An empty heart is like an empty barrel conveniently located. Nobody will dare to gamble on the first thing to be thrown into it. And a full heart must be looked over frequently else a single bit of rottenness may corrupt the whole.
My heart was as full of Maccaroni from New York to Poughkeepsie, as my stomach once was from Milan to Naples. I first approved of Mack, then admired him, next felt a growing contempt for him, and finally pity. Now the time had come for parting, I felt something akin to love for him. Yes, and I'm really ashamed to own it. But having depended upon the humble, stupid beast for my sole companionship, he gradually became a pet. He afforded me amusement for my lonely hours, often causing me to laugh outright at his crazy antics. Poor Mack! It was necessary I should reach the Golden Gate before the dawn of the Twentieth Century, and I must accept the first opportunity offered to trade him for a better steed.
Dr. Jackson being a veterinary surgeon, I felt no moral compunction against trading, for Maccaroni II is a younger, nimbler, healthier and much more precocious animal the Maccaroni I.
There were two great objections on my part to the trade, however, for Mack II is more diminutive, has trilby feet, and requires the nutriment of a bottle -- milk, not whisky, as in the case of Mack I. He had never been fed solid food, like oats, corn and baled-hay wire. When I was told these peculiar circumstances, and beheld my own jackass limping under the burden of a dozen maladies, I demanded money to boot. But Jackson said, honestly, his donkey was worth a dozen of mine, even if my donkey did have a dozen diseases to his donkey's one, and he would not think of trading but for the reason he would doctor Mack up and preserve him as a trophy. He would certainly live, though useless, for donkeys never die, and in the course of a few hundred years his great, great-grandchildren could look back and say, "that's the jackass that was ridden by Pythagoras Pod from New York to San Francisco way back to the Nineteenth Century.
Of course, I traded even. Mack seemed to realize we were to part forever. There was a sad, depressed look in his eyes, his brow knitted, and his nose wept. I didn't even shake hands with him or kiss him farewell, thereby arousing the indignation of a fashionable lady standing by with a cur in her arms, who exclaimed:
"What a stony hearted man!"
The slowness of Poughkeepsie people may be better comprehended when, on my return from Dr. Jackson's with Mack II, people lining the curbstones remarked:
"Gee! How thin he looks to-day!"
"Had him clipped?"
"What makes the donk look so small to-day? Is he sick?"
At length a big German beer-drinker ran out in shirt-sleeves and apron, and asked confidentially:
"Vot makes the jockoss quite shmall dish day?"
"He had a bad morning," said I, "and went out in the sun and shrunk."
"Ah! very so. He vill grow vide und tall bretty soon."
I hastily jerked out a photo.
"Will you have a picture? Only 15 cents."
"Nein, nein, I don't need it," said the Dutchman, and I made no more stops. Ten minutes later Mack II was offered his first oats and declined them. A quart of milk cost me 8 cents, and a blacksmith shod the beast for a photograph. It was the second best bargain I had made. I left on the afternoon of the following day, Friday, for Kingston, but the infant jack went so fast he tired out soon after dark, and I put up at a little inn at Staatsburg for the night, where he was tenderly cared for.
Saturday, Dec. 12, I left early for Rondout, the princely villas of Ogden Mills, Dinsmore, Ruppert, of beer fame, and "Ellerslie," the country seat of Governor Morton. I sold many pictures and books at some of these places, and would have tarried longer but for the jealousy I felt over the attentions my donkey received. The lovely damsels postponed their games of golf, and put their arms around my donkey's neck, and fed him sweets. They never attempted to hug me, which only increased my desire to be hugged. Further on two charming young ladies drove up, and, after conversing a while, invited me to ride with them.
"Exceedingly sorry, ladies," said Pod, with a heart bulging with regrets, "but my wager requires I must either ride my jackass, or walk. This is the first time in my life I ever refused to ride with the girls."
The disappointed fairies drove on, and Pod overheard them mumbling something about it being the only time they ever got that sort of a mitten, and it should be the last.
Now the blue summits of the Catskills loomed up against an azure sky in the west beyond the Hudson, and Kingston and Rondout, the twin city, cropped out in places along the hilly shores. At 3 o'clock we crossed the ferry, and soon after arrived at the Mansion House door. Mr. Lasker received me with genuine hospitality, and insured my steed the best of keeping and the best of milk.
I first hoped to rest Sundays, but I had already lost so much time that I decided to hasten on up the Hudson Valley next day, Sunday, after dinner, and reach Saugerties that night. But traveling under the shadow of the Catskill Mountains made my day considerable shorter, and the roads were so muddy and my increasing cold so disagreeable, I put up for the night at Schoentag's Hotel, and at 7 o'clock unpacked my steed. The hospitable German, in spite of his hard name, gave me a soft bed and at once made me a hot drink and a warm foot-bath. I retired early under a pile of bed clothes as thick as they were short.
But it was not they that put me in a terrible sweat. A party of young people drummed on the piano and sang and danced until morning, their hilarity causing Mack, in the barn, sundry vocal selections, such as should have disturbed the spirit of Rip Van Winkle in the mountains beyond.
Monday I pushed on to Saugerties, and but for a delay at Soaper's Creek bridge, would have reached Catskill before dark. You see, Mack saw the sign: "Ten dollars fine for riding or driving over this bridge faster than a walk." After a half-hour's acrobatic performance with the stupid jackass a farmer jumped off a load of hay and assisted me to carry him over the bridge. My danger of being fined was over; but my jackass had shown great intelligence and consideration for my pocket.
Catskill, fifteen miles beyond Schoentag's, was reached at 7:30. I had set out at 9 a.m. Smith's Hotel was swarming with farmers, good-hearted, talkative characters. Here I remained two days nursing my cold and endeavoring to wean the donkey. Wednesday noon I reached Athens, eight miles further, and not being up in Greek, I ferried at once to Hudson. The wind was sharp shod and traveled , I estimated, several hundred miles an hour. I tried to pull into Kinderhook, but the cheery appearance of the Brookside Hotel tempted me to remain over night. This is said to be the oldest tavern on the old post road from New York to Albany, and is the pride of Stockport. In fact, so lavish was the warmth, the potatoes and beans, the history and the romance surrounding the ancient hostelry, that I hesitated to accept an invitation extended to me by a wealthy manufacturer of the town to be his guest over night. Within sixty-one seconds after supper I was in the carriage he had sent for me. He lived in a handsome residence a mile from town, and his married son lives near him. The evening was spent between both families. I enjoyed the hearty laughter and pointed stories of H. S. Van de Carr, the senior. I was charmed with the lively manners and winning grace of the wife and daughters of the junior and his own geniality. After my month of "roughing it" the fellowship of these refined and educated people made my heart beat for their prototypes in my own happy home. After discovering several mutual friendships I was induced to part with the only copy of my book, accept their subscription to my donkey travels, and then retire. Talk about beds! My sleep was simply delicious. Next morning I did not respond to the bell, thinking it all a lovely dream.
At length Georgie, the little son, rushed in shouting: "Get up, you people, the pancakes are getting cold!"
"All right," called Pod.
"Oh," gasped the youngster, astonished. "I - I thought it was the girls."
He had retired early, ignorant of the fact that the illustrious traveler, Pod, was to sleep in his sisters' room. The daughter-in-law of the senior, a very genial lady of my own age, drove me to the hotel, and a few minutes later I was marching to Kinderhook.
Kinderhook! That good old Dutch name was familiar to me. Why, yes; my mother went there to school. I should visit the old seminary, the popular boarding school of the early '60s, and commune with the spirits of those charming old-fashioned girls mother often speaks of. So constantly was the school on my brain that a little country schoolhouse attracted my notice, and out of curiosity I knocked at the humble portal.
The principal open the door, the interest remained in the seats.
"What college is this?" Pod inquired.
"Ain't a college yet -- only an academy."
"But," said Pod, "on a sign hanging from the eave-trough I read 'Union School No. 9'"
"Ah, but the academy and school are combined. The edifice contains four several departments."
"Yes?" returned Pod, "but -- the other two?"
The garden and the kindergarden -- one to teach the lesson of Arbor day, the other to instruct the kids."
"Seems to me you are very extravagant these hard times," observed Pod. "Why not combine the garden with the kindergarden and call it the nursery? Three departments will be cheaper!"
"And reduce my salary!" exclaimed the indignant professor.
Just then the monitor shook a huge cowbell, and the manager of four departments called the roll. I turned to go just as my donkey had begun an exercise also called a roll, and just in the nick of time, also, to prevent my rifle from being broken.
At 12 o'clock I dined at the Kinderhook Hotel. Afterward I visited the old boarding school, now the village academy, still in use. I suffered with my cold worse than ever. To have a dose of pneumonia would be terrible. Should Pod be taken, what a loss he would be to the world!
The landlady said she would be my mother if I would let her. Whew! If she made it as warm for her "old man" as she did for me, I pity and congratulate him in one breath. She prepared a mustard sitz-bath, which forced cold-blisters on my hair. With porus plasters on back and chest, camphor on my lips, witch-hazel in my eyes, a pork bandage on my neck, aconite, quinine, whiskey and rum within me, where else could my cold escape to? In other words, I was saved. I visited Dr. Gornsey and heard him say so. He advised me to shave off my hair to prevent my cold's return, and though he had an electric battery by, he refused to charge me. Then I took in some places of interest, and was taken in by others. I walked two miles to the home of the late Martin Van Buren, standing back from the road behind a group of ancient pines, which sighed dolefully as I passed. A wagoner family live there now. They showed me the library, parlors and hall where the president once held sway, and the old Dutch wall-paper, picturing ancient hunts, watch-towers and pastoral scenes, recalled old times in Holland with my friend, Billy robbins in 1889.
The Wagoners next door asked me to dinner and I "et" with them.
"I once knew a Van Wagoner," said I.
"Our family originally were of that name," said Mr. Wagoner, "but dropped the Van."
"That's a novel instance," said Pod. "I have heard of wagoners being dropped from vans, but never before heard of vans being dropped from wagoners."
Their hospitality beat their victuals, and the cigar my host gave me assured me that his name, in any event, should be cut down to plain "Wag."
I crossed the bridge over the little creek just out of town where it is claimed Washington Irving conceived the story of "The Headless Horseman." I was glad it wasn't dark. President Van Buren gave a ball to some prominent statesmen, and the jolly fellows rigged up a dummy on a horse and let the animal loose to give Irving a scare.
Mary Anne and Lucretia Van Buren, two aged spinsters, are all who remain of this illustrious family. I called on Mary Anne, when Lucretia was away, and won her heart so suddenly that she gave me a little painting which had been over a hundred years in the family. Nearby stands the old brick house, formerly a fort, and constructed of brick brought from Holland. One brick is carved "1623." Whether it represents the number of bricks in the house, or the human bricks who constructed it, or the garrison, or the date of erection, nobody seems to know. Then I saw where General Burgoyne dined, visited the cemetery, Van Buren's grave and his birth-place, and then made my departure. That night I slept in North Chatham, going out of my way in order to facilitate with my weak-kneed steed. We had been companions just one week; it was hard to realize it was not a month.
A few miles beyond, next day, I passed a rickety old barn, where horses were treading a tread-wheel, threshing corn stalks to keep their ears warm. Mine were almost frozen. The wind was so fierce and penetrating I had to stop in a hovel and get a newspaper to put in my breast. Had not a man issued from the door I should not have known it was inhabited. He allowed me to enter and warm myself. The house contained two rooms, one a store-room, the other the living-room. There was a table set for dinner, two double beds, a cook stove forcing some ancient pork and frozen cabbage to "done-ness," several chairs, a young couple, an old couple, and an odd man. A dog was out in the store-room watching a saw-horse. I was startled when the old woman produced a paper. I outlined my travels.
"Wall, yer kin see haow all classes of folks lives ony haow," she said.
"Yes," said Pod, "but how my donkey and I can live to reach 'Frisco interests me more." And declining a hunk of pork-rind, much to the gratification of the house cat, I pulled on my overshoes, broke off several icicles from Mack's whiskers, and marched him on to Albany. At 1 o'clock we stopped at a road house for one hour, two quarts of oats and some hash. Thence onward we did not stop till we reached the Capitol, although a quaint old hayseed tempted me to exchange words.
"Yer the feller what's goin' ter Fran Sanfrisco, hain't yer?" he inquired, as he braced himself against the wind, with hands in his pockets and arms in shirt sleeves.
"Yep," called Pod.
"Whar be the biggest crops this year?"
"In ostriches," yelled Pod. "Some of them weigh several stone." And as I looked back from the hill, a half mile beyond, I saw the statuesque figure still gaping behind red whiskers, thinking it over.