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On A Donkey's Hurricane Deck

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<h3>CHAPTER XXIII. Mac crosses the Mississippi</h3> TOC BY MAC A'RONY. <div class="poembox"> Hell is paved with good intentions.<cite>—Samuel Johnson.</cite> </div> How the Professor ever landed that lop-sided, dilapidated tile of his on the west bank of the Mississippi without a bottle of fish-glue is beyond me. The wind gave our whole outfit a good blowing up for not crossing the bridge earlier in the day, and Pod had to handle the hat as carefully as an umbrella to prevent it's turning inside out. Except at such times, we donks were the only ones to get a "blowing;" the threats Pod used to coerce us across that lofty bridge and his final cruel expedient of having a double team drag me with a rope around my neck were enough to drive one to suicide. "We must reach Iowa to-day," said he. "You show absolutely no interest whatever in the next state; but I'll convert you." I protested until I was hoarse. Said I, "When you take into consideration all the different animals that came out of the ark,—monkey, parrot, man and ass,—and the results of several thousand years of study and research, how many believe in any other state? Only one. Man. There are a few horses and dogs and cats and, occasionally, a white rat, that enjoy heaven on earth, but we jackasses are always catching ——! The last word of my peroration was spilled, as my master whacked me over the ears with his black-snake whip and knocked all the theological and theosophical considerations out of my head. "Get along, there, Mac," he shouted, "and quit your everlasting braying;" and as the horses started, I "got," to save my neck. When we reached the middle of the bridge and I was over my dizziness, I slackened my neck rope and followed the wagon more willingly, but my fetlocks bled from scraping on the rough planks and my rich aristocratic blood painted a faint red trail behind us. It was a hot day; I burned as with a fever, and wanted a drink. "And they call this the 'Father of Waters,'" my master soliloquized, as he watched the sluggish current creep under the bridge. "What do they call the father of beer?" I asked, facetiously, for I was mad. "Mac," said Pod, "you have brought me back to earth. Let us hurry to town." When we were on Iowa soil, the Prof. tied his "stove-pipe" over my ears with a green ribbon, and added insult to injury by making me parade into Clinton in that condition before all the genteel donkeys along the road. We stopped at the post-office, and Pod read on the way to the hotel portions of two letters, one informing him that his sombrero was at the express office, the other casting aspersions on my race. "Yes, I did promise to meet you at the Mississippi and accompany you across the plains," the letter ran, "but really, old man, after reading your articles, I have concluded that I want nothing to do with a jackass." Pod seemed disappointed and, handing the envelope to me, said, "Here, Mac, what do you think of it?" I greedily devoured the contents without a murmur, and the Professor galloped into the express office. "Do you realize that you have swallowed a postage stamp?" Cheese asked, gravely, after I had stowed away the morsels of paper. "Most assuredly," I said, smacking my lips, "and hereafter you can look upon me as a sort of internal revenue collector." But now Pod appeared under cover of a broad-brimmed hat, looking frightfully cowboyish. That evening the sombrero so completely unbalanced his head that he sauntered up the street armed to the teeth, and attempted to "hold up" an Indian cigar sign, to the amusement and terror of passing pedestrians. Later on, he became more rational, and gave a street lecture. Friday, May seventh, was a lucky day for Pod and me. Friday is Pod's and the seventh of the month is mine,—with a few exceptions; hence, the Prof, has on an average of four and a half to my one. His first errand in Clinton was an act of courtesy. He called on Mr. Gobble, the genial Mayor, and obtained one of his quills to embellish the autograph album which was destined to furnish me a delectable repast, unless Pod should find a gold cure to destroy my appetite for stationery. His second errand was to place an order for panniers to be made after his own designs, for they would soon be needed; and his third, to call at the stable and superintend a tonsorial artist clip Cheese III after the devil's designs. The circus had begun when he arrived. There, tangled in straps and ropes, lay the frightened subject on the stable floor, kicking, while several men were performing rare feats of tumbling. Pod was indignant. "Is it necessary to pile on the donkey in that fashion?" he inquired, starting up a ladder to the loft. "I reckon so, squire," said the clipper, rubbing his bruised arm; "we tied the brute t' auger-holes in the floor, but he yanked the holes plumb out o' the boards, and we bored 'em in agin. Then he brayed, and strained, and pulled out the holes agin. What's he been livin' on? Indian turnips?" Pulled the holes out of the floor! Such an astonishing statement was enough to warp a donkey's credulity. But the operation was finished at last, and Pod returned to the hotel to answer some letters, one of which seemed to tickle him very much. It was from a farmer in the neighborhood, and I'll quote it word for word. <div style="margin-top:1.5em;margin-bottom:1.5em;"> Cornville Hollow, Iowa, May 6, 1897. Prof. Pithygors Pod, Eskire, M. D.: Illustrious Sir:—My wife has give me unexpeckted opertunety ter do ye the grate onner of namin our latest and last kid after ye and if ye cum this here way ye will see a namesake ye will be prowd of. Times are not so good with us of late but hope they air with you wishing you a socksessfull jurny I remane Yours fraternally Cy Sumac. </div> I did not see Pod's reply, but I took him to the post office to purchase a ninety-nine cent money order, which he mailed to Cy, and overheard him say that was all the money he had when he started and no man had a right to think he was any richer now, and hoped naming children after him wasn't going to become a fad. On our way to the hotel a little girl, walking with her papa, expressed the wish to ride on my back. Pod overheard her, and jumping off, placed the little one in the saddle, and led me down the street. Pod is never safe without a chaperone. He had no more than got his land legs than a monstrous colored woman, whose avoirdupois was out of proportion to her energy, and with shoes that made him keep his distance, stepped in his way, and with a grin half the width of an adult watermelon asked him if he was "shully dat wonderful traveler Pye-tag-o-rastus w'at was chasin' a mule roun de world." For a second Pod was somewhat colored, too; but he laughed, and said he believed he was the gentleman. Then the old mammy held out a great black hand, with knotted fingers, looking more like an elephant's foot than anything else, and asked if she might have the honor to walk a piece with him. The Professor took the proffered hand, and the pair sauntered on down town, and were soon lost in the crowd. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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