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Hands-On Cybersecurity
with Blockchain

Implement DDoS protection, PKI-based identity, 2FA, and DNS security

using Blockchain
Rajneesh Gupta

BIRMINGHAM - MUMBAI
Hands-On Cybersecurity with
Blockchain
Copyright © 2018 Packt Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher,
except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

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First published: June 2018

Production reference: 1280618

Published by Packt Publishing Ltd.

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ISBN 978-1-78899-018-9

www.packtpub.com
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Contributors
About the author
Rajneesh Gupta is a cybersecurity and blockchain expert with a proven
track record of helping organizations to build a strong cybersecurity
solutions. He is an experienced innovator as well as a creative and strategic
thinker.

Cited in Insights Success as one of the most trusted cybersecurity leaders

and recognized by CIO Review as one of the top 20 cybersecurity players,
Rajneesh is a keynote speaker, and he regularly speaks at several
conferences about cybersecurity, blockchain, IoT, secure governance, and
cyberwarfare.
I would like to thank my friend and colleague, Vinay Pandey, for introducing me to the exciting field
of blockchain, and Rohit Rajkumar for this amazing opportunity to write. A very special thanks to
Ron Kurien and Swathy Mohan for their countless efforts. Finally, thanks to my wife, Ankita Gupta,
for being the most inspiring person in my life.
About the reviewer
Gautam Kumawat is world's youngest cybercrime investigator and self-
trained cybersecurity expert. He is helping various prestigious institutions,
such as state police, Central Bureau of Investigation, DoD, and the Indian
army, training officials and solving complex cybercrime cases. He has also
given training to the New York Police Department and Interpol.

His expertise in the cybersecurity industry markedly exceeds the standard

number of security assessments, audits, governance, incident response, and
forensic projects with big fortune companies.
Packt is searching for authors like
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright and Credits
Hands-On Cybersecurity with Blockchain
Packt Upsell
Why subscribe?
PacktPub.com
Contributors
About the author
About the reviewer
Packt is searching for authors like you
Preface
Who this book is for
What this book covers
To get the most out of this book
Download the color images
Conventions used
Get in touch
Reviews
Disclaimer
1. Cyber Threat Landscape and Security Challenges
Current threat landscape
Ransomware
The monetization of hacking 
WannaCry
NotPetya
SimpleLocker
TeslaCrypt
CryptoLocker
PC Cyborg
Distributed denial-of-service (DDoS) attacks
From script kiddies to geo-political
Ease of launching a DDoS
Top targeted countries
Insider threats
Some more ways to define insider threats
Insider threat profile
Data breaches
Notable recent data breaches
Impact of data breaches
Advanced persistence threat (APT)
What makes APT so different?
Defender perspectives
Government
The United States (US)
The United Kingdom (UK)
Europe
India
Corporate
Endpoint detection and response (EDR)
Deception technology
Cyber threat intelligence (CTI)
Live attack execution
Emerging security challenges
Summary
Questions
Further reading
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
 THE ART GALLERY.

Hearing that a large collection of paintings were on exhibition at the

Art Gallery, I visited the rooms this afternoon, and was agreeably
surprised to discover that quite a number were by eminent artists.
It is pleasant to gaze upon an old picture that has come down
through the dust of ages, so I made it a point to employ the hour at
my disposal in sketching several subjects most admired by the
visitors. I did not learn the author of the large picture from which the
first of my sketches was taken, but was assured that it came from the
hand of an old master.

FROM A PAINTING BY
AN OLD MASTER.

I would have thought it a representation of “Cleopatra before

Cæsar,” if the female had been running toward the man instead of
away from him.
A gentleman present who examined the painting closely, gave it as
his opinion, that the couple represented “Tarquin and Lucrece.”
He informed me he had visited many art galleries of the Old
World, and found several paintings which had been copied from this
masterpiece by artists, who paid homage to such creative genius.
 As he claimed to be something of a connoisseur, his supposition
was probably a correct one, though he was not able to thoroughly
account for the singular looking bonnet that shadowed the head of
the prancing “Lucrece.”
It is certainly anything but a Roman head-dress, and why it should
be dangling from her royal top, is something for critics to comment
on, and antiquarians to inquire into.
Another little sketch attracted great attention, especially from the
ladies, whose love for the beautiful is only excelled by their love for
the good. It was entitled “Love’s Young Dream.” I regret I am not
able to give the artist’s name. I could not get near enough to decipher
the signature, owing to the crowd of ladies admiring the beautiful
gem.
The members of the Graphic Club were sketching. Accepting an
invitation from one I stepped into their room to see them draw.
Quite a number of artists were present. The famous marine painter
was there, who loves to paint the vessel going before the wind, when
in its might it takes “the ruffian billows by the top.” It was pleasant to
watch his pencil pile up the “yeasty waves” at will.

“LOVE’S YOUNG
DREAM.”

It was also interesting to lean over the landscape painter’s

shoulder and see the branches sprout from his grand old oaks,
against whose trunks it would seem the storms of centuries had
spent their force.
 It was no less pleasant or interesting to perceive the horns shoot
from the animal painter’s cows. As the creature grows under his
active pencil, we may be inclined to think she will be of the Mooley
species, and never shake a gory horn above a prostrate victim; but
alas! a few hasty but well directed strokes, and she stands forth more
formidable than the armed rhinoceros or rampant unicorn. Then we
hold our breath, as we see the pencil slide away to some other locality
before a tail is attached to the body, and inwardly wonder whether
the artist has forgotten to bestow upon her that graceful adjunct, or
is intentionally giving us a new species of cattle. We heave a sigh of
relief when the pencil returns, after a brief skirmish along the ribs, to
bestow upon the cow that terminal appendage, at once a scourge for
milk-maids and a swing for dogs.
 A ROLLING STONE.

This afternoon, while climbing a steep hill that overlooks the bay, in
company with a gentleman named Stone, I saw an illustration of the
old maxim, “A rolling stone gathers no moss.” We had almost
completed the ascent, when Stone’s feet slipped from under him, and
striking upon his side he commenced a rapid descent.
About four hundred feet of steep grade stretched before him
without let or hindrance. I saw at a glance he was bound to pass over
every inch of the space before he stopped. Onward he went,
gathering speed as he proceeded, and catching wildly around him at
every revolution; but, as there was nothing growing upon the barren
slope but stunted grass or brittle moss, his efforts to “slow speed”
were in vain. After he had made about ten revolutions his hat came
off, and for a short time the race between him and his tile was truly
interesting. It would have been an even bet, which would first reach
the fence at the bottom of the hill. After making about half the
distance, however, the hat swung in ahead of him.
 A THROUGH
PASSENGER.

Whether it was the wind acted upon it I couldn’t tell, but Stone
overhauled it, and passing over it, materially injured its form as a
roller, by giving it an oblong shape, and soon left the crushed hat
wabbling far behind. He turned neither to the right nor to the left,
but rolled as straight down the hill as a saw-log down the bank of a
river into a mill-pond. Goats nibbling in the vicinity paused in their
repast and looked pitifully at the gentleman as he went tumbling by
them, and evidently congratulated themselves on being goats, that
feel at home on the steepest hillside that nature can present to their
hoofs. When, in his mad career, my friend Stone would reach some
intercepting shelf he would bounce about three feet into the air, and
continue down the incline with increased velocity. Nor did he stop
his brilliant course until he brought up whack against the fence.
Fortunately he was unhurt, but was so dizzy that everything was
turning around him for an hour afterwards. He declares that though
he should live until he becomes so old as to forget the way to his
mouth, he has taken his last look at the city and the surrounding bay
from the summit of that hill. And when we think of his last descent
from that high altitude, we can hardly wonder at the declaration.
 RIDING IN THE STREET CARS.

A chiel’s amang ye takin’ notes,

And faith he’ll prent it.
—Burns.

The greater portion of this day I have spent riding in the street cars. I
find it is quite a pleasant way of passing a few leisure hours. Neither
is it an extravagant way of entertaining one’s self.
On figuring up I find, by choosing the longest routes, it cost just
seven and one-quarter cents per hour. This is certainly reasonable.

THE SIGNAL STATION.

There is always something amusing to look at as you pass along.

There stands the nervous old lady upon the street corner. She wishes
to ride, and endeavors to signal the driver and prepare for embarking
at one and the same time. She proves the truth of the old saying that
a person may get too many irons in the fire. In her eagerness to
attract the attention of the driver or conductor, she is not aware that
in lifting her skirts she has elevated one or two thicknesses more
than she intended, or than is at all necessary. Poor old lady! She does
indeed present a picture that might well attract the artistic eye. We in
more becoming order turn our eyes from the singular spectacle and
study the advertisements ranged around for our special benefit. She
emits a short, quick cry, half whoop and half squeal, and signals
repeatedly, to do which the inevitable umbrella is brought into
requisition, and flourished around her head as though she was
warding off a detachment of aggressive wasps. She gives the
conductor a look of surprise, if not anger, because he completes the
curve before stopping to take her up. The old lady means business,
and has never got it through her head that conductors have rights
which she is bound to respect. She no doubt believes that on all
occasions and at all times he ought to seize the strap and stop the car
as suddenly as he would a clock by grasping the pendulum.
Then there are the fashions which we can study without having to
pay exorbitant prices for seats in the theatres. It is even better than
to go to a fashionable church.
Besides the advantages which a ride in the street car offers us in
the way of studying the fashions, we often see strange sights, well
calculated to awaken humor. There, for instance, we encounter the
sleepy passenger, who, in charity let us hope, is drowsy through loss
of rest, rather than loss of reason! Let us hope he is some physician
who has been attending to his patients; or a minister of the gospel
who has spent the night by the bedside of some sinking penitent; or a
supervisor, who—while his constituents have been snugly dreaming
away their troubles—has been legislating, and growing hoarse
declaiming for the public good. Doctor or supervisor, as the case may
be, it is evident he is sleepy, and cares not who knows it. Otherwise
he would pick up his hat, which has fallen off, before it has twice
been stepped on by passengers staggering through the car while it is
in motion.
With a persistency truly amusing he tips in the direction of some
old lady, who apparently hates men, especially when excessive
drowsiness makes them familiar. He, however, is oblivious of her
likes or dislikes, even of her presence, it would seem.

RATHER “SLOROPPY.”

He bobs towards her until his dishevelled forelock actually tickles

her under the ear, which sensation causes her to start suddenly, and
look around so quickly, that a person must think the movement gave
her a crick in the neck, and her subsequent rubbing of the cords
below the ear would seem to bear out the supposition as correct.

SNIFFING THE
BATTLE FROM AFAR.

Then, as we ride along we can see the bold policeman! standing by

the corner of a building. He is earnestly looking down a narrow lane,
taking notes perhaps; but more likely watching the progress of a
fight, and wisely waiting until all the pistols are discharged before
venturing to arrest any of the belligerent parties. He looks as though
it would not take much longer reflection or many more shots, to
make him forego that duty in toto, and turn around to arrest the poor
Chinese vegetable peddler, who, with his basket pole upon his
shoulder, is trotting along upon the sidewalk, and thereby violating
one of the city ordinances. While hustling the prisoner to the station
house he would escape performing more unpleasant and risky
business.
He is in the right of it, too, when a person comes right down to
reason the case. The policeman may have a family depending on him
for support. Or it may be upon the very stroke of the hour when his
duty for the day will cease, and he can saunter to his home, leaving
his successor to rush in and stay the slaughter.
It may be argued that the policeman is paid to take prisoners, and
consequently to take chances. This is true, but he is not paid to
commit suicide. For a broad man like him to move down a narrow
lane up which the bullets are whistling, can hardly be considered
anything short of it. Oh! he is a cunning fellow I tell you, and
revolves the matter carefully in his mind before taking action.
He has been too long a resident of the city, and too long a member
of the “star brigade,” not to know that the city can better afford to
lose two or three indifferent citizens than it can one able and efficient
policeman.
We turn from the policeman to contemplate the blooming blonde,
who comes bouncing in with her poodle dog in her arms.
After she is seated she amuses some of the passengers and
displeases more, by the affectionate names she lavishes upon the
little watery-eyed pet in her lap. Some of the passengers would
doubtless like to be the dog and others would like to be a distemper
that they might legally kill the cur. She temporarily ends her caresses
by repeatedly kissing its cold peaked nose, to the infinite disgust of
the majority of the passengers, who, rather than witness a repetition
of the silly act, look out of the windows and become suddenly
interested in the construction of the buildings or fences along the
route.
 ALIGHTING
GRACEFULLY.

And then there is the impatient passenger, who is either limited in

time or sense, probably in both.
He foolishly attempts to leave the car while it is in motion, in order
to save a few moments. Immediately afterwards he wishes he hadn’t,
and sits down with considerable feeling to think over his rashness.
There was a time, no doubt, when he could jump on and off a car like
a newsboy; but that time has evidently gone by.
When we consider the roughness of his seat, and the unexpected
manner in which he settled on it, we have to acknowledge that he sits
with considerable grace. However, as he has lost time instead of
gaining it, by the action, he will perhaps try to catch a better hold of
the old rascal’s forelock the next time he is running past him.
 SIMON RAND.

No poet, however gifted, can get along without his muse, any better
than a navigator can without his compass. If the goddess is not at his
elbow, the lyre hangs mute upon the wall, and the pen corrodes in
the ink. Then what can the poor limited rhymer do without a muse to
inspire him? As mine is at present leaning over the back of my chair
in a very encouraging manner, I will strike my harp and lay the
following heart-rending tale before the world in verse.
First Gossip—“Was she false?”
Second Gossip—“Ay, false as her teeth.”
—Old Volume.

In Siskiyou, a tanner lived,

Whose name was Simon Rand;
He loved the miller’s daughter, fair
Annetta Hildebrand.
The maiden loved the tanner, too,
(At least the maid so said,)
And she the happy day had named
The parson would them wed.

The golden day-dreams lengthened as

The season shorter grew,
And Cupid slung his bow across
His shoulder, and withdrew.
A golden pointed arrow lay
Imbedded in each heart;
The little god conjectured they
Could never live apart.

But fire will test the iron safe,

And powder prove the mine,
And tempests try the ship at sea,
The woodman’s axe the pine;
And gold will sound the human heart,
The maiden’s love it tries;
It is the plummet weight that proves
How deep affection lies.

One Jacob Towle, a rival, came

To darken Simon’s days;
His clothes were fine, his purse a mine,
He drove a span of bays!
The fair Annetta was his mark;
He deftly played his hand;
He turned her giddy head around,
And love, from Simon Rand.

The tanner saw his dove prove daw,

And scarce believed his eyes;
But change was there, in look and air,
And in her curt replies.
He called one night, in hopes he might
Back his affianced win;
Word came by “sis” (an old game this),
“Annetta was not in.”

But ah! how keen are lovers’ eyes

When rivals are around;
A glossy hat hung in the hall;
He reached it with a bound.
“See, my child, a pleasing sight!”
Said he with a ghastly smile;
“For into fraction, into mite,
I’ll smash the villain’s tile.”

He seized it, and he squeezed it, too,

He bowled it on the floor,
He thumped it, and he jumped it, and
He kicked it through the door.
So through the gate he then escaped,
And he was heard to say,
“By all the hides that I have scraped
With life I’ll make away.”
 REVENGE IS SWEET.

Next morning he was missing, and

The neighbors thought it queer:
For he at work was ever found
Throughout the busy year.
Noon came, but brought not Simon back;
And then their wonder grew
Into a fear, that he had done
What he had sworn to do.

A search was instituted, and

All work was at a stand,
For weak and stout alike turned out
To search for Simon Rand.
Across the mill-pond and the flume,
The grappling drag they drew,
They scanned the trees and probed the wells
The little village through.
But tale or tidings none they found;
So all the search gave o’er,
And sat them down to talk and smoke,
Around the tavern door.

When teamster Joe picked up a hoe

That by his side was laid,
And turning round to farmer Pound,
He slapped his thigh and said,
“I’ll stake my strongest pair of mules
Against Moll Benson’s cat,
That Simon Rand, the missing man,
Lies dead in his own vat!”

No face was there, beard-hid or bare,

Light, tawny-hue, or dark,
But on the instant plainly showed
 The weight of that remark.
To feet they sprung, both old and young,
And down the shortest road,
By Silly’s still and Burrill’s mill,
To Simon’s shop they strode.

THE EXPLORING
PARTY.

One pace in front leaned Parson Lunt,

Who let his dinner stand,
And joined the throng that surged along
In search of Simon Rand.
Across his shoulder, stooped with age,
He poised his garden rake,
And those had need to urge their speed
Who followed in his wake.

Then side and side, with equal stride,

Pressed Joe and Jasper Lane;
Next Elder Chase kept even pace
With stout old Sidney Vane.
Then two and two, and three and three,
And sometimes four abreast,
With hoes and hooks, and thoughtful looks,
Come clattering on the rest.

The place was gained, all eyes were strained

Upon the brimming vat;
But not an eye its depths could spy,
Or pierce its scum of fat.
“A fearful place,” sighed Elder Chase,
As down he dipped his pole;
“No love or woe could make him throw
Himself in such a hole.
A man would choose a hempen noose,
A pistol, drug, or knife,
If he designed through troubled mind
To make away with life.”

A silent group they kneel and stoop,

And shove their poles around,
Now left, now right, till all affright
One cried, “I’ve something found!
It’s him I know, I must let go!
I dare not see his face
When coming from the depths below;
Will some one take my place?”

Then Parson Lunt stepped to the front,

And clasped his hands in prayer;
And cried, “We thank thee for his dust,
His soul in mercy spare.”
Then took the pole from Selby’s hand,
Who quickly sought the rear,
Yet dodged and peeped his best to see
If Rand indeed was there.

Up rose the heavy burdened hook;

“That’s him!” a dozen cried;
But when they took a second look
It proved a brindled hide!
Then impious Brown, the village clown,
Turned from that vat aside,
And laughed until the tears ran down
His cheeks as though he cried.

Still round he went, with body bent,

His face one endless grin,
Because the Parson praised the Lord,
Then raised—the heifer’s skin!
The tools once more sink as before,
To scrape the bottom slow:
Another mass—they strike—and pass,
It rolls along below!

“I have him now!” cried Dennis Howe,

 The blacksmith’s helping man;
While down his face, in rapid race,
The perspiration ran.
With mighty grip, and backward tip,
Stout Dennis manned the pole,
Which bent as though ’twould snap and go,
And Howe would backwards roll.

UP HE COMES.

And woe is me, that tanner man,

And woe is me, that maid!
And woe is me, that staring group
Around that vat, afraid.
The hold was good, the pole has stood,
And up the hook has drawn
The poor discarded Simon Rand,
Dead as a pickled prawn!

And lo! a great cast-iron weight

Fast to one leg was tied;
Which, as he rose did oscillate,
And swing from side to side.
Upon a door his form they bore
Back slowly through the town,
And still behind them left a trail
Where dripped the water down.

For every step fresh showers drew

Down from that litter bare,
From garments soaked quite through and through,
From mouth and nose and hair.
’Twere sad to tell of funeral show
That in that town was seen;
Enough to know that Simon low
Lies where the grass is green.

Annetta, now, is Mrs. Towle,

And servants on her wait;
And dogs with uninviting growl
Drive beggars from her gate.
And Simon’s shop has gone to wreck,
No bark is needed now,
No more before the greasy door
Lie horns of ox or cow!

UNPROMISING
OUTLOOK.

But on the anniversary

Of that distressful night,
The superstitious people say—
Within it burns a light.

And there the tanner may be seen

His thin arms shining bare,
Bent o’er the bench, as though at work
Fast scraping off the hair!
Anon, slow rising from his toil
A woeful sigh he gives,
And gazes long towards the hill,
Where false Annetta lives.
Then turning round he gives a bound,
As when he crushed the hat,
And fastening to his leg a weight
He leaps into the vat!
And with him goes the wondrous light
That shed its ghostly ray;
And dismal darkness wraps the place
Until the dawn of day.
 THE VALUE OF A COLLAR.

Dear me! what a terrible dodging life the poor city cur leads, to be
sure, whose owner does not consider him of sufficient importance to
warrant taking out a license. His excursions must necessarily be
limited.
He never dares to bark in the daytime, and now I think of it, that
may account for his howling all night. To bark between the hours of
seven in the morning and six in the evening would be equivalent to
running his head into the pound-keeper’s lariat. He knows it, too, the
rascal, and hardly indulges in a yelp, even if his tail is trod upon. I
have always noticed that the eyes of the cur that wears no collar—
(which would entitle him to the freedom of the city)—protrude from
the sockets much farther than the optics in the head of the licensed
animal. I have noticed this fact and pondered over it, striving not a
little to arrive at some satisfactory conclusion in regard to the matter.
It may be that this strange protrusion is brought about by the
continual strain while on the lookout for the pound-keeper or his
sneaking aids.
Another peculiarity about the unlicensed cur,—his eyes are
invariably the color of tobacco juice. “Why are they so?” you probably
inquire. Be patient, and I will tell you? It is the result of the burning
envy continually agitating his breast and adding a bloodier lustre to
his orbs.
How must envy consume his very vitals when he beholds his
younger brother, perhaps, trotting forth into the street, his neck
encircled with the leather zone that insures him respect and
immunity from assault; while he must cower behind the ash barrel,
and wait for night to temporarily shield him from insult and injury.
The old adage is hardly applicable to his case. He has no day, but
he has his night, however, and he would be a fool not to make the
most of it.
How trifling a thing will draw the line between him and his
licensed brother. One white foot, perhaps, a spot too many on the
head, or want of one above the tail may have cursed him through the
length and breadth of his existence. If he lives it must be by his wits.
Every man’s hand or boot seems to be against him. The licensed dog
can stretch lazily upon the sidewalk and oblige the pedestrians to go
around him rather than take the chances of stepping over, or stirring
him up with a kick.

NO COLLAR, NO
CRUMBS.

It is dangerous business, this waking up a dog with your boot. You

may take him in a time when not in the mood for permitting such
familiar demonstrations.
Perhaps he may be hungry, and since the dogs devoured poor
painted Jezebel, their weakness for human flesh will occasionally
make itself manifest. I, who have been thrice vaccinated by a canine
tooth (and it took each time, too), speak knowingly on this subject.
Now, as I gaze out upon the street, I mark the slow approach of the
pound-keeper’s dingy cart. Ever and anon it comes to a sudden halt,
and skirmishers are deployed on each side to search the alley-ways
and lanes along the route. Hark! what cry is this that comes
quavering forth from that shaky prison? A bark? No, never a bark,
but a quavering bleat from the pale lips of a poor old goat. Alas! poor
goat.
It, too, was evidently straying about unlawfully, in some one’s
garden, perhaps, or stripping the posters off the fence before the
paste was dry, or the bill-sticker a block away, and in consequence he
is now occupying a position that, however exalted it may be in one
sense, makes him feel very ill at ease all the same.
His fellow prisoners are dogs of every breed under the sun.
There is no discrimination in that moving prison, no separate cells.
The full blood setter pup fares no better than the worthless poodle
that couldn’t smell a quail a yard distant unless it was roasting. The
big, sour, surly mastiff, with blood-shot eyes and pendent jowl, who
long has been the acknowledged champion of a block, and in his day
lacerated many a paw, hasn’t even a growl to offer, but crouches side
by side with the poor maimed and mongrel cur that for years has
been racking through life on three legs.
Still the dismal looking cart jolts along attracting the attention of
the passing crowds. Still the villainous-looking aids, who flank the
vehicle, trail their ready lariats, and dart exploring glances into every
nook and corner. And as I gaze, I marvel to see how quickly the
outlaws get a knowledge of its approach, and stand not upon the
order of their going, but precipitately leave for back yards and
kitchens.
 QUAINT EPITAPHS.

While strolling through an old cemetery this afternoon I was

surprised at the number of quaint epitaphs there to be found.
For a while I almost imagined myself rummaging among the old
time-worn tombstones in some English or Welsh burying-ground.
Many are written in verse, especially on the stones erected during a
certain period, extending over about ten years, which proves that
during these years the city had a tombstone poet among her citizens.
He was an odd genius, whoever he was, this graveyard rhymer.
One peculiarity seems to have been his coupling with the epitaph a
brief account of the manner in which the deceased party was taken
off. The first inscription which attracted my notice as odd, was
chiseled upon a large marble slab which leaned over the spot where a
party who had borne the ancient and honorable name of “Smith,”
rested from his labors. The obituary ran thus:—
“Smith ran to catch his fatted hog,
And carried the knife around;
He slipped and fell;
The hog is well,
But Smith is under ground.”

This stanza should be introduced into public schools, and adopted

as a morning chant, to impress upon the mind of the pupils the
importance of a person’s having his wits about him. Death brought
about by such gross carelessness as Smith showed, is—to say the
least—first cousin to suicide, and doubtless there will come a time
when Smith’s case will be inquired into.
Under a large oak tree on the south side I came upon a tombstone
which bore no date, but had evidently been erected many years. The
fence which once enclosed the grave had nearly disappeared, nothing
remaining except a few rotten stakes protruding through the grass.
What once had been a mound was now a hollow, which told the mute
gazer, decay had done its worst.
Through a rank growth of weeds and briers, a few pale neglected
flowers raised their delicate faces, like virtue struggling heavenward
through the retarding throng inhabiting this naughty world.
The headstone was evidently erected before the poet’s day, and he
who erected it had composed the epitaph. It is more than likely he
chiseled it also, as the letters were ill-shaped and irregular, and
looked as though carved out with a pick.
Here is a fac-simile of the inscription:—
“Cynthy Ann is berried here.
Be easy with her,
Lord,
And, you won’t lose nothin’,
She was a plaguey good wife to me
But
She wouldn’t be druv.”
That “Cynthia Ann” had faults is evident from the tone. But I
thought as I turned from the spot, if her greatest fault lay in not
allowing herself to be “druv,” her prospects were better than the
average.
What a contrast was the line inscribed upon a tombstone directly
opposite:—
“He sleeps in Heaven.”

Mere speculation only, and wild at that. The extravagant notion that
a person sleeps in Paradise must have emanated from the brain of
some sluggard, who thought that heaven without sleep would be a
wearisome place. The “sleeper’s” name was Gregg, and from a
representation of a pair of scissors cut upon the slab I presumed he
was a tailor. On making inquiry of the sexton, busily engaged closing
a grave at the time, I found my supposition was right. Gregg was a
tailor, but met death at the heels of a horse. To use the sexton’s own
words, which were spoken in pure Greek—
“Begorra he was a tailor, and it was meself that planted him there.
He was killed in the barn beyant, while sthrivin’ to pull the makin’s
of a fish-line out of the tail of owld Gleason’s stallion.”
When a person learns what his occupation had been, and how he
died, the assertion that he had gone to heaven, strikes one as too
ridiculous for anything.

THE SEXTON.

Not less amusing or quaint was the verse inscribed upon the plain
marble slab which marked the resting-place of Mr. and Mrs.
Barradier. The stone was probably put up by some acquaintance of
the deceased couple who knew that their marriage had been anything
but a happy one; the verse upon it also informs the passer-by that
they left no descendants to perform that pious duty. It said—
“Released from worldly care and strife,
Here side and side lie man and wife;
And with the couple buried here
Expired the name of Barradier.”
 MISTAKEN IDENTITY.

An amusing scene occurred this afternoon as I was coming up from

the post-office. It was a case of mistaken identity. It seems a
somewhat dissipated old Irish woman was deserted some weeks ago
by her husband.
Through her domestic troubles and excessive drinking she at times
becomes quite crazy,—so much so that her friends have to keep a
constant watch over her to prevent her from doing mischief. She is
very large and powerful, and when in one of her tantrums is no easy
person to manage. It appears that when she has one of these crazy
spells, she imagines she recognizes her husband’s Milesian features
in almost every face she looks upon.
This afternoon, while the crazy fit was upon her, she escaped from
her keepers, and rushed into the street with dilated eyes and
dishevelled hair. With sleeves rolled above the elbows and clenched
hands, she charged up the street, looking right and left for some
person on whom to fasten.
She was indeed ripe for an encounter, and nearly the first person
she met was a prominent clergyman returning to his residence from
the Mercantile Library, with his newly selected book under his arm.
She stood for a moment directly in front of the minister, and riveted
her red optics upon his face in an inquiring stare, which soon kindled
into one of recognition.
Anticipating trouble, he attempted to pass around her and proceed
quietly on his way.
But she was too quick for him.
Reaching out her long bare arm, she brought it around like the
boom of a sloop, and with one wide sweep knocked his hat spinning
to the sidewalk at her feet.
 THE CLERGYMAN IN
LIMBO.

He stooped to pick it up again, and while bent in the act, she seized
him by the hair with both hands, and giving a guttural laugh, not
unlike the self-satisfied croak of a down east bullfrog, exclaimed:—
“Ah! Barney, ye galavantin’ spalpeen! ye can’t desave me wid yer
stove-pipe! So ye’d dezart the wife o’ yer boosome, would ye? ah, ha!
come home wid me now, or I’ll be afther takin’ your durty ould scalp
along wid me!”
A soft rabbit under the wide paw of a California lion, or a sparrow
in the talons of a hawk, is not more utterly helpless than was the
poor dominie in her terrible clutch. His position was anything but an
enviable one. It actually seemed as if every hair upon his head was
gathered and drawn into one mass, over which her muscular fingers
held complete control.
He dropped his book and shouted loudly, partly through pain, and
partly anger at seeing the fate of his fashionable hat, now lying under
her great broad foot, flat as a German pancake.
His cries of fear only made the crazy woman more confident of her
abilities. She commenced backing along the street, in the direction of
home, and at every step, with an irresistible yank, she dragged the
expostulating minister along with her over the uneven sidewalk.
She had snaked him along fully two rods in this manner, and was
making, to use a nautical phrase, such good stern-way that she was
on the point of breaking into a trot, when her heel caught on the edge
of a plank.
The result was terrible in the extreme.
 She fell backwards, pulling the unfortunate captive to the sidewalk
after her, where they gyrated in the most ludicrous positions
imaginable.
A couple of gentlemen, emerging from a store at that instant,
looked on the pair in blank astonishment for a moment. Recognizing
their own gifted pastor, they ran to his assistance, and lost no time in
raising him to his feet, and turning over the old crazy woman to an
officer who happened at that moment to step out of a saloon.
 FLIRTING, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

At an open window wide, just across the way,

Sits a roguish little blonde nearly all the day,
Playing with a tabby cat, and gazing down below,
Flirting with conductors that are passing to and fro.
Some receive a passing nod, and some receive a smile;
But she watches Number 6 whilst going half a mile.

And the gay conductor while he’s throwing kisses there,

Doesn’t hear the signals given by an aged pair,
Though the man, as best he can, whistles loud and shrill,
And the wife, as though for life, charges down the hill.

And the blameful driver, while he gazes wistful back,

Doesn’t see the little child a creeping on the track.
Soon the jury summoned there to question how it died,
Will as their opinion give, “a case of suicide;”
And the driver and his mate acquitted from all blame,
Kisses at the blonde will throw, and she’ll return the same.
 THE CHAMPION MEAN MAN.

Yesterday I came across a singular looking individual dressed in a

greasy, dingy suit. He was sitting on a log before his door engaged in
repairing a shovel-handle.
“Say, stranger,” I said, addressing him, “can you inform me where
Deacon Shellbark lives?”
The farmer looked up, pushed his slouched hat back on his head,
and after surveying me some time in silence, drawled out:—
“Be you any relation of his’n?”
“No,” I replied, a little surprised at his manner of answering; “I
haven’t a relative in the State.”
“By thunder! I congratulate you upon your good fortune,” he
ejaculated, “particularly because there’s no tie of consanguinity
existin’ atwixt you and old Deacon Shellbark. He’s expectin’ a son
home, and I thought you mout be him.
“Wal,” he continued, pointing with a huge jack-knife that he held
in his hand, “you see that house to the left of them scrub oaks, don’t
you? that ar buildin’ with the leetle coopalow on’t? Wal, thar’s whar
old Deacon Shellbark lives; the meanest man in this yer county, and
that’s sayin’ considerable, too! cause we’ve got some vicey-fisted
customers round these yer parts, men who scrape the puddin’ pot
mighty clean before the dog gits a chance to canvass it, now I can tell
ye. But I feel safe in stickin’ in old Shellbark at the head, and I ain’t
agwine to haul him down nuther. I don’t believe in talkin’ much
about one’s neighbors, but I ginnerally tell strangers what sort of a
man he is, cause if they go to tradin’ with him and aren’t on thar
guard, he’ll skin ’em quicker than a whirlpool sucks in a dead fish.”
“You know the Deacon, then?” I remarked, while the hope I had
entertained of getting his name on my subscription list began to take
to itself wings.
“Yes, I reckon I do know him,” he replied, “pooty well, too; a great
sight better than is profitable to him, and he knows it. Oh, you bet he
knows it, and hates me as he does the dry murrain that gin the crows
fifteen of his best cows last summer. I knowed him back in Scrabble
Town.
“They wouldn’t allow him to come within pistol shot of a church
back thar, because they mor’n suspected he stole the wine and bread
from the communion table one day. They were down on him flatter
than a stone on a cricket allers arterwards. He’s a deacon out here
though, but that ain’t nothin’. He can’t fool me with his prayin’. I
want no sech crooked old disciple as he is intercedin’ for me, you
know.”
“I was hoping he would subscribe for this book,” I remarked, “but I
am afraid there is not much use of my going there if he is so very
mean.”
“Look’e here, stranger,” he remarked earnestly, “you mout just as
well stop thar whar you’re standin’. Subscribe! He’ll gig back from a
subscription list jest as he would from a six-shooter.”
“Ah, but this is a religious work, and perhaps he would lend that
his support,” I answered quickly.
“Religious work be shelved!” exclaimed the farmer. “That doesn’t
help ye any; you can’t do anythin’ with him, ’cause he hain’t got no
more soul than an empty gin bottle. You mout as well bait a rat trap
with a cat’s head and expect the varmin to go a-nibblin’ at it, as to
expect him to put his name down to anything that’s agwine to take
coin from his pockets.
 SLEEPY DOBY.

“You’re a stranger in these yer parts I see, and tharfore haven’t the
slightest idea what a towerin’ mean man he is; why he’d run a mile to
git on the sunny side of a feller to cheat him out of his shadow! I
knowed him back in old Indiany. He’s from the same place that I am,
but you can kick me clear over to them foot-hills and back ag’in if I
don’t feel like takin’ pizin every time I have to own up to it. He used
to be in cahoot with a tanner back thar named Doby; sleepy Doby,
the boys called him, for he was the sleepiest feller you ever did see.
Go asleep while workin’ at anythin’. He would drop asleep sometimes
while scrapin’ a hide, and cut the consarned thing all into parin’s; at
other times he would fall back into the tan vat, then wake up and
holler for the boys to come and fish him out.
“They say he dropped asleep once while ringin’ a hog to prevent
him from rootin’ up the clover patch. The minister of the village had
to pause in the middle of a sermon he was preachin’ half a block
away, until the squealin’ subsided.
“But as I was gwine to tell ye, before the rheumatism got into his
j’ints, and made him shun water as he would a tax-collector, old
Shellbark used to be pooty fond of fishin’. One day Parson Bodfish
was gwine off to have a day’s sport, and took me along to carry the
fish. I was only a boy then, and mighty tickled because I could go.
Jest about the time we got to the river we overtook old Shellbark a-
pointin’ thar too. When we got to the bank they both set in gettin’ out
thar hooks and lines, and then for the first time old Shellbark found
out he had left his bait to hum. So he commenced to sputter and fret,
takin’ on terribly about it, until Parson Bodfish ses to him, ‘That’s all
right; I reckon I’ve got enough bait in this box for both of us, and I’ll
give you half of mine, and let us start in and make the most of it.’ So
the Parson—who had a heart the size of a sheep’s head—took out his
bait-box and gin him more than half. It’s so; I seed ’em when he took
’em out. Pooty soon arter, while the parson was a-standin’ on a log
that horned out over the water, a-baitin’ of his hooks, a big-mouthed
fish-hawk gin a-chatterin’ screech overhead, and startled him a
leetle, and while lookin’ up he let his bait-box fall into the river.
“The box was open, so the worms war scattered every which way,
and away went box and bait a-flukin’ down the rapids, and the
parson’s cusses follerin’ arter. He did swar, by hunky! I heer’d him.
He had a mi’ty hot temper, and it was more than he could do
sometimes to keep it down. A feller couldn’t blame him much for
swa’rin’ jest then, ’cause ’twas a pooty tryin’ time. He turned around
sort of quick when he thought of me bein’ thar. I seed him turnin’,
though, and let on to be talkin’ to a fish that I was stringin’ on, so he
reckoned I hadn’t noticed him. We hurried on down the river, and
arter a while overtook old Shellbark, who was snakin ’em out as fast
as he could fix bait and throw in.
“‘I lost all my worms back thar, while standin’ on a log,’ ses the
parson, ‘and will have to fall back on you for some.’ The old snipe
grumbled out somethin’ about bein’ out of all patience with people
who war so fool careless. Arter a while he took out the rag he kept the
worms in, and although he had quite a large knot of ’em, he gin the
parson jest one, and dead at that! It’s so! You may laugh, but I seed
it. When he was a-pickin’ it out and handin’ it to him, and when
Parson Bodfish was a-stickin’ the hook into him, he lay thar and took
it as e-a-s-y, and never squirmed or objected the least. You’d hev
thought it was a link of vermicelli the parson had picked out of a
soup plate.
“When Parson Bodfish took it from him, he held it between his
finger and thumb a while, jest that way, and I swow I felt solid sure
he was agwine to slap it back into old Shellbark’s face.
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