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Updated: June 7, 2025
Many might be likened unto common pianos, jangling and out of tune, and some to the feeble piping of a penny whistle, and mine could be told with a couple of nails in a rusty tin-pot. Why do I write? For what does any one write? Shall I get a hearing? If so what then?
I remember one flighty youth, who sat down on the firing-step the night before he had to go over the top, and wrote a simple letter to everybody he'd cared for. He wrote to his father, saying: 'If there's anything in my bank, I'd like my brother to have it. But, if there's a deficit, I'm beastly sorry. Think of him putting his tin-pot house in order like that.
I had to keep guessing at the channel; I had to discern, mostly by inspiration, the signs of hidden banks; I watched for sunken stones; I was learning to clap my teeth smartly before my heart flew out, when I shaved by a fluke some infernal sly old snag that would have ripped the life out of the tin-pot steamboat and drowned all the pilgrims; I had to keep a look-out for the signs of dead wood we could cut up in the night for next day's steaming.
Nice time you choose to talk of leaving. By God, Mordan, you may be leaving from against a wall with a bullet through your head, next thing you know. These German devils don't wear kid gloves, I fancy. They're not like our tin-pot army. Army! we haven't got one lot of gold-laced puppets!" That was how Clement Blaine was moved by the news.
He said they hardly sounded like sacred tunes at all; which wasn't surprising, when you come to think that sometimes a low note and sometimes a high note on that little tin-pot organ would take it into its head to stick, and would either boom or squeak all through the thing I was playing."
"I have not wasted any thoughts on you at all, so far, Mr. Clark," I replied. "Why'n the hell didn't you fill my order yesterday?" "Was it your order?" "'Course it was. Wrote it out myself, every bit of it." "Well, you're a rotten writer, Mr. Clark." "Oh! can it. What kind of a tin-pot way of doin' business was that?
"Do I suggest anything, except perhaps a butcher or an undertaker? Yet I can only keep myself alive with music. That's the jest of the Arch Humorist. My father was a clergyman. He droned out services for fifty years in a hamlet, with a little square church like a wooden money-box. I was taught music so that I could well make the tin-pot organ groan, I used to call it.
And it was only when your miserable Jeromes and Augustines and Cyrils brought in the abominable meannesses and cruelties of the Jewish Old Testament, and stamped out the sane and lovely Greek elements in the Church, that Christians became the poor, whining, cowardly egotists they are, troubling about their little tin-pot souls, and scaring themselves in their churches by skulls and crossbones."
"It is a great pity we have no larger vessel to bring our water from the spring in," said Hector, looking at the tin-pot, "one is so apt to stumble among stones and tangled underwood. If we had only one of our old bark dishes we could get a good supply at once."
My companion fully agreed with me, and believed it quite possible and practicable. We had brought along with us the tin-pot fall of cool water from the stream; but it was too narrow at the mouth, and the ox could not possibly drink out of it. "`Let us gib it, Massa Roff, advised Cudjo, `in de ole hoss-bucket, once we gets 'im back to de wagon.
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