Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. XXIV, May 1852, Vol. IV

"I accordingly approached, gave a pull at the rope, when 'whish! whish!' I found I had set the rain a-going. And now a thought struck me. I leaped, danced, and shouted madly for joy.

"'Where did you get your liquor from?' shouted the 'walking-gentleman' of the company.

"'He's gone mad!' said Mrs. – , principal lady-actress of the corps. 'Poor fellow! – hunger has made him a maniac. Heaven shield us from a like fate!'

"'Hunger!' shouted I, 'we shall be hungry no more! Here's food from above (which was literally true), manna in the wilderness, and all that sort of thing. We'll feed on rain; we'll feed on rain!'

"I seized a hatchet, and mounting by a ladder, soon brought the rain-box tumbling to the ground.

"My meaning was now understood. An end of the box was pried off, and full a bushel of dried beans and peas were poured out, to the delight of all. Some were stewed immediately, and although rather hard, I never relished any thing more. But while the operation of cooking was going on below, we amused ourselves with parching some beans upon the sheet-iron – the 'thunder' of the theatre – set over an old furnace, and heated by rosin from the lightning-bellows.

"So we fed upon rain, cooked by thunder-and-lightning!"

There is nothing in the history of Irving's "Strolling Player" more characteristic of his class than the foregoing; and there is a verisimilitude about the story which does not permit us to doubt its authenticity. It is too natural not to be true.

Think of a patent-medicine vender rising at the head of his table, where were assembled some score or two of his customers, and proposing such a toast as the following:

"Gentlemen: allow me to propose you a sentiment. When I mention Health, you will all admit that I allude to the greatest of sublunary blessings. I am sure then that you will agree with me that we are all more or less interested in the toast that I am about to prescribe. I give you, gentlemen,

"Physic, and much good may it do us!"

This sentiment is "drunk with all the honors," when a professional Gallenic vocalist favors the company with the annexed song:

"A bumper of Febrifuge fill, fill for me,
Give those who prefer it, Black Draught;
But whatever the dose a strong one it must be,
Though our last dose to-night shall be quaffed.
And while influenza attacks high and low,
And man's queerest feelings oppress him,
Mouth-making, nose-holding, round, round let I go,
Drink our Physic and Founder – ugh, bless him."

The reader may have heard a good deal from the poets concerning "The Language of Flowers;" but here is quite a new dialect of that description, in the shape of mottos for different fruits and vegetables in different months:

Motto for the Lilac in April: "Give me leave."
For the Rose in June: "Well, I'm blowed!"
For the Asparagus in July: "Cut and come again."
For the Marrowfat Pea in August: "Shell out!"
For the Apple in September: "Go it, my Pippins!"
For the Cabbage in December: "My heart is sound: my heart is my own."

Now that "shads is come;" now that lamb has arrived, and green peas may soon be looked for; now that asparagus is coming in, and poultry is going out, listen to the Song of the Turkey, no longer seen hanging by the legs in the market, and rejoice with him at his emancipation:

"The season of Turkeys is over!
The time of our danger is past:
'Tis the turn of the wild-duck and plover,
But the Turkey is safe, boys, at last!

"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,
No longer we've reason to fear;
Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys,
Let's trust to the chance of the year!

"The oyster in vain now may mock us,
Its sauce we can proudly disdain;
No sausages vulgar shall shock us,
We are free, we are free from their chain!

"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,
No longer we've reason to fear;
Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys.
Let's trust to the chance of the year!

"What matters to you and to me, boys,
That one whom we treasured when young,
With a ticket, "Two dollars! look here!" boys,
In a poulterer's window was hung!

"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,
No longer we've reason to fear;
Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys,
Let's trust to the chance of the year!

"Then mourn not for friends that are eaten,
A drum-stick for care and regret!
Enough that, the future to sweeten,
Our lives are not forfeited yet!

"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,
No longer we've reason to fear;
Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys,
Let's trust to the chance of the year!"

Somewhat curious, if true, is an anecdote which is declared to be authentic, and which we find among the disjecta membra of our ollapodrida:

Lieutenant Montgomery had seen much military service. The wars, however, were over; and he had nothing in the world to do but to lounge about, as best he could, on his half-pay. One day he was "taking his ease in his inn," when he observed a stranger, who was evidently a foreigner, gazing intently at him. The lieutenant appeared not to notice him, but shifted his position. After a short time the stranger shifted his position also, and still stared with unblemished, unabated gaze.

This was too much for Montgomery. He rose, and approaching his scrutinizing intruder, said:

"Do you know me, sir?"

"I think I do," answered the foreigner. (He was a Frenchman.)

"Have we ever met before?" continued Montgomery.

"I will not swear for it; but if we have – and I am almost sure we have," said the stranger, "you have a sabre-cut, a deep one, on your right wrist."

"I have," said Montgomery, turning back his sleeve, and displaying a very broad and ugly scar. "I didn't get this for nothing, for the brave fellow who made me a present of it I repaid with a gash across the skull!"