stupefaction to employ it. So favorably had the liquor
operated by this time upon the faculties of all, that the elder Brooks
grew garrulous and full of jest at the expense of his son--who now,
completely overcome, had sunk down with his head upon the table in a
profound slumber. The pedler joined, as well as Tongs, in the
merriment--this latter personage, by the way, having now put himself
completely under the control of the ardent spirit, and exhibiting all
the appearance of a happy madness. He howled like the wolf, imitated
sundry animals, broke out into catches of song, which he invariably
failed to finish, and, at length, grappling his brother-in-law, Brooks,
around the neck, with both arms, as he sat beside him, he swore by all
that was strong in _Monongahely_, he should give them a song.

"That's jest my idee, now, Master Tongs. A song is a main fine thing,
now, to fill up the chinks. First a glass, then a puff or two, and then
a song."

Brooks, who, in backwood parlance, was "considerably up a stump"--that
is to say, half drunk--after a few shows of resistance, and the
utterance of some feeble scruples, which were all rapidly set aside by
his companions, proceeded to pour forth the rude melody which follows:--

THE HOW-D'YE-DO BOY.

"For a how-d'ye-do boy, 'tis pleasure enough
To have a sup of such goodly stuff--
To float away in a sky of fog,
And swim the while in a sea of grog;
So, high or low,
Let the world go,
The how-d'ye-do boy don't care for it--no--no--no--no."

Tonga, who seemed to be familiar with the uncouth dithyrambic, joined in
the chorus, with a tumultuous discord, producing a most admirable
effect; the pedler dashing in at the conclusion, and shouting the
_finale_ with prodigious compass of voice. The song proceeded:--

"For a how-d'ye-do boy, who smokes and drinks,
He does not care who cares or thinks;
Would Grief deny him to laugh and sing,
He knocks her down with a single sling--
So, high or low,
Let the world go,
The how-d'ye-do boy don't care for it--no--no--no--no.

"The how-d'ye-do boy is a boy of the night--
It brings no cold, and it does not fright;
He buttons his coat and laughs at the shower,
And he has a song for the darkest hour--
So, high or low,
Let the world go,
The how-d'ye-do boy