Caudle; or twice or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, no man's b.u.t.tons in the world are better looked after than yours. I only wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married! I should like to know where were your b.u.t.tons then?

Yes, it is worth talking of! But that's how you always try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then, if I only try to speak, you won't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to yourselves: a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of but her husband's b.u.t.tons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha! if poor women only knew what they had to go through! What with b.u.t.tons--and one thing and another! They'd never tie themselves up to the best man in the world, I'm sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle?--Why, do much better without you, I'm certain.

And it's my belief, after all, that the b.u.t.ton wasn't off the shirt; it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to talk about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for anything.

All I know is, it's very odd that the b.u.t.ton should be off the shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's b.u.t.tons than I am. I only say it's very odd.

However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to death with your temper, and sha'n't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may laugh!

And I daresay you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's your love; that's your feeling! I know that I'm sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second wife will look after your b.u.t.tons! You'll find out the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed b.u.t.ton to your back.

DOUGLAS JERROLD.

_JIM BLUDSO._

Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives, Because he don't live, you see: Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me.

Whar have you been for the last three years, That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso pa.s.sed in his checks, The night of the "Prairie Belle"?

He warn't no saint--them engineers Is all pretty much alike-- One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, And another one here, in Pike.

A careless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward man in a row-- But he never pinked, and he never lied, I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had-- To treat his engine well; Never be pa.s.sed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the _Prairie Belle_ took fire, A thousand times he swore He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ash.o.r.e.

All boats has their day on the Mississip'.

And her day came at last-- The _Movastar_ was a better boat, But the _Belle_, she wouldn't be pa.s.sed, And so came tearin' along that night, The oldest craft on the line, With a n.i.g.g.e.r squat on her safety-valve, And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine.

The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer-bank on the right.

There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ash.o.r.e."

Thro' the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And know'd he would keep his word.

And sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smoke-stacks fell, And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the _Prairie Belle_.

He warn't no saint--but at judgment I'd run my chance with Jim 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him.

He'd seen his duty a dead sure thing, And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain't a-goin' to be too hard On a man that died for men.

COLONEL JOHN HAY.

_HOW UNCLE MOSE COUNTED THE EGGS._

Old Mose, who sells eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived; but he has got the habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in front of the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady came out to the gate to make the purchases.

"Have you got any eggs this morning, Uncle Mose?" she asked.

"Yes, indeed I has. Jes got in ten dozen from de kentry."

"Are they fresh?"

"I gua'ntee 'em. I knows dey am fresh jess de same as ef I had laid 'em myse'f."

"I'll take nine dozen. You can count them in this basket."

"All right, mum." He counts: "One, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten. You kin rely on dem bein' fresh. How's your son comin'

on at de school? He mus' be mos' grown."

"Yes, Uncle Mose, he is a clerk in a bank at Galveston."

"Why, how ole am de boy?"

"He is eighteen."

"You don't tole me so. Eighteen and gettin' a salary already! eighteen (counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-free, twenty-foah, twenty-five, and how's yore gal comin' on? She was mos'

growed up de las' time I seed her."

"She is married and living in Dallas."

"Wal, I declar. How de time scoots away! An' yo' say she has childruns?

Why, how ole am de gal? She mus' be about----"

"Thirty-three."

"Am dat so? (counting) firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six, firty-seben, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-free. Hit am so singular dat you has sich old childruns. I can't believe you has grand-childruns. You don't look more den forty yeahs old youself."

"Nonsense, old man, I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to be fifty-three years old----"

"Fifty-free? I jess dun gwinter b'lieve hit, fifty-free, fifty-foah, fifty-five, fifty-six--I want you to pay tenshun when I counts de eggs, so dar'll be no mistake--fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-free, sixty-foah--whew! Dat am a warm day. Dis am de time of yeah when I feels I'se gettin' ole myse'f. I ain't long for dis worl. You comes from an ole family. When your fodder died he was sebenty years ole."

"Seventy-two, Uncle Mose."

"Dat's ole, suah. Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seven, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine--and your mudder? she was one ob de n.o.blest lookin' ladies I ebber see. You reminds me ob her so much. She libbed to mos' a hundred. I bleeves she was done past a centurion when she died."

"No, Uncle Mose, she was only ninety-six when she died."

"Den she wasn't no chicken when she died. I know dat--ninety-six, ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight--dar 108 nice fresh eggs--jess nine dozen, and heah am one moah egg in case I has discounted myse'f."

Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Burton said to her husband, "I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood right there and heard Old Mose count them myself, and there were nine dozen."

_THE NEGRO BABY'S FUNERAL._

I was walking in Savannah, past a church decayed and dim, When there slowly through the windows came a plaintive funeral hymn; And the sympathy awakened, and a wonder quickly grew, Till I found myself environed in a little negro pew.