Listen, Chateaugay gossips all! Though Mrs. Jones deems it mere trickery to set tongues wagging, the undeniable “BOHAT 1P” coughs judgment-day while tying untaken trout and unstamped demijohns behind—patience, for news from any decade shall now grace these columns through the faithful STEAMBOAT GAZETTE!
CHATEAUGAY.
Squibs from our Inexhaustible and Talented Scribe.
NEWS! Yes, that is what the people say. Give us the news! If anything happens in town we want to know it. If your mother-in-law comes to see you, bringing with her the inevitable band-box and umbrella, we want to know it, and want to read it in the STEAMBOAT GAZETTE too; not hear of it, because one always gets the true version of a story if one reads it in the paper, you know. If Brown’s baby has the whooping cough and Brown does not catch it, or the Misses Jones have new dresses cut biasing, why, you must tell us that. Anything for news. If Peter Snooks goes to the Paris Exposition we shall expect to see the item in the Chateaugay column. Perhaps we do not care a straw for Peter, but that makes no difference; we shall read it just the same.
In this connection we are happy to state that our village has lately furnished an item so uncommon, so public, and at the same time so badly explained, that even the most fastidious consumer of local intelligence may sit down and feast. We refer to the re-appearance, if appearance it may be called, of the notorious Rowdy Hill Boys, whose name has for some years been coupled with speed, smoke, profanity, and a singular disrespect for chronology.
These gay and enterprising young men, who seem to reside nowhere in particular and in all decades alike, came through the upper street on Tuesday evening last in a low, shining vehicle of a pattern not usually met with in these parts, bearing the inscription “BOHAT 1P,” which some have supposed to be a number, some a foreign motto, and Mr. Peasley, who has traveled as far as Utica, declares to be an abbreviation connected with practical mechanics. The machine passed with a sound between a cough and a suppressed judgment day, scattering hens, alarming one roan mare, and causing Mrs. Drown to sit down suddenly upon a pail she had no intention of occupying.
The occupants, three in number, were dressed in a city style, though not offensively so, and wore an air of business mixed with amusement. One of them, believed to be Slippery Pete O’Malley, bowed to the company in front of the store with a politeness that would have done credit to a dancing master; another, supposed to be Clockwork Charlie Finch, appeared to manipulate the works with a monkey wrench and an expression of private sorrow; while the third, thought by the bolder historians of the hamlet to be Future Freddie Malone, looked steadily up the road as if he had already seen the next half hour and found it tolerable.
When the vehicle reached the corner by the hotel, it is said to have stopped without stopping, if the reader will permit a statement which the best authorities assure us is exact. Mr. Hiram Bellows, who was standing there at the time and is not addicted to fancy except on election day, declares that he plainly observed the machine occupy two moments at once, one near supper time and one somewhat after, and that for the space of several breaths the moon seemed uncertain where she belonged. Hiram adds that he saw, tied behind the seat, two strings of rainbow trout not yet caught, a demijohn bearing a revenue stamp not to be issued for years, and a newspaper containing next Thursday’s market report. We give this as it was given to us.
Old residents will remember the many charges formerly laid at the door of this same gang. They have been accused of robbing a bank in hard times and restoring the money before it was missed; of conveying spirituous encouragement to thirsty parties in years when no law had yet forbidden such kindness; and of serving fish at an entertainment which, according to naturalists, had not then had time to become fish. These things we do not vouch for in every particular, but it is certain that wherever the Rowdy Hill Boys go, dates become mixed, respectable men lose confidence in almanacs, and the young folks are more than ever disposed to stay up later than is for their good.
Rev. Chevalier Ultrus, who has had more trouble with them than perhaps any other sober-minded person in the town, remarked yesterday that if those boys had devoted their gifts to religion or bridge-building, they might have been a blessing to the county, but having taken to temporal mischief they have become, in his phrase, “a traveling admonition.” He further stated that he once attempted to rebuke them, whereupon they thanked him for the sermon three days before it was preached. This has naturally weakened his hold upon ordinary methods.
Mrs. Jones says the whole affair is nonsense and that the car is nothing but a trick got up to make simple people talk. Her husband, however, after examining the tracks near West Ellenburgh Hill, found one rut fresh, one old, and one apparently to be made next week. As Mr. Jones is not a man to trifle with a footprint, public opinion has in consequence become divided.
House cleaning is over; spring, that everlasting subject for un-fledged poets and puzzled authors, has left us with what remains of the influenza, and even our mother-in-law’s visits cannot last forever, so do not wonder if once in a while, in a quiet little village like this, there is a dearth of local items; but wait patiently, and when there is any news, whether from this year or another, be sure your appeal for it will be answered through the STEAMBOAT GAZETTE.
TELL E. GRAPH.
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What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?