PART II HUMOROUS HITS (continued 3)
Reading edition
"So good of you to come!"
"Ah, thanks."
"So good of you to come!"
"As if I could get along without you! The obligation is all on my side."
"How sweet of you to say so!"
"Now I want you to meet Mrs. Slambang. Mrs. Slambang, let me present to you my deah friend, Mrs. Twiddle-twaddle."
"So glad to know you, Mrs. Slambang! I have so often heard deah Mrs. Sweet speak of you that I feel quite as if I knew you. Beautiful day, isn't it?"
"Chawming!"
"What a lovely wintah we are having."
"Chawming! So very, very gay, isn't it?"
"Oh, very, very gay! Haven't I met you at Mrs. Titters' teas?"
"I daresay you have. Isn't she a deah?"
"Oh, I am extravagantly fond of her!"
"I am, too. So clevah!"
"Of course you go to the opera?"
"Oh, I couldn't exist without it. Oh, Melba! Melba!"
"And Nordica! I rave over them all!"
"I fairly CRY over them. And, do you know, I have a friend who does not care in the least for them. She isn't a bit musical."
"Oh, how sad! I would die if I did not——Who is the tall lady in black over by the piano?"
"I'm sure I do not know. What exquisite lace on her gown! Do you know that I just simply rave over beautiful lace!"
"Really?"
"Yes, indeed! I care more for it than for jewels, because it——Do you know the tall, fine-looking man who has just come in?"
"I'm sure I have seen him somewhere, and yet I can not——Yes, thank you, I think I will have a cup of tea. How lovely the dining-room looks!"
"Lovely!"
"Mrs. Sweet has such exquisite taste!"
"EXQUISITE! I often say——How do you do, my deah? So glad to see you!"
"Thanks! So glad to meet YOU!"
"So good of you to say so! Quite well, deah?"
"Oh, vulgarly so. I really must say good-by to dear Mrs. Sweet and go. I must look in at Mrs. Shoddy's for a few minutes."
"So must I. We'll go together."
"HOW LOVELY! Good-by, deah Mrs. Sweet. Have had such a chawming time!"
"Must you go so soon?"
"Yes, really! Such a lovely time!"
"So glad! But it is quite naughty of you to go so soon. So glad you came!"
"By-by, deah."
"By-by. You will come to see me soon?"
"Yes, indeed."
"You MUST. By-by!"
"By-by!"
And as she gathers up her trailing skirts to walk down the steps, she says: "Thank goodness, that's over!"
Reprinted from Lippincott's Magazine.
KEEP A-GOIN'! BY FRANK L. STANTON
If you strike a thorn or rose, Keep a-goin'! If it hails or if it snows, Keep a-goin'! 'Taint no use to sit an' whine When the fish ain't on your line; Bait your hook an' keep on tryin'— Keep a-goin'! When the weather kills your crop, Keep a-goin'! When you tumble from the top, Keep a-goin'! S'pose you're out of every dime? Gittin' broke ain't any crime; Tell the world you're feelin' prime,— Keep a-goin'! When it looks like all is up, Keep a-goin'! Drain the sweetness from the cup, Keep a-goin'! See the wild birds on the wing! Hear the bells that sweetly ring— When you feel like sighin'—sing! Keep a-goin'!
A LOVER'S QUARREL BY CYNTHIA COLES
"O Kitty, you are so sweet, and I do love you so. Tell me you love me, dearie."
"I do love you, Dick; why, I never supposed I could love anybody so much."
"O little girl, I only wished you loved me half as much as I love you."
"Half as much! Why, dear, I love you more than you love me—a great deal more——"
"Now, don't be silly, pet. It would be impossible for you to love me as much as I love you. Of course, I love you best."
"Of course you don't! You love me, I know, but not as much as I love you."
"Now, Kitty, be reasonable."
"I will if you'll admit that I do love you best."
"How can I admit what isn't true?"
"Well, you might say it was so just to please me."
"Oh, no, dear, I can't do that."
"Because you don't love me enough!"
"Oh, the idea!"
"If you did love me the best, you'd say anything I asked you to, whether it was true or not."
"Would you do that?"
"Of course I would."
"All right, then you admit that I love you best, because I ask you to do so!"
"O Dick, how horrid you are! How can you be so cruel to me?"
"There, there, don't cry. I'll admit that you love me best, but I only admit it because you ask me to."
"Then that's all right."
"But, don't you see, Kitty, when I say that because you ask me to, and you won't say it when I ask you to, that proves I love you best after all."
"There you go on again! I do think you're too mean for anything!"
"Well, never mind, sweetheart, let's kiss and be friends. You do love me best I'm sure."
"Oh, no, I don't, Dick. Oh, you are so sweet. You love me best, darling."
"Oh, no, I don't, love. You love me best!"
"No, my Dick, you love me best——"
CASEY AT THE BAT BY PHINEAS THAYER
It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day; The score stood two to four, with but an inning left to play. So, when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did the same, A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game. A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast, For they thought: "If only Casey could get a whack at that," They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat. But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake, And the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake, So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all, And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off the ball." And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred, There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin' third. Then, from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, It rumbled in the mountain-tops, it rattled in the dell; It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat; For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Casey's manner as he stept into his place; There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face. And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; Then while the New York pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped— "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said. From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant shore. "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand. And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised a hand. With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on: He signaled to Sir Timothy, once more the spheroid flew; But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two." "Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate; He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate. And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. Ah, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light. And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout: But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.
FAMILIAR LINES ANONYMOUS
(Arranged so that the little ones can always remember them)
The boy stood on the burning deck, His fleece was white as snow; He stuck a feather in his hat, John Anderson, my Jo! "Come back, come back!" he cried in grief, From India's coral strands, The frost is on the pumpkin and The village smithy stands. Am I a soldier of the cross From many a boundless plain? Should auld acquaintance be forgot Where saints immortal reign? Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon Across the sands o' Dee, Can you forget that night in June— My country, 'tis of thee! Of all sad words of tongue or pen, We're saddest when we sing, To beard the lion in his den— To set before the king. Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound, And Phoebus gins arise; All mimsy were the borogroves To mansions in the skies.
A FRIENDLY GAME OF CHECKERS ANONYMOUS
"Now, my dear," said Mr. Italics, as he drew on his slippers and settled himself for the evening, "if you will get the checker-board, I'll play you a game—you're learning so rapidly that it's really a pleasure to try quits with you."
Mrs. Italics giggled with delight, kissed her husband on the top of the head and fluttered away to find the board and checkers. After she had found them, she plumped herself down in a rocking-chair about a foot and a half lower than his easy-chair and arranged the apparatus at an angle of fifty degrees, whereupon Mr. Italics said:
"I think you misapprehend my suggestion. I didn't propose to go sliding down hill at this season of the year, neither do I intend to shoot the chutes. My idea was a game of checkers and if you think those men are going to stand around on a board tipped up on one end and wait to be moved, you are not familiar with their habits."
"Perhaps I had better put a book under it; or if you could lower your knees a little it would come even."
"Oh, that's your idea, is it? My knees weren't constructed with special regard to playing checkers. They were put where they are and fastened and they won't run up and down like a flag. Do you think I'm the india-rubber man from the circus, or the cork-legged man from Oskoloosa? If you can't hold up your side of the board, we won't play."
"Now, dear, it's all right. Let me see, is it your move, or mine?"
"What are you trying to play? Do you think this is a game of baseball? Don't you know you've got to move cattecornered? 'Taint your move anyway. Put that back. There. Now I'll move there."
"Oh, I know you're going to jump me and take my man," said Mrs. Italics, picking up the checker she had moved before and putting it in her mouth. "If I put it here, you'll——"
"SWALLOW IT, why don't you? If you don't want it taken, why don't you masticate it? Can't you leave the thing alone until you get ready to move? Put it down before it chokes you."
"There, dear (swallowing it), I've put it down, but it hurt my throat."
"What in thunder do you mean by eating up my set of checkers. When I said 'put it down' I meant put it back on the board. Will you please play this game instead of masticating it."
"If I put this man there, you'll jump it."
"Just watch and see."
"Now, I'll put this man there,—no,—perhaps I had better move here,—or I think I'll——"
"Going to move in six places at once? Think this is the first of May and that you're looking for a new flat? 'Taint your move anyway. Now will you please hold the board straight? D'ye think this is a washboard? Well it isn't and it isn't a teeter-board either. Now, I'll move into your king row. Ha! ha!"
"Then do I jump these two men and get a king? Of course, I do. Crown me! I've got the first king!"
"No, you haven't. I didn't mean that move. If you can't play checkers without cackling like a hen you'd better stop. I'll take back that move. Now, so. Now you can move."
"Over here."
"Certainly. That's splendid. Now I'll take these two men."
"I didn't see that, I'd rather put it here."
"Too late now. You can't take back a move in this game. You should study your moves first."
"Well, if I jump here I get another king."
"What do you want to tumble them all over for? Haven't you got any sense scarcely? You make more fuss over a measly king than most women over a mouse. Don't you know it's my move? Give me back those men. Can't you hold the board straight? What's that? Oh, of course, you know. You know it all. All you want is a pair of hinges and painted sides to be a checker-box. If ever I want to play with some good player I'll put the coal-scuttle on your head and move you around for a king. There goes the whole business! Now, are you satisfied? Do you wonder a man won't play checkers with a woman? I'll throw the measly things out of the window so that I won't waste any time playing with you again." And Mr. Italics suited the action to the word. But then Mr. Italics was such an odd type.
MODERN ROMANCE BY HENRY M. BLOSSOM, JR.
Information, speculation; fluctuation; ruination. Dissipation, degradation; reformation or starvation. Application, situation; occupation, restoration. Concentration, enervation, nerve prostration. A vacation. Destination, country station. Nice location, recreation. Exploration, observation; fascination—a flirtation. Trepidation, hesitation, conversation, simulation; Invitation, acclamation, sequestration, cold libation. Stimulation, animation; inspiration, new potation. Demonstration, agitation, circulation, exclamation! Declaration, acceptation, osculation, sweet sensation. Exultation, preparation, combination, new relation.
From The Smart Set, New York.
LULLABY BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
Kiver up yo' haid, my little lady, Hyeah de win' a-blowin' out o' do's. Don' you kick, ner projick wid de comfo't, Less'n fros'll bite yo' little toes. Shut yo' eyes an' snuggle up to mammy, Gi' me bofe yo' han's, I hol' 'em tight; Don' you be afeard an' 'mence to trimble Des ez soon ez I blows out de light. Angels is a-mindin' you, my baby, Keepin' off de Bad Man in de night. What de use o' bein skeered o' nuffin'? You don' fink de dakness gwine to bite? What de crackin' soun' you heah erroun' you? Lawsey, chile, you tickles me to def:— Dats de man what brings de fros', a paintin' Picters on de winder wid his bref. Mammy ain' afeard, you hyeah huh laffin'? Go' away, Mistah Fros', you can't come in; Baby ain' receivin' folks this evenin', Reckon dat you'll have to call agin. Curl yo' little toes up so, my possum— Umph, but you's a cunnin' one fu' true! Go to sleep, de angels is a-watchin', An' yo' mammy's mindin' of you, too.
Reprinted by permission.
THE REASON WHY BY MARY E. BRADLEY
"When I was at the party," said Betty (aged just four), "A little girl fell off her chair, right down upon the floor; And all the other little girls began to laugh but me— I didn't laugh a single bit," said Betty, seriously. "Why not?" her mother asked her, full of delight to find That Betty—bless her little heart—had been so sweetly kind. "Why didn't you laugh, darling, or don't you like to tell?" "I didn't laugh," said Betty, "'cause it was me that fell!"
HOW A BACHELOR SEWS ON A BUTTON ANONYMOUS
This is a very laughable piece of pantomime. It is well to have a small table and a chair, but everything else is left to the imagination of the audience. The success of the selection depends upon the varied facial expression and other business. It is advisable to first practise with a needle and thread so as to get a correct imitation.
First say to the audience: "Ladies and gentlemen, I shall endeavor to give you an imitation of how a bachelor sews on a button." Then seat yourself and take from the table an imaginary spool of thread. Hold it in your left hand and pull out several lengths with your right hand. Then bite the thread off and put the spool back on the table. Hold the end of the thread in your left hand, then wet the first finger and thumb of your right hand and make the thread into a point. Now start to thread your needle. The thread refuses to find the eye of the needle and there is a lot of laughable business here. Change your position frequently, and at every turn vary the facial expression. Then blow through the eye of the needle. Just as you think you have at last put the thread through, the needle is lost and you look all over for it. After some difficulty you find it on the floor. Then as you seat yourself again you find the thread in a snarl, so you take the spool again and pull off several fresh lengths. Try again to thread the needle and as you get it through the needle's eye, turn it very carefully around and take hold of the thread with your teeth, drawing it through slowly with appropriate facial expression. Now tie a knot in your thread and to make it secure bite it with your teeth. Reach to the table for your imaginary button and place it on the inside of your coat. Begin to sew, with difficulty at first, pulling the thread through at arm's length. At the third stitch prick your finger and jump as if in great pain. The thread gradually gets shorter. As you seem to gain facility you begin to smile. Then wind the thread around the button, make several short stitches, and bite it off with your teeth. Now stand and try to button your coat. You first feel for the button but can not find it. Then you look down at your coat, but there is no button there. You turn the coat over and discover that you have sewed the button on the inside. With a look of anger you pull the button off the coat, throw it violently on the floor, and exit hastily.
CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS ANONYMOUS
Deesa man liva in Italia a gooda longa time ago. He hada a greata heada ever since he was a kidda. Not a bigga heada likea de politicians nowaday—not a swella heada. His fadda keepa de standa in Italia. Sella de peanutta and de banan. Maka plente de mon. Christopher Colum he say, "Fadda, gimma de stamp, I go finda de new world." His fadda he laugh, "Ha! ha!" just so. Den Christopher he say, "Whata you maka fun? I betta you I finda new world." After a long time his fadda say, "You go finda new world, and bringa it over here." Den de olda man he buy him a grip-sack, an' giva him boodle, an' maka him a present of three ships to come over to deesa contra. Well, Christopher Colum he saila an' saila for gooda many day. He don't see any landa. An' he say, "I giva fiva-dollar-bill if I was back in Italia!" Well, he saila, an' he saila, an' vera soon he strika Coney Island. Den dat maka him glad! Very soon he coma to Castle Garden, an' den he walka up Broadway an' he feel very bada. He finda outa dat de Irish gang has gotta possession of New Yorka! He don't lika de Irish, an' de Shamrocka donta lika him. He donta go vera far before a pleasanter mana speaks to him. He say, "How-a-you do, Mista Jones? How a-de folks in Pittaburg?" Christopher Colum he say, "I notta Mista Jones; I reada the papers; I tinka you sella de green goods, ha? You go away, or I broka your jaw!" Den he shaka hees fista deesa way, an' de man he skedaddle. Den he tries to crossa de Broad-a-way, but it fulla de mud an' he canta swim. Very soon he sees a policeman cluba de mana, one, two, three times, an' he feel secka de stom'! Next he meeta de politicians uppa Tammany Hall an' dees wanta him to runna for Alderman. He getta plenty friend. He learna to "settom up" at de bar many times. Next day he hava heada lika deesa!
His fadda writa: "Why you notta bringa back de new world? I like to hava de earth!" Christopher Colum he writa back dat New Yorka is already in de hands of de Shamrocka. Den he goes to Ohio and buys a place an' calla it after himself—Colum. Soon he goa broka an' taka de nexta train home in disgusta, because he reada in de paper dat de Fair in '93 will be holda in Chicago!
THE FLY ANONYMOUS
The following is told in child dialect. She finds a fly and speaks to it affectionately:
"Poor little fly! Ain't you got anyone to love you? Ain't you got any brothers or any sisters, little fly? Ain't you got any aunts, little fly? Ain't you got anyone to love you? Your mother loves you, little fly. (She slaps her hand and kills the fly.) Go home to your mother!"
THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL" BY W. S. GILBERT
'Twas on the shores that round our coast From Deal to Ramsgate span, That I found alone on a piece of stone An elderly naval man. His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he, And I heard this wight on the shore recite In a singular minor key: "Oh, I am a cook, and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!" And he shook his fists, and he tore his hair, Till I really felt afraid, For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, And so I simply said: "O elderly man, it's little I know Of the duties of men of the sea, And I'll eat my hand if I understand How you can possibly be "At once a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig." Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which Is a trick all seamen larn, And having got rid of a thumpin' quid, He spun this painful yarn: "'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell That we sailed to the Indian sea, And there on a reef we come to grief, Which has often occurred to me. "And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned, (There was seventy-seven o' soul), And only ten of the Nancy's men Said 'Here!' to the muster roll. "There was me, and the cook, and the captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig. "For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink, Till a-hungry we did feel, So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot The captain for our meal. "The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, And a delicate dish he made; Then our appetite with the midshipmite We seven survivors stayed. "And then we murdered the bo'sun tight, And he much resembled pig; Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, On the crew of the captain's gig. "Then only the cook and me was left, And the delicate question, 'Which Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, And we argued it out as sich. "For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he worshiped me; But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see. "'I'll be eat if you dines of me,' says Tom 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be.' 'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I; And 'Exactly so,' quoth he. "Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me Were a foolish thing to do, For don't you see that you can't cook me, While I can—and will—cook you?' "So he boils the water, and takes the salt, And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot And some sage and parsley, too. "'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, Which his smiling features tell, ''Twill soothing be if I let you see How extremely nice you'll smell.' "And he stirred it round and round and round, And he sniffed at the foaming froth— When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth. "And I eat that cook in a week or less, And—as I eating be The last of his chops, why, I almost drops, For a wessel in sight I see. "And I never grieve, and I never smile, And I never larf nor play, But I sit and croak, and a single joke I have—which is to say: "Oh, I am a cook, and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!"
I TOL' YER SO BY JOHN L. HEATON
John Jones he was the beatenus cuss. Allus a-pickin' 'n' sayin' to us: "I tol' yer so, I tol' yer so!" No matter what happened, he'd up an' say: "Yer sorry ye done it, haint ye, hey? Well, well, I tol' yer so!" When Kerin-Happuck wuz tuk down sick From the pizen ivy she'd gin a lick, He'd tol' us so, he'd tol' us so. 'N' Shadrack's fuss with his mother-in-law, Before the weddin' John Jones foresaw; Well, well, he tol' us so. If a fellow wuz hit by a fallin' tree, Or kicked by a horse, says Jones, says he: "I tol' yer so, I tol' yer so!" If a barn tuck fire, or a well-sweep broke, We might a-knowed it before Jones spoke, The time he tol' us so. It got so tejus, says Bill one day: "Ye're a dern ol' idjit, 'ith nothin' ter say But 'tol' yer so,' 'n 'tol' yer so,'— A mean, contemptible, sneakin' cuss!" 'N' jes from habit, Jones sez to us: "Well, well, I tol' yer so!"
"YOU GIT UP!" BY JOE KERR
There's lots of folks that has good times, There's lots that never does; But the ones that don't like morning naps Is the meanest ever wuz. It's very nice to eat a meal With pie for its wind-up; 'Taint half so sweet's th' nap pa spoils When he yells, "You git up!" I'd rather lay in bed and snooze, Jest one small minit more In the morning, when the sunshine Comes a-creeping o'er the floor, Then to go to Barnum's circus or To own a bulldog pup. The meanest thing pa ever said Wuz, "Come now—you git up!" I like to go in swimming, And I like to play baseball; I like to fight and fly a kite, 'N' I sometimes like to bawl; But them thare forty winks of sleep Pa tries to interrup', Is better 'n' all. It breaks my heart When pa yells, "You git up!" I'd stand the hurt and ache and pain And all the smart and itch Of having him turn the bedclothes down To wake me with a switch, Ef he 'ud on'y jest go 'way And let me finish up The nap I started jest before He yelled out, "You git up!" You bet, when I git growed up big, Es rich 'n' old as pa, 'N' never haf to go to school, Nor work nor stand no jaw— I'll sleep all day and all night, too, And only jest git up When I git 'nough sleep to suit me Ef all the world yells, "You git up!"
By permission of G. W. Dillingham Company.
PRESENTATION OF THE TRUMPET ANONYMOUS
In the days of the old volunteer fire department there existed in this city a certain hose company noted for the bravery of its foreman, whose reckless daring in time of danger, coupled with his pugilistic attainments, had made him a local celebrity.
The members of his company decided to present him with a handsome silver trumpet, as an expression of their regard and appreciation of his pluck, courage and fighting qualities. One of the members was chosen to prepare a fitting speech for the occasion, and after some weeks of labor announced himself as being thoroughly prepared for the task.
In the meantime, the foreman, who was supposed to be in blissful ignorance of all the preparations being made to surprize him, was let into the "secret" through the kindness of one of the boys. He recognized this as his supreme opportunity to display his literary qualifications in the shape of a speech of acceptance. He secured the services of a literary friend to write a glowing oration, replete with metaphors, similes, and sweet-sounding poetry, expressing his "unworthiness of the honor," the "deep gratitude which words failed him to adequately express," etc.
The night in question at last arrived. The building was filled to overflowing. The band played "See the Conquering Hero Comes," and the boys gave three hearty cheers and a "tiger" for the proud foreman.
The chairman advanced to the front, holding the massive trumpet in one hand, while his other hand grasped convulsively at the collar of his shirt.
After staring around the room and giving a few preparatory coughs, he said:
"Mr. Foreman, and Members of Hose Company Number 10: I—a—a—I—a—I——(Looks hard at the floor. Begins again with great determination.) Mr. Foreman, and Members of Hose Company Number 10: I—a—a—I—a—feel—I feel a——(Puts one hand in his pocket and looks very foolish. Begins again, shouting, and looking very angry.) Mr. Foreman, and Members of Hose Company Number 10: I—I—I—I feel a—much a pleas——(Word sticks in his throat. Very angrily, and striding toward the foreman.) Ah! take your trumpet!"
A look of consternation spread over the faces of the boys at the failure of their spokesman, and there were many whisperings of "I told you so!"
It was now the foreman's turn. He drew his hand across his mouth and began as follows:
"Mr. Chairman, and Members of Hose Company Number 10: It is—it is—it is—it is with a—with a——(Looks at ceiling, and shifts his position uneasily. Begins over again, with a very confident air.) Mr. Chairman, and Members of Hose Company Number 10: It is with—with a—with a—with a—a—a—a—a heart——(Stops, stares wildly at the ceiling, floor and company. Begins over again, very angrily, and with his body in fighting attitude.) Mr. Chairman, and Members of Hose Company Number 10: I—I—I—it is—it is with a heart—with a heart full—-full——(Stops. Very loud and violently.) Ah! give us yer trumpet!"
DON'T USE BIG WORDS ANONYMOUS
In promulgating your esoteric cogitations, or articulating your superficial sentimentalities and amicable, philosophical or psychological observations, beware of platitudinous ponderosity. Let your conversational communications possess a clarified conciseness, a compact comprehensibleness, coalescent consistency, and a concatenated cogency. Eschew all conglomerations of flatulent garrulity, jejune babblement and asinine affectations. Let your extemporaneous descantings and unpremeditated expatiations have intelligibility and veracious vivacity, without rhodomontade or thrasonical bombast. Sedulously avoid all polysyllabic profundity, pompous prolixity, psittaceous vacuity, ventriloquial verbosity, and vaniloquent vapidity. Shun double-entendres, prurient jocosity, and pestiferous profanity, obscurant or apparent.
In other words, talk plainly, briefly, naturally, sensibly, truthfully, purely. Keep from "slang"; don't put on airs; say what you mean; mean what you say. And don't use big words!
DER MULE SHTOOD ON DER STEAMBOAD DECK ANONYMOUS
Der mule shtood on der steamboad deck, For der land he wouldn't dread, Dhey tied a halder rount his neck, Und vacked him over der headt. But obstinate und braced he shtood, As born der scene to rule, A creature of der holt-back brood— A shtubborn, shtedfast mule. Dhey curst und shwore, but he vould not go Undill he felt inclined, Und dhough dhey dundered blow on blow, He aldered nod his mind. Der boats-boy to der shore complained, "Der varmint's bound do shtay," Shtill ubon dot olt mule's hide Der sounding lash made blay. His masder from der shore reblied, "Der boats aboud do sail; As oder means in vain you've dried. Subbose you dwist his dail. "I dhink dot dat will magke him land," Der boats-boy brave, dhough bale, Den near drew mit oudstretched hand, Do magke der dwist avail. Dhen game a kick of thunder sound! Dot boy—oh, vhere vas he? Ask of der vaves dot far around Beheld him in der sea. For a moment nod a voice vas heard, Bud dot mule he vinked his eye, As dhough to ask, to him occurred, "How vas dot for high?"
THE NEW SCHOOL READER ANONYMOUS
I will now give you a selection from my New School Reader. It is built upon the lines of the school-books in use in the years preceding our early childhood. It is one of the selections that unfortunate boys would render in an heroic attitude, and in stilted, unnatural tones:
"The October sun was shining down upon an avenue of trees, and gilding with its golden splendor the chromatic nose of a solitary horseman, who reigned up his steed at the sight of a small boy with a school-book on his shoulder. 'Where do you live, my fine fellow?' said the stranger, in low, pleasing tones. 'In yonder cottage, near the glen; my widowed mother and her thirteen children dwell with me,' replied the boy, in a rich, mellow voice. 'And is your father dead?' asked the stranger with a rising inflection. 'Extremely so,' murmured the lad, 'and that is why my mother is a widow.' 'And how does your mother gain a livelihood?' asked the horseman, his voice dropping to a gentle whisper. 'I support the family,' proudly replied George. 'You support the family? Why, what can such a little fellow as you do?' 'I dig wells during the day, and help my mother at night. I have a good education and am able to dig wells almost as well as a man.' 'But you must have to work very hard,' said the stranger, wiping a tear from his eyebrow. 'Indeed I do, sir, and since my little sister Ann got married, and brought her husband home to live with us, I have to work with more assiduity than ever. I am enabled to barely maintain our family in a precarious manner; but, oh, sir, should my other sisters marry, I fear that some of my brothers-in-law would have to suffer.' 'My boy,' asked the solitary horseman, looking at the youth proudly, 'what would you say if I told you your father was not dead?' 'Sir,' replied the boy respectfully, 'I am too polite to tell you what I would say,—besides you are much larger than I am.' 'But, my brave lad,' said the man in low, musical tones, 'do you not recognize your parent on your father's side?—do you not know me, Georgie? O George!' 'I must say,' replied George, 'that you have the advantage of me. While I may have met you before, I can not at this moment place you, sir!' At this the stranger opened his valise and took therefrom a large-sized strawberry mark, which he placed on his right arm. Immediately the boy recognized him as his long-lost parent, and he, drawing the lad to his bosom, ejaculated, 'O my son, my son!' 'But how did you escape, father?' said the boy through his tears, in a voice broken by emotion. 'We were far away at sea,' said the heartbroken man. 'The winds howled and the waves threatened to engulf our frail bark. When everybody was lost, the rest of the crew turned and sprang into the foaming billows and swam several miles. At last I felt my feet touch something hard,—it was Jersey City!'"
THE POOR WAS MAD A FAIRY SHTORY FOR LITTLE CHILDHER BY CHARLES BATTELL LOOMIS
Wance upon a toime the poor was virry poor indade, an' so they wint to a rich leddy that was that rich she had goold finger-nails, an' was that beautiful that it'u'd mek you dopey to luke at her. An' the poor asht her would she give thim the parin's of her goold finger-nails fer to sell. An' she said she would that, an' that ivery Chuesdeh she did be afther a-parin' her nails. So of a Chuesdeh the poor kem an' they tuke the gold parin's to a jewel-ery man, an' he gev thim good money fer thim. Wasn't she the koind leddy, childher? Well, wan day she forgot to pare her nails, an' so they had nothin' to sell. An' the poor was mad, an' they wint an' kilt the leddy intoirely. An' when she was kilt, sorra bit would the nails grow upon her, an' they saw they was silly to kill her. So they wint out to sairch fer a leddy wid silver finger-nails. An' they found her, an' she was that beautiful that her face was all the colors of the rainbow an' two more besides. An' the poor asht her would she give thim the parin's of her finger-nails fer to sell. An' she said that she would that, an' that every Chuesdeh she did be afther a-parin' her nails. So of a Chuesdeh the poor kem an' they tuk the silver parin's to the jewel-ery man, an' he giv thim pretty good money fer thim, but not nair as good as fer the goold. But he was the cute jewel-ery man, wasn't he, childher? Well, wan day she forgot to pare her nails an' so they had nothin' to sell. An' the poor was mad, an' they wint an' kilt the leddy intoirely. An' when she was kilt, sorra bit would the nails grow upon her, an' they saw they was silly to kill her. So they wint out to sairch for a leddy with tin finger-nails. An' they found her, and she was that beautiful that she would mek you ristless. An' the poor asht her would she give thim the parin's of her tin finger-nails fer to sell. An' she said she would that, an' that ivery Chuesdeh she did be afther a-parin' her nails. So of a Chuesdeh the poor kem. An' did they get the tin nails, childher? Sure, that's where y are out. They did not, fer the leddy had lost a finger in a mowin'-machine, an' she didn't have tin finger-nails at arl, at arl—only noine.
LIDES TO BARY JADE ANONYMOUS
The bood is beabig brighdly love, The sdars are shidig, too; While I ab gazing dreabily Add thigkig, love, of you; You caddot, oh, you caddot kdow, By darlig, how I biss you,— (Oh, whadt a fearful cold I've got— Ck-tish-u! Ck-ck-tish-u!) I'b sittig id the arbor, love Where you sat by by side, Whed od that calb, Autubdal dight You said you'd be by bride. Oh, for wud bobedt to caress Add tederly to kiss you; Budt do! we're beddy biles apart— (Ho-rash-o! Ck-ck-tish-u!) This charbig evedig brigs to bide The tibe whed first we bet; It seebs budt odly yesterday, I thigk I see you yet. Oh, tell be, ab I sdill your owd? By hopes, oh, do dot dash theb! (Codfoud by cold, 'tis gettig worse— Ck-tish-u! ck-ck-thrash-eb!) Good-by, by darlig Bary Jade The bid-dight hour is dear, Add it is hardly wise by love For be to ligger here! The heavy dews are fallig fast; A fod good-dight I wish you; (Ho-rash-o!—there it is agaid— Ck-tish-u! Ck-ck-thrash-eb!)
"CHARLIE MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT" Parody on "Curfew Must not Ring To-night" ANONYMOUS
Slowly England's sun was setting o'er a mansion old and grey; Filling all the land with glory, in the usual kind of way. And its bright rays tinged the foreheads of a man and maiden fair: He with powdered head and whiskers, she with locks of—someone's hair. She was clutching at it wildly, as, with lips all cold and white, She was saying, "Listen, Thomas,—Charlie must not ring to- night!" "Thomas," Bessie's white lips murmur'd, as she feverishly laid hold Of the buttons of his liv'ry—lobster-red with spots of gold— "Freddie Smith will call this evening; he'll be ringing by and by; Charlie does not know about him; if they met here I should die! Tell him I am out, dear Thomas; gone to call on Mrs. Blight; Tell him any lie you like but—Charlie must not ring to-night." "Bessie," calmly said the flunkey-ev'ry word was like a dart Barbed with poison, entering in that damsel's heart— "For the last three weeks that pusson—w'ich 'is name are Charlie Power— Hev'ry hevenink's called to see you, jest about the dinner-hour. 'E' as never failed to tip me—w'ich is only just and right— So I still must do my duty, should that pusson ring to-night!" She with quick steps bounded upward, till she reached the chamber-door, Seized her purse, and quick returning, threw it wildly on the floor. "Take it, Thomas," cried the maiden, with her eyes and cheeks aglow, "Take it all and welcome—what there is I do not know— But 'tis yours, ay, ev'ry farthing; gold and precious silver bright, Only, take good care, dear Thomas, Charlie must not ring to-night!" She had fled to dress for Freddie; Thomas seeks the front door-bell. He will muffle up the clapper, in a way he knows full well. See! The bell is being shaken; 'tis the fateful moment now! Thomas hastes to "do his dooty," with a firm, determined brow. Shall he let it ring? No, never; he has touched the guerdon bright, So he grasps the clapper, whisp'ring, "Charlie shall not ring to-night!" It was o'er; the youth ceased pulling, and the maiden breathed once more. But, alas! that fickle maiden wept as maid ne'er wept before When she learn'd that he who'd called there, promptly at the dinner-hour, Was the long-expected Freddie, not the hated Charlie Power. While the tried and trusted Thomas, knowing not her evil plight, Open'd wide the door for Charlie when that "pusson" called that night!
A SHORT ENCORE
Man wants but little here below, He's not so hard to please; But woman (bless her little heart) Wants everything she sees!
MY DOUBLE, AND HOW HE UNDID ME BY EDWARD EVERETT HALE
I am, or rather, was a minister, and was settled in an active, wide-awake town with a bright parish and a charming young wife. At first it was all delightful, but as my duties increased I found myself leading a double life—one for my parish, whom I loved, and the other for a vague public, for whom I did not care two straws. It was then that on my wife's suggestion I looked for a double—some one who would pass for me and fill the many engagements I wanted to shirk. I found him. When he was discovered his name was Dennis Shea, and he was not shaved, had no spectacles, and his style of dress was not at all like mine; but these difficulties were soon surmounted, for, by application to the Judge of Probate, his name was soon changed to Frederick Ingham—my name. As for appearance, he was so much like me that by the united efforts of Polly and myself and a tailor he was made to look the exact image of me. Then in four successive afternoons I taught him four speeches, which were to be his stock in trade:
No. 1—"Very well, thank you; and you?" (This for an answer to casual salutations.)
No. 2—"I am very glad you liked it." (This in response to a compliment on a sermon.)
No. 3—"There has been so much said, and on the whole so well said, that I will not occupy the time." (This for public meetings when called to speak.)
No. 4—"I agree in general with my friend on the other side of the room." (This when asked for an opinion of his own.)
Thus equipped, my double attended a number of conventions and meetings which I was too busy to notice and was very successful. He gained a good reputation for me, and people began to say I was less exclusive than I used to be, and that I was more punctual, less talkative, etc. His success was so great that one evening I risked him at a reception. I could ill afford the time to go, and so I sent him with Polly, who kept her eye on him, and afterward told me about it. He had to take a very talkative lady—Mrs. Jeffries—down to supper, and at sight of the eatables he became a little excited, and attempted one of his speeches to the lady. He tried the shortest one in his most gallant manner: "Very well, thank you; and you?" Polly, who stood near his chair, was much frightened, as this speech had no connection with anything that had been said, but Mrs. Jeffries was so much engrossed with her own talking that she noticed nothing. She rattled on so busily that Dennis was not obliged to say anything more until the eating was over, when he said, to fill up a pause: "There has been so much said, and on the whole so well said, that I will not occupy the time." This again frightened Polly, but she managed to get him away before he had done anything serious.
After this my double relieved me in so many ways that I grew quite light-hearted. That happy year I began to know my wife by sight. We saw each other sometimes, and how delightful it was! But all this could not last; and at length poor Dennis, my double, undid me!
There was some ridiculous new movement on foot to organize some kind of a society, and there was to be a public meeting. Of course I was asked to attend and to speak. After much urging I consented to go and sit on the platform, upon condition that I would not be called upon to make a speech. This was agreed upon, and I went—that is, Dennis went, having been told to say nothing on any subject. He sat resplendent on the platform, and kept his peace during the preliminary exercises, which were rather dry. Governor Blake called the meeting to order, but as he really did not know what the object of the gathering was, he said that there were other gentlemen present who could entertain them better than he. Then there followed an awkward scene, for nobody wanted to speak, and every one that was called upon was either absent or unprepared; and finally a wretched boy in the gallery called out, "Ingham! Ingham!" The governor thought I would respond, and as nothing had been said so far, he ventured to ask me, saying: "Our friend, Mr. Ingham, is always prepared, and tho we had not relied upon him, he will say a word perhaps." Applause followed, which turned Dennis' head. He rose and tried speech No. 3: "There has been so much said, and on the whole so well said, that I will not longer occupy the time!"
Then he sat down, looking for his hat—for things seemed squally. But the people cried, "Go on! Go on!" and some applauded. Dennis still confused, but flattered by the applause, rose again, and this time tried No. 2: "I am very glad you like it." Which, alas! should only be said when complimented on a sermon. My best friends stared, and people who didn't know me yelled with delight. A boy in the gallery cried out: "It's all a humbug!" just as Dennis, waving his hand, commanded silence, and tried No. 4: "I agree in general with my friend on the other side of the room." The poor governor, doubting his senses, crossed to stop him, but too late. The same gallery boy shouted: "How's your mother?" And Dennis, completely lost, tried as his last shot No. 1: "Very well, thank you; and you?" The audience rose in a whirl of excitement. Some other impertinence from the gallery was aimed at Dennis; he broke all restraint and to finish undoing me, he called out: "Any wan o' ye blatherin' rascals that wants to fight, can come down an' I'll take any five o' yez, single-handed; ye're all dogs and cowards! Sure an' I've said all his riverance an' the mistress bade me say!"
That was all; my double had undone me.
Reprinted by permission of Little, Brown & Co., Boston, Mass.
ROMANCE OF A HAMMOCK ANONYMOUS
Shady tree—babbling brook, Girl in hammock—reading book. Golden curls—tiny feet, Girl in hammock—looks so sweet. Man rides past—big mustache, Girl in hammock—makes a "mash." "Mash" is mutual—day is set, Man and maiden—married get. Married now a year and a day, Keeping house in Avenue A. Red-hot stove—beefsteak frying, Girl got married—cooking trying. Cheeks all burning—eyes look red, Girl got married—almost dead. Biscuit burnt up—beefsteak charry, Girl got married—awful sorry. Man comes home—tears mustache, Mad as blazes—got no cash. Thinks of hammock—in the lane; Wishes maiden—back again. Maiden also—thinks of swing, And wants to go back, too, poor thing! Hour of midnight—baby squawking; Man in bare feet—bravely walking; The baby yells—now the other Twin, he strikes up—like his brother. Paregoric—by the bottle Poured into—the baby's throttle. Naughty tack—points in air, Waiting some one's—foot to tear. Man in bare feet—see him there! O my gracious!—hear him swear! Raving crazy—gets his gun Blows his head off—dead and gone. Pretty widow—with a book In the hammock—by the brook. Man rides past—big mustache; Keeps on riding—nary "mash."
FINNIGIN TO FLANNIGAN BY S. W. GILLINAN
Superintindent wuz Flannigan; Boss av the siction wuz Finnigin; Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack, An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back, Finnigin writ it to Flannigan, Afther the wrick wuz all on ag'in; That is, this Finnigin Repoorted to Flannigan. Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan, He writed tin pages—did Finnigin, An' he tould jist how the smash occurred; Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd Did Finnigin write to Flannigan Afther the cars had gone on ag'in. That wuz how Finnigin Repoorted to Flannigan. Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin— He'd more idjucation, had Flannigan; An' it wore'm clane an' complately out To tell what Finnigin writ about In his writin' to Muster Flannigan. So he writed back to Finnigin: "Don't do sich a sin ag'in; Make 'em brief, Finnigin!" Whin Finnigin got this from Flannigan, He blushed rosy rid, did Finnigin; An' he said: "I'll gamble, a whole month's pa-ay That it will be minny an' minny a da-ay Befoore Sup'rintindint—that's Flannigan— Gits a whack at this very same sin ag'in. From Finnigin to Flannigan Repoorts won't be long ag'in." Wan da-ay, on the siction av Finnigin, On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan, A rail gave way on a bit av a curve, An' some kyars went off as they made the swerve. "There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin, "But repoorts must be made to Flannigan." An' he winked at McCorrigan, As married a Finnigin. He wuz shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin, As minny a railroader's been ag'in, An' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin' bright In Finnigin's shanty all that night— Bilin' down his repoort, was Finnigin! An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan: Off ag'in, on ag'in, Gone ag'in—Finnigin."
From Life, by courtesy of the publishers.
AN INTRODUCTION BY MARK TWAIN
"Ladies—and—gentlemen:—By—the request of the—Chairman of the—Com-mit-tee—I beg leave to—introduce—to you—the reader of the evening—a gentleman whose great learning—whose historical ac-curacy—whose devotion—to science—and—and—whose veneration for the truth—are only equaled by his high moral character—and—his—majestic presence. I allude—in these vague general terms—to my-self. I—am a little opposed to the custom of ceremoniously introducing a reader to the audience, because it seems—unnecessary—where the man has been properly advertised! But as—it is—the custom—I prefer to make it myself—in my own case—and then I can rely on getting in—all the facts! I never had but one introduction—that seemed to me just the thing—and the gentleman was not acquainted with me, and there was no nonsense. Ladies and gentlemen, I shall waste no time in this introduction. I know of only two facts about this man: first, he—has never been in the state prison; and second, I can't—imagine why."
THE HARP OF A THOUSAND STRINGS A Hard-shell Baptist Sermon BY JOSHUA S. MORRIS
(This characteristic effusion first appeared in a New Orleans paper. The sermon is supposed to have been preached at a village on the bank of the Mississippi River, whither the volunteer parson had brought his flatboat for the purpose of trade.)
I may say to you, my brethring, that I am not an edicated man, an' I am not one of them as beleeves that edication is necessary for a Gospel minister, for I beleeve the Lord edicates his preachers jest as He wants 'em to be edicated; an' altho I say it that oughtn't to say it, yet in the State of Indianny, whar I live, thar's no man as gits bigger congregations nor what I gits.
Thar may be some here to-day, my brethring, as don't know what persuasion I am uv. Well, I must say to yu, my brethring, that I'm a Hard-shell Baptist. Thar's some folks as don't like the Hard-shell Baptists, but I'd rather have a hard shell as no shell at all. You see me here to-day, my brethring, drest up in fine clothes; you mout think I was proud, but I am not proud, my brethring; and altho I've been a preacher of the Gospel for twenty years, an' altho I'm capting of the flatboat that lies at your landing, I'm not proud, my brethring.
I am not gwine to tell edzactly whar my tex may be found; suffice to say, it's in the leds of the Bible, and you'll find it somewhar between the fust chapter of the book of Generations and the last chapter of the book of Revolutions; and ef you'll go and sarch the Scriptures, you'll not only find my tex thar, but a great many other texes as will do you good to read; and my tex, when you shall find it, you shall find it to read thus: "And he played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck."
My tex, my brethring, leads me to speak of sperits. Now, thar's a great many kinds of sperits in the world. In the fust place, thar's the sperits as some folks call ghosts; and thar's the sperits of turpentine; and thar's the sperits as some folks call liquor, an' I've got as good an artikel of them kind of sperits on my flatboat as ever was fotch down the Mississippi River. But thar's a great many other kinds of sperits, for the tex says, "He played on a harp uv a t-h-o-u-s-and strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck."
But I tell you the kind uv sperits as is meant in the tex is FIRE. That's the kind uv sperits as is meant in the tex, my brethring. Now, thar's a great many kinds uv fire in the world. In the fust place, there's the common sort of fire you light your cigars or pipe with; and then thar's foxfire and camphire, fire before you're ready, and fire and fall back, and many other kinds of fire—for the tex say, "He played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck."
But I'll tell you the kind of fire as is meant in the tex, my brethring: its HELL-FIRE! An' that's the kind uv fire as a great many uv you'll come to, ef you don't do better nor what you have been doin'—for "He played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck."
Now, the different sorts of fire in the world may be likened onto the different persuasions of Christians in the world. In the fust place, we have the Piscapalions, an' they are a high-sailin' and highfalutin' set; and they may be likened unto a turkey buzzard that flies up in the air, and he goes up, and up, and up, till he looks no bigger than your finger-nail, and the fust thing you know, he cums down, and down, and down, and is a-fillin' himself on the carkiss of a dead hoss by the side of the road—and "He played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck."
And then thar's the Methodis, and they may be likened unto the squirril runnin' up into a tree, for the Methodis beleeves in gwine on from one degree of grace to another, and finally on to perfection; and the squirril goes up and up, and up and up, and he jumps from limb to limb, and branch to branch, and the fust thing you know he falls, and down he cums kerflumix; and that's like the Methodis, for they is allers fallin' from grace, ah!—and "He played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck."
And then, my brethring, thar's the Baptists, ah! and they have been likened unto a 'possum on a 'simmon tree, and thunders may roll and the earth may quake, but that 'possum clings thar still, sh! and you may shake one foot loose, and the other's thar, and you make shake all feet loose, and he laps his tail around the limb, and clings, and he clings furever—for "He played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck."
Reprinted from the "Four-masted Catboat," by permission of the author and The Century Company. Copyright, 1899.
THE DIFFICULTY OF RIMING ANONYMOUS
We parted by the gate in June, That soft and balmy month, Beneath the sweetly beaming moon, And (wonth-hunth-sunth-bunth—I can't find a rime to month). Years were to pass ere we should meet. A wide and yawning gulf Divides me from my love so sweet, While (ulf-sulf-dulf-mulf—stuck again; I can't get any rime to gulf. I'm in a gulf myself). Oh, how I dreaded in my soul To part from my sweet nymph, While years should their long seasons roll Before (hymph-dymph-symph—I guess I'll have to let it go at that). Beneath my fortune's stern decree My lonely spirits sunk, For I a weary soul should be, And a (hunk-dunk-runk-sk—that will never do in the world). She buried her dear lovely face Within her azure scarf, She knew I'd take the wretchedness, As well as (parf-darf-harf-and-harf— that won't answer either). Oh, I had loved her many years. I loved her for herself; I loved her for her tender tears, And also for her (welf-nelf-self-pelf—no, no; not for her pelf). I took between my hands her head, How sweet her lips did pouch! I kissed her lovingly and said— (Bouch-mouch-louch-ouch—not a bit of it did I say ouch!). I sorrowfully wrung her hand, My tears they did escape, My sorrow I could not command, And I was but a (sape-dape-fape-ape; well, perhaps I did feel like an ape). I gave to her a fond adieu, Sweet pupil of love's school, I told her I would e'er be true, And always be a (dool-sool-mool-fool; since I come to think of it, I was a fool, for she fell in love with another fellow before I was gone a month).
SO WAS I BY JOSEPH BERT SMILEY
My name is Tommy an' I hates That feller of my sister Kate's. He's bigger'n I am an' you see He's sorter lookin' down on me, An' I resents it with a vim; I think I'm just as good as him. He's older, an' he's mighty fly But he's a kid,—an' so am I. One time he came,—down by the gate, I guess it must been awful late,— An' Katie, she was there, an' they Was feelin' very nice and gay, An' he was talkin' all the while, About her sweet an' lovin' smile, An' everythin' was nice as pie, An' they was there,—an' so was I. They didn't see me, 'cause I slid Down underneath a bush, an' hid, An' he was sayin' that his love Was greater'n all the stars above Up in the glorious heavens placed; An' then his arm got round her waist, An' clouds were floatin' in the sky, An' they was there,—an' so was I. I didn't hear just all they said, But by an' by my sister's head Was droopin' on his shoulder, an' I seen him holdin' Katie's hand, An' then he hugged her closer, some, An' then I heered a kiss—yum, yum! An' Katie blushed an' drew a sigh, An' sorter coughed,—an' so did I. An' then that feller looked around An' seed me there, down on the ground, An'—was he mad?—well, betcher boots I gets right outer there an' scoots. An' he just left my sister Kate A-standin' right there by the gate; An' I seen blood was in his eye, An' he runned fast,—an' so did I. I runned the very best I could But he cotched up,—I's 'fraid he would, An' then he said he'd teach me how To know my manners, he'd allow; An' than he shaked me awful. Gee! He jest—he frashed the ground with me. An' then he stopt it by and by, 'Cause he was tired,—an' so was I. An' then he went back to the gate An' couldn't find my sister Kate, 'Cause she went to bed, while he Was runnin' round an' thumpin' me. I got round in a shadder dim, An' made a face, an' guffed at him; An' then the moon larfed, in the sky, 'Cause he was there,—an' so was I.
THE ENCHANTED SHIRT BY JOHN HAY
The king was sick. His cheek was red, And his eye was clear and bright; He ate and drank with a kingly zest, And peacefully snored at night. But he said he was sick—and a king should know; And doctors came by the score; They did not cure him. He cut off their heads, And sent to the schools for more. At last two famous doctors came, And one was as poor as a rat; He had passed his life in studious toil And never found time to grow fat. The other had never looked in a book; His patients gave him no trouble; If they recovered, they paid him well, If they died, their heirs paid double. Together they looked at the royal tongue, As the king on his couch reclined; In succession they thumped his august chest, But no trace of disease could find. The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut." "Hang him up!" roared the king, in a gale,— In a ten-knot gale of royal rage; The other leach grew a shade pale; But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, And thus his prescription ran: "The king will be well if he sleeps one night In the shirt of a happy man." Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode, And fast their horses ran, And many they saw, and to many they spake, But they found no happy man. They saw two men by the roadside sit, And both bemoaned their lot; For one had buried his wife, he said. And the other one had not. At last they came to a village gate; A beggar lay whistling there; He whistled and sang and laughed, and rolled On the grass in the soft June air. The weary couriers paused and looked At the scamp so blithe and gay, And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend, You seem to be happy to-day?" "Oh, yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed, And his voice rang free and glad; "An idle man has so much to do That he never has time to be sad." "This is our man." the courier said, "Our luck has led us aright. I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, For the loan of your shirt to-night." The merry rascal lay back on the grass And laughed till his face was black; "I would do it," said he, and roared with the fun, "But I haven't a shirt to my back!" Each day to the king the reports came in Of the unsuccessful spies; And the sad panorama of human woes, Passed daily under his eyes. And he grew ashamed of his useless life, And his maladies hatched in gloom; He opened his windows and let the free air Of the heavens into his room. And out he went into the world and toiled In his own appointed way, And the people blest him, the land was glad, And the king was well and gay.
DER OAK UND DER VINE BY CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS
I don'd vas preaching voman's righdts, Or anyding like dot, Und I likes to see all beoples Shust gontended mit dheir lot; But I vants to gontradict dot shap Dot made dis leedle shoke: "A voman vas der glinging vine, Und man, der shturdy oak." Berhaps, somedimes, dot may be drue; Budt, den dimes oudt off nine, I find me oudt dot man himself Vas peen der glinging vine; Und ven hees friendts dhey all vas gone Und he vas shust "tead proke," Dot's vhen der voman shteps righdt in, Und peen der shturdy oak. Shust go oup to der paseball groundts Und see dhose "shturdy oaks" All planted roundt ubon der seats— Shust hear dheir laughs und shokes! Dhen see dhose vomens at der tubs, Mit glothes oudt on der lines: Vhich vas der shturdy oaks, mine frendts, Und vhich der glinging vines? Ven sickness in der householdt comes, Und veeks und veeks he shtays, Who vas id fighdts him mitout resdt, Dhose veary nighdts und days? Who beace und gomfort alvays prings, Und cools dot fefered prow? More like id vas der tender vine Dot oak he glings to, now. "Man vants budt leedle here pelow," Der boet von time said; Dhere's leedle dot man he don'd vant, I dink id means, inshted; Und vhen der years keep rolling on, Dheir cares und droubles pringing, He vants to pe der shturdy oak, Und, also, do der glinging. Maype, vhen oaks dhey gling some more, Und don'd so shturdy peen, Der glinging vines dhey haf some shance To helb run life's masheen. In belt und sickness, shoy und pain, In calm or shtormy veddher, 'Tvas beddher dot dhose oaks und vines Should alvays gling togedder.
From "Dialect Ballads," copyright, 1897, by Harper & Brothers.
THE SHIP OF FAITH ANONYMOUS
A certain colored brother had been holding forth to his little flock upon the ever-fruitful topic of Faith, and he closed his exhortation about as follows:
"My bruddren, ef yous gwine to git saved, you got to git on board de Ship ob Faith. I tell you, my bruddren, dere ain't no odder way. Dere ain't no gitten up de back stairs, nor goin' 'cross lots; you can't do dat away, my bruddren, you got to git on board de Ship ob Faith. Once 'pon a time dere was a lot ob colored people, an' dey was all gwine to de promised land. Well, dey knowed dere w'an't no odder way for 'em to do but to git on board de Ship ob Faith. So dey all went down an' got on board, de ole granfaders, an' de ole granmudders, an' de pickaninnies, an' all de res' of 'em. Dey all got on board 'ceptin' one mons'us big feller, he said he's gwine to swim, he was. 'W'y!' dey said, 'you can't swim so fur like dat. It am a powerful long way to de promised land!' He said: 'I kin swim anywhur, I kin. I git board no boat, no, 'deed!' Well, my bruddren, all dey could say to dat poor disluded man dey couldn't git him on board de Ship of Faith, so dey started off. De day was fair, de win' right; de sun shinin' and ev'ryt'ing b'utiful, an' dis big feller he pull off his close and plunge in de water. Well, he war a powerful swimmer, dat man, 'deed he war; he war dat powerful he kep' right 'long side de boat all de time; he kep' a hollerin' out to de people on de boat, sayin': 'What you doin' dere, you folks, brilin' away in de sun; you better come down heah in de water, nice an' cool down here.' But dey said: 'Man alive, you better come up here in dis boat while you got a chance.' But he said: 'No, indeedy! I git aboard no boat; I'm havin' plenty fun in de water.' Well, bimeby, my bruddren, what you tink dat pore man seen? A horrible, awful shark, my bruddren; mouf wide opne, teef more'n a foot long, ready to chaw dat pore man all up de minute he catch him. Well, when he seen dat shark he begun to git awful scared, an' he holler out to de folks on board de ship: 'Take me on board, take me on board, quick!' But dey said: 'No, indeed; you wouldn't come up here before, you swim now!'
"He look over his shoulder an' he seen dat shark a-comin' an' he let hisself out. Fust it was de man an' den it was de shark, an' den it was de man again, dat away, my bruddren, plum to de promised land. Dat am de blessed troof I'm a-tellin' you dis minute. But what do you t'ink was a-waitin' for him on de odder shore when he got dere? A horrible, awful lion, my bruddren, was a-stan'in' dere on de shore, a-lashin' his sides wid his tail, an' a-roarin' away fit to devour dat poor nigger de minit he git on de shore.
"Well, he war powerful scared den, he don't know what he gwine to do. If he stay in de water de shark eat him up; if he go on shore de lion eat him up; he dunno what to do. But he put his trust in de Lord, an' went for de shore. Dat lion he give a fearful roar an' bound for him; but, my bruddren, as sure as you live an' breeve, dat horrible, awful lion he jump clean ober dat pore feller's head into de water; an' de shark eat de lion. But, my bruddren, don't you put your trust in no such circumstance; dat pore man he done git saved, but I tell you de Lord ain't a-gwine to furnish a lion fo' every nigger!"
HE WANTED TO KNOW ANONYMOUS
Early one moonlight morning, in the city of London, a man was vainly trying to find his home, but being unable to locate it he called upon the services of a passer-by.
"Hey! M-m-mister (hic), will you take me to twenty-two?"
"Number twenty—Why you are standing right in front of it!"
"Oh, no you d-d-don't,—that's two-two, two-two!"
"Why, no, it's twenty-two."
"Say, you can't fool me. 'Nuther fellow tried to d-d-do that. He-he-he told me the other side of the street was (hic) on this side,—an' 'tisn't,—s-sit's over there. Please t-t-take me (hic) to twenty-two, will you?"
The man walked him around the block and back again.
"Now, then, get out your key. I must be going."
"Say, it was m-m-mighty (hic) jolly of you to bring me all this l-l-long way ho-ho-home, old chap!"
"That's all right. Now get your key,—hurry up."
"I'm ever so much obliged to you for bringing me all this long way ho-ho-home."
"That's all right. I must go now. Good-night."
The man had walked but a little distance when he heard his friend trying to whistle to him.
"Hey! (Tries to whistle). C-co-come here, I want ter speak to you. Now d-d-don't get mad (hic), old chap, it's important."
"Well, what do you want?"
"I just want to (hic) tell you how much obliged I'm to you for bringing me all this long way home."
"You had better go to bed now, so good-night."
"Hold up, old chap, you're a-a-a—would you mind telling me what your name is?"
Here the clock in St. Paul's struck two.
"My name—is St. Paul."
"Good enough, Miss Saint 'All. Much obliged to you for bring—me——"
"Never mind, good-night."
"Hey! Hi! (Tries to whistle). Mister Saint 'All—Miss Saint P-all, co-co-come here, I want to ask (hic) you something."
"What!"
"Old f-f-friend, I d-d-d-d-didn't mean that, Misser Saint Faull,—I just want to ask you a persh-pershonal question, Mis-Mis——"
"Well, what is it?"
"Misser Saint Paul, would you mind telling me whether you ever got answers to those letters you wrote to the Ephesians?"
AN OPPORTUNITY ANONYMOUS
I dropt into the post-office this morning for my mail, and just inside the door I found a little boy crying very bitterly. Naturally I asked him the cause of his trouble, and lifting his tear-stained face to mine he said:
"I had two quarters, and a feller come along just now and took one away from me."
"What!" said I, "right here in the post-office?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, why didn't you tell some one?"
"I did; I hollered, 'Help! help!'" (Said very weakly.)
"Well," I said, "is that as loud as you can holler?"
"Yes, sir."
So I took the other quarter.
GAPE-SEED ANONYMOUS
A farmer, walking the streets of one of our big cities, looked through a window at a lot of men writing very rapidly on typewriters; and as he stood at the door with his mouth open, one of the men called out to him, "Do you wish to buy some gape-seed?" Passing on a short distance, he asked a man what the business was of the men he had just seen in the office he had passed. He was told that they wrote letters dictated by others, and transcribed all sorts of documents. The farmer returned to the office, and inquired if one of the men would write a letter for him, and was answered in the affirmative. He asked the price, and was told one dollar. After considerable talk, the bargain was made; one of the conditions being that the scribe should write just what the farmer told him to, or he should receive no pay. The man said he was ready, and the farmer dictated as follows:
"Dear wife," and then asked, "Have you got that down?"
"Yes; go on."
"I went for a ride the other day—have you got that down?"
"Yes; go on, go on."
"And I harnessed up the old mare into the wagon—have you got that down?"
"Yes, yes, long ago; go on."
"Why, how fast you write!—And I got into the wagon, and sat down, and drew up the reins, and took the whip in my right hand—have you got that down?"
"Yes, long ago; go on."
"Dear me, how fast you write! I never saw your equal.—And I said to the old mare, 'Go 'long,' and I jerked the reins pretty hard—have you got that down?"
"Yes; and I am impatiently waiting for more. I wish you wouldn't bother me with so many foolish questions. Go on with your letter."
"Well, the old mare wouldn't stir out of her tracks, and I hollered, 'Go 'long, you old jade! go 'long'—have you got that down?"
"Yes, indeed, you pestiferous fellow; go on."
"And I licked her, and licked her, and licked her——" (continuing to repeat these words as rapidly as possible).
"Hold on there! I have written two pages of 'licked her,' and I want the rest of the letter."
"Well, and she kicked, and she kicked, and she kicked——" (continuing to repeat these words with great rapidity).
"Do go on with your letter; I have several pages of 'she kicked.'"
(The farmer clucks as in urging horses to move, and continues the clucking noise with rapid repetition for some time.)
The scribe jumps up from the typewriter.
"Write it down! write it down!"
"I can't!"
"Well, then, I won't pay you."
(The scribe, gathering up his papers.) "What shall I do with all these sheets upon which I have written your nonsense?"
"You might use them in doing up your gape-seed! Good-day!"
LARIAT BILL ANONYMOUS
"Well, stranger, 'twas somewhere in 'sixty-nine I wore runnin' the 'Frisco fast express; An' from Murder Creek to Blasted Pine, Were nigh onto eighteen mile, I guess. The road were a down-grade all the way, An' we pulled out of Murder a little late, So I opened the throttle wide that day, And a mile a minute was 'bout our gait. "My fireman's name was Lariat Bill, A quiet man with an easy way, Who could rope a steer with a cowboy's skill, Which he had learned in Texas, I've heard him say: The coil were strong as tempered steel, An' it went like a bolt from a crossbow flung. An' arter Bill changed from saddle to wheel, Just over his head in the cab it hung. "Well, as I were saying, we fairly flew As we struck the curve at Buffalo Spring, An' I give her full steam an' put her through, An' the engine rocked like a living thing; When all of a sudden I got a scare— For thar on the track were a little child! An' right in the path of the engine there She held out her little hands and smiled! "I jerked the lever and whistled for brakes, The wheels threw sparks like a shower of gold; But I knew the trouble a down-grade makes, An' I set my teeth an' my flesh grew cold. Then Lariat Bill yanked his long lasso, An' out on the front of the engine crept— He balanced a moment before he threw, Then out in the air his lariat swept!" He paused. There were tears in his honest eyes; The stranger listened with bated breath. "I know the rest of the tale," he cries; "He snatched the child from the jaws of death! 'Twas the deed of a hero, from heroes bred, Whose praises the very angels sing!" The engineer shook his grizzled head, And growled: "He didn't do no sich thing. "He aimed at the stump of a big pine tree, An' the lariat caught with a double hitch, An' in less than a second the train an' we Were yanked off the track an' inter the ditch! 'Twere an awful smash, an' it laid me out, I ain't forgot it, and never shall; Were the passengers hurt? Lemme see—about— Yes, it killed about forty—but saved the gal!"
THE CANDIDATE BY BILL NYE
The heat and the venom of each political campaign bring back to my mind with wonderful clearness the bitter and acrimonious war, and the savage factional fight, which characterized my own legislative candidacy in what was called the Prairie Dog District of Wyoming, about ten years ago.
I hesitated about accepting the nomination because I knew that vituperation would get up on its hind feet and annoy me greatly, and, indeed, this turned out to be the case.
In due time I was nominated, and one evening my heart swelled when I heard a campaign band coming up the street, trying to see how little it could play and still draw its salary. The band was followed by men with torches, and speakers in carriages. A messenger was sent into the house to tell me that I was about to be waited upon by my old friends and neighbors, who desired to deliver to me their hearty endorsement, and a large willow-covered two-gallon Godspeed as a mark of esteem.
The spokesman, as soon as I had stept out on my veranda, mounted the improvised platform previously erected, and after a short and debilitated solo and chorus by the band, said as follows, as near as I can now recall his words:
"Mr. Nye—
"Sir:—We have read with pain the open and venomous attacks of the foul and putrid press of our town, and come here to-night to vindicate by our presence your utter innocence as a man, as a fellow citizen, as a neighbor, as a father, mother, brother or sister.
"No one could look down into your open face, and deep, earnest lungs, and then doubt you as a man, as a fellow citizen, as a neighbor, as a father, mother, brother, or sister. You came to us a poor man, and staked your all on the growth of this town. We like you because you are still poor. You can not be too poor to suit us. It shows that you are not corrupt.
"Mr. Nye, on behalf of this vast assemblage (tremulo), I am glad that you are POOR!!!"
Mr. Limberquid then said:
"Sir:—What do we care for the vilifications of the press—a press hired, venial, corrupt, reeking in filth and oozy with the slime of its own impaired circulation, snapping at the heels of its superiors, and steeped in the reeking poison and pollution of its own shop-worn and unmarketable opinions?
"What do we care that homely men grudge our candidate his symmetry of form and graceful, upholstered carriage? What do we care that calumny crawls out of its hole, calumniates him a couple of times and then goes back?
"We like him for the poverty he has made. Our idea in running him for the Legislature is to give him a chance to accumulate poverty, and have some saved up for a rainy day."
Several people wept here, and wiped their eyes on their alabaster hands. The band then played, "See the Conquering Hero Comes," and yielding to the pressing demands of the populi, I made a few irrelevant, but low, passionate remarks, as follows:
"Fellow Citizens and Members of the Band:—We are not here, as I understand it, solely to tickle our palates with the twisted doughnuts of our pampered and sin-curst civilization, but to unite and give our pledges once more to the support of the best men. In this teacup of foaming and impervious cider from the Valley of the Jordan I drink to the success of the best men. Fellow citizens and members of the band, we owe our fealty to the old party. Let us cling to the old party as long as there is any juice in it and vote for its candidates. Let us give our suffrages to men of advanced thought who are loyal to their party but poor. Gentlemen, I am what would be called a poor but brainy man. When I am not otherwise engaged you will always find me engaged in thought. I love the excitement of following an idea and chasing it up a tree. It is a great pleasure for me to pursue the red-hot trail of a thought or the intellectual spoor of an idea. But I do not allow this habit to interfere with politics. Politics and thought are radically different. Why should man think himself weak on these political matters when there are men who have made it their business and life study to do the thinking for the masses?
"This is my platform. I believe that a candidate should be poor; that he should be a thinker on other matters, but leave political matters and nominations to professional political ganglia and molders of primaries who have given their lives and the inner coating of their stomachs to the advancement of political methods by which the old, cumbersome and dangerous custom of defending our institutions with drawn swords may be superseded by the modern and more attractive method of doing so with overdrawn salaries.
"Fellow Citizens and Members of the Band:—In closing let me say that you have seen me placed in the trying position of postmaster for the past year. For that length of time I have stood between you and the government at Washington. I have assisted in upholding the strong arm of the government, and yet I have not allowed it to crush you. No man here to-night can say that I have ever, by word or deed, revealed outside the office the contents of a postal card addrest to a member of my own party or held back or obstructed the progress of new and startling seeds sent by our representative from the Agricultural Department. I am in favor of a full and free interchange of interstate red-eyed and pale beans, and I favor the early advancement and earnest recognition of the merits of the highly offensive partizan. I thank you, neighbors and band (husky and pianissimo), for this gratifying little demonstration. Words seem empty and unavailing at this time. Will you not accept the hospitality of my home? Neighbors, you are welcome to these halls. Come in and look at the family album."
ONE AFTERNOON ANONYMOUS
The events narrated in the following story take place about the middle of the twentieth century. At that date the institution known as the department store had reached its full development. There was not a single article of any kind that could not be purchased at one of these mammoth emporiums. It is well to bear this fact in mind, for the whole action of this story takes place under the roof of Sniggle Scooper's Department Store.
Scene the First. When Charlie Hussel entered Sniggle Scooper's refreshment department on that beautiful summer afternoon, he had no more idea of getting married than most millionaires have of paying full taxes on all their property. Charlie sat down at the counter and ordered a plain soda. He had been at the club the night before and his nerves were somewhat unstrung. While waiting for his soda he noticed a young lady by his side toying with an ice cream soda marked down from seven cents to four and a half. She was as fair as a poet's dream and the young man's heart beat tumultuously within him as he gazed at her. He longed for an opportunity of speaking to her and at last it came. She dropt her purse,—whether by accident I leave you to conjecture. Picking up the pocketbook our hero handed it to the young lady with a bow. She took the pocketbook, but returned the bow.
"Thank you," she murmured; "you are very kind."
"No," said he, "I am not kind. I'm a selfish brute!"
"Then why did you trouble yourself to pick up my purse?"
"Because, to tell the truth, I wanted to hear your voice."
"And now that you have heard it?"
"I wish I could hear it always. Consent to be my wife. You love me, do you not?"
"Yes! What is your name?"
"Charlie Hussel,—and yours, dear?"
"Mildred Uptodate. Now, Charlie, you must ask father's consent."
"All right, Mabel. There is a telephone on the next floor. Come along and I'll ask him."
They ascended by the escalator.
Scene the Second. Mr. Uptodate readily gave his consent, for he knew of Charlie Hussel in a business way.
"Now, Mildred, let us set the time for the wedding. It is now five minutes after one. Suppose we say four o'clock?"
"Oh, dear, no, I can't possibly get ready before to-morrow afternoon."
"Of course you can. Why, you can get everything you need right here in this store."
"Well, Charlie, if you insist, I suppose I must yield. But it seems a terribly short engagement."
"Yes, sweetheart, but then our married life will be so much longer. Run along, now, darling, and get your wedding-gown, while I get a suit of clothes and attend to the license. Meet me in the chapel on the top floor at half past four sharp."
At the appointed hour the happy couple were made one by the department store clergyman. A few minutes later they were seated in the café enjoying their wedding dinner. How happy they were as they planned for the future!
Scene the Third. Dinner was over and the happy pair went hand-in-hand toward the transportation department to arrange for their wedding tour. As they passed a bargain counter, the bride exclaimed rapturously:
"O Charlie, I see some lovely bargains over there. Do let me have two dollars."
A moment later the proud husband was watching his wife as with the ease born of long practise she fought her way through the crowd and reached the counter. After a little while she returned waving triumphantly a folded paper, exclaiming:
"Wasn't I lucky? I got the last one they had."
"What is it?"
"Why, don't you know? It's a divorce!"
The young man grew pale.
"I thought," he said, "you loved me."
"Why, of course I love you, but I simply couldn't resist such a bargain as that."
She pointed to a sign. Charlie looked at it and read:
THIS DAY ONLY! Our Regular Divorces Marked Down From $2.75 to $1.69
NOT IN IT ANONYMOUS
They built a church at his very door— "He wasn't in it." They brought him a scheme for relieving the poor— "He wasn't in it." Let them work for themselves, as he had done, They wouldn't ask help from any one If they hadn't wasted each golden minute— "He wasn't in it." So he passed the poor with haughty tread— When men in the halls of virtue met He saw their goodness without regret; Too high the mark for him to win it— "He wasn't in it." A carriage crept down the street one day— "He was in it." The funeral trappings made a display— "He was in it." St. Peter received him with book and bell; "My friend, you have purchased a ticket to—well, Your elevator goes down in a minute." "He was in it!"
A TWILIGHT IDYL BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE
One summer evening, Mr. Ellis Henderson, a popular young man, went out walking with two of the sweetest girls in town. Mr. Henderson wore a little straw hat with a navy blue band, a cutaway coat, a pair of white trousers, a white vest, a buttonhole bouquet, and fifteen cents. The evening was very hot, and as they walked, they talked about the baseball match, the weather, and sunstrokes. By and by one of the young ladies gave a delicate little shriek.
"OO-oo! What a funny sign!"
"Ha—yes," said Mr. Henderson, in troubled tones, looking gently but resolutely at the wrong side of the street.
"How funny it is spelled; see, Ethel."
"Why," said Ethel, "it is spelled correctly. Isn't it, Mr. Henderson?"
"Hy—why—aw—why, yes, to be sure," said Mr. Henderson, staring at a window full of house-plants.
"Why, Mr. Henderson," said Elfrida, "how can you say so? Just see, 'i—c—e, ice, c—r double e—m, creem'; that's not the way to spell cream."
And Mr. Henderson, who was praying harder than he ever prayed before that an earthquake might come along and swallow up either himself or all the ice-cream parlors in the United States, looked up at the chimney of the house and said:
"That? Oh, yes, yes; of course, why certainly. How very much cooler it has grown within the past few minutes. That cool wave from Manitoba is nearing us once more."
He took out his handkerchief and swabbed a face that would scorch an iceberg brown in ten minutes.
"Is it true, Mr. Henderson," asked Ethel, "that soda fountains sometimes explode?"
"Oh, frequently," said he, "and they scatter death and destruction everywhere. In some of our Eastern cities they have been abolished by law,—and they ought to do the same thing here! Why, in New York, all the soda fountains have been removed far outside the city limits and are now located side by side with powder houses."
"I am not afraid of them," said Ethel, "and I don't believe they are a bit dangerous."
"Nor I," echoed Elfrida, "I would not be afraid to walk up to one and stand by it all day. Why are you so afraid of them, Mr. Henderson?"
"Because once I had a fair, sweet young sister blown to pieces by one of those terrible engines of destruction while she was drinking at it, and I can not look at one without growing faint."
"How do they make soda water, Mr. Henderson?"
He was about to reply that it was composed chiefly of dirt and poison, when Ethel read aloud four ice-cream signs, and said, "How comfortable and happy all those people look in there."
Then young Mr. Henderson, who had been clawing at his hair, and tearing off his necktie and collar, and pawing the air, shouted in tones of wild frenzy:
"Oh, yes, yes, yes! Come in; come in and gorge yourselves. Everybody come in and eat up a whole week's salary in fifteen minutes. Set 'em up! Strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, pineapple, raspberry, lemon, peach, apricot, tutti frutti, nesselrode pudding, water-ice, cake and sherbet. Set 'em up! The treat's on me. Oh, yes, I can stand it. Ha, ha! I'm Astorbilt in disguise. Oh, yes; it doesn't cost anything to take an evening walk! Put out your frozen pudding! Ha, ha, ha!"
They carried him home to his boarding house, and put him to bed, and sent for his physician. He is not yet out of danger, but will recover. The exact trouble is a mystery to the doctor, but he thinks it must be hydrosodia, as the sight of a piece of ice throws the patient into the wildest and most furious paroxysms.
LAVERY'S HENS ANONYMOUS
Michael Lavery, a thrifty Irishman, lived in a small cottage, on Devarsey Street, South Side, Chicago. It had no yard in front, and the rear was ditto. It had a cellar, however, and it occurred to Lavery that he might make something out of it by using it as a hen-house; but one cold night, during the following winter, the water-pipes burst, flooded the cellar, and drowned the chickens. Friends of Lavery told him the city would make good his loss if he made proper application. So Mr. Lavery went down to the city hall, and entering the room of the clerk, said:
"Good marnin'. Me name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey Street, on the South Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and drowned thim; what'll I do?"
"What's that?"
"Me name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey Street, on the South Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and drowned thim; what'll I do?"
"What's that?"
"Me name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey Street, on the South Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and drowned thim; what'll I do?"
"The water came in and drowned your chickens; what will you do?"
"Yis, sir."
"Well, you step into the next room and see the mayor. You will find him at his desk; tell him what you want."