From The Rise and Fall of the Mustache, and other “Hawk-eyetems,” by Robert J. Burdette, illustrated by R. W. Wallis; Burlington Publishing Company, Burlington, Iowa; 1877; pp. 90-93.
MR. DRESSELDORF, who can’t endure any noise since he sold his clarionet, has just moved into the sweetest little cottage out on South Hill, and here, he told Mrs. Dresseldorf, he would rest and spend his declining days under his own vine and fig tree, with no one to molest or make him afraid. “We have a few neighbors,” he said, the afternoon they got comfortably and cozily settled; “Mr. Blodgers, next door, keeps a cow, and will supply us with an abundance of pure, fresh milk; Mr. Whackem, not far away, is an honest teamster, I understand, and will be convenient when we want a little hauling done from town; Mr. Sturvesant, just down the street, has a splendid dog that he says keeps an eye on the entire neighborhood, and I think we will live pleasantly and happily here.” And Mr. Dresseldorf sat on the porch and solemnly contemplated the hammer 91 bruises and the tack holes and nail marks and abrasions of stove legs and the pinches of obstinate stove-pipe joints on his hands, and wondered if Providence would be merciful to him and strike the house with lightning before next moving day rolled around. And with this pleasant and soothing thought, Mr. Dresseldorf fell into a trance of ecstatic content, delighted with the holy quiet of the scene and the neighborhood, with Perkins’ meadow in the serene distance, the sun sinking out of sight, throwing long bars of burnished gold through a clump of forest trees off to the west, and the summer air vibrating with the hushed hum of insect life that floated to the Dresseldorf porch. So quiet, so full of peace, so fraught with meditation, and retrospective self-communings was the scene, that Mr. Dresseldorf wondered if he could endure so much happiness every evening. Just then,
“Whoa! Who-oh-oh-oh-h ! !” Whack! whack! whack! “Whoa! ye son of a thief! Head him, Bill! Whoa!”
“What under the canopy —” began the startled and astonished Mr. Dresseldorf; but just then he saw a gray mule with a paint-brush tail flying down the road, head and tail up, and its heels making vicious offers at every animated object that came within range. It was plain that one of Mr. Whackem’s mules had got away, as the honest teamster and his three sons were seen skirmishing down the street in hot pursuit. Mr. Dresseldorf groaned as the animal was cornered, and his picture of peaceful solitude fled.
“Whoa! Don’t throw at him! Who now!” “Head him off, dad!” “Git down the road furder, bill!” “Whoa, whoa, now!” “Hee haw! hee haw! hee haw!” “Hold on, Tom!” “Hurry up!” “Look out for his heels!” “Now ketch him!” Chorus, “Whoa! whoa! 92 whoa!” “Hee haw, hee haw, hee haw!” “Whoop!” “Hi!” “Whoop-pee!” “Dog gone the diddledy dog gone mule to thunder!”
Mr. Dresselforf groaned as the cavalcade went storming and crashing and hallooing down the street. “Thank heaven they’re gone,” he said.
“Sook-kee! sook-kee! sook-kee!”
It sounded like a calliope, only it was too far from the river; but it brought the man of peace to his feet all the same.
“Sook-kee! sook-kee! Suke! suke! seuke!”
It was Mr. Blodgers calling his cow, and as he emphasized the summons by pounding on the bottom of a tin pail with the leg of a milking stool, Mr. Dresseldorf moaned and buried his nervous hands in his hair and tried to pull the top of his head off. While Mr. Blodgers was yelling and pounding, however, a hurricane came tearing up the road — a whirlwind of dust and whoops and paint-brush tails and horns and sticks — and from this awful confusion shot forth yells and brays and bawls and the discordant clangor of a cow bell. Mr. Blodgers ran out into the road, while Mr. Dusseldorf fell on his knees and crammed his fingers in his ears.
“What’n thunder ’s chasin’ that keow, I’d like to know?” queried Mr. Blodgers; then, raising his voice, “Hey! Hi! I say! Whoop!” And he was tossed over Mr. Dresseldorf’s fence into a garden urn, and the hurricane passed on up the street, leaving Mr. Blodgers howling like a dervish, and beseeching the demoralized Dresseldorf to bring him some arnica and whisky. The wretched man rose to minister to the sufferings of his neighbor, and got the two needful medicines; but just as he came out of the house the programme changed again. Mr. Sturvesant’s dog, keeping an eye upon the entire 93 neighborhood, had met the whirlwind above mentioned up at the next corner, and had promptly turned it back. This unexpected retrograde movement placed Mr. Whackem, the three Masters Whackem, and a small mob of juvenile volunteers who had been picked up at one point of the chase and another to help catch the mule, directly in the path of the charging mule and Mr. Blodgers’ cow. An immediate adjournment was at once moved and carried, and the entire community lit out for the nearest place of refuge; but Mr. Sturvesant’s dog kept up the chase with such vigor that the whole vociferous, yelling, braying, bawling, barking mass came bulging through Dusseldorf’s front fence, upsetting the owner of the property and carrying him and Mr. Blodgers out into the alley, where the mass fell apart, the animals running to their respective stables, and the “human warious” seeking their homes as soon as they found each other. Mr. Dresseldorf advertised his place for sale the next morning. He is fond of the quiet life of a suburban residence, he says, but it is a little too far from business.