PICKERING: Tut, tut-- 'Tis only some poor sport or boisterous joke.
Let us sit down and have a quiet smoke.
(_They sit and light cigars._)
FITCH (_singing_):
When first I met Miss Toughie I smoked a fine cigyar, An' I was on de dummy And she was in de cyar.
BOTH (_singing_):
An' I was on de dummy And she was in de cyar.
FITCH (_singing_):
I couldn't go to her, An' she wouldn't come to me; An' I was as oneasy As a gander on a tree.
BOTH (_singing_):
An' I was as oneasy As a gander on a tree.
FITCH (_singing_):
But purty soon I weakened An' lef' de dummy's bench, An' frew away a ten-cent weed To win a five-cent wench!
BOTH (_singing_)
An' frew away a ten-cent weed To win a five-cent wench!
FITCH:
Is there not now a certain substance sold Under the name of fulminate of gold, A high explosive, popular for blasting, Producing an effect immense and lasting?
PICKERING:
Nay, that's mere superstition. Rocks are rent And excavations made by argument.
Explosives all have had their day and season; The modern engineer relies on reason.
He'll talk a tunnel through a mountain's flank And by fair speech cave down the tallest bank.
(_The earth trembles, a deep subterranean explosion is heard and a section of the bank as big as El Capitan starts away and plunges thunderously into the cut. A part of it strikes De Young's dumpcart abaft the axletree and flings him, hurtling, skyward, a thing of legs and arms, to descend on the distant mountains, where it is cold. Fitch and Pickering pull themselves out of the debris and stand ungraveling their eyes and noses._)
FITCH:
Well, since I'm down here I will help to grade, And do dirt-throwing henceforth with a spade.
PICKERING:
God bless my soul! it gave me quit a start.
Well, fate is fate--I guess I'll drive this cart.
(_Curtain._)
METEMPSYCHOSIS
DRAMATIS PERSONae.
ST. JOHN _a Presidential Candidate_ MCDONALD _a Defeated Aspirant_ MRS. HAYES _an Ex-President_ PITTS-STEVENS _a Water Nymph_
_Scene_--A Small Lake in the Alleghany Mountains.
ST. JOHN:
Hours I've immersed my muzzle in this tarn And, quaffing copious potations, tried To suck it dry; but ever as I pumped Its waters into my distended skin The labor of my zeal extruded them In perspiration from my pores; and so, Rilling the marginal declivity, They fell again into their source. Ah, me!
Could I but find within these ancient hills Some long extinct volcano, by the rains Of countless ages in its crater brimmed Like a full goblet, I would lay me down Prone on the outer slope, and o'er its edge Arching my neck, I'd siphon out its store And flood the valleys with my sweat for aye.
So should I be accounted as a god, Even as Father Nilus is. What's that?
Methought I heard some sawyer draw his file With jarring, stridulous cacophany Across his notchy blade, to set its teeth And mine on edge. Ha! there it goes again!
_Song, within_.
Cold water's the milk of the mountains, And Nature's our wet-nurse. O then, Glue thou thy blue lips to her fountains Forever and ever, amen!
ST. JOHN:
Why surely there's congenial company Aloof--the spirit, I suppose, that guards This sacred spot; perchance some water-nymph Who laving in the crystal flood her limbs Has taken cold, and so, with raucous voice Afflicts the sensitive membrane of mine ear The while she sings my sentiments.
_(Enter Pitts-Stevens.)_ Hello!
What fiend is this?
PITTS-STEVENS:
'Tis I, be not afraid.
ST. JOHN:
And who, thou antiquated crone, art thou?
I ne'er forget a face, but names I can't So well remember. I have seen thee oft.
When in the middle season of the night, Curved with a cucumber, or knotted hard With an eclectic pie, I've striven to keep My head and heels asunder, thou has come, With sociable familiarity, Into my dream, but not, alas, to bless.
PITTS-STEVENS:
My name's Pitts-Stevens, age just seventeen years; Talking teetotaler, professional Beauty.
ST. JOHN:
What dost them here?
PITTS-STEVENS:
I'm come, fair sir, With paint and brush to blazon on these rocks The merits of my master's nostrum--so: _(Paints rapidly.)_ "McDonald's Vinegar Bitters!"