Part 17

"All the long white beach is silent As a beach should ever be, While the sea gulls stand and listen To the moaning of the sea, All the solemn oysters gather, Gazing upward to the sky, While a lobster breaks the silence, Crooning low his litany Little shrimps in their dark caverns, Eating supper all alone, Looking out upon the ocean, Whispering in an undertone 'Tis sad and lonely by these beaches, Shall we ne'er go beyond?' All the barnacles, uprising, 'Never,' tearfully respond."

As we are by the sea, nautical rhymes seem to turn out naturally. The writer of this remarkable effusion is evidently not an evolutionist, though he may think there are some "queer fish" among the heterogeneous inhabitants of this island.

At last the day comes when we must turn away from these lovely scenes; and it is with regret, and many a backward look, that we are conveyed to the Rockland boat. That vessel pursues a circuitous route along the coast, among the picturesque islands; the trip suggesting quite forcibly the St. Lawrence with its Thousand Isles, as old Neptune is fortunately in amiable mood, and shows a smiling countenance. So we have no grudge to lay up against him, and only pictures tinged with couleur-de-rose to carry away with us.

SEA-SIDE AMUSEMENT IN THE "CITY OF SOLES".

As it is our custom to come to these New England shores every summer, in order, as Jim says, to get salted so that we may keep well through the winter (by which you need not infer that we "get into a pickle"), we commence the process at this place, before proceeding to more Northerly points.

As the "dry spell" has made the roads so dusty that there is little pleasure in driving, and our horses are at present in the stables of our Chateaux-en-Espagne, and consequently not available this warm evening, we gather on the porch to be entertained by the learned converse of the professors, until an approaching storm drives us in-doors. Within the "shooting box", as the young man who has traveled christens the house,-- thinking that an appropriate title for a domicile where so many members of the Hunt family are collected,--there is a motley assembly, as they gather around the sitting room table. There are Portuguese, Michiganders, Pennites, Illinoisyones, Bangorillas, and other specimens of natural history such as would have puzzled Agassiz himself; and the question arises, "What shall we do to amuse ourselves this rainy evening?" But "Pat", the engineer, oiler of the domestic machinery of the establishment, and keeper of this menagerie, seems overcome with fatigue; the Astronomer is eclipsed in a corner; the professors are absorbed in sines and co-sines; the Fisherman nods over his paper; Grandma knits her brows and the stocking; Elsie is deep in a book; and no one displays any special interest in the matter until pencils and paper are distributed for the game of Crambo. The modus operandi of that most wise and learned game is as follows: Four slips of paper are given each person, on one of which he is requested to write a question, and on each of the other scraps a word. These are then shuffled, and all in turn draw. And now there is great commotion, for each participant is expected to answer his question in rhyme, and to bring the three words which he has drawn, into his answer, also. Such a chorus of "Oh dears", and such dismayed faces! The student proposes to procure the coffee mill to assist him in grinding out his "pome"; the tennis player wishes she had a hatchet to chop up a long word which has fallen to her lot, so that she can put it in proper metre; but Mr. Short (6 ft. 2 in.), with watch in hand, calls "Time", and then "Silence", as pencils race over papers as if on a wager. Ten minutes is the brief space allotted for the production of the wondrous effusions; and when Mr. S. announces, "Time's up", the hat is again full; and one says, with a sigh of relief, "There, I never made two lines rhyme in my life before;" another modestly remarks, "You needn't think we are verdant because we are in Green--" but the warning finger of the Philosopher is raised, and Pat, the reader, begins, emphasizing the words drawn as he reads:--

"Why so much quarrelling about Religion! It's as plain as string beans That from this very means The world is not right, If I had but clear sight I might hope ere this night Is beginning to wane The thing to explain. But, lacking the wit, I must e'en submit This doggerel rhyme And hope 't is in time."

"Oh! oh!" exclaimed the "small specimen" (aged ten), "that's Grandma's; I heard her say she 'knows beans', 'cause she is a Yankee;" but the S. S. subsides on hearing the next paper read, and shows so plainly that she "wishes herself further" that it is not difficult to guess the author:--

"What's quicker than lightning? A Turkey or a squirrel Can 'cut' like a knife But I never saw a creature rash Like a deer in all my life."

"Good for Ten-year-old!" exclaim the chorus; and the S. S., brightening up, concludes she'll try it again sometime. Next comes the question:--

"Where do cabbages come from? My will is good, and I propose To tell you all I can In this dry time a garden hose Must come into the plan First plant the seed, and in due course Will little shoots appear, When each from other has divorce They'll flourish, it is clear. If this rhyme is worth preserving, With mucilage it may be fixed On any wall deserving Such wit and wisdom mixed."

As it is well known that the natives of the Emerald Isle have a predilection for cabbages, it is unanimously decided that none but Pat could have perpetrated this; so Pat grins, suggests that a bill poster be secured at once, and proceeds:--

"How would you like to be a cat? In Timbuctoo each stern ascetic, Though blind to folly as a bat, Revels in love peripatetic Which makes him nimble as a cat But though I'm fond of such agility, I better like the busy bees, For they display so much ability They 'mind one of the Portuguese."

At this implied compliment to his people, the black eyes of the foreign student flash approval; and the Mathematician speaks up, saying, "That is the Philosopher, sure, and proves the truth of the saying, 'A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men.'" The Philosopher smiles benignantly, but does not deny the charge; and the reader continues:--

"What do you think of the Ormthorhynchus? My brain's in a 'muss' From thinking of this 'cuss' (Excuse me for using such a word). If it lived at Nahant With this heat it would pant, For surely't is a curious bird. You may think me a 'muff', And declare I talk stuff, But I hope you'll not doubt my word. For though out in all weathers Its coat's not of feathers But of fur,--at least so I've heard. But 'by this illumination' (Kant's ratiocination?) 'I don't see it,' though it may seem quite absurd."

The company, strange to say, hit upon Elsie for this, and are evidently surprised that one so given up to pomps and vanities should display such knowledge of natural history; but they evidently suspect her of shining by reflected light, as she sits next to the Philosopher; and I heard her ask him a question about this animal with the jaw-breaking name. By this time the party have become so brilliant, having polished each other up as by diamond cutters' wheels, that it is "moved and seconded" that we "try again". The laughter has brought down the Chemist from the laboratory, the Fisherman from his den; besides rousing the Astronomer, who scintillates in the corner to such a degree that all others expect to be totally eclipsed. This time the Fisherman, who is also an amateur gardener and farmer on a small scale, draws an appropriate question, in regard to which he enlightens us as follows; and what he says must be true, as we know he has had experience with pigs and hens:--

"Which knows most, a pig or a hen? 'Tis hard to tell in rustic rhyme What pigs or hens may know. A cabbage-head in olden time Sure knew enough to grow. If Balm and corn to them were thrown By parsimonious Bill I think the fact would then be shown, For Piggy'd eat his fill."

Next comes the Chemist with the question:--

"Do you like peanuts? Peanuts are double, And so is the trouble Involved in effort To answer it. Hand over a few, And see if I do Not like peanuts Better than Sanskrit"

Any one who had heard the Chemist warbling,--

"He who hath good peanuts and gives his neighbor none, He sha'n't have any of my peanuts when his peanuts are gone,"

would not have doubted this.

The Philosopher next airs his learning in the following:--

"What do you admire in a fool? Water has such combustibility That one may rightfully admire The happy lack of wise ability Which never rivers sets on fire. Truth needs no recapitulation To make what's simple plainer still. Folly courts our admiration Wherever Fashion has her will."

Part of this is so abstruse that I fear the company do not fully appreciate it; so the next is quite startling; and after hearing it we learn, the cause of the Astronomer's silent merriment in the corner, and rejoice that Dr. Holmes's experience in "writing as funny as he could" has proved a warning to this individual:--

"What is stronger than an onion? Oh, scissors! on a summer night To tax a fat republican In thinking out with all his might Some mightier thing than on-i-on. Garlic, maybe's not strong enough Well, I'll exert my 'spunk' So here you have it, 'in the rough,'-- A pole-cat, alias s----k."

The Oleaginous Personage comes next with the question, "Do you like Crambo?" which was answered, rather ambiguously, thus:--

"If our last lingo was a specimen Of this most wise and learned game, 'Tis sure that thus not many men Would long be known to fame. Any of you as well as I Would knock our type all into Pi, If ghost, or man, or printer's devil Should show us up for good or evil."