked on.
Every time a hand was dealt or a draw made, he would scratch his ear,
touch his nose, pull his mustache or play with a button on his vest.
It was strange to see how much the captain watched this young man, who
certainly had nothing to do with the game.

Still the captain won. When Mr. Simmons won a pot it was sure to be a
small one.

The captain thought the time ripe for his coup de grace. He struck the
bell, and the waiter came.

"Bring a fresh deck, Mike," he said, "these are getting worn." Mr.
Simmons was too confused to notice that the captain, a stranger in the
city, called the waiter familiarly by his given name.

The captain dealt the cards, and Mr. Simmons cut them in an awkward
and bungling way. Then the fatal hand was dealt. It was the captain's
favorite. Four kings and the seven of spades to his opponent, four
aces and the deuce of diamonds to himself. Any other cards would do as
well as the spade and the diamond, but the captain had a weakness for
those two cards.

He noticed the ill-concealed pleasure on the face of Mr. Simmons as he
gazed at his hand. Mr. Simmons stood pat; the captain drew one card.
The young man behind Mr. Simmons' chair had moved away. It was no
longer necessary for him to scratch his ear and touch his vest button.
He knew the captain's coup de grace as well as he himself.

Mr. Simmons clutched his cards tightly in his hand and tried in vain
to conceal his eagerness. The captain examined the new card he had
drawn with exaggerated anxiety, and heaved a sigh that intended to
convey to Mr. Simmons the information that he had made his hand good.

The betting began. Mr. Simmons threw in his money feverishly and
quickly; the captain saw each bet, and raised only after affected deep
deliberation. Mr. Simmons raised back gleefully, drunkenly and
confidently. When the pot contained about $200 the captain's brows
went together, and two faint lines traced themselves from his nostrils
to the corners of his mouth, and he made a raise of a hundred. Mr.
Simmons laid his hand down carefully on the table and went down in his
carpet bag again. This time he drew out two $500 bills and laid them
on top of the pot.

"I'm goin' busted on this hand," said Mr. Simmons. "'F I didn't zhe
boys 'n Encinal County 'd run me out for a coward. Whoop 'em up,
cap'n."

"Send Charlie over here," said Captain Clancy to one of the
bystanders. The fat man with the dyed mustache came over and whispered
with the captain. Then he went away and came back with a stack of gold
and bills and counted out the thousand dollars to call Mr. Simmons'
bet.

"I call," said the captain.

Then a queer thing happened.

Mr. Simmons rose lightly to his feet, spread his hand face upward upon
the table, and with the same arm movement swept the pile of money into
his capacious carpet bag.

With bulging eyes and a sulphurous oath the captain looked for the
four kings and the seven of spades he had dealth Mr. Simmons. What he
saw was a queen high straight heart flush.

The captain made a spring, and the pale gentlemen standing about each
took one cat-like step towards Mr. Simmons and then stopped. As the
money went into the carpet bag there came out a blue-barreled
six-shooter that now shone ominously in Mr. Simmons' hand, and they
looked into its barrel.

Mr. Simmons gave one lightning glance to his rear and then backed
towards the door.

"Don't make any mistake," he said. There was a blue gleam in his eyes
exactly the color of the shining metal of his weapon.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I invite you all when in New York to call at my
joint, at 2508 Bowery. Ask for Diamond Joe, and you'll see me. I'm
going into Mexico for two weeks to see after my mining plants and I'll
be at home any time after then. Upstairs, 2508 Bowery; don't forget
the number. I generally make my traveling expenses as I go. Good
night."

Mr. Simmons backed quickly out and disappeared.

Five minutes later Captain Richard Saxon Clancy, paymaster (?) for the
M. K. & T. Railway Company, and member (?) of the Dallas Young Men's
Christian Association, alias "Jimmy," stood at a corner bar and said:
"Whiskey, old man, and--say get a bigger glass than that, will you? I
need it."

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 12, 1896.)



An Unknown Romance

The first pale star peeped down the gorge. Above, to illimitable
heights reached the Alps, snow-white above, shadowy around, and black
in the depths of the gorge.

A young and stalwart man, clad in the garb of a chamois hunter, passed
up the path. His face was bronzed with sun and wind, his eye was frank
and clear, his step agile and firm. He was singing fragments of a
Bavarian hunting song, and in his hand he held a white blossom of the
edelweiss he had plucked from the cliff. Suddenly he paused, and the
song broke, and dropped from his lips. A girl, costumed as the Swiss
peasants are, crossed the path along one that bisected his, carrying a
small stone pitcher full of water. Her hair was of the lightest gold
and hung far below her trim waist in a heavy braid. Her eyes shone
through the gathering twilight, and her lips, slightly parted, showed
a faint gleam of the whitest teeth.

As if impelled by a common impulse, the hunter and the maiden paused,
each with their eyes fixed upon the other. Then the man advanced, and
doffing his feathered hat, bowed low and spake some words in the
German language. The maiden answered, speaking haltingly and low.

Then a door opened in a cottage almost hidden among the trees, and a
babble of voices was heard. The maiden's cheeks turned crimson, and
she started to go, but as she went, she turned her eyes and looked at
the hunter still. He took a step after her, and stretched out his hand
as if to stay her. She tore a bunch of blue gentians from her bosom
and threw them towards him. He caught them as they fell, then ran
lightly and gave into her hand the edelweiss bloom that he carried.
She thrust it into her bosom, then ran like a mountain sprite into the
cottage, where the voices were.

The hunter stopped for a while, then went his way more slowly up the
mountain path, and he sang no more. As he went he pressed the flowers
frequently to his lips.

    * * * * *

The wedding was to be one of the showiest, and the society of the
metropolis was almost begging for invitations.

The groom-elect brought the ancient lineage of the Van Winklers and a
position at the top notch of society for his portion. The bride
brought a beauty that was flawless, and five million dollars. The
arrangement had been made in a businesslike manner. There had been no
question of love. He had been courteous, and politely attentive, and
she had acquiesced listlessly. They had first met at a fashionable
summer resort. The family of the Van Winklers and the money of the
Vances were about to unite.

The wedding was to be at high noon.

Pelham Van Winkler had had a fire built in the ancient tiled fireplace
of one of his rooms, although the weather was warm. He sat on the edge
of a writing table, and tossed handfuls of square-shaped letters, some
tied with ribbons, into the fire. He smiled a little ironically as
they flamed up, or as here and there among them he would find a
withered flower, a scented glove or a lock of beribboned hair.

The last sacrifice to the flames was a dried and pressed cluster of
blue gentians.

Van Winkler sighed, and the smile left his face. He recalled the
twilight scene among the Alps mountains, where he was wandering with
three or four companions on a summer tour, gay and careless, and
dressed in the picturesque garb of chamois hunters. He recalled the
picture of a lovely peasant girl with eyes that held him with a charm
of power, crossing the mountain road, and pausing for a moment to toss
him the bunch of gentian flowers. Had he not been a Van Winkler and
owed a duty to the name, he would have sought her out and married her,
for her image had never left his eyes or his heart since that twilight
eve. But society and the family name claimed him, and today, at high
noon, he was to marry Miss Vance, the daughter of the millionaire iron
founder.

Pelham Van Winkler tossed the bunch of blue gentians into the fire and
rang for his valet.

    * * * * *

Miss Augusta Vance had flown from the irritating presence of fussy
female friends and hysterical relatives to her boudoir for a few
moments' quiet. She had no letters to burn; no past to bury. Her
mother was in an ecstasy of delight, for the family millions had
brought them places in the front row of Vanity Fair.

Her marriage to Pelham Van Winkler was to be at high noon. Miss Vance
fell suddenly into a dreamy reverie. She recalled a trip she had taken
with her family a year before, to Europe, and her mind dwelt
lingeringly upon a week they had spent among the foothills of the Alps
in the cottage of a Swiss mountaineer. One evening at twilight she had
gone with a pitcher across the road and filled it from a spring. She
had fancied to put on that day the peasant costume of Babette, the
daughter of their host. It had become her well, with her long braid of
light-gold hair and blue eyes. A hunter had crossed the road as she
was returning--an Alpine chamois hunter, strong, stalwart, bronzed and
free. She had looked up and caught his eyes, and his held hers. She
went on, and still those magnetic eyes claimed her own. The door of
the cottage had opened and voices called. She started and obeyed the
impulse to tear a bunch of gentians from her bosom and throw them to
him. He had caught them, and springing forward gave her an edelweiss
flower. Not since that evening had the image of that chamois hunter
left her. Surely fate had led him to her, and he seemed a man among
men. But Miss Augusta Vance, with a dowry of five millions, could not
commit the folly of thinking of a common hunter of the Alps mountains.

Miss Vance arose and opened a gold locket that lay upon her dressing
case. She took from it a faded edelweiss flower and slowly crumpled it
to dust between her fingers. Then she rang for her maid, as the church
bells began to chime outside for the marriage.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)



Jack the Giant Killer

The other day a lady canvasser came up into the _Post_ editorial room
with a book she was selling. She went into the editor-in-chief's
office, and her little five-year-old girl, who came up with her,
remained in the outer rooms, doubtless attracted by the brilliant and
engaging appearance of the staff, which was lolling about at its
various desks during one of its frequent intervals of leisure.

She was a bright, curly-haired maiden, of a friendly disposition, so
she singled out the literary editor for attack, no doubt fascinated by
his aristocratic air, and his peculiarity of writing with his gloves
on.

"Tell me a 'tory," she demanded, shaking her curls at him, and gazing
up with eyes of commanding brown.

"A story, little one?" said the literary editor, with a sweet smile,
as he stroked her shining curls. "Most assuredly. What shall it be?"

"Tell me Dack, de Diant Killer."

"Jack, the Giant Killer? little sunbeam; with all my heart."

The literary editor helped the little lady upon a stool and began:

"Once upon a time, in immediate proximity to a primeval forest, in an
humble abode, where pleasures of a bucolic existence were profitably
mingled with the more laborious task of agricultural pursuits, dwelt
Jack, the hero of my tale, with his widowed maternal progenitor.
Scarcely of a parsimonious nature, yet perforce of economic character,
the widow was compelled to resort to numerous expedients in order to
prolong existence. She was the possessor of a bovine quadruped of most
excellent virtues. Her generous store of lacteal fluid, her amicable
and pacific nature, and her gentleness of demeanor had endeared her to
both Jack and his mother. But, alas, the exigencies of the situation
soon demanded that they part with their four-footed friend, and to
Jack the sorrowful duty was delegated to lead with lacerated bosom and
audible lamentations their bovine benefactor to the market, to be
bartered for the more indispensable necessaries of life. So Jack--"

"Say," said the little girl, "when is 'ou doin' to tell me dat 'tory?"

"See here," said the sporting editor, coming over from his desk, "you
can't expect a kid like that to get a place on such a heavy track as
yours. Your talk is all right for the grandstand, but you outclass
that five-year-old. What's the lay you're on, anyway?"

"Tan 'ou tell me Dack, the Diant Killer?" asked the little girl,
apparently favorably impressed with the goodhumored smile of the
sporting editor.

"You can gamble on that, sissy," said that cheerful gentleman, taking
her on his knees. "And I'll put it to you low down, right over the
plate, without any literary curve to it."

    * * * * *

"Now you see," said the sporting editor, "Jack and his mother were
short on dough, and the old girl gave him the tip to sling a running
noose around the hooker end of the old cow and steer her up against
some guy who was willing to put up the scads for a genuine Jersey
creamery. So Jack lined up early one morning with the cow in tow, and
when the flag dropped he was on the three-quarters stretch for town.
Presently a guy came along and offered to plank down a bag of blue
beans for the cow. Jack was inclined to give him the marble face at
first, but finally called him and the strange bloke got his gaffles in
dead easy. Jack was a regular peach pie for a flim-flammer, and no
mistake. Jack then slid for home base, and when he worked his chin at
the old girl about what he had done she knocked him over the ropes in
a pair of seconds. So he--"

"When is 'ou doin' to begin dat 'tory?" asked the little girl, looking
up at him in wonder.

"Well, I'll be turned out to grass!" said the sporting editor. "I
thought I had begun it, sissy," he said, "but it must have been a
foul."

"What are you fellows teasing that little girl about?" asked the
railroad editor, as he came in and hung his cuffs on the gas burner.

"She wants to hear about Jack the Giant Killer," said the sporting
editor, "but doesn't seem to greet our poor efforts with much
hilarity. Do you speak English, or only railroad?"

"It's not likely she would be able to flag down your cockpit dialect,"
said the railroad editor with fine scorn. "Clear the track and let me
show you how to interest the youthful mind."

"Will 'ou tell me dat 'tory?" said the little maiden with a hopeful
look in her eyes.

"I will that," said the railroad editor, seating himself on a pile of
exchanges. "You fellows waste too much steam in pulling out of the
station. You want to get right into the exciting part from the first.

    * * * * *

"Now, little one," said the railroad editor, "you see Jack woke up one
morning and looked out of the window, and the right of way was
blockaded by a bean stalk that had run a grand trunk air line that
went clear up out of sight. Jack took on coal and water, and, without
waiting to see if he had the track, grabbed hold and steamed off up
grade without even whistling at way stations. When he got to the end
of the run he found a castle as big as a union depot. So he put on
brakes and--"

"Tan 'ou tell me de 'tory about Dack de Diant Killer?" asked the
little girl.

Just then the lady came out, and the little girl jumped down and ran
to her. They had a little consultation, and as they went out the door
the staff heard the lady say:

"B'ess um's heart, muzzer will tell ums all about Jack when us gets
home."

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, January 19, 1896.)



The Pint Flask

A prominent Houston colonel, who is also a leading church member,
started for church last Sunday morning with his family, as was his
custom. He was serene and solid-looking, and his black frock coat and
light gray trousers fitted him snugly and stylishly. They passed along
Main Street on the way to church, and the colonel happened to think of
a letter on his desk that he wanted, so he told his family to wait at
the door a moment while he stopped in his office to get it. He went in
and got the letter, and, to his surprise, there was a
disreputable-looking pint whisky flask with about an ounce of whisky
left in it standing on his desk. The colonel abominates whisky and
never touches a drop of anything strong. He supposed that someone,
knowing this, had passed his desk, and set the flask there by way of a
mild joke.

He looked about for a place to throw the bottle, but the back door was
locked, and he tried unsuccessfully to raise the window that
overlooked the alley. The colonel's wife, wondering why he was so long
in coming, opened the door and surprised him, so that scarcely
thinking what he was doing he thrust the flask under his coat tail
into his hip pocket.

"Why don't you come on?" asked his wife. "Didn't you find the letter?"

He couldn't do anything but go with her. He should have produced the
bottle right there, and explained the situation, but he neglected his
opportunity. He went on down Main Street with his family, with the
pint flask feeling as big as a keg in his pocket. He was afraid some
of them would notice it bulging under his coat, so he lagged somewhat
in the rear. When he entered his pew at church and sat down there was
a sharp crack, and the odor of mean whisky began to work its way
around the church. The colonel saw several people elevate their noses
and look inquiringly around, and he turned as red as a beet. He heard
a female voice in the pew behind him whisper loudly:

"Old Colonel J is drunk again. They say he is hardly ever sober now,
and some people say he beats his wife nearly every day."

The colonel recognized the voice of one of the most notorious female
gossipers in Houston. He turned around and glared at her. She then
whispered a little louder:

"Look at him. He really looks dangerous. And to come to church that
way, too!"

    * * * * *

The colonel knew that the bottle had cracked and he was afraid to
move, but a piece of it fell out on the floor. He usually knelt during
prayer, but today he sat bolt upright on the seat. His wife noticed
his unusual behavior and whispered:

"James, you don't know how you pain me. You don't pray any more. I
knew what the result would be when I let you go to hear Ingersoll
lecture. You are an infidel. And--what is that I smell? Oh, James, you
have been drinking, and on Sunday, too!"

The colonel's wife put her handkerchief to her eyes, and he ground his
teeth in rage.

After the services were over, and they had reached home, his wife took
her seat on the back porch and began to cap some strawberries for
dinner. This prevented his going out in the back yard and throwing the
bottle over the fence, as he had intended. His two little boys hung
close around him, as they always did on Sunday, and he found it
impossible to get rid of it. He took them out for a stroll in the
front yard. Finally, he sent them both in the house on some pretext,
and drawing out the bottle hurled it into the street. The crack in it
had been only a slight one, and as it struck a soft heap of trash when
it fell, it did not break.

The colonel felt immediately relieved, but just as the little boys ran
back he heard a voice in the street say:

"See here, sir, law's against throwing glass in the street. I saw you
do it, but take it back, and it'll be all right this time."

The colonel turned and saw a big policeman handing the terrible bottle
towards him over the fence. He took it and thrust it back into his
pocket with a low but expressive remark. His little boys ran up and
shouted:

"Oh, papa, what was that the policeman gave you? Let's see it!"

They clutched at his coat tails, and grabbed for his pockets, and the
colonel backed against the fence.

"Go away from here, you little devils," he yelled. "Go in the house or
I'll thrash you both."

    * * * * *

The colonel went into the house and put on his hat. He resolved to get
rid of the bottle if he had to walk a mile to do it.

"Where are you going?" asked his wife in astonishment. "Dinner is
almost ready. Why don't you pull off your coat and cool off, James, as
you usually do?"

She gazed at him with the deepest suspicion, and that irritated him.

"Confound the dinner," he said, angrily. "I'm hungry--no, I mean I'm
sick; I don't want any dinner--I'm going to take a walk."

"Papa, please show us what the policeman gave you," said one of his
little boys.

"Policeman!" echoed the colonel's wife. "Oh, James, to think that you
would act this way! I know you haven't been drinking, but what is the
matter with you? Come in and lie down. Let me pull off your coat."

She tried to pull off the colonel's Prince Albert, as she generally
did, but he got furiously angry and danced away from her.

"Take your hands off me, woman," he cried. "I've got a headache, and
I'm going for a walk. I'll throw the blamed thing away if I have to go
to the North Pole to do it."

The colonel's wife shook her head as he went out the gate.

"He's working too hard," she said. "Maybe a walk will do him good."

The colonel went down several blocks watching for an opportunity to
dispose of the flask. There were a good many people on the streets,
and there seemed to be always somebody looking at him.

Two or three of the colonel's friends met him, and stared at him
curiously. His face was much flushed, his hat was on the back of his
head and there was a wild glare in his eyes. Some of them passed
without speaking, and the colonel laughed bitterly. He was getting
desperate. Whenever he would get to a vacant lot, he would stop and
gaze searchingly in every direction to see if the coast was clear, so
that he could pull out the flask and drop it. People began to watch
him from windows, and two or three little boys began to follow him.
The colonel turned around and spoke sharply to them, and they replied:

"Look at the old guy with a jag on lookin' for a place to lie down.
W'y don't yer go to de calaboose and snooze it off, mister?"

    * * * * *

The colonel finally dodged the boys, and his spirits rose as he saw
before him a vacant square covered with weeds, in some places as high
as his head.

Here was a place where he could get rid of the bottle. The minister of
his church lived on the opposite side of the vacant square, but the
weeds were so high that the house was completely hidden.

The colonel looked guiltily around and seeing no one, plunged into a
path that led through the weeds. When he reached the center, where
they were highest, he stopped and drew the whisky flask from his
pocket. He looked at it a moment; smiled grimly, and said aloud:

"Well, you've given me lots of trouble that nobody knows anything
about but me."

He was about to drop the flask when he heard a noise, and looking up
he saw his minister standing in the path before him, gazing at him
with horrified eyes.

"My dear Colonel J----," said the good man. "You distress me beyond
measure. I never knew that you drank. I am indeed deeply grieved to
see you here in this condition."

The colonel was infuriated beyond control. "Don't give a d--- if you
are," he shouted. "I'm drunk as a biled owl, and I don't care who
knows it. I'm always drunk. I've drunk 15,000 gallons of whisky in the
last two weeks. I'm a bad man about this time every Sunday. Here goes
the bottle once more for luck."

He hurled the flask at the minister and it struck him on the ear and
broke into twenty pieces. The minister let out a yell and turned and
ran back to his house.

The colonel gathered a pile of stones and hid among the tall weeds,
resolved to fight the whole town as long as his ammunition held out.
His hard luck had made him desperate. An hour later three mounted
policemen got into the weeds, and the colonel surrendered. He had
cooled off by that time enough to explain matters, and as he was well
known to be a perfectly sober and temperate citizen, he was allowed to
go home.

But you can't get him to pick up a bottle now, empty or full.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)



An Odd Character

A Post Reporter stood on the San Jacinto Street bridge last night.
Half of a May moon swam in a sea of buttermilky clouds high in the
east. Below, the bayou gleamed dully in the semi-darkness, merging
into inky blackness farther down. A steam tug glided noiselessly down
the sluggish waters, leaving a shattered trail of molten silver. Foot
passengers across the bridge were scarce. A few belated Fifth-Warders
straggled past, clattering along the uneven planks of the footway. The
reporter took off his hat and allowed a cool breath of a great city to
fan his brow. A mellow voice, with, however, too much dramatic
inflection, murmured at his elbow, and quoted incorrectly from Byron:

    "Oh, moon, and darkening river, ye are wondrous strong;
    Yet lovely in your strength as is the light of a dark eye
      in woman."

The reporter turned and saw a magnificent specimen of the genus tramp.
He was attired in a garb to be viewed with wonder, and even awe. His
coat was a black frock, fallen into decay some years ago. Under it he
wore a jaunty striped blazer, too tight to button, and the ghost of a
collar peered above its intricacies. His trousers were patched, and
torn, and frayed, and faded away at the bottom into ghostly,
indescribable feet shod in shapeless leather and dust.

His face, however, was the face of a hilarious faun. His eyes were
brilliant and piercing, and a godlike smile lit up a face that owed
little to art or soap.

His nose was classic, and his nostrils thin and nervous, betokening
either race or fever. His brow was high and smooth, and his regard
lofty and superior, though a bristly beard of uncertain cut and grisly
effect covered the lower part of his countenance.

"Do you know what I am, sir?" asked this strange being. The reporter
gazed at his weird form and shook his head.

"Your reply reassures me," said the wanderer. "It convinces me that I
have not made a mistake in addressing you. You have some of the
instincts of a gentleman, because you forbore to say what you know
well, namely, that I am a tramp. I look like a tramp and I am one, but
no ordinary one. I have a university education, I am a Greek and Latin
scholar, and I have held the chair of English literature in a college
known all over the world. I am a biologist, and more than all, I am a
student of the wonderful book, man. The last accomplishment is the
only one I still practice. If I am not grown unskilled, I can read
you."

He bent a discriminating look upon the reporter. The reporter puffed
at his cigar and submitted to the scrutiny.

"You are a newspaper man," said the tramp. "I will tell you how I
reached the conclusion. I have been watching you for ten minutes. I
knew you were not a man of leisure, for you walked upon the bridge
with a somewhat rapid step. You stopped and began to watch the effect
of the moon upon the water. A business man would have been hurrying
along to supper. When you got your cigar out you had to feel in three
or four pockets before you found one. A newspaper man has many cigars
forced upon him in the course of a day, and he has to distribute them
among several pockets. Again, you have no pencil sticking out of your
pocket. No newspaper man ever has. Am I right in my conjecture?"

The reporter made a shrewd guess.

"You are right," he said, "and your having seen me going into a
newspaper office some time ago no doubt assisted you in your
diagnosis."

The tramp laughed.

"You are wrong," he said. "You were coming out when I saw you
yesterday. I like a man like you. You can give and take. I have been
in Houston now for three months, and you are the first man to whom I
have spoken of myself. You have not offered me money, and by that have
won my esteem. I am a tramp, but I never accept money from anyone. Why
should I? The richest man in your town is a pauper compared with me. I
see you smile. Come, sir, indulge me for a while. I am afflicted at
times with _cacoethes loquendi_, and rarely do I meet a gentleman who
will give me an ear."

The Post Man had seen so many people with the corners rubbed off, so
many men who always say and do what they are expected to, that he fell
into the humor of listening to this man who said unexpected things.
And then he was so strange to look upon.

The tramp was not drunk, and his appearance was not that of a drinking
man. His features were refined and clear-cut in the moonlight; and his
voice--well, his voice was queer. It sounded like a man talking
plainly in his sleep.

The Post Man concluded that his mind was unbalanced.

The tramp spoke again.

"I said I had plenty of money," he continued, "and I have. I will show
a few--a very few of the wonders that you respectable, plodding,
well-dressed people do not imagine to exist. Look at this ring."

He took from his finger a curious carved ring of beaten copper,
wrought into a design that the moonlight did not suffer to be
deciphered, and handed it to the reporter.

"Rub that ring thrice with the thumb of your left hand," said the
tramp.

The reporter did so, with a creepy feeling that made him smile to
himself. The tramp's eyes beamed, and he pointed into the air,
following with his finger the movements of some invisible object.

"It is Artamela," he said, "the slave of the ring--catch!"

He swept his hollowed hand into space, scooping up something, and
handed it to the reporter.

"See!" he said, "golden coins. I can bring them at will in unlimited
numbers. Why should I beg?"

He held his empty hand with a gesture toward the reporter, who
pretended to accept its visionary contents.

The tramp took off his hat and let the breeze sift through his tangled
hair.

"What would you think," he said, "if I should tell you that I am 241
years old?"

"Knock off a couple of centuries," said the reporter, "and it will go
all right."

"This ring," said the tramp, "was given me by a Buddhist priest in
Benares, India, a hundred years before America was discovered. It is
an inexhaustible source of wealth, life and good luck. It has brought
me every blessing that man can enjoy. With such fortune as that there
is no one on earth that I envy. I am blissfully happy and I lead the
only ideal life."

The tramp leaned on the railing and gazed down the bayou for a long
time without speaking. The reporter made a movement as if to go, and
he started violently and faced around. A change had come over him. His
brow was lowering and his manner cringing. He shivered and pulled his
coat tight about him.

"Wot wuz I sayin'?" he said in a gruff, husky voice. "Wuz I a talkin'?
Hello, there, mister, can't you give a feller a dime to get him some
supper?"

The reporter, struck by the transformation, gazed at him in silence.

The tramp muttered to himself, and with shaking hands drew from his
pocket something wrapped in paper.

He unrolled it, took something from it between his thumb and finger
and thrust it into his mouth.

The sickly, faint, sweet odor of gum opium reached the reporter.

The mystery about the tramp was solved.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 24, 1896.)



A Houston Romance

About two years ago one of the most popular young society men in
Houston mysteriously disappeared. He had been the glass of fashion and
the mold of form of the Magnolia City for several years. Especially
was he noted for his exquisite and fashionable dress, and he was
regarded as the leader in bringing out the latest and correct styles
of clothing. No one in Houston ever saw a wrinkle in his elegantly
fitting clothes, or a spot upon his snowy linen. He possessed
sufficient means to enable him to devote his whole time to society and
the art of dress, and in his whole bearing and manners was well nigh
equal to the famous Beau Brummel.

About a year ago it was noticed that he was beginning to grow
preoccupied and reserved. His gay and gallant manner was as
Chesterfieldian as ever, but he was becoming more silent and moody,
and there seemed to be something weighing upon his mind. Suddenly,
without a word of farewell, he disappeared, and no traces of him could
be discovered. He left a good balance in the bank to his credit, and
society racked its brains to conjecture some reason for his mysterious
disappearance. He had no relatives in Houston, and with proverbial
fickleness his acquaintances and butterfly friends soon allowed him to
pass from their minds.

The mystery has at length been cleared up. A young Houston merchant
who was an intimate associate with the young society man took a trip
to Europe in September.

While in Italy he had a desire to visit one of the old monasteries
among the Alps; so one day he ascended the Passo di San Giacomo, a
road little wider than a bridle path that led up for 7000 feet among
the glaciers of the Leopontine Alps. Far up, perched upon a
snow-covered crag, he could see the monastery of the Franciscan
monks--the Minorite Friars of the Cismontana group of the Franciscans.

He picked his cautious way up the narrow way, pausing now and then to
admire the rainbow hues that flashed from frozen glaciers, or the vast
drifts of snow packed among the crevasses high above his head.

After six hours' arduous toil he stood before the massive iron gates
of the monastery. He rang the bell, and a grim warden bade him enter
and partake of the hospitality of the brothers. He was ushered into a
vast dim hall, with walls and floors of cold gray stone. The monk who
admitted him bade him wait, as the brothers were about to pass through
on their way to their cells from evening prayer. A deep-toned bell
clanged once; a great door softly opened, and a procession of shaved
monks filed slowly and noiselessly past. Theirs heads were bowed and,
as they told their beads, their lips moved in silent prayer.

As they came past the visitor he was astounded to see among the devout
monks the form of the man who had once been the curled darling and
pattern of elegance in Houston.

    * * * * *

He called his name and the monk, startled by his voice, raised his
head and stepped from the ranks of his brother penitents. The others
continued their silent march until another great door had closed
behind them.

The Houston man gazed at the friar in wonder.

He wore a long black robe, slightly confined at the waist by a hempen
cord, that hung to his feet in classic, shapely folds. The crown of
his head was shaven and his face was as smooth as a maiden's. But the
most noticeable thing was the expression of absolute peace and serene
happiness that shone from his features. There was no trace of the
worried and absent look that his friends had noticed before he
disappeared.

A calm and holy beatitude beamed from his face like a benison.

"In heaven's name," said his friend, "what brought you here to bury
yourself forever from the world; why did you leave your friends and
pleasures to pass your days in this dreary place?"

"Listen," said the monk, "and I will tell you. I am now supremely and
ecstatically happy. I have attained the goal of my desires. Look at
this robe." He glanced proudly at the dark, severe robe that swept
downward from his waist in graceful folds.

"I am one man," he continued, "who has arrived at the fruition of his
dearest earthly hopes. I have got something on at least that will not
bag at the knees."

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, November 24, 1895.)



The Legend of San Jacinto

The Hermit of the Battle Ground Relates an Ancient Tradition to a Post
Man

The battle ground of San Jacinto is a historic spot, very dear to
those who make the past reputation of Texas a personal matter. A Texan
who does not thrill at the mention of the locality where General Sam
Houston and other gentlemen named after the counties of Texas,
captured Santa Anna and his portable bar and side arms, is a baseborn
slave.

A few days ago a _Hoodoo Jane_ went down the bayou to the battle
ground with the intention of gathering from some of the old
inhabitants a few of the stories and legends that are so plentiful
concerning the events that occurred on that memorable spot.

The _Hoodoo Jane_ let the reporter off at the battle ground, which is
on the bank of the bayou, and he wandered about under the thick grove
of trees and then out upon the low flat country where the famous
battle is said to have raged. Down under a little bunch of elm trees
was a little cabin, and the reporter wandered thither in the hope of
finding an old inhabitant.

A venerable man emerged from the cabin, apparently between 15 and 80
years of age, with long white hair and silvery beard.

"Come hither, youth," he said. "Would'st know the legend of this
place? Then cross my palm with silver, and I'll tell it thee."

"Good father," said the reporter, "Gramercy, and by my halidome, and
Got wot, as you love me, ask me not for silver, but even fire away
with your old legend."

"Then sit you here," said the hermit, "and I will tell you the legend
of the battle ground of San Jacinto.

"A great many years ago, when these silver locks of mine were dark and
my step as quick and blithe as thine, my mother told me this tale. How
well I remember the day. It was twilight, and the evening shadows were
growing long under the trees. She laid her hand upon my head and said:

    * * * * *

"'My boy, I will tell you the legend of San Jacinto. It is a beautiful
story, and was told to me by my father, who was one of the earliest
settlers in the State. Ah! what a man he was--six feet in height,
sinewy as an oaken withe, and as bold as a lion. One day, I remember,
he came home after a long, hard fight with the Indians. He took me on
his knee as gently as a woman would, this great strong father of mine,
and said:

"'"Listen, little Sunbeam, and I will tell you the grand old story of
San Jacinto. It is a legend known to few. It will make your bright
eyes dance in your head with wonder. I heard it from my uncle, who was
a strange man, and held in dread by all who knew him. One night when
the moon was going down in the west and the big owls were hooting
mournfully in the woods, he pointed out to me that great grove of
trees on the bayou's bank, and taking me by the arm whispered: 'Do you
see them, lad, do you see them?'

"'"It was almost dark where we stood alone in the deep grass, and the
wind made strange sounds as it swept across the flat.

"'"'I have never breathed to a mortal a word of this story, lad,' said
my uncle, 'but it must out. Listen; when I was a child my grandmother
told me the legend of San Jacinto. The next day she died. She told it
to me at midnight on this very spot. There was a storm raging, and the
furious wind beat us under this old oak for shelter. My grandmother's
eyes, ordinarily so dim and weak, blazed like stars. She seemed fifty
years younger as she raised her trembling hand towards the old battle
ground and said:

"'"'"Child, for the first time in many years a human tongue is about
to reveal the secret that this silent spot holds in its eternal bosom.
I will now tell you the legend of San Jacinto as told me by my
father's half-brother. He was a silent, moody man, fond of reading and
solitary walks. One day I found him weeping. When he saw me he brushed
the tears away from his eyes and said gently:

    * * * * *

"'"'"'Is that you, little one? Come and I will tell you something that
I have kept locked in my breast for many a year. There is a mournful
legend connected with this spot that must be told. Sit by my side, and
I will tell it you. I had it from my grandmother's sister, who was a
well known character in her day. How well I remember her words. She
was a gentle and lovely woman, and her sweet and musical tones added
interest to the quaint and beautiful legend.

"'"'"'"Once upon a time," she said, "I was riding with my uncle's
stepfather across this valley, when he gazed upon that grove of trees
and said:

"'"'"'"'Have you ever heard the legend of San Jacinto?'

"'"'"'"'Nay,' I said.

"'"'"'"'I will tell it thee,' he said. 'Many years ago when I was a
lad, my father and I stopped in the shade there to rest. The sun was
just setting, and he pointed to the spot and said:

"'"'"'"'"My son, I am growing old and will not be with you long. There
is an old legend connected with this ground, and I feel that it should
be told you. A long time ago, before you were born my grandfather one
day--"'"'"'"'"

"See here, you old blatherskite," said the _Post_ reporter, "you've
got this story back about 600 years before the Pontius Pilate's time
now. Don't you know a news item from an inscription on the pyramids?
Our paper doesn't use plate matter. Why don't you work this gag of
yours off on the syndicates?"

The aged hermit then frowned and reached under his coat tail, and the
reporter ran swiftly, but in a dignified manner, to the _Hoodoo Jane_
and embarked. But there is a legend about the San Jacinto battle
ground somewhere in the neighborhood, if one could only get at it.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 19, 1896.)



Binkley's Practical School of Journalism

Last Tuesday afternoon a ragged and disreputable-looking man was
noticed standing on a corner of Main Street. Several persons who had
occasion to pass a second time along the street saw him still standing
there on their return.

He seemed to be waiting for someone. Finally a young man came down the
sidewalk, and the ragged man sprang upon him without saying a word and
engaged him in fierce combat.

The young man defended himself as well as he could, but he had been
severely handled before the bystanders could separate them. Of course
no policeman was in sight, and the affair ended with as little noise
and confusion as it began with. The young man slunk away with a black
eye and a bruised cheek, and the ragged man with a look of intense
satisfaction on his face turned off' down a side street.

A Post Man who had viewed the occurrence was struck with something
extraordinary in the man's appearance, and, satisfied that there was
more in the situation than appeared on the face of it, followed the
aggressor. As he came up behind him, the disreputable-looking man said
aloud to himself in a voice that expressed a deep and triumphant joy:

"That's the last of the lot. After all, the pursuit of revenge gives
more pleasure than its attainment. I have robbed my existence of its
aim."

The man continued his course, turning corners in a hesitating way,
with the manner of one unfamiliar with the town, and after a time
entered an obscure saloon on Congress Street.

The Post Man also entered, and sipping a glass of water, which he
begged of the saloon man, he saw the ragged man seat himself at a
small table. Although his attire was mean and torn, and his hair
disheveled and uncared for, his face showed evidence of much
intelligence that rather belied his uncouth dress.

Spurred by curiosity, the Post Man also took a chair at the table.
With the tact and enterprise of his craft he soon engaged the
mysterious stranger in conversation and found him, as he had expected,
to be a man of education and manners.

"When you tell me you are a newspaper man," said he with a graceful
wave of his hand, "you compel my confidence. I shall tell you my
story. I once ran a newspaper myself."

He rapped on the table, and when the waiter came he fished up from the
depths of his rags a lean pocketbook, from which he shook upon the
table a single dollar. Handing this to the waiter, he said:

"A bottle of your best wine and some good cigars."

"Really," said the Post Man, as he placed two fingers in his vest
pocket, "I can not allow you--you must let me--"

"Not at all," said the ragged man with dignity, "I have ordered."

The Post Man awaited with impatience the narrative of his strange
entertainer.

    * * * * *

"My name is Binkley," said the ragged man. "I am the founder of
Binkley's Practical School of Journalism: the dollar I have just spent
is the last dollar I have in the world, and the man I licked up town
is the last one of the editorial and reportorial staff of my newspaper
that I have treated in the same manner.

"About a year ago I had $15,000 in cash to invest. I could have
invested it in many things that would have been safe and paid a fair
percent, but I unluckily conceived an original idea for making a good
deal more.

"I understood the newspaper business, as I had served eight or ten
years on a first-class journal before I fell heir to the $15,000 on
the death of an aunt. I had noticed that every newspaper in the
country is besieged with ambitious youths who desire a position in
order that they may learn journalism. They are for the most part
college graduates, and a great many of them care little for the
salaries connected with the positions. They are after experience.

"The idea struck me that they would be willing to pay handsomely for
situations where they could imbibe the art of practical journalism as
found in a first-class newspaper office. Several Schools of Journalism
had already been started in the country and were succeeding well. I
believed that a school of this nature, combined with a live,
prospering newspaper that had a good circulation would prove a gold
mine to its originator. In a school they could only learn a theory, in
my school both theory and practice would walk hand in hand.

"It was a great idea.

"I found a newspaper that would sell out. It was in a large Southern
city: I don't care to give its name. The proprietor was in ill health
and wanted to leave the country. It was a good plant, and it was
clearing $3,000 a year above expenses. I got it for $12,000 cash, put
$3,000 in bank and sat down and wrote out a neat little advertisement
to catch the young would-be journalists. I sent these advertisements
to some big Northern and Eastern papers and waited for responses.

"My paper was well known, and the idea of getting a place on it to
learn journalism seemed to strike the people just right. I advertised
that as there were only a limited number of places to be filled, I
would have to consider applications in the form of bids, and the one
bidding highest for each position got it.

"You wouldn't believe it if I told the number of answers I got. I
filed everything for about a week, and then I looked over the
references they sent me, sized up the bids and selected my force. I
ordered them to report on a certain day, and they were on time, eager
to go to work. I got $50 per week from my editorial writer; $40 from
my city editor; $25 each from three reporters; $20 from a dramatic
critic; $35 from a literary editor, and $30 each from night and
telegraph editors. I also accepted three special writers, who paid me
$15 per week each for doing special assignments. I was managing editor
and was to direct, criticize and instruct the staff.

    * * * * *

"I discharged the old force, and after an hour's course of instruction
I turned my new staff loose upon their duties. Most of them had
graduated with high honors at college and were of wealthy families,
who could afford to pay well for the splendid advantage of entering
them in Binkley's Practical School of Journalism.

"When the staff dispersed, eager and anxious, to their several duties,
I leaned back in my revolving chair with a smile of satisfaction. Here
was an income of $1,400 per month coming from and not paid to my
staff, besides the $3,000 yearly profit from the paper. Oh, it was a
good thing.

"Of course, I expected a little crudeness and stiffness about the work
of my staff at first, but I calculated that they would err on the side
of fine writing rather than otherwise. I lit a cigar and strolled
through the editorial rooms. The leader writer was at his desk working
away, his high, intellectual forehead and broadcloth clothes
presenting a fine appearance. The literary editor was consulting an
encyclopedia with a knitted brow, and the dramatic critic was pasting
a picture of Shakespeare above his desk. The city force were out news
gathering.

"I began to feel sorry for people who were unable to think up such a
fine scheme as I had. Everything was working as smooth as you please.
I went downstairs and, rendered reckless by success, I hunted up an
old friend and confided to him my wonderful scheme. He was impressed,
and we hied ourselves to a caravansary and opened bottle after bottle
in honor of the idea.

"When I returned to the office, the entire staff was there with their
day's work turned in. The truth is I was so exhilarated by what I had
taken that I hardly knew what I was reading when I looked over their
copy, but with a mistaken confidence in the ability of my scholars, I
let the stuff all go on the file, and shortly afterward the foreman
carried it away. I instructed the night editor as to his duties and
went home, to dream of my good fortune.

"The next morning I came down town about 9 o'clock, and it seemed to
me I couldn't see anything but newsboys. The town was full of them,
and people were buying my paper as fast as the boys could hand them
out. I fairly swelled with satisfaction and pride. As I neared the
office I saw five men with shotguns standing on the sidewalk.

"One of them caught sight of me, and took a snap shot at me as I
turned the corner. A buckshot went through my ear and several through
my hat. I didn't wait for explanation, as the other four men also
tried to get a shot at me, and I cut around the corner and dodged into
a back lot full of empty dry goods boxes.

"A newsboy went by, calling the paper, and I whistled him up to a
crack in the fence and bought one. I thought perhaps there might be
something in the paper that had offended somebody.

"I crawled into a big box and opened the paper. The more I read the
wilder I became. Excuse me for changing the subject," continued the
ragged man, "but you said something a while ago in reference to this
liquid refreshment, which I perceive is already finished."

The Post Man stammered, hesitated, felt in his vest pocket once more
and then arose, and taking the saloon man aside, whispered with him
for about fifteen minutes. The result was that the saloon man brought
another bottle of wine, but with a very bad grace, slamming the bottle
and glasses upon the table in an ill-bred and ungracious manner. The
ragged man smiled, filled the glasses, and then, his face taking on a
deep frown as his mind reverted to his story, he continued.

"I turned first to the local page. The first item that met my eyes was
this:

    "'Colonel J. Henry Gwinn, the administrator of the Perkins
    estate, has robbed the family of the deceased of over
    $75,000. The heirs will bring suit for that amount at an
    early date.'

"I remembered that the man who fired at me looked a good deal like
Colonel J. Henry Gwinn. The next item was as follows:

    "'A certain city alderman residing not many miles from No.
    1204 West Thirty-Second Street, has recently built a
    $10,000 residence. Votes in the city council must be
    getting higher.'

"There were about fifteen items of the same kind and every one of them
was a dead shot for big damages. I glanced at the society columns and
saw a few harmless little squibs like the following:

    'Mrs. General Crowder gave a big ball last night on
    Johnson Avenue. It does seem like she would get a divorce
    from that ticket agent in Kansas City before she tried to
    cut such a swell as old Crowder's wife.'

    "'Henry Baumgarten beat his wife again last night.'

    "'The Ladies' Histrionic Society met last evening over
    Klein's music store. Miss Sadie Dodson was overcome by the
    heat and was taken home in a hack. Heat! That's a new name
    for it.'

"These are some of the least objectionable items. There were some that
made my hair rise slowly on my head as I read them.

"Mechanically I turned to the editorial page, thinking it hardly
possible there could be anything wrong with it. The first article
charged every city and county official with corruption in office,
calling them by name, and wound up by offering to give $10,000 to any
charity fund if the paper did not prove every charge within ten days.

"I crept through the lot, knocked a board off the next fence and made
my way to the back stairway of the office. I found two of my reporters
cursing and kicking in the back yard. One of them was in a heap of
soft coal dust and the other was hanging by his coat tail on a picket
fence. Somebody had thrown them out the window.

"Sick at heart I crept upstairs to the editorial rooms. There was
considerable noise going on. I went in easy as I could and looked
around. My $50 editorial writer was in a corner with half a chair in
his hands defending himself manfully against a quorum of the city
council. He had laid out three of them and was putting up a great
fight. The city editor was lying on the floor with four men sitting on
him, and a large, angry German was trying to punch the dramatic editor
off the top of the book case with a piece of gas pipe.

"It is enough to discourage any man to have a staff that is paying him
$1,400 per month treated that way.

"I went into my private office, and the enraged public followed me
there. I knew it was no use to argue with them, so I pulled out my
checkbook and tried to compromise. When all the money I had in the
bank was exhausted, and another batch of infuriated citizens came in,
I gave up in despair.

"At 11 o'clock the business office force came up in a body and
resigned. At 12 o'clock damage suits were filed against the paper to
the amount of $200,000, and I knew every one of them was good for a
judgment. I went downstairs and got about nine drinks and came back. I
met the editorial writer on the stairs, and I hit him on the point of
the chin without saying a word. He still held one leg of the chair in
his hand, and he swiped me over the head with it and ran. When I got
inside I found that the dramatic critic was about to win the day. He
was a college man and a great football player. He had thrashed the big
German and had pulled the four citizens off the city editor, and they
were waging great battle with the foe. Just then the society editor
dashed into the room barefooted, in his shirt and trousers, and I
heard a tremendous screeching and chattering, as if a thousand parrots
were talking at once.

    * * * * *

"'Run!' he gasped out. 'The women are coming.'

"I looked out the window and saw that the sidewalk was full of them. I
made a break for a back window, jumped off onto a shed, and never
stopped until I was a mile out of town. That was the end of Binkley's
Practical School of Journalism. I have been tramping about the country
ever since.

"The fellow I attacked on the street today was a special Houston
correspondent I had engaged. I had a little grudge against him on
account of the first communication he sent the paper. I gave him carte
blanche to send in what he thought best, and he wired us 40,000 words
the first day about the mockingbirds singing in the trees by the
courthouse, while the snow was three feet deep in Dakota. Do you not
think I have had some hard luck?"

"I must tell you," said the Post Man, "that I don't believe your story
at all."

The ragged man replied sadly and reproachfully: "Did I not pay my last
dollar for refreshments while telling it to you? Have I asked you for
anything?"

"Well," said the Post Man, after reflecting a while, "it may be true,
but--"

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, February 16, 1896.)



A New Microbe

There is a Houston man who is a great lover of science and an ardent
student of her mysteries. He has a small laboratory fitted up at home
and spends a great deal of his time in experimenting with chemicals
and analyzing different substances.

Of late he has been much interested in various germ theories, and has
somewhat neglected his business to read Pasteur's and Koch's writings,
and everything he could procure relating to sundry kinds of bacilli.

He has bought a new 900-power magnifying instrument, and hopes before
long to add his quota to the number of valuable discoveries concerning
germ life.

Last Tuesday night there was a sociable and supper given at one of the
churches.

The man's wife wanted him to go, but he begged off, saying that he
would much rather stay at home and have a good quiet time with his
microscope, while she went and took the children.

He had been reading ex-State Geologist Dumble's report of his analysis
of Houston bayou water, and he was anxious to verify that gentleman's
statements by an examination of his own.

So, immediately after supper he went through the kitchen and found a
tin bucket full of water sitting on a bench by the hydrant and carried
it at once to his laboratory and, fastening himself in, went to work.

After a time he heard his wife and children leave the house on their
way to the supper at the church, which was only a block or two away,
and he congratulated himself on the nice quiet time he was going to
have.

He worked away for nearly three hours, repeatedly examining through
the powerful microscope samples of the bayou water from the bucket.

    * * * * *

At last he slapped his hand on his knee in triumph.

"Dumble's wrong!" he exclaimed. "He says it's the _hybadid cystallis_,
and I'm certain he's mistaken. The inhabitants of this water are
schizomycetic bacteria, but they are neither macrocci of
roseopersicina, nor have they iso-diametric cells.

"Can it be that I have discovered a new germ? Is scientific fame
within my grasp?"

He seized his pen and began to write. In a little while his family
came home and his wife came up to the laboratory. He generally refused
to let her in, but on that occasion he opened the door and welcomed
her enthusiastically.

"Ellen," he cried, "since you have been gone I have won fame and
perhaps fortune. I have discovered a new bacterium in the bayou water.
Science describes nothing like it. I shall call it after you and your
name will pass into eternal fame. Just take a look through the
microscope."

His wife shut one eye and looked into the cylinder.

"Funny little round things, ain't they?" she said. "Are they injurious
to the system?"

"Sure death. Get one of 'em in your alimentary canal and you're a
goner. I'm going to write to the London _Lancet_ and the New York
Academy of Sciences tonight. What shall we call 'em, Ellen? Let's
see--Ellenobes, or Ellenites, or what?"

"Oh, John, you wretch!" shrieked his wife, as she caught sight of the
tin bucket on the table. "You've got my bucket of Galveston oysters
that I bought to take to the church supper! Microbes, indeed!"

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, November 15, 1895.)



Vereton Villa

    The following story of Southern life and manners won a
    prize offered by a Boston newspaper, and was written by a
    young lady in Boston, a teacher in one of the advanced
    schools of that city. She has never visited the South, but
    the faithful local color and character drawing shows an
    intimate acquaintance with the works of Mrs. H. B. Stowe,
    Albion W. Tourgee and other well known chroniclers of
    Southern life. Everyone living in the South will recognize
    the accurate portraits of Southern types of character and
    realistic description of life among the Southern planters.

"Will you go, Penelope?" asked Cyrus.

"It is my duty," I said. "It is a grand mission to go to Texas and
carry what light I can to its benighted inhabitants. The school I am
offered will pay me well, and if I can teach the savage people of that
region something of our culture and refinement, I shall be happy."

"Well, then, goodbye," said Cyrus, offering me his hand.

I had never seen him so passionately aroused.

I took his hand for a second and then got upon the train that was to
bear me to my new field of duty.

Cyrus and I had been engaged to be married for fifteen years. He was
professor of chemistry in the Massachusetts State University. I had
received an offer of $40 a month to teach a private school in a little
town in Texas, and had accepted it. Cyrus received $20 per month from
his chair in the university. He had waited for fifteen years for me to
save up enough money for us to get married. I seized this chance in
Texas, resolved to live economically, and in fifteen more years, if I
kept the school that long, we could marry.

My board was to cost me nothing, as the DeVeres, one of the oldest and
most aristocratic families anywhere in the South, offered me a place
in their home. There were several children in the family, and they
were anxious to secure a competent teacher for the little school which
they attended.

The station where I got off was called Houston, and I found there a
team waiting to convey me to Vereton, the little town six miles away,
which was my destination.

The driver was a colored man, who approached me and asked respectfully
if I was Miss Cook. My trunk was placed in the vehicle, which was an
old rickety ambulance drawn by a pair of wretched mules, and I mounted
beside the driver, whose name, he said, was Pete.

While we were driving along a shady road, Pete suddenly burst into
tears and sobbed as if his heart were breaking.

"My friend," said I, "will you not tell me what is the matter?"

"Ah, missie," he said between sobs, "I happen to look at dat busted
link hangin' down from dat trace chain en it remind me of Massa Linkum
what am in heb'n, what gib us po' slaves freedom."

"Pete," said I, "do not weep. In the mansions of the blessed above,
your godlike liberator awaits you. Singing among the hosts of heaven,
Abraham Lincoln wears the brightest crown of glory."

I laid my arm gently across Pete's shoulder.

The poor, softhearted, grateful man, whose dark skin covered a heart
as pure as snow, still sobbed at the remembrance of the martyred
Lincoln, and I made him lay his head upon my breast, where he sobbed
unrestrainedly as I drove the mules myself the rest of the way to
Vereton.

    * * * * *

Vereton was a typical Southern home. I had been informed that the
DeVere family were still very wealthy, in spite of having lost a great
deal during the rebellion, and that they still lived in the true
aristocratic planter style.

The house was two-storied and square, with big white pillars in front.
Large verandahs ran entirely around the house, about which climbed
dense masses of ivy and honeysuckle.

As I alighted from the ambulance, I heard a chattering and saw a large
mule run out the front door, driven by a lady with a broom. The mule
lay down on the verandah and the lady advanced to meet me.

"Ah you Miss Cook?" she asked, in the soft slurring accent.

I bowed.

"Ah am Mrs. DeVere," she said. "Come in, and look out for that dam
mule. I can't keep him out of the house."

I went in the parlor and looked about me in amazement. The room was
magnificently furnished, but I could see the Southern sloth and
carelessness visible everywhere. A wheelbarrow full of dried mortar
stood in one corner that had been left there when the masons built the
house. Five or six chickens were roosting on the piano and a pair of
pants were hanging on the chandelier.

Mrs. DeVere had a pale, aristocratic face, with Grecian features, and
snowy hair arranged carefully in becoming ringlets. She was dressed in
black satin and wore flashing diamonds on her hands and at her throat.
Her eyes were black and piercing and her eyebrows dark. As I took my
seat, she drew a long piece of plug tobacco from a silver card
receiver, and bit off a chew.

"Do you indulge?" she asked smilingly.

I shook my head.

"The h--l you don't!" she replied.

Just then a horse dashed up to the verandah--or gallery, as they call
it in Texas--and someone dismounted and entered the room.

    * * * * *

I shall never forget my first sight of Aubrey DeVere.

He was fully seven feet in height, and his face was perfect. It was
the absolute image of Andrea del Sarto's painting of the young Saint
John. His eyes were immense, dark, and filled with a haunting sadness,
and his pale, patrician features and air of haut monde stamped him at
once as the descendant of a long line of aristocrats.

He wore a dress suit of the latest cut, but I noticed that he was
barefooted, and down from each side of his mouth trickled a dark brown
stream of tobacco juice.

On his head was an enormous Mexican sombrero. He wore no shirt, but
his dress coat, thrown back from his broad chest, revealed an enormous
scintillating diamond tied with a piece of twine strung into the
meshes of his gauze undershirt.

"My son, Aubrey; Miss Cook," said Mrs. DeVere languidly.

Mr. DeVere took a chew of tobacco from his mouth and tossed it behind
the piano.

"The lady who has kindly consented to assume our scholastic duties, I
presume," he said, in a deep musical baritone.

I inclined my head.

"I know your countrymen," he said with a dark frown upon his handsome
face. "They still grope among their benighted traditions of ignorance
and prejudice. What do you think of Jefferson Davis?"

I looked into his flashing eye without flinching.

"He was a traitor," I said.

Mr. DeVere laughed musically, and stooping down drew a pine splinter
from one of his toes. Then he approached his mother and saluted her
with that chivalrous reverence and courtesy that still lingers among
sons of the South.

"What shall we have for supper, mammy?" he said.

"Whatever you d--- please," said Mrs. DeVere.

Aubrey DeVere reached out his hand and seized one of the chickens that
roosted upon the piano. He wrung its neck and threw its quivering and
fluttering body upon the delicate Brussels carpet. He took a long
stride and stood before me, towering like an avenging god, with one
arm upraised, the other pointing to the fowl, struggling in its death
agonies.

"That is the South," he cried, in a voice of thunder; "the bleeding
and dying South after Gettysburg. Tonight you will feast upon its
carcass, as your countrymen have been doing for the last thirty
years."

He hurled the head of the chicken into my face with a terrible oath,
and then dropped on one knee and bowed his kingly head.

"Pardon me, Miss Cook," he said, "I do not mean to offend you.
Twenty-eight years ago today, my father was killed at the battle of
Shiloh."

    * * * * *

When the supper bell rang I was invited into a long, lofty room,
wainscoted with dark oak and lighted by paraffine candles.

Aubrey DeVere sat at the foot of the table and carved. He had taken
off his coat, and his clinging undershirt revealed every muscle of a
torso as grand as that of the Dying Gladiator in the Vatican at Rome.
The supper was truly a Southern one. At one end was an enormous
grinning opossum and sweet potatoes, while the table was covered with
dishes of cabbage, fried chicken, fruit cake, persimmons, hot raw
biscuits, blackhaws, Maypops, fried catfish, maple syrup, hominy, ice
cream, sausages, bananas, crackling bread, pineapples, squashes, wild
grapes and apple pies.

Pete, the colored man, waited upon us, and once in handing Mr. DeVere
the gravy he spilled a little of it upon the tablecloth. With a yell
like a tiger, Aubrey DeVere sprang to his feet and hurled his carving
knife to the handle in Pete's breast. The poor colored man fell to the
floor, and I ran and lifted his head.

"Goodbye, missie," he whispered. "I hear de angels singing, and I sees
de bressed Mars Abraham Linkum smilin' at me from near de great white
th'one. Goodbye missie, Ol' Pete am goin' home.'

I rose and faced Mr. DeVere.

"Inhuman monster!" I cried. "You have killed him!"

He touched a silver bell and another servant appeared.

"Take this body out and bring me a clean knife," he commanded. "Resume
your seat, Miss Cook. Like all your countrymen, you evince a penchant
for dark meat. Mammy, dear, can I send you a choice bit of the
'possum?"

    * * * * *

The next day I met the four DeVere children, and found them very
bright and lovable. Two were boys and two girls, ranging from 10 to 16
years of age. The little school house was half a mile away down a
beautiful country lane, full of grass and flowers. I had fifteen
scholars in my school, and except for a few things my life at Vereton
would have been like Paradise. The first month I saved up $42. My
salary was $40, and I made the other two by loaning small sums to my
scholars for a few days at a time, for which they paid me from 10 to
25 cents interest.

I took a curious interest in studying the character of Aubrey DeVere.
His was one of the noblest and grandest natures I had ever known, but
it was so far influenced by the traditions and customs of the people
with whom he had lived, that scarcely a vestige of its natural good
remained.

He had been splendidly educated at the University of Virginia, and was
an accomplished orator, musician and painter, but from his early
childhood he had been allowed to give way to every impulse and desire,
and his manhood showed sadly his lack of self-control.

One evening I was in the music room in the second story of the DeVere
mansion, playing over that loveliest of Schubert's Leider, "Hark,
Hark, the Lark," when Aubrey DeVere entered. Of late, on account of
some strange whim, he had become more careful in his dress.

This evening he wore a shirt, thrown open in front, exhibiting his
massive collar bone, and a black velvet smoking jacket, trimmed with
gold braid in a fanciful design. On his hands were white kid gloves,
and I noticed that his feet, on which he absolutely refused to wear
shoes, had been recently washed at the pump. He was in one of his most
bitter and sneering moods, and launched forth into a most acrimonious
tirade against Grant, Lincoln, George Francis Train and other heroes
of the Union. He sat down upon the center table and began scratching
one of his ankles with the toe of the other foot in a manner that he
knew always irritated me.

Resolved not to become angry, I continued playing. Suddenly he said:

"Pardon me, Miss Cook, but you struck a wrong note in effecting the
run in that diminished seventh."

"I think not," I answered.

"You are a liar!" he replied. "You struck a natural, when it should
have been a sharp. This is the note you should have played."

I heard something swish through the air. From where he sat on the
center table, he shot between his teeth a solid stream of tobacco
juice with deadly aim full upon the black key of A-sharp on the piano.
I rose from the stool, somewhat nettled, but smiling.

"You are offended," he said, sarcastically. "You do not like our
Southern ways. You think me a mauvais sujet. You think we lack aplomb
and savoir-vivre. With your Boston culture, you think you can detect a
false note in our courtesy, a certain lack of fineness and refinement
in our manners. Do not deny it."

"Mr. DeVere," I said coldly, "your taunts are nothing to me. I am here
to do my duty. In your own house you are at liberty to act as you
choose. Will you move one of your feet and allow me to pass?"

Mr. DeVere suddenly sprang from the table and clasped me fiercely in
his arms.

"Penelope," he cried, in a terrible voice. "I love you! You miserable
little dried-up, washed-out, white-eyed, sallow-cheeked, prim, angular
Yankee schoolma'am. I loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you.
Will you marry me?"

I struggled to get free.

"Put me down," I cried. "Oh, if Cyrus were only here!"

"Cyrus!" shouted Mr. DeVere. "Who is Cyrus? Cyrus shall never have
you, I swear."

He raised me above his head with one hand and hurled me through the
plate glass window into the yard below. Then he threw the furniture
down upon me, piece by piece, the piano last of all. I then heard him
rush down the stairs, and in a moment felt a stream of liquid
trickling down among the broken furniture. I recognized the acrid
smell of petroleum, heard the scratch of a match, and the fierce
roaring of flames; felt a sudden scorching heat, and remembered no
more.

    * * * * *

When I regained consciousness I was lying in my own bed, and Mrs.
DeVere was sitting beside me, fanning me.

I tried to rise, but was too weak.

"You must keep still," said Mrs. DeVere gently. "You have been ill
with fever for two weeks. You must excuse my son; I am afraid he
startled you. He loves you very much, but he is so impulsive."

"Where is he?" I asked.

"He has gone to bring Cyrus, and it is time he had returned."

"How did I escape from that dreadful fire?"

"Aubrey rescued you. After his fit of passion had passed he dashed
aside the burning furniture and carried you back upstairs."

A few minutes later I heard the sound of footsteps, and looking up saw
Aubrey DeVere and Cyrus Potts standing by my bedside.

"Cyrus," I cried.

"How de do, Penelope," said Cyrus.

Before I could reply there was a loud and fiendish yell outside. The
front door was broken down and a dozen masked men dashed into the
room.

"We hear there is a d--- Yankee in here," they cried. "Lynch him!"

Aubrey DeVere seized a table by the leg and killed every man of the
lynching party.

"Cyrus Potts," he thundered, "kiss that schoolma'am, or I'll brain you
as I did those other fellows."

Cyrus dabbed an icy kiss in my direction.

A week later Cyrus and I left for Boston. His salary has been raised
to $25 per month and I had saved $210.

Aubrey DeVere accompanied us to the train. Under his arm he carried a
keg of blasting powder. As our train rolled out he sat down upon this
keg and touched a lighted match to it.

One of his great toes fell through the car window and fell in my lap.

Cyrus is not of a jealous disposition, and I now have that great toe
in a bottle of alcohol on my writing desk. We are married now, and I
will never taken another trip to the South.

The Southern people are too impulsive.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 10, 1896.)



Whiskey Did It

A solemn philanthropist was standing at a corner of the Market House
square yesterday making a calculation in his head as to how long it
would take a man to save enough beer money to build Solomon's temple.
While he was musing, a small, slender policeman with a fiery eye came
along, dragging by the wrist a big negro man about twice as large as
himself.

The policeman stopped for a moment on the steps to rest, and the
philanthropist, with a pitying glance, said to the negro:

"My colored friend, what has been the cause of your coming to such a
sorry plight? To what do you attribute your downfall into the clutches
of the law?"

"Whisky, boss," said the negro, rolling his eyes wildly at the
officer.

"Ah, I thought so," said the philanthropist, taking out his note book.
"I am making a memorandum of your case for the benefit of some other
poor wretch who is also struggling with the demon. Now, how did whisky
bring you to this condition?"

"It done it in dis way," said the negro, ducking his head as the
policeman raised his hand to brush a fly off his nose. "I is one ob de
wust niggers in dis town, en dey don't no policeman got sand 'nuff to
try en 'rest me fo' de last two years. Dis mawnin' dis here mis'able
little dried-up ossifer what's got me, goes out an' fills hisse'f up
wid mean whisky till he ain't know what danger he am in, an' he come
an' scoop me up. Dis little runt wid brass buttons wouldn't er tetch
me ef he ain't plum full er whisky. Yes, boss, de whisky am done it,
an' nuffin' else."

The philanthropist put up his note book and walked away, while the
officer whacked the negro over the head a couple of times with his
club and dragged him down the steps, exclaiming:

"Come along 'n shuzzer mouse, you blacksh rascal. Strongarm e'r law
gossher zis time, 'n no mistake."

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)



Nothing New Under the Sun

The wind tears at the shingles that poorly cover the attic at the top
of seven flights of stairs. The snow crystals, blown as fine as frost
by the force of the tempest, buzz through crannies and sift upon the
mean bed. Some shutters outside slam and creak with every frequent
gale, and the snow clouds sweeping southward suffer a splendent
blue-tinged star to turn a radiant eye downward upon the world.

Through a rift in the roof of the attic the star alone sees what
transpires there that night. On the bare floor stands some rickety
furniture, and in the center is a table on which lie paper, pens and
ink, and stands a lighted candle.

The man who sits in the wooden chair with his elbows on the table, and
a hand clenched beneath his chin, does not feel the bitter cold,
albeit he is shivering in every limb. His hair is tossed back
confusedly from a high brow, and in his eyes there shines a light that
the star knows as it twinkles down a brotherly greeting. Genius is
heaven-born and its light comes from a height on a level with the
source of the star's rays.

Suddenly the man seizes the pen and writes. He bends over the paper
and his hand flies. He does not heed the howling wind or the deadly
snow mist that falls around him. He writes and writes. The clock
strikes, and when the hour has passed, and it clangs again, he dashes
down the pen, starts to his feet and raises a hand with the fine
gesture of a conqueror. It is a natural movement, for there is no one
to see him but the star. "By Heaven!" he mutters, "I have won. I am
the first in the field. The thought is mine and mine alone. It will
live forever. There is nothing like it in literature; but why, oh,
why, have I been made to follow such rugged, weary paths to have it
come upon me in a moment as easily as falls a moulting feather from
the breast of the eagle?"

He sits down again and reads what he has written. Then he lays it
lovingly down. He does not alter a letter or erase a word. He knows it
is perfect, and so tells himself; for true genius knows no mock
humility.

The man's eyes soften. The fire dies from them, leaving a warm glow
that the star does not respond to. About his lips plays a lingering,
thin smile that shows half pleasure, half contempt. He is artist
enough to know that he has created an original idea, and he knows its
value.

His far-focused gaze sees warmth, love, pleasure, wine, crystal,
mirth, and living beauty--things that he is hungering for with a
wolf-like hunger that adds self-contempt to his starved soul's
gnawings.

Suddenly the sharp whip of the present cracks in his ear and the cold
strikes to his marrow and rouses him to action. He rises, dons a
ragged overcoat, goes out the door, and down the seven flights of
stairs. He returns directly with bread and cheese, wrapped in an old
newspaper. He sits again, gulping down the food, which tastes like
nectar of the gods. The star looks down through the crack and twinkles
with heavenly sympathy, for the man has fought a long and very dreary
fight to the end that he is now eating cheese crumbs, with drifting
snow falling upon his shoulders. For the first time in many years the
man wears the look of success.

    * * * * *

He has gained in an hour what others have strived for during a life
time without success. As the man eats he glances idly at the old
newspaper that contains his food. The star sees him suddenly grip the
paper convulsively with both hands, stare with burning eyes among its
columns, and then, with a hoarse choking oath, stumble to his feet,
whirl, and fall upon the bare floor.

    * * * * *

In the morning, since he does not appear as usual, two men break open
the attic door and find him there.

"Suicide?" says one.

"Starvation, more likely," says the other.

"No, here's bread and cheese. Case for the coroner, anyway. Cheerful
sort of a den he lived in. Hullo, what's this he's been writing?"

One of them reads what the dead man has written, and says:

"It's peculiar stuff. I can't just make it out. Look at his hand; he's
got an old newspaper in it gripped like a vise."

He stoops and forces the old paper from the cold fingers. He examines
it from curiosity and dully stumbles upon the truth.

"Say, Bill," he says, "here's a funny thing. This old newspaper's got
an article in it very near exactly the same as that thing the gent
wrote himself."

(_Houston Daily Post_, Friday morning, November 29, 1895.)



Led Astray

There was no happier family in all Houston than the O'Malleys. Mr.
O'Malley held a responsible position in one of our large breweries,
and was a thrifty citizen and an indulgent husband and father. His son
Pat was part owner of a flourishing little grocery, and also played
the E-flat horn in the band that discourses sweet music Sunday
afternoons in a building on one of our quietest unpaved avenues.

The light and hope of the family was the youngest daughter, Kathleen,
an ebon-haired girl of 19, with Madonna-like features, and eyes as
black as the wings of the crow. They lived in a little rose-embowered
cottage near the corner where the street car turns.

Kathleen was engaged to be married to Fergus O'Hollihan, a stalwart
and handsome young man, who came to see her every night, with
exquisitely washed hands and face, and wet hair, brushed down low upon
a forehead that did not exactly retreat, but seemed to rather fall
back for reinforcements. On Sunday nights Kathleen and Fergus would
wander arm in arm over to the Gesundheit Bier Garten, and while the
string band in the pavilion played the dear old Fatherland melodies
they would sit at a little round table in some dark corner and click
glasses in the most friendly and lover-like manner. The marriage was
to come off in June, and Kathleen, after the custom of her people, had
already prepared her bridal trousseau and housekeeping effects. In her
wardrobe were great piles of beautifully embroidered things in fine
linen and damask; heaps of table cloths, napkins and towels, and in
the big drawers of her bureau were piles of dainty, lace-trimmed
garments that Kathleen, being a modest Irish maiden and not a New York
millionairess, kept shyly hidden from view, instead of having their
description printed in the _Post_. Kathleen had made these garments
herself, working with loving care and patience, and they were intended
as a guarantee of good faith, and not for publication. The girls in
the neighborhood all envied Kathleen her good luck, for Fergus was a
fine-looking young man, and his business was prospering. He could
drink more whiskey, tell funnier jokes and sing "The Wearin' of the
Green" so you could hear it farther on a still night than could any
other young man of their acquaintance.

So, dark-haired Kathleen was happy, bending over her work with rosy
cheeks and smiling lips, while, alas! already the serpent was at work
that was to enter her Eden.

    * * * * *

One day Kathleen was sitting at her window, half hidden by the
climbing honeysuckle vines, when she saw Fergus pass down the street
with another man, a low-browed, treacherous-looking person, with
shifty eyes and a snakelike manner.

It was with a deep foreboding and a strange sinking of the heart that
she recognized Fergus' companion as a notorious member of the Young
Men's Christian Association of Houston. From that moment Kathleen's
peace of mind fled. When Fergus came to see her that night he seemed
abstracted and different. His hand trembled when he took the glass of
rye she handed him, and when he sang for her

    "Let the huntsman graze his hounds As the farmer does his
      grounds,"

that sad and melancholy old song that Irishmen always sing when they
feel particularly jolly, his voice sounded plaintive and full of
pathos.

Kathleen was far too wise to chide him. She tried to be gay and
cheerful, though the change in Fergus made her heart very sad. Again
the next day, and once more the following day but one, did she see him
with the low-browed tempter that had wrought the change.

Day by day Fergus grew morose and pale. His once jolly and laughing
face grew stern and thoughtful. He rarely spoke to anyone, and once
when Mr. O'Malley handed him a big schooner from a keg fresh from the
brewery, he heaved such a deep and mournful sigh that the foam flew
half across the room.

"Kathleen," said her papa one day, "what's the matter wid that
long-legged omadhaun Fergus? He looks like he was walking over his own
grave."

"Oh, papa," said Kathleen, bursting into tears, "I do not know, he
seems to be full of bayou water."

Let us follow Fergus and the sinister stranger, and see what spell is
upon our hero.

    * * * * *

William K. Meeks was a member of the notorious Young Men's Christian
Association. His parents were honest and reputable citizens of
Houston, and they had tried to inculcate in him the best principles,
and train him to be a good and useful citizen. When about 18 years of
age he met a man on the street one night who persuaded him to visit
the rooms of the association.

After taking a bath and joining in the singing of a hymn, he was led
into a game of checkers by some smooth talking young man, and finally
threw all reserve to the winds and without a thought of his mother or
his home, sank back into an arm chair and began to read the editorials
in a religious newspaper.

After that his progress in the same direction was easy. He cultivated
side whiskers and white ties and fell so swiftly into the alluring
ways of his companions that no ice cream and strawberry sociable or
Evening of Song in the hall of the association was complete without
Mr. Meeks. He became what is known as a "capper" for the hall, and
many poor wandering young fellows strolling aimlessly about the
streets of Houston have good cause to remember the sly, suave,
plausible voice of the low-browed William Meeks, as he addressed them
in insinuating tones, and invited them to the gorgeously lighted rooms
of the Young Men's Christian Association.

William Meeks had for a long time had his eye upon Fergus O'Hollihan.
The innocent straightforwardness of the young Irishman seemed to mark
him as an easy prey.

One day he entered Fergus' store, made some trifling purchase, and
then invited him to the hall.

"All right," said Fergus, "I'll walk up with you, as trade is a little
dull. Hadn't we better take along a bottle of whiskey to help pass
away the time?"

"No," said William, with a sly smile. "There is no need. We have
plenty to drink up there."

They passed down the street together, and then it was that Kathleen
saw them, and the cloud began to gather over her happy young life.

William led Fergus to the door of the steps leading up to the hall,
gave a sharp glance around to see whether they were observed, and they
ascended the stairs.

"What do you fellows do up there?" asked Fergus, gazing around the
hall in wonder.

"We read and sing and pray," said William. "Now, come over here, Mr.
O'Hollihan, I have something to show you."

William went to a large water cooler in the corner, drew a brimming
glass of ice water, and with a cold and cruel smile curling his lips,
handed it to Fergus.

Ah, little Kathleen, in thy rose-twined cottage, thy dark eyes have
many a tear in waiting. Could love be omnipresent, that sparkling
glass of water would be dashed to the floor ere it touched thy lover's
lips!

Fergus took the glass and gazed with wonder at its transparent
contents; then seized with some sudden impulse he drained the glass of
water to the last drop. As he drank, William Meeks, with a diabolical
look of triumph on his face, rubbed his clammy hands together and
exulted.

"What is this stuff?" asked Fergus; "this cold, refreshing liquid that
with such exquisite freshness thrills through my heated frame? What
nectar is this, tasteless, colorless and sweet as the morning air that
quenches thirst, and does not excite the senses? Speak, Mr. Meeks, is
it to be found elsewhere?"

"It is water," said William, softly, "and it can be had in plenty."

"I have often sailed on the bayou," said Fergus, "and have washed my
hands at the hydrant at home, but I have never before seen any water."

Fergus drank glass after glass from the cooler, and finally suffered
William to lead him, reluctant, from the hall.

They parted at the door, and as Fergus went down the street like one
in some happy dream, saying softly to himself at intervals: "Water!"
"Water!" William Meeks looked after him with a smile of devilish
satisfaction upon his dark face.

    * * * * *

That evening after he closed the store Fergus started home and
suddenly felt an imperious thirst come upon him. He was already a
slave to this wonderful new liquid that refreshed him so.

He entered a little corner saloon, where he had been in the habit of
stopping to get a drink. The bartender seized a mug and reached for
the bottle under the counter.

"Hold on," said Fergus; "don't be so fast. Give me a glass of water,
please."

"You owe me ein dollar und five cents," he said. "Blease, Mr.
Hollihan, bay me now pefore you go py yourself too much grazy to him
remember, und I pe mooch obliged."

Fergus then threw the money upon the counter and staggered out of the
saloon.

He did not go to see Kathleen that night--he was feeling too badly. He
was wandering about in an agony of thirst, when he saw a piece of ice
as large as a coconut fall from an ice wagon. He seized it in both
hands, and hiding himself behind a pile of lumber sucked the ice
greedily, with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands.

After that he kept a jug of water in the store behind some barrels
under the counter, and when no one was looking he would stoop down,
and holding up the jug, let the cursed stuff that was driving the
light from Kathleen's dark eyes trickle down his burning throat.

    * * * * *

It was Kathleen's wedding night. The parlor of the little cottage was
brilliantly lit, and roses and evergreens were draped upon the walls.
Cape jessamines filled the house with their delicious perfume and
wreaths of white lilies were hung upon picture frames and the backs of
chairs. The ceremony was to take place at 9 p.m., and by 7 o'clock
the guests had begun to assemble, for the smell of the good things
Mrs. O'Malley was cooking pervaded the whole neighborhood.

In the parlor, standing on a trestle decorated with violets and
evergreens, stood a keg of whiskey as cold as ice, and on the center
table were several beautifully decorated imported glasses, with quite
a wedding-like polish upon their shining sides.

Kathleen's heart grew lighter as the hour approached. "When Fergus is
mine," she said to herself, "I will be so loving and sweet to him that
this strange melancholy will leave him. If it doesn't, I will pull his
hair out."

The minutes crept by, and at half past eight, Kathleen, blushing and
timid-eyed, and looking like the Lorelei that charmed men's souls from
their bodies on the purple heights of the Rhine, took her stand by the
keg, and shyly drew for her father's guests glass after glass of the
ruby liquid, scarcely less red than the glow upon her own fair cheek.

At a quarter to nine Fergus had not come, and all hands began to grow
anxious.

At ten minutes to nine, Mr. O'Malley brought in his shotgun and
carefully loaded it. Kathleen burst into tears.

Where was Fergus O'Hollihan?

    * * * * *

In the garish halls of the Young Men's Christian Association were
gathered a group of gay young men.

Little do the majority of our citizens know what scenes go on in
places of this kind. Our police well know that these resorts exist,
but such is our system of city government that rarely do the guardians
of peace set foot in establishments of the kind. Two or three young
men were playing checkers, feverishly crowning the kings of their
opponents, and watching the board with that hollow-eyed absorption and
compressed lips so often noted in men of that class. Another played
upon the guitar, while in a corner harsh ribald laughter broke from
the lips of a man who was reading the Austin _Statesman_.

At a little table at one side of the room sat Fergus O'Hollihan and
William Meeks. Before them, on a waiter, were two large glasses of ice
water. William Meeks was speaking in a low, treacherous voice, and
Fergus was listening with an abandoned and reckless look upon his
face.

"Sobriety," said William, insinuatingly, as his snaky eyes were fixed
upon the open and ingenious countenance of Fergus, "sobriety is one of
our cardinal virtues. Why should a man debase himself, destroy his
brain, deaden his conscience and forge chains that eventually will
clog his best efforts and ruin his fondest hopes? Let us be men and
live temperate and cleanly lives. Believe me, Mr. O'Hollihan, it is
the better plan."

Fergus' unsteady hand went out to the glass of water and he tossed it
down his throat. "More," he gasped, gazing with feverish eyes. A
member of the association in passing by stopped and laid his hand on
William's shoulder.

"Old man," he said in a whisper, "the boys know you've struck a soft
thing, but don't carry it too far. We don't want to have to bore
another artesian well."

William shot a glance of displeasure at the young man, and he went
away.

Just then a quartette began to sing "Come, Thou Fount," and Fergus,
forgetting all his associations and best impulses, joined in with his
strong tenor, and William Meeks' face wore a look of fiendish
gloating.

At this moment Kathleen was weeping in her mother's arms. Mr. O'Malley
was just ramming down the wad on the buckshot in his gun, and the
beautiful wedding supper was growing cold upon the banquet table.

Suddenly in the street before the hall a brass band began to play an
air that was Kathleen's favorite. It brought Fergus to his senses. He
sprang to his feet and overturned the table and William Meeks. William
sprang to his feet, rushed to the cooler and drawing a glass of water
thrust it into Fergus' hands. Fergus hurled the glass to the floor and
made a dash for the door. The secretary of the association met him
there with the water hose and turned it full in his face. Fergus shut
his mouth tightly, put the secretary to sleep with one on the point of
his chin, and dashed down the stairs into the street.

    * * * * *

As the clock struck nine, Mr. O'Malley placed two caps on his gun and
one upon his head and started to find his son-in-law elect. The door
burst open and Fergus rushed in. Kathleen ran to meet him with open
arms, but he waved her sternly aside.

"I have first," he said, "a duty to perform." He knelt before the
whiskey keg, closed his mouth over the faucet and turned on the
handle.

Sing, happy birds, in the green trees, but your songs make not half
the melody that ripples in the glad heart of little Kathleen.

When Fergus arose from the keg, he was the same old Fergus once more.
He gathered his bride to his heart, and Mr. O'Malley fired both
barrels of his gun into the ceiling with joy. Fergus was rescued.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 19, 1896.)



A Story for Men

This little story will be a disappointment to women who read it. They
will all say: "I don't see anything in that." Probably there isn't
much.

Mrs. Jessamine lives in Houston. You can meet any number of ladies
every day out walking on Main Street that resemble her very much. She
is not famous or extraordinary in any way. She has a nice family, is
in moderate circumstances and lives in her own house. I would call her
an average woman if that did not imply that some were below the
average, which would be an ungallant insinuation. Mrs. Jessamine is a
genuine woman. She always steps on a street car with her left foot
first, wears her snowiest lace-trimmed sub-skirts on muddy days, and
can cut a magazine, wind a clock, pick walnuts, open a trunk and clean
out an inkstand, all with a hairpin. She can take twenty dollars worth
of trimming and make over an old dress so you couldn't tell it from a
brand new fifteen dollar one. She is intelligent, reads the newspapers
regularly and once cut a cooking recipe out of an old magazine that
took the prize offered by a newspaper for the best original directions
for making a green tomato pie. Her husband has such confidence in her
household management that he trusts her with the entire housekeeping,
sometimes leaving her in charge until a late hour of the night.

Mrs. Jessamine is thoughtful, kindhearted and an excellent manager.
She has two children, a little boy of 7 and a little girl of 4, of
whom she is extravagantly fond. The Jessamines are going to keep a
cook as soon as Mr. Jessamine's salary is raised, but just at present
Mrs. Jessamine is doing her own work.

While she is attending to her duties she gives the children a paper of
needles, the scissors, some sample packages of aniline dyes and a box
of safety matches to play with, and during the intervals of baking and
sweeping the rooms she rushes in, kisses and cuddles them and then
flies back to her work singing merrily.

One afternoon last week Mrs. Jessamine was lying on the bed reading a
Sunday paper. The children were blowing soap bubbles with some old
pipestems of Mr. Jessamine's that he had discarded because they were
full of nicotine.

Mrs. Jessamine was reading an account of some cruel treatment of
children that had been unearthed by the Gerry Society, and the tears
came to her eyes as she thought of the heartless and criminally
careless mothers of the land who are the cause of so much suffering to
their innocent little ones.

Presently she fell asleep and dreamed this dream:

She was all alone in a great room. She heard the doorbell snap and
footsteps leaving and dying away in the hall outside. The room was a
strange one, and she went about to examine it. She paused in front of
a mirror and saw her reflection, and lo, she was a little child, in a
white pinafore, with wide-open, wondering eyes and tangled dark curls.

She heard the front door below stairs close and the gate open and
shut. She began to play around the room with some dolls and pictures,
and for a while was quite happy.

She undressed and dressed her doll and talked to it soothingly and put
it to bed. She could see out the window, but there were some big trees
growing in the yard and the wind blew a branch against the corner of
the house, making a queer noise that rather frightened her. Then she
saw the closet door standing open and a lot of different shaped
bottles on a low shelf. She dragged a chair in front of the shelf and
climbed into it. The bottles had all kinds of pretty colored liquids
in them and she found some that she could pull the corks from quite
easily. She tasted one or two of the corks. Some of them were sweet
and nice and one was bitter and badtasting. One bottle was full of
something clear like water, so she got that one and pulled out the
cork, but the bottle slipped from her hand, fell to the floor and
broke. Where the liquid spilled it fumed and sputtered and turned
green, and a kind of hot, biting vapor arose. She climbed down and
began to feel lonesome and scared. She called "Mamma," three or four
times loudly, but all the house was still. Then she began to cry and
ran to the door. Just then she thought she heard something scratch
behind the bed, and she screamed and beat upon the door with her
hands, crying for her mamma to come. Nobody answered her.

Then she listened fearfully for a little and crept over and got her
dolly from its bed and crouched in a corner whimpering and hugging her
doll tightly, with her heart beating wildly, and watching the dark
place under the bed with frightened eyes.

Presently she saw a pretty red box on a table and curiosity for the
moment overcame her fear. She opened the box and saw a lot of funny
little sticks, with little round heads on them. She played with them
on the floor, building little pigpens and fences and houses.

In changing her position her heel fell upon the little sticks and the
next moment a big blaze flared up, caught her dress, and with a loud
scream she ran to the locked door, wrapped in burning, stinging
flames, in an agony of pain and horror.

    * * * * *

Mrs. Jessamine awoke with a start and sprang wildly from the bed. The
children were playing merrily on the floor, and she ran to them and
caught them in her arms in thankfulness that the terrible dream was
over. How she wished for someone to whom she could relate it and gain
sympathy. Three blocks away lived Mrs. Flutter, her best friend and
confidante. Not for a long time had Mrs. Jessamine had a dream that
made such an impression upon her mind.

She hastily put on her hat and cloak and said:

"Now, be good children till I come back." Then she went out, locked
the door and hurried away to Mrs. Flutter's.

That is all.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, December 15, 1895.)



How She Got in the Swim

There was no happier couple in all Houston than George W. St. Bibbs
and his wife before the shadow of the tempter crossed their path. It
is remarkable how the tempter always comes up so his shadow will fall
across one's path, isn't it? It seems as if a tempter who knew his
business would either approach on the other side or select a cloudy
day for crossing people's paths. But, we digress.

The St. Bibbses lived in a cosy and elegantly furnished cottage, and
had everything that could be procured on credit. They had two charming
little girls named Dolly and Polly.

George St. Bibbs loved fashionable society and his wife was domestic
in her ways, so she had made him move to Houston, so that he would not
have a chance to gratify his tastes. However, George still went to
functions, and things of that kind, and left his wife at home.

One night there was to be a very high-toned blowout by society people,
gotten up by the Business League and the Daughters of the Survivors of
the Confederate Reunion.

After George had left, his wife looked into her little hand mirror and
said to herself:

"I'll bet a dollar there isn't a lady at that ball that stacks up half
as well as I do when I fix up."

Then an idea struck her.

She rang for her maid and told her to bring a cup of hot tea, and then
she dressed in a magnificent evening dress, left the maid to look
after Dolly and Polly and got on the street car and went to the ball.

George was at the ball enjoying himself very much. All the tony people
were there, and music's voluptuous swell rose like everything, and
soft eyes looked love to eyes that spake again, and all that sort of
thing.

Among the guests was the Vicomte Carolus de Villiers, a distinguished
French nobleman, who had been forced to leave Paris on account of some
political intrigue, and who now worked on a large strawberry farm near
Alvin.

The viscount stood near a portiere picking his teeth, when he saw Mrs.
St. Bibbs enter.

He was at her side in a moment, and had written his name opposite hers
for every dance.

George looked over and saw them, and gasped in surprise: "Jerusalem,
that's Molly!"

He leaned against a velvet cul-de-sac near the doorway and watched
them. Mrs. St. Bibbs was the belle of the evening. Everybody crowded
about her, and the viscount leaned over her and talked in his most
engaging manner, fanning her with an old newspaper, as she smiled
brightly upon him, a brilliant stream of wit, persiflage and repartee
falling from her lips.

"_Mon dieu!_" said the viscount to himself, as his ardent gaze rested
upon her, "I wish I knew who she is."

At supper Mrs. St. Bibbs was the life of the gang. She engaged in a
witty discussion with the brightest intellects around the table,
completely overwhelming the boss joshers of the town. She conversed
readily with gents from the wards, speaking their own dialect, and
even answered without hesitation a question put to her by a man who
had a sister attending the State University.

George could scarcely believe that this fascinating, brilliant woman
of the world was the quiet little wife he had left at home that
evening.

When the ball was over and the musicians had been stood off, George
went up to his wife, feeling ashamed and repentant.

"Molly," he said, "forgive me. I didn't know how beautiful and gay you
could be in swell society. The next time our Longfellow Literary
Coterie gives a fish fry at the Hook and Ladder Company Hall I'll take
you along."

Mrs. St. Bibbs took her husband's arm with a sweet smile.

"All right, George," she said, "I just wanted you to see that this
town can't put up no society shindigs that are too high up for me to
tackle. I once spent two weeks in Galveston, and I generally catch on
to what's proper as quick as anybody."

At present there are no two society people in town more sought after
and admired than George St. Bibbs and his accomplished wife.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Monday morning, May 18, 1896.)



The Barber Talks

The Post Man slid into the chair with an apologetic manner, for the
barber's gaze was superior and scornful. He was so devilish, cool and
selfpossessed, and held the public in such infinite contempt.

The Post Man's hair had been cut close with the clippers on the day
before.

"Haircut?" asked the barber in a quiet but thoroughly dangerous tone.

"Shave," said the Post Man.

The barber raised his eyebrows, gave his victim a look of deep
disdain, and hurled the chair with a loud rattle and crash back to a
reclining position.

Then he seized a mug and brush and, after bestowing upon the Post Man
a look of undying contumely, turned with a sneer to the water faucet.
Thence he returned, enveloped the passive victim in a voluminous
cloth, and with a pitiless hand daubed a great brushful of sweetish
tasting lather across his mouth.

Then he began to talk.

"Ever been in Seattle, Washington Territory?" he asked.

"Blub-a-lub-blub," said the Post Man, struggling against the soap, and
then he shook his head feebly.

"Neither have I," said the barber, "but I have a brother named Bill
who runs an orange orchard nine miles from St. John, Fla. That's only
a split hair on your neck; it's growing the wrong way. They are caused
by shaving the neck in the wrong direction. Sometimes whiskey will
make them do that way. Whisky is a terrible thing. Do you drink it?"

The Post Man only had one eye of all his features uncovered by lather
and he tried to throw an appealing expression implying negation into
this optic, but the barber was too quick for him and filled the eye
with soap by a dextrous flap of his brush.

"My brother Bill used to drink," continued the barber. "He could drink
more whiskey than any man in Houston, but he never got drunk. He had a
chair in my shop, but I had to let him go. Bill had a wonderful
constitution. When he got all he could hold he would quit drinking.
The only way he showed it was in his eyes. They would get kind of
glazed and fishy and wouldn't turn in his head. When Bill wanted to
look to one side he used to take his fingers and turn his eyeballs a
little the way he wanted to see. His eyes looked exactly like those
little round windows you see in the dome of the postoffice. You could
hear Bill breathe across the street when he was full. He could shave
people when he was drunk as well as he could sober.--Razor hurt you?"

The Post Man tried to wave one of his hands to disclaim any sense of
pain, but the barber's quick eye caught the motion and he leaned his
weight against the hand, crushing it against the chair.

"I kept noticing," went on the barber, "that Bill was getting about
four customers to my one, even if he did drink so much. People would
come in three or four at a time and sit down and wait their turns with
Bill when my chair was vacant. I didn't know what to make of it. Bill
had all he could do, and he was so crowded that he didn't have time to
go out to a saloon, but he kept a big jug in the back room, and every
few minutes he would slip in there and take a drink.

"One day I noticed a man that got out of Bill's chair acting queer and
he staggered as he went out. A day or two afterwards the shop was full
of customers from morning till night, and one man came back and had a
shave three different times in the forenoon. In a couple of days more
there was a crowd of men in the shop, and they had a line formed
outside two or three doors down the sidewalk. Bill made $9.00 that
day. That evening a policeman came in and jerked me up for running a
saloon without a license. It seems that Bill's breath was so full of
whiskey that every man he shaved went out feeling pretty hilarious and
sent his friends there to be shaved. It cost me $300 to get out of it,
and I shipped Bill to Florida pretty soon afterward."

    * * * * *

"I was sent for once," went on the barber, as he seized his victim by
the ear and slammed his head over on the other side, "to go out on
Piney Street and shave a dead man. Barbers don't much like a job of
that kind, although they get from $5 to $10 for the work. It was 1908
Piney Street. I started about 11 o'clock at night. I found the street
all right and I counted from the corner until I found 1908. I had my
razors, soap and mug in a little case I use for such purposes. I went
in and knocked at the door. An old man opened it and his eye fell on
my case.

"'You've come, have you?' he asked. 'Well, go upstairs; he's in the
front room to your right. There's nobody with him. He hasn't any
friends or relatives in town; he's only been boarding here about a
week.'

"'How long since he--since it occurred?' I asked.

"'About an hour, I guess,' says the old man. I was glad of that
because corpses always shave better before they get good and cold. I
went in the room and turned up the lamp. The man was laid out on the
bed. He was warm yet and he had about a week's growth of beard on. I
got to work and in half an hour I had given him a nice clean shave
that would have done his heart good if he had been alive. Then I went
downstairs and saw the old man.

"'What success?' he asked.

"'Good,' says I. 'He's fixed up all right. Who's to pay?'

"'He gave me $30 to send his folks in Alabama yesterday,' says the old
man. 'I guess your fee will have to come out of it.'

"'It'll be five,' I said.

"The old man handed me a five dollar bill and I went home very well
satisfied."

Here the barber seized the chair, hurled it upright, snatched off the
cloth, buried his hands in the Post Man's hair and tore out a handful,
bumped and thumped his head, shook it violently and hissed
sarcastically: "Bay rum?"

The Post Man nodded stupidly, closed his eyes and tried unsuccessfully
to recall a prayer.

"Next day," said the barber, "I heard some news. It seems that a man
had died at 1908 Piney Street and just a little while before a man in
the next house had taken poison. The folks in one house sent for a
doctor and the ones in the other sent for a barber. The funny part is
the doctor and I both made a mistake and got into the wrong house. He
went in to see the dead man and found the family doctor just getting
ready to leave. The doctor didn't waste any time asking questions, but
got out his stomach pump, stuck it into the dead man and went to work
pumping the poison out. All this time I was busy shaving the man who
had taken poison. And the funniest part of it all is that after the
doctor had pumped all the other doctor's medicine out of the dead man,
he opened his eyes, raised up in bed and asked for a steak and
potatoes.

"This made the family doctor mad, and he and the doctor with a stomach
pump got into a fight and fell down the stairs and broke the hat rack
all to pieces."

"And how about your man who had taken poison?" asked the Post Man
timidly.

"Him?" said the barber, "why he died, of course, but he died with one
of the beautifulest shaves that ever a man had.--Brush!"

An African of terrible aspect bore down upon the Post Man, struck him
violently with the stub of a whisk broom, seized his coat at the back
and ripped it loose from its collar.

"Call again," growled the barber in a voice of the deepest menace, as
the scribe made a rush for the door and escaped.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 31, 1896.)



Barbershop Adventure

When the Post Man entered the shop yesterday the chairs were full of
customers, and for a brief moment he felt a thrill of hope that he
might escape, but the barber's eye, deadly and gloomy fixed itself
upon him.

"You're next," he said, with a look of diabolical malevolence, and the
Post Man sank into a hard chair nailed to the wall, with a feeling of
hopeless despair.

In a few moments there was a rattle and a bang, the customer in the
chair was thrown violently on his feet, and fled out of the shop
pursued by the African who was making vicious dabs at him with a whisk
broom full of tacks and splinters.

The Post Man took a long look at the sunlight, pinned a little note to
his tie with his scarf pin, giving his address, in case the worst
should happen, and settled into the chair.

He informed the barber, in answer to a stern inquiry, that he did not
want his hair cut, and in turn received a look of cold incredulity and
contempt.

The chair was hurled to a reclining position, the lather was mixed,
and as the deadly brush successively stopped all sense of hearing,
sight and smell, the Post Man sank into a state of collapse, from which
he was aroused by the loud noise of a steel instrument with which the barber was scraping off the lather and wiping it on the Post Man's shirt sleeve.

"Everybody's riding bicycles now," said the barber, "and it's going to
be very difficult for the fashionable people to keep it an exclusive
exercise. You see, you can't prevent anybody from riding a bicycle
that wants to, and the streets are free for everyone. I don't see any
harm in the sport, myself, and it's getting more popular every day.
After a while, riding will become so general that a lady on a wheel
will not create any more notice than she would walking. It's good
exercise for the ladies, and that makes up for their looking like a
bag full of fighting cats slung over a clothes line when they ride.

"But the pains they do take to make themselves mannish! Why can't a
lady go in for athletics without trying to look and dress tough? If I
should tell you what one of them did the other day you wouldn't
believe it."

The barber here glared so fiercely at the Post Man that he struggled
up to the top of the lather by a superhuman effort and assured the
artist that anything he said would be received with implicit faith.

"I was sent for," continued the barber, "to go up on McKinney Avenue
and was to bring my razor and shaving outfit. I went up and found the
house.

"A good-looking young lady was riding a bicycle up and down in front
of the gate. She had on a short skirt, leggings, and a sack coat, cut
like a man's.

"I went in and knocked and they showed me into a side room. In a few
minutes the young lady came in, sat down on a chair and an old lady
whom I took to be her ma dropped in.

"'Shave,' said the young lady. 'Twice over, and be in a hurry; I've an
engagement.'

"I was nearly knocked down with surprise, but I managed to get my
outfit in shape. It was evident that that young lady ruled the house.
The old lady said to me in a whisper that her daughter was one of the
leaders among the girls who believed in the emancipation of women, and
she had resolved to raise a moustache and thus get ahead of her young
lady companions.

"The young lady leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes.

"I dipped my brush in the lather and ran it across her upper lip. As
soon as I did so she sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing with rage.

"'How dare you insult me!' she stormed, looking as if she would like
to eat me up. 'Leave the house, immediately,' she went on.

"I was dumbfounded. I thought perhaps she was a trifle flighty, so I
put up my utensils and started for the door. When I got there, I
recovered my presence of mind enough to say:

"Miss, I am sure I have done nothing to offend you. I always try to
act a gentleman whenever it is convenient. In what way have I insulted
you?

"'Take your departure,' she said angrily. 'I guess I know when a man
kisses me.'

"And so I left. Now, what do you think of that?" asked the barber, as
he pushed about an ounce of soap into the Post Man's mouth with his
thumb.

"I think that's a pretty tough story to believe," said the Post Man,
summoning up his courage.

The barber stopped shaving and bent a gaze of such malignant and cool
ferocity upon his victim that the Post Man hastened to say:

"But no doubt it occurred as you have stated."

"It did," said the barber. "I don't ask you to take my word for it. I
can prove it. Do you see that blue mug on the shelf, the third from
the right? Well, that's the mug I carried with me that day. I guess
you'll believe it now."

"Speaking of bald heads," went on the barber, although no one had said
a word about bald heads, "reminds me of how a man worked a game on me
once right here in Houston. You know there's nothing in the world that
will make hair grow on a bald head. Lots of things are sold for that
purpose, but if the roots are dead nothing can bring them to life. A
man came into my shop one day last fall and had a shave. His head was
as bald and smooth as a tea cup. All the tonics in the world couldn't
have started one hair growing there. The man was a stranger to me, but
said he ran a truck garden out on the edge of town. He came in about
three times and got shaved and then he struck me to fix him up
something to make his hair grow."

The barber here reached back upon a shelf and got a strip of sticking
plaster. Then he cut a gash along the Post Man's chin and stuck the
plaster over it.

"When a man asks for a hair tonic," continued the barber, "in a
barbershop he always gets it. You can fix up a mixture that a man may
use on his head for a long time before he finds it is doing him no
good. In the meantime he continues to shave in your shop.

"I told my customer that I had invented a hair tonic that if its use
were persisted in would certainly cause the hair to grow on the
smoothest head. I sat down and wrote him out a formula and told him to
have it prepared at a drug store and not to give away the information,
as I intended after a while to have it patented and sell it on a large
scale. The recipe contained a lot of harmless stuff, some salts of
tartar, oil of almonds, bay rum, rose water, tincture of myrrh and
some other ingredients. I wrote them down at random just as they came
into my head, and half an hour afterwards I couldn't have told what it
was composed of myself. The man took it, paid me a dollar for the
formula and went off to get it filled at a drug store.

"He came back twice that week to get shaved, and he said he was using
it faithfully. Then he didn't come any more for about two weeks. He
dropped in one afternoon and hung his hat up, and it nearly knocked me
down when I saw that the finest kind of a suit of hair had started on
his head. It was growing splendidly, and only two weeks before his
head had been as bald as a door knob.

"He said he was awfully pleased with my tonic, and well he might be.
While I was shaving him I tried to think what the ingredients were
that I had written down for him to use, but I couldn't remember the
quantities or half the things I had used. I knew that I had
accidentally struck upon a tonic that would make the hair grow, and I
knew furthermore that that formula was worth a million dollars to any
man if it would do the work. Making hair grow on bald heads, if it
could be done, would be better than any gold mine ever worked. I made
up my mind to have that formula. When he was about to start away I
said carelessly:

"'By the way, Mr. Plunket, I have mislaid my memorandum book that has
the formula of my tonic in it and I want to have a bottle or two
prepared this morning. If you have the one I gave you I'd like to make
a copy of it while you are here.'

"I must have looked too anxious, for he looked at me for a few minutes
and then broke out into a laugh.

"'By Jiminy,' he said, 'I don't believe you've got a copy of it
anywheres. I believe you just happend to hit on the right thing and
you don't remember what it was. I ain't half as green as I look. That
hair grower is worth a fortune, and a big one, too. I think I'll just
keep my recipe and get somebody to put the stuff up and sell it.'

"He started out, and I called him into the back room and talked to him
half an hour.

"I finally made a trade with him and bought the formula back for $250
cash. I went up to the bank and got the money which I had there saving
up to build a house. He then gave me back the recipe I had given him
and signed a paper relinquishing all rights to it. He also agreed to
sign a testimonial about the stuff having made his hair grow out in
two weeks."

The barber began to look gloomy and ran his fingers inside the Post
Man's shirt collar, tearing out the button hole, and the collar button
flew out the door across the sidewalk into the gutter.

"I went to work next day," said the barber, "and filed application at
Washington for a patent on my tonic and arranged with a big drug firm
in Houston to put it on the market for me. I had a million dollars in
sight. I fixed up a room where I mixed the tonic--for I wouldn't let
the druggists or anybody else know what was in it--and then the
druggists bottled and labeled it.

"I quit working in the shop and put all my time into my tonic.

"Mr. Plunket came into the shop once or twice within the next two
weeks and his hair was still growing finely. Pretty soon I had about
$200 worth of the tonic ready for the market, and Mr. Plunket was to
come in town on Saturday and give me his testimonial to print on
advertising dodgers and circulars with which I was going to flood the
country.

"I was waiting in the room where I mixed my tonic about 11 o'clock
Saturday when the door opened and Mr. Plunket came in. He was very
much excited and very angry.

"'Look here,' he cried, 'what's the matter with your infernal stuff?'

"He pulled off his hat, and his head was as shiny and bare as a china
egg.

"'It all came out,' he said roughly. 'It was growing all right until
yesterday morning, when it commenced to fall out, and this morning
there wasn't a hair left.'

"I examined his head and there wasn't the ghost of a hair to be found
anywhere.

"'What's the good of your stuff," he asked angrily, 'if it makes your
hair grow and then all fall out again?'

"'For heaven's sake, Mr. Plunket,' I said, 'don't say anything about
it or you'll ruin me. I've got every cent I've got in the world
invested in this hair tonic, and I've got to get my money back. It
made your hair grow, give me the testimonial and let me sell what I've
got put up, anyway. You are $250 ahead on it and you ought to help me
out of it.'

"He was very mad and cut up quite roughly and said he had been
swindled and would expose the tonic as a fraud and a lot of things
like that. Finally he agreed that if I would pay him $100 more he
would give me the testimonial to the effect that the tonic had made
his hair grow and say nothing about its having fallen out again. If I
could sell what I had put up at $1.00 per bottle I would come out
about even.

"I went out and borrowed the money and paid it to him and he signed
the testimonial and left."

    * * * * *

"Did you sell your tonic out?" asked the Post Man, trying to speak in
a tone calculated not to give offense.

The barber gave him a look of derisive contempt and then said in a
tone of the utmost sarcasm:

"Oh, yes, I sold it out. I sold exactly five bottles, and the
purchasers, after using the mixture faithfully for a month, came back
and demanded their money. Not one of them that used it ever had a new
hair to start on his head."

"How do you account for its having made the hair grow on Mr. Plunket's
head?" asked the Post Man.

"How do I account for it?" repeated the barber in so dangerous a tone
that the Post Man shuddered. "How do I account for it? I'll tell you
how I account for it. I went out one day to where Mr. Plunket lived on
the edge of town and asked for him.

"'Which Mr. Plunket?' asked a man who came out to the gate?

"'Come off,' I said, 'the Plunket that lives here.'

"'They've both moved,' said the man.

"'What do you mean by "both?"' I said, and then I began to think, and
I said to the man:

"'What kind of looking men were the Plunkets?'

"'As much like as two peas,' said the man. 'They were twins, and
nobody could tell 'em apart from their faces or their talk. The only
difference between 'em was that one of 'em was as bald-headed as a hen
egg and the other had plenty of hair.'"

"Now," said the barber as he poured about two ounces of bay rum down
the Post Man's shirt front, "that's how I account for it. The
bald-headed Plunket would come in my shop one time and the one with
hair would come in another, and I never knew the difference."

When the barber finished the Post Man saw the African with the whisk
broom waiting for him near the front door, so he fled by the back
entrance, climbed a brick wall and escaped by a side street.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, June 7, 1896.)



Part Two: Sketches

Did You See the Circus?

Some Twenty Thousand Other People Were There

WONDERS OF THE STREET PARADE

The Good People Came Out to Show the Children the Animals A Good
Parade

If some man had cornered the children market day before yesterday, he
could have made a fortune.

Yesterday was circus day, and every deacon and elder and staid
business man in Houston who wanted to see Mademoiselle Marie Meers
ride barebacked and walk the tight rope, and had no kids of his own,
was out offering love and money for somebody's else to take along as
an excuse for going to the circus. In some New England towns large
families make a living by renting out their children to church members
for this purpose.

When a man tells you that he doesn't believe in the Old Testament,
just ask him what made him follow the band wagon and the steam piano
and the animal cages when he was a boy, and what makes him still sneak
into the circus and feed the elephant peanuts and stare the monkeys
out of countenance. It's nothing in the world but a feeling we all
inherited from Noah when he put on the greatest show on water for a
run of forty nights and as many matinees all over the world. The smell
of the gas jets and sawdust, the crack of the ring-master's whip, the
ancient jokes of the clown, and the wonderful linguistic performances
of the lemonade man are temptations that most of us strive to resist
in vain.

For many weeks Houston has been posted with the bills and banners of
Barnum and Bailey's show, and as the time drew nigh the small boy
developed insomnia and an unusual affection for indulgent uncles and
big brothers with money.

When the day came, the pleasure of anticipation developed into the
rapture of attainment.

All men think of their boyhood days with fond remembrance when the
circus comes. Even Susan B. Anthony falls into dreamy retrospection
when she sees the animals walking in the parade two by two, and she
recalls the time long, long ago when she first saw them go in out of
the wet during that dreadful forty days and nights' rain.

    * * * * *

The street parade at 10 o'clock was the best ever seen in Houston.

The procession was nearly twenty minutes passing a given point. The
cages were new, and the horses, especially, were magnificent specimens
of their kind. The animals exhibited were in good condition as a rule
and some of them assumed to perfection their role of wild beasts. The
lions, however, appeared to be old, and were mere wrecks of the king
of beasts. The man who was in the cage with them cowing them down with
his eagle eye deserves the attention of the S. P. C. A. This show has
twenty elephants and but four tigers, but this should not discourage
good democrats. It is a long time yet before the election. The pageant
of the world's nations was immense. England, France, Germany, Turkey,
Belgium, and other nations were represented by cavalry attired in the
national uniform. America was properly represented by a float
containing the Goddess of Liberty on a throne, Uncle Sam in front,
sailors on the four corners, Jesse James and Richard Croker in the
middle. Some Roman chariots came next. We admire the enterprise of
Barnum and Bailey in this line, but we think they are carrying realism
a little too far when they procure Roman matrons of the time of Marcus
Aurelius to drive these chariots in our streets. Is the cigarette girl
exhausted or Newport society all engaged, that they cannot furnish us
with something better to look upon?

It is estimated by a level citizen that fully 15,000 human beings
witnessed the street parade, and probably 800 or 900 populists.

The crowd awaiting the parade was the same old circus crowd. The
streets were lined with pretty girls, dudes, merchants, clerks and
country folks. The woman chewing gum and dragging around a howling kid
was there; the woman with a baby carriage, receiving the curses and
reviling of the crowd with her usual complacent smile, was there; the
girl who ate popcorn and shrieked at every bite was there; the man who
said it was the same old thing he had seen forty years ago was there.

A chilly wind was blowing, and a cold, drizzling rain falling, and one
of the shivering Egyptians riding a camel bethought him of his sunny
native home and said to one of his countrymen, "Bedad, and Oi wish Oi
was in Donnegan's joint on T'irteenth Street long enough to put about
half a point of the craythur under me shirt," and the sad-eyed
Oriental at his left replied, "Py Cott, dot cold vint a man's pack
sdrikes like der teyfel, aindt it?"

The Mr. Bailey of this show is not, as some people think, Mr. George
Bailey of the _Dallas News_. Mr. George Bailey has nothing to do with
the circus, except to write their bill posters.

At 1 o'clock the doors of the Ethnological Congress were thrown open,
and the surging crowd went down into its pants pocket and drew forth
the price. The performance in the circus tent began at 2.

The animal exhibit was first-class, and many of the boys who had had
the d.t.'s recognized some old friends. In the center of the tent was
an international bargain counter on which were displayed families of
Hindus, Singalese dancers, Fiji Islanders, Ratmaliatmas, Samoans, etc.

The Post Man approached an intelligent-looking Samoan and said:

"Lovely and sad-hearted exile from the wave-kissed beach of Pacific's
coral-stranded isle, dost thou not pine for thy beloved far-off home?"

The large Samoan cast a wistful glance at his questioner and said in
his sonorous native tongue: "Cut it short, Cully. Yer can't
razzle-dazzle me. Get a movelet on your joblots, or I'll give yer a
wipe wid dis property battle-axe. See?"

This show has the distinction of carrying the most remarkable dwarf in
the world. The owners offer a considerable reward for his equal. He is
the largest dwarf now before the public, being nearly six feet in
height.

    * * * * *

The pious and stately man who takes the children to see the animals
was very much in evidence. One of them, very sour-looking, with his
coat buttoned up high, said to a small boy he was leading by the hand:
"That animal you see, Willie, is the leopard, of which, as you know
the Good Book says, 'he cannot change his spots.'"

"But he can, though, papa," said Willie. "A minute ago he was way over
in that corner of the cage, and now he's up here in front."

"Do not be sacrilegious, my son," said the sour-looking man. "Come,
let us go into the tent where Mademoiselle Meers is riding eight
horses while in her famous Trilby pose. I wish you to study that noble
animal, the horse."

Another starchy-looking man, with a plug hat and white tie, had four
or five children with him. All paused a moment in the animal tent, and
he said rapidly: "My dear children, these are lions, tigers, monkeys,
elephants, hippopotamuses and camels. You are all familiar with them
from the pictures in your story books. Let us now go into the other
tent and view the human form, the noblest work of God, as Mademoiselle
Matthews does her act upon the flying trapeze."

In the circus tent there were three performances taking place in as
many rings at once. The acrobatic acts, tumbling and balancing were
good. The "refined contortion act" by Miss Maude Allington and Mr. H.
Wentworth was a revelation. Ladies and gentlemen who had heretofore
regarded the contortion act as something low and vulgar were surprised
and delighted with delicacy, tact and exquisite diplomatic finesse
with which these thorough artists tied their legs behind their necks
and did the split.

"Europe's greatest rider," Mr. William Wallett, was fine, and divided
honors with Rider Haggard, the assistant author of the programme and
show bills.

The ladies who were advertised to ride bareback more than fulfilled
their promised feats. They were barebacked, and also bare--that is,
were dressed something like surf bathers in Galveston.

Evetta, the only lady clown on earth, came into the ring and caused
roars of laughter by putting her hands in her bloomer pockets and
standing on one foot. She then did the excruciatingly funny thing of
sticking out her tongue at the crowd. Then, after convulsing the
audience by standing on the other foot, she retired. For that tired
feeling, see Evetta, the only lady clown.

    * * * * *

A man who had evidently come up the street on the saloon side went
into the side show and seemed fascinated with the tattooed man from
Borneo, who exhibited upon his person a great variety of ornamental
designs, such as roses, landscapes, ballet girls, ships, etc. "Ladies
'n gent'l'men," he said, "come 'n shee zhis great phenomenon. Always
wanted see livin' picshers. Zis fus' livin' picsher ever shee. Set 'em
up all round; z'my treat."

The tattooed man leaned down and hissed in a low tone: "Say, stop dat
song and dance and git a move on you, Cully, or I'll tump you one on
de smeller. See?" =

    * * * * *

It must be said of Barnum and Bailey's show that it is orderly and
well conducted. The gang of swindlers, toughs and confidence men who
generally follow circuses are not allowed to annoy the crowd. The
tents are large and the accommodations good. Their immense business is
conducted with perfect system and each man in the aggregation fills
his place in producing the harmonious working of the whole.

    * * * * *

The performance itself was only the average circus performance, with a
great deal that was neither new nor remarkable, but with a feature
here and there that was far above the ordinary even in that line. The
trouble is in attempting to do too much. Had the programme been
executed in the old style, in one ring, it might have been too long;
but it would have impressed the public far more than when distributed
among three rings. The spectator becomes bewildered and catches a good
thing only now and then, while he misses possibly two or three other
brilliant acts. There could have been no complaint for want of
variety. There was a little of everything and all done at least with
the usual skill of the circus performer.

Several innovations were introduced, among them a female ring master
and a female clown. Trilby on horseback, a skirt dance on horseback,
and a serpentine dance on horseback are others. The water carnival, an
exhibition of high diving, somersaults into water and other aquatic
sports is perhaps the newest circus idea. It is given in a lake of
water, to use the fertile press agent's phrase, forty-two feet across
and six feet deep. In the menagerie are a number of new animals,
notably several new elephants, making the herd now number twenty-four.
The Ethnological Congress is all new, and those who have seen the
Midway Plaisances at the big fairs will be especially interested in
this peripatetic plaisance, which contains a curious assortment of
curious peoples. In its acrobatic department, the aerial swinging and
leaping and high trapeze work were very fine indeed; and with the
equestrian accomplishments of the Meeks sisters, particularly, when
the two rode one horse, constituted the most meritorious parts of the
performance. A notable feature also was the performance in the ring of
a herd of elephants, among other things going through a quadrille. It
is such a performance and, to quote the voluble agent again, such an
aggregation of panoramic novelties, with much that is old, that the
public generally will leave the big tents fully satisfied that they
have received their money's worth.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Wednesday morning, October 30, 1895.)



Thanksgiving Remarks

A great many people who are skeptical on other subjects swallow
Thanksgiving Day without questioning the validity of its title.

There are plenty of people in Houston who will sit at the table today,
with their mouths so full of turkey and dressing that they will be
utterly unable to answer the smallest question about the origin of
this National festival.

The United States is the only country in the world that has a day of
National thanksgiving in commemoration of one special event. Among the
earliest settlers in this country, with the exception of cocktails,
were the Pilgrim Fathers. They were a noble band of religious
enthusiasts, who sailed from England to America in a ship called the
_Mayflower_ after a celebrated brand of soap by the same name.

By good fortune and fast sailing they managed to reach America before
Thanksgiving Day. They landed at Plymouth Rock, where they were met by
Hon. F. R. Lubbock and welcomed with an address. It was a very cold,
and not a good day for speeches, either.

This heroic little band of refugees were called Puritans in England,
which is French for abolitionists. As they stood upon the bleak
inhospitable shore, shivering in the biting blast, Captain Miles
Standish, who had the stoutest heart and also the most jovial temper
in the party, said: "Say, you fellows, can't you stop chattering your
teeth and shaking your knees? There don't any of you look like you
wanted to pass resolutions against burning anything just at present.
You're a jolly-looking lot of guys."

Among the distinguished members of this band were William Bradford,
Edward Winslow, John Alden, John Carver and Marc. Anthony, a nephew of
Susan B.

According to the habits of true Americans, they had not been on land
half an hour till they went into caucus to elect a governor.

John Carver carried around the hat and collected the ballots, and
consequently was elected.

"Now," said Governor Carver, "I hereby announce my proclamation that
next Thursday shall be Thanksgiving Day."

"What for?" asked Captain Standish.

"Oh, it's the proper thing," said the governor. "You'll find it in all
the school books and histories."

Governor Carver then appointed a committee with Captain Standish as
chairman to explore the country around.

Captain Standish set forth at the head of his devoted followers
through the deep snow, while the others went to work erecting what
rough shelter they could out of logs and pine boughs. Presently
Captain Standish and his band returned, making tracks in the snow
about ten feet apart and closely pursued by a large, brick-red,
passionate Indian, who was remarking, "Waugh-hoo-hoo-hoo!" at every
jump. Governor Carver advanced to meet the untutored child of the
forest, and said to him in simple words:

"How! Me heap white chief. Gottee big guns. You killee my soldiers, me
heap shoot. Sabe?"

"I am charmed to meet you, governor," said the Indian. "My name is
Massasoit. I also am a great chief. My wigwam is down there" (pointing
with graceful gesture to the southwest)--"I have just come back from
slaying the tribe of the Goo-Goos. You may not have heard, governor,
that the cat came back."

Governor Carver grasped the hand of Massasoit, and said: "Welcome,
thrice welcome to our newly discovered continent, sir. Colonel
Winthrop, give Mr. Massasoit your hand."

"I'll keep mine, and deal him another if it's all the same to you,"
said Colonel Winthrop.

Massasoit took his place at the side of the blanket that was spread on
the snow, and the pasteboards were shuffled.

Two hours later the Pilgrim Fathers had won from the Indian chief 200
buffalo robes, 100 pelts of the silver fox, 50 tanned deer hides, 300
otter skins, and 150 hides of the beaver, panther and mink.

This was the original skin game.

Later on in the game, Governor Carver called a bet of $27 worth of
wampum made by Massasoit, with his daughter Priscilla, and lost on
eights and treys.

Longfellow, in his beautiful poem, describes what followed:

    Then from her father's tent,
    Tripping with gentle feet,
    Priscilla, the Puritan
    Maiden, stepped. All that she
    Knew was obedience;
    Ready to sacrifice
    All for her father's word,
    Priscilla, the dutiful,
    Gentle and meek as the
    Dove. As the violet
    Modest and drooping-eyed,
    Up from his poker game
    Gazed Massasoit,
    Chief of the Tammanies,
    Brave as a lion. Up
    Gazed Massasoit.
    Then, as a roebuck springs,
    Swift as an arrow, or
    Leapes Couchee-Couchee, the
    Panther, or Buzzy the
    Rattlesnake springs from his
    Coils in the sumac bush,
    So Massasoit got a
    Move on his chieftainlets;
    Got to his Trilby's and
    Fled to the wildness.
    Rushing through snowdrifts, and
    Breaking down saplings, till
    Far in the distance he
    Looked back and saw that she
    Followed not far behind;
    Priscilla the sprinter was
    Not very far behind;
    Cutting a swath through the
    Snow with her number fives;
    Right on his trail was she;
    Right on his track with a
    New-woman look on her;
    Longing and hungry look,
    Look of a new-born hope,
    Hope for a man that might
    Be her own tootsicums.
    Then Massasoit, the
    Chief of the Tammanies,
    Gave a loud yell that woke
    Wise-Kuss the owl, and woke
    Kat-a-Waugh-Kew-is, the
    Ring-streaked coon, and woke
    Snakes in the forest.
    Then Massasoit was
    Gone like an arrow that
    Speeds from the hunter; he
    Only touched ground on the
    High elevations; he
    Fled from the land of the
    Pilgrims and Puritans,
    Fled from Priscilla the
    Puritan maiden;
    Fled from Priscilla who
    Wanted to tickle him
    Under the chin and call
    Him her sweet toodleums.
    Thus Massasoit, the
    Indian warrior,
    Laid down four aces and
    Took to the wilderness,
    Bluffed by a maiden.
    Laid down a jack-pot, and
    Lost his percentage.
    Lost it to treys and eights,
    And to the forty years
    Lived by Priscilla;
    Priscilla, the maiden.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Thursday morning, November 28, 1895.)



When the Train Comes In

Outline Sketches at the Grand Central Depot

Next to a poker game for a place to contemplate human nature in its
most aggravated form, comes a great railway passenger station.
Statistics show that nine-tenths of the human race lose their senses
when traveling on the cars, and give free demonstrations of the fact
at every station. Traveling by rail brings out all a man's latent
characteristics and propensities. There is something in the rush of
the train, the smell of the engine smoke, the yell of the butcher, the
volapuk cries of the brakeman and the whizzing scenery visible from
the windows that causes the average human being to shake off the
trammels of convention and custom, and act accordingly.

When the train stops at the depot and unloads its passengers, they
proceed at once to adopt for their style of procedure the idea
expressed by the French phrase _sauve qui peut_, or in polite
language--"the devil take the hindmost."

An observer, unless he is of the "casual" variety, can find much
entertainment in watching the throng of travelers and bystanders at
any metropolitan depot. The scene presented belongs to the spectacular
comedy. There are no stage waits; no changing of scenery; no
forgetting of lines or casting about for applause. The mimes play
their part and vanish; the hero with his valise is jostled by the
heavy villain from the baggage room; leading ladies scramble, kiss,
weep and sigh without bouquets or applause; marionettes wriggle and
dance through the crowd, putted by the strings of chance, and the
comedian plays his part unabashed by the disapproving hiss of the
engines and the groans of the grinding wheels.

At the Houston Grand Central Depot when the trains come in there are
to be seen laughter and lanterns, smiles and sandwiches, palavering
and popcorn, tears and tamales.

To the student of human nature is presented a feast; a conglomerate
hash of the lighter passions and eccentricities of man; a small dish
whereof, ye Post Man will endeavor to set before you.

    * * * * *

The waiting room is bright with electric lights. The line of omnibuses
and hacks line the sidewalk on Washington Street, and the drivers are
crowding close to the dead line on the south side of the depot.

Scattered among the benches in the two waiting rooms are prospective
travelers awaiting their trains. The drummers and old traveling men
sit reading their papers or smoking, while new and unseasoned voyagers
are pacing up and down, glancing uneasily at the clock, and firing
questions at everybody that passes. The policeman at the door who has
told the old man with the cotton umbrella at six different times that
the Central arrives at 6:35, makes up his mind that if he inquires
once more he will take the chances on getting a verdict of justifiable
homicide.

The old lady with the yarn mittens who has been rapping with her
spectacle case at the ticket agent's closed window for fifteen minutes
says, "Drat the man," and begins to fumble in her traveling bag for
licorice lozenges.

In the ladies' waiting room there is the usual contingent of
peripatetic public. The bright-eyed, self-possessed young lady who is
the traveling agent for a book, or, perhaps, a new silverware polish,
has learned the art of traveling. Haste and flurry are unknown to her.
A neat traveling cloak and a light hand satchel comprise her
accoutrements. She waits patiently, tapping lightly with a patent
leather toe, and faintly humming the refrain of a song. Not so the
large and copious family who are about to make the journey of their
lives--at least fifty miles. Baskets, bags, valises, buckets, paper
bundles, pot-plants, babies and dogs cover the benches in their
vicinity. The head of the family wears a look as deadly solemn as if
he were on his way to execution. His face shows the strain of the
terrible journey he is about to undertake. He holds his tickets in his
moist hand with a vice-like grip. Traveling is a serious matter with
him. His good lady has taken off her bonnet. She drags out articles
from boxes and bags and puts them back; she trots the baby and strews
aprons, hairpins, knitted gloves and crackers far and wide. She tells
John where she has hidden $13 under a loose board at home; she would
never have mentioned it, but she is certain the train is going to run
off the track and she may be killed. A few grummy looking men sit with
their coat collars turned up, by the side of their weary spouses, who
look as if they cared not for accidents, end of the world, or even
fashions. A black-veiled woman with a prattling boy of five sits in a
corner, disconsolate and lone; some aimless stragglers enter and
wander through the room and out again.

    * * * * *

In the men's waiting room there is more life. Depot officials in
uniform hurry through with lanterns. Travelers loll upon the benches,
smoke, read and chat. From the buzz of voices fragments of connected
words can be caught that read something like this:

"Got a $300 order from him, but it cost me $10 in drinks and theater
tickets to get it--yes, I'm going to Galveston; doctor ordered perfect
quiet and rest-a daisy, you bet; blond hair, dark eyes and the
prettiest--lost $20 on treys up; wired my house for expense money this
morning--ain't seen Sam for fifteen year; goin' to stay till
Christmas--loan me that paper if you're through with it--Red flannel
scratches me, this is what I wear--wonder if the train's on time--No,
sir, don't keep the _North American Review_, but here's _Puck_ and
_Judge_--came home earlier one night and found her sitting on the
front steps with--gimme a light please--Houston is the city of
Texas--confound it, I told Maria not to put those cream puffs in my
pocket--No, a cat didn't do it, it's a fingernail mark; you see I put
the letter in the wrong envelope, and-Toot--toot--toot--toot--toot."

The train is coming. An official opens the north doors. There is a
scramble for valises, baskets and overcoats, a mad rush and a
struggling, pushing, impolite jam in the doorway by a lot of people
who know that the train will wait twenty minutes for them after it
arrives.

The bell clangs; the single eye of the coming engine shines with what
may be termed--in order not to disappoint the gentle reader--a baleful
glare. A disciple of Mr. Howells' realistic school might describe the
arrival of the train as follows: "Clang-clang-chookety
chookety--chookety-clang-clackety clack-chook-ety-chook. Che-e-e-e-ew!
Bumpety-bump--Houston!"

The baggage men, with yells of rage, throw themselves upon the trunks
and dash them furiously to the earth. A Swiss emigrant standing near
clasps his hands in ecstasy. "Oh, Gott," he cries, "dess ees yoost my
country like I hear dot avalanch come down like he from dot mountains
in Neuchatel fall!"

The passengers are alighting; they scramble down the steps eagerly and
leap from the last one into space. When they strike the ground most of
them relapse into idiocy, and rush wildly off in the first direction
that conveniently presents itself. A couple of brakemen head off a few
who are trying to run back under the train and start them off in the
right direction.

The conductor stands like a blue-coated tower of strength in the
center of the crowd answering questions with an ease and coolness that
would drive a hotel clerk wild with envy. Here are a few of the
remarks that are fired at him: "Oh, conductor, I left one of my gloves
in the car. How long does the train stop? Do you know where Mrs.
Tompkins lives? Merciful heaven, I left my baby in the car! Where can
I find a good restaurant? Say! Conductor, watch my valise till I get a
cup of coffee! Is my hat on straight? Oh, have you seen my husband?
He's a tall man with link cuff-buttons. Conductor, can you change a
dollar? What's the best hotel in town? Which way is town? Oh, where's
mamma gotten to? Oh, find my darling Fido; he has a blue ribbon round
his neck," and so on, _ad noisyam_--as one might say. You can tell old
travelers at a glance. They have umbrellas and novels strapped to
their satchels and they strike a bee line for the open doors at the
depot without creating any disturbance.

But the giggling school girls on their way home for the holidays, the
old spectacled lady who punches your ribs with her umbrella, the
country family covered with confusion and store clothes, the fat lady
with the calla-lily in a pot, the timid man following the lady with
the iron jaw and carrying two children, a bird cage and a guitar, and
the loud breathing man who has been looking upon the buffet car when
it was red, all these have tangled themselves into a struggling,
inquiring, tangled Babel of bag, baggage, babies and bluster.

    * * * * *

The young lady is there to meet her school-girl friend. The escort
stands at one side with his cane in his mouth; nervously fingering in
his vest pocket to see if the car fare is ready at hand. The girls
grapple each other, catch-as-catch-can, fire a broadside of the opera
bouffe brand of kisses, and jabber out something like this: "Oh, you
sweet thing, so glad you've come--toothache?--no, no, it's a
caramel--such a lovely cape, I want the pattern--dying to see
you--that ring--my brother gave it to me--don't tell me a
story--Charlie and Tom and Harry and Bob, and--oh, I forgot--Tom, this
is Kitty--real sealskin of course--talk all night when we get
home"--"Git out der way dere, gents and ladies"--a truck piled with
trunks four-high goes crashing by; a policeman drags an old lady from
under the wheels, and she plunges madly at the engine and is rescued
by the fireman, whom she abuses as a pickpocket and an oppressor of
the defenseless.

A sour-looking man with a big valise comes out of the crowd and is
seized upon by a red-nosed man in a silk hat.

"Did you get it, old boy?" asks the man with the nose.

"Get your grandmother!" growls the sour man.

"That fellow Reed is the biggest liar in America. Feller from Maine
got it. I'm a populist from this day on. Got the price of a toddy,
Jimmy?"

The engine stands and puffs sullenly. The crowd disperses gradually,
stringing by twos, threes and larger through the waiting-room doors.
Depot officials hustle along, pushing their way among the people.

A brakeman springs from his car and runs up to a dim female figure
lurking in the shadow of the depot.

"How is the kid?" he asks sharply with an uneven breath.

"Bad," says the woman, in a dry, low voice. "Fever a hundred and four
all day. Keeps a-calling of you all the time, Jim. Got to go out again
tonight?"

"Orders," says Jim and then: "No, cussed if I do. The company can go
to the devil. Callin' of me, is he? Come on, Liz." He takes the
woman's arm and they hurry away into the darkness.

A ragged man with a dreary whine to his voice fastens upon a big
stranger in a long overcoat who is hurrying hotel-wards.

"Have you a dime, sir, a man could get something to eat with?" The big
man pauses and says kindly, "Certainly. I have more than that. I have
at least a dollar for supper, and I'm going up to the Hutchins House
and get it. Good night."

On the other side of the depot the hack drivers are crowding to the
dead line, filling the air with cries. A pompous man, who never allows
himself to be imposed upon when traveling, steps up to a carriage and
slings his valise inside. "Drive me to the Lawlor Hotel," he says,
commandingly.

"But, sir," says the driver. "The Lawlor is--"

"I don't want any comments," says the pompous man. "If you don't want
the job, say so."

"I was just going to say that--"

"I know where I want to go, and if you think you know any better--"

"Jump in," says the driver. "I'll take you."

The pompous man gets into the carriage; the driver mounts to his seat,
whips up his horses, drives across the street, fully twenty-five yards
away, opens the door and says: "Lawlor Hotel, sir; 50 cents, please."

He gets a dollar instead, and promises to say nothing about it.

The carriages and omnibuses rattle away with their loads; other
travelers straggle in for the next train, and when it arrives the
Grand Central will repeat its little farce comedy with new actors, and
new specialties and various readings between the lines.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Monday morning, December 16, 1895.)



Christmas Eve

Some Sights and Sounds Caught on Houston Streets and Elsewhere

Houston is a typical Southern town. Although a busy, growing city that
is easily holding its place among the half dozen metropolitan cities
of the South, it retains most of the old-time Southern customs and
traditions.

The all-absorbing haste, the breathless rush, the restless scramble
for gain so noticeable in Northern cities is absent here. Houston
people are prosperous, and they take things easy, believing that one
may gather a few roses of pleasure on the way through life and still
keep up with the march of progress. In no city in the South is
Christmas more merrily welcomed with social pleasures, the exchanging
of friendly offerings, and general rejoicing than in Houston. The
immense crowds of people that have lined our streets and stores for
the past week testify to the fact.

Yesterday was probably the busiest day among the merchants that the
season has witnessed; and there is no question but that it brought to
the children anticipations of the brightest nature.

Stand for a few moments on the corner and view the people.

They are moving like a colony of ants, some going, some coming,
threading in and out in an endless tangled maze. When the gods lean
over the edge of Mount Olympus and gaze down upon this world, while
the waiter is out filling their glasses with nectar, they must be
highly entertained by the little comedy that is holding the boards on
earth. Our world must look to them very much as a great ant bed, over
which we crawl and scramble, and run this way and that, apparently
without purpose or design.

That light streak across the sky, which we call the Milky Way, is
nothing more nor less than the foam spilt from tankards of nectar as
the gods quaff and laugh at our strange antics. But it is Christmas
eve, and what do we care for their laughter? Turn up the lights; let
the curtain rise, and the Christmas crowd is on!

    * * * * *

Did you ever watch a young lady buy a Christmas present for her
father?

If not, you have missed a good thing.

They all go about it the same way. In fact, young ladies who buy
Christmas presents for their fathers are just as sure to perform the
operation in exactly the same way, as they are to sit on one foot
while reading a novel. She always has just two dollars for this
purpose, which is handed her by her mother, who suggests the idea. She
goes out late in the afternoon on the day before Christmas. She first
goes to a jeweler's and looks at several trays of diamond studded
watches, and wonders which one her father would like. Then, after
examining about one hundred diamond rings, she suddenly remembers the
amount of money she has, sighs and goes off to a clothing store, where
she closely scrutinizes an $18 smoking jacket, and a $40 overcoat. She
says she believes she will think over the matter before buying, and
leaves. Next she visits a book store, three dry goods stores, two more
jewelers, and a candy shop. When Christmas morning comes, her father
finds himself the proud possessor of a new red pen wiper with the
fifteen cent cost mark carefully erased, and there are to be observed
in a certain young lady's dressing case a new pair of gloves and a box
of nice chocolate bonbons.

    * * * * *

The fat man who is taking home a red wagon is abroad in the land.

He is generally a pompous man who prides himself on being self-made,
and glories in showing his democracy by carrying home his own bundles.
He holds the wagon in front of him and pushes his way through the
crowd with a sterling-citizen-risen-from-the-ranks air that is quite
wonderful to observe.

How the girls in their cloaks with high turned-up collars laugh and
chatter and gaze in the show windows with "Oh's" and "Ah's" at
everything they see! If you happen to be standing near a group of them
you will hear something like this:

"Oh, Mabel, look at that lovely ring--squeezed my hand and
said--sealskin, indeed! I guess I know plush when--and five from Papa,
so I guess I'll buy that--going to hang them up, of course; I bet
they'll hold more than yours, you old slim--good gracious! Belle let
me pin your--papa asked him how he wanted his eggs for breakfast, and
Charlie got mad and left, and the clock hadn't struck--No, I wear
these kind that--sixteen inches around the--Oh! look at that
lovely-forgot to shave, and it scratched all along--I'll trade with
you, Lil; Tom said--with lace all round the--come on, girls, let's--"

The noise of a passing street car drowned the rest.

The children are out in full force.

Did you ever reflect that children are the wisest philosophers in the
world? They see the wonderful things in the windows for sale; and they
listen gravely to the tales told them of Santa Claus; and, without
endeavoring to analyze the situation, they rejoice with exceeding joy.
They never measure the chimney or calculate the size of Santa's
sleigh; they never puzzle themselves by wondering how the old fellow
gets his goods out of the stores, or question his stupendous feat of
climbing down every chimney in the land on the same night. If grown
folks would dissect and analyze less things that are mysteries to
them, they would be far happier.

    * * * * *

Two men meet on Main Street and one of them says:

"I want you to help me think. I want to get even with my wife this
Christmas, and I don't exactly know how to do it. For the last five
years she has been making me ostensible Christmas presents that are
not of the slightest possible use to me, but are very convenient for
herself. Under the pretense of buying me a present, she simply buys
something she wants for herself and uses Christmas for a cloak for her
nefarious schemes. Once she gave me a nice wardrobe, in which she
hangs her new dresses. Again she gave me a china tea set; at another
time a piano; and last Christmas she made me a present of a
side-saddle, and I had to buy her a horse. Now I want to get something
for her Christmas present this year that I can use, and that will be
of no possible service to her."

"H'm," said the other man thoughtfully, "it's going to be a hard thing
to do. Let's see. You want something she can't make use of. I have it!
Have yourself a new pair of trousers made, and present them to her."

"Won't do," says the first man, shaking his head. "She'd have 'em on
in ten minutes and be clamoring for a bicycle."

"Buy her a razor, then; she can't use that."

"Can't she? She has three corns."

"Say! There ain't anything you can get that you can use and she
can't."

"Don't believe there is. Well, let's go take something anyhow."

    * * * * *

The lights are beginning to burn in the show windows, and people are
gathering in front of them.

To many of the lookers-on this gazing in the windows is all the
Christmas pleasure they will have. Many of them are from the country
and little towns along the fourteen lines of railroad that run into
Houston. A country youth presses through the crowd with open mouth and
wondering eyes. Holding fast to his hand, follows Araminta, bedecked
in gorgeous colors, beholding with scarce-believing optics the
fairy-like splendors of Main Street. When they return to Galveston
they will long remember the glories of the great city they visited at
Christmas.

    * * * * *

A solemn man in a high silk hat, attired in decorous black, edges his
way along the sidewalk. One would think him some city magnate making
his way home, or a clergyman out studying the idiosyncrasies of human
nature. He opens his mouth and yells in a high, singsong voice: "What
will mamma say when Willie comes home with a mustache just like
papa's--buy one right now, boys; you can curl 'em, twist 'em, pull
'em, and comb 'em just like real ones--come on boys!" He fixes below
his nose a black mustache with a wonderful curl to the ends and goes
his way, occasionally selling one to some smooth-faced boy, who shyly
makes his purchase. On the edge of the sidewalk a little man is
offering "the most wonderful mechanical toy of the century, causing
more comment and excitement than any other article exhibited at the
great World's Fair." The public crowds about him and buys with
avidity. Not twenty steps away in a Houston toy shop the same kind of
toy has been sold for years.

    * * * * *

On a corner stand a group of--well, say young men. They wear new style
high turn-down collars and chrysanthemums. Their hats tilt backward
and their front hair is brushed down low. They are gazing at the
ladies as they pass. How Charles Darwin would have loved to meet these
young men! But, alas! he died without completing the chain. Listen at
the scraps of alleged conversation that can be distinguished above
their simultaneous jabber:

"Deuced fine girl, but a little too--cigarette? I'll owe you
one--she's a nice girl, but--the loveliest necktie you ever--would
have paid my board, but saw that elegant suit at--kicked me clear out
of the parlor without--that girl has certainly got a--haven't a cent,
old man, or I would--old man said I had to go to work, but--look at
that blonde with the smiled right at me, and--the little one with the
blue--he struck me in the eye, and I won't speak to him now--no, the
brunette in the white--I was real mad, and said, confound it--link
buttons, of course."

    * * * * *

At a corner sits a woman with blue goggles, grinding an organ, on
which stands a lamp chimney, in which burns a tallow candle.

Why the candle, the observer knoweth not. At her side crouches her
pale little boy. A philanthropist bends toward her with a nickel
between his fingers. Far away, among the wilds near Alvin, he has a
little boy about the same age, and his heart is touched. The little
boy springs up. He has a cigarette in his mouth, and he hurls a big
fire-cracker between the philanthropist's feet. It explodes; the boy
yells with delight; and the philanthropist says: "Gol darn the kid"
and reserves his nickel for beer.

    * * * * *

Gazing with far off, longing eyes into a show window that glistens
with diamonds and jewelry, stands a woman.

Her black dress and veil proclaim that she is a widow. One year ago
the strong arm upon which she leaned with such love and security was
her pride and joy. Tonight, beneath the sod of the churchyard, it is
turning back to dust. And yet, she is not altogether desolate. She has
sweet memories of her loved one to sustain her; and besides that, she
is holding to the arm of the man she is engaged to marry when her time
of mourning is up, and she is out selecting an engagement ring.

    * * * * *

A policeman lurks in the shadow of an awning with his club in his hand
ready to strike.

Two doors away there lives an alderman who voted against his being put
on the force. It will not be long before the alderman's little boy
will come out on the sidewalk and shoot off a Roman candle, and then
the policeman will strike; a city ordinance will be carried out, and a
little boy carried in.

    * * * * *

A man steps up to a salesman in a fancy goods store.

"I want to get something," he says, "for my wife's mother. I think--"

"James," calls the salesman, "show this gentleman the 5-cent counter."

Merchants who make a study of their customers are quick to know what
they want. A man who is unmistakably a clergyman goes into a grocery
store that is next door to a saloon. The salesman attends upon him. He
buys 10 cents worth of minced meat for pies, and then lingers,
clearing his throat.

"Anything else?" asks the salesman.

The clerical-looking man fumbles with his white cambric tie, and says:

"Tomorrow will be Christmas, you know day of holy thoughts--peace on
earth, and--and--and--our hearts should carol forth praises however,
we must dine--er--er--mince pie, you know; the little ones in the
family enjoy it--have the meat here--thought, perhaps--something to
flavor--just a drop of--"

"Here, Jimmy," yells the salesman, "go in next door and get this gent
a pint of whisky."

    * * * * *

Christmas brings pleasure to many; it brightens some lives that hardly
ever know sunshine; it is abused by too many and made a season of
revelry and sin; but to the little ones it is a joy forever, so let
the tin horns blow and the red drums rattle, for those restless little
feet and those grimy little hands come first in the making up of
Heaven's kingdom.

Merry Christmas to all.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Wednesday morning, December 25, 1895.)



New Year's Eve and How It Came to Houston

Sketched at Random as the Old Year Passed

We that would properly welcome the new year should view it with the
eye of an optimist, and sing its praises with the coated tongue of a
penitent.

We should dismiss from our hearts the cold precept that history
repeats itself, and strive to believe that the deficiencies of the day
will be supplied by the morrow. Since fancy whispers to us that at the
stroke of midnight the old order will change, yielding to the new, let
us put aside, if possible, all knowledge to the contrary and revel in
the fairy tale told by the merry bells.

Man's arbitrary part of the time into hours, days and years causes no
perceptible jolt beneath the noiseless pneumatic tire of the cycle of
years. No mortal tack can puncture that wheel. Old Father Time is a
"scorcher," and he rides without lamp or warning bell. The years that
are as mile-stones to us are as gravel spurned beneath him. But to us,
of few days and an occasional night off, they serve as warnings to
note the hour upon the face of a mighty clock upon which the hands
move silently and are never turned back.

The New Year is feminine. There is no question but that the world has
become badly mixed as to the gender of time. And again, the New Year
is no cherubic debutante with eyes full of prophetic joys, but a grim
and ancient spinster who flutters coyly into our presence with a giddy
giggle, rejuvenated for the occasion. We have made obeisance to those
same charms time out of mind; we have whispered soft nothings into
those same ears many moons ago; we have lightly brushed those painted
and powdered cheeks in time gone by when they glowed with the damask
bloom of youth. But let us hug once more the dear delusion. Let us say
that she is fair and fresh as the rising morn, and make unto ourselves
a season of mirth and heedless joy.

The fiddles strike up and the hautboys sigh. Your hand, sweet, coy New
Year--take care of that rheumatic knee--come, let us foot it as the
gladsome bells proclaim your debut--number 1896.

    * * * * *

The last day of the year is generally spent in laying in as big a
stock as possible of things suitable for use the next day for
swearing-off purposes.

It is so much easier to resolve to do without anything when we have
just had too much of it. How easy it is on New Year's day, just after
dinner, when we are full of good resolutions and turkey, to kneel down
and solemnly affirm that we will never touch food again. The man who
on the morning of the glad New Year stands trembling with fear on the
center table, while snakes and lizards merrily play hide and seek on
the floor, finds no difficulty in forswearing the sparkling bowl. The
dark brown, copper-riveted taste which accompanies what is known to
the medical profession as the New Year tongue, is a great incentive to
reform.

The beautiful siren-like, Christmas-present cigar that is so fair to
gaze upon, when lit turns like a viper and stings us into abjuring my
Lady Nicotine forever.

When we attempt to sit upon the early scarlet runner, hand-embroidered
rocking-chair cushion presented to us by our maiden aunt and slide out
upon the floor upon our spinal vertebrae, we feel inclined to kneel in
our own blood with a dagger between our teeth and swear by heaven
never to sit down again.

When we go upon the streets wearing the neckties presented to us by
our wife, and the loiterer upon the corner sayeth, "Ha, Ha," and the
newsboy inquireth, "What is it?" is it any wonder that we curse the
necktie habit as an enemy of man, and on New Year's morning swear to
abjure it forever?

When we say farewell, and with clenched teeth wend our way into the
shirt made for us by the fair hands of our partner in sorrow, and find
the collar tighter than the last one worn by the late lamented Harry
Hayward, and the tail thereof more biased than a populist editorial,
and the bosom in billowy waves that heave upon our manly chest like a
polonaise on a colored cook on Emancipation Day, and the sleeves
dragging the floor as we walk about, saying, "It's so nice, my
dear--just what I wanted," what wonder that we register an oath with
the Lord of Abraham and Jacob as the glad New Year bells peal out,
nevermore to wear again a garment made by that portion of the earth's
inhabitants that sits on the floor to put on its shoes, and regards
the male torso as a waste basket for remnant AA sheeting and misfit
Butterick patterns?

There are so many things we take a delight in forswearing on New
Year's Day.

    * * * * *

While strolling aimlessly about the streets of Houston on the last
evening of 1895, little sights and sounds obtrude themselves and
reveal the spirit of the time, as little pulse beats indicate the
general tone of the human system.

It is nearly 6 o'clock, and there is a lively crowd moving upon the
sidewalks. Here comes a lovely little shopgirl, as neat and trim as a
fashion plate. Her big hat plumes wave, and her little boot heels beat
a merry tictac upon the pavement. Debonaire and full of life and fun,
she moves, cheery and happy, on her way to supper. Her bright eyes
flash sidelong glances at the jeweler's windows as she passes. Some
day she hopes to see upon her white finger one of those sparkling
diamonds. Her lips curve in a meaning smile. She is thinking of the
handsome, finely-dressed man who comes so often to her counter in the
big store, ostensibly to buy her wares. How grand he is, and what
eloquent eyes and a lovely mustache he has! She does not know his
name; but, well, she knows that he cares a little for the goods she
sells. How soft his voice as he asks the price of this and that, and
with what romantic feeling he says that we will surely have rain if
the clouds gather sufficiently! She wonders where he is now. She trips
around a corner and meets him face to face. She gives a little scream,
and then her face hardens and a cold glitter comes into her eye.

On his arm is a huge market basket, from which protrudes the cold,
despairing legs of a turkey, from which the soul has filed. Two yards
of celery trail behind him; turnip greens, cauliflower and the alleged
yellow yam nestle against his arm. On his brow is confusion; in his
face are hung the scarlet banners of a guilty conscience; in his
romantic eyes she reads the tell-tale story of a benedict; by the hand
he leads a cold-nosed but indisputable little boy.

She elevates her charming head to a supercilious angle, snaps out to
herself the one word "married!" and is gone.

He jerks the limp, sad corpse of the turkey to the other side,
snatches the cold-nosed little boy about five feet through the air and
vows that never again will he go to market during the joyous year of
1896.

It is New Year's eve.

    * * * * *

A citizen is restlessly pacing the floor of his sitting room. There is
evidently some crisis near, for his brow is contracted, and his hands
are nervously clasped and unclasped behind his back. He is waiting
expectantly for something. Suddenly the door opens and his family
physician enters smiling and congratulatory. The citizen turns upon
him a look full of inquiry.

"All is well," says the physician. "Three fine boys, and everybody
getting along first rate."

"Three?" says the citizen in a tone of horror, "Three!" He kneels on
the floor and in fervent accents exclaims: "Tomorrow will be the New
Year, and I hereby solemnly swear that--"

Breaking in upon his resolutions comes the merry chime of the New Year
bells.

    * * * * *

The people come and the people go.

In the stores, looking over remnants of Christmas goods, are to be
found that class of people who received presents on Christmas Day
without giving any, and are now striving to make late and lame amends
by returning the compliment on New Year's Day. The New Year's present
is a delusion and contains about as much warmth and soul as a eulogy
on the South by the _New York Sun_.

Two ladies are at a bargain counter, maintaining an animated
conversation in low but dangerous tones.

"She sent me," says one of them, "a little old nickel-plated card
receiver on Christmas Day, and I know she bought it at a racket store.
Goodness knows, I never would have thought of sending her anything,
but now I've got to return it, of course--the old deceitful thing and
I don't know what to get for her. Let's see--oh yes; I have it now.
You know they say she used to be a chambermaid in a St. Louis hotel
before she was married; I'll just send her this little silver pin with
a broom on it. Wonder if she's bright enough to understand?"

"I hope so, I'm sure," says the other lady. "That reminds me that
George gave me a nice new opera cloak for a Christmas present, and I
just forgot all about him. What are those horn collar-buttons worth?"

"Fifteen cents a dozen," says the salesman.

"Let me see" says the lady meditatively--"Yes, I will; George has been
so good to me. Give me three of those buttons, please."

    * * * * *

_Viva el rey; el rey esta muerto!_

The Spanish phrase looks better than the hackneyed French, and it is
correct, having been carefully revised by one of the most reliable
tamale dealers on Travis Street. The old year is passing; let us stand
in with the new. In happy Houston homes light feet are dancing away
the hours 'neath holly and mistletoe, but outside stalk those who
inherit want and care and misery, to whom the coming season brings
nothing of hope or joy.

Two young men are wending their way up Preston Street. One is holding
the other by the arm and guiding his steps. The sidewalk seems to run
in laps and curves, twisting itself into hills and hollows and
labyrinthine mazes. One of the young men thinks he is dying. The other
one is not sure about it, but he hopes he is not mistaken. They are
both good friends of the old year, and they hate to see it leave so
badly that they have sewed their sorrow up in a sack and tried to
drown it.

"Goo' bye, old frien'," says the dying one. "Go 'way and leave me to
die here on thish boundless prairie. Sands of life's runnin' out like
everyshing. Zat las' dish chick'n salad's done its work. Never see
fazzer'n muzzer any more."

"Bob," says the other one, "you're 'fern'l idiot. Never shay die. Zis
town Houston can't be more'n ten miles away. We're right on Harvey
Wilshon's race track now goin' round'n round. Whazzer mazzer wiz
livin' for country'n so forth?"

"Can't do it, old boy; 'stremities gettin' coldsh now. Light's fadin'
out of eyes'n worldsh fadin' from view. Can't shay 'er prayer, old
boy, 'fore vital spark expires! Can'tcher say lay'm down to sleep,
Jim?"

"Don't be a fool, Bob; come on, lesh find city Houston 'n git a
drink."

"Jim, I' dead man. Been wicked 'n told liesh, 'n played poker. Zhere
ain't no hope for handshome, unscrup'loush shociety man like me. Been
giddy butterfly 'n broke senty-five lovin' creaturesh hearts--jus'
listen Jim, I hear angelsh shingin' an' playin' harpsh, 'n I c'n see
beau'ful lights 'n heavensh wiz all kind colors flashin' from golden
gates. Jim, don't you hear angel throng shingin' shongs 'n see lights
shinin' in New Jerushalem?"

"Bob, you d'graded lun'tic, don't you know what that ish? That's
Salvation Army singin', 'n Ed Kiam's 'lectric sign you shee. Now I
know where we're at. Zere's five saloonsh on nex' block."

"Jim, you've shaved m' life. Lesh make one more effort 'fore I die, 'n
tell barkeep' put plenty ice in it."

    * * * * *

Midnight draws on apace, and while some welcome with revelry the
advent of the New Year, others stray in the land of dreams, and allow
it to approach unheralded.

Ladies over 30 years of age take on a grim look about the jaw, and
bend with a deadly glitter in their eyes over the article in the
Sunday paper that treats of "How to avoid wrinkles," and sadly shake
their heads when they read that Madame Bonjour, the famous French
beauty, kept young and lovely until after 110 years of age by using
Bunker's Bunco Balm.

The New Year brings to them sad prospects of another gray hair, or a
crow's foot around the eye.

    * * * * *

To the little folks the season is but a prolongation of Christmas, and
they welcome the turning over of the new leaf without a misgiving.

Would that we all might trace a record upon it as fair as that their
chubby hands will scrawl.

Happy New Year to all.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Wednesday morning, January 1, 1896.)



Watchman, What of the Night?

About the time that Alonzo bids his Melissa the fourteenth farewell at
the garden gate, and _pater familias_ calls angrily from his noisily
raised window, there sets forth into the city a straggling army of
toilers whose duties lead them into laborious ways while the great
world slumbers more or less sweetly upon its pillow.

Time was when all honest burghers were night-capped and somnolent at
an early hour, and the silent streets knew naught but the echoing
tread of the watchman who swung his lantern down the lonesome ways and
started at his own loud cry of "All's Well." But modern ideas have
almost turned the night into day. While we slumber at home, hundreds
are toiling that we may have our comforts in the morning. The baker is
at work upon our morning rolls; the milkman is at his pump; the
butcher is busy choosing his oldest cow to kill; the poor watchman is
slumbering in a cold doorway; the fireman is on the alert; the drug
clerk sits heavy-eyed, prepared to furnish our paregoric or court
plaster; the telephone girl chews gum and reads her novels while the
clock chimes wearily on; the printer clicks away at his machine; the
reporter prowls through the streets hunting down items to go with our
coffee and toast; the policeman lurks at a corner, ready to smash our
best hat with his deadly locust.

These night workers form a little world to themselves. They grow to
know each other, and there seems to be a sympathy among them on
account of their peculiar life. The night policemen, and morning
newspaper men, the cab drivers, the street cleaners (not referring to
Houston now), the late street car drivers, the all-night restaurant
men, the "rounders," the wiernerwurst men and the houseless "bums"
come to know and greet one another each night on their several regular
or aimless rounds. Only those who are called by business or curiosity
to walk into this night world know of the strange sights it presents.

At 12 o'clock the night in the city may be said to begin. By that time
the day toilers are at home, and the night shift is on. The street
cars have ceased to run, and the last belated citizen, hurrying home
from "the lodge" or the political caucus is, or should be, at home.
Even the slow-moving couples who have been to the theater and partaken
of oysters at the "cafe for ladies and gents," have bowed to the
inevitable and reluctantly turned homeward.

And now come forth things that flourish only in the shade; white-faced
things with owl-like eyes who prowl in the night and greet the dawn
with sullen faces and the sunlight with barred doors and darkened
windows.

Here and there down the streets are arc lights, and swinging doors,
and about are grouped a pale and calm-faced gentry with immaculate
clothes and white flexible hands. They are soft-voiced and courteous,
but their eyes are shifty and their tread light and cruel as a
tiger's. They are gamblers, and they will "rob" you as politely and
honestly as any stock broker or railroad manipulator in Christendom.
Byron says:

    "The devil's in the moon for mischief; not the longest
      day;
    The twenty-first of June sees half the mischief in a
      wicked way
    As does three hours on which the moonshine falls."

And still worse; a night when there is no moon to shine. Darkness is
the great awakener of latent passions and the chief inciter to evil.
When night comes, the drunkard doubles his cups; the roisterer's voice
is unrestrained; even the staid and sober citizen, the bulwark of
civil and social government looses the checkrein of his demeanor and
mingles in the relaxations of the social circle. The tongue of
gallantry takes on new license, and even the brow and lip of innocence
itself invite admiration with a bolder and a surer charm. What wonder,
then, that lawlessness o'erreaches itself, and sin flaunts her flaming
skirts in the very face of purity when darkness reigns!

In the all-night saloons there is always someone to be found. At
little tables in the corners one can always see two or three worn and
shady-looking customers, sitting silent, brooding over the wrongs the
world has dealt them, or talking in low, querulous tones to each other
of their troubles. A smart policeman, with shining buttons and
important step, goes down the street twirling his club. He tries the
doors carefully of the big stores, the wholesale houses and the
jewelry stores to see if they are securely locked. He never makes a
mistake and wastes his time trying the fastenings of the small shops.

A few gay young men stroll by occasionally, with their coat collars
turned up, laughing loudly and scattering slang and coarse jests. Down
gloomy side streets steal a few dim figures, clinging to the shadows,
walking with dragging, shuffling feet down the inclined plane of
eternity. These are disreputable, but harmless, creatures, who have
stolen out to buy cocaine and opium with which to dull the bite of
misery's sharp tooth. In high windows dim lights burn, where anxious
love watches by the bedside of suffering mortality through the long
night watches, listening to the moans that it cannot quiet, and
wondering at the mysterious Great Plan that so hides its workings
toward a beneficent end.

Down by the bayou throb the great arteries of the town, where all
night long the puffing of steam and the click of piston rods keep its
life streams moving; where men move like demons in the red glow of
furnace fires; where snorting engines creep in and out among miles of
laden freight cars, and lanterns dance and circle amid a wilderness of
tracks and shifting trains like big eccentric fire-flies.

One can always see a few men perched on high stools at the all-night
lunch counters. They are for the most part members of the
night-working force, telegraph operators, night clerks, railroad men,
messenger boys, streetcar conductors, reporters, cab drivers, printers
and watchmen, who drop in to drink a cup of coffee or eat a sandwich.

The night clerk at the drug store sees much of the sadness and some of
the badness of life. Customers stray into the store at all times of
the night. The man with the disarranged attire and impatient manner is
a frequent visitor. He has a doctor's prescription for some sick
member of his family, and thinks it a greater blessing that he finds a
store open and a clerk ready to compound his medicine than to be
obliged to tug at a night bell for half an hour to wake up a sleepy
clerk, as in times gone by. Desperate-looking men sometimes come in to
buy poison--generally morphine--and occasionally a hopeless, wretched
woman with eyes big with hope deferred and an unpitying fate, will
creep in and beg for something that will stay the pain forever. Often,
in the darkest hour that they say comes before dawn, a man will enter
in a hurry, buy a few pounds of prepared chalk and slip around the
corner and drive away in a wagon containing two big bright tin cans
full of pure, rich Jersey milk.

In the infirmaries and hospitals the nurses and genial-faced Sisters
of Mercy bend over the beds of sufferers all through the dreary night,
and bring to many an aching heart, as well as to pain-racked bodies,
consolation and solace. The doctors, too, see much of the seamy side
of night life. They are out by day and by night; the telephone rouses
them from warm beds at all hours; whenever a knife flashes in a brawl,
the doctor must be sent for; if a lady feels a nervous fluttering at
the heart, out must come the carriage, and he must be sent for to feel
her pulse in the middle of the night. Often he watches at the bedside
of some stricken wife or child, while the husband is away roistering
in evil company.

    * * * * *

On a dry goods box sits a tramp, gently swinging his feet. It is 2
o'clock in the morning, and there he sits chewing a splinter with a
frequent side glance toward the policeman on the next corner. What is
he doing there? Nothing.

Has he any hopes, fears, dislikes, ambitions, hates, loves or desires?
Very few. It may be that his is the true philosophy. John Davidson
says of him in a poem:

    I hang about the streets all day,
      At night I hang about;
    I sleep a little when I may,
      But rise, betimes, the morning's scout,
    For through the year I always hear
      Aloud, aloft, a ghostly shout.
    My clothes are worn to threads and loops,
      My skin shows here and there;
    About my face, like seaweed, droops
      My tangled beard, my tangled hair,
    From cavernous and shaggy brows
      My stony eyes untroubled stare.
    I know no handicraft, no art,
      But I have conquered fate;
    For I have chosen the better part,
      And neither hope, nor fear, nor hate;
    With placid breath, on pain and death,
      My certain alms, alone I wait.
    And daily, nightly comes the call,
      The pale unechoing note,
    The faint "Aha" sent from the wall
      Of Heaven, but from no ruddy throat
    Of human breed or seraph's seed,
      A phantom voice that cries by rote.

This is a state closely bordering upon Nirvana. Tennyson struck
another chord that sooner or later most people come to feel, when he
said:

    "For, not to desire or admire,
    If a man could learn it, were more
    Than to walk all day like a sultan
    Of old in a garden of spice."

The tramp sits out the weary hours of the night or else wanders in
dreary aimlessness about the streets, or crawls into some vestibule or
doorway for a few brief hours of unquiet slumber.

His is a pitiful solution of life at its best, for, though he has
acquired a numbness in place of what was once a keen pain, it is
directly contrary to the plan of the human mind to await in hopeless
stolidity the "certain alms" of death.

    * * * * *

One of the most important of the world's industries carried on at
night is the making of the great morning daily newspaper. The average
reader who unfolds his paper above his coffee cup in the morning
rarely reflects that it represents the labor of half a hundred men, a
great number of whom bend their lagging steps homeward only when the
newsboy has begun to wake the morning echoes with his familiar cry.

When night comes the editorial day-force is ready for home; the
Associated Press wire is rattling in its messages from all parts of
the world; the telegraph editor is busy putting "heads" on the
type-written copy of the telegraph operator, and the night editor has
rolled up his sleeves, laid his club handy, and breathes a silent
prayer for help to the Goddess of Invective as he begins to wade
through his pile of missives from correspondents. The State wires are
opened, and the messenger boys are beginning to arrive with specials.

The city editor and his force are in, and are busy writing out the
local news from the notes they have taken during the day.

The phone rings, a reporter seizes his hat and is off to get the
item--perhaps an affray--someone run over by a wagon--a fire-a
hold-up, or burglary--something that the good citizens must not miss
as they eat their hash and muffins at breakfast.

The editorial room at night sees many strange characters and scenes.
People come up on all kinds of curious missions.

A citizen stumbles up the stairs and nearly falls into the room. The
force simply glances at him and keeps on working. His hair is
frowzled; his coat is buttoned in the wrong buttonholes; he wears no
collar; and in his blinking eyes, a roguish twinkle strives to
overcome the effects of loss of sleep. He is a well-known citizien,
and the force marvels slightly at his unusual condition. He staggers
over to the telegraph operator and clutches the railing around his
desk.

"Shay," he says in a bibulous voice, "wantscher to telgraph startlin'
news to ze outside world. Cable 'm to Europe 'n spread glad tidings to
all shivilized countries. Get shome bull'tins out at onesh."

The telegraph operator does not look up, and the gentleman tacks with
difficulty and steers against the railroad editor.

"Whatsher doin'?" he says.

"Railroads," says that gentleman shortly.

"Zat's ze sing. Gotter bigesht railroad item ever saw. Give you two
columns cause tremendoush 'citement railroad shircles."

The railroad editor writes calmly on, and the visitor gives him a
reproachful look and bears down upon the city editor.

"Shay, friend," he says, "gozzer bigges scoop 'n city news world ever
heard. No ozzer paper 'n town knows it."

"What is it?" says the city editor, without turning his head.

"Appalin' sensation 'n Firs' Ward. Shend four, five reporters my house
at onesh. I'm goin' back now. Had _twins_ my housh when lef' home.
Goin' back to shee 'f any more 'rived. Come back 'n let you know if
find any. Sho long, gen'lemen. Keep two columns on front page open
'till get back."

Later on three or four young gentlemen drop in. They speak low, and
are courteous and conciliatory. They are well-dressed, carry canes and
seem to have been out enjoying themselves. One or two of them have
torn coats and disarranged ties. One has a handkerchief bound over his
eye. They confer deferentially with the city editor, and certain words
and phrases, half-caught, tell the tale of their mission: "Unfortunate
affair--police--best families--publicity--not seriously hurt--upper
circles too much wine--keep out names--heated argument--very
sorry--friends again."

Comes the hot lunch man with his basket filled with weirnerwurst and
mustard, ham sandwiches, boiled eggs, cold chicken. The staff is too
busy, and he lugs his basket upstairs where the printers are at work.

A boy brings in a special telegram. The night editor opens and reads
it, and then springs to his feet. He grasps a handful of his hair and
kicks his chair ten feet away. "---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----" he
yells. "Listen to this."

It is a special by wire from a country correspondent. This is what it
says: "Spring has opened here. The birds are singing merrily in the
trees and the peach trees are in full bloom. The weather has moderated
considerably and the farmers are hopeful. The fruit crop will be
assured unless we should have a cold snap sufficient to injure the
buds."

"---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----" remarks the night editor again, and
then, his vocabulary failing to express his feelings, he bites his
cigar in two and sits down again.

A man in a seedy frock coat and a big walking cane saunters in and
draws a chair close to the night editor's desk.

"When I was with Lee in the Valley of Virginia--" he begins.

"I am sorry you are not with him now," says the night editor.

The visitor sighs, borrows a cigar and a match, and drifts out to see
if he can get the ear of someone of a more indulgent temper.

Between 1 and 2 o'clock the city editor and his assistants are through
their work, the railroad man turns in "30" and they troop away,
leaving the night editor to remain until the last.

In the composing room the printers have been working away since 7
o'clock on their keyboards like so many Paderewskis. They quit about
3:30 a.m. As the night editor leaves, another army has begun its
march. These are the people who rise at 2 or 3 o'clock in the morning.
The mailing clerks are preparing the papers for the out-of-town mails;
the newsboys are crowding around for their papers, and abroad in the
land are audible the first faint sounds of the coming day.

Wheels are rattling over the dark streets. The milk man is abroad, and
the butcher's cart is making its rounds. Policemen relax their
vigilance, and around the coffee stands is gathered quite a crowd of
night workers who drop in for something hot before going home.

It is five hours yet before my lady arouses in her boudoir, and
hundreds of her slaves are astir in her service. When she seats
herself at ten at the breakfast table arrayed in becoming morning
toilet, she never thinks of her loyal vassals that have been toiling
during the night to prepare her dainty breakfast. Miles away the
milkman and his assistants rise at 2 o'clock to procure the milk for
her tea; the baker many hours earlier to furnish her toast and rolls,
and the newspaper she so idly glances at represents twenty-four hours'
continuous labor of the brainiest, most intelligent, courtly, learned
and fascinating set of men in the world.

The night editor stops, perhaps, to eat a light lunch at a stand, and
chat a few minutes with the night workers he meets there. As he wends
his way homeward, he meets a citizen who has for once for some reason
arisen at what seems to him an unholy hour of the morning.

"Good morning," says the citizen, "what in the world are you doing up
so early?"

"Oh," says the night editor, "we newspaper men have to rise real early
in order to get the paper out by breakfast time."

"To be sure, to be sure," says the citizen. "I never thought of that!"

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, March 29, 1896.)



Newspaper Poets

The journalist-poet seems to be a hybrid born of the present day when
rapidity and feverish haste are the necessary conditions to success.
There is hardly a newspaper of the first class in the land that does
not include a jingler in its staff.

A journalist is one thing, and a poet should be another. A combination
of the two--or rather a man who tries to do the work of both--is very
nearly a union of opposites.

A journalist is a recorder of transient impressions; he seizes
whatever is worthy of note from the swiftly-moving stream of current
events, and stamping his data with the seal of his own originality--if
he possesses any--he flings his paper damp from the press at the heads
of the public and is off pursuing fresh quarry. He is a machine--but
of admirable efficiency--that threshes the chaff from the million
happenings of the day, and delivers the wheat to those who would
flounder helplessly among the piled sheaves if left to themselves.

The poet should be of different mold. He should not be vexed with the
task of winnowing, but, with the golden grains laid before him by his
more active brother of the winged feet, he should be allowed to sit
apart and view life in its entirety with calmer, larger, and
unobstructed vision. A poet-journalist may rise to be a journalist of
renown, but he will never be a great poet. The muse is too shy to
appear daily at the bidding of an ink-grimed copy boy. In glancing
over the daily papers, we occasionally find a verse of merit, that,
though evidently scribbled during the daily grind that must come,
whether inspiration impels or not, yet has some touch of the true
fire. Indeed, many gems that will long be remembered have thus been
dashed off in a few minutes, but these are exceptions.

Some paper mentioned recently that Frank Stanton wrote his exposition
ode at his desk amid the confusion of a newspaper office in two hours,
fanning himself with one hand and writing with the other. The ode was
said to have been a good one, and much commendation was bestowed upon
the writer. Now, this is unjust to Mr. Stanton's fame, for he can
write poetry, and the people will persist in praising those daily
jingles of his in the Atlanta Constitution. No one seems to suggest
that he could have written a much better ode by taking a day or two
over it, and not overheating himself and having to waste so much vital
energy in fanning.

    * * * * *

The idea intended to be advanced is that it is more than likely that
newspaper versifiers as a rule do not claim to be poets, and would
rather be known as journalists who sometimes drop into rhyming skits
as a relaxation and for diversity.

The great public, though, must dub anything poetry that rhymes, and
often spoil a good journalist's reputation by insisting on his being
passed on to posterity as a poor poet.

A good paragraph on a timely subject often gains a spiciness by being
turned in rhyme--especially in the form of parody--but our newspaper
poets have not yet learned the fact that an article uninteresting in
the form of prose will not gain in merit when written even in the most
faultlessly metred verse. Somebody has described poetry as lines of
equal length, with rhymes at the end and sense in the middle. The
daily column which so many newspaper versifiers now turn out is a
mistake, if it is poetic fame they are seeking. The "demnition grind"
as the wheel turns will soon exhaust all the water in the Pierian
spring, as the grist itself bears witness.

This is said in reference to those who are really ambitious of winning
poetic laurels. Those who attach nothing more than ephemeral
importance to their topical skits need no criticism, for they will
incur no disappointment.

Some of the more serious newspaper rhymesters evidently are making
attempts more ambitious than the time occupied in their preparation
warrants, and the hasty work and lack of finish and pruning plainly
visible in their efforts are to be deplored.

If the truth were known, inspiration has played a small part in the
production of the most famous poems of the world.

It is the patient toil, the unremitting and laborious cutting away of
inferior parts; the accurate balance and the careful polish that
develops the diamond from the rough stone to the perfect gem.

One poem a month from some of our prolific writers might claim our
admiration for thirty days, at least, but three in a day have a
tendency to force us to save up a portion of our appreciation for the
three more we will have dished up to us in the morning.

Our Southern poets especially are guilty of over-production. Those
among them most generally accepted as representative voices among our
writers of verse are occupying positions in which they are doing
better work in other than poetic lines. A few of them have talent that
would bring them fame if allowed space, time and scope for full
development and use.

Mr. Will T. Hale, whose poems appear in the _Memphis
Commercial-Appeal_, shows a clear and praiseworthy conception of the
situation when he says:

    "I dare say that Tennessee poets, including among the
    many, Walter Malone, Howard McGee, R. M. Fields, Leland
    Rankin, Mrs. Hilliard, Mrs. Boyle, Mrs. Gilchrist, Mrs.
    Barrow and Mr. Lamb, have written jingles which they never
    called poetry, never expected to be taken as anything more
    than ephemeral things to be glanced at and forgotten;
    written in rhyme because as easily written as a prose
    paragraph. I, an humble versifier, a toiler in
    newspaperdom, like my confreres throughout the State,
    arrogating nothing to myself, but pleased if my writings
    are copied and complimented beyond their deserts--I have
    done so. I shall continue to do so. Why should it be
    insisted that I want to cram it down one's throat as
    poetry? Let me jinglify if I want to."

Mr. Hale realizes the transient nature of such verse as the journalist
must needs write to fill space, although he has written in this way
some gems that study could scarcely improve upon.

    * * * * *

It is doubtful if Mr. Frank Stanton, who has struck some high and
abiding chords upon his lyre, could be, or would care to be,
remembered by the jingles he turns out daily for his newspaper. Yet,
if the popular impression is correct, Mr. Stanton aspires to poetic
proficiency and fame.

One poem on which he would spend days of labor would do much more
toward gaining him reputation than the wonderful number of rhymes that
he turns out within that space of time.

A short time ago he dashed off two or three verses on a Midway dancer,
called something like "Papinta," that had a rhythm and a lilt and
swinging grace to it that were fascinating and truly admirable. The
poem was delicate, airy and sprite-like, and one could almost see the
form of the dancer and hear the castanets and guitars while reading
the musical lines.

But the amount of verse he writes daily will not permit of such a high
average, and the moral of it all is that, while he is succeeding as a
journalist and an interesting writer upon the day's topics, his future
as a poet is not being benefited by his overproduction of poetry at
present.

    * * * * *

The late Eugene Field might in time have become a poet of considerable
ability, but there is little question that his newspaper labors were
too onerous to allow of a thorough development of his poetic powers.
The verses he wrote have always been popular because they were simple
and musical, and addressed themselves to an almost universal sympathy
for children, and his poems, charming and lovable as they were,
stopped short of being great. It was the subject and the sentiment,
rather than the literary proficiency of his poetical work, that made
him so widely known. A poem to be great and long-remembered must be
erected in the same way that a house is built. The foundation, the
superstructure, the architectural proportions, the ornament and finish
must be the result of care and labor, or else it abideth not.

Judge Albion W. Tourgee, whose opinions on matters literary deserve
respect, however it be concerning his political proclivities, advises
poetic as well as other literary aspirants to always work in a room
with an open fire--not for the sake of the fire, but in order that he
may burn five sheets for every one he sends to the printer. W. S.
Porter.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, November 24, 1895.)



Part Three: Newspaper Poetry

Topical Verse

(Dramatis Personae: One singer, one baritone horn, one bass drum.)

    There was a man in our town,
      And he was very lazy;
    He made his wife do everything,
      Till she was almost crazy.
    Although he was a Christian man,
      He made her come upstairs
    And wake him up to say "Amen!"
      When she had said his prayers.
    One night before he went to sleep
      He made her kneel and pray
    And when she finished, wake him up;
      Then this good man did say:
    "Oh, Lord, please answer my wife's prayer."
      And then to sleep he fell.
    The Lord did, and the man awoke
      To find himself in ----.
      _Baritone horns_ "Ta-ta-rum."
      _Bass Drums_ "Boom."

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)



Cape Jessamines

    "Cape jessamines! Remove them from my sight!
    I can not bear that odor, cloying sweet,
    That hangs about them like a heavy sigh.
    They bring back to my memory haunting days
    Of deep regret, and open all my wounds again.
    Fair, dream-like flower, that in this Southern town
    Within the dark green copses of thy birth
    Hangeth faint and heavy with thine own sweet breath,
    To me ye are a mockery, and your odor foul.
    Come, sit thee down, Rinaldo, I will tell thee all.
    Knewest thou fair Rosamond, the Houston belle,
    Who years ago, like some fair Lorelei of old
    Upon the hearts of all our gallants set her feet?
    I loved her madly and I swore to win
    Her from the suing courtiers in her train.
    Alas! Rinaldo--this sudden faintness--quick--some wine!
    Ah! thanks, it gives me strength to tell the tale.
    For years I have not been myself. Since one
    Sad night that in my mem'ry burns white-hot
    Like some sad bark that washes, derelict
    Within the trough of sullen alien tides,
    I've drifted down the mournful muttering seas;
    But at the smell of jessamines, my brain
    Quick strikes those aching chords of old,
    And all the latest agony revives.
    It grasps me now--more wine, Rinaldo--thanks;
    I'm better now. 'Twas on one summer's night
    I stood with Rosamond to count the stars.
    With downcast eyes and softly heaving breast,
    She pledged a kiss for every star that fell.
    My pretty, sweet, shy dove. Methinks they fell
    Too seldom till, anon, some frolic boys
    Sent up a sky rocket, and when it burst
    Upon her lips I pressed full seventeen.
    But--peace! I wander from my theme.
    At last my love o'erpowered, and I spake
    In thrilling tones, and wooed her there.
    What clogs my heart? More wine, Rinaldo, quick!
    Oh, then she fastened on me those dark orbs,
    In them illimitable sadness, and such store
    Of pity that her face angelic seemed.
    More wine, Rinaldo--thanks. I'm better now.
    The while the garden there was heavy with
    The odor of cape jessamines, and pinned
    Upon her breast a cluster of them lay.
    And in her hair some snowy buds were twined;
    Almost oppressive was the odor of the flower.
    And that is why the smell of jessamines
    Unto my heart such bitter thoughts recalls.
    Rinaldo, quick! A glass of wine! My brain
    Is reeling! Another glass! Is there no more?
    Well, then, I'll cease. I married Rosamond
    And since then I can't stand those blooming
    Blarsted cape jessamine flowers. See?"

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)



The Cricket

    When the moonlight falls from the star-strewn sky;
      Comes the tune of the mockingbird;
    When the morning dawns and the roses sigh,
      Then the lark's sweet voice is heard.
        When all things smile
        And the hours beguile,
      Then the hearts of the singers are stirred.

    When the dull, cold nigh makes the heart sink low;
      And the death watch ticks in the wall,
    And the soul lies crouched like a harried foe,
      Comes the cricket's merry call.
        In the hour of fear,
        With his note of cheer,
      Rings his sprightly madrigal.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)



My Broncho

    Yoho! Away o'er the mesquite sward,
      With stirruped foot and a slackened rein;
    With drumming hoofs, the hills toward.
      And our track the boundless grassy plain;
    Light in the saddle and ready hand;
    Ride in the teeth of the wind and sand,
      Wind, and sand, and rain.
    Knees pressed tight on the saddle flap
      Where the lasso dangles from its string
    Over the rifle scabbard strap,
      And the canteen and suaderos swing;
    The wind sings hollow in my ear,
    Nor sail nor wheel could follow near,
      Sail, nor wheel, nor wing.

    On dusty roads and streets there prowl
      Bent riders perched on noiseless wheels;
    Misshapen things with mannish scowl;
      Strange crafts with unknown bows and keels;
    Queer fish enmeshed in Folly's net;
    Scare human, flesh, or fowl--scarce yet
      Red herring, flesh, or fowl.

    Yoho! O'er the hills and far away,
      My broncho spurns the gravel slope;
    This is the ride for a man alway;
      The valleys at gallop, the hills at a lope;
    Who would exchange for the senseless wheel
    The life and strength that the horsemen feel?
      Life, and strength, and hope.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)



The Modern Venus

    The golden apple Paris gave
      To the most beautiful,
    To the fairest Aphrodite fell,
      Although she had no pull.

    She did not need to plead her cause,
      Nor canvass, sue or beg;
    She did not run her rivals down,
      Nor pull her best friend's leg.

    She stood in beauteous youthfulness,
      Incarnate rose of love;
    When Paris held the apple forth
      She did not scrouge or shove.

    Alas! our modern Venuses
      Far different methods use
    To gain the palm of loveliness
      Whenever one we choose.

    Towns, churches and societies
      Now offer prizes rare
    To one among the pretty girls
      Who is adjudged most fair.

    Our modern Venus hustles forth
      And campaigns all the town,
    And begs men to buy votes for her;
      Smith, Johnson, Jones and Brown.

    'Twas not thus Venus Victrix gained
      The gift of Priam's son.
    By beauty, not by begging, was
      The golden apple won.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 3, 1896.)



Celestial Sounds

    With three men on the bases,
      And one to tie the score,
    The batter rubs sand on his hands,
      The runners play off more.

    He hits a home run o'er the fence,
      The air is full of cheers;
    The sharp crack of the ball and bat
      Is music of the spheres.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)



The Snow

    'Tis thirty miles, you say? Ah, well,
      Come, mount! I am no hot-house flower.
      I love the cold and the north wind's power;
    Rioting, buffeting, rushing pellmell.
      Did you think that the colonel's daughter
      Was afraid to ride in a little cold
    Back to the fort? Why, Travers, you ought to
      Do guard duty till you're gray and old.

    Come, mount--Ah, this is life again;
    Like a mustang in a hunter's pen,
    So many months I have fretted sore
    For a gallop on Firefly's back once more.
      Going to snow?--Well, what do I care?
        I told you, Travers, I am not afraid.
      There are few things that I would not dare;
        You can go back if you'd rather have stayed.

    There, now, I was but jesting.
    No need for that flush resting
      On your cheek at what I said.
    Why did they send you to meet me--Oh,
      You begged the task as a favor!
      There is about your words a savor
    Of something that would hardly go
      Unrebuked if your colonel heard you.

    As I am the colonel's daughter,
    You must know that as fire and water
      Are things that must be kept asunder;
    So I from a common private;
      Lest the great big world should wonder;
    I must not for a moment connive at
      Your treading its dictates under.

    Your hand from my bridle rein, sir!
      What is it you say?--the snow?
    I take no alarm from your answer;
      Just a big white flake or so.
    Ride for my life?--Why, Travers,
    Are you frightened, man? Would you have us
    Racing for a stray snowflake?
      Ah, you will hat it--off, then;
    Though I positively can not take
      Alarm, though you tell me so often.

        * * * * *

    It's no use, Travers, draw rein;
    Our wonderful ride has been in vain;
      It was glorious though, for a while.
    I'm so cold, and the horrid snow
      Grows deeper with every mile,
    And my heart grows faint, and every blow
      Of the icy wind is death,
      As it catches my breath
    And bears my soul out to the snow.
      No, no, I will not ride on.
      My strength and my will are gone;
    Where is our course, can you tell me?
      Backward or forward, or where?
    You can not? Then it were well we
      Stopped here--for, see, in the air
    Comes the snow in eddying waves;
    What a pure nice fall for our graves.
      What, Travers, your coat?--No, keep it;
      I said no! Do I have to repeat it?
    Do you forget that you are a private?
      And I--Oh, God, and what am I,
    To lie--but come; let's arrive at
      Some understanding why
    I always flout you and scorn you.
    I'll speak to the point, and I warn you
      I will speak my heart's truth ere I die.
    I am so sleepy and cold;
    Is this the maiden bold
      Who a few hours ago spoke so brave,
    And claimed such a deal of courage?
      So dauntless and firm (and save
      In one thing) quite up to her age.

    I'm freezing, Travers, help me down;
      Hark! was not that the sound
      Of church bells? Travers, come quick
    I'm afraid of this horrible whiteness around.
      Look up, Travers, into my eyes;
      Do you see anything in them to prize?
    The drifts are rising fast around us,
    Death has come at last and found us.
      I am the colonel's daughter, and you
    Are only--my Jack and the man I love
      And always have, the long years through.
    Come, Jack! At last my head finds rest;
    Draw me closer upon your breast.
    Has it grown dark? I can not see,
      But I can feel your dear, strong arm.
    I am not cold now; it must be
    The snow was a dream, and we
      Are at the barracks. Do not keep
      Me waiting longer; I must sleep.
--W. S. P.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, February 23, 1896.)



Her Choice

    The trump had sounded, and on pinions white
      Ascended they who in the grave had lain;
    And seraph bands in floods of golden light
      Guided before the pure and heavenly train.

    And on, past comet and past lurid star
      They winged their way unto the throne of grace;
    The burning world behind them glowed far,
      As low in worship, bowed each angel face.

    There was among the chosen of the earth
      A woman beautiful and young and fair;
    So sweet and chaste, and breathing love and worth,
      She stood the loveliest of the angels there.

    And then from out the band about the throne,
      With eager eyes and outstretched hands, there came
    The forms of two. Each once had been her own,
      And she on earth of each had borne the name.

    (Oh, heaven being love, why should not love be thine,
      And heart to heart strayed souls again unite,
    And wife to husband there for aye entwine
      Their spirit tendrils where is no blight?)

    And each had been her husband; and each spoke
      Her name and claimed her with fond eyes
    And beckoning hands, till from her dream she woke
      And gazed. Then spake a Voice kind-toned and wise:

    "Choose you between them who your mate shall be;
      For heaven were not heaven if it were to lose
    The other half of self, the ecstasy
      Of loving and of being loved--so choose."

    The woman raised her down-cast eyes, and o'er
      The gathered host of spirits swept her gaze.
    Twice had her heart gone out in love before;
      Twice had she felt its warm, eternal rays.

    Wild, sweet and tender to her memory came
      Her first love's recollections, like the start
    Of mighty breakers. Then the steady flame
      Uprising from her second smote her heart.

    With pleading eyes, the two stayed on her choice,
      Each thinking one must win and one must lose.
    And then she spake, uplifting her sweet voice,
      And said in tender tones: "And must I choose?"

    "Yea, verily," the Voice replied. "Be free
      To follow where your heart points out the way.
    For love, once kindled, fills eternity;
      'Tis heaven, not earth, that lights his brightest ray."

    And then the woman, with fond beaming eye,
      Spake up and said: "These two are both N. G.
    They made me tired. I think I'll try
      That nice blond angel by that apple tree."
--W. S. P.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, January 12, 1896.)



"Little Things, but Ain't They Whizzers?"

The following song was written for the benefit of any theatrical or
musical entertainment that desires to use it in Houston. Any company
rendering it outside the city is liable to a fine of $1,000,000, as it
has been composed solely for the pleasure of Houston audiences, which
it is sure to please. The person singing the song, if a gent, will
dress in loud check trousers, tan shoes, and high white hat, advancing
to the footlights, smiling, and carrying a large cane. If sung by a
lady, the costume is the same, with smaller checks, and parasol
instead of cane. The following lines are to be spoken: "Ladies and
Gentlemen: You must excuse my hoarseness tonight, as I was up late
last night rocking the baby to sleep. (_Laughter._) I love babies.
(_Great laughter._) When they get molasses on their fingers and use your
shirt front for a piano, it makes a man think marriage is a success,
now doesn't it? (_Howls of laughter from the family circle._) Last night
I came home late from the lodge (_applause_); and after I took off my
shoes and slipped into the room and commenced rocking the cradle, my
wife woke up and said, 'What are you doing, Charlie?' 'I'm getting the
baby quiet,' said I. 'Come to bed, you fool,' says she, 'the baby has
been in bed here with me for two hours.' (_Prolonged yells of
laughter._) Babies are little things, but are very important
institutions. That reminds me of a song." (_Looks at orchestra, which
strikes up at once._)

(_Sings_):
    As we wander down life's pathway
      Plucking roses as we go,
    Often do we prick our finger
      With the little thorns that grow,
    Little drops make up the ocean,
      Little chips fill up the pot;
    Little drinks make great big jaglets,
      Little wives can make home hot.

    Little things--but ain't they whizzers!
      Little bees have biggest stings;
    Little girls are sometimes Tartars--
      Look out for the little things.
    (_Bass horn--"Ta-ra-rum."_)

(_Spoken_)--"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is not always the biggest
things that are the most valuable. I remember a few nights ago I was
in a poker game. It was not in this city, of course, for since Charlie
Helm was elected marshal there is no gambling in Hooston (_can also be
pronounced Howston_). (_Vociferous cheering in gallery._) I will tell
you about it:

(_Sings_):
    Once while I was playing poker,
      I hid four kings in my shoe;
    And I said, when someone raised me,
      "I won't do a thing to you."
    Then I shoved in all my money,
      And I reached out for the pot--
    But a fellow shouted, "Drop it!
      I've four aces, what you got?"

    Little things--but ain't they whizzers!
      Little one spots downed the kings,
    And my hand it was not in it
      When he showed the little things.

(_Deafening applause from the audience; two men fall out of private
boxes overcome with laughter, and every man in the audience claps his
hands for fear it will be thought he does not understand the game. The
singer will please smile indulgently, and when the noise has subsided,
continue_)--

    I engaged board once in Hooston (_or Howston_),
      At a house not far from here;
    They were fashionable people,
      And the grub was scarce and dear.
    I turned into bed quite early,
      But I jumped out with a roar,
    And I scratched myself two hours
      Then slept upon the floor.

    Little things--but ain't they whizzers!
      Never felt such bites and stings!
    When you go to bed in Howston,
      Look out for the little things.

(_Plaster falls from the opera-house ceiling, and the audience stand
up in their chairs and wave their handkerchiefs. The singer will here
do a few steps of a clog dance, and exit r. Whistles, yells, and calls
and screams from dress circle. Gallery totters. Enter singer, smiling
and bowing, wearing another coat and hat--Sings:_)

    I have got a girl in Hooston,
      And she rides upon a bike;
    You should see her when she spins to
      Harrisburg upon the pike.
    She wears bloomers, though she don't weigh
      More than eighty pounds or so;
    Now, I wonder how she does it,
      When I see her move 'em so.

    Little things--but ain't they whizzers!
      Pair of bloomers hung on strings;
    Wonder they don't break to pieces,
      Such hard work for little things.

(_The audience goes wild with delight, gentlemen throw their hats at
the ceiling, ladies shriek with delight, and the gallery resolves
itself into a Republican convention, while the police pound with their
clubs on the wall and cry "Encore!"_)

_Curtain_.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)



Last Fall of the Alamo

    "I am--
    Excuse me, I was--the Alamo.
    Ye who have tears to shed,
    Shed.
    Shades of Crockett, Bowie and the rest
    Who in my sacred blood-stained walls were slain!
    Shades of the fifty or sixty solitary survivors,
    Each of whom alone escaped;
    And shades of the dozen or so daughters,
    Sisters, cousins and aunts of the Alamo,
    Protest!
    Against this foul indignity.
    Ain't there enough jobs in the city
    That need whitewashing
    Without jumping on me?
    Did I stand off 5,000 Mexicans in '36
    To be kalsomined and wall-papered
    And fixed up with dados and pink mottoes
    In '96?
    Why don't you put bloomers on me at once,
    And call me
    The New Alamo?--
    Tamaleville!
    You make me tired.
    I can stand a good deal yet,
    So don't have any more chrysanthemum shows
    In me.
    If you do
    I'll fall on you.
    Sabe?"

(_Houston Daily Post_, Monday morning, April 13, 1896.)





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