The Wit and Humor of America
Chapter 160 : AFTER THE FUNERAL BY JAMES M. BAILEY It was just after the funeral. The bereaved and s

AFTER THE FUNERAL

BY JAMES M. BAILEY

It was just after the funeral. The bereaved and subdued widow, enveloped in millinery gloom, was seated in the sitting-room with a few sympathizing friends. There was that constrained look so peculiar to the occasion observable on every countenance. The widow sighed.

"How do you feel, my dear?" said her sister.

"Oh! I don't know," said the poor woman, with difficulty restraining her tears. "But I hope everything pa.s.sed off well."

"Indeed it did," said all the ladies.

"It was as large and respectable a funeral as I have seen this winter,"

said the sister, looking around upon the others.

"Yes, it was," said the lady from next door. "I was saying to Mrs.

Sloc.u.m, only ten minutes ago, that the attendance couldn't have been better--the bad going considered."

"Did you see the Taylors?" asked the widow faintly, looking at her sister. "They go so rarely to funerals that I was surprised to see them here."

"Oh, yes! the Taylors were all here," said the sympathizing sister. "As you say, they go but a little: they are _so_ exclusive!"

"I thought I saw the Curtises also," suggested the bereaved woman droopingly.

"Oh, yes!" chimed in several. "They came in their own carriage, too,"

said the sister, animatedly. "And then there were the Randalls and the Van Rensselaers. Mrs. Van Rensselaer had her cousin from the city with her; and Mrs. Randall wore a very black heavy silk, which I am sure was quite new. Did you see Colonel Haywood and his daughters, love?"

"I thought I saw them; but I wasn't sure. They were here, then, were they?"

"Yes, indeed!" said they all again; and the lady who lived across the way observed:

"The Colonel was very sociable, and inquired most kindly about you, and the sickness of your husband."

The widow smiled faintly. She was gratified by the interest shown by the Colonel.

The friends now rose to go, each bidding her good-by, and expressing the hope that she would be calm. Her sister bowed them out. When she returned, she said:

"You can see, my love, what the neighbors think of it. I wouldn't have had anything unfortunate to happen for a good deal. But nothing did. The arrangements couldn't have been better."

"I think some of the people in the neighborhood must have been surprised to see so many of the uptown people here," suggested the afflicted woman, trying to look hopeful.

"You may be quite sure of that," a.s.serted the sister. "I could see that plain enough by their looks."

"Well, I am glad there is no occasion for talk," said the widow, smoothing the skirt of her dress.

And after that the boys took the chairs home, and the house was put in order.

CASEY AT THE BAT

BY ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYER

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day: The score stood four to six with just an inning left to play; And so, when c.o.o.ney died at first, and Burrows did the same, A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest With that hope that springs eternal within the human breast; For they thought if only Casey could get one whack, at that They'd put up even money, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, and so likewise did Blake, But the former was a pudding, and the latter was a fake; So on that stricken mult.i.tude a death-like silence sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single to the wonderment of all, And the much-despised Blaikie tore the cover off the ball; And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred, There was Blaikie safe on second and Flynn a-hugging third!

Then from the gladdened mult.i.tude went up a joyous yell, It bounded from the mountain-top, and rattled in the dell, It struck upon the hillside, and rebounded on the flat; For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place, There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face; And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his s.h.i.+rt; Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance glanced in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there; Close by the st.u.r.dy batsman the ball unheeded sped: "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a m.u.f.fled roar, Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant sh.o.r.e; "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one in the stand.

And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew, But Casey still ignored it; and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered, "Fraud!"

But the scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed; They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched with hate; He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is s.h.i.+ning bright, The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light, And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout; But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out.

THE MARTYRDOM OF MR. STEVENS[8]

BY HERBERT QUICK

_Pietro:_ Th' offense, it seemeth me, Is one that by mercy's extremest stretch Might be o'erpa.s.sed.

_Cosimo:_ Never, Pietro, never!

The Brotherhood's honor untouchable Is touch'd thereby. We build our labyrinth Of sacred words and potent spells, and all The deep-involved horrors of our craft-- Its entrance hedg'd about with dreadful oaths, And every step in thridding it made dank By dripping terror and out-seeping awe, Shall it be said that e'en Ludovico May break our faith and live? Never, say I!

--_Vision of Cosimo._