As like to one another as three peas, or ears of corn.
Between my brothers Ichabod, Abimelech and me No difference existed which the human eye could see.
This likeness was the cause of dreadful suffering and pain
To me in early life—it nearly broke my heart in twain;
For while my conduct as a youth was fervently admired,
That of my fellow-triplets left a deal to be desired.
I was amiable, and pious, too—good deeds were my delight,
I practised all the virtues—some by day and some by night;
Whilst Ichabod imbrued himself in crime, and, sad to say, Abimelech, when quite a lad, would rather swear than pray.
Think of my horror and dismay when, in the Park at noon,
An obvious burglar greeted me with, "Hullo, Ike, old coon!"
He vanished. Suddenly my wrists were gripped by Policeman X——,
"Young man, you are my prisoner on a charge of forgin' cheques."
He ran me in, and locked me up, to moulder in a cell,
The reason why he used me thus, alas! I know too well.
He took me for Abimelech, my erring brother dear, Who was "wanted" by the Bank of which he'd been the chief cashier.
Next morn the magistrate remarked, "This is a sad mistake,
Though natural enough, I much regret it for your sake;
But if you will permit me to advise you, I should say
Leave England for some other country, very far away.
"For if you go on living in this happy sea-girt isle,
Although your conduct (like my own) be pure and free from guile,
Your likeness to those sinful men, your brothers twain, will lead,
I fear, to very serious inconveniences indeed."
I took the hint, and sailed next day for distant Owhyhee,—
As might have been expected, I was cast away at sea.
A Pirate Lugger picked me up, and—dreadful to relate—
Abimelech her captain was, and Ichabod her mate.
I loved them and they tempted me. To join them I agreed,
Forsook the path of virtue, and did many a ghastly deed.
For seven years I wallowed in my fellow-creatures' gore,
And then gave up the business, to settle down on shore.
My brothers on retiring from the buccaneering trade,
In which, I'm bound to say, colossal fortunes they had made,
Renounced their wicked courses, married young and lovely wives,
Went to church three times on Sundays, and led sanctimonious lives.
As for me,—I somehow drifted into vileness past belief,
Earned unsavoury distinction as a drunkard and a thief;
E'en in crime, ill-luck pursued me: I became extremely poor,
And was finally compelled to beg my bread from door to door.
I'm deep down in the social scale, no lower can I sink;
Upon the whole, experience induces me to think
That virtue is not lucrative, and honesty's all fudge,—
For Ichabod's a Bishop—and Abimelech's a Judge!
(From "Punch," by permission of the Proprietors.)
SLIGHTLY DEAF.
Bracebridge Hemming.
Mr. Loyd was a retired shopkeeper residing at The Lodge, Norwood. He had amassed a fortune of thirty thousand pounds in the grocery business, principally by sanding his sugar and flouring his mustard, and other little tricks of the trade. Yet he went to church every Sunday with a clear conscience. At the time I introduce him to you he was a widower with one son, Joseph, aged eighteen.
Joseph was a shy, putty-faced youth, who had the misfortune to be deaf. "Slightly deaf," his father called him, but he grew worse instead of better, and threatened to become as deaf as a post or a beetle in time. Of course his infirmity stood in the way of his getting employment, for he was always making mistakes of a ludicrous and sometimes aggravating nature. Add to this that Joseph was very lean and his father very fat, and you will understand why people called them "Feast and Famine," or "Substance and Shadow."
One morning after breakfast, Mr. Loyd, who had been looking over some paid bills, exclaimed, "Joe."
Joseph was reading the paper, and made no answer.
"Joe," thundered his father.
This time the glasses on the sideboard rang, and Joseph got up, walked to the window and looked out.
"What are you doing?" shouted Mr. Loyd.
"I thought I heard the wind blow," replied Joseph.
"Well! I like that; it was I calling."
"You!"
"Yes, sir."
Joseph invariably grew very angry if he did not hear anybody, for he was ashamed of his deafness; but he often fell into a brown study and was as deaf as an adder.
Besides this he was more deaf on one side than on the other, as is often the case, and he happened to have his very bad ear turned to his father.
"Why don't you speak out?" said he.
"I did," replied Mr. Loyd.
"You always mumble."
"I halloaed loud enough to wake the dead."
"You know I'm slightly deaf."
"Slightly! You'll have to buy an ear-trumpet."
"Trumpet be blowed," answered Joseph.
"Here, put these bills on the file," exclaimed Mr. Loyd, pointing to the bundle.
Joseph advanced to the table, took up the bills, and deliberately threw them into the fire, where they were soon blazing merrily.
Mr. Loyd uttered a cry of dismay, sprang up and ran to the grate, but he was too late to save them.
"You double-barrelled idiot!" he cried.
"What's the fuss now?" asked Joseph calmly.
He always was as cool as a cucumber, no matter what he did.
"You'll never be worth your salt."
"What's my fault?"
"I said salt."
"Keep quiet and I'll get you some."
"No!" roared Mr. Loyd.
"What did you say so for then? It seems to me you don't know your own mind two minutes together."
Mr. Loyd stamped his foot with impatience on the carpet.
"Oh dear! what a trial you are," he exclaimed. "They are receipted bills, and I told you to put them on the file. F. I. L. E. Do you hear that?"
"I hear it now," responded Joe.