I am not gwine to tell edzactly whar my tex may be found; suffice to

say, it's in the leds of the Bible, and you'll find it somewhar between

the fust chapter of the book of Generations and the last chapter of the

book of Revolutions; and ef you'll go and sarch the Scriptures, you'll

not only find my tex thar, but a great many other texes as will do you

good to read; and my tex, when you shall find it, you shall find it to

read thus: "And he played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv

jest men made perfeck."

My tex, my brethring, leads me to speak of sperits. Now, thar's a great

many kinds of sperits in the world. In the fust place, thar's the

sperits as some folks call ghosts; and thar's the sperits of turpentine;

and thar's the sperits as some folks call liquor, an' I've got as good

an artikel of them kind of sperits on my flatboat as ever was fotch down

the Mississippi River. But thar's a great many other kinds of sperits,

for the tex says, "He played on a harp uv a t-h-o-u-s-and strings,

sperits uv jest men made perfeck."

But I tell you the kind uv sperits as is meant in the tex is FIRE.

That's the kind uv sperits as is meant in the tex, my brethring. Now,

thar's a great many kinds uv fire in the world. In the fust place,

there's the common sort of fire you light your cigars or pipe with; and

then thar's foxfire and camphire, fire before you're ready, and fire and

fall back, and many other kinds of fire--for the tex say, "He played on

a harp uv a _thous_and strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck."

But I'll tell you the kind of fire as is meant in the tex, my brethring:

its HELL-FIRE! An' that's the kind uv fire as a great many uv you'll

come to, ef you don't do better nor what you have been doin'--for "He

played on a harp uv a _thous_and strings, sperits uv jest men made

perfeck."

Now, the different sorts of fire in the world may be likened onto the

different persuasions of Christians in the world. In the fust place, we

have the Piscapalions, an' they are a high-sailin' and highfalutin' set;

and they may be likened unto a turkey buzzard that flies up in the air,

and he goes up, and up, and up, till he looks no bigger than your

finger-nail, and the fust thing you know, he cums down, and down, and

down, and is a-fillin' himself on the carkiss of a dead hoss by the side

of the road--and "He played on a harp uv a _thous_and strings, sperits

uv jest men made perfeck."

And then thar's the Methodis, and they may be likened unto the squirril

runnin' up into a tree, for the Methodis beleeves in gwine on from one

degree of grace to another, and finally on to perfection; and the

squirril goes up and up, and up and up, and he jumps from limb to limb,

and branch to branch, and the fust thing you know he falls, and down he

cums kerflumix; and that's like the Methodis, for they is allers fallin'

from grace, ah!--and "He played on a harp uv a _thous_and strings,

sperits uv jest men made perfeck."

And then, my brethring, thar's the Baptists, ah! and they have been

likened unto a 'possum on a 'simmon tree, and thunders may roll and the

earth may quake, but that 'possum clings thar still, sh! and you may

shake one foot loose, and the other's thar, and you make shake all feet

loose, and he laps his tail around the limb, and clings, and he clings

furever--for "He played on a harp uv a _thous_and strings, sperits uv

jest men made perfeck."

Reprinted from the "Four-masted Catboat," by permission of the author

and The Century Company. Copyright, 1899.

THE DIFFICULTY OF RIMING

ANONYMOUS

We parted by the gate in June,

That soft and balmy month,

Beneath the sweetly beaming moon,

And (wonth-hunth-sunth-bunth--I can't

find a rime to month).

Years were to pass ere we should meet.

A wide and yawning gulf

Divides me from my love so sweet,

While (ulf-sulf-dulf-mulf--stuck again;

I can't get any rime to gulf. I'm in a gulf myself).

Oh, how I dreaded in my soul

To part from my sweet nymph,

While years should their long seasons roll

Before (hymph-dymph-symph--I guess I'll

have to let it go at that).

Beneath my fortune's stern decree

My lonely spirits sunk,

For I a weary soul should be,

And a (hunk-dunk-runk-sk--that will

never do in the world).

She buried her dear lovely face

Within her azure scarf,

She knew I'd take the wretchedness,

As well as (parf-darf-harf-and-harf--

that won't answer either).

Oh, I had loved her many years.

I loved her for herself;

I loved her for her tender tears,

And also for her (welf-nelf-self-pelf--no,

no; not for her pelf).

I took between my hands her head,

How sweet her lips did pouch!

I kissed her lovingly and said--

(Bouch-mouch-louch-ouch--not a bit of it

did I say _ouch!_).

I sorrowfully wrung her hand,

My tears they did escape,

My sorrow I could not command,

And I was but a (sape-dape-fape-ape;

well, perhaps I did feel like an ape).

I gave to her a fond adieu,

Sweet pupil of love's school,

I told her I would e'er be true,

And always be a (dool-sool-mool-fool; since

I come to think of it, I was a fool, for she fell in love

with another fellow before I was gone a month).

SO WAS I

BY JOSEPH BERT SMILEY

My name is Tommy an' I hates

That feller of my sister Kate's.

He's bigger'n I am an' you see

He's sorter lookin' down on me,

An' I resents it with a vim;

I think I'm just as good as him.

He's older, an' he's mighty fly

But he's a kid,--an' so am I.

One time he came,--down by the gate,

I guess it must been awful late,--

An' Katie, she was there, an' they

Was feelin' very nice and gay,

An' he was talkin' all the while,

About her sweet an' lovin' smile,

An' everythin' was nice as pie,

An' they was there,--an' so was I.

They didn't see me, 'cause I slid

Down underneath a bush, an' hid,

An' he was sayin' that his love

Was greater'n all the stars above

Up in the glorious heavens placed;

An' then his arm got round her waist,

An' clouds were floatin' in the sky,

An' they was there,--an' so was I.

I didn't hear just all they said,

But by an' by my sister's head

Was droopin' on his shoulder, an'

I seen him holdin' Katie's hand,

An' then he hugged her closer, some,

An' then I heered a kiss--_yum, yum!_

An' Katie blushed an' drew a sigh,

An' sorter coughed,--an' so did I.

An' then that feller looked around

An' seed me there, down on the ground,

An'--_was_ he mad?--well, betcher boots

I gets right outer there an' _scoots_.

An' he just left my sister Kate

A-standin' right there by the gate;

An' I seen blood was in his eye,

An' he runned fast,--an' so did I.

I runned the very best I could

But he cotched up,--I's 'fraid he would,

An' then he said he'd teach me how

To know my manners, he'd allow;

An' than he shaked me _awful_. Gee!

He jest--he frashed the ground with me.

An' then he stopt it by and by,

'Cause he was tired,--an' so was I.

An' then he went back to the gate

An' couldn't find my sister Kate,

'Cause she went to bed, while he

Was runnin' round an' thumpin' me.

I got round in a shadder dim,

An' made a face, an' guffed at him;

An' then the moon larfed, in the sky,

'Cause he was there,--an' so was I.

THE ENCHANTED SHIRT

BY JOHN HAY

The king was sick. His cheek was red,

And his eye was clear and bright;

He ate and drank with a kingly zest,

And peacefully snored at night.

But he said he was sick--and a king should know;

And doctors came by the score;

They did not cure him. He cut off their heads,

And sent to the schools for more.

At last two famous doctors came,

And one was as poor as a rat;

He had passed his life in studious toil

And never found time to grow fat.

The other had never looked in a book;

His patients gave him no trouble;

If they recovered, they paid him well,

If they died, their heirs paid double.

Together they looked at the royal tongue,

As the king on his couch reclined;

In succession they thumped his august chest,

But no trace of disease could find.

The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut."

"Hang him up!" roared the king, in a gale,--

In a ten-knot gale of royal rage;

The other leach grew a shade pale;

But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,

And thus his prescription ran:

"The king will be well if he sleeps one night

In the shirt of a happy man."

Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode,

And fast their horses ran,

And many they saw, and to many they spake,

But they found no happy man.

They saw two men by the roadside sit,

And both bemoaned their lot;

For one had buried his wife, he said.

And the other one had not.

At last they came to a village gate;

A beggar lay whistling there;

He whistled and sang and laughed, and rolled

On the grass in the soft June air.

The weary couriers paused and looked

At the scamp so blithe and gay,

And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend,

You seem to be happy to-day?"

"Oh, yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed,

And his voice rang free and glad;

"An idle man has so much to do

That he never has time to be sad."

"This is our man." the courier said,

"Our luck has led us aright.

I will give you a hundred ducats, friend,

For the loan of your shirt to-night."

The merry rascal lay back on the grass

And laughed till his face was black;

"I would do it," said he, and roared with the fun,

"But I haven't a shirt to my back!"

Each day to the king the reports came in

Of the unsuccessful spies;

And the sad panorama of human woes,

Passed daily under his eyes.

And he grew ashamed of his useless life,

And his maladies hatched in gloom;

He opened his windows and let the free air

Of the heavens into his room.

And out he went into the world and toiled

In his own appointed way,

And the people blest him, the land was glad,

And the king was well and gay.

DER OAK UND DER VINE

BY CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS

I don'd vas preaching voman's righdts,

Or anyding like dot,

Und I likes to see all beoples

Shust gontended mit dheir lot;

But I vants to gontradict dot shap

Dot made dis leedle shoke:

"A voman vas der glinging vine,

Und man, der shturdy oak."

Berhaps, somedimes, dot may be drue;

Budt, den dimes oudt off nine,

I find me oudt dot man himself

Vas peen der glinging vine;

Und ven hees friendts dhey all vas gone

Und he vas shust "tead proke,"

Dot's vhen der voman shteps righdt in,

Und peen der shturdy oak.

Shust go oup to der paseball groundts

Und see dhose "shturdy oaks"

All planted roundt ubon der seats--

Shust hear dheir laughs und shokes!

Dhen see dhose vomens at der tubs,

Mit glothes oudt on der lines:

Vhich vas der shturdy oaks, mine frendts,

Und vhich der glinging vines?

Ven sickness in der householdt comes,

Und veeks und veeks he shtays,

Who vas id fighdts him mitout resdt,

Dhose veary nighdts und days?

Who beace und gomfort alvays prings,

Und cools dot fefered prow?

More like id vas der tender vine

Dot oak he glings to, now.

"Man vants budt leedle here pelow,"

Der boet von time said;

Dhere's leedle dot man he _don'd_ vant,

I dink id means, inshted;

Und vhen der years keep rolling on,

Dheir cares und droubles pringing,

He vants to pe der shturdy oak,

Und, also, do der glinging.

Maype, vhen oaks dhey gling some more,

Und don'd so shturdy peen,

Der glinging vines dhey haf some shance

To helb run life's masheen.

In belt und sickness, shoy und pain,

In calm or shtormy veddher,

'Tvas beddher dot dhose oaks und vines

Should alvays gling togedder.

From "Dialect Ballads," copyright, 1897, by Harper & Brothers.

THE SHIP OF FAITH

ANONYMOUS

A certain colored brother had been holding forth to his little flock

upon the ever-fruitful topic of _Faith_, and he closed his exhortation

about as follows:

"My bruddren, ef yous gwine to git saved, you got to git on board de

Ship ob Faith. I tell you, my bruddren, dere ain't no odder way. Dere

ain't no gitten up de back stairs, nor goin' 'cross lots; you can't do

dat away, my bruddren, you got to git on board de Ship ob Faith. Once

'pon a time dere was a lot ob colored people, an' dey was all gwine to

de promised land. Well, dey knowed dere w'an't no odder way for 'em to

do but to git on board de Ship ob Faith. So dey all went down an' got on

board, de ole granfaders, an' de ole granmudders, an' de pickaninnies,

an' all de res' of 'em. Dey all got on board 'ceptin' one mons'us big

feller, he said he's gwine to swim, he was. 'W'y!' dey said, 'you can't

swim so fur like dat. It am a powerful long way to de promised land!' He

said: 'I kin swim anywhur, I kin. I git board no boat, no, 'deed!' Well,

my bruddren, all dey could say to dat poor disluded man dey couldn't git

him on board de Ship of Faith, so dey started off. De day was fair, de

win' right; de sun shinin' and ev'ryt'ing b'utiful, an' dis big feller

he pull off his close and plunge in de water. Well, he war a powerful

swimmer, dat man, 'deed he war; he war dat powerful he kep' right 'long

side de boat all de time; he kep' a hollerin' out to de people on de

boat, sayin': 'What you doin' dere, you folks, brilin' away in de sun;

you better come down heah in de water, nice an' cool down here.' But

dey said: 'Man alive, you better come up here in dis boat while you got

a chance.' But he said: 'No, indeedy! I git aboard no boat; I'm havin'

plenty fun in de water.' Well, bimeby, my bruddren, what you tink dat

pore man seen? A _horrible, awful shark_, my bruddren; mouf wide opne,

teef more'n a foot long, ready to chaw dat pore man all up de minute he

catch him. Well, when he seen dat shark he begun to git awful scared,

an' he holler out to de folks on board de ship: 'Take me on board, take

me on board, quick!' But dey said: 'No, indeed; you wouldn't come up

here before, you swim now!'

"He look over his shoulder an' he seen dat shark a-comin' an' he let

hisself out. Fust it was de man an' den it was de shark, an' den it was

de man again, dat away, my bruddren, _plum to de promised land_. Dat am

de blessed troof I'm a-tellin' you dis minute. But what do you t'ink was

a-waitin' for him on de odder shore when he got dere? A _horrible, awful

lion_, my bruddren, was a-stan'in' dere on de shore, a-lashin' his sides

wid his tail, an' a-roarin' away fit to devour dat poor nigger de minit

he git on de shore.

"Well, he _war_ powerful scared den, he don't know what he gwine to do.

If he stay in de water de shark eat him up; if he go on shore de lion

eat him up; he dunno what to do. But he put his trust in de Lord, an'

went for de shore. Dat lion he give a fearful roar an' bound for him;

but, my bruddren, as sure as you live an' breeve, dat horrible, awful

lion he jump clean ober dat pore feller's head into de water; an' _de

shark eat de lion_. But, my bruddren, don't you put your trust in no

such circumstance; dat pore man he done git saved, but I tell you _de

Lord ain't a-gwine to furnish a lion fo' every nigger_!"

HE WANTED TO KNOW

ANONYMOUS

Early one moonlight morning, in the city of London, a man was vainly

trying to find his home, but being unable to locate it he called upon

the services of a passer-by.

"Hey! M-m-mister (hic), will you take me to twenty-two?"

"Number twenty--Why you are standing right in front of it!"

"Oh, no you d-d-don't,--that's two-two, two-two!"

"Why, no, it's twenty-two."

"Say, you can't fool me. 'Nuther fellow tried to d-d-do that. He-he-he

told me the other side of the street was (hic) on this side,--an'

'tisn't,--s-sit's over there. Please t-t-take me (hic) to twenty-two,

will you?"

The man walked him around the block and back again.

"Now, then, get out your key. I must be going."

"Say, it was m-m-mighty (hic) jolly of you to bring me all this l-l-long

way ho-ho-home, old chap!"

"That's all right. Now get your key,--hurry up."

"I'm ever so much obliged to you for bringing me all this long way

ho-ho-home."

"That's all right. I must go now. Good-night."

The man had walked but a little distance when he heard his friend trying

to whistle to him.

"Hey! (_Tries to whistle_). C-co-come here, I want ter speak to you. Now

d-d-don't get mad (hic), old chap, it's important."

"Well, what do you want?"

"I just want to (hic) tell you how much obliged I'm to you for bringing

me all this long way home."

"You had better go to bed now, so good-night."

"Hold up, old chap, you're a-a-a--would you mind telling me what your

name is?"

Here the clock in St. Paul's struck two.

"My name--is St. Paul."

"Good enough, Miss Saint 'All. Much obliged to you for bring--me----"

"Never mind, good-night."

"Hey! Hi! (_Tries to whistle_). Mister Saint 'All--Miss Saint P-all,

co-co-come here, I want to ask (hic) you something."

"What!"

"Old f-f-friend, I d-d-d-d-didn't mean that, Misser Saint Faull,--I just

want to ask you a persh-pershonal question, Mis-Mis----"

"Well, what is it?"

"Misser Saint Paul, would you mind telling me whether you ever got

answers to those letters you wrote to the Ephesians?"

AN OPPORTUNITY

ANONYMOUS

I dropt into the post-office this morning for my mail, and just inside

the door I found a little boy crying very bitterly. Naturally I asked

him the cause of his trouble, and lifting his tear-stained face to mine

he said:

"I had two quarters, and a feller come along just now and took one away

from me."

"What!" said I, "right here in the post-office?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, why didn't you tell some one?"

"I did; I hollered, 'Help! help!'" (_Said very weakly._)

"Well," I said, "is that as loud as you can holler?"

"Yes, sir."

So _I_ took the other quarter.

GAPE-SEED

ANONYMOUS

A farmer, walking the streets of one of our big cities, looked through a

window at a lot of men writing very rapidly on typewriters; and as he

stood at the door with his mouth open, one of the men called out to him,

"Do you wish to buy some gape-seed?" Passing on a short distance, he

asked a man what the business was of the men he had just seen in the

office he had passed. He was told that they wrote letters dictated by

others, and transcribed all sorts of documents. The farmer returned to

the office, and inquired if one of the men would write a letter for him,

and was answered in the affirmative. He asked the price, and was told

one dollar. After considerable talk, the bargain was made; one of the

conditions being that the scribe should write just what the farmer told

him to, or he should receive no pay. The man said he was ready, and the

farmer dictated as follows:

"Dear wife," and then asked, "Have you got that down?"

"Yes; _go on_."

"I went for a ride the other day--have you got that down?"

"Yes; _go on, go on_."

"And I harnessed up the old mare into the wagon--have you got that

down?"

"Yes, yes, long ago; _go on_."

"Why, how fast you write!--And I got into the wagon, and sat down, and

drew up the reins, and took the whip in my right hand--have you got that

down?"

"Yes, long ago; _go on_."

"Dear me, how fast you write! I never saw your equal.--And I said to the

old mare, '_Go 'long_,' and I jerked the reins pretty hard--have you got

that down?"

"Yes; and I am impatiently waiting for more. I wish you wouldn't bother

me with so many foolish questions. Go on with your letter."

"Well, the old mare wouldn't stir out of her tracks, and I hollered,

'_Go 'long, you old jade! go 'long_'--have you got that down?"

"Yes, indeed, _you pestiferous fellow; go on_."

"And I licked her, and licked her, and licked her----" (_continuing to

repeat these words as rapidly as possible_).

"Hold on there! I have written two pages of 'licked her,' and I want the

rest of the letter."

"Well, and she kicked, and she kicked, and she kicked----" (_continuing

to repeat these words with great rapidity_).

"Do go on with your letter; I have several pages of 'she kicked.'"

(_The farmer clucks as in urging horses to move, and continues the

clucking noise with rapid repetition for some time._)

The scribe jumps up from the typewriter.

"_Write it down! write it down!_"

"I can't!"

"Well, then, I won't pay you."

(_The scribe, gathering up his papers._) "What shall I do with all these

sheets upon which I have written your nonsense?"

"You might use them in doing up your _gape-seed_! Good-day!"

LARIAT BILL

ANONYMOUS

"Well, stranger, 'twas somewhere in 'sixty-nine

I wore runnin' the 'Frisco fast express;

An' from Murder Creek to Blasted Pine,

Were nigh onto eighteen mile, I guess.

The road were a down-grade all the way,

An' we pulled out of Murder a little late,

So I opened the throttle wide that day,

And a mile a minute was 'bout our gait.

"My fireman's name was Lariat Bill,

A quiet man with an easy way,

Who could rope a steer with a cowboy's skill,

Which he had learned in Texas, I've heard him say:

The coil were strong as tempered steel,

An' it went like a bolt from a crossbow flung.

An' arter Bill changed from saddle to wheel,

Just over his head in the cab it hung.

"Well, as I were saying, we fairly flew

As we struck the curve at Buffalo Spring,

An' I give her full steam an' put her through,

An' the engine rocked like a living thing;

When all of a sudden I got a scare--

For thar on the track were a little child!

An' right in the path of the engine there

She held out her little hands and smiled!

"I jerked the lever and whistled for brakes,

The wheels threw sparks like a shower of gold;

But I knew the trouble a down-grade makes,

An' I set my teeth an' my flesh grew cold.

Then Lariat Bill yanked his long lasso,

An' out on the front of the engine crept--

He balanced a moment before he threw,

Then out in the air his lariat swept!"

He paused. There were tears in his honest eyes;

The stranger listened with bated breath.

"I know the rest of the tale," he cries;

"He snatched the child from the jaws of death!

'Twas the deed of a hero, from heroes bred,

Whose praises the very angels sing!"

The engineer shook his grizzled head,

And growled: "He didn't do no sich thing.

"He aimed at the stump of a big pine tree,

An' the lariat caught with a double hitch,

An' in less than a second the train an' we

Were yanked off the track an' inter the ditch!

'Twere an awful smash, an' it laid me out,

I ain't forgot it, and never shall;

Were the passengers hurt? Lemme see--about--

Yes, it killed about forty--but saved the gal!"

THE CANDIDATE

BY BILL NYE

The heat and the venom of each political campaign bring back to my mind

with wonderful clearness the bitter and acrimonious war, and the savage

factional fight, which characterized my own legislative candidacy in

what was called the Prairie Dog District of Wyoming, about ten years

ago.

I hesitated about accepting the nomination because I knew that

vituperation would get up on its hind feet and annoy me greatly, and,

indeed, this turned out to be the case.

In due time I was nominated, and one evening my heart swelled when I

heard a campaign band coming up the street, trying to see how little it

could play and still draw its salary. The band was followed by men with

torches, and speakers in carriages. A messenger was sent into the house

to tell me that I was about to be waited upon by my old friends and

neighbors, who desired to deliver to me their hearty endorsement, and a

large willow-covered two-gallon Godspeed as a mark of esteem.

The spokesman, as soon as I had stept out on my veranda, mounted the

improvised platform previously erected, and after a short and

debilitated solo and chorus by the band, said as follows, as near as I

can now recall his words:

"_Mr. Nye_--

"Sir:--We have read with pain the open and venomous attacks of the foul

and putrid press of our town, and come here to-night to vindicate by our

presence your utter innocence _as_ a man, _as_ a fellow citizen, _as_ a

neighbor, _as_ a father, mother, brother or sister.

"No one could look down into your open face, and deep, earnest lungs,

and then doubt you _as_ a man, _as_ a fellow citizen, _as_ a neighbor,

_as_ a father, mother, brother, or sister. You came to us a poor man,

and staked your all on the growth of this town. We like you because you

are still poor. You can not be too poor to suit us. It shows that you

are not corrupt.

"Mr. Nye, on behalf of this vast assemblage (_tremulo_), I am glad that

you are POOR!!!"

Mr. Limberquid then said:

"Sir:--What do we care for the vilifications of the press--a press

hired, venial, corrupt, reeking in filth and oozy with the slime of its

own impaired circulation, snapping at the heels of its superiors, and

steeped in the reeking poison and pollution of its own shop-worn and

unmarketable opinions?

"What do we care that homely men grudge our candidate his symmetry of

form and graceful, upholstered carriage? What do we care that calumny

crawls out of its hole, calumniates him a couple of times and then goes

back?

"We like him for the poverty he has made. Our idea in running him for

the Legislature is to give him a chance to accumulate poverty, and have

some saved up for a rainy day."

Several people wept here, and wiped their eyes on their alabaster hands.

The band then played, "See the Conquering Hero Comes," and yielding to

the pressing demands of the populi, I made a few irrelevant, but low,

passionate remarks, as follows:

"Fellow Citizens and Members of the Band:--We are not here, as I

understand it, solely to tickle our palates with the twisted doughnuts

of our pampered and sin-curst civilization, but to unite and give our

pledges once more to the support of the best men. In this teacup of

foaming and impervious cider from the Valley of the Jordan I drink to

the success of the best men. Fellow citizens and members of the band, we

owe our fealty to the old party. Let us cling to the old party as long

as there is any juice in it and vote for its candidates. Let us give our

suffrages to men of advanced thought who are loyal to their party but

poor. Gentlemen, I am what would be called a poor but brainy man. When I

am not otherwise engaged you will always find me engaged in thought. I

love the excitement of following an idea and chasing it up a tree. It is

a great pleasure for me to pursue the red-hot trail of a thought or the

intellectual spoor of an idea. But I do not allow this habit to

interfere with politics. Politics and thought are radically different.

Why should man think himself weak on these political matters when there

are men who have made it their business and life study to do the

thinking for the masses?

"This is my platform. I believe that a candidate should be poor; that he

should be a thinker on other matters, but leave political matters and

nominations to professional political ganglia and molders of primaries

who have given their lives and the inner coating of their stomachs to

the advancement of political methods by which the old, cumbersome and

dangerous custom of defending our institutions with drawn swords may be

superseded by the modern and more attractive method of doing so with

overdrawn salaries.

"Fellow Citizens and Members of the Band:--In closing let me say that

you have seen me placed in the trying position of postmaster for the

past year. For that length of time I have stood between you and the

government at Washington. I have assisted in upholding the strong arm of

the government, and yet I have not allowed it to crush you. No man here

to-night can say that I have ever, by word or deed, revealed outside the

office the contents of a postal card addrest to a member of my own party

or held back or obstructed the progress of new and startling seeds sent

by our representative from the Agricultural Department. I am in favor

of a full and free interchange of interstate red-eyed and pale beans,

and I favor the early advancement and earnest recognition of the merits

of the highly offensive partizan. I thank you, neighbors and band

(_husky and pianissimo_), for this gratifying little demonstration.

Words seem empty and unavailing at this time. Will you not accept the

hospitality of my home? Neighbors, you are welcome to these halls. Come

in and look at the family album."

ONE AFTERNOON

ANONYMOUS

The events narrated in the following story take place about the middle

of the twentieth century. At that date the institution known as the

department store had reached its full development. There was not a

single article of any kind that could not be purchased at one of these

mammoth emporiums. It is well to bear this fact in mind, for the whole

action of this story takes place under the roof of Sniggle Scooper's

Department Store.

SCENE THE FIRST. When Charlie Hussel entered Sniggle Scooper's

refreshment department on that beautiful summer afternoon, he had no

more idea of getting married than most millionaires have of paying full

taxes on all their property. Charlie sat down at the counter and ordered

a plain soda. He had been at the club the night before and his nerves

were somewhat unstrung. While waiting for his soda he noticed a young

lady by his side toying with an ice cream soda marked down from seven

cents to four and a half. She was as fair as a poet's dream and the

young man's heart beat tumultuously within him as he gazed at her. He

longed for an opportunity of speaking to her and at last it came. She

dropt her purse,--whether by accident I leave you to conjecture. Picking

up the pocketbook our hero handed it to the young lady with a bow. She

took the pocketbook, but returned the bow.

"Thank you," she murmured; "you are very kind."

"No," said he, "I am not kind. I'm a selfish brute!"

"Then why did you trouble yourself to pick up my purse?"

"Because, to tell the truth, I wanted to hear your voice."

"And now that you have heard it?"

"I wish I could hear it always. Consent to be my wife. You love me, do

you not?"

"Yes! What is your name?"

"Charlie Hussel,--and yours, dear?"

"Mildred Uptodate. Now, Charlie, you must ask father's consent."

"All right, Mabel. There is a telephone on the next floor. Come along

and I'll ask him."

They ascended by the escalator.

SCENE THE SECOND. Mr. Uptodate readily gave his consent, for he knew of

Charlie Hussel in a business way.

"Now, Mildred, let us set the time for the wedding. It is now five

minutes after one. Suppose we say four o'clock?"

"Oh, dear, no, I can't possibly get ready before to-morrow afternoon."

"Of course you can. Why, you can get everything you need right here in

this store."

"Well, Charlie, if you insist, I suppose I must yield. But it seems a

terribly short engagement."

"Yes, sweetheart, but then our married life will be so much longer. Run

along, now, darling, and get your wedding-gown, while I get a suit of

clothes and attend to the license. Meet me in the chapel on the top

floor at half past four sharp."

At the appointed hour the happy couple were made one by the department

store clergyman. A few minutes later they were seated in the café

enjoying their wedding dinner. How happy they were as they planned for

the future!

SCENE THE THIRD. Dinner was over and the happy pair went hand-in-hand

toward the transportation department to arrange for their wedding tour.

As they passed a bargain counter, the bride exclaimed rapturously:

"O Charlie, I see some lovely bargains over there. Do let me have two

dollars."

A moment later the proud husband was watching his wife as with the ease

born of long practise she fought her way through the crowd and reached

the counter. After a little while she returned waving triumphantly a

folded paper, exclaiming:

"Wasn't I lucky? I got the last one they had."

"What is it?"

"Why, don't you know? It's a divorce!"

The young man grew pale.

"I thought," he said, "you loved me."

"Why, of course I love you, but I simply couldn't resist such a bargain

as that."

She pointed to a sign. Charlie looked at it and read:

THIS DAY ONLY!

OUR REGULAR DIVORCES MARKED DOWN

FROM $2.75 TO $1.69

NOT IN IT

ANONYMOUS

They built a church at his very door--

"He wasn't in it."

They brought him a scheme for relieving the poor--

"He wasn't in it."

Let them work for themselves, as he had done,

They wouldn't ask help from any one

If they hadn't wasted each golden minute--

"He wasn't in it."

So he passed the poor with haughty tread--

When men in the halls of virtue met

He saw their goodness without regret;

Too high the mark for him to win it--

"He wasn't in it."

A carriage crept down the street one day--

"He was in it."

The funeral trappings made a display--

"He was in it."

St. Peter received him with book and bell;

"My friend, you have purchased a ticket to--well,

Your elevator goes down in a minute."

"He was in it!"

A TWILIGHT IDYL

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

One summer evening, Mr. Ellis Henderson, a popular young man, went out

walking with two of the sweetest girls in town. Mr. Henderson wore a

little straw hat with a navy blue band, a cutaway coat, a pair of white

trousers, a white vest, a buttonhole bouquet, and fifteen cents. The

evening was very hot, and as they walked, they talked about the baseball

match, the weather, and sunstrokes. By and by one of the young ladies

gave a delicate little shriek.

"OO-oo! What a funny sign!"

"Ha--yes," said Mr. Henderson, in troubled tones, looking gently but

resolutely at the wrong side of the street.

"How funny it is spelled; see, Ethel."

"Why," said Ethel, "it is spelled correctly. Isn't it, Mr. Henderson?"

"Hy--why--aw--why, yes, to be sure," said Mr. Henderson, staring at a

window full of house-plants.

"Why, Mr. Henderson," said Elfrida, "how can you say so? Just see,

'i--c--e, ice, c--r double e--m, creem'; that's not the way to spell

cream."

And Mr. Henderson, who was praying harder than he ever prayed before

that an earthquake might come along and swallow up either himself or

all the ice-cream parlors in the United States, looked up at the chimney

of the house and said:

"That? Oh, yes, yes; of course, why certainly. How very much cooler it

has grown within the past few minutes. That cool wave from Manitoba is

nearing us once more."

He took out his handkerchief and swabbed a face that would scorch an

iceberg brown in ten minutes.

"Is it true, Mr. Henderson," asked Ethel, "that soda fountains sometimes

explode?"

"Oh, frequently," said he, "and they scatter death and destruction

everywhere. In some of our Eastern cities they have been abolished by

law,--and they ought to do the same thing here! Why, in New York, all

the soda fountains have been removed far outside the city limits and are

now located side by side with powder houses."

"I am not afraid of them," said Ethel, "and I don't believe they are a

bit dangerous."

"Nor I," echoed Elfrida, "I would not be afraid to walk up to one and

stand by it all day. Why are you so afraid of them, Mr. Henderson?"

"Because once I had a fair, sweet young sister blown to pieces by one of

those terrible engines of destruction while she was drinking at it, and

I can not look at one without growing faint."

"How do they make soda water, Mr. Henderson?"

He was about to reply that it was composed chiefly of dirt and poison,

when Ethel read aloud four ice-cream signs, and said, "How comfortable

and happy all those people look in there."

Then young Mr. Henderson, who had been clawing at his hair, and tearing

off his necktie and collar, and pawing the air, shouted in tones of wild

frenzy:

"Oh, yes, yes, yes! Come in; come in and gorge yourselves. Everybody

come in and eat up a whole week's salary in fifteen minutes. Set 'em up!

Strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, pineapple, raspberry, lemon, peach,

apricot, tutti frutti, nesselrode pudding, water-ice, cake and sherbet.

Set 'em up! The treat's on me. Oh, yes, I can stand it. Ha, ha! I'm

Astorbilt in disguise. Oh, yes; it doesn't cost anything to take an

evening walk! Put out your frozen pudding! Ha, ha, ha!"

They carried him home to his boarding house, and put him to bed, and

sent for his physician. He is not yet out of danger, but will recover.

The exact trouble is a mystery to the doctor, but he thinks it must be

hydrosodia, as the sight of a piece of ice throws the patient into the

wildest and most furious paroxysms.

LAVERY'S HENS

ANONYMOUS

Michael Lavery, a thrifty Irishman, lived in a small cottage, on

Devarsey Street, South Side, Chicago. It had no yard in front, and the

rear was ditto. It had a cellar, however, and it occurred to Lavery that

he might make something out of it by using it as a hen-house; but one

cold night, during the following winter, the water-pipes burst, flooded

the cellar, and drowned the chickens. Friends of Lavery told him the

city would make good his loss if he made proper application. So Mr.

Lavery went down to the city hall, and entering the room of the clerk,

said:

"Good marnin'. Me name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey Street,

on the South Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came

in and drowned thim; what'll I do?"

"What's that?"

"Me name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey Street, on the South

Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and

drowned thim; what'll I do?"

"What's that?"

"Me name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey Street, on the South

Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and

drowned thim; what'll I do?"

"The water came in and drowned your chickens; what will you do?"

"Yis, sir."

"Well, you step into the next room and see the mayor. You will find him

at his desk; tell him what you want."

"All right, sir, I will." (_Exit Lavery to next room._)

"Good marnin'. Me name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey Street,

on the South Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came

in and drowned thim; what'll I do?"

(_Gruffly._) "What, sir?"

"Me name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey Street, on the South

Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and

drowned thim; what'll I do?"

"What's that?"

(_Very loud._) "Me name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey

Street, on the South Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the

water came and drowned thim; what'll I do?"

"I don't understand one word you say, sir!"

(_Very softly and sarcastically, and working up into loud voice._) "Me

name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey Street, on the South

Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and

drowned thim; what'll I do?"

"The water came in and drowned your chickens; what will you do?"

"Yis, sir."

"Well I can do nothing for you, so good-morning, sir!"

(_Clerk whispers to Lavery as he is passing out._) "Well, Mr. Lavery,

what did he say to you?"

"_Kape ducks!_"

LISP

ANONYMOUS

Thome folks thay I listhp,

But then I don't perthieve it.

Juth listhen while I call the cat:

"Here Pusthy! Pusthy! Pusthy!"

Now thee I don't listhp.

THEY MET BY CHANCE

ANONYMOUS

They met by chance,

They had never met before.

They met by chance,

And she was stricken sore.

They never met again,

Don't want to, I'll allow!

They met but once:

_'Twas a freight-train and a cow!_

THE BRIDEGROOM'S TOAST

ANONYMOUS

(_Speaks while seated._) "I know a story,--what? (_Laughs._) I know

another story,--eh? Oh, don't ask me. I never made a speech in my life.

I am willing to do anything to make you fully enjoy--(_This is broken by

applause, which the reader may imitate by rapping on a chair, or on a

table._) I will only make a fool of myself--(_Attempting to get up. More

applause. Sits down again._) I would rather not. (_After much difficulty

and persuasion he rises to his feet and begins._) Ladies and gentlemen,

I have been suddenly called upon to propose a toast, which I think you

will admit,--I am suddenly called upon,--very suddenly,--to propose

and--(_Sits down. More applause. Rises again._) Ladies and gentlemen,

you are very kind (_clears throat_) and I will do my best, and I only

hope that unaccustomed as I am to public houses,--speaking,--I sometimes

find I have some difficulty in the,--of course I don't mean to say,--I

don't mean to say what I mean when I mean what I say! At all events,

ladies and gentlemen, I am very, very much obliged for the kind remarks

in which you have drunk my health. (_Sits down. Rises again._) I am

called upon to propose a toast (_makes a motion as if someone has

thrown something at him from behind striking him on the head_) upon--to

propose a toast, but have forgotten it. Considering it is the most

important toast of the evening you will understand--(_Aside: 'What is

the toast?'_)--the toast of the ladies. Of course we all know (_runs his

hand up and down the back of the chair_) whatever may be said against

them,--whatever people may say about the ladies, there is no doubt the

ladies are really a very excellent--institution! I don't agree with

those people who--I think, I say, that far from being a uniform success

they are the reverse. I am bold enough to say, I don't agree that they

are very nearly as good as we are. I know (_again he is hit in the

back_) there are few drink the health of the army and navy,--I mean

ladies. Shakespeare says that 'when a woman' (_hit again_)--I had it

just now. Shakespeare says, 'When a woman,'--oh, yes, the immortal bard

says, 'We won't go home till morning!'" (_Sits down in great

confusion._)

REHEARSING FOR PRIVATE THEATRICALS

BY STANLEY HUNTLEY

"Now, my dear," said Mr. Spoopendyke, opening the book and assuming the

correct dramatic scowl--"now my dear, we'll rehearse our parts for

Specklewottle's theatricals. I'm to be Hamlet and you're to be the

queen, and we want this thing to go off about right. The hardest part we

have to play together is where I accuse you of poisoning my father, and

we'd better try that until we get it perfect. I'll commence:

"Now, mother, what's the matter?"

"Well, I was thinking whether I had better wear my black silk or my

maroon suit. Do queens wear----"

"Will you be kind enough to tell me what pack of cards you got that idea

of a queen from? Do you suppose the queen sent for Hamlet to get his

opinion about bargains in dry-goods? When I say that you must say,

'Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended!'"

"Oh, I understand, I thought you asked me what I was thinking about. I

didn't know you had commenced to play. Try it again."

"Well you be careful this time, this is a play, this is. Think you know

the difference between a play and a bankrupt sale? Know the distinction

between a play and a millinery-shop opening? Now, I'll begin again and

you try to do it decently."

"Now, mother, what's the matter!"

"There's nothing the matter now; go on, dear. I understand it now."

"Say it, can't ye! Haven't ye studied this business? Don't ye know your

part?"

"What shall I say, dear?"

"Say! Sing a hymn! If you don't know your part, get off a psalm! Didn't

I tell you what to say? Look here. Have you ever read this play? Have

you conceived any kind of a notion of what it's all about?"

"Why, yes, you come in and stab Mr. Specklewottle behind the ears and I

scream. Isn't that right, dear?"

"Hear her! Stab Specklewottle behind the ears! That is all right; now

you scream! Scream, why don't you? You know so much about your measly

part, why don't you play it?"

"We-e-e-e-e! I knew I could do it right as soon as you showed me how.

Will that do?"

"Oh, that was queenly! Just do that again! Four of those dramatic

efforts will make this play the greatest of modern entertainments! Do it

once more!"

"It hurts my throat. Can't we make it do with one scream, dear?"

"Mrs. Spoopendyke, there's been some mistake made in this thing. You

should have been cast for Ophelia. That was the part intended for you."

"I would just as soon play it. What does he do?"

"He was an idiot from his birth and afterward went crazy. That was the

part for you."

"Then I'd rather be queen. Now, dear, let's commence all over and I'll

do it right this time."

"You can't do it worse. I'll try it once more, just to see what kind of

foolishness you can work off."

"Now, mother, what's the matter?"

"We-e-e-e, Hamlet, oh, Hamlet! We-e-e-e-e!"

"Turn it off! Be quick and break off the end! What's the matter?"

"We-e-e-e-e!"

"What's the matter with you, anyway?"

"We-e-e-e-e-e! My dear, you are just splendid as Hamlet. You should have

been an actor."

"Will ye ever shut up? Who ever told ye to yell like that? Don't ye know

anything at all scarcely? Think Hamlet's a lunatic asylum? Got some kind

of a notion that the queen's a fog-horn? Where'd ye get your idea of

this thing, anyway?"

"I did just as you told me, dear. You said I was to scream when you

asked me what the matter was. Didn't I do it right?"

"Oh, that was right! You struck the keynote of high art both times! With

that yell and your knowledge of the text all you want now is a fire and

a free list to be a theater with a restaurant attachment! Such talent as

that can't be wasted on any cheap Shakespeare plays while I've got the

money and influence to get you a job in the legitimate circus!" And Mr.

Spoopendyke bolted from the house, thoroughly disgusted with private

theatricals.

By permission of _The Brooklyn Eagle_.

THE V-A-S-E

BY JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE

Far from the crowd they stood apart,

The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell from sight alone

In which had culture ripest grown,--

The Gotham Millions fair to see,

The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue,

Or the Soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,--

For all loved Art in a seemly way,

With an earnest soul and a capital A.

* * * * *

Long they worshiped, but no one broke

The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place,

Who blushing said, "What a lovely vace!"

Over three faces a sad smile flew,

And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred

To crush the stranger with one small word.

Deftly hiding reproof in praise,

She cries, "'Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!"

But brief her unworthy triumph when

The lofty one from the home of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grandpapas,

Exclaims, "It is quite a lovely vahs!"

And glances round with an anxious thrill,

Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,

And gently murmurs, "Oh, pardon me!

"I did not catch your remark, because

I was so entranced with that charming vaws!"

And then each nose was a sight to see

Turned up in contempt at the other three.

PAPA AND THE BOY

BY J. L. HARBOUR

Charming as is the merry prattle of innocent childhood, it is not

particularly agreeable at about one o'clock in the morning. There are

young and talkative children who have no more regard for your feelings

or for the proprieties of life than to open their eyes with a snap at

one or two in the morning, and to seek to engage you in enlivening

dialog of this sort.

"Papa."

You think you will pay no heed to the imperative little voice, hoping

that silence on your part will keep the youngster quiet; but again that

boy of three pipes out sharply:

"Papa!"

"Well?" you say.

"You 'wake, papa?"

"Yes."

"So's me."

"Yes, I hear that you are," you say with cold sarcasm. "What do you

want?"

"Oh! nuffin."

"Well, lie still and go to sleep then."

"I isn't s'eepy, papa."

"Well, I am, young man."

"Is you? I isn't--not a bit. Say, papa, papa! If you was wich what would

you buy me?"

"I don't know--go to sleep."

"Wouldn't you buy me nuffin?"

"I guess so; now you----"

"What, papa?"

"Well, a steam engine, may be; now you go right to sleep."

"With a bell that would ring, papa?"

"Yes, yes; now you----"

"And would the wheels go wound, papa?"

"Oh! yes (_yawning_). Shut your eyes now, and----"

"And would it go choo, choo, choo, papa?"

"Yes, yes; now go to sleep."

"Say, papa."

No answer.

"Papa!"

"Well, what now?"

"Is you 'fraid of the dark?"

"No" (_drowsily_).

"I isn't either. Papa!"

"Well?"

"If I was wich I'd buy you somefin."

"Would you?"

"Yes; I'd buy you some ice-cweam and some chocolum drops and a toof

brush and panties wiv bwaid on like mine, and a candy wooster, and----"

"That will do. You must go to sleep now."

Silence for half a second, then--

"Papa! papa!"

"Well, what now?"

"I want a jink."

"No, you don't."

"I do, papa."

Experience has taught you that there will be no peace until you have

brought the "jink," and you scurry out to the bathroom in the dark for

it, knocking your shins against everything in the room as you go.

"Now I don't want to hear another word from you to-night," you say, as

he gulps down a mouthful of the water he didn't want. Two minutes later

he says:

"Papa!"

"See here, laddie, papa will have to punish you if----"

"I can spell 'dog,' papa."

"Well, nobody wants to hear you spell at two o'clock in the morning."

"B-o-g--dog; is that right?"

"No, it isn't. But nobody cares if----"

"Then it's d-o-g, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes; now you lie right down and go to sleep instantly."

"Then I'll be a good boy, won't I, papa?"

"Yes; you'll be the best boy on earth. Good-night, dearie."

"Papa!"

"Well, well! What now?"

"Is I your little boy?"

"Yes, yes; of course."

"Some mans haven't got any little boys; but you have, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Don't you wish you had two, free, nine, 'leben, twenty-six, ninety-ten,

free hundred little boys?"

The mere possibility of such a remote and contingent calamity so

paralyzes you that you lie speechless for ten minutes during which you

hear a yawn or two in the little bed by your side, a little figure rolls

over three or four times, a pair of heels fly into the air once or

twice, a warm, moist little hand reaches out and touches your face to

make sure that you are there, and the boy is asleep with his heels where

his head ought to be.

THE OBSTRUCTIVE HAT IN THE PIT

BY F. ANSTEY

SCENE: _The Pit of a London theatre during Pantomime Time._

_An Overheated Matron_ (_to her husband_)--"Well, they don't give you

much room in 'ere, I must say. Still, we done better than I expected,

after all that crushing. I thought my ribs was gone once--but it was

on'y the umbrella's. You pretty comfortable where you are, eh, father?"

_Father_--"Oh, I'm right enough, I am."

_Jimmy_ (_their small boy with a piping voice_)--"If father is it's more

nor what I am. I can't see, mother, I can't!"

_Mother_--"Lor' bles' the boy! there ain't nothen to see yet; you'll see

well enough when the curting goes up. (_Curtain rises on opening

scene._) Look, Jimmy, ain't that nice, now? All them himps, dancin'

round and real fire comin' out of the pot--which I 'ope it's quite

safe--and there's a beautiful fairy just come on drest so grand, too!"

_Jimmy_ (_whimpering_)--"I can't see no fairy--nor yet no himps--no

nothen!"

_Mother_ (_annoyed_)--"Was there ever such an aggravating boy? Set

quiet, do, and don't fidget, and look at the hactin'!"

_Jimmy_--"I tell yer I can't see no hactin', mother. It ain't my

fault--it's this lady in front of me, with the 'at."

_Mother_--"Father, the pore boy says he can't see where he is, 'cause of

a lady's 'at in front."

_Father_--"Well, I can't 'elp the 'at, can I? He must put up with it,

that's all!"

_Mother_--"No--but I thought, if you wouldn't mind changing places with

him; you're taller than him."

_Father_--It's always the way with you--never satisfied, you ain't!

Well, pass the boy across! I'm for a quiet life, I am (_changing

seats_). Will this do for you?" (_He settles down immediately behind a

very large, furry hat which he dodges for some time._)

_Father_ (_suddenly_)--"Blow the 'at."

_Mother_--"You can't wonder at the boy not seeing! P'r'aps the lady

wouldn't mind taking it off, if you asked her?"

_Father_--"Ah! (_touching the owner of the hat on the shoulder_). Excuse

me, mum, but might I take the liberty of asking you to kindly remove

your 'at?" (_The owner of the hat deigns no reply._)

_Father_ (_more insistently_)--"Would you 'ave any objection to oblige

me by taking off your 'at, mum? (_Same result._) I don't know if you

'eard me, mum, but I've asked you twice, civil enough, to take that 'at

of yours off. I'm playin' 'ide-and-seek be'ind it 'ere!" (_No answer._)

_Mother_--"People didn't ought to be allowed in the Pit with sech 'ats!

Callin' 'erself a lady, and settin' there in a great 'at and feathers

like a 'ighlander's, and never answering no more nor a stuffed himage!"

_Father_ (_to the husband of the owner of the hat_)--"Will you tell your

good lady to take her 'at off, sir, please?"

_The Owner of the Hat_ (_to her husband_)--"Don't you do nothing of the

sort, Sam, or you'll 'ear of it!"

_Mother_--"Some people are perlite, I must say. Parties might be'ave as

ladies when they come in the Pit! It's a pity her 'usband can't teach

her better manners!"

_Father_--"'Im teach her! 'E knows better. 'E's got a Tartar there, 'e

'as!"

_The Owner of the Hat_--"Sam, are you going to set by and hear me

insulted like this?"

_Her Husband_ (_turning round tremulously_)--"I--I'll trouble you to

drop making these personal allusions to my wife's 'at, sir. It's

puffickly impossible to listen to what's going on on the stage, with all

these remarks be'ind!"

_Father_--"Not more nor it is to see what's going on on the stage with

that 'at in front! I paid 'arf-a-crown to see the Pantermime, I did; not

to 'ave a view of your wife's 'at!.... 'ere, Maria, blowed if I can

stand this 'ere game any longer. Jimmy must change places again, and if

he can't see, he must stand up on the seat, that's all!" (_Jimmy goes

back and mounts upon the seat._)

_A Pit-ite Behind Jimmy_ (_touching Jimmy's father with an

umbrella_)--"Will you tell your little boy to set down, please, and not

to block the view like this?"

_Father_--"If you can indooce that lady to take off her 'at, I will, but

not before. Stay where you are, Jimmy."

_The Pit-ite Behind_--"Well, I must stand myself then, that's all. I

mean to see somehow!" (_He rises._)

_People Behind_ (_sternly_)--"Set down there, will yer?" (_He resumes

his seat expostulating._)

_Jimmy_--"Father, the man behind is a-pinching of my legs!"

_Father_--"Will you stop pinching my little boy's legs. He ain't doing

you no 'arm, is he?"

_The Pinching Pit-ite_--"Let him sit down, then!"

_Father_--"Let the lady take her 'at off!"

_Murmurs Behind_--"Order there! Set down! Put that boy down! Take off

that 'at! Silence in front there! Turn 'em out! Shame!..."

_The Husband of the Owner of the Hat_ (_in a whisper to his

wife_)--"Take off the blessed 'at, and 'ave done with it, do!"

_The Owner of the Hat_--"What, now? I'd sooner die in the 'at!" (_An

attendant is called._)

_Attendant_--"Order, there, gentlemen, please, unless you want to get

turned out! No standing allowed on the seats; you're disturbing the

performance 'ere, you know!" (_Jimmy is made to sit down, and weeps

silently; the hubbub subsides, and the Owner of the Hat triumphs._)

_Mother_--"Never mind, my boy, you shall have mother's seat in a minute.

I dessay, if all was known, the lady 'as reasons for keeping her 'at on,

pore thing!"

_Father_--"Ah, I never thought o' that. So she may. Very likely her 'at

won't come off--not without her 'air!"

_Mother_--"Ah, well, then we mus'n't be 'ard on her."

_The Owner of the Hat_ (_removing the obstruction_)--"I 'ope you're

satisfied now, I'm sure?"

_Father_ (_handsomely_)--"Better late nor never, mum, and we take it

kind of you. Tho why you shouldn't ha' done it at fust, I dunno; for you

look a deal 'ansomer without the 'at than what you did in it--don't she

Maria?"

_The Owner of the Hat_ (_mollified_)--"Sam, ask the gentleman behind if

his boy would like a ginger-nut." (_This olive-branch is accepted;

compliments pass; cordiality is restored, and the pantomime then

proceeds without any further disturbance in the audience._)

HULLO

BY S. W. FOSS

W'en you see a man in wo,

Walk right up an' say "Hullo!"

Say "Hullo" an' "How d'ye do?

How's the world a-usin' you?"

Slap the fellow on the back;

Bring your hand down with a whack;

Walk right up, an' don't go slow;

Grin an' shake, an' say "Hullo!"

Is he clothed In rags? Oh! sho;

Walk right up an' say "Hullo!"

Rags is but a cotton roll

Jest for wrappin' up a soul;

An' a soul is worth a true

Hale and hearty "How d'ye do?"

Don't wait for the crowd to go

Walk right up an' say "Hullo!"

When big vessels meet, they say

They saloot an' sail away.

Jest the same are you an' me

Lonesome ships upon a sea;

Each one sailin' his own log,

For a port behind the fog.

Let your speakin' trumpet blow;

Lift your horn an' cry "Hullo!"

Say "Hullo!" an' "How d'ye do?"

Other folks are good as you.

W'en you leave your house of clay

Wanderin' in the far away,

W'en you travel through the strange

Country t'other side the range,

Then the souls you've cheered will know

Who ye be, an' say "Hullo."

THE DUTCHMAN'S TELEPHONE

ANONYMOUS

"I guess I haf to gif up my delephone already," said an old citizen, as

he entered the office of the company with a very long face.

"Why, what's the matter now?"

"Oh! eferytings. I got dot delephone in mine house so I could shpeak mit

der poys in der saloon down town, und mit my relations in Springwells,

but I haf to gif it up. I never haf so much droubles."

"How?"

"Vhell, my poy Shon, in der saloon, he rings der pell and calls me oop

und says an old frent of mine vhants to see how she vorks. Dot ish all

right. I say, 'Hello!' und he says, 'Come closer.' I goes closer und

helloes again. Den he says, 'Shtand a little off.' I shtands a little

off und yells vunce more, und he says, 'Shpeak louder.' I yells louder.

I goes dot vhay for ten minutes, und den he says, 'Go to Texas, you old

Dutchman!' You see?"

"Yes."

"Und den mein brudder in Springwells he rings der pell und calls me oop

und says, 'How you vhas dis eafnings?' I says I vhas feeling like some

colts, und he says, 'Who vhants to puy some goats?' I says,

'Colts--colts--colts!' und he answers, 'Oh! coats. I thought you said

goats!' Vhen I goes to ask him ef he feels petter I hear a voice crying

out, 'Vhat Dutchman is dot on dis line?' Den somepody answers, 'I doan'

know, but I likes to punch his headt!' You see?"

"Yes."

"Vhell, somedimes my vhife vhants to shpeak mit me vhen I am down in der

saloon. She rings mein pell und I says, 'Hello!' Nopody shpeaks to me.

She rings again, und I says, 'Hello,' like dunder! Den der Central

Office tells me to go aheadt, und den tells me holdt on, und den tells

mein vhife dot I am gone avhay. I yells oudt, 'Dot ish not so,' und

somepody says, 'How can I talk if dot old Dutchmans doan' keep shtill?'

You see?"

"Yes."

"Und vhen I gets in bedt at night, somepody rings der pell like dear

house vas on fire, and vhen I shumps oud und says, 'Hello,' I hear

somepody saying, 'Kaiser, doan' you vhant to puy a dog?' I vhants no

dog, und vhen I tells 'em so, I hear some peoples laughing, 'Haw! haw!

haw!' You see?"

"Yes."

"Und so you dake it oudt, und vhen somepody likes to shpeak mit me dey

shall come right avay to mein saloon. Oof my brudder ish sick he shall

get better, und if somepody vhants to puy me a dog, he shall come vhere

I can punch him mit a glub."

DOCTOR MARIGOLD

BY CHARLES DICKENS

I am a Cheap Jack, and my own father's name was Willum Marigold. It was

in his lifetime supposed by some that his name was William, but my own

father always consistently said, No it was Willum. On which point I

content myself with looking at the argument this way: If a man is not

allowed to know his own name in a free country, how much is he allowed

to know in a land of slavery?

I was born on the Queen's highway, but it was the King's at that time. A

doctor was fetched to my own mother by my own father, when it took place

on a common; and in consequence of his being a very kind gentleman, and

accepting no fee but a tea-tray, I was named Doctor, out of gratitude

and compliment to him. There you have me. Doctor Marigold.

The doctor having accepted a tea-tray, you'll guess that my father was a

Cheap Jack before me. You are right. He was. And my father was a lovely

one in his time at the Cheap Jack work. Now I'll tell you what. I mean

to go down into my grave declaring that, of all the callings ill-used in

Great Britain, the Cheap Jack calling is the worst used. Why ain't we a

profession? Why ain't we endowed with privileges? Why are we forced to

take out a hawker's license, when no such thing is expected of the

political hawkers? Where's the difference betwixt us? Except that we are

Cheap Jacks and they are Dear Jacks, I don't see any difference but

what's in our favor.

For look here! Say it's election-time. I am on the footboard of my cart

in the market-place on a Saturday night. I put up a general

miscellaneous lot. I say: "Now here, my free and independent voters, I'm

going to give you such a chance as you never had in all your born days,

nor yet the days preceding. Now I'll show you what I am a-going to do

with you. Here's a pair of razors that'll shave you closer than the

Board of Guardians; here's a flat-iron worth its weight in gold; here's

a frying-pan artificially flavored with essence of beefsteaks to that

degree that you've only got for the rest of your lives to fry bread and

dripping in it, and there you are complete with animal food; here's a

genuine chronometer watch in such a solid silver case that you may knock

at the door with it when you come home late from a social meeting, and

rouse your wife and family and save up your knocker for the post-man;

and here's half a dozen dinner-plates that you may play the cymbals with

to charm the baby when it's fractious. Stop. I'll throw you in another

article, and I'll give you that, and its a rolling-pin, and if the baby

can only get it well into its mouth when its teeth are coming, and rub

the gums once with it, they'll come through double, in a fit of laughter

equal to be tickled. Stop again! I'll throw you in another article,

because I don't like the looks of you, for you haven't the appearance of

buyers unless I lose by you, and because I'd rather lose than not take

money to-night, and that article's a looking-glass in which you may see

how ugly you look when you don't bid. What do you say now? Come! Do you

say a pound? Not you, for you haven't got it. Do you say ten shillings?

Not you, for you owe more to the tallyman. Well, then, I'll tell you

what I'll do with you. I'll heap 'em all on the footboard of the

cart--there they are! razors, flat-iron, frying-pan, chronometer watch,

dinner-plates, rolling-pin, and looking-glass--take 'em all away for

four shillings, and I'll give you sixpence for your trouble!" This is

me, the Cheap Jack.

But on Monday morning, in the same market-place, comes the Dear Jack on

the hustings--_his_ cart--and what does _he_ say? "Now, you free and

independent voters, I am going to give you such a chance" (he begins

just like me) "as you never had in all your born days, and that's the

chance of sending myself to Parliament. Now I'll tell you what I am

a-going to do for you. Here's the interests of this magnificent town

promoted above all the rest of the civilized and uncivilized earth.

Here's your railways carried, and your neighbors' railways jockeyed.

Here's all your sons in the Post Office. Here's Britannia smiling on

you. Here's the eyes of Europe on you. Here's uniwersal prosperity for

you, repletion of animal food, golden corn-fields, gladsome homesteads,

and rounds of applause from your own hearts, all in one lot, and that's

myself. Will you take me as I stand? You won't! Well, then, I'll tell

you what I'll do with you. Come now! I'll throw you in anything you ask

for. There! Church-rates, abolition of church-rates, more malt tax, no

malt tax, uniwersal education to the highest mark, or uniwersal

ignorance to the lowest, total abolition of flogging in the army, or a

dozen for every private once a month all round, Wrongs of Men or Right

of Women--only say which it shall be, take 'em or leave 'em, and I'm of

your opinion altogether, and the lot's your own on your own terms.

There! You won't take it? Well, then, I'll tell you what I'll do with

you. Come! You _are_ such free and independent woters, and I _am_ so

proud of you--you _are_ such a noble and enlightened constituency, and I

_am_ so ambitious of the honor and dignity of being your member, which

is by far the highest level to which the wings of the human mind can

soar--that I'll tell you what I'll do with you. I'll throw you in all

public-houses in your magnificent town for nothing. Will that content

you? It won't? You won't take the lot yet? Well, then, before I put the

horse in and drive away, and make the offer to the next most magnificent

town that can be discovered, I'll tell you what I'll do. Take the lot,

and I'll drop two thousand pound in the streets of your magnificent town

for them to pick up that can. Not enough? Now look here. This is the

very farthest that I'm a-going to. I'll make it two thousand five

hundred. And still you won't? Here, missis! Put the horse--No, stop half

a moment, I shouldn't like to turn my back upon you, neither, for a

trifle, I'll make it two thousand seven hundred and fifty pound. There!

Take the lot on your own terms, and I'll count out two thousand seven

hundred and fifty pound on the footboard of the cart, to be dropt in the

streets of your magnificent town for them to pick up that can. What do

you say? Come now! You won't do better, and you may do worse. You take

it? Hooray! Sold again, and got the seat!"

THE RULING PASSION

BY WILLIAM H. SIVITER

She had never mailed a letter before, and so she approached the stamp

clerk's window with the same air that she would enter a dry-goods store.

"I would like to look at some stamps, please."

"What denomination do you want?"

"Denomination?"

"Yes. Is it for a letter or a newspaper?"

"Oh, I want to send a letter to my Uncle John; he's just moved to----"

"Then you need a two-cent stamp," said the clerk offering her one of

that value.

"I hardly like that color!"

"That is a two-cent stamp, madam. Please stand aside, and let the

gentleman behind you come up."

"But haven't you got them in any other color? I never did like that

shade of red."

"There is only one color."

"That is strange. I'd think you'd keep them in different shades, so that

there'd be some choice. You are sure you have none in a brighter red,

or even in a different color--Nile green, or seal brown, or jubilee

blue, for instance?"

"You can put two one-cent stamps on your letter if you like."

"Let me see them, please. Ah, that will do. I like that shade so much

better. I'll take only one, if you please."

"If it's for a letter you'll need two. These are one-cent stamps and

letter postage is two cents per ounce."

"Oh, I don't want to put two stamps on my letter; I don't think they

will look well."

"It requires two cents to carry a letter, madam, and you must either put

a two-cent stamp on or two ones. It won't go without. I must ask you to

please hurry, for you are keeping a great many people away from the

window."

"That's singular. I don't like the looks of two together. You are sure

the other doesn't come in seal-brown, or----"

"No, madam; no!"

"Then I'll have to see if I can suit myself elsewhere."

And she departed.

THE DUTCHMAN'S SERENADE

ANONYMOUS

Vake up, my schveet! Vake up, my lofe!

Der moon dot can't be seen abofe.

Vake oud your eyes, and dough it's late,

I'll make you oud a serenate.

Der shtreet dot's kinder dampy vet,

Und dhere vas no goot blace to set;

My fiddle's getting oud of dune,

So blease get vakey wery soon.

O my lofe! my lofely lofe!

Am you avake up dere abofe,

Feeling sad and nice to hear

Schneider's fiddle shcrabin' near?

Vell, anyvay, obe loose your ear,

Und try to saw of you kin hear

From dem bedclose vat you'm among,

Der little song I'm going to sung.

Oh, lady, vake! Get vake!

Und hear der tale I'll tell;

Oh, you vot's schleebin' sound ub dhere,

I like you pooty vell!

Your plack eyes dhem don't shine

Ven you'm ashleep--so vake!

(Yes, hurry ub und voke up quick,

For goodness cracious sake!)

My schveet inbatience, lofe!

I hobe you vill oxcuse;

I'm singing schveetly (dere, py Jinks!

Dhere goes a shtring proke loose!)

Oh, putiful, schveet maid!

Oh, vill she ever voke?

Der moon is mooning--(Jimminy! dhere

Anoder shtring vent proke!)

Oh, say, old schleeby head!

(Now I vas gitting mad--

I'll holler now und I don't care

Uf I vake up her dad!)

I say, you schleeby, vake!

Vake out! Vake loose! Vake ub!

Fire! Murder! Police! Vatch!

Oh, cracious! do vake ub!

Dot girl she schleebed--dot rain it rained

Und I looked shtoopid like a geese,

Vhen mit my fiddle I sneaked off

Dodging der rain und dot bolice!

WIDOW MALONE

BY CHARLES LEVER

Did you hear of the Widow Malone,

Ohone!

Who lived in the town of Athlone,

Alone!

Oh, she melted the hearts

Of the swains in those parts:

So lovely the Widow Malone,

Ohone!

So lovely the Widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score,

Or more,

And fortunes they all had galore;

In store;

From the minister down

To the clerk of the Crown

All were courting the Widow Malone,

Ohone!

All were courting the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mistress Malone,

'Twas known

That no one could see her alone,

Ohone!

Let them ogle and sigh,

They could ne'er catch her eye,

So bashful the Widow Malone,

Ohone!

So bashful the Widow Malone.

Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare,

(How quare!

It's little for blushing they care

Down there.)

Put his arm round her waist,

Gave ten kisses at laste,

"Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone,

My own!"

"Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone!"

And the widow they all thought so shy,

My eye!

Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh,--

For why?

But, "Lucius," says she,

"Since you've now made so free,

You may marry your Mary Malone,

Ohone!

You may marry your Mary Malone."

There's a moral contained in my song,

Not wrong;

And one comfort, it's not very long,

But strong,--

If for widows you die,

Learn to kiss, not to sigh;

For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone,

Ohone!

Oh, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone!

HIS LEG SHOT OFF

ANONYMOUS

You have all met him. He is the man with the funny story. As a listener

he would be popular. If he would only keep quiet and listen to other

people tell stories without attempting to emulate their ability he would

be liked where he is now cordially disliked. But that doesn't suit his

temperament. He will buttonhole you with his forefinger, and with an

idiotic smile on his face say.

"Ha! ha! ha! ha! If I didn't just hear the funniest thing! Oh, but it

was funny! Ha! ha! ha! You don't begin to know how funny it was! You see

it was this way: A long time ago there was a war,--fighting,--fighting,

you know,--between the North and South. Ha! ha! ha! There was a war, as

I was saying, and they got fighting, and this man,--ha! ha! ha!--the

funniest thing!--this man, Jim Jones,--you see it was this way,--it was

in the war, you know,--between the North and South,--ha! ha!--and this

man Jim Jones,--ha! ha! ha!--it is too funny for any thing,--it was too

funny! Well, Jim Jones was fighting. He went into the battle one day,

and that is the funny part of it. Along came a cannon-ball and took off

his head! Ha! ha! ha! (_Laugh here for two minutes; then the face

gradually assumes an air of gravity._) No, it wasn't his head, it was

his leg. It was funny just the same. Down he went to the ground. It

stands to reason a man with one leg can't walk and go on fighting. So he

just laid down in his tracks. Couldn't do anything else. Just then along

came a battery,--you know that is cannons,--they have horses to drag

them,--men can't pull those big, heavy cannons into battle. Well, you

know, this man Jim Jones that had his leg shot off, he knew this man

with the cannons,--ha! ha!--Oh, but it was funny! And he says to him,

'If you don't carry me to where a doctor is, my wife's a widow, that's

all about it!' He knew his wife was a widow if he didn't get to where

the doctor was. You know the doctors don't stay up where the soldiers

are fighting in a battle,--they're back, away back, the doctors are. So

this man with his leg shot off, he says, 'You've got to take me where a

doctor is, or my wife's a widow, that's all about it!' Well, this

neighbor of his didn't like to go back on an old friend,--ha! ha!--with

his leg shot off,--this man that had his leg shot off early in the

battle and couldn't go on fighting,--but he says to him: 'How am I to

get you back there?' and he 'lowed he'd have to carry him. Well, with

that he shouldered Jim Jones,--ha! ha!--threw him over his shoulder just

like that, and away they went! (_Laugh heartily here._) And that is

where the joke came in,--along came a cannon-ball and took of his head!

Not the man's head, but Jimmy Jones' head! But pshaw, the man didn't

know anything about it. Along he went with Jimmy over his shoulder. Just

then an officer came up. He says: 'Where are you going with that thing?'

Well, the man didn't like to give a short answer. Soldiers are not

allowed to give short answers to officers. He simply saluted and says:

'Well, it's this way: This man's an old neighbor of mine. He was coming

into battle,--ha! ha!--and he 'lowed that a cannon-ball came along and

took off his leg. He says if we don't take him to where a doctor is his

wife's a widow and that's all about it,--and so,--ha! ha!--and so I'm

just taking him back to where the doctor is, captain.' The captain

looked at him a moment, and he says: 'Why you idiot, it isn't his leg,

it's his head!' Then the man says,--not Jimmy Jones,--he had his head

off and couldn't say anything,--'Oh, the confounded rascal, he told me

it was his leg!'"

THE STUTTERING UMPIRE

BY THE KHAN

Oh, we had our share of trouble,

I'll tell you now the source,

The umpire that we sent for,

Well, he didn't come, of course.

Have you noticed, at the line-up

When everything's for fair,

The referee, the umpire,

That should be there, isn't there?

The crowd it grew impatient;

We heard their angry mutters.

We picked on Johnny Jimson,

Tho Johnny Jimson stutters;

But, still, he knows the game all right--

Indeed, he knows it all--

So in his place he hollered:

"Pup-pup-pup-play bub-ball!"

Jake Mingus was first batter,

Our county's favorite son;

He hit an' missed. Johnny yelled:

"Stuh-stuh-stuh-strike wu-one!"

Another ball went o'er the plate,

And Jakey's bat went whoo!

Then all the crowd heard Johnny shout:

"Tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-two!"

The next one was a daisy,

It made the audience howl;

Jakey tapped it, Johnny yelled:

"Fow-ow-ow-ow-oul!"

And so the game went gaily,

A game a body likes,

Till Jack had called three balls on Jake

And also called two strikes.

The breathless crowd was anxious,

For this will tell the tale;

The pitcher tied himself in knots,

The catcher did not quail.

Whizz! went the ball--the rabble waits

The umpire's verdict, but

All that Johnny Jimson said

Was "Tut-tut-tut----"

Did he mean to say, "Tut-tut-take your base,"

Or else, "Tut-tut-three strikes?"

Just fix it up to suit yourself

As anybody likes,

It busted up our little game,

It was too utterly utter.

Don't try to be an umpire if

You stut-tut-tut-tutter.

THE MAN WHO WILL MAKE A SPEECH

ANONYMOUS

A man wearing passably good clothes and a look of mental anxiety entered

a fashionable drug-store, and said to the clerk:

"Are you pretty well posted on big words?"

"Yes," said the clerk, "I know quite a large number of big words."

"Well, then," said the stranger, "here's the situation: Out where I live

I am a pretty big gun, and when anything is going on they call on me for

a speech. I made one on election day, another the same evening, and

another the next morning, and now I'm laying the sleepers for a speech

to eclipse them all."

"What sort of a speech?" asked the clerk.

"Political, of course. My other speeches were political, but were very

plain. This time I want to get in some regular old twisters. For one

thing I would declare this country in a state of--what do you call it?"

"Peace!"

"No, sir; I mean confusion, excitement, and so on. There's a word to

signify it, but I can't speak it."

"Abject terrorism?"

"No--no. Its archany, or something of the kind."

"I guess you mean anarchy, don't you?"

"I do--I do! Bless me if I haven't been trying for a whole hour to get

that word! That's the very thing. When called out I want to lead off

with: 'Fellow citizens, the peace has flown, and arnica reigns supreme!'

I guess that will knock them."

"You don't mean arnica--you mean anarchy."

"That's what I mean, of course, but every time I think anarchy I get it

arnica, and I don't know but I will have to give up the speech."

"Why don't you write it down?"

The man took up a pen and wrote: "A-r-k-a-n-y." Then he said: "Peace has

fled and arkany reigns in the land."

"I told you it was anarchy."

"That's so--that's so. This suspense is telling on my memory like a fit

of illness. Now, then, a-n-a-r-k-y, anarky, and don't you forget it. You

needn't say anything about my calling in here."

"Oh, that's all right. Over seven-eighths of the best speakers in town

come to me for big words."

"Many thanks; and now, 'Fellow citizens, peace has fled far, far away,

and arkany reigns----' Hold on, is that the right word?"

He halted at the door to examine the slip of paper, and after repeating

the right word over several times he went on:

"A state of anchovy is upon us, and where will it end?"

As he walked up the street he was overheard to say:

"Arnica! Arnica! where will it end?"

CARLOTTA MIA

BY T. A. DALY

Giuseppe, da Barber, ees great for "mash,"

He gotta da bigga, da blacka mustache,

Good clo'es an' good styla an' playnta good cash.

W'enever Giuseppe ees walk on da street,

Da people dey talka "How nobby! How neat!

How softa da handa, haw smalla da feet."

He raisa hees hat, an' he shaka hees curls,

An' smila weeth teetha so shiny like pearls;

Oh, many da heart of da silly young girls

He gotta,

Yes playnta he gotta--

But notta--

Carlotta!

Giuseppe, da Barber, he maka da eye,

An' lika da steam-engine puffa an' sigh

For catcha Carlotta w'en she ees go by.

Carlotta she walka weeth her nose in da air,

An' look through Giuseppe weeth far-away stare,

As eef she no see dere ees som'body dere.

Giuseppe, da Barber, he gotta da cash,

He gotta da clo'es an' da bigga mustache,

He gotta da silly young girls for da "mash."

But notta--

You bat my life, notta--

Carlotta;

I gotta!

THE VASSAR GIRL

BY WALLACE IRWIN

"Oh, Martha's back from Vassar,"

Said farmer James McCassar:

"O Martha, come into the house and mix

a batch of bread."

But Martha's accents fluttered

As she murmured, as she stuttered,

"I have studied the satanic

Ways of bacilli organic,

And it throws me in a panic, pa, to mix

a batch of bread."

_Chorus_

At Vassar-oh, at Vassar-oh,

That's what we learn at Vassar!

We love our Alma Mater so

We do not like to sass 'er.

We have a superstition

There's nothing like the damsel with

the dear old Vassar V.

"Oh, Martha's back from Vassar,"

Said farmer James McCassar:

"O Martha, go out to the barn and milk

the brindle cow."

But Martha cried: "Oh, bother!"

As she faced her poor old father,

"With golf I love to tussle

And with basket-ball to hustle--

But I haven't got the muscle to subdue

the brindle cow."

_Chorus_

At Vassar-oh, at Vassar-oh,

That's what we learn at Vassar!

We love our Alma Mater so

We do not like to sass 'er.

We have a superstition

There's nothing like the damsel with

the dear old Vassar V.

"Oh, Martha's home from Vassar!"

Cried the angry James McCassar:

"O Martha, take yer study-books and

don't come home no more!"

So the maiden in contrition

Got a typist-girl's position,

Wed a millionaire named Harris

Who, lest poverty embarrass,

Made his wife a millionairess. And she's

ne'er been heard of more.

_Chorus_

At Vassar-oh, at Vassar-oh,

That's what we learn at Vassar!

We love our Alma Mater so

We do not like to sass 'er.

Learning's road is rough and stony;

But for golden matrimony

There's nothing like the maiden with

the dear old Vassar V.

From "Shame of the Colleges," Outing Publishing Co., by permission.

A SHORT SERMON

ANONYMOUS

(_Delivered in usual singsong style of the conventional curate._) I am

going to preach to you this morning, my friends, upon the young man who

was sick of the palsy. Now, this young man was sick of the palsy. The

palsy, as you are all aware, is a very terrible disease, a wasting

scourge. And this young man was sick of the palsy. And the palsy, as you

know, is strongly hereditary. It had been in his family. His father had

been sick of the palsy, and his mother had been sick of the palsy, and

they had _all_ of them, in fact, been sick of the palsy. And this young

man had been sick of the palsy. Yes, my dear friends, he had had it for

years and years, and--_he was sick of it_.

A LANCASHIRE DIALECTIC SKETCH

(Tummy and Meary)

ANONYMOUS

Tummy and Meary wor barn to be wed, tha knaws. And th' neet afoor they

were to be wed, Tummy he goes to Meary, and he says, "Meary, lass," he

says, "I'se noonan barn to wed tha." "Oo isn't?" hoo says. "Nooa," says

Tummy, "I isn't. I'se chaanged my mind." "Why, tha greeat thiek-heead,"

hoo says, "tha's allus a-chaangin' thy mind." "Ah, weel," say Tummy, "I

_ha'_ chaanged my mind, and that's enough for _thee_." Weel, tha knaws

Meary didn't want for to loose Tummy, for she didn't knaw where she'd

pick up another as good. Soa she tried all sooarts of waays for keepin'

him on. First hood tried carneyin' an' cooaxin' of him, and when she

found as cooaxin' weren't o' noa use hoo tried bully-raggin' him, and

when she found as bully-raggin' weren't o' noa use, she tried

_stratagem_--and that's a woman's last resource!

"Tummy," hoo says, "tho tha's a' love for me, I still ha' a gradely

liking for thee, lad. And, tha sees, if tha gies me up, folks'll lay a'

blame upo' thee. Noo, I'll tell tha what tha mun do. Tha mun gooa to th'

church wi' me i' th' mornin', and when the parson says to thee, 'Wilt

tha ha' Meary for to be thy wedded wife?' tha mun say, 'Yes, I will.'

And when th' parson says to me, 'Meary, lass, will tha ha' Tummy for to

be thy wedded husband?' I'll say, 'Noa, I weean't.' And then tha'll get

off scot-free, tha seeas, and th' folk'll lay a' th' blame upo' me."

Weel, Tummy, he were a coward at heart, and he didn't want Meary for to

gooa aboot sayin' nasty things aboot him, and so he went--_poor lad!_

And when they'd getten to' th' church i' th' mornin', parson he says to

Tummy, "Tummy," he says, "wilt thou have Meary for to be thy wedded

wife?" And Tummy, he speaks oot bold-like, "Aw! Ah will!" And soona then

th' parson he turns to Meary, and he says, "Meary, lass, wilt thou have

Tummy for to be thy wedded husband?" And Meary shoo up and shoo says,

"Aw! Ah will!" Tummy says, "Nay, nay; that winnot dew. Tha was to say

as tha wouldn't." "Aye, but," says Meary, "there's others can chaange

their minds, Tummy, as weel as thee!" Sooa hoo gat him!

HIS BLACKSTONIAN CIRCUMLOCUTION

ANONYMOUS

"I received, this afternoon," said the bright-eyed, common-sense girl,

the while a slight blush of maidenly coyness tinted her peach-hued

cheeks, "a written proposal of marriage from Horace J. Pokelong, the

rising young attorney, and----"

"Huh! that petrified dub!" jealously ejaculated the young dry-goods

dealer, who had been hanging back because of his timidity and excessive

adoration.

"He says," proceeded the maiden, gently ignoring the interruption, and

reading aloud from the interesting document, "'I have carefully and

comprehensively analyzed my feelings toward you, and the result is

substantially as follows, to wit: I respect, admire, adore and love you,

and hereby give, grant and convey to you my heart and all my interest,

right and title in and to the same, together with all my possessions and

emoluments, either won, inherited or in any other manner acquired,

gained, anticipated or expected, with full and complete power to use,

expend, utilize, give away, bestow or otherwise make use of the same,

anything heretofore stated, exprest, implied or understood, in or by my

previous condition, standing, walk, attitude or actions, to the contrary

notwithstanding; and I furthermore----'"

"I--I----!" fairly shouted the listener, springing to his feet, and

extending his arms. "Miss Brisk--Maud--I love you! Will you marry me?"

"Yes, I will!" promptly answered the lass, as she contentedly snuggled

up in his encircling embrace. "And I'll reply to the ponderous appeal of

that pedantic procrastinator with the one expressive slangism,

'Twenty-three!' I am yours, Clarence!"

KATRINA LIKES ME POODY VELL

ANONYMOUS

Somedimes ven I'm a-feeling bad,

Cause dings dey don'd go righd,

I gid so kinder awful sick,

Und lose my abbedide.

Und ven I go me to der house,

Und by dot daple sit,

Dot widdles makes me feel gwide bale,

Und I don'd kin ead a bit.

My head dot shbind arount unt rount,

Und my eyes dem look so vild,

Dot of my mudder she was dere,

She voodn't know her shild.

Dot is der dime Katrina comes,

Und nice vords she does dell,

Mit her heart a-busding oud mit loaf,

For she likes me poody vell.

She gifes me efery kind of dings

Dot she dinks will done me goot;

She cooks me shblendid sassage mead,

Und oder kinds of foot;

She ties vet rags arount my head

When dot begins to shvell,

Und soaks my feet mit Brandred's bills,

For she likes me poody vell.

She sings me nice und poody songs,

Mit a woice dot's shweed und glear,

Und says, "Dot of I vas to die

She voodn't leef a year."

Of dot aind so, or if id is,

I don'd vas going to dell;

But dis much I am villing to shwore--

She likes me poody vell.

AT THE RESTAURANT

ANONYMOUS

_Waiter_--"Well, ladies, what will it be?"

_Mrs. Etamine_--"I don't know what you girls are going to take, but I

can't eat a thing--unless it's ice-cream."

_Miss De Beige_--"I'm sure I don't want anything except cream. I never

_can_ eat in this hot weather."

_Miss Satine_--"I'd like some ice-cream, if they've got any _real_

pistache."

_Miss Foulard_--"Oh, I wouldn't trust them to give me pistache _here_! I

don't believe they know what pistache is. I'm going to take chocolate."

_Mrs. E._--"I'd take chocolate, too, only it's so heavy all by itself."

_Miss De B._--"Why don't you take it with strawberry?"

_Mrs. E._--"Oh, I don't think strawberry and chocolate go well together!

The contrast is too striking, don't you think?"

_Miss De B._--"Well, perhaps it _is_ a little--loud."

_Miss F._--"Lemon and chocolate are awfully nice."

_Miss S._--"But there's something about pistache, don't you know, so

delicate."

_Miss F._--"I'm sure lemon is delicate. You can't taste any flavor at

all, the way they make it at most places."

_Miss S._--"But pistache is so _refined_, don't you know."

_Mrs. E._--"Dear me, here's this man standing by waiting--it's perfectly

horrid to have him looming over us like a ghost or something. Do let's

give our orders and get him away!"

_Miss De B._--"Well, what are you going to order?"

_Mrs. E._--"Why, I told you--chocolate and lemon."

_Miss F._--"No; that was what I ordered, wasn't it?"

_Mrs. E._--"Why, so it was! Chocolate and strawberry I meant. Some

people think that's too heavy--too cloying, you know--but I think it's

about as good as anything."

_Miss De B._--"Well, I think I'll take that, too. I don't know, tho.

Lemon is awfully good. I know a lady up in the Catskills--she had the

loveliest little boy, just six years old, with curly hair that hung

ever so far down his back, and he used to come to me every morning and

ask for candy in the prettiest way--just like a little dog, and he

learned it all himself--his mother told me nobody taught him--tho I've

always believed that that child never _could_ have originated the idea

all by himself----"

_Mrs. E._--"Excuse me, Clara, but the man is waiting."

_Miss De B._--"As I was _saying_, she was poisoned by eating lemon

ice-cream; but I believe they found out afterward that some one put the

rat-poison in the freezer by mistake--I beg your pardon, Mrs. Etamine; I

didn't know you were speaking--oh, yes--strawberry ice-cream, waiter,

and a fork, if you please--don't bring me a spoon--I don't want it."

_Miss S._--"Well, if I can't have pistache----"

_Miss F._--"You can't--I'm sure they haven't got it here. I'll take--let

me see--some chocolate, I guess. Is your chocolate good, waiter?"

_Miss S._--"Oh, it's sure to be good--they never give you bad chocolate.

Well, I _did_ want pistache; but I think I'll take lemon. Some lemon

ice-cream, waiter--lemon flavor--and don't bring it in half melted."

_Mrs. E._ (_impressively_)--"Some chocolate and strawberry ice-cream,

waiter, mixed. And a spoon. Do you understand me, waiter? A spoon. _Not_

a fork."

_Miss F._--"Chocolate ice-cream--don't forget!"

_Miss S._--"Lemon ice-cream!"

_Miss De B._--"Strawberry--and a fork!"

_Mrs. E._--"Chocolate and strawberry--spoon, of course, waiter. I

suppose you know _that_."

_Waiter_--"Ice-cream? Yes, ma'am. We ain't got nothin' only verniller,

ma'am. Yaas'm--all out of everythin' only verniller. What'll it be,

ladies?"

By permission of _Puck_. New York

A-FEARED OF A GAL

ANONYMOUS

Oh, darn it all! a-feared of her,

And such a mite of a gal;

Why, two of her size rolled into one

Won't ditto Sister Sal!

Her voice is sweet as the whippoorwill's,

And the sunshine's in her hair;

But I'd rather face a redskin's knife,

Or the grip of a grizzly bear.

Yet Sal says: "Why, she's such a dear,

She's just the one for you."

Oh, darn it all! a-feared of a gal,

And me just six feet two!

Tho she ain't any size, while I'm

Considerable tall,

I'm nowhere when she speaks to me,

She makes me feel so small.

My face grows red, my tongue gets hitched,

The plagued thing won't go;

It riles me, 'cause it makes her think

I'm most tarnation slow.

And tho folks say she's sweet on me,

I guess it can't be true.

Oh, darn it all! a-feared of a gal,

And me just six feet two!

My sakes! just s'pose if what the folks

Is saying should be so!

Go, Cousin Jane, and speak to her,

Find out and let me know;

Tell her the gals should court the men,

For isn't this leap-year?

That's why I'm kind of bashful like,

A-waiting for her here.

And should she hear I'm scared of her,

You'll swear it can't be true.

Oh, darn it all, a-feared of a gal,

And me just six feet two!

LEAVING OUT THE JOKE

ANONYMOUS

Some people are bright enough to enjoy a good joke, but do not have

retentive memories, so as to be able to repeat it to others. Failures of

this kind are sometimes very ludicrous. We give some good specimens.

The most famous of this class was the college professor, who, on parting

with a student that had called on him, noticed that he had a new coat,

and remarked that it was too short.

The student, with an air of resignation, replied: "It will be long

enough before I get another."

The professor enjoyed the joke heartily, and going to a meeting of the

college faculty just afterward, he entered the room in great glee and

said:

"Young Sharp got off such a joke just now. He called on me a little

while ago, and as he was leaving, I noticed his new coat, and told him

it was too short, and he said: "It will be a long time before I get

another."

No one laughed, and the professor sobering down, remarked: "It doesn't

seem so funny as when he said it."

A red-haired woman who was ambitious of literary distinction found but

poor sale for her book. A gentleman, in speaking of her disappointment,

said: "Her hair is red (read) if her book is not." An auditor, in

attempting to relate the joke elsewhere, said: "She has red hair if her

book hasn't."

The most unfortunate attempt at reproducing another's wit was made by an

Englishman who didn't understand the pun, but judged from the applause

with which it was greeted that it must be excellent. During a dinner at

which he was a guest a waiter let a boiled tongue slip off the plate on

which he was bearing it, and it fell on the table.

The host at once apologized for the mishap as a _lapsus linguæ_ (slip of

the tongue). The joke was the best thing at the dinner, and our friend

concluded to bring it up at his own table.

He accordingly invited his company and instructed his servant to let

fall a roast of beef as he was bringing it to the table.

When the "accident" occurred, he exclaimed: "That's a _lapsus linguæ_."

Nobody laughed, and he said again, "I say that's a _lapsus linguæ_," and

still no one laughed.

A screw was loose somewhere; so he told about the tongue falling, and

they did laugh.

"Why is this," said a waiter, holding up a common kitchen utensil, "more

remarkable than Napoleon Bonaparte? Because Napoleon was a great man,

but this is a grater." When the funny man reproduced it in his circle,

he asked the question right, but answered it, "Because Napoleon was a

great man, but this is a nutmeg-grater."

THE CYCLOPEEDY

BY EUGENE FIELD

Havin' lived next door to the Hobart place f'r goin' on thirty years, I

calc'late that I know jest about ez much about the case ez anybody else

now on airth, exceptin' perhaps it's ol' Jedge Baker, and he's so

plaguey old 'nd so powerful feeble that _he_ don't know nothin'.

It seems that in the spring uv '47--the year that Cy Watson's oldest boy

wuz drownded in West River--there come along a book agent sellin'

volyumes 'nd tracks f'r the diffusion uv knowledge, 'nd havin' got the

recommend of the minister 'nd uv the select-men, he done an all-fired

big business in our part uv the county. His name wuz Lemuel Higgins, 'nd

he wuz ez likely a talker ez I ever heerd, barrin' Lawyer Conkey, 'nd

everybody allowed that when Conkey wuz round he talked so fast that the

town pump ud have to be greased every twenty minutes.

One of the first uv our folks that this Lemuel Higgins struck wuz

Leander Hobart. Leander had jest marr'd one uv the Peasley girls, 'nd

had moved into the old homestead on the Plainville road,--old Deacon

Hobart havin' give up the place to him, the other boys havin' moved out

West (like a lot o' darned fools that they wuz!). Leander wuz feelin'

his oats jest about this time, 'nd nuthin' wuz too good f'r him.

"Hattie," sez he, "I guess I'll have to lay in a few books f'r readin'

in the winter time, 'nd I've half a notion to subscribe f'r a

cyclopeedy. Mr. Higgins here says they're invalerable in a family, and

that we orter have 'em, bein' as how we're likely to have the fam'ly

bime by."

"Lor's sakes, Leander, how you talk!" sez Hattie, blushin' all over, ez

brides allers does to heern tell uv sich things.

Waal, to make a long story short, Leander bargained with Mr. Higgins for

a set uv them cyclopeedies, 'nd he signed his name to a long printed

paper that showed how he agreed to take a cyclopeedy oncet in so often,

which wuz to be ez often ez a new one uv the volyumes wuz printed. A

cyclopeedy isn't printed all at oncet, because that would make it cost

too much; consekently the man that gets it up has it strung along fur

apart, so as to hit folks once every year or two, and gin'rally about

harvest time. So Leander kind uv liked the idee, and he signed the

printed paper 'nd made his affidavit to it afore Jedge Warner.

The fust volyume of the cyclopeedy stood on a shelf in the old

seckertary in the settin'-room about four months before they had any use

f'r it. One night 'Squire Tuner's son come over to visit Leander 'nd

Hattie, and they got to talkin' about apples, 'nd the sort uv apples

that wuz the best. Leander allowed that the Rhode Island greenin' wuz

the best, but Hattie and the Turner boy stuck up f'r the Roxbury russet,

until at last a happy idee struck Leander, and sez he: "We'll leave it

to the cyclopeedy, b'gosh! Whichever one the cyclopeedy sez is the best

will settle it."

"But you can't find out nothin' 'bout Roxbury russets nor Rhode Island

greenin's in _our_ cyclopeedy," sez Hattie.

"Why not, I'd like to know?" sez Leander, kind uv indignant like.

"'Cause ours hain't got down to the R yet," sez Hattie. "All ours tells

about is things beginnin' with A."

"Well, ain't we talkin' about Apples!" sez Leander. "You aggervate me

terrible, Hattie, by insistin' on knowin' what you don't know nothin'

'bout."

Leander went to the seckertary 'nd took down the cyclopeedy 'nd hunted

all through it f'r Apples, but all he could find wuz "Apple--See

Pomology."

"How in the thunder kin I see Pomology," sez Leander, "when there ain't

no Pomology to see? Gol durn a cyclopeedy, anyhow!"

And he put the volyume back onto the shelf 'nd never sot eyes into it

agin.

That's the way the thing run f'r years 'nd years. Leander would've gin

up the plaguey bargain, but he couldn't; he had signed a printed paper

'nd had swore to it before a justice of the peace. Higgins would have

had the law on him if he had throwed up the trade.

The most aggervatin' feature uv it all wuz that a new one uv them cussid

cyclopeedies wuz allus sure to show up at the wrong time,--when Leander

wuz hard up or had jest been afflicted some way or other. His barn burnt

down two nights afore the volyume containin' the letter B arrived, and

Leander needed all his chink to pay f'r lumber, but Higgins sot back on

that affidavit and defied the life out uv him.

"Never mind, Leander," sez his wife, soothin' like, "it's a good book to

have in the house, anyhow, now that we've got a baby."

"That's so," sez Leander, "babies does begin with B, don't it?"

You see their fust baby had been born; they named him Peasley,--Peasley

Hobart,--after Hattie's folks. So, seein' as how he wuz payin' f'r a

book that told about babies, Leander didn't begredge that five dollars

so very much after all.

"Leander," sez Hattie, "that B cyclopeedy ain't no account. There ain't

nothin' in it about babies except 'See Maternity'!"

"Waal, I'll be gosh durned!" sez Leander. That wuz all he said, and he

couldn't do nothin' at all, f'r that book agent, Lemuel Higgins, had the

dead-wood on him,--the mean, sneakin' critter!

So the years passed on, one of the cyclopeedies showin' up now 'nd

then,--sometimes every two years 'nd sometimes every four, but allus at

a time when Leander found it pesky hard to give up a fiver. It warn't no

use cussin' Higgins; Higgins jest laffed when Leander allowed that the

cyclopeedy wuz no good 'nd that he wuz bein' robbed. Meantime Leander's

family wuz increasin' and growin'. Little Sarey had the hoopin'-cough

dreadful one winter, but the cyclopeedy didn't help out at all, 'cause

all it said wuz: "Hoopin' Cough--See Whoopin' Cough"--and uv course,

there warn't no Whoopin' Cough to see, bein' as how the W hadn't come

yet.

Oncet when Hiram wanted to dreen the home pasture, he went to the

cyclopeedy to find out about it, but all he diskivered wuz: "Drain--See

Tile." This wuz in 1859, and the cyclopeedy had only got down to G.

The cow wuz sick with lung fever one spell, and Leander laid her dyin'

to that cussid cyclopeedy, 'cause when he went to readin' 'bout cows it

told him to "See Zoology."

But what's the use uv harrowin' up one's feelin's talkin' 'nd thinkin'

about these things? Leander got so after a while that the cyclopeedy

didn't worry him at all: he grew to look at it ez one uv the crosses

that human critters has to bear without complainin' through this vale uv

tears. The only thing that bothered him wuz the fear that mebbe he

wouldn't live to see the last volyume,--to tell the truth, this kind uv

got to be his hobby, and I've heern him talk 'bout it many a time

settin' round the stove at the tavern 'nd squirtin' tobacco juice at the

sawdust box. His wife, Hattie, passed away with the yaller janders the

winter W come, and all that seemed to reconcile Leander to survivin' her

wuz the prospect uv seein' the last volyume uv that cyclopeedy. Lemuel

Higgins, the book agent, had gone to his everlastin' punishment; but his

son, Hiram, had succeeded to his father's business 'nd continued to

visit the folks his old man had roped in. By this time Leander's

children had growed up; all on 'em wuz marr'd, and there wuz numeris

grandchildren to amuse the ol' gentleman. But Leander wuzn't to be

satisfied with the common things uv airth; he didn't seem to take no

pleasure in his grandchildren like most men do; his mind wuz allers sot

on somethin' else,--for hours 'nd hours, yes, all day long, he'd set

out on the front stoop lookin' wistfully up the road for that book agent

to come along with a cyclopeedy. He didn't want to die till he'd got all

the cyclopeedies his contract called for; he wanted to have everything

straightened out before he passed away.

When--oh, how well I recollect it--when Y come along he wuz so overcome

that he fell over in a fit uv paralysis, 'nd the old gentleman never got

over it. For the next three years he drooped 'nd pined and seemed like

he couldn't hold out much longer. Finally he had to take to his bed,--he

was so old 'nd feeble,--but he made 'em move the bed up ag'inst the

window so he could watch for that last volyume of the cyclopeedy.

The end come one balmy day in the spring uv '87. His life wuz a-ebbin'

powerful fast; the minister wuz there, 'nd me, 'nd Dock Wilson, 'nd

Jedge Baker, 'nd most uv the fam'ly. Lovin' hands smoothed the wrinkled

forehead 'nd breshed back the long, scant, white hair, but the eyes of

the dyin' man wuz sot upon that piece uv road over which the cyclopeedy

man allus come.

All to oncet a bright 'nd joyful look come into them eyes, 'nd ol'

Leander riz up in bed 'nd sez: "It's come!"

"What is it, father?" asked his daughter Sarey, sobbin' like.

"Hush," sez the minister, solemnly; "he sees the shinin' gates uv the

Noo Jerusalem."

"No, no," cried the aged man; "it is the cyclopeedy--the letter Z--it's

comin'!"

And, sure enough! the door opened, and in walked Higgins. He tottered

rather than walked, f'r he had growed old 'nd feeble in his wicked

perfession.

"Here's the Z cyclopeedy, Mr. Hobart," says Higgins.

Leander clutched it; he hugged it to his pantin' bosom; then stealin'

one pale hand under the pillar he drew out a faded banknote 'nd gave it

to Higgins.

"I thank Thee for this boon," sez Leander, rollin' his eyes up devoutly;

then he gave a deep sigh.

"Hold on," cried Higgins, excitedly, "you've made a mistake--it isn't

the last----"

But Leander didn't hear him--his soul hed fled from its mortal tenement

'nd hed soared rejoicin' to realms uv everlastin' bliss.

"He is no more," sez Dock Wilson, metaphorically.

"Then who are his heirs?" asked that mean critter Higgins.

"We be," sez the fam'ly.

"Do you conjointly and severally acknowledge and assume the obligation

of deceased to me?" he asked 'em.

"What obligation?" asked Peasley Hobart, stern like.

"Deceased died owin' me f'r a cyclopeedy!" sez Higgins.

"That's a lie!" sez Peasley. "We seen him pay you for the Z!"

"But there's another one to come," sez Higgins.

"Another?" they all asked.

"Yes, the index," sez he. So there wuz.

Reprinted by permission of the author.

ECHO

BY JOHN G. SAXE

I asked of Echo, t'other day

(Whose words are often few and funny),

What to a novice she could say

Of courtship, love, and matrimony.

Quoth Echo plainly,--"Matter-o'-money!"

Whom should I marry? Should it be

A dashing damsel, gay and pert,

A pattern of inconstancy;

Or selfish, mercenary flirt?

Quoth Echo, sharply,--"Nary flirt!"

What if, aweary of the strife

That long has lured the dear deceiver,

She promise to amend her life,

And sin no more; can I believe her?

Quoth Echo, very promptly,--"Leave her!"

But if some maiden with a heart

On me should venture to bestow it,

Pray, should I act the wiser part

To take the treasure or forego it?

Quoth Echo, with decision,--"Go it!"

But what if, seemingly afraid

To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter,

She vow she means to die a maid,

In answer to my loving letter?

Quoth Echo, rather coolly,--"Let her!"

What if, in spite of her disdain

I find my heart entwined about

With Cupid's dear delicious chain

So closely that I can't get out?

Quoth Echo, laughingly,--"Get out!"

But if some maid with beauty blest,

As pure and fair as Heaven can make her,

Will share my labor and my rest

Till envious Death shall overtake her?

Quoth Echo (sotto voce),--"Take her!"

Reprinted by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company.

OUR RAILROADS

ANONYMOUS

He stood in the station, she at his side--

She is a fair, young, blushing bride.

On their honeymoon they're starting now;

It always follows the marriage vow.

He looks at the flaring railroad maps,

At the train of cars and his baggage traps,

And whispered: "Pettie, how shall we go,--

By the Kankakee or the Kokomo?

"These railroad maps confuse the eye,

There's the C. B. Q. and the R. N. Y.

And this one says your life's at stake

On any road but the Sky Blue Lake.

The N. E. R. L. P. Q. J.

Have sleepers on the entire way;

But I've heard these trains are much more slow

Than the Kankakee or the Kokomo."

She murmured: "Sweetie, I've heard pa say

What a fine old road is the P. G. K.;

But mamma seemed to disagree,

And prefers the X. S. H. O. P.

This chart says, dearie, the views are fine

On the Texas-Cowboy-Mustang line;

But still, perhaps, we'd better go

On the Kankakee or the Kokomo."

A conductor chanced to pass them by

And the bridegroom caught his gentle eye;

He said: "O man, with the cap of blue,

Inform me quick, inform me true,

Which road is best for a blushing, pure,

Young, timid bride on her wedding tour?

And tell us quickly what you know

Of the Kankakee or the Kokomo?"

The conductor's eyes gave a savage gleam;

These words rolled out in a limpid stream:

"There's the A. B. J. D. V. R. Z.

Connects with the Flip-Flap-Biff-Bang-B,

You can change on the Leg-off-Sueville-Grand,

And go through on the Pan-cake-ace-Full-Hand.

That road you named is blocked by snow,

The Kankakee and the Kokomo.

"The Pennsylvania, Pittsburg Through,

Connects with the Oshkosh Kalamazoo,

With a smoking car all the afternoon;

Just the thing for a honeymoon;

And the Central-Scalp-Tooth-Bungville-switch

Goes through a vine-land country rich.

Of the road you named I nothing know,

The Kankakee and the Kokomo."

The bride said: "Honey, 'tis best, by far,

Like the dollar, we return to pa

(That's a pun I heard while on a train

On the U. R. N. G. Jersey main)."

The conductor smiled; his eye-teeth showed;

He had spoiled the trade of a rival road.

He knew in his heart there was no snow

On the Kankakee or the Kokomo.

And the bride and groom returned to pa,

Who heard it all and then said: "Pshaw!

If you found you couldn't go that way,

Why didn't you go on the Cross-eyed Bay?"

The bridegroom gave a howl of pain;

The railroad names had turned his brain.

He raves, insane, forevermore;

In a madhouse, chained unto the floor,

He gibbers: "Tootsie, shall we go

By the Kankakee or the Kokomo?"

WAKIN' THE YOUNG 'UNS

(The old man from the foot of the stairs--5 a. m.)

BY JOHN C. BOSS

Bee-ull! Bee-ull! O Bee-ull! my gracious,

Air you still sleepin'?

Th' hour-hand's creepin'

Nearder five.

(Wal, durned ef this 'ere ain't vexatious!)

Don't ye hyar them cattle callin'?

An' th' ole red steer a-bawlin'?

Come, look alive!

Git up! Git up!

Mar'ann! Mar'ann! (Jist hyar her snorin'!),

Mar'ann! it's behoovin'

Thet you be a-moovin'!

Brisk, I say!

Hyar the kitchen stove a-roarin'?

The kittle's a-spilin'

Ter git hisse'f bilin'.

It's comin' day.

Git up! Git up!

Jule! O Jule! Now whut is ailin'?

You want ter rest?

Wal' I'll be blest!

S'pose them cows

'Ll give down milk 'ithout you pailin'?

You mus' be goin crazy;

Er' more like, gittin' lazy.

Come, now, rouse.

Git up! Git up!

Jake, you lazy varmint! Jake! Hey Jake!

Whut you layin' theer fur?

You know the stock's ter keer fur;

So, hop out!

(Thet boy is wusser'n a rock ter wake!)

Don't stop to shiver,

But jist unkiver,

An' pop out!

Git up! Git up!

Young 'uns! Bee-ull! Jake! Mar'ann! Jule!

(Wal' durn my orn'ry skin!

They've gone ter sleep agin,

Fur all my tellin'!)

See hyar, I hain't no time ter fool!

It's the las' warnin'

I'll give this mornin'.

I'm done yellin'!

Git up! Git up!

_Solus_

Wal, whut's th' odds--an hour, more or less?

B'lieve it makes 'em stronger

Ter sleep a leetle longer

Thar in bed.

The time is comin' fas' enough, I guess,

When I'll wish, an' wish 'ith weepin'

They was back up yender sleepin',

Overhead,

Ter git up.

PAT'S REASON

ANONYMOUS

One day I observed in a crowded horse-car,

A lady was standing. She had ridden quite far,

And seemed much disposed to indulge in a frown,

As nobody offered to let her sit down.

And many there sat who, to judge by their dress,

Might a gentleman's natural instincts possess,

But who, judged by their acts, make us firmly believe

That appearances often will sadly deceive.

There were some most intently devouring the news,

And some thro' the windows enjoying the views;

And others indulged in a make-believe nap,

While the lady still stood holding on by the strap.

At last a young Irishman, fresh from the "sod,"

Arose with a smile and most comical nod,

Which said quite as plain as in words could be stated

That the lady should sit in the place he'd vacated.

"Excuse me," said Pat, "that I caused you to wait

So long before offerin' to give you a sate,

But in troth I was only just waitin' to see

If there wasn't more gintlemin here beside me."

QUIT YOUR FOOLIN'

ANONYMOUS

Girls is queer! I used to think

Emmy didn't care for me,

For, whenever I would try

Any lovin' arts, to see

How she'd take 'em--sweet or sour--

Always saucy-like says she:

"Quit your foolin'!"

Once a-goin' home from church,

Jest to find if it would work,

Round her waist I slipt my arm--

My! you'd ought 'o seen her jerk,

Spunky? well, she acted so--

And she snapt me up as perk--

"Quit your foolin'!"

Every time 'twas just the same,

Till one night I says, says I--

Chokin' some I must admit,

Tremblin' some I don't deny--

"Emmy, seein' as I don't suit,

Guess I'd better say good-by

An' quit foolin'."

Girls is queer! She only laughed--

Cheeks all dimplin'; "John," says she,

"Foolin' men that never gits

Real in earnest, ain't for me."

"Wan't that cute? I took the hint,

An' a chair, an' staid, an' we

Quit our foolin'.

SHE WOULD BE A MASON

BY JAMES L. LAUGHTON

The funniest thing I ever heard,

The funniest thing that ever occurred,

Is the story of Mrs. Mehitable Byrde,

Who wanted to be a Mason.

Her husband, Tom Byrde, a Mason true--

As good a Mason as any of you;

He is tyler of Lodge Cerulean Blue,

And tyles and delivers the summons due--

And she wanted to be a Mason, too,

This ridiculous Mrs. Byrde.

She followed round, this inquisitive wife,

And nagged him and teased him half out of his life;

So to terminate this unhallowed strife,

He consented at last to admit her.

And first, to disguise her from bonnet and shoon,

This ridiculous lady agreed to put on

His breech--ah! forgive me--I meant pantaloons;

And miraculously did they fit her.

The lodge was at work on the Master's degree,

The light was ablaze on the letter C;

High soared the pillars J and B.

The officers sat like Solomon, wise;

The brimstone burned amid horrible cries;

The goat roamed wildly through the room;

The candidate begged to let him go home;

And the devil himself stood up at the east,

As broad as an alderman at a feast,

When in came Mrs. Byrde.

O horrible sounds! O horrible sight!

Can it be that Masons take delight

In spending thus the hours of night?

Ah! could their wives and daughters know

The unutterable things they say and do,

Their feminine hearts would burst with wo!

But this is not all my story.

Those Masons joined in a hideous ring,

The candidate howling like everything,

And thus in tones of death they sing

(The candidate's name was Morey):

"Double, double, toil and trouble,

Fire burn and cauldron bubble;

Blood to drink and bones to crack,

Skulls to smash and lives to take,

Hearts to crush and souls to burn;

Give old Morey another turn!"

The brimstone gleamed in lurid flame,

Just like a place we will not name;

Good angels, that inquiring came

From blissful courts, looked on with shame

And tearful melancholy.

Again they dance, but twice as bad,

They jump and sing like demons mad;

The tune is far from jolly:

"Double, double, toil and trouble,

Fire burn and cauldron bubble;

Blood to drink and bones to crack,

Skulls to smash and lives to take,

Hearts to crush and souls to burn;

Give old Morey another turn!"

Trembling with horror stood Mrs. Byrde,

Unable to speak a single word.

She staggered and fell in the nearest chair,

On the left of the junior warden there,

And scarcely noticed, so loud the groans,

That the chair was made of human bones.

Of human bones! On grinning skulls

That ghastly throne of horror rolls;

Those skulls, the skulls that Morgan bore;

Those bones, the bones that Morgan wore.

His scalp across the top was flung,

His teeth around the arms were strung.

Never in all romance was known

Such uses made of human bone.

There came a pause--a pair of paws

Reached through the floor, up sliding-doors,

And grabbed the unhappy candidate!

How can I, without tears, relate

The lost and ruined Morey's fate?

She saw him sink in a fiery hole,

She heard him scream, "My soul! My soul!"

While roars of fiendish laughter roll,

And drown the yells for mercy:

"Double, double, toil and trouble,

Fire burn and cauldron bubble;

Blood to drink and bones to crack,

Skulls to smash and lives to take,

Hearts to crush and souls to burn;

Give old Morey another turn!"

The ridiculous woman could stand no more,

She fainted and fell on the checkered floor,

'Midst all the diabolical roar.

What then, you ask me, did befall

Mehitable Byrde? Why, nothing at all--

She dreamed she had been in a Mason's hall.

HENRY THE FIFTH'S WOOING

BY SHAKESPEARE

_K. Henry._ Fair Katharine, and most fair,

Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms

Such as will enter at a lady's ear

And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?

_Katharine._ Your majesty shall mock at me; I can not speak your

England.

_K. Hen._ O fair Katharine, if you will love me soundly with your French

heart, I will be glad to hear you confess it brokenly with your English

tongue. Do you like me, Kate?

_Kath._ Pardonnez-moi, I can not tell vat is "like me."

_K. Hen._ An angel is like you, Kate, and you are like an angel.

_Kath._ Que dit-il? que je suis semblable à les anges?

_Alice._ Oui, vraiment, sauf votre grace, ainsi dit-il.

_K. Hen._ I said so, dear Katharine; and I must not blush to affirm it.

_Kath._ O les langues des hommes sont pleines des tromperies.

_K. Hen._ What says she, fair one? that the tongues of men are full of

deceits?

_Alice._ Oui, dat de tongues of de mans is be full of deceits: dat is de

princess.

_K. Hen._ The princess is the better Englishwoman. I' faith, Kate, my

wooing is fit for thy understanding; I am glad thou canst speak no

better English; for, if thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain

king that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I know

no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say, "I love you": then if

you urge me further than to say, "Do you in faith?" I wear out my suit.

Give me your answer; i' faith, do: and so clap hands and a bargain: how

say you, lady?

_Kath._ Sauf votre honneur, me understand vell.

_K. Hen._ Marry, if you would put me to verses or to dance for your

sake, Kate, why you undid me: for the one I have neither words nor

measures, and for the other, I have no strength in measure, yet a

reasonable measure in strength. If I could win a lady at leap-frog, or

by vaulting into my saddle with my armor on my back, under the

correction of bragging be it spoken, I should quickly leap into a wife.

Or if I buffet for my love, or bound my horse for her favors, I could

lay on like a butcher and sit like a jackanapes, never off. But, Kate, I

can not look greenly nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have no cunning in

protestation: only downright oaths, which I never use till urged, nor

never break for urging. If thou canst love a fellow of this temper,

Kate, whose face is not worth sun-burning, that never looks in his glass

for love of anything he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook. I speak

to thee plain soldier: if thou canst love me for this, take me: if not,

to say to thee that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, no; yet I

love thee, too. And while thou livest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain

and uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do thee right, because he

hath not the gift to woo in other places: for these fellows of infinite

tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies' favors, they do always

reason themselves out again. What! a speaker is but a prater; a rhyme is

but a ballad. A good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a black

beard will turn white; a curled pate will grow bald; a fair face will

wither; a full eye will wax hollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun

and the moon; or rather the sun and not the moon, for it shines bright

and never changes, but keeps his course truly. If thou would have such a

one, take me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king.

And what sayest thou then to my love? speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray

thee.

_Kath._ Is it possible dat I should love de enemy of France?

_K. Hen._ No; it is not possible you should love the enemy of France,

Kate: but, in loving me, you should love the friend of France; for I

love France so well that I will not part with a village of it; I will

have it all mine; and, Kate, when France is mine and I am yours, then

yours is France and you are mine.

_Kath._ I can not tell vat is dat.

_K. Hen._ No, Kate? I will tell thee in French; which I am sure will

hang upon my tongue like a new-married wife about her husband's neck,

hardly to be shook off. Quand j'ay la possession de France, et quand

vous avez la possession de moi,--let me see, what then? Saint Denis be

my speed!--donc votre est France et vous êtes mienne. It is as easy for

me, Kate, to conquer the kingdom as to speak so much more French; I

shall never move thee in French, unless it be to laugh at me.

_Kath._ Sauf votre honneur, le François que vous parlez, est meilleur

que l'Anglois lequel je parle.

_K. Hen._ No, faith, is't not, Kate; but thy speaking of my tongue, and

I thine, most truly-falsely, must needs be granted to be much at one.

But, Kate, dost thou understand thus much English, canst thou love me?

_Kath._ I can not tell.

_K. Hen._ Can any of your neighbors tell Kate. I'll ask them. Come, I

know thou lovest me; and at night, when you come into your closet,

you'll question this gentlewoman about me; and I know, Kate, you will to

her dispraise those parts in me that you love With your heart; but, good

Kate, mock me mercifully; the rather, gentle princess, because I love

thee cruelly. How answer you, la plus belle Katharine du monde, mon très

chère et divine déesse?

_Kath._ Your majestee ave faussee French enough to deceive de most sage

demoiselle dat is en France.

_K. Hen._ Now, fie upon my false French! By mine honor, in true English,

I love thee, Kate; by which honor I dare not swear thou lovest me; yet

my blood begins to flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor

and untempering effect of my visage. I was created with a stubborn

outside, with an aspect of iron, that, when I come to woo ladies, I

fright them. But, in faith Kate, the elder I wax, the better I shall

appear; my comfort is, that old age, that ill layer up of beauty, can do

no more spoil upon my face: thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst;

and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better: and

therefore, tell me, most fair Katharine, will you have me? Put off your

maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts of your heart with the looks of an

empress; take me by the hand, and say, "Harry of England, I am thine";

which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear withal, but I will tell

thee aloud, "England is thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and

Henry Plantagenet is thine"; who, tho I speak it before his face, if he

be not fellow with the best king, thou shalt find the best king of good

fellows. Come, your answer in broken music; for thy voice is music and

thy English broken; therefore, queen of all, Katharine, break thy mind

to me in broken English; wilt thou have me?

_Kath._ Dat is as it sall please de Roi mon père.

_K. Hen._ Nay, it will please him well, Kate; it shall please him, Kate.

_Kath._ Den it sall also content me.

_K. Hen._ Upon that I kiss your hand, and I call you my queen.

_Kath._ Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez.

_K. Hen._ Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.

_Kath._ Il n'est pas la coutume de France.

_K. Hen._ Madam my interpreter, what says she?

_Alice._ Dat it is not be de fashion pour les ladies of France--I can

not tell vat is _baiser_ en Anglish.

_K. Hen._ To kiss.

_Alice._ Your majesty entendre bettre que moi.

_K. Hen._ It is not the fashion for the maids in France to kiss before

they are married, would you say?

_Alice._ Oui, vraiment.

_K. Hen._ O Kate, nice customs curtsy to great kings. Dear Kate, you and

I can not be confined within the weak list of a country's fashion: we

are the makers of manners, Kate; and the liberty that follows our places

stops the mouth of all find-faults; as I will do yours, for upholding

the nice fashion of your country in denying me a kiss; therefore,

patiently and yielding. (_Kisses her._) You have witchcraft in your

lips, Kate; there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the

tongues of the French council; and they should sooner persuade Harry of

England than a general petition of monarchs.

SCENE FROM "THE RIVALS"

BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN

_Mrs. M._ There, Sir Anthony, there stands the deliberate simpleton who

wants to disgrace her family and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a

shilling.

_Lyd._ Madam, I thought you once----

_Mrs. M._ You thought, miss! I don't know any business you have to think

at all. Thought does not become a young woman. But the point we would

request of you is, that you will promise to forget this fellow--to

illiterate him, I say, from your memory.

_Lyd._ Ah, madam! our memories are independent of our wills. It is not

so easy to forget.

_Mrs. M._ But I say it is, miss! There is nothing on earth so easy as to

forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm sure I have as much

forgot your poor, dear uncle as if he had never existed, and I thought

it my duty to do so; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories

don't become a young woman.

_Sir A._ Surely, the young woman does not pretend to remember what she

is ordered to forget! Ah, this comes of her reading.

_Lyd._ What crime, madam, have I committed, to be treated thus?

_Mrs. M._ Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the matter; you

know I have proof controvertible of it. But tell me, will you promise me

to do as you are bid? Will you take a husband of your friends' choosing?

_Lyd._ Madam, I must tell you plainly that, had I no preference for any

one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion.

_Mrs. M._ What business have you, miss, with preference and aversion?

They don't become a young woman; and you ought to know that, as both

always wear off, 'tis safest, in matrimony, to begin with a little

aversion. I am sure I hated your poor dear uncle before marriage as if

he'd been a blackamoor, and yet, miss, you are sensible what a wife I

made; and, when it pleased heaven to release me from him, 'tis unknown

what tears I shed!

_Sir A._ He-e-m!

_Mrs. M._ But, suppose we were going to give you another choice, will

you promise us to give up this Beverley?

_Lyd._ Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, my

actions would certainly as far belie my words.

_Mrs. M._ Take yourself to your room! You are fit company for nothing

but your own ill humors.

_Lyd._ Willingly, ma'am; I can not change for the worse. [_Exit._

_Mrs. M._ There's a little intricate hussy for you!

_Sir. A._ It is not to be wondered at, ma'am; all that is the natural

consequence of teaching girls to read. In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop,

I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library;

she had a book in each hand--they were half-bound volumes, with marble

covers. From that moment, I guessed how full of duty I should see her

mistress!

_Mrs. M._ Those are vile places, indeed!

_Sir A._ Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree

of diabolical knowledge! It blossoms through the year! And, depend upon

it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the leaves,

will long for the fruit at last.

_Mrs. M._ Fie, fie, Sir Anthony; you surely speak laconically. (_Sir

Anthony places a chair for her and another for himself, bows to her

respectfully and waits till she is seated._)

_Sir A._ Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation, now, what would you have a

woman know?

_Mrs. M._ Observe me, Sir Anthony--I would by no means wish a daughter

of mine to be a progeny of learning. I don't think so much learning

becomes a young woman. For instance--I would never let her meddle with

Greek, or Hebrew, or algebra, or simony, or Fluxions, or paradoxes, or

such inflammatory branches of learning; nor will it be necessary for her

to handle any of your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical

instruments; but, Sir Anthony, I would send her, at nine years old, to a

boarding-school, in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice.

Then, sir, she should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts; and, as

she grew up, I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might

know something of the contagious countries; above all, she should be a

perfect mistress of orthodoxy--that is, she should not mispronounce and

misspell words as our young women of the present day constantly do.

This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman know; and I don't think

there is a superstitious article in it.

_Sir A._ Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the point no further

with you, tho I must confess that you are a truly moderate and polite

arguer, for almost every third word you say is on my side of the

question. But to the more important point in debate--you say you have no

objection to my proposal?

_Mrs. M._ None, I assure you. I am under no positive engagement with Mr.

Acres; and as Lydia is so obstinate against him, perhaps your son may

have better success.

_Sir A._ Well, madam, I will write for the boy directly. He knows not a

syllable of this yet, tho I have for some time had the proposal in my

head. He is at present with his regiment.

_Mrs. M._ We have never seen your son, Sir Anthony; but I hope no

objection on his side.

_Sir A._ Objection! Let him object, if he dare! No, no, Mrs. Malaprop;

Jack knows that the least demur puts me in a frenzy directly. My process

was always very simple. In his younger days 'twas--"Jack, do this." If

he demurred, I knocked him down; and if he grumbled at that, I always

sent him out of the room.