can swing the cat a little,” said he. “Ye ought to hear me talk hoss or tackle the old armchair at an auction sale. It would break a drought. So much for the Smeads. As to the other great folks, Senator John Griggs, a distinguished member of our Upper House, is also a son of Griggsby, not so great as his father, but a high-headed, hard-workin', hand-engraved, full-tinted orator. He has a scar on his face three inches long that he got in a political argument. Flowers of rhetoric grow on him as naturally as moss on a log.     

       “Years ago he convicted a man of murder here with oratory—made the       jury weep till they longed for blood an' got it. Bill Smithers loaded himself to the muzzle with rum an' oratory for the defense. Nobody did any work on the case. The oratory of Griggs was keener than the oratory of Smithers—more flowery, more movin'. It fetched the tears, an'       conviction came with them. Of course, Griggs had the body of the victim on his side. Smithers roared an' wept for half a day. The jury had been swung until it was tired. It clung to the ground with tooth an' nail. The fountain of its tears had gone dry. The prisoner was convicted, slain by oratory—pure oratory, undefiled by intelligence; an' years after he was put in his grave a woman confessed that she had committed the crime. Oh, Griggs is a wonder. He's another D. W., but he's a good-hearted man. I heard him say that he had rebuilt the church of his parish with his earnings at poker. That's the kind of man he is—reckless, but charitable. Everybody calls him John. They say that whisky has no effect on him. It is like water pouring on a rock. It only moistens the surface.     

       “Then there is Col. Silas Buckstone, our Congressman, whose home is also in Griggs—by, another D. W., a man of quality an' quantity, great length, breadth, an' thickness, with a mustache eight inches long an' a voice that can travel like a trottin'-hoss. A man of a distinguished presence an' several distinguished absences.     

       “Yes, I regret to say that he goes on a spree now an' then. It's a pity, but so often the case with men o' talent—so awfully often. About twice a year the Colonel slides off his eminence, an' down he goes into the valley o' the common herd with loud yells o' joy. Once he slid across a corner o' the valley o' death, but that didn't matter. What's the use o'       havin' an eminence unless you're to enjoy the privilege of slidin' down it when ye want 

 Prev. P 12/64 next