Look Out For Them Lobsters
by
Deacon —-, who resides in a pleasant village inside of an hour’s ride upon Fitchburg road, rejoices in a fondness for the long-tailed crustacea, vulgarly known as lobsters. And, from messes therewith fulminated, by some of our professors of gastronomics that we have seen, we do not attach any wonder at all to the deacon’s penchant for the aforesaid shell-fish. The deacon had been disappointed several times by assertions of the lobster merchants, who, in their overwhelming zeal to effect a sale, had been a little too sanguine of the precise time said lobsters were caught and boiled; hence, after lugging home a ten pound specimen of the vasty deep, miles out into the quiet country, the deacon was often sorely vexed to find the lobster no better than it should be!
“Why don’t you get them alive, deacon?” said a friend,–“get them alive and kicking, deacon; boil them yourself; be sure of their freshness, and have them cooked more carefully and properly.”
“Well said,” quoth the deacon; “so I can, for they sell them, I observe, near the depot,–right out of the boat. I’m much obliged for the notion.”
The next visit of the good deacon to Boston,–as he was about to return home, he goes to the bridge and bargains for two live lobsters, fine, active, lusty-clawed fellows, alive and kicking, and no mistake!
“But what will I do with them?” says the deacon to the purveyor of the crustacea, as he gazed wistfully upon the two sprawling, ugly, green and scratching lobsters, as they lay before him upon the planks at his feet.
“Do with ’em?” responded the lobster merchant,–“why, bile ’em and eat ’em! I bet you a dollar you never ate better lobsters ‘n them, nohow, mister!”
The deacon looked anxiously and innocently at the speaker, as much as to say–“you don’t say so?”
“I mean, friend, how shall I get them home?”
“O,” says the lobster merchant, “that’s easy enough; here, Saul,” says he, calling up a frizzle-headed lad in blue pants– sans hat or boots, and but one gallows to his breeches, “here, you, light upon these lobsters and carry ’em home for this old gentleman.”
“Goodness, bless you,” says the deacon; “why friend, I reside ten miles out in the country!”
“O, the blazes you do!” says the lobster merchant; “well, I tell you, Saul can carry ’em to the cars for you in this ‘ere bag, if you’re goin’ out?”
“Truly, he can,” quoth the deacon; “and Saul can go right along with me.”
The lobsters were dashed into a piece of Manilla sack, thrown across the shoulders of the juvenile Saul, and away they went at the heels of the deacon, to the depot; here Saul dashed down the “poor creturs” until their bones or shells rattled most piteously, and as the deacon handed a “three cent piece” to Saul, the long and wicked claw of one of the lobsters protruded out of the bag–opened and shut with a clack, that made the deacon shudder!
“Those fellows are plaguy awkward to handle, are they not, my son?” says the deacon.
“Not werry,” says the boy; “they can’t bite, cos you see they’s got pegs down here– hallo! ” As Saul poked his hand down towards the big claw lying partly out of the open-mouthed bag, the claw opened, and clacked at his fingers, ferocious as a mad dog.
“His peg’s out,” said the boy–“and I can’t fasten it; but here’s a chunk of twine; tie the bag and they can’t get out, any how, and you kin put ’em into yer pot right out of the bag.”
“Yes, yes,” says the deacon; “I guess I will take care of them; bring them here; there, just place the bag right in under my seat; so, that will do.”