_THE_ FABLE _OF THE_ MARTYR _WHO_ LIKED _THE_ JOB
Once in a Country Town there was a Man with a Weak Back.
He could put a Grindstone into a Farm Wagon if any one wanted to bet him
the Segars, but every time he lifted an Ax, something caught him right
in the Spine and he had to go into the House and lie down. So his Wife
took Boarders and did the Cooking herself.
He was willing to divide the Labor, however; so he did the Marketing.
Only, when he had bought the Victuals, he would squat on a Shoe-Box with
the Basket between his Legs and say that he couldn't see what Congress
wuz thinkin' of.
He had certain Theories in regard to the Alaskan Boundary and he was
against any Anglo-American Alliance becuz Uncle Sam could take care of
himself at any Turn in the Road, comin' right down to it, and the
American People wuz superior to any other Naytionality in every Way,
Shape, Manner and Form, as fur as that's concerned. Then his Wife would
have to send Word for him to come on with the Groceries so she could get
Dinner.
Nearly Everybody Sympathized with her, because she had to put up with
such a big Hulk of a no-account Husband. She was looked upon as a
Martyr.
[Illustration: A MARTYR]
One Day the Husband was Sunstruck, being too Lazy to move into the
Shade, and next Day he Passed Away without an Effort. The Widow gave him
the best Funeral of the Year and then put all the Money she could rake
and scrape into a Marble Shaft marked "At Rest."
A good many People said she was Better Off without him, and it was
certainly a Good Riddance of Bad Rubbish.
They hoped that if she ever Married again she'd pick out Somebody that
wuzn't afraid to Work, and had Gumption enough to pound Sand into a
Rat-Hole.
There was General Satisfaction when she became the Wife of Mr. Gladden,
who owned the General Store. He built a new House, hired a Girl and had
the Washing sent out. She could go into the Store and pick out Anything
she wanted, and he took her riding in his new Runabout every Evening.
Consequently, she was very Miserable, thinking of the Jewel she had
lost.
MORAL: _If the Woman thinks he's All Right, you keep on your own Side of
the Fence._
_THE_ FABLE _OF THE_ BOHEMIAN _WHO_ HAD HARD LUCK
Once upon a Time there was a Brilliant but Unappreciated Chap who was
such a Thorough Bohemian that Strangers usually mistook him for a Tramp.
Would he brush his Clothes? Not he. When he wore a Collar he was Ashamed
of himself. He had Pipe-Ashes on his Coat and Vest. He seldom Combed his
Hair, and never Shaved.
Every Evening he ate an Imitation Dinner, at a forty-cent Table d'Hote,
with a Bottle of Writing Fluid thrown in. He had formed a little Salon
of Geniuses, who also were out of Work, and they loved to Loll around
on their Shoulder-Blades and Laugh Bitterly at the World.
The main Bohemian was an Author. After being Turned Down by numerous
Publishers, he had decided to write for Posterity. Posterity hadn't
heard anything about it, and couldn't get out an Injunction.
He knew his Works were good, because all the Free and Untrammeled Souls
in the Spaghetti Joint told him so. He would read them a Little Thing of
his Own about Wandering in the Fields with Lesbia, and then he would
turn to a Friend, whose Face was all covered with Human Ivy, and ask
him, point blank: "Is it, or is it not, Better than the Dooley Stuff?"
[Illustration: THOROUGH BOHEMIAN]
"There is no Comparison," would be the Reply, coming through the
Foliage.
Wandering in the Fields with Lesbia! Lesbia would have done Well. If he
had Wandered in the Fields at any Time he would have been Pinched on
Suspicion that he was out for Turnips.
The sure-enough Bohemian was a Scathing Critic. If Brander Matthews only
knew some of the Things said about him, there would be Tear Marks on his
Pillow. And Howells, too. Bah! My, but he was Caustic.
The way he burned up Magazine Writers, it's a Wonder they didn't get
after him for Arson.
One day, while standing on the Front Stoop at his Boarding House, trying
to think of some one who would submit to a Touch, a Flower Pot fell from
a Window Ledge above him, and hit him on the Head. He was put into an
Ambulance and taken to a Hospital, where the Surgeons clipped his Hair
short, in order to take Three Stitches. While he was still Unconscious,
and therefore unable to Resist, they Scrubbed him with Castile Soap,
gave him a good Shave, and put him into a snowy-white Gown.
His Friends heard of the Accident, and went to the Hospital to offer
Condolence. When they found him he was so Clean and Commonplace that
they lost all Respect for him.