'Why didn't you bring some on with you?' inquired Barnum.
'Fact was, they were so everlastin' common that it didn't seem to me they were worth bringin'. Why, you can git a dozen of 'em any day in 'Frisco.'
With much feigned reluctance Barnum yielded his pigeon up to the California show, and all went well--for a time.
Perhaps two weeks had elapsed, when Old Adams burst into the office, excited.
'Barnum!' he cried, 'you infarnal old humbug--that California golden pigin is a darned swindle! It's painted!'
'Why, how you talk!' replied Barnum. 'Humbug, indeed! Haven't you seen golden pigeons, three and four hundred in a flock, in California?'
'It's painted and gilded, I tell you!' cried Adams. 'The color is all coming off the edges of the wings, and its tail is 'most rubbed white!'
'The idea!' replied Barnum, mildly, but with a droll, merry light in his eyes. 'You know you can send out to the San Francisco market any day and get a dozen!'
That is the legend of Ye Golden Pigeon. No--hold on; it is told in the Museum that one day a lady charged Mr. Barnum with having had his Angel Fish artificially colored.
But the golden pigeon captivated her, and she implored Mr. B. for one of its eggs. He evaded the request on the ground that the 'sect' to which the pigeon belonged was not of the egg-laying kind.
So we should think. Apropos of the Angel Fish, the CONTINENTAL heard a lady remark lately that they were well named, and lovely enough to have been caught in the ponds of paradise. 'They certainly must be the kind,' she added, 'which they fish for with golden hooks.'
And ah! the merry summer-tide!' as a Minnisinger and many another singer have sung. As we write, summer is losing its last traces in the peach-time of September. Bartlett pears are dead ripe--like the engagements formed at Newport and Saratoga--and china-asters and tuberoses tell of coming frosts. Well, 'tis over--the second season of the year is with the snows of year before last.
and we may continue the service by singing a
Like an argosy deep laden With the wealth of Indian sands, Sailing down a summer ocean To far-off Northern lands,--
Like a golden-visioned story-- Like the hectic's bright decay, Dying in the painted glory Of the autumn sere and hoary, Fade the summer days away.