My Watch – by Mark Twain

[Written about 1870.]

An Instructive Little Tale

My beautiful new watch had run eighteen months without losing or gaining,

and without breaking any part of its machinery or stopping. I had come

to believe it infallible in its judgments about the time of day, and to

consider its constitution and its anatomy imperishable. But at last, one

night, I let it run down. I grieved about it as if it were a recognized

messenger and forerunner of calamity. But by and by I cheered up, set

the watch by guess, and commanded my bodings and superstitions to depart.

Next day I stepped into the chief jeweler's to set it by the exact time,

and the head of the establishment took it out of my hand and proceeded to

set it for me. Then he said, "She is four minutes slow-regulator wants

pushing up." I tried to stop him--tried to make him understand that the

watch kept perfect time. But no; all this human cabbage could see was

that the watch was four minutes slow, and the regulator must be pushed up

a little; and so, while I danced around him in anguish, and implored him

to let the watch alone, he calmly and cruelly did the shameful deed. My

watch began to gain. It gained faster and faster day by day. Within the

week it sickened to a raging fever, and its pulse went up to a hundred

and fifty in the shade. At the end of two months it had left all the

timepieces of the town far in the rear, and was a fraction over thirteen

days ahead of the almanac. It was away into November enjoying the snow,

while the October leaves were still turning. It hurried up house rent,

bills payable, and such things, in such a ruinous way that I could not

abide it. I took it to the watchmaker to be regulated. He asked me if I

had ever had it repaired. I said no, it had never needed any repairing.

He looked a look of vicious happiness and eagerly pried the watch open,

and then put a small dice-box into his eye and peered into its machinery.

He said it wanted cleaning and oiling, besides regulating--come in a

week. After being cleaned and oiled, and regulated, my watch slowed down

to that degree that it ticked like a tolling bell. I began to be left by

trains, I failed all appointments, I got to missing my dinner; my watch

strung out three days' grace to four and let me go to protest;

I gradually drifted back into yesterday, then day before, then into last

week, and by and by the comprehension came upon me that all solitary and

alone I was lingering along in week before last, and the world was out of

sight. I seemed to detect in myself a sort of sneaking fellow-feeling

for the mummy in the museum, and a desire to swap news with him. I went

to a watchmaker again. He took the watch all to pieces while I waited,

and then said the barrel was "swelled." He said he could reduce it in

three days. After this the watch averaged well, but nothing more. For

half a day it would go like the very mischief, and keep up such a barking

and wheezing and whooping and sneezing and snorting, that I could not

hear myself think for the disturbance; and as long as it held out there

was not a watch in the land that stood any chance against it. But the

rest of the day it would keep on slowing down and fooling along until all

the clocks it had left behind caught up again. So at last, at the end of

twenty-four hours, it would trot up to the judges' stand all right and

just in time. It would show a fair and square average, and no man could

say it had done more or less than its duty. But a correct average is

only a mild virtue in a watch, and I took this instrument to another

watchmaker. He said the king-bolt was broken. I said I was glad it was

nothing more serious. To tell the plain truth, I had no idea what the

king-bolt was, but I did not choose to appear ignorant to a stranger.

He repaired the king-bolt, but what the watch gained in one way it lost

in another. It would run awhile and then stop awhile, and then run

awhile again, and so on, using its own discretion about the intervals.

And every time it went off it kicked back like a musket. I padded my

breast for a few days, but finally took the watch to another watchmaker.

He picked it all to pieces, and turned the ruin over and over under his

glass; and then he said there appeared to be something the matter with

the hair-trigger. He fixed it, and gave it a fresh start. It did well

now, except that always at ten minutes to ten the hands would shut

together like a pair of scissors, and from that time forth they would

travel together. The oldest man in the world could not make head or tail

of the time of day by such a watch, and so I went again to have the thing

repaired. This person said that the crystal had got bent, and that the

mainspring was not straight. He also remarked that part of the works

needed half-soling. He made these things all right, and then my

timepiece performed unexceptionably, save that now and then, after

working along quietly for nearly eight hours, everything inside would let

go all of a sudden and begin to buzz like a bee, and the hands would

straightway begin to spin round and round so fast that their

individuality was lost completely, and they simply seemed a delicate

spider's web over the face of the watch. She would reel off the next

twenty-four hours in six or seven minutes, and then stop with a bang.

I went with a heavy heart to one more watchmaker, and looked on while he

took her to pieces. Then I prepared to cross-question him rigidly, for

this thing was getting serious. The watch had cost two hundred dollars

originally, and I seemed to have paid out two or three thousand for

repairs. While I waited and looked on I presently recognized in this

watchmaker an old acquaintance--a steamboat engineer of other days, and

not a good engineer, either. He examined all the parts carefully, just

as the other watchmakers had done, and then delivered his verdict with

the same confidence of manner.

He said:

"She makes too much steam-you want to hang the monkey-wrench on the

safety-valve!"

I brained him on the spot, and had him buried at my own expense.

My uncle William (now deceased, alas!) used to say that a good horse was,

a good horse until it had run away once, and that a good watch was a good

watch until the repairers got a chance at it. And he used to wonder what

became of all the unsuccessful tinkers, and gunsmiths, and shoemakers,

and engineers, and blacksmiths; but nobody could ever tell him.

What Stumped the Bluejays  - by Mark Twain

Animals talk to each other, of course. There can be no question about that; but I suppose there are very few people who can understand them. I never knew but one man who could. I knew he could, however, because he told me so himself. He was a middle-aged, simple-hearted miner who had lived in a lonely corner of California, among the woods and mountains, a good many years, and had studied the ways of his only neighbors, the beasts and the birds, until he believed he could accurately translate any remark which they made. This was Jim Baker. According to Jim Baker, some animals have only a limited education, and use only very simple words, and scarcely ever a comparison or a flowery figure; whereas, certain other animals have a large vocabulary, a fine command of language and a ready and fluent delivery; consequently these latter talk a great deal; they like it; they are conscious of their talent, and they enjoy "showing off." Baker said, that after long and careful observation, he had come to the conclusion that the bluejays were the best talkers he had found among birds and beasts. Said he:

    There's more to a bluejay than any other creature. He has got more moods, and more different kinds of feelings than other creatures; and mind you, whatever a bluejay feels, he can put into language. And no rnere commonplace language, either, but rattling, out-and-out book talk - and bristling with metaphor, too - just bristling! And as for command of language - why you never see a bluejay get stuck for a word. No man ever did. They just boil out of him! And another thing: I've noticed a good deal, and there's no bird, or cow, or anything that uses as good grammar as a bluejay. You may say a cat uses good grammar. Well, a cat does - but you let a cat get excited once; you let a cat get to pulling fur with another cat on a shed, nights, and you'll hear grammar that will give you the lockjaw. Ignorant people think it's the noise which fighting cats make that is so aggravating, but it ain't so; it's the sickening grammar they use. Now I've never heard a jay use bad grammar but very seldom; and when they do, they are as ashamed as a human; they shut right down and leave.

    You may call a jay a bird. Well, so he is, in a measure - because he's got feathers on him, and don't belong to no church, perhaps; but otherwise he is just as much a human as you be. And I'll tell you for why. A jay's gifts, and instincts, and feelings, and interests, cover the whole ground. A jay hasn't got any more principle than a congressman. A jay will lie, a jay will steal, a jay will deceive, a jay will betray; and four times out of five, a jay will go back on his solemnest promise. The sacredness of an obligation is a thing which you can't cram into no bluejay's head. Now, on top of all this, there's another thing; a jay can outswear any gentleman in the mines. You think a cat can swear. Well, a cat can; but you give a bluejay a subject that calls for his reserve powers, and where is your cat! Don't talk to me - I know too much about this thing. And there's yet another thing; in the one little particular of scolding - just good, clean, out-and-out scolding - a bluejay can lay over anything, human or divine. Yes, sir, a jay is everything that a man is. A jay can cry, a jay can laugh, a jay can feel shame, a jay can reason and plan and discuss, a jay likes gossip and scandal, a jay has got a sense of humor, a jay knows when he is an ass just as well as you do - maybe better. If a jay ain't human, he better take in his sign, that's all. Now I'm going to tell you a perfectly true fact about some bluejays. When I first begun to understand jay language correctly, there was a little incident happened here. Seven years ago, the last man in this region but me moved away. There stands his house - been empty ever since; a log house, with a plank roof - just one big room, and no more; no ceiling - nothing between the rafters and the floor. Well, one Sunday morning I was sitting out here in front of my cabin, with my cat, taking the sun, and looking at the blue hills, and listening to the leaves rustling so lonely in the trees, and thinking of the home away yonder in the states, that I hadn't heard from in thirteen years, when a bluejay lit on that house, with an acorn in his mouth, and says, "Hello, I reckon I've struck something." When he spoke, the acorn dropped out of his mouth and rolled down the roof, of course, but he didn't care; his mind was all on the thing he had struck. It was a knothole in the roof. He cocked his head to one side, shut one eye and put the other one to the hole, like a possum looking down a jug; then he glanced up with his bright eyes, gave a wink or two with his wings - which signifies gratification, you understand - and says, "It looks like a hole, it's located like a hole - blamed if I don't believe it is a hole!"

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    Then he cocked his head down and took another look; he glances up perfectly joyful, this time; winks his wings and his tail both, and says, "Oh, no, this ain't no fat thing, I reckon! If I ain't in luck!--why it's a perfectly elegant hole!" So he flew down and got that acorn, and fetched it up and dropped it in, and was just tilting his head back, with the heavenliest smile on his face, when all of a sudden he was paralyzed into a listening attitude and that smile faded gradually out of his countenance like breath off'n a razor, and the queerest look of surprise took its place. Then he says, "Why, I didn't hear it fall!" He cocked his eye at the hole again, and took a long look; raised up and shook his head; stepped around to the other side of the hole and took another look from that side; shook his head again. He studied awhile, then he just went into the details - walked round and round the hole and spied into it from every point of the compass. No use. Now he took a thinking attitude on the comb of the roof and scratched the back of his head with his right foot a minute, and finally says, "Well, it's too many for me, that's certain; must be a mighty long hole; however, I ain't got no time to fool around here, I got to tend to business; I reckon it's all right - chance it, anyway."

    So he flew off and fetched another acorn and dropped it in, and tried to flirt his eye to the hole quick enough to see what become of it, but he was too late. He held his eye there as much as a minute; then he raised up and sighed, and says, "Confound it, I don't seem to understand this thing, no way; however, I'll tackle her again." He fetched another acorn, and done his level best to see what become of it, but he couldn't. He says, "Well, I never struck no such a hole as this before; I'm of the opinion it's a totally new kind of a hole." Then he begun to get mad. He held in for a spell, walking up and down the comb of the roof and shaking his head and muttering to himself; but his feelings got the upper hand of him, presently, and he broke loose and cussed himself black in the face. I never see a bird take on so about a little thing. When he got through he walks to the hole and looks in again for half a minute; then he says, "Well, you're a long hole, and a deep hole, and a mighty singular hole altogether - but I've started in to fill you, and I'm d****d if I don't fill you, if it takes a hundred years!"

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    And with that, away he went. You never see a bird work so since you was born. The way he hove acorns into that hole for about two hours and a half was one of the most exciting and astonishing spectacles I ever struck. He never stopped to take a look anymore - he just hove'em in and went for more. Well, at last he could hardly flop his wings, he was so tuckered out. He comes a-drooping down, once more, sweating like an ice pitcher, drops his acorn in and says, "Now I guess I've got the bulge on you by this time!" So he bent down for a look. Ifyou'll believe me, when his head come up again he was just pale with rage. He says, "I've shoveled acorns enough in there to keep the family thirty years, and if I can see a sign of one of'em I wish I may land in a museum with a belly full of sawdust in two minutes!"

    He just had strength enough to crawl up onto the comb and lean his back agin the chimbly, and then he collected his impressions and begun to free his mind. I see in a second that what I had mistook for profanity in the mines was only just the rudiments, as you may say.

    Another jay was going by, and heard him doing his devotions, and stops to inquire what was up. The sufferer told him the whole circumstance, and says, "Now yonder's the hole, and if you don't believe me, go and look for yourself." So this fellow went and looked, and comes back and says, "How many did you say you put in there?" "Not any less than two tons," says the sufferer. The other jay went and looked again. He couldn't seem to make it out, so he raised a yell, and three more jays come. They all examined the hole, they all made the sufferer tell it over again, then they all discussed it, and got off as many leather-headed opinions about it as an average crowd of humans could have done.

    They called in more jays; then more and more, till pretty soon this whole region beared to have a blue flush about it. There must have been five thousand of them; and such another jawing and disputing and ripping and cussing, you never heard. Every jay in the whole lot put his eye to the hole and delivered a more chuckle-headed opinion about the mystery than the jay that went there before him. They examined the house all over, too. The door was standing half open, and at last one old jay happened to go and light on it and look in. Of course, that knocked the mystery galley-west in a second. There lay the acorns, scattered all over the floor. He flopped his wings and raised a whoop. "Come here ! " he says. "Come here, everybody; hang'd if this fool hasn't been trying to fill up a house with acorns!" They all came a-swooping down like a blue cloud, and as each fellow lit on the door and took a glance, the whole absurdity of the contract that that first jay had tackled hit him home and he fell over backward suffocating with laughter, and the next jay took his place and done the same.

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    Well, sir, they roosted around here on the housetop and the trees for an hour, and guffawed over that thing like human beings. It ain't any use to tell me a bluejay hasn't got a sense of humor, because I know better. And memory, too. They brought jays here from all over the United States to look down that hole, every summer for three years. Other birds, too. And they could all see the point, except an owl that come from Nova Scotia to visit the Yosemite, and he took this thing in on his way back. He said he couldn't see anything funny in it. But then he was a good deal disappointed about Yosemite, too.

Cannibalism In The Cars – By Mark Twain

I visited St. Louis lately, and on my way West, after changing cars at

Terre Haute, Indiana, a mild, benevolent-looking gentleman of about

forty-five, or maybe fifty, came in at one of the way-stations and sat

down beside me. We talked together pleasantly on various subjects for an

hour, perhaps, and I found him exceedingly intelligent and entertaining.

When he learned that I was from Washington, he immediately began to ask

questions about various public men, and about Congressional affairs; and

I saw very shortly that I was conversing with a man who was perfectly

familiar with the ins and outs of political life at the Capital, even to

the ways and manners, and customs of procedure of Senators and

Representatives in the Chambers of the national Legislature. Presently

two men halted near us for a single moment, and one said to the other:

"Harris, if you'll do that for me, I'll never forget you, my boy."

My new comrade's eye lighted pleasantly. The words had touched upon a

happy memory, I thought. Then his face settled into thoughtfulness--

almost into gloom. He turned to me and said,

"Let me tell you a story; let me give you a secret chapter of my life--

a chapter that has never been referred to by me since its events

transpired. Listen patiently, and promise that you will not interrupt

me."

I said I would not, and he related the following strange adventure,

speaking sometimes with animation, sometimes with melancholy, but always

with feeling and earnestness.

THE STRANGER'S NARRATIVE

"On the 19th of December, 1853, I started from St. Louis on the evening

train bound for Chicago. There were only twenty-four passengers, all

told. There were no ladies and no children. We were in excellent

spirits, and pleasant acquaintanceships were soon formed. The journey

bade fair to be a happy one; and no individual in the party, I think, had

even the vaguest presentiment of the horrors we were soon to undergo.

"At 11 P.m. it began to snow hard. Shortly after leaving the small

village of Welden, we entered upon that tremendous prairie solitude that

stretches its leagues on leagues of houseless dreariness far away toward

the jubilee Settlements. The winds, unobstructed by trees or hills, or

even vagrant rocks, whistled fiercely across the level desert, driving

the falling snow before it like spray from the crested waves of a stormy

sea. The snow was deepening fast; and we knew, by the diminished speed

of the train, that the engine was plowing through it with steadily

increasing difficulty. Indeed, it almost came to a dead halt sometimes,

in the midst of great drifts that piled themselves like colossal graves

across the track. Conversation began to flag. Cheerfulness gave place

to grave concern. The possibility of being imprisoned in the snow, on

the bleak prairie, fifty miles from any house, presented itself to every

mind, and extended its depressing influence over every spirit.

"At two o'clock in the morning I was aroused out of an uneasy slumber by

the ceasing of all motion about me. The appalling truth flashed upon me

instantly--we were captives in a snow-drift! 'All hands to the rescue!'

Every man sprang to obey. Out into the wild night, the pitchy darkness,

the billowy snow, the driving storm, every soul leaped, with the

consciousness that a moment lost now might bring destruction to us all.

Shovels, hands, boards--anything, everything that could displace snow,

was brought into instant requisition. It was a weird picture, that small

company of frantic men fighting the banking snows, half in the blackest

shadow and half in the angry light of the locomotive's reflector.

"One short hour sufficed to prove the utter uselessness of our efforts.

The storm barricaded the track with a dozen drifts while we dug one away.

And worse than this, it was discovered that the last grand charge the

engine had made upon the enemy had broken the fore-and-aft shaft of the

driving-wheel! With a free track before us we should still have been

helpless. We entered the car wearied with labor, and very sorrowful.

We gathered about the stoves, and gravely canvassed our situation. We

had no provisions whatever--in this lay our chief distress. We could not

freeze, for there was a good supply of wood in the tender. This was our

only comfort. The discussion ended at last in accepting the

disheartening decision of the conductor, viz., that it would be death for

any man to attempt to travel fifty miles on foot through snow like that.

We could not send for help, and even if we could it would not come. We

must submit, and await, as patiently as we might, succor or starvation!

I think the stoutest heart there felt a momentary chill when those words

were uttered.

"Within the hour conversation subsided to a low murmur here and there

about the car, caught fitfully between the rising and falling of the

blast; the lamps grew dim; and the majority of the castaways settled

themselves among the flickering shadows to think--to forget the present,

if they could--to sleep, if they might.

"The eternal night-it surely seemed eternal to us-wore its lagging hours

away at last, and the cold gray dawn broke in the east. As the light

grew stronger the passengers began to stir and give signs of life, one

after another, and each in turn pushed his slouched hat up from his

forehead, stretched his stiffened limbs, and glanced out of the windows

upon the cheerless prospect. It was cheer less, indeed!-not a living

thing visible anywhere, not a human habitation; nothing but a vast white

desert; uplifted sheets of snow drifting hither and thither before the

wind--a world of eddying flakes shutting out the firmament above.

"All day we moped about the cars, saying little, thinking much. Another

lingering dreary night--and hunger.

"Another dawning--another day of silence, sadness, wasting hunger,

hopeless watching for succor that could not come. A night of restless

slumber, filled with dreams of feasting--wakings distressed with the

gnawings of hunger.

"The fourth day came and went--and the fifth! Five days of dreadful

imprisonment! A savage hunger looked out at every eye. There was in it

a sign of awful import--the foreshadowing of a something that was vaguely

shaping itself in every heart--a something which no tongue dared yet to

frame into words.

"The sixth day passed--the seventh dawned upon as gaunt and haggard and

hopeless a company of men as ever stood in the shadow of death. It must

out now! That thing which had been growing up in every heart was ready

to leap from every lip at last! Nature had been taxed to the utmost--she

must yield. RICHARD H. GASTON of Minnesota, tall, cadaverous, and pale,

rose up. All knew what was coming. All prepared--every emotion, every

semblance of excitement--was smothered--only a calm, thoughtful

seriousness appeared in the eyes that were lately so wild.

"'Gentlemen: It cannot be delayed longer! The time is at hand! We must

determine which of us shall die to furnish food for the rest!'

"MR. JOHN J. WILLIAMS of Illinois rose and said: 'Gentlemen--I nominate

the Rev. James Sawyer of Tennessee.'

"MR. Wm. R. ADAMS of Indiana said: 'I nominate Mr. Daniel Slote of New

York.'

"MR. CHARLES J. LANGDON: 'I nominate Mr. Samuel A. Bowen of St. Louis.'

"MR. SLOTE: 'Gentlemen--I desire to decline in favor of Mr. John A. Van

Nostrand, Jun., of New Jersey.'

"MR. GASTON: 'If there be no objection, the gentleman's desire will be

acceded to.'

"MR. VAN NOSTRAND objecting, the resignation of Mr. Slote was rejected.

The resignations of Messrs. Sawyer and Bowen were also offered, and

refused upon the same grounds.

"MR. A. L. BASCOM of Ohio: 'I move that the nominations now close, and

that the House proceed to an election by ballot.'

"MR. SAWYER: 'Gentlemen--I protest earnestly against these proceedings.

They are, in every way, irregular and unbecoming. I must beg to move

that they be dropped at once, and that we elect a chairman of the meeting

and proper officers to assist him, and then we can go on with the

business before us understandingly.'

"MR. BELL of Iowa: 'Gentlemen--I object. This is no time to stand upon

forms and ceremonious observances. For more than seven days we have been

without food. Every moment we lose in idle discussion increases our

distress. I am satisfied with the nominations that have been made--every

gentleman present is, I believe--and I, for one, do not see why we should

not proceed at once to elect one or more of them. I wish to offer a

resolution--'

"MR. GASTON: 'It would be objected to, and have to lie over one day under

the rules, thus bringing about the very delay you wish to avoid. The

gentleman from New Jersey--'

"MR. VAN NOSTRAND: 'Gentlemen--I am a stranger among you; I have not

sought the distinction that has been conferred upon me, and I feel a

delicacy--'

"MR. MORGAN Of Alabama (interrupting): 'I move the previous question.'

"The motion was carried, and further debate shut off, of course. The

motion to elect officers was passed, and under it Mr. Gaston was chosen

chairman, Mr. Blake, secretary, Messrs. Holcomb, Dyer, and Baldwin a

committee on nominations, and Mr. R. M. Howland, purveyor, to assist the

committee in making selections.

"A recess of half an hour was then taken, and some little caucusing

followed. At the sound of the gavel the meeting reassembled, and the

committee reported in favor of Messrs. George Ferguson of Kentucky,

Lucien Herrman of Louisiana, and W. Messick of Colorado as candidates.

The report was accepted.

"MR. ROGERS of Missouri: 'Mr. President The report being properly before

the House now, I move to amend it by substituting for the name of Mr.

Herrman that of Mr. Lucius Harris of St. Louis, who is well and

honorably known to us all. I do not wish to be understood as casting the

least reflection upon the high character and standing of the gentleman

from Louisiana far from it. I respect and esteem him as much as any

gentleman here present possibly can; but none of us can be blind to the

fact that he has lost more flesh during the week that we have lain here

than any among us--none of us can be blind to the fact that the committee

has been derelict in its duty, either through negligence or a graver

fault, in thus offering for our suffrages a gentleman who, however pure

his own motives may be, has really less nutriment in him--'

"THE CHAIR: 'The gentleman from Missouri will take his seat. The Chair

cannot allow the integrity of the committee to be questioned save by the

regular course, under the rules. What action will the House take upon

the gentleman's motion?'

"MR. HALLIDAY of Virginia: 'I move to further amend the report by

substituting Mr. Harvey Davis of Oregon for Mr. Messick. It may be urged

by gentlemen that the hardships and privations of a frontier life have

rendered Mr. Davis tough; but, gentlemen, is this a time to cavil at

toughness? Is this a time to be fastidious concerning trifles? Is this

a time to dispute about matters of paltry significance? No, gentlemen,

bulk is what we desire--substance, weight, bulk--these are the supreme

requisites now--not talent, not genius, not education. I insist upon my

motion.'

"MR. MORGAN (excitedly): 'Mr. Chairman--I do most strenuously object to

this amendment. The gentleman from Oregon is old, and furthermore is

bulky only in bone--not in flesh. I ask the gentleman from Virginia if

it is soup we want instead of solid sustenance? if he would delude us

with shadows? if he would mock our suffering with an Oregonian specter?

I ask him if he can look upon the anxious faces around him, if he can

gaze into our sad eyes, if he can listen to the beating of our expectant

hearts, and still thrust this famine-stricken fraud upon us? I ask him

if he can think of our desolate state, of our past sorrows, of our dark

future, and still unpityingly foist upon us this wreck, this ruin, this

tottering swindle, this gnarled and blighted and sapless vagabond from

Oregon's hospitable shores? Never!' [Applause.]

"The amendment was put to vote, after a fiery debate, and lost. Mr.

Harris was substituted on the first amendment. The balloting then began.

Five ballots were held without a choice. On the sixth, Mr. Harris was

elected, all voting for him but himself. It was then moved that his

election should be ratified by acclamation, which was lost, in

consequence of his again voting against himself.

"MR. RADWAY moved that the House now take up the remaining candidates,

and go into an election for breakfast. This was carried.

"On the first ballot--there was a tie, half the members favoring one

candidate on account of his youth, and half favoring the other on account

of his superior size. The President gave the casting vote for the

latter, Mr. Messick. This decision created considerable dissatisfaction

among the friends of Mr. Ferguson, the defeated candidate, and there was

some talk of demanding a new ballot; but in the midst of it a motion to

adjourn was carried, and the meeting broke up at once.

"The preparations for supper diverted the attention of the Ferguson

faction from the discussion of their grievance for a long time, and then,

when they would have taken it up again, the happy announcement that Mr.

Harris was ready drove all thought of it to the winds.

"We improvised tables by propping up the backs of car-seats, and sat down

with hearts full of gratitude to the finest supper that had blessed our

vision for seven torturing days. How changed we were from what we had

been a few short hours before! Hopeless, sad-eyed misery, hunger,

feverish anxiety, desperation, then; thankfulness, serenity, joy too deep

for utterance now. That I know was the cheeriest hour of my eventful

life. The winds howled, and blew the snow wildly about our prison house,

but they were powerless to distress us any more. I liked Harris. He

might have been better done, perhaps, but I am free to say that no man

ever agreed with me better than Harris, or afforded me so large a degree

of satisfaction. Messick was very well, though rather high-flavored,

but for genuine nutritiousness and delicacy of fiber, give me Harris.

Messick had his good points--I will not attempt to deny it, nor do I wish

to do it but he was no more fitted for breakfast than a mummy would be,

sir--not a bit. Lean?--why, bless me!--and tough? Ah, he was very

tough! You could not imagine it--you could never imagine anything like

it."

"Do you mean to tell me that--"

"Do not interrupt me, please. After breakfast we elected a man by the

name of Walker, from Detroit, for supper. He was very good. I wrote his

wife so afterward. He was worthy of all praise. I shall always remember

Walker. He was a little rare, but very good. And then the next morning

we had Morgan of Alabama for breakfast. He was one of the finest men I

ever sat down to handsome, educated, refined, spoke several languages

fluently a perfect gentleman he was a perfect gentleman, and singularly

juicy. For supper we had that Oregon patriarch, and he was a fraud,

there is no question about it--old, scraggy, tough, nobody can picture

the reality. I finally said, gentlemen, you can do as you like, but I

will wait for another election. And Grimes of Illinois said, 'Gentlemen,

I will wait also. When you elect a man that has something to recommend

him, I shall be glad to join you again.' It soon became evident that

there was general dissatisfaction with Davis of Oregon, and so, to

preserve the good will that had prevailed so pleasantly since we had had

Harris, an election was called, and the result of it was that Baker of

Georgia was chosen. He was splendid! Well, well--after that we had

Doolittle, and Hawkins, and McElroy (there was some complaint about

McElroy, because he was uncommonly short and thin), and Penrod, and two

Smiths, and Bailey (Bailey had a wooden leg, which was clear loss, but he

was otherwise good), and an Indian boy, and an organ-grinder, and a

gentleman by the name of Buckminster--a poor stick of a vagabond that

wasn't any good for company and no account for breakfast. We were glad

we got him elected before relief came."

"And so the blessed relief did come at last?"

"Yes, it came one bright, sunny morning, just after election. John

Murphy was the choice, and there never was a better, I am willing to

testify; but John Murphy came home with us, in the train that came to

succor us, and lived to marry the widow Harris--"

"Relict of--"

"Relict of our first choice. He married her, and is happy and respected

and prosperous yet. Ah, it was like a novel, sir--it was like a romance.

This is my stopping-place, sir; I must bid you goodby. Any time that you

can make it convenient to tarry a day or two with me, I shall be glad to

have you. I like you, sir; I have conceived an affection for you.

I could like you as well as I liked Harris himself, sir. Good day, sir,

and a pleasant journey."

He was gone. I never felt so stunned, so distressed, so bewildered in my

life. But in my soul I was glad he was gone. With all his gentleness of

manner and his soft voice, I shuddered whenever he turned his hungry eye

upon me; and when I heard that I had achieved his perilous affection, and

that I stood almost with the late Harris in his esteem, my heart fairly

stood still!

I was bewildered beyond description. I did not doubt his word; I could

not question a single item in a statement so stamped with the earnestness

of truth as his; but its dreadful details overpowered me, and threw my

thoughts into hopeless confusion. I saw the conductor looking at me.

I said, "Who is that man?"

"He was a member of Congress once, and a good one. But he got caught in

a snow-drift in the cars, and like to have been starved to death. He got

so frost-bitten and frozen up generally, and used up for want of

something to eat, that he was sick and out of his head two or three

months afterward. He is all right now, only he is a monomaniac, and when

he gets on that old subject he never stops till he has eat up that whole

car-load of people he talks about. He would have finished the crowd by

this time, only he had to get out here. He has got their names as pat as

A B C. When he gets them all eat up but himself, he always says: 'Then

the hour for the usual election for breakfast having arrived; and there

being no opposition, I was duly elected, after which, there being no

objections offered, I resigned. Thus I am here.'"

I felt inexpressibly relieved to know that I had only been listening to

the harmless vagaries of a madman instead of the genuine experiences of a

bloodthirsty cannibal.

THE LOVES OF ALONZO FITZ CLARENCE AND ROSANNAH ETHELTON – by Mark Twain

It was well along in the forenoon of a bitter winter's day. The town of

Eastport, in the state of Maine, lay buried under a deep snow that was

newly fallen. The customary bustle in the streets was wanting. One

could look long distances down them and see nothing but a dead-white

emptiness, with silence to match. Of course I do not mean that you could

see the silence--no, you could only hear it. The sidewalks were merely

long, deep ditches, with steep snow walls on either side. Here and there

you might hear the faint, far scrape of a wooden shovel, and if you were

quick enough you might catch a glimpse of a distant black figure stooping

and disappearing in one of those ditches, and reappearing the next moment

with a motion which you would know meant the heaving out of a shovelful

of snow. But you needed to be quick, for that black figure would not

linger, but would soon drop that shovel and scud for the house, thrashing

itself with its arms to warm them. Yes, it was too venomously cold for

snow-shovelers or anybody else to stay out long.

Presently the sky darkened; then the wind rose and began to blow in

fitful, vigorous gusts, which sent clouds of powdery snow aloft, and

straight ahead, and everywhere. Under the impulse of one of these gusts,

great white drifts banked themselves like graves across the streets; a

moment later another gust shifted them around the other way, driving a

fine spray of snow from their sharp crests, as the gale drives the spume

flakes from wave-crests at sea; a third gust swept that place as clean as

your hand, if it saw fit. This was fooling, this was play; but each and

all of the gusts dumped some snow into the sidewalk ditches, for that was

business.

Alonzo Fitz Clarence was sitting in his snug and elegant little parlor,

in a lovely blue silk dressing-gown, with cuffs and facings of crimson

satin, elaborately quilted. The remains of his breakfast were before

him, and the dainty and costly little table service added a harmonious

charm to the grace, beauty, and richness of the fixed appointments of the

room. A cheery fire was blazing on the hearth.

A furious gust of wind shook the windows, and a great wave of snow washed

against them with a drenching sound, so to speak. The handsome young

bachelor murmured:

"That means, no going out to-day. Well, I am content. But what to do

for company? Mother is well enough, Aunt Susan is well enough; but

these, like the poor, I have with me always. On so grim a day as this,

one needs a new interest, a fresh element, to whet the dull edge of

captivity. That was very neatly said, but it doesn't mean anything.

One doesn't want the edge of captivity sharpened up, you know, but just

the reverse."

He glanced at his pretty French mantel-clock.

"That clock's wrong again. That clock hardly ever knows what time it is;

and when it does know, it lies about it--which amounts to the same thing.

Alfred!"

There was no answer.

"Alfred! . . . Good servant, but as uncertain as the clock."

Alonzo touched an electric bell button in the wall. He waited a moment,

then touched it again; waited a few moments more, and said:

"Battery out of order, no doubt. But now that I have started, I will

find out what time it is." He stepped to a speaking-tube in the wall,

blew its whistle, and called, "Mother!" and repeated it twice.

"Well, that's no use. Mother's battery is out of order, too. Can't

raise anybody down-stairs--that is plain."

He sat down at a rosewood desk, leaned his chin on the left-hand edge of

it and spoke, as if to the floor: "Aunt Susan!"

A low, pleasant voice answered, "Is that you, Alonzo?'

"Yes. I'm too lazy and comfortable to go downstairs; I am in extremity,

and I can't seem to scare up any help."

"Dear me, what is the matter?"

"Matter enough, I can tell you!"

"Oh, don't keep me in suspense, dear! What is it?"

"I want to know what time it is."

"You abominable boy, what a turn you did give me! Is that all?"

"All--on my honor. Calm yourself. Tell me the time, and receive my

blessing."

"Just five minutes after nine. No charge--keep your blessing."

"Thanks. It wouldn't have impoverished me, aunty, nor so enriched you

that you could live without other means."

He got up, murmuring, "Just five minutes after nine," and faced his

clock. "Ah," said he, "you are doing better than usual. You are only

thirty-four minutes wrong. Let me see . . . let me see. . . .

Thirty-three and twenty-one are fifty-four; four times fifty-four are two

hundred and thirty-six. One off, leaves two hundred and thirty-five.

That's right."

He turned the hands of his clock forward till they marked twenty-five

minutes to one, and said, "Now see if you can't keep right for a while

--else I'll raffle you!"

He sat down at the desk again, and said, "Aunt Susan!"

"Yes, dear."

"Had breakfast?"

"Yes, indeed, an hour ago."

"Busy?"

"No--except sewing. Why?"

"Got any company?"

"No, but I expect some at half past nine."

"I wish I did. I'm lonesome. I want to talk to somebody."

"Very well, talk to me."

"But this is very private."

"Don't be afraid--talk right along, there's nobody here but me."

"I hardly know whether to venture or not, but--"

"But what? Oh, don't stop there! You know you can trust me, Alonzo--you

know, you can."

"I feel it, aunt, but this is very serious. It affects me deeply--me,

and all the family---even the whole community."

"Oh, Alonzo, tell me! I will never breathe a word of it. What is it?"

"Aunt, if I might dare--"

"Oh, please go on! I love you, and feel for you. Tell me all.

Confide in me. What is it?"

"The weather!"

"Plague take the weather! I don't see how you can have the heart to

serve me so, Lon."

"There, there, aunty dear, I'm sorry; I am, on my honor. I won't do it

again. Do you forgive me?"

"Yes, since you seem so sincere about it, though I know I oughtn't to.

You will fool me again as soon as I have forgotten this time."

"No, I won't, honor bright. But such weather, oh, such weather! You've

got to keep your spirits up artificially. It is snowy, and blowy, and

gusty, and bitter cold! How is the weather with you?"

"Warm and rainy and melancholy. The mourners go about the streets with

their umbrellas running streams from the end of every whalebone. There's

an elevated double pavement of umbrellas, stretching down the sides of

the streets as far as I can see. I've got a fire for cheerfulness, and

the windows open to keep cool. But it is vain, it is useless: nothing

comes in but the balmy breath of December, with its burden of mocking

odors from the flowers that possess the realm outside, and rejoice in

their lawless profusion whilst the spirit of man is low, and flaunt their

gaudy splendors in his face while his soul is clothed in sackcloth and

ashes and his heart breaketh."

Alonzo opened his lips to say, "You ought to print that, and get it

framed," but checked himself, for he heard his aunt speaking to some one

else. He went and stood at the window and looked out upon the wintry

prospect. The storm was driving the snow before it more furiously than

ever; window-shutters were slamming and banging; a forlorn dog, with

bowed head and tail withdrawn from service, was pressing his quaking body

against a windward wall for shelter and protection; a young girl was

plowing knee-deep through the drifts, with her face turned from the

blast, and the cape of her waterproof blowing straight rearward over her

head. Alonzo shuddered, and said with a sigh, "Better the slop, and the

sultry rain, and even the insolent flowers, than this!"

He turned from the window, moved a step, and stopped in a listening

attitude. The faint, sweet notes of a familiar song caught his ear. He

remained there, with his head unconsciously bent forward, drinking in the

melody, stirring neither hand nor foot, hardly breathing. There was a

blemish in the execution of the song, but to Alonzo it seemed an added

charm instead of a defect. This blemish consisted of a marked flatting

of the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh notes of the refrain or

chorus of the piece. When the music ended, Alonzo drew a deep breath,

and said, "Ah, I never have heard 'In the Sweet By-and-by' sung like that

before!"

He stepped quickly to the desk, listened a moment, and said in a guarded,

confidential voice, "Aunty, who is this divine singer?"

"She is the company I was expecting. Stays with me a month or two.

I will introduce you. Miss--"

"For goodness' sake, wait a moment, Aunt Susan! You never stop to think

what you are about!"

He flew to his bedchamber, and returned in a moment perceptibly changed

in his outward appearance, and remarking, snappishly:

"Hang it, she would have introduced me to this angel in that sky-blue

dressing-gown with red-hot lapels! Women never think, when they get

a-going."

He hastened and stood by the desk, and said eagerly, "Now, Aunty, I am

ready," and fell to smiling and bowing with all the persuasiveness and

elegance that were in him.

"Very well. Miss Rosannah Ethelton, let me introduce to you my favorite

nephew, Mr. Alonzo Fitz Clarence. There! You are both good people, and

I like you; so I am going to trust you together while I attend to a few

household affairs. Sit down, Rosannah; sit down, Alonzo. Good-by; I

sha'n't be gone long."

Alonzo had been bowing and smiling all the while, and motioning imaginary

young ladies to sit down in imaginary chairs, but now he took a seat

himself, mentally saying, "Oh, this is luck! Let the winds blow now, and

the snow drive, and the heavens frown! Little I care!"

While these young people chat themselves into an acquaintanceship, let us

take the liberty of inspecting the sweeter and fairer of the two. She

sat alone, at her graceful ease, in a richly furnished apartment which

was manifestly the private parlor of a refined and sensible lady,

if signs and symbols may go for anything. For instance, by a low,

comfortable chair stood a dainty, top-heavy workstand, whose summit was a

fancifully embroidered shallow basket, with varicolored crewels, and

other strings and odds and ends protruding from under the gaping lid and

hanging down in negligent profusion. On the floor lay bright shreds of

Turkey red, Prussian blue, and kindred fabrics, bits of ribbon, a spool

or two, a pair of scissors, and a roll or so of tinted silken stuffs.

On a luxurious sofa, upholstered with some sort of soft Indian goods

wrought in black and gold threads interwebbed with other threads not so

pronounced in color, lay a great square of coarse white stuff, upon whose

surface a rich bouquet of flowers was growing, under the deft cultivation

of the crochet-needle. The household cat was asleep on this work of art.

In a bay-window stood an easel with an unfinished picture on it, and a

palette and brushes on a chair beside it. There were books everywhere:

Robertson's Sermons, Tennyson, Moody and Sankey, Hawthorne, Rab and His

Friends, cook-books, prayer-books, pattern-books--and books about all

kinds of odious and exasperating pottery, of course. There was a piano,

with a deck-load of music, and more in a tender. There was a great

plenty of pictures on the walls, on the shelves of the mantelpiece, and

around generally; where coigns of vantage offered were statuettes, and

quaint and pretty gimcracks, and rare and costly specimens of peculiarly

devilish china. The bay-window gave upon a garden that was ablaze with

foreign and domestic flowers and flowering shrubs.

But the sweet young girl was the daintiest thing these premises, within

or without, could offer for contemplation: delicately chiseled features,

of Grecian cast; her complexion the pure snow of a japonica that is

receiving a faint reflected enrichment from some scarlet neighbor of the

garden; great, soft blue eyes fringed with long, curving lashes; an

expression made up of the trustfulness of a child and the gentleness of

a fawn; a beautiful head crowned with its own prodigal gold; a lithe and

rounded figure, whose every attitude and movement was instinct with

native grace.

Her dress and adornment were marked by that exquisite harmony that can

come only of a fine natural taste perfected by culture. Her gown was of

a simple magenta tulle, cut bias, traversed by three rows of light-blue

flounces, with the selvage edges turned up with ashes-of-roses chenille;

overdress of dark bay tarlatan with scarlet satin lambrequins; corn-

colored polonaise, en zanier, looped with mother-of-pearl buttons and

silver cord, and hauled aft and made fast by buff velvet lashings; basque

of lavender reps, picked out with valenciennes; low neck, short sleeves;

maroon velvet necktie edged with delicate pink silk; inside handkerchief

of some simple three-ply ingrain fabric of a soft saffron tint; coral

bracelets and locket-chain; coiffure of forget-me-nots and lilies-of-the

-valley massed around a noble calla.

This was all; yet even in this subdued attire she was divinely beautiful.

Then what must she have been when adorned for the festival or the ball?

All this time she had been busily chatting with Alonzo, unconscious of

our inspection. The minutes still sped, and still she talked. But by

and by she happened to look up, and saw the clock. A crimson blush sent

its rich flood through her cheeks, and she exclaimed:

"There, good-by, Mr. Fitz Clarence; I must go now!"

She sprang from her chair with such haste that she hardly heard the young

man's answering good-by. She stood radiant, graceful, beautiful, and

gazed, wondering, upon the accusing clock. Presently her pouting lips

parted, and she said:

"Five minutes after eleven! Nearly two hours, and it did not seem twenty

minutes! Oh, dear, what will he think of me!"

At the self-same moment Alonzo was staring at his clock. And presently

he said:

"Twenty-five minutes to three! Nearly two hours, and I didn't believe it

was two minutes! Is it possible that this clock is humbugging again?

Miss Ethelton! Just one moment, please. Are you there yet?"

"Yes, but be quick; I'm going right away."

"Would you be so kind as to tell me what time it is?"

The girl blushed again, murmured to herself, "It's right down cruel of

him to ask me!" and then spoke up and answered with admirably

counterfeited unconcern, "Five minutes after eleven."

"Oh, thank you! You have to go, now, have you?"

"I'm sorry."

No reply.

"Miss Ethelton!"

"Well?"

"You you're there yet, ain't you?"

"Yes; but please hurry. What did you want to say?"

"Well, I--well, nothing in particular. It's very lonesome here. It's

asking a great deal, I know, but would you mind talking with me again by

and by--that is, if it will not trouble you too much?"

"I don't know but I'll think about it. I'll try."

"Oh, thanks! Miss Ethelton! . . . Ah, me, she's gone, and here are

the black clouds and the whirling snow and the raging winds come again!

But she said good-by. She didn't say good morning, she said good-by!

. . . The clock was right, after all. What a lightning-winged

two hours it was!"

He sat down, and gazed dreamily into his fire for a while, then heaved a

sigh and said:

"How wonderful it is! Two little hours ago I was a free man, and now my

heart's in San Francisco!"

About that time Rosannah Ethelton, propped in the window-seat of her

bedchamber, book in hand, was gazing vacantly out over the rainy seas

that washed the Golden Gate, and whispering to herself, "How different he

is from poor Burley, with his empty head and his single little antic

talent of mimicry!"

II

Four weeks later Mr. Sidney Algernon Burley was entertaining a gay

luncheon company, in a sumptuous drawing-room on Telegraph Hill, with

some capital imitations of the voices and gestures of certain popular

actors and San Franciscan literary people and Bonanza grandees. He was

elegantly upholstered, and was a handsome fellow, barring a trifling cast

in his eye. He seemed very jovial, but nevertheless he kept his eye on

the door with an expectant and uneasy watchfulness. By and by a nobby

lackey appeared, and delivered a message to the mistress, who nodded her

head understandingly. That seemed to settle the thing for Mr. Burley;

his vivacity decreased little by little, and a dejected look began to

creep into one of his eyes and a sinister one into the other.

The rest of the company departed in due time, leaving him with the

mistress, to whom he said:

"There is no longer any question about it. She avoids me. She

continually excuses herself. If I could see her, if I could speak to her

only a moment, but this suspense--"

"Perhaps her seeming avoidance is mere accident, Mr. Burley. Go to the

small drawing-room up-stairs and amuse yourself a moment. I will

despatch a household order that is on my mind, and then I will go to her

room. Without doubt she will be persuaded to see you."

Mr. Burley went up-stairs, intending to go to the small drawing-room, but

as he was passing "Aunt Susan's" private parlor, the door of which stood

slightly ajar, he heard a joyous laugh which he recognized; so without

knock or announcement he stepped confidently in. But before he could

make his presence known he heard words that harrowed up his soul and

chilled his young blood, he heard a voice say:

"Darling, it has come!"

Then he heard Rosannah Ethelton, whose back was toward him, say:

"So has yours, dearest!"

He saw her bowed form bend lower; he heard her kiss something--not merely

once, but again and again! His soul raged within him. The heartbreaking

conversation went on:

"Rosannah, I knew you must be beautiful, but this is dazzling, this is

blinding, this is intoxicating!"

"Alonzo, it is such happiness to hear you say it. I know it is not true,

but I am so grateful to have you think it is, nevertheless! I knew you

must have a noble face, but the grace and majesty of the reality beggar

the poor creation of my fancy."

Burley heard that rattling shower of kisses again.

"Thank you, my Rosannah! The photograph flatters me, but you must not

allow yourself to think of that. Sweetheart?"

"Yes, Alonzo."

"I am so happy, Rosannah."

"Oh, Alonzo, none that have gone before me knew what love was, none that

come after me will ever know what happiness is. I float in a gorgeous

cloud land, a boundless firmament of enchanted and bewildering ecstasy!"

"Oh, my Rosannah! for you are mine, are you not?"

"Wholly, oh, wholly yours, Alonzo, now and forever! All the day long,

and all through my nightly dreams, one song sings itself, and its sweet

burden is, 'Alonzo Fitz Clarence, Alonzo Fitz Clarence, Eastport, state

of Maine!'"

"Curse him, I've got his address, anyway!" roared Burley, inwardly, and

rushed from the place.

Just behind the unconscious Alonzo stood his mother, a picture of

astonishment. She was so muffled from head to heel in furs that nothing

of herself was visible but her eyes and nose. She was a good allegory of

winter, for she was powdered all over with snow.

Behind the unconscious Rosannah stood "Aunt Susan," another picture of

astonishment. She was a good allegory of summer, for she was lightly

clad, and was vigorously cooling the perspiration on her face with a fan.

Both of these women had tears of joy in their eyes.

"Soho!" exclaimed Mrs. Fitz Clarence, "this explains why nobody has been

able to drag you out of your room for six weeks, Alonzo!"

"So ho!" exclaimed Aunt Susan, "this explains why you have been a hermit

for the past six weeks, Rosannah!"

The young couple were on their feet in an instant, abashed, and standing

like detected dealers in stolen goods awaiting judge Lynch's doom.

"Bless you, my son! I am happy in your happiness. Come to your mother's

arms, Alonzo!"

"Bless you, Rosannah, for my dear nephew's sake! Come to my arms!"

Then was there a mingling of hearts and of tears of rejoicing on

Telegraph Hill and in Eastport Square.

Servants were called by the elders, in both places. Unto one was given

the order, "Pile this fire high, with hickory wood, and bring me a

roasting-hot lemonade."

Unto the other was given the order, "Put out this fire, and bring me two

palm-leaf fans and a pitcher of ice-water."

Then the young people were dismissed, and the elders sat down to talk the

sweet surprise over and make the wedding plans.

Some minutes before this Mr. Burley rushed from the mansion on Telegraph

Hill without meeting or taking formal leave of anybody. He hissed

through his teeth, in unconscious imitation of a popular favorite in

melodrama, "Him shall she never wed! I have sworn it! Ere great Nature

shall have doffed her winter's ermine to don the emerald gauds of spring,

she shall be mine!"

III

Two weeks later. Every few hours, during same three or four days, a very

prim and devout-looking Episcopal clergyman, with a cast in his eye, had

visited Alonzo. According to his card, he was the Rev. Melton Hargrave,

of Cincinnati. He said he had retired from the ministry on account of

his health. If he had said on account of ill-health, he would probably

have erred, to judge by his wholesome looks and firm build. He was the

inventor of an improvement in telephones, and hoped to make his bread by

selling the privilege of using it. "At present," he continued, "a man

may go and tap a telegraph wire which is conveying a song or a concert

from one state to another, and he can attach his private telephone and

steal a hearing of that music as it passes along. My invention will stop

all that."

"Well," answered Alonzo, "if the owner of the music could not miss what

was stolen, why should he care?"

"He shouldn't care," said the Reverend.

"Well?" said Alonzo, inquiringly.

"Suppose," replied the Reverend, "suppose that, instead of music that was

passing along and being stolen, the burden of the wire was loving

endearments of the most private and sacred nature?"

Alonzo shuddered from head to heel. "Sir, it is a priceless invention,"

said he; "I must have it at any cost."

But the invention was delayed somewhere on the road from Cincinnati, most

unaccountably. The impatient Alonzo could hardly wait. The thought of

Rosannah's sweet words being shared with him by some ribald thief was

galling to him. The Reverend came frequently and lamented the delay, and

told of measures he had taken to hurry things up. This was some little

comfort to Alonzo.

One forenoon the Reverend ascended the stairs and knocked at Alonzo's

door. There was no response. He entered, glanced eagerly around,

closed the door softly, then ran to the telephone. The exquisitely soft

and remote strains of the "Sweet By-and-by" came floating through the

instrument. The singer was flatting, as usual, the five notes that

follow the first two in the chorus, when the Reverend interrupted her

with this word, in a voice which was an exact imitation of Alonzo's, with

just the faintest flavor of impatience added:

"Sweetheart?"

"Yes, Alonzo?"

"Please don't sing that any more this week--try something modern."

The agile step that goes with a happy heart was heard on the stairs, and

the Reverend, smiling diabolically, sought sudden refuge behind the heavy

folds of the velvet windowcurtains. Alonzo entered and flew to the

telephone. Said he:

"Rosannah, dear, shall we sing something together?"

"Something modern?" asked she, with sarcastic bitterness.

"Yes, if you prefer."

"Sing it yourself, if you like!"

This snappishness amazed and wounded the young man. He said:

"Rosarmah, that was not like you."

"I suppose it becomes me as much as your very polite speech became you,

Mr. Fitz Clarence."

"Mister Fitz Clarence! Rosannah, there was nothing impolite about my

speech."

"Oh, indeed! Of course, then, I misunderstood you, and I most humbly beg

your pardon, ha-ha-ha! No doubt you said, 'Don't sing it any more

to-day.'"

"Sing what any more to-day?"

"The song you mentioned, of course, How very obtuse we are, all of a

sudden!"

"I never mentioned any song."

"Oh, you didn't?"

"No, I didn't!"

"I am compelled to remark that you did."

"And I am obliged to reiterate that I didn't."

"A second rudeness! That is sufficient, sir. I will never forgive you.

All is over between us."

Then came a muffled sound of crying. Alonzo hastened to say:

"Oh, Rosannah, unsay those words! There is some dreadful mystery here,

some hideous mistake. I am utterly earnest and sincere when I say I

never said anything about any song. I would not hurt you for the whole

world . . . . Rosannah, dear speak to me, won't you?"

There was a pause; then Alonzo heard the girl's sobbings retreating, and

knew she had gone from the telephone. He rose with a heavy sigh, and

hastened from the room, saying to himself, "I will ransack the charity

missions and the haunts of the poor for my mother. She will persuade her

that I never meant to wound her."

A minute later the Reverend was crouching over the telephone like a cat

that knoweth the ways of the prey. He had not very many minutes to wait.

A soft, repentant voice, tremulous with tears, said:

"Alonzo, dear, I have been wrong. You could not have said so cruel a

thing. It must have been some one who imitated your voice in malice or

in jest."

The Reverend coldly answered, in Alonzo's tones:

"You have said all was over between us. So let it be. I spurn your

proffered repentance, and despise it!"

Then he departed, radiant with fiendish triumph, to return no more with

his imaginary telephonic invention forever.

Four hours afterward Alonzo arrived with his mother from her favorite

haunts of poverty and vice. They summoned the San Francisco household;

but there was no reply. They waited, and continued to wait, upon the

voiceless telephone.

At length, when it was sunset in San Francisco, and three hours and a

half after dark in Eastport, an answer to the oft-repeated cry of

"Rosannah!"

But, alas, it was Aunt Susan's voice that spake. She said:

"I have been out all day; just got in. I will go and find her."

The watchers waited two minutes--five minutes--ten minutes. Then came

these fatal words, in a frightened tone:

"She is gone, and her baggage with her. To visit another friend, she

told the servants. But I found this note on the table in her room.

Listen: 'I am gone; seek not to trace me out; my heart is broken; you

will never see me more. Tell him I shall always think of him when I sing

my poor "Sweet By-and-by," but never of the unkind words he said about

it.' That is her note. Alonzo, Alonzo, what does it mean? What has

happened?"

But Alonzo sat white and cold as the dead. His mother threw back the

velvet curtains and opened a window. The cold air refreshed the

sufferer, and he told his aunt his dismal story. Meantime his mother was

inspecting a card which had disclosed itself upon the floor when she cast

the curtains back. It read, "Mr. Sidney Algernon Burley, San Francisco."

"The miscreant!" shouted Alonzo, and rushed forth to seek the false

Reverend and destroy him; for the card explained everything, since in the

course of the lovers' mutual confessions they had told each other all

about all the sweethearts they had ever had, and thrown no end of mud at

their failings and foibles for lovers always do that. It has a

fascination that ranks next after billing and cooing.

IV

During the next two months many things happened. It had early transpired

that Rosannah, poor suffering orphan, had neither returned to her

grandmother in Portland, Oregon, nor sent any word to her save a

duplicate of the woeful note she had left in the mansion on Telegraph

Hill. Whosoever was sheltering her--if she was still alive--had been

persuaded not to betray her whereabouts, without doubt; for all efforts

to find trace of her had failed.

Did Alonzo give her up? Not he. He said to himself, "She will sing that

sweet song when she is sad; I shall find her." So he took his carpet-

sack and a portable telephone, and shook the snow of his native city from

his arctics, and went forth into the world. He wandered far and wide and

in many states. Time and again, strangers were astounded to see a

wasted, pale, and woe-worn man laboriously climb a telegraph-pole in

wintry and lonely places, perch sadly there an hour, with his ear at a

little box, then come sighing down, and wander wearily away. Sometimes

they shot at him, as peasants do at aeronauts, thinking him mad and

dangerous. Thus his clothes were much shredded by bullets and his person

grievously lacerated. But he bore it all patiently.

In the beginning of his pilgrimage he used often to say, "Ah, if I could

but hear the 'Sweet By-and-by'!" But toward the end of it he used to

shed tears of anguish and say, "Ah, if I could but hear something else!"

Thus a month and three weeks drifted by, and at last some humane people

seized him and confined him in a private mad-house in New York. He made

no moan, for his strength was all gone, and with it all heart and all

hope. The superintendent, in pity, gave up his own comfortable parlor

and bedchamber to him and nursed him with affectionate devotion.

At the end of a week the patient was able to leave his bed for the first

time. He was lying, comfortably pillowed, on a sofa, listening to the

plaintive Miserere of the bleak March winds and the muffled sound of

tramping feet in the street below for it was about six in the evening,

and New York was going home from work. He had a bright fire and the

added cheer of a couple of student-lamps. So it was warm and snug

within, though bleak and raw without; it was light and bright within,

though outside it was as dark and dreary as if the world had been lit

with Hartford gas. Alonzo smiled feebly to think how his loving vagaries

had made him a maniac in the eyes of the world, and was proceeding to

pursue his line of thought further, when a faint, sweet strain, the very

ghost of sound, so remote and attenuated it seemed, struck upon his ear.

His pulses stood still; he listened with parted lips and bated breath.

The song flowed on--he waiting, listening, rising slowly and unconsciously

from his recumbent position. At last he exclaimed:

"It is! it is she! Oh, the divine hated notes!"

He dragged himself eagerly to the corner whence the sounds proceeded,

tore aside a curtain, and discovered a telephone. He bent over, and as

the last note died away he burst forthwith the exclamation:

"Oh, thank Heaven, found at last! Speak tome, Rosannah, dearest! The

cruel mystery has been unraveled; it was the villain Burley who mimicked

my voice and wounded you with insolent speech!"

There was a breathless pause, a waiting age to Alonzo; then a faint sound

came, framing itself into language:

"Oh, say those precious words again, Alonzo!"

"They are the truth, the veritable truth, my Rosannah, and you shall have

the proof, ample and abundant proof!"

"Oh; Alonzo, stay by me! Leave me not for a moment! Let me feel that

you are near me! Tell me we shall never be parted more! Oh, this happy

hour, this blessed hour, this memorable hour!"

"We will make record of it, my Rosannah; every year, as this dear hour

chimes from the clock, we will celebrate it with thanksgivings, all the

years of our life."

"We will, we will, Alonzo!"

"Four minutes after six, in the evening, my Rosannah, shall henceforth--"

"Twenty-three minutes after twelve, afternoon shall--"

"Why; Rosannah, darling, where are you?"

"In Honolulu, Sandwich Islands. And where are you? Stay by me; do not

leave me for a moment. I cannot bear it. Are you at home?"

"No, dear, I am in New York--a patient in the doctor's hands."

An agonizing shriek came buzzing to Alonzo's ear, like the sharp buzzing

of a hurt gnat; it lost power in traveling five thousand miles. Alonzo

hastened to say:

"Calm yourself, my child. It is nothing. Already I am getting well

under the sweet healing of your presence. Rosannah?"

"Yes, Alonzo? Oh, how you terrified me! Say on."

"Name the happy day, Rosannah!"

There was a little pause. Then a diffident small voice replied,

"I blush--but it is with pleasure, it is with happiness. Would--would

you like to have it soon?"

"This very night, Rosannah! Oh, let us risk no more delays. Let it be

now!--this very night, this very moment!"

"Oh, you impatient creature! I have nobody here but my good old uncle,

a missionary for a generation, and now retired from service--nobody but

him and his wife. I would so dearly like it if your mother and your Aunt

Susan--"

"Our mother and our Aunt Susan, my Rosannah."

"Yes, our mother and our Aunt Susan--I am content to word it so if it

pleases you; I would so like to have them present."

"So would I. Suppose you telegraph Aunt Susan. How long would it take

her to come?"

"The steamer leaves San Francisco day after tomorrow. The passage is

eight days. She would be here the 31st of March."

"Then name the 1st of April; do, Rosannah, dear."

"Mercy, it would make us April fools, Alonzo!"

"So we be the happiest ones that that day's suit looks down upon in the

whole broad expanse of the globe, why need we care? Call it the 1st of

April, dear."

"Then the 1st of April at shall be, with all my heart!"

"Oh, happiness! Name the hour, too, Rosannah."

"I like the morning, it is so blithe. Will eight in the morning do,

Alonzo?"

"The loveliest hour in the day--since it will make you mine."

There was a feeble but frantic sound for some little time, as if

wool-upped, disembodied spirits were exchanging kisses; then Rosannah

said, "Excuse me just a moment, dear; I have an appointment, and am

called to meet it."

The young girl sought a large parlor and took her place at a window which

looked out upon a beautiful scene. To the left one could view the

charming Nuuana Valley, fringed with its ruddy flush of tropical flowers

and its plumed and graceful cocoa palms; its rising foothills clothed in

the shining green of lemon, citron, and orange groves; its storied

precipice beyond, where the first Kamehameha drove his defeated foes over

to their destruction, a spot that had forgotten its grim history, no

doubt, for now it was smiling, as almost always at noonday, under the

glowing arches of a succession of rainbows. In front of the window one

could see the quaint town, and here and there a picturesque group of

dusky natives, enjoying the blistering weather; and far to the right lay

the restless ocean, tossing its white mane in the sunshine.

Rosannah stood there, in her filmy white raiment, fanning her flushed and

heated face, waiting. A Kanaka boy, clothed in a damaged blue necktie

and part of a silk hat, thrust his head in at the door, and announced,

"'Frisco haole!"

"Show him in," said the girl, straightening herself up and assuming a

meaning dignity. Mr. Sidney Algernon Burley entered, clad from head to

heel in dazzling snow--that is to say, in the lightest and whitest of

Irish linen. He moved eagerly forward, but the girl made a gesture and

gave him a look which checked him suddenly. She said, coldly, "I am

here, as I promised. I believed your assertions, I yielded to your

importune lies, and said I would name the day. I name the 1st of April-

-eight in the morning. NOW GO!"

"Oh, my dearest, if the gratitude of a lifetime--"

"Not a word. Spare me all sight of you, all communication with you,

until that hour. No--no supplications; I will have it so."

When he was gone, she sank exhausted in a chair, for the long siege of

troubles she had undergone had wasted her strength. Presently she said,

"What a narrow escape! If the hour appointed had been an hour earlier

--Oh, horror, what an escape I have made! And to think I had come to

imagine I was loving this beguiling, this truthless, this treacherous

monster! Oh, he shall repent his villainy!"

Let us now draw this history to a close, for little more needs to be

told. On the 2d of the ensuing April, the Honolulu Advertiser contained

this notice:

MARRIED.--In this city, by telephone, yesterday morning,--at eight

o'clock, by Rev. Nathan Hays, assisted by Rev. Nathaniel Davis, of

New York, Mr. Alonzo Fitz Clarence, of Eastport, Maine, U. S., and

Miss Rosannah Ethelton, of Portland, Oregon, U. S. Mrs. Susan

Howland, of San Francisco, a friend of the bride, was present, she

being the guest of the Rev. Mr. Hays and wife, uncle and aunt of the

bride. Mr. Sidney Algernon Burley, of San Francisco, was also

present but did not remain till the conclusion of the marriage

service. Captain Hawthorne's beautiful yacht, tastefully decorated,

was in waiting, and the happy bride and her friends immediately

departed on a bridal trip to Lahaina and Haleakala.

The New York papers of the same date contained this notice:

MARRIED.--In this city, yesterday, by telephone, at half-past two in

the morning, by Rev. Nathaniel Davis, assisted by Rev. Nathan Hays,

of Honolulu, Mr. Alonzo Fitz Clarence, of Eastport, Maine, and Miss

Rosannah Ethelton, of Portland, Oregon. The parents and several

friends of the bridegroom were present, and enjoyed a sumptuous

breakfast and much festivity until nearly sunrise, and then departed

on a bridal trip to the Aquarium, the bridegroom's state of health

not admitting of a more extended journey.

Toward the close of that memorable day Mr. and Mrs. Alonzo Fitz Clarence

were buried in sweet converse concerning the pleasures of their several

bridal tours, when suddenly the young wife exclaimed: "Oh, Lonny, I

forgot! I did what I said I would."

"Did you, dear?"

"Indeed, I did. I made him the April fool! And I told him so, too!

Ah, it was a charming surprise! There he stood, sweltering in a black

dress-suit, with the mercury leaking out of the top of the thermometer,

waiting to be married. You should have seen the look he gave when I

whispered it in his ear. Ah, his wickedness cost me many a heartache and

many a tear, but the score was all squared up, then. So the vengeful

feeling went right out of my heart, and I begged him to stay, and said I

forgave him everything. But he wouldn't. He said he would live to be

avenged; said he would make our lives a curse to us. But he can't, can

he, dear?"

"Never in this world, my Rosannah!"

Aunt Susan, the Oregonian grandmother, and the young couple and their

Eastport parents, are all happy at this writing, and likely to remain so.

Aunt Susan brought the bride from the islands, accompanied her across our

continent, and had the happiness of witnessing the rapturous meeting

between an adoring husband and wife who had never seen each other until

that moment.

A word about the wretched Burley, whose wicked machinations came so near

wrecking the hearts and lives of our poor young friends, will be

sufficient. In a murderous attempt to seize a crippled and helpless

artisan who he fancied had done him some small offense, he fell into a

caldron of boiling oil and expired before he could be extinguished.

Do not separate you from illusions. If they disappeared, you will have continued to exist, but have stopped living. Mark Twain