CRUSADING THE OLD SALOON

’T WAS three o’clock of an afternoon,
And trade was brisk in the old saloon.
Old Schaeffer sat in his office-chair,
With red mustache and well-combed hair,
With pipe, and slippers, and pot of beer,
And face betokening much good cheer;
While Hans and Peter brought ready mugs,
Or rattled the demijohns, barrels and jugs;
And plump Katrina, behind the bar,
Kept track of the money for her papa.
The old dog dozed in a sunny spot,
Or crept in the shade when it grew too hot.
The parrot, a native of hot Para,
Walked, upside down, on his prison bar—
Or, catching the pungent scent of cheese,
Blasphemed in villainous Portuguese;
While three little mice with bellies white,
Kept turning a wheel from morn till night.
And all, on that pleasant Summer day,
Drank friendly beer, and were blithe and gay,
While the sun, with a mellow face of gold,
Looked in, and laughed at the stories told.

There came a patter of gartered feet,
And chattering voices on the street,
And cheeping, peeping noises aloof,
Like a thousand sparrows upon the roof;
And the pipe fell away from the red mustache
And the beer-mug went by the board with a crash,
And a deadly nightmare horror arose
Till it blanched the color in Schaeffer’s nose,
As there entered a tall, snap-eyed old maid
With thirty followers, on a raid,
And Schaeffer groaned, “Tis der damned crusade!”
They swarmed like bees at the open door,
Crowded the bar, and covered the floor,
And when they had it their own sweet way,
The snap-eyed woman said, “Let us pray!”
They prayed and chorused their level best,
That over the country, from east to west,
These liquor-sellers—these human ghouls—
Might cease from ruining precious souls;
Till all the people, from sea to sea,
Should sing the praises of Cambric tea,
And men, picked out of the moral mud,
Should sound the glories of Noah’s flood,
While all, despising fever or shake,
Should drink spring water, their thirst to slake.
Old Schaeffer listened with open mouth,
The parrot wished himself at the South,
The dog crept under a beer-keg shelf,
And each of the mice took care of himself.
While of drinkers, smokers, bummers and beats,
Nothing was left but the vacant seats.
Slowly and solemnly Schaeffer rose,
The color returned to cheeks and nose.
Sadly he mounted his office-chair,
And scratched for thought in his yellow hair,
Till, partly in anger, partly in grief,
In broken English he found relief:
“Vot der tuyvel dis vomans all do here?
Vot is it your pizness apout mine beer?
Ven you got some pizness ov your own,
’Tis petter you leaf mine house alone.
You got some papies? you got some house?
You ole fool vomans! Das maks nix ous!
Hans, shump on der stool und open der door,
And let dem dree leedle mouse on der floor!”

And Hans, quick turning a button about,
Let three little white-bellied mice jump out,
Suddenly silencing prayer and song
As they scattered and scampered among the throng.
They scratched up stocking-legs, azure and white,
In vain endeavors to climb out of sight.
In columns and volumes of crinoline
They strove to hide where they couldn’t be seen.
And that crusade mounted the stools and kegs,
With skirts hugged tightly around their legs.
While the grim, tall leader of their ranks,
With dress well twisted about her shanks,
And short hair bristling upon her scalp,
Stood on a barrel and screamed for help,
Till, seeing a chance for safe retreat,
She led a charge for the open street,
And the crusade rout became complete.

If three little mice can put to flight
An army that battles for “truth and right,”
Is’t likely they’ll close old Schaeffer’s house,
Or stop his lager? Nix cum arous.