Sketcher.

Poverty Bay Standard, Volume X, Issue 1115, 5 August 1882, Page 6 (Supplement)

Sketcher.

NOT EXACTLY AS WE HAD INTENDED. We all disliked him (I refer to that dreadful Small Measure, his first name really being “ Sam,” but changed by us, with one consent, as soop as we beheld him, to “ Small,” as much more appropriate) heartily enough before; but after he had the presumption to fall, or pretend he had fallen, in love with Mildred Dainty, our landlady’s pretty daughter, we absolutely detested him. We had been a community of young artists and scribblers, barring the old gentleman in the third story front, who was a wholesale grocer, and the maiden lady of uncertain age in the fourth story back, who was a milliner—both of them as goodnatured souls as ever lived —without a discordant spirit previous to his arrival. But ever since that October afternoon he first made his appearance at the front door, arrayed in a drab suit and a felt hat of the same melancholy color, with a brown satchel in one hand and a black silk umbrella in the other, and inquired, in the meekest and thinnest of voices, if he “ could obtain board there,” and had obtained board there, our landlandy being much impressed by his very respectful manner and the mournful tone in which he referred to his mother as “ an angel in heaven,” he had persistently pushed his way into our circle, eating our oysters, drinking our beer, smoking our tobacco and cigars, never reciprocating in the slightest degree, and, in short, as Tom Toms expressed it, “ becoming a reg’lar nuisance.” We managed to endure him, however, with many sarcastic remarks and broad—extremely broad—hints about interlopers, all of which rebounded lightly from our target, he belonging to that too numerous class the iron-clads, until, as I said before, he tried to make love to Mildred Dainty. Then, indeed, the already half-awakened lion, or, more properly speaking, lions, were aroused, and ready to tear him limb from limb. We, the artistic and literary fellows, had known her since she was thirteen years of age, and almost all of,us had, been wildly in love with her before she saw her eighteenth birthday; but on that auspicious (particularly for him) day she was betrothed to Charley Seabright. And we were all sincerely glad—that is, as sincerely glad as rejected suitors could lw—that Charley had won the prize, for he was a splendid fellow, handsome, talented, generous, and—what some handsome, generous, and talented fellows are not—honorable. Mrs. Dainty was a queer, shy woman, with a Roman nose that suggested the nose of Michael Angelo, looking as though (as was really the case with Mike’s) somebody at an early period of life had depressed the bridge of it; a pair of mild blue apologetic eyes; hair—Which she arranged in many fiat puffs from the nape of her neck to her brow, causing her head to resemble a phrenological chart of a subdued brown ; and a pretty little mouth.

The daughter was totally unlike her, except as to mouth, having large merry gray eyes, golden brown hair (which, then unbound, fell to her very feet), a delicate straight nose, rosy cheeks, and a smile like—like—well, George Lee wrote of it once, “ A smile like the flash of the humming-bird's wing As it hovers over the lilies.” And as Charley was dark, with great black eyes and hair, and mustache to match, they formed £an admirable contrast. And somebody says, very justly, according to my way of thinking, “In joining contrasts lieth Love’s delights.” Small Measure, the detested one, had oblique eyes of no particular color (George Lee spoke of them, or of, in the poetical style, one of them, as “ a squinting eye to match a squinting mind”), light red hair, nose and chin sharp as a razor, and a great waste of material in the way of hands and feet. However, he was so quiet, and spoke so tenderly of his departed maternal parent, and was so very deferential to Mrs. Dainty, that that dear good-hearted woman was quite taken with him, and used to, for a long while after he came among us, try to ward off our wordy attacks by some pleasant remarks, and adroitly substitute nice slices of meat from her own plate for the lumps of fat Neil Johnson, who carved, placed upon his, and give him extra large pieces of pie and cake in the fsuit season to indemnify him for the apples, oranges, etc., that Perce Winter and I—we sat at either side of him at table—invariably contrived to confiscate. But after he had been there about five months, we noticed that even Mrs. Dainty began to treat him coolly; and when he took to following Milliec about, and praying for her, dear little innocent girl, in a shrill voice at midnight, much to the annoyance of the boarders on his floor, knowing all the time that she was engaged to Charlie Seabright, she became downright angry, and Jet the lumps of fat pass her unmolested, and gave him barely his share of cake and pie—not a jot more.

Besides this, she confided to Charley, who confided to us, that Small Measure hadn’t paid a cent of board for nearly two months, and that he gave as an explanation that the old gentlemen in whose employ he was was very ill, and accounts could not be squared until he got well again. None of us believed in this old gentleman, whose bookeeper went to business after lunch and returned home an hour before dinner; and Tom Toms, who, disguised as a broom-seller, took the trouble to follow him on two occasions, reported that unless the book-keeping was done in a billiard saloon or the Metropolitan Art Museum, none was done on those two occasions.

Well, after our landlady’s tacit agreement to our proceedings, we did everything to oust the unwelcome guest; but he seemed resolved, as Pauline says in The Lady of Lyons, referring to her own sex, that his “ wings once scorched-,” he’d cling and cling forever. Mrs. Dainty summoned up courage and dunned him sternly. He met her glance with tearful eyes, spoke of his once happy home and its lost guiding spirit, told her a long story about his sick employer, whom he could not forsake in the hour of adversity, because of his kindness, in years long gone, to that dear guiding spirit, and assured her she should be paid the moment he himself was paid. And so another month went by, during which we were painfully conscious that he was quietly sneering at and exulting over our unsuccessful efforts to get rid of him, thereby nearly goading us to madness—or Selby Hardwick, who wrote sensational stories for the sensational papers, said he was. But at last our chance came. Small measure informed Mrs. Dainty, as he was' departing— to book keeping—one spring day, that he should not be back until late that night. We instantly resolved to lock him out, and keep him out. Nothing could have happened better. It was April 1; we’d make a night of it, and a fool of him. Charley Seabright, the only one who always refused to join in any plot against him—“ Hang it!” he said, “ I don’t want that fellow to think I’m jealous of him”—was away, gone to Boston, and not expected back for three days. Mildred was delighted. “ Don’t ever let him in again,” she begged. “Only this morning he picked up a button that had burst off my shoe, and kissed it,. and put it in his vest pecket. I hate him!—l hate him! And how dare he kiss one*of my shoe buttons?” So we made a bowl of punch, and carried it and our pipes into Kirk Bowe’s room—-

second story front—where we sang, played the violin and guitar, told stories, repeated verses, and discussed art and literature, until ten o’clock, at which hour the rain began to pour down like a second deluge. Merrier and merrier grew our party, and the noise was at its highest, when Perce Winter, who had been listening at the window, struck an attitude and shouted, “ ’Tis he 1” and becoming comparatively silent, we heard him fumbling at the lock with his night-key for a few moments, and then ringing the door-bell, gently at first, but gradually louder and louder. This ringing was immediately drowned by a jolly bacchanalian chorus, kept up without intermission for a quarter of an hour. At the end of this time he had begun to bang upon the door, and the banging was something fearful to hear, and Mrs. Dainty and the maiden lady, in light and airy costumes, were entreating us to stop it from the upper landing. “ Oh, look here, this can’t be stood, you know,” said Tom Toms. “ I propose that we go down in a body, open the door suddenly, fall upon him like a thunderbolt, and drive him*off the stoop. Anti then, if he comes back again, I sec nothing for it but a thrashing.”

I seconded the motion. It was carried unanimously. Like a band of Indians on the trail of an enemy, we stealthily descended the stairs. I quietly unbarred the door, took the key from my pocket, and unlocked it, the storm raging so fiercely outside meanwhile that what little noise I made could not be heard there, and then, as the door flew open, with a wild whoop we precipitated ourselves upon the unfortunate banger, forcing him down the steps and into the gutter before he could say “ Jack Robinson.” He struggled out and clasped a lamp-post that stood near, and as he did so the light from the lamp fell on his face, and a wellknown voice fell on our ears : “ For Heaven’s sake, boy’s, what do you mean ?” It wasn’t Small Measure—it was Charley Seabright! Charley, our best comrade—our own jolly, generous, splendid, old Charley! We dragged him up the steps in still shorter time than we had driven him down, and into the hall, where we had his rain-soaked overcoat off in a instant,* and were about to carry him up stairs with a wild confusion of tongues —“ Why didn’t you send word you were coming, old man ?” “By Jove! it’s too bad.” “ You’re the last person of whom we were thinking”—when Perce Winter exclaimed, “ But where, oh, where is that wretch Small Measure?”

“ I’m here,” answered a soft hypocritical voice over the balusters, “ very comfortable, thank you, and I’ve quite enjoyed the entertainment you gents have been givin’. I came right away after goin’ out this afternoon, because secin’ a little boy passin’ with a piece of paper pinned to his back, I suddenly remembered that it was April-Fools’ Day, and I was afraid somebody might make a fool of me. And I think it’s distressin’ to be made a fool of, particularly an April-fool. Good-night, and pleasant dreams!” But he left the next day, just as Mrs. Dainty had avowed her intention of invoking the aid of the law. His mother, who looked like anything but an angel—though to do her justice, she was much better-looking than her son—came after him. “ The scamp,” she said, “arobbin’ the money drawer, and a-leavin’ me all alone to take care of the shop—pork, ma’am, quite extended, from a sassage to a hull hog—and I never knowin’ where he was till this blessed mornin’, and I shouldn’t a knowed then if he hadn't been a-boastin’ to a young gal what lives in our neighborhood—he met her out walkin’ last Sunday—about the pretty young lady he was a-goin’ to marry, and live quite the gentleman in a genteel boardin’house. And she was that mad at his kissin’ a shoe-butting and sich rubbidge—he havin’ onst kep’ company with herself—that she follered him unbeknown to this house, and then came and tol’ me. He alius was a sly boots, that Sam, and I’ve had heaps of trouble with him ; but I’ll pay you what he owes you, ma’am, and then look his conduct over, as I’ve done many times before; but he’ll have to mind his P’s and Q’s after this, I can tell you.” And so we got rid of him at last, though not exactly as we had intended.— Harper's Weekly. Margaret Eytinge THE OLD MAN MEDITATES, BY WILL CARELTON. Nay, Maggie, let my old-style fancies be— I’m sorry that you interrupted me ! ’Tis sweet to press a pretty hand like this, And taste the flavor of a grandchild’s kiss: I love to draw you to me tender-wise, And look off at my boyhood through your eyes (For they are telescopes of wondrous view, That bring; me back a girl that looked like you); Your voice is as you just now used it last, A silver key that takes me through the past; And now you’re here, you girl-witch, you shall stay, But still I’d father you had kept away. ii. For I’ve been sitting here an hour, I’ll own, Catching some thoughts a man holds best alone, And shadows on my poor old soul have found That might feel chilly like to folks around. I’ve seen the sun go sailing out of sight, Far from the gloomy, shifting shores of night, And wondered (though perhaps ’twas wicked) why God would not swing those gold doors of the sky And take me from this world, that’s grown so strange, To heaven, where maybe fashions do not change; For I am like a gnarled and withered tree With a new growth of forest shading me. in. The world keepa newiny so ! —they fashion it Ho old men find no place wherein to fit. “On and right on,” leaps hot from every tongue;

“Live while you live,” and “ Go it while you’re young.” An average, moderate life, if these things last, Will be among the lost arts of the past; These rushing days of lightning and of steam Push everything out into an extreme. The rich grow richer, smarter grow the smart; It’s harder for the rest to get a start; And Wholesale grows more Wholesale every day, And Retail has to stand back out the way. It’s hard to tell, ’mid all Progression’s jumps, How far this world will make up into lumps. Farewell, old churn, with dasher fringed with cream, These times when cows are all but milked by steam, And in the bustling dairy may be found Butter by tons, instead of by the pound, While several of the corner groceries keep Its bogus brother, oleomargarine, cheap ! IV. Good-by, old country mill of water.powcr: This steam one does your week’s work it an hour ! Adieu, gas, tallow, kerosene, and whale : The blue-eyed, earth-born lightning makes you pale! You sailing craft, make wide your fluttering crown, Lest the great fire-fed frigate run you down 1 Old-fashioned politics, cease your mild strife, When men can say, “ An oflicc or your life And you, small rogues, ere you so guilty feel Because a thousand dollars you may steal, Look at that scamp of sanctimonious style Who pilfers millions with a charming smile ! Once I my sorrel nag in peace could drive, With" some fair chance of reaching home alive : Now, every other mile a sign-board bars With “ Railroad Crossing : look out for the Cars.” These cars—they carry thousands in a day, And maybe take some that had better stay ; While often, in a crash of wail and woe, They take folks where they do not want to go! And I have heard and read distressing things Of railroad cliques, monopolies, and rings I’ve tried to understand their “ stock reports,” Their “ bulls” and “ bears,” their curious “ longs” and “ shorts”;

Wherefrom the most that I can calculate Is, if to fall among them is your fate, Your heart, ere many months, will sing the song, “ My pocket’s short, my countenance is long.” It may be right, the way these fellows do it, But old men can not fit themselves down to it; VI. Once all my worries (and a plenty too) Were kind of circumscribed to folks I knew; But now the telegraph and papers try, To bring this whole world underneath the eye And my old fool heart into sorrow drive O’er deaths of folks I didn’t know were alive. It is an interesting fact to know That news can sweep across the country so ; But it.gets out of breath, I calculate, And sometimes fails to tell the story straight; And talk that’s false, or frivolous, or too small, The slower it goes, the better for us all. It’s smart, this flashing news from shore to shore, But old men value peace a good deal more. VII. In the hay field how gallant and how blithe Sang their loud song my whetstone and my scythe I How in the dewy morning used to pass My bright blade’s whisper through the shuddering grass I And gaily in the harvest fields of old . My sickle gathered God’s most precious gold. But now the patent reaper rattles there, The men it drove out gone—the Lord knows where. It brags and rattles through the field in haste, Gathers the harvest—what it does not waste — And leaves not much for poor old men like me, Except to sit upon the fence and sec. God made man till the soil; but it would seem He’s shirked it off on horses, steel, and steam. It’s well—if he don’t use the extra time In wicked mischief or mischievous crime. This giving Work the go-by may be smart, But, I have noticed, doesn’t improve the heart. I know I’m ’way behind these rushing days, But still I like the good old'working ways. vm. • Your grandam made her own trim wedding dress, And fitted it, and wove it too, I guess; There never, Maggie, was a witching elf That went past her—not even you yourself. You have her gentle eyes, her voice, her touch— But, sakes! you cost a hundred times as much I They’ve had to flute, and flounce, and trick you out

(It wouldn’t be safe to mention, I suppose, That horror-hat you keep for evening shows), And squeeze, and pull, and jerk you all about, Till it’s a question rather hard to meet, How you came through it all so good and sweet. You wouldn't have had to bother in that way If some cute Yankee had not, one fine day, Placed, with eyes made by money-hunger keen, A sewing circle in one small machine, Which hungers after cloth and thread; and so Dress often takes up some new furbelow. My old-style pocket with gaunt pain it fills : But I won’t groan—l do not pay the bills. IX. Church matters, maybe, ain’t for me to name, For true religion always keeps the same; And they may higgle, contradict, and doubt, And turn the good old. Bible wrong side out; But they can’t change, however hard they try, Arrangements on the top side of the sky. I like to read the new way that ’tis told— It often helps me understand the old ; But when my daily prayers I come to say, I think I’ll use the straight old-fashioned way. He taught that grand old prayer to us you know—’Twas more than eighteen hundred years ago; • And if its words wore any way amiss, He’d probably have told us long ere this. Leastways, He’s heard me so far in that style, And I’ll hang to it yet a little while. Ah me! this matter’s just like all the rest: Old ways for old men mostly are the best. But whatsoever changes I can name, One institution always keeps the same, And soon or late enacts its noble part, And that’s the grand and glorious human heart. Perhaps it lurks in wretchedness and slime, Is dragged by Passion through the waves of Crime; Or Indolence around its couch may creep, And lull it for a season into sleep ; Or Selfishness may ravage all about, Eat its supplies and well-nigh strave it out; But when it can the body’s grossness shed, The god-like human heart comes out ahead ! XI. No, Maggie, do not go away from me, But turn your eyes round here where I can see; They show me that there’s much that earth can give Designed to coax an old man yet to live. The tender, true heart you have always shown In brightening up my dim life with your own, The way you’ve treated me—with as much grace As if I owned three-quarters of this place, While you and all your folks are well aware My purse is full of poverty to spare— Show, in the sandy shifting of life’s ways, That Love’s first fashion still among us stays; Aud that young fellow coming down the lane Will help to make my meaning doubly plain.

FAMOUS EPIGRAMS. I sent for Radcliffe ; was so ill, That other doctors gave me over. He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill, Said I was likely to recover. But when the wit began to wheeze, And wine had warmed the politician, Cured yesterday of my disease, I died last night of my physician. —Matthew Prior. When Tadlow walks the streets the paviors cry; “ God bless you sir!” and lay their rammers by. —Evans. Nature and Nature’s laws lay hid in night; God said: “Let Newton be!” and all was light. —Pope. MARRIAGE IN HEAVEN. Cries Sylvia to a reverend Dean: “ What reasons can be given, Since marriage is a holy thing, That there is none in heaven ?” “ There are no women,” he replied She quick returns the jest: “ Women there are, but I’m afraid They cannot find a priest.” —Dodslcy. Her wit and beauty for a court were made; But truth and goodness fit her for the shade. Lyttlcton.— TO MADAME DE DAMAS, LEARNING ENGLISH. Though British accents your attention fire, You cannot learn so fast as we admire. Scholars like you but seldom can improve, For who would teach you but the verb, 1 love ? —Lord Orford. ON THE DEATH OF A LADY’s PET PIG. Oh, dry that tear, so round and big; Nor waste in sighs your precious wind! Death only takes a single pig: Your lord and son are still behind. ON A NIGHTCAP BORROWED FROM NELSON. Take your nightcap again, my good lord, I desire, For I wish not to/keep it a minute; What belongs to a Nelson, wherever there’s /re, Is sure to be instantly in it. —Peter Pindar. ON THE DEATH OF A GIRAFFE. They say, God wot! She died upon the spot: But then in spots she is so rich— I wonder which ?