That my love is ugly, That say not I. Though, that I deny." Angry glances were exchanged, but the dance-music began, and down the floor, lost for a time in the whirl, the two indignant couples went racking their brains to find a good, sharp sting to hurl at their opponents. Either better feelings obtained the mastery, or there were no former slips of either party known from which an epigram could be formed; for when the dance ended, the first girl, wearing her partner's hat, jauntily placed upon her head, sang with a falsetto trill or jodel:"My beau is a rider, A soldier so fine; The horse is the Kaiser's, But the rider is mine." Then, not wishing her partner to be left unappreciated, the second girl sang :— "My beau is a miller, With dust on his clothes; The room by this time was quite hot, and copious draughts of beer from literjugs moistened the throats of the singers and made their thoughts and legs work faster. At every rest of the music some one sang a witty schnaderhuepfeln, not always personal or epigrammatic, but often in praise of the Emperor or some loved hero of Tyrol. There was great piquancy about them, and though the rhymes often halted and the meter was cramped or stretched to fit the music, the jollity of the whole scene drew all into symphony. Many of the songs I could not hear, but I found amusement in listening to Josef and his girl, a blue-eyed, yellow-haired beauty, who sat beside me as they exchanged poignant extemporaneous rhymes in quick succession, never allowing more time to elapse than is necessary to take a swallow from the great jug which stood between them, and in which my partner and I were sharers. "Fair and rich I am not- Boy, if that don't suit thee, hummed in an undertone the pretty And Josef made Gretchen and the rest of us sure that her red lips were more to him than metal, by putting a rousing smack directly upon them. Gretchen was a little disconcerted, but not yet to be beaten in the game of rhyming: "My heart, like a clock, Runs down now and then; she sang as she looked over at me and then to Josef with a sly smile. 66 Thou flaxen-haired darling, I love only thee, And for thy flaxen hair A spinning-wheel I'd be," said Josef, taking the end of her zoph, or braid, in his hand and pretending to twist it like flax. Gretchen jumped aside, giving him a sounding box on his ear, and leaning partly over the table, whispered, but intentionally loud enough for Josef to hear:— "Handsome he is not,— That I well see,- He was too sure of her love for him to care for any such little cut, which he was wise enough to know would never have been spoken had it been true; so, with a comically beseeching face he turned to Gretchen and putting out his hands sang. "The Turk and the Russian So long as with Gretchen Then seizing her around the waist he waltzed up the room and as the music stopped, sang, with a jodel added to each second line, "Am a jolly young boy, Give the Devil no rest,- He was followed by a young senner, a handsome fellow, who doubtless told the truth when he sang, "To be a jolly boy, I have too little gold; To be a shepherd lad, I have too small a fold; To be a hermit, that would never, never do; For I've too many sweethearts who love me true." Then followed songs from all in turn. I even gave mine, which was, however, not impromptu, having been learned while spending a night with Johann Eller at Schmirn. "Und wallfahrt'n bin i gang'n Ka' Kirch'n han i g'fund'n There is a class of these impromptu songs which always provokes great merriment. These songs usually begin by telling some command given by father or mother, and the singer tells how he misunderstood, as : There are a great many of the sharpest witticisms thrown at the priesthood, even in the most devout Catholic districts; but I never heard any that would bear translating, the finest point being lost in the change. The translation of these songs into German, with all their quaint, double meanings, is quite as difficult as to turn them into English. Most of them become broad and coarse when spoken in any language but their own, and then must be heard in the rough dialect of the valleys where they are born. "Have a small ragged jacket, Have no shoes at all, But seven and thirty sweethearts is the song I once heard given in a tavern in Innsbruck by a shabby youth who, despite the condition of his clothing, carried a shining, silver-mounted rifle, worth enough to have clothed several dandies in the height of fashion. An old man sitting at a table with a measure of wine before him passed it over to the young hunter, singing in a broken voice: "The girl I love most He continued, while the young man took long drinks of the wine: "If there were a hundred sweethearts, Now the dance-room at Scharnitz seemed turned into a bedlam, for two famous singers, and I must add, fighters, for poets in Tyrol need muscles to back their sentiments, one of them my friend Josef, had engaged in an exchange of pointed verse-making, which seemed about to end in a rough-and-tumble fight. A truce, however, was made by both their partners separating them, and in a moment good-nature ruled again. Presently I heard Josef sing: "Hell auf muoschi sag'n Af die Schuach muoschi schlag'n And I knew he was about to dance and execute those remarkable antics called schuplatteln. He sang another stanza : Marry I will not, I will not, "The angels in Heaven Than Moidl when passing The wine-jug to me," were among those which I could translate, some of them being only rhymes with no meaning, and others of such a dubious morality, though witty indeed, that an English public would not care for them. "Now I have two loves- sang one, and quickly followed another, singing, "That thou 'st a heart for every love A bushel could n't hold 'em all, "Who can dance, must always dance; Who naught has, may stay away." "He gave me a kiss Here on the cheek; Is not the right love- My description of this evening ends with music and the music ending with the feast of knödeln and würste. I would refer you to W. A. Baillie Grohman for such a scene graphically described. It was late in the morning when I proposed to Josef to depart; but he was far from willing to quit the scene of such joy and return to his Monday work at home. "A fresh glass of beer, And with a white foam! he sang, tipping back the cover of a litermeasure and swallowing at one draught half the contents. However, the witty Gretchen whispered in his ear: "Handsome boy, handsome boy, Come with me home; The night is so dark, I dare n't go alone." Josef obeyed, and off we started, pausing only at the door while he sang at the top of his voice: "S Liedl ist g'sung'n, Und 's G'sang' ist aus, Und die Grosch'n sein g'sprung'n, SOURCES. A STUDY IN THE PSYCHOLOGY OF CLOTHES BY WILLIAM DALLE FOUNTAIN T WAS the National Birthday. July days are always hot in Missouri; this one was unusually so. There was no breeze, and one could feel, and almost see, the dancing waves of heat in the air. It was noon, and among other things, the sun beat down upon a solitary figure limping and stumbling wearily along a railroad track. To the right, only a few feet away, flowed the Missouri River, swift and muddy; to the left high gray bluffs obscured all view of the interior country and added desolation to wildness. The solitary figure was not prepossessing. He bore the resemblance of a man who had come from afar;" his clothes were never designed for him, his hat was crownless, and in his face there was a look of misery tinged with unutterable disgust. He never denied being a tramp any more, -the effort was too great. In course of time, he rounded a curvc, and stretched out before him was the panorama that for hours he had longed to view. He paused, heaved a great sign, and seated himself on a pile of ties. Green trees had taken the place of gray bluffs, the river flowed noiselessly, the sun shone pitilessly, and in the air was the lazy drone of insects. But he was not interested in these things; he was sadly and ruefully contemplating his footwear. Shoes they might have once been, but were now abject apologies, torn, tattered, and kept in place by a piece of somebody's clothes-line. For several moments he concentrated his undivided attention upon the wreckage, then drew a long breath and told himself that they were nearly worn out. "Come from afar" Presently he raised his eyes and earnestly surveyed the scene,-Jefferson City, the capital of Missouri, perched upon the crest of a hill overlooking the "Big Muddy." He saw the picturesque city, dotted here and there with spots of green foliage; he saw the great gilded dome of the capitol building glittering in the sunlight; he saw the flags and banners that hung limp and unstirring in the sultry atmosphere; and then he saw something else, and into his eyes there came a look of expectancy. Built like a huge stone fort, surrounded by massive gray walls, turreted and forbidding, stood the State Penitentiary. He looked long and earnestly at the gigantic structure, then slowly shifted his gaze to his shoes and sighed again. That morning at the break of day he had left Solitaryville and trudged wearily mile after mile along the railroad by the winding river, at times consoiing himself with the thought that effort has its reward, and this same State's prison had been his objective point. A grand thought had come to him the night before, while lying on his back in a cornfield gazing at the stars; and acting upon that thought, he now found himself fourteen miles from the cornfield, utterly fatigued, hungry, begrimed, and a study in misery. He had come to replace his shoes. Why not? Every one knows that when a felon doffs his clothes for a convict's garb he sees them for the last time. Shoes, hat, costly apparel, and personal effects, are lost to him forever. They are sold or not infrequently given to the needy. This man was needy. Sharp stones and sunbaked cinders had bruised and lacerated his feet, there had been no sole for many days, and the thought of stepping into a pair of good, sound shoes was exhilarating. He arose, climbed the steep hill, and bent his steps toward the prison gates. He shambled into the warden's office, and removing his tattered hat, beamed with his watery eyes at that official, who looked up and took him in with a glance. "Well?" he demanded. The man "from afar errand. "Your name?" murmured his "Socrates Byron Pillsbury." The warden arched his brows and rubbed his glasses reflectively. 66 Any man with a name like that should be careful to retain it," he said. Don't exchange it for a number. Same old story, gets monotonous. Here, 929, take Mr. Socks in and fit his feet. Give him anything that will suit him." He turned to his desk. Socrates Byron Pillsbury followed the "trusty," a stalwart striped convict, whom he mentally compared to a zebra, through a great arch, past barred windows, down a long, damp stone corridor, and into a room. A massive iron door clanged wildly behind them and he glared around him apprehensively. "Something I never hankered after,' he grunted, "and don't take to it." In a corner was a pile of boots and shoes, and Socrates grew covetous as his gaze lighted upon a pair of patent-leathers. He separated them from the heap and looked entreatingly at the zebra. That worthy seated himself on the edge of a bathtub and nodded indifferently. Socrates kicked off his remnants. "Something like," he grunted, pulling on his new possessions. Beats t' others way to hell an' gone!" The zebra eyed him narrowly, and his lip curled. "You're a heap better off than me," he remarked presently. Socrates snorted. Presume likely," he retorted, " or I'd been here long afore this." The zebra looked thoughtful. "Don't like to go through my book," he said, "but there's some information goes with them kicks. They has a history -leastwise their owner has. Bet yer life! Then he leaned forward confidentially and continued solemnly, "Belonged to the King." Socrates grew interested. "King?" he repeated vaguely. "Cert! King Jerry." Socrates shook his head, and gazed at the zebra, who looked disappointed and made a mental note that there was a man who had neglected his opportunities. "King Jerry," he explained, "come last night. Forty years, too. All off with him now. King of Burglars, you know. Bet yer life! Brain like a statesman. |