PART II HUMOROUS HITS
Reading edition
THE TRAIN-MISSER BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
'Ll where in the world my eyes has bin— Ef I haint missed that train agin! Chuff! and whistle! and toot! and ring! But blast and blister the dasted train!— How it does it I can't explain! Git here thirty-five minutes before The dern thing's due!—and, drat the thing! It'll manage to git past—shore! The more I travel around, the more I got no sense!— To stand right here And let it beat me! 'Ll ding my melts! I got no gumption, ner nothin' else! Ticket-agent's a dad-burned bore!— Sell you a ticket's all they keer!— Ticket-agents ort to all be Prosecuted—and that's jes' what!— How'd I know which train's fer me? And how'd I know which train was not?— Goern and comin' and gone astray, And backin' and switchin' ever'-which-way! Ef I could jes' sneak round behind Myse'f, where I could git full swing, I'd lift my coat, and kick, by jing! Till I jes' got jerked up and fined!— Fer here I stood, as a dern fool's apt To, and let that train jes' chuff and choo Right apast me—and mouth jes' gapped Like a blamed old sandwitch warped in two!
"Afterwhiles," copyright 1898, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. Used by special permission of the publishers.
THE ELOCUTIONIST'S CURFEW BY W. D. NESBIT
England's sun was slowly setting—(Raise your right hand to your brow), Filling all the land with beauty—(Wear a gaze of rapture now); And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair (With a movement slow and graceful you may now push back your hair); He with sad, bowed head—(A drooping of your head will be all right, Till you hoarsely, sadly whisper)—"Curfew must not ring to-night." "Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered—(Try here to resemble Bess, Tho of course you know she'd never worn quite such a charming dress), "I've a lover in that prison"—(Don't forget to roll your r's And to shiver as tho gazing through the iron prison bars), "Cromwell will not come till sunset"—(Speak each word as tho you'd bite Every syllable to pieces)—"Curfew must not ring to-night." "Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton—(Here extend your velvet palm, Let it tremble like the sexton's as tho striving to be calm), "Long, long y'ars I've rung the curfew"—(Don't forget to make it y'ars With a pitiful inflection that a world of sorrow bears), "I have done my duty ever"—(Draw yourself up to your height, For you're speaking as the sexton)—"Gyurl, the curfew rings to-night!" Out she swung, far out—(Now here is where you've got to do your best; Let your head be twisted backward, let great sobs heave up your chest, Swing your right foot through an arc of ninety lineal degrees, Then come down and swing your left foot, and be sure don't bend your knees; Keep this up for fifteen minutes till your face is worn and white, Then gaze at your mangled fingers)—"Curfew shall not ring to-night!" O'er the distant hills came Cromwell—(Right hand to the brow once more; Let your eyes look down the distance, say above the entrance door)— At his foot she told her story—(Lift your hands as tho they hurt)— And her sweet young face so haggard—(Now your pathos you assert, Then you straighten up as Cromwell, and be sure you get it right; Don't say "Go, your liver loves!")—well: "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"
Reprinted from Harper's Magazine, by permission of Harper and Brothers.
MELPOMENUS JONES BY STEPHEN LEACOCK
Some people find great difficulty in saying good-by when making a call or spending the evening. As the moment draws near when the visitor feels that he is fairly entitled to go away, he rises and says abruptly, "Well, I think——" Then the people say, "Oh, must you go now? Surely it's early yet!" and a pitiful struggle ensues.
I think the saddest case of this kind of thing that I ever knew was that of my poor friend Melpomenus Jones, a curate—such a dear young man and only twenty-three! He simply couldn't get away from people. He was too modest to tell a lie, and too religious to wish to appear rude. Now it happened that he went to call on some friends of his on the very first afternoon of his summer vacation. The next six weeks were entirely his own—absolutely nothing to do. He chatted a while, drank two cups of tea, then braced himself for the effort and said suddenly:
"Well, I think I——"
But the lady of the house said, "Oh, no, Mr. Jones, can't you really stay a little longer?"
Jones was always truthful—"Oh, yes, of course, I—er—can."
"Then please don't go."
He stayed. He drank eleven cups of tea. Night was falling. He rose again.
"Well, now, I think I really——"
"You must go? I thought perhaps you could have stayed to dinner——"
"Oh, well, so I could, you know, if——"
"Then please stay; I'm sure my husband will be delighted."
"All right, I'll stay"; and he sank back into his chair, just full of tea, and miserable.
Father came home. They had dinner. All through the meal Jones sat planning to leave at eight-thirty. All the family wondered whether Mr. Jones was stupid and sulky, or only stupid.
After dinner mother undertook to "draw him out" and showed him photographs. She showed him all the family museum, several gross of them—photos of father's uncle and his wife, and mother's brother and his little boy, and awfully interesting photos of father's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform, an awfully well-taken photo of father's grandfather's partner's dog, and an awfully wicked one of father as the devil for a fancy-dress ball.
At eight-thirty Jones had examined seventy-one photographs. There were about sixty-nine more that he hadn't. Jones rose.
"I must say good-night now," he pleaded.
"Say good-night! why it's only half-past eight! Have you anything to do?"
"Nothing," he admitted, and muttered something about staying six weeks, and then laughed miserably.
Just then it turned out that the favorite child of the family, such a dear little romp, had hidden Mr. Jones' hat; so father said that he must stay, and invited him to a pipe and a chat. Father had the pipe and gave Jones the chat, and still he stayed. Every moment he meant to take the plunge, but couldn't. Then father began to get very tired of Jones, and fidgeted and finally said, with jocular irony, that Jones had better stay all night—they could give him a shake-down. Jones mistook his meaning and thanked him with tears in his eyes, and father put Jones to bed in the spare-room and curst him heartily.
After breakfast next day, father went off to his work in the city and left Jones playing with the baby, broken-hearted. His nerve was utterly gone. He was meaning to leave all day, but the thing had got on his mind and he simply couldn't. When father came home in the evening he was surprized and chagrined to find Jones still there. He thought to jockey him out with a jest, and said he thought he'd have to charge him for his board, he! he! The unhappy young man stared wildly for a moment, then wrung father's hand, paid him a month's board in advance, and broke down and sobbed like a child.
In the days that followed he was moody and unapproachable. He lived, of course, entirely in the drawing-room, and the lack of air and exercise began to tell sadly on his health. He passed his time in drinking tea and looking at photographs. He would stand for hours together gazing at the photograph of father's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform—talking to it, sometimes swearing bitterly at it. His mind was visibly failing.
At length the crash came. They carried him up-stairs in a raging delirium of fever. The illness that followed was terrible. He recognized no one, not even father's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform. At times he would start up from his bed and shriek: "Well, I think I——" and then fall back upon the pillow with a horrible laugh. Then, again, he would leap up and cry: "Another cup of tea and more photographs! More photographs! Hear! Hear!"
At length, after a month of agony, on the last day of his vacation he passed away. They say that when the last moment came, he sat up in bed with a beautiful smile of confidence playing upon his face, and said: "Well—the angels are calling me; I'm afraid I really must go now. Good afternoon."
HER FIFTEEN MINUTES BY TOM MASSON
At exactly fifteen minutes to eight His step was heard at the garden gate. And then, with heart that was light and gay, He laughed to himself in a jubilant way, And rang the bell for the maiden trim Who'd promised to go to the play with him; And told the servant, with joyous air, To say there were fifteen minutes to spare. And then for fifteen minutes he sat In the parlor dim, and he held his hat, And waited and sighed for the maiden trim Who'd promised to go to the play with him, Until, as the clock overhead struck eight, He muttered: "Great Scott! it is getting late"; And took a turn on the parlor floor, And waited for fifteen minutes more; And thought of those seats in the front parquet. And midnight came, and the break of day; That day and the next, and the next one, too, He sat and waited the long hours through. Then time flew on and the years sped by, And still he sat, with expectant eye And lengthening beard, for the maiden trim Who'd promised to go to the play with him; Until one night, as with palsied hand He sat in the chair, for he couldn't stand, And drummed in an aimless way, she came And opened the door with her withered frame. The moon's bright rays touched the silvered hair Of her who had fifteen minutes to spare. And then in tones that he strained to hear, She spoke, and she said: "Are you ready, dear?"
Reprinted by permission of Life Publishing Company.
THE FOXES' TAILS ANONYMOUS
Minister—Weel, Sandy, man; and how did ye like the sermon the day?
Precentor—Eh?
Minister—What did you think o' the discourse as a whole?
Precentor—All I was gaun to say was jeest this, that every noo and then in your discoorse the day—I dinna say oftener than noo and then—jeest occasionally—it struck me that there was maybe—frae time to time—jeest a wee bit o' exaggeration.
Minister—Exagger—what, Sir?
Precentor—Weel, maybe that's ower strong a word, I dinna want to offend ye. I mean jeest—amplification, like.
Minister—Exaggeration! amplification! What the deil mischief d'ye mean, Sir?
Precentor—There, there, there! I'll no say anither word. I dinna mean to rouse ye like that. All I meant to say was that you jeest streetched the pint a wee bit.
Minister—Streetched the pint! D'ye mean to say, Sir, that I tell lees?
Precentor—Oh! no, no, no—but I didna gang sae far as a' that.
Minister—Ye went quite far enough, Sir. Sandy, I call upon you, if ever ye should hear me say another word out o' joint, to pull me up there and then.
Precentor—Losh! Sir; but how could I pull ye up i' the kirk?
Minister—Ye can give me sort o' a signal.
Precentor—How could I gie ye a signal i' the kirk?
Minister—Ye could make some kind o' a noise.
Precentor—A noise i' the kirk?
Minister—Ay. Ye're sittin' just down aneath me, ye ken; so ye might just put up your held, and give a bit whustle (whistles), like that.
Precentor—A whustle!
Minister—Ay, a whustle!
Precentor—But would it no be an awfu' sin?
Minister—Hoots, man; doesna the wind whustle on the Sawbbath?
Precentor—Ay; I never thought o' that afore. Yes, the wind whustles.
Minister—Well, just a wee bit soughing whustle like the wind (whistles softly).
Precentor—Well, if there's nae harm in 't, I'll do my best.
So, ultimately, it was agreed between the minister and precentor, that the first word of exaggeration from the pulpit was to elicit the signal from the desk below.
Next Sunday came. Had the minister only stuck to his sermon that day, he would have done very well. But it was his habit, before the sermon, to read a chapter from the Bible, adding such remarks and explanations of his own as he thought necessary. On the present occasion he had chosen one that bristled with difficulties. It was that chapter which describes Samson as catching three hundred foxes, tying them tail to tail, setting firebrands in their midst, starting them among the standing corn of the Philistines, and burning it down. As he closed the description, he shut the book, and commenced the eloocidation as follows:
"My dear freends, I daresay you have been wondering in your minds how it was possible that Samson could catch three hundred foxes.
"Well, then, we are told in the Scriptures that Samson was the strongest man that ever lived. But, we are not told that he was a great runner. But if he catched these three hundred foxes he must have been a great runner, and therefore I contend that we have a perfect right to assume, by all the laws of Logic and Scientific History, that he was the fastest runner that ever was born; and that was how he catched his three hundred foxes!
"But after we get rid of this difficulty, my freends, another crops up—after he has catched his three hundred foxes, how does he manage to keep them all together?
"Now you will please bear in mind, in the first place, that it was foxes that Samson catched. Now we don't catch foxes, as a general rule, in the streets of a toon; therefore it is more than probable that Samson catched them in the country, and if he catched them in the country it is natural to suppose that he 'bided in the country; and if he 'bided in the country it is not unlikely that he lived at a farm-house. Now at farm-houses we have stables and barns, and therefore we may now consider it a settled pint, that as he catched his foxes, one by one, he stapped them into a good-sized barn, and steeked the door and locked it,—here we overcome the second stumbling-block. But no sooner have we done this, than a third rock of offense loups up to fickle us. After he has catched his foxes; after he has got them all snug in the barn under lock and key—how in the world did he tie their tails together? There is a fickler. But it is a great thing for poor, ignorant folk like you, that there has been great and learned men who have been to colleges, and universities, and seats o' learning—the same as mysel', ye ken—and instead o' going into the kirk, like me, they have gone traveling into foreign parts; and they have written books o' their travels; and we can read their books. Now, among other places, some of these learned men have traveled into Canaan, and some into Palestine, and some few into the Holy Land; and these last mentioned travelers tell us, that in these Eastern or Oriental climes, the foxes there are a total different breed o' cattle a'thegither frae our foxes; that they are great, big beasts—and, what's the most astonishing thing about them, and what helps to explain this wonderful feat of Samson's, is, that they've all got most extraordinary long tails; in fact, these Eastern travelers tell us that these foxes' tails are actually forty feet long.
Precentor (whistles).
Minister (somewhat disturbed)—"Oh! I ought to say that there are other travelers, and later travelers than the travelers I've been talking to you about, and they say this statement is rather an exaggeration on the whole, and that these foxes' tails are never more than twenty feet long.
Precentor (whistles).
Minister (disturbed and confused)—"Be—be—before I leave this subject a'thegither, my freends, I may just add that there has been a considerable diversity o' opinion about the length o' these animals' tails. Ye see one man says one thing, and anither, anither; and I've spent a good lot o' learned research in the matter mysel'; and after examining one authority, and anither authority, and putting one authority again the ither, I've come to the conclusion that these foxes' tails, on an average, are seldom more than fifteen and a half feet long.
Precentor (whistles).
Minister (angrily)—"Sandy McDonald, I'll no tak anither inch off o' the beasts' tails, even gin ye should whustle every tooth oot o' your head. Do ye think the foxes o' the Scriptures had na tails at a'?"
THE DEAD KITTEN ANONYMOUS
You's as stiff an' cold as a stone, little cat; Dey's done frowed out an' left you all alone, little cat; I's a-strokin' you's fur But you don't never purr, Nor hump up anywhere— Little cat, why is dat? Is you's purrin' an' humpin' up done? An' why is you's little foot tied, little cat? Did dey pisen you's tummick inside, little cat? Did dey pound you wif bricks Or wif big nasty sticks Or abuse you wif kicks? Little cat, tell me dat. Did dey laff whenever you cried? Did it hurt werry bad when you died, little cat? Oh, why didn't you wun off and hide, little cat? Dey is tears in my eyes, 'Cause I most always cries When a pussy-cat dies, Little cat, tink of dat, An' I am awfully solly, besides. Des lay still, down in de sof' groun', little cat, While I tucks the green grass awound, little cat, Dey can't hurt you no more, W'en you's tired and so sore; Des' sleep quiet, you pore Little cat, wif a pat, And forget all the kicks of the town.
THE WEATHER FIEND ANONYMOUS
One hot day last summer, a young man dressed in thin clothes, entered a Broadway car, and seating himself opposite a stout old gentleman, said, pleasantly:
"Pretty warm, isn't it?"
"What's pretty warm?"
"Why, the weather."
"What weather?"
"Why, this weather."
"Well, how's this different from any other weather?"
"Well, it is warmer."
"How do you know it is?"
"I suppose it is."
"Isn't the weather the same everywhere?"
"Why, no,—no; it's warmer in some places and it's colder in others."
"What makes it warmer in some places than it's colder in others?"
"Why, the sun,—the effect of the sun's heat."
"Makes it colder in some places than it's warmer in others? Never heard of such a thing."
"No, no, no. I didn't mean that. The sun makes it warmer."
"Then what makes it colder?"
"I believe it's the ice."
"What ice?"
"Why, the ice,—the ice,—the ice that was frozen by—by—by the frost."
"Have you ever seen any ice that wasn't frozen?"
"No,—that is, I believe I haven't."
"Then what are you talking about?"
"I was just trying to talk about the weather."
"And what do you know about it,—what do you know about the weather?"
"Well, I thought I knew something, but I see I don't and that's a fact."
"No, sir, I should say you didn't! Yet you come into this car and force yourself upon the attention of a stranger and begin to talk about the weather as tho you owned it, and I find you don't know a solitary thing about the matter you yourself selected for a topic of conversation. You don't know one thing about meteorological conditions, principles, or phenomena; you can't tell me why it is warm in August and cold in December; you don't know why icicles form faster in the sunlight than they do in the shade; you don't know why the earth grows colder as it comes nearer the sun; you can't tell why a man can be sun-struck in the shade; you can't tell me how a cyclone is formed nor how the trade-winds blow; you couldn't find the calm-center of a storm if your life depended on it; you don't know what a sirocco is nor where the southwest monsoon blows; you don't know the average rainfall in the United States for the past and current year; you don't know why the wind dries up the ground more quickly than a hot sun; you don't know why the dew falls at night and dries up in the day; you can't explain the formation of fog; you don't know one solitary thing about the weather and you are just like a thousand and one other people who always begin talking about the weather because they don't know anything else, when, by the Aurora Borealis, they know less about the weather than they do about anything else in the world, sir!"
THE RACE QUESTION BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
Scene: Race-track. Enter old colored man, seating himself.
"Oomph, oomph. De work of de devil sho' do p'ospah. How 'do, suh? Des tol'able, thankee, suh. How you come on? Oh, I was des asayin' how de wo'k of de ol' boy do p'ospah. Doesn't I frequent the race-track? No, suh; no, suh. I's Baptis' myse'f an' I 'low hit's all devil's doin's. Wouldn't 'a' be'n hyeah to-day, but I got a boy named Jim dat's long gone in sin an' he gwine ride one dem hosses. Oomph, dat boy! I sut'ny has talked to him and labohed wid him night an' day, but it was allers in vain, an' I's feahed dat de day of his reckonin' is at han'.
"Ain't I nevah been intrusted in racin'? Humph, you don't s'pose I been dead all my life, does you? What you laffin at? Oh, scuse me, scuse me, you unnerstan' what I means. You don' give a ol' man time to splain hisse'f. What I means is dat dey has been days when I walked in de counsels of de ongawdly and set in de seats of sinnahs; and long erbout dem times I did tek most ovahly strong to racin'.
"How long dat been? Oh, dat's way long back, 'fo I got religion, mo'n thuty years ago, dough I got to own I has fell from grace several times sense.
"Yes, suh, I ust to ride. Ki-yi! I nevah furgit de day dat my ol' Mas' Jack put me on 'June Boy,' his black geldin', an' say to me, 'Si,' says he, 'if you don' ride de tail offen Cunnel Scott's mare, "No Quit," I's gwine to larrup you twell you cain't set in de saddle no mo'.' Hyah, hyah. My ol' Mas' was a mighty han' fu' a joke. I knowed he wan't gwine to do nuffin' to me.
"Did I win? Why, whut you spec' I's doin' hyeah ef I hadn' winned? W'y, ef I'd 'a' let dat Scott maih beat my 'June Boy' I'd 'a' drowned myse'f in Bull Skin Crick.
"Yes, suh, I winned; w'y, at de finish I come down dat track lak hit was de Jedgment Day an' I was de las' one up! 'f I didn't race dat maih's tail clean off. I 'low I made hit do a lot o' switchin'. An' aftah dat my wife Mandy she ma'ed me. Hyah, hyah, I ain't bin much on hol'in' de reins sence.
"Sh! dey comin' in to wa'm up. Dat Jim, dat Jim, dat my boy; you nasty, putrid little raskil. Des a hundred an' eight, suh, des a hundred an' eight. Yas, suh, dat's my Jim; I don' know whaih he gits his dev'ment at.
"What's de mattah wid dat boy? Whyn't he hunch hisse'f up on dat saddle right? Jim, Jim, whyn't you limber up, boy; hunch yo'sef up on dat hose lak you belonged to him and knowed you was dah. What I done showed you? De black raskil, goin' out dah tryin' to disgrace his own daddy. Hyeah he come back. Dat's bettah, you scoun'ril.
"Dat's a right smaht-lookin' hoss he's a-ridin', but I ain't a-trustin' dat bay wid de white feet—dat is, not altogethah. She's a favourwright, too; but dey's sumpin' else in dis worl' sides playin' favourwrights. Jim battah had win dis race. His hoss ain't a five to one shot, but I spec's to go way fum hyeah wid money ernuff to mek a donation on de pa'sonage.
"Does I bet? Well, I don' des call hit bettin'; but I resks a little w'en I t'inks I kin he'p de cause. 'Tain't gamblin', o' co'se; I wouldn't gamble fu nothin', dough my ol' Mastah did ust to say dat a hones' gamblah was ez good ez a hones' preachah an' mos' nigh ez skace.
"Look out dah, man, dey's off, dat nasty bay maih wid de white feet leadin' right f'um de pos'. I knowed it! I knowed it! I had my eye on huh all de time. O Jim, Jim, why didn't you git in bettah, way back dah fouf? Dah go de gong! I knowed dat wasn't no staht. Troop back dah, you raskils, hyah, hyah.
"I wush day boy wouldn't do so much jummyin erroun' wid day hoss. Fust t'ing he know he ain't gwine to know whaih he's at.
"Dah, dah dey go ag'in. Hit's a sho' t'ing dis time. Bettah, Jim, bettah. Dey didn't leave you dis time. Hug dat bay maih, hug her close, boy. Don't press dat hoss yit. He holdin' back a lot o' t'ings.
"He's gainin'! doggone my cats, he's gainin'! an' dat hoss o' his'n gwine des ez stiddy ez a rockin'-chair. Jim allus was a good boy.
"Counfound these spec's, I cain't see 'em skacely; huh, you say dey's neck an' neck; now I see 'em! and Jimmy's a-ridin' like—— Huh, huh, I laik to said sumpin'.
"De bay maih's done huh bes', she's done huh bes'! Dey's turned into the stretch an' still see-sawin'. Let him out, Jimmy, let him out! Dat boy done th'owed de reins away. Come on, Jimmy, come on! He's leadin' by a nose. Come on, I tell you, you black rapscallion, come on! Give 'em hell, Jimmy! give 'em hell! Under de wire an'a len'th ahead. Doggone my cats! wake me up wen dat othah hoss comes in.
"No, suh, I ain't gwine stay no longah—I don't app'ove o' racin'; I's gwine 'roun' an' see dis hyeah bookmakah an' den I's gwine dreckly home, suh, dreckly home. I's Baptis' myse'f, an' I don't app'ove o' no sich doin's!"
Reprinted by permission from "The Heart of Happy Hollow," Dodd, Mead & Company, New York.
WHEN THE WOODBINE TURNS RED ANONYMOUS
They sat in a garden of springing flowers, In a tangle of woodland ways; And theirs was the sweetest of summer bowers, Where they passed long summer days. But, alas, when the sunbeams faded away, And those brightest of days had fled 'Neath the old trysting trees they parted for aye, When the woodbine leaves turned red. When the woodbine leaves turned red, And their last farewell was said, They swore to be true, as all lovers do, When the woodbine leaves turn red. She gave him a flower sweet; They vowed they would surely meet In a year and a day; tho they parted for aye When the woodbine leaves turned red. They met in the garden again next year, And their ways had been far apart. He grasped both hands with a sigh and a tear, And murmured, "My old sweetheart, I have to confess it, I can't marry you, For already have I been wed." And she answered, blushing, "So have I, too." And the woodbine turned red.
CUPID'S CASUISTRY BY W. J. LAMPTON
We were sitting in the moonlight Of a radiant, rosy June night, When I whispered: "Kitty, don't you Wish I'd kiss you? Let me, won't you?" Kitty was a rustic maiden, And I thought not heavy laden With the wisdom of the ages Writ on cultured cupid's pages. Kitty answered: "No, I mustn't Let you kiss me: my ma doesn't Think it proper that her Kitty Be like maidens in the city." "Oh!" I stammered. Then did Kitty Whisper in a tone of pity: "I might kiss you and be true, sir, To my mother; would that do, sir?"
WHEN MAH LADY YAWNS BY CHARLES T. GRILLEY
When mah Cah'line yawns, ah'm 'spicious Dat she tinks de time po'pitious Fo' me to tu'n mah 'tention to de clock upon de wall. Dat's de cue to quit mah talkin', An' a gentle hint dat walkin' Would flicitate de briefness of mah call. Th' fus' gal that ah coh'ted Ouah ma'idge it was thwa'ted Because ah was so green ah didn' know. When she yawns it was behoovin' Dat dis dahkey should be movin', Twell at las' she says, "Fo Lawd's sake, niggah, go!" Den ah took mah hat an' stah'ted, An f'om dat hour we pah'ted, An ah nevah seen dat cullud gal no mo'. But it taught me dis yer lesson Dat a yawn am de expression Dat invites yo' to be movin' to'ards de do'. So take dis friendly wah'nin',— Should yo' lady love stah't yawnin' Altho de sudden pah'ting cost yo' pain, If she's one you'd like t' marry, Aftah one good yawn don' tarry, Den yo sho'ly will be welcome da again.
WATCHIN' THE SPARKIN' BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS
Say, Jim, ye wanter see the fun? Jemimy's sparkin's jess begun! Git deown—this box won't hold but one Fer peekin' through the winder! Yeou stay down thar jess whar ye be; I'll tell ye all thar is to see; Then you'll enjoy it well as me; An' deon't yeou try to hinder! That teacher is the dumbdest goose That Cupid ever turned eout loose; His learnin' hain't no sort o' use In sparkin' our Jemimy! Tho peekin's 'ginst the golden reule, He told us t'other day in scheool To watch him close; so git a steool An' stand up here close by me. Neow he's got suthin' in his head That somehow ruther's gotter be said; Keeps hitchin' up, an' blushin' red, With one leg over t'other. He wants to do the thing up breown. Wall, he's the biggest gawk in teown: Showin' her pictur's upside deown; An' she don't know it nuther! He's got his arm areound her chair, And wonders if she'll leave it there. But she looks like she didn't care! I'll bet he's goin' to kiss 'er; He's gittin' closer to her face, An' pickin' out the softest place, An' sort o' measurin' off the space, Jess so as not to miss 'er. If she'd git mad, an' box his ear, 'Twould knock his plans clean out o' gear, An' set him back another year; But she ain't goin' to do it: She thinks the teacher's jess tip-top, An' she won't let no chances drop; If ever he sets in to pop, She's goin' to pull him through it! I gum! an' if he ain't the wust! Waitin' fer her to kiss him fust! He's goin' to do it neow er bu'st: He's makin' preparation! Neow watch him steppin' on her toes— That's jess to keep her down, I s'pose. Wall, thar, he's kissed her on the nose! So much fer edecation!
By permission of Messrs. Forbes & Co., Chicago.
THE WAY OF A WOMAN BY BYRON W. KING
It was the last night before leap-year; it was the last hour before leap-year; in fact, the minute-hand had moved round the dial face of the clock until it registered fifteen minutes of twelve,—fifteen minutes of leap-year. John and Mary were seated in Mary's father's parlor. There was plenty of furniture there but they were using only a limited portion of it. John watched the minute-hand move round the dial face of the clock until, like the finger of destiny, it registered fifteen minutes of twelve,—fifteen minutes of leap-year, when he gasped hard, clutched his coat collar, and said,—
"Mary, in just fifteen minutes, Mary,—fifteen minutes by that clock, Mary,—another year, Mary,—like the six thousand years that have gone before it, Mary,—will have gone into the great Past and be forgotten in oblivion, Mary,—and I want to ask you, Mary,—to-night, Mary,—on this sofa, Mary,—if for the next six thousand years,—Mary!!!——"
"John," she said with a winning smile, "you seem very much excited, John,—can I do anything to help you, John?"
"Just sit still, Mary,—just sit still. In just twelve minutes, Mary,—twelve minutes by this clock, Mary,—like the six thousand clocks that have gone before it, Mary,—will be forgotten, Mary,—and I want to ask this clock, Mary,—to-night, on this sofa, Mary,—if when we've been forgotten six thousand times, Mary,—in oblivion, Mary,—and six thousand sofas, Mary!!——"
"John," she said, more smilingly than ever, "you seem quite nervous; would you like to see father?"
"Not for the world, Mary, not for the world! In just eight minutes, Mary,—eight minutes by that awful clock, we'll be forgotten, Mary,—and I want to ask six thousand fathers, Mary,—if when this sofa, Mary,—has been forgotten six thousand times, Mary,—in six thousand oblivions,—I want to ask six thousand Marys six thousand times, Mary!!!!——"
"John," she said, "you don't seem very well. Would you like a glass of water?"
"Mary,—in just three minutes, Mary,—three minutes by that dreadful clock, Mary,—we'll be forgotten, Mary,—six thousand times,—and I want to ask six thousand sofas, Mary,—if when six thousand oblivions have forgotten six thousand fathers in six thousand years, I want to ask six thousand Marys, six thousand times, Mary!!!!——"
Bang! the clock struck. It was leap-year. The clock struck twelve and Mary turning to John, sweetly said:
"John, it's leap-year; will you marry me?"
"Yes!!!"
Gentlemen, there is no use talking, the way of a woman beats you all.
THE YACHT CLUB SPEECH ANONYMOUS
Mr. Chairman—a—a—a—Mr. Commodore—beg pardon—I assure you that until this moment I had not the remotest expectation that I should be called upon to reply to this toast. (Pauses, turns round, pulls MS. out of pocket and looks at it.) Therefore I must beg of you, Mr. Captain—a—a—Mr. Commatain—a—a—Mr.—Mr. Cappadore—that you will pardon the confused nature of these remarks, being as they must necessarily be altogether impromptu and extempore. (Pauses, turns round and looks at MS.) But Mr. Bos'an—a—a—Mr. Bosadore—I feel—I feel even in these few confused expromptu and intempore—intomptu and exprempore—extemptu and imprempore—exprompore remarks—I feel that I can say in the words of the poet, words of the poet—poet—I feel that I can say in the words of the poet—of the poet—poet, and in these few confused remarks—in the words of the poet—(turns round, looks at MS.)—I feel that I can say in the words of the poet that I feel my heart swell within me. Now Mr. Capasun, Mr. Commasun, why does my heart swell within me—in the few confused—why does my heart swell within me—swell within me—swell within me—what makes my heart swell within me—why does it swell—swell within me? (Turns round and looks at MS.) Why, Mr. Cappadore—look at George Washington—what did he do?—in the few confused——(Strikes dramatic attitude with swelled chest and outstretched arm, preparing for burst of eloquence which will not come.) He—huh—he—huh—he—huh—(turns round and looks at MS.)—he took his stand upon the ship of state—he stood upon the maintopgallant-jib-boomsail and reefed the quivering sail—and when the storms were waging rildly round to wreck his fragile bark, through all the howling tempest he guided her in safety into the harbor of perdition—a—a—a—into the haven of safety. And what did he do then? What did he do then? What did he do then? He—he—he—(looks at MS.)—there he stood. And then his grateful country-men gathered round him—they gathered round George Washington—they placed him on the summit of the cipadel—their capadol—they held him up before the eyes of the assembled world—around his brow they placed a never-dying wreath—and then in thunder tones which all the world might hear——(Flourishes MS. before his face, notices it and sits down in great confusion.)
MAMMY'S LI'L' BOY BY H. S. EDWARDS
Who all time dodgin' en de cott'n en de corn? Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy! Who all time stealin' ole massa's dinner-horn? Mammy's li'l' baby boy. Byo baby boy, oh bye, By-o li'l' boy! Oh, run ter es mammy En she tek 'im in 'er arms, Mammy's li'l' baby boy. Who all time runnin' ole gobble roun' de yard? Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy! Who tek 'e stick 'n hit ole possum dog so hard? Mammy's li'l' baby boy. Byo baby boy, oh bye, By-o li'l' boy! Oh, run ter es mammy En climb up en 'er lap, Mammy's li'l' baby boy. Who all time stumpin' es toe ergin er rock? Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy! Who all time er-rippin' big hole en es frock? Mammy's li'l' baby boy. Byo baby boy, oh bye, By-o li'l' boy! Oh, run ter es mammy En she wipe es li'l' eyes, Mammy's li'l' baby boy. Who all time er-losin' de shovel en de rake? Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy! Who all time tryin' ter ride 'e lazy drake? Mammy's li'l' baby boy. Byo baby boy, oh bye, By-o li'l' boy! Oh, scoot fer yer mammy En she hide yer f'om yer ma, Mammy's li'l' baby boy. Who all time er-trottin' ter de kitchen fer er bite? Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy! Who mess 'esef wi' taters twell his clothes dey look er sight? Mammy's li'l' baby boy. Byo baby boy, oh bye, By-o, li'l boy! En 'e run ter es mammy Fer ter git 'im out er trouble, Mammy's li'l' baby boy. Who all time er-frettin' en de middle er de day? Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy! Who all time er-gettin' so sleepy 'e can't play? Mammy's li'l' baby boy. Byo baby boy, oh bye, By-o li'l' boy! En 'e come ter es mammy Ter rock 'im en 'er arms, Mammy's li'l' baby boy. Shoo, shoo, shoo-shoo-shoo, Shoo, shoo, shoo! Shoo, shoo, shoo-shoo-shoo, Shoo, li'l' baby, shoo! Shoo, shoo, shoo-shoo-shoo, Shoo, shoo, shoo, Shoo.... Deir now, lay right down on mammy's bed en go 'long back ter sleep,—shoo-shoo!
Reprinted by permission
CORYDON BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH
Shepherd
Good sir, have you seen pass this way A mischief straight from market-day? You'd know her at a glance, I think; Her eyes are blue, her lips are pink; She has a way of looking back Over her shoulder, and, alack! Who gets that look one time, good sir, Has naught to do but follow her.
Pilgrim
I have not seen this maid, methinks, Tho she that passed had lips like pinks.
Shepherd
Or like two strawberries made one By some sly trick of dew and sun.
Pilgrim
A poet!
Shepherd
Nay, a simple swain That tends his flock on yonder plain, Naught else, I swear by book and bell. But she that passed—you marked her well. Was she not smooth as any be That dwell herein in Arcady?
Pilgrim
Her skin was as the satin bark Of birches.
Shepherd
Light or dark?
Pilgrim
Quite dark.
Shepherd
Then 't was not she.
Pilgrim
The peach's side That gets the sun is not so dyed As was her cheek. Her hair hung down Like summer twilight falling brown; And when the breeze swept by, I wist Her face was in a somber mist.
Shepherd
No, that is not the maid I seek,— Her hair lies gold against the cheek; Her yellow tresses take the morn Like silken tassels of the corn. And yet—brown locks are far from bad.
Pilgrim
Now I bethink me, this one had A figure like the willow tree Which, slight and supple, wondrously Inclines to droop with pensive grace, And still retains its proper place; A foot so arched and very small The marvel was she walked at all; Her hand—in sooth I lack the words— Her hand, five slender snow-white birds; Her voice—tho she but said "Godspeed"— Was melody blown through a reed; The girl Pan changed into a pipe Had not a note so full and ripe. And her eye—my lad, her eye! Discreet, inviting, candid, shy, An outward ice, an inward fire, And lashes to the heart's desire— Soft fringes blacker than the sloe.
Shepherd—thoughtfully
Good sir, which way did this one go?
Pilgrim—solus
So, he is off! the silly youth Knoweth not Love in sober sooth. He loves—thus lads at first are blind— No woman, only womankind.
From the Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Household Edition, by permission of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
GIB HIM ONE UB MINE BY DANIEL WEBSTER DAVIS
A little urchin, ragged, black, An old cigar "stump" found, And visions of a jolly smoke, Began to hover 'round. But finding that he had no match, A big store he espied, And straightway for it made a dash To have his wants supplied. "I have no match!" the owner said, "And, even if I do, I have no match, you understand, For such a thing as you!" Down in the ragged pantaloons, The little black hand went, And forth it came, now holding fast A big old-fashioned cent. "Gib me a box," the urchin said, His bosom filled with joy; And calmly lighted his "cigar," A radiant happy boy. Then handing back the box, he said, As his face with pride did shine: "Nex' time a gent'mun wants a match, Jes' gib him one ub mine!"
A LESSON WITH THE FAN ANONYMOUS
If you want to learn a lesson with the fan, I'm quite prepared to teach you all I can. So ladies, everyone, pray observe how it is done, This simple little lesson with the fan! If you chance to be invited to a ball, To meet someone you don't expect at all, And you want him close beside you, while a dozen friends divide you, Well, of course—it's most unladylike to call. So you look at him a minute, nothing more, And you cast your eyes demurely on the floor, Then you wave your fan, just so, well—toward you, don't you know,— It's a delicate suggestion,—nothing more! When you see him coming to you (simple you), Oh! be very, very careful what you do; With your fan just idly play, and look down, as if to say It's a matter of indifference to you! Then you flutter and you fidget with it, so! And you hide your little nose behind it low, Till, when he begins to speak, you just lay it on your cheek, In that fascinating manner that you know! And when he tells the old tale o'er and o'er, And vows that he will love you evermore,— Gather up your little fan, and secure him while you can,— It's a delicate suggestion,—nothing more!
THE UNDERTOW BY CARRIE BLAKE MORGAN
You hadn't ought to blame a man fer things he hasn't done Fer books he hasn't written or fer fights he hasn't won; The waters may look placid on the surface all aroun', Yet there may be an undertow a-keepin' of him down. Since the days of Eve and Adam, when the fight of life began, It aint been safe, my brethren, fer to lightly judge a man; He may be tryin' faithful fer to make his life a go, And yet his feet git tangled in the treacherous undertow. He may not lack in learnin' and he may not want fer brains; He may be always workin' with the patientest of pains, And yet go unrewarded, an', my friends, how can we know What heights he might have climbed to but fer the undertow? You've heard the Yankee story of the hen's nest with a hole, An' how the hen kept layin' eggs with all her might an' soul, Yet never got a settin', not a single egg, I trow; That hen was simply kickin' 'gainst a hidden undertow. There's holes in lots of hen's nests, an' you've got to peep below To see the eggs a-rollin' where they hadn't ought to go. Don't blame a man fer failin' to achieve a laurel crown Until you're sure the undertow aint draggin' of him down.
MARKETING ANONYMOUS
A little girl goes to market for her mother.
Butcher.—"Well, little girl, what can I do for you?"
Little Girl.—"How much is chops this morning, mister?"
B.—"Chops, 20 cents a pound, little girl."
L. G.—"Oh! 20 cents a pound for chops; that's awful expensive. How much is steak?"
B.—"Steak is 22 cents a pound."
L. G.—"That's too much! How much is chicken?"
B.—"Chicken is 25 cents a pound" (impatiently).
L. G.—"Oh! 25 cents for chicken. Well my ma don't want any of them!"
B.—"Well, little girl, what do you want?"
L. G.—"Oh, I want an automobile, but my ma wants 5 cents' worth of liver!"
A SPRING IDYL ON "GRASS" BY NIXON WATERMAN
Oh, the gentle grass is growing In the vale and on the hill; We can not hear it growing, Still 'tis growing very still: And in the spring it springs to life, With gladness and delight; I see it growing day by day,— It also grows by night. And, now, once more as mowers whisk The whiskers from the lawn, They'll rouse us from our slumbers,— At the dawning of the dawn: It saddens my poor heart to think What we should do for hay, If grass instead of growing up Would grow the other way. Its present rate of growing, Makes it safe to say that soon, 'Twill cover all the hills at morn And in the afternoon. And I have often noticed As I watched it o'er and o'er, It grows, and grows, and grows, awhile, And then it grows some more,— If it keeps growing right along It shortly will be tall; It humps itself thro' strikes, And legal holidays and all; It's growing up down all the streets; And clean around the square; One end is growing in the ground, The other in the air: If the earth possest no grass Methinks its beauty would be dead; We'd have to make the best of it, And use baled hay instead.
From "A Book of Verses," by permission of Forbes & Co., Chicago.
INTRODUCIN' THE SPEECHER BY EDWIN L. BARKER
Introductory Remarks. This selection is a little caricature, introducing two characters. "The Speecher" is one of those young men who has passed through college in one year,—passed through,—and has increasing difficulty in finding a hat large enough to fit his head. His oratorical powers have been praised by his friends, and he never misses an opportunity to exhibit his "great natural talent." "The Chairman" is frequently met in the smaller towns. He has lived there a long time, is acquainted with everybody, makes it a point to form the acquaintance of all newcomers, takes an interest in public affairs, and is often called upon to introduce the speakers who visit the town. His principal weakness is that in the course of his introductory remarks he usually says more than the speaker himself.
The Chairman. (Comes forward to table at center, stands at right, looks nervously at audience, goes to left of table, does not know what to do with hands, returns to right of table, begins in high, nervous voice.) "Gentlemen an' ladies—an' the rest on ye—(goes left of table) I s'pose ye all knowed afore, as per'aps ye do now, that I did not come out to make a speech; but to—to 'nounce the speecher. Now, the speecher has jes come, an' is right in there. (Points with thumb over shoulder to L. and goes R. of table.) I don't know why 'twas they called on me to 'nounce the speecher, unless it is that I've lived here in your midst fer a long while, an' am 'quainted with very nigh every one fer four or five miles about, an' I s'pose that's why they called on me to—to 'nounce the speecher. Now, the speecher is—right in there. (Points L. and goes L.) I s'pose I'm as well calc'lated to 'nounce the speecher as any on ye, an' I s'pose that's why I'm here to—to 'nounce the speecher. Now, the speecher is—right in there. (Points L. and goes R.) You know I've lived here in your midst a long time, an' have allus tuk an active part in all public affairs, an' I s'pose that's why they called on me to—to 'nounce the speecher. Now, the speecher is right in there. (Points L. and goes L.) As I said once afore, I've lived here in your midst fer a long time, an' have allus tuk active part in all public affairs, an' public doin's ginerally. Ye know I was 'pinted tax collector once, an' was road-overseer fer a little while, an' run fer constable of this here township—but I—I didn't git it. (Quickly.) Now, the speecher is—right there. (Points L. and goes R. Wipes forehead with handkerchief.) I jes want to say a word to the young men this evenin'—as I see quite a sprinklin' of 'em here—an' that is that I'd like fer all the young men to grow up an' hold high and honorable offices like I've done. But there, I can't stop any longer, 'cause the speecher is—right in there. (Starts to go, but returns.) Now, I don't want you to think I don't want to talk to ye, fer I do. I do so like to talk to the young men, an' the old men, an' them that are not men. (Smiles.) I love to talk to ye. But, of course, I can't talk to you now, 'cause the speecher is—right in there. (Points L.) But some other time when the speecher's not here—I think there'll be a time afore long—why, I'll talk to you. (Grows confused.) Of course, you know, I'd talk to you now; but—uh—that is—I think there'll be a time afore long—at some other—you know—I—you—the—(desperately) the speecher is right in there. (Rushes to L., stops, and with back to audience, concludes.) I will now interdoose to ye Charles William Albright, of Snigger's Crossroads, a very promisin' young attorney of that place, who will talk to ye. As I said afore, the speecher is right in here. Now, the speecher is right out there." (While standing with back to audience, run fingers through hair to give it a long, scholarly appearance, put on glasses, and take from chair roll of paper and place under arm. To be effective, this paper should be about one foot wide and ten feet long, folded in about five or six-inch folds. At conclusion of chairman's speech, turn and walk to table as the speecher.)
The Speecher. (Walks to table with a strut. Face should have a wise, solemn, self-satisfied expression. Stops at table, surveys the audience with solemn dignity, clears the throat, lays roll of paper on table, takes out handkerchief, clears throat, wipes mouth, smacks lips, lays handkerchief on table, surveys audience again, slowly unrolls paper and lays on table, surveys audience again, clears throat, wipes mouth, smacks lips, poses with one hand on table.) "Ladies—and—gentlemen—and fellow citizens. (Rises on toes and comes back on heels, as practised by some public speakers.) I have fully realized the magnitude of this auspicious occasion, and have brought from out the archives of wisdom one of those bright, extemporaneous subjects, to which, you know, I always do (rising inflection) ample justice. (Rises on toes, clears throat, applies handkerchief to forehead.) The subject for this evening's discussion (very solemn) is coal oil. (Clears throat and looks wise.) Now, the first question that arises is: How do they get it? (In measured tone, on toes, tapping words off on fingers of left hand with forefinger of right hand.) How—do—they—get—it? (Soaringly.) My dear friends, some get it by the pint, and some by the quart. (Clears throat, wipes perspiration from forehead.) But, you say, how do they get it in the first place? (Tragically.) Ah, my dear friends, as Horace Greeley has so fittingly exprest it—that is the question. (Quickly.) But I will explain. When they want to get it they take a great, mammoth auger (imitates) and they bore, and they bore, and they bore, and—(looks at paper quickly)—and they bore! And when they strike the oil it just squirts up. That's how they get it! (Rises on toes, smacks lips and looks wise.) Now, you all know, coal oil is used for a great many things. It is used for medicine, to burn in the lamp, to blow up servant girls when they make a fire with it, and—many other useful things. (Wipes mouth and puts handkerchief in pocket.) The gentlemen in charge will now pass the hat, being careful to lock the door back there so that none of those boys from Squeedunk can get out before they chip in. (Takes paper and rolls it up.) I will say that I expect to deliver another lecture here two weeks from to-night—two weeks from to-night—upon which occasion I would like to see all the children present, as the subject will be of special interest to (rises on toes, closes eyes) the little ones. The subject on that occasion will be 'Will We Bust the Trusts, or Will the Trusts Bust Us?'" (Puts roll of paper under arm and stalks off as if having captured the world.)
As recited by Edwin L. Barker and used by permission.
COUNTING ONE HUNDRED BY JAMES M. BAILEY
A Danbury man named Reubens, recently saw a statement that counting one hundred when tempted to speak an angry word would save a man a great deal of trouble. This statement sounded a little singular at first, but the more he read it over the more favorably he became imprest with it, and finally concluded to adopt it.
Next door to Reubens lives a man who made five distinct attempts in a fortnight to secure a dinner of green peas by the first of July, but has been retarded by Reubens' hens. The next morning after Reubens made his resolution, this man found his fifth attempt had been destroyed. Then he called on Reubens. He said:
"What in thunder do you mean by letting your hens tear up my garden?"
Reubens was prompted to call him various names, but he remembered his resolution, put down his rage, and meekly said:
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight——"
The mad neighbor, who had been eyeing this answer with suspicion, broke in again:
"Why don't you answer my question, you rascal?"
But still Reubens maintained his equanimity, and went on with the test.
"Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen——"
The mad neighbor stared harder than ever.
"Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one——"
"You're a mean thief!" said the mad neighbor, backing toward the fence.
Reubens' face flushed at this charge, but he only said:
"Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six——"
At this figure the neighbor got up on the fence in some haste, but suddenly thinking of his peas, he said:
"You mean, contemptible, old rascal! I could knock your head against my barn and I'll——"
"Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three——"
Here the neighbor ran for the house, and entering it, violently slammed the door behind him. Reubens did not let up on the enumeration, but stood out there alone in his own yard, and kept on counting, while his burning cheeks and flashing eyes eloquently affirmed his judgment. When he got up into the eighties his wife came out to him in some alarm.
"Why, Reubens, man, what is the matter with you? Do come into the house."
But he didn't stop.
"Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two——"
Then she came to him, and clung tremblingly to him, but he only turned, looked into her eyes, and said:
"Ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred! Go into the house, old woman, or I'll bust you!"
THEY NEVER QUARRELED ANONYMOUS
They had been married about three weeks, and had just gone to housekeeping. He was starting down town one morning, and she followed him to the door. They had their arms wrapt around each other, and she was saying:
"O Clarence, do you think it possible that the day can ever come when we will part in anger?"
"Why, no, little girl, of course not. What put that foolish idea into my little birdie's head, eh?"
"Oh, nothing, dearest. I was only thinking how perfectly dreadful it would be if one of us should speak harshly to the other."
"Well, don't think of such wicked, utterly impossible things any more. We can never, never, never quarrel."
"I know it, darling. Good-by, you dear old precious, good-by, and—oh, wait a second, Clarence; I've written a note to mamma; can't you run around to the house and leave it for her some time to-day?"
"Why, yes, dearie; if I have time."
"If you have time? O Clarence!"
"What is it, little girlie?"
"Oh, to say 'if you have time' to do almost the very first errand your little wife asks you to do."
"Well, well, I expect to be very busy to-day."
"Too busy to please me? O Clarence, you hurt my feelings so."
"Why, child, I——"
"I'm not a child, I'm a married woman, and I——"
"There, there, my pet. I——"
"No, no, Clarence, if I were your p—p—pet you'd——"
"But, Mabel, do be reasonable."
"O Clarence! don't speak to me so."
"Mable, be sensible, and——"
"Go on, Clarence, go on; break my heart."
"Stuff and nonsense."
"Oh! o—o—o—o—oh!"
"What have I said or done?"
"As if you need ask! But go—hate me if you will, Clarence, I——"
"This is rank nonsense!"
"I'll go back to mamma if you want me to. She loves me, if you don't."
"You must have a brain-storm!"
"Oh! yes, sneer at me, ridicule me, break my poor heart. Perhaps you had better strike me!"
He bangs the door, goes down the steps on the jump, and races off, muttering something about women being the "queerest creatures."
Of course, they'll make it up when he comes home, and they'll have many a little tiff in the years to come, and when they grow old they'll say:
"We've lived together forty-five years, and in all that time have never spoken a cross word to each other!"
SONG OF THE "L" BY GRENVILLE KLEISER
Note—The New York elevated cars were so overcrowded at the rush hours of the day that passengers were obliged to ride on engines.
Jam them in, ram them in, People still a-coming, Slam them in, cram them in, Keep the thing a-humming! Millionaires and carpenters, Office boys, stenographers, Workingmen and fakirs, Doctors, undertakers, Brokers and musicians, Writers, politicians, Clergymen and plumbers, Entry clerks and drummers, Pack them in, whack them in, People still a-coming! Mash them in, crash them in, Still there's more to follow, Shoot them in, boot them in, Don't take time to swallow! Pretty maid and tailor-made, Stylish maid and home-made, Jersey maid and ready-made House maid and old maid! Billionaire and haughty air, Bald head and golden hair, Always there, never there, Ah there and get there! Squeeze them in, tease them in, Still there's more to follow. Bump them in, thump them in, Why do people worry? Throw them in, blow them in, Everyone must hurry. Take a place behind the gate, Get your clothes prest while you wait. Grab a seat, don't give a rap For the lady at the strap. If your life is spared till night You can tell your wife all right: How the gateman shoved them in, Slammed them in, jammed them in, Crammed them in, damned them in, Blew them in, cuffed them in, Fired them in, kicked them in, Bumped them in, thumped them in, Beat them in, knocked them in, Rapped them in, squashed them in, Rammed them in, whipped them in, Pushed them in, banged them in, Crusht them in, rushed them in, Dashed them in, slashed them in, Flung them in, jerked them in, Tossed them in, shied them in, Hauled them in, forced them in, Whacked them in, crowded them in, Prodded them in, pulled them in, Dumped them in, drove them in, Hammered them in, battered them in, Pitched them in, urged them in, Hustled them in, bustled them in, Hurried them in, worried them in, As if their heads were hollow!
THE VILLAGE ORACLE BY J. L. HARBOUR
"Why, Mis' Farley, is it really you? It's been so long sence I saw you that I hardly knowed you. Come in an' set down. I was jest a-wishin' some one would come in. I've felt so kind of downsy all mornin'. I reckon like enough it is my stummick. I thought some of goin' to see old Doctor Ball about it, but, la, I know jest what he'd say. He'd look at my tongue an' say, 'Coffee,' an' look cross. He lays half the mis'ry o' the world to coffee. Says it is a rank pizen to most folks, an' that lots o' the folks now wearin' glasses wouldn't need 'em if they'd let coffee alone. Says it works on the ocular nerves an' all that, but I reckon folks here in Granby will go on drinkin' coffee jest the same.
"You won't mind if I keep right on with my work, will you, seein' that it ain't nothin' but sewin' carpet-rags? I've got to send my rags to the weaver this week, or she can't weave my carpet until after she comes home from a visit she 'lows on makin' to her sister over in Zoar. It's just a hit-er-miss strip o' carpet I'm makin' for my small south chamber. I set out to make somethin' kind o' fancy with a twisted strip an' the chain in five colors, but I found I hadn't the right kind of rags to carry it through as I wanted to; so I jest decided on a plain hit-er-miss. I don't use the south chamber no great nohow. It's the room my first husband and his first wife and sev'ral of his kin all died in; so the 'sociations ain't none too cheerin', an' I—I—s'pose you know about Lyddy Baxter losin' her husband last week? No? Well, he's went the way o' the airth, an' Lyddy wore my mournin'-veil an' gloves to the funeral. They're as good as they were the day I follered my two husbands to the grave in 'em. When a body pays two dollars an' sixty-eight cents for a mournin'-veil, it behooves 'em to take keer of it, an' not switch it out wearin' it common as Sally Dodd did hern. If a body happens to marry a second time, as I did, a mournin'-veil may come in handy, jest as mine did.
"Yes, Lyddy's husband did go off real sudden. It was this new-fashioned trouble, the appendysheetus, that tuk him off. They was jest gittin' ready to op'rate on him when he went off jest as easy as a glove. There's three thousand life-insurance; so Lyddy ain't as bereft as some would be. Now, if she'll only have good jedgement when she gits the money, an' not fool it away as Mis' Mack did her husband's life-insurance. He had only a thousand dollars, an' she put half of it on her back before three months, an' put three hundred into a pianny she couldn't play. She said a pianny give a house sech an air. I up an' told her that money would soon be all 'air' if she didn't stop foolin' it away.
"I wouldn't want it told as comin' from me, but I've heerd that it was her that put that advertisement in the paper about a widder with some means wishin' to correspond with a gentleman similarly situated with a view to matrimony. I reckon she had about fifty dollars left at that time. I tried to worm something about it out of the postmaster; for of course he'd know about her mail, but he was as close as a clam-shell. I reckon one has to be kind of discreet if one is postmaster, but he might of known that anything he told me wouldn't go no farther if he didn't want it to. I know when to speak an' when to hold my tongue if anybody in this town does.
"Did you know that Myra Dart was goin' to marry that Rylan chap? It's so. I got it from the best authority. An' she's nine years an' three months an' five days older than him. I looked it up in the town hist'ry. It's a good deal of a reesk for a man to marry a woman that's much older than he is.
"But, my land, it's a good deal of a reesk to git married at all nowadays. You never know what you're gittin' ontil it's too late to undo the matter. Seems to me there must be a screw loose somewhere, or matrimony wouldn't be the fizzle it is in so many instances. An' it's about six o' one an' half a dozen o' the other when it comes to dividin' the blame. You know my first husband was jestice o' the peace five years, an' he had considdable marryin' to do, an' I saw a good deal o' what loose idees some people had about matrimony.
"I recollect of one couple comin' in to git married one evenin'. They was both in middle life, an' them kind usually acts the silliest with the exception of a real old pair. They are the beaterees for silly actin'. Well, my husband never married any couple without makin' sure that there was no onlawful hindrances in the way o' past husbands and wives, an' so he says to the woman, 'Have you ever been married before?' An' she says jest as flippant, 'Yes, but he didn't live but three weeks; so it ain't wuth speakin' of.' Now wa'n't that scand'lous? It jest showed how lightly some folks look on the solemn ord'nance o' matrimony.
"I reckon you know that the Porters have a boy at their house? No? Well, they have. He was born at twenty minutes to one las' night, or this mornin' ruther, an' old Susan Puffer is to do the nussin'. I heard a wagon drive by here lickety-split at most midnight las' night an' I sez to myself, sez I, 'I'll bet that's Hi Porter tearin' off for old Susan Puffer', an' I got up, an' wrapped a blanket around me, an' waited for the wagon to come back; an' when it did, I called out, 'That you, Hi an' Susan?' It gives 'em a good deal of a start, but Susan called out that it was her, an' I went back to bed. Some folks would of been curious-minded enough to of went right over to the Porters', but I ain't that pryin' an' I didn't go over till after breakfast this mornin'.
"It's a real nice baby, an' it's goin' to be the livin' spit o' Hi exceptin' for its nose, which is its mother's all over; an' its mouth is the livin' counterpart o' its grandfather Porter's an' it's got the Davis ears. You know its mother was a Davis. I hope it won't have to be a bottle-riz baby. I don't care how good these infant foods may be; I don't think that a bottle-riz baby is ever the equal of one that ain't bottle-riz. The Lord must of intended mothers to nuss their babies, or He wouldn't of made 'em so they could. So I—must you be goin'? What's your hurry? I'd love to have you set all afternoon. It's so long sense you have been here, an' I do so enjoy havin' the neighbors drop in an' tell me all that's goin' on. I never go no place to hear the news. I wish you'd come in real often an' talk to me.
"Looks some like rain. I hope it'll be fair to-morrow, for I 'low on goin' over to Lucindy Baxter's to spend the day. Me an' her went over to Ware Monday, an' had a real nice all-day visit with Lucindy's married daughter. She's real nicely fixt, an' she had three kinds of cake besides cookies for tea. Seems to me one kind an' the cookies would o' been plenty. Mebbe she wanted to let us see that her husband was a good pervider.
"I went over to Zion Tuesday, an' Wednesday me an' Nancy Dodd went over to Becky Means's, and helped her quilt her album quilt; an' she had a chicken-pie for dinner that went a little ahead of anything I ever et in the way of chicken-pie. Nancy's a good cook anyhow. She gives a kind of a taste to things that only a born cook can give. I'm goin' over to the fair in Greenfield Friday; so I—do come over again soon. I git real lonesome stayin' to home close as I do, an' it's nice to have some one come in an' talk to me as you have. Good-by.
"Yes, I'll come over soon. But don't you wait for me. Come when you kin. I'm allus to home. Good-by. See my little chicks? I put a hen on thirteen eggs, an' she hatched out every blessed one of 'em. Wa'n't she smart? An she laid all the eggs herself, too. I got another hen comin' off on the tenth. Didn't the minister preach beautifully Sunday? I dunno as I ever heard a more upliftin' sermon. I see that his wife has her black silk made up that the Ladies' Society gave her on her birthday. Didn't seem to me it fit real well under the arms. Well, good-by, good-by."
By permission of the author and the Christian Endeavor World.
IF I CAN BE BY HER BY BENJAMIN FRANKLIN KING
I d-d-don't c-c-c-are how the r-r-r-obin sings, Er how the r-r-r-ooster f-f-flaps his wings, Er whether't sh-sh-shines, er whether't pours, Er how high up the eagle s-s-soars, If I can b-b-b-be by her. I don't care if the p-p-p-people s-say 'At I'm weak-minded every w-way, An' n-n-never had no cuh-common sense, I'd c-c-c-cuh-climb the highest p-picket fence. If I could b-b-b-be by her. If I can be by h-h-her, I'll s-s-swim The r-r-r-est of life thro' th-th-thick an' thin; I'll throw my overcoat away, An' s-s-s-stand out on the c-c-c-oldest day, If I can b-b-b-be by her. You s-s-see sh-sh-she weighs an awful pile, B-b-b-but I d-d-d-don't care—sh-she's just my style, An' any f-f-fool could p-p-p-lainly see She'd look well b-b-b-by the side of me, If I could b-b-b-be by her. I b-b-b-braced right up, and had the s-s-s-and To ask 'er f-f-f-father f-f-fer 'er hand; He said: "Wh-wh-what p-p-prospects have you got?" I said: "I gu-gu-guess I've got a lot, If I can b-b-b-be by her." It's all arranged f-f-fer Christmas Day, Fer then we're goin' to r-r-r-run away, An' then s-s-some th-th-thing that cu-cu-couldn't be At all b-b-efore will then, you s-s-see, B-b-b-because I'll b-b-b-be by her.
From "Ben King's Verse," by permission of Forbes & Co., Chicago.
McCARTHY AND McMANUS ANONYMOUS
An Irishman named Patrick McCarthy, having received an invitation to visit some friends who were stopping at one of the prominent hotels, suddenly realized that his best suit needed pressing. He sent the suit to his friend Michael McManus, the tailor, with instructions to put it in proper shape and to return it with all haste.
After waiting an hour or more, he became very impatient, and asked his wife to go for the clothes, telling her to be sure to bring them back with her. When she returned he was surprized to find she had not brought back his suit, and he said:
"Well, where are my clothes?"
"Don't ask me, don't ask me. I'm thot mad I'm almost afther killin' thot McManus!"
"Pfhot's thot? Pfhot's McManus done with thim?"
"He's done nothin' with thim, and he barely took notice of me."
"Shure woman, dear, pfhot's that you be tellin' me? Did Mac insult you,—for the love of hivins tell me quick?"
"Well, I will tell you. Whin I wint into the shop, there was McManus; instid of sittin' on the table as usual, he was sittin' forninst it, with a long shate of paper spread out, and he was a-writin' and a-writin' and a-writin'. Says I, 'Mr. McManus.' No answer. Again I says, 'Mr. McManus.' Still no answer. Says I, 'Look here, Mr. McManus, pfhot do you mean by kapin' my husband waitin' for his clothes?—have you got thim done?' Without raisin' his head he says, 'No, I haven't,' and wint on writin' and writin'. Says I, 'He's waitin' for thim.' Says he, 'Let him wait.' Says I, 'He won't.' Says he, 'He'll have to.' Says I, 'Pfhot do you mean by writin' thot long document, knowin' well thot my husband is waitin' for his clothes?' Says he, 'Well, if you must know, it's important business. Do you see thot list?' pointin' to a long list of names. 'Well,' says he, 'thot's a list of all the min thot I can lick in this neighborhood.' Says I, 'Is thot so?' Says he, 'Yes, thot is so.' Says I, 'Mr. McManus, have you got my husband's name on thot list?' Says he, takin' up the list and holdin' it near my face, 'Look at thot,—the very first name on the list!' and I was thot mad I couldn't talk."
"Do you mean to tell me thot he had my name on thot list?"
"I do, and the very first one,—on the very top."
"Well, wait till I go over and see McManus."
A few minutes later Mr. McCarthy entered the shop of Mr. McManus, and said,
"Is McManus here?"
McManus replied, "He is and he's very busy."
"Is thot so?"
"Yes, thot is so."
"Look here, McManus, pfhot makes you so busy?"
"Oh, I'm just doin' a little writin'."
"Well, what is it you're writin'?"
"Well, I'll tell you. I'm makin' out a list of all the min thot I can lick in this neighborhood, and a moighty big list it is. Just look at thot."
"Say Mac, is my name on thot list?"
"Is Pat McCarthy's name on this list? Well, you can just bet your life it is, and it's the very first one!"
"Is thot so, McManus?"
"Yes, thot's so."
McCarthy, taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves, said:
"Look here, McManus, I can lick you."
"Did you say you thought you could lick me?"
"I said I can lick you."
"You say you can lick me?"
"Yes, thot's what I said."
"All right. Off goes your name from the list."
AND SHE CRIED BY MINNA IRVING
Miss Muriel Million was sitting alone, With a very disconsolate air; Her fluffy blue tea-gown was fastened awry, And frowsy and rumpled her hair. "Oh, what is the matter?" I said in alarm, "I beg you in me to confide." But she buried her face in her 'kerchief of lace, And she cried, and she cried, and she cried. "Come out for a spin in the automobile, The motor-boat waits at the pier; Or let's take a drive in the sunshiny park, Or a canter on horseback, my dear." T'was thus that I coaxed her in lover-like tones, As I tenderly knelt at her side, But refusing all comfort she pushed me aside, While she cried, and she cried, and she cried. "Pray whisper, my darling, this terrible wo, You know I would love you the same, If the millions of papa vanish in smoke And you hadn't a cent to your name, If you came to the church in a garment of rags I would wed you with rapturous pride." She nestled her cheek to my shoulder at this, Tho she cried, and she cried, and she cried. "You know," she exclaimed in a piteous wail, "That love of a hat that I wore?— The one with pink roses and chiffon behind, And a fluffy pink feather before?— I paid Madame Modeste a hundred for that, And our parlor-maid, Flora McBride, Has got one just like it for three twenty-five!" And she cried, and she cried, and she cried.
By permission of the author and of the New York Herald.
DOT LEEDLE BOY BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
Ot's a leedle Gristmas story Dot I told der leedle folks— Und I vant you stop dot laughin' Und grackin' funny jokes!— So help me Peter-Moses! Ot's no time for monkeyshine, Ober I vas told you somedings Of dot leedle boy of mine! Ot vas von cold vinter vedder, Ven the snow was all about— Dot you have to chop der hatchet Eef you got der sauerkraut! Und der cheekens on der hind leg Vas standin' in der shine, Der sun shmile out dot morning On dot leedle boy of mine. He vas yoost a leedle baby, Not bigger as a doll Dot time I got acquaintet— Ach! you ought to heard 'im squall!— I grackys! dot's der moosie Ot make me feel so fine Ven first I vas been marriet— Oh, dot leedle boy of mine! He look' yoost like his fader!— So, ven der vimmen said, "Vot a purty leedle baby!" Katrina shake her head— I dink she must 'a' notice Dot der baby vas a-gryin', Und she cover up der blankets Of dot leedle boy of mine. Vell, ven he vas got bigger, Dot he grawl und bump his nose, Und make der table over, Und molasses on his glothes— Dot make 'im all der sweeter,— So I say to my Katrina: "Better you vas quit a-sphankin' Dot leedle boy of mine!" I vish you could 'a' seen id— Ven he glimb up on der chair Und scmash der lookin'-glasses Ven he try to comb his hair Mit a hammer!—Und Katrina Say, "Dot's an ugly sign!" But I laugh und vink my fingers At dot leedle boy of mine. But vonce, dot vinter morning, He shlip out in der snow Mitout no stockin's on 'im— He say he "vant to go Und fly some mit der birdies!" Und ve give 'im medi-cine Ven he catch der "parrygoric"— Dot leedle boy of mine! Und so I set und nurse 'im, Vile der Gristmas vas come roun', Und I told 'im 'bout "Kriss Kringle," How he come der chimbly down; Und I ask 'im if he love 'im Eef he bring 'im someding fine? "Nicht besser as mein fader," Say dot leedle boy of mine. Und he put his arms aroun' me Und hug so close und tight, I hear der glock a-tickin' All der balance of der night!— Someding make me feel so funny Ven I say to my Katrina, "Let us go und fill der stockin's, Of dot leedle boy of mine." Vell—ve buyed a leedle horses Dot you pull 'im mit a shtring, Und a little fancy jay-bird— Eef you vant to hear 'im sing You took 'im by der topknot Und yoost blow in behine— Und dot make much spectahkle For dot leedle boy of mine. Und gandies, nuts und raisins— Und I buy a leedle drum Dot I vant to hear 'im rattle Ven der Gristmas morning come! Und a leedle shmall tin rooster Dot vould crow so loud und fine Ven he squeeze 'im in der morning, Dot leedle boy of mine. Und—vile ve vas a-fixin'— Dot leedle boy vake out! I t'ought he been a-dreamin' "Kriss Kringle" vas about,— For he say—"Dot's him!—I see 'im Mit der shtars dot make der shine!" Und he yoost keep on a-cryin'— Dot leedle boy of mine,— Und gettin' vorse und vorser— Und tumble on der bed! So—ven der doctor seen id, He kindo shake his head, Und veel his pulse—und visper: "Der boy is a-dyin'." You dink I could believe id? Dot leedle boy of mine? I told you, friends—dot's someding, Der last time dot he spheak Und say, "Goot-by, Kriss Kringle!" —Dot make me feel so veak I yoost kneel down und drimble, Und bur-sed out a-cryin', "Mein Gott, Mein Gott in Himmel!— Dot leedle boy of mine!" Der sun don't shine dot Gristmas! ... Eef dot leedle boy vould liff'd— No deefer-en'! for heaven vas His leedle Gristmas gift!... Und der rooster, und der gandy, Und me—und my Katrina— Und der jay-bird—is a-vatin' For dot leedle boy of mine.
From "Green Fields and Running Brooks," copyright 1892. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.
MR. DOOLEY ON THE GRIP BY FINLAY PETER DUNNE
Mr. Dooley was discovered making a seasonable beverage, consisting of one part syrup, two parts quinine, and fifteen parts strong waters.
"What's the matter?" asked Mr. McKenna.
"I have th' lah gr-rip," said Mr. Dooley, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. "Bad cess to it! Oh, me poor back! I feels as if a dhray had run over it. Did ye iver have it? Ye did not? Well, ye're lucky. Ye're a lucky man.
"I wint to MCGuire's wake las' week. They gave him a dacint sind-off. No porther. An' himself looked natural, as fine a corpse as iver Gavin layed out. Gavin tould me so himsilf. He was as proud iv McGuire as if he owned him. Fetched half th' town in to look at him, an' give ivry wan iv thim cards. He near frightened ol' man Dugan into a faint. 'Misther Dugan, how old a-are ye?' 'Sivinity-five, thanks be,' says Dugan. 'Thin,' says Gavin, 'take wan iv me cards,' he says. 'I hope ye'll not forget me,' he says.
"'Twas there I got th' lah grip. Lastewise, it is me own opinion iv it, tho th' docthor said I swallowed a bug. It don't seem right, Jawn, f'r th' MCGuires is a clane fam'ly; but th' docthor said a bug got into me system. 'What sort if bug?' says I. 'A lah grip bug,' he says. 'Ye have Mickrobes in ye're lungs,' he says. 'What's thim?' says I. 'Thim's th' lah grip bugs,' says he. 'Ye took wan in, an' warmed it,' he says, 'an' it has growed an' multiplied till ye're system does be full if thim,' he says, 'millions iv thim,' he says, 'marchin' an' counter-marchin' through ye.' 'Glory be to the saints!' says I. 'Had I better swallow some insect powdher?' I says. 'Some iv thim in me head has a fallin' out, an' is throwin' bricks.' 'Foolish man,' says he. 'Go to bed,' he says, 'an' lave thim alone,' he says; 'whin they find who they're in,' he says, 'they'll quit ye.'
"So I wint to bed, an' waited while th' Mickrobes had fun with me. Mondah all iv thim was quiet but thim in me stummick. They stayed up late dhrinkin' an' carousin' an' dancin' jigs till wurruds come up between th' Kerry Mickrobes an' thim fr'm Wexford; an' th' whole party wint over to me left lung, where they cud get th' air, an' had it out. Th' nex' day th' little Mickrobes made a tobaggan slide iv me spine; an' manetime some Mickrobes that was wurkin' f' th' tilliphone comp'ny got it in their heads that me legs was poles, an' put on their spikes an' climbed all night long.
"They was tired out th' nex' day till about five o'clock, whin thim that was in me head begin flushin' out th' rooms; an' I knew there was goin' to be doin's in th' top flat. What did thim Mickrobes do but invite all th' other Mickrobes in f'r th' ev'nin'. They all come. Oh, by gar, they was not wan iv thim stayed away. At six o'clock they begin to move fr'm me shins to me throat. They come in platoons an' squads an' dhroves. Some iv thim brought along brass bands, an' more thin wan hundred thousand iv thim dhruv through me pipes on dhrays. A trolley line was started up me back, an iv'ry car run into a wagon-load if scrap iron at th' base if me skull.
"Th' Mickrobes in me head must 've done thimselves proud. They tipped over th' chairs an' tables; an' in less time thin it takes to tell, th' whole party was at it. They'd been a hurlin' game in th' back iv me skull, an' th' young folks was dancin' breakdowns an' havin' leppin matches in me forehead; but they all stopt, to mix in. Oh, 'twas a grand shindig—tin millions iv men, women, an childher rowlin' on th' flure, hands an' feet goin', ice-picks an' hurlin' sticks, clubs, brick-bats, flyin' in th' air! How many iv thim was kilt I niver knew; f'r I wint as daft as a hen, an' dhreamt iv organizin' a Mickrobe Campaign Club that'd sweep th' prim'ries, an' maybe go acrost an' free Ireland. Whin I woke up, me legs was as weak as a day-old baby's, an' me poor head impty as a cobbler's purse. I want no more iv thim. Give me anny bug fr'm a cockroach to an aygle, save an' excipt thim West if Ireland Fenians, th' Mickrobes."
By permission of Small, Maynard & Company.
A RAINY DAY EPISODE ANONYMOUS
One morning recently as I was about to start from my home, I noticed that it was raining very hard outside, and as I turned to the rack to get an umbrella I was surprized to find that out of five umbrellas there was not one in the lot I could use. On the impulse of the moment I decided to take the whole five down town to the umbrella hospital and have them all repaired at once.
Just as I started from the door my wife asked me to be sure and bring her umbrella back as she wanted to use it that evening. This imprest the subject of umbrellas very vividly on my mind, so I did not fail to leave the five umbrellas to be repaired, stating I would call for them on my way home in the evening.
When I went to lunch at noon it was still raining very hard, but as I had no umbrella this simply imprest the subject on my mind. I went to a nearby restaurant, sat down at a table, and had been there only a few minutes when a young lady came in and sat down at the same table with me. I was first to finish, however, and getting up I absent-mindedly picked up her umbrella and started for the door. She called out to me and reminded me that I had her umbrella, whereupon I returned it to her with much embarrassment and many apologies.
This incident served to impress the subject more deeply on my mind, so on my way home in the evening I called for my umbrellas, bought a newspaper, and boarded a street-car. I was deeply engrossed in my newspaper, having placed the five umbrellas alongside of me in the car, but all at once I had a peculiar feeling of someone staring at me. Suddenly I looked up from my paper, and was surprized to see sitting directly opposite me the same young woman I had met in the restaurant! She had a broad smile on her face, and looking straight into my eyes she said knowingly: "You've had a successful day, to-day, haven't you?"
I KNEW HE WOULD COME IF I WAITED BY HORACE G. WILLIAMSON
I knew he would come if I waited, Tho waiting, it caused me despair; And I sat by the window and listened To hear his first step on the stair: For I knew he would come if I waited, But anxiously I paced 'round the floor; Oh, to see his own form on the threshold As I hastened to open the door. Would he come? But how dare I question His faithfulness to his own word; Would he dare not come at my calling? Or was that his dear step that I heard? Oh, I rush to the door for to meet him, For to welcome him here after all, For I knew he would come if I waited, He would come to answer my call. Yes, yes, it is he on the pavement, He's coming, he's ringing the bell, And my heart beats wild with rapture Of a joy which I never can tell, For I knew he would come if I waited, Yes, he'd come at my call; joy, O joy, What happiness it is to welcome Just to welcome: "the messenger boy."
LOVE'S MOODS AND SENSES ANONYMOUS
Sally Salter, she was a young lady who taught, And her friend Charley Church was a preacher who praught! Tho his enemies called him a screecher who scraught. His heart when he saw her kept sinking, and sunk, And his eye, meeting hers, began winking, and wunk; While she in her turn fell to thinking, and thunk. He hastened to woo her, and sweetly he wooed, For his love grew until to a mountain it grewed, And what he was longing to do then he doed. In secret he wanted to speak, and he spoke, To seek with his lips what his heart long had soke; So he managed to let the truth leak, and it loke. He asked her to ride to the church, and they rode, They so sweetly did glide, that they both thought they glode, And they came to the place to be tied, and were tode. Then, "homeward," he said, "let us drive," and they drove, And soon as they wished to arrive, they arrove; For whatever he couldn't contrive she controve. The kiss he was dying to steal, then he stole: At the feet where he wanted to kneel, then he knole, And said, "I feel better than ever I fole." So they to each other kept clinging and clung; While time his swift circuit was winging, and wung; And this was the thing he was bringing, and brung: The man Sally wanted to catch, and had caught— That she wanted from others to snatch, and had snaught— Was the one that she now liked to scratch, and she scraught. And Charley's warm love began freezing, and froze, While he took to teasing, and cruelly toze The girl he had wished to be squeezing, and squoze. "Wretch!" he cried, when she threatened to leave him, and left, "How could you deceive me, as you have deceft?" And she answered, "I promised to cleave, and I've cleft!"
A NOCTURNAL SKETCH BY THOMAS HOOD
Even is come; and from the dark park, hark, The signal of the setting sun—one gun! And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,— Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,— Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, Denying to his frantic clutch much touch; Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride Four horses as no other man can span; Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz. Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung; The gas up-blazes with its bright, white light, And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl, About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal, Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs. Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash, Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep, But frightened by Policeman B 3, flee, And while they're going, whisper low, "No go!" Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads. And sleepers waking, grumble: "Drat that cat!" Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill will. Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;— But Nursemaid, in a nightmare rest, chest-prest, Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games, And that she hears—what faith is man's!—Ann's banns And his, from Rev. Mr. Rice, twice, thrice: White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!
KATIE'S ANSWER ANONYMOUS
Och, Katie's a rogue, it is thrue, But her eyes, like the sky, are so blue, An' her dimples so swate, An' her ankles so nate, She dazed, an' she bothered me, too— Till one mornin' we wint for a ride, Whin, demure as a bride, by my side, The darlint, she sat, With the wickedest hat, 'Neath a purty girl's chin iver tied. An' my heart, arrah, thin how it bate For my Kate looked so temptin' an' swate, Wid cheeks like the roses, An' all the red posies, That grow in her garden so nate. But I sat just as mute as the dead, Till she said, wid a toss of the head, "If I'd known that to-day You'd have nothing to say, I'd have gone wid my cousin instead." Thin I felt myself grow very bowld, For I knew she'd not scold if I towld Uv the love in my heart, That would never depart, Tho I lived to be wrinkled an' owld. An' I said, "If I dared to do so, I'd lit go uv the baste, an' I'd throw Both arms 'round yer waist, An' be stalin' a taste Uv them lips that are coaxin' me so." Then she blushed a more illegent red, As she said, widout raisin' her head, An' her eyes lookin' down 'Neath her lashes so brown, "Would ye like me to drive, Misther Ted?"
"'SPÄCIALLY JIM" ANONYMOUS
I wus mighty good-lookin' when I was young, Peert an' black-eyed an' slim, With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, 'Späcially Jim! The likeliest one of 'em all was he, Chipper an' han'som' an' trim, But I tossed up my head an' made fun o' the crowd, 'Späcially Jim! I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men, An' I wouldn't take stock in him! But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk, 'Späcially Jim! I got so tired o' havin' 'em roun' 'Späcially Jim! I made up my mind I'd settle down An' take up with him. So we was married one Sunday in church, 'Twas crowded full to the brim; 'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all, 'Späcially Jim.
AGNES, I LOVE THEE! ANONYMOUS
I stood upon the ocean's briny shore; And, with a fragile reed, I wrote Upon the sand—"Agnes, I love thee!" The mad waves rolled by, and blotted out The fair impression. Frail reed! cruel wave! treacherous sand! I'll trust ye no more; But, with giant hand, I'll pluck From Norway's frozen shore Her tallest pine, and dip its top Into the crater of Vesuvius, And upon the high and burnished heavens I'll write,—"Agnes, I love thee!"— And I would like to see any Dog-goned wave wash that out!
THE GORILLA ANONYMOUS
"O mighty ape! Half beast, half man, Thy uncouth shape Betrays a plan The gulf of Being at a bound to span. Thou art the link between ourselves and brutes, Lifting the lower to a higher plane; Thy human face all cavilers refutes, Who sneer at Darwin as a dreamer vain. How camest thou beneath this canvas tent? Within this cage? behind these iron bars? Thou, whose young days in tropic lands were spent, With strange companions, under foreign stars? Art thou not lonely? What is life to thee Thus mewed in prison, innocent of crime, Become a spectacle for crowds to see, And reckless boys to jeer at all the time? Hast thou no feelings such as we possess? Art thou devoid of any sense of shame? Rise up, O brother, and thy wrongs redress; Rise in thy might, and be no longer tame!" I paused in my apostrophe. The animal arose; He seized the bars that penned him in: my blood in terror froze. He shook the cage from side to side; the frightened people fled; Then, in a tone of savage wrath, the horrid monster said: "I'm hired by the wake to wear the dhirty craythur's shkin; I came from Tipperary, and me name is Micky Flynn!"