Whereupon the Arkansaw Nightingale whipt from some obscure rear pocket a remarkable handful of written paper, and proceeded to excite me with

"A GREAT FIT.

"There was a man in Arkansaw As let his pa.s.sions rise, And not unfrequently picked out Some other varmint's eyes.

"His name was Tuscaloosa Sam, And often he would say, 'There's not a cuss in Arkansaw I can't whip any day.'

"One morn, a stranger pa.s.sin' by, Heard Sammy talkin' so, When down he scrambled from his hoss, And off his coat did go.

"He sorter kinder shut one eye, And spit into his hand, And put his ugly head one side, And twitched his trowsers' band.

"'My boy,' says he, 'it's my belief, Whomever you may be, That I kin make you screech, and smell Pertikler agony.'

"'I'm thar,' says Tuscaloosa Sam, And chucked his hat away; 'I'm thar,' says he, and b.u.t.toned up As far as b.u.t.tons may.

"He thundered on the stranger's mug, The stranger pounded he; And oh! the way them critters fit Was beautiful to see.

"They clinched like two rampageous bears, And then went down a bit; They swore a stream of six-inch oaths And fit, and fit, and fit.

"When Sam would try to work away, And on his pegs to git, The stranger'd pull him back; and so, They fit, and fit, and fit!

"Then like a pair of lobsters, both Upon the ground were knit, And yet the varmints used their teeth, And fit, and fit, and fit!!

"The sun of noon was high above, And hot enough to split, But only riled the fellers more, That fit, and fit, and fit!!!

"The stranger snapped at Sammy's nose, And shortened it a bit; And then they both swore awful hard, And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!

"The mud it flew, the sky grew dark, And all the litenins lit; But still them critters rolled about, And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!

"First Sam on top, then t'other chap; When one would make a hit, The other'd smell the gra.s.s; and so, They fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!

"The night came on, the stars shone out As bright as wimmen's wit; And still them fellers swore and gouged, And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!

"The neighbors heard the noise they made, And thought an earthquake lit; Yet all the while 'twas him and Sam As fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!

"For miles around the noise was heard; Folks couldn't sleep a bit, Because them two rantankerous chaps Still fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!!

"But jist at c.o.c.k-crow, suddently, There came an awful pause, And I and my old man run out To ascertain the cause.

"The sun was rising in the yeast, And lit the hull concern; But not a sign of either chap Was found at any turn.

"Yet, in the region where they fit, We found, to our surprise, One pint of b.u.t.tons, two big knives, Some whiskers, and four eyes!"

There's dramatic genius for you, my boy, and you will join me in raining a pint or so of tears in memory of one who perished because his mind had nothing to feed upon, and who left his bottle very empty.

Deferring for the present all account of the Mackerel strategy now coming slowly to a head and on foot, let me relate a little incident ill.u.s.trative of the delicious loyalty of the taper women of America, and the intolerable baseness of the repulsive object called man:

There is in this city an intensely common-place masculine from Pequog, who has, for a wife, a small, plump member of that imperishable s.e.x whose eyes remind me of wild cherries and milk. There never was a nicer little woman, my boy, and she can knit scarlet dogs, play "Norma," make charlotte russe, and do other things equally well calculated to confer immeasurable happiness upon a husband of limited means. Ever since the well-known Southern Confederacy first respectfully requested to be let alone with Sumter, she has been eager to fulfil woman's part in the war, and does not wake up the Pequogian more than twice of a night to talk about it.

'Twas at one o'clock on the morning of Tuesday last that she roused up the partner of her joys and sorrows, and says she:

"Peter, I do wish you'd tell me what I can do, as a woman, for my country."

"Go to sleep," says Peter, fiendishly.

"No, but what _can_ I do? Why wont you tell me what is really woman's part in the war?"

"Now, see here," says Peter, sternly. "I'm having so many nights, with the nap all worn off, over this business, that I can't stand it any longer. Just wait till tomorrow evening, and I'll think over the matter and tell you what really _is_ woman's part in the war."

So they both went to sleep, my boy, and all next day that little woman wondered, as she hummed pleasantly over her work, whether her lord would advise her to go out as a Florence Nightingale, or turn teacher of intelligent contrabands.

Night came, and the Pequogian returned from his grocery store, and silently took a seat before the fire in the dining-room. The little woman looked up at him from the ottoman on which she was cosily sitting, and says she:

"Well, dear?"

Slowly and solemnly did that Pequog husband draw off one boot.

Deliberately did he take off a stocking and hold it aloft.

"Martha Jane!" says he, gravely, "'tis a sock your eyes behold, and there is a hole in the heel thereof. You are a wife; duty calls you to mend your husband's stockings; and _this_--THIS--is Woman's Part in the Wore!"

Let us draw a veil, my boy, over the heart-rending scene that followed; only hinting that hartshorn and burnt feathers are believed to be useful on such occasions, and produce an odor at once wholesome and exasperating.

Yours, sympathetically,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

LETTER CVI.

WHEREIN WILL BE FOUND CERTAIN PROFOUND REMARKS UPON THE VARIATIONS OF GOLD, ETC., AND A WHOLESOME LITTLE TALE ILl.u.s.tRATIVE OF THAT FAMOUS POPULAR ABSTRACTION, THE SOUTHERN TREASURY NOTE.

WASHINGTON, D.C., March 22, 1865.

The venerable Aaron, my boy, was the first gold speculator mentioned in history, and it exhausted all the statesmanship of Moses to break up the unseemly speculation, and bring Hebrew dry goods and provisions down to decent prices. Were Aaron alive now, how he would mourn to find his auriferous calf going down at the rate of ten per cent. a day, while the Moses of the White House reduced that animal more and more to the standard of very common mutton!

Alas, my boy, what madness is this which causes men to forget honor, country, ay, even dinner itself, for ungrateful gold! Like all writers whose object is the moral improvement of their kind, I have a wholesome contempt of gold. What is it? A vulgar-looking yellow metal, with a disagreeable smell. It is filthy lucre. It is dross. It is also 156.

Not many months ago I knew a high-toned chap of much neck and chin, who made five hundred thousand dollars by supplying our national troops with canned peaches, and was so inflated with his good luck in the cholera-morbus line, that he actually began to think that his canned peaches had something to do with the successes in the field of our excellent military organization. Being thus elevated, this finely-imaginative chap believed that his services deserved the mission to France; and, as that was refused him, it was but natural for him to become at once a Southern Confederacy in sentiment, and p.r.o.nounce our Honest Abe a tyrant of defective education.

Just before the last election, I met him at the Baltimore railroad depot, and says he: "I have just invested a cool five hundred thousand in gold. It is positively sure," says he, glibly, "it is positively sure that the reelection of our present despot will send gold straight up to five hundred. I tell you," says he, in a wild ecstasy, "it'll ruin the country, and I shall clear a half million."

He was a Jerseyman of fine feelings, and took a little hard cider for his often infirmity.

Yesterday I saw that man again, my boy, and I gave him a five-cent note in consideration of his great ability in sweeping a street-crossing. He deserted his canned peaches, and was cr-r-rushed.

But what is this ma.n.u.script upon my table, as I write? It is a veracious and wholesome little tale of