"That's right," he said; "you've got to prospect it before you find out
what it's worth; and I know a whole lot of fellows who've gone broke
prospecting."
That landlord of ours up in the glorious Catskills was a hard subject to
catch napping, and many a time I've watched him crawl out of a hole with
hardly an effort.
Probably it requires considerable nerve to run a summer resort hotel,
and meet all the requirements which the traveling public seem to expect.
On one occasion I heard a tourist who had just arrived ask him the old
chestnut:
"Is this a good place, landlord, do you think, for a person affected
with a weak chest?"
"None better, sir, none better."
"I've been recommended, you know, by the doctor, to spend the summer in
some mountain region where the south wind blows. Does it blow much
here?"
[Illustration]
"Why sure, it's always the south wind that blows here," replied the
landlord, stoutly.
"Ah, indeed, then how do you account for it blowing from the north just
now?"
"That's easy enough, sir--you see it's the same old south wind on its
road back again."
That landlord was a jewel, and afforded me considerable entertainment
during my sojourn; but he had a neighbor, a stout German farmer, who
took the cake when it came to doing business.
Le'me tell you about his experience with the insurance agent, for it was
certainly laughable, though old Platzenburger didn't see it that way.
It seems that the house of the farmer, insured for a thousand dollars,
had burned down. The privilege of replacing a burned house is reserved
by insurance companies and the agent, having this in mind, said to the
farmer:
"We'll put you up a better house than the one you had for six hundred
dollars."
"Nein!" said Platzenburger, emphatically. "I vill have my one tousand
dollar or notings! Dot house could not be built again for even a
tousand."
"Oh, yes, it could," said the insurance man. "It was an old house. It
doesn't cost so much to build houses nowadays. A six-hundred-dollar new
house would be a lot bigger and better than the old one."
Some months later, when the insurance man was out for a day's shooting,
he rode up again to the farmer's place.
"Just thought I'd stop while I was up here," he said, "to see if you
wanted to take out a little insurance."
[Illustration]
"I got notings to insure," said Platz, "notings but my vife."
"Well, then," said the insurance man cheerfully, "insure her."
"Nein!" said the farmer, with determination. "If she die, you come out
here and say, 'I not give you one tousand dollar. I get you a bigger und
a better vife for six hunded.' No, sir, I dakes no more insurance oud!"
You must excuse me if I have to call a temporary halt upon these
proceedings and indulge in a little vociferous sneeze, for a cold in the
head is no respecter of persons. This is the sneeze, sung in a sad,
sobbing minor:
[Illustration]
I've got a cold with snuffles in;
What kind of a cold have you?
I've got the kind that makes me sin
By craving fizzes made of gin
And other stuff with bad booze in--
What kind of a cold have you?
I've got the kind that makes one hoarse;
What kind of a cold have you?
To speak requires my utmost force;
My voice is rough, and harsh, and coarse,
And strains its laryngital source--
What kind of a cold have you?
I've got a cold that makes me mad--
What kind of a cold have you?
That makes me reticent and sad,
That puts me plainly to the bad,
The worstest cold I ever had--
What kind of a cold have you?
I suppose you know I was on a tour in Florida and other parts of the
Sunny South last winter?
There is a tradition down there that if a mule kicks a darky on the head
the wretched mule is sure to go lame.
When I was down there I happened to notice a little colored girl limping
along the street, her feet done up in immense bandages of sacking.
[Illustration]
"What's the matter with your feet?" was my natural inquiry.
"My fadder done hit me on de haid while I was standin' on an iron cellar
door," was the response.
When I got to Charleston there was a circus in town, and after doing my
matinee stunt at the local theatre, I got around to the circus.
There was a pretty fair menagerie along with the show, and it was a
treat to me to stand around and hear the original and quaint remarks of
the negroes, many of whom had never before in their lives seen lions and
elephants.
One big ugly gorilla seemed to attract them above all other living
curiosities, and he was a fierce sight, I assure you.
I saw an old wizened-up aunty stand in front of his cage a long time,
speechless with awe, and finally heard her vent her feelings in the
words:
"Foah massa sakes alibe, if he ain't jest like de ole-time culled
folks."
Another queer old chap tried to make the acquaintance of the uncouth and
hairy monster.
"How is you?" said the old black man, bowing before the monstrous ape.
No answer.
"How is you?" Eph repeated, with another profound bow, and still no
answer. Then, after a long pause, Eph exclaimed:
"You's right, ole man; keep yo' mouf shet or dey'll put a hoe in yo'
hand and make yo' raise cotton."
The menagerie always fascinates me. Why, I'm just like a boy again when
I get among the animals, and catch that well-remembered odor always
connected with a show.
I've even dreamed about 'em, and strange as it may appear, they always
seem to be passing before me in a great hurry, just as though on a
wager.
As I say, I was kind of fascinated and thinking of boyhood's days and
all that sort of thing, you know, when some one spotted me.
"By de great horn spoon, if dar ain't George Niblo!"