Humour of the North by Various — Free Audiobook

1 0 - Introductory Note 2:35

2 1 - Poems by Joseph Howe 4:05

Humor of the North, arranged by Laurence J Burpee, section one, poems by Joseph Howe. The Blue Nose. Let the student of nature in rapture descant on the heaven's cerulean hue. Let the lover indulge in poetical rant when the eyes of his mistress are blue. But fill high your glasses, fill fill to the brim, I've a different toast to propose. While such eyes and such skies still are beaming for him, here's a health to the jolly blue nose. Let the Frenchman delight in his vine-covered veils, let the Greek toast his old classic ground. Here's the land where the bracing north-wester prevails, and where jolly blue noses abound. Long, long may it flourish, to all of us dear, Loved and honoured by hearts that are true, But should ever a foe chance his nose to show here, He shall find all our noses true blue.

To Mary. Oh, blame me not, Mary, for gazing at you, Nor suppose that my thoughts from the preacher were straying, Though I stole a few glances. Believe me, tis true, They were sweet illustrations of what he was saying. For when he observed that perfection was not to be found upon earth, for a moment I bent a look upon you, and could swear on the spot that perfection in beauty was not what he meant. And when, with emotion, the worthy divine on the doctrine of loving our neighbors insisted, I felt, if their forms were as faultless as thine, I could love every soul of them while I existed. And, Mary, I'm sure twas the fault of those eyes, twas the lustre of them to the error gave birth, that, while he spoke of angels that dwelt in the skies, I was gazing with rapture at one upon earth.

A toast. Here's a health to thee, Tom, a bright bumper we drain to the friends that our bosoms hold dear. As the bottle goes round, and again and again we whisper, We wish he were here. Here's a health to thee, Tom. May the mists of this earth never shadow the light of that soul, which so often has lent the mild flashes of mirth, to illumine the depths of the bowl. With a world full of beauty, and fun for a theme, and a glass of good wine to inspire, in without thee we sometimes are blessed with a gleam that resembles thy spirit's own fire. Yet still, in our gayest and merriest mood, our pleasures are tasteless and dim, for the thoughts of the past and of Tom that intrude make us feel we're but happy with him.

Like the triumph of old, where the absent one threw a cloud or the glorious scene, are our feasts, my dear Tom, when we meet without you, and think of the nights that have been. When thy genius, assuming all hues of delight, fled away with the rapturous hours, and when wisdom and wit, to enliven the night, scattered freely their fruits and their flowers. When thy eloquence played round each topic in turn, shedding lustre and life where it fell, as the sunlight, in which the tall mountain-tops burn, paints each bud in the lowliest dell. When that eye, before which the pale Senate once quailed with humour and deviltry shone, And the voice which the heart of the patriot hailed had mirth in its every tone.

Then a health to thee, Tom, every bumper we drain, but renders thy image more dear. As the bottle goes round, and again, and again, we wish from our hearts you were here.

End of section 1. Read by Kara Schallenberg. W. W. K. Ray. Or. November. Two thousand nine in San Diego, California.

3 2 - Stories by Thomas Chandler Haliburton 9:40

Sheepskins and politics. You know Uncle Tim. He was small, very small, not in stature, for he was a six-footer. But small in mind and small in heart. His soul was no bigger than a flea's. "'Zeb, my boy,' says he to me one day, "'always be neuter in elections. You can't get nothin' by them but ill will. Dear, dear, I wish I had never voted. I never did, but Oncest, and dear, dear, I wish I had let that alone. There was an army doctor, Oncest, said, lived right opposite to me to Digby. Dear, dear, he was a good friend to me. He was very fond of weather mutton, And when he killed a sheep, he used to say to me, Friend Tim, I will give you the skin if you will accept it. Dear, dear, what a lot of them he gave me, first and last.

Well, once is the doctor's son, lawyer Williams, offered for the town, and so did my brother-in-law, Finn Tucker. And dear, dear, I was in a proper fix. Well, the doctor axed me to vote for his son, and I just up and told him I would, only my relation was candidating also, but get him my hand and promise I would be neuter. Well, I told brother-in-law the same, that I'd vote for him with pleasure. Only my old friend, the doctor's son, was offering too, and therefore gave him my word also I'd be neuter. And, oh, dear, dear, neuter I would have remained too, if it hadn't been for them two electioneering generals—devils, I might say—Lorry Scott and Terry Todd. Dear, dear, somehow or another they got hold of the story of the sheepskins, and they gave me no peace day or night.

What, says they, are you going to sell your country for a sheepskin? The day of the election they seized on me, one by one arm and the other by the other, and lugged me off to the poll, whether I would or no. "'Who do you vote for?' said the sheriff. "'Would you sell your country for a sheepskin?' shouted Terry in one ear. "'Would you sell your country for a sheepskin?' bellowed Laurie in the other ear. "'I was so frightened I hardly knew what I did. But they tell me I voted for Brother Finn. Dear, dear, the doctor never gave me a sheepskin while he lived after that. Dear, dear, that was an ugly vote for me.' The Doctor Old Dr. Green, you knowed him, in course, everybody knowed him, lived on Digby Neck.

He was reckoned a skillful man, and was known to be a regular, rotated doctor, but he drank like a fish. And it's actually astonishing how many country doctors have taken to drink. And, of course, he weren't always a very safe man in cases where a cool head and a steady hand was needed, though folks did say he knowed a plaguey sight more even when he was drunk than one-half of them do when they are sober. Well, one day old Jim Reed, who was a pot companion of his, sent him a note to come into town immediately, without the loss of one moment of time, and bring his amputating instruments with him, for there was a most shocking accident had happened to his house. So in come the doctor, as hard as he could drive, looking as sorry all the time as if he didn't live by misfortunes and accidents, the old hypocrite.

"'My dear friend,' said he solemnly to Reed, and a-taking of him by the hand and giving it a doleful shake, My dear friend, what is the matter? Who is hurt? And what the devil is to pay now? How thankful we all ought to be that the accident hasn't occurred to one whom we all respect so much as you. And then he unpacked his instruments, off with his coat and up with his sleeves, and with one hand pulls a hair out of his head and with the other takes his knife and cuts it in two to prove the edge was all right. Then he began to whistle while he examined his saw, for nothing puts these chaps in such good humor as cutting and slashing away at legs and arms, operating, as they call it, And when all was ready, says he, —'Reed,' says he, a tapping him on the shoulder, where is the patient?

Well, Reed opened the door of another room, and there was a black boy a-holding of a duck on the table that had broken his leg. "'There is a case for amputation, doctor,' said he. "'But first of all take a glass of brandy and water to steady your nerves.' "'He knows you,' says he. Hear him how he calls out quack-quack after you, as if he was afraid to let you perform on him.' Well, the doctor entered into the joke as good-natured as possible. Laughed like anything, whipped down the grog, whipped off the leg, and whipped up the knives and saws in no time. "'You must stay to dine, doctor,' said Reed, for the joke was only intended to get him into town to drink along with him. And he stayed to dine, and stayed to sup, and being awful drunk stayed to bed too.

Well, every time Reed saw him arter that in town he asked him to come in and see his patient, which meant to come in and drink. And so he did as long as the cask of rail, particular Jamaiki, lasted. Some time after that, the old fellow sent in a bill for operating, making a wooden leg, medical attendance, and advice per order for twenty-five pounds. And what's more, when Reed wouldn't pay it, the doctor sued for him to court, and gained his cause. Fact, I assure you.

Mother Hunt's Chickens. Five years ago, come next summer, The old lady made a trip to Halifax, in one of our Digby coasters, to see Sister Susanna, that is married in that city to Ted Fowler, the upholsterer, and took a whole lot of little notions with her to market to bare expenses, for she is a saving kind of body, as mother, and likes to make two ends meet at the close of the year. Among the rest was the world and all of eggs, for she was a grand hand in a poultry-yard. Some she stowed away in boxes, and some in baskets, and some in tubs, so that no one accident could lose them all for her. Well under the berths in the cabin were large drawers for bedding, and she rotated that out and packed them full of eggs and wool, as snug as you please, and off they started on their voyage.

Well, they had nothing but calms and light airs or head winds, and were ever so long in getting to town, and when they anchored she got her duds together and began to collect her eggs all ready for landing. The first drawer she opened out hopped ever so many chickens on the cabin floor, skipping and hopping about, a chirping, chick-chick-chick, like anything. Well, if that don't beat all, said Mother, and she looked the very picture of doleful dumps. I hope there is no more of them a-coming into the world that way without being sent for. And she opened a second, and out came a second flock with a chik-chik-chik, and another, and another, till she pulled them all out. The cabin floor was chock-full of them, for the heat and confined bilge air had hatched all the eggs that were in the close and hot drawers.

Oh, the captain and passengers and sailors, they roared with laughter. Mother was awful mad, for nothing makes one so angry as accidents that set folks off a-tee-heeing that way. If anybody had been to blame but herself, wouldn't they have caught it, that's all? For scolding is a great relief to a woman. But as there weren't, there was nothing left but to cry, and scolding and crying are two safety valves that have saved many a heart from busting. While the loss was not great, though she liked to take care of her coppers, too, it was the vexation that worried her. But the worst was to come yet. When she returned home, the boys to Digby got hold of the story, and wherever she went they called out after her, Chick-chick-chick!

I skinned about half a dozen of the little imps of mischief for it, but it only made them worse, for they hid in porches and behind doors and gates and fences, and seen her a-coming, and roared out, Chick-chick-chick, and nearly bothered her to death. So she gave up going out any more, and never leaves home now. It's my opinion her rheumatism is nothing but the effective want of exercise, and all comes from that cursed, Chick-chick-chick!

The Deacon's Bargain Old Deacon Bruce of Aylesford last Monday week bought a sleigh of his fellow-deacon, Squire Burns, for five pounds. On his way home with it, who should he meet but Zeke Morse, a-trudging along through the snow a-foot? Friend Zeke, says the old Christian, won't you get in and ride? Here's room for you and welcome. Don't care if I do, said Zeke, seeing that sitting is as cheap as walking if you don't pay for it. So he hops in, and away they go. Well, Zeke was mightily taken with the sleigh. Deacon, says he, how shall you and me trade for it? It's just the article I want, for I am a-going down to Bridgetown next week to be married, and it will suit me to a notch to fetch Mrs.

Morse, my wife, home in. What will you take for it? Nine pounds, said Old Conscience. It cost me seven pounds ten shillings to Deacon Burns, who built it, and as it's the right season for using it, and I can't get another made till next winter, I must have nine pounds for it, and it ain't dear at that price neither. Done," says Zeke, for he is an off-hand kind of chap, and never stands bantering and chaffering a long time, but says at once what he means, as I do. Done," says he, "'tis mine," and the deacon drives up to his house, gets his pay, and leaves the sleigh there. Next morning, when Zeke went to examine his purchase, he found there was a bolt left out by mistake, so off he goes to the maker, Deacon Burns, to get it put in, when he ups and tells him all about the bargain.

"'Did the old gentleman tell you my price was seven pounds ten?' said he. Oh, yes," said Zeke. In course he did. There was no mistake about it. I'll take my oath to it. Well, so it was, said Burns. He told you true. He used to give me seven pounds ten, but as there was nobody by but him and me when we traded, and as it ain't paid for yet, he might perhaps forget it, for he is getting to be an old man now. Will you try to recollect it? Certainly, says Zeke. I'll swear to it any day you please, in any court in the world, for them was his very words to me. What does Deacon Burns do but go right off and sue Deacon Bruce for seven pounds ten instead of five pounds the real price, called Zeke as a witness to his admission, and gained his case.

Fact upon my soul.

End of section two. Recording by Sean Michael Hogan, St. John's, Newfoundland, Canada.

4 3 - Poems by William Henry Drummond 14:27

The Corduroi Road. De Corduroi Road go bumpity bump. De Corduroi Road go jumpity jump. And he's takin beeg chances upset his load, the horse that'll trot on the corduroy road. Of course it's purty rough, but it's handy thing enough, and they mak it with the log all jine to gether. When they strek the swampy ground where the water hang around, or pass him by some tuffle beaver mether, but it's not macadamized, so if you're only wise, you will tak your tam and never mind the worry, for the corduroy is bad, and will make you plenty mad by the way the buggy jump in case you hurry. And I'm sure you don't expect little Victorine Laveque she was no one munch at all about them places, cause she's never there before till young Zephyr Amador he was taking her away for see the races.

Oh, I wish you'd see her then. That's before she marry, when she's the finest on the land, but no use talking. I can bet you what you lack if you meet her you look back just to watch the fancy way that girl is walking. Yes, the little Victorine was the nicest girl between the town of Yamashiche and Monskin Angers. But she's stuck up and she's proud, and you'll never count the crowd of the boy she give it what they call the conge. Ah, the mother's spoiler sure, for even to Jo d'amour, when he's ready nearly everything to give her, if she make the marier only say please go away, and he's richest habitant along the river. Zepharin, he try it too. And he's working something new, for he's making the old woman many present.

Price package on the train, umbrella for the rain. But she's grumpy all the time, and never pleasant. Well, when he axed my dam tacked the girl away that time, see them races on Sorel with all the trotter, the mother say all right if you bring her home tonight. Before the cow's milk, I let her go, my daughter. So victory'n she go with Zephyrin her beau, on the Yankee buggy Mackinac St. Bruno? And when they pass Othel on the middle of Sorel, they're putting on the biggest style that you know. Well, they got some good horse there, but Zephyrin don't care. He's back it up, he's own paroisse, by golly. And his macketree dollar, when Maskenanger's star, on the two-mile heat was beating Sorel Molly.

Victorine don't mind at all till the free-for-all, they call. That's the last race they was run before the snow-fly. Then she say, I think the cow must be getting home soon now, and you know it's only clock old woman go by. And if we're coming late when the cow pass on the gate, you'll be sorry if you hear the way she talked there. So when I see the race on Sorel or any place, after this you may be sure I got to walk there. Then he laugh at Zephyrin, and he say, Your poor maman, I know the pile she think about her daughter, so we'll take the short road back on the quarter or a race track. Don't matter if we got to swim the water. No wonder he is smiled till you hear him half a mile, for that morning he was told his little brother let the cattle out the gate so he know it's pretty late by the time them cow was finding out each other.

So along the corduroy, the young girl, and the boy, they was keeping up a jogging nice and steady. It isn't heavy load, and the ome he know the road, for many time he's been that way already, but the girl she's finest slow, so she axed the boy to go something better than a mile on fifteen minute. And he's touch him up, Guillaume, so that horse he lay for home, and the next thing victorine she knows she's in it. Oh, pull him in, she yell, for even on Sorrel I am sure I never see the quicker racer. But he's little bit too late, for the horse is get his gait, and the worst of all, by gosh, Guillaume's a pacer. See his tail upon the air, no wonder she was scare, but she hang on like the winter on Tree River.

Crying out, please hold me tighter, I'm coming dead tonight. And my poor old mother dear, I got to leave her. With her arm around his waist, she was doing it in case she bust her head or kill herself, is not so easy saying. They was coming on the jump through that damn old beaver swamp, and meet the crowd he's looking for them cow was go astraying. Then she's crying, Victorine, for she's knowing what it mean. The parish they was talking for chances they be getting. But no sooner dat young man stopt the horse, he takt her hand and whisper, Never mind, ma chere, won't do no good a fretting. No, she isn't crying long, for he told her it was wrong. She's sure he saved her life, too, or she was much mistaken.

And the old Madame Lévesque also kiss him on the neck, and quickly after dat, hurrah, da man and wife they're making.

Dominique. You don't know my little boy, Dominique? Never seen him running around about the place? Cause I want to get advice how to keep him looking nice, so he won't be always dirty on the face. Now, that little boy of mine, Dominique, if you wash him and you send him off to school, but instead of going there, he was playing fox and hare. Can you tell me how to stop the little fool? I tacked that little feller, Dominique, and I put him on the cellar every day. And for working out a cure, bread and water's very sure, you can bet he's make the promise not to play. That's very well to say, but my little Dominique, when the jacket we put on him's only new, and he's going to travel around on the matter up and down, with the strawberry on his pocket running through, and when he climb the fence, see the hole upon his pant.

No wonder his poor mother's feeling mad. So if you catch him then, what do you want to do, my friend? Tell me quickly, and before he get too bad. I'd leak your little boy, Dominique. I'd leak him till he's crying pretty hard, and for fear he's getting spile, I'd give him castor aisle, and I wouldn't let him play outside the yard. If you see my little boy, Dominique, hanging on to poor old Billy by the tail, when that horse is feeling gay, like I seen him yesterday, I suppose you think he's safer on the jail? When I'm lighting up the pipe on the evening after work? And the powder that young rascal's puttin' in, it was makin' such a poof nearly blew me through the roof. What's the way you got of showin' twas a sin?

Well, I put him on the jail right away. You may bet the one is got the biggest wall. A hundred foot or so, where they never let him go. No, I wouldn't keep a boy like that at all. That's good advice for sure, very good. On the cellar, bread and water, it'll do. The nice sweet castor aisle give him every little while, and the jail to finish up with when he's through. Ah, my friend, you never see Dominique, when he's lying there asleep upon the bed. If you do, you say to me, What an angel he must be, and there can't be nothing but upon his head. Many thank for your advice, and it may be good for some, but the reason you was given isn't very hard to seek. Yes, it's easy seeing now when the talk is over.

Ah, you don't know, my little boy, Dominique.

How Baptiste came home. When I was young boy on the farm that's twenty year ago, I have one friend he's lived near me called Jean-Baptiste Trudeau, and often when we are alone we lack for speak about the time when we was come big man with mustache on our mouth. But he's his get it on his head. He's too much educate for Mac the Abiton farmer. He better go on state. And so on summer evening we're driving home to cow, he's told me all the whole business, just like you hear me now. What you smack foolish on the farm? There's no good chances left, and all the time you be poor man. You know that's true, Yousef. We never get no fun at all, don't never go on spree, unless we pass on nother place and make it some money.

I go on les Etats-Unis, I go there right away, and then maybe on ten twelve year I be rich man someday, and when I make the lodge for soon I come back, I suppose, with Yankee fam from off the state and money on my clothes. I told you something else also, mon cher napoleon. I get a grand majorit for go on parlement. Then build fine house on Bordeleau, near where the churches stand, more finer than the presbyter when I am come rich man. I say, for what you speak like that? You must be gone crazy. There's plenty fellow on the state more smarter than you be. Besides, she's not so healthy place, and if you make l'argent, you spend it just like Yankee Man, and not like Abiton. For me, Baptiste, I told you this, I'm very satisfied.

The best man don't leave too long time. Someday, by gosh, he die. And s'pose you got good trotter horse, and nice femme Canadienne, with plenty on the house for eat. What more you want, my friend? But Baptiste have it all mack up. I can't stop him at all. He's by, et cetera, second class ticket, for go on Central Fall. And with two trees, some more de boy, what t'ink the same he do, Pass on the train the very next week, was left Riviera de Lou. Well, maybe fifteen year or more since Batiste go away. I found meself Riviera de Lou one cold, cold winter day. The quick express she come, hurrah, but stopped as soon as she can. And big swell feller jump off car that's bossed by nigger man. He's dress him on the premier class and got new suit of clothes, with long moustache to stick out the nother side his nose.

Fine gold watch-chain, nice poor manteau, and long, long overcoat, with beaver hat, Taz Yankee style, and red tie on his throat. I say, Allo, Baptiste, Allo, comment ça va, mon vieux? He say, Excuse to me, my friend, I think I don't know you. I say, She's very curious thing. You are, Baptiste Trudeau, was raised on just same place with me that's fifteen year ago. He say, Oh, yes, that's sure enough. I know you now, first-rate, but I forget most all my French since I go on to state. There's not a thing keep on your head, my friend. They must be told. My name's Baptiste Trudeau no more, but John B. Waterhole. Hold on, the water's funny name, for man was called Trudeau. My friends, they always speak like that, and I am told him so.

He say, Trudeau and Waterhole, she's just about to Sam, and if you for leave on stay, you must have Yankee name. Then we invite him come with us, Hotel du Canada, where he was treat most every time, but can't take whiskey blanc. He say sa's leetle strong for man just come off Central Fall, and Tabaccanayan, but damn, he won't smoke dat at all. But fancy drink like Collings John, de way he put it down, was long time since I don't see dat. I think he's goin drown. And fine cigar cost five cents each, and make on Trois-Rivieres. L'enfant, he smoke big bile of them, for money he don't care. I suppose meself it's three o'clock when we are through dat night. Baptiste his father come for him and take him home all right.

The old man say Baptiste speak French when he is placed on bed, and say bad word, but when he wake forget it on his head. Well, all the winter when we have soirees, that grand affair, Baptiste Trudeau, the waterhole, the bee, the bossman there, you bet he have be time, but when the spring is come encore, he's buy premier class ticket for going to state some more. You remember when the hard time come on les Etats-Unis, and plenty canillians go back for stay their own country? Well, just about that time again I go over Vier-de-Loup for so many two-three load of hay, mak little visit too. The freight train she has just arrived, only ten hour delay. She's never carry passenger, that's what they always say.

I see poor man on Char Caboose. He's got him small valise. But gosh, I nearly take the fit. It is. It is Baptiste. He knows me very well this time, and say, Bonjour, mon vieux. I hope you know Baptiste Trudeau was educate with you. I'm just come off the state to see my family encore. I bust myself on Central Fall. I don't go there no more. I got no money, not at all. I broke it up for sure. That's lucky thing, Napoleon, the brakeman, Joe Latour. He's cousin of one friend of me called Camille Valliquette. Conductor too's good, Canadian. Don't axe me no ticket. I take Baptiste with me once more at Hotel du Canada, and he was glad for get a chance to drink some good whiskey blanc. That's warm him up, and then he eat most everything he see.

I watch the whole business meself. Mon G, he was hungry. Madame Charette, what's keep the place, got very much excited for seed the many pork and beans Baptiste put out of sight. Du pain d'oré, potato pie, and another thing be there, but when Baptiste is get him through, they go I don't know where. It don't take long for told the news, but this come off the state. And pretty soon we have big crowd like village she's on Fete. Bonhomme Maxime Trudeau hisself he's coming with the priests and pass him on the room for eat where he is see, but this. Then everybody feel a glad for watch the hombres say, and by my bite the old man speak, but this you here for stay? But this he's cry like big baby. Bah, je restai easy.

And if I never see the state, I'm sure I don't care, me. Correct, Maximus said right off. I place you on the farm, for help your poor old father won't do you too much harm. Please come with me on the magazine. I fix you up, but oui, and then you're ready for go home and see the family. Well, when the old man and Baptiste come off the magazine, Baptiste is lost his Yankee clothes. He's dressed like Canayan. With bottes sauvages, cinture-fléchets, and coat with capuchons, and speak francaise au naturel, the same as habitants. I see Baptiste the other day. He's work his fodder's place. I tink meself he's satisfy. I see that on his face. He say, I got no use for state, mon cher Napoleon. Quebec, she's good enough for me.

Hurrah, poor Canada. The End

5 4 - 'The Japanese Reporter' by Mrs. Everard Cotes 13:05

Arrange by Laurence J. Burpee.

We do not know to this day to what circumstance we owed the honor of appearing in print in Japan, Whether we were mistaken for individuals of distinction, or whether we were considered remarkable on our own merits on account of being by ourselves, but we went downstairs fully believing it to be a custom of the country, a rather flattering custom, to which we were much pleased to conform. And this is a true chronicle of what happened. It was a slender, round-faced youth who made his deprecating bow to us in the drawing-room. His shoulders sloped, His gray-blue kimono lay in narrow folds across his chest like what the old-fashioned people at home used to call a sontag. American boots were visible under the skirt of the garment, and an American stiff-felt hat reposed on the sofa beside him.

His thick, short black hair stood crisply on end, and out of his dark eyes slanted a look of modest inquiry. He was the most unaggressive reporter I have ever seen. His boots and his hat were the only things about him that I could connect with journalism, as I had previously been acquainted with it. How do you do? I said, seeing that the silence must be broken, and the preliminaries gone through with by somebody. Yes, he responded, with an amiability that induced orthodoxia to get up hurriedly and look out of the window. Did the Radies arrive to the Duke of Westminster? Looking from one to the other of us. We believe they did, gasped orthodoxia, and immediately looked out of the window again.

I edged my chair toward the other window. Then the cloven foot appeared in the shape of a notebook. He produced it with gentle ostentation, as one would a trump card. The simile is complete when I add that he took it from his sleeve. How old is Rady? calmly, deliberately. I—I forget, falsified this historian. Forty-five, I believe. The reporter put it down. Other, Rady, your friend, not so old? Older, more old? I am twenty-two years of age, said Orthodoxia gravely, with a reproachful glance at me, and I weigh ten stone, height, five feet, eight inches. In shoes I am in the habit of wearing fives, in gloves, six and a half. The reporter scribbled convulsively. Radies will study Japanese poretics, please say.

I beg pardon? Yes, fills another page. Orthodosia, suavely. Are they produced here to any extent? We have here many poretics, riberer, conservative, monarchist. Oh! More recourse to the window. orthodoxia, I said severely. You may not be aware of it, but your conduct is throwing discredit upon a person hitherto fairly entitled to the world's good opinion, which is me. Continue to be absorbingly interested in that brick wall, and allow me to talk to the gentleman. We have come, I said distinctly. Orthodoxia bears testimony to the fact that I said it distinctly. To see Japan as far as Japan will permit, Her politics, system of education, customs, and arts will be of, ahem, interest to us. We cannot truthfully say that we expect to penetrate more deeply into the national life than other travelers have done.

In repressing this expectation, we claim to be original. We confess that our impressions will naturally be superficial, but we hope to represent the crust so charmingly, that nobody will ask for any of the interior of the, well, of the pie. "'That's equivocal,' said Orthodoxia, "'and ridiculous.'" Notwithstanding the well-known reticence of the Japanese, I continued, we hope to meet some of them who will show us something more of their domesticity than we can see through the windows. "'You will acquire Ranguage of Japan?' Not all of it, I think. It seems a little difficult, but musical, much more musical than our ugly English, interposed Orthodoxia. Yes. Will you the story of your journey please say?

Certainly. We came from Montreal to Vancouver by the C.P.R. That is the best Western Railroad on the continent, because it is built with English capital. Bombastically. Some people say that you never would have heard of Canada in Japan but for the C.P.R., but I am told that they are mostly jealous Republican Americans. The reporter bowed. We traveled three thousand, nine hundred miles by this route across the northwest and through the Rocky Mountains. Here, Othodosia dwelt upon the remarkable snow-sheds for protection against avalanches. She went on with vague confidence to speak of the opening up of trade between Canada and Japan by the new railway and steamship line, and I added a few remarks about the interest in Japanese art that existed in Montreal, and the advisability of the Japanese establishing firms of their own there, while the reporter flattered our eloquence by taking down notes enough to fill a quarto volume.

We had never been interviewed before. We might never be again. and we were determined to make the occasion an illustrious one. We were quite pleased with ourselves as the nice little creature bowed himself out, promising to send us the fortunate shimbun, which would publish the interview with a translation of the same, a day or two later. I suppose it was orthodoxia's effect upon him, the effect I had begun to find usual, but he didn't send the shimbun. He brought it next morning with much apology and many bows. I have before me a penciled document in the handwriting of three persons. The document contains the interview as it was set down in the language of the translator, who sat with an expression of unruffled repose, and spake aloud from the shimbun, which he held in his hand.

Sometimes orthodoxia took it down, sometimes he took it down himself, sometimes I took it down, while orthodoxia left the room. The reason for this will perhaps be self-evident. Orthodoxy and I possess the document in turns to ward off low spirits. I have only to look at it to bring on an attack of the wildest hilarity. The reporter came entirely in Japanese costume the second time, and left his wooden sandals outside on the stairs. He left most of his English there, too, apparently, but he bowed all the way from the door to the middle of the apartment in a manner that stood for a great deal of polite conversation. Then he sat down, and we sat down, and orthodoxia prepared to transcribe the interview which had introduced us to the Japanese nation from his lips.

It was a proud, happy moment. The reporter took the journal with which he was connected out of one of the long, graceful, flowing sleeves which make life worth living for masculine Japan. He told us that it was the Hochi Hochi Shimbun, and he carefully pointed out the title, date, beginning, and end of the article, which we marked intending to buy several copies of the paper and send them home. We were anxious that the people there should be kept fully enlightened as to our movements, and there seemed to be a great deal of detail in the article. Its appearance was a little sensational, orthodoxia thought, but she silently concluded, with her usual charity, not to blame the reporter for that, since he couldn't possibly be considered responsible for the exaggerations of the Chinese alphabet.

Yesterday, translated the reporter solemnly, I must copy the document, which does not give his indescribable pronunciation. By Canada steamer, Radies arrived. The correspondent, who is me, went to Grand Hotel, which the Radies is. Radies is of Canada, and in the time before of Ingrind. They have a beautiful countenance. Here the reporter bowed, and Orthodoxia left the room for the first time. I think she said she must go and get her pencil sharpened. She left it with me, however, and I took up the thread of the interview. Object of Rady's Rocomotion, to make beautiful their minds. Miss Elder Rady answered, Our object is to observe habits, makings, and beings of the Japanese nation, and to examine how civilization of Ingrid and America prevails among the nation.

And other objects is to examine the art and drawing and education from the exterior of the confectionary. In order to observe customs of Japan, we intend to reign a private house. We were getting on swimmingly when orthodoxia reappeared, having recovered in the interval, and told the reporter that he must think foreigners very abrupt and rude, and that he really spoke English extremely well. To both of which remarks he responded with a polite suavity that induced me to turn my back upon her in an agony of suppressed feeling, yes. Miss Youngerady measuring ten stone and wearing six shoes and a half continue. The railroad between the Montreal and Canada is passing. I beg pardon, said the unhappy orthodoxia, with an awful galvanism about the corners of her mouth.

I didn't quite catch what you said. I mean, what I said. The reporter translated it over again. Perhaps, I said nervously, it's a misprint. No, the reporter replied gravely. Miss Younger Rady. Gracious, said Orthodoxia. And if by the railroad we employ the steamer, the commerce of Montreal and Japan will prevail. Correspondent asked to Miss Younger Rady, May I heard the story of your caravansary? Orthodosia again retired. It was a little trying for me, but when he continued, she answered, From Montreal to Canada, the distance is three thousand miles. I was glad she had gone. I am afraid I choked a little at this point, for just here he decided to wrestle with the pencil himself. When he handed the paper back again, I read, While we are passing the distance between Mount Rocky, I had a great danger, for the snow over the mountain is falling down, and the railroad shall be cut off.

Therefore, by the snow-shade, which is made by the tree, its falling was defend. Speaking Finnish. The ladies is to took their caravansary attending among a few days. Ladies has the liability of many news. That last item," said Orthodosia, who had come in with the excuse of some tea, is frightfully correct. Having dispatched the business of the hour and a half, the reporter began to enjoy himself, while Orthodosia and I tried to seat ourselves where we couldn't see each other's faces in the mirror over the mantelpiece. He drank his tea with his head on a level with the table, and if suction can express approval, it was expressed. He said that there were fourteen editorial writers on his shimbun, and that its circulation was one million, which shows that for the soul of a newspaper man, Shintoism has no obvious advantages.

He dwelt upon the weather for quarters of an hour at a time. The Japanese are such a leisurely people. He took more tea, by this time stone cold. He said he would bring a Japanese gentleman and rade to see us, And in response to our inquiry as to whether the lady was the wife or the sister of the gentleman, he said with gravity, I do not know the Radies wife. He asked us for our photographs, and when Orthodoxia retired at this for the fifth time, he thought she had gone to get them, and stayed until I was compelled to go and pray her to return. It was the ringing of the two-o'clock lunch bell that suggested to him that the day was waning, and that perhaps he had better wane too.

6 5 - 'The Linnet' by James McCarroll 1:37

7 6 - Poems by George Thomas Lanigan 13:33

Arranged by Laurence J. Burpee. Section six. Poems by George Thomas Lanigan.

The Akund of Swat.

What? What? What? What? What's the news from Swat? Sad news, bad news, comes by the cable led, through the Indian Ocean's bed, through the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea, and the Med Iteranian. He's dead. The Akund is dead. For the Akund I mourn. Who wouldn't? He strove to disregard the message stern, but he Akund. Dead, dead, dead. Sorrow, Swats. Swats, wahey, we Akund bled. Swats, whom he had often led, onward to a gory bed, or to victory, as the case might be. Sorrow, Swats. Tears shed. Shed tears like water, your great Akund is dead. That, Swats, the matter. Mourn, city of Swat, your great Akund is not, but lain mid worms to rot. His mortal part alone his soul was caught, because he was a good Akund.

Up to the bosom of Mahund, though earthly walls his frame surround, for ever hallowed be the ground. And skeptics mock the lowly mound, and say he's now of no Akund. His soul is in the skies, the azure skies that bend above his loved metropolis of Swat. He sees with larger other eyes, athwart all earthly mysteries. He knows what's Swat. Let Swat bury the great Akund with a noise of mourning and of lamentation. Let Swat bury the great Hacund with the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation. Fallen is at length, its tower of strength. Its sun had dimmed ere it had nooned. Dead lies the great Hacund. The great Hacund of Swat is not.

The Amateur Orlando.

It was an amateur dram-ass, kind reader, although your knowledge of French is not first class. Don't call that amateur. It was an amateur dram-ass, the which did warfare wage on the dramatic works of this and every other age. It had a walking gentleman, a leading juvenile, first lady in bookmuslin dress, with a galvanic smile, there, too, a singing chambermaid, Benignant heavy par, and, oh, heavier still was heavy villain with his fierce. Ha-ha! There wasn't an author from Shakespeare down, or up to Bo-Kee-Koe. These amateurs weren't competent. They're swegged to collar and throw. And when the wintertime came round, season's a stagier phrase, the Amdramas assaulted one of the Bard of Avon's plays.

"'Twas as you like it that they chose, for the leading lady's heart was set on playing Rosalind, or some other page's part, and the president of the Amdramas, a stalwart Dry Goods'-Clerk, was cast for Orlando, in which role he felt he'd made his mark. "'Aye, mind me,' said the president. All thoughtful was his face. When Orlando was taken by Thingamy, the Charles was played by Mace. Charles hath not many lines to speak, nay, not a single length. But if we can find a mussulman, that is, a man of strength, and bring him on the stage as Charles, alas, it can't be did." "'It can,' replied the treasurer. "'Let's get the honky kid.' This honky kid, of whom they spoke, belonged to the P.R. He always had his hair cut short, and always had guitar.

His voice was gruff, his language rough, his forehead villainous low, and neath a broken nose a vast expanse of jaw did show. He was forty-eight about the chest, and his forearm at the mid did measure twenty-one and a half. Such was the hunky kid. The amdramas they have engaged. This pet of the P.R., as Charles the Ressler's, he's to be a bright particular star, and when they put the program out, announce him thus they did. Orlando, Mr. Romeo Jones, Charles, Mr. T.H. Kidd. The night has come. The house is packed, from pit to gallery, as those who through the curtain peep quake inwardly to see. A squeak's heard in the orchestra, as the leader draws across the intestines of the agile cat the tail of the noble hoss.

Halls at sea behind the scenes. Why do they fear and funk? Alas, alas, the hunky kid is lamentably drunk. He's in that most unlovely stage of half-intoxication, when men resent the hint they're tight, as a personal imputation. "'Ring up! Ring up!' Orlando cried, "'or we must cut the scene, for Charles the Wrestler is imbued with poisonous benzine, and every moment gets more drunk than he before has been. The wrestling scene has come, and Charles is much disguised in drink. The stage to him's an inclined plane, the footlights make him blink. Still strives he to act well his part, Where all the honour lies, though Shakespeare would not in his lines his language recognise, instead of, Come, where is this young, this man of bone and brawn?

He squares himself and bellows, Time! Fetch your Orlando's on. Now, Hercules, be thy speed, young man. Fair Rosaline, said she, as the two wrestlers in the ring grapple right furiously. But Charles the Wrestler had no sense of dramatic propriety. He seized on Mr. Romeo Jones in Graeco-Roman style. He got what they call a grapevine lock on that leading juvenile. He flung him into the orchestra, and the man with the officilide, on whom he fell, he just said, Well, no matter what, and died.

When once the Tigers tasted blood, and found that it is sweet, He has a habit of killing more than he can possibly eat, and thus it was with the hunky kid, in this homicidal blindness. He lifted his hand against Rosalind, not in the way of kindness. He chased poor Celia off at L. At R. U. E. Le Beaux, and he put such a head upon Duke Fred in fifteen seconds or so, that never one of the courtly train might his haughty master know.

And that's precisely what came to pass, because the luckless Carles, belonging to the Andram Ass, cast the Unky Kid for Charles.

The Plumber's Revenge, a Legend of Madison Avenue. Canto I. The Death-Bed Oath. It was some thirty years ago, an evening calm and red, When a gold-haired stripling stood beside his father's dying bed. Attend, my son, the sick man said, unto my dying tones, and swear eternal vengeance to the accursed race of Jones. For why, just nineteen years ago, a girl sat by my side, with cheek of rose and breast of snow, my peerless promised bride, a viper, By the name of Jones came in between us twain. With honeyed words he stole away, my loved Belinda Jane. For he was rich, and I was poor, and poets are all stupid, who fain the God of love is not cupidity but cupid. Perchanse tis well, for had I wed that maid of dark-brown curls, you had not been, or been instead, of boy, a pair of girls.

Now listen to me, Walter Smith, high to yon plumber bold, and thou wouldst ease my dying pang, his prentice be enrolled, for Jones has houses, many, on the fashionable squares. And thou perchance mayst be called in to see to the repairs. Think on thy father's ravished love. Recall thy father's ills. Remember this. The death-bed oath. Then make out Jones's bills.

Canto Two. The Young Avenger.

Young Walters to the plumber gone, a boy with smut on nose, furnace and carpet sack in hand, with the journeyman he goes. Now grown to a journeyman himself, in grimy hand he gripes, a candle-end, and neath the sink explores the frozen pipes. His furnace portable he lights with smoking wads of news papers, and smiles to see within the pot, the solder fuse. He gives his fiat. There froze, down about sixteen feet. If you want water ere you lie, you must dig up the street. Practical plumber, now is he, as witnesseth his sign, and ready now to undertake repairs in any line. One day a housemaid, as he sat, at the receipt of Biz, came crying, "'Oh, Sir Smith, Sir Smith, Sir Jones's Pipes's Frizz!' He girt his apron round his loins, and his tools took from the shelf, and to the journeyman he said, "'I'll see to this myself.' "'Would,' said he, as he drew the bill, "'my father were alive.

Ten pounds of solder at ten cents, one dollar seventy-five.' Canto III. The Traitor's Doom.

The Jones had houses many on the avenues and squares, and hired the young avenger Smith to see to the repairs. And Smith put faucets in, and cocks, and meters, eke, and taps, connections, tea-joints, sewer-pipes, basins, and water-taps. He tore the walls and ripped the floors to reach the pipes beyond. And excavations in the street and neath the sidewalk yawned, and daily, as he entered up the items in his book, the plumber's face wore a serene and retrospective look. And Jones would wring his hands and cry, Woe, woe, and utter woe! Ah, me, that taxes should be so high and rents should be so low! Then he would give the smith the house as installment, On account of its repairs and notes of hand for the rest of the amount.

Canto IV. Avenged at Last.

Now Smith had been for a dozen years in the practical plumbing line, and the bills of Smith did not grind slow, and they ground extremely fine. Terrace by terrace, house by house, the lands of Jones he took. And heavier still the balance was, writ in that fatal book. At last no property nor cash had he, so he did fail, and the avenging plumber locked him up in Ludlow Gaol. His heartless creditor he besought for mercy in his need. Nay, nay, no mercy. Lie and rot, quoth he, in jail like tweed. For I have sworn avenged to be on thee thy kin and kith. Rememberest thou Belinda Jane? I am the son of Smith.

8 7 - Fables by George Thomas Lanigan 9:21

The Merchant of Venice. A Venetian merchant who was lolling in the lap of luxury was accosted upon the Rialto by a friend who had not seen him for many months. "'How is this?' cried the latter. "'When I last saw you, your gabardine was out at elbows, and now you sail in your own gondola.' "'True,' replied the merchant. "'But since then I have met with serious losses, and then obliged to compound with my creditors for ten cents on the dollar.' Moral. Composition is the life of trade.

The Unfortunate Elephant An elephant had been endeavouring to rife the bowl of a knotted oak with its trunk, but the tree closed upon that member, detaining it, and causing the hapless Elphas africanus intense pain. He shook the forest with his trumpeting, and all the beasts gathered around him. Ah, my friend! said a pert chimpanzee. You have got your trunk checked, I say. My children, said a temperate camel to her young, let this awful example teach you to shun the bull. Does it hurt much? said a compassionate new. Ah, it does, it does, it must. I knew it. I have been a mother myself. And while they were sympathizing with him, the unfortunate elephant expired in great agony. Moral. The moral of the above is so plain as to need explanation.

Talk is cheap.

The coroner and the banana peel. As a coroner was entering a salon to see a man, he beheld a careless boy who was eating a banana, cast the rind of the fruit upon the slippery stone sidewalk, But instead of chiding the urchin, smiled and passed on. As he was coming out of the saloon, having satisfied his thirst, he slipped on the peel of the banana, and, falling, broke his neck, so that a rival coroner made the feast from the inquest. Moral. It is a rare sport to see the coroner hoist with his own petard.

The Rhinoceros and the Dromedary A thirsty rhinoceros, having to his great joy encountered a dromedary in the desert of Sahara, besought the latter animal of his mercy to give him a drink, but the dromedary refused, stating that he was holding the fluid for an advance. Why, said he to the rhinoceros, did you not imitate my forethought and prudence, and take some heed to the morrow? The rhinoceros acknowledged the justice of the rebuke. Some time afterwards he met in an oasis the dromedary, who had realized at the turn of the market and was now trying to cover his shots. "'For heaven's sake!' he gasped to the rhinoceros, who was wallowing in the midst of a refreshing pool. "'Trust me for a nip.' "'When I was thirsty,' replied the rhinoceros, "'you declined to stand the drinks, but I will give you a horn.' So saying—' He let the grateful sunlight into the dromedary's innards.

Moral. Virtue is its own reward.

The Hen and the Tailor A hen who had saved a tailor from drowning in a marine disaster that had cost several of his less fortunate companions their lives, asked him his opinion of the theory of evolution. The grateful tailor replied that he was himself an instance of the survival of the fittest. And the philosophical fowl, remarking that it was vulgar to pun, walked off with much dignity to resume her interrupted occupation of hatching out a china nest egg. Moral. Some people cannot take a joke. The glow-worm and the famished nightingale. A famished nightingale who had been singing to very thin houses chanced to encounter a glow-worm at eventide, and prepared to make upon him a light repast. The unfortunate lampyre splendidule besought the songster in the sacred name of art not to quench its vital spark, and appealed to his magnanimity.

The nightingale who needlessly sets claw upon a glowworm, he said, is a being whom it were gross flattery to term a lusinia philomela. The bird, however, turned a deaf beak to these appeals, and was about to douse the glim, but the glowworm cried out. Beware, lest I give you the heartburn. Remember how Herod and Luther died of a diet of glowworms. And while the nightingale, who was by no means a bad bird at stomach, was considering these propositions, escaped, hanging out false lights to baffle his enemy's pursuit. Moral. Let the dead past bury its dead. Act, act in the living present. The centipede and the barbaric yuck. While a centipede was painfully toiling over the Libyan desert, it was encountered by a barbaric yak, who scornfully asked him how were his poor feet.

The humble creature made no reply at the time, but some days later found the barbaric yak taken in the nets of the hunter and almost devoured by insects, which fled at the approach of the centipede. Help! Help, my good friend! exclaimed the unfortunate beast. I cannot move a muzzle in these cruel toils, and the ravenous insects have devoured my delicate flesh. Say you so, responded the centipede. Can you really not defend yourself? Alas, how can I? replied the yak. See you not how straitly I am bound? And is your flesh, then, so delicate?

It is, though I say it, who should not?

Then, said the centipede, I guess I'll take a bite myself.

Moral, the other man's extremity is often our opportunity.

The honest newsboy. A newsboy was passing along the street when he chanced to discover a purse of greenbacks. He was at first inclined to conceal it, but repelling the unworthy suggestion, he asked a venerable man if it was hisn. The venerable man looked at it hurriedly, said it was, patted him on the head, gave him a quarter, and said he would yet be president. The venerable man then hastened away, but was arrested for having counterfeit bills in his possession, while the honest newsboy played penny ante with his humble quarter and ran it up to two dollars and sixty-two cents. Moral. Honesty is sometimes the best policy.

The villager and the snake A villager one frosty day found under a hedge a snake almost dead with gold. Moved with compassion, and having heard that snake oil was good for the rheumatists, he took it home and placed it on the hearth, where it shortly began to wake and crawl. Meanwhile, the villager having gone out to keep an engagement with a man round the corner, the villager's son, who had not drawn a sober breath for a week, entered, And, beholding the serpent unfolding its plain, unvarnished tail, with the cry, I've got him again, fled to the office of the nearest justice of the peace, swore off, and became an apostle of temperance at seven hundred dollars a week. The beneficent snake next bit the villager's mother-in-law so severely that death soon ended her sufferings, and his, then silently stole away, leaving the villager deeply and doubly in its debt.

Moral. A virtuous action is not always its only reward. A snake in the grass is worth two in the boot.

The Ostrich and the Hen. An ostrich and a hen chanced to occupy adjacent apartments, and the former complained loudly that her rest was disturbed by the cackling of her humble neighbor. Why is it, she finally asked the hen, that you make such an intolerable noise? The hen replied, "'Because I have laid an egg.' "'Oh, no,' said the ostrich, with a superior smile. "'It is because you are a hen, and don't know any better.' Moral. The moral of the foregoing is not very clear, but it contains some reference to the agitation of female suffrage.

9 8 - 'The Senator's Laundry' by James DeMille 13:53

Humor of the North, arranged by Laurence J Burpee. Section Eight, the Senators Laundry by James DeMille.

Signora Mirandolina who was the landlady of the house where the club were lodging, was a widow, of about forty years of age, still fresh and blooming, with a merry dark eye, and much animation of features. Sitting usually in the small room which they passed on the way to their apartments, they had to stop to get their keys, or to leave them, when they went out, and Butthelens and Dick frequently stopped to have a little conversation. The rest, not being able to speak Italian, Contented themselves with smiles. The senator particularly, who gave the most beaming of smiles both on going and on returning. Sometimes he even tried to talk to her in his usual adaptation of broken English, spoken in loud tones to the benighted but fascinating foreigner.

Her attention to Dick during his sickness increased the senator's admiration, and he told her one of the best, one of the most kind-hearted and sympathetic of beings. One day, toward the close of their stay in Rome, the senator was in a fix. He had not had any washing done since he came to the city. He had run through all his clean linen, and came to a dead stand. Before leaving for another place, it was absolutely necessary to attend to this. But how? Buttons was off with the Spaniards. Dick had gone out on a drive. No one could help him, so he tried it himself. In fact, he had never lost confidence in his powers of making himself understood. It was still a fixed conviction of his that in cases of necessity any intelligent man could make his wants known to intelligent foreigners.

If not, there is stupidity somewhere. Had he not done so in Paris and in other places? So he rang and managed to make the servant understand that he wished to see the landlady. The landlady has always shown a great admiration for the manly, Not to say gigantic charms of the senator. Upon him she bestowed her brightest smile, and a quick flush on her face and heaving breast told that the senator had made wild work with her too susceptible heart. So now, when she learned that the senator wished to see her, she at once imagined the coast to be anything and everything except the real one. Why take that particular time when all the rest were out, she thought, evidently for some tender purpose? Why send for her?

Why not come down to see her? Evidently because he did not like the publicity of her room at the concierge. She arrayed herself, therefore, in her brightest and her best charms, gave an additional flourish to her hair that hung wavingly and luxuriantly, and still without a trace of grey, over her forehead. Looked at herself with her dark eyes in the glass to see if she appeared to the best advantage, and finally, in some agitation, but with great eagerness, she went to obey the summons. Meantime the senator had been deliberating how to begin. He felt that he could not show his bundle of clothes to so fair and fine a creature as this, whose manners were so soft and whose smile so pleasant. He would do anything first.

He would try a roundabout way of making known his wishes, trusting to his own powers and the intelligence of the lady for a full and complete understanding. Just as he had come to his conclusion, there was a timid knock at the door. "'Come in,' said the senator, who began to feel a little awkward already. "'Epermesso,' said a soft, sweet voice. "'Se può entrare?' And signora Mirandolina Rocca advanced in the room, giving one look at the senator, and then casting down her eyes. Humilissima serva di lei, signore, mi comandi. But the senator was in a quandary. What could he do? How begin? What gesture would be the most fitting for a beginning? The pose began to be embarrassing. The lady, however, as yet was calm.

Calmer, in fact, than when she entered. So she spoke once more. D'Icea è la bisogna illustrissimo. The senator was dreadfully embarrassed. The lady was so fair in his eyes. Was this a woman who could contemplate the fact of soiled linen? Never. Ahem, said he. Then he paused. Serva devota, said signora Mirandolina. Que c'est, signore? Then, looking up, she saw the face of the senator, all rosy red, turned toward her with a strange confusion and embarrassment in his eye. Yet it was a kind eye, a soft, kind eye. «Eglie è forse innamorata, di me?» murmured the lady, gathering new courage as she saw the timidity of the other. «Che grandezza?» she continued, loud enough for the senator to hear, yet speaking as if to herself.

«Che bellezza!» un galantuomo certamente, e questo è molto piacevole. She glanced at the mainly figure of the senator with a tender admiration in her eye, which she could not repress, and it was so intelligible to the senator that she blushed more violently than ever, and looked helplessly around him. E innamorato di me senza dubbio, said the signora. Vergogna non vuol che si sapesse. The senator at length found voice. Advancing toward the lady, he looked at her very earnestly, and as she thought, very piteously held out both his hands, then smiled, then spread his hands apart, then nodded and smiled again, and said, Me, me, want, ah, ah, ah, you know, me, gentlemen, ah, me, confound the luck, he added in profound vexation.

Signore, said Mirandolina, La di lei, gelentezza, me confonde. The senator turned his eyes all around, everywhere, in a desperate, half-conscious search for escape from an embarrassing situation. Signore, noi ci siamo sole, nessuno ci senti, remarked the signore encouragingly. Me want to tell you this, burst for the senator. Clothes, you know, washi, washi. Whereupon he elevated his eyebrows, smiled, and brought the tips of his fingers together. Io non so che cosa vuol dirmi, illustrissimo, said the signora in bewilderment. You—you—you know—ah—was she—hey? No, no, shaking his head. Not was she, but get was she. The landlady smiled. The senator, encouraged by this, came a step nearer. Che cosa?

Il cuor mi palpita. Io tremo, murmured La Rocca. She retreated a step, whereupon the senator at once fell back again in great confusion. Washi washi, washi, he repeated mechanically, and his mind was utterly vague and distrait. Washi washi, repeated the other interrogatively. Me, too. said she with tender emphasis. "'Vi, monsieur,' said he with utter desperation." The signora shook her head. "'Non capisco, ma quelle balordaggini ed intormentimente che sono si non segni manifesti d'amore.' "'I don't understand, ma'am, a single word of that.' The signora smiled. The senator took courage again. "'The fact is this, ma'am.' said he firmly. I want to get my clothes washed somewhere. Of course you don't do it, but you can tell me, you know.

Hmm? Non capisco. Madam, said he, feeling confident that she would understand that word at least, and thinking too that it might perhaps serve as a key to explain any other words which he might append to it. My clothes. I want to get them washed. Laundress, washy, soap and water, clean em all up, iron em, hang em out to dry. Huh? While saying this, he indulged in an expressive pantomime. When alluding to his clothes, he placed his hand against his chest. When mentioning the drying of them, he waved them in the air. The landlady comprehended this. How not? When a gentleman places his hand on his heart, what is his meaning? Sottighezza d'amore, murmured she. Che cosa cerca? She continued, looking up timidly, but invitingly.

The senator felt doubtful at this, and in fact a little frightened. Again he placed his hands on his chest to indicate his clothes. He struck that manly chest forcibly several times, looking at her all the time. Then he wrung his hands. Ah, signora! said La Rocca, with a melting glance. Non è duopo di desperazione. Wasci, wasci. Eppure, se ella vuol sposarmi, non c'è difficoltà, returned the other, with true Italian frankness. Soap and water. Non ho il corregio di dir di no. The senator had his arms outstretched to indicate the hanging-out process. Still, however, feeling doubtful if he were altogether understood, he thought he would try another form of pantomime. Suddenly he fell down on his knees, and began to imitate the action of a washerwoman over her tub, washing, wringing, pounding, rubbing.

"'Oh, gran cielo!' cried the signora, her pitying heart filled with tenderness at the sight of this noble being on his knees before her, and, as she thought, wringing his hands in despair. Oh, gran cielo, egli enamorato di me, non può parlar italiano, e così non può ldirmelo. Her warm heart prompted her, and she obeyed its impulse. What else could she do? She flung herself into his outstretched arms as he raised himself to hang out imaginary clothes on an invisible line. The senator was tender-strucked, confounded, bewildered, shattered, overcome, crushed, stupified, blasted, overwhelmed, horror-stricken, wondersmitten, annihilated, amazed, horrified, shocked, frightened, terrified, nonplussed, wilted, awestruck, shivered, astounded, dampfounded.

He did not even struggle. He was paralyzed. Ah, carissimo, said a soft and tender voice in his ear, a low, sweet voice. Se veramente me ami, sarò la tua carissima sposa. At that moment the door opened and Buttons walked in. In an instant he darted out. The senora hurried away. Addio, bellissima, carissima gioia, she sighed. The senator was still paralyzed. After a time he went with a pale and anxious face to see Buttons. That young man promised secrecy. and when the senator was telling his story tried hard to look serious and sympathetic. In vain. The thought of that scene, and the cause of it, and the blunder that had been made overwhelmed him. Laughter convulsed him. At last the senator got up indignantly and left the room.

But what was he to do now? The thing could not be explained. How could he get out of the house? He would have to pass her as she sat at the door. He had to call on Buttons again and implore his assistance. The difficulty was so repugnant and the matter was so delicate that Buttons declared he could not take the responsibility of settling it. It would have to be brought before the club. The club had a meeting about it, and many plans were proposed. The stricken senator had one plan, and that prevailed. It was to leave Rome on the following day. For his part, he had made up his mind to leave the house at once. He would slip out, as though he intended to return, and the others could settle his bill, and bring with them the clothes that had caused all this trouble.

He would meet them in the morning outside the gates of the city. This resolution was adopted by all, and the senator, leaving money to settle for himself, went away. He passed hurriedly out of the door. He dared not to look. He heard a soft voice pronounce the word, Gioia. He fled. Now, that one who owned the soft voice afterward changed her feelings so much toward her Gioia that opposite his name in her house-book, she wrote the following epithets. Birbone, Villanno, Zolicaccio, Burberone, Gaioffo, Meschino, Briconaccio, Anemalaccio. End of Humor of the North, arranged by Lawrence J. Burpee.

queue_music Chapters 9