IF WE HAD THE TIME _Richard Burton_ 267
THE FOOL'S PRAYER _Edward Rowland Sill_ 268
THE EVE OF WATERLOO _Byron_ 269
THE WRECK OF THE JULIE PLANTE _W. H. Drummond_ 271
FATHER'S WAY _Eugene Field_ 272
I AM CONTENT _Carmen Sylva Translation_ 274
THE EAGLE'S SONG _Richard Mansfield_ 275
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 277
VIRGINIUS _Macaulay_ 277
THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD _Clement Scott_ 279
WILLIAM TELL AND HIS BOY _William Baine_ 282
LASCA _F. Desprez_ 284
THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST _S. W. Foss_ 287
LIFE COMPARED TO A GAME OF CARDS _Anonymous_ 289
OLD DADDY TURNER " 290
THE TRAMP " 292
THE DANDY FIFTH _F. H. Gassaway_ 293
ON LINCOLN _Walt Whitman_ 296
THE LITTLE STOWAWAY _Anonymous_ 296
SAINT CRISPIAN'S DAY _Shakespeare_ 299
THE C'RRECT CARD _George R. Sims_ 300
THE ENGINEER'S STORY _Rosa H. Thorpe_ 303
THE FACE UPON THE FLOOR _H. Antoine D'Arcy_ 306
THE FUNERAL OF THE FLOWERS _T. De Witt Talmage_ 309
CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON IMMORTALITY _Joseph Addison_ 311
OPPORTUNITY _John J. Ingalls_ 312
OPPORTUNITY'S REPLY _Walter Malone_ 312
THE EARL-KING _Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe_ 313
CARCASSONNE _M. E. W. Sherwood_ 314
THE MUSICIANS _Anonymous_ 315
ON THE RAPPAHANNOCK " 317
COMO _Joaquin Miller_ 319
AUX ITALIENS _Owen Meredith_ 322
PART I
HOW TO HOLD AN AUDIENCE
HOW TO HOLD AN AUDIENCE
To hold the interest of an audience and to successfully entertain
it--whether from public platform, in fraternal organization, by
after-dinner speech, or in the home circle--is a worthy accomplishment.
Moreover, the memorizing of selections and rendering them before an
audience is one of the best preparations for the larger and more
important work of public speaking. Many of our most successful
after-dinner speakers depend almost entirely upon their ability to tell
a good story.
The art of reciting and story-telling has become so popular in recent
years that a wide-spread demand has arisen for books of selections and
suggestions for rendering them. Material suitable for encores has been
particularly difficult to find. It is thought, therefore, that the
present volume, containing as it does a great variety of short numbers,
will meet with approval.
There is, perhaps, no talent that is more entertaining and more
instructive than that of reciting aloud specimens of prose and poetry,
both humorous and serious, from our best writers. Channing says:
"Is there not an amusement, having an affinity with the drama, which
might be usefully introduced among us? I mean, Recitation.
"A work of genius, recited by a man of fine taste, enthusiasm, and
powers of elocution, is a very pure and high gratification.
"Were this art cultivated and encouraged, great numbers, now insensible
to the most beautiful compositions, might be waked up to their
excellence and power.
"It is not easy to conceive of a more effectual way of spreading a
refined taste through a community. The drama undoubtedly appeals more
strongly to the passions than recitation; but the latter brings out the
meaning of the author more. Shakespeare, worthily recited, would be
better understood than on the stage.
"Recitation, sufficiently varied, so as to include pieces of chaste wit,
as well as of pathos, beauty, and sublimity, is adapted to our present
intellectual progress."
To recite well, and to be able to hold an audience, one should be
trained in the proper use of the voice and body in expression. This
requires painstaking study and preparation. It is a mistake to suppose
that much can be safely left to impulse and the inspiration of the
occasion. With all great artists everything is premeditated, studied,
and rehearsed beforehand.
Salvini, the great Italian tragedian, said to the pupils in his art:
"Above all, study,--_study_,--STUDY. All the genius in the world will
not help you along with any art, unless you become a hard student. It
has taken me years to master a single part."
THE VOICE
The voice can be rapidly and even wonderfully developed by practising
for a few minutes daily exercises prescribed in any good manual of
elocution.[1] Learn to speak in the natural voice. If it is
high-pitched, nasal, thin, or unmusical, these defects can be overcome
by patient and judicious practise. Do not assume an artificial voice,
except in impersonation. Remember that intelligent audiences demand
intelligent expression, and will not tolerate the ranting, bombast, and
unnatural style of declamation of former days.
Many people speak with half-shut teeth and mouth. Open the mouth and
throat freely; liberate all the muscles around the vocal apparatus. Aim
to speak with ease, and endeavor to improve the voice in depth, purity,
roundness, and flexibility. Daily conversation offers the best
opportunity for this practise.
A writer recently said: "Only a very, very few of us Americans speak
English as the English do. We have our own 'accent,' as it is called. We
are a nervous, eager, strident people. We know it, tho we do not relish
having foreigners tell us about it. We speak not mellowly, not with lax
tongues and palates, but sharply, shrilly, with hardened mouth and with
tones forced back upon the palate. We strangulate two-thirds of our
vowels and swallow half the other third. Pure, round, sonorous tones are
almost never heard in our daily speech."
Speak from the abdomen. All the effort, all the motive power, should
come from the waist and abdominal muscles. These are made to stand the
strain that is so often incorrectly put upon the muscles of the throat.
Aim at a forward tone; that is, send your voice out to some distant
object, imaginary or otherwise, without unduly elevating the pitch. The
voice should strike against the hard palate, the hard bony arch just
above the upper teeth. Most of the practising should be done on the low
pitches.
If there is any serious physical defect of the throat or nose, consult a
reliable physician.
Do not overtax the voice. Three periods of ten minutes each are better
than an hour's practise at one time. Stop at the first sign of
weariness. Do not practise within an hour after eating. Avoid the
habitual use of lozenges. There is nothing better for the throat than a
gargle of salt and water, used night and morning. Dash cold water on the
outside of the throat and rub it vigorously with a coarse towel.
[Footnote 1: See "How to Speak in Public." a complete manual of
elocution, by Grenville Kleiser. Published by Funk & Wagnalls Company.
Price, $1.25 net.]
THE BREATH
The proper management of the breath is an important part of good
speaking. Some teachers say the air should be inhaled on all occasions
exclusively through the nose. This is practically impossible while in
the act of speaking. The aim should be to speak on full lungs as much as
possible; therefore a breath must be taken at every opportunity. This is
done during the pauses, but often the time is so short that the speaker
will find it necessary to use both mouth and nose to get a full supply
of air. The breathing should be inaudible.
Practise deep breathing until it becomes an unconscious habit. _In
taking in the breath the abdomen and chest both expand, and in giving
out the breath the abdomen and chest both contract._ By this method of
respiration the abdomen is used as a kind of "bellows," and the strain
is taken entirely off the throat. The breathing should be done without
noticeable effort and without raising the shoulders. Whenever possible
the breathing should be long and deep. While speaking, endeavor to hold
back in the lungs, or reservoir, the supply of air, "feeding" it very
gradually to the vocal cords in just the quantity required for a given
tone. Reciting aloud, when properly done, is a healthful exercise, and
the voice should grow and improve through use; but to speak on
half-filled lungs, or from the throat, is distressing and often
injurious.
Keep your shoulders well thrown back, head erect, chin level, arms
loosely at the sides, and in walking throw the leg out from the hip with
easy, confident movement. The weight of the body should be on the ball
of the foot, altho the whole foot touches the floor. The breathing
should be deep, smooth, and deliberate.
When the breath is not being used in speech, breathe exclusively through
the nose. This is particularly desirable during the hours of sleep. As
someone has said, if you awake at night and find your mouth open, get up
and shut it. A well-known English authority on elocution says that as a
golden rule for the preservation of the health, he considers the habit
of breathing through the nose invaluable if not imperative. Air, which
is the breath of life, has always floating in it also the seeds of
death. The nose is a filter and deodorizer, in passing through which the
air is cleansed and sent pure into the lungs. The nose warms the air as
well as purifies it, and thus prevents it from being breathed in that
raw, damp state which is so injurious to those whose lungs are delicate.
Speak immediately upon opening your mouth. Try to turn into pure-toned
voice every particle of breath you give out. Replenish the lungs every
time you pause. Light gymnastics, brisk walking, running, horseback
riding, and other exercise will improve your breathing capacity.
MODULATION
Modulation simply means change of voice. These changes, however, must be
intelligent and appropriate to the thought. Monotony--speaking in one
tone--must be avoided. The speaker should have the ability to raise or
lower the pitch of his voice at will, as well as to vary it in force,
intensity, inflection, etc.
Do not confuse "pitch" with "force." Pitch refers to the _key_ of the
speaking voice, while force relates to the _loudness_ of the voice. The
movement or rate of speaking should be varied to suit the particular
thought. It would be ridiculous to describe a horse-race in the slow,
measured tones of a funeral procession.
Most of your speaking should be done in the middle and lower registers;
but the higher pitches, altho not so often required, must be trained so
as to be ready for use. These higher tones are frequently thin and
unmusical, but they can be made full and firm through practise.
It is not necessary to study many rules for inflection. The speaker
should know in a general way that when the sense is suspended the voice
follows this tendency and runs up, and when the sense is completed the
voice runs down. In other words, the voice should simply be in agreement
with the tendency of the thought, whether it opens up or closes down.
The lengths of inflection vary according to the thought and the required
emphasis.
For most occasions the speaking should be clear-cut and deliberate. The
larger the room or hall, the slower should be the speech, to give the
vocal vibrations time to travel. Dwelling on words too long, drawling,
or over precision in articulation, is tedious to an audience. The other
extreme, undue haste, suggests lack of self-control, and is fatal to
successful effort. Of course this does not apply to special selections
demanding rapid speech.
There are numerous words in English that represent or at least suggest
their meaning in their sound. One who aims to read or recite well should
study these effects so as to use them skilfully and with judgment.
The most complete and concise treatment on the subject of expression is
perhaps that given in _Hamlet's_ advice to the players when he says:
"Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you--_trippingly_
on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as
lief the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with
your hand, thus; but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest,
and as I may say whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a
temperance that may give it smoothness. O! it offends me to the soul, to
hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to
very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings; who, for the most part,
are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-shows, and noise. I would
have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod:
pray you, avoid it....
"Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor:
suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special
observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature; for anything so
overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first,
and now, was, and is, to hold, as 't were, the mirror up to nature; to
show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and
body of the time, his form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come
tardy off, tho it make the unskilful laugh, can not but make the
judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must, in your allowance,
o'erweigh a whole theater of others. O! there be players, that I have
seen play--and heard others praise, and that highly--not to speak it
profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait
of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed, that I have
thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them
well, they imitated humanity so abominably."
PAUSING
Words naturally divide themselves into groups according to their
meaning. Grammatical pauses indicate the construction of language, while
rhetorical pauses mark more particularly the natural divisions in the
sense. To jumble words together, or to rattle them off in "rapid-fire"
style, is not an entertaining performance. Proper pausing secures
economy of the listener's attention, and is as desirable in spoken as in
written language.
Pauses should vary in frequency and duration. It should be remembered
that words are only symbols, and that the speaker should concern himself
seriously about the thought which these symbols represent. The concept
behind the sign is the important thing. The fine art of pausing can be
acquired only after long and faithful study. Then it may become an
unconscious habit. An old rime on this subject is worth repeating:
"In pausing, ever let this rule take place,
Never to separate words in any case
That are less separable than those you join;
And, which imports the same, not to combine
Such words together, as do not relate
So closely as the words you separate."
FEELING AND ENERGY
Before you can properly _feel_ what you say you must _understand_ it.
Artificial and imitative methods do not produce enduring results. In
studying a passage or selection for recitation, the imagination must be
kindled, the feelings stimulated, and the mind trained to concentrate
upon the thought until it is _experienced_. This subjective work should
always precede the attempt at objective expression. Everything must
first be conceived, pictured, and experienced in the mind. When this is
done with intelligence, sincerity, and earnestness, there should be
little difficulty in giving true and adequate expression to thought.
In all speaking that is worth the while there must be energy, force, and
life. The speaker should be wide-awake, alert, palpitating. A
speaker--and this applies to the reciter and elocutionist--should be, as
someone has said, "an animal galvanic battery on two legs."[2] He must
know what he is about. He must _be in east_.
Make a distinction between loudness and intensity. Often the best
effects are produced by suggesting power in reserve rather than giving
the fullest outward expression. Intensity in reading or reciting is
secured chiefly through concentration and a thorough grasp of the
thought. Endeavor to put yourself into your voice. Do not forget that
deep, concentrated feeling is never loud. Avoid shouting, ranting, and
"tearing a passion to tatters." Go to nature for models. Ask what one
would do in real life in uttering the thoughts under consideration.
The emotions must be brought under control by frequent practise. Joy,
sorrow, anger, fear, surprize, terror, and other feelings are as colors
to the artist and must be made ready for instant use. To quote Richard
Mansfield:
"When you are enacting a part, think of your voice as a color, and, as
you paint your picture (the character you are painting, the scene you
are portraying), mix your colors. You have on your palate a white voice,
_la voix blanche_; a heavenly, ethereal or blue voice, the voice of
prayer; a disagreeable, jealous, or yellow voice; a steel-gray voice,
for quiet sarcasm; a brown voice of hopelessness; a lurid, red voice of
hot rage; a deep, thunderous voice of black; a cheery voice, the color
of the green sea that a brisk breeze is crisping; and then there is a
pretty little pink voice, and shades of violet--but the subject is
endless."
[Footnote 2: See "Before an Audience," by Nathan Sheppard. Published by
Funk & Wagnalls Company. Price, 75 cents.]
GESTURE AND ACTION
No better advice can be given upon this subject than to "Suit the action
to the word; the word to the action." Unless a gesture in some way helps
in the expression and understanding of a thought, it should be omitted.
Gesture is not a mere ornament, but a natural and necessary part of true
expression. The arms and hands should be trained to perform their work
gracefully, promptly, and effectively. If too many gestures are used
they lose their force and meaning. Furthermore, too many gestures
confuse and annoy the auditor.
Gesture should be practised, preferably before a looking-glass, so
thoroughly _beforehand_ as to make it an unconscious act when the
speaker comes before his audience.
The correct standing position is to have one foot slightly in advance of
the other. The taller the person, the broader should be the base or
width between the feet. The body should be erect but not rigid. In
repose the arms should drop naturally at the sides. Except in the act of
gesticulating do not try to put the hands anywhere, and above all, if a
man, not in the pockets.
IMPERSONATION
The aim here should be to lose one's self in the part. To subordinate
one's tones, gestures, and manners, and to live the character for the
time being, requires no mean ability. Impersonation calls for
imagination, insight, concentration, and adaptability. The impersonator
must be all at it, and at it all, during the whole time he is
impersonating the character.
"To fathom the depths of character," said Macready, the distinguished
English actor, "to trace its latent motives, to feel its finest
quiverings of emotion, to comprehend the thoughts that are hidden under
words, and thus possess one's self of the actual mind of the individual
man, is the highest reach of the player's art, and is an achievement
that I have discerned but in few. Kean--when under the impulse of his
genius he seemed to _clutch_ the whole idea of the man--was an
extraordinary instance among those possessing the faculty of
impersonation."
Where dialect is used it should be closely studied from life. Stage
representations of foreign character are not always trustworthy models.
ARTICULATION AND PRONUNCIATION
Articulate and pronounce correctly and distinctly without being
pedantic. The organs of articulation--teeth, tongue, lips, and
palate--should be trained to rapidly and accurately repeat various sets
of elements, until any combination of sounds, no matter how difficult,
can be uttered with facility, accuracy, and precision.
A standard dictionary should be consulted whenever there is a doubt
either about the meaning or the pronunciation of a word. As to the
standard of pronunciation, the speaker should consider at least these
three things: (1) authority, (2) custom, and (3) personal taste.
There are many words commonly mispronounced, but only a few can be
referred to here: Do not say _Toos_-day or _Chews_-day for T_u_esday;
_ur_-ride for ride; i-_ron_ for i-_urn_; w_u_s for w_a_s; th_u_n for
th_a_n; subj_i_ct for subj_e_ct; _awf_-fiss for _off_-fiss; fig-_ger_
for fig_u_re; to-_wards_ for tords; _dook_ for d_u_ke; k_e_tch for
c_a_tch; _day_-po for _de_-po; ab'domen for abdo'men; advertise'ment for
adver'tisement; ly'ceum for lyce'um; oc'cult for occult'; of_t_en for
of'n; s_e_nce for s_i_nce; su_j_gest for su_g_gest; _wow_nd for _woo_nd;
_weth_er for w_h_ether; sen'ile for s_e_'nile; _ad_'dress for
ad_dress_'; il'lustrate for illus'trate; _ker_-own for crown; wind_er_
for wind_ow_; s_or_ for s_aw_; wick_ud_ for wick_ed_; _i_ngine for
_e_ngine; _o_ntil for _u_ntil.
Words should drop from the mouth like newly-made coins from the mint.
Practising on words of several syllables is helpful. Some such as these
will serve as examples: "particularly," "unconstitutional,"
"incompatibility," "unnecessarily," "voluminous," "overwhelmingly,"
"sesquipedalian," etc.
IMAGINATION
The ability to make vivid mental pictures of what one recites is of
great value to both reader and hearer. Everyone has this faculty to some
degree, but few develop it as it should be developed for use in
speaking. The clearer the mental picture the speaker has in mind the
more vivid will it be to the hearer. Practise making mental images with
pictures that appeal strongly to you. Try to see everything in detail.
If at first the impressions are obscure, persevere in your practise and
substantial results will surely come. Dr. Silas Neff gives a splendid
illustration of this kind that can be effectively used for practise:
"A woodman once lived with his family near a shallow stream which flowed
between high banks and in the middle of which, opposite his house, was
an island. Half a mile up the stream was a dam which supplied water for
a saw-mill a hundred yards below. One morning after the father had gone
to the mill to work, leaving his wife in the back yard washing some
little garments, their two little boys clambered down the bank and waded
through the water to the island where they had spent many happy hours in
play. About the middle of the forenoon, from some unknown cause, the
wall of the dam suddenly gave way, the water plunging through and nearly
filling the banks of the stream. The father in the mill heard the noise
and looking out saw what had happened. Immediately thinking of his boys
he dashed out, hat and coat off, on an awful race down the creek to save
their lives. The water after leaving the dam flowed rather slowly for
some time and he was soon quite a distance ahead, but he knew that
unless he gained very rapidly here, the descent being much greater
farther down, the water would overtake his boys before he could reach
them. His wife suddenly looked up as the agonizing cries of her husband
fell upon her ear. She rushed to the front yard. In quick succession she
distinguished the words, 'Get the boys!' The father was a few hundred
yards from his home. The water had reached the rapid part of the stream
but some distance behind the man. The wife on hearing the words, tho
not knowing what was wrong, jumped down the bank and ran through the
water, shrieking to the boys. Just as she reached the island they ran to
her and, without uttering a word, she took one under each arm and
started back as wildly as she came. When half way over she saw her
husband dashing out from the edge of the woods and the water not twenty
feet behind him. They met at the top of the bank, the father grasped
wife and children in his arms and the water passed harmlessly by."[3]
[Footnote 3: "Talks on Education and Oratory," by Silas S. Neff, Neff
College of Oratory, Philadelphia, Pa.]
HOW TO MEMORIZE A SELECTION
Do not learn a selection simply by rote--that is, by repeating it
parrot-like over and over again--but fix it in the mind by a careful and
detailed analysis of the thought. As you practise aloud, train your eye
to take in as many words as possible, then look away from the book as
you recite them aloud. This will give the memory immediate practise and
will tend to make it self-reliant.
Having chosen a selection, read it over first in a general way to secure
an impression of it in its entirety. Then read it a second time, giving
particular attention to each part. Consult a dictionary for the correct
meaning and pronunciation of every word about which you are in doubt.
Next underline the emphatic words--those which you think best express
the most important thoughts. Underscoring one line for emphatic words
and two lines for the most emphatic will do for this purpose. Now
indicate the various pauses, both grammatical and rhetorical, by drawing
short perpendicular lines between the words where they occur. In a
general way use one line for a short pause, two lines for a medium
pause, and three lines for a long pause. On the margin of the selection
you may make other notes, such as the dominant feeling, transitions,
changes of rate, force and pitch, special effects, gestures, facial
expression, etc.
There is, of course, nothing arbitrary about this work of analysis. Its
purpose is to make the student _think_, to analyze, to be painstaking.
The following annotated selection should be carefully considered. Words
on which chief emphasis is to be placed are printed in small capitals;
those on which less emphasis is to be placed, in italics. It is not
intended to be mechanical, but suggestive. After a few selections have
been analyzed in this way, pausing and emphasis, and many other elements
of expression, will largely take care of themselves.
"To BE || or NOT | to be, || _that_ | is the question:--|||
Whether | 't is _nobler_ | in the mind, || to _suffer_
The _slings_ | and _arrows_ || of _outrageous_ fortune; ||
Or | to take _arms_ | against a _sea_ | of troubles, ||
And by _opposing_ || _end_ them? ||| --To DIE,-- || to SLEEP, |||
No _more_;--||| and, by a _sleep_, || to say we end
The _heart-ache_, | and the _thousand_ natural shocks ||
That flesh is _heir_ to,--||| 't is a consummation ||
_Devoutly_ | to be _wish'd_. ||| To DIE,--||| to SLEEP:--|||
To SLEEP ||| perchance to DREAM: || ay, | _there's_ the _rub_; ||
For in that sleep | of _death_ || what _dreams_ | MAY | come, ||
When we have shuffled off | this mortal coil, ||
Must give us _pause_. ||| _There's_ the _respect_, |
That makes _calamity_ | of _so long life_: |||
For who would bear | the _whips_ and _scorns_ | of _time_, ||
The oppressor's _wrong_, || the proud man's _contumely_, ||
The pangs | of _despis'd_ love, || the law's _delay_, ||
The _insolence_ | of office, || and the _spurns_ |
That patient _merit_ | of the _unworthy_ takes, ||
When he _himself_ | might his _quietus_ make ||
With a bare _bodkin_? || who'd these _fardels_ bear, ||
To _grunt_ and _sweat_ | under a weary life, ||
But that the _dread_ | of SOMETHING | _after_ death--||
The _undiscover'd_ country, || from whose bourn |
_No_ traveler returns,--|| puzzles the _will_, ||
And makes us rather bear | those ills we _have_, ||
Than fly | to _others_ || that we know not of? |||
Thus CONSCIENCE || does make COWARDS | of us all; ||
And thus | the native hue | of _resolution_ ||
Is sicklied o'er | with the _pale cast_ | of _thought_; ||
And enterprises | of great _pith_ and _moment_ ||
With _this_ regard | their currents turn awry, ||
And _lose_ | the _name_ || of ACTION."
BEFORE THE AUDIENCE
As you present yourself to your audience, bow slightly and graciously
from the waist. Be courteous, but not servile. Avoid haste and
familiarity. Be punctilious in dress and deportment, and be prompt in
keeping your appointments.
Be sure you have everything ready in advance. If you have to use any
properties, such as a table, chair, eye-glass, books, reading-stand,
coat, hat, gloves, letters, etc., see that everything is provided and in
its place before the time set for your appearance.
Success often depends upon the judicious choice of selections for the
occasion. What will be acceptable to one audience may not please
another. The sentiment and the length of selections depend upon the time
and place where they are to be given. When an audience expects to be
entertained with humorous recitations, to announce in a sepulchral voice
that you will give them a poem of your own composition, entitled "The
Three Corpses," of melancholy character, is likely to send a chill of
disappointment through them.
Never keep your audience waiting. If an encore is demanded, return and
bow, or if the demand is insistent, give another number, preferably a
short one. Do not be too eager to give encores; if the applause is not
insistent, a bow will suffice.
PART II
HUMOROUS HITS
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!"
BANGING A SENSATIONAL NOVELIST
ANONYMOUS
The other day a stout woman, armed with an umbrella, and leading a small
urchin, called at the office of a New York boys' story paper.
"Is this the place where they fight Indians?" she inquired of the young
man in charge. "Is this the locality where the brave boy charges up the
canyon and speeds a bullet to the heart of the dusky redskin?" and she
jerked the urchin around by the ear and brought her umbrella down on the
desk.
"We publish stories for boys, and----"
"I want to know if these are the premises on which the daring lad
springs upon his fiery mustang, and, darting through the circle of
thunderstruck savages, cuts the captive's cords and bears him away
before the wondering Indians have recovered from their astonishment?
That's the information I'm after. I want to know if that sort of thing
is perpetrated here!" and she swung the umbrella around her head.
"I don't remember those specific facts, but----"
"I want to know if this is the precinct where the adventurous boy jumps
on the back of a buffalo and with unerring aim picks off one by one the
bloodthirsty pursuers who bite the dust at every crack of the faithful
rifle! I'm looking for the place where that sort of thing happens!" and
this time she brought the unlucky man a tremendous whack across the
back.
"I think----"
"I'm in search of the shop in which the boy road-agent holds the
quivering stage-driver powerless with his glittering eye, while he robs
the male passengers with an adroitness born of long and tried
experience, and kisses the hands of the lady passengers with a gallantry
of bearing that bespeaks noble birth and a chivalrous nature! I'm
looking for the apartment in which that business is transacted!"
"Upon my word, madam, I----"
"I want to be introduced to the jars in which you keep the boy scouts
of the Sierras! Show me the bins full of the boy detectives of the
prairie! Point out to me the barrels full of boy pirates of the Spanish
main!" and with each demand she brought her umbrella down on the young
man's head until he jumped over the desk and sought safety in a
neighboring canyon.
"I'll teach 'em!" she panted, grasping the urchin by the ear and leading
him off. "I'll teach 'em to make it good or dance. Want to go fight
Indians any more (_twisting the boy's ear_)? Want to stand proudly upon
the pinnacle of the mountain and scatter the plain beneath with the
bleeding bodies of uncounted slain? Propose to spring upon the taffrail
and with a ringing word of command send a broadside into the
richly-laden galley, and then mercifully spare the beautiful maiden in
the cabin, that she may become your bride? Eh? Going to do it any more?"
The boy exprest his permanent abandonment of all the glories enumerated.
"Then come along," said she, taking him by the collar. "Let me catch you
around with any more ramrods and carving knives, and you'll think the
leaping, curling, resistless prairie fire has swept with a ferocious
roar of triumph across the trembling plains and lodged under your jacket
to stay!"
HOPKINS' LAST MOMENTS
ANONYMOUS
Nurses in hospitals are inclined to lay too much stress on the
advantages received by the patients and their duty of thankfulness, but
it is the poor soldier who suffers most from always having his cause to
be grateful flung in his teeth. The following true story took place
between the chaplain and the hospital orderly:
_Chaplain_--"So poor Hopkins is dead. I should like to have spoken to
him once more and soothed his last moments. Why didn't you call me?"
_Hospital Orderly_--"I didn't think you ought to be disturbed for
'Opkins, sir; so I just soothed him as best I could myself."
_Chaplain_--"Why, what did you say to him?"
_Orderly_--"I sez, ''Opkins, you're mortal bad.'"
"'I am,' sez 'e."
"''Opkins,' sez I, 'I don't think you'll get better.'"
"'No,' sez 'e."
"''Opkins,' sez I, 'you're going fast.'"
"'Yes,' sez 'e."
"''Opkins,' sez I, 'I don't think you can 'ope to go to 'eaven.'"
"'I don't think I can,' sez 'e."
"'Well, then, 'Opkins,' sez I, 'you'll go to 'ell.'"
"'I suppose so,' sez 'e,"
"''Opkins,' sez I, 'you ought to be wery grateful as there's a place
perwided for you, and that you've got somewhere to go.' And I think 'e
'eard, sir, for 'e just gave a little groan, turned over, and then 'e
died."
THE FAIRIES' TEA
ANONYMOUS
Five little fairies went out to take tea,
Under the shade of a juniper tree.
Each had a cup from an acorn cut,
And a plate from the rind of a hickory nut.
The table was spread with a cloth all of lace,
Woven by spiders the banquet to grace.
Oh, what good things they all had to eat!--
Slices of strawberry,--my what a treat!
Honey the sweetest the wild bee could hive,
And a humming-bird's egg for each of the five.
Then they drank their host's health in their favorite drink,
Which was,--now what was it? Can anyone think?
Why the dew-drop that comes from the heart of the rose
Is the drink of the fairies, as everyone knows.
COUNTING EGGS
ANONYMOUS
Old Moses, who sells eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a
living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived; but he has the habit of
chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes
mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around
in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopt in front of the
residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady herself came out to the
gate to make the purchase.
"Have you any eggs this morning, Uncle Moses?" she asked.
"Yes, indeed I has. Jess got in ten dozen from de kentry."
"Are they fresh?"
"Fresh? Yes, indeed! I guantees 'em, an'--an'--de hen guantees 'em."
"I'll take nine dozen. You can just count them into this basket."
"All right, mum; (_he counts_) one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben,
eight, nine, ten. You can rely on dem bein' fresh. How's your son comin'
on de school? He must be mos' grown."
"Yes, Uncle Moses; he is a clerk in a bank in Galveston."
"Why, how ole am de boy?"
"He is eighteen."
"You don't tole me so! Eighteen, and getting a salary already! Eighteen
(_counting_), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-free,
twenty-foah, twenty-five. And how's your gal comin' on? She was most
growed up de last time I seed her."
"She is married and living in Dallas."
"Wall, I declar'; how time scoots away! And you say she has childruns?
Why, how ole am de gal? She must be just about----"
"Thirty-three."
"Am dat so? (_Counting._) Firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six,
firty-seben, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two,
forty-free. Hit am singular dat you has sich ole childruns. You don't
look more den forty years old yerseff."
"Nonsense, old man; I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to
be fifty-three years old----"
"Fifty-free! I jess dun gwinter bleeve hit; fifty-free, fifty-foah,
fifty-five, fifty-six--I want you to pay 'tenshun when I count de eggs,
so dar'll be no mistake--fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two,
sixty-free, sixty-foah. Whew! Dis am a warm day. Dis am de time ob year
when I feels I'se gettin' ole myself; I ain't long fur dis world. You
comes from an ole family. When your fadder died he was sebenty years
ole."
"Seventy-two."
"Dat's old, suah. Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five,
sebenty-six, sebenty-seben, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine. And your
mudder? She was one ob de noblest-lookin' ladies I eber see. You remind
me ob her so much! She libed to mos' a hundred. I bleeves she was done
past a centurion when she died."
"No, Uncle Moses; she was only ninety-six when she died."
"Den she wan't no chicken when she died, I know dat. Ninety-six,
ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free,
foah, five, six, seben, eight--dar, one hundred and eight nice fresh
eggs--jess nine dozen; and here am one moah egg in case I have
discounted myself."
Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Burton
said to her husband:
"I am afraid that we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied that
she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought
them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood
right there, and heard Moses count them myself, and there were nine
dozen."
THE OATMOBILE
ANONYMOUS
Ay yust bane oop by Minnesote
To sa my Onkle Yohn.
Ay stop me by St. Paul awhile
Yust for a little fun;
An' dere Ay saw one oatmobile--
Dat bane de name you call;
Und yo could tak a ride on heem
Mit out some horse at all.
Dat bane a purty nice machine
Wit rubber tires an tings;
Yust sit heem lik a vagon on
An' he run yust lik mit vings.
Ay ask dot man vot make heem go?
He say, "My hade got vheels."
He say, "He feed heem plenty oat
An' call heem Oat-mo-bile."
Ay say, "Ay know Ay bane grane Sweede
Yust come from Nord Dakote,
But Ay dou belave he make heem go
By feedin' vagin oat."
Ay say to heem, "Look here! Ay bane
Some time in Missoure,
Ay know Ay'm grane, but yust de same
You bet me life, 'show me!'"
Dat feller lafe an' shake his head
An' say, "Ay bane good show myself,"
Ay say, "Ay tink Ay punch your head
An' lay you on de shelf."
Ay pick me oop a little stick
Bane layin' on de seat
An bet me life, dot Oat-mo-bile
Yust started oop de street.
Ay holler, "Wo-o-o!" but he don' stop
An' den you bet my life
Ay wish Ay bane by Nord Dakote,
At home mit Ann, my vife,
Dat Oat-mo-bile yust boomped me
Oop de side valk on an' stopt;
An' bucked me thro' de window
Of one dem butcher-shop.
He split me nose bay my face oop
He smash me almost dead;
He punch de inside of me mouth
All outside of me hade.
He hurt me eye so bad in one
Ay'm blin' yust like a beetle.
In oder one, Ay can see some
But only just a little.
De las Ay see of dat machine
He bane a buckin' still.
Ay tink he feed too many oat
Tod at old Oat-mo-bile.
Ay tell my wife, if I get vell
You bet I vill not monkey
Some anoder time with
Any Oat-mo-bile.
ALMOST BEYOND ENDURANCE
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
I ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more!
I'm got earache, an' ma can't make it quit a-tall;
An' Carlo bite my rubber-ball
An' puncture it; an' Sis she take
An' poke my knife down through the stable-floor
An' loozed it,--blame it all!
But I ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more!
An' Aunt Mame _wrote_ she's comin' an' she _can't_,
Folks is come _there_!--An' I don't care if she _is_ my aunt!
An' my eyes stings; an' I'm
Ist coughin' all the time,
An' hurts me so, an' where my side's so sore,
Grampa felt where, an' he
Says, "Maybe it's _pleurasy_!"
But I ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more!
An' I clumbed up an' felled off the fence,
An' Herbert he ist laugh at me!
An' my fi' cents,
It sticked in my tin bank, an' I ist tore
Purt night my fum-nail off a-tryin' to git
It out--nen _smash_ it! An' it's in there yet!
But I ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more!
Oo! I'm so wicked! an' my breath's so _hot_,
Ist like I run an' don't rest none
But ist run on when I ought to not;
Yes, an' my chin
An' lips all warpy, an' teeth's so fast,
An's a place in my throat I can't swaller past,--
An' they all hurt so!
An' oh, my oh!
I'm a-startin' ag'in,--
I'm a-startin' ag'in, but I _won't_ fer shore!
I ist ain't a-goin to cry no more, no more!
By permission from "His Pa's Romance," copyright, 1903, the
Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis, Ind.
PROOF POSITIVE
ANONYMOUS
I stept into my room one day
And saw some children there at play.
I sought my little girl and found her
With half a dozen youngsters round her;
And from the way she slapped her rule,
I knew that they were "playing school."
I gave my little girl a kiss--
A pleasure that I never miss.
A murmur through the schoolroom ran,
A smile pervaded every feature,
"He must be a committeeman!"
They loud exclaimed. "He kissed the teacher!"
THE IRISH PHILOSOPHER
ANONYMOUS
LADIES AND GINTLEMEN:--I see so many foine-lookin' people sittin' before
me, that if you'll excuse me I'll be after takin' a seat myself.
You don't know me, I'm thinkin,' or some of yees 'ud be noddin' to me
afore this.
I'm a walkin' pedestrian, a traveling philosopher; Terry O'Mulligan's me
name. I'm from Dublin, where many philosophers before me was raised and
bred. Oh, philosophy is a foine study. I don't know anything about it,
but it's a foine study. Before I kim over I attinded an important
meetin' of philosophers in Dublin, and the discussin' and talkin' you'd
hear there about the world 'ud warm the very heart of Socrates or
Aristotle himself. Well, there was a great many _imminent_ and learned
min there at the meetin,' and I was there, too; and while we was in the
very thickest of a heated argument a man comes up to me, and says he,
"Do you know what we're talkin' about?" "I do," says I, "but I don't
understand yees." "Could you explain the sun's motion round the earth?"
says he. "I could," says I; "but I'd not know could you understand me or
not." "Well," says he, "we'll see," says he.
Sure'n I didn't know anything how to get out of it then; so I piled in,
for, says I to meself, never let on to anyone that you don't know
anything, but make them believe that you do know all about it. So, says
I to him, takin' up me shillalah this way (_holding up a very crooked
stick horizontally_): "We will take that for the straight line of the
earth's equator." How's that for gehoggraphy? (_To the audience._) Oh,
that was straight till the other day I bent it in an argument.
"Very good" says he. "Well," says I, "now the sun rises in the east."
(_Placing the disengaged hand at the eastern end of the stick._) Well,
he couldn't deny that; "and," says I, "he-he-he-rises in the mornin'."
No more could he deny that. "Very early," says I; "and when he gets up
he
"'Darts his rosy beams
Through the mornin' gleams.'"
Do you moine the poetry there? (_To the audience, with a smile._) "And
he keeps on risin' an' risin' till he reaches his meridan." "What's
that?" says he. "His dinner-toime," says I. "Sure'n that's my Latin for
dinner-time. And when he gets his dinner
"'He sinks to rest
Behind the glorious hills of the west.'"
Oh, begorra, there's more poetry. I feel it croppin' out all over me.
"There," says I, well satisfied with mesilf, "will that do for ye?"
"You haven't got done with him," says he.
"Done with him?" says I, kinder mad-like. "What more do you want me to
do with him? Didn't I bring him from the east to the west? What more do
you want?" "Oh," says he, "you have to have him back agin in the east
the next mornin'!"
By Saint Patrick, and wasn't I near betrayin' me ignorance. Sure'n I
thought there was a large family of suns, and they riz one after the
other; but I gathered meself quick, and says I to him, "Well," says I,
"I'm surprized you ax me that simple question. I thought any man 'ud
know" says I, "when the sun sinks to rest in the west that er--when the
sun----" says I. "You said that before" says he. "Well, I want to
impress it strongly upon you," says I. "When the sun sinks to rest
behind the glorious hills of the east--no, west--why, he--why, he waits
till it grows very dark and then he _goes back in the noight-toime_!"
BELAGCHOLLY DAYS
ANONYMOUS
Chilly Dovebber with his boadigg blast
Dow cubs add strips the beddow add the lawd,
Eved October's suddy days are past--
Add Subber's gawd!
I kdow dot what it is to which I cligg
That stirs to sogg add sorrow, yet I trust
That still I sigg, but as the liddets sigg--
Because I bust.
Add dow, farewell to roses add to birds,
To larded fields and tigkligg streablets eke;
Farewell to all articulated words
I faid would speak.