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THE WIT AND HUMOR OF AMERICA
In Ten Volumes
VOL. VI
[Illustration: FINLEY PETER DUNNE (MR. DOOLEY)]
THE WIT AND HUMOR OF AMERICA
EDITED BY MARSHALL P. WILDER
_Volume VI_
Funk & Wagnalls Company
New York and London
Copyright MDCCCCVII, BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
Copyright MDCCCCXI, THE THWING COMPANY
CONTENTS
PAGE
Abou Ben Butler John Paul 1167
Advertiser, The Eugene Field 1101
After the Funeral James M. Bailey 1146
Apostasy of William Dodge, The Stanley Waterloo 1084
Ballad of Grizzly Gulch, The Wallace Irwin 1073
Banty Tim John Hay 1173
Bear Story, The James Whitcomb Riley 1047
Book-Canvasser, The Anonymous 1113
Bully Boat and a Brag Captain, A Sol Smith 1208
Bumblebeaver, The Kenyon Cox 1145
Casey at the Bat Ernest Lawrence Thayer 1148
Chad's Story of the Goose F. Hopkinson Smith 993
Colonel Carter's Story of
the Postmaster F. Hopkinson Smith 1052
Comic Miseries John G. Saxe 1121
Coquette, The John G. Saxe 1127
De Gradual Commence Wallace Bruce Amsbary 1164
Evening Oliver Wendell Holmes 1175
Fairport Art Museum, The Octave Thanet 1062
Famous Mulligan Ball, The Frank L. Stanton 1103
Genial Idiot Discusses the Music
Cure, The John Kendrick Bangs 1105
Grains of Truth Bill Nye 985
Her Valentine Richard Hovey 1117
It Pays to be Happy Tom Masson 1170
James and Reginald Eugene Field 1171
Jones Lloyd Osbourne 1007
Latter-Day Warnings Oliver Wendell Holmes 1168
Lost Chords Eugene Field 1080
Love Sonnets of an Office Boy S.E. Kiser 1056
Martyrdom of Mr. Stevens, The Herbert Quick 1151
Merchant and the Book-Agent, The Anonymous 1124
Modern Farmer, The Jack Appleton 1083
Mosquito, The William Cullen Bryant 1199
Mr. Dooley on the Game of Football Finley Peter Dunne 1059
My First Cigar Robert J. Burdette 1204
My Philosofy James Whitcomb Riley 1076
Octopussycat, The Kenyon Cox 1112
Old Settler, The Ed. Mott 1177
Owl-Critic, The James T. Fields 1196
Paintermine, The Kenyon Cox 1100
Shonny Schwartz Charles Follen Adams 1206
Society Upon the Stanislaus, The Bret Harte 1078
So Wags the World Anne Warner 1092
Spring Feeling, A Bliss Carman 1129
Talking Horse, The John T. McIntyre 1185
Thompson Street Poker Club, The Henry Guy Carleton 1140
Thoughts fer the Discuraged Farmer James Whitcomb Riley 1081
"Tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-bum! bum!" Wilbur D. Nesbit 1202
Unconscious Humor J.K. Wetherell 998
Up and Down Old Brandywine James Whitcomb Riley 1003
Verre Definite Wallace Bruce Amsbary 1183
Wasted Opportunities Roy Farrell Greene 1132
Weddin', The Jennie Betts Hartswick 1134
Welsh Rabbittern, The Kenyon Cox 1120
When the Allegash Drive Goes Through Holman F. Day 1214
Wild Boarder, The Kenyon Cox 1163
COMPLETE INDEX AT THE END OF VOLUME X.
GRAINS OF TRUTH
BY BILL NYE
A young friend has written to me as follows: "Could you tell me
something of the location of the porcelain works in Sèvres, France, and
what the process is of making those beautiful things which come from
there? How is the name of the town pronounced? Can you tell me anything
of the history of Mme. Pompadour? Who was the Dauphin? Did you learn
anything of Louis XV whilst in France? What are your literary habits?"
It is with a great, bounding joy that I impart the desired information.
Sèvres is a small village just outside of St. Cloud (pronounced San
Cloo). It is given up to the manufacture of porcelain. You go to St.
Cloud by rail or river, and then drive over to Sèvres by diligence or
voiture. Some go one way and some go the other. I rode up on the Seine,
aboard of a little, noiseless, low-pressure steamer about the size of a
sewing machine. It was called the Silvoo Play, I think.
The fare was thirty centimes--or, say, three cents. After paying my fare
and finding that I still had money left, I lunched at St. Cloud in the
open air at a trifling expense. I then took a bottle of milk from my
pocket and quenched my thirst. Traveling through France one finds that
the water is especially bad, tasting of the Dauphin at times, and
dangerous in the extreme. I advise those, therefore, who wish to be well
whilst doing the Continent, to carry, especially in France, as I did, a
large, thick-set bottle of milk, or kumiss, with which to take the wire
edge off one's whistle whilst being yanked through the Louvre.
St. Cloud is seven miles west of the center of Paris and almost ten
miles by rail on the road to Versailles--pronounced Vairsi. St. Cloud
belongs to the canton of Sèvres and the arrondissement of Versailles. An
arrondissement is not anything reprehensible. It is all right. You,
yourself, could belong to an arrondissement if you lived in France.
St. Cloud is on the beautiful hill slope, looking down the valley of the
Seine, with Paris in the distance. It is peaceful and quiet and
beautiful. Everything is peaceful in Paris when there is no revolution
on the carpet. The steam cars run safely and do not make so much noise
as ours do. The steam whistle does not have such a hold on people as it
does here. The adjutant-general at the depot blows a little tin bugle,
the admiral of the train returns the salute, the adjutant-general says
"Allons!" and the train starts off like a somewhat leisurely young man
who is going to the depot to meet his wife's mother.
One does not realize what a Fourth of July racket we live in and employ
in our business till he has been the guest of a monarchy of Europe,
between whose toes the timothy and clover have sprung up to a great
height. And yet it is a pleasing change, and I shall be glad when we as
a republic have passed the blow-hard period, laid aside the
ear-splitting steam whistle, settled down to good, permanent
institutions, and taken on the restful, soothful, Boston air which comes
with time and the quiet self-congratulation that one is born in a Bible
land and with Gospel privileges, and where the right to worship in a
strictly high-church manner is open to all.
The Palace of St. Cloud was once the residence of Napoleon I in
summer-time. He used to go out there for the heated term, and folding
his arms across his stomach, have thought after thought regarding the
future of France. Yet he very likely never had an idea that some day it
would be a thrifty republic, engaged in growing green peas, or pulling a
soiled dove out of the Seine, now and then, to add to the attractions of
her justly celebrated morgue.
Louis XVIII also put up at the Palace in St. Cloud several summers. He
spelled it "palais," which shows that he had very poor early English
advantages, or that he was, as I have always suspected, a native of
Quebec. Charles X also changed the bedding somewhat, and moved in during
his reign. He also added a new iron sink and a place in the barn for
washing buggies. Louis Philippe spent his summers here for a number of
years, and wrote weekly letters to the Paris papers, signed "Uno," in
which he urged the taxpayers to show more veneration for their royal
nibs. Napoleon III occupied the palais in summer during his lifetime,
availing himself finally of the use of Mr. Bright's justly celebrated
disease and dying at the dawn of better institutions for beautiful but
unhappy France.
I visited the palais (pronounced pallay), which was burned by the
Prussians in 1870. The grounds occupy 960 acres, which I offered to buy
and fit up, but probably I did not deal with responsible parties. This
part of France reminds me very much of North Carolina. I mean, of
course, the natural features. Man has done more for France, it seems to
me, than for the Tar Heel State, and the cities of Asheville and Paris
are widely different. The police of Paris rarely get together in front
of the court-house to pitch horseshoes or dwell on the outlook for the
goober crop.
And yet the same blue, ozonic sky, if I may be allowed to coin a word,
the same soft, restful, _dolce frumenti_ air of gentle, genial health,
and of cark destroying, magnetic balm to the congested soul, the
inflamed nerve and the festering brain, are present in Asheville that
one finds in the quiet drives of San Cloo with the successful squirt of
the mighty fountains of Vairsi and the dark and whispering forests of
Fon-taine-_bloo_.
The palais at San Cloo presents a rather dejected appearance since it
was burned, and the scorched walls are bare, save where here and there a
warped and wilted water pipe festoons the blackened and blistered wreck
of what was once so grand and so gay.
San Cloo has a normal school for the training of male teachers only. I
visited it, but for some cause I did not make a hit in my address to the
pupils until I began to speak in their own national tongue. Then the
closest attention was paid to what I said, and the keenest delight was
manifest on every radiant face. The president, who spoke some English,
shook hands with me as we parted, and I asked him how the students took
my remarks. He said: "They shall all the time keep the thinkness--what
you shall call the recollect--of monsieur's speech in preserves, so that
they shall forget it not continualle. We shall all the time say we have
not witness something like it since the time we come here, and have not
so much enjoy ourselves since the grand assassination by the guillotine.
Come next winter and be with us for one week. Some of us will remain in
the hall each time."
At San Cloo I hired of a quiet young fellow about thirty-five years of
age, who kept a very neat livery stable there, a sort of victoria and a
big Percheron horse, with fetlock whiskers that reminded me of the
Sutherland sisters. As I was in no hurry I sat on the iron settee in the
cool court of the livery stable, and with my arm resting on the shoulder
of the proprietor I spoke of the crops and asked if generally people
about there regarded the farmer movement as in any way threatening to
the other two great parties. He did not seem to know, and so I watched
the coachman who was to drive me, as he changed his clothes in order to
give me my money's worth in grandeur.
One thing I liked about France was that the people were willing, at a
slight advance on the regular price, to treat a very ordinary man with
unusual respect and esteem. This surprised and delighted me beyond
measure, and I often told people there that I did not begrudge the
additional expense. The coachman was also hostler, and when the carriage
was ready he altered his attire by removing a coarse, gray shirt or
tunic and putting on a long, olive green coachman's coat, with erect
linen collar and cuffs sewed into the collar and sleeves. He wore a high
hat that was much better than mine, as is frequently the case with
coachmen and their employers. My coachman now gives me his silk hat when
he gets through with it in the spring and fall, so I am better dressed
than I used to be.
But we were going to say a word regarding the porcelain works at Sèvres.
It is a modern building and is under government control. The museum is
filled with the most beautiful china dishes and funny business that one
could well imagine. Besides, the pottery ever since its construction has
retained its models, and they, of course, are worthy of a day's study.
The "Sèvres blue" is said to be a little bit bluer than anything else in
the known world except the man who starts a nonpareil paper in a pica
town.
I was careful not to break any of these vases and things, and thus
endeared myself to the foreman of the place. All employes are uniformed
and extremely deferential to recognized ability. Practically, for half a
day, I owned the place.
A cattle friend of mine who was looking for a dynasty, whose tail he
could twist while in Europe, and who used often to say over our glass of
vin ordinaire (which I have since learned is not the best brand at all),
that nothing would tickle him more than "to have a little deal with a
crowned head and get him in the door," accidentally broke a blue crock
out there at Sèvres which wouldn't hold over a gallon, and it took the
best part of a carload of cows to pay for it, he told me.
The process of making the Sèvres ware is not yet published in book form,
especially the method of coloring and enameling. It is a secret
possessed by duly authorized artists. The name of the town is pronounced
Save.
Mme. Pompadour is said to have been the natural daughter of a butcher,
which I regard as being more to her own credit than though she had been
an artificial one. Her name was Jeanne Antoinette Poisson Le Normand
d'Etioles, Marchioness de Pompadour, and her name is yet used by the
authorities of Versailles as a fire escape, so I am told.
She was the mistress of Louis XV, who never allowed her to put her hands
in dishwater during the entire time she visited at his house. D'Etioles
was her first husband, but she left him for a gay but rather
reprehensible life at court, where she was terribly talked about, though
she is said not to have cared a cent.
She developed into a marvelous politician, and early seeing that the
French people were largely governed by the literary lights of that time,
she began to cultivate the acquaintance of the magazine writers, and
tried to join the Authors' Club.
She then became prominent by originating a method of doing up the hair,
which has since grown popular among people whose hair has not, like my
own, been already "done up."
This style of Mme. Pompadour's was at once popular with the young men
who ran the throttles of the soda fountains of that time, and is still
well spoken of. A young friend of mine trained his hair up from his
forehead in that way once and could not get it down again. During his
funeral his hair, which had been glued down by the undertaker, became
surprised at something said by the clergyman and pushed out the end of
his casket.
The king tired in a few years of Mme. Pompadour and wished that he had
not encouraged her to run away from her husband. She, however, retained
her hold upon the blasé and alcoholic monarch by her wonderful
versatility and genius.
When all her talents as an artiste and politician palled upon his old
rum-soaked and emaciated brain, and ennui, like a mighty canker, ate
away large corners of his moth-eaten soul, she would sit in the gloaming
and sing to him, "Hard Times, Hard Times, Come Again No More," meantime
accompanying herself on the harpsichord or the sackbut or whatever they
played in those days. Then she instituted theatricals, giving, through
the aid of the nobility, a very good version of "Peck's Bad Boy" and
"Lend Me Five Centimes."
She finally lost her influence over Looey the XV, and as he got to be an
old man the thought suddenly occurred to him to reform, and so he had
Mme. Pompadour beheaded at the age of forty-two years. This little
story should teach us that no matter how gifted we are, or how high we
may wear our hair, our ambitions must be tempered by honor and
integrity; also that pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit
before a plunk.
CHAD'S STORY OF THE GOOSE
BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH
I nodded my head, and Chad closed the door softly, taking with him a
small cup and saucer, and returning in a few minutes followed by that
most delicious of all aromas, the savory steam of boiling coffee.
"My Marsa John," he continued, filling the cup with the smoking
beverage, "never drank nuffin' but tea, eben at de big dinners when all
de gemmen had coffee in de little cups--dat's one ob 'em you's drinkin'
out ob now; dey ain't mo' dan fo' on 'em left. Old marsa would have his
pot ob tea: Henny use' ter make it for him; makes it now for Miss Nancy.
"Henny was a young gal den, long 'fo' we was married. Henny b'longed to
Colonel Lloyd Barbour, on de next plantation to ourn.
"Mo' coffee, Major?" I handed Chad the empty cup. He refilled it, and
went straight on without drawing breath.
"Wust scrape I eber got into wid old Marsa John was ober Henny. I tell
ye she was a harricane in dem days. She come into de kitchen one time
where I was helpin' git de dinner ready, an' de cook had gone to de
spring house, an' she says:
"'Chad, what ye cookin' dat smells so nice?'
"'Dat's a goose,' I says, 'cookin' for Marsa John's dinner. We got
quality,' says I, pointin' to de dinin'-room do'.
"'Quality!' she says. 'Spec' I know what de quality is. Dat's for you
an' de cook.'
"Wid dat she grabs a caarvin' knife from de table, opens de do' ob de
big oven, cuts off a leg ob de goose, an' dis'pears round de kitchen
corner wid de leg in her mouf.
"'Fo' I knowed whar I was Marsa John come to de kitchen do' an' says,
'Gittin' late, Chad; bring in de dinner.' You see, Major, dey ain't no
up an' down stairs in de big house, like it is yer; kitchen an'
dinin'-room all on de same flo'.
"Well, sah, I was scared to def, but I tuk dat goose an' laid him wid de
cut side down on de bottom of de pan 'fo' de cook got back, put some
dressin' an' stuffin' ober him, an' shet de stove do'. Den I tuk de
sweet potatoes an' de hominy an' put 'em on de table, an' den I went
back in de kitchen to git de baked ham. I put on de ham an' some mo'
dishes, an' marsa says, lookin' up:
"'I t'ought dere was a roast goose, Chad.'
"'I ain't yerd nothin' 'bout no goose,' I says, 'I'll ask de cook.'
"Next minute I yerd old marsa a-hollerin':
"'Mammy Jane, ain't we got a goose?'
"'Lord-a-massy! yes, marsa. Chad, you wu'thless nigger, ain't you tuk
dat goose out yit?'
"'Is we got a goose?' said I.
"'_Is we got a goose?_ Didn't you help pick it?'
"I see whar my hair was short, an' I snatched up a hot dish from de
hearth, opened de oven do', an' slide de goose in jes as he was, an' lay
him down befo' Marsa John.
"'Now see what de ladies'll have for dinner,' says old marsa, pickin' up
his caarvin' knife.
"'What'll you take for dinner, miss?' says I. 'Baked ham?'
"'No,' she says, lookin' up to whar Marsa John sat; 'I think I'll take a
leg ob dat goose'--jes so.
"Well, marsa, cut off de leg an' put a little stuffin' an' gravy on wid
a spoon, an' says to me, 'Chad, see what dat gemman'll have.'
"'What'll you take for dinner, sah?' says I. 'Nice breast o' goose, or
slice o' ham?'
"'No; I think I'll take a leg of dat goose,' he says.
"I didn't say nuffin', but I knowed bery well he wa'n't a-gwine to git
it.
"But, Major, you oughter seen ole marsa lookin' for der udder leg ob dat
goose! He rolled him ober on de dish, dis way an' dat way, an' den he
jabbed dat ole bone-handled caarvin' fork in him an' hel' him up ober de
dish an' looked under him an' on top ob him, an' den he says, kinder sad
like:
"'Chad, whar is de udder leg ob dat goose?'
"'It didn't hab none,' says I.
"'You mean ter say, Chad, dat de gooses on my plantation on'y got one
leg?'
"'Some ob 'em has an' some ob 'em ain't. You see, marsa, we got two
kinds in de pond, an' we was a little boddered to-day, so Mammy Jane
cooked dis one 'cause I cotched it fust.'
"'Well,' said he, lookin' like he look when he send for you in de little
room, 'I'll settle wid ye after dinner.'
"Well, dar I was shiverin' an' shakin' in my shoes, an' droppin' gravy
an' spillin' de wine on de table-cloth, I was dat shuck up; an' when de
dinner was ober he calls all de ladies an' gemmen, an' says, 'Now come
down to de duck pond. I'm gwineter show dis nigger dat all de gooses on
my plantation got mo' den one leg.'
"I followed 'long, trapesin' after de whole kit an' b'ilin', an' when we
got to de pond"--here Chad nearly went into a convulsion with
suppressed laughter--"dar was de gooses sittin' on a log in de middle of
dat ole green goose-pond wid one leg stuck down so, an' de udder tucked
under de wing."
Chad was now on one leg, balancing himself by my chair, the tears
running down his cheek.
"'Dar, marsa,' says I, 'don't ye see? Look at dat ole gray goose! Dat's
de berry match ob de one we had to-day.'
"Den de ladies all hollered, an' de gemmen laughed so loud dey yerd 'em
at de big house.
"'Stop, you black scoun'rel!' Marsa John says, his face gittin' white
an' he a-jerkin' his handkerchief from his pocket. 'Shoo!'
"Major, I hope to have my brains kicked out by a lame grasshopper if
ebery one ob dem gooses didn't put down de udder leg!
"'Now, you lyin' nigger,' he says, raisin' his cane ober my head, 'I'll
show you'--
"'Stop, Marsa John!' I hollered; ''t ain't fair, 't ain't fair.'
"'Why ain't it fair?' says he.
"''Cause,' says I, 'you didn't say "Shoo!" to de goose what was on de
table'."
Chad laughed until he choked.
"And did he thrash you?"
"Marsa John? No, sah. He laughed loud as anybody; an' den dat night he
says to me as I was puttin' some wood on de fire:
"'Chad, where did dat leg go?' An' so I ups an' tells him all about
Henny, an' how I was lyin' 'case I was 'feared de gal would git hurt,
an' how she was on'y a-foolin', thinkin' it was my goose; an' den de ole
marsa look in de fire for a long time, an' den he says:
"'Dat's Colonel Barbour's Henny, ain't it, Chad?'
"'Yes, marsa,' says I.
"Well, de next mawnin' he had his black horse saddled, an' I held the
stirrup for him to git on, an' he rode ober to de Barbour plantation,
an' didn't come back till plumb black night. When he come up I held de
lantern so I could see his face, for I wa'n't easy in my mine all day.
But it was all bright an' shinin' same as a' angel's.
"'Chad,' he says, handin' me de reins, 'I bought yo' Henny dis arternoon
from Colonel Barbour, an' she's comin' ober to-morrow, an' you can bofe
git married next Sunday.'"
UNCONSCIOUS HUMOR
BY J.K. WETHERILL
Perhaps unconscious humor does not appeal to the more amiable side of
our sense of mirth, for it excites in us a conceited feeling of
superiority over those who are making us laugh,--but its unexpectedness
and infinite variety render it irresistible to a certain class of minds.
The duly labeled "joke" follows a certain law and rule; whereas no
jester could invent the _grotesqueries_ of the unconscious humorist.
As a humble gleaner after the editorial scythe,--or, to be truly modern,
I should say mowing-machine,--I have gathered some strange sheaves of
this sort of humor. Like many provincial newspapers, that to which I am
attached makes a feature of printing the social happenings in villages
of the surrounding country, and these out-of-town correspondents "don't
do a thing to" the English language. One of them invariably refers to
the social lights of his vicinity as "our prominent socialists," and
describes some individual as "happening to an accident." To another,
every festal occasion is "a bower of beauty and a scene of fairyland."
Blue-penciling they resent, and one of them wrote to complain that a
descriptive effort of his had been "much altered and deranged." The
paper also publishes portraits of children and young women, and it is in
the descriptions accompanying these pictures that the rural
correspondent excels himself. One wound up his eulogy in an apparently
irrepressible burst of enthusiasm: "She is indeed a _tout ensemble_." A
child of six months was described as "studious"; and another
correspondent went into details thus: "Little Willie has only one large
blue eye, the other having been punched out by his brother with a stick,
by accident." A small child was accredited with "a pleasing disposition
and a keen juvenile conception."
The following are some of the descriptive phrases applied to village
belles: "She is perfectly at home on the piano, where her executions
have attained international celebrity." ... "She possesses a mine of
repartee and the qualities which have long rendered illustive her noble
family." ... "Her carriage and disposition are swan-like." ... "Her eyes
can express pathetic pathos, but flash forth fiery independence when her
country's name is traduced." ... "She has a molded arm, and her
Juno-like form glides with a rhythmic move in the soft swell of a
Strauss." ... "Her chestnut hair gives a rich recess to her lovely,
fawnlike eyes, which shine like a star set in the crown of an angel."
... One writer becomes absolutely incoherent in his admiration, and
lavishes a mixture of metaphors upon his subject: "She portrays a
picture worthy of a Raphael. She dances like the fairies before the
heavenly spirits. She looks like a celestial goddess from an outburst of
morning-glories; her lovely form would assume a phantomlike flash as she
glides the floor, as though she were a mystic dream."
Scarcely less rich in unconscious humor are some of the effusions of
those who have literary aspirations. A descriptive article contains a
reference to "a lonely house that stood in silent mutiny." "Indians who
border on civilization, an interesting people in their superstitious
way," infested the vicinity, and one of the points of interest was the
Wild Man's Leap, "so called from an Indian who is said to have leaped
across to get away from some men who were trying to expatriate him." An
aspirant made this generous offer: "I will write you an article every
week if you so wish it, as I have nothing to do after supper." Modest
was the request of another, concerning remuneration: "I do not ask for
money, but would like you to send me a small monkey. I already have a
parrot."
But no finer specimen of unconscious humor has ever fallen under the
sub-editorial eye than "The Beautiful Circus Girl." In these
enterprising days rising young authors sometimes boast in print of their
ignorance of grammar and spelling, but the author of the aforementioned
bit of fiction surpasses them all in that respect. It seems only just
that such a unique gem should be rescued from the dull obscurity of the
waste-basket.
THE BEAUTIFUL CIRCUS GIRL
Some years ago the quaint but slow little village of Mariana was all on
the qui-of-eve with excitement. Pasted on every tree and sign was
announcements of Hall's circus, and the aperence of pretty Rose Floid in
the pearless feets of tight-rope dancing, and Seignor Paul Paulo as her
attendent. All the vilage was agog, for in their midst had old Hall and
his Wife whome he always (spoke of as the Misus) taken a small but
quaint cotage, so as to make quiet and please Rose whose guardien he
was.
In the distanse was seen an advancing teem, and mounted on its box
driving was W. Alexander, distinguished as to aperence, tallent, and
that charm, _money_. He was of the most patricien aristocrats of the
place. Placed on the summit of one of those hils that spring up in the
most unexpected ways and degrees was the quaint old Tudor mansion of the
Alexanders called Waterloo, in rememberence of the home of his ancestors
which now rests on the banks of the Potomack; a legend as to war and
romance. Though bearing with him all the honners that Cambridg could
confere, W. Alexander was a faverite in the vilage, being ever ready
with a kind enquiry as to Parent, or peny for marbles, not forgetting
his boyhoods days. Though the beau par excelant of the vilage, and
posessing vast landed estate and a kind retinu, he was not haughty.
Every one was eger to see Rose perform. She in her pasage too and frow
had won by her sweet manners (many likings) ere she exhibited her skill.
The eventful hour of promis came and what a crowd was there. Rose came
fourth, asisted by Paul Paulo. His form was molded even as an Apolo, and
his eger eye was fixed on the bony girl. She ballanced her pole, saught
her equiliberum, and every heart was at her desposal, not accepting W.
Alexander. Seeing this, the dark pashonate eye of the Italian scowled.
So droped the curtain of the first performance. And W. Alexander stroled
on towards his home, heart and head full of the beautiful circus girl,
thoughts were very conflicting, love at first sight.
(We will skip, for want of space, the exquisite passages descriptive of
the mutual love of Rose and W. Alexander, and pass on to the finale.)
There was a paus, a sencation, and Rose came fourth to meander in
mid-air. Admeration was at its hight, as she swayed too and frow as it
were a winged egle from some etherial climb.
Low! a paus--the rope snaps--and Rose falls to erth a helpless mass of
youth and beauty. The venerable man of medicin closed her star-lit eyes
now forever dimed to this world. And all knew she had walked the last
rope that bound her to this erth.
What, who, was her murderer?
The rope seemed to be cut with some jaged instrument so that when her
tiny feat pressed its coils it became her destroyer.
Suspician pointed at the Italian.
W. Alexander's old Father of sympathy now the strongest, entreted our
Hero to sale for distent shores, there asisted by that balm time and
change, there assuage his grefe.
Well, came the last evening, and with the sadest of hearts and a bunch
of sweet violets W. Alexander went to bid a long fare well.
But as he neared the sacred spot his heart seemed deadened. Prone on her
grave changing the snowy whiteness of the flowers with its crimson die
was the body of Paul Paulo. Who by his own hand caused his life blood to
floe as an attonement.
UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
Up and down old Brandywine,
In the days 'at's past and gone--
With a dad-burn hook-and-line
And a saplin'-pole--i swawn!
I've had more fun, to the square
Inch, than ever _any_where!
Heaven to come can't discount mine
Up and down old Brandywine!
Haint no sense in _wishin'_--yit
Wisht to goodness I _could_ jes
"Gee" the blame world round and git
Back to that old happiness!--
Kindo' drive back in the shade
"The old Covered Bridge" there laid
Crosst the crick, and sorto' soak
My soul over, hub and spoke!
Honest, now!--it haint no _dream_
'At I'm wantin',--but _the fac's_
As they wuz; the same old stream,
And the same old times, i jacks!--
Gim me back my bare feet--and
Stonebruise too!--And scratched and tanned!
And let hottest dog-days shine
Up and down old Brandywine!
In and on betwixt the trees
'Long the banks, pour down yer noon,
Kindo' curdled with the breeze
And the yallerhammer's tune;
And the smokin', chokin' dust
O' the turnpike at its wusst--
_Saturd'ys_, say, when it seems
Road's jes jammed with country teams!--
Whilse the old town, fur away
'Crosst the hazy pastur'-land,
Dozed-like in the heat o' day
Peaceful' as a hired hand.
Jolt the gravel th'ough the floor
O' the old bridge!--grind and roar
With yer blame percession-line--
Up and down old Brandywine!
Souse me and my new straw-hat
Off the foot-log!--what _I_ care?--
Fist shoved in the crown o' that--
Like the old Clown ust to wear.
Wouldn't swop it fer a' old
Gin-u-wine raal crown o' gold!--
Keep yer _King_ ef you'll gim me
Jes the boy I ust to be!
Spill my fishin'-worms! er steal
My best "goggle-eye!"--but you
Can't lay hands on joys I feel
Nibblin' like they ust to do!
So, in memory, to-day
Same old ripple lips away
At my cork and saggin' line,
Up and down old Brandywine!
There the logs is, round the hill,
Where "Old Irvin" ust to lift
Out sunfish from daylight till
Dew-fall--'fore he'd leave "The Drift"
And give _us_ a chance--and then
Kindo' fish back home again,
Ketchin' 'em jes left and right
Where _we_ hadn't got "a bite!"
Er, 'way windin' out and in,--
Old path th'ough the iurnweeds
And dog-fennel to yer chin--
Then come suddent, th'ough the reeds
And cat-tails, smack into where
Them-air woods-hogs ust to scare
Us clean 'crosst the County-line,
Up and down old Brandywine!
But the dim roar o' the dam
It 'ud coax us furder still
Tords the old race, slow and ca'm,
Slidin' on to Huston's mill--
Where, I 'spect, "The Freeport crowd"
Never _warmed_ to us er 'lowed
We wuz quite so overly
Welcome as we aimed to be.
Still it peared-like ever'thing--
Fur away from home as _there_--
Had more _relish_-like, i jing!--
Fish in stream, er bird in air!
O them rich old bottom-lands,
Past where Cowden's Schoolhouse stands!
Wortermelons--_master-mine!_
Up and down old Brandywine!
And sich pop-paws!--Lumps o' raw
Gold and green,--jes oozy th'ough
With ripe yaller--like you've saw
Custard-pie with no crust to:
And jes _gorges_ o' wild plums,
Till a feller'd suck his thumbs
Clean up to his elbows! _My!_--
_Me some more er lem me die!_
Up and down old Brandywine!...
Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!--
Flick me with a pizenvine
And yell "_Yip!_" and lem me loose!
--Old now as I then wuz young,
'F I could sing as I _have_ sung,
Song 'ud surely ring _dee-vine_
Up and down old Brandywine!
JONES
BY LLOYD OSBOURNE
I
I could have taken "No" like a man, and would have gone away decently
and never bothered her again. I told her so straight out in the first
angry flush of my rejection--but this string business, with everything
left hanging in the air, so to speak, made a fellow feel like thirty
cents.
"It simply means that I'm engaged and you are not," I said.
"It's nothing of the kind," she returned tearfully. "You're as free as
free, Ezra. You can go away this moment, and never write or anything!"
Her lips trembled as she said this, and I confess it gave me a kind of
savage pleasure to feel that it was still in my power to hurt her.
It may sound unkind, but still you must admit that the whole situation
was exasperating. Here was five-foot-five of exquisite, blooming,
twenty-year-old American girlhood sending away the man she confessed to
care for, because, forsooth, she would not marry before her elder
sister! I always thought it was beautiful of Freddy (she was named
Frederica, you know) to be always so sweet and tender and grateful about
Eleanor; but sometimes gratitude can be carried altogether too far, even
if you _are_ an orphan, and _were_ brought up by hand. Eleanor was
thirty-four if a day--a nice enough woman, of course, and college bred,
and cultivated, and clever--but her long suit wasn't good looks. She was
tall and bony; worshipped genius and all that; and played the violin.
"No," repeated Freddy, "I shall never, never marry before Eleanor. It
would mortify her--I know it would--and make her feel that she herself
had failed. She's awfully frank about those things, Ezra--surprisingly
frank. I don't see why being an old maid is always supposed to be so
funny, do you? It's touching and tragic in a woman who'd like to marry
and who isn't asked!"
"But Eleanor must have had heaps of offers," I said, "surely--"
"Just one."
"Well, one's something," I remarked cheerfully. "Why didn't she take him
then?"
"She told me only last night that she was sorry she hadn't!"
Here, at any rate, was something to chew on. I saw a gleam of hope. Why
shouldn't Eleanor marry the only one--and make us all happy!
"That was three years ago," said Freddy.
"I have loved you for four," I retorted. I was cross with
disappointment. To be dashed to the ground, you know, just as I was
beginning--"Tell me some more about him," I went on. I'm a plain
business man and hang on to an idea like a bulldog; once I get my teeth
in they stay in, for all you may drag at me and wallop me with an
umbrella--metaphorically speaking, of course.
"Tell me his name, where he lives, and all."
"We were coming back from Colorado, and there was some mistake about our
tickets. They sold our Pullman drawing-room twice over--to Doctor Jones
and his mother, and also to ourselves. You never saw such a fight--and
that led to our making friends, and his proposing to Eleanor!"
"Then why in Heaven's name didn't she" (it was on the tip of my tongue
to say "jump at him") "take him?"
"She said she couldn't marry a man who was her intellectual inferior."
"And was he?"
"Oh, he was a perfect idiot--but nice, and all that, and tremendously in
love with her. Pity, wasn't it?"
"The obvious thing to do is to chase him up instantly. Where did you say
he lived?"
"His mother told me he was going to New York to practice medicine."
"But didn't you ever hear from him again? I mean, was that the end of it
all?"
"Yes."
"Then you don't even know if he has married since?"
"No!"
"Nor died?"
"No."
"Nor anything at all?"
"No."
"What was his first name?"
"Wait a moment ... let me think ... yes, it was Harry."
"Just Harry Jones, then, New York City?"
Freddy laughed forlornly.
"But he must have had antecedents," I cried out. "There are two ways of
doing this Sherlock Holmes business--backward and forward, you know.
Let's take Doctor Jones backward. As they say in post-office
forms?--what was his place of origin?"
"New York City."
"He begins there and ends there, does he, then?"
"Yes."
"But how sure are you that Eleanor would marry him if I did manage to
find him and bring him back?"
"I'm not sure at all."
"No, but Freddy, listen--it's important. You told me yourself that
she--I want the very identical words she used."
Freddy reflected.
"She said she was almost sorry she hadn't accepted that silly doctor!"
"That doesn't seem much, does it?" I remarked gloomily.
"Oh, from Eleanor it does, Ezra. She said it quite seriously. She always
hides her feelings under a veil of sarcastic humor, you know."
"You're certainly a very difficult family to marry," I said.
"Being an orphan--" she began.
"Well, I'm going to find that Jones if I--!"
"Ezra, dear boy, you're crazy. How could you think for a moment that--"
"I'm off, little girl. Good-by!"
"Wait a second, Ezra!"
She rose and went into the next room, reappearing with something in her
hand. She was crying and smiling both at once. I took the little case
she gave me--it was like one of those things that pen-knives are put
in--and looked at her for an explanation.
"It's the h-h-hindleg of a j-j-jack-rabbit," she said, "shot by a
g-g-grave at the f-f-full of the moon. It's supposed to be l-l-lucky. It
was given to me by a naval officer who got drowned. It's the only way I
can h-h-help you!"
And thus equipped I started bravely for New York.
II
In the directory I found eleven pages of Joneses; three hundred and
eighty-four Henry Joneses; and (excluding seventeen dentists)
eighty-seven Doctor Henry Joneses. I asked one of the typists in the
office to copy out the list, and prepared to wade in. We were on the eve
of a labor war, and it was exceedingly difficult for me to get away. As
the managing partner of Hodge & Westoby, boxers (not punching boxers,
nor China boxers, but just plain American box-making boxers), I had to
bear the brunt of the whole affair, and had about as much spare time as
you could heap on a ten-cent piece. I had to be firm, conciliatory,
defiant and tactful all at once, and every hour I took off for Jonesing
threatened to blow the business sky-high. It was a tight place and no
mistake, and it was simply jack-rabbit hindleg luck that pulled me
through!
My first Jones was a hoary old rascal above a drug store. He was a hard
man to get away from, and made such a fuss about my wasting his time
with idle questions that I flung him a dollar and departed. He followed
me down to my cab and insisted on sticking in a giant bottle of his
Dog-Root Tonic. I dropped it overboard a few blocks farther on, and
thought that was the end of it till the whole street began to yell at
me, and a policeman grabbed my horse, while a street arab darted up
breathless with the Dog-Root Tonic. I presented it to him, together with
a quarter, the policeman darkly regarding me as an incipient madman.
The second Jones was a man of about thirty, a nice, gentlemanly fellow,
in a fine office. I have usually been an off-hand man in business,
accustomed to quick decisions and very little beating about the bush.
But I confess I was rather nonplussed with the second Jones. How the
devil was I to _begin_? His waiting-room was full of people, and I
hardly felt entitled to sit down and gas about one thing and the other
till the chance offered of leading up to the Van Coorts. So I said I had
some queer, shooting sensations in the chest. In five minutes he had me
half-stripped and was pounding my midriff in. And the questions that man
asked! He began with my grandparents, roamed through my childhood and
youth, dissected my early manhood, and finally came down to coffee and
what I ate for breakfast.
Then it was my turn.
I asked him, as a starter, whether he had ever been in Colorado?
No, he hadn't.
After forty-five minutes of being hammered, and stethoscoped, and
punched, and holding my breath till I was purple, and hopping on one
leg, he said I was a very obscure case of something with nine syllables!
"At least, I won't be positive with one examination," he said; "but
kindly come to-morrow at nine, when I shall be more at leisure to go
into the matter thoroughly."
I paid him ten dollars and went sorrowfully away.
The third Jones was too old to be my man; so was the fourth; the fifth
had gone away the month before, leaving no address; the sixth, however,
was younger and more promising. I thought this time I'd choose something
easier than pains in the chest. I changed them to my left hand. I was
going to keep my clothes on, anyhow. But it wasn't any use. Off they
came. After a decent interval of thumping and grandfathers, and what I
had for breakfast, I managed to get in my question:
"Ever in Colorado, Doctor?"
"Oh, dear me, no!"
Another ten dollars, and nothing accomplished!
The seventh Jones was again too old; the eighth was a pale hobbledehoy;
the ninth was a loathsome quack; the tenth had died that morning; the
eleventh was busy; the twelfth was a veterinary surgeon; the thirteenth
was an intern living at home with his widowed sister. Colorado? No, the
widowed sister was positive he had never been there. The fourteenth was
a handsome fellow of about thirty-five. He looked poor and threadbare,
and I had a glimpse of a shabby bed behind a screen. Patients obviously
did not often come his way, and his joy at seeing me was pitiful. I had
meant to try a bluff and get in my Colorado question this time free of
charge; but I hadn't the heart to do it. Slight pains in the head seemed
a safe complaint.
After a few questions he said he would have to make a thorough physical
examination.
"No clothes off!" I protested.
"It's essential," he said, and went on with something about the
radio-activity of the brain, and the vasomotor centers. The word motor
made me feel like a sick automobile. I begged to keep my clothes on; I
insisted; I promised to come to-morrow; but it wasn't any good, and in a
few minutes he was hitting me harder than either of the two before.
Maybe I was more tender! He electrocuted me extra from a switchboard,
ran red-hot needles into my legs, and finally, after banging me around
the room, said I was the strongest and wellest man who had ever entered
his office.
"There's a lot of make-believe in medicine," he said; "but I'm one of
those poor devils who can't help telling a patient the truth. There's
nothing whatever the matter with you, Mr. Westoby, except that your skin
has a slightly abrased look, and I seem to notice an abnormal
sensitiveness to touch."
"Were you ever in Colorado, Doctor?" I asked while he was good enough to
help me into my shirt.
"Oh, yes, I know Colorado well!"
My heart beat high.
"Some friends of mine were out there three years ago," I said. "Wouldn't
it be strange if by any chance the Van Coorts--"
"Oh, I left Denver when I was fifteen."
Five dollars!
The fifteenth Jones was a doctor of divinity; the sixteenth was a
tapeworm specialist; the seventeenth was too old, the eighteenth was too
old, the nineteenth was too old--a trio of disappointing patriarchs. The
twentieth painted out black eyes; the twenty-first was a Russian who
could scarcely speak any English. He said he had changed his name from
Karaforvochristophervitch to something more suited to American
pronunciation. He seemed to think that Jones gave him a better chance. I
sincerely hope it did. He told me that all the rest of the Jones family
was in Siberia, but that he was going to bomb them out! The
twenty-second was a negro. The twenty-third--! He was a tall, youngish
man, narrow-shouldered, rather commonplace-looking, with beautiful blue
eyes, and a timid, winning, deprecatory manner. I told him I was
suffering from insomnia. After raking over my grandfathers again and
bringing the family history down by stages to the very moment I was
shown into his office he said he should have to ask me to undergo a
thorough physical--! But I was tired of being slapped and punched and
breathed on and prodded, and was bold enough to refuse point-blank. I'd
rather have the insomnia! We worked up quite a fuss about it, for there
was something tenacious in the fellow, for all his mild, kind, gentle
ways; and I had all I could do to get off by pleading press of
business. But I wasn't to escape scot-free. Medical science had to get
even somehow. He compromised by stinging my eye out with belladonna.
Have _you_ ever had belladonna squirted in _your_ eye? Well, don't.
He was sitting at the table, writing out some cabalistic wiggles that
stood for bromide of potassium, when I remarked casually that it was
strange how well I could always sleep in Colorado.
He laid down the pen with a sigh.
"A wonderful state--Colorado," I observed.
"To me it's the land of memories," he said. "Sad, beautiful, irrevocable
memories--try tea for breakfast--do you read Browning? Then you will
remember that line: 'Oh, if I--' And I insist on your giving up that
cocktail before dinner."
"Some very dear friends of mine were once in Colorado," I said.
"Morristown people--the Van Coorts."
"The Van Coorts!"
Doctor Jones sprang from his chair, his thin, handsome face flushing
with excitement.
"Do you mean to say that you know Eleanor Van Coort?" he gasped.
"All my life."
He dropped back into the chair again and mumbled something about cigars.
I was only to have blank a day. In his perturbation I believe he limited
me to a daily box. He was trying--and trying very badly--to conceal the
emotions I had conjured up.
"They were talking about you only yesterday," I went on. "That is, if it
_was_ you! A Pullman drawing-room--"
"And a mistake about the tickets," he broke out. "Yes, yes, it's they
all right. Talking about me, did you say? Did Eleanor--I mean, did Miss
Van Coort--express--?"
"She was wondering how she could find you," I said. "You see, they're
busy getting up a house-party and she was running over her men. 'If I
only knew where that dear Doctor Jones was,' she said, and then asked
me, if by any possible chance--"
His fine blue eyes were glistening with all sorts of tender thoughts. It
was really touching. And I was in love myself, you know.
"So she has remained unmarried!" he exclaimed softly. "Unmarried--after
all these years!"
"She's a very popular girl," I said. "She's had dozens of men at her
feet--but an unfortunate attachment, something that seems to go back to
about three years ago, has apparently determined her to stay out of the
game!"
Doctor Jones dropped his head on his hands and murmured something that
sounded like "Eleanor, Eleanor!" Then he looked up with one of the most
radiant smiles I ever saw on a man's face. "I hope I'm not presuming on
a very short acquaintance," he said, "but the fact is--why should I not
tell you?--Miss Van Coort was the woman in my life!"
I explained to him that Freddy was the woman in mine.
Then you ought to have seen us fraternize!
In twenty minutes I had him almost convinced that Eleanor had loved him
all these years. But he worried a lot about a Mr. Wise who had been on
the same train, and a certain Colonel Hadow who had also paid Eleanor
attention. Jones was a great fellow for wanting to be sure. I
pooh-poohed them out of the way and gave him the open track. Then,
indeed, the clouds rolled away. He beamed with joy. In his rich gush of
friendship he recurred to the subject of my insomnia with a new-born
enthusiasm. He subdivided all my symptoms. He dived again into my
physical being. He consulted German authorities. I squirmed and lied
and resisted all I could, but he said he owed me an eternal debt that
could only be liquidated by an absolute cure. He wanted to tie me up and
shoot me with an X-ray. He ordered me to wear white socks. He had a
long, terrifying look at a drop of my blood. He jerked hairs out of my
head to sample my nerve force. He said I was a baffling subject, but
that he meant to make me well if it took the last shot in the scientific
locker. And he wound up at last by refusing point-blank to be paid a
cent!