Where can that latch be that rattles so? Is anybody trying it softly? or, worse than any body, is----? (Cold shiver.) Then a sudden gust that jars all the windows;--very strange!--there does not seem to be any wind about that it belongs to.When it stops, you hear the worms boring in the powdery beams overhead.Then steps outside,--a stray animal, no doubt.All right,--but a gentle moisture breaks out all over you; and then something like a whistle or a cry,--another gust of wind, perhaps; that accounts for the rustling that just made your heart roll over and tumble about, so that it felt more like a live rat under your ribs than a part of your own body; then a crash of something that has fallen,--blown over, very likely---- Pater noster, qui es in coelis! for you are damp and cold, and sitting bolt upright, and the bed trembling so that the death-watch is frightened and has stopped ticking!
No,--night is an awful time for strange noises and secret doings.
Who ever dreamed, till one of our sleepless neighbors told us of it, of that Walpurgis gathering of birds and beasts of prey,--foxes, and owls, and crows, and eagles, that come from all the country round on moonshiny nights to crunch the clams and muscles, and pick out the eyes of dead fishes that the storm has thrown on Chelsea Beach? Our old mother Nature has pleasant and cheery tones enough for us when she comes in her dress of blue and gold over the eastern hill-tops;but when she follows us up-stairs to our beds in her suit of black velvet and diamonds, every creak of her sandals and every whisper of her lips is full of mystery and fear.
You understand, then, distinctly, that I do not believe there is anything about this singular little neighbor of mine which is as it should not be.Probably a visit to his room would clear up all that has puzzled me, and make me laugh at the notions which began, Isuppose, in nightmares, and ended by keeping my imagination at work so as almost to make me uncomfortable at times.But it is not so easy to visit him as some of our other boarders, for various reasons which I will not stop to mention.I think some of them are rather pleased to get "the Professor" under their ceilings.
The young man John, for instance, asked me to come up one day and try some "old Burbon," which he said was A 1.On asking him what was the number of his room, he answered, that it was forty-'leven, sky-parlor floor, but that I shouldn't find it, if he did n't go ahead to show me the way.I followed him to his habitat, being very willing to see in what kind of warren he burrowed, and thinking Imight pick up something about the boarders who had excited my curiosity.
Mighty close quarters they were where the young man John bestowed himself and his furniture; this last consisting of a bed, a chair, a bureau, a trunk, and numerous pegs with coats and "pants" and "vests,"--as he was in the habit of calling waist-coats and pantaloons or trousers,--hanging up as if the owner had melted out of them.Several prints were pinned up unframed,--among them that grand national portrait-piece, "Barnum presenting Ossian E.Dodge to Jenny Lind," and a picture of a famous trot, in which I admired anew the cabalistic air of that imposing array of expressions, and especially the Italicized word, "Dan Mace names b.h.Major Slocum,"and "Hiram Woodruff names g.m.Lady Smith." "Best three in five.
Time: 2.40, 2.46, 2.50."
That set me thinking how very odd this matter of trotting horses is, as an index of the mathematical exactness of the laws of living mechanism.I saw Lady Suffolk trot a mile in 2.26.Flora Temple has trotted close down to 2.20; and Ethan Allen in 2.25, or less.
Many horses have trotted their mile under 2.30; none that I remember in public as low down as 2.20.From five to ten seconds, then, in about a hundred and sixty is the whole range of the maxima of the present race of trotting horses.The same thing is seen in the running of men.Many can run a mile in five minutes; but when one comes to the fractions below, they taper down until somewhere about 4.30 the maximum is reached.Averages of masses have been studied more than averages of maxima and minima.We know from the Registrar-General's Reports, that a certain number of children--say from one to two dozen--die every year in England from drinking hot water out of spouts of teakettles.We know, that, among suicides, women and men past a certain age almost never use fire-arms.Awoman who has made up her mind to die is still afraid of a pistol or a gun.Or is it that the explosion would derange her costume?
I say, averages of masses we have, but our tables of maxima we owe to the sporting men more than to the philosophers.The lesson their experience teaches is, that Nature makes no leaps,--does nothing per saltum.The greatest brain that ever lived, no doubt, was only a small fraction of an idea ahead of the second best.Just look at the chess-players.Leaving out the phenomenal exceptions, the nice shades that separate the skilful ones show how closely their brains approximate,--almost as closely as chronometers.Such a person is a "knight-player,"--he must have that piece given him.Another must have two pawns.Another, "pawn and two," or one pawn and two moves.
Then we find one who claims "pawn and move," holding himself, with this fractional advantage, a match for one who would be pretty sure to beat him playing even.--So much are minds alike; and you and Ithink we are "peculiar,"--that Nature broke her jelly-mould after shaping our cerebral convolutions.So I reflected, standing and looking at the picture.
--I say, Governor,--broke in the young man John,--them bosses '11stay jest as well, if you'll only set down.I've had 'em this year, and they haven't stirred.--He spoke, and handed the chair towards me,--seating himself, at the same time, on the end of the bed.
You have lived in this house some time?--I said,--with a note of interrogation at the end of the statement.
Do I look as if I'd lost much flesh--said he, answering my question by another.
