Tempest and Sunshine

Frank thought if his host kept on talking he should not be able to eat for

laughing, but the old man was but just getting into the merits of the

case!

When his guests were seated, he said to Mr. Stafford, "Your white neck

cloth looks like you might belong to the clergy. If you do, you can say a

short prayer over the eggs and bacon, but Lord's sake be spry, for I'm

blarsted hungry!"

But for the remembrance of his promise to Fanny, Mr. Stafford would have

screamed. It is needless to say that he declined his host's invitation,

and the company began their dinner.

Suddenly Mr. Stafford asked if Mr. Middleton had any brothers.

"Yes--no, or, that is, I had one once," answered Mr. Middleton, "but he's

deader than a door nail afore this, I reckon."

"And what makes you think he is dead?" asked Stafford.

"Why, you see," returned Mr. Middleton, "when our old pap died, something

in the will stuck crossways in Bill's swaller, and he left college and put

to sea, and I hain't heard from him in fifteen years."

"Did he look like you?" said Raymond.

"He was four years younger than I," answered Mr. Middleton, "but no more

like me than Sunshine's pet kitten is like our old watch dog, Tige. He was

soft like in his ways and took to book larnin mightily, and I'm--but

everybody knows what old Josh is. Hold on thar! Save the pieces!" said he

to Frank, who, unable longer to restrain his mirth, had deluged his plate

with coffee.

"Pray excuse me," said Frank, mortified beyond measure at his mishap.

His discomfiture was, however, somewhat relieved by his companions, all of

whom burst into a fit of laughter, in which Mr. Stafford heartily joined,

forgetful of his promise to Fanny. By this time dinner was over and the

company repaired to the porch, where Ashton and Raymond betook themselves

to their cigars, while Mr. Middleton puffed away at his old cob pipe.

Mr. Stafford at length resumed the dinner table conversation by saying,

"If I were you, Mr. Middleton, I would not give up my brother yet; 'Hope

on, hope ever,' is my motto."

"Hope on," repeated Mr. Middleton. "I have hoped on till I am tired on't,

and by spells I have dreams in which it seems like my brother was alive

and had come back, and then my old gourd shell of a heart gives a

thunderin' thump, and fetches me up wide awake. I hate dreams mightily,

for it takes me an all-fired while to get to sleep all over, and when I do

I hate to be waked up by a dream."