Part 5 (1/2)

At length our ways parted, and, with cheery good-byes and good wishes, our young friend went rattling along, leaving in our hearts a warm feeling of the brotherhood of man--sometimes. He had let us down close by the ”High Banks,” the rumour of which had been in our ears for some miles, and presently the great effect Nature had been preparing burst on our gaze with a startling surprise. The peaceful pastoral country was suddenly cloven in twain by a gigantic chasm, the Genesee River, dizzy depths below, picturesquely flowing between Grand Canon rock effects, s.h.a.ggy woods clothing the precipitous limestone, and small forests growing far down in the broad bed of the river, with here and there checkerboard s.p.a.ces of cultivated land, gleaming, smooth and green, amid all the spectacular savageness--soft, cozy spots of verdure nestling dreamily in the hollow of the giant rocky hand. The road ran close to the edge of the chasm, and the sublimity was with us, laying its hush upon us, for the rest of the afternoon. Appropriate to her Jove-like mood, Nature had planted stern thickets of oak-trees along the rocky edge, and ”the acorns of our lord of Chaonia” crunched beneath our feet as we walked on.

After a while, sure enough we came upon ”Billy the Cobbler,” seated at his bench in a little shop at the beginning of a straggle of houses, alone, save for his cat, at the sleepy end of afternoon. We had understood that he had been crippled in some cruel accident of machinery, and was hampered in the use of his legs. But, unless in a certain philosophic sweetness on his big, happy face, there was no sign of the cripple about his burly, broad-shouldered personality. He was evidently meant to be a giant, and was what one might call the bo'sun type, bluff, big-voiced and merry, with a boyish laugh, large, twinkling eyes, a trifle wistful, and the fine teeth of the district.

”Well, boys,” said he, looking up from his work with a smile, ”and what can I do for you? Walking, eh?--to New York!” and he whistled, as every one did when they learned our mysterious business.

Then, taking Colin's shoe in his hand, he commenced to pound upon that instrument of torture, talking gaily the while. Presently he asked, ”Do you care about music?” and on our eagerly agreeing that we did, ”All right,” he said, ”we'll close the shop for a few minutes and have some.”

Then, moving around on his seat, like some heroic half-figure bust on its pedestal, he rummaged among the litter of leather and tools at his side, and produced a guitar from its baize bag, also a mouth organ, which by some ingenious wire arrangement he fastened around his neck, so that he might press his lips upon it, leaving his hands free for the guitar.

Then, ”Ready?” said he, and, applying himself simultaneously to the guitar and the harmonica, off he started with a quite electrical gusto into a spirited fandango that made the little shop dance and rattle with merriment. You would have said that a whole orchestra was there, such a volume and variety of musical sound did Billy contrive to evoke from his two instruments.

”There!” he said, with a humorous chuckle, pus.h.i.+ng the harmonica aside from his mouth, ”what do you think of that for an overture?” He had completely hypnotized us with his infectious high spirits, and we were able to applaud him sincerely, for this lonely cobbler of shoes was evidently a natural well of music, and was, besides, no little of an executant.

”Now I'll give you an imitation of grand opera,” he said; and then he launched into the drollest burlesque of a fas.h.i.+onable tenor and a prima-donna, as clever as could be. He was evidently a born mime as well as a musician, and presently delighted us with some farmyard imitations, and one particularly quaint impersonation, ”an old lady singing with false teeth,” sent us into fits of laughter.

”You ought to go into vaudeville,” we both said spontaneously, with that vicious modern instinct to put private gifts to professional uses, and then Billy, with shy pride, admitted that he did do a little now and again in a professional way at harvest b.a.l.l.s (we thought of Sheldon Center) and the like.

”Perhaps you might like one of my professional letter-heads,” he said, handing us one apiece. I think probably the reader would like one, too.

You must imagine it in the original, with fancy displayed professional type, regular ”artiste” style, and a portrait of Billy, with his two instruments, in one corner. And ”see thou mock him not,” gentle reader!

_King of Them All BILLY WILLIAMS THE KING OF ALL IMITATORS Producing in Rapid Succession A GRAND REPERTOIRE of Imitations and Impersonations Consisting of_:

Minstrel Bands, Circus Bands, Killing Pigs, Cat Greeting Her Kitten, Barn-Yard of Hens and Roosters, Opera Singers with Guitar, Whistling with Guitar, Old Lady Singing with False Teeth, Cow and Calf, Harmonica with the Guitar, Arab Song, Trombone Solo with the Guitar.

Yes! ”See thou mock him not,” gentle reader, for Billy is no subject for any man's condescension. We were in his company scarcely an hour, but we went away with a great feeling of respect and tenderness for him, and we hope some day to drop in on him again, and hear his music and his quaint, manly wisdom.

”All alone in the world, Billy?”

A shade of sadness pa.s.sed over his face, and was gone again, as he smilingly answered, stroking the cat that purred and rubbed herself against his shoulder.

”Just puss and me and the guitar,” he said. ”The happiest of families.

Ah! Music's a great thing of a lonely evening.”

And a sense of the brave loneliness of Billy's days swept over me as we shook his strong hand, and he gave us a cheery G.o.dspeed on our way. I am convinced that Billy could earn quite a salary on the vaudeville stage; but--no! he is better where he is, sitting there at his bench, with his black cat and his guitar and his singing, manly soul.

The twilight was rapidly thickening as we left Billy, once more bent over his work, and, the fear of ”supper-time” in our hearts, we pushed on at extra speed toward our night's lodging at Mount Morris. The oak-trees gloomed denser on our right as we plowed along a villainously sandy road.

Labourers homing from the day's work greeted us now and again in the dimness, and presently one of these, plodding up behind us, broke forth into conversation:

”Ben-a carry pack-a lik-a dat-a--forty-two months--army--ol-a country,”

said the voice out of the darkness.

It was an Italian labourer on his way to supper, interested in our knapsacks.

”You're an Italian?”

”Me come from Pal-aer-mo.”

The little chap was evidently in a talkative mood, and I nudged Colin to do the honours of the conversation.