Eli Perkins was astonished, and observed:
"Waal! DID you ever?"
I certainly never had.
There were pools of blood on the greensward, and fragments of wool and raw lamb chops lay round in confused heaps.
The dogs would have been sent to Boston that night, had they not suddenly died that afternoon of a throat-distemper.It wasn't a swelling of the throat.It wasn't diptheria.It was a violent opening of the throat, extending from ear to ear.
Thus closed their life-stories.Thus ended their interesting tails.
I failed as a raiser of lambs.As a sheepist, I was not a success.
Last summer Mr.Perkins, said, "I think we'd better cut some grass this season, sir."We cut some grass.
To me the new-mown hay is very sweet and nice.The brilliant George Arnold sings about it, in beautiful verse, down in Jersey every summer; so does the brilliant Aldrich, at Portsmouth, N.H.
And yet I doubt if either of these men knows the price of a ton of hay to-day.But new-mown hay is a really fine thing.It is good for man and beast.
We hired four honest farmers to assist us, and I led them gayly to the meadows.
I was going to mow, myself.
I saw the sturdy peasants go round once ere I dipped my flashing scythe into the tall green grass.
"Are you ready?" said E.Perkins.
"I am here!"
"Then follow us."
I followed them.
Followed them rather too closely, evidently, for a white-haired old man, who immediately followed Mr.Perkins, called upon us to halt.
Then in a low firm voice he said to his son, who was just ahead of me, "John, change places with me.I hain't got long to live, anyhow.Yonder berryin' ground will soon have these old bones, and it's no matter whether I'm carried there with one leg off and ter'ble gashes in the other or not! But you, John--YOU are young."The old man changed places with his son.A smile of calm resignation lit up his wrinkled face, as he sed, "Now, sir, I am ready!""What mean you, old man!" I sed.
"I mean that if you continner to bran'ish that blade as you have been bran'ishin' it, you'll slash h-- out of some of us before we're a hour older!"There was some reason mingled with this white-haired old peasant's profanity.It was true that I had twice escaped mowing off his son's legs, and his father was perhaps naturally alarmed.
I went and sat down under a tree."I never know'd a literary man in my life," I overheard the old man say, "that know'd anything."Mr.Perkins was not as valuable to me this season as I had fancied he might be.Every afternoon he disappeared from the field regularly, and remained about some two hours.He sed it was headache.He inherited it from his mother.His mother was often taken in that way, and suffered a great deal.
At the end of the two hours Mr.Perkins would reappear with his head neatly done up in a large wet rag, and say he "felt better."One afternoon it so happened that I soon followed the invalid to the house, and as I neared the porch I heard a female voice energetically observe, "You stop!" It was the voice of the hired girl, and she added, "I'll holler for Mr.Brown!""Oh no, Nancy," I heard the invalid E.Perkins soothingly say, "Mr.
Brown knows I love you.Mr.Brown approves of it!"This was pleasant for Mr.Brown!
I peered cautiously through the kitchen-blinds, and, however unnatural it may appear, the lips of Eli Perkins and my hired girl were very near together.She sed, "You shan't do so," and he DO-SOED.She also said she would get right up and go away, and as an evidence that she was thoroughly in earnest about it, she remained where she was.
They are married now, and Mr.Perkins is troubled no more with the headache.
This year we are planting corn.Mr.Perkins writes me that "on accounts of no skare krows bein put up krows cum and digged fust crop up but soon got nother in.Old Bisbee who was frade youd cut his sons leggs off Ses you bet go an stan up in feeld yrself with dressin gownd on & gesses krows will keep way.This made Boys in store larf.no More terday from "Yours respecful "Eli Perkins,""his letter."
My friend Mr.D.T.T.Moore, of the "Rural New Yorker," thinks if I"keep on" I will get in the Poor House in about two years.
If you think the honest old farmers of Barclay County want me, Iwill come.
Truly Yours, Charles F.Browne.
1.34.BUSTS.
There are in this city several Italian gentlemen engaged in the bust business.They have their peculiarities and eccentricities.They are swarthy-faced, wear slouched caps and drab pea-jackets, and smoke bad cigars.They make busts of Webster, Clay, Bonaparte, Douglas, and other great men, living and dead.The Italian buster comes upon you solemnly and cautiously."Buy Napoleon?" he will say, and you may probably answer "not a buy." "How much giv-ee?" he asks, and perhaps you will ask him how much he wants."Nine dollar," he will answer always.We are sure of it.We have observed this peculiarity in the busters frequently.No matter how large or small the bust may be, the first price is invariably "nine dollar." If you decline paying this price, as you undoubtedly will if you are right in your head, he again asks, "how much giv-ee?" By way of a joke you say "a dollar," when the buster retreats indignantly to the door, saying in a low, wild voice, "O dam!" With his hand upon the door-latch, he turns and once more asks, "how much giv-ee?" You repeat the previous offer, when he mutters, "O ha!"then coming pleasantly towards you, he speaks thus: "Say! how much giv-ee?" Again you say a dollar, and he cries, "take 'um--take 'um!"--thus falling eight dollars on his original price.
Very eccentric is the Italian buster, and sometimes he calls his busts by wrong names.We bought Webster (he called him Web-STAR) of him the other day, and were astonished when he called upon us the next day with another bust of Webster, exactly like the one we had purchased of him, and asked us if we didn't want to buy "Cole, the wife-pizener!" We endeavored to rebuke the depraved buster, but our utterance was choked, and we could only gaze upon him in speechless astonishment and indignation.
1.35.A HARD CASE.
