Nashville union and American. [volume] (Nashville, Tenn.) 1868-1875, 1875-06-12
A NEVADA EDITOR's LITTLE ME-
MENTOES.
Gold Hin News


| Sitting here in our Sanctum and
thinking, our eye musingly falls upon,
and the hand toys with little trinket,
a keepsake, as the world goes, a Uade
mccain. It is Of no particular value as
values are reckOned, but it is useful to
the hand and treasure to the heart.
A thousand times taken up, a thousand
times used, thousand times found In
readiness, it has come to be like a fond
friend waiting to anticipate want and
ready to supply it. And yet it is but
trlnket-a senseless thing-merely the
old dragon revolver We wrenched from
Buffalo Bill, when he came charging in
here to obliterate us from writing a
police item about him. We buried him
IN our little graveyard, back of the Of
ice; but we can never gaze upon that
little pistol without feeling of admit
ration for his misplaced and unfortu-
nate temerity.
That classically moulded limb, pick
led and dried, hanging on the wall, is
the left shank Of Six-toed Pete, the
great Mud Springs desperate, who
came to demonstrate with US for pub
fishing his marriage under the head of
"deaths." 1t was a printers blunder,
not ours, but, no matter, we riddled
him with that revolver and then took
off his leg ct the hip joint with the
first slash of our trusty little Ratchet.
We should have completed his dis
memberment had he not run away,
coward that he was. His two big
brothers, who came for that leg and
revenge, both rest in our little grave
yard, back Of the Office. Peace to their
ashes.
The jagged and knotty old Feejee
war club IN the corner, this dilapidated
nose and broken jaw, as we'll as this
bullet, which we still feel evermore
singing away In the interior of our
right lung, were left us byold Blifkins,
the editor of the Gospel Eagle, who
came on from the East to kill US for
connecting his name with the Beecher
scandal and proving that he was the
father of Bessie Turner as well as the
bosom friend of Susan B. Anthony. |
Our trusty pistol and little Ratchet did |
not fail us, and lie, too, lies, editorially, |
in our quiet little graveyard, at the |
back of the Office.
The elongated scoop shaped mementJ
which we use for a waste basket was
once the ear of Virginia City news.
paper reporter. He would persist in
stealing our item, so we were obliged to |
60 and cut off his ear with our little |
Ratchet, fallaciously thinking that would |
stop him. His head goes next. We
cannot gaze upon that ear waste basket /
without a sentimental degree of refec- |
ton stealing diagonally acros our SEN
sibilities. Overlooking as it now Is with /
manuscript IN exasperating
prose, abOTtive poetry, obituary rhymes
and sOul-harrOwing literary trash gen
orally was it not always crammed full of
still worse trash, In the way Of no &C
count items, dog fights, swill-cars acci.
dents, and all sorts of sensations, lies,
gauzy humbugs and cock and bull
stories? All! how eagerly that capa.
ci0Us gullible ear drank them In. Mayit
not, IN some unknown and mysterious
way, have become so saturated with
those items that perhaps some may yet
cling to 1t as the perfume of flowers
around a vase which held them? 1t is
a thing Of more use than beauty, but
it IS ike our other keepsakes, overflow
ing with subtle emanations and person
Il reminders. All this may be senti-
mental fancy, but is fancy without a
fault; 1t may be nonsense, but 1t is non
sense which viii make the world better
f acted upon, for thoughts may be tnus
Kept from wandering and hearts from
straying till the feet learn to tread the
upper paths of life and love the better
Tayi