Gratitude and treachery are merely the two extremities of the same procession.  You have seen all of it that is worth staying for when the band and the gaudy officials have gone by. —­Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar

THANKSGIVING DAY.  Let us all give humble, hearty, and sincere thanks now, but the turkeys.  In the island of Fiji they do not use turkeys; they use plumbers.  It does not become you and me to sneer at Fiji. —­Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar

The Friday after the election was a rainy one in St. Louis.  It rained all day long, and rained hard, apparently trying its best to wash that soot-blackened town white, but of course not succeeding.  Toward midnight Tom Driscoll arrived at his lodgings from the theater in the heavy downpour, and closed his umbrella and let himself in; but when he would have shut the door, he found that there was another person entering—­doubtless another lodger; this person closed the door and tramped upstairs behind Tom.  Tom found his door in the dark, and entered it, and turned up the gas.  When he faced about, lightly whistling, he saw the back of a man.  The man was closing and locking his door from him.  His whistle faded out and he felt uneasy.  The man turned around, a wreck of shabby old clothes, sodden with rain and all a-drip, and showed a black face under an old slouch hat.  Tom was frightened.  He tried to order the man out, but the words refused to come, and the other man got the start.  He said, in a low voice: 

“Keep still—­I’s yo’ mother!”

Tom sunk in a heap on a chair, and gasped out: 

“It was mean of me, and base—­I know it; but I meant it for the best, I did indeed—­I can swear it.”

Roxana stood awhile looking mutely down on him while he writhed in shame and went on incoherently babbling self-accusations mixed with pitiful attempts at explanation and palliation of his crime; then she seated herself and took off her hat, and her unkept masses of long brown hair tumbled down about her shoulders.

“It warn’t no fault o’ yo’n dat dat ain’t gray,” she said sadly, noticing the hair.

“I know it, I know it!  I’m a scoundrel.  But I swear I meant it for the best.  It was a mistake, of course, but I thought it was for the best, I truly did.”

Roxana began to cry softly, and presently words began to find their way out between her sobs.  They were uttered lamentingly, rather than angrily.

“Sell a pusson down de river—­DOWN DE RIVER!—­for de bes’!  I wouldn’t treat a dog so!  I is all broke down en wore out now, en so I reckon it ain’t in me to storm aroun’ no mo’, like I used to when I ’uz trompled on en ’bused.  I don’t know—­but maybe it’s so.  Leastways, I’s suffered so much dat mournin’ seem to come mo’ handy to me now den stormin’.”