The Fiend's Delight by Ambrose Bierce (best ereader for graphic novels TXT) 📖

backward; then he drew his arms out of the barrel, and finally, revolving his body till it matched his head, he deliberately mounted upon the supporting block and sat down upon the sharp edge of the barrel in the hot steam. Then he replied, "Good mornin' Jacob. Fine mornin'."

"A little warm in spots, I should imagine," returned the son. "Do you find that a comfortable seat?" "Why-yes-it's good enough for an old man," he answered, in a slightly husky voice, and with an uneasy gesture of the legs; "don't make much difference in this life where we set, if we're good-does it? This world ain't heaven, anyhow, I s'spose."

"There I do not entirely agree with you," rejoined the young man, composing his body upon a stump for a philosophical argument. "I don't neither," added the old one, absently, screwing about on the edge of the barrel and constructing a painful grimace. There was no argument, but a silence instead. Suddenly the aged party sprang off that barrel with exceeding great haste, as of one who has made up his mind to do a thing and is impatient of delay. The seat of his trousers was steaming grandly, the barrel upset, and there was a great wash of hot water, leaving a deposit of spotted pig. In life that pig had belonged to Mr. Scolliver the younger! Mr. Scolliver the younger was angry, but remembering Jefferson's maxim, he rattled off the number ten, finishing up with "You--thief!" Then perceiving himself very angry, he began all over again and ran up to one hundred, as a monkey scampers up a ladder. As the last syllable shot from his lips he planted a dreadful blow between the old man's eyes, with a shriek that sounded like--"You son of a sea-cook!"

Mr. Scolliver the elder went down like a stricken beef, and his son often afterward explained that if he had not counted a hundred, and so given himself time to get thoroughly mad, he did not believe he could ever have licked the old man. Mr. Hunker's Mourner.

Strolling through Lone Mountain cemetery one day my attention was arrested by the inconsolable grief of a granite angel bewailing the loss of "Jacob Hunker, aged 67." The attitude of utter dejection, the look of matchless misery upon that angel's face sank into my heart like water into a sponge. I was about to offer some words of condolence when another man, similarly affected, got in before me, and laying a rather unsteady hand upon the celestial shoulder tipped back a very senile hat, and pointing to the name on the stone remarked with the most exact care and scrupulous accent: "Friend of yours, perhaps; been dead long?"

There was no reply; he continued: "Very worthy man, that Jake; knew him up in Tuolumne. Good feller-Jake." No response: the gentleman settled his hat still farther back, and continued with a trifle less exactness of speech: "I say, young wom'n, Jake was my pard in the mines. Goo' fell'r I 'bserved!"

The last sentence was shot straight into the celestial ear at short range. It produced no effect. The gentleman's patience and rhetorical vigilance were now completely exhausted. He walked round, and planting himself defiantly in front of the vicarious mourner, he stuck his hands doggedly into his pockets and delivered the following rebuke, like the desultory explosions of a bunch of damaged fire-crackers: "It wont do, old girl; ef Jake knowed how you's treatin' his old pard he'd jest git up and snatch you bald headed-he would! You ain't no friend o' his'n and you ain't yur fur no good-you bet! Now you jest 'sling your swag an' bolt back to heaven, or I'm hanged ef I don't have suthin' worse'n horse-stealin' to answer fur, this time."

And he took a step forward. At this point I interfered. A Bit of Chivalry.

At Woodward's Garden, in the city of San Francisco, is a rather badly chiselled statue of Pandora pulling open her casket of ills. Pandora's raiment, I grieve to state, has slipped down about her waist in a manner exceedingly reprehensible. One evening about twilight, I was passing that way, and saw a long gaunt miner, evidently just down from the mountains, and whom I had seen before, standing rather unsteadily in front of Pandora, admiring her shapely figure, but seemingly afraid to approach her. Seeing me advance, he turned to me with a queer, puzzled expression in his funny eyes, and said with an earnestness that came near defeating its purpose, "Good ev'n'n t'ye, stranger." "Good evening, sir," I replied, after having analyzed his salutation and extracted the sense of it. Lowering his voice to what was intended for a whisper, the miner, with a jerk of his thumb Pandoraward, continued: "Stranger, d'ye hap'n t'know 'er?" "Certainly; that is Bridget Pandora, a Greek maiden, in the pay of the Board of Supervisors."

He straightened himself up with a jerk that threatened the integrity of his neck and made his teeth snap, lurched heavily to the other side, oscillated critically for a few moments, and muttered: "Brdgtpnd--." It was too much for him; he went down into his pocket, fumbled feebly round, and finally drawing out a paper of purely hypothetical tobacco, conveyed it to his mouth and bit off about two-thirds of it, which he masticated with much apparent benefit to his understanding, offering what was left to me. He then resumed the conversation with the easy familiarity of one who has established a claim to respectful attention:

"Pardner, couldn't ye interdooce a fel'r's wants tknow'er?" "Impossible; I have not the honour of her acquaintance." A look of distrust crept into his face, and finally settled into a savage scowl about his eyes. "Sed ye knew 'er!" he faltered, menacingly. "So I do, but I am not upon speaking terms with her, and-in fact she declines to recognise me." The soul of the honest miner flamed out; he laid his hand threateningly upon his pistol, jerked himself stiff, glared a moment at me with the look of a tiger, and hurled this question at my head as if it had been an iron interrogation point: "W'at a' yer ben adoin' to that gurl?"

I fled, and the last I saw of the chivalrous gold-hunter, he had his arm about Pandora's stony waist and was endeavouring to soothe her supposed agitation by stroking her granite head. The Head of the Family.

Our story begins with the death of our hero. The manner of it was decapitation, the instrument a mowing machine. A young son of the deceased, dumb with horror, seized the paternal head and ran with it to the house.

"There!" ejaculated the young man, bowling the gory pate across the threshold at his mother's feet, "look at that, will you?"

The old lady adjusted her spectacles, lifted the dripping head into her lap, wiped the face of it with her apron, and gazed into its fishy eyes with tender curiosity. "John," said she, thoughtfully, "is this yours?"

"No, ma, it ain't none o' mine."

"John," continued she, with a cold, unimpassioned earnestness, "where did you get this thing?"

"Why, ma," returned the hopeful, "that's Pap's."

"John"--and there was just a touch of severity in her voice--"when your mother asks you a question you should answer that particular question. Where did you get this?"

"Out in the medder, then, if you're so derned pertikeller," retorted the youngster, somewhat piqued; "the mowin' machine lopped it off."

The old lady rose and restored the head into the hands of the young man. Then, straightening with some difficulty her aged back, and assuming a matronly dignity of bearing and feature, she emitted the rebuke following:

"My son, the gentleman whom you hold in your hand-any more pointed allusion to whom would be painful to both of us-has punished you a hundred times for meddling with things lying about the farm. Take that head back and put it down where you found it, or you will make your mother very angry." Deathbed Repentance.

An old man of seventy-five years lay dying. For a lifetime he had turned a deaf ear to religion, and steeped his soul in every current crime. He had robbed the orphan and plundered the widow; he had wrested from the hard hands of honest toil the rewards of labour; had lost at the gaming-table the wealth with which he should have endowed churches and Sunday schools; had wasted in riotous living the substance of his patrimony, and left his wife and children without bread. The intoxicating bowl had been his god-his belly had absorbed his entire attention. In carnal pleasures passed his days and nights, and to the maddening desires of his heart he had ministered without shame and without remorse. He was a bad, bad egg! And now this hardened iniquitor was to meet his Maker! Feebly and hesitatingly his breath fluttered upon his pallid lips. Weakly trembled the pulse in his flattened veins! Wife, children, mother-in-law, friends, who should have hovered lovingly about his couch, cheering his last moments and giving him medicine, he had killed with grief, or driven widely away; and he was now dying alone by the inadequate light of a tallow candle, deserted by heaven and by earth. No, not by heaven. Suddenly the door was pushed softly open, and there entered the good minister, whose pious counsel the suffering wretch had in health so often derided. Solemnly the man of God advanced, Bible in hand. Long and silently he stood uncovered in the presence of death. Then with cold and impressive dignity he remarked, "Miserable old sinner!"

Old Jonas Lashworthy looked up. He sat up. The voice of that holy man put strength into his aged limbs, and he stood up. He was reserved for a better fate than to die like a neglected dog: Mr. Lashworthy was hanged for braining a minister of the Gospel with a boot-jack. This touching tale has a moral.

MORAL OF THIS TOUCHING TALE.--In snatching a brand from the eternal burning, make sure of its condition, and be careful how you lay hold of it. The New Church that was not Built.

I have a friend who was never a church member, but was, and is, a millionaire-a generous benevolent millionaire-who once went about doing good by stealth, but with a natural preference for doing it at his office. One day he took it into his thoughtful noddle that he would like to assist in the erection of a new church edifice, to replace the inadequate and shabby structure in which a certain small congregation in his town then worshipped. So he drew up a subscription paper, modestly headed the list with "Christian, 2000 dollars," and started one of the Deacons about with it. In a few days the Deacon came back to him, like the dove to the ark, saying he had succeeded in procuring a few names, but the press of his private business was such that he had felt compelled to intrust the paper to Deacon Smith.

Next day the document was presented to my friend, as nearly blank as when it left his hands. Brother Smith explained that he (Smith) had started this thing, and a brother calling himself "Christian," whose name he was not at liberty to disclose, had put down 2000 dollars. Would our friend aid them with an equal amount? Our friend took the paper and wrote "Philanthropist, 1000 dollars," and Brother Smith went away.

In about a week Brother Jones put in an appearance with the subscription paper. By extraordinary exertions Brother Jones-thinking a handsome new church would be an ornament to the town and increase the value of real estate-had got two brethren, who desired to remain incog., to subscribe: "Christian" 2000