Beadle's New York Dime Library No. 1061 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

tent and importance of the different nations from which each had respectively originated. ‘‘ Sure, ony mon that’s afther knowin’ ony- thing, can’t dany but phat ould Ireland are the jewel o’ the worruld. Be jabus, she’s afther bain’ called be avrybody phat knows his mouth frum a badger’s hole, the gim 0’ the saes! Bedad, but she’s the granest grass, the brightest dazies, the bluest lakes, an’ the purtiest mounthins. She’s ther sw’atest buthermilk, giruls an’ pertaties, the foightenest b’ys an’ cats, ye can shake out. Phat do yees think Angland’s Quane w’u’d do widout Irish b’ys to foigbt fur ber? The back o’ me hand to that victory, an’ bad cess to the b'ys; fur it’s thimsilves, an’ ould Arin go braugh, wid ther grane flag spathered wid shamrocks, abuv’ thim, they ought to be whackin’ fur! Troth, whin I thinks ev it I c’u’d chaw me own he’d off wid vaxat') 1 an’ sorror. Giv’ us a kiss off the mouth o’ ti...) bothle, misther Pate, I feels a vacancy in me sthomic’, an’ signs o’ grafe wather in me eye. Here’s to me gran’faather, the last King o’ Ballyschlaven, p’ace to his ashes. Be the hole in me coat—I mane the big’est one—but Ill never again see his mone- mint—indade I'll be a lucky mon ef I sees me own in this land o’ unsartintes.” And Mick lubricated his tongue again with bis favorite beverage. Vell,” began Pete, “I doun’t vos knows much ’pout dot Ireish cundry, put I knows ve makes enuff lager bier in Yarmany, dot you ecude dake dot liddle Irelond and svim id all apout in de bier, und not vas pees inder vay eider, mooch. Und ve cude bile upe de kase (or sheese,) und pretzils ober dot Irelond, vot ve makes, so high as neber vas dere a mounden. Den ve makes de Limberger scheese und—” “Marsa Pete,” interrupted Austin, ‘’cuse me, but my degesstin’ melodeons am ’stremely del’kate, an’ I has bin near dem towns in Gar- miny, Whar day makes dat cheese; an’ I ‘clare ter Mozes, I smelled dem arter marsa’n’ I done got clean ter Rome, Marsa Mick, spashiatin’ *hout Ireland, did yer eber see or hear tell on de Giant’s Crossway?” -“Troth I hav’ that same. Sure I offtin hearud me faather tell 0’ me gran faather, the Jast King o’ Ballyschlaven, haviw’ crossed on it to France. ’Twas in bad rapare at the time, an’ he cam’ near bain’ lost intirely, havi.’ taken a miiss-sthep into the wathe ; an’ the King o’ Fravce sint him home in tue flute o’ the navy, an’ was afther giving him s.athers o' j-wels, fur ‘twas a darrin’ fate, avin as long ago as that. Thar’s but few pbat.has re’d enuff o’ histery ter know that ’twas Saint Pathrick bimsilf b’ilt that bridge, ter cum over the say, an’ tache the true faith, in ould Ireland. Heaven bless him, foriver. ‘Tip the bottle over at Austin, misther Pate; sure, the mintion o’ the chaze made him sck, an’ no wontber! He’sa trifle pale, but it’s not ter be supposed a thick-headed Dutechmon w’u'd ob sarve it, whin he’s thinkin’ o’ the fat gals squazin’ grape juice on ‘ther R’ine. Be the game tokin, ef it’s nothin’ but pretsils, an’ beer, an’ krout ye bas ter talk of, I’m thinkiu’ ye’ll giv’ the crow ter the Jrish cock. Hurrool fer ou'd Ireland, an’ ther last King o’ Bally- sehlaven! Take me back gintly, in a jaunting- car! Smuther me wid dazies, an’ burry me where ther shamrock grows, on the banks o’ Killarney! Till die as aisy as a new-born babe.” Mick in his excitement leaped up and danced in aillively way about the grove, until Pete pave a warning whistle, and shading his eyes with lis hand gazed up into the trees. ‘*Phat the divel are ye afther sayin’, misther Pate?” ‘‘Vun tam ’possum, vot vos peen schleepin’ mit bis dail rount de limb, Giv’ me vun gun, liverly, quick. I sboots him, und ve has vun goot roast.” Mick sprung to the fire and handed a rifle to Pete. ‘Tam dat gun! de poys dakes de lock to be mented! How you diuks I shoots dot ’possum mitowert no lock on de gun?’ “Tundther an’ turt! how the divil’s the *possum to know that?” said Mick, as he handed Pete another rifle. Taking qu.ck aim the Dutchman brought his game, w.th a heavy thud, from the top of one of the highest trees, ‘“’Pon me sowl, misther Pate, ye has a trifle too much potheen. Sure ony mon wid since c’u’d see the fall w’u’d ’a’ killed him, wid- out wastein’ powther,” ‘Vell, I dells you vot I dinks, Mick. I at 54%. iS ‘@ uC. ay shal 2 wh Buckskin Sam. dinks you petter dake a trink owert der spring, your het vas gettin’ thick; und den go change your bony do petter grass, vere he kan putsum more meat on dem pones,”’ *“‘More mate on his bones, is it? Be jabers! but he has all he can take along wid him now. It’s a harud-b’arted mon ye are, Pate, to wish the poore baste over-bardined.” ‘*You yoost dakes kare you gits rot ober- purtened, mine frient,’’ muttered Pete, as he gave a knowing wink at Austin; and glancing to see if Mick was out of sight, continued in a guarded tone; “Cum on, "Ustin, I makes a liddle dalk mit you. Cum liverly quick mit de woots, und we? has sumi fun mit dut Mick, burty soon, py und py.” Mick soon returned to camp, talking to him- selfand gesticulating vigorously. On reaching the neighborhood of the camp-fire, where bis view was unobstructed, he discovered, to his surprise, the absence of his comrades, who were seated in the bushes where they could observe every movement of the Lrishman. The eyes of the latter, roving about the camp in an unsuspecting manner, suddenly be- came fixed upon the bottle of whisky which Pete had purposely left at the foot of the tree. Mick gave a leap into the air slapping his boots with bis hands as he jumped, breathed out a low “‘ Hurroo!” and sprung to the tree, grasp- ing and hugging the flask to his bosom, first giving it a shake to satisfy-bimseif that it still contained a quantity of O-be-joyful. He lost no time in transferring a large por- tion of the whisky from the bottie to his stomach, Then, for the first time realizing that he had done a mean trick and that Pete and Austin might, at any moment, return, he sprung to the spring and filled the bottle with water enough to make up for the quantity he had drank, wiping it off dry, and replacing it in the same position he had first observed it. His eyes Jeered with cunning, and he slapped bis own back to give himself credit for this well executed maneuver. Then he went to the further portion of the camp but could not keep his eyes from returning toward the foun- tain-bead of his present elevated condition. With much fuss and blarney, which sounded loudly through the camp, Mick now feigned to be just returning from staking his horse, think- ing that the boys would hear him. The deep potations had begun to tell upon his brain, and in trying to execute a difficult step in his lone jig he fell flat to the earth, much to the amusement of the watchers, who only had sufficient of the ardent on board to make them hungry for fun, After several at- tempts to rise again, Mick finally give it up as a bad job, and sat with bis back against a tree indulging in a soliloquy: ‘Mick McFiliony, are ye here? Prisent sor! Arrah, me b’y, ye'r here, fust at last. Sure, ye ware alwis behint before. Bad ’cess to ye, phat the divil was ye afther, st’alin’ me whisky fur? Stale yer whisky, is it sor? ’Pon me sowl the mon what says a McFilliony aver sthole—the mon what says a dacindent ev the last king o’ Ballyschlaven avir tuck a haper or avin astbraw frum ony one, will die suddent widout praste er prayer+Mither o’ Mozes,” I'd take me oath on the blarney-sthone, I’ve not had a schmell, avin, o’ whisk}? ther day. Sthick to it, Mick: fur be the fa’ries o’ Killarney ye didao’t sthop long enuff fer smellin’, an’ yer mouth ware so harud at work yer nose had no chance at all, at all. ‘Sure navir mind, Mick, me b’y,” patting himself on the head, *‘ther day will be afther cumin’ whin ye can hav plinty widout axin’ no favors. Wirra, wirra, but whar the divil are the b’ys? Sure ’twas a mane trick to lave me alone, Hurroo fer ould Ireland an’ ther King 0’ Ballyschlaven an’ his— Phat ther divil’s ther mather wid me? Sure thar was me faather was the sun ev me gran faather the king; an’ I’m takin’ me owth I’m a sun ev me faather. Bedad bit I bas it. Hurrooh fer ther sickond sun ev ther King o’ Ballyschlaven—that’s Mick McFilinny, all ther woruld over! Hurrooh fer the sickond King o’ Ballyschlaven! Haur- rooh fer Bullyschlaven, King o’ the MeFil- linnys! Hurrooh fer the King o’ ther Bally- schlavens, Bally—King! Hurrooh fer ther ‘Schlavens! King ‘Schiavens! Hurrooh fer ther Ballys! Hurrooh fer King McFillinny, Schlavenballyking! Hurrooh fer Mick! Hur- rooh Bally! Hurrooh ‘Schlaven! Hurrooh King! Hurrooh Schlavenbally—divil a smell ther day—niver sbtole a baper! Hurrooh ~~ 2 oe am 4 oe S i i. Cy a = | 11 Bally—” and Mick sunk to earth in a drunken stupor. Pete and Austin now emerged from their hiding-places, laughing immoderately, and, walking into camp placed Mick in a more comfortable position, covering his face from the thousands of buzzing flies, ‘Mick woot pe vun tam pat soltier dit he haf all de schnaps he coult trink. He yoost wents do sleeps effery dimes, ‘Ustin, ve vill dakes annoder trink, hav zumdings do ext; den ve has more fun py und py, burty soon, mit Mick. I has blenty more dot schnaps mit mine sattle-pags.” “**Clar’ ter grashus, Massa Pete,” exclaimed Austin, in a tone of bitter disappointment. ‘Dat possum dun gone skedaddled. Tho’t you killed him, dead sure. Gollamighty I’z agger- wated ’bout dat. Was goin’ hab a ’stremely lushus stew outen dat debble; but I tells yer be gone sure an’ sartin. Done tote hisself away frum dis dangerous lucallity.” “Py tam, vos dot zo? Vell dem tam dings vill alvis fools ev’rypody. Muss pute dem riut indo de pot or dey goes und runs avay’ mit demselves, shoost so soon dey dinks you not looks apout, und seesdem. Vell, dare vos no use do yeeps ‘pout id; ve can dake vun, dwo dotzen trinks in de blace of dot blagy "bossum.: Here vos luck, mine freent. Mick, vake upe: Vas long dimes dem trinks petweens? Vot you says? Notdings? Vell, dot vos petter for you, mine poy. Take vun goot schleen [f sends you on vun long skowert, py und py.” Austin, between drinks, prepared a lunch for himself and Pete, while the latter perfected his arrangements for further fun with Mick, when the evening should set in, to shield, in a measure, anything which might appear wrong to the fuddled Irishman. Mick’s mustang was bridled and saddled for the road, and taken some distance into the woods north of the springs, where there was a small, circular opening, entirely free of trees or brush. In the center of this opening Pete drove an iron picket pin, with a swivel head; an extra lariat was secured to the end of the one about the neck of the borse, making some eighty feet in ali, and the end tied to the swivel head of the picket-pin. This done, and explained to his table comrade— who rolled about the grass in convulsive laughter, much to the detriment of his tidy make-up-- they re- turned to camp and partook of their simple prairie supper, washed down with the whisky so liberally diluted by Mick—-the other bottle being held in reserve to carry out the proposed plan. By dusk the cemp was put in order, the horses and mules secreted to the south of the camp, and Austin, through Pete’s direction, bid away in a tree, where, from his perch, be could observe things and enjoy the success or defeat of Pete’s plans. The latter then took the bottle of whisky which had not been thus far disturbed, ran to where Mick was ‘snoring, and, shaking him about roughly, exclaimed in a voice of feigned fright: ““Wak’ upe, Mick! Wak’ upe! ’undred touzen tyvels, wak’ upe!” Then he gave a loud war-whoop in the ear of Mick, who sprung upright in an instant— and the next knocked Pete with a well-directed, powerful blow several feet, end over end, down the bank, the latter just saving himself from going into the stream by frantically grasp- ing a bush. Recovering his feet, exasperated almost beyond endurance by the turn of affairs, and doubly maddened by the knowledge that Austin was a witness to the rather turn-table incident, he yelled to the bewildered Irish- man: “Got in himmul, vot vor you duz datt Ton’t you knows dot tam Tuch mulars triver? Donder und blitzen, you preaks mine het und. tam near preaks de pottle ob schnaps!”’ Seeing that Mick did not yet realize where he was, or what he had ani Pete’s ire cooled. down, and be approached and inquired; “How vos you feels, Mick, ole poy— goot?” “Fale, is it, mon? sure, I fale loike I was: afther bain’ awake at Donnybrook Fair. It’s. mesilf has a. rowlin’-mill, full blast, in me: sthommack; an’ a cotton-mill, wid sax Vousand’ sphindles, runnin’ in me head; an’ win’-mills hangin’ on me ears. Fur ther luv o’ God an’ frievdship, giv us a big dhrop o’ that sthuff ye has in ther bothel. Whar in the name o’ since are we, onyhows? an’ how came I asleep?” jai “Dake vun trink, Mick, liverly, comicbo 20ks ? : ; sigue 7 “com a “ae. > Ae