THE LOAFER IN THE STREET.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2232, 23 April 1881, Page 3

THE LOAFER IN THE STREET.

The reaper and binder, both wire and string, is a topic I have handled from its first introduction with much perspicuity. It is not my purpose to do any further descriptive writing in the subject just now, but only to tell yon of a little conversation I overheard in the train the other day between two honest old farmers. They were comparing notes as to the merits of their respective machines, and one of them complained that his was always getting out of order. "It's jest a question," he said, " whether the men ain't the best after all." " Nothing of the kind," said the other. " There's one thing about a reaper and binder. If anything goes wtfong with her she can't answer back ■when'.you swear at her." "True," replied the other, and they lapsed into a thoughtful silence. He was a gallant old gentleman, familiar with India's coral Btrand, and on the occasion under notice he was sitting in the magisterial chair with two confreres resident in the neighbourhood to support him. In one of the oases an old gent was called to give evidence. It was his inaugural visit to the witness-box, and he felt most unconfident. He twiddled his hat in his shy fingers, and moved his poor feet over the stand for witnesses like an amateur on the stage. He answered two or three questions in a vacillating, feeble sort of style, when to him thundered the presiding genius of the Bench, " You'ro drunk, sir. I consider you're insulting this Court by appearing before us in such a state of horrible intoxication. This case will bo remanded till to-morrow. Meantime, the witness will remain in custody. Constable you may remove him." He was removed ; but the constable, who was under the impression there must be some mistake, produced the old gent again after the conclusion of the last case. He was sternly rebuked by the chair for his presumption for again bringing forward J the party, who was supposed to be occupying, at that moment, the lowest dungeon of the donjon keep. The constable represented that he had done so because he felt certain the aged witness was ai sober as anyone in that Court. " How dare you say, sir," was the reply, " that the man is sober when I say he's drunk." "If you please,your Worship," said the constable, "I took him out just now and made him stand on his left leg for five minutes, and if a drunk of any sort could do that, your Worship, a long experience goes for nothing. I take my stand, your Worship, on the prisoner's one-legged balance." Tableaux.

I did not, muoh to my regret, have the opportunity of visiting the Ashburton Industrial Exhibition. A friend of mine did, though. He tells the following little story:— He was passing through the part of the Exhibition dedicated to the fine arts, when he beheld Tibbies, a good soul, but not great on the understanding. Tibbins was alternately glancing at a portrait on the wall and his catalogue. "Look he," he said '-how do you make out this ? That is Mr F r, a well-known citizen of Ohristohuroh, and the picture, as sure as you'ro there, was painted by Cambridge." "Well," said my friend, "what of it?" "Why, they've got him here," was the reply, "as a 'Neapolitan Boy.' That's what they call him in the catalogue." Bjornson (says an English contemporary), the famous Norwegian poet, who is now on his first visit to America, is, it is reported, about to marry Mrs Ole Bull, widow of the famous violinist. Mrs Bull is a daughter of Mr Thorn, a wealthy lumberman of Madison. I havo never had the pleasure of reading acy of Mr Bjornsen's little efforts, Norwegian works are so hard to get in this country, so, of oourse, I can g;ve no opinion on the merits of his poems, but the above paragraph, I must say, considering the parties concerned, is most unromantio. The Tennyson of Norway is about to marry Mrs Ole Bull (old cow would be more oorreot). X suppose the poet and O. O. know beßt, and so " Gammle Norje." I speak the bless yon, like English. _ I dare say most members of tie Acclimatisation Society, and many others of your sporting readers too, may remembe-7 the first appointment of the rangers here. There wcro some very funny men and I could tell some very funny stories about the manner in whioh some of them looked after the welfare of the game. I must give you one which, for various reasons, I've kept bottled for several years ; but, as to the best of my belief, the duties of the rangers are not so onerous as they were at first, I think it's time I told what I consider a really good story. A and B were rangers, neighbors and friends. A was a most enthusiastic official. He was always looking up the pheasants, and as there were a few rabbits on his property, he sometimes took his shooting iron with him, and by bowling over a furry coney, combined business with duty. One frosty morning he was going his rounds, when in a oorner of his plantation he came on a battle royal between two cock pheasants. He watched the fight for some minutes, when he oould not stand it any longer. He fired from his ambush, and laid the two combatants dead on the ground. At this moment B, who was also ranging, put his head out through a gap in the opposite gorse hedge to see who was the guilty man. A spotted him, and, unseen himself, like the Arabs, silently stole away. B lay perdu, watching for some time, and then, of course, you would say, tried to track the scandalous poacher. He did nothing of the sort. Ho came stealthily from behind the hedge, picked up the two birds, took them to his cara tposa, and, under promises of the most solemn secrecy on both sides, they ate them up in the privacy of their happy fireside. Even unto this day there is a ooyDess on the subject of acclimatisation between these two, who are still the best of friends. " They look their seoret in their breast, One scoffed the pheasants unconfessed." It is curious how history repeats itself. I was never more reminded of this than a few days ago, when I heard a little story of two gentlemen who drove out on the Sabbath to pay a call. Turning a corner mosaicked with those rocks which are so popular in this part of the world, the mare they were driving stumbled and fell, breaking the shaft and depositing the pilgrims in the road. Neither being hurt, one followed the Hansom driver's advice in " PuDch," " Don't it him sit on his 'ed," while the other endeavored to clear the harness from the prostrate steed. This, with new harness and stiff buokles was not so easy, and, like Sister Annie in "Blue Beard," they looked anxiously to see if " anybody were coming." There was somebody. It was a reverend gentleman on horseback, whose action can best be described by the aotion of a priest in a very old story "And by chance there came a certain priest that way ; and when he saw them, he passed by on the other side." That's what the certain priest did. Perhaps ho intended no harm. Perhaps he forgot that statement about the pulling of the animal out of the pit on the Sabbath day, but anyhow he played his part to perfection. It is satisfactory that the other leading character in the parable, the good Samaritan, turned up, and as in the old story, he had compassion on them and went to them, and helped them out of their trouble.

Another old story, which, like one mentioned above, comes to my mind. In the pauoity of matter this week, and as I know the participes criminis have long gone from here, I must whip it in this week. A gentleman residing in the heart of the metropolis has a very good garden. It ie adjaoent to the premises of one of our leading journals. The year in which the occurrence 1 speak of took place was very favorable for fruit. The trees in this garden bowjd their boughs under the weight of fruit. As it ripened the trees were thinnod. The fruit, like the winter enow, began to fade from sight. The owner blamed the boys of the paper office. The boys denied the chargo. One beautiful summer morning, the owner awakened about 4 a.m., and having to arise at an early hour, opened the window and looked upon the roseate morn. He saw, alas, two stalwart guardians of the peace going into the fruit like old boots, if I may be allowed the expression, and he booame from that day a sadder and, perhaps, a wiser man. This circumstance, I repeat, was years ago, and I trust that the present guardians will not think I am suggesting that suoh things occur now. I trust I know myself better than think, let alone write such a thing.

Mr Walter Rye is said to have made an important discovery at the Reoord Office whioh definitely settles the vexed question of " who was Chaucer's grandfather ?" He is about to publish the conclusions at which he has arrived. The above is from the " Queen." It is a good idea of Walter's. I only hope he will shove the inquiry a bit further, and find out who was Chaucer's grandmother. I'm just panting to know all about that woman.