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also stow away some of them in the barn to sleep on the hay-mow. These celebrations were something worth seeing. There would be a parade in the morning by mounted and foot soldiers, artillery, the fire companies, the Tammany Society, target companies, and such like. At these times City Hall Park, which had a great iron fence around it, would be surrounded by booths where they sold roast pig, cider, egg-nog, and spruce beer. The day would close with a display of fireworks. At other times the young farm hands, “with money to burn and boots to collop,” as we say, could have good times at the Vauxhall Gardens, which were on the Bowery Road, just below Peter Cooper's grocery store. These gardens stretched clean over to what is now Broadway, on the site where Astor built his public library. They had a high wooden fence all around with a row of trees just inside. When you got in — the gate was on the Bowery you found a beautiful garden with gravelled walks winding in and out between the flower beds. Around the sides, between the trees, were little booths for two or three people, with a table where ginger pop, cakes, baked pears swimming in molasses, and such-like delicacies were sold. In the centre of all was a pavilion for music and perfor


I didn't encourage my guests to go to such places, but to stay up at the “Bull's Head” and spend their money there. They could find enough excitement at my place. For my tavern was one of the road-houses for the stage which went between Park Row, New York, and Harlem Village every day. The stage would reach us a little before nine in the morning, having left Harlem at seven o'clock. Arriving at Park Row at ten, it would start back in the afternoon at three, get to the “Bull's Head” about four and arrive in Harlem at supper-time. Also, there would be everlasting dickerings in horseflesh to furnish excitement and keep the blood stirring. For the “Bull's Head” was becoming the horse-exchange as well as the cattle exchange for New York City. Those two lines of trade go together, anyhow. Farmers would bring in their horses from the country to my tavern, and the city people would come there to look them over. In this way,

from being a master hand in judging cattle, I pretty soon came to have great skill in horse-flesh also. It stood me in hand to be

in it. Sound animals find quick buyers. Skill in horse-flesh shows itself in selling an unsound animal. After a time I got so that I could turn a good penny in a horse deal. It is a curious thing how a brokendown plug can be doctored up and made into a fairly good-looking beast, for purposes of a trade or sale. If he's got holes back of his eyes through age, by working carefully you can prick a hole through and blow under the skin, and so puff the





hollow up, smooth as the forehead of a two-yearold. Another good dodge to make an old horse look young, is to take a file and bishop his teeth; for a buyer is sure to look in the mouth the first thing. Or you can sometimes burn into a horse's teeth the marks which go with coltishness.

with coltishness. With thickwinded animals a good dose of tar poured down the throat will often stop broken wind long enough to get the animal sold. Roarers are harder to fix. They give you away 'most every time. But even with this kind of beast there is a way, if you are on to it. Well-greased shot poured down the roarer's throat will ease off the roarings and make him — for an hour or two quite a sound-winded animal. Besides all these, a favourite device, when a young ninny would come along that didn't know a horsecolt from a mare, was to offer him the animal for sale with the harness on. In such cases he usually thinks he is getting a bargain, because the harness seems thrown in. Whereas the truth is, you have tucked that on to the price, and meanwhile the harness is covering up some galled spots on the animal that otherwise would stand out like a sore thumb. In nine cases out of ten the young booby jumps at the bargain, like a hen at a gooseberry.

For amusement at night there was no end of things going on. Of a summer's evening there were quoits, wrestling matches, and boxing bouts, out in the road in front of the tavern. While in the winter the guests would gather about the big fireplace in the tap-room, and smoke and chew while some one read the news out loud. Over in one corner was a table for checkers and backgammon. We didn't have spittoons in those days. We didn't need them; because I used to keep the floor of the tap-room good and clean by means of a layer of white sand from Rockaway. One newspaper

would last a company for several evenings, because politics ran high in those days, and discussions would last sometimes far into a winter's night. When Andrew Jackson's bank measure went through, there was such high feeling, and the parties were that bitter, my guests sometimes had fist-fights before the discussion was over. Another topic of discussion one time was a book by a Mr. Fenimore Cooper, called “The Spy.” It made no end of talk about the time of which I am now speaking. Because 'most other man you met had his own idea as to who was the real original of “The Spy” in the story. I never read books of any kind, and novels are a sinful kind of book, anyhow. But I couldn't help hearing a lot about this book, because everybody was talking about it. And when finally it came out that the original of “The Spy” was no other than the same Enoch Crosby that is in the Gilead burying ground up in Carmel, I was mighty interested. I had a whole lot to tell about the man to the people who came to the tavern. It would be a mercy to put up a tombstone to mark Crosby's grave. I almost believe I would do it myself. Only just now I am giving orders for a tombstone in my own family burying lot at Drewsclift – a big cross, carved out of solid granite.


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