The Manitowoc tribune. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1866-1878, 1872-03-07
Vhe Uribuue.
COUNTRY TAvERNS.
L like country taverns
THAT is. some of themI

bar-room in chair beside dog. while
his pale, back aching, sickly, overworked
wife picks chickens, washes dishes, makes
dumplings, mends children's clothes,
makes beds, sweeps out rooms, empties
slops. patches her husbands breeches
and scratches his back for her board and
two calico dresses year
There is fun in stopping at some coun-
try taverns
Where they have but one towel for two
persons, and that towel cotton one.
Where the windows rattle like bag
full of shin bones struck by lightning.
Where there is four quart water
pitcher full of settings, and only two
quart slop-vessel, and no place to empty
] it except in the stove.
Where the curtains to the windows
were only made by spiders. and all the
world can look in to see you pull off your
boots and things.
Where the pillow is soft and dimpled
like fat baby's fist, and, if your ear be
not covered with postage stamp, the
darned slimsey thing works into your
head before morning, making you feel
like billy goat wit b the catarrh.
Where the feather-bed is filled with
hens heads, pigs toes, necks of paregorie
walls, butternut shells, broken-up pitcher
handles, boot-heels, spelling-book covers,
goose-q quilts, ROSTERS tails and bits of car
pet rags.
Where the bedstead weayes to-and-fro,
like timothy with humble bee on the
top Of it, and the entire continuance
squeaks and groans when you get in,
turn over or get out, like jackass with
the humps.
Where the under sheet was changed
in June, and the upper one in January,
all in the name of neatness.
Where the covers are few and too short
everywhere, except in the middle, and
the wind blowing through the broken
glass full and furious onto your thread.
bare head
Where the little stove in the corner is
full Of ashes, the wood too long for the
stoye, the sap not yet out of the wood,
the kindling in the barn and the boy to
build fire not yet hired.
Where the landlord comes into your
room without knocking, just as you have
your head hid in the folds Of night shirt
and says: Never mind, it's only me >
Or asks if you know of any body who
wants to buy good hotel
Where the matches are not to be found
and the only way to call servant is to
throw water pitcher down stairs, break
door down, cry fire, and then take your
pick from the astonished folks who come
to see what is up!
Where the little slice of soap smells Of
fsh-o1l. so that you think your grand
father was a number two mackerel.
Where there is not nail in the room
on which to hang clothes, or chair il
which to sit while your wife is letting
down her best back hair
Where the only glass or tumbler in the
room is an empty soap-dish. and the wa
ter Tor cleansing teeth is thick and ropy,
like the last will and testament of a
drunken politician.
Where they have rump steak for tender
loin, melted lard for gravy, soggy pota
toes and fried pork in chunks, sailing in
a dish of grease, as when it first came
into the world.
Where pepper-box lid drops off into
your eggs, the salt is at the other end oil
the table, the vinegar-bottle carpeted in.
side with dead flies in soak, and the
crackers covered with periods, o-called
Where the pie-crust is cross between
tripe and juju paste.
Where the pancakes are white as a
soap-suds soaked thumb, or half filled
with butter, like boys mouth with
worms when he goeth forth to fish fol-
bullheads.
Where the tablecloth is soiied and spot
ted like a map of the Indian Archipelago
or aIChinese sailor just oyer the smallpox.
Where a molasses jug has not beer
cleaned since the Death of John Brown
Where the piece of meat brought OF
your plate is covered with grease, like
cross cut saw ON winter morning.
Where the plates are colder than tn,
gable end Of an ice house.
Where the landlady pours tea with ;
pipe in her mouth, and the dining-roon
help blow their noses on the napkins
Where fire is never made when yol
order it.
When you are not called till the trair
has started. because that darned boy for
got.
Where Joafers sit up in the bar-roon
under your bedroom, telling smut,
stories till midnight-where dogs am
young ones race up and down an uncar
: peted hall in the morning, when you sr
trying to sleep.
Where the one who calls an early rise
next room, hammers on the door, ant
yells till you would think Vulcan ant
Gabriel had arrived on drunk
Where sappy-nosed children come int
your room, spill your hair-oil, try you
tooth brush, wipe their noses on you
coat tail or breakfast shawl, then bawl Xix
a young bull stung by hornets, when yo1
ask them to run out like sweet little dears
Yes-I like country taverns-that is
some of them Brick" Pomeroy.
THIN PAPER.-The Upper Forest tin
works near Swansea Wales have ca,