On A Donkey's Hurricane Deck

<h3><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII.</SPAN> <br/>Mayor rides Mac A'Rony</h3> <p class="toclink"><SPAN href="#TOC-II">TOC</SPAN></p> <p class="center">BY PYE POD.</p> <div class="poembox"> <div class="stanzaleft"> <div class="verse0">If I know'd a donkey wot wouldn't go</div> <div class="verse0">To see Mrs. Jarley's wax-work show,</div> <div class="verse0">Do you think I'd wollop him?</div> <div class="verse0">Oh, no, no! Then run to Jarley's——</div> </div> <cite class="citefarright">—Old Curiosity Shop.</cite></div> <p>Dennison was still and peaceful when, at nine in the evening, we trailed up to its leading hotel, after a long and tiresome day's walk, for, to relieve Cheese and Mac A'Rony, Coonskin and I had journeyed half the distance on foot. But we left next day in good season for Arion, taking it slowly, as Cheese was noticeably lame; he had stumbled in the darkness the evening before. At Arion, so aggravated was his injury, that I tarried a whole day, for I appraised him a valued animal.</p> <p>When I resumed the pilgrimage, I took it slowly, and relieved the animal from any burden more than his saddle. Coonskin and I took turns riding Mac, who was as chipper and strong as ever. He gloried in his health and vigor, and found amusement in chaffing his unfortunate comrade.</p> <p>The eve of May thirtieth was spent in camp a few miles from Woodbine. The following morning, when we were still two miles from town, my courier, who had preceded us, wheeled back in company with an old, white-haired man leading three white Esquimaux dogs. The stranger managed his sportive pets with one hand, and carried a basket of apples in the other; and, introducing himself and shaking hands, he presented me with the delicious russet fruit, and welcomed me to his home in the distance as his guest for the holiday, a pleasure I was compelled to deny myself, for lack of time.</p> <p>According to his own account, he was a hermit and lived in the society of his canine companions, as he had the greater part of his seventy-five years. Content to subsist on the product of his little thirty-six acre farm, he denied himself the use of any portion of a small fortune of $15,000 in gold which, he claimed, he had buried somewhere outside of that state; nobody had ever helped him to a cent, and he resolved that no one should enjoy a dollar of his money.</p> <p>I put up at the Columbia Hotel, Woodbine, a pretty brick hostelry, and, after an enjoyable lounge in the parlor, we all went out to see the military and civic parade, in keeping with the usual Memorial day custom.</p> <p>The band assembled from all quarters and kinds of quarters—doors, windows, cellars, barns, corn-cribs, hay-stacks, hencoops, smoke-houses, etc., and without delay began tuning instruments. Their uniforms challenged imitation. No two were dressed alike. Every horn was different; they tried to outvoice each other, when, suddenly, the bass drum banged away and upset the equilibrium of the horns, until the snare drums and cymbals interfered as peacemakers. At last, after much strain of nerve tissue, the medley of musical tools settled down to a good, sensible patriotic tune, which held sway for fifteen minutes.</p> <p>But the procession that followed the band beggared description. The band acted as leaders, the Grand Army followed as pointers, then trailed the wheelers—carriages filled with citizens and farmers. There were democrat wagons, side-bar buggies, buckboards, carts, gigs, surreys, hayricks, baby carriages, wheelbarrows, goat carts, and velocipedes. Pedestrians then fell into line, and brought up the rear. To cap the climax, a big, fat man with inflated chest galloped past on a faded, wind-broken horse, and exhorted the excitable celebrators to strictly obey orders. "Remember, citizens," he yelled, "let us take care not to have any accident to-day, for we are not used to 'em here!" The procession had begun slowly to move forward, when suddenly the command was given to halt, and the bangity-bang, clapity-clap, rip-slap of wagon tongue against wagon boxes sounded like freight cars when the engine clamps on the brakes.</p> <p>The firearms carried looked as if they had been loaned by some museum for the event. They were muskets, match-locks, flint-locks, and minus-locks; Winchesters, Remingtons, Ballards, Floberts, Sharps, Springfields; shot-guns, muzzle-loaders and breach-loaders; blunderbusses; carbines, bean-shooters, sling-shots and cross-guns—a most formidable looking arsenal. Such a pageant!</p> <p>When the procession arrived at the cemetery, the hearse, filled with flowers, stopped in front of a newly made grave. Then the undertaker in black clothes and red cap, seated beside the driver in blue coat, white trousers and stovepipe hat, banged a bass drum in his lap with an Indian club, as each floral piece was placed on the several soldiers' graves.</p> <p>Presently my attention was directed to a new excavation, before which solemnly stood Coonskin, as immovable and statuesque as a marble slab; and soon I observed an aged woman approach, bend toward the human statue, and read the pathetic epitaph on his back: "Take Blank's cathartic pills and keep healthy."</p> <p>"Poor boy!" she exclaimed, sorrowfully, "a pity to have died so young."</p> <p>That was too much for Coonskin, who instantly resumed consciousness, and wheeled about, as the frightened mourner gasped, "Bless my stars, alive!" When Mac took in the situation he brayed with merriment, almost shaking me out of the saddle.</p> <p>The interesting proceedings concluded with a volley fired over a grave, and at once bird shot, buck shot, salt pork, hickory nuts, marbles, acorns, beans, and pebbles rained about us frightfully. When the firing was through, I assisted a quack doctor probe for a number one duck shot in Barley's shoulder and an acorn in Coonskin's leg. As I mounted my terrified donkey, I noticed the old woman had fainted. Bending over her was a gallant fellow countryman trying to fan her back to life with his broad-brimmed hat, while exposing patched trousers to an admiring crowd. As soon as she came to, we started for the hotel, congratulating ourselves on our narrow escape.</p> <p>Next day we set out for Logan. Our arrival was signaled by an assembly of townspeople, headed by their Mayor, who greeted me cordially and asked to ride the celebrated donkey. He rode Mac up and down the central street before the cheering throng, as had the Mayors of other towns we had visited. Then I delivered a lecture on my travels, on a corner of the business street, after which Coonskin, who had lately received his banjo-guitar from home, accompanied me with my mandolin, recently purchased, as we gave a short serenade of music and song that made everybody sad and wish we would depart.</p> <p>The morrow was the first of June; I welcomed summer joyfully. Missouri Valley was reached in the afternoon, and there, with my dog chained in the cellar of a hotel and the three donkeys stabled, we men retired and slept the sleep of the just.</p> <p>The further I journeyed, the more primitive and squatty were both dwelling and store in small places, and the architecture reached the superlative of simplicity on the plains; but I observed more of a passion for flower gardens and shrubbery evinced west of the Mississippi than east.</p> <p>The great bluffs characterizing the banks of the Missouri now loomed up, verdant and picturesque, after the genial showers and sunshine of spring. Every turn in the road presented a different kaleidoscopic effect to the landscape. Wild roses lined the roadside as we passed in review with our hats trimmed with blossoms, and songbirds caroled sweet melodies from early morn till eventide. Pure springs and wells were ever within reach, and the farmers treated us to brimming bowls of sweet milk and buttermilk. One day, after imbibing freely from a barrel of buttermilk, standing against the porch, where I was chatting with the housewife, I was astonished to see a calf walk up to the barrel and drink. After that I lost my appetite for buttermilk.</p> <p>All through Iowa were droves or bunches of white-faced cattle, the predominating breed. I was told that the white-faced cattle make the best beef, which seemed to sustain the theory early advanced by the Indians, that pale-faces made the best roasts.</p> <p>During the last few days, I noted a happy change in Damfino's demeanor, and a marked improvement in Cheese's tender feet. Damfino traveled faster and more smoothly, her long ears swinging back and forth with every stride like pendulums of a clock and apparently assisting her to walk to regular time.</p> <p>Just as we were trailing out of Crescent City, a woman presented me with a large bouquet of flowers.</p> <p>I had intended to travel ten miles that lovely June night, but when some five miles from town, on observing an inviting grassy lot, I decided to go into camp. We let our donkeys roam at will and graze, and spread our sleeping-bag under an apple-tree; then, with Don on guard and with the gleaming stars beaming on us through the boughs, we enjoyed a delightful sleep. At dawn we were awakened by the owner of the property, a short, crabbed individual, who lifted a dirty face above the top fence-rail and called, "Git out," to us.</p> <p>I was awfully sleepy and dozed on luxuriously. After a while he again hailed us, now from the opposite quarter, but still on the outside of the enclosure, where I could see him eyeing disapprovingly my huge dog. Finally we induced him to come into our camp, on the promise that our dog wouldn't molest him, and even invited him to breakfast with us. When we departed he was in good spirits. He said he lived "over in that house yonder all alone," because he couldn't afford to live "together." Of course, we understood. He informed me that we were following the old Mormon trail to Council Bluffs, where Mormonism and bigamy flourished for a season before the historic band of pilgrims crossed the Missouri in 1848. Thursday, June third, my donkeys ambled into Council Bluffs.</p> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />