Volume 2 — Drippings From the Fawcett
Reading edition
Oh, for a modern James Whitcomb Riley! Could the incomparable Hoosier poet be with us today, what a masterpiece he could make out of the ordinary news of the day. With such material at hand as this from the columns of the Chicago Herald-Examiner, he could bring tears to the eyes of those with fond reminiscences. Under a heading, “LAST ONE IN CHICAGO DESTROYED BY FIRE,” the newspaper states:
The last one in Chicago burned down last night. The fire engine got around to the back yard of 1102 Hastings st., too late.
Truly, brevity is the soul of wit!
* * *
A news article in the daily papers say a Chicago woman has filed suit against her husband on the ground that he refused to pare her toe nails, and the husband comes back with the counter-charge that she smeared her face with cold cream to such an extent that he’d get it tangled up in his hair during the night.
To our mind, this suit opens up some wonderful possibilities, especially, as Mr. Stillman would say, when the supply of Indian guides gives out. Supposing, as our London co-scribe says, a woman wedded to a highlander discovered after the nuptials that her husband refused to shave the hair off his calves, might she not be able to file her divorce with reasonable hope of success?
Again, we have the man who, when taking a bath, within earshot of his wife’s bedroom, insists on singing unbearable songs of the type the Yanks sang in France—
“She’s Mademoiselle from Armentieres, who hasn’t been kissed for forty years. Hinky Pinky Parley Vouz.”
Surely a Chicago court would grant her a split from her spouse. And a husband who would bite his wife’s mole also might be in danger of being divorced by a woman who believed she was entitled to a less emotional husband.
* * *
Twice, by urgent requests from ardent defenders of the fair sex, Whiz Bang has reproduced “The pedigreed Persian Cat” from its issue of May, last year. You’ll remember it—the story prose of the perfumed kitty who wandered out the back door for air and was lured away by an alley tom cat, and who, upon her return later, told her kittens their Pa was a traveling man.
We’ve been waiting patiently for some traveling man to register his protest and step up with straight dope to refute intimation that a feline member of the fraternity enticed the perfumed pussy over the primrose path. And now we have it—a poem in answer, from the pen of one who signs “Josh M. Allong.”
“I resent the intimation that a member of my profession was to blame,” he writes. “The original poem is propaganda to whitewash the reputation of a loose and unprincipled female, even if she is only a cat. Therefore, I am writing the following true version.”
This Persian Kitty, perfumed and fair, Did not go out on the porch for air, But she saw that tom cat taking a stroll And she laid a plan to get his roll. For she saw that he was a country swell Who would fall for any tale she’d tell, And, while acting so sweet and innocent, She was full of guile and devilment. Then she led him along to a quiet spot Where they bring it along at a dollar a “Bot” And, while he spent his hard earned tin, She stole his watch and his diamond pin. And, when she had him as clean as a bone, Sneaked off with her lover and left him alone, Hungry and footsore, to trod the way Back to the farm and the new mown hay.
* * *
After reading the accounts in the Saturday Blade of the Stillman divorce case, our hired man, Gus, asks me if he can have the job as “Indian” guide at my Pequot, Minnesota, cabin resort this summer and fall. Gus, however, is doomed to disappointment, because I have engaged a real half breed Indian for the job.
* * *
Although, as Gus, our hired man, says, Deacon Miller, my neighbor, doesn’t like my Whiz Bang and claims he tears it up outside his door and lets the wind scatter the pieces of paper all over his wheat field, we’ll have to give the Deacon credit for rearing a bunch of ladylike cows. One of the Deacon’s bossies broke through the barbed-wire fence which separates his pasture from mine, while I was at Pequot. The cow unceremoniously walked into my house through the open door, looked at the pictures on the wall and then walked up to the mirror to see if her horns were on straight.
Not finding anyone at home, the cow, as is the custom, left her card and departed.
* * *
Johnny Beaton, noted Minnesota Bohemian, told a rather good story the other day while he and I were shopping for schnapps in Minneapolis. During the inspection of our purchases, Johnny, who hails from Ranier, Minn., on the Canadian boundary, said he had recently engaged in a rip-roaring poker game. In this game were two Englishmen from the Canuck side of the line. The Englishmen always referred to a five-dollar bill as “a pound.” “I’ll raise you two pounds,” said the first Englishman. “I’ll make it five bloody more pounds,” replied the second. About this time a local bootlegger, who had been testing his own product, blurted out as he pushed in his wad of money in the center of the table: “I’ll raise you three tons.” The bootlegger hauled in the pot.