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On A Donkey's Hurricane Deck

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<h3>CHAPTER XLVI. Typewriting on a donkey</h3> TOC BY PYE POD. <div class="poembox"> There are braying men in the world, as well as braying asses; for what's loud and senseless talking and swearing any other than braying?<cite>—Sir Roger L'Estrange.</cite> </div> We set out early from Spencer ranch, refreshed by a good night's sleep. The weather was mild, but the trail dusty, and the country uninteresting. I found Tooele to be a sociable town that, from appearances, subsisted mainly on sympathy and fruit. Some of its denizens own outlying ranches or fruit-farms, and the remainder, those who don't, have sympathy for those who do. There appears, however, betwixt these two outcropping extremes to be ample means with which to provide the more modest comforts of life—wives and children: for such are known to exist, under any conditions, all over the world. No sooner had I entered the village, than a gentle-eyed siren coyly approached, and said her papa wished me to put my jacks in his stable. While I was trying to please that man, a squatty youth scraped across the road in his elder brother's breeches to say that his mother would like to have me spend the night at her house. "Sociable people all right," my valet remarked, while I said to the boy, "Kid, you run and tell your good mother that I have a man with me, and, if she can accommodate us both, I will be glad to compensate her liberally for the hospitality." But these Mormon beaux esprits, while followers of the Prophet, reverence old Bacchus as though he were Young. As soon as my animals were provided for, Coonskin and I were called to supper and greeted at the gate by Mr. and Mrs. Noah and the children. I was hungry and tired. It occurred to me that in all probability my hosts had drawn heavily on their larder to provide a generous repast, and would yet have to pluck all their drakes and ganders before they could make our beds down. That evening, on venturing in the street, I was held up by a jolly party, armed with two kegs of beer, a barrel of sandwiches, and a number of mandolins and guitars. In front of my donkey's quarters was a spacious, grass-grown area, where they spread their feast; there I met my fête. The serenade, if not the banquet, was in honor of the whole party, biped and quadruped. Although my dog whined at the harmony to frighten the performers, Mac and Damfino applauded the classic selections vociferously, while all four donks availed themselves of standing-room only, rest their chins on the top corral rail, and audibly discussed the exercises. As soon as my entertainers departed, Coonskin and I sought our hostess. It was a beautiful September night. No air was astir. The sky was darkly clear and the myriad stars were winking with insomnia. Startled from sound sleep at early dawn by a blast from a "busted" fish-horn, I rolled out of bed in the presence of Noah, instead of Gabriel, as I was frightened to expect. The next thing was to wash and dress. A half vinegar barrel stood at the back door abrim with water. I was told it was soft, but I found it hard enough to wash in. A few feathers floated on the surface, and the soft water looked like soft soap. Old Noah was one ahead of me and dipped in. His wife, sons, and dog made their ablutions in turn, while the Shanghai hens and a pet magpie had doubtless rinsed their fowl beaks in it. I watched the exhibition reflectively, and, concluding it would not show proper respect to appear at table before taking a dip, and that more than likely I should have to drink worse water before I had crossed the desert, I ducked my head, paddled my fins, then dried them in the sun, for I couldn't "go" that towel. The scrambled pigs' feet at breakfast was a new dish to this epicure, though my versatile valet observed with an inflated appetite, that he had often made pigs' feet scramble back in Wisconsin. In spite of a late start, we reached Stockton before noon. My first duty was to hunt up an opulent resident, whom I had met at the soiree in Tooele, and who had promised me a burro. We at once unpacked the donkeys, to give them a restful nooning, and piled the luggage in front of a store. It was here that my philanthropic friend found me smoking. At once, he sent a lad to chase up a good, strong burro to make good his promise; next he offered me the freedom of the town. "I'm kind of tired, my good sir," I said gratefully, "but—how—how far is the town." The donor of Coxey blinked his eyes and felt of his goatee, then, straightening back, said, "Not fer, it's right here. Can't you see it all round ye? Ye didn't cal'luate ter find a New Yirk er New Orlins, did ye? This is jest plain unadulterated Stockton, and it's glad ter welcome ye. Now, if ye're trim ter go about a piece, I'll guide ye." "Thanks, awfully," I replied, rising. "Take me to a smith the first thing; I want all my donks' feet examined and put in condition for the desert." Then leaving an order for supplies at the store, I had Coonskin ride my new burro to the blacksmith. After a two-and-a-half-hour sojourn in Stockton, my caravan was wending its way to the next and last town we would visit in Utah, St. Johns. The next after that would be one hundred and seventy-five miles away. Here and there along the trail a ranchman's shack stood alone, the glistening window panes flashing like a lighthouse tower in that sea of sage. An occasional horse or steer would loom above the brush; once or twice a jackrabbit bounded across the trail, or a weary buzzard careened in the air overhead, as though figuring for me a fatal horoscope. I was silent a long time before Coonskin reminded me that I had neglected my weekly letter to the papers. Said he, "It's a good time to cultivate the acquaintance of Samantha Jane, that typewriter you got at Salt Lake." "Can't you suggest something more sensible?" I replied. "How can I manage the machine while riding a jackass?" "Easy enough," said Coonskin. "Lash it on Damfino, and seat yourself as you would to play solitaire." Great idea! The neglected typewriter was at once introduced to my party for the first time, and secured in a comfortable position on the broad-backed donkey. Then I seated myself vis-à-vis, and opened up a somewhat spirited conversation on the journey. It was not with the best of grace that Samantha Jane consented to be my amanuensis. She held the sheet of paper very mechanically, and appeared utterly devoid of animation. I first tried to date my letter. I shot my finger at the S key and struck the L just as Damfino nabbed at a sage bush. I'll correct the spelling afterward I thought, and tried to hit the letter E, but rapped A full in the face. "Don't joggle so!" I yelled at my steed, and, drawing a bead on P, literally knocked down Z, as Damfino stubbed her toe. Next, in vexation, I shot at T quite recklessly, and punched Y's face close by. The effort had overtaxed me, and snatching the paper from my typewriter, read aloud L-A-Z-Y. Mac grinned from ear to ear, and Coonskin laughed loudly. The donkey remarked that practice is a good remedy for incompetence, even if it does not cultivate patience. Again and again I tried to write the abbreviation "Sept.," but at length called "Coonskin, I'm going to discharge this typewriter, and stow her away till we get to Eureka." "Your courtship is amusing. Keep it up, you'll understand each other in time," he replied. "I have my doubts," brayed Mac, "when she won't even let him make a date with her." I resolved to begin the letter anew, and to write at least a paragraph, date or no date. This is how it looked when I had finished. "Talo hab$ getoch-Tho forntnigs ate erut%wsot pirowigs og owhym, dyl swelboka swice, bomblastnig wisj thu cleg pry) wet dnpenting tresgd wobm -&a wihng rubpint dor a Togues Cruop; % ro mi Noty gni- leek befort dajosty ga eht5 safey haschimb she boj o rew laim$." It was extremely encouraging, to find but four correctly-spelled and distinctly English words in all that jumble of dialects. I thought it a good paragraph to practice on, and would have tried it over, but Coonskin called to me that we were approaching town and, from appearances, the villagers were going to give us a hearty welcome. So I stopped Damfino, and hastily tucked Samantha Jane away in time to avoid a scandal. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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