The Blunders of a Bashful Man | Page 9

been
introduced," said that wicked Fred behind me. "Mr. Flutter, allow me to
make you acquainted with Mr. Flutter. He's anxious to take a little walk
with you."
It was so; I had been talking to myself in a four-foot looking-glass.
I did not feel like staying for the ice-cream and kissing-plays, but had a
sly hunt for my hat, and took leave of the tea-party about the eighth of a
second afterward.
CHAPTER IV.
HE DOES HIS DUTY AS A CITIZEN.
Babbletown began to be very lively as soon as the weather got cool, the
fall after I came home. We had a singing-school once a week, a
debating society that met every Wednesday evening, and then we had
sociables, and just before Christmas a fair. All the other young men had
a good time. Every day, when some of them dropped in the store for a
chat and a handful of raisins, they would aggravate me by asking:
"Aren't we having a jolly winter of it, John?"
I never had a good time. I never enjoyed myself like other folks. I spent
enough money and made enough good resolutions, but something
always occurred to destroy my anticipated pleasure. I can't hear a
lyceum or debating society mentioned to this day, without feeling
"cold-chills" run down my spine.
I took part in the exercises the evening ours was opened. I had been
requested by the committee to furnish the poem for the occasion. As I
was just from a first-class academy, where I had read the valedictory, it
was taken for granted that I was the most likely one to "fill the bill."

I accepted the proposition. To be bashful is a far different thing from
being modest. I wrote the poem. I sat up nights to do it. The way
candles were consumed caused father to wonder where his best box of
spermacetis had gone to. I knew I could do the poetry, and I firmly
resolved that I would read it through, from beginning to end, in a clear,
well-modulated voice, that could be heard by all, including the minister
and Belle Marigold. I would not blush, or stammer, or get a frog in my
throat. I swore solemnly to myself that I would not. Some folks should
see that my bashfulness was wearing off faster than the gold from an
oroide watch. Oh, I would show 'em! Some things could be done as
well as others. I would no longer be the laughing-stock of Babbletown.
My past record should be wiped out! I would write my poem, and I
would read it--read it calmly and impressively, so as to do full justice
to it.
I got the poem ready. I committed it to memory, so that if the lights
were dim, or I lost my place, I should not be at the mercy of the
manuscript. The night came. I entered the hall with Belle on my arm,
early, so as to secure her a front seat.
"Keep cool, John," were her whispered words, as I left her to take my
place on the platform.
"Oh, I shall be cool enough. I know every line by heart; have said it to
myself one hundred and nineteen times without missing a word."
I'm not going to bore you with the poem here; but will give the first
four lines as they were written and as I spoke them:
"Hail! Babbletown, fair village of the plain! Hail! friends and
fellow-citizens. In vain I strive to sing the glories of this place, Whose
history back to early times I trace."
The room was crowded, the president of the society made a few
opening remarks, which closed by presenting Mr. Flutter, the poet of
the occasion. I was quite easy and at home until I arose and bowed as
he spoke my name. Then something happened to my senses, I don't
know what; I only knew I lost every one of them for about two minutes.

I was blind, deaf, dumb, tasteless, senseless, and feelingless. Then I
came to a little, rallied, and perceived that some of the boy were
beginning to pound the floor with their heels. I made a feint of holding
my roll of verses nearer the lamp at my right hand, summoned traitor
memory to return, and began:
"Hail!"
Was that my voice? I did not recognize it. It was more as if a mouse in
the gallery had squeaked. It would never do. I cleared any
throat--which was to have been free from frogs--and a strange, hoarse
voice, no more like mine than a crow is like a nightingale, came out
with a jerk, about six feet away, and remarked, as if surprised:
"Hail!"
With a desperate effort, I resolved that this night or never I was