Life — December 5, 1896 — page 7: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

‘LIFE: of Persian pattern, and the worsted slippers my daughter Peggy had made and so richly embroidered with her own fair hands, I was felicitating myself, sitting before the blazing fire in Janette’s comfortable library, upon not having to go out into the storm, when all of a sudden, without warning of any kind, I found myself, gown, slippers and all, speeding along past the public gardens as if I were going somewhere, and in a tremendous hurry to get there, too. “««What the deuce!’ I muttered, as I stopped and tried to get my bearings, and then, impelled by some power within me, I know not what, I hurried along again, whispering to myself, ‘I shall be late !—I shall be late! '"— though late for what, I hadn't an idea. The snow was blinding, but I did not seem to mind it. It was deep beneath my slippered feet, and the piercing wind played havoc with my dressing-gown, and yet I moved on silently, lightly as a feather tossed by the breeze. “Well, I'll be hanged!’ quoth I, as I turned into Beacon street and began eagerly to scan the numbers over the front doors of the houses thereon. What number I was seeking I had no notion. I was looking for some number—that was all I knew—and on a sudden I was satisfied that I had found it. In great, gilt letters in the semi-circular, leaded-glass transom over the front door of a certain dwelling, not far from the State-house, appeared the number 3098. Of course you will under- stand that it was not 3098. For the sake of the story, however, some number must be chosen, and as 3098 has always been one of my favorites I shall use it. Suddenly, then, as I say, the number 3098 flashed upon my vision, “* Ah!" said I, with a sigh of relief, ‘here we are at last," and blowing the snow out of my mouth, like so much smoke, I mounted the steps and tried to ring the bell. Fora few minutes I was dreadfully puzzled. I could grasp the bell-handle, but I couldn't pull it! I pulled through it, but the handle itself remained stationary. “Vou see, I did not yet realize I was only a ghost! “Had my hands been material hands the bell-knob would have come out. As it was, my efforts were as« futile as would be those of a rising fog trying to push hard enough against an electric button to ring the bell below stairs. “+ Well I'll be—' I began, and then, without the slight- est effort, impelled again by the same mysterious influ- ence of which I have already spoken, / walked straight through the doors, and found myself in a dimly-lighted hall, on the left of which was an equally dimly-lighted parlor—sitting-room, we call it in Bangor. As I stood there hesitating a moment, out through the portieres of the broad doorway walked John—he walked right through me, by the way, which impressed me as singular enough at the time, but the whole thing was so queer that I said nothing—and following closely to bid him good-bye was Miss Bunkerill, with a sweet look of loving interest in her eyes which made me for the moment somewhat envious of my son. 443 ‘««T'll give you your answer to-morrow, John,’ she said softly, as though there could be no doubt that the answer would be yes. “And then, the mysterious influence controlling me, in a sharp, nasal tone, which is as abhorrent to my ears as to those of any other person of refinement, I bawled out: “*Hello, Jonks!'—Jonks is the name John was known by at Bangor, and while it was vulgar enough, we had liked it because it was a pet name. ‘They both started nervously, and John, with a wild look in his eyes, and a remark I did not catch, made a frantic break for the front door and disappeared into the night. Miss Bunkerill, much puzzled at the incident, ran to the window and peered out at his fast vanishing form for a moment, and then went to her piano and began to play softly upon it. She did not appear to see me, and my impulse was to vanish even as Jonks had done, but I couldn't. My self-control was gone. I walked into the parlor in obedience to the mysterious influence, and sat down until Miss Bunkerill ceased playing. Then she turned about, but still seemed not to see me; and there she sat, communing with herself, humming softly, and thinking, thinking, thinking. After a half an hour of reflective silence, which I found very embarrassing, for I could neither speak nor move, she turned out the gas, and then, on her way out of the room, for the first time caught sight of me. She gave a gasp and staggered backward into a chair. “**Wh—wh—who are you?’ she cried. “The accursed fates then loosened my tongue. «Don't be afraid, young lady,’ said I, still in that frightful nasal tone. ‘I'm Jonks's dad.’ “I thought that would reassure her, but it didn’t seem to. So I spoke again, “«T haven't the slightest idea why I am here, especially in this here rig and talking through my nose, but now that I be, I may as well have the pleasure of meetin’ you, seein’ as we're likely to see so much of each other after you've married Jonks. How d'y' do?’ “Why I spoke that way I don’t know. to people that way as a rule. Maine man. I do not speak Iam not a comic paper I have manners, and some education, and should have been glad to leave the house and resume my natural attitude toward life, but I couldn't. still under the control of the foreign influence. “‘The young woman looked at me with great, staring, I was bulging blue eyes. a terrified whisper. “««That’s what,’ said I, ‘and a darned good one, too, my lady. Not handsome, nor stylish, maybe, but solid and respectable. If Jonks behaves himself he'll have the grocery some day.’ “The grocery?’ she cried, aghast. “*That's what,’ said I, growing more and more nasal as I wenton. ‘Me and my wife is tired of the business, though it does keep Jonks in collars and golf sticks, and I've promised that when Jonks is married to settle the ‘You John’s father?’ she gasped, in comicbooks.com