The average reader of newspapers and magazines imagines that humorous
writers are always funny, and always saying funny things. Nothing could
be farther from the real facts. The humorous side of humanity while
wading through every day events, likewise sees the pathetic side. The
pathos of life makes the shade and shadow of life’s picture, while the
funny features make the humorous pictures—the cartoons and exaggerations.
I know a little story connected with the work of a humorous writer, so
full of pathos that one can but wonder how he could write of the humorous
side of life while sitting in the very presence of death.
During the days of his severest struggles for recognition (and bread)
his wife’s aged father was taken ill, and the doctor said it was only
a matter of a few weeks or days with the kind old man, and then his
struggles on the earth would be over. And through all the nursing and
watching the young author was obliged to grind out his “stuff” for the
publishers who kept the wolf from his door.
One night the faithful daughter could endure the strain and loss of sleep
no longer, and was obliged to go to bed, leaving only her author husband
to watch at the bedside of the dying father, and to grind out his sketch
for the next issue of the paper.
It was hard to forget the man who was passing over the dark stream and
concentrate his mind on some ridiculous phase of life, but this he must
do, for he needed yet a humorous anecdote to round out the line of
argument he was introducing—that men are more truthful than their dreams.
He was attempting to prove that men, while in the act of dreaming a lie,
would tell the truth, if subject to speaking out loud in their sleep.
But humorous ideas were slow about coming, and he leaned over, with
his face buried deep in his hands, and tried to think. All of a sudden
he recalled an incident of real life, that would serve to complete his
story, but before he could take up his pencil the sick man brightened up
and remarked:
“Pretty hard to write scenes from the funny side of life, while waiting
on some one to die!”
“’Tis that, father,” replied the young man tenderly; “but I just now
recall an incident from the life of old Jim McGrabber that will finish
the sketch.”
“Poor fellow!” softly exclaimed the dying man. “I pity you, my boy. It
is more than most men are obliged to do. But don’t mind me. Even if I
pass away while you are working, I will know that you are only doing
your duty. Besides, my boy, it softens death to me to feel that others
can forget it while it hovers so near. And in encouraging you to go on
with your work, I hope to leave the impression behind that dying men can
remain interested in the triumphs and achievements of life, even though
they are old and feeble and their heart liable to stop forever without a
moment’s warning. Go on with your work, and I will try to sleep.”
And then, after giving the old man a cool sip of water, and fixing his
pillow more comfortable, he sat down and wrote the anecdote that was to
complete his sketch.
“Timothy McGrabber always kept a private jug in his cellar, but was only
allowed two jiggers of whiskey a day. If detected in taking a third or
fourth drink, by his good old wife, she proceeded at once to pull his
gray hair vigorously until he would promise to do so no more.
“One Sunday morning in mid-summer the good old wife went to church
very early, leaving Tim to follow when ready to do so. This was Tim’s
opportunity, so instead of two jiggers from the beloved jug, he took
four—four big ones, and then followed the old lady to the church, singing
softly and gleefully to himself as he walked cheerfully along.
“Arrived at church he sat down near the open window, and his system
cleared of waste material and a painful conscience, he soon dropped
off to sleep. A young kitten climbed in the window, took an exploring
expedition out along the back of the seat, climbed up Tim’s passive arm
and began to smell his whiskers. Scenting nothing dangerous, the kitty
jumped to the top of his bald head and sat down to observe the house.
“A wasp flew by, and kitty attempted to catch it, lost her equilibrium
and was falling backwards when she grabbed at Tim’s straggling locks of
hair with both front feet and began to climb back to her lofty perch
again; then the congregation was startled by Tim’s loud expostulations:
“‘Hey, Nora! that’s anuff! Pon me sowl oi only tuck four little nips from
th’ joog, and bedad yee’r pulling all th’ hair out av me head! And how
the divil did yee’s foind it out, anyhow, because oi wint down cellar in
th’ dark and drank wid me oyes shut!’”
The author smiled at the bit of humor, and turned to the bed with a sigh
of relief—only to discover that the old man had died while he wrote.