A TRAVELED DONKEY
BY BERT LESTON TAYLOR
But Buddie got no farther. The sound of music came to her ears, and shestopped to listen. The music was faint and sweet, with the sighfulquality of an AEolian harp. Now it seemed near, now far.
"What can it be?" said Buddie.
"Wait here and I'll find out," said Snowfeathers. He darted away andreturned before you could count fifty.
"A traveling musician," he reported. "Come along. It's only a littleway."
Back he flew, with Buddie scrambling after. A few yards brought her to alittle open place, and here was the queerest sight she had yet seen inthis queer wood.
On a bank of reindeer moss, at the foot of a great white birch, amouse-colored donkey sat playing a lute. Over his head, hanging from abit of bark, was the sign:
WHILE YOU WAIT OLD SAWS RESET
After the many strange things that Buddie had come upon in Queerwood,nothing could surprise her very much. Besides, as she never before hadseen a donkey, or a lute, or the combination of donkey and lute, it didnot strike her as especially remarkable that the musician should beholding his instrument upside down, and sweeping the strings with one ofhis long ears, which he was able to wave without moving his head a jot.And this it was that gave to the music its soft and furry-purry quality.
The Donkey greeted Buddie with a careless nod, and remarked, as ifanticipating a comment he had heard many times:
"Oh, yes; I play everything _by ear_."
"Please keep on playing," said Buddie, taking a seat on another clump ofreindeer moss.
"I intended to," said the Donkey; and the random chords changed to acrooning melody which wonderfully pleased Buddie, whose opportunities tohear music were sadly few. As for the White Blackbird, he tucked hislittle head under his wing and went fast asleep.
"Well, what do you think of it?" asked the Donkey, putting down thelute.
"Very nice, sir," answered Buddie, enthusiastically; though she added toherself: The idea of saying sir to an animal! "Would you please tell meyour name?" she requested.
The Donkey pawed open a saddle-bag, drew forth with his teeth a card,and presented it to Buddie, who spelled out the following:
PROFESSOR BRAY TENORE BARITONALE TEACHER OF SINGING ALL METHODS CONCERTS AND RECITALS
While Buddie was reading this the Donkey again picked up his instrumentand thrummed the strings.
"Did you ever see a donkey play a lute?" said he. "That's an old saw,"he added.
"I never saw a donkey before," said Buddie.
"You haven't traveled much," said the other. "The world is full ofthem."
"This is the farthest I've ever been from home," confessed Buddie,feeling very insignificant indeed.
"And how far may that be?"
Buddie couldn't tell exactly.
"But it can't be a great way," she said. "I live in the log house by thelake."
"Pooh!" said the Donkey. "That's no distance at all." Buddie shrankanother inch or two. "I'm a great traveler myself. All donkeys travelthat can. If a donkey travels, you know, he _may_ come home a horse; andto become a horse is, of course, the ambition of every donkey!"
"Is it?" was all Buddie could think of to remark. What could she saythat would interest a globe-trotter?
"Perhaps you have an old saw you'd like reset," suggested the Donkey,still thrumming the lute-strings.
Buddie thought a moment.
"There's an old saw hanging up in our woodshed," she began, but got nofarther.
"Hee-haw! hee-haw!" laughed the Donkey. "Thistles and cactus, but that'srich!" And he hee-hawed until the tears ran down his nose. Poor Buddie,who knew she was being laughed at but didn't know why, began to feelvery much like crying and wished she might run away.
"Excuse these tears," the Donkey said at last, recovering his familygravity. "Didn't you ever hear the saying, A burnt child dreads thefire?"
Buddie nodded, and plucked up her spirits.
"Well, that's an old saw. And you must have heard that other very oldsaw, No use crying over spilt milk."
Another nod from Buddie.
"Here's my setting of that," said the Donkey; and after a fewintroductory chords, he sang:
"'Oh, why do you cry, my pretty little maid, With a Boo-hoo-hoo and a Heigho?' 'I've spilled my milk, kind sir,' she said, And the Cat said, 'Me-oh! my-oh!'
'No use to cry, my pretty little maid, With a Boo-hoo-hoo and a Heigho.' 'But what shall I do, kind sir?' she said, And the Cat said, 'Me-oh! my-oh!'
'Why, dry your eyes, my pretty little maid, With a Boo-hoo-hoo and a Heigho.' 'Oh, thank you, thank you, sir,' she said, And the Cat said, 'Me-oh! my-oh!'"
"How do you like my voice?" asked the Donkey, in a tone that said veryplainly: "If you don't like it you're no judge of singing."
Buddie did not at once reply. A professional critic would have said, andenjoyed saying, that the voice was of the hit-or-miss variety; that itwas pitched too high (all donkeys make that mistake); that it was harsh,rasping and unsympathetic, and that altogether the performance was "notconvincing."
Now, Little One, although Buddie was not a professional critic, andneither knew how to wound nor enjoyed wounding, even _she_ found theDonkey's voice harsh; but she did not wish to hurt his feelings--fordonkeys _have_ feelings, in spite of a popular opinion to the contrary.And, after all, it was pretty good singing for a donkey. Critics shouldnot, as they sometimes do, apply to donkeys the standards by whichnightingales are judged. So Buddie was able to say, truthfully andkindly:
"I think you do very well; very well, indeed."
It was a small tribute, but the Donkey was so blinded by conceit that heaccepted it as the greatest compliment.
"I _ought_ to sing well," he said. "I've studied methods enough. Themore methods you try, you know, the more of a donkey you are."
"Oh, yes," murmured Buddie, not understanding in the least.
"Yes," went on the Donkey; "I've taken the Donkesi Method, the SobrayliaMethod, the Thistlefixu Method--"
"I'm afraid I don't quite know what you mean by 'methods,'" venturedBuddie.
The Donkey regarded her with a pitying smile.
"A method," he explained, "is a way of singing 'Ah!' For example, in theThistlefixu Method, which I am at present using, I fill my mouth full ofthistles, stand on one leg, take in a breath three yards long, and sing'Ah!' The only trouble with this method is that the thistles tickle yourthroat and make you cough, and you have to spray the vocal cords twice aday, which is considerable trouble, especially when traveling, as _I_always am."
"I should think it _would_ be," said Buddie. "Won't you sing somethingelse?"
"I'm a little hoarse," apologized the singer.
"That's what you want to be, isn't it?" said Buddie, misunderstandinghim.
"Hee-haw!" laughed the Donkey. "Is that a joke? I mean my _throat_ ishoarse."
"And the rest of you is donkey!" cried Buddie, who could see a point asquickly as any one of her age.
"There's something to that," said the other, thoughtfully. "Now, if the_hoarseness_ should spread--"
"And you became _horse_ all over--"
"Why, then--"
"Why, then--"
"Think of another old saw," said the Donkey, picking up his lute.
"No; I don't believe I can remember any more old saws," said Buddie,after racking her small brain for a minute or two.
"Pooh!" said the Donkey. "They're as common as, Pass the butter, or,Some more tea, please. Ever hear, Fair words butter no parsnips?"
Buddie shook her head.
"The wolf does something every day that keeps him from church onSunday--?"
Again Buddy shook her head.
"It is hard to shave an egg--?"
Still another shake.
"A miss is as good as a mile? You can not drive a windmill with a pairof bellows? Help the lame dog over the stile? A hand-saw is a goodthi
ng, but not to shave with? Nothing venture, nothing have? Well, youhaven't heard much, for a fact," said the Donkey, contemptuously, asBuddie shook her head after each proverb. "I'll try a few more; there'sno end to them. Ever hear, When the sky falls we shall all catch larks?Too many cooks spoil the broth?"
"I've heard _that_," said Buddie, eagerly.
"It's a wonder," returned the Donkey. "Well, I have a very nice settingof that." And he sang:
"Some said, 'Stir it fast,' Some said, 'Slow'; Some said, 'Skim it off,' Some said, 'No'; Some said, 'Pepper,' Some said, 'Salt';-- All gave good advice, All found fault.
Poor little Tommy Trottett! Couldn't eat it when he got it."
"I like that," said Buddie. "Oh, and I've just thought of another oldax--I mean saw, if it _is_ one--Don't count your chickens before theyare hatched. Do you sing that?"
"One of my best," replied the Donkey. And again he sang:
"'Thirteen eggs,' said Sammy Patch, 'Are thirteen chickens when they hatch.' The hen gave a cluck, but said no more; For the hen had heard such things before.
The eggs fall out from tilted pail And leave behind a yellow trail; But Sammy,--counting, as he goes, Upon his fingers,--never knows.
Oh, Sammy Patch, your 'rithmetic Won't hatch a solitary chick."
"I like that the best," said Buddie, who knew what it was to tip over apail of eggs, and felt as sorry for Sammy Patch as if he really existed.
"It's one of my best," said the Donkey. "I don't call it my very best.Personally I prefer, Look before you leap. You've heard that old saw, Idare say."
"No; but that doesn't matter. I shall like it just as well," repliedBuddie.
"_That_ doesn't follow, but _this_ does," said the Donkey, and once morehe sang:
"A foolish Frog, one summer day, While splashing round in careless way, Observed a man With large tin can, And manner most suspicious. 'I think I know,' remarked the Frog, 'A safer place than on this log; For when a man Comes with a can His object is malicious.'
Thus far the foolish Frog was wise; But had he better used his eyes, He would have seen, Close by, a lean Old Pike--his nose just showing. Kersplash! The Pike made just one bite.... The moral I need scarce recite: Before you leap Just take a peep To see where you are going."
Buddie, however, clung to her former opinion. "I like _Sammy Patch_ thebest," said she.
"That," rejoined the singer, "is a matter of taste, as the donkey saidto the horse who preferred hay to thistles. Usually the public likesbest the very piece the composer himself cares least about. So whereverI go I hear, 'Oh, Professor, do sing us that beautiful song about SammyPatch.' And I can't poke my head inside the Thistle Club but some donkeybawls out, 'Here's Bray! Now we'll have a song. Sing us _Sammy Patch_,old fellow.' Really, I've sung that song so many times I'm tired of thesound of it."
"It must be nice to be such a favorite," said Buddie.
"Suppose we go up to the Corner and see what's stirring," suggested theDonkey, with a yawn.
"Oh, are _you_ going up to the Corner, too?" cried Buddie. "I am to meetthe Rabbit there at two o'clock. I hope it isn't late."
The Donkey glanced skyward.
"It isn't noon yet," said he.
"How do you tell time?" inquired Buddie.
"By the way it flies. Time flies, you know. You can tell a great manybirds that way, too." As he spoke the Donkey put his lute into one ofhis bags and took down his sign.
"You can ride if you wish," he offered graciously.
"Thank you," said Buddie. And leaving the White Blackbird asleep on hisperch,--for, as Buddie said, he was having such a lovely nap it would bea pity to wake him,--they set off through the wood.
It was bad traveling for a short distance, but presently they came outon an old log-road; and along this the Donkey ambled at an easy pace. Onboth sides grew wild flowers in wonderful abundance, but, as Buddienoticed, they were all of one kind--Enchanter's Nightshade.
Buddie had also noticed, when she climbed to her comfortable seat, apeculiar marking on the Donkey's broad back. It was bronze in color, andin shape like a cross.
"Perhaps it's a strawberry mark," she thought, "and he may not want totalk about it." But curiosity got the better of her.
"Oh, that?" said the Donkey, carelessly, in reply to a question. "That'sa Victoria Cross. I served three months with the British army in SouthAfrica, and was decorated for gallantry in leading a charge of theambulance corps. I shall have to ask you not to hang things on my neck.It's all I can do to hold up my head."
"Oh, excuse me," said Buddie, untying the sign, OLD SAWS RESET WHILE YOUWAIT.
"Hang it round your own neck," said the Donkey, and Buddie did so.
"I often wonder," she said, "whether a horse doesn't sometimes get tiredholding his head out at the end of his neck. And as for a giraffe, Idon't see how he stands it."
"Well, a giraffe's neck runs out at a more convenient angle," said theDonkey. "Still, it _is_ tiresome without a check-rein. You hear a greatdeal about a check-rein being a cruel invention, but, on the contrary,it's a great blessing. Now, a nose-bag is a positive outrage, and themore oats it contains the more of an imposition it is. People have thequeerest ideas!"
SELECTING THE FACULTY
BY BAYNARD RUST HALL
Our Board of Trustees, it will be remembered, had been directed by theLegislature to procure, as the ordinance called it, "Teachers for thecommencement of the State College at Woodville." That business, by theBoard, was committed to Dr. Sylvan and Robert Carlton--the most learnedgentleman of the body, and of--the New Purchase. Our honorable Boardwill be more specially introduced hereafter; at present we shall bringforward certain rejected candidates, that, like rejected prize essays,they may be published, and _thus_ have their revenge.
None can tell us how plenty good things are till he looks for them; andhence, to the great surprise of the Committee, there seemed to be asudden growth and a large crop of persons even in and around Woodville,either already qualified for the "Professorships," as we named them inour publication, or who _could_ "qualify" by the time of election. As tothe "chair" named also in our publications, one very worthy anddisinterested schoolmaster offered, as a great collateral inducement forhis being elected, "_to find his own chair!_"--a vast saving to theState, if the same chair I saw in Mr. Whackum's school-room. For hischair there was one with a hickory bottom; and doubtless he would havefilled it, and even lapped over its edges, with equal dignity in therecitation room of Big College.
The Committee had, at an early day, given an invitation to the Rev.Charles Clarence, A.M., of New Jersey, and his answer had beenaffirmative; yet for political reasons we had been obliged to invitecompetitors, or _make_ them, and we found and created "a right smartsprinkle."
Hopes of success were built on many things--for instance, on poverty; aplea being entered that something ought to be done for the poorfellow--on one's having taught a common school all his born days, whonow deserved to rise a peg--on political, or religious, or fanaticalpartizan qualifications--and on pure patriotic principles, such as aperson's having been "born in a canebrake and rocked in a sugar trough."On the other hand, a fat, dull-headed, and modest Englishman asked for aplace, because he had been born in Liverpool! and had seen the worldbeyond the woods and waters, too! And another fussy, talkative,pragmatical little gentleman rested his pretensions on his ability todraw and paint maps!--not projecting them in roundabout scientificprocesses, but in that speedy and elegant style in which young ladies_copy_ maps at first chop boarding-schools! Nay, so transcendent seemedMr. Merchator's claims, when his _show_ or _sample_ maps were exhibitedto us, that some in our Board, and nearly everybody out of it, wereconfident he would do for Professor of Mathematics and even Principal.
But of all our unsuccessful candidates, we sha
ll introduce by name onlytwo--Mr. James Jimmy, A.S.S., and Mr. Solomon Rapid, A. to Z.
The Wit and Humor of America, Volume III. (of X.) Page 3