Says he, 'Mr. Slick, there are some folks who think a good deal and say but little, and they are wise folks; and there are others agin, who blart right out whatever comes uppermost, and I guess they are pretty considerable superfine darned fools.'

"And with that he turned right round, and sat down to his map and never said another word, lookin' as mad as a hatter the whole blessed time."

No. IX

Yankee Eating and Horse Feeding.

"Did you ever hear tell of Abernethy, a British doctor?" said the Clockmaker.

"Frequently," said I; "he was an eminent man, and had a most extensive practice."

"Well, I reckon he was a vulgar critter that," he replied, "he treated the hon'ble Alden Gobble, secretary to our legation at London, dreadful bad once; and I guess if it had been me he had used that way, I'd a fixed his flint for him, so that he'd think twice afore he'd fire such another shot as that 'ere agin. I'd a made him make tracks, I guess, as quick as a dog does a hog from a potato field. He'd a found his way out of the hole in the fence a plaguy sight quicker than he came in, I reckon."

"His manner," said I, "was certainly rather unceremonious at times, but he was so honest and so straightforward, that no person was, I believe, ever seriously offended at him. IT WAS HIS WAY."

"Then his way was so plaguy rough," continued the Clockmaker, "that he'd been the better, if it had been hammered and mauled down smoother. I'd a levelled him as flat as a flounder."

"Pray what was his offence?" said I.

"Bad enough you may depend. The hon'ble Alden Gobble was dyspeptic, and he suffered great on easiness arter eatin', so he gees to Abemethy for advice. 'What's the matter with you?' said the Doctor--jist that way, without even pa.s.sing the time o' day with him--'what's the matter with you?' said he. 'Why,' says Alden, 'I presume I have the Dyspepsy.' 'Ah!' said he, 'I see; a Yankee swallowed more dollars and cents than he can digest.' 'I am an American citizen,' says Alden, with great dignity; 'I am Secretary to our Legation at the Court of St. James.' 'The devil you are,' said Abernethy; "then you'll soon get rid of your dyspepsy.' 'I don't see that 'ere inference,' said Alden, 'it don't follow from what you predicate at all; it ain't a natural consequence, I guess, that a man should cease to be ill because he is called by the voice of a free and enlightened people to fill an important office.' (The truth is, you could no more trap Alden than you could an Indian. He could see other folks' trail, and made none himself; he was a real diplomatist, and I believe our diplomatists are allowed to be the best in the world.) 'But I tell you it does follow,' said the Doctor; 'for in the company you'll have to keep, you'll have to eat like a Christian.'

"It was an everlasting pity Alden contradicted him, for he broke out like one ravin' distracted mad. 'I'll be d.a.m.ned,' said he, 'if ever I saw a Yankee that didn't bolt his food whole like a boa constrictor.

How the devil can you expect to digest food, that you neither take the trouble to dissect, nor time to masticate? It's no wonder you lose your teeth, for you never use them; nor your digestion, for you overload it; nor your saliva, for you expend it on the carpets, instead of your food. It's disgusting, it's beastly. You Yankees load your stomachs as a Devonshire man does his cart, as full as it can hold, and as fast as he can pitch it with a dung-fork, and drive off; and then you complain that such a load of compost is too heavy for you. Dyspepsy, eh! infernal guzzling, you mean. I'll tell you what, Mr. Secretary of Legation, take half the time to eat that you do to drawl out your words, chew your food half as much as you do your filthy tobacco, and you'll be well in a month.'

"'I don't understand such language,' said Alden. (For he was fairly riled, and got his dander up, and when he shows clear grit, he looks wicked ugly, I tell you.) 'I don't understand such language, sir; I came here to consult you professionally, and not to be--' 'Don't understand!' said the Doctor, 'why it's plain English; but here, read my book!' and he shoved a book into his hands and left him in an instant, standing alone in the middle of the room.

"If the hon'ble Alden Gobble had gone right away and demanded his pa.s.sport, and returned home with the Legation, in one of our first cla.s.s frigates (I guess the English would as soon see p'ison as one o' them 'ere Serpents), to Washington, the President and the people would have sustained him in it, I guess, until an apology was offered for the insult to the nation. I guess if it had been me," said Mr.

Slick, "I'd a headed him afore he slipped out o' the door, and pinned him up agin the wall, and made him bolt his words again, as quick as he throw'd 'em up, for I never seed an Englishman that didn't cut his words as short as he does his horse's tail, close up to the stump."

"It certainly was very coa.r.s.e and vulgar language, and I think," said I, "that your Secretary had just cause to be offended at such an ungentlemanlike attack, although he showed his good sense in treating it with the contempt it deserved."

"It was plaguy lucky for the doctor, I tell you, that he cut his stick as he did, and made himself scarce, for Alden was an ugly customer; he'd a gi'n him a proper scalding; he'd a taken the bristles off his hide, as clean as the skin of a spring shote of a pig killed at Christmas."

The Clockmaker was evidently excited by his own story, and to indemnify himself for these remarks on his countrymen, he indulged for some time in ridiculing the Nova Scotians.

"Do you see that 'ere flock of colts," said he, as we pa.s.sed one of those beautiful prairies that render the valleys of Nova Scotia so verdant and so fertile. "Well, I guess they keep too much of that 'ere stock. I heerd an Indian one day ax a tavern-keeper for some rum. 'Why, Joe Spawdeeck,' said he, 'I reckon you have got too much already.' 'Too much of anything,' said Joe, 'is not good; but too much rum is jist enough.' I guess these Bluenoses think so about their horses; they are fairly eat up by them, out of house and home, and they are no good neither. They bean't good saddle horses, and they bean't good draft beasts; they are jist neither one thing nor t'other. They are like the drink of our Connecticut folks. At mowing time they use mola.s.ses and water--nasty stuff, only fit to catch flies; it spiles good water and makes bad beer. No wonder the folks are poor. Look at them 'ere great d.y.k.es; well, they all go to feed horses; and look at their grain fields on the upland; well, they are all sowed with oats to feed horses, and they buy their bread from us: so we feed the a.s.ses, and they feed the horses. If I had them critters on that 'ere marsh, on a location of mine, I'd jist take my rifle and shoot every one on 'em--the nasty yo-necked, cat-hammed, heavy-headed, flat-eared, crooked-shanked, long-legged, narrow-chested, good-for-nothin' brutes; they ain't worth their keep one winter. I vow, I wish one of these Bluenoses, with his go-to-meetin' clothes on, coat-tails pinned up behind like a leather blind of a Shay, an old spur on one heel, and a pipe stuck through his hat-band, mounted on one of these limber-timbered critters, that moves its hind legs like a hen scratchin' gravel, was sot down in Broadway, in New York, for a sight. Lord! I think I hear the West Point cadets a-larfin' at him. 'Who brought that 'ere scare-crow out of standin' corn and stuck him here?' 'I guess that 'ere citizen came from away down east out of the Notch of the White Mountains.' 'Here comes the Cholera doctor, from Canada--not from Canada, I guess, neither, for he don't look as if he had ever been among the rapids.'

If they wouldn't poke fun at him it's a pity.

"If they'd keep less horses, and more sheep, they'd have food and clothing, too, instead of buyin' both. I vow I've larfed afore now till I have fairly wet myself a-cryin', to see one of these folks catch a horse: may be he has to go two or three miles of an arrand.

Well, down he goes on the d.y.k.e with a bridle in one hand, and an old tin pan in another, full of oats, to catch his beast. First he goes to one flock of horses, and then to another, to see if he can find his own critter. At last he gets sight on him, and goes softly up to him, shakin' of his oats, and a-coaxin' him, and jist as he goes to put his hand upon him, away he starts all head and tail, and the rest with him: that starts another flock, and they set a third off, and at last every troop on 'em goes, as if Old Nick was arter them, till they amount to two or three hundred in a drove. Well, he chases them clear across the Tantramer marsh, seven miles good, over ditches, creeks, mire holes, and flag ponds, and then they turn and take a fair chase for it back again, seven miles more. By this time, I presume, they are all pretty considerably well tired, and Bluenose, he goes and gets up all the men folks in the neighbourhood, and catches his beast, as they do a moose arter he is fairly run down; so he runs fourteen miles, to ride two, because he is in a tarnation hurry. It's e'enamost equal to eatin' soup with a fork, when you are short of time. It puts me in mind of catching birds by sprinklin'

salt on their tails; it's only one horse a man can ride out of half a dozen, arter all. One has no shoes, t'other has a colt, one ain't broke, another has a sore back, while a fifth is so etarnal cunnin', all c.u.mberland couldn't catch him, till winter drives him up to the barn for food.

"Most of them 'ere d.y.k.e marshes have what they call 'honey pots' in 'em; that is a deep hole all full of squash, where you can't find no bottom. Well, every now and then, when a feller goes to look for his horse, he sees his tail a-stickin' right out an eend, from one of these honey pots, and wavin' like a head of broom corn; and sometimes you see two or three trapped there, e'enamost smothered, everlastin'

tired, half swimmin' half wadin', like rats in a mola.s.ses cask. When they find 'em in that 'ere pickle, they go and get ropes, and tie 'em tight round their necks, and half hang 'em to make 'em float, and then haul 'em out. Awful lookin' critters they be, you may depend, when they do come out; for all the world like half-drowned kittens--all slinkey slimey, with their great long tails glued up like a swab of oak.u.m dipped in tar. If they don't look foolish it's a pity! Well, they have to nurse these critters all winter, with hot mashes, warm covering, and what not, and when spring comes, they mostly die, and if they don't they are never no good arter. I wish with all my heart half the horses in the country were barrelled up in these here 'honey pots,' and then there'd be near about one half too many left for profit. Jist look at one of these barn yards in the spring--half a dozen half-starved colts, with their hair lookin' a thousand ways for Sunday, and their coats hangin' in tatters, and half a dozen good-for-nothin' old horses, a-crowdin' out the cows and sheep.

"Can you wonder that people who keep such an unprofitable stock, come out of the small eend of the horn in the long run?"

No. X

The Road to a Woman's Heart--The Broken Heart.

As we approached the inn at Amherst, the Clockmaker grew uneasy.

"It's pretty well on in the evening, I guess," said he, "and Marm Pugwash is as onsartain in her temper as a mornin' in April; it's all sunshine or all clouds with her, and if she's in one of her tantrums, she'll stretch out her neck and hiss, like a goose with a flock of goslins. I wonder what on airth Pugwash was a-thinkin' on, when he signed articles of partnership with that 'ere woman; she's not a bad-lookin' piece of furniture neither, and it's a proper pity sich a clever woman should carry such a stiff upper lip--she reminds me of our old minister Joshua Hopewell's apple trees.

"The old minister had an orchard of most particular good fruit, for he was a great hand at buddin', graftin', and what not, and the orchard (it was on the south side of the house) stretched right up to the road. Well, there were some trees hung over the fence, I never seed such bearers, the apples hung in ropes, for all the world like strings of onions, and the fruit was beautiful. n.o.body touched the minister's apples, and when other folks lost their'n from the boys, his'n always hung there like bait to a hook, but there never was so much as a nibble at 'em. So I said to him one day, 'Minister,' said I, 'how on airth do you manage to keep your fruit that's so exposed, when no one else can do it no how?' 'Why,' says he, 'they are dreadful pretty fruit, ain't they?' 'I guess,' said I, 'there ain't the like on 'em in all Connecticut.' 'Well,' says he, 'I'll tell you the secret, but you needn't let on to no one about it. That 'ere row next the fence, I grafted it myself, I took great pains to get the right kind, I sent clean up to Roxberry, and away down to Squaw-neck Creek for ---.' 'I know that, Minister,' said I (for I was afeared he was a-goin' to give me day and date for every graft, being a terrible long-winded man in his stories), 'I know that,' said I, 'but how do you preserve them?' 'Why, I was a-goin' to tell you,'

said he, 'when you stopped me. That 'ere outward row I grafted myself with the choicest kind I could find, and I succeeded. They are beautiful, but so etarnal sour, no human soul can eat them. Well, the boys think the old minister's graftin' has all succeeded about as well as that row, and they sarch no farther. They snicker at my graftin', and I laugh in my sleeve, I guess, at their penetration.'

"Now, Marm Pugwash is like the minister's apples--very temptin' fruit to look at, but desperate sour. If Pugwash had a watery mouth when he married, I guess it's pretty puckery by this time. However, if she goes to act ugly, I'll give her a dose of 'soft sawder,' that will take the frown out of her frontispiece, and make her dial-plate as smooth as a lick of copal varnish. It's a pity she's such a kickin'

devil, too, for she has good points: good eye--good foot--neat pastern--fine chest--a clean set of limbs, and carries a good ---.

But here we are; now you'll see what 'soft sawder' will do."

When we entered the house, the traveller's room was all in darkness, and on opening the opposite door into the sitting-room, we found the female part of the family extinguishing the fire for the night. Mrs.

Pugwash had a broom in her hand, and was in the act (the last act of female housewifery) of sweeping the hearth. The strong flickering light of the fire, as it fell upon her tall fine figure and beautiful face, revealed a creature worthy of the Clockmaker's comments.

"Good evening, Marm," said Mr. Slick, "how do you do, and how's Mr.

Pugwash?"

"He," said she, "why he's been abed this hour, you don't expect to disturb him this time of night I hope?"

"Oh no," said Mr. Stick, "certainly not, and I am sorry to have disturbed you, but we got detained longer than we expected; I am sorry that--"

"So am I," said she, "but if Mr. Pugwash will keep an inn when he has no occasion to, his family can't expect no rest."

Here the Clockmaker, seeing the storm gathering, stooped down suddenly, and staring intently, held out his hand and exclaimed, "Well if that ain't a beautiful child! Come here, my little man and shake hands along with me; well, I declare if that 'ere little feller ain't the finest child I ever seed! What, not abed yet? Ah, you rogue, where did you get them 'ere pretty rosy cheeks; stole 'em from mamma, eh? Well, I wish my old mother could see that child, it is such a treat. In our country," said he, turning to me, "the children are all as pale as chalk, or as yeller as an orange. Lord, that 'ere little feller would be a show in our country--come to me my man." Here the "soft sawder" began to operate. Mrs. Pugwash said in a milder tone than we had yet heard, "Go, my dear to the gentleman; go, dear." Mr. Slick kissed him, asked him if he would go to the States along with him, told him all the little girls there would fall in love with him, for they didn't see such a beautiful face once in a month of Sundays. "Black eyes--let me see--ah mamma's eyes too, and black hair also; as I am alive, why you are mamma's own boy--the very image of mamma."

"Do be seated, gentlemen," said Mrs. Pugwash. "Sally make a fire in the next room."

"She ought to be proud of you," he continued. "Well, if I live to return here, I must paint your face, and have it put on my clocks, and our folks will buy the clocks for the sake of the face. Did you ever see," said he, again addressing me, "such a likeness between one human and another, as between this beautiful little boy and his mother?"

"I am sure you have had no supper," said Mrs. Pugwash to me; "you must be hungry and weary, too--I will get you a cup of tea."

"I am sorry to give you so much trouble," said I.

"Not the least trouble in the world," she replied, "on the contrary a pleasure."

We were then shown into the next room, where the fire was now blazing up, but Mr. Slick protested he could not proceed without the little boy, and lingered behind me to ascertain his age, and concluded by asking the child if he had any aunts that looked like mamma.

As the door closed, Mr. Slick said, "It's a pity she don't go well in gear. The difficulty with those critters is to get them to start, arter that there is no trouble with them if you don't check 'em too short. If you do, they'll stop again, run back and kick like mad, and then Old Nick himself wouldn't start 'em. Pugwash, I guess, don't understand the natur' of the critter; she'll never go kind in harness for him. When I see a child," said the Clockmaker, "I always feel safe with these women folk; for I have always found that the road to a woman's heart lies through her child."

"You seem," said I, "to understand the female heart so well, I make no doubt you are a general favourite among the fair s.e.x."

"Any man," he replied, "that understands horses, has a pretty considerable fair knowledge of women too, for they are jist alike in temper, and require the very identical same treatment. Encourage the timid ones, be gentle and steady with the fractious, but lather the sulky ones like blazes.