The Humors of Falconbridge

"Now, look out, boys!" says one, "Old Tanty's about to wake up!" and then some dozen of the upper story lodgers, who had kept their peepers open to enjoy the fun, began to spread around and pull away the loose straw in order to get a view of the scene below. Sure enough, the old rooster gave a long yawn – "Aw-w-w-w-um!" flirted off his "kiverlids" and got up, making a slow move towards the fire-place, reaching which, he gave an extra "Aw-w-w-um!" knocked the ashes out of his pipe – filled it up with "nigger-head," dipped it in the embers, gave it a few whiffs, and then said:

"Booh! cold mornin'; boys'll freeze, if I don't start up a good fire." Then he went to work to cultivate a blaze, with a few chips and light sticks of dry wood.

"Ah, by George, old feller," says one, "you'll catch a bite, before you know it!"

"Yes, I'm blamed if you ain't a goner, Old Tantabolus!" says another, in a pig's whisper.

"There! there he's got the fire up – now look out!"

"He's got the stick – "

"Goin' to clap it on!"

"Now it's on!"

"Look out for fun, by George, look out!"

"He'll blow the house up!"

"Godfrey! s'pose he does?"

"What an infernal wind there is this morning!" says the old fellow, hearing the buzz and indistinct whispering overhead; "guess it's snowin' like sin; I'll jist start up this fire and go out and see." But, he had scarcely reached and opened the door, when – "bang-g-g!" went the log, with the roar of a twelve pounder; hurling the fire, not only all over the lower floor, but through the upper loose flooring – setting the straw beds in a blaze – filling the house with smoke, ashes and fire! There was a general and indiscriminate rush of the practical jokers in the loft, to make an escape from the now burning building; but the step-ladder was knocked down, and it was at the peril of their lives, that all hands jumped and crawled out of the ranche! The only one who escaped the real danger was Old Tantabolus, the intended victim, whose remark was, after the flurry was over – "Boys, arter this, be careful how you lay your powder round!"

An Active Settlement

Gen. Houston lives, when at home, at Huntsville, Texas; the inhabitants mostly live, says Humboldt, Beeswax, Borax, or some of the other historians, by hunting. The wolves act as watchmen at night, relieved now and then by the Ingins, who make the wig business brisk by relieving straggling citizens of their top-knots. A man engaged in a quiet smoke, sees a deer or bear sneaking around, and by taking down his rifle, has steaks for breakfast, and a haunch for next day's dinner, right at his door. Vegetables and fruit grow naturally; flowers come up and bloom spontaneously. The distinguished citizens wear buck-skin trowsers, coon-skin hats, buffalo-skin overcoats, and alligator-hide boots. Old San Jacinto walked into the Senate last winter – fresh from home – with a panther-skin vest, and bear-skin breeches on! Great country, that Texas.

A Yankee in a Pork-house

"Conscience sakes! but hain't they got a lot of pork here?" said a looker-on in Quincy Market, t'other day.

"Pork!" echoes a decidedly Green Mountain biped, at the elbow of the first speaker.

"Yes, I vow it's quite as-tonishing how much pork is sold here and et up by somebody," continued the old gent.

"Et up?" says the other, whose physical structure somewhat resembled a fat lath, and whose general contour made it self-evident that he was not given much to frivolity, jauntily-fitting coats and breeches, or perfumed and "fixed up" barberality extravagance.

"Et up!" he thoughtfully and earnestly repeated, as his hands rested in the cavity of his trousers pockets, and his eyes rested upon the first speaker.

"You wern't never in Cincinnatty, I guess?"

"No, I never was," says the old gent.

"Never was? Well, I cal'lated not. Never been in a Pork-haouse?"

"Never, unless you may call this a Pork-house?"

"The-is? Pork-haouse?" says Yankee. "Well, I reckon not – don't begin – 'tain't nothin' like – not a speck in a puddle to a Pork-haouse – a Cincinnatty Pork-haouse!"

"I've hearn that they carry on the Pork business pooty stiff, out there," says the old gentleman.

"Pooty stiff? Good gravy, but don't they? 'Pears to me, I knew yeou somewhere?" says our Yankee.

"You might," cautiously answers the old gent.

"'Tain't 'Squire Smith, of Maoun-Peelier?"

"N'no, my name's Johnson, sir."

"Johnson? Oh, in the tin business?"

"Oh, no, I'm not in business, at all, sir," was the reply.

"Not? Oh," – thoughtfully echoes Yankee. "Wall, no matter, I thought p'raps yeou were from up aour way – I'm from near Maoun-Peelier – State of Varmount."

"Ah, indeed?"

"Ya-a-s."

"Fine country, I'm told?" says the old gent.

"Ye-a-a-s, 'tis;" – was the abstracted response of Yankee, who seemed to be revolving something in his own mind.

"Raise a great deal of wool – fine sheep country?"

"'Tis great on sheep. But sheep ain't nothin' to the everlasting hog craop!"

"Think not, eh?" said the old gent.

"I swow teu pucker, if I hain't seen more hogs killed, afore breakfast, in Cincinnatty, than would burst this buildin' clean open!"

"You don't tell me so?"

"By gravy, I deu, though. You hain't never been in Cincinnatty?"

"I said not."

"Never in a Pork-haouse?"

"Never."

"Wall, yeou've hearn tell – of Ohio, I reckon?"

"Oh, yes! got a daughter living out there," was the answer.

"Yeou don't say so?"

"I have, in Urbana, or near it," said the old gent.

"Urbanny! Great kingdom! why I know teu men living aout there; one's trading, t'other's keepin' school; may be yeou know 'em – Sampson Wheeler's one, Jethro Jones's t'other. Jethro's a cousin of mine; his fa'ther, no, his mother married – 'tain't no matter; my name's Small, – Appogee Small, and I was talkin' – "

"About the hog crop, Cincinnatty Pork-houses."

"Ye-a-a-s; wall, I went eout West last fall, stopped at Cincinnatty – teu weeks. Dreadful nice place; by gravy, they do deu business there; beats Salvation haow they go it on steamboats – bust ten a day and build six!"

"Is it possible?" says the old gent; "but the hogs – "

"Deu beat all. I went up to the Pork-haouses; – fus thing you meet is a string – 'bout a mile long, of big and little critters, greasy and sassy as sin; buckets and bags full of scraps, tails, ears, snaouts and ribs of hogs. Foller up this line and yeou come to the Pork-haouses, and yeou go in, if they let yeou, and they did me, so in I went, teu an almighty large haouse – big as all aout doors, and a feller steps up to me and says he: —

"'Yeou're a stranger, I s'pose?'

"'Yeou deu?' says I.

"'Ye-a-a-s,' says he, 'I s'pose so,' and I up and said I was.

"'Wall,' says he, 'ef you want to go over the haouse, we'll send a feller with you!'

"So I went with the feller, and he took me way back, daown stairs – aout in a lot; a-a-a-nd everlastin' sin! yeou should jist seen the hogs – couldn't caount 'em in three weeks!"

"Good gracious!" exclaims the old gent.

"Fact, by gravy! Sech squealin', kickin' and goin' on; sech cussin' and hollerin', by the fellers pokin' 'em in at one eend of the lot and punchin' on 'em aout at t'other! Sech a smell of hogs and fat, brissels and hot water, I swan teu pucker, I never did cal'late on, afore!

"Wall, as fast as they driv' 'em in by droves, the fellers kept a craowdin' 'em daown towards the Pork-haouse; there two fellers kept a shootin' on 'em daown, and a hull gang of the all-firedest dirty, greasy-looking fellers aout– stuck 'em, hauled 'em daown, and afore yeou could say Sam Patch! them hogs were yanked aout of the lot – killed – scalded and scraped."

"Mighty quick work, I guess," says the old gent.

"Quick work? Yeou ought to see 'em. Haow many hogs deu yeou cal'late them fellers killed and scraped a day?"

"Couldn't possibly say – hundreds, I expect."

"Hundreds! Grea-a-at King! Why, I see 'em kill thirteen hundred in teu hours; – did, by golly!"

"Yeou don't say so?"

"Yes, sir. And a feller with grease enough abaout him to make a barrel of saft soap, said that when they hurried 'em up some they killed, scalded and scraped ten thousand hogs in a day; and when they put on the steam, twenty thousand porkers were killed off and cut up in a single day!"

"I want to know!"

"Yes, sir. Wall, we went into the haouse, where they scalded the critters fast as they brought 'em in. By gravy, it was amazin' how the brissels flew! Afore a hog knew what it was all abaout, he was bare as a punkin – a hook and tackle in his snaout, and up they snaked him on to the next floor. I vow they kept a slidin' and snakin' 'em in and up through the scuttles – jest in one stream!

"'Let's go up and see 'em cut the hogs,' says the feller.

"Up we goes. Abaout a hundred greasy fellers were a hacken on 'em up. By golly, it was deth to particular people the way the fat and grease flew! Two whacks– fore and aft, as Uncle Jeems used to say – split the hog; one whack, by a greasy feller with an everlasting chunk of sharpened iron, and the hog was quartered – grabbed and carried off to another block, and then a set of savagerous-lookin' chaps layed to and cut and skirted around; – hams and shoulders were going one way, sides and middlins another way; wall, I'm screwed if the hull room didn't 'pear to be full of flying pork – in hams, sides, scraps and greasy fellers – rippin' and a tearin'! Daown in another place they were saltin' and packin' away, like sin! Daown in the other place they were frying aout the lard – fillin' barrels, from a regular river of fat, coming aout of the everlastin' biggest bilers yeou ever did see, I vow! Now, I asked the feller if sich hurryin' a hog through a course of spraouts helped the pork any, and he said it didn't make any difference, he s'pected. He said they were not hurryin' then, but if I would come in, some day, when 'steam was up,' he'd show me quick work in the pork business – knock daown, drag aout, scrape, cut up, and have the hog in the barrel before he got through squealin'!

"Hello! Say! – 'Squire, gone?"

The old gent was —gone; the last brick hit him!

German Caution

Some ten years since, an old Dutchman purchased in the vicinity of Brooklyn, a snug little farm for nine thousand dollars. Last week, a lot of land speculators called on him to "buy him out." On asking his price, he said he would take "sixty tousand dollars – no less."

"And how much may remain on bond and mortgage?"

"Nine tousand dollars."

"And why not more," replied the would-be purchasers.

"Because der tam place ain't worth any more."

Ain't that Dutch.

Ben. McConachy's Great Dog Sell

A great many dogmas have been written, and may continue to be written, on dogs. Confessing, once, to a dogmatical regard for dogs, we "went in" for the canine race, with a zeal we have bravely outgrown; and we live to wonder how men – to say nothing of spinsters of an uncertain age – can heap money and affections upon these four-legged brutes, whose sole utility is to doze in the corner or kennel, terrify stray children, annoy horsemen, and keep wholesome meat from the stomachs of many a poor, starving beggar at your back gate. There is no use for dogs in the city, and precious little use for them any where else; and as Boz says of oysters – you always find a preponderance of dogs where you find the most poor people. Philadelphia's the place for dogs; in the suburbs, especially after night, if you escape from the onslaught of the rowdies, you will find the dogs a still greater and more atrocious nuisance. No rowdy, or gentleman at large, in the Quaker City, feels finished, without a lean, lank, hollow dog trotting along at their heels; while the butchers and horse-dealers revel in a profusion of mastiffs and dastardly curs, perfectly astounding – to us. This brings us to a short and rather pithy story of a dog sell.

Some years ago, a knot of men about town, gentlemen highly "posted up" on dogs, and who could talk hoss and dog equal to a Lord Bentick, or Hiram Woodruff, or "Acorn," or Col. Bill Porter, of the "Spirit," were congregated in a famous resort, a place known as Hollahan's. A dog-fight that afternoon, under the "Linden trees," in front of the "State House," gave rise to a spirited debate upon the result of the battle, and the respective merits of the two dogs. Words waxed warm, and the disputants grew boisterously eloquent upon dogs of high and low degree, – dogs they had read of, and dogs they had seen; and, in fact, we much doubt, if ever before or since – this side of "Seven Dials" or St. Giles', there was a more thorough and animated discussion, on dogs, witnessed.

An old and rusty codger, one whose outward bruises might have led a disciple of Paley to imagine they had caused a secret enjoyment within, sat back in the nearest corner, towards the stove, a most attentive auditor to the thrilling debate. Between his outspread feet, a dog was coiled up, the only indifferent individual present, apparently unconcerned upon the subject.

"Look here," says the old codger, tossing one leg over t'other, and taking an easy and convenient attitude of observation; "look here, boys, you're talkin' about dogs!"

"Dogs?" says one of the most prominent speakers.

"Dogs," echoes the old one.

"Why, yes, daddy, we are talking about dogs."

"What do you know about dogs?" says a full-blown Jakey, looking sharply at the old fellow.

"Know about dogs?"

"A' yes-s," says Jakey. "I bet dis five dollars, ole feller, you don't know a Spaniel from a butcher's cur!"

"Well," responds the old one, transposing his legs, "may be I don't, but it's my 'pinion you'd make a sorry fiste at best, if you had tail and ears a little longer!"

This sally amused all but the young gentleman who "run wid de machine," and attracted general attention towards the old man, in whose eyes and wrinkles lurked a goodly share of mother wit and shrewdness. Jakey backing down, another of the by-standers put in.

"Poppy, I expect you know what a good dog is?"

"I reckon, boys, I orter. But I'm plaguy dry listening to your dog talk – confounded dry!"

"What'll you drink, daddy?" said half a dozen of the dog fanciers, thinking to wet the old man's whistle to get some fun out of him. "What'll you drink? – come up, daddy."

"Sperrets, boys, good old sperrets," and the old codger drank; then giving his lips a wipe with the back of his hand, and drawing out a long, deep "ah-h-h-h!" he again took his seat, observing, as he partially aroused his ugly and cross-grained mongrel —

"Here's a dog, boys."

"That your dog, dad?" asked several.

"That's my dog, boys. He is a dog."

"Ain't he, tho'?" jocularly responded the dog men.

"What breed, daddy, do you call that dog of yours?" asked one.

"Breed? He ain't any breed, he ain't. Stand up, Barney, (jerking up the sneaking-looking thing.) He's no breed, boys; look at him – see his tushes; growl, Barney, growl! – Ain't them tushes, boys? He's no breed, boys; he's original stock!"

"Well, so I was going to say," says one.

"That dog," says another, "must be valuable."

"Waluable?" re-echoes the old man; "he is all that, boys; I wouldn't sell him; but, boys, I'm dry, dry as a powder horn – so much talkin' makes one dry."

"Well, come up, poppy; what'll you take?" said the boys.

"Sperrets, boys; good old sperrets. I do like good sperrets, boys, and that sperrets, Mister (to the ruffled-bosomed bar-keeper), o' your'n is like my dog —can't be beat!"

"Well, daddy," continued the dog men, "where'd you get your dog?"

"That dog," said the old fellow, again giving his mouth a back-hander, and his "ah-h-h!" accompaniment; "well, I'll tell you, boys, all about it."

"Do, poppy, that's right; now, tell us all about it," they cried.

"Well, boys, 'd any you know Ben. McConachy, out here at the Risin' Sun Tavern?"

"We've heard of him, daddy – go on," says they.

"Well, I worked for Ben. McConachy, one winter; he was a pizen mean man, but his wife – wasn't she mean? Why, boys, she'd spread all the bread with butter afore we sat down to breakfast; she'd begin with a quarter pound of butter, and when she'd got through, she had twice as much left."

"But how about the dog, daddy? Come, tell us about your dog."

"Well, yes, I'll tell you, boys. You see, Ben. McConachy owned this dog; set up, Barney – look at his ears, boys – great, ain't they? Well, Ben's wife was mean – meaner than pizen. She hated this dog; she hated any thing that et; she considered any body, except her and her daughter (a pizen ugly gal), that et three pieces of bread and two cups of coffee at a meal, awful!"

"Blow the old woman; tell us about the dog, poppy," said they.

"Now, I'm coming to the pint – but, Lord! boys, I never was so dry in my life. I am dry – plaguy dry," said the old one.

"Well, daddy, step up and take something; come," said the dog men; "now let her slide. How about the dog?"

"Ah-h-h-h! that's great sperrets, boys. Mister (to the bar-keeper), I don't find such sperrets as that often. Well, boys, as you're anxious to hear about the dog, I'll tell you all about him. You see, the old woman and Ben. was allers spatten 'bout one thing or t'other, and 'specially about this dog. So one day Ben. McConachy hears a feller wanted to buy a good dog, down to the drove yard, and he takes Barney – stand up, Barney – see that, boys; how quick he minds! Great dog, he is. Well, Ben. takes Barney, and down he goes to the drove yard. He met the feller; the feller looked at the dog; he saw Barney was a dog – he looked at him, asked how old he was; if that was all the dog Ben. owned, and he seemed to like the dog – but, boys, I'm gittin' dry —rotted dry– "

"Go on, tell us all about the dog, then we'll drink," says the boys.

"'Well,' says Ben. McConachy to the feller, 'now, make us an offer for him.' Now, what do you suppose, boys, that feller's first offer was?"

The boys couldn't guess it; they guessed and guessed; some one price, some another, all the way from five to fifty dollars – the old fellow continuing to say "No," until they gave it up.

"Well, boys, I'll tell you – that feller, after looking and looking at Ben. McConachy's dog, tail to snout, half an hour —didn't offer a red cent for him! Ben. come home in disgust and give the dog to me – there he is. Now, boys, we'll have that sperrets."

But on looking around, the boys had cut the pit —mizzled!

The Perils of Wealth

Money is admitted to be – there is no earthly use of dodging the fact – the lever of the whole world, by which it and its multifarious cargo of men and matters, mountains and mole hills, wit, wisdom, weal, woe, warfare and women, are kept in motion, in season and out of season. It is the arbiter of our fates, our health, happiness, life and death. Where it makes one man a happy Christian, it makes ten thousand miserable devils. It is no use to argufy the matter, for money is the "root of all evil," more or less, and – as Patricus Hibernicus is supposed to have said of a single feather he reposed on – if a dollar gives some men so much uneasiness, what must a million do? Money has formed the basis of many a long and short story, and we only wish that they were all imbued, as our present story is, with – more irresistible mirth than misery. Lend us your ears.

Not long ago, one of our present well-known – or ought to be, for he is a man of parts – business men of Boston, resided and carried on a small "trade and dicker" in the city of Portland. By frugal care and small profits, he had managed to save up some six hundred dollars, all in halves, finding himself in possession of this vast sum of hard cash, he began to conceive a rather insignificant notion of small cities; and he concluded that Portland was hardly big enough for a man of his pecuniary heft! In short, he began to feel the importance of his position in the world of finance, and conceived the idea that it would be a sheer waste of time and energy to stay in Portland, while with his capital, he could go to Boston, and spread himself among the millionaires and hundred thousand dollar men!

"Yes," said B – , "I'll go to Boston; I'd be a fool to stay here any longer; I'll leave for bigger timber. But what will I do with my money? How will I invest it? Hadn't I better go and take a look around, before I conclude to move? My wife don't know I've got this money," he continued, as he mused over matters one evening, in his sanctum; "I'll not tell her of it yet, but say I'm just going to Boston to see how business is there in my line; and my money I'll put in an old cigar box, and – "

B – was all ready with his valise and umbrella in his hand. His "good-bye" and all that, to his wife, was uttered, and for the tenth time he charged his better half to be careful of the fire, (he occupied a frame house,) see that the doors were all locked at night, and "be sure and fasten the cellar doors."

B – had got out on to the pavement, with no time to spare to reach the cars in season; yet he halted – ran back – opened the door, and in evident concern, bawled out to his wife —

"Caddie!"

"Well?" she answered.

"Be sure to fasten the alley gate!"

"Ye-e-e-e-s!" responded the wife, from the interior of the house.

"And whatever you do, don't forget them cellar doors, Caddie!"

"Ye-e-e-e-s!" she repeated, and away went B – , lickety split, for the Boston train.

After a general and miscellaneous survey of modern Athens, B – found an opening – a good one – to go into business, as he desired, upon a liberal scale; but he found vent for the explosion of one very hallucinating idea – his six hundred dollars, as a cash capital, was a most infinitesimal circumstance, a mere "flea bite;" would do very well for an amateur in the cake and candy, pea-nut or vegetable business, but was hardly sufficient to create a sensation among the monied folks of Milk street, or "bulls" and "bears" on 'change. However, this realization was more than counter-balanced by another fact – "confidence" was a largely developed bump on the business head of Boston, and if a man merely lacked "means," yet possessed an abundance of good business qualifications – spirit, energy, talent and tact – they were bound to see him through! In short, B – , the great Portland capitalist, found things about right, and in good time, and in the best of spirits, started for home, determining, in his own mind, to give his wife a most pleasant surprise, in apprizing her of the fact that she was not only the wife of a man with six hundred silver dollars, and about to move his institution– but the better half of a gentleman on the verge of a new campaign as a Boston business man.

"Lord! how Caroline's eyes will snap!" said B – ; "how she'll go in; for she's had a great desire to live in Boston these five years, but thinks I'm in debt, and don't begin to believe I've got them six hundred all hid away down – . But I'll surprise her!"

B – had hardly turned his corner and got sight of his house, with his mind fairly sizzling with the pent-up joyful tidings and grand surprise in store for Mrs. B., when a sudden change came over the spirit of his dream! As he gazed over the fence, by the now dim twilight of fading day, he thought – yes, he did see fresh earthy loose stones, barrels of lime, mortar, and an ominous display of other building and repairing materials, strewn in the rear of his domicil! The cellar doors – those wings of the subterranean recesses of his house – which he had cautioned, earnestly cautioned, the "wife of his bussim" to close, carefully and securely, were sprawling open, and indeed, the outside of his abode looked quite dreary and haunted.