Short Fiction, Herman Melville [read out loud books TXT] 📗

that? Who in this region can afford to buy such an extraordinary Shanghai? Bless me⁠—it makes my blood bound⁠—I feel wild. What? jumping on this rotten old log here, to flap my elbows and crow too? And just now in the doleful dumps. And all this from the simple crow of a cock. Marvelous cock! But soft⁠—this fellow now crows most lustily; but it’s only morning; let’s see how he’ll crow about noon, and towards nightfall. Come to think of it, cocks crow most lustily in the beginning of the day. Their pluck ain’t lasting, after all. Yes, yes; even cocks have to succumb to the universal spell of tribulation: jubilant in the beginning, but down in the mouth at the end.

… “Of fine mornings,
We fine lusty cocks begin our crows in gladness;
But when the eve does come we don’t crow quite so much,
For then cometh despondency and madness.”

The poet had this very Shanghai in mind when he wrote that. But stop. There he rings out again, ten times richer, fuller, longer, more obstreperously exulting than before! In fact, that bell ought to be taken down, and this Shanghai put in its place. Such a crow would jollify all London, from Mile-End (which is no end) to Primrose Hill (where there ain’t any primroses), and scatter the fog.

Well, I have an appetite for my breakfast this morning, if I have not had it for a week before. I meant to have only tea and toast; but I’ll have coffee and eggs⁠—no, brown stout and a beefsteak. I want something hearty. Ah, here comes the down-train: white cars, flashing through the trees like a vein of silver. How cheerfully the steam-pipe chirps! Gay are the passengers. There waves a handkerchief⁠—going down to the city to eat oysters, and see their friends, and drop in at the circus. Look at the mist yonder; what soft curls and undulations round the hills, and the sun weaving his rays among them. See the azure smoke of the village, like the azure tester over a bridal-bed. How bright the country looks there where the river overflowed the meadows. The old grass has to knock under to the new. Well, I feel the better for this walk. Home now, and walk into that steak and crack that bottle of brown stout; and by the time that’s drank⁠—a quart of stout⁠—by that time, I shall feel about as stout as Samson. Come to think of it, that dun may call, though. I’ll just visit the woods and cut a club. I’ll club him, by Jove, if he duns me this day.

Hark! there goes Shanghai again. Shanghai says, “Bravo!” Shanghai says, “Club him!”

Oh, brave cock!

I felt in rare spirits the whole morning. The dun called about eleven. I had the boy Jake send the dun up. I was reading Tristram Shandy, and could not go down under the circumstances. The lean rascal (a lean farmer, too⁠—think of that!) entered, and found me seated in an armchair, with my feet on the table, and the second bottle of brown stout handy, and the book under eye.

“Sit down,” said I, “I’ll finish this chapter, and then attend to you. Fine morning. Ha! ha!⁠—this is a fine joke about my Uncle Toby and the Widow Wadman! Ha! ha! ha! let me read this to you.”

“I have no time; I’ve got my noon chores to do.”

“To the deuce with your chores!” said I. “Don’t drop your old tobacco about here, or I’ll turn you out.”

“Sir!”

“Let me read you this about the Widow Wadman. Said the Widow Wadman⁠—”

“There’s my bill, sir.”

“Very good. Just twist it up, will you⁠—it’s about my smoking-time; and hand a coal, will you, from the hearth yonder!”

“My bill, sir!” said the rascal, turning pale with rage and amazement at my unwonted air (formerly I had always dodged him with a pale face), but too prudent as yet to betray the extremity of his astonishment. “My bill, sir”⁠—and he stiffly poked it at me.

“My friend,” said I, “what a charming morning! How sweet the country looks! Pray, did you hear that extraordinary cockcrow this morning? Take a glass of my stout!”

“Yours? First pay your debts before you offer folks your stout!”

“You think, then, that, properly speaking, I have no stout,” said I, deliberately rising. “I’ll undeceive you. I’ll show you stout of a superior brand to Barclay and Perkins.”

Without more ado, I seized that insolent dun by the slack of his coat⁠—(and, being a lean, shad-bellied wretch, there was plenty of slack to it)⁠—I seized him that way, tied him with a sailor-knot, and, thrusting his bill between his teeth, introduced him to the open country lying round about my place of abode.

“Jake,” said I, “you’ll find a sack of bluenosed potatoes lying under the shed. Drag it here, and pelt this pauper away; he’s been begging pence of me, and I know he can work, but he’s lazy. Pelt him away, Jake!”

Bless my stars, what a crow! Shanghai sent up such a perfect paean and laudamus⁠—such a trumpet blast of triumph, that my soul fairly snorted in me. Duns!⁠—I could have fought an army of them! Plainly, Shanghai was of the opinion that duns only came into the world to be kicked, hanged, bruised, battered, choked, walloped, hammered, drowned, clubbed!

Returning indoors, when the exultation of my victory over the dun had a little subsided, I fell to musing over the mysterious Shanghai. I had no idea I would hear him so nigh my house. I wondered from what rich gentleman’s yard he crowed. Nor had he cut short his crows so easily as I had supposed he would. This Shanghai crowed till midday, at least. Would he keep a-crowing all day? I resolved to learn. Again I ascended the hill. The whole country was now bathed in a rejoicing sunlight. The warm verdure was bursting all round me. Teams were afield. Birds, newly arrived from the South, were blithely singing in the air. Even